the mortal instruments: bonne fille
title: bonne fille
fandom: the mortal instruments
pairing: none
rating/words: PG/~1,500
warnings: future!fic/AU
summary: it's a dream, a vision, some sort of weird hallucination. She's facing her dead brother in a downpour of rain.
“Ms. Lightwood. Someone is here to see you.
She glances up, the light of her desk lamp refracting off of her flinty eyes. Her cheekbones are so gaunt that they cast shadows across her face and her collarbone, which Cael has a decent view of in the dress she’s wearing, sticks out against her skin like pencils. She hasn’t eaten in two days. He knows this because he has to call the cook to bring her meals up to her quarters, only to send them back down when she waves him away.
He loves Isabelle, he really does. She can figuratively kick him and beat him all she wants, but he knows (and so does she) that he’ll come trotting back like an abused puppy within the hour. That’s why she keeps him around. She goes through the staff of her office like chewing gum and he can safely say that he’s the only person from the original staff she was given who’s stayed all these years.
Her mouth quirks to the side for a minute, an action that seems so grown up for a girl (yes, he remembers. She’s just a girl.) of twenty three. “Who?” Cael shifts back and forth on his feet. He knows the name he’s about to say from somewhere and he recognized the face from the picture that sits on Isabelle’s desk. He also knows that she isn’t going to like who it is.
“She’s identified herself as Clary Fray.”
Her face blanches, the color draining out almost immediately. Her jaw sets and she drops her fountain pen (but she closes it first. Isabelle is nothing if not organized.) before reaching down to grab the wheels of her chair. Rolling out from behind her desk, she wheels herself across the room until she’s next to him.
“Send her in.”
Clary Fray is short and skinny and freckled and Cael really doubts that she’s as old as her permit card says she is. Twenty two, his ass. The girl can’t be more than seventeen. She’s waiting on the couch outside Isabelle’s business chambers, tapping her sneakers against the marble floor. Getting her attention, he ushers her in and a smile breaks across her face. Poor kid. She thinks Isabelle will welcome her back with open arms. Boy, is she in for a surprise.
“Clary.” Isabelle’s voice is cool and harsh and calculating, the type of voice Cael hears through the wall when she’s settling a contract.
“Isabelle!” Clary’s voice is light and airy and he can already tell that this is going to be painful to watch. It’s going to be like watching a hawk eat a mouse- something terrible and grotesque, but natural and necessary. It’s a conversation that he’s seen before and he’s going to see again, so he braces himself by the door and he waits.
Clary’s face falls as she sees Isabelle’s chair. “Wha- what happened to you?”
Isabelle declines to answer, instead opting to get right to the point. ‘What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to ask a favor.”
“A favor.”
“Yes.”
“After what you did to me?”
“Wha-after what I-Isabelle-what?” Clary’s head is spinning in a million different directions, her eyes radiating confusion and helplessness. Isabelle’s eyes narrow and she settles back in her chair.
“Never mind that. What sort of favor?”
“A favor for the Order.”
He can practically taste the tension in the room and the visible jump of a muscle in Isabelle’s jaw tells him that the mouse just made a very, very wrong move and the hawk is going in for the kill.
“Get out.” Isabelle’s hand rises, one tapered finger pointed towards Cael, towards the door. Clary’s eyes widen and she stutters.
“Wait, Isabelle, let me explain! Let me-“
“Get. Out.” If she could walk, Isabelle would have launched herself at the girl and thrown her out herself.
“Isabelle, please, just hear me out-“
“After seven years, you just expect to be able to come in here and ask for favors? After what you and your cult did to my family?” Her voice breaks on “family” and there’s only so much time until she starts screaming.
“Isabelle, we aren’t-“
“Shut up!” Yep, there it is. Isabelle’s hands grip the arms of her chair so hard that her fingers bleach mauve from the pressure and her voice has risen. “You killed those people, Clary! You killed Simon! You killed my family!”
“I did no such thing!”
“Your orders, your men, your fault!” She screams, leaning forward and Clary can’t even get a word in edgewise before Isabelle starts coughing. Placing a hand to her chest, she fumbles in her pocket for a handkerchief and tries to steady herself as the coughs wrack her thin frame. When she pulls away the cloth, the material is speckled with blood. Her brow furrows, something dies in her eyes.
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Ms. Fray.” Cael steps in, opening the heavy oak door. Clary looks from Isabelle to him, then back to Isabelle.
“But-“
“I strongly suggest that you leave, Ms. Fray. Ms. Lightwood does not take well to people who overstay their welcome.”
Bewildered, Clary leaves, turning back more than once to plead with Isabelle, but Cael hurries her out. The door slams shut behind her.
“Alert the guards.’ Isabelle wheezes. “If her or any of her troops are found snooping around here, I want them shoot on sight.”
“Yes, Ms, Lightwood.” He slips back into obedient puppy dog mode. She clears her throat and folds her handkerchief, handing it to him.
“I’m going to visit Mr. Morgenstern.” He almost corrects her- King Morgenstern, but decides against it. She’s never used the title and the king doesn’t mind, so he leaves it. He opens the door for her and she wheels herself out, turning down the hallway and out of his sight.
He loves Isabelle, he really does.
---
“Valentine.” Her voice is scratchy and horse from the coughing and she must remind Cael to take her handkerchief to the cleaners before it causes her whole office to smell like blood. With a twitch, one of his eyes peels open, then the other.
“Isabelle.” He smiles lethargically, sitting up as gently as possible as so not to knock the tubes connected into his arms. “How are you?”
“Well enough.” She goes through the motions in her head, trying to remember how the puppet-girl is supposed to act when the puppeteer pulls the strings. She coughs again, almost on cue and he looks concerned for a second.
“How are your lungs holding up?”
She shrugs, her head swimming.
“Well enough.”
Her eyes sharpen and she remembers. He wants her (needs her) to be sick. To be sick and dying and fragile like he is. In the coziness of the room, it was easy to forget that she actually was sick and dying and fragile. And no one could tell her why.
“A little weak.” She covers up, hunching over. Hurriedly, she changes the subject. “Your daughter stopped by today.” She bit her lip, her expression melting into one of concern. And he didn’t even have to pull a string.
“Clary?” Something in him awakens, a spark, a fuse, something. She nods her little puppet head and her required actions flash through her mind, so fast that she doesn’t at first realize that she’s thinking them.
“What did she want?”
Take his hand. Tell him she wanted a favor.
“What did you do?”
Hate him silently. Hate him for what he’s made you do. Hate him for what’s he made you become. But tell him you kicked her out.
He smiles. Leans over to kiss her forehead.
He’s the father Robert never was. Accept it. It’s all you have left.
---
It’s a dream, a vision, some weird sort of hallucination.
She’s facing her dead brother in a downpour of rain.
It’s him and someone who looks like her but isn’t her. The figure is standing, supporting herself on two feet and Isabelle hasn’t been able to do that in six years. Eyes- eyes that are hers and not hers at the same time- peek out from over Alec’s arm, cold and black. Alec is holding the her who is not her, pressing her protectively to his chest, holding her in his arms. He turns to Isabelle, the real one, the her who is her, and she’s shocked to see that where his eyes were is now hollow and gaping. She whispers his name and the her who is not her whimpers and clutches at the material of his coat jacket. Alec shakes his head, staring with his eerie, empty eyes.
“Isabelle, what are you doing?”
An honest answer. She owes him that much.
“I don’t know.”
---
Valentine kisses her. ‘Good girl.”
Good girl.
fandom: the mortal instruments
pairing: none
rating/words: PG/~1,500
warnings: future!fic/AU
summary: it's a dream, a vision, some sort of weird hallucination. She's facing her dead brother in a downpour of rain.
“Ms. Lightwood. Someone is here to see you.
She glances up, the light of her desk lamp refracting off of her flinty eyes. Her cheekbones are so gaunt that they cast shadows across her face and her collarbone, which Cael has a decent view of in the dress she’s wearing, sticks out against her skin like pencils. She hasn’t eaten in two days. He knows this because he has to call the cook to bring her meals up to her quarters, only to send them back down when she waves him away.
He loves Isabelle, he really does. She can figuratively kick him and beat him all she wants, but he knows (and so does she) that he’ll come trotting back like an abused puppy within the hour. That’s why she keeps him around. She goes through the staff of her office like chewing gum and he can safely say that he’s the only person from the original staff she was given who’s stayed all these years.
Her mouth quirks to the side for a minute, an action that seems so grown up for a girl (yes, he remembers. She’s just a girl.) of twenty three. “Who?” Cael shifts back and forth on his feet. He knows the name he’s about to say from somewhere and he recognized the face from the picture that sits on Isabelle’s desk. He also knows that she isn’t going to like who it is.
“She’s identified herself as Clary Fray.”
Her face blanches, the color draining out almost immediately. Her jaw sets and she drops her fountain pen (but she closes it first. Isabelle is nothing if not organized.) before reaching down to grab the wheels of her chair. Rolling out from behind her desk, she wheels herself across the room until she’s next to him.
“Send her in.”
Clary Fray is short and skinny and freckled and Cael really doubts that she’s as old as her permit card says she is. Twenty two, his ass. The girl can’t be more than seventeen. She’s waiting on the couch outside Isabelle’s business chambers, tapping her sneakers against the marble floor. Getting her attention, he ushers her in and a smile breaks across her face. Poor kid. She thinks Isabelle will welcome her back with open arms. Boy, is she in for a surprise.
“Clary.” Isabelle’s voice is cool and harsh and calculating, the type of voice Cael hears through the wall when she’s settling a contract.
“Isabelle!” Clary’s voice is light and airy and he can already tell that this is going to be painful to watch. It’s going to be like watching a hawk eat a mouse- something terrible and grotesque, but natural and necessary. It’s a conversation that he’s seen before and he’s going to see again, so he braces himself by the door and he waits.
Clary’s face falls as she sees Isabelle’s chair. “Wha- what happened to you?”
Isabelle declines to answer, instead opting to get right to the point. ‘What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to ask a favor.”
“A favor.”
“Yes.”
“After what you did to me?”
“Wha-after what I-Isabelle-what?” Clary’s head is spinning in a million different directions, her eyes radiating confusion and helplessness. Isabelle’s eyes narrow and she settles back in her chair.
“Never mind that. What sort of favor?”
“A favor for the Order.”
He can practically taste the tension in the room and the visible jump of a muscle in Isabelle’s jaw tells him that the mouse just made a very, very wrong move and the hawk is going in for the kill.
“Get out.” Isabelle’s hand rises, one tapered finger pointed towards Cael, towards the door. Clary’s eyes widen and she stutters.
“Wait, Isabelle, let me explain! Let me-“
“Get. Out.” If she could walk, Isabelle would have launched herself at the girl and thrown her out herself.
“Isabelle, please, just hear me out-“
“After seven years, you just expect to be able to come in here and ask for favors? After what you and your cult did to my family?” Her voice breaks on “family” and there’s only so much time until she starts screaming.
“Isabelle, we aren’t-“
“Shut up!” Yep, there it is. Isabelle’s hands grip the arms of her chair so hard that her fingers bleach mauve from the pressure and her voice has risen. “You killed those people, Clary! You killed Simon! You killed my family!”
“I did no such thing!”
“Your orders, your men, your fault!” She screams, leaning forward and Clary can’t even get a word in edgewise before Isabelle starts coughing. Placing a hand to her chest, she fumbles in her pocket for a handkerchief and tries to steady herself as the coughs wrack her thin frame. When she pulls away the cloth, the material is speckled with blood. Her brow furrows, something dies in her eyes.
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Ms. Fray.” Cael steps in, opening the heavy oak door. Clary looks from Isabelle to him, then back to Isabelle.
“But-“
“I strongly suggest that you leave, Ms. Fray. Ms. Lightwood does not take well to people who overstay their welcome.”
Bewildered, Clary leaves, turning back more than once to plead with Isabelle, but Cael hurries her out. The door slams shut behind her.
“Alert the guards.’ Isabelle wheezes. “If her or any of her troops are found snooping around here, I want them shoot on sight.”
“Yes, Ms, Lightwood.” He slips back into obedient puppy dog mode. She clears her throat and folds her handkerchief, handing it to him.
“I’m going to visit Mr. Morgenstern.” He almost corrects her- King Morgenstern, but decides against it. She’s never used the title and the king doesn’t mind, so he leaves it. He opens the door for her and she wheels herself out, turning down the hallway and out of his sight.
He loves Isabelle, he really does.
---
“Valentine.” Her voice is scratchy and horse from the coughing and she must remind Cael to take her handkerchief to the cleaners before it causes her whole office to smell like blood. With a twitch, one of his eyes peels open, then the other.
“Isabelle.” He smiles lethargically, sitting up as gently as possible as so not to knock the tubes connected into his arms. “How are you?”
“Well enough.” She goes through the motions in her head, trying to remember how the puppet-girl is supposed to act when the puppeteer pulls the strings. She coughs again, almost on cue and he looks concerned for a second.
“How are your lungs holding up?”
She shrugs, her head swimming.
“Well enough.”
Her eyes sharpen and she remembers. He wants her (needs her) to be sick. To be sick and dying and fragile like he is. In the coziness of the room, it was easy to forget that she actually was sick and dying and fragile. And no one could tell her why.
“A little weak.” She covers up, hunching over. Hurriedly, she changes the subject. “Your daughter stopped by today.” She bit her lip, her expression melting into one of concern. And he didn’t even have to pull a string.
“Clary?” Something in him awakens, a spark, a fuse, something. She nods her little puppet head and her required actions flash through her mind, so fast that she doesn’t at first realize that she’s thinking them.
“What did she want?”
Take his hand. Tell him she wanted a favor.
“What did you do?”
Hate him silently. Hate him for what he’s made you do. Hate him for what’s he made you become. But tell him you kicked her out.
He smiles. Leans over to kiss her forehead.
He’s the father Robert never was. Accept it. It’s all you have left.
---
It’s a dream, a vision, some weird sort of hallucination.
She’s facing her dead brother in a downpour of rain.
It’s him and someone who looks like her but isn’t her. The figure is standing, supporting herself on two feet and Isabelle hasn’t been able to do that in six years. Eyes- eyes that are hers and not hers at the same time- peek out from over Alec’s arm, cold and black. Alec is holding the her who is not her, pressing her protectively to his chest, holding her in his arms. He turns to Isabelle, the real one, the her who is her, and she’s shocked to see that where his eyes were is now hollow and gaping. She whispers his name and the her who is not her whimpers and clutches at the material of his coat jacket. Alec shakes his head, staring with his eerie, empty eyes.
“Isabelle, what are you doing?”
An honest answer. She owes him that much.
“I don’t know.”
---
Valentine kisses her. ‘Good girl.”
Good girl.