Author's Note: So if you don't recognize me, I'm ordinarily a Matrix author—but I decided I'd try something new. This is a one-shot set in between Beeman's death and Angela's "trip" to hell in the bathtub. It's inspired by pieces of the novelization based on the movie. I'm planning on starting a novel in the near future, so let me know if you like what you see.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters associated with Constantine. I only wish I did. Words in italics and the summary are from the novelization by John Shirley.

Daydreamer731

Another Kind of Intimacy

"Constantine and Angela slept for a murky, uncertain while, fully clothed, spooning together in his rumpled bed." –Constantine, a novelization by John Shirley

"You do this," Constantine said slowly, "and there's no turning back. You see them—they see you. Understand?"

Angela just nodded.

Constantine sighed. He had still been harboring a last shred of hope that she might say no, might decide that the risk was too great and give up. But in his gut he knew she was not going to, that she was in this as deep as he was now—in it to the end. He ran a hand through his hair restlessly, looked down at the ground for a moment before meeting her gaze again. This wasn't going to be easy. But then it never was.

"Look, um, I'm not really good at the whole hospitality thing, but you're sure as hell not going to be able to take what I have to show you if you don't get some sleep."

Her eyes bored into him, searching. He could practically see the question in her mind—was he trying to play her?

"Either you trust me or you don't," he said sharply, trying to hide his discomfort.

"I never said—" She broke off, looked away from him for a moment, then back. "All right."

He hooked a thumb unceremoniously toward a small door off the main room.

"Bathroom. Make yourself at home."

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded and walked off. He turned his back on her and went over to a shelf, picking up the nearly-empty Jack Daniels bottle. He poured himself a shot, lit a fresh cigarette, and sat down on the window seat without touching either. His chest ached, his lungs seemed like they were on the verge of collapsing inward. There was the dull, metallic taste of blood ever-present in his mouth. He felt listless, numb, couldn't find the energy to drink the shot. The cigarette burned down in his hand, untouched. He was aware of Angela standing uncertainly behind him, but did not turn until she spoke.

"John?"

She had taken off her shoes along with her jacket and blouse, revealing a white cotton tank top underneath. The way she was looking at him, the sound of his first name on her tongue made him ache with vulnerability. He didn't like it one bit.

"The cage is all yours," he said dryly, gesturing to the bed.

She took a step toward it, paused.

"What about you?"

He waved away her concern, hating the way it felt to have someone willing to sacrifice for him.

"I don't sleep if I can help it," he muttered, thinking of the nightmares.

She frowned like a disapproving mother.

"That's not good for you."

He laughed bitterly.

"Good…try to do good and you end up fucked. At least bad feels nice on the way down."

She shook her head at him and sat down on the bed, pulling back the rumpled sheets. He half expected her to make some kind of rebuke about the state of his apartment, but she simply laid down and rolled away, closing herself off.

Constantine drew the curtains, lit a couple candles, turned off the lights. He sat down on the window seat again, glancing back over his shoulder, watching his own enormous shadow dance against the wall. He stubbed out the burned-down cigarette on the windowsill and threw it toward the trash can in the corner. It fell pitifully short, landing on the carpet instead, but he didn't bother to get up and retrieve it.

He found the shot glass on the window seat beside him and tossed the drink carelessly back. He made the mistake of inhaling a few drops and the irritation instantly brought on a violent coughing fit. He was dimly aware of the glass falling from his fingers as he leaned forward, bracing his hands against his knees. His mouth filled with blood and he had the momentary flash of realization that he was going to drown if he didn't do something. Leaning heavily against the wall in the dark, he managed to make it to the bathroom sink at last, spitting bloody phlegm and taking ragged, shallow breaths. Black spots swam in front of his eyes. He turned on the faucet after a moment, splashing cold water on his face. He felt filthy, suddenly, covered in the grime of the city.

He kicked the door shut and turned on the shower, tearing angrily at the buttons of his shirt. The hot water and steam did a little to ease the burning pain in his chest, but not nearly enough. Still, it was better than nothing.

He found a shirt and some sweatpants in the closet and pulled them on hastily, shivering a little. It seemed the temperature in the apartment had dropped a great deal and he wondered for a moment if something had slipped into the apartment, but he brushed it off as paranoia.

Angela was awake when he went back into the other room, sitting up in bed watching him.

"John…"

"Go to sleep," he muttered.

"You all right?"

"Fuck no," he growled, more harshly than he'd meant to.

"You need to sleep."

"You need it more than I do."

"Damn it, John…" She sighed and nodded toward the space beside her on the bed. "Come lie down."

For the first time in his life, the Great John Constantine was struck dumb, completely without a badass reply to save him. He just gaped at her, wondering just how he could be cursed enough to meet such an amazing woman just as his time was running out.

"I don't bite," she added, her voice softening a little. "No wings or talons."

He stared at her a moment longer, debating. She was right, he desperately needed the rest, but lately sleep had been creeping steadily higher on his list of fears. The nightmares were getting a little too close to home, and he had the feeling that one of these nights he simply wasn't going to wake up from them again. Besides which, he wasn't sure if he could trust himself emotionally. Getting close to someone wasn't exactly the brightest idea for him at the moment.

"John."

He sighed, realizing that she wasn't going to give up. He went over to the windowsill and blew out the candles, then made his way over to the bed, careful not to touch her as he pulled the covers over himself. It was an odd feeling, lying close enough to her that he could hear her breathing. His chest felt tight again suddenly, though in a different way than before. He scrubbed his hands roughly over his face, trying to make the feeling go away.

"Happy now?" he muttered, rolling over to face her.

But she wasn't listening, he realized after a moment of silence. She was lying with her back to him, arms wrapped around herself. At first he thought she was asleep, but then he noticed she was shivering.

"You cold?" he asked softly, wondering if she was feeling the same chill he'd noticed earlier.

She shook her head, rolled over to face him.

"No, I just…all of a sudden…" Her face was deathly pale in the light coming in the window from the street.

Constantine shuddered with something oddly like sympathy; he knew the feeling all too well.

"Shock," he muttered, moving a little closer to her. "I should've known."

She managed a weak laugh.

"You? I'm the cop here."

"So? What does that mean, that you have to know everything?"

"No, I—"

"Angela." He cut her off with a hand on her shoulder.

"Go ahead," she whispered, as if reading his thoughts somehow. She probably could, he thought to himself. It was a disconcerting idea. Still, against his better judgment he moved over and wrapped his arms around her, hands moving over her back seemingly by themselves. He braced himself against the contact, but couldn't hold onto his reserve—was barely able to keep control of the flood of emotions it brought on.

"You're shaking," she said, her voice muffled a little against his shoulder.

"I'm drunk, remember?" he muttered, though they both knew that wasn't the reason.

"Do you always have to be such a shit?" she asked, though her voice had no malice to it.

"Yes. Only thing I've ever been good at."

"You're just that scared, aren't you." The words came seemingly out of nowhere, though her voice was stronger now. "Scared of dying."

It wasn't a question, and he didn't bother to answer it. They both already knew what he'd say, if he told her honestly.

"Go to sleep, Angela," he said at last.

"All right, but you have to, too."

"If you insist," he drawled, voice filled with sarcasm.

She turned in his arms, leaving her back to him, but made no move to break the contact. He thought for a moment of moving away himself, but he was too tired to deal with more arguing, and besides which…it just felt too…right. It would be nice while it lasted.

Constantine shifted a little, adjusting the sheets—and then waited for the nightmares to come.

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