Random Dialogue Ideas ask meme - "stop saying that"
[[Forgot to add character last time 😅 Geralt and Jaskier]]
@reignofdreams
I hope you don’t mind a slightly more book-based story (because mopey Dandelion is my jam)!!
Read on AO3
“Stop saying that!”
Dandelion sat aside his lute with a dramatic sigh. “But, Geralt-” his voice was almost a whine, slightly higher pitched than usual “-it’s true.”
Geralt was tempted to beat the troubadour over the head with his own instrument but supposed that wouldn’t be fair, after all, the lute was of elven make. Instead, he picked it up and sat it far outside of the bard’s reach.
“I’m going to be forever alone,” the troubadour said, leaning back against the log they’d laid by the fire. “And muse-less, for without her, the world itself seems less colorful, less poetical. I shall die alone and voiceless.”
“No you won’t, you fool poet,” scolded Geralt.
“Yes, I will.”
Even his damn sigh was lyrical, Geralt thought, watching as his friend frowned and looked into the flames. It was a similar scene every time another of Dandelion’s lovers left him (although, more often than not, they left him after finding him with another woman). Telling him that never helped.
“Perhaps I ought to take up Witchering,” mused the poet, and Geralt choked on his drink. “I’ve perfected the art of solitude, after all.”
“Dandelion, you wouldn’t kill the rat that was trying to eat your lute case, and instead shouted at me to take care of it.”
“Yes, and you hit it with a knife from across the room, so I fail to see why I should have been the one to kill it.” The troubadour frowned, then sighed. “Alright, I suppose that isn’t the life for me. Prostitution, then, perhaps. I would make a rather fine whore, don’t you think?”
Geralt declined to mention that there were a great many people - including his latest girlfriend - who would say he already was a whore. “You’d make a damn fine prostitute, but I can’t see you enjoying it.”
“Hmmm. No. I suppose not.” He glanced at Geralt’s bottle, then frowned. “Are you quite certain that’s the only whiskey you’ve got?”
“Yes,” lied the Witcher. The poet had consumed enough alcohol, more than enough, before Geralt had stumbled across him, quite by accident, in a tavern. He’d drug him out before he could drink anymore, taken him back to his camp outside of town, and brought him water from the nearby stream.
“Forget about her, Dandelion, you’ll find another muse, I’m certain of it.”
The poet sighed, and then - as he always did - gave in. “Well, yes,” he said. “I’m certain I will. In fact, there was a rather lovely young woman making eyes at me at my last performance, her name was Vespula, I believe.”
Geralt chuckled and took another gulp from his whiskey.
Alec is certain that he’s being given Christmas off. It’s one of the only periods of downtime this year he’s actually been scheduled for, so he’s been sure to plan around it; he and Magnus haven’t actually had a lot of time to be together over the last few weeks, except for mornings and nights.
His work is tiring, and being without Magnus is even more so. So on the 23rd, he leaves the Institute before Isabelle even has the opportunity to kick him out, and finds himself on the sofa in their loft, Magnus curled up against his chest.
Apparently, they’ve both fallen asleep—Alec can tell from the moment he blinks awake, due to the numbness in his arm and the soreness of his neck. Magnus’ hair—soft and loose, sleep-worn where he’d gotten ready for bed in a half-lucid state—tickles his throat, and Alec is prepared to settle down and sleep some more from that feeling alone.
There’s a beeping noise…somewhere, but it seems unimportant. He has no work to do, and nobody is supposed to call—
Dammit. When Alec eventually gets himself to focus on the incessant beeping, he recognises it as, indeed, a phone.
His phone, which is all the way across the room, shoved roughly into his jacket pocket. His jacket and scarf—a gift from Magnus, a little just because that Alec will always be grateful for—hangs on the coat rack near the door, just above his bow and quill.
And he really wants to move, to answer it—he does. But there’s an unconscious Magnus lazily draped across him, and it makes getting up seem more trouble than it’s worth.
His head thumps back against the armrest at a rather uncomfortable angle. The shrill noise of his phone cuts off abruptly, and Alec sighs with relief as he settles back in and begins to drift, tightening his arm around Magnus, who has a hand fisted in Alec’s shirt—
And then his phone rings again, and well, he can’t have that.
Alec slips out from under Magnus, all tangled arms and legs; he attempts to wipe the sleep from his too-heavy eyes, and Magnus whines at the sudden change in position.
Alec makes his way, half-stumbling, half-lucid, over to his jacket, pulling his phone from the pocket with unsteady fingers, but he forces himself into as much of a soldier’s mindset as he can.
Because Isabelle’s calling him, and has done so many times before this, and that means he’s needed. He knows she wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t important; hell, she wanted him to rest more than he did.
So he lifts the phone to his ear and wanders into the kitchen, a hand to the wall.
‘Hey, Iz—’
‘There are wraith demons,’ she begins, seemingly out of breath and with the late-night traffic speeding behind her. Wind disrupts the signal, but she continues nonetheless, and Alec puts it on speaker to hear better. ‘We don’t know where they come from, but they all just appeared. We haven’t seen this since Jonathan.’
She pauses for breath, or maybe for effect. Her voice is quieter when she continues, almost disappointed. ‘Jace and Clary just got back from their own patrol, so they’re down for the count.’
And now Alec understands the disappointment. She really, really doesn’t want him patrolling, especially since he’s been working non-stop for months.
He knows what she’s asking, though. Her dropped voice and apologetic tone speak for themselves.
‘Do you need me to go?’ He says, and tries to keep any trace of a sleepy slur from his tone, because he really doesn’t need his sister assuming he’s barely conscious on the job.
She sighs, then, and it’s just as good as an affirmation. ‘Sorry, Alec.’
‘Don’t be sorry, it’s my job,’ he says, even though it’s more of a lifestyle. It’s all he’d known, until—
Until, well, Magnus. And he really doesn’t want to go out there tonight, into the excited winter cold, little kids running around with knees covered in snow and hands clad in mittens. But this is what he signed up for (even if he never had a choice), so he keeps his tone even and calm. ‘Where d’you need me?’
‘I’ll text you the address.’
‘I’ll be there in twenty,’ Alec sighs, quiet as he hears some shuffling from the next room, the lightest sleepy sigh. He hopes Magnus hasn’t woken up.
Isabelle makes a small noise, then. ‘Is Magnus not around?’
‘Oh, Magnus is definitely around,’ Magnus says, then, still a little croaky and low. He makes his way into the kitchen, voice growing louder, until he stands at Alec’s side and entwines their free hands. He has that smug aura about him, the one he uses when he thinks Alec is being quite ridiculous—and he wouldn’t be that incorrect. ‘Your brother is just awfully humble, and refuses to ask for a portal. He’ll be there in five.’
‘Thank you, Magnus,’ Isabelle says, with that lilt in her voice she saves only for the two of them—it’s a little playful, and a little exaggerated, and it shows that she knows that Alec truly does need somebody to boss him about at the best of times.
Alec ends the call and stuffs his phone back into his pocket, just as Magnus pulls at his own shirt to right it, and flicks a hand to re-do his hair from where it has gone slightly lopsided in unconsciousness. He goes to pull Alec back into the living room, toward where their boots lie, with the smallest excited smirk turning up his lips.
Alec immediately knows what he thinks. It’s almost subconscious, by now. He seems to know what Magnus thinks without having to ask; he doesn’t even have to wonder.
Alec pulls him back, and Magnus spins back around with a little finesse and a little elegance. Their eyes meet and Alec shakes his head. ‘You’re not going.’
‘I most certainly am,’ Magnus says, voice calm but confident.
Alec sighs, but he isn’t annoyed; he’s being precautious, if anything. They’re supposed to be having time off, and they’re supposed to be celebrating the holidays, and he doesn’t want to drag Magnus into his overtime. ‘This isn’t your job, and it’s almost Christmas. It won’t be anything exciting.’
‘I’d rather not have to end up setting any bones during breakfast, dear,’ Magnus says, quiet, and—oh. That’s what he’s worried about; that’s why he wants to come.
It’s not at all surprising, but Alec had assumed that they’d gotten to the point where Magnus could sit by and let Alec draw an iratze and they’d be fine about it. He hates knowing that him patrolling worries Magnus; that him going out on missions makes Magnus wonder if he’ll come back with everything intact.
But Magnus smiles, then, and there’s power behind it; he knows he’ll win this debate, because they have it almost every week, and only the little details change. ‘And if it’s as boring as you seem to believe, then I could have it done in seconds.’
And yeah, Magnus has a point. It won’t take long. These kind of missions never do. There isn’t even a portal to close, or a spawning point.
It’ll be easy.
‘We get it done, and then we come home,’ Alec says, and Magnus nods when Alec leans forward to kiss him, a gentle promise. Magnus’ other hand goes up to Alec’s shoulder, and Alec’s to Magnus’ waist. After a too-short moment, they pull away.
‘There’s no other way I’d rather have it,’ Magnus smiles, and gives one last kiss for good luck. He pats at Alec’s shoulder before pulling away and disappearing toward their bedroom. ‘Go grab your coat—it’s freezing tonight.’
—
Alec is still bleeding from his wounds, claw marks on his stomach and around his ribs, when Magnus carries him through the portal.
And it’s infuriating, how Magnus can feel the magic swirling in his veins but he can’t seem to summon it. He can feel the sparks crackling behind his fingertips, but nothing can bring it to life.
He’s a little weak, too; dizzy, unsteady on his feet. Every once in awhile his vision tunnels and all that keeps him from staggering to a halt is the weight of a body in his arms, the determination he has to heal Alec and bring him home.
There had been so many to kill, and fighting himself thin was probably a bad idea. Trying to heal Alec on dark cobblestone pavement with adrenaline still pumping in his veins definitely didn’t help. But the last straw, perhaps, was summoning a portal for himself and Isabelle to step through.
(And the one thought in his mind, all this time, is this: it’s Christmas soon. We’re supposed to be preparing, celebrating it together. There was never any rooms in the plans for Alec to bleed half to death on their couch.)
He can hear Isabelle on the phone behind him as he half-stumbles into the bedroom, but he can’t exactly get himself to focus on the words. When he lays Alec down on the comforter and ignores the small painful exhale he produces as a result, he hears the click of a door, the whir of a portal. Just as he pulls up a chair next to the bed and clicks his fingers twice, getting the blue magic flowing in his fingertips, weak and unreliable as it is right now, he’s practically hoisted from his seat.
It makes him dizzy, and he trips over his feet as he tries to stand. The same pair of hands grip at his shoulder and tip him down into an armchair in the corner of the room.
Once his vision clears, he droops in the armchair with a sigh, and looks up. He meets Luke’s eyes, concerned where he has ducked down into a crouch.
‘You need to rest,’ Luke says, gentle and persuasive.
Still, Magnus is as stubbornly heroic as ever, and goes to push himself up into a stand once again. He doesn’t make it very far—partly because of Luke’s forceful hands, but mostly because of his lack of balance.
Just as he settles back down, Isabelle strolls through the door. She’s talking, again, but it’s not to either of them.
Catarina follows close behind, a small medical bag over her shoulder, concern worrying her brow. Her eyes dart to Alec on the bed, then to Magnus where he sits, and she rolls them with aggravation.
‘Ridiculous,’ she mutters, just loud enough for Magnus to hear as she settles in the wooden chair and pulls out some vials. ‘You self-sacrificing, overworking—’
But she doesn’t finish, and only sighs as she begins to work, magic pouring over each of Alec’s wounds as they begin to stitch back together.
‘Are you injured?’ Cat asks. She doesn’t look at anyone in particular but everyone knows who she’s talking to.
Magnus shakes his head, and then coughs into his hand. It makes his head throb, and he squeezes his eyes shut at the sensation.
‘No, I’m alright,’ he says, and after a pause— ‘Let me help you. He needs my strength.’
‘You’re useless to him, right now,’ Cat sighs, and Magnus finds himself pouting. ‘You need rest, just as Alec does.’
‘I’ll rest once he’s stable,’ Magnus mutters, even though Alec’s wounds aren’t even bleeding anymore, and he has no reason to be awake.
Cat grumbles something under her breath, and then glances up at Isabelle. ‘What happened out there, tonight?’
‘Wraith demons,’ she says, and then begins to speak in a quiet voice that Magnus can’t hear. Cats eyes dart over to him once, quick and barely noticeable.
Still, he knows exactly what Isabelle is telling her. He knows it by the shakiness of his body, the power surging somewhere inside of him that he’s currently unable to use. He knows it by the memory of too much noise, and then none at all.
He hates when it happens. He hates that in the last few decades it has become so regular.
Luke eases away from him, now; the hands on his shoulders disappear, and he says something quiet to Cat before stepping out into the living room.
(They all spare him these small, concerned looks as they pass. He’s grateful, of course, but it’s not like this is the first occurrence. Cat has been around a few times, when everything had gotten too much and his power couldn’t be contained. Luke has been there, too, once or twice.
It’s Isabelle’s first sight, though. Alec wasn’t even conscious for it.
He can’t even decide if he’s glad Alec missed it, or not. He can’t decide if he’s still scared that he’ll drive Alec away.)
And because of this experience, for the memories of it, even his thorough exhaustion can’t put him to sleep. He decides to watch Cat work from behind drooping eyelids, instead. He knows she can see him, and is half glad that he’s being ignored.
He clears his throat, an awkward thing. ‘How—’
‘He’ll live,’ Cat snaps, with less anger and more annoyance. Her bloodied hands freeze where she works, and when the veil of magic momentarily stifles, she sighs and looks his way. ‘He’ll be fine. Isabelle used an iratze on him before I got here, and you exhausted yourself to try and close the wounds. It helped a little.’
She gives him a smile when he sighs in relief, slumps down a little further in his chair, and a nap begins to sound appealing.
‘He’ll have some bruising on his back, too. He’ll be better after a few days rest, but it’s a miracle he doesn’t have a concussion,’ Cat murmurs, and starts back to work, reaching into the bag beside her feet for some wipes and disinfectant. By the lack of response from Alec when she begins to clean his wounds—by hand, he notices, which leaves a strange feeling in his chest—Magnus assumes that Cat has sufficiently put Alec under, with no chance of waking.
Magnus doesn’t know exactly what to say, and he nods as he pushes himself up in his seat. Luke and Isabelle chat in the living room, and he hears the front door open.
‘Shadowhunters have never been careful,’ Cat near-whispers, ‘but I thought your man knew better.’
‘He was called in late,’ Magnus argues, but he knows the recklessness that takes over Alec on the worst of days, so he doesn’t say much else.
Cat huffs at that, amused. ‘And he dragged you along, too, I assume.’
‘I volunteered. I wanted him home, safe.’
Cat nods toward Alec’s still figure on the bed. ‘For some reason, I don’t think that worked out.’
It goes silent, and Magnus stays content with watching Cat work. After a few more minutes, she rubs her hands together, and stands from the chair. She grabs her bag, and steps toward the door. ‘I know you’re going to stay with him, so I’ll leave you two alone.’
‘Are you and Luke staying?’ Magnus asks, and he rises, too, slumping toward the bed.
Cat smiles, a hand on the doorknob. ‘We will be here until you tell us to go.’
And as the door closes behind her, Magnus sits on the edge of bed.
There’s blood on the covers, and Alec smells of cold city air and disinfectant. With a curl of his wrist, Magnus conjures the blood away. It leaves him lightheaded. He lies down, and within seconds, he’s out.
—
He hears Alec scream.
And it’s not something of fright, or shock, no. It’s something of pain, and Magnus discovers his legs are moving as he’s halfway across the courtyard, and when he turns the corner Isabelle has her whip around a wraith demon’s neck and is throwing it about like it weighs nothing. His eyes linger there, for a moment.
But then he catches the beginning of tears in her eyes, glowing in the soft light, and he spots the figure slumped against a crumbling brick wall, breath laboured with a hand wrapped around their torso, head ducked like they don’t have the strength to keep it up.
And then…he can’t seem to move. He feels his palms burning hot, and he sees the scene around him. Isabelle’s killing a wraith demon on her own and Alec’s bleeding onto the cobblestone pavement but he can’t make himself move.
But he needs to. He needs to help, do something. He feels some kind of terror mix in with the anger until he could collapse from it.
He only notices the three other wraith demons swirling in the sky when they swoop down to Isabelle’s height, and she’s backing up toward Magnus, whip in hand, but it won’t be enough—
Everything gets a little too bright, then. A little bright, a little loud, and he feels like he’s burning. But then the light fades, a gradual thing, and he’s still standing where he is.
Except those same wraith demons are ash on the floor, and he’s blown out every window on the next three blocks and turned half the buildings to dust, too, and Isabelle’s watching him with something shocked. He’s clenching and unclenching his hands to get rid of the sparks still flying from them.
‘Isabelle—’ he begins, but his voice feels raw and difficult to use. She simply shakes her head, and retreats to Alec’s side.
Magnus goes to follow her—
‘Dear son, you’ve grown,’ a voice murmurs from behind him, fond. He freezes where he stands. ‘You’re wiser, with your years. I can tell.’
Magnus turns to see Asmodeus, hands clasped loosely behind his back, wearing a faint smile.
Magnus tries to copy him, to act as confidence in the moment as he wishes to feel, but his hands aren’t with the program, and the smallest shards of light shoot from his palms even as his energy begins to run dry. He’s shaking with the adrenaline, with the relief of the moment just passed, but it could easily be seen as fear.
Asmodeus notices this; he takes in Magnus’ half-trembling form with an amused tilt of his eyebrow, taking a step forward. ‘There it is. There’s that fire I always knew you possessed.’
Magnus bristles, drags in a shallow breath and keeps his voice low. ‘It was necessary—’
‘Was it?’ Asmodeus hums, and shrugs. ‘I didn’t realize freedom needed to be forced.’
Magnus ignores his leering, and crosses his arms. ‘What is this?’
‘A dream, I presume,’ Asmodeus says, looking around the street and up at the sky before fixing Magnus with an accusatory smirk. ‘Or…is it a memory?’
‘Why are you here?’ Magnus snaps.
‘Can I not visit you? Ask how you are?’ Asmodeus asks, stepping closer. He looks down at the dying sparks on the ground, the crumbling walls and blood spilled. He glances at Alec. ‘Ask why you hide away your power until a Shadowhunter takes a fall?’
‘Stay out of my business.’
‘Oh, but I’m your father. I can do as I please.’ Asmodeus does a slow circle around Magnus, then, trailing over toward where Alec is crumpled on the pavement. He sighs. ‘A Lightwood? For shame, my son, has memory betrayed you?’
‘Past battles are not present ones,’ Magnus mutters, and thinks of the battles previously fought; thinks of Lightwoods lined up with preferred weapons in hand, aimed and ready to fire, spaces on walls at home prepared for warlock marks and fangs to hang as prizes.
‘Yet they affect us, all the same.’ Asmodeus’ eyes drift down to the floor again, and he watches Isabelle where she tends to Alec on the pavement. She hasn’t looked up, yet, and Magnus steps closer.
Asmodeus whips around, like he’d forgotten Magnus was there. ‘They cannot see me, by the way. It’s just you and I, for now.’
Magnus steps in front of Asmodeus, again, like his presence is a barrier to stop him from passing. ‘What do you want?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Asmodeus breathes, but he’s smiling something sinister. ‘Can we not converse?’
Magnus shakes his head, because he knows how these things always go. He knows innocence is nothing, anymore. Actions aren’t without consequence. ‘Not without an underlying cause.’
‘So wise,’ Asmodeus says, voice filled with feigned pride. ‘The world has taught you well. But I feel as though your power could be more useful elsewhere.’
And this— this is what Magnus has been waiting for. The always-looming threat, the unspoken argument. ‘No.’
‘Home, my son,’ Asmodeus sighs, as easy as breathing. ‘It’s where you belong.’
‘I belong wherever I see fit.’
‘Your power is wasted on these mortals, these murderers. You could rule.’
‘And if I don’t want to?’
And the air almost turns to ice. The moment stops, frozen in place, and the two simply stare at each other as if the simple action could have centuries of distrust and anger slip away between them.
‘Then I don’t understand what it is you want in the first place,’ Asmodeus murmurs, and he’s angry, trying and failing to conceal it. ‘For someone who has seen so much, you know so little about belonging. You’ve lived a dozen lives yet never found a home.’
Magnus clenches his fists, then, tilting his head. ‘And my home is where? With you?’
‘The blood in your veins does not lie,’ Asmodeus says. ‘The power you wield will only stay at bay for so long, here. The potential that you’re wasting—’
‘Blood isn’t everything.’
‘Oh, so that’s the lie you’re living,’ Asmodeus says, nodding with disgust. He throws out a hand toward Alec and Isabelle at the wall, angry fingers curling in their direction, yet doing no harm. ‘What, as if that Lightwood boy isn’t born from a family who murdered your kind for sport? As if you’re not associating yourself with angelic beings who look down on you and shout monster?’
‘There are real monsters out there that we’re fighting,’ Magnus murmurs, almost growling the words, pointing toward the ground las if to prove something.
But Asmodeus stops, then. He tilts his head in thought, and then begins to smile.
‘Ah…I see you’ve discovered Lilith. Her son,’ he says, amused. ‘The two of them are something else, aren’t they?’
‘They need to be stopped.’
‘And I suppose you and your angels plan to do that?’ Asmodeus steps toward Magnus, then, still grinning. ‘You plan to defeat them without showcasing who you really are?’
And at that, Magnus pauses, looks away, and it plants the seed of doubt Asmodeus needs. ‘If they saw it, they’d understand. All of them.’
Asmodeus hums, tipping his head toward Magnus. ‘So then why are you hiding it?’
And Magnus can’t answer that. He doesn’t know how to.
But he doesn’t get the opportunity, because then a new voice cuts through the relative silence. He looks toward it and Isabelle’s there, kneeling on bloodstained pavement and looking at him, shouting, gripping Alec’s sides with shaky hands.
And for a shocked moment, reality comes back to him, and he gasps with shock.
‘Oh, would you look at that,’ Asmodeus murmurs, looking at the two. He smiles, as if he’s glad. ‘He’s bleeding out.’
Everything comes rushing toward Magnus at once, and he moves to run, but it’s as if his feet are planted in the tarmac he stands on. He feels like he’s sinking, even though nothing much happens at all.
All he can do is watch as Isabelle takes her stele, goes over Alec’s iratze, and lets out a cry of exasperation when things only seem to get worse.
He tries to move again, but to no avail, and Asmodeus laughs at the scene. Magnus’ hands spark with light but it only shoots into the ground, orange-red and wavering.
‘So weak, mortals are,’ Asmodeus says, and sighs. ‘You’d think they’d leave the fighting up to us.’
‘Let me help him,’ Magnus growls, the last thing he can make himself do.
Asmodeus scoffs. ‘Why? He’s nothing to you. Give it some time and he’ll be another face in passing.’
‘Let me go.’
And then he hears it—
‘Magnus—’
The quietest murmur, barely audible, and then Alec starts coughing, choking, curling in on himself as Isabelle grabs his shoulders and murmurs reassurances.
‘Fine,’ Asmodeus sighs, a burdened thing, and flicks his wrist. Magnus nearly stumbles over his feet as he tips forward and begins to move.
He’s about to run, when he hears it. ‘Child.’
He turns. Asmodeus grins at him in the moonlight, magic sparking from his fingertips as a demonstration of power and not much else.
‘There’s a war coming,’ Asmodeus says. ‘I trust that you can choose the winning side.’
Magnus makes it to Alec on weak legs, and Asmodeus is already gone.
—
Magnus wakes with a startle. He probably would have fallen off the bed if there wasn’t an arm around him, holding him close, moving with him. He feels the covers under him, the either side of him cold. He hears breathing; his own, and someone else’s.
Alec. Of course. Magnus fell asleep, here, with Alec newly-healed beside him, with his own magic drained, with Isabelle, Cat and Luke next door.
And now he’s breathing heavily, propped up on one elbow, Alec shifting behind him with an arm curled over his waist.
‘Magnus?’ Alec whispers, hoarse, moving closer until he can press into Magnus’ neck. ‘You okay?’
And Magnus almost laughs at that, at how funny it is that Alec could’ve died last night, yet is asking Magnus about his wellbeing.
(He takes a moment to differentiate dream from reality, yet can’t exactly stay away from the thought that Asmodeus found his unconsciousness, last night. And he knows that it could just be him dwelling on past memories of power, but it felt so real, sounded so much like him, that he just can’t keep from the thought.
He’ll explain it all to Alec soon, when the moment arises. Not now, when he’s barely awake and more concerned about Magnus than he should be.)
So Magnus does laugh, a small breathy thing, and gently rolls over. He finds Alec with half-drooping eyes and a kind smile, fixed on him.
‘I should be asking you that,’ Magnus murmurs, and reaches out to cup his chin, brush along his jaw. ‘How do you feel?’
Alec shrugs. ‘Sore. Kind of tired. Did you—?’
‘Catarina,’ Magnus says, and Alec smiles. ‘I think she’d like to know that you didn’t die on her during the night, so I should probably tell her.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Alec says. ‘I woke up an hour ago, and she came in to check on me. She said you were a ridiculous, lovestruck, stubborn man, and then left.’
Magnus laughs at that.
‘I’m sorry for dragging you out on patrol two days before Christmas,’ Alec says.
Magnus hums. ‘I’m sorry for letting you get injured two days before Christmas.’
‘Hey, c’mon,’ Alec murmurs, and begins to rub up and down Magnus’ side. ‘That wasn’t your fault.’
And Magnus almost retaliates, but finds no point in doing so. All he can think about is the dream, the way Alec had died in Magnus’ arms with his blood pooling on the ground, the way Asmodeus held him in place while Isabelle shouted for him and Alec choked on half-formed apologies, like any of it was his fault—
‘Magnus,’ Alec says, and reaches down to grab Magnus’ free hand, linking their fingers together. ‘Are you okay?’
Magnus smiles at that, but it’s a small, forced thing—he’s happy, sure, but not about this. Not about his father talking about war, about a home that’s never been his. ‘Bad dream.’
‘Want to talk about it?’ Alec asks.
‘It’s okay,’ Magnus says, and then shrugs. ‘I think I’d like some breakfast, though. You?’
‘I could go for food,’ Alec grins, and then turns over, begins to sit up with the smallest groan, disguised as a breath. His hand moves to his side.
‘No, no, Cat said bed rest,’ Magnus says, grabbing at Alec’s shoulder, ‘at least for today. Indulge me, Alexander.’
Alec rolls his eyes. ‘It’s Christmas Eve. I’m not wasting the day in bed when I can walk just fine.’
‘Stubborn,’ Magnus grumbles, and rolls to sit up, planting his feet on the floor at his side. Within seconds he hears sheets rustling and then Alec is there, wound around him, legs tucked beneath him, arms around Magnus’ waist, mouth pressed to his neck. Magnus smiles, and Alec sees it.
‘You sure you’re okay?’ Alec asks, for the final time, the smallest kiss pressed into Magnus’ skin.
‘Wonderful, now that you’re healed,’ Magnus says, and he will tell Alec someday. Someday soon, once the snow has stopped falling and merriment is driven from the air.
They make pancakes together in the kitchen, and he finds himself pressing careful hands to the bruised skin of Alec’s back as he passes. They talk about nothing and start laughing until they can’t seem to stop. They kiss, and Magnus presses a hand over the fresh scars on Alec’s chest as he does so, moving with just a hint of desperation and the whirl of pale blue magic in the air.
If Alec notices, he doesn’t say anything—just holds Magnus a little closer and promises he’ll always be fine.
Every time I see you've updated OPP everything gets dropped to read it. Like, I got out of my finals and to my car, saw the update email and proceeded to spend the next 15/20 minutes just sitting in my car in the parking lot reading. It's brilliant💕
Oh my goodness. Thank you! I’m glad I had good enough timing to offer some post-finals relief. I hope they went well for you!
the last book that i added to my amazon wish list was...”We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families: stories from Rwanda” by Phlip Gourevitch
12. Political or Comedic memiors
Political, unless I want to read something lighter
17. If you owned a bookshop what would you call it?
I suck at naming things. Something corny, Kramer’s (my last name) Korner or Kramer’s книги (Russian word for books)
24. Do you prefer to buy books online or in a bookshop?
reignofdreams replied to your post:Me: watching people freak out over how good the...
I’ll never understand how people are surprised. Like they’ve been kicking ass all year? And the years before?? How is it you only notice now?? Smh. I'ma just sit here recovering from the stress that comes with big competitions. ��
Haha I don’t get it either! But I guess there are those who just truly tune out all sports that aren’t football or basketball or baseball unless it’s an Olympic year. And I feel you, I’ve been watching gymnastics literally all day. Detoxing on Friends now.
