Chapter Text
Magnus wakes to the soft press of lips against his forehead. He groans, sliding further into the cocoon of blankets wrapped so snugly around him.
“Magnus,” Alec softly laughs, “wake up.”
“No.” He winces. His throat stings with a burning passion, as if scraped raw with sandpaper. A rhythmic pounding has nestled itself behind his eyes and a deep ache resides in his bones. It’s been there ever since he lost his magic on that fateful night a month ago. A hollow, empty feeling, like a piece of his soul is missing. He doesn’t think he’ll every grow used to it. He hopes he won’t have to.
The chill that accompanies the ache, however, is new. It travels down his spine, leaving him a shivering, sleepy mess. No matter how many blankets he hides under, he can’t seem to chase the cold away.
“And if I made breakfast?” Alec asks, his words a sweet, merciful promise.
He sticks his head out from under the covers, blinking at the sudden light that floods his eyes. It stings. “Why didn’t you say so before?” he mumbles after Alec, who has turned back towards the kitchen. He contemplates staying in bed, until his stomach gives a loud growl. With a sigh, Magnus pushes himself up and off the mattress. His hands shake as he reaches for whatever shirt is closest, which ends up being one of Alec’s hoodies. Suppressing a yawn, he shuffles out of the room.
Alec sets their plates on the table. “Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please.” Perhaps that will soothe the burn in his throat. His stomach rumbles at the sight of all this food. Alec really outdid himself. There are heaps of bacon and eggs, with slices of French toast and fresh fruit as sides. It’s definitely too much for just the two of them. “What’s all this about?” he asks when Alec sets the steaming cup of tea in front of him.
Alec shrugs. He takes the seat opposite of Magnus. “I just felt like making breakfast.”
The small, nervous smile on Alec’s face tells him there is more to the story, but he lets it be for now. “Well, it looks wonderful.” He sips his tea, warmth radiating through his fingertips as he holds the porcelain cup. They sit in comfortable silence, basking in the golden glow of the rising sun peeking through the windows.
Magnus spends more time pushing his food around, rather than eating it. Though the thought of breakfast had first made his stomach growl, he quickly finds his appetite diminishing. He can barely lift his fork to his lips without a bout of nausea washing over him.
Alec notices. “Is everything okay? Does it not taste good?” A slight frown settles on his face. He is sporting a fresh case of bed-head, his hair looking as if a whirlwind tore through it while he slept. It’s quite endearing.
Magnus shakes his head. “Everything’s lovely.” He sighs, setting his fork down. “I’m just not that hungry right now.”
“Oh.” Alec looks down at his plate.
Magnus clasps Alec’s hand in his own. “Your cooking is lovely, I promise.”
Alec manages a soft smile. “Good.” He squeezes Magnus’ fingers and leans back with a sigh. “It’s just…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“What?” Magnus asks.
“It’s stupid.” Alec fidgets with the edges of his napkin. “I just wanted to do something nice for you, I know things have been rough lately…” He trails off.
Magnus’ chest swells with emotion, both love and guilt. It’s no surprise Alec noticed his sour mood these past few weeks. He doesn’t want Alec to feel responsible for the events leading up to Lilith’s banishment, especially when it was Magnus’ own decision to give up his magic. So, he tried his best to hide his struggle. To no avail, apparently.
“Thank you, Alexander,” he eventually says. He gives Alec’s hand a soft squeeze. “I truly appreciate it.” To prove it, he forces down whatever unease he’s feeling in his stomach and continues eating. They finish breakfast in comfortable silence.
Magnus watches with quiet delight as Alec does the dishes, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his strong, defined arms, which are currently covered in soap. Magnus wasn’t allowed to lift so much as a finger. Alec banned him from helping. He can’t help but smile. It’s so…domestic.
A sudden and particularly nasty coughing fit wracks his frame and he turns, covering his mouth with a hand. It leaves him shaking, inhaling a sharp, burning breath.
Alec frowns. “You aren’t getting sick, are you?” He asks, concern coloring his voice.
Magnus scoffs. “Of course not,” he says with feigned confidence, in an attempt to hide the trembling of his voice. Everyone knows warlocks are incapable of falling ill. They are immune to nearly every mundane disease in existence. And with or without his magic, he is still a warlock. “I’m just tired.”
“Should you reschedule your meeting with Dot?” Alec asks. He turns the faucet off and places the last plate on the drying rack.
Magnus dismisses the idea with a wave of his hand. “She’ll have my head if I cancel on her again.” He had plans with Dot for lunch later that afternoon. They have a tradition of meeting up at least once a month to catch up on each other’s lives. He already rescheduled their meeting last month and while Dot would certainly understand if he told her he wasn’t feeling well, he still can’t help wanting to avoid disappointing her by cancelling again.
“If you say so,” Alec says, clearly not entirely convinced. He starts shuffling around the loft, gathering his things for the day. “You sure you don’t want me to call Cat?” He stands hesitantly at the door, jacket in hand.
Magnus walks up to him, a soft smile on his face. “I’m fine, Alexander.”
Alec chews his bottom lip. Finally, he relents. “I’ll be in my office all day, so call me if you need me, okay?” He gives Magnus a soft kiss, hand coming up to clasp his cheek. “Stay safe.”
Magnus rests his head against Alec’s for a second “You too,” he whispers. Even though Alec has been going back to work for a few weeks now, Magnus’ heart still stutters every time he walks out that door. The image of Alec in that alley, broken and bleeding, haunts him in his sleep. He can’t lose him.
“I promise.” With one last kiss, the door slides closed with a soft click.
***
Magnus stares at the napkin in his hand. The white cotton fabric is stained with drops of yellow and red. He’s still breathing heavily after a sudden coughing fit, lungs burning with the need for oxygen.
“Are you okay?” Dot asks from her seat opposite of him, a frown on her face.
Startled out of his trance, Magnus hurries to hide the napkin and folds it in his lap. He stalls by taking a long gulp of his warm, sharp scented tea. It does little to soothe the ache in his throat. “Perfectly fine, darling.” He schools his face into a smile.
The two of them are at Magnolia’s, one of the best bakeries in all of New York. It’s been forever since Magnus last stepped foot in their establishment. He used to summon his favorite pies and pastries from to his loft, and always made sure to leave a hefty tip, of course. But he can’t do that anymore. Yet another downside of being utterly mundane, he thinks bitterly.
Dot eyes him with a raised eyebrow. “All these years and you’re still a terrible liar.” She leans forward, her dark hair tumbling past her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
Magnus sighs. He puts his cup down with trembling hands, nearly spilling some of it on the wooden table. For a moment, tucked into a corner of this small bakery, he lets his facade drop. His shoulders sag. His forced smile fades into a grimace. “I’m tired, Dorothea.”
He doesn’t mean physically. Not in the way his eyes burn from a terrible night’s rest, or the way his body lacks a certain grace when he moves. No, he is mentally tired. He is tired the constant worry, the unending spiral of negative thoughts he finds himself stuck in lately, seemingly unable to break free.
Dorothea senses the meaning hidden in his words. She has always been good at reading him, which is why he felt so drawn to her when they first met. She clasps his hand between her smaller ones. “You know we’re here for you Magnus. All of us. The whole warlock community agrees that no matter what, you’re still family.”
The downside of being part of a community of magical, immortal warlocks is that they have a tendency to gossip, and while Magnus usually loves being a part of that, he doesn’t love being the subject of their dramatic whispers. Word travels fast in the Downworld. It had taken no less than three days before everyone knew of his magic-less state.
“Thank you.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He thought the warlocks would want nothing to do with him, apart from a select few like Catarina and Dot. To hear that they are willing to support him, even though he is no longer High Warlock or even capable of practicing magic, means the world to him. It helps lift some of the weight from his shoulders.
“You’ll get through this,” Dot says with a determined smile. “You’re Magnus Bane, after all.”
***
Magnus sheds his coat and shoes the second he enters the loft. He has to catch himself on the wall to keep from tumbling over, hit by a sudden bout of dizziness. Though his spirits lifted by his conversation with Dot, his physical state has worsened severely throughout the day. A sharp pressure pushes against his skull. His teeth chatter as shivers wrack his frame. He’s so cold. He has to find a way to warm up.
With heavy and uncooperative limbs, Magnus stumbles his way past the bedroom and into the bathroom. Though a shower sounds wonderful, he doesn’t think he has it in himself to keep from falling over. It’s as if all the energy has been drained from his body with that short walk home. He runs a bath instead. Dumping his clothes unceremoniously into a pile on the floor, lets himself sink into the tub.
The water is warm and comforting, the heat lulling him into a sort of trance. He slides down to rest his head against the ceramic edge. The ache in his muscles eases up. Without permission, his eyes close.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he opens his eyes, but the once soothing water is now ice cold. The tips of his fingers are wrinkled and pale and gooseflesh covers his arms. He lifts himself out of the tub with clumsy, uncoordinated movements. Pulling on whatever clothes he can find, he shuffles into the bedroom.
He feels a hundred times worse than he did before. A sudden coughing fit has him doubling over, gasping for breath. His hands shake uncontrollably, and a heavy fog settles within his mind. He can’t think. All he wants is sleep. When the shadows finally fade from his vison, he tumbles face first onto the bed and lets some well-needed rest claim him.