Work Text:
His mind is a desolate wasteland; a hostile welcome awaits any stray thought after the day he’s had. Even the portal home lacks in its usual luster, shimmering dispiritedly at the edges. Note for the future – never agree to untangle volatile castle magic in such an expedited time frame. No matter how generous the recompense. He’s drained, his heart a painful fossil inside his chest, still beating with the rhythm of panicked, desperate spellwork of years gone by. Dealing with tangible remnants of the witch hunts is never easy, but it hit him especially hard today. Decades of accumulated tendrils of magic knotted together at execution sites, released with the last breaths of luckless warlocks. The magic mutated to a point of active hostility, as it was prone to do at times under violent circumstances. This was the first time he’d been tasked with a dissolution process of quite this magnitude, though. Not to mention solicited by the Institute of Berlin. Frankly, Magnus doesn’t know what to think of his growing reputation within the ranks of Shadowhunters. He wants to consider it a good sign, of times a–changing. But only the future will tell and tonight’s not it.
The dreary hint of German dawn gives way to the stillness of a New York night and Magnus takes a moment to breathe in the familiar Brooklyn breeze before stepping back home. It wouldn’t do to go tainting his lair with the clinging hurts of centuries past. Instead, he looks up and down the street to find his equilibrium once more, ground himself. Someone shouts in the distance and an eruption of laughter follows, an occasional car speeds along the road, and Magnus soaks it all in, the earthliness of it. The world is alive around him, a heartening change from the hours upon hours spent within mere echoes of vivacity. Crowding the castle walls, the magic might have been tempestuous, but there was no mistaking it for anyhow else but dead. Magnus lets himself feel the air thrum with animation, reaching far and wide to prepare for a solitary night encased in the loft. A drink wouldn’t go amiss right about now.
Deeming himself sufficiently diffused, he makes his way up slowly, on foot. The door swings open without a sound, inviting him in. And he stops short in his tracks. There, from around the corner, a soft glow of light is seeping out and painting the apartment with a contrast of shadows. Ahead he sees the sheer curtains billow delicately over the half–open balcony exit. But it’s calm. None of his instincts are screaming murder and he tastes a tang of familiarity in the air. That alone is enough to spread warmth through his bones. So when he crosses the foyer and the sight of Alexander greets him, in all his long–limbed glory, Magnus loses his breath. Alec’s occupying the couch with a look of intense focus on his face.
It could very well be the day he’s just had, but the sudden surge of overwhelming emotion threatens to seize Magnus by the throat. He doesn’t think the appeal will ever elude him, of coming back home to find Alec truly well and comfortable in what is fundamentally Magnus’s space. Which is rapidly becoming theirs in all ways but name, as Magnus is gleefully starting to realize. The day’s tension abruptly doesn’t seem so daunting.
He enters the space and ambles over to the drinks cart, fully intent on not disturbing Alec in whatever has him squinting adorably at the tablet propped up against his thighs. Alec looks like he’s been at it for a while, marked by a progression of sliding down the armrest of the couch in his sideways sprawl. Magnus can spot some of the runes peeking out from where his shirt bunches up and his hair is an irredeemable mess, moreso that usual. He looks absolutely stunning; Magnus wants nothing more than to wrap him up in his arms and never let go. Dishevel him even further, get that godforsakenly teasing shirt off him entirely.
Glass clinks as Magnus’s hand slips. Alec looks up from the tablet, focus dropping instantly. His entire face smooths out when he sees Magnus and an absolutely winning smile takes over his mouth. That smile could make Magnus take down cities, burn down countries, and – most frighteningly – not care about the destruction in the slightest. But some things are probably better left unsaid. It terrifies him sometimes, this ferocity. The vicious way his feelings erupted and are here to stay. How did this boy cut through his walls with such clinical precision? How is a mere look of him enough to bring to the surface things that Magnus would rather keep buried deep in self–preservation? It’s hitting Magnus thrice as hard, right at the coattails of today’s ordeals. His magic slithers against his skin from the inside. The hollow shrieks of lives long lost ring through him in conflict with his own, full to the brim with memories and affection.
“You okay?” Alec’s smile stays on his face, but a frown is staring to work itself between his brows. The fierce emotions that his presence stirred up in Magnus, they jar all the others loose; keeping them at a distance starts to look increasingly off the table. At once, Magnus feels the ghosts of scorned magic like a palpable reminder, still clinging even on the other end of the Earth, in cruel opposition to the tenderness in his heart. The softness of Alec’s presence calls to him like a beacon, whispering promises of peace. With a defeated measure of acceptance, he was ready to embrace a lonely, sleepless night at the apartment. It overwhelms him, how much it means to him to not have to go through it alone. He’s tempted to play it off, act like everything’s just fine, no need to worry. But Alexander deserves more than this, after all they’ve been through. Empty words of comfort feel like a pale facsimile in the face of Alec’s unwavering honesty. Instead, Magnus lets his masks of today fall at last.
“I will be,” he answers and watches Alec’s expression transform into a mirror of Magnus’s heart. It’s almost too much.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” He locks down the screen of his tablet without a second thought, tucking it aside. Magnus’s breath comes in shaky, as does his smile, against his best efforts. He takes a sip of his drink and sets it aside.
“Maybe later,” he yields. “Any space for me on that couch?” His voice drops and his eyebrow raises.
As has become customary, Alec reads him better than Magnus would like to admit. Instead of playing along and offering him what he wants, Alec gives him what he needs. Without any more words, he adjusts on the couch, shifts his legs apart, and opens his arms – intent as clear as could be. Magnus huffs in manufactured exasperation, but he already feels the pull. He’s crossing the room before he can allow his legs to do so.
Alec is so warm when Magnus settles along his torso, a delightful contrast to the cool of the air. The heartbeat Magnus hears right against his ear is steady and perfectly alive. Every dependable pulse works to unwind him further and further. Alec wraps him up tight and his unwavering heat anchors Magnus to the moment, keeping the tortured echoes of the witch hunts at bay better than any cocktail could ever hope to do. On a deep breath, Magnus exhales the tension of the day. He can do this. He can shake this off. He will. Alec fills him with the kind of strength that threatens to burst him into pieces on a good day, but the true beauty of it is that it extends to where he can stitch himself back together after. Healthier. Better. He can afford to quietly fall apart now that he knows he has the space to find the fragments again. Alec drops a soft kiss to his head and Magnus has to magic his tears away before they soak through Alec’s shirt. The tears aren’t even truly his to shed. They belong to the warlocks of an era past, whose impressions have to let Magnus go before he internalizes their pain. He’s so grateful he doesn’t have to feel like he has to. Alec makes a small noise at the tightening of Magnus’s arms around his ribcage, but it’s not a protest.
“Go ahead.” It sounds muffled from where Magnus says it into cotton. “You still have work.”
“Magnus, I don’t have to– ”
“Alexander.” The calm authority gives Alec pause. “This is perfect. Right now work doesn’t change that. But.” He shifts with the barest hint of suggestion. “It might later.”
Alec’s legs constrict at his sides instinctively. The silence feels reluctant and considering. Finally, he plucks the tablet from between the cushions. Magnus doesn’t need to see to know. The last of the tension starts to drain out of him, leaving him prone and boneless, safely tucked away in the perfect little world of Alec’s body.
Sounds of distant traffic soothe him as he lies in his arms.