Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All characters belong to Casandra Clare.

Cordelia stepped back into the parlor of her townhouse, holding a tray in her hands.

"Here," she began, resting it on the dark-wooded table. She lifted the teapot to pour the drink as she looked up calmly at her brother. "So, whatever is it going on?"

Alastair knotted his brows together, seemingly bewildered. "You tell me," he said. "Weren't you the one who suggested I'd come by?"

She added a slice of lemon to Alastair's tea and a bit of milk to hers. The set was made of porcelain, with delicate traces of flowers. It was a gift she got from her mother, Sona, for the wedding - the one which passed on to her from her own mother. She stirred the liquid with a teaspoon, watching as it mixed and turned back to a solid color. 

She kept her cool. "Didn't you wish to come?" 

He shrugged dismissingly. "Isn't it the new base for you and your little friends? I imagined they would be here."

"They went to their hideout at the Devil's Tavern," she explained. So that's what it is. He wanted to avoid an inept meeting with the Merry Thieves. Even if they did try to converse, say they wouldn't snub him as usual, she held no hope it would be competent and amiable. She planned his arrival meticulously. James and the rest of the Merry thieves had patrol from the afternoon to evening. It came out perfectly - they'd stay at the Devil until patrol, giving her as much time as essential to speak with her brother.

Alastair's expressive eyebrows climbed upwards. "And your husband left you alone when a serial killer is running loose?"

The word 'husband' made her cheeks heat up and her heart double in pain. Husband. But not a real one, not as you think, brother. "I told James I would have company today and had insisted of him to go and be with our friends. So as you see, he didn't leave me alone." She took a sip from her tea.

She told James she wished to invite her family for the day. She had never said she would invite all of them. And she never knew whether Alastair would bring himself or not. She has convinced him no accusations of bad manners will be held against him if he goes off with his friends. 

"Well-"

"Alastair, please," she huffed, and Alastair scowled and took his teacup in hand, the saucer in another. "James was far more than kind to me. And no attack occurred in Shadowhunters' houses."

"You can never know," he argued.

"Alastair," she warned.

He rolled his eyes. "As you will. Herondale-"

"He has a name," Cordelia protested, starting to get irritated. "Besides, he is your brother by marriage. If nothing else, it worth a first name basis, is it not?"

Alastair scrunched his nose at the comment, clearly not softened by her effort. He opened his mouth before hesitating and shutting it. Her brother turned to stare at her silently for a few seconds before asking, "Is James Herondale taking good care of you?"

She held his gaze, but the question startled her. She looked over at him, examining him closely. Over the past month since their father's return, she noticed slight changes in his behavior. The tension in his shoulders, the cautious looks around. He seemed more aware and detached from everything around him at the same time. She was worried, but was never able to voice those fears. 

And James. James was pure and loyal, always acting like a faithful husband around others. "He does," she said, with as much meaning as she could put into those words. Alastair slowly nodded. 

She felt sick to think about it. The lies and half-truths in which she surrounded herself threatened to drown her. Those stolen moments when she was with James, free to love him but also forbidden from his own love at the same time. Was it worth it? Are the moments alone with him now would worth the constant pain she'd carry with herself once the marriage is called off?

This was not a question she got to puzzle over longly. Her brother's stern look was directed at her. 

"Yes," she said convincingly. "He is everything I could have imagined for myself." Because he is the only thing I longed for myself.

At the outset, Alastair seemed to tranquil. He nodded imperceptibly. Once. Twice. Then something behind his eyes changed, and Cordelia had felt dread washing over her. Often he seemed to know more than he has let to see. He anticipated the world in his way, revealing secrets and schemes. Was he unsatisfied with her answer? Maybe he speculated what she brought him for. She forced herself to return his gaze.

"Cordelia," he started. "I am glad. For the invitation, that is. But really all you wished to do is have a little tea party with me?"

It felt like an unsaid conviction. She took a breath. Of course, he wouldn't make it easy on her. she stirred her tea, not bringing her older brother a look. "Someone once told me tea parties are a great excuse for clandestine agenda." 

He raised a brow. She noted the way his posture became more rigid. "And I assume this time is not an oddity."

"No," she conceded. "Not in this case."

Alastair kept silent for a long moment, yet she could feel the nerves building up in him. A few things came to mind when she thought of talking with Alastair, and none of them would be to set a trap for him in the form of a pleasant tea party so that they could talk properly. He had examined her face, kept his own visage clear of emotions.

His mouth twitched downward, and after a moment of consideration, he shook his head. He was staring blindly at his hands. "Nothing is happening, Cordelia."

The lie stung. "I know things are different now since Father was back to London," she insisted. "I know it wasn't easy on you, Alastair. And I want to listen if you will speak."

Hesitation passed on her brother's face, the slightest of signs he was giving in. In a daring move, she seized both his hands with her own and made him turn to look at her. "Alastair dadash," she pleaded. "It bothers you. You can do so much to fool me. I can take it, Brother. I can take the truth."

"You've never seen Father drunk, Cordelia," he countered, outraging. "Do you know what it is to be afraid that your father will hurt himself as a result of his drunkenness? That he would drink himself to death? That he would hurt other people, that he would say words that would only burn deeper wounds? You do not know what it is to come home down with a drunkard on your toes or passed out and act it's normal. To feel as if it's normal for you to smuggle your drunkard of a dad each and every night. That others expect you to act like it never happened like it was small trouble worth no mention? You can't understand that. I do not want you to understand that."

"Azizam," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

He let out an unamused chuckle. "Sure you do, Layla."

She furrowed further. "This is why you don't wish me around the house? Because I might encounter our father while he is afflicted by his illness?" 

Her brother suddenly was very invested in the wall behind Cordelia. Their parlor was plain and modest. The wallpaper was the color red. The color of victory, James told her.

Their tea was long forgotten. He was quiet so long, Cordelia was sure it's afternoon already. But when she looked at the clock, only a minute has passed. "You think you can help him, don't you?"

The question startled Cordelia. She stared at him, but his hardened look revealed nothing. "Of course, Alastair. We ought to help him get better."

"He won't get better if he doesn't wish to heal." Alastair sneered, his eyes cool. "It seems to betoken Father has no intention to drop the bottle. Why are you pressing on it? "

She noted he evaded her question. "I have faith in father. We need to show him we- "

"To show him what? That his family is waiting in open arms, ready to forget all he's done in the past? That plan won't work."

"But it must.  We are his family!"

"To beh man goosh nemidi!" Alastair almost rose from the armchair; his hands were tight fists. He tried to calm down, but he was shaking. "I was daft to believe that if you knew it would make him truly change. He wasn't ready to try for Mother. Or for me, His only son, who had to grow up with all the scarred parts of his father. With the ugly face of a brandy bottle. I could never look up to Father. I can't fathom a way to do it now. Even for you, and the new baby - he deteriorated back to how he used to be. He doesn't care enough to do it."

"Alastair," she was on the verge of tears. What could they do, when it was no one's fault for the situation? When they could only collect the scraps? "Father did try; of course he cares for us! Of course- of course he cares for you. He still fights with this illness, but he tries to be better for us."

Alastair squizzed his eyes shut. "I have no faith left in our father anymore, Cordelia. I am not as hopeful as you."

Her brother believed it to be a battle lost in advance. Her heart constricted. She mulled over her next words as she eyed him attentively. "You may have lost faith, but you still care. You don't believe he would change, but I can see you desire him to. This is hope, Alastair. This shred of hope in you hasn't died yet. When you wished the treatment would succeed. When you took care of him; when you gave him another chance, and then another."

"And what this foolish, foolish part of me achieved?" The dark-haired man fumed. He spitted the words. "I am done with giving more chances. He didn't care enough about his family to get the treatment until he was on the very edged of being convicted for murder. He didn't care enough to join his pregnant wife's side the moment he was out. He wasn't there when we needed him, and it was moronic of me to think otherwise."

There was an irrevocable certitude to his words. "we can-"

"baseh digeh." he ordered. His eyes were firm and hard, not open or hurt as she expected them to be.

"This is not a helpless situation," Cordelia pressed, "People change. If we only show Father we accept him, despite the past-"

"No," he interjected. his anger only seemed to escalate. He let out a long-suffering sigh. "What is it you want, Layla? To make me give him another chance? I gave him a myriad of chances. You want me to love him? How can you ask me to love the man I had to clean up after all the time, to hide his filthy secret? That done the opposite of making me respect him. Surely, it's difficult to respect the person you saw puking on your shoes and wasn't able to be on his own feet most of the time."

The heat in his words drifted away until only misery left. Cordelia found it hard to breathe. "Only if I knew before," she whispered sadly. "If I knew, so many things could've been better..."

"Don't," Her brother hesitated before he clasped a hand on her shoulder. The touch lingered, warm and reassuring. She savored it. "You mustn't fall to this path of thinking. It will do no good."

She drew a slow breath. "I could have helped convince father getting treatment earlier. Or prevent you from shutting me down so often."

She fumbled with the fabric of her linen dress. His hand dropped to his side. "We cannot change the past," he said wisely. "We can only look forward."

"One thing to bear in mind," Cordelia conveyed in a soothing tone, resigning herself, "is that we are here for you,  aziz-e-delam. I want you to be happy."

His eyes softened."I know," he cracked out. They shared a long look.

Cordelia thought of the cities they've been to during their lives. Of the splints of watercolors of foreign, mysterious views. Of the various smells and languages, tales and dreams, blended into their childhood like a mosaic mural. Never have they had a simple connection with each other, but here and now it was lucid. Words couldn't express the understanding they had. The willingness to the happiness that was not quite at reach.

"One of the things I regret," She turned her head as he confessed. "Is that for so long I never let you in."

"We haven't done it in a long time, have we?" she wondered. "Just sitting and talking about how we feel."

"Yes. I think we found each other too irritating to be around more than five minutes."

"You were mostly irritating," Cordelia defended. "I was just there."

He said 'sure' in a way that made it clear he doubted the accuracy of the sentence. Cordelia thought it certainly was true.

An idea formed in her mind. "Shall you cook with me?"

Alastair cut his gaze back to her, seemingly bewildered.

"You know I can't cook myself without burning down the house,"  He considered her thoughtfully, yet uncertain, clearly baffled by the abrupt change of subject. With great power, she rose to her feet and glanced at him. "Please," she added. "I want to make something good for today. A surprise."

"For what occasion?" her brother asked. She tried to swiftly come with a proper answer.

"It's this very day James gave me the nickname Daisy," she lied. He leveled her with a dubious look.

"I want to make Qottab," she tempted. Risa hasn't baked the sugared Persian almond pastry in a long while. "Unless you have other plans for luncheon time, of course." 

Alastair didn't respond but quietly lifted himself up. That was enough of an answer.

****

Like the dance of battle, the rhythm of cooking was cooling them down. Some of the strain left Alastair's shoulder, his mind fixated on separating the egg yolks and the egg white. Cordelia worked to measure the right amounts of the dry ingredients for the dough. She hadn't mention Elias again, or her friends. It was just them, chatting lightly on anything and nothing.

They prepared all needed to make the tasty treat, mixing the ingredients. They immersed themselves into a light and superficial conversation, occasionally debating once and there. They sank into a bicker surrounding books ("Writers can tell simple truths in a fame glory," Cordelia claimed. "Between the words lies the truth that a few can reach." "The narrator controls it all, how everything seems to the reader," Alastair objected. "The book doesn't lie. The author might.") when they finished preparing the dough and set it aside. 

"The filling, now," she said blithely, turning to mince the almonds.

Both Alastair and Cordelia, being isolated and restless children, used to went on any adventures they could. They tried new things to prevent themself getting bored. Once, they decided to join Risa in her preparations for breakfast. Although memories of this were vague, she recalled the fresh smell of Persian bread, the spices, the feeling of pride for Risa's approving air when she got the measures correctly, Risa guiding the siblings how to take the food off the fire.

Alastair got scolded by Elias at that time. Son of the lord of the house shouldn't do a servent job, He said.

Despite the clear risk of defying their parents, he sneaked up and helped Risa in the kitchen more than once after. He stopped when he got older, but she remembered how well he was in the kitchen. Sona, pouring her love for her culture into her children, taught them some traditional recipes of their culture.

Her mother tried to teach her to cook. After uncourteously hundreds of times of burned food, crying, and sorrowing she finally succumbed, and Cordelia was left to her own devices. A lady might as well know to cook, but she was limited to few recipes and turning on the kettle for tea.

She hummed a melody to herself and glanced at Alastair who went to clean the mess left when she insisted on kneading the dough. 

"I thought of it," he said, pondering. "And I  find it would be a great source of amusement to me and great annoyance to your husband if I'd call him brother. So thank you, Layla, for this marvelous idea."

"Do you have to be so irking?" Complained Cordelia. Alastair shrugged.

"Of course," he retorted. "I have a reputation to maintain."

Cordelia shook her head in mock exasperation. "Of inappropriate performances and grumpy, irritating remarks?"

"Exactly." 

Cordelia could only shake her head again.

****

Once done with the filling, they engaged in a light conversation with some baked goods. This kept on, distracting each other from troubles and talking like they haven't had in what felt like an eternity. Alastair looked at the Pendulum clock hanging in the kitchen and told her it's time to make the crescents. It was her favorite part, putting the almond filling onto the center and creating a form of half-circle shape, sealing the inside by pressing down the edges and rolling them over.

She started to roll out the dough as thin as she could. "I disagree," she said, "Hugging you in public is not so shameful. And I did it only once." Cordelia turned to put it aside when she heard her brother mumble, "What's a more humiliating activity than hugging your sister in the open?"

She waved warningly at him with a rolling pin. "I heard that!"

"That's a glaring fact of life."

"I wasn't aware, then," she challenged, taking a bit of flour and tossing it on him. He regarded it with an irked noise.

While she let Alastair create the circles for the shapes of the pastries, she took the grined almonds and deliberately placed a bit on the center of each circle. Her brother started making the crescent shape and she soon joined him.

"We should do it more often," Cordelia suggested as she pressed her hand on the brim of the undone cookie and then folded, repeating the action and creating decoration on the sealing.

Alastair rolled his eyes. "And risk more flour thrown at me? I afraid you ask for too much."

"You can always behave nice," she said. "May I recommend you to perk up your manners?"

"Depends," he said. "Are you going to keep thinking about James in the same vein that Matthew Fairchild talks about his waistcoats?"

"That's very not true!" She objected. She could feel warmth flooding her cheeks. "I'm not- I'm not doing it!"

"Keep lying to yourself, then," Alastair calmly replied. Cordelia barely resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"I do not think only about James."

"Sure." he mocked in a high-pitched voice that was supposed to resemble Cordelia's. "James smiled at me! James breathed in my direction! James is that and James is there. Angel, when will it come to end? I hoped you would do something other than daydreaming of Herondale once you two got married."

She only glared at him in response. She drifted off to thinking about James just several times, and all Alastair's fault. Was it too late to knock Alastair off with Cortana? she contemplated. "I do not do that! I barely mentioned him!"

"It's written all over your face, You don't have to say anything." She gave him an annoyed huff, cheeks burning, and went to prepare the pot for the cooking.

As Alastair kept on filling the dough with almonds, Cordelia began to cook. She watched as the pastries got a golden-brown and took them out, intentionally away from Alastair's reach so he wouldn't be able to take any.

He got up, and she gave him a suspicious eye, but he loyally took the pastries and deeper them in a bowl with sugar they prepared earlier without biting at them. She mentioned they are not for him, just in case, and gave hin the most serious tone she could afford. 

Yet, when she turned around to take out another Qottab from the oil, she saw him biting one. "I caught you red-handed," she accused, repressing a teasing smile. He rolled his eyes, looking imperturbable.

"I made those. I deserve to get my part." And then, he shamelessly took another one. Cordelia couldn't help her smile this time. 

The smell of fresh, fragrant bread came up in the nose, spreading in the room. She mentioned the unflattering ornamental hat of Ms. HighCastle when Alastair peered at the now brown crescents."We should get it out now."

She smiled and turned to take the last bunch of treats out of the cooking pot, even as she saw Alastair extending his hand to steal another pastry.

This still wasn't easy. Their relationship was still rough around the edges. But it was fine, it was them, and they were making a progress. Their family could be mended. they were closer, another invisible wall of secrets fallen down between them. For now, they both could pretend the matters at home weren't so pained, so crushing.

She would make it work, She won't let it fall apart, now that she got her brother back. And woe betides anyone who stands in her path.

****

baseh digeh - that's enough.

to beh man goosh nemidi - you are not listening to me

aziz-e-delam - my sweetheart

Dadash - informal way to say 'brother'