The Other World (A Shadowhunters Fanfiction)

Chapter 7: Love Don't Know How To Rest

(You guys this is one of my all-time favorite songs you don't understand)

They slept in the days and trekked long, weary nights, through empty towns overgrown with plant life and overrun by wild things. This world was very little like Cordelia's, and it pained her to see boulevards she recognized lined with crumbling buildings, their paint tarnished and their gleaming gables broken. It was almost as eerie to see so many wild creatures tucked away in abandoned houses—the eaves were full of birds's nest, and the nooks and crannies held foxes, cats, spiderwebs so thick they looked like curtains.

On the third day, as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon—orange on the sky, surrounded by thick clouds of smoke—Cordelia, James and Lucie hid out in one of the abandoned buildings to wait out the day. The building was partially collapsed, but as they crept through it, Cordelia felt an eerie sense of recognition. The empty rooms looked very much like Matthew's flat, which she'd been in for the first time not two weeks ago.

Cordelia gasped when a raccoon appeared in one doorway, chittering and then vanishing down the grimy hall. After it was gone, she realized her hand had reflexively gone yo James'. Their eyes met, and she pulled away awkwardly.

The three eventually settled on a room to the end of the hallway. The bedclothes were rat-eaten and riven with holes, and what once must have been wallpaper—decorated with flowers—was now faded and peeling from the walls. Lucie gazed around, then turned to James and Cordelia purposefully. "I think I shall go search out a stove so we may cook some game. I'll leave you to... talk."

With a blush, she left.

The silence fell, weighty and heavy with dust, between them. Cordelia couldn't bring herself to look at James, but then he spoke. Softly.

"You look tired."

She was. Tired of fighting Belial, of fighting to hide how she felt for James. But this was not her James, and it would not be fair to him to give him some sort of false hope.

She met his eyes and felt a shock travel her body at the way he was looking at her. Her James never looked at her that way.

"I am not... your Layla," she said, uncertain. "You need to know that."

A hardness entered his eyes. "Then tell me who you are," he whispered.

She closed her eyes. It hurt to be here, with James, but not with him all at once. She didn't know him, and he didn't know her. "In my world, you call me Daisy," she said. "Because of the day I saved Lucie. In a field of daisies, Lucie fell from a cliff, and I held her hand to keep her from falling. You found us, and pulled Lucie back up."

"Daisy," he said, and an ache filled her. She wanted him here—her James. But what reason did he have to come for her? He loved Grace. It would always be Grace.

"We play chess," she went on. "Every night. The winner gets to ask the other a question. We drink tea together. We talk, we laugh. You—you decorated our house, on Curzon Street. Found old Persian miniatures for me. We sleep in separate rooms, and—and I find myself always wanting to go to you. But I don't, because you love someone else, and that's that."

She was about to turn away, but he took her hand—and that stopped her.

"In my world," he said, his voice breaking. "We used to read together, sometimes for hours, in the tiny library in the Silent City. We stole food from the kitchens and pranked Alastair together." To her surprise, and his, Cordelia laughed. "The first time I kissed you, I already knew I loved you. It was only ever you. There is no one else for me."

"James," she whispered, heartbroken for him. She brushed a tear away from his face.

"I like to think—" His voice broke. "That there is a world for us. That there is a world where we are together, safe, content. I do not understand how he could love someone else, Layla. I've gone a year without you, and my heart is in pieces. My heart is yours to break, to mend, to hold." He brushed hair out of her face. "But nothing hurts so much as thinking you are unhappy."

For a moment, she wanted to kiss him—here, now, even if he was not her James—just so she could end that look of pain in his face, just so she could bring him back that sweet pleasure that lingered in his voice as he spoke of those memories. But she would not take comfort at the expense of his pain.

"This isn't fair to you, James," she said hurriedly, stepping back and clearing her throat.

"Layla—"

"No," she said. "I am—hurting you."

"No," he said. "No. I will—be alright, Cordelia." He stepped forward, slowly, and touched her cheek lightly with just his fingertips, traced his thumb along her cheekbone. "You really are here—the Angel help me. I did not think I would see you again in this life." He breathed out, shakily. "I do not want to hurt you either, Daisy."

But that was inevitable. It hurt just to be here, so close to him, and not give into the desire burning in her.

But it was the sound of that name on his lips—that stupid childhood nickname—that pushed her from the edge when she kissed him.

For a moment, he went still, as though he were shocked. But it passed, and he moaned into her mouth, and gathered her gently into his arms, his hands twining in her hair.

Cordelia responded more strongly than she'd expected—felt an insistent heat beginning to build in her body. She opened her mouth to him, flicking a tongue against his teeth—telling him she didn't want him to be gentle, or sweet. She was not fragile, not in this moment, and she would not break under his yearning.

And she felt him respond to that, too. Distantly, felt him pick her up and carry her, just a few steps, until he had fumbled for the door handle and closed it. Felt him set her down on a dust-softened desk surface, her legs still wound around his waist. She felt desperate, as if this would be the only world or time she could ever have this moment, the only world or time she could ever have him like this.

Because, in truth, it was.

He tore himself away from her, then, and took a step back. He was running his hands through his hair, breathing unevenly; for a long time, they were both still. Cordelia wasn't sure she could have ended that perfect moment before it went too far, and she knew that if she had lived to see her James again, it would hurt like hell to know that—that this had happened.

James stared at her, wild-eyed, and finally managed to say "That cannot happen again."

She nodded. "I know."

"I can't bear to take such liberties with you," he murmured, "when I can give you nothing at all in return."

The silence hurt like hell. But then the sound of footsteps, ascending the hallway, broke the moment—and then Lucie opened the door and came in unceremoniously, looking even more dishevelled than they did.

"We have to leave," she said.

James' eyes became wide and round. "What do you mean, Luce?"

"It's Belial," Lucie said. "He's here. He's found us."