20A/N: Disclaimer, so I don't have to write one ever again: nothing is mine but the plot and OC's, which I doubt I'll even include.
Apart from that, enjoy! 💛💛💛
It was a pleasant day, not a cloud painted on the arctic-blue sky, and the sun beaming brightly. The laughter of people, the songs of birds, and the rustle of trees were resonant.
And Clary Fray was running late.
It was beautiful how time worked, really, since she woke up an hour before she was supposed to, got ready in a span of thirty minutes, had an hour to spare, and still managed to leave the house horribly late. Honestly, it baffled her.
And today, today was not the day to be late. She had so many things to do and deadlines and she was so screwed.
Clary was a journalist for a magazine, had been one for quite some time—she'd probably die a journalist—and she didn't think she could love anything as strongly as she loved her job. She'd moved across the country for it, torn ties with old friends for it. She'd cried over it and laughed at it.
But shit, if her job wasn't exhausting sometimes. The day her job would be perfect, would be the day the world would implode.
Once the building where she worked came into view, its photogenic windows reflecting the dazzling city, her legs sped their pace about a million times, though she was still careful about her heels, making sure she didn't trip. She hitched her handbag higher up her shoulder, and her fingers wrapped around her ID card, needing something to do.
The building's warm welcome when she hurried through the doors, wasn't so warm; small shivers pricked her spine at the chill of the air conditioning. She didn't recognize the receptionist—though she never did recognize the receptionist, since the role seemed to be changing every few days or so—but she greeted him briefly anyway, rushing to the elevators as she did.
I'm going to die, she thought. Ms. Trueblood's going to kill me, and I'm going to have to accept my death.
Her legs ached from walking so fast, and regret at wearing a skirt and blouse flushed through her, painfully so. Going into incognito mode would've been so much easier: leggings, a sweatshirt, flats instead of heels, and her rebellious hair jailed in a bun—and it would all be so, so comfortable, like the feeling of being home after weeks or months or years. But she couldn't do that, because she'd paid all that money on expensive clothes for what? So they could look cool and quirky hanging limply in her closet?
A ding told her many things. One, that the elevator had made its arrival. Two, that doom was getting closer and closer. And three, that she was alone in the elevator, and nearly no-one was to be seen in the reception except for clients and lost tourists.
Less than a minute later, she was on her floor, the air around her was infected with the smell of old paper and cologne.
Her watch claimed it was 9:57 in the morning—she was an hour late.
There was nothing more wonderful.
Her brain, being the absolutely fucking brilliant thing it was, convinced her that an hour was merely a speck in the great expanse of time. It didn't matter if she really looked at it.
Nevertheless, she zipped past a section of cubicles, a few of the employees nodding at her. Some of out pity, others out of respect.
"Dear god, darling, slow down," chastised a smooth voice behind her quietly, amusement sprucing up the tone of it. "If I used a speedometer on you right now, it would break."
Clary smiled, slowing her pace so that Magnus could catch up with her. "Why would you own a speedometer? That's literally the last thing anybody would have." She glanced at him sidelong, her smile dwindling. Magnus specialized in all things fashion, so naturally, he was a fashion editor.
"Oh, I don't know, I'm just exotic like that. And plus, I'm not just anybody," the irony and exaggeration running under his voice made her mood a little less dark. "I'm sure people would kill to be like me—"
She rolled her eyes, a grin twisting her mouth. "Maybe in an alternate universe, where leaves are fucking purple and the sky's green." Her words were but a murmur, the light-hearted manner of them evident. Truly, she'd never have the courage to be like Magnus. You couldn't use just a word to describe him; he was a little bit of everything, and that was why she admired him.
His dark green eyes, unlike any she'd seen, cut to hers, narrowed in annoyance. "Therefore," he went on, ignoring her. "If I owned a speedometer, the whole world would want one, too. I'm a good marketing strategy."
"You're also wrong," she chastised. "Whomst the fuck would want a speedometer? They'd need it for what—measuring the speed of their, I don't know, mom's car as it drives away? And why—you might ask—is this person's mother, of all people, driving away?"
She paused, for dramatic effect of course, then continued on, "It's because the number of speedometers this person owns is alarming, and has demolished their microscopic social life. It's all he talks about; his two friends can't stand it—and one of those friends is his unfortunate mother." She took a breath. "So, Magnus, you've just ruined a someone's happiness." Subtly she glanced around, noticing that they were scarily close to Ms. Trueblood's office. Her heart was screaming in her chest, pushing her to walk faster.
"Beautiful analysis," he said dryly. "Do you want me to give you a gold medal or are you just going to take it?"
Her own office was a few steps from her now, and she stopped to ponder upon his question. "After some intense brain work," she drawled. "I think I'll just let you keep it, out of pity of course. This loss might be a little too traumatizing for you."
"Sometimes, your mind is just so tiny, you're putting the atom to shame." He sounded fed up, and it made her smirk grow.
"Aw," she cooed. "There's no need to be sour—"
"Hush, I'm losing brain cells. And I'm running behind on about nine things just by talking to you, so bye." He started walking away towards his department, adjusting the cuffs of his suit.
She opened her office door, shooting him an, "I love you, too," before stampeding to her desk and getting all her papers in order. Her bag hit the floor with a pathetic thump, but she didn't hear it.
Her desk was a mess.
It wasn't even the kind of mess where she knew everything was; papers were where they weren't supposed to be, she couldn't find the mouse of her computer for the life of her, and she needed to refill her printer with ink. Only when she found about three missing coupons and a dog bone from when she was looking after her friend's Maltese, did the thought of spending the time to clean her desk hit her in the head.
Clary didn't have green skin or deadly muscle, but she was pretty reminiscent of the Hulk in this very moment, almost embarrassingly. For a pretty lengthy five minutes, all that took place was her frustratedly throwing things around and searching for the papers Ms. Trueblood had told her to submit today. She could have just printed them out again, but she had no ink—and why waste paper?
She'd found the papers she needed, and, to her delight, they weren't even ripped.
Though, the delight was blown away rather quickly by the brewing fear stirring in her stomach. Fear of facing Ms. Trueblood.
Swallowing nervously, Clary pushed open the door to her boss' office, anticipation and anxiety flaring up within her.
The size and elegance of the room always seemed to catch her off guard. But, today, what caught her the most off guard, was that Ms. Trueblood sported a wide smile and was laughing about something to a man sat before her.
Maryse Trueblood was smiling.
The last time Clary had seen Ms. Trueblood let out even a mere sound of joy, was when one of her co-workers slipped on wet tile and fractured his arm. And that was a few months ago.
So, when Clary's boss, who was reminiscent of a brick wall on a daily basis, and whose deep hatred towards Clary made the ocean look like nothing, grinned up at her, she could only assume the woman had hit her head quite hard somewhere.
"Clary!" she exclaimed, voice alive with amusement. "Well, it's about time you've showed up," her words had a warm hue about them, no threats or anything.
What the hell, Clary thought. I'm so confused.
The redhead forced her mouth into a hesitant smile, her gaze glued to Ms. Trueblood. She looked so beautiful, and an unusually amiable air hung around her. It made Clary wonder why she didn't let herself be outwardly happy more often, why she decided to be as easy-going as a block of cement.
And before Clary could even take a breath, words were already being thrown at her by her boss, "I'm sure you've heard that one of our photo editors has been fired," she hadn't, in fact, heard about this, "It was announced this morning, actually," so that was why. Oh, well. "He was quite awful, wasn't he?" Ms. Trueblood's crystal blue eyes rolled lazily. "God, I might possibly gag thinking about the horrid pictures he chose. To think he made one of our most sought-after models look like the bottom of a toilet bowl." Clary had to nod affirmatively.
Ms. Trueblood scowled dramatically, before speaking, "I digress, though. We have a replacement for him—a permanent one, thankfully. Frankly, it's an embarrassment to have to endlessly change our photo editor—"
"Maryse," a voice strolled through the room, carelessly light like leaves falling during autumn. "Give the man a break; surely he was trying his best."
'Trying his best' my foot. And Maryse? They were on a first name basis?
The force at which Clary cringed made her muscles hurt momentarily, and she stared at this man—this miracle human, who'd not only managed to make their dear Maryse express emotion, but also seemed to have complete sway over her.
Ms. Trueblood's gushing response went out of focus, morphing into background noise as Clary's gaze bumped into his. The first thing she noticed were his eyes, and they were something akin to storm clouds with sunlight splayed all over them, making them this amber color with just a touch of grey running in the back. You'd know they were trouble, these clouds, beautiful as they were, yet all you could do was stop and stare.
And the thing was, the rest of his face was just as beautiful. And undeniably sexy.
It was how his hair was this dark shade of blonde, or how she wouldn't have minded playing with his lips for hours together, that made the speed of her thoughts go into hyperdrive. How his body fit so perfectly in that suit he was wearing—
Clearing her throat quietly, Clary hauled her attention to what Ms. Trueblood was droning on about and saw that the man did the same, though his gaze fluttered to where she was standing, just a few feet from the door, every so often.
"—and though hiring that sick excuse of an employee was a mistake, we do tend to learn from those." She was still talking about that? "I do hope, Jace," Ms. Trueblood looked pointedly at the man—Jace, an expectant grin carved into her face"That you do not take after him. It would be quite the loss for us if you did. Very few people, may I say, have the amount of charisma you do, and, if possible, a greater amount of experience."
A scoff tumbled easily out of Clary; the woman was practically kissing this guy's ass.
The scoff bloomed into a scowl when Jace gave her a sugar-sweet smile, claiming in the most artificially modest tone she'd ever heard, "It sounds like you're just describing yourself there, Maryse. And—" Jace glanced at her, a smirk playing at his lips, and mischief seemed to crackle in those clouded eyes. Her scowl deepened. What seemed like concern colored his face, and he prodded uneasily, "Clary, are you alright?"
A mixture of confusion and surprise blended within her, causing her eyes to widen and her mind to start and stop weirdly. "I—I don't know what you're talking about—?"
"Your face looks all uptight, so I assumed you're going through some type of pain." His eyebrows knitted together. "Correct me if I've assumed wrongly, though."
Her cheeks stained an angry pink, and the grip she had on her papers tightened impossibly. Yet, when she went to spit out something rude at him, it wasn't the challenging look in Jace's eyes that made her come short; she could feel Ms. Trueblood's scrutiny bursting holes through her, daring her to 'correct him if he assumed wrongly', to leave a bad impression on her.
So, instead, she lifted her mouth up into a grin that could have torn her cheeks, and said, "Uhm…No, no you haven't. I've just, uh, been down with a small cold recently. I haven't died yet, so it's, uhm, nothing big." She took a deep breath, mentally laughing at herself for how stupid she sounded. She wasn't the only who thought so, too.
Devoid of so much amusement, Ms. Trueblood tightly inquired if she needed to use the restrooms, to which she refused politely.
That bastard, Clary fumed internally.
"Speaking of the restrooms," declared Jace, shifting around in the plush seat he was in, as if uncomfortable. "If you wouldn't mind showing me where they are..."
Ms. Trueblood hummed awkwardly, the nervous chuckle flowing from her still shocking to Clary. "Ah, yes," the older woman breathed. "Clary, after Jace is done using the restrooms, why don't you show him around? As far as I'm concerned, you've nothing important happening for the morning."
She shouldn't have even thought about it, about talking back, but she did anyway, "Actually, I—" And there came her boss' voice, smothering her small one like smoke.
"I am very sure you'll make your new co-worker feel welcome here, right?" If her tone could have been portrayed by an animal, it was a snake: threatening, with just a touch of cunning grace.
Nodding seemed like the safest option, so that was what Clary did. A pleased expression raked Ms. Trueblood's features, soon dissolving into regret as she glimpsed at Jace. "My deepest apologies for not being able to show you around myself. The amount of work I've got to tend to is horrifying, to say the least." Her smile was elegant, professional.
The paper in Clary's hands was long forgotten, but her nails were digging into it anyway.
She shouldn't have even shown up.
A/N: Jace is kind of an ass/OOC so I'm sorry about that, oof. This story's been on my mind for about a year and a half, and I wrote about six chapters of it in January, but I re-read them and decided they were shit and rewrote them, and here we are 😂😌
I hope that there'll be enough citrus in this story to cure anyone of any vitamin C deficiencies.
OH. I watched Bohemian Rhapsody and fucking christ, it's a brilliant movie. Factually, it's not the best, but Rami Malek was absolutely stunning and deserves a fucking Oscar for his performance as Freddie Mercury. 10/10 would recommend 😏
That's all. See you in a bit 💛💛
-RWMS