with a violin and a song to sing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
origamiflowers) wrote2008-11-23 02:02 am
origamiflowers) wrote2008-11-23 02:02 am
fic: mortal instruments: love's such a strange situation (four scenes)
title: love's such a strange situation (four scenes)
Fandom: Mortal Instruments
Characters, Pairings: Clary, Simon, Jace, Maia
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: for City of Ashes
Rating: PG
Length: ~2400 words total
Notes: For the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
50scenes challenge. Prompts: #028 (Apologize); #035 (Moonlight); #011 (Hand); #004 (Secrets). I figured I would post them all together since they're kinda short, but they're unrelated to each other. See the whole table here. Some Simon/Clary and Jace/Clary, if you squint.
*
028: apologize
"It's a nice day out," Simon says.
They're sitting on his bed, and it's still light outside - not that she can tell by looking at the windows; he's covered them all up with some black fabric, hanging limply from thumbtacks. The only light in the room is from the lamp on the night table, which casts a yellowish pallor over everything she can see.
"Yeah," she says uncomfortably, tucking a pillow into her lap and wrapping her arms around it tight. Being reminded of his new ... condition ... makes her squirm a little inside. She sure hopes he's not trying to make her guilty, because if he is, he's succeeding at his mission brilliantly. "I'm sorry," she adds lamely.
"Nah, it's okay." He smiles at her, and it's an honest one - which is good, she knows, even if it's not quite a happy one.
"Do you really not mind?" It's not possible, she thinks. He couldn't actually want any of this.
"I mean, it's ..." He trails off, waving a hand vaguely. "It's not what I imagined it would be, you know. Like, magical spells and sword-waving and manga or ... or whatever. It's different. But being normal was just so ..."
"So ..." Clary prompts. "What? Safe? Unobstrusive?"
There's a long, long pause. "Boring," he says finally. For a fleeting moment, she can see something in his expression - something pained and young and insecure - and it makes her heart ache for him, but then he's not meeting her eyes anymore. "That sounds so stupid, I know."
"It's not stupid," she says quietly.
He laughs, a hollow sound. "I was so jealous. Of you, of Jace and Isabelle and ... Hell, even Luke. It didn't matter how much danger you guys were in, or if you had to actually fight demons and monsters and the possibility that someone was going to die, really die, like, forever, was real and tangible, and none of that mattered. I wanted it. I didn't want to be myself anymore, just a regular person. That wasn't good enough." Then, softer: "That's why I went back."
She doesn't know what to say, besides mumble another apology, so she gazes at her feet. One of her shoelaces is untied, she notes numbly. She feels tightness gathering in her throat and tries to swallow it down.
He looks a little embarrassed. "Sorry. I didn't actually intend on dragging you down into the depths of my emo, angst-ridden soul, you know."
What comes out is a choked half-laugh and half-sob. Reaching over and squeezing his hand - calloused and nail-bitten - with her own small one, she says, "We'll figure this out. I promise."
It's not a promise she can keep, but she makes it anyway.
035: moonlight
Simon's mother tends a garden in her backyard. It's small and overgrown and untidy, and Clary loves it; she used to come out here a lot, and for the first time in a while, she's back. There's a low wall nearby - more like a heap of stones than anything else - and Clary and Simon are both sitting on it, feet swinging as they overlook the garden. And there's a full moon tonight, so it isn't too dark outside.
"It's nice to get out," he says suddenly, staring into the inky distance. "For a change." The moonlight makes him look pale, in an attractive way.
"You're such a night person anyway." Clary smiles at him. "Like your habits have even really changed." The moment the words leave her mouth, she regrets them, and she holds her breath for his reaction.
Wonder of wonders, though, he's grinning back at her. "Seriously. The only real problem is my parents. I think I'm weirding them out with my brand-new lifestyle."
"I think I might have found something that could help you deal with them," she says suggestively.
"Ooh, do continue."
"So I was Googling vampires the other day," Clary begins, before he cuts her off.
"Seriously? I'm not sure Google can help me, Fray."
"Shut up, Simon, let me finish. Anyway, I was Googling vampires, and I came across this listserv--"
Simon groans loudly. "A listserv? Jesus, this isn't going anywhere good." She takes a moment to punch him in the arm before continuing.
"And it's of these people who actually think they're vampires," she finishes triumphantly. "I mean, they're not like you. They aren't really vampires. It's more like this mind thing, like getting psychic energy from people." She shapes her hands into claws and pretends to draw energy from Simon. "Seriously. It's freaking weird. But what I was thinking was, you could just tell them you're that kind of 'vampire.' It's a lot less threatening, even though it's still pretty strange. I don't think they actually drink blood, though, so explaining that might be a problem."
Far from being creeped out, Simon looks interested at the prospect. "Hmm. That sounds delicious, actually. I'm feeling thirsty."
Clary's eyes widen, and her stomach turns over at the idea of Simon sucking down a plastic bag of blood, even animal blood. "No way, Simon. No. You are not allowed to drink blood in front of me. I forbid it."
He snorts, but leaves the subject alone. "Anyway, what about all the other vampire stuff? Like, will they only go out at night?" He gestures at the night around them.
She shrugs. "I didn't stay on the listserv long enough to find out." They're quiet for a few minutes.
"Come to think of it, though ... why can I go out at night?" he muses, staring up at the stars. "I've been wondering about that lately. It doesn't make any sense."
"You're a bona fide creature of darkness," she points out. "Ergo, no sun for you."
"Well, yeah, I get the idea that the sun burns ... vampires." The hesitation is oh-so-slight. "But moonlight is really just sunlight, reflected off the moon's surface. I mean, it's not nearly as strong, but shouldn't it burn me too?"
Clary pauses. "I never thought about that. Maybe it's just a magic thing." She grins again. "Maybe the moon is magic."
Simon shakes his head. "It's weird, that's what it is."
"Don't be ungrateful to the universe's strange ways," Clary tells him. "Or you'd never be able to come out. And I'd probably never get to see you."
He slips an arm around her waist, and she leans her head on his shoulder, reflecting on how comfortable, how natural, it is. He's always smelled like soap and lemons, a clean smell (her favorite), and being turned into an undead creature hasn't changed that, fortunately.
"That would be a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare," he says softly, and she can hear him smile.
011: hand
"Is that what you were out doing?"
"Doing what, when?" you ask. He does love being obtuse, this boy.
Jace hesitates. "Dancing. At that club. When you saw us for the first time."
You pause. It's difficult to describe what, exactly, draws you to that club, to the press of unfamiliar bodies and pounding bass lines. Something about warmth, and darkness, and sweat, and the mindlessness of it all. "I don't know if it can really be called dancing, you know. It's more like ..."
He smiles wickedly, and it lights up his eyes. "Flailing? Squirming? Floundering on dry land? Gasping for air, Fray?"
You smack him with an open palm, on the arm, before realizing that he's a lot more solid than you were imagining, and it hurts, in a vague, dull kind of way. You rub your palm unhappily.
"It's complicated," you huff. "What is there, some Mark for being as incandescently hard as Edward Cullen? Besides, can you actually dance?"
He simply raises his eyebrows at you.
You sigh. "You're joking, right?" God, does no one know what a rhetorical question is any more?
"Fray, I am a Wayland," he intones solemnly, hands planted firmly on his hips, looking at you like it's supposed to mean something to you.
"Prove it," you challenge, with your best game face. If he wants to bluff, well, he'll have to pay for it.
Jace smirks - oh, you're about to face some serious pwnage, as Simon would put it, you can see it outlined on his face - and turns to an old record player, sitting on top of his dresser. There's a shabby box of records lying nearby, and he rifles through them, pausing here and there to consider, before finally settling on one. He pulls it - almost reverently, you note - out of its cardboard sheath and puts the needle in place.
Light and airy piano music begin straining out, note by note. It's very un-Jacelike music, serious and quiet and earnest, and it surprises you.
"It sounds a little like Debussy," you say, hoping not to sound like an idiot. "My mom would play Claire de Lune for me as a lullaby, when I was a kid."
He smiles, looking delighted, and motions for you to come over, holding his arms out in a suspicious-looking formation. "Debussy, right. This is his Reverie. Clary, come here."
"Oh, no," you manage, waving your hands at him. "I don't dance. I mean, for real. I really can't."
Jace has an odd expression on his face. His arms haven't moved. "Do you trust me?"
"It's not a question of--"
"Trust me," he says, more gently, looking at you intently. And, oh, you find yourself walking straight into his arms, despite your best efforts. And then one arm is around your waist, and other is holding yours firmly.
And then you're dancing, somehow. You don't know anything about dancing - except what you've watched on Dancing with the Stars - but if you had to, you'd guess it was a waltz. He whispers instructions in your ear for the first thirty seconds or so, telling you where to place your feet, how to shift your weight, and it's kind of working, it really seems to be going okay; maybe you're not as bad at this as you thought.
It seems to be coming from his hands. The one is dipping into the small of your back, leading you warm and firm, and the other is holding you by the hand; that must be how he guides you. And when he releases you for a twirl, your hands clasped above your head, you find yourself finishing with a flourish. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, it's a feminine gesture; you feel soft and pretty, for just a moment, and he's looking at you like he thinks so, too.
Then a flush creeps into your cheeks when you realize what you're doing, and you almost disentangle yourself. But he pulls on your hand and then you're standing close together, his hands on your hips. Tentatively, you place your hands on his shoulders.
Not dancing anymore, just swaying. The kind of stuff that goes on at school dances. It's nice, in a good way. You lean your chin on his chest, and you can feel his heart thump under his t-shirt.
"I've never been very good at dancing," you whisper .
His laugh ruffles your hair gently. "You were very good."
"I think it was just you," you say confidentially.
"It's a Shadowhunter thing." His whisper in your ear makes you shiver. "You can pick things up faster, better, now. All of us have always been good at anything we set out to do. All you needed was a few minutes of basic instruction, and you were dancing like a pro." He pauses. "Okay, not quite like a professional, but you could get there, if you wanted to. You could learn how to swordfight, too, or be a gymnast, or play the electric guitar."
"That's weird," you say, and add quietly, "I don't know if I like it." He shrugs, and you know he doesn't understand.
But you sway for another minute or two, lulled by the rhythm of your bodies moving in tandem.
When the song ends, you raise your head with regret and step away from him, realizing it was colder than you thought in his room, and that Jace's body was keeping you warm.
"Good night," you say. His hand brushes the side of your face, tucking away a stray lock of hair. His touch is light, dry, and it leaves you wanting more.
"Night."
004: secrets
Maia's not unfamiliar with the idea of secrets. Everyone has them, she included. She especially, maybe (no, don't start thinking about Daniel, it's a bad bad path to go down). But she can see them winding around these kids, simultaneously tying them together and pushing them apart, unraveling.
She thinks about this while wiping down the bar.
She can't help but notice Simon, even when it's obvious he's in love with the tiny freckled girl. And they're technically together, even though you couldn't tell just by looking at them, not from the way they act. Honestly, she feels kinda bad for him, even though it pleases her a little, that he's consigned to an unrequited love. (His secret is badly kept. Hers is better; she's learned not to show too much affection.)
But it's the siblings that interest her the most. Maia still shudders a little when she sees Jace, an obvious predator, although he doesn't seem to be a psychopath. But he still seems dangerous, unstable somehow - even if he doesn't go around torturing small woodland creatures.
They think they're so subtle, Maia thinks as she starts cleaning glasses. Her movements are methodical, natural and instinctive.
But she sees them. Oh, she sees them.
The longing glances are the worst. Sometimes it's one of them, watching the other when they think no one is looking, mouth open slightly, looking dazed. Sometimes it's both, looking up at the same moment, holding gazes for a moment, eyes darting away with embarrassment and even shame.
It's all there, bubbling under the surface of labels like sister and brother.
She bites the inside of her cheek, looks down at the folded hands in her lap. (She's a nice girl. If only she wouldn't play with poor Simon.)
He taps his foot, quick and erratic, glares wildly, licks his lips. (He thinks he's so sly. Knowing makes her feel victorious.)
It leaves her feeling tired, leaves her wondering whether secrets are best kept under lock and key, wrapped up tight where no one can see them, or if that makes them more dangerous, more volatile, more ready to explode and destroy everyone in the nearby vicinity.
She slams the last glass down on the shelf, the sound ringing out with finality.
Maia doesn't want to wait around for the fallout.
*
Cross-posted at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
13cellardoors, 50scenes, mortal_fic, and tmi_lovers.
Fandom: Mortal Instruments
Characters, Pairings: Clary, Simon, Jace, Maia
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: for City of Ashes
Rating: PG
Length: ~2400 words total
Notes: For the
50scenes challenge. Prompts: #028 (Apologize); #035 (Moonlight); #011 (Hand); #004 (Secrets). I figured I would post them all together since they're kinda short, but they're unrelated to each other. See the whole table here. Some Simon/Clary and Jace/Clary, if you squint.*
028: apologize
"It's a nice day out," Simon says.
They're sitting on his bed, and it's still light outside - not that she can tell by looking at the windows; he's covered them all up with some black fabric, hanging limply from thumbtacks. The only light in the room is from the lamp on the night table, which casts a yellowish pallor over everything she can see.
"Yeah," she says uncomfortably, tucking a pillow into her lap and wrapping her arms around it tight. Being reminded of his new ... condition ... makes her squirm a little inside. She sure hopes he's not trying to make her guilty, because if he is, he's succeeding at his mission brilliantly. "I'm sorry," she adds lamely.
"Nah, it's okay." He smiles at her, and it's an honest one - which is good, she knows, even if it's not quite a happy one.
"Do you really not mind?" It's not possible, she thinks. He couldn't actually want any of this.
"I mean, it's ..." He trails off, waving a hand vaguely. "It's not what I imagined it would be, you know. Like, magical spells and sword-waving and manga or ... or whatever. It's different. But being normal was just so ..."
"So ..." Clary prompts. "What? Safe? Unobstrusive?"
There's a long, long pause. "Boring," he says finally. For a fleeting moment, she can see something in his expression - something pained and young and insecure - and it makes her heart ache for him, but then he's not meeting her eyes anymore. "That sounds so stupid, I know."
"It's not stupid," she says quietly.
He laughs, a hollow sound. "I was so jealous. Of you, of Jace and Isabelle and ... Hell, even Luke. It didn't matter how much danger you guys were in, or if you had to actually fight demons and monsters and the possibility that someone was going to die, really die, like, forever, was real and tangible, and none of that mattered. I wanted it. I didn't want to be myself anymore, just a regular person. That wasn't good enough." Then, softer: "That's why I went back."
She doesn't know what to say, besides mumble another apology, so she gazes at her feet. One of her shoelaces is untied, she notes numbly. She feels tightness gathering in her throat and tries to swallow it down.
He looks a little embarrassed. "Sorry. I didn't actually intend on dragging you down into the depths of my emo, angst-ridden soul, you know."
What comes out is a choked half-laugh and half-sob. Reaching over and squeezing his hand - calloused and nail-bitten - with her own small one, she says, "We'll figure this out. I promise."
It's not a promise she can keep, but she makes it anyway.
035: moonlight
Simon's mother tends a garden in her backyard. It's small and overgrown and untidy, and Clary loves it; she used to come out here a lot, and for the first time in a while, she's back. There's a low wall nearby - more like a heap of stones than anything else - and Clary and Simon are both sitting on it, feet swinging as they overlook the garden. And there's a full moon tonight, so it isn't too dark outside.
"It's nice to get out," he says suddenly, staring into the inky distance. "For a change." The moonlight makes him look pale, in an attractive way.
"You're such a night person anyway." Clary smiles at him. "Like your habits have even really changed." The moment the words leave her mouth, she regrets them, and she holds her breath for his reaction.
Wonder of wonders, though, he's grinning back at her. "Seriously. The only real problem is my parents. I think I'm weirding them out with my brand-new lifestyle."
"I think I might have found something that could help you deal with them," she says suggestively.
"Ooh, do continue."
"So I was Googling vampires the other day," Clary begins, before he cuts her off.
"Seriously? I'm not sure Google can help me, Fray."
"Shut up, Simon, let me finish. Anyway, I was Googling vampires, and I came across this listserv--"
Simon groans loudly. "A listserv? Jesus, this isn't going anywhere good." She takes a moment to punch him in the arm before continuing.
"And it's of these people who actually think they're vampires," she finishes triumphantly. "I mean, they're not like you. They aren't really vampires. It's more like this mind thing, like getting psychic energy from people." She shapes her hands into claws and pretends to draw energy from Simon. "Seriously. It's freaking weird. But what I was thinking was, you could just tell them you're that kind of 'vampire.' It's a lot less threatening, even though it's still pretty strange. I don't think they actually drink blood, though, so explaining that might be a problem."
Far from being creeped out, Simon looks interested at the prospect. "Hmm. That sounds delicious, actually. I'm feeling thirsty."
Clary's eyes widen, and her stomach turns over at the idea of Simon sucking down a plastic bag of blood, even animal blood. "No way, Simon. No. You are not allowed to drink blood in front of me. I forbid it."
He snorts, but leaves the subject alone. "Anyway, what about all the other vampire stuff? Like, will they only go out at night?" He gestures at the night around them.
She shrugs. "I didn't stay on the listserv long enough to find out." They're quiet for a few minutes.
"Come to think of it, though ... why can I go out at night?" he muses, staring up at the stars. "I've been wondering about that lately. It doesn't make any sense."
"You're a bona fide creature of darkness," she points out. "Ergo, no sun for you."
"Well, yeah, I get the idea that the sun burns ... vampires." The hesitation is oh-so-slight. "But moonlight is really just sunlight, reflected off the moon's surface. I mean, it's not nearly as strong, but shouldn't it burn me too?"
Clary pauses. "I never thought about that. Maybe it's just a magic thing." She grins again. "Maybe the moon is magic."
Simon shakes his head. "It's weird, that's what it is."
"Don't be ungrateful to the universe's strange ways," Clary tells him. "Or you'd never be able to come out. And I'd probably never get to see you."
He slips an arm around her waist, and she leans her head on his shoulder, reflecting on how comfortable, how natural, it is. He's always smelled like soap and lemons, a clean smell (her favorite), and being turned into an undead creature hasn't changed that, fortunately.
"That would be a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare," he says softly, and she can hear him smile.
011: hand
"Is that what you were out doing?"
"Doing what, when?" you ask. He does love being obtuse, this boy.
Jace hesitates. "Dancing. At that club. When you saw us for the first time."
You pause. It's difficult to describe what, exactly, draws you to that club, to the press of unfamiliar bodies and pounding bass lines. Something about warmth, and darkness, and sweat, and the mindlessness of it all. "I don't know if it can really be called dancing, you know. It's more like ..."
He smiles wickedly, and it lights up his eyes. "Flailing? Squirming? Floundering on dry land? Gasping for air, Fray?"
You smack him with an open palm, on the arm, before realizing that he's a lot more solid than you were imagining, and it hurts, in a vague, dull kind of way. You rub your palm unhappily.
"It's complicated," you huff. "What is there, some Mark for being as incandescently hard as Edward Cullen? Besides, can you actually dance?"
He simply raises his eyebrows at you.
You sigh. "You're joking, right?" God, does no one know what a rhetorical question is any more?
"Fray, I am a Wayland," he intones solemnly, hands planted firmly on his hips, looking at you like it's supposed to mean something to you.
"Prove it," you challenge, with your best game face. If he wants to bluff, well, he'll have to pay for it.
Jace smirks - oh, you're about to face some serious pwnage, as Simon would put it, you can see it outlined on his face - and turns to an old record player, sitting on top of his dresser. There's a shabby box of records lying nearby, and he rifles through them, pausing here and there to consider, before finally settling on one. He pulls it - almost reverently, you note - out of its cardboard sheath and puts the needle in place.
Light and airy piano music begin straining out, note by note. It's very un-Jacelike music, serious and quiet and earnest, and it surprises you.
"It sounds a little like Debussy," you say, hoping not to sound like an idiot. "My mom would play Claire de Lune for me as a lullaby, when I was a kid."
He smiles, looking delighted, and motions for you to come over, holding his arms out in a suspicious-looking formation. "Debussy, right. This is his Reverie. Clary, come here."
"Oh, no," you manage, waving your hands at him. "I don't dance. I mean, for real. I really can't."
Jace has an odd expression on his face. His arms haven't moved. "Do you trust me?"
"It's not a question of--"
"Trust me," he says, more gently, looking at you intently. And, oh, you find yourself walking straight into his arms, despite your best efforts. And then one arm is around your waist, and other is holding yours firmly.
And then you're dancing, somehow. You don't know anything about dancing - except what you've watched on Dancing with the Stars - but if you had to, you'd guess it was a waltz. He whispers instructions in your ear for the first thirty seconds or so, telling you where to place your feet, how to shift your weight, and it's kind of working, it really seems to be going okay; maybe you're not as bad at this as you thought.
It seems to be coming from his hands. The one is dipping into the small of your back, leading you warm and firm, and the other is holding you by the hand; that must be how he guides you. And when he releases you for a twirl, your hands clasped above your head, you find yourself finishing with a flourish. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, it's a feminine gesture; you feel soft and pretty, for just a moment, and he's looking at you like he thinks so, too.
Then a flush creeps into your cheeks when you realize what you're doing, and you almost disentangle yourself. But he pulls on your hand and then you're standing close together, his hands on your hips. Tentatively, you place your hands on his shoulders.
Not dancing anymore, just swaying. The kind of stuff that goes on at school dances. It's nice, in a good way. You lean your chin on his chest, and you can feel his heart thump under his t-shirt.
"I've never been very good at dancing," you whisper .
His laugh ruffles your hair gently. "You were very good."
"I think it was just you," you say confidentially.
"It's a Shadowhunter thing." His whisper in your ear makes you shiver. "You can pick things up faster, better, now. All of us have always been good at anything we set out to do. All you needed was a few minutes of basic instruction, and you were dancing like a pro." He pauses. "Okay, not quite like a professional, but you could get there, if you wanted to. You could learn how to swordfight, too, or be a gymnast, or play the electric guitar."
"That's weird," you say, and add quietly, "I don't know if I like it." He shrugs, and you know he doesn't understand.
But you sway for another minute or two, lulled by the rhythm of your bodies moving in tandem.
When the song ends, you raise your head with regret and step away from him, realizing it was colder than you thought in his room, and that Jace's body was keeping you warm.
"Good night," you say. His hand brushes the side of your face, tucking away a stray lock of hair. His touch is light, dry, and it leaves you wanting more.
"Night."
004: secrets
Maia's not unfamiliar with the idea of secrets. Everyone has them, she included. She especially, maybe (no, don't start thinking about Daniel, it's a bad bad path to go down). But she can see them winding around these kids, simultaneously tying them together and pushing them apart, unraveling.
She thinks about this while wiping down the bar.
She can't help but notice Simon, even when it's obvious he's in love with the tiny freckled girl. And they're technically together, even though you couldn't tell just by looking at them, not from the way they act. Honestly, she feels kinda bad for him, even though it pleases her a little, that he's consigned to an unrequited love. (His secret is badly kept. Hers is better; she's learned not to show too much affection.)
But it's the siblings that interest her the most. Maia still shudders a little when she sees Jace, an obvious predator, although he doesn't seem to be a psychopath. But he still seems dangerous, unstable somehow - even if he doesn't go around torturing small woodland creatures.
They think they're so subtle, Maia thinks as she starts cleaning glasses. Her movements are methodical, natural and instinctive.
But she sees them. Oh, she sees them.
The longing glances are the worst. Sometimes it's one of them, watching the other when they think no one is looking, mouth open slightly, looking dazed. Sometimes it's both, looking up at the same moment, holding gazes for a moment, eyes darting away with embarrassment and even shame.
It's all there, bubbling under the surface of labels like sister and brother.
She bites the inside of her cheek, looks down at the folded hands in her lap. (She's a nice girl. If only she wouldn't play with poor Simon.)
He taps his foot, quick and erratic, glares wildly, licks his lips. (He thinks he's so sly. Knowing makes her feel victorious.)
It leaves her feeling tired, leaves her wondering whether secrets are best kept under lock and key, wrapped up tight where no one can see them, or if that makes them more dangerous, more volatile, more ready to explode and destroy everyone in the nearby vicinity.
She slams the last glass down on the shelf, the sound ringing out with finality.
Maia doesn't want to wait around for the fallout.
*
Cross-posted at
13cellardoors, 50scenes, mortal_fic, and tmi_lovers.