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By the Angel, Alec was going to punch something. Likely himself, right in the face, for ever considering for one tiny moment that bringing a six-year-old to a meeting with the High Warlock of Brooklyn was a good idea.
The High Warlock of Brooklyn.
Alec had met Magnus Bane before, of course. He had helped the Shadowhunters numerous times, and had visited the Institute on one occasion to heal Izzy after a particularly nasty run-in with a Greater Demon. But the two of them had never had a proper conversation. Whenever they’d been grouped together, Clary had done most of the talking, as she was the one who was most familiar with Magnus. Then it had been Izzy, who was happy to talk to anyone. Even Jace had exchanged snarky comments with Magnus, only to find himself shot down in their battle of wits; the warlock was one of the few people who wasn’t immediately impressed by Jace.
Alec guessed he could have initiated a conversation with Magnus - who had, for his part, seemed politely interested (and, if Izzy’s suspicions were anything to go by, perhaps more than just politely). But he hadn’t. Couldn’t. Small talk wasn’t really in Alec’s conversational repertoire, and he wasn’t ready for anything any deeper. He’d pushed both the regret over this lack of communication and his interest in the warlock to the back of his mind.
And then he'd found Max. After that, Alec had stepped back a little from active duty (as much as a Shadowhunter could), and left the Downworld negotiations to the others. His responsibility to his family came before everything.
He was seriously regretting that now.
If he’d only hung behind after a meeting. If he’d only taken the time to thank Magnus in person for a Portal he’d created. If only he’d gotten himself near killed and needed healing by a High Warlock.
If only.
Then Alec’s first conversation with the man wouldn’t have to be an apology for his devil of a child.
“Max,” Alec hissed. He half-glared at the boy, who glared right back at him.
“What?” Max asked, bottom lip stuck out in a pout. “You said it’s naughty to lie.”
Alec closed his eyes and took a breath, counting to five.
“It is,” he said, crouching down to focus entirely on his son (which had the happy consequence of allowing him to avoid looking embarrassedly at Magnus). “But it’s also not nice to say things that could hurt people. I think you need to apologise to Mr Bane.”
Max looked for a moment like he was debating whether to argue, but then he took a step towards the warlock. Alec had just straightened up when he tuned into Max’s apology, and he froze.
“I’m sorry I said your shirt was horrible,” the little boy was saying, “even though it is, because Daddy said it’s wrong to -”
“Max,” Alec yelped, cheeks burning. He made a mental note to also stab himself in the eye with a fork when they got home. “I - you - that’s - that’s not quite what I meant. Mr Bane, I -” he steeled himself and turned for the first time to the High Warlock. “I’m so sorry for how Max pointed out that your shirt -” his gaze dropped down to the offending item of clothing and he stopped talking. He was fairly sure his mouth was hanging open unattractively, but in that moment he didn’t care.
In all fairness, Max really was telling the truth.
The shirt - if one could call it that; mildewed curtain fabric might have been a better description - was a colour approaching olive green. It could have been quite complimentary to the warlock’s skin tone if it hadn’t been dotted with purple and orange splotchy flowers. There were piped orange lines running vertically down the front of the shirt, looking rather like someone had attacked him with a highlighter pen.
Alec’s eyes wandered the room. It was a collection of mismatched objects - furniture from different time periods; colours that clashed; patterns that didn’t go - but somehow the whole thing worked, exuding an effortlessly fashionable air. Alec didn’t particularly recall noticing that Magnus dressed badly when they’d seen each other previously. All the evidence pointed to the man having an undeniable sense of style, so Alec didn’t understand. Why would anyone - why would Magnus Bane - wear such a thing? Izzy was often going on about the value of contrasting colours, but this was something else.
“My shirt?” Magnus prompted, lounging on the couch. He seemed entirely unaffected by the whole thing - vaguely amused, even.
“Yes, your shirt.” Alec swallowed. He chanced a glance at his son, who was watching him with knowing eyes. “It - I - well, I would like to apologise for my son. He said that it looked -”
“Like a mouldy food stain,” Max supplied helpfully.
“Yep, thanks Max,” Alec went on loudly, hoping to drown out the repetition of his son’s words. “Anyway, he shouldn’t have said that.”
Magnus appraised Alec for a moment. Then he turned to Max, and Alec could have sworn his lips were twitching.
“Ignoring your father for a minute,” Magnus said, which made Max perk up considerably, “I would like to thank you for speaking your mind, Mr…” he trailed off, pretending to be unsure.
The boy lapped it up.
“Max Lightwood,” Max said, evidently pleased to be talking to the warlock, even if he disapproved of the man’s clothing choices.
“Mr Lightwood,” Magnus amended. He screwed his face up in mock concentration. “How about...would this be better?” He snapped his fingers and his shirt changed in an instant. Where there had been drab autumnal colours, the new item was a summer yellow with white braiding and buttons. Max’s eyes were the widest Alec had ever seen them. The little boy nodded eagerly.
“I like that one,” he said, and Alec was reminded how strangely uplifting the plaintive approval of a child was. “The colour is the same as the sunshine in my cartoons.”
Magnus smiled at the boy.
“Thought you might. Your yellow socks gave you away.” He glanced Alec, who inexplicably felt his face grow hot. “D’you think your Dad likes it too?”
Max turned to survey his father. Alec would rather have stared down a pack of demons than have his expression scrutinised by the two people in front of him.
“Yes,” Max said matter-of-factly, after a moment. “His cheeks are all red. That’s what happens when he thinks someone looks pretty.”
Alec’s hands itched to dig a hole in the ground for him to live in for several centuries. Magnus laughed loudly.
“Well, I was asking if he liked the shirt, but that is much more interesting information.” He swept his feet off the couch and stood. “So, Mr Lightwoods. What can I do for you?”