Turpentine

A/N: Hello, all! So I haven't written fanfiction in a long time, but after obsessing over Magnus and Alec, and reading tons of fanfiction about them, an idea formed and I just couldn't help but write it and see what y'all think!

Warnings: This IS Malec, meaning boyxboy. At this point, I'm not sure how far it will go but I do know there will at LEAST be hints at them having been together, much like the lovely Classandra Clare does. I have a plot in my head, but I'm still working out kinks, but there will be character death (like in this prologue), possible typos I missed, and glitter because… Magus always needs a warning. ;) Fluff will come as well, but I don't think that actually needs to be in the long warnings section…

Disclaimer: Did it count when I mentioned her in the warning? Because, as much as I want to claim them, Alec and Magnus are not mine. Or any of the characters in this story.

Please let me know what you think! I love honest feedback and know that it starts VERY fast paced (and the prologue is short) but will slow down considerably starting with the first chapter.

Enjoy!

Edit: I'm currently replacing chapters with their edited versions but still feel free to point out any mistakes I may have missed!

Prologue

There were gunshots, but Magnus ignored them as he ran, his feet barely touching the ground as he made a turn. Down what road, he had no clue, but there was no way he was going to stop now. His usual spiked hair was clinging to his forehead and he quickly wiped his brow with his wrist before sweat got into his eyes.

He kept running, and running until he felt safe—well. Safer. He collapsed against the side of a building, leaning against it as he tried to catch his breath.

That had been close. Years of work had almost gone up in flames, and he could very well have been killed, but neither had happened. That didn't mean he didn't lose anything.

"Dammit," he hissed out as he hit the side of the wall with his fist. He let his arm fall limp to his side, clutching his eyes closed as he tried to ignore the images flashing in his mind.

Blood.

There had been blood.

He knew his business was risky, and he had seen blood plenty of times—but never someone so close, both in relations and proximity. The shot had been taken as they were meeting at one of the local parks. He wondered if the shot was meant for him instead of his partner, and close friend, Ragnor Fell.

He didn't know who the shooter was, but he did know the police were there in what seemed like seconds, which meant he had to get out of there and fast, and he had to leave his friend there if he hoped to accomplish that.

He didn't know if it had been the police or the shooter—or both, if they were the same—that chased him, but whoever it was had clearly lost his track now. He slid down the wall, tearing off his mask and sunglasses, revealing his caramel-colored skin as he began to regain his usual mask of calm composure, thankful that he had worn a disguise (also known as modest clothing, the exact opposite of his normal attire with radiant colors and sparkles from not only the clothes but his make-up as well) to the meeting.

But now his friend was dead and they had probably at least caught a glimpse of him.

Being an art con definitely paid the bills. He could buy an island if he wanted to, but it was times like this he wished he could just stop all of it.

But he couldn't. Not now. Even with his artist gone, he had to move on. He had to get up. He did just that. He groaned as he stood on his protesting legs before he slipped off his suit jacket, revealing a tightly fit purple V-neck shirt underneath, before dropping it into a trash can along with the black mask and sunglasses as he walked back towards the more populated roads. His golden-green eyes flashed with unshed tears as he held back his emotions for his lost friend, who he had abandoned. His pupils were slits, like a cat's, and outlined in black eyeliner. They were trained on the on the ground, then the sidewalk as he reached it. He pulled out a pair of orange-tinted glasses as he looked up, joining the flow of the New York crowds as if nothing had ever happened.

Now the next step: finding a new artist.

The canvas was not cooperating.

Alec Lightwood let out an exasperated sigh as he dropped his brush in a cup of turpentine, ruffling his already messy ink-black hair. He leaned back in his stool as he glared at the infernal blankness that was in front of him. Try as he might, he could not find the picture within the canvas, which was very troubling when he was trying to survive as a freelance artist. So far, it hadn't worked out well.

Sure, he sold paintings, but it was never anything of interest to him—a copy of a photo, a portrait. One lady even paid him to paint her shoes. Why she wanted him to paint her shoes, he didn't know, but when he got paid two-hundred dollars per shoe, he wasn't going to say anything. No, it wasn't what other professionals could make, but his wallet loved it. Too bad that didn't happen often enough to pay his rent.

He jumped as a loud buzzing came from beside him. He rarely used his phone except to check the time or as an alarm sometimes when he was painting so he wouldn't lose track of time. He became way too drawn into his work at times that it didn't even seem like time mattered anymore. Unfortunately, the world thought differently.

It wasn't his alarm this time, though. He grabbed the device quickly before answering. "Hello?"

"Alexander," Robert Lightwood said, his voice strained with stress and lack of sleep. "We have something for you to look at concerning Ragnor Fell. Could you come in?"

This wasn't actually a surprising request but the name always caught Alec's attention. Ragnor Fell was a known con artist who copied famous works and then had them sold as if they were the original. He had a partner, someone who had all the connections, but no one had found out who it was. But Alec made sure to keep up to date with Ragnor because, in a way, the man was his idol. He was able to paint master pieces, copying even the same brushstrokes as the original artist must have. Alec had always wanted to ask him if he had been able to create original pieces—but it was a bit hard to do that when he was a criminal, and your parents wanted his guts on a platter.

The Lightwoods were in charge of a special section of the FBI, one dedicated to catching con men at work. Alec remembered what his father had called them: Downworlders: people who could never truly live amongst the rest of them, constantly hiding who they were and what they did. Personally, Alec found the idea of that life saddening, but whenever his dad called him in, he would never refuse. He would drop everything and go.

"Sure thing," he said quickly in response, hanging up without saying goodbye. In his family, you never said goodbye. It was a rule made because, when working with the FBI, you never knew if they were coming home that night. It was their duty to accept this. So, they pretended there was no way that they wouldn't come back. Goodbyes meant they might not.

Alec stood up, leaving the dry canvas and wet paint behind. He knew nothing was going to come out of it anyway. He grabbed his keys off the counter, checked himself to make sure there wasn't any paint on him (and ignored the holes in his gray sweater that showed his pale skin) before heading out of the door.

Being an art consultant wasn't what he wanted to do for a living, but it sure did pay the bills.

A/N: So that is the beginning of my first fanfiction in almost seven years. Shortish, but I didn't want any more in the actual Prologue. Tell me what you think! Should I continue?

Much love for those who read!

~Annie