Chapter 1
"As long as it takes..."
That's what he'd told her, and Angela had no idea what she was in for. Within the next 48 hours, she would be pulled through walls, doors and windows of a highrise office block, sent to Hell and possessed by Satan's son, Mammon, and --as if that wasn't enough-- nearly became the not-so proud mother of a bouncing baby Antichrist... but she'd survived. Thinking back on it, she'd never in a million years guessed it would turn out that way. If only she could thank her instincts, her police training or maybe even her strict Catholic upbringing for her survival, but she knew it wasn't to be. When it had been tested, it meant squat. She had been merely a pawn in the grand scheme of it all and it didn't take a psychic to know that she owed her life to him.
"So
I'll... see you around?"
"Yeah.
I'd like that." He was so close that she could almost taste
the scent of him, her mouth slightly open and ready to receive the
kiss she had been aching for. Something in John's eyes reciprocated
her feelings. However, he never moved any closer, and the next step
that would've sealed the moment was lost. Wanting desperately to
escape the situation, she made up some lame excuse and walked away,
stopping for a moment to turn and look back at him before making her
way home slowly.
John had wanted nothing more than to lose himself in Angela, to be swept away in emotion, not another care in the world. The simple fact was, anyone who got close to him became a liability: the enemies he accumulated had a penchant for harming those near and dear to him, and he would not do that to her. He couldn't. As he stood on the top of Ravenscar Sanitarium looking out over the city, he felt a sudden childish urge to blow a bubble in the gum in his mouth.
"City of Angels, my ass." Well, at least the First of the Fallen had left his biting, sarcastic wit intact. But now, what reason was there to be like that? He'd been given another chance at life! A clean slate: or more to the point, a clean set of lungs. At this thought he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small packet, ripping away the silver paper to find only one piece of gum left. "Shit." The now-clenched fist released and the scraps of paper floated from his palm and over the edge of the building, soaring and dipping from side to side; end over end until a drift caught it and pulled it away from his line of vision.
A feeling of melancholy swept over him, chilling his frame slightly... or maybe it was just the blinding wind? He knew he couldn't stand there much longer without needing some form of a vice; it was just who he was. Maybe this is what had Lucifer had meant when he gave him back his years. "Well, my liver's still shot..." he remarked to no one in particular, thrusting his hands into his pockets and turning on his heel, heading for the door that would lead him back inside.
Paper bag in tow, Constantine trudged heavily-footed over to his usual chair and dropped into the seat, pushing the paper barrier down from the bottle in his hand. His coat had been shed now, the shirt's sleeves haphazardly rolled up to the elbows. The lid twisted off the green bottle with a snap and John's eyes traced over the tabletop, coming to rest on the discarded softpack. He was certain he could see another stick of tobacco in the depths of the paper shadows. Drumming his fingers on the surface in thought he instead lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. The psychological cravings still remained. "Perfect..." he commented gruffly in between gulps.
He allowed his mind to wander but for a moment and found it tumbling back to the young woman he'd let walk away. He could easily waste his time in "if only" and "I wish" but he knew there was no point. Life was cruel, and he knew it better than most. The world was full of blissfully ignorant people walking around with blindfolds over their eyes. For some theirs had slipped off in the shuffle. His however, was ablaze in his fist as he used it to light his next cigarette.
His last cigarette.
Surely it wasn't supposed to be this hard.
If he wasn't thinking about staring lazily at the plumes of blue-grey smoke that would pour from a charred ember and curl around his head as he drowned in the contents of a green-tinted bottle, he was thinking about the girl. The one that got away, wasn't that what they called it? "Not the first time," he retorted darkly, deciding not to act like a total derelict, and instead, pouring himself a tumbler full of the red wine that he'd been upending down his throat.
With a derisive snort his arms stretched out and fell upon the red packet, which he collected with long, nimble fingers and brought back to sit in front of his face. Full glass on his left, half-empty bottle on his right and the packet directly in front. His chin sounded on the tabletop, intent chocolate eyes never leaving the packet, as if he was trying to stare it down. His jaw clenched and he breathed in, letting the breath out in a short gust to blow the packet over. A sly, lopsided smirk spread over his chiselled face and he sat up again, the glass immediately returning to his hand.
'As if things could be any different.' John sat in quiet contemplation, refilling his now-empty glass. What good did he ever hope to achieve? Sure, he'd helped Isabel find peace, but that was only because he knew what a... erm... hellhole Hell was. That and to piss Lucifer off, which was a skill he was honing to a fine art. The look on the First of the Fallen's face when he realised what he'd done, man, what he would've done for a camera! But what had he lost? Three great friends and the chance with a beautiful woman. What had he gained? An overwhelming sense of guilt and a top-up to his neverending supply of acrimony. Defeated he picked up the packet and shuffled the remaining cigarette into the corner, plucked it up with his wine-stained lips and lit the gas stove, holding his tie down as he bent to scorch the end. It flared as he breathed the acrid smoke back into his cleansed lungs and he was certain he could hear a rumbling laughter from beneath. Cigarette firmly ensconced he spun around to the fridge, retrieving a new bottle from the top of it.
It was going to be a long night.
Tapered fingers lacing around the steaming mug, Angela stared at the blank screen, waiting for the words to come to her. How could she start this report? She'd shot and killed yet another man but this time, there were no leads, no snitches, nothing. Just her instincts. She was lucky enough to have dodged the bullet that was meant for her but in no way did it justify her actions in the terms of the law. She had brushed by him in the street and had instantly seen what he'd done. A flash of naked upper thigh, a line of dark metal that shot up into a frightened woman's mouth as saltwater streamed from her eyes down onto the gun's barrel. Rape at gunpoint. Without another thought she'd turned on him, retrieved her gun and badge screaming "LAPD!" and put a bullet in his temple. He'd hit the ground in slow motion; it took her a moment to recollect herself and realise what had eventuated.
A sigh escaped her lips and she took another mouthful of coffee, thinking back about a month ago, to the last time she'd laid eyes on the rude, sarcastic, broody man that had altered her perception forever. His dark hair and intense, deeply-pained eyes, the deep, inviting timbre of his voice that enveloped her body like crushed velvet, the last look they'd shared, a notion of a reunion that would most likely never be...
She was so swept up in her thoughts and the void her screen created that she didn't notice the bare footfalls along the polished precinct floor or the admonishments of her colleagues as a distraught, disoriented young woman stumbled towards her and whipped her around in her chair by the shoulder. The protest on her tongue stopped dead upon the woman's touch: fear. Horrific, debilitating fear. Images flashed through her mind, but they were all too rapid to comprehend. "What the...?" Angela's brown eyes implored the twisted grey depths before her, her lips parted to speak, but the words wouldn't push forth, the terror emanating wholly affecting her.
She lost her footing and the woman fell to her knees, her stringy blonde hair falling over her face as she tried to speak.
"C... C-Co-..."
"It's alright, take your time." Dodson maternally placed her hand on the girl's shoulder, stretching back for her mug. Perhaps a mouthful of the steaming liquid within would help to alleviate her nerves. However, it took all her strength not to drop the cup when the blonde finally spoke:
"...C-Constantine..."
