Nightwalker

She looked like a prostitute, she was certain of it. When she'd put on the short skirt and black corset-like top earlier that evening, she'd somehow fooled herself into thinking she looked sexy and desirable…but now, looking at her rippled reflection in a darkened shop window, there was no getting around it easily. Especially with the heeled boots, she looked like a whore. Angela Dodson mentally kicked herself, and, for about the ten-thousandth time that night, wondered what had possessed her to go out and try to live a life she, frankly, didn't care about. What had driven her to stop in at Midnite's, let some sleazy half-breeds buy her a couple of drinks, leading to her eventual tipsy-ness? She, actually, had no idea. And as she swayed lightly on the stiletto heels of her boots, steadying herself against the shop window, she was beginning to realize why she didn't drink, why she didn't go out, and why she actually enjoyed curling up with Duck and some decent reading material in the evenings. So what had possessed her to go out tonight?

Goddamn, John Constantine, goddamn you.

No, not that name. Not that brooding man, not that handsome face, not that striking frame, not that ashen voice, not John Constantine. No, she had gone out to see what it was like, experience new things—hell, she was almost thirty, she might as well try to live life as she could. Why this night, of all nights? Why this eerie dark—made even more so by the wispy clouds sweeping away the moon and the silent streets of LA only punctuated by the click of her heels on pavement. Why this night had she chosen to have a life?

Because she felt alone, that's why. Because it was six months, six months since she'd seen her sister breathe, six months since Isabel had spoken to her. Six months. Almost like a twisted anniversary of sorts, the six-month anniversary of Isabel's death. And Angela Dodson, for the first time in her life, had taken the time out of her busy, important schedule to find that she was truly alone.

It had not been six months since she'd seen John Constantine. I'll see you around. I'll see you around. That's what he'd said, and he'd sounded like he meant it. And, to his credit, perhaps he had. Perhaps he'd wanted to see her, sometime, off the job—but it wasn't easy, dropping your walls for the first pretty girl that walks by, or so she'd assumed. So they'd met, they'd met a couple of times. A coffee break here, a lunch date there…but it had been strained. And reluctant. It was the reluctance, not the strain, which Angela couldn't deal with. And so she'd been the one to leave the relationship—if you could even call it that. On the third tense luncheon they'd had, she'd gotten up and left after thirty minutes of sensing how much John really hadn't wanted to be there. And he hadn't come after her, and he hadn't contacted her. And so, other than her colleagues…she was truly alone.

Goddamn, Constantine, goddamn you.

But truly, it wasn't John Constantine that had possessed her to go out tonight, it was a combination of the loneliness, desire to prove her…life, perhaps, and maybe a teensy bit John Constantine. And now, she was tipsy, she looked like a prostitute, and she was walking home.

Angela pushed herself away from the glass window of the shop and continued down the sidewalk, ignoring the sleeping homeless and shady dealers. It was dark and mostly silent. A couple of sirens sounded foggily, racing—she figured—down one of the boulevards. Subconsciously she reached for her gun—which, of course, she didn't have with her, as this outfit didn't quite befit such a weapon—before crossing her arms in front of her chest. She was not only beginning to realize why she, as a person, did not enjoy going out…but also how stupid she really had been. She looked like a streetwalker, she didn't have her gun, and she was walking home at three o'clock in the morning. Oh yes, and she was tipsy. And she was getting more than just a little…jumpy.

Something scraped on the pavement behind her, and she jolted ever so slightly. Don't turn, she muttered silently to herself, don't turn, it's probably just a homeless person.Keep walking, everything is fine.

"Well hello there, Miss…" The voice was deep and gravelly, and Angela started, "How are we doing tonight? What's your price, little thing?"

Angela didn't turn, but kept walking, "Now, Miss, that's not so very courteous of you. How's about you let me take you home?"

Keep walking, everything is fine.

Something grabbed her arm—most likely, the owner of the gravelly voice—"Now, Miss, I don't take kindly to rude ones…"

She decided perhaps vocalization was in order, "Get off me."

"Oh, Miss, you don't mean that. Let me take you home, baby."

"No, get off me!" Angela turned into a stink of stale breath and rotting teeth. The man was shadowy, but she could make out an approximately six-foot frame and larger biceps than she could hope to counteract. He swayed in the moonlight, and she made a mental note of his less sober state than her. But, being a policewoman didn't come without its perks and kick-ass abilities, so she decided to vocalize one more time, "Let go of me!"

"No, Miss, I think you need to come home with me…" His teeth glinted in the moonlight, in a strangely feral grin.

"Goddamn, let go of me!" Angela yelled. She kicked, upward, and he used her momentum to twist her into his arms. One forearm braced against her chest and the other hand still gripped her wrist.

"Fucking ho, you don't say no to me!"

Angela struggled, digging her elbow back and upward into what she hoped was his spleen, or lungs, or at least diaphragm. He wheezed briefly, but did not let go, "Fuck!" His grip around her chest tightened, and he released her arm for a second. She used this moment to try to twist out of his grip, but as she brought her arm up a sharp pain gouged into her shoulder.

"Shit," she whispered, still struggling as it became increasingly hard to breathe against his death grip on her chest, "Let me fucking go!" Goddamn him, he had a knife. And not some wussy pocket-knife, judging by the stinging pain in her shoulder where he had nicked her in getting it out.

"No, Miss," he pressed the knife against her cheek, "No, I think I'll be calling the shots."

Goddamn, John Constantine, goddamn you.

Fuck, leave it to her delusional mind to think of John Constantine in a truly life or death situation. Angela whimpered, as her air was still being pressed out of her lungs. "Please," she tried, "Please?"

The man chuckled—a sadistic, gravelly laugh, and pressed her harder against him, "No." He whispered.

There was a cough in the background. Someone clearing their throat, and Angela tried desperately to look around for someone who might help her. She could see nothing, just the desolate street and fuzzy black spots dancing through her vision from the lack of oxygen.

"I believe the lady asked you to let her go." The voice was rough, ashy, and the man holding her turned toward the sound.

"Get yer own whore!" Angela could hear the sneer in his voice, "This one's taken."

The other voice was cynical and hard, "I'm sorry…I'm afraid I have to cater to the lady's request."

The man holding her barked a laugh, a sound that was disgustingly close to an animalistic growl, "Yeah right."

The other voice continued, "Because you see…you are in violation of the balance. And as much as I think the balance is bullshit, I have no problem sending you straight back to where you came from."

Angela's vision was fading, and the voices were only distant murmurs now. She was sinking into unconsciousness, and all she could think about was how the other voice sounded a hell of a lot like Mr. Constantine.

John sneered at the half-breed holding Angela. It was tough, he would give it that, but it was also weighing the options in its mind. And the knife was still far too close to Angela's throat for his comfort. The half-breed licked its lips and grunted defiantly. John shrugged.

Smash.

The tinkle of glass. The clattering of the knife to the broken pavement. The hiss of steam coming from the half-breed's neck. The crumple of Angela, almost unconscious, to the ground. The half-breed stumbled backward, one hand clasped to its neck, where John had just smashed a vial of holy water. In sick fascination, it drew its fingers away, bringing strings of tendons and melted skin with it. It sneered, and leapt up and over John in an unearthly motion.

John whirled as the creature sprung up over his head, and pulled out his trusty holy shotgun, "And what might your name be, you piece of shit?"

The half-breed allowed itself to drop from the ledge back to the ground, still holding its neck with one hand. It smirked, "Agramon."

John smirked back, "Oh good. It's nice to meet you. I'm Constantine. John Constantine, asshole."

And with one shot, the half-breed's head was oblivion.

John fingered the shotgun, "Messy." He muttered to himself.

"John?"

John whirled, he'd nearly forgotten the reason he was here in the first place, "Angela." His voice was flat.

"John…I…uh…" Angela picked herself up off the ground.

John rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and stared at some point just over her shoulder, "I know. Thank you. I know."

"Yeah. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Angela shifted nervously on her stilettos, "Would you…um…would you walk me home?"

John shrugged, and let the shotgun drop to his side. They started walking. She only lived a couple of blocks away. They stopped in front of her building, and John stood awkwardly with his hands in his pockets.

"Um…bye, then. Thank you again. Bye. I'll…I'll see you around." Angela mentally kicked herself for ending that line so lamely. John nodded, "I'd like that."

Angela sighed, this relationship was really not meant to be, "Yeah. Right."

She turned to her door, and John caught her wrist as she brought the key up, "No, Angela," his voice was barely a whisper, "I'd really, really like that." She turned to him, and stared into his chest. His hand moved from her wrist to her chin, and he tilted her face upward. Slowly, very slowly, he pressed a kiss to her lips.

His arms moved to her waist, and she stood there in shock. He pulled back, "Angela, I…can't lose this. Us. You." He was almost stuttering, and she was still in shock. He bent down again, and this time she responded, melding her lips to his. She pressed into him, melting in the fire and possession of his kiss.

"John," she whispered, "John, I…" He cut her off with a fiercer kiss, this time, possessiveness seeping in. Had he not been holding her up, she would have fallen, "John, I…"

"Angela." His tone was serious and she met his dark eyes.

"Yes, John?"

His fingers were moving over her body, his hands playing with her hair, her face, roaming her back, and she couldn't concentrate, "Angela, what the fuck were you doing out at three am, wearing that?"

She narrowed her eyes as he punctuated his statement with a kiss, "John Constantine! I'll have you know that I am an independent woman and can—" He cut her off once more with a kiss, another melting, dizzying kiss. She couldn't remember what she was berating him for as she lost herself in the heat.

Goddamn, John Constantine, goddamn you.

Fin.