This a completely random Simon and Isabelle one-shot, just because they have become my guilty pleasure/OTP (equal now with Malec, which is really saying something since I love Malec)...and just because I have the urge to write about them. They're undeniably perfect for each other, alright?

New York was beautiful even in the rain. The wet pavements gleamed like they were streaked with silver, and the weak sunlight filtering through the gray, overcast sky still managed to reflect off of the glass skyscrapers in lancing patterns. People hurried past the two of them on the sidewalk, walking huddled with their coat collars upturned or under colorful umbrellas that had bloomed like flowers when the rain had first started. Then, it hadn't been much more than a drizzle, but it was approaching a downpour now. Rain fell hard in nearly solid, shining sheets of water.

"This is definitely perfect weather for a day in the city," Simon remarked dryly, looking around with raised eyebrows as some business man jabbering on his cell-phone trudged past him, his boots sending up little splashes of water from the puddles underfoot. "I'm so glad the weatherman is such a smart and capable source to rely on. Really, such a clever guy, that one." Simon couldn't feel the cold, of course, but taking outdoor showers like this wasn't exactly anymore enjoyable for vampires than it was for humans. He looked over at the dark-haired girl standing across from him. She was shivering lightly in the windbreaker he had handed over to her, her dark brunette locks nearly black as they hung in limp, wet strands around her face. Isabelle could feel both the cold and the wet, and her chattering teeth and tense form showed it. They had ducked under a dilapidated grocery market awning for protection, but it wasn't as fortified a shelter as Simon had hoped it would be. Another big, fat droplet of water plummeted off of the dripping awning right onto the back of his neck; Simon winced, raising a hand to wipe the water away.

"You were the one who wanted to go to the park," Isabelle remarked with slight accusation in her tone, not even acknowledging the sarcasm of his previous quips. Her pale hands curled around the edges of his jacket as he had draped it over her shoulders, pulling the material closer around her. It wasn't helping much, though; she felt chilled to the bone, and wet. Gross.

"Well, I'm sorry for my blind trust in public television and the weathermen they choose to employ," Simon protested, sighing. His eyebrows dipped into a slight frown as he saw another spasm of shivers go through Isabelle, who was already shaking consistently. Was it really that cold? He mentally cursed himself, feeling guilty for having dragged here out here in the first place, only to get stuck in this sucky weather. She hadn't been that enthusiastic about going to Central Park, but had agreed to go since he had wanted to. "I need to get you back to the Institute before you catch pneumonia or go into hypothermia or something," he observed, worry tinting his voice.

At this, Isabelle's gaze left the stream of passing people she had been idly tracking and settled back on Simon, her dark irises flashing a bit. "You don't need to 'get me back' anywhere, Simon. You know I can get home perfectly well on my own." She tossed her hair, which might've been more effective if her hair was it's normal, silky and lustrous self, and not the heavy, wet strands that just fell back against her cheek ineffectually. Still, the look on her face had gone from open to cold; it was tell-tale in the set of her jaw.

Almost instinctually, Simon reached out and brushed away the hair that had clung to her pale cheek, tucking it behind her ear gently. She stiffened slightly at his touch, but didn't say anything- just watched him impassively as his fingers lingered there, with an expression he couldn't quite read as he searched it with his own uncertain one. "Come on, Iz, of course I know you can get home fine. Doesn't mean I don't want to tag along anyway." Just then, his sensitive hearing picked up approaching splashes; Simon glanced up in time and stepped out of the way as some woman in track suit pushed past him, obviously in a hurry and with a cellphone pressed to her ear just like the businessman. It seemed like New Yorkers had legitimate love affairs with their cell phones; Simon wouldn't be surprised if people just had them hard-wired into their brains at some point in the future. When the woman was gone and he had turned his attention back to Isabelle, Simon saw with a small jolt of surprise how close he suddenly was to her after the step forward, close enough to see the wetness of her eyelashes, delicate and clumped; he inhaled in a barely audible breath, her delectable smell reaching him and making the blood rush to his head as it always did. Isabelle had tensed too and was looking up at him through those thick, dark eyelashes, her eyes like twin pools of dark light. There was something in that look she was giving him that caught him off guard- it was bright, smoldering, yielding, tender-

And then it was gone. Simon saw the shutters slam shut, the key turn, the lock click, as her look returned to the one of coolness and mild indifference that Isabelle favored so often. Especially lately.

"Then I guess we better get going. I don't want to be turned into a human Popsicle," she said, but there wasn't any humor in her tone if she had even tried for it. Simon held back the sigh of frustration that rose in his chest and just nodded as she stepped away from him. The strange moment had passed in a flash, and was now left behind to evaporate in the slap of rain against the shimmering sidewalk as they hurried out from under the awning.

"You know," Simon began once they had found a seat near the front, and the bus's doors had hissed closed, "if there's ever anything you need, all you have to do is call me." He didn't know what tactics to try with her anymore, so he decided on careful simplicity; Isabelle was the most hard-to-read person he had ever met in his life, and it didn't help that Simon had never been much of a talented people-reader in the first place.

Isabelle stared out of the grimy bus window to her right, suddenly very tired. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. It flecked the bus windows with tiny droplets, and made everything outside look distorted and washed out. "I don't need anything." It came out sounding harsher than she had intended, but maybe that was better, because it was the meaning she wanted to get across. She didn't want anybody's pity, especially Simon's. She was Isabelle Lightwood, and he should not be pitying her. He had already seen her weak and crumbling once, after Max had died- that was probably why his large, brown eyes rested on her face with such concern now.

"But if you ever do-"

"If I ever do, I'll ask my brother, or Jace," Isabelle snapped, turning her head away from the window to fix a flinty, harsh gaze on him. "Thanks for offering, Simon. But stop looking at me like I'm some damn charity case."

"Okay," Simon said, sliding his gaze to the back of the bus seat in front of them. But he wasn't just going to let it drop like that- her mood swings were like a labyrinth where each new turn brought an unexpected outcome; the right thing to say one day was the wrong thing to say the next. And frankly, Simon was tired of playing guessing games with her. He was sincere- Isabelle needed to realize that.

He looked over at her again, now fixing her with an unwavering gaze that wouldn't allow her to just shrug off what he said. "But no matter what, I just want you to know that I'm here. Alright? You may not care, but at least let me say it and pretend that you do." His tone had turned a bit bitter without him meaning for it to.

Isabelle caught his look and turned away from him; the small, sharp pain in her chest that the hurt in his eyes had brought made her feel small, and mean. She returned her attention to the bleak, rainy world outside the bus window. Simon was just trying to be comforting, and caring, and she was being unfairly cruel. He had been nothing but nice to her since they had gotten back from Idris- calling just to talk and tell the lame jokes that still made her smile, inviting her over for rented movies, taking her to the park. Somehow, thinking about all the kindness he had shown didn't make her feel any better- just worse about herself.

Slowly, Isabelle let her head drop and rest against his shoulder, into the familiar groove between his neck and collarbone. It felt right to lean into him; it filled her with a feeling of safety she wasn't sure she wanted to admit to herself. The silence, tangible and filled with the drum of raindrops against glass, stretched between them for a moment. "What if I needed you every second?" she finally asked in a quiet, small voice. This wasn't Isabelle Lightwood, Shadowhunter Badass and Femme Fatale's voice. This was the voice of someone tired and scared, of someone who woke up everyday feeling like she had been kicked in the stomach when she remembered her little brother was dead.

Simon looked down at her in a sideways glance, at the top of her dark head tucked against his neck. If he was surprised by her change of tone, or by the question, he didn't show. Instead, he just slipped one of his hands around hers. "Then that would be okay."