Chapter Text
Alec threads his way through the masses of people writhing in time to the pulsing music of Pandemonium’s resident DJ, carefully avoiding the densest clusters as he moves towards the stairs leading to the VIP platform.
The platform is artfully placed so that the rich leather couch Magnus uses as his throne can oversee the entirety of his club. The seats around it are placed slightly lower and are carefully arranged so that even with each one occupied with Downworld supplicants, Magnus’s view of Pandemonium is never blocked. And neither is Pandemonium’s view of him.
Magnus smiles when he sees Alec picking his way up the steps to his platform, the nephilim nodding in greeting at the stony-faced guard at the bottom of the VIP entrance. His Shadowhunter is obviously fresh off patrol; his face and hands have been scrubbed clean, but he’s still fully armed with scuffs on his heavy boots and what Magnus suspects are a few drops of either ichor or blood on his left thigh holster.
The pack alpha and coven leader from Staten Island break off their explanation as Magnus stands, gesturing at Henry and Vincent that he’ll only be a moment.
“Alexander,” Magnus greets, pleasure at Alec’s surprise appearance evident in the sudden warmth of his voice. “I had no idea you were planning to come by tonight.”
Alec’s eyes are fixed on Magnus’s face as he comes to a stop barely a step away, his smile loose and soft. The obvious adoration for their High Warlock set against the sharp lines of his weapons and mission leathers is an odd contrast for the nearby Downworlders to witness.
“I wasn’t planning on it, but we finished off patrol a little early just a few blocks from here.” Alec’s hands twitch oddly as though he can’t decide whether to reach out towards his lover or settle into his default parade rest. Finally, Alec reaches out a single hand to stroke tentatively at Magnus’s sleeve, gentle enough to barely rustle the fabric.
Magnus smiles and twists his wrist just enough to grip Alec’s hand in a tender squeeze for a moment, Alec tightening his hold in return.
“I figured you were probably working tonight, but I thought I could at least stop by to say I love you before heading back to the Institute.”
And Magnus is helplessly charmed at Alec’s blunt sincerity, at his clear intention to just make sure Magnus knows how much Alec loves him before he leaves. No demands to interrupt Magnus’s duties to make time for him. No subtle guilt that on Alec’s one early patrol this week Magnus can’t make time for him, but needs to hold court at Pandemonium. Just love.
Swallowing down the barest hint of a tightness in his throat, Magnus brings up his hand to curl it into the black cotton of Alec’s T-shirt right where it’s peeking out from the leather jacket at his collar. Tugging his boyfriend down with his hold, Magnus wraps his other hand around the back of Alec’s neck and uses it to guide Alec right where he wants him.
As always, Alec goes easily wherever Magnus leads him and he presses his lips chastely to Magnus’s, closing his eyes in pleasure when the warlock almost immediately deepens the kiss. Magnus grins and deliberately tightens the grip he has on the back of Alec’s neck, licking greedily into the nephilim’s open mouth as Alec moans in pleased reaction.
When Magnus eventually pulls back, Alec’s lips stay parted, his entire body following Magnus dazedly, magnetized, until he comes back to himself, pulling back upright with a blush staining his cheeks. Magnus’s smile is sweet in return.
Magnus knows it isn’t proper. He knows having Alec sitting beside him as an equal while he holds court here will mean something to those assembled, but he finds himself uncaring. He doesn’t want to send his lover away.
Alexander has never and would never attempt to use anything he hears at Magnus’s side against the Downworld, and the thought of him attempting to influence one of Magnus’s decisions is so ludicrous as to be absurd. He will swear that in blood before the entirety of the Council of the Spiral Labyrinth if he must.
“Stay?” Magnus requests simply.
He can hear a rustling of clothing behind him as Henry and Vincent shift in displeasure, but they say nothing. A few of the nearby clubbers and attendants also look unhappy, but none would dare gainsay a Consular High Warlock, especially here at the seat of his power.
Alec’s brows raise just a hint. “I thought you were holding court?”
“I am.” Magnus offers no explanation. He wants Alexander at his side tonight and he’ll deal with any consequences of the unplanned accompaniment later.
Alec nods once slowly, his eyes searching Magnus’s for something, although he’s not sure what. Whatever it is, Alec clearly finds it because he nods a single time more, firmer this time, a smile growing on his face.
“I’d love to stay with you.”
Before Magnus can move them over to the leather couch, to his throne, Alec shrugs his shoulder to neatly slide his quiver and bow from his back. The sudden tension in the nearby Downworlders is a sharp flare at the back of Magnus’s head, likely obvious to Alec even without the benefit of Magnus’s own magical awareness of those sworn to him in the club.
Alec shifts his hands to move them away from the grips of his bow, carefully and without a single glance at those around them to indicate he noticed their wariness, pushing the weapon in front of him as though presenting it to Magnus. Magnus blinks in subtle confusion.
“I’m off duty for the night,” Alec begins evenly. “Would you mind putting my bow and my blade in one of your dimensional pockets until we get home?”
Magnus’s heart skips a beat in his chest and the tension in the Downworlders around them morphs into shock.
Shadowhunters do not disarm themselves, not ever, and especially not in Pandemonium where they are outnumbered by Downworlders and mundanes hundreds to one. More than that though, dimensional pockets are solely accessible by the warlock opening them- Alec’s weapons will be totally and completely inaccessible to him until Magnus chooses to give them back to him.
Alec continues to hold out his bow, waiting patiently.
Magnus takes in a careful breath and flicks his fingers in a practiced gesture to open up a shimmering gash in the air. Alec’s bow and quiver disappear inside and without even a flicker of unease, Alec uses his now empty hands to pull his main seraph blade from its holster and offers it to Magnus in the same way. It disappears as well and the shimmer closes.
Alec folds his arms loosely behind his back in a relaxed parade rest, the stance so ingrained in Alec’s muscles that Magnus despairs of ever breaking him from the habit. His gaze is still fixed calmly on Magnus though, his smile small and relaxed. The slight dip in the curve of his shoulders is a tell Magnus knows means he truly is at ease, comfortable even now, weaponless in the heart of the Downworld court so long as Magnus is there with him.
Magnus reaches out to curl his hand around Alec’s upper arm, lightly guiding the Shadowhunter to follow him over to the leather couch. The pair crosses the short distance, Alec a half-step behind Magnus so that Magnus can fall back easily into his spot on the couch’s far corner, spreading his arms out comfortably, his right resting on the overly large arm and his left draped across the tufted back.
Alec has always been careful to wait for Magnus’s invitation to sit with him in this particular seat at Pandemonium. Even if most of the Downworld’s exact customs are unknown to those sworn to the Clave, Alec is far too perceptive a leader to not at least be partially cognizant that a Shadowhunter sitting on what amounts to the High Warlock’s throne without explicit permission is unlikely to go well.
Alec is still standing just to the right of him, facing the couch at a slight angle, and Magnus gestures fondly for Alec to join him on the plush leather seat. Alec smiles at him softly, evenly, and Magnus is helpless against returning that smile just as fondly even though he usually keeps himself sharper-edged here at his court.
And then, keeping his lover’s gaze, Alec drops gracefully to his knees in front of Magnus and Magnus’s breath catches sharply in his throat. Alec, however, just stretches up a single hand and gently rubs a soothing thumb over Magnus’s velvet-clad knee as though in one action he hasn’t just overturned thousands of years of tradition and practice.
Magnus opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and it’s as though through a thick haze that Magnus hears a glass drop in the background. Vincent’s, he thinks idly. He feels a prickling in his eyes that he does his best to blink back, a sharp warmth indicating that his glamour has fallen.
How, in Lilith’s name, Magnus wonders, did Alexander find this out? He can think of very, very few warlocks that would be willing to discuss their world’s customs this in depth with a nephilim, and even fewer willing when in so doing they could be considered as criticizing not just a nephilim Institute Head, but also a Consular High Warlock for not adhering to them properly.
Alec’s gaze is adoring, as it always is when Magnus allows him to see his true eyes, and he answers Magnus’s unspoken question.
“I asked Ragnor out for coffee last week,” his voice is soft enough not to carry far, although Henry and Vincent can likely hear him. “You are frustratingly taciturn when it comes to what it means to be a Consular High Warlock, Magnus.”
Magnus’s sense of those he’s sworn to protect is tingling at the back of his mind as eye after eye turns up from the club floor, gaping at the sight of a Shadowhunter, the Head of the New York Institute, kneeling at the feet of their High Warlock.
Magnus knows Alec can feel their gaze on the back of his neck, his battle perception too sharp to ever allow him not to, but he just keeps smiling up at him anyways.
“Alexander,” is all Magnus is able to get past his choked throat.
Alec’s thumb strokes his thigh just above his knee again and he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to the inside of Magnus’s leg.
“I intend to be with you as long as you’ll have me, Magnus. For the rest of my life if possible.” And that gentle reminder that Alec’s forever isn’t Magnus’ forever is a gut-punch that burns through Magnus’ veins, but Alec is still speaking. “I intend to stay at your side, Magnus, and that means I need to know exactly what it means to be the,” he pauses for the barest of moments, “the lover,” and how Alec can proclaim his intention to be with Magnus until he dies with no hesitation, but can blush at calling himself his lover is beyond Magnus.
Alec swallows past the red flushing of his cheeks and starts again. “I needed to know exactly what it meant to be the lover of a Downworld clan leader and a Consular High Warlock, so I spoke to Ragnor. You have always respected my position as Head whenever it was needed if you were visiting the Institute outside of your own position, and I thought I was respecting yours here.”
Alec’s gaze turns inquisitive, but his thumb keeps stroking Magnus’s leg soothingly, gentling his question. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
Magnus had known that relatively few Downworld customs made it into the common knowledge of the Clave, but he hadn’t even considered requesting this one of Alec. For all the pretty words and titles their worlds use, asking Alec, a nephilim, an angel-blooded, to submit and kneel in front of the son of a Greater Demon?
Alec must see that answer in his eyes because he just presses yet another kiss to the side of Magnus’s knee.
“Magnus, I love you, and I have no problem in doing anything to show that, even if that means kneeling for you in the middle of Pandemonium. Granted, this isn’t really something that I ever expected to happen outside of a bedroom,” and Magnus suddenly realizes that Alec has definitely forgotten that Henry and Vincent and likely several others nearby can hear him, “but I have no problems in doing so if that’s how the partner of a Consular High Warlock shows their respect for that position to the Downworld.” Alec pauses and his lips twist wryly. “Especially given that I’m not exactly just a non-warlock partner.”
Magnus blinks his eyes again, helpless against tears at the magnitude of Alec’s devotion for him. Not able to get words past his lips, Magnus folds over nearly in half to press his forehead against the crown of Alec’s head. Gathering both of Alec’s strong, callused hands in his own shaking ones, Magnus closes his eyes and turns his head just enough to press his lips desperately into Alec’s hair. He breathes in the soft scent of his own sandalwood shampoo that Alec must have used at the loft that morning until his heart remembers how to beat again in its suddenly fragile cage.
When he can breathe without feeling the air drag harshly through his throat, Magnus sits up and leans back into his throne, eyes newly dry and one hand resting lightly on Alec’s head. Magnus gently finger-combs the dark strands as the nephilim deftly adjusts his position so he’s leaning back comfortably against Magnus’s left leg, sitting at the foot of his throne completely at ease, as though he’s done it a thousand times before.
Magnus’s voice is rough when he speaks, but he dares anyone to say something after his breathtaking, astounding, devoted angel has just defied every precept the Clave requires of their Shadowhunters and knelt in front of a warlock to pay respect to Downworld law.
“Henry, Vincent,” he addresses the absolutely stunned werewolf and vampire still seated in front of them. “Thank you for your patience.”
He raises an unimpressed brow. His own studied nonchalance may be a careful act, but the two in front of him are old enough that they should be able to hide their shock better than this.
Magnus notes the shattered glass on the floor now that he’s focusing again - it was indeed Vincent’s drink that had dropped earlier- and he waves over a Seelie bartender to clean up the mess.
There’s a momentary pause before Liija rushes into action, her expression not quite schooled into professional calm, even the Pandemonium version of it.
And if Magnus holds court just a little bit longer than he had intended to that night, his hand stroking Alec’s hair every so often as though to ensure he’s really there? Well, Magnus knows none of his people will say anything.