Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

The band didn't suck, but the bar did. It was one of those pubs that moonlights as a club by pushing away the tables to the side of the room so that kids can crowd to the front. Up there, a makeshift stage held too many amps and the band of stringy guys. They were howling about some woman, some succubus woman, and they had a terrible band name that Clary Fray couldn't quite remember. She couldn't quite remember why she was here, either. It wasn't as if any of her friends were in the throng of people, and it wasn't as if she was going to make any new friends. Clary was small, she looked forgettable, people usually ignored her and it was no different here. She couldn't see over half the people in the crowd, she couldn't drink, but somehow she still wanted to come to this stupid pub and listen to this stupid band, if only to feel normal for a minute or two.

She stood near the back of the room, peanut shells and God knows what else crunched under her feet. Being here alone made her feel vaguely conscious of all the couples and groups of friends that were having great times near her. She had not even bothered to dress up much, only sporting an old T-shirt of her mom's, cargo pants that were splattered in paint on the left leg, and her usual black and white sneakers, frayed laces and all. She let her hair down, however, remembering what Simon had said in the waiting room last week– that she looked like a fire goddess when she let it grow out. Granted, he was stoned out of his mind when he was saying all that, but Clary was prepared to indulge in her hair as much as possible these days.

A tall guy moved to the left in front of her, leaving her line of sight gloriously free so that she could get a good look at the band. The lead singer was this huge guy with mutton chops, and looking like he could have been a rugby player, she was surprised that his voice was so soft and airy. The drummer was still obscured by people who were milling around in front of her. Playing the bass was a girl dressed in a tutu and fake fairy wings, who was juxtaposed next to the guitar player. Now, he, looked like the type who belonged in this band, at this pub. He was fit enough, but skinny and frail looking, as if he hadn't eaten in a few days. Long-ish blonde hair covered most of his face, so Clary couldn't see how good looking he was. It was his hands that she was interested in, his hands as they moved along the neck of the guitar with ease. They were long fingers, and she idly wondered if he played the piano as well. As the singer let out a long moan that filled the pub with anticipation, the guitarist boy lifted his head.

Gorgeous.

Someone else inevitably stepped in front of her and blocked her sight, but Clary found herself uncharacteristically maneuvering around the crowd, craning her neck to keep her eyes on the boy. Something told her to get closer. Being small had its advantages in these types of crowds. She slipped under people's arms, into the nooks and crannies until she was right at the side of the stage. The lead singer stopped when the drummer did and he thanked the crowd for being so "bad ass", as he put it.

"We have one last song for you guys. Take it away, Jace," the lead singer said, pointing to the pretty boy with the guitar, who had already began ripping into the next song with his busy fingers.

So, she thought, I know his name. It wasn't like she would hunt him down after the show, or even try to talk to him, but she was a curious person, Clary Fray. She bounced along a little bit with the last song, but her fingers were itching to draw. She could picture her sketchbook sitting on her bed at home, blank white pages just waiting for the charcoal she was going to throw on it. She kept her eyes on the Jace the guitarist, kept her focus on his stature and the lines that his hair made, framing his face. He was by far the most interesting person in the band, in the whole room. She noticed a handful of spidery tattoos, vines and other random images on his arms. His shirt was nearly a rag, sleeveless and ripped in some places. His jeans were tight.

He muted his guitar for one part of the song where the bass went up in a flare of low notes, and at that moment, he turned and faced her directly. She gasped a little, glad that her voice was completely anonymous in this room, next to the amps. He saw her looking at him, but she still couldn't bring herself to look away. His eyes...Damn, she thought. They were tawny, golden and full of light. Screw the charcoal, she'd have to break out her finest coloring pencils to draw him, and even then, she didn't think her drawings could ever do those eyes justice.

Then the weirdest thing happened, he winked at her.

The band cleared off and Clary sunk back into the thinning crowd. She got herself tangled in the commotion of people clambering out of the pub to have a cigarette. A little frantically, she tried to spot the band members, maybe they were selling their E.P in the crowd. The pressure of the people stirring around her got to be too much, so she fled to the washroom to wait out the crowd, disappointed that the guitarist wasn't still around. Sitting on the lid of the toilet seat, Clary looked up at the mountains of amateur graffiti on the stalls. There was a few rude statements about some guy called Todd, a few ancient phone numbers, and one long arrow pointing to a dent in the stall where someone had attempted to build a glory hole. Clary chuckled a bit. She felt a little bewitched, a little obsessed, still pictureing the tawny-eyed guitar boy up on stage. Biting her lip, she dug into her pocket and pulled out a purple sharpie. She wished that she had her whole collection of permanent markers, but this would have to do. In the clear space between Todd is an asshole, and Scotty + Diana = POISON, Clary began to draw the guy how she'd seen him, looking right at her, from above.

When she finally left the bathroom, the pub crowd was nearly dead. Only a few drunk clusters of friends were standing around, but the bartender had begun to push the tables back to their rightful places. Clary only glanced around for a second or two until her peripheral was shocked by blonde hair. Leaning on the bar, Jace the guitarist was sipping on some kind of clear liquid that could have been vodka. Clary propositioned herself; given the fact that she had a very important doctor's appointment tomorrow, and the results of that could determine the next few years of her life, she had a choice. She could slink out of the bar, return to the familiar streets of Manhattan, and tuck herself into bed at a decent hour, or she could do something brave, something memorable. She chose the latter.

Somehow her legs carried her over to the bar, next to him, and somehow she worked up the nerve to ask the bartender for a bottle of beer.

"What brew?" the bartender asked, which sent Clary into a bit of a panic. She didn't drink beer, she wasn't really supposed to, so how the hell should she know what kind of beer she should get? She opened and closed her mouth, then the bartender said,

"Nice try kid, come back when you're 21."

He chuckled beside her. She could have died, she could have died right there on the sticky bar table.

"Oh, come on Nicky, she's good. She'll have whatever's on tap. Won't you?" This was the first thing she'd heard him say. She would probably remember the sound of his voice forever, just from that one sentence. She turned her head toward him and nodded as calmly as possible.

"Yeah."

Nicky the bartender rolled his eyes, but began filling a pint for her all the same. Jace eyed her while he brought his own glass up to his lips. His elbow was propped lazily on the counter, legs straightened, his hair disheveled and arms bare, he was intimidating to the eyes. Clary fought hard inside her head to think of something to say to him.

"The show...it was awesome," was all she could come up with. She felt embarrassment clawing at the pit of her stomach. What is the matter with me? The bartender placed the pint down without a coaster and Clary grabbed it, glad for something to occupy her hands.

"Really? We're considering disbanding."

She dipped her finger into the foam that was collected at the top. The band had seemed so cool tonight, so put together. Their sound was a mixture of metal and jazz, somehow, with the soft singer's voice and the hard, hard bass. The guitar, of course, had been some kind of inexplicable sound like the notes of a Sinatra song, only on high volume and power.

"Don't do that," she told him. "I've never heard anything like you before." She could have been referring to the whole band, but Clary really meant I've never heard anyone like him before.

Jace smiled with one corner of his mouth.

"You want our autographs or something?" he asked. Clary laughed nervously, worried that she was coming off as a dazzled fan girl, which wasn't exactly false. When she said nothing, Jace asked her,

"So what do you sound like?"

"I don't- I don't sound like anything. I mean, I'm not a musician."

"No one in this city is really a musician. Don't you know we're just in it to get laid?"

She nearly knocked over the pint of beer. She was getting the impression that this guy knew how good he was, and he knew that she knew. She could feel that he was trying to play with her, but suddenly she was invigorated to prove him wrong. She wasn't just some underage kid ogling him from the stands.

"Well, I don't know if you're that good."

He laughed out loud, then finished his drink in one swig.

"So if you're not a musician, and if you're not looking to get with one, what are you?"

What are you?

No one had ever asked her that before. She wanted to retort with, what are you? He was certainly more than what he seemed, but she didn't know how to explain it. It was something, maybe in his eyes, that led her to believe that this was just the tip of the iceberg; a cocky musician with a lazy attitude.

"I draw. And tag. I guess that's it." Really, it was all she could think of to say. Graffiti and art were the only things she was good at.

"Tagging? I wouldn't take you for the illegal type," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"I stay away from schools and institutions. Abandons only." This was the cardinal rule she and Simon had made. It was too easy to get caught spray painting the side of some nice academy in the west side. In abandoned houses and buildings, it was always dark, she could sneak around and lay low under crumbling bricks. Plus, she always liked the look of color on the pallid walls of those dead places.

Jace threw down a ten dollar bill, paying for the beer she hadn't touched. He pulled himself away from the bar, grabbing her wrist in the process. His touch startled her, it was like getting shocked when you go to turn on a light.

"What are you– " she began, but the boy who was practically a stranger didn't let her finish.

"We're going to get some paint."

She halted for a minute, eyeing him suspiciously. She wasn't supposed to be tagging anymore, if her mother ever found out she'd be in big, big shit. Clary thought hard for a second or two, while Jace looked back at her as if to say, "are you coming or what?" She quickly fell back into step with him, holding down the butterflies in her stomach. To hell with her mother.

They walked swiftly past the drunk crowd, emerging out of the clubbing district in record time. She found it hard to keep up with his long strides, but she wouldn't tell him to slow down. They didn't chatter much on the way, only pointing out interesting things and people that they saw on the streets. A homeless man with a funny sign; a couple of twelve year old's who were visibly drunk. There was a hardware store on the next block, and she watched as Jace strode, determined, toward it. It was like he was on some kind of mission, though for all intents and purposes, this was Clary's territory.

"Did you ever draw? Ever graffiti?"

"Nope," he answered simply.

"Most people scratch their name in places, at least. Bunk beds at their friends houses?"

He scoffed a bit, saying,

"I didn't really do sleep overs when I was a kid."

She wanted to say something cheeky like, I'm taking your tagging virginity, but for the life of her, she couldn't get it up. Instead, they walked the rest of the way in crystal clear silence, the duration of which she spent studying his steady gait. After what seemed like a millennium, the crude lights of the hardware store came into view. Upon entering, the sales people gave them both (but mostly Jace) strange looks, but that was always to be expected if you were a teenager in the middle of the night.

"What color?" he asked her when they entered the spray paint aisle. She thought of the little portrait of him that she'd drawn in the stall.

"Purple." She reached up for the can, but the shelf was much too high for her. She shrunk back down like a defeated little kid. "I'm an elf, sorry."

He smiled widely at her and got the can his tall self.

Ten minutes later, they found themselves hanging out by the outskirts of what used to be a bridal shop. The brick was in tact, but someone had ripped the old sign half off so that it said Minx Bou minus the tique. The windows were boarded up with thin wood which would be tonight's canvas.

She swiped the can from his hands and began to shake it. How many times had she done this? The familiar rattle of paint and metal was comforting, strangely easing her nerves. This was something she actually knew how to do, unlike talking to Jace. She could probably even pretend that Simon was here with her, that he wasn't just stuck at home with his overbearing mother and sister, popping his prescriptions from a Pez dispenser and smoking too much medicinal marijuana. She shook her head slightly, putting herself back in the now, in this situation with the hot band guy. She knew he was watching her as she made her way over to the plywood. She started with a simple curved line, and tried not to breathe in the toxic smell too much by pulling her arm up to her mouth, breathing through the veil of her shirt.

When she'd finished the swooping lines of the flower, a large purple rose, she turned back to Jace. His eyes were glazed over with something, concentrated, but Clary couldn't imagine what he was thinking so hard about.

"Want to try?" she asked him, holding out the paint.

Jace still looked weird, staring up at her flower. She waited for a minute, but then he surprised her by coming forward and taking the can of paint from her hand.

He was about to press down on the nozzle when something stopped him. He lowered his arm, looking behind her with a suddenly alert glare. Clary found herself way too distracted by his proximity to question what he had stopped for. He smelled like liquor and cigarettes, the standard New Yorker smell, but there was something else underneath it, like there had been in his eyes. Maybe the most interesting thing about him was that he was like an untouched lake of secrets. She badly wanted to break the surface, to disturb the waters, and to maybe kiss him if she could. From this spot, she could reach up onto her tip-toes and just meet his face with her's...

"On the count of three, we run," he said.

"What?"

"One, two," and just before he said three, she whipped her head around and saw the approaching NYPD car. His hand locked around her wrist, but this time she welcomed it, allowing him to lurch her forward. The can of paint hit the ground with a clang as they got away. Suddenly, there was blue and red lights all around her, but no siren. They took off in a frenzy of feet hitting the pavement and heavy breathing, all the while Clary was practically blind, letting him drag her into alleys and streets, hopefully to safety. She didn't bother to look behind her, she only looked forward at Jace, who was faster with his spindly legs. She felt the adrenaline run around in her veins, pushing her to move her own short legs further. Eventually, they stopped when the clubbing district came back into view, though Clary didn't think that the lazy cop had actually bothered to follow them this far.

"Shit," she gasped. They both leaned over on their knees, fighting for air. When a bit of normalcy returned, when she caught her breath and the lights of the clubbing district started to feel safe, she found that he was laughing. She shook her head, elated.

Then it occurred to her that she knew who he was (not really), but he didn't know her yet.

"I'm Clary Fray," she decided to say, and she held out her hand.

"Jace." Though she had been repeating the name in her head for an hour now.

"Jace who?"

He took her hand in his, surprisingly lightly, shaking it as if it were a made of glass. A couple of drunk people stumbled to maneuver around them.

"Just Jace."

"You're a good lookout, Jace," she told him.

There silent pause that made Clary nervous. Jace took a step forward and touched her sleeve, but not her.

"Your rose was beautiful," he finally said. Clary blushed, despite her best efforts to remain cool.

She had to leave, it was getting to be last call hour and Jocelyn would have her by the skin of her neck when she got home. She looked at Jace as he leaned against the wall of the emptying club, and knew that no amount of nervousness or loneliness or fucking cancer would make her not want to get to know him. Taking out her sharpie, she reached for his hand and tried not to look him in the eyes. He let her scrawl her phone number on his skin and she nearly messed up because she was holding his hand and trying to examine all the lines and secrets of his palm as closely as possible. He had telltale musician calluses, but also scratches and old faded scars like a worker's hands. Before she could deduce anything more about him, he pulled away.

He left her with a wide cat grin, and she realized that he looked like a feral lion with his hair and his eyes. King of the jungle. King of the clubbing district.

If this is the last night of my life, I wouldn't care, she thought.

But that thought immediately stung and burned the way a taboo subject does. The appointment was tomorrow, and the last night of her life might come sooner than expected.