[Author Note: This first-ever effort plucks my fanfic cherry, so be gentle with me. Canon basis: Constantine (2005) movie starring Keanu Reeves as the title character, picking up right where the film signed off. I'm writing it as I go along, trying to keep the plot thick like dragon's blood and consistent like Keanu's face over time. Bringing in my own working knowledge of the occult too, for added realism. Warning: I'll rate the whole thing M so I can push the boat out with the material as much as possible. My diabolically dark and kinked tastes in humour and behaviour are not for the easily offended.]

Constantine looked up at the rain that seemed to target him specifically. Alright already, Jeez, Midnite. I'm coming- I'm coming. The cold on his neck did make him hurry a little, though. He didn't like anything touching his neck.
He hated the crimson glow of Papa Midnite's club, and it really was like a whorehouse in the early hours. Probably Bacchus, or some other old duffer from the Old Religion stirring up orgiastic trouble with every martini. The place smelt of sulphur, honey and a number of things he didn't wanna know about. Usual clientele in for a weeknight; the businessmen, the hot young things and those who just wanted a place to drink and maybe get a decent fuck in a bathroom stall that smelt of bleach from the number of times they'd cleaned half-breed blood out the floor. You had to give Midnite credit, to profit from such simple things. Damn, the smoke in this hellhole made him miss the vice, just for the sake of having one. Some kind of release was long overdue.
And, drum roll please, here it came, the sea of eyes watching him, washing over his aura with intents ranging from curiosity and mild lust to restrained anger. The profusion of red should've worried him, but he was way past caring about them, it was the gold that freaked him out now. Ever since Chas had died. Plus, he kinda missed that lighter. I mean, what was Chas gonna do with it? I suppose it was one of those symbolic things, the kid meant a lot more to me than a trinket I picked up in Russia. Even if it was antique gold with a unique, ironclad protection spell.

He found he'd absentmindedly stopped at the bar, and some slim chick with pale skin and amber eyes gave him an expectant look. New bartender. Goddamn vampires are everywhere now... He didn't like that one bit, until she smiled at him, kindly, then he decided he'd tip her. "You got absinthe?" I fancy a nice change.

"You got balls, mate. To be taking a hallucinogenic 'round these parts." She replied, shaking her head to the music, but mixed up one with a preternatural elegance. "The wormwood concentrations in these babies are legit."

Hm, English, lotta those around lately too. Wonder if they're really as kinky as-
"You shouldn't keep him too long, Sir." She looked at him, smirking. Mind-reader, shit. But to call him Sir? The only people who did that recently were cops and doctors.

"If he wants to chat that bad, he'll grace me with his presence out here. Man's got a right to drink." He held it up in protest, but downed it fast like a 19th century Frenchman and made sure to leave a tip, hoping she'd remember him. He needed all the friends he could get around here. After the thing with Mammon, even some of the angels were pissed for ousting Gabriel from the Lighted. Goddamn double standards, everywhere he looked.

Constantine could sense something imposing as he approached, and shuffled unwillingly to the panel door, upholstered walls like furniture. Guess that made it soundproof. John hurried into the quiet room when a song about tight jeans and double Ds came on. Those annoying, ironic songs kept following him wherever he went. Especially those reminding him of Angela in his bathtub, panting from a Near Death Experience. He blamed demons for these tempting audio 'flukes', naturally. He wasn't going to call if she didn't first.

When Constantine stomped in sopping with rainwater, Midnite chuckled and grinned, but didn't bother looking up. That man was so pimp, Constantine almost expected to see a gold tooth. A lemon yellow snake was in, under and around his hands. New toy, and new spell, no doubt. "John... long time-no see, old friend." Midnite added, with a voice as slick and deep as tar.

"You're just surprised I'm alive. But thanks for the thought." John wasn't sure himself how sarcastic that last part was.
"A lot of people expected you to fail John, but I assure you, I was not among them. Please," he looked up, "sit." It didn't sound like a request. He literally owned the place.
Constantine frowned, feeling like a kid back in kindergarten. Uncomfortable, despite the red padded seat. It reminded him of strip club chairs, and he had a fleeting vision of Midnite doing a lap dance with that snake. From what he knew though, no one fucked with Midnite and - well, no one fucked with Midnite. So he didn't say anything. Probably just the frustration, welling up again. Probably. Hopefully. Definitely.
Midnite laughed at John's expression, and held up its focus, the snake, "Like her? From the jungle. Pure, primal power in this beauty." He kissed her, like only a shaman could, and set her down gently in a nearby wicker basket behind the desk, padded with a bright pink silk scarf. Constantine imaged him buying such items, and it made him smile. "Ah, finally!" Midnite turned to him and clapped. "The Great John Constantine is back! I had feared the Mammon incident had been the one case to finally break you."

"After all the shit that's been flung at me, I like to think I'm reinforced. 'Specially since it's killed me... how many times? Gotta be stronger, by now." Papa Midnite nodded sagely, shuffled a stack of battered Tarot cards, drew five face-down onto the green leather-topped desk, settled back into his chair and peered at Constantine knowingly from under his trilby. "How are you now, then?"

Constantine met his gaze and shrugged, "I'll live."