Disc: I don't claim to own anything to do with John Constantine or Hellblazer comics.
Warnings: slash (Chastine), swearing (lots of), gratuitous sex and a little violence.
A/ns: So, I started this story a few months ago, and am extremely proud of it for the simple reason that it is the only one I've ever actually bothered finishing! As I was proofreading, I realised there a few uncanny similarities to Lady Sapphire Kym's "The Green Exit Sign", but I assure you it is complete coincidence, as I started writing this before you posted yours, so sorry about that. It's my first foray into Constantine fanfiction, so don't be too harsh, and if the sex really is too gratuitous (I just like the word gratuitous) then tell me, don't report me. A super thanks to unscathedmuse for betaing for me.Well, read and enjoy! Oh and review.
"Chicken Licken is minding his own chicken-pecking business one day, when an acorn drops –PLOP- on his head. 'Help,' he cheeps. 'The sky is falling down! I'd better go and tell the king.' And off he scurries." –Traditional Folk Tale
The smoke spread through him like a demon in its own right, uncurling in his lungs as it stretched its translucent fingers into every crevice, leaving no part of him sacred, untouched. Untainted.
Constantine exhaled the smoke, then brought the cigarette back to his lips with fingers that carefully disguised their shaking.
God, he was tired.
That last exorcism had almost finished him off, on a night when the damned had come out to play a little too much for his liking. His fifth. In a row. It was a never a good sign when they all came at once like this, it always led to trouble, which usually led to him doing the impossible to save someone who, more than often, just wasn't that grateful.
Exhale.
He needed a drink.
Or several.
Chas was waiting patiently outside for him, cheek pressed against the window, fast asleep. A lot of use he was.
"Chas."
Constantine banged once on the window, and Chas jumped, mumbling something that couldn't be heard through the glass.
"Wow John," Chas murmured, as Constantine slid into the back seat. "You look like hell."
"Just drive."
Chas drove, and Constantine leant his head back against the seat, closing his eyes, letting the constant stream of chatter from the front lull him into some sort of peaceful awareness. He wasn't sleeping, just letting his mind drift, only partially aware that Chas was driving a little faster than he should be. He wasn't wearing his seatbelt, his hand too weary to reach for the strap.
The guy was drunk, he'd been told afterwards.
Too drunk to notice the red light as he drove straight on at the intersection.
Straight on into Chas's car.
It missed Constantine by inches. Lucky, he'd been told, as he stared down at Chas's still, broken body.
John never had believed in luck.
The other car smashed into them at a careening pace, and Constantine was jolted forward by the impact, aware that the taxi was spinning crazily to the right, the force of the other car carrying them round in a sickening circle, metal crunching and squealing as the front of the taxi closed in on itself.
Then Constantine's forehead hit the back of Chas's seat, and everything went black.
He was only out for a minute or two, and woke to sounds of screams and smoke, the smell of burning rubber and blood filtering into his consciousness.
Everything hurt.
He groaned, trying to gather his perception, gradually aware that he wasn't sitting up right, that he was lying on his side, and no matter how hard he pulled at the door handle, it wasn't going to open.
Clenching his teeth against the pain in his muscles, the sore, raw quality to his skin, he manoeuvred himself towards the other door, the one that was above him when it shouldn't be, and kicked it open, screaming pains shooting up his leg. He pushed, pulled himself out, feet first, until he was standing on the road, clutching at the cab for support as his legs failed him and the world tilted desperately.
Shit.
He vomited, copiously, profusely all over his five hundred dollar suit and only good pair of shoes.
His fingers clutched at the smooth metal of the cab, the only thing keeping him upright, as he was vaguely aware of sirens, his vision flickering like a faulty light bulb.
It was when he tried to take a step that he realised something might be seriously wrong.
He collapsed, knees buckling, shoulder jarring as it hit cold, rain soaked concrete.
He heard someone swearing, then hands were touching his face, holding his wrist.
"Sir, can you hear me?"
Yeah I can hear you. Now please shut up. I have a headache.
"Sir, can you tell me your name? Sir?"
"Constantine," he rasped. "John Constantine." Asshole.
"We've got a head injury over here. Grab the board and a neck brace. Get some oxygen."
His eyes were closed, everything fuzzy, not quite right.
There was something he should be thinking about, something important. Something he definitely should have remembered.
"This one's not looking good. Mary, I think he's DOA."
Who's not looking good?
"Damn it. We'll have to wait for the fire brigade. I'll get this one in the ambulance."
"He only looks about seventeen."
Who's seventeen?
"LA29, this is LA22. We have three victims, two suspected DOAs, one with possible head and spine injury. Requesting assistance."
DOA. That's not good. Whose dead?
"Okay, load him up."
He was being lifted, felt weightless but at the same time never heavier. If he could just open his eyes, but the lids were weighted down, his struggle against them useless.
"Get him an oxygen mask. Come on John, you're gonna be okay."
Am I?
"That poor kid."
Which kid?
"LA central, this is LA22. Bringing in first victim from crash. I repeat, first victim from crash."
He was tired, too tired, more tired than he'd ever been in his life, and he couldn't hold on anymore, let himself slide backwards, hurtling into a blissful, black abyss.
He was screaming, throat burning, as he writhed against restraints pinning him down, down down. They were everywhere, all over him, grasping at him, holding his arms, legs, keeping him captive as he struggled and swore and spat and tried to scratch and hit and punch and kick, but they wouldn't let him. Then there was pain, sharp, sudden, biting, and the pressure was released, but he still couldn't move and then there was nothing.
He was blissful, floating, lost, drifting. He had no concept of time or space.
He didn't even know who he was.
His throat hurt.
It was the first thing he became aware of, before the pain and the bruises and the blinding headache.
His throat was raw.
He opened his eyes, then immediately closed them. When he opened them again, he wished he hadn't.
Gabriel was sitting by his bed.
The androgynous half angel blended in with the walls, wearing a long white shirt and loose, cool trousers. She wasn't wearing shoes. He could see her wings.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
His throat was like sandpaper, his voice strange, scratchy.
She smiled, displaying straight, white teeth. He always saw Gabriel as a she, even in her more masculine moments. Perhaps she thought he would relate to her better this way.
"Looking out for your wellbeing."
He would have laughed if he could. Hell, he would've settled for a smirk.
"Really John," she continued. "One would think you would be glad of the company. You've been in quite the worst shape you know. Screaming, violent. They had to sedate you, and quite heavily, I believe."
She leaned in a little too close.
"Having nightmares, John?"
His lips twisted. Shit, he needed a drink.
"Fuck you."
She laughed, leant back in the chair.
"Oh no, John. It's fuck you, I'm afraid. You are well and truly fucked."
Like he needed her to tell him that.
"Aren't you even going to ask how he is?"
He raised a vaguely questioning eyebrow. Perhaps he could figure out what she was talking about if his head would only stop this fucking pounding.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"You do remember what happened?"
He remembered screeching, pain, puke.
"I remember."
She nodded, apparently satisfied.
"He's going to make it. Just. It was looking more than risky for a moment or two though."
This one's not looking good. Mary, I think he's DOA
"Shit," he whispered.
"Oh don't look so worried." She waved a careless hand in the air. "He'll be fine. Eventually."
"Why don't you just fuck off and die," he snapped.
Perhaps not the best way to handle the situation, but the pounding was getting worse.
"Really, John. That's no way to treat a caring visitor, is it?"
Again, he wished he could laugh.
He was saved from answering by the opening of the door, a quick, gentle squeak.
"Excuse me, but how did you get in here? I'm afraid that only family are allowed to visit this patient."
"I am family," Gabriel lied smoothly. "I'm his sister."
"No she's not."
The young nurse's eyes snapped on to him in surprise.
"Mr Constantine, you're awake!"
She wasted no time, bustling forward, reaching for a glass with a straw in it and placing it against his lips. He drank greedily, desperate for the few sips his aching throat would allow. He wished he could appreciate the view down the neck of her dress a little more.
Gabriel tutted softly, as if knowing what he was thinking.
"You might be in some pain, Mr Constantine, the crash left several bad bruises I'm afraid. I'll see if I can sort you out with some pain relief."
She made to leave but Constantine grabbed at the edge of her skirt.
"I want her to leave," he rasped.
"Really, John," Gabriel said. "Is that any way to speak to your beloved sister?"
"Fuck off," he snarled.
"I'm sorry miss," the nurse intervened. "If the patient wants you to leave, you'll have to go. Sister or not."
"She's not my sister."
Gabriel stood, and for a second John could see her wings flickering as they unfolded themselves.
"Don't worry I'm leaving."
She dropped a cool kiss on his forehead.
"Until next time."
He watched as she walked to the door.
"Oh and John?" She winked. "Get well soon."
Constantine closed his eyes. God, his head hurt.
"Chas," he rasped.
"Shh sweetie," the nurse murmured soothingly. "I'm going to get you some pain relief. I'll be right back."
He tried to reach for her skirt again, but she had moved beyond his grasp, and then she was forcing pills down his throat, and he was feeling drowsy, and he could make out the words "they may send you to sleep for a little while" but was too far gone to connect them to anything and sank gratefully back into anonymity and blackness.
The next time he woke his head was clear.
His throat still hurt, but he now had the presence of mind to reach for the glass by his bed, sipping the water gingerly, aware of the grating pain swallowing caused.
You've been in quite the worst shape you know. Screaming, violent.
Having nightmares, John?
Shit.
He had to get out of here.
He was halfway out of bed when the door opened and a tall man with glasses strode in, clipboard held tightly, brushing against his white coat.
"Ah, Mr Constantine. Glad to see you're awa-"
He stopped, comically, as he saw John, half in, half out of the bed.
"What in the devil do you think you are doing? Get back in that bed immediately."
Constantine froze, half of him wanting to rebel and the other half wanting to obey.
The doctor made the decision for him, pushing him forcefully back onto the bed. So much for dignity.
"You have been in a serious accident, Mr Constantine. You may very well be suffering from the after effects of concussion, due to the sedation we had to give you."
So Gabriel had been right. Damn it.
"How long have I been here?" he rasped.
"Only overnight," the doctor replied, glancing over his notes. "We'd like to keep you one more, just for observation. You'll be absolutely fine, though rather sore for a while."
"Chas. The kid…guy I was brought in with. Is he okay?"
He tried not to let any emotion show. Gabriel was known to be less than truthful at times.
This one's not looking good. Mary, I think he's DOA
The doctor gave him a slightly suspicious look.
"Are you a relative?"
"No I'm…we, uh, live together."
Oh shit.
The doctor's eyebrows rose, hiding behind the frames of his glasses.
"But you're not a relative."
"We're together," Constantine blurted. "We're, uh, partners."
Double shit. Bloody fucking hell.
The eyebrows appeared over the frames this time.
"I see," he said. "Well, I can see if I can get you an update on him."
Constantine blew out, slowly.
"He's not dead then?"
The doctor looked surprised. "Of course not."
Constantine nodded, slowly.
The doctor still looked suspicious.
"I, uh, can I see him?" he improvised. It sounded like something a worried lover would say. He was definitely in over his head.
"Perhaps I should get you an update on his condition first. I'll be right back."
Constantine waited, eyes slit towards the dirty window, and wondered what the fuck he'd just done.
"Well, the prognosis isn't good."
The doctor was back. Constantine hadn't even heard him come in.
"Chas was very seriously injured. He banged his nose against the steering wheel in the crash, and because there was no air bag," he said this as if it was John's fault "the impact was quite heavy. Several shards of bone were driven backwards into the brain. The surgeons were able to extract them, but unfortunately his nose could not be saved."
Constantine blinked. He imagined what Chas would look like with no nose.
"They have reconstructed as close to the original as possible, but Chas will be in pain for quite a while. He has three broken ribs, all on his left side and a nastily sprained ankle where it was trapped under one of the pedals. A miracle it wasn't broken really."
A miracle. Yeah, right.
"Can I see him?" he asked again. It sounded better this time. More concerned.
The doctor nodded slowly.
"He's out of surgery, but you must understand Mr Constantine –John- that Chas's condition is very serious. He hasn't woken up yet. We're not entirely sure he will."
Constantine blinked. Shit.
He prepared to slip out of bed, but the doctor held up a hand. "I don't think so. Hospital policy states that we take you in this."
He gestured to a wheelchair sitting in the doorway, blocking his escape like a squat, fat instrument of torture.
"I'm not a cripple."
"No one is suggesting you are, but for the safety of all our patients, we insist."
"No."
The doctor shrugged.
"Suit yourself."
Constantine decided that he must really like Chas, five minutes later, as he was wheeled into the lift and then out again on the fifth floor. Not even the pretty blonde nurse pushing him could suffice for this sort of embarrassment.
Chas was pale and still, body broken on the white sheets.
"You were lucky," the nurse said. "The car missed your half by a couple of inches. The front bore the full blast."
He turned dead, cold eyes on her, and she didn't try and stop him when he got up, kicking the damn chair aside.
Chas's face was bandaged, and he remembered bitterly what the doctor had said about reconstructing his nose.
He reached out a shaking hand before he could stop himself, brushing Chas's brown curls away from the too white bandages that blended into the too pale skin.
"I'm sure he'll be okay," the nurse volunteered from behind him. "You see. You'll be able to take him home in a week."
He wished she would leave.
He turned abruptly away, striding to the door trying to put as much distance between Chas and himself.
"The other driver? Did they find him?" 'Cause I'm going to kick his ass.
The nurse nodded, looking sagely at him from beside Chas's bed.
"He wasn't wearing a seat belt and was thrown through the windscreen. Killed himself instantly. He was drunk," she added, as if that made all the difference.
"Bastard," he hissed.
If the nurse was surprised by his display of language, she didn't show it.
She backed away, though, when he went back towards the bed. She was afraid of him.
He ignored her.
"Come on you little asshole," he whispered. "You can't die like this. Fucking wake up."
He closed his eyes.
"Mr Constantine?"
He flinched slightly as the nurse touched his shoulder.
"We should get you back to bed."
How long had he been standing there?
He didn't protest, not even when she directed him to the wheelchair.
He didn't look at Chas when they left the room.
It was on the fifth day that Chas woke.
Constantine was half asleep, one hand thrown over his eyes, a bottle of whisky perched on his chest (he'd abandoned the glass some time ago) when the phone rang, startling him from the sleepy haze the prescribed painkillers put him into.
Ten minutes later, he was in a taxi.
Constantine hated taxis, mainly because whenever Chas wasn't driving he had to pay, and the cab drivers always tried to make mindless small talk.
John was not a fan of the mindless small talk.
Plus he was trying to figure out exactly what he was supposed to do with Chas. He couldn't actually take him home, could he? Where would he sleep? Constantine only had one bed, and he would loathe to give it up. Maybe he could put him in the bathtub?
The nurses offered him kind smiles when he approached Chas's room, and the doctors explained that Chas would probably be confused, vague, he might not yet recognise John.
The bandages were still on.
"Hey kid," he murmured, and Chas's eyes fluttered open, fixing him with a surprisingly clear stare.
"Constantine."
John blinked, surprised by the cold formality in his tone.
Chas smiled, but it didn't look right, didn't reach his eyes.
Something was wrong.
"Surprised you came," Chas said. His voice sounded rough, unused.
"Of course I came." Was that was wrong? Had Chas expected John to just abandon him?
Chas just stared at him.
Constantine was starting to feel uncomfortable. He was aware of the nurse watching them, eyes suspicious.
Stifling a cough, he reached a hand out to touch Chas's hair.
Chas jerked his head to the side, then hissed in pain.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Constantine snapped.
"What's wrong with you?" Chas snapped back.
Constantine glanced quickly at the nurse, then shifted closer, leaning towards the bed.
"Look kid," he murmured, voice low. "I just came to see how you are."
"Then why are you acting so fucking weird?"
"I'm not!"
He stopped, took a deep breath, wished for a cigarette.
"Chas, I need to call your parents. Do you have their number?"
Chas had gone very still. Constantine suddenly had the feeling he'd done something very, very wrong.
"Fuck you," Chas hissed.
He closed his eyes.
The nurse, sensing something was amiss, swept over, taking Constantine by the arm.
"That's enough now. Chas needs his rest."
"I'll come back tomorrow," Constantine said, eyes fixed on Chas.
"Don't bother," Chas snapped.
"You should really leave now." The nurse was still tugging on his arm.
Constantine turned and walked away, deciding that the little fucker could definitely sleep in the bathtub.
It was another week before Chas could go home.
Constantine spent that time smoking, drinking and re-arranging the furniture into some sort of semblance of practicality.
The problem was, the only couch he owned was a short, antique hard back that wasn't exactly sleeping material, and he had no comfortable chairs to speak of. His entire apartment was impractical, he realised, as he stared around the large, single room. It had never bothered him before, the fact that most of it was taken by his huge, long dining table, or that he'd never gotten round to putting a curtain around his bed, at the far side. He'd never been concerned with the fact that his bathroom was only a green glass sliding door, and perfectly transparent. It had never mattered before.
But now, with the prospect of living with someone else, it occurred to John just how ridiculous his apartment was. Why did he have such a giant table? It wasn't like anyone ever came to eat there.
Food. That was another inconvenience. For someone who had spent a large proportion of his life ordering last minute take out, the prospect of actually filling his cupboards was not a thrilling one. He had braved the convenience store at a quarter to midnight, shoving chips, fruit and ice cream into his basket, feeling like an obvious fraud, having no idea what the staple foods one should have in one's cupboards were.
God, he was out of touch.
He moved the sofa from the side of his bed and set it up next to one of the huge, square windows that lined his apartment, and then carefully arranged upon it the new bedding he'd bought.
He stared at for a few moments, then grabbed his wallet and keys and went to buy an air mattress.
Chas didn't look impressed when Constantine arrived to pick him up from the hospital.
His eyes were lost and vacant as he stared straight ahead, small and hunched over in his wheelchair. John was barely acknowledged.
The bandages had finally come off, and his nose was swollen and purple, looking monstrous and deformed on the slightly scarred face. There were several heavy, black stitches that lined the cuts; they would have to come out in a week, the doctor said.
Constantine took the wheelchair and pushed him to the parking lot, where he hailed another taxi.
Chas was costing him a fortune.
Constantine helped him into the vehicle, aware that Chas was still in great pain, then slid onto the backseat beside him. He left the wheel chair on the sidewalk.
He studied Chas on the silent journey home, aware that something wasn't quite right, though he couldn't put his finger on what it was. The blankness in Chas's eyes, it was eerie, worrying. Perhaps he was still in some sort of shock from the accident.
When the cab pulled up outside the bowling alley, Constantine paid up, reluctantly, and picked Chas's light bag up from in between them.
He didn't offer Chas any assistance this time, having the feeling that Chas would ask for him if he was needed.
He wasn't.
Chas didn't speak a word as they went into the apartment, and John found himself unaccountably nervous (which never happened to him, especially when it was about Chas) and began to babble, or as close to babbling as he could actually do.
"Sorry about the mattress, but I thought it looked better than my couch. Are you hungry? I got some food in, though I don't really know what you like, but I can get you something else, if you want…" He trailed off, uncertain how to act, only certain that neither of them were themselves.
"I'd like a bath." Chas's voice was flat, dead.
"Yeah, sure. Do you need any, uh, help?" Constantine really hoped he wouldn't.
"No."
Chas walked across to the green sliding door without even looking at him, then closed it with a loud snap.
John closed his eyes and counted to ten.
He thought about his bathtub, wide, flat bottomed and old fashioned. So old, in fact, that the plug and taps were in the middle, as opposed to either end.
It probably would have made a perfectly adequate bed.
"You're not right."
Chas looked up in deadened surprise, his fork trailing absently in his mushu pork.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"Stop fucking around Chas. You hardly talk, you haven't eaten all week. There's something wrong with you. What the hell is it? Do you need to go back to the hospital? Did they leave a bit of nose in your brain?"
Chas flinched slightly, and John saw a flare of anger in his eyes.
Good.
"You're becoming pathetic. You sleep all day. You sit doing nothing all night. You're becoming a fucking burden."
The anger was growing now; Constantine could see his entire body stiffening in indignation.
"But I suppose you only have yourself to blame. After all, you were the one who crashed the fucking car in the first place."
Chas broke.
He flew at Constantine, his plate crashing to the floor and splintering, mushu pork splattering in all directions. He pushed Constantine backwards, knocking him clean off his chair, hands wrapped around his throat in a death grip, eyes bulging.
"Shut up! Fucking shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
He was crying, tears pouring down his face, without even seeming to notice. He was squeezing John's throat as if it was his last grip on sanity.
John brought his hands up slowly, firmly loosening Chas's grip, pulling the hands away from his throat.
For a moment Chas tried to struggle, then collapsed suddenly onto his chest, sobbing in earnest, the mad anger that had possessed him only moments before leaving in a breath.
John didn't speak, just held his hands steadily, let him cry it all out, until eventually he stopped, the sobs subsiding to brief shakes then stillness.
Neither of them moved.
Just when John was sure Chas must have drifted off, Chas lifted his head, eyes locking onto John's, their message and intent very clear.
There was a tangible shift of tension.
"Fuck," John whispered.
Then Chas was kissing him, rough, powerful, unforgiving, his fingers winding in John's hair, pulling harshly on the short strands, then moving down his chest, ripping at his shirt, leg pushed in between John's, mouth pinning him to the floor, reaching for his belt.
And John, God help him, let him.