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Maryse imagines that there aren’t many people in the world who have seen the High Warlock of Brooklyn completely nonplussed, and now she can count herself as one of them. Early sunlight streams in through the window at the end of the hall, and her hand is still raised to knock on the door, and Magnus Bane is standing in the entrance of his loft in an embroidered silk dressing robe, magic sparking from his fingertips, blinking at her as if she’s a visitor from another planet.
It’s just for a moment, though, before an expression of polite geniality drops over his features like a mask. He snaps his fingers, banishing the flicker of magic, and says, very pleasantly, “Maryse. What an… unexpected pleasure. How can I help you?”
“I,” she begins, then stops, gripping the strap of her handbag so tightly that her knuckles crack. She’s been thinking about how to approach this the entire way over, but now that she’s here the words don’t want to come. “I was hoping we could--may I come in?”
“Of course,” Magnus says, after a hesitation so brief that she almost doesn’t notice it, and moves aside to let her pass. His wards wash over her in a prickling wave as she steps over the threshold, and she doesn’t quite manage to hide her flinch. They were lowered last night for the party, but now this place is once again every inch the High Warlock’s lair, and his magic is still stinging on her skin. It unnerves her on some visceral level, decades of training whispering that she isn’t safe here, that this man--this half-demon in the shape of a man--is dangerous and can’t be trusted. Her fingers actually twitch for her hidden seraph blade before she can stop herself.
That isn’t what she’s here for. Not at all.
When she looks up, Magnus is watching her calmly. Something about that look makes her feel flayed open and exposed, reminds her abruptly of how very old he really is under his blithe, eccentric exterior. She wonders how Alec stands it, although Magnus probably doesn’t usually look at Alec the way he’s looking at Maryse now. Like she’s a specimen on a pin, and a disappointing one at that. She supposes she can’t blame him.
She clears her throat, looks away. There’s no sign of last night’s catastrophe in here now; the detritus of the festivities and the warlock battle alike has been cleared away and the furniture is arranged in intimate conversational settings, the drapes open to the morning light and a spectacular view of the waterfront. It’s all very luxurious, of course, but it’s not quite the lair of debauchery that Maryse was still, on some level, expecting. It looks like the very nice New York City loft of a wealthy man with impeccable taste, and nothing more.
“You have a lovely home,” she offers.
“Thank you,” Magnus says in that same unreadable tone. “What can I do for you, Maryse? If you’re looking for Jace—”
“He’s at the Institute, I know,” she interrupts. “He and Isabelle are with the team running down leads on Rouse.”
Magnus nods, unperturbed. “I wasn’t sure if you had spoken to him yet.”
“I haven’t,” Maryse says, then snaps her mouth shut. She can’t bring herself to talk about Jace. Not now, not with Magnus Bane. Not after everything that’s happened. “I didn’t--that’s not why I came here.”
“I see.” He tilts his chin, something in his expression shifting. Becoming thoughtful. “Why did you come here?”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“Ah. If it’s not about Jace, then I imagine it’s about Alec.”
With an effort, she lets go of the strap of her bag, straightens, clasps her hands behind her back. Steadying herself the best way she knows how. “Yes.”
Magnus contemplates her for a moment. “I hope you understand that I have no intention of betraying any confidences.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Maryse retorts, stung.
“I’m glad to hear that. So.” He spreads his hands. “Since we appear to be on the same page, what did you want to talk about?”
And that’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the thing she’s been trying to put into words the entire way over here, that nauseating twist of horror and relief at seeing Alec collapsed on the balcony outside last night with Magnus leaning grimly over him, the Fairchild girl’s frantic babbling coalescing into one meaningful phrase that’s been echoing through her mind ever since: he tried to jump, he tried to jump, he tried to jump.
He tried, and Magnus was the one who caught him.
The gratitude tastes bitter on the back of her tongue, and she doesn’t know how to put it into words. Especially not now, standing in the sun-filled loft in front of Magnus Bane, who even barefoot in a dressing gown looks every inch the otherworldly, intimidating High Warlock. Last night, kneeling over Alec on the balcony, he was desperate and gentle and worried in a way that fractured something inside of her to see, but there’s no sign of that now.
She doesn’t know how long they both stare at each other before a door creaks open somewhere in the loft, breaking their awkward standoff. Maryse glances toward the sound, then back at Magnus in time to catch the faint flicker of unease on his face. It’s enough to make her suddenly aware of who those soft footsteps must belong to, but that doesn’t quite prepare her for the sight of Alec wandering out of what must be Magnus’s bedroom, barefoot and shirtless with his hair sticking up in every direction, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Magnus,” he yawns as he comes into the room. “I heard you get up, did something—”
He breaks off abruptly when he catches sight of Maryse. She doesn’t know what her face is doing, but Alec’s expression turns from sleepy and soft to flatly wary in the blink of an eye. His posture shifts, his shoulders straightening.
“Mom,” he says, very neutrally.
Maryse twists her wedding ring on her finger, an old nervous habit that does nothing to soothe her now. He spent the night here. Of course he did. He’s a twenty-three year old man, and Magnus is, as he has repeatedly, pointedly reminded her, his boyfriend. She just. She hadn’t thought that things were quite at this stage yet, and there’s something so very unexpected about how he looks in his messy hair and ratty sweatpants, standing in the middle of a warlock’s den like he belongs here. Like he’s comfortable here, or at least like he was until Maryse barged in.
She has a sudden visceral flash of memory: Alec, no more than two years old and probably not even that, clinging to her leg after she got in from a mission and babbling, “Up, Mama, up, up!”
The memory of lifting him onto her hip and pressing a distracted kiss to the top of his head and breathing in the smell of his skin and soft fine hair, his small sticky hands curling into her shirt, and how exactly did this happen? How did Alec turn from that little boy to the stone-faced young man who’s standing in front of her like he’s braced for a blow?
How did Maryse turn into a woman whose children need to steel themselves to speak to her?
She takes a careful breath, and smiles. “Alec. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”
His mouth twists, then flattens. “Is that a problem?”
“Of course not,” she says quickly. Her hands twist behind her back.
Magnus clears his throat, suddenly. Loudly. “Well. In any case, I think this unexpected family reunion could use some refreshments. Maryse, how do you take your coffee?”
“Oh,” she says, startled. “That won’t be--”
“Black, three sugars,” Alec interrupts, moving past her toward the kitchen. She still can’t read his tone, but Magnus’s face does something complicated that indicates that whatever Alec was just trying to communicate, he got the message loud and clear. He sighs, and reaches out as Alec passes, cupping his cheek and drawing him down into a kiss.
It’s brief, soft and chaste, a familiar Saturday morning kind of kiss, but by the look Alec cuts her when he pulls back, there’s no doubt that it was at least halfway for her benefit. She meets his eyes and doesn’t allow her expression to change. It’s easier than she expects.
“Could you see if we have any eggs, darling?” Magnus asks quietly, stroking a thumb soothingly over Alec’s cheek before letting him go. “And perhaps—”
“Yeah, yeah, pancetta, I know,” Alec says, his mouth curling into a smile, and when he kisses Magnus again there’s something much less calculated about it. “Like you’re not just going to summon everything from the deli downstairs anyway.”
“Oh, you know me too well. Anyway, I compensate Mrs. Nassar handsomely for the missing stock.”
“You’re totally messing up her inventory. Which I know, because I had to sit through a ten-minute lecture about it the last time I went in there for a sandwich.”
“Ah. I do apologize, Alexander. I’ll speak to her.”
“Just stop stealing her stuff, and we’ll call it even.”
“It’s not stealing, it’s--oh, never mind.” Magnus waves a hand airily, dismissing the subject. “Have you eaten yet this morning, Maryse?”
She blinks. For a moment, it seemed as though they’d both forgotten she was here. “Oh. I. No, but please don’t feel obligated.”
“Nonsense. I won’t have word getting out to the Clave that I’m remiss in my hospitality.” Magnus gives her a smile that isn’t entirely friendly. “Omelette?”
“Thank you, that would be—”
“She doesn’t like eggs,” Alec interjects, leaning into the fridge. He takes a carton of eggs out, a block of cheese, a small plastic container of something green. Sets them on the counter without looking at Maryse.
“Of course,” Magnus says smoothly, but his mouth twitches a little, like he’s amused. Like he’s charmed by watching Alec pretend he’s never had an etiquette lesson in his life. Maybe he is. Probably he is, considering that Maryse is the target of it. “Well, I’m sure we can come up with something. Maryse, please feel free to have a seat.”
A chair at the cozy breakfast nook slides out invitingly, and after a hesitation she drops into it. Magnus flicks his fingers in her direction, and a steaming mug of coffee appears in front of her in a puff of blue magic that stings her hands when she picks it up. Even so, the heat that bleeds through her palms is welcome, and the coffee smells fantastic. When she sips at it tentatively, it’s the perfect combination of sweet and rich and bitter, and the much-needed caffeine hums down her veins, as bracing as the stamina rune she already activated this morning.
She didn’t sleep much last night.
She hasn’t been sleeping well in a long time, really. Years. But last night was… something else. She still feels fragile and raw, and she can’t quite make herself look away from Alec, moving comfortably around the kitchen in his messy hair and his sleep-soft sweatpants. Her firstborn, her baby boy, her perfect soldier who tried to throw himself off a balcony last night.
Maryse breathes in slowly, swallows around the tightness in her throat.
When the spell finally lifted and Alec’s eyes blinked open he looked, for a moment, terribly lost and terribly young in a way that made her want to stoop down beside him and gather him into her arms like he was still a child and she was the sort of mother who did things like that.
And then he looked past her at Magnus Bane. He let the warlock help him to his feet; he leaned his weight against the man, pushed his face into his shoulder, Magnus’s beringed fingers carding through his hair while Maryse hung back with the Fairchild girl, completely useless. Just a moment of comfort, and then he straightened up, squared his shoulders, became once again the soldier she raised him to be.
A pan clatters in the kitchen, dragging her attention back to the present.
“--think we have enough mix,” Alec is saying, leaning down to peer into the cupboard.
“Alexander, really. I’m not serving pancakes from a box mix to guests in my home. We’ll just--” Magnus breaks off as Alec catches his fingers, stilling his magic with an easy fearlessness that almost makes Maryse wince to see. Like he doesn’t realize that the power in that warlock’s hands could burn him to ashes as easily as breathing, which is of course ridiculous.
Alec knows full well what Magnus Bane is capable of, after all. He just trusts the man not to hurt him.
“No stealing,” he says. “Go sit down. I’ll make breakfast.”
“You’re very bossy,” Magnus says, but he sounds pleased.
“There’s no way you’re surprised by that, now go sit down,” Alec retorts. There’s an oddly shy little smile on his face, at odds with his words. He curls a hand briefly over Magnus’s hip as he passes, a gesture so unconsciously affectionate that it catches at Maryse’s heart, sharp and startled.
She doesn’t ever see them like this. Other than that first outrageous (brave, she thinks) kiss in the middle of Alec’s aborted wedding, the two of them have presented a chastely courteous, if united, front. At least around her. It’s half the reason she’s sometimes wondered if all of this isn’t just about Alec making a point, some kind of elaborate political rebellion that Magnus is facilitating for his own opaque reasons.
Looking at them now, though, she knows that it’s not. They move around each other like they’re used to touching, used to being in each other’s space. Alec isn’t this casually tactile with anyone other than his siblings; she wonders if Magnus Bane understands what that means. What kind of power he holds over her son.
Watching his face as he slips away from Alec’s hands and heads back toward the table, she thinks that maybe he does. He looks… soft, in a way that she never would have expected him to look, and this time the expression doesn’t completely fade when he sits down on the opposite side of the table, conjuring his own cup of coffee in a flash of blue.
It’s that softness that helps her find the words at last.
“I wanted to thank you,” she says quietly. “That’s why I came.”
“Oh, no thanks are necessary. It was my pleasure. Although,” Magnus adds lightly, tapping one blue-lacquered nail against the side of his cup, “clearly my security measures will have to be updated before I attempt another event like that.”
“Not for the party,” she says, and by the stove Alec goes still, his back to them, spatula clutched in one hand. She hadn’t intended to have this conversation with him here, but maybe it’s better that way. Maybe this is something he needs to hear from her as well.
Magnus stills as well. “Ah.”
“Of course I’m grateful for your hospitality as well,” she adds quickly. “And I--apologize for my rudeness, and for Max—”
“Maryse,” Magnus interrupts. His voice is gentle; gentler than she’s ever heard it. His fingers rattle on the tabletop for a moment, and then he reaches over to pat the back of her hand. Some part of her expects to feel the sting of magic again, but it’s just skin, warm and ordinary. “I understand. It’s alright.”
“It’s not,” she says, “but that’s not why I--I wanted to thank you for taking care of Alec. For being there for him when he needed someone. For--” She glances back at Alec again. He’s poking at the griddle, apparently oblivious to what they’re saying, but his head is tilted like he’s listening. “For taking care of him last night. He deserves to have that.”
It’s not everything she wants to say, but it’s enough, she thinks, to get her point across.
“Of course,” Magnus says softly. He squeezes her hand, just a little, an anchoring kind of pressure. “And yes. He does.”
“Thank you,” Maryse whispers again, and she blinks hard, realizes suddenly that the wavering in her vision isn’t exhaustion but unshed tears. She retrieves her hand and wipes her eyes carefully, belatedly embarrassed, and when she glances back at the kitchen, Alec has given up all pretense that he’s not listening. Instead, he’s leaning against the counter and staring at her with an expression she doesn’t think she’s seen on his face since he was a child, one that makes him look young, like the little boy she used to carry on her hip is peering out from under that cool shadowhunter mask.
She doesn’t know how long they stare at each other like that before something pops in the pan. Alec jumps slightly, turning back to the stove and clearing his throat.
“Pancakes will be ready in a few minutes,” he says. “Magnus, could you—”
“Of course,” Magnus says, and claps his hands; a moment later, the table is set with gleaming porcelain and polished silver, berries and cut fruit piled high in bowls, three different kinds of syrup in crystal decanters.
“I thought you weren’t stealing anything,” Maryse says before she can stop herself, before she can remember that Magnus is not someone she has any right to tease. They aren’t there yet. They may never be.
He smiles at her, though. A real smile, one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Believe it or not, this was all in the pantry.”
“Yeah,” Alec interjects from the kitchen. He’s smiling too, just a little, as he flips a pancake neatly on the griddle. He’s a fairly hopeless cook in general, but he’s always been good at breakfast foods. He used to make waffles for Izzy and Jace back at the Institute, when they all lived together as a family. She hasn’t thought of that in years. “He likes to upstage me.”
“Not at all,” Magnus says. “I just believe in the proper presentation of a good meal.”
“Right,” Alec snorts, and turns back to the stove. Maryse curls her hands around her coffee cup and watches them bicker comfortably, feeling the awful tightness in her chest begin to loosen. She could leave now; she’s said her piece, after all. But Magnus left a place setting in front of her and the stack of pancakes that Alec is piling up is too much for two people even if one of them is a twenty-three year-old active-duty shadowhunter, and the way he looks at her when he brings it to the table is… tentative. Hopeful, almost.
It’s not absolution, she thinks. But it’s a start.