The Shadowhunter Chronicles One Shots

1- Thomastair - forgive me

As summer faded, dusk had begun to set over London just as dinner was over, and with a curt goodnight to his mother Alastair retired to his room which was already cast in twilight. He lit a taper at his desk and sat down to his nightly ritual. Every night since Cordelia's engagement party Alastair would return to his room, take out a pen and paper and write in his neatest cursive Dear Mr Lightwood,
And then promptly crumple the paper up and throw it across the room. He did exactly this, and then just like always he took a second piece of paper and wrote Dear Lightwood, but ultimately decided that that sounded even worse. Sappy. He scolded himself. You sound weak. It was supposed to be an apology, not grovelling. No matter how badly he wanted to he wasn't going to grovel. His palms were starting to feel sweaty. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then took a third sheet and simply wrote Thomas,

And then he blanked. Like always. What do you say to the man you're in love with to apologise for spreading horrific rumours about his family? My sincere apologies for attempting to ruin your life by insinuating that you are a bastard. Or perhaps, It is with great regret I look back on the moment I told everyone we know that your father is an adulterer. There really isn't a good way to say that. Alastair watched with a detached fascination as a drop of ink from the nib of his pen splashed down onto the page, obscuring Thomas' name almost completely. He once again forcefully crumpled the paper into a ball, his face contorting into a grimace as he did so. His hands gripped the parchment so tightly that his knuckles whitened, his arms trembling. Weak. Stupid and weak. With a spasm of movement, he threw the paper as though it were burning and jerkily stood up from the desk, stumbling backwards into the centre of the room. He heard a crash, but his vision was to blurred to see what caused it. The room was spinning. Alastair's breathing was fast and laboured. He pushed a shaking hand through his black hair, feeling sweat on his forehead. Ridiculous. Weak. Stupid. The floor seemed to sway under his slight frame, and Alastair sank to his knees on the floor. Disappointment. Said the voice in Alastair's head that sounded like his father. Weak. Stupid. Disappointment. He clutched at his chest as though us might burst, and noticed distantly that he was crying. Weak. Weak. Weak.

Alastair couldn't be sure how long it had been by the time he woke up. He was lain on the floor of his room, still in his shirt and trousers, his tie feeling to light around his neck. His waistcoat restricted him as he managed to sit up against the wall. Across the room he could see the crumpled remains of his letters littering the floor. The candle on his desk burned low. Just as Alastair prepared to drag himself up off the floor, there was a knock at his door. "

"Master Carstairs? Visitor here to see you. Young man. Handsome boy."
"Thank you, Risa. I'll be right down." Alastair replied groggily. He checked his pocket watch and frowned. A visitor? At this time? At first he thought of Charles, but Risa knew him by name. Perhaps it was Herondale here to discuss Cordelia. He hoped not. He didn't have the patience for James' whining and moping and smiling tonight. "I'll send him up!" He heard Risa shout from halfway down the stairs. "I'll come down!" He yelled, but he was fairly sure she didn't hear. Oh well. Whoever it was would simply have to ignore the state of his room. Alastair stood up from the floor and straightened himself in front of the mirror. He could hear the booming footsteps of a fairly large person on the stairs; someone who was clearly trying to be quiet due to the late hour but failing miserably. Not Herondale then. To big. To respectful. A few moments later there was a firm knock on the door, and Alastair crossed the room to open it. He almost passed out when the door swung open and his eyes met the steady gaze of Thomas Lightwood, huge and striking as always. His warm brown eyes were fixed on his own, and his skin looked a shadowy shade of gold In the dim light from the hall. Alastair could smell the taller man's cologne; sandalwood and something sweet, and he could feel the warmth radiating off of him. It was only then that Alastair noticed how close they were standing, and that he had been staring at Thomas in silence for the last fifteen seconds. He look a stumbling step back, and wordlessly welcomed Thomas into the room. Mustering all the strength he had, Alastair forced down the carefully constructed mask of indifference over his face and turned to close the door. "What," Alastair began with perhaps a little too much venom "are you doing here? And so late?"