a struck link // christopher lightwood {3}

twenty-six // along came a spyder

Pluto woke out of a recurring nightmare of twisted metal and splintered wood to find themself still curled up in one of the Institute's spare bedrooms (the one which had been theirs, before they moved in at Castle), staring at the buttery yellow wallpaper. Exhausted from spending the whole night awake, they'd wandered in here for a nap once Gloria called to tell them Matthew had come to retrieve the motorcar. Christopher had offered to go with them, just to hold them, maybe let them cry if they needed to, but Pluto hadn't wanted anybody finding them together. Right now they were too exhausted to deal with that kind of trouble.

Someone was knocking on their door. That took a moment to register that. Pluto threw the covers away and got to their feet and threw open the door. On the other side was Christopher, his eyes wide with distress.

"What happened?" Pluto asked, acting mostly on instinct.

"It's Matthew," said Christopher. "He's alive but . . . he crashed the motorcar."

The world tilted. "How bad is it?"

"He bailed out." The words came out in a rushed tumble, so fast Pluto could barely process. "Shoulder dislocated. Concussion. Broken elbow. They had to cap one of his teeth. But . . . Pluto, it's his hands. He put them up to protect his head and . . . they're all crushed and bandaged up and we don't know how well the healing runes will take and the Silent Brothers are saying neuropathy and it's bad. It's just really bad." Christopher's voice broke on the last couple words.

I don't know what her role in it is, I don't know exactly what happens, but I know that because of her, something really bad happens to you. Had Pluto not said that just hours ago?

"Pluto?" said Christopher.

Pluto hugged him. Hugged him, and held him as tightly as they possibly could, breathing in the smell of gunpowder and citrus and soap the followed him. He wrapped his arms around their waist and buried his face in the crook of their neck and fisted his hands in the back of Pluto's plaid shirt and just breathed, and breathed, and breathed, until the hyperventilation ran out.

"Where is he?" Pluto asked, pulling back slightly.

"In the Infirmary. With Thomas. And Ariadne."

Pluto took a deep breath. "I should go see him."

They had Matthew sitting up on the edge of his cot already when Pluto made it upstairs to see him. He had a long cut on his cheek that was still healing (thought it didn't look like it would scar) and his hands were all bandaged and splinted. "I thought you said you wanted me to leave you alone," he said. "What are you doing here now?"

"You went to see her, didn't you?" Pluto said gently. "The baoban sidhe." They pulled up a chair. "I'm sorry. I guess . . . some of this is my fault. If I hadn't told you . . ."

"But you did, and here we are." Matthew glanced at his hands. "That's Moira you have in there, you know?"

Pluto's head snapped up. "That's Moira?"

"Yeah. That's Moira." Matthew looked at the ceiling. "So I suppose I would have found out anyhow, and I still would have asked her if she'd meant to kill me, too, and she still would have given me her terrible reasons for keeping me alive."

"Can I ask what those were, or . . ."

"Please don't."

"Okay."

Eventually, they let Matthew go, stumbling and shaky from shock as much as anything else. Pluto waited for him in the hallway, sitting on the floor with their laptop.