Chapter 1: Bite my tongue, bide my time.
Chapter Text
Boston hummed at night. Despite the drizzly weather. Despite the cold. The city refused to rest, it refused to sleep a constant buzzing tempo – a distorted kind of song - played just beneath the surface. The streets pulsed with neon reflections, the occasional blur of a cab speeding through an amber light. Laughter spilled from bars, and the scent of rain lingered in the air, mixing with fried food and cigarette smoke from a cluster of people outside a jazz lounge.
Todd hated it.
Well, okay… hated it might be too strong a word. He could definitely force himself to tolerate it. He had been tolerating it for the past how many hours. Because it was his birthday. Because he was supposed to be out there, in the middle of the night, celebrating. Because that’s what was expected from him. And so, Todd had been dragged from one place he had no interest in being at to the next, wearing a set of clothes that Cameron had picked out for him, because his best friend was an unstoppable force of nature and Todd had yet to figure out how to be an immovable object.
“This smells like regret,” Todd muttered, his nose wrinkling, as Cameron tugged him toward the entrance of yet another bar.
Cameron sighed dramatically. “It’s a single drink, Todd. One. Uno. A tiny insignificant glass of alcohol to mark the fact that despite everyone’s predictions, you’ve survived another year on this godforsaken planet.”
Todd narrowed his eyes. “Whose predictions?”
His friend waved a dismissive hand, weaving through the already intoxicated crowd. “People.”
Todd groaned but followed after him anyway. “I hate drinking.”
“You hate everything. You need to stop hating on some things if you want the word to retain some of the original meaning.”
Todd gave him the driest laugh that he could muster. Cameron’s lips twitched in response.
“Come on, we won’t stay too long,” Cameron said, leading him toward an empty stand pressed against the long wall of the club. “I promise afterward, we can go back to yours and you can spend the rest of the night reading poetry and forget my existence.”
“That’s genuinely the best thing you’ve said to me all night.”
Cameron shot him a look, his jaw working. Whatever he was thinking to say, he swallowed it down, forcing an amicable smile to his lips. Todd snorted; Cameron was trying really hard to be nice. Probably because Todd was still bending to his whims.
He dropped heavily onto a barstool, eyes scanning the room out of habit. Cameron immediately reached for the drink menu, going over the beverages like he was readying himself for an exam. Todd drew a deep breath, his lungs already screaming at the amount of smoke he’d inhaled with just a simple intake. He ignored it, his attention snapping to a group in the far corner laughing over something on someone’s phone. A guy, sitting on the table next to theirs, was drumming his fingers against the wooden surface, like he was expecting someone who was late.
Everything was perfectly normal.
Mundane.
Then, just for a second – so fast he could pretend it hadn’t even happened – something shifted.
A flicker – a shadow? Something moved against the wrong light source. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. A cold wave crashed over his spine. His body moved before his brain could catch up, head snapping to the side, searching –
Nothing.
There was nothing there, but the neon lights buzzing outside the bar.
His fingers dug into his sleeve.
“Are you even listening to me?” Cameron’s voice broke through the sort of static in Todd’s mind, violently yanking him back in the moment. Todd blinked, his gaze focusing on his friend. Cameron had set the menu down and was watching him with mild exasperation.
“What?” Todd asked, fingers picking at the cuff of his shirt.
“I said, ‘do you want an whiskey sour or whatever weird season cocktail they’ve got on special?”
Todd forced his shoulders to relax. Drew another deep breath. He’d imagined it. He was just… tired, seeing things. “Uh... Beer?”
Cameron rolled his eyes. “Why do I even bother asking?”
The waitress came by, took their order, and Todd spent the next few minutes pretending to listen to Cameron - who was screaming in order to be heard over the bass booming around the walls of the club – go on about his new political theory professor and their awful, self-important lectures.
Todd’s heart beat in his throat. But everything was fine. He just needed to calm down. The beer would help. And so would Cameron’s rambling.
He tried to focus. Tried to sit in the moment.
Outside, past the warm glow of the bar, something moved in the dark.
An hour or so later Todd and Cameron found themselves back on the streets. It was well past midnight now, but Boston must’ve missed the memo. The city was still alive, people milling about, music thumping from behind doors as cars drove by way too fast to be going under the legal speed limit.
It had started drizzling again, and it only seemed to bother Todd, because everyone else was talking, laughing, existing like the tiny, frozen drops didn’t make their skin prickle.
“Lighten up, Anderson, it’s your birthday,” Cameron said, for the umpteenth time that night, lightly bumping his shoulder against Todd’s. Like being his birthday was supposed to mean something.
Todd bit back a huff, forcing a smile on his face for his best friend’s sake. It used to mean something, his birthday that is. Back when he was still living at home, with his adoptive parents and his brother. Back when Todd could breathe easy, when he didn’t feel like the sky was about to drop down on him. Back when anxiety was a thing he could live with, and not this cruel dictator making all of his everyday decisions.
Back when they were alive. Back when Todd wasn’t alone.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Cameron bumped their shoulders again. Todd kissed his teeth; his patience wasn’t infinite, and Cameron had been poking at it for hours.
“I just want to get home before it starts pouring,” he deflected, popping up his collar. He wasn’t cold. In fact, the humidity was potent enough to make perspiration break out on his forehead.
Ugh, Todd hated the Boston weather.
Cameron let a dismissive soft sound. “It’s not going to start pouring.”
His words were punctuated by a loud thunder.
Todd simply arched an eyebrow.
The redhead’s eyes flicked to the sky, before finding Todd’s. “Okay. Maybe we should walk a little faster.”
“Good idea.”
Todd hastened his steps, lowering his head into the neck of his coat. He kept his gaze forward, knowing instinctively that Cameron was right behind him. Todd noticed how peculiarly empty the street they were walking down was only when they reached a club the entrance to which was usually barricaded by lines upon lines of people.
He faltered slightly, his eyes darting around the street. This was odd, but it didn’t have to mean anything.
It’s fine. It’s… probably too late. Or maybe too early for this kind of place.
Todd’s hands flexed inside the pockets of his coat. A light pressure started spreading from the top of his crown, down to the rest of his body, firmly settling on his chest. The skin on his nape tingled, and Todd had to stop his hand from reaching up to scratch at it.
It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.
Todd stopped walking. His heart hammered in his throat, nails digging into the fleshy parts of his palms. His eyes snapped to a dimly lit side street. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it. He couldn’t explain the pull he felt, just underneath his ribs. A sharp, insistent tug beneath his sternum, pulling him off course.
“Anderson?” Cameron’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away. “What’s going on?”
“I think we should go that way,” Todd murmured, unconsciously walking toward the side road.
Cameron blinked confused. “What? Why? Your flat is this way… Todd! Todd!”
But Cameron’s voice was nothing but a buzz in his ears. Todd moved – almost sleepwalking, the street calling to him, the pull getting stronger with each passing second.
The streetlights above his head flickered.
Todd followed the small bend of the road, getting off the main street and he stopped dead in his tracks. Because right there, in the middle of the road, a woman was kneeling on the asphalt, hands bound in front of her. Blood pooled beneath her, streaked down her arms, soaking into the fabric of her blouse. She was lightly dressed for this time of the year, her arms bare into the biting night air. Her skin was covered in weird looking tattoos.
Runes.
Todd didn’t know how that word had slipped into his mind. But he knew it was the right one. Runes were drawn on every available patch of her skin, black and shimmering. Todd noticed the way she was clenching her jaw, the downward turn of her head, the tears trailing down her cheeks.
Instinctively, he moved toward her. And then he saw the figure looming behind her. Tall. Taller than any human person Todd had seen before. There was a mask covering his face, a hood drawn low. His shoulders were twice the length of Todd’s, and his shirt strained around his arms. He was saying something – no, he was chanting something. The language, foreign to Todd’s ears, curling like smoke around him.
“Todd!”
Many things happened simultaneously. Cameron appeared next to him, just as the woman’s head snapped up. Todd wanted to push his friend back to the main street, away from the danger he felt fizzing in the air. But he was too caught up in the way she was looking at him. Like she knew him. An expression of horror overtaking her face. She opened her mouth, as if to say something and Todd stepped toward her.
The sound of a sword slicing through air sounded first.
Steel flashed –
Blood splattered –
And then Todd saw the tip of the blade protrude through her chest. A horrible noise tore from her throat. The man kicked her forward, the sword coming out of her body with a sickening sound. She fell on the street, her eyes wide, and unseeing still looking up at Todd.
“Todd, what the hell, dude? You just left me in the middle of the street! Todd, are you even listening? What are you looking at?”
Todd wasn’t listening. He was too preoccupied staring at the dead woman. She’d been alive a moment ago. She was kneeling, so close to him, breathing.
She had been alive.
Todd could’ve saved her. Todd could’ve done something. He could’ve –
Something cracked. Not all at once. Not like a snap, clean and sharp. But like a a rift forming beneath the surface, deep and unseen. Slow at first, widening inch by inch, eating up everything that happened to be around it. Building, building, building until the pressure could no longer hold. Todd felt it like the first lick of a flame against dry kindling. Small. Uncertain. Barely even there. A flicker in his ribs, curling warm around his lungs.
Then it caught. Flames roared up from his ribs, tearing through his veins, rushing – too much, too fast, too hot - spreading, spreading, spreading, until they found an outlet through his fingers.
Cameron screamed behind him. It wasn’t clear if it was in terror or surprise. Todd couldn’t tell without looking at his face. So he turned around, fire leaking from his fingertips and straight at Cameron’s face.
Cameron stumbled back, eyes wide. “Dude, what the fuck?”
Todd gasped, hands trembling. “I’m sorry! I –”
A shadow flickered out of the corner of his eye. He heard the sound of footsteps. He felt the weird stillness in the air, and he spun on his heels, throwing his hand up on instinct. Flames rushed out, and the masked man ignited like a firework.
His clothes caught on fire the moment Todd turned around. There was no way to put it out, no matter how much he twisted and turned his body. The fire spread from his toes to his head, the stench of burning flesh stinking the air around them.
Todd stared, horrified as the body collapsed into ash.
“Todd what the fuck is going on?”
Todd didn’t move. His body had locked up, his breath stilling in his throat. He chest ached, fingers still crackling with power. A shadow shifted above them. Todd had half a second to move before someone dropped from the fire escape, right where he’d just been standing.
“Step away from the mundane!” A voice snapped, cold and sharp, like a punch straight to Todd’s gut.
Todd blinked, his eyes taking a moment to refocus. Two figures stood in front of him, cutting his access to the entrance of the alley. Both brunet, both dressed in black clothes. They were holding the same kind of sword the man had with him, before Todd burned him into a crisp.
But his eyes were drawn to the runes on their arms. Black. Shimmering. Identical to the woman’s who was still lying in a pool of her own blood.
The shorter of the two stepped forward, the sword in his hand catching in the streetlights. He stalked toward him, like Todd was prey and he was a hunter.
Todd’s pulse spiked. His stomach stirred.
Run.
It was instinct, pure and unadulterated. Todd’s fingers twitched.
“Todd.” Cameron’s voice was curt, sharp. There was a tremble hiding behind it that Todd had never heard from him before. Fear. “Todd, tell me what’s going on.”
Todd barely heard him. His breath was coming out too fast. Too short. He couldn’t keep his shoulders from shaking. His heart was pounding behind his ribcage.
The shorter of the two men was slowly but surely closing in on him. Todd stumbled back, before he even realized he was moving. His foot clipped the curb, and he barely managed to steady himself before another voice cut sharply through the space between them.
“Charlie – wait.”
Charlie did not wait.
Charlie lunged, blade drawn and Todd reacted without thinking. His hands shot up, flames bursting through his fingers, rippling outward. The brunet – Charlie, rolled with it, twisting his body mid-air, blade flashing as he landed.
Todd didn’t even have time to blink. Charlie was fast.
“Demon,” his voice sounded questioning, his eyes squinting. “Warlock.”
Todd’s breath shattered.
Warlock.
The word wasn’t his. And yet it clawed at his chest, wanting to belong.
Charlie adjusted his grip on his weapon, shifting his weight. Ready to strike again.
“Todd,” Cameron’s voice came again, closer now, edged with panic. “Todd, stop it!”
Todd looked at him, eyes wide, pleading.
I’m not doing anything!
But he was.
The air around him thrummed. Electricity. Heat. It swirled, twisted, pulling at him and Todd went with it, without meaning to. His fingers sizzled.
Charlie moved, but before he managed to get too far, someone grabbed at his shoulder, yanking him back.
“Don’t,” he warned, stepping between him and Todd.
Charlie ripped free from his grip. “Neil, you saw what he did!”
The taller of the two – Neil, turned to Todd, brown eyes roaming over his face. Calculating. Assessing the situation.
“I saw,” he murmured.
Clearly, he was the brain between the two of them.
Todd felt himself breathe – if only for just a second – before something else moved Another presence. No, two more. Footsteps pounded against the pavement and soon enough two more figures barreled into the alley, breathless from running stopping just behind Neil and Charlie.
“Great, now the stiffs are here,” Charlie grumbled, fingers twitching around his blade.
As if responding to him, one of the two newcomers – tall, dark hair, serious face - came forward, his stance radiating authority. “Both of you, stand down.”
“I do not take orders from you, Penhallow,” he snarled, the last name coming like a slur out of his lips.
“Don’t test me, Charlie.”
Charlie’s shoulders went rigid. Neil moved first, taking a full step back, lowering his weapon. Charlie’s eyes flickered to him, his jaw locking.
Todd tried to focus on what they were saying, but the blood rushed in his veins, resounding in his ears and distorting every other sound around him. The smell of burning flesh drifted to his nose, as the current of the wind shifted, and Todd’s stomach lurched. His fingers twisted, heart beating so fast it was starting to feel dangerous.
They were still talking. Someone was yelling. It all sounded warped, blended together, indistinct and overwhelming.
“ – stop him! He could be dangerous –”
“ – not helping, Charlie –”
“He’s panicking,” the authoritative voice cut through the fog in Todd’s brain. “Have you seen many demons panic after killing someone?”
Penhallow, that’s what Charlie called him. His back was straight, standing to his full height, almost towering over Charlie. His arms were crossed, his expression impassive, but his eyes were cutting, smart. He was staring straight at Todd. Studying him, like he was some kind of experiment gone wrong.
His head tilted, his eyes finding Todd’s. Widening for only a fraction. Enough to let Todd know he knew how close he was to loosing whatever shamble of control he had over the fire still burning inside of him.
Todd couldn’t afford to lose that control.
Not here. Not in front of them.
Not with Cameron still standing in the middle of all this.
The thought sent a fresh wave of panic surge through him.
Cameron.
He was still standing there. Still too close to all of this – whatever it was. Still staring at Todd like he didn’t know if he should be concerned or horrified. He had to get him out of here.
Now.
“He’s going to bolt,” Penhallow said, but made no move to intercept him. Charlie was too busy screaming at the yet to be named fourth person. Neil looked at him, but also made no move to stop him.
Todd lurched forward fingers snapping out and grabbing Cameron by the wrist.
“Run.”
Cameron too stunned by the sudden movement, stumbled over his feet as Todd yanked him, hard.
“What the - ? Todd!”
His friend tripped again, caught off guard, but Todd didn’t slow down. His hold tightened around Cameron, dragging him along as he sprinted down the empty street, lungs burning with something other than panic now.
“Hey!” Charlie shouted, finally catching up with what was going on.
Todd didn’t care.
He didn’t slow down, he didn’t stop.
He never even looked back.
He just ran.
Chapter 2: Yeah, sometimes the fire you founded don't burn the way you'd expect.
Notes:
alright, okay! I can't believe people are actually reading this! For some reason I thought it would be just me screaming into the void! Thank you for your kudos, and your comments and everything!
Okay, I'll give you some key definitions because there a couple of terms that if you haven't read or watched the Shadowhunters books/tv show will confuse you ;
1) Parabatai; it;s a pair of Shadowhunter warriors who fight together as lifelong partners, bound together by oath, regardless of their gender. Their bond is not reflected only in their closeness and willingness to lay down their lives for one another, but also in oath—one sworn in front of the Council.
2) Institute; it's an asylum for Shadowhunters, and in some cases Downworlders and mundanes under their protection, and a safe house meant to lodge and assist Nephilim from around the world in their quest to kill demons. They are found in every major city across the world and are often located in churches or built on holy ground. Every Institute is run by a Shadowhunter or a pair of Shadowhunters with the position of head or co-heads of the Institute, respectively.
3) The Clave ; The Clave is the collective name for the political body made up of all active Shadowhunters. The Clave keeps and interprets the Law, and makes decisions about the guidance of the Shadowhunters through history as it unfolds and decides on important matters that affect the Nephilim, which also sometimes affect the Downworlders. The Clave is notoriously racist, but more about that later.
4) Mundanes ; also called mundies by some, are regular humans. Most mundanes are oblivious to the existence of Shadowhunters, Downworlders, demons, and the rest of the Shadow World. Some mundanes are born with The Sight which allows them to see what others can't.
Well, all of the above will be further analyzed in text through the chapters, I just didn't want you to have any words you didn't know the meaning of. Espeically the parabatai bond and the Clave will be fully explored in the story!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Charlie had been trying to pick a fight with anyone the whole way back to the Institute.
“And another thing, Penhallow,” he snarled, his arm brushing against Neil’s. “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m a fucking lapdog!”
Gerard didn’t even turn to look at him.
“And you,” Charlie turned to Knox, who hadn’t even said a word since he and Penhallow showed up at the dark alley. “Don’t think I didn’t see you rolling your eyes back there! I –”
Neil pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling through clenched teeth, pushing one foot in front of the other. As if his own headache wasn’t enough, he could feel Charlie’s anger pulse through their parabatai bond, a constant buzz of frustration with no real direction.
Neil got it, okay? They’d spent the past week cooped up in the Institute. Some Nephilim-exclusive deathly virus had apparently been spreading through the streets of Boston and the warlocks had to get it under control before Shadowhunters were allowed to patrol again. Charlie had been about to start climbing the walls when the all-clear finally came through. He’d been itching for the hunt, had been itching for a fight for days.
And then they’d gotten this instead.
So yeah, Neil got it. But even he had to admit, his parabatai was being ridiculous.
They navigated through the Institute, dropping their gear in the Weaponry to get properly cleaned and stored, before walking to the ops center. Neil caught sight of his father at the main console, fingers moving over the screen. The display quickly changed once they walked in. The image of the body they’d retrieved vanished, the holographic screen flickering back to black.
Next to him Charlie was still bitching.
“And another thing –”
“I see you’ve made it back in one piece,” Neil’s father said, effectively shutting Charlie up.
Neil, out of instinct, straightened his back quickly noticing how the others subtly fell in parade stance.
It took a short moment for him to note his father wasn’t frowning.
That was rare.
“Well?” The words were clipped. “Anything to report?”
Neil felt Gerard’s eyes on the side of his face. Knox stood stiffly at his side, looking straight ahead, no sign of intention to speak on his face. Charlie was very clearly biting on his tongue. Neil didn’t have the time to overthink about it.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, sir,” he lied through his teeth, when it became obvious no one was going to say anything.
His fingers pressed together so tightly behind his back, nails digging into his palms. A familiar sting. A reminder to keep his posture straight, to keep his breathing even.
His father’s eyes crinkled a little on the corner – just enough to show he wasn’t fully buying it - but he gave a short nod. “I expect a full written report by morning.”
Neil almost nodded, before he remembered himself. “You’ll have it on your desk, sir.”
His father looked almost pleased. Almost, being the keyword. “And I take it the body is at the morgue?”
“Affirmative,” Neil responded.
“Alright. You can get on with whatever you young people do after hours.”
He turned to leave, and Neil thought that was the end of it. Thought this would be like every other exchange. Quick. Efficient. Professional.
And then – “You did a good job today.”
Fucking hell.
Neil blinked taken aback.
His stomach lurched in a way that had little to do with the mission.
For a fleeting second, Neil was sure he’d misheard. But his father was smiling. His father never smiled. He was too busy, running the words over and over in his head – trying to find the hidden reprimand – to notice his father coming closer. But he felt the pat on his shoulder, almost soft, almost proud. Almost fatherly. And his heart slammed against his ribs.
Neil stood there staring as his father disappeared down the corridor leading to his office.
“That was weird,” he muttered, and he swore he saw Penhallow give the smallest, most imperceptible nod in agreement.
Neil’s finger flexed, unconsciously.
He shouldn’t care.
He shouldn’t care.
It was barely a praise, barely anything more than a passing comment, it shouldn’t undo him like that. It shouldn’t make him feel like he was breaking apart at the seams. He shouldn’t feel the words – five stupid little words – settle in his chest, nestle between his ribs, clinging to him the same way the smell of burning flesh clung to his clothes.
And then Charlie rounded on him.
“You better have a fucking good reason for lying, Neil.”
Neil barely heard him at first. The phantom weight of his father’s hand still lingered on his shoulder.
“I didn’t see you telling the truth,” Knox said, dryly.
Charlie’s eyes blazed. “Can it, stiff.”
Knox rolled his eyes. “Original, like always,” he said, dryly.
“I didn’t lie,” Neil said, before their ribbing could escalate into anything physical. “I omitted some of the truth.”
“That’s lying!”
Neil groaned, shooting him a sharp look. “Can you keep your voice down?” he said, rising his own.
Charlie set his jaw, but didn’t say anything.
“I wasn’t lying,” Neil repeated, steadier now. Focused. “I just – I don’t want to tell him anything before we have all the facts.”
Charlie scoffed. “What more do you need Neil? We walked in on him turning a man into bacon! What other facts are you looking for?”
“Neil is right,” Penhallow stepped in, hands stuffed casually in his pockets. “We need to figure out what we saw before we say anything.”
Charlie let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
“Oh, spare me Penhallow –”
“It’s Pitts, when I’m not on official Clave business,” Penhallow cut him off, his voice edging on frustration for the first time.
Charlie crossed his arms. He was very obviously still in a mood. “Must be fun, using mommy's surname whenever it fits you.”
Penhallow – Pitts shrugged. “I don’t see how this is of any concern to you.”
“Right, you wouldn’t see, would you?” he paused, for the drama of it, head falling on the side. “How does it feel picking whatever name suits you, depending on the room you’re in?”
Pitts’ expression didn’t shift. He kept on staring at Charlie, as if he was boring him to death. “It’s called diplomacy, actually. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Diplomacy,” Charlie repeated, scoffing. “Right. Is that what people call ‘playing both sides’ these days?”
Knox shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes flicking between them as he watched the exchange.
Pitts exhaled, and it was sharp enough to be considered frustrated. His fingers flexed where they laid on his arms as they crossed over his chest. “I play the side that keeps me alive, Blackthorn. You should try that sometime.”
Charlie’s grin looked all but feral. “Oh, I do. Difference is, I don’t have to swap surnames to do it.”
Knox took a step closer to Pitts, his hands reaching for a weapon, momentarily forgetting they’d dropped them to get cleaned.
“Charlie –” Neil started, weary.
“No, no, let him talk,” Pitts said, finally letting himself sound irritated. “I want to see how far he’s going to take it before he admits the only diplomatic move he knows of is charging blindly into danger and then letting his family name clean up the mess for him.”
If looks could kill, Pitts would’ve been dead instantly. Charlie’s eyes blazed, fingers twitching.
Knox sighed heavily. “Enough,” he said, pushing himself between Charlie and Pitts.
Charlie flashed a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Down boy,” he drawled, whistling under his breath.
Knox squared his shoulders.
Neil sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple. “Charlie -”
“Don’t you dare take that tone with me! I still don’t see why you lied about that demon.”
Knox, still standing with his back too straight, snorted. “Right, because demons are famously known for panicking and running away.”
Charlie bristled. “Are you looking to get your ass kicked, Carstairs?”
Knox actually chuckled, his body language loosening for the first time all night the moment Charlie suggested physical violence. “I’d love to see you try.”
Charlie bared his teeth in something that definitely wasn’t’ a smile. “You, me, at the gym. Half an hour.”
Knox’s head tilted on the side. “Is that a date or a fighting arrangement?”
Neil practically saw Charlie’s brain short-circuiting. His parabatai’s jaw unlocked, his lips parting. A faint pink hue tinted the skin of his cheeks, probably not very visible from a distance, but Neil was standing too close to him.
Pitts sighed, pushing away from the wall he had been leaning against. “Alright, I’m done with all this,” he said waving a dismissive hand in Charlie’s general direction. “I’m going back to my room.”
“Seconded,” Knox agreed, a smirk playing at his lips as he turned to follow.
Neil heard his best friend let out a sharp exhale. “Fucking ridiculous,” he mumbled, shaking his head.
“What’s ridiculous,” Neil spoke up, “is the fact that you’re trying to pick up fights while still covered in ichor.”
“Since when do you care about ichor?” Charlie asked, folding his arms across his chest.
Neil rolled his shoulders, already heading for the door. “I can’t deal with this right now. I have a report to write.”
Charlie rolled his eyes so hard they almost stuck on the back of his skull. “You’re so painfully responsible.”
“And you’re so painfully insufferable.”
Charlie actually grinned at that.
Neil sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face, already done with this conversation. “Go do whatever it is you do when you’re pissed off. I have work to do.”
Charlie hummed, stalling for a second, then turned on his heel and bolted down the hall. Neil barely had a second to think before he realized exactly what was happening.
“DO NOT GO BOTHER KNOX, CHARLIE –”
But it fell on deaf ears. Charlie let a maniacal cackle, as he took a sharp turn getting lost behind the bend of the corridor. Neil sighed, his head falling forward. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, seeing stars behind his eyelids.
Neil took a minute to steady himself. He rolled his shoulders, again, straightening his spine. He had a report to write. He’d worry about reining in Charlie later.
For now, he just needed silence. He needed a moment to think. He needed -
You did a good job.
His breath shattered.
It was stupid, the crave, the need to hear it again. To get his father to look at him for longer than five seconds and hear those same words coming out of his mouth. Neil wasn’t greedy, he didn’t need more. Just those same five words, they’d be enough.
Just to see if they still felt the same.
You’re pathetic.
His jaw clenched, fingers flexing. Neil hated this part of him. This childish, stupid, desperate part, still hungering after his father’s approval. Neil forced his breaths to even out, forced his shoulders to relax. He straightened his back, stood to his full height and turned on his heel to walk out, leaving the ops center empty behind him.
He pushed his father’s words to the very back of his mind, and they were instantly replaced by a loop.
He was back at the alleyway.
Charlie was standing beside him, seraph blade already in hand, catching on the street light.
And then the smell of blood.
And then the stench of burning flesh.
And then they were running, running, running.
And then the fire.
And then –
Todd – that’s what his friend had called him.
And the way he had shaken with the raw power rippling out of him.
And the way he’d looked at them.
So lost. So scared.
His eyes –
So blue.
Neil swallowed, his throat feeling suddenly too thick.
“Patrol summary ;
Patrolling commenced at 00:00 hours. Blackthorn and I covered the western sector of Beacon Hill, while Penhallow and Carstairs proceeded south. Initial demon activity was minimal, and no signs of unauthorized Downworlder activity were observed. At approximately 00:45 hours, we redirected our patrol toward the South End. Due to high Mundane presence, we activated our Glamour runes to avoid detection. Penhallow and Carstairs had also doubled around and we continued patrolling together
Incident details ;
At 01:00 hours, environmental conditions began to shift. Mundanes in the vicinity dispersed rapidly, and a strong sulfuric odor was detected, indicating potential demonic presence. . Upon investigation, we discovered a deceased female victim at the scene.
Description of Victim:
Female, light brown hair
Fatal wound: impaled through the chest with a seraph blade
No form of identification present on her person"
Neil stopped, the tip of his pen tapping against the pad in front of him. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing at it. His eyes fell on the scattered, balled up pieces of paper littering his desk. There were so many of them, that some ended up falling on the floor.
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
He was about to lie on his report.
A report his father was going to read through.
A report that could, probably, be sent to the Clave, if the victim was from a prominent Shadowhunter family.
Neil’s pen fell on the pad, his hands going to his hair, tagging at the short strands. He should’ve finished this at least an hour ago. He should’ve gone to check on Charlie already. He should’ve been asleep by now.
But Neil had done not one of those things.
Because all he could think about was Todd.
Blue eyes.
Blue flames that burned just like the regularly orange ones.
He groaned again, fingers flexing in his hair. He breathed, deep through his nose, lifting his head slightly to look at what he’d already written.
A bunch of lies.
He and Charlie had stumbled on the murder scene when they smelled the burning human flesh. They hadn’t been actively patrolling. Neil had no idea how Pitts and Knox had happened upon the murder scene. They were, possibly, returning to the Institute and heard the commotion, but Neil didn't know. He never got the chance to ask.
Neil pressed his palm over his forehead, picking up his pen again. He could feel the beginning of a migraine, building just behind his eyes.
“We started patrolling at 00:00 –”
The words blurred together on the page. Neil bit on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood. Lying came so easy to some people – unfortunately, Neil wasn’t one of them. Especially when it concerned his father.
You did a good job.
Oh, fuck his life, honestly.
Neil rubbed both hands over his face, cheeks turning heated and scarlet, before pressing his palms over his eyes. Stars burst behind his lids.
This was fine. It wasn’t a lie, it was… an adjustment. A shift in perspective.
The pen slipped from his fingers, rolling off his desk.
“Fuck,” he muttered. He was getting nowhere.
The problem wasn’t the report—it was why he had lied in the first place. His mind kept looping back to that alley, the stench of scorched flesh thick in the air, the stranger - Todd - with fire dripping from his fingertips.
“Right, because demons are famously known for panicking and running away.”
Knox had been right.
Demons didn’t panic. Warlocks didn’t panic.
Mundanes did.
But Mundanes didn’t set people on fire.
Neil exhaled, long and tired. He picked up his pen, tapped the tip of it against the paper. Once. Twice. Thrice.
“ Final notes;
The victim’s stele was found broken at the scene. There was no sign of the perpetrator. The body was retrieved and taken to the Boston’s Institute morgue where it will undergo further inspection. The mundane police were not involved.”
Neil stood outside his father’s office for several minutes, unable to make himself knock on the door. He simply stood there, frozen, each breath catching in his throat, before releasing out of him in a loud whoosh. When he finally rapped his knuckles against it, his pulse roared in his throat, fingers curling around the envelope in his hands.
His father didn’t give him permission to enter, he never did. Neil knew to wait exactly forty seconds before pushing the door open.
Thomas Branwell was sitting behind his desk, when Neil entered, flipping through a stack of reports, his usual frown marring his forehead. He didn’t even glance up when the door opened.
Neil felt like clearing his throat. He didn’t. “The report, sir,” he said, voice steady, masking the internal uproar.
His father hummed absently, still scanning the pages in front of him.
A hum.
Not a nod.
Not even a single sentence.
A hum.
You did a good job.
Neil’s chest expanded, precariously, a delirious sort of laughter building inside. He clawed at it until it died out, leaving nothing but bitterness behind. His fingers twitched by his sides.
He could walk out. He should walk out.
Instead, before he could stop himself – “Is there anything else you need?”
It slipped out too naturally. Too easily. A reflex almost. A habit he’d never broken out of. A need to please, please, please.
Still so damn needy.
Neil’s stomach recoiled in self-disgust.
His father finally glanced up, eyebrows barely lifting. His gaze flickered to Neil’s face, assessing. It lasted maybe a second, and then he returned to his report. “No, that will be all.”
Dismissed.
Neil pressed his lips together, biting the inside of his cheek, ignoring the way his ribs cinched in.
You’re so fucking pathetic.
“Goddnight, sir.” It was sharp, professional. It cracked only slightly, imperceptibly.
His father didn’t answer.
Neil left the room, his stomach twisting.
Wandering around the Institute after hours wasn't ideal, but Neil was too restless, and the energy had to get out somehow. He grabbed a piece of toast from the kitchen and kept walking his feet, taking him to the heart of the place he’d come to consider as home. The ops center was dimly lit, as per usual at this hour. The holographic screen was flashing at the center of the pit, a soft wiring hum filling the empty space. Neil’s boots barely made any noise as he continued walking, set on descending the short staircase that would get him to the main controls.
He hadn’t noticed the figure walking beside him until a hand pressed against his chest, stopping him.
Neil blinked, surprised.
He turned his head slightly, catching sight of Pitts, who made a move as if to say ‘keep quiet’. Neil frowned but obeyed. Pitts gave a small nod, his eyes cutting pointedly toward the holographic screen.
He turned to it once more, noticing for the first time the images displayed there. Their crime scene. The body they had retrieved. But they weren’t the only ones. There were more photos – filling the space, overlapping with their own case files.
Neil hadn’t seen those before.
“Ours wasn’t the first one,” Pitts said, so low that Neil could pretend he hadn’t heard him.
Neil’s frown deepened, and he squinted wishing he hadn’t forgotten his glasses back in his bedroom. Or his stele. Either could work in this situation.
“Our victim is labeled number two,” Pitts whispered, leaning closer to him, probably noticing that Neil was having a hard time reading the fine details on the screen. “Can you see the similarities?”
Neil’s pulse ticked up. He squinted, focusing as much as he could on the screen.
The other victim was bloodier, more broken. Their murder had been more vicious. But the fetal wound was similar. And so was the staging. Both had been murdered in plain sight, in downtown Boston – if he could read the pins on the map correctly. They appeared to be of different gender, and there were no characteristics that stood out on them. Except for –
“That rune,” Pitts said voice edged with something unreadable, just as Neil’s brain caught on it as well. “That’s not one I’ve seen before.”
Neil nodded, feeling a knot – familiar in all the ways he wished it wasn’t – tighten in his stomach. “Haven’t seen it either. We weren’t told about the other victim.”
Pitts’ silence was answer enough.
Neil’s gaze flickered to the side, catching the faint reflection of his own face in the glass. His jaw was set too tight, his shoulders rigid. He forced himself to breathe.
“Knox will probably know what it is.” Pitts spoke up again. “Do you have your phone with you?”
The corners of Neil’s mouth tugged downward. “No. Do you?”
Pitts sighed. “Dead battery.” Without stepping forward, afraid to attract any unwanted attention, Pitts leaned as far forward as he could, looking at the screen like he was trying to commit everything to memory.
Neil chewed on the inside of his cheek, eyes never straining from the screen. No one had mentioned the first victim. No one had spoken a word about a dead Shadowhunter. And when Neil handed in his report, his father didn’t tell him their victim was the second one.
They had been kept in the dark.
Purposefuly.
Neil’s throat tightened. His fingers curled slightly, the phantom weight of his father’s hand still ghosting over his shoulder.
There was one possible explanation for that.
“Do you think…”
“The Clave is taking over?” Pitts finished his sentence, when Neil simply let it trail. His jaw tensed a little. “It’s a possibility.”
Neil didn’t like that answer.
He didn’t like that answer at all.
Because if the Clave took the case, then Todd –
Neil, would never get a satisfying answer about Todd. And he would end up driving himself crazy.
“We might need to sneak into the files,” Pitts murmured.
Neil felt a shot of apprehension trail down his spine. “That’s risky.”
Pitts didn’t even flinch. “Not riskier than lying to the head of the Institute.”
“I didn’t lie,” Neil said immediately, a knee-jerk reaction. His lips pressed together so tightly, the skin around them turned white.
Pitts arched an eyebrow. “So you mentioned the two Mundanes in your report?”
“You think he is a Mundane?”
Pitts studied him for a moment, then glanced back at the screen. It was unnerving, how composed he was. Even at this hour. “I don’t know what he is,” he said carefully, picking his words out. “All I know is that he acted Mundane and that’s –”
“Weird?”
Pitt’s expression was unreadable. “Interesting.”
Neil’s eyes flicked back to the screen, but the display had changed.
A live feed of an ongoing ambush at a Bleeder Den that seemed to produce more dead bodies than satisfied customers. The Shadowhunters on screen were armed to the teeth, breaking down the door, moving like a flock of demons, weapons gleaming under the neon lights of the den.
There was no hesitation. No warning. Just silver flashing, gunfire snapping, the scent of burning flesh practically bleeding through the screen.
Neil quickly retrieved his gaze, his stomach flipping precariously.
This is just part of the job.
The familiar sound of a stake plunging into flesh echoed through the pit and Neil gritted his teeth together, trying to tune it out.
“So,” Pitts voice, drew his attention, and Neil focused on it, more than a little thankful for the distraction. “Do you have any idea where my parabatai is?”
“Why would I?”
“Because last I heard of him he was being harassed by yours.”
Neil heaved a sigh – he seemed to be doing that a lot tonight – pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what’s Charlie's problem is.”
Pitts smirked, looking more amused than upset by the whole situation. “I do,” he said laconically. He didn’t look like he was going to elaborate further so Neil decided not to push him.
He was always good at choosing his battles like that.
“My best bet? They’re probably at the training room.”
Pitts snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that makes sense. I’m too sleep deprived to think logically, thank you, Branwell.”
Neil eyed him. Gerard Penhallow looked like the poster-child of perfect Clave politician. Not a single hair was lying wrong on his head. His clothes looked like he’d just press-ironed them. He smelled like they hadn’t been on patrol for the better part of the night.
He decidedly did not look sleep deprived.
Neil kept the thought to himself as he led the way to the underground part of the Institute where both the training room and the Weaponry were situated.
Apparently, for once in his life Charlie had listened to him. Because when they walked into the training room, he was alone. Sweat soaked through his clothes, shinning on his skin, as Charlie repeatedly hit a training dummy over the head with a stick.
“Oh, don’t tell me you two are friends now,” his parabatai sneered, when he noticed them, giving Neil a nasty look.
He was still breathing hard from training, his shoulders drawn tight, tension humming in the sharp set of his jaw. A feral kind of shine glistened in his eyes, fingers flexing around the jo stick he had been training with.
Pitts shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
Neil almost smiled, but then he noticed the way Charlie’s face twisted – like the very thought of Pitts existing in his general vicinity was enough to send him into a murder spree.
Neil sighed. “Chaz, c’mon,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We just thought Knox might be here as well.”
The snort that came out of Charlie was a mix of indignation and affront. “Why the fuck would I willingly spend time with Carstairs?”
“I can think of a couple of reasons,” Pitts said, clearly too careless with his life.
Charlie’s gaze snapped to him, dark and dangerous. He practically growled.
Neil watched his parabatai with thinly veiled exhaustion. They had approximately five seconds before Charlie did something incredibly stupid.
Pitts, unfazed as always, simply tucked his hands into his pockets. “You do enjoy beating the shit out of each other.” Pitts titled his head, lazily. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if after such a lackluster hunt you ended up doing just that to let off some steam.”
Something in the way he said it – pointed, knowing - made Neil wonder if that’s what he’d meant with his original comment. Still, though, it was a valid point and Charlie couldn’t refute it.
“Right,” Charlie muttered, shifting his weight and swallowing down his anger.
“But he is not here so,” Pitts paused, clapping his hands together, like this was the end to a nice hangout, “I should better go find him.”
Charlie didn’t even wait until Pitts had climbed up the stairs. “I hate that guy.”
Neil gave him a long, unimpressed look, head falling on the side. “Only because you think you have to.”
Charlie scowled. “He is a Penhallow, Neil! Of course I have to! Besides, dude was born with a stick up his ass.”
Neil snorted walking closer to where Charlie was standing. “He is not that bad.”
Charlie rolled his eyes.
“He is not,” Neil insisted. “He is a decent fighter –”
“Only once he decides to hurry the fuck up and not drag his feet.”
“I’m equally as slow,” Neil pointed out. Charlie made a dismissive sound. “He is smart, he can be funny if you give him the chance, and he and Knox are –”
Charlie cut him off, snapping upright like he’d been personally offended. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re about to start defending Carstairs too!”
Neil’s answering look was as dry as he could muster.
Charlie narrowed his eyes, gaze sharp, almost accusatory. “I didn’t expect such betrayal from you, Neil.”
“You only hate him because he is better –”
Charlie moved faster than Neil could blink. One minute he was by the training dummy, a good couple of feet away, and the next he was standing with the tip of his jo stick jabbed on Neil’s throat.
“Finish that sentence,” he threatened, voice low, “and see what happens.”
Neil, unimpressed, grabbed the stick, rolling it downward, using Charlie’s lack of height against him. It wasn’t enough to take the weapon entirely, but it did force Charlie to break form. Neil moved away before he could retaliate.
Charlie exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip. “Yeah, okay, we need to work on your reflexes. That was abysmal.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Charlie kinked an eyebrow. “Do I look disarmed to you?”
“It worked,” Neil repeated with a careless shrug.
Charlie scoffed, flipping the stick between his fingers, muscles flexing in his forearms. “If your father was here to see that –” he cut himself off abruptly once the words coming out of his mouth registered in his brain.
Neil’s stomach plummeted to his feet.
Charlie’s face shuttered, lips parting like he wanted to walk it back.
Neil inhaled, slow and controlled, his gaze flicking to the mat beneath his feet before finding Charlie’s again.
Charlie cleared his throat. “Did you write the report?” he asked, voice lower now.
Neil sniffed, rolling his shoulders. “I did.”
Charlie nodded. “Did you write everything?”
Neil bit on his cheek. “Everything that needed to be written.”
Charlie held his gaze for a long second before nodding again. “Alright.”
“That’s it?” Neil arched an eyebrow. “No lecture about lying to my father? About lying to the Clave?”
“Fuck the Clave, Neil. Always,” Charlie’s eyes burned as he looked at him, leaving no room for argument. “I only care about us. If you say it wasn’t the time to tell him about the demon –”
“He was not a demon, Charlie! Even Pitts agrees.”
“Ah, if Penhallow agrees then it’s law,” Charlie drawled, dragging his vowels.
Neil’s fingers scratched around a rune on his left wrist. “You’re really not going to say anything to my father?”
Charlie’s expression softened “Neil…” his sentence trailed, as he dropped the stick and walked up to him. “I would never.”
Neil swallowed, jaw tightening.
Charlie’s head tilted slightly. “I told you, all I care about is us.”
Neil let out a short, breathy laugh, breaking the weird tension hanging between them. “And the Blackthorn pride.”
Charlie smirked. “Right, of course.” Suddenly he turned on his heel. “In the name of that pride, I should go take a shower.”
Neil huffed a laugh, as he started following after him. “I was just about to mention that. Have you been here since I left you?”
“Abandoned me, you mean.”
“You’re such an overdramatic asshole.”
“And you love me anyway.”
Upon dropping Charlie to get a shower, Neil had returned to his room. He took one look at his bed and he knew there was no way he was going to get any sleep.
So he sat at his desk, grabbed his pen and begun twirling it between his fingers. His eyes found some of the disregarded reports. Sighing, he picked one up. He straightened the paper as best as he could, eyes already reading the words he’d scribbled on it.
Victim: Unidentified female Shadowhunter.
Cause of death: Seraph blade to the chest.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers pressing against his mouth. The evidence they had wasn’t enough to lead to anything. The murderer had been turned to ash so, only if the victim had scratched them they could get any DNA of them. Other than that, and the weird rune Pitts had pointed out – the one Neil had missed at first glance – they had little to carry on with this investigation.
Something pricked at him. Why would anyone kill a person in such a gruesome way so publicly? Were they trying to send a message? Was that the reason why they used a seraph blade? A Shadowhunter’s most common weapon used to kill one of them?
Two of them.
Right, their case wasn’t the first one.
Their victim was the second one.
Neil tapped the pen against his desk, fingers curling around the piece of paper he was holding.
Only, in their case, there had been a very significant difference.
The Mundanes.
His grip on the pen tightened.
There had been two of them at the alley. The redhead, the one Charlie initially thought was in danger, had acted in perfect alignment to who he was. A Mundane; someone without the sight. Someone who could see the flames bursting out of Todd's fingers, but not much other than that.
They both panicked like Mundanes. They both ran.
But one of them had burned someone to ash and dust. One of them could shoot blue flames out of their body. Neil wasn’t stupid. Mundanes couldn’t do that. Demons usually couldn’t do it either.
But warlocks... Warlocks definitely could.
Neil sat with the thought for a long moment, jaw working as the words spun around in his head. If he was a warlock, it would explain the magic. It would also explain the fire. But it wouldn’t explain the seer panic in the stranger’s eyes.
Warlocks loved to brag about the control they had over their magic. Even the really young ones. They were really good at talking about their progress and all the things they could accidentally do but didn’t because their hold on their powers was too strong to slip up.
Todd had no control over the blue flames. He looked like he didn’t even know he could control them.
Which meant –
Neil blinked.
He had no idea what it meant.
He pressed a hand over his eyes, twirled the pen between his fingers. He looked at his bed again. And sighed.
There was only one person he could think of who might have an answer to all of his questions. And he wasn’t exactly a friendly individual.
Still Neil was going to drive himself crazy so, he had to at least try to get something out of him. He pushed back from his desk before he could second guess himself. He grabbed his jacket, shoved his phone and his stele into his pocket, and quietly stepped out of his room.
It was time to pay a visit to the High Warlock of Boston.
Notes:
Ah, I forgot to mention Bleeder Dens when I gave you a thesaurus for this chapter. So, Bleeder Dens don't exist in the Shadowhunter books, but they exist in the show. They are clubs were willing mundanes who have the sight go and let vampires drink their blood. This is euqal parts beneficial because vampire teeth have venom that gets in the blood of the person they feed on and acts like drug, basically.
Chapter 3: My soul? So cynical...
Notes:
Hello, hello, lovelies! This my favourite chapter yet, I've missed writing from Charlie's pov!! I hope you enjoy reading it half as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Thanks for taking the time to click on this!
Okay, words you may not know. Only two in this one!
Tracking ; Shadowhunters use runes to track individuals whose whereabouts are unknown. An object of the target must be held in the tracker's hand when the rune is drawn onto the back of the tracker's hand.
The Guard ; The Gard is an official structure of the Clave in Alicante. It has cells for holding prisoners, both Shadowhunters and Downworlders, charged of crimes, or awaiting trial or execution
Chapter Text
Charlie woke up already feeling something dark and ugly bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He swung his legs off the bed, shoved on a pair of sweats, and headed down to the dining area, pushing the feeling away.
He hadn’t even wanted breakfast. The only reason he made it all the way down there was because he had hoped to find Neil.
Neil would know what to do. He’d know how to unwind him. He was a miracle worker like that.
Yet Neil was nowhere to be found. Charlie’s fingers curled tight around the tray he was holding.
Great.
The room was packed with Shadowhunters, but his parabatai wasn’t one of them. Charlie bit on his tongue, chest heaving with a sigh. He was not in the right mood to deal with all these people. He craned his neck, scanning the room with his eyes, willing Neil to appear out of thin air.
No luck.
Charlie exhaled sharply, eyes still roaming. He clocked a table full of Clave officials – that was new; he had no idea they were expecting an envoy team. His gaze swept past them to land on another table crammed with just-out-of-the-Academy recruits, their too-loud chatter already grating on his nerves. His skin prickled just looking at them.
He kept looking, searching for an empty seat.
There.
A table at the back, mostly vacant. Charlie started walking, only to realize halfway to it that the other two people sitting there were Carstairs and Penhallow.
Abso – fucking – lutely not!
Charlie turned on his heels, hands gripping the tray like he didn’t know if he wanted to break it in half or not. He was fully prepared to go back to his room and eat in silence, but as he was about to make his escape, a hand landed on his shoulder.
Charlie could tell by the weight of it to whom it belonged. His eyes sunk shut and he drew a calming breath.
“Blackthorn,” Lieutenant Nolan said, voice clipped.
Amazing.
Charlie pressed his lips together. Took another breath. Slowly he turned his head enough to look at the older man. “Sir,” he greeted carefully, his face falling into his patented serious-Shadowhunter expression.
Nolan’s sharp gaze flicked from his face to the tray in his hands and back. “Were you going somewhere?”
“Back to my room, sir,” Charlie replied, acting as if the tray he was holding was invisible.
“You haven’t finished your breakfast yet.”
Charlie shrugged. “I am not hungry.”
That’s when his stomach decided to betray him in the worse possible way, making the loudest noise Charlie had ever heard. Lieutenant Nolan stared at him.
“Find a seat and eat,” he said after a beat of agonizing silence.
“But I –”
“I don’t like repeating myself, Blackthorn,” Nolan said, his mouth setting into a disappointed line.
Charlie clenched his jaw. “Yes, sir,” he all but hissed through his teeth.
He cast another quick look around the room for any empty seats that may have evaded his attention before.
No dice.
Charlie breathed through his nose. Held it in for five beats. And exhaled with a loud whoosh.
Fuck me.
Look - Charlie was not an unreasonable person. Alright, maybe he was, at times! But in this particular situation he was on the right!
Penhallow and Carstairs had arrived from the New York Institute around six months ago, and Charlie had been excited to meet them at first. The New York Institute was run by Jace Herondale and Clarissa Fairchild, both amazing Shadowhunters and nice human beings. So, anyone who had trained there should’ve been a nice addition to the Boston Institute, right? A breath of fresh air, and all that.
Yeah, that’s what Charlie had thought.
Until he’d met them.
Neil was wrong, Charlie didn’t hate Gerard Penhallow just because of his last name. It wasn’t a matter of principle or some family rivalry shit.
No, Charlie hated Penhallow – or Pitts, or whatever, because he was a smug little shit.
He acted like he was smarter than everyone else. And, okay, alright, Charlie could maybe give him that – he never claimed to be the smartest crayon in the Shadowhunter boxset – but Penhallow was insufferable about it. He made sure you knew exactly how stupid he thought you were, and he did it with that infuriating, unbothered tone, like it was amusing to him.
And then there was Carstairs.
Who in all honesty should’ve been someone Charlie should have a great time with; Carstairs used to be a Weapons master back in New York, he was one of the youngest Shadowhunters to be considered for a position in the Clave’s guard, and his family name spoke volumes on its own. All sounded great on paper, almost like someone had sent him over with Charlie exactly in mind.
Charlie had thought, Finally. Someone I can actually have a decent conversation with.
Yeah. That lasted for about five minutes.
Because Knox Carstairs in real life was nothing like his description on paper. He was dry as the fucking desert, followed protocol to a fault and acted like he was above everything and everyone around him. Charlie could still remember their first night at the Institute. He’d tried to strike up a conversation regarding a new weapon he’d heard about. Who’s better company for such a conversation if not a Weapon’s Master? Carstairs had taken one look at him, claimed to have a headache and walked the fuck away. Then, next morning, he didn’t even apologize for how he’d brushed him off.
So, yeah, no Charlie was on the right this time. And he was not going to move on, no matter how many times Neil begged him to.
Now though he found himself on a tight spot. Because he clearly needed to eat, and the only available seat was at their table. Hating every minute of what was about to happen, Charlie pushed one foot in front of the other, marching much like a prisoner at the Guard to his execution.
Penhallow and Carstairs were sitting across from each other, leaning as close together as the table would allow. They seemed to be deep in some kind of conversation, their expressions severe. Charlie felt like rolling his eyes – they were always so fucking serious.
He gritted his teeth, as he closed the distance between him and the table, wondering if it would be better to instantly pick a fight upon sitting, or if he should bear the awkward silence, pretend to eat and leave as soon as possible. Unfortunately, he reached his destination before making a decision. He dropped his tray on the wooden surface, the clatter of it resounding in the room. He grabbed the back of a chair, dragging it backward, legs scrapping against the floor. And then he dropped himself on it, heavy and unceremonious, landing opposite Penhallow.
Instantly, all conversation at the table stopped. Charlie, who was definitely not going to be the first one to speak, stabbed at his eggs like they had personally offended him. Carstairs arched an eyebrow but remained mute.
Penhallow sighed. “Good morning to you too, Blackthorn,” he said, tone measured.
So fucking moderate all the freaking time.
Charlie shoved a piece of toast in his mouth and spoke through it. “Eat, shit, Penhallow.”
Penhallow didn’t engage. He never did. Carstairs though, who was sitting next to Charlie, smirked. He wasn’t sure why, but it made Charlie want to jab the fork he was holding through his eye.
“Delightful as always,” Penhallow deadpanned, lifting his tea to take a slow, infuriating sip.
“I aim to please,” Charlie spoke around his mouthful of eggs. He didn’t miss the way Penhallow’s nose wrinkled in detest.
Pompous git.
Charlie considered it a small victory. He allowed himself to relax, eating tense is never a fun thing to do. He should’ve known better than to expect the silence to stretch for long.
“You’re still upset that Neil and I are friends now, aren’t you?” Penhallow mused, casually.
He was ready to retort, but Carstairs beat him to it.
“What?” he cut in, head swiveling toward Penhallow, sharp.
Charlie smirked. “Your boyfriend didn’t tell you he’s a best-friend stealer?”
Neither one of the two rose to the bait. Charlie chewed his breakfast, pretending not to notice the silent conversation between the two parabatai. But then he saw the way Carstairs’ brow furrowed like he was trying to convey something with it and he couldn’t help himself.
“C’mon, now Carstairs,” he taunted, picking up his piece of toast, if only to do something with his hands. “Don’t hold out because of me.”
Carstairs sucked in a deep breath, like Charlie's mere existence exhausted him.
Serves you right.
“You think you’re so amusing, don’t you, Blackthorn?”
Charlie’s piece of toast hovered mid-air, still pinched between his fingers. “I’m hilarious.”
Carstairs scoffed and Charlie fought the urge to deck him.
“What’s hilarious is how much time you spend thinking about us,” Carstairs said his voice so dry it felt like sandpaper against Charlie’s skin.
Penhallow smirked into his teacup.
Charlie dropped the toast on his plate, fingers twitching. His shoulders tensed, squaring, already falling in fighting form. His whole body ached with the need to just give into his basic instincts and let his fists fly.
But no.
No.
Because that’s exactly what they expected of him. To act out. To be irrational. To have a reason to report him, get him into trouble. Charlie was not going to give them the satisfaction. So, instead he sat back in his chair, forcing his muscles to relax. He stretched his arms over his head, deliberately slow, putting on the best performance he could muster.
“It’s cute that you believe I spend any amount of time thinking about you,” he said flatly, his arms dropping back down, fingers drumming against the table.
“Mm,” Penhallow hummed, wholly unconvinced.
The look on Carstairs’ face was deadpan. “Clearly you don’t.”
Charlie’s fingers started curling on the table. He pressed them harder on the surface, making sure to keep them flat.
Penhallow, looking both amused and smug, set his tea down with a soft clink. “This was fun,” he said, a small smile playing at his lips. He brushed some nonexistent crumbs off his sleeve. “But some of us have better things to do.”
Charlie grunted, not even bothering to look at him.
Penhallow stood, gathering his tray. “Knox.”
But unlike any other time that Penhallow had called at him, much like a master calling his favorite pet, Carstairs remained in his seat, giving him only a noncommittal sound. Penhallow’s brows pulled on his face, but he quickly schooled his expression when he saw Charlie watching him.
He exhaled through his nose, like he knew what was happening but was far too tired to deal with it. “Try not to make each other bleed too much.”
The prospect of that actually made Charlie perk up a little. “No promises,” he said through his teeth.
From the corner of his eye he saw Carstairs’ lips twirling into a smirk.
Penhallow huffed – a sound caught between laughter and exasperation – and then left, his back straight steps echoing through the room that had started emptying out.
Charlie should’ve left right then, too.
But he didn’t.
His hand reached out, picking up his coffee. He took a long sip out of it, trying to ignore how it had already gone cold, all the while glaring at the table like it was its fault he was having such a shitty day.
Next to him Carstairs was staring.
Waiting.
What for, Charlie had no idea.
“You seem to be in an awful mood today.”
Charlie didn’t look at him. “Mm, what gave it away?”
“Your general…” Carstairs gestured vaguely at him. “Vibe. It’s worse than usual.”
Charlie rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck. “Bite me, Carstairs.”
“Only if you ask nicely,” Carstairs shot back, not missing a beat.
Charlie’s coffee went down the wrong pipe. He coughed, fist thumping against his chest trying to save face.
It didn’t work; Carstairs was already smirking.
“You wish,” he chocked out, but even if his voice had been stronger, the comeback was still weak.
Carstairs tilted his head, studying him still. “That’s the best you got?”
Charlie clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.
He had two options.
Option one, he could punch him. No warning. Straight in the mouth. Carstairs was fast enough to probably dodge him, but Charlie could, maybe, launch the punch and that would be satisfactory. But it could all still work in Carstairs’ favor – and knowing his luck, Charlie assumed it would.
And that’s why he went with option number two. He pushed back from the table, hard enough for the chair to groan as it scraped the floor. He grabbed his tray, half-tempted to throw it at Carstairs’ stupid smug face, and turned on his heel.
“You enjoy the rest of your morning,” Charlie gritted out.
Carstairs simply sipped his coffee. "Planing on it.”
Charlie stalked out of the dining hall, seething.
He was going to kill him.
Not today. Maybe not even tomorrow.
But soon.
Knox Carstairs was so fucking dead.
Charlie Blackthorn was going to make sure of it.
Charlie had searched everywhere. The training room. The weaponry. His room. The secret passageway they’d found together back when they were twelve years old, still buzzing from the trip to Idris where they’d received their first rune.
Neil was nowhere.
He tried to trace him, using Neil’s favorite seraph blade - the one he continuously forgot to drop off at the weaponry, stashing it instead under a loose floorboard in his room.
It didn’t work. Which could only mean one thing; Neil had activated his anti-tracking rune.
Charlie wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be pissed or worried about him. Probably both. Because this? This wasn’t a Neil move. Sneaking out. Making sure no one could find him. No, that was a Charlie move. And Neil knew better than to start adopting Charlie’s reckless, destructive tendencies.
He wandered around the Institute, his eyes still scanning the place, searching, despite knowing he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for. His fingers were curled, arms resting too stiffly by his sides. He was trying to control his breathing, keep it slow, keep it normal. He did not want to attract attention, not when he had no idea what was going on.
Somehow, his wandering led him straight to the ops center.
He stepped in without thinking, without really wanting to be there. Only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight of several Clave officials gathered around the main controls. They were talking between themselves, expressions serious, voices low. Charlie’s gut twisted.
So this is not a social call.
He glanced at the holographic screen, realizing a second too late that the images displayed there were from their case. The one with the demon Neil refused to apprehend. The knot in his stomach tightened.
Charlie’s heart sped up behind his ribcage, nails digging into the fleshy part of his palms. Then one of the officers pressed a few buttons and the images flickered away, replaced by a map with several pins all over the city.
Charlie leaned his body forward, without taking a step, his breathing going tight.
They’re taking over the case.
He didn’t know why but the idea made him wanna jump over the stairs leading to the pit and release the ugliness festering inside him since he’d opened his eyes on the Clave officials.
Before he even realized he was moving, a hand clamped around his arm and yanked him back.
“Don’t,” Penhallow murmured against in his ear.
Charlie whipped his head around, sneering. “If you don’t fucking let me go –”
“We shouldn’t make a scene,” Penhallow said, voice low but firm.
Controled.
Composed.
His eyes studying but measured, like this wasn’t simply infuriating.
Charlie’s gaze darkened as they locked eyes. “They’re taking over our case.”
Penhallow’s face was unreadable. “I know,” he said, simply.
Charlie’s temper snapped like a twig underneath his boots.
He shoved him. Hard.
Penhallow was taller, but he was also much slower, and Charlie had just caught him by surprise. He stumbled a little, recovering much faster than Charlie had actually anticipated, lips pressing into an unimpressed line.
But it was too late, Charlie had broken free. And the moment he did, he was advancing, fists ready to make damage. His body hummed with the need to hit something.
He hadn’t seen Carstairs hovering behind Penhallow, like a fucking shadow.
The moment Charlie moved, Carstairs did too, stepping into his path with the kind of silent, unshakable presence that made Charlie’s blood boil.
He scoffed. “You think I’m afraid of you, Carstairs?”
“No.”
“You’re right,” Charlie smiled, as an excuse to show his teeth, fist flying toward Carstairs’ face.
Carstairs ducked. Fast. Effortless. Charlie’s fist swung through open air, and the momentum pulled him forward just enough that Carstairs twisted his body, sidestepping him. The next thing Charlie knew, his arms were being forcibly pushed down, wrenched against his sides in a grip that was too strong, too steady.
“Let go of me,” Charlie seethed, thrashing against him.
“Only if you stop acting like an idiot,” Carstairs shot back, completely unbothered. It made Charlie’s rage spike.
“I’m not acting –”
His words were drowned out by the sound of the alarm going off. Charlie’s head snapped toward the pit just as Lieutenant Nolan strode forward, his posture sharp, his presence demanding immediate attention. The room, once filled with quiet murmurs, became a flurry of motion as Shadowhunters snapped to attention.
“Ravener demons,” Nolan barked, addressing the room at large. “Castle Island. Sighted near the fort. We need a team out there now.”
Carstairs’ grip loosened around Charlie’s arms, and he immediately jerked free, barely restraining himself from getting a good shove in.
“You three,” Nolan barked, his eyes finding Charlie’s. “Blackthorn, Penhallow, Carstairs. You’re on this.”
Charlie’s stomach dropped, as he turned to look at Nolan, his face an expression of pure horror. “You’ve got to be joking.”
The look Nolan gave him was withering. “You’re taking the mission.
Charlie’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Sir –” he started, only to be cut off.
“This isn’t up for discussion, Blackthorn.”
Charlie inhaled through his teeth, shoulders tensing like he was physically restraining himself from throwing something.
Fucking fantastic.
“Why are you still standing there?”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, attempting to loosen a little the tension crawling up his spine.
“Sir, do we get a portal –”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Penhallow, but Boston Institute doesn’t have a warlock at their beck and call like New York does,” Nolan, cut him off, words dripping with sarcasm.
A portal? Smug little bastard.
“Right, sir, we –”
“We’re leaving,” Carstairs stepped in, his back so straight Charlie briefly wondered if there was in fact a stick up his ass.
Nolan gave a sharp nod. That was a dismissal if he’d ever seen one.
Breathe.
It’s going to be fine.
He could get through this. Probably.
With a loud, frustrated huff, he turned on his heel and stormed toward the exit, muttering under his breath.
“This day just keeps getting better and better.”
Charlie knew this mission was going to be a disaster.
He knew it before they had even left the Institute. And for once the demons were not the problem. A swarm of Reveners? Easy peasy.
Fighting along a pair of parabatai? Not so much.
Charlie felt Neil’s absence like a ghost limp, pulsing by his side. And not only because there was no one to cover his back. The parabatai bond was something Charlie had come to rely on more than he’d thought. It was instinctual, moving whenever the other moved, shifting, fighting in sync. Simple as breathing air. He saw it in the way Penhallow and Carstairs silently communicated even before reaching the hunt, their movements too smooth, too instinctive. A well-oiled machine that had no room for a third cog.
Charlie had been thrown into plenty of teams before, but never without Neil firmly by his side. This one was different. This felt like he was the odd-one-out, the one no one really needed.
And it made his blood fucking boil.
By the time they reached Castle Island, he was already in a foul mood, pacing at the edge of the park while Penhallow finished briefing them.
“From what the report says, we don’t have numbers on the swarm,” Penhallow was saying, standing just slightly in front of Carstairs, his hands loose in his pockets, like they were having a chat about the weather. “Could be anywhere from five to fifteen. They tend to travel in clusters –”
Charlie cracked his knuckles, bouncing restlessly on his heels. “Right, right, right… are we moving in or are we waiting for them to start attacking the Mundanes?”
Carstairs gave him a flat look, adjusting his quiver. “Raveners don’t attack random Mundanes. Only the ones they’re ordered to kidnap.”
“Fascinating,” Charlie deadpanned. And then, before either one of them could stopped him, he bolted.
Blade in hand. Straight into the trees. Into the dark.
Straight into the swarm.
Charlie saw the demons a second before they clocked him. Six of them, nestled together, all slimy black scales and long limbs.
Huh, they kinda look like Carstairs.
He hadn’t even finished his thought before attacking. Eyes gleaming with a feral kind of shine, he launched himself at the first one. His seraph blade easily carved through its thick hide, cutting it deep. The creature screeched, falling on the ground with a loud thud, throwing up a puff of dust.
The swarm turned on him all at once.
Charlie grinned, gripping his blade tighter.
One of the remaining demons lashed out and Charlie jumped out of the way, narrowly missing a mouth full of venom. He rolled on his side, just as another lunged at him. Charlie threw his hand out pushing all his weight behind it, impaling the underbelly of the demon before it could clamp its jaws onto his shoulder.
Adrenaline burned through him, fast and bright. This – this was his territory.
Fighting. Slicing through walking nightmares. This was his time to shine.
Except – there was no one there to jump in if he fell.
Neil wasn’t there. They weren’t fighting back to back. He wasn’t covering his weak spots, wasn’t looking out for the things Charlie usually forgot to consider – like his blind spots.
Charlie was a second too slow.
Shit.
A Ravener struck at his flank, and Charlie squeezed his eyes shut. He had no time to move out of the way, no time to attack. So he braced for the collision.
And then he felt the whisper of an arrow fly dangerously closer to the side of his face, striking the demon square in the throat before it could reach him.
Fucking Carstairs.
A second later, in a flash of black and silver, Penhallow swooped through, ending another demon in a matter of seconds. The way he used his daggers – like they were an extension of his fingers – was impressive. Almost as impressive as the way he seemed to be moving in tandem with Carstairs, cutting through the hive as if it was nothing.
Charlie should’ve been grateful. Instead, his stomach twisted.
They were covering him, but they weren’t fighting with him. Charlie just happened to be there.
Charlie fought harder, pushed faster, trying to prove he didn’t need anyone watching his back. Even still, Carstairs wouldn’t let him out of his sight. Every time he tried to break off from them, every time he attempted to go after one of the demons on his own, Carstairs was there. A step behind him, an arrow already loosed over his shoulder, a blade swinging into a blind spot.
Another Ravener lunged – had they fucking multiplied? Charlie whirled to block it, but Knox was already moving, an arrow sailing through the air, embedding itself right between its eyes.
Charlie snapped. “I had that!” he growled, shoving Knox back as they fell into step beside each other.
Knox didn’t look fazed. “Sure. Right after it bit your face off.”
Charlie’s grip flexed around his seraph blade. “Stay out of my way.”
“No.”
Charlie’s breath came sharp through his nose. “What the fuck do you mean no?”
Knox opened his mouth to retort just as another Ravener came barreling toward them at full speed. He dodged to the right. Charlie jumped to the left. And then, somehow, impossibly, they moved together. Charlie’s blade swung low – Knox’s blade swung high. The Ravener screamed as they struck at the same time, slashing through its neck, severing its head clean from its body.
The demon collapsed at their feet, dissolving into a pile of black sludge.
Charlie stood there, breathing hard. Carstairs was staring at him, brows raised slightly. Smugly.
Charlie scowled. “Don’t look so fucking pleased with yourself.”
Carstairs fucking smirked.
Something moved in the shadows. Charlie caught it a second too late. His breathe stilled at his throat as the creature lunged toward them.
Too fast.
Knox still had his back to it.
For the second time on the same night, Charlie had no proper amount of time to react. He instinctively pushed Knox out of the way, boots sliding on the damp stone floor. The weight of his own momentum nearly threw him off balance, but he planted his feet, bracing for the impact.
The demon burst into an explosion of black sludge mid-air.
Charlie felt the heat of it spatter against his arm, the stench of ichor flooding his nose.
“Missed me?”
Charlie’s head snapped up.
Neil.
Standing just beyond the remnants of the Raveners, seraph blade still raised, eyes flicking between them, his chest rising and falling too fast, like he’d just run here.
Charlie let out a breath that he refused to admit was relieved.
Carstairs made a noise on the back of his throat that Charlie couldn’t quite pinpoint the emotion behind. He was wiping at the sleeve of his jacket, where some of the demon sludge had splattered, expression unreadable.
Neil seemed to squirm a little as the silence stretched inside the cave.
“Took you long enough,” he bit out, glancing at his parabatai, and the way he held himself, like he was unsure if he should even be standing there.
“Yeah, yeah,” Neil said, voice trying for casual, but missing by a mile. “Where’s the gratitude?”
Penhallow, who had been watching the entire interaction with much more interest than Charlie would’ve liked, sheathed his daggers. “We should move. Make sure there isn't another nest near by and head back.”
“Agreed,” Carstairs said, falling in step with him before he was even done with his sentence.
Charlie caught the way Neil was looking at him. His fingers flexed at his sides, shoulders too stiff, too tense. Something was wrong.
“Okay, let’s move then,” he said, making sure to sound as annoyed as possible.
Penhallow and Carstairs exchanged a look and then exited the cave first.
“Well?” Charlie prompted as he started walking.
Neil joined him after a second’s hesitation. “I have to tell you something,” he said, voice quieter now.
Charlie’s jaw tensed. “I figured.”
“I don’t know where to start.”
He threw Neil a sideways glance. “The beginning is usually a good place.”
“Right, right.” Neil exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face.
Charlie’s unease deepened. His tone lost some of its bite. “Neil, should I be worried?”
“…Probably.”
Chapter 4: And if the world don’t break, I’ll be shaking it (OR; Run boy run! This world is not made for you)
Notes:
Hey, you guys!!! It's already been a week, huh?? I don't have any new words for you in this chapter, I don't think... but if you see something you don't understand let me know in your comments! Speaking of, thank you so much for taking the time to read, comment and leave kudos in this story! It means the world to me! Also, this is the first chapter we get a split narrative, and it's also the first time I write in either of these two poets pov, which I'm really worried about sooooo be nice if they come off a bit ooc. Anyway, without further ado, chapter 4!
Chapter Text
Gerard Penhallow grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and the weight of being the Clave’s future burdening his shoulders since he was barely old enough to tell his vowels from his consonants. He grew up with private tutors, already able to speak five languages and strategize his way out of a kidnap situation before his training had even officially begun.
Gerard Pitts grew up with grass-stained knees and mud-caked shoes from playing soccer with the boy living on the house at the corner of the street where his family’s estate was back in Idris. One day, after they’d turned twelve, he walked to the boy's house, knocked on the door and told him they were going to be parabatai.
And that had been that.
From a very young age, Gerard realized that he had only two choices : become a master of compartmentalizing, or be okay with completely losing himself, slipping between the cracks of Shadowhunter politics and his own life. Since the latter option wasn’t particularly appealing, Gerard had worked really hard at separating what needed to happen and what he wanted to happen.
In fact, he had spent so much time perfecting that particular skill that by the time he was twenty-something he was already a pro.
Like in this instant for example.
Penhallow knew that there was a portal waiting for him at the training room, set to take him to Idris. Today was the first day he’d take a seat at the table. The one where all the decisions were made. Today was the day he’d spent his whole life preparing for.
Pitts knew that the last thing he wanted right now was to be stuck inside a dimly lit room with a number of old school Shadowhunters hell-bent on bringing back the old order, after successfully running Alec Lightwood away from his rightful position as Consul. He'd much prefer do something else. Like break into the Institute's case files and find out more about the case that was linked with theirs.
The clock was ticking.
“I think I lost a dagger last night,” he said, lying sprawled on his parabatai’s bed, arms folded behind his head. The mattress beneath him smelled like soap and iron – Knox had always kept his room sterile and crisp, everything folded precisely at right angles. The only thing that made it look remotely lived-in was the way Pitts had unceremoniously collapsed onto the sheets.
Knox didn’t even look up from the tome he’d balanced against his knees. “When do you not?”
Pitts narrowed his eyes, head tilting. “Are you implying I’m careless with my gear?”
Knox turned a page. “I’m not implying.”
Pitts exhaled, propping himself up on his elbows. “What are you even reading?”
“It’s a copy of the Codex Gigas.”
Pitts’ eyebrows pulled on his forehead. “Why?”
Knox actually looked at him this time, deadpan. “Why not?”
Pitts fell back against the bed, a long exhale pushing out of his lungs. “You seriously need to get laid.”
Knox chose to not dignify that with an answer.
Pitts’ eyes flicked to his wristwatch. Ten more minutes until the portal zapped out of existence. Something kicked in his stomach. Pitts ignored it.
“Seriously,” he started again, craning his neck toward Knox. “I think we need to find you someone to drag you away from these books.”
Knox sighed, like Pitts was giving him a headache. “This is research, actually. And there’s nothing wrong with reading. In fact it’s a perfectly acceptable free-time activity.”
“I know what this is,” Pitts murmured. He noticed the moment Knox’s finger curled around the spine of the book. “You are still hang up on–”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
“- Chris.”
“Oh,” Knox blinked, his face heating up slightly. “No,” he muttered, gaze flicking back to the book in his lap. “No, I’m over that, actually.”
“Ah, so it is Blackthorn, then,” Pitts said, a smirk curling in his lips.
The dagger embedded itself into the mattress before Pitts even registered that Knox had moved. He had a moment’s notice to twist around on the bed, landing on his feet in one fluid motion. The blade lodged in the mattress in the spot where his leg had been a second ago.
“Not bad,” he commented, arms crossing over his chest. “You almost got me.”
Knox’s eyes burned. “If I wanted to get you, I would’ve.”
Which was true. Knox’s aim never faltered. Not when they were training. Not when they were out in the field. Certainly not when it was just the two of them in his bedroom and Pitts was trying to goad him.
“Don’t worry, Knoxie,” Pitts said, smirking. “I know Charlie Blackthorn is your archnemesis.”
Knox made a noise of pure disgust. “You’re joking, but the dude has some serious grudge against me.”
“One that you keep feeding.”
“He is insufferable.”
“You’re not really helping your case by antagonizing him.”
“I’m not trying to,” Knox snapped, shutting the book with a loud thud. Pitts arched an eyebrow at his outburst. “I’m not,” Knox insisted. “But he treats everything as a challenge, and –”
“And you love that,” Pitts cut him off smoothly.
Knox glared. “I don’t.”
“Sure,” Pitts gave a little shrug. “Right, okay then, I’m off.”
Knox blinked at him, confused by the sudden change in the mood. “Where to?”
Pitts smoothed over an invisible wrinkle on his sleeve. “Idris.”
Knox’s entire body locked up. The realization slammed into him like a physical force. His book slipped off his lap and hit the floor, completely forgotten as he stood up from his chair.
“Idris? That’s today?”
Pitts nodded, eyes flicking to his watch. Five more minutes.
“That’s today indeed,” he confirmed. “In fact, the portal closes at ten hundred.”
Knox’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “That’s in five minutes!”
Pitts nodded again. “Hence, why I should be going.” He clapped a hand on Knox’s shoulder in passing, already walking toward the door. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Yeah, screw that, I’m coming with,” Knox said, already grabbing a sweater from where it laid neatly folded on top of his dresser and shoving his head through it.
Pitts should’ve known this was going to happen. Somehow Knox’s ride-or-die attitude still took him by surprise. “Knox, this is a Clave meeting. You don’t have to come.”
“Sure, I do.”
Pitts turned, leveling him with an exasperated look. “Knox.”
Knox stared at him. His face was set, unwavering. “Where you go, I go.”
Pitts hated how the words settled in his chest. How they fit into the cracks of him like they belonged there. “This is not a fight,” Pitts tried to reason, voice quieter.
“You sure about that?”
The clock was still ticking.
Three more minutes.
“Fine,” Pitts gave in, exhaling sharply. It was the only thing he could do; Knox was not going to take no for an answer. “Fine, but we need to hurry if we are to make it in time.”
Knox was already moving. “Agreed.”
“Oh, and I can’t promise you a seat at the table.”
Knox shrugged. “Fine by me.”
Pitts had been right. This was a torture. Which was funny, because he thought the Clave had outlawed torture as a means of extracting information years ago. But there was no other word to call what was happening in that room.
First of all the windows had all been magicked to be opaque, for what reason Pitts couldn’t even venture a guess. That only allowed a minimal amount of sunlight to filter through, leaving the grand chamber bathed in dull, lifeless gray. The people surrounding him were at least thirty years his seniors. The faces were all familiar, and so where the names but that was as far as Pitts ability to relate to any of them went.
And it’s not that Pitts wasn’t thankful that his parents had pulled all the right strings to land him on the table. This had always been the plan. Put in the work. Keep his head low. Get in. Get them to like him and then, soon, he’d be the one calling the shots.
It’s just the Pitts wasn’t a very patient person.
Penhallow had to be.
“I second the motion.”
The words left his mouth smoothly, carefully measured, even though he already knew they’d get a reaction. Because today he was supposed to observe. Not talk. He was there to get a feel of the things, shadowing the Head of the Boston’s Institute. At least that’s what his parents had intended it to be. But Pitts was growing restless.
A round of murmurs broke around the table. A few heads turned. Thomas Branwell shook his head, muttering something in a hushed voice to the person sitting to his right. Consul Dearborn exhaled sharply through his nose, lips pressing into a line as he leaned forward on the table.
“Mister Penhallow,” he said, regarding Pitts like he was an eager student speaking out of turn. “This isn’t a matter we’ll be voting on.”
Penhallow didn’t allow the whispers to get to him. He overlooked the irritation in the Consul’s tone. He straightened a little on his seat, crossing his arms over the table, a smile – calm, patient, charming - playing on his lips.
“I am well aware, Consul,” he said, using his most ‘I’m-an-exemplary-Shadowhunter’ voice. The voice that made people like the ones surrounding him, trust him. “I simply wanted to voice my agreement to what Mister Casales proposed. I, too, believe we should be considering stricter regulations when it comes to inter-species relations.”
The lie rested heavy on his tongue. It travelled like poison down his throat, festering in his lungs, staining the oxygen he breathed in. Pitts fought to keep his fingers from curling. But his expression never wavered.
Knox caught his eyes over Branwell’s shoulder, giving him a small, imperceptible nod.
This was the plan.
Penhallow cleared his throat, pivoting effortlessly. “I also wanted to thank you, for giving me the opportunity to be here today. It is truly an honor, and I can’t express how grateful I am for the opportunity.”
A few council members exchanged approving glances, nodding as if his words were genuine.
Pitts allowed himself to settle back just slightly, careful to keep his composure controlled. He could feel the weight of the eyes on him, assessing, judging. Deciding whether he belonged.
It was almost amusing how easy it was to play into their expectations.
“I must say,” he continued. “I’ve been looking forward to getting a better understanding of the inner workings of the Clave, firsthand. Like, for example, how on-going cases are being handled.”
He let the words linger.
There was a small, subtle shift in the air.
Branwell’s fingers tapped idly against the table. A woman from the Prague Institute glanced toward Dearborn, barely perceptible. Even Knox – who had been a picture of stoicism – visibly tensed where he had been standing for the past hour.
But it was Lazlo Balogh who reacted first. If Pitts hadn’t been looking for it, he wouldn’t have caught it. But he had been, and so he saw his fingers flexing against the polished armrest of his chair. A small exhale made it past the man’s lips, his jaw tensing ever so slightly.
Pitts’ smile remained as charming as it had been before. “I know for example,” he continued, perfectly casual, perfectly harmless. “That there was a recent reassignment of an active investigation.” He glanced toward Dearborn, feigning curiosity. “Probably because it was a case that required the Clave’s immediate attention. I think it’s important for me, as someone who wants to further his career in Idris, to understand when cases fall under Clave’s jurisdiction.”
The silence stretched for half a beat too long,
“The reassignment was necessary,” Balogh finally said, voice clipped.
Pitts turned to him, expression open and unassuming. “Of course,” he said nodding, like that answer meant something. Like it satisfied him.
It didn’t.
But he let it go – for now.
It’s important to know when to pick your battles. Not everything can be won in one go, sweet angel, his mother used to whisper, ruby-red lips pressing on his forehead. It was usually when Pitts tried to keep them from leaving for yet another work trip, leaving him alone in a house full of servants.
Those words had imprinted in his mind from an unfairly young age.
Dearborn cleared his throat, redirecting the conversation. “I’m sure Mister Penhallow will have plenty of opportunities to familiarize himself with the details of how we handle such matters. But let’s stay on topic.”
Penhallow inclined his head, every bit the obedient, promising young Shadowhunter they wanted him to be.
Knox tried to catch his gaze, but Pitts didn’t so much as glance at him. The council continued talking. Decisions were made. The game went on.
And Gerard Penhallow kept playing.
Richard Cameron was normal.
Your everyday kind of guy. Plain, vanilla, run-of-the-mill. And he was fine with that.
He’d grown up in downtown Boston, attended the school right around the corner from his house. Attended Boston University after graduating near the top of his class, majoring in political science. He liked electronic music, took walks along the bay, watched foreign documentaries. He could talk about the Star Wars franchise for hours if someone let him.
Cameron was also a very practical guy.
Which was why it made sense that, on the first day of primary school, when he’d been assigned a desk partner - a short little thing with too much hair and too much anxiety packed inside his six year-old body – he had just...stuck with him. Todd had offered him a shy smile, meticulously keeping to his side of the desk the whole day.
Todd had favored English and Literature the way Cameron had favored Math and Physics. He had been soft spoken, but underneath that had been an endless reserve of sarcasm and humor so dry it could crack pavement. Cameron wasn’t funny, but he had the needed patience to put up with Todd’s relentless, self-deprecating neuroses. Their friendship made sense. It also saved Cameron the time of getting to meet a person on his own.
Their friendship had started as convenience. A practicality. But somewhere down the line, things shifted.
Todd seemed to actually like him, when Cameron had been used to people tolerating him. Todd took the time to talk to him, to listen to him. He’d cared. And little by little he started telling Cameron things, real things. Things that mattered. About himself. About his parents – his adoptive parents; the Andersons, distant maternal relatives who had taken him in as a baby.
And just like that, without Cameron really realizing it, Todd had become his person. The one who mattered most.
And now Todd was avoiding him.
Or Cameron was avoiding Todd.
He wasn’t quite sure of the semantics. Point was, he hadn’t seen Todd almost in a week. Since that night.
Cameron snapped the book in front of him shut, exhaling sharply. The guy sitting two desks away from him at the library, looked up to shoot him a vicious glare.
Cameron forced his lips into an apologetic smile.
The guy’s glare deepened. Cameron lowered his head, eyes wide but unseeing.
The desk in front of him was covered in books. Piles upon piles of them. New ones, old ones, slim ones, books so thick they’d probably take him years to get through. Some were in English, some in German, one of them was in freaking Latin. All of them about the same thing.
Spontaneous human combustion and whether it was something that could actually happen.
Because, how else was he supposed to explain that Todd had spewed actual fire from his fingertips?
There was no other possible explanation.
Cameron drew a breath, reaching for another book.
Spontaneous human combustion (SHC) is the pseudoscientific concept of the spontaneous combustion of living (or recently deceased) human body without an apparent external source of ignition on the body. It is often mistakenly attributed to cases where supernatural inclinations – particularly the ability to wield fire – are at play, though such abilities remain undocumented in mainstream scientific study…
Cameron yanked his hand away like the book had bitten him. His move was so sudden that he almost toppled off his seat. He blinked, heart hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to crawl up his throat, breaths coming harsh. The guy from before, send him a death glare, but Cameron was too preoccupied trying to control his breathing to pay him any mind.
Supernatural inclinations? Fire wielders?
Cameron rubbed his face, before running a restless hand through his curly hair. “This is stupid,” he muttered through his teeth, eyes narrowing as they returned to the book. “This is so stupid. There’s no supernatural.”
But the flames coming out of Todd’s fingers were blue -
A loud thud came from behind him and Cameron nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around on his chair, hands gripping the back of it so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
A book.
It had somehow fallen off the shelf, and was now lying on the floor right behind his chair. Cameron’s throat felt tight. Somehow it felt like the book was mocking him.
This was insane. He was being insane. There had to be a rational explanation for whatever was happening. He was just – he was not looking hard enough. Or probably at the right place. There was probably a scientific phenomenon that he wasn’t aware of, or some weird chemical reaction that would perfectly explain how Todd –
Another thud came from behind him.
Cameron jumped.
His entire body shook, as he whipped around, eyes already scanning. The library was still mostly empty, save from that one guy who was now glaring daggers at him. The shelves loomed, their rows stretching out into dim-lit silence.
He drew in a slow breath. It was shaky.
He stood up from his chair, legs only slightly wobbly. He walked around his chair, bending to pick up the book. He had not noticed it had opened upon making contact with the floor, spine bent at an unnatural angle.
Cameron wasn’t well versed in fantasy lore, but even he could recognize the sketch of Merlin peering up at him from the book’s page.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
He snatched it, shutting it close in the process. His fingers curled around it, thumb pressing over the hard corner. He straitened his back, gaze flicking around the place, focusing nowhere for more than a few seconds. A chill ran down his spine. The sensation of being watched made his skin crawl.
This is beyond stupid. There’s no one else here.
Cameron’s jaw clenched. He reached for his forgotten coffee cup with the kind of controlled, deliberate movement one made when pretending not to be spooked. He brought the cup to his lips, tilting it until the coffee hit his tongue. It had gotten cold, and Cameron’s eyebrows pinched as it spilled in his mouth. Still he swallowed.
Twirled the cup in his hands.
Drew a breath.
Everything was fine.
Everything is fine.
Cameron forced his shoulders to relax. He stacked the book he was still holding on top of the others, and then, without a second glance, he left.
Chapter 5: Things aren’t always what they seem to be ( Or; I’m bigger than my body)
Notes:
Hello, hello good people of the internet!! Another Thursday, another update by yours trully!! This is another split narrative, which wasn't the initial plan because this was supposed to be Todd's chapter, but then Pitts happened... and like who am I to refuse Gerard Pitts his right to shine, you know??
We get a bit of action in this own there's a fight with some demons, but no one gets seriously hurt. Also there's some French in the chapter, I have the translation ready for you over at the end notes. I really like this chapter because it's both a hint at slow-burn (not really) rivals to fuck buddies to possibly something more AND a meet-cute with demons.
I hope you like it as well, let me know in the comments!! As always, thank you to everyone who takes the time to read, like, comment and bookmark this story! I see and appreciate all of you :))
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Pitts’ back hit against the mat with a loud thud. His lungs screamed as he tried to draw in a deep breath. For a second, all he could do was blink up at the ceiling.
Yeah, he had definitely broken a rib or something.
Above him, Knox loomed, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t even look winded. The expression on his face was unreadable, but Pitts knew better. He could feel the frustration, thrum through their bond, the sharpness of it pressing just behind his ribs, hurting more than the actual physical blow did.
In hindsight, he should’ve known Knox was going to react like this.
It was one of the reasons why he hadn’t wanted him in Idris. To Knox, the decision to play the Clave the way he did – bold, almost too on the nose – had been reckless. But Gerard Penhallow had grown up breathing political strategy like it was oxygen. Every move he’d pulled at the meeting had been calculated. Controlled. Knox had grown up reacting to everything like it was a battle. And to him, what Gerard had done wasn’t a strategic move. It was him putting himself directly into the line of fire.
And this was his way of making that very fucking clear.
Knox kissed his teeth, tilting his head slightly. “Such a same…” he mused. “One of the most promising Shadowhunters of our age, and you can’t even last five minutes without hitting the floor.”
Pitts swallowed the response that slithered up his throat.
Yeah, Knox could be a petty little shit when he was in this particular mood.
He’s only looking out for me.
Pitts propped himself on his elbows, staring up at his friend from underneath an impressive frown. “It would help if you gave me a little warning before you started throwing punches.”
Knox’s expression flickered, his lips setting into a thin, serious line. “Demons will give you a warning before they attack?” he asked, voice sharp. “You think the Clave will?”
Pitts sighed, pushing himself into a sitting position. “Oh, c’mon, I know I’m not as good a fighter as you, but I can take the Clave’s dinosaurs.”
A vein ticked on the side of Knox’s jaw. “The dinosaurs will not be the ones attacking, Gerard,” he said, voice clipped. His tone was much sharper than Pitts had expected. “And you’re not a bad fighter. You’re just distracted.”
“I never said I’m bad,” Pitts shot back. “I said you’re better than me.”
Knox shifted his weight between his feet. “I need to be,” he said quickly.
Pitts opened his mouth but the look on Knox’s face made him close it. Unconsciously he squared his shoulders. He did not like the way the words settled on his chest, wrapping around his heart, like a vice.
Knox exhaled sharply. And then, without much preamble, he took a step back.
“Again.”
Pitts’ muscles groaned in protest. But he didn’t say anything. Knox needed this. And besides, even if he was going a bit harder than usual, he was still pulling his punches. Knox always did.
Pitts swallowed a sigh and extended his arm. Knox grabbed him around the wrist, yanking him up with a kind of force that nearly had him tumbling forward. Pitts tried to use his momentum against Knox, trying to flip the angle and throw Knox off balance, but he had already let go of him, jumping back before Pitts could counter.
“You’re being predictable,” Knox said, voice flat as they circled each other.
Pitts narrowed his eyes. “No, you’re just some kind of psychic.”
His quip earned him a chuckle. It was short-lived, but it was the first he managed to get out of Knox since returning from Idris.
“You’re stalling,” Knox broke the silence again, accusingly.
Pitts arched an eyebrow, “Aren’t you doing the same?”
He had hardly finished his sentence when Knox moved.
He was fast. So, fucking fast, Pitts hardly even registered him lunging. He blocked the fist coming for his face, but he didn’t see the foot sweeping low until it was too late. Knox’s boot crashed into his ribs, hard. Pitts heard the crack before the sharp shot of pain made it all the way to his brain.
His vision blurred at the edges.
Nothing an iratze can’t take care of.
He shook his hands, rolling his shoulders, smothering down the pain. Knox was giving him more time than needed to pull himself together. Pitts gritted his teeth. Sometimes it was annoying how much Knox coddled him.
Anger wasn’t a good advisor at a fight, but Pitts wasn’t angry… Not really. He was a little annoyed, maybe.
Annoyed could be useful.
He surged forward, keeping his body weight low. Knox had anticipated the collision, but not the amount of force Pitts was going to put behind it. Catching him by surprise, Pitts actually managed to get him to falter. It was just a fraction of a second – barely a stumble. But it was enough.
Pitts landed a solid hit to his side, another at his shoulder. Knox absorbed the impact without a flinch. But it was an impact. It was contact.
It was a victory.
Then, just as quickly as Pitts had gained the upper hand, Knox took it back.
He moved seamlessly, catching Pitts’ wrist mid-swing, twisting. Before Pitts could react, his feet were off the ground. The world tilted. Again. And Pitts hit the mat. Again.
The air left his lungs like it had been punched out of them.
Knox was on him instantly, knee pressing into his sternum just enough to pin, not enough to hurt. His face was inches away, dark and unreadable.
“You let me land those punches,” Pitts accused, breathless.
Knox smirked. “Did I?”
Bastard.
Before Pitts got the chance to respond, someone cleared their throat. Knox moved quickly, falling back on his hunches. Simultaneously they turned to the door.
Neil was standing just past the threshold, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. “We have a case.”
Knox, still catching his breath, tilted his head. “The three of us?”
Neil made a small grimace. “The four of us,” he corrected.
Pitts focused his hearing and sure enough the sound of steps and ineligible muttering could be heard coming from the corridor behind Neil’s back.
Chest still heaving, Pitts tapped his hand on the mat. Knox’s weight disappeared almost instantly. His parabatai reached down to help him on his feet without as much as a word, before quickly falling into parade stance. Pitts did not miss the light flush travelling up his neck, coloring his cheeks.
“What do we know about the case?” he asked, if only to break the awkward silence.
Outside the room he could still hear Blackthorn pacing and muttering to himself.
Neil gave a little shake of his head. “Not much. A nest of Shax demons, near the docks of River Charles. There’s an eyewitness, apparently.”
Pitts nodded. “Alright, we’ll meet you out front in five.”
Neil seemed to hesitate for a second, before nodding back. He turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway. Pitts waited a moment longer, until he heard two set of feet walking away from them, before he turned his attention to Knox.
“You feeling better?” he asked, head tilting. “Got it all out of your system?”
Knox’s jaw tightened, but he rolled his eyes good naturedly. “Yeah, yeah.” His expression sobered a little. “I just want you to be careful.”
Pitts took a step closer, his hand coming to rest on Knox’s shoulder. “I’m always careful, Carstairs. You know that. Now c’mon, let’s go kill some demons.”
Okay, listen, listen, Pitts wasn’t always an asshole, alright? But sometimes, sometimes a situation falls into the hands of a not-always-an-asshole kind of person and it’s just too good to pass it up. You know?
Like this instance, for example.
The four of them had made it down to the docks in almost record time. The air was thick with river water and damp wood. It clung to their clothes, forcing perspiration to break out on their skin. The humidity made the atmosphere feel heavier than it already was. The sound of lapping water nearby gave Pitts a sense of calmness that was entirely fake. He crossed his arms, tried to focus on the conversation happening in front of him.
“Non, non, vous ne comprenez pas!” Their eyewitness cried, a shaky hand pushing through her tangled, blond hair.
Neil let a slow breath, his expression crumbling. He had been trying to get a comprehensive answer out of her for the past ten minutes, but the girl – around their age, French, and absolutely terrified – was too shaken to be coherent. Neil’s French was passable, but the way he kept messing up his tenses and hesitated when he had to use certain words wasn’t exactly helping the situation.
And, well, Blackthorn, standing slightly behind him, looming like a very scary shadow wasn’t making things much better.
Pitts was getting a little restless.
His gaze turned to Knox, who had remained quiet through all of this, arms loosely folded, posture relaxed, watching Neil struggle with something that could be resolved in less than a minute if only -
Pitts smirked to himself.
Oh, things are about to get so interesting.
He turned to Knox, giving him a subtle incline of his head. Knox frowned, barely perceptible, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
Pitts’ smirk widened.
Because, sure, he could have very easily stepped in himself. He was fluent in French. Both he and Knox had been tutored in multiple languages when they were still kids living in Idris – Knox , in particular, had been pushed to learn languages spoken across Shadowhunter Institutes worldwide. But see, Pitts wanted to test a theory. One he had been itching to find a way to test.
“Branwell,” he said, tapping Neil lightly on the shoulder. “Why don’t we let Knox take over?”
Neil’s eyes flicked from their eyewitness to Knox, who looked like he’d much rather be anywhere else at the moment, before finally landing on Pitts himself. The girl let a small sob, her hand pressing over her mouth, a new batch of tears filling her eyes.
His relief was almost palpable as he took a step back, giving the floor to Knox. “Be my guest.”
Knox sighed, slow and exasperated. “You’re lucky I like you,” he shot to Pitts, stepping forward.
Charlie narrowed his eyes at them. “Hold on. Hold on. Are you about to –”
Knox cut him off by smoothly switching languages. “Hé, ça va aller. Respire, tu peux te calmer.” His voice dipped into something softer, more reassuring. He reached out a steady hand, letting it hover over her shoulder, giving her time to pull back. When she didn’t, he laid it gently on her arm. “On est là pour toi, d'accord ? On va t'aider."
And just like that, everything changed.
The girl sniffled again, one hand messing with her hair, but the tension in her shoulders visibly unraveled. “Ce que j’ai vu? C’était un démon, j’en suis sûr. Un monstre avec des yeux jaunes et des griffes—”
Pitts tuned out what she was saying. He had heard enough. He had seen enough.
He didn’t need to keep listening to notice the way she was looking at Knox, like he was the best thing that happened to her all night. Which, fair, maybe he was.
Or more importantly, how Blackthorn had practically stopped breathing. Pitts watched in real time as Charlie’s brain rebooted, eyes blinking slowly, lips parting. Pitts had expected some kind of reaction, but this?
This was spectacular.
And then, suddenly, “No.”
Knox threw him a look over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“No,” Charlie repeated, pointing a finger at him like he was trying to physically stop whatever the hell was happening in front of him. “You don’ just – just – flawlessly switch to French like that. Like it’s nothing.”
Knox blinked at him, entirely unimpressed. “It is nothing. I grew up speaking multiple languages, Blackthorn. By the Angel, there’s a branch of the Carstairs family tree that comes from Sanghai.”
Charlie physically jolted. Pitts tried to swallow a chuckle. Charlie rounded at him instead.
“What are you laughing at?”
Pitts shrugged, feigning innocence. “Nothing.”
Charlie made an aborted motion like he wanted to strangle him.
Meanwhile, the witness was looking between them in utter confusion.
Neil, stepping in, like the only responsible person in the group, cleared his throat. “Désolé pour eux. Ils se disputent tout le temps.”
She nodded a little, her attention snapping back to Knox, eyes growing round and soft. Pitts, watching Charlie’s slow and painful descent into madness, bit back a grin. Unconsciously, the girl, took a step forward, her whole body leaning slightly toward him. Knox’s hand, still on her arm, steadied her when she wobbled.
Pitts heard the breath Charlie sucked in.
Knox, oblivious as always, lowered his voice, the smooth cadence of his French sliding effortlessly off his tongue. “Pouvez-vous nous montrer où cela s’est passé?"
The witness nodded eagerly, gesturing toward the alley ahead, and the group moved to follow.
Charlie, still fuming, muttered under his breath. “This is all bullshit.”
“What’s the matter, Blackthorn? Are you finally impressed?” Pitts made the mistake of falling in step beside him.
Next thing he knew he was being shoved – violently – to the side, stumbling into a stack of crates.
Knox, still walking ahead of them, didn’t even glance back as he said, “Tu devrais vraiment apprendre à mieux cacher ton trouble, Blackthorn.”
Charlie’s brain must’ve short-circuited for he completely stopped walking. Knox finally turned to look at them, his expression calm, almost bored. Charlie’s glance screamed bloody murder. Pitts had to press his palm over his mouth, to suppress his laughter.
Neill, still adjusting to the absolute circus this group had become, sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
Todd was agitated.
Which wasn’t exactly a new feeling for him.
Agitated. Anxious. Worried.
Those were his usual moods. But somehow this time it felt different.
Cameron, walking next to him, was talking. He had been talking non-stop since the moment they saw each other. Todd had been relieved, at first. They hadn’t met each other in a week – an entire week – and Todd had been bracing himself for the cold-shoulder. For the awkwardness.
But it never came.
“Missed you,” Cameron had said, wrapping him in a quick hug, as he came bounding down the stairs of his flat, like nothing had changed.
And for a moment Todd – naïve, stupid, stupid Todd – had let himself believe it. That everything was still the same. That the past few days had been a glitch in the system.
But then Cameron started talking. And talking. And talking. About spontaneous human combustion. About chemicals in the air that could create impromptu explosions. About instances of folie a deux.
Todd’s stomach tightened itself into a knot.
What about the others? What about the woman? Her killer?
He’d been burning with the need to voice those questions, but he swallowed them down, killing them before they got the chance to escape. Because Cameron never brought them up. Never even hinted that there had been others that night. He only ever talked about the flames – blue, vibrant, burning – that had shot out of Todd’s fingers.
Which could mean one of two things; one, Cameron didn’t care about them. They were strangers. They looked like they could be dangerous, and Cameron had no intention of dragging them into more danger.
Or two…
Cameron hadn’t seen them. Not the woman, not the man standing behind her with a sword in his hands. Not the others, rushing into the alley, a swarm of black leather and tattooed skin, and gleaming weapons.
And somehow the second option - the one that made the least amount of sense - felt like the real one. And Todd didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that.
They’d wandered around Charles Street for a while. Grabbed food but never sat down to eat in peace. Cameron seemed to be a little too restless to sit still, and Todd felt the same kind of energy humming underneath his own skin. And so, they walked, around and around.
Aimlessly.
They’d reached Beacon Hill without either one of them realizing it.
“What are you thinking?” Cameron asked for what felt the umpteenth time.
Todd massaged his crown, finishing the last bite of his burrito. “Nothing different than what I was thinking the last time you asked.” His voice came out sharper than he intended.
Cameron gave him a look. Todd’s stomach clenched.
“Sorry,” he muttered quickly.
Cameron shrugged it off. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t.
Todd was not used at snapping at his best friend. Guilt filled his stomach, sloshing inside precariously. He pressed his hands together, his eyes flicking between Cameron’s face and the road ahead of them.
He shook his head a little. “I don’t know what to tell you, Cameron,” he admitted, fingers pressing together so tightly it hurt. “I don’t have a good enough explanation.”
Cameron stopped walking, reaching out to grab his arm. His hold was firm, grounding.
“Hey,” he said, voice steady. “It’s okay,” his friend reassured. Warm. More patient than Todd deserved. “We’ll figure it out together.”
Todd felt the sting behind his eyes. He blinked, quickly, attempting to shoo the tears away before Cameron could notice them. Throat suddenly too thick, he cleared it, his gaze dropping to his shoes. Cameron’s fingers squeezed his shoulder, and Todd allowed himself to lean into the touch. If only for a moment.
“I fancy a walk down by the water,” Cameron said, after a while.
Todd squinted at him. “And why are you informing me about it like you’re an eighty-year-old?”
Cameron shoved him, but not hard enough to actually push him away.
Todd huffed out a laugh despite himself, and they started walking again, the silence between them much less tense. The sun had long ago set, the air turning crisp around them. Todd drew in a deep breath; river water mingled with asphalt, mingled with city air.
And then –
Something shifted.
Todd felt it like a weight pressing at him from all angles. His eyes snapped open – when had they even sunk shut? – already scanning the surrounding area. His heart started beating faster behind his ribs, a prickling sensation spreading from the nape of his neck to the rest of his body like wildfire.
“Todd?” His name came from Cameron like a question. Cautious. Concerned.
Todd ignored him.
He knew this feeling. It was familiar. Like static crackling beneath his skin. Like the moment before lightning struck.
He’d felt it before. The night he’d set a man on fire.
His pulse roared in his throat.
“Todd, what –”
Cameron didn’t continue his sentence because Todd had started running. He didn’t know how or why, but he knew exactly where he was going. Down Beacon Street, making a sharp left and propelling himself forward into Storrow Drive. His gaze roamed the street, looking, searching –
There.
He had to get to the docks.
Todd was far from an athletic person. The most cardio he ever did was pace the length of his living room whenever he expected a call from his literary agent. It came as quite the surprise that his muscles didn’t seem to strain at all, that his lungs didn’t burn from the sudden spur of activity.
He should be gasping for air by now. But he wasn’t. His heart thundered behind its boney prison, but not from exertion.
“Todd! Todd wait!”
Todd stopped, his head whipping around.
Cameron was following him. At a much slower but steady speed, weaving across Storrow Drive.
Todd’s stomach twisted. “Cam, stay back!”
Cameron’s eyebrows tugged together. “What the fuck – No, I won’t!”
Todd should’ve argued. He should’ve tried harder to get his friend to stay back. He should’ve tried to keep him safe. Because whatever was pulling him toward the water wasn’t meant for Cameron.
But the prickling on his skin was becoming unbearable, and there was a hook behind his ribs, dragging him forward. Without thinking, Todd broke into another dead sprint, his footfalls echoing in his ears, blood rushing into his veins.
The second his feet hit the docks everything came into a screeching stop.
Because what he was looking at should be impossible. It was the stuff of nightmares, plucked straight out of Todd’s most twisted and disturbed subconscious.
Creatures took over the whole alleyway. Insect-like, with too many legs, and pinchers that looked like they could tear a human in half. Their exoskeletons gleamed like wet ink, their beady eyes reflecting the streetlights. The noises they made as they moved – skittering, snapping, chittering – made Todd’s skin crawl.
One of them sensed him. Its bulbous head swiveled, spindly legs pausing, as it was mid-step. Todd’s heart was hammering so fast inside his chest, he was certain it was trying to escape. To make a run for it, to get back to safety.
Run.
The thought came to him, but his body couldn’t follow. His legs had locked, as if they were rooted on the asphalt underneath his soles.
Run.
He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t –
The creature lunged.
If Todd wasn’t petrified he’d be impressed. It was an almost elegant move. The distant it managed to cover with a simple jump landed it nearly on top of him. Todd had maybe half a second to process that he was going to die, before someone yanked him out of the way, hard. A hand gripped the collar of his shirt jerking him out of balance. A whoosh of the air hit him straight on the face as he was forced out of the creature’s trajectory.
Todd let a small yelp, as a figure jumped in front of him, cradling a long sword. The figure twirled around; the weapon expertly gripped in their hand. All Todd saw was the flash of silver.
And then an explosion of black, thick gooey substance. The stench of burning, rotting flesh filled his nostrils, and Todd’s stomach lurched. He stumbled, back hitting against a wall, as something hot splattered on his arm. Todd yelped again, glancing down where the black goo burned through the sleeve of his shirt.
“We should stop meeting like this.”
It was supposed to be a joke. Something to break Todd out of his terrified state. It didn’t really work. Todd looked up, eyes locking with the man’s standing in front of him. And then his stomach kicked, and Todd almost went down with it.
He knew this man.
He had been there the other night.
He remembered his name.
Neil.
Despite his little quip, the look Neil was giving him, was serious. Assessing. His eyes kept flicking between Todd’s, his fingers flexing around the hilt of his sword, posture coiled like he was waiting for something.
Run.
But Todd still couldn’t move.
He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t keep standing here. He shouldn’t be able to see any of this. Because Cameron couldn’t –
Cameron.
Todd’s head snapped around just as his friend broke through the clearing of the alleyway. Cameron’s eyes roamed the street before landing on Todd. He didn’t seem to notice the creatures, still moving – jumping, lunging – or the others fighting them off. Cameron only looked at him, his jaw set as he made his way to Todd.
“NEIL, MOVE!”
That’s all the warning they got.
Todd twirled back around at the same time Neil did. But it was too late. The creature had made its move, already sailing through the air. Teeth bared. Mandibles wide. Beady eyes focused on Neil.
An arrow cut through the air, hitting it on the spine, but it wasn’t enough to take it down.
It was going to land. On Neil. Taking his head off in the process.
Todd’s body reacted before his brain had the chance to. Something in his gut ignited. And unlike the last time it didn’t start slowly. This time it wasn’t a spark, it was a fucking inferno. Scorching. Blazing. Burning him from the inside. Looking for a way out.
The second Todd threw his hand up, the fire burst from his fingertips like an explosion. Uncontrolled. Untamed. Todd’s fingers bristled the fire shooting out of them blue.
The air around him and Neil burned. Todd felt it on his skin, felt the heat crawl up his spine, too fast, too hot. Too much. He stumbled back. The creature was already dead, but the fire still poured out of Todd in waves.
A beat of silence stretched—too long, too thin—warping and folding in on itself. The fight still raged, silver flashing like falling stars beneath the streetlights. Screeches ricocheted off the walls, jagged and raw. The stench of burning flesh coiled thick in the air, so potent Todd swore it was sinking into his skin, threading through his veins.
Time splintered, fractured. Minutes bled into one another, stretching too far.
Todd’s breath came fast, punchy. Blood rushed in his ears. He looked at his hands, at the fire still leaking out of his fingertips. Still blue. Still impossible.
He heard something move.
Time snapped and -
The remaining demons turned on him.
Everything happened fast. Too fast.
Todd barely had time to draw a breath before they all lunged at once. He tried to move, tried to lift his hands – he didn’t even know what he was planning to do. His mind was scattered. But it didn’t matter anyway. He was too slow.
The closest demon reached him first, pinchers already snapping –
Something black cut through the air.
A blade sliced through the demon’s body, cutting it cleanly in half. It screeched. Another flash of movement, too fast for Todd to track, and then there was a blur of silver, another pained howl and –
And Neil’s foot slipped.
It was barely anything – a fraction of a second, a shift in his weight – but it was enough. Neil’s balance faltered just as another demon lunged, pinchers going straight for his ribs.
Another arrow shot through the air. This time it embedded itself in the creature’s beady eye. It let out a horrible, ear-splitting shriek before it collapsed to the ground, dissolving into the same black goo.
Neil’s head turned, eyes tracking the trajectory of the shot. Todd followed his gaze in time to see only a shadow, already notching another arrow. A second later, a figure in dark gear rushed past Todd, twin daggers flashing as he made quick work of the last demon.
Todd barely got a glimpse of him before it was over.
The fight was done.
Todd was shaking. His whole body trembled from the inside out, his breaths coming too fast, too sharp. The flames in his hands had already burned themselves out.
“Todd!”
Cameron’s voice cut through his haze. Todd felt his friend coming up to him, his hand already reaching out, eyes blown wide, chest heaving out of breath. Todd had never seen him like this before.
“What –” Cameron started, his gaze roaming around the alleyway. His eyes were wide, his face ashen. “What the fuck was that?”
“You can see them?” Todd asked, stupidly.
Cameron frowned, his face turning the shade of his messed-up curls. “Of course I can see them! What the fuck – have you joined a cult, Todd?”
Todd’s heart bit in his throat, his stomach twisting, twisting, twisting –
Cameron can see them.
But before he could say anything, someone else spoke.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”
Todd knew this person as well.
Charlie.
He came barreling in, his fist already swinging before he’d even reached them. Neil immediately jumped in front of Todd, expertly blocking the hit, countering with one of his own, sending Charlie a couple of feet back.
Charlie’s face contorted in anger. “What the fuck was that, Branwell?”
Neil gave him a look, like this reaction was expected. “It was just a miscalculation.”
Charlie’s mouth snapped, no words coming out. For a second he stared at Neil, like he was wondering if he’d actually heard him correctly.
“A miscal –” he cut himself off, shoving both hands through his hair, looking like he wanted to rip it out. “You’re lucky your damn head is still attached to the rest of your body!”
“Charlie – ”
“Do not ‘Charlie’ me, right now Neil!” Charlie roared, marching up to him. He only stopped walking when he was close enough for their noses to brush. “You don’t falter like that! You’re better than that!”
Neil’s jaw set, shoulders squaring. “Not everyone can be perfect all of the time!”
Someone scoffed. “Blackthorn is hardly perfect.”
Todd’s head turned toward the voice, his eyes landing on the man whose name he never got to hear the other night. He was tall, maybe slightly taller than Neil, with a slight build and a mop of brown hair. He was also dressed in all black, and Todd could see the top of a quiver poking behind his shoulder.
The arrow. He’d been the one to fire it.
The other man – the one with the daggers – exhaled sharply, shaking some of the black demon goo off his sleeve. “Can we focus?” he said, voice smooth, words measured. “Because unless we want to wait around for more of them to show up, I suggest we get out of here.” He turned toward Todd, eyes studying his face for a second before slipping to Cameron. “And we should make sure the Mundane is safe.”
Charlie and Neil continued to glare at each other, but Neil finally took a step back, jaw tight.
“Fine,” Charlie bit out. “Let’s move.”
Todd swallowed. “Move where?”
The man with the daggers looked at him again, adjusting his cuffs. The way he held himself gave off an air of authority and it made Todd want to trust him. “Well,” he said, tone conversational. “You set a demon on fire and lived to tell the tale. So, you’re coming with us.”
Todd’s stomach dropped down to his knees. “I – what?”
“You heard him,” Charlie said, walking past him and making sure to bump his shoulder against Todd’s. Hard. “You’re coming back to the Institute.”
Cameron caught his eyes, giving him a shake of his head.
Bad idea.
But Todd didn’t feel like he had much of a choice. And if the look on Neil’s face was any indication, he really didn’t.
Todd rolled his shoulders, straightened his back. The anxiety buzzing under his skin felt very much like the fire that had shot out of him not that long ago. Todd swallowed it down, met Neil’s gaze head on.
“Alright,” he said, voice steady.
“Todd, what – no!” Cameron exclaimed, grabbing his arm as if he wanted to hold him back.
Todd turned to him, forced a smile on his face. “It’s fine, Cam. I’ll be okay.”
Cameron’s expression shifted, a million different emotions flashing through his face, before it settled on conviction. “Then I’m coming with.”
“No, Cameron –”
“I’m coming with,” Cameron repeated, jaw clenching. His eyes slid from Todd, finding Neil who was lingering close to them. “Wherever you’re taking him, I’m coming with.”
Neil’s eyes danced between the two of them. Studying. Calculating. He twirled the sword he was still holding in his grip, a reserve of energy that needed to burn out. His gaze swept to the rest of his... friends? Crew? Todd didn’t know the correct word. He seemed to make a split time decision.
“Alright, c’mon, let’s go,” Neil finally said, sheathing his sword and inclining his head for Todd and Cameron to follow after the others.
Cameron caught his eye again.
Bad idea.
But at least they were going to be together.
Notes:
iratze; a healing rune.
French ;
“Non, non, vous ne comprenez pas!”
“Hé, ça va aller. Respire, tu peux te calmer. On est là pour toi, d'accord ? On va t'aider."
“Ce que j’ai vu? C’était un démon, j’en suis sûr. Un monstre avec des yeux jaunes et des griffes—”
“Désolé pour eux. Ils se disputent tout le temps.”
“Pouvez-vous nous montrer où cela s’est passé?"
“Tu devrais vraiment apprendre à mieux cacher ton trouble, Blackthorn.”Translation ;
"No, no, you don't understand!"
"Hey, it's okay. Breathe, you can calm down. We're here for you, okay? We'll help you."
"What I saw? It was a demon, I'm sure of it. A monster with yellow eyes and claws..."
"Sorry about them. They're always fighting."
"Can you show us where it happened?"
"You really should learn to hide you're flustered better, Blackthorn."
Chapter 6: You were born bluer than a butterfly
Notes:
Hey, lovely people of the internet!! How are you?? I hope your win was as fun and relaxed as mine was! So, I know I've said it at least twice by now, but this chapter might just be my favourite yet! It's also a little on the long side, so um, sorry about that! I don't think I have any new words for you in the chapter, but there's a mention of some og characters from the Shadowhunter Universe. I'll give you some details about them at the end notes! Without further ado, chapter 6!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Knox Carstairs grew up with the weight of his family name laying heavy on his shoulders. Centuries of Carstairs being noble, being of the highest esteem, being the best at what they do.
Knox’s training had started at the age of five – Pitts joked that he learned to notch an arrow before he could tie his own shoe lashes. Which wasn’t much of a joke, because Knox was pretty sure that it was true.
Knox was never meant to be anything other than perfect.
He was never meant to be anything less than the best.
And he took great pride in it. Because, sure, it hurt. It got difficult, especially when he started growing, when he started noticing things outside the hunt that made his pulse jump in his throat just as much. But Knox was meant to be the best.
And that’s what he became.
Being Gerard Penhallow’s parabatai was also a nonnegotiable part of Knox. And that, unlike everything else in his life, wasn’t by his parents’ design. In fact, his parents were never completely onboard with their decision to be bound to each other. His father had called it a liability. His mother had called it a distraction. Neither of them had a parabatai. They thought it a weakness.
And Knox was not supposed to be weak.
But Pitts’ pull was inevitable. Knox hadn’t stood a chance against it. Pitts was magnetic, impossible to ignore, impossible to resist. Even before the ritual – before the runes that tethered them to each other drawn precariously close to where marital runes are supposed to be drawn – Knox had been circling him like a planet caught in his orbit.
Pitts was smart.
Knox was strategic.
Pitts saw three steps ahead of everyone.
Knox got there by careful planning.
Pitts would tell him to relax, to slow down and Knox would remind him that in battle, relaxing was the best way to get yourself killed. Pitts would burst through a door, only for Knox to pull him back and walk in first.
“Always me before you.” Knox had said it so many times, but Pitts still rolled his eyes, like he was being overdramatic.
But Knox knew he was only being realistic.
Because Gerard Penhallow was going to be the Clave’s youngest Consul and Knox was going to stand right behind him, keeping an eye out on all his blind spots.
Even when he was being a complete moron. Like right now, for example.
The hunt at the docks had gone sideways in record time. The nest was much larger than their intel made it out to be. Blackthorn had been a complete prick, rushing in, fumbling whatever gameplan Knox had tried to establish. And then the mundanes had shown up.
No. Not mundanes. Mundane. Singular.
Because Todd – if that was even his name – was something else.
“Demon,” Blackthorn had spat through clenched teeth. Branwell had shot him a withering look, but it didn’t seem to faze him.
Knox had noticed the tension between them – it had been building for a couple of days – but he hadn’t cared enough to figure it out.
Apparently, Todd was the reason.
“Ichor doesn’t burn demons,” Pitts had pointed out, eyes flicking to the scorched fabric of Todd’s sleeve. Sure enough, there was a red, irritated splotch of skin peaking through.
That had shut Blackthorn up. Temporarily. But it hadn’t stopped him from bitching all the way back to the Institute.
For his part, Todd didn’t look as freaked out as Knox had expected him to. He’d nearly had a full-blown panic attack in the middle of the hunt, but now he was walking, next to his friend, his posture too stiff to be relaxed, but not quite panicked either. If it weren’t for the way he kept pressing his fingers together, hard enough to completely cut his circulation, Knox would have thought he wasn’t worried at all.
“What are you thinking?” Pitts asked, voice low so that the others wouldn’t hear.
Knox didn’t answer straight away. He tilted his head, giving his parabatai a look. “Why did you make me take the lead at the questioning?”
Pitts’ expression didn’t waver. He’d expected him to ask, maybe not now, but he knew it was coming. “I just wanted you to flex a little.”
Knox felt the heat break out on his neck, travelling all the way up to his face. He bit the inside of his cheek, killing the words curling on his tongue before they could take shape.
Pitts had the audacity to smirk. “It worked like a dream.”
“Shut up.”
Pitts’ smirk widened.
Knox fastened his pace, tried to break ahead. Pitts, of course, kept up.
“What are you thinking?” he asked again.
Knox’s fingers flexed around the strap of his bow. His eyes flicked from Todd to the man walking next to him. Now he, he radiated the right amount of apprehension the situation called for. His shoulders were hunched, his head lowered. He kept whispering things to Todd, eyes darting between all four of them, like he didn’t trust them to not stab him on the back.
Pitts clicked his tongue impatiently.
Knox worked his jaw, picking his words. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea taking the mundane to the Institute.”
From the corner of his eyes, he caught Pitts nodding, like he understood. Like he could read behind Knox’s words.
“You don’t trust him.”
Smart bastard.
“What about the other one?”
Knox’s eyes found Todd again. His posture was still too rigid, shoulders squared. Taut. Much like the string of his bow before he fired an arrow.
“You've wanted to study him since the other night,” he said, instead of giving a direct answer.
Pitts tutted. “You make it sound like I think of him as a failed experiment.”
Knox cut him a look, head tilting. “Don’t you?”
Pitts’ eyes caught in the streetlights, looking greener than they actually were. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“And you didn’t answer mine.”
Pitts gave a small shrug. Measured. Careless. Fake. Knox could feel his curiosity hum through their bond. “I think he is… interesting.”
Knox exhaled through his nose. “I think you’re right.”
Satisfied with his answer Pitts fell silent. Knox allowed himself to relax. Allowed the tension to seep out of his body, rolling his shoulders and enjoying the crispness of the night air on his face. Allowed himself to forget that his parabatai loved messing up his perfectly nice life by making calls that Knox couldn’t have predicted in his wildest dreams. They were just outside the Institutes gates when Pitts slowed down. It took the rest of them a minute to notice, to also stop walking. Knox frowned at him. Frowned at the certainty he could feel through the rune on his ribs, seeping into his bloodstream like a warning bell.
Knox’s frown deepened.
Pitts was about to say something entirely reckless. Something he thought made perfect sense.
“We can’t present Todd.” Pitts’ voice was calm. Measured. Final. “Not yet at least.”
There it is.
Knox’s eyes fell shut, his teeth clamping down on his tongue. He heard Blackthorn’s affronted huff. The inside of his skull started pulsing, a migraine building rapidly behind his eyes.
“I agree,” Neil said, voice trying to sound as reassured as Pitts’ and failing.
Knox opened his eyes in time to see Blackthorn whirl at him, gaze blazing.
“What the fuck, Neil?” he growled, but it wasn’t anger that laced his words. It was confusion mixed with betrayal.
“Charlie, we need more time,” Neil tried, gentle, taking a step toward him, laying a hand on Blackthorn’s shoulder. “I told you the other day, things are not what they look like –”
“I don’t care!” Blackthorn snapped shaking him off. “Neil, you can’t possibly be asking me to lie, again, to the Head of the Institute for someone who burned a person alive!”
Knox couldn’t have stopped the snort coming out his nose even if he tried. “Since when you do care about lying?”
Blackthorn turned to him, eyes flashing dangerously. “Don’t tell me you agree with this.”
Knox didn’t answer right away. Because truth was, he didn’t. He didn’t think it was a good idea to bring them to the Institute. He didn’t think it was a good idea to bring them to the Institute and not present them to Neil’s father. He didn’t think it was a good idea to argue about it just outside the gates.
But this was Pitts’ idea.
And so, Knox was going to break protocol. Because he always backed Pitts.
Todd and his friend – Cameron, apparently – were supposed to wait in Neil’s room until they could come up with a better plan.
“That’s all you got?” Blackthorn demanded. Knox could practically see the steam coming from his ears. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at coming up with plans?”
Knox gritted his teeth. Rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. He drew a slow, deep breath. He could feel everyone looking at him, so he made sure to keep his voice steady. Bored.
“We can’t do much else right now,” he said, giving Blackthorn an icy look. “We’re already late. If we stall any longer, they’ll start asking questions.”
Blackthorn practically bristled. “So, we’re gonna let the mundane waltz in the Institute?”
Knox saw Cameron lean closer to Todd, noticed the way his lips curled like he was barely containing a laugh. “They know we can hear them, right?” he stage-whispered.
Todd muffled a chuckle behind his palm.
Blackthorn glared at them. “Can it, mundane.”
Cameron’s eyes widened slightly, then he pressed a hand to his chest, expression deeply, comically solemn. “Sir, yes sir,” he said, giving him a mock military salute.
Blackthorn took a threatening step forward, only to be pushed back by Pitts’ hand on his chest.
“I know it’s hard for you, but do try to act like a civilized human being,” Pitts said, his voice perfectly measured. Knox knew better. Knox could read the exasperation behind his words.
“Bite me, Penhallow.”
Pitts tsked, shaking his head. “You definitely have a biting kink.”
And then – slowly, deliberately - his eyes flicked to Knox.
Knox had the sudden, overwhelming urge to deck his best friend.
“We need to move,” Neil cut in before anyone else could say anything.
Knox blinked, recalling himself. “Agreed.”
“I can’t believe we’re fucking doing this,” Blackthorn groaned, throwing his hands up in a physical manifestation of all that he couldn’t properly voice.
“Charlie.”
That was all Neil said. It was all he had to say. Because somehow, impossibly, Blackthorn sighed, the fight bleeding out of him. His shoulders slumped, a hand dragging down his face.
“You’ll be the fucking death of me, Neil Branwell,” he muttered, long-suffering and murderous.
Despite everything Neil’s lips twitched into a smile. He rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard all that before.”
Knox shifted his weight between his feet, adjusting the strap of his bow, fingers flexing over it. He could feel Pitts watching him.
Knox fucking hated him.
“Alright,” he said, mostly to distract his own self. “You should go around back, get in through the back door of the Weaponry.”
Blackthorn arched an eyebrow, arms crossing over his chest. “You expect us to break and enter into the Institute, Carstairs?”
Knox stared at him as he slipped a key out of his front pocket, holding it up for him to see. “No.”
The metal bit into Knox’s palm as he curled his fingers tightly around the key after successfully smuggling in the others. He and Pitts walked through the Institute’s grand entrance, side by side, expressions carefully neutral. Pitts gave him a subtle, questioning look.
Are you okay?
Was he?
Knox had already allowed a mundane in the Institute. He was about to lie to his superior officer. He was about to break protocol.
Knox wasn’t supposed to be doing any of those things. Shadowhunters didn’t break protocol. Shadowhunters didn’t lie.
And Knox was supposed to be the best of them.
Pitts’ confidence buzzed through their bond. Unrelenting. A flood instead of the soft stream it was supposed to be. Bulldozing over whatever sense of doubt reared its head in Knox’s chest.
He exhaled through his nose. Nodded. Barely perceptible.
The foyer was nearly empty, save for a few Shadowhunters moving toward the pit, heads close together, voices hushed. That was the first sign that something was wrong. There was a prickle at the nape of his neck. His head snapped, attention turning to the pit, noticing the tension that lingered in the air.
No one even turned to look at them as they walked through the ops center. That was the second sign.
Pitts’ interest buzzed under Knox’s skin. Before he could stop him, Pitts was already changing course, drawn toward the pit like he was being pulled by some invisible force.
They shouldn’t attract any attention. It was a lucky coincidence that something distracting had happened just as they needed a distraction. But now Pitts was walking into the heart of the room.
They were invisible and Pitts was about to make them perceived.
Knox pressed his lips together, quickly following after him.
A cluster of Shadowhunters was gathered around the main controls. The holographic screen cast their faces in cold blue light, flickering between maps, crime scene photos and reports. Lieutenant Nolan stood at the center of it all, arms crossed, mouth drawn into a tight line as he listened to a report being delivered by a younger Shadowhunter.
Knox’s hand shot out, fingers grasping the back of Pitts’ shirt. Tightly. He didn’t mean to yank him back as harshly as he did. Pitts stumbled, his back crashing to Knox’s front. A soft gasp left his lips, and he turned to glare at him.
“They haven’t seen us yet,” he murmured.
“Another one,” the Shadowhunter reading the report said. “Same markings. Same MO.”
Pitts’ head snapped in attention, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Shit.”
“We’re not on this case anymore,” Knox reminded him.
“We should be,” Pitts countered, and Knox was surprised to note the annoyance in his voice. “Look at the photos.”
Knox clenched his teeth. “I’ve seen the photos.”
“Not the new ones – just, fuck, Knox. Look.”
Knox’s jaw ticked, eyes narrowing as he let his gaze flick to the screen, taking in the images displayed there.
The bodies in them looked more mangled than anything he had seen in his life – limbs unnaturally twisted, skin flayed open in long, jagged gashes, as if something had been carved into their flesh.
Their victim hadn’t been massacred like that.
She probably would have been – if Todd hadn’t stumbled into the alley.
They all had a seraph blade poking out of their chest. Silver gleaming. The runes on the hilt catching on the streetlights. Knox’s chest tightened; seraph blades weren’t meant to cut through Shadowhunters. A sick feeling curled in his stomach as he kept studying the photographs. And it only intensified when he saw what Pitts had wanted him to see. The runes– if he could even call them that – on the victims’ skin.
Knox hadn’t paid much attention to the one they had found on their victim; he hadn’t had the chance. But the runes were there on the other bodies as well. Garish. Jagged. Too imprecise to be any kind of rune that he’d come across. It didn’t look like a summoning rune. It didn’t look like a rune that belonged in the Grey book. Whatever it was, it wasn’t demonic magic. Not exactly.
But it was something old.
Something bad.
Something familiar. Knox had seen that mark before. The memory was faint, fleeting. But he knew he’d seen it.
He glanced at Pitts, watching as his parabatai straightened his posture, carefully schooling his expression into something impassive. To anyone else, he looked like he was simply observing. But Knox could see the way his finger flexed, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
Pitts wanted in on the action.
“Where?” Nolan asked, his voice sharp.
“Hatch Memorial Shell,” the younger Shadowhunter replied, tapping the screen. A map flickered into view, a red marker pinpointing the crime scene’s location. “Near the docks of Charles River. Not too far away from the last one.”
Knox and Pitts stiffened at the same time.
That was close to the Shax demon nest.
Shax are tracker demons.
Knox wasn’t sure why his mind supplied that information. Apparently it was connecting dots he couldn’t quite see yet. He forced himself to breathe evenly.
He barely resisted the urge to glance at Pitts, to confirm that they were both thinking the same thing. It was too coincidental. Too fucking close.
“Witnesses?” Nolan pressed.
The Shadowhunter shook his head. “Nothing solid. A few mundanes reported smelling sulfur, but...” he trailed off, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “It could be anything.”
Pitts leaned toward him. “Do you have your phone?” His voice was barely above a whisper as it brushed the shell of Knox’s ear.
Knox nodded.
“Take the picture.”
Knox didn’t hesitate. He slipped his phone out of his pocket, angling it just right, moving slowly so no one would see. His heart pounded in his throat as he snapped the photo.
This is so reckless.
Knox wasn’t supposed to be reckless. He wasn’t supposed to be stupid.
If Nolan caught them – if he even suspected - Knox didn’t even want to entertain what that would mean. What it would cost them.
But Pitts had asked, and that meant he’d already decided they needed it.
The screen on his phone went dark as he locked it, slipping it back into his pocket in a single smooth movement. No one had noticed.
Nolan exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If there’s nothing else, I want patrols doubled in that area. We keep eyes on this, but no one moves without my say-so.”
There was a chorus of clipped affirmations before the crowd started to disperse. Pitts and Knox took their cue and turned away, walking at a measured pace toward the hall.
They walked in silence until they were far enough from prying ears.
Knox didn’t bother easing into it. “Tell me you’re not about to do something stupid.”
Pitts tilted his head in his direction, lips curling just slightly, mocking. “When have I ever done anything stupid, Knoxie?”
“Do you want an alphabetical or chronological order?”
Pitts hummed, gaze drifting. Like Knox’s response wasn’t even worth acknowledging. The bond between them thrummed, a pulse of something taut, electric. Knox pressed his tongue against his teeth, exhaling through his nose.
Pitts turned his gaze back to him, head falling on the side, considering. “You can’t tell me you’re not curious.”
“Of course I am,” Knox admitted, his voice still quiet but firm. “But I can’t allow us to be stupid.”
Pitts’ expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes. Annoyance. A hint of amusement. Something else Knox couldn’t name. He let out a long, slow sigh, shaking his head. “You can’t keep thinking like that.”
Knox’s jaw tightened. “Like what?”
“Like we’re in the middle of a battlefield doing maneuvers to escape the enemy fire.”
“That’s exactly what’s happening!” Knox shot back, his voice rising slightly before he forced it down. His fists had curled at his sides.
Pitts just looked at him, calm and sharp, like a blade being sharpened under careful hands.
“No, Knox, it’s not,” he said, voice cool, controlled. “This is not a fight – at least not yet. This is politics, and you can’t treat it like a battle, unless you want it to be one.”
Knox hated the way something in his chest twisted. Because Pitts wasn’t wrong.
Not that he was ever going to say that out loud.
Instead, he exhaled hard through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “Explain.”
Pitts rubbed a hand over his face, just barely restraining a sigh. “They didn’t take the case away from us because they thought we couldn’t handle it,” he said slowly.
Knox nodded stiffly. He wasn’t stupid. He’d already guessed that much. “Okay.”
“They took the case because they wanted to be the first ones to know when there’s a lead. Because whatever this is, it has clearly shaken the Clave. Badly. That’s why they’re taking over. They can’t risk anyone else figuring it out first.”
Knox’s stomach churned. That made sense. “Alright,” he said, a little more sharply than before.
Pitts nodded, as if satisfied that he was catching up. “Alright,” he echoed. “So, what do we have to do?”
“Lay low,” Knox said automatically.
Pitts pressed his lips together, shaking his head. “No. Try again.”
“We need to get the case back?”
“Right, and how are we doing that?”
“We make them trust us – which, might be a little difficult after the shit you pulled at the last Clave meeting.”
Pitts’ lips twitched. “I don’t think you and I share the same perspective on what happened at that meeting.”
Knox rolled his eyes so hard he practically saw his own skull. “Of course we don’t.”
Pitts stared at him for a long moment, eyes calculating. Then, with a decisive nod, he took a step closer, lowering his voice.
“Look, I’ll handle the report for the Shax case. If anyone asks about Branwell and Blackthorn, I’ll make something up. You –” he jabbed a finger at Knox’s chest, just enough to be irritating, “are going back to your room. You sit down, and you wait.”
Knox let out a slow breath, a new bout of irritation curling inside his chest.
Sit and wait.
Like a damn dog.
Knox wasn’t supposed to be the one who sits and waits.
Pitts must’ve sensed the protest forming in his mind because he rolled his eyes, already tired of the impending argument. “Knox, trust me to know best, at least this one time.”
Knox gave him a slow, unreadable look before turning on his heel. “Noted,” he said over his shoulder as he started walking.
He could practically hear the exasperation in Pitts’ sigh.
“That wasn’t an affirmation.”
“I never said it was,” Knox called back, already making his way toward the exit.
Pitts muttered something under his breath that Knox was fairly certain wasn’t polite, but he didn’t bother responding. He had more important things to do.
He had to go sit and wait.
Look, in Knox’s defense, none of this was his fault. That needed to be said ahead of time.
Because Knox had done everything right. He’d gone back to his room like he was told, after taking a quick shower. He’d changed in a pair of worn-out sweats, and then he’d stacked every book he owned on runes – angelic and demonic alike – onto his bed and buried himself in research. Knox had spent hours poring over the pages, reading, searching, underlying. Not one of the runes in the books matched the markings on the bodies, but Knox could feel it in his bones that the answer was close. Just lurking beneath the surface of his memory.
Because he had seen it before.
He was deep in research mode, when the door to his bedroom suddenly flung open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang, and Charlie Blackthorn waltzed in like he owned the place.
Knox barely flicked his eyes up from his book. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. If he ignored him long enough, then hopefully – eventually – he’d tire himself out and leave on his own.
But Blackthorn was a persistent little shit. And he just knew which buttons to press.
“So, you’re too scared to spar with me,” he said, voice dripping with challenge. The smirk on his face was sharp enough to draw blood.
Knox wanted to punch it off his face.
Or maybe… not punch it.
Definitely ruin it.
The thing with Blackthorn was – alright, fine, so, maybe Knox had a small, inconsequential crush on him when he first joined the Institute. But like, who could hold that against him?
Blackthorn screamed trouble, and Knox had been trained to track it down and eliminate it. He was all sharp edges and reckless grins, and he wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes either. Messy hair that fell effortlessly over his forehead, storm colored eyes that promised thunder and lightning, hands that could break ribs, and thighs that could –
Nope. Not going there.
Anyway, you get the point!
But it didn’t matter anyway. Because Blackthorn had taken one look at him and decided he hated him. Knox still wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was a matter of principle; he was a Blackthorn, and Knox’s parabatai was a Penhallow, and so he had to honor the family vendetta. Or maybe Knox simply pissed him off by existing.
Knox could still remember his first night in Boston clear as day.
It had been a particularly bad portal trip – because no matter how much Magnus insisted, Max had not yet mastered them. It had left Knox with a killer headache. He barely made it through dinner, his vision blurring around the edges, his brain ready to liquefy and escape through his ears. Still, he endured (because he was a Carstairs and Carstairs endured), but as soon as he could, he slipped away to the training room. His natural habitat as Pitts called it.
The plan was to try meditating before going to sleep. That’s where Blackthorn found him. And instead of leaving him the hell alone, he decided to interrogate him. Knox could barely process what he was saying - something about a new Clave weapon? A mission? A battle? – before the words just became white noise. Knox couldn’t follow the rapid way the words dropped out of his mouth. His head was pounding, so he did the only logical thing. He excused himself and went off to bed.
The next morning Charlie hated him.
He never got a full sentence out of him again. Everything was clipped words and cold stares from across the room. Knox had tried to figure out what his problem was, but it was like talking to a passive-aggressive teenager who refused to admit they were mad.
And no matter how attractive he was, Knox had no time for that shit.
If Charlie Blackthorn wanted to make an enemy out of him then Knox Carstairs would gladly accept the title.
“So, you’re too scared to spar with me?” Blackthorn repeated, because he was an asshole like that.
Knox sighed. Not out of irritation, but out of something closer to resignation.
“I’m doing something, Blackthorn,” he muttered, not even bothering to look up from the book in his lap.
“Funny,” he quipped, smirk widening, “You haven’t turned the page in ten minutes. So, either you read too slow, or I’ve already distracted you.”
Blackthorn paused, waiting for the words to land properly before delivering the final blow.
“Which one is it, Carstairs?” His voice dripped with smug amusement.
And you know what? Knox was only human.
“Okay,” he sighed again, rolling his shoulders as he got off the bed. He stalked toward Blackthorn, towering over him. “Let’s get this over with.”
Blackthorn’s smirk turned wolfish. “After you.” He gestured toward the door, mockingly polite.
Knox bit back a groan of frustration, straightened to his full height and headed to the training room, knowing Blackthorn would follow close behind.
By the time they stepped onto the mats, he was already running his mouth.
“You really do think you’re so better than me, don’t you, Carstairs?”
Knox exhaled sharply, leveling him with a dry look. “I think I’m smarter than you.”
Blackthorn grinned, sharp and dangerous. “Then let’s test that theory.”
He hadn’t even finished his sentence before lunging at him. Fast. Recklessly. Without any real thought behind his moves. Knox easily sidestepped him. Blackthorn’s fist swung through open air, his momentum pulling him forward, throwing him momentarily off balance.
It was all the opening Knox needed. He twisted his body around, left foot kicking low, just over the back of Blackthorn’s kneecap. He went down like a house of cards, sprawling on the mat. The sound of it reverberated on the walls around them.
Knox couldn’t curb the smirk on his lips, especially not when Blackthorn’s head snapped up, murder shining unadulterated in his eyes.
“You little slippery –” the rest of his sentence was lost into a growl as he surged up. He was fast, Knox would give him that. But he wasn’t focused, he lacked finesse, and he was fighting like this wasn’t a two people game.
Every punch he tried to launch failed, because Blackthorn’s pattern was predictable. It was brutal, sure, the quick succession of it could lead to serious damage, and it would look efficient to someone who’d never seen him fight before. But Knox had. Knox had been seeing him fight for months – usually, he was the one standing on the other side of his fists.
Blackthorn's anger only grew with every failed strike. Knox would feel bad for him, if the fucker hadn’t interrupted his research.
Blackthorn snarled, abandoning any semblance of form entirely. He lunged forward – full force, aiming to tackle him to the ground. Leaving his side completely open. Knox was not about to miss such a golden opportunity. Hand expertly shooting out at the perfect moment, he grabbed him by his forearm. In one smooth motion, he twisted, using Blackthorn’s momentum and body weight as leverage.
The world flipped around, and Knox found himself with either knee on Charlie’s sides, straddling his abdomen, his shoes pressing in his waist.
Charlie went rigid underneath him.
His breaths punched out of him. Short. Warm. Knox wasn’t sure if it was because of the fall, or due to his added weight on top of Charlie’s body, pinning him down.
A million different things rushed to his tongue, but Knox swallowed all of them down, allowing himself a moment of silence. A moment to plainly stare at this man who had been a pain in his ass for the past six months.
Asshole.
Charlie’s fingers curled into fists against the mat. His jaw clenched, his pulse twitching in his throat, his eyes blazing as he looked up at Knox.
Another minute passed, silence stretching thin between them.
“You gonna let me up, Carstairs?” Charlie demanded, baring his teeth.
Knox tilted his head. “Why would I? You look perfectly comfortable.”
He heard the breath hitch in Charlie’s throat.
In the next moment Charlie bucked beneath him, attempting to throw him off. Knox was much lighter than him, but he was also taller, so he doubled down, his chest almost pressing against Charlie’s, settling his weight lower.
“You think this is funny?” he hissed between his teeth.
Knox felt the corners of his lips twitching. “I think it’s interesting.”
Charlie’s hand slammed back onto the mat, groaning low in his chest. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Knox felt the tremor of Charlie’s groan echo through his own chest, and he shifted a little, uncomfortable. Once again, Charlie tried to throw him off, but –
“You’re too predictable,” he said, fingers closing around Charlie’s wrists, pinning them by his sides.
He hadn’t realized how close their faces were before speaking, but now their noses practically brushed together. Knox’s eyes widened, the smirk falling off his face. Charlie had gone incredibly still underneath him.
Knox’s eyes involuntarily flickered to Charlie’s lips and the air between them crackled with –
“Of all the stupid things I thought you’d do this was definitely not in my list.”
Pitt’s voice broke between them like thunder, and Knox was off Charlie in a matter of seconds. Like he’d been electrocuted. Charlie didn’t take much longer to bolt upright, his cheeks flaming up.
Knox swallowed, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweats to hide the fact they were slightly trembling, before turning to look at his best friend. Pitts was standing by the door, arms lazily crossed over his chest. He looked unimpressed, to the untrained eye. Knox had been his parabatai since they were sixteen; he could see the amusement hiding underneath the surface.
Oh, he was never going to hear the end of this.
“If you’re done doing whatever that was,” Pitts said, head falling on the side, “we need to get going.”
Knox exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back like he could force the tension out of his body.
“Right, yeah.” His voice cracked on the last world. He cleared his throat immediately. “Wait - where are we going?”
Pitts clicked his tongue. “Neil had an idea about Todd,” he said, slowly. Carefully.
Knox’s entire body shifted gears. Whatever residual heat from Blackthorn – from the fight – froze in an instant. His jaw tightened, muscles locking in. His parabatai bond hummed under his skin like a warning.
“And?”
Pitts met his gaze evenly. “We’re taking him to the High Warlock of Boston.”
Knox blinked. “Excuse me?”
Blackthorn, still clearly distracted, frowned like he was just now catching up. “Why the hell do we need a warlock?” he muttered, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair.
“Because,” Pitts said, “if anyone can give us answers it’s him,”
Knox brushed a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.
The High Warlock of Boston.
Fantastic.
As if this week wasn’t already going straight to Hell.
Knox’s fingers instinctively curled. He didn’t have a problem with warlocks – not really. But taking Todd to someone else? Admitting that they were way in over their heads? Allowing outside interference?
It sat wrong in his chest.
The irritation curled through his ribs, pressing in. He knew Pitts could feel it.
“You should clean up, before we go,” Pitts said, breaking the silence. “I would hate to have to report the blood on the mats,” he added, being the embodiment of the little-shit Knox had grown up with.
“It’s not mine,” Blackthorn said fast, the back of his hand sweeping across his mouth.
“You sure about that?” Knox asked, looking down at his own hands which looked barely scarped. His tongue unconsciously poked at the split on his lip, but it hadn’t even bled that much.
Blackthorn blinked at him, then glanced down at himself like he was doing a damage assessment. And then, like clockwork, his entire posture changed. His shoulders set, his eyes hardening as they landed to him once more. “Next time, you’re not walking away that easy,” he scowled.
Knox met his glare head on. “Looking forward to it,” he said, giving him a military salute.
Pitts chuckled next to him, and Knox shoved him to get him start walking, before Blackthorn could come up with anything else to say. They barely made it down the hall before Pitts leaned in, voice dripping with amusement.
“You two looked cozy.”
Knox’s shove was harder this time. “Shut up.”
Notes:
Knox mentions some original Shadowhunter Universe characters; Magnus and Max. Magnus is Magnus Bane, the High Warlock of Brooklyn and he is married to ex-Consul, Alec Lightwood. Max is their adopted son, and he is the one who opened the portal for Pitts and Knox to get from New York to Boston.
Chapter 7: Careful son, you got a dreamer's plans (Or; I'm uncontrollable, emotional, chaotically proportional...)
Notes:
Hello, nice people of the internet!! Another week, another update from yours truly! This one is... long. It's also a split narrative - some of you have been asking after Meeks and I aim to please, so...
I have two new words for you!
Spiral Labyrinth ; The location of the Spiral Labyrinth is unknown, even to the Nephilim. It possibly exists in its own pocket dimension separate from Earth. The Labyrinth serve as living quarters, studying quarters and prison for warlocks.
Ley lines are used by Downworlders to create entrances into the Seelie realm, among others. Faeries in particular use them often. Though invisible, one can be trained to sense ley lines. There are points, also called sacred sites, where ley lines meet, or "converge", forming a matrix within which magic is amplified. In the Shadowhunter Universe it's Seelies (faeries) who use and manipulate ley lines the most, but in this story, warlocks are responsible for them.
And that's all from me! I hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know in your reviews!! Also, happy Easter to any of you who may celebrate it!
Chapter Text
For the first time in his not very long life, Neil Branwell was way over his head. Not just because he was lying to his father. Not just because lying to his father meant lying to the Clave. Not only because he’d snuck out of the Institute to go and visit the High Warlock of Boston without making an appointment, without consulting anyone, without so much as pretending to follow protocol. Not only because –
“You like him.” Charlie’s voice wasn’t questioning. It was accusing.
Neil should’ve known Charlie wouldn’t keep his mouth shut for too long.
Neil’s entire body went rigid. His fingers wrapped around the handle of his bedroom door, pulling it close. It was definitely not wise having this conversation in the corridor, but Cameron and Todd were still inside so that didn’t leave him with much of a choice.
“What are you talking about?” The fact that his voice cracked straight down in the middle did not particularly help his case.
Perfect. Great. Amazing. Fantastic way to prove him wrong.
Charlie’s gaze burned as he pinned in his eyes. “The demon-one,” he said, sharp, unwavering. “You like him.”
Neil clenched his teeth. “He is not a demon,” he snapped.
Charlie’s nostrils flared. Neil felt his anger buzz through their bond, pressing against his ribs, curling at the edges of his spine.
“And I don’t like him. I barely even know the guy!” The words left his mouth in a hurry, as if they’d suffocate if he kept them in any longer.
Lying to Charlie was impossible.
Lying to his parabatai was worse.
Charlie blinked, slow and sharp all at once.
“Who are you lying to right now?” he asked, voice cool, edged like a blade. “Me or yourself?”
Neil drew in a breath. Held it for a couple of seconds, before letting it slip out through his teeth. “I’m not lying, Chaz,” he said, trying for casual and coming off at the very least hostile.
“Right...” Charlie’s arms folded over his chest; expression unimpressed. “Then why the hell are we even doing this?”
Neil hated when Charlie got like this.
Like everything was so fucking simple.
Like Neil wasn’t tearing himself apart trying to make sense of it all.
“Because we need answers.”
It was a weak excuse. Neil knew it. Charlie knew it.
Charlie’s eyes flashed.
“The case is off our hands,” he pressed, because apparently, they were going to talk about this. “So should this be. I say we hand them to the Clave, let them deal with whatever this shit is.”
Neil hadn’t meant to scoff as loudly as he had. Charlie narrowed his eyes, as if daring him to speak.
“Hand them to the Clave?” Neil echoed. Sharp. Incredulous.
Charlie arched an eyebrow.
“What the fuck, Blackthorn? Since when do we hand people over to the Clave?”
“Since you started lying in your reports!” Charlie snapped.
Neil’s fingers curled into a fist, nails digging in his palms.
“Since you started sneaking out, since you started going soft for a freaking demon –”
“He is not a demon!”
The words exploded out of him. Too loud. Too harsh. They bounced on the walls around them, and he winced. Yeah, they were definitely spoken loud enough to be heard inside his room. Neil’s heart slammed against his ribcage, his eyes darkening as he looked at Charlie.
Charlie, his best friend.
Charlie his parabatai.
Charlie, the only real family Neil had. The only real family he’d ever known. The only family he’d ever needed.
Charlie who was supposed to be on his side. Always.
Wasn’t that what they’d promised? When Charlie had asked him to be his parabatai? Back when they were still barely old enough to hold a seraph blade without injuring themselves? Back when Charlie realized his parents weren’t coming back to collect him? Back when he had told him California had never felt like home - but being in the Institute with Neil did?
Charlie was glaring at him, chest heaving. Their bond crackled, buzzed, hummed under their skin. For a fleeting second Neil wanted it to go dormant. Wanted it to shut the fuck up and take Charlie’s anger with it.
Because Charlie was being a dickhead and Neil had no idea why.
Charlie huffed, uncrossed his arms. “Just admit you like him.”
Neil bit on his tongue. Tried to keep the words to himself. But their bond was still acting up, still prickling under the surface, because Charlie was not going to drop this.
Of course he isn’t.
“Oh, oh that’s rich,” Neil said, words dripping with barely controlled sarcasm. “Like you admit –”
Neil never got to finish, because Charlie slammed him against the wall behind him. The air punched out of his lungs, as the stone bit into his back. Charlie’s forearm pressed against his throat - not hard enough to cause any actual damage, just hard enough to be a warning.
“I know you Neil,” Charlie spoke the words directly in his face. “You don’t have to say the words for me to know they’re true.”
Neil swallowed; the simple act much harder with Charlie’s arm against him. “You’re full of shit,” he managed.
Charlie stared at him. Stormy eyes boring into Neil’s, the way they always did. Like Charlie was trying to look directly into his soul. Neil matched his gaze, jaw setting. Their breaths synched – the way they did whenever they found themselves surrounded by demons.
Because this was familiar.
Charlie being this close was familiar.
Safe.
Neil’s body betrayed him, shoulders relaxing. Just slightly.
Because no matter how pissed they were at each other, trust was instinctual.
Charlie would sooner die than actually hurt him. And they both knew that.
Neil exhaled. Held Charlie’s gaze. “It’s still you and I, Chaz.”
Charlie flinched. It was small, imperceptible to someone who wasn’t trained to notice all of Charlie Blackthorn’s tells. To someone who wasn’t Neil Branwell.
Charlie was off him faster than Neil could blink. Arms stiff by his sides; his expression unreadable. And then, without another word, he turned and left. Fast. Like he was being chased.
Neil almost called for him. Neil almost reached out for him.
But Charlie was feeling overwhelmed and pushing him was not a good idea.
Neil dragged a hand through his already-messy hair, letting his head thump back against the wall.
Fantastic.
Great.
Wonderful.
He was so entirely, so thoroughly, fucked.
Bracing himself for a second, he threw the door to his bedroom open.
Cameron and Todd were still sitting on his bed. Both of their heads turned as soon as the door shoved open. Neil pressed his lips together and stepped inside.
“So, you probably heard all that,” he said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.
“Were you trying to keep it quiet?” Cameron asked his voice genuinely confused.
Neil winced, again. “Yeah, no, I guess you’re right.”
“Look man –” Cameron stood off the bed, only to be dragged back down immediately by Todd. “Todd, let me handle this,” Cameron hissed.
Neil saw Todd’s jaw setting. “You can’t,” he whispered back, too loudly.
Cameron sighed, frustrated. “Let me try.”
Neil rubbed at his temple. He did not have the energy for this.
“Okay,” he muttered, already exhausted. “I understand this is all very…” his sentence trailed. Because what was the appropriate adjective for this sentence?
“Crazy? Nightmarish? Outrageous?” Cameron rattled off.
Neil let a humorless chuckle. “Either or could work.”
He was about to keep talking, when he noticed the way Todd was looking at him. Like he wanted to interrupt. Like there were words pressing against his teeth, begging to be let out.
“Yes, Todd?” he hadn’t intended for it to come off as softly as it did.
Todd’s blue eyes snapped to him, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. His hands pressed against his knees in a way Neil wondered if it hurt.
“I have a question,” he said, finally. Neil gave him a nod, to prompt him to keep going. “The first night, in – in the al-alleyway, Rich-Richard couldn’t see you.” Todd stammered through his sentence.
From the corner of his eye Neil saw Cameron’s head whip toward Todd.
“Wait, they were there? When you – when the fire – the first night?”
Todd nodded.
“But – but I – I couldn’t – I didn’t –” He was sputtering, lost. “They weren’t there.”
“Okay, I have an explanation for that.”
Cameron looked like he would love one.
He folded the sleeve over his left forearm, holding his arm out for them to get a good look at it.
“Cool tattoos,” the words must’ve slipped out of his mouth unconsciously, because Cameron’s cheeks immediately turned pink.
Neil snorted. “Thanks, but they’re not tattoos. They’re called runes.”
“Runes,” Todd repeated, not sounding surprised by the word. “Like hieroglyphics?”
Neil made a so-and-so motion with his head. “Yes and no. It’s an ancient angelic language.”
“Right, of course. Angelic, why not,” Cameron muttered. Todd gave him a sideways look.
“You see this one?” Neil asked, pointing at the rune near the bend of his elbow. “It’s called a glamour rune. If I activate it then mundanes – people outside the supernatural world - can’t see me. It takes a lot of energy to keep the rune activated while fighting. They burn out quicker. That’s why Cameron could see us.”
Cameron frowned, so deep the line between his eyebrows turned impressive. “If you activate it? How do you activate it? Do you, like, say abracadabra?”
It was meant to be a joke for Todd.
Todd didn’t laugh.
His face had gone pale. “B-but I could see you, the first night.”
Neil nodded, acknowledging both of them. He pulled his stele out of his back pocket holding it up and turning toward Cameron. “We use this to activate them. It’s called a stele. And no, it’s not a wand,” he added quickly, already seeing the question form in the other man’s breath.
His chest clenched as he faced Todd. “Yes, you could see us that first night. Despite the glamour. You can also shoot fire out of your hands.”
Todd swallowed. “Right…” his voice sounded devastatingly small. “What does that mean?”
Neil heaved a sigh, forcing a sympathetic smile on his face. “I don’t know, Todd,” he admitted. His stomach lurched in the way Todd’s face fell. “But we’ll figure it out.”
Todd nodded. Cameron didn’t. Neil could feel it behind his bones, Cameron’s need for answers. For something solid, something that would make sense. But Neil had nothing to give him. Not yet. Not before figuring out – something.
Neil exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back. “Okay, you stay here. Both of you,” he said, eyes flicking between them.
Cameron opened his mouth.
“Stay. Here.” Neil cut him off.
Todd’s eyebrows pulled together, eyes narrowing slightly as they looked at Neil. “Where are you going?”
“To figure out a way to get us answers.”
Closing the door softly behind him, there was only one thought going round and round in Neil’s head.
Find Pitts. Find Pitts. Find Pitts.
Because they needed a plan. Because they needed someone level-headed, someone who could take this all in without panicking.
Because this was way above Neil’s level of strategizing.
Pitts was calm. Pitts was level-headed. Pitts had agreed that presenting Todd and Cameron to his father right now was a terrible idea.
So, he had to find him.
He had to –
Neil walked headfirst into his father. He had been too busy worrying himself sick, head lowered, muttering under his breath like a crazy person. He never saw his father stepping out of his office.
And then he collided with solid muscle. Neil’s shoulder slammed into someone else’s, sending him staggering backward.
“Neil,” his father greeted, his tone even.
And just like that, Neil’s stomach immediately plummeted to his feet. The tension that had been slowly unwinding in his chest snapped back into place, hard.
Oh, no.
“Father,” he said automatically, back immediately straightening up as he stood to his full height. He tried to not let his sheer panic show on his face. His father’s eyes scanned him, sharp and assessing.
“You’re in a hurry.” It wasn’t a question.
Neil forced himself to breathe normally. Casually. Like he wasn’t hiding two potential eyewitnesses in his bedroom.
“Just – needed to speak with Penhallow,” he managed, too slow, too stiff.
His father’s eyes didn’t waver.
“I think he mentioned he was going back to his room.”
Neil’s pulse hitched. “You- you saw him?”
“He dropped by the report on the Shax demons.”
Neil nodded quickly, pushing through the static in his brain. “Oh right, of course.”
His father’s expression remained neutral. Blank. “He said you and Charlie fell back because you wanted to canvas the area. Make sure there wasn’t another nest.”
Neil nodded again. “Yes. Yes we did.”
“Good initiative, I like knowing you’re being thorough.”
Neil blinked.
His father had just praised him. So casual. So easy. Like it was something he was used to doing.
The words snaked around his ribs, slipping between them, settling over his heart. Their weight heavy, suffocating.
“I – yes, thank you. Sir,” he added the last part as if an afterthought.
His father made a dismissive move with his hand. “Drop the 'sir', son. No need for that when it’s just the two of us.”
Neil's brain short-circuited, blanking out.
Because -
What the fuck.
The words refused to compute. Neil blinked at the man standing in front of him. The same man who wrote him up for not addressing a senior officer by his proper title, when Neil was fourteen. The same man who believed rules were sacred and formality was mandatory. The same man who rarely, if ever, looked at Neil and saw more than a soldier-in-training.
Drop the 'sir'. No need for that when it's just the two of us.
No matter how hard he tried, the words didn't make any sense in his head.
“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” his father continued, stepping into Neil's personal space like this wasn't the weirdest conversation in their entire lives.
Neil felt every muscle in his body lock up.
“I want you back on the Verlac murder case.”
That snapped him out of his spiral. Neil's thoughts tripped. "What?"
“Right, you don’t know…” His father tilted his head. “Your victim from the other day has been identified. She was Elodie Verlac.”
Neil’s mind stuttered. “Elodie Verlac? From the Paris Institute? What was she doing here?”
“We don’t know yet. As I was saying, I want you back on that case. You and your team.”
“My team?”
“Charlie, Penhallow, Carstairs.”
Neil made a humming noise.
Right.
His team.
Charlie was going to be absolutely insufferable about this.
“I thought the Clave was handling the case,” Neil said, when he felt the silence had stretched for too long.
“They are, but I’ll try to change that.”
Neil, blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.
His father wanted to give him the case back. Todd's case. He wanted Neil to have it - the responsibility of it.
He trusted Neil with it.
His jaw set, chest tightening. The words circled in his head, infiltrated his brain, hollowed him from the inside out. Neil couldn't stop himself from looking for the punchline.
“Father, I –”
“I wouldn’t press this if I didn’t think you’d do a good job, Neil.”
Neil’s breath caught.
“Besides,” his father continued. “The opportunity is too good to pass by.”
“Yes, of course, I understand that.”
“Good. The Clave officials are efficient, I cannot deny that. But they don’t know Boston like you. You grew up in these streets. And besides, you have a better relationship with the Downworlder leaders than the Clave could ever hope to have. They can't get the answers you can.”
Neil’s stomach turned. Because his father was right. He had been working as the unofficial liaison between the Institute and the local Downworlder leaders for years now.
And he was damn good at his job.
The Clave could never build trust the way he could. They were too rigid, too detached, too afraid of change.
Neil knew how to navigate both worlds. He knew how to speak to the Alpha of Boston’s pack without antagonizing him. He knew how to negotiate with the Seelie Queen’s envoys without making a promise he couldn’t keep. He knew how to talk to the High Warlock and walk away with the answers he needed.
“How is that relevant?” he asked, careful.
His father’s eyes flicked around the empty corridor, before taking a step closer to him. “I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he said, voice low. “But all the murder victims have been found in crossroads of ley lines.”
Neil’s pulse shattered in his throat.
The ley lines.
The words dug into his skin like a hook, catching, tugging, pulling at something deep inside him. He forced himself to keep his breathing steady, his expression neutral.
But his mind was already racing, already three steps ahead from where Neil currently was.
The ley lines were powerful. A mystery to Shadowhunters, only to be used and understood by warlocks – and even they had trouble from times to times. Because the ley lines were powerful. Unpredictable. They could amplify magic, distort, even zap it out of existence.
And someone had been tampering with them.
Meeks had pretty much said so the other night, when Neil had visited him. He had brushed it off, too keen on getting answers about things that to him felt more pressing – Todd, Todd, Todd – assuming the warlock community would handle it internally.
All the murder victims have been found in crossroads of ley lines.
Neil’s fingers twitched at his side.
It’s not a lead.
It could be a lead, but you need more.
Just because the murders happened at ley line crossings didn’t mean a thing without any further evidence. It could be a coincidence. A pattern that meant nothing.
His mind snapped back to that night. Back to the alley. Back to Tood and the power curling inside of him, wild and untethered. The way his body had seemed to hum with magic.
The way he had burned.
Neil swallowed hard, his mind buzzing with questions he didn’t have answers for.
His father was still talking. Neil tried to concentrate, taking in the information, while keeping his thoughts and emotions under check. His father’s gaze never wavered, adding much unneeded pressure to his already overstimulated brain.
Damn it, Branwell. Think! If the ley lines matter, why?
If the victims had been murdered at their strongest points, then, that meant something. It had to mean something. It meant…
He swallowed a groan of frustration. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. He didn’t know what it meant. He could see all the pieces; he was almost sure where they fit but the image was distorted.
Neil needed someone who could clear it up.
Neil needed –
Meeks. Steven Meeks. The High Warlock of Boston.
Neil forced himself to answer a few more of his father’s questions, keeping his voice measured, controlled. He followed protocol, doing what he was taught to do from the day he learned how to walk. He kept his thoughts to himself. Talked only when he was talked to, and let his father say everything he wanted to say. And then, when the chance presented itself, Neil grabbed it, excused himself with a clipped nod and turned on his heel.
The moment he was out of sight, his pulse picked up. The urgency crashed over him like a wave, flooding through every nerve, dragging his body into motion before his mind had fully caught up.
His feet carried him down the corridor fast. Neil’s fingers tightened into fists as he moved. They were taking Todd to Meeks. The idea had latched onto him now, solid and unbreakable.
Because of the victims showed up at the crossroads of ley lines then it had to mean something.
Something big.
And if there was anyone in the city who understood the ley line, who could track them, who could tell him why the hell they mattered, it was him.
He was the only one who could give them an answer.
And it wasn’t some mastermind plan, or a stroke of genius.
It was the only option left.
When he finally reached Pitts’ door, Neil didn’t bother knocking. He pushed it open harder than necessary, barely catching it before it slammed against the wall.
Pitts looked up from the book he had opened in his lap, eyebrows furrowed.
Neil let a sharp exhale, chest still too tight. “We have a plan.”
Pitts blinked, “We do?”
Neil nodded. “We’re talking Todd to meet the High Warlock of Boston.”
Pitts stared at him for a beat. “Have we filled an official request for a visit?” he asked, words picked carefully.
Neil shook his head.
Slowly, almost like a flower uncurling, Pitt’s lips spread into a smile. “I knew there was a reason why I liked you.”
Pitts closed his book, dropping it on the bed, before standing up.
“Okay then, let’s go find the others and head out.”
Neil huffed out something that was almost – almost – a laugh.
Steven Meeks was running on four hours of sleep, six martinis and pure spite.
Whoever had first said that the job of High Warlock was all glam and no actual work had been lying through their teeth, and Meeks wanted to personally find them and banish them to the Spiral Labyrinth.
Because Meeks had spent fifteen goddamn hours hosting a warlock meeting. Fifteen! With at least twenty of Boston’s most powerful and insufferable warlocks. Lounging in his apartment like they owned the place. Drinking, eating, whinnying.
The last of them had left barely five minutes ago.
The air still buzzed with the lingering scent of magic, static clinging to his skin like an overcharged spell. With a flick of his wrist Meeks flung open all the windows, hoping the night breeze would help clean away the remnants of this completely not fun day.
Meeks drew in a slow breath, stopping in front of an open window overlooking the city.
The ley line were still acting up – and honestly, when the fuck wasn’t there something wrong with them? Power fluctuated around them. Surged and snapped unpredictably – too volatile, too unnatural. The warlocks insisted that it wasn’t random. Someone somewhere was tampering with them.
And the local community was in a general state of unease. Which meant it was now Meeks’ problem.
He sighed, rubbing at his temples. Took another long breath, feeling his lungs expand. His head throbbed, another warning that he was overworked and underpaid, and one headache away from setting something on fire.
He walked to his kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and slowly brought it to his lips. The relief was imminent but not long lasting. Meeks’ eyes sunk shut, a sharp exhale coming out past his lips. His shoulders slumped, his head falling back between his shoulder blades. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, feeling the tension bubble in his stomach.
Something buzzed next to his ear.
Meeks’ eyes snapped open.
A fly whirred past his face. And then another. And a third one.
He cursed through his teeth, fingers flexing around his glass.
Fuck my life.
Right, because the nightmares weren’t enough. The fire, the hunger, the memories that clung to him like the stench of blood - finding his mother dead, his whole village slaughtered, the years spent starving on the streets, eating food out of dumpsters, his magic snapping, exploding out of a body that was too fragile, too young to keep such thunder contained.
No, all that wasn’t enough.
He needed the flies as a reminder as well.
Meeks let the glass on the counter, the cling too sharp a sound in the otherwise silent apartment.
Ignore them and they’ll go away.
Ignore them.
He was not going to let a bunch of flies sour his already less than perfect mood. No, no, he was too old for that shit. No, Meeks was going to run himself a nice, warm bath, and then he’d sleep.
Maybe for an hour.
Maybe for the rest of the year.
It was a tossup at this point.
Bath first, hibernate second.
Meeks actually liked that plan. So, of course, the universe promptly kicked it in the teeth.
There was a knock at the door.
Meeks closed his eyes. Bit on his tongue. Breathed in. Breathed out. Slow. Deliberately.
He could ignore it. He could pretend he was not at home. He could –
The knock came again. Meeks rolled his shoulders. He had to be a grown up about this, no matter how much he hated the very thought. He was a leader, he was the High Warlock. If his people needed him, he had to answer.
Mentally preparing himself for the bullshit, he yanked the door open.
And yep, apparently, it was possible for his day to turn even more into a train wreck than it already was. Because at his doorstep stood a group of self-righteous, rune-covered teenagers.
Meeks stared at them, for a beat that stretched much longer than it should. And then, without a word, he slammed the door in their faces.
A beat of silence.
Another knock.
Meeks opened the door again, glowering. “What part of ‘no’ wasn’t clear?”
The tallest one of the bunch – brunet, wide shoulders, entirely too comfortable with himself – offered him a charming, diplomatic smile.
“We need your help.”
Meeks took one long, exhausted breath. Then he slammed the door again.
He should’ve known it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Because instead of giving up, the knocking became more insistent. Demanding. Meeks had half the mind to just open a portal and fuck out of his apartment.
I will not allow a bunch of glorified children playing pretend as adults to run me out of my house.
Meeks sighed through his teeth, pressed his fingers to his crown, and threw the door open one last time.
“You’re testing my patience,” he said flatly, prepared to hex the lot of them out of existence if so much as they breathed the wrong way.
And then he felt it.
The magic.
The pull.
He didn’t have to search to find him. His eyes snapped to the boy with the power of heaven and hell shimmering underneath his skin. His body recognized him before his mind could catch up, and Meeks’ fingers curled around the doorframe.
His blood roared. Connected. His magic hummed through his veins, reaching out, calling to him.
Because Meeks was never meant to be his own person. Because Meeks would forever be the mirror image of his father. And across from him was standing the one person who proved that without any room for doubt.
He should close the door in their face.
He should refuse to help.
He should send them away. Send him away. If he ever wanted to walk out of his father’s shadow, he should –
“We need your expertise,” Neil Branwell spoke up, voice awkwardly professional.
Meeks’ eyes narrowed. Branwell was one of the few - no, scratch that, Branwell was the only Shadowhunter he’d come to tolerate. He’d worked with him a few times in the past few years. The institute’s liaison before him was brash, smug and entirely too full of himself. Neil Branwell knew his place, he recognized his privilege. Never took it for granted. Never asked for understanding he didn’t deserve. Never tried to force the Clave’s rules.
Branwell was good at building bridges, at keeping the Downworlders from turning against one another. He could be charming in certain settings, and he never left the negotiations table without shaking hands with everybody.
Meeks could even claim to like working with him.
Until, of course, Branwell showed up on his doorstep two nights ago. Asking questions he shouldn’t concern himself with. About warlocks growing up as mundanes. About how easy it would be for one to lose control.
And now it all made sense.
Meeks arched a slow brow, finally addressing Neil’s very polite, very official request. “Yeah? You mean like the last time you came sniffing around asking about the same kid currently standing behind you?”
His words had the desired effect. Neil Branwell’s face heated up, his back squaring like he was preparing himself for battle. The one standing next to him, shorter, stockier, with eyes screaming of trouble, smirked but it was bitter. The other two – Tall and Taller – exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing through their eyes. The mundane one looked entirely out of place.
The one this concerned – the one with too much power sitting underneath too fragile skin – blinked.
“Wait - what?” His voice sounded soft.
Meeks’ power curled inside his body, coiling. Waiting.
Neil’s jaw tightened. “I was investigating,” he said, eyes locked on the one standing next to him.
He scoffed. Brazen. Reckless. Reminding Meeks too much of himself. Of the fire in his veins, of the easy way he could wreak havoc. Wreak destruction. He was the kind of destruction Meeks had spent his entire life trying to outrun.
“Why do warlocks always feel the need to act so badass?” he muttered, looking Meeks up and down like he was sizing him up.
Meeks felt the sparkle crackle in his fingers. He knew his body and his general posture didn’t scream danger. Didn’t betray the kind of power that surged through his veins. He wasn’t towering or broad-shouldered. He wore glasses because they made him feel more human. His hair was ginger and perpetually unruly. He knew he looked like someone you could easily bully. And that was a gift. It had been working in Meeks’ favor for years.
He leaned against the open door, arms crossing lazily over his chest. “You wanna see how fast I can throw you out of that window over there?” he asked, eyes flashing. He sent a zap of power through the floor for good measure, keeping his expression deadpan when the boy jumped at the prickle of his magic hitting his skin.
The Tall-one snorted, a smirk tagging at the corners of his lips. “I’d love to see that,” he said, and the short-one bristled.
Meeks was already exhausted.
“We can even make sure the Clave doesn’t make a fuss about it, if you do it,” Tall said, looking at Meeks almost expectantly. “Can’t we, Ger?”
Taller – Ger – didn’t answer. Instead, he peered at Meeks like he was trying to see in his brain. Meeks wasn’t sure he entirely appreciated it.
“I am not going to do it, obviously,” he said, the words almost dragging out of his mouth.
Ger’s head fell on the side, eyes twinkling as he kept looking at him. “It would’ve been an appropriate reaction to dealing with Blackthorn for the first time.”
The Short-one – Blackthorn, apparently - whirled around so fast, he almost knocked the mundane off balance. He took a threatening step toward Ger, and didn’t even stop when Tall pushed himself between the two of them.
“I’d be very careful about running my mouth if I were in your shoes, Penhallow.”
Penhallow.
The name landed on Meeks’ chest like an anvil, and he physically recoiled.
Gerard Penhallow. The Clave’s golden boy.
Standing at his front door, expectant.
They’re always so fucking expectant.
"I think you need to back down,” the Tall-one said smoothly.
Blackthorn’s eyes flashed. “And I think you need to roll over, Carstairs.” Blackthorn went as far as to whistle under his breath, like trying to command a dog and Meeks could just feel the change in the atmosphere.
Oh, this was all so bad.
“Look, can we just come inside?” Branwell asked, voice cracking with something akin to desperation. “I promise this is important, and – Charlie, shut the fuck up, will you?”
Meeks bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from snapping. The Shadowhunters weren’t going to leave, that much was clear by the fact that they were still standing there, looking, staring, expecting.
He could still hear the buzzing of the flies.
Meeks gritted his teeth together. “I’m already regretting this,” he muttered, stepping back and jerking his chin toward the apartment. “C’mon, go on. Get in.”
Branwell didn’t wait for a second invitation. He all but herded the others inside, cutting off whatever smartass remark Blackthorn had been about to make. Meeks locked the door behind them and turned, only to find his carefully curated space already looking wrong with them in it.
The Shadowhunters moved like they owned the place. Like they could carve out space anywhere, set their feet down and claim something just by standing in it. The way they positioned themselves, it wasn’t just instinct. It was training. Years of knowing how to move in tandem, how to fall in formation without a second thought.
It was natural.
It made Meeks’ stomach churn.
They were speaking now, one over the other, as the Mundane and the Important-one sat on his couch apprehensive expressions drawn all over their faces. A weird kind of tension buzzed over the four of them, coiling, snapping. Volatile and friendly at the same time.
Oh.
Oh.
Meeks felt the goosebumps break on his skin as his gaze once more swept through his living room. And his stomach churned.
Because he could see it now. The bond, the tethering. The magic that held them together, the parabatai bonds radiating off them.
There were two sets of them. Burning bright and strong, tangled threads of celestial magic that made his teeth itch.
Ugh, soul-bonded creatures.
Parabatai were a sickness. Two people fused together, inseparable, incapable of existing apart. Needing, wanting, bleeding into each other.
They thought this was a gift. But it wasn’t. It was desperate. It was indulgent. It was greedy.
Meeks had no patience for greed.
The flies swarmed heavier, thickening around his head.
Breathe.
He unclenched his jaw, inhaled slow, deliberate. The moment he felt his pulse steady, he strode toward the center of the room, waving his finger with a flick of magic. The flies scattered, dissipating into nothing.
Silence stretched, thick and charged.
And then –
“Do you have a pest problem?” the Mundane asked, eyebrows pulling on his forehead.
Meeks rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Yes.”
“Oh! I can help with that!” he perked up, half-rising from the couch. “I can give you the number of this agency, they do a remarkable job –”
“Cameron,” the Important-one spoke up, placing a hand over his friend’s arm. His voice was warm, gentle. Cameron cut off mid-sentence turned to look at him. “I think he means us,” he murmured, giving him a soft, amused smile.
Cameron’s eyes flicked from his friend's face, to the now-empty space where the flies had been, to Meeks’ face.
“Oh.” He flushed. “Yeah, that tracks.” Then, as if realizing just how much he had embarrassed himself, he dropped back onto the couch, red-faced.
Meeks pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have the patience for this,” he whispered to himself.
“Clearly,” Blackthorn mused, arms still crossed as he watched him.
Meeks ignored that. Instead, he turned to Branwell, gaze expectant. “You said you needed my expertise. So tell me, Neil Branwell, what exactly to do you need from me?”
Neil hesitated for half a second before his jaw squared. “We need to understand what’s happening with the murders around the city. I know you know what I’m talking about so don’t try to deny it. There’s been three victims so far, all found on crossroads of ley line, and Todd –" he paused, gaze flicking to the Important-one "-we know that he was close by to at least two of them. He also… He has powers, but he doesn’t know how to control them. He doesn’t know where they come from.” Neil took a step forward, eyes blazing in his need to be heard. “The victims and the ley lines are definitely connected. And I believe that so is Todd. But we can’t see the pattern and you – you’re the best warlock to help us figure it out.”
Meeks raised a slow, unimpressed brow. “Flattery is a cheap tactic.”
“It’s not flattery,” Penhallow’s voice cut in.
Meeks’ eyes cut to him, only to find out that he was already being watched. The weight behind it was unsettling. Not because it was piercing, but because it felt assessing – almost interested.
Meeks had spent a lifetime being watched. By warlocks who wanted to see how fit he was for the High Warlock title. By Downworlders who thought of him as less of a Downworlder because of his lineage. By demons who wanted to see if he was his father’s son. His father who clung to his lost holiness with teeth and nails too greedy to let it go, even after millennia.
Meeks was used to being watched, studied. He was used to people waiting for him to falter, to make a wrong move.
This felt different.
This wasn’t expectant. It didn’t feel malicious, it felt – other.
Meeks had no idea what to do with it.
“I’m not interested in helping the Clave,” he said flatly, finally breaking eye contact.
“We’re not the clave,” Penhallow said.
Meeks let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Penhallow nodded, slowly. “That was deserved. But I can’t help my family’s last name any more than anyone else can,” he kept his tone smooth, steady. “We’re not here following the Clave’s orders. We are not asking you to take an official side. But this is not just a Clave problem. Someone is using magic to kill Shadowhunters. This should be dealt with, fast, unless we want it to turn into something far more serious.”
Meeks exhaled, slow. “You’re expecting me to care.”
“I already know you care. I’m expecting you to be curious.”
Meeks hated that that was a good point.
He turned his attention to Todd, studying him closer. The magic coiling inside him, the celestial hum in his veins – Todd was a tipping point. A linchpin to something bigger.
And Meeks had questions.
He pressed his lips together, considering. Then, finally, he let out a long, slow breath.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But I’m charging you for this.”
Branwell blinked, startled. “You – what?”
Meeks gave him a pointed look. “You think I work for free? Just because I like you?”
Blackthorn snorted. “Great, we’re dealing with a capitalist warlock.”
Meeks smirked. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”
Branwell sighed like he regretted every decision that had led him here. Meeks was willing to bet that Blackthorn side-eyeing him like he was cursing his existence wasn’t very helpful. Carstairs had yet to break, too much of a perfect little soldier to step out of line. Penhallow – Penhallow was still watching him.
Still intrigued.
And Meeks was starting to think that was going to be a problem.
Chapter 8: Show me respect I see the death
Notes:
Hello, lovely people of the internet!! Another week, another update from yours truly! This is a chapter from Meeks' pov solely and I'm really excited for it! I hope you'll like reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Steven Meeks was not having a good day.
First, there were the warlocks. The meeting from Hell - the one that lasted fifteen goddamn hours. The one Meeks had to sit through while warlocks twice his age whined and moaned about the ley lines corruption but refused to lift a single finger to do anything about it. Because it didn’t fall on them, it fell on Meeks. It feel on the High Warlock of Boston.
And then, when hell graciously froze over and finally allowed the infernal meeting to end, there was a knock on his door. And like a fool Meeks had answered.
Because he was trying to be a grown up. He was trying to be responsible. He was trying to be a leader to people who didn’t even respect him enough to talk shit to his face instead of behind his back.
And so he’d answered the door.
Which, admittedly, had been a very, very, bad decision.
And now here he was, standing in the middle of his living room, while a bunch of Shadowhunters invaded his personal space. Because they needed help. Because they felt entitled to it.
They hadn’t even filed an official request for a meeting!
Meeks should’ve cast them out. Meeks should’ve banished them. Meeks should’ve –
Todd coughed. It was small, barely audible. The minute it slipped out it became painfully clear he hadn’t meant to make a sound. His whole body stiffened, cheeks heating up. A hand came up to press against his lips, his eyes widening comically like he’d been caught committing a crime.
Cameron readily pressed himself closer to him, allowing his body pressure to be some short of anchor.
Ah, mortals.
Meeks had been incredibly fond of them, once. When he was younger. When the world and the years hadn’t yet taken their toll on him. When he still didn’t know of the curse, or how far his father was willing to go to keep it from taking hold.
Todd’s shoulders visibly relaxed after a second or so, his lips curling into a soft, private smile as he looked at Cameron.
Meeks did not miss the way Branwell seemed to shift his weight between his feet.
Right. That’s definitely going to be a problem.
Meeks suffocated a heavy sigh. Why was his life this? This uncontrollable, relentless thing, where event after event happened to him, like waves crashing against a shore, leaving him unmoored and drowning? Why had he had to open the door, only to find Todd standing behind it? Why couldn’t it have been another warlock in his place?
Don’t be daft, Steven. It couldn’t have been anyone else. You know it couldn’t.
Right.
Meeks could scream. But he didn’t. Instead, he drew a deep breath. Steadied himself.
“Alright,” he exhaled. “Where shall we start?”
“Ah –” Branwell took a step forward, as if he was considering coming to stand closer to Meeks but then he stopped. His eyes darted around to the rest of his party, but no one seemed particularly inclined to help him out.
Meeks heaved another sigh.
Shadowhunters - fucking useless until they’re stabbing something.
“You said you think the tampering of the ley lines is connected to some murders?” he prompted. He knew about the murders, of course, but how easy was he supposed to make this on them?
Branwell’s eyes sharpened immediately, his hesitation evaporating. “Right! Yes, Shadowhunter murders,” he said nodding his head vigorously.
Meeks pressed his lips together.
Finally getting somewhere.
“Okay. You also said, that Todd is somehow connected to all of it?”
Branwell blinked.
Spoke too soon.
“Uh, yes?”
“You’re asking me?”
“No – no, I know he’s connected I just…”
“Don’t know how,” Meeks finished for him. Branwell gave him a sheepish smile. “Right…” Meeks murmured, drumming his fingers against his arm. “And lastly - Todd has powers, but he can’t control them, and he doesn’t know where they come from?”
“Correct.”
“Okay… What exactly do you want from me?” Meeks asked.
Branwell’s face turned red. He clearly had no idea how to navigate this conversation and it was slowly starting to get to Meeks’ nerves.
“We should start with Todd,” Penhallow interjected smoothly. “That’s the first thing we need to figure out, and the rest will follow.”
Todd made a small noise in the back of his throat. “I feel like I’m a car ready to undergo inspection.”
Meeks glanced at him, arching a brow. “Buckle up, kid. It’s going to be a long night.”
It started off simple.
Meeks walked over to his bookcase, fingers skimming lazily over the spines of centuries-old books, before plucking a witchlight from the shelf. He ignored the way it lit up, pulsing slightly, as it sat in his palm.
“Catch,” he said, before tossing it to Todd.
He knew what was going to happen before the kid even closed his fingers around the stone. Still, when the light flared, bright and steady, spilling through the cracks of Todd’s fingers, he felt his mood sour.
The room went incredibly still.
He heard Blackthorn suck in a breath, and he allowed his eyes to drift from Carstairs to Penhallow, who were already looking at each other.
Ugh, parabatai.
Meeks shuddered. The sheer codependency was nauseating.
“Um, what does that mean?” Cameron asked, voice hesitant. He was pointing at the stone still clasped in Todd’s hand, like it was about to explode.
Meeks didn’t swallow his next sigh. “Well, it means that your friend is a Nephilim.”
“A what?”
“Nephilim, at least partially,” Meeks repeated, approaching Todd.
The kid’s blue eyes snapped from the glowing stone to Meeks’ face, and his stomach kicked at the apprehension he saw shining in them.
“May I?” he asked, extending his hand. Todd swallowed, his fingers falling open as if against his will. He dropped the witchlight in Meeks’ expectant hand and then stuffed his own in the pockets of his jeans.
Cameron, meanwhile, was still trying to put the pieces together. “Okay, and a Nephilim is…”
Meeks refrained from rolling his eyes only barely. “A Shadowhunter.”
Cameron blinked. “What’s that?”
“Wait –” Meeks took a step back, eyes turning from the two people on his couch, to the other four standing in various places around his living room. “You haven’t – you didn’t explain to them what’s going on?”
Branwell rubbed the back of his neck, having the decency to look mildly chastised. “We didn’t really get the chance.”
Meeks’ anger flared, his magic crackling like electricity around him.
“So, you just brought them here to be inspected like lab rats without explaining a damn thing to them?”
Branwell opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “Well, when you put it like that it does sound…not good.”
Meeks scoffed. “It sounds fucking awful,” he practically growled.
So, fucking entitled.
All the time.
But before the tension could stretch too thin, and before Branwell could open his mouth to put his foot further inside of it, Penhallow interjected.
Calm. Measured. Effortlessly composed.
“That’s on us,” he said, stepping forward, a clear indication of taking charge. “We should have explained beforehand.” He paused, shoving his hands in the pockets of his pants, lowering his shoulders, keeping his posture open, non-threatening. “But given the circumstances – them walking in on us mid-hunt - I think you can understand why we didn’t want to waste time on a detailed briefing before getting some answers.”
Meeks narrowed his eyes.
It wasn’t an apology. It didn’t ask for forgiveness, didn’t demand Meeks to understand, just explained the facts. Penhallow had just presented himself as rational, reasonable. A typical Clave maneuver.
“We had to be sure Todd was – ” Penhallow’s words halted, eyes flickering to Todd for a moment before continuing, “- something before we started throwing around words like Nephilim.”
Todd stiffened slightly at that, but Penhallow had already moved on, returning his full attention to Meeks. The kind of attention that was heavy enough to expect engagement without outright confrontation.
Meeks let the silence stretch for a moment. Let Penhallow wait.
Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Right. Whatever,” he muttered, rubbing at his temple. His gaze flicked toward Todd, still hunched in on himself, shoulders drawn tight.
This is a mess.
Meeks had just moved close to Todd once again, fingers flickering with barely restrained magic, when Cameron - who’d been keeping himself silent for the past several minutes - finally exploded.
“Okay, but is anyone going to explain what a Shadowhunter is?”
Blackthorn scoffed, incredulously, crossing his arms over his chest. “How the hell do you not know any of this?”
Cameron didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I’m so sorry, dude, clearly we should’ve figured out all this supernatural crap sooner, before we even knew it was a thing!” His voice dripped with mockery, his hands flying up in exasperation.
Blackthorn rolled his eyes. “Playing the ‘I’m a poor mundane’ card is not the clever move you think it is.”
Cameron blinked. “The what card? I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”
Blackthorn groaned, growing impatient. “We do not have time for this.” His eyes cut to Neil, sharp and knowing. “I don’t see why we’re dragging this out. We already know how he’s connected to this mess.”
Neil tensed beside him, but before he could respond, Meeks narrowed his eyes. “Oh? Do we?”
Blackthorn made a noise of derision in the back of his throat. “We walked in on him turning a dude into ash. He’s a warlock. Obviously.”
“The witchlight lit in his palm,” Carstairs pointed out from his place near the window. His tone was mild, almost bored, but his gaze remained sharp trained on Todd.
Blackthorn waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, well, he clearly tricked it.”
Meeks turned to fully face him at that, blinking once. Then twice. His lips parted, and for the first time since this whole conversation started, he actually looked stunned. “You cannot be that stupid.”
Blackthorn’s entire face twisted with offense. “Excuse me -?”
“No, seriously –” Meeks paused, attempted to recall himself. Heard the damn flies buzz in his general vicinity. “I was already questioning the level of inbreeding going on in Shadowhunter families, but this just solidified my theory.” Meeks made an exaggerated motion, gesturing vaguely at the air around him. “The sheer willful ignorance is astounding.”
Branwel sighed, pressing his knuckles over his closed eyes, a soft sigh escaping his parted lips, like he was regretting every life decision that had brought him to this point. Meanwhile, Blackthorn looked two seconds away from punching something.
Or someone.
Meeks was half certain he was aching to take a swing at him.
Oh, please, just give me an excuse.
“Excuse me?” Blackthorn echoed, this time his voice shaking with barely concealed fury. “Would you like to repeat that?”
Meeks’ lips pulled into a smile that was all teeth and sharpness. “Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed, tilting his head and pushing the most condescending smile on his face - he’d spend years mustering it. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid you’re already struggling with basic comprehension, and I don’t want to push your one functioning brain cell past its limits.”
Carstairs actually chuckled.
Blackthorn bristled.
Meeks readied himself to deliver the final blow, but then Todd caught his eye.
Todd and the way he was pressing his hands together, like he was trying to hold something inside himself.
Todd and the way his spine had gone rigid, shoulders taut like he was on the verge of snapping.
Todd and the way his eyes – so blue, so wide – kept trailing after Meeks, like a man on death row, awaiting the final swing from his executioner.
Meeks' magic shattered inside him, sparks breaking out of the tips of his fingers. Reaching, reaching, reaching. Wanting to smooth things over. Wanting to fix everything. Needing to serve, to take care, to protect.
Todd saw it. The magic, the sparks. His eyes widened even more, fingers curling over his knee, body going still. Cameron, hyper-aware of his friend’s shifting mood, pressed in closer dropping his head near Todd’s ear.
“I don’t think we’re getting any actual answers,” he stage-whispered.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Blackthorn exasperated, head rolling back, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Blackthorn, cut the dramatics,” Carstairs said with an eyeroll, pushing away from the window. “Alright, mundane, Shadow World lesson 101.” He turned his attention to Cameron, voice slipping into something smooth and matter-of-fact. “Shadowhunters are Nephilim. Half-human, half-angel warriors tasked with keeping the balance between the human world and the supernatural one. That’s what we are.” He gestured between himself, Penhallow, Branwell and Blackthorn. “Meeks is a warlock -"
"High Warlock of Boston, thank you very much," Meeks cut him off.
Carstairs, who clearly hadn't expected to be interrupted, blinked. Turned to Meeks with a soft chuckle, eyes catching the light of the several candles around the penthouse. "Right, apologies. Meeks is the a warlock, currently holding the title of High Warlock of Boston. He is a valuable associate to the Institute," he added, the corner of his lips briefly curling into a smirk. "You are a mundane; meaning a mortal who doesn’t have the Sight and can’t see the Shadow World, unless it reveals itself to you. Like we’re doing, right now.”
Cameron squinted at him, processing. “Okay. So, you’re like… supernatural cops?”
Carstairs crossed his arms lazily, his pretty face pinching a little as if the comparison physically pained him. “Not exactly, but sure. Let’s go with that.”
Cameron nodded, mimicking Carstairs’ body language, arms folding. “And what, you’re all, like born into it?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Love that for you.” Cameron bobbed his head, then threw a glance at Todd before turning back to Carstairs. “And I take it the huge-ass cathedral you took us is your supernatural lair?”
“The Institute is not a lair,” he corrected, his face still vaguely scranched up. “It’s a sanctuary. It’s Shadowhunters’ governing building.”
Cameron mouthed sanctuary as if tasting the feel of the word against his tongue. Todd, still tense beside him, didn’t react at all.
But Meeks was already tilting his head, gaze flicking between the Shadowhunters. “Since when do you give tours to mundanes?”
“It wasn’t a tour,” Carstairs said, tone flat. “They ran into us during a mission. Todd used his magic to help out Branwell –”
“I was handling myself just fine,” Branwell cut in quickly. Too quickly.
Blackthorn turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “You were ready to become Shax snack, Neil.”
“I – shut up, Charlie.”
Carstairs rolled his eyes. “Right, Todd used his magic. We took care of the demons. And,” his words trailed, gaze momentarily flicking to Penhallow, something silent passing between the two of them, “we took them to the Institute because we couldn’t just let them go. We laid low for a while, and then we came here. Because we knew you could help.”
Meeks’ stomach twisted itself into a knot.
We knew you could help.
It wasn’t a question. Not even a suggestion. It was a fact. An inevitability. Like Meeks had no say in this, like there wasn’t another option available. Like he was expected to help. Like he was obligated. Oh, how Meeks hated that.
Carstairs gave him a long look, hands coming to clasp behind his back, shoulders squaring.
Perfect little soldier.
Meeks barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Instead, he turned his attention back to Blackthorn, because antagonizing him was fun.
“See, Blackthorn, it’s not that difficult to be both informative and efficient with your words,” he said, words dripping with pointed amusement. “Pretty boy did a really good job with it.”
Carstairs cheeks tinted pink, but he didn’t squirm, didn’t drop Meeks’ gaze. He had to give him some credit for that.
Blackthorn, however, did squirm.
“Pretty boy?” The scoff that followed was disturbed. “Yeah, no, we are not calling Carstairs that.”
Meeks tilted his head, a smirk curling in his lips. “Jealous?”
Blackthorn bristled immediately. “I will throw hands with you.”
Oh, this was so easy.
Penhallow, standing just within Meeks’ peripheral, let out a quiet exhale through his nose – an amused sound, barely audible but unmistakable. He was still watching Meeks. Assessing. Clearly intrigued. Meeks ignored it.
“Oh, please do, sweetheart,” he crooned, eyes flashing as he looked at Blackthorn. “I could use the entertainment.”
Penhallow smirked, the shine in his eyes sharpening.
“Dude,” Cameron spoke up suddenly, cutting through the tension. “You’re half angel.” He sounded awed as he looked at Todd, who’d turned the same color Carstairs had a couple of minutes ago.
Todd squirmed in his seat, ducking his head. “I worry about the other half, if I’m honest.”
Cameron brought a hand up to his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Hey, we’re together in this, okay?”
Somewhere to Meeks’ left, Neil Branwell shifted restlessly.
Todd gave a slow, tentative nod. He seemed to steel himself for a moment, before his eyes turned to Meeks. And damn him, because the second he did, Meeks felt it. Once again, his magic reacted – instinctively, barely controlled – threatening to overtake him in this primal need to protect.
Meeks gritted his teeth, curled his fingers. Reeled his power in. Held it tightly afraid that he’d invertedly end up hurting Todd in its desperate need to guard him.
He took a step back, rolled his shoulders. Adjusted himself.
Let’s get this over with.
Meeks was easily the oldest person in the room. Yet, in terms of being a warlock he was relatively young. Barely two hundred – if you were to round it down. He’d only started figuring out how far he could push his power or at least, that’s what people kept telling him. It was a great amount of power, the one running through his veins. Meeks knew that. It was hard not to when even Greater Demons refused to go after him. Even after getting the all clear from his father, they still wouldn’t touch him.
So, Meeks knew he was powerful.
It still surprised him, the way his magic manifested. It wasn’t raw, not exactly. Meeks had been training for years, and he liked to think of himself as a warlock who had some finesse. But it was all-consuming. It was reverent in a perverse kind of way. It made the lights flicker, and the air crackle and his skin prickle.
It was a simple incantation. Nothing that needed too much of a punch behind it. And yet the magic spurred out of him, knocking down the lid Meeks had pushed over it in his attempt to keep everyone relatively safe.
It was controlled. Of course it was. No one was in danger. Meeks wouldn’t allow that.
But the force behind it –
Cameron sucked in a sharp breath, looking at the very least spooked as tendrils of purple light coiled out from Meeks, surrounding Todd like a net.
“Cameron,” Meeks said, slowly, carefully. His voice cut through the silence of the room. Cameron turned to him, eyes wide. “Do not move, okay? It will only take a minute.”
To his credit, Cameron didn’t move.
The spell built. The lights in Meeks’ living room flickered. The air thickened, hummed – a deep, thrumming vibration that settled in everyone’s bones. It was a revelation spell – designed to pull magic to the surface, to strip away whatever it was hiding behind, force it to be seen.
And wasn’t Todd's magic divine?
Easily the most perfect thing he had witnessed in his life. Blue, electric and devasting. If let lose this kind of power could level the whole of Boston in minutes. The sheer force of it sent a pulse through the air, static snapping at Meeks’ skin, curling against his own magic like an invitation.
Todd’s power was supposed to recoil, that’s the way the spell worked; it was designed to tease power forward, to provoke a reaction. Their distinct forces should’ve repelled each other. Todd’s magic should’ve bucked against the pull. Instead, it hummed. Vibrated with something akin to recognition and Meeks felt his skin break in goosebumps. A strange weight settled in his stomach. His magic spread, swirled around Todd’s like a pet asking for attention, and Todd’s power did not flinch. It did not fight. It met Meeks’ halfway, a perfect counterbalance.
Meeks breath hitched.
Todd was staring at him. Eyes impossibly blue. Impossibly wide. He was feeling it too, probably, the same overwhelming rush, the same incomprehensible sense of too much, too fast, too familiar. Meeks doubted he could currently differentiate between his feelings.
As quickly as it started it was over. Their powers gave a soft pulse, mingled as they were together, before slowly drifting back into their bodies, leaving both of them raw and exposed.
Meeks recovered faster, rolling his neck and cracking his fingers together. If he had any doubt about Todd’s lineage before it had all evaporated now.
“That was so cool,” Cameron muttered, his voice slightly breathless, eyes blown wide and cheeks slightly pink.
“I’ve seen better,” Blackthorn shot back, just to be an asshole.
Meeks exhaled sharply. Of course.
Todd was still staring at him.
“So?” Branwell asked after a beat when the silence started stretching too thin. “What’s the verdict?”
Meeks pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rolling his shoulders back. “You’re not going to like it,” he warned, gaze sweeping between the Shadowhunters before, finally, landing on Todd.
Todd swallowed, fingers twitching against his knee. “Tell me.”
Meeks allowed himself a sigh, trying to keep his face neutral and failing when the corners of his lips tugged downward. “Well, kid, you are a rarity.”
Todd’s face also pulled a grimace. “Mm, I do enjoy being special,” he snarked, the bitterness of his sarcasm resonating deeply within Meeks.
Cameron’s eyes flicked between the two of them, like he was watching a particularly tense tennis match. “Okay, but what does that mean, exactly?”
Meeks made a vague gesture. “It means, dear Cameron, that your friend is a hybrid. One that, simply put, shouldn’t exist.”
He paused, letting the words settle for everyone. He didn’t miss the way Penhallow took a measured step back, something shifting in his eyes before he turned to look at Carstairs.
He’s definitely a smart one.
“I don’t understand,” Todd said quietly.
Meeks sighed and turned back to him. “Like I said, kid; a damn rarity. Half-Shadowhunter, half-warlock.”
As predicted the words did not land easy. Blackthorn’s mouth curled, his whole body screaming suspicion, but it was Penhallow who spoke first.
“You’re saying he’s what? Half-Nephilim, half-demon?” his voice was even, but there was an undertone lurking that Meeks didn’t appreciate. He and Carstairs exchanged a look, one of those silent parabatai conversations that made Meeks’ skin crawl. “That’s not possible.”
“Oh, it’s not?” Meeks feigned curiosity. “Must’ve been mistaken then. Gravely sorry.” With one last look around his living room, he turned away waving a lazy hand. “Alright, let’s pack it up, we’ve solved absolutely no mysteries tonight. Great job everyone.”
Blackthorn took a step forward as if he seriously considered blocking Meeks’ way. “Demons can’t get Shadowhunters pregnant. That’s just – biologically, magically – not a thing.”
“Right,” Carstairs said, nodding, arms crossed. “It’s never happened.”
“Not often,” Meeks corrected smoothly, forcing his expression into something neutral. “It’s rare. Exceptionally so. But not impossible.”
Blackthorn scoffed. “You just said it shouldn’t exist.”
“It shouldn’t.”
Todd made a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a breath of disbelief. “No, don’t mind me. I’m fine.”
“Wait – wait.” Cameron held a hand up, looking lost. “You said demons can’t have kids with Shadowhunters, so how does this work?”
Meeks clicked his tongue. Allowed his eyes to slowly, deliberately, trail toward Carstairs. And then, taking a deep breath, he lied with practiced ease. “The only other person like Todd that I know of is Tessa Gray.”
That got their attention, like Meeks knew it would. He kept his eyes trained to the one person this would resonate with the most and it was with great satisfaction that he saw Carstairs' expression crumble a little.
He recovered quickly – because of course he did– shoulders going stiff as he inhaled sharply. “Tessa’s mother didn’t have any runes.”
“Exactly,” Meeks said, tilting his head. “She had no angelic protection, other than the blood running in her veins. But that wasn’t enough to reject the demonic influence, not in the way a full Nephilim would. That’s why Tessa wasn’t a still born. It was… an anomaly. But it happened.”
“And you’re saying that’s the case with Todd?” Penhallow pressed, watching him carefully.
Meeks didn’t falter. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“So, my mother was a Shadowhunter?” Todd’s voice was barely above a whisper as his eyes kept carving holes on the side of Meeks’ head.
No one spoke right away. Not out of shock, but something closer to hesitation— like they were all expecting someone else to break the silence first.
In the end it was Cameron who said, "Todd’s adopted. He never knew who his birth parents were.”
Meeks nodded. He hadn't expected that part, but considering everything else about the boy sitting on his couch, it made sense. "Well, okay then... At least now you know she was a Shadowhunter."
“If she had no runes, she was half-Shadowhunter at best,” Blackthorn said, in his usual rather callous way. “Probably exiled or something. Who knows what kind of shit she was mingled up with if she ended up giving birth to a half-demon.”
Several things happened at once at this point.
Branwell and Penhallow simultaneously gave a very loud, very vocal reprimand. Cameron jumped off the couch, half-ready to punch Blackthorn’s face in. Meeks for the first time that evening was too stunned to react in any way.
Todd wasn’t.
His power still lingered too close to the surface, raw and volatile due to the revelation spell. It shot out of him before Todd could even register what was happening. One minute he sat almost curled into himself, spine pressed stiffly into the couch; the next flames exploded from his fingertips, a trail of blazing fire streaking toward Blackthorn.
Carstairs, who happened to be standing closest to him, shoved at his shoulder, sending him staggering out of the fire’s path. The flames dissipated an inch from where Blackthorn had been standing, scorching the floor instead.
For a moment the room went still, save from the cracking remnants of fire and magic staining the air.
And then –
“What the fuck was that?” Blackthorn snarled, whirling back around, fists clenched at his sides.
Todd’s breath hitched. His eyes were still too wide, his hands shaking as they rested on top of his knees. “I – I didn’t –”
Cameron was immediately between them, stepping in front of Todd like a human shield. “I will need you to back the hell off in the next five seconds.”
“Or what are you going to do about it, mundane?” Blackthorn snapped. “You gonna make your little friend spew more fire toward me?”
“That wasn’t his fault, you provoked him!”
“He tried to burn me alive!”
“Charlie, shut the fuck up,” Neil said, his voice suddenly cutting through the chaos.
Blackthorn rounded on him, incredulous. “Oh, great. You’re defending him again!”
Neil’s jaw was set tight enough to be breaking a couple of molars. “No. I’m not. But you had no right talking about his mother like that. We don’t even know who she was, let alone what – if anything – she was involved in. And you of all people should not talk about exile like that.”
Charlie’s face twitched, the words landing exactly where Neil had meant for them too.
Still, Neil pressed on. “You want to blame him for the fire? Fine. But if you weren’t running your damn mouth, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”
Charlie’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t say anything.
Meeks had officially had enough.
This day from hell should come to an end one way or another, and his apartment wasn’t a Shadowhunters playground where some very petty and petulant Nephilims got to resolve all their pent-up generational trauma.
He clapped his hands together, sharp and loud. “Alright, that’s enough pissing contests for one night,” he said, tone flat, and edged with exhaustion. “You can keep psychoanalyzing your family trees and your stupid blood feuds somewhere that isn’t my fucking living room.”
Branwel looked like he wanted to argue, but Meeks cut him off with a pointed glare.
“Door’s that way. Get out.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Todd shifted uneasily, gaze flicking toward Meeks. His hands were still trembling at his sides, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
Meeks was.
His expression softened, just slightly. “You,” he said, voice quieter. “You get special treatment because you’re half warlock. If you ever need help with your powers, my door is always open.”
Todd swallowed. “Okay.” His voice was so small, it barely existed.
Meeks nodded, then turned, his gaze settling on Carstairs.
“And you, pretty boy.” His voice lilted, teasingly. “A relative of Tessa’s, no matter how distant is always welcome in my home.”
Once again, Carstairs’ face turned slightly pink. Maybe that was half the reason why Meeks had extended the invitation. Or maybe it was because Carstairs was the most controlled of the bunch. The quietest. The one who only spoke when he had something worth saying.
Or maybe it was the way Blackthorn bristled every single time he called Carstairs ‘pretty boy’.
Yeah. That was definitely a bonus.
Cameron who was still vibrating with the need to punch someone, shot Blackthorn one last glare before steering Todd toward the door. The Shadowhunters followed, grumbling and bickering under their breaths, Branwell rubbing a hand over his face like he was two seconds from losing his mind.
Meeks exhaled heavily as they spilled out of his apartment.
Finally.
But of course, he wasn’t that lucky. Because just as he was about to turn and walk away, he remembered. The Shadowhunter murders. Meeks knew he didn’t owe them anything. He could keep it to himself, let them struggle through it blind. But… Penhallow had been right, this could easily escalate into something that it wasn’t.
So, he rolled his shoulders back, and took a steading breath. “Branwell,” he called, stopping Neil just as he was about to step over the threshold.
Neil hesitated, then turned.
Meeks held his gaze for a long moment before he sighed. “Whoever’s doing this? They’re not a warlock.”
Neil frowned. “What?”
“The murders at the ley lines. A warlock would never be sloppy enough to tamper with the them like that. It’s too messy,” Meeks explained. “If it was one of us behind it, they'd do a better job at covering the tracks.”
Neil’s brows furrowed, his mind already working through the implications.
Meeks shrugged, turning away. “Figure it out,” he said over his shoulder.
He heard the door click shut behind him.
Finally. Peace.
Or not.
Because when he turned back around, Gerard Penhallow was still standing there.
Meeks blinked. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding him.”
Penhallow stared at him. “I don’t tend to kid much.”
Meeks dragged a hand down his face, sighing. “What do you want?”
Penhallow didn’t answer right away. He just watched him, the way he had been all night.
Meeks hated it. It felt like he was itching to take a peek in his brain.
“You’re holding something back,” Penhallow said finally.
Meeks didn’t react, but his magic did, coiling tightly in his veins. “Am I?”
Penhallow nodded.
“I nave no idea what you’re talking about.”
Penhallow hummed like he didn’t quite believe him.
Meeks let his eyes drift past him, to the still-closed door. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Shadowhunter?”
The corner of his lips twitched, like Penhallow was holding back a smirk. He didn’t push. Instead, he gave Meeks one last, knowing look before stepping past him and slipping out the door.
Standing in the middle of his apartment, alone for the first time in hell knew how many hours, Meeks’ head rolled back between his shoulder blades.
“I need a fucking drink.”
Notes:
Okay, so, there are og character references in this chapter. One of them is Tessa Gray who features in the prequel books, titled 'Infernal Devices'. Tessa is a half-Warlock, half-Shadowhunter hybrid, the only one in the series if I'm not mistaken. She's currently married to Jem Carstairs, another og character, who's distantly related to Knox ( remember how he said like two chapters ago that he has family originally coming from Sanghai? Yeah, that was about Jem). So, Meeks name drops Tessa knowing it will make Knox believe what he is saying.
The other reference is more vague, it's made by Neil and it's when he says that Charlie should know better than talking about being in exile so flippantly. That's a reference to Julian Blackthorn an og character who was exiled because of his romantic relationship with his parabatai - because that's a big no-no in the Shadow world. Julian and Charlie are related - they're cousins, I think it comes up later in the story.
So, yeah, I think that's it.. If you have any more questions let me know in your reviews! See y'all next week!
Chapter 9: My mind's like a deadly disease
Notes:
Okay, okay... this chapter definitely got away from me.. it's so freaking long, but I couldn't trim it down, I just... I'm sorry, I gues? But I think we all deserve 7k of Todd going through the motions and having a training session with the new hot guy he met five days ago, who's covered in tattoos and carries a sword.. Um, i don't think I have anything else to say about this chapter. I hope you enjoy it and ... yeah, I hop you like it!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It means, dear Cameron, that your friend is a hybrid. One that, simply put, should not exist.
Never before in his life had Todd heard a sequence of words he’d felt so deep in his bones. They curled, with outrageous familiarity, around his ribs, settling behind them, bearing themselves deep inside his body.
The wind picked up, sharp and cutting, and Todd lowered his face in the collar of his coat. Cameron walked next to him, their arms and shoulders brushing the whole way. Unconsciously, Todd leaned more into him, desperately seeking some warmth, some grounding – anything to keep himself from shivering down to his bones.
Cameron took a minute to adjust, lifting an arm and slinging it over Todd’s shoulders, bringing him in closer. The weight of it, of him, solid and reassuring.
“Thanks,” Todd muttered, his whole body sagging against his friend.
He felt Cameron’s eyes on the side of his head, but didn’t turn around to catch his gaze. “Don’t mention it,” Cameron murmured, squeezing his shoulder once before settling his grip.
Todd couldn’t remember leaving Meeks’ apartment. One second, he was staring at the warlock – because apparently, warlocks were real now – half-expecting him to pull the real answer from thin air, something that would make this all make sense. Because Meeks had that air about him. The next thing Todd knew, he was being ushered out the door, Cameron’s hand warm and grounding against his wrist, leading him down the darkened streets of Boston alongside the Shadowhunters.
The Shadowhunters who, currently, were walking ahead of them, talking between themselves.
Like Todd and Cameron weren’t even there.
Another gust of wind cut across his face. He pressed himself harder against Cameron. Took a deep, steadying breath.
It didn’t help, but at this point Todd doubted anything would.
A lot of information had been dumped in his lap and Todd hadn’t even had the time to freak out, because the people trying to help him were a second away from tearing at each other. So, Todd had kept his composure, had held himself together, had bit on his tongue. He had waited because he couldn’t unravel in front of all these strangers.
And now he was finally alone. Or as alone as one can be in the presence of five other people.
There was a kind of static in his brain, distorting his thoughts, keeping everything from making any kind of sense. Several words stood out – warlock, hybrid, Shadowhunter, rarity – but when he tried to put them all together, to string them into something real -
They stopped looking like words at all.
They looked wrong.
They felt fake.
They made Todd’s breathing labored.
“You okay?” Cameron asked, not even trying to keep the worry from his voice.
This time Todd did look at him. Blue eyes finding brown, the sight so familiar that it almost brought comfort.
Almost.
“No.”
Cameron pressed his lips together. Squeezed his shoulder again. Worked his jaw as his gaze flicked to the four men walking ahead of them.
Todd realized what was going to happen a second too late to stop it.
“Not that we don’t appreciate the company, and the lore dump,” Cameron’s voice rung out, just as he stopped walking, halting Todd along with him. “But I think we should call it a night.”
The Shadowhunters stopped walking. Despite all their differences, despite that at least two of them seemed like they’d happily throw the other out a window, they turned as if one unity.
Todd’s breath hitched. Cameron squeezed his shoulder again, grounding him.
Charlie, because of course it would be him, took a step forward, breaking out of the formation. “Funny, mundane.”
Cameron’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t make a joke.”
Charlie’s head tilted on the side, arms lazily folding across his chest. “No? It sure sounded as one.”
Cameron clicked his tongue. Todd could see a little vein pop on his crown. “Look, we did everything you asked us to do. We followed you to your not-supernatural-lair, we came with you to meet this knockoff Gandalf. I got called names, and someone told Todd –” his voice sharpened “ - that he shouldn’t have been born.”
The words lodged deep into Todd’s ribs, still familiar, still suffocating.
Cameron paused, needing to take a breath. His grip on Todd’s shoulder tightened once again, a tension curling through his frame that Todd recognized all too well. Cameron had been holding all that in for hours. This was him on the verge of losing his temper, barely holding himself together out of sheer force of will.
“So, I think, after all that,” Cameron started again, his voice deliberately slow, like he was trying very, very hard to keep from cussing them out, “we’re allowed to go back to our homes, take a minute to process and –”
“No,” Charlie sharply cut him off.
Cameron’s face pinched. “What do you mean no?”
“I mean, no,” Charlie took another step forward, no doubt trying to look intimidating.
Todd hated that it worked.
“Do you want me to say it in another language, to make it clearer?” he added, voice dripping with condescension.
“Look, man, you can’t stop us from going home. We –”
“I can,” Charlie cut him off again, eyes gleaming, “and I will.” His hand came to rest – too casually – on the hilt of his blade.
Cameron stared at him. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. He leaned closer to Todd. “Maybe you should try setting him on fire again.” He didn’t even bother to lower his voice.
Todd almost choked.
Charlie’s gaze narrowed. “I heard that.”
“Good.”
Charlie huffed affronted, but it was Carstairs – Knox? – who broke the silence.
“I wouldn’t mind that very much, actually.”
Charlie rounded at him. “I heard that, too!”
“Good,” Knox deadpanned. His eyes flicked to Cameron over Charlie’s shoulder, lips twitching like he was trying to hold back a smirk.
Charlie’s face twisted. “Okay, asshole, now is not the time to deal with your passive-aggressive shit.”
“Oh, I’m the passive-aggressive one?”
“Yes, you! You insufferable piece of - ”
“Clearly you have things to work through,” Cameron cut in, voice dry as he made a vague gesture between them. “We’re just gonna leave you to it, and we’ll take a rain check, yeah?”
Todd heard the soft sight before Gerard Penhallow opened his mouth. “Alright, I think we should all calm down.”
“Right, Penhallow how didn’t we think of that?” Charlie snapped, voice bristling.
“Shut up,” Knox shot at him, turning his body slightly so that he was standing between them.
Charlie’s eyes flicked from one to the other, incredulously. He then groaned, exasperated and let his head fall back between his shoulder blades. “Unbelievable,” Todd heard him whisper.
“I need you to understand that no one here is held prisoner, or against their will,” Penhallow continued, stepping up from behind Knox and moving closer to Todd and Cameron.
“It kinda feels like it,” Cameron retorted.
“I know, but let’s not pretend this is a simple situation where we can let you go home and sleep on it,” Penhallow said, eyes flickering between Todd and Cameron.
Cameron gave him an unimpressed look. “It’s exactly as simple as that.”
“It’s not,” Penhallow countered smoothly. “You were both there. You saw what happened. You saw what Todd did. If anyone else had witnessed that, do you know how much worse this situation would be right now?”
Todd flinched.
Because he knew.
Because he didn’t need Gerard Penhallow pointing it out.
Cameron, however, wasn’t as easily swayed. “Yeah, well, no one else saw it, did they?”
Penhallow didn’t react. He didn’t rise to it. He simply inclined his head forward, his full attention turning to Todd who felt like squirming under it. “We’re trying to help you,” he said, matter-of-factly. “But we can’t do that if you go running back to your apartment with no clue how to control whatever’s inside of you.”
Todd’s stomach twisted.
He knew they were right.
It still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to cut through the cold, mounding panic, pressing against his ribs, so heavy Todd’s chest felt like collapsing on itself. It wasn’t enough to shake the feeling that if he followed them, if he stepped foot back into the imposing cathedral, then he was choosing this.
Accepting it.
He was admitting it was real.
He was admitting that he was what they said he was.
Denial was safer.
Disbelief was safer.
He just needed to get home. He needed to sleep, and when he woke up, maybe he’d find all of this had been some bizarre fever dream. Todd opened his mouth, ready to say as much. But it wasn’t Penhallow who stopped him this time.
It was Neil.
“I know you’re overwhelmed,” he said, voice quiet, but cutting through the tension like a blade.
Todd’s eyes snapped toward him automatically.
Neil had been silent for most of this, lingering on the outside of the group, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. Now that Todd was looking at him properly, he could see the pressure in his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders.
“Trust me, I get it,” he continued, holding Todd’s gaze. “I don’t know how I’d react if I suddenly found out my whole life was a lie.”
Todd hadn’t meant to flinch.
He couldn’t stop it either way.
Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? Everything was a lie. His whole life. His very identity. Todd always knew he’d been adopted by a distant cousin of his mother after she died in a car-crash. But was that even real? Was any of it real?
Neil must’ve seen something in his face shift, because his voice softened a little. “You want to go home.”
It wasn’t a question.
Todd swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling too thick, his mouth too dry. He nodded.
Neil exhaled. Ran a hand through his already tussled, dark hair.
“Okay, that’s fair. I get that,” he said. “But I also need you to understand something.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice like this was something meant only for the two of them. “Whoever killed that woman in the alley, they weren’t working alone.”
Todd’s breath hitched.
“The murders I told Meeks about? There have been three of them, the latest one tonight. Right about the time you found us. Maybe five minutes away from where you found us. Do you understand what that means?” Neil paused, his gaze turning imploring. “Whoever was working with that person, they know they’re dead. And there are ways to trace it back to you.”
The words hit Todd straight to the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs. The denial, the desperate hope that maybe all of this could just go away, wavered. Neil’s expression remained steady, but Todd saw something shift in his eyes.
“You can go home,” Neil said, big brown eyes growing wide in earnest. “But you won’t be safe there.”
Silence stretched between them.
For the first time since they’d left Meeks’ apartment, Todd felt something sink in. Something real. Something cold and heavy and terrifying.
The image of the alley flickered behind his eyes. The body, the blood, the burning in his chest that had exploded out of him in flames. The woman’s murderer burning into a crisp.
Whoever was working with that person, they know that they’re dead.
Todd shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold.
Neil was still staring at him. He didn’t push, didn’t prod. He didn’t try to intimidate him. He simply waited, watching as the reality of the situation finally caught up with Todd.
Finally, he exhaled, long and slow.
“Fine,” he muttered, looking away. His shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’ll go with you.”
Cameron tensed beside him. “Todd –”
“I’m fine Cam,” Todd said, forcing a small, unconvincing smile. “It will be okay.”
Cameron didn’t look happy. But he didn’t argue.
Instead, he rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. “Great. Fine. I guess we’re both moving into a supernatural boarding school now.”
Neil’s lips twitched, like he was resisting the urge to smile.
Charlie groaned. “Oh, you’re going to be so annoying.”
Cameron flashed him a grin that was all-teeth. “Deal with it, dude.”
Charlie groaned again. “We need to set some rules.”
Cameron gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like he’d just been struck. “Oh, oh of course. I’m all down for the rules.”
Overlooking the very obvious sarcasm, Charlie jabbed a finger at him. “First rule: mundanes are not allowed to be sarcastic.”
“Ah, then I guess you need to find a way to keep me from talking all together.”
Charlie arched a brow. “A muzzle could work.”
“Funny.”
The Shadowhunter ignored him, continuing like he was delivering a decree. “Rule number two: mundanes are not allowed to call me, Charlie Blackthorn, ‘dude’.”
Cameron nodded, mock-serious. “Mm, yeah, that sounds like an important one. Let me jot it down.” He made a show of pretending to pull a pen from his pocket and scribble something into his palm.
“Rule number three; the Institute is not a school. We’re all grown-ups, doing a job.”
Cameron hummed, swaying on his feet as he tilted his head. “Huh, could’ve fooled me.”
Todd sighed, tuning Cameron and Charlie’s bickering out. His life was an absolute disaster.
Todd feared it was only going to get worse.
They had taken maybe two steps inside the Institute when Todd felt a hard shove against his shoulder. He barely had time to process what was happening before both he and Cameron were pushed into a side room, not big enough to serve any real purpose, but too empty to be a utility room.
Todd stumbled, crashing against the wall, and Cameron collided into him a second later, the impact knocking the breath out of Todd’s lungs. The door snapped shut behind them. He blinked, dazed.
“I thought we were not prisoners,” Cameron muttered darkly, peeling himself off Todd and immediately grabbing his arm to pull him upright.
The room was small and dark. Todd felt around for the handle of the door, tagging at it once he found it.
Nothing.
Frowning, Todd tried again, applying more force. The door wouldn’t badge.
His pulse ticked up.
Cameron swore through his teeth. “Great,” he muttered through his teeth. “This is not suspicious at all.”
Todd pressed his forehead against the door for a second before inhaling slowly through his nose. “We’re locked in.”
“No kidding,” Cameron huffed.
Todd clenched his jaw, turning back toward the room, frustration curling in his stomach. The space was too empty, too useless. The walls were too close to each other, and the damn door wouldn't open. His chest tightened in the familiar, prickly way that he hated. He pressed a palm against it, already knowing it wasn't going to help, but too overwhelmed to do anything else about it.
Cameron, noticed. Of course he did.
He knocked his shoulder against Todd’s, ducking his head to catch his eyes. “Hey,” he said, a little softer. “It’s probably just a mistake, right? Maybe they’re… maybe they’re testing our patience. Maybe this is, like, a supernatural hazing ritual or something.”
Todd was about to respond – probably something cutting because Cameron’s words had not been reassuring in any way – when, from the other side of the door, there was a sharp murmur of voices. It was muffled, but the weight of authority in the tone made Todd tense instinctively.
Another couple of minutes passed with the two of them standing in complete silence. Todd’s pulse roared in his ears. Unconsciously he pressed himself against the side of Cameron’s body.
And then the door opened. But instead of the two of them spilling out, two more people walked into the already crowded space.
Todd’s heart slammed against his ribcage.
The room is too small.
“Alright,” Neil’s voice cut through the haze that had started forming in his brain. “Before you start complaining, there was a reason for that.”
Cameron scoffed, throwing his hands up. “Oh, so you do know we were in here. Fantastic.”
“Branwell, I say we leave them be. Come collect them in the morning,” Charlie drawled, and something akin to desperation sloshed around Todd’s stomach.
“No!” he blurted, louder than he intended. Cameron silently found his hand, fingers quickly and reassuringly wrapping around Todd’s, giving him a squeeze.
“Hey, no, Todd, calm down,” Neil said, his voice growing softer. “We’re not going to leave you in here, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Charlie echoed, sarcasm dripping from every letter.
Cameron let out an exasperated noise. “Man, you make it so easy to want to punch you!”
“Oh, do I, mundane? C’mon, give me your best shot.”
“As soon as we’re out of here, I promise I will. And stop calling me ‘mundane’, I have a name!”
“Sure, Carlos.”
“It’s Cameron!”
“Cameron,” Todd muttered, pressing more firmly against his side. It was too dark to read his expression, but Cameron’s chest was moving too irregularly and his breaths were coming short and sharp.
Neil, apparently deciding it was too dark, pulled something small out of his pocket. “Here,” he said, pressing the stone into Todd’s free hand. “This will help.”
The moment Todd’s fingers closed around it, the witchlight flared to life, burning bright against the darkness. Todd’s breath caught. The glow wasn’t just light – it felt alive, like something shifting beneath his skin, crackling in his bones.
“It was Knox’s idea to push you in here,” Neil started tentatively, watching Todd as he studied the witchlight.
“The only smart move Carstairs has pulled since he came here.”
“Charlie,” Neil reprimanded before continuing. “Anyway, there was a Clave executive waiting for Gerard, and it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to see you two before we can come up with a story so –”
“So, you locked us in here,” Cameron cut in, deadpan.
Neil’s smile was a little sheepish, but he didn’t apologize.
“Great, amazing, should we expect this kind of hospitality to be the norm around here?”
Charlie’s lips thinned into a not-nice smirk. “Probably.”
Cameron scoffed.
Neil rolled his eyes. “No, you won’t have to worry about that. We just need to come up with a story for the two of you and then we’ll be in the clear.”
Todd had barely heard any of that, his full attention still on the small stone shining through the gaps of his fingers. It pulsed in his palm, the warmth of it seeping into his skin, thrumming through his veins. He brought it closer to his face, brows pulling on his forehead as he peered at it. Cameron's curiosity suddenly spiked, and without hesitation he yanked his hand from Todd’s plucking the witchlight from his friend’s fingers. The moment it left Todd’s grasp, the light snuffed out.
Todd saw Cameron’s face dropping before the room was once again swallowed by darkness.
“Why did it go out?” Cameron sounded entirely put out.
“Because it doesn’t shine for mundanes,” the smirk was obvious in Charlie’s voice. “Only for Shadowhunters.”
With a small huff Cameron dropped the stone back into Todd’s already waiting hand. The moment it made contact the room illuminated in its eerie off-white light. Cameron’s face pulled into a grimace.
“Okay, then why did it light up for temu Harry Potter?” he asked, arms folding over his chest.
Charlie’s gaze narrowed in confusion, as Neil let a small snort.
“You mean Meeks?”
Cameron nodded.
“That would be because Meeks is not your run-of-the-mill warlock,” Neil started, choosing his words carefully.
Charlie scoffed. “That’s one way to put it.” His tone dropped into something darker. “How familiar are you with the War in Heaven?”
Cameron’s eyes flicked to Todd, who gave a small shrug.
“I’m Jewish,” Cameron said flatly, looking back at Charlie.
Charlie shook his head a little, kissing his teeth. “Well, you’ll need to brush up your scriptures.”
Neil arched a brow. “Right. When was the last time you brushed up your scriptures?”
“I was born with that knowledge, Branwell,” Charlie responded, deadpan. “Back to the point - the War in Heaven. That’s when Lucifer rebelled against God, leading a war between his followers and those still loyal to Him. The angels backing up Lucifer fell from grace, landing their asses straight into Hell.”
“Nice. An exact quote from the scriptures,” Neil snarked, earning a glare.
“From then on, Lucifer as well as his followers were called, fallen angels. They have established some kind of hierarchy in Hell, but that’s not of importance right now.” Charlie paused, leaning his back against the closed door, as if to build the suspense, before saying. “Steven Meeks’ father is one of those fallen angels.”
Cameron blinked. “Wait – no – his father is a fallen angel? But he is not a Nephilim like you?”
Charlie made an affronted noise in the back of his throat and so Neil jumped in before he got the chance to say anything.
“No. The angels who rebelled fell from grace, meaning they lost their holiness. Meeks was born after Beelzebub landed in Hell. By then it had already influenced him, eaten away at anything divine that was left”
Cameron blinked again. “Oh,” he said softly.
“Never stopped him from acting like he’s above everyone else in Hell,” Charlie muttered, still low, still darkly. “At least that’s what everyone who’s come in contact with him says. He clings to his former title, still calls himself an angel.” Charlie’s lip curled. “His son is much the same. Always trying to play both sides. Acting like he’s smarter than everyone, better than everyone. That’s why he’s a pariah among the Downworlders.”
Todd’s mouth opened as if he was going to say something, but the words tangled on his tongue and died before he could spit them out.
That’s not true.
Todd tried again. Because Charlie was wrong; Meeks was not like that. Meeks was smart and he was powerful and he wanted to help Todd. Meeks was nice.
Unintentionally, Todd flinched.
Meeks was nice?
What the hell was wrong with him? Calling a Warlock who's father decents from Heaven 'nice', like a damn elementary student?
“Meeks is not that bad,” Neil said, snapping Todd out of his spiral. “You just dislike him because he’s not intimated by you.”
“Untrue.”
Neil hummed, but didn’t say anything else. He moved closer to where Charlie was leaning against the door, pressing his ear on it. His brows furrowed for a second, in concentration and then he pulled back, grinning.
“Okay, I think we’re in the clear,” he said, brown eyes sparkling. “You two ready for a tour of the Institute?”
Cameron exhaled sharply, clapping his hands together. “God, finally. Thought we were gonna spend the rest of our days in here.”
Todd let out a slow breath, still feeling the warmth of the witchlight in his palm. His heart had yet to settle, but at least they were getting out.
There were words pressing behind him teeth, full of defense for Meeks. But every time he opened his mouth the words die before they could make it past his lips. Still he tried as he followed after the others, fingers flexing around the little stone in his hand.
The Institute was silent. Or as silent as it could get, Todd guessed. There were still the odd sounds – footsteps echoing off stone floors, the low murmur of hushed voices, the occasional thud of something heavy being moved. It was definitely a different kind of silence than Todd was used to. Not eerie, not exactly, just… contained.
They passed through an open space where Todd saw a console of some sort, sleek and futuristic looking. Its large holographic screen, bathed the whole space in a calming blue glow. The machines hummed, low and steady, and for some reason the sound worked to calm him down a little. Maybe because it was the only thing in this place that made sense.
“So, you all just live here?” Cameron asked, hands stuck in his jeans’ pockets, as they walked.
“Uh, no, actually,” Neil said, tilting his head to get a better look at him. “Most Shadowhunters have their own apartments. The Institute serves a temporary housing arrangement for those fresh out of the Academy, and for new transfers.”
“And for Heads of the Institute,” Charlie added smoothly, Neill nodding his head in agreement.
“And you’re new recruits or new transfers?” Cameron asked.
“Head of the Institute,” Charlie shot back, not missing a beat.
Cameron’s eyes widened, flicking between the two Shadowhunters.
“Well, my father is,” Neil clarified, giving Charlie an exasperated look.
“And you’ll be the next one,” Charlie said insistently, bumping his shoulder against Neil’s.
Neil exhaled a self-deprecating noise that Todd felt somewhere deep in his gut.
“Debatable,” he muttered, rolling restlessly on the balls of his feet.
Charlie opened his mouth, likely to argue, but Cameron beat him to it.
“Okay, so why do you live here?”
Charlie seemed to stand a bit straighter at that question, chest puffing out slightly. “I’m his parabatai.”
He said, like it made any kind of sense to either one of them.
“And what is that?” It took Todd a second to realize the question had been his.
“It’s a lifelong commitment,” Charlie said after a moment, his voice carrying an almost rehearsed precision, like he’d recite it all before. “A parabatai bond is a sacred oath between two Shadowhunters. We train together, we fight together, we live together.”
“Cool, cool,” Cameron muttered. “So, you guys are like… partners?”
“Yes,” Neil and Charlie answered in unison.
“Huh, I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
Charlie narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, mundane?”
“Just, like… by seeing you together, you don’t give boyfriend vibes.”
“Boyfri –” Charlie cut himself off, pressing his knuckles hard against his mouth. His eyes, round and horrified, snapped to Neil, who chuckled with pure, unbothered amusement.
“Well, you are a Blackthorn, it wouldn’t be so surprising,” Neil said, giving a small shrug.
Charlie let out an outraged squawk. “Oh, so Julian makes one poor decision, and the entire bloodline gets the blame?” he threw his hands in the air.
“Yeah, that’s how it goes,” Neil taunted, lips pulling into a smirk.
Charlie grumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like “I hate you.”
"Maybe you hate your cousin, but not me." Neil said, still smirking.
“I’m sorry, what did I say wrong?” Cameron asked, head tilting on the side.
“You insinuated we’re dating,” Neil explained easily, while Charlie made more affronted noises, shaking his head like he was trying to rattle the thought loose.
“But – but you said you’re partners!” Cameron defended himself.
“Partners in battle! Brothers in arms! Not – not boyfriends!” Charlie exclaimed sounding both angry and disgusted.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, by Jove…! You’re straight, fine, I got it.”
Charlie recoiled. “What?”
Cameron blinked. “What did I say now?”
“We’re not straight! I’m definitely not straight, Neil I don’t –”
“You know I’m not straight, Charlie,” Neil interrupted, voice dry.
“Right, right, you’re just celibate.”
The look Neil shot him couldn’t have been drier if he tried. “Die.”
“I don’t think I will, Branwell, sorry.”
Cameron, still playing catch-up cleared his throat. “Alright, so you’re not boyfriends, you’re brothers in arms. Cool, that sounds nice. Do all Shadowhunters get a parabatai? Will Todd?”
Todd stiffened only slightly at the mention of his name. He counted it as a win.
“Uh, no, not all of them do,” Neil said carefully and then paused. There was something almost gentle in the way he looked at Todd, and it definitely didn’t make Todd’s stomach twist around itself. “I’m sorry, but you can’t get one.”
That’s alright.
It’s not a big deal.
I don’t care.
Was what Todd wanted to stay.
“Why not?”
Was what came out of his lips.
“Because the ceremony needs to take place before you turn sixteen.”
Cameron let a low whistle under his breath. “Sixteen? That’s kinda young… I guess that explains why not everybody gets one.”
“Yes and no.” Neil sounded almost uncomfortable, his eyes cutting to Charlie who suddenly looked unreadable. “Like Charlie said the parabatai bond is a – a lifelong commitment. The oath makes us stronger. We can sense each other even when we’re apart, we can draw from each other’s strength, it’s…” Neil trailed off, searching for the right word.
“It’s like being tethered to someone,” Charlie finished his sentence. “You feel everything the other person feels. Not like that, don’t be gross,” he said quickly, cutting his eyes to Cameron.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“I know you were thinking it!”
Neil sighed. “It’s trust, above all else. Total, absolute trust. The kind that doesn’t break – because it can’t.”
Cameron gave a small nod. “Alright, but none of that sound like a reason why someone wouldn’t want to go through with it.”
Neil’s jaw tightened. “It’s a lifelong commitment,” he repeated, quieter this time.
Cameron still looked confused, but Todd felt his next breath catching somewhere between his throat and his lungs.
“What happens if one of them dies?” he asked, not really sure if he wanted to get an answer.
Neil and Charlie exchanged a look, the kind of silent communication Todd and Cameron had done many of times before. Charlie gave a subtle nod of his head and the corners of Neil’s lips pulled downward.
“Part of the other dies as well,” Neil’s voice was exceptionally soft as he said that. His gaze never straining from Charlie’s face as he added, “It’s even part of the oath; Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried.”
Todd swallowed, hard.
“That’s… intense,” Cameron said, his voice breaking a little over the last word.
Charlie shrugged, but the lazy smirk on his lips didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s worth it.”
Neil let out a small breath, shaking his head. “Anyway, that’s why Charlie lives here. I’m the son of the Head of the Institute, he’s bound to me, and neither of us saw much of a point to living apart.”
Charlie scoffed. “You say that like it was a choice.”
Neil grinned. “It was.”
Charlie didn’t answer that. Just rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets as they kept walking.
They were in the kitchen, fixing up something quick to eat, because Cameron suddenly realized he was starving, when Charlie got the most sinister looking smile Todd had ever seen on a face.
“Oh, I know what we can do next,” he said, lifting himself up to sit on one of the counters, legs daggling over the edge.
Neil didn’t even look up from slicing his apple. “If my father saw you like this, you’d get deruned.”
“I’m shaking in my boots, Branwell.” Charlie smirked knocking his heels against the cabinets with a solid thud.
“One of these days your absolute disregard for the rules is going to catch up for you.”
“Good think my parabatai is the future Head of the Boston Institute,” Charlie said in a mockingly sweet voice, allowing his boots to knock against the bottom cabinets.
“Man, Charlie, stop it! You’re going to stain them,” Neil fussed, slapping at Charlie’s legs to get him to stop.
“By the Angel, when did you turn into my mother?” Charlie snapped, eyes wide as he looked at his friend. “You know what? I don’t care. I have an idea for what we should do next,” he repeated, lips once again stretching into that scary smirk.
Neil crossed his arms. Drew a deep breath. And then bit the bullet. “Alright, shoot.”
Charlie’s smirk widened even more, if that was possible, his eyes flicking to Todd, who stiffened immediately. He did not like that look.
“I think we should give Todd a basic training session.”
The clatter of a knife dropping to the floor sounded from Todd’s left. He didn’t have to turn to figure out what had happened. Cameron silently cursed between his teeth, kneeling down to pick up the offensive item, before walking around the table he and Todd had been sitting to get closer to Charlie.
“I’m sorry, I must’ve misheard because it’s ungodly o’clock in the night, and we’ve been following you around the city for hours but – what did you just say?”
Charlie hopped off the counter and strolled toward him, clapping a hand on Cameron’s shoulder. “Relax, mundane. Neil will go easy on him.”
Cameron sputtered. “No, absolutely not! Todd can’t – he is not – he won’t - !”
Charlie nodded in exaggerated seriousness. “Mm, alright, that was a whole lot of nothing. So, let’s head over the training grounds.”
“No, dude –” Charlie glared at him. Cameron groaned, but corrected himself, “Charlie, you have to listen to me; Todd has never done anything like this before! It’s very late, and he is very tired! We can do literally anything else.”
Charlie feigned to ponder that for a second. “No,” he said finally, giving Cameron a pointed look.
Cameron let out a strangled noise and dragged both his hands through his hair, gripping at the shorter curls on his nape. “Why do you have to be such an asshole?”
Charlie shrugged. “Don’t know. Kind of a defect since birth, or at least that’s what my parents tell me.”
“Charlie –”
“Cameron,” Neil’s voice cut clean through the growing tension and Cameron’s eyes snapped to him. “I know you’re worried for Todd, because you’re a good friend. But this is going to help him, alright?”
“How?!” Cameron demanded, throwing a hand in Todd’s direction as if to further prove his point.
“Todd is half-Shadowhunter. He knows that now, but more importantly, the shadow world knows about him now. And no, I don’t mean just us. Unfortunately it doesn’t work like that, especially for a warlock hybrid. Todd, even if he decides he doesn’t want to join the Institute, should be prepared. And while I’m more than certain that Meeks will make good on his promise and help him hone in his magic, he should also get well versed in Shadowhunter fighting.”
Cameron pressed his lips into a thin line. “Okay, that makes sense but… Does it have to be tonight? Can’t we just – sleep and then come back tomorrow?”
“I promise you it will be a quick session. Nothing too difficult, nothing too dangerous. And then I’ll let you crash in Knox’s bedroom since they won’t be coming back tonight.”
Charlie’s brows shot up. “They won’t?”
“No, Gerard said they wouldn’t be. Something about an early monring Clave meeting tomorrow – I’m not sure.”
“And he needs his bodyguard for a Clave meeting?” he scoffed.
Neil rolled his eyes. “Charlie please – they’re not even here, okay. Can we not do this for one day?”
“Fine, but only because you sound like a baby when you whine like that.”
“I do not.”
“Do too.”
“I don – Okay, no! No!” Neil cut himself off, pointing a finger in Charlie’s direction who only smirked. He turned his attention back to Cameron. “Do you trust me?”
Cameron’s lips thinned. “Not really.”
“Fair.” Neil’s eyes flicked to Todd. His voice softened again. “Todd, do you trust me?
Todd squirmed a little in his seat. “It depends.”
Neil’s face broke into another grin. He was quite prone to them, Todd had noticed. They made his eyes look even bigger, even brighter.
“That’s not a no.” A thread of amusement underlined his voice. “Alright, do you feel like you’re up for some cardio?”
“I never feel like I’m up for some cardio,” Todd said truthfully, pushing the leftover of his omelet around his plate.
“This will be the fun kind of cardio,” Neil reassured him, and Todd doubted he meant for it to sound so suggestive.
Charlie let out a snort. Cameron’s head fell forward, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Neil kept smiling at him, big and warm and Todd just stared, silently wondering what fresh kind of hell he’d signed up for.
Todd had no idea how he ended up here.
Here being the training grounds of the Boston Institute. At two o’clock in the night.
“If this is because I accidently almost set you on fire, I’m sorry,” Todd called out, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His voice came out a little too high, a little too sharp, and he winced at himself.
Charlie and Cameron stood a good ten feet away. Charlie had an arm draped around Cameron’s shoulders. Possibly to stop him from marching over to Todd and physically dragging him out. Cameron did not look pleased. Charlie, on the other hand, was smirking.
“Nah, that’s all water under the bridge, newbie,” he hollered, each word punctuated by a pat on Cameron’s shoulder. “We’re all friends now.”
Todd swallowed hard. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides.
He was going to be fine.
Neil was going to go easy on him.
He just –
Todd’s heart stuttered, then picked up, slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape. The space around him suddenly felt too open, too vast, as if he might tip over and fall straight through the floor.
This was not what he had in mind when he’d texted Cameron to meet up earlier.
“Hey, Todd, I need you to breathe,” Neil said, voice tinged with amusement, suddenly appearing into his line of vision.
Todd blinked, and there Neil was, close enough that he could see the way the dim lighting caught in the strands of his soft looking hair. Neil’s expression was open, kind. Patient.
“I – I’m breathing,” Todd hadn’t meant to sound defensive. To further illustrate his point, he tried to draw in air. But then his chest spasmed, the breath he’d been trying to draw, catching somewhere between his throat and his lungs. He coughed, stumbling back a half-step.
Neil chuckled, low in his throat and it did not help the already exhilarated tempo of Todd’s heartbeat. He raked a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead, only for it to fall right back in place.
“Try again.”
Todd did. And this time, it actually worked. The air settled in his lungs – not perfectly, not smoothly, but it was there.
“This will be fun.”
Neil had said that at least five times since they’d got there. Todd nodded, like he had all the previous times. Despite the increasing unease bubbling in his stomach. Despite the alarming buzzing sound, he could hear in his ears. Despite the prickling sensation spreading all over his skin, making him twitch unconsciously.
This was just his anxiety flaring up.
Todd was used to it, he was used to the tremor surging through his limbs, making him weak on his knees. He swallowed, fixed his gaze at Neil, willing himself to focus.
“Okay, Todd, I’m not going to kill you, relax,” Neils said, lips spreading into a grin.
He moved around Todd, grabbing something from the weapons rack behind them, before hopping back into Todd’s line of sight.
“Here,” he said, pressing the hilt of a blade in Todd’s hand.
Todd’s fingers did not wrap around it.
Neil tilted his head slightly, stepping closer, until their eyes were level. “It’s going to be fine,” he murmured, soft, only for the two of them. He pressed the weapon more firmly in Todd’s hand.
Todd’s heart flipped behind his ribs.
“Your stance is all wrong,” Neil said, straightening to his full height and circling Todd. “Drop your shoulders.”
Todd did as he was told.
Neil chuckled, again. “Not so much – just – can I?” Todd felt Neil’s breath on the back of his neck
“Y-Yes,” Todd stuttered and then Neil’s hands were on his back, pushing and pulling until he’d set Todd’s body exactly the way he wanted to.
“There, much better. Okay, I need you to keep your knees bend at all times, a locked legs are the fastest way to a broken kneecap.”
“A broken what?” Cameron blurted, voice an octave too high.
“Shh, Connor, Neil is only being thorough.”
“My name is Cameron, Charlie!”
“Todd, concentrate on me,” Neil’s face appeared in front of his, so close that their noses practically brushed.
Todd startled, jerking back half a step. Neil was too close. His stupidly long eyelashes almost brushed against Todd’s.
“Alright, the blade I handed you is a practice blade,” Neil continued, unbothered, lifting his own to tap against Todd’s. “They’re recommended for training, because they don’t pack as much power as the real ones, since they don’t have any runes. They can still do a lot of damage, so just be carful.” He stepped back, rolling his shoulders. “C'mon, gimme your best shot.”
Todd hesitated, fingers flexing around the hilt.
Just lift it up.
He did not lift it up.
Neil raised a single brow. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging.”
Todd nodded, awkwardly bouncing on the balls of his feet.
C’mon, just a strike. Just a strike, just a strike –
Todd had not calculated how much force he should put behind his swing. It went wide. Too wide. Too clumsy. Todd stumbled with the effort, as Neil sidestepped, easily, reaching out to tap Todd’s wrist with the flat of his blade.
Todd huffed, his breath punching out of him.
Neil grinned. “Again.”
Todd tried again. Lifted the blade, swung – too slow, too wide. Missed. And again. Lifted the blade, swung – fast, much too fast. Todd almost hit the mat. And again. Every time, Neil dodged or parried effortlessly, throwing out little corrections here and there. “Move your feet more,” or “Keep your blade closer to your body.”
Off to the side, Cameron was vibrating with barely contained stress.
“This is a bad idea,” he muttered, hands shoved in his hair. “This such a bad idea –”
“Relax, he’s doing fine,” Charlie said, slinging his arm around Cameron’s shoulder.
Cameron immediately shook it off. “No, he’s not, he’s literally terrible at this –”
The blade in Todd’s hand suddenly felt hot. No, not just hot – it felt like it was burning. Todd’s grip loosened around the hilt, the weapon falling by his feet. Todd all but jumped out of the way, like it was going to scorch him.
Cameron surged forward. “Todd –”
“I’m fine,” Todd snapped, though he didn’t feel fine. He felt – he didn’t know what he felt. Too much, all at once. There was something inside him, clawing at his chest, demanding to be let out.
“Hey.”
Neil’s voice. Soft. Steady. Pulling Todd back before his thoughts could spiral any further.
Todd blinked, refocused.
Neil was standing in front of him, watching him carefully, possibly trying to figure out if Todd was going to flight or fight.
“You’re okay,” he said, sounding so certain that Todd almost believed him.
But his hands were trembling, and his blade was still lying by his feet. Thankfully it wasn’t on fire. Todd swallowed as Neil crouched to pick it up, wondering if it would feel hot to him as well. But Neil didn’t seem to flinch upon contact, simply grabbing the blade, before straightening.
“Try again.”
Todd stared at him “I –”
“Take it, Todd,” Neil didn’t say it like a command. More like an invitation as he held the weapon out, hilt first.
Todd hesitated for another second. Then, slowly, he reached out and curled his fingers around the hilt again.
“Good,” Neil said, stepping back into position.
He didn’t ask if Todd was alright. Didn’t draw attention to the fact that he’d freaked out. Just let him have a moment to steady himself.
“Your move.”
Todd swung.
He was still very slow. Still went too wide, throwing off his balance. But after a while, his body started remembering the corrections before Neil even had to say them. He could hear Charlie and Cameron arguing in the background, but their voices felt distant, like he was tuning out everything except the rhythm of parry and dodge.
The first time Todd actually managed to block a hit properly, Neil grinned at him, wide and pleased.
“Nice!” he praised. “See? Not so bad.”
Todd breathed out a small laugh.
They sparred for a little longer, and Todd wasn’t sure when it happened – when the movement started to feel more natural, when the tension in his chest began to ease – but at some point, Neil started talking.
“I have a question for you.”
Todd blocked a low swing.
“I don’t want you to freak out.”
Todd sidestepped Neil’s attack, coming for his left side, but he was still too slow.
“But I have to ask.”
“Okay.”
“So,” Neil twirled the blade in his hand, the lights catching on the sharp side of it as he brought it swiftly toward Todd’s shoulder. Todd ducked out of the way. “The murder.”
Todd stiffened. His next strike faltered, and Neil easily knocked it aside.
“Anything you remember?” Neil asked, tone deliberately casual. “Anything weird? Anything that stuck with you?”
Todd swallowed, his grip tightening around the blade.
“She was alive when I got in the alley but –” his next word was swallowed by his attempt for a low swipe. Too low. Neil easily jumped out of the way.
“Todd this is not – I’m not blaming you.”
“No, but I’m blaming me,” Todd admitted, putting all of his force behind his next swing. Neil’s blade met his, and Todd felt the crash reverberate all the way to his armpits. “She was alive. I could’ve –”
“You couldn’t have,” Neil cut him off, blade still pushing against Todd’s. “The only thing you should’ve done different is that you should’ve run as soon as you figured out what was happening.”
Todd clenched his jaw. “I could’ve saved her,” he muttered, arms shaking by the effort it took to maintain the blade lock.
Neil shook his head. Slid his blade along the side of Todd’s, before knocking it on the side. “Her wounds were extensive,” he said, and Todd flinched. “Even if you had saved her, she wouldn’t have made it through the night.”
Todd drew a breath, his mind violently snapping back to the alley. The air smelled like rain. There was a single light flickering in and out of life. Cameron’s footsteps were audible behind him. Todd broke into the alley and she looked up her eyes widening.
What if she thought she could be saved?
“He was chanting something,” Todd said, suddenly, lowering his weapon. Neil frowned at him. “The man, the murderer was a man, he was chanting something when I got there.”
“Do you remember what he was chanting?”
Todd shook his head. “It wasn’t in English or any language I could recognize.”
Neil studied him for a long second. Then he nodded, tapping his blade against Todd’s once more. “Alright. Doesn’t matter anyway. The case is out of our hands now, so it’s someone else’s problem.”
Todd nodded stiffly.
Neil’s grin returned, lighter now. “Now, let’s see if you can land a hit this time.”
Todd exhaled sharply, shaking off the unease. “No promises.”
Notes:
Okay, so there's a bit where Cameron says that he wouldn't have guessed Charlie and Neil being boyfriends, to which Charlie reacts horrified, and Neil says "You are a Blackthorn, it wouldn't be so surprising." - that's a book reference, and it relates to Jules Blackthorn dating his parabatai Emma Carstairs, which is one of the very very serious no-nos in the Shadowhunter World. Parabatais are not meant to be dating, there's a whole 'curse' about it, it's ridiculous if you ask me, but oh well...
Chapter 10: Your words up on the wall as you’re praying for my fall
Notes:
This is the chapter where I try to make all of you care about Shadowhunter politics... it's more fun than it sounds, promise! Also we get some Pitts and Knox lore, who's excited about that?? Things that are mentioned and you may not know what they are;
The Scholomance; is a Shadowhunter school where the most elite of Shadowhunters are trained to deal with demons and Downworlders. Students who graduate from the school become Centurions.
Seelie Court; The Seelie Court is a division of faeries and their land, along with the Unseelie Court. They are led by the Queen of the Seelie Court.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Pitts was exhausted.
He hadn’t felt this tired in – well, ever, if he was going to be honest.
Five days. That's how long the Clave meetings lasted.
It had been a Sunday when he stepped through the portal meant to take him to Idris for an early morning Clave meeting, Knox hot on his heels. The Clave envoy had taken them by surprise, storming toward them the moment they walked through the entrance of the Institute. Thank the Angel Knox had been quick enough to shove Todd and Cameron in a utility room before anyone had noticed.
It was an ambush. Pitts didn’t have another word for it. The Clave’s official had been visibly irritated, pacing the entry like he was trying to open a ditch, voice clipped and formal in a way that barely masked his frustration. He had been made to wait for hours while Pitts and the others were otherwise occupied, and he had not been happy about it. But it wasn’t Pitts’ fault - no one had told him he was expected in Idris.
And even after he stepped through the portal, even after he reappeared in his childhood bedroom, Knox’s breath hot on his nape, still nobody told him anything. There was no Clave representative there to explain anything, no note, not even a fire message.
His parents were also not there, which was possibly the only normal thing that had happened in the last few hours. But they were expected – first thing in the morning, in fact – which was … well, unusual. But Pitts could adjust.
Pitts would adjust.
Knox spent that night, and all those that followed, at the Penhallow estate, because, unlike Pitts’ parents the Carstairs were home, and Knox had no desire to see them.
“Are you sure?”
“They’ll make a big deal about me showing up unannounced anyway.”
And that had been that. Knox took the room across his own. No fuss, no further conversation.
Pitts' parents did show up the next day.
Around five thirty Knox, had dragged him to training – Pitts was practically still sleeping. After forty minutes of getting his ass kicked under the guise of parabatai bonding and staying battle-ready, the two had gone in search for something to eat, only to halt as they passed through the main dining room.
“You’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost, Gerard.” Evan Pitts’ voice was laced with amusement.
Pitts blinked, took a step forward, then stopped again.
“Well, come along, darling, you must be famished,” Elaine Penhallow said, a slight curl to her ruby painted lips, which revealed the edge of her canine teeth. “You too, Knox. Don’t hover. Sit.”
Breakfast with his parents was - strained. Not hostile, never that. His parents were too proper, too composed for that. Instead, it was the kind of affair that felt sterile, clean, precise. A tension hanging over them. Every word had weight, every glance a purpose, every smile haf a string attached to it.
Evan Pitts, ever the outsider to his own family’s ambitions, tried to talk about life in Boston. How it felt in comparison to New York. If there were many great differences between the two Institutes. He even ventured toward topics like the weather and the food. Finished of with a never thought before question about the water pressure in the showers and whether or not it was acceptable. Knox took pity on him, tried to answer as many of his questions, while speaking the least amount of words he possibly could.
Elaine tolerated the whole ordeal for twenty-eight minutes. Pitts counted.
Then she leaned forward, folded her napkin with surgical precision, and cut clean through.
“You’ll be attending ten Clave meetings over the next five days,” she said, voice smooth, words measured and precise. “The first begins today, a little after noon.”
Pitts remained silent. Didn’t nod. He just kept looking at her.
“You’ll be representing the Penhallow family,” she continued. “In light of Jia’s resignation, we need a presence at the table. A steady hand.”
Elaine used her napkin to dab at the corner of her mouth, careful not to smudge her lipstick. Pitts hadn’t seen her eat anything since he joined the table.
He gave a small nod, and his mother flashed him a satisfied smile.
He didn’t ask her to elaborate, didn’t inquire for more details. Didn’t ask why he was chosen instead of Patrick or even his mother. Gerard had learned from a very young age how to read between the lines. And how the real power usually hid between what was spoken and not in the actual words.
He was going to take a seat at the table as the representative of the Penhallow family. Not shadowing anyone. His own person. The family’s elected person. He would have to appear to be clever, but not too much. Look like he was engaging, without being too pushy. Be polite and soft spoken, but not come off as a doormat. Speak but not really.
Play the game.
Win the game.
Pitts didn’t need the parabatai bond to feel Knox’s unease roll off him in waves, crashing on to him, threatening to swipe him off the carefully constructed calmness he was perched upon. Pitts found his gaze across the table, holding it for a couple of tense seconds, drawing in a deep breath. When Knox did the same, he let the corner of his lips curl upward and returned his attention to his food.
The rest of the breakfast was a quiet affair. His father still tried to engage in some small talk, and this time Pitts actually humored him. Told him about a pizza place in the North End. Listed his top five ways to kill a Sunday afternoon. His father seemed pleased. His mother remained inscrutable.
His parents were set to leave for a diplomatic mission before noon. Evan made a number of promises about dinner when they get back. Elaine hugged him, lips almost brushing the side of his face. “Make me proud,” she whispered, before pulling away.
Naturally they did not see them again.
The walk from the Penhallow manor to the Gard, where the meeting would be taking place, was brisk. The air in Alicante, in early December, felt crisp against his skin with mountain chill and thick with purpose. Knox walked half a step ahead of him, silent, but alert.
They didn’t exchange a word until the domed roof of the Gard came into view, golden as it bathed in the setting sun.
“Alright?” Knox asked, not quite looking at him.
“I’m golden,” Gerard replied, smirking at the private joke, as he adjusted the lapels of his jacket with exceptional care. “Try not to scowl too much once we’re inside. I’m supposed to look harmless.”
Knox snorted. “You? Harmless?”
Pitts flashed him a grin, all teeth and amusement. “Well, they don’t know any better. Let’s not shutter the illusion.”
Knox chuckled, shaking his head, and leading the way.
Inside, the atmosphere was already buzzing. The room looked as dreadful as Pitts remembered it to be, windows magicked dark, walls grey and naked, the same rigid wooden chairs that had no business being sat on for hours at a time. He tried to keep his face from pinching, concentrating on the voices around him.
Knox leaned into his personal space, dropping his voice. “Smells like something old died in here.”
Pitts couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. “Something probably did. C’mon, let’s keep moving.”
At the entrance to the inner chamber, they were stopped.
“Only official representatives beyond this point,” one of the guards said, voice clipped.
“I’m security detail,” Knox’s lie came so smooth, Pitts had to fight to keep a straight face.
Nobody had authorized that. Knox was there on a whim. Knox was lying inside the Guard. About protocol.
Pitts never thought he’d see the day.
“You can stay – there,” the guard gestured toward the perimeter seating, ringed by stone pillars and stern-faced statues.
“Last time I was allowed in the camber,” Knox managed to keep his voice cool.
The guard’s lips pulled into a sarcastic smirk. “And this time you aren’t. That’s life. Security detail – over there.”
Pitts felt Knox’s anger coil, spread through him like wildfire.
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, turning to look at his best friend. “You’ll still hear everything. And you’ll be close enough.”
“If anything happens in there –”
“Knox,” Pitts cut him off, placing both hands on Knox’s shoulders, squeezing. “It’s a Clave meeting, the worst that can happen to me in there?” he paused, raising his eyebrows. “A papercut. I’ll be fine.”
Knox huffed, not convinced. “You’d better.”
Pitts clapped him once on the shoulder, firm and grounding. Knox lingered for a beat, studying him, then heaved a sigh and moved to the designated position
Only after seeing him settle did Pitts turn back toward the chamber. The easy smile he had been wearing melted off his face as he stepped forward. He schooled his expression into calm neutrality, every movement deliberate.
Gerard Penhallow had an official seat at the table, and he couldn’t wait to start playing.
The first meeting went something like this;
The chamber was packed, not a single seat left empty. There were representatives from Institutes across the globe. Pitts had never seen so many old people gathered in one place that wasn’t a funeral home.
There were a few around his age – alumni of the Sholomance if he had to take a guess – scattered around the table.
Ugh the Sholomance.
If Blackthorn thought that he and Knox were stuck-up then clearly, he had never met anyone who’d trained there. The crème de la crème of Shadowhunters. The bright future of the Shadow World. A bunch of lies and hyperbole so the old Shadowhunter families who sent their offsprings to the Sholomance - to be baptized in tradition and come back branded Centurions - would feel better about themselves.
Knox’s parents had tried. When he was fifteen, they’d insisted he attend. To honor the Carstairs family name. It wasn’t enough for them to know their son was the best, they wanted it written on parchment, sealed with a wax stamp and signed by the Clave. Pitts saw the look on Knox’s face, the fear etched in his features and that was all it took, really. His panic had hit Gerard like a blow, so sharp and clear he felt it in his body, despite the fact they didn't share a soul-bond at that point. They hadn’t needed words. They requested a portal to the New York Institute, where Pitts’ cousin was training already.
They showed up unannounced. The head of the Institute, Alec Lightwood, had taken one look at them – two boys still too young to be war-ready but both bearing scars of private battles – and somehow, he’d understood. He gave them both official positions within the Institute’s internal structure. Nothing flashy, but enough, that it made pulling Knox away politically complicated. Enough to brand them as valuable assets. And later, when they were of age, he personally officiated their parabatai ceremony beneath the glass ceiling of the main hall.
Pitts was pulled from the memory by the sound of chairs shifting. He was seated between Clive Breakspear and Lieu Julong. He offered a pleasant smile to both, received a brisk nod from Lieu and a distracted grunt from Clive in return.
The session started with a formal greeting from Consul Dearborn. Pitts couldn’t stop thinking how it should’ve been Alec in his place. Introductions were made. Reintroductions. Half the people in the chamber had probably been introduced to each other fifty years ago, but protocol was protocol. The meeting opened with pleasantries and procedural matters: revised timelines on Institute inspections, a heated debate over trade agreements for demon-detection equipment, a particularly dramatic complaint from the Hungary Institute about supply chain delays that made Knox – watching from the perimeter – roll his eyes.
Pitts kept his mouth shut. He nodded, he hummed when it was obvious, exercising on some active listening, made eye contact with the people who mattered, and kept his posture immaculate.
He wasn’t here to make waves today.
He was here to be seen.
To be trusted.
When the floor opened briefly for closing remarks, Pitts let the silence stretch for just a second too long before speaking.
“Gerard Penhallow, Boston Institute,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, just loud enough to carry around the room, but not enough to come off demanding. “Just a note that I’ve been reviewing recent training guidelines for new initiates, and I’d be very interested in comparing cross-Institute methodology. The newer recruits at Boston are sharp, but I believe we all benefit when we exchange ideas – especially considering everything we’ve been through in the near past."
A few murmurs. One or two nods. Lieu Julong made a thoughtful note in a leather-bound journal.
Pitts smiled, gracious and mild.
Low stakes. Low risk. Just enough push to plant a seed.
Let them think he was curious. Collaborative. Young.
Let them believe he was harmless.
Let them be wrong.
The second meeting went something like this ;
The day started far too early for Pitts’ liking. Naturally. The Clave had always been a bastion based on tradition and lack of sleep.
Of course, Knox had dragged him out of bed while the sky was still dark to get him to training. Pitts protested the whole way, dragging his feet and refusing to get into proper form. It didn’t stop Knox from wiping the floor with his ass.
Knox loomed over him after the third takedown, arms lazily crossed on his chest. “I need you to focus.”
Pitts let a loud groan, which reverberated on the walls of the training room attached to his family’s home. “I haven’t even had coffee yet.”
Knox scoffed, pressing a sock-clad foot to his shoulder and nudging him flat onto the mat again. He wasn’t even wearing proper footwear and he still landed Pitts on his ass five minutes into sparing.
Disrespectful.
“I don’t care. C’mon, again.”
Pitts lasted maybe another half hour. By that time the sun had come up and Pitts pointed out they had to hit the showers if they wanted to eat any breakfast before heading to the meeting. Knox couldn’t do much else but agree.
When they reached the Guard the sun had been lost behind heavy looking clouds. Dew clung to the grass. Pitts was still tucking in his shirt when they walked through the inner corridor.
Pitts' parabatai bond hummed, agitated, as the Clave guards came within view. His eyes flicked to Knox, who was already glaring ahead. Pitts frowned, slightly, until he followed his gaze, landing on the guard Knox had singled out. Same face, same scowl, same oversized shoulder pads.
“Only official representatives – ” the man began, tone clipped.
“Look, we already did this yesterday, and I did what you asked.”
“Then you know what you should do without me having to tell you.”
Knox gritted his teeth, Pitts’ parabatai rune burned.
“I’m Penhallow’s security detail,” Knox said smoothly, again, already moving like he belonged there.
“As you were yesterday, I remember. Your position is –” the guard leaned around them, finger pointing at the far wall “- right over there.”
“This is disrespectful.”
“Take it up with the Clave.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Great, you should.”
“Okay, there’s clearly a lot of tension here,” Pitts cut it in, voice dry as salt, before Knox could say anything else. “Maybe you should resolve it over drinks?”
Both Knox and the guard looked at him like he’d suggested a double suicide instead of a date.
“Never mind,” Pitts muttered, eyebrows jumping to his hairline. “I’ll see you during the break.”
Knox was once again relegated to the perimeter. Pitts watched until he’d taken his seat, then smoothed his hair back and stepped into the chamber like he was born to be there.
The session opened with an extended report on post-battle reconstruction efforts in Naples. Followed by a request from the Toronto Institute for leniency on parabatai age restrictions – citing “exceptional circumstances”, which everyone at the table politely pretend not to interpret as nepotism.
Pitts listened. He nodded when he was supposed to. He took note who kept notes whenever someone was talking.
You’ll be representing the Penhallow family.
He wasn’t supposed to attract too much attention too soon.
We need a presence at the table. A steady hand.
He needed to be seen. Not to be heard. Not yet.
But he was getting bored.
So, he did the only thing he could do.
Sometimes, in chess, when you played your opponent and not the game, the best move was a bad one. Sacrifice a pawn, while pretending you had no intention to do so, making them feel clever. Manipulate the board so that they’d get cocky, risky, thinking the next move had been their idea all along.
When a lull came, he turned slightly toward Julong, voice low but deliberate.
“It’s odd, isn’t it?” he said lightly. “We funnel all these resources into weapons and tech for the Institutes, which is really important I won’t argue, but somehow half the field gear in use is five years out of date. Some of it older. Not just for new recruits either.”
Julong didn’t respond. Just looked at him for a moment and then turned back toward the table.
Pitts bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
Twenty minutes later, when Julong’s turn to speak came, he sat back in his chair, tangled his fingers over the table, and in soft, moderate Mandarin, brought up the lack of funds for proper battle gear.
Pitts saw the looks exchanged along the table. He saw Consul Dearborn nodding in approval. He felt the shift in the atmosphere, and he had to fight with his facial muscles to keep from reacting externally.
But inside?
He was fucking radiant.
Pitts had just started playing. And he was winning already.
It wasn’t until the third meeting, just a couple of hours after the second one wrapped, that Pitts heard something about the murders.
He thought it weird that no one had brought it up sooner; three Shadowhunters murdered, by seraph blades, within the same week. And yet, not a single word had been said inside the chamber. No whispers, no urgency, no formal statement.
It should’ve been a number one priority, first item of discussion.
It should’ve been.
But it wasn’t.
No one brought it up. No one spoke a word about it.
Pitts overheard the guards talking about it. The guards. That’s how he found out their victim, the second one – the one Todd had prevented getting mutilated beyond recognition – was Elodie Verlac.
“Verlac?” Knox repeated, when Pitts slipped away during the break to find him. His eyebrows knitted together. “You’re related to her?”
Pitts shrugged one shoulder. “Distantly. I think she is – was, my mother’s third cousin, but I can’t be sure without asking.”
“Right, right... You, okay?”
“No.” Pitts said honestly, dragging in a breath. “You should go back to Boston.”
Knox blinked. “What?”
“We’ve already been gone for two days. We have no idea what’s going on with Todd, we have no way to communicate. I am stuck here, but you should go back.”
“No.”
Pitts rolled his eyes, jaw tightening. “Knox.”
“No, forget about it. If you stay, I stay.”
“Knox, will you just listen – ”
“They think you’re too ambitious.” Knox cut him off, voice low and sharp. “Nobody’s saying it like it’s a bad thing… yet. But they’ve taken notice.”
“Good,” Pitts snapped. “That’s the point. I want them to notice.”
“I know. And I know you are being careful. But I can’t… I won’t go back to Boston and leave you here alone. That’s not how this goes.”
“You’re incredibly co-dependent,” Pitts muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but the bite wasn’t there. His chest felt tight.
Knox’s face remained deadpan. “You knew that before you decided to bind your soul to mine, Ger.”
They stood there in silence for a beat too long. The chill of the corridor creeping in through the back of Pitts’ shirt. He looked away first.
“I should go back inside,” he said finally, voice flat.
“I know.”
Knox didn’t move until Pitts did, falling into step half a second later.
Meetings four through eight blurred all together in a haze of tedium and tension.
Pitts was exhausted. Agitated. Every morning at five, like clockwork, Knox dragged him out of bed to train, to bond, only to beat the ever-loving shit out of him before breakfast. At this point Pitts was half-certain he wasn’t even trying anymore. Ane yet, somehow, he still wiped the floor with him.
It was a testament to how much of an emotional toll Alicante was taking on Knox as well, the fact that he didn’t bother critiquing Pitts’ poor form, or his slow footwork. Not even a sarcastic quip. Just silence and a towel tossed in his direction when they were done.
Every day they arrived at the Gard early in the morning, the sun fighting to shine behind the heavy looking December clouds. Every day they left well after the moon had risen above the jagged Alicante skyline. And every day, Knox tried to follow him into the inner chamber, only to be stopped by the same Clave guard.
The fourth day Knox didn’t make a move to go with Pitts. He kept his face straight, handing Pitts an energy bar. “You need to watch your fiber intake. Your eating habits are worse than those of a teenager.”
And then, before Pitts could say anything back, he very deliberately, set a second one on the stone ledge beside the guard.
“Long days,” he said, with a smile so polite it practically hissed. “Wouldn’t want anyone getting cranky.”
The guard blinked, clearly unsure if he was being mocked or bribed – or both.
Knox gave him a friendly little nod and sauntered to his usual seat near the perimeter, easy but coiled, like a storm waiting for the first drop of water.
Pitts didn’t smile. But he did feel the knot in his chest loosening, just a little, as he turned to step into the chamber for meeting number nine.
This is how meeting number nine went;
The session started easy. Safe. They still had to go over some fine details regarding trade tariffs with the Seelie Court, whose representative was seated directly beside the Consul. It was the kind of high-level political game that fell so far from Pitts’ expertise he’d look like an idiot if he opened his mouth to comment about it.
He made a quick mental note to brush up on the different trade deals the Clave had made in recent years, both within and outside the Shadow World, while he allowed his gaze to wander around the table.
Once again, there were no empty seats.
Every single meeting had been packed to the rafters. Delegates from every major Institute and enclave, gathered like vultures over a kill. Pitts didn’t know if this was normal or not.
His gaze lingered on Diana Wrayburn, sitting with her back too straight, her hands crossed in front of her, wearing a calm so precise it had to be fake. She didn’t look at him, but she shifted a little on her seat, letting him know she’d noticed him looking.
She had already spoken out loud one of his ‘not-suggestions’ in the previous days.
In recent years, working the field, Pitts had run in Shadowhunters barely older than fifteen years old. Teenagers wielding seraph blades, pretending to know what they were doing with them. He and Wrayburn had been milling around the same group during a break, when he’d voiced his point. Too casual to be innocent. Too loud to be ignored.
Discovered attacks had always been one of Pitts favorite moves to pull at chess, because it was a magnificent tell on the kind of opponent he had on the other side of the board. It exposed all of their tells. How fast they responded. How well they covered. Whether they panicked, hesitated, struck back.
"Babies in combat boots,” he’d finished with a half-smile, taking a sip of his tea.
Of course, Pitts had read up on her – he knew her involvement with the Blackthorn orphans and how she’d helped them through their grief. He knew they were a pressure point, and when he pressed, she made the exact move he had anticipated.
So, when Diana had later taken the floor, voice cool and collected as she raised the question of safeguarding recruits, “it’s a matter of being pragmatic, above all else. The younger they are sent out, the more likely they’ll be collected in body bags” – she definitely knew how to get her point across – Pitts had kept his face schooled. Her tone had remained calm, but there was a sharpness in the words she chose to use and whole table buzzed by the force of it.
Now, he saw her shifting again, sensing something was about to go down. Pitts recollected himself, sitting a little straighter in his seat, turning his attention to Consul Dearborn who was clearing his throat. He had an unreadable expression on his face, one that Pitts didn’t like at all.
“Now,” he said, voice cracking with age, “we turn to a matter of great delicacy. Shadowhunter – Downworlder relations.”
Pitts felt the stillness spread in the air.
It wasn’t quiet, not really. It felt more like someone had turned the volume all the way to zero and it somehow made the atmosphere heavy.
Pitts eyes flicked to the Seelie Court representative, still sitting next to the Consul, looking sleek and poised as ever. It’s not that he hadn’t noticed it before, but he suddenly became very aware that there was no one representing the vampires, the warlocks or the werewolves.
This can’t be good.
The Consul went on, speaking deliberately calm. He said the Clave was “concerned” about the frequency and intensity of Shadowhunter-Downworlder relationships. That these ties – romantic, platonic, political – were complicating allegiances. Obstructing protocol. That while bans were not on the table, the Clave was looking to implement a set of “clear boundaries”. Regulations.
“Preventative guidelines.”
Pitts’ stomach twisted.
He’d backed a motion that supported all of that during his first Clave meeting. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, make an impression, get his face recognized. The conversation then hadn’t called for a vote, and Pitts had been merely shadowing Thomas Branwell during that meeting, so, it had felt more than safe. An easy way to make himself unforgettable.
Low stakes. No ruffles.
Now? Now everything was different.
Because now Pitts had a seat at the table. Now he had a voice. And now he had a decision to make.
The thing was - no one guaranteed you a seat. Not every family had one. And just because you did, didn’t mean you got to keep it. The Carstairs, for example, old family as they were, respected, affluent, powerful in their own right, had no seat. Neither did the Herondales. The Verlacs. The Lightwoods, anymore.
Pitts realized he hadn’t breathed in over a minute. He was sitting very, very still, jaw set, spine stiff. His thoughts drifted – unprompted - to New York.
Suddenly he was fifteen again, practically running from home, not a dollar to his name, choosing the New York Institute because his cousin said the Head was kind. He remembered arriving with Knox on toe, a single duffel bag between them. Running into Alec and Magnus in the hallway, just having returned from a Clave meeting. Getting introduced to Luke and Maia and Katarina Loss. People who had never once pretended to be anything other than who they were. Who had treated him, a moody Shadowhunter teenager with too much attitude and not enough power, with a kind of distant, tolerant kindness.
Sure, things were okay with his parents, now; now that he was older and he understood better, and that they – sometimes – even went as far as to listen to him.
But that hadn’t always been the case.
Because his parents hadn’t been there in New York. His parents hadn’t been part of the ecosystem that raised him from the age of fifteen till he was a legal adult. These people had been.
Across the table, Diana took the floor. “There are complexities, of course,” she said carefully. “But we cannot forget the reality on the ground. Some of our strongest alliances have been forged through relationships that began as personal, not political.”
Pitts could see the steel under her words, the fire coiled just behind her voice. She was threading a needle, and she was being really masterful with it.
He could’ve echoed her. Strengthened her argument. He was going to but then –
Then he saw the Consul. And Dearborn wasn’t looking at Diana. No, he was looking at Pitts – at Gerard Penhallow. Who had trained under Alec Lightwood. Alec Lightwood, who had been run off his position as Consul, because of his stance on Downworlders rights.
Pitts knew that look. Measuring. Expectant.
Which way are you going to play this?
He wasn’t stupid. Had never been. Which was a shame, really, because if he was this decision might not hurt so damn much.
He cleared his throat, waited for the next lull in the conversation, and said – deliberately neutral – “When it comes to Downworlder relations, personal bias has often clouded institutional judgment. What we need—what our people need—is clarity.” He paused, just long enough to commit. “Regulations, even if restrictive, would at least draw a line in the sand. Better that, than another generation forced to guess where they stand—and punished for guessing wrong.”
He didn’t look at Diana. Didn’t look at the Seelie representative either. He looked straight at the Consul.
Dearborn gave him the smallest nod.
Pitts sat back in his chair, and kept his face very, very still.
It felt like he’d just narrowly escaped a checkmate.
Meeting number ten was definitely one for the highlights.
Just like every other morning that week, Knox woke him up before the crack of dawn. Unlike the other mornings, Pitts was actually ready for the sparing session. He even lasted a whole fifteen minutes before he face-planted on the mat.
“Something’s different today,” Knox pointed out, jumping out of the way as Pitts lunged at him.
“Yeah, I’m pissed.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No,” Pitts snapped, eyes narrowed, fist already swinging
Knox made no other attempts at small talk after that. He was too busy dancing out of the way of Pitts attacks – because even now, even after all these days, the motherfucker wouldn’t attack him! He simply deflected, dodged, twisted out of the way, and still – still – ended up landing Pitts on his ass.
If he didn’t love him so much, Pitts would probably murder him.
Things took a turn for the better once they reached the Council Hall. Knox had long since given up on trying to talk his way into the Inner Chamber, so he immediately veered toward his usual corner by the entrance.
But then he stopped, head tilting on the side, gaze narrowing. Because the guard was there, but he wasn’t in uniform.
No, instead he wore faded jeans and a soft gray sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. A pair of dark blue glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. Pitts frowned; had he always worn glasses?
He approached them before they did, hands fidgeting around something he was holding in a death grip. Once he reached them, he mutely presented it to Knox, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.
Knox arched a single eyebrow. “What’s this?”
The guard cleared his throat, lashes batting like crazy as he looked everywhere but at Knox’s face.
“I’m off duty today… I thought –” he paused, teeth gnawing on his lower lip. He offered the badge again. “It’s a clearance pass. For the Inner Chambre.”
Knox blinked. “What?”
“I thought – I thought you’d like to get in. As official security detail. Even if it’s the last day.”
Knox blinked again, this time slower. His fingers slowly flexing and unflexing around the laminated piece of paper.
Pitts, still standing next to his parabatai, momentarily forgot why he’d woken up feeling like shit. He forgot about the Consul, about the look Diana didn’t give him. He almost forgot about the acid pit in his stomach as well.
Because Knox looked incredibly flustered.
And it was glorious.
“Well, thank you very much, uh –” he stepped in, when it became obvious Knox was having some sort of mental breakdown.
“Markus, Markus Ashdown.”
“Markus,” Pitts echoed with a knowing nod. “Thank you very much, that was very considerate of you.”
Markus gave him a small smile, the kind that belonged to someone who was this close to bolting. He bounced on the balls of his feet again, sandy-blond hair falling over his eyes. He pushed it back from his forehead – only for it to flop straight into place - swallowing almost audibly as he returned his attention to Knox.
“You got plans tonight?” he asked, a little steadier now. “Maybe we could uh, grab a drink?”
Knox looked at him as if he’d just suggested a coup.
“We’re – uh,” he stammered. “We’re going back. To Boston. Today. As soon as the meeting wraps up. Boston. Yep. That’s where we’re going.”
Pitts kinked an eyebrow. “Remind me again, where are we going?” he teased, earning himself a death glare.
He simply grinned, and without asking, Pitts fished Knox’s phone out of his back pocket. “Here you go, Markus, why don’t you go ahead and put your number in, huh?”
Markus hesitated for a second, gaze flicking between the two. Then smiled, small confident. He took the phone from Pitts’ hand, punching in his name and number before returning it.
Pitts pressed his lips together, dropping the phone in Knox’s jacket pocket, clapping a hand on his shoulder, like a proud father. “He’ll text you,” he told Markus, as Knox made a chocked noise in the back of his throat beside him. “Eventually.”
His mood significantly soured as soon as they made it inside the inner chamber. The room felt colder today. Pitts caught himself shivering as he sat in this wooden, extremely uncomfortable chair. He let his eyes roam around the empty grey walls, over the magicked windows and the drawn faces sitting around the table.
Pitts’ stomach churned warningly.
If his mother was there, she’d tell him to suck it up.
If his father was there, he’d ask if he wanted to talk about it.
Instead, Gerard Penhallow was alone, and so he adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, while keeping his spine straight. He sniffed, rolled his shoulders a little, and settled in his seat.
He was fine.
He was fine.
He’d made a call yesterday with which he didn’t agree, but it was alright.
Pitts had just gotten a taste of the game, and he already wanted more, but in order to keep playing he would have to make moves that would cost him.
It was the only way to win. Sacrifice a pawn to get the queen on the other side of the chess board.
Pitts was well aware of that.
He was also aware that he’d made the right call. Because he had. The regulation proposal was inevitable, there were far too many conservative Shadowhunters to have any hope it would get overturned. Better to be inside the room shaping it than outside railing against it. Better to plant the seeds of a future he could stomach than die on the hill of a present he couldn’t change.
“It doesn’t mean you have to like it,” Knox had said when they’d returned home. Pitts hadn’t talked about it, wasn’t going to, but Knox kept going, “Even if it was the right move; you’re still allowed to hate it.”
Now Knox was staring at him, eyes sharp and assessing, from where he was standing with the rest of the security personnel. Of course he’d noticed something was off.
Pitts lifted one shoulder in a subtle shrug.
I’m fine.
He tried to force the message across the rune burning near his ribcage.
I’m always fine.
Knox didn’t look convinced.
Pitts drew another breath. Tried to concentrate on the conversation happening around him. Something about an amendment over an article on a deal they’d negotiated about trade tariffs with the Seelie realm, before moving onto the items in today’s agenda. Pitts blinked slowly, the words filtering in through his ears making little to no sense. His eyes unfocused, tracking the movement of a water pitcher being passed down the table.
In hindsight he should’ve probably anticipated that the meeting wouldn’t drone on like that until its bitter end. He should’ve expected the second shoe to drop. Didn’t he pride himself to be smart? A chess player? And yet he only noticed the shift in the air when he heard the murmurs spreading around the table.
Pitts blinked. Refocused. And Lazlo Balogh was standing up. He ran a hand over his jacket, as if to smooth it down, clearing his throat.
“As we are once again broaching the topic of regulations for interspecies relationships, I would be remiss not to acknowledge the irony that one of its supporters trained under former Consul Alec Lightwood.”
Balogh’s voice was smooth, vowels clipped just enough to sound refined. His gaze kept moving around the table, never once meeting Pitts’ as he so publicly called him out.
“A man whose bias toward Downworlders – personal and political – is well documented,” Balogh went on. “I would ask if this presents a potential conflict of interest. And whether the same… leniency… might now find fertile ground in Boston.”
Pitts didn’t react. He kept his face neutral, his hands relaxed on the top of the table. His breathing didn’t fluctuate, his eyes never hardened.
Despite everyone looking at him, Pitts held on to his façade of calmness fighting tooth and nail. Everyone was staring, waiting for his move. Knox was boring holes into the side of his skull. Pitts saw, without looking, the faint twitch of his fingers against his belt.
Don’t speak.
Their bond would scream the words if it was possible. It needn’t, still Pitts could feel them reverberate inside his brain in perfect imitation of his parabatai’s voice.
Don’t speak, don’t speak, don’t speak, don’tspeakdon’tspeakdon’tspeak -
But Pitts had already begun to stand.
“Thank you for your concern,” he said, the words silky smooth like when he lied to his mother. “I would first like to remind the council that yesterday I voted in favor of the proposed regulations. That decision is public record.”
He could’ve stopped there. It was a concise response, if not the perfect rebuttal. It should’ve sufficed. Pitts didn’t have anything to prove to anyone, he shouldn’t have to defend himself.
He should’ve stopped there. But he didn’t.
“As for the fear of leniency toward Downworlders in Boston. I didn’t think I had to, but I should probably clarify; I am not the Head of the Boston Institute. I hold no official position there. I was not placed in Boston to implement policy – I was placed there to serve.”
Another great spot for him to stop. Clean. Sharp. Precise. A perfectly acceptable answer to an uncalled for reproach.
But Pitts’ stomach was already on fire. Across the room he noticed Knox’s already too still body going rigid, as he once again, opened his mouth.
“However,” he started, softly, like he was voicing an afterthought. “I do wonder, if we are now willing to overlook insubordination when it leans toward enforcing Clave interests.” His eyes moved from Balogh to rest on the Consul himself. “Does leniency only apply when it suits us?”
Pitts let the words settle. The murmurs around the table had only increased in volume. Balogh’s hands were fisted on top of the table. The Consul was looking at him, something unreadable shining in his eyes.
He took a breath, considered stopping. He had already given them enough fuel to tear him down.
So, why not burn it all to the ground?
“Would you call the lack of discussion of three Shadowhunter deaths leniency toward our own ineffectiveness or something else?” he asked, voice calm and collected as ever, but with an undercurrent of something dangerous wrapping around his words.
The words hit the room like a rupture in the protective wards.
“Three confirmed deaths. Murders. Ritualistic in nature. Carried out with seraph blades. I bring this up while we are the topic of lenity. And because no one else has.”
Several heads turned. A few of the murmurs swithced into outright whispers. Pitts watched their eyes widen – some with confusion, others with dawning horror.
Huh, they hadn’t told them.
Pitts kept his eyes trained on Dearborn. He didn’t look at Knox. Didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. He didn’t so much as breathe too deeply.
“If we’re truly here to protect the Nephilim,” he said, lower now, calmer, “then perhaps our focus should reflect that.”
The silence didn’t stretch for long after Pitts’ words. Consul Dearborn stood, the two of them overlooking the table like game masters.
“Thank you, Representative Penhallow,” he said, voice cracking whether with old age or too much repressed anger, Pitts couldn’t tell. “The Council appreciates your passion. However, the matter you’ve raised is already under investigation by a specialized task force.”
Pitts had to bite his lips together to drown out a scoff.
“We have been assured that the suspects have been narrowed to a number of individuals – Downworlders believed to be involved in dark practices. An arrest is expected shortly.”
There was finality in his tone. Absolute.
And that was that.
The Consul resumed his seat. No further questions were asked.
Pitts sat down slowly, his body protesting – too wound up to relax enough to take a seat.
Downworlders believed to be involved in dark practices.
Warlocks, he meant warlocks.
Pitts clenched his jaw. He didn’t look at anyone. Not the stunned, older Council members. Not the curious younger representatives. Not even Diana, whose knuckles had gone white where they gripped the end of the table.
And he definitely didn’t look at Knox.
Not yet.
Detonating in the middle of a Clave meeting had not been his best move yet. Especially the way he did it. Full of pent-up emotion and no ability to control himself. At least there had been no yelling, no theatrics.
And no one had called him out.
Notes:
There are some og characters mentioned in this chapter;
Alec Lightwood; is the the former Consul, he was the Head of the New York Institute when Pitts and Knox trained there.
Magnus Bane; is the High Warlock of Brooklyn - Alec's husband.
Luke Garroway ; is an ex-Shadowhunter and a member of the New York wolf-pack (he used to be the Alpha).
Maia Roberts; is also a werewolf from the New York pack and she's the current Alpha.
Katarina Loss ; is a friend of Magnus and a warlock.Also, there's a mention about some 'Blackthorn orphans', they're not really important to our story - but they're Charlie's cousins. This chapter is about Pitts being on his element, so I really loved writing him like this. I hope you enjoy it as well!
Chapter 11: Tell me how hard will I fall if I live a double life
Notes:
Hello, lovely people of the internet!! I hope you're all having a nice enough day! Fun fact; this chapter and the previous one were supposed to be one... which means, we are still on Pitts' pov! My dude is unravelling, hard, and it's not pretty. There's some angst here, I'd say it's not very heavy but I can never tell so... it's up to you to decide! Please let me know your thoughts in the reviews and we'll see each other again next Thursday!
Chapter Text
Pitts knew he was not getting out of that chamber unscathed.
If it wasn’t the Consul pulling him aside for a formal reprimand, or to simply send him to rot in the Gard’s dungeons – no trial, no explanation, no chance to defend himself – then it would definitely be –
“What the fuck was that?”
Knox.
The last of the delegates had only just filtered past the entrance before Knox was on him, one hand slamming to the table in front of him, the other grabbing the back of Pitts’ chair.
Intimidation technique, one of Knox’s favorites. Caging him in to force him to break. Except Pitts didn’t flinch. Because he’d been on the receiving end of this exact maneuver enough times to find it almost reassuring. Grounding, in a perverse kind of way.
Because Knox was here. Angry, yes. Furious probably. But here. And that meant Pitts was still here, too. Still anchored. Still tethered to something real. Because those things worked in tandem, Knox and Pitts, Pitts and Knox. And since he was here, still breathing, still alive, still bound to the weight of that stare, then whatever he’d done wrong, whatever he’d done to piss Knox off, he could fix it.
He could fix the acid churning in his gut. He could fix the vice like grip around his chest. He could fix the static crawling in his skull like his brain had forgotten how to filter noise.
He could fix it.
He could fix it.
He could fix it.
And so, Pitts’ shoulders dropped fractionally, some of the tension seeping out of them, despite Knox breathing down his neck, looking like he was a minute away from strangling him.
Because Knox was here.
Pitts angled his body, fully facing his best friend. “A necessary move.”
“A necessary move,” Knox echoed, dark and low, because he never raised his voice. No matter how bad he thought Pitts had screwed up. “Do you realize how close you to came to – to walking away clean? And then you just… you lit a match and burned it all to the ground.”
Pitts’ eyes flicked from Knox’s to the far wall. The stone blurred dizzily.
“It needed to be said.”
A lie.
He knew it was a lie. Knox knew it was a lie.
He didn’t have to say any of that. He could’ve stopped, should’ve stopped, but the guilt residing in his chest had teeth and Pitts had already slipped by defending himself against accusations he needn’t even address, so why not burn it all to the ground?
Maybe the flames would warm his hands, they had been freezing since last night.
Knox leaned even closer, and Pitts fleetingly thought dragging him all the way over, press their chests together and let Knox’s heartbeat anchor his own, which was currently slamming behind his ribs like it wanted to escape.
“I told you,” Knox seethed, voice barely above a whisper. “I told you they think you’re too ambitious.”
The words hit, threatening to crack his chest open. Pitts’ head tilted on the side. “They’re not wrong.”
Knox’s jaw flexed. His hand lifted halfway, like he might slam it down again. But he didn’t. Instead, he just… deflated. The tension bleeding out of him like a wound that wouldn’t clot.
“They were watching you,” he said, slow, the words shaking. “Waiting for one wrong move. And you handed them your spiral in a silver platter, Gerard.”
Pitts’ stomach knotted around itself, teeth baring in a bastardization of smile that was all teeth and jagged edges. Because lashing out was easier. Because if he kept speaking, maybe the bile in his throat wouldn’t rise.
“That wasn’t a spiral, Knoxious. It was a freefall. It’s just that the crashlanding didn’t go exactly as planned.”
Knox blinked at him, brows furrowing. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you even care that you pissed of Consul Dearborn?”
His snort jumped around the stone walls of the chamber. “Why would I care? He’s a glorified bureaucrat playing kingmaker.”
Knox’s jaw locked. He pulled slightly back, and suddenly the space between them felt too wide. Pitts almost dragged him forward again.
“What the hell is wrong, Gerard?” he asked again, quieter this time. “Seriously.”
“I don’t –”
“Is this because of the vote?” Knox cut him off. “The interspecies relationship regulations? Is that why you’re acting like this?”
Pitts bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. Blood bloomed on his tongue.
“That vote was the right move.”
“I know that,” Knox said not missing a beat, but there was something in his voice Pitts didn’t like.
“Good.”
“Is it?” he asked, ducking his head to catch his gaze when Pitts’ dropped it to his shoes. “I can feel that you’re not okay, Ger. But I need you to talk to me.”
Pitts scoffed, loud, humorless. “Talk to you? Since when do we talk about this kind of shit?”
Knox recoiled so fast Pitts’ chair groaned with the sudden shift in weight. The bond buzzed underneath their skin, and Pitts felt the echo of his own words cut through bone and sinew like an errand blade.
Great.
That’s exactly what he needed, even more guilt swimming through his stomach.
“I didn’t mean that,” he said too quickly. “I didn’t…” his sentence trailed, not really knowing how to end it.
Knox swallowed, avoided his gaze. “I know.”
Were the walls closing in on them? The chamber suddenly felt too small, too warm.
“We have a portal to catch,” he said, distracted. His skin was buzzing, he needed to get out of there. “We’ll be back in Boston before dinner.”
Knox’s lips curled downward, probably catching the shift in his voice. Still, he didn’t look at him.
“Yeah,” he mumbled after a moment. “We will.”
Pitts nodded, more to the echo of his own pulse than to Knox. He brushed past him, shoulders knocking together and walked out the door, knowing he would follow. Afterall, he always did.
Arriving in Boston didn’t change their mood. As soon as the portal spit them out into the Institute’s foyer, Knox was off, steps quick and loud as he stalked off away from him.
Pitts looked at his retrieving back, chest feeling surprisingly tight.
You definitely fucked that one up.
Pitts swallowed a sigh. Ran a hand through his hair, thought about going after him but quickly aborted. Knox needed time away from him, and Pitts trailing him down the corridor just for the two of them to sit in silence some more was not going to help.
So, instead, he went to his room. Dropped himself face-first on his bed without changing his clothes. The mattress gave beneath his weight with a groan, matching his mood.
If the Clave decides to intervene in this matter, the guidelines will need to be precise. Transparent. Otherwise, we risk generating more distrust, no less.
Pitts pinched the bridge of his nose. Grabbed the pillow from underneath his head and shoved it over his face.
I would ask if this presents a potential conflict of interest.
He shot up in the bed so fast he made himself dizzy, feet already moving before he even hit the floor. The room wasn’t big enough and he was too tall so crossing it took him less than three strides. He tore a piece of parchment from his desk drawer, grabbed his stele and quickly scribbled a message before he could think about it twice. He had barely written the last word, before drawing the rune for fire across the bottom, the paper already curling at the edges, as the flames licked his words.
He held it between his thumb and forefinger, for a second longer, fire singing his skin. And then he let go.
The flames devoured it.
Pitts exhaled like it hurt.
He dragged both his hands through his hair, fingers threading through the locks, locking together when they came to his nape. He brought his elbows in, hiding his face in his arms and tried to focus.
Which was easier said than done. Especially when it felt like his stomach was brimming with acid, eating away at him.
Pitts huffed. Tagged at his hair. He was better than this. He had made sure to make himself better than this.
Unraveling wasn’t an option.
Not after everything that had happened. He needed to keep his head cool. He needed to keep everything under control. He needed –
The sound of fire catching drew his attention and Pitts immediately dropped his arms. A scorched piece of paper sailed through the air, and he grabbed it as it made a beeline for his head. The parchment was still warm as Pitts unfolded it.
“Taking into account your predicament, it was a necessary move. You did well, Gerard. I don’t want you spiraling. Lay low, it’s important you don’t attract any unwanted attention right now. Trust yourself. You’ve got good instincts.
-Alec”
Pitts stared at the words, jaw tight. His eyes scanned the brief note. Once, twice.
You did well.
His stele carved the burning rune in the middle of the message, the paper turning into ash while he was still holding it.
You did well.
You did well.
You did well.
Pitts didn’t feel like he did.
It didn’t help with the acid in his stomach, or the vice like grip around his chest. It wasn’t absolution. But it was permission for him to breathe. To count his losses and move on. To feel steady.
He drew a deep breath. And another.
He pocketed his stele and swiftly exited the room. When he reached his destination, he didn’t knock; they never knocked before entering each other’s room. The bond let them know what was going to happen anyway.
Knox was still in his clothes, jeans slung low on his hips, shirt rumpled and half-tucked beneath the weight of a thick tome resting on his chest. He had an arm behind his head, his other hand leafing through the book. Pitts walked in, the door closing softly behind him. There were several piles of books strewn around the room; on the floor, on the desk, on the ledge of his window. Pieces of paper were sticking out from between their pages, Knox’s loopy handwriting visible in the margins.
“If you came to not talk I’m not in the mood.”
His voice was cool. Dry.
Knox was still pissed.
Great.
“This all for the runes on the murder victims?” Pitts asked, nodding toward the mess. He already knew the answer. Knox knew that so he didn’t dignify his question with one.
Pitts swallowed a sigh. Took another step further into the room.
I’m sorry.
He wanted to say.
I got blindsided and I lashed out to you because you’re my safe place. I know I shouldn’t have.
But the words died before they even formed on his tongue and, so, he said instead;
“Do you want to hit me?”
Knox’s hand stilled on the page, his eyes cutting to Pitts’ face. “What?”
Pitts shrugged, feigning casual as he thrusted his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “I figured we could spar. Take some of the edge off.”
Knox pushed himself into a sitting position, the book sliding into his lap. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Pitts. “’I’m sorry’ too hard for you, so you’re trying to fix this with violence?”
“Worked before.”
Knox stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
“You’re lucky I’m simple,” he said finally, the corner of his lips twitching.
Pitts tried to curb his smile. Failed spectacularly. “Unbelievably so.”
Knox chuckled and the pressure in Pitts’ chest eased some. He watched as Knox quickly got out of bed, grabbing the book and dropping it into one of the piles. He clearly had a system, though just by looking at all the different book-towers Pitts couldn’t figure it out.
“You any closer to figuring it out?”
Knox pursed his lips. “Getting there.”
“So… no.”
Knox ignored that and changed the subject. “Ready to get your ass kicked?”
“Can’t wait.”
The walk to the training grounds was a silent affair, but neither one seemed to mind. Their friendship was forged in prolonged silences and dry humor, both of them too awkward to make small talk and too full of themselves to take anything and anyone other than each other seriously.
It was easily the best relationship in Pitts’ life.
Their shoulders brushed together as they walked down winding corridors, the parabatai bond humming underneath their skin, finally appeased after too many hours on edge. They rounded the corner that would take them to the ops center, and Pitts had just started to feel like maybe he could bounce back from the absolute hell of a week he’d had.
Naturally, that’s when the universe reminded him it hated him.
Laughter rang out from the ops center, light, sharp, unmistakably familiar. Pitts’ footsteps slowed to a halt, but Knox kept going, a spark of recognition flaring through him, trickling into Pitts’ body. He cursed through his teeth and jogged the small distance between him and Knox.
Two figures were milling by the main controls of the ops center, chatting and grinning with a group of junior Shadowhunters like they owned the damn place. One of them turned, caught sight of them, and grinned.
“Well, well, look who crawled back from Alicante,” Chris Penhallow said, practically bouncing in place as she moved toward them. She flicked her hair, perfect spring-like blond curls falling behind one shoulder, her eyes moving from Pitts to Knox and locking there. Her grin was dazzling, dangerous. “Hey, stranger.”
Knox blinked once, then smiled back, soft and genuine. “Hey, Chris.”
Ah, Pitts had definitely not missed that. Or the way it felt like a sharp sting right between his ribs, just shy of being fatal. It wasn’t jealousy, no nothing that petty – besides, he’d made peace with their relationship and the subsequent end of it years ago. It was something colder.
Protective.
Possessive maybe.
Chris was family, but Knox was his, and she had always had a knack of showing up when he least wanted her to.
“Oh, please, don’t start,” Pitts muttered, looking at Knox but addressing his cousin.
Chris winked at Knox, and Pitts felt the blush spreading up his best friend’s neck. “Start what? I was just saying hello.”
Ginny Cartwright, who’d just joined their little circle coming to a stop next to Chirs, smirked all worn leather jacket and cherry-painted lips. Her eyes flicked between the three of them, gleaming with amusement.
“Am I finally getting a front-row seat to the romance that shook the New York Institute to its core? I can't believe I missed it the first time around!”
Knox’s entire face flamed up. “I didn’t – We weren’t –”
Ginny gave a little shake of her head. “I don’t know, Knox, you do sound like you’re protesting too much.”
Knox sputtered, mouth opening and closing without any words coming out of it. Chris giggled, leaning into Ginny who dropped an arm around her shoulders.
Pitts was done with this conversation.
“Is this a social call?” he asked, voice slipping into something much more detached. The shift caught Knox’s attention, and he instantly straightened his posture.
“Social, professional, spiritual,” Chris waved a bored hand around her face. “Who cares?”
“I care.”
“You can call it anything you want, Penhallow,” Ginny responded, the smirk on her lips growing edges.
Pitts nodded as the acid started bubbling in his stomach once again. “Right…And when was this trip planned? Because I must’ve lost the memo.”
Chris kissed her teeth, still acting too casual for the conversation they were having. “You’ve been in Idris for a week. No phones.”
“You could’ve sent a fire message.”
“Mm, I could’ve.”
“When was the trip decided, Chris?” Pitts repeated this time his voice rising slightly above its usual cadence.
Chris looked at Ginny who gave her a small nod. Then she returned her attention to Pitts, eyes serious for the first time.
“Last night.”
“Last night,” Pitts echoed.
Of course it was last night. After meeting number nine. After his very public vote on regulations for interspecies relationships. After the last clever move he’d pulled, before his - very much avoidable - crash and burn. Had he hesitated? Had he not answered Dearborn’s challenge fast enough? Was that the reason why his parents thought he needed supervision? Because this screamed his parents name – well, this screamed his mother’s name.
“And you just…” Pitts’ sentence trailed, eyes dancing between the two women standing in front of him. “You just up and left New York? No hesitation, no backbone?”
Chris laughed, like he’d told a joke. “Oh, come off it, Gerry.”
Pitts gritted his teeth. She knew how much he hated being called that.
“We needed a change of scenery, an opening in your Institute came up and we thought it would be fun if we were all under the same roof, again. For old times’ sake.”
“And spying on me is just a bonus, I assume.”
Chris’ smile was all teeth. “Oh, cousin. If we were spying, you wouldn’t even know we were here.”
“Think of this as a bonding exercise,” Ginny cut in, dark eyes pinning into Pitts and staring straight to his soul. “We used to be thick as thieves, didn’t we?”
“Yes, until you abandoned us to go Institute-hopping the minute you got the chance,” Chris said accusingly, but there was no heat behind her words.
“I had my reasons,” Ginny said simply, her smirk never faltering. “Besides, it’s not my fault you’re all a year younger than me.”
“Wait, so, you’re staying here?” Knox asked, something wary blooming in his expression.
“Do you not want us to?” Chris batted her eyelashes, expression melting into something playful and mock-hurt.
“I – I didn’t say that,” Knox stammered, cheeks already turning pink.
“Knox,” Pitts’ voice was laced with warning. Knox’s eyes snapped to him. “Don’t do this. Think of Markus. Think –”
“Markus?” Chris perked up, eyes lighting with glee. “Who’s Markus? Does Knoxie have a boyfriend?”
“A boyfriend? Is that why you extended your stay in Alicante from a day to a full week?”
Pitts saw the exact moment Knox’s soul left his body as Charlie Blackthorn purposely walked toward them. This day was getting better and better.
Blackthorn tsked. “Gotta say, didn’t expect that from you, Carstairs.”
Knox’s eyes sunk shut, his head falling forward. “Fuck my life.”
Pitts didn’t chuckle. He wanted to. But he didn’t.
“Blackthorn, always a pleasure,” he said instead.
“Shut up, Penhallow,” Blackthorn shot back. His eyes raked over the group, pausing on the unfamiliar faces. “What’s this? New blood?”
Chris beamed, flipping her hair behind her shoulder as she stepped forward, extending a hand. “Chris Penhallow. Gerard’s cousin.”
Blackthorn didn’t take it. Simply stared at the extended limb, one eyebrow raised, like he expected it to burst into flames. After a long beat, Chris let her hand fall, acting unbothered, but her smile had sharpenined like a blade.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to her companion.
“Ginny Cartwright,” Ginny offered, her voice velvet and just slightly dangerous. “Chris’ roommate, backup, and babysitter.”
“Right… New Yorkers.”
“Very observant,” Chris said, flashing teeth. “Blackthorn, was it?”
“Charlie, actually.”
“Wait a minute,” Ginny murmured, something sparkling behind her gaze as she looked between Charlie and Knox. “Blackthorn... is he… Emma’s?” she asked giving Knox a very pointed look.
“No,” he responded too fast, too sharp. “Cousin,” he added, keeping his gaze strictly on Ginny.
She hummed under her breath. “So, another Carstairs/Blackthorn pair… Interesting.”
“Not a pair,” Knox almost snapped, eyes cold. Pitts noted Charlie’s stance stiffen – shoulders tensing, chin lifting like he’d just been accused of something unspeakable.
The parabatai bond buzzed under Pitts’ skin, Knox’s discomfort humming through like static. Chris also seemed to sense something. So, of course, she went out for blood.
“So, Markus. Do tell.”
Knox groaned, head falling back between his shoulder blades. “By the Angel, there’s nothing to tell. He’s a security guard at the Gard. We had a few… unpleasant encounters. And then today, before we left, he asked if I wanted to go grab a drink.”
Chirs chuckled and it was the first genuine thing that Pitts heard coming out of her mouth. “So, someone tried flirting with you, and you missed it. Classic.”
Knox’s head snapped back up, eyes wide as he glared at her. “He was not flirting! He was being rude, and I was being –”
“Rude too,” Pitts inserted smoothly, because he couldn’t help himself. Showing great restrain Knox did not punch him. Pitts knew he wanted to.
“And – and then –”
“He asked you out on a date,” Chris finished off for him, arms crossing over her chest, a lethal smile curling on her lips.
Knox’s brain visibly stalled. “That’s not – he didn’t - that has nothing to do with – this isn’t like you and I!” he yelled, pointing an accusing finger at her.
Chris’ smile widened. “Sure, it isn’t,” she said sweetly. “It just happens to have a lot of similarities.”
Knox groaned again, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked like he was trying to physically push the entire moment out of existence.
“So, what I’m hearing is; you don’t know how to flirt unless someone’s being a dick to you, huh, Carstairs?”
Knox’s eyes snapped to Blackthorn, the look in them nothing sort of devastating. Anyone else would’ve blushed by the intensity. Blackthorn simply stared back. Pitts felt the flare in his chest like a blow – hot, reactive, too close to something real. He swallowed it.
Time to end this.
“C’mon,” he said, voice clipped. “We were going to spar before we got interrupted.”
“Fantastic!” Ginny chirped, already moving toward the corridor. “We’ll watch.”
Knox buried his face in his hands.
Charlie rolled his eyes. “This is going to be fun.”
Pits bit on his tongue. Swallowed the heavy words and the bile slithering up his throat. He grabbed Knox by the forearm and tugged him down the hall. The touch was supposed to be grounding for the both of them, and it worked. For the most part. But Pitts could still feel the acid crawling up his esophagus, his stomach rolling like something inside wanted to claw its way out.
The sparring room was too loud.
Maybe this is not such a good idea.
This was supposed to be a peace offering. A stand-in for the ‘I’m sorry’ Pitts couldn’t get out of his teeth. But now it felt wrong. There were too many people, and this was supposed to be private. There was too much ugliness about to be unleashed, and Pitts did not want an audience.
This was supposed to be private.
Just him and Knox.
And now…
Chris and Ginny took up seats on the edge of the mat, talking in hushed tones, but their eyes were sharp, following Pitts’ every move. Blackthorn had chosen to stand, leaning against the far wall, hands buried in the pockets of his sweats, looking like he wasn’t paying attention.
Pitts knew better.
He could feel all of them watching.
Judging him.
The acid churned in his stomach.
This was supposed to be private.
Pitts pulled off his overshirt like it had personally offended him, tossing it aside without looking. He thought about stretching and then completely disregarded the thought, stepping into the training ring like he was entering a battlefield.
Knox blinked at him once, still in his shirt and jeans. “You good?”
Pitts rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. “No.”
“Gerard –” Knox took a single step forward.
“Just fight me.”
Knox tilted his head on the side, opened his mouth like he was going to speak but then shut it again. He gave a soft nod, didn’t even move to change out of his very much not spar-appropriate clothes.
The first blow came faster than it should have.
The two of them met at the center of the ring, Pitts’ fist going for Knox’s ribs. He pulled to the side in the last second, Pitts’ hit connecting with nothing. The force of his punch propelled him forward and he went with it before adjusting and lunging toward Knox.
Pitts was not holding back. There was no caution behind his moves. He was being precise, and fast, every strike meant to connect. To cause damage. His elbow shot out, quick and brutal, aiming for Knox’s jaw. He barely ducked in time.
“Ger, what the fuck,” he hissed, jumping away from him. “We’re sparring, not trying to kill each other.”
“I am sparring,” Pitts snapped. “Keep up.”
He hadn’t even finished his sentence before attacking again.
Knox just about managed to deflect. He was faster, sure, but Pitts knew him. Knew how he moved. How he breathed. Anticipating his next move had been ingrained in him. Knox feigned right. Pitts beat him left. They collided, hit the mat, a mess of tangled limbs and breathless grunts. Pitts tried to pin him on the floor, but Knox flipped them over, quickly moving away.
It was painfully obvious that Knox was not going to fight him. Again. He was deflecting, dodging hits, pulling his fucking punches in an attempt to tire Pitts out.
And Pitts was furious.
“Stop pulling you fucking hits!” he shouted, shoving his shoulder in Knox’s chest hard enough to make him stagger back.
“I am not going to hit you,” Knox gritted out, the words brittle with restraint.
Pitts lunged.
Knox caught him by the wrist and twisted, tried to redirect, but Pitts used the motion, rolled into it, came up behind him and landed a punch squarely on his ribs.
There was a crack.
The sound reverberated on the walls around them.
Pitts heard someone audibly wince.
Knox hissed, his body tensing, as he ripped himself away from Pitts. His eyebrows pulled on his forehead, his face pinched as he straightened, the pain carving shadows around his mouth.
The acid in Pitts’ stomach bubbled, bubbled, bubbled –
He lunged again.
Knox’s knee caught him mid-charge, square in the stomach. Pitts’ air was knocked out of his lungs, and when he bent forward, gasping, Knox shoved him hard enough to send him skidding across the floor.
“Have you had enough?”
Pitts was already up. Already moving. Something wild in his eyes. Something unhinged.
Knox didn’t have the time to twist out of the way.
Or maybe he couldn’t.
Or maybe he didn’t even try.
Pitts crashed on him, sending the both of them to the floor, rolling, fists flying. Pitts landed another blow to Knox’s already bruised side. Knox retaliated by slamming his shoulder into Pitts’ arm so hard it cracked.
Not a pop. Not a bruise.
A bone-break.
Pitts screamed, pushing him away with such force that Knox rolled so far from him he hit the mat’s edge – hard – and then –
Another crack. Skull. Floor.
The sound twisted around him, echoing in his mind.
Crack, crack, crack –
He moved again – another lunge, pure reflex -
But he never made it.
Blackthorn was the first to move, stepping in cleanly and catching Pitts around the middle, locking his good arm down from behind. “Nope. You’re done.”
“Get off me!” Pitts roared, struggling, but Blackthorn held tight.
Chris was already at Knox’s side, crouched, fingers hovering near his temple. Knox was sitting now, blinking slowly, like even the flatter of his eyelashes hurt. One hand was pressed to the side of his head, ribs heaving.
Pitts stopped struggling, but Blackthorn didn’t let go of him.
The acid toppled over his stomach, splashing all over, burning him from the inside out. His pulse thundered in his throat. His eyes fell to his hands. They were trembling. There was blood there. In the ridges of his knuckles. Underneath his nails.
Not his own.
He looked at Knox – blinking, concussed, ribs cracked because he had lost control.
Something inside him shriveled.
“Not that I care, but you should go to the infirmary,” Blackthorn’s voice sounded way too close to his ear. “Your humerus is definitely broken.”
Pitts tried to draw a breath. Choked on it. Feeling his eyes whelm up, he tore away from Blackthorn’s grip, grabbed his shirt from the floor, and stormed out of the room like it was on fire.
Pitts didn’t remember walking out of the Institute.
He remembered the door of the training room slamming behind him. He remembered the silence that swallowed the ops center as he stormed through it, one arm cradled close to his chest – bent wrong, sharp pain flaring with every heartbeat. He remembered the looks, the way people parted like the red sea for him to walk through. He remembered the sound of his boots, getting louder and louder with each new step, until it was the only thing in his ears, pounding in rhythm with the static that had taken over his brain.
The air was cold outside.
It was December and Pitts was wearing a sweaty undershirt, a shirt and a pair of dress-pants that had definitely seen better days. He was definitely not dressed to be wandering around Boston after midnight. He wasn’t dressed for anything, really.
His breath fogged in the air in front of his face, heart punching behind his ribs like it was trying to break out.
He should’ve gone to his apartment.
Of course he had one – he was a Penhallow. He was never meant to live at the Institute. So, he had bought an apartment, a week after moving to Boston. Two bedrooms, one kitchen, separate living room, an office space, even a fireplace he never lit. Pitts had spent a single day in there before declaring it subpar and returning to the Institute.
Because he liked the Institute.
He liked the hustle and the bustle. The clatter of the new recruits treating it like a college experience, the quite arrogance of the senior Shadowhunters who thought each mission was a won battle at war. He liked the constant background hum of the ops center and the way the ancient walls groaned in the wind. He liked living across the hall from Knox.
Not that the apartment would’ve changed that. It was a two bedroom for a reason. And Knox actually loved it. He’d taken the time to decorate it, made into something of a sanctuary. Something real. Something warm. He kept his books there – the ones that mattered. Not reference material. Not research. Just… books.
His cello lived there, too. Not the one he used when he thought everyone was sleeping, at the Institute’s Conservatory. No, his cello. The one he’d started practicing with when he was four. The one that had made his fingers bleed because the strings were too taut.
Carstairs are musical creatures, Knox. You will learn how to play.
He should’ve gone to the apartment.
He should’ve –
I’m not going to hit you.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
His feet refused to take him there. It was too much, after everything he’d done. He found himself, instead, downtown. Pitts couldn’t remember remembering the address, or how to get there. Yet, somehow, he made it, as if driven by muscle memory.
The door was unlocked. Open. Like it had been waiting for him.
He should’ve turned back. Should’ve rounded around, forced himself to face the apartment. The silence. Knox’s cello.
Instead, he stepped inside.
His boots echoed on the marble floors. He stopped in front of the door without thinking. His body moved before his mind caught up, pressing just slightly – barely – against the edge of the wards.
Of course he did.
After all, this was probably a punishment. A really, fucking, elaborate one. His treacherous mind dragging him here, to the doorstep of the High Warlock of Boston after –
There’s a danger in setting regulations so vague they become impossible to enforce. If the Clave decides to intervene in this matter, the guidelines will need to be precise.
Pitts flinched as the wards hummed around his skin, ancient and sentient, like they were judging him.
Meeks opened the door less than five seconds later.
The first time he’d seen him Meeks had been wearing a three-piece suit. His hair had been pushed back from his face, and his glasses had been perched high on the bridge of his nose, every inch of him meticulously sharpened.
Tonight, the High Warlock looked like he hadn’t expected company. Nor that he wanted any. He had a robe on – dark green and threadbare- hung open over grey sweatpants. His curls were a mess, tousled, like he’d spent hours running his fingers through them. His glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, and his nails – mauve, glossy – reflected the hall light like moonlight on spilled ink.
He was wearing a signet ring on his index. The letter B was etched into it, delicate and sharp.
Pitts froze.
Say something.
Say anything.
Say –
Crackcrackcrackcrack
Meeks arched an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe, eyes running down Pitts’ rugged appearance.
“…You lost?” he asked, voice dry.
Pitts didn’t answer.
The words stuck behind his teeth, and no matter how much he tried they wouldn’t come out.
What the fuck was he doing here?
If anyone saw him – if word got out –
This wasn’t just reckless. This was political suicide.
He should leave.
He should leave.
He should leave.
“Alright then,” Meeks said after another silent beat, making a move to close the door.
Pitts’ hand shot out before he could stop it, jamming itself between the door and the frame.
“I…” His jaw clenched. He inhaled. Regrouped. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
Meeks blinked at him. “That makes two of us.”
They stared at each other. The silence stretched. Long. Unforgiving.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Pitts said, because the words had been bouncing inside his skull, and he needed to spit them out.
“Agreed.”
Neither one moved.
Pitts drew a deep breath. It shook all the way to his lungs. “I think I broke his ribs.”
Meeks blinked again, brows furrowing. “Your parabatai’s?” He wagered a guess, and Pitts nodded. “Pretty face… Carstairs, right?”
Pitts swallowed, feeling his throat growing thicker. “Yeah,” his voice cracked, soft around the edges. “That’s the one.”
He didn’t ask Meeks how he knew; how he knew he meant Knox, how he knew what Knox was to him. He didn’t ask.
Meeks’ head titled, his eyes falling to the arm Pitts still had cradled against his chest. “Looks like he got you back.”
Pitts snorted, humorlessly. “Yeah, and I gave him a concussion for good measure.”
He wasn’t sure but he thought he heard Meeks whispering something awfully close to “fucking codependent soul-bonded creatures’, as he stepped aside. Opening the way for Pitts to step inside the penthouse.
Pitts hesitated.
This was political suicide.
Just for a breath.
And then he stepped inside.
The door shut with a whisper, the wards settling behind him like a weighted blanket. The place looked exactly like Pitts didn’t remember it to look like. Sleek but lived-in. A spacious living-room opening to a state of the art kitchen. The lights were low, everything dim amber and shadow. There was music coming from somewhere Pitts couldn’t locate. Books spilled across surfaces in soft stacks, candles burned down to waxy puddles. An orange cat was rolling around the luxury carpet, near the door leading to the balcony.
The room smelled like something sweet and metallic. Like concentrated electricity. Magic.
“I take it you were to the Clave meetings this week,” Meeks said from his place near the stove.
Pitts’ entire body locked down as he turned to look at him, eyes wide. “How did you know about that?”
Meeks spared him a look over his shoulder. “Just because we weren’t invited doesn’t mean word didn’t get around,” he said, grabbing two mugs from an overhead cabinet. “Are you going to hover around or take a seat?”
Stiffly Pitts walked toward the highchairs around the kitchen island, slowly lowering himself on one, as if afraid it was going to collapse under his weight.
“Do you know about the…” he trailed off, couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence.
Meeks paused what he was doing, pot suspended mid-air for a second. His jaw worked, lashes batting furiously, before he started pouring the tea into their mugs.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“I see,” Pitts muttered under his breath. “I should probably go.”
Meeks placed the two mugs on the counter. One slid toward Pitts with a soft nudge of magic.
“Don’t let me stop you,” he said, wrapping his palms around the other one.
“That vote was –” Pitts chocked on his words. Shut his mouth. “It was purely performative. I don’t think like that. I –”
“Let me stop you, Gerard Penhallow,” Meeks cut him off. “I don’t care about Clave politics. Interspecies relationships is not a sore subject for me. It’s not personal. Does it show clear bigotry on the Shadowhunters’ part? Sure, but what doesn’t?”
“It’s not like that!” Pitts snapped.
Meeks brought the mug to his lips. Gently blew at it, and then took a long sip his eyes never leaving Pitts’ gaze. “Sure, it isn’t,” he said over the rim.
Pitts stared down at his tea. It smelled like cinnamon, and something spiced he couldn’t name. He kept his hand – the good one, not the one still pressed against his chest – on the countertop. Not reaching. Not trusting himself.
“I’m not…” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t come here to make excuses.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Pitts flinched. Just a little.
“I didn’t even know I was coming here.”
Meeks didn’t respond. Just let the silence stretch, and Pitts could feel himself unraveling in the quiet of it.
“I didn’t come here to make excuses,” Pitts repeated himself, the breath shuttering as it came out of his lungs.
“No,” Meeks agreed. “You came because you hurt someone you didn’t mean to.”
Pitts shut his eyes, fighting to take a deep breath. It reached halfway to where it needed to go, before punching out of him like it lost its way. His fingers curled into fists on the countertop.
“You wanted him to hit you back, is that it?” It didn’t sound like a question, despite Meeks forming it like one.
“I needed him to,” Pitts whispered. “It would be easier, if I wasn’t the only one slipping up. Losing control.”
Meeks studied him. Not unkindly, but definitely more closely than Pitts would've liked. “Doesn’t really work like that,” he said after a beat of silence.
“No, it doesn’t.”
Slowly, Pitts reached for his tea mug. It felt warm beneath his palms. His knuckles throbbed as he held on to it, hoping that miraculously it would ground him.
Pitts didn’t say anything else, and mercifully, Meeks didn’t ask him to.
Chapter 12: You know I wouldn’t walk away even if I could
Notes:
Hello, hello good people of the internet!! My week was hell-ish, but I hope all of you had a better time!! I wasn't sure I was going to get this chapter out in time, but I'm more stubborn than tired so I won over my sleepiness!! I've decided I'm gonna stop apologizing for the length of the chapters - this one is trully ridiculous, but I couldn't cut it in half. This one is anderperry-centric so I hope you all enjoy it!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
If Neil allowed himself to think too much about everything currently happening in his life, he’d surely suffer a severe panic attack. Or a depressive episode. One or the other.
This past week had been a disaster. Emotionally, mentally, take your pick. He’d failed in both fronts.
First, there was his father. Which was a whole fucking disaster on its own. His father had spent the past how many days set on giving Neil an emotional whiplash. He wasn’t being parental, not exactly. That would be too much for the universe to give to Neil. But he was… friendly. Present. Fatherly – adjacent.
It wasn’t affection. But it was praise. It was touch. A pat on the shoulder. A “well done, Neil.” A smile.
A smile.
Every word out of that man’s mouth was like a delayed blow to the gut,
and still, Neil soaked it in like water in a desert. Pathetic. Needy.
He knew that.
Of course he knew that.
He’d sworn he was past this. Grown out of it.
But knowing didn’t fix it. Promising didn’t change the way it lodged in his chest—the old, bruised, bone-deep need for his father’s approval. No matter how many invisible strings were attached to it.
And if that alone wasn’t enough to break him, then there was the cluster fuck he affectionately called his parabatai. Charlie. His brother in arms. His one true constant. His fucking person. Charlie, who had decided, in a baffling twist of cosmic cruelty, that since Pitts and Knox were stuck in Alicante for the week, he would fill the emotional chaos void by being on Neil’s ass constantly. Asking about Todd. Asking about Cameron. Asking what “the hell was Neil thinking, keeping two mundies around the Institute without telling anyone.”
Never mind the fact that Todd was not even a mundane to begin with.
Charlie had the nerve to expect a straight answer out of him. As if Neil had any idea what he was even doing at this point.
But the worst part of his week – the part that truly sent him over the edge?
Was Todd.
Todd who had done absolutely nothing wrong.
Todd who had, in fact, done everything right. He’d followed every order Neil had given him, no matter how stupid. He’d kept himself and Cameron out of view. He’d put up with Charlie’s never-ending nagging. He was being kind and smart and so very calm for someone who had spontaneously set a man on fire a week ago.
Todd who looked at Neil like he was… good. Like he was enough.
Which – hilarious.
Because Neil was not good. Neil was hanging on by a thread. And Todd made everything so much worse by being so normal. So soft. So painfully human in a way that Neil didn’t know how to be.
And if tittering over the edge at all times wasn’t enough, Neil had to worry about how much of his feelings he let filter through his parabatai bond. Because the minute he slipped, the moment he felt more, Charlie was there – if not in corporeal form, then in the back of his mind. Uninvited, unbothered and way too loud.
It was driving him crazy, because it made him detest the bond. The bond that used to be a source of comfort. A source of stability. But now it was always buzzing, humming under his skin like it knew he was lying. Like it was waiting for his next wrong move or for him to come clean.
And Neil wasn’t sure he was ready for that.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever be.
Neil would love to claim that his spiral into insanity was gradual. That it took time. That it took at least the whole week for him to completely lose any semblance of coherent thinking. That it snuck up on him with patience and subtlety, building over relentless tension and badly timed eye contact.
Neil would love to claim it took more than five minutes of being in Todd’s general proximity before his mind locked in, deciding that this was it.
It did not.
Things started going south approximately three hours after Pitts and Knox got whisked away in Idris. They were at the training grounds, Charlie harassing Cameron as they loitered at the edge of the mats, Todd standing in front of him, seraph blade in hand.
Todd standing in front of him, seraph blade in hand.
He was all flushed and sweaty, the collar of his shirt sticking to his skin. His chest rose and fell fast, his breaths coming short and sharp. He kept pushing his fine brown hair away from his eyes, teeth worrying his lower lip whenever he tried to pull a move he wasn’t feeling sure about.
Neil felt the breath squeeze out of him.
That’s not normal.
Neil blinked, tried to recall himself. He was tired, probably… They’d been at this for the past hour. And he was now experiencing exhaustion symptoms. That was the only logical answer. Still, even through the haze, he could admit one thing: Todd had actually started getting better – well, he’d stopped dropping his blade every five minutes, so, you know, improvement.
“Am I holding it wrong?” Todd sounded genuinely baffled, breaking Neil out of his thoughts.
He blinked, belatedly realizing he’d been staring at Todd’s hand. Not in a creepy way. Just – focus. He was focusing. On Todd’s grip.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, you’re good.”
Todd smiled and Neil nearly dropped his blade. His whole body buzzed. Across the room Charlie stopped talking, his gaze boring holes on the side of Neil’s head.
Fucking amazing.
“Does it always feel this heavy?” Todd asked, shifting the weapon between his hands with the kind of ease that took Neil years to master.
Swallowing past the sudden thickness in his throat Neil frowned, glancing at the blade. “It’s pure adamas forged blade. It’s supposed to feel light in your hand once you find the balance.”
“Oh. Right.” Todd glanced down at the hilt, shifting his weight between his feet. “And what's adamas?”
“Heavenly metal, found beneath the ground in Idris,” Neil said, and Todd’s eyes widened slightly, before giving an exaggerated nod.
“Sure, sure,” he muttered. “Heavenly metal.”
Neil snorted, lowering his sword and letting it hang by his side. “You’ll get used to… all of it.”
“You sure?”
“Hundred percent,” Neil answered, not missing a beat. “You’re already doing better than I would’ve imagined.”
The corners of Todd’s lips twirled upward into a soft smile and Neil’s heart gave a flutter.
A fucking flutter.
By the Angel he was such a mess.
“Alright,” Charlie’s voice broke between the two of them, because of course it did. “That’s enough flirt-sparring for today,” his parabatai wandered onto the mat, stretching his arms over his head. “We should all get to bed, because we need to be up in a couple of hours.”
“We were not flirt-sparring,” Neil muttered.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “You wanna try that again, but more convincing?”
Neil looked at him, eyes narrowing, his free hand crossing over his chest fingers pressing into his other arm. “Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t fight you on this… after all, you do know a lot about flirt-sparring, don’t you, Chaz?”
Charlie’s grin froze a little. He tilted his head, brow lifting slowly. “You got something to say to me, Branwell?”
Neil smiled – sharp and tight. “Not sure you can handle it right now.”
Charlie’s smirk could draw blood. “Please, like there’s anything you can throw at me that I can’t handle.”
Neil hummed. “Mm, okay, let’s not do this now,” he said, already turning away.
He felt the bond buzz under his skin, Charlie’s feelings getting the better out of him and bulldozing over Neil. It always felt weird when that happened. For all his irregular emotional calibration Charlie rarely let his feelings bleed through like this. It never seized to take Neil by surprise, when he did.
And right now, Charlie was feeling. Boy, was Neil glad Charlie didn’t have his blade stashed anywhere close.
Neil returned his training weapon to the rack and moved toward Todd. “Okay, so tonight you’re already in and you’re spending the night, but… you’ll definitely need a pass.”
Todd blinked. “A what?”
“A guest pass. So, you can come and go from the Institute without getting flagged by security every time.”
“That’s… weirdly formal.”
Neil nodded. “Yeah, but it’s a bureaucracy thing. Nothing personal.”
“Wait, then I need one too,” Cameron chimed in from across the mat, jogging up to them. “If Todd’s coming and going, so am I.”
“Are you saying you want to spend more time in an active demon-slaying military compound?” Neil asked, deadpan.
“I’m saying I’m not letting you people drag Todd off to get murdered without me,” Cameron replied sweetly.
Todd looked mildly alarmed. “That’s not on the table... is it?”
“No,” Neil said just as Charlie muttered, “Possibly.”
Cameron raised his eyebrows giving him a pointed look. Neil exhaled sharply.
“Let’s just – go.”
They made it to the ops center, with minimal chaos, if Neil was to say so himself – which in fact only served to make him more anxious – to find Stick behind the main console. He was typing aggressively at a terminal with one hand, while sipping a comically large energy drink with the other.
“Stick, my good man,” Neil said, sliding up to him, an arm coming to rest on top of his desk.
The Shadowhunter closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. He never stopped typing despite bracing himself for the interaction.
“I thought we had moved past that stupid monicker,” he said through gritted teeth.
Charlie made an almost offended sound. “Moved past? Moved past a battle-earned, kickass nickname? Not on my watch, Stick.”
Stick’s eyes snapped open, zeroing on Charlie. “You specifically don’t get to call me that.”
“Sure I do.”
“No,” Stick shook his head. “Only people who’ve taken out a Greater Demon get to do that. You use the name after you’ve gotten one.”
Charlie sputtered. “I was there,” he managed finally. “I helped!”
“You threw a witchlight at it.”
“It was distraction – based combat!”
Stick blinked. Pressed his lips together like he was trying to keep the words trapped behind his teeth. His gaze turned to Neil. “What do you want?”
Neil’s eyes flicked between Stick and Charlie, his stomach knotting around itself. “We need – uh – we –”
“Passes,” Charlie jumped in smoothly. Stick looked at him. “We need guest passes for my cousins,” he continued, jerking his thumb toward Todd and Cameron.
This is stupid.
So, so stupid.
His father would surely find out. Of course he would. There were logs, there were cameras. Stick reported directly to the Head of the Institute and no matter how much of a soft spot he had for Neil – which wasn’t exactly obvious in this instant, but it was a fact – he would not hesitate ratting them out.
This was so very stupid.
Neil swallowed around the tension in his throat.
Stick narrowed his eyes. “Cousins?”
“Is family a foreign concept to you?”
“They are Blackthorns?”
“Why do I feel like I’m being racially profiled?” Cameron stage whispered looking at Todd, who couldn’t swallow a chuckle. Charlie shot him an almost proud look.
Neil felt his palms turning sweaty, his heart doing something erratic and unpleasant.
This is a terrible idea. This is a horrible idea. This is a terrible, horrible -
“They are Blackthorns,” Charlie shot back Stick’s words with the kind of confidence only he could posse while lying. “Extended family. Visting from the Los Angeles Institute.”
Neil held his breath.
Stick’s eyes narrowed even more.
“Look, do you want me to call Helena and have her vouch for them?” Charlie grabbed his phone from his pocket, making a production out of scrolling through his contacts. “I mean, she won’t take kindly to you questioning our cousins, but I’ll explain you’ve fought of a Greater Demon – ”
“Do they have clearance?” Stick cut him off, the tone of his voice showing just how done he was with the whole conversation.
“Dude, I’m standing here with Neil Branwell. You know, the son of the Head of the Institute,” Charlie leaned over Stick’s desk on both arms. “What do you think?”
Once again Stick’s attention turned to Neil.
“They’re fully cleared,” he said, voice cracking only slightly.
Stick stared for a second longer, then sighed and started typing. “Fine. They’re your responsibility.”
Charlie grinned, leaning his full weight on the desk. “Of course they are.”
The rest of the conversation was lost to Neil in a haze of such potent anxiety it made him feel almost like drowning. The only thing he could hear was the pounding of his pulse reverberate in his ears. His skin itched under his jacket, too hot and too cold all at once. When they started walking again, heading toward the living-quarter area, his legs wobbled.
Todd’s voice cut through the buzzing in his skull. “Stick is an interesting name.”
Neil blinked. Opened his mouth, but no words came out of it. Charlie, mercifully, picked up the slack.
“It’s a senior officer tradition,” he explained. “When you kill a Greater demon the rest of your squad gives you a nickname – sort of a badge of honor.”
“Oh,” Todd said, eyes wide. “But… why Stick?”
Charlie shrugged. “I honestly have no idea. We were there for the kill, but not when the others chose the name.”
Cameron muttered, “This place is weird,” and for once, Neil couldn’t have agreed more with that sentiment.
Charlie’s steps came to a slow stop outside the door of Neil’s bedroom. He looked expectantly at him and Neil swallowed.
Right. Hosting duty.
“Okay, so, uh…” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking between Cameron and Todd. “You’ll sleep in my room tonight. The bed’s a double, it’s going to be a tight fit.”
Cameron made a grimace. “Sounds fun.”
Todd on the other hand was already shaking his head. “No, Neil, we can’t kick you out of your room.”
Neil offered a smile he didn’t feel. His stomach was still churning. “Todd, you’re not kicking me out. I’m offering it up.”
Todd was keen on arguing. “No, but that’s not right. It’s your room –”
“And I’m giving it to you.”
“But you –”
“I’ll sleep with Charlie,” Neil interrupted, slinging an arm around his parabatai’s shoulders in a mock-casual move. “It will be like old times.”
Charlie rolled his eyes, head falling back to stare at the ceiling. “Angel, have mercy on me.”
“I still don’t feel comfortable with this arrangement.”
“Todd,” Neil said, gentler now, “it’s fine. Okay? I promise.”
“But –”
“For fuck’s sake,” Charlie snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s just one night, Anderson, and he is not going to sleep on the street. Knowing him, he’s gonna hoard my covers and snore my ear off, and I’ll probably regret every life choice I’ve ever made, but he’ll be fine. Just – get into the damn room, and let’s call it a night!”
“I don’t snore!” Neil defended himself.
Charlie glared at him. “Branwell, I will fight you,” he warned.
Neil grinned, a real one this time, some of the tension seeping out of his body.
“Bring it.”
“Oh, you’re so damn lucky we have to be up in three hours.”
“Coward.”
“What did you just call me?”
“Coward,” Neil repeated sweetly. Charlie let out a dark little chuckle that promised violence.
“All right, all right,” Cameron said hastily, stepping in before it escalated. He pushed open the bedroom door. “I think we should better go in, now. C’mon, Todd.”
“Yeah…” Todd still looked like this decision was costing him gravely. He hesitated at the threshold, glancing back at Neil with an expression so open, so grateful, it made his stomach flip. “Goodnight Neil,” he muttered softly. “Charlie.”
“Goodnight Todd,” Neil answer, just as gently.
Charlie gave them a mock-military salute before Todd and Cameron walked into the room closing the door behind them.
The silence that felt between them was almost serene. So, of course it couldn’t last for more than four seconds.
“Admit you have a crush on him,” Charlie said, crossing his arms over his chest.
Neil glared. “Say it a little louder, why don’t you?” Charlie arched an eyebrow. “That was not a challenge!”
“Admit it.”
Neil groaned and rubbed his face. “I thought we were going to bed.”
“We are,” Charlie said, without making any move to walk toward his bedroom. “After you admit it.”
“Charlie,” the name came out heavy and long suffering.
“Neil.”
“I – I barely know the guy.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s impossible to talk to you.”
“It is when you’re lying.”
“I’m not lying.” Neil insisted. “I don’t know Todd well enough to –”
“You choked when he got a hit on you during training,” Charlie cut him off. “I felt your brain asphyxiating through the bond.”
“You can’t – that’s not – you can’t feel that.”
“I can, and I did.”
Neil rubbed angrily at the back of his neck, knowing the blush was creeping up his chest. “You’re being –”
“Right. I’m being right,” Charlie insisted, eyes burning into Neil’s. “You’ve been obsessing over this dude for literal days and tonight you couldn’t keep your eyes off him.”
Neil groaned. “Charlie, are we really doing this?”
Charlie smirked, smug and merciless. “Are you really gonna stand there and pretend you haven’t spent a week being weird over him?”
Neil straightened, folding his arms over his chest. “Are you really going to stand there and accuse me of obsessing over someone like you haven’t spent months doing the same?”
Charlie’s smirk wavered. Just for a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Neil didn’t push. He could’ve. Probably should’ve, even. And by Raziel, did he want to… But the look on Charlie’s face – closed off, stubborn, a little scared – stopped him in his tracks.
Not tonight.
Instead, Neil sighed, messed a hand through his hair again, taking the initiative to start first toward Charlie’s bedroom door. “I’m too tired for this, c’mon, let’s go to bed. Please.”
Charlie watched him for a beat longer, then shook his head with a soft laugh and followed.
“I know you like him,” Charlie muttered under his breath, closing the door softly behind his back.
Neil didn’t say anything.
The next day was somehow worse.
Neil was woken up some time before dawn by one of Charlie’s training shirts hitting him square in the face. He groaned, brought the pillow up and over his head, trying to burrow himself deeper in the covers. Charlie, ever the loving parabatai, yanked the duvet clean off his body.
Neil whined.
“There’s no getting out of morning training, Branwell,” Charlie said, sounding way too cheerful for this time of the day. “No matter how cute you look while doing pouting. Up, up, up!”
Neil briefly considered homicide.
Training was pure torture. The first slot of the day was usually reserved for their age group, but with Pitts and Knox stuck in Idris, and Hopkins, Spaz and the new London transfer still out on patrol, it was just the two of them. And as it usually happened when it was just the two of them, Charlie went absolutely feral.
The second Neil stepped onto the mat, Charlie tossed him a staff. No warm-up. No warning. He barely caught it without knocking out his own teeth.
“Bet I can have your ass on the mat in ten seconds flat,” Charlie said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Always so smug,” Neil muttered, spinning the staff to find his balance.
Charlie attacked the way he did everything else; head first, eyes closed, regard for personal wellbeing nonexistent. Neil barely managed to block the first blow, the wood vibrating up his arms. He stepped back, bracing for another strike, but Charlie feinted right – then kicked him square in the side.
Neil staggered. Recovered. Led the next lunge.
It went like that for almost an hour. At one point Charlie threw his staff at Neil’s head. He ducked out of the way just in time, only for Charlie to tackle him across the mat in a full-body slam.
Neil was sweating buckets. His whole body ached – even in places he didn’t know they could ache – especially his side, where Charlie’s boot had connected earlier. His heart thundered behind his ribs, his clothes clinging to him like second skin, hair plastered on his forehead. Charlie, the bastard, still had some breath in him.
Somewhere between the fourth and the fifth round, Neil missed a block, he’d gotten too cocky, and Charlie clipped him hard across the chest. He hit the mat, air whooshing out of his lungs.
Charlie was over him instantly, staff discarded, hand clamping onto Neil’s shoulder.
“You good?”
Neil coughed. Gave a thumbs-up without sitting up. Charlie snorted, but it quickly turned into a relieved laugh as he collapsed beside him, like he hadn’t just tried to murder him for fifty minutes straight.
You know, normal parabatai shit.
Lying there in the training room, underneath the stone-built arched ceiling, with the first golden sunrays filtering in through the stained-glass windows, making it look like they were inside a kaleidoscope, Neil and Charlie came up with a gameplan for breakfast.
It was fairly simple.
Charlie would hit the showers, take his time, and then sneak into Neil’s bedroom. Neil would show up at breakfast alone, make some really loud remarks about Charlie feeling under the weather and fix a tray to take to his bedridden parabatai. The tray would of course be delivered straight to Neil’s bedroom where Charlie along with Todd and Cameron would be waiting for him.
It wasn’t the most complicated operation Neil had ever been part of.
It was, however, nerve wrecking. Because if one thing went wrong, if one senior officer thought too much about it, if his father –
Neil quickly shut down his train of thought. It was going to be fine.
This was barely a lie after all.
The two of them hauled themselves up – Neil’s body protesting all the way, every muscle in his body screaming murder. They parted ways at the entrance, Charlie sauntering toward the showers and Neil looking after him with a small shake of his head, hating him a little for the complete absence of visible stiffness or pain in his step.
Neil kept rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck the whole way to the dining area, still feeling sore. The smell of fresh bacon and roasted coffee hit him before he even went inside and his stomach grumbled in response.
At least the bacon was a promising change from the oatmeal they’d been stuck with in the previous weeks.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, squared his shoulders, and pushed the door open, the same loop going round and round in his head.
Please let it not be my father, please let it not be my father, please, please, please –
Instinctively Neil’s eyes went straight to the commanding officers’ table. And then he allowed himself to breathe. Because his father wasn’t there, and neither was lieutenant Nolan. Instead, Commander Haggers was sitting on the head of the table, back straight as a ramrod, clipboard in hand and a vaguely interested expression on his face.
Some of the tension – but none of the soreness – seeped out of Neil. Haggers liked him. Well, maybe not liked him per se. But definitely a feeling adjacent to like. Haggers treated him the same way old librarians treated their quietest, most repressed patrons. He appreciated order, discipline, the ability to fill out paperwork correctly on the first try. Neil was his golden child. He probably had a sticker chart for him somewhere in his desk.
Neil grabbed a tray, kept his head down, and moved through the line as casually as he could manage. He forced himself to let the usual buzz of the dinning hall to act as white noise, drowning out some of the anxiety still simmering underneath his skin. But because old habits died hard, Neil scanned the room, checking to make sure that no one was giving him any weird looks, that his father was in fact nowhere in sight, that an alarm hadn’t blast off, screaming about mundanes infiltrating the Institute -
Neil’s breath shuttered in his lungs, and he curled his fingers around the tray, the plastic cutting into his skin.
It was fine.
It was fine.
He was fine.
He loaded up two plates – one for him and one for Charlie – carefully selecting the least offensive options. Bacon and eggs, toast, and some questionable fruit. He grabbed a couple of pancakes for good measure, remembering Charlie’s sweet-tooth and wanting to appease his best friend.
As he balanced the tray, taking it to the closest table, he felt eyes on him.
Commander Haggers.
Neil straightened immediately. Haggers gave him a brisk nod. Almost a smile. Neil had to try to keep his mouth from dropping, nodding back in return, perfectly respectful. He sat on a table, which coincidently was halfway between the buffet and the door, scarfing down his breakfast in record time, barely tasting a bite.
Miraculously he didn’t choke on it.
“Charlie is probably still in bed,” he said out loud, to no one in particular as he shot up from his chair. “He had a bit of a temper earlier. I should… I should probably get him some food.”
Neil swallowed past the sudden thickness in his throat.
You are such a fucking disaster.
With shaky hands he grabbed the second tray and made a beeline for the door, keeping his eyes fixed to the food in front of him, and feeling his stomach churn. He didn’t slow down when he hit the hallway, not even to catch his breath. In fact, he fastened his space, sneakers squeaking against stone as he practically ran to his bedroom.
He was definitely going to have a heart attack before noon.
“Food,” Cameron said reverently, as soon as Neil walked in through the door.
Charlie moved faster, snatching the tray from his hands, lips twitching slightly when he caught sight of the pancakes. “You’re a life saver, Branwell.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Neil muttered, leaning a hip against his desk, arms folding lazily over his chest. “Heard all that before… Hey – just, make sure you leave something for Todd, yeah?”
Cameron looked up mid-bite, eyes widening comically when they locked on Todd across the tray. He picked up a piece of bacon, extending it towards him, as a peace offering. Todd chuckled, but didn’t deny it.
“Truce accepted,” he said and Cameron beamed at him.
When the plates were cleared, courtesy – mostly – to Charlie who seemed to have inhaled his food – Todd leaned forward in his seat, hands loosely clasped between his knees. He glanced up at Neil like he wanted to ask something.
Neil relaxed his posture, inkling his head in what he hoped was an inviting move. “Yes, Todd?”
“Um, I was wondering…” he started, fingers pressing together in his lap. “Is it okay if I go see Meeks today?”
“Meeks?”
Todd nodded, fidgeting with the cuff of his sweater. “He said that if I wanted, he would train me and I… I think I want to start figuring it out. This powers thing. Magic,” Todd paused, eyes flicking down to the floor, then back to Neil. “We’ve already started with Shadowhunter training –”
Charlie snorted. “That wasn’t training.”
“Charlie,” Neil spoke his name like a threat, and despite smirking still, Charlie lifted his hands in a placating motion.
Neil returned his attention to Todd who was still looking up at him like he half-regretted opening his mouth. He ignored the slight pressure in his chest and forced his lips into a smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I can arrange that.”
Todd’s answering smile was small but soft enough to feel like a punch straight to Neil’s gut.
He busied himself, turning away before it showed, reaching for a pen and piece of paper. Todd and Cameron started talking lowly between themselves, but Neil didn’t catch the words. He was too busy ignoring the weight of Charlie’s gaze boring into the side of his face.
He wrote a quick message to Meeks, etching a burn rune on the corner of the page. It caught fire almost instantly, curling into smoke in the air above his desk.
The response came less than a minute later.
Sure. The kid is always welcome. The rest of you, not so much.
Neil tried to not let the way the words felt show on his face. He failed. He used to have a decent rapport with Steven Meeks. Now the High Warlock barely tolerated him. That stung more than it should.
He should definitely try to fix it.
“Good news,” he said, pushing the thought to the back of his mind. “He’s willing.”
“Great!” Todd beamed, jumping off his seat almost immediately. “Should we go now?”
Neil bit down the urge to smile too wide. “Yeah. We’ll head out.”
Charlie groaned. “Please tell me I’m not coming.”
Neil looked at him deadpan. “You’re absolutely coming.”
“Unbelievable,” Charlie muttered, adding another couple of choice words underneath his breath.
Neil ignored him. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his desk chair, turning to Todd. “You ready?”
Todd nodded. “More than.”
“Great then, let’s go annoy the High Warlock of Boston, shall we?”
Cameron let a noise confused between a chuckle and a scoff. “Sounds like fun.”
If father ever caught word of this, I’ll end up spending the rest of my life in the –
“Neil,” Todd’s voice shattered through Neil’s silent spiral.
Neil blinked, straightened himself so fast he nearly smacked his shoulder into the elevator panel. His eyes flicked to the floor indicator – still four stories left.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Neil lied, forcibly relaxing his shoulders and drawing in a deep breath.
Charlie shifted beside him, the side of his arm pressing reassuringly against his. He didn’t have to ask. Neil didn’t have to speak. The bond buzzed under their skin, pulsing soft and full of calmness that Charlie filtered his way.
The elevator doors opened with a soft ding.
Neil took a breath. Then another. Then immediately regretted both. With a side-look his way, Charlie was the first one to walk out, back straight and shoulders squared. Cameron trailed after him, Todd lingering only slightly longer studying Neil’s profile, with wide, assessing eyes, before going after them.
Neil took the longest to move. He ran a hand through his hair, tried to swallow the anxiety away, only for it to crawl back up his throat a second later. He shut his eyes, cursed a little under his breath and then he stepped out, slowly walking up to the others.
Meeks’ apartment door was already open.
The High Warlock leaned against the frame, wearing a deep burgundy linen set that looked expensive enough to pay rent. His hair was damp and curling over his forehead, his glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose.
Charlie’s spine was too straight to be casual, his fists curled into fists by his sides.
“Forget about it,” he said, when Neil came to a stop beside him. “Todd is not staying here alone.”
Meeks smirked, sharp and dangerous. “Oh, little Nephilim, it’s cute you think your words and your scowl have any effect on me.”
“You’re being unreasonable –”
“On the contrary,” Meeks interrupted him. “I’m perfectly within reason. I will train Todd, because he’s my people, and I will do so gladly. What I won’t do is allow Shadowhunter supervision.”
“We’re not supervising, we’re –”
“Liabilities with tattoos?” Meeks offered unhelpfully. “I’m aware.”
Charlie made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Neil placed a hand on his shoulder, to hold him back, to show him he was there. Charlie relaxed a little, but he was still too wound up, glaring at Meeks as if hoping to set him on fire with the power of his mind.
Neil cleared his throat. “Meeks, hi,” he started, carefully. “The thing is, Todd is still new to all of this. The powers, the training. He doesn’t know our world, we just wanted to make sure he’s –”
“What, safe?” Meeks said before Neil could finish his sentence. “You don’t think he’ll be safe with me, Neil Branwell?”
“That’s not what I said,” Neil said defensively. “You know what I think of you, Steven. Of course, I think Todd will be safe with you. But we can’t just leave him here and leave.”
Meeks tilted his head as if pondering what Neil said. “There’s a charming little café around the corner; you can go over there and wait.”
And that’s all he gave them before his attention entirely shifted. “Darling,” Meeks said, voice softening when he addressed Todd. His lips curled in a genuine smile. “You look like you’ve walked through hell. Don’t worry, we’ll start of easy.”
Todd stepped forward, visibly torn. “Hi, Meeks.”
“Come in, come in,” Meeks said, swinging the door open wider. “I’ve got tea in the kitchen, you can pour yourself a cup.”
“I –” Todd mumbled, teeth sucking on his lower lip. His eyes flicked back to Neil.
“It’s okay, Todd,” he said, gently. “Go ahead.”
Todd stared at him for a second longer before ducking into the apartment. Cameron quickly walked in behind him; probably afraid he was also going to get kicked out. “Hi again.”
“Cameron,” Meeks gave a gracious nod of his head. “Always a pleasure. Love the dark circles under your eyes. They make you look tortured and mysterious.”
Cameron opened his mouth like he was going to say something. But the twinkle in Meeks' eyes made him think better of it. His mouth closed with an audible click and he hurried after Todd, further into the penthouse. The High Warlock let a satisfied sigh, his gaze once again returning to the two remaining Shadowhunters.
“You know,” he drawled, “it’s a shame it’s you two delivering him. I had half-hoped it would be Pretty-Boy.”
Charlie blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Carstairs,” Meeks said, sighing theatrically. “Now that one’s pleasant to look at. Tall. Elegant. A brooding dreamboat.” His eyes flashed. “Shame he’s not here.”
Charlie’s nostrils flared. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“I’m sure this wasn’t your first time,” Meeks said sweetly.
Before Charlie could fire back, a voice called from deeper in the apartment. “Steven, do you want me to come back later?”
Meeks leaned back, waving a hand toward the source. “No, John, you’re fine. Actually – could you do me a favor and show our Nephilim guests to the elevator? I have an appointment with Todd and Cameron and I hate breaking momentum.”
A man appeared behind Meeks – late fifties, wire-frame glasses, a red cardigan, the kind of wide-eyed energy that suggested he was used to spending a lot of time speaking passionately to rooms full of people.
“Oh,” John said, with a beatific smile. “Certainly! Come on, gentlemen. Walk with me!”
Charlie’s mouth opened. “Wait a minute, we haven’t – ”
Thud.
Meeks slammed the door in their faces.
“Did he just –”
Charlie was too stunned to even finish his own sentence. His head whipped toward Neil, eyes wide, jaw locking. The calmness he’d been steadily supplying throw the bond fractured, irritation bleeding in like ink in water.
John had walked off without them, gesturing animatedly and talking to himself as if still having an audience. His voice bounced around the hallway, reaching them distorted and mocking-like. Neil’s stomach flipped, something unpleasant spreading through him.
He looked back at the door. Looked at Charlie.
“If this gets back to my father…” he trailed off, rubbing a hand down his face. Tired. Defeated. His chest felt like it had been scooped out and packed with glass.
Charlie’s posture immediately straightened. “Hey. No. It won’t.”
“Being a good liaison between the Institute and the Downworlders is pretty much the only thing I got going for me,” a delirious, mirthless chuckle escaped his lips. “And I’ve messed it up!”
Charlie stepped in front of him, laid both hands on his shoulders, leaning so close that their foreheads practically touched. “You have not messed it up,” he said, with the kind of conviction Neil had never felt in his life. “Meeks is just being difficult for the sake of it. If this were anything serious or Clave-level official, he wouldn’t pull this crap.”
Neil shook his head. “I’m not sure about that. And if my father finds out –”
“Your father won’t find out,” Charlie squeezed his shoulders. “And even if he does, this doesn’t reflect on you. Meeks has always been hostile towards Shadowhunters, remember Hopkins’ stories?”
Neil huffed through his nose. “He was not hostile towards me.”
“And he still isn’t!” Charlie said firmly. “He’s just being a bitch. Trust me – I can tell.”
Neil looked at him, heaving a small sigh. “Takes one to know one?” he asked, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
Charlie smirked. “Exactly.”
They stood like that for another few seconds – Neil letting himself lean into the stillness Charlie offered, even if he wouldn’t admit he needed it. The knot in his stomach loosened just a bit.
Charlie pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing. “Now, as for Todd –”
“No, please, don’t start.”
Charlie ignored him. “Todd needs this. He needs to figure out himself. You know that. And it’s not going to work if we hover over him the whole time.”
“I wasn’t hovering.”
“You were emotionally hovering,” Charlie said flatly. “It was adorable.”
Neil rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“And right.”
Neil bit the inside of his cheek. Tried to drop Charlie’s all knowing gaze, only for Charlie to duck his head and refuse to let him. The ugliness in his stomach had not disappeared but Neil couldn’t feel it as intensely.
“Right,” he said, then let out a breath. “You’re right. Of course you’re.”
“Obviously.”
Neil shook his hands like he was trying to shed the last of his nerves. “Let’s… let’s go find the café Meeks was talking about. Pretend we’re fine.”
“We are fine,” Charlie said. As they turned toward the elevator, he slowed something flickering across his face. “Do you think he was, like.. flirting with Carstairs?”
“And why would you care, Chaz?”
Charlie scoffed, scowling. “I wouldn’t, I don’t.”
Neil arched an eyebrow. Charlie held his gaze for another second, then turned sharply on his heel and strutted toward the elevator muttering under his breath, “Stupid, fucking warlock.”
He and Charlie never found the café the High Warlock had suggested.
“He probably lied to us,” Charlie had said through his teeth, glaring at a streetlight like it had cursed his bloodline. “Sent us on a wild goose chase. That little bitch.”
Neil had sighed, too tired to argue. “We should go back to the Institute, anyway,” he muttered, clapping a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, herding him along.
Charlie grumbled the entire walk back, punctuating his footsteps with insults about linen pants and warlock arrogance and “pretty-boy favoritism”.
Now Neil was sprawled across his bed, a book he was supposed to be reading laying open on his chest. Charlie had left some time ago, after spending hours trying to get him to do something. But his best friend's something was usually along the lines of “let’s try to break into the rune-locked archives” and never “let’s go watch a movie”.
So, Neil had declined.
Todd was still at Meeks’, not that Neil was waiting on him or anything. Obviously.
No, Neil was busy. He was researching, trying to find the correct way to appease a pissed off Warlock, going through every book that he could think regarding magical etiquette and obscure Downworlder customs.
All he had find so far was ginger as a peace offering… Ginger, the root. It was in three different books, and Neil still had to come across the reasoning behind it.
He shifted on the mattress, the spine of the book digging into his ribs. Still, he didn’t move it. Didn’t close it. His fingers tapped against the page, not turning just… touching it, waiting.
It’s fine. You’re being ridiculous right now. Todd is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Neil nodded to himself and tried to overrun intrusive thoughts about accidental magical burns, ritualistic mishaps, and errand hexes ricochetting on mirrors and landing on Todd. But the longer the silence stretched, the more it crawled across his skin. After the fifth time his eyes flicked toward the door, he huffed, annoyed with himself. He sat up. Closed the book. Reopened it. Stared at a page titled “Symbolic Compensations for Interdimensional Offense.”
“You’re such a fucking disaster,” he muttered, bringing the corner of the hardcover against his forehead.
When the knock sounded against his door, Neil jumped a little. His head snapped up, eyes locking on it for a long second, before quickly getting up. The book tumbled off his lap, thudding against the floor soundlessly. He ignored it. Crossed the room in two long strides and yanked the door open.
Tood stood there, his hand suspended mid-air, cheeks already flushed. His lips curled when he saw Neil. “Hey.”
Neil’s breath shuttered in his lungs.
“Hey Todd,” he said back, trying – and failing – to make it sound casual. His voice came out too soft, too breathy, and his neck immediately started to burn.
If Todd noticed he didn’t show it. “Can I come in?” he asked, fingers fidgeting like he expected Neil to send him away. “I got something to show you.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Neil almost stepped on his own foot in his haste to step aside so that Todd could walk inside.
Todd’s smile widened just a little and he stepped into the room, gingerly standing in the middle of it, clearly not knowing how to be comfortable in a room he’d already spent the night in.
Neil closed the door behind him, leaned against it, hands tucked into his pockets, trying to pretend he was fine. Cool.
“What do you have to show me?”
The look on Todd’s face was one of pure concentration. Which was different from his anxious expression, despite sharing many of the same characteristics. For example, both sported furrowed eyebrows, and narrowed eyes, but when Todd was really focused on something, he tended to suck on his lower lip –
Neil blinked.
You’re such a fucking mess.
He shook his head, tried to clear his thoughts and then Todd clicked the fingers of his left hand. A tiny, perfect flame bloomed into life in the center of his right palm. It hovered there, steady and bright, without even a flicker.
Neil pushed away from the door, almost lunging himself at Todd. “Holy shit.”
Todd smiled, proud and a little sheepish. “I know it’s not much but… Meeks said it’s about control. Not power. Figuring out how to channel it, not let it just… explode.”
“Todd,” Neil said, and for a second it was all he could get out of his mouth.
Todd, Todd, Todd…
“That’s - ” Neil’s voice caught. He cleared his throat. “That’s incredible.”
Todd’s eyes moved between Neil and the flame still dancing in his palm, his face melting into an expression of pure wonder and something kicked low in Neil’s stomach.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Todd asked, eyes never straining from the blue flares.
Neil swallowed. “Yeah. Breathtaking.”
Neil should’ve known it was not going to be a good day the moment he woke up feeling calm.
He rolled out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweats, knowing that Charlie would surely drag him to training after breakfast. Which was fine. Todd and Cameron were spending their day in the mundane world and with Knox and Pitts still in Alicante and no active cases, training was pretty much the only thing left to do.
He was halfway to the kitchen, dreaming of coffee - maybe even a bagel with some spread cheese - when a voice cut sharp through the hallway;
“Neil.”
He froze. His back immediately straightening, years of training kicking in on autopilot. “S-sir.”
His father looked up from the notes he was holding, his face unreadable. “Neil, what did I tell you about dropping the formalities when it’s just the two of us?” his father snapped, more out of habit than actual irritation.
“Right. I’m sorry s – Father,” Neil corrected himself on the last second, the word feeling foreign and awkward on his tongue.
A sigh slipped out of his father’s mouth. His shoulders dropped slightly – almost imperceptibly – and for a moment, it looked like he might say something kind. Like he might apologize.
Which –
If his father had apologized, that would’ve been cause for real concern. Possibly even a full demonic possession – because Neil couldn’t think of another way his father would ever apologize to him.
“There have been some… developments in the Shadowhunter murder cases,” his father said, getting right to the point.
Neil’s pulse thundered in his throat. He clasped his hands behind his back to keep them still. “What kind of developments?”
“The Clave’s ordained squad has hit a wall.”
Neil shifted his weight between his feet. “What kind of wall?” he asked, even thought he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
“They have narrowed the suspects to a few warlocks. But the High Warlock of Boston won’t see them.” His father paused, brows pulling on his forehead slightly. “You still have a good rapport with him, right?”
Neil caught a full body flinch in the last second. He drew in a shaky breath, hoping it wasn’t too obvious. His mind immediately flashed back to the sound of Meeks’ door slamming in his face.
He thought he had a good rapport with Meeks. At least he used to have one. Clearly something had shifted. And Neil was going to fix it, but he needed time.
He opened his mouth, but his father kept going.
“Your ability to work with the Downworld is impressive, Neil.”
The words lodged like a dagger in between his ribs.
“You’ve always had a talent for navigating that balance. It’s not a skill most Shadowhunters have. But you do. It’s why I’ve always seen potential in you.”
Neil blinked, his fingers flexing uselessly by his sides. His hands had gone cold, heart slamming against his ribcage like it was looking for a way out.
I’ve always seen potential in you.
Always.
Seen.
Potential.
In you.
The words wrapped around his neck, the nooze tight enough to choke, before slithering down his chest, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, until breathing became a labor.
“I’ll schedule and appointment with the Inquisitor. Request for you to be reinstated to the case.”
Neil’s stomach flipped. “No, father –”
“You are the only chance we have at finding who’s killed those Shadowhunters, Neil,” his father said, taking a step closer, a hand coming to rest on Neil’s shoulder.
More.
Neil needed more of this.
More of the words, more of the casual praise his father was so willingly dolling out. The part of him that had clawed literal years for this moment was screaming.
More, more, more.
Your ability to work with the Downworld is impressive.
I’ll schedule an appointment with the Inquisitor, request for you to get back on the case.
Thud! Meeks door slammed in his mind again, loud enough to rattle his chest.
Neil jumped, rocking on the balls of his feet. “I – ” he licked his lips, tried again. “I don’t know if Meeks will agree to a meeting.”
His father studied him for a beat, then nodded as if Neil’s hesitation was just a tactical assessment. “You’ll find a way. You always do.” Another look. Measured. “You’ve earned his respect.”
Neil wanted to rip the words out of the air and stomp them to dust for how wrong they felt right now. He nodded, because it was the only thing he could do. His throat closed around a thank you that would never make it past his lips – and the guilt that followed right on its heels.
Before he could fall further into the spiral, his father added, almost absently, “Oh, I looked through the logs – you didn’t tell me Charlie’s family was visiting,” he said, frowning slightly. "I would like to meet with them."
Neil’s stomach dropped clean out of his body.
Charlie’s family – Todd, Cameron. Not Blackthorns. Definitely not cousins. And absolutely not ready for a meet-and-greet with Thomas Branwell.
“I – yes. I’ll arrange something,” he said, voice barely steady. His smile was a twitch, brittle at the edges. “They’re … resting right now. After the trip.”
His father nodded once.
“Let me know when they’re ready.” And just like that, he turned and walked away.
Neil had no idea how long he stood there, in the otherwise empty hallway, staring at the far wall. He was vaguely aware of the shake in his hands, and the potent despair swimming in his stomach, but time was an elusive thing.
Space was also elusive. One minute Neil was in the hallway, and then in the next he blinked and he was in the dinning area, sitting across from Charlie, who was giving him a worried look.
“You’re scaring me, Branwell,” Charlie said, over the rim of his coffee mug.
“Good, I shouldn’t be alone in this,” Neil murmured back.
Charlie frowned. “What happened?”
A humorless chuckle scraped out of Neil’s throat. “Nothing much. Ran into my father,” he gave a small shrug. Charlie’s frown deepened. “He told me how much he admires my work as a liaison for the Institute. Said he’d push for us to be reinstated to the murder case. Because Meeks’ doesn’t trust the Clave, but he trusts me.”
Charlie’s expression drained. “Shit.”
“I’m paraphrasing of course, but that was the gist of it. But that’s not all, it get’s better!” Neil’s grin was almost manic. “He checked the logs and he wants to meet your cousins.”
Charlie choked, nearly spit his coffee, and Neil nodded exaggeratedly.
“Yeah, appropriate reaction.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Charlie reached across the table, like he was going to put a hand on Neil’s arm – but stopped halfway through, let it fall back into his lap.
“I have no idea how to calm you down right now,” he sounded lost.
Neil laughed again, sharp and a little too bright. “Me neither.”
Charlie exhaled through his nose. Then stood. “Alright. Come on.”
Neil arched an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”
“To train. You’re spiraling. I’m frustrated. We’re good at hitting each other.”
Neil blinked, then, slowly joined him. “Yeah, okay. Let’s – let’s go beat the shit out of each other.”
Charlie smirked. “There’s the Branwell spirit.”
In the days that followed, Neil decided to completely ignore the reality of his situation, by focusing on the only thing that didn’t seem actively trying to kill him.
Todd.
Of course, Todd came with his own set of complicatios. One of them was the endless number of chaperons that were set on following him and Todd around whenever they dared think they could do something just the two of them.
“If you break a bone, you will foot his hospital bill,” Cameron yelled, cupping his mouth to make sure his voice carried all the way from them edge of the mats to the center were Neil and Todd were standing. “His insurance is shit and he needs both hands to write.”
Neil huffed, shaking his head. The corners of his lips twitched upward, despite himself. “Does he know you’re half-warlock?” he mock-whispered. “You can fix any bone with a click of your fingers,” he added, clicking his fingers as if to demonstrate.
Todd chuckled, head ducking forward. “Well, I’m not sure I can do it yet,” he admitted, looking up at Neil through his fringe, cheeks warm. “But I can always ask Meeks.”
Neil’s chest tightened for several reasons. A sharp twinge, right between his ribs going straight for his heart and stealing his next breath.
He shoved it down like everything else.
“Okay,” he said, forcing a smile, rolling his shoulders to relax his body, “c’mon, show me your stance. Let’s not keep our audience waiting,” he added, eyes flicking to where Cameron was still standing.
Todd nodded, moving to mimic what Neil had shown him earlier. His feet were too close together. His shoulders a little too tight. But there was a glint in his eyes, and Neil found himself staring for a second too long.
“Don’t look at your feet,” he said, when he caught himself.
Todd’s lashes fluttered. “I’m not,” he lied immediately.
Neil smirked. “If you say so… Try to push me off balance.”
Todd moved quickly enough to surprise both of them. His hands shot out, aiming for Neil’s shoulders, but he sidestepped easily, catching Todd by the wrist and pivoting just enough to send him spinning.
Todd turned back around, eyes wide, breath hitching.
“That was rude.”
“That was basic.” Neil grinned, pulse doing absolutely unreasonable things. “Try again.”
They went a few more rounds, all awkward shuffling and badly timed lunges, until Cameron rushed to them, when Todd found himself on the mat after a particularly sharp tackle. Neil stood there panting, as Cameron escorted Todd off the training grounds, an arm wrapped around his shoulders, furiously whispering something in his ear.
Of course, Cameron was not the only one set on interrupting them.
Neil was showing Todd the library. At least that’s what he’d told Todd they’d be doing. It wasn’t a lie, per se, they were in the library. But Neil had no intention of showing Todd around, he just wanted to get him to a particular section –
Aha!
“What’s this?” Todd asked, arching an eyebrow.
Neil, standing next to him, crossed his arms lazily over his chest, “Push the last book on the right,” he said cryptically, a little smirk playing on his lips.
Todd hesitated for a moment, brows furrowing. He then turned toward the bookcase, sucking his lower lip between his teeth and reaching for the book Neil indicated. The case shifted inward with a soft groan, revealing a dark hallway behind it.
Todd’s jaw unlocked, his lips parting in a silent ‘oh’. His eyes snapped to Neil, who smiled, swiping his hand in an inviting motion.
“After you.”
Todd stopped a couple of steps shy of the entrance. Neil ducked inside after him, making sure to close the entrance behind him. There were no windows in the room. Neil touched one of the many witchlights littering the walls, the small stone immediately pulsing underneath his fingertips, as it came to life. He walked around Todd, who looked like he was rooted in place, dropping himself on the worn out couch, making himself comfortable.
“What is this place?” Todd’s voice was soft.
“Our evil lair, of course,” he deadpaned. “Where Charlie and I plan to overthrow the Clave and install a demonic theater cabal.”
Todd’s eyes flicked to him, a small frown appearing on his forehead. Neil chuckled.
“It’s just a secret room,” he clarified. “Charlie and I found it when we were teenagers. There are many of them around the Institute.”
Todd took a minute, as if to digest the words, before giving him a nod. He slowly moved toward the bookcase, eyes running over the titles, hand suspended midair. Like he wanted to touch, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
Neil’s heart did a funny thing behind his ribcage.
“The books don’t bite,” he said, and he heard the soft snort coming out of Todd. “You can pick any one you like.”
There was a beat of silence, during which Neil studied Todd’s back – the slow relax of his shoulders, the way his spine curved when he leaned forward to read something, how his muscles moved underneath his shirt. He was halfway into cataloguing Todd’s vertebrae when -
“Are all the books in the library by mundane authors?”
“Ah, no. Outside of this room? I don’t think there’s a single one.”
Todd straightened his body, turned halfway, peering at him over his shoulder. “Why not?”
A sharp smile curled on Neil’s lips. “Shadowhunters are not big on mundane literature.”
Todd’s gaze squinted. “What’s different about this room then?”
Neil clicked his tongue, stretching a leg out, shifting more comfortably into the cushions. “The difference is I picked the books in this room.”
Todd’s brows shot up. He turned to the shelf again, this time reaching out without hesitation. His hand landed on a worn copy of Hamlet.
“Lots of plays,” he murmured. “You tend to quote Shakespear while vanquishing demons?”
Neil pulled a face. “We don’t vanquish demons,” he said, and Todd lifted an eyebrow. “We slay them!”
That earned him a chuckle, and a look so fond Neil felt it all the way to his soul.
“Uh, also,” he muttered, clearing his throat in what he hoped was an inconspicuous way, “quoting Shakespear during demon battling is a big no-no.”
Todd hummed, nodding. “Yeah, I get that.” Then, quieter. “You keep all your books hidden… Not even in your room, because I guess you’re not allowed to have them. It all feels so… strict. The Shadow world. All rules, and no breathing space.”
Neil’s smile dimmed. “We save lives. That’s the trade-off.” He paused, rubbing the side of his face. “But we still have hobbies, even if we need to keep them on the down-low. Charlie has his music. I’ve got my books and, well… whenever I manage to sneak out, the theater.”
Todd’s eyebrows shot up so far on his forehead they got lost behind a tuft of soft hair. “Charlie plays music?”
Neil nodded toward the armchair. A black saxophone case leaned against its leg, the brass catches glinting faintly in the witchlight.
“He’s not half bad,” Neil said. “Though don’t tell him I said that.”
Todd hummed again, softly. His fingers ran down the spine of the play in his hands. “This is nice.”
Neil’s chest squeezed.
Yeah, it really is…
The moment between them, suspended and delicate. The quiet stretched, soft and long, and he felt it again – that dangerous pull to close the space, to say something too much or do something too stupid. His body leaned, just a little -
“I knew I’d find you here,” Charlie’s voice cracked through the stillness like a whip. His eyes were wild, cheeks flushed, steps too fast.
The moment shattered. Neil flinched upright – for a completely different reason than he intended to a second ago. He took one look at Charlie and immediately knew something was wrong.
“What happened?” he asked, feeling the whirlwind of emotions filtering through the bond.
Charlie glared at no one in particular. “Carstairs is in the infirmary.”
Neil blinked. “What – they’re back from Alicante?”
Charlie didn’t answer immediately. His jaw worked, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. His eyes cut to Todd, who stood frozen near the bookcase.
“An hour ago,” he spat the words through his teeth.
“Did they get attacked? What happened?”
Charlie huffed, his fists curling again. “Penhallow cracked his ribs.”
Neil’s mouth opened and closed. “...What?”
Charlie shook his head. “They were sparring, and apparently trying to commit mutual murder while they were at it. Carstairs broke Penhallow’s arm, Penhallow gave him a concussion.”
“Is - is Knox, okay?”
“He’s in the infirmary,” Charlie repeated, tone clipped. “Penhallow fucked off. Chris is with him.”
Neil’s brows drew together. “Who’s Chris?”
Charlie’s expression darkened. “Penhallow’s cousin. Apparently, they knew each other in New York.”
Neil nodded slowly, parsing it. His chest still buzzed from the conversation with Todd, the emotional whiplash of it all making his head spin. Charlie was standing frighteningly still, jaw set in a way that looked painful. Neil could feel the rage simmer beneath his skin, radiating off him like a storm front.
Neil stepped in front of him, “Hey,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Do you – do you want me to go check on him?”
Charlie scoffed, loud and obnoxious, staring past Neil’s shoulder. “Why would I want that?”
Neil bit the inside of his cheek, didn’t say anything.
“So fucking stupid,” Charlie muttered under his breath, both hands going through his hair, grabbing at the short strands on his nape.
“Okay, why don’t you go cool off?” Neil suggested, grabbing his shoulders and forcing the eye-contact. “If anyone asks, I’ll cover for you. Just – go blow something up in the training room. Or… or if you want, we can leave here, and you can stay alone.”
Charlie looked at him, bit on his lip. “I’m fine,” he said, sounding not fine at all.
Neil nodded. “I know.”
His parabatai scoffed, but he was already backing toward the door. “I’ll go train because I want to, not because you told me.”
“Of course.”
The door swung shut behind him. Neil let out a long, long breath. When he turned, Todd was still standing by the shelves, watching him carefully.
Neil gave him a faint smile. “Sorry. That’s kind of… normal around here.”
Todd stepped forward, setting Hamlet gently on the nearest table. “No offense,” he said, “but your normal is exhausting.”
Neil couldn’t help it – he laughed.
But even when it wasn’t some third person set on interrupting them, things with Todd were still… complicated. In those times the complications came from Todd himself.
Like the time Neil took him to the gardens. It was the middle of December, but they were having an unreasonably sunny day and so Neil had decided to take him for a walk around to appreciate the fresh air.
Bad idea.
“How is everything in bloom?” Todd asked, eyes wide in wander.
Neil couldn’t help but stare.
He was standing a couple of steps ahead, looking up at a cherry blossom tree with his lips parted, cheeks pink from the cold air. His hair was all messy, ruffled up but soft looking, and his eyes – fuck his eyes -
“Magic.” Neil’s voice was soft.
Todd’s gaze snapped to him. “I can learn how to do this?”
Neil’s heart slammed against his ribs – stammering momentarily before going up double in speed.
You already know how to give life to things that should be long dead.
Neil nodded, slow and quiet. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure you will.”
Or that other time, at the weaponry. It was late, really late, and Todd should've returned home long ago. But Neil had been assigned cleaning duty – because there were still no active cases - and Todd had jumped at the opportuinty of going with him. They had spent the past hour in comfortable silence. Neil repeatedly swiping ichor of seraph blades as Todd sat beside him, watching.
“What would you do if you had a choice?” Todd’s voice cut through the quiet, soft but deliberate. “If you didn’t have to be a Shadowhunter.”
Neil didn’t look up. He rotated a blade in his hands, rubbed along the spine with a clean cloth, careful and slow. “You interviewing me or something?”
Todd smiled faintly. “Just curious.”
Neil glanced at him sideways, then returned to his task. “What do you do, again?”
“I write,” Todd said, resting his chin on one knee. “Articles, mostly. But I double in poetry, sometimes. I also help my favourite professor with his new book. It’s about identity in speculative fiction.” He tilted his head, eyes bright in the half-light. “Nice deflection, by the way. Now answer the question.”
Neil exhaled. Quietly. He took his time lining the blade back in its rack, fingers lingering on the hilt longer than necessary. He looked at Todd, who was staring at him like he was something worth looking at.
“I’d be a teacher,” Neil said, eventually. “In Alicante, at the Academy.”
Todd blinked. “Alicante as in Idris… so, you’d still choose to be a Shadowhunter?”
Neil shook his head, a little resigned, a little tired. “The problem’s not being a Shadowhunter,” he said. “I actually like it.” He picked up the next blade, looked down at his reflection in its silver gleam. “The problem,” he said quieter this time, “is not getting to choose what to do with it.”
Todd didn’t respond right away. His eyes flicked toward the blade in Neil’s hand, the silver catching what little light was left in the room.
“That’s kind of fucked up,” he said finally, his voice light, but not joking.
Neil huffed something like a laugh, low and self-deprecating. “Yeah. A little.”
And then there was that other time, when Todd had rendered him completely speechless for a full minute. Neil had been assigned patrol duty inside the Institute – not a real patrol, just a circuit of the upper floors to make sure no junior was trying to sneak into the weapons wing again. Todd had offered to come with, casual and off-hand and that’s how they ended up walking quietly side-by-side their steps echoing down the corridor.
“Charlie seemed to be in a mood,” Todd said, his voice light but laced with something curious.
Neil chuckled under his breath. “Charlie’s always in a mood.”
“Did something happen - ?”
“Not that I know of,” Neil said with a shrug. “He probably tried and failed to get Knox to spar with him. Has been doing that a lot lately.”
“Right…”
A pause stretched between them. And then -
“So, you’re adopted.”
Todd laughed. It was surprised and loud and it made Neil’s stomach twitch. “Wow,” he breathed, still laughing, “that was not smooth.”
Neil’s cheeks reddened.
“No really, have you considered moonlighting as a therapist?” Todd teased grinning. “You’d do a great job!”
“I just meant –”
“I know,” Todd cut him off, gentler now, his smile softening. “I’m just giving you shit because it’s funny.”
“Ah, I see how it is.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I remember you mentioning your adoptive parents were your biological relatives?” Neil asked, trying to keep his tone even.
Todd nodded. “Yeah, from my mother’s side. At least that’s what they told me.”
“And who was related to your biological mother?”
“My uh… my aunt,” Todd said, his voice cracking only slightly.
“Do you remember her last name?”
Todd’s lips pressed together in thought. After a moment he gave a little shake of his head, brows furrowing. “No, not really.”
Neil shrugged a shoulder, trying not to seem disappointed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s possible that even if you knew, it wouldn’t be the real one anyway. If they were trying to hide from the Clave, they could’ve changed it.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Todd glanced at him. “Do I get to ask a question now?”
Neil looked at him sideways, a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “I wasn’t aware we were playing a game… Sure.”
Todd didn’t hesitate. “Will you go out with me?”
Neil stopped walking. His breath caught in his throat.
He stared. Blinking once. Twice. “What?”
Todd bit his lip, trying not to smile, his eyes impossibly warm. “Would you like to go out with me? On a date?”
Neil blinked again. His heart was doing terrible, chaotic things in his chest. The hallway felt suddenly too narrow, the space between them thick with anticipation. His mouth moved before his brain did.
“But – why?”
This time Todd let the smile come freely. It bloomed slow and sure, unlike most of his smiles. “You’re cute,” he said simply. “And you look hot with a seraph blade in your hand,” he teased.
Neil might have actually blacked out.
Todd took a step closer, not enough to crowd him, just enough to be felt. “Also,” he added a little more softly, “you make the voices in my head quiet down.”
Neil felt like he’d been punched straight in the lungs. He was blinking too fast, his body not quite catching up with his brain. He wanted to say something clever. Something witty. But all that came out was :
“Yes.”
Todd’s smile widened, “Yeah?”
“Yes,” Neil repeated, firmer this time.
Todd’s smile threatened to split his face in half, wide and dimpled and so stupidly beautiful it knocked the breath right out of Neil’s lungs.
And then, naturally, the Institute’s alarm shattered the moment. A high-ptiched wail echoed through the halls, followed by a flash of red light racing along the corridor walls.
“Of course,” Neil muttered, already reaching for his stele.
Todd swallowed. “Do I still get that date?”
“There’s no way you’re getting out of this date, Anderson,” Neil said with a wicked grin. “Also, you’re jumping in on this one.”
Todd’s face paled. “What?”
“Oh, yeah. Welcome to the hunt, Shadowhunter,” he said, before grabbing Todd’s hand and forcefully dragging him down the corridor toward the ops center.
Notes:
There's a mention of an og character in this chapter when Charlie is talking to Stick. He brings up a Helen - that's Helen Blackthorn, she's the Head of the LA Institute and she's married to Aline Penhallow. Charlie and Helen are cousins, and so are Pitts and Aline. Because I said so.
Chapter 13: Glory and gore go hand in hand (Or; It’s a hell of a feeling though)
Notes:
Hello, nice people of the internet! I hope you've had a nice week so far - mine was better than the previous, thank the Angel! I know I've said it way too many times by now, but this chapter?? Easily my fav one so far! I hope you have as much fun readig it as I had writing it! Let me know your thoughts in the comments below, and I'll see ya next week!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Charlie was doing just fine, thank you very much. In fact, he was doing better than fine. He was doing… alright. Which is not technically better than fine, but it’s a synonym and – yeah, whatever.
Charlie was fine.
The training room was buzzing. Honestly, it was grating on his nerves. Still, he did nothing to drown it out, like put on his headphones or leave. No, he just sat at the bleachers, shoulders set tight, legs stretched out in front of him, like he was daring anyone to look at him funny.
There are too many fucking people in here.
Charlie groaned low in his chest. This shit always happened when Carstairs decided to put on a damn show. Everyone tripped over their own ass to watch Boston’s golden boy prove just how much of a pompous jerk he was. And tonight? Tonight, he was sparring with Chris Penhallow – New York royalty or some shit.
And because Shadowhunters were, by nature, nosy little bitches, the bleachers were full. Upperclassmen lounged along the back wall, leaning forward with their elbows on their knees like they were at the theater. Some of the younger trainees crowded near the mats, wide-eyed, whispering between themselves.
Charlie let another groan, rolling his eyes.
He was so over this already.
The match was evenly paced, if only because Carstairs was pulling his punches. Penhallow was good, there was nothing wrong with admitting that. She was objectively competent. Her form was pristine, sharp and deliberate. But every step she took looked choreographed. Even her fucking hair seemed to be in on the script, her braid snapping every time she landed a punch.
The crowd loved it.
Charlie – well, he’d seen better.
Because Chris Penhallow was good, but she was also boring. She fought like a textbook, like someone had given her instructions of what a hand-to-hand combat should look like, and she was executing them to a T. She was all clean angles and glossy follow-through, no doubt following some kind of diagram she’d memorized. Her movements lacked the instinct – the edge that made Carstairs so dangerous.
Now he – he didn’t just fight like a Shadowhunter. He fought like a damn force of nature; controlled, unpredictable, impossible to pin down.
Which made Chris, at least in Charlie’s humble opinion, the last person he should be sparring with.
And Carstairs obviously knew that. That’s why he was pulling his punches, letting her land a couple of good hits. Because Charlie refused to accept she actually managed to slip past his guard. He had to be letting her get those punches in. When she landed a kick to his ribs – the same side her cousin had cracked open not even a week ago – Carstairs grinned. Sharp. Amused. There was nothing surprised in his gaze, on the contrary he looked impressed.
Charlie’s fingers curled around the bleacher edge.
Five minutes later Chris found herself flat on the mat. She definitely looked surprised, chest heaving, her brows furrowing on her forehead. Charlie heard Carstairs laugh before stepping forward and offering his hand to help her up. Chris took it, breathless and flushed. He pulled her on her feet and didn’t move away, leaning in instead, to whisper something in her ear.
Charlie didn’t appreciate the way his stomach tightened.
Carstairs handed her a towel, and she twisted, trying to reach the middle of her back. He helped her, reaching around with one hand, toweling down the spot she was pointing at. It was barely a brush of fingers – it had the crowd at the bleachers going crazy, like he’d just proposed. Someone even whistled.
Charlie felt the bitterness spread through him like wildfire. He could do better than that. He could keep up better with Carstairs, even in his off days.
In fact, he had, multiple times. In the seven or some months that Carstairs had been in Boston the two of them had been each other’s sparring partner more often than not. Charlie knew the way Knox moved during a fight, he understood the rhythm of it like a music piece he’d written himself. Charlie was faster than Chris and definitely more willing to get close and press every single one of Carstairs’ weak points.
He could keep up. Chris was a performance. Charlie was a fight.
And the thought festered.
Before he knew it, he was standing. Shrugging off his hoodie, letting it drop to the bleachers behind him, and descending them two steps at a time.
The crowd hadn’t even settled from the last round. Carstairs turned slightly at the motion, towel still in one hand. Charlie didn’t stop walking until he was close enough to see the sheen of sweat on his skin.
“How about you take on someone who can actually keep up?”
Carstairs cocked his head on the side. Gave him a look. But Penhallow beat him to the punch.
“Now that’s not a very nice thing to say,” she said, her voice sugary sweet as she flicked her ponytail behind a shoulder. “I kept my own just fine.”
Charlie’s eyes momentarily found hers, giving her a sharp smile. “You and I have very different definitions of one keeping their own.”
Penhallow’s eyes narrowed, but before she could say anything, Carstairs interjected.
“I’ll fight you,” he said simply. “No need to go around being a dick about it.”
“Knox, don’t you think you should take two minutes?” Penhallow sounded almost worried and Charlie couldn’t help but roll his eyes.
“Oh, does our residential golden-boy need some time for rest and recuperation?” he snarked, arms crossing over his chest. “I thought you were above such human trivialities, Carstairs.”
That earned him a glare and a smirk that looked more like an excuse for Carstairs to show his teeth. “I said I’d fight you.”
“Knox –” Penhallow started again.
“I’ll be fine,” Carstairs cut her off. “Besides, this won’t last more than five minutes,” he added, dropping the towel.
Charlie had to fight the urge to lunge at him right then and there. He gritted his teeth, glared at them and then spun on his heel marching to the center of the mat.
“So, how do we do this?” Carstairs asked when he finally deigned to join him. “Blades? Sticks? –”
Charlie shook his head, cutting him off. “Hand to hand.”
Carstairs blinked at him. Just once. Then his smile slanted into something far too knowing, lips pulling, curling faintly around the corners. “Alright,” he murmured low, like it was only meant for the two of them to hear.
Charlie bounced on the balls of his feet. He did not like the look on Carstairs’ face.
The crowd around them had fallen quiet again, as If they were holding their breath waiting for the first punch. Even the usual jeering had dropped off, and Charlie’s annoyance spiked.
This is not a fucking show. It’s a reckoning.
They started in standard formation, because Carstairs was that boring and Charlie wanted to prove that he could beat him even when playing by the rules. Carstairs moved first gliding into motion like his body didn’t know how to not be efficient.
Charlie moved out of the way without thinking, all reflex and muscle memory from the many times he’d find himself fighting opposite Carstairs.
The first three exchanges were tight. Efficient. Calculated. Someone could call them clean enough to be taught in combat class.
Charlie hated it. He hated how Carstairs didn’t even look like he was trying. The way his expression had barely changed, the way he wasn’t winded at all.
He dropped low, swinging for Carstairs’ legs, and finally got him to jump back.
“You’re pulling your punches,” he snapped.
Carstairs’ lips twitched, but his expression remained unreadable. “Now, why would I ever do that? It’s not like you can’t handle me.”
It was condescending. It was sarcastic. It set Charlie’s blood on fire. With a low growl he surged forward, driving his shoulder into Carstairs’ chest – not hard enough to knock him down, but just so to force him off his rhythm. It worked. Sort of. Carstairs’ feet slid on the mat, but he caught himself immediately, spinning out of the grapple and driving his palm toward Charlie’s sternum.
Charlie twisted just in time. Still the hit landed on his side; he felt the sting bloom along his ribs.
Fuck.
They circled each other, like prey animals, waiting for an opening. Charlie broke first, launching forward. He went for a swift sequence of attacks – aiming high, low, high again, a succession of punches that most fighters would back away from.
Carstairs caught every hit.
Blocked two.
Deflected the third.
And when Charlie spun into a knee aimed at his gut, he caught that too. One arm looped around Charlie’s thigh, twisting at just the right angle to unbalance him. Charlie grunted as he hit the mat, but he rolled fast, using his momentum to push up and launch back at him.
Carstairs was ready for him.
Bastard always is.
They clashed again, completely dropping any semblance of form. Charlie could feel the sweat, trickle down his skin, making his eyes sting at the corners. His breaths were coming fast, punching out of his chest. They grappled, hand to forearm, palm to wrist. Bodies too close.
Knox shoved, but Charlie held on, bracing with his full weight – he was heavier, more grounded, and that was the one edge he had.
“You’re sweating,” Carstairs taunted, his arm pushing against Charlie’s collarbone.
“You’re gonna be bleeding soon if you don’t stop talking,” Charlie hissed back
A smirk tugged at Carstairs’ mouth, and he would’ve headbutted him for it, if the fucker hadn’t jumped out of the way like he’d read his mind.
Charlie hated him.
He hated how much space Carstairs took. How clean he always looked, even mid-fight. He was sweaty, but unlike in Charlie’s case, his shirt wasn’t sticking to him like second skin. His hair had fallen over his brow, but it didn’t look messy, just… intentionally tousled. The flex of his arm muscles was visible through the cut of his shirt every time he twisted. His jaw was pink from contact and his eyes –
Bright.
Daring.
Staring straight at Charlie’s soul.
Charlie punched harder. Started fighting dirty. He ducked when he should’ve dodged, aimed elbows when fists would’ve done, went for the ankle instead of the knee.
Carstairs blocked every single one of his attacks.
Not easily, but efficiently. And that was somehow worse. Because Charlie was keeping up. Every missed hit barely missed. Every grapple turned into another. Charlie was not falling behind.
It was close.
But Carstairs was better. And it became painfully obvious when he slipped past Charlie’s guard and took him down like it was nothing.
One move.
Just one.
A twist of his hips, his foot hooking around Charlie’s ankle, sweeping, and he was down. His back hit the mat hard enough to knock the air out of him. Carstairs followed, straddling his hips, one forearm braced against Charlie’s chest, pinning him like it was easy.
Charlie was breathless. Chest moving out of rhythm, galping down air.
He was pinned.
Fucking –
Knox’s breath crashed on his face. He was breathing hard as well, chest heaving with exertion, sweat dripping from his temple. Charlie tried to buckle against the hold and that’s when he noticed Knox’s thigh pressed between his legs.
“Say you yield,” Knox murmured, voice too close.
Charlie bared his teeth. “Fuck you.”
“Didn’t think you’d enjoy being manhandled this much, Blackthorn.”
Charlie snarled, lunging upward, but Knox just pushed him back down, forearm never leaving his chest, the pressure not enough to hurt – just to humiliate.
The crowd had gone dead silent.
Charlie's blood was boiling.
And then the alarm went off. A shrill, wailing scream. Red lights snapped to life along the walls, casting everything in sharp relief.
The spell broke instantly.
Carstairs pushed off him, so quickl Charlie wondered for a fleeting moment if he’d imagined him being there in the first place. He scrambled to his feet with the fluid ease of some trained all his life. Charlie sat up slower, breathing hard, his heart hammering behind his ribs. His palm slid across the mat, finding nothing for purchase.
The bleachers exploded into motion. Training was over.
Charlie had no idea how he ended up here.
One minute he was bursting through the ops center, alarms wailing, red lights blinking angrily, screamed commands filling the air. Charlie stood in the middle of the chaos, eyes scanning for the one person he always needed by his side in his kind of situation.
Carstairs was already at the front of the room, standing beside lieutenant Nolan, going off about tactical formations or potential blast radiuses or some other shit. Cartwright and Penhallow were flanking him, like knock-off bodyguards, smirking between themselves.
“Oh, don’t be upset, Knoxious,” Cartwright practically cooed, eyes twinkling with mischief. “We gotta keep an eye on you. Make sure you get out of his unscathed.”
“Yes, Ginny is so right! We need to deliver you intact for your date with Markus!” Penhallow gashed, grinning, all teeth and deep dimples.
Carstairs didn’t respond. Instead, he just glared at them, before resuming his conversation with Nolan.
Charlie rolled his eyes hard enough to pull a muscle. Right… Markus, the Clave guard. Carstairs’ dirty little secret, probably the reason why he’d been so distracted he let Penhallow close enough to crack his ribs the day they came back from Idris.
Unintentionally he gritted his teeth.
Great. Amazing. Fantastic … Love that for them.
He was probably about two seconds away from stabbing someone with a pen, when he caught sight of Neil slipping soundlessly into the room. Charlie immediately started toward him. He was halfway there when he noticed that Neil was dragging someone behind him.
“Are you out of your damn mind?”
Not the greeting he’d intended. But what was he supposed to say when Neil was dragging his half-warlock, panic-prone, not-technically-cleared-for-duty boyfriend into a room full of armed Shadowhunters ready for a mission?
Todd, for his part, looked incredibly out of his depth, fingers tightly wrapped around a blade that looked suspiciously like Neil’s.
“What?” Neil went for charming stupidity instead of answering Charlie’s question, his lips spreading into his trademark smirk.
“You can’t drag him into this,” Charlie hissed, eyes flicking to Todd who looked about ready to throw up.
Neil kept his eyes on Charlie, giving a small shrug. “Well, it would have to happen, sooner or later,” he said almost carelessly.
Charlie sputtered, mouth opening and closing without any words coming out of it. “Sure, maybe after he’s had some more training,” he managed finally.
“He’s going to be fine.”
“He’s going to impale himself on your seraph blade!” Charlie snapped, making Todd flinch.
“You’re being dramatic as always. Nothing wrong is going to happen.”
Charlie had to bite on his tongue to keep from saying something he might regret. He’d sooner get the Clave to actually give a shit about Shadowhunters dying left and right than Neil Branwell to listen to him. Charlie knew to pick his battles. Well, no, that was a lie – he loved picking all of the battles, but this particular one wasn’t worth it.
He'd just have to make sure to keep alive both his idiot parabatai, and the idiot’s boyfriend. Shouldn’t be too hard.
Charlie returned his attention to Nolan, wondering if maybe anyone would start acting like the person in charge and give them any directions when he noticed Penhallow – the original flavor, not the imported straight from New York model – standing rigidly next to Carstairs.
Which wasn’t unusual, they were like always standing way too close to each other, like they didn’t know what personal space meant. What was unusual though was the fact that Charlie couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen them together. It couldn’t have been the day of their sparring session turned mutual murder pact, that was like a week ago. And what was even more unusual was how Penhallow was currently ignoring Carstairs.
Pointedly. While Carstairs was trying to talk to him.
Which – bullshit. Absolute horseshit. Penhallow was the one who broke Carstairs’ fucking ribs, he should be the one groveling.
“Listen up!” Nolan’s voice broke like a thunderclap in the ops center. “There have been multiple demon sightings all over the city! The squads already in patrol have been notified and dispatched as for the rest of you –”
Charlie had no idea how he ended up here.
Okay, well. He did. Nolan hated him. That had to be it. There was no other reason why he’d been stuck in a team with both Penhallows, Cartwright, Knox fucking Carstairs, and, of course Neil. And by default – Todd.
So yeah, Nolan hated him, and that's how Charlie found himself walking through a barely-lit tunnel beneath the city, stepping over broken tiles and God-only-knew what else, following the tall-tale sounds of demons.
Charlie was bringing up the rear of the group. Easier to keep an eye on all of them this way. His gaze kept drifting to Todd who seemed to be breathing way too fast to count as normal. He was walking right next to Neil, their shoulders brushing every next step, but while Neil’s back was straight and relaxed, Todd’s shoulders were hunched, like he was trying to curl in on himself. His fingers were tightly clasped around the hilt of his loan blade, fingers turning white because of the pressure.
Charlie could practically taste the nerves rolling off him, and the tight buzz of panic he felt through the parabatai bond confirmed that Neil felt it too.
This is a mistake.
Charlie bit on his tongue. Swallowed his words and fastened his pace to keep up with the others.
It didn’t take much more walking for them to find the nest. The tunnel opened into a ruptured chamber, which looked like a collapsed subway platform. Everything was slick with ichor and feathers.
Of – fucking – course.
“Are those –” Cartwright cut herself off as one of the feather-winged-demons let a loud squawk.
“Halphas,” Penhallow-original-flavor muttered gloomily, spinning his daggers in his hands.
Halphas. Because Charlie’s life was and should forever remain, a shit show.
Shadows fluttered above, wings brushing the ceiling. At least a dozen Halphas hooted at once. Charlie flinched as the sound bounced of the walls, getting distorted, nightmarish. He wrinkled his nose as they walked even closer, the potent smell surrounding them like mist – sulfur and damp stone, metal and bile.
“Do you think that’s important?” Penhallow asked, but Charlie never got a chance to ask what he meant.
The next second another piercing shriek cut through the air, followed by a whoosh of wingbeats and a fuss of feathers. The demons dove all at once.
“Split!” Carstairs’ voice cut sharp through the chaos, already moving, arrows at the ready.
As Charlie fell back into step with Neil, Cartwright and Penhallow-number-two tore through the tunnel, a flurry of black leather and shining steel. Cartwright’s chakrams swept like silver moons through the dark, cutting down anything that stood in her way with deliberate ease. Her grin was almost as manic as her movements, a giggle escaping as she tore through the wing of a demon.
“I need you to focus, Gin!” Penhallow-number-two, yelled over the pandemonium of the tunnel. Gone was the syrupy sweet voice and the million-watt smile. She made a point of keeping to the sidelines of the fight, her eyes tracking every move, making surgically precise incisions when needed. All it took was a simple flick of her wrist and her throwing stars found their intended target. Every single time.
Charlie heard Neil’s silent grunt and he pulled himself back into their current fight. Parabatai instincts instantly snapping into place, they found themselves back to back, moving in sync, seamlessly. The rhythm between them was a living, breathing thing that needed no words to function. Charlie slashed left, Neil mirrored right. A Halpha dropped dead by Charlie’s boots, and Neil immediately spun them around, his blade already arching, catching the wing of another one.
Blade.
Dodge.
Block.
Blade again.
Charlie hadn’t meant to step out of formation. He hadn’t meant to push away from Neil and slice his way toward Cartwright who seemed to have attracted too much attention, taking on two Halphas on her own. He hadn’t meant to take that long to stab his blade on the underside of the pigeon-demon’s neck and carve it all the way around, but the screeching beast was slippery and Charlie had to put his back into it.
“Thanks,” Cartwright breathed, pushing some hair out of her face.
“No problem.”
Charlie had just gotten the words out, when he felt the tug on the bond. Panic coiled tight in his stomach, pulsing like a steady stream through the rune on his hip. He turned too fast and nearly caught a claw to the face – he ducked, drove his blade through the demon’s gut, feathers exploding everywhere. The tug on the bond became more insistent. Something was wrong with Neil. Charlie broke into a dead sprint, but he’d moved too far away, and now he couldn’t find him in the frenzy. Through a clearing in the bodies, Charlie saw his parabatai dropping to one knee, a Halpha bearing down on him from above.
“Neil -!”
Too far. He was too fucking far, there was no way –
Something whistled just above his head. Charlie’s step faltered, and he watched as a perfect arrow skewered through the Halpha’s throat, pinning it to the wall behind Neil like a grotesque art piece.
Fucking Carstairs, with his fucking arrows and – fuck. Focus, Blackthorn!
But the thought had been too little too late, because next thing he knew a Halpha was driving straight for his throat. Charlie pivoted, grateful for instinct and quick reflexes. But he wasn’t fast enough. The beak was too close to his shoulder. Charlie shut his eyes, bracing for the piercing pain –
The shriek of steel split the air and something whooshed past his cheek, embedding in the demon’s chest with a sickening squelch.
Charlie hissed under his breath. “Could’ve warned me!” he snapped.
“Could’ve moved faster,” Chris called back sweetly, already flicking another star. “Also, a thank you would’ve sufficed.”
Charlie pointedly didn’t thank her.
He was definitely going to kill someone when this mission was over.
He shouldn’t have heard it – the sound of a blade clattering against stone shouldn’t be audible over the havoc inside the tunnel. And yet.
Charlie’s head whipped toward the sound, and his stomach bottomed out. Todd was on his knees, his hands empty, scrabbing for his fallen blade. There were sparks, flaring at his fingertips, but they were nowhere close to being strong enough to cause any real damage, and the Halpha stalking him looked like it’d figured as much out as well.
It came down on him, talons glinting in the low light, beak open like a blade.
Charlie moved, but once again he was too far away. He heard Neil scream Todd’s name, felt his sheer terror crash into him through their bond.
Time seemed to freeze in the millisecond of the demon’s beak closing over Todd’s throat. It splintered into fractions and then then it shuttered.
And then Carstairs was there. Inserting himself in between Todd and the demon, appearing out of thin fucking air. He raised his bow, because the idiot insisted on fighting without a blade, the beast’s beak closed around the metal with a sickening crunch. Carstairs twisted his hold on it, yanking the demon’s momentum with him.
And then he caught a dagger mid-spin as it sailed through the air, driving it home on the side of the demon’s head with one clean motion. Penhallow’s arm was still extended in the throw, chest heaving, eyes locked on his parabatai. The demon crumpled mid-screech.
“That should be –” Cartwright started, breathless. She never finished her sentence.
The last remaining Halpha released the loudest howl yet, charging straight toward them. With a tired and exasperated huff, Penhallow snapped his wrist, his dagger impaling itself into the demon’s eye. Its crazy flight didn’t stop. It came down on them, a mess of feathers and talons, and blindly flapping wings.
They all dove for cover, landing on the stone floor. Charlie heard it hit against something at full speed. He pushed himself on to his elbows, only to catch sight of Penhallow’s face paling.
“Shit!”
It was the last thing Charlie heard. He saw Penhallow as he tried to move toward Carstairs, but they’d landed too far apart. Neil was beside him – thank the Angel - and Charlie instinctively grabbed at his arm. Todd was closest to Carstairs, and Carstairs was already shifting like he knew something was going to happen.
Charlie had no idea what.
Charlie had no idea what.
And then came the blast. White. Blinding. Pure. It tore through the tunnel, seared the edges of his vision, knocking what little air was left in his lungs. He felt himself lift – still clinging on to Neil with all his strength – his body pulled like paper in the wind.
The last thing he saw was a dark purple mist shooting out of chasm on the wall.
Then – nothing.
Knox was pretty sure he was supposed to have a body. Like, he was ninety percent sure about it. Problem was he couldn’t currently find it. He could feel his head throb, and he could tell that there was something warm and soft underneath him. But he had no idea where any of his libs were, or if his chest was still attached to the rest of -
“Erm, could you possibly move?”
Knox’s eyes snapped open, and he scrambled backward on his hands – thankfully still attached to the rest of him – like he’d touched live wire. His back hit a wall. “What the fuck?”
Todd pushed himself upright, coughing, a fist pressed against his chest. “I – I don’t – what happened?” he stammered, looking at Knox like he should be able to provide an answer.
Knox drew a deep breath, which shouldn’t have made his chest hurt, but it did. He swallowed a cough, and looked around the tunnel, assessing the situation. There were faint sounds from the others, as they slowly came to. Chris and Ginny were helping each other to their feet. Blackthorn was already seated, a trail of blood trickling down his temple, his hands firmly clasped around Branwell’s forearm. It was probably the only reason Branwell was still rooted to his place, because his eyes were tracking Todd’s every breath like he was a minute away from tackling him on the ground.
Pitts was the further. Lying on his back. Unmoving.
Knox’s stomach twisted, and he lurched to his feet without thinking, panic rising fast. “Gerard –”
He made it maybe three steps before the world snapped around him. It was as if gravity flipped directions, and Knox suddenly found himself being drawn sideways. A leash yanked too tight. He was mid-stride, when he felt the tug - sharp, unyielding. An invisible hook caught between his ribs ripping him laterally. Knox lost his footing, landing hard on his shoulder with a pained grunt.
He blinked.
And found himself face to face with a wide-eyed Todd, who looked equally mystified and like he’d been just wrenched by an intangible force.
“What the fuck?” Knox repeated, this time his voice both lower and darker.
Todd blinked at him. “Did you just – what just happened?”
Knox couldn’t bother wasting his breath on him. He was already getting back up, slower this time, careful. He looked across the tunnel. Pitts was stirring now – thank the Angel. Knox surged forward again, tentatively at first, more forcefully after taking the second step -
Snap.
The tether yanked him backward again. He slammed on Todd’s side. He yelped and Knox swore through his teeth, something vile and dark.
“I think I’m going to kill someone.”
“Are you stuck to me?” Todd asked, voice rising in a breathless, high-pitched tone that promised nothing good.
Knox pushed off him again. “I’m not stuck to anyone.”
Todd frowned at him, his gaze falling from Knox’s face to his torso, and then flicking to his own body. Knox saw the way his eyes widened and he already knew he was going to hate whatever was going to happen next.
And he was right – like always.
Todd reached to the empty space between them, fingers shaking as they wrapped around a thin, pulsing thread of magic. Travelling from one ribcage to the other.
Fuck me.
“Why is there a line between us? Why is it glowing?” Todd’s voice cracked, a noise that sounded too much like a whimper coming out of his mouth. “Knox – Knox, what is that –”
Knox pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes falling close. “Shut up.”
“Is this magic? Is it – is it a curse?” Todd was panicking in earnest now. His breaths coming out fast and punchy, his chest moving too fast. “Oh my God, it is, isn’t it? It’s a curse! Are we dying? Is this going to –”
“Nobody is dying!” Knox snapped, effectively shutting him up. He drew a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. To focus.
Truth was, he had no idea if they were dying or not – they probably weren’t, but still, he couldn’t know for sure. But he also couldn’t entertain that idea, and he couldn’t have Todd speaking such things into the universe. He needed to get Todd’s anxiety under control.
“You’re not dying,” he said, pinning his gaze into Todd’s and willing him to listen. “You’re just – annoying.”
Which was a mean thing to say, but Knox was close to the end of his rope and Todd was not making this easy.
“I’m not – okay, okay, maybe I am,” Todd relented, tugging his knees up like a closed-off body stance might help put some distance between them. “But I didn’t mean to do anything! I swear – I didn’t mean to-”
Knox groaned. “Todd, breathe.”
As if trying to prove a point Todd did the exact opposite. He choked on nothing, his palm pressing against his chest as he coughed, chest heaving. Knox swore through his teeth, counted to five and then dropped to a crouch, hands bracing on his knees.
“This is the opposite of breathing,” he noted, unhelpfully. Todd tried to glare at him, but his eyes were red and watery and the look lacked any heat it might have originally packed. “Okay, I need you to focus. Can you try to do that?”
Todd shook his head no. Knox had to bite on his tongue to keep from snapping, again.
His eyes fell on the thread of magic still hanging between them. Cautiously he let a finger wrap around it. The string pulsed, warm, bright and alive, and Knox’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked at Todd who was still trying to control his inhales, and slowly guided the alive thing tethering them to each other into Todd’s hands.
“Try to breathe every time it pulses,” he instructed.
It worked slowly, like thawing ice. Each inhale was stilted at first, then a little smoother. Todd’s shoulders stayed tense, but his hands stopped shaking. The glow from the thread didn’t dim, but it steadied, syncing up with the rhythm of Todd’s breathing – and maybe Knox’s too. He didn’t move from his crouch, just stayed still and watched, jaw clenched throat dry.
After a while he exhaled slowly through his teeth, voice flat. “This is so going to get us in trouble with the Clave.”
“Knox, you're not helping.” That was Neil, sharp and concerned. He’d dropped down next to Todd without Knox even noticing. “Are you okay? Todd, are you okay? What’s – ” His voice faltered when he saw the tether. “Shit.”
Todd made a high – pitched noise that might have been a sob.
Blackthorn scoffed, moving closer to them but still keeping his distance. “Baby warlock learned a new trick, did he?”
“Charlie, not now,” Neil hissed, kneeling closer to Todd and glancing at the glowing thread between them with a frown.
“Why the hell not now?” Blackthorn snapped. “You shouldn’t have –”
Knox tuned them out, because across the tunnel he felt Pitts’ gaze turn on him.
“Ger?” he tried, voice too tight. Pitts probably hadn’t meant to be caught. He looked away without saying a word. Something in Knox’s chest grew tight.
“Oh, good,” Blackthorn drawled. “Parabatai drama, just what we needed.”
The thing in his chest grew vines, slowly wrapping around Knox’s lungs, squeezing uncomfortably.
“Charlie,” Neil warned again.
“I swear to the Angel, Branwell, if you say my name one more time –”
“Guys!” Todd’s voice pitched up sharply. “I think the thread is glowing brighter!”
Knox carefully touched the gleaming string. He gave a soft, experimental tag. The hook in his chest pulled, the thred snapping taut again, dragging him just slightly closer to Todd.
This is officially a waking nightmare.
They were in the library, going through every book available to them that had even the closest thematic proximity to what they needed to figure out.
Useless.
Knox didn’t have time for this. He had other things to worry about. Important things. Like the ritualistic murders of three Shadowhunters, which – last time he checked – was a slightly higher priority than figuring out why some glittery magical tether was trying to fuse him to the personification of a panic attack.
He was so close he could almost taste the answer. Well – relatively close. He had ruled out every book about demonic and Nephilim sigils – which were the only books he actually had access to. But it was progress… somewhat. Knox knew he’d seen those runes before. And he was going to remember where. He just needed a little more time for research, that was all.
A little more time alone. Away from everyone. Just – a minute to think!
Instead, he was at the Institute’s library, going through a huge book on warlock curse diagnostics, while magically chained to a panic attack with legs. Todd was sitting crisscrossed on the floor next to him, talking a mile a minute asking him stuff about anything he could think of.
“Knox what’s the difference between demon and Nephilim sigils?”
“Are demons, like, literally from hell?”
“Is Hell… hot? And if so, does that mean Heaven is cold? Wait – is there a Heaven?”
And Knox understood, okay? He got it. It was a coping mechanism. Fine. Good for him. Knox could respect that.
But also, shut up.
Across the room, Ginny and Chris were gossiping between themselves in hushed voices. Whispering, giggling, flipping pages just loud enough to be pretending to help with the research. Knox had no idea why they insisted on staying, especially when it was clear they had no intention of helping.
Not that they were the only ones.
Blackthorn had been pacing since they got there. Like an agitated predator in need of elusive prey. He looked like he wanted to hit something but couldn’t quite decide what – or who.
Knox had half the mind to punch him just to get him out of the difficult position.
Branwell, to his credit, was probably the only one doing some actual research, while also hovering over Todd like an overprotective bodyguard.
And then there was Pitts.
Pitts who looked like he was dragged in there against his will.
Pitts who hadn’t looked at him once.
Which was fine. It was great, even. It was – whatever.
Knox had told himself he wasn’t going to bring it up. Not here, not in front of everyone. He wasn’t that emotionally unstable. But then he turned a page and found himself staring at the same sentence five times in a row and –
“Are you going to keep pretending we’re fine?”
The air inside the room stilled. Pitts didn’t look up.
And that simply wouldn’t do. Because, what was that shit? They didn’t do this! Sure, they didn’t do much talking, but that was because they usually didn’t need to. They got each other without words. Talking was pedantic, something they did because they enjoyed listening to each other, not because they needed words to communicate.
Pitts actively ignoring him? Knox had never experienced that ever before in his life. It threw him off balance, and he didn’t particularly enjoy it.
“I’m serious,” he said, sharper this time. “You broke my ribs. I got over it. What’s your excuse?”
Knox didn’t miss the way Blackthorn seemed to tune into the conversation, head twisting so fast he nearly snapped his own neck.
Pitts let a breath slowly out his nose. “This isn’t the time.”
Knox’s laugh was short and sharp. “It’s been a week. When exactly would be a good time? After your next attempt to rearrange my internal organs?”
Ginny made a low whistle. “Should we clear the room, or…?”
“Hush, this could be my new favorite reality show,” Chris chastised her, and Knox shot them a withering glare before refocusing on Pitts.
His parabatai didn’t respond. He went back to his notes, posture tight, jaw clenched.
It was possibly the worst thing he could’ve done. It landed like a punch in the face, and if he wasn’t sitting, Knox would’ve staggered backwards. Because –
What the fuck?
What the hell was wrong with him? Since when they couldn’t even look at each other? Knox had no idea how he was supposed to respond to this version of Pitts – the version that shut him out. A version of Pitts that wouldn’t even give him a glance. It wasn’t just the silence, it was the absence. Like something had been ripped out of place, and the empty space it left behind echoed.
Knox’s stomach knotted painfully, and he had to stop himself from doubling over in his chair. Across the room he saw Pitts flinch, his hand pressing against his lower abdomen like he was hurting. But he didn’t look up. He didn’t try to talk to him.
The vines that had taken residence in Knox’s chest cavity tightened around his vital organs, threatening to choke him from inside out.
He was about to say something incredibly stupid, when Blackthorn stepped in.
“This is what happens when you drag civilians into combat,” he said, angry eyes already fixed on Neil. “Your boy-toy set off a curse and now we’re stuck in a hostage situation.”
Knox felt his irritation spike, “Todd didn’t activate the curse. I doubt you even notice the vault before the demon crashed on to it.”
“None of us noticed the crack until it was too late,” Neil interjected calmly, trying to play peacekeeper. “Let’s try to not turn on each other, yeah?”
“I’m not turning on anyone! I’m not even blaming Todd!” Blackthorn snapped. “I’m just saying –”
Knox let a scoff essentially cutting him off. It was much easier to unleash his frustration on Blackthorn than to pretend the silence between him and Pitts wasn’t killing him, so he focused on doing that.
“You’re always just saying,” he muttered. “Maybe you should just shut up.”
Blackthorn turned, eyes flaring. “You want us to finish what we started, Carstairs? Cause I’m definitely up to kicking your ass again.”
A memory of their spar session, of him gripping Blackthorn’s thigh – of heat and breath and bruises – flashed across Knox’s brain, causing his skin to break into goosebumps. He forcefully shoved it away.
“Cute,” he said dryly. “From what I remember you ended up pinned underneath me. Not much ass-kicking that way, is there?”
“Okay,” Neil exhaled loudly, cutting off whatever Charlie was about to say. “I’m sending Meeks a fire message. We’re not going to figure this out on our own, we clearly need his help.”
On the other side of the room, Pitts remained still. Silent. Unreachable.
Knox pretended it didn’t hurt.
The door to the High Warlock’s penthouse opened before they got a chance to knock. He simply stood there, barefoot, a loose silk pair of pants resting low on his waist, hugging his hips. He had a wine-red robe on, hanging open over a sleeveless black t-shirt, his glasses resting on top of his head, instead of on his nose.
Knox briefly wondered if they’d maybe caught him in the middle of personal time, when he remembered that this time Branwell had actually asked for permission before they showed up.
“Hello, sunshine,” Meeks all but purred, his lips twirling into a smile as he looked at Todd. “I hear you once again found yourself in a predicament.”
Todd’s face fell even more – which Knox didn’t think was possible. “Hey,” he muttered, awkward and forlorn like he’d misheard Meeks’ greeting for a tell-off.
“Now, now, puppy, don’t make that face,” the warlock said in an overly sweet voice. “I do enjoy all the hardships you present me with.”
Todd didn’t say anything to that, his cheeks turning slightly pink. Meeks stepped forward. Reaching out – not to touch, just to hover a hand beside Todd’s cheek, like checking for fever. “Still too pale,” he murmured. “You’ve been anxious. You’re holding it behind your ribs. Tight and shallow. Have you been eating?”
“I – what? I mean – yeah, sometimes –”
Meeks clicked his tongue and dropped his hand. “You’re going to give me an ulcer one of these days. C’mon, get inside. I made tea.”
Knox watched the bizarre interaction, making sure to keep his expression neutral. He knew Todd and Meeks had formed a sort of bond – Todd had spent the past two weeks going over to Meeks’ house for magic training at least every other day – but he had no idea what that bond looked like.
He certainly hadn’t thought it would look like this.
“Well, well, look who finally came back from Alicante,” Meeks went on, his gaze sliding over to Knox. He didn’t miss the way the warlock eyed his torso, specifically the left side of his ribs. “My, oh my, look at you. Such a pretty face.”
Knox blinked. Opened his mouth, but his voice cracked before he even started forming any words. Behind him, Blackthorn let an indecipherable kind of noise, something between a groan and a dry heave.
Knox tried to recover. “I’m not – I mean, I don’t – Thank you?”
Meeks chuckled, low and dangerous. “You’re welcome, Pretty-boy,” he said, his smile turning sharp. He stepped on the side, opening the door wider for them to get through.
“Your note left a lot to the imagination, Neil Branwell,” he said, when they had finally all settled inside the living room, the door closing softly with a wave of Meeks’ hand. “You spoke of a curse, but you were otherwise cryptic.”
“Right,” Neil who hadn’t sat down, began pacing in front of Knox and Todd who were sitting close together on the couch. “We were on a hunt – Halphas. Actually, there were multiple demon sightings all over town –”
“I was informed of the fact,” Meeks cut him off, lounging languidly on a plush armchair, a martini materializing in his hands.
Neil stared at him for a moment, before nodding. “Right, yes,” he muttered, a hand going through his hair, making it stick in odd angles. “We were in a tunnel. There was some sort of an open space, a – a collapsed subway platform, I think. There was a nest of Halphas.”
Meeks visibly shuddered, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “Hideous creatures.”
Knox couldn’t help but agree.
Neil nodded as well. “Yeah, they are. Okay, so, we were there and there was – there was a vault in the wall. Well, there was a half-collapsed wall, and there was a vault behind it.”
Meeks sat forward in his seat, leaning with his elbows on his knees. “Were you by any chance anywhere near the Central Library?”
“Uh,” Neil looked around, catching Blackthorn’s gaze who gave him a shrug.
“Yes,” Todd and Knox said simultaneously. Knox refused to look at him, despite feeling Todd’s gaze on the side of his head.
“Why is that important?” Neil asked.
Meeks downed the contents of his drink in one swift swing, before pushing against his thighs to stand up. “Because I think I know what happened.”
“Care to enlighten us?” Blackthorn asked dryly, when Meeks didn’t elaborate.
“I would love nothing more than to keep you in eternal suspense, sweetheart,” Meeks flashed his teeth at him.
Blackthorn squared his shoulders in the tall-tale way he did when he was gearing up for a fight. Neil not so subtly positioned himself between the two of them, giving his parabatai a serious look. Blackthorn huffed but fell back.
Satisfied Meeks walked over to where Todd and Knox were sat. He stopped closer to Todd, giving him a soft smile. “You do know how to attract all kinds of disasters, don’t you, pup?”
Todd flushed. “I didn’t mean to –”
“Oh, darling, I’m not judging. I’m not a Shadowhunter,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Okay, sit back and relax, this is not going to hurt.”
That sentence did not sat particularly well with Knox. Nor did the way Meeks snapped his fingers, purple sparks flying across his fingertips.
“What are you doing?”
“Relax Pretty-boy,” he said, turning to look at him. “No need to be so serious all the time. Though, I’ve got to admit you pull of the brooding and noble thing almost perfectly. It’s like someone carved you out of unfinished apologies.”
From the corner of his eye Knox saw Neil pushing Blackthorn backward. He blinked, refocused on Meeks who was now circling around them. A hand sparkling with purple sparks came over his head, and Knox forced himself to not flinch.
“You’re very still. That’s usually dangerous in a person.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t get defensive on me, Knox Carstairs,” Meeks spoke his name like a secret. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing. Still waters always run deep, after all.”
“I don’t see what any of this has to do with anything,” Knox said, trying to keep his voice even. “I’m here because I’m literally cursed, not to get psychoanalyzed.”
“Ah, mon attrayant garçon,” Meeks said sweetly, but there was a grave undercurrent in his voice that made Knox’s stomach twist. “Aren’t we all?”
For the first time in days Knox’s parabatai rune buzzed. Pitts was standing as far away from him as possible, but he was still in the same room, and he was watching them. A strange flicker crossed his face – barely perceptible if you didn’t know him.
Knox did.
He tracked it like instinct. The clench of his jaw. The drag of his breath. Pitts never met his gaze, but he didn’t turn away either.
And then Blackthorn decided he was done beating around the bush. “Can we please get to the part where you diagnose the curse and stop flirting with the cursed idiots?”
Meeks turned around, slowly and deliberately, as though he was just now acknowledging Blackthorn’s presence in the room. “Do you maybe want a repetition of our previous interaction? I do love the sight of my door closing on your face.”
“Look, we’re here for your help, and –”
“I do wander, thought,” Meeks cut him off, tapping a finger against his lips. “Why are you always so prickly when I flirt with Pretty-boy over here? You wanna share your thoughts with the class?”
“Got nothing to say,” Blackthorn spat through clenched teeth.
Meeks hummed. “Yeah, I guessed so.”
Blackthorn opened his mouth to fire back, but Neil interjected before things got out of hand. “Can you help them?”
The High Warlock blinked, as if the question had taken him by surprise. “Of course I can.”
He flicked his fingers again, a ripple of magic washing over Todd and Knox. The tether flared bright for a moment, vibrating like a string plucked too hard.
Meeks hummed again. “Ah,” he said, voice dropping into something silkier. “Just as I had imagined. This is a proximity curse, but not just. It’s an emotional resonance tether. The magic is feeding on your inability to healthily communicate,” he said looking directly at Todd, then at Knox.
“Wait, wait, so I just – I have to talk?” Todd pipped up. “About my feelings?”
“Precisely.”
Todd made a small, strangled sound.
“Don’t worry, pup,” Meeks added with a wink. “You’re the emotionally competent one.”
“Can we please drop the ‘pup’ nickname?” Todd muttered, hiding his face in his hands.
Knox looked at Meeks like he’d grown a second head. “He’s the emotionally competent one? He had a panic attack fifteen minutes ago!”
“Yes,” Meeks said expression deadpan. “And he owned it. You, on the other hand, are a walking repression factory,” Meeks flashed him a smirk that was entirely too sharp. “Anyway, the bond won’t break until both of you are emotionally vulnerable.”
Todd made another pitiful sound, his wide blue eyes turning to Knox before flicking to Meeks. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but then he closed it without a word coming out.
Knox huffed.
When you need something done…
“Alright, Todd, I don’t know you that well –”
“Oh, no, Pretty-boy, nah, stop. I guess I didn’t make myself clear. The bond is not about the connection you have with each other. It’s feeding on your feelings of failure regarding your strongest current relationship.”
Todd flinched. Knox just stared.
“Right, okay. Any time you feel ready,” Meeks said, clapping his hands and returning to his armchair. He snapped his fingers again and in the next blink a new Martini was in his hand.
Knox must’ve dissociated at some point, because one minute he was staring at the floor, Todd curled on the other side of the couch, nursing a cup of tea that Meeks had summoned for him, and then suddenly, Todd was still in his seat, but Neil was kneeling in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” Todd’s voice sounded wet.
Neil reached over with his hand, but comfort was not something taught in Shadowhunter Academy, so he unceremoniously let it fall by his side again.
“Todd,” he said, the name coming soft as a prayer out of his mouth. “You’ve nothing to be sorry about.”
Todd shook his head, shoulders curling in. “No, I should’ve told you. I wasn’t ready, and I knew I wasn’t ready, and I – I –”
“I didn’t give you much of a choice on the matter, did I?” Neil interrupted, quiet but firm. “I just dragged you along. I didn’t ask.”
Todd looked down at him, lashes stuck together, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears. “You shouldn’t have to. I should be able to do this. I should –”
“Todd, you’ve known you’re a Shadowhunter for two weeks,” Neil said, stunned. “How – why would you think you should be able to do this? Shadowhunting is not something you learn over night!”
“But you thought I could do it,” Todd muttered, voice small.
And just like that Neil deflated, shoulders dropping, his entire body moving forward like he wanted to collapse on Todd.
“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” Neil said. “I shouldn’t have put this kind of pressure on you. I was just so excited because –” he cut himself off, cheeks turning pink “ – well, you know.”
Todd offered him a watery, crooked smile. “Yeah. I know.”
“This is nauseating,” Blackthorn quipped, standing next to the window, sounding truly appalled. He looked like he was about to crawl out of his own skin just to escape whatever was happening in front of him.
“That’s what genuine vulnerability does to emotionally constipated Shadowhunters,” Meeks said without missing a beat, still sipping his Martini.
Knox snorted before he could stop himself. Which he immediately realized was a mistake.
He sat up straighter on the couch, spine stiffening. His jaw locked. “Don’t.”
Meeks arched an eyebrow, as if to say don’t what?
Knox bristled. He refused to look at Pitts. He was not going to do it.
Pitts, of course, still hadn’t moved from where he stood near the bookshelf. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.
Knox glanced at the tether. Still glowing. Still attached to his sternum. Still binding him to Todd, who now looked thoroughly wrung out and emotionally spent. And yet… the thread shimmered again.
Waiting.
“What’s wrong, Carstairs?” Blackthorn spoke up, because of course he would. “Afraid of your feelings?”
Knox ignored him. “But – the curse should be broken. Todd already had his emotional crisis. That was the point.”
“Was it?” Meeks asked lightly. “Because the magic is still going strong, so there must be more to it.”
The golden thread flickered again, like it was mocking him. Knox gave it a small tag. It pulsed in his hand. His gaze flicked to the people strewn around the room, watching him.
He’d rather be attacked by demon pigeons again.
Knox stood up. Took a careful step toward Pitts, expecting to feel the thread pulling at him. But it didn’t. It gave him some leeway, stretching, but not breaking. Knox drew a deep breath, his eyes locking on his parabatai.
Pitts was already shaking his head. His arms were still crossed over his chest. He looked like he was about to bolt. Knox swallowed thickly, throat like sandpaper, and he took another step forward. Pitts twitched, foot shifting back before he remembered there was no room behind him for him to run.
“You don’t hate this more than I do, so just stand still, Gerard,” he snapped voice cracking under the weight of everything he was feeling.
Pitts’ back straightened.
The vines in Knox’s chest slowly wrapped around his neck, forming a perfect noose. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. The words scrapped his throat in their way out like they didn’t want to be spoken. “I never had you ignore me before and I don’t – “ he faltered, jaw locking before forcing it open again. “I don’t like it.”
The silence that followed was brutal.
Knox could feel everyone’s eyes on him. It made his skin crawl. It made him want to melt against the hardwood floorboard of Meeks’ penthouse. And yet with every new word out of his mouth, the thread let him get closer to Pitts. Like some perverse display of reward.
“It feels wrong,” Knox started again, making sure to keep his eyes only of Pitts’ face. “It feels like – like I can’t be me without you, which is probably the reason why my parents never wanted me to have a parabatai.”
“Probably,” Pitts said dryly, but his lips twitched.
Knox forced a breath through his nose. His ribs felt too tight. “I don’t like this – this distance. I don’t know how to… I don’t want to get used to it. So, if you hate me for pushing too hard or not pushing hard enough or whatever it is I did – fine. It’s fine, I’m sorry, okay? I’ll apologize. I’ll keep apologizing.”
Another breath. Another step.
“Just – just don’t stand there and refuse to look at me like our bond means nothing.”
Like I mean nothing.
“I never said that,” Pitts’ voice was barely above a whisper. Unlike Knox his eyes kept flickering around the other people in the room.
“Then talk to me,” Knox said, quieter. “Say something. Say anything, Ger.”
The nickname sounded wrong in the conversation they were having. Too intimate. Too raw. Knox was the only person allowed to call him that. They were seven the first time he’d done it. No one had ever called Pitts anything other than ‘Gerard’ before then. But Knox – Knox had said Ger like it was something sacred. Like it was his.
“I can’t do this,” Pitts muttered. “Not here.”
“Yeah,” Knox hadn’t meant for the word to sound quiet as bitter as it did. “Well, I didn’t get a say either.”
It was a simple enough statement. But it was true; Knox wasn’t asked if he wanted to be cracked open while standing in a room full of people, and yet here he was. And the truth of it suddenly seemed to land on Pitts.
His expression fractured – for just a blink. But Knox caught it.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Knox had never heard his best friend’s voice so soft, so shaky before. It made the vines around his neck squeeze tighter. His whole body wanted to either sit down or break something.
“I know,” he said. “But you did. And that’s okay, Pitt’s that’s okay. I forgive you.”
Pitts stepped forward so fast it startled him. “No. Don’t say that. You already apologized when you shouldn’t have. This is all my fault. My guilt.”
“You didn’t spar alone,” Knox reminded him, shaking his head. “I broke your arm. I should’ve stopped, I should’ve known –”
“You did know, though,” Pitts cut in. “You tried to stop me. You tried to talk to me. But I didn’t – I didn’t want to be stopped. I wanted you to hit me, because I thought it would make me feel better, and when you didn’t, I –” Pitts bit on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. “I would’ve killed you. If you hadn’t broken my arm, I would’ve tried. Thank the Angel you’re stronger than I am.”
Knox’s breath shuddered. “I am not.”
“Yes, you are,” Pitts said, voice firm. “Why do you always do this? Why do you - ? You are the better fighter between us.”
“Well, I have to be.”
Pitts paused. Stared at him.
“Still?” he breathed after a moment. “After everything I did, Knox? Still?”
Knox didn’t hesitate. “Always.”
The curse hummed.
Faintly pulsing. Still very much present.
Knox closed the remaining distance between them. He rested a hand lightly over Pitt’s heart, feeling the beat under his palm. His fingers clenched into a soft punch, and he tapped lightly against Pitts’ ribs.
“Every breath in and out,” he murmured. “That’s you and me. Always.”
The silence that followed felt suspended in amber. Knox could feel the string of magic, still connecting him to Todd, growing laxer, vibrating softly like it was humming its approval.
Still, it didn’t snap.
Knox’s brows pinched together. His jaw clenched. “Seriously?” he muttered under his breath. “What more do you want from me?”
The question wasn’t for Pitts. It was for the fucking magic. But his parabatai answered any way.
“Every breath in and out,” he said, steady now. “Always.”
The tether flared, gold and bright. Todd’s breath caught. Meeks shifted, eyes narrowing slightly – studying the magic, reading the shape of it. The shimmer flickered minutely.
And then it held.
Knox was one second away from tearing his hair out.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Glared at the strand of magic shooting out of his body, then looked up at Pitts. The parabatai rune warmed along his side. That subtle buzz – the first time he’d felt in over a week – crackled up his ribs. That was Pitts reaching out letting him know it was okay.
Knox swallowed thickly.
They were okay.
Which meant…
His eyes snapped to the glowing strand his stomach dropping to his knees.
“No,” he whispered, too quiet for anyone but himself. “No, no, no.”
No, no, no, no – because if he and Pitts were okay, if the curse wasn’t waiting on Pitts anymore then –
Then it was waiting for –
Knox’s eyes cut across the room before he could stop himself only to find Blackthorn already watching him. Studying him. His eyes weighing heavy on Knox’s fucking soul.
No this was not happening.
It was not.
Nah.
Knox’s fingers curled into his palms. “Absolutely not.”
He took a step back. The tether hummed.
“Uh,” Todd said, voice thin. “Why is it still glowing?”
“Technical delay,” Knox muttered, earning a raised eyebrow from Pitts. “It’s a glitch.”
“It’s magic,” Todd pointed out.
“Exactly. Magical glitch.”
From somewhere behind him Meeks made a noise that sounded suspiciously like he was choking on laughter. Knox ignored him.
“Knox…” Pitts said softly, and Knox couldn’t even bask in the fact that Pitts spoke his fucking name for the first time in a week.
He shook his head.
No.
No.
He’d rather spent the rest of his days tethered to Todd than speak another word of whatever that was. Whatever the curse thought was between him and Blackthorn. Let the magic win, Knox didn’t care. He wasn’t doing this.
Not here. Not now. Not ever.
Knox gritted his teeth. “Guess it’s broken enough,” he said, glaring down at the shimmering thread, daring it to defy him.
For a moment no one moved. The entire room held its breath and Knox had a silent stare off with a sentient piece of magic. And then the tether shimmered one final time – and went out like a breath.
Knox couldn’t sleep.
Which shouldn’t be surprising after the day he’d had. His stomach was still in knots, his heartbeat just slightly more exhilarated than normal. Like he was still alert. Like he was still waiting for the second shoe to drop.
There was no way he was getting any sleep that night.
At first, he told himself he was going to continue his research. He was so close. And since some peaceful slumber was out of the question, he was going to pour over his notes. Figure out what he was missing. But five minutes in, he’d realized his brain couldn’t retain a single piece of information.
He still felt… scattered.
That’s how he ended up here.
Knox didn’t usually frequent the Institute’s Conservatory. The room was too cold, too windy. Everything was covered in dust and the witchlights glowing in the corners made the shadows stretch too long over the wooden floors. The Conservatory had a haunting essence to it that the rest of the Institute lacked.
Somewhere outside, the wind knocked against the high windows, muffled and cold.
Knox stood a couple of steps past the entrance, his eyes flicking between the ancient looking piano and the cello stationed near the far-left corner. His fingers were freezing. He needed something to ground him, something to keep his mind from spiraling. When Knox finally approached the cello, his fingers lightly brushing over its strings, he would’ve sworn the instrument hummed under his hands. It wasn’t his. It didn’t feel the same. The strings were almost foreign on the pads of his fingers, the bow too sharp. And yet as he sat on the plush armchair behind it, something resonated deep with him.
A sound like bones settling into place.
Knox allowed his eyes to sink shut. He let his fingers move, let the bow drag across the strings with practiced pressure, breath syncing with the sound. He was so focused on the build of the music, of the instrument singing in his hands, he didn’t hear the door open.
But after a minute or so he felt the shift in the air. And then –
“…Hi.”
Knox’s eyes snapped open.
Todd stood near the threshold, arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to take up less space. His hair was a mess, but his eyes were clear. Wide. He had an oversized hoodie on, and a pair of sweats that pooled around his ankles. He was definitely in Neil’s clothes.
“I, um –” Todd cleared his throat. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Didn't ask,” Knox said, returning his attention to the cello. He’d never stopped moving the bow over the strings. "You can come inside."
Todd hesitated for a beat, but then he shuffled closer, his sock clad feet making no noise as he approached the piano bench. It was a bit further away from Knox than the other empty chair in the room, so he was obviously trying to keep his distance. Whether for his own comfort or for Knox’s, he couldn’t tell.
The melody coming from the cello filled the silence between them, the faint sound of the wind pressing against the windows serving as an added background feature.
Todd seemed content, at first, to simply sit quietly and watch Knox’s hands glide across the cello. He leaned slightly forward, elbows on his knees, gaze intent – not on the instrument, but on the shape Knox made around it.
“That’s…” Todd started, only to cut himself short and start again. “You’re really good.”
“I should hope so,” Knox said without inflection. “Started playing when I was four.”
Todd whistled a little under his breath. “When I was four,” Knox heard him repeated under his breath in obvious amazement.
Knox didn’t say anything else, not right away. He kept the bow moving across the strings, muscle memory guiding his strokes. When he did speak, it was quiet. Even. “I didn’t really have a choice. Carstairs are… notoriously musical,” he said, unable to keep a bitter undertone from tinting his words. “I have a cousin who had to go through multiple failed at attempts at learning an instrument before her father gave up.”
Todd mulled this over. “That sounds… kind of awful,” he said finally, and Knox chuckled.
“I guess it is. I picked the cello when I was four, and my parents insisted on the piano when I turned six. I had to practice every day. No sick days, no excuses, no nothing.”
Again, Todd looked like he processed the words for a minute, before carefully saying, “No wonder you’re holding the bow like it’s a weapon.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your grip,” Todd elaborated. “It’s – it’s like when you’re fighting with your bow and arrow. You hold it the same way. You’re precise. Clinical,” he kept his voice low, like he didn’t want to disturb the music. “It’s like you – you never played for the sake of it. You only… practiced.”
Knox faltered. He hadn’t meant to, but the bow slipped, pulling a note that didn’t sound quite right. He slowed to a stop, the song cutting off mid-phrase. For a moment, all that filled the room was the faint creak of the cello strings as Knox repositioned.
“Do you know Schumann?” he asked, as he started playing, without waiting for an answer. The song was slower, heavier.
Todd blinked at him. “The composer?” he asked.
Knox nodded. “He wrote this song about remembering a ghost,” he murmured, the melancholic music building around them in a way that crept under one’s ribs, hollowing them out.
Todd shivered a little. His arms wrapped tighter around his body.
“My parents,” Knox said, eyes fixed on a point in the wall behind Todd’ s head, “never were impressed by anything.”
Todd didn’t say anything, but he saw him sitting a little bit straighter on the piano bench.
“They expected me to be the best,” Knox continued, his voice detached, like he was talking about someone else’s childhood. “So when I was the best, it wasn’t a big deal. It was just… what was supposed to happen.”
The cello filled the emptiness between his words, the notes ringing low. Aching. Knox allowed his fingers to sleep a couple of times, messing up the rhythm only slightly, making it feel more alive. It went against everything he had been taught, and he fought with himself even on the slightest slip up. But the cello came alivebeneath him, despite his mistakes.
“The first time someone actually made a big deal about me being good at something was Pitts,” Knox continued, softer now. “I think we were eight. Still living in Alicante, next door neighbors. We used to love playing soccer. I wasn’t even that good – my legs were always a little too long, and I used to be a lot clumsier back then – but Pitts… he wouldn’t shut up about it. Said I looked like a professional.”
Todd’s head tilted on the side, a curious glint in his eyes. His lips tugged upward into a barely there smile. “That doesn’t sound like him. Don’t get me wrong,” he added hurriedly. “I don’t doubt his belief in you. But he’s always so… careful with his words. Controlled.”
Knox nodded. “Yeah, he’s like that now, because he has to be. He’s changed, a lot. We both have.”
“I guess that’s part of growing up.”
“Yes, and no. Pitts…” Knox’s sentence trailed, his eyes lifting from the cello’s strings to look at Todd. “He wants to work for the Clave. So, he had to change, a lot.”
Todd gave him a knowing look. “The sacrifices of a politician.”
“Yeah,” Knox murmured, and for a second his jaw worked around something unspoken. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know why I just told you all that.”
Todd’s head remained titled. “I’m not sure either.”
Knox looked at him. Really looked. Todd’s gaze was still alert, enough, but his eyes had grown soft around the edges. He had a relaxed expression on his face, his hands now stuck into the pockets of his hoodie. He wasn’t holding himself closed anymore, relaxed as he was against the piano, looking at Knox quiet and open.
“You’re easy to talk to,” Knox said, bewildered by the words even as he said them. “Why are you easy to talk to?”
Todd shrugged. “Probably because you’re tired. Your usually impenetrable wards are lowered.”
“Right, right, I’m exhausted,” Knox agreed, immediately latching onto the excuse. “Either that or the curse. Brain damage from torture via emotional vulnerability.”
Todd snorted.
Knox glanced away. Picked up the tempo of the song, like he could outpace the truth. But the silence between them didn’t last for long, because apparently now that he wasn’t scared of Knox anymore, Todd wanted to talk.
“So, theater and reading are Neil’s hobbies, your and Charlie have music, what does Pitts do in his free time?”
“Pitts has no free time,” Knox said automatically. And then the words registered in his brain, and the bow stilled mid-draw. “What did you say?”
Todd blinked, his burrow furrowing in confusion. “What did I say?”
“About me and – ” Knox cut himself off, mouth twisting. “Blackthorn’s hobby is music?”
“Uh, yeah, he – sorry. I just mean – Neil told me he plays the saxophone.” Todd shifted like he wanted to disappear. “I doubt he likes talking about it – like, I’m not even sure if you guys are allowed to talk about your hobbies,” Todd stammered over his words, clearly worried he’d stepped over some invisible line.
Knox’s posture locked up, shoulders drawn back. The bow still hovered in midair, useless.
He hadn’t known that.
Of course he hadn’t. It wasn’t like he and Blackthorn talked. Not really. Not outside of sparring and insults and that time Charlie had him pinned on to the mat, his thighs on either side of Knox’s chest, his forearm –
Knox inhaled sharply.
Todd squirmed in his seat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring him up. I was just trying to make conversation –”
Knox’s jaw tensed. “New rule,” he said voice clipped. “You stop apologizing."
Todd made a small noise in the back of his throat. He opened his mouth – presumably to apologize for his excessive apologizing. Knox raised a hand, successfully cutting him off before he’d even started.
“That includes right now.”
Todd’s lips flattened into a sheepish line.
“In exchange,” Knox added, “I’ll train you.”
Todd’s head snapped toward him. “Wait – what?”
“You dropped your blade while surrounded by demons.”
“It slipped!”
“That’s worse,” Knox deadpanned.
“How?”
“It just is, Knox replied, already leaning back into the cello, letting the bow skim gently across the strings. “You clearly need training. Meeks is responsible for the magic stuff, I will be responsible for your Shadowhunter training.”
“But – Neil is training me.”
Knox pressed his lips together into a thin line, staring at him for a long moment. “And how is that working out for the two of you?” he asked after what felt a sufficient amount of time.
Todd’s cheeks instantly turned pink. He didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought,” Knox said dryly, fingers adjusting their position. “Look, Branwell is a good fighter, okay? But I used to be in charge of training the new recruits in my old Institute. I know what I’m doing, alright? I can train you. If you want, of course.”
Todd hesitated. “Okay,” he said eventually, surprised at his own word. “Deal.”
Knox nodded once. Lifted the bow again and resumed playing. The cello sang low and slow, music curling like smoke between them. He should’ve been suspicious of how comfortable it all felt. Knox wasn’t known to be relaxed about people he didn’t know. And despite how nice he seemed, Todd was essentially a stranger.
It’s probably because you’re exhausted.
Todd sat still beside him, not speaking, not fidgeting. Just there. Present. At some point his weight sagged against the piano, shoulders dropping, head lulling on the side. His eyes kept fluttering, like it was hard to keep them open for extended periods of time. Knox smirked to himself but remained silent.
It was a long while later when he felt a prickle at the back of his neck. As if he was being watched. He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the doorway. But there was no one there.
The entrance was empty.Knox frowned. Held still for a beat longer, waiting. No matter how much he strained his hearing he couldn’t hear no footsteps, no breath. Nothing. Just the wind against the glass panes.
The sudden pause in the music had Todd stirring. He groaned a little, a hand coming up to rub at his nape. “Did I fall asleep?”
“Yes. I was about to wake you up,” Knox lied. There was no reason to alarm Todd about an invisible entity spying on them. It was probably all in his head anyway.
Todd stood up, his hand messing through his already tussled hair. He hovered for a second, then offered a small, crooked smile. “Thanks. For this.”
Knox just nodded, not really sure what he was supposed to say. This was starting to feel awkward.
Todd hesitated again – like he wanted to say something more. In the end he decided against it and left without another sound. Knox didn’t move. He stared at the doorway long after he was left alone, trying to figure out if he was imagining things or if there had really been someone there. In the end he came to an impasse.
And so, he returned his gaze and attention to the cello. Lifted the bow and played until the sun started to rise.
Notes:
The cousin Knox mentions near the end of the chapter is an og ShadowVerse character; Emma Carstairs. She's already been mentioned before - she's the one dating Charlie's cousin, Julian.
Chapter 14: My thoughts will echo your name, until I see you again
Notes:
Hello, hello nice people of the Internet! Happy pride to all of us who happen to partake in this celebratory month! I hope you're having a nice June so far!! Okay, all I have to say about this chapter is that it has a weak ending, but only because it was never supposed to end there. This chapter and the next one were originally this huge thing of about 15k words, so I had to split it up. The result was this... I'm not particularly happy with it, but I hope you like it any way!! Let me know your thoughts in the comment section and, as always, I'll see you next week!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Neil should be working.
Probably.
Most definitely.
He should be paying attention to briefings and trying to figure out why exactly Charlie had gotten snappier than usual – and considering the baseline, that was saying something. He should be looking up ways to mend his relationship with the High Warlock of Boston. He should probably communicate to someone that Pitts was sneaking out at nights and maybe ask Knox why he’d started locking himself in his room – which wasn’t that surprising – and threatened excommunication at anyone who interrupted him – which was very surprising.
But all of the above made his head hurt and his chest feel too tight. And Todd didn’t. Todd was calm and warm and golden in a way Neil had never experienced before. So, sue him for wanting to bask in the kind of comfort that being around Todd provided.
And bask he did, especially in the days following Todd’s first official Shadowhunter demon hunt. Neil had of course apologized profusely. For underestimating the danger and dragging Todd along, for never asking him if he wanted to go, for making him believe he had to follow because Neil thought so. He had apologized and groveled and felt his heart skip several beats in the second it took Todd to let a shaky breath and say that Neil had nothing to apologize for.
Oh, Neil had plenty of reasons. Plenty.
But Todd was letting him off the hook – easy, no fuss – and Neil wasn’t going to stare a gift horse at the mouth. He grabbed Todd’s offering with greedy hands and ran with it. In the days after the hunt, Neil had perfected the art of spending every waking minute in the same room as Todd Anderson without anyone noticing the fact that he was constantly, helplessly watching him.
It helped that Todd was pretending to be Charlie’s cousin, a convenient lie no one had questioned too closely – probably because no one wanted to deal with the migraine of unraveling the Blackthorn family tree. And it helped that he, in true Todd fashion, was terrible at lying, which somehow made it all feel more believable, as proven by an invigorating conversation between him and the two new transfers from New York.
They’d barely returned to the Institute after spending the better part of their night at Meeks’ penthouse. Todd had still that look on his face, like the life had been squeezed out of him, and he was now left strung to dry. All that Neil could think about was getting him back to his room, and then maybe they could talk, maybe –
“Hey, you!” A booming voice made Todd jump next to him. “Blackthorn, is it?”
Neil winced, as he slowly turned around, coming face to face with Ginny Cartwright, her arms folded over her chest, her expression razor-sharp. Sure enough, Chris Penhallow was standing right beside her.
Todd blinked. “That’s me.”
Chris perched an elbow on Ginny’s shoulder, leaning half her body weight on the other woman. “Huh… Which branch of the family?”
Todd glanced between them, before his eyes quickly cut to Neil who was trying to maintain a neutral expression. “… the Blackthorn branch?”
“Yeah, but are you a Blackthorn from Jules’ side? Or from Helen’s?”
“Considering they’re siblings…” Neil piped up, unable to stop himself. Chris turned her gaze on him, eyes narrowing intimidatingly. Neil raised both hands up placatingly, offering his most charming smile.
Ginny sighed like she’d aged ten years. “Okay. New question. What’s the most important part of your gear?”
“The heat resistance runes stitched on the inside,” Todd said without hesitation.
Neil had to fight with himself to keep his expression intact. When the hell did Todd find the time to examine his gear that closely?
Chris stared at him. “Huh?”
“We can literally walk through fire, and we won’t even feel it,” Todd said, almost too excitedly, fingers peeling back the sleeve of his gear, and running over the seam under where the rune was stitched on. “I just find it neat!”
Ginny sighed again, then rolled her eyes. “Great he's either the personification of a golden retriever puppy or – an evil mastermind or something," she muttered turning to Chris.
“He also happens to have exceptional hearing,” Todd attempted a chance at humor but neither woman as much as smiled.
“Unfortunately,” Chris said. “Carry on then, Cousin Blackthorn.”
Neil allowed himself to properly breathe only once they got lost behind the bend of the hallway. Todd also seemed to sag with relief as soon as they were out of earshot. He turned to look at Neil, his expression still tired and drawn, but his lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.
“I think that went well.”
Neil nodded, deadpan. “You did great. Lasted a whole of twelve seconds.”
“Thank you,” Todd beamed. “I’ll jot it down as a personal best.”
They were never really left alone. Not completely. Every time Todd showed up at the Institute, Cameron was glued by his side, and whenever Cameron was preoccupied with ‘real life problems’ as he chose to call his mundane responsibilities, Charlie wouldn’t let them out of his sight. And then of course there were all the other Shadowhunters milling about, interfering with Neil’s very important, very classified mission of always staying within five feet distance of Todd.
He was exhibiting some type of unhealthy attachment syndrome – codependency? – he was sure of it. Still, Todd didn’t complain, never asked to be left alone or berated Neil for his constant hovering. So, whenever he had any requests, Neil found himself inclined to grant it.
Like when he showed up the day after his first official hunt, announcing to Neil with a grin that should be totally illegal, that Knox was going to be in charge of his training from now on.
“What?” Neil demanded, almost choking on his own saliva.
“Knox is going to train me,” Todd reiterated, as if the problem was Neil hadn’t heard him correctly the first time, and not that willingly putting oneself in the training path of Knox Carstairs was a death wish.
Neil had no time to question when or how the decision had been made, because after this very abrupt announcement Todd – still smiling, still dangerously adorable - grabbed his arm and started dragging him toward the training ground, claiming he didn’t want to be late for his first session.
And that’s how Neil found himself seated on the bleachers, hands clasped tightly between his knees, as he watched Knox attempt to break his future-boyfriend.
Maybe – future-boyfriend?
Hopefully future-boyfriend.
“He’s not ready to handle training sticks! Are you crazy –”
“He’s fine,” Pitts steady voice cut through Neil’s half-frenzied yell, eyes trailing the sparing duo on the mats.
“He is not fine,” Neil snapped. “Carstairs’ using training sticks and Todd doesn’t even know how to handle a simple hand-to-hand combat!”
Pitts slowly turned toward him, eyeing Neil carefully. “Maybe he does,” he countered. “Maybe you’re underestimating him.”
“I am not - ”
Pitts shrugged, almost bored, returning his attention to the spar. “You’re clearly underestimating Knox; if he wanted to break him, Todd would be broken already.”
On the mats, Todd pivoted on one foot, slipped past a low sweep of Knox’s leg, and brough his stick swinging at Knox’s ribs. It wasn’t a hit – Knox moved out of the way too fast for it to land – but it caught his stick, making it shake in Knox’s grip.
“That was – good,” Knox admitted his tone even, and Todd let a triumphant exclaim.
Pitts hummed beside Neil. “High praise,” he murmured. His gaze cut to Neil again, “You should start trusting him more.”
“I trust him,” Neil answered, hating how defensive his voice sounded.
Pitts arched an eyebrow, but didn’t pressure him.
“C’mon, let’s go again,” Knox knocked his stick against Todd’s, rotating it into position. “This time try to match your foot work to your rolls, okay?”
“If I say okay, can we start hitting each other?” Todd asked cheekily. He hadn’t even finished his sentence when Knox lunged again.
Neil’s breath hitched in his throat, his whole body tensing up as if he was going to absorb the hit coming for Todd. But the hit never landed anyway. Because Todd had blocked it. Somehow, someway, Todd was holding his own. Sure, his moves were far from refined – he was raw and unpolished in his technique – but whatever was lacking on that front he made up in speed and adaptability.
Todd knew how to roll with the punches. It wasn’t enough to put Neil’s mind at ease, but at least he wasn’t going to get decapitated while training.
Small miracles.
“You’re going to vibrate out of your fucking skin.”
The sound of Charlie’s voice had Neil jumping a little in his seat. He blinked, turning his head to look at his parabatai. Charlie wasn’t even looking at him – his gaze was locked on the mats below, eyes narrowed.
“Am not,” Neil argued weakly. His left knee was still bouncing relentlessly.
Charlie’s attention didn’t waver, but Neil saw the scowl on his face.
The ridiculous part of this situation? Neil wasn’t usually a nervous person. Sure, sometimes his stomach twisted during debriefings - especially if his father was in the room - but that was to be expected. And okay, yes, maybe he suffered near panic attacks when cornered by demons, but that was just survival instincts doing their job.
The point still stood; in his day-to-day life, Neil was a pretty chill guy. He had to be, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to survive having Charlie as his parabatai.
But lately?
Lately Neil was plagued by anxiety and dark thoughts. He woke up every morning already with a headache, and twisted intestines and his situation would only progress for the worse as the day went on. Neil had no proper explanation for it, other than maybe the situation at the Institute – Clave officers crawling everywhere, Pitts sneaking out, Knox and Charlie unable to be in each other’s presence for more than three minutes without snapping – was starting to get to him.
“Has that warlock of yours put a curse on you or something?”
Neil rolled his eyes. “Actually, he was the one to get cursed because of us, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Charlie’s face darkened even more, his lips pulling into a facsimile of a smile. “You know I haven’t… Just- stop with the knee thing, okay? You’re driving me insane!”
Neil opened his mouth but then closed it again as soon as his eyes fell on his left leg. He pressed his palm over it, as if the simple touch would calm his agitated nerves. When it didn’t work he used both hands to forcefully stop the anxious movement.
“Seriously,” Charlie pressed. “What’s wrong with you?”
Neil muttered something unintelligible under his breath, feeling his stomach twitch, his parabatai rune buzzing on his hip.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Ah, could you repeat that? For those of us who are not well versed in demonic growling.”
“I have a date.” The words slipped out of Neil’s mouth before he could stop them. His eyes widened, and his hand lifted helplessly like he might catch the words from where they hung suspended between them and force them back into his brain.
But the damage was already done.
Charlie blinked.
And then he blinked again. “… You have a what now?”
Neil groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Charlie’s curiosity sang through the bond, crashing onto Neil like a tidal wave. “A date,” he said through his teeth, still hiding his face behind his fingers. “With Todd. Tonight.”
Charlie stared at him for a beat. Then barked a laugh so sudden Neil nearly fell off the bench. “You – you have a date with Todd?? Same Todd you insisted for a full week that you didn’t like. That Todd?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like him,” Neil hissed, his eyes darting around the training room to make sure nobody was paying attention to them.
“You literally said, and I quote, ‘I barely know the guy, not even I am that desperate to get dicked down by a complete stranger.”
Neil practically jumped off the bench. “I never said that!”
Charlie grabbed his arm, yanking him back down before he could fully bolt. He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “That’s how I remember it,” he said cockily. “Anyway, you were saying –”
Charlie’s sentence suspiciously cut off mid-way the expression on his face turning grim. Neil frowned, head turning to follow his friend’s gaze.
Ah, right.
On the mats, Knox was sparring with Chris Penhallow. Neil didn’t know her very well, but in the week she’d been at the Institute he’d either seen her milling about the ops center with Ginny Cartwright, driving her cousin crazy with non-stop commentary, or in the training grounds fighting Knox. In less than seven days this had become kind of their thing – Knox would let Chris bait him into match after match, no matter how exhausted he looked or how smug she got after he (let her) win.
Currently, they were circling each other with sticks in hand, eyes locked, movements crisp and clean. Practiced. Pitts stood off to the side, arms crossed, looking almost as severe as Charlie. His expression would only soften whenever his gaze happened to cross with Knox’s, the tension momentarily seeping out of his shoulders, before Chris re-entered his line of vision bringing it all back again.
Neil didn’t care much about whatever beef was simmering between the cousins, but it was good to see Knox and Pitts on speaking terms again. After everything – broken bones, near murders, the curse that had tethered Knox to a panic ridden Todd – they were back in sync.
It felt… right. A strange warmth bloomed in Neil’s chest.
“She’s doing it wrong,” Charlie muttered, suddenly, just as Chris landed a clean hit on Knox’s gut.
Neil arched an eyebrow, head tilting slightly. “She’s actually winning.”
“No, she’s dancing. She fights like this is a choreography a – a fucking ballroom routine. And he’s letting her,” Charlie bit out, the last part much more bitter than the rest of his sentence. “If he were trying, she’d already be on the mat.”
Neil swallowed a sight. He got it alright? - at least kind of. Despite everything going on between Charlie and Knox emotionally, which was a can of worms that Neil wouldn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole, before the latter’s arrival Charlie used to be the Institute’s most celebrated prodigy. Not that he liked talking about it – but Neil knew. Charlie had taken pride in being the best.
And then Knox Carstairs showed up. Parabatai to the Clave’s golden boy. Appointed Weapons Master at the age of eighteen. Dabbed the most promising Shadowhunter of their generation and asked to join the Gard before he could legally drink. The senior officers in Boston tripped over their feet to accommodate him, and despite Knox never showing any signs of smugness, Charlie had not taken the change well.
“You think you could do better?” Neil asked, because apparently he had a death wish.
Instead of answering him, Charlie decided to jump off his seat. “Oh, I know I can,” he muttered darkly, tossing his jacket onto the bench beside Neil and making a move to dash down the steps.
Neil reached for his arm, panicked. “Charlie, don’t –”
“C’mon, I’ve been sitting for too long. I need to punch someone.”
“Not him!” Neil hissed. “You already nearly killed each other last month.”
“We almost killed each other a week ago, didn’t see you reacting like that.”
“What? When?”
“While you were flirting with Todd, probably,” Charlie said with a shrug, tagging at his arm to get it freed from Neil’s grip.
“Charlie.”
“Neil.”
Neil glared. Charlie smirked. He tagged at his arm again, and Neil let go with a sigh and a shake of his head. Charlie bounced down the steps like a man on a mission.
“Idiot,” he muttered, the worry pulsating through him, reaching out to Charlie through their bond only to get shut out. Neil huffed exasperated, having half the mind to walk away.
But then Charlie stepped into the ring, his expression screaming murder as his eyes locked onto Knox who was helping Chris up.
From the sideline, Pitts was already grimacing.
“Should we try to stop them?” Neil voiced what both of them were thinking.
Pitts just crossed his arms. “I don’t think there’s any point in trying to be honest with you.”
Neil wanted to argue, but he knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on. Knox was definitely the one with the most common sense between the two of them, but when it came to Charlie he refused to listen to reason. On the mats the two of them squared off. Charlie, of course, wasted no time to strike first. And for a heartbeat – just one – Neil thought maybe, maybe he’d actually land the attack. And then Knox moved. Fast, elegant, precise.
And not a whole minute later, Charlie was on his back.
Neil winced in sympathy as his parabatai stared up at the ceiling, chest heaving. Their shared rune buzzed angrily on his hip, Charlie’s frustration seeping into Neil like ink in water.
“Done?” Knox asked dryly, offering a hand. Charlie batted it away and pushed himself to his feet with all the rage of someone who’d just been deeply, publicly humiliated.
“I’m fine,” he snapped. “Again.”
Pitts raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. His head tilted a little, his eyes finding Knox over Charlie’s shoulder. Something silent transpired between them, and Neil watched as Knox gave the faintest nod, before returning his attention to the man in front of him.
By the third time Charlie landed on his ass, Neil had had enough. Charlie grunted as he collided with the mat, the thud echoing across the training hall.
This whole thing was starting to feel a little masochistic.
Someone needed to intervene.
Knox, to his credit, didn’t make a move to lunge anew. Of course, he didn’t make a move to help him up either. He just stood there, impassive, breathing steady. Waiting.
Someone needed to intervene.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Neil called it, pressing his hands against his knees to stand up.
Charlie startled like he’d been called an invalid. “No, no – one more!”
“Nope,” Neil was already making his way toward them. “You’re bleeding from the eyebrow, Blackthorn.”
Charlie wiped angrily at his face with the back of his hand, managing to smear blood all over his crown. “It’s a scratch!”
“Your lip is split.”
Charlie spat to the side. “Needed for my iron deficiency.”
“I hate you,” Neil muttered, grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet. “And that’s not how that works.”
“Liar,” Charlie said, grinning, even with blood on his teeth. “You love me. And I didn’t know you were a certified doctor.”
“You don’t have to be a doctor to know a bleeding mouth is not the recommended prescription for iron deficiency,” Pitts piped up. He’d walked up to Knox, handing him a towel and standing next to him, a nervous – overprotective aura, hanging around him.
Charlie rolled his eyes so hard Neil worried they might stick on the back of his skull. “Oh, and you’d know that, wouldn’t you Penhallow?”
Pitts opened his mouth to respond, but Knox beat him to it, voice strained. “Can we not start?”
Neil felt the hot surge of rage course through him, with a starting point at his hip, quickly lighting him up from inside out. It was so blinding and disorienting that he almost snapped at Knox.
“Aw, we’re keeping Carstairs away from flirting with his girlfriend,” Charlie cooed tauntingly, the angry undertone in his voice matching the war cry in Neil’s chest.
“She’s not my –” Knox cut himself off, pressing his lips together. The look he shot Charlie was icy. “It’s none of your business anyway, Blackthorn.”
Charlie’s answering grin was all teeth. “C’mon, admit it. You’d never step away from a fight unless it was to get your dick wet.”
Neil had no time to react to Charlie’s crudeness, because in the next breath Pitts had Charlie in a headlock, his forearm pressing a little too hard against his windpipe. Charlie growled, and thrusted, but Pitts was taller than him and used it to his advantage.
“Don’t talk about him like that,” Pitts’ voice was terribly calm, the look on his face even.
“Let me – bitch, when I get my hands on you –”
“Yeah, what?” Pitts wasn’t one to drag this things out, but he kept Charlie in the headlock, even tightening the pressure slightly. “Going to doll out more empty threats?”
The rage spiked up once again inside Neil and he acted without thinking. He kicked Pitts behind the knees, the hit clean, quick and precise. Pitts momentarily lost his focus, and it was enough for Neil to swipe his legs from under his body. Pitts went down in a heap of limbs. Charlie staggered away, coughing, a hand at his throat.
Neil stepped between them.
“Alright,” he said, straightening his back. “We’re leaving before we all get banned from the sparring mats, again.”
Charlie whirled around, ready to jump back into the fight, but Neil gave him a stern look, pushing him toward the exit. Charlie’s eyes flashed, his lips pulling back to show his teeth. Neil held his ground, gaze hard and unyielding. His friend’s nostrils flared, attention flickering between Neil and the people standing behind him. Finally, he gave a low growl, allowing Neil to push him out of the room.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Right.”
“I had him.”
“Sure, you did.”
“You fucking think I can’t take Gerard Penhallow in a fight?” Charlie exploded, planting his feet and refusing to walk further down the corridor.
Neil gritted his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I think you need to calm the fuck down and stop picking fights with Knox and Pitts, that’s what I think.”
“Why are you defending them?!”
“This is not about them, this is about you, you idiot!” It was Neil’s turn to snap. “You’re already on thin ice with Nolan, I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
Charlie rolled his eyes as he started walking again. “I will be fine.”
But Neil was far too agitated to drop it. “And what if you’re not?” he barked back, catching up to Charlie and yanking him back around. “What if you are not fine? What if you get in the kind of trouble that not even your family name can clear up? What then?”
“That won’t –”
“Do not say it won’t happen!” Neil bellowed, cutting him off. Charlie shut up, his eyes widening at the volume Neil's voice had taken. “You can’t promise me it won’t happen! And if it happens and I – if you get sent away, I – what will happen to me? To us?”
Charlie blinked. Neil’s lips pressed together, his chest moving irregularly with his breaths. He hadn’t meant to say all that. He wasn’t even aware he’d been thinking all that. But apparently, he had, and the truth of the matter was that Charlie was very good at attracting unwanted scrutinization and Neil wasn’t sure he knew how to handle a version of his life where Charlie wasn’t constantly there.
Charlie swallowed, thickly. Took a step toward him, lifted a hand but stopped midway before laying it on Neil’s shoulder, looking at him as if to ask for permission.
Like he needed it.
Idiot.
“I’ll tone it done,” Charlie promised, squeezing his shoulder. Neil scoffed. “I promise, I will. I’ll – I’ll try to.”
“How hard can it be to not bait someone into a fight?”
“You’d be surprised. Besides, I’m not the only one going around asking for it. Carstairs is not better –”
“I don’t care about Knox,” Neil cut him off. “He’s Pitts’ problem. You’re mine.”
Charlie’s face screwed up. “You make me sound like a rabid pet.”
Neil smirked. “That’s because you are. My own personal hell-spawn,” he added cheekily.
The hand on his shoulder punched him.
“Maybe I’ll trade kicking Carstairs’ ass with kicking yours,” Charlie said, as they started walking again.
“Oh, yeah, I’d love to see you try.”
They slowed near the end of the hall. Neither said anything for a beat, the air cooling around them, charged tension finally thinning into something manageable. Neil shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes trained on the floor ahead.
“You know you’re kind of everything I hate in a person, right?” he muttered, but he couldn’t quiet curb the grin on his face.
He heard Charlie’s huff. “Back at you.”
Something in Neil’s chest kicked as they kept walking in step. Because Charlie was who he was – loud, abrasive, unapologetic – and Neil wouldn’t have him any other way. And that went both ways. Because he knew he wasn’t the easiest person to be around either. Always head-strong, always willing to jump head first into trouble and ask for permission later. And Charlie never tried to fix that. Never asked him to be more cautious.
And it was that bone-deep sense of trust, of belonging, that unshakable sense of being so dangerously – so deliciously - known and seen and chosen despite everything that convinced Neil they were going to be alright.
As long as they had each other, they were going to be fine.
They kept walking in amicable silence, the bond at last calm enough to buzz pleasantly underneath their skin. They were halfway to the ops center when the air shifted. Like a gust of something colder sweeping in, something not malevolent, but close. Neil looked up – and froze.
His father was coming toward them from the other end of the corridor. Dressed in a sharp suit, clipboard tucked against his side, a foreign expression on his face.
Neil frowned.
Was his father smiling?
What. The. Fuck?
His stomach did a somersault, freefalling to his feet, and Neil curled his fingers tightly as if to physically hold himself back from vomiting.
“Neil,” Thomas Branwell said in a kind of voice Neil had never had addressed toward him. Light, warm – like the man wanted to talk to him. Like he took pleasure in it. “Charlie.”
Charlie, still standing next to him, blinked. “Sir.”
The bond, so tranquil a minute ago, suddenly screamed with discomfort and suspicion.
Neil’s mouth was a little too dry. “F- Father.”
Thomas’ smile ticked up. “I was hoping I’d run into you. Do you have a moment?”
I was hoping I’d run into you.
I was hoping.
Neil bit on his tongue to keep from screaming. He nodded, because he didn’t trust himself enough to speak, and he felt Charlie’s eyes bore holes on the side of his head.
Thomas looked between the two of them, gaze sharp even behind the friendly front. “I wanted to let you know the Inquisitor signed off on the paperwork. Your team should be reinstated on the Shadowhunter murder cases by the end of the week.”
Neil blinked. “Oh,” he said dumbly. “That’s – thank you. I mean – yes. Of course.”
“You’ve earned it,” Thomas said simply. “Your report was thorough. Your relationship with the Underworld is both important and appreciated. The Clave’s finally taking notice, son.”
Something warm and awful bloomed in Neil’s chest. It was sticky, and it spread quickly, much quicker than he would’ve expected. It covered his lungs, and Neil’s next breath stuttered inside them before making it out past his parted lips. It slithered over his heart, drowning the still beating organ, which doubled its efforts as if trying to outrun the viscous substance.
I was hoping I’d run into you.
You’ve earned it.
Son.
The words leisurely tangled around his throat, slowly forming a noose, gradually tightening their hold until they were crushing his windpipe with an invisible force. He gasped, trying to pass it for a cough, fighting to get enough oxygen in his lungs.
“Are you okay, Neil?” his father asked and something akin to concern underlined his words.
Neil felt faintly.
“He’s just a little tired,” Charlie jumped in to say, noting the state his friend was in. “He just wiped the floor with Penhallow’s as – uh, I mean he won a sparring match with Penhallow.”
Thomas’ gaze flicked between the two of them. “He did?” he sounded both surprised and pleased. “Well, of course he did. He’s a Branwell after all.”
More, more, more.
Neil knew he shouldn’t, but he wanted more of whatever was happening. His father’s words hurt so deliciously in their foreignness and he couldn’t get enough of them. He tried to stomp down the neediness, the near feral want to claw at his father and demand more of the praise, more of the casual fondness, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t.
“Charlie, I’ve been meaning to ask you – your cousins; they’ve been… elusive.”
“Family trait,” Charlie answered with a shrug. “Comes with the name.”
Thomas’ lips quirked into another rare smile. “Well, let me know when they feel like revealing themselves. I’d love to meet them.”
“Absolutely,” Charlie said smoothly, grabbing Neil by the elbow. “We’ll be in touch.”
They turned the corner, and after making sure they were alone, Charlie gently pushed Neil’s back toward the wall. His head rolled back, and he drew in a couple of long, deep breaths, willing his mind to stop swimming.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “You good?”
Neil, still gasping his breaths, stared straight ahead, unblinking. “He smiled at me.”
“Yeah… creepy, wasn’t it?”
Neil tried to elbow him. Failed. His periphery vision wasn’t working correctly just yet. “Shut up.”
“I’m just saying, if that man offers you a hug, it’s a trap.”
Neil groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s… proud of me.”
“Oh on,” Charlie deadpanned. “The horror.”
Neil bit back a laugh. “Don’t be a dick.”
“Too late.”
Neil stared at the shirt he was holding for a solid thirty seconds before deciding it was wrong and disregarding on the same pile that half his wardrobe was currently lying in, by the foot of his bed. Everything just looked… wrong. Too stiff. Too crisp. Not enough character.
With an almost desperate sigh he reached for a dark green sweater. Held it close to his face and stared at it until he could see every individual thread weaved together. He brought it over his chest. Frowned. Turned to the mirror and stared.
“Why are you looking at it like it offended your bloodline?” Charlie asked from where he was flopped on Neil’s bed, one leg bouncing off the side, still in his training sweats and smelling faintly of sweat. “This is your favorite sweater. I knew you’d pick it since before you even opened your wardrobe.”
“Yes, but…”
“But?”
“I wore it three days ago.”
Charlie snorted. “And?”
“And Todd saw me in it.”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s how clothes usually work, Neil. We wear them, people see us in them, and then we keep owning and wearing them. It’s a revolutionary concept.”
Neil ignored him and laid the sweater gently on the desk instead of condemning it to the discard heap. He grabbed a black button-down. “Too formal?”
“You look like you’re trying to dress for an official Clave event,” Charlie deadpanned. “Or go to prom.”
“I’ve never been to prom!”
“And yet you instinctively dress like someone who peaked there.”
“How do you even know what a prom is?”
“Hey!” Charlie exclaimed, pushing on his elbows long enough to level Neil with a glare before flopping back down. “I’m cultured! And you’re too old to attend prom now, so let the shirt go.”
Neil groaned and tossed the shirt back. “What do I wear to a first date with a half-warlock hybrid who sets people on fire whenever he gets overwhelmed?”
“Not to be the one to defend Todd here, but that only happened once,” Charlie said unhelpfully. “Also, whatever you chose to wear doesn’t matter.”
Neil frowned. “How does it not matter?”
“Well, if you play your hand right he’s gonna get you out of it in like an hour. Two tops.”
Neil turned so fast his shoulder cracked. “CHARLIE!”
Charlie raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “What? I’m only trying to help. Neil, you haven’t had any… fun in a long while, okay? Stop overthinking it! This is not a Calve debrief. Take a deep breath, remember you’re hot.”
Neil chanced a look at his mirror. Well, Charlie wasn’t wrong, he knew he was at the very least conveniently attractive. Many people had commented so in the past, and Neil wasn’t exactly modest or humble enough to believe they were just being polite. His hair had that soft, effortless swoop it always did. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. His build was lean, solid– one of the perks of being a Shadowhunter. His eyes… he knew people noticed them. Wide, expressive, with that perpetually wet glint like he was always on the verge of saying something devastating or feeling too much.
But none of that really helped when he felt like his ribcage was lined with live wires.
“You hitting on me, Blackthorn?”
“Nah, I can do better than some half-warlock’s sloppy seconds.”
Neil fixed him with a nasty look, arms crossing over his chest. “Oh, really? When was the last time you got any, Chaz?”
Charlie made a derisive sound, refusing to dignify his question with an answer.
“Because last time I checked,” Neil went on, walking closer to his bed, and peering down at his best friend. “It has to be more than a month.”
“A month is not a long time.”
“No, it’s not,” Neil agreed, pausing to give Charlie the false sense of safety. “But maybe you’re getting a little tired of all the games, eh? Maybe you’re too hang up -”
Charlie was off the bed and crowding him against his desk in the spun of an eyeblink. He was standing close enough for their noses to brush together.
Neil faked a shudder. “I’m shaking in my boots.”
“You’re a prick,” Charlie said through his teeth.
Neil laughed quietly, knowing Charlie would feel it through his chest. “And you’re obsessed.”
Charlie’s eyes darkened. “I hate him.”
Neil rolled his eyes. “You hate a lot of people. You don’t hate him,” he said, being gracious enough to not name any names. The hitch in Charlie’s breath tattled that he wasn’t expecting the kindness. “You’re constantly talking about him –”
“Because I hate him.”
Neil smirked. “You keep picking fights with him.”
“He has a very punchable face.”
“Mmm, you stalk him around the Institute, watch him spar with other people, you –”
“Stop psychoanalyzing me!”
Charlie glared, but they were standing so close that he went a little cross-eyed. Neil chuckled, pushed him back. Charlie let the gravity work against his favor, stumbling backwards, the back of his knees hitting on the frame of Neil’s bed.
“I’m just saying,” Neil said with a small shrug.
“Stop saying, otherwise I’m setting your shirt on fire.”
“Which one?”
“All of them, including the one you’re wearing.”
Neil hummed. “Kinky.”
Charlie flipped him off before lying back on the bed. Neil did a quick job of stripping out of his current shirt, and bringing the green sweater over his head. He ran his hands over his chest, like he was trying to eradicate invisible wrinkles, and looked at his reflection on the mirror.
“You’re really into him, huh?” Charlie asked, his voice gentle now.
Neil didn’t answer at first. He messed a hand through his hair, looked as the strands resisted the pull of gravity for a second before falling neatly back over his forehead. He drew a little breath, his eyes finding Charlie’s in the mirror.
“I think he makes my brain quiet.”
Charlie held his gaze for a second longer. The answer seemed to land somewhere behind his ribcage. “Yeah…” he said after a beat. “That’ll do it.”
Neil smoothed his hands over the sweater again. Fumbled a little with his belt. Checked if the black of his jeans clashed with the green of his sweater. Checked his hair again.
“You look good,” Charlie’s voice came sincere as ever.
Neil glanced at him over his shoulder. “Really?”
Charlie gave him a crooked half-grin. “Hot enough to get a pass through his threshold… maybe even in his pants.”
Neil flushed. “You’re awful.”
“And you’re a prude all of a sudden, which proves that you definitely need to get laid.”
Neil couldn’t help the little snort that escaped him. He looked in the mirror again. Fixed the collar of his sweater.
“If you’re not out of this bedroom in the next five seconds, I will change my mind and attempt to sabotage your night,” Charlie warned him in his best no nonsense tone.
Lips uncurling into a bright smile, Neil grabbed his coat and shrugged it on. He checked his phone to make sure he wasn’t running late and gave Charlie a military salute before slipping out of the door.
Neil had survived demon hunts – many of them, if you considered he was already in his mid-twenties. He’d sat through Clave hearings, walked away from most of them unscathed. He’d spent the better part of a decade soul-bonded to Charlie Blackthorn and still lived to tell the tale. Apparently, none of the above had prepared him for the anxiety of picking up his maybe-boyfriend from warlock tutoring.
When he arrived at Meeks’ penthouse complex, it was early so Neil didn’t see the point of making his presence known just yet. He’d started pacing the space between the front door and the road hands anxiously going through his hair. He was being ridiculous, he knew that. This wasn’t a life or death situation. It was just a date.
Just a date.
A real one.
Their first one.
Neil’s palms started sweating, and his pacing reached an almost frantic rhythm. Before he knew it thirty minutes had passed and now he was facing the very real risk of running late.
Great. Amazing. Way to make a good first –
“You look like you’re heading into battle, young man.”
His train of thought derailed Neil paused, turning around to face whoever was speaking to him. A man in tweed jacket and round glasses was standing a couple of feet away from him. Greying hair, kind smile, a pair of eyes that looked at him like they could peer straight into his soul.
He was the same warlock he and Charlie had run into the last time they were at Meeks’.
John something.
“You’re not that far off,” Neil said with a weak chuckle.
John looked at him, then at the front door, inclining his head. Neil wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask, but he nodded anyway. John took the lead, waving his hand to throw the door open without touching it.
“Important night?” he asked, turning to look at him again.
Neil hesitated. “Maybe.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder as they waited for the elevator, and Neil couldn’t help the anxious tap of his foot against the floor. He could feel the older man looking at him, twinkling eyes travelling all over Neil’s posture, and he had to refrain from shuffling away. When the elevator arrived, John opened the door and motioned for him to go in first. Unfortunately, the ride to the penthouse was a long one, and the look on John’s face betrayed it wasn’t going to be a silent one, either. Neil tried to keep his eyes on the floor, pretend like he was lost in thought – which wasn’t a far stretch.
“No need to be so tense,” John said, voice light. “It’s not like I’m going to hex you inside the elevator.”
Neil looked up so fast that his neck loudly protested. “What? No! I don’t think – I mean, I don’t have a problem with warlocks!” Neil exclaimed quickly, because the mere idea was ridiculous.
He was met with a kind smile and a pair of gleaming eyes.
“Oh, I know that,” John said. “I just needed to get you out of your own head.”
Neil blinked. Cleared his throat. “Guess that worked.”
“You know, you have that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“The one my students get the week before finals. Or before a first date,” the expression on his face softened, without loosing it’s amusement. “Which is it?”
“A little bit of both, I think.”
“Hm,” John said, leaning casually against the elevator wall. “You planning to pass or fail?”
Neil bit the inside of his cheek for a second before answering. “I haven’t figured out the grading scale yet.”
John laughed. It was a warm sound. “I’ll have to get back to you for that, then.”
The elevator chimed softly, doors sliding open. Meeks’ penthouse was – thankfully – quiet. Todd was already waiting there, coat half-buttoned, a red scarf around his neck. His hair looked tussled, but intentionally so, like he’d spend time in front of the mirror to make it look just so.
Neil stared for half a second too long.
“Hey,” Todd said, his whole face lighting up. Neil’s heart skipped a couple of beats, and then sped up, trying to catch up.
“Hello, John,” Todd added after a beat, a polite smile curling on his lips.
“Hello, my dear boy! How did today’s lesson go?”
Todd’s cheeks pinked, prettily and he bounced a little on the balls of his feet. “No, accidental demon summoning, so… success?”
“Ah! That’s always wonderful!” John declared.
“Meeks said you should wait for him in the study. He won’t be long.”
John made a thoughtful little sound. “Well, on that note, I should take my leave. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”
“Thanks,” Neil mumbled.
Todd gave a tiny wave. “See you next time.”
The shuffle of the John’s feet disappeared down the hallway, and Neil’s pulse slowly found its normal beat once he was left alone with Todd. It helped that Todd was smiling at him, like he’d missed him, like he was glad they were sharing the same space. He took a tentative step forward and waited for Neil to cover the rest of the distance between them.
Neil gladly did so.
“Hi,” Todd breathed when they were standing toe to toe, had craned back only slightly to look up at Neil’s eyes.
“Hey, there,” Neil murmured back.
He noticed Todd’s fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
Neil wanted to kiss him.
Neil almost kissed him. Almost grabbed him by the collar to pull him in. Almost tilted their foreheads together. Almost crashed their lips together. Almost let the warm, terrible thing in his chest spill out all over Todd’s coat.
Almost.
Almost.
But the odds were never in his favor.
Because as he was almost ready to do it, the sound of footfalls shattered the silence that had fallen between them – and Meeks finally stepped into the room, wrapped in a dark silk robe.
Neil cleared his throat. “Evening.” His voice still cracked over the single word.
“Branwell,” Meeks said, tone cool but not as icy as Neil had expected. “Just on time.”
“I try not to make a habit of keeping my dates waiting.”
Todd coughed into his scarf to hide a laugh, but he couldn’t exactly hide the way his face flamed up. Meeks’ mouth twitched into an almost smile.
“Don’t let him get tangled into any nonsensical Shadowhunter business,” Meeks said dryly. “I’d hate to clean up after your mess. Again.”
Todd rolled his eyes. “I’m not that fragile.”
“I know that,” Meeks said, eyes flicking briefly to Neil. “But your company could be more… alert.”
“Steven last time was an accident,” Todd insisted. “I told you that. It was no one’s fault –”
“I’ll be careful with him,” Neil cut him off. Todd let a small squeak, turning to look at him with wide eyes. “I won’t mess up like that again.”
“Neil –” Todd started.
“Good,” Meeks said without missing a beat. “Otherwise, I’ll reconsider my consent regarding this relationship.”
“Steven!” Todd’s voice jumped an octave too high. Even the tips of his ears had turned pink.
Meeks looked at him with a serene expression. “Don’t worry, Angel,” he said sweetly. “The Shadowhunter and I have reached an understanding.”
Neil nodded, taking a step closer to Todd, placing a hand on the small of his back. Todd tensed momentarily underneath his palm, but then he relaxed, leaning into it. He subtly shifted closer, the side of his body pressing into Neil’s like they’d done this a million times before.
Neil’s palm tingled.
“Here,” Meeks said, breaking the moment as he handed over a wrapped bundle. “Cookies.”
Todd blinked. “You baked?”
“No. I bribed a faerie in the building.”
“Faerie food?” Neil’s voice caught a little, as he glanced at the parcel in Todd’s hands.
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Neil,” Meeks said, sounding genuinely affronted. “They’re made with mundane ingredients. On this plane. They’re safe.”
Neil.
Meeks had called him by his given name.
Meeks had never called him by his given name before. Not even before their falling out. Not even before Todd.
Neil’s face broke into a huge smile, one that Meeks seemed to notice, if the roll of his eyes was any indication.
“Well, thank you,” Todd, who hadn’t noted the nonverbal exchange, said with a warm smile. “I’ll return the gesture next time.”
“You don’t have to, darling. Now, go. Before you summon Asmodeus with your googly eyes.”
“Who’s that?” Todd asked innocently, turning toward Neil – whose entire face flushed scarlet.
Neil’s eyes darted to Meeks. The High Warlock arched an eyebrow, arms lazily crossing over his chest, as he waited for him to give an answer. Daring him to.
“He uh, he’s a greater demon,” Neil said breathy, eyes refusing to meet Todd’s.
“Why would he –”
“I was just messing with him, Todd,” Meeks took pity in him, cutting in.
“Oh,” Todd didn’t look convinced, despite the lack of fight back. “Right.”
“We’ll… see you later,” Neil piped up, quickly taking the exit that Meeks was giving him.
The warlock raised a hand in a vague, unbothered wave. “Try not to set anything on fire.”
Neil gently tagged Todd toward the elevator, allowing himself to breathe only when the doors slid close behind them.
“Okay,” Todd said, tucking the cookie bundle into his coat. “What was that about this Asmodeus guy?”
Neil’s mouth snapped a couple of times, no sound coming out of it. “I really don’t know Todd. Asmodeus is a prince of Hell. Meeks – being related to another one of them – knows much more about him than I do.”
Todd stared at him for a moment longer, before giving a small nod of his head. “Fine. You don’t want to tell me.”
“It’s not that I don’t –”
“It’s okay, Neil,” Todd said softly, stepping closer to him, letting their arms touch from shoulder to wrist. Neil’s body screamed at the proximity.
Todd’s voice dropped, warm and easy. “I don’t really care all that much.”
Neil finally turned to look at him, only to find Todd already beaming at him.
Okay, so maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad…
Neil was dying.
He was certain of it.
His heart was beating too fast inside his chest. His palms were sweaty, perspiration breaking out on his forehead as well. The only thing that could reach his ears was the sound of his pulse, roaring in his throat.
He was about to have a heart attack, there was no other explanation!
Beside him, Todd looked like the picture of calmness. He was matching Neil’s step, hands tucked inside the pockets, his red scarf bouncing against his coat. Every now and then he’d turn to steal a peek at Neil, his lips curling whenever their gazes crossed.
“You’re quiet,” he said after another couple of minutes.
“I’m always quiet.”
“Now that’s a lie,” Todd easily called him out. “You’re doing a lot of lying tonight… is that something I should expect if I’m to ask you on a second date?”
Neil made a strangled noise. “Second date?”
“Unless you don’t want one.”
“No! I mean, yes! Yes, I want a second one!”
Tood chuckled, light and sweet and the sound lodged straight into Neil’s sternum. “You sure? Because we’re currently on the first one, and you look like you might hurl.”
“I’m fine!” Neil exclaimed, hands flailing uselessly by his sides. “I am – just – I –” his words miserably failed him, and Neil groaned a mix of frustration and mortification.
“Neil,” Todd’s voice sounded serious, suddenly, and Neil paused his internal spiraling, long enough to look at him. “Breathe, please. You’re going to drive yourself into a panic attack, before I can hand you your surprise.”
Neil blinked. “Surprise?”
Todd pulled two slim white slips from his coat pocket and wiggled them slightly in front of his face.
“Surprise,” he reiterated, voice low, private.
Neil’s eyes narrowed. “Are those –”
“Theater tickets,” Todd finished the sentence for him. “It’s not Broadway or anything, but there’s a production of Hamlet at the Boch Center and I remembered all the plays in your bookcase…” he trailed off, giving a small shrug.
“Todd, you didn’t have to,” Neil said, and his voice came out softer than intended.
“You like theater. I wanted us to do something you liked,” Todd said simply.
Neil stared at him, completely undone.
And much like a shark sensing blood in the water, Todd went in for the kill. He stepped closer to him, and stretching a little, he leaned in, lips brushing against Neil’s cheek.
It was brief. Soft. Barely there.
“Wanted to do that as well,” he muttered, eyes wide, and blue, and sparkling.
Neil stopped walking. His hand reached for his face, reverent fingertips tracing over the spot Todd had touched him.
It took Todd a second to realize he was walking alone. “You okay?” he asked turning around.
“You kissed me,” Neil said dumbly.
Todd’s lips curled at the edges. “I did.”
“Oh,” Neil managed. Not even a word. Hardly loud enough to count as anything more than a breath.
His heart slammed so hard against his ribs, that it chipped lightly around the edges, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Todd laughed. Neil was facing the threat of an impending heart attack, and Todd laughed. It was delighted and warm and it did not help the imminent myocardial infraction Neil was about to endure.
“You look like a spooked deer,” he teased gently. “Let’s go get dinner before you faint on me.”
“I’m not going to faint,” Neil said, as Todd dragged him across the street.
“You’re definitely going to faint,” Todd replied, utterly sure of himself.
Neil couldn’t argue.
He was still touching his cheek.
Notes:
Asmodeus is a Greater Demon, a prince of Hell. He's also the demon most associated with Lust, that's why Neil turned poppy-red when Meeks suggested their googly eyes would summon him.
Chapter 15: Life can be emotionally abusive
Notes:
Hello, hello nice people of the internet! How's your week so far?? Mine is.. uneventful, for once! So, as mentioned before, this chapter and the previous one were supposed to be one chapter, but it would've been too long, and that's why I split them up! This chapter is the first one that features a smut scene, if you're not into that you can stop reading here ;
" Neil folded into him. Melted into his touch, the need, the noise. No protest, not fight. He kissed back with equal heat, one hand fisting into Todd’s shirt, the other one skimming over his back, seeking for purchase and anchoring them together, while Todd shoved a knee between his thighs. "And you can start reading again after the scene break, here ; " They ate soup on the couch .
It's nothing too explicit, but I know some of you aren't into smut and I want you to feel nice and comfortable while reading this story :))
Chapter Text
The diner wasn’t anything excessive, but it was close to the theater and it had heating, so Neil wasn’t about to complain. The Christmas holidays were swiftly approaching and that was obvious in the décor. There were strings of lights and garlands adorning the frames of all the windows, festive menus tucked behind salt shakers and sprigs of faux holly taped to every napkin holder. The place buzzed with soft jazz and the clink of silverware.
Todd was sat across from him, calm and collected, smiling at Neil who had just returned from the restroom and took a little too long to settle into his seat.
“I took the liberty of ordering fries,” he said, handing him a menu. “Figured they’re a safe food. But you can have something else, if you want.”
“Thank you.”
Todd grinned at him, and Neil tried to return it. But his lips were fighting against him, and the thing curling his lips felt more like a curse than a smile.
“Neil,” Todd called softly, and the way he said his name, made Neil desperate to hear it again. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”
Neil cracked his lips open, but the words tangled on his tongue, dying on the roof of his mouth before he could spit them out.
By the Angel you’re such a huge mess.
It wasn’t like Neil didn’t want to be here. On the contrary. He was a very enthusiastic participant of this date, despite what his current behavior indicated. Neil wanted to be here. Desperately so. And it was probably because of that – that electric, unbearable truth – his body felt like it was actively betraying him.
Fucking, hell Branwell, pull it together!
But how could he pull it together when his heart beat against his chest like it was trying to make an escape? Probably to launch itself across the table, crawl into Todd’s hands and beg to be held.
“How come you’re calmer than I am? You’re usually a nervous wreck.”
The words tumbled out of his mouth before Neil could stop them. His eyes widened, horrified, and he pressed his palm over his mouth, as if it would magically revert time and stop the cursed sentence from slipping out.
To his credit, Todd didn’t immediately take his leave after Neil’s word vomit. He thoughtfully chewed on a fry, his head tilting slightly on the side, eyes never leaving Neil’s.
“I told you,” he said, sounding sincere as ever. “You make the voices go quiet in my head.”
“Oh.”
And wasn’t that a kick in the gut? Because it went both ways, it honestly did. When Todd was there the world quieted down around Neil. It all fell away, giving him a moment to breathe a moment to be. But sometimes… sometimes quiet looked too much like a void and maybe Neil wasn’t meant to live away from the constant noise, the calculations, the self-corrections – everything that felt so suffocating but allowed him to stay upright.
“My turn to ask a question,” Todd said, like he had four nights ago at the Institute.
Neil’s body tensed, wondering how he was supposed to explain away his anxiousness. Because that’s what Todd was going to ask, wasn’t it? Obviously, he was going to ask why Neil was acting like he was being held hostage. Obviously -
“So, you know I’m adopted, but… I don’t know anything about your family.”
Neil blinked. Once. Twice.
Huh, that was unexpected.
“I uh –” He shook his head a little, tying to clear his thoughts. “What do you want to know?”
Todd rested his chin on the palm of his hand. “Anything you want to tell me.”
“Okay… I live with my father. Well, technically, since he’s the Head of the Institute and we both live there,” Neil said feeling a little dumb.
“Just you dad?” Todd asked carefully.
“Yeah, my mom died in childbirth,” Neil said quickly. He took a sip of his water feeling his throat dry all of a sudden.
“Oh, I’m so sorry Neil.”
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. It’s fine.” He set the glass down. “So, yeah. I live with my father. No mom, no siblings either. I do have Charlie and he – he, uh, makes up for most of that I’m lacking. But that’s it… Nothing too interesting, I’m afraid.”
“That’s not really true, though, is it?” Todd asked, reaching across the table to lay his hand on top of Neil’s. “You’re plenty interesting yourself. You don’t need anything else.”
Neil didn’t say anything. What was there to say, anyway? Besides, his throat felt too tight.
He looked down at Todd’s hand over his and let himself breathe for what felt like the first time that evening.
The wind had picked up when they stepped back onto the street, Boston’s winter weather making a delayed appearance. It ruffled Todd’s fair brown strands, and flapped the hem of Neil’s coat. The diner’s warmth clung on to their skin, but the humidity nipped at heir faces, and filled their eyes with tears.
Todd was talking. Animatedly so, hands moving all around his face, which had turned pink due to the wind and the significant drop in the temperature. He was recounting a story about a disastrous college poetry reading Cameron had dragged him too.
“They honest to God made us sit in the dark,” he said, voice full of theatrical horror. “On the floor, no chairs, no cushions, no nothing. And then this guy – probably stoned out of his mind, despite Cameron’s claims to his sobriety to this day – read from his journal. His actual journal, the one he kept on his bedside table, Neil! There were pages with food stains!”
Neil smiled. “That was either performance art or a cry for help.”
“That was an insult to poetry and poets everywhere!” Todd exclaimed affronted, the look on his face so expressively irritated that Neil wanted to kiss it away.
Neil hadn’t been to the Boch Center before, and he was glad he got to see it with Todd by his side. From what little he’d gathered about the other man, Todd wasn’t really into the Christmas spirit, but still Neil saw the way his eyes widened a little as he took in the decorated tree in the foyer.
“You want us to take a selfie?” he asked, and the answering look on Todd’s face was blinding.
Further inside the place smelled like dust and velvet. The lights were low, the stage still curtained. They found their seats with little fuss, side by side, in the third row, the world slowly narrowing to the hush of the crowd and the gentle rustle of programs.
And then – Todd’s fingers brushed against his.
Neil, who hadn’t expected him to be this forward, startled a little in his seat. If Todd noticed he didn’t let it show. He simply hooked his pinky around Neil’s, his thumb rubbing comfortingly over the back of Neil’s hand.
It was exhilarating. It made his skin tingle wherever Todd’s fingers touched.
You’re acting like a fucking teenager, Branwell.
The voice echoing in his mind definitely sounded like Charlie, and Neil muffled it with vengeance, just as the lights lowered inside the theater hall.
The play began and Neil was enthralled. He’d read all of Shakespear’s works of course, but he’d never seen any of his plays. The couple of times he’d managed to sneak out of the Institute long enough to catch a play it was something contemporary that he got to watch with his heart in his throat, Charlie bitching into his ear the whole time.
This was different.
This was… everything.
Neil felt time slow down around them. He felt the weight of the world drop off his shoulders, his chest decompressing and expanding deliciously. This, this, this was what belonging felt like, wasn’t it?
This deep sense of slotting into place. Of witnessing and understanding and believing – of being a part of something even when you weren’t. Not really.
Neil must’ve read Hamlet a hundred of times, and yet he’d never felt the words like that before. His imagination had never quite captured the anguish, the raw grief, the spit-slicked anger that slipped into his ribcage, like a handcrafted key fitting perfectly between his ribs to crack them open.
Every line heard, every line spoken was a bruise he didn’t know he had.
He felt like he might cry.
But he didn’t. Because Todd’s fingers were resting lightly over his own, warm and grounding. So he breathed in the quiet between scenes, in the moments of stillness, when the audience held its collective breath. He let it fill him, cleanly, completely.
By the time the curtain fell, Neil was leaning back against his seat, his chest rising and falling fast, his eyes wet but not with sadness. Wet with cheer, wet with life.
They exited with the rest of the crowd, the night sky darker now, the streets quieter. They walked side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing, the only point of contact between the two of them.
Unsurprisingly, it was Todd who broke the silence.
“This might come off desperate, but I don’t want the night to end,” he said, voice barely above a whispered.
“I don’t want it to end either,” Neil stumbled over himself quickly, wanting to drown the sudden self-consciousness he felt rear its head in Todd’s voice.
Todd grinned at him. “I don’t live too far away from here. Would you… want to come up for a bit? I mean, no pressure or anything. I could make us something to eat or we could – just, talk. Or both?”
“Yes. To food. To talk. To anything. To everything.”
The walk to Todd’s apartment was indeed a short one. And yet in the time it took them to get there, Neil had regained all of the nerves he’d managed to lose while watching the play.
When they stepped inside the elevator, the doors groaning as they slid close, Neil felt the silence between them press against his lungs, threatening to suffocate him. He looked at Todd, standing way too close to him, his face turned toward the control panel. His skin was still a little pink from the cold, his hair slightly more tussled than before. His blue eyes were tracking the numbers on the panel, his lower lip caught between his lips.
He was easily the most beautiful person Neil had laid his eyes on.
“I need to kiss you,” Neil’s voice cracked through the quiet.
Todd blinked, gaze flicking to Neil’s, and then falling to his lips.
Neil swallowed a groan. “I don’t think I’ll make it out of this elevator ride if I don’t kiss you right now, Todd.”
The words hovered in the air between them like static, suspended and weightless, yet so heavy they bent the space around them.
Todd took a small, dazed step toward him. “Okay.”
It was all the permission Neil needed.
He closed whatever distance still existed between them, one hand curling around Todd’s jaw, tilting his head back. His other hand came over his hip, warm and gentle, anchoring them together. His thumb brushed over the hinge of Todd’s jaw, grounding him in the reality of wind-swept skin and breath and proximity. And then he leaned in.
The gentleness of it lasted maybe for a second. Just for the amount needed for Todd to gasp and then relax under his touch.
And then the kiss grew teeth, want, and heat. Then the kiss grew desperate and just this side of feral, and Neil was pushing Todd against the wall, his tongue running along the seam of Todd’s lips, prying them open. And Todd was unfurling underneath him, giving as good as he got, his chest flush against Neil’s and –
The elevator stopped.
Todd hummed against his lips, breaking the kiss to catch his breath. He pressed their foreheads together, deep blue eyes blinking open and staring at him.
“Well, that was a kiss,” he sounded positively wrecked, and Neil’s heart sung at the sound. “Let’s uh… go inside, and maybe we can do more of that there.”
Neil managed to stay in control of himself long enough for Todd to unlock the door of his apartment and then lock it up again when they were both safely inside. But as soon as he heard the soft click of the lock, any semblance of control melted away and he was on Todd, like he was getting paid for it. Todd sighed against his lips, and it stole his next breath. He framed Todd's face with his hands, both thumbs now resting underneath his jaw, maneuvering his head back, deepening the kiss. If there was a way to consume him, keep him locked behind his teeth, Neil would find a way to do it.
It would probably be the only way to satiate this primal kind of need that one single kiss had unlocked inside of him.
After not nearly enough time – at least by Neil’s standards – he felt Todd push against his shoulder. Reluctantly he pulled back, and in blatant display of mixed signals Todd chased after his lips, brushing another kiss on the corner of his mouth, before recalling himself.
“Okay, I promised you food,” Todd said, and his tone indicated he wasn’t particularly happy with himself for making that promise.
“You don’t have to,” Neil said quickly, fingers curling around the lapels of Todd’s lilac shirt, keeping him close. “We can just – keep doing this. I don’t mind.”
Todd gave him a look. “Clearly,” he said, and Neil did not blush, thank you very much. “But you hardly ate anything at the diner so, I’m making soup.”
“No, Todd, you don’t have to,” Neil tried again, but Todd had already slipped away from him.
Neil groaned, hitting his head back against the door. He drew in a deep breath, hands flexing into fists, his nails digging into the fleshy part of his palm. He stood there for a moment longer, chest moving with unsteady bursts.
From the kitchen came the soft clatter of spoons, the creak of a cupboard, the click of a stover burner. The noises made it obvious Todd had already started on dinner and Neil took another deep breath, before dragging himself further into the apartment, legs the slightest bit wobbly. He sank into the couch closes to him with a low breath. His eyes skimmed over the room, catching on bookshelves, a worn throw blanket over the arm of the couch he was occupying, a coffee mug with a chipped handle resting on the windowsill.
Everything in the apartment screamed Todd’s name.
Neil got more comfortable, spreading horizontally on the couch, blinking at the wall across from him unfocused. He’d started losing consciousness when he felt a flicker.
It wouldn’t have mattered if it hadn’t been on his hip.
Much more alert, suddenly, he sat up straighter, looking down at himself frowning. His fingers hovered over the edge of his sweater, where the parabatai rune lay branded on his skin.
It wasn’t burning, so Charlie wasn’t facing any real danger, but it was buzzing. A low, coiled energy, not painful but not entirely comfortable either.
It was unlikely for Charlie to have gone out on patrol on his own. It was late enough, and he was alone at the Institute, so he was probably in bed already. But still something was stirring the bond, pulling faintly at the corner of Neil’s mind. Not quite panic. Not quite fear. Just… tense.
Neil exhaled through his nose. Not now. He couldn’t do this right now.
He had no reason to believe there was actually anything wrong with Charlie. Besides, if he’d find himself in a situation he’d call.
He’s probably already asleep, and you’re on a date. Stop self-sabotaging.
Repeating the words in his mind, Neil stood up and followed the smell of garlic and thyme down the hallway. He came to a step just before entering, leaning against the frame of the door to watch Todd as he moved around the place, humming softly and off-key a tune of his own making. He had a ladle, dripping with tomato soup in one hand, the other fiddling with the nobs of his oven.
He even had an apron on – because of course he had. Carefully wrapped around his waist, mindful to not stain his lilac button-down. The apron had little embroidered vegetables on it.
By the Angel, Neil really - really - liked him.
“Soup’s done,” Todd said, probably sensing him in the room. He turned to grab the bowls from a cupboard above the stove, but he never quite made it.
Because suddenly Neil was there. Grabbing him by the waist.
Todd blinked. “… Neil?”
Neil didn’t answer him. He just walked him back, slow and steady, until Todd’s back hit against the refrigerator with a dull thud. His hands had already slipped under the apron, yanking it loose, one of them resting over the small of his back, the other splayed over Todd’s stomach.
Neil looked at him from under his lashes, feeling his throat grow thick.
“If this feels like it’s too soon – like it’s too much - stop me,” he murmured, voice rough, trembling just a little. The hand on Todd’s abdomen bunched the fabric of his shirt up, fingers pressing against warm skin.
His breath caught in his throat. “Oh,” he choked out. “Is this… are you –”
“Yes,” Neil gasped, his head falling forward, forehead coming to Todd’s shoulder. “Yes.”
He turned his head and kissed the slope of Todd’s neck, soft and sloppy and hungry.
Todd let a whine.
A whine.
The sound hit Neil's spine like a lit fuse, and he had to recall all of his training to keep himself in check.
He needed to give Todd time to pull away, if he wished. So, he started slow. Trailing kisses down his neck. Nuzzling his nose over the sensitive hollow between his shoulder and neck. Dragging his teeth across the silver of collarbone peeking through his shirt.
His fingers moved reverently over Todd’s sides, memorizing every inch like this moment might be taken from him.
Neil lifted his head to look at him. “Todd,” he murmured.
Just that.
Just his name.
Todd, Todd, Todd…
Todd kissed him.
Hard. Messy, Like he was angry at the air that existed between them. Like he’d been waiting for hours upon hours to do just that. To kiss him senseless. To try and burrow himself into Neil’s chest, by pressing them together so fiercely that they would – eventually – merge into one.
Neil folded into him. Melted into his touch, into the need, into the noise. No protest, not fight. He kissed back with equal heat, one hand fisting into Todd’s shirt, the other one skimming over his back, seeking for purchase and anchoring them together, while Todd shoved a knee between his thighs.
“Need you,” Neil gasped against his mouth.
Todd stopped licking into his mouth long enough to mumble an incredulous “Kitchen?” he huffed a laugh in pure disbelief, and Neil could only laugh, hoarse and desperate. “You’re – seriously, we’re going to –”
“Yes.”
Afraid that Todd might lose his resolve, Neil decided to take the situation in his own hands. Literally. He lifted him up like he weighed nothing, palms slipping underneath Todd’s thighs in a swift, smooth move. Todd let a surprised yelp, his ankles locking around Neil’s waist, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Neil gave his ass a quick squeeze, before dispositioning him on one of the counters.
Hands on either side of him, Neil stepped between his already parted legs, to steal another kiss. Todd's grip on the collar of his sweater was vice-like, pulling him in like he had every intention to fuse their chests together. Neil chuckled against his lips, teeth nibbling on Todd’s lower lip.
“Can you lift yourself up?” he asked softly, voice wrecked with need.
Todd nodded, lifting his hips with a soft breath, and Neil made quick work of his belt, tugging his pants down in one smooth motion. He then proceeded to drop to his knees, kissing a line up the inside of his thigh so reverently it bordered to obscene.
Todd made a noise – half-moan, half-Neil – before mingling a hand in his hair with the sole purpose of dragging him back up. Their mouths collided again, frantic and wet, and Neil pressed their foreheads together breathing hard.
“I don’t know what it is about you,” he said truthfully, “but you’re driving me crazy, Todd.”
“Me too, the same,” Todd whispered, his mouth hot and open along Neil’s jaw.
Neil pulled away slightly, and Todd whined at the sudden loss. Neil chuckled, grabbed the hem of his green sweater and dragged it off over his head. Todd’s already flushed face grew a shade darker, lower lip drawn between his teeth, eyes roaming over Neil’s bare chest. He reached out, fingertips ghosting down the center of Neil’s torso like he couldn’t help himself.
“Can I..?” Neil asked, hands teasing the rim of Todd’s shirt. When Todd took a second too long to respond, he added, “I don’t mind if you don’t want to. It’s okay. We can stop if you’re not comfortable.”
Neil had hardly finished his sentence, when Todd grabbed a fistful of his shirt, hastily pulling it over and tossing it carelessly on the floor behind Neil’s back. His hands feverishly yanked at Neil again, fingers tangling in his hair, flexing as he brought their faces together.
“Don’t you dare walk away now,” he groaned, probably aiming to sound threatening, but the heat behind his words was like molten caramel, sparkling up Neil’s desire.
“Not walking away,” he mumbled, lips sloppily seaming together, arms wrapping around Todd’s middle and squeezing.
Todd was loud.
He moaned and gasped and hit the counter with the heel of his palm every time Neil did something that made his body jolt. He chanted Neil’s name in a voice too raw for it to sound as anything close to his name. He did all of that unashamed with the kind of wild abandon Neil wouldn’t have guessed in his wildest dreams.
Neil trailed kisses across his collarbone and Todd keened, one hand smacking against the counter he was perched upon, the other pressing Neil’s head more firmly against his skin.
Neil's tongue came out to lap around his navel and Todd whined, back arching, his head hitting against the wall with a thud.
Neil dropped to his knees, teeth grazing Todd’s lower abdomen, kissing and sucking and marking the skin there and Todd let a cry so loud it hit straight to Neil’s gut.
It was too much.
It was not nearly enough.
Neil could drink him down, down, down, like the most refreshing drink he’s ever had, and it would still not be close to being enough. There was this want inside of him, this wild and untamable thing threatening to consume everything in its path to get satisfied.
And it all started and ended with Todd.
Todd who was trembling on the counter before him. Todd whose fingers were desperately clinging to him, pushing and pulling, not really sure where he wanted him the most but frantic for more, more, more of this. Todd, who looked at him like Neil was the answer to all of his unvoiced questions.
Todd, Todd, Todd….
Neil was never good at taking his time, but he tried. He tried to stretch this out, and savor the moment. To enjoy the way Todd opened up around his fingers, the way he crumbled down around him. To let himself be in the moment for a second longer, to get lost in it, burry himself into Todd – figuratively, before doing so literally – and just stay there, warm and hidden away. Just exist within Todd’s body and let everything else go.
But Todd was making such pretty noises, and Neil had never been selfish when it came to sex, so with a final kiss to the inside of his thigh, he stood up and was immediately drawn into a searing kiss.
“Please, please, Neil – just –” Todd was a stuttering mess, eyes blown wide the blue in them almost entirely lost by the expansion of his irises. “Please, I just – I need –”
Neil hushed him, trying to be comforting by running a hand through his hair, but Todd was clawing at his skin, his thighs bucking against him on their own accord.
“- I need, I – Neil, I need you.”
And that’s where Neil lost time. Because one second, he was trying to calm Todd down, and the next he was sliding inside him, having no idea how he got from point A to point B. Yet when he arrived there, they both let a thankful breath, their foreheads resting together.
It was slow at first, even with the fire that seemed to have consumed Todd whole. Neil moved like he was trying to memorize him, like this would be his only chance to do so, thrusts careful and measured, palms running all over Todd’s body.
Todd let him set the pace for about two minutes or so, too lost in his own pleasure to be demanding. His head had lolled forward, cheek resting on Neil’s shoulder, lips brushing again and again over his pulse point. He only became more aware when it was obvious Neil had no intention of speeding things up in the foreseeable future.
Todd whined his frustration into existence, meeting every single one of Neil’s thrusts with his own, intentionally messing up his pace, keen on setting one more to his liking. It didn’t take long for it to turn desperate. Bruising.
Sweat had broken out on both of their skins, making the sliding up and down of their hands easier. Their kisses were wet and sloppy, mouths chasing whenever one or the other dared to pull away longer than needed to catch a breath. Todd clung to him like he was a lifeline, and Neil gave into the chaos, letting the world narrow down to the point of contact between their bodies, to the wood of the counter against his knees, to the taste of Todd’s name in his mouth.
“Neil, I’m going to…” Todd trailed off, nails biting into Neil’s shoulders.
“Yes,” Neil breathed, hips stuttering only for a second at the implication of Todd’s words. “Yes, Todd. Please, please let go.”
Todd coming looked like something taken out of a renaissance painting.
His body tensed around Neil, thighs going so tight around his waist he almost groaned in pain. The column of his neck arched, his eyes sinking shut, Neil’s name falling from his parted lips like a prayer, again, and again, and again.
It was all it took to push Neil over the edge.
They stayed there for a long, still moment – foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, the world narrowed down to the echo of each other’s heartbeat. Todd’s fingers slipped into his hair, gentle now, and Neil let his eyes close. Let himself fall into the quiet. Into this. Into him.
They ate soup on the couch. Todd had managed to actually salvage their food, despite Neil’s meddling, which – thank the Angel he had– because Neil felt famish. They were half-dressed, knees touching, Todd feeding him spoonfuls like he didn’t trust him to handle the bowl. They were smiling like idiots the whole time, stealing glances and sharing smiles, all soft eyes and post-orgasm glow.
It was so disgustingly domestic, it made Neil’s chest ache.
“I need to go clean up,” Todd said, after, standing up.
“Okay,” Neil agreed, ready to join him, only for Todd to push him back against the couch.
“Uh-huh, no,” he said, making Neil’ eyes widen. “You’ll only get in the way.”
“But, Todd,” Neil whined.
Todd chuckled. “I won’t be long, okay? Just – read a book. Stare moodily out of the window. Brood, if you must, like you people are so inclined to do.”
Neil raised an eyebrow. “You people? Is that a Shadowhunter slight?”
Todd shook his head. “A Neil Branwell slight. The tall, broody, dark kind of guy.”
“I think you’re mistaking me with Knox.”
“Mm, I’m definitely not.”
“Do too.”
“I’m not -” Todd cut himself off, hands coming to his hips. “You’re already derailing me. I’ll just go clean my kitchen and be right back.”
Neil whined some more but Todd – unfeeling, unking, menace to the society Todd – gave him one single, last look and retrieved to the kitchen. So, Neil sighed, and accepted his fate.
He didn’t mean to snoop, not really. But he had to entertain himself somehow. Neil wandered around the small room, feeling Todd’s presence everywhere he looked. He walked up to the bookcase, let his fingers trail over the spines of cracked paperbacks. He picked up a sketchpad which laid half-tucked beneath a coffee table stacked with old issues of The New Yorker. He tried measuring the length of the living room, placing one foot in front of the other, coming face to face with a wall of photos when he reached the end.
Neil leaned in, eyes tracing the four lonesome pictures hanging there. One of them feature Todd and Cameron a couple of years ago, both of them holding up their college degrees, smiling at the camera. They had an arm slung around each other’s shoulders; their eyes crinkled, their smiles blinding.
Another one was from years ago, when Todd was barely out of the toddler age, hair blonder than Neil had ever seen it in person, standing up in odd angles. One of his little hands was reaching toward the person behind the camera, his blue eyes expressive as ever, lit with the smile playing at his lips.
The third one was with Todd standing between two older people – his parents, presumably. He couldn’t have been older than eight or nine years old. Half of his face was tucked against the woman’s stomach, like he didn’t want to be part of this photograph. She had her hands on his shoulders, head bent down to talk to him. The man in the photo was also looking down at Todd, an amused but kind expression on his face.
The fourth one, made the breath catch in Neil’s lungs.
It was the picture of two boys, arm-in-arm, laughing at the camera like they’d just come out of some inside joke. Todd was younger – less tense lines marring the corners of his eyes, rounder cheeks, a t-shirt that said something stupid in a retro font. Still unmistakably him, but less anxious. Less haunted.
The boy next to him was also unmistakable.
Jeffrey Lovelace looked at him from his spot in the photograph, and he could almost hear the sound of his laugh.
Because Neil knew what it had sounded like. His laugh, bouncing off the walls of the training room, after executing a number of drills that had Shadowhunters twice his age stumbling. Neil had sat beside him on a dozen mission debriefs, whishing to turn out exactly like him when he got older. Lovelace had been a promising young Shadowhunter, a rising star, the kind of golden boy the Clave loved to exalt posthumously.
Unthinkingly Neil tacked the photo off the wall and padded over to the kitchen. Todd was humming again, under his breath, hands wet and soppy as he stood over the sink.
Neil’s heart hammered inside his chest.
“Hey, Todd,” he called to get his attention, silently thankful for the steadiness of his voice. “Who’s this?” he asked, holding the framed picture up.
Todd glanced at him, the expression on his face turning a little softer, a little sadder. “That’s my brother,” he said. “Jeff.”
Neil nodded slowly, careful to hold his face still. “Brother.”
“Yeah.” Todd looked wistful now, like the name conjured something warm. The water was still running. “He was older than me by four years. Died a while ago. Freak car accident. Along with our parents.” He paused, corrected himself. “Well, my adoptive parents.”
Neil’s lungs seized.
“Oh,” he managed and if Todd noticed something weird in his tone he probably thought it was sympathy. “I – I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Todd said gently, brushing it off like it was nothing. “It’s been a long time.”
Neil made a noncommittal sound.
“I uh, I’ll let you get back to your cleaning,” he mumbled, stumbling back into the living room without waiting for a comeback.
His pulse was thundering in his ears. He crossed the living room, propping himself against the windowsill and throwing the window open, trying to shake off the suffocating weight of realization.
He needed air.
No, no, he needed answers.
He pulled out his phone from his jeans’ pocket and after throwing a quick glance into the kitchen to make sure Todd was still preoccupied, he stepped out into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. Feeling his heart behind his teeth he dialed the Institute’s private line.
“Speak fast or not at all,” Stick’s voice came distorted and bored over the line.
Neil let a relieved sigh. “Thank the Angel it’s you,” he mumbled, clenching the mobile in his hand. He had a vague idea of how the rotation worked at the ops center, the chances of Stick – someone he trusted – answering the phone being around three to one.
“Branwell? You’re not on tonight.”
Neil rolled his eyes at the unhelpful reminder. “I know. I need you to look up something for me. Quietly”
There was a beat of silence.
“Okay…”
“Stick,” Neil bit on his lip, eyes flicking to the still open door. “No one finds out about this. Not even my father.”
Especially not my father.
Another beat of silence. This one longer.
“Fine. What do you need?”
“I need you to pull up Jeffrey Lovelace’s file.”
“… Why?”
Neil pressed his eyes shut, drawing a breath. “Just do it.”
It took a second, but he heard Stick’s keys clatter, fast and efficient.
“Alright, let’s see,” Stick muttered. “Lovelace… right, got him. Born in 1998. Died in 2020, cause of death; car accident. Family listed: Mother, Calleigh Lovelace – deceased. Father, Eric Lovelace – also deceased. Stepfather; Chris Anderson. Deceased, again.”
Neil swallowed, his mind already spinning around itself. “Mother’s maiden name?”
Another beat. Then –
“Verlac.”
The floor under Neil’s feet felt suddenly less stable. He closed his eyes, pressed a hand over them, as it could somehow rewrite reality.
Stick cleared his throat. “Branwell…”
“I’m still here,” Neil’s voice cracked, and he would’ve been embarrassed if he could summon up any other emotion than pure despair.
“Caleigh had two younger sisters. Elodie,” he paused, and Neil heard more clicking from his side. “We all know where she is. And Laylah.”
“Laylah?” Neil whispered, holding onto his phone like it was a damn lifeline.
“Laylah Verlac went missing twenty-five years ago. Her parents filed a report, but she was never found. No body, no record of death. No trace of her. She was just gone.”
Neil was a second away from throwing up.
“I know you told me to keep this quiet,” Stick started, and Neil’s anxiousness skyrocketed.
“Please, Stick. You have to! Please.”
“Shut up, I’ll keep it to myself,” the man reassured him. “But I wouldn’t be a good Shadowhunter or a good friend if I didn’t ask what brought this up.”
Neil rubbed at his eyes again, feeling an intense pounding inside his skull.
“I’m back on Elodie’s murder case,” he said, choosing to go with a half-truth instead of an outright lie. “I’m just – covering my bases.”
“Right.” Stick didn’t sound like he believed him.
“Look, thanks for doing this, and for keeping it between us. I need to go now.”
“Right,” he said again.
Neil hung up.
The silence of the hallway made his ears hurt. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry, too thick. The photograph still burned in his memory. Todd with his arm slung around Jeffrey’s. Their twin smiles to the camera.
His back hit against the wall, and he slowly slid down until his ass was sat on the carpeted floor. He brought his knees close to his chest, his arms looping around them, his phone still clasped loosely in one of his hands, the other bracing against his chest, like he was trying to hold his internal organs from spilling out.
This had to be a mistake. Some sort of freak coincidence. There was no way…
There was no way.
Except –
Jeff, my brother. He was older than me by four years. He died a while ago. Along with our parents. Well, my adoptive parents.
Neil’s hands were shaking. No, scratch that. His whole body was shaking. The hallway floor felt too cold underneath him, the wall too uncomfortable against his spine.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Okay. Think.”
But what was there to think? Even if he could stop his thoughts from ricocheting – fast, fast too fast – even if he could calm down his breathing, the reality of the situation prevailed.
Todd was adopted, by the Andersons. His adoptive mother was related to his biological mother – distantly, Todd had said, but he obviously didn’t know the truth. Calleigh Lovelace – nee Verlac – had taken in her nephew, after losing her first husband and getting married to Eric Anderson. Jeffrey never changed his last name, because he didn’t have too.
But Todd…
Todd was a hybrid. Half-warlock, half-Shadowhunter. A miasma, some of the more indoctrinated members of the Clave would call him. They had to hide him to keep him safe so, giving him a mundane last name and hoping for his powers to lay dormant was their best bet.
Why did Laylah have to take him in in the first place? Laylah was missing, a body was never retrieved she could still be alive… but would she have given up her child if she were? And if yes, then why? Wouldn’t it be safer for the two of them to disappear without a trace together?
Neil hit his head against the wall, producing a dull thud.
Todd’s smile flashed in his mind and his chest ached. Sweet Todd, with his pretty blue eyes, and his anxious stutter. New to this world Todd who couldn’t control his magic and looked at Neil like he was the answer he’d been searching all along.
Half-Shadowhunter Todd Verlac who’d walked into the scene of his maternal aunt’s murder and burned her killer into a crisp, before he’d ever ran into Neil. And now Neil was back into Elodie Verlac’s case. Full access. Full responsibility. Tasked to find who was hiding behind her gruesome death.
What the hell was Neil supposed to do with this?
He pressed his fists to his forehead, tried to focus. Tried to find an exit ramp from the spiral he was tumbling down. But there wasn’t one.
He thumped his head against the wall, again. Once, twice, letting the pressure of it push back against the chaos in his mind.
From inside the apartment he could still hear – faintly – Todd moving around, always humming softly and off-key. A half hour ago the scene felt normal. Sweet. Domestic. Now it made his stomach churn and twist around itself, forcing bile up his throat.
Because Todd didn’t know.
Neil’s heart cracked straight down in the middle.
He couldn’t tell him. Not now. Not before finding out more, connecting all the dots, having some sort of answer to give him. Not before he could start breathing properly again.
He scrubbed both hands over his face, dragged himself to his feet, and stood there for a second in the dark hallway. When he, finally, walked back into the kitchen, Todd was perched up on one of the counters, palms gingerly wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. He’d put on a black hoodie, worn-out and soft looking, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his hair wet and curling on his forehead. Neil had spent enough time in the hallway that he’d taken a whole-ass shower without him realizing.
He looked up as Neil stepped in, and smiled at him over the rim of his teacup.
“There you are,” he said, extending a hand toward him, in a clear invitation to join him.
Neil didn’t hesitate to move forward, his feet carrying him to the counter in three long strides. Todd’s arms came easily around his shoulders, and Neil folded himself into the embrace, hiding his face and his guilt in the crook of Todd’s shoulder.
“Alright?” Todd asked, sounding slightly worried.
“Just tired,” Neil mumbled, pressing a couple of wet kisses over Todd’s pulse.
Todd shifted around him, dropping his face lower to try and catch a glimpse of his face. “Are you sure? Is there something wrong?”
No.
Yes.
Please, I don’t know how to answer this question.
“I –” Neil forced a breath in. “I think I need to take you back to the Institute tonight.”
Todd blinked, the corners of his lips tagging downward. “Neil, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he answered quickly. Too quickly. Todd arched an eyebrow. “I just -” his voice caught, tangled on the edge of a truth he wasn’t ready to say. “I just… I don’t really want to be away from you tonight.”
It wasn’t a lie. Neil, if he could help it, would never spend another moment not glued to Todd’s side. Still, the words felt like ash in his mouth.
Todd didn’t question it. He didn’t press. He just let his cheek on the top of Neil’s head, holding him close. “Oh,” he said quietly, and Neil felt the breath he drew in with it, against his own chest. “Okay. I’ll just… I’ll go pack some things.”
He made a move to hop off, but Neil held him in place, sinking into him, absorbing Todd’s body heat and memorizing the shape of his head.
“In a minute,” he whispered against the skin of his neck.
Todd shuddered around him. “In a minute,” he agreed.
The Institute was in chaos.
It shouldn’t be. Not at this time.
It wasn’t like that when Neil had called, an hour or so ago. Stick sounded bored over the line.
But now..
The moment the elevator doors opened, the noise hit him like a slap; shouting, alarms still blaring from some far wing, the hurried stampeded of boots on tile. Neil stepped in with Todd at his side, his palm ghosting over Neil’s like he wasn’t sure whether to hold it or not.
Resolutely Neil tangled their fingers together and dragged him into the heart of the madness.
The air smelled of antiseptic and ichor. The corridors were lined with gurneys bodies lying on top of them, some conscious, others not. The further they walked, the messiest everything became. Blood slicked the floor. Torn pieces of gear dropped haphazardly in piles. Hushed voices floated from shadowed corners, talking about taking the injured to the City of Bones.
Neil’s heart slammed painfully inside his chest.
Where the fuck was Charlie?
Guilt and shame battled inside of him for dominance. Was this the reason why his parabatai rune had acted up? Neil shouldn’t have ignored it the way he had, he should’ve called, he should’ve –
“Charlie!”
The shout was unnecessary. Charlie was strapped on one of the gurneys – possibly because it was the only reason for the healers to get him to lie down on one. His head snapped up at the sound of Neil’s voice, relief shining clear in his eyes. It echoed through their bond, warm and grounding. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, a bandage wrapped hastily around his ribs. There was blood drying in his hair.
Neil’s steps faltered. He barely heard Todd say something beside him.
“You should see the other guy,” Charlie joked, because of course he would.
“Did he also get skewered side to side?” Neil asked, eyebrows rising high enough to meet his hairline.
Charlie huffed, waving a dismissive hand – then winced, painfully.
“What the hell happened?” Neil demanded, grabbing a hold of Charlie’s hand before he could move it again and pressing it gently down.
“Some wannabe big, bad warlock decided to drop a fucking greater demon on a mundie concert downtown. We had to evac forty civilians mid-fight.”
“You – what? Mundane concert?”
Charlie tried to lift his hand again, but Neil firmly held it down. He glared, but Neil didn’t relent, and so he compromised by shaking his head. “It was a whole thing. Point is, we handled it.”
“Barely,” Neil muttered, eyes flicking over Charlie’s extensive injuries. “You’re hurt.”
“Oh, don’t start with that. I’m fine.”
“Is that why they have you strapped down?” Neil asked, brushing his fingers over the straps holding Charlie tightly in place.
Something ugly flashed in his parabatai’s eyes. “Fuckers,” he muttered through his teeth. He petulantly jerked his injured arm against the restraints. They didn’t badge, but Charlie’s face screwed up in pain.
“Nice. Smart,” Neil said dryly. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Why? So, you could feel guilty when you didn’t answer?” Charlie shot back. “I knew you were… preoccupied when you didn’t react to the first injury,” he added, eyes dropping from Neil’s face to his own shoulder.
“I would’ve answered if you’d called,” Neil fought back weakly.
Charlie didn’t say anything. His eyes traveled to Todd, still hovering just behind Neil, and to their hands – still loosely joined – before returning to Neil’s face. He arched a brow, unimpressed, and Neil flushed.
“As I said,” Charlie started, again. “We handled. And I really am fine.”
Before Neil could say anything, a shadow shifted behind Charlie’s gurney. Knox moved his weight between his feet, arms crossed, his jaw set tight. Next to him Pitts stood in a much more relaxed pose, but his eyes were alert, trailing every single one of Knox’s moves.
Charlie noticed them both a second later.
“Oh, great,” he drawled. “Look who’s still lurking.”
“Blackthorn,” Knox said, and there was exhaustion in his tone, but no heat. “You should be resting.”
“You should be dead,” Charlie snapped, earning a glare from Pitts.
“I know gratitude is a foreign concept to you, but you could at the very least, shut the fuck up,” he said, positioning himself between Charlie’s gurney and Knox.
Charlie let a sound too close to a growl, tagging at his restraints again.
Feeling like he had to defuse the situation, Neil pushed him back against the bed, stepping up to meet Pitts toe to toe.
“What happened?” he asked, ducking his head to catch Pitts’ gaze, which was still stuck on Charlie.
“Why don’t you ask the ungrateful piece of shit you call your parabatai?” Pitts spat.
Neil was too stunned to react, but Knox wasn’t and he quickly grabbed at Pitts arm, pulling him back and furiously whispering something in his ear Neil didn’t quiet catch. Pitts relented, barely.
This was not normal. Pitts didn’t swear so casually in a room full of superior officers. Not unless something had gone deeply sideways.
Neil slowly turned back to Charlie, waiting for an explanation.
Charlie rubbed his free hand over his jaw, his expression still murderous. “Carstairs thought it was a good idea to jump between me and a feral Ravener demon.”
“He saved your fucking life,” Pitts snapped once more, only to be dragged away again.
Neil frowned. “I thought you said it was a Greater Demon.”
“It was,” Charlie bit out. “And a horde of lesser ones. The Ravener got through.”
“And – Knox saved you?” Neil asked carefully. Which was clearly the wrong thing to say. It was as if a fuse lit up in Charlie, his eyes turning murderous and he peered around Neil’s body to glare at the Pitts and Knox.
“Saving me would require skill. Saving me would mean he killed the fucking thing with an arrow. No, what he did was not save me! He almost killed both of us.”
“So, help me Raziel, if you don’t shut up in the next second, Blackthorn –” Pitts started again.
“Gerard, stop,” Knox said emphatically. “And you, I already apologized for not letting you die a gruesome and painfully death. Move on.”
Charlie sat up as best as the straps allowed, breathing like it hurt to stay still. “No, I won’t fucking move on!” he seethed, his whole aura screaming murder. “What the fuck was that Carstairs? You just – you just –” his mouth snapped a couple of times, no more words coming out of it.
For his part, Knox looked as calm as someone who’d spend the better part of his night fighting demons could look. “Charlie, we were trapped in a warehouse with a bunch of demons. There was a fire. A blind Ravener was barreling toward you. I was close. I did what I had to do.”
“You didn’t even use your fucking bow, Knox!” Charlie exploded, lurching against his restraints. “What’s the point of having a fucking weapon if you’re not going to use it?”
Neil was sure that if Charlie hadn’t been strapped down, he would’ve launched himself across the floor. The air between them sparked – charged, brittle, sharp like dry lightning. Charlie’s fists were already curled by his sides.
Neil stepped closer, laying a hand on Charlie’s uninjured shoulder. “Charlie – don’t.”
Charlie didn’t look at him. His jaw was clenched so tight it trembled.
And then –
“What kind of fireproofing does your gear have?”
Everyone turned to look at Todd. He stood there, pink-faced, arms loosely crossed like he didn’t quite know what to do with them, but still – there. Unfazed. Or at least pretending.
Knox stared at him for a long second, like his brain was rebooting.
“I mean –” Todd rubbed the back of his neck. “You mentioned there was a fire, at the – at the warehouse. And your gear jacket looks… fine? I’ve just been wondering, and – sorry, is that a dumb question?”
There was a heartbeat of pure silence.
Knox blinked, systems back up and running. “There’s a heat-resistant rune, under the seaming. Under the standard enchantment layer.”
“Oh,” Todd nodded. “That makes sense.”
Neil almost laughed. Because Todd knew that. He knew Todd already knew that because he’d said it himself to Ginny not even five days ago. The question was… a deflection. A tension-breaker. It was an out.
It was a kindness.
Knox turned his head, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. Pitts exhaled, tension easing off his shoulders. Charlie’s body didn’t relax, but he leaned back into the pillows Neil was fussing with – enough to let Neil shove one of them more snugly under his back.
“Stop it, mom,” Charlie taunted, and Neil let a chuckle that didn’t sound quiet right.
Charlie frowned, looked at him like he was now noticing the tense way Neil had been carrying himself.
“I thought getting laid would help with your general…” Charlie carefully waved his free hand in Neil’s general direction. “But you look even worse than before.”
“Thanks,” came Neil’s dry reply.
“You’re welcome. What’s wrong?”
Neil swallowed a sigh, his eyes flicking to Todd who was quietly conversing with Pitts and Knox.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “The beginning is always a good place.”
Neil stared at his hands for a second. “Right,” he mumbled, the word barely a breath. “Right, okay, the beginning...”
Chapter 16: But I'm so blue (but I'm not what you need) (Or; Why don’t you run from me)
Notes:
Hellooooo nice people of the internet!! How has your week been so far?? So, this chapter doesn't help move the plot forward - not much anyway- and I was originally going to scrap it, BUT! But this is pure Knarlie pining and yearning and I couldn't bring myself to cut it. So now you'll get almost 10k of these idiots just being jealous and whatnot with no plot whatsoever! I hope you enjoy it! Let me know in the comments and see you next week!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The bar was red.
Not in a decorative, cozy sort of way. Not festive and joyous Christmas-y red. Not candlelight or wine-stained velvet. No, this was blood-warm red – bleeding onto every surface, casting shadows on the expressions of their faces, and making the beer inside Knox’s glass look like something he shouldn’t be drinking.
Strings of fairy-lights hung from the low ceiling, dully lit and creating patterns across the floor resembling arteries. Garlands twined up the beams, laced with rust-colored ribbons that may once have passed for burgundy. There were bells, springs of plastic mistletoe, a wreath made of twigs and holly skewered through the center with a wooden dagger.
It was like someone had tried to decorate for the holidays with things they bought from a Halloween themed shop. The failure was spectacular.
The music inside the bar was loud. It pulsed through the walls – some hybrid of techno pop and Christmas classics remix, all bass that refused to drop. The tables were full. The booths were fuller. Every seat was taken, every hand wrapped around something drinkable, smokable, chewable or fuckable.
Knox leaned back in his chair fingers curling around the neck of half-warm bottle. Across the table, Pitts was watching him watch the room.
“Okay, I’m officially pulling the plug,” his parabatai said. “You’ve looked over there three times in the last five minutes.”
Knox didn’t answer. What could he say? Defending himself was out of the question, it would require a great deal of gaslighting, and Knox had never been good at it. He didn’t even need to ask where the ‘there’ in Pitts’ sentence referred to.
The bar was buzzing with people, much like the rest of the place. It was at the far side of the room, well-lit with a chandelier hanging directly above it. Everyone sitting underneath it was luminescent in crimson shades. And in the middle of all the chaos, Charlie Blackthorn sat much like a king on his throne. He leaned across the stool he was perched on, half-drunk, wholly committed into invading the personal space of the woman beside him. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal his collarbone, a whiskey glass in hand, the Blackthorn signet ring on his pinky catching on the light as he moved his hand.
It shouldn’t be able for his voice to carry over all the noise. And yet…
“Me gusta tu camisa,” Blackthorn drawled, caressing the neck of the woman’s blouse with the knuckle of his index. “Pero creo que me gustariá más en el suelo de mi habitación.”
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fucking fair how his voice dropped a whole octave when he spoke in Spanish. Or how after cracking over the first couple of words, his accent smoothed out, the rest of the sentence rolling smoothly out of his mouth. Like silk. Like something poisonous.
And fuck him, Knox shivered.
He shivered.
Very visibly so.
“Are you having an aneurism?” Pitts asked loudly, half-amused, half-concerned.
“I’m fi-”
“Do not finish that sentence,” he warned, pointing a finger at his face. Knox blinked at him challengingly. “I’m serious, Carstairs, if you tell me you’re fine one more time –”
Blackthorn laughed at something, loud and obnoxious, and Knox couldn’t keep his gaze from snapping right back to him. His head was tipped back, his throat exposed, while the rest of his body was angled toward the beautiful woman beside him. He had the sleeves of his shirt folded up into the bend of his elbow, the muscles of his forearm flexing as he slid along the bar.
Knox’s synapses frizzled.
“By the Angel, you’re fucking hopeless!” Pitts’ exclamation was enough to break through the haze in Knox’s brain. Barely. “Just – stop glaring, will you? Wouldn’t want you to tear your ligaments.”
“I’m not glaring,” Knox said defensively.
“Right, my mistake. You’re yearningly gazing. Better?”
“Shut up.”
Pitts leaned over the top of their table, resting his chin on his palm. “I’ll shut up when you manage keep your eyes on me for longer than five minutes.”
“I can do that,” Knox muttered.
“Consequetively,” Pitts added, batting his eyelashes.
“I can do it,” Knox insisted.
“You literally can’t.”
Knox didn’t argue. There was no point in it. Pitts had set up his mind and whatever Knox was going to say, wouldn’t change a thing. Not that he knew what he was going to say, if he decided it was worth a shot. Pitts obviously wanted him to admit something he had no intention of saying out loud, under no circumstances. So instead, he looked away, letting his eyes wander around the room.
It wasn’t an everyday occasion for a Downworlder bar to be packed to the brim with Shadowhunters. Even in Boston, where the lines blurred more often than not, Shadowhunters tended to keep to their own crowd. But after the night they’d had, after coming so close to losing more than one of their people, the Shadowhunters felt a little too on the edge to attend a mundane establishment. They’d craved familiarity, safety, proximity. And this place – the most neutral werewolf-owned establishment within city limits – had reluctantly offered all three.
Knox had half-expected the bar’s owner to kick them out on sight. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised when the barkeep – a burly, fifty-something man, bald and covered in tattoos – vouched for them, giving a single, appreciative nod to Neil. Neil had nodded back, tentative and polite.
Blackthorn had growled.
Literally growled, Knox was pretty sure, as he stepped in front of Neil like he was shielding him from the other man’s star.
Them not getting kicked out also meant Pitts’ vote on the Clave meeting had not become public knowledge.
For now, Knox thought grimly, scanning the room again.
Every table in sight was packed with familiar faces. Todd and Neil were pressed close enough to be mistaken for cojoined twins. They were clearly not trying to hide the change in their relationship statutes, exchanging kisses every few seconds, like they were breaths and sneaking too knowing smiles between sentences.
Cameron was seated awkwardly at the edge of their booth – invited, apparently, by Todd – and was currently being courted, very intently, by a Seelie with vibrant blue hair, reaching the middle of their back. Huge moonlight earrings were daggling from their ears, their voice low and musical. Cameron looked equal parts dazed and apprehensive, his eyes flicking every couple of minutes to the spear the Seelie was holding in their left hand.
Ginny and Chris had taken over a high-top table toward the bar’s far side. A circle of admirers had already assembled around them – some flirting, some posturing, all of them clearly trying to survive the Cartwright-Penhallow banter vortex. Like always, Chris and Ginny seemed to be favoring each other instead of their court of jesters, making it abundantly clear they were gossiping about them as they leaned in close to whisper and laugh behind their hands.
Knox knew that game. He’d seen it often enough. Which was why he’d always feel a little bit smug to be one of the few who could drag Chris’ attention away from Ginny for longer than five seconds.
It was chaos. Loud, happy, drunken. The kind of atmosphere meant to help take the weight off one’s shoulders and give them a temporary reprieve, as long as the drinks kept coming and the conversations stayed flirty. Shallow.
And still, tried as he might, Knox couldn’t relax his shoulders.
He sat in his rigid chair, the beer bottle sweating between his hands, attempting to trick himself into the same sense of comfort everyone else had already surrendered themselves to. It felt next to impossible. Three drinks in and the buzz hadn’t caught hold; his thoughts were too sharp - his instincts still tuned to something just shy of alarm. It had been like this since the warehouse.
He forced the paranoia away for what felt like the umpteenth time since they got there, lifting the beer to his lips, when a crash sounded near the bar. Not a big one, not something that would escalate into weapons being drawn, but sharp. Distinct. A glass splintered. Knox turned just in time to see two werewolves squaring off, growling low in their throats. Their eyes kept flashing green – a telltale sign they were very close to turning – shoulders hunching in.
Before anyone could move, the bartender was there in all his brawny glory. He cuffed both of them around their necks, dragging them in close to whisper something in their ears. Knox couldn’t hear the words, but he saw the nasty glimmer in his eyes, and he noticed the wolf claws break human skin.
The two men backed down, eventually. But the static they left behind clung to the air like smoke. He watched them retreat, bristling, not quiet calmed.
“Something feels off tonight,” Pitts said, his gaze following after the two werewolves.
“Something’s been off ever since we left the warehouse,” Knox shot back, taking another drink. His gaze, again – involuntarily – dragged back to Blackthorn.
Blackthorn, who was laughing like he was having the time of his life.
Blackthorn, who was now leaning intimately into the personal space of the woman sitting next to him.
Blackthorn, who still winced every time he jostled his left shoulder too harshly.
Knox’s jaw ticked.
“So,” Pitts said casually. “I texted Markus.”
It took him a full second to register the words, and another to understand them. Knox blinked. Opened his mouth, only to shut it again, without any words coming out of it. His fingers curled tighter around the neck of his beer bottle.
“You did what?” he finally sputtered.
Pitts didn’t even flinch. “Texted Markus. I used your phone, of course.”
“Of course!” Knox snapped, words dripping with barely concealed anger. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re pathetic.” There was no bite behind Pitts’ words. He hadn’t meant for them to sting. He was just stating facts.
Knox leaned back on his chair, fixing Pitts with a death glare. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s as good as any, at this point,” Pitts said, tilting his head. “You’ve been doing that thing again.”
Knox arched an eyebrow. “What thing?”
“The thing where you forget you’re human like the rest of us.”
Knox blinked, taken aback. “That’s not a thing,” he said, defensively.
“Oh, it’s definitely a thing,” Pitts said, taking another drink of his beer, all calm and collected like he hadn’t just launched a grenade on Knox’s emotional psyche. “You’ve been miserable since before we even left for Idris. You obviously didn’t want to talk about it so, I didn’t pressure you.”
Knox tried not to squirm in his chair.
“You’ve been brooding nonstop,” Pitts added, ticking off his fingers. “You’ve started locking yourself in your bedroom. Then there's the sudden commitment to solo sparring after hours, like you’re trying to win some Ultimate Shadowhunter title.”
“You could’ve just said I look tired,” Knox muttered, fingers scratching at the label of his beer bottle.
“But it’s not just that,” Pitts said, voice growing more tense, as he now leaned on the table with both elbows, as if trying to eliminate the physical distance between them. “It’s the choosing to play music instead of sleeping at nights. It’s the meal skips – don’t roll your eyes at me, that’s not what being disciplined looks like! It’s picking fights with anyone dumb enough to take the bait until your lungs give out.”
Knox swallowed around the knot in his throat. “It’s not that bad.”
“You jumped in front of a blind demon, weapon-free.”
The silence that followed was deafening and thick as fog – heavy and cold and clawing at Knox’s chest demanding the ugliness festering in there to spill out. The beer burned down his throat, but it didn’t help.
Because he had jumped in front of a blind demon, his bow laying forgotten a couple hundred feet away. He’d jumped in in front of a demon, no strategy in mind, no plan just – instinct. A reaction to something he had no other way to control other than plant his body in front of it and hope for the best.
He should’ve had a plan, shouldn’t he? He was a Carstairs, wasn’t he? A strategist. With skills and instinct sharpened into perfection by necessity, raised to always be in on high alert. Someone who knew how to weigh options before committing, who could read a battlefield like a language learned since infancy.
He should’ve had a plan.
But lately –
Lately everything was fire and noise. Knox had no time to think. No room to breathe. There had been no period of grace between disaster and aftermath. One second, he was in Alicante, watching Pitts nearly set fire to his own future in a Clave meeting – where Knox wasn’t even supposed to be in attendance, let alone speak in. The next he was back in Boston getting cursed, concussed, left behind.
Knox had still to catch his breath.
There were days he felt the universe was laughing in his expense. That was the only conclusion he could draw as to why on Earth his ex-girlfriend had moved to Boston, indefinitely. Well, that and the fact that Pitts’ parents had probably sent her to spy on him. And don’t even get him started on Pitts constant sneaking out, Neil getting romantically involved with someone who should be a person of interest in an on going Clave investigation and –
A loud boisterous laugh had him jumping in his seat.
Fucking Charlie Blackthorn.
Honestly, fuck that guy. No really. Knox was used to Blackthorn being an asshole, but lately it looked like he was trying to outdo himself on that front. The shit-talking had turned one hundred percent more vulgar. The baiting him into sparing was an every day occurrence. He would bitch and moan constantly when Neil wasn’t there to pay attention to him and still – fucking – Knox couldn’t stop looking at him like he wanted to pin him in the closest flat surface area and –
“I didn’t mean to,” Knox said quietly, stopping his mind from going there. “I didn’t think. There was no time to think. I just… reacted.”
Pitts tilted his head. “That’s not like you.”
“No,” Knox said. “It’s not.”
And that was the problem. That was the rot under the surface. Knox couldn’t recognize himself these days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a moment to stop, to think, to strategize. A moment to feel like he had a grip on anything. Everything was slipping.
And he didn’t know how to make it stop.
He exhaled slowly. “I hate this.”
“I thought you wanted us to talk more,” Pitts teased, but there was a gentleness lacing his words.
Knox huffed a humorless laugh. “I do want us to talk more. But I hate… this. Feeling like I’m three steps behind something I’m supposed to be on top of. Like I just keep missing the starting point. Some days… some days it feels like I’m in a room full of fire alarms, and I can’t figure out which one’s actually real.”
Pitts was quiet for a moment. “Maybe they’re all real.”
Yeah, that was exactly what Knox didn’t want to hear.
He swallowed a sigh, nails once again picking at the sticker on his beer bottle. His fingers were slightly trembling. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to make his chest tight. He glanced at Pitts, a sad smile twisting on his lips.
“Then I’m going to burn,” he said, softly. It felt weird being so gentle with his inevitable demise.
“You don’t have to,” Pitts said. “You’ve got people willing to help you.”
Knox didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that, so he went with saying nothing. His gaze drifted again – unconsciously, inexorably – to the bar. Blackthorn was still draped over the barstool like he owned the place, his grin too sharp, his shoulders too tense for someone pretending not to care.
“It’s one thing to burn by accident, and an entirely different one to strike the match and lit yourself up,” Pitts said, voice dipping low.
Knox glanced at him momentarily, before returning his eyes to the bar. “You used to be more subtle.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Pitts shrugging.
“Subtlety is overrated. Marcus can be good for you.”
Knox sat straight in his chair, fixing Pitts with a serious look. “Is this guilt? Are you trying to play wingman or something because you feel bad for breaking my ribs and not speaking to me for a week?”
“You broke my arm.”
“You concussed me. And you didn’t answer the question.”
“Knox, I say this with all the parabatai love in my soul; I would literally kill for you, no questions asked, but I will also strangle you if you make me watch you spiral over Blackthorn for one more fucking week.”
“I’m not spiraling.” Knox is definitely not pouting.
“You’re freefalling.”
“I’m not –”
“You almost had an aneurism when he started speaking Spanish.”
Well, it’s not my fault he sounded fucking hot doing it, is it?
Knox glared at him. “I hate you.”
“I’m fine with that. I will still try to save you from your own worst instincts.”
Knox squinted his eyes, pointing his beer at Pitts. “This is definitely your guilt talking.”
Pitts’ expression remained deadpan, but the corner of his lips twitched. Somehow it helped ease the tension hanging over their table. Knox drew a deep breath that actually made it all the way to his lungs.
Progress.
“Okay,” Knox said, tone shifting. “Since you’re so willing to talk tonight… I know you’ve been sneaking out. Every night, for the past week or so.”
Pitts gave him a small shrug. “I know you know.”
Knox nodded once. Of course. Neither one of them was surprised. Of course, Pitts knew Knox was aware of him slipping out of the Institute every night. He hadn’t even been trying to hide it, not really. He was probably waiting for Knox to confront him about it. And Knox would’ve done it sooner, if he wasn’t still feeling the aftershocks of what had happened between them not that long ago.
Pitts was saved from any further questioning when a voice broke over their table. Bright, boyish, much more charming than Knox remembered it.
“Hey, there.”
Knox stiffened, his back going straight like he was suddenly transported in the battlefield. He turned, slowly, instinctively, to catch the look on Pitts’ face.
Parabatai loyalty my ass.
“Markus Ashdown,” he said, voice warm like greeting a lifelong friend. “You got here fast.”
“I was nearby when you texted,” Markus said loud and breezy and very clearly amused.
Knox heard the shuffle behind his chair, feeling the presence of another body getting closer to him.
“Hey, Knox.”
Knowing he couldn’t ignore him any longer, Knox drew a deep breath, turning around in his chair. And there Markus were, all dusty-blonde hair, sharp jaw, and soft smile. He wore a jacket too nice for this place and an expression that made Knox’s stomach clench – open. Earnest. Interested.
“Alright,” Pitts beamed, clapping Knox on the shoulder hard enough to jostle him. “I’m going to go mingle, let you two… catch up.”
Knox’s eyes widened. “No, Pitts –” he reached out, but his hand hit air.
Pitts didn’t pause, didn’t turn around. Knox’s outstretched hand left hanging, his eyes following Pitts’ back until he got lost in the crowd.
Fucking bastard.
“Should I take a seat or make myself scarce?” Markus asked, his voice neutral, despite the smile still curling in his lips. Knox glanced at him. “Honestly, I’m okay with whatever you want, Knox.”
He swallowed, let a small breath.
“Sit down, Markus. It’s nice to see you again.”
Charlie was having the time of his life.
No, really, he was… he was having fun!
He was on his fourth whiskey. No, fifth! Fifth, if you counted the body shot he did off the vampire with the butterfly tattoo right around her navel.
The point was – he was thriving! The music was loud! The drinks were strong! And the girl currently toying with the lapel of his jacket kept giggling at every word falling from his lips. The sound added to the nice buzz that had started building in the centerfold of his mind and Charlie's head fell back, letting a loud yawp.
The bar was warm and loud and glowing with fairy lights and music flowing freely through the enclosed space. It smelled like salt and spice and pine – and blood. It smelled like blood.
But Charlie was having too much fun to worry too much about it.
Charlie was having fun.
Charlie was fine.
He was fine dancing and drinking and feeling fucking alive after – well, he was definitely not thinking about that. Or about the blood he hadn't managed too successfully to wash out of his hair. Or the wound on his shoulder and how it still smarted every time he breathed too harsh. Or that Carstairs – fucking Carstairs – had thrown himself between Charlie and a Ravener demon.
He hadn’t dragged him out of the way.
He hadn’t slayed the beast with his arrow or a seraph blade, or an errand piece of jagged wood for Raziel’s sake.
No – he’d just, positioned himself directly in front of Charlie. Like a goddamn idiot.
But Charlie wasn't thinking about any of that.
No, no, because he was too busy having fun! He was too busy flirting and drinking and being fine. He was a man of the people tonight! Everyone wanted a piece of him, and Charlie was going to accommodate as many of them as he could.
He grinned at the girl pawing at his lapel. Candy – no Sandra? Whatever, names were irrelevant anyway. She had nice hands. Fluffy, curly hair. She was still laughing at his last quip, like he was charming and not one bad decision from going completely feral.
He took another drink and let his gaze roam the room. Everyone had paired off into little clusters – safe little bubbles of distraction. Neil and Todd were glued to each other at a corner booth, heads tilted close, whispering like they were the only ones in the room. The Mundane had wandered off somewhere – Charlie thought he saw him chatting with a tall Seelie who looked like they were willing to eat and worship him in the same breath. The two New York transfers were at one of the high tables, a group of salivating idiots around them.
It was a good night.
So good, in fact, that when the scuffle broke out near the back pool tables – all sharp words and flashing teeth – Charlie almost welcomed it. His fist twitched with the urge to join. Not to help. Just to punch someone.
Something flattered in his chest, and Charlie shifted in his seat, downing the rest of his whiskey in one long swing. His eyes zeroed in on the werewolves squaring off, the tension seeping into his body deliciously singeing his blood.
“¿Por casualidad hablas francés?” A sultry new voice purred in his ear. Another pretty face. Another distraction. “Me encanta un chico que hable francés.”
Charlie’s attention was successfully dragged away from the fight, before he had the chance to do anything particularly stupid. He turned toward her, smile ready, teeth sharp.
“Lo siento, nena,” he murmured, voice thick with faux-regret, brushing the back of his knuckles along the slope of her collarbone. “Solo hablo el idioma del pecado.”
Her lips parted, a sweet and melodic giggle slipping between them as her arms wound around his neck, nails grazing his scalp.
“Pero,” he added, leaning in until their mouths were just shy of touching, “te puedo enseñar todas las palabras sucias que sé en español… y algunos verbos muy útiles.”
Again, she giggled, loud and delightful, head tipping back to bare her throat like an offering. He slid a hand around her waist, pulling her in close.
Yeah, Charlie was having a good night.
He was drinking. He was flirting. He was allowing himself to want, to be wanted, without asking what came after. He was not thinking. Not thinking about what Neil had told him back at the Institute. About Todd being a Verlac. He wasn't even thinking about how he could feel his parabatai spiral beneath the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He wasn’t thinking about anything at all, actually.
He was pleasantly buzzed. Thankfully numb. Full of noise and exactly where he wanted to be.
Until he let his gaze drift away, past the arm looped around his neck, past the spinning lights and the clinking glasses, toward the center of the room where he caught sight of a new figure taking the empty seat at Penhallow and Carstairs’ table.
He looked like someone had written down on a piece of paper what the perfect man should look like and then asked a warlock to magic him in life. Tall. Blond. Clearly ripped underneath his clothes. Blue eyes. Glasses. The proportions were all perfect, the smile on his face charming.
Charlie blinked once. Then again.
He straightened, the girl’s laugh fading into the background like static.
Blonde-dude sat on Penhallow’s vacated chair with the air of someone who knew what he was doing. Legs long and posture confident, like he was used being looked at. And Carstairs – Carstairs who never entertained anyone, too busy being better than all of them combined – was leaning in, nodding along.
Talking.
Blonde-dude laughed. It sounded weird. Which was ridiculous, because Charlie shouldn’t have heard it, not over the music, over the woman giggling directly next to his ear. And yet he did. Clear as anything. And it made something coil in his stomach. It seemed to have the opposite effect on Carstairs, whose shoulders relaxed a little, his posture turning more human-like.
This was stupid. Idiotic. This dude looked like an action figure. Too clean. Too smooth. Probably had opinions about quinoa. He was far too pretty and perfect for someone like Carstairs.
Not that Carstairs was ugly or anything; he was tall enough, and he had an archer’s built. His eyes were…nice. Deep. Chestnut colored – maybe, Charlie hadn’t really paid too much attention to them. His hair was always doing that floppy, frustrating thing that somehow worked for him. He had a strong jaw. Even stronger nose. He had dimples when he smiled, and also on the dip of his neck –
Charlie excused himself, polite, charming, and pointedly forgetting to pick up the card with the woman’s number on, and made a beeline for Neil and Todd’s table. Not because he cared or anything. He was just… curious.
“Charlie,” Neil greeted with too much amusement for someone who’s sanity was hanging from a single thread. “I knew you’d join us.”
His eyes slid right past him, straight to the table behind – and then back again, full of mischief.
Traitor.
“C’mon, have a seat,” Neil said, nudging a chair back with his foot.
Charlie sat. Hard. Mostly to prove he wasn’t predictable. That was, of course, immediately undermined by the way his eyes snapped toward the table one row over, when he heard a familiar laugh. Action-figure dude had a smug smile on his face like he’d just neutralized a greater demon.
Charlie’s eyes narrowed.
“Wow,” Cameron said slow and amused, clearly having returned while Charlie was mid-brood. “You are not being subtle.”
Charlie tore his gaze away from Carstairs, just in time to catch Cameron raising both eyebrows at him across the table. He was sitting back in the booth, arms lazily crossed over his chest, head tilted on the side like he was judging him. Todd, wedged between him and Neil, was hiding his grin behind a bottle of cider.
Neil was not hiding anything. “Everything alright, Chaz?”
Charlie worked his jaw. It wouldn’t be very best-friend-ly of him to just reveal that Neil was lying to his boyfriend, would it?
“Everything’s good,” he snapped, grabbing Neil’s beer bottle out of his hand and taking a long swing. “Don’t test me,” he added in a lower voice.
Neil’s eyes momentarily widened, and Charlie felt the flash of panic ripple through their bond like a rubber band snapping. It didn’t last very long. Because then Todd leaned into him, their heads bumping together, casual and quiet, and the mischievousness returned to Neil’s eyes with a force.
Bastard.
He knew Charlie’s threat was empty.
“Well, it is very hard to concentrate on our conversation while you radiate the energy of a man being a breath away from committing a felony,” Neil pointed out, taking his beer back, and arching his eyebrows at Charlie.
Charlie shot him a glare. “The only felony happening here is you drinking that sorry ass excuse of a beer.”
Neil bit on his lower lip to keep from grinning. “Corona is your favorite.”
Charlie scoffed. “That’s not Corona. That’s piss in a Corona bottle!”
Neil opened his mouth again, but Todd’s hand on his forearm gave him pause.
“C’mon, Neil, cut him some slack,” Todd said, voice soft.
“Yes! Finally. Thank you, Anderson! Maybe you should be my new best friend.”
“Hey!” Cameron exclaimed affronted, brown eyes widening comically. “I’m right here! You can’t just vote me off the island like that!”
“Sorry, Carlos, you’re clearly the weakest link.”
“Motherfu – Charlie, you know my name is Cameron! You can even call me Richard! I know you know my name.”
“Whatever you say, Carlton.”
“Anyway!” Todd said loudly, probably to cut their bickering while there was still time. “I was saying, we should all back off,” he said, taking a small sip from his drink. “Charlie’s obviously really jealous, and we shouldn’t make it worse.”
Charlie choked mid-sip. His parabatai laughed.
“What?” he coughed. “Fuck you, Anderson! Jealous? Of whom?”
Todd’s smile was small but shit-eating. “Well, first of, thanks for the offer, but I have a boyfriend,” he said, beaming at Neil, who was still laughing. Loudly. “Second, that guys is hot. Like… aggressively hot. He has both glasses and abs; that’s a killer combo.”
“Hey, I wear glasses and have abs,” Neil said, lower lip slightly jutting out.
Todd looked at him, his eyes softening. It landed in Charlie’s gut like a sucker-punch.
“I know.”
The emotional whiplash was immediate. A tsunami of affection crashed through their bond, crippling Charlie completely, leaving him dazed and dizzy. Grabbing the edge of the table to ground himself, he groaned.
“Dude,” he hated how much it sounded like a wounded moan. “Not cool. Just – put a lid on it,” he managed.
Neil glanced at him apologetic. Both Todd and Cameron kept looking between them, identical expressions of confusion drawn on their faces.
“Are you doing the weird parabatai thing again?” Cameron asked, eyebrows pulling together.
“It’s not a weird parabatai thing,” Charlie snapped, straightening.
Cameron raised his hands placatingly. “Sorry, sorry. Everything about this bond is both intriguing and disturbing. You know, it’s like you’re trauma-bonded siblings, but make it gay.”
“That’s how we like it,” Neil said smoothly, tone laced with warning.
“Right…” Cameron nodded. “Well, I think it’s sweet.”
“I thought it was intriguing and disturbing,” Charlie frowned.
“No, I was talking about your crush. The whole pining through glares thing? Classic repressed enemies-to-lovers tension. Very vintage. I’d watch the shit out of it on a show.”
Charlie turned his entire body to face him. “Do you want to keep your teeth?”
Cameron blinked. “Are we seriously going to sit here and pretend you’re not having a jealousy induced meltdown because someone dared to talk to him?”
“Talk to who? Carstairs?”
“Oh, we’re back to Carstairs, are we?” Neil asked looking far too gleeful.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Cameron exclaimed, throwing his hands out dramatically. “You mean to tell me he knows his name is Knox? Did he actually use it? In a sentence? That other people heard?”
Neil nodded his head exaggeratedly as he knocked back his beer. “All on his own volition and everything.”
“Wow,” Cameron sounded almost breathless.
Charlie’s jaw twitched.
And just like he’d been summoned by name there was a shift at the table across from them. Action-figure guy leaned in, laughing again, and Carstairs… smiled.
Not the one he plastered on his face for the Clave officials. Not even the small one he kept flashing at Penhallow when he thought people weren’t looking at them. No, this one was different.
It bloomed slowly, uncurling like the petals of a flower. It stretched over his lips, lighting his eyes, bringing forth his dimples. His whole face softened, the stress lines around his lips and eyes disappearing for the first time in weeks.
Charlie looked away so fast he nearly snapped his own neck.
He wasn’t drunk enough for this. Not even close.
Knox was being weird.
He knew he was being weird, but he didn’t know how to stop it.
Markus was sitting across from him, taking up the space Pitts occupied not five minutes ago, arms casually draped over the backrest, smile spread on his lips. He was speaking, had been speaking since the moment he sat down, his tone low and friendly like they’d known each other for years.
It made Knox’s stomach twist uneasily.
Not that he showed it, of course. Years of being raised a Carstairs taught him how to hold a perfectly neutral face, how to brace for impact without flinching. Still, he couldn’t keep his fingers from tightening ever so lightly around his beer, the bottle threatening to slip out of his grasp from condensation and nerves both.
“You don’t speak much, do you?”
The pause that followed was the only thing that alerted Knox to the fact he’d been asked a question. He cleared his throat, sitting straighter in his seat. Thankfully he’d caught the tail end of the question.
“I’m not really good with small talk,” Knox admitted, because lying would require too much trying on his part.
Markus nodded, his smile never faltering. “That’s okay, I’m good at keeping the conversation going.”
Knox frowned. “You don’t mind?”
Markus looked at him, blue eyes sharpening behind his glasses. Instead of answering he took a sip from his drink, tipping the glass back slowly, in a deliberate way that made Knox’s skin itch. His glance never once waivered.
“I’ve been waiting for you to text me for far too long to let such a small thing get in the way of our date.”
Knox’s mouth opened. Then shut. He swallowed then against the sudden thickness in his throat, his eyes involuntarily flicking toward where he’d seen Pitts last.
Pitts was the one who’d texted. Pitts was the one who’d taken it upon himself to place Knox in this situation, and like a traitor, Pitts had slipped away before Knox could stop him. And now, now Knox had to sit through this –
Wait.
“Date?” he croaked, finally catching up.
Markus’ smile turned into something more genuine, as he leaned forward in his seat. “I would like it to be.”
“Oh,” was all that came out of Knox’s mouth.
A date?
A fucking –
Knox’s stomach twisted around itself. He could not do this. He didn’t want to do this! He hadn’t… he hadn’t even asked for this! He should say something. Tell Markus the truth, or at least… something! He should tell him because – well, because –
“I can practically hear you freaking out,” Markus teased, his tone calm as an early morning.
Knox’s jaw clenched, his grip on the bottle tightening.
Markus let a small breath, shifting on his seat. “Look, Knox, I’m going to be honest with you, okay?”
Knox didn’t speak.
“I like you, I think that much was obvious even back in Alicante.”
“It was?”
“For someone with eyes, yes,” Markus said, widening his eyes emphatically. Knox let a small, almost delirious chuckle.
Markus seemed to think it a good thing, because his smile lost some of its nervous edge. “I like you – I have liked you, for some time now, and then I did the stupid thing of looking you up at the Archives -”
Markus kept talking, but Knox didn’t hear what came after that. There was a ringing in his ears – low and sharp and rising fast - and his vision had gotten blurry. Because Markus had looked him up. Of course he had.
Everybody did.
They always fucking looked him up.
Chris liked to say that Knox was not very good at telling when people flirted with him, and back when Pitts didn’t hate her on principle, he agreed with her. And, okay, it may be true that Knox wasn’t always very perceptive when it came to people being more than friendly with him, but it wasn’t just social cluelessness or emotional density. There was a reason Knox never noticed, why he never let himself notice.
And it always – always – boiled down to his last name. Because Knox was a Carstairs.
People were interested in the Carstairs part of the equation and not the Knox part of it. They were always interested in Knox Carstairs. In his pedigree, his grades, his running drills times. He was a bullet point list of achievements, neatly lined up and printed on Clave letterhead. People were drawn to him – but not for him.
And Markus, Markus who was perfectly nice and very blue-eyed and probably even wore a matching set of socks unlike some people, had looked him up in the Archives. Had read about him. Researched him.
“- your latest drill proposal,” Markus was saying, still smiling, still talking like he hadn’t noticed Knox freezing, “was not only thoroughly thought out, but it made sense in a way that Clave protocol drills rarely ever do.”
Knox glanced away, lips tugging into something unsure. “Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “I’m good at doing my job. Thanks.”
Markus blinked, probably taken aback by the suddenly clipped tone. “No, no, It’s more than that! You’re disciplined. Controlled. I mean, your weapon of choice is the bow and arrow. That’s control personified!”
Knox didn't particularly like the way the conversation was going. He didn’t appreciate being talked about like that. Feeling like a performance piece or something.
“I’ve seen tapes of you training,” Markus added, trying to recover momentum. “Your aim, your form – it’s insane. Your technique? Unparalleled! You’re like – you’re like – a weapon of mass distraction.”
“I’m not a weapon,” Knox all but snapped. “I’m not a machine or…” he trailed of, shaking his head a little. The words gathered behind his clenched teeth, but Knox wasn’t willing to waste them on this.
His pulse roared under his skin.
Markus straightened, his expression sobering fast. “Shit, no – no, I didn’t mean that, I wasn’t saying you’re some… some tool!” he rushed out, flustered now, his hands coming up in defense. “I just meant – your skill, it’s – Raziel, I’m sorry. I’m usually better at this, but you’re making me nervous.”
“So, it’s my fault?” Knox said before he could stop himself. It sounded petulant, even to his own ears.
“No!” Markus exclaimed, shaking his head vehemently.
Knox hated this part. The part where everyone tried to come up with a sufficient enough excuse as to why they thought it was perfectly justifiable to put him into a box and measure him against a metric he’d never agreed to. The part that made it clear he was always going to be judged as a Carstairs and he’ll always come up short.
“I mean- yes?” Markus said after a small pause. “But not in the way you think – I mean probably… I like you,” he said again, like it meant anything.
“Okay,” Knox found himself saying back.
“No,” Markus pressed. “I like you and you ghosted me.”
“I didn’t ghost you!”
“You did! You got my number, and you never called, never texted. That’s ghosting!”
“I didn’t get your number though! Pitts did! He’s the one –” Knox cut himself off, lips pressing together.
Markus looked at him, expectantly. And then the words apparently registered in his brain, and his eyes widened behind his glasses.
“Oh my – you didn’t text me tonight, did you?” Markus breathed, voice pitching up toward disbelief. “It was Penhallow.”
Knox huffed. He didn’t really like the way Markus’ voice grew thin toward the end. “Well, yes, it was Gerard, but –”
“Oh, fuck me,” Markus groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You didn’t text me,” he repeated, his voice muffled through his fingers.
“I didn’t,” Knox confirmed, because at this point what else was he supposed to do?
“I’m such an idiot… Of course you didn’t! Why would you?” Markus was rambling now. “By the Angel, I’m such a pathetic, fucking – I mean, it’s you, it’s you! Why would you ever text me? And for drinks? How could I’ve been this stupid.”
Knox blinked, unsure of what he was supposed to say. The spiraling felt familiar.
“You texted first,” Markus’ face was still hidden behind his hands, but Knox would bet money he was flushed red. “You – you asked me out. And I… I actually thought that, maybe, maybe, you liked me back. And – and – and it wasn’t even you who texted! It was your parabatai. And now here I am, sitting across from someone who’s probably thinking about how to politely tell me to fuck off.”
Knox hadn’t meant to let his eyes wander away from Markus. His spiraling deserved to be acknowledged, and Knox was gracious enough to give him that. But something pulled at him, sharp and instinctual, and his eyes snapped to a table a row over, where Neil, Todd and Cameron were sitting. His stomach – already twisted into knots around itself- gave a painful kick, once Knox’s gaze landed on Blackthorn, who’d joined their table. He was too preoccupied, saying something rather animatedly to the rest of the table’s occupants to notice Knox staring at him.
He never once looked his way.
Of course he didn’t.
Knox exhaled. Slow. Long. He turned back to Markus.
“I’m not –” Knox started, paused. Tried again. “I don’t usually do… this.”
Markus lowered his hands enough to blink at him. “You don’t date? Or you don’t let your parabatai set up your social life without telling you?”
“Talk,” Knox said flatly.
Markus stared but remained silent.
Knox dragged a hand down the side of his face. “Look. I’m sorry I didn’t text. I didn’t even know you wanted me to.”
“I wasn’t exactly subtle,” Markus muttered.
Knox tried not to wince. Failed. “I’m not great at reading people.”
“No shit,” Markus said, then immediately backpedaled. “I mean – not in a bad way! Just in a… chronically oblivious way?”
Knox let out a small, reluctant exhale that might’ve been a laugh. It made Markus’ whole face light up.
“I like you,” he said again. Softer this time. “And it’s not because of your file. Or your last name. Or whatever ridiculous thing you think disqualifies you from being liked.”
“Keep talking, and we’ll see if I believe that.”
“You –” Markus let a small chuckle, teeth burrowing on his lower lip as he looked at Knox. “First time we met you lied to my face. Point blank.”
“What? No, I didn’t.”
Markus tilted his head. “You were Penhallow’s security detail? You know there’s a log about stuff like that, right? I mean, you must know.”
Knox’s stomach kicked again, but he kept his expression neutral.
Markus though, smiled. “You lied to my face, and the next day when you came back, you lied again. You, tried to pick a fight with me.”
“I just wanted to go into the chamber with Pitts,” Knox said, too fast, too defensively. “It’s not like I was going to attack the Council members.”
“And then,” Markus continued, like he hadn’t been interrupted, “you passively-aggressively handed me a protein bar the next day-”
“I didn’t do it passively-aggressively –”
“I’m pretty sure you hoped I would choke on it.”
“I did,” the words slipped out before Knox could stop them. Markus was grinning now.
“You were a little shit to me for three days straight. And I liked you. I even asked you for drinks after that, knowing you probably wished me dead.”
Knox rolled his eyes, despite feeling the heat creep up his cheeks. “I didn’t wish you dead, don’t be dramatic.”
Markus laughed again, low and breathy. It was the kind of sound Knox could learn to tolerate.
“You’re not going to tell me to fuck off, are you?” Markus asked, more hesitant now. “Because if you are, just – do it fast. I don’t do well with slow rejection.”
Knox opened his mouth – no idea what was going to come out – when he sensed the shadow falling across their table a second before it actually did.
He didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.
Blackthorn slid into the last empty chair, without even waiting for an invitation. He crossed his arms, spread his legs as if he dared them to shoo him away.
And just like that, everything in Knox’s body went instantly taut.
“Wow,” he muttered, glancing between the two of them. “Cozy.”
Markus blinked. “Um – hello?”
Blackthorn gave him a cursory glance. “Hello, to yourself.” Then his attention turned to Knox. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your date?”
Charlie had ordered another drink. He was still sitting at Neil’s table. Still trying to keep his concentration from slipping to the table across from him.
Still failing. Spectacularly so.
He was not glaring, okay? He was just… looking.
Intently.
Because he was curious, not jealous or anything equally ridiculous. He’d never actually seen Carstairs relax and act like a human being before. He was usually a walking training manual, all serious looks and full of judgment. And now, for whatever reason Action-guy had him smiling.
It didn’t make Charlie’s skin crawl. It was just… weird. Unfamiliar. Like something was fundamentally wrong with the universe.
It didn’t help that the air in the bar felt suddenly too warm.
He took a sip of his whiskey, letting it burn down his throat in hopes it would help ease off the pressure building underneath his ribs.
“He looks creepy,” Charlie muttered to himself over the rim of his glass. “Smiling all the time.”
Cameron scoffed. “Yeah, totally. I mean who smiles when they’re out on a date.”
Charlie worked his jaw, swallowing the more foul words that slithered up his throat. “This is excessive smiling. No normal person smiles that much, unless they’re trying to convince you they’re nicer than they are.”
Neil hummed thoughtfully, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “That one may smile and smile and be a villain,” he said evenly, tapping his glass once against the table.
Charlie blinked. Then squinted. The words felt oddly familiar. He brought the whiskey to his lips, took a sip, narrowed his eyes, and clocked the way Todd chuckled beside Neil. His elbow bumped affectionately against his parabatai’s arm.
And it clicked.
“Bitch,” he said slowly, “did you just quote Shakespeare at me?”
Neil shrugged. “If the shoe fits…”
Charlie glared. “I’ll show you exactly where my shoe fits.”
Todd laughed under his breath, the sound light as he leaned in to brush his lips against the corner of Neil’s mouth. And for a moment everything felt weirdly normal. Too warm, sure. Too red, definitely. But also easy. Quiet.
Almost enough to make Charlie forget how his shoulder still ached, despite the iratze runes and the alcohol. Almost enough to block out the loop in his head; the demon blindly barreling toward him before Carstairs threw himself in the way, weaponless, reckless, stupid.
He took another sip. Let it sting all the way down.
“I just think someone should warn him,” Charlie said suddenly, his voice cutting clean across the table.
All three heads turned.
Todd frowned. “Warn who? About what?”
Charlie gestured vaguely toward the other table. “Him. Action-guy. Warn him about wasting his time.”
Todd’s frown deepened, eyes flicking between Charlie and the table in question. “Um, care to elaborate on that?”
“Look at him,” Charlie said, leaning on to the table, and tilting his head slightly. “He was smiling a second ago, but he’s now all tense and brooding like. That’s the Carstairs’ patent look, by the way – tight shoulders, thousand-yard stare, reeking of emotional constipation. The poor bastard is pouring it on like syrup, and Carstairs is sitting there like someone just offended his entire blood line.”
Todd’s eyes moved to the other table, squinting a little as he tried to follow everything Charlie had pointed out. The corners of his lips pulled downward in a small grimace, his gaze finally returning to Charlie.
“Well, he’s trying,” he said, gently.
“He’s failing,” Charlie’s tone was dry enough to desiccate a small lake. “Spectacularly.”
“So are you,” Cameron muttered into his drink.
Charlie whipped his head around. “Excuse me?”
Cameron didn’t look up. “Nothing.”
“I swear to Raziel –”
Over the usual buzz of the establishment the sound of shattering glass echoed like a thunderclap. The low thrum of music cut for half a beat – like someone had yanked the cable out of the speakers – before the bass thumped again, slightly off-tempo.
The chandelier above the bar flickered once. Twice.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed as Neil, instictively, reached for the seraph blade tucked in his belt. His parabatai caught his eye, and Charlie gave him a small nod.
“It’s been like that every since the mundie concert,” Charlie said, voice dropping low.
“That’s what you meant when you said it felt weird,” Neil said, realization hitting hard. Charlie nodded. “What do you think it is?”
“No fucking clue, but we need to figure it out.”
“Tonight?”
“No, not tonight. We –”
Carstairs laughed. He actually fucking –
Charlie didn’t remember standing.
“Excuse me,” he said, voice clipped.
“Charlie - ” He heard Neil calling after him, but he was already half-way to Carstairs’ table not a single rational thought inside his mind. Just impulse, sharp, and hot, and stupid.
The music jolted, the lights over his head flickered.
Charlie reached the table faster than he anticipated. He felt Carstairs’ body going rigid due to his mere presence. It made his blood burn.
“Wow,” he said, sarcasm heavy and potent in his voice. “Cozy.”
Knox’s mouth felt dry.
Both Blackthorn and Markus were looking at him, expectantly. He kept his eyes on the condensation dripping down his beer bottle, watched as a single drop trailed all the way down the glass, pooling by his knuckle.
He wanted to leave.
He wanted them to leave.
He wanted to kill Pitts.
“This is Markus,” he said eventually, voice quiet but even. “He works for the Gard. Markus, this is –”
“Charlie Blackthorn,” he cut Knox off, making no attempt to shake the hand Markus had extended to him. “Boston Institute, parabatai to the future Head of the Institute.”
Markus, for his part, didn’t look phased. He offered Blackthorn a friendly nod. “Blackthorn, yes… I’ve read your reports.”
“Oh, you have?” Blackthorn’s voice took on a mock-please lilt. “Mind telling me why they keep sending them back with notes on the margins?”
“Probably because you fuck them up,” Knox cut in before Markus got a chance to answer. Blackthorn’s eyes snapped to him, his smirk sharpening.
“Down, Carstairs, no need to get your panties in a twist. I’m just getting to know your pretty friend.”
“Don’t call him that,” Knox’s voice was sharp and cold. “In fact, don’t look at him. Just go away.”
Blackthorn sat back in his chair giving him a look screaming trouble. “I don’t think I will. I quite like it here.”
“So, help me Uriel, Blackthorn, if you don’t leave in the next second –”
“You’ll do what?”
The words were soft. Measured. Dangerous.
“Should I give you two a moment?” Markus asked, glancing between them, clearly clocking the tension.
Knox choked the yes that slithered up his throat.
Blackthorn huffed a laugh. “Oh, no, no. Don’t let me interrupt. I’m just here for the show.”
Knox clenched his jaw, turning back to Markus. “If we ignore him long enough, he’ll get bored and go away on his own.”
Blackthorn scoffed.
Markus smiled, wide and charming and leaned in, resting his elbows on the table, turning all of his attention on Knox. “I’m game,” he said, voice low and warm. “Let’s talk about us.”
Knox blinked. “Us,” he repeated, too flat. Too fast. He winced as soon as it left his mouth. “Right. We should, uh, concentrate on… that.”
“That,” Markus echoed, eyes crinkling around the corners behind his glasses. “And I have to say, Knox, you’re way more charming in person than in your file.”
“Don’t flatter him,” Blackthorn interjected, still smiling. “He’ll short-circuit.”
Knox hated proving him right, but he was in fact trying not to combust. His fingers tapped against the bottle like a metronome wound too tight.
Markus just chuckled. “So, have you read his file?” he asked Blackthorn, tilting his head. “Did you find it as interesting as I have?”
Blackthorn didn’t look at him, his eyes still locked on Knox. “We train together. I don’t need a file to know his footwork gets sloppy when he’s pissed off.”
Markus turned to Knox with a soft grin. “That true?”
Knox closed his eyes for half a beat. “Depends on who I’m fighting.”
Markus hummed, and let his gaze drop from his eyes to his lips. Knox wasn’t the only one who noticed. “Mm, I’d like to test that at some point.”
Knox swallowed. Opened his mouth. Did not speak.
“Uh-huh, now you’ve broken him,” Blackthorn sing-sang, a sharp undercurrent in his voice. Reaching devastatingly casual across the table, he took Knox’s beer like it belonged to him. He took a sip without asking, then made a face. “Warm. Tragic.”
Knox swiped the bottle back. “Get your own. And shut the fuck up.”
“Can’t,” he said, kicking back in the chair like it was his throne. “Wouldn’t want to lose my seat.”
“You were never invited!”
“But isn’t everything better with me here?”
“I wish I should’ve let you get barbecued,” Knox whispered under his breath. He instantly felt the air around their table shift.
“You didn’t though, did you?” Blackthorn asked, his voice an octave lower, the look in his eyes dangerous. He leaned his body forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space across the table. His smirk had vanished. What was left was sharper. Bare.
“Not now,” Knox muttered.
“Yes now.”
“Blackthorn –”
“Markus,” Blackthorn called, never once taking his eyes off Knox, “what would you tell someone who during battle jumped in front of an optically impaired demon, without a weapon?”
Markus hesitated, his gaze flicking between them. “I’d tell them they’re suicidal.”
“You would’ve died,” Knox snapped. His palms were flat on the table now, his voice louder than he wanted it to be. “If I hadn’t done that, you –”
“We could’ve both died,” Blackthorn hissed, pushing up from his seat, now inches away from Knox’s face, “if Penhallow hadn’t thrown you that damn dagger in time!”
“But he did! And I knew he was going to! So, why the fuck can’t you just be grateful?”
Knox’s chest was heaving, breaths coming out short and sharp. Across from him Blackthorn’s hands had curled into fists against the edge of the table. The space between them had collapsed completely. Their foreheads were almost level.
They were two breaths away from violence. Again.
The noise of the bar had faded. All Knox could hear was the blood in his ears and Blackthorn’s breathing and the sharp, stupid, ache behind his ribs.
“Okay, maybe we should all take a step back,” Markus spoke, quietly. “Take a breath.”
Neither of them moved.
Markus nodded to himself, like he hadn’t expected this to go the easy way. “So, from what I understand there are some unresolved feelings here.”
“There are no feelings,” Blackthorn spat, just as Knox said, “You’re wrong.”
Markus’ mouth twitched – not a smile, not quite. “Alright... clearly you don’t want to talk about it,” he said, giving Knox a soft smile. “He sure as hell doesn’t, either.”
Blackthorn’s jaw tightened – but he remained mute.
“And you know what, you don’t have to talk,” Markus added. He closed the distance between Knox and himself, laying a hand on his forearm. Blackthorn’s eyes zeroed on the point of contact. “We can still have our date.”
“I’m not sure I –”
“Shh, I don’t want you to think,” Markus shushed him. He gave the faintest pressure, and after a small hesitation, Knox let himself be pushed back into his chair. “Let me try to make this night up to you,” Markus said. “Let me show you that it doesn’t have to burn to be worth it.”
Knox’s gaze jerked up startled. Markus’ smile was still soft. Still reassuring. It made something in Knox twist.
Silence crackled like a hairline fracture across the table. The lights above them flickered again, just once. The music momentarily paused. People were laughing, still drinking. But the air buzzed wrong.
Knox drew in a deep, shaky breath. Involuntarily, his eyes flicked to Blackthorn. As if feeling him looking, his gaze snapped up, their eyes locking for the briefest of seconds. Then he spun on his heel and stormed out of the bar.
Knox’s next breath dissolved somewhere between his lungs and his throat.
Markus exhaled, quiet and clean. “Yeah,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “That’s what I thought.”
Knox stared at the space Blackthorn had just vacated, and the words looping around his brain were the same as when he’d jumped in front of the Ravener.
Not him.
Notes:
Okay, so there's some Spanish in this chapter so, here's the translation ;
“Me gusta tu camisa. Pero creo que me gustariá más en el suelo de mi habitación.”
"I like your blouse. But I think I would like it better on the floor of my bedroom."
"¿Por casualidad hablas francés? Me encanta un chico que hable francés.”
“Lo siento, nena. Solo hablo el idioma del pecado. Pero, te puedo enseñar todas las palabras sucias que sé en español… y algunos verbos muy útiles.”"Do you happen to speak French? I love a guy who speaks French."
"Sorry, babe. I only speak the language of sin. But, I can teach you all the dirty words I know in Spanish… and some very useful verbs.""“That one may smile and smile and be a villain,” -> that line is from Macbeth, if anyone was wondering.
Chapter 17: None ever starts that way
Notes:
Hey you guys!! This is up way later than I usually update, but I had A DAY! This is a 10k of Todd suffering, for the most part... but it's all needed for the plot! Yes, this fic has actual plot, who would've thought! As always, let me know your thoughts in the comments, and I'll see you next week :))
Chapter Text
Todd was happy.
It had been … an impossible fortnight – damn had it only been such a short time? Two weeks during which Todd’s life had spun around on its axis, propelling him forward into a living nightmare he wasn’t exactly sure he’d come out of still breathing.
And yet, somehow, impossibly – he was happy.
For the first time in many years, Todd woke up hearing only his own voice inside his head. For the past five days he woke up without his heart in his throat, without phantom screams clawing at his chest, without perspiration breaking on his skin, making him itchy all over.
Just… warmth.
Stillness.
He blinked his eyes open, burying his face further into the pillow. The room was barely lit, the sky outside the window a slate-gray smear, the kind that promised heavy rain or even snow, classic Boston in mid-December.
Todd had never been fond of winter in Boston. Everything was cold. Everything was wet. The entire city turned into a soggy mess the moment the temperature dropped. And the cold was so sharp, so piercing, it reached straight into the marrow.
But Neil was warm. And so was his bed.
Todd exhaled. Drew the covers further up, over his shoulders until only the tip of his nose poked out. He was drowning in one of Neil’s sweaters, the sleeves too long, the collar hanging loose against his neck. The cotton still smelled like Neil and Todd couldn’t stop himself from taking long, deep breaths.
“You look like a bundled-up loaf of bread,” Neil’s voice crackled with sleep, sending a pleasant tingling down Todd’s spine.
He tucked deeper into the blankets, shimmying his way closer to Neil and his delicious body heat. “That's because I am a bundled-up loaf of bread, actually,” Todd murmured, brushing his lips over Neil’s naked shoulder.
“Mmm,” Neil hummed, shifting toward him as well. “Just in time for breakfast, too.”
Todd groaned. “That was gross. And too cringe,” he said, pressing even closer to Neil, their legs tangling together underneath the covers. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Neil refused.
“It totally was. I’m telling Charlie.”
“You wouldn’t dare…”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Todd should’ve expected Neil’s reflexes wouldn’t be impaired by sleep. One moment he was lying next to him, the next he'd pounced, rolling over and tackling Todd on the bed. He let out an undignified yelp, which turned into a loud laugh, as Neil’s fingers dug into his sides. He squirmed, trying to get away, his knee smacking against Neil’s lower abdomen, but he never once ceased his attack.
Todd was still laughing when they finally stilled – Neil half on top of him, face hidden in the crook of Todd’s neck.
A small, satisfied sigh escaped his lips, and Todd brought his hand up to thread his fingers through Neils’ sleep-tousled hair. “I’m serious. That was a hate crime against language.”
Neil snorted, but there was a delay to it. A millisecond of hesitation.
Todd was too caught up in Neil, Neil, Neil to notice anything at first. Too wrapped up in the warmth, in the way Neil slotted so perfectly against him, in the way this felt like something he could stay tucked in forever.
But the thing was… Todd had gotten really good at reading tension. It was hard not too, when he woke up everyday with a hundred different voices whispering inside his head. Neil was warm. He was holding him close, and his arms shook around Todd’s body. He wasn’t relaxed.
Are you okay?
What’s wrong?
Tell me, tell me, tell me..
But the words gathered behind his lips, and Todd angrily bit them down. Because if they made it out then this was real. Because if they made it out Todd would have to face whatever it was that made the set of Neil’s shoulders so taut. And so, he said nothing.
Instead, he kissed Neil’s temple, cupping the side of his face, his thumb gently brushing under his eye.
Neil turned his head a little, lips murmuring against the skin of Todd’s hand. “You, okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m also keeping the sweater.”
Neil let out a quiet sound, something between a laugh and an exasperated huff. “That’s the third one you’ve stolen.”
Todd grinned. “Not my fault. They’re too comfy.”
Eventually, they had to peel themselves out of the bed – Todd grumbling all the way, dragging his feet and trying to coax Neil back into the safety of their cocoon of covers.
“Just a little more longer,” Todd all but begged, both arms wrapped around Neil’s forearm, clinging to him like an overeager koala.
“I’d love to,” Neil said, dropping a kiss on top of Todd’s head and starting toward the door. “But if we’re late again, Charlie is going to write me up for dereliction of duty.”
“Charlie is your parabatai. He wouldn’t do that.”
Neil clicked his tongue. “And that’s a sign of how little you know Charlie.”
“But it’s Saturday.”
“Another workday in the life of Shadowhunters everywhere.”
Todd groaned. “I hate it here.”
The Institute’s hallways stretched long, cold and winded. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls, reminding him nightmarishly of whispers, as they made their way towards the eating area. The air was crisp, metallic almost in its quality, and there was something… off. Something that set his teeth on edge, something that called to the magic buried deep in his gut.
Todd tried not to read too much into it. He fastened his pace, falling into step beside Neil, and making sure to stick close to him until they reached their destination.
The familiar clang of cutlery and quiet conversation of the dining room eased some of the tension in his shoulders. His fingers relaxed their grip on Neil’s Todd’s fingers relaxing around Neil’s forearm. Yet, his chest tightened upon seeing all the untouched plates left on the buffet to get cleaned up.
Dozens of them, already laid out. Full. Uneaten. The bread resting in them looked like it had gone stale. Eggs congealing into sad yellow clumps.
“People aren’t eating much lately,” he murmured.
Neil, who had been plating some breakfast for the two of them, looked up, following Todd’s gaze. “We changed our lines recently,” he said, frowning is if only now registering the problem. “I guess it will take a while until people get used to it.”
Todd felt himself mirroring his expression. “You think that’s it?”
Neil turned his full attention to him, taking a step forward, like he wanted to be closer. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not –” Todd started lying immediately. But then he cut himself off. He clamped his mouth close, shook his head a little. “Something feels off,” he said instead.
Neil leaned in his space, bumped their shoulders together. “If something’s wrong then you’re in the right place.” His voice was soft. Steady. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Todd’s breath hitched a little. “Cringe,” he said, but there was no heat behind it. His eyes didn’t leave Neil’s. “But… if things are off, then I should fine a way to get Cameron to come over, and keep him here.”
Neil snorted as he started toward the table he and Charlie usually occupied. “Yeah, that’s going to go over great with my parabatai.”
“You’re talking about me with your boyfriend now, Branwell?” Charlie drawled, raising an eyebrow as they approached. “That’s too much even for you.”
Neil rolled his eyes goodnaturadely as he dropped on the chair next to him, leaving Todd sitting across both of them. “You wish.”
“C’mon, admit it. I live rent-free in that neurotic little mind of yours,” Charlie kept teasing, over the rim of his mug. “Todd is a good sport. He’ll understand your undying love for me. Right, Toddster?”
Todd carefully cut into his omelet before lifting his eyes to look at Charlie. “I most definitely won’t. And don’t call me Toddster.”
“Damn,” Charlie whistled a little under his breath. “You’re not a morning person, huh? So severe.”
Todd chose to let his silence be the only answer. He focused on his food, because it gave him something to do while he pretended not to notice how Neil kept stealing glances sideways, or how Charlie kept clenching his jaw like he was mentally ticking off items in his head.
Todd pushed everything to the back of his mind. Kept his head down. Counted to tend. Tried to gaslight himself into believing he wasn’t seeing the things he was seeing.
But then Charlie looked at Neil again, arching his eyebrows slightly, and Todd set his fork down.
“You guys know I’m sitting right here, right?”
Charlie blinked. “What?”
“The whole parabatai mind-meld thing you’re doing. It’s really subtle. Totally normal. Undetectable to the untrained eye,” Todd snarked, his tone confused between amusement and genuine distress.
Neil cleared his throat. “We were just…”
“Thinking about training drills,” Charlie finished his sentence. “With all the Clave officials sniffing around, we figured we should put on a good show. You know, get the good people of Alicante talking about us.”
Todd tilted his head not believing a word out of Charlie’s mouth. “Uh-huh. Because you’re know for subtle PR strategy.”
“We do that sometimes,” Neil rallied, a touch too casually. “Especially when Charlie is trying to impress someone. Or when he feels overshadowed. Or rejected. Or generally when he’s being a jealous son of – ”
There was a scuffle under the table and after a second Neil let a pained grunt.
“I think he got the point,” Charlie hissed through gritted teeth, glaring at his best friend.
“Okay, bringing up the obvious case of Charlie’s jealous spiral does not cover up how terrible you’re at lying.”
Charlie huffed. “Why am I catching strays?”
“But I’m not pushing,” Todd continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Yet. I do reserve the right to circle back to this later, if the vibes get weirder.”
“Fair enough,” Neil muttered.
Charlie raised his mug to that.
Just as Todd was letting it go, just as he let the warmth settle back over his shoulder, allowing himself to think that maybe this was his paranoia acting up, the atmosphere shifted again. Two people stepped in through the arched opening of the dining hall.
Even with his back to the door, Charlie tensed like someone had yanked a wire in his spine. He turned so fast, Todd feared he might snap a bone, his gaze falling square on Knox and Pitts as they entered, dressed in all black, perspiration already glinting on their skin.
Todd grimaced into his juice as the waves of tension rolling off Charlie washed over their table, bitter and brittle. Through both observation and Neil’s hushed commentary, Todd knew that Charlie had spent the last five days practically stalking Knox through the Institute – training grounds, debriefings, library corners – trying to bait him into any sort of altercation.
And for once in their six month acquaintance, Knox refused to indulge him. He didn’t fight him, he didn’t speak to him, he barely spared him a glance before moving on.
And now Knox was looking straight at Todd.
“We still on for this evening?” he asked all the way from the buffet, not making the effort moving closer. Pitts stood behind him like a trained shadow.
“Uh, y-yes,” Todd stuttered, feeling Charlie’s heated glare turn to him full force. “Sure we are,” he added more resolutely, because Charlie and Knox were both grown ups capable for resolving their own issues. Issues that Todd shouldn’t allow interfere with his training.
“Good,” Knox said, nodding curtly. He made to turn around wonder off, but then he paused, looking over at him again. “We’re doing blades today, and not the training ones. So, borrow one from Branwell.”
Todd let a small, completely undignified, squeak. But Knox was already too far to have heard it.
Blades? They were doing blades? What?
Oh, Todd was for sure dying.
“What the fuck was that?” Charlie snapped, forcefully dragging Todd out of his spiral just as Neil said, “I should probably let you borrow Micah, it packs less heat than the rest of my seraph blades.”
Todd frowned, his confusion surpassing his anxiety. “Wait. You name your blades?” he asked, completely ignoring Charlie’s bristle.
“Uh, yeah?” Neil was frowning. “That’s how they power up… Haven’t I told you that? I’m pretty sure I’ve told you that.”
Todd was too overwhelmed to hide his alarm. “Power up?” his voice cracked.
“Well, yeah. Seraph blades are pure adamas, but even that wouldn’t just destroy a hell creature,” Neil said, his voice dropping into the smooth cadence it obtained when he was explaining stuff. “You need heavenly fire to destroy demons. The blades are sort of infused with it, but you must name the blade to invoke its power. Any angel can work – except Raziel’s, of course.”
“Of course,” Todd couldn’t stop himself from snarking. “Heavenly fire? Naming the blades after Angels?”
Neil’s frown deepened. “I’m pretty sure I’ve told you all that already.”
“I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered if you had!”
At the edge of his vision, Charlie’s spoon hit the inside of his mug with a clink.
Todd ignored him. Leaned over the table as if needing to iliminate the distance between him and Neil. “So… what? You just shout ‘Micah’ and go full diving slasher mode?”
“Basically, yeah,” Neil said with a small shrug.
Charlie shifted in his seat. Todd noticed him move, saw the way his knee bounced once, then stilled suddenly. Neil opened his mouth to say something else, but the scrape of Charlie’s chair cut through the silence of their table like porcelain cracking. He stood so abruptly his mug nearly toppled.
“Okay,” Charlie said, too loud. “Enough of that. Anderson, Weaponry. Now.”
Todd stared at him. “Wait, what?”
Charlie didn’t answer. He was already halfway to the door, shoulders tense, strides clipped.
“Did I miss something?” Todd whispered to Neil.
Something flashed in Neil’s eyes, but it was gone too fast for Todd to get to decipher it. He sighed, stood up as well, reaching for his coat, and said, “He’s been like this all week. Let’s go before he decides to throw something.”
Todd always liked the Weaponry.
Probably because unlike the rest of the Institute it was quiet.
There was a sort of peacefulness there. Sure, the stone walls and the towering windows made it drafty and cold, but the room was spacious and usually empty, unlike the rest of the common area spaces that seemed to always be crawling with people. Natural light filtered in through stained glass - carved with a weird looking symbols Todd was willing to bet were angelic – landing soft and dappled across gleaming steel. The scent of metal, leather and the disinfectant they used to sterilize their weapons made the place smell like it had never been touched by the chaos taking over the rest of the Institute.
Todd leaned against one of the long steel worktables, letting his fingers drum against the surface. Across from him there was a wall, with several racks of deadly weapons; longswords, throwing knives, dagger, seraph blades.
“I still can’t believe you activate your seraph blades by calling out an Angel’s name,” he said, not really sure if he meant it to be heard by himself or the room at large.
Neil gave him a small smile, but otherwise remained silent, his eyes cutting over to Charlie. Charlie who hadn’t said a word since entering. He was standing a few feet away, back straight, arms crossed, facing toward a wall of blades.
“Okay…” Todd tapped his fingers against the steel. He narrowed his eyes at Neil. “What’s going on?”
Again, he got no response. Just another stolen glance from Neil to Charlie. It was the third one in the past ten or so minutes and Todd was getting really fucking tired of feeling out of the loop.
“Alright, seriously,” he started, voice light but not unserious, “if this is some elaborate way of bullying me out of my lunch money, I surrender. Take it. Just – don’t hit me.”
A strangled kind of noise scrapped past Neil’s throat, his eyes widening impossibly. And then suddenly he was in front of him, as if he’d eliminated the distance between them in the time it took Todd to blink.
“What? Todd, no – I would never,” he said, voice urgent and pleading. “I would never knowingly hurt you. You know that, right?”
Hands on his face. Eyes wide. Neil was panicking.
Okay, that was… a reaction.
Todd was aware of Charlie looking at him, an expression of half-anger, half-hurt drawn all over his face. His arms were still folded, his jaw set, and his eyes were pinned on Neil.
He blinked. “Hey, Neil,” he said, making sure to keep his voice soft. His own hand came up to cover Neil’s, squeezing his fingers. “I know, I know. I was only messing around.”
A familiar jolt went through his spine, his heart giving a small twitch. Todd could feel the tendrils of his anxiety slowly uncurling in the pit of his stomach, slithering uncomfortably through his body, aiming for his vital organs.
“Okay,” he said slowly. His eyes flicked from Neil’s still too tense face, to Charlie’s. “Someone should tell me what’s going on. Right now.”
There was a pause. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds, but to Todd’s mind it stretched forward and backwards, reaching all the way back to the first time he saw them in that dark alley. All the way to a future that suddenly looked too bleak.
His heart gave another twitch.
His fingers sparked and the fire reflected on the steel of the worktables. Blue and feeding on Todd’s anxiety.
Neil must’ve seen the sparks skimming across Todd’s fingertips, for he swallowed thickly before saying, “It’s about your birth mother.”
Todd blinked, caught off-guard. “I need you to be a little bit more specific.”
Neil nodded, and it was the kind of reflective motion someone does to relax themselves. His eyes remained pinned in Todd’s, but he took a step back. Gave him some space.
“Her name was Laylah Verlac.”
“Okay,” Todd said, not knowing how exactly he was supposed to react. The name wasn’t some big revelation. There wasn’t any sudden, sharp sting of recognition. Todd didn’t feel some instant connection to the name of a woman he’d never meant.
It was sad, probably. But also, to be expected.
“Is that all?”
Neil’s eyes broke away from him, and Todd’s stomach fell prey to the wisps of his anxiety, the knot around it tightening painfully.
“Laylah was your adoptive mother’s sister.”
For a long moment the words didn’t fully register in his brain.
Then they hit. All at once.
Todd had always known he was adopted. He was eight months old when the Andersons took him in, and he was maybe five when they sat him down and told him the truth. Todd had been very silent, and they had been very forthcoming with their information about how he’d ended up in their house.
Apparently, they’d lied.
“What?” he asked, voice thinner now.
“They weren’t distantly related,” Charlie said, finally speaking. His voice was scratchy, like he hadn’t used it for much longer than he’d actually stayed silent for. “They were sisters. Full blood. Laylah was her younger sister.”
Todd took a step back. Not far, just enough to lean against the table. His gaze fell to the floor, but it was blurry. There were more sparks in his fingers.
His mother had lied.
His mother –
Todd had been an unashamedly a momma’s boy while growing up. He never once felt bad about it, not when Jeffery teasingly called him out for it, not when some of his classmates found it weird how she’d stop by the school to check up on him during breaks. Todd had loved his mother, and his mother had loved him too. He never doubted that she never gave him any reason to.
His mother always made him pancakes on Saturday mornings.
His mother always brought back new potted plants whenever she went to the market for him to put on his windowsill.
His mother always sat with him on the floor when the world was too loud, and his skin felt too tight, and Todd shook with the viciousness of his panic attacks.
His mother had lied.
“So, m-my m-m-mom wa-was a Sh-shadowhunter too?” Todd asked, hating how much of mess he sounded like.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Neil nodding.
“Yes,” he said softly. Gently. Like he was afraid Todd was going to break.
A flash of light rained from his fingers, ricocheting against the steel. Sparks scattered everywhere. In his periphery Charlie jumped, startled.
“She was trying to protect you,” Neil added, still in that infuriatingly soft voice. “You were born a hybrid. If the Clave had known what you were – what you could be…”
Todd shook his head, trying to shake something off. The world had gone fuzzy around the edges, a creeping kind of dizziness making his vision blurry.
“Wait – ho-how d-did you f-f-figure it out?” he asked, eyes flicking up to Neil.
He swallowed. “Remember the other night in your house –”
“Yes.”
“- I asked you about a photo –”
“Yes.”
“ – That’s because I recognized –”
“Me.”
Neil looked pained. “No. Jeffrey.”
Todd’s whole body tensed. “No.”
Not Jeffrey.
“Yes.”
Todd shook his head. “No,” he repeated with emphasis.
Not Jeffrey.
“Todd, I’m sorry.”
“You’re wrong. You’re wrong,” he said again, faster. Harder. As if the way the words were spoken would make a difference. “Jeffrey was –” Todd’s throat closed. “He was normal. He was Jeffrey. He was my brother. He wanted to be an engineer. He helped me with algebra, because I was shit and he wasn’t, and he played the piano, and he died in a car crash, and he –”
“Todd.”
“He was normal.”
Neil’s voice barely cut through. “Jeffrey Lovelace was a Shadowhunter. I knew him. My father knew his dad – he was there, when Jeffrey’s dad died.”
Todd stared at him. “You… knew him?”
“Not well,” Neil said quickly. “I mean, kind of,” he backpedaled. “He was older than me, but… yeah. He was one of us.”
One of us.
The words stuck like ash on Todd’s tongue.
Funnily it all felt like a car crash in slow motion. It was as if Todd was in a car and he could see another car coming toward him, lights blinking. But no matter how hard he pressed his foot against the brake the car wouldn’t stop. And Todd was simultaneously inside the car and out of it, seeing the collision and feeling it on his body, his whole chest caving in – bones breaking, piercing his lungs because everything was a lie, a lie, a fucking lie.
“You’ve kn-known th-that f-f-or the pas-t five days?” he asked. His throat ached.
Everything felt too hot.
Everything was too cold.
Neil’s face creased. “I did. And I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you. I was waiting for the right moment. I swear that’s the only reason I didn’t tell you sooner.”
Todd looked away. “Okay,” he muttered, and his voice sounded wrong to his ears.
“There’s more,” Charlie said reluctantly, pulling a face.
Todd didn’t even bother to turn toward him. “Of course there is.”
Charlie looked like he would rather eat glass than say whatever he was about to say. “That woman. In the alley. The one you saw die.”
Funny.
Todd didn’t know a broken body could still feel pain. And yet his stomach twisted, painfully. “What about her?”
“She was your aunt,” he said. Simple. No fanfare . Like he hadn’t just collapsed Todd’s world around him. “Her name was Elodie; Elodie Verlac. She was Calleigh Verlac’s youngest sister.”
“No,” Todd said automatically. “No, I’d remember if my mom –”
“I’m guessing you never met anyone from your mother’s side,” Charlie said, tone grim but steady. “Probably because they were trying to keep you safe. And themselves. So, you never met Elodie.”
Todd blinked.
And he was in the alley.
It was humid, and he could smell the rain in the air. It was cold, and it was still drizzling, and it was his birthday and –
The alleyway smelled of blood.
There was a woman. Kneeling in the middle of the road. Arms bound behind her back. She was curved forward, head close to her chest, like she was in pain. Blood pooled around her. She had cuts – everywhere.
Todd made noise. A sound. A breath.
She looked up and her eyes widened. Not in confusion. Not in fear.
In recognition.
She knew him.
She had looked at him like –
“I let her die,” Todd whispered. “She knew who I was and – and I just –”
His hands shook, a fresh torrent of sparks spilling from his fingers.
“I let her die,” he repeated.
The loop in his mind was torturing him; Todd arriving into the alley, just as the seraph blade cut the woman’s chest, only to start all over again once it was over. Like an ouroboro of pain and bad decisions, again, and again, and again –
And – hands. Warm, steady fingers wrapped around his wrists. Grounding him. Not restraining, not holding down. Just being there.
Neil.
“Todd,” he said, quiet but firm. “You didn’t let anyone die. We talked about this. Remember?”
Todd shook his head.
He remembered, but he didn’t believe it. He hadn’t believed it then, that night at the training grounds, and he wasn’t going to believe –
“You could’ve burned the whole damn city down,” Neil said, ducking his head to catch Todd’s gaze. “And it wouldn’t have saved her. She was already bleeding out. Her wounds were too severe. There was nothing you could’ve done.”
“If I had been there sooner –”
“Anderson,” Charlie said, as he too came around the worktable to join them. “Elodie Verlac was a trained Shadowhunter. Whoever killed her, he bested a seasoned warrior. A warlock who can barely control his magic is no opponent for such a person.”
Todd couldn’t refute that statement as easily as he’d done the previous one. Charlie was right, whoever killed Elodie was skilled and Todd… mundane little Todd Anderson of fifteen days ago would’ve gotten himself killed if he’d tried anything stupid.
“What happened to Laylah?” Todd heard himself ask, after a beat.
Neil looked toward Charlie, who elected to drop his gaze to the floor.
His boyfriend let a small sigh. “We don’t know,” he admitted. “She just – disappeared, twenty-five years ago. No body was ever retrieved. She left no trace. Her family filed a missing person’s report but there was no sign of her.”
“The Clave has her listed as MIA,” Charlie said, still looking at the floor, “presumed dead. But there was never an official kill confirmation.”
“She might have gone rogue,” Neil added, but it clear in his face he didn’t believe it. “Or she could be hiding. No one really knows.”
“Oh,” Todd said.
And really, what else was there to say?
He didn’t know if it would’ve been better to know that she was dead. It could probably settle his stomach, but there was no way of knowing.
The door creaked open behind them, and a blond Shadowhunter appeared behind it. His hair was a mess, he was holding a tablet in hand, scrolling through something, his glasses resting precariously low on his nose. Todd had seen him before.
“Branwell,” he said without looking up. “You’ve been summoned.”
Neil pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated. “Stick, can’t it wait?”
Stick arched an eyebrow. Looked at him through his lashes. “Your father wants you in his office. Now. There’s some kind of development in your murder case. Apparently, an expert from Alicante is also coming in to consult.”
Neil winced. “Great. Just what I needed – cryptic Clave politics.”
He shrugged, returning his attention to the tablet. “Not my circus, not my monkeys, Branwell.”
“By the Angel, you’re so helpful today, aren’t you Stick?” Charlie drawled.
Stick’s jaw ticked. He lifted his eyes to look at Neil, again. “I don’t think it’s a wise choice to keep your father waiting.”
Neil turned to Todd, hesitating for half a second like he didn’t want to leave. “I’m okay,” he said quietly. “Go.”
Stick spun on his heels and stalked off without another word. Neil lingered at the door, teeth worrying his bottom lip. His gaze flicked to Charlie, and Todd caught the imperceptible nod between them.
Then, after a slow inhale, Neil turned and left.
The silence that fell between them felt like an alive thing. It pulsed, and it expanded and despite not being awkward per se it was a little bit suffocating.
Todd shifted his weight. Rolled on the balls of his feet. His fingers tapped against the edge of the steel table like he was trying to drown out the noise in his own head. He was not okay. Not by a long shot. But the sharpest spikes of his anxiety had dulled into something quieter.
“Okay, so, before you decide to turn me into bacon,” Charlie said, breaking the silence as he moved toward the weapon racks.
Todd let a huff. “I won’t do that,” he mumbled. “Unless you annoy me too much,” he added after a beat.
Charlie chucked, throwing a look at him over his shoulder. “Noted.”
The corners of Todd’s lips twirled into a half smile, his posture easing ever so slightly. Charlie turned back to the rack, riffling through a shelf like he was looking for something. A moment later, he pulled out something wrapped in black cloth.
He walked back to where Todd was standing and held it out.
Todd stared at it.
“It won’t bite,” Charlie reassured him, stepped a little closer.
Todd took it. The fabric was soft under his fingertips, warm and expensive. He laid it on the worktable, unfolding it slowly. Inside was a blade – elegant, curved, runes Todd couldn’t name running down its hilt.
“It’s a naginata,” Charlie said, like that should explain everything for Todd. “It used to be a samurai weapon, though later they were mostly used by women for self-protection. That one used to be Elodie’s.”
Todd’s throat tightened. His finger stilled where the blade met the handle.
“It’s yours now,” Charlie finished.
Instinctively Todd shook his head no.
No.
He couldn’t take her weapon.
Not after –
Not after not saving her.
“Todd, the Verlac bloodline is a little…” Charlie grimaced, messing a hand through his head. “Ancient. Noble. Terribly unlucky bastards. I think there might be, what, three of your left? Elodie’s parents are gone. Laylah might as well, and -”
“My mom’s dead,” Todd murmured, his voice suddenly small.
“Right… so yeah. It belongs to you.”
Todd brushed his thumb over the blade’s hilt. The metal was cold. It felt foreign in his hands. It didn’t belong, not the way his magic did.
Charlie shifted, his jaw working like he was shifting through words. He messed a hand through his hair and looked away for a moment. “I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot,” he started, then paused, rethinking it. “Okay, I might’ve been kind of an asshole –”
“You were a dick,” Todd corrected, not looking up.
“Wow, Branwell’s been rubbing off on you.”
“Oh, no, trust me,” Todd’s lips twitched, “this is all me. You can ask Cameron.”
Charlie stared at him. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.” His posture shifted again, like he was trying to keep from fidgeting. “Anyway, I just – I want you to know, that I’m not – I don’t think like that, anymore. About you. I got it wrong.”
“That was almost heartfelt,” Todd teased, gently.
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, can we go back to when you were afraid of me?”
Todd chuckled. “I was never afraid of you, Charlie.”
“No?” Charlie’s tone sounded almost devastated, but there was a smirk playing on his lips.
“Nope.”
“You’re ruining my street cred.”
Another silence stretched between them.
“Should I bring this to my training with Knox?” Todd asked after a breath.
Charlie made a noise somewhere between a groan and sigh. “Now why did you have to go and ruin the mood?”
“How did I ruin the mood?”
He didn’t answer. But he was clearly flustered, which Todd found deeply satisfying.
He let his fingers trail over the blade again. It was lighter than he expected. “So, this thing with Knox –”
“Now, now, Anderson,” Charlie cut him off, his eyes flashing, a sharp undertone in his still casual voice. “Don’t go there, okay?”
Todd grinned. “Touchy.”
“Let’s bask in this rare moment of peacefulness.”
“Okay.”
Charlie shifted his weight again. Cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t use the naginata. Not without going over it with him first.”
“Him,” Todd repeated.
He fixed him with a look. “Start with seraph blades, like he said. I’ll let you borrow one of mine.”
Todd blinked. “You being kind feels weird. Say something mean.”
“Fuck you, Anderson.”
Todd nodded, pleased. “There he is.”
Charlie narrowed his eyes at him, but there was no heat behind it. Todd grinned, and finally lifted the blade off the table. It was heavier than it looked, but also surprisingly balanced.. He twirled his wrist, and the weapon moved with ease.
“You know,” Charlie started, not quite look at him, “I’m sure that there’s footage of Elodie training somewhere in the archives. She worked in Paris, but we could ask them to send the files over, or we could hack them –”
“We’re not going to hack another Institute’s archives!”
“By the Angel, relax… Penhallow would be so proud of you,” Charlie said, his lips curling in disgust.
“We’re not hacking them.”
Charlie threw up his hands. “Fine. Okay, we won’t.”
“Hey, maybe we could ask Knox’s boyfriend –”
“Anderson, I will not hesitate to maim you with your own fucking blade,” Charlie snapped.
Todd laughed. But then a thought formed in his mind, tugging at his chest. Soft, but persistent. “Do you think there could be footage of my mom? Of Calleigh? Here, I mean.”
Charlie’s irritation lingered for a second longer. Then he rolled his shoulders, brows pulling on his forehead. “Probably. Jeffrey trained here, so it stands to reason she worked out of Boston before she took a leave of absence.”
Something almost hopeful flashed in Todd’s chest. “Can we look?”
“Yeah, of course. As soon as Branwell’s done getting grilled by his dad.”
“Right, but I should be going to Meeks’ soon for training. And then I have more training with Knox.”
“We can do it tonight.”
“Okay…” Todd hesitated. “Do you think it’s important? What his dad wanted?”
Charlie sighed heavily, giving a shrug. “I have no fucking clue. That man is… It could be about something as innocuous as a spelling error in his last report, or he could be dying. There’s no in-between.”
Todd let a small noncommittal sound.
He’d only known Neil for a little while, but he’d already gathered his relationship with his father was complicated by all the things he hadn’t said about him. Todd was never one to push someone into uncomfortable conversations, but Charlie’s words only solidified that feeling.
He twirled the naginata once more, flicking his hand. It made a satisfying swoosh as it cut through the air.
“Does it have a name?” he asked, looking at the blade thoughtfully. “Do you know?”
Charlie shook his head. “It’s not a seraph blade, so it doesn’t need one. You see the runes on the hilt? That’s what gives the blade the juju to kill demons.”
Todd turned the weapon in his hand again. “Still feels like it should have a name?”
“I mean, if it helps…” he scratched the back of his neck. “I name all my blades.”
Todd glanced over, arching an eyebrow. “You do?”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Everybody has a name. My blades shouldn’t be an exception. They’re part of my story, aren’t they? A name gives them – shape. They carve a place for them in my narrative.”
Todd blinked. He had not expected that. Not from Charlie.
“That was almost poetic.”
“You think that because I’m this pretty I can’t pick up a book?”
“That’s not what I –” Todd pressed his lips together. Refused to rise to his bait. “You like to read?”
Charlie smirked. “I like to fake-read. There’s a difference.”
“Fake-read?”
“Yeah, I uh…I used to sneak into the library late, when I was younger. I'd grab a book, and read until my eyes crossed. I just picked up whatever got my attention. Based on the covers. The font they used on the title. I had no real interest in the subject; weapon guides, art books, poetry. I’d read anything, even stuff I didn’t understand. Didn’t matter if I understood it. I just needed… something.”
Todd was quiet for a breath. “Why at night?”
His smirk dimmed. “Mornings were loud. Too many people.”
“What about that secret-room of yours?”
“We found that later.”
“Oh, okay… Did you always live here? In the Institute?”
Charlie exhaled through his nose. Something in his posture went very still. “Not always,” he said flatly. “My parents dropped me off here when I was eleven. The LA Institute was too busy, too messy. There was a whole thing with my uncle, he was the Head of the Institute – lots of family drama there,” Charlie paused long enough to give a dramatic eye roll. “They figured Boston had fewer politics.”
Todd didn’t say anything, just watched him carefully.
“I thought it was temporary,” he continued. “At first. Like, I thought it was a test, you know? If I trained hard enough, if I was top of my class, if I stopped getting into fights, if I made senior rank early then – they’d surely come back for me.”
His voice remained dull, but steady, never breaking. Not once. Somehow that was worse.
“And then they didn’t,” Todd said quietly.
“Yeah.”
Silence settled between them.
Charlie shook his head a little. “My parents… they weren’t cut out for this. And I was always more trouble than I was worth. I mean, I still check the guest longs, sometimes, like an idiot, just to make sure... but I can’t fault them for not showing up.”
“Charlie,” Todd muttered, because for a moment it was all he could say. He carefully dropped the blade on the worktable beside him, stepped forward and placed a hand on Charlie’s forearm. “You’re not an idiot.”
He snorted. “No? Well, I still felt like one, when I was eleven-years-old and cried myself to sleep for a week every time someone from LA showed up on assignment and it wasn’t them.”
Todd didn’t respond. Just gave his arm a gentle squeeze. Charlie didn’t pull away.
“I loved my mom,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Charlie looked up at him, waiting.
“I mean… I don’t know if Jeffrey ever mentioned anything about me, but I was a total momma’s boy growing up. Never even thought of playing it cool. I used to call her during lunch at school just to hear her voice.”
Todd drew in a long breath. The fingers of his free hand found an errand thread on the sweater he was wearing – Neil’s – twisting it around.
“I always knew I was adopted, but – she made me feel wanted. Like taking me in was no different than giving birth to me. Jeffrey and I were the same in her eyes. She loved me.”
He exhaled, long, controlled. His gaze unfocused, flicked toward the naginata resting on the table.
“But I was still abandoned by a mother,” he whispered. “Whether intentionally or not, my – Laylah, wasn’t the one I grew up with. And now, today, I found out my mom had been lying for – well, my whole life.”
Todd twisted the thread so tightly around his finger, his knuckle turned white.
“She lied about everything. Where I came from. Who she was. Who Laylah was to her. And Jeffrey…” Todd shook his head. “He knew. And he never said a word.”
Charlie let a breath, his shoulders dropping. The expression on his face was more open than Todd had ever seen it, something akin to empathy shining in his eyes.
“I’m not saying it’s the same as what you went through,” he added hurriedly. “It’s not. You grew up with your parents, I never met Laylah, but… abandonment is abandonment. It leaves a scar.”
Charlie tilted his head. “You think it ever heals over?”
“I hope so,” Todd said. “If we learn how to not pick at it. I know I suck at it, what with my anxiety and everything… And finding out about all the lies,” he sighed, run a hand through his hair and slowly let it drag down the side of his face. “But I know one thing; my mom – Calleigh – loved me. Unconditionally. And that’s how parents are supposed to love their children.”
Charlie gave him a rueful smile. “Not Shadowhunter parents.”
“Calleigh was a Shadowhunter,” Todd pointed out. “That’s not an excuse. Your parents are just assholes.”
A surprised laugh left Charlie’s mouth. “Damn, tell me how you really feel about them, Anderson.”
Todd felt a small smile curl on his lips. “Let’s just say that if they ever show their faces here, they might get slightly barbecued.”
“By accident, of course.”
“Of course.”
Charlie smirked, but there was no mockery in it. Just something tired. Something honest. “You tell anyone I was human for five whole minutes and I will stab you with the naginata.”
Todd most definitely did not have a training session with Meeks, but Neil had not been in the room when he lied about it and, thankfully, Charlie didn’t know his schedule. So, he let him go without too much of a fuss, making a promise to help him look through the archives for any footage of his mom’s training.
And that’s how Todd found himself treading through half melted snow piles and the dreaded December air, making his way from the Boston Institute all the way to Meeks’ apartment.
A particularly freezing gush of air blew right against his face and Todd shivered down to his bones. He tugged his coat tighter around himself.
Seriously, to hell with this.
There had to be a faster way to get to Meeks’, he was a flipping warlock, damn it!
Half-warlock.
Okay, sure, half-warlock. But still! There had to be a better way to get where he wanted to go other than taking the bus! Todd should ask Meeks about it.
Sure, right after you’re done interrogating him.
Right, right, that was the reason why he was going to Meeks’ in the first place.
Because Todd was convinced the warlock had been keeping something from him. Ever since that first night they met. He’d tried to push it on the very back of his mind, lock it along with all the other things he was trying not to think about – like, how was he ever supposed to go back to living a normal life after all this? But after the talk he’d just had, everything he’d been trying to avoid for the last two weeks came rushing in. The way Meeks talked around the fact that Todd wasn’t even supposed to exist. The way his eyes sometimes lingered too long when Todd’s magic sparked.
He knew that whatever Meeks was not telling him was dangerous. That Meeks was definitely looking out for him. Protecting him. But Todd didn’t want protection anymore. He wanted the truth. He was halfway through mentally rehearsing how to bring it up, having just discarded a casual, “Hey, quick question; what ancient cosmic secret are you hiding from me?”, when his phone buzzed.
Cameron’s name flashed across his screen.
“Tell me you’re on your way to my place,” his best friend said lieu of greeting.
Todd winced. “Okay, listen before you start –”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Cameron cut him off. “Before I start? I’m already started! Dude, you forgot? Again?”
Todd squeezed his eyes shut. “Shit. Cam, I’m so sorry, I –”
“We were supposed to go over my essay,” Cameron snapped. “The one I have to submit in, oh, I don’t know two weeks? The one you promised to look through because I’m pretty sure it’s an incoherent mess and I’m just too close to it to cut my darling and call it a day?”
Todd groaned and rubbed his temple. “I know. I know. I completely blanked, I’m so sor-”
“I know you’re sorry,” Cameron’s voice was cold when he cut him off again. “But I rarely ask you for favors, Todd.”
“My birth mother’s name is Laylah.”
Todd hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, and honestly, they felt better than any half-assed excuse he might’ve come up with.
Silence stretched on the other end. Not long, but enough for Todd to imagine the exact face Cameron was making. Wide eyed. Lips parted. A furious blush climbing up his throat.
Todd breathed out through his nose. “I didn’t mean to spring this on you like that. And I’m not going to make any more excuses for myself. I know I’ve been a shitty friend the past few days.”
Another pause. He could still hear Cameron breathing, so he at least knew he hadn’t fainted.
“Are you okay?” his friend asked at last, voice quieter now.
“No,” Todd admitted. “But I will be. I’m on my way to Meeks’ right now, because I think he can clear up some things for me… I promise I’ll help with the essay as soon as I’m done with this mess. I’ll even write your bibliography for you.”
“You’d better,” Cameron muttered. But there was no heat behind it. “Call me later, yeah? I mean it.”
Todd nodded reflexively, even though he couldn’t see it. “Will do.”
Cameron hung up first and he slipped the phone back into his pocket. The wind caught his scarf and almost yanked it free. He secured it by tucking it inside his coat, lowering his face into it, and fastening his pace.
Boston loomed around him, gray, sharp-edged and wet. Always so fucking wet.
By the time he reached the apartment building, Todd’s socks were soaked through, and his fingers ached from clenching them inside his jacket pockets. The steel-and-glass high-rise towered above the rest of the Back Bay skyline, sleek and a little smug, like it knew exactly how expensive it looked like.
The front door gave before he even touched it. It always did for him. Todd stepped inside the shiny lobby, Meeks’ wards buzzing welcomingly around him. His mud-covered boots left damp prints across the polished floor as he crossed to the elevator, pulling out the keycard that would take him all the way to Meeks’ penthouse. He had given it to Todd a week ago along with a parchment of ginger snaps from a grateful client.
One of the many quiet, offhanded ways Meeks showed he cared.
The elevator opened with a soft chime. Todd stepped in and swiped the card. He started tapping his foot against the floor as the doors slid shut, sealing him away from what he considered the real world.
He usually hated how long it took for the elevator to reach its destination, but this time Todd felt like he just blinked, and the elevator chimed, again, announcing he was there.
The penthouse looked as it always did. Immaculate. Expensive. Simultaneously modern and stuck in time. The scent of burnt sage lingered in the air.
“Todd my boy! I didn’t know we were expecting you.” John’s voice carried across the open space, overly cheery in the otherwise quiet apartment.
Meeks, standing with his back to the room and sleeves half-rolled, turned slowly at the sound. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, assessing.
“That’s because we weren’t,” he said, slowly. “Dove, we didn’t have a meeting today, did we?”
“No, we didn’t,” Todd muttered. “I thought you’d be alone – hello, John.”
“Oh! I should’ve actually left hours ago!” John said, dusting his hands off something that looked suspiciously like chalk and offering Todd a warm smile. “Just trying to help the High Warlock sort out a little ley line snafu. You know how they are – one moment stable the next,” he made an explosive motion with his hands.
Todd nodded, despite having no idea how they ley lines actually worked. He had barely grasped the idea of what they were.
“Yes, yes, John,” Meeks said without inflection. “You’re right. I should’ve let you go hour ago.”
“Well, we weren’t quite done -”
“But we’re done now,” Meeks said, his voice kind but sharp.
John blinked, blue eyes widening a little behind his glasses. He caught the tone, and backpedaled, “Right, I see. Yes! We’re definitely done. I should uh… make myself scarce.”
“I think that would be for the best.”
Todd gave John a small smile as the other warlock gathered his coat and headed toward the elevator. “ It was nice seeing you, Todd! Till next time.”
“Till next time, John.”
The elevator’s door opened and shut behind him with a soft click, leaving the penthouse noticeably still. Meeks’ eyes trailed him until he was out of sight.
Todd shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” he apologized.
Meeks’ waved a dismissive hand, coming to stand closer to him. “You didn’t interrupt anything. John’s been here far too long as it is… we did everything we could for today.”
Todd nodded, his arms folding over his chest. His voice was cautious when he asked, “What’s wrong with the ley lines?”
Meeks let a small sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Someone has been tampering with them. But there’s no pattern and we – I can’t figure out what exactly they’re doing. Or why. There’s just interference.”
“And… you can’t trace it?”
Meeks shook his head. “Not yet. But that’s not your burden to carry, dove. Why are you here? This doesn’t feel like a social call.”
Todd swallowed, his throat feeling thick. His gaze dropped to the floor . “It’s not,” he said softly. “Neil told me some things, and …”
Meeks waited, tilting his head slightly. When the silence dragged, he added dryly. “Clearly it was something that upset you. Do you want me to curse him into another plane? Or just something mild? I’ve got a potion that can make someone smell like boiled cabbage for a week.”
“No!” Todd exclaimed, eyes wide. “No! Nothing like that! I – he – he told me some things. About me.”
“What things?”
Todd took a shaky breath, shoulders tensing. “About my birth mother. Her name was Laylah Verlac. She was …my adoptive mother’s sister. I just found that out. Did you… did you know her?”
His eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “I know of the Verlac family,” he said carefuly. “They’re an old family so it’s hard not to. But I’ve never met one of them.”
“Oh,” Todd breathed out, like he’d just deflated. “Okay.”
Meeks’ head tilted again. His gaze squinting. “Is that why you are here? You thought I might’ve known her?”
“No. I mean, not exactly. I have… two questions.”
Meeks nodded. “Alright. Then I’ll give you two answers.”
Todd hesitated for a long beat, boots shuffling against the stone floor. “Why did my magic come now? I’ve been a warlock since birth but… I only got my magic two weeks ago.”
Meeks hummed. “Stress is usually a strong trigger. Your magic came to you when you walked in on someone dying.”
“Oh, yes about that,” Todd said sounding more sarcastic than he’d meant. “The person dying that night, was also a relative of mine. An aunt. My mom’s youngest sister. Both of my mothers’ youngest sister.”
Meeks blinked. His expression fractured, only for a moment, into something stunned. Then it softened into sympathy. “Oh, dove,” he muttered, lowering himself into the armchair across from where Todd was standing. “How are you holding up?”
Todd scoffed. “Barely.”
He dropped into the couch closest to him, posture crumpling inwardly as if he was trying to comfort and hold himself together. Unwilling to break under the weight of everything.
“But that wasn’t the first time I’ve been in a stressful situation,” he said, looking at Meeks. “I mean, I was in the car crash, the one that killed my family. I was there.”
The warlock’s posture sharpened, but he didn’t speak.
“I remember the car coming at us. I remember dad trying to swerve out of the way, but the other car – it followed us? Which doesn’t make sense, but I swear it’s what happened. And then... I blinked. And I woke up at my parents’ home. In my childhood bed.”
“You were in the car?”
Todd nodded, slowly. “Yes.”
“And you… lost time? You don’t remember the hospital? The paramedics?”
“No,” Todd mumbled, shaking his head softly. “I don’t think I even went to the hospital. I never told anyone because… well, because it sounded crazy,” his voice cracked slightly on the last word.
Meeks was quiet for a long moment, then said, “So, that’s when your powers first manifested.”
Todd blinked. “What?”
“That’s how you survived the car crash,” Meeks said gently, but also clearly just stating facts. “You shielded yourself.”
Todd’s breath caught somewhere between his lungs and this throat. “Wait… So, I could’ve saved them?”
“No,” Meeks said, too quickly.
Todd’s voice rose. “But if I had, I could’ve sav –”
“Todd, there was no way for you to have saved them,” he interrupted. “More experienced warlocks than you wouldn’t have been able to stop that crash. You were young. You had no control, and no idea what you were.”
Todd sank deeper into the overstuffed couch. His hands were trembling now, sparks fluttering faintly at his fingertips. “Okay…” he whispered. “But after that, my magic was...gone. Nothing.”
Meeks didn’t respond right away. He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. Todd knew he didn’t need them, but Meeks liked wearing them. Maybe they made him feel closer to the mortal world he wasn’t a part of.
He leaned with his elbows on his knees, intertwining his fingers. “That’s because it didn’t come back,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “If I had to guess I’d say it’s because your magic was bound.”
“Bound but…” Todd’s mouth snapped a couple of times, feeling sort of words. “How did I save myself, then?”
Meeks exhaled, the motion subtle but tense. “Momentary glitch, I’d say. So, the way a magical restriction works is – a warlock casts the spell, and he needs witnesses to ensure that what was taken will be once again returned, when it’s time. It’s rare magic. Ancient. Risky. The kind of spell that would seal off access to your magic entirely.”
Todd tried to draw a deep breath, but his chest tightened. Hurt.
“Your mother and your aunts were probably all present. During the car crash, the spell was momentarily broken when your aunt – your adoptive mother – died. That’s how you were able to save yourself.”
“Why would they do that?” Todd heard himself asking. His fingertips had started to spark again – tiny flickers of blue light dancing across them, his body reacting faster than his mind could keep up.
“Because of your hybrid status. Todd, if the Shadowhunters found out about you, your life would be in danger.”
“So what? They just –” Todd’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “They chose to bound my powers? Permanently?”
“No,” Meeks corrected gently. “It wasn’t meant to be permanent. That’s why the warlock needed witnesses. The spell was keyed to a trigger that would break it.”
Todd shifted in his seat, feeling something sharp shoot through him. “Like what?”
Meeks’ jaw worked, his eyes flicking around Todd’s face. “Like… the death of those who cast it. Or those who knew of it.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Todd felt like he was sinking. His breath hitched once, then again. His gaze unfocused, falling on the floor underneath his feet. “So… they’re all dead.”
His voice didn’t shake, not at first. It was too numb for that. It came out flat, hollow, like the news belonged to someone else. Not him. His hands curled into fists in his lap, his nails biting into his palms. Sparks kept spilling out of the tips of his fingers, catching faint against the hem of his jacket.
Meeks rose smoothly to his feet. He didn’t stride across the room – he drifted. It was eerie, the way he moved. Quiet like a cat. Elegant like a breeze. A man brimming with power, moving around like smoke.
He knelt in front of Todd, gently reaching for his hands, palms up, like offering, not taking. The sparks touched his skin, but it didn’t burn.
“I’m so sorry you’re going through this,” Meeks said, his face open the way it only was when Todd stood before him. “You’ve done nothing wrong. This pain doesn’t belong to you, yet you’re the one carrying it.”
Todd didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away either.
Meeks looked up at him, understanding slowly dawning in his eyes. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
Todd drew his bottom lip between his teeth, nodding.
“You had two questions,” he prompted. “I promised two answers.”
Todd inhaled, shaky. “You’ve been keeping something from me,” he said tone barely above a whisper.
Meeks didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed steady. “Yes,” he said, simply.
Todd wasn’t sure what he had expected, but Meeks’ honesty was disarming. He shifted a little, again, gaze flicking up uncertainly, fingers still warm in Meek’s loose hold. “Ever since the first night. I could tell.” He searched his expression, but found no resistance. “You were watching me. Not the way the others did, like I was dangerous. It felt like… like you already knew what I was.”
He swallowed, his throat feeling raw.
“Like you knew who I was.”
Meeks drew in a slow breath. “I didn’t,” said. “Not really. Neil came a couple of days before he brought you. Asking questions he shouldn’t be asking. So, I knew there was something up. And then… you showed up at my door. The resonance I felt when my eyes fell on you – you don’t get that often. Even if you’ve lived for hundreds of years, like me.”
Todd’s brows furrowed. “So, what is it then?”
Meeks pressed his lips together. He squeezed Todd’s hands once, before withdrawing his own and standing up. He turned, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed somewhere above Todd’s head. When he spoke again, the polish in his voice faltered just a fraction.
“Do you know who my father is, Todd?”
Todd frowned, leaning forward on his hands. “Yeah… Beelzebub. Charlie told me.”
He nodded. Still looking at the ceiling. “Before the War in Heaven, before he fell, my father was a high-ranking angel. A Seraphin. He was responsible for his own battalion. A lieutenant, one might call him.”
Meeks gaze turned to him, his expression tight.
“Do you know what happened during the War in Heaven?”
Todd tried to remember what Charlie had told him and Cameron about it the first night he’d spent at the Institute.
“Some angels rebelled, but I’m not sure why. They lost, and they fell to Hell.”
Meeks gave a small wave of his hand. “That’s one version of the events. My father, he was one of the rebels. He was the leading man’s right hand. When they lost, they lost together. He fell from grace as a loyal soldier of him.”
Todd squinted his eyes. “The leading man… Lucifer, you mean?” he said slowly, the name tasting foreign in his mouth.
There was a stillness in the room now – dense, unmoving. Meeks stared at him. “Yes,” he said finally.
“Okay…” Todd’s pulse roared in his ears. “But why are you telling me this?”
For the first time since he met him, Meeks hesitated. His fingers curled in tight fists before relaxing again. He paced a slow half-circle around the coffee table, then stopped, eyes pinning Todd with alarming intensity.
“Todd,” he said, voice low, deliberate, “what I’m about to tell you… you can’t trust the Shadowhunters with it.”
Todd frowned. He straightened instinctively, unease creeping into the space between his ribs. “Why?”
Meeks’ mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. “Because, you can’t,” he repeated. “Shadowhunters don’t take kindly to things they don’t understand. And they’ll never understand you, Todd. Your existence, to them, is something… perversive. An anomaly they’ll want to catalog or contain.”
“But my friends –”
“Are still Nephilim,” Meeks cut him off, sharply. His voice grew hard, eyes bright and glassy with barely restrained frustration. “Don’t let sentimentality make you stupid. You can’t trust them with this. Not even Neil. I’m serious, Todd.”
Todd reeled back slightly like the words had physically struck him. His hands, resting on his thighs, curled into the fabric of his jeans. “… Okay,” he said after a long pause. “Can I tell Cameron?”
He tilted his head slightly, the edge softening. “That’s your decision to make.”
“You’re freaking me out.”
Meeks looked at him for a moment longer, then began to move – slow, measured steps carrying him toward the center of the room. His back remained straight, his posture immaculate as always. But his shoulders looked tense, a static tension, like lightning crawling beneath his skin.
“I had an inkling of who your father was the moment I opened my door, and I found you standing behind it,” there was a heaviness lacing his words. “Your magic called to mine. Not just because we’re both warlocks. There was… a familiarity. Something that shouldn’t have been there unless -”
He stopped. His eyes met Todd’s, and for the first time. Meeks looked almost vulnerable. Exposed.
No.
Todd’s stomach flipped. His lips felt dry. “What are you saying?”
No.
Meeks didn’t blink. “My father has always been your father’s right-hand man.”
No.
“His lieutenant.”
No.
“His most loyal servant.”
No, no, no, no –
“Your father is Lucifer.”
Chapter 18: I don't really care, how much silence kills.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Meeks was not having a good week.
No scratch that Meeks was not having a good millennium – without exaggeration.
First there was the fluctuation with the ley lines. Something he’d thought he’d fixed, but of course it couldn’t have been as easy as a cleansing spell, right? Right.
Honestly, Meeks should’ve known better. But occasionally, he indulged in the foolish hope that a problem could remain resolved for longer than a week.
Then the dead body of a Shadowhunter showed up at a ley line junction. Which, normally, wouldn’t have been his jurisdiction. Shadowhunters loved playing detective and they always bragged about solving their own mess. But, because the universe particularly hated Meeks, a rogue warlock had chosen that very night to summon a greater demon – and a horde of lesser demons – at a mundane concert.
A concert. In the middle of Boston.
Because apparently subtlety was a dying art.
So the High Warlock of Boston had to step in. Thankfully John had been there to help before things got out of hand. Bless him, the man was overenthusiastic and alarmingly cheerful, but dependable in a crisis. Meeks didn’t even want to think what some of the… older members of their community would say if they got wind of it.
And then if all that wasn’t enough, the Shadowhunters had failed to intercept the rogue warlock. Meeks knew that they were only good for stabbing things and look hot while brooding, but he’d thought that they wouldn’t let a dangerous individual slip from between their fingers. And yet…
He and John had been in the process of trying to breakdown the time line of the night’s events, when the soft chime of the elevator echoed through the penthouse.
Meeks didn’t look up at first. He’d been too concentrated going over the map they had spread on his desk, his mind already connecting dots. At his feet, the chalk-drawn sigils John had attempted replicating were smeared in places– half-formed sketches of the runes they’d found carved into the body. Granite wasn’t ideal for chalk. Then again, neither was skin.
And then Todd stepped into his penthouse.
Unannounced.
Looking like a half-drowned kitten, mud on his boots and that particular expression on his face – the one Meeks had come to associate with emotional devastation wrapped in polite deflection.
“You’ve been keeping something from me.”
It had been barely above a whisper.
Todd’s wide blue eyes were red rimmed. Hands shaking, tiny blue sparkles spilling from them. Meeks wasn’t sure he’d noticed.
You’ve been keeping something from me.
Meeks had said yes.
Because he had.
And so, he told him the truth – after making him promise to not trust anyone in his life with it. Not the Nephilim. Not even Neil.
“No,” Todd whispered, horrified.
Meeks kneeled in front of him once again, grabbing his hands. “I’m so sorry, dove,” he said, keeping his voice low, gentle. “I didn’t want you to find out like this. I hoped –”
Todd shot to his feet, almost knocking him over. “But that’s not – That’s impossible! I can’t be – he can’t be – Lucifer!”
Meeks stood up as well, brushing invisible dust from his slacks. He didn’t reach for him. Todd needed to work this out of his body and Meeks needed to be ready to interfere if his powers grew too volatile.
“What the hell I’m supposed to do with this information?” Todd’s voice shook almost as much as his shoulders. The heat crawling under his skin made his magic pulse all around his body, crackling through the air like ozone before a storm. “What the fuck am I?”
Meeks’ felt his own power react at the self-directed vehemence in Todd’s voice. “You’re still you. You’re Todd Anderson. You’re kind. You’re brave, smart, loyal. And you’re mine to take care of. Mine to protect.
Todd’s chest rose and fell rapidly. His voice cracked, “They’re all dead. My mom. Laylah. Elodie. All of them…”
“I know,” Meeks said, quiet. “And you have every right to feel how you feel.”
The words seemed to make the room press in closer. Todd’s shoulders hunched, his hands curling into fists. He looked like he might fold into half under the weight of it all.
“You can be angry at them. You can mourn them. But you can’t let this define who you are. It doesn’t change you, Todd.”
Todd finally met his eyes.
“I’m the Antichrist, Meeks.”
Meeks hadn’t meant to laugh. But he did. Not unkindly, but loud. It made Todd jump in place, startled.
“Oh, dove,” he said, smiling faintly. “Words… names, have so many meanings. The one you used was designed by frightened men trying to explain things they didn’t understand. You’re not… words written on a wall. You’re not a prophecy. You’re a person.”
Todd let a heavy sigh. “I don’t feel like one.”
“In the last fifteen days you found out you belong in two distinct supernatural groups. Your powers are still unstable, you’ve been training with me and Pretty-Boy every other day. You just learned your mom was your biological aunt and your biological father is the king of Hell. And I’m also willing to bet you’ve had nothing but breakfast today.”
Todd’s cheeks turned scarlet.
“That’s enough to make anyone feel existential.”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
“I’m putting it the way it is,” Meeks said. “You freaking out is normal. In fact, I’d be worried if you had taken this in a calmer way. People are not meant for so much information in such a short time.”
Todd sighed again, the fight completely draining out of him.
“I think… I need something to eat.”
Meeks’ smile returned warmer this time. “It’s a good thing you’ve come here, then. C’mon, dove, let’s get you fed.”
They spent the next hour at the long kitchen island, Todd curled in a barstool, a thick wool blanket slung over his shoulders. Meeks made tea, because Todd’s body hadn’t stopped shaking, and he believed in the healing powers of a warm gesture. There was leftover chicken roast, and Todd cleared his plate and asked for seconds, while sipping his tea.
They spoke – Meeks knew better than to leave Todd alone with his thoughts. He kept the topics light, talking about books, the weather, music. Cameron. Things that would slow Todd’s heartbeats down and keep his mind from wandering.
Todd stood only when he noticed the clock creeping close to midnight. The blanket was still wrapped around him like armor, or a chick looking toga.
“I should be going,” he said, voice low as he moved his cutlery to the sink.
“You don’t have to. You can sleep here.”
“No, no,” Todd refused. “I don’t want to impose.”
“You wouldn’t be imposing, dove. Don’t be daft.”
“Meeks, I’m not going back to the Institute,” Todd said. “You can relax.”
“No, I didn’t think you would,” Meeks reassured him, because truthfully, he hadn’t even thought of that. He just didn’t want Todd to be alone tonight.
Todd nodded once to himself. “I’m going to Cameron’s.”
“Good.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Not about any of – this.”
Meeks nodded as well, but his expression sharpened. “See that you don’t. I know you like them, Todd, but you don’t know the Shadowhunters like I do. You can’t trust them. Not even the ones with big brown eyes. Especially those last ones.”
Todd let a small, humorless chuckle. “That’s not targeted at all.”
Meeks arched an eyebrow, completely unapologetic. “I’ve been alive a long time. I can sense the red flags before they present themselves. Brown soulful eyes and a tragic backstory? That’s how wars start.”
Todd shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You really don’t like Shadowhunters, huh?”
Meeks shrugged. “I tolerate them, under strict professional conditions.” He paused, eyeing him carefully. “And I’d hate seeing you hurt because of them, even if indirectly.”
Todd looked down at the kitchen island between them, fingers tapping against the wood, softly. “You keep forgetting I am one. At least… half,” he added the last part with a small grimace.
“I don’t forget,” Meek said, and Todd looked at him from under his eyelashes, not quite believing him. He stood, slowly making his way over to Todd, reaching out and tapping two fingers against the center of his chest, where his magic pooled. “I just choose to focus on what’s important about a person. You’re more than a nuisance with terrible tattoos, dove.”
Todd laughed. It almost sounded unburdened. But when he spoke his voice sounded somber again. “I think I’m falling or him.”
Meeks didn’t have to ask who he meant. His mouth quirked, a flicker of dry amusement in his eyes. “How unfortunate.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You can love him all you want, dove, but never trust him,” Meeks said, not cruelly, but definitely sharp.
A beat passed. The words settled heavily over them.
Then Meeks cleared his throat and straightened the cuff of his sleeve. “Well, after everything you’ve been through today, I think you’re more than deserving of having your first transportation via portal.”
Todd blinked. “Via what?”
“A portal,” Meeks echoed. “Spatial transportation via dimensional thread-weaving. Remarkably convenient once you get used to the motion sickness.”
“You’re joking.”
“Oh, I never joke about quick and efficient transportation, dove.”
Todd blinked again.
Meeks waved a hand, fingers glowing purple. His moves were quick, practiced, elegant. A soft metallic whir sounded across the open space of his kitchen, the space near the fridge bending inward and folding open like it had never been whole.
Todd stepped back, his eyes going wide.
The portal shimmered like stretched glass.
“I knew there was a fastest way than busses to move around,” he whispered to himself, his voice full of awe.
Meeks chuckled to himself. “Portals are a whole lesson of their own. But you deserve all the kindness I can bestow today, so, here you go.”
Todd looked at the portal, then back at Meeks. “I just step inside?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“You’re sure it’s safe?”
“I wouldn’t gamble your life like that, dove,” Meeks said, narrowing his eyes, but there was no heat behind the move. “You have to think of Cameron’s apartment, otherwise you’ll be lost in limbo.”
Todd’s chuckle sounded a little shrill.
“It’s safe, Todd. Trust me.”
Todd’s eyes found his wide, glassy and impossibly blue. He swallowed thickly and then he nodded. He stepped toward the glowing doorway, still warry, but also undeniably eager and curious to feel and understand the magic. He paused just before entering and he turned back to look at Meeks one last time.
“Thanks. For – everything.”
Meeks nodded. “Don’t thank me yet. I expect you here tomorrow for your scheduled lesson.”
“I’ll bring coffee.”
Todd stepped through the portal – and was gone in a shimmer of light.
And Meeks, alone again in the stillness of the room, waved a hand to close the portal, muttering softly to himself. “Tragic brown-eyed Nephilim. Always the worst ones.”
As previously stated, Meeks wasn’t simply having a bad day. He was having a bad week – nay, a bad century, frankly! Though, if one wished to be precise, this particular week had been especially miserable.
Because after the dead body, and the ley lines fluctuations, and Todd finding out about his father, came the flies.
And the nightmares.
But mostly the fucking flies.
Meeks hated them. He hated how they came buzzing whenever he felt slightly out of control. He hated how they lingered, how they fed off his magic, how they were always harbingers of bad fucking news.
And he, for all his poise and power, had not yet figured out how to make them stop.
The nightmares, of course, didn’t help.
It had all started on an otherwise boring Monday.
Meeks had gone to bed at a reasonable hour – his first such indulgence in perhaps sixty years - after finishing his third Cosmopolitan and having spend the better part of his day in corresponding back and forth with the Spiral Labyrinth.
Apparently, Todd’s existence had hit the newsletter of the warlocks’ council. Meeks with his title and his…pedigree was the best PR person Todd could hope to have on his side. Damage control took hours. He’d done an amazing job at damage control, convincing warlocks twice his years that Todd was just a weakling who’d spent the first twenty something years of his life not knowing of his powers. Entirely unthreatening. Absolutely not worth anyone’s time or scrutiny.
If anyone bothered to take a closer look at the weave of lies Meeks had weaved it wouldn’t take them too long to see the cracks. But Meeks knew warlocks; they were ancient, overgrown toddlers with chronic narcissism and zero follow-through.
So, feeling rather accomplished, Meeks had finished his drink, made sure his wards were strong as ever and went to sleep. Only to wake up in a straw bed at the outskirts of Lyons. An oil lamp was guttered weakly on his bedside table, the room smelled like rain and his mother was screaming at him, wielding an axe toward his throat.
Her mouth moved around words he couldn’t understand, her eyes wild with something that wasn’t rage. It was despair. The axe arced, aiming for his throat in a silver flash, and Meeks pressed himself against the wall beside his bed. The blade sparked as it caught the light of his oil lamp, slicing through the mattress where his neck had been seconds earlier.
Straw burst into the air, raining all over the floor of his little bedroom. Meeks scrambled backward, knocking over the lamp. The glass shattered, oil catching against the old floorboards. The room flared in amber light and shadow.
His mother screamed again – his name, mixed with several curse words, the axe moving in wild arcs. Meeks tried to talk to her, but his throat was thick, and his voice was lost somewhere inside his chest.
The door leading to safety was behind his mother’s back. Meeks was pressed up against a wall as she slowly made her way to him, a predator stalking its prey. Only, her son was not a weakling fawn, and she knew it. Her steps dragged, and her eyes moved around the place, noticing the flames spreading around them.
“Du moins, on brûlera ensemble, démon.”
Maman, s'il te plait –
The axe came swinging again. He threw his hand out, trying to shield himself. And then his mother screamed. Meeks’ eyes widened in horror as he watched the purple-gold fire flare in his fingertips as geyser, catching her across the chest. Her body arched backward, her cries turning raw.
The axe dropped.
Maman, Meeks mouthed, but no sound came out of his lips.
Her body collapsed, convulsing and he dropped to his knees in his haste to get close to her. He reached a hand toward her, but there still flames burning in his fingers and he stopped himself from making contact. His mother’s skin was already blistering from the inside out, blood flowing freely from her nose.
Meeks stared.
Maman, Maman, Maman –
She didn’t stop burning.
The fire licked up the walls, caught the beams, danced along the thatched roof. Outside, a dog began to bark. Then another. A child cried out.
Meeks stumbled through the warped doorway, onto the rain-soaked grass. But it wasn’t raining anymore. The wind was screaming now, tearing through the village with a vengeance.
People ran toward him. Shapes in the dark. Familiar voices.
He lifted his hands, shouting for them to stop, to wait –
Another burst of light tore through the square. It hit a man in the chest. He collapsed mid-spring, limbs twitching. A woman’s cloak caught fire. She turned to run and fell, shrieking.
Every screamed twisted the magic tighter, until it poured from him in all directions – lightning, flame, sound. His veins burned with it.
The sky opened.
Roofs exploded.
Someone tried to grab him – and disintegrated before their fingers touched his skin. It didn’t stop until the village was gone. Until all that remained was ash, and stone, and scorched earth.
And Meeks, standing alone in the center of it, barefoot and bloodied, his mouth open in a silent scream.
The next day he woke to the sound of buzzing.
Circling. Persisting.
He opened his eyes to the familiar dimness of his bedroom. His pulse was steady. His breath measured. Out of his window he could see it had started snowing.
The flies were flying lazily above him, black dots spinning against the white of the ceiling like punctuation marks in a text that was not yet written. Meeks stared at them, gaze narrowed as it followed their circular flying pattern. One hovered too close to his temple, then landed on the edge of his pillow.
He flicked his fingers. The thing burst into ash. Another took its place.
After contemplating the importance of keeping his position as High Warlock against the enticing idea of an early retirement to the Caribbean for several minutes, Meeks rose and went about his day. He took a quick shower. Made himself a coffee. Forewent having breakfast by having a second cup of coffee before ten o’clock.
By mid-morning, he had solved two minor curse outbreaks, rewritten a warding contract between Boston’s werewolf pack and vampire clan, and sent off three separate enchantments by raven for review by the Spiral Labyrinth. By noon, he’d rewritten them all again. Not because they needed it, but because his hands needed something to do.
He drank his tea with too much sugar. He met with a Seelie delegation and offered them silence instead of compromise. He fixed a rift spewing low level demons near the harbor, which technically was his job, but no one had asked him to do it.
He did not, under any circumstances pause long enough to think.
At least not before midnight. At least not before his body betrayed him, heavy with fatigue and still twitchy because of all his coffee consumption. He tried to prolong the inevitable by making himself a Cosmopolitan strong enough to knock out a fully adult mundane.
Meeks fell asleep after the first sip, still dressed, sitting on his couch the cocktail glass clasped in his hand.
This time when he blinked his eyes open it was to light. Blinding, golden light pouring through a cathedral of white marble columns. Vines curled gently at their bases, petals falling in slow motion like dust.
But in his periphery, something flickered. Meeks turned around and concentrated his gaze on one of the far walls, the one that kept shimmering. His eyes narrowed and unintentionally he took a step forward.
For a moment the whiteness of everything fell away.
It cracked.
And in it’s place –
The columns perfection twisted. The marble bled into blackened stone, red veins pulsing beneath its surface. Shadows bent across the floor in impossible directions, long and wrong and hungry.
The air smelled like burnt sugar and rot.
And then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Perfection snapped back into place, like it had always been there. Like Meeks had never peered underneath the mask.
He gasped, backing away. His footsteps made no sound, and he lowered his eyes to his feet only to find out he was, once again, barefoot. His clothes were the color of new parchment, clean and pressed. His skin was clean, unmarred, untouched by the time he spent on the streets.
“Maël,” a voice said, and Meeks heard it simultaneously inside his head and also echo around the cathedral.
A man was standing not too far away from him, framed by fireless flame. Tall, serene, ageless. He was cloaked in gold, a pair of wings fanning wide behind him, feathered and immaculate, catching the light as if they were sculpted from the sun.
His face was beautiful. Not just symmetrical, not merely handsome. Beautiful. In a way that hurt to look at for too long. The kind of face artists sculpt out of marble. And he was smiling, like a man looking seeing something he loved.
“My son. My fire-forged miracle,” the man continued saying, the voice pulling at something deep inside Meeks’ chest.
The man stepped closer, slow and sure, his wings trailing light like falling stars.
“You are the finest thing I’ve ever made,” he said, almost tenderly. “Do you know that?”
Meeks backed away. Again, his feet made no sound. His eyes roamed around the cathedral looking for a way out, but there was none. No entrance, no open windows. Only light, and him.
“I’ve watched you burn, and build, and bleed and try,” he murmured, reaching toward him. His fingers gleamed like polished brass, but his nails looked sharp. Cutting. “And oh, how I have loved you through it all.”
His voice still echoed in the open space, without him ever opening his mouth to speak.
“You are your mother’s mercy and my wrath. And I adore you for it.”
Meeks snapped awake with a start. There was blood on his palm where he’d crashed his glass in his grip, slowly dripping on the fabric of his couch. On the coffee table next to the TV remote, a single black feather lay in perfect stillness.
He should’ve probably guessed what was going to happen next, but Meeks was always really good at gaslighting himself when the need arose. And so, he woke up and went about his day, fully convinced that the nightmare was just that; just a distorted memory of what his first meeting with his father had been.
When he stepped into the kitchen after his purposefully long bath the smell of sulfur hung heavy in the air. Rich and biting and wrong.
His spine went straight, purple sparks flicking on his fingers. A shimmer in the air next to the window caught his eye. Not the kind portals created. Not the kind a spell residue leaves behind. Just heat, distorting the morning light.
For a fleeting second Meeks considered marching to the front door and walking out. Without a word, without nothing. Just – leaving. And then the moment passed, and Meeks sighed, stepping further inside the room.
Beelzebub moved forward like he’d been waiting in the shadows. In the walls. In Meeks’ skin.
He looked… luminous.
He always did, if he could help it. He was dressed in fluffy looking, cream-colored robes. He had a pair of fuzzy slippers on. His wings glimmered in the light, like there were crystals embedded in the feathers. His face was the same as in the dream – terribly beautiful.
There’s always been beauty in terror.
“Good morning, mon petit feu,” Beelzebub said softly, as if their relationship had ever been so simple.
Meeks drew a deep breath, pressing his lips together. Waving a hand he turned on the coffee machine, reaching in one of the cupboards to grab a cup.
“I was just thinking about how little you’ve changed,” his father went on. “You’re still that same little boy who showed up in my doorstep all those years ago.”
“You came looking for me,” Meeks said calmly, pouring himself some coffee.
“You called out to me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Your magic did,” Beelzebub said, his lips curling into a wide grin. Meeks felt his skin breaking into goosebumps. “Still, centuries have passed and you’re still so guarded.”
“You made me like that,” Meeks said through his teeth.
“I never wanted you to guard yourself from me.”
Meeks scoffed. “Right? Is that all? You can see yourself out.”
Beelzebub’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m not really here. This,” he said, pointing at himself, “is but a projection. A whisper of my presence. My power. I wonder, would you cast your own heartbeat out, if it decided to speak?”
Meeks pushed away from the counter he’d been leaning against. “I’m not in the mood for riddles. I have far too much work to do.”
“Yes, yes, I know how important you’ve become, Maël. I won’t waste your precious time,” Beelzebub turned from the window and paced with the same effortless grace. “So, I’ll cut straight to the chase. You lied to the boy.”
Meeks, who had been looking through his desk drawers paused, a thrill going down his spine. He looked at his father, still half-bend out of view.
“You told him he wasn’t the Antichrist,” Beelzebub said. “Which, to be fair, is true in the theological sense. Technically you didn’t lie. But –”
“But nothing,” Meeks cut him off. “What I told him is the truth. The Antichrist is a stupid moniker that holds no real power.”
“Yes, that’s true. Technically.” Beelzebub tilted his head, eyes glowing faintly now, golden-white and sharp. “But the boy… he is power. Unfiltered. Untamable. He was born to be a catalyst.”
Meeks exhaled slowly through his nose, straightening to his full height. “He is not a pawn in some stupid divine game.”
“No? And who decides that?”
“I do.”
Meeks’ voice boomed through the living room, his magic humming underneath his skin. The lights in the penthouse flickered on and off. Beelzebub, arched an eyebrow, his head tilting again.
“I see… The connection between the two of you has already been established. This shall be… interesting.”
Meeks swallowed a groaned. Took a sip of his coffee, before spinning on his heels and turning away. He walked to his apothecary, hoping to find some safety in routine.
“Let me guess. This isn’t just a family visit. Why are you really here, father?”
Beelzebub’s smile stretched wider. “Always so clever. Yes. There are whispers in the lower circles. Whispers in flames. Talks about the Horsemen stirring.”
Meeks made sure to keep his expression neutral, as he sorted through vials of different potion ingredients. Yes, he knew that something was brewing, but Beelzebub confirming his suspicions didn’t make him feel better.
“They’ve begun to cross,” his father continued, tone as light as conversation over wine. “Not fully. Not yet. But they’re fighting for vessels. You know how demons are,” Beelzebub wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Meeks swallowed the need to point out that he was a demon as well.
“They’re seeking out forms. I think… they’re not that far from succeeding. You’ll feel them when they arrive. The world will crack like a bone.”
Meeks narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”
“This is just another thing that will come to pass. Nothing is permanent, Maël.”
Meeks ran a hand through his hair, his jaw growing tight. “Why are you really here?”
Beelzebub stared at him, his gaze as heavy as it had always been. Looking straight where Meeks’ soul should’ve been – if he had one. His voice dropped, no louder than the scrape of silk over stone.
“Your power’s bleeding.”
Meeks froze.
“You’re flesh out of my flesh, Maël. I felt you flicker. Your spells are unraveling, fast. Your wards are thinning. The curse you carry – it’s reacting to something. We need to take care of it.”
“I am taking care of it.”
“Let me help you.”
Meeks turned on him, sharply. “Don’t pretend this is concern. You want control. That’s all you’ve ever wanted. You think if I fall apart enough, I’ll crawl back to you.”
Beelzebub’s expression didn’t change. But his eyes darkened, blackness bleeding into the gold. “You think I care because I want control?” His voice was quiet now. Almost human. “I care because I watched your first breath, and I’ve been listening to every heartbeat since.”
“Don’t.”
“I love you.”
“You love owning me.”
Beelzebub looked at him, and for a moment the wings flickered – no longer golden. No longer feathers. Just shadow and bone and heat.
“I would set fire to Heaven if it meant you lived.”
Meeks didn’t answer.
Beelzebub stepped back. The projection shimmered at the edges now, beginning to dissolve. “I’ll be watching,” he said. “As always.”
And with that, the light cracked – and he was gone.
Meeks was not particularly fond of the Shadowhunters.
First of you couldn’t trust them to do anything right. Unless it involved stabbing. Or taking the blame off themselves and forcing it on Downworlders. There was also the fact that they were too fucking codependent, and not only the soul-bonded ones. No, no. That would’ve made sense, however tragically poetic.
But no. All the Shadowhunters Meeks had met in his life moved and fought and bled together. They folded into each other’s pain like it was muscle memory, like the only way to carry a wound was to share it.
It made Meeks’ skin crawl. The seer symbiosis of their existence. The way they refused to exist alone.
So, yeah, Meeks wasn’t particularly fond of the Shadowhunters, and they knew that. Which is why he was completely flabbergasted when he didn’t immediately slam the door in Gerard Penhallow’s face, after showing up at his doorstep unannounced for the second time in less than a month.
It was nearly three in the morning when he heard the knocking on his door. Certain but measured.
Meeks was draped across his couch in a silk robe and a thick layer of post-Beelzebub exhaustion. The scent of sulfur still clung to his walls. His orange tabby was asleep in his lap. Low classical music spilled from somewhere inside the apartment.
It was far too late for a social call. If this was an emergency, he would’ve gotten a fire massage before anyone showed up. If it was a social call, it could only be a couple of people, and they would’ve used the elevator card that would take them straight to his living room.
But the knock was on his front door.
Meeks sighed. He didn’t move right away. Just waited. Counted ten slow seconds. There was no second knock.
He narrowed his eyes, slowly standing up. Marhsall Whiskers let out an offended mewl when he was dispositioned on the couch’s cushions. A pang of guilt ran through him as he walked to the door, and he made a mental note to give some treats to his fluffy friend.
He pulled it open and came face to face with no one other than Gerard Penhallow.
Again.
He was dressed in all black – because of course he was, Shadowhunters were nothing if not fashionable. Something that looked disturbingly like ichor shinned on his boots. He had a dagger in one hand, flipping it around his fingers.
Meeks’ grip on the doorframe tightened.
“You,” he said flatly, his eyes zeroing on the weapon.
“Yeah,” Penhallow answered just as flat.
“Am I invited to a duel?” Meeks asked, arching an eyebrow.
The Shadowhunter’s lips twitched. “I’m not suicidal enough to challenge the High Warlock of Boston.”
“No?” Meeks’ voice was dry as the desert. “What would you call showing up at my doorstep, after midnight, uninvited?”
Penhallow stared at him for a long moment. “A bad decision,” he said finally.
Meeks hummed. “I hate to agree with you.”
“I’m sure you do,” Penhallow muttered.
“Do you have some kind of martyr complex?” Meeks asked, leaning against the door, but not stepping aside. Not inviting him in.
“Knox seems to think so,” Penhallow’s voice going suddenly tight, his gaze falling to his shoes.
“Pretty-boy?” Meeks asked. Penhallow didn’t nod, didn’t look up at him. It didn’t matter, he knew he was right. “The two of you are doing alright? After the curse lifted?” He asked, despite himself.
“Yes, yes,” Penhallow answered quickly. Too quickly. Like he was trying to convince himself. “We’re fine.”
Meeks nodded, once. “So, what are you doing here then?”
Penhallow’s gaze snapped up to his, green eyes sharp. “I have a magic related question.”
Meeks tilted his head on the side. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not a library, Gerard Penhallow.”
“I know.”
“And yet, you came here at three in the morning to ask me about magic?”
“Yes,” the Shadowhunter said, voice unwavering, his face unreadable.
Meeks watched him closely. The way he quickly stacked his hands in his jeans’ pockets, like he was trying to keep them from flexing. The set of his jaw. The dark circles under his eyes.
“Shoot,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
“When a warlock channels energy into a spell, is the source internal or external?”
Meeks blinked, slowly. “That’s your question?”
Penhallow shrugged. “I’m curious.”
“You’re something.”
Penhallow arched an eyebrow but didn’t rise to the bait. Meeks leaned against the frame of the door, fingers drumming against his forearm.
“Both,” he said finally. “The spell structure is the warlocks – but the fuel can come from anywhere. Environment, emotional state, available ley lines. Magic is opportunistic. It takes the path of least resistance.”
Penhallow nodded, as if that explained everything.
It didn’t.
“Is that all?”
Penhallow drew a breath, which could mean nothing, but Meeks could sense his hesitation. Then he gave the smallest nod. “For now.”
They stood there. Neither stepped closer. Neither backed away. The air between them grew thin with tension. With warning.
“Well,” Meeks said after a long moment, “I’d hate to keep your company waiting for you. Thanks for stopping by.”
Penhallow didn’t smile, there was no twitch on his lips. He nodded, again, curtly like a punctuation mark at the end of his sentence, and turned to leave. Meeks watched until he disappeared down the hall, boots clicking against marble.
It happened again, the following night. Meeks had spent the day going over the map of ley lines with John’s help, trying to figure out the fluctuations. They had come to the realization that whoever was messing with them wasn’t working alone. Which – yeah, not a good discovery.
Meeks spent the rest of his day downing cocktails, convincing himself that everything was going to work out in the end.
It was around two in the morning when the knock came. Meeks eyed the door, letting the silence stretch in the open space of his living room. He slowly stood up, leisurely making his way over, half expecting to find no one on the other side this time.
Only to be greeted by Gerard Penhallow’s impressive frown. The neck of his coat was lifted as if to protect his face from the cold – at least this time he was wearing a coat. His hands were stuffed in the pockets. Once again, he was dressed in black from head to toe.
Meeks contemplated shutting the door to his face. He contemplated cursing his bloodline for the next three generations and sending him back where he came from. Instead, he kissed his teeth and stepped to the side. Not generously. Not invitingly.
Just …enough.
Penhallow didn’t move. Didn’t cross the threshold. Didn’t even glance past the doorframe.
Meeks hummed, one eyebrow arching slightly. So that was telling. Penhallow didn’t really want to be there, did he? He kept showing up because… because some internal ethical compass had cracked enough to shift the position of North. And instead of questioning it, Penhallow kept following. Against logic. Against caution. Against better judgment.
And somehow… that made it easier.
There were no expectations here.
Meeks nodded to himself, once and then he returned to the living room, retaking the seat he had evacuated. Penhallow followed. Not all the way. Only shy past the threshold. Only just so he could lean one shoulder against the carved wood of Meeks’ doorframe, eyes heavy on the floorboards.
“You always burn woodsy incense when the temperature drops.”
Meeks’ head tilted on the side at the certainty in the Shadowhunter’s voice. “Do I?”
Penhallow nodded once, but didn’t elaborate any further.
“And you,” Meeks said, “always show up unannounced after midnight. Should I start laying out tea?”
“Is that an invitation?”
“No,” he replied, folding his arms. “An invitation would mean I’d gladly have you back.”
Penhallow gave a quiet, almost imperceptible laugh through his nose. “You still haven’t asked what I’m doing here,” he said after a long beat.
“I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would’ve.”
“And that’s enough for you?”
Meeks shrugged. “I don’t really care, either way.”
That was a lie. Technically he didn’t care. Shadowhunters problems were not his problems. But his curiosity had always been too keen to be curbed. Still, he wasn’t going to give Penhallow the satisfaction.
“You should work on being slightly less brooding and mysterious,” Meeks said after a stretched beat of silence. “You’re starting to sound like your parabatai.”
Penhallow’s mouth twitched. It might’ve been a smile. Or a grimace. His face seemed torn between the two. Neither one of them spoke. The air hung heavy between them. Two people separated and held together by silence.
“You don’t trust me,” Penhallow said finally.
Meeks blinked. “Of course not.”
“Good,” Penhallow muttered. “I don’t trust me either.”
The quiet stretched again. Prolonged. Almost buzzing with all the things left unsaid. And after a while, Penhallow turned and left without a word. Same as the night before.
Meeks watched the door for a long time after it closed.
When he woke up the next day, sweaty and panting, his mother’s name turning into ash in the roof of his mouth, Meeks pushed the nightmare on the very far corner of his brain. He locked it up - the smell of burning flesh, the screams, his mother’s convulsing body – behind a brick wall and went about his day.
Naturally, everything had gone downhill from there.
Todd’s training session went terribly. It was as if any progress they’d made before the conversation regarding his father had been wiped off. Todd kept jumping whenever Meeks raised his voice even slightly, his fingers spewing blue sparks every couple of minutes. Meeks had tired to reach him, to ground him, but Todd kept his distance, remaining closed off.
Meeks had hoped for some reprieve afterwards. Only to receive several encrypted fire messages from the Spiral Labyrinth, all demanding insight on mundane food shortages, as if Meeks were a grocery clerk with eldritch clearance.
So, when the knock came, way past midnight, breaking the fragile tranquility that had fallen over the penthouse, Meeks was not in the mood.
He didn’t open the door.
He didn’t even move. He sat on his couch, in the dim lighting of his living room, a book open in his lap that he wasn’t reading, Marshall Whiskers sprawled beside him like a judgmental potato.
The knock came again.
Measured. Quiet. Deliberate.
Meeks’ eyes sunk shut. Counted five slow breaths. He didn’t care what the man needed tonight. He just wanted some peace and quiet. He just needed a moment to breathe, to think.
Let Gerard Penhallow leave.
Let him walk away.
Let him…
Thump.
There was the creak of leather. The scrape of a boot sole. The soft, resigned sound of his body weight sliding down the other side of the door. The rustling of cloth brushing against wood.
A low exhale.
Meeks pressed his lips together, swallowing a sigh. He pressed his knuckles into his temples. This was not –
“I think you’re right not liking Shadowhunters.”
Meeks froze, fingers still mid-circle against his temple.
“We are not to be trusted.”
Another pause. A longer one.
“My cousin… she’s relocated to Boston. It’s been – almost two weeks now. She’s pretending not to, but I know she’s spying on me.”
There was a mirthless chuckle, and the sound of something softly knocking against the door.
A head.
“I’ve tried to figure out why my parents would do that and I can’t – If it was about the Clave meetings, if – the Clave wouldn’t have sent a representative. They would’ve come themselves. This is my parents’ work.”
He shifted, just enough for Meeks to hear the rustle of his clothes on the wood. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.
“If my… outburst at the Clave had been the wrong move, they would’ve already kicked me out. It wasn’t. I think… I think that’s what’s been driving my mother crazy.”
A bitter laugh. Soft. Barely a breath.
“Sometimes I wonder if controlling me is easier than loving me.”
Meeks felt a sharp tug in his gut.
He almost moved.
He almost stood up.
But he didn’t. He remained in his seat, the book always open in his lap, as the silence extended, filling the empty space between them.
When Meeks unlocked his front door the following morning, there was no trace of him. Or at least that’s what he thought at first glance. Then he noticed the half-folded note Penhallow had tucked under his door.
“Didn’t mean to bother you.”
The words kept looping in his brain the whole day. Meeks didn’t care about them. He didn’t. They didn’t make him feel bad or - Merlin forbid – guilty. It had been Penhallow’s choice. His decision to sit outside Meeks’ door like a lost cat.
Meeks hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t invited it. Hadn’t entertained it.
He didn’t have the luxury to spend his day agonizing over what Gerard Penhallow had written on an errand piece of paper. He had other things to do. Things that actually mattered.
The Spiral Labyrinth was still sending fire messages about grain reserves on several magic communities that had never and would never be under his jurisdiction. Still, feeling magnanimous, Meeks sat down and penned polite but clipped letters to the leaders of the affected magic communities, offering assistance he hoped they’d be too proud to accept.
Slightly more worrisome was the change he could feel on his wards. Their strength had been inconsistent lately. Unsurprisingly, when he sat down and tried to trace the origin of those irregularities, he came back to the ley lines fluctuations. He stopped looking through it, feeling rather annoyed, when he couldn’t figure out if his magic was feeding the ley lines or if they were influencing him.
And then there was Todd.
Todd who had nearly taken down a wall shelf during their training. His fire had scorched the bindings of a sixteenth-century grimoire. He had apologized for it profusely, offering to pay for the damage. Meeks tried to calm him down, fixing the problem in front of him, hoping it would help to unwind him. It only served to send Todd into a new spiral of anxiety and self-doubt.
Needless to say, Meeks had not had a good a day. Which didn’t explain why, at 2:07 AM, he stood from the plush armchair he’d been lounging on, to crack the front door open.
Not wide. Just a little.
Just enough.
He returned to his seat, his robe pulled tight around him. He stretched his legs out, one ankle crossing over the other. Marshall Whiskers jumped into his lap with a soft mewl, tail flicking softly.
Meeks sipped a cup of tea he didn’t remember making. He busied his hands by running his fingers through Marshall Whiskers’ fur. The tabby showed his satisfaction by purring loudly, like a revving car engine, pawing the top of Meeks’ thighs.
When the knock came, sharp, familiar, the door instantly gave upon contact. Meeks looked up just in time to see Penhallow blinking surprised at the retreating wood, his hand suspended mid-air.
Then he stepped inside.
Marshall Whiskers’ head snapped up, mewling once in recognition. Then he went back to his business, kneading Meeks’ thighs.
The door clicked, gently, shut behind the Shadowhunter. He was once again dressed for combat. Clothes practical, if not stylish. Nothing Meeks would be caught wearing alive. The smell of ichor lingered on his skin, but he wasn’t cradling any weapons this time.
He took a couple of steps forward, his stride confident but not annoyingly so. He stopped with a healthy distance between himself, and the armchair Meeks was perched on. He didn’t sit, but he leaned over the back of an eighteenth century, ruby-velvet chaise.
“Rought night?” Meeks words were barely more than an exhale. He still hadn’t looked at him.
Penhallow shrugged one shoulder. “Just finished patrolling.”
“Ah.”
Silence settled. Deep. Comfortable, if one was open to artistic interpretation.
“You always leave the door open?”
Meeks lifted his head, slightly, only enough to get a good look at the other’s face. His glasses sat precariously low on the bridge of his nose, but he made no move to push them further up.
“No.”
Penhallow’s mouth twitched. “Just for me then?”
Meeks’ head titled, as their gazes met. “Don’t flatter yourself, Gerard.”
He blinked, once. A slow, amused smile uncurled on his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Speaking seemed to be something neither one of them favored for they chose to remain silent for the next several minutes. Marshall Whiskers purring was the only sound inside the living room. Meeks didn’t offer tea, or anything stronger. Penhallow didn’t ask for it. He looked to be content, lazily leaning against the antique chaise, his gaze roaming around Meeks’ personal space.
Like he had a right to be there.
Like he belonged.
Time folded in on itself, quiet and slow, leaving only the two of them untouched. Unchanged. As the dark outside Meeks’ windows gradually turned blue around the edges the two of them continued to stay in their chosen place. Two silhouettes outlined in gold.
On opposite ends of the room.
Occasionally looking at each other.
Saying nothing.
Notes:
Du moins, on brûlera ensemble, démon = at least we'll burn together, demon.
Maman, s'il te plait = mom, please
Maël = prince.
Chapter 19: Damn the dark, damn the light (OR; We let our battles choose us)
Notes:
Hello, lovely people of the internet!! How's your week, so far?? I'm on vacation, returned to Greece for a month and I feel like I'm melting due to the nonstop heat waves! I hope y'all are having a better time! So, this chapter is on the shorter side, mainly because Charlie refused to cooperate, but I'll make it up to you next week! I'm not going to lie, I'm sooooo excited for next week's chapter, like you have no idea! Anyway, this is a split pov chapter, and I hope you like it! Let me know your thoughts in the comments, and see ya next week!
Chapter Text
Richard Cameron was a normal, boring kind of person. He never moved homes during his childhood, never changed schools, never traveled anywhere outside the United States. At the age of twenty-something he had the exact same friends as he did when he was in elementary school. He never got in trouble with the police, he never even got a speeding ticket. The worst thing on his permanent record was a C in freshman year calc, and even that was more Todd’s fault than his, because Todd had cried about a breakup the night before the midterm and Cameron had stayed up feeding him Nutella toast and watching garbage TV instead of studying.
So, when his best friend showed up out of a sparkling window suddenly appearing on his kitchen wall, tracking half of Boston’s mud on his boots, and blubbering about Lucifer – the literal king of Hell- being his father, Cameron did the only thing that a normal, boring dude of his age would do.
He threw his head back, exposing his throat, barking out a loud laugh.
“I’m glad you find humor in my misery,” Todd said, but there was no heat in his words. He looked too strung out to be angry.
“And I’m glad you still haven’t lost your humor after everything that has happened.”
Todd blinked at him, slowly approaching him on the couch. He gingerly sat at the edge of him, his eyes impossibly blue and red-rimmed as they pinned in his own.
“Rich, I’m being serious.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Rich,” Todd pressed, quieter now, “I – I don’t know how to convince you. But I mean it; my birth father is the biblical incarnation of evil.”
Cameron laughed. Again. A full body jerk, a loud sound, echoing around his modest apartment. Todd flinched a little at the sound.
“So, you – what? You’re the Antichrist?”
Todd gave a small, hopeless shrug. “Meeks says that the word is not really very accurate. But… I guess?”
Cameron blinked at him, waiting for the punchline, for the smug little “gotcha”. But Todd just sat there, folding in on himself like paper. No smugness. No sarcasm.
Cameron shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “Todd,” he started but didn’t really know how to continue.
Todd kept staring at him.
“Wait, wait,” Cameron’s voice was getting slowly more shrill, as more seconds. “You told me you found out who your birth mother was today. You said nothing about your father.”
Todd sighed, his shoulder slumming. “It’s been a day,” he mumbled, rubbing the side of his face.
Cameron swallowed the million of words that climbed up his throat, waiting him out. He had been Todd’s friend long enough to know pushing him wasn’t going to work.
Todd moved, folding a leg underneath his body and slightly curling into himself. “Neil and Charlie cornered me today at the Institute. Told me they figured out who my birth mother was,” Todd mumbled, chewing on his lip in between words. “She was my mom’s sister.”
Cameron blinked. “Wait - What?”
“Yeah.”
“Wait, but – your birth mom was a Shadowhunter, so your mom –”
“Also, a Shadowhunter. Just like Jeffrey. And his Dad.”
Cameron let a surprised snort to which Todd nodded his head. “That’s… okay, I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Same. Also the woman I saw getting murdered – which you probably couldn’t see because you’re normal was also my Aunt.”
“Todd, respectfully, what the fuck? Also, what do you mean you saw someone getting murdered? When?” Cameron demanded, barely able to sort through all the new information.
Todd drew in a deep breath, which didn’t seem to help very much. “The first night we met the Shadowhunters. You couldn’t see the dead body, but there was one, in the alleyway.”
Cameron reeled. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t I want to freak you out more than I already had!”
“Todd, I –”
“You were shaking, Cam! When you saw the fire in my hands, you were shaking. You were scared of me.”
“No, no, no,” Cameron said quickly, scooching closer to him on the couch. “I wasn’t scared of you.”
Todd scoffed, but Cameron leaned in, voice steady. “There was a fire. And you were on the verge of having a panic attack, talking to someone I couldn’t see. I was scared but not of you!”
Todd’s mouth opened, closed again. He looked away. Cameron let him have a moment, the silence settling between them, heavy and charged.
After several beats of them quietly breathing in each other’s space, Cameron reached out and nudged Todd’s knee with his own. “So, Lucifer?”
Todd groaned, dropping his head back against the couch cushions. “I knew that Meeks was holding something back. I thought it was maybe about my mom, that’s why I was going to his place earlier. Turns out I was wrong.”
“Okay…”
“Apparently our fathers are… close or something. Meant to be partners? I’m not very familiar with angel politics and I couldn’t follow everything he was saying. But Meeks knew who I was. From the beginning.”
“And he kept it from you?”
“He thought he was protecting me. I don’t –” Todd cut himself off. Shook his head. “I appreciate all his help. And he was probably right, not telling me straight away.”
“You deserved to know, though.”
“Yeah,” Todd’s voice was barely above a whisper. Then he paused for a breath, before adding, “I’m not supposed to tell Neil. Or any of the Shadowhunters. But especially not Neil.”
Cameron drew in a slow breath, nodding. “That kind of make sense. How do you feel about it?”
Todd gave a weak laugh, more exhale than sound, and fell back against the couch, fingers buried in his hair. “I think I’m having a breakdown.”
Cameron leaned back and nodded like he was mentally logging that as a clinical diagnosis. “Alright, is this a talking breakdown or a silent rocking one? I need to know what type of support I should be providing today.”
Todd tilted his head toward him, blinking sluggishly. For the first time since he stepped through the portal something, close to relief passed through his features. “Talking. Maybe. If I can get my brain to stop doing this ting where it loops all the information on repeat in increasing volume.”
“Good,” Cameron said, standing up briefly to grab a throw blanket from the back of the armchair. He tossed it gently over Todd’s lap and then sat back down beside him, shoulders brushing. “You’re staying here tonight. No arguments.”
Todd didn’t even pretend to argue. Just unfolded the blanket and draped it over himself.
Cameron watched him for a beat – his best friend, curled into himself like caving under the weight of all the pressure he’d so suddenly found himself stuck with. It was unnerving seeing him like this. Like all the layers – his sarcasm, his stubbornness, even his anxiousness – had been burned off, leaving something raw and too quiet underneath.
It made Cameron want to scream. Or maybe punch something. Possibly do both.
Instead, he said lightly, “And, for the record, you might be just the luckiest unlucky warlock/Shadowhunter hybrid to ever exist. Because you have a very boring, very emotionally stable civilian as a best friend,” he gave his own chest a dramatic pat. “You’re safe here. No runes, no magic swords, no angelic drama. Just me and my complete lack of trauma.”
Todd let out a weak noise, something between a laugh and a scoff. “Yeah, uh-huh. I agree with everything but the emotionally stable part.”
Cameron gasped in move offence. “Excuse you?”
Todd’s mouth twitched. Just a little. “Oh, c’mon. Have you seen you during exams season?”
“That’s an appropriate time period to spiral!”
Cameron grinned when Todd rolled his eyes – because finally. Something familiar. Something solid.
“Yeah, right,” he muttered.
“Okay, first off; rude! I invited you into my home, and this is how you treat me?”
“I’m very thankful for your kindness, Richie.”
“Oh! We resort to name calling? Really Teddy-Todd?”
“Hey! Jeffrey called me that when I was seven!”
“Too bad he did it in front of me,” Cameron said smugly.
“Whatever, Richie Rich.”
“That’s supposed to be a burn? That movie was iconic! You wish you were half as cool as Macaulay Culkin was in that movie!”
Todd gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s – true, unfortunately.”
Silence stretched again, buzzing with soft static, but having none of the heaviness it had before. Todd still looked tense. He was still curled up like he didn’t know how to fully relax his body, but his voice had gained some of its character. The edges weren’t so sharp now. He was breathing a little easier, responding to Cameron’s banter the way he normally would.
After another couple of moments, Todd spoke first, “Hey, speaking of cool things, I have a sword now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It belonged to Elodie – the woman dying in the alleyway,” he explained quickly. “Charlie thinks I’m her closest living relative so… it’s mine.”
Cameron blinked “What? That’s so -”
“Cool!” Todd said, eyes brightening for a fraction of a second.
“Dangerous,” Cameron corrected flatly.
Todd gave him a look. “Dangerous?”
“Cool? You think wielding a sword you don’t know how to use is cool? Do you want to end up in the emergency room impaled like a kebab?”
Todd snorted. “You’re being too dramatic. Knox will show me how to use it.”
“Oh right, yeah. That makes me feel so much better! That’s reassuring,”
Todd grinned. The first one he’d flashed toward Cameron ever since dropping into his house. It was small, a little uneven, but real. Cameron watched him, quietly filing the expression away.
He was still a mess. Still worried about everything. Still in a situation neither one of them had any idea how to navigate. But he was there, and he was trying. He was asking for help.
“Alright,” Cameron said, finally getting up to get them some water bottles from the fridge. He tossed one toward Todd, who caught it, barely. “Let’s agree that you’re not allowed to have an emotional collapse with a sharp object in reach.”
Todd cracked the cup off and took a long sip. “Deal.”
“Great,” Cameron dropped back onto the couch beside him, throwing his feet up on the coffee table. “Now, should we do a marathon of The Great American Baking Show or edit my Political Theory essay?”
Todd’s eyes widened, his jaw unhinging, lips parting softly.
Cameron watched him suffer for a long minute, before cracking up and reaching for the tv remote.
“Don’t worry,” he said, as he clicked the tv on. “You might be the Antichrist, but I’m no sadistic demon. Let’s watch some good intending people burn cakes.”
Todd sunk deeper into the couch, clutching his blanket. “Oh, thank God.”
Charlie Blackthorn was doing fine, thank you very much.
Really. Truly.
Totally fine.
So, what if he’d come a little too close to dying five days ago? And the only reason he was still walking around this miserable plane, instead of being a smear on the pavement, was because an idiot hat thrown himself between Charlie and certain death? An idiot who, by the way, had gone on a fucking date the very next night. Like he hadn’t almost died as well? After insisting he would’ve done the same for anyone in Charlie’s situation.
It was fine.
Charlie was fine.
He didn’t care.
In fact, Charlie went on to prove who much he didn’t care by doing what any rational and emotionally well-adjusted person would do after an event like that.
He slept his way through half of Boston’s population.
Every night there was a new bed waiting for him. Or a bathroom stall. Or once, in lack of a more suitable environment, a storage closet near the library. Not that the place mattered. Or the person, really. As long as there was friction and sweat and nothing that required talking afterwards, Charlie was good to go.
He particularly liked it when his partners refused to make eye contact. When they didn’t really talk. People who didn’t ask what his runes meant, or why his eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in days. When they let him be loud, or aggressive, or completely silent, all in the same go.
He hadn’t slept in his own room in five days. And why would he when there were so many beautiful people, waiting to be charmed by him? People who were willing to look the other way, when he informed them for no apparent reason that he was having the best time of his life.
Which, he was. Charlie was having fun.
Neil didn’t think so, of course. He had been watching him – really watching him – as if Charlie was a second away from coming apart at the seams, like an overstuffed punching bag. But Charlie wasn’t Neil’s problem. Not right now. Neil had Todd to spiral about.
Which was hilarious, really. Because Todd had told Neil, in no uncertain terms, that they were okay. Naturally, Neil didn’t believe him.
And, for once, Charlie couldn’t quite bring himself to care. Not when everything else was humming too loud.
He ignored the anxious texts. Didn’t return Neil’s worried looks over breakfast. He even went as far as skipping their joint patrols twice this week – a personal record. Neil was probably losing his mind over it. But he didn’t have it in him. Not right now.
He’d just finished pulling his shirt back over his head in someone else’s bedroom – couldn’t really remember their name, but their hair was blond, their mouth soft and they definitely knew how to use their hands – when he felt it.
Not a tag, not really.
A nudge.
A presence.
His parabatai rune pulsed on his hip as Charlie quickly did his zipper and slipped out of the room, not waiting for the person owning the room and the house to come out of the bathroom. It was better this way.
The bond hummed underneath his skin.
Charlie took a deep breath. Refused to look himself in the elevator mirror.
They didn’t usually use the bond to reach each other if there wasn’t a life or death situation. And seeing as Neil was spending the night at Todd’s tonight, he was most certainly not dying at the claws of some demon. But he was using the bond to communicate because –
Because he thought it was the only thing Charlie might respond to.
He bit the inside of his cheek, counting down from ten, and pushed himself through the narrow opening of the doors as soon as they reached the ground floor.
He was fine.
Neil was overreacting.
Charlie was –
Fine.
Charlie didn’t forget his birthday, okay?
He just – he didn’t get what the big deal was. Twenty-something odd years ago he came kicking and screaming into this world, after the doctors had warned his mother that he might not make it postpartum.
Today he was still here.
Still too stubborn to roll over and die.
Was that really a cause for celebration?
Charlie didn’t think so.
That’s why when he woke up, he rolled out of bed around dawn, completely ignoring the “Happy Birthday asshole” message from Neil blinking at him from his phone’s screen.
The Institute’s kitchen smelled off lately. There was a pungent odor, abnormally sweet with hints of sour milk which seemed to linger no matter how much time the staff spent cleaning. It was weird, mostly because there was no food left around longer than necessary. But the odor persisted and now most Shadowhunters preferred to eat elsewhere.
Charlie poured himself a cup of – lukewarm – coffee and grabbed a muffin from the tray. He gave it a cursory sniff, before biting into it. He didn’t taste anything anyway.
Once he was done his feet carried him to the training room without him consciously thinking he was wanted to go there. But routine was routine and what Charlie’s brain felt like he needed right now was a repetitive move. Something predictable. Something he could control.
He’d completely spaced out when suddenly Neil’s face appeared above him. Charlie nearly dropped the barbell on his chest, but Neil was quicker, grabbing it with practiced ease, before sliding it onto the hooks.
Charlie’s anger sparked inside his body, quick and burning.
“What the fuck, Branwell?” he gritted through his teeth, pushing himself in a sitting position.
“Happy birthday,” Neil said, for the second time that day, much like a broken record.
Charlie grunted. “You said that already.”
Neil’s head tilted on the side. “Did I?” he asked, like he wasn’t sure.
Charlie narrowed his gaze, but didn’t dignify that with an answer.
“Thought it had slipped my mind, so I came to say it face to face,” he continued, rounding the bench and coming to stand in front of him. “Haven’t seen a lot of you, lately.”
“Been busy.”
Neil crossed his arms lazily, nodding along. “You’ve been busy all week.”
“Imagine that,” Charlie muttered, heaving himself off the bench and moving to grab a stick from the rack.
Neil kept his mouth shut, silently watching him. Charlie shook his head; this was classic Branwell strategy. Leave the silence last too long, make it awkward enough, until the other person had to break it. Well, too bad, Charlie wasn’t in the mood of playing along today.
Choosing one of the sticks at random, he pivoted and approached a training dummy. He was in the middle of a brutal attack at its ribs, when Neil’s voice wrung through the space neutral and crisp.
“I saw Gerard earlier.”
He was definitely aiming for casual, despite it coming out suspiciously careful.
Charlie clenched his jaw. Landed a jab at the dummy’s abdomen. He didn’t turn around. “You don’t say.”
“He came from a meeting,” he continued, taking a couple of steps toward him. “Said it was one of the big ones. Said he shared a table with your parents.”
Neil said it carefully. Much more carefully than Charlie deserved considering his behavior. It still felt like a dagger slipping between his ribs. Charlie’s breath caught between his chest and his throat, but he didn’t falter. He didn’t slow his rhythm. But his knuckles whitened on the stick.
“Cool.”
“They didn’t stop by?”
Charlie snorted. It came out wrong. “You would’ve noticed if they had. The gates of Hell would’ve opened.”
He could see Neil’s expression softening on the mirrored wall. Saw the pity forming like a bruise. Charlie’s next hit on the dummy was hard enough to send it toward the floor.
“You didn’t know they were coming.”
It wasn’t a question.
Charlie felt a sharp thump on the inside of his skull. Then another. And another. And –
“Course not.”
“They didn’t say anything?”
“Why would they?”
Thump, thump, thump –
“And you didn’t check the logs today?” Neil asked, coming to a stop beside the dummy. A precarious choice of spot to be.
“I haven’t checked them in months,” Charlie lied, feeling the sweat trickle down the side of his crown. “Why would I check them today?”
Neil let out a slow breath. “Because it’s your birthday.”
“And?”
“They were here, Charlie.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“And they didn’t even…” Neil’s sentence trailed, his lips opening and closing silently.
“I said I got it!” Charlie’s voice snapped like a whip. His stick made contact with the dummy’s head with a thundering noise, before dropping on the floor, as he turned to face Neil. “What do you want from me? You want me to throw a pity party? Cry in the shower, perhaps? Do you want us to braid each other’s hair and talk about our feelings?”
Neil didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. A testament to how used he was of Charlie’s temper. “I want you to stop pretending this doesn’t matter.”
Charlie nearly growled. “It doesn’t.”
“That’s bullshit and we both know it.”
Charlie’s fists flexed. “They haven’t come back in three years,” he hissed. “Not last year. Nor the one before that. They didn’t call. They didn’t write. And now they show up, sit through meetings, go out for lunch with fucking Penhallow and all the other important Clave people, and leave without saying a word? That’s just Tuesday, Branwell.”
“It’s your birthday,” Neil repeated, softer.
Charlie barked a laugh. A bitter one with jagged edges. “You think I’m twelve? Because guess what; even back then, a year after dropping me here, they didn’t call! So, I don’t fucking care.”
Neil’s silence was deafening. When he finally spoke, it was with the quiet precision only he possessed. “Yeah, clearly. You’re not pissed or anything.”
Charlie’s face twisted. “Fucking leave it alone, Branwell.”
“Why?” Neil asked with his most innocent, earnest expression. “You don’t care. You are fine. Nothing can’t upset you, you are Charlie Blackthorn. You have no feelings, ever.”
Charlie pressed his lips together, swallowing all the ugly words slithering up his throat. He turned away, grabbed a toweled and wiped the back of his neck even though he wasn’t sweating.
“You don’t always have to be fine, you know.”
Charlie looked at him over his shoulder, something trembling at the edges of his face. It was gone as quick as it came, a loud scoff washing it away. He shook his head.
“Thanks for the after-school special. That was some solid advice,” he said, and without waiting for a response he turned on his heel and stormed out, sweat sticking his shirt to his spine, the echo of his boots on the floor sounding a little too much like retreat.
Charlie spent the biggest part of his birthday aimlessly wandering around the Institute simultaneously trying to avoid running into Neil and hoping his parabatai was going to find him. Which, okay, was probably a little pathetic. Definitely not very emotionally well-adjusted but it was the best Charlie could do under the circumstances.
That had to count as a win.
He kept walking, in a hopeless attempt to outrun his thoughts. But they were vicious little motherfuckers and much like him, too stubborn to just find a corner in his mind and die. Charlie stalked down hallways, boots scuffing tile like a drumbeat and every time he blinked, a horror image of his own making awaited him. His parents, seated comfortable across from Gerard fucking Penhallow, sipping Council tea like they hadn’t abandoned their son ten plus years ago without so much as a goddamn letter.
Still, Charlie kept at it. For hours. Skirting patrol shifts and side-eyeing every familiar face that didn’t dare meet his gaze. The Institute had never felt more claustrophobic.
“You’re fine,” he muttered through his teeth, jaw ticking, fingers curling in toward his palms.
He was fine.
So what if his parents were here, in Boston, on the day of his birthday and they hadn’t even sent a message?
So what if they hadn’t asked to see him? After three years of radio silence? What if they hadn’t even tried? Hadn’t even cared?
Charlie didn’t care either.
He didn’t.
He didn’t.
He –
He had spent years – a whole fucking decade – of his life, fighting, trying to be better. A better fighter. A better Shadowhunter. A better son. And when he did, when he finally made senior rank, two years early, he thought that surely, they’d come. They’d see they made a mistake leaving him behind when his whole fucking family was still in LA.
And then they didn’t. They never showed up. They never came back for him.
It felt fair, somehow.
It was… a weight off his shoulders. An acceptance. He’d made top rank, and they hadn’t come back, because Charlie wasn’t worth it. He was more trouble than he was worth, and his parents were more than glad to wash their hands off him now that he was someone else’s problem.
And Charlie had made peace with it.
Or at least he thought he had.
His steps became sharper, more purposeful as the training grounds came into view again. His natural habitat. The only place where Charlie could truly shine. And maybe – maybe – if the Angels were merciful today of all days, then it would empty as it was that morning.
Charlie’s hope for some peace and quiet was shattered the minute he heard the familiar laugh slip past the open doors. It was followed by the telltale signs of combat.
His shoulders tensed as he walked through the entrance. Chris Penhallow was once again dancing her way around the ring, her throwing stars creating silver patterns that looked almost choreographed. Carstairs was also there, of course. The two of them were circling each other like they’d done it a hundred times, and from the murmurs Charlie had heard around the Institute, they had.
The crowd that had gathered in the upper bleachers watched like it was theatre, whispers of appreciation and half-suppressed gasps rippling across the room.
Charlie felt something with teeth crawl along his spine and settle around his neck.
Chris feinted right, spun low and landed a soft tap to Carstairs’ hip, her ponytail swinging like punctuation and catching the faint light slipping in through the windows. He stumbled a step back, chuckling low in his chest, brushing his hair from his eyes. He straightened his body and leaned in, saying something Charlie couldn’t hear.
And then she laughed again. A hand on his forearm, head turned in a way that exposed her soft throat and her cleavage, the sound bubbly and carefree.
Charlie blinked.
He didn’t remember crossing the floor. One minute he was at the door, and the next he was between them, jaw tight, breath short, vision narrowed to a single point.
“Welcome to you too,” Chris said flatly, pulling herself back, an annoyed expression on her face.
Charlie didn’t acknowledge her.
Instead, he let his eyes rake over Carstairs’ posture. He had never seen him fight with a seraph blade before, always picking his damned bow and arrow over every other weapon. And yet he held the blade like it was an extension of himself.
“Your form is sloppy,” he said cooly. “You keep dropping your shoulder and favoring your left side.”
Chris raised her eyebrows. “You spend a lot of time observing Knox’s fighting style?” she asked, too smooth.
Charlie scoffed. Loud and humorless “Please, he’s barely fighting you.” He still didn’t turn to look at her.
Chris’ eyebrows arched, again, and she gave Carstairs a pointed look, which went above Charlie’s head. “I’ll leave you two to... whatever this is,” she said with an amused smile, then walked off toward the edge of the ring.
“Did you want something?” he asked, cooly.
Charlie took a step forward, invading his personal space.
“Fight me,” he said, low, lethal and hungry.
Carstairs didn’t flinch. Didn’t back away. Just studied him with that unreadable gaze, the one that drove Charlie absolutely fucking insane because it refused to give him anything.
“You’ve been trying to pick fights all week,” he said finally, voice dropping even lower.
“And you’ve been avoiding me all this time.”
“What makes you think that will change today?”
It’s my birthday.
“I feel my luck's turning,” Charlie said, pushing a smirk on his face. The one he knew made the little vein on Carstairs’ forehead tick. “Are you maybe too scared I’ll win this time?”
Carstairs stared at him for a second longer, before exhaling through his nose. “You’re not exactly subtle, Blackthorn. If this is about the other day, if it’s about Markus –”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Charlie cut him off. “Though, speaking of him, how’s your boyfriend?”
The vein on Carstairs’ forehead popped.
Charlie’s smirk widened.
“Is there trouble in paradise? Long distance too hard for you two silly kids or did you finally realize he was not interested in anything more than a one-night stand?”
The look on Carstairs’ eyes was deadly. His gaze turned darker, as he stepped up to Charlie, their chests a hair’s width apart.
“You want a fight?”
Charlie’s pulse spiked. “I said that didn’t I?”
“Then grab a blade,” he said, tossing him a training seraph without looking away. Charlie caught it mid-air, fingers tightening around the hilt. The weight settled into his palm like it belonged there.
“Finally.”
“Just to be clear,” Carstairs said, stepping into the ring, “I’m not going to hold back.”
Charlie’s mouth curled. “When have you ever?”
Carstairs didn’t respond. He swirled his wrist around, his blade gleaming under the dim lights, his boots echoing against the padded floor. The crowd around them was still engaged, still whispering amongst themselves. Fleetingly Charlie wondered if this was what the people thrown into the Colosseum felt like. Being dissected by the spectators before the beasts had the chance to eat them alive.
The moment passed, and he struck first. Not very well thought out, a little too eager. Too fast. A diagonal slash meant to check his opponent’s reflexes. Carstairs deflected it without effort.
He hadn’t expected anything less. Recalibrating, Charlie spun left, pivoted on his feet and came again, this time high and fast, aiming for a clean chest hit.
“You call that an attack?” Carstairs snorted, adding a jab in his counter attack - one Charlie hadn’t accounted for - sending him back a couple of steps.
His grin was all teeth. “Oh, I’m sorry! Are my attacks not choreographed pretty enough for your likings? Should I ask Penhallow for some pointers?”
Carstairs lunged. Their blades locked with a clash, and for a heartbeat they were chest to chest again.
He made a little move with his head, rolling Charlie’s blade around. “You could use a couple of pointers, actually.”
“Should I give a call to Ashdown as well? I’m sure he’ll be willing to give me plenty of pointers.”
Carstairs shoved him back with a grunt. His blade grazed the tip of Charlie’s collarbone. “What’s your problem with Markus anyway?”
“Problem?” Charlie parried the next strike and twisted, narrowly avoiding a hit to the side. “I don’t have a problem. I would gladly take him for a spin myself.”
Carstairs’ blade moved faster than Charlie anticipated, slicing through the air and drawing a tear on his shirt as he ducked.
He whistled, loudly. “Getting touchy, are we?”
“You’re trying too hard,” Carstairs said, teeth bared. “Like with everything else in your life.”
Charlie scoffed, going for a cut to the ribs. Carstairs avoided it easily. “That’s rich, coming from you. What’s next? You going to psychoanalyze me mid-duel? Or would that be too close to actual communication for you?”
Carstairs’ gaze narrowed. There was another clash, their blades meeting high above their heads, sparks flying. His blade nicked Charlie’s shoulder – a clean slice that matched the one on his collarbone.
He didn’t even blink.
“I’m definitely getting under your skin,” he said, voice too casual.
Carstairs’ reply was a punch to the ribs. Not with the blade – just a solid fist. It knocked the breath out of Charlie’s lungs, sending him stumbling two steps back, gasping and laughing all at once.
“What’s the matter, Carstairs?” Charlie rasped. “Am I getting too close? Are you finally going to admit I live rent-free in your mind? That you spend hours thinking of me, just lying on your sad, little bed –”
There was a reason why Knox Carstairs was considered the best Shadowhunter of their generation. Charlie often times scoffed at the terms, but in instances like this, when the fucker moved faster than breath, he had to admit that he was just not human. Charlie managed to deflect the first strike in the last possible moment, but Carstairs didn’t stop. He pressed the advantage, strikes coming faster now, more forceful. Still clean, still controlled, but there was heat behind them now.
Like he wouldn’t mind if he actually made some damage.
Charlie knew he was being sloppy. He lost his footing one too many times to blame it on the mats. He gave too many openings. He was fighting with the purpose of losing just to feel even worse about himself.
Somehow this had the opposite of the desired effect.
Carstairs twisted inside his guard, his boot catching Charlie’s lower abdomen, sending him backward. Fighting to catch his breath, he stumbled, his back painfully slamming against the training room wall. Hard.
Carstairs followed, pinning him there, one arm braced across his collarbone, the tip of his blade cutting into Charlie’s throat. He could feel it resting just over his pulse point.
He leaned in, his chest raising and falling fast.
“Yield.”
Charlie would never admit just how fast his skin broke into fucking goosebumps at the roughness of Knox’s voice. He blinked, because it was pretty much the only thing he could do – once, slowly – drawing a shaky breath through his nose.
And then he saw it.
An opening.
Knox’s shoulder was too far forward, his guard too relaxed. A single motion, a twist of the wrist, and Charlie could reverse it.
He could win.
He could win.
Charlie didn’t move.
He breathed. In through the nose, out through the nose. Feeling like he was going to vibrate out of his skin.
Because this. This was the most alive he’d felt in a week. The burn of muscle. The crush of adrenaline. Knox’s breath against his mouth. How stupidly close they were –
“I said, yield,” Knox repeated, pressing his forearm a little harder against Charlie’s chest.
Charlie licked his lips. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Okay.”
And that’s when he realized just how fucked he was.
Because his pulse refused to slow down. Because he was sure he was going to start crying if the fucking blade moved. Because he was pinned against a wall with a seraph blade to his throat and he was smiling. And Knox was mirroring it.
Yeah, he was fucked.
Chapter 20: I've always liked to play with fire
Notes:
Hey lovely people of the internet! How has your week been this far?? This chapter is up super early because I'm going on vacation today -so I wanted to post it before I hit the road. I know I've said it many times by now, but I think this might be my favourite chapter yet. First of all because well, Knarlie and also the plot goes hard in this one. This chapter also comes with a smut triger warning! Sooo, if you don't like that kind of thing you should start reading around here;
But then Charlie slipped from his hold, a practiced twist of muscle and intent, and dropped to his knees in front of him.
Knox forgot how to exist.
And you can start rereading here ;
When it was over, Charlie sagged against him, face pressed into his throat.
“Holly fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “You – fuck, you –”
It's not nearly as explicit as some of the scenes that will come up in later chapters, but I still thought I should put a warning here.
I hope you all like it, let me know your thoughts in the comments!
Chapter Text
Knox was unraveling.
Not loudly. Definitely not obviously.
But steadily. Behind the façade he was so good keeping up at all hours of the day.
He still showed up to morning briefings. Still trained with Pitts like his parabatai wasn’t going to slip away the moment they were done patrolling at night. Still kept his boots polished, his bow and arrows clean, his room locked. He still smiled when he was supposed to, laughed when he was supposed to, breathed when he was supposed to.
But he didn’t sleep.
Not since that night.
Not since the concert. Since the fire. The few dead bodies of the mundanes they were not fast enough to save flashed behind his eyelids as soon as he dared close his eyes. And they were always – without a fail – followed by a blinded demon. One arrow in his left eye, a dagger in his right. Wrecking havoc in the warehouse, unseeing and in pain, running through fire straight toward –
Suffice to say, Knox wasn’t handling what happened that night very well.
So, he did the only thing he could do. He threw himself into work. Which was why, before the sunhad even finished climbing over Boston’s skyline, he was already standing beside Neil in the Ops Center blinking bleariness from his eyes while trying to focus on whatever report Neil was already elbows-deep in.
“Morning,” he greeted, voice rough and full of exhaustion.
Neil lifted his eyes from the folder he was skimming over. “Barely.”
Knox squinted at the pages. “Is that from the other night?”
He nodded. “Greater demon’s postmortem and civilian trauma fallout. The usual.”
Knox crossed his arms, nodding as well. “Anything on the Verlac case? I heard we were reinstated.”
At that, Neils’ expression shifted – a small flicker of something unreadable. Guarded. “We are,” he said, slowly.
Knox frowned. “What’s wrong with that?”
Neil pressed his lips together, his fingers clenching slightly around the mug he was holding. He flipped the page on the report, realizing belatedly he’d reached the end of the folder. Knox watched him draw a deep breath, his eyes dancing back and forth on the blank page, before finally looking up at him.
“Todd’s a Verlac,” Neil said without much preamble.
Knox blinked. Opened his mouth, but shut it again, to stunt to actually say anything.
Neil threw a cursory look around to make sure they were completely alone. He still took a step closer to Knox despite the fact that both the pit and the Ops center at general were empty.
“I just figured it out. I was at his place last night,” his cheeks heat up as he said that, and Knox couldn’t stop the amused smirk from curling on his lips.
“Oh, you were?”
Neil narrowed his gaze. “You really don’t want to play this game with me right now,” he said but there was no heat behind it. He looked far too anxious to retaliate.
Which is why precisely Knox didn’t push.
“You’re worried about his reaction?”
Neil gave a helpless shrug. “We knew his mom was a Shadowhunter, but being related to the woman he saw getting murdered? How would you react if you found that out?”
Knox’s eyebrows pulled. “How close related are we talking about.”
Neil bit the inside of his cheek. “Elodie was his biological mother’s sister.”
Knox’s eyes widened. “Fuck.”
Neil winced. “It gets worse.”
“How?”
“She was also his adoptive’s mother’s sister.”
Knox let the words hover in the air between them. He could feel the beginnings of a headache start taking shape somewhere behind his eyes. He was far too tired to be having this conversation, but Neil was looking at him like a man in need of a lifeline.
So, he drew in a deep breath, his chest expanding with it, and then slowly let it out through his nose.
“Alright,” he said simply, reaching for the discarded case file. “Let’s solve this for him, then.”
Neil stared at him for a beat, probably waiting for the second shoe to drop. Expecting Knox to demand they let an authority figure know or something. But Knox Carstairs didn’t operate like that. Sure, duty was duty and a Shadowhunter’s laid with the Clave, but Knox’s never did. Knox’s duty laid, primarily with Pitts, and in this case with the rest of his team here in Boston. In this case it laid with Todd Verlac.
The kid had been handed nothing but landmines ever since they met him. The least Knox could do was clear a few from his path.
He flipped through the thin folder in his hands. The same three murders – Elodie’s included – same Clave analysis, same “inconclusive marking analysis” written in confident cursive handwriting, like it meant anything.
Knox tapped his finger under that last statement. The markings. Runes. Sigils. Whatever the hell they were. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about them ever since Pitts had pointed them out to him two weeks ago.
He still couldn’t make sense of them. They didn’t match any known runes. Not angelic. Not demonic. Not anything on the Gray Book – the Clave’s official rune catalogue. And that’s exactly why the officials wanted to call them meaningless. Because they couldn’t figure them out, they had to be dismissed.
In a rare fit of paranoia Knox had moved the research out of the Institute. Away from the Clave’s constant surveillance. He’d taken the scans, the sketches, the notes – every theory he’d ever hald-believed in - back to his and Pitts’ apartment. Spread them across the dining table like he was about to start his very own true crime podcast.
Pitts had seemed both impressed and a little weary with this initiative.
“You think we’re being watched?” he asked, quiet and tired, when Knox made the switch.
“I know you definitely are,” he’d retorted to which Pitts’ gaze turned darker, flicking across the dinning hall where Chris and Ginny were once again holding court.
Pitts didn’t complain when he started spending all his free time at the apartment after this, which Knox gravely appreciated. He needed distance. From the Clave. From their non-answers. From the feeling gnawing at his spine like a teething demon, that something was wrong. That the radio silence they were getting from Alicante wasn’t peace, but something darker.
He looked at Neil then, who was thumbing through the last page of the case summary, mouth tight with tension.
“Okay,” Knox said after several silent beats, breaking both of them out of their respective train of thoughts. “Let’s start at the beginning. What do we know about Elodie Verlac?”
Neil exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. “Senior field operative. Posted in Marseilles before the last relocation. Officially transferred to Paris Institute last year.”
“Okay… Do we think the victims are in any way connected?”
Neil shook his head. “There’s nothing to indicate so. Their ages are different; they weren’t even in the Academy together. They belonged to different Institutes. Different families.”
“But they were all murdered here, in the city,” Knox pointed out.
“Yes, but none of them was from this Institute,” Neil said, eyes scanning through the files once more. “They weren’t even here to assist in any cases or partake on a seminar or anything.”
“They were here as civilians?” Knox asked, frowning.
Neil nodded. “Yes. All three of them were active, but they weren’t here for work.”
Knox was still frowning. “That’s weird.”
“It is.” Neil grabbed another file, flipping it over. “Look,” he said, pointing at the first page, before moving to flip the pages in Knox’s folder to the first one as well. “Three murders in three days. All of them were found in ley-lines junctions and were mutilated almost to the point they were unrecognizable.”
“Apart from Elodie.”
“That’s probably because Todd walked in on the killer before he had the chance to mangle her.”
“The cause of death though wasn’t blood loss. It was penetration through the heart with a seraph blade.”
“Correct,” Neil muttered, his expression grim. “The killer used the victims weapons to murder them.”
Before Knox had the chance to add anything, the heavy clack of approaching boots broke through the quiet hum of the Ops Center. Both of them turned as Pitts – rumpled looking and already scowling – rounded the corner with a folder in hand.
He unceremoniously dropped it on the desk in front of them, glaring down at it as if it had cursed his entire bloodline.
“Thought you’d want to see this,” he muttered darkly.
Knox arched an eyebrow, trying to gauge something from his parabatai. “What is it?”
Pitts let a breath that sounded more like a scoff. “The Clave’s weekly incident brief. Got buried under the weapon requisition forms. And, oh yea –” he leaned forward just enough to emphasize the last part “ – apparently a fourth Shadowhunter was found dead. Two days ago.”
The silence snapped between them like live wire. Neil huffed in disbelief, as he leaned forward first, to flip the folder open. Knox followed, eyes scanning rapidly over the words.
“Location; Boston harbor perimeter,” Neil read. “Murder estimated to have occurred around 10:30 pm –” he stopped short.
“That’s around the time we arrived at the mundane concert,” Knox said, his stomach twisting around himself, gaze quickly finding Pitts’, needing the confirmation.
“It’s also in the same general location,” Pitts added, his voice an octave lower. “The murder fits the exact M.O; seraph blade through the heart, extensive mutilation, unknown markings carved on their skin.”
He paused. Looked at them under an impressive glare that wasn’t directed at them. Inhaled sharply.
“The official report was filed two nights ago,” he started again. “They’ve been sitting on this information for two whole days, when we’re supposedly working on this together.”
Knox’s eyes flicked between Pitts and the photos of the fourth murder victim now fully on display inside the folder. The markings – red, jagged, bone-deep – looked up at him like they were mocking his inadequacy. They were identical to the others. Still foreign and meaningless to Knox.
His breath tightened in his chest. The Clave was withholding information. They were showing they were in control even after inviting them back on the case.
Knox snapped the folder shut. “We need to get ahead of this.”
Before the Clave came in and shut them out completely.
Τhe only person more intent than Charlie Blackthorn on not leaving Knox alone for a single second – following the mundane concert incident - was Chris Penhallow.
And Blackthorn at least made sense. As much as anything he did ever made any sense. But Knox had been avoiding him. Knox was refusing to engage, refusing to talk to him. He didn’t trust himself being alone with him since the night of the concert. Since throwing himself in front of a demon for him. Since Blackthorn ruined his unplanned but not completely unpleasant night out with Markus in what could only be considered as a cry for attention.
Avoidance was strategy. Self-preservation. It was the first time, probably in his entire life, that someone had refused Charlie Blackthorn anything.
He had not taken it well.
Chris on the other hand? Chris was just… weird about it. Because Knox was willingly spending time with her. He trained with her almost every other morning. He had breakfast with her whenever Pitts decided to sleep in. He spent time alone with her in-between patrol rounds, waiting for their next orders.
And still she made sure to be everywhere.
Clipped to his side like a second shadow. Popping into the Ops center when he happened to be on shift. Throwing a leg over the arm of his chair during debriefs like they were still sixteen and flirting during training while Alec pretended not to notice.
It all felt too familiar. Too intimate.
Too dangerous.
Because if there was one person who expertly knew how to scramble his thoughts, it was Chris. Ever since she’d kissed him on the spiraling staircase leading to the New York Institute’s green house, pressing him against the railing, all honey-lips and deep dimples. Calling him clueless and hot in the same breath.
“You wouldn’t realize someone flirted with you even if they spelled it out, Knox,” she’d laughed then. “Which is wild, considering how often people do. Because you’re hot and all.”
He’d never quite recovered after that.
And the problem was Chris still knew that. Still knew exactly what to say if she wanted him distracted, off-balance. And she made sure to use all that knowledge whenever she needed something from him.
But lately she had been doing it too much. And Knox wasn’t that stupid.
Cornering her seemed to be the right way to go about figuring the situation out. Which wasn’t exactly a difficult task, considering Chris was keeping herself a step behind him at all hours of the day. Still, it felt like drawing a line in the sand when he tugged her into an empty corridor off the training wing, arms crossed across his chest like a shield.
“I need to talk to you about something,” he said, throwing a quick look around to make sure they were alone.
Chris blinked at him, pushing a perfectly coiled lock of blond hair behind her ear. “If it’s about your color coordination lately, yeah, I’ve been meaning to bring that up as well.”
He set his jaw, straightening his back. “Cut it out.”
She mimicked his body language, crossing her arms and standing to her full height. “Alright. I’ll behave.”
“You’ve been keeping me distracted,” he said, cutting to the chase.
While her face remained neutral, Chris didn’t immediately refute the accusation. Knox clocked her fingers flexing a little where they rested on her biceps, but otherwise she was standing perfectly still.
“You’ve been keeping me distracted,” he repeated, firmer this time, “so Ginny can stay on Pitts.”
Chris had always been good with silence, something Knox used to admire her for. She knew how to make her lack of voice pointed. How to force the other person to fill in the blanks for her.
Right now, her silence was infuriating.
“Can you just tell me why? Why are you okay with this?” he asked, tone clipped. “Why are you – how can you be okay watching your cousin being watched like he’s some kind of threat?”
Chris’ eyes flicked between his own, a vein ticking on her jaw. “That’s now what this is.”
“Then what is it?” He stepped forward. “You’ve known him your whole life. You’ve known me just as long. How can you blindly follow orders-”
“I’m not doing anything blindly,” she cut him off, smoothly. “And I’m just –” she shifted her weight between her feet, shaking her head a little, like clearing her thoughts, “- I’m doing what my family asked of me.”
“Gerard is your family too,” Knox reminded her.
“Gerard has been acting weird before Ginny and I came here.”
Knox couldn’t smother the little scoff that came out of his nose. Chris tilted her head on the side, arching an eyebrow at him.
“You’re saying that like it justifies spying on him,” he said sounding incredulous.
“You’re not seeing the full picture.”
“No,” Knox said, stepping closer, “you’re the one refusing to see the full picture. Pitts always had your back when you needed him. And here you are, trying to convince me this is just some harmless family favor.”
“I never said it was harmless.”
“That’s even worse!” Knox snapped, making sure to keep his voice low enough as to not be heard.
Chris looked away, fingers once again flexing. When her gaze returned to his her eyes were full of storm.
“You’re telling me you are okay with it?”
“What’s it?”
“Everything he’s done lately. Him requesting a transfer out of the blue, dragging you along with him, like your life is some kind of a game that he dictates.”
“Don’t,” Knox’s voice went sharp for the first time. “My relationship with Pitts is not for you to dissect and manipulate me with.”
Chris nodded, once, her lips curling into a vicious smirk. “Right, I forgot. I was never allowed to badmouth your precious parabatai.”
“Chris, you’re doing it again. You’re derailing the discussion. You’re doing it on purpose.”
“I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”
“No, you’re distracting me from my point. You’ve always been incredibly good at that, but don’t think I’m stupid enough to not see through it.”
“I never thought you were stupid.”
“Good. So, tell me why? Why are you doing this? Why are you not questioning the Clave’s motivations? Why would you trust them mor than me?”
The vein on her jaw ticked again. She wrapped the end of her ponytail around one finger and released it, only to do it again. A nervous tick. One he’d seen a thousand times.
“Is it a choice?” she asked after a while, her quieter now. “Between trusting you or the Clave?”
“Yes,” Knox said without hesitation.
Chris nodded. “You or the Clave… or Gerard or the Clave?”
“It’s the same.”
“It’s not,” she said quickly, almost angrily. “I would trust you with my life.”
“But you wouldn’t trust Gerard?”
Chris shifted her weight again, tension coiling tight beneath her collarbone. She looked away for half a second too long, then shrugged with mock ease.
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Okay,” Knox agreed, recalibrated. “What is it about? Because every question I ask you, you just – fake out. You try to make it about me, or Gerard – I half expect you to bring up that one time I left you on read because I was for training in Alicante.”
“Don’t remind me of that! That was a shitty move, Carstairs.”
“There are no mobiles allowed in Ali –” Knox cut himself sort, pressing his lips together. He pointed an accusatory finger at her, chuckling. “Oh, you’re good at this. But I’m not stupid.”
Chris’ smile dropped, her mouth pressing into a thin line. Her finger stilled around her ponytail.
“I don’t have to like the Clave’s orders. Or my family’s for that matter. The law is the law.”
“Yes, but a bad law is no law at all.”
Chris narrowed her gaze at him. “Lex mala, lex nulla… Are you quoting the Blackthorn family motto to me?”
Knox shrugged. “They happen to be right every once in a while. Plus, I met Julian last summer when Emma visited, he seems to be alright.”
Chris’ eyes narrowed even more. “Yes, I’m sure the Blackthorn we were both thinking of was Julian.”
For a fleeting second Knox almost took the bait.
“You think Pitts is breaking the law?” he asked instead. “That he’s – what? Hiding something from the Clave?”
“I think Gerard’s making it harder to tell who’s hiding what.”
“And so instead of talking to him you decided to spy on him?” Knox questioned. “Like any supportive family member would do.”
“Don’t try to pretend that talking to Gerard has ever been an easy thing to do. Especially when he’s stonewalling like he’s been paid to do so.”
“So you didn’t even try?”
“Maybe I’m sick of him acting like he’s so much better than the rest of us! Maybe I’m sick of trying to get through to him only to be rebuffed every single time! Maybe –”
“Chris.”
“Maybe you’re just easier to talk to! And maybe he’s made you just as paranoid as he is and you’re seeing conspiracy theories where there’s none! Maybe –”
“Chris.”
“Maybe I want to be around you, because I missed you! Because you’ve never made it a big deal that I am a Penhallow. Never thought less of me for it either –”
“Chris,” he said a final time, voice clipped.
She stopped. Eyes searching his, chin lifted like she was bracing for impact.
“I’m not here to tell you what to do,” he started. “You don’t need to pick a side. Not now, maybe not ever. But don’t make the mistake of pretending there isn’t a side.”
Chris stared at him. She didn’t blink. She didn’t answer.
He let the silence stretch for a moment longer than needed. Chris didn’t fidget, didn’t move around the way she did while she was rambling. Knox briefly wondered if any part of their conversation had been honest.
“Thanks for the chat, he said quietly, taking a step back. “Let me know if you ever decide to actually have one.”
And then he walked away.
Knox watched the training room door swing shut behind Charlie Blackthorn and had absolutely no idea what the hell had just happened.
One minute the guy was pinned against the wall, a blade under his chin and that familiar fire burning in his eyes. The next he was yielding, something Knox wasn’t aware he was capable off, storming out like Knox had put a curse on his entire bloodline. The whole thing had started because Blackthorn wanted to fight – practically begged for it – and Knox had finally, finally, said yes. After a week of avoiding him. After the demon. After Markus.
So, what the hell was his problem now?
“He asked for a fight,” Knox muttered under his breath, brows furrowing.
“Oh, he absolutely did,” Chris said with a knowing smile, sipping from her water bottle far too casually.
The morning following their after hours not-fight, Knox found himself walking into the dinning hall and choosing to go straight for Chris’ table. She arched a perfect plucked, blond eyebrow at him, smiling thinly over the rim of her teacup. Knox didn’t say anything, and she didn’t bring it up either. But two could play the game, and he was going to make sure to win it.
Now Knox arched an eyebrow, turning around to look at her. “Then why did he stalk out like that?”
Chris gave a slow shake of her head. “You really are that clueless.”
His jaw twitched. “You’re going to have to be little more specific.”
She tossed her water bottle in her gym bag and perched herself on the edge of the mat. “He’s jealous, Knox.”
He stared at her like she’d spoken in a forgotten demon tongue. “Jealous? Of what?”
Chris chuckled, but when he didn’t join in after a little, she stopped her eyes widening. “Oh, by the Angel, you’re serious.”
Knox crossed his arms. “Chris.”
“Of me, genius.” She gestured vaguely between them. “Of us. Of you and me spending time together! We’ve been sparring together almost every day this week and you hardly spare him a glance. He saw me laughing at your stupid pun and he finally snapped.”
Knox stared at her, unblinking for a long second. “No.”
Chris didn’t bother arguing. She just watched him, head tilted, arms lazily resting on her hips, her perfect blond hair catching the light of the pale sun rays slipping through the windows.
Knox shook his head, biting down a frustrated scoff. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Knox,” he said with a sharp little laugh, “he almost took your head off – twice – because you made me laugh. That makes perfect sense.”
He dropped the practice blade onto the mat beside him. “No. No, he’s been – he’s hated me since day one. Like, actively.”
“Okay,” Chris said with a small indifferent shrug.
Knox kinked an eyebrow. “Okay?”
Chris shrugged, again. “There’s no point in trying to convince you, since you’ve made your mind about this.”
“Chris, this is not about convincing me. If he liked me, he would’ve – I don’t know, he would’ve done something.”
Her head fell on the side, something flashing in her eyes too fast for him to decipher. “Mm… Funny you should say that of all people.”
Knox rolled his eyes. Kissed his teeth. “For the last time, I was sixteen! You were the prettiest girl in the Institute, and don’t even get me started on your form! First time you spoke to me, I almost puked.”
Chris hummed, tapping a finger against her chin. “And now, almost a decade later, you’re still doing the same thing.”
He refused to dignify that with an answer. With a little shake of his head and a long exhale Knox walked to the other side of the mat to retrieve his gear. Chris refused to see reason, but the simple truth of the matter was Blackthorn couldn’t like him.
Not after everything.
At best he tolerated him – on his good days. On the bad ones, he actively tried to murder him with whatever weapon he had in his disposal. And sure, okay, maybe Knox had a thing for arrogant, emotionally unavailable guys with thighs that could choke a grown man, but that didn’t mean Blackthorn had suddenly caught feelings after months of acting like he couldn’t even stand the sound of his voice.
If he was being weird now, it had nothing to do with feelings.
… And yet.
Knox found himself thinking about what Chris had said throughout the night, tossing and turning in his bed. The words he’s jealous looped around his brain as he brushed his teeth the next morning, following him all the way to training, coming into a crescendo when Blackthorn stepped into the room and froze for half a second too long watching Knox roll up his sleeves.
Which probably meant nothing, honestly.
By the third time Blackthorn randomly showed up in the same room Knox was, while having nothing to do there, he started thinking maybe he could lean into this. If not for anything else, just to prove Chris wrong. Just to see Blackthorn proving her wrong by not carrying.
Naturally, that wasn’t how it played out.
At all.
It started small.
Knox decided to start laughing a little harder at Chris’ jokes during briefings. He leaned a little closer. Made sure his voice carried. Pitts stared at him in obvious horror, but Knox was too busy watching Blackthorn’s eyes flick over, every single time, like he couldn’t help himself.
He then decided to escalate. Started dropping Markus name once or twice in casual conversation, when he was sure Blackthorn was close by. Nothing too obvious – just a quiet, “Markus said that too,” or while looking at transfer requests, “Guess Markus hasn’t filled his in just yet”.
The next one happened accidentally. Knox had, somehow, run out of clean clothes and he had to borrow a gear set from Neil. The only problem was, Branwell was leaner than him, so the upper part of the set was a couple of numbers too tight. Pitts whistled teasingly under his breath when he saw him walking into the Ops center that morning.
Blackthorn dropped his mug, sending hot coffee and ceramic shards everywhere.
“You could’ve asked to burrow my clothes,” Pitts said with a knowing, but amused smile, as Blackthorn cussed everyone and their mother out. “It would fit better.”
“Mm,” Knox hummed, “I could’ve.”
The one thing he did that required meticulous planning on his part – the one that also acted as a catalyst - was slipping into the training grounds before dawn.
He knew Blackthorn preferred using the space before anyone else had the chance too, and so despite the fact that the first slot of the day was reserved for their age group, he had been known to sneak in earlier like the Institute’s time schedule didn’t apply to him.
One day, Knox made sure to get there first.
He stretched slowly, taking his time, never rushing his moves. He had long ago discarded his shirt, his grey sweats clinging low on his hips, damp from a run he hadn’t really needed to take. The room was quiet, save from the soft pat of his shock-clad feet on the mat.
He’d just started working through the first set of drills when he heard the door creak open. He didn’t really need to turn around to see who it was. He felt the air shift inside the room. Like everything had suddenly grown tight. Like the sun filtering through the windows had gotten sharper.
Blackthorn didn’t say anything at first.
Knox followed his example, let his body do all the talking for him, knowing he was being – very carefully – watched.
“You’re early,” came the familiar voice after another couple of silent beats. Raw, still heavy with sleep and something else Knox couldn’t really read.
He remained silent. What was he even supposed to say to that?
Blackthorn scoffed a little under his breath, and Knox heard the distinct sound of boots crossing the floor. In the reflection of the mirror wall he saw him pausing a few steps away from him, arms crossed, not even pretending to not be staring.
“Clothes too difficult of a concept for you today?”
Knox rolled his neck slowly, gave a nonchalant shrug. “Thought I shouldn’t deprive you the view.”
A sound too similar too choking came out of Blackthorn. He quickly pivoted grabbing a stick from the rack behind him, twirling it between his hands.
“You went through all this trouble for me? Should I feel flattered, Carstairs?”
“I don’t know,” Knox said, dragging the words out slowly. “Should you, Charlie?”
That got to him.
His fingers flexed around the staff, knuckles turning so white, Knox briefly thought he was about to snap the thing in half. He recovered faster than Knox had anticipated, grabbing a second stick and shoving it towards him.
“Let’s see how witty you’ll be after getting your ass kicked.”
Knox didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He grinned, instead, and stepped into stance.
They didn’t last long.
The sparring was quick, tense. Blackthorn’s movements were sharp but scattered, his balance just a little off – like his head wasn’t fully in it. He fumbled once on a turn, and Knox took the opening with zero hesitation, knocking the staff from his grip and sending it spinning across the mat.
Charlie cursed under his breath, turned on his heel, and stormed out without a word.
Knox blinked, caught entirely off guard.
That was… weird.
He moved to retrieve the staff. He was placing it back on the wall when the door slammed open again, Charlie marching in. His shoulders were set taut, his hair disheveled. His face was flushed, his eyes wild.
He strode straight across the room and jabbed a finger at Knox’s chest.
“Rematch.”
Knox arched an eyebrow. “You seemed pretty done a minute ago.”
“No weapons,” Charlie snapped. “Hand to hand. Now.”
Knox didn’t move. He stood there watching him. Watching the way his jaw was clenched, how his fists curled, how he was almost jumpy with anticipation.
“C’mon, Knox, don’t keep me waiting.”
Knox’s breath shuttered in his throat. He blinked, exhaled slowly what little air was left inside his lungs. Then he nodded.
The first hit landed with a resounding thud. Blackthorn’s palm slamming into Knox’s shoulder, just enough force to throw him off balance. He responded on instinct, catching his wrist and twisting just enough to pull him in close. Their chests brushed, breath synching for a second too long, before Blackthorn shoved off and aimed a knee at his ribs.
Knox ducked out of the way, twisting just enough to throw a quick punch. He hadn’t expected it to land, it was only meant to keep him on the defensive.
But it did land.
Blackthorn stumbled, surprised, foot skidding over the mat. A thin line of blood welled at the corner of his mouth, streaking down his chin, bright and stark against his skin.
Knox froze. He stared, as if transfixed by the way it slipped down his throat, staining the collar of his shirt. He stared, as if he’d never seen blood before.
And then Blackthorn laughed. Wild and full of shock.
“You –” he wiped his thumb across his mouth, smearing the blood, the licked the finger clean in one slow, unbothered flick of his tongue. “Fuck,” he laughed again, shaking his head, eyes sharp and sparkling with something dangerous. “I should be pissed, shouldn’t I?”
Knox chest was heaving. Which – weird, he didn’t feel tired.
Blackthorn tilted his head, predatory and amused, his gaze peering straight into his soul. “I should want to break your fucking nose right now.”
Knox should walk away.
That would be the logical thing to do.
Walk away. Wipe his hands clean.
But his feet didn’t budge. His body refused to cooperate with the clear signals from his brain - retreat, retreat, retreat!
Blackthorn swayed forward, deliberately stepping into his personal space like he belonged there. He lifted his chin, exposing his throat, baring his teeth in an imitation of a grin that was nothing short of feral.
“C’mon Knox,” he murmured and honestly? Fuck him for saying his name like that. “You started this. Finish it.”
No.
Knox should walk away.
He should leave.
He should leave.
But his whole being buzzed with the need to give in.
Blackthorn didn’t wait for him to make up his mind. He lunged again, teeth bared, fists flying. Knox met him half way there, their bodies colliding in a mess of fists and heat and tension that had been sitting, shimmering between them for months.
Knox dropped low, ducking under a wild swing, and wrapped an arm around Charlie’s waist. They went down hard, rolling once across the mat before Knox ended up on top, knees bracketing Charlie’s hips, hands locked around his wrists. Charlie instantly bucked against him, twisting, trying to get an upper hand.
Knox wasn’t stronger – Charlie had brute force in spades – but he was taller and he knew how to use that to his advantage, keeping him exactly where he wanted him.
Knox felt Charlie’s growl of frustration reverberate through his own chest.
His lips curled into a smirk. “Something wrong, Blackthorn?”
Charlie glared, breathing hard. “Fuck you calling me Blackthorn, like I can’t feel your dick pressed against my stomach.”
Knox was too flustered to speak for only a second. Then he leaned in closer, lowering his hips until there wasn’t a single breath between them.
“You want me to call you by your name, Charlie?” he muttered, his breath fanning the side of his face. “Or is there something else you’d like more?”
Charlie’s jaw flexed, still twisting against Knox’s grip, still fighting him on principle if nothing else. But his pupils were blown, his breath catching in shallow bursts. Knox adjusted his hold, angling to see his face better – and that’s when Charlie’s hips stuttered.
Which was definitely not accidental.
Knox felt the heat spike in his gut like a shot of fire and bent his head forward, lips grazing the shell of Charlie’s ear.
“Say it.”
He blinked up at him, trying to maintain the glare. Failing. “Say what?”
Knox tightened his grip, just enough to make him grunt. “Say you yield.”
Charlie’s breath stuttered, coming out of his mouth in a soft gasp. His body had gone completely rigid beneath Knox, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. A whimper slipped past his lips, warm, fragile and needy.
A sound like surrender.
A sound like hunger.
Knox forgot how to breathe.
Charlie must’ve noticed, because he used the moment to his favor. Surging upward, slamming his weight into him, and knocking Knox off balance. They rolled, rough and graceless, until Knox was flat on his back with Charlie above him, panting hard, eyes burning.
Knox didn’t even get a second to blink, before Charlie’s fingers fisted his hair, his other hand curling tight around the back of his neck.
And then his mouth was on his, hot and wild and hungry. It wasn’t a kiss. Not really. It was an ambush. A declaration.
It was a fucking claim.
Knox was never regaining his ability to breathe.
He kissed back, matching Charlie’s fire with everything in him. With teeth and tongue and a groan torn straight from his chest, hands flying to Charlie’s thighs – those fucking thighs – gripping tight enough to bruise. Because Charlie was on him, straddling his hips like a seasoned cowboy, thighs locked around his waist, and he was kissing Knox like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Knox was drowning in it. And the worst thing was, he didn’t even mind. Not when Charlie kissed him like they were both on fired. When he fought him like he wanted to break him. When he tasted like the best and worst decision of Knox’s life.
Without a warning, Charlie broke the kiss. He yanked himself back, and punched Knox square in the ribs.
“Fuck!” he choked out, wheezing through the burn. He coughed, feeling his eyes tear up, and then something twitched against his lower abdomen.
His eyes widened and he looked at Charlie who didn’t even pretend to look ashamed.
Knox scoffed half in disbelief, fully turned on. “Okay,” he muttered. “Okay.”
And then he moved. He threw all his weight against Charlie and sent him flying towards the mat. His breath whooshed out upon impact, but before he could do more than grunt, Knox was on him, fisting the front of his shirt, dragging him upright.
He shoved him back, hard, until his spine slammed on the wall. Charlie’s head thunked against it with a dull sound, but his smirk – greedy and feral - didn’t falter.
Knox didn’t give him time to gloat.
He reared back and drove his fist into Charlie’s stomach – once, twice – each hit calculated and cruel, just shy of something permanent. He jerked, trying to twist away, but Knox held him steady with one hand, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulder. By the time he let up, Charlie was gasping for air, chest heaving. And still he was smirking. Looking at Knox like he wanted to devour him. Or be devoured. Either could work.
Knox’s pulse roared in his ears. He didn’t think – he just moved, pressing his forearm hard across Charlie’s collarbone, pinning him in place, crowding him against the wall like he intended to fuse them together, hoping it would be enough to fizzle out the tension that threatened to vibrate the skin off his bones.
Charlie looked at him, head lolling on the side as it rested against the wall, a bruise blooming beautifully along his jaw. He licked the blood from his lower lip, voice like gravel when he said, “Ready to finish this, baby?”
Knox’s arm pressed tighter against his chest, firm enough to restrict the breath rattling in Charlie’s lungs. His knuckles were starting to ache. Same with his ribs. Pretty much same with his soul and the sane part of his brain.
He leaned in, nose brushing his. “I don’t start things I can’t finish, Charlie,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous.
Charlie’s grin didn’t falter.
Crack.
Knox had no time to pull back before Charlie headbutted him. There had been no warning. No moment of hesitation.
Stars exploded behind Knox’s eyes. His hold eased briefly – but he didn’t let go. Instead, he pressed forward, breathing hard through his nose, until his knee slotted between Charlie’s thighs and pushed up. He choked on a sound that was halfway between a groan and a curse. His head fell back against the wall again, hips twitching into the contact.
“Still feeling smart?” Knox ground out, voice frayed and low.
Charlie’s eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing his irises. “Still standing, aren’t I?”
Knox spared a second to look at him, to search his face for any sign that he’d read the situation wrong, that Charlie didn’t want this, that his advances weren’t welcome. Charlie, rolled his hips in response, slow and deliberate, chasing friction. The groan that broke from his throat was shameless. Knox dragged his knee up higher, pushing against the growing hardness in Charlie’s pants.
Charlie inhaled sharply, teeth clenched, and the sound went straight to Knox’s gut. Charlie’s fingers searched for purchase, fumbling at his waistband, weakly curling around the band of his sweats, like he couldn’t decided whether he wanted to pull him closer or shove him away. Like his body wanted both at once; like he wanted to surrender but didn’t know how to relinquish control.
Knox’s brain barely registered the movement. It had already stopped working, the static drowning out everything except the steady, relentless, constant Charlie, Charlie, Charlie –
And then Charlie surged forward, crashing their mouths together for the second time.
It was messier. Rougher. All tongue, and teeth, and desperation. Full of the same need, to tear each other apart from inside out. Knox grunted into it, his hands flying to Charlie’s sides, gripping his hips, pressing him against the wall like he wanted to bring it down around them.
But then Charlie slipped from his hold, a practiced twist of muscle and intent, and dropped to his knees in front of him.
Knox forgot how to exist.
Because Charlie was kneeling – kneeling – with his mouth parted, looking up at him through thick, dark eyelashes, as if his deepest desire in life was to ruin him. And Knox was already so far gone, he couldn’t even pretend to be in control anymore.
Charlie reached up, nails dragging down the bare expanse of Knox’s stomach, slow, teasing, his breath hot against the skin he’s just marked. He leaned forward, teeth scraping along Knox’s hipbone, his lips following, mouth hot and open, his hands rough as they pushed at the waistband of his sweats. When he hooked his fingers in the them, tugging them low, Knox’s head tipped back and a low, broken sound cracked from his chest. Charlie hummed at the noise, practically purring, like he’d won something.
Then – suddenly – Knox’s hand shot down, fisting Charlie’s hair, yanking his head back just before he could go further. He groaned, half in protest, half in challenge, his mouth slick and open as he looked up at him with wild, hazy eyes. Knox was half-certain he was about to be punched again.
He didn’t give him the chance to act on it.
He grabbed his jaw, dragged him to his feet, and kissed him hard. Desperate. Uncoordinated. Charlie made an absolutely sinful sound against his lips, and Knox swallowed it down. Their footing was a mess. They nearly went down again, knees knocking, fingers fumbling. But Knox caught his balance, twisting them, and slipped his knee back in its rightful place between Charlie’s thighs.
Charlie’s head dropped back, mouth falling open in a silent scream.
Knox still had a fistful of his hair. He didn’t let go, dipping his head forward, instead, teeth grazing over the frantic pulse in Charlie’s throat. He jerked, a moan ripping out of him, raw and obscene, that would have both of them mortified under any other circumstance. But as it was, it only fueled the flames in Knox’s belly the ones threatening to burn him from the inside out. Hands slowly moving down – trailing Charlie’s body, mapping over his chest, skimming his arms before finally settling on his waist, holding him still as he started to move.
Grinding against him in a slow, hungry rhythm. Steady. Devastating.
Charlie met him halfway, pupils blown wide, breath shivering out of his chest as he clung to Knox’s shoulders. No hesitation now. No thought. Just heat and pressure and this wild, fucked-up connection they’d both been ignoring for too long.
Time started to fold in on itself. They had never done this before. And they’d done it a million times. And they did it yesterday, and they’ll do it again, and again tomorrow and every day that comes after. Time wrapped and splintered until now was the only moment that had ever existed.
Knox’s teeth sunk over the side of Charlie’s neck, tongue coming to sooth the sting afterward.
Charlie whimpered, low and ruined. “Fuck, shit, fucking shit-”
Knox barked a breathless laugh against his skin. “You good?”
Charlie didn’t answer, just nodded frantically, burying his face against Knox’s shoulder. He wanted to taunt him some more, but then Charlie rocked a little harder against him, all the while clawing at his shoulders, and any coherent thought vanished from Knox’s mind.
“I’m fine, just – please, please, please –”
Knox obeyed without knowing what he was obeying to. Without really thinking. His hips snapped forward, again and again, merciless. And Charlie – shaking, clinging, biting back moans – took it, bucking against him like he needed this more than breath.
They rode it out like that – shaking, panting, whining into each other’s mouth, reduced to nothing but raw burning need.
When it was over, Charlie sagged against him, face pressed into his throat.
“Holly fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “You – fuck, you –”
Knox made a very pleased sound, something like a laugh but darker, more smug.
“Me?”
Charlie growled. “Yes, you –” he pulled back just enough to glare at him, though it lacked any real venom, because he still looked too dazed, “- you fucking menace. You fucking did all that on purpose.”
Knox smirked. “What did I do?”
Charlie hissed, shoving at his chest, but Knox didn’t budge.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Don’t I fucking dare what? Say it, Blackthorn.”
“You are such a fucking asshole –”
“And yet,” Knox drawled, brushing his lips along Charlie’s jaw, “you still fucked me.”
Charlie shuddered.
“That wasn’t – We didn’t – Shut the fuck up!”
Knox hummed, tilted his head like he was considering it.
“Make me.”
Charlie’s eyes flashed. His hands shot up, grabbed Knox’s face dragging him down into another kiss, biting at his lips just to prove a point. Knox rolled with it, willingly melting against him, groaning against his mouth and kissing him back harder.
“Did you –” Charlie panted, pulling back. He looked genuinely flustered. “Did you…?”
“Did I…?” Knox prompted arching an eyebrow.
Charlie’s face flushed, neck mottled red. “Did you – did you, I don’t know, fucking finish?”
Knox grinned, lethally. “Why Blackthorn,” he drawled. “Are you asking me if I came in my pants for you?”
He made a wounded noise and tried to pull away, but Knox caught his wrist.
“D’you really want to know?” he asked, voice just low enough to send a shiver down Charlie’s spine. “One of the hardest orgasms of my life.”
Charlie blinked. Swallowed. His brain visibly stalled. “Pathetic,” he muttered, but it came out soft.
And then he shoved off Knox with a growl, stumbling to his feet. His shirt was wrinkled and blood stained, his hair a mess. He looked wild, thoroughly fucked and utterly furious about it. Before Knox could even think to open his mouth to say something, he spun on his heel and left without another word.
Knox sat back on the mat, heart still pounding, half his body aching, staring dumbfounded at the spot where Charlie had stood. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaled slow.
“What the fuck?”
The room refused to give him an answer.
Knowing better than chasing him down and demanding a conversation, Knox remained in the training grounds. He pulled his shirt back over his head and picked up the discarded training sticks to put them in their place. He fixed the mats the best he could, wiping up the blood with an old towel that he was going to burn later in the quad. He was in the process of sharpening some daggers, the repetitive movements working wonders on his rattled mind, when the door to the training hall banged open again, and Charlie came striding in.
“This is the third time in one day –”
Knox didn’t get to finish his sentence. Charlie crossed the space between them in four quick steps, grabbed him by the shirt and kissed him like he was trying to punish him with it.
Alarms went off in Knox’s head, because this felt awfully familiar and there was no way it was going to get any better before getting worse, but then Charlie bit into his lip and everything quieted down. They stumbled backward together, hands roaming, lips exploring. Charlie practically climbed into his lap, dragging his nails down Knox’s spine hard enough to leave marks even above his shirt.
Before things could get really interesting, Knox’s logical brain won out, and he broke the kiss with a gasp, bracing a hand on Charlie’s hip.
“You know we can’t actually fuck on the training mats, right?” he panted, voice wrecked but steady enough to deliver the line like a rational adult.
Charlie stilled against him, but then he grinned. Slow and dangerous.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because people come in here to train. In fact, I’m pretty sure Neil’s supposed to show up in like half an hour.”
Charlie made a face. “Don’t talk about my parabatai while I’m sitting on your dick, dude.”
Knox huffed. “Don’t call me dude while you’re sitting on my dick, Blackthorn.”
“Don’t call me Blackthorn like you wouldn't fuck me right here, right now if I asked.”
For a moment Knox stared at him, hard.
He knew he was right. He knew they had to get this - whatever it was – elsewhere.
But Charlie was looking at him so invitingly smug that Knox had to shut him up somehow. He quickly flipped them around, pinning Charlie beneath him, with an ease that shouldn’t feel so familiar.
“Is this you trying to refute my point?” Charlie asked, with a shit-eating grin.
Knox hovered over him, gaze dragging over the lines of his body, his flushed cheeks, his blown pupils. He wasn’t sure which one of them had lost their mind first, but he was sure they were going to crash out together.
“I have an apartment,” he murmured, low against Charlie’s ear. “We can go there.”
Charlie recoiled like Knox had threatened his life. “Fuck off. No. No, I’m not going to a secondary location with you! A fucking secret apartment?”
Knox blinked. “Charlie –”
Charlie shoved him back with a hand to the chest, jaw tight, arms crossed. “Absolutely fucking not. What the hell do you mean you have an apartment no one knows about?”
Knox stared. “That’s your issue right now? That I have a legally leased, entirely above-board apartment?”
“Yes,” Charlie snapped. “That is exactly my issue. That, and the fact that you just casually dropped that you’ve got a secret fuck-pad like this is normal behavior.”
“It’s not a fuck-pad!” Knox exclaimed. “Pitts’ parents insisted we rent an apartment because they didn’t like the idea of us staying at the Institute –”
“Woah, woah, wait a minute, wait a fucking minute. You share the apartment with Penhallow?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“What the fuck, Carstairs? Is that like – the condo you’ll stay after marriage?”
“What? Charlie – parabatai can’t get married! They can’t even have a relationship!”
“Jules and Emma did it!” Charlie screamed, red in the face.
“Jules and Emma got de-runed!” Knox yelled back. He was panting again, for entirely different reasons this time. “Charlie, do you realize we’re fighting over a fucking apartment?”
“A fuck-pad.”
“For the last time it’s not a fuck –” Knox cut himself off. Glared at the man standing across from him. “Do you want to have sex, Blackthorn, yes or no?”
There was a beat of silence. Charlie’s jaw worked. His eyes flicked down to Knox’s mouth and then back up like he was losing a silent argument with himself.
“Fine,” he growled. “But if this turns into a murder basement situation, I’m setting you on fire.”
Knox gave him a slow, wolfish smile. “Noted.”
Charlie shoved him again. “Stop smiling.”
“I’m not,” Knox said. He was.
They made it to the apartment in record time. It was impressive, really, considering how often they stopped to either kiss or punch each other. Knox could barely get the key in the lock before Charlie shoved him against the doorframe, dragging him into another kiss.
The second the door swung open, Charlie stumbled in backward, Knox pressing against him like he intended to merge their bodies together. Charlie allowed it, grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt, and tugged him impossibly closer, like the idea of any space existing between them was insulting.
But as they moved further inside the living room, he stuttered to a halt.
“Wait.”
Knox made a frustrated sound, lips dragging down Charlie’s throat. “No, no, don’t start thinking –”
“This place looks lived in,” he said, gaze narrowing as he looked around the room. His eyes flicked from the full bookshelves, to Knox’s cello nestled by the fireplace, to the neatly organized chaos of papers covering the table. “But you don’t live here. You’re always at the Institute. Which means –”
“Charlie.”
“Which means,” Charlie repeated, firmer this time. “This is definitely a sex lair.”
Knox groaned, pressing a hand over his eyes. “By the Angel, Blackthorn.”
Charlie pointed an accusatory finger at him. “That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a sex lair,” he snapped, then took a breath. “And it’s not some hidden love nest for when Pitts and I decide to get de-runed and adopt abandoned warlock babies.”
Charlie blinked. “I don’t know, that sounds weirdly specific.”
Knox fixed him with a look. “It’s a place I come to be alone. That’s it.”
Charlie was quiet for a full minute. His eyes dropped back to the table – at the papers, the rune sketches, the photocopied pages from the Shadowhunters’ murder cases.
“You’re doing your research here.”
Knox nodded. “I don’t trust having any of this at the Institute.”
Another pause. His voice was quieter when he spoke this time. “Do you bring people here?”
“For the hundredth time –”
“Did you bring Markus here?” Charlie demanded, cheeks tinted pink, but still glaring at him.
Knox blinked at him. “Are you - jealous?”
Charlie scoffed. “Jealous? Of what? Your creepy fuck-pad?”
Knox tried to curb the smile that threatened to curl on his lips. Failed. “You are, aren’t you? You’re jealous.”
“No, I’m not! Fuck off, Carstairs.”
“We’re back to Carstairs?”
“You called me Blackthorn first.”
“You deserved it.”
Charlie decided to answer with a fist to his ribs, blindsiding him completely. It wasn’t hard, nothing like their fighting before. More insult than injury. Still, Knox stumbled, caught himself on the couch, eyes blown wide.
“You’re so fucking jealous; you can’t even function properly.”
“Do you want to die?”
“I would love to see you try to kill me.”
Another swing. Knox dodged this one. He caught Charlie’s wrist, twisted and swept his legs out from under him. He hit the rug with a low grunt, then yanked Knox down with him before he could gloat.
They kissed again.
Sloppier.
More desperate.
The fight fizzled out somewhere between the couch and the hallway. Clothes came off. Jokes turned into gasps. They didn’t make it to the bedroom gracefully, but they made it.
Charlie fell asleep the moment he’d rolled off him, and his back had hit the mattress. He was as silent in his sleep as he was loud when he was awake and Knox spent several minutes just looking at him tangled in his sheets, one arm thrown across his chest.
He sighed, rubbed at his eyes.
He was so fucking tired.
But he couldn’t sleep.
He stared at the ceiling, heart still rabbiting in his chest, mind still trapped in the spiral of what the fuck just happened.
Eventually, he peeled himself out from under Charlie and tugged on a pair of sweats, tiptoeing into the living room. He sat down on the floor beside the cello, took a few deep breaths, and reached for the strings.
His fingers found a familiar tune. Something slow. Something old. The first few notes echoed in the room, and Knox frowned trying to remember how he knew the melody. It wasn’t any song he’d learned; his fingers weren’t following notes long ago etched in his brain. No, this sounded more like a lullaby. But not the kind one would use to sooth a baby, the kind that Pitts’ mom used to put on for them to concentrate while they were still studying at the Academy.
When they were still young.
Still boys.
When Knox loved the cello without hating it.
When he and Pitts –
Knox paused, abruptly, sitting straighter. He blinked, rapidly, trying to hold on to the flash of the memory passing behind his eyes.
He knew where he'd seen the sigils.
The runes, the ones carved on the murdered bodies. The markings the Clave dismissed as “meaningless mutilation”.
Knox bolted upright. He knocked over a stack of books on his way to the table and he winced, his eyes flicking to the, still shut, door of his bedroom. When Charlie didn’t immerge from it threatening murder, Knox ran to his research, heart hammering behind his ribs.
He flipped over the pages, growing more frustrated by the second.
It wasn’t here.
It should’ve been here.
Knox was sure of it. Knox was –
But it wasn’t in his notes.
And it wasn’t in the Clave files.
Fuck.
He spun toward the bookshelves and started yanking volumes off one by one. Old training texts. Codices. Enochian references. Half-forgotten annotations in Pitts’ handwriting.
He must’ve opened and flipped through every single book inside the house. Outside the window the sky was starting to slowly darken. Knox sat in the middle of his living room, surrounded by books. He felt like they were mocking them. None of them had the markings on their pages.
And yet Knox knew he’d seen them.
He knew –
His eyes caught on a thin, white booklet still resting on the bookcase. He crawled around an opening on the floor, reaching for it, fingers careful as he grabbed it. His eyes scanned the front page, and he felt something kick in his stomach. This wasn’t a training manual. This was an Enochian occult text.
Knox remembered finding this book in the restricted section of the Academy.
He remembered thinking it was cool and wanting to show it to Pitts. He thought his teachers would be very impressed if two twelve-year-olds managed to translate original Enochian texts.
He remembered putting it in his satchel when the librarian wasn’t looking. He remembered sneaking out of the Academy and running all the way to Pitts’ house to show him what he’d found.
He remembered the two of them bend over the thin, white book for hours upon hours, with a number of dictionaries all around them, translating the texts word for word.
Knox’s breath caught as he flipped through the pages.
They didn’t actually get really far into translating it. Getting stuck only three pages after the introductory note. Knox had no idea what the book was about. But it was where he’d seen them.
The markings.
His fingers shook a little as he found the correct page. There they were. In perfect ink.
The runes.
The sigils.
He had years to brush up on his Enochian – and he was never that good to begin with. But one of the words stood out, in the jumble of letters he didn’t remember how to pronounce.
Armageddon
Knox sat back on his heels, eyes wide, heart in his throat.
They definitely needed someone to translate this text. Because, apparently, the Apocalypse was coming.
Chapter 21: I’ve seen those eyes before, I can tell you want to play
Notes:
Hello, nice people of the internet! How has your week been so far?? I hope it's been as uneventful as mine! I'm not particularly taken with this chapter. Mostly because it gave me a hard time. I just hope you'll like it more than I do :)) Let me know your thoughts in the comments! And I'll see you next week!
Chapter Text
Gerard Penhallow grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and the weight of knowing he was the Clave’s future burdening his shoulders. It was whispered into his ear before he could properly hold a blade, pressed into his spine long before he even knew what it meant.
And it had always been a burden. Because, despite Gerard’s affinity for politics, despite the ease with which he learned to charm rooms and wield influence like any other weapon, the state of the Clave had always been just one step away from being irreversibly abysmal. Not visibly, not to those protected by its illusions of order. But Gerard had always known. Of the rot festering in its core. He’d known since he was old enough to recognize the stench of fear dressed as protocol.
And then came Alec Lightwood.
A catalyst of his own making. Not because he was young or bold or dating a Downworlder, but because he dared the Clave could be just. Consul Lightwood had brought forth a new sense of unity and partnership which spread like wildfire throughout the Shadow World. Dialogue took root where silence used to reign. And Gerard, who was looking up to Alec like a loyal mentee, had never been more certain of his future.
Then Alec was chased away from his position, because new ideas didn’t belong in Alicante, and the old guard too back the leadership. Consul Dearborn, forgotten by death himself, had been working tirelessly for the past year and a half to meticulously dismantle all that Alec and build.
And still Gerard never thought of not having a future in the Clave. Never thought of putting to sleep his dream to reform all he deemed wrong and inadequate and build up all that was left of their ashes. He never thought of stepping back. Because he was the future of Clave, countless people had told him so, among them Alec himself.
So, Gerard had never thought the Clave was a lost bet.
Never before now.
Council meetings away from Idris were not a common thing, but they happened from time to time. The war room in the Boston Institute had been repurposed – Clave banners hanging in front of the windows, obstructing the natural light, wards reinforced so thoroughly the buzz of magic could be felt to the bone.
The room smelled like lavender polish and something bitter. Metallic. Ozone curled at the edges of the air, the tang of something singed. Not quiet fire, but something more sinister in nature.
Gerard tried to relax in his chair. This was his Institute. His home. But his shoulders were set like his body was expecting a fight, his eyes darting around the room to make sure he knew all the access points. The meeting hadn’t even commenced, and Gerard knew he was being watched. Of course he was, after the stunt he’d pulled in the last meeting, accusing both the Consul and the whole board of insufficiency and being complicit to a cover-up.
He hadn’t expected to be let back in the room after that. But here he was. Which, in itself, was reason enough for suspicion.
He caught a glint of motion to his right – the slow shift of a hand adjusting a cufflink, the quiet hush of clothes as someone sat down. Subtle movements. Nothing that required alarms to be sound.
His nerves were on edge.
The silence settled over the room didn’t help. There was something weird about it, Pitts couldn’t quite explain. It didn’t feel like silence, there couldn’t be true absence of sound in a room full of people. But it felt as if something fought to be heard. Something that forced the hair on his nape to stand.
Gerard shook it off.
Tried to focus.
Consul Dearborn arrived late, as expected. Swept in with three Shadowhunters trailing behind him like shadows. Entourage.
Gerard fought to not roll his eyes.
Dearborn didn’t greet the room. He just sat, adjusted his spectacles, and cleared his throat. His opening droned on for what felt like hours. Dearborn’s voice was frail and scratchy, catching every so often and throwing him into a coughing fit. He fought it off with a glass of water that seemed to be perpetually full every time someone handed it to him, only to keep talking in circles.
It was a good twenty minutes later when they finally broached day’s agenda points. Rune classifications, surveillance reports from the border territories, tariffs on Seelie products.
Gerard sat perfectly still, with his hands folded on the polished wood desk in front of him. He nodded at the right times. Kept his gaze soft but focused. It was funny, if not deeply depressing, how easy it was to disappear in his ‘golden boy’ persona. A young, pristine Shadowhunter cut from sun-bleached stone.
“We’re also reviewing the recommendation of a temporary freeze on all Downworlder – Shadowhunter collaboration,” Dearborn said, and suddenly the static inside Pitts’ brain came to a stop.
He blinked, his mind going from blank to alert in an alarming speed. His fingers tapped against the wood, once. Twice. From the corner of his eye he caught several people looking at him, like they were expecting a public display of his disagreement.
Gerard wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
“That shouldn’t apply to emergency events, of course,” Consul Dearborn added, almost offhandedly.
So Downworlders would still be expected to help whenever Shadowhunters needed them.
A breeze passed over Pitts’ skin, even though the windows were sealed shut. He rolled his shoulders, an almost imperceptible shift, attempting to relax the uncomfortable set of his neck. It didn’t help. His body was too tightly coiled and all of Pitts’ tries to ease some of the tension off his muscles were futile. His spine remained a steel rod, locked into place.
He blinked slowly. Focused on his breathing, at least that he could still control. He leaned back in his chair, as much as his rigid back would allow, expression unreadable as always.
Across the table, Dearborn kept talking. About how the measure was preventative. How it was supposed to ‘ease tensions’ and help keep the peace. Peace had been for years a word the Clave liked to weaponize.
Gerard kept his mouth shut.
Despite the churn in his stomach.
Despite feeling the bile rise in his throat.
Despite the guilt.
He kept his mouth shut.
You stay in the room. You swallow your words, and your pride and you make sure to keep your seat. That’s the only way you do anything, Alec’s last message played in constant, quiet loop in his mind.
When the vote was called, and hands started rising, stiff and preordained, Gerard raised his as well. Without flinching. It had been an almost unanimous vote. Two people stood apart.
“We shouldn’t make policy out of fear,” came a smooth, modulated voice from the far end of the table. Bartholomew Blackthorn stood, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Immaculate. Measured.
Pitts hadn’t thought twice about it when he saw the name in the meeting logs. The Blackthorns were a big family, even after the resent events. It could’ve been any of them. But seeing him now, standing underneat a low overhead light, the resemblance to Charlie was uncanny. Same heavy set of eyebrows, same stormy eyes, same posture. But where Charlie’s aura was constantly volatile, his father put forth a much milder demeanor. Like all of Charlie’s jagged edges had been smoothed over, and in his place stood an older version, deliberately muted.
“Especially not when it sends the wrong signal to our allies,” Bartholomew continued. “Downworlders watch how we treat them. Let’s not teach them to expect exclusion.”
The words were empty of course, as was the feeling behind them. Polite dissent with no teeth. Bartholomew didn’t believe a single vowel coming out of his lips. Not that anyone should believe a sentence out of a diplomat’s mouth.
It didn’t matter. The motion still passed.
Gerard sat still, gaze fixed on the grain of the table, as everyone trickled out of the room. Something shifted under his ribs. Shame? Guilt? He wasn’t sure what the appropriate name was, but it felt like his own shadow was pulled right underneath his feet.
He stood eventually, methodically. Picked up his notes, tucked them under his arm. He didn’t make it more than three steps before he was intercepted.
“Penhallow,” a smooth, crisp voice called.
Pitts halted, turned but not all the way.
Bartholomew and Penelope Blackthorn were smiling as they approached him. The sort of smile that belonged only in rooms like this one, all practiced, charm and patronizing grace. Penelope’s necklace gleamed under the overhead lights, some ancient family crest suspended between her collarbones.
“You must be exhausted after such a grueling meeting,” she said, her canines showing through her smile.
“I’m used to them,” Pitts replied smooth and polite. He didn’t smile.
Bartholomew stepped closer. “After all this years in my position and I still can’t say the same thing. Say, how is your mother? I haven’t seen her in a long while.”
“Oh, yes, how is dear Elaine?”
Pitts blinked. Straightened his posture. He didn’t know his mother was familiar with Charlie’s parents. Then again, they all did the same job, frequented the same circles, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.
Blackthorn cut him off before Pitts got the chance to answer.
“I have an idea, why don’t you join us for lunch? You’ll get to tell us about your mother and we’ll get to know each other.”
“Yes, yes,” Penelope agreed, clapping her hands once as if enthused by the idea. “That is a great suggestion, darling.”
Pitts paused for a second, a mild look softening his gaze. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d assumed you’d already made plans with your son.”
Penelope’s expression froze, the corners of her mouth still upturned but brittle.
Bartholomew blinked once. “Charles tends to keep his own schedule.”
“Yes,” Gerard said, tone light. “That’s the way he prefers to operate.”
Penelope hummed in agreement, having found some of her lost merry. “I’ve heard that the two of you have been working on the same team, is that correct?”
“That is correct. We’ve been in the same team for the past several months.”
“And how have been Charles… moods?” Bartholomew asked, his nose wrinkling as if experiencing a bad memory. It earned him a reproachful glance from his wife.
Pitts tilted his head a little on the side, refusing the urge to shift under their eyes. “We have a smooth collaboration. I don’t think I’ve noticed anything about any… moods.”
The silence stretched a little too long before Penelope recovered. “In any case, it’s always good to connect with the next generation of leadership. We’ve been very impressed with your presence at this session.”
Gerard gave a soft nod. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“You’ll join us, then?” Bartholomew tried again.
“I’m afraid I’ve already made arrangements with one of the Institute archivists,” Pitts lied smoothly. “He’s been assisting with some of the backlog in our most resent case,” he tilted his head again, slightly. “You understand.”
Penelope’s grip on her purse tightened, but her tone remained pleasant. “Of course. Perhaps another time.”
“Perhaps,” Pitts echoed. He nodded once and then stepped past them without offering another word. Behind him, he could still feel the weight of their stares, lingering.
He drew a deep breath, his lungs seizing at the scent ozone. Like ash choking him on the way down. He cleared his throat and kept walking.
Going on patrol with Knox that night was a quiet affair. Pretty much everything with Knox was quiet these days. His parabatai didn’t speak much. Didn’t eat much. Didn’t talk much. Being around him made the weight sitting on Pitts’ chest feel heavier.
Because try as he might Pitts couldn’t convince himself that he wasn’t partially responsible for it.
If he hadn’t taken that detour, if he had showed up in time to the mundane concert then Knox wouldn’t have been paired with Blackthorn. He wouldn’t have burn himself to the ground to clean up the room as soon as possible, he wouldn’t have been made to take point, he wouldn’t have jumped between Blackthorn and blind demon weaponless. He wouldn’t have stood there stunned, one of Pitts’ daggers clenched in his hand, demon ichor dripping from it, only to be shoved by the same idiot he’d just tried to protect.
Pitts had arrived just in time to make sure his parabatai walked away unscathed. At least physically.
Now they walked in silence, their shoulders brushing together ever so often, their bond lightly humming underneath their skin. Pitts caught every flicker of movement at Knox’s periphery, matched every step without thinking about it. They didn’t speak, but they never really needed words to communicate. Knox was dealing with it, the best way he knew how, and Pitts was going to be there when he needed him.
Ahead of them something shifted in the darkness. A flash of jumped across the rooftops. A second later, another one followed.
Chris and Ginny.
Pitts pressed his lips together, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t need to look to know that Knox had already clocked the same two shadows they had both been feeling for blocks now. No nod passed between them. No gesture. Their hands touched, once, by design and then, in perfect sync, they split off in opposite directions. Knox slipped toward Back Bay, toward their apartment where he’d moved his research. Pitts headed toward the river, moving like water through alleyways and service routes until he reached the now familiar street.
Until he was standing, once again, in front of Meek’s building.
Because apparently, this was who he was now – the Clave’s golden boy who kept circling back to the High Warlock, like a raven around prey. Like moth to the flame. Like a man who should’ve known better.
He should’ve known better.
And yet here he was. Again. Despite the guilt curdling low in his stomach, despite the vote hanging heavy over his head. Despite all the lines he knew he was crossing.
Meeks answered the door barefoot, holding a cocktail glass in one hand, and an ancient looking book in the other. He didn’t look surprised, didn’t look welcoming, either.
He never really did.
“Gerard.” He said his name like passing judgment. “I was just thinking about political exclusion and hypocrisy. And then you showed up at my door.”
The acid in his stomach threatened to eat him from inside out and yet Pitts didn’t step away.
“You heard about that,” he said, voice carefully measured.
Meeks arched an eyebrow, head falling on the side. “Of course. There might have not been any Downworlder delegation present, but I make it my business to know things that tend to affect my people. I've already told you that.”
Pitts drew a breath. Slow. Deliberate. “I didn’t come here to explain myself.”
“No,” Meeks said, calmly. “I know you didn’t.”
Silence unfurled between them, thick and heavy with things they’d rather not talk about. Pitts stood at the threshold of the penthouse, one hand in the pocket of his coat like it might anchor him. To the shreds of morality he still possessed. To a version of himself he was still desperately clinging to.
This was a mistake.
This was political suicide.
A public scandal waiting to happen. After what he’d endorsed this morning, being here – being with Meeks – wasn’t just dangerous. It was betrayal. It was weakness.
This was –
Inevitable.
Meeks pulled to the side, and Pitts walked inside without saying a word. The High Warlock sauntered over to his couch, dropping down on it with the kind of grace Pitts could only dream off. His robe fell open, to reveal a faded black tee, slightly hitched to expose a sliver of soft stomach above worn sweats.
He didn’t sit, choosing to lean against the back of an armchair instead. The orange tabby, tangling between Meeks’ feet, let a loud meow in greeting, before turning his butt on him with theatrical insult.
“I’m not proud of that vote,” Pitts said after a while, surprising even himself.
Meeks didn’t even blink. “I didn’t ask you if you were,” he shot back, taking a sip of his drink.
“Because you don’t care?” Pitts asked, a challenge lurking in his tone.
“Because it doesn’t matter,” Meeks replied smoothly. “Intentions are a luxury afforded to people whose actions don’t destroy trust.”
Pitts didn’t flinch. The words landed much like a punch to the ribs, but he rolled his shoulders and pushed down the guilt scraping in his chest.
“Why are you here, Gerard Penhallow?”
“I shouldn’t be.”
“No.”
Pitts looked away first.
Another silence stretched, not awkward but taut, like a held breath. Meeks leafed through his book, sipping his drink every now and again, never bothering to look up. Pitts found his eyes drifting back to him. The light caught the fine angle of his jaw, the messy curls brushing just above his eyes.
Something coiled in his gut, hot and wild.
Still leaning against the chair, he shifted his weight subtly, fingers digging into the carved wood, trying to ground himself.
“I should go,” he muttered.
“You always say that,” Meeks replied without heat.
Pitts didn’t move.
Running into anyone hadn’t been part of the plan. That was the point of sneaking in through the west corridor. Of timing his return down to the minute, when the halls were dead quiet and the late patrols were still logged in.
But lately none of Pitts’ plans seemed to work out. And this was not an exception.
There was a shape curled near the weapons room – barely visible, half-folded into the shadows. Pitts stopped short, the sound of his footsteps stuttering to silence. A slow, weary breath uncoiled in the dark as the shape shifted, stretched. And then came the soft dull thud of a head knocking gently against stone. Fair dark blond hair caught on the light slipping in through one of the corridor windows.
Todd.
He was slouched against the wall, knees drawn tight to his chest, arms wrapped around them like they were the only thing holding him together. His eyes were wide and a little glassy, staring at the wall across from him, unblinking.
For a moment, Pitts considered moving past him. Pretending he hadn’t noticed. It wouldn’t be hard in the pitch blackness. But then Todd’s head rolled back again, the same quiet knock of bone on stone. And his decision was made for him.
“Todd,” he said, making sure to keep his voice gentle.
Todd flinched anyway like he’d been caught doing something wrong. His eyes darted to Pitts, all color draining from his face. He scrambled upright too fast, brushing nonexistent dust from his knees, posture stiff with embarrassment.
“Sorry. I – wasn’t trying to be in the way.”
“You aren’t,” Pitts reassured him. “It’s all good. You’re fine.”
Todd nodded, but didn’t move. His hands dropped to his sides, but curled in again. Pitts saw his throat bobbing once, and then again. Like he was trying to find the words but they kept drowning in the depths of his mouth.
“You couldn’t sleep?” he asked, taking pity on him.
Todd gave a little shrug, his foot scrapping against the stone floor. “I’m not yet used to all the sounds.”
Pitts hummed. “Yes, I’m sure a mundane apartment is much quieter. Less night drills. Less ancient plumbing that sounds like it’s actively trying to kill you.” he joked.
The corners of Todd’s lips twitched but didn’t quite curl. “Less people as well.”
“Ah, that sounds definitely like a blessing.”
“Yeah… I just wish sleep could come easier to me,” Todd muttered.
“Don’t beat yourself up. Sleep is always difficult when we are going through stressful situations, and you – well, you’ve had a hell of a fortnight.”
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “You could say that again,” he said softly. His back hit against the wall once more, and he slowly slid down its length, resuming his previous position. He looked smaller like that. Folded in. Deceptibly fragile.
After a beat, Pitts sat down beside him, knees drawn up, hands laced behind his knees. He didn’t lean back. “I’m not the best at this.”
Todd turned to look at him, frowning faintly. “At what?”
“Comfort. Empathy. Whatever this is supposed to be.”
He huffed softly. “Big scary guy who hunts demons and wields twin daggers isn’t great at emotional vulnerability. I’m shocked.”
Pitts smirked, head tilting on the side. “The Academy didn’t exactly prioritize emotional regulation.”
“Mm, you don’t say.”
There was a pause, not long and definitely heavy, and then Pitts added, “Still. If you need anything… just ask.”
Todd didn’t respond immediately. Just stared ahead, chewing at his bottom lip like it might help him speak.
“Do you ever feel like –” his voice cracked. Todd cleared his throat, tried again. “Like there are two versions of you? And either one belongs to different people? So you –” he drew a breath, swallowed harshly, “ – you have to keep switching depending on where you are. Who’s watching. But – neither one of them belongs to you?”
If he wasn’t as emotionally exhausted as he currently was, Gerard would’ve laughed. And not a silent one. No, a full body one, head thrown back, shoulders shaking. As it was all he could do was let a shaky exhale and stare at Todd in the darkness.
“And worst of all,” Todd continued, because apparently, he needed to twist the knife in Pitts’ gut, “neither version is right. Or enough. They’re both… well, not wrong, but failing? Like, neither one would hold much under closer inspection?”
Pitts felt his throat closing around half-baked words that never made it out of his mouth. He blinked in the darkness, the air around them suddenly too cold.
He thought of the voice he used when addressing the Clave. Thought of his hands, and how they didn’t even shake when he cast his vote. How it felt like it had taken everything out of him, but he still played the role, he still chose to be Gerard Penhallow. And how easy it had been, at the end of the day, to show up at Meeks’ front door, again.
He let out a breath that didn’t quite carry.
“All the time,” he admitted, because he had too. Because if he didn’t then he’d drown. “That’s what I chose, when I decided to work for the Clave. To cut myself in half, offer a part of me on a silver platter. And I’ve been,” his breath ceased momentarily, and Pitt shook his head, fought for control “– pretending the weight doesn’t bother me. That I don’t miss the time when I used to be a whole person.”
Todd turned his head to look at him. His eyes were too big, too open.
“But do you?”
Pitts tilted his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “Sometimes. Mostly nights like this. But – and I’m not proud of this – I’m not sure I remember how to be one anymore. As you said, neither one of these versions belonged to me anyway.”
The quiet that followed was soft. Heavy. A shared thing neither of them could name.
Todd finally said, “That makes two of us.”
They didn’t talk more after that. Just sat together in silence, the hall around them too still. Too cold. Like all life had seeped out of it. But neither of them noticed.
Walking into the war room the next day the last thing Pitts expected was to find everything into a state of disarray.
And yet…
Pitts had been a mere two minutes late. The meeting shouldn’t have even started. The formal agenda hadn’t been introduced . But before even entering he could hear the loud voices. Overlapping. Getting increasingly sharper.
“What about the murders?”
Diana Wrayburn’s voice rang loud and clear through the room, and Pitts paused as he neared the threshold. Through the open door, he could see the entire room standing. No order. No seats taken.
A representative of Rome’s Institute was loudly yelling for clarifications. Several Shadowhunters coming straight from Idris tried to restore structure, but they were shouted over by other who refused to be silenced. Even Consul Dearborn looked overwhelmed, visibly debating whether he could legally toss half the room into the Gard.
Pitts walked in slowly, the smell of burnt ozone washed over him – familiar now, and entirely unshakable. It lingered like something watching. Waiting.
He didn’t sit down, crossing his arms and scanning the crowd with that dispassionate sharpness it had taken him years to perfect. He took everything in, all their angry faces, every bit of body language being displayed, all the words they didn’t say. And when the shouting reached a pitch that rattled the stained-glass windows, he cleared his throat.
It shouldn’t have worked.
The noise was too much, the voices too many. They shouldn’t have heard him. But somehow, they did. The silence rolled in like the tide, sudden and total, all eyes turning toward him at once.
Surprised as he was, he made sure to not let it show on his face. Instead, he stood a little straighter, letting his arms drop by his sides, hands resting on the table in front of him.
“Good morning,” he greeted, smile polite, voice calm. “Apologies for the delay, the cafeteria was quite busy. I understand there’s been some… interest regarding the murdered Shadowhunters.”
From across the table, Consul Dearborn stared at him. Cold. Calculating. And hard.
They all knew why this was being brought up at all – why any of the Institute heads even knew about the killings. Because of Pitts. Because of his decision to burn everything to the ground.
It was clear by now the council didn’t want anyone outside the board to involved in this. It was also clear Diana Wrayburn was not okay with that.
“As you may know,” Pitts started, knowing that most people in the room knew next to nothing about the murders, “there have been four murders of active Shadowhunters in the past three weeks. The first three occurred toward the end of November. The fourth one took place sixteen days later – last Friday night.”
He didn’t need to glance at Dearborn again. He could feel the older man’s fury, festering just across the table.
“Were they connected?” the representative from Rome questioned.
Pitts nodded. “We have reason to believe that the killer is the same. Our Institute is in charge of the Verlac case,” Pitts said, his eyes cutting to Thomas Branwell, who gave a stiff nod. “The other three murders are under investigation by a team from Alicante. So far, we’ve identified all four victims and contacted their respective Institutes.”
“Why weren’t we told about this sooner?” Julong demanded, his usually calm demeanor cracking.
Pitts let the question hang for a suspended minute. He could feel the weight of every pair of eyes fixed on him. The silence between his words beat like a second pulse in his chest.
He looked at Dearborn again. Briefly. Then he turned away.
“Because the investigation is still on-going. There was no information we could confidently share at the time. But now we’ve established a murder M.O and we’ve identified all the victims. Their Institutes have been contacted. None of the deceased were in Boston pursuing active missions. They appear to have been visiting independently. There’s no evidence so far of any prior connection between them.”
Somewhere in the far recess of the room, a draft stirred despite the shut windows. Pitts felt it against the back of his neck. The faintest brush of cold, colder than the air should be. It felt like someone had drawn a playing knife just under his ribs. Not enough to draw blood. Just a warning.
“That’s pretty much all the information we have,” he said. “We’re still working on it.”
“I think we’ve heard enough from Mister Penhallow. We don’t want to tire him out,” Lazlo Balogh spoke up, voice dripping with sarcasm and condensation. He was leaned back in his seat, arms draped casually, as though all of this were nothing more than play pretend. “After all, we don’t want a repetition of what happened the last time he gave such a rousing monologue.”
There was a rustle of dry amusement. Not laughter. Just discomfort masked with politeness.
Pitts knew he shouldn’t rise to the bait. Alec would tell him to hold his tongue. Knox would surely beat him senseless if he made himself a target again.
But they’d listened to him.
They’d shut up, because he cleared his throat.
They had taken his word over the councils and –
Diana was looking at him, now. Julong was looking at him. Half the table was looking at him.
Pitts’ fixed his cufflinks, and smiled, faint and polite. “Apologies,” he said, without a single thread of apology in his voice. “I thought a room full of politicians would be comfortable with the concept of accountability.”
There’s a move in chess called the Queen’s Gambit. It was never Pitts’ favourite move, because sacrificing his queen went against every single one of his instincts, even if it meant it would give him an advantage. But sometimes going for the risky move was the only way to keep yourself in the game.
The words were sharp and controlled, leaving no space for argument. A bout of murmurs spread around the table, just as Balogh slammed back against his seat, red in the face.
Once the air had cooled and the chairs were reclaimed, the agenda for the day was finally brought forward. Policy revisions. Security assessments. And, inevitably – the motion for temporary restriction of Downworlders moving unauthorized between Institutes.
The terms were milder than yesterday’s vote, and framed more carefully – no bans, just ‘evaluation’. When they called for votes again, it passed unanimously in the absence of Charlie’s parents.
The guilt clawed at his chest, but Pitts sat in his chair unflinching. Because it was going to be okay. Because he’d cleared his throat, and they’d shut up.
They’d listened to him.
All he had to do now was stay the course.
Play the game.
Win the game.
The patrol was supposed to be uneventful. A sweep of the Back Bay perimeter, standard post-meeting routine. But everything inside of Pitts pulsed with too much energy tonight. It clung to his skin, threaded into his breath. He had yet to come down from the high he got after commanding a room full of shouting Shadowhunters to silence.
“You’re buzzing,” Knox said, after they’d cleared the third block in near silence.
“Hm? What, the bond?”
“No, not the bond,” Knox rolled his eyes, gave him a stern look. “You. All of you. It’s like you’re going to shake out of your skin. “
“I’m fine,” Pitts said smoothly. “It’s just – adrenaline.”
He didn’t elaborate. Knox didn’t push.
The night was too still when they stepped onto the slick pavement, the kind of stillness that felt manufactured. Aching to be broken.
Something thumped underneath the soles of their boots. Like they’d stepped on something alive. Something humming, low and distorted beneath the surface of the earth. When Pitts turned to look at him, Knox was already looking back, eyes wide and alert.
“I feel it,” he muttered.
They turned the corner together. A pulse of light flared against the darkness of the night – gold, and then purple, and in the next blink of their eyes it was gone. It came from an alley just behind a shuttered bodega.
They broke into the alley at full speed, no spoken word of communication passing between them. They skidded into the alley, weapons already half-drawn.
And then they stopped short.
The ground had split open in the center of the street, a jagged, glowing rift thrumming with energy. Knox was standing precariously close to edge, and Pitts instinctively grabbed the back of his gear, yanking him back a step.
Two people were already there; one with their arms raised high, threads of purple magic sparking from their fingertips, the other crouched, drawing a sigil across the asphalt with what looked like a dagger dipped in starlight. They both looked up when they sensed them approaching.
Pitts clocked the first immediately. Meeks. His black coat billowed in the charged air, his curls unruly from the energy storm crackling around them. The other warlock they didn’t recognize – all soft faced and dressed in corduroy, looking more like he belonged in a school class instead of there.
Before they could speak, the rift split open further, spitting out demons. Three at first. Then five.
Knox surged forward first, already loosing an arrow before Pitts had time to draw a breath. He followed on instinct, pulling his daggers from their sheathes on his thighs, movements fluid and sharp. He didn’t need to think. Knox carved a path left, and Pitts knew to take right.
Falling into sync with each other came as naturally as breathing, their movements an echo of old instinct. Knox was vicious, mechanical, merciless – arrows flying fast and true. Pitts stayed in motion, twin blades a blur of silver. One pressed forward, the other pulled back. A push and pull of trust.
Pitts threw a dagger into the back of a demon Knox hadn’t seen. He didn’t look up, but he muttered a quick “Thanks,” before throwing himself on the next beast.
A moment later Pitts felt the rune on his ribs burn white-hot just as Knox hissed in pain, dropping into a crouch. Both his hands were pressed against a swallow-looking wound on his chest, lips twisted tight. The demon let a shriek and prepared for the final attack. And then Pitts’ blade swept up and across, cleaving the infernal figure in two.
“Let me help,” he said, already kneeling beside Knox, reaching for his stele.
“I got it,” Knox said through his teeth, grimacing as he moved.
“Clearly,” Pitts deadpanned, grabbing his forearm and forcing him to stand still, as he drew the rune on a clean patch of skin.
Knox glared at him all the while, but Pitts saw the way his shoulders eased once the iratze kicked in, immediately dulling the pain.
“Thanks,” he muttered, again. Quiet.
Pitts didn’t reply. He wiped his blade clean and took a deep breath. And then another.
Steam curled upward from the street, demon ichor seeping into the cracks. All four of them stood in the alley, ragged and reeling, staring at each other.
“Well,” Meeks said, dusting something off his sleeve. “If it isn’t the finest demon-slaying duo the Boston Institute has to offer.”
Pitts straightened. “You knew this street was on our patrol route?”
“Oh of course. I had it highlighted in pink and written in cursive in my calendar,” he drawled sarcastically, eyes sparkling in the dim light.
“Don’t mind him,” the other warlock chimed in brightly, stepping forward. “He’s always a little extra after a ley-line tantrum. I’m John, by the way. Keating.You had quiet the timing, showing up when you did. I don’t know what we would’ve done with all the demons.”
“Don’t flatter them too much John,” Meeks cut in. “Lest you want it getting straight to their head.”
“Well, it should! These fine gentlemen proved to be more than helpful,” John exclaimed exuberantly.
Beside Pitts, Knox exhaled hard, rolling his shoulder. His lips pulled down into a grimace, his next breath hissing through his teeth.
Meeks looked him over with a little smirk. “Covered in ichor, soaked in sweat, and still devastating. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you did it just for me.”
Knox shot him a flat look. “It’s a good thing you know better.”
“Oh,” Meeks breathed, smile curling, “but I don’t. That’s the problem.”
Pitts caught the flicker of pink in Knox’s ears and had to bite down on a laugh.
“Right,” John said, already back up. “ On that note. I’m going to pretend I have somewhere else to be. Meeks – I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yes. You’ll bring your grimoire.”
“Better yet, I’ll bring breakfast.” John countered.
“John.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll bring the grimoire. Though yours is more refined than mine, but… Gentlemen, it was very nice meeting you! Very nice indeed!” He said cheerfully as he backed further into the dark alley. There was a flash of gold, the sudden sound of wind picking up, and then he was gone.
The quiet that followed wasn’t silence. It was a pause. Weighted. Knox didn’t move. But he looked at Pitts. Held his gaze just long enough for him to feel the judgement, in the non-verbal way only Knox knew how to dole out.
“Later,” he muttered, and then he was gone, vaulted to the nearest rooftop like a shadow.
Meeks sighed. “Subtle, that one.”
Pitts didn’t look at him right away. He just wiped the rest of the blood from his blades, sliding them back to their sheathes.
The warlock tilted his head. “You’re more tense than usual,” he noticed. “Had a good time at today’s meeting?”
Pitts didn’t answer.
Meeks shrugged. “I’m not judging. But even if I were, you shouldn’t care.”
Pitts finally turned to look at him. “You coming?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
A flicker of something unreadable passed across Meeks’ face. But he nodded, nonetheless. “Lead the way, Golden Boy.”
They walked side by side, each of them with the precision of someone who was used to being watched even when they weren’t. Every step measured. The distance between them just enough to show they weren’t walking away, but never quite far enough to be strangers.
The heaviness Pitts had been dogging all week was ever present. A pressure in the air that wasn’t atmospheric, mixed with burnt ozone that couldn’t be quite explained by the magic storm he’d just witnessed. It was cold, and quiet and tightly coiled. Like something waiting for him to relax before it pounced. So, Pitts didn’t. He kept his pulse steady, and his spine straight.
“You shouldn’t keep letting me do this,” he said, voice low, more to the air than to Meeks himself.
There was a pause. A blink’s worth of hesitation. “You’re your own person,” Meeks replied. “It’s your decision to keep coming back.”
Pitts gritted his teeth, drew a deep breath. This dance was routine for them, by this point. They always had an iteration of the same conversation whether it would be at greeting or at goodbye. A silly little back and forth that never really got quite resolved.
Pitts tried to bite down his frustration. Failed.
“It’s my career on the line,” he said tightly. “Your reputation.”
Meeks scoffed. “Don’t act like you’re concerned about me.”
“What if I am?” Pitts asked and it came out more like a challenge than anything else.
That earned a glance. Sharp. Cutting. “Then you shouldn’t be.”
Pitts stopped walking for a second, just long enough to adjust his pace, his tone, the weight of his presence beside the warlock.
“If you didn’t want me to keep showing up, you’d have shut the door the first time.”
Meeks didn’t look at him, but the line of his mouth flattened. “I kept it locked and it didn’t drive you away.”
Silence. Again.
Heavy.
Forebonding.
Their shoes hit the cracked pavement in rhythm. They passed a streetlight that flickered and then died. Neither of them looked up.
“You could’ve walked away tonight,” Meeks said eventually, voice softer but not less biting. “When the fight ended. When Pretty Boy left.”
Pitts resisted the urge to correct him on Knox’s name. Instead, he just said, “I didn’t.”
“I noticed.”
They stopped at the iron gate leading into Meeks’ building. It creaked faintly as he held it open without looking back. Pitts didn’t step through. He stood still, hands in his pockets, watching Meeks like he was trying to solve him.
“You coming up?” Meeks asked after another silent beat passed them by. No emotion in it.
Pitts’ fingers curled. His gaze flicked once over his shoulder to the street behind them, before returning his gaze to the High Warlock.
“Do you want me to?”
Momentarily Meeks paused. His eyes narrowed, an imperceptible squeeze behind his glasses. Pitts caught it.
“I don’t much care either way.”
Pitts gave a small, humorless huff, more breath than anything else. “Of course you don’t.”
It was the closest thing to a standoff either of them had ever allowed themselves. The wrought iron cast long shadows between them, stretching like the space they refused to cross. Pitts shifted his weight between his feet, restless. Meeks’ grip on the gate tightened.
It would’ve been easier if one of them had broken first. Said something sharp. Closed the door. Walked away.
But neither did.
It was several minutes later when Pitts gave a small nod, like conceding a point no one had spoken aloud. “Good night, Steven.”
Meeks lifted his chin, met his gaze. “Don’t be a stranger, Gerard Penhallow.”
Pitts turned. Walked away without looking back. But the sound of the gate creaking open behind him came late. Delayed. As if Meeks had waited to be sure he was gone before stepping inside.
To Pitts it felt as exhilarating as hushing a loud room with a simple clearing of his throat.
The following day time crawled.
Pitts spent most of it alone – a rare state of being in a place like the Boston Institute, which always thrummed with the presence of others. Usually, the quiet felt like something earned. After the week he had had it scraped against his skin like sandpaper.
He wrote a quick fire message to Alec before breakfast, detailing the fallout from both Council meetings with the sterile precision of someone disassociating from the content. The vote, the eyes on him, the silence. Then he threw himself into distraction.
The sound of metal had filled his morning. He sharpened every single one of his daggers, over and over again, until the edges gleamed with a kind of cruelty he didn’t possess. After that, he forced himself through a patrol report, then spent the better part of the afternoon in the Ops center, trying not to watch the door.
He ignored Knox’s absence. Or tried to. There was a constant pulse just underneath his ribs, the parabatai rune humming persistently beneath his skin – not distressed, not urgent. But present. A steady hum that told him Knox was… well.
Very well, actually. More than.
The bond didn’t communicate specifics, but Pitts wasn’t stupid. There was a euphoric energy to it, and it settled in his gut like spoiled wine.
He skipped dinner. Couldn’t stomach the possibility of facing Chris’ questions or Ginny’s too-long glances. Instead, he went to the training grounds, practicing his aim until his skin was sleek with sweat. Then he retreated to his room. He kept his lights low, and the window cracked just enough to let in the slightest amount of winter crisp air. His shirt was flung over the back of a chair, boots neatly placed by the entrance, not a spec of mud or ichor on them.
His weapons were laid out across the rug in front of him. He was halfway through realigning the grip of a dagger when the door burst open.
“Gerard,” Knox said, in that patent way of his; sharp at the start, soft toward the end.
Pitts didn’t say anything. He stayed where he was, crouched on the floor beside his bed. He looked up slowly, eyes dragging. Knox was framed by the hallway light, a booklet clutched in one hand like it was holly. His hair was damp with sweat. His cheeks were flushed. His pupils were blown.
He looked electric.
Pitts set the blade down on the floor, wiped his hands on his sweats, and leaned his forearms on his knees. He looked at him silently, arching an eyebrow.
Knox took a breath, already speaking before he’d fully exhaled. “I found it!” He said, barely managing to stay still. “The markings – from the murder victims! They’re Enochian. I was in the living room playing music, and I… and I remembered! The codex we stole from the Academy’s library. They’re angelic, Ger – I found them!”
Pitts blinked once. Twice.
Then he stood. Crossed the room in slow, measured steps, not toward the book. But toward Knox. When he stopped in front of him, he didn’t reach for it.
“What happened?”
Knox stared. “What?”
“To you,” Pitts said quietly, his voice cool, precise. “Something’s different.”
Knox hesitated. For a breath. It was more than enough. “Nothing happened, he said, too fast. He shifted his weight, the energy in him buzzing too close to the surface. He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter… What matters is this-” he lifted the booklet again “- we have something. We have a lead.”
Pitts bit his tongue. Felt the parabatai bond hum threateningly under his skin, confusion and guilt blending together as Knox blinked at him. Expectant. Waiting. Pitts tilted his head, gaze narrowing.
“Knox, are you serious?” he asked, barely audible enough to carry. “Him?”
Knox’s jaw tensed. “It’s not –” he began.
Pitts held up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me.”
Knox went still.
Pitts drew a breath, messed a hand through his hair. “It could’ve literally been anyone else. You’re Knox Carstairs. You’re – fuck – you’re brilliant. Hot. The best Shadowhunter of our generation, and you –”
“Look, let’s not make a big deal out of this.”
“Why would you willingly choose a person who’d let you burn to keep himself warm?”
Knox scoffed, the look in his eyes darkening. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you. After what happened last night? Don’t’ pretend you’ve got the moral high ground. What was that about, anyway? A late-night stroll through hypocrisy?”
Pitts exhaled through his nose. “Steven is a colleague.”
Knox’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Steven,” he echoed, gaze sharpening. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s just a colleague.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what? Point out the hypocrisy you choke on?”
“Don’t turn this into a fight,” Pitts said, voice suddenly quiet. He took a step back. His hands were tight fists at his sides. “I can’t do this. Not now.”
The silence that fell between them was brutal. Familiar. Knox stared at him, and Pitts stared back. Something fragile passed between them, wounded, real. Something that didn’t need words, because they didn’t need words. They went deeper than that.
And as fast as it had come, Pitts’ anger drained from his shoulders like water. He was too tired, too raw. And Knox had always been the one thing he didn’t know how to control.
“Okay,” he said after a moment. “Show me.”
“What?”
“The markings,” he clarified. “Show me what you found.”
Knox hesitated just a second longer – and then nodded. He stepped closer, book already opening in his hands, rambling again, voice full of fire the way he got when speaking of something he was endlessly passionate about.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, hunched over the desk as the minutes bled into each other. The booklet looked harmless. Just a bunch of yellowed pages, held together by thinning twine, Enochian letters faded with time and ink. It smelled faintly of lavender and smoke.
And it was unreadable.
Well, mostly.
“I think that says ‘descent’,” Knox muttered, squinting at the delicate ink letters on the script. “Or maybe… destruction. They have similar roots.”
“Optimistic,” Pitts said dryly.
Knox huffed, pointing at one of the words underneath the black and white photograph of an angel. “This one’s definitely ‘Armageddon’.”
“Mm,” Pitts said noncommittally. “Okay, so we have either ‘descent’ or ‘destruction’ and Armageddon. This… really doesn’t sound very promising for us.”
“Yes, no, agreed,” Knox muttered, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
“What do you say we bury this and pretend we never saw it?”
“I don’t feel like that’s going to work out very well for us.”
There was a beat – a silence during which they both looked at each other feeling the weight of the thin book bearing on their shoulders. And then Pitts snorted. The laugh caught both of them by surprise. It wasn’t loud, but it was airy.
Light.
“I haven’t slept in twenty-three hours,” Pitts muttered, still chuckling. “I think I might be losing my grip on reality.”
Knox nodded in quiet agreement.
They sat in silence for another stretch. The book open between them like demanding they take action. Finally, Pitts took a couple of steps and dropped down on his bed, looking up at Knox.
“You showed this to anyone?”
Knox’s expression shuttered instantly. “No,” he said, firmly. “Of course not.”
Pitts studied him for a second. Read the irritation in his posture. The way his knuckles tightened slightly against the edge of the desk. He nodded once.
“Good. Don’t.”
Knox arched an eyebrow. “You think we should keep this to ourselves?”
“For now,” Pitts said. “Until we know for sure who we can trust with it.”
“And if the answer is no one?”
“Then we do this together. We’ll translate it ourselves. You and me.”
Knox didn’t answer right away. His gaze was steady, calculating. He inhaled. Exhaled. His shoulders dropped – not relaxed, not really – but like the act of agreeing took just enough weight off him to keep him standing.
“Alright,” he murmured. “You and me.”
The moment was shuttered by the sound of Pitts’ phone going off. A second later, Knox’s chimed as well.
Pitts glanced down at the screen. “Branwell,” he muttered, already frowning.
Knox checked his too, then nodded. “Yeah… What do you think it’s about?”
Knox shrugged, brushing a hand through his hair. “No idea. But something’s up.”
Pitts sighed. “Fine, let’s get this over with.”
They left the pages spread open on Pitts’ desk. Knox’s expression betrayed he was still thinking about it as he followed behind him, down the Institute corridor, neither one of them speaking.
The closer they got to the Ops center the louder it got. The low hum of overlapping voices. The mechanical flick of rotating monitors. The occasional beep of an incoming report. The room glowed cold under artificial light.
The others were already there. Neil hunched over the central table, lips moving as he read something lowly to himself. Ginny and Chris were conferring among themselves, head drawn close together. Chris stood with her arms crossed, a slight tension riding her posture. Charlie was leaning against the table edge, half-bent over Neil’s shoulder, reading the same report.
He looked up first, eyes landing on Knox like a shot. They briefly flickered to Pitts’ face, hardening. Something in his posture shifting. Sharpening. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared, his mouth pressed into a tight line, throat working.
Knox was the one who cracked first. “What?” he snapped.
Charlie blinked, a bitter smirk playing on his lips. “You couldn’t even pretend you didn’t go running to him, could you?”
Knox’s jaw ticked. “What?” he repeated.
Charlie pushed off the table, crossing his arms. “Did I stutter?”
Knox’s throat bobbed. “Don’t.”
“Touched a nerve, did I, Carstairs?”
Knox took a step closer, Charlie matched him step for step. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re predictable.”
Chris looked between them, then glanced at Ginny. “And here I thought things would get better after,” she muttered.
“Chris,” Ginny groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
Charlie’s gaze dragged back to Pitts. “Did you have fun playing his therapist?” he asked, tone flat, venom curling beneath the words.
Pitts blinked once. His expression didn’t shift.
But Knox moved. It was instant. Fluid. A single step and suddenly he was in Charlie’s space, almost, chest-to-chest, fists balled at his sides, as he loomed over Charlie, his eyes blazing.
“Say that again,” he challenged, his voice smooth like silk.
Charlie held his ground. Glaring up at him, eyes sharp, breathing tight. When he took the swing, Knox had already ducked out of the way. Charlie growled, coming at him again, fingers reaching for the seraph blade tucked at his side.
Ginny was the one who broke them apart, stepping directly in Charlie’s path of vengeance. “Shut it down,” she said, voice low but firm. “Right now. We’ve got bigger things.”
Charlie was breathing hard. His hands still twitched at his sides, like they hadn’t quite gotten the message. Knox stared at him. Like he wanted to keep going. Like he knew he shouldn’t.
Neil, already scrolling through the report, cleared his throat. “Our specialist from Idris arrived this morning.”
Pitts looked up. “Already?”
Neil nodded. “Got briefed an hour ago. They’re on their way down.”
The door hissed open before anyone could say another word. Footsteps echoed across the stone floor. And then a man stepped into view. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed casually and battle ready. His dark hair was perfectly styled, not a hair out of place. He smiled as he approached, the expression practiced.
“Good to see some familiar faces,” he said, his voice exaggeratedly bright.
Everything in Pitts’ body went still.
Ginny looked like she’d just been slapped.
The tension in the room was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Knox’s eyes narrowed instantly, as he whirled around at Ginny, moving toward her aggressively.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Knox –” she started, but he cut her off.
“You knew he was coming?” His voice climbed, laced with something harder than anger.
“I didn’t,” she said quickly, firmly “. I swear I didn’t know, Knox. I wouldn’t –”
The man laughed drowning the rest of her sentence. Softly. Mockingly. “Sister, you’ve grown into your gear nicely.” Then his eyes slid to Pitts. “Gerard, long time no see.”
Pitts didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.
Chet Cartwright took another step closer, that practiced smile still fixed to his face. “You look well,” he said. Cleaned up.”
Knox pushed himself between them , before Pitts could thinking to move, his body acting like a barrier. His tone dropped low, sharp enough to cut. “Back. The fuck. Up.”
Chet’s gaze didn’t shift. “Carstairs,” he drawled. “I’ve missed your lapdog tendencies.”
“Don’t test me,” Knox muttered, too quiet for anyone but Pitts to hear.
“I was just saying hello. Nothing more,” Chet said smoothly.
Neil looked around, eyebrows raised, clearly trying to read the tension spreading through the room. “Okay. Someone want to tell the rest of us what’s happening?”
“No,” Pitts said, his voice flat. Clipped.
“No?” Charlie echoed, suspicious.
“No,” Pitts repeated. “Because it’s irrelevant.” The lie tasted like ash in his mouth. “Mr. Cartwright is the Clave’s assigned specialist,” he continued, voice leveled to something clinical. “He’s here on official business. More importantly he’s here to help us. And that’s all anyone needs to know.”
Chet smirked. “You always were good at following orders. Eventually.”
Pitts still didn’t look at him. “Neil,” he said. “You should show him around. The rest of us don’t have to be here for that.”
There was a moment where no one moved.
Then, slowly, Chris nudged Ginny back with a hand on her shoulder. She glanced at Pitts before waling out, her jaw set. Charlie walked up to his parabatai, the two of them communicating silently, before turning to Chet with equally terrifying smiles as they gave him a brief tour of the Institute, beginning with the Ops center.
Knox lingered, even after they’d left the room. His eyes stayed on Pitts. Not questioning. Just watching. Waiting.
Pitts took a deep breath and let the whirring of the machines wash over him, hoping they would drown out the erratic beating of his heart.
Chapter 22: Like it really rough guy
Notes:
Hello, nice people of the internet!! I hope you had a nice and relaxing week - I didn't..! This chapter gave me hell. Like, literally. It was intiailly supposed to be a split pov, but then it didn't really work out so now it's like 6k of smut, because Charlie thinks the plot is a fake concept he doesn't want to fuck with. If you don't like reading the more explicit parts you should stop around here ;
Knox’s breath shattered, one hand bracing against the wall, the other finding purchase on Charlie’s shoulder, curling instinctively.
Charlie grinned up at him wolfishly. “That’s what I thought,” he said smugly.
Knox opened his mouth to respond –
and like not read until the scene break. Before and after that the content is still mature, but not explicit.
Soooo yeah... I promise the next chapter will be all about the plot . And hopefully it will be on time!
Chapter Text
Charlie was having problems. Plural. Waking up in Carstairs’ bed was in the lead, closely followed by the fact he’d fallen asleep in his bed, after they’d had sex. Like several rounds of it. Oh, and also, the fucking bed was comfortable!
Like, who even owned a memory foam mattress?
Rich boys who dreamed of working for the Clave, that’s who.
When Charlie blinked his eyes awake, faintly registering the fact that there was no light coming in through the windows – despite remembering arriving in this filthy sex pad around noon – the sheets were tangled around his waist like a trap. His spine felt relaxed and pliant for the first time in months, and Charlie jerked into a seated position when he found himself appreciating the cedar smell of the comforter.
The pillow beside him was cold. And Carstairs was nowhere to be found.
This was literally the last thing he needed.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, hating how dry his mouth felt. He swung his legs over the edge, already reaching for his shirt, which was discarded somewhere near the foot of the bed. Charlie swore again. Falling asleep after was never a part of – well, whatever this was!
He wasn’t that guy. He didn’t do sleepovers. And he wasn’t about to start now with Knox fucking Carstairs. His jeans were halfway on when he dragged the door leading to the hallway open – and promptly collided with a wall of muscle and damp hair.
Because, apparently, Carstairs’ bedroom had an adjoined bathroom.
Of fucking course.
“Motherfu-” Charlie stumbled back, catching himself against the doorframe. “What the hell?”
Knox blinked at him, shirtless and damp from a recent shower, water and steam still clinging to his skin. Charlie did not follow the tantalizing rivulets, no matter how alluring they were. Knox blinked, his eyes blown wide – wider than usual, definitely distracted - one hand holding on to the towel he’d had around his waist, the other braced against the wall.
“You’re up.”
Charlie narrowed his gaze. “Astute observation.”
He didn’t react. His eyes dropped to Charlie’s half-buttoned jeans, before finding his eye again. “You going somewhere?”
Charlie scoffed, made a move to bypass him. “Back to the Institute,” he said, “Obviously.”
Knox stepped in front of him again. Blocked the way. Steam billowed around them from the open bathroom. Everything smelled like soap.
Charlie paused, sucked his teeth. “Don’t do this.”
“What am I doing?” he asked, voice dropping an octave too low.
“This,” Charlie said tightly, looking up at him through his lashes. “Sex doesn’t change anything.”
“Right,” he murmured.
Charlie didn’t appreciate how one word had his stomach twisting. “Yes,” he insisted, doubling down. “This was just – convenient. You were a distraction, nothing more.”
Something flashed in Knox’s eyes, far too fast for him to take a proper look at it. “A distraction,” he echoed, his voice lethally low.
Charlie lifted his chin. Glared at him. Knox took a step forward, then another, slowly backing him against the dresser.
“That why you fell asleep in my bed? It was just conveniently there?”
Charlie made an angry noise low in his chest. “Exactly,” he said, and if looks could kill, Knox would’ve dropped dead. “I was just tired.”
“Sure.”
His eyes dragged down Charlie’s face, slow and deliberate. A little like studying him. A little like already knowing him. A little like hating himself for it.
Charlie also hated him for it. He hated how unreadable his face was. How close he was standing. How there was still watering clinging to his eyelashes, and dropping from the strands of his hair. How his own skin was still hypersensitive from sleep and could feel the residual heat from Knox’s shower like a touch.
Most of all he hated how his body – stupid, traitorous bag of flesh – leaned in.
It was all Knox needed to close the distance between them. The corner of the short dresser bit into his back as Charlie was backed against the furniture, Knox’s arms framing him on either side. The kiss was not gentle. It was angry, desperate, like Knox was trying to shove feelings down his throat. Charlie bit back. Hard. Lips bruising, his teeth catching the corner of Knox’s mouth and refusing to let go until he tasted copper.
The dresser scrapped loudly against the floor. They knocked a lamp to the ground – neither noticed. Charlie’s hands were already under the towel, and Knox was doing a fast job of working the button of his jeans. Hands pushed and pulled, back, back, back until they were in the bathroom. They crashed into the shower stall, the tile wall hitting Charlie’s shoulder. Knox had him cornered in no time, mouth dragging along his jawline like he couldn’t help himself. Hot water burst above them, steaming over their bodies, soaking Charlie’s shirt, making it stick to him like second skin.
The next few minutes were chaos. Hot water, hard hands, gasps swallowed into open mouths. Knox yanked at his shirt, teeth closing over the edge of his collar, tugging, biting. This was a fight in the shape of a fuck. Charlie bit when Knox got too confident. Grabbed his wrists when he tried to take control. Knox surged back just as hard, palms skimming every inch of skin like he could take something from it.
But like in every single one of their fights, it didn’t take long for Carstairs to get the upper hand. Before Charlie could blink, both of his hands were trapped above his head. One of Knox’s arms pressed them to the wall, firm and immovable. The other hand ghosted over his ribs, down his side. Charlie gasped as Knox’s teeth and tongue found his throat, closing over his pulse point.
Biting. Sucking. Claiming.
Charlie allowed it for a second. Allowed Knox to drag his teeth over the sensitive skin of his neck. Allowed his lips to suck into the hollow of his collarbone. Allowed Knox’s fingers to tangle in his hair, and flex, pull back his head to give him better access.
And then he pushed. Hard.
They slipped a little, wet feet on slick tile, but Knox caught himself before he could fall. Charlie took the opening, crowding in, a hand on Knox’s chest to shove him back under the spray.
Knox smirked. “It’s cute how you still think you can control this.”
Charlie blinked water out of his lashes, grinning if only to show his teeth. “Don’t test me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Charlie pushed him again, one sharp hand to the chest. Knox grunted, his back thudding against the tiles, the breath getting knocked out of him. His eyes significantly darkened, and he reached for him, but before his hands could catch him, Charlie was on his knees.
In front of him.
In the shower, with the water still leaking over them.
Knox’s breath shattered, one hand scrambling against the wall for purchase, the other clasping on Charlie’s shoulder, like an anchor.
Charlie grinned up at him wolfishly. “That’s what I thought,” he said smugly.
Knox opened his mouth to respond –
But whatever he was about to say collapsed into a groan as Charlie’s lips closed around him. Knox’s grip on his shoulder turned bruising, his other hand slamming on the wall with a sharp, echoing thud. Involuntarily his hips rolled forward. Charlie allowed it, feeling his eyes sting as Knox’s dick hit the back of his throat. His eyes fluttered shut, a groan ripping out of him, low, broken and helpless. Charlie hummed at the sound, indulgent and wicked. He loosely wrapped an arm around Knox's thighs, the other splayed flat against his stomach, holding him in place.
Charlie's mouth was merciless. Unrelenting. He took him in deep, tongue swirling along the shaft, lips teasing the tip, dragging sounds out of Knox that went straight to his own dick. Strangled, guttural, like he was barely holding himself together.He dragged a slow, deliberate lick along the underside, tracing the thick vein that pulsed so beautifully against his tongue. And then he was pulling back just enough to close his lips around the head – flushed, leaking, obscene – and gave a soft, tender suck, tasting the precome already gathered there.
The sound Knox made in response barely qualified as human.
Charlie hummed again, entirely too pleased with himself. He hollowed his cheeks, relaxed his throat and took him all the way in, until his nose was buried in the damp curls at the base.
That’s when Knox broke.
Both of his hands tangled in Charlie’s hair, tight enough to hurt. He held him there, panting, before his hips started to move – slow at first, then faster – fucking into Charlie’s mouth like he didn’t know how to stop.
Charlie let it happen.
His hands slid to Knox’s ass, gripping hard, fingers digging deep. He kneaded the flesh, pushed him forward when his rhythm faltered, guiding him with almost practiced ease. Daringly, one of his hands slipped lower, a single digit trailing between his cheeks. Teasing. Circling the rim. There was no warning before he pushed the tip in, agonizingly slow.
Knox choked on a gasp. He bucked, his hips snapping forward burying himself deep in Charlie's throat. He gagged, eyes watering, his breath snuffing out of him.
And yet, he didn’t pull back.
Not like Knox would’ve let him. His hand was fisted in Charlie’s hair, brutal in its grip, as the other curled around the nape of his neck, holding him there. Charlie would first die than admit to how exhilarating it felt. Being held like that. Being treated like that. Having Knox come undone on his tongue – perfect, uptight, golden-boy Carstairs, fucking into his mouth with such reckless abandon.
Who knew Carstairs could be this hot when losing control?
Charlie was just about to add a second finger, stretch him nice and proper, when he felt strong hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, up, up until he was chest-to-chest with Knox , who wasted no time pressing him up against the wall and crashing their mouths together. The kiss was all desperation and teeth, Charlie making a noise against his tongue that was far too proud to name.
There wasn’t an inch of air existing between them. Their chests pressed together, skin slick, cocks brushing. Knox reached down, fingers firm and sure as they wrapped around Charlie’s aching dick. His thumb rolled over the head, smearing the precome already there and Charlie had to bite on Knox’s shoulder to keep from crying out loud.
“Fuck – Knox –”
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, lips dragging across Charlie’s jaw, his neck, all over his collarbone. His hand never stopped moving, in tight, confident strokes. “Use your words, Blackthorn –”
The rest of his sentence was cut off when Knox found himself abruptly turned around, a hand in his hair, pushing his face against the wet tiles. Charlie crowded him against the wall, his other hand resting on the small of his back, nails digging into his skin.
“Do not call me Blackthorn when we’re about to fuck, you little piece of shit,” Charlie hissed in his ear, biting down on his lobe for good measure.
Knox bucked against him with a low, strained sound, grinding his ass into Charlie’s dick. “Didn’t know you were that sentimental.”
He gripped Knox’s hip, tight enough to leave bruises. “Anyone ever tell you, you talk too much?”
Knox’s head turned just enough for Charlie to see the half-smirk on his lips. “I don’t usually… must be a sign I’m bored.”
Charlie’s laugh was low and sharp. “Guess I’ll have to make sure you’re not.”
He shoved him harder into the wall, a hand dragging Knox’s hips back into line with his, the other gripping the nape of his neck. The space between them vanished. All that existed was heat and slick skin. When Charlie moved, it was brutal – hard enough to make Knox’s hand slap flat against the tile. Hard enough to punch the air from both their lungs. His thighs slapped against Knox’s, the sound obscene in the quiet of the apartment. He nosed at his shoulder, teeth grazing, tongue dragging against damp skin, as he tried to ground himself in the moment. To pace his movements. But the noises Knox made were positively sinful, and the way he kept pushing back with each thrust, meeting him stroke for stroke –
It was too much.
Charlie’s hand slid around Knox's waist, fingers finding his cock. Flushed. Twitching. Resting heavy in his palm. A peculiar kind of rush hit him straight in the head as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking him in time with his hips, tight and fast.
Knox whined.
Knox
Whined.
High and needy, his whole body seizing against Charlie’s.
Charlie grinned against his skin. “I thought you were bored,” he grunted in his ear, almost maliciously and Knox let a loud growl in response.
Charlie’s grip slowed, his strokes turning lazy, deliberate, just shy of cruel. Knox’s breath hitched, hips thrusting back, chasing the friction Charlie was withholding.
“Fucking tease,” he muttered through gritted teeth, hands turning into fists against the tiles.
Charlie didn’t respond. He just kept working him with maddening precision. Not fast. Not merciful. He drew it out, let the tension spiral tight in the space between them. Every shift of his wrist had Knox twitching. Every pass of his thumb on the oversensitive head pulled another broken breath from Knox’s throat.
“Still bored?” Charlie asked again.
“Go to hell,” Knox panted.
Charlie chuckled darkly. “You first.”
He adjusted his grip just slightly – faster now, firmer – and that was the breaking point. Knox’s hips stuttered, his head dropping against the tiles with a mute thud. He let out a strangled sound that barely counted as a word, half of Charlie’s name bitten off in the back of his throat.
Charlie didn’t stop.
Didn’t let up.
He kept going through every shudder, every involuntary jolt, every gasp Knox tried to swallow back. Until his knees buckled and he was forced to brace himself completely, panting hard, sweat and water and heat dripping down both of them.
Only then did Charlie slow his hand, his fingers loosening. He watched the last aftershocks ripple through Knox’s body, lips twitching in satisfaction.
“You still alive?” he asked, almost mockingly.
Knox let out a low, wrecked breath. “Barely.”
“Good.”
The problem with Knox Carstairs was that he was… a nice guy.
The kind of guy who works out daily, eats protein and fiber, sleeps at a reasonable hour. The kind of guy who files reports early, says thank you to the kitchen staff, and wants to work for the Clave. The kind of guy your parents would love. The kind of guy who would thrive in a functional, mutually respectful relationship with feelings and eye contact and other horrifying things.
The problem with Charlie Blackthorn was that he was not a nice guy.
He didn’t do relationships.
He didn’t talk to his parents.
He would eat anything you put on his plate and then steal your dessert.
He treated sleep like a crazy ex-girlfriend he had to avoid at all times.
Oh, and he also kinda hated Knox-stick-up-his-ass -Carstairs.
That was important.
There was one thing in Charlie’s life that was equally – if not more – important as himself and that was Neil. His parabatai, his constant, the one person who’d stuck around through all the crap and chaos and never once flinched. Neil, who had seen him at his lowest and hadn’t left. That counted. That meant everything. As long as he had Neil, he was fine It wasn’t an easy relationship, but it was the only one he was willing to put any effort in.
Carstairs was… well, a distraction. A very hot, unfortunately competent, deeply unfair distraction.
And, okay, look - the sex? The sex was good. It was better than good. Of course it was. Charlie wasn’t blind. He’d seen the man train, he’d seen him fight, he’d known the sex was going to be at the very least decent. Maybe, even, solid What he got was absolutely mind-melting. The fucker had skills. And an unholy amount of stamina – even without the angelic rune. And some kind of alarming muscle memory that made him ruinous in bed.
Which could, potentially, be a problem. Because Carstairs was a nice guy. And nice guys wanted things. Normal things. Like stability. And maybe breakfast. And probably emotional reciprocity.
And yeah, no, that was not going to happen. Charlie didn’t do any of those things. Charlie barely did good morning the day after.
So, in a stunning moment of maturity, he decided to form a plan. Well, fine, maybe not so much a plan as a tactic. Avoidance. It was supposed to be simple. Effective. Low effort.
It went about as bad as anyone with half a brain would’ve guessed. Still, Charlie kept at it for four days. He would skip breakfast, only to walk straight into Carstairs at the Ops center. He would move his patrol shift, only to find out Knox had done the same, coincidentally. He even looped around the long hallway by the weaponry, only to nearly crash into Carstairs coming out of the training room, towel slung around his neck, skin still glistening with sweat.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered through his teeth, squaring his shoulders and marching down the corridor like he was heading to war.
Carstairs hadn’t noticed him yet. Not until he heard his voice. He glanced up, eyes widening a little, before growing darker once Charlie’s presence registered. He straightened his body, twirling his stele between his fingers.
Charlie huffed, annoyed, and stalked past him, their shoulders brushing together as he did. It was a narrow corridor, okay?
For a fleeting second, he thought he’d walk away unscathed. And then the universe reminded him it would rather spit on his grave than let him live.
“Being chased by Hellhounds?” Knox asked lazily.
“What?” Charlie demanded, making the stupid move of turning around. He was at a safe distance; he could’ve walked away.
He could’ve.
He didn’t.
Carstairs arched an eyebrow in that annoying way he did when he thought he knew something. He didn’t. He knew nothing.
“I’m just saying… why are you in such hurry?”
Charlie glared at him. “I’m not. I’m walking at a perfectly acceptable pace.”
Carstairs’ head fell on the side, eyes flicking from Charlie’s to his mouth and back up. “Or you’re running,” he countered.
Charlie scoffed. It echoed through the stone walls and reached his ears distorted. Like it was mocking him and not Carstairs.
“Are you implying I’m running from you, Carstairs?”
He didn’t answer right away, letting his gaze linger, instead. Charlie could practically feel Knox’s eyes drag down his body, pausing for a long moment on his collarbone and then his forearms before making it all the way down. When he reached his thighs, he paused. Swallowed, hard.
Charlie’s stomach tightened.
“So, I’m the only one not allowed to use your last name when we’re about to have sex?”
Charlie felt a thrill run down his spine. “That’s not happening.”
He hadn’t even finished his sentence before Knox’s lips were on his. It was ugly and sharp. All teeth and no finesse. Charlie fisted the front of his shirt between his fingers, yanking him closer. His other fist connected with his ribs, mouth still shining with saliva, chest panting.
It earned him a growl and a matching jab to his lower abdomen. Charlie reeled, laughing breathlessly, right before he was slammed into the wall. His head cracked back against the stone. A moment later, their belts hit the floor.
They didn’t speak after. Charlie just tucked himself back into his jeans and walked away without looking.
Despite his abysmal track record, he still tried. Avoidance was the plan he’d chosen and for once in his life, he was committed.
He would catch a glimpse of Carstairs entering the room immediately make a mad dash for the nearest exit. He’d be eating breakfast with Neil and Todd – who, shockingly, seemed to be handling the news about his biological mother with the calm of someone who hadn’t just had their entire life rewritten – and as soon as there was any mention of his training with Carstairs, Charlie would remember an extremely urgent errand on the opposite end of the Institute.
The third day of his, undeniably amazing, plan was probably the most successful.
Charlie woke up and didn’t run into Carstairs in the training grounds. He wasn’t there when he went to take a shower, nor when he made it to the dining area to grab breakfast. His head absolutely did not snap up every time someone entered the room. And he didn’t even feel the slightest pang of disappointment when he went into the Ops center and there was no sign of a tall Shadowhunter with a permanently exasperated expression and a mop of too-perfect, too-messy hair.
He was doing fine.
He was actually, successfully, avoiding Carstairs.
“Looking for someone?” Neil asked, the third time Charlie stretched in his chair throwing a cursory look around.
Charlie did not appreciate the smirk he could hear in his voice.
“Fuck you.”
Neil chuckled. “I don’t think you want to fuck me, though.”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer.
Around noon he wandered into the library under the noble pretense of “research” for the murder investigation – because yes, this was still happening, despite everything else. He was in the process of scanning the titles in the bookcase in front of him, when the air in the room changed. Tightened, somehow.
There was shuffling sound from the entrance, and Charlie didn’t have to turn to see who it was. He felt the short hair at his nape stand in attention, his stomach doing a traitorous somersault in excitement. His fingers stilled over the spine of a book.
“Didn’t know you could read,” the condensation dripped from Carstairs’ voice.
“It’s not like you know all that much about me,” Charlie answered, choosing to go for civil if not a bit sharp response.
He didn’t get an immediate response. Knox just walked closer, the sound of his steps against the floor annoyingly calm. Unhurried. Charlie’s breath caught a little when he felt him stopping a little too far from him. A little too close.
“Never thought I’d see the day Charlie Blackthorn would be hiding in the library.”
“I’m not hiding,” Charlie spat through gritted teeth, hating the way his spine straightened at the low cadence of Knox’s voice. “I’m researching.”
“ By reading book titles?”
Charlie bristled. Turned around to glare at him, belatedly realizing this would probably bring them nose to nose.
Knox smirked. Leaned in closer. “Want me to help you sound out the big words?”
Charlie blindly grabbed one of the books and threw it at his head. Knox dodged, laughing, and reached for him. Arms looping around his waist, pulling him close. Charlie pushed him back, into the opposite shelves. The sound of books clattering on the floor was drowned out by the noises breaking free from the lips, as Charlie practically climbed him like a ladder.
Knox’s hands slid underneath his thighs, cupping his ass, squeezing. Charlie yanked at his hair, painfully, tilting his head to the side, teeth sinking into the pulse beneath his jaw. Knox hissed. Didn’t stop him.
It was fast. Brutal. A collision more than anything else. Lips, hips, hands – no words, just heat and punishment. Charlie kissed him like he was trying to shut him up. Knox kissed him like he was trying to own him.
Later – much later – he fixed his shirt, tried not to look at Knox as he did up his belt, and muttered something about “this still means nothing” before walking away. Again.
But the annoying thing was that he caught himself noticing things. Things he’d much rather not notice about someone like Carstairs. Like for example how he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. How he seemed stretched thin, like a wire pulled too tight. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his fingers kept twitching like they wanted to reach for something. A blade, maybe. Or that stupid white booklet he’d been carrying around thinking he was being discreet. (He probably was, it wasn’t his fault Charlie kept looking at him like a hawk).
He told himself he didn’t care.
He really didn’t.
Honestly.
He just… He happened to notice that Carstairs had stopped lingering in the Ops center after team briefings. That he’d mutter things under his breath when he thought no one was listening. That he very pointedly made sure to keep his distance from Chris Penhallow and Ginny Cartwright.
And whenever Chet Cartwright walked into a room, Knox went rigid. Like his entire body was bracing for a fight. Charlie didn’t know why this reaction especially set his teeth on edge. Probably because it was wildly suspicious.
And Penhallow wasn’t any better. The guy flinched when Chet breathed too close. He’d developed a twitch in his jaw that hadn’t been there before, and Charlie didn’t love the way his eyes darted to Knox whenever Cartwright showed up, like checking for permission to breathe.
Naturally, Charlie grew curious. And this time he went looking for Knox.
The stench of sweat and heat lingered in the training grounds. It always did after a long day. He was already there, on the far side of the room, knuckles wrapped, forearms streaked with dried sweat and red from old blows. He wasn’t wearing his gear, just a threadbare T-shirt that clung to his chest and black sweats slung too low on his hips. His hair was a mess, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. He looked exhausted. Pale. Tired around the eye.
Charlie wanted to punch him in the mouth.
“This is a first,” Knox commented, not looking at him.
Charlie arched an eyebrow, immediately rising to the bait. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Knox caught the heavy bag he’d been training with, steadied it. Swiped the sweat of his face with the back of his hand.
“You’ve been avoiding me for days,” he said, voice flat. “This is the first time you’re willingly stepping in a room you know I’ll be.”
Charlie felt his jaw ticking. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”
Knox tilted his head. Stared at him.
Charlie groaned, low and tired. “Didn’t we literally have sex in the library yesterday? How’s that avoiding you?”
“That’s because I came looking for you. Just like the day before, in the corridor outside.”
“There’s no way you knew I was going to pass through –”
“Isn’t there?” Knox challenged, expression unreadable.
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. It was like they were suspended in it, unable to move neither forward not back. It settled on Charlie’s chest, pressing down, until he could feel it slip between his ribs.
He cracked.
Rolling his shoulders to rid some of the tension, he dropped his jacket next to Carstairs’ duffel on the mats. His shirt followed. Knox looked at him – just for a second too long – before stepping into position. His stance was textbook.
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you just precious.”
Knox didn’t respond.
They move simultaneously, circling around once. Twice. Charlie arched an eyebrow in silent question, and Knox simply inclined his head. So, naturally, Charlie threw the first punch. It was light, just testing the waters. Knox parried easily.
Charlie went for the attack, again. And then another time. The first was aimed for his jaw, the other was a hook toward his side. Knox parried both without breaking rhythm, his expression almost bored.
“Seriously?” Charlie said between swings. “Didn’t know I had to fuck you so you’d start pulling your punches.”
Knox’s brow twitched. He ducked a hit to the shoulder and stepped back.
“Don’t start.”
“Then fucking fight me,” he growled, aiming another blow at his ribs. Knox blocked it without retaliation. Just dancing out of the way.
“Hit me,” it was spoken like a command, Charlie glaring at him as they stood staring at each other.
Knox remained mute. Holding his ground. Looking at him with such an unreadable look Charlie was this close to start climbing the walls. He wanted to rattle him. He wanted to – just, fucking break him.
So, he pushed.
“Why’s Penhallow been so twitchy lately? Like the stick in his butt has crawled deeper?”
Knox’s gaze darkened – just for a second. But it was enough for Charlie to catch it. To latch on it. He fainted left and Knox fell for it. Charlie managed a jab to his shoulder. It landed beautifully, made him stumble.
“Come on, Carstairs. I know something’s up. And I know you know.”
Knox didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Charlie huffed a breath. And then he kept talking, twisting the knife.
“Is it Cartwright?” he asked, tone too casual to not be calculated. “It is, isn’t it? What’s the deal with him? Why do you look like you’re going to set him on fire every time he walks into the Ops center?”
Knox’s shoulders tensed, and Charlie’s lips uncurled into a smirk.
“Why does Penhallow look like he’s gonna throw up every time he sees him?” Charlie stepped closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Are they dating? Are they exes? Did he fuck you both and leave you to sort it out?”
The punch came quick and clean, right under Charlie’s ribs. It knocked the breath from his lungs, folding him sideways as the ache lit up every nerve ending in his torso.
He coughed once, laughed through the ache. “There he is.”
He didn’t have time to brace for impact. Knox lunged forward like a bullet, shoulder to gut, arms locking around his waist. They slammed into the mat, the sound echoing like thunder off stone. Charlie hit the floor hard, the breath he’d just managed to catch once again whooshing out of him.
But he couldn’t really bring himself to care too much. Not when Knox pinned him down, one forearm braced across Charlie’s chest, his breath wild and shallow against his ear.
“You don’t get to ask,” Knox growled, barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to dig around just to piss me off.”
Charlie blinked up at him, the pain in his ribs flaring hotter now. “Jealousy looks good on you,” he rasped. “Really brings out the sanctimonious rage.”
Knox’s arm pressed harder across his chest, cutting off what little air Charlie had left. “I said, don’t,” he spat. His whole body vibrated with tension, as if every inch of him was trying to stay still and failing. “This is not a game, Charlie.”
“Right,” he muttered, voice flat. “It never is with you and Penhallow.”
And that’s when Knox kissed him.
Hands sliding up into his hair, body pressing down against his. The two of them grinded together, close enough to feel every inch of the others skin. Charlie shoved back up against him, all nails and teeth and spit, his finger snatching that stupid, sweat-damp shirt to pull him impossibly close.
The kiss broke only when Charlie let out a half-choked breath and flipped them. He rested on top of Knox’s lap, knees bracketing either side of his hips, glaring down at him.
“You’re fucking terrible at talking,” he snapped.
Knox’s hand slid to his jaw, his thumb dragging across Charlie’s lower lip. “Like you’re any better.”
Charlie made a noise deep in his chest, before surging forward to kiss him again. His ribs screamed in pain, but he didn’t stop. He braced his hands on Knox’s chest, searching for a better angle, his hips rolling down, teasingly.
Knox’s back arched off the mat, and Charlie had to tighten his hips to not get thrown off. His heartbeat thundered underneath his ribs, underneath Charlie’s palms.
“You should come by tonight,” Knox muttered between kisses, fingers sliding beneath the hem of Charlie’s shirt.
Charlie stilled for a fraction of a second. “What?”
“After your patrol. I can text you the address, if you don’t remember it.”
Charlie scoffed. Pulled back. “Not happening.”
“Why not?” Knox pushed up onto his elbows. “Does it make it harder to pretend this means nothing if we fuck in my bed?”
“This does mean nothing,” Charlie shot back. A knee-jerk reaction.
Knox’s eyes narrowed. “See? You’re great at pretending. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Charlie was already halfway to standing, grabbing his shirt and shoving his arms into the sleeves, when he turned back and punched him. Square in the jaw.
Knox fell back against the mattress, blinking up at him.
Charlie didn’t wait. “You’re not meant for casual, Carstairs,” he muttered. “Stop pretending like you are.”
And with that, he walked out.
Charlie wasn’t going to show up.
He had no reason to show up.
Carstairs clearly couldn’t do casual and this – this couldn’t be anything else.
So, he had no reason to show up.
He told himself that at least three times between leaving the Institute and heading out for patrol. Once while climbing the fire escape to chase Ravener. Twice while Neil bitch and moaned about how he hadn’t given him the signal they were going after a whole Ravener nest – Charlie had totally given him the fucking signal.
And yet… here he was.
Standing outside Carstairs’ apartment door like some kind of idiot. He knocked once, before shaking his head and spinning on his heel, making a beeline for the staircase. Only to drag himself right back to knock twice more.
The door swung open almost instantly, and of course Carstairs was shirtless. Hair damp. Towel around his neck. Charlie bit on his tongue until he could taste blood.
“Do you live inside the shower?” he gritted through his teeth, his gaze locking on a single drop of water resting peacefully over Knox’s upper lip.
“You’re late,” Knox said instead of answering, stepping back like he’d been expecting him.
Charlie scowled. “I wasn’t coming.”
Knox’s mouth curved, fingers flexing around the edge of the door. “You want me to lock you out?”
“Shut up.” Charlie brushed past him, ignoring the warmth of the room, the smell, the fact that Knox had clearly just gotten out of the shower. “I’m here because I was in the neighborhood.”
The door of the apartment shut with a soft click. He heard Knox pad softly across the room, heading toward the open kitchen. He took a glass out of one of the cupboards, filled it with water.
“The Institute is across town,” he said with a half-smile, before taking a sip.
Charlie threw him a look. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?”
Carstairs didn’t respond. Again. He drunk the rest of his water, then leaned against the counter, crossing his arm lazily. Charlie did not notice the way his biceps flexed, and Carstairs definitely didn’t clock him not noticing.
Charlie wanted to punch the fucking smirk off his face.
“You hungry?” he asked after a beat, in that infuriatingly casual way of his. “Or are we skipping to the part where you punch me before getting naked?”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “You’re so smug it’s disgusting,” he said, like he hadn’t just visualized punching him in the mouth and then licking the blood off his lips.
“Didn’t hear a no.”
And that was the problem. Charlie didn’t say no. He didn’t turn around to leave. Didn’t wipe his hands clean like he should’ve. Instead, he kicked his boots off, muttering something about ‘getting this over with’.
Knox pushed off where he was leaning, closing the distance between them with the kind of lazy precision that drove Charlie half insane.
“You’re dripping all over the floor,” he drawled, but didn’t move when Knox got close enough for the head to seep into his skin. “Like a damn mutt. Didn’t anybody break you in?”
Knox dipped his head just enough for their noses to almost brush. His gaze was smoldering. “My floors, my rules,” he murmured. “And you’re more than willing to try.”
There was a bit of silence, the two of them standing there, seizing each other up. Slowly, painfully so, Charlie lifted his hand, fingers ghosting over the material of the towel still slung around Knox’s neck. He saw him swallow, and he internally swore. This was exactly what he’d told himself wouldn’t happen.
Five seconds later, Charlie was yanking at the towel, pulling Knox to him. It was mess, and fast, and everything that he expected from the second he knocked on the door. Knox’s hands were hot and firm, his mouth determined. They stumbled back into the wall, laughing once, breathless not happy, before Knox’s thigh slid between his and Charlie decided that was enough standing.
They barely made it to the bedroom.
Knox was annoyingly good with his hands. Infuriatingly good with his mouth. And Charlie… well, Charlie was not going to think about that too much. Or how this was slowly, but surely, becoming a thing. Or how, once again, he somehow fell asleep. Tangled in Carstairs’ bedsheets. Because the universe hated him personally, apparently.
The first thing he registered when he blinked his eyes awake was the faint smell of cedar and soap clinging to his pillow. The second was how pliant and relaxed his spine felt. The third was Carstairs’ absence.
Charlie sat up too fast, scowling at himself. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, scrubbing both hands over his face. He dressed quickly, throwing on the same clothes he’d arrived in, whispering curses under his breath as he walked barefoot down the hall.
He stopped short on the archway to the living room.
Knox was passed out on the couch. One arm thrown over his eyes, the other hanging off the edge. His legs were still half-bent like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep there. The soft rise and fall of his chest was steady, the fabric of his sweatpants creased.
A familiar white booklet rested against his stomach, threatening to slide off.
Charlie stared at him for a minute. Or maybe they were two, it’s not like he was actually counting them down. He was just… taking him in. Knox Carstairs in a state of complete calmness was a rare sight. That was all. Charlie was appreciating the… novelty of the moment.
Still, even deep in sleep, Knox looked tired. Like weeks of not sleeping right had finally caught up with him. Charlie felt a slight twist in his gut at the thought that he might be responsible for half of Knox’s tiredness. And then he quickly shoved the thought aside. Carstairs clearly didn’t spend that much time thinking about Charlie, and whatever was going on with him was definitely not Charlie’s business.
And yet – he moved forward anyway.
Carefully. Plucked the booklet from Knox’s stomach before it could hit the floor. He had seen him carrying it around the Institute one too many times, but he’d never taken a good look at it. Blue columns were depicted on the front cover, in the ionic order, but there was no title. The book was very obviously old. Hand-stitched. The corners were soft from use, frayed. Charlie flipped it open, not knowing what to expect.
Doodle? Notes? Something about ancient architectural styles?
What he found instead was script. But not any normal kind of script. No, the book was written in Enochian.
His brows furrowed. He flipped a few more pages. The handwriting was precise, but the text shimmered faintly in the low light. He turned another page, and his stomach dropped.
A familiar symbol stared back at him. Jagged. Sharp-lined. And then another. And another. The marking found on their murder victim – on Todd’s aunt. All three of them.
He blinked, his pulse roaring in his throat. Before he could think better of it, he reached down and placed a careful hand on Knox’s shoulder.
“Hey,” he said, voice low. Gentler than he’d intended. “Carstairs.”
Knox stirred. Rubbed a hand over his eyes, screwing them tighter shut, before they blinked open. He groaned softly, shifting to look at him, hair mussed and gaze bleary with sleep.
“Wha –”
Charlie held up the booklet.
Knox blinked again. He suddenly looked much more alert. He sat up slowly, eyes flicking between the booklet and Charlie, tension slipping into his shoulder like a reflex.
“Where did you -?”
“You were holding it,” Charlie said smoothly. “You passed out. I didn’t know you were doubling as an Enochian translator in your spare time.”
Knox exhaled hard. Scrubbed a hand over his face.
Charlie stood there, arms crossed now. “I’m not going to ask why you’ve been keeping this a secret –”
Knox looked up sharply. “I wasn’t – ” he tried to interject.
“ – but we’re working on it together from now on,” he concluded like he hadn’t been interrupted.
“I didn’t know you knew Enochian.”
“Again, there are many things you don’t know about me. Also, I went to the Academy too.”
“Why do you want to work on a translation?”
“I don’t. But I do have a vested interest in ritualistic murders, thanks. And this,” he waved the book around a little, “has everything to do with the case.”
Knox looked at him a beat longer, chest rising and falling like he was trying to catch his breath.
“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
Charlie offered a grim smile. “Not a chance.”
Chapter 23: And who’ll love me if I’m not the top of my school?
Notes:
Hello, nice people of the internet!! How has your week been?? Mine was uneventful, thankfully! This chapter is a bit late, but technically it's still Wednesday to some parts of the world so I'll take that as a win! This is short of a bonus chapter - but not really. I'm only calling it that because we weren't supposed to get a pov from this particular person in part 1 of the story, but here we are! I had a lot of fun writing this, a love a messy queen - and she's going to be even messier as we head towards the end of part 1! I hope you all like it as well!! Let me know your thoughts in the comments, and we'll see each other next week!
Chapter Text
Christina Penhallow was born the only daughter of Edmund Lovelace and Evelynn Penhallow. She was the spitting image of her father, and the second-greatest achievement of her mother. The first, of course, being the year Evelynn was named Inquisitor.
Chris had blonde hair that curled ever so slightly over her ears, sharp, clever eyes, and the kind of smile that could be polite or lethal, depending on the situation. She also grew up to always – always – be in the shadow of her cousin.
Not because Gerard was a boy. Or because he was smarter – which, he wasn’t. Or even because he could manipulate everyone in a two-mile radius ever since he was four. No, Chris could do all of that as well. It was just the way things were.
When they were young, she and Gerard were inseparable. Both only children, both burdened with the Penhallow legacy, their mothers made sure they were together often enough to pass as siblings. Chris would dress Gerard up and force him to drink tea with her dolls; Gerard would use the invitation as an excuse to escape his own home.
Gerard’s parents had always been stricter than hers. Chris used to feel bad for him, especially on the days when her Aunt Elaine would come to collect him mid-game.
“Now, now, don’t pout like that, Gerard. You need to study more if you ever intend to be a leader someday,” her Aunt would say, grabbing his arm and guiding him away.
They were six. Six.
Chris actually enjoyed the leniency of her parents. Where Gerard was pushed to excel in every conceivable metric – grades, combat scores, politics, influence – Evelynn pushed Chris in no particular direction at all. She was free to try out any hobby she liked. She was free to skip training if she didn’t feel like it. She was even free to skip school, as long as her grades remained impeccable.
It wasn’t subtle, the way the Penhallow sisters had clearly decided their futures before they were even out of the womb. Gerard was always going to be groomed into the position of the next Consul. And Chris was always going to be the face of the family. Gerard would lead from the top seat; and she would stand beside him, charming enough to make people want to follow.
Chris was okay with that arrangement. For a while.
When Gerard met Knox Carstairs it quickly became obvious that this wasn’t just another friendship. Chris met him too, of course – it was hard not to, when the two boys kept circling each other like twin planets, unable to leave the other’s orbit. Their relationship felt inevitable, almost like it was set in stone before it even began.
Not long after Knox came into their lives, Chris met Ginny Cartwright, and the four of them were practically glued together. Until Evelynn decided that in order to ‘broaden her education’ Chris needed to leave Alicante and train at the New York Institute. She hadn’t realized back then, but she now knew, it was nothing more than a political maneuver. The general atmosphere in Idris betrayed that Alec Lightwood was going to be appointed Inquisitor not that far into the future, and Evelynn wanted her daughter right under his nose.
Chris had only been eleven years old when she and Ginny were sent to New York, seemingly overnight. And against all the odds, the change was exactly what she had needed. She was finally away from her mother’s critique and that constant ‘not quite enough’ that seemed to haunt every single achievement. At least Elaine, for all her faults, could admit when Gerard was doing a good job. For Evelynn, Chris could be everything she was supposed to be – polished, strategic, flawless – and it would still somehow fall short.
“ – but that’s not how evidence works, I’m sorry,” Ginny’s voice rung sharp through the Ops center and Chris violently snapped into attention.
Chet’s mouth flickered – not quite a frown, not quite a smile. “By definition, that’s literally how evidence works, Genevieve.”
Ginny bristled, her gaze narrowing as she looked at her brother. She had her arms crossed; her fingers curled over her biceps. Her irritation was so palpable that if Chris was in Chet’s place she’d fear for her life. Then again, Chet’s instinct of self-preservation had never been sharpened.
“Don’t call me that,” Ginny said, keeping her voice smooth, and cold. “And don’t patronize me.”
Chet’s head tilted on the size, that familiar mocking sparkle making its way in his eyes. “I am trying to explain that everything we’ve found at the scene suggests the murders were the product of a rogue warlock.”
Gerard – standing by the wall, shoulders too tense for casual – shifted ever so little. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Chet. Which wasn’t surprising, given their history. Knox was at his side, keeping his body loose and lax, but his fingers were curled inside the pockets of his hoodie. The only thing stopping him from decking Chet was, she suspected, Gerard’s presence. Neil, meanwhile, looked like he’d wandered into the wrong meeting entirely – confused, for sure, but his head just kept shaking negatively every time Chet brought up warlocks.
“Oh,” Charlie said flatly, “you’re seeing exactly what you want to see and ignoring the actual evidence.”
Chet’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes cooled. “And what would you consider actual evidence, Blackthorn.”
“The kind that doesn’t fit together just a little too neatly,” Charlie shot back, without missing a beat.
Ginny made a sound in her throat. One that sounded alarmingly like approval. “And preferably not the kind being spoon-fed to us in prepackaged conclusions,” she added.
Chet let the silence stretch a beat too long before smiling again. “You two are very confident for people who haven’t seen all the reports.”
“Maybe we don’t need to,” Ginny countered.
“What are the reports going to tell me exactly, huh?” Charlie cut in. “No warlock is stupid enough to do this and leave actual evidence behind! I can’t believe we’re still entertaining this!” he snapped, turning to Neil as if looking for salvation.
Neil’s eyes widened slightly, as if in warning. But when he spoke his voice was even. “I think I have to agree with that. A warlock wouldn’t be this sloppy.”
“Also, since you brought it up, Chet,” Ginny said, using his name as a slur, “why don’t we have access to all the files? This is a joined investigation, is it not?”
“It is,” Chet said slowly, deliberately. His gaze flicked to Gerard, just for a short second. “But right now you’re on a need-to-know clearance level.”
“I’m sorry, need-to-know?” Knox echoed, his voice a shade lower than usual. Chris noticed him flexing his fingers inside his pocket. Once. Twice. Following a pattern, a rhythm. Probably counting his breaths.
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s when you only know what the people getting paid more than you do, wants you to know,” Chet explained, words heavily laced with sarcasm.
The corner of Knox’s mouth twitched. Not in amusement. He took one step forward, only one, and Chris felt the room in the temperature drop.
“Careful now, Carstairs,” Chet taunted, still in that annoying voice, “it looks like you’re about to do something there’s no return from.”
Chris let a small scoff under her breath. Her gaze slid over to Ginny who was rolling her eyes at her brother’s self-importance. It was Charlie though, sitting closer to the top of the table, that got her attention. He slowly stood up, bracing his hands on the steel table and leaning his weight forward, just enough to put himself in Knox’s line of sight. “Not worth it,” he murmured, voice low but carrying. Their eyes locked for a tense beat.
Chris hadn’t known Charlie for long, but even she could see the irony in his attempt to deescalate the situation. Much like a man trying to stop another from setting a fire while holding a lit match.
Knox didn’t answer. His jaw was set so tight it was a miracle he hadn’t broken a molar. He took another step forward, lifted his chin, his gaze dark and a little dangerous as he looked at Chet. This side of Knox didn’t come out too often, but whenever it did Chris sat a little bit straighter in her seat. It was a lot like realizing, belatedly, that you had walked in a room with a predator.
“Remember how it took my five minutes to break your jaw last time?” He asked, his voice even and smooth. “It will only take two now.”
Chet’s smirk faltered for half a second. Blink-and-you-miss-it. No one around the table missed it.
“Knox,” Gerard cut in, calm, almost conversational. “Not here.”
Knox held Chet’s gaze for one beat longer, then exhaled slowly and fell back. Not relaxed, but no longer an imminent threat to Chet’s wellbeing. Across from him Charlie scoffed, lips curling into a bitter smirk.
“Great talk. I’m done,” he announced to no one in particular, before turning on his heel and storming out without waiting for a dismissal.
Neil quickly jumped up, mumbling a quick apology as he started after him. Knox’s eyes shifted, trailing the both of them until they were lost behind the bent of the corridor. He angled his body, like he was thinking of going after them, but then Gerard’s hand landed on his forearm. Knox didn’t startle, but he seemed to snap back into himself.
Chris lingered in her seat, letting the exodus flow around her. Ginny had vanished out the door without looking at her brother, Knox and Geard pretended to look over some notes on their case while doing the silent communication thing they loved to do. And Chet… Chet looked like he wanted to pretend he hadn’t just been rattled.
Chris’ lips curled into a private, amused smirk as she pushed her chair back. If this was how the day was starting, it was definitely going to be fun.
She found her best friend exactly where she went looking for her. The weaponry. The room was dimly, lit mostly by the glow of the strip lights along the ceiling, cold blue bouncing off the stainless-steel surfaces. Ginny sat at the long bench, hair pulled in a quick messy knot, her jacket tossed aside. Her gaze hard and focused as she ran the whetstone along the edge of her blade.
Chris stopped at the door and leaned against the frame, studying her. It was clear from her aura that she was still thinking of the events that transpired during the case briefing. Everything about her buzzed. Not for the first time Chris wondered what Ginny’s anger would feel like in the back of her consciousness, if they’d gone through with the parabatai ritual. Not for the first time the thought made her taste something bitter rise in her throat.
It didn’t make sense to her, and Chris doubted it ever would.
They had been fourteen when they decided they were going to be parabatai, already leaving away from home for three whole years. They trained together, they studied together, they fought and patrolled together. Everyone in New York knew that Chris-and-Ginny was a cojoined entity, two names only separated by the hyphen binding them together. Chris had assumed it was inevitable.
And then, somewhere between deciding and actually doing it, Ginny had pulled back. Slowly, at first – a missed conversation here, a flash of an unreadable expression there. Then all at once. A quiet, no, without a satisfying enough explanation.
The timing hadn’t helped. Gerard and Knox had shown up from Alicante around then, and Ginny had looked at them like she was reassessing the entire map. Within a year, she was eighteen and gone, hopping Institutes like she was chasing something only she could see.
Chris pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, the sound of her boots echoing around the room. “Your whole aura screams murder. Planning your brother’s assassination?”
Ginny didn’t look up. “I would never do that.”
Chris hummed, amused. “No of course not… And Gerard would definitely never help you not do it,” she said, sliding onto the table right in front of where Ginny was sitting.
“Can you blame him after all the shit Chet pulled on him?” Ginny asked, glancing at her through her laces. “He sure has lots of balls showing up like that.”
Chris shifted a little, leaning back on her hands and getting more comfortable. “Well, I don’t really know what happened between them –”
“Chet used him to get what he wanted,” Ginny cut in, nostrils flaring. “And then tossed him as soon as he got that teaching position. Just like he does with everyone.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you’d go this hard over Gerard’s broken heart.”
Ginny shook her head, setting the blade down beside Chris’ thigh. “This isn’t about Gerard, this is –” she paused, chewed on her lip. “He is just such an asshole, you know? He’s always been an asshole and now – showing up out of the blue, I –” she broke off with a low groan, her fist hitting against the table.
Chris head fell on the side, her eyes softening as she looked at her friend. “Mm, it has been a while since I’ve witnessed any Cartwright sibling drama up close.”
“No, no,” Ginny shook her head, several brown curls falling loose around her face. “No drama. I’m not giving him the satisfaction.”
“Good. He doesn’t deserve it.”
“I know…” Ginny sighed, dragged a hand down her face. “I hate hearing him talk out of his ass. That whole ‘rogue warlock’ thing? And the way he kept pushing it? Who’s buying that?”
Chris gave her a pointed look. “No one around that table did. He was trying too hard.”
Ginny stared at her. “You think he was pushing an angle? Not just… being his usual racist self?”
Chris gave a small shrug, her lips pulling into a small frown. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Two things can be true at the same time.”
Ginny nodded slowly, then picked the blade back up and balanced it on two fingers. She was quiet for a moment before saying, “If your boyfriend had gone for that punch, I would’ve taken the second one.”
Chris chuckled. “Ex-boyfriend,” she corrected. “And I know you would’ve.”
Ginny’s mouth wobbled – a ghost of her eyes – but her eyes remained on Chris for a second too long, trailing over her features with sudden intensity. Then she blinked, the moment breaking, the whetstone back in her hand.
Chris liked that intensity about her. She reached for one of her throwing stars, in the belt of her pants. “You’re coming with me to practice later. I need to make sure you won’t slash your way through Chet’s gear.”
Ginny smirked. “I’m not an amateur. If I go for it I won’t get caught.”
Chris arched an eyebrow. “Mm, no. You’re too emotionally involved in this. You’ll get distracted, fail to make a clean run.”
“That happened one time,” Ginny defended herself.
Chris laughed under her breath. “It happens every time your brother is involved, Gin. And I’m the one who has to bail you out.”
Ginny tilted her head, eyes shining a little mischievously in the eerily lit room. “And yet, here you are, after all these years. Still hanging around me, like you don’t know any better. Like you can’t stay away from me.”
“Please,” Chris scoffed, flipping the throwing star in her palm with casual precision. “If someone can’t stay away, that’s definitely you. What happened to taking a position at the Hague Institute?”
Ginny blinked at her, but didn’t otherwise give an answer.
Chris’ lips stretched into her smile. “Exactly. Besides, you’re the kind of chaos I’ve learned to manage.”
Ginny gave a mock salute with her blade. “Glad to know I’m the one keeping you on your toes, future Madame Consul.”
Chris rolled her eyes but didn’t hide the grin that crept in. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re stuck with me,” Ginny shot back, her tone betraying some softness.
“I guess I am. Though promise that, if you do end up ruining your brother’s gear, you’ll get rid off that fucking harness he insists on wearing. He looks too much like an incel.”
Ginny laughed, the sound echoing around the room. “Oh, you just had to go there, didn’t you?”
“It’s not my fault he decides to walk the streets looking like abstinence personified,” Chris said with a smirk, tossing the throwing star once in the air before catching it. “Come on. Let’s go, you owe me at least half an hour of training.”
Ginny whined loudly, but stood up nonetheless, the two of them easily falling into step as they made their way to the training grounds.
It was weird being around Gerard again.
They always seemed to come together only to be torn apart – first when they were kids, then again after he’d shown up in New York. She had been sent away at the age of eleven, and he’d followed when he was fifteen. And then, seemingly on a whim, he’d run to Boston half a year ago, scattering the pieces again.
It felt like Chris kept wasting time learning the shape of his absence, letting herself settle into it, only for them to go crashing in each other’s lives again.
And the thing was, Chris loved her cousin. She did. She wasn’t particularly fond of the way he kept sabotaging his own successes by being greedy and headstrong, but she loved him. And that was why she’d agreed to this transfer, that was why she’d gone along with Elaine’s request; keep an eye on him, make sure he was safe, make sure he was careful.
Chris turned into a side corridor, and then immediately stepped back, flattening against the wall to avoid a squad of Shadowhunters moving at a fast pace. Their boots echoed on the marble, their voice low, and clipped. Two different patrol units passed her, still in gear, runes gleaming on their skin, heading toward the east wing like they had somewhere to be now.
That was strange enough for this time of the morning, but the sight that really made her come into a stop was the tall, angular figure stepping through the main entrance. Pristinely clean gear. Clave envoy patch around his bicep. That made even less sense. No one had mentioned an envoy coming in, and Chris made it her business to know these things.
She spotted Gerard a few yards ahead, coming from the opposite corridor, looking like he’d just stepped off a battlefield. Gear unfastened at the collar. Hair mussed. A bruise forming on the left side of his face, starting under his eye and spreading all the way to his jaw.
She caught up with him easily. “Busy day for Boston,” she remarked lightly, tilting her head so a curtain of straight blonde hair fell messily over her face.
Gerard’s gaze didn’t flicker. He gave a half-shrug. “Routine.”
“Mm, sure,” Chris’ tone was airy but edged. “So, this has nothing to do with the food shortages reported in South American Institutes? Or the spike demon activity? Or maybe the sudden, very public brawls popping up in the mundane newsfeeds?”
His eyes slid to hers briefly before turning forward again. “Is this going somewhere?” Gerard cut her off.
Chris’ smile was just sharp enough to make him fasten his step. “Just making conversation.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Gerard said flatly, not bothering to look at her.
“So in light of that…” she trailed off, her heels clicking against the floor, “why don’t we bond a little?” she nudged his arm with her shoulder, grinning when she noticed the tension setting on his jaw. “How’s your sleeping schedule lately?”
That earned her the briefest flick of his gaze. “Fine.”
“Really?” She asked, the inflection heavy in her voice. “Because I’ve noticed you’ve been out a lot at night. Pretty sure I saw you slip away after patrol last night. Around two? Or was it three?”
Gerard didn’t break stride. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I’m sure you do. Last night wasn’t even the first time. And something tells me it won’t be the last either, will it?”
Gerard didn’t say anything.
Chris bit on her cheek, and lengthened her steps until she was back in line with him. “To go and risk your whole future, especially now that you’ve finally made it in the room, only to satisfy your –”
“I’m not risking anything,” her cut in, tone quick and sharp. He gave her a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth pulling downward. “I don’t know what you think you know, Christina, but whatever it is – you’re wrong.”
She tilted her head, all mock innocence. “And yet you’re awfully jumpy for someone whose cousin doesn’t know anything.”
They walked silently for a few steps, the noise of the patrol units fading behind them.
When Gerard finally spoke, his tone shifted, softened. “We’ve been through enough to know this – what’s been going on the past two weeks – it’s not us. We watch out for each other, no matter what. This is all them. Don’t give our mothers the satisfaction of destroying us like they’ve destroyed everything they’ve touched.”
Chris’ jaw tightened. “This is not an us versus them situation, Gerard.”
“No?”
“No,” she answered, her voice cut. “Nobody is out to get you. This isn’t a choice between you and the family. But even if it were, you are still family. So, in any case this is a false choice. You don’t want me to prove my loyalty to you, you want me to denounce our family.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“Oh, but I think it is,” she smiled sweetly. “And I think you don’t like that I’m not playing along.”
They stopped at the junction of two halls, the space between them tense, the air thick enough to be cut with one of Chris’ throwing stars.
“You know,” she said slowly, once the silence had stretched taut. “Aunt Elaine’s not the only one who’d be interested in knowing you’ve been vanishing every night. I’m sure if I were to mention it to the right person, the rumor will make it to Alicante by tonight.”
Gerard’s gaze went cold in an instant. “You wouldn’t.”
Chris tapped a manicured finger against her chin, as though considering it. “Of course not,” she said finally, a far too sweet smile curling on her lips. “We’re family, remember?”
For half a second, she thought he might say something worth hearing – something real – but he only scoffed and stepped back. His expression smoothed into the sort of polite neutrality that made her want to throw something.
“Stay out of my business, Chris.”
She let him walk away first, deliberately slow to follow, satisfaction curling low in her chest at the rigid line of his shoulders.
Being around Knox was even weirder than being around Gerard.
Chris had met Knox Carstairs when she was a little older than six, back when his family moved on Gerard’s street in Alicante from Nice. His parents had just stepped down from running the Institute there to take cushy diplomatic positions in Idris. Knox had been a head taller than her even then, all elbows and knees, shy to a painful degree, and somehow managing to trip over his own feet every other step.
If Gerard’s parents were strict, Knox’s were downright tyrannical. His days were planned down to the minute, and his curriculum was decided jointly by his parents. Rune studies, history – mundane and Shadowhunter alike – political theory, three different languages – that rotated every six months, and music, which Knox clearly hated but his parents doubled down with vengeance.
When Knox met Gerard, when it became apparent they were meant to be in each other’s lives for the long haul, his parents hated it. Apparently his parents were against soul bonding rituals. They enlisted a brutal curfew, which allowed him to get out of the house only to go to the Academy. They monitored his friendships like they were monitoring a potential prison break. They banned Gerard from their house, and banned Knox from visiting his.
The one loophole? Chris. She was safe. Pretty and polite, top of her class, a Penhallow, which came with a build in set of advantages – just like being a Carstairs did. And most importantly Chris wasn’t looking for a parabatai. Well, at six, none of them were, but paranoia was a Carstairs family trait. So, hanging out at her house was okay. Of course the boys took advantage of that which meant that all their playdates were suddenly hosted at her house, where Gerard and Knox could sneak off to and concoct their weekly terrors, while she pretended not to notice.
Back then, Knox had never looked at her twice. They’d roughhoused, traded insults, occasionally drawn blood, and called it friendship. It wasn’t until they met again in New York, years later that Knox started looking at her like she’d grown an extra layer of intrigue. Chris was a little taller now, a little sharper, and much more confident after being away from Idris for so long. And she’d caught him looking, several times. Still, for months he never made a move, which amused Chris to no end, because she’d been very obviously flirting with him.
They started dating at seventeen, after she finally got tired of waiting and kissed him first. They were on a spiraling staircase and Knox almost lost his footing, grabbing at her shoulders to keep from falling down. Chris had laughed at him, and Knox just stared at her, like she’d hung the stars in the night sky. He then cupped her face with both hands and kissed her back with this hesitant, careful hit, as if she were something breakable, and didn’t want to be the one responsible for the crack.
It lasted almost a year. Long enough for Chris to know she loved him – very much so. Long enough for her to realize it was never going to last. Knox was perfect on paper; steady, loyal, the kind of person who made everyone else feel steadier just by standing in the same room. He loved her too; she knew that. But he loved her in a way that was almost… muted. His love felt like sunlight rays breaking through heavy curtains – warm enough to be felt, but never quite touching her skin.
What hurt the most, what drove the proverbial nail in the coffin of their relationship, was the fact that Knox didn’t seem to need her. Not the way she needed him. He didn’t lean on her when things got hard – he didn’t lean on anyone. Chris had always been the one pushing closer, the one looking for cracks to slip through, while he stayed comfortable whole. Sure, Knox loved her, he desired her, but he never really allowed himself to want her.
And then there was Gerard. Gerard, who had always been more important, ever since they were six. Not in a competition kind of way, not quite, but in the way Knox’s loyalty ran bone-deep, instinctive. Part of his soul. If Gerard needed him, he would go. No hesitation. Chris could’ve been bleeding out in one room and Gerard could’ve stubbed his toe in another, and Knox would have checked on him first.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, after all Gerard already had everything – the family favor, the natural inclination for politics, the weight of expectation in his hands like it was custom-made for him. Why would he stop at taking Knox as well? Chris had fought tooth and nail to keep him, and Knox would’ve probably stayed if she hadn’t given up halfway through. In the end, she broke it off herself, afraid that she wouldn’t recover if Knox did it first.
Being around him again now, Chris didn’t like all the feelings it brought up. The inadequacy. The quiet resentment that had bloomed just before the end. The faint, traitorous ache under her ribs every time she caught the scent of his cologne. And she didn’t even have the luxury of keeping her distance. Not when Elaine’s instructions had been so clear.
That particular night, she hadn’t been looking for him. She was tired, overworked and overstimulated. She needed to sleep, but in order to do that she had to shut up her brain. Usually training worked like a charm, so she headed for the training grounds after curfew.
And that was where she found them.
Because Knox wasn’t alone.
Charlie Blackthorn was pressed up against him, shirt rumpled, hair mussed and looking… smug. Knox was crowding him against a wall, a forearm to his collarbone looking torn between taking a swing and kissing him. Charlie resolved the issue by grabbing his nape and crashing their mouths together.
Chris slowed her steps, taking it in. Knox’s knuckles white where they pressed against the wall. Charlie’s finger curling into his shirt. The air around them tight, electric.
Chris felt a quick jab under her ribs. It wasn’t jealousy, at least not in the traditional sense. She’d moved on; there had been others in the eight years since she’d broken up with Knox. But she’d be lying if she said she didn’t miss the way Knox’s attention used to belong entirely to her. There was something… addictive, almost, about being the focus of someone as controlled, as quietly dangerous as Knox Carstairs. And she definitely didn’t think Charlie Blackthorn – cocky, stubborn, reckless – was good enough for him.
Knox was the first one to notice her, his gaze finding hers a second before Charlie’s did. He stepped back almost immediately, muttering something under his breath that Chris couldn’t quite catch. Charlie scoffed, pushing at his shoulder, widening the distance between them. Knox sighed, tried to reach for him, but his hand got slapped away.
Chris stepped forward like she’d just remembered she had legs, letting her gaze travel from Knox’s mussed hair to his flushed mouth before meeting his eyes. She smiled, showing teeth. “Wow. Some things never change.”
Charlie’s head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing.
“Chris,” Knox said, her name spoken as a warning.
She ignored it. “The pin-up-against-the wall is still your go to move,” she noted, tilting her head. “Admittedly a ten out of ten. Would recommend to close friends… and even to some enemies.”
Chris kept her distance but leaned in just enough that her perfume hit before her words did. Her voice was smooth, velvet like, as she tapped her fingers against his chest in passing, tracing the dip between his pecks like she was reacquainting herself with his body.
Charlie’s mouth pressed into a hard line, and she had to swallow a chuckle.
Knox’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t step back. “Chris,” he repeated, more firmly this time.
She gave him a sweet, unbothered smile. “Relax, Carstairs. I’m just saying hello.”
Charlie’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Yeah. I’m sure that’s what this is,” he all but spat, eyes blazing when he looked at Knox. They held contact for a long, loaded moment and then he pushed away from the wall and started for the door without another word.
Knox took a step like he meant to follow, but Chris shifted into his path – just enough to make him stop. “Let him cool off,” she said lightly, almost friendly. “You know how guys like him are.”
His eyes narrowed. “Guys like him?”
“Mm,” she hummed. “Volatile ones. Like fireworks. They burn, colorful, bright, everyone looks up at them for a second… and then they’re gone. Just smoke and noise. No substance.”
Knox didn’t flinch, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there. “You’re overstepping.”
“I’m just saying,” she went on, taking Charlie’s place against the wall, her gaze raking him slow from head to toe. “Don’t mistake dangerous for worth it. You used to be better at telling the difference.”
“And you used to mind your own business.”
“You used to be my business,” she said, voice low, but not gentle. “And we both know I was better at managing you than whatever that is.”
“Managing me?” Knox echoed, eyes narrowing, darkening. “Like a fucking project?”
She gave a soft eyeroll. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I was better at keeping up, figuring out what you wanted when you got too lost in your head to talk to me.”
A vein ticked dangerously on his crown. “You think you know me that well?” he asked, his voice dipping low.
Chris tilted her head, blonde hair falling over one eye. “Oh, please, Knox. I can see behind the ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude. You want this to be something, and you’re afraid he doesn’t.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her lips curled. “Knox, there are many things I don’t know, but you? Oh, babe, you’ve always been an over-thinker.” She took a slow step closer, keeping her eyes locked on his. “Remember our first date? How I left without saying goodnight and you spent two days trying to decipher what it meant? When in reality I hadn’t even noticed?”
“That was different.”
“Was it?” she asked, feigning curiosity. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. And maybe –” her gaze flicked deliberately toward the door Charlie had stormed through “- it already has, but it just didn’t make a sound.”
Knox’s lips pressed together, but he didn’t take the bait. “You were always good at making things sound worse than they are.”
“And you were always good at proving right, eventually,” she countered, her voice honey-sweet and lethal.
He let out a short breath – half a laugh, half frustration. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
Chris shrugged unbothered. “What can I say? Old habits die hard, and you… well, you’re still very easy to read.”
“I’m not seventeen anymore,” he said, the words clipped.
“No,” she agreed, her smile turning into something with jagged edges. “You’re older. Stronger. Smarter. Which makes it even more interesting that you’re tripping all over yourself for someone who’s already halfway out the door.”
His eyes darkened even more, but he didn’t bite back. The silence between them grew – heavier, taut. That was the problem with Knox – he’d been always very good at existing in her silences, and that only made her want to push him more.
She straightened, brushing past him, her perfume curling into the space between them. “See you around, Carstairs. Try not to implode in your attempt to keep him.”
Chapter 24: Welcome to your life
Notes:
Hello, nice people of the internet, how do you do?? Sorry for the late update, I promise it won't happen again - of course I promised that the previous week to and yet here we are... but I'll try to keep the promise this time! Anyway, anyone else excited that were 4 - FOUR - chapters away from the end of part 1 of this story?? I know I am!! This chapter is long. Like longer than any other chapter. It's also a split narrative between seven different people, so I hope it won't be too difficult of a read... Let me know your thoughts in the comments and we'll see each other next week!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“S'il te plaît, maman, arrête ! Tu me fais peur!” His voice cracked, high and thin, barely louder than the thud of his own heart.
The axe came down again.
It slashed through his mattress, hay and rough filling raining across his face. He yelped, the sound loud, and scared, and so very young.
“Tais-toi, démon! Ne m'appelle pas maman,” she screeched, the words jagged enough to cut. Her face twisted in anger – cold, expressionless, and sharpened into something inhumane. Her mouth stretched too wide, her eyes burning with hatred. “Le diable t'a envoyé, mais je te renverrai en enfer!” Her voice splintered into fury.
He tried to run, but the hut pressed in on him, boards groaning like they were closing around his small body. She advanced on him, and he backed himself against the wooden wall, throwing an arm to hide his face, choking a sob against the material of his thin shirt.
The blade glinted once more, heavy and final –
- and then the world erupted in light. The force hurled him sideways, his head cracking against the wall. His power poured out uncontrolled – wild, merciless.
Her scream tore through the night, louder than thunder, sharper than glass shattering. Then came the thud, a sickening, wet sound, and silence crashed down.
There was the sound of a thud, and then everything stopped.
His heart hammered as he lifted his head, tears sticky on his cheeks, breath snagging in his throat. “Maman?”
He didn’t get an answer.
Blood.
So much blood. Spattered across the wall. Pooling beneath her, thick and slick, soaking into the dirt. Gushing from the wound on her head, where the skin had split open. Dripping from her nose, seeping from her eyes that stared glassy and wide. An expression of pure hatred was forever etched on her face. Skin peeled back in angry welts where the magic had burned her raw, red flesh oozing, strands of her blond hair clumped and blackened against it.
The smell hit him next, iron and smoke, sharp and choking.
His stomach lurched.
Meeks woke choking on his own breath, sheets damp, the echo of his screams still hot on his tongue. He dug his nails into his palms until it hurt enough to remind him he was awake.
The potion curdled in the glass, turning from deep purple to sludgy gray. Meeks muttered a curse under his breath, snapping the vial shut before the smell spread. That was the third one this week.
The wards circling the penthouse were dimming too fast, his spells dragging like they’d been soaked in molasses. Something was wrong with his magic, but he wasn’t about to admit it out loud. Not even to himself.
“Quelle honte, mon Maël.”
Meeks didn’t bother turning. “My given name is Steven,” he drawled, throwing the little vial in one of the drawers of his desk. “And I thought I locked you out.”
Beelzebub’s projection rippled into focus anyway, golden feathers catching in the pale winter light, barely fitting inside the room. The air thickened with the scent of honey and rot. “That’s not a name worthy of a prince,” he said softly, fond. “And you can’t lock out what you carry in your blood.”
“I’m not more prince than you’re an Angel.” Meeks flicked ash from his sleeve, pretending not to care, even as unease crawled beneath his skin.
Beelzebub rolled with the punch. He smiled, slow and indulged, like he was humoring a child. Like this was nothing but a normal interaction between father and son. He stepped closer, and Meeks felt the hair at his nape stand.
“Your magic is unraveling,” his father murmured, voice low, honeyed with concern, dangerous underneath. “Your curse is eating you alive.”
“Maybe that’s for the better,” Meeks said without thinking, and instantly regretted it when the lights flickered around his apartment.
“Don’t,” his father hissed, the floor shivering beneath his feet, anger sharp enough to rattle the glassware on the desk. “Don’t speak like that. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Meeks’ gaze finally snapped up, deep brown eyes flashing momentarily purple as they locked in Beelzebub’s. “What can happen to me that will be worse than you?”
Beelzebub’s wings spread, his figure elongating so much he had to bend in order to fit inside the apartment. For a moment his beautiful face looked distorted – blistered and molten, flesh sagging, flies buzzing around his head – his golden feathers turning black and grimy. The floor tremored again, and somewhere behind him Marshal Whiskers let out an indignant meow.
But then the moment passed, and the mask snapped back in place. Beelzebub returned to a human appropriate size, pinching the bridge of a very straight and sharp nose between his thumb and forefinger. Like Meeks was being a petulant child, giving him a headache.
“You’re my son,” voice cracking over his last word. “I know we haven’t always seen I to eye, but you’re my son and I love you.”
“You have a funny way of showing that.”
“If your hatred is the price I got to pay for keeping you alive, then so be it,” Beelzebub said, wings lowering, shoulders softening. His eyes shone with something painfully genuine, almost raw. “But I will never regret saving you. And I will never stop trying. When I find the one responsible for this –”
“There is no one,” Meeks said, his tone brooking no arguments. “My magic is not slipping. I’ve just been overworked.”
“Maël –”
“Father,” he cut him off smoothly, refusing to give an inch. “What is happening to me is irrelevant to the curse. There have been some murders I’m looking into, and the ley lines have been fluctuating –”
“Murders?” Beelzebub’s voice sharpened, wings twitching. “Why would you waste your time with something so… mundane?”
“Because the bodies keep appearing over ley line junctions. And I don’t trust anyone else.”
For a long moment Beelzebub only stared at him, gaze dark, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, slow and chilling. “Ley lines. Murders. Blood spilled in patterns across the earth…” His voice dropped, conspiratorial, almost delighted. “Mon fils, you know what that sounds like.”
Meeks’ chest tightened. “No.”
“You refuse to see it, but the world whispers of them again. The horsemen stir.”
Meeks’ hands curled into fists, nails biting crescent moons into his palms. His magic roiled, restless under his skin. “Or,” he said tightly, “it’s just the same old Shadowhunter incompetence. A string of murders, sloppy report, ley lines being… well, ley lines. People see patterns where they want to.”
Beelzebub tilted his head, smile sharp and knowing.
Meeks turned away, busying himself with straightening a stack of papers that didn’t need straightening. “The world ending isn’t always the answer,” he added, quieter this time.
He never got an answer. When he looked up, the space around him was empty. He drew a deep breath, flicking his wrist to throw the windows open hoping the chilly air would wash the smell of decay out of his apartment.
It was well past two o’clock in the night when he heard the knock on his door. Measured, but much quieter than he was used to.
To say he hadn’t been waiting for it, it would be a lie.
To claim that he’d been looking forward to it, would also be a lie.
Meeks didn’t move at first. He sat in the dark, one hand pressed to his temple to stave off a headache, the other one curled around the stem of cocktail glass. His third one of the night – he was exhausted, he deserved a pick me up.
His wards quivered faintly at the disturbance, sliding open without his permission. Marhsall Whiskers lifted his head from the armchair, gave a questioning meow and padded toward the door like he already knew who it was.
No other knock came.
Meeks let his glass on the coffee table. Drew a deep breath and rose to his feet in one fluid move.
When he opened the door, Gerard stood there, wrapped in shadow and snow. He was clad in black like always. There was a bruise on his jaw, faint under his eyes, but angrily purple over his cheek. His collar was loose, his gear rumpled and there were snowflakes clinging to his hair. He looked younger than he was. Almost vulnerable.
Meeks ignored the way it twisted something in his gut.
“You’re quiet today,” he said lightly, tilting his head as he looked at him. Gerard’s gaze found his momentarily, before dropping back to his shoes. “And that says a lot, considering…” he trailed off, as he stepped back, motioning him inside.
Gerard didn’t shuffle, but there was none of his usual assuredness as he walked into his living room. Marshall Whiskers brushed against his calf, fluffy tail curling around his boot. He mewled his greeting and then padded off.
Gerard didn’t seem to notice. His whole aura seemed dimmer, muffled, and Meeks felt the back of his throat tighten. There was something incredibly wrong with an uncertain Gerard Penhallow. Like something in the essence of the universe was askew.
“Is everything alright, Gerard?” he asked. The door closed with a flick of his wrist and a quite click. Meeks kept his distance, crossing his arms over his chest.
He didn’t get an immediate answer. Instead, silence stretched over them, thin and brittle like ice waiting to be broken in spring weather. Meek was used to it – he had lived for decades in it – but Gerard wasn’t. And yet, tonight, he seemed content to drown in it.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.
Which wasn’t new. Meeks had heard an iteration of these words almost every night in the past fourteen or so odd days. He opened his mouth, ready to shoot off one of his usual rebuttals, when Gerard beat him to it.
“All I know is that you make me feel… safe.”
Meeks blinked, then gave a dry little laugh, too sharp to pass as casual. “Well, you better feel safe in the presence of the High Warlock of Boston.”
Gerard let a small chuckle, biting on the side of his thumb. “Yeah, that’s not what I meant…” he muttered. He looked away, exhaling hard. “This is the only place I’m not being watched. Monitored. And you -” his eyes lifted, caught on Meeks’ for one burning second “ – you make me feel safe to be myself.”
A rain of purple sparks fell from Meeks’ fingers. Gerard caught it. His eyes flicked to the magic residue clinging to Meeks’ skin, watching it dissolve over his knuckles. Gerard looked back up, eyes bright with something he wasn’t just ready to unpack.
Meeks cleared his throat, turning sharply toward the kitchen. “Tea,” he announced to the room at large.
His steps were just slow enough to make sure he was being followed. He heard the sound of one of the highchairs being dragged back, and caught Gerard sitting down on it with the corner of his eye.
“You told me once,” he said after a moment, pulling the kettle off the flame, “that you worried you were easier to control than to love.” His voice was quiet, even, but he could still feel the bitter taste the words left on his tongue. He tipped the water over the leaves, watching them sink and wrinkle, green turning dark in the swirl. “But the people we love,” he went on, “we don’t control.”
He heard, more than he saw, Gerard stilling in the chair. There was a slight hitch in his breath, like the words had caught him off guard. He didn’t give an audible answer, and Meeks didn’t press for one. He just coaxed the steam up from the cups, sending one across the kitchen isle with a flick of his fingers. The porcelain hovered for a breath, then settled in front of Gerard with a delicate clink.
“Drink,” Meeks murmured, softer than he meant to.
Gerard’s hand curled around the cup like he needed the heat. He still didn’t relax – the tension stayed locked in his shoulders, jaw tight. Meeks leaned against the counter, cradling his own tea between his palms. His gaze lingered, studying the younger man; the dark circles under his eyes, the bitten cuticles on his fingers, the bruises hiding just beneath his collar.
“Is everything alright?” he repeated his earlier question, not particularly fond of how eager he was for an answer.
Gerard lifted the cup, let the steam cloud the bruise at his cheekbone, let it fill the silence. “No,” he breathed, barely above a whisper, his eyes snapping up to lock with his own.
Meeks didn’t look away, and for the first time in far too long, he didn’t want to.
And that was the problem. He could feel it, as plain and sharp as the curse humming under his skin; every second he allowed himself this closeness was another nail in his own coffin. And still, he didn’t move.
Charlie was trying, okay?
He was trying not to unravel. He was trying not to set the fucking place on fire. He was trying to keep his distance, after what happened the other night with the newest Penhallow transfer – honestly, fuck that family. Because what he realized afterward was, one, Carstairs really sucked at doing casual – which to be fair, he already knew – and second, he was also starting to suck at doing casual, and that was simply unacceptable.
So, Charlie did what he did best. He tried to sleep around. Flirted with everyone who had a pulse. He kept his smile sharp, and his jokes sharper, and pretended Knox Carstairs wasn’t in the room. Keyword; pretended. Because Knox was always in the room, wasn’t he?
The training grounds were crowded, the air thick with steel and sweat, the sound of blades clashing echoing off stone. Colonel Nolan had mandated joint sessions for all the units in Boston – permanent and non-permanent transfers – and the room buzzed with low chatter, sparring shouts, and the thud of fists against punching bags.
Charlie leaned in close to Hopkins, enough to smudge the line between banter and something sharper. He let his laugh ring a little too loud, his hand drag a little too slow over the handle of Hopkins’ dagger. Everyone knew Hopkins had a girlfriend. And everyone was about to figure out Charlie didn’t care.
“That’s a nice grip,” he said, voice low and teasing. “Bet it’s not only reserved for maiming equipment.”
Hopkins flushed scarlet, stammering something about training, but Charlie only smirked. This was part of the game. This was easy. Uncomplicated. Everything he exhaled in.
The dagger hit a mark behind his head a half-second later, whistling past Charlie’s head so close he felt the sting of displaced air on his cheek. He didn’t even know there was a training mark there. The thunk as it slid into the bullseye, somehow sounded over every other noise.
The room fell silent. Every head snapped toward the source.
He spun, fire already crackling through his veins. “You could’ve killed me.”
Carstairs stood there, loose, expressionless like he’d barely flexed a muscle. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
The words echoed in the hush. Someone muttered holy shit under their breath. Hopkins looked like he wanted to vanish into the floor.
Charlie let a humorless chuckle, one that echoed on the stone walls. “Right. That’s comforting.” He closed the distance, chin lifted, every line of him taunting. “What the hell is your problem?”
Knox didn’t blink. “You.”
Charlie grinned, wolfish, already tasting the blood on his tongue. “Me? If you wanted my attention, you could’ve just –”
The shove landed square to his chest, and Charlie stumbled back. His grin sharpened, dangerous. “See? That’s why we stopped fucking. You’re too jealous.”
“And you’re an asshole,” Knox said evenly, “but I don’t hold that against you.”
“Too jealous,” Charlie, sing-sung, leaning so close their noses almost brushed. “And possessive – which, I’ll be honest – doesn’t really look good on you, Carstairs.”
Knox’s fist cracked across his jaw.
There were several gasps. A circle opened around them, people stepping back fast, unsure if they should intervene.
Charlie’s head snapped sideways, pain bursting white-hot, but he was already laughing, blood bright on his teeth as he lunged back with a punch to Knox’s ribs.
It was rare to see Knox Carstairs fighting like that, with not even the slightest semblance of proper sparring stance, no sign of him pulling his punches. Knox drove him back with brute force, each jab deliberate, punishing, like he wanted to beat the smugness out of him. But it was impossible, because the idea that he chose to let loose on Charlie? That he trusted him enough to give back as good as he got, to keep up? It was intoxicating.
Knox Carstairs unhinged was a fucking revelation, and Charlie wanted to drown in it. He’d never enjoyed being beaten within an inch of his life, so bad.
“Still think this isn’t jealousy?” he spat, words slurred with blood, as Knox slammed him into the wall.
Knox pinned him there with a forearm to his throat, their faces inches apart. His breathing was ragged, jaw tight, eyes darker than Charlie had ever seen them. For the briefest second, he thought Knox might close the distance, drag their mouths together like he had before.
He almost leaned in.
Fuck he was terrible at keeping his distance.
But could he really be blamed? When this was what he was trying to stay away from? This fire? This man who could without a doubt snap his neck in half, but didn’t?
And then the memory of Chris Penhallow interrupting them in this very room flashed behind his eyes, sharp and sour. And Charlie recalled himself. He shoved Knox back. “Not worth it.”
But the hesitation cost him. Knox surged forward with another blow, and then they were back at it, trading punches until their arms burned, until their shirts clung damp with sweat and blood. By the time they staggered apart, both of them looked wrecked. Split lips. Bruised ribs. Eyes blazing.
Charlie wiped blood from his mouth, smirk crooked. “Feel better?”
Knox’s chest heaved. His voice was a rasp. “Not even close.”
They stared at each other across the wreckage of the room. Bloody. Pissed. Wound so tight with want it felt like a noose. And then Charlie turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving Knox standing alone.
Neil found him in the library.
Charlie was sat at a table in the back, surrounded by open dictionaries and half-scribbled notes in a mess that made no sense to anyone but him. Of course, he didn’t even have the manuscript which made the whole exercise objectively pointless. But he needed to do something, and research was better than storming back to training and kissing Carstairs in front of everyone.
“You’re bleeding,” Neil said, dropping on one of the chairs close to him.
Charlie ran his tongue over the split on his lip, tasting iron. His knuckles still throbbed, skin raw where they’d connected with bone. “Observation skills like that, no wonder you’re next in line for Head of the institute,” Charlie quipped, not bothering to look up.
Neil huffed – a sound that could either be laugh or derision – and leaned forward, trying to catch Charlie’s gaze. The parabatai rune hummed on his thigh, and he gritted his teeth, turning a page in the lexicon he had not been reading.
“Don’t give me that look.”
Neil blinked innocently. “What look?”
Charlie spun his pen between his fingers glaring at him from under his lashes. “That look. I am a grown boy, and you are not my keeper.”
“I am your best friend.”
“Yes, and best friends are supposed to bail you out of jail and steal pizza when you’re hungover. Not interrogate you.”
“Funny, I thought best friends were supposed to stop you from getting arrested in the first place.”
Charlie smirked despite himself. “Technicalities.”
“Charlie.”
“Neil.”
They stared at each other for a beat, both of them refusing to step back, before Neil finally rolled his eyes. “Look, I didn’t press when you showed up like you’d spent hours being some wild animal’s chew toy. I didn’t press when you kept disappearing at random hours of the day. I didn’t press when the bond –”
“Oh, don’t start preaching about the bond,” Charlie cut in, pointing his pen at him like a weapon. “You were the first one who went and did things without warning.”
“I didn’t do things, I had sex with my boyfriend,” Neil shot back, bristling.
“You made our bond go crazy because you hadn’t gotten laid in like five years!”
“It wasn’t five years –” Neil broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose, then laughed under his breath. He pointed a finger at Charlie, “You’re such a little shit.”
“Never claimed not to be,” Charlie said, leaning back in his chair with a grin, spinning his pen one more time before letting it clatter onto the open page.
Neil shook his head, watching, but his smile softened into something quieter. “Just… tell me this thing with Knox is not going to push you all the way into insanity.”
Charlie barked a laugh, too loud for the silence of the library, earning them a shush from two tables over. “There’s no thing with Knox. Trust me, I’d rather die.”
The rune on his thigh pulsed once, like it knew better.
He looked away, pen tapping against the edge of the book. His smirk wavered, then faltered altogether. For a long beat, he just stared at his notes – more scribbles than anything worth presenting for his hard work – and then he let a breath that sounded much more like surrender than humor.
“He’s so good at getting under my skin,” he admitted, low enough Neil had to lean in to catch it. “I fucking hate it. I hate that he doesn’t even have to try.” He pressed his thumb to the split on his lip, winced, then gave a bitter chuckle. “I don’t even know what I’m doing. I just… I can’t seem to stop.”
Neil didn’t respond immediately. The parabatai rune hummed, again, softer this time, a thrum of understanding flowing straight to Charlie’s bones. He dragged a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, and then scowled at the table like it had personally wronged him.
“So yeah. Maybe there’s a thing. Or maybe I’m just a masochist and he has a fixer mentality.”
Neil leaned his elbows on the desk, resting his chin in his palms. His lips twitched, like he was trying to hold back a smile. “That’s the closest thing to honesty I’ve heard from you in weeks.”
“If you tell anyone I’ll throw you into the City of Bones and lose the key,” Charlie responded automatically, but his voice lacked bite.
“Wow, serious threat,” Neil laughed, and Charlie chucked a crumbled piece of paper at him.
Patrol had been hell, and not the fun kind. Neil had bailed halfway through – some “my father needs me back at the Institute” bullshit, Charlie wasn’t sure he bought – leaving him stuck with Hopkins and Spaz.
And by the Angel, he’d never seen a worse parabatai duo ever in his life.
Hopkins faked left, and so did Spaz. Next thing Charlie knew, they were both flat on their asses with a demon ready to slice them in half. He had finished the fight for them, ribs aching from Knox’s earlier fists, knuckles already torn open, blood still sticky between his fingers.
He was definitely not in the right state of mind to return to the Institute. He was far too upset to tackle a report right now. And there was no way he’d be getting any sleep any time soon.
His feet carried him straight to Knox’s apartment. Automatically. Unthinkingly. He didn’t bother knocking, he just shoved the door open, like he owned the place. Like he dared Knox tell him he didn’t.
He was already at the desk, papers spread out, lamp throwing shadows across his face. Controlled. Unruffled. Infuriating. Even that managed to piss him off. How the fuck could he look this hot at this time of the night?
“Perfect,” Charlie said, voice dripping sarcasm. “My favorite study-buddy.”
Knox’s gaze snapped up, unimpressed. “You’re late.”
“Wasn’t aware we had a set time,” Charlie said, tossing himself onto the couch. “Sorry, some of us had patrol. You know, actual Shadowhunter work.”
Knox slid a page across the table toward him. “This is actual work.”
“Ugh,” Charlie groaned dragging himself up and flopping beside him at the desk.
“If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to,” Knox replied, keeping his voice even. “Nobody is making you.”
“I never said I don’t want to,” Charlie said defensively, snatching the page toward him. Their shoulders brushed, but neither one of them moved.
They worked next to each other in silence, both of them running through different parts of the text. Or rather, Knox worked, all exact strokes and even breathing, while Charlie sat there vibrating out of his skin. The text was an absolute mess, too faded out at some points, too curly in others, making his head ache. There was a rune that kept repeating every three lines, and Charlie couldn’t find it anywhere in the dictionary.
He cursed through his teeth, his eyes finding the black and white photograph above the text; a globe split in two, light spilling from the crack like it was bleeding. For some reason it made his skin prickle with unease.
“Alright,” he muttered, just to break the silence, “this bit here… it’s either ‘Angels’ wrath’ or ‘lost innocence’. Could also be ‘lost child’.”
Across from him, Knox was a wall of silence, jaw tight, a bruise blooming along his temple where Charlie’s fist had landed earlier. He just kept writing, ignoring him completely. Like Charlie wasn’t even there.
His jaw clenched. He leaned back in his chair, tapping the page hard enough that the edge cut his finger. “You know, most people would say something when spoke to.”
“Most people stick around after having sex,” Knox said evenly, still not looking at him.
The words landed like a punch on the face. He shoved the dictionary away with a thud. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re loud,” Knox returned, finally looking at him. Just a flicker of those dark eyes.
Charlie hated the surge of satisfaction spreading through him.
Knox leaned against the weapons rack, rolling his shoulder where the bruises still lingered from the fight with Charlie. Pitts stood across from him, arms folded, looking the picture of calmness. Except Knox could see the tightness at the corners of his eyes.
“You’re letting him close enough to land hits now?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
Knox sucked his teeth. “I’m not letting him do anything.”
“Of course not.” Pitts rolled his eyes, hard enough to hurt. “So Blackthorn just became a model fighter overnight?”
Knox scoffed. “He’s hardly model-anything. He’s still loud. Reckless. But he’s always been good with… brute force.”
Pitts tilted his head, sharp like a predator watching prey. “That’s the story you’re sticking with?”
Knox blinked at him.
“You know what I think?” Pitts asked, and then went on, without waiting for an answer from him, “I think you’re enjoying this. Which is - at best - toxic. At worst? Reason enough to get you de-runed if the wrong person notices.”
Knox didn’t bite. He just kept unwinding the bandage around his knuckles, focusing on the sting.
Pitts shifted, coming to lean against the rack beside him. Their shoulders brushed, familiar, comforting. “I’m supposed to keep my cool with Chet breathing down my neck, and the Council circling like vultures. You’re supposed to keep yours with… well, everything else. We can’t both break at the same time.”
Knox looked up, something raw flickering in his gaze. “I’m not breaking.”
“No?”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
Pitts’ brows flicked up, like a warning. “Meaning?”
Knox unwound the last strip of bandage, rolling it between his fingers. “You think I don’t notice when you disappear? Where you disappear to?”
The pause was sharp, stretching thin. Pitts didn’t move, didn’t even blink, but Knox caught the faintest tick at his jaw – the kind only Knox would’ve noticed.
“Careful,” he said finally, voice low.
Knox leaned his head back against the rack, exhaling through his nose. “I’m not the one who needs to be. I’m not the one walking into a political scandal waiting to happen every night. And for what?”
Pitts’ mouth curved, almost into a smile, that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For what, huh? Same question applies to you.”
Knox looked at him for a long minute, before exhaling. “Maybe we should’ve stayed in New York.”
“Do you really believe that?” Pitts’ look was far too knowing.
Knox sighed. Dragged a hand over his face. “We’re both idiots.”
“Nah, just…. Emotionally challenged,” Pitts chuckled.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Knox felt the weight of it – their bond humming low and steady, all the things they weren’t saying pulsing between them.
Pitts straightened first, giving him a curt nod. “Promise me you won’t let him break you, Knox.”
The words wrapped around him like a vice. Knox opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t. Pitts didn’t push. He never did when it really mattered.
The training grounds had always been Knox’s safe place. Even here, in Boston, where nothing felt like home, the familiar weight of weapons and the steady rhythm of practice gave him something solid to hold onto. But lately they were haunted by his ever-present ex-girlfriend.
Chris had a way of leaning just close enough to invade his space without ever touching him. Tonight was no different. She circled him in the training room, standing a breath away from his back, her vanilla-strawberry perfume swirling around him.
Knox twisted the stick between his hands, landing a jab on the side of the training doll, and she inhaled sharply, as if she were impressed.
“Go away, Chris,” he said through his teeth.
“But you always loved me watching you train.” Her smile was all bright teeth, and red lips. Chris kept twirling the end of her ponytail around her index. “Remember? How you couldn’t stop flexing when I so much as blinked at you? Don’t tell me you’ve gone shy.”
Knox hit the dummy over the head, hard enough to send it careening toward the floor. It bobbed straight back, as if mocking him.
Chirs let an exaggerated sigh and drifted around until she was standing right in front of him, her ponytail swinging. “Most people would kill for this kind of undivided attention from me. Once upon a time you would have too.”
Knox looked at her, his grip tightening on the stick, freezing it at the dummy’s throat. “What do you want?”
“Want?” she tilted her head, golden hair catching the overhead lights like a halo. “I want lots of things. But right now? I want to know how you’re holding up. You look a bit… frayed. Did something happen with my dear cousin, or…?”
Knox’s eyes darkened considerably, the corners of his lips pulling down. “You know why.”
Chris leaned forward, one arm looping around the dummy’s shoulders, fingers teasingly tapping over Knox’s training stick. “Ah, yes. Charlie Blackthorn… was he upset that I ruined your little moment the other day? Haven’t seen him around to apologize-”
“Cut the crap,” Knox spoke over her, feeling his throat grow thick.
Chris blinked at him, all innocent-like. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble between the two of you. But I guess he must be feeling threatened by our shared history, especially considering how he’s not built for permanence.”
Knox’s nostrils flared. He made to pull the stick away, but she wrapped her fingers around it, keeping it at place. “Don’t.”
She smiled sweetly. “Don’t what? Don’t say out loud what you’re already terrified of? That you’ll give him everything – bruises, blood, whatever’s left of your sanity – and he’ll walk away because he never planned on staying?”
Knox forced his tone flat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, babe, I do.” A perfectly manicured nail trailed up the length of the stick, before sliding back down. “I know you, Knox. Better than he does. Better than he ever will. You like to think you’re made of stone but you’re not. You don’t just want to be loved. You need someone to need you. To crave you like oxygen. That’s why we worked.”
Her gaze flicked down, dragging deliberately over his mouth, before locking back onto his eyes. “The trouble is, he doesn’t. Not really. And you know it.”
Knox exhaled, sharp and heavy. He pulled the stick harder, shaking off her grip. “Get out.”
Chris pulled away from the dummy, all smug and luminous, grinning. “Careful, Carstairs. Push him too hard, and he might just prove me right.”
And with that she turned around to leave, her ponytail swishing with each step, her vanilla-strawberry scent lingering in the air, and making his stomach churn.
The apartment was, surprisingly, quiet. Charlie had shown up earlier than Knox had expected him, unlike the past few days. He sprawled on the couch, taking up as much space as he could, but he was uncharacteristically focused, pouring over the ancient text as if translating it was a competition.
Knox sat on the dinning table behind the couch, his own notebook open, a pen already in his hand. Yet his gaze kept slipping, catching on the mess that was Charlie Blackthorn; the messy mop of hair falling all over his eyes, the untucked shirt, a blood stain on his skin that didn’t look recent. He should’ve been infuriating.
He was infuriating.
He was.
And still Knox couldn’t keep his eyes away from him.
From one treacherous, terrifying – beautiful – second, Knox let himself imagine this was… something. Sure, it didn’t have a name. But it had a rhythm. A routine. A life. Late nights working side by side, fights that bled into laughter, the kind of bond you didn’t have to explain.
Something he could have.
Especially considering how he’s not built for permanence.
Chris’ words from yesterday echoed in his mind, all velvet and venom. His next breath shattered in his lungs, his pen dropping heavy down on the crisp white page. Knox blinked, attempting to clear his thought. There was no point in daydreaming. This thing with Charlie, whatever it was, could never be that and the sooner Knox’s brain got the memo, the better.
“Hey,” Charlie drawled, tossing a pillow behind him blindly, and missing Knox’s head by inches. “You’re brooding. Quit it, you’re killing the vibe.”
Knox grabbed the pillow with one hand, before it landed on his notes. He placed it on an empty chair beside him, and went back to the translation, jaw tight, pretending the ache in his chest was nothing but fatigue.
Todd ducked just in time, the spell sizzling over his head and dissipating into the wall with a sharp hiss. He straightened, chest heaving, running a hand through his hair to make sure they had not been singed.
“Uh… Meeks?” he asked carefully.
The warlock’s jaw tightened. His hands still glowed faintly purple, but the light pulsed unevenly, stuttering like a bulb about to give out. Meeks snapped his fingers, erasing the black smudge from his wall, but it was clear in his face that even that little bit of magic cost him.
“It’s nothing to worry about, dove,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “My focus just slipped. Let’s try again.”
Todd frowned, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “You don’t usually slip.”
Something passed through Meeks’ eyes far too fast for him to make out. He waved a dismissive hand, the sleeve of his billowy embroidered shirt swishing dramatically, like he could erase his concern with the gesture alone.
“It’s nothing,” he said again, but Todd kept staring at him, eyebrows pulling on his forehead. “Okay, nothing.”
Todd didn’t argue. He had no reason too. Still, the unease sat heavy in his chest, anxiety curling in the pit of his stomach, acidic and thick.
Meeks let a small sigh. “Okay, how about I go make us some tea, yes?”
He didn’t really wait for an answer, spinning on his heel and heading toward the kitchen. Todd stood where he had been standing for the past half hour, in the middle of the living room. All the furniture had been pushed back toward the walls to give them room. Some of the earlier lightness still lingered in the air – Todd had been uncontrollably giggling for several minutes when in a feat of utter bewilderment Meeks had called him ‘ the least magical half-warlock spawn alive’ due to his disastrous conjuring attempt.
Now the everything felt different. Heavier.
“Ah, maybe we need some music!” Meeks’ voice carried, falsely bright and Todd turned to look at him over his shoulder. “Dove, will you be a dear and turn on the stereo?”
Todd crossed the room to reach the impressive music system. Static fizzed, followed by a clipped newscaster’s voice:
“… violent outbreaks with no clear trigger have been reported in three major cities, authorities have been left baffled by the sudden escalation…”
The lights above Todd’s head flickered dangerously, and then suddenly the stereo was turned off, before the sentence was even finished. He frowned at the device and then he felt Meeks’ presence behind him. “On second thought, perhaps not. Music distracts from proper spellwork.”
Todd’s brows knit. “That sounded –”
“Unimportant,” Meeks cut in smoothly, voice brisk. “Now, tea. C’mon, dove, join me in the kitchen. You’ll need all your strength before we start again.”
Todd opened his mouth, then closed it again, gnawing the inside of his cheek. He wanted to push – but Meeks looked tired in a way he wasn’t supposed to look, and Todd didn’t want to make it worse. So he followed after him, taking one of the highchairs, and letting the warmth of his tea seep into his skin.
But the silence after the stereo cut out pressed like a weight, and the unease in Todd’s chest only grew.
Being around Neil felt simultaneously like a dream and a nightmare, and he wasn’t sure how much more of it he could take.
Neil was… brilliant. Todd had always know that, of course, but lately it felt like his boyfriend was determined to prove it every single day. He was all soft smiles and gentle touches, showing up at Todd’s place with food to surprise him, and taking him out for “mundane Christmas dates” – which he honestly seemed to enjoy much more than Todd did.
It was slowly, but surely, killing Todd.
The guilt felt unbearable.
Every time Neil looked at him, Todd almost told him.
Every time they kissed, Todd almost told him.
Every time they slipped into bed, laid tangled underneath the sheets, hearts pounding in sync – well, Todd didn’t almost tell him then, but he definitely thought about it afterwards. The words clawed at his throat, the secret burning like coals.
And yet, he didn’t.
Because Meeks had made him promise. And because –
He was terrified.
Alright, sure, being Lucifer’s son didn’t mean he was the Antichrist. Todd didn’t really know what it meant, since no one seemed particularly inclined in teaching him about Shadowhunter lore – Knox was all about hand-to-hand combat and teaching him how to not get decapitated by different weapons, and Meeks hated Shadowhunters. But it definitely meant something. His father was the literal devil.
Even if he was allowed to tell him, Todd wouldn’t know where to start. And even if he did, Todd wasn’t sure he would. What if it changed the way Neil looked at him?
“Earth to Todd,” Neil called, snapping his fingers in front of Todd’s face. He startled only slightly, and Neil’s expression softened. He dropped a quick kiss on the crown of Todd’s head. “You, okay?”
Not trusting himself enough to speak Todd nodded and pushed himself firmer by Neil’s side.
The Snowport Holiday Market stretched around them, alive with light and color. The air smelled like cinnamon and cold. Neil had an arm looped around his waist, keeping him close, his hand tucked in the pocket of Todd’s coat, fingers wrapped around his. He carried a paper bag of roasted chestnuts, steam curling from the top and every now and then he offered one to Todd wordlessly.
It was stupid how happy it made him. The normalcy of it all. Standing in a sea of mundanes beneath glowing string of lights, watching Neil lit up at every stall, every glowing light, every stupid holiday trinket. Hear him gash about warm cider and hand-painted baubles.
“You’re quiet,” Neil said after a beat, throwing a sideways look at him.
Todd forced a grin. “Just saving my energy.”
Neil frowned at him, and it was so endearing that Todd’s chuckle felt almost carefree.
“Well, there’s an ice-skating rink and I’m pretty sure you’re about to drag me there.”
Neil’s head snapped up, his eyes widening so much Todd briefly wondered if it hurt. “There’s an ice-skating rink?” he asked, his voice full of child-like-wander.
Before Todd could tease him, a vendor’s voice carried over the crowd – low, sharp, half-hidden beneath the hum of chatter;
“… they’re saying supply chains are breaking down. Flour, sugar – already short. It’s only going to get worse.”
The words tugged at hazy memory of a news report from two days ago, when he’d been hiding out at Cameron’s place. There had been a mention of food shortages at several places, but the officials were advising the people against panicking and making unnecessary purchases.
A strangled shout broke him out of his thoughts. Two stalls over, voices rose sharp and angry. Two men kept shoving at each other, spitting insults through gritted teeth. They shoved, and they shoved, and they shoved until one of them threw the first punch. Shoppers scattered, the hum of holiday cheer collapsing into chaos.
Neil immediately shifted, arm sliding off Todd’s waist as he angled his body between him and the fight, hand darting to the seraph blade he kept tucked under his coat. But before he could draw it, a shimmer of pale blue light unfolded around them, solid and steady. A shield, stretching outward like glass. The world outside dimmed, noise muffled.
Neil froze eyes wide as he looked from the translucent dome to Todd.
“You –” His voice cracked a little. “This is… you?”
Todd shifted on his feet, heat flooding his face. “Uh… surprise?”
For a moment Neil just stared, chest heaving, awe written plain across his features. “Raziel, I lo-” he breathed out, and then stopped, blinking at Todd as if seeing him for the first time. He laughed, short and incredulous, his hand coming up to cup the back of Todd’s neck. “By the Angel, you’re a revelation.”
The fight outside raged, but Todd barely noticed. Not with Neil’s thumb brushing the line of his jaw. Not with the warmth of pride in Neil’s eyes like it was the most natural thing in the world to be proud of him.
And Todd, for just one dangerous heartbeat, let himself believe it could last.
Todd returned to Cameron’s apartment. Somehow, he always did after his dates with Neil.
He slumped on his best friend’s couch unceremoniously, dirty blond hair damp from the snow, exhaustion radiating from every pore of his skin. The brawl at the Christmas’ market hadn’t scare, not really, but it had definitely added to his agitation.
Cameron tossed him a blanket without asking. “You’re crashing here tonight.”
Todd let it fall over his head. “Bossy.”
“Carrying,” Cameron corrected, dropping on the other end of the couch, legs folded underneath his body. “Big difference.”
They sat in silence for a while, the city lights bleeding in through the blinds. It felt oddly comforting, familiar. Cameron didn’t prod, didn’t press, he just… let Todd be. He pulled out his phone, started scrolling through it, giving him his time.
“You know,” he muttered after a while, thumb still moving over the screen. “the calmest I’ve seen you in the twenty-something years I’ve known you, was the time just before you found who your bio dad is.”
Todd groaned, his head falling against the backrest. “Cool, thanks. It’s not like I’m daily regretting pushing to get that info out of Meeks.”
“Wait, I think I phrased it wrong… Neil’s good for you, that’s what I wanted to say.”
Todd’s stomach twisted around itself. He let his eyes sunk shut, feeling the nausea slither up his throat. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, tried to take a deep breath. Neil was good for him, Todd knew that. Too good, even. And Todd wasn’t sure anymore that he deserved it.
Outside the faint whine of sirens cut through the silence of the night, growing closer. The sound of shouts soon joined it – a fight breaking out down the street – and then came a loud crash. The sound of glass breaking.
Todd’s skin prickled and he resisted the urge to scratch at it. His chest felt suddenly too tight, like there was an iron clamp around it, about to crash his bones. The sounds blurred with the memory of shouting at the market, with the way Neil had looked at him, proud and trusting. His breath stuttered.
Too shallow.
Too fast.
He shifted in his seat, restlessly. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
Cameron’s eyes snapped up from his phone’s screen. “For what?”
“Dragging you into my mess.”
Cameron took a moment of silently looking at him before saying, “There’s no Todd-made-mess that I wouldn’t willingly walk into.” His eyes dropped back to the screen. “So, we’re good.”
“Cam, I’m serious.” Todd’s voice cracked, panic still clawing at the edges of his ribs.
“And so am I.” Cameron didn’t look up again, but his leg stretched out under the blanket until his foot nudged Todd’s ankle. “Breathe, dove. You’re fine.”
Todd huffed a chuckle, a small sense of warmth settling under his ribs. Meeks called him dove as a teasing pet name, but when Cameron said it, it was just… him. Just Cam.
His best friend.
His sense of belonging.
Todd latched onto the little flash of warmth seeping through his skin, onto the dry steadiness in Cameron’s voice, onto their legs still pressing together under the blanket, and forced air into his lungs. One shaky breath. Then another. Slowly, the prickling under his skin ebbed. The sirens still wailed outside, and the people still screamed – but in here, Cameron was scrolling through bad memes like nothing was wrong, and Todd’s heart finally began to slow.
Chet Cartwright was in rare form. He was dressed in a sharp navy suit, better suited for the halls of the Academy and not an active Institute’s Operations Center, striding around like he owned the place. Every word out of his mouth dripped with smug certainty. The map on the table glowed faintly under the witchlights, red markers puncturing the city like open wounds.
“It’s clear,” he said, pointer tapping with performative precision. “Each location bears the residue of warlock energy. The killer isn’t even bothering to hide it –”
“That’s because it’s not a warlock,” Knox cut in, sharply. He leaned over the table, tapping the edge of a folder with calloused fingers. “Look at the timeline. The first three murders happened during the full moon cycle. The last one? New moon. That sounds more like a lycanthropy pattern than warlock.”
Neil’ stomach churned, uneasily. Werewolves being involved in Shadowhunter murders was definitely not better than a rogue warlock being the culprit. This was all a diplomatic nightmare.
Chet’s eyes gleamed with condescension. “Or it’s what they want us to think. Disguise the ritual as something else. Make us chase the wrong suspects.”
“Or,” Knox said, tone barely controlled, “you’re forcing an answer because it’s the one you want. Conveniently neat. Conveniently damning.”
Neil pressed his palms flat to the table, grounding himself at the cool metal. The two of them clashing was nothing new, but today it grated more than usual, tugging at his already loose nerves. Pitts, stationed across the table, didn’t even bother to look up from his stack of reports. He had checked out the moment Chet opened his mouth.
“Whoever’s doing this,” he started, and he was surprised by how even his voice sounded, “wolf, warlock, whatever – they’re organized. And they didn’t hesitate to kill four trained Shadowhunters in the middle of well-lit streets.”
The silence that followed was heavy, dented by the faint hum of the witchlights. Neil’s eyes flicked across the table, landing briefly on the newest reports scattered among the murder files.
- Ration riots breaks out across European enclaves – food stores raided, civilians injured.
- Illness spreads in rural Downworlder villages, Silent Brothers and warlock healers baffled by rare symptoms.
- Mundane towns erupt into violence: riots sparked by arguments over trivialities, escalating to gunfire in two separate incidents.
Neil felt the pressure on his chest build. He knew they were supposed to focus on Boston, on the fact that Shadowhunters were being targeted, murdered. But the pattern outside clawed at the back of his mind.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away, back to Chet, to Knox, to the damned glowing map. If anyone noticed the way his hand trembled when he turned the next page, going over possible motives, they didn’t say a word.
Neil smoothed the collar of his shirt twice, before knocking on the door. He waited precisely four seconds, before walking in. His father was set at his desk, like always. The firelight from the hearth painted his profile in gold and shadow, the glow flickering against the rim of his glasses.
“I brought the patrol reports,” he said, lowering himself into the opposite chair. “Several accounts of mundane fights, as well as demon sightings and attacks in the North End.”
“Very well,” his father said slowly, turning his attention from the computer screen in front of him to Neil. “Any progress with the murder cases?”
Neil’s mouth tugged into a frown. He shifted in his chair. “We’re still working to establish a clear motive,” he said, picking his words carefully. “There is a pattern – the days of the murders line up with celestial cycles. The Clave appointed unit thought them random.”
“So in less than a week, you’ve already done better than the team they trusted with it,” his father remarked, and the praise went right for Neil’s throat, wrapping around it like a noose.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said, sounding entirely unsure.
“And what about suspects?”
Neil’s stomach kicked. His fingers curled around the armrests of his chair.
“Cartwright insists on the involvement of a rogue warlock.”
“But you disagree?”
“I –” Neil cut himself short, swallowed through the nerves rising in his throat. “The pattern doesn’t match. And Knox agrees with me.”
His father looked at him for a long second, before giving a slow nod of his head. “Then that’s that,” he said, rubbing the side of his jaw, thoughtful. “I’ve seen how hard you’ve been working, you and your team. And I’m not the only one. You’ve earned your laurels.”
Neil blinked at him. Trying and failing to accept the praise. The familiar pit opened in his stomach, swallowing the words up, hungrily, craving more, more, more.
“That boy I saw you with the other day, Richard. He is one of Charlie’s cousins.”
It wasn’t a question, yet Neil found himself nodding, nonetheless.
“Good. You’ll introduce me properly to the other one soon, yes?”
Neil’s stomach tightened. “Todd?”
A faint smile played on his father’s lips. “Well, I don’t know his name, but I suppose that’s him.”
Neil forced his lips into a smile. “He’s… a little busy. Might be leaving town, actually.”
“Ah. A pity.” His father tapped something on the keyboard, then turned back, gaze fixed on him with unnerving steadiness. “I expect great things from you, Neil. And you haven’t disappointed me yet.”
The warmth in his tone was almost worse than his usual coldness. If felt weird, unfamiliar. It clawed at Neil’s skin, across his chest, until he could hardly breathe. He hated how much his pulse leapt at the words.
More, more, more.
“Perhaps…” His father leaned back, smile settling into something akin to fond. “We should arrange something for Christmas. Maybe a dinner? You and me … we could invite Charlie if he doesn’t have any other plans.”
Neil froze.
The fire crackled pleasantly. His father was smiling, casual, like this was nothing unusual. Talking about Christmas dinner. Talking about inviting his parabatai. The pit in his stomach pulsed, ravenously.
It made him sick.
“Of course,” he heard himself say, momentarily wondering if he’d ever seen his father smile at him this much before.
“Neil, dear boy!” John greeted him at the door of Meeks’ apartment, opening it wide and gesturing grandly for him to come in. His smile was so big it nearly split his face. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been?”
Neil stopped just shy from the threshold, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I’m fine, John. Thank you for asking. How about you?”
John’s grin only widened, blue eyes bright with some private joke. “Life is what life is, and there’s not much we can do about it.”
Neil was in the process of trying to figure out how to respond, when he heard the sound of two separate footsteps coming their way.
Todd emerged first, tugging on his jacket, blond hair sticking out in odd angles, as if he’d spent the last hour training on hand-to-hand combat instead of magic. Meeks followed behind, clad in a crimson red set, coffee mug in hand.
“Don’t let him keep you talking, John,” Meeks said, flicking his fingers at Neil in something that passed for shooing. “He has a habit of rambling.”
Color crept up the back of Neil’s neck, but Todd was already grinning, bounding up to him like an overexcited puppy. “You ready?”
“I – yes,” Neil said, a little too quickly, though his chest gave a traitorous flutter when Todd leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek right in front of everyone.
The movie theater smelled like butter and soda syrup, the air sticky-sweet. A Christmas tree leaned precariously on the corner by the snack bar. Neil carried the popcorn because Todd insisted, though half of it was gone before they even found their seats.
By the time the trailers started, Todd was curled against his side, one leg pulled up in his chair, head nudging at Neil’s shoulder until Neil draped an arm around him. He barely watched the screen; most of his focus was on the weight pressed against him, the way Todd’s laughter spilled out too lout at the stupid jokes, the way his fingers kept sneaking into the popcorn bucket until they brushed Neil’s.
Todd tilted his head up mid-movie, whispering. “You’re not watching at all. Do you hate it? Should we go –”
“I am,” Neil cut in smoothly, ducking his head closer, lips brushing Todd’s temple. “Just not the movie.”
Todd beamed in the glow of the screen, kissed him quick and unapologetic, then shoved another handful of popcorn in his mouth.
When he returned to the Institute, Charlie was already sprawled across his boot. He still had his boots on. He was tossing a knife up and catching like he had no care in the world.
“You’re going to stab yourself,” Neil muttered, dropping into the desk chair.
Charlie grinned. “Always so encouraging.”
Neil didn’t answer. He brushed his thumb over his lips, the corners of them curling in an involuntary smile. Charlie’s gaze narrowed as he looked at him.
“Why do you look like that?”
Neil blinked, eyes taking a second too long to focus on Charlie, who stared at him like he’d tasted something sour. “Hm? Oh, I was just thinking about Todd… We went to a movie. Todd laughed so loud half the theater turned around – he didn’t even notice.” His smile unfurled into a grin. “And then he got us kicked out of the food court because he swore the hot chocolate was watered down and started arguing with the cashier.”
Charlie arched his eyebrows. “Anderson went off on someone?”
“Yes!” Neil exclaimed, almost jumping out of his chair in delight. “He raised his voice and everything.”
Charlie groaned like he was in physical pain, dropping the knife onto the pillow beside him. “Fantastic. I can’t wait to tell your grandchildren.”
Neil blinked at him. “You’re just bitter.”
“Yeah, and you’re glowing like a mundie teenager who just got asked at the prom.” Charlie propped himself up on his elbows, giving him a dirty look. “What do you want me to do? Applaud?”
Neil’s grin didn’t falter. “Maybe be happy for me.”
“I’m happy for you. So happy. Can’t you tell?” Charlie’s voice was deadpan, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.
Neil leaned back in the chair, smug. “You’re the worst.”
“Mm, and yet, here you are.”
Neil let out a laugh. Charlie didn’t look at him again, but he didn’t throw him out either, which, coming from Charlie, said plenty.
The council chamber emptied quickly, shadows thinning out into the long corridor. Pitts had almost made it to the corner when he heard the familiar voice, hist strut faltering a little.
“Gerard.” Smooth. Aggravating. Like honey coating a knife.
Pitts’ pulse spiked. He didn’t slow, but Chet had already advanced on him, cutting in front of him with infuriating ease. His smile was the same as it had been in New York; lazy, dangerous, charming enough that fifteen-year-old Gerard had once believe it meant something.
“You’ve grown into the role,” Chet said, eyes dragging slowly down his body, before snapping back to his eyes. “You’d always been a rising star. It’s very… becoming.”
Pitts forced a breath through his teeth. “What do you want?”
“Only to talk.” Chet leaned in, voice dropping just low enough that it felt like a secret. “You used to like talking to me.”
The words tugged at the yarn of memories, sending it rolling. Late nights at the Institute library, stolen conversations that had felt like lifelines. The way Chet had listened, moved to stand closer, told him he was clever. Told him he was enough. The way Pitts had gone to bed dizzy with it, stomach tight and wanting. Until the moment Chet had gotten what he wanted and disappeared.
“I was fifteen,” Pitts said through his teeth, the words scrapping his throat raw.
Chet only smirked. “And clever. You were always so clever. Understood early on that the world won't just hand you all you deserve. And when that happens, you have to do everything in your power to take it.” His gaze sharpened, snake-like. “That’s why you helped me. Because you understood me.”
Pitts’ hands curled into fists at his sides. His heart was pounding so hard it made his vision throb, but his voice stayed level. “I didn’t help you. Not willingly. You manipulated me, and I made a mistake.”
Chet hummed, tilting his head. “If you say so. But I wonder who else would actually believe it… Loyalty to the wrong people can ruin careers, Gerard. You just got a seat at the table. You can’t afford to be… sentimental.”
Pitts swallowed hard, jaw so tight he thought it might crack. He’d hate to give the satisfaction to Chet to see him spiraling, but he really – really – wanted to punch that fucking smirk off his face.
But he was Gerard Penhallow. And he would not let Chet, of all people, to break him. So, instead, he forced his breathing to steady. He lowered his shoulders, rolled them back. His eyes flicked to the end of the hallway, over Chet’s head and that was when he saw Knox stalking toward them.
“Everything alright?” he asked, dark eyes narrowed, as he looked at Pitts. His whole body was set for a fight.
Chet’s expression faltered. “Carstairs, do you make a habit of lurking in the shadows?”
Knox ignored him, staring at Pitts until he gave the most imperceptible nod of his head. Then his gaze snapped at Chet, seizing him up.
“The only reason I haven’t punched you through a wall, yet, is because I don’t want to compromise the case,” he said, with the kind of calm that talked of storms.
He didn’t linger long enough for Chet to think of an answer. He turned back around to Pitts, placed a hand on his arm and pushed him, gently, down the corridor.
“C’mon, Ger,” he murmured. “Let’s go. He’s not worth it.”
They didn’t speak until they’d cleared two corridor and a stairwell. Pitts’ footsteps echoed like they were too loud, too uneven. He hated that. Hated how Chet still had the power to knock the air sideways out of him.
Knox finally slowed, hand still light on Pitts’ arm. His thumb tapped against his skin, like a silent heartbeat check.
“I’m fine,” Pitts said automatically, and hated how thin it came out.
Knox didn’t push, just gave him a sidelong look. His jaw was still tight, like he was clamping down the urge to double back, and make good on his threat of punching Chet. “Want me to kill him for you? Just say the word.”
A short laugh tore out of Pitts, sharp and ugly. “Tempting. But no. Not worth the paperwork.”
Knox’s mouth twitched, but his eyes didn’t soften. “He said something, though.”
Pitts shoved both hands into his pockets, shoulders curling in. He stared straight ahead. “He always says something.”
At the top of the next landing, Pitts stopped. Knox halted beside him. For a second they just stood there, hearts falling into synch. Pitts turned his head, just slightly.
“You really would’ve gone for him,” he said quietly.
Knox met his gaze, unwavering. “In a heartbeat.”
Something uncoiled in Pitts’ chest at that. Not relief, exactly – more like a reminder that whatever else in their lives was fractured, messy, fucked up beyond repair, this was not.
This was solid.
“One of these days, Knoxie, I’m going to cash in on that loyalty of yours. And it’s going to be spectacular.”
Knox’s lips curved the faintest bit, sharp and sure. “I’m counting on it.”
He should’ve gone back to his bedroom. He should’ve tried to calm down, maybe get some sleep. He should’ve not pushed his luck – like hed been doing for the past several nights.
And yet here he was, slipping through dark and silent streets, the hood of his jacket pulled low. The bruise on his cheek, the one that still hadn’t healed, throbbed in time with his heartbeat, aided by the cold.
Pitts could see his own hypocrisy from a mile away, but he didn’t care. His feet carried him across the river, past the wards that prickled against his skin, to the only door that ever felt like an escape hatch.
Meeks’ magic stirred as he approached. Pitts felt the brush of power scrape across his ribs, weighing him, before sliding aside with ease.
He lifted his hand, ready to knock – only for the door to give away before he did. The whisper of Meeks’ powers swirled around him, and Pitts was beckoned in. He followed it as if in trance, coming to a stop just past the front door, when he heard the second voice.
John.
He was sitting on Meeks’ couch relaxed, the top button of his shirt undone, a half-empty glass in his hand. Marshall Whiskers was curled happily against his leg, purring like betrayal.
“Gerard,” Meeks called in greeting, like he had been expecting him.
Pitts swallowed down the acid curl in his throat. He managed a nod, all clipped politeness. “Evening.”
John smiled, friendly as ever. “Didn’t know we expected company.”
“Didn’t thought of sending a fire message first,” Pitts replied a little too quick. A little too awkward.
The silence stretched for a beat too long. Pitts walked further into the living room, coming closer to the two seated man, but still keeping his distance. He shed his gloves slowly, buying time, pretending like he wasn’t hyperaware of the scene in front of him; Meeks sprawled on his ruby-red, velvet chaise, John on the couch across from him, the easy atmosphere of two people who’d been talking long before he arrived.
It shouldn’t matter.
It did.
Meeks’ eyes cut to him, sharp and unreadable. Pitts kept his expression smoothed to marble, years of political training suddenly useful.
“Don’t tell me,” Meeks drawled, the corners of his lips twitching, “you’ve come all this way just to scowl at my friend.”
“I don’t scowl,” Pitts said evenly.
“Mm,” Meeks hummed, taking a sip from his cocktail glass. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The three of them sat in a silence that stretched too thin. John tried to fill it – something about the state of the wards on the south end of the city, about Shadowhunter patrol rotations, about anything but the static that hummed between them like a live wire.
Meeks nodded in all the right places, but his gaze slid – again and again – back to Pitts. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to.
Eventually, John’s words trailed off. His eyes flicked between them, lingering on the quiet weight in the room. He rose, a polite smile curling on his mouth. “I should… let you two catch up.”
“John, don’t be daft, you don’t need to go.”
“No, I must insist. Besides, I have an early morning tomorrow,” he excused himself, his attention shifting to Pitts. “A client wants me to help him renovate his estate out north.”
“Renovation… a worthy task for a warlock’s free time, ” Meeks droned, flicking his fingers. John’s coat lifted itself from the stand by the door, floating neatly into his arms.
John slipped it on. “I will get money out of it,” he said, fixing his cuffs.
“Of course you’ll get paid.”
John chuckled, shaking his head at Meeks. “Not all of us can follow the noble profession of High Warlock, Steven.”
Meeks waved a dismissive hand but didn’t say anything else.
“Goodnight, then, gentlemen,” John said, brightly. “I hope I’ll see you around, again, Gerard.”
Pitts gave a courteous nod, and John mirrored it, before letting himself out. The door closed with a soft click. And just like that, the quiet between them shifted. Not longer thin, and brittle – but more like a tide pressing in on both sides.
“He’s charming,” Pitts noted, his tone almost polite. Almost biting.
Meeks arched a brow, swirling the dregs of his glass. “He is. A bit too charming I think. It can get tedious.”
Pitts let a beat pass. And then, “You don’t like charming?”
Meeks huffed, softly. Sipped his drink. “I don’t mind charming… I just prefer smart.”
Their eyes caught, held – longer than either meant to. Purple sparks flickered at Meeks’ fingertips before vanishing as though they’d never been there.
Pitts looked away first, but the echo of it stayed, sharp and burning.
Chris hated Boston. The damp got into her bones, the snow clung to her boots, and the whole city felt like one long draft she couldn’t shut out.
But mostly she hated how easy it was find Knox here – honestly, fuck Boston, she wanted to get back to New York yesterday.
She didn’t even have to try. Training grounds, library, the hall outside his room – he was predictable in a way that used to bring her comfort, back when he was hers. Now it just pissed her off.
Tonight, she ran into him in the armory, polishing weapons. Because Knox was nothing if not the good little solider the Clave had made out of him.
“Carstairs,” she said, letting her voice lilt into something between a purr and a sneer. “Always so busy. Do you ever stop to breathe?”
Knox didn’t look up. “Do you ever stop talking?”
She smiled sweetly, sliding along the table’s edge until she was close enough to brush the tip of her finger against the blade he was working on. He tensed, exactly like she’d predicted.
“Do you ever wonder why I broke up with you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know I never told you, but do you wonder?”
His jaw flexed, but Knox remained silent.
Chris leaned in, her perfume spilling into the air between them. “I will tell you,” she muttered, like admitting a secret. “You never needed me. Sure, you loved me, you wanted me, definitely lusted after me. But you never needed me. Not the way I did, not like I was essential.”
He didn’t take the bait. He just kept working on his stupid blade, quiet.
Chris swallowed a groan. Change gears. “And now,” she said, voice sharpening. “Now I get to watch you fall all over again. For someone else. Someone who doesn’t deserve half of the shit he’s putting you through. But this time, it’s different, isn’t it?”
Knox froze.
There.
It was beyond annoying how even the vaguest reference to Blackthorn could shut him up.
Chris laughed, low and vicious. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I can see it all over your face. All over your body. There’s something… different about Charlie, isn’t there? There’s need, the raw, ugly kind. And honestly? It’s pathetic, Knox. You’ve never let anyone matter like that before. Not even Gerard.”
She straightened, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve. “And what do you think will happen when he realizes? When he gets bored of you following after him like a duckling? Because he will. People like Charlie always do. You’ll bleed yourself dry for him, and he’ll just… run away. After all that’s all he’s good at.”
Knox shoved the blade back into its sheath, too hard, the sound echoing against the stone walls.
“Oops,” Chris giggled. “Touched a nerve, did I?” she said lightly, tilting her head, letting her smile turn sharp. “Sorry, babe, I’m just being honest with you.”
And with that she turned on her heel and took off, brushing her blond locks behind her shoulder. Chris kept smirking the whole way to her room, but she couldn’t quite ignore the bitter taste on her tongue. For all her satisfaction at his silence, at the profound devastation she could still provoke in him, the truth was gnawing at her; Charlie Blackthorn had already gotten further under Knox’s skin than she ever had.
And she hated him for it.
Breaking into Chet’s quarters was supposed to lighten up her mood. Chris had been silently brooding the whole day, and Ginny had suggested it without really intending to actually do it. But Chris had leaped so fast out of her bed, claiming Ginny to be the brightest Shadowhunter of their generation, and practically dragging her all the way to Chet’s room.
Breaking in was laughably easy. Chris kept a lookout, while Ginny drew an unlock rune on the handle of his door with her stele. A minute later the door gave away with a soft click, and Ginny ushered Chris into her brother’s room, slipping in behind her, giggling under her breath.
Chet’s gear was laid out meticulously – of course it was, he had always been vain. Chris crouched, running her fingers over the fabric, and exchanged a glance with Ginny.
“Well?” her best friend whispered.
Chris smirked. “Oh, I’m not here to just ruin his gear. I’m here to knock him down a peg or two.”
She took a blade from his set, flipped it in her palm, and with a single movement cut through a half-dozen of his shirts at the seam. The stitching unraveled like pulled thread.
Ginny snorted. “Cruel.”
“Necessary,” Chris corrected, lips curving. “He deserves it. And besides –” she tossed the used blade back onto the table “- I’m the only one allowed to make Gerard miserable.”
Ginny rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
Seeing how easy it was to get into Chet’s room gave Chris the idea to try and sneak into Gerard’s. They had gotten nowhere by trying to trail him – he knew Boston better than they did, and shaking them off was annoyingly easy – so, she didn’t really have anything to lose.
The door gave away under her hand, and Chris pocketed her stele, before slipping inside the bedroom. The smell of smoke – faint and acrid – immediately assaulted her nose and Chris followed it all the way to the dustbin. That was where she spotted the charred corner of a parchment.
She pulled it out, smoothing it with careful fingers. It was still warm at the touch, which meant it hadn’t been lying there for too long. Alec Lightwood’s handwriting was still visible, eligible despite the burn. Half a letter. Orders. Warnings.
She felt her breath stutter a little inside her chest. Was this what Gerard had been hiding? A secret correspondence with the Clave-in-exile? Her pulse skipped. Elaine would not be happy if she were to find out. This wasn’t only reason for Gerard to be kicked off the Council – this could very easily get him de-runed. It could very easily harm the whole family.
The Consul would not take lightly to this.
Chris’ fingers shook a little. Because this – this she couldn’t blame Gerard for. Because if she had to choose between the current Clave, and Alec Lightwood, she would choose Alec. Always. How could she fault Gerard for doing the same?
When the shuffle behind her registered in her brain it was already to late to do anything about it. The door softly clicked shut behind her, and Chris turned around, coming face to face with her cousin.
For a beat they only stared at each other. His hair was mussed, his jacked half undone, like he’d just come from a fight. His eyes flicked from her to the half-burnt letter in her hand, and his jaw set.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.
She smiled, aiming for unbothered, but her chest still felt tight. “And you shouldn’t sneak out. But here we are.”
The silence stretched, tense and sharp. She held the letter up, and saw his jaw tightening, despite not making a move to reach for it. Knowing she was probably going to regret what she was going to say next, Chris drew a deep breath.
“I’m only doing this, because it somehow involves Alec,” she said, fingers clenching around the half-burnt parchment. “Care to tell me what’s going on? But you’ll have to be honest, Gerard. Or I swear to the Angel…” she let her sentence trail, not really knowing how to continue.
Gerard’s eyes flickered from her face to the letter, and then back. He straightened his body, giving a slow nod. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes, why don’t you take a sit? This will be a long talk.”
Notes:
French translation ;
"S'il te plaît, maman, arrête ! Tu me fais peur!"
"Tais-toi, démon! Ne m'appelle pas maman. Le diable t'a envoyé, mais je te renverrai en enfer!”"Please, Mom, stop! You're scaring me!"
"Shut up, demon! Don't call me Mom. The devil sent you, but I'll send you back to hell!"
Chapter 25: C'est quelle émotion, ta haine
Notes:
Hello, lovely people of the internet!! How's your week so far?? I'm finally back home - which is why this chapter is posted this early- after spending a month and a half visiting my parents in Greece. I'm really excited to be back, and I'm really excited for you to read this chapter, I've been waiting for us to get here for weeks!! I hope you enjoy reading this, cuz I definitely enjoyed writing it! As always tell me your thoughts in the comments - think of it as a birthday present since it's my bday today! I'll see you all next week!
Trigger warning!!!! For not really explicit NSFW stuff but, if you're not into reading smut at all you should stop reading here;
"He worked it loose with ease, deft hand dipping beneath the waistband, reaching –"
All the way to the scene break. It's nothing very explicit, but I know not all of you are into smut so better look out!
Chapter Text
When Knox was four years old, he loved music. His parents would play it all the time – to wake him up, to calm him down, to put him to sleep. Music was a part of his everyday life and Knox, just like all the other Carstairs before him had a natural inclination to it. Around his birthday that year his father took him a music store and told him to pick an instrument.
He froze.
The choices were just too many. Too many strings. Too many keys. Too much silence between them. No music to ground him. No music to guide him. He hesitated for too long, and that’s when his father snapped, voice cold and final,
“Pick something or we leave with nothing.”
Knox went for the closest thing to him, a cello.
Knox loved his cello. He didn’t care that the strings were taut enough to make his fingertips bleed. He didn’t even care that sitting around it made his legs hurt a little. The way his bow moved along the strings, the sounds it produced, it more than made up for it.
He loved enough to need it. To desperately want to be good at it. To be the best. He was so fired up, he ended up telling his father he was going to be the best celloist in the world.
By the time he was six, Knox hated music. And he hated his cello.
Because needing had consequences. And in a house like his – where perfection was never rewarded because it was the standard – need became dangerous. The moment he told his father; music became a prison. He was made to practice for hours upon hours. Until the cello was no longer his. Until it was just another measure of discipline, another weapon to perfect.
Knox learned his lesson early; don’t need. Don’t want. That way, nothing could be turned against him.
In all the years following there had only been one exception. Pitts.
His parents hadn’t wanted him to have a parabatai – too binding, too much of a liability. A Carstairs was supposed to stand alone. But Knox hadn’t listened. Couldn’t. Gerard had pulled him into his orbit the day they met, and Knox never wanted to be too far away from him ever again. Pitts was the one thing he’d allowed himself to need, the one line of defiance he’d carved out against his parents’ rules.
Naturally, he ended up becoming what was asked of him – what was expected; the best Shadowhunter of his generation, the boy who never faltered, the archer who never missed a mark. He still wanted things, of course – he wanted Pitts to be safe, he wanted to break Chet Cartwright’s smug face into pieces, he wanted Charlie –
Fuck.
He wanted Charlie.
Which, admittedly, was a terrible idea. Because all those other wants weren’t dangerous. They were extensions of duty; they were extensions of living in Chet’s general proximity.
But wanting Charlie Blakcthorn?
Wanting Charlie in the messy, visceral, insistent way Knox wanted him? That was dangerous. Because that wasn’t want, it was need.
And Knox didn’t do need.
He couldn’t.
He pressed the thought down, smoothed it into silence. He wouldn’t spiral. He wouldn’t –
“Carstairs.”
The voice snapped him back, sharp and sudden. Knox turned on instinct, already tense. And the last person he possibly needed to see walked toward him, smiling wide.
Markus Ashdown smiled way too much for a Shadowhunter working at the Gard.
Fresh from Idris, residual magic from his portal travel still crackling around him, Markus looked great. The last time Knox had seen him was weeks ago, on that disastrous half-date. If you could even call it that.
“Long time,” Markus said, all warmth and teeth. “I hear Boston’s been… eventful.”
Knox wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. He nodded, once. Cleared his throat. “Yeah… you could say that. Is that why you’re here?”
“There’s been rumors flying around Idris about demon spikes. Mundane brawling. It all sounded very exciting,” Markus said, eyes glinting. “I figured I’d come see what all the fuss is about.”
“We have it covered,” Knox’s response was clipped.
Markus tilted his head. “I don’t doubt that. But your Institute made an official request for backup and well…” Markus shrugged his shoulders, arms falling wide. “Here I am. To back you up and keep things from getting too boring.”
It was clearly supposed to be a joke. But Knox was already feeling awkward – last time they saw each other they had not parted in the best way – and so he had no idea how to answer. He folded his arms, defaulting to silence.
Markus chuckled. “Still terrible at conversation, I see.”
Knox’s lips pressed into a line. “I don’t see the point of talking for its own sake.”
“Then you’re lucky,” Markus said, stepping closer, “that I do enough of it for both of us.”
Markus was charming. He was always charming, and steady and far too difficult to ignore. He was wearing glasses again – unlike the first time Knox met him in Alicante – and his eyes looked bluer behind the lenses. For some reason his presence made Knox feel like he was standing on quicksand. Like he had to react, or he’d end up drowning.
It was infuriating how calm Markus looked in contrast, how he spoke, all confident and smoothly, clearly wanting something more than words. It was infuriating how Knox couldn’t read it without bristling.
“This isn’t –” he started, then stopped. He didn’t even know what he was going to say.
Markus arched an eyebrow, amused. “Isn’t what?”
Knox frowned. “Nothing.”
Markus only grinned, like Knox’s irritation was its own reward.
For a moment they stood there in uneasy quiet – Markus too easy, Knox too wound up – and then the Institute shook with the shrill cry of the alarm. Both of them straightened instantly, posture shifting in perfect sync. Whatever else lingered in the air between them was shoved aside, swallowed by the familiar edge of battle.
“Duty calls,” Markus said lightly, already reaching for his weapons.
Knox was already moving toward the armory, jaw set, pulse quickening. A demon hunt was exactly what he currently needed.
When Charlie was younger – like really young, four or five maybe – he used to crawl into his mother’s bed. Charlie was an only child, probably the only Blackthorn child to grow up alone, and when his dad was away on work trips, the house felt too big. Too dark. Tood haunted or at least, that’s what he believed back then.
So every night, after lights out, he’d slip down the hall and into his parents’ room. His mom would be waiting for him awake, glasses sliding down her nose, book in her hands. She’d give him the kind of look that pretended to scold – Charlie, again? – but then she’d pull back the covers and patiently wait for him to climb in.
And then his dad returned, and everything changed. His mom went back to calling him Charles, back to correcting his posture at dinner, back to making him sit up straight while his father talked about discipling and expectations and family legacy.
When Charlie was eleven, his parents dropped him in Boston. The aftereffects of the dark war had shaken their Institute, and the Blackthorns specifically, and his parents took the excuse and ran with it. They walked through the portal with him, had a serious but short conversation with Thomas Branwell, and then left. No parting words, no hugs.
A Blackthorn didn’t need coddling. He needed discipline.
Charlie didn’t sleep for almost a year. Two hours a night, if that. He kept waiting for his parents to come back for him. He was convinced they would. Except… they didn’t. They never even visited. They called, at first, but then they stopped doing that as well. And Charlie learned that if he wanted to sleep again, he’d have to earn it. Be better. Get the grades. Train harder. Stop fighting in the hallways. Stop talking back.
He became the best. And when they still didn’t come, Charlie figured it out; they didn’t come because it was the right thing to do. Because if he’d been worth keeping, they would’ve kept him.
By then, though, Charlie had met Neil.
Neil, his best friend.
Neil, his parabatai.
Neil, who was also a little broken, a little fucked up. They both sucked at pretending to be normal, and that’s probably why they worked. Neil never left. Never even looked like he might. No matter how many times Charlie messed up, Neil stayed.
He became his parabatai, when they were fifteen, and from the on he was the only good thing Charlie allowed himself to have. The one thing he could keep without destroying.
Which was fine. One good thing in a lifetime was more than most people got.
Sleep stayed tricky after that – it always did – but at least with Neil, the nights didn’t feel endless. Charlie slept better at the Institute, where his parabatai was across the room. He never did sleepovers, though. He never lingered after hookups, he couldn’t stand to be in the dark with someone else in the room. That was the kind of vulnerability he’d sooner choke on.
And then twice in a row he fell asleep in a bed that wasn’t his own. With bed sheets that didn’t smell like him or the Institute’s familiar detergent. Twice in a row he’d crashed – didn’t lightly doze of like someone waiting for an excuse to bolt – but actual snore inducing sleep. Out cold, the kind that carried you through the night without giving you the courtesy of nightmares.
Weird. Unsettling. Probably just exhaustion.
Definitely not anything worth thinking about.
Charlie pushed the thought away and kept moving. He’d just come off patrol with Neil – blood, ichor, and way too many civilians with bad timing – and sent him off to shower while he headed for the Ops Center.
The place was a mess; maps blinking on all screens, voices overlapping as teams debriefed, reports of demon sightings stacking up faster than anyone could file them. It wasn’t until the room shifted – fell quiet in that instinctive way soldiers do when something’s wrong – that Charlie looked up.
Gerard Penhallow had just walked in, arm braced around Carstairs, who looked like he’d been drained of every drop of blood in his body. Pale, shaky, his shirt torn and stained, his steps barely holding.
He moved before he even realized it.
“What the fuck happened?” he demanded, storming across the Ops floor, shoving past people in his way. His glare locked on Gerard first, sharp as a blade. “Who did this to him?”
Penhallow stiffened, jaw set, clearly holding onto patience by a thread. “He needs to go to the infirmary –”
“What the fuck happened, Penhallow?” Charlie cut him off, shoving up against his space, eyes burning.
Suddenly Knox’s weight shifted, and Charlie’s hands went up automatically, steadying him. The second his fingers touched him, his expression cracked. Charlie’s eyes softened, his lips turning into a frown. “Hey. Hey, what the hell, Carstairs…”
Knox tried to straighten, failed, and Charlie’s chest pulled tight. All his sharpness melted into raw worry he couldn’t bite back. “You’re fine, yeah? You’re fine. Tell me you’re fine.”
Penhallow exhaled, hared, clearly done with him. “A wall collapsed. We’d cleared the building, but Knox went back in –” he paused, his eyes flicking to his parabatai. His jaw ticked. “– for Ashdown,” he spoke the name through his teeth. “I was right behind him when it came down. I’ve already drawn the iratzes, and they stopped the bleeding, but he needs proper medical treatment.”
Charlie’s head snapped up, fury back in full force. “You let a wall fall on him? How useless can you be?”
Penhallow’s eyes narrowed. “You think I planned it? You think I didn’t try to stop him?” his voice sharpened. “You think you care more about him than I do? I felt his bones crack, Blackthorn, so don’t stand there like you’re the only one who gives a fuck if he lives.”
They were nose to nose now, both seconds from throwing punches right in the middle of the Ops Center. No one dared to try and stop them. And then Knox’s voice, rough and frayed, cut through.
“Enough.”
The single word froze them both. Charlie glanced back, caught the strain in his face, and bit down hard on the instinct to keep fighting. He let out a breath through his teeth. Penhallow did the same.
“Fine,” Charlie muttered. “Infirmary first. But we’re not done.”
Penhallow gave a sharp nod the tension running thick between them, and started guiding Knox toward the door. Charlie stayed close, one hand still steady on Knox’s arm like he’d physically fight anyone who tried to pry him off.
That was when Markus Ashdown strolled in. Not a scratch on him. Not a hair out of place. His perfect, stupid face lighting up the room like nothing had happened.
Something inside Charlie snapped.
He didn’t really think, he just – moved. One second, he was beside Knox, the next he was across the room, his fist connecting with Markus’ jaw, eliciting a sickening crack. The impact reverberated up his arm. The room erupted – shouts, chair scraping – but all Charlie saw was Markus staggering back, hand to his face, looking stunned more than hurt.
And for a second, he felt better. His raw, blazing furry, finally - finally – had a target.
Then the fire drained, leaving something worse.
The silence in the Ops Center was suffocating. Dozens of eyes pinned him, and it took him less than a second to realize what he’d done. His eyes found Knox, pale, bleeding, still heavily leaning against Penhallow, before they cut to Markus was studying him, a hand braced over his jaw.
Charlie’s pulse roared in his throat. His breath came too fast. He couldn’t – fuck him, he couldn’t do this.
His gaze automatically, instinctively, darted back to Knox. He was already looking at Charlie, his eyes more alert than they were a minute ago. Heavy. Questioning.
His skin felt like it didn’t quite fit.
He needed out.
He needed – something. Anything.
Before he could stop himself, he grabbed the nearest person – didn’t even see who it was – and kissed them. Hard, desperate, messy. Just to do something with the storm brewing inside his body. Just to prove he was still in control.
The Ops Center went dead quiet.
Charlie broke away just as abruptly. Breathless. Wide-eyed. And then he was walking – more like running for the door, shoving past anyone in his way, gone before he had to see Knox’s face again.
Knox lasted a day in the infirmary. One day of people fussing, of iratzes and potions and lectures about how lucky he was the wall hadn’t crushed him outright.
Charlie hadn’t visited. Of course he hadn’t. Hadn’t even stare at him from the door or anything. And after Knox was released, he kept on not visiting. He didn’t stop by the apartment to work on the translation with him. He made sure they weren’t left alone either during or after patrols. Knox hadn’t heard his voice in two days. And the only time he caught sight of him outside of work, Charlie was leaning too close to someone else, laughing too loud, kissing like it was performance.
And every single time, his gaze flicked straight to Knox. And lingered.
He kept replaying the moment in the Ops Center. The moment he walked in with Pitts, the moment Charlie saw him. How he’d rushed to him, steadying him like he was something fragile. The gentleness in his hands, the raw panic in his voice.
It couldn’t have all been in his head, could it?
Pitts found him that night, holed up in the library. Knox had brought some of his notes with him, bits and pieces of the translation he’d spent night working on, spread uselessly in front of him.
“You’re sulking,” Pitts said, dropping into the chair opposite him like he’d been invited.
“I’m working,” Knox muttered, not bothering to look up.
“You’re sulking,” Pitts repeated, like he was correcting a child’s grammar. “And it’s because of Blackthorn. Again.”
Knox’s gaze snapped up, glaring at his best friend underneath an impressive frown. “It’s not –”
“Knox.” Pitts leaned in, voice low, but no less sharp. “You can lie to everyone else. Even to yourself, if you feel like it. Not to me.”
Knox clenched his jaw, tapped the pen he was holding against the notebook in front of him. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s Blackthorn,” Pitts said simply. “And this is exactly why I didn’t want you mixed up with him. Everything with him is complicated.”
Knox looked away heat crawling at the back of his neck. “I’m fine. He’s fine. Everything is -”
“Fine, yeah.” Pitts cut in smoothly. “That’s why you’re sitting here doing nothing, while he runs himself into the ground trying to convince you he doesn’t care about you.”
Knox’s throat worked but he stayed silent.
“You’ve already given him too much,” Pitts pressed. “And he shoved it back to you at the first chance he got. Maybe it’s time to cut your losses.”
Knox’s gaze dropped to his hands, folded too neatly on the table. He wanted to argue. He wanted to say it wasn’t like that – that Charlie wasn’t like that. But Pitts was right. Because Charlie was like that. He was reckless, messy and already halfway out the door.
Pitts stayed for the rest of the evening. He pretended to help, reading out loud Knox’s half-assed translation, pointing out errors he had already checked three times, and muttered corrections under his breath. Knox should’ve probably been more annoyed, but Pitts’ presence had always meant comfort. For the first time in Knox didn’t know how many hours he finally felt his shoulders relaxing.
He even chuckled when Pitts called his handwriting “unholy”.
A little before curfew Knox yawned. Loud, bone-deep.
“Alright,” Pitts said, dragging the dictionary out of reach. “That’s enough for tonight.”
“What? No - I haven’t finished –” Knox tried to grab it back, but Pitts held it above his head.
“Stop acting like a damn child,” he scolded him, pushing at Knox’s shoulder to keep him in his seat. “By the Angel, you’re such a little nerd.”
“You already knew that about me,” Knox muttered, slouching, too tired to put up real resistance.
Pitts’ smirk softened into something closer to fondness. “Yeah,” he said, nudging Knox’s arm with his elbow, “and somehow, it still works for you.”
Knox huffed, half a laugh, shaking his head. The room felt quieter after that, comfortable in a way it hadn’t been for days. For a moment, he thought maybe Pitts had chased the worst of the thoughts away.
Which, naturally, was when the universe decided to send him something worse.
“Poor Knox,” came a voice from the doorway, low enough to count for a purr. His back went instantly rigid.
Chris.
Her vanilla-strawberry perfume hit him before she even crossed the room, making his stomach churn. “Look at you,” she cooed, circling the desk like a predator. “All gloom and doom wasting away hiding in the library. All because of Charlie Blackthorn.”
“Chris,” Pitts said warningly, giving her a serious look.
Chris flashed him a smile, and patted Knox’s shoulder. It almost felt friendly. But then before she pulled away her nails dug into muscle.
“Relax, Gerard,” she said her voice deceptively cheerful. “I only wanted to check if Knoxie’s doing alright.”
“I’m fine. Now leave,” Knox said flatly.
Chris ignored him, sauntering around one of the empty chairs and perching on the edge of it. She tilted her head, golden hair sliding over one shoulder. “You definitely don’t look fine. Does he look fine to you, Gerard?”
“Chris, I swear to the Angel –”
“Which is funny really,” Chris spoke over him, like Knox had never opened his mouth. “Because Blackthorn’s not even subtle about it. Everyone can see he doesn’t want you. And yet…” she trailed off, chuckling a little under her breath, “-ah, Knox, I can’t believe you’ve let him become more important to you than I was. I almost feel sorry for you. It’s so… unbecoming of Knox Carstairs.”
Knox’s teeth clenched.
“Honestly,” she went on, voice dripping sugar, “what would your parents say?”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Pitts snapped standing up so fast his chair screeched. “You’re leaving.” He grabbed her forearm and dragged her toward the door. Chris didn’t resist. She only smirked, bright and merciless, like she’d won.
The scent of her perfume lingered even after she was gone, and Knox’s stomach twisted tighter.
For the next forty-eight hours Charlie was spiraling.
On patrol, he rushed in first and brutal, blades flashing before anyone else had even assessed the situation. He went hunting demons twice his size, laughing like the ichor dripping down his arm was a badge of honor. At the Institute, he leaned against walls and tables, smiling too wide at anyone who passed, trading jokes and kisses with whoever was close enough. He laughed louder than the joke deserved, kissed harder than he meant to, and didn’t stop until his jaw ached from the effort.
It almost worked. Key word; almost.
Until he caught himself looking for Knox in every room. Until his fist ached remembering Markus’ jaw. Until the memory of the Ops Center kept replaying in a loop, keeping him wide awake all night.
So, he pushed harder. Louder, faster, sharper. If he drowned himself in enough noise, maybe no one would notice he was unraveling underneath it.
Neil noticed, of course. He let it go for two days – two full days of Charlie spiraling, until finally, after patrol he grabbed his elbow hard enough to drag him out of the hallway traffic.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Neil said flatly.
Charlie smirked, shaking his arm fresh. “Never had it to begin with.”
“You’re not even pretending anymore!”
He flashed him a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What, jealous you’re not the one I’m kissing in alleyways?”
Neil just stared at him, unimpressed. “Try again.”
Charlie’s smirk twitched. “Don’t start with me.”
“No, you don’t start with me,” Neil snapped. Their bond hummed between them, a low, steady thrum of worry crawling under Charlie’s skin. The rune burned on his thigh.
“I’m fine,” Charlie muttered.
Neil scoffed, rolled his eyes. “You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine for years, but lately you’ve been actively trying to kill yourself.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“I’m underreacting, if anything!”
Charlie kissed his teeth, dragging a hand through his hair. “Why do you even care if I kiss a few people?”
Neil groaned. Pushed him further down the hall and threw a cursory look over his shoulder. “I care about your rushing kills without thinking about protocol! I care about you chasing down Greater Demons because you need the adrenaline rush! I care about you starting shit in the Institute that can mess up with people’s lives.”
“Why?!”
“Because I care about you! And because this is not the way to keep going, Chaz!”
The words landed uncomfortably over his chest. Charlie’s grin faltered, then slipped entirely. He shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes fixed on the floor. “It’s this way.”
Neil’s expression softened, but the rune between them thrummed harder. Comforting. Knowing. “Is it?”
Charlie pressed his lips together, his eyes snapping to his parabatai’s face, sharp and quick, like he’d been caught. His throat worked before he forced the words out. “It has to be. It’s what I deserve.”
Neil frowned. “What?”
“What do you want from me, Neil? To spell it out for you? Fine; I know what you want for me, but the truth is, I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve nice. And I don’t deserve stable. Okay?”
The bond went still, quiet and heavy, like even it didn’t know what to say.
Charlie shook his head, trying to laugh it off, but it came out bitter. “Forget it.”
Neil didn’t push, not that Charlie would’ve let him even if he tried. They walked in silence until the smell of food reached them, until the clamor of voices rose down the corridor.
The eating hall was noisy, crowded, alive. Charlie rolled his shoulders back, grinned too wide, and slid into the nearest seat like nothing was wrong. He cracked a joke, flirted with the person beside him, laughed loud enough to carry across the room.
Knox was not brooding.
Carstairs didn’t brood. They strategized. They contemplated. They occasionally frowned in an imposing thoughtful way.
But they didn’t brood.
“You’re brooding,” Pitts said, carefully cutting up a piece of chicken.
“I’m thinking,” Knox corrected, arms crossed, eyes locked on the far wall.
“You’ve been ‘thinking’ at the same brick for fifteen minutes. While frowning.”
Knox ignored him. Because the doors had just opened, and instinctively he turned in time to watch Charlie and Neil stroll in. Charlie was already grinning manically, laughing at something someone told him.
He looked untouched by the last two days. Like everything was normal. Like nothing of interest had happened.
Knox’s chest tightened. Half his brain screamed for him to give up. To do what he always did: sit there, still and silent, let it wash over him until the ache dulled. Pretend it didn’t matter. Pretend he was fine.
It would be safe. It would certainly be easier.
But for once – just once – he was tired of easy.
Knox drew a breath, slow and steady, and made a choice.
Before Pitts could react, he set his hands on the table and stood. One movement, smooth and decisive, the sound of his boots against wood ringing sharp in the suddenly quiet hall.
“Knox!” Pitts hissed, grabbing for his ankle. “What the hell are you doing? Sit down!”
But Knox didn’t. He stood on the table, feeling the awkwardness pulse through him as more and more people turned to look at him. Conversations fell away, clattering like dropped coins until silence pressed in.
Charlie’s laugh cut off mid-sound. His eyes widened as they met Knox’s, lips parting in silent question.
Knox’s pulse thundered, but when he spoke, his voice was calm. Even. His.
“For those who don’t know me,” he began, gaze sweeping the hall, “I’m Knox Carstairs.”
A ripple went through the room. Everyone knew him. Knox knew that everyone knew him, but he had to start somewhere.
“I graduated first in my class. I’ve been commended three times by the Clave. I was Weapons Master for five years over at New York’s Institute. I’ve been called brilliant, dependable, exemplary.” His voice didn’t waver. Not once. “And,” he said, steady and clear, “I’m sleeping with Charlie Blackthorn.”
Forks clattered. Whispers surged like wildfire. Pitts groaned into his hands. And Charlie – Charlie stared, eyes wide, like Knox had ripped the ground out from under him.
And yet Knox didn’t move. Didn’t look away. Because he didn’t care about the chaos. He didn’t care about everyone looking at him, laughing at his expense. This wasn’t for them. This wasn’t even for Charlie.
This was for him.
Knox took his time climbing down. He surveyed the room once more, tried to memorize the feeling. Tried to memorize the way his pulse had spiked, the way his heart had slammed against his ribs. How it had felt to finally speak the words out loud. To not care.
When he stepped down, he kept his expression unreadable. His boots hit the floor with practiced ease, shoulders squared, chin high. Pitts gaped at him like he’d sprouted wings.
“Smooth,” he muttered. “Real subtle. Definitely not going to start a riot.”
Knox adjusted his cuffs, cool as ever. “I thought it was smoother than accusing the Council of murder coverup.”
“Oh, don’t you dare –”
But Pitts didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, because suddenly Charlie was there. Eyes locked on Knox, sharp and burning.
Before Knox could think of anything to say, Charlie grabbed his wrist. “We’re talking.”
He let himself be pulled. Past the tables, out the door, into the quieter corridor where the noise of the halls dulled to a distant hum. Knox was ready for it, for the explosion. For the yelling, the accusations. Definitely for the punching.
He’d take it. He deserved it.
He was in fact so ready for it that he went first.
Knox shoved Charlie back against the wall, hard enough to rattle the frame, but not enough to hurt. His voice was low and fierce. “This wasn’t about you. I’m not trying to force you into anything.” His chest rose and fell too fast, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting for years. “You can go back to ignoring me tomorrow if that’s what you want. But I had to do this.”
Charlie stared at him, wide-eyed, speechless. For once, the sarcasm didn’t come.
So, he did the next best thing.
He kissed him.
It was sudden. Rough. Like every argument they’d ever had condensed into the press of their lips together. Knox’s hands tightened on Charlie’s sides, too aggressive, too used to the way they usually tore into each other.
And then Charlie’s palms were flat against his chest. Pushing him back.
“Fuck, Carstairs – stop, stop,” Charlie panted, pulling back a little to look him in the eye. “Okay, can we – can we do this without drawing blood? Just for once?”
Charlie Blackthorn had seen a lot of stupid things in his life. He’d done a lot of stupid things in his life.
But Knox Carstairs standing on a table, calm as a saint, telling a room full of people they were sleeping together?
Yeah. That took the cake. That took the whole damn baking factory.
For one horrifying second, Charlie couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The words just hung there in the air, heavy as stone, and everyone – everyone was looking at him. His first instinct was to laugh. Pretend it was a joke, that Carstairs was having a mental breakdown or something. His second instinct was to run. Out the doors, out of Boston, out of the country if he had to.
Instead, his feet carried him forward. Straight to Knox. Straight to the man who had just announced to the entire Institute that he wanted him. And then, suddenly, they were alone, just the two of them, and Knox was in front of him, shoving him against the wall. He was clearly still running on the high of all that he had so stupidly admitted, his eyes shining in a way Charlie wasn’t used to.
Charlie himself had been ready for a fight. He’d been ready for the sneer, the bite, the punch – by the Angel, he’d been so ready to punch the daylights out of him. Because that was their thing.
That was safe.
But the anger never came. The fire burned inside of him, but all it build up to was a kiss. Desperate, messy, like he was trying to prove something to himself. He failed. Spectacularly so. Knox grabbed too hard, pushed too rough – until Charlie’s instincts kicked in and he pulled back, panting.
He didn’t want this.
No, no, he wanted this, he just didn’t want –
“Fuck, Carstairs – stop, stop.” His hands pressed to Knox’s chest, holding him back just enough. He forced himself to meet his eyes. “Okay, can we – can we do this without drawing blood? Just for once?”
Charlie swallowed, his pulse beating in his throat. He waited.
And sweet Raziel.
The fucking look on Carstairs' face.
Like Charlie had just handed him the key to the universe. Like Charlie hadn’t said something stupid in desperation but had instead confessed the secret most important truth of his life.
And the worst part? Charlie meant it. He meant every single word.
Oh, this was bad. This was so bad.
“What the fuck,” Charlie whispered, more to himself than to Knox. “What the fuck?”
But then Knox’s hand slid carefully – so fucking carefully – up his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, and all of Charlie’s objections went flying out the nearest window.
Because the next kiss was different. Softer. Awkward, hesitant, like neither of them had ever done this before. They bumped noses, teeth clacked once, and Charlie nearly laughed against Knox’s lips – but then Knox adjusted, steadied, and the laughter died in his throat.
They kissed again. And again. And then they just… kept kissing. Slow and unfamiliar and terrifyingly good. Charlie’s hands curled into the front of Knox’s shirt, pulling him in. Holding him close. Like he wanted him there.
When they finally broke apart, Knox’s breath ghosted over his mouth, steady and deliberate, his gaze steady in a way that made Charlie’s stomach flip.
“Maybe,” Knox said quietly, “we should take this somewhere more private.”
Charlie swallowed, again – hard – still clutching his shirt, heart pounding loud enough to drown out rational thought.
Private. Yeah. That definitely sounded dangerous. That sounded intimate. That sounded –
“Yeah,” he heard himself say, voice rough. “Okay.”
Charlie stayed quiet until the door clicked shut behind them. The soft sound hadn’t even finished echoing when he shoved Knox back against it, biting at his jaw, licking at his throat, moaning softly against his skin like he was trying to kill him.
“Charlie –” Knox’s voice was husky, his hands catching at Charlie’s arms, not to stop him, but to steady himself. He tried to guide him deeper into the room, but Charlie groaned low in his chest and pressed harder, his thigh sliding between Knox’s legs until all thought scattered like startled birds.
“Charlie,” he tried again, but it was barely above a whisper, too weak to have any actual effect on the other man.
“Mmh,” he hummed against his skin, lips moving over the pulse in his neck, tongue flicking against the hollow of his collarbone. His hands slid beneath Knox’s shirt, palms broad and hot, nails grazing his abdomen in a way that made him shiver. And then – so quiet it almost didn’t register –
“I’ve missed you.”
Knox froze.
Because he had said it so quietly.
So softly.
So earnestly.
The words had slipped out so painfully light, as if by accident – one that Charlie was already trying to cover up with his mouth. Knox could see the flush at the tips of his ears, a deep scarlet like fresh poppies.
He angled his chin down, trying to catch his gaze, but Charlie refused, stubborn as ever, sucking another bruise into his neck instead. And then – Angel, help him – he switched it up. The rhythm of his hips slowed, turned needy instead of desperate. His fingers twisted in Knox’s shirt like he was afraid to let go.
Knox’s chest ached with it.
Because fuck him all the way to the Gard and back, Knox had missed him too. It had been only been days, but it had gnawed at him, sharp and constant. He hadn’t realized how much until now.
“Charlie,” Knox exhaled, and this time his voice broke around it. He pressed his forehead down until it touched his, grounding himself in the nearness, in the heat of his breath. Charlie’s hands tightened in his shirt, like if he let go the floor would give out beneath him.
Knox wanted to ask him. Wanted to make him say it. Wanted to crack him open and name what this was. But Charlie’s mouth was already moving against his again, gentler now, coaxing instead of demanding and Knox knew there would be no talking right now.
Charlie grinded against him one last time before Knox’s composure entirely shattered. He spun him around in one fluid motion, chest to back, an arm locked firm but careful around him. Charlie gasped, then moaned low, wrecked, head dropping onto Knox’s shoulder. His lips were on him immediately, neck craned in an unnatural angle – biting, kissing, licking a desperate path down his throat, need searing through every touch.
Charlie was everywhere – his body pressed against his own, hot and restless, his breath ragged against Knox’s throat. His hands wandered, gripping at Knox’s wrists, at his shirt, like couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull him closer, or fall apart completely. It was too much. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Charlie whined, breath coming in sharp gasps, his body all frantic motion, writhing against him, chasing friction, pressing back into Knox’s hips his like he was made to fit there.
Knox dragged a hand down and across his stomach, heat sparking with every inch, until he reached the buckle of his belt. He worked it loose with ease, deft hand dipping beneath the waistband, reaching –
Charlie’s breath stuttered. He moaned, arching into his hand.
“Knox –!” he gasped, the sound guttural, his hips jerking forward only to roll back again.
Knox’s vision whited out.
Charlie was so warm, so needy, so devastatingly desperate and Knox – Knox couldn’t think. He bit down, sharp, at the curve of Charlie’s jaw, earning a breathless whimper for his troubles.
“You’re a fucking mess,” he rasped, voice wrecked, pressing his forehead to the nape of Charlie’s neck.
He nodded frantically, rolling into his fist, whining when Knox tightened his grip, when he stroked him in earnest.
“Then fucking fix me,” he breathed out, hands coming up to grab at Knox’s hair, pulling him closer. Like closer wasn’t close enough. Like he needed to crawl underneath his skin to be satisfied.
Knox turned him back around, captured his jaw with one hand. His thumb caressed the corner of his mouth, and then he dipped forward to kiss him through a moan as his other hand kept stroking him, steady and sure. Charlie clawed at him, clinging to his shoulders, grinding helplessly into his palm every sound spilling between them, every shudder rattling through both their bodies.
They never quite made it to the bedroom. Navigating both of them there while getting Charlie off kinda had felt like too much work, so Knox had opted to stay in the living room. And afterward, neither of them suggested moving. They’d each taken quick turns in the shower, returned with damp hair and clean shirts – Charlie had borrowed one from Knox, it reached all the way to the mid of his thighs.
Knox tried really hard to not have an aneurism when he saw him in it and nothing else but a pair of boxers – also borrowed.
They drifted back to the couch, the old lexicon open across the coffee table, notebooks scattered around like props to justify not staring at each other too long.
Charlie lounged sideways, one ankle hooked over the armrest, pencil tapping against his thigh. “So,” he said, too casually, “tell me something.”
Knox hummed without looking up, eyes trained on the neat column of words in front of him.
“You seriously went back into a building that was already caving in – just to find Ashdown?”
Knox stilled. His pen hovered over the page for a second too long before he set it down, aligning it perfectly against the edge of his notebook, refusing to look up. “I didn’t know it was Markus.”
Charlie arched an eyebrow. “What – you just heard ‘damsel in distress’ and sprinted in blind?”
Knox’s silence said everything.
Charlie let out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “By the Angel. You did.” He dragged a hand down his face. “You’re actually an idiot.”
Knox shifted, defensive. “I didn’t stop to think about who it was. Someone was left behind. That’s all that mattered.”
“Yeah, well, next time maybe thing about the part where you nearly get flattened and Markus fucking Ashdown walks out without a scratch on his perfect –” Charlie cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. His ears had gone red.
Knox finally glanced at him.
“Forget it,” Charlie muttered, snapping his pencil down on the notebook. “Let’s just – translate before my brain liquefies.”
They bent over the lexicon, the air tight between them. Knox kept stealing looks at him, but Charlie seemed to be serious about research for once. So, Knox followed his example, trying to concentrate. They were both reading from the same page, each one of them translating different parts of it. They moved through it until the Enochian etched on the pages stopped being vague shapes and turned into something much – much – worse.
“Okay, hold on,” Charlie said, leaning forward, finger jabbing at the cramped script. “This says… this says…”
Knox leaned in as well, gaze narrowing. “This says that – after the seven seals are broken, the profane will rise,” he read, following Charlie’s translated text on the margin. “And when he bleeds at the gates of Hell, the trumpet of the Apocalypse will sound.”
Charlie’s head whipped around. “Wait. Back up. The profane? Are you actually talking about the Antichrist, Carstairs?”
“I’m not talking about anything,” Knox replied evenly. “The text is.”
Charlie gaped at him. “Okay, but – this word,” he said, pointing at what Knox had just read. Charlie hadn’t translated it himself. “This words is not the same as this,” he said, pointing at the word he’d marked as profane.
“No,” Knox admitted. “But it translates to unique individual. So..”
“Yeah, okay – but it can also mean insignificant,” Charlie said, underlying the words in his notebook.
Their eyes met. The word stretched heavy between them.
Charlie leaned back hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “So, we’re either dealing with the most important person in the world or a total nobody.”
“Or both,” Knox said quietly.
Charlie let out a disbelieving laugh. “Great. Love that for us.” He shoved the lexicon away, slumping against the cushions.
Knox reached over and pulled the book back. “No, alright - let’s think about this logically.” He rubbed at his jaw, gaze squinting as he read the line again. “The text is about the Apocalypse. It talks about seals, trumpets, the four horsemen… Both words have to mean the same. It can’t be random.”
Charlie looked at him for a long, silent moment. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was going to argue. But then he didn’t. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Knox nodded, once. “C’mon, let’s keep working.”
The pencil in Charlie’s hand tapped a restless rhythm against the margin, but he leaned back in, shoulder brushing Knox’s. They moved through the lines together, slower this time, piecing apart the words like threads of a knot. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of paper shifting, pens scratching, their breathing quiet and even.
And then Knox felt him freeze next to him. He turned only to see him gape at the text, his pencil hovering mid-word.
“What?”
Charlie’s eyes narrowed at the page. He jabbed his pencil against a sketch in the margin – a crude drawing Knox had copied from one of the bodies. “This. The carving.” His voice was low, almost unwilling. “I know there’s a picture somewhere in the book with a whole bunch of them, and I know we’ve guessed they were part of a ritual but –”
Knox’s stomach dropped. Charlie was too worked up to keep talking, so he soundlessly pointed at the word he’d stopped. Knox leaned in, eyes flicking between the old script and his own drawing.
“That’s not –” he refused, shaking his head.
“It’s is.” Charlie’s voice was grave.
“No, Charlie, we’re probably mistranslating –”
“The fuck are we mistranslating?” Charlie snapped. “The words are very easy. Draw this symbol to break the seals,” he read, his finger moving under each Enochian rune. His laugh came out sharp, thin. “Of course the fucking symbols break the seals. Why not?”
Knox didn’t respond. He didn’t know how. The silence thickened between them.
“Four victims,” Charlie muttered at last. His voice sounded different now – quieter, rougher, like it scraped his throat on the way out. “Four seals.”
Knox’s hand tightened around his pen. “Which means three more to go.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of it sat between them, pressing down on their lungs, their bones. Charlie fell back into the couch cushions, burying both hands in his hair like he could scrub the thought out of his skull.
“Well,” he said, sharp and bitter. “Guess we can officially say that we’re all fucked.”
Knox almost smiled. Almost.
Chapter 26: Oh, we're going out in style, babe
Notes:
Hello, nice people of the internet!! How's life?? Mine's been a little hectic lately, what with schools starting again and me finding myself at the mercy of high schoolers... but ya'll don't care about that. Alrighty, this chapter is VERY LONG. It wasn't supposed to be, but that's what happens when you give a chapter to Meeks/Pitts. They yap. A lot. Also this is heavily un-edited because it's super late and I couldn't do it, so if you say any mistakes.. no you don't. Oh, and I'm going back to my roots with this one, which means the angst is going to angst! You've been warned.
As always, let me know your thoughts in the comments and I'll see you next week :))
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The fire swallowed everything.
The houses. The people. The village.
Steven ran until he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. Until the roar of the flames was replaced by the hollow sound of blood rushing in his ears. The night pressed down, heavy on his shoulders, full of shadows that stretched wrong and too tall. He stumbled through fields that looked endless in the dark, rows of bare trees twisting up toward the sky like skeleton hands. Every breath scraped his throat raw, smoke still clinging to him, bitter and harsh.
Every time he blinked, fire danced behind his eyelids. Flames curling around the windows of his childhood home. His mother’s face twisted in the blaze. The axe. The purple sparks shivering across his skin. Her scream cut off like abrupt and with finality.
His palms still burned. Tiny embers skittered over his fingers whenever he flexed them. He bit down hard on his knuckle, trying not to sob. Trying not to make a sound. Not that there was anyone left to hear him.
At some point, he lost track of where he was. His steps blurred together until his knees buckled, and he went crashing into the frozen dirt. He pushed himself up again, staggering forward. He couldn’t stop moving. He couldn’t afford his thoughts – the screams, the stench of burnt flesh, the fire – to catch up with him.
A barn rose out of the dark like a mirage. The door leaned open on rusted hinges. Inside smelled of straw and earth, sharp with the tang of animals. Steven crept in, trembling, and clambered onto a pile of hay. He curled so tight he thought he might fold into nothing, pressing his face into his arms. The hay prickled his skin, but exhaustion dragged him under before he could think better of it.
He dreamed of flames.
He dreamed of screaming.
When light cracked across the barn floor, Steven woke with his heart already racing. For a second, he forgot where he was. He thought maybe he’d go home and she would be there – his mother at the stove, humming, smiling at him the way she used to when he was very small.
Then the door opened.
A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the morning sun. His shoulders were broad, his clothes patched and worn, and he carried a pitchfork easily in one hand. He didn’t look angry. His brow furrowed in something that might have been concern.
“Bonjour,” the man said softly. His voice was careful, gentle. “Tu es perdu, petit?”
Steven’s throat thickened. His hands clenched, sparks crawling unbidden over his skin.
The man hesitated, then crouched slightly, lowering his voice further. “Tu as faim? Tu veux du pain?”
Steven shook his head so hard it hurt. His breath came too fast, too sharp. The man took another step closer.
“Comment tu t’ appelles?”
Steven botled.
He shot off the hay, darted past the man before he could reach him, and tore out into the blinding white morning. The man shouted something after him, but Steven didn’t turn back.
One of Gerard’s first memories was of Chris.
They were sitting cross-legged in the middle of his family’s living room rug, surrounded by blocks and wooden figurines. He was trying to stack the blocks high enough to knock over Chris’ castle – except she kept stealing them from his pile, laughing so loud it bounced off the walls.
“Not fair!” Gerard declared, clutching two blocks to his chest like treasure. “You’re cheating!”
“I’m not cheating,” Chris shot back, sticking her tongue out at him. Her blond hair caught in the light, forming a halo around her head. “I’m winning.”
He glared at her, then grinned, because she always made it more fun when she was winning. He shoved his tower a little closer to hers, making monster noises as he toppled a soldier on its side. Chris squealed and smacked his hand away. They dissolved into giggles, leaning against each other as they rebuilt what they’d destroyed.
Their mothers sat nearby, teacups in hand, voices low but steady. Gerard wasn’t really listening; he found grown-ups very boring. But then his mother said something, and the tone of her voice made the hair on arm stand in attention.
“ – getting them ready.”
For some reason it made his ears perk up. He glanced over, but the women weren’t looking at them. They never looked when they said things like that.
“The path needs to be cleared for them,” his mother continued, her lips pulling into a smile that showed her teeth.
“She’ll charm them,” his aunt muttered, smoothing a hand over her skirt, a faraway look in her eyes. “That’s her gift. She’ll glint by his side, like the diamond she’s, blinding them.”
“And he’ll lead,” his mother said, softer this time. “Like we planned before they were even born.”
“It’s their birthright.”
Gerard frowned. He knew what the word ‘birthright’ meant but he couldn’t understand what they were talking about. He felt a little twist in his stomach, like he’d just heard something he shouldn’t have.
Chris tugged at his sleeve. “Hey! Don’t stop playing!”
He blinked, then looked back down at her, at the careful pile of blocks waiting to be knocked over again. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and fierce.
“Come on,” she urged, tugging at him. “My castle’s not gonna fall by itself!”
And just like that his mother’s strange words faded back into the background hum of the room. Gerard shoved a block toward her tower, laughing when she shrieked and threw herself across it like a knight protecting a fortress.
Steven lost track of how long he’d been walking.
Nights bled into morning, mornings bled into night, and it just kept going. He drifted from one village to the next, thin as a shadow, slipping between streets without speaking a word. He scraps out of barrels with waste, drank when he found a trough or a forgotten bucket of rainwater. Every time footsteps came too close, his heart tried to beat its way out of his ribs.
Once, in a town he couldn’t remember the name of if you promised to take his nightmares away, he found a cellar door left unlatched behind an apothecary. The air was thick with herbs and dust, but it was quiet, and it was dark. Steven curled into the farthest corner and stayed there.
Days passed. Weeks, maybe. He only crept out when the hunger knifed through him too sharply to ignore, stealing crumbs or gnawing at roots from the apothecary’s refuse. His nails were black with dirt. His skin was stretched too tight over his bones. He smelled of smoke that he’d never washed off. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, he could still smell traces of the soap his mother used for his clothes.
And then her bloodied face would flash through his mind, and his eyes would snap open, his chest heaving for air that never felt enough.
One day the door of the cellar creaked open, and a little girl peered down into the dark.
She couldn’t have been older than him. In fact, she was probably younger, around seven years old or so. A braid of ginger hair hung over one shoulder, her eyes blue, wide and cautious, but not cruel. She said something to him, but her voice was thin and soft, like she was trying to not further scare a spooked animal. Steven pressed himself against the wall, too weak to run, too afraid to answer.
The next day, she came back. This time with bread wrapped in cloth, and a cup of water. She held it out without stepping closer. Steven stared at her hand for a long time before reaching for it, his fingers shaking.
That was how it began.
She returned almost every day after that. Sometimes she spoke to him, whispering children’s stories that were meant to soothe him. Other times she sung softly, her vowels curling pleasantly around his ears. There were moments when she just sat nearby, swinging her legs, watching him eat. Steven didn’t take long to warm up to her. He didn’t speak, but after a couple of days he showed her his secret – he cupped his hands, whispering over them, until a small flame bloomed, purple and trembling, making shadows dance across the stone walls. She gasped the first time, then clapped her hands, her laughter bubbling up like bells. It was the first time in weeks Steven remembered what it was like to feel something other than fear.
He almost believed, for a while, that he could stay. Until the morning he crept out for air and found her.
Her body lay in the village square. Small, still, wrong. Her ginger hair was matted with blood, her skin paler than he had ever seen it. She was lying on the dirt, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked peaceful enough to be sleeping. A crowd had gathered around the square, their voices trembling with fear, muttering words Steven couldn’t piece together. One of the women was on her knees, crying silently.
Her eyes were blue.
Steven’s stomach turned to stone.
She had been gentle. She had been kind. She had fed him, smiled at him, laughed with him. And now she was dead. Now she was cold, and stiff and she would never smile or laugh again.
Steven ran.
He didn’t stop to breathe, didn’t stop to think, just fled from the village, from the smell of smoke that never left him, from the image of her lying there with her braid undone. He ran until his legs gave out. And when he could no longer run, he crawled.
He didn’t look back.
New York was loud.
The Institute walls were high, but the city’s noise still found ways to sneak in – the sound of the cars speeding down the road, shouting from the streets, voices in a dozen accents bleeding together. Gerard had never lived anywhere so restless.
He sat in the corner of the library, flipping pages he wasn’t reading, when Knox dropped into the chair opposite him. His cheeks were pink, his hands tapping nervously against the table. He was muttering something under his breath, pausing every now and then to either groan or sigh heavily.
Gerard arched an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve swallowed a seraph blade,” he said dryly.
Knox startled, like he just noticed he was sitting there. He scowled. “Do you ever shut up?”
“Not if I can help it.” Gerard closed his book, and crossed his arms over it. “Alright, out with it. Why are you bleeding?”
Knox frowned. “I’m not bleeding.”
“You’re gushing emotions all over the library floor,” Gerard said, eyes sparkling smugly. “It’s both incredibly romantic and worrisome.”
His ears turned pink. “I don’t –”
“You do,” Gerard cut in smoothly. “So, Chris?”
Knox froze, the rest of his face turning the same shade of his ears. He grumbled quietly, hiding his face in his hands. But he didn’t deny it.
Gerard sighed, leaning back in his seat. He didn’t get it – what his best friend saw in his cousin. Sure, Chris was pretty, she’ d always been. And leaving Idris had definitely worked in her benefit; Chris was more confident, more outspoken than he remembered. But she was also… stubborn. A little difficult. A little mean. Always ordering someone around – Ginny most often than not – like it was her job. Then again, if anyone could put up with her, it would be Knox. He was by far the most patient person Gerard had ever met. And he was way better at feeling things. Gerard’s own emotions came to him like chess pieces, useful, positioned, but never all-consuming. Nothing like the way Knox looked right now.
They were still bickering about it when Chet Cartwright walked in.
Gerard had seen him around the institute before. He knew he was Ginny’s older brother – twenty, broad shouldered, already with that air of ease that came from knowing everyone looked at him when he entered the room. Chet carried himself like the world owed him space and gave it willingly. He leaned against the library doorway, arms crossed, a smile curling the corners of his lips.
“You’re Gerard, aren’t you?”
“Pitts,” he corrected automatically.
“Pitts,” Chet echoed, tasting it like it was something rare. “Hm, that suits you.”
Gerard huffed a laugh, trying not to look pleased. Beside him he felt Knox shifting in his chair. He tried to be subtle, of course, but the set of his shoulders was unmistakable to Gerard. As well as the tick in his jaw. Knox’s eyes flicked up to Chet, cool and measuring, before dropping back to the shut book on the desk in front of him as if nothing had happened.
Chet didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t mention it. He slowly sat down across from Gerard, his smile smooth and pleasant. He made a show out of taking his phone from his pocket and started scrolling through it.
Knox lingered a moment longer, gaze sliding between the two of them – back and forth, back and forth – and Gerard felt the weight of his scrutiny. The silent disapproval. He tried to ignore it, tried to go back to his reading, but the tension had doubled around their table, and he found it impossible to even open his book.
A little while later, Knox muttered something about training and pushed to his feet.
“I’ve heard about you,” Chet said, voice low and conversational. He looked up at him through a pair of dark eyelashes, his thumb still moving over the screen of his phone. “The runaway Penhallow. Fifteen, and already too clever for Idris. Brave enough to walk away.”
He made it sound like an accomplishment.
“You’re not like the others,” he continued. “Most of them don’t know who they are yet. But you… you already do.”
Gerard swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I don’t,” he said quickly.
“You think you don’t,” Chet leaned in, smile sharp and knowing. “But I can see it. The way you hold yourself. You’re going to matter, Pitts. You already do.”
Gerard was smart enough to know when someone was flattering him. But the words were spoken so understatedly that they landed somewhere he had always felt hollow. He told himself it was nothing. That Chet Cartwright just had a way of talking, that he was charming and said things in a kind of voice that made them sound true.
But it kept happening. Little things, slipped in between training sessions or library visits. Passing comments dressed up as casual.
“You notice everything, don’t you?” when he pointed out an error in a weapons drill.
“You don’t miss a thing,” when he corrected a translation no one else had seen.
“You make the others look like children,” murmured over coffee one morning, eyes glinting.
Always spoken low. For him alone. Intimately.
Naturally, Knox noticed.
One night in the dormitory, when they were supposed to be studying, Knox closed his book with a sharp thud.
“You shouldn’t spend so much time with him.”
Gerard didn’t look up. “With who?”
“You know who.” Knox’s tone was clipped, his jaw tight. “Chris said –”
“Oh, are we now quoting Chris like gospel?”
“She’s your cousin!”
Gerard rolled his eyes. “Thanks for reminding me.”
Knox huffed, crossed his arms. “He’s not good for you.”
Gerard’s laugh was short, bitter. “You don’t get to decide what’s good for me.”
Silence stretched, heavy and wrong. Knox went back to his book, but Gerard could almost feel the frustration thrum through his body. He ignored it. Fell back into his bed, and threw an arm over his face, attempting to sleep.
A few weeks later, he found himself on the training field after hours, the moonlight throwing long shadows across the stone walls. Chet was already there, shirt damp with sweat, practice blade dangling loose in his hand.
“You’re up late,” he said easily, smile curving.
“So are you,” Gerard returned, but his voice was a little unsteady.
Chet shrugged, stepping closer. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I might as well get some training in. Thought something interesting might turn up.” His eyes flicked over Gerard, deliberate and slow, before meeting his again. “Guess I was right.”
Heat rose in Gerard’s chest, stubborn and impossible to swallow down.
Chet grinned, satisfied, and offered him a spare blade. “Spar with me?”
And when their weapons clashed, when Chet’s hand brushed his wrist just a second too long, Gerard didn’t pull away.
The months blurred together in shades of hunger and cold. Steven wandered from village to village, keeping to the shadows, taking only what he needed. A loaf of bread from a market stall, an apple fallen under a cartwheel. Sometimes he found barns, or cellars, or abandoned homes, their walls cracked with frost, and slept there until someone found him.
Every time he dared to trust, it ended the same.
A woman who pressed a pear into his hands with a smile was found with her throat cut by the river two days later. A shepherd boy who gave him cloak was gored by his own ram. A man who opened up his house for him, offering him a steaming cup of soup, burned down with his wooden hut.
They always ended up dead.
Steven stopped talking. Stopped answering questions. Stopped hoping there would ever be a stop to his endless travels.
And then, on a random, pale morning day, his world shifted. He was deep in the forest, just at the outskirts of Lyon. There wasn’t a lot of light slipping in through the heavy branches, and what little did reach the forest floor felt wrong. Too golden. Too pure. The silence also felt weird, like someone had turned the volume dial all the way down to zero.
When Steven blinked, there was someone standing where moments ago there had been only mist. He was tall, radiant, a pair of wings shooting out of his back, unfurling in a sweep of gold. A face too perfect to be real – too kind – turned toward him.
“Steven,” the man smiled. “N’ai pas peur, Steven.”
Steven stumbled back, clutching the bark of a tree. His breath came fast and shallow. “Qui – qui êtes-vous?”
The man tilted his head, every motion fluid, perfect. His voice rolled low, velvet and honey. “Je suis ton père.”
The words slammed through him with a force almost as strong as Steven’s magic. They settled beneath his ribs, pressing down on his chest. He shook his head, too fast, too small.
“Mon père est mort.”
“Non,” the man said softly, stepping closer. The air seemed to bend around him. “Ton vrai père. Je t’ai toujours vu. J’ai vu ton feu.” His hand lifted, palm open, warm light spilling from it. “Tu es à moi, Steven. Mon sang. Mon fils.”
Steven’s chest squeezed tight. His throat burned. No one had ever spoken to him like this. Like he mattered. Like he was wanted.
“ Tu n'es plus seul, ” he murmured, gently and it felt like music. “Tu ne sera plus jamais abandonnè. Viens avec moi.”
Wings folded around him, golden light flooding his vision until Steven could hardly breathe. He did not run. He couldn’t. When his father’s fingers closed around his own, the clearing fell away beneath them – collapsing into fire, shadow and the stench of ash.
At first it was just looks.
Gerard would catch Chet looking at him from across the training hall. A flicker of the eye contact held for a half fraction too long. It was usually followed by the faintest curl of his lips. Nothing anyone would notice. Nothing Gerard could even prove had been there. But it unsettled him in a way not many things could. Because this was Chet, and because this was him.
Not Chris.
Not Knox.
Him.
The looks from across open spaces slowly transitioned into words. Chet never wasted them. Never used too many of them. He’d usually catch him when he was alone, speak them in a way that felt private, and leave Gerard reeling and unable to come up with anything to say back.
“Not bad, Pitts,” he’d breathed once, so close to his ear Gerard felt his pulse stutter in his throat. “You’re sharper every time I see you. And you don’t even need a blade to make someone bleed.”
Gerard nearly dropped the seraph blade he was holding.
It wasn’t long before the touches came. They weren’t obvious, of course. Nothing anyone could call him out on. A hand braced on his shoulder after sparring, palm hot through the fabric of his shirt. A casual brush of his fingers when Gerard made some clever observation during debriefings he wasn’t supposed to speak on. They always lasted long enough for him to notice, to blush.
It became routine, in a way that felt harmless. Chet just happened to always be there, and he happened to never send him away. And yes, Gerard was smart. He was really smart and so he told himself that he was being childish. That Chet was simply trying to be his friend and nothing more. But late at night, lying awake in a bed across from Knox, he’d replay the sound of Chet’s laugh, the way his gaze had been fixed on him like no one else mattered. And it made his chest tight with something that he was too smart to name.
Knox was the first one to notice. Naturally. He never said anything aloud, not after that one warning, but his eyes lingered. They always lingered. Narrowed just slightly whenever Chet's hand hovered too close to Gerard's back, whenever their shoulders brushed. It aggravated him to no end, but Gerard told himself it wasn't worth a fight. Knox was just being protective. Overprotective. He didn’t get it.
Chris didn’t get it either. She made her disapproval clear at every opportunity, sharp little comments cutting like daggers. Gerard had tried to talk to her about it once, but something unreadable flickered in her eyes - sharp, almost pained - and he dropped it. Ginny, of course, had sided with her best friend. There was also that fact that as a younger sister she was obligated to dislike her big brother.
So, fine, okay. None of them liked Chet. His friends, his family - none of them understood. But Gerard didn't care. Because they didn’t know Chet the way he did.
It wasn't until Alec Lightwood spoke to him that Gerard felt the first twinge of doubt.
It was late on the evening; Gerard was doing inventory – a tedious job that the older personnel always dumped on the younger cadets. Chet had promised to wait for him at the Ops Center, and he was trying to be both thorough and fast, when the sound of footsteps drew close.
“Gerard.”
His back snapped straight, head jerking up at the sound of Alec’s voice. The Head of the Institute stood in the doorway, expression serious but softened in a way Gerard only ever saw when he was looking at his husband.
“Sir?” he asked, falling into a standard stance of attention . “Did something happen –”
“Nothing happened,” Alec interrupted smoothly, blue eyes running once over Gerard, before returning to his face. “I just wanted to check in.”
Gerard blinked. “Check in?” Alec Lightwood did not waste his time ‘checking in’.
Alec gave the smallest nod. “Yes. Is everything okay?”
Gerard’s eyes flicked to the empty room around him, once. Awkwardly. “Everything’s okay.”
“You don’t sound certain.”
“I am?”
“Are you asking me?”
Heat rushed to his face. “Alec – Mr. Lightwood, sir, I –” he stammered tripping over his words. “- I am sure. Everything’s alright,” he finally managed.
“Good,” Alec's voice was steady, but his gaze was piercing. “Just remember, not everyone who makes you feel important has your best interests at heart.”
And then he walked away. No explanation. Not even a bacwkard look.
The words kept playing in his mind on a loop, like a broken record. Until the next day. Until Chet leaned over his shoulder in the library, warm and solid and close, pointing at a passage in the translation Gerard had been struggling with, they somehow evaporated.
“That’s ‘present’ not ‘presenting’,” he corrected softly, his breath warm at Gerard's ear. “I don’t know why you bother yourself with translations. Such sharp mind like yours is meant for bigger things.”
And Gerard’s chest tightened, pride flaring through him.
No one got him the way Chet got him.
The first kiss wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even asked for. It was inevitable, the natural consequence of weeks of circling each other. Gerard leaned in, or maybe Chet did, he could never quite remember afterward – and their mouths met in a rush of something heady and terrifying.
When Chet pulled back, he was smiling that slow, knowing smile. “See?” he murmured, thumb brushing Gerard’s jaw like he cared. “So much more to you than meets the eye.”
Gerard flushed scarlet, torn between wanting to lean in again and wanting to run.
Steven remembered the screams that scraped his throat raw the first time the air around him split open. One minute he was standing in a clearing in the forest, and then he blinked, and the sky had the color of split meat and ash. The ground underneath his feet breathed and writhed and pulsed like it had veins of its own. Heat pressed down on him from all sides, thick enough to choke and the buzzing of flies swelled to a crescendo that felt unbearable.
He stumbled, barefoot on the cracked stone, chest heaving as the world twisted. Firelight shimmered on towers that curved at impossible angles. A river of thick, black liquid cut through the horizon, steaming with rot.
And in the center of it all – wings. Golden. Blinding. Spreading wide enough to eclipse everything else.
“Ne crains rien,” his father said, voice sweet as honey. It curled around Steven, settling on his chest, slipping between his ribs and scorching everything it touched.
Steven’s throat felt like it was bleeding. His hands trembled, but he still tried to cover his ears, tried to ward off the buzzing and the sweet voice that made him feel sick. He looked up, his vision swimming, and Beelzebub smiled at him, a perfect set of teeth sparkling in the dark.
“Tu es à moi, maintenant.”
The boy whimpered, half plea, half surrender. And Beelzebub’s smile spread like a father watching his son come home.
It wasn’t easy to tell time in Hell. Months had the bad habit of blending into each other. Same did years. There was really no way to tell day from night and so everything felt like a constant. Like a void. Still, Steven grew into himself – not quite tall, not quite… not, lean, with dirty copper curls. He learned to wield his power with precision, could light an entire hall of Hell with a flick of his wrist. And yet, the older he got, the more suffocating it became.
Hell never changed. Same rivers, same caverns, same flies, same throne halls echoing with the same demons. He would sit in Beelzebub’s court, draped in finery and feel the rot cling to him like damp.
One evening, he found himself staring into the endless pits beyond the citadel of the damned, restless. Beelzebub appeared beside him without a sound, wings folded close.
“You’re quiet, my M äel.”
Steven swallowed the correction of the nickname, throwing him a sideways look. “I think thinking,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I want to see Earth again.”
Beelzebub’s head turned. The look he regarded him with was cold enough to make Steven all the way to his bones, despite the endless heat surrounding them. When he spoke though, his voice was soft. “Earth is cruel. It has never been kind to you.”
“I know.” Steven shifted, looking out into the pits rather than at him. “But I’ve been here so long. Too long. I … I need more than this.”
Beelzebub’s hand touched his shoulder, warm, almost tender. “I understand you’re young. You want the world, and you deserve it.” Beelzebub bent closer, voice low, dangerous in its sweetness. “I can give you all you’ve ever desired. But the outside world? It will try to break you. And I – ” his grip tightened just slightly, the perfection of his face shadowed by something darker “ – I can’t let that happen.”
Steven flinched. He wanted to argue, tell his father he was old enough, powerful enough, to defend himself. But there was something in his father’s sugary sweet voice that made the hair on his nape stand in attention. Something that screamed danger, and so Steven swallowed all of his words and remained silent.
And it wasn’t like he doubted his father’s love. Beelzebub gave him a home, an inheritance. He taught him everything he knew, he made demons twice Steven’s size fearful of him and made sure everyone in the neighboring circles knew not to mess with him.
Not that Steven ever made it to the neighboring circles. Not without his father, at least.
The first time he brought up the other circles – going there, meeting up with other Princes of Hell – Beelzebub had smiled that terrifyingly beautiful smile and said, “They are not for you. They are sinners, Mäel, and you’re a miracle.”
Steven doubled down, asked to at least be allowed to travel the outskirts of Gluttony alone. His father had taken hold of his arm then, pulling him in close. “Why would you wish to leave me? Have you not everything you need right here?”
At first, Steven tried to swallow it. He told himself he was being ungrateful. That no one else had ever cared for him like this. That all Beelzebub wanted was to keep him safe. But over the years the love curdled and safety turned into prison.
Because for all its endless expense the third circle was not sufficiently wide. Steven could walk the rivers of rot. He could climb the jagged black cliffs. He could cross into the feasting halls where demons gorged themselves on carrion and wine that tasted like rust. He could, even, stand at the edge of the pits and scream until his throat bled.
Steven felt caged.
And the one holding the keys that led to freedom was also trapped with him. Always one step behind. His presence clinging to Steven like second skin he couldn’t shed no matter how hard he tried.
One evening, years after that first interaction, he tried to bring it up again. They were alone, just the two of them without any demon entourage, sitting together at the citadel. Beelzebub resplendent on his throne, Steven sprawled nearby on a cushion, idly sparkling flame between his fingers.
“I want to see the other Circles,” he said finally, his voice casual, like it wasn’t a plea. “I understand I can’t go to Earth but, I’ve been here… forever. I want to know what else there is.”
Beelzebub turned his eyes to him, golden wings flurrying behind him. “The other circles are flawed. Corrupt. You shouldn’t worry yourself with them.”
Steven laughed under his breath, bitter. “We’re in Hell. Isn’t everyone flawed?”
Beelzebub’s smile didn’t falter, as he leaned close to him. “You aren’t,” he said sweetly, bumping Steven’s nose with a finger. “You’ve never been. Tu es un doré, Mäel.”
Steven’s throat went dry. He looked away, to the flames in his palm, and said nothing.
After that, the cage pressed harder. Beelzebub never left his side for long. His hand was always on Steven’s shoulder, in his hair, against his back, as though he was afraid he’d make a dash for it. Steven smiled through it. Kissed his father’s cheek when asked. Bowed his head and played the dutiful son.
But the need to break away only grew.
And one day – when Beelzebub left the citadel, for some kind of Hell hierarchy related crisis, Steven couldn’t bother to pretend to care about – he snapped.
The hall was empty. The air was still.
For the first time in a century, Steven was alone.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he practically ran to his bed to find the piece of chalk he’d stashed under his mattress. Looking over his shoulder the whole time, he crudely drew on the black stone. Shapes he’d studied in secret, piecing them together from scraps of memory and stolen books. His hands trembled.
You’re mine, Beelzebub’s voice whispered in his ear just as Steven pressed his palm against the stone.
The air split with a roar, wind whipping his hair back, firelight spilling into the circle. Steven didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even look back.
He just ran.
It was late, the fire in the library burned low, and most of the other Shadowhunters had long gone to bed. Gerard lingered anyway, legs dangling over the armrest of an armchair, a training manual open in his lap. He wasn’t reading, not really.
He was waiting.
Chet was perched on the window ledge, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. He’d been quieter than usual all night, brooding in a way that made Gerard want to crawl inside his thoughts and smooth them out.
“You ever get the feeling,” he said finally, low and acrid, “that no matter how hard you work, no matter how much you give, it’s never enough?”
Gerard blinked, closing his book. “All the time.”
Chet laughed, a dry little sound. He messed a hand through his dark hair, eyeing Gerard. “I applied to teach at the Academy, you know. Thought I had a shot. Years of patrols, commendations, spotless record. And you know what they told me?” he arched an eyebrow, something vulnerable passing through his eyes. “They told me no.”
Gerard sat up straighter, almost indignant on his behalf. “What? Why? That’s ridiculous – you’re great! I mean – you’d be great, as a teacher.”
“Because I don’t have the right last name,” Chet said bitterly. “Because I’m not born to the right family, not polished enough, not a Carstairs or a Penhallow or a Herondale.” He shook his head, scoffing. “They’ll let half-trained children stand at the front of the classroom before they let someone like me.”
Gerard felt the sting at the mention of his name. But had Chet been wrong? Wasn’t he, already at the age of fifteen, the heir to a political dynasty others would kill for? Hadn’t his mother decided that before his birth? And Knox, for as much as he hated his parents and all he’d been through because he was born a Carstairs, he always took pride in his family name. Always knew the kind of power it held.
“You should be there,” Gerard said fiercely. “You deserve it more than anyone.
Chet looked at him then, and the intensity in his gaze made his stomach flip. “Funny. You’re the only one who’s ever said that to me.”
Gerard flushed. He ducked his head, fiddling with the corner of his book. “Well. It’s true.”
For a moment Chet was silent. Then he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, making it stick out. “Thank you for saying it. Even if it doesn’t matter anymore. The Academy is nothing but… a midsummer’s night dream. It’s a closed door for me. Always will be.”
“I…” Pitts swallowed, heart thudding. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be a closed door.”
Chet frowned at him.
“My – ah, my father is the principal. I could… you know, call him? I can’t promise anything, but…”
Chet tilted his head, and his smile was small, quiet, and perfect. “Gerard,” he said softly, “you’d do that? For me?”
Gerard nodded before he could second-guess himself, before he could think of anything but the warmth that bloomed in his chest at being needed. “Of course I would.”
“But you haven’t talked to your parents in months.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said quickly, shaking his head like it would dispel his own worry.
Chet reached over, brushing his fingers over Gerard’s wring, letting them linger on his pulse. “You don’t know what that means to me.”
The next few days were the happiest of Gerard’s life. Chet deliberately waited around for him, leaning against doorframes, dropping sly remarks during training and choosing to spar with him if only so he could grin lazily over the sharp edge of his blade when their swords clashed.
“You move too fast,” he said on one such occasion, his face was too close to Gerard’s for what they were doing. “Good thing I like fast.”
Gerard flushed under the attention, half-scowling, half-thrumming with something he refused to name. Knox had caught him afterward, eyebrows raised, but he brushed him off, hiding the heat in his cheeks behind muttered excuses.
It was constant, this dance: a shoulder brushing too close in the hallway, a word murmured low enough only Gerard could hear, a smile that lasted a fraction too long. And one night, when the Institute was quieter than usual and Gerard had fallen asleep over his notes in the library, Chet had found him.
“You work too hard,” he said softly, crouching beside him, brushing an ink-smudge from his knuckle with his thumb.
Gerard startled awake, blinking blearily. “I – wasn’t –”
Chet only smiled. “You’re a terrible liar.
And then, so naturally it could have been nothing, Chet leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t hurried or harsh. It was soft – so soft – warm lips pressing once, twice, before Chet pulled back, waiting for his reaction.
Gerard’s breath caught in his throat. He was pretty sure he’d never felt his heart slam against his ribs like that. “I…”
“Shh.” Chet brushed a knuckle against his jaw, slow and tender, and Gerard thought he might come undone.
The letter came three days later.
Gerard had read it twice, then a third time, his pulse jumping in his throat. Chet’s name, written clear across the page, an Academy position signed by his father and sealed by the Council himself.
He’d done it. Somehow, impossible, he’d done it.
He found Chet in the training room, lazily sharpening a blade with a whetstone.
“They said yes,” Gerard blurted, holding the letter out like proof. “You’re in.”
For the first time since he’d met him, Chet’s composure slipped. His eyes widened, his lips parting in surprise, before spreading into a wide, unguarded grin that hit Gerard between the eyes like sunlight.
“I knew you could pull it off,” Chet said, voice warm. Proud.
A pit opened suddenly right in the middle of Gerard’s stomach demanding for more praise, more attention, just more.
He flushed, ducking his head. “It wasn’t me. It was – you deserved it.”
“Deserve has got nothing to do with it,” Chet said, stepping closer, plucking the letter from Gerard’s hand, skimming it before letting it fall to the side. His gaze stayed on Gerard, sharp and soft all at once. “This? This is because of you.”
And before he could find any words, Chet was kissing him.
Not tentative, not testing. This was slower, deeper, practiced. A kiss that made Gerard’s knees weaken and his chest ache right at the same time. One of Chet’s hands moved to cup the back of his neck, the other dropping to his waist and curling around the material of his shirt. Holding him close. Anchoring him.
Gerard had never been kissed like that before.
When they finally pulled apart, breath tangled together, Chet rested his forehead against his. “You’re full of surprises, Gerard Penhallow.”
The words branded themselves into his skin.
Gerard walked back to his room that night convinced of it – that Chet cared, that this was something real.
But the next morning, Chet wasn’t in the training room. Or the dining hall. Or anywhere else. His private quarters had been emptied, his clothes and books gone. No word. No message. Just vanished, leaving only the echo of three kisses, and the letter Gerard had pressed so tightly in his fist that the parchment had torn.
The first thing Steven realized when he returned to Earth was that things had changed. A lot.
The second? New York was nothing like Hell.
As soon as the portal vanished behind his back, and he stepped onto the streets, the city nearly knocked him flat on his ass. It was noise, light, movement in every direction. Cars rattled down cobblestones, horns blared, music spilled from doorways – jazz, wild and alive, a beat he could feel in his ribs, a beat that reverberated everywhere around him. People in shining shoes and bright dresses moved like they owned the sidewalks. Nobody looked twice at a stranger. Nobody asked him who he was, where he’d been, why his fingernails were perpetually bloodied.
Surviving in the city during the roaring 20s, without a penny to your name wasn’t an easy feat. Especially for a century old warlock who hadn’t worked a day in his life. He tried doing odd jobs here and there, but his people skills were rusty and his coordination abysmal.
As a Deus Ex Machina Magnus had found him half-starved outside a speakeasy in Brooklyn, easily seeing through the cloaking spells he’d cast to keep him hidden from his father’s eye. Magnus with his magic burning deep and confident inside of him. Magnus with double the compassion anyone had ever extended toward Steven.
He’d frowned, eyes swimming with concern as he crouched in front of him. His hand had reached for Steven’s jaw but didn’t touch him. “You’re running from something, petit démon,” he’d said, voice smooth, accent curling like smoke. “You can keep running, or you can come inside and eat.”
Steven chose inside.
The bar smelled like gin and burnt sugar. Reading him like an open book, Magnus knew how to set him to work, but also keep him away from people – wiping tables, carrying crates, sweeping floors. Steven worked until his hands found purpose again. At night, Magnus let him curl on a couch upstairs. He never pressed, never demanded. Just watched him with those old eyes and sometimes smiled like he knew too much.
That was where Collette found him.
She wasn’t supposed to be there, not really. Shadowhunters weren’t supposed to step foot in a Downworlder establishment. Especially a Downworlder dive bar. But Collette was different. Her parabatai, her sister, was dating a newly turned werewolf who frequented the bar, and her family was trying to be supportive. When she slipped in behind her sister, all dark curls and almond shaped eyes behind a pair of glasses, laughing at something her sister had whispered, Steven forgot how to breathe.
So of course he tried to talk to her. And failed, spectacularly. He had never tried to woo anyone and his first few tries were either him coming on too strong or not strong enough. Collette was gentle, polite, and humored him with a laugh or a pat on his forearm – Steven never washed that particular shirt, wanting to preserve her touch on the fabric.
Gradually she warmed up to him and his particular brand of charm – pathetic, barely convincing enough to pass as human – but still held him at arms’ length.
“It’s dangerous,” she told him once, when he’d begged to walk her home. “If anyone sees us together –”
“I don’t care,” Steven said, sharper than he meant. “Your sister is also dating a Downworlder,” he tried, softer now, “that’s equally dangerous.”
“Henry was a Shadowhunter before,” Collette said, her eyes not meeting his. “And I didn’t mean dangerous for me.”
“I don’t care.”
Steven thought he’d pushed her too much. But Collette came back anyway. Again and again.
Everything in the city complimented her. The jazz buzzing through the cobblestones matched her intoxicating perfume – circling him, stealing the air out of his lungs. The lights shining off the billboards caught in her eyes, in her hair, in the runes that peaked underneath the neckline of her dresses.
Her laugh – her laugh – loud and joyful, quickly became one of Steven’s favorite sounds. Collette laughed like she was born to do just that. He never thought such small thing could feel so much like freedom.
One night he took her to one of Magnus’ favorite haunts, a cramped little club off Broadway where the lights flickered too much and the piano was always slightly out of tune. Steven didn’t care. Collette dragged him straight onto the dance floor, glasses slipping down her nose, grin reckless as she tried to teach him the steps of the Charleston.
“You’re hopeless,” she giggled, clutching at his shoulders when he stepped on her foot for the third time.
“I’ve been out of practice for about a century, give or take. Forgive me if I’m not the most graceful partner.”
“Mm something tells me you weren’t that graceful back at your prime either.”
“Excuse me?” Steven questioned, mock-offended. “Back at my prime? Are you insinuating I’m not in my prime anymore?”
Collette laughed instead of giving him an answer, eyes crinkled behind those ridiculous round frames. Her laughter was catching – louder than the music, brighter than the lights – and he didn’t even realize until later that his chest hurt from smiling so much.
They spilled out into the street past midnight, the city air thick with smoke and summer heat. Collette slipped her glasses off and perched them on his nose instead, cocking her head as if to admire her work.
“There,” she murmured, standing on her tiptoes to adjust them. “Pretty.”
He blinked at her through the smudged lenses. “You’re lying. I look ridiculous.”
“You look perfect.”
And then she kissed him. Quick, but soft, her lips warm against his, her hands still braced against his chest like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to want this much. He caught her wrists gently, not to stop her – never to stop her – just to hold her there. To keep her tethered to the moment.
After that New York turned into a blur of nights and stolen hours.
They went to Coney Island one Sunday, the air salted and sticky, the ocean glittering under the August sun. Collette dragged him onto the boardwalk, her skirts gathered in one hand, the other waving a cone of melting ice cream dangerously close to his hair.
“You’re a menace,” he accused, trying to dodge the dripping vanilla.
“You love it,” she shot back, grinning wide, and smeared the tiniest bit of cream on the tip of his nose before darting away. He chased her between stalls of popcorn and candied apples, catching her easily, spinning her once before pressing a laughing kiss to her temple.
Later that evening he took her to Magnus’ apartment for the first time. He eyed her warily the moment she stepped through his threshold, giving him a polite smile and waiting for Steven to introduce her.
“A Shadowhunter?” Magnus asked, his tone flat, his gaze sharp. Steven felt the heat creep up his throat, eyes flicking between the two of them.
“I – ugh –”
“You don’t have to say it like that,” Collette said stiffly, her back going straight.
“I’m sure Magnus didn’t mean to offend –”
“I did, actually,” Magnus spoke over him. He lifted his chin, his eyes flashing gold briefly before sliding from Steven to Collette and back. Steven felt the way Magnus studied his face – his whole demeanor really. Something in his magic gave, before his face relaxed.
Magnus let a soft sigh. “I like her instincts; Shadowhunters rarely talk back to me,” he said with a rather resigned smile.
A chuckled escaped Collette’s mouth, and she pressed her fingers over her lips like she wanted to take it back. But Magnus’ smile widened and he waved them further inside the apartment. The atmosphere felt lighter after that, conversation flowing freely if not friendly. Collette slowly inched toward him on the couch, so much so that by the end of the night they were pressed together shoulder to hip, her hair spilling on over his shoulder.
More than once, Steven caught Magnus watching him with a kind of look he couldn’t or better say wouldn’t name. Half regret, half resentment, never quite settling on either feeling. He didn’t say anything though, and Steven was more than willing to bury those looks on the very back of his mind.
“That could’ve gone worse,” Collette whispered against his lips, after. They were standing outside Steve’s door, him leaning heavily against the frame, her leaning into him.
“Could’ve,” he murmured in agreement, brushing a kiss over her nose. She scranched it, pulling back, but her fingers were still curled on his shirt. “He could’ve hexed us in a parallel timeline.”
“Mm you would’ve brought us back.”
“You trust my magic prowess too much.”
“I trust you too much,” she said, voice low, doe-eyes wide and sparkling.
Steven dipped his head, bringing their mouths together. One of his hands slipped in her hair, fingers cradling her head like it was something precious.
“Stay the night,” he whispered, when they finally broke apart.
Collette touched her forehead against his and hummed. “Can’t. I have patrol duties in an hour. Alice will literally kill me if I stand her up again.”
Steven groaned, twisting one of her chestnuts curls around his finger. “Then come over after.”
“Sweetheart,” Collette said sweetly, lips catching the corner of his mouth, “you know I can’t. We’ll meet tomorrow, yeah?”
“Tomorrow.”
They were supposed to meet at a small park close to Magnus’ bar.
Steven was running late – he’d stayed too long to deal with a shipment that had gone wrong, and Magnus had for some reason decided it was his job to resolve. In the end he’d flicked his fingers and the twelve missing bottles of alcohol magically appeared out of thin air. The driver in charge of the drop stared at him dumbly.
“We must’ve counted them wrong,” Steven lied through his teeth, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
“But the crates were only ten –”
“And now they’re eleven! Just as many as we’d ordered!” Steven exclaimed cheerfully. Too cheerfully. “Which is great! Amazing, even! I’ll see you next week!”
“But –”
“Bye!”
Steven ran the whole way, grinning like an idiot, already rehearsing what he’d say when she teased him for being late.
The grin died on the cobblestones.
Collette lay on a street, her hair fanned around her head, blood spilling black in the lamplight, fingers scrabbling weakly at nothing.
Steven’s heart stuttered behind his ribs. He didn’t feel it when he fell to his knees, didn’t even feel the stone bite into his skin. Collette’s blood slicked his hands, as he gathered her into his arms, thick and sticky, seeping into his shirt. Her round glasses – miraculously unbroken – had slipped sideways, balanced on the edge of her curls. With trembling fingers he plucked them freen and tucked them into his pocket, as gently as if they were her heart.
Her skin was still warm.
“Collette,” he whispered, frantic, hands spreading over her chest, trying to jumpstart her heart. To stitch over the deep gash on her sternum. To breathe life into her dying body with the spark of his magic.
“Please, Collette – just – please, sweetheart.”
“Steven,” her lips curled in the faintest smile, a hand blindly reaching for his. Her fingers closed around his wrist.
“Don’t speak. Don’t speak. I’ll heal you, yeah? I’ll heal you,” Steven said frantically. He snapped his fingers, forcing his magic through her body despite feeling its refusal. Purple sparks fizzled uselessly across his fingertips, dying before making a difference.
Collette was still smiling up at him. There were tears clinging to her eyelashes, her gaze slipping, sliding away from him.
“Pretty,” she rasped. A drop of blood trickled down her chin. “Al-always pr-pretty.”
“No, shh, no, don’t speak. Don’t – you’ll be fine.” He forced more power through his hands, purple light flaring so bright it hurt his eyes. It seared, fizzled, died again.
Collette gave a weak cough, her lips twitching once more and then… nothing.
Her chest stilled.
“No,” Steven whispered, horrified. He started rocking her against him, as if movement alone might call her back. “Non, non, non –”
A shadow fell over them.
“She’s already gone, M äel.”
Steven shook his head. “No, no – Please, dad, she’s just – she hasn’t crossed over yet. Please.”
“There’s no use, M äel,” Beelzebub’s voice came rich, melodic, almost tender.
“No, but we can save her! We can – you can save her, dad. Please.”
“Not even I can bring back the dead, my son.”
“You can. I know you can, I’ve seen you, I –”
“There’s a price for such dark magic. The natural order is not just going to let it slide.”
“Anything. Any prize. Please!”
Beelzebub stood framed by the morning light, impossibly beautiful. His golden wings glowed faintly, feathers bending the air. Something shifted in his eyes, lingering on Steven holding the girl, his head tilting slowly.
“I might’ve just saved your life,” he murmured.
“What? Dad, can you please –”
“A little bit longer and it would’ve been too late. I should’ve interfered sooner, the moment I felt your magic slipping, but you had been asking for freedom for so long… I’m never making that mistake again.”
“What? What are you talking about? Dad –”
“You’re safe now.”
Steven’s eyes widened, his hands tightening their grip on Collette’s body.
“You did this.”
Beelzebub didn’t answer, just kept looking at him.
“You killed her?”
“I spared you,” he corrected, stepping closer, each word slow, measured, like he was teaching a lesson. “You don’t understand yet. Love is… dangerous for you. More dangerous than any blade. Any demon. Any mundane war. It would undo you.”
“You killed her.” His voice cracked like a boy’s. His arms spasmed around Collette, pulling her closer.
Beelzebub’s expression softened further, unbearably gentle. “I saved you. Do you not see? Look at her. She was already slipping away the moment she touched you. Would you have liked to follow her? Because had you bound yourself to her, had you let your heart open, you would’ve. You would’ve turned breakable. Mortal.”
The words hit him like cold water, slipping slowly between his ribs, settling heavy over his heart.
Breakable.
Mortal.
Steven blinked. “A curse?”
Beelzebub’s gaze sharpened. “I found out long after you were born. Otherwise, I would’ve smitten the stupid warlock on the spot the moment he dared open his mouth.”
“But Collette – I don’t understand…”
“Don’t you?” his father asked, almost soft, his eyes still serious.
Steven’s throat worked, but the sound wouldn’t come. His arms felt numb; he nearly dropped her before his muscles seized and locked. Collette’s weight was sinking into him, her head lolling limply against his shoulder. He forced himself to look, to memorize her face even as it paled into something unearthly. His eyes burned, but no tears came. Only a spreading cold.
Collette looked like she was sleeping.
The thought tugged at a memory. At the image of another girl lying on cobblestone, her ginger hair carefully fashioned in a braid. He remembered her laughter in the dark, the way she clapped her hands when he made flames dance for her. And then another, of a woman pressing a pear into his hand, her kindness bright as a candle. And another of a man who had nothing but a steaming bowl of soup to offer him and ended up burning down with his house. And another…
Each of them gone.
Each of them dead.
“You,” Steven whispered, the word sour on his tongue. “It was you. Always you.”
Beelzebub tilted his head, golden light catching in his perfect hair. “I’m your father. Who else would protect you, if not me?”
“Protect -?” Steven choked on a laugh, wild and cracked. “You call this protecting?” He pulled Collette’s body tighter, tears streaking through the dirt on his face. “You’ve murdered everyone I –” his throat closed around the word.
His eyes fell back on Collette.
Everyone I loved.
Beelzebub crouched, kneeling level with them. His hand hovered just above Steven’s bowed head. “Love makes you weak. It takes from you. It would burn you down to ash, as it almost has done already. You do not need it. You need me. Only me. As you always have.”
Steven’s body shook, not from cold but from the unbearable press of grief. He wanted to scream. He wanted to claw at his father’s beautiful, flawless face until it shattered. He wanted to collapse into his father’s arms and never let go.
Because it was true, wasn’t it? His father had been the one to save him. The first one to show him – unconditionally.
And it was also true – every smile, every gentle hand he’d ever reached for had ended in blood. Because of Beelzebub.
The weight of both truths crushed him, pinned him where he knelt in the pool of Collette’s blood, her glasses burning against his chest like a brand.
Gerard didn’t say anything when the rumors started. Not when the younger Shadowhunters whispered about Chet Cartwright’s absence, not when the senior staff raised their brows at his silence. He told himself he didn’t care.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
It’s was Knox who broke first. Of course it was. Gerard had been tightening the strap of his gear in the Ops Center when Knox, without looking up from his own buckle, said flatly, “So, Cartwright’s gone.”
No heat. No surprise. Just that matter-of-fact Carstairs contempt, sharp as glass and cutting just the same. Knox didn’t elaborate. He didn’t even meet Gerard’s eyes. And still the words hit their mark. Like they always did. Like he knew they would. Gerard kept his expression still, careful, but inside something twisted hard.
Chris was wors. Chris was always worse. She dropped herself onto the arm of his chair that evening, golden hair spilling over her shoulder, like an oddly shaped halo.
“I would’ve told you if you asked me,” she said. “Chet always leaves. He doesn’t know how to do anything else. Don’t take it too personally.”
Gerard bit the inside of his cheek and remained silent, turning a page on the book he was pretending to read.
“Honestly, Gerard, you can do so much better than a literal adult with the emotional stability of a stray cat.”
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even give an indication he’d heard her. He let her words wash over him like rain he didn’t know he needed. Because this was Chris – if anyone else had said it, he might have killed them for it. But her bluntness carried the faint, hidden edge of protectiveness. She was punishing him for being reckless. Vulnerable in a way he shouldn’t have been. And Angel help him, he almost found comfort in it.
Ginny was quieter than the other too. She found him in the library a day later, hear hands twisting around a shield envelope. There was a red stamp on it that read ‘return to sender’. Gerard didn’t comment on how red rimmed her eyes looked, and she didn’t comment on the excessive bruising over his knuckles. She sank into a chair across from him, lips pressed thin.
“Maybe…” she started, faltered. Pushed her dark brown hair over her shoulder and started again. “Maybe he just… needed space. Chet can be like that sometimes.”
Her voice betrayed her. Not that Gerard would’ve believed her anyway. He already knew her opinion about her brother, Ginny had never tried to keep it a secret. Still, he appreciated her effort to lie.
She reached across the desk, her fingers brushing his wrist, tentative and warm. “You’ve still got us,” she whispered. “Me. Chris. Knox. You’re not alone.”
Gerard stared at her hand, at the softness of it against his own, and felt the words settle inside him like lead. Because a part of him would’ve preferred to be alone. To have no one console him, no one look at him with pity. But he didn’t say that out loud, because Ginny was trying to be his friend, and he didn’t have many of them to begin with.
And when she pulled her hand back, he sat straighter, forced his face into the mask he’d been wearing since childhood, and said nothing at all.
Steven had forced Beelzebub through a portal. It was the only way to shut him up. His father kept going on and on about how he’d saved him, how this was protection, and Steven just wanted silence. So, he’d opened a portal to the third circle, and shoved him through it, sealing it behind him for a good measure. Not that it would keep him locked away forever. But it would take a while for him to undo Steven’s magic.
Then he dropped back down beside Collette. He pulled her into his lap, cradled her against him, and rocked her slowly, like she was only sleeping. Hours passed that way – his world shrunk down to the brush of her hair against his chin, the unbearable weight of her in his arms, the fragile smile still ghosting her lips.
The shouts barely registered at first. The thunder of boots on cobblestone. And then, the unmistakable ring of seraph blades being drawn.
“There – by the Angel – he’s covered in blood!”
“Downworlder filth –”
“He killed her.”
“Of course he did. Look at him. That’s a warlock’s work if I’ve ever seen it.”
Steven’s vision went white.
He surged to his feet, Collette slipping from his arms onto the stone, his magic surging up, white – hot and blinding, ready to tear them all apart.
“Say that again!” he roared, lunging to the nearest one, wild. “Say it again and I’ll –”
I’ll burn you alive, every last one of you for daring –
“Steven.”
The voice cut through like a bell, steady, commanding.
Magnus appeared out of the shadows like he’d always been a part of the scene, slipping between the blades with his hands raised. His cat-eyes flickered once, sharp as warning, and Steven froze, when he felt Magnus hand drop on his shoulder. Heavy. His grip iron-tight.
“He killed her!” One of the Shadowhunters yelled, pointing his blade at Steven’s chest. “Look at him. Blood all over his hands. I’ve seen warlock’s do this kind of ritual before –”
Steven jerk against Magnus’ hold, snarling. “You want to see a blood ritual? I’ll fucking curse your entire bloodline –”
Magnus’ grip tightened. He cut in smoothly, somehow managing to preserve all careless arrogance and the faintest curl of disdain in his smile. “I can assure you, my dear, Charles, that this was nothing but a tragic, sloppy demon attack.”
“Don’t lie to us, Bane. He clearly killed her,” one of the Charles spat, gesturing at Steven. “Look at him. He even looks guilty.”
“She’s dead because of him!”
“Downworlder murder –”
Steven bared his teeth, chest heaving. “Say that again –” He lunged, but Magnus’ hauled him back with more strength that he seemed to possess.
“Stop, or they’ll gut you right here,” he hissed into his ears.
Steven didn’t want to stop.
Steven wanted to burn them down.
But then he took a step back, because Mangus was still tugging at his shoulder, and he looked down, his eyes dropping to Collette.
Still laying on the cobblestone.
She wasn’t bleeding anymore.
Steven’s vision swam, and he swayed on the spot.
The Nephilim pressed forward, still spitting accusations, until Magnus’ expression shifted – imperious, dangerous – and his voice rolled like silk over steel. “Fairchild, Rosales, you can rest assured that the demon responsible for Miss Starkweather’s death has been dealt with. You can run along, back to your church and take credit for it.” He flicked a speck of blood from his sleeve as if the entire affair bored him. “Or I could come with you and explain to your supervisors how spectacularly you failed at protecting your own.” He kissed his teeth once, tilting his head. “Now, Charles, I’m not sure how good this will look on your record.”
That stung. Their blades wavered. Charles Fairchild looked at his team and with an imperceptible nod of his chin, his pride won over his suspicion. They all sheathed their weapons, muttering between themselves. Two of them stooped and lifted Collette’s body from the cobblestones, as thought she was cargo.
Sparks flared at Steven’s fingertips. His chest collapsed around nothing. He watched as her curls spilled over their arms, and he made a wounded sound.
“Don’t you dare touch her!” His voice cracked raw, breaking against the empty air. He moved to follow, but Magnus’ arm locked around his chest, pinning him where he was.
“Enough,” he whispered, too low for the others to hear.
Steven sagged, knees hitting stone, forehead pressing against the street as the Shadowhunters carried her away. The blood she’d spilled on his shirt was already drying, sticky against his skin, binding him to her.
Magnus crouched beside him, his voice barely anything more than a soft breath. “The best course of action is to live long enough to make him regret ever crossing you like that.”
He couldn’t stay in New York after that. So, he left within a week. He couldn’t stand the streets without seeing her. Couldn’t look at Magnus without feeling both anger and gratitude. Couldn’t stay in his apartment above the bar and not feel like he was in a cage. He took what little money he had saved from the bar, and headed North.
Boston didn’t welcome him. Then again, the city rarely welcomed anyone. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need warmth, and he wasn’t looking for pleasure. He needed somewhere to vanish, to become someone else. Someone she hadn’t met.
At first, it was survival again. But Steven was used to it by now. Sleeping in abandoned rooms above shuttered shops wasn’t worse than sleeping in barely lit, damp, cellars or in literal Hell. He adapted. Warded himself with cloaking spells, working service under false names. And then, slowly, the shadows began to peel back. He remembered he had magic. He remembered he could use it for more than killing.
He multiplied the money he’d arrived with and bought himself a place. Just one. A crumbling little dive on the edge of the harbor. He bled money and magic into it – every last penny in his pocket, every drop of magic in his bones – until the floorboards stopped groaning and the liquor didn’t taste like rot. The sailors came first, they weren’t a very demanding crowd. Then the laborers. Then the Downworlders who needed a safe place to breathe. They money flowed, and with it came another building. And another.
He wore her glasses. The round rims made him look softer, younger. Human. He hated it at first. Felt like he was trying to live in her clothes. But when he caught sight of himself in the mirror one night – glasses sliding down his nose, mouth drawn into a line too old for his face – he felt something strange. Something akin to permanence.
He dropped his name. He tried to remember his mother’s last name, but the years had whipped it clear of his memory. What he did remember was the apothecary’s daughter; Françoise Meeks. It didn’t sound half bad.
Steven had lost everything. Steven had been weak, and vulnerable. But Meeks… Meeks could be anyone.
Magnus wrote to him. Once a month at first, every month. The letters smelled faintly of sandalwood, the handwriting sharp and impatient. Magnus had always been like that, his thoughts always one step ahead, him running to catch up with them. He asked how Steven was, if he was eating, if he’d found work. He waned him, subtly, that his father’s eyes stretched far.
For a time, Steven wrote back. Brief notes, clipped words. Nothing specific. Nothing sentimental. Yes, he was working. Yes, he was being careful. No, he hadn’t seen Beelzebub.
But the letters started to thin. They felt like threads tugging him back to something fragile, something warm, something that could break all over again. And Magnus – Magnus who had saved him in more ways than one – would be safer if those threads were cut. So, Steven stopped answering. One day he simply folded a letter shut and never picked up his pen again.
The Spiral Labyrinth came sniffing sooner than he had anticipated. They were perfectly friendly, perfectly polite. Meeks knew what they wanted. Still, they held off longer than he had guessed they would, buttering him up by asking his advice, and giving him some freelance jobs for easy money. He played stupid for them, because he found it amusing, and because they were offering to be exploited. Sure, money wasn’t something he was in need of anymore, but Meeks could never forget the years he spent hungry.
When the offer came a little while later, he chuckled under his breath and quickly penned back his refusal. They asked again. And then a third time. But the title they were proposing to him – High Warlock of Boston – was nothing but another leash, another cage.
But then they asked a fourth time, and something gnawed at him.
What if – just what if – he could make it easier for the next one? The next warlock child abandoned, hunted, broken. What if he could be someone else’s Magnus? The thought lodged itself in the back of his mind and refused to move.
If he could help even one baby warlock have a beginning better than his own… the maybe it was all worth it. All the pain. And the death. And the blood. Maybe if he could save someone else it would feel a little like saving himself.
And so, Steven Meeks became the High Warlock of Boston.
The city soon knew his name. A whisper here, a shadow there, Meeks rolled easily of the tongue and fit nicely into ledgers. But he kept himself apart. Even among Downworlders, Meeks didn’t belong. He knew that, and he made sure everyone else did. He started the rumors himself – about the deaths following him, about the blood staining his every step – and they quickly spread through the Shadow world like wildfire.
His father’s name also helped. A demon who wore wings like an angel, thinking he could fool all of them, and act holier-than-though while doing it. His son was surely as much of a hypocrite as Beelzebub was.
And between those two facts, Meeks was finally left alone. He quite preferred it that way.
People who drew close tended to vanish, one way or another. Better to keep them at a distance, safe beyond his reach. Better to cultivate an image of coldness, of aloofness, than to risk the curse taking someone else from him.
There were exceptions, of course. Little warlocks with shaking hands and glowing eyes who found themselves at his doorstep, terrified of their own magic – those he let in. He gave them food, shelter, names for their powers when they had none. He even let them call him Steven, sometimes. It felt like giving away a piece of himself.
And then there was John. The first man he had spoken to when he arrived in Boston, long before the title, and the money. Long before the respect. John with his warm laugh and irritatingly earnest heart. If anyone had earned the right to use his first name, it was him. Still, even that was a gift, rationed out carefully, because Meeks could never afford to forget the truth; no one was safe too close to him.
Gerard felt wrong standing outside Meeks’ front door. Which wasn’t anything new; Gerard always felt wrong when he sneaked out to visit the High Warlock of Boston. But something had shifted between them last night, something he felt lodged between his ribs that made him bouncy with anxiety.
And yet he’d shown up. Again.
His knuckles rapped against the door, even as his skin prickled all over. The door cracked open. Meeks filled the frame, hair mussed, a candle burning behind him in the living room. He didn’t step aside.
“Gerard, and here I thought I wouldn’t be getting a visit tonight.”
He huffed a laugh. “I thought better show up late than not at all.”
Meeks hummed. “You thought all that by yourself? Must’ve hurt your brain.”
Gerard chuckled again, something fluttering in his chest. “I thought we’d established I’m quite smart.”
“Mm did we?”
“You going to insult me all night? Out here? At your doorstep?”
Meeks’ expression didn’t shift. “Well, you do enjoy getting insulted. Maybe a little too much.”
“Maybe,” Gerard said, mouth twitching. “But that’s not the point.”
“And what is the point?” Meeks asked, dry.
Gerard’s smile faltered a little. “I don’t know, you tell me. Why are we standing here?”
“It’s a perfectly nice place to stand.”
Gerard nodded, slowly. “Yes. And so is the inside of the house.”
Meeks’ gaze sharpened, suddenly, his fingers flexing around the door. “You should leave.”
Gerard gave a humorless chuckle. “That’s my line.”
“And now it’s mine.”
“I don’t… You know, you can’t keep doing this.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
“Oh, I’m sure you are. You can’t keep, pushing me out, and then –” he gestured vaguely at the open door between them, “ – not actually push me out.”
Meeks’ jaw tightened. “Apparently you’re one of those people who don’t get the message the first time someone locks them out.”
Gerard flinched. Not much, just an involuntary tick of his jaw. He anticipated the door to close to his face – it would make sense, after all. But it didn’t. Meeks didn’t step back, and he didn’t shut the door either. He just stood there, shoulders squared, eyes shadowed with something Gerard couldn’t name.
“Explain it to me.” It was a bargaining chip. If he could get him to talk, then he could figure out what was suddenly so wrong that warranted him to be kept at the threshold.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Meeks said, voice clipped, rising his chin every so slightly.
“No,” Gerard admitted, and his voice came out harsher than he meant. “But you can’t also just – tell me to go and expect me to listen.”
The silence between them thickened, stretching taut. Meeks’ gaze flicked over him once, quick as a knife. His lips parted, like he might answer. Instead, he pressed them into a thin line.
Gerard shifted his weight, suddenly too aware of the cold seeping into his bones, of how ridiculous he must look – standing out here like some scolded boy. Still, he refused to step back. You don’t want me here,” he said, softer now. “Fine. But don’t think I’m going to disappear because you decided I should.”
Something flickered across Meeks’ face, gone before Gerard could name it.
“Go home, Penhallow.”
And yet, the door stayed open.
The knock came again the next night.
Of course it did.
Gerard was nothing if not persistent. Insistent. Immovable in his determination to become a feature in his life.
Meeks had told himself last night it was the last time. That if Gerard was reckless enough to return, he would only receive silence. He had explained himself, as much as he could, and Gerard was a grown-up boy who could draw his own conclusions.
And still, as soon as he heard the sound, he was off his seat padding to the door like a lovesick fool. His hand had made quick work of the latch before the sound of the knock had fully faded.
Gerard looked… good. He always did. Winter suited him, it seemed. What with the way his skin was perpetually pink, and his hair wild from the wind. At least this time he’d thrown on a coat.
When he saw him, Gerard didn’t seem surprised. Like he already knew Meeks open the door – like he already knew he was going to give in.
It only worked to make Meeks grind his teeth together.
“You’re insufferable.” It was meant to sound sharp, dismissive. It landed almost fond.
Gerard’s mouth curved, smug. “And yet, here you are opening the door for me. Again.” His grin widened at Meeks’ dry look. “Besides, I’ve been called worse.”
Meeks’ fingers twitched against the wood, aching to slam it shut. Aching not to. He didn’t step back, didn’t invite him in, but the threshold between them felt smaller than last night.
“Let me convince you,” Gerard said suddenly.
Meeks hated how intrigued the words made him feel. “About?”
Gerard’s eyes caught his, dark and glittering, nothing but determination shining in them. “About letting me in. All the way. Like you want to, deep down.”
Not for the first time Meeks was more than grateful for the poker face he’d managed to cultivate in the centuries he’d been alive. The words felt like a knife dead center on his sternum. His chest ached as if the blow had been physical.
He let the silence fill the space instead of answering. But the way Gerard leaned forward, the way his hand brushed the frame just inches from Meeks’ own, made it painfully obvious that Gerard’s words hadn’t been empty.
Meeks forced steel into his spine, clipped his voice until it tasted like ash in his mouth. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gerard tilted his head, studying him, too perceptively by half. “Then why are you still standing here? Why haven’t you shut the door in my face?”
Meeks exhaled slowly, each second stretching thin. Evey instinct in him screamed to give in, to accept defeat, let him cross the threshold, let him do whatever he wanted. But behind it all, louder than anything, was the memory of blood on cobblestones, of doe eyes dimming, of his father’s voice reminding him what would always follow.
He shifted his grip on the door, knuckles growing white. “Go home, Gerard,” he said, quieter this time. It sounded almost like a plea.
Gerard stared at him for a long, silent second, and then, “Say it to me like you mean it,” he pressed. “Tell me and I’ll go.”
Meeks opened his mouth. The words were there, waiting. But when he tried to speak them, they caught in his throat. The only thing that made it past his lips was a quiet exhale.
Gerard’s gaze softened in a way that Meeks didn’t deserve. The edge of his smirk faded into something else – something warm, something dangerous. For a heartbeat, it looked like he might do something stupid, like reach for him.
Instead, he sighed. He let his hand fall away from the frame. “You make this so much harder than it needs to be.”
Meeks wanted to laugh. A delirious kind of laughter clawed up his chest and he forced it down. He wasn’t the one making this difficult. Gerard was. With his inability to keep his distance. With his perceptiveness. With his way of looking at Meeks like he was something new – not old and tarnished. With his… everything.
He stepped back, shoulders stiff, and for the first time all night, the threshold felt cavernous. “I’ll see you around, Meeks.”
Meeks didn’t answer. Didn’t know how. He stood there, gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing holding him upright, watching as Gerard disappeared behind the elevator doors.
And still, he didn’t close the door.
Gerard had been loitering in the Ops Center longer than he should have, pretending to be buys with reports while his eyes kept flicking to the doorway. If Knox walked in he wanted to be the first on to catch him, to pull him aside before anyone else could. After the night he’d had he needed some alone time with his best friend. Not that he would ever admit that to his face.
He wasn’t admitting a lot of things these days.
He was so lost in his thoughts that when the door slammed open, he startled.
Noise followed it in like a wave – boots, voices, the scrape of someone struggling. A full squad of Shadowhunters crowded the entrance, Chet Cartwright strutting at the front like he’d personally killed a Prince of Hell. His smile was sharp, too sharp, and he was already lifting his voice to be heard.
“We’ve got him!”
The Ops Center surged into chaos – questions flying, chairs scraping back, half the room pressing in for a look.
At the center of it all, caught in the crush of bodies, was a man in handcuffs. His wrists bound in gleaming electrum, the kind that bit into skin and burned magic away. His clothes were torn, his hair mussed, his face slack with exhaustion.
It took Gerard a second to place him. Then his stomach turned to stone.
“John,” he breathed.
John Keating.
Meeks’ John.
The warlock’s gaze lifted, sluggish but clear enough to find him in the crowd. Recognition flicked across his features – then something worse. A kind of resignation, like he’d already been judged guilty, like he wasn’t even going to try to fight it.
Chet’s voice rose above the din, smug as ever. “The killer of the Shadowhunter murders, in the flesh! You can all sleep easy tonight.”
He hadn’t meant to snort, certainly not as loud as he had. But he would rather willingly spend the rest of his life in the Silent City than believe a word that came out of Chet’s mouth. And besides this was John. He’d heard enough in half-conversations – both between him and Meeks, but also between Todd and anyone willing to listen – to know the man was the personification of a rainbow.
Gerard’s gaze dragged off John, sweeping the room like he might find an explanation hidden in the crowd. His jaw clenched tight. Where the hell was Knox?
Movement by the far wall caught his eye and he turned expectantly, but it wasn’t his parabatai. It was Neil, slipping silently into the Ops Center, with Todd trailing in behind. They abruptly stopped, when they noticed the commotion toward the front. Neil’s eyes widened, and then narrowed in confusion, and he turned to Todd. Todd who’d turned pale as soon as he noticed the handcuffs on John’s hands. Todd who was shaking, practically about to vibrate out of his skin.
Gerard’s pulse kicked.
Todd’s eyes flicked across the room, locking into his, wide and desperate. A quick shake of his head, sharp and insistent.
Not possible, Gerard could almost hear Todd’s voice inside his mind.
Not true.
A set-up.
“What the hell is going on here?” A new voice wrung through the room, as Thomas Branwell strode in, all command and steel.
Chet’s smirk widened, every inch the conquering hero he was pretending to be. “What’s going on,” he said smoothly, loudly enough for every corner of the Ops Center to hear, “is that I’ve caught the killer.” He gestured to John like he was presenting proof.
Pitts tried to tune out the whispers, his gaze darting back to Neil. Because if anyone in this room could talk in John’s favor, it was him. Neil knew John. Not only because he’d spent more time around him at Meeks’ place during Todd’s training. But even before that, as a liaison between the Institute and the Downworlders Neil must’ve worked closely with him.
If anyone should be speaking up, it was him.
But Neil said nothing. He stood stock-still beside Todd, his mouth pressed in a hard line, eyes fixed on the floor like silence was the only thing holding him together.
Chet was still talking. Boasting.
“ – and as soon as I send word to the Inquisitor, I’ll have ready a report for the Consul and the Gard. We’ll have this wrapped up neatly before anyone else can stick their fingers in it. The Spiral Labyrinth won’t even need to be involved nor –”
Gerard pushed away from the desk he’d been leaning against, the motion slow and deliberate enough to draw attention. When he spoke, he used the kind of voice he reserved for the Clave meetings.
“Are you out of your mind, Cartwright?”
The Ops Center stilled. Heads turned. Even Chet’s smirk faltered for a breath.
“I think you’re speaking out of order –”
“I am speaking out of order? You just paraded a warlock through the Institute,” he started, voice razor-sharp, “and now you’re proposing to contact the Inquisitor without informing the Spiral Labyrinth? Without so much as notifying the High Warlock of Boston?” He tilted his head, every syllable clipped. “Tell me, Chet, is that what passes for protocol in Idris? Because I’m pretty sure everyone back in Alicante would be appalled if they heard you.”
A murmur swept through the room.
Chet’s jaw tightened. “Whatch yourself, Penhallow. You don’t have the authority –”
“Oh, but I do,” Gerard cut in smoothly, a thin smile on his lips. “Remember who some names are more important than others?” he asked, gaze narrowing. He relished in the way Chet’s jaw tensed. “I’m also in the Council; in case you’ve forgotten. And so, I’m trained to understand procedure. What you’re suggesting is not it, and I’m sure that Head of the Institute, Mr. Branwell, is going to agree with me, isn’t that right, Sir?”
“Following procedures is imperative,” Thomas Branwell managed to say, before Pitts started speaking again.
“Exactly. We can’t just bypass the proper channels, Chet. You see, that would be a violation so severe the Consul wouldn’t even need to hear about the murders – you’d already be stripped of your authority,” Pitts leaned forward, voice dropping to a near-whisper that still carried across the floor. “So, tell me again who you’re going to handle this ‘neatly’, Cartwright.”
The smirk was gone now, replaced by the brittle edges of anger. Chet’s composure cracked, just for a moment. “Enough,” he barked, snapping for the guards. “Take him away!”
The Shadowhunters holding John’s bonds jerked into motion, moving slowly toward the cells. Pitts’ stomach gave a violent twist, and he was about to lunge at Chet, diplomacy be damned –
And then the world broke.
It wasn’t silence. It was something worse: the hum of sound cut clean in half, as though the air itself had been held in suspension. Voices froze in throats. Boots halted mid-step. The flicker of overhead lights stopped all together, the buzzing of the lamps cut off.
It took him a moment to understand what was happening. And then Pitts blinked, his hands patting over his chest, feeling the pitter-patter of his heart underneath his ribs, as the rest of the Ops Center, being frozen in time.
He spun around, and that’s when he saw Todd standing rigid, his face pale, his hands trembling like he didn’t know what he’d just done.
“Todd,” he said carefully. His voice echoed, too loud, too sharp, in the suspended silence, like speaking into a cave.
“I – ” Todd’s voice cracked. He stared down at his own hands as if they’d betrayed him. “I didn’t mean – I don’t – ” He looked up, panicked, his eyes growing impossibly wide. Frantic. “What did I – what is this?”
“You stopped time,” Gerard swallowed, forcing calm into his tone even as the hair on his arms stood on end. “You’re manipulating the fabric of reality as we speak.”
Todd staggered back a step, shaking his head violently. “No, no, no – this isn’t – I can’t have done that –”
John groaned, knees buckling, the strain of the suspended air dragging him down. He almost hit the stone floor before Pitts caught his arm, steadying him.
Pitts looked up, eyes locking on Todd.
No time for handholding. Sorry, kid.
“Listen to me,” he said, tone firm, mimicking the way his mother talked to him when he was misbehaving as a child. “Get John out of here. Take him to Meeks’.”
Todd froze, his gaze darting to Neil, who was frozen mid-breath, his expression carved into stone.
“I can’t,” he whispered, voice cracking again. “I can’t leave – ”
“I’ll deal with Neil,” Pitts said, cutting him off. He grabbed Todd’s shoulder, firm, grounding. “That’s my job. Yours is John. Understood?”
Todd’s eyes darted back and forth between Pitts and Neil, panic threatening to overtake him again – until John sagged, the cuffs biting into his wrists, his face contorting in pain.
“Yeah, okay, alright,” Todd breathed, tears pricking his eyes as he reached for John. He pressed a hand to the cuffs and reality shivered again – the electrum hissing against his touch, loudly, before the shackles clattered to the floor. “I don’t know how I did that,” he muttered, swallowing hard.
Pitts had no idea either. This wasn’t how magic worked. He shook his head. Now was not that time.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. He turned his attention to John, who was barely holding himself up. “Can you walk him through the basics of opening a portal.”
John leaned half of his body weight on Todd. “I can try.”
Pitts nodded once, sharp. “Do it. Now.”
John started speaking before Pitts was done. His voice was too thin, too tired, to carry over the room. But Todd kept nodding along, bottom lip drawn between his teeth, fingers twitching. John gave him an encouraging pat on the back, and what was clearly supposed to come off as a reassuring smile but ended up being a grimace.
Todd’s hands shook as he carved the air. The first time it sparked blue, but then it collapsed in on itself. Todd let a squeak, but John muttered something to him, squeezing his shoulder. The younger warlock drew a deep breath, shaking out his arms. He tried again, his concentration deep enough to make the tips of his ears pink. The circle he made this time flared to life, a little ragged, a little unsteady, but blue around the edges and shimmering like a mirror made of water.
“Wow,” Todd whispered to himself, earning a congratulatory slap on the back from John. “I don’t – ”
“You did a good job, Todd,” Gerard said, steady, grounding. Todd looked back at him, still slightly uncertain. “And I don’t just mean the portal. Now go.”
Todd stared at him for a second longer. Then he gave a nod and stepped through the portal, dragging John with him.
The spell held for a moment longer – the stillness, the frozen lights, the mid-breath pause of the room. Then it collapsed all at once. Voices resumed. Boots hit stone. The lamps buzzed again.
And John was gone.
Notes:
French translation ;
"N’ai pas peur, Steven.”
“Qui – qui êtes-vous?”
“Je suis ton père.”
“Mon père est mort.”
“Non, ton vrai père. Je t’ai toujours vu. J’ai vu ton feu. Tu es à moi, Steven. Mon sang. Mon fils.”
“Tu n'es plus seul. Tu ne sera plus jamais abandonnè. Viens avec moi.”
"Don't be afraid, Steven."
"Who—who are you?"
"I am your father."
"My father is dead."
"No, your real father. I've always seen you. I've seen your fire. You are mine, Steven. My blood. My son."
"You are no longer alone. You will never be abandoned again. Come with me."
“Ne crains rien, tu es à moi, maintenant.”
“Don’t worry, you’re mine now.”
Chapter 27: Nothing's gonna hurt you baby
Notes:
Hello lovely people of the internet!! How are you doing?? How's your week been so far?? Mine was a little hectic, a little stressfull and that's why the chapter is posted so late. Apologies for that. BUT can you believe this is the pre-last chapter of part one??? What?? When did that happen??? I'm particularly fond of this chapter, it was initially going to be the last one, with a small addition in the end. But then I thought about it again, and I realized it needed a moment to breathe so it became the pre-last chapter!! I hope you like it, and just know that I'm DYING to read your comments after this one especially.
Okay, see you next week for the finale of part 1!!
Chapter Text
Todd was one of the last children of his class to be allowed to travel to and back from school on his own. His mother being quite overprotective didn’t let him do the small trip – only two blocks away from their apartment building – until he was eleven. And even then, Todd had to always be with Cameron when walking to school or coming back from it. Todd didn’t mind; Cameron was his best friend so the two of them walking together every day only meant they’d be spending more time together.
The system worked and both Todd and his mom were very pleased with it.
And the one noon, after the final bell had wrung, and kids started spilling into the courtyard, Todd saw Jeffrey leaning against the stone wall outside the school gates, arms folded, head tipped back like he owned the place. His classmates noticed too – it was hard not to. Four years older than them, taller, sharper, Jeffrey already carried himself with an air of unbearable coolness. A couple of kids openly gawked- his brother had that effect on people.
Todd flushed with equal parts pride and annoyance.
“Why’s Jeffrey here?” Cameron whispered to him.
Todd gave a one shrug shoulder, before shoving his book back higher on it, and making a beeline for him. “Jeff, why are you here?”
“To pick you up,” Jeffrey said simply, but there was something in his voice that made Todd’s eyes narrow.
“You don’t pick me up. I walk myself home, with Cameron.”
“Hi,” Cameron pipped up with a small wave.
Jeffrey’s eyes flicked between the boys. “I know that. But I thought I could join you guys today.”
“Why?” Todd asked, unable to keep the suspicion out of his tone.
“Am I suddenly not cool enough to walk with you guys?” Jeffrey asked, arching an eyebrow.
“No, you’re very cool,” Cameron said a little too quickly. It earned him a side glance from Todd.
“Thank you, Cam. At least someone still appreciates me around here,” Jeffrey said, ruffling Cameron’s bright auburn curls.
The boy let a small, strangled noise – Todd knew he hated when people messed his hair – but didn’t pull away from the touch.
“Now are we going to get moving? Or are we waiting to get dark?” Jeffrey asked, while placing one hand to either of their shoulders and pushing them forward
Todd and Cameron fell into step with each other without another word of complain, Jeffrey bringing up the rear of the their little group of three. Every time Todd would turn to glance at him, he’d find his eyes flicking from the rooftops, to the alleyways ahead, to shadows starting to form as the sun dipped further into the horizon. He wasn’t anxious - not like Todd felt sometimes when his skin would start to tingle for no reason, and his chest grew tight – but it looked like he was expecting someone to show up.
Todd slowed his step only slightly. “Did something happen?”
“Relax Toddie,” Jeff said, using his childhood nickname. His hand landed briefly on Todd’s forearm, warm, steady and comforting. “Everything is alright.”
They dropped Cameron at his house, just around the corner of where they were living. As soon as they reached their street, Todd’s stomach made a weird swiping motion. He tried to remember if he’d eaten something that made him feel funny, but then their building came into view, and his legs went stiff. On the second floor, where their apartment was located, the kitchen window was broken.
“Jeffrey -?”
“There was a minor accident,” Jeff explained, pushing him through the front door. “Nothing really important. C’mon, get into the elevator.”
“But mom says we shouldn’t use it alone.”
“Mom told me to use it,” Jeffrey said, and Todd frowned but did what his brother told him.
When Jeffrey unlocked the door, Todd stopped cold on the threshold, his heart hammering behind his ribs. There were claw marks on the side of the door’s frame. Just a little further down the hallway, he could see splinters scattered across the floor, and wide, black scorch marks on the walls.
“Todd.”
His mom swept across the room and pulled him into her arms before he could say anything or take another step. She hugged him so tightly his breath caught, burying her face in his hair. Todd clung back automatically, but his eyes darted over her shoulder – the mess, the smell of smoke, Jeff pacing the wreckage like he was looking for something.
“Mom,” Todd mumbled into her shirt. “What happened?”
She pulled back, holding his face between her palms. Her smile was soft, but it didn’t reach all the way to her eyes. “Did you have a good day at school? Was everything alright?”
Todd blinked at her. “What? Mom, I asked –”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” she said gently, running a hand through his hair. “It’s alright.”
“But –” Todd stopped, his eyes flicking around their apartment before returning to her. “Where’s dad?” he asked instead, because she was clearly not going to tell him what had happened.
“Dad’s at the bank. He’s okay, we were just on the phone.” She brushed his bangs back from his forehead and dipped her head in to drop a kiss on his skin. “And you’re home now. You and Jeffrey. That’s what matters.”
Todd thought of asking again. Maybe use some other words and get her to tell him what happened. But her hands were gentle on his cheeks, her eyes so intent, and his throat was suddenly too tight.
So, Todd nodded and said nothing.
Neil enjoyed spending time at the nursery.
He was one of the older kids there, being five years old already, but seeing as he wasn’t yet old enough to start attending classes at the Academy, his father decided it would be better for him to be there than wait around his office all day. And Neil agreed; his father’s office was boring, but the nursery had blocks, and coloring books, and even kid-friendly training seraph-blades.
He was stacking blocks with Elinor Scott, the tower so tall it wobbled when he heard the roar. It was so loud that all the windows shook with the force of it, one of them shattering inward, spraying glass like sharp rain. The air filled with a smell so strong it was almost overpowering – acrid, sulfurous, thick enough to coat the tongue.
The block tower topped as the room erupted into screams. Elinor shrieked, clutching his arm hard enough to hurt. The teacher, Miss Tanner tried to order them to get behind her, but all the kids were far too scared to listen to her. The class filled with sobs, screams and the sound of furniture falling to the floor.
Neil barely registered any of it – his eyes were stuck on the shape looming in the doorway, pinchers scrapping against the walls, a thousand beady eyes shining.
He wanted to run, but his legs locked. His breath punched short. His chest tightened and then it caved, and suddenly his cheeks were wet and Elinor Scott wasn’t the only one crying.
Someone yanked him backwards – Miss Tanner had finally had enough and was pushing everyone underneath their tables, one-by-one. Neil stumbled with the others, hands over his ears, but the sound was everywhere, pinchers screeching against stone, wood splintering as the creature charged.
Neil’s teeth clattered with the force of his shaking.
And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over.
Blades gleamed in the overheard light, as shouts filled the room. Shadowhunters rushed in and drove the demon back in a storm of flashing silver. The thing screeched, thrashing, before collapsing in a heap that stank of ash.
Neil stayed under the table, fists balled tight, tears streaming hot down his cheeks. He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t make the world stop spinning.
That was how his father found him.
“Neil.” Thomas Branwell spoke the way he always did, his voice detached, commanding. Cold. It was the same voice he used at the Ops Center when he was talking to his men. His tall figure loomed, even as he crouched, pulling the table back. His eyes flicked over Neil’s shaking body, gaze narrowing in disapproval. “You’re crying.”
Neil hiccupped, swiping at his face with the back of his hand. “S-sir, I – I couldn’t –”
“Stand up,” his father spoke over him. The words were clipped. Brisk. They left no room for excuses.
Neil scrambled up, his legs aching and protesting the move.
Thomas’ eyes swept over him again with the kind of scrutiny one would expect for soldiers. “Fear is natural,” he said, but the way he said it made it sound like an accusation. “Letting it rule you is not. You’re a Branwell. You are a Shadowhunter. You are the future of this Institute. You do not cry when faced with the enemy.”
Neil bit down on his lip hard enough to sting. His throat felt thick and scratchy, swelling up with a new bunch of tears. But he swallowed, hard, forcing it all down, chest heaving silently. He nodded, once, fast.
“Good.” His father’s hand landed briefly, heavily, on his shoulder. A weight instead of comfort. “You will remember this.”
And Neil did.
Even years later, he remembered the shame burning hotter than the demon’s fire.
The library was quiet, the kind of quiet it got after hours when everyone was either asleep or out on patrol. The room hiding behind the bookcases at the back of the room was even more quiet. Witchlights flicked gently across the walls, the sound of rain slapping against the wooden windowpanes giving the space a sense of calm. Todd was on the battered couch, one leg folded underneath him, the other gently tapping against the floor. He had a book open in his lap, his hand idly playing with the hair on his nape as he read.
Neil was perched on the other side of the couch, his chin in his hand, eyes bright and expectant. He’d been asking for the same thing for the last five minutes.
“Come on,” he whined, nudging his arm. “Just once. Please.”
Todd tilted his head, already smiling despite himself. “I said no, Neil.”
“But I’m being so polite! Asking so nicely, c’mon Todd! Pretty please, for me… do it for me!”
Todd sighed, flicked his gaze and looked at him under his eyelashes. “Are you seriously begging me to do magic? Inside the Institute?”
“Yes,” Neil said instantly, grinning. “The Institute is built on ley lines, everything in here is magic already!”
Todd hesitated. “I don’t know… this feels illegal, for some reason.”
“I don’t care,” Neil said unequivocally. “You distracted me, the other day, at the Christmas market. I didn’t get to appreciate it properly. I want to know what your magic feels like against my skin.”
Todd’s breath hitched. “Neil… you can’t say stuff like that.”
“Sure I can. I mean, I just did.” He scooted further down the couch. Todd’s knee pressed against his thigh. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he said, voice dropping an octave, and Todd burst out laughing before he could stop himself.
He gave in with a soft shake of his head, flicking his wrist. The familiar blue shimmer sparked up, blossoming into a dome of light that curved around them both. It hummed faintly, pressing close enough to kiss the edges of their skin.
Neil sucked in a sharp breath, sitting up straighter. “Oh.”
He lifted his hand, his palm carefully pressing against the shield. His fingers curled around the glow, and the magic rippled vibrating softly like a heartbeat. He closed his eyes, exhaling, and for the first time Todd saw his shoulders completely relaxing.
“Feels like –” Neil broke off, shaking his head a little, smiling like he couldn’t curb it off his lips. “Warm. Strong. Like you.”
Todd’s throat went dry. “Neil…”
Neil turned to him, eyes still wide with wonder, and then leaned even further in without hesitation. Their mouths met halfway, lips brushing, pressing, a kiss that was so soft it hurt.
The shield pulse faintly, matching Todd’s heartbeat, blue light flashing over Neil’s cheekbones and catching in his lashes. When they finally pulled apart, Neil’s lips were swollen, his grin stupid and crooked in a way Todd wanted burnt into his memory forever.
“I can’t believe we’re making out inside a magical hamster ball.”
Todd snorted, the sound muffled when Neil pressed his forehead against his. “You begged for it.”
“And now I’m sowing the seeds,” Neil said, eyes dancing.
Todd rolled his own, but Neil’s smile was contagious, pulling one out of him too. The shield buzzed faintly around them, like it wanted to laugh along.
Neil’s hand slipped down to catch Todd’s, their fingers lacing together. His thumb brushed once over the back of Todd’s knuckles, casual but sure. “Feels safe in here,” he murmured, not looking away. “Like nothing could touch us.”
Todd’s chest seized, lungs pressing against his ribcage, his heart beating in his throat. He felt his throat grow thick, Neil’s words wrapping around it like a noose.
“Except maybe a giant hamster.” His voice cracked at the middle of the sentence, but he pushed it out desperate in his attempt to break some of the tension.
Neil blinked at him, startled and then let a chuckle, quick and helpless. “By the Angel, you’re so –” he cut himself off, shaking his head, and hurriedly surging forward to press his lips against Todd’s.
Neil broke away only enough to whisper against his mouth, “Feels like magic.”
Todd huffed, breath shaky and hot. “That’s ‘cause it is magic, genius.” But he couldn’t stop grinning either. Couldn’t stop kissing him.
The shield hummed around them, steady and sure, until finally it flickered once, twice, and dissolved, leaving them tangled together in the soft light of the room.
Todd stumbled out of the portal like he’d been shoved through it, knees hitting the floor with a jolt that rattled his bones. The room spun around him, all rich fabrics, heavy oak furniture and carefully placed books. His lungs couldn’t decide if they wanted to inhale or shut down completely.
John crumpled beside him, pale and shaking, barely catching himself on his trembling arms.
And Meeks was there. Standing in the middle of the room, a half-drunk Cosmo in his hand, blinking like he’d just been interrupted mid-thought.
“Dove,” he said slowly, voice edged with disbelief. “Did you just create an interdimensional portal –” he broke off midsentence, when his surprised gaze finally landed on John. The glass lowered. The warmth vanished from his face. “Explain,” he ordered, the expression on his face instantly growing grave.
Todd’s words tumbled out before he could stop them. “They – they had him chained. The cuffs were draining his magic, he couldn’t – They said they were going to send him to the Gard, no trial no nothing! I couldn’t – I didn’t know what to do!”
Meeks’ expression shifted like a mask sliding into place. He smiled, warm, soft, but Todd could see it didn’t reach his eyes. “You did well, Dove. You did more than well,” He set his glass down, and crossed the room in quick strides crouching next to John. His hand pressed gently against the warlock’s back.
“Old friend… what have they done to you?” he murmured, voice shaking with fury.
“N-not-thing wor-se than wh-hat hap-pened at Salem.” John tried to joke, but his voice came out hoarse. Broken.
“Shh. No talking.” Meeks rubbed a small circle between his shoulders, eyes blazing. “You’re safe now. You hear me? Safe.” He glanced over his shoulder at Todd. “You were very smart bringing him here, dove.”
Todd swallowed, his heart still beating inside his chest like it was trying to break out. “I didn’t – Gerard said to bring him here.”
Meeks’ hand stilled on John’s back. Something flashed behind his eyes, and the lights over their heads flicked. “Did he now,” he muttered, the words slipping out of his lips almost involuntarily.
Before Todd could try to think twice over the weird slip, Meeks had sprung to his feet. He turned around, clapping his hands once, and the wards surrounding his apartment building hummed. Todd felt his skin breaking into goosebumps. He flicked his wrist and the fireplace roared to life. One of the armchairs slid itself close to the hearth, a soft blanket materializing on top of it.
Meeks hooked an arm under John’s and lifted, bearing most of the man’s weight with surprising gentleness. “Sit,” he instructed, voice low but firm, steering him into the chair. “Let your magic settle. I’ll heal you after, but I don’t want to shock your system.”
For a second John looked like he was going to protest. But then a violent cough ripped through his throat, and he doubled over himself. Meeks’ jaw clenched.
The lights flickered again.
When he turned back to Todd, his voice was deceptively calm. “Shadowhunters breaking protocol is not something that should surprise you, dove. They’ve done it since the first marks were inked on their skin. Whatever suits them, whatever covers their shortcomings. Especially when their own blood is spilled.” His last word came out sharp. Venomous.
Todd shifted, unsettled.
Then he softened again, his gaze catching him. “Although sometimes… they can surprise you.”
Todd’s chest was still heaving, like he’d sprinted miles, despite him not having moved in minutes. His magic buzzed under his skin, restless, raw, threatening to spark again if he let it slip.
Meeks gave him a scrutinizing look. “You experiencing magic-storm aftershocks.”
“Magic-storm?”
“Sounds better than excessive-magic-usage aftershocks, don’t you think?” his lips quirked. “Opening a portal takes a lot out of the caster. It would drain a warlock twice my age. And yet you – you did it blind. You’ll shall remain a wonder, Todd Anderson.”
Todd felt the heat spreading from his chest to his neck and the rest of his face. “John… John walked me through it. And I didn’t really have a choice; I needed to get him out of there.”
Meeks eliminated the distance between them, his gaze pinning him still. His tone softened, something akin to affection slipping in it. “You always have a choice. And what you did was brave. Stupidly so. Remember a conversation we had a while ago? About who you are now that you know?” Meeks asked arching an eyebrow.
Todd blinked. Of course he remembered. How could he forget the spiral he’d had right in the very room after finding about his relationship to Lucifer?
“You are this,” Meeks said, looking deep in his eyes. “You are the kind of a person who sees an injustice and tries to fix it without carrying of the repercussions.”
“… So, I’m stupid.”
Meeks huffed. “You’re brave,” he corrected. “Now, let’s go make some tea,” he said with a fake cheerful voice before spanning on his heal and heading toward the kitchen.
Todd blinked again, feeling terribly disoriented. Tea? He’d just ripped a portal open inside the Institute. He’d broken a prisoner out of Shadowhunter custody. He’d left Neil –
Oh, dear lord, he’d left Neil.
His Neil. His boyfriend. Frozen in the middle of the Ops Center while the world came crashing down.
He’d just – left. No explanation. No nothing.
And Meeks was talking about tea.
The quiet clatter of a kettle filled the silence.
Todd sat down on the very edge of the couch, knees bouncing so hard the furniture moved. Meeks’ orange cat, looked at him from his perch on the coffee table, and gave a chastising mewl.
“I’m sorry,” Todd mumbled and then reminded himself that the cat couldn’t have possible understood him. The tubby gave him a disinterested look, before curling around itself to resume its nap.
Todd couldn’t keep his hands still. He kept clenching them, then flexing them, then rubbing them against his jeans as if he could scrub off the lingering burn of magic.
He couldn’t stop replaying the moment in his mind. Neill’s face in the Ops Center, pale in the lamplight. His jaw tight. His mouth set in that line Todd hated – the line he’d come to recognize as Neil silencing himself, swallowing what he wanted to say. Neil hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken when they said they were going to throw John in the Gard. He’d just… stood there. Let it happen.
He dug his nails into his palms. His throat felt tight, clogged with too many things he didn’t know how to sort. The kettle whistled in the kitchen.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself. His voice came out small, harsh. “So stupid. I shouldn’t have – I should’ve – ” He cut himself off, because he didn’t even know what he was trying to say. He just knew he couldn’t sit still. His legs bounced harder, his chest climbing toward panic.
From across the room, Meeks’ voice floated, deceptively calm, “The tea will help.”
In the next moment, Todd felt the warm brush of ceramic against the back of his hand. He wrapped his fingers around the cup, and wondered whether laughing or screaming would fit the situation better.
Neild hadn’t moved from where he’d been standing when it happened. One second Todd had been at his side, the next he was gone. No flicker of magic, no flash of a portal. Just absence. It left Neil hollow, like the floor had tilted under his boots.
He was still staring at the empty space beside him when a hand closed around his wrist.
“Outside,” Pitts said curtly, already pushing him out of the Ops Center.
Neil stumbled into the corridor, blinking like he was waking up from a bad dream. The moment they were safely alone, Gerard rounded at him.
“What the hell was that?”
“What are you talking about?” Neil hated how defensive he sounded.
“Not a word? They were threatening to sent an innocent man to the Gard, not even following standard procedure, and you didn’t even say a word?”
Neil’s defensiveness melted into anger, his arms coming up across his chest. “What was I supposed to say?”
“Something. Anything,” Gerard shot back, sharp but quiet. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowing the way they always did when he was forcing his patience. “You know John. You know him better than I do. And you stood there like you’d never met him.”
The heat crept up Neil’s neck. “I was – Iwas trying to figure out what was happening,” he muttered. Too fast.
“Is that supposed to be an excuse?”
Neil bristled. “I’m sorry my last name isn’t Penhallow, and I can’t just make a spectacle out of myself without repercussions.”
Pitts’ nostrils flared, a vein ticking on his forehead. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Branwell. Your father is literally the Head of the Institute.”
“Exactly!” Neil snapped. “My father was right there, I couldn’t just start yelling at Chet the way you did.”
“Maybe not, but I’m sure Todd would’ve appreciated it.”
The words felt like a dagger between his ribs. Neil dropped his gaze, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He wanted to argue, to explain that it wasn’t that simple, that opening his mouth in front of the entire Ops Center with his father looming over him felt like willing walking to the guillotine. But the words wouldn’t come.
Gerard exhaled slowly through his nose, like he was trying to find strength to continue the conversation. “He froze time, by the way. Todd.”
Neil’s head snapped up. “What?”
“That’s how John disappeared. Time stopped, Neil. Todd did it, and then he portaled him straight to Meeks.”
The blood drained from Neil’s face. He shook his head once, automatically. “That – no. That doesn’t make sense.”
Todd couldn’t have.
Reality bending was a dangerous kind of magic. Ancient. Unpredictable. It didn’t follow an existing set of rules. It was talked about only in whispers, in stories of warlocks who had vanished for daring to tamper with it. Warlocks with twice the experience Todd had wouldn’t dare try it.
And Todd wasn’t even a full warlock.
Five weeks ago, he didn’t even know he was any part warlock!
Hec couldn’t have –
“And yet he did,” Gerard said, tone clipped. “I saw it.”
Neil tried again, mouth dry. “No. Todd – he couldn’t. Pitts, time bending? I’m not even sure Meeks can pull that! How did Todd – it’s not possible.”
“It is.” Gerard’s expression didn’t shift. As if he thought saying it flat – like a matter of fact – would be enough to force him to accept it.
Neil’s chest pulled tight. Questions clawed at his throat, useless.
How?
Why couldn’t have he waited for five minutes?
Why – why had he frozen Neil but not Pitts?
But before he could force any of them out, footsteps struck the marble behind them.
“All units are being dispatched.” His father’s voice cut through the hallway like a blade. “John Keating is to be found immediately.”
Neil stiffened. The instinct was automatic – spine straight, eyes down. He didn’t breathe until Pitts spoke, smooth and fast.
“Neil and I will go together.”
Thomas Branwell’s gaze lingered on them, cool and assessing. Then slowly, he smiled. “Yes. See that you do that.” His eyes focused on Neil. “I’m sure you’ll make a great team.”
His stomach churned.
Neil felt yesterday’s dinner climb up his esophagus.
“I’m sure that if anyone brings him in, it will be the two of you.”
More, more, more.
Neil’s lungs burned, hist stomach twisting painfully. There were spots dancing in his eyes, black and growing larger as the seconds ticked by.
Pitts’ voice sounded like it came from underwater. “We appreciate the confidence, sir,” he said smoothly, when it became apparent Neil couldn’t.
His father gave a small nod. “Let me know of any developments.” Then he was gone, leaving the air heavier than before.
Pitts hand clapped against his shoulder, pulling him back to earth. “Come on, we’re going to Meeks’,” he said firm, leaving no room for argument.
Neil blinked at him. “What?”
“You heard me.”
His gut knotted around himself. Neil wanted to protest. What if anyone saw them slipping into the High Warlock’s house after… well, everything?
But Pitts was already moving, and Neil had no choice but to follow.
Todd had been pacing, back and forth across Meeks’ too-fancy living room, hands twisted in his shirt, heart running somewhere three miles ahead of him. Meeks was still bent over John, muttering under his breath, hands glowing faint but steady where the cuffs had bitten into skin. Every so often Todd would catch him glance his way too, like he was checking he hadn’t combusted yet.
Todd hated that it almost helped. Almost.
Because all Todd could think about was what he’d done.
What he hadn’t done.
The way Neil had stood there in the Ops Center, looking at his father. Silent. And Todd had – what? Just made it worse? Stolen a murder suspect? Exposed himself as a warlock for everyone to see? He was going to get them all thrown in to prison. No, he was going to get them all killed.
He was going to get Neil killed.
He was spiraling over that particularly bright thought when the door of the penthouse burst open. Todd spun, his stomach dropping to his knees, when Pitts stormed in, closely followed by Neil. For a beat, Todd’s brain stalled on the impossible part – that Meeks’ wards had just let Gerard Penhallow walk straight in – but then Meeks moved.
It was like a storm broke loose. One second Neil was standing there, wide-eyed and flushed, the next he was slammed against a wall, Meeks’ magic curling around him like vice. Books rattled on their shelves, the lights flickered and Todd’s heart shot clean into his throat.
“Meeks –!” The word ripped out of him, strangled and useless. His feet stuttered forward but stopped again, because what the hell was he supposed to do? Throw up a shield against Meeks? Against the High Warlock of Boston, who was practically vibrating with fury? His own magic felt like a shaky matchstick in comparison, sparking at his fingertips without direction.
Neil was pinned against the wall, hard, his back cracking against the wood paneling, and Todd couldn’t breathe. All the air was gone. His chest was too small, too tight. He wanted to do something, say something, anything, but all his brain could come up with was : this is my fault, this is my fault, this is my fault
Because it was.
Because if he had just waited things out, if he hadn’t broken John out, if he hadn’t made a scene right in the middle of the Ops Center, if he hadn’t dragged Neil into this mess by existing –
His vision blurred. He blinked, chest heaving. “Stop! Please, just – don’t hurt him!”
Meeks gave no indication he’d heard him.
The air in the room rippled with the force of his power. His eyes glowed faintly, purple taking over the familiar, warm amber of his irises. They looked colder. Wrong. The books on the shelves shuddered. The granite under their feet groaned and shook like it was seconds away from cracking open.
Neil made a choking sound against the invisible bonds around his neck. His boots scraped helplessly at the paneling.
“Meeks, stop,’ he tried again, voice breaking, but it only made the shadows spilling around Meeks bend sharper.
For a split-second Todd swore he wasn’t looking at Meeks the High Warlock anymore. He was looking at something else. Something archaic. Something that had crawled up out of the pit with black blood in its veins and fire in its teeth. Something that should’ve never stepped foot on Earth.
And then –
“Steven.”
Pitts voice somehow, impossibly, cut through the haze. Low. Stable. Authoritative in a way Todd had grown accustomed to in the short period of time he’d known him.
Meeks froze. Only for a second. Only for a heartbeat. His head turned slightly, as if the sound had hooked him by the spine. The glow in his eyes dimmed, the shadows curling tighter, drawn back. It was enough. Enough for Todd to suck in a gasp, for Neil to drop half an inch lower against the wall.
And then the door slammed open again.
Todd’s eyes flashed to it, heart still stuttering behind his ribs, and nearly passed out in his relief. Because of course Pitts had texted for backup.
Charlie strode in first, sharp, his whole demeanor screaming murder. His eyes instantly found Neil and his shoulders squared, like he was about to throw himself headfirst at Meeks.
“Charlie –” Knox’s voice snapped in sharp, warningly, and a hand caught his arm before he could launch himself forward. “Wait.”
For a moment it looked like Charlie wouldn’t. His chest rose and fell in furious bursts, his eyes trained on Meeks like he’d already picked where to sink his blade in first. But Knox didn’t let go, anchoring him with a force quieter than rage, but no less immovable.
The stand-off stretched taut, until finally – finally – Meeks’ arm twitched and Neil crashed on the floor in a heap, choking on air.
Todd’s knees buckled with the urge to run to him, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Because Meeks was still standing there, backlit by the fire, shadows trembling like they were reluctant to retreat. His face was too calm, too collected, and yet Todd could feel the storm rolling just beneath the surface.
One second his lungs were burning, crushed under invisible pressure. The next he hit the floor, coughing so hard his ribs screamed, air tearing its way down his throat like glass.
“Neil.”
Charlie’s voice snapped the room into focus.
Charlie.
Neil didn’t waste time wondering when or how Chalie had appeared. Instead he sort of dumped his weight on to him clinging to his shoulders like he was a lifeline. Charlie’s arms immediately locked around him, steading him, one hand braced on his back, the other cupping the side of his face.
“Are you okay?” he demanded, eyes swimming with worry.
Neil opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out of it was a strangled, choked noise. Charlie clenched his jaw, but his hand on Neil’s face was gentle, his thumb brushing the spot underneath his eye.
“You’re fine,” he whispered, pulling him in tighter. “You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine.”
Neil’s chest loosened. Just slightly. Just enough so that he could breathe at least half-properly. Because Charlie was here.
Charlie was here.
Across the room, Meeks still stared at him. Cold. Unapologetic. As if he was patiently waiting for Charlie to be done reassuring himself Neil was alive, so that he could pick up where he let off.
Neil dragged in another shaky breath and borrowed himself further in Charlie’s hug.
From the corner of his vision he saw Knox was also there. He had taken his place besides Pitts in their usual formation, but his gaze kept cutting to Charlie, again and again. As if he was bracing for him to erupt. As if holding himself calm would be enough to contain Charlie.
“You good?” he asked, low enough Neil almost didn’t catch it.
“Fine,” Pitts replied immediately, his mouth tugging into something like a smirk. “You?”
Knox’s jaw tightened, then he gave the faintest nod. “Aways.”
“Good. Almost all of us are here now… Which reminds me,” he said, eyes narrowing, exaggeratedly. “Where the fuck were you and why weren’t you picking up your phone?”
Neil saw Knox’s face heating up and that’s when he decided to tune them out. Charlie was still wrapped around him like an overheated, murderous blanket, and Neil was in no hurry to pull off.
And then he felt Todd’s gaze on him.
He was standing by the sofa, pale, hunched, looking like the weight of everything was crushing him down to nothing.
The noise of the room dimmed under the rush of relief that hit Neil. His lungs squeezed, but this time from something else entirely. He wanted to go to him. He wanted to close the space, grab his hand, do something.
Apologize for freezing like an idiot.
For not saying anything.
For making him believe for even a second that –
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Charlie’s voice cracked like a thunder, startling him.
Meeks didn’t blink. “I’m not in the mood to be tested tonight, Blackthorn.” His voice was even, but there was a warning laced in his words. It sent a shiver down Neil’s spine.
“You think I give a shit?” Charlie snarled. Neil was half-certain the only reason he still hadn’t attacked Meeks was the fact that they were still hugging on the floor.
“No, you’re not smart enough to. But I was hoping your worry over you parabatai would keep you in line.”
Neil flinched. He didn’t miss the way Charlie stiffened against him.
“Don’t fucking say that word like you have any idea what it means,” Charlie barked, making a move to pull away from Neil, but he held on to him. Knox shifted a step. “And don’t look at me like that when you’re the one in violation of the Accords!”
Meeks let a humorless chuckle. “That’s funny.”
“You attacked a Shadowhunter.”
“He attacked one of mine first.”
“Neil wouldn’t do that!”
What little air had managed to make its way in Neil’s lungs evaporate. His throat seized. Charlie’s conviction made his heart hurt.
“Are you sure about that, Charlie Blackthorn? Why don’t we ask your precious parabatai?”
“Didn’t I tell you not to use that word?” Charlie snapped, making a move to lunge forward, even with Neil still clinging to him.
Meeks tilted his head. “This is my house, are you looking to get banned into another realm?”
The room shook with tension, shadows curling tighter, Charlie bristling like he was about to set the whole place on fire. Neil’s chest screamed with guilt.
“We don’t have time for this,” Pitts spoke up. He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t need two. Both fighting parties had shut up as soon as he’d opened his mouth. Pitts’ gaze slid Knox. “You texted me something urgent. Something you couldn’t explain over the phone.”
Knox’s throat bobbed as he glanced around the room, then at Charlie, then back at its. He took a breath, steadying himself. “Yeah. I know why the murders are happening.”
Todd didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until the room went quiet. Too quiet. Everyone’s eyes were on Knox, who was pulling a small, battered booklet from his coat like it was a loaded weapon.
“I know why the murders are happening,” Knox said, voice even. “Charlie and I translated the text. It’s a prophecy. It’s written in Enochian so you can guess how old it is. The runes carved into the victims, they’re in here. They’re part of it. And they’re not random. They match the seals of the apocalypse.”
Todd’s heart lurched painfully. He stared at Knox’s mouth, at the words coming out of it, but they felt distorted. Like the air around them was shaped funny and kept them from making sense.
“Each seal broken through bloodshed,” Charlie added quietly, his hand still gripping Neil’s arm. “Seven Shadowhunters. Seven murders. When the last one’s broken, the apocalypse follows.”
“We’re on number four now,” Knox said, “which means we only have three more to go.”
A horrible, crawling feeling started under Todd’s skin, like ants biting their way up his veins. He shifter where he was standing, hoping it would help. It didn’t.
Knox set the booklet on the table, flipping it open with deliberate care. His voice was clinical, almost detached as he translated. “And then the blood of the profane must be spilled at the doors of Hell. That’s the trigger. That’s what users it in.”
Sometimes Todd hated being a writer and having an extensive vocabulary. Maybe if he weren’t the word profane wouldn’t wring out the way it did. It wouldn’t make the blood freeze in his vein.
Profane.
Not sacred.
Antichrist.
Todd.
Charlie leaned in. “There are actually two words used in text. One of them translates as profane. The other is… complicated. It could mean ‘unique individual’ or ‘insignificant’ depending on context. We debated it. But when you’re talking about the end of the world, and you already have another word that translates as profane just on the paragraph above, it doesn’t really take a genius.”
Todd’s stomach twisted so hard he thought he might throw up.
He wanted to laugh.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to claw at his eyes and crawl out of his own skin.
Meeks’ eyes flicked toward him. Just a second, just a fraction, but enough. Enough to make Todd’s pulse thunder in his ears.
He was making the same connection Todd was.
Which meant –
“The first four seals of the apocalypse mean the coming of the Four Horsemen,” Knox went on, his mouth pulling into a grimace like he wished he could make the words mean something else than what they meant.
The Four Horsemen.
The Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
No, no, no, no. No.
Todd’s mind flashed to his date with Neil at the Christmas market, at the moment of the mundane brawl. He remembered being in Cameron’s apartment and hearing the police siren going off at all times of the night. He remembered being in this living room and hearing on the radio about food shortages. He remembered picking up the paper on his way to the Institute and reading headlines about sudden new illnesses sweeping through hospitals.
The signs had been there. Todd had seen them, experienced them, and yet he’d brushed them off. Because for the first time in a while everything felt nice – at least kind of – and he didn’t want to worry about what it could all mean. But now? Now everything had lined up in his head, like dominos.
Falling, falling, falling.
His chest was too tight. He dug his nails into his palms, but it didn’t help.
No one was looking at him. They were all staring at Knox, at the booklet, at each other. Todd could swallow it. He could say nothing. Just – let this sit heavy against his chest, choking him, and take it to his grave.
And then Knox opened his mouth again. “So, we need to find the profane and make sure he doesn’t die in Hell.”
“I –” The sound ripped out of Todd before he realized he was speaking. Heads snapped toward him, and he felt his pulse jump.
Meeks’ voice cut in sharp, too quick. “Todd.”
But Todd was past warning. Past hiding. He couldn’t. Not when this – when he – was what they were talking about.
“Its me.” The words fell out cracked, raw. He hated the sound of them. “The profane. The unique individual or whatever – you don’t have to find them. It’s me.”
Silence slammed down over the room, heavier than anything Todd had ever felt. He couldn’t breathe under it.
“My father –” He swallowed hard, throat raw. He couldn’t look at Neil, couldn’t look at any of them, but his voice wouldn’t stop. “My biological father is Lucifer. And if you’re right – if the prophecy’s right – then the blood that ends the world is in my veins.”
The air was gone. Every bit of it sucked out. The others just stared. Blank. Disbelieving. Horrified.
Todd forced himself to look up – straight at Meeks. His voice cracked again, but he shoved the words out anyway. “You told me I wasn’t the Antichrist. You told me it didn’t work like that.”
Meeks’ eyes softened, but there was something steely underneath, something pleading. His lips parted like he wanted to tell him to stop talking, but Todd chut him off, shaking his head.
“No! You don’t get it. It’s already happening! The seals, the fighting, the shortages – it’s happening, Meeks!” His hands shook, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon.
“I know,” Meeks said simply. Unhelpfully.
“You know,” Todd echoed. His voice reverberated against the walls. “Okay… okay. So, if this ends with me – then I have to stop it. I have to. I – I need to speak with him.”
“Speak with who?” Charlie asked, his tone measured, his expression unreadable.
Todd swallowed. “Speak with my father. Lucifer. Figure a way to stop this before it happens. If anyone knows how – it would be him.”
“Shouldn’t you stay away from Hell?” Charlie said, conversationally, like they were talking about going to the grocery store. “Since spilling your blood at the gates could trigger the fucking Armageddon?”
He shook his head, feeling his heart hammer inside chest. “Whoever is doing this, they know about the prophecy. They might know it’s me – they will make sure my blood spills in Hell one way or the other. But if I talk to him, maybe we get a chance.”
Charlie frowned. “Are you willing to risk it?”
Todd bit on his tongue and said nothing. He looked around the room, at everyone who still hadn’t spoken. At Neil, whose eyes were wide and stricken. Charlie had shifted closer to him like he could shield him from the world itself. His gaze moved to Knox, who was staring at Charlie as if tethering himself.
And then finally to Pitts, who was the first one to move.
“So,” he said, his voice calm, heavy with something Todd couldn’t name. “I guess we’re going to Hell.”
Chapter 28: Way down we go
Notes:
Hello, nice people of the internet!! I hope you're having a lovely week! Mine has been.. uneventful, thankfully! By the Angel, I can't believe we've reached the final chapter of part 1!! I'm so overwhelmed right now - but I'm also very tired and I can't bring myself to write down everything I feel about this story and about making it this far! I just want you to know that I'm very thankful for your constant support, I'm thankful for the reviews, and the likes, and the kudos - for everything really! Even if you just read this periodically, even if you read it once and you never came back again, I am thankful for you! This story means so much to me - and we're not even half-way to being done, yet!! - and I'm really happy to share it with you! Thank you, for all the love you've shown to it, it's so, so appreciated!!
Now this chapter... I was initially worried Meeks' lore chapter would be longer, BUT I think this might win out by a few hundred words? I'm not sure though... This rounds up nicely, if I say so, all the individual character arcs of the first part of the story. I should also, probably, tell you that part 1 was the fun part of this story. Things are definitely going to get angstier as we move on - fair warning!
I think I'll start posting part 2 some time around Christmas? That's my rough estimate - it might change, but I don't think it will. In the meanwhile I'll probably still be here, adding one-shots in the knarlie tag (or even the neil/pitts tag that's awfully neglected). So yeah... I think I yapped too much this time. Oh, last thing, I'm sure this chapter is FULL of spelling errors because I had neither the time nor the will to give it a thorough read before posting, but I promise I'll come back to fix it at some point.
Okay, sooo.... I hope you have fun reading this!! As always let me know in the comments and I'll see you... soon :))
Chapter Text
Chris was pacing the length of her room. She had been at it for the past hour, twirling a pen restlessly between her fingers, her eyes darting again and again to the half-finished letter lying open on top of her desk.
“Aunt Elaine, I’m electing to write this letter instead of calling, because I feel this method is safer. After weeks of absolutely nothing happening, I finally have something report. Gerard has been in contact with Alec Lightwood…
The words stared back at her like a dare. She tugged at the end of her ponytail with one hand, yanking until it stung against her scalp. If she just finished it, if she signed it and put the burn rune at the corner, then it wouldn’t matter -
The door creaked, and Chris startled, whipping around so fast the pen slipped from her fingers.
Ginny leaned in the doorway, leather jacket creasing around her shoulders, hair ruffled as if she’d just finished a brawl. Her eyes squinted against the near complete darkness of Chris’ room, swiping over her form – the rigid set of her spine, the desk behind her, the damning letter right on top of it.
“You’re still up?” she asked, walking inside without waiting for an invitation, the sound of her heels far too loud for the small space. “What are you doing?”
Chris turned her back to the desk like that would make it invisible to her best friend. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Ginny hummed, like she believed her. “So… you’re writing a letter instead?” Her head tilted. “Is your laptop broken? Is that why you’re writing by hand?”
Chris forced a scoff, twirling the ponytail around her finger. “You know I prefer it this way.”
“Uh-huh,” Ginny muttered, climbing onto the edge of the desk, ignoring the ink stains and papers. “Is this another fake update? Don’t worry, Auntie, I’m this close to cracking the code. Or…” she dragged out the word, eyes glinting, “you actually have something.”
Chris drew in a deep breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling loudly through her mouth. Maybe telling Ginny would help. She flickered the pen between her fingers agon.
“Gerard’s gotten himself tangled up,” she said flatly. “With Alec Lightwood.”
Ginny gaped at her. “Shut up.”
“I wish I could.” She rubbed a hand over her forehead, letting it ness in her hair for a second before it fell limp by her side. “He’s been keeping him in the loop with what happens at the meetings. Votes. Agendas. It’s reckless. It’s stupid and if anyone finds out -”
“Well, nobody should,” Ginny cut in. “I mean Alec is in enough trouble already, and Gerard –”
“He brought this on himself.”
Ginny blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “Wait… You’re actually thinking of telling Elaine about this?”
Chris lifted her chin, jaw tightening. “Someone has to.”
Silence stretched between them, brittle and jagged. Chris didn’t like it. She didn’t like it when Ginny hesitated speaking her mind, because it usually meant Chris was doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing.
"But you like Alec,” she said finally, voice soft but cutting
Chris couldn’t help an involuntary flinch. She swallowed thickly. “I do.”
“And you like Gerard.”
Her first instinct was to refuse. Maybe throw in a scoff for good measure. Instead, she pressed her lips into a thin line. “He’s family,” she said, tone clipped, defensive. “But he’s being so incredibly moronic about this.”
Ginny gave her a questioning look. “So, what - we’re punishing him? For talking to Alec?”
“We’re looking out for him,” Chris snapped, too fast, too sharp. “This is not a simple letter exchange. If the wrong person finds out, he could get stripped of his runes! Thrown into the Gard! Our family name would be dragged through the mud –”
Ginny hummed, cutting her off. “Ah, so that’s what this is about.”
Chris’ spine stiffened. “What?”
“You Penhallows and your sacred family name,” there was a bitter edge in Ginny’s words that made Chris’ posture turn defensive.
Her stomach kicked, and she could only hope it didn’t show in her face. “Don’t twist this.”
“I don’t need to. You’re already twisting it yourself,” Ginny leaned closer, voice low and steady. “You don’t want to tell Elaine. If you did, you’d have called her by now instead of pacing in front of this letter for hours. You’re stalling, Chris.”
Chris shook her head a little, as if it would make Ginny’s words less true. “No, but someone needs to know about this. My family – they trust me, and –”
“I understand that.” Ginny’s voice was suddenly much calmer than hers. “I do. Family loyalty is important,” she added, and Chris let a shaky breath. Relief ghosted over her, fleeting, fragile. Because if Ginny understood then maybe it wasn’t wrong. Maybe she shouldn’t feel so horrible.
“But,” Ginny started again, eyeing her carefully. “You know what else is important? Loyalty to yourself.”
The words hung heavy in the small room. Chris stared at her best friend, feeling the air turn colder around her. Ginny didn’t move, didn’t soften, just held her gaze.
Chris’ fingers twitched around the pen, ink staining her skin. The letter sat unfinished, the silence stretching like a toxic cloud over their heads. Ginny’s words pressed tight against her chest, so much so that Chris could hardly breathe –
“So, I guess we’re going to Hell.”
Ginny inhaled sharply beside her, and Chris blinked trying to clear her thoughts.
The door to the High Warlock's penthouse stood ajar. Chris arched an eyebrow at Ginny – who looked much paler than she usually did – and, without waiting for permission or protest, slipped inside. She heard Ginny curse under her breath before following.
The lights around the spacious living room were flickering. The room felt too warm. Gerard stood at the center, posture hard but face infuriatingly calm, gaze fixed on someone to his right. Someone bleeding shadows. They were swimming under his feet, like ink spilling on his carpet. His fingers sparked with violet arcs.
The High Warlock of Boston.
“Okay,” Gerard drew the words out, addressing him. There was an amused shine in his eyes. “That was definitely a reaction."
Chris felt the protest in her bones. A reaction? That was an almost complete loss of control, a shudder of the leash snapping taut just before it broke.
The quiet falling over the room was the kind that burned the inside of your ears. Chris was just starting to think the Warlock might actually strike her cousin when another voice cut in.
“… Chris?”
Of course it was going to be Knox. When Chris looked at him, his eyes were already on her, gaze narrowed.
Every other head in the penthouse turned in unison.
For a heartbeat, Chris let herself enjoy the ripple of surprise she caused just by existing in the doorway. Then Blackthorn’s voice followed, low and furious.
“What the fuck are you two doing here?”
To her left Ginny bristled, but Chris only kinked an eyebrow, letting the corner of her mouth curl into a faint deliberate smile. She looked at Knox again, winking playfully and she heard Blackthorn choke on his saliva. It was mean probably, but his temper was so easy to bait.
“I texted them,” Gerard said smoothly, stealing the chance from Blackthorn to say anything worse. He didn’t look at either of them when he said it, nor did he elaborate any further.
Predictably, Blackthorn’s jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides like he was two seconds from throwing something.
Chris tucked her arms behind her back to hide her satisfaction. Oh, she was going to have to remember this moment.
Before Charlie could light the entire penthouse on fire with his indignation, the Warlock’s voice sliced through – clipped, strained, the sparks around his hands still restive. “Gerard. A word.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a demand. Gerard didn’t argue. Didn’t even sigh. He just pushed off the back of the couch with deliberate ease and followed the warlock toward the study, as though he’d known this summons was coming all along.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence they left behind was heavy, taut, waiting to break.
Cameron had been in the process of placing the week’s groceries into his fridge when his phone went off. He picked it up without really paying much attention, stuck it between his shoulder and ear, attention split between balancing a carton of eggs and muttering a distracted, “Yeah?”
“Cam?”
The voice on the other end was shaking so bad he could hardly recognize it.
Cameron nearly dropped his eggs. “Todd?”
What came next wasn’t words so much as noise – a mess of broken syllables, sobs colliding with sentences, Todd’s voice spiraling in on itself, until Cameron could barely understand the difference between his crying and words.
“Todd, slow down. Breathe, okay? Just – just breathe for me.”
It didn’t work. Not the soft coaxing, not the grounding tricks that usually pulled Todd back from the edge. The only thing he could hear over the line were the sobs raking his best friend’s throat raw.
“Todd, where are you?” It came out sharper than he intended, the edge of his own panic leaking through.
Todd hiccupped. “Meeks’,” he said, and then another sob swallowed the rest of his words.
Cameron looked around his kitchen feeling more than a little helpless. He messed a hand through his hair, slamming the door of his fridge shut.
“Okay, okay, Todd, listen to me. Listen,” he tried to be soft, but his own voice had started shaking. “Don’t hang up. I’m coming, okay? I’m going to order an Uber, and I’ll be there.”
“Please, hurry.”
The line went quiet after that, just Todd’s uneven breathing coming through.
Cameron had never descended the stairs of his building so fast before in his life. The Uber ride was a blur – city lights smearing past, his knee bouncing so hard the driver kept side-eyeing him in the mirror. He didn’t care.
By the time he shoved the glass doors of Meeks’ building open, his chest was buzzing with adrenaline. He hardly registered the penthouse door already standing open, or the hush that fell over the room when he stepped inside.
All he saw was Todd.
Todd, pale as paper, his hair sticking damp to his forehead, eyes red-rimmed and heavy. Todd, who looked like he’d been dragged through hell and back. Todd, who moved first – rushing forward, colliding with him so hard Cameron staggered back half a step.
He wrapped his arms around him instantly, clutching, pulling Todd close like he could shield him from whatever had torn him up like this. He felt the tremor in Todd’s shoulders, the way he pressed his face into his chest and just breathed.
“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Cameron murmured, too soft for anyone else to hear. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The words seemed to loosen something. Todd pulled back only far enough to start talking, his voice tumbling in fragments. John. Shackles. No trial. A prophecy. Seven seals. The apocalypse. Hell.
Cameron’s brain stuttered over the words.
Prophecy.
Apocalypse.
Hell?
Every instinct in him wanted to laugh, or yell, or shove Todd back and demand he make sense – but Todd’s voice was thin, his hands twisting in Cameron’s shirt like he was holding on for dear life. Cameron had to keep it together, he had to be strong, because Todd needed him, more than he needed answers.
So, he swallowed the panic clawing up his throat and forced a steady nod.
“Alright,” he said even though nothing about this was alright. “Okay. You don’t have to explain all of it right now. Just – just breathe. We’ll figure it out.”
The moment he made the mistake to relax his grip around Todd’s waist, his knees buckled. Cameron quickly grabbed him again, all but hauling him toward the nearest couch. Todd curled in on himself, elbows to his knees, his fingers still clinging to Cameron’s sleeve. He sat right up against him, shoulder pressed to his one hand hovering close, alert and ready.
“Breathe,” he murmured, again. “In through your nose. Hold it. Out through your mouth. Yeah, like that. You’re doing great.”
It took a while. Longer than Cameron would’ve liked. But slowly the shudders running down his spine eased, his grip slackening from a death-clutch to something softer. He still didn’t let go, and Cameron didn’t make him.
Finally, Todd tilted his head, eyes glassy but clearer. “Cam…”
“Mm?”
Todd swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m going to Hell.”
Cameron blinked. “Okay, that’s –” he stopped himself before saying crazy. “Why?”
“To talk to him.” Todd’s voice cracked around the word. “My – Lucifer. My biological father.”
The air between them went taut. Cameron’s breath stuttered. He remembered of course, it’s not like it had slipped his mind that the literal devil was Todd’s father. But he’d kept the secret for almost two weeks now, and to hear it spoken out loud, so freely, it made him shiver.
He reached over, caught Todd’s wrist, and squeezed. “Then I’m going too.”
Todd’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “What – no, Cam, you can’t –”
“How can I not?” Cameron cut him off. “What do you expect me to – to sit here, watching the news, twiddling my thumbs while you –” He broke off, forcing his tone back down. “You’re not doing this alone. End of discussion.”
A voice from across the room spoke up, startling Cameron so bad he jumped in his seat. “You do realize you’re mortal, right?”
Cameron’s head whipped around. Charlie was looking at him a mix of disdain and complete disbelief shining in his gaze.
“I don’t give a shit,” he shot back, unable to stop himself.
Charlie rolled his eyes, giving a little shake of his head and turning to look at someone behind his back. Cameron followed his gaze and only then did he notice another face he’d missed in the blur. Neil. Standing a little behind Charlie, pale, stiff, too close to him to be accidental.
What the hell is he doing just standing there? Watching?
Cameron’s stomach twisted, agitation bubbling hot in the pit of it. When Todd first called, Cameron had assumed he was alone. But Neil had been right there. Just two feet away. Keeping his distance, for some reason. Letting Cameron do what he should be doing.
His attention fractured when he felt Todd sit up straighter. Cameron’s eyes darted back to him, quickly noticing how alarmed his friend looked. “Hey,” he said, softening his voice. “Don’t get worked up. This is happening. You said Hell. Then fine, Hell it is. But you’re not going without me.”
Todd’s lips parted, no sound coming out. His eyes searched Cameron’s face like he was trying to argue, but every word caught in his throat. Cameron squeezed his hand once, firm and steady, his own pulse thrumming with conviction.
“You’re my best friend. You’re my person,” he said simply. “Where you go, I go. Even if it’s Hell.”
The second the door shut behind them, the noise of the others muffled, Gerard folded his arms and leaned against the nearest wall. Meeks was… furious. His hands twitched like he was holding something volatile back.
“You’re going to tell me why you nearly killed Neil?”
The question sent a shower of purple sparks skittering across the floor. Meeks jaw clenched. “John could barely stand when he came through the portal,” he said, like it was explanation enough.
Which, apparently it wasn’t, because Gerard kept pressing about it. He arched a brow, tilting his head. “Neil wasn’t responsible for that. He wasn’t the one to put the cuffs on him –”
“Did he stop it?” Meeks cut in, impatiently. “Did he speak in his defense? Did he try?”
He opened his mouth, but didn’t really have anything to say, so he shut it again.
Meeks scoffed, loud and bitter. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Gerard’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his weight shifting off the wall. “And me?”
Meeks flicked a glance at him “What about you?”
“You didn’t attack me.”
For a heartbeat too long, Meeks didn’t answer. The silence felt tense. Finally, clipped, he said, “Todd told me you sent him here.”
“And that was enough?”
“Yes.”
The quite stretched taut between them, suffocating. Until Meeks shattered it. “You can’t go to Hell.”
The words snapped out so fast, so final. Gerard almost laughed. “Can’t say I saw that one coming.”
Meeks took a step toward him, eyes flashing. The glow of his magic crawled up the walls like firelight. “I’m not jesting, Penhallow. I said you can’t.”
“And yet.” Gerard’s head tilted again, mouth curling into a humorless smirk. “Neil’s going. Which means Charlie’s going. Which means Knox is going. So, guess who else is going?”
Meeks muttered something low in French, his magic pulsing with the sound of it. The shadows in the corner of the room bent toward him like they couldn’t help themselves. “Soulbonded creatures and their endless idiocy. Shadowhunters and their martyrdom –”
Gerard chuckled, sharp and short. “Right. Because it’s not like you’re going, right?”
“That’s different.” Meeks’ voice cracked like a whip.
“Is it?”
“Yes!” Sparks flared at his fingertips. “Todd can’t navigate Hell on his own –”
“And that’s the only reason why you’ll be going. It’s not like you’d follow Todd straight to Edom because you like him or anything.”
Meeks shook his head, teeth baring in something that was clearly not a smile. “We’re not going to Edom. Lucifer’s not there. And I told you already, Todd cannot navigate Hell on his own. He won’t survive it.”
“How’s you making sure Todd survives any more different than me making sure Knox does?”
“Don’t make this something that it’s not,” Meeks said, moving closer still. “If I could lock him here, in this room, where nothing could touch him, I would. But I’ve already tested his trust enough already. So, I’ll go. To keep him alive.” His jaw worked, his eyes sharp enough to cut. “But you – ”
“Yes?” Gerard arched a brow, calm as though the heat of Meeks’ magic wasn’t bleeding into his skin, close enough to blister.
“You can’t go to Hell.” The restraint tore at his throat. He almost shook with it.
Gerard’s lips twitched but didn’t curl all the way into a smile. “Funny, that’s the second time you’ve said that.”
“And I’ll say it a third if it means you’ll listen,” Meeks’ voice dropped, low and ragged in its restraint. “You don’t know what it’s like down there. You don’t know what you’ll have to face.”
“Tell me then,” Gerard said, not missing a bit. He tipped his head, studying Meeks. “Tell me what’s waiting for me down there that makes you so desperate to keep me out.”
For a breath, he nearly said it – the truth under his ribs, the curse gnawing at the edges of his restraint. Instead, he let the silence claw at what was left of both their patience.
“You think you’re saving me from something,” Gerard went on, softer now though his voice lacked any sense of warmth. This was the dangerous kind of low. “But you don’t even trust me enough to say why.”
Meeks took another step closer, shadows shifting around him like living things. The heat rolled with him, making the air between them tight, unbreathable. Gerard didn’t move. He held his ground, back straight against the wall, watching as if daring him to close the space completely.
“You should stay away from me,” he muttered, but it came out rough, uneven.
“Fine,” Gerard breathed back, for a second it sounded too much like he meant it. Meeks’ chest ached. And then, “Tell me how, and I will.”
They stayed like that – too close, and yet not enough – each both waiting for the other to break first. Meeks’ magic licked over Gerard’s skin, hot enough to burn if he wanted to, but Gerard didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. The pull behind Meeks’ ribs stretched taut, relentless, like a storm he couldn’t call off no matter how much he tried.
Knox hadn’t meant to end up here.
Quite honestly he couldn’t even remember how he had. One minute he had been in Meeks’ living room, Todd stammering out that Lucifer was his father and the next they were back in the Institute, and he was drowning. Pitts was agitated so much so that he couldn’t keep it all contained to himself, and it seeped through their bond like a steady river, dragging Knox under with him. Charlie kept stealing glances at him but not speaking and Neil – well, Neil looked like he’d already been dragged to Hell.
Knox had stormed out of the Ops Center where they’d been milling about just long enough to make sure the higher-ups saw them, and by the time he came to, one of the empty training rooms was already in ruins.
The floor was littered with splintered wood, shredded targets, the metal carcass of what used to be a weapon rack. His seraph blade was embedded halfway through the wall, still humming faintly with angelic fire. His knuckles were split, raw, bleeding freely down his wrist, but he couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything except the rage gnawing under his ribs.
Knox wanted to scream. He wanted to tear the walls down, burn the Institute to ash, salt the earth beneath it so nothing would ever grow there again. Instead he stood in the wreckage, breathing like he’d run a marathon, chest heaving, sweat dripping down the side of his neck.
So, I guess we’re going to Hell.
He flinched, his hands reflexively curling into fists even as they rested by his sides.
Knox wasn’t afraid. Not really. Hell was just another battlefield, another place to outwit and outfight until he carved a way through. He could stomach going alone. But it wasn’t just him.
It was Neil and it was Todd, and Meeks.
It was Charlie.
Charlie who was reckless even on his best days, whose temper was a lit match waiting to catch.
And it was Pitts.
Knox couldn’t think too hard about that last one without his vision going white at the edges.
He slammed his fist into the wall again. The sting ripped up his arm, sharp enough to make him gasp. Blood smeared across the stone. He pressed his forehead to the cool surface, eyes shutting tight.
So, I guess we’re going to Hell.
If it were just him, he wouldn’t doubt himself a second. He’d make it back in one piece, live long enough to tell the tale. But how the fuck was he supposed to keep the others breathing in a place that existed to chew people alive?
The silence pressed in, heavy. For a split second, he thought maybe he’d broken something inside himself too – the way his chest felt hollow, raw, like he was carved out.
“Fuck,” Knox whispered, low and hoarse, and finally let himself slide down against the wall, bloodied hands trembling against his knees.
The door creaked open, and Knox didn’t even bother looking up. Whoever it was, he’d tell them to fuck off.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
Ah.
Of course.
This one would take the invitation to kindly fuck off and shove it down Knox’s throat with his fists.
He lifted his head enough just to glance toward the sound of the voice, and sure enough there he was. Charlie Blackthorn, standing in the doorway, dark hair messy, eyes burning hotter than any flame. His gaze caught the blood on Knox’s hand, and his jaw locked.
“You really thought it was smart busting your knuckles hours before we march into Hell, did you?”
Knox let out a sharp laugh, more bitter than amused. “Wasn’t thinking.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Charlie’s voice kept rising, nostrils flaring, fists clenching and unclenching like he was two breaths from exploding. Knox braced for it – the yelling, the inevitable punch, the Blackthorn brand of affection that tasted like fire and left bruises behind.
But then Charlie just… stopped.
He stood there for a moment, staring at him, a war going on behind his eyes, while he deliberated whether to throttle him or – something else. And then he crossed the room in hurried strides and crouched down beside him, his back also resting against the wall. Their bodies pressed close together shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. The press of him was solid, grounding.
Knox blinked at him, too disoriented to move, as Charlie reached for his hand, all split knuckles and bloodied skin. His fingers were warm, and disarmingly careful, curling around Knox’s like they were made to fit. He turned his palm over slowly, examining the damage with a frown, thumb ghosting lightly over the torn skin.
“Such a fucking idiot,” Charlie muttered, quietly this time, eyes flicking up. “I thought it went without saying - I’m the only one allowed to draw blood out of you, Carstairs.”
Knox let out a startled breath, chest tightening as though he’d been punched from the inside.
It wasn’t every day – fuck, it wasn’t any day - that Charlie Blackthorn decided to be soft. Gentle. Knox had written the last time off as a fluke, a scrap of softness he’d hoarded quietly and never expected again.
And yet here they were, almost two days later, with Charlie holding his hand like it was something breakable. Knox felt something molten curl low in his stomach, spreading through his ribs until it almost hurt.
He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe properly, either.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Charlie said gruffly, though the corner of his mouth tugged up. “You’re supposed to be the strong one. Start acting like it.”
Knox didn’t answer.
He didn’t trust himself to. His throat felt too tight, too raw, like anything he might say would make him bleed.
Charlie’s thumb dragged slow across his knuckles, smearing the blood and he felt the sting of it curse through his body. He should’ve pulled his hand back. Should’ve said something, probably, break the tension. Ease it.
But he couldn’t move.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Not uncomfortable, not exactly – but not peaceful either. It reminded him a little of standing on the ledge of a building.
“You’re staring,” Charlie muttered without looking up.
Knox let out a loud breath. It was the closest thing he could muster to a laugh. “You’re holding my hand, Blackthorn. This is a moment to remember.”
That earned him a side glance – sharp, assessing. Suspicious. He still didn’t let go.
Knox tipped his head back against the wall, let his eyes fall shut, and breathed through the iron weight in his chest. It was fucked, how much lighter it felt just by having someone sit next to him.
Just by having Charlie.
So, he stayed quiet. Let Charlie’s shoulder stay pressed to his. Let his pulse slow under the steady warmth of his grip.
Charlie’s hands were sticky.
Not because of the blood – though there had been plenty of that – but from the way he kept them wrapped around Knox’s, like if he let go the idiot might shatter into pieces on the floor.
Which was the most ridiculous thing in the world.
He should’ve yelled at him. Should’ve called him a fucking dumbass and told him to get his shit together. That was what Charlie Blackthorn did; he barked, he bit, he pushed until people started moving. Not… this. Sitting with Knox’s hands between his own like they were something fragile.
But they’d been here almost an hour now, and Knox had said barely a word. Just sat there. Jaw tight, eyes flat, bleeding into Charlie’s palms.
“Y’ know,” Charlie muttered, turning Knox’s palm around again, and tracing the lines there with a finger. “If you’re dead set on brooding your way into history books, you could at least do it in away that doesn’t get you benched before you even make it to Hell.”
Knox gave him a look, the kind that could’ve frozen lava mid-flow.
Charlie snorted. “Right. Strong and silent. Very dramatic. Very Carstairs. Bet you’ve been practicing in the mirror.” He scraped at the dried blood gathered along Knox’s pulse with a nail, clicking his tongue. “Should’ve left some for me, though. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m the only one allowed to draw blood out of you.”
For the briefest second, Knox’s mouth twitched. The left corner wobbled precariously, but then it dropped again, before it formed a smile.
Charlie’s chest pulled tight. He hated it. He hated how much of his mood and his own sanity depended on the curve of Knox Carstair’s mouth. He hated that the absence of it made the silence feel heavier.
“C’mon, Carstairs,” he started again, pushing the words out, wanting to make them sound casual. Desperate to sound like he wasn’t trying. “You think you’re the only one allowed to lose it? Hate to break it to you, but if anyone here’s gonna self-destruct spectacularly, that’s me. You don’t get to steal my thunder.”
Still nothing.
Just Knox’s eyes on him. Intense. Dark. Like they were seeing straight through every wall Charlie kept throwing up.
And fuck him if that wasn’t about to become a problem.
Charlie shifted, drawing his knees up to his chest, fingers still stubbornly wrapped around Knox’s wrists. “Say something, will you? You’re making me feel like an idiot for caring.”
The word slipped out before he could bite it back. He wanted to grab it, shove it back down his throat where it belonged. But it remained suspended in the air between them, loud and unbearable.
Knox blinked at him slowly. Then -fucking finally – he spoke, low, quiet, and rough enough to send a tingle down Charlie’s spine. “You don’t have to.”
Charlie swallowed, his throat too tight, his gut twisting. He wanted to laugh it off. Tell him he only cared because he’d gotten grown accustomed to his habit of being fed by him at odd hours while working on ancient translations – and wasn’t the fact that that was true utterly pathetic? But instead, all he could manage was a crooked smile that didn’t quiet land.
“Yeah, well. Too late.”
Charlie was starting to feel like exposed wire. Sparks flying loose, setting fire to anything close enough. Words and fucking feelings kept tumbling out of his mouth, spoken with his whole chest, and he had no idea how to stop them. And Knox – Knox just sat there, taking it. Barely responsive.
Which only seemed to fuel Charlie’s word-vomit, for some reason.
“So, what’s next?” he went on, leaning back like he was relaxed when every muscle in his body screamed otherwise. “You already tried to punch a wall into dust. Planning to throw yourself down the stairs? Maybe vanquish the bannister with a bat?”
Knox’s jaw twitched. It wasn’t much. But it was something other than the dead stare he’d been sporting. Charlie was going to count it as a win.
“What not tough enough for you?”
Knox huffed and Charlie’s chest loosened. He felt lighter, stupidly triumphant, and because he was a fucking idiot, he pressed harder. “Or hey, if you really need help working out your anger issues, I could think of some… extracurricular activities.”
He raised his eyebrows, lips lazily curling into a familiar smirk. It was his safest move, his favorite shield – flirt and deflect until nobody could see what was really going on underneath.
Knox looked up, dark eyes boring into his. “And what exactly,” he asked, voice low and surprisingly smooth, “would those extracurriculars entail?”
Charlie blinked. His ears went hot. “…Fuck off. Shut up.”
Knox tilted his head, just enough for the corner of his mouth to threaten a smile, and Charlie wanted to throw something at him. Preferably himself, preferably against a bed. It would be so easy, to take him up on the offer. Sex was safe, sex was easy. And by the Angel, were they good at it? But –
But this wasn’t that. Not right now. Knox was obviously wrecked, he’d spent a whole hour just staring at nothing, allowing Charlie to sit there, to see him like this. It was special, in a way that not many things were. If he turned this into something else, he’d be cheapening it. He hated how he knew that.
He cleared his throat, aggressively. “Or,” he blurted, scrambling for something, “we could play music.”
The ghost of the smile that had been playing on Knox’s lips faded into a frown. “How do you know I play?”
Charlie froze. His brain screamed at him to lie, lie, lie. To say literally anything else. But his neck went hot, and he knew. He knew it was written all over his face.
Knox leaned in, quiet realization dawning across his features. “It was you,” he said, low and sure. “That night. At the conservatory. When I was with Todd. It was you.”
Charlie’s stomach dropped. A dark pink covered every inch of exposed skin. “You know what? Maybe the extracurriculars was a better idea,” he said quickly, pushing against the floor to stand.
But his hands were still caught in Knox’s And Knox didn’t let go. He used Charlie’s own grip against him, tugging him right back down with unsurprising steadiness. Their shoulders brushed, close enough that Charlie could feel the warmth radiating off him.
“Charlie.”
“Knox, I’m offering sex right now,” he snapped, ears hot. “Would you rather sit here and have a conversation? And yes, this is a trick question.”
Knox’s mouth twitched again, more sure this time. “You were spying on me and Todd?”
Charlie groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I wasn’t spying,” he muttered, staring hard at the opposite wall. “I was sleepless, and I wanted to get some water –”
“The kitchen is nowhere close to the conservatory.”
Charlie dropped his hand to jab a finger into his shoulder. “I fucking know that, Carstairs. I’ve been living in this miserable place since I was eleven! Who do you think you are, sitting here –”
“Yeah, picking up a fight is not going to help you,” Knox cut in, voice annoyingly calm.
Charlie sputtered, hands flailing midair for a second before he clicked his jaw shut and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He was not pouting. Absolutely not.
“Blackthorn,” Knox muttered, voice dropping an octave. And then, “Charlie.”
“What?”
“Just admit it, will you?”
“I – have nothing to admit.”
“Charlie.”
“Stop saying my name like that,” Charlie forced through gritted teeth.
“Like what?”
He gestured vaguely between them. “Like when we – like it’s – ”
“Yes?” Knox’s voice cut quiet, almost amused.
Charlie groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “By the Angel, you’re fucking insufferable!”
“Yeah, you’ve said that before. Many times.”
“I’m reiterating it now!” Charlie snapped, leaning forward like he was going for a bite. “You’re the most insufferable, annoying, egotistical –”
“Charlie.”
“Fine – just, fine!” He threw his hands up, then dragged them through his hair in frustration. “Yes, I was spying on you, okay? I really was sleepless, and I was going to go to the training grounds – yes, I know that’s closer to the kitchen than the conservatory! I heard the music as soon as I came out of my bedroom and – it sounded good, alright? I was curious, I didn’t know anyone in here could play the cello. I needed to see who it was.”
“You recognized it was a cello?” Knox asked, arching a brow.
“Of course I did, Carstairs. Don’t insult me like that.”
“I’m sorry. Continue – please.”
“There’s not much else to say,” Charlie grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got there, I saw it was you with Anderson and I was going to leave. Immediately.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Charlie’s throat worked. He shifted, restless, then finally spat it out, eyes flicking anywhere but Knox’s. “Because – because you fucking play music the way you fight, okay? You – you immerge yourself in it, it’s like you – you transcend everything around you. And I’ve never been able to keep my eyes off you when you fight. This was very much the same.”
Knox’s fingers unconsciously tightened around his hand, his breath stuttering in his chest. Charlie saw him swallow hard, a dusty pink slowly raising up the length of his neck. His lips parted, but no sound came out at first. He just sat there, staring at him, like what Charlie had said had rendered him speechless.
His mouth finally, unfurled into a sheepish smile. “There,” he said, softly. “Was that so hard to admit?”
Charlie’s gaze narrowed, scowling, cheeks burning hotter. “I’d punch you, if you weren’t bleeding already.”
“Aw, are you going soft on me?”
“I swear to fucking Raziel – ”
“No wait, Charlie – Charlie, come back!” Knox tugged lightly at his wrist, pulling him back down before he could stalk off. “I’m sorry I – I am, really. Do you still want to play music with me?”
Charlie scoffed, flopping dramatically against the wall, but his pulse was jumping. “Play music instead of having sex? The night before we go to Hell? Wow, dating a nerd is really an experience.”
Knox tilted his head again, studying him. “Dating? Is that what we –”
“Oh, don’t fucking start, I will leave.”
“Okay, okay,” Knox said, hands lifted, though his eyes were glinting. “In my defense you just spurred this on me – but fine. How about, a compromise. We play something first, and then we have sex?”
Charlie smirked, lips curling despite himself. “Okay, yeah… I could work with that.”
Neil hadn’t wanted to leave. He’d tried to say as much, but Charlie’s hand on his arm had been insistent and the words died before they even made it to his tongue.
The pristine, cold air of the Institute felt wrong on his skin. Too sterile. Too quiet, after the crackling weight of Meeks’ penthouse. After the thunderclap of his powers, unleashed.
And Todd wasn’t there.
The absence pressed harder with every step down the stone corridor, until Neil’s chest ached like he’d run miles. He sat in one of the side alcoves, half-shadowed by the torchlight, hands braced on his knees. The wall at his back should have grounded him. It didn’t.
The prophecy rattled around in his skull, sharp edges catching no matter how hard he tried to push it away. His thoughts refused to order themselves. They slipped, and they looped, round and round and round; from John’s wrists raw with iron cuffs, to Meeks’ voice low and furious, to Todd’s eyes in the Ops Cetner – wide, waiting – and then to the words he couldn’t say aloud without feeling like choking.
He dug his nails into his palm. His breath hitched anyway.
He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken, just – stood there. Watching. John had been accused of a crime he hadn’t committed, and Todd was shaking beside him, and Neil –
Every breath hurt, feeling more like razor than oxygen. The corridor hummed with silence, heavy and stifling. Every now and again the silence got interrupted by the faint scrape of boots far away. Still too clean.
Too cold.
All he wanted was Todd.
The thought slipped out raw, startling in its clarity. Just Todd’s voice. Todd’s timid, but warm laugh, and the way it warmed Neil’s ribs even when it cracked at the edges. Todd’s hand closing around his without asking. Something real enough to drown the tightness in his lungs. But Todd was miles away now, tucked safe in Meeks’ penthouse with Cameron’s shoulder to cry on. And Neil was here. Alone. With the stone walls, the silence, the coldness.
He pressed his knuckles against his mouth, biting down at them, like it would help to keep it all inside. But it was still there, crowding behind his teeth; the cuffs, the silence, Todd’s face, Todd’s bloodline, Todd’s father.
Todd.
Lucifer. The apocalypse.
None of it mattered. Not the prophecy, not the name. He didn’t care. He didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was Todd. Only Todd. Only -
Neil couldn’t breathe.
He pressed harder into the wall, stone rough enough to bite his palms raw, but it did nothing. His exhales came jagged, shallow, stuttering. The world pressed in too close, too sharp, until all he could do was keep his head down and try not to unravel completely.
The hall was empty. It had been empty for –
“Neil.”
His whole body jolted.
Neil shot upright, spine stiffening automatically, like strings being yanked. His father stood at the far end of the corridor silhouetted in torchlight. Arms folded, expression unreadable.
Neil blinked hard, rubbed at his face once before he dropped his hands to his sides. “Si – Father,” he remembered himself, voice cracking over the word.
He hated how weak he sounded.
Thomas started toward him, steps steady, deliberate. “You should be in your room.”
“I – was just…” Neil swallowed. His mind scrambled for something that didn’t sound pathetic. “Collecting myself.”
His father studied him for a long, silent moment. The weight of his gaze made Neil want to curl inward, but he held himself still.
“You’re upset,” his father noticed. Not accusingly. Not surprised, or worried. Just as a statement.
Neil shook his head, fast. Too fast. “I’m fine.”
A pause. Pregnant one, with his father’s eyes looking at his face, every inch, with more focus than Neil could ever remember being given. Then, slowly, almost softly. “You think it was your fault. That Keating slipped away.”
The name felt like a kick to the ribs. Neil’s throat spasmed, and what little air there was in his lungs vanished. He nodded once, because he didn’t trust himself enough to open his mouths, and pressed his nails into his palms to try and slow down his heartbeat.
Thomas’ mouth pressed into something that wasn’t quite a frown. Not quite disapproval, but not understanding either. His hand twitched at his side, like he considered reaching out – but stayed where it was. When he spoke again, his tone carried an edge of something unfamiliar. Of something he’d heard addressed to other people’s children, but not him. “You did what you could. Sometimes that isn’t enough. It doesn’t make you weak.”
Neil’s chest, before entirely caving in, bones and sinuses and internal organs melting into each other, and spiling, spiling, spiling, until they ended up pooling around his feet, like a rather macabre puddle. For a second he just blinked, mute, like his brain refused to connect to his tongue.
Then Thomas cleared his throat, shifted back into authority. “Go. Take a shower. Get some rest. You’ll be sharper tomorrow.”
“Yes sir,” Neil said immediately. Thomas tilted his head, gaze squeezing. “Father, I meant yes father,” he corrected, standing up, hands brushing down his chest, just do something other than shake.
He saw a faint tug at his father’s mouth – too brief to call it a smile. He gave one final nod, turned and walked back the way he’d come from. Neil watched him go, rooted to the spot, his pulse still tripping hard against his ribs.
Todd sat curled into the far corner of Meeks’ sofa, knees drawn up, forehead pressed to them. He’d bitten a raw spot in his lip without even realizing it. Every breath dragged against his ribs like barbed wire. He kept seeing the runes, carved into the skin of the dead, jagged and glaring. Kept hearing Knox’s voice.
Blood of the profane spilled at the gates of Hell.
His blood.
The thought made his stomach twist hard, but before he could tumble into another spiral, Cameron dropped down next to him, all endless loyalty and stubborn warmth.
“You look like someone told you the end of the world is coming,” he teased, tongue-in-cheek, but his eyes flicked quick and serious over Todd’s face.
Todd let out a breath that sounded far too squeaky. “That’s not funny.”
“No? Too soon?”
“Too soon.”
Cameron raised his hands in mock surrender. He shifted on the couch so that he could get a better look at Todd’s face. “So. Going to Hell?”
“Yeah,” Todd’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s the only way.”
Cameron frowned. “Are we sure about that? Have we tried, literally anything else?”
“This needs to be delt with,” Todd muttered, digging his nails into the denim over his knees.
“I know. I get it. As a guy living on this planet without any death wishes. Apocalypse: bad. But and hear me out - how about a phone call?”
Todd’s eyes widened, comically so. “To Hell? To Lucifer?”
“You shoot fire out of your hads, but sure – a magical phone call is where we draw the that’s crazy line.”
“Cameron,” Todd heaved a sigh, pinning him with tired eyes. “If there was another way –”
“We don’t know there isn’t!”
“And we don’t have time to try and figure it out,” Todd tried to explain, but his voice came out much sharper than he’d intended. “Three more murders and then… This is the only way.”
Cameron shifted leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “What if the Shadowhunters actually catch whoever’s killing these people?” Cameron asked, only to frown after hearing it himself.
Todd let a bitter laugh. “They haven’t had much luck with that, have they?”
Cameron winced. “No, but –”
“No buts, or ifs, or – anything. I’m going to Hell. That’s decided.”
Cameron stayed quiet for a long beath. Which really, Todd should’ve known wasn’t going to end up well for him. “Cool. I’m coming with.”
Todd’s head jerked up. “What? I thought we’d agreed that – No. Cam, absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re mortal!” His voice cracked, too loud in the quiet room. His fists curled hard into his jeans. “I don’t even know if you’d… if you’d be able to see anything. What if it’s just – black? Or it kills you before you even – ” His words tangled. He dropped his hand, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes, breath stuttering.
Cameron hummed, unbothered. Drummed his fingers against the sofa’s cushions. “Okay… So, make me see.”
Todd lifted his head, blinking. “… What?”
“You heard me.” Cameron sat forward, again, eyes bright with something reckless. “Cast a spell. Do the wrist thing –” he snapped his fingers in front of his own face, “- abracadabra, book, Cameron gets Hell-Vision!”
Despite himself, Todd let out a strangled laugh. “That’s not – It doesn’t work like that.”
“Oh, right, sorry. You’ve clearly become an expert on all things arcane in, what, twenty days, have you?” Cameron shot back, words dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure this is exactly how it works. You’re… magic. Magic people do this all the time. Come on, let’s try.” Cameron angled toward him, grinning like an idiot. “What’s the worst that happens? I stay the same?”
Todd stared at him. His chest hurt. His head hurt. He wanted to tell him to shut up, to stop, to please stop trying to follow him into the fire. But Cameron’s grin was stupid and stubborn and so him that Todd’s tongue loosened enough to let out a shaky, “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m committed, thank you very much.” Cameron tipped his chin, daring. “Try it.”
Todd hesitated. Then, slowly, like moving underwater, he lifted a hand. His palm found Cameron’s cheek. The warmth of his skin bled into Todd’s fingers, steady and grounding. Todd closed his eyes, focused as hard as he could on the thought; Let him see. Let him see what I see. Please.
Magic prickled under his skin, hot and restless, surging toward his fingertips like it wanted out. Cameron didn’t flinch. He just sat there, letting Todd touch his face, eyes soft in a way that made Todd’s chest clench.
When he pulled his hand back, his pulse was still ratting against his ribs.
“Well?” Cameron asked.
“I… I don’t know.” Todd’s voice was hoarse. He rubbed his palms on his jeans, suddenly shaky. “I don’t know if it worked.”
Cameron’s grin widened anyway. “Guess we’ll find out in Hell.”
Todd let out another broken laugh, dropped his face into his hands, and let himself lean sideways into his best friend’s shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to pretend it might be okay. Cameron didn’t complain. He just wrapped an arm around him, pulled him in, and tapped his knuckles gently on the side of Todd’s knee.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmured.
Todd chuckled, quiet and brittle. “You don’t know that.”
“Maybe not. But you don’t know it won’t either.” Cameron tilted his head, so Todd had no choice but to meet his eyes. “So, until it’s proven otherwise, I’m gonna keep saying it: it’s gonna be okay.”
Todd tried to draw in a deep breath, and it tangled somewhere between his chest and his lungs. He wanted to believe him so badly it hurt worse than the prophecy itself. He wanted to believe that Cameron could just… say things into being, that the world might bend for him the way magic bent for Todd. He pressed closer, let himself be small for a moment.
The quiet cracked when the door to Meek’s study creaked. He walked in, his expression set in stone, powers buzzing around his body, like a volatile aura orb. Todd’s chest tightened.
“Dove,” he said softly, voice laced with something akin to regret. “I didn’t know. About the prophecy. If I had, I would’ve…” he pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes hardening behind his glasses. “I would’ve made sure no one ever found out about it.”
Todd blinked up at him. And – he believed him. He did. Meeks’ eyes held too much truth for him to doubt it. He still trusted him, blindly maybe, but he couldn’t help it. He still liked him too, more than the days they knew each other could explain. But the image of Neil against the wall, choking, shadows cutting into his skin – Todd couldn’t shake it.
“Why Neil?” his voice came out angry, raw and cracked.
Meeks paused mid-step. “Pardon?”
“You attacked Neil the moment he came through your door. Why?”
Meeks’ gaze flicked away, then back. His magic stirred against the walls. “Because he didn’t come through the portal with you.”
Todd’s heart stuttered. “So you just assumed –”
“Was I wrong, dove?”
He hadn’t meant to flinch, but the truth of the matter was that – he wasn’t wrong. Neil hadn’t… He had just stood there. Mutely. Watching. Still, Meeks hadn’t been there for any of that.
“You didn’t attack Pitts.”
Meeks’ smile didn’t quiet reach his eyes. “You told me Gerard was the one who sent you here.” He let it hand, like that was all the explanation he was willing to give.
The silence stretched, heavy. Todd curled his hands tighter around his knees. “I just… I don’t want you to hurt him again.” His throat burned, but he pushed the words out anyway. “Because he’s not just – just anyone. He’s Neil. And you – you didn’t even give him a chance. You just –” he swallowed hard, eyes stinging. “You hurt hum. My –” he stopped himself, heat climbing up his neck. “You hurt him.”
Something flickered across Meeks’ face, gone too fast for Todd to name. He looked at him like he might say something more, like something important was lodged between his lips. But instead, he simply let out one long exhale. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, dove.”
“Just –” Todd’s voice cracked, broke right in the middle. He drew a shaky breath. “Promise me you won’t hurt him again. That’s all I’m asking.”
Before Meeks could answer, Camerone exhaled sharply through his nose, leaning forward. “Okay, so not that I’m a relationship counselor or anything –”
Todd groaned. “Cam.”
“No, no, listen.” Cameron gestured between them. “Clearly you two have this whole ancient-magic-sad-boy thing going on, which, fine, whatever. But maybe next time the impulse to choke someone with magic comes up, we talk first? Revolutionary idea, I know.”
Todd shot him a look, somewhere between grateful and exasperated.
Meeks’ eyes softened when they returned to Todd. He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose – despite them not having slid, as if he simply needed to touch them. “If that is what you ask of me,” he said finally, quiet but certain. “Then fine. I’ll consider it.”
“You know,” Cameron started again, eyes sparkling with something like fascination, “you coult try not being terrifying for five seconds. Maybe you’ll like it.”
The corner of Meeks’ mouth curved, almost indulgent. “Maybe I will.”
Pitts sat on the edge of his bed, a scrap of parchment limp between his finger, ink drying crooked where his hand had trembled.
It will be impossible to communicate for a while. Don’t worry, all is good.
Nothing more. No signature, no seal. He just folded the note into itself, drew the burn rune with his stele and watched it get eaten up by flames. Alec would know what it meant. He always did.
The faint burn lingered in his palm. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple, dragging a breath slow through his teeth.
Hell.
The word sat in his chest like stone. Not out of fear, not exactly. Of course, Pitts wasn’t arrogant enough to claim he wasn’t scared of walking into Hell. Into a place crawling with demons. Into a place that would make a sport out of trying to kill them. But that wasn’t what clenched his gut. His fear was rooted here, in what would be left behind. In what Chet would do with the freedom his absence allowed. In what the Clave might sniff out if they pressed too close to the prophecy.
He had made plans of course…
The door burst open without preamble, catching him mid-thought. Knox slipped in first, Charlie on his heels. Neil walked in last, silent, pale, eyes too far away to be here at all.
“Are Chris and Ginny coming?” Knox was the first to break the silence, his tone even, but his gaze cutting.
“Not right now, no.”
Knox tilted his head in that way of his that asked questions without ever uttering a word.
Pitts pinned in his eyes. “Trust me.”
And Knox did. He gave a single, clipped nod, the line of his shoulders easing by half an inch.
Blackthorn, of course, wasn’t satisfied. He stepped forward as if andvancing on him would scare Pitts. “For fucking fuck’s sake, are we really doing this? What’s up with the half answers, Penhallow?”
“Nothing that should be important to you,” Pitts replied, voice cool, steady.
He bristled, crowding close until Pitts could see the anger burn clearly in his eyes. “Is this the sense of team spirit we’re bringing to Hell?”
Pitts rose, slow, deliberate, until they were nose-to-nose. He let silence stretch, taut as Knox’s bowstring, before answering. “You’re going to lecture me about team spirit, Blackthorn?”
Charlie’s lips curled, about to spit fire, when Knox’s voice cut in, dry and loud. “Careful now. You two get any closer and I’ll seriously start questioning if this is just your way of flirting, Blackthorn.”
Charlie blinked, caught off guard, his mouth opening, closing, color creeping into his face. “I wasn’t – shut the fuck up!”
Knox smirked. “Sure.”
Pitts let the tension bleed into that quietness, rolling his shoulder back, reclaiming control. His gaze slid from Knox to Neil, who still hadn’t said a word. Still hadn’t looked up. His silence was louder than Charlie’s shouting, heavier than Knox’s knowing looks. Pitts didn’t like the weight of it. Didn’t like the thought of carrying it into Hell. But this wasn’t the place to address it, and Neil wasn’t his to fix.
“We’re leaving,” Pitts said simply, and pushed past them.
No one argued.
The four of them moved through the Institute’s dim corridors, in a grim procession, boots sharp against stone. Knox fell into step at his side, eyes fixed forward, his usual calmness stretched thin enough that Pitts felt it humming along their bond. Charlie stalked behind, muttering angrily under his breath, every now and again looking to his left where Neil was walking, still mute.
By the time they reached Meeks’ penthouse, the tension had sharpened into something nearly visible. The buzz of the wards felt surprisingly familiar against his skin, and the murmured voices inside the living room was a nice change of pace to the complete silence that had fallen between the four of them.
John was nowhere in sight – probably spirited to the Spiral Labyrinth, already, for his own protection. Todd sat close to Cameron, shoulders tight, a thin red mark still on his lip where he’d bitten it. Meeks stood in the center, chalk-stained fingers twitching faintly, the floor marked in half-drawn symbols.
All three of them turned as soon as Pitts and the others came in through the door, unsurprisingly unlocked door. They were expected after all.
“We’re here,” Pitts said simply, hands stuck in the pockets of his slacks, projecting an air of composure he wasn’t really feeling.
Meeks’ eyes flicked between the four of them, calculation cutting through the edges of his expression. His hands flexed once at his sides, sparks darting briefly between his fingertips before he smothered them. Then, purposely, his attention landed on Neil.
“Branwell,” he said, low, measured. His nose wrinkled slightly, as if each word tasted unpleasant. “I owe you an apology. I… might’ve overreacted.”
The understatement was glaringly obvious. It was also quite clear that it was the most Meeks was willing to do.
Neil’s jaw set. He didn’t look at him, didn’t answer. His stare stayed fixed on Todd - where it had snuck the moment they arrived – like it had nowhere else to go. Like he was anchoring himself to it, daring to survive the room’s atmosphere by sheer force of will.
Todd swallowed hard, eyes darting from Neil to Meeks and back. Meeks’ gaze softened just enough for him, almost imperceptible, before he straightened his shoulder and cut the air clean.
“Gerard. A word.”
It wasn’t really a question. It never was with Meeks. Pitts’ mouth twitched in an almost smile as he followed after the warlock.
“You can’t go to Hell,” Meeks said, as soon as the door to the study softly clicked shut behind Pitts’ back.
He arched an eyebrow, settling into the familiarity of their conversation patterns. “I heard you the first time. And the second.”
“I’ll say it again,” Meeks shot back, eyes glinting. “And again. Until it sticks. Until you listen.”
“You think I can’t handle myself?” Gerard asked, tone flat but baiting. It was a bluff, an angle of pressure. An attempt to finally draw an answer out of him.
Meeks’ jaw tensed. “That isn’t it.”
“Because you’ve seen me fight. You know I can. So, forgive me if I don’t accept ‘because I said so’ as reason enough to stay behind.”
Meeks’ magic slipped. Just a flicker – lamplight bending, shadows stretching an inch too long. Pitts caught it, one brow lifting higher. His eyes snapped back to Meeks’. Patient. Waiting.
“I’m cursed.”
The words made it all the way to his brain, but Pitts wasn’t sure he understood them. Pitts didn’t move, but the faintest crease pinched between his brows.
Meeks exhaled, long and heavy, pacing once across the rug. “A warlock. Old, vindictive. One of the few still stupid enough to cross my father openly. He couldn’t quite strike at him directly – he has enough sense to not challenge a prince of Hell. So, he went after something else. Something important. His only child. His one weakness. Me.” Purple light sparked around his fingertips, cutting sharp shadows across his cheekbones. “A love curse. Meant to punish him through me.”
Pitts’ brows drew tight, though he kept his voice even. “What kind of punishment?”
“The worst kind,” Meeks murmured. His hands flexed at his sides, magic biting the air. “Supposedly, the moment I… when I open my heart, I unravel. My immortality falters. My body weakens. I turn breakable. Mortal.” He looked at Pitts then, gaze pinning him in place. “My father doesn’t take kindly to the people I –” he cut himself off, mouth snapping shut, as if the rest of it was poison.
The silence after burned.
Pitts’ throat went dry. He didn’t need the rest of the sentence. He could fill in the blanks well enough. His stomach twisted hard but – under it, for one dangerous, reckless heartbeat – something else unfurled. Warm and sharp all at once. The people you love. That’s the word, isn’t it?
If flickered through him, lighting up his ribs, his pulse kicking hard against his throat. For a second his lips threatened to curve into something softer, something like a smile, and he hated the surge of relief going through him.
Meeks’ magic surged once more, dark and unsteady, before he forced it back down. His voice dropped lower. “The curse… it has been activated.”
Pitts shifted his weight, arms unfolding, eyes narrowing. “So, your magic – the flickers and the bursts – that’s because of the curse?”
Meeks’ gaze slid away for a fraction of a second. “Yes.”
Pitts’ head tipped, studying him. “Is that how we were able to get through your wards?”
“Must’ve been why.”
“Are you lying to me?”
Meeks stilled. His throat bobbed once before he exhaled, impatient, restless. “I’m not not lying – okay, the others yes. My wards still hold against demons, but I guess Shadowhunters are deemed safe enough.”
“Even if they’re not?”
His mouth twisted, shoulders squaring. “Even if they’re not.”
Pitts took a slow step closer, searching his face. “And me?”
His hands twitched at his sides, the light bending faintly toward him before he wrestled it back under control. His throat worked, once, twice. Then, quietly, “You… you’ve been keyed into my wards for weeks now. Didn’t it ever occur to you, how you made it all the way to my front door without being fried?”
Pitts’ breath caught, though he tried to mask it with a tilt of his head. “So, you… You keyed me in your wards?”
“I didn’t. My magic did.”
The air left his lungs all at once. He stilled completely, the implication slamming into him like a blade between the ribs. His pulse tripped wild, stomach flipping molten.
For one fleeting second, Pitts let himself feel it. The tug in his chest. The raw, dangerous thrill of it. He drew himself straighter, his face settling into something practiced. “So, if your father senses it –”
“My father has sensed it,” Meeks cut him off, clipped. “He told me as much. But as soon as we cross over, he’ll know it was you. And he’ll kill you for it.”
It’s me.
Me.
You’re talking about me.
You like me.
The words echoed in the quietness of the room. Pitts swallowed, throat tight, then tipped his head. The faintest curve tugged at the corner of his mouth – quite a smile, not quite defiance, but something that cut both ways.
“A prince of Hell, you said? I like my chances against him. Besides,” Pitts paused, let his eyes linger on Meeks as he moved to the door, “once we’re done dealing with the apocalypse, we definitely need to talk more about this curse. Preferably over drinks. I’m buying.”
And with one final wink, he walked out first.
Chris had vanished the second they stepped back into the Institute. Typical. Ginny was left with the silence, the shadows, and too many questions. Questions Chris wasn’t going to answer – because when had Chris ever offered up truths freely?
So, she looked for her. Checked the dorms, the mess hall, the training grounds. Nothing. Finally, more out of irritation than hope, she looped back toward the Ops Center.
And there she was.
Chris Penhallow, standing in a spill of light like she belonged in a romance movie. Hair tucked behind her ear, smile just the right amount of soft, tilting her head as she batted her lashes at a lanky Shadowhunter with glasses.
Ginny lingered by the door, crossing her arms. Watching.
Chris leaned in, voice low, sugar-sweet. One hand twirled a strand of hair, the picture of practiced charm. The poor idiot she was working clearly thought he’d stumbled into paradise. Ginny squinted, trying to remember his name. Stone? Sparky? Stick?
Something equally stupid.
It didn’t matter. Chris would have him spilling every secret he’d ever held within five minutes.
Ginny’s mouth curved, torn between a smile and a sneer. Sometimes, in the quiet parts of her brain she never admitted out loud, she liked to pretend it was her that Chris was leaning close to. Her that Chris was softening her voice for. Her that Chris was trying to pry open.
She knew it wasn’t true. Still, the fantasy was warmer than her reality.
And then the alarms split the air.
Every screen in the Ops Center blinked red. Ginny straightened, arms dropping to her sides as a face flashed across every monitor.
John Keating – the warlock Chet had dragged in earlier. Underneath his picture, with capital, bold, red letters the word WANTED kept flashing.
“Attention!” Chet’s voice cut above the din, sharp and commanding. Ginny’s jaw locked, bile rising bitter in the back of her throat. She didn’t have to turn to know where he was standing – at the front of the room, smugness rolling into every line of his stance.
“This,” he announced, “was no ordinary escape. This was an inside job. And we have proof.”
The monitors shifted. Ginny’s stomach flipped.
There he was. Blond hair, scrawny body, that kid who always trailed after Neil Branwell – Theo? No, Todd. That was it. Todd. The footage played, grainy but damning; Todd freezing the Ops Center mid-motion, stepping calmly through the silence, opening a portal. Shoving John through it. Gone in seconds.
The room erupted. Shouts, curses, blades clattering.
And Ginny… felt Chris’ eyes on her.
Her pulse spiked. She didn’t look right away, didn’t need to – she felt the weight of that gaze. Something was wrong. Chris knew something.
Ginny finally turned her head, caught those blue eyes across the chaos. Chris wasn’t panicked. Wasn’t rushing. She was calculating. Ginny’s stomach kicked, because she recognized that look. Chris Penhallow had just decided something.
She didn’t give her a warning. One second Ginny was blinking at the chaos of the Ops Center, the next Chris had her wrist in a death grip, dragging her down the corridor at a clipped pace.
“Chris –”
“Not now.”
They were headed for the portal room, Ginny realized, stomach dropping. She barely had time to register the racks of weapons and the fain hum of wards before Chris shoved her toward the raised platform.
“Think of the High Warlock’s penthouse.”
“What?”
“No questions. Think of it. Now.”
And then they were through.
Ginny stumbled into a room already filled with people – all of Gerard’s new Boston friends, the High Warlock, the blond kid she’d seen on the grainy footage. The air was thick with whispering, tension bending it into silence the moment Chris and Ginny appeared.
For once, Ginny didn’t appreciate all the attention she was getting. Her boots scuffed against the marble as Chris pulled her fully into the room. Her pulse beat like a drum in her ears.
And then some ginger guy she didn’t know broke the silence.
“Okay, so, I definitely saw that.”
Ginny stared. “What?”
“Which means –”
“It works?” the blond kid – Todd – cut in, voice cracking.
“I can see magic. I mean, I could see magic before,” Ginger went on, gesturing broadly. “But not with these guys.” He pointed at the Shadowhunters.
The warlock – also ginger, with tightly-coiled curls, not very tall, wearing glasses - turned, voice like a lash. “What are you talking about?”
Todd’s face went scarlet. “I, uh, I tried this spell earlier –”
“What spell?”
“I thought we were messing around! I didn’t think –”
“You gave a mortal the Sight?” the warlock pressed, disbelief painting every word.
Todd swallowed. “… Maybe.”
The warlock dragged a hand down his face, muttering. “By all that is unholy.” His gaze flicked back up, sharp. “Todd, could you please not lean into the whole Antichrist narrative?”
Todd’s voice cracked. “What?”
“You gave a mundane the Sight. You gave the blind the power to see. That’s one of the so-called miracles attributed to Christ.”
Todd’s mouth fell open, so Ginger jumped in. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure it means anything,” the warlock replied, but his tone was clipped, his frustration paper-thin. “Just – if we find ourselves near a large body of water, don’t try to walk across it.”
Ginny snorted. She turned to Chris to see if she’d find it equally amusing, only to realize her friend had moved away. She was currently standing by her cousin’s side, talking to him in a hushed, urgent voice.
Ginny angled herself toward them, focusing on what Chris was saying.
“… you were right,” she murmured low enough Ginny had to strain to catch it. “They went for the cameras.”
Gerard cursed under his breath.
“You weren’t in the footage, but – they know, Gerard. They know about Todd.”
His expression barely flickered. “Do they know who he is?”
Chris shook her head. “They didn’t say his name.”
He nodded once, gaze thoughtful. “Do they know he was there with Neil?”
“I don’t think so.”
Ginny’s jaw locked. Since when were those two whispering like co-conspirators? Since when was Chris keeping this kind of secret? Before she could decide how to feel about it, Gerard straightened, his voice ringing through the room.
“Everyone, listen up. The Institute knows. They’ll be on their way here, soon.”
The room went still; every breath sharpened into waiting.
“Are we good to go?” he asked turning to the warlock.
For a beat, silence. Then a long look passed between them – loaded, unreadable, but heavy enough that Ginny’s stomach sank further.
“Five minutes,” the warlock said finally. “I need to finish drawing up the seal.” His gaze cut to Todd who was sitting curled up next to Branwell. “Todd, I need your help.”
He nodded, pale. He stood up, Branwell’s hand lingering on his own before he had to let go.
Chris stepped closer to Gerard, lowering her voice more. “And what do we do?”
“What we talked about.”
“Gerard –”
“I trust you,” he cut her off, steady.
Ginny felt the back of her neck prickle. Whatever Chris had gotten herself wrapped in, it was bigger than letters to her aunt. Bigger than secrets and whispers.
And Ginny Cartwright hated being on the outside of anything Chris Penhallow touched.
Todd sat perched on the edge of the couch like it might swallow him whole. His hands wouldn’t stay still – fingers twisting in the hem of his sleeve, rubbing at the scabs on his knuckles, puling at a loose thread until it snapped. Neil was across from him, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring so hard at the floor that it looked like he wanted to burn a hole through the wood. Neither of them spoke for what felt like forever.
Neil scrubbed both hands down his face and let out a breath that sounded broken. “I should’ve done something.” His voice was raw, dragged out of him. “When they cuffed John. I just stood there.” He turned his head, eyes sharp, like he was daring Todd to agree. “I should’ve said something. I should’ve –”
“Neil.” Todd’s voice cracked on his name. He shifted forward, instinct dragging him closer. “You don’t need to –”
“I do,” Neil snapped, louder than he meant, then immediately shut his mouth. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at it, shoulders bowing like the weight was crushing him down. “I do. I keep replaying it, every second, and all I see is me, standing there, useless.”
Todd’s chest squeezed, painfully. He reached out before he could stop himself, his hand brushing Neil’s wrist, tentative. “Then you should hate me.”
Neil’s head jerked up, startled. “What?”
“I should’ve told you,” Todd blurted. His stomach turned with every word but he forced them out, quiet and quick. “About Lucifer. About what I am. I kept it from you because I was scared you’d –” He broke off, swallowing hard, eyes stinging. “You have every right to hate me. You really do.”
Neil stared at him like he’d grown another head. His jaw flexed, but his voice was steady when it came. “Todd –”
“I’m the Antichrist,” Todd cut in, talking fast like if he kept going Neil couldn’t stop him. “The profane. The unique Individual. The harbinger of the Apocalypse. The –”
“Mine,” Neil’s voice was much softer than his, but it still carried. Todd’s breath hitched. “You forgot to add that one in your list.”
Todd froze, lips parted. The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it pulsed. He blinked at Neil, chest rising too quick, like he didn’t quite know how to breathe anymore.
And then Neil moved. Slow, deliberate, as if afraid Todd might bold, he shifted across the couch until their knees brushed. He hooked an arm around him and pulled him in, pressed Todd’s trembling body against his side. Todd went willingly, like he’d been waiting for permission, curling in until his forehead found Neil’s shoulder.
“I don’t hate you,” Neil said quietly. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
Todd’s breath was damp against his shirt. “Even if it’s true? Even if I bring the Apocalypse with me?”
“Todd, I will willingly fight through Armageddon, if it means I get to be with you at the end,” Neil murmured, fiercely. He angled his head, pressing his temple to Todd’s hair.
For the first time in what felt like hours, Todd’s chest loosened. He let himself breath, let himself be held.
The moment lingered - warm, fragile. Fleeting.
Meeks cut it short, his voice calling across the room, asking for Todd. He stood in at the center of the floor, bent over the sprawling seal etched in chalk, power bleeding into every line. His hand didn’t stop moving, but his head lifted, brown eyes flicking to Todd. “Todd, I need your help.”
Todd swallowed, pulling back from Neil reluctantly. His hand held onto Neil’s for a heartbeat longer before dropping it as he stepped away. Neil didn’t move, but his eyes flowed him, steady, all the way across the room.
The chalk squeaked across the marble floor, as Todd tried to keep his lines pristine, and straight despite the tremble in his hand. Meeks crouched beside him, steadying his wrist when the curves shook too much, murmuring low corrections until the sigil’s geometry closed neatly in on itself. The finished seal glowed faintly, pulsing with something that felt alive.
Around them, the room hummed with tension. Charlie’s hand brushed over Neil’s shoulder, the former dipping his head to whisper something in his ear. Neil gave a curt nod, but his spine seemed to loosen a fraction. Across the room, Knox and Pitts exchanged a sharper look – Knox’s eyes narrowing, Pitts answering with a measured lift of his chin.
The air shifted. Meeks wards shivered, rippling across the walls like an invisible net tugged tight. He froze, hissed something under his breath that sounded vicious in Latin, and snapped his fingers. The seal erupted, flames leaping high and curling into a circle. Heat rolled across the room, the scent of smoke and ozone clinging to the back of every throat.
“Line up,” Meeks ordered, voice firm. “One by one. Go quickly. Cameron – I need you to stay close to Todd. Todd, with me.”
The circle of flame flared brighter, licking high enough to paint their faces gold.
Chris broke from Ginny’s side, rushing to Pitts’ side, grabbing his arm. “Gerard!”
Pitts didn’t hesitate, extracting her hand from his body and pushing her back, gently. “I told you,” he said, calm cutting through the noise, “I trust you.”
The wards shuddered again, harder this time. Sparks skittered across the ceiling.
“Go!” Meeks snapped.
They moved. The parabatai pairs first, shadows leaping across their faces as they stepped into the fire. Cameron was next, his back straight as he advanced toward the seal. Todd faltered, but Meeks’ hand pressed to his shoulder anchoring him.
Between Cameron stepping forward and Chris whispering an order to Ginny – “take your chakrams out, now” – the door to the penthouse exploded inward, hinges screaming as it crashed against the wall.
Figures stormed through, led by Chet. The room jolted into chaos, but Chris didn’t look the least bothered. She drew herself to her full height, twisting a sharp throwing knife between her hands, her eyes locked straight on Chet’s.
“You’re too late,” she told him. “We both are.”
Pages Navigation
Ifound_theav0cadoes on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Mar 2025 05:02AM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Mar 2025 11:16AM UTC
Comment Actions
Ifound_theav0cadoes on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Mar 2025 06:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Mar 2025 07:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
FanFicGuy8775 on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Mar 2025 08:49AM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Mar 2025 11:17AM UTC
Comment Actions
Antlikesgum on Chapter 1 Sat 22 Mar 2025 04:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Fri 04 Apr 2025 08:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
GottadomoregottabeMORE on Chapter 1 Wed 16 Apr 2025 01:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Wed 16 Apr 2025 04:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
GottadomoregottabeMORE on Chapter 1 Wed 16 Apr 2025 05:31PM UTC
Comment Actions
NA_Enide on Chapter 1 Fri 02 May 2025 06:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Fri 02 May 2025 10:23PM UTC
Comment Actions
NA_Enide on Chapter 1 Sat 03 May 2025 11:18AM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Sat 03 May 2025 09:34PM UTC
Comment Actions
NA_Enide on Chapter 1 Sat 03 May 2025 10:15PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Sun 04 May 2025 12:38AM UTC
Comment Actions
echosvoice on Chapter 1 Sun 29 Jun 2025 09:37PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Wed 02 Jul 2025 06:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
4ll3yR0s3 on Chapter 1 Fri 11 Jul 2025 12:14PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Sat 12 Jul 2025 07:42PM UTC
Comment Actions
4ll3yR0s3 on Chapter 1 Sun 13 Jul 2025 04:55AM UTC
Comment Actions
ecilanaoesta0 on Chapter 1 Wed 16 Jul 2025 04:13AM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Thu 17 Jul 2025 06:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
ecilanaoesta0 on Chapter 1 Tue 22 Jul 2025 07:59PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Thu 24 Jul 2025 10:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
ecilanaoesta0 on Chapter 1 Thu 24 Jul 2025 10:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Fri 25 Jul 2025 09:49AM UTC
Comment Actions
faeriology on Chapter 1 Thu 24 Jul 2025 11:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Fri 25 Jul 2025 09:51AM UTC
Comment Actions
Cariad (GuSiorraidhIsGuBrath) on Chapter 1 Mon 25 Aug 2025 09:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Tue 26 Aug 2025 09:22PM UTC
Comment Actions
kldalton on Chapter 1 Thu 28 Aug 2025 04:19PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Sun 31 Aug 2025 02:37PM UTC
Comment Actions
Abrilpinguino on Chapter 1 Wed 24 Sep 2025 11:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
tomallium on Chapter 1 Mon 13 Oct 2025 01:53AM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 1 Tue 18 Nov 2025 06:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
Ifound_theav0cadoes on Chapter 2 Fri 21 Mar 2025 06:22AM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 2 Fri 21 Mar 2025 06:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
GottadomoregottabeMORE on Chapter 2 Wed 16 Apr 2025 01:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 2 Wed 16 Apr 2025 04:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
GottadomoregottabeMORE on Chapter 2 Wed 16 Apr 2025 05:34PM UTC
Comment Actions
echosvoice on Chapter 2 Mon 30 Jun 2025 08:09AM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 2 Wed 02 Jul 2025 06:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
ecilanaoesta0 on Chapter 2 Tue 22 Jul 2025 12:22AM UTC
Last Edited Tue 22 Jul 2025 12:23AM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 2 Thu 24 Jul 2025 03:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
Cariad (GuSiorraidhIsGuBrath) on Chapter 2 Mon 25 Aug 2025 09:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 2 Tue 26 Aug 2025 09:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
kldalton on Chapter 2 Fri 29 Aug 2025 03:04PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 2 Sun 31 Aug 2025 02:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
FanFicGuy8775 on Chapter 3 Thu 20 Mar 2025 08:04PM UTC
Comment Actions
moregeous_dumb_dumb on Chapter 3 Fri 21 Mar 2025 06:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation