mirror shards // matthew fairchild {1}

epilogue

"You're late," says Sydney. "I said five." She hugs her shawl a little closer, brushes a little bit of possibly-imagined dust from the black velvet skirt beneath. Her tone is remonstrative, but she's smiling.

Matthew pulls a face. "My brother wanted to detain me and pontificate at me. You know how he is. He disapproves of my lifestyle and he disapproves of you."

"Yes, well..." Sydney counts off on her fingers. "I broke into the Academy accountant's office, I nearly got one of my friends exiled for nearly killing me, slept with a vampire, had the guts to break up with him, seduced you – well, you could argue I haven't on a technicality but who cares – threw your flask into the river, stole a chocolate bar from your brother, made friends with a communist...out-melodrama-d Tatiana Blackthorn...and that's just the ones we both know about. There's a good lot to disapprove of."

Matthew takes a couple steps toward Sydney and she doesn't back away. She slides her hands down his arms and draws him closer.

"I can't tell if the self-deprecation is supposed to be humorous or concerning," Matthew murmurs.

"Humorous, this time."

"So if we did try this over, what would you do differently, then?"

Sydney catches Matthew's hands. "No more of these stupid arguments," she says. "My business is mine, and your business is yours, and we quit trying to meddle. Deal?"

"Deal."

"And we tell the truth. We've already got the worst stories out there. You're the only person in London who knows the entire Romania story, outside of my father. So there's nothing to hide. Nothing with a good reason, at any rate."

"Deal. Deal, deal, and deal. How are you?" Matthew asks her. "And how's the flat?"

"I'm good. The flat's right there if you want to see what it looks like."

"That's the flat?" Matthew gestures at the white stone façade of the townhouse, the shiny black door.

"I have the A apartment," says Sydney. "On the ground floor. I'm renting from the tenants in B – old veterans from the War, same as your parents and mine. Hyeong and Walsh."

"Walsh. You've mentioned that name before."

"Torin Walsh." Sydney reaches into the pocket of her skirt and pulls out a thick pocket-watch chain. "When he retired, he had them pass me this. Since I'm the boxer. It's nothing, really. Steel and adamas stamped with a few runes. And Torin himself you never hear about, he wasn't part of the Institute force, he didn't have any special powers to speak of – or if he did, he hid them well. But he was a good spy. He was the source of a lot of valuable information, especially when it came to stopping things before they began, threats we don't hear about because somebody in an office in Highgate typed up a letter and went down to the mundane telegram office and sent it to his Aunt Patricia who, by the way, did not exist."

Sydney tips her head sideways and studies Matthew. "There's a lot of heroes you don't hear about. Now do you want to go into the house? It looks like it's going to start raining again."

"By all means, lead the way."

Sydney catches Matthew's arm and pulls him through the door into the foyer and then into her flat. The space is a little shabby, but it's cozy, and it's clean. There's a big fireplace at one end, a mint-colored kitchen at the other, and the door to her bedroom is cracked open, revealing a strip of two-toned lavender stripe wallpaper and the corner of a bed, the sheets and the brightly-colored quilt rumpled, half unmade.

"For the record," says Sydney, sinking into one of the armchairs, "sheaths and chocolate are cheaper in SoHo than I made them out to be."

"We're in Marylebone."

"Doesn't matter. Good poetry does not come at reasonable prices, though, so I guess I'll have to make that up myself." She studies Matthew from across the room. Her blue eyes are dark, and they catch the light of the Edison lamps, glinting. "You're sure you think we can make this work?"

"I'm sure. I'm well aware we're both a little messed up but you know pieces of my story that I haven't told anybody else and I know you've told me things like that, too. We're holding each other's secrets and that means we're bound in a way even runes and a bed can't quite achieve." It's only after he stops talking that Matthew realizes he's followed Sydney across the room, that he's standing right in front of her chair.

"The bed...the bed is a step I would like to take." Sydney gets out of the chair, closes the distance. They're close in height, she doesn't have to make him look down in order to meet his eyes. "The runes might need a little more convincing."

"We'll table that motion for now." Matthew touches Sydney's chin. "Can I?"

"Go right ahead."

This time when he kisses her it's sweet, soft. It seems like every time he kisses her another layer of hurt has been stripped out of it and he lets himself imagine that maybe one day he'll kiss her and there will be no pain in that passion at all. Maybe some day they'll accomplish what they've been trying to for weeks, and heal together. 

He sinks his hands into Sydney's hair and then draws them down her back, down to her hips, pulling her closer. "Do something about that, will you?" He tugs gently on the edges of the shawl and she lets him toss it away.

He's completely unprepared for the dress beneath it. He'd seen only that it had a black velvet skirt. But this – low cut, wraparound like a robe, black velvet, with these thin pearl-beaded straps, baring her arms, shoulders, her collarbone. There's this small false-diamond brooch at her waist that's got to be holding the entire thing together. That, with the way her hair is done up, in that twist (he double checks, to make sure, but it's a different comb in her hair, black wood this time, not red thread and bone)..."I've seen this before."

"You have," Sydney murmurs, and kisses him again.

"You – you planned this, you knew this was coming...I ought to at least be able to recognize it but I can't think where..."

Sydney actually pouts. It's not something she does often. "I thought you were the art critic."

Art critic. Art. Yes. "X," says Matthew. "Singer Sargent, the one that scandalized everyone back in..."

"Yes, sir."

"Pleased to meet you, Madame," Matthew murmurs, and pulls Sydney back into his arms. He kisses her again, and again, and then stops. "I thought the point of this was that we were going to talk."

"It was."

"I don't want to, but maybe we ought to stop and talk then."

"Maybe," Sydney says. "Or maybe we can talk after we've gotten this out of our systems."

< & >

There may come a time when Sydney regrets this decision. She's well aware of that. She may look back on last night and go, what on Earth was I thinking, going back to this guy? 

She doesn't regret it now. Not with the dawn just smudging the sky with rose, and Matthew's arm thrown over her like this, and the world so silent and still. He's asleep yet. She should be. She has a long day ahead of her today, and the day after that. There are still things to move from the Institute, still boxes to unpack.

Sydney turns over, away from the sun, tucks herself back into the warmth of the blankets, against Matthew's sleeping form. For a moment, she debates waking him up. She decides against it. There'll be time for talk, and time for more, later.

She's going back to sleep.

_____________
Author's Notes:
So. This is it. Gonna miss updating this one. I may write a second act at some point, but it's unlikely. This just...finished so nicely and I wanted to leave it like that.

I will be back regardless, because I can't stop writing, but it'll be awhile. I have a massive project on AO3 (when I said massive, I mean it, too) and then some smaller things I'm doing. I may do some TID-related stuff. Hey, I might do some stuff not related to the Shadowhunters at all. I have an original project I've been slowly chipping away at for a few months now, it's called The Haunting of El North, so that'll definitely show up here, but not for a long time.