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Chapter Text

Connor has been working with Shadowhunters long enough to know that he should never expect a warm welcome.

However, the icy: “Use the backdoor” is something he’ll never really get used to, and a shiver crawls down his spine.

“The backdoor” is too generous a description for the tiny hole in the wall that Connor finds at the back of the castle. The walls are old, exposed bricks that are scarred, scratched and chipped, showing signs of the horrors that have happened there before. Connor wonders how many Downworlders – warlocks, fae, werewolves, vampires, nimphs, trolls - found their untimely death in this particular castle.

He guesses it’s more than his hosts would like to admit to him.

“Peter,” he says, as a greeting, at the older man that waits for him at the top of the narrow staircase.

Peter Draisaitl, nor any of the other Shadowhunters that live here, would ever dare go down to the dungeon. The dungeon is were Downworlders go. Where Connor, even a hundred years after the peace treaty was signed, still has to enter the castle, because only Shadowhunters use the front door.

“Connor,” Peter Draisaitl nods back. “Thank you for coming at such short notice, I was afraid you would be otherwise occupied.”

Connor knows the underlying message: I’m glad you dropped everything because I called you that you needed to come fix my shit right now immediately. Otherwise I’d have to kill you.

He doesn’t react to the taunt. His mother has taught him well.

“Always work with Shadowhunters, Connor, because they pay very well. But never trust them; they will knife you in the back before you even introduce yourself.”

Connor thinks of his brother, and knows that won’t be a problem at all.

“What can I do for you today?” he asks, instead, all business like. He follows Peter through the hallways, now no longer scarred brick but a deep burgundy wallpaper. The castle looks like it hasn’t had a renovation since the 1600’s, and Connor knows that’s probably correct.

“We need you to strengthen our wards,” Peter answers, leading Connor to, what Connor suspects, is the library. “We had a demon attack yesterday and the wards held up, but they’re damaged.”

It’s a simple enough task, and some of the stress falls away from Connor’s shoulders. He’d worried, when he had been called upon so suddenly, that it would be an emergency situation.

Weak wards are annoying, but nothing these half angel people with their angel-blessed swords couldn’t handle.

Connor is ushered into the library; the bookshelves go all around the room and up to the highest of ceilings. The only break in the books is a small fireplace, surrounded by sofas.

If there’s anything Connor is jealous of the Shadowhunters for, it’s not their angel blood, their heavenly weapons, or their destiny for greatness. It’s the amount of books they possess.

“Our crest is up there,” Peter says. Connor follows his gaze and finds the Draisaitl crest carved into the wall above the fireplace.

He also finds Leon.

“Connor, what a surprise,” Leon says easily, closing the book he’d been reading. “Dad, you didn’t say he was coming.”

Peter’s voice is deadpan. “I assumed you’d be busy.”

Connor knows what he means: I assumed you wouldn’t be interested.

“Too busy for Connor?” Leon asks, giving him a blinding smile. “Never.”

Connor knows it’s ridiculous, but he can feel himself go red. Instead of saying something embarrassing back, he walks over to the fireplace, rests his hand on the crest.

“It might take a while,” he mumbles. “I’ll let the cat know when I’m done.”

The cat, which is laying curled up on one of the sofas, rights its head, looks straight at Connor.

“His name is Hunter,” Leon says, helpfully, and Connor knew that: warlocks can speak to animals, unlike Shadowhunters.

I’m not your slave, Hunter yawns.

“I know,” Connor says, both to Leon and Hunter at the same time.

Peter leaves the room, but Leon leans back against the couch pillows, seemingly unbothered by Connor’s presence.

It’s unnerving. Shadowhunters are always the first to book it out of the room when Connor enters somewhere – not just Connor, he supposes, but all type of Downworlders.

Afraid it’s contagious, or something.

Not only that, but Leon is like… beautiful.

Now Connor knows Shadowhunters are supposed to be beautiful. They’re half angel, half human, and the angel blood in them somehow gives them not only superhuman powers, but also beautiful faces and bodies, which is unfair, if you ask Connor.

But Leon is more beautiful than most, has an air of calm confidence around him that attracts people like moths to a flame. He’s also always been the only Shadowhunter in the Edmonton area that talks to Connor like he’s human, not just demon, and looks at him like he’s more than a trampled cockroach under his boot.  

Connor blames that for the fact that he answers easily when Leon asks: “So what are you doing, today?”

“Strengthening your wards. Some demons disagreed with me putting them here, I heard.”

Leon grins, his eyes tracking Connor across the room as he moves past it, inspecting the wards: he feels them, their magic pushing against him as he walks.

After all, wards deter demons, and he’s half demon.

“They never do.”

It’s quiet for a while, while Connor goes to work. He feels Leon’s eyes still fixed on him, but he doesn’t really mind.

Usually, Shadowhunter eyes in his back feel a little like electric wire, twisting around his gut. But with Leon, the only thing he feels is the warmth from the fire and the magic whirling in his veins.

He raises his hand, lightly rests his fingertips on top of the crest. He feels it light up beneath his touch, hears Leon inhale shakily.

Seeing magic up close is always a little shocking, no matter how many times you witness it.  

Then he closes his eyes, and he thinks:

Protect. Protect. Protect.

The light spreads from the crest to the rest of the room, then the castle. Connor can feel the energy pulse as he sends it around, to every nook and corner, through every hallway and down to the dungeon, every cell and every chamber.

When he feels the castle surrounded by it, he lets his hand fall to his side and breathes in.

“Connor?” Leon’s voice is a little quiet. “Are you alright?”

Connor knows that by now he’ll be pale and sweating, maybe even shaking a little. The room is spinning before his eyes and he reaches for the wall, trying to steady himself, but then there’s a strong hand around his elbow, and suddenly Leon is right there next to him, keeping him up.

Damn Shadowhunter reflexes.

“Come on, sit,” Leon mutters, steers him towards the couch and sits down next to him when Connor allows himself to sink into the pillows. “What’s happening right now? Do I need to get my fath…”

“No.” Connor shoots up fast enough that he sees stars, feels the blood drain from his face.

“Okay.” Leon’s voice is calm. “Okay, I won’t. Can you tell me what’s going on? Is this because of your magic?”

“I…” Connor stops himself. He’s breathing hard and he needs to preserve his energy, just for a moment, needs a little time to recharge.

Even then, he technically shouldn’t tell Leon this. It’s not illegal, or anything, but it’s frowned upon in society for Shadowhunters to share anything with Downworlders, especially information.

It’s because of that reason, that he says: “You first. Tell me about your powers.”

Leon smiles, like he knows exactly what Connor is doing. Asking him to trust him. Asking him to cross a boundary that was set in place many generations before their own. Testing him.

Leon answers like it means nothing.

“The angel blood in my veins means I’m faster, stronger, more agile, than any human could ever dream to be. I use a blessed, carved stone to carve lines into my skin, called runes, that give me extra powers: I can be quiet as the night, nearly weightless, see more clearly. I use weapons that are made with material blessed by angels, which are the only weapons that can actually slay demons.”

He smiles, a little sharply. “But you knew all of that already, didn’t you? You’re the High Warlock of Edmonton.”

Connor feels his heartbeat speed up, as it always does when someone uses the words.

“Edmonton doesn’t have a High Warlock.”

“No,” Leon shrugs, “because you’re young. But when you get older, it will be you. Everyone knows it.”

Cities usually have their own warlocks, almost always more than one. Each warlock has a slightly different type of magic, and there is space for more than one warlock per city. However, most big cities have a High Warlock, which is kinda like, the boss of all warlocks, the most powerful one. Also, the one that deals with the Shadowhunters.

Shadowhunters only ever want the best.

Connor sighs. He’s starting to feel better already, starting to feel like himself again. Leon is right, he did know all of that about Shadowhunters, but it doesn’t matter; it was about crossing a boundary, and Leon crossed it, so he figures it’s only fair that he answers Leon’s previous question.

“My type of magic means that I can give things power. That sounds vague, but it’s what it says on the tin. I can give these wards power to protect your castle, I can give people power to heal, I can give a tea cup the power to fly, if I so wish.”

He pauses. Leon is looking at him with genuine interest, no judgement in his face. So he continues.

“However, I can’t just magic that power out of thin air. I have to take it from somewhere. Simple adding and subtracting.”

“Like, if I wanted a carrot here, I would have to get it from the fridge, I could not just make it appear,” Leon nods, as if that makes all the sense in the world.

It kinda does, Connor thinks.

“Exactly. So when I give something power, I take it away from myself.” He shrugs. “It replenishes. It’s just, I need a minute to just sit and gather my power back, when I’ve given it to something else.”

“Well,” Leon says, something soft in his voice, “you can sit here for as long as you want. We won’t send Hunter to get dad until you’re ready.”

I think I can decide that for myself, Hunter speaks in Connor’s ear. Connor shoots a look at the cat, and he thinks if cats could, it would roll its eyes. Fine, whatever. I’ll just go back to sleep.

Leon stretches back lazily, swinging his arm over the back of the couch. His smile is bright enough to light up the entire room, Connor thinks, when he looks over.

“So, could you really make a tea cup fly?”

They talk for a while – an hour, probably, and definitely too long, because suddenly Hunter stands up.

He’s coming.

Connor has just thrown himself off the couch and is standing awkwardly next to the crest, when Peter enters.

“Are you done yet?”

Leon gives Connor a look that Connor can’t quite read.

“We were just trying to send Hunter, but he’s feeling lazy,” Leon answers, before Connor can.

Connor feels Hunter huff in annoyance, and mentally apologizes to the cat.

Peter looks at Connor, his face devoid of any emotion.

Or at least, no emotion that Connor can read. He figures he should be glad Peter is such a good actor: he wouldn’t like what he’d find.

“Your payment will be in shortly. Thank you for your service, today, we will call upon you if we need anything else.”

Connor wants to spat out that he’s not a waiter, that he can’t be beckoned, but he thinks of the money that’ll roll into his bank, and he thinks of his mother, who is struggling with bills, and he says nothing.

He knows that, as a warlock, the fact that he still has his mother is a miracle. Most women leave their children, when they learn who the father is. No woman wants to love a child that is half demon. But his mother stayed, and she took care of Connor, and now Connor would do anything to take care of her. Including dealing with Peter’s judgmental stares.

To be fair, he wouldn’t have had the time to react, because then Peter turns to Leon.

“Demon sighting at a bakery, want to take this one?”

Leon jumps up, and suddenly the soft, bubbly version of him is gone; he’s all hard lines and edges now, a soldier through and through.

It’s attractive, and Connor figures he can’t be blamed for thinking that. Leon is beautiful, and when he goes into Shadowhunter mode, there’s a fire blazing from his eyes that makes everything about him a million times more intense.

“On it,” Leon says, and he’s out of the room in a flash.

Ready to go fight some demons and save the world. Connor sighs, and returns home to cook dinner.

Chapter Text

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Connor looks in the direction of the voice, but he hasn’t even fully turned his head or there’s a strong hand around his arm and he’s being lifted in the air. Maybe thrown in the air. Connor doesn’t know.

He’s mostly just tipsy, and confused.

He lands on his feet, in the corner of the bar. It’s Leon, who is staring at him with big blue eyes.

God, his eyes are so blue? Have they always been that blue?

“Uh, yes,” Leon says, blinks in confusion.

Fuck, did I say that out loud?

“Yep,” Leon repeats, his normal confidence returning. “Are you smashed?”

“Maybe,” Connor says, this time knowing he’s speaking. “Why are you here? This is a Downworlder bar.”

He thinks it’s a fair question, but Leon’s face turns sour. That’s when Connor notices Leon’s attire: black, leather pants and shirt, plastered to his skin, showing off rippling muscles everywhere. Strapped to his belt is a long holster, which Connor instinctively knows contains a sword.

“Oh,” he says, a little stupidly. “You’re working.”

Leon laughs, a little breathy. “Well, yeah. I wouldn’t be welcome here for a drink, Connor.”

He sighs, looks around. “We got word that there’s a portal here, somewhere.”

Connor instantly freezes. Portals get opened to let demons into the world, and only warlocks have the magic necessary to open them.

“I didn’t do it,” he blurts out. “Leon, I didn’t.”

Leon’s face softens, momentarily. “I believe you,” he says, “but I’m here with some other Shadowhunters, and…”

They wouldn’t. Connor feels himself go rigid, feels his muscles tense where Leon still has his hand on his arm,

Is he being arrested? Suddenly, he feels completely sober.

“Maybe…” Leon pauses, seems to question himself. Then: “Maybe you can help me find it and close it for me?”

And the thing is, Connor absolutely could: magic calls to magic, and now that he knows there’s a portal around, it wouldn’t take too much to find it. It would probably take some energy to close it, but it’s not that hard.

But this is not official business. If it was, it wouldn’t be Leon, asking. It would be Peter, or one of the other senior Shadowhunters, demanding. If something were to go wrong, this would come down on Connor’s neck.

He watches as another Shadowhunter speaks with Nursey behind the bar. Nursey is one of Connor’s closest friends; he’s always liked werewolves the most, because they’re the most honest of the bunch. Fae can’t lie, but they’re very good at creative truth-telling, and Connor never understands their riddles. Trolls don’t like communicating, so they’re mostly silent, and Connor doesn’t have much experience with Nimphs, because he doesn’t like water. And vampires are just assholes.

Nursey’s mouth thins into a line, and Connor knows having Shadowhunters around your place is a sure death sentence for any type of Downworlder bar.

He can’t let Nursey go down like that.

“Fine,” he tells Leon. “But let’s make it quick.”

Leon nods, and Connor closes his eyes. Waits, for a moment, tries to find the energy.

Magic, in Connor’s mind, is like light. A few different shades of it, that can whirl together into a million different colors. It can be little specks of it, or a beam. It mixes and whirls and crawls where you think it can’t go, and when two colors come close, they start flowing together, becoming one big ocean of colored light.

He uses that, now. Sends his magic out there and waits until it meets some other magic, until it starts flowing together.

“Out back,” he says, finally. “It’s in the alley.”

“Of course,” Leon mumbles. “Of course it’s in the alley. Why would it be somewhere nice and warm?”

Connor hadn’t noticed, but Leon is right: it’s cold outside and it’s raining, and it’s eerily quiet, in the darkness of the night. It’s Tuesday, and there’s not many people out there.

He supposes he should be glad for it, because Leon will surely have put on a rune that means no mundane human can see him - wearing all leather and whielding a sword is frowned upon, in modern society, apparently – so people would just see Connor, talking to himself.

They don’t see magic, but they see magic creatures. They just don’t notice there’s a difference.

Connor hides his Mark well.

He leads Leon into the alley, where the portal is not even well hidden; it’s behind a dumpster.

“Creative,” Leon grins.

Connor bends down, goes to put his hand on the portal, when suddenly he sees something dark flash in the corner of his eyes.

“Leon,” he starts, but before he can say anything, Leon is up off the ground, flying through the air. His sword shines in the dark, pulses a soft glow when it sinks into the dark shape, which disappears under it.

“Disgusting,” Leon frowns. He looks at the sword; the glow has dimmed, and there’s a black, tacky material all over it.

Demon guts.

“Nice,” Connor deadpans. “Let me close this before its family comes for us.”

He puts his hand on the portal, closes his eyes.

Close, close, close.

Something in the alley seems to shudder, then the portal closes beneath Connor’s fingertips. It has taken all the energy out of Connor, and he lets himself fall down onto the wet stones, back against the wall.

“Thank you,” Leon says, softly. He taps his foot against Connor’s shin. “You okay? You’re getting wet.”

“You’re not,” Connor notices, looking at Leon’s fluffy blond hair. “Is there a rune for that?”

“Yep.” Leon shoves up his sleeve; his entire arm is filled with black drawings, swirls that form symbols Connor doesn’t know how to read. “This one keeps me dry.” Leon points at one. “This one makes me faster, this one counters gravity. That’s why I can jump higher.”

It’s interesting, and Connor has the sudden urge to reach out and touch one of the symbols, to feel Leon’s muscles jump beneath his skin, trace the dark lines on there, feel if it’s carved in there or if it’s part of it.

“Drai?”

The voice startles both Connor and Leon, but whereas Connor sinks back, Leon moves to stand in front of Connor, hand on the hilt of his sword.

The voice laughs. “Relax, Drai, a demon wouldn’t call out your name before it attacked you.”

Connor sees Leon relax, as he smiles. “Klef, there you are. Found the portal, and got our warlock to close it.”

“Our warlock?” The Shadowhunter that has joined them is also blond and attractive – because of course he is – and is looking at Connor with curious eyes.

“My family’s,” Leon explains. He motions at Connor, and Connor feels something icy creep into his veins.

Moments before, it felt like Leon and him were working together, side by side, to fix this problem. But now, another Shadowhunter appears, and suddenly Connor is nothing more than ‘my family’s warlock’.

He supposes it was stupid to think he’d ever be anything more than a servant, to any Shadowhunter.

He stands up, despite the fact that his bones still feel exhausted, and glares at the new Shadowhunter.

“Connor McDavid,” he says, “at your service.” It comes off sarcastic and sharp, exactly as Connor had meant it to. The unknown Shadowhunter doesn’t seem to notice, but Leon’s face falls.

“Oscar Klefbom,” the Shadowhunter says. “I work with Leon, most of the time.” He turns to Leon. “If it’s fixed, do you wanna go inside and get a drink? I think the bar owner owes us one.”

Connor doesn’t think Nursey agrees, and he thinks Leon and Oscar should be careful with what they drink here, surrounded by Fae and warlocks, but he says nothing. He’s really ready to go home.

However, Leon turns to Connor. “You wanna join us?”

It’s a question that makes no sense, seeing as one doesn’t invite their family’s warlock out for drinks, so Connor can’t even be upset about the surprise on Oscar’s face. However, Leon is looking at him intently, as if he really wants Connor to get something.

But Connor doesn’t get anything at all.

“No, thanks, I’ll just go home,” he says, because of that, and he starts walking, not even expecting Leon to say goodbye; however, suddenly there’s a body next to him.

It startles him, and Leon laughs. “Sorry, got my silence rune on.”

“I thought you were getting drinks,” Connor says, despite the fact that he really shouldn’t; shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t care, even.

He hates it, but he cares.

Leon shrugs, easily. “Nah, I’d rather walk you home.”

Connor can’t help but roll his eyes, and Leon sighs, heavily. “Look, I’m sorry about that, back there.”

“Nope.” Connor’s voice is more cheery than he feels inside. “I get it. No self respecting Shadowhunter should ever be doing anything with a Downworlder that he’s not ordering him to do so.”

“What?” Leon’s voice is shaky and his hand wraps around Connor’s wrist so fast Connor nearly stumbles as he’s being pulled to a halt. “Connor, no. That’s not true.”

“Your father thinks it is.” Connor doesn’t know why he says that: what Peter thinks should have nothing to do with what Leon thinks.

And yet.

He can’t help but wonder if it does.

Leon sighs. “I know,” he says, ruefully. “But I don’t think that. I don’t know why I introduced you like that, I guess cause I always hear my parents say stuff like that, and I…”

He cuts himself off, stares at the space behind Connor’s head. For a terrifying second, Connor thinks maybe there’s something behind him, but then Leon’s eyes catch his.

Leon is blushing.

“I should’ve told Klef that you’re Connor, my friend. Cause that’s what I would like you to be.”

Never trust a Shadowhunter, Connor’s mom said. And Connor doesn’t think he trusts Leon, not completely, not with everything.

But being friends? Connor thinks he’d like that too.

Chapter Text

When Peter calls, he sounds rattled for the first time ever.

“You need to come here as fast as you can,” he orders, and Connor is about to tell him that he can ask a little nicer, when he adds: “It’s Leon. He won’t heal.”

Connor has never gotten to the castle faster.

He runs through the gardens, finds the back door and runs through the narrow hallway up to the stairs. Peter isn’t waiting for him, but Hunter is.

He’s in his bedroom, Hunter speaks in Connor’s mind. Up the stairs, second door to the left.

“Show me,” Connor tells the cat. There’s too many stairs in this stupid, giant castle, and he can’t lose any time getting lost.

He can feel Hunter’s judgement, but the cat does start running towards a staircase, and Connor follows.

The door Hunter stops in front of is massive, made of oak. Connor hears voices inside.

“I don’t know what happened,” says a voice that Connor recognizes as Oscar Klefbom. “He was fine, and then the next minute he wasn’t.”

“But I thought you hadn’t encountered any demons.” It’s Peter’s voice.

“Cause we didn’t!” A voice Connor doesn’t know. “It must be a warlock curse or something!”

Dread takes over Connor’s heart, but before he can think about that, there’s footsteps behind him.

“Oh,” a female voice says. “You must be the warlock. I’m Sandra.” She smiles at Connor, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Leon’s mother.”

Connor can see the resemblence now; they have the same bright blue eyes, the same sharp jawline.

Sandra continues before Connor can say anything – like his name – and says: “I hope you can help him, we have no idea what’s wrong with him. He looks miserable. I’m bringing him ginger tea, but…”

Her voice trails off, as in that moment, the heavy oak door opens, and Peter appears. “Ah,” he says. “I thought I heard voices.”

Sandra walks inside and Connor follows her, because he doesn’t really know what else to do.

He almost wishes Hunter would come; at least there would be a friendly face in there.

“Connor!”

Connor is surprised that Oscar even still knows his name, but he looks genuinely pleased to see Connor here. The other guy looks a lot younger, with dark longer hair and big scared eyes.

“This is Ethan, he’s our rookie. He was with us on a routine check, and then suddenly Leon became…” Oscar motions to the bed. “Well. This.”

Connor carefully steps closer, then instantly wishes he hadn’t when he sees the sight in front of him.

Leon isn’t wearing a shirt, just some sweatpants riding low on his hips. His chest is – apart from muscled and strong – filled with runes, black lines stark against pale skin. His hair is mussled, and Leon has his arm laying over his face.

He looks really hot, and really miserable.

“Leon?” Connor tries, softly. He doesn’t dare reach out, not in a room full of Shadowhunters, where he knows he could get a holy knife between his ribs for one wrong movement.

“Connor?” Leon’s voice is rough, and he moves his arm away from his face to blink at Connor with heavy eyelids. “You’re here?”

“Yep.” Connor is standing so close now that he can see the red flush on Leon’s cheeks. “What happened?”

“Everything hurts,” Leon mumbles. “My head. All my muscles. I keep coughing. I feel so hot, and then so cold. I put on so many healing runes, Connor, but I’m not freaking healing.” He finishes the sentence with a cough that sounds, frankly, disgusting, and Connor immediately realizes what’s going on.

It’s a little funny, but he forces himself not to laugh.

“You, uh, have the flu.”

Four pairs of Shaduwhunter eyes stare at him in confusion. Leon’s eyes have slipped shut again.

“The flu,” Connor continues, “is a mundane disease. Runes can’t heal it, because it’s nothing magical. Just bacteria.”

Peter frowns. “But… how long will it take?”

Connor shrugs. He’s no mundane doctor. “A few days? A week at most.”

“A week!” Sandra’s eyes are big and scared. “Oh dear, that’s awful! Is there nothing you can do?”

And in that moment, Connor has to make a decision.

There is something he can do. The thing is, mundane diseases might not be healed by runes, but they can be healed by magic. Anything can be healed by magic. However, mundane diseases are a bitch to heal magically, and Connor knows it’s going to drain him completely, to fix someone’s flu. It’s stupid, to put his own health at risk like that, simply because they can’t let Leon sleep it off for a few days.

But. Shadowhunters pay well.

And. It’s Leon.

“I can,” he says, “but it won’t be easy.”

“Name your price,” Peter says, understanding where Connor was going with this. “We’ll pay. Just make him better.”

“I’ll send the bill.” Connor shoots a pointed look towards the door. “This will take a while.”

Nobody moves, and Connor sighs: he hates having to kick them out, but he’s not going to do this with them watching.

Not when it’s going to cost him so much strength.

“Guys, go have dinner,” Leon says – croaks, more – from the bed. “Connor’s got this. I’ll come find you when we’re done.”

They all mumble a little in protest, but they do leave, and finally the room is empty.

Connor goes to sit on the edge of Leon’s bed.

“This is not gonna be fun,” he whispers, more to himself than to Leon. However, Leon hears him.

“For me or for you?”

“Me,” Connor admits. At that, Leon’s eyes shoot open.

“It’s going to take all your power.”

It’s not a question, so Connor doesn’t bother with an answer. Instead, he says: “I might need an hour or so to recover, so I hope you don’t mind me staying for that long. I don’t think I’d make it to my car.”

Leon starts to sit up; has to stop himself, because he’s coughing, but then, finally, he says: “Don’t do it.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t heal me if it hurts you. I don’t want you to.”

Something pitter patters obnoxiously inside Connor’s chest.

“And I don’t want you to feel miserable for a week.” Connor lightly pushes against Leon’s chest, and Leon lays back down obediently. “It won’t hurt me, it’ll just exhaust me, and I might need a little power nap.”

“Anything,” Leon says, and it’s with nothing but honesty in his eyes. “Anything you need, Connor, I’ve got you.”

He coughs again, and he looks like he couldn’t do anything, right now, and yet.

Connor believes him.

Maybe even kinda trusts him. Fuck.

Instead of figuring out that shit show in his head, he puts his hand on Leon’s chest. He doesn’t ask, but Leon’s hand comes up to cover his, and he figures it can only help, so he says nothing.

Just closes his eyes. Before he can do anything, though, Leon asks:

“Why do you close your eyes when you do magic?”

Connor opens them again. Leon is looking at him curiously, his cheeks flushed red with fever and his eyes a bit glassy.

“Is it because of your Mark?”

Connor stills.

All warlocks have a Mark, and it’s always in their eyes. Something that is different, that sets them apart from every human out there. Warlock are half human, half demon, and it is said that their Mark is left by their demon father, so he can recognize them later when he takes them with him to hell.

For most warlocks, their Mark only shows up when they’re doing magic. For Connor, too.

“Yeah,” he says, softly. “They change color.”

“What color?” Leon asks,

Connor smiles. He could tell him, but it would be so much more interesting to show him.

So this time Connor keeps his eyes open, and thinks:

Heal, heal, heal.

His eyes flash a bright orange; then he feels the energy drain out of him, feels the color move from his soul to Leon’s, like a bright light pulsing through his veins into Leon’s body. Slowly, but surely, he can feel the color engulfing Leon, from his head to his toes, and then Connor feels dizzy and weak.

He feels his head fall, and then there’s two strong arms around him, holding him tight.

“I’ve got you.” Leon’s voice sounds normal again. “Come, lay down.”

Connor is tired, so, so exhausted, he can’t speak or open his eyes or even think, but he is awake enough to notice how Leon carefully helps him lay down onto the bed, the cold pillow under his head.

“Orange,” Leon says, sounding in awe. “They’re beautiful. Bright orange, like a sunset.”

Connor thinks if he wasn’t so exhausted, he’d smile. Leon’s body is warm and heavy next to him, the side of Connor’s body pressing against the warm, hard lines of Leon’s chest.

“You can stay here,” Leon mumbles, then. “For however long you want. We can lock the door. You’re not leaving here until you’re 100% strong again, Connor. If something happened to you… I would never forgive myself.”

Connor ignores the butterflies in his stomach. Instead, he raises his hand and points towards the door.

Lock, lock, lock.

The lock clicks shut.

Leon laughs. “You idiot, I could’ve gotten up and done that. No need to waste energy on it.”

Connor doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t say: but I want you to stay here with me.

They lay there, together, in silence, for what feels like a long time. Connor doesn’t sleep, he thinks, but he falls in and out of consciousness. Whenever he wakes, his attention immediately goes to the warm weight next to him, and the weight never leaves.

It calms him down enough to let himself drift off a little, again.

Leon’s breathing is even and steady, next to him. Connor focuses on that, tries not to think. Not to dream. He’s not sure if he’s asleep, to be completely fair.

It’s a lot later, when Leon speaks, his voice laced with an edge of sadness.

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

Connor’s answers comes too soon, too easy. “I don’t, no.” He notices speaking isn’t costing him as much trouble, so he should be able to open his eyes. When he does, he finds Leon already watching him, his eyes swimming with emotion.

“But you like me,” Leon states. It’s not a question. Connor answers him anyway.

“I do.”

“Why don’t you trust me then?”

The question is filled with vulnerability, and Connor blames that, and his own hazy state, for how little he thinks about answering.

“My older brother… Not my real brother, of course. My mom’s mundane child. He doesn’t have any type of magic, but he knows about it, because of me. He has learned how to see it. He…”

Connor swallows; the memories are painful, cut deep like a knife. He thinks Leon knows, because Leon’s hand wraps around Connor’s own.

Connor continues. “He had a run in with some Fae. They promised him things. Took him to their Land.”

Leon inhales sharply, and Connor feels something sharp in his chest.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “you know people who go into the Fae’s Land never come out.”

“You called for help?” Leon asks.

“Of course.” Now, Connor is sounding angry, but he can’t stop himself. “My mom and me, we called for help. Called the Institute, called your father. You know what they told us?”

Leon doesn’t say anything. It’s a good call, on his end.

“They told us they had better things to do than save some little kid from the Land of Fae. And that if I had been a better warlock, maybe we wouldn’t have this problem, right now.” Connor pauses, feels the pain sharp in his chest, like a knife that’s being twisted. “We never saw him again.”

“Connor…” Leon is staring at him. “How? How are you here right now? If you hated us, it would be less than we deserved.”

Connor laughs, bitterly. “Shadowhunters don’t like Downworlders, Leon, and they sure as hell don’t respect them. But they pay them well, when they need them. And my mom, she has a child that’s half demon, and she had a child that was pure and good. The better child is now dead because the demon child isn’t good enough at being a demon. The least I can do is pay her rent.”

Connor’s voice is breaking. By the end of it, his voice is hoarse, and he closes his eyes in order to keep the tears back.

“Fuck, Connor.” Leon squeezes his hand. Connor hadn’t really noticed he was still holding it, to be honest. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea…”

“I didn’t think you did.” Connor forces a smile, but he knows it’s not a real one. “Wouldn’t have healed your flu, if I thought you knew.”

“Connor, it’s not…” Leon stops, seems to hesistate. Then: “It’s not your fault. What happened. I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear that from, but I promise you, it’s not your fault.”

And it’s true: Leon should be the last person Connor wants to hear that from. But he’s not. Connor thinks he needed to hear that. Maybe from Leon, especially.

Connor has never trusted a Shadowhunter, and he doesn’t know if he ever can. But right now, he’s emotional, and he’s so, so fucking exhausted, and Leon is warm and solid and kind, so he just lets himself roll over into Leon’s body.

Leon’s arms come up around Connor’s body, curl him tighter against Leon’s chest. Connor lets his head rest on Leon’s shoulder, and suddenly they’re tangled together in every way possible.

Connor hasn’t felt so safe in years, maybe even forever, so he closes his eyes and just lets himself sleep.

Chapter Text

Connor wakes up to screaming.

“You’re not going!”

“Yes, I am! We’re not letting her die!”

Leon’s room is empty, the sheets are rolled around Connor like a cocoon. He thinks he’s not supposed to hear the screaming, but it’s too loud to ignore.

He closes his eyes, focuses, and lets his magic dance.

The magic dances down the hall, slips through the cracks in the door of the library. There, Leon stands with Peter and Sandra, and Oscar and Ethan too.

“It’s just a werechild, Leon,” Peter says, harshly. “We’re not sending you into the Land of Fae to save a werechild.” He says it like it’s a curse.

Sandra seems more worried and less angry. “I understand that you want to save her, Leon, but you know how dangerous it is to go into the Land of Fae. Those who go in don’t come out.”

“It’s just not a good idea, bro,” Oscar says, although he looks like he’d rather not say that.

Ethan stays silent.

“I’m not letting another Downworlder die,” Leon grits his teeth. “You might not find them important, but they are.”

“I’m not saying they’re not important,” Sandra starts.

“Just not as important as you,” Peter adds, and Connor’s magic dims a little, because he hears his blood rush in his ears.

Then, Ethan speaks up. “What about the warlock? Can’t he go save the child? They say Fae are evil because they are made of demon blood, well, so is the warlock. Surely they can’t hurt one another.”

“They can,” Leon says, “and Connor isn’t going.”

“Then neither are you,” Peter decides.

It sounds final.

When Leon walks into the room, Connor is standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m going,” he says, before Leon even closes the door behind him.

Leon smiles at him wryly. “You heard that, huh?”

“Leon.” Connor has always been stubborn; when he chooses his path, he’s on that path forever. “You were talking about a werechild. Did the Fae take one?”

Leon nods. “Little girl, 3 years old. Nurse’s niece.”

Connor’s heart squeezes even more; Nursey loves his nieces and nephews, has a whole lot of them and makes sure to pay the same amount of attention to each and every one.

“That makes it even more personal,” he says. “Leon, I’m going.”

Leon’s eyes travel down Connor’s face. Connor can feel that he’s being read, that Leon is calculating his options.

He hopes Leon knows there’s not many options for him. Either they go together, or Connor goes alone.

Finally, Leon sighs.

“You’re right,” he says. “What happened with your brother, I can’t let that happen again.” He sounds a little regretful when he says: “You know this is dangerous right? The most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.”

“Those who go in don’t come out,” Connor repeats what Sandra said. Watches as Leon’s eyes narrow.

“Were you listening in to it all?”

“Maybe,” Connor admits. “My magic is attracted by you. It’s easy for me to send it to listen.”

Leon’s smile is almost warm. “Okay. Well. Let me get some gear. And then we get some breakfast. We’re gonna need it.”

No matter how calm and collected Connor was when leaving the castle, when they arrive to the portal to the Land of Fae, he’s shaking with nerves, his hands clammy and his stomach churning.

“Right,” Leon says. “I hate water.” He’s staring at the lake in front of them. It’s 10 minutes to midnight, and at midnight, the portal will open. Under water, because the Fae share the portal with the Nimph.

They were granted access, which is why the portal will open. Usually it stays closed, which is why, once you’re in, nobody can just walk in and get you out.

Otherwise, Connor would’ve gone to get Cam.

“What if I see him?” Connor asks suddenly, out loud. Leon turns to him.

He knows what Connor is talking about right away.

“Then we’ll talk to him,” he says, softly. “Con, if he wants out… We’re already risking our lives. Might as well go all out.”

His tone is light but Connor knows he’s 100% serious. Leon is risking his life for this werechild – partly because Connor is, but also because it’s the right thing to do – and he’s willing to risk it for Connor’s brother too, even if Connor isn’t even sure his brother is still alive.

Something settles in Connor’s stomach.

He’s doing something awfully dangerous, but he’s doing it with Leon by his side, and suddenly, it doesn’t feel so dangerous anymore.

Leon laughs, loud in the quiet night. “Fuck it.”

“Fuck it?” Connor repeats, a little dumbly. Leon has turned to him and his blue eyes are blazing as they gaze into Connor’s.

“I’m probably about to die,” Leon says, easily, as if it’s a simple fact like the weather, or that 1+1=2. “But fuck it. If I die, at least I’ll die with my favorite person by my side.”

Connor feels his body heat up from his cheeks to his toes, and he steps forward without really even choosing too. “Leon…”

He’s swaying in Leon’s space, but Leon isn’t stepping back. He thinks he’s reading this right, and he leans closer.

But then the water parts.

Leon curses, jumps back.

The water has parted and now there’s a dry path in between two parts of the lake. Connor steps forward, and the bottom of the lake is soggy under his foot.

At the end of the dry ditch that has been created, there’s a staircase, seemingly leading into the sky.

“The portal,” Leon says. His voice is a little rough, and Connor wonders if it’s because they’re about to step into a land that they might never get out of, or if it’s because they almost just kissed.

At least, he thinks that’s what just happened.

“The Land of Fae,” he agrees shakily.

He watches as Leon steps in front of him, then extends his hand. Connor takes it. Leon’s skin is soft and warm against his own, and Connor’s heart is beating in his throat, but he doesn’t know why exactly.

Could be many things, maybe all of those things together.

“Let’s do this,” Leon says, and Connor follows him up the stairs.

The Land of Fae is nothing like Connor expected.

With so much talk about not being able to leave, he’d expected something like a jail cell, a dungeon, maybe. But they’re surrounded by fields of lush green grass, and there’s a warm glow casted upon them by what seems like the sun.

There’s a light breeze and it’s the perfect temperature, and somewhere in the distance, birds are singing. There’s wildflowers everywhere.

“Many people stay here not because they can’t leave,” Leon explains, seeing Connor’s expression. “But because they don’t want to.”

“Welcome.”

Connor startles and Leon’s hand slips to his sword; however, in stark contrast, a polite smile appears on his face.

In front of them is a Faerie. She has pointed ears and even pointier teeth, that she shows off when she smiles. She’s dressed in all white clothes, as Fae always are, and wearing no shoes. Connor doesn’t think she can be more than 12 years old.

“We have an appointment with your Queen,” Leon tells the girl.

“Very well,” the girl answers. “If you follow me.”

They follow the girl in silence. Connor sees the tension in Leon’s shoulders, like he’s ready for something to jump out at them, and ready to fight it; he feels a bit useless, so out of his comfort zone.

He never thought he would ever voluntarily step foot in the Land of Fae.

After not too long, they enter a closed area; trees surround it, so many and so thick that you can’t see past. In the middle stands a tree that is cut into a throne; vines are circled around it, keeping it up.

Upon the thrown sits a female Faerie, in a long white dress. Her hair is long and white as well, and she stares at Connor and Leon with curious eyes. Her pupils, Connor notices, are also white.

“Queen of Fae,” Leon speaks; his voice oozes politeness, but Connor hears it’s a little clipped. He wonders if Leon is scared. He knows he is.

“Child of Raziel,” the Queen answers, looking at Leon. Raziel is the angel that Shadowhunters get their angel blood from, but Connor has never heard anyone unironically call them “children of Raziel.”

Then, the Queen turns to Connor and smiles tight-lipped. “Child of Lucifer. I have long known not to expect you in my Kingdom.”

Connor says nothing; he’s learned that saying nothing usually is the best way to handle Fae. Say one thing, and they twist and turn and color it, until you’ve suddenly promised them your life.

“We’re here for the werechild,” Leon says. He sounds eerily calm, borderline unbothered; but Connor sees the tight set of his jaw and knows every fiber of his being is strung like a fiddle, right now. “You had no right to take it, so we’re taking it back.”

The Queen laughs; it shows off two perfect rows of sharp, pointy teeth. Like a shark.

“Oh, Shadowhunter. Your kind always thinks they can just go around and make demands.” Her gaze travels to Connor. “And you, child of Lucifer? Why do you find yourself in my Kingdom?”

Connor opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, the Queen’s eyes widen and she starts laughing again.

“Oh. Your brother, you say?” She whistles, a high sound that hurts Connor’s ears.

Except he doesn’t notice, because suddenly a figure appears.

“Cam?” he breathes.

The figure in front of him looks exactly how Connor remembers. He is basically the same age as Connor now, because time goes slower in the Land of Fae. His ears are a little pointy, and he’s wearing all white clothes.

“Connor.” Even his voice still sounds the same, the same melodic, calming sound that Connor sometimes hears in his dreams. “Have you come to look for me?”

Connor feels Leon’s questioning eyes on him, but he can only stare at Cam.

At his brother.

“You’re here,” he whispers. “You’re alive.”

“Well, of course.” Cam smiles. “The Queen of Fae never kills those who are her loyal, Connor.”

He doesn’t speak like Cam, not really; his voice is the same but he’s using words that Connor would never hear Cam say.

Except that makes sense, because this isn’t Cam, not really. It’s Faerie Cam. That’s different.

“You were taken here,” Connor says. He doesn’t know why he says it, but the words just fall out of his mouth. “You didn’t want to be here, they took you.”

“No soul who does not wish to enter the Land of Fae will ever find themselves upon our soil,” the Queen speaks now, a little sharply. “We do not take, warlock. We only seek to be the asylum lost souls wish to find themselves upon.”

“I’m happy, here, Connor,” Cam speaks, and he sounds a little more like Cam, again. At his arm, a lady Faerie appears, smiling at Connor too. “I have found a family, and I am happy.” He seems to understand Connor’s doubt, because he adds: “If I must promise you it to be true, I will. You know Fae are not capable of lying.”

“But they never really speak the truth, either,” Leon grumbles.

But Connor sees it in Cam’s eyes; Cam’s eyes are the same as always, the same dark blue, and he sees Cam.

Cam, who taught him how to read.

Cam, who laughed when Connor accidentally made his cereal fly through the air, when he found out about his magic.

Cam, who threatened to beat up any bully that would ask Connor about his powers.

Cam, who is, and always has been, Connor’s brother.

“I believe him,” Connor says, mostly to himself, but also a little to Leon. “I believe he’s happy.”

“Tell mother?” Cam asks him, softly, and Connor nods.

He hopes his mom can believe it too.

“Very well,” the Queen speaks, “I must say this was a very touching moment for me to witness, but I must now ask you both to leave.” She grins, meanly. “You must understand it is not usual for me to watch souls leave the Land, for mostly those who enter cannot leave. However, for your safe return was bargained, so I will not stop you.”

The other Shadowhunters, Connor understands. They would never let Leon go in here without an exit plan.

He has never felt so grateful for Peter Draisaitl.

“No,” Leon says, and a wave of shocked murmers washes through the room. “We will not leave without the werechild.”

“For her safe return no bargain was made,” the Queen drawls, almost bored. “So I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

“What do you want for her, then?” Leon asks, and Connor feels something run cold in his veins.

“Leon,” he says, softly, “don’t bargain with Fae. You know that never ends well.”

The Queen returns her gaze to Connor. “Pray tell, child of Lucifer. What is the poor Shadowhunter to do? He can return to his own land, but without the werechild. Or he can bargain with us. There is no other choice, for you know as well as I, that those who enter cannot leave.” She repeats it, like a mantra; spits the words out like they pain her. “Those who enter cannot leave.”

“What do you want?” Leon repeats. He’s stubbornly ignoring Connor’s attempt at eye contact, and Connor is sweating.

Leon wouldn’t…

“If you wish the child to return,” the Queen speaks, “one of you must remain.” She smiles a smile that seems almost poisonous. “Which one will it be? The child of Lucifer? Or the child of Raziel?”

Connor can feel it before Leon even speaks.

“No,” he breathes.

“Me,” Leon says.

It all happens very quickly, then.

A white light fills the room, so bright that Connor has to close his eyes: when he opens them, the werechild, the little girl, is standing next to him, and Leon is not.

Leon is standing to the side, being held by two Fae. Their long nails are hooked like claws around Leon’s wrists, but he is not resisting: he looks at Connor, and smiles.

“Go home, Connor,” he says. “Take her to Nurse. He’ll get her home.”

“No!” Connor hears how panicked he sounds, but can’t stop himself. “No, Leon, you can’t stay here.”

“Ah.” Suddenly the Queen of Fae perks up. “Ah, how dim of me. I cannot believe I hadn’t observed it before.” She pauses, then glances at Connor. “You, child of Lucifer. How much of a sin it is, for one of blood that rejected God, to love those who are born of the angel Raziel.”

Connor’s blood runs cold, and Leon’s eyes widen.

“I’m not…” he mutters, but the Queen raises one eyebrow; or where Connor assumes her eyebrow would be if she had one.

“You do not wish to accuse me of telling an untruth, I may hope? Fae cannot lie, Connor McDavid. And neither can you about how much your heart wishes for Leon Draisaitl.”

Connor doesn’t say anything; instead he stares at Leon, watches as realization takes over Leon’s face. He doesn’t know what he’s afraid to find – disgust, anger, disbelief, sorrow? – but he finds none of it.

He finds Leon looking back at him with fire in his eyes.

“I suppose the bargain has meant more than I anticipated,” the Queen speaks, thoughtfully. “I thought it would pain only the Shadowhunters, to exchange one of their own for a werechild that means nothing to their kind. But I have also pained a warlock.” The look on her face is pure evil, when she continues: “Perhaps it would be kind of me to spare you the sorrow of wishing for his return.”

His entire life, Connor has heard stories about the Fae, and how evil they are. How they do not hurt their own kind, but they will hurt everyone else. About how they are half demon, half angel, but the angel half of them has never shown itself, except in their inability to lie.

It is used by Shadowhunters to explain why warlocks cannot be good: if angel blood cannot make the demon blood thin, how could human blood make a difference?

But Connor knows that somehow, it does, because Connor isn’t evil. Connor cares, and he loves, and he would never hurt anyone on purpose.

Thick vines, filled with thorns, are wrapping themselves around Leon’s wrists and ankles. Then, one wraps itself around Leon’s neck.

Suddenly Connor realizes.

“No,” he says. Then, screams: “No!”

“There is no space for a child of Raziel in my kingdom,” the Queen says, solemly. “Unfortunately, this Shadowhunter must die.”

Connor launches forward, but two vines are wrapped around his feet and he slams against the ground, something rattling in his head. The werechild has disappeared, and Connor knows instinctively that the Queen has sent her back home.

However, Connor is not allowed to go. Because the Queen wants him to watch Leon die.

The vines around Leon are tightening, the more he struggles against them. He’s struggling, he’s thrashing his arms and legs around, trying to reach for his sword. It’s no use; one vine has already wrapped around the sword and pulls it away from Leon, out of his reach.

Thorns are pressing into Leon’s skin, blood trickling down his body. His runes are blazing light, but they can’t be activated.

No angel power works in the Land of Fae.

“No,” Connor sobs, trying feverishly to reach for Leon, only to be yanked back by vines. He seeks the crowd, tries to find Cam.

If Cam is his brother still, loves him still, he would not let this happen.

Suddenly, Connor hears a voice. He doesn’t see Cam, but it’s definitely Cam’s voice, in his ear.

“Connor, you have the blood of Lucifer in your veins.”

No angel power works in the Land of Fae. But Connor doesn’t have any angel powers, anyway.

“You give power to whatever has the space to hold it. You can make sure he does not perish,” Cam’s voice says. “But it’ll cost you. Maybe even your life.”

It’s not a hard choice.

“Connor,” Leon’s voice calls, somewhere far away, filled with panic and fear. Connor sees the blood pool at Leon’s feet.

He closes his eyes, reaches out his hands.

“Good luck, brother,” Cam says.

Protect, protect, protect.

Fight, fight, fight.

Heal, heal, heal.

Live, live, live.

LIVE, LIVE, LIVE.

There’s a crash, and then everything goes black.

Chapter Text

There’s a beep in Connor’s ears.

It hasn’t left in days. Maybe even weeks. Connor has no idea how long he’s been laying there, in white silk sheets in a cold and quiet castle. He drifts in and out of consciousness.

Mostly, he dreams.

He dreams of his brother, of when they were kids. Running through the grass, or playing hockey on a frozen pond. He thinks of his mother’s eyes, filled with love, as she said: “You’re both my children, and I love you equally.” He dreams of Cam being happy dressed in white robes.

He dreams of magic. Of colors flowing like rivers out of his fingertips, of clouds of light. He feels them merge and mix, sees them dance across the darkness of his eyelids. He feels their power; it’s there, but he cannot touch it. It’s out of reach.

He dreams of Leon. Leon stretched out on the couch in the library, pale skin against the navy fabric of the sofa, a soft glow of the fire on his face. Leon’s runes, dark lines in contrast with soft skin, Connor’s fingers reaching out to trace them. He can almost feel the muscles ripple beneath his hands, feel the power of Leon’s hands when they grasp onto his own.

“Connor,” Leon’s voice says, somewhere in his dream. “You can’t give up on me now.”

I wouldn’t, Connor wants to say. I would never. He can’t open his mouth.

He dreams of red streams of blood, trickling down Leon’s skin, and wants to scream. He thinks of the fear in Leon’s eyes as he struggles to breathe, and wants to cry.

He dreams of light, so much light it could light up the entire universe. Like the sun surrounds them, blazes them up from inside out. He dreams of an angel, appearing in the light.

He feels the happiness as Leon gets his freedom. Feels the relief when Leon’s wounds start to heal.

He doesn’t see it, wasn’t there when it happened, but he dreams it.

He thinks maybe, if he ever manages to grasp onto that little light of life, onto the magic that dances just outside his reach, he’ll find out it’s not a dream after all.

“Connor, please.” Leon’s voice. Desperate. Begging. “Open your eyes.”

Connor tries. The magic seems to dance closer; he reaches out, one hand, flips his palm to the sky. There’s a little dot of light, bright and vivid, and Connor thinks if he reaches just a little further…

Something holds his hand.

“Connor.” Leon, still. “You can hear me, right?”

The weight in his hand squeezes. It’s heavy and warm, and Connor can squeeze back. He thinks he does. He opens his eyes.

The room he’s in is white. White ceiling, white walls, white sheets. There’s a beeping next to him; some sort of machine.

He blinks, turns his head. Leon is staring at him with wide, ocean blue eyes, surrounded by the darkest circles Connor has ever seen.

Leon doesn’t look good. He’s pale and he looks exhausted, but he’s very clearly alive, and he doesn’t seem hurt.

Relief floods Connor like a tsunami.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. Marvels. “How?”

“Connor, fuck.” Leon’s voice is shaky, laced with something heavy, like he’s about to cry. “You. You saved my life.”

“Me?” Connor asks, confused.

“You called upon an angel,” Leon says. He’s still squeezing Connor’s hand, and it hurts a little, but not enough for Connor to ask him to stop. “You did your magic, Connor, and then the angel Ithuriel appeared, and he freed me. Your magic saved my life.” He breathes. “Connor, warlocks aren’t meant to be able to summon angels.”

“No.” Connor knows that. “I’m half demon. I can only summon demons.”

Leon is shaking his head before Connor even finished his sentence. “You’re not, fuck, Connor, I know you’re a warlock, but there’s no way any part of you is demon.” He stands up, sits on the edge of Connor’s bed. He still hasn’t let go of Connor’s hand, but Connor doesn’t mind that.

“Why?” Leon whispers. “Connor, you could’ve died. The power that is needed to summon an angel… I don’t understand how you’re still here. Why did you do it?”

Connor blinks. Surely that’s not a serious question: Leon was there, when the Queen of Fae told him.

“Because you have my heart,” he answers, easily. It could be scary but it doesn’t feel like it is. Not with the way Leon is clutching onto him like he’s the only thing keeping him afloat. “You heard the Queen. I’m a sinner. Me and my demon blood are not allowed to love a Shadowhunter, and yet, here I am.”

Leon’s laugh is short and a little wet. “What about the other way around? Am I a sinner for loving you, too?”

And, Connor knew Leon loved him back. He’s seen it in his eyes, felt it in his presence. But hearing it, for some reason, is still something else entirely, and a surge of strength flows through his body at the words.

“Absolutely,” he mutters, pushing himself to sit more upright. “We’re both sinners.”

Leon smiles. “Let’s not tell the angels.”

And then he leans in and kisses Connor, deeply and thoroughly, and something blooms in Connor’s chest.

Power has always been a weird concept, to Connor. It’s something that he can so easily give away; the power to heal, protect, strengthen, defy gravity or fate. Connor had always believed that he knew what power was, knew how to twist it and manipulate it and turn it into something else. He thought he knew every type of power out there.

But as he kisses Leon, suddenly he realizes there was one type of power, that he hadn’t ever dared to influence by magic, that he hadn’t even realized was the most intense and important kind of power, of them all.

The power of love, Connor thinks, is maybe a little magic in itself.

Chapter Text

Connor dreams of angels.

It’s been happening since he woke up in that hospice bed, and he’s sure there’s some kind of meaning behind it but he feels like figuring out the meaning could lead him to places he might not be ready to go. So, he doesn’t.

But he dreams.

All his dreams are the same. He’s walking through a meadow. The sun is barely rising in the distance, and the air around him is cold. When he stares at the horizon there’s nothing there but endless grass; he’s walking like he has a destination, but he doesn’t know what it is and he definitely can’t see it.

Then, all of a sudden, Connor sees a flight of stairs. The stairs go into the ground into some kind of bunker, and everything inside of Connor is screaming at him to not go in there.

“It’s not safe,” he hears someone say in his head. It’s a voice he’d recognize anywhere; Leon.

“I have to,” he answers, the words floating into empty space. Leon isn’t there, and yet, Connor still feels his presence. Feels the safe, warm glow that surrounds him whenever Leon is near. His magic hums with content happiness, and Connor goes down the stairs.

The bunker is a square room made of bricks, with nothing in it except a pair of shackles nailed to the wall. And there, on the floor, is the angel.

Angels are curious creatures. They are not, in fact, kind and good, as depicted in many stories and tales. In reality, angels are vicious and ruthless. They are not evil, like Fae, but they also do not give anything about virtues like kindness, love or friendship. They care about honesty, and fair judgement. But if that judgement is particularly cruel, they would sooner be entertained by that than abhorred.

This all means that Connor isn’t a particular fan of angels. However, the sight in front of him is so horrible he gasps.

The angel is shackled to the wall by his wrists, where bloody lines are carved into the white skin. His pointy ears are more noticeable because his head is bald, and his eyes are closed as his head hangs down. He’s wearing a white robe.

Angels are the most powerful creatures in the universe. They are stronger yet than werewolves, more cunning than Fae, more agile than Nimph, smarter than vampires, and possess more powerful magic than warlocks. Shadowhunters can defeat all these Downworlders, and they only have an inkling of the power that angels have.

But this angel isn’t looking very powerful, right now. Whereas angels are normally surrounded by a bright, golden glow – their magic – this angel’s light is dull and weak. For a second, Connor wonders if the angel is alive.

Then the angel looks up at him.

His eyes are golden.

“Connor McDavid,” the angel speaks. His voice is high and shrill, shaking with weakness. “At last.”

“You know me,” Connor wonders out loud.

When the angel smiles, there are no teeth.

“Of course I know you,” he mumbles. “I’m the angel Ithuriel. You called upon me. You called me to the land of Fae and used me as your pawn. Now we both must suffer.”

The words sound foreign to Connor’s ears, even if he knows he technically did call upon the angel to save Leon from some murderous Fae. He’d do it again, too, except he has no idea how to, because he doesn’t know how it happened in the first place.

Warlocks are half demon. They can’t call upon an angel. He says as much.

Ithuriel’s voice is monotone, but Connor swears he can hear an edge of amusement to it. “If you were a common warlock, then no, I could not have been beckoned. But your brother knew something you did not, Connor. He warned you.”

Cam, Connor’s brother, had told him in the land of Fae. He could save Leon, but it would cost him. Maybe even his life.

Indeed, the magic Connor had been able to summon had been powerful enough to summon Ithuriel and save Leon because of it. He’d been on the edge for days, floating between alive and not, his magic tethering right out of his reach. Sometimes he still feels like something is off, like something shifted that day that still hasn’t slipped back into its rightful place.

He doesn’t regret it, though. It saved Leon, so it would be worth whatever it had taken.

“But I’m not dead,” Connor says. “Cam was wrong.”

“Fae cannot lie,” Ithuriel says. “Cam promised you it will cost you, and that debt has not yet been repaid. Unfortunately, until it has, neither you nor I will be truly free, Connor.”

Ithuriel groans and his head lulls forward, his eyes slipping shut. Suddenly the room feels smaller, the air thinner, and Connor struggles to breath.

“Connor,” Leon’s voice says, although Leon still isn’t there. “You have to get out.”

Connor turns, but the stairs have disappeared. There’s no windows, no doors, no way out of the room. The walls are closing in on him.

“Connor.” Leon’s voice is more pressing now, more urgent. “Connor, wake up!”

Connor gasps for air as suddenly he’s in Leon’s bedroom, tangled in the sheets, his skin slick with sweat. His eyes are met with the ceiling, and then two blue eyes searching his, a concerned look on Leon’s face.

“You’re doing it again,” Leon says. “You’re not breathing right.”

Connor focuses on his breathing, tries to count them out. He’s been hyperventilating during his dreams, sometimes even stops breathing entirely. In the beginning, he would wake up out of breath and lightheaded, feeling like he was about to faint. He told Leon and ever since then he’s been sleeping in the Institute, the castle where Leon and his fellow Edmonton Shadowhunters live.

To great sorrow of Peter Draisaitl. But Connor can’t pretend to care about that.

“Sorry,” Connor mumbles. His breathing is evening out again, and he can now feel how tightly Leon’s hand is grasping onto his arm. He knows it worries Leon, what’s happening in his dreams.

It’s worrying Connor too.

“I’m telling you, dude, if you drink enough of these you’re not dreaming about anything tonight,” Dylan giggles. He motions towards Nursey, silently asking for another drink.

Connor pulls a face. He’s not a big fan of the taste of the bright limegreen drink Dylan has ordered for him, but he also knows Dylan well enough to not complain.

Anyone who complains about Dylan’s concoctions ends up regretting it in some way.

“Strome,” Nursey grumbles, “I told you to stop using my bar as your science lab.”

“It’s not science,” Dylan answers jovially. “It’s magic. And I’m not doing anything stupid tonight, I’m just making sure Connor relaxes.”

“Tonight,” Nursey repeats, and he sounds miserable. “You said that yesterday, dude, and I had to scrape vampire vomit off the ceiling for hours.”

“Sorry,” Dylan grins, but he doesn’t seem sorry at all.

Dylan has been a warlock for way longer than Connor has, although he looks only a year or 5 older. He doesn’t want to tell Connor his real age, but he has stories about Napoleon, so.

Warlocks can live a long time.

What Dylan does tell Connor is literally everything else. As a young warlock, Connor was mostly just confused by his magic, had no idea what to do with it or how to control it. He doesn’t remember quite how Dylan came into his life, he just knows that the older warlock has taught him basically everything he knows.

He trusts Dylan with his life, and would give his own life for Dylan, in return.

“I can’t believe you’re so grown up now, bro,” Dylan says, staring into space. “Summoning angels, sucking Shadowhunter dick. You’re doing things even I have not done!”

Connor’s cheeks instantly turn the color of tomatoes.

“Can we just go back to the topic?” he mumbles, hiding his nose behind his lime green drink as he takes a sip.

Still disgusting.

“Fine.” Dylan rolls his eyes. “I didn’t find anything about warlocks summoning angels, as I told you before. I don’t think it has ever happened before. However, I did find some general stuff about dreams and whatever. The books say when your dreams involve angels, they’re either, well, just dreams about angels, or they’re dreams that angels sent into your subconscious. Obviously that last option is less desirable.”

“Why?” Connor asks, although he almost doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Well,” Dylan says slowly, as if he’s explaining something to a toddler. “If you’re dreaming about a captured, broken angel telling you you’re about to pay for summoning them, and that angel sent that dream your way, that means you’re actually about to pay for summoning them.” He looks almost pitying when he adds: “They say when an angel presents itself in your dream, that’s an omen of death.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Connor groans, and he drops his head on the bar.

“Wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Nursey says cheerfully. “Vampires barfed over that yesterday, as well.”

Connor quickly lifts his head again. Nursey is looking at him with a hint of sadness in his eyes.

“I hope he’s wrong,” he says quietly. “I hope you don’t have to die. Even if it was a dumb idea to risk your life for a Shadowhunter, Connor, you know that. Shadowhunters would never risk their lives for Downworlders.”

“Except Leon did,” Connor replies curtly, “for Lydia.”

Nursey sighs. “I know, and that’s why he’s allowed into the bar now. I’m grateful that you both saved my niece. But if some pissed off angel is gonna come and kill you, I really wish you would’ve just let the Shadowhunter die.”

“That’s not very nice of you,” a familiar voice drawls, and Connor swirls around to find Leon standing there, leaning against the bar with an amused curl to his lips.

“Sorry,” Nursey says unapologetically. “But us Downworlders gotta stick together, you know that. If it’s one of us or one of you, I’ll back my warlock friend here.”

Leon shrugs. “Understandable. If it was me or him I’d pick him too.”

“Awh,” Dylan coos, and he doesn’t even sound sarcastic for once. Connor wants to drown himself in his gross drink.

Then Leon grins, bright and warm, and moves to stand next to Connor, lightly pressing their shoulders together. Instantly, something calm washes over Connor, like the magic humming in his veins slows down to a lower frequency.

“I’m here to borrow your warlock friend, actually,” Leon says. A few months ago, Connor’s skin would crawl hearing the word warlock out of a Shadowhunter’s mouth, but when Leon says it it sounds nothing but fond. “Got a call about some weird magic in a church, and I figured I’d take someone who actually knows magic.”

“I’m honored,” Dylan says, “although I was quite hoping you’d be wearing that leather setup for different reasons.” He wiggles his eyebrows and Connor flushes. Leon does look amazing in his Shadowhunter gear, the leather tight in all the right places, showing off muscles and curves. But he never wants to know what exactly Dylan is picturing.

Leon, to his credit, remains unbothered, the way he always is in public. He rarely loses his composure and when he does, he does it in private. Connor knows he’s one of the only people with the privilege of being trusted to witness those breakdowns. They aren’t always pretty, but they make Leon more human, less angelic.

That’s a good thing.

“Do you mind, babe?” Leon asks, probably noticing that Connor has been staring off into space for too long. “How many of these things have you had?” He looks at the lime green drink in Connor’s hand with quiet reservation, and Connor can’t blame him for that.

“Just a few sips,” he answers. “It tastes like grass.”

He stands up and Leon’s hand immediately lands on his lower back. The weight of it is warm and heavy as Connor lets himself being lead out into the street, ignoring Dylan’s indignant squawks behind him.

Chapter Text

The church Leon takes him to isn’t huge, but it looks eerily grand in the darkness of the night. Dark clouds are clumping together in the sky, giving the whole sight something unsettling.

“You know, if this is your idea of a date, I think maybe this relationship isn’t gonna work out,” Connor jokes, but it’s mostly to hide his nerves. He thinks Leon can tell, because he doesn’t even chirp back at him, just lightly kicks his foot against Connor’s.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m kinda hoping it’s a false alarm. Demons don’t usually want anything to do with churches.”

“Really?” Connor hadn’t known that. “Is that why Shadowhunters like to live in them?”

“Yep.” Leon’s eyes are searching the exterior of the church, although Connor has no idea what he’s looking for. “We live in churches or castles with chapels. Those are holy places, so demons don’t like to go there. Not their vibe, I guess.”

Maybe that’s why Connor always feels something heavy in his stomach whenever he enters a church, or Leon’s home. Maybe the demon blood in him doesn’t appreciate him entering a holy space.

“That’s why we make you enter through the back door, you know.” Leon’s voice has gone soft, as if he knows what Connor is thinking. “It’s not because we don’t want you to enter through the front. It’s just that the front is near the chapel, so it’s more draining for you.”

“I thought it was just cause your family hates Downworlders,” Connor chips. It earns him a regretful sigh.

“Yeah, that’s part of it, too,” Leon admits. “But I would’ve insisted you enter through the front, if I didn’t think that it might be hurtful to your magic.”

Connor pictures Leon having that conversation with Peter Draisaitl, and nearly laughs.

So the fact that Connor has been spending more time at the castle – and Leon doesn’t know this –  also means he’s been hearing quite a lot of conversations. He can’t help it; his magic is connected to the people he cares about, and Leon is one of those people, so it just kinda dances around the hallways and wanders the rooms until it finds Leon, and then it settles there. Whenever his magic settles somewhere, it’s like Connor is there himself, at least with his soul, if not with his body.

So he’s heard it all.

He’s heard the screaming matches, Peter telling Leon that Shadowhunters don’t mingle with Downworlders for a reason. That Connor is untrustworthy, born to be disobedient and cunning. That the blood that runs through the veins of the Fae that nearly killed Leon also runs through Connor’s veins. That no Shadowhunter will ever respect their Institute again if they find out who Leon is being influenced by.

Those words would hurt Connor if he hadn’t known his whole life that that’s how Shadowhunters think about him.

No, it’s more Leon’s words, that shock him.

That he trusts Connor more than anyone. That Connor is kind and loyal, compassionate, genuine, smart. That the human blood that Connor carries is the same as the human blood that runs through Leon. That he doesn’t want the respect of anyone who won’t respect his choice to love who he loves.

Connor knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but sometimes it gets too exhausting to try and force his magic to stay with him, and sometimes it’s nice to hear those words fall from Leon’s lips in unwavering defense of him. Sometimes, when Leon returns to him a bit later, he just has to kiss Leon senseless when he steps in.

“What’s that for?” Leon will murmur, and Connor won’t tell him, simply kiss him again.

Then, Connor thinks of something.

“What did your father say when you said you’d take me here, and not Klef or Bear?”

He follows Leon through the enterance of the church. Inside, it’s quiet and empty, everything hulled in darkness, the stain-in-glass windows painting colored specks of light onto the floor.

“It was his idea, actually,” Leon says. He carefully steps forward, his footsteps loud in the quiet area. “He said the call wasn’t about a demon specifically, it just said dark magic. You know more about dark magic than me.”

“Not a lot, though,” Connor admits.

Dark magic is something he hasn’t dared to touch, not even just to learn about. Dylan has told him some stories, about warlocks who tried to dabble in it.

“I had a friend that tried dark magic, once,” he’d said cheerily. “He accidentally summoned one of the strongest demons we know, and the demon killed him. It took like a whole army of Shadowhunters to get the demon back to its realm.”

Since that story, Connor has stayed far, far away from anything that could even get close to be considered dark magic.

And, well, with all that Connor does know about it, he’s not particularly excited about the fact that this is what Peter Draisaitl apparently thinks he’s useful for.

“I can’t see anything,” Leon proclaims, then. “Can you feel anything?”

Connor sighs, then reluctantly sends his magic out.

He feels the light flow through the church, dance through the windows and up, up into the air. His magic light is blue, tonight, blue like the ocean or Leon’s eyes, and it cuts through the darkness like a beam. Then, suddenly, it halts, crashes with something black and dark and heavy, and Connor’s eyes snap open.

“Outside,” he says. “It’s in the graveyard.”

“Amazing.” Leon rolls his eyes. “Graveyard. Of course it’s in the graveyard.” He’s still muttering when he starts to make his way outside, and Connor follows him with a heavy feeling in his stomach that he can’t quite explain.

The moon is nearly full and the clouds from earlier have let up a bit, so there’s a soft glow falling across the graveyard. The stones are worn down and old, and Connor can’t read most of the faded inscriptions anymore.

“Look,” Leon says softly. In the middle of the graveyard is a stone that stands higher than all the others, and the inscription is clear and sharp, as if it was done recently. “That’s our Shadowhunter creed.”

Facilis descensus inverno.

“What does it mean?” Connor asks. Dylan has been telling him he needs to learn latin, but honestly, most demonic lettering isn’t in any human language, so he just hasn’t been bothered.

“Shadowhunters, looking better in black than the widows of our enemies since 1812,” Leon deadpans.

When he sees Connor’s expression, he laughs lightly.

“It means: the descent into hell is easy.”

“Cheery,” Connor mumbles. “Suits your personalities.”

“You love my personality.” Leon’s face is so smug as he says it, that Connor refuses to tell him he’s right.

In that moment, Connor hears something.

It’s just a little creak, like some leaves getting crumbled under a boot – but neither of them have moved an inch and every noise here could mean an oncoming avalanche of death, so it’s not surprising that Leon’s sword is suddenly lit up and in his hand as he turns.

He’s gone so fast that Connor barely registers what’s happening until there’s a loud crash and Leon’s sword is buried deep inside a tree, still moving from the power it was thrown with, black tar dripping down the hilt.

Demons, when they are killed, explode in some sort of black tarry substance that Connor likes to call demon guts, even if he doesn’t think demons technically have guts.

“Good throw.”

The voice is unfamiliar and Connor swirls around on his heels to find the source of it. Something heavy lands behind him and he instinctively knows it’s Leon, coming back down from where he’d jumped to throw the sword at the demon.

In front of Connor stands an older man, wearing black robes. He’s mostly balding and his eyes are stern and cold. His presence makes a shiver go down Connor’s spine, although he has definitely never seen the man before.

“Inquisitor Chiarelli.” Leon’s voice is slightly shaky and that’s what really throws Connor off, because he’s never heard Leon sound nervous before.

The man looks at Leon with interest. “Leon Draisaitl. Peter’s son.”

Something in Connor’s blood flows cold, as Leon’s words register with him. Inquisitor Chiarelli. He’s heard stories about this man.

Shadowhunters, like any other community, have rules and laws. They like to pretend those laws are for any creature, Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike, but everyone knows that Shadowhunters get away with nearly anything, and it’s mostly the Downworlders that get punished for breaking those laws.

The Inquisitor is the Shadowhunter that is responsible for finding those who break the law, making a case against them, and charging them before bringing them before the Clave. The Clave are just a bunch more old white Shadowhunter men who convict and decide someone’s punishment.

They’re never lenient towards Downworlders, but they have been known to look the other way when it comes to Shadowhunter offenses.

All in all, Connor knows it’s a very, very bad thing that Inquisitor Chiarelli is standing here in front of him.

And he knows Peter Draisaitl. The guy who asked Leon to take Connor here.

Something bitter rises in Connor’s throat.

“What may I do for you, Inquisitor?” Leon asks politely. He sounds more calm now, but Connor can tell he’s still strung tight like a fiddle, and he has to admit he feels the same way.

“No need to be nervous, Leon,” the Inquisitor says. He smiles, but it’s a sharp smile that brings Connor no peace. “I’m here to talk to your… friend.”

Connor’s breath sticks in his throat.

Leon takes a step forward, almost as if he wants to stand in between the Inquisitor and Connor. He doesn’t, but the intention is not lost upon the Inquisitor, whose eyes narrow.

“Connor McDavid,” he says, and Connor knows it’s really, really bad when the Inquisitor knows a warlock’s name. “Do you know why I want to talk to you?”

Everything in Connor screams angels but he shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“Ah,” the Inquisitor sighs. “That’s a shame, I was so hoping this would go easy, Connor.” He snaps his fingers and suddenly six Shadowhunters appear, surrounding Connor and Leon as if they’d always been there.

“What’s going on?” Leon’s voice is tense.

“Oh, Leon, certainly you know the law. Warlocks are not allowed to summon angels, for those who are not part angel are not allowed to call upon them.”

“He didn’t mean to,” Leon breathes. “You can’t…”

“I can,” the Inquisitor says, and all the color drains from Leon’s face, his cheeks white as sheets.

Connor wants to ask what exactly the Inquisitor can’t or can do, but he’s too afraid to; and it turns out he doesn’t have to, because then someone moves behind him, the Inquisitor smiles a razor sharp smile, Leon says “no!” and everything around him goes black.

Chapter Text

When Connor wakes, he’s in his dream.

Or, well, not really. There’s no suffering angel on the floor next to him, but the shackles that are cutting into his skin look scarily similar to the ones that were chaining Ithuriel to the wall, and his cell is a small square of brick walls with no windows or doors.

It’s dark. Connor’s eyes take a while to get used to it, and even then he can barely see anything further than his own feet. It’s eerily quiet, and he has no idea where he is or what has happened.

A wave of panic washes over him.

Where’s Leon?

“Hello?” he tries. He speaks softly but his voice is loud in the silence anyway. There’s no response.

He yanks the shackles, but they’re nailed to the wall and don’t move an inch. All they do is cut deeper into Connor’s wrists, where the skin is sore and scraped.

He has no idea how long he’s been there.

“Fighting it has no use.”

The sudden voice scares Connor and he pushes himself back against the wall, which causes the voice to laugh.

“Don’t worry. I’m not here to hurt you. Yet.”

Then, Connor recognizes the voice. It’s Inquisitor Chiarelli’s voice, although he cannot see the man.

“What do you want?” he calls out, braver than he feels. His voice shakes only a minimal amount, and he’s proud of it.

“Straight to the chase, huh? I can work with that.” There’s a pause. “I want to know how you summoned an angel.”

Connor almost laughs. As if that’s not a question they all want answered. As if Connor hasn’t asked Dylan twenty times already.

How is it possible that a warlock, someone who is half demon, summons an angel?

“I don’t know,” he answers. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Hmm,” the Inquisitor hums. It’s quiet for so long that Connor wonders if he’s alone again, but then the voice sounds again. “I don’t believe you.”

Connor wants to say he doesn’t give a shit what the Inquisitor believes, but he’s not brave like Leon, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“While you think about it some more, I suppose we better withold your water and food a little longer. Maybe it’ll help your memory.”

Then there’s a clang, as if something is being shut, and the quiet returns.

This time, Connor instinctively knows it’s for a long time.

Time runs differently when it’s always dark.

Connor has honestly no idea how long he’s been there, in his cell, shackled to the wall. His mouth is dry, so dry it’s like his tongue has swollen to twice its size, and he can barely talk.

Every so often, the Inquisitor’s voice shows up to ask him how he summoned the angel, and Connor doesn’t answer anymore.

It must’ve happened at least twenty times already. There’s a creak, then: “How did you summon the angel, Connor?”

At first, Connor would answer: “I don’t know.” Eventually Connor stopped saying anything at all. Either way, there would be a clang and the quiet would return.

At first, Connor’s stomach would rumble. It has stopped doing that now, as if it has given up.

Connor tries to open his eyes, but it feels impossible with the heaviness of his eyelids. He’s pretty sure his wrists have been bleeding for a while, but he can barely feel the pain. Somewhere outside his cell, Connor can feel his magic.

He can’t reach it. The glow of it is too far.

He thinks of Ithuriel, the angel in his dreams. How his glow had been dim and weak. He feels like that now, understands suddenly why Ithuriel’s head always hung low. He doesn’t think he possesses the strength to lift his chin.

He hears Cam’s voice in his head. It’ll cost you. Maybe even your life.

He hears Dylan’s voice, too. When an angel presents itself in your dream, that’s an omen of death.

Connor wonders if he’s about to die.

If this is it, if he’s going to die in this cell, starved and thirsty, he thinks he can be okay with that. Warlocks can live a long time but most of them don’t, because magic is a finicky business and things go really wrong really quickly. He knows warlocks who have died at the hands of their own spells, who have summoned demons too powerful for them to contain, who have gambled away their own life thinking they could magic their way out of any situation.

If this is how Connor’s life ends, because he saved Leon’s, he thinks that’s a pretty good way to go.

Connor dreams of Ithuriel, again, but this time Ithuriel is sitting opposite him, his wrists caught in the same restraints Connor finds himself in.

“You and I cannot be free until the debt has been repaid, Connor,” Ithuriel says, and he sounds miserable even through the shrill shriek of his voice. “The debt must be repaid.”

“I don’t know what the debt is,” Connor says. In his dream, his throat isn’t so dry, and he can speak. “If I knew, I would repay it.”

“You must honor the blood in your veins,” Ithuriel says. “The blood that summoned me.”

“My demon blood.”

But apparently it’s the wrong thing to say, because Ithuriel’s head falls down and he goes quiet.

Connor feels something like panic wash over him.

“I don’t know how to honor my demon blood, Ithuriel.”

“Not the demon blood,” Ithuriel whispers. “You must honor the blood that summoned me.”

If only Connor knew what that meant, maybe he could change the inevitable.

When Connor wakes again, it’s to a warm hand on his cheek.

“Connor, please,” someone whispers. “You have to be alive.”

Connor inhales sharply, blindly tries to reach forward. He knows that voice, would recognize it anywhere.

The shackles cut into his wrist and the voice hushes. “Shh, no, be quiet, Connor, it’s okay, it’s me.”

Everything in Connor’s body hurts. He feels like the life has already been drained out of him, like maybe he’s already dead.

Is that why Leon is here? Is he in heaven?

No. He’s half demon, why would he be allowed in heaven? He’s not even allowed in a church.

His mouth feels like sandpaper, but Connor forces himself to whisper: “Leon?”

The warm hand moves to his shoulder, squeezes there. “I’m going to cut your restraints, okay? Don’t move your hands.”

Connor doesn’t think he could if he tried, but Leon’s presence does somehow give him the strength to open his eyes.

In the darkness of the cell, he can see Leon’s profile. His mouth is pressed into a thin line and he looks pale and tired, with dark circles under his eyes. There’s runes drawn on his skin everywhere, way more than normal, black lines carved into his arms and hands and neck.

He’s using a little carving knife, glowing light blue in the dark, to cut through Connor’s shackles.

Connor can feel the heat from the knife; it’s a knife made of material blessed by angels, he knows, the kind of weapons Shadowhunters use to kill demons.

And rescue half demons, apparently.

One of the shackles cracks in two, and Connor’s hand falls limply to his side. He looks at the red lines etched into his skin, the dried blood stains on his arms and the fresh blood that is still trickling down his skin.

Leon moves to the other side, and Connor can’t help himself; he reaches out with his free hand and grabs onto Leon’s arm, tight.

“Leon.” The word falls from his lips in a hushed cry, and something flashes across Leon’s face.

“Just, give me a minute, I need to…” He cuts himself off, his voice cracking at the end of the sentence. Connor allows himself to stare at Leon, at the tension in his shoulders and the tight set of his jaw, until the other shackle breaks and finally Connor’s hands are free.

“We have to go,” Leon whispers. “Before he comes back.”

Connor doesn’t have to ask who.

“How?” he manages to bring out. He tries to move his legs, and they work, but he knows he’s not going to have the strength to walk very far.

He sees Leon’s frown; he knows it too.

Before Connor can say anything else, something determined settles on Leon’s face and suddenly Connor is being lifted up. He’s still on his feet but there’s barely any pressure on them; Leon is taking nearly all of his weight.

“Come on,” Leon says, and they start moving.

Earlier, there wasn’t any door or window in Connor’s cell. But now there’s a small hole in the corner, where some of the bricks are missing. Beside it, on the outside of the cell, Connor sees a rune.

It’s the rune for open. Leon broke into his cell.

The hallway is the same as his cell; just brick walls and darkness, leading to seemingly nowhere. Until, after a few minutes or so, Connor spots a staircase.

It’s the staircase from his dreams.

Leon is breathing hard next to him and Connor feels like he’s barely breathing at all, as Leon somehow gets him up the staircase. It leads to the graveyard they were at when the Inquisitor first captured Connor, and it’s night time.

“How long?” Connor croaks.

“5 days,” Leon answers softly. His voice is steady but his eyes are flashing with a burning fire of anger.

Leon leads Connor to a car in front of the church, opens the door and pushes Connor in, then climbs in himself.

“Go,” he barks.

“Good to have you back, bro,” Oscar Klefbom says, and then he presses the pedal to the floor and the car speeds off like an arrow.

Connor doesn’t know exactly when he passes out, but when he wakes up he’s in an unfamiliar space; he’s in a bed with burgundy silk sheets, and the sun peeks through black satin curtains.

The place feels comfortable and warm, nothing like the cell he was in just earlier, but Connor still feels a little frenzied until he hears two familiar voices outside the room.

His magic dances freely through the house, no longer stuck outside the walls of his cell. Connor is not surprised to find that it has attached itself to Leon.

“I didn’t know where else to take him,” Leon says, sounding frazzled. “I can’t take him to my place cause that’s the first place the Inquisitor is going to look.”

“My place is probably the third place only after your place and Connor’s mom’s house,” Dylan says. “But I agree it’s the best option we have right now. He can’t stay here, though. It’s not safe.”

“Nowhere is safe,” Leon says, and he sounds upset. The hurt in it crawls its way into Connor’s chest, claws and scratches at his heart.

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” Dylan soothes. He puts out his hand and squeezes Leon’s shoulder, ignoring the way Leon flinches. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

“How is it not my fault?” Leon laughs bitterly. “I am the reason he summoned the angel, and if he hadn’t summoned the angel, the Inquisitor wouldn’t be out for his blood right now.”

There’s a pause. Then, Dylan: “When you say it like that, it kinda is your fault.”

Leon groans and if Connor could find the strength, he’d call out that that is not true.

“We have to find out how he summoned the angel,” Leon says resolutely. “Maybe then the Inquisitor will leave him alone.”

“I think that is a big maybe, Draits,” Dylan hums.  

Connor didn’t know Leon had a nickname now, but it doesn’t surprise him much. Dylan is like, a fratboy, but hundreds of years old.

“Well, I’d like to at least try that, before Connor and I have to move to Uzbekistan and become sheep farmers on the run.” Leon crosses him arms stubbornly, and Dylan rolls his eyes.

“Fair,” he says. “How about I figure out the why, and you make sure our boy Davo stays alive until then, yeah? I think I have a friend I can ask, but it might take me a while to track him down. He was born in 510 BC, you see, so he doesn’t know how to work a cellphone.”

“Is he a vampire?” Leon asks.

“No,” Dylan laughs, “just a warlock with a direct line to the Fountain of Youth.”

There’s a pause, and then Dylan speaks again, but serious this time. “Does your father know what happened, Leon?”

“I told him what happened right when they took Connor,” Leon says. “I didn’t tell him I was about to go break Connor out of there. Only Klef knows that, and he won’t tell.”

“Probably a wise choice,” Dylan answers solemly. He’s walking to his bar cart and picks up a bottle of whiskey. When Leon shakes his head no, he pours himself a glass. “What did your father say, exactly, when you told him?”

“Dura lex sed lex,” Leon recites slowly. 

Dylan whistles, translates: “The law is hard, but it is the law.”

Leon speaks again, more harshly now. “Lex mala lex nulla.”

Dylan smiles. “I like you, you know?”

“Good,” Leon sighs. “Because I think I’m gonna be here a while.”

Connor is half asleep when Leon enters, but he’s awake enough to notice Leon slotting in behind him underneath the blankets, and how Leon’s arm slips around Connor’s body.

He doesn’t respond, but he revels in the feeling of Leon’s warm body pressing against his own, tries to memorize how it feels to have Leon’s lips pressed against the back of his neck.

Then he notices that Leon is shaking.

His breath is coming out in shallow bursts and his hand is trembling where it is placed on Connor’s stomach.

Something is wrong, and Connor’s body stiffens.

“Leon?” he mumbles. Leon’s breathing stops completely, for a few seconds. When he speaks, his voice is quivering.

“Go back to sleep.”

“No.” Connor turns around to face Leon. His eyes are strangely glassy and his face is pale. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The response comes too quickly to be true, too rushed between unsteady breaths.

“Hey.” Connor reaches out, lets his finger trace Leon’s cheekbone, his lips. Some of the tension leaves the skin there, and Leon’s face softens, but the frown between his eyebrows remains.

Suddenly, Leon’s eyes snap up to meet Connor’s. “Why are your eyes glowing orange?” he murmurs.

Connor doesn’t answer for a second, focuses on the warm glow of his magic engulfing Leon’s body, dancing around his chest mostly, before settling there.

The orange glow in Connor’s eyes dims momentarily, but at least Leon is breathing normal now, deep breaths again.

“You calmed me down,” Leon whispers. “You fixed my breathing.”

“You were hyperventilating, baby,” Connor mutters softly. He brushes a lock of unruly hair away from Leon’s face. “Tell me what’s wrong, please?”

“What’s right, is the question?” Leon sighs. “When you were gone, I thought… I thought I lost you, Con.”

Connor shivers at the memory of it; he remembers thinking he was about to die.

“I don’t think I could take that,” Leon continues, his voice becoming wobbly.

The orange light from Connor’s eyes casts a glow upon Leon’s features as they smooth out.

“Thank you,” Leon whispers. Then: “I need you to know that I was always going to get you out. No matter what, no matter how.”

“I didn’t know if you could,” Connor admits. “Those cells are built by Shadowhunters, surely they know how to keep you out.”

“Nobody can keep me out of anything you’re in,” Leon all but growls. Then, as Connor’s magic tightens around his body, the tension leaves his shoulders and his voice is only soft. “I will always get you.”

“And I’ve got you,” Connor promises. He’s sounding more calm and more confident than he is, but he’s exhausted and the bed is comfortable and Leon’s body is radiating warmth. His brain is only half working and the constant magic he’s keeping on Leon to keep him calm is starting to cost him energy he doesn’t have left to give.

Leon presses his lips to Connor’s, the kiss featherlight but full of something warm and glowing.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Connor, I love you.”

They’ve not said it before like this and it should feel heavy, maybe, or like a big event, but Connor nearly died that day and the last thing he remembers thinking is that it would be worth dying if it meant saving Leon.

So he figures it’s kind of overdue, anyway.

“I love you too,” he answers, squeezing Leon’s fingers where they are tangled with his own.

He allows his eyes to close, hiding the orange light they are radiating. His magic stays put, though, right where he wants it; keeping Leon calm and happy, keeping him safe.

He thinks that’s where his magic prefers to be, anyway.

“You heard what I said out there earlier, right? To Dylan?” Leon questions softly. “I know one of the Shadowhunters’ creeds is dura lex sed lex, but that’s not my creed. I do not live by that.”

“Lex mala lex nulla,” Connor agrees sleepily.

“A bad law is no law.”

Chapter Text

Connor dreams of the City of Angels.

The City of Angels – also known as Idris - is a glowing place of tall glass buildings reaching into the sky. It’s in a place that everyone knows but nobody could find, and it is where the most important Shadowhunters reside. There’s not actually any angels in the city, but legend says it was given to the Shadowhunters by angels as the place that is most protected against all evil, so they always have a safe place to call home.

Connor has learned most legends are true.

If there’s anything he knows, it’s that he’s not welcome in Idris. And yet, in his dream, he walks through the city gates as if he belongs there.

The streets are empty, although it is broad daylight. The gravel grinds beneath Connor’s sneakers as he makes his way through; he’s walking through the city as if he’s on a mission, but he’s not actually quite sure what his purpose is. Find Leon, maybe? He wonders if Leon would be here. He for sure belongs here more than Connor himself.

He thinks about what Dylan would say if he knew Connor was here. He’d yell at him, probably, that it’s dangerous and is Connor trying to kill himself? He knows Dylan is right, should be right; no Downworlder has ever entered Idris and survived to tell the tale.

But Connor supposed nobody has ever exited the Land of Fae either, and he’s done that, so. Maybe it’s not that weird that it feels completely natural to be here.

Connor startles when he stumbles upon a lake. There should not be a lake in the middle of the city, and he should not know the name of the lake.

Somehow, it is there, and somehow, he knows. Lake Lyn.

“The Mortal Mirror.” Connor doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s Ithuriel, but he does it anyway.

“You’re alive,” he states. Ithuriel doesn’t have any eyebrows, but Connor thinks if he did, he would’ve raised them.

“No thanks to you,” Ithuriel shrieks. “I told you you have to honor the blood, Connor.”

Connor wants to speak, but for some reason his mouth cannot open. When he raises his fingers to his mouth, his lips are stitched together.

“It’s only temporary,” Ithuriel says. “Until you’ve heard me.”

Ithuriel looks better than he did in Connor’s previous dreams. His glow is no longer dim and weak, although it is not as brightly golden as angels’ glows are supposed to be. His head is no lunger hung, his eyes no longer sunk into his skull.

There’s no shackles on his wrist. Ithuriel said as long as Connor was not free, he could not be free, so that should probably mean Connor is free, now.

He doesn’t feel like it.

“Have you heard of Lake Lyn, Connor?” Ithuriel asks. Connor doesn’t answer, because he can’t: he clearly doesn’t have to either, because Ithuriel continues without skipping a beat. “When the angel Raziel created the Shadowhunter race, he shed his own blood, poured it in the Mortal Cup and made the Shadowhunters drink from it to give them his blood, and therefor his power. When he was done, he washed his bloody hands in Lake Lyn. Ever since then, the lake has angelic powers, too.” Ithuriel narrows his eyes at Connor. “When Downworlders touch the lake’s water, the angelic power enters their veins, but because they are not holy, it makes them very sick. If they touch too much, they die.”

Something shivers down Connor’s spine.

Ithuriel’s face is blank as he adds: “Only those with angelic powers can touch the water, and only those with angelic powers can summon an angel.”

Before Connor can think about what that means, Ithuriel fades into the background and suddenly he’s gone.

The lake is still, not a single ripple cutting through the water’s surface. It is indeed like a mirror, and when Connor looks down, he sees himself, with hollow eyes and a pale face, but without stitches in his lips.

He thinks about touching the water. His magic pulses in his veins, like it does when it gets close to wards that are there to repel demons, like it does when he walks into churches. It sizzles and fizzes, pushes back against the powers of the lake.

If Ithuriel meant what Connor thinks he meant, he should be able to touch the water, as he was able to summon the angel.

But if he’s wrong, it could cost him his life.

Cam’s words sound in the back of his head: It’ll cost you. Maybe even your life.

Connor is beginning to think everything worth doing could cost him his life, and he’s beginning to think maybe that’s just how life works.

When Connor wakes, there’s only darkness behind the velvet curtains, and his phone tells him it’s 3:30am.

Leon isn’t there. That’s not surprising to Connor; Leon has been on night patrol with Klef the past few nights. He didn’t want to go, but Connor told him that would only make his father more suspicious.

He kinda wishes he hadn’t made Leon go. At least then he could’ve said goodbye.

As it is, he gets dressed and tiptoes out of the room, goes to find Dylan. Dylan sleeps rarely and irregularly, but he seems to be asleep now, and Connor is glad for it.

If he told Dylan what he was about to do, Dylan would try whatever he could to stop him.

It’s a stupid idea. Connor is going to do it anyway.

He finds Dylan on the couch in the study, asleep with a book by his feet. He’s snoring a little and there’s a half empty bottle of cognac on the desk. He looks peaceful, like that, and Connor allows himself a second to just watch.

Dylan is as much family to Connor as his mom, and Cam are. He’s been there to teach Connor everything from how to control his magic to how to do his taxes. Dylan is an idiot and somehow always stayed the age of 19, but he’s been alive for hundreds of years and he can actually be very wise when he wishes to be.

Connor doesn’t think he’s ever thanked Dylan. He’s said ‘thank you’ over the years, sure, but he’s not sat Dylan down and told him how much he appreciates what he’s done for him, what it means. He regrets that, now, but he supposes it’s too late.

Maybe Dylan knows, anyway. Maybe Connor didn’t have to tell him. That’s all he can hope for.

Even though, when Connor spots a notebook on the desk, laying open on an empty page, he can’t stop himself.

Write, write, write, he thinks, the orange glow of his eyes casting shadows in the dark room, and two words appear on the paper.

Thank you.

It’s going to have to do.

Connor travels for days.

He moves like he’s in a daze, like he’s dreaming. The countryside is beautiful but he doesn’t notice it at all. Instead of the green pastures and calm streams, he sees Leon’s eyes and hears his voice.

He might very well never see or hear Leon again. If this doesn’t work, these days are the last he’ll spend with the sun against his skin. The last he’ll spend thinking of the person he loves.

But if anything, it’ll set Leon free. Whether it works or not, Leon won’t have to worry about Connor anymore. And that thought is enough to keep Connor moving.

He’s stopped for the night in a small tavern, only an elderly troll as the keeper. He gets bread and soup for dinner and barely eats any of it, but he downs the cup of tea the troll puts before him.

Trolls don’t talk, and Connor is glad for it. Tomorrow he will reach Lake Lyn, and he’s not keen on spending his last night on earth talking to a troll. Or talking to anybody, really, anybody who isn’t Leon.

Unfortunately, no such luck.

At two minutes to midnight, a body settles in the chair next to him. Connor has been sitting in front of the fireplace, staring at the orange embers in front of him. His magic has been dancing around, restless: it can’t attach itself to Leon anymore, not from this distance, and it seems unhappy by it. But it’s fizzling close to the fire now, latching onto that energy because it grasps onto anything that can feed its power.

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” the figure speaks, and there’s a tutting in his voice that reminds Connor of his mom when she’s not angry, honey, just disappointed.

He looks up. The boy next to him can’t be much older than him. He looks casual, with unruly brown hair and a gap between his crooked teeth, but there’s something about him that tells Connor he’s not just anyone.

“Dylan was very upset,” the guy says. He stretches his fingers, and a crackling of sparks jump between his fingertips.

Warlock, then. Suddenly, Connor thinks of something.

“Are you… Mitch?”

The boy laughs. “I’m glad to know Dylan has told you about me. We’ve been friends for way too long for his beloved prodigy to not know who I am.”

Connor, admittedly, doesn’t know that much about Mitch. He only knows that Dylan is very fond of him, and that he’s as old as time itself. Apparently Mitch is one of the only warlocks that has not only found, but managed to use to Fountain of Youth. His reputation precedes him, but with Mitch looking like an average college guy, Connor can’t quite imagine him being one of the most powerful warlocks to ever live.

“I’m not Dylan’s prodigy,” is what he settles on, eventually.

Mitch raises an eyebrow. “I think you are,” he says. “Dylan sees something in you. And I have to admit I get it.” He smiles a crooked grin, then flicks one of the sparks in Connor’s direction. His magic jumps in front of him as a shield as more of a reflex than Connor deciding to send it that way; Mitch laughs. “See? There’s many a warlock who wouldn’t be able to ward off my magic, Connor.”

Connor sighs. How much he wishes Mitch and Dylan were right; if he was truly powerful like they thought, he wouldn’t be in this position right now. He would be smart and cunning enough to think of a way to protect himself against the Clave, he would know how to protect and care for Leon.

“I understand,” Mitch says, as if he can hear Connor’s thoughts. Maybe he can; some warlocks have been known to read minds. “But you’re looking at it the wrong way, Connor. You don’t have to be powerful like all the other warlocks. You can be powerful differently.” His grin is almost sharp. “For example, I have never summoned an angel before, nor have I had an angel follow me around in my dreams for weeks to tell me how to get out of this mess I got myself into. The most I got followed around by was a Nimph. And it wasn’t pretty.”

Connor frowns, thinks of Ithuriel and how he’s been brought upon the path he is now. It was Ithuriel who saved Leon, who warned him about the Inquisitor, who gave him the idea about Lake Lyn.

“Why would an angel want anything to do with a halfblood demon?” he wonders out loud.

“Blood calls to blood,” Mitch says cryptically. He snaps his fingers and two glasses of bourbon appear on the table. Connor doesn’t drink, usually, but he figures the night before his death is as good a place to start as any.

“I’m not an angel,” he says, like an afterthought, after having taken his first sip.

Mitch shrugs. “Angel, demon, it’s all the same thing in the end. Pulvis et umbra sumus; we are but dust and shadows.” 

Connor stares at the fires. Somewhere far, far away, his magic is pulling, trying to reach Leon. It can’t quite get there, but it’s close enough that the blood in Connor’s veins is starting to hum.

Dust and shadows. If that’s what they end up with, maybe it’s not unthinkable that one day him and Leon will end up in the same place. No heaven or hell, just dust and shadows and closure.

Connor thinks he’d like that.

Chapter Text

Lake Lyn is still and beautiful.

When Connor had woken up, Mitch had been gone, and his magic had been calmly humming in his veins. Connor hasn’t felt so calm in weeks, and it makes him feel like he’s making the right decision.

Either way this ends now.

The last bit of travel to Lake Lyn had been unbothered. And now Connor is here and everything is quiet.

The sky is blue, but there’s something heavy in the air. Connor isn’t sure if it’s the energy that the Lake is giving off, or if it’s something in his own heart. He doesn’t feel scared, per se, even if he’s most likely about to die. He wonders if it’ll be peaceful. He wonders if he’ll see his demon Father once he’s gone.

Taking a deep breath, Connor kicks off his shoes and walks to the edge of the Lake. Touching it is supposed to be unbearably painful for Downworlders, but Connor wants to be even more sure.

If the Holy water touching his skin would burn through the demon blood, swimming in it would surely kill him.

Connor closes his eyes. He thinks of his mother, and Dylan, and Cam. He thinks of Leon.

“Connor.”

It’s almost like he can hear Leon’s voice, somewhere in the distance. Maybe the Lake is giving him hallucinations already; Connor isn’t sure how far the angel energy can travel.

“Connor, stop!”

The voice is getting louder. Connor’s magic is humming excitedly in his veins, like its preparing to lurch out.

“Please, Connor, don’t do this.”

Connor blinks his eyes open. If this is a hallucination, it’s feeling so real; and if his conscience is giving him the opportunity to see Leon one last time, even if it’s not real, he’d like to take it.

When he looks up, Leon is standing there at the shore, eyes wild with panic. Behind him is Peter Draisaitl, and Inquisitor Chiarelli. Ethan, Oscar, and a bunch of Shadowhunters Connor doesn’t know. Dylan.

“Trying to escape your punishment?” the Inquisitor asks. He almost sounds bored, like he can’t believe he got dragged here to witness this.

“You fucking idiot,” Dylan breathes. “Who the hell told you this was a good idea?”

Ithuriel did. So did Mitch. Connor doesn’t answer.

They are all standing still, far enough away that Connor can barely hear their voices carried over the wind. Except for Leon. He’s still stepping closer, carefully, like he’s approaching a wild animal.

“Con,” he says softly, and he sounds so much louder than everyone else; Connor’s magic has hooked its claws into Leon like it never wants to leave, and it looks like Leon is aware of it because he’s barely whispering the words. “Con, please. I know you think this is the only solution. I know you’re trying to protect me. But you can’t do this.”

Connor swallows. He felt so peaceful, before, so sure; this had to be done, this was the only way.

But now, seeing the fear in Leon’s eyes, his heart is starting to hammer wildly in his chest.

“It’s okay,” he says. Lies. “Leon, it’s okay. Ithuriel told me to do this.”

Leon frowns. “Ithuriel? The angel? Connor, why would an angel be communicating with you? You’re a demon.”

He must see Connor flinch, because his eyes soften. “No, Con, I didn’t mean that, come on. You know I don’t think there’s anything demon about you.”

“There is, but maybe that’s not all.” He dares to say it only because he knows only Leon can hear. “Maybe there’s something else.”

He inhales. If this is it, Leon deserves to know why. That’s the least he deserves. “Only angel blood can summon and call to angels, Leon, and I did that. So what if there’s angel blood in my veins?”

“That would make you Fae,” Leon says, not understanding. “But you can lie.”

“Not Fae,” Connor says. “Leon, what if… What if I’m half demon, half Shadowhunter?”

“The Lake would still hurt you.” Leon speaks as if the news isn’t interesting to him at all, as if he couldn’t care less what the explanation of Connor’s angel summoning is. He cares only about right now, what would happen to Connor, and it oftens Connor.

But there’s no other way.

“But what if it doesn’t?” he whispers. “If it doesn’t, than that proves I’m more angel than demon. And if that’s the case, the Clave can’t hurt me for summoning Ithuriel. Everything would be okay, Leon.”

Leon’s face is sour. “That’s a big if, Connor.”

“It’s the only way.” Connor stares at the water. It’s smooth like a mirror, but he can’t see himself. He can feel the power of his magic pulsing in his veins, fighting against the power of the Lake.

In hell, there’s nothing but rings of fire. In heaven, everything is made of gold. Those two powers fizzle in his veins now, mingle in his blood where they continually crash against each other.

It’s a battle, and there’s only one that can win. 

“Ignis aurum probat,” Leon hums. “The fire tests the gold.”

The fire is dancing through Connor’s fingertips, halting where it meets the golden energy of the Lake.

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. But Connor knows enough of love to believe that it’s not flames or ice the world will fall to, but the golden color of love.

“I love you, Leon,” he says. “Believe that.”

And he jumps.

The water engulfs him; he can feel the cold wash against his skin, his lungs constricting with the power of it. His head feels light, like it’s spinning, and he can’t see anything. Then everything around him goes fuzzy and white, and suddenly everything is silent.

He wakes with Leon’s fingers curled tight around his jaw.

“Move,” he whispers intently, shaking Connor’s face. “Connor, come on, fucking breathe, you idiot.”

“He’ll be fine.” It’s Dylan’s voice, calm and collected. “He needs to sleep it off.”

“I didn’t think he’d really do it.” Connor recognizes that voice as Mitch. “He’s tougher than you were, Dyls.”

“More powerful, too,” Dylan sighs, sounding upset. “And he gambled it all away for a Shadowhunter.”

“Hey,” a sharp voice cuts in, and that’s Peter Draisaitl; it’s shocking enough to open Connor’s eyes.

Leon looks on the verge of tears, but when his eyes meet Connor’s, his face lights up.

“You’re alive,” he breathes, and then he’s pulling Connor upright, into his chest, ignoring the fact that Connor is soaking wet.

“If we touch him, will it hurt?” Dylan asks. Mitch shrugs.

“Maybe. I’d rather not try. I didn’t live to 4000 years old just to get burned by a lake.”

Connor shivers. He clutches at Leon’s back, holds himself tight against his body. Leon feels steady, safe. Connor’s head is still swimming with Holy water.

“I will consider your case closed.” Connor pulls away to see the Inquisitor standing a few feet away, looking disgusted. “I suppose you had the right to call upon the angel, since you clearly have angel blood.”

“As I pleaded before,” Peter Draisaitl deadpans, and that’s news to Connor.

Leon’s grip on his shoulders is firm. “Does that mean Connor is free to go as he pleases, then, Father?”

Peter looks at Connor. There’s something unreadable in his face.

“I still think it’s unnatural,” he says, and his tone is final. “But if you wish for it to happen, Leon, he is welcome in the Institute anytime.”

Connor’s vision goes a little blurry and he grasps onto Leon to stop himself from falling over. He thinks Leon is carrying his entire weight, but he can’t be completely sure.

He thinks he can hear footsteps retreating; it’s only Mitch and Dylan, and Oscar and Leon left.

“Let’s get you home,” Leon mumbles. He pulls Connor up as if he weighs nothing, his arm locked around his shoulders as he starts moving him across the sand.

Home. Connor could shriek with happiness. He can feel both Mitch and Dylan’s magic curl around his legs and arms, giving him just enough power to walk alongside Leon, away from the Lake that tested his fire.

Ignis aurum probat. In the end, the gold always wins.

In his dream, Ithuriel floats somewhere over the Lake.

Connor sits in the grass in front of it, the Lake dooming up before him like the biggest Mirror of them all. Behind him, the City of Angels shines brightly.

“You’re free,” he says to Ithuriel. He stretches his fingers like Mitch had done; it’s not sparks that leave them, but rays of color connecting between his hands.

“One of must can only gain freedom is the other enforces it,” Ithuriel shrieks. Connor might be imagining it, but the angel seems more calm and collected than ever before. “You honored the blood in your veins, Connor. That is all I asked.”

“I didn’t delete the demon blood.” Connor watches as the rays of colored lights dance between his fingers. “I still have my magic.”

“Your magic is not strong despite of the demon blood, but because of it.” Ithuriel seems unimpressed as he speaks. “None of you have ever gone before you, Connor McDavid. It is always when opposites meet, that the most powerful energy is born. Black, white, fire, ice, demon, angel. We are all powerful because of the fusion of holy and unholy.”

Connor smiles. They are weird words to come from an angel, but he’s experienced weirder things.

Things are started to fade, go a little fuzzy around the edges. He knows it’s just a matter of seconds before he wakes up. Knows exactly where he’ll be when it happens, too.

“I will not be seeing you again, I assume?” he asks Ithuriel, finally, and Ithuriel’s laughter is too harsh.

“One never promises forever, Connor,” is the answer, and then the Lake is gone.

Instead, he becomes aware of a familiar sensation: Leon’s fingers are carding through his hair, over and over again, as if Leon has forgotten that he’s doing it.

Connor hums and opens his eyes. His head is in Leon’s lap and Leon looks down at him with a fond smile. One hand is in Connor’s hair, the other holds a book.

“I’m supposed to be teaching you, and yet, I’m the only one studying,” Leon accuses with a teasing edge to his voice.

“Why do I need to learn the Shadowhunter way?” Connor shoots back, stretching out further on the navy velvet sofa in the library. “I’ve done well with only the warlock way.”

Hunter, who lays at his feet, shoots him an unimpressed look, but Connor ignores the cat speaking in his head.

Because you decided to love a Shadowhunter, obviously.

“Cause you love me,” Leon says easily, so Connor supposes Hunter knows him better than he thoughts.

“If you loved me, you’d let me nap,” Connor whines, and he pushes his head against Leon’s hand like a cat looking for a scratch.

Leon laughs, but obeys, fingers moving through Connor’s hair down to his neck, where it lays heavy on his spine. “I let you nap for an hour,” he says. “And now I’ve gotta kick your ass in sparring session.”

Connor flicks his fingers; the book flies out of Leon’s hand and slams shut on the floor.

“I was reading that,” Leon deadpans, even though it’s an obvious lie. “Now I’ve lost my page.”

“I know something better to do.” Connor sits up, moves into Leon’s lap gracefully and quickly. Leon relaxes further into the pillows, seems unwilling to hurry them along.

Hunter jumps off the couch and disappears, protesting loudly in Connor’s head.

“Hmm, I suppose I can be convinced to start our sparring session a bit later.” The end of Leon’s sentence gets swallowed by Connor’s mouth as he kisses him, deeply and thoroughly. Kissing Leon is his favorite way to pass the time; his magic fizzles beneath his skin like an electric current through his nerves, and everything inside of him feels light and happy.

Leon’s hands move to Connor’s hips, fingertips grazing the skin beneath his shirt. His hands are calloused from swords and fights, but are unbelievingly tender as they caress Connor’s back.

A loud whistling alarm sounds, and both Connor and Leon are on their feet within a split second.

“Demon alarm?” Connor asks. He’s been learning a lot since he moved in a few weeks ago, but he’s still not sure of all the different alarms the Institute has.

“Demon alarm,” Leon confirms. “Coming with?”

And then they’re gone, off into the night to fight the evil, side by side like it was always meant to be. Partners, in every single way of the word.

Sometimes fire tests the gold, but in the end they’re much better off together, anyway.