They took the bike to the nearest golden arches, guided by hunger and lights in the shop window. Parking as close as they could get, Jace fed the meter with a few spare coins. Clary fiddled with the sleeves of her jumper as they took off, forcing herself not to search for familiarity in the strangers that slipped past them.

Guilt accompanied them on the short walk, and Clary half expected to be hassled like she and Jace's crime was written across their foreheads.

Technically—she frantically reminded her steadily increasing heartbeat—technically, she was doing nothing wrong. She was of age to consent to medical procedures, as was Jace, and fleeing their Clinic was entirely their decision.

Though their act of rebellion was entirely legal in this state, Clary felt that the effect her fleeing had had on her family should've been considered a grave crime. At least then her guilt ridden anxiety would measure up to the act, in a place outside her own mind.

A shoulder met Jace's, and the two paused, beads of sweat breaking out along Clary's hairline that had no regard for the stinging cold.

"Jesus, Wayland! How long has it been, man?"

It was Jace's obvious apprehension that caught Clary's attention, and she dragged her attention to the man who had—intentionally, she realized—knocked Jace's shoulder.

He didn't have any immediate remarkable features, just a beany drawn low against the cold, with a few wisps of an undistinguishable mousy colour escaping around the edges. He looked like the kind of face Clary would copy paste if she was drawing a crowd scene—generic, unassuming and almost unidentifiable due to plainness.

"Hey, D. A while man, a while." Jace sounded friendly enough, but she caught the way his eyes flicked toward the fast food joint, as though aching how the doors were mere metres away, and the perfect escape from this surprise meeting.

"You're looking good man! You still... you know?"

Jace shrugged, casual to a person who didn't know him. But the movement was too precise, and too carefully executed—an oxymoron in the flesh.

"Nah, did rehab and trying to stay off, you know."

It felt weird to be participating this kind of conversation in such a setting—didn't junkies and heroin only exist in grimy alleyways, or drug dens, somewhere between 1am and dawn? D had too many real teeth and too few gold ones. Or at least, that's how it went the in the gangsters in the films, in HBO drama shows and British crime books.

But, Clary supposed, they'd all lived through their own Christmases, and maybe her thoughts on drug culture were ill-formed and too largely influenced by Breaking Bad.

"Oh hey, good on you, man." It sounded as false as it was, and Clary could see D's mouth twist with the unspoken 'because you lasted so long the last time'. Everyone was thinking it, D just had the good grace not to say it. Even if he did follow it up with, "But if you're ever..." He paused, "Don't be stranger. You know where to find us."

Jace nodded, "Thanks, D. See you 'round."

It didn't sound like a rejection, but it was. D imitated Jace's nod, paired with a friendly pat on Jace's shoulder. With another nod in Clary's direction—the first time he'd acknowledged her in the entirety of the conversation—he stepped past them, continuing down the sidewalk.

Clary wasn't sure what to say, and it seemed—for once—Jace wasn't sure either. He was scratching away at the sleeve under which his track marks lay, and Clary didn't comment.

They didn't speak as they sat down, plastic trays fisted tightly in hand as they found a mostly quiet, mostly clean booth.

Jace unwrapped his breakfast bagel carefully, as though silently celebrating their first breakfast together outside the Clinic in almost a month.

"I think cheers are in order," he suddenly declared, presenting his takeaway coffee cup for clinking—or the sound that two flimsy cardboard cups made when shoved together.

She humoured him anyway, recognizing this breakfast as the brink of the undefinable and 'new'.

Whatever 'new' was.

They made it back to Magnus' place with no other unwelcome interactions, and their host was surprisingly awake; wrapped in a silken dressing gown and glaring at the sparkling lights on his Christmas tree, which Clary hadn't noticed last night.

"We got you some coffee and a bagel." Jace said gently, laying it gently as close to Magnus as he dared get, as though he were approaching a wild animal.

Magnus' glare shifted from the Christmas tree to Jace,

"I'm up before noon." He sounded shocked and a little angry.

"A true Christmas miracle." The blonde replied.

When Magnus warmed—somewhere around two—he mixed and poured three very strong Margaritas, and they group nursed their drinks on the couch in relative silence.

"You know, Magnus," Clary shuffled in a dark purple armchair, "if you have family plans this Christmas, don't feel obliged to entertain us. We're fine alone."

Magnus snorted, "I appreciate your concern, Biscuit. But my mother is somewhere in Jakarta, playing politician's mistress, and my father is apparently that politician. Not that anyone is supposed to know." He winked conspiratorially, as though he'd made a joke.

"I'm sorry—" she quickly stammered out, but he interrupted her,

"No, Clary, I'm sorry. I hate oversharers but Christmas is so cheery it's depressing." He sighed, looking in his drink forlornly as he swirled it, "Not to mention I may have made these a little strong."

Jace—who'd been looking out the window absent-mindedly—seemed to come back to them,

"Explains your charisma."

"Hmm?" Magnus looked up from his cup.

"You're the son of a politician. It explains your charisma."

Magnus snorted again, "And you're the son of…?"

"A Welshman."

"Explains the wit." Magnus returned.

The group fell into silence once more.

"I hate Christmas too." Clary added sullenly, after the final mouthful of her cocktail.

"Why's that, Biscuit?" Magnus inquired, and Clary found herself not minding the nickname.

"It's my brother's favourite holiday. Family spirit, or some bullshit."

Jace stiffened beside her, and Clary knew he was surprised to hear her speaking so candidly of her brother. Normally Clary discussed him as though he didn't exist—dancing around his mere name—but the cocktail had put a bit of warmth in her belly, which masked the usual sensation of ice whenever Jonathan was mentioned.

"You two not on good terms?" Magnus enquired, and Clary shook her head stiffly, worried what she'd say if she opened her mouth.

There was another long silence—Magnus refilled their glasses.

Jace spoke, "I saw one of my old dealers today."

Magnus' eyes narrowed, "To buy, or—"

"By chance." Jace amended, "But he was angling that I should buy again, like he didn't believe my sobriety is genuine." He took a drink, "Fuck Christmas."

The rest of the group muttered in agreement, all enjoying the air of shared disenchantment and the slight buzz from their drinks.

They ate box macaroni cheese for dinner, and Clary dug out some microwave popcorn from the back of Magnus' very empty cupboards. They watched Magnus' favourite Disney movie—the Little Mermaid—which he mouthed the lines to, as he continued to fill their glasses until the group felt almost jolly.

It was midnight before Jace and Clary finally crawled into bed, Clary's head swimming with alcohol until she'd almost forgotten what she felt guilty about.

"Hey, Jace?" She whispered to boy tucked around her, knowing from his twitching and fidgeting that he wasn't nearly asleep.

"Mmm?"

"What do you normally do on Christmas?"

He shuffled around a little, "In recent years I've been to Izzy and Alec's place a few times. Other times I was too fucked off my face to remember what day it was. But before that, Michael and I used to spend the day putting together all the boxed food we could—he couldn't cook for shit. Then we'd set up dinner on the floor and watch all the Christmas movies and eat box stuffing and box mashed potatoes and everything you could possibly buy prepacked and ready made, we'd eat it."

She could hear the smile in his voice, and snuggled closer to him, his grip on her tightened a little to accommodate her.

"So Michael was good with you, when you were little?"

Jace hummed in affirmation, "You sound surprised."

"I..."

"Imagined him as a big bad? Yes and no. Michael struggled with addiction years before he knew my father. He was clean through their relationship—and he grew very close with my father. And he was clean for most of my childhood, right up until we moved over here from Wales when I was eight." Jace paused, "You know how I said last night, that if someone gave me a baggie right now, I couldn't turn it down?"

Clary nodded.

"It's like... getting high isn't something you forget about. The desire, and the urge is always in the back of your mind. And without a good support network, and coping mechanisms, you're always at risk of falling off the wagon, no matter how long it has been. That's what happened with Michael. Moving to New York, he lost all that. He had easy access to the scene again, not to mention, access to my considerable inheritance. He fell back into the habit. And, unfortunately, I've got the same addictive personality type as him."

Maybe if she wasn't so drunk, she wouldn't have asked.

"What is it like? Heroin?"

He was tracing patterns up her back with his fingertips, as though he needed something physical to do, as a distraction from his current emotional vulnerability.

"It'll sound cliché anyway I put it," he said quickly, "But it's like every concern slips away. Nothing is of consequence, and you realize all the issues you face are so insignificant and ridiculous that there's no point even considering them. You feel like you're in a perfect fucking bubble bath, where the door is locked and nobody and nothing could possibly get to you. Like you're not even capable of feeling negative emotions, because everything is clouds and warmth, with this calm hum underlying it all."

Clary chewed on his words, and their room was silent until she whispered, "I guess I can see the appeal."

Jace fidgeted, as he seemed to do when he felt a little uncomfortable, "I've just got to remind myself it's not real. Your problems still exist when you're high, and avoiding them with heroin only adds to them most times. It's making yourself sick, just to avoid responsibilities and problems that most other people can surmount."

Clary wished she hadn't brought it up—not enjoying prodding Jace's emotions—but her curiosity never paid much attention.

"Do you miss it?"

He didn't hesitate, "Every day."

She hummed with embarrassment, "I'm sorry I said anything."

It was rare to see Jace so out of his comfort-zone, his charisma and sarcasm usually the barrier he put between himself and most situations.

"No. It's... good. Good to talk about this. Communicate." He nuzzled her hair, "Hodge would approve."

She chuckled softly, "I'm glad."

There was another silence, but this was the first one of a peaceful nature.

"Don't be afraid to ask me things, Clary. I want us to be open with each other."

She nodded against his chest, "I agree."

He was still tracing patterns against her, but his hand was slowing,

"Sleep?" He asked.

"Sleep." She agreed.

A/N: Contrary to the sentiments expressed in this chapter, I love Christmas and the general holiday season :) sorry for errors, it is very late where I am. Enjoy, and I love all your reviews. Thank you for the awesome support, each and everyone one of you is the bees knees.