Title: every version of me, dead and buried in the yard outside
Fandom: shadowhunters
Rating: teen
Length: ~1000 words
Author notes: post-canon, background ships, minor character death, title from hozier's jackie and wilson

“Why do I keep doing this to myself?”
“Oh darling, you know me, I’d take eternity over emotion every day of the week.”

“This one was different.”

Camille’s tempted to point out that his post-partner death ritual hasn’t changed one bit over the centuries, but Magnus doesn’t look like he could take it. He looks deceptively old and frail, like a gentle wind could bowl him over, even his eyeliner is uneven. Camille can be gracious, for now anyways, softens the observation.

“They always are darling.”

He pouts, but doesn’t remove his head from her lap. He pushes further into her hand as she idly runs her fingers through his hair.

“I begged,” Magnus whispers, eyes screwed shut. “I begged him to turn.”

And that right there is the crux of nearly all of Magnus’s problems lately: he asked. He wasn’t such a fool when they were together, knew how to take what he wanted. There was no asking when they showed up to the She-Wolf of France’s coronation, nor borrowed Munch’s The Scream for a while. They danced in Alsace while mundanes died around them, ate in Ukraine as the public starved, lit matches to see how much damage mundane fires could manage compared to magical- they were never beholden to the mortals, to anyone but themselves. (‘I am no hero,’ Magnus said once, and Camille was foolish enough to ignore the longing in his voice.)

.

Magnus doesn’t leave, a curious deviation from normal. They aren’t talking about it, dancing around the topic in a blatant enough way. It’s almost like a reintroduction to society with all the dinner parties hosted at the Hotel Dumort. Immortals only, and even Meliorn and Simon come to one. (The former with an appreciated bouquet of faerie flowers, the latter with much less appreciated awkward words about love and mortality.)

Shadowhunters still don’t care about vampire-on-vampire violence, and Camille was able to reclaim her clan easily. It’s more for the building than the vampires; she has it set up just as she likes it, hates having to renovate a new space.

It would almost feel like before: only Camille is genuinely enjoying Magnus’s company beyond toying with him. Ugh. The thought alone makes her want to retch- she must be aging for such sentimental drivel.

Anyone else, and she’d select someone new, perhaps turn a pretty mortal. But Magnus has always exceeded all others, she can’t help being pulled back into his orbit. He’s gorgeous and has more power than any other warlock can hope to acquire, that at least is somewhat soothing. He’s the pragmatic choice, even if she didn’t make it for pragmatic reasons. (This time.)

.

The second floor has turned into a nursery. A nursery.

Leigh Junior, one of the warlock children Iris raised, had taken up her mother’s late mantle. They found out entirely too much by chance, Camille smelling spilled warlock blood on one of their evening strolls. It wasn’t enough to worry her- but the odd location and newness had both curious, and an investigation led to discovering twenty-three warlock children, babies to five-year-olds.

It’s a miracle, terrible as the gods. It doesn’t take a genius to note the declining warlock numbers, far too many lost in the last great battle. But twenty-three new souls- this is the next generation. (And Camille is more than happy to make sure each of them knows who brought them to the greater world.)

As the children age, the second floor becomes more school than nursery. Warlocks from all over the world visit, some stay longer than others. Madzie has become the cool older aunt figure, making golden kittens and puppies and dragons for the kids to play with. Magnus exhausts himself more than once creating portals to faraway places, absolutely spoils the children with globetrotting. She’s sure to tell him as much while her power seeps under his skin, bringing him back to full health. (Three distant portals per week, she gets him to agree to, citing possible emergencies.)

It’s all so very domestic and boring. She isn’t sure why she’s enjoying- no, tolerating- it. (Each time she repeats the next generation it sounds a bit more facetious.)

.

Camille can’t remember the last time she killed a mundane. It must have been decades ago, before the nursery-school-lounge began. (These days, the second floor is much like a more relaxed Pandemonium.) Decades before that even, before the mess with the Clave and attempting to appear a law-abiding vampire.

This won’t do at all. It’s as if Magnus has domesticated her, defanged her with trades of sex and blood and power. It’s a near miracle none of her subjects have sought to dethrone her. (Well, perhaps an exaggeration as they know how she reclaimed her clan and who is beside her.)

Camille goes out into the night, runs far, won’t have anything pointing back at her. She runs until going further might get her back after dawn, slinks into the shadows and waits. Hunting is easy to slip back into, of quickly judging mundanes and enchantoing a promising one. She drains the man quickly and destroys the body thoroughly.

She runs home, warm blood beating in her veins. She doesn’t feel any better, any different than before. At least there isn’t any regret- god forbid Magnus’s bleeding heart seeps into her veins. It was simply eating a meal, one that didn’t even taste that much better than the bagged stuff. In her memory, killing felt more dramatic, more engaging. Ugh, this aging process is horrid.

(If the mundane also happened to be the worst sort of person, looking to prey upon children, that’s no one’s business but her own.)

.

“Dot and Catarina are renewing their vows again. Care to crash it?”

“It isn’t crashing if you’ve been invited.”

Camille nearly laughs, her and Dot never get along. Being a plus one isn’t an invitation, but she doesn’t trust all the sappy wedding types around Magnus. They’ll give him ideas, either depress or excite him it matters not- any change is unwelcome. She’s happy how things are.

“Take all the fun out of it then; have we already hit middle-aged eternity?”

Magnus lets out a playful growl before dipping her, kissing the stale air out of her lungs. (No, they haven’t hit it yet. She’s having far too much fun. It must be something else.)