Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"A man never stands taller than when he is on his knees"

Thomas Monson

A wave of mingled chatter and ceramic clinking washes over Alec as he tugs the door of the mundane coffee shop closed behind him, the gusting wind fighting briefly against him. Ragnor had chosen the Hungarian Pastry Shop, a small university-adjacent coffee shop in Morningside Heights, when Alec had requested a meeting a few weeks ago. It’s an easy walk from the Institute, though he’s never been before. 

The shop is warm, a pleasant change from the incessant drizzle of early fall outside, and the pastry case full of Eastern European sweets to Alec’s left is overloaded with options, both familiar and not. The place looks to be open seating, so Alec threads tentatively through the tables of mundane college students, laptops and books perched precariously everywhere he turns, and picks a table in the back corner, shedding his coat and weapons as he sits. 

The time for their meeting is early in deference to London’s time zone, and the sun has barely risen in New York though it will be mid-afternoon for Ragnor. Nevertheless, the little coffee shop is full and many of the patrons look like they’ve been there for hours already. At one table, in fact, the occupant is sound asleep with his face mashed uncomfortably against a spiral notebook, a pen dangling precariously from a slack grip. No one else seems to find this at all odd Alec notes in bemusement.

Pleasantly inoffensive music, an instrumental jazz medley, is playing lightly from hidden speakers, and Alec continues to look around in cautious curiosity, unused to being surrounded by mundanes who can actually see him. He relaxes as everyone, including the harried waitress, ignores him entirely.

Alec can guess why Ragnor is so fond of this place. The shop is old, densely packed with heavy wood tables, and the scuffed floors and vintage wall sconces clearly haven’t been touched since the shop opened 70 years ago. There’s no wifi and no outlets for chargers, and, from what Magnus has mentioned about his oldest friend, Alec is sure that this refusal to cater to modern convention is a part of why Ragnor has been a patron of the shop since it opened. 

There’s still almost fifteen minutes before the time the warlock had suggested, so Alec leans back in his seat to gather his thoughts before Ragnor arrives. He and Magnus have been dating for the last five months, and Alec is beginning to realize that he isn’t the only one in the relationship risking his position and his standing among his people because of his choice in partners. 

No one has said anything directly, not to him at least, but Alec is a Shadowhunter. Few Downworlders realize just how much he can hear of their bitten-off whispers when he comes to Pandemonium after patrol, his vision and hearing runes not yet fully burned out. 

The Downworld has no qualms about non-heterosexual relationships, to say the least, so he knows it isn’t that. As to him being a Shadowhunter, Alec hadn’t chosen Magnus thinking it would be easy, but with all the work he’s put into the Downworld Cabinet and improving relationships between the various Shadow world factions, he had hoped things might have improved a bit by now. However, nothing has lessened the glares and tightened lips when he joins Magnus at Pandemonium.

Magnus isn’t talking, changing the conversation masterfully whenever Alec tries to bring it up, but the glares have begun to include Magnus more and more instead of focusing just on Alec. Since there is no world in which Alec can imagine allowing his presence to hurt Magnus, Alec has decided to seek outside help from the one person he knows his partner trusts without exception. 

(Alec has also decided to seek forgiveness rather than permission given that Magnus has been blatantly pretending the problem doesn’t exist.)

As if summoned by that thought, the door of the shop swings open and Ragnor Fell strolls inside. Looking just like the photos of him that Alec has seen in Magnus’ albums, the warlock is dressed tidily in pressed trousers and a jacket with corduroy patches on the elbows. The professorial air makes Ragnor blend in neatly with the rest of the clientele in a way that Alec, still in patrol gear given the early hour, very much does not. 

Despite the dim interior and their never having met in person before, Ragnor’s gaze lands on Alec with a swiftness and an immediate recognition that makes the Shadowhunter suspect Ragnor had sensed the glamour on his weapons rather than searched for his face. Nevertheless, Alec stands up when Magnus’ oldest friend reaches the table and offers his hand in greeting.

“Mr. Fell, thank you for coming to New York to meet with me.” 

The stare the warlock gives him in return is frank and assessing, and he doesn’t take Alec’s hand immediately. This man is Magnus’ closest family and Alec is aware that Ragnor, more than any other living being, knows precisely how bad Magnus was hurt by the last person who claimed the warlock’s heart. 

Alec waits patiently, hoping for the older man to give him a chance to prove his difference from Camille. His presence here alone is a good sign, Alec notes hopefully.

A worryingly long moment later, Ragnor grasps his hand in a brief, but firm, clasp. “I was pleased to receive your invitation, Mr. Lightwood.”

Alec returns to his seat as Ragnor pulls out his own. “Alec, please,” he offers.

Ragnor nods in affirmation, though he doesn’t yet offer the same in return. 

“I must say, I’m rather curious what prompted your invitation. If this is merely a chance to meet a close friend of Magnus, I would think his presence would actually be involved at some point.” 

Ragnor casts his gaze down at their table, one clearly meant for two, as if to emphasize the pointed absence of the other man.

Alec doesn’t hesitate. It’s not like he’s planning on hiding anything. “Magnus isn’t aware that I asked you to meet with me today.”

Ragnor tilted his head. “So I gathered by the distinct lack of warnings not to be terribly rude to you.”

A ghost of a smile twitches almost involuntarily on Alec’s face. He’s heard tales of the sharpness of Ragnor’s wit and tongue alike from his partner. Alec is exceedingly unsurprised by the assumption that Magnus would have attempted to shield him from the other man’s harsh judgement if he’d known this meeting was occurring.

The smiles fades quickly though as Alec is reminded of why he asked Ragnor here in the first place. He swallows and decides not to dance around the subject; tact has never been his strong-suit in matters such as this anyways.  

Ragnor cocks his head slightly to the left, obviously reading Alec’s sudden seriousness. “May I assume you would prefer getting straight to the point then?”

Alec nods. Magnus trusts Ragnor with everything he is, so it doesn’t matter if the prospect of opening up so fully to someone he’s never met is making Alec’s stomach clench painfully. Magnus trusts him, so Alec will too. He breathes in deeply.

“Magnus has mentioned you frequently, Mr. Fell, and, I know we don’t know each other, but his stories have left me fairly certain that you rarely, if ever, choose to blunt your tongue when someone deserves to be called out for their actions.” Alec swallows uncomfortably. “So, if you think I’m doing anything that hurts Magnus, if you think I’m acting in a way that disrespects him, as my partner or as a warlock or as the High Warlock of Brooklyn, I would prefer you to be rude.” 

Alec pauses and looks down for a moment, adding quietly, “Magnus deserves someone to be rude on his behalf.”

Ragnor straightens up in surprise, his gaze sharpening, but he clearly realizes that Alec is building up to something specific and remains silent. His fingers twitch, however, and Alec feels the familiar shiver-hum of a privacy ward race over his skin. He nods in abbreviated thanks and tries to think of how to say what he truly came to ask. Alec has rehearsed this meeting in his head for days, but he doesn’t think any amount of careful phrasing will get him the answers he’s seeking. The warlock sitting across from him is Magnus’ closest friend, his family, and the object of dozens of casual references from stories spanning centuries, and Alec knows that Magnus trusts this man with a strength unmatched by any other relationship he’s ever had.

So Alec barrels forward, taking little care for the polite pleasantries and diplomatic phrasings that have been trained into him his entire life. If Magnus trusts Ragnor as family, how can Alec not do the same? 

“Magnus and I have been together for several months now, and I have done everything I can to make my respect for Magnus clear, not just my respect for him as a person, one that I love with everything I am, but also for his position in the Downworld. But, whenever we’re together outside of the loft,” Alec breaks off, searching for words. “No matter how hard I try, no matter how much progress the Institute is making with the Cabinet, nothing is getting better.”

Alec desperately wishes he’d thought to order them some coffee before starting this conversation, just so he’d have something to put in his hands, something to look at rather than only having the choice to rigidly maintain eye contact with the unreadable man in front of him or to stare down at the tabletop.

“They don’t know I can hear them, I think,” he backtracks suddenly, realizing that he hasn’t actually made it clear what he means by nothing is getting better, “when I come into Pandemonium to sit with Magnus, to be with him when that’s the only time we can have together between his schedule and mine.” Alec’s fingers twitch uncomfortably where he’s laced them together in front of him. 

“I know that’s where he goes to let people talk to their High Warlock - I don’t distract him and I never interfere with whatever they talk about, whatever decisions Magnus needs to oversee- but they hate it when I come. They rarely say anything directly, not once I’m sitting there, but the things they whisper to Magnus before I reach them, the way they glare the entire time.” Alec finally looks away, unable to meet Ragnor’s gaze any longer, and blinks down at the tabletop. 

“I’m a Shadowhunter,” he states plainly. “I know now, in a way I never did before, what that means to the Downworld, and I would never expect people to just forgive and forget the atrocities my people have both allowed and committed, have codified into law,” he scoffs contemptuously. The Accords are only palatable because of the sheer horror of what they replaced. 

“But I don’t think they’re angry just because of what I am, it feels like they’re angry because of something I’m doing.” He blinks again, harshly. “And I can’t fix it, I can’t stop it, until I know what I’m doing wrong.”

Alec looks back up at the implacable warlock across from him, his eyes burning. “I asked you here both as Magnus’s closest friend and as the former High Warlock of London. There is nothing more important to me than him, but he won’t talk to me about this and I don’t know where else to turn. So tell me, please, what am I doing that makes it possible for anyone to think I’m disrespecting Magnus?”

Ragnor is silent, face unreadable, and Alec’s shoulders are tense, his chest beginning to tighten at the incipient, leaden thrum of mistake with every moment Ragnor doesn’t respond. Alec doesn’t move as Ragnor considers him, his gaze a physical weight pressing down on him. Alec is barely breathing when the warlock finally relaxes, leaning back into his chair and flicking two steaming mugs of coffee into existence on the table in front of him. 

(Alec’s has a healthy dollop of whipped cream on top and his heart tingles because there is no way for Ragnor to know about his carefully hidden sweet-tooth unless Magnus told him.)

Ragnor smiles for the first time since he arrived, his face transforming almost entirely from his earlier stern mien. “I do believe this will be a very different conversation from the one I came here expecting, Alec Lightwood.” He pauses and hmmphs a little in what Alec thinks is bemused disbelief. “I should have known any Shadowhunter that Magnus would claim so openly as his would surprise me.”

Alec breathes out in relief at that response, chest loosening, and flushes a little, pleased at the suggestion that Magnus has claimed him.

“And it’s not so much what you’re doing, so much as it is what you’re not doing,” Ragnor continues, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic in front of him. “How much do you actually know about the culture and political structure of warlock society?”

Alec leans forward in interest. “Only what the Clave teaches and the little I’ve picked up from being with Magnus, most of which contradicts the Clave entirely.”

Chapter Text

Ragnor’s lips curve up in a slight smile as he ponders the Shadowhunter in front of him. When Magnus had first told him that he was dating a nephilim, Ragnor had been deeply concerned for his friend’s safety. 

(When Ragnor had realized the depth of Magnus’ infatuation with that nephilim, however, the elder warlock had been terrified that Magnus was setting himself up for a heartbreak even worse than Camille. He daren’t hope that Magnus would survive another Blackfriar’s Bridge.)

It wasn’t until Catarina had called, tentative hope spilling from her lips, that Ragnor had resolved not to interfere. A nephilim Catarina trusted to babysit her daughter? Cat was astonishingly protective of Madzie, and her acceptance of a Shadowhunter in Madzie’s life was a measure of trust Ragnor was certain few outside of he and Magnus would realize the near impossibility of gaining.

Ragnor sips the steaming coffee he’d purloined for the two of them from behind the counter and watches as the young man’s keen focus turns solely to him.

“You’re the first individual that Magnus has ever been in a relationship with that has asked me, or anyone in Magnus’ circle of friends, that question. It’s the right question by the way, but it does require a substantial bit of context to answer.” 

He pauses to take a sip of his coffee. Alec’s focus doesn’t waver. “And, given the Clave’s history of not just ignoring, but actively suppressing information about how the Downworld organizes itself, I need to know where to start on that context.”    

Alec takes in a long breath and Ragnor watches Alec visibly pull together his thoughts in a way that makes it clear why the New York Institute of this generation is as successful as it is. The keen mind at its helm has been pulling together information and intelligence from disparate sources and murky leads for years. As Ragnor watches Alec bring forward not just the pieces he knows, but also what he’s clearly guessed from the past few months of being immersed so heavily in the Downworld itself, the talent Alec has with that skill is imminently obvious. 

Alec uses the moment of silence before he speaks to take a deep sip of the sweet confection Ragnor has summoned for him. Ninety percent of his sip is whipped cream, Ragnor is amused to note. Magnus had not been overstating.

“It’s well-known to the Shadowhunters that each major city has a High Warlock in charge of the local region and all the warlocks that reside within that territory at any particular time,” Alec starts, hesitating for a moment at the end of his sentence. 

Ragnor nods encouragingly, waving a hand for the Shadowhunter to continue when he pauses to see if Ragnor will interject. Ragnor certainly doesn’t plan to stop him. Frankly, he’s incredibly curious as to what this uncommonly observant nephilim has managed to piece together.

“The territory that each High Warlock claims as their own is a little murkier than the territory that each regional Institute controls. Our Institutes are located on any tertiary or higher ley line configurations with enough ambient thaumatographic output to support the opening of rifts to demonic realms. The ambient power concentrations decay rapidly from each ley nexus however, leaving our Institutes with relatively compact protectorates and broad swaths of land where no Institute maintains formal territorial control.” 

Alec pauses to take another sip of his coffee, yet again deliberately composed mostly of whipped cream. He tilts his head and Ragnor knows Alec is about to go from common knowledge to what he’s inferred either from his time as Institute Head or from the access being with Magnus has given him.

“Shadowhunters, almost without exception, reside within their assigned Institute.” Alec dips his head in obvious acknowledgement that he himself is one of the rare exceptions, continuing without pause. “Warlocks tend to cluster around each ley line nexus as well- likely due to the substantial power boost the ambient energy gives them?”

Ragnor nods at Alec’s clear question. “In part.” 

He doesn’t elaborate further, nor does Alec ask him to.

“However...” Alec looks reticent and Ragnor smiles because he’s fairly certain he knows why.

“I’m well aware that being with Magnus has given you far more access than any other Shadowhunter to the Downworld in general and to the warlock community in particular.” Ragnor’s lips quirk. ”Especially,” he emphasizes, “given that you are not only a full member of the Clave, but also the Head of a regional Institute.”

Alec is suddenly tense across from him.

“I’m also well aware that Magnus would never have allowed you that access if he had any qualms whatsoever that you would use that access against the Downworld.” Ragnor smiles as Alec relaxes again. “You can speak freely, Alec. Magnus was well aware of what you would guess when he first let you accompany him to Pandemonium. I trust in his judgement of you in the same way you’re trusting in his judgement of me.”

Alec nods slowly, sipping more whipped cream from his coffee to hide what Ragnor suspects is a slight flush on his cheeks. It’s telling too, Ragnor notes, that Alec is less concerned with baring his own secrets and far more concerned with accidentally spilling those that may harm Magnus.

Alec takes a deep breath and meets Ragnor’s eyes. “There are a lot more warlocks than the Clave thinks,” he begins baldly. “Your people may cluster at a nexus, but you don’t have to do so. Warlocks, more than any other faction, can blend in with the mundanes and escape the Clave’s notice with the right combination of wards, especially in areas where regional Institutes don’t claim territory.” 

Alec holds Ragnor’s gaze. “The Clave only knows about a third of your actual population.”

Ragnor’s silence is telling as he leans back in his chair, and he knows Alec can see the age in his eyes, a sudden and visceral reminder that Ragnor and Magnus alike spent their formative years in a time when the Clave’s laws didn’t even consider them sentient. 

His smile shows too many teeth, a sharp dichotomy to the front he normally wears as a genteel professor.

“Keep going.”

Ragnor knows the nephilim in front of him isn’t the Alexander that his best friend calls him to dreamily sigh over. No, this isn’t the blushing, stuttering, and entirely devoted partner Magnus alone gets to see. This is one of the most powerful Shadowhunters of the Clave, the named Head of the third largest Institute in the world. Alec hasn’t thrived in Alicante’s highest circles as he has, openly gay and in support of full Downworld equality, by being anything but brilliantly cunning and keenly observant.

“Magnus isn’t just the High Warlock of Brooklyn. He controls all of New York, at the very least, although High Warlocks from every part of the continent, including both Central and South America, have requested he act as formal arbiter for conflicts in their own territories.” Alec’s grip tightens on his cup. “The requests aren’t simply for advice; his decisions are treated as binding law, meaning he holds a formal rank to act that in capacity. A rank greater than the High Warlock of Brooklyn.”

Ragnor grins, delighted. Alec has put together far more than he should have been able to from what he’s gleaned at Magnus’s side, information that the Clave would count as treason if they found out the warlocks were hiding it. Yet, Ragnor is absolutely certain Alec hasn’t shared his speculations with a soul. 

Camille notwithstanding, Magnus doesn’t typically pick the wily ones. “Oh, I do so hope he keeps you.”

Alec can’t hold back his blush this time and ducks his head, the transformation to bashful school boy sudden and startling. “I- I hope he keeps me too.”

Ragnor twitches his hand and Alec’s cup refills with all the whipped cream he’s sipped off the top of his coffee. Alec doesn’t twitch although he does eye Ragnor warily over the rim of his cup. The concept of a Shadowhunter with a sweet tooth is too enjoyable for Ragnor to ruin it by commenting though, so he doesn’t so much as raise a brow.

“Magnus’ technical title is not the High Warlock of Brooklyn, but the High Warlock of New York. The state, not the city,” Ragnor clarifies. “The previous High Warlock of New York held the position for nearly eight decades. As a custom, we tend to avoid giving two people who hold the High Warlock position for each region the same colloquial title in succession, just to avoid confusion.” 

Ragnor shrugs. “After a few decades, the name and the title become pretty indistinguishable, and, so long as the new name is in the territory being held, we all know the region being claimed.”

Ragnor can see Alec contemplating this. He imagines it would already be hard for Alec to think of anyone else as the High Warlock of Brooklyn, and he’s known Magnus for barely a fraction of the five decades he’s held that title.

Ragnor eyes his own coffee before swapping it for tea with a quick sparkle of his magic. “Before Magnus, Jem Fontaine was the High Warlock of New York, and before him was Ada Loveland, High Warlock of Harlem.”

He sips the tea. It’s the same tea he makes at his home in London, but it never does taste the same when he has to drink it in America. He scowls briefly before turning back to the conversation.

“That is only one title Magnus holds though.” Ragnor pauses, not quite able to resist a moment of dramatic suspense. “He is also the Consular Warlock of the Americas.” Ragnor can actually see the pieces clicking neatly into place behind Alec’s eyes.

“The Council of the Spiral Labyrinth,” Alec says flatly.

It isn’t a question, but Ragnor nods in acknowledgement anyways.

The Council of the Spiral Labyrinth is known to the Clave as the highest source of law for the warlock faction. However, who sits on it, even how many sit on it, is completely unknown to the nephilim.

“The Council is comprised of thirteen warlocks: the ten Consular High Warlocks, the High Mage of the Spiral Labyrinth, and two rotating mages that serve ten year terms.”

“Mages being scholars that live in seclusion within the Labyrinth?”

Ragnor doesn’t know how Alec picked that tidbit up, mages aren’t exactly a common topic of conversation, but he inclines his head. 

“Yes. Anyone can study at the Labyrinth, but to earn the title of mage it is required to permanently renounce any intentions of serving as a High Warlock. Mages are scholars, not politicians.”

“And Magnus is the Consular High Warlock for North and South America.”

Ragnor notes that Alec doesn’t seem surprised that his boyfriend might hold dominion over the breadth of two continents. Camille, on the other hand, had always underestimated Magnus, surprised even when she thought Magnus held control of a single borough. Alec, he’s pleased to see, is nowhere close to fooled by the sparkle and glitter and devil-may-care attitude that Magnus wields as shield and sword alike.

“Yes. There are ten Consular territories, each roughly corresponding to a tenth of the global warlock population. Magnus holds the post for the Consular Warlock of the Americas, and the other nine territories are Europe, Russia, India, China, Australia, East Africa, West Africa, the Middle East, and East Asia.”

Alec frowns minutely, tilting his head. “The Consular Warlock of East Asia. Is that held by the High Warlock of Tokyo?”

This time it’s Ragnor’s turn to frown. 

“Tosa Inoko came by Pandemonium to visit Magnus a few weeks ago,” Alec explains. “She and Magnus were perfectly friendly, but,” he’s clearly searching for the words to articulate what he noticed, “-they treated each other differently.”

Ragnor tilts his head in mute request for elaboration, curious what drew Alec’s notice.

“Warlocks, most downworlders really,” Alec corrects himself, “defer to Magnus, especially at Pandemonium. Tosa did too, but only when she arrived. Just- their body language was different.” Alec shrugs, apparently either unable or unwilling to verbalize it further.

“She does hold that post, yes,” Ragnor confirms, continuing on with his explanation. “Within their regional territories, a High Warlock’s word is essentially law, their decisions binding as they uphold and interpret the statutes decreed by the Spiral Labyrinth. A High Warlock can only be overruled by their Consular Warlock, and Consular Warlocks can only be gainsaid by a majority vote of the Council of the Spiral Labyrinth."

Alec’s attention is zeroed in on Ragnor, whipped cream forgotten in his coffee cup. Understanding is dawning in his gaze as to how this background relates to the question he brought Ragnor here to ask.

“Our positions aren’t equal,” he breathes out finally.

“No.” Ragnor shakes his head, purposefully skating past the fact that a Shadowhunter, one of Raziel’s chosen, has just obliquely implied that a warlock isn’t only his equal, but his superior. “And while a High Warlock, the closest parallel to your own position, being swayed into partiality by a lover is one thing, a Consular Warlock being swayed is an entirely different playing field.”

Alec jerks upright, spine ramrod straight. “I have never attempted to influence one of Magnus’ decisions, I- I would never-“

Ragnor raises a hand to cut him off. “I was not trying to imply that you would.”

Alec settles, mostly, his hand clenching and unclenching around the coffee mug in agitation at the thought. Ragnor isn’t certain if Alec is more offended that Ragnor would think he would attempt to influence Magnus in such a way or that Ragnor might think Magnus would allow himself to be influenced. 

A vicious satisfaction curls in the warlock’s gut at the thought. It’s high time his friend had a partner more concerned with Magnus than themself. 

“Warlocks are extremely hierarchical as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Ragnor begins, waiting for Alec’s hesitant nod. “Many of us are old, and those who aren’t have generally been raised or fostered by those who are. Our culture, our notions of fealty and respect, especially respect owed to the one oath-sworn to protect and preserve those who live in his dominion, don’t match those of the nephilim.”

“The magic,” Alec interjects, another puzzle piece falling into place in his mental picture. “Whenever anyone greets Magnus formally there’s a glimmer of magic on their hands. I’ve never seen a warlock do that for anyone else.”

“Magical presentation,” Ragnor confirms, surprised yet again at Alec’s astuteness. Most nephilim aren’t able to see the slight manifestations of formal presentations, the magic all but invisible to the naked eye.

It’s a moment’s work to change his vision to see the magical signatures usually hidden even to those with the Sight if they aren’t specifically looking. Ragnor isn’t able to hide his sudden grin. 

Alec is absolutely drenched in Magnus’ magic. 

A subtle blue shimmer coils around him in a tapestry of winding tendrils, in and around him, caressing his skin and pooling inside him in luminescent gleams. The magic skims and dances around him in ways only possible if Alec has shared himself, shared his power and energy with Magnus, keeping nothing between them, no barrier to prevent Magnus from taking it all if he chose. 

Magnus’ magic has claimed Alec thoroughly in turn, and it’s a wonder the Downworld has yet to notice. There would be little chance of keeping this quiet if they had, the implications too impossible to ignore. Ragnor honestly wonders if Magnus is aware his magic has clung in this way to Alec, little traces nuzzling against him with every spell, transferring to him with every night spent under Magnus’ wards, lingering with every brush of healing. The moment Alec opened himself so fully to Magnus that his magic planted a seed for all the other magic to cling to, it embraced him wholly.

That, however, is a conversation that Ragnor fully plans to leave for later. He shakes himself back to the topic at hand. 

“When warlocks swear themselves to a newly elected High Warlock or Consular Warlock, or when they come before either in making a request, it is custom to present one’s magic to them. The presentation of the magic allows for the High Warlock to not only feel the magical signature of the warlock in question, but it also allows him to get a sense of the warlock themself, their personality and the type of magic they specialize in. Magic is unique to an individual and when Magnus tastes the magic presented to him, it tells him an enormous amount of information about the other warlock.”

Alec nods. “I’d always wondered how Magnus could tell who had performed certain spells.”

Ragnor takes another sip of tea. “Yes, signatures do tend to linger if they aren’t purposefully hidden, especially with stronger works, and Magnus would be intimately familiar with almost all of the warlocks in this region.” 

He sets his tea back down. “More than that though, presenting one’s magic is an act of submission.” He meets Alec’s gaze squarely as they finally move towards the crux of the problem Alec has asked him here to get to the bottom of. “It is one of our culture’s highest taboos for a warlock to taste another’s magic without permission. Husbands and wives, brothers and sisters may choose to do it to better know their loved one, but many don’t. It is incredibly intimate. It is otherwise only done in respect to either the High Warlock or the Consular Warlock to which one is personally sworn.”

Alec nods, chest rising and falling too evenly for it to be natural. “And partners of High Warlocks do this too?”

And with that question Ragnor knows Alec doesn’t need him to make the final connection. The youngest Head of the New York Institute in three centuries had to navigate the line between brother and commander long before he formally ascended. Of course he would recognize the parallel given the barest hint of information. 

Alec smiles bitterly at Ragnor’s silence. “The oaths between High Warlocks and those they are sworn to protect are singular- made between two people and two alone,” Alec confirms aloud. He takes a deep breath, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. 

“Husbands and wives share power in the Clave,” he states, a seeming non-sequitur as he brings a hand up to knuckle over his forehead. “Institute Heads are nearly always married and they’re considered equal partners. With the Downworld though,” Alec opens his eyes again and meets Ragnor’s gaze, searching to see if he’s correct as he continues, “a High Warlock has to thread the line between the two relationships, High Warlock and lover, with anyone they’re involved with.” 

Alec pauses. “And I can’t submit my magic to him.”

Ragnor stays silent and watches as Alec’s lips press tightly together. “And me being who I am is making it even worse for Magnus, isn’t it?” Alec doesn’t stop to let Ragnor respond when the answer is so obvious to him. “I’m not just a non-warlock partner that can’t submit my magic. I’m a Shadowhunter- a full member of the Clave and the Head of the regional Institute. I have real and often competing interests compared to those he’s sworn to protect, and the one thing that can be done to prove to the Downworld that I would never attempt to influence Magnus, let alone that Magnus would ever let me, I can’t do.”

Ragnor watches Alec’s hands tremble ever so slightly at this realization before he brings them up to wrap them back around his mug, attempting to hide his reaction to the confirmation that his presence is harming Magnus’ position. 

Ragnor quirks a brow though, waiting for Alec to take note and focus back on him instead of the top of the table. “The partner of a High Warlock submitting their magic, often and publicly, is a visible signal that the High Warlock is keeping those two relationships separate, yes. However, do you truly think that Magnus is the first High Warlock to enter a relationship with someone who isn’t another warlock?”

Ragnor smiles as Alec breathes in sharply, attention wholly caught at the insinuation of a way he can fix this. Ragnor knows it is here in which the test lies though. Here is the moment where Ragnor finds out if Alec truly deserves Magnus or if Alec will hold true to his nephilim upbringing and flinch at being asked not just to observe from the sidelines, but to fully participate in Downworld culture. 

“Warlocks alone can submit their magic to a High Warlock, yes, but other Downworlders can choose to submit themselves.”

Alec blinks. He freezes.

“Tosa’s partner, Yuan,” the younger man breathes in sudden understanding. Ragnor cocks his head and thinks back to the slim vampire that the High Warlock of Tokyo has been married to for nearly two centuries.

“He knelt to her, and I-“ Alec stumbles for words momentarily. “I just thought it was something, uh- something sex related.” He flushes. 

“I know the Downworld is more open with those things in general, so I just assumed-“ Alec cuts himself off, staring hard at Ragnor. “You mentioned that warlocks tend towards older customs. This is one of them, isn’t it? Warlocks submit their magic to show that a High Warlock is in authority over them, but non-warlocks submit themselves to show that they acknowledge the High Warlock is, in effect, a superior officer, even if not in their chain of command.” 

Ragnor blinks a little, bemused at Alec’s lapse into Clave terminology. He’s never heard it put quite that way before, but he supposes it’s accurate enough. The Downworld considers Magnus’ position as Consular Warlock to be higher than Alec’s role as Institute Head. Even if they didn’t consider Magnus to be his ’superior officer’, they would still expect Alec to make it clear that when Magnus is acting as High Warlock, when he’s presiding over Pandemonium with Alec at his side, Alec has no role there other than that of Magnus’ lover.

Ragnor nods, waiting for Alec’s full reaction now that he understands. Any other nephilim, even those that flaunt themselves as progressive and pro-equality would refuse. No Shadowhunter would be anything other than shocked and somewhat horrified at the implication they would be expected to both act as, and be, the submissive partner in public, or, at the very least, whenever their lover is acting in their official role.  

Ragnor has been the recipient, however, of too many besotted calls from Magnus. He’s seen and heard too many things Alec has done that he never would have believed possible. Too many astounding changes from the establishment of a Downworld Cabinet to changes in centuries-old policies favoring nephilim alone, working slowly towards a complete neutrality of the law.

When Alec looks back at him, a determined glint in his eye, Ragnor’s smile is too satisfied, too vindicated to be entirely pleasant. His dearest friend has always fallen hard and fast, and he’d been dismayed at the thought of the damage an unthinking, uncaring nephilim could do to Magnus, to both his heart and his relationship with his people.

Alec inviting him here, without Magnus’ knowledge no less, had raised Ragnor’s curiosity and his distrust alike. It’s been a long while since Ragnor has been so pleased to have his suspicions proven wrong and he thinks he’s beginning to understand why Catarina trusts this Shadowhunter with her daughter. 

A deep flush flags Alec’s cheeks and spreads down over his face and neck as he obviously contemplates how to word his response.

“I, uh- I don’t mind the idea of-” the flush darkens dramatically, but Alec barrels forward with what Ragnor is learning is his customary bluntness after a short swallow, “the idea of submitting to him in public. We’ve actually, uh, done similar things at home before.” 

Ragnor’s eyebrows raise.

“My only concern,” Alec continues, “is that while I am certainly not ashamed of anything to do with my relationship to Magnus, if the Clave feels that I am too compromised, then they may attempt to remove me as Head of the Institute. While that in and of itself would be an acceptable risk,” and here Ragnor can barely hold his expression steady past his shock, “I am not willing to risk the near certainty than any Clave-appointed replacement would immediately dissolve the Downworld Cabinet and erase any progress we’ve made to move towards equality under the Accords.”

Ragnor nods his head slowly, still trying to re-order his mental landscape to include an Institute Head willing to risk the Clave’s displeasure in order to acquiesce to Downworld culture. 

“Magnus would never ask you to risk your position.” Although Ragnor is certainly glad to hear he would be willing nevertheless. It’s been far too long that Magnus has been without someone willing to put him truly first. 

However. 

“You’re aware, of course, of the way in which the wards function at Pandemonium?” 

Alec nods, brow wrinkling slightly.

“Briefly,” he responds. “Primarily in the capacity of how they function to maintain the Accords when both mundanes and Downworlders are present.”

Given that Pandemonium is within Alec’s jurisdiction and maintaining the secrecy of the Shadow world is technically the auspice of the nephilim, Ragnor isn’t surprised he’d be familiar with that aspect.

“While the wards’ primary function is ensuring that no mundane sees anything of the Shadow world, they also serve a secondary purpose.” 

The horned warlock hesitates slightly before continuing. Ragnor has already placed his trust in the Shadowhunter before him, both implying and outright telling Alec secrets the Downworld has kept for centuries. Never before though has Magnus allowed a lover of his, not even Camille at the height of their time together, to be with him while he handles his duties to his people. Never has Magnus allowed someone to sit beside him while holding court at Pandemonium. 

If Alec isn’t aware of the secondary aspect of Pandemonium’s wards, Ragnor believes that it’s merely because it hasn’t come up. Sharing a secret of Magnus’, and not just of the Downworld, feels different.

Alec’s gaze is sharp, assessing Ragnor’s hesitation. “Ragnor, I would never ask you to compromise Magnus’s trust in you. If you’re not certain Magnus would prefer I know something, I’m perfectly fine waiting until, or even if, he decides to tell me.”

Ragnor smiles again, reading the truth in that statement and even more sure in his decision. “The wards also serve to ensure no one who wishes Magnus harm can enter inside. With you being tied to him the way you are, this ward would also preclude anyone who would use for ill any manner the two of you choose to display your relationship with each other.”

Alec blinks for a moment and a pride-tinged smile grows on his face. “That’s not a normal ward ability, is it?”

“No.”

Alec laughs shortly. “I’m guessing that’s a Magnus special?”

Ragnor’s lips quirk. He imagines it would be difficult for even the most unobservant to keep company with Magnus Bane and not absorb at least the fundamentals of magical theory. Between Magnus’ habit of narrating to himself when researching projects and Alec’s shrewd intellect, he would be stunned if Alec hasn’t gleaned enough pieces to know more ward theory than some actual warlocks. 

Taking Ragnor’s smile as an answer, Alec doesn’t wait for a response. “If I was kneeling in front of Magnus,” and here Ragnor blinks a little. Magnus had mentioned Alec was blunt, but it’s different to know it in theory than to hear it in practice, “and my siblings entered the club, the wards wouldn’t be active. But, if I knelt at Magnus’s feet and the Inquisitor walked in, she wouldn’t see me? Or would it be that she couldn’t enter?”

“It would depend on Magnus in that latter scenario,” Ragnor says after a moment’s pause. “If you were kneeling for him, the wards would initially activate and refuse the Inquisitor entrance. However, Magnus could also allow her in if blocking her would be suspicious, although she certainly wouldn’t see you in that case. And,” Ragnor continues, “neither would anyone who would consider using your actions against you.”

Alec looks down into his coffee cup. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop being amazed at the way Magnus pushes the boundaries of possibility with his magic.” His smile is soft in a way that Ragnor imagines very few are privileged to see.

There’s a natural lull in the conversation and Ragnor takes the time to finish his tea, setting the cup down on the table and contemplating the man in front of him.

Ragnor thinks that, for once, he may just approve of his best friend’s choice in partner. 

He grins. Magnus will be horrified. (Or he’ll pretend to be at least.)

Their conversation finished, Alec hums delightedly as he takes the last sip of his whipped cream coffee, smiling at Ragnor in pleased acknowledgement. When Ragnor just nods in return, Alec stands up to leave, slinging his quiver over his shoulder in a thoughtless, practiced movement.

“Thank you, Ragnor. This has definitely been an enlightening conversation.”

The Shadowhunter heads towards the door of the shop and Ragnor shakes his head. Enlightening. 

He suddenly can’t wait for his next call from Magnus.

Chapter Text

Alec threads his way through the masses of people writhing in time to the pulsing music of Pandemonium’s resident DJ, carefully avoiding the densest clusters as he moves towards the stairs leading to the VIP platform. 

The platform is artfully placed so that the rich leather couch Magnus uses as his throne can oversee the entirety of his club. The seats around it are placed slightly lower and are carefully arranged so that even with each one occupied with Downworld supplicants, Magnus’s view of Pandemonium is never blocked. And neither is Pandemonium’s view of him. 

Magnus smiles when he sees Alec picking his way up the steps to his platform, the nephilim nodding in greeting at the stony-faced guard at the bottom of the VIP entrance. His Shadowhunter is obviously fresh off patrol; his face and hands have been scrubbed clean, but he’s still fully armed with scuffs on his heavy boots and what Magnus suspects are a few drops of either ichor or blood on his left thigh holster.

The pack alpha and coven leader from Staten Island break off their explanation as Magnus stands, gesturing at Henry and Vincent that he’ll only be a moment.

“Alexander,” Magnus greets, pleasure at Alec’s surprise appearance evident in the sudden warmth of his voice. “I had no idea you were planning to come by tonight.”

Alec’s eyes are fixed on Magnus’s face as he comes to a stop barely a step away, his smile loose and soft. The obvious adoration for their High Warlock set against the sharp lines of his weapons and mission leathers is an odd contrast for the nearby Downworlders to witness.

“I wasn’t planning on it, but we finished off patrol a little early just a few blocks from here.” Alec’s hands twitch oddly as though he can’t decide whether to reach out towards his lover or settle into his default parade rest. Finally, Alec reaches out a single hand to stroke tentatively at Magnus’s sleeve, gentle enough to barely rustle the fabric. 

Magnus smiles and twists his wrist just enough to grip Alec’s hand in a tender squeeze for a moment, Alec tightening his hold in return. 

“I figured you were probably working tonight, but I thought I could at least stop by to say I love you before heading back to the Institute.”

And Magnus is helplessly charmed at Alec’s blunt sincerity, at his clear intention to just make sure Magnus knows how much Alec loves him before he leaves. No demands to interrupt Magnus’s duties to make time for him. No subtle guilt that on Alec’s one early patrol this week Magnus can’t make time for him, but needs to hold court at Pandemonium. Just love. 

Swallowing down the barest hint of a tightness in his throat, Magnus brings up his hand to curl it into the black cotton of Alec’s T-shirt right where it’s peeking out from the leather jacket at his collar. Tugging his boyfriend down with his hold, Magnus wraps his other hand around the back of Alec’s neck and uses it to guide Alec right where he wants him.

As always, Alec goes easily wherever Magnus leads him and he presses his lips chastely to Magnus’s, closing his eyes in pleasure when the warlock almost immediately deepens the kiss. Magnus grins and deliberately tightens the grip he has on the back of Alec’s neck, licking greedily into the nephilim’s open mouth as Alec moans in pleased reaction.

When Magnus eventually pulls back, Alec’s lips stay parted, his entire body following Magnus dazedly, magnetized, until he comes back to himself, pulling back upright with a blush staining his cheeks. Magnus’s smile is sweet in return.

Magnus knows it isn’t proper. He knows having Alec sitting beside him as an equal while he holds court here will mean something to those assembled, but he finds himself uncaring. He doesn’t want to send his lover away. 

Alexander has never and would never attempt to use anything he hears at Magnus’s side against the Downworld, and the thought of him attempting to influence one of Magnus’s decisions is so ludicrous as to be absurd. He will swear that in blood before the entirety of the Council of the Spiral Labyrinth if he must.

“Stay?” Magnus requests simply.

He can hear a rustling of clothing behind him as Henry and Vincent shift in displeasure, but they say nothing. A few of the nearby clubbers and attendants also look unhappy, but none would dare gainsay a Consular High Warlock, especially here at the seat of his power.

Alec’s brows raise just a hint. “I thought you were holding court?”

“I am.” Magnus offers no explanation. He wants Alexander at his side tonight and he’ll deal with any consequences of the unplanned accompaniment later. 

Alec nods once slowly, his eyes searching Magnus’s for something, although he’s not sure what. Whatever it is, Alec clearly finds it because he nods a single time more, firmer this time, a smile growing on his face. 

“I’d love to stay with you.” 

Before Magnus can move them over to the leather couch, to his throne, Alec shrugs his shoulder to neatly slide his quiver and bow from his back. The sudden tension in the nearby Downworlders is a sharp flare at the back of Magnus’s head, likely obvious to Alec even without the benefit of Magnus’s own magical awareness of those sworn to him in the club.

Alec shifts his hands to move them away from the grips of his bow, carefully and without a single glance at those around them to indicate he noticed their wariness, pushing the weapon in front of him as though presenting it to Magnus. Magnus blinks in subtle confusion.

“I’m off duty for the night,” Alec begins evenly. “Would you mind putting my bow and my blade in one of your dimensional pockets until we get home?”

Magnus’s heart skips a beat in his chest and the tension in the Downworlders around them morphs into shock.

Shadowhunters do not disarm themselves, not ever, and especially not in Pandemonium where they are outnumbered by Downworlders and mundanes hundreds to one. More than that though, dimensional pockets are solely accessible by the warlock opening them- Alec’s weapons will be totally and completely inaccessible to him until Magnus chooses to give them back to him. 

Alec continues to hold out his bow, waiting patiently. 

Magnus takes in a careful breath and flicks his fingers in a practiced gesture to open up a shimmering gash in the air. Alec’s bow and quiver disappear inside and without even a flicker of unease, Alec uses his now empty hands to pull his main seraph blade from its holster and offers it to Magnus in the same way. It disappears as well and the shimmer closes. 

Alec folds his arms loosely behind his back in a relaxed parade rest, the stance so ingrained in Alec’s muscles that Magnus despairs of ever breaking him from the habit. His gaze is still fixed calmly on Magnus though, his smile small and relaxed. The slight dip in the curve of his shoulders is a tell Magnus knows means he truly is at ease, comfortable even now, weaponless in the heart of the Downworld court so long as Magnus is there with him.

Magnus reaches out to curl his hand around Alec’s upper arm, lightly guiding the Shadowhunter to follow him over to the leather couch. The pair crosses the short distance, Alec a half-step behind Magnus so that Magnus can fall back easily into his spot on the couch’s far corner, spreading his arms out comfortably, his right resting on the overly large arm and his left draped across the tufted back.

Alec has always been careful to wait for Magnus’s invitation to sit with him in this particular seat at Pandemonium. Even if most of the Downworld’s exact customs are unknown to those sworn to the Clave, Alec is far too perceptive a leader to not at least be partially cognizant that a Shadowhunter sitting on what amounts to the High Warlock’s throne without explicit permission is unlikely to go well. 

Alec is still standing just to the right of him, facing the couch at a slight angle, and Magnus gestures fondly for Alec to join him on the plush leather seat. Alec smiles at him softly, evenly, and Magnus is helpless against returning that smile just as fondly even though he usually keeps himself sharper-edged here at his court.

And then, keeping his lover’s gaze, Alec drops gracefully to his knees in front of Magnus and Magnus’s breath catches sharply in his throat. Alec, however, just stretches up a single hand and gently rubs a soothing thumb over Magnus’s velvet-clad knee as though in one action he hasn’t just overturned thousands of years of tradition and practice.

Magnus opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and it’s as though through a thick haze that Magnus hears a glass drop in the background. Vincent’s, he thinks idly. He feels a prickling in his eyes that he does his best to blink back, a sharp warmth indicating that his glamour has fallen.

How, in Lilith’s name, Magnus wonders, did Alexander find this out? He can think of very, very few warlocks that would be willing to discuss their world’s customs this in depth with a nephilim, and even fewer willing when in so doing they could be considered as criticizing not just a nephilim Institute Head, but also a Consular High Warlock for not adhering to them properly.

Alec’s gaze is adoring, as it always is when Magnus allows him to see his true eyes, and he answers Magnus’s unspoken question.

“I asked Ragnor out for coffee last week,” his voice is soft enough not to carry far, although Henry and Vincent can likely hear him. “You are frustratingly taciturn when it comes to what it means to be a Consular High Warlock, Magnus.”

Magnus’s sense of those he’s sworn to protect is tingling at the back of his mind as eye after eye turns up from the club floor, gaping at the sight of a Shadowhunter, the Head of the New York Institute, kneeling at the feet of their High Warlock. 

Magnus knows Alec can feel their gaze on the back of his neck, his battle perception too sharp to ever allow him not to, but he just keeps smiling up at him anyways. 

“Alexander,” is all Magnus is able to get past his choked throat. 

Alec’s thumb strokes his thigh just above his knee again and he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to the inside of Magnus’s leg. 

“I intend to be with you as long as you’ll have me, Magnus. For the rest of my life if possible.” And that gentle reminder that Alec’s forever isn’t Magnus’ forever is a gut-punch that burns through Magnus’ veins, but Alec is still speaking. “I intend to stay at your side, Magnus, and that means I need to know exactly what it means to be the,” he pauses for the barest of moments, “the lover,” and how Alec can proclaim his intention to be with Magnus until he dies with no hesitation, but can blush at calling himself his lover is beyond Magnus. 

Alec swallows past the red flushing of his cheeks and starts again. “I needed to know exactly what it meant to be the lover of a Downworld clan leader and a Consular High Warlock, so I spoke to Ragnor. You have always respected my position as Head whenever it was needed if you were visiting the Institute outside of your own position, and I thought I was respecting yours here.”

Alec’s gaze turns inquisitive, but his thumb keeps stroking Magnus’s leg soothingly, gentling his question. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Magnus had known that relatively few Downworld customs made it into the common knowledge of the Clave, but he hadn’t even considered requesting this one of Alec. For all the pretty words and titles their worlds use, asking Alec, a nephilim, an angel-blooded, to submit and kneel in front of the son of a Greater Demon? 

Alec must see that answer in his eyes because he just presses yet another kiss to the side of Magnus’s knee.

“Magnus, I love you, and I have no problem in doing anything to show that, even if that means kneeling for you in the middle of Pandemonium. Granted, this isn’t really something that I ever expected to happen outside of a bedroom,” and Magnus suddenly realizes that Alec has definitely forgotten that Henry and Vincent and likely several others nearby can hear him, “but I have no problems in doing so if that’s how the partner of a Consular High Warlock shows their respect for that position to the Downworld.” Alec pauses and his lips twist wryly. “Especially given that I’m not exactly just a non-warlock partner.”

Magnus blinks his eyes again, helpless against tears at the magnitude of Alec’s devotion for him. Not able to get words past his lips, Magnus folds over nearly in half to press his forehead against the crown of Alec’s head. Gathering both of Alec’s strong, callused hands in his own shaking ones, Magnus closes his eyes and turns his head just enough to press his lips desperately into Alec’s hair. He breathes in the soft scent of his own sandalwood shampoo that Alec must have used at the loft that morning until his heart remembers how to beat again in its suddenly fragile cage.

When he can breathe without feeling the air drag harshly through his throat, Magnus sits up and leans back into his throne, eyes newly dry and one hand resting lightly on Alec’s head. Magnus gently finger-combs the dark strands as the nephilim deftly adjusts his position so he’s leaning back comfortably against Magnus’s left leg, sitting at the foot of his throne completely at ease, as though he’s done it a thousand times before.

Magnus’s voice is rough when he speaks, but he dares anyone to say something after his breathtaking, astounding, devoted angel has just defied every precept the Clave requires of their Shadowhunters and knelt in front of a warlock to pay respect to Downworld law.

“Henry, Vincent,” he addresses the absolutely stunned werewolf and vampire still seated in front of them. “Thank you for your patience.” 

He raises an unimpressed brow. His own studied nonchalance may be a careful act, but the two in front of him are old enough that they should be able to hide their shock better than this.

Magnus notes the shattered glass on the floor now that he’s focusing again - it was indeed Vincent’s drink that had dropped earlier- and he waves over a Seelie bartender to clean up the mess.

There’s a momentary pause before Liija rushes into action, her expression not quite schooled into professional calm, even the Pandemonium version of it.

And if Magnus holds court just a little bit longer than he had intended to that night, his hand stroking Alec’s hair every so often as though to ensure he’s really there? Well, Magnus knows none of his people will say anything.