What happens when a Lightwood and a Fray stop pretending they don't care?
When a mission goes wrong, Clary and Alec are forced to face something far more dangerous than demons - the truth about how they see each other.
Between fire and fear, duty an...
Disclaimer: The world of Shadowhunters and all its characters belong to Cassandra Clare and Freeform.
This is a non-commercial fanfiction written for fun and love of the series.
No copyright infringement is intended.
The mission was supposed to be simple.
Track the demonic signature near the East River, neutralize, report.
Simple — except nothing ever was, not with Clary.
Alec had agreed to let her join him after she'd shown up at the training hall at dawn, hair tied back, stele in hand, determination radiating from every movement.
"You can either tell me not to come and I'll follow you anyway," she'd said, "or you can accept help."
He'd sighed — the kind of sigh that sounded like surrender disguised as annoyance — and told her to meet him at the weapons vault.
Now, hours later, they were moving through the abandoned docks, moonlight flickering across the water.
"Are you sure it's a rift?" Clary asked, scanning the air for distortion.
Alec knelt beside a burnt sigil on the ground. "It's fresh. Something came through here recently."
He touched the mark, fingers tracing its edges. "Greater demon, maybe. It's too clean for a Forsaken."
Alec gave her a look, the kind that was supposed to silence her — except she didn't look away this time.
"Relax," she said, smirking. "You almost smiled again."
Before he could reply, the air shimmered. A low hiss cut through the silence — a demon, tall and scaled, stepped from the shadows.
Alec's bow was up in a heartbeat. "Move!"
Clary rolled to the side, pulling her seraph blade. Light flared as they fought in sync — arrows and runes weaving in rhythm, each movement a mirror of the other's. Alec's precision met Clary's wild creativity, and for a moment, it felt effortless.
When the demon finally fell, dissolving into black ash, Clary leaned against a rusted container, breathless and laughing softly.
"You know," she said between breaths, "we make a pretty good team."
Alec lowered his bow. "You broke formation twice."
"And you still hit every target," she replied, grinning. "So maybe you should thank me."
He gave her that look again — sharp, unreadable — then stepped closer.
"Don't make a habit of it," he said quietly.
But his tone had softened. There was no edge, only exhaustion... and something else she couldn't name.
Clary's voice gentled. "You don't have to keep pretending everything's fine, Alec."
He stared past her, into the river. "If I stop pretending, I stop leading. And if I stop leading..." He shook his head. "People get hurt."
Clary's hand hovered near his arm, hesitant. "You don't have to carry it alone."
He looked at her then — really looked — and the mask cracked again, just like on the rooftop.
"Why do you care so much?" he asked.
"Because I see you," she said simply. "The real you. Not the soldier. The person."
The silence that followed was heavy and alive, filled with everything unsaid.
Alec took a small step closer. "You shouldn't."
"Too late," she whispered.
For a moment, their eyes held — blue meeting green — a quiet, fragile balance of light and shadow.
Then Alec stepped back, breaking the moment. "We should report in."
Clary nodded, hiding the flicker of disappointment. "Right. Mission accomplished."
As they walked back toward the Institute, their hands brushed once — accidental, fleeting — but neither of them pulled away right away.
The city lights reflected off the river, catching in their eyes like something unspoken, still waiting to be named.
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