Chapter Text
Simon coughed as he knocked on the door.
“Serves you right,” Clary told him severely as it swung open, revealing her short figure behind it. “Going out without your keys or a coat.”
“I just wanted you to talk to Jocelyn,” he protested.
“I did that,” she murmured.
“Yeah?” He tried not to sound too eager. “How did it go?”
She considered him. “Why do you care?”
It took a considerable amount of effort not to scream. “Clary, you’re my best friend. Of course I care.”
She gave in: “She said I use Dad’s death as an excuse.”
“For what?”
“For acting the way I do.” She bit her lip and looked away. “I’m sorry, Si. For not telling you.”
He exhaled harshly. “Are you really sorry?”
“I still think it was the best thing for you,” Clary said quietly.
“It was not—”
“But it should’ve been your choice,” she finished, cutting him off. “Just like his life was Dad’s choice.”
He’d never considered that. That her father had died of the same disease, yes, but not that part.
Not that he’d willingly chosen it, not that he and Clary had argued and not made up before he died.
“It should’ve been,” he told her. “But I don’t hate you. I even understand.”
“You—you do?”
He held his arms open, and she barreled into them. “Of course I do, Fray.”
Neither of them would admit to crying later on.
“So, have you talked to Isabelle?” she asked once they were done not-crying, watching movies with chips and cold drinks.
“Rude thing to ask during this,” he said dryly, gesturing to Pride and Prejudice playing on the screen.
“I think it’s very appropriate, actually,” she responded, smirking.
“No, I haven’t,” Simon admitted heavily.
“What are you thinking? I told you she maybe returned your feelings!”
“Yeah, my past self’s feelings, not now.”
“You don’t like her?”
The bewilderment in Clary’s tone was very telling—it was apparently unfathomable to his best friend that he would not be enchanted by Isabelle Lightwood.
Which explained her actions so much better, and his own feelings.
His fingers tapped on the armrest. “I don’t know. . . .”
“You should still talk to her,” she told him. “She might not know either.”
“You’re very eager for someone who tried to keep me away from her so much,” he noted.
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” she rolled her eyes.
“Never,” he grinned.
“I hate you,” she said with no heat to it. Her body, though, was very warm. Simon huddled close to it while his throat tickled. “I, okay, I just think you shouldn’t leave things unresolved. To, well. . . fester.”
It was clear the word held great meaning for her.
“As an expert on that, I suppose I should take your word for it,” he mused.
She didn’t even combat this; just looked at him with those wide green eyes.
He sighed. “I’ll go find her after the weekend.”
Fencing club tryouts.
She’d completely forgotten about them in the face of all her troubles.
It was their fault, really. How dare they keep them so close to her father’s death anniversary?
She picked up a sword, weighing it.
Fencing had always been more Jonathan’s thing than hers—his and Dad’s whole boys-only club—but in the wake of … everything, she’d like to take it up.
She was alright at it, if she did say so herself. She’d been very stubborn about being better than Jonathan at everything.
“You fence?” She tried not to seem too eager at Jace Lightwood Herondale’s voice.
“A bit,” she shrugged. “You?”
“Oh, yeah. I love it.” His eyes glittered. “I’m captain, in fact.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. “I. . . did not know that.”
“Obviously, or I doubt you’d have come.”
Clary flushed. “It’s not—I wouldn’t—that would be—”
It took her a moment to realize he was laughing at her.
“Oh, go fuck yourself.”
“Would you like to do it for me?” he asked in that sweet tone of voice, causing her to go speechless.
He looked pleased at flustering her, for whatever reason.
“Alright!” His voice carried. “Gather up, hopefuls. Only two of you are going to get in here today.”
Clary’s grip on her chosen sword tightened. She would be one of the two.
“Your hold is all wrong,” Jace told her, after ordering the others to pair up.
Apparently, they were going to be one.
She gaped at him indignantly. “It is not!”
“It isn’t,” he conceded, grinning. “Where did you learn to fence?”
“My father and brother,” she explained, the topics not being too sore anymore.
She felt ashamed when he cast a wary glance at her. Had she really been so terrible?
“What about you?” she volunteered.
He brightened. “The Lightwoods put us all in self-defence classes. Izzy and I were the ones to really get into it, though.”
“Right,” she recalled. “Isabelle knows jiu-jitsu. And Alec’s an archer.”
He cocked his head. “You really did know them, didn’t you?”
“Just Isabelle, really,” she prepared herself. “Alec only visited once.”
“Should’ve gone with him when he asked,” he said, half to himself.
“Why?”
“So I could meet you, of course.”
A jolt ran up her spine.
“And why would you want to meet me?”
“So I could do this without all the baggage.” He shrugged. “Hey, Fairchild. Want to go out with me?”
Her mouth went dry. “It would have been Morgenstern, back then,” she said softly.
“That isn’t an answer.” He raised a sculpted eyebrow.
“I can’t right now,” she tried.
“I saw Lewis-Lovelace and my sister talking on the way here, if that’s what you mean.”
Relief filled her. “That—that too, but. . .”
He cleared his throat. “So the answer’s no?”
She didn’t answer, holding firm against his attack.
Jace exhaled a laugh. “Well. Can’t say I didn’t expect that, even if I’ve never been refused before. I just got advise that you might prefer directness.”
Somehow that seemed familiar.
“I do,” she confessed. “I can’t right now. . . But thank you for telling me. It means a lot.”
“What does?” His golden eyes were slanted as he smashed through her defense.
“That someone can like me despite seeing my ugliest parts,” she said lightly, switching to offense.
“Even your ugliest parts are beautiful,” he said automatically, and then flushed.
Clary’s jaw dropped.
He looked beautiful, in that moment.
Had she just made a huge mistake?
No.
She liked j_cay.
She couldn’t toy with Jace like that.
Even if she might like him too.
They stood with very little distance between them, both panting from exertion.
Clary’s heart rate quickened at the look he gave her.
“You’re good,” he said.
“Thanks,” she replied. “Better than you?”
He scoffed. “Definitely not.”
She grinned, warmth unfurling within her. “We’ll see.”
“Isabelle,” he said awkwardly.
“Simon,” she returned curtly.
They stood in the middle of the corridor, unable to move, staring at one another.
“I think we should talk,” he rushed out.
“About what?” This seemed to have snapped her out of it. She walked ahead, not sparing a glance for him.
He hurried to catch up, adjusting his glasses.
“About. . . everything?”
“About how you fell in love with me but didn’t see it fit to tell me?”
He frowned. “Clary says I did tell you. That—that you returned my feelings.”
Now she flinched. “Look, I think it’s best if we leave things be. You don’t remember me anyway, and you don’t need a relapse.”
“Oh.”
He digested this; it made sense.
But somehow it didn’t feel right.
Especially since Isabelle hadn't moved since saying that.
“So. . . We can be friends?”
“Clary will allow that?”
“I think I’ve convinced her controlling me isn’t the way to go about to keeping me safe,” he said dryly.
Isabelle smiled lightly. She was so beautiful. Heart-stoppingly so. Of course he'd fallen for her. “Good for you.”
“So?”
“Alright.” She sighed. “We can be friends.”
He gave an exaggerated bow. “May I escort you to class, my lady?”
“Your class is on the other side of the building, Simon.”
He frowned. “You know my schedule?”
She flushed.
He hadn’t even known uber-confident Isabelle Lightwood was capable of that.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said firmly.
“I think it does, actually—”
“I just noticed you have a class in the north wing computer lab right now, okay?” she huffed.
It was cute.
He told her so.
“Just—just go.”
“Alright.” He couldn’t stop grinning. “I’ll go.”
But somehow, he knew it wouldn’t be the last time they talked.
That this wouldn’t be the end of it.