Chapter Text
Alec still isn’t used to having wings.
They’re great, don’t get him wrong, but…unfamiliar. Like the runes that never fade and are gold instead of black. Gold isn’t his color; that’s Jace.
He misses black- seriously, unless he’s corporeal and blending in as a mundane, he is required to wear gold, white, and silver at all times. Really. Just because he’s now an archangel among guardian angels doesn’t mean he automatically likes the color scheme.
That isn’t all he misses, of course. He misses eating. And sleeping. And friends. And relaxation. He misses ignorance. That may sound strange, but there are some things no one needs to know, thanks.
He misses his siblings. Upside, he can see Max fairly often. (He nearly burst into tears when his little brother charged him out of nowhere and hugged him hard enough to knock the breath out of him.) But the supreme downside: none of his living family members can see him, feel him, or even know he was ever there. It’s heartbreaking.
He misses tangibility and corporeality. He’s invisible to all mortal life unless summoned, and really, who’s going to summon a guardian angel? Most don’t even know that type exist. He’s so tired of being walked through, even if he can hardly feel it.
Most of all, he misses Magnus. Just everything about his warlock. It hurts so badly all the time, this separation, because there is nothing either of them can do about it. His warlock is one of the most powerful in the world and he is an actual fucking archangel of guardian angels and there is nothing that can be done by anyone but the Big Guy. And He certainly isn’t going to help.
Well… there is one way for Alec to kiss, hold, touch, even just see and be seen by Magnus again before the warlock’s death. But…. that way is so horrific and untrustworthy. Alec doesn’t know if he will survive, and even if he does… to be stuck as that… no. It isn’t worth it.
Magnus is worth anything.
He groans, soft wings curling around himself involuntarily. God, he hates this.
I want to go back. I want to feel him again; I want to ease his pain. I want to kiss him. I don’t care about angel status; I want my Magnus.
I want to go back.
A single gold tear traces his ivory cheek as he stares down at the New York street from the top of the Empire State Building.
I wish I were still with you, love.
The former Shadowhunter, now Archangel among Guardian Angels, spreads gold-and-white wings and flies off.
A single pale feather flutters off his left wing and falls, spinning through the air on little gusts of New York winds. It follows a set, yet meandering and confusing path, straight to a certain person’s windowsill.
A spiky dark head pokes out of the window of a loft. The man stops, stunned, at the sight of the extraordinary, magnificent snowy-white feather on his sill. Long, caramel-colored fingers pick it up and examine it carefully. Green-gold, slit-pupiled eyes widen and glow with surprise, happiness, and confusion all at once, and the High Warlock of Brooklyn shakes his multicolored head and says with a half-hearted chuckle: “Never thought I’d find an angel’s feather on my window.”
And high above, a blue-eyed angel watches with a miserable smile and liquid gold streaming down his face.