Author's Note: This is a creepy little oneshot that wouldn't leave me alone. It was born in less than an hour and pretty much wrote itself. Blame a weird combination of Gregory Maguire, John le Carre, and Thornton Wilder. Make of it what you will.
Several hours outside of the city, there is a lake. Not a retention pond disguised as valuable real-estate like you see all the time in overly-civilized areas, a real authentic lake, dark and shimmering and miraculously undefiled by the world that goes on parallel to it. There are no signs of life except a single dock, pushing out into the water like a proverbial thorn. There is a scent of something vaguely tangy in the air, something just past its prime but not quite rancid. It is a full moon, and the surface of the lake should be placid, but somehow is not. The water seems to move constantly, though there is no wind. It is unsettling, but not quite frightening. A land of indecision.
Angela walks instinctively on tiptoe, afraid to let the soles of her sneakers make too much noise. She clutches the note in one hand so tight that her knuckles are as white as moonlight and the paper crumples desperately. The dock creaks under her feet as she steps onto it, and she wonders for a moment if this might be a trap. There is a stillness in the air, a holding of breath, it seems. Only the water moves, roiling on beneath the ghostly globe of the moon. Angela keeps her gaze straight forward as she sits beside the dock's other occupant, letting her feet hang over the edge though it feels as though something might come out of the water at any second. For a moment the silence is too thick to speak.
"Thought you weren't coming," he says at last, voice low with an emotion she cannot name.
"I got lost."
Constantine chuckles way back in his throat, almost a growl. "Guess I did better than I thought."
Angela looks down at her hands, which are habitually clasped in her lap, still grasping the remaining shreds of the note. Her fingers toy with the paper, though her mind registers nothing of movement in her body. Strangely, she notices that the clear nail polish she always wears is especially chipped tonight. In the water something is moving close to the dock. For a moment she is sure she can see something just below the surface, something white and shimmering. But then it is gone, and she is equally sure she has only seen the moon's reflection.
"Are you trying to hide?" she asks, resisting the urge to pull back her legs. The last thing she wants is to appear weak in front of him. Despite all her efforts to let go, she finds herself still feeling something toward him, though she cannot decide whether it is anger or sadness. The thoughts swirling around the vortex that is John Constantine in her mind have become confused long ago.
"From you?" He takes a breath, and suddenly Angela wants to look at him. She picks a spot in the center of the lake and glues her eyes to it instead.
"From anyone."
"From myself," he says at last, though she is not sure whether this is a statement or a question.
Far off in the brush that surrounds the lake, an animal howls. It is a hollow, lonely sound, and Angela shivers, losing her resolve. She gets the sudden image of a mother, an old woman, crying over the small coldness of a stillborn child. She is not sure what has conjured the sight, whether it is her own or something superimposed on hers by the elements.
"You never told me why you left." Her voice seems to slice through the thickness that is the air. She turns at last, forcing herself to take him in objectively. A crime scene. A piece of evidence. Not the crucial piece of her she has come to regard him as. He looks older, and she finds she has to remind herself that of course this stands to reason. Even the strongest memory cannot erase ten years. There is something about his eyes, a little spark behind the wall of apathy that gives her reason to hope. For what, she can't be sure.
"I realized something. Something I should've seen a long time ago." He looks at her for a moment, and his gaze sends a chill through her body.
"What?" Angela has the sudden urge to put a hand on his shoulder, but something holds her back. Memories come flooding up from the depths of banishment, his smell and touch and sound. It's all different now, though she can't put her finger on why.
"You wouldn't understand." This completely sincere. The scathing sarcasm missing from his entire persona. Angela shivers again and crosses her arms over her chest, holding her jacket closed. She doesn't attempt to pry further.
"Then…why did you…?" She looks down at the shreds of the note, silently lets them fall into the lake. They sink slowly, blackening as the water takes them under its wing.
Constantine says nothing. In the water just off the dock, the movement has grown more distinct. As the moon reaches its zenith, the water suddenly seems more clear. Angela finds herself leaning over, straining to get a better look and freezing in horror at the same time. All her senses tingle with experienced perception, and the guttural part of her knows what is coming next.
A silvery shoulder breaks the water first, followed by a head framed in white-gold locks and a pair of piercing blue eyes. Several more. A man, thin and flea-bitten. A woman, beautifully dark and green-eyed. Dozens more. Children. Two young lovers, frolicking in a silvery lake beneath the full moon.
As they move nearer the dock, Constantine acknowledges the ghosts, nodding to each in turn. As Angela watches they move up and onto the wooden planks, engulfing him with their ethereal wisdom. Constantine smiles and lets his eyes fall closed, looking more peaceful than she has ever seen him.
Silently, Angela gets to her feet and goes back the way she came. The dock creaks again, and it sounds like the only noise for miles. As she climbs into her car her entire body still tingles with the energy of what she has just witnessed. For a long time she allows herself to feel nothing.
A long while later, when she is across the lake, Angela looks back. The ghosts are dancing now, embracing their master it seems. Silently, she nods to herself. He isn't one of them, at least not yet. But she knows it with a certainty she has never felt before.
John Constantine has at last found a home.
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