Company We Keep
Disclaimer: I own nothing but a hoard of occult books, some sketchy plants, and vast quantities of Satanic literature. I'm not making any money from this; I simply wanted to bring some darker Chastine fic into the world.
Author's Notes PLEASE READ: MovieVerse, but with a few of the comics' elements thrown in. I moved the setting back to London, as I've never been to L.A. and just can't visualize an American Constantine. Set in the movie but without an exact timeframe; think of it as being an alternate course of events guided by a much more proactive and subversive Midnite. It may be a bit confusing at first, but hopefully any issues will be cleared up as I go along. I also apologize for switching back and forth between British and North American English terminology (i.e. flat for apartment, but trunk instead of boot, etc.). This fic features a mixture of Movie!John and Comics!John and Movie!Chas, as well as Movie!Midnite, just so you know.
Rated for M/M sexual content, non-consensual content, and language. If you don't like M/M (slash) content, don't read. Flames on other topics are highly acceptable, but on this issue, Hellblazer (comics) canon is on my side, in theory at least. So just so everyone's clear: This story contains non-graphic (rated M, not MA) non-consensual sex. It contains non-con in this chapter (chapter 1) and any future chapters containing this will also be noted. If that's not your cup of tea, and I don't blame you if it isn't, don't read this fic.
Chapter One
I'm not safer than a bank, bitch
I'm not safer than a bank, bitch
But I'll tell you this
Because you're bound to find out
Nothing is.
- Matthew Good ("I am not Safer than a Bank")
"This had better not be about tantra," John told Midnite as he fumbled to light his cigarette. He cast a wary glance at Chas, who was pretending not to listen by studiously examining a few artifacts that littered Midnite's office. "Someone always ends up with a wounded look on their face."
Midnite leaned back in his leather armchair, watching the younger man thoughtfully. John looked more haggard each time he saw him. The magician's dark hair was still void of gray, but the lines near his eyes had deepened, and exhaustion was taking its toll on John's normally cocky facade. The witchdoctor toyed idly with a large ruby ring on his index finger before replying. "Wounds heal eventually. And sacrifices have power, John. Every wannabe dark magician with a book and a goat knows that."
John snorted, but his frown returned quickly. "Not him."
"I'm sure the boy knows."
"I meant the supposed sacrifice. The one you're suggesting. It won't be him. Or anyone else, for that matter."
Midnite didn't look the least bit sheepish. "If nothing else, you'll have to train him someday."
"There're others who can teach him that," John hissed, hoping Midnite would take the hint and keep his voice down, or even better, change the topic.
"And they'll benefit from it. You need all the help you can get, John, and there are other places to look for it besides Heaven and Hell."
"It's a cruelty I can spare him, Midnite."
The witchdoctor shook his head, looking for the first time at the seventeen-year-old standing in the corner. Chas was getting taller, and had an awkward charm that endeared him to many. He was currently handling a sixth-century jade dagger like it was something he'd found in a cereal box. Midnite sighed, pulled a key from his pocket, and called Chas over.
"There's a copy of The Goetia of Doctor Rudd on the back wall of the other room there," he gestured to the door nearly behind him. "And a bottle on the smaller table. Bring them to me." Midnite handed over the key. Chas looked at the men suspiciously, but decided to obey without protest (for once, thought John).
"How long is that going to take him?" John finished his cigarette and lit another. "I could've just sent him back to the cab."
"I highly doubt he'll find the Goetia. There's a dozen modern French grimoires in there to distract him."
"And maybe a little Marquis de Sade, in keeping with the tone of our discussion?" The magician snarled, taking a drag on his smoke.
"It doesn't have to be violent, John."
"It always is."
"There are potions that could help."
"If he wants it, it won't work. If he doesn't want it, I'm not involving him. And I won't mess with his head, either."
"Your death will be a great upset to the balance, Constantine."
"Hence the apprentice."
"It won't be enough. Chas will need the initiation eventually, and you could use it to your benefit. If you let yourself die when there is a way to get around it-"
"I'm not raping him!" John bellowed, rising to his feet. He glared at the witchdoctor, who remained seated, insufferably calm. A small noise made them both turn aside.
Chas stood in the doorway, bottle and book in hand, a bewildered expression (carefully manufactured, John guessed) fixed on his face.
"John-" he started.
"Go wait in the cab, Chas."
"But-"
"Get out, Chas. You can take the book. Give me the bottle."
"John, I-"
"Now." John pointed to the exit. Chas slunk away like a kicked puppy.
Midnite cleared his throat. "The boy's psychic abilities are getting more chaotic as he ages. The rite would ground them; give him a chance to gain better control. You could channel the excess power to your lungs, burn out the cancer. He's loyal enough, John, Enough for this."
"It's a betrayal of his trust in me, Midnite."
The witchdoctor stood up, reached over, and tucked the bottle into the inner pocket of John's coat. He chuckled, a rich, honey-coated sound.
"What makes you think he trusts you, Constantine?"
The silence waiting for him in the cab was unsettling. John climbed in and threw a few more books onto Chas' lap. "Compliments of Midnite. A new translation of the Long Lost Friend, the Sethos edition of Azoetia, and Le petit Albert. I'm sure he'll scrounge up the annotated editions of the Kyranides for you eventually."
Chas nodded absently. "Thanks." He started the cab and headed home, lost in thought. The boy stole frequent glances at John in the rearview mirror, looking so often that John finally growled at him to watch the road.
They arrived twenty minutes later at the bowling alley that housed John's flat, still immersed in an uncomfortable quiet. Chas snatched the bag from the trunk and carried it up, clutching his new books under his arm. He didn't look at John.
The magician followed more slowly, dropping his last cigarette and grinding it out under his foot. John unlocked the door, relaxed the wards long enough for them to pass through, and herded Chas inside.
"Be careful with those books. Don't read them aloud."
Chas nodded as though he'd heard, heading for the couch. John poured himself a whiskey, and after a moment's deliberation, poured another for Chas. He took the bottle with him and pulled up a chair beside where Chas sat sprawled on the sofa.
"Here." John handed over the glass.
"Are you dying, John?" Chas didn't look up.
"Thought you knew that already?"
Chas nodded.
John was suddenly angry. "So you asked again, in case the diagnosis changed?"
"I didn't mean it like that," Chas protested, flustered.
"How did you mean it then?"
"Like if it was preventa-"
"Shut up, Chas."
"John, I-"
"Just read the damn book." John picked up the Goetia and flipped it open, shoving it at Chas. "Don't bother to memorize the sigils. Anything like that would have to be double-checked. And don't mess around with this stuff either, or I'll kick your ass. Last thing we need is you making new friends," The tall man gestured to the grimoire and silently congratulated himself on changing the topic, hoping the brat would listen to him.
He poured himself another whiskey, and then another for Chas. John stared into space and Chas stared at the book. Neither spoke. Half an hour later Chas was asleep. John left without covering him with a blanket.
John watched as Chas stirred on the couch. It was just past two in the morning. What was he doing out here? The boy had shrugged off his socks and jeans some time ago, but now was shivering in his t-shirt and boxers. He opened his large, hazel eyes and blinked sleepily.
"What time is it, John?" He moved to get up.
John stopped him, leaning over his apprentice's back and crushing him back down onto the threadbare sofa. John could feel the warmth of the body beneath him; Chas often seemed feverish. John craved warmth like a moth craves a flame; his aching lungs were soothed simply by Chas' presence. The teen smelt like the dust from the sofa, old parchment, and sandalwood incense.
"What the fuck, John?" Chas gasped and squirmed, more irritated and confused than afraid. "Get off me!"
The magician didn't reply. Instead, he flipped the boy onto his back and straddled his hips. His hands slid up under the Sex Pistols t-shirt and tugged it off over Chas' head. Chas took a swing at him, but his heart wasn't in it. He pushed the older man away, sputtering.
"John, this isn't funny. Will you fuck off?"
John leaned over and bit Chas where his neck met his shoulder. Chas froze. The bite became a licking, sucking kiss, extracting a whimper from the apprentice. This is not right, thought John, but he couldn't stop himself. There was blood in his mouth and Chas was struggling again.
"John? Stop it," he pleaded. "Are you on some kind of meds? What are you doing?"
"Shut up, Chas," John muttered, and put all of his weight on the boy, grinding his erection into Chas' groin.
"Fuck, oh fuck no," Chas started to fight again, in earnest this time. He wasn't half as strong as John, and the magician pinned his hands in one of his own, reaching down with the other to unzip his own fly. Chas broke free of the hold and landed a solid punch on John's jaw. The man reeled for a moment, and then backhanded Chas across the face. He ran his hands down the chest of the stunned teen, sliding them over the taut belly and then under the waistband of the boxers.
"John, please…"
"Shut up, Chas." John tugged off the boy's boxers and tossed them aside. He crushed Chas to him, muffling the boy's struggles, forcing him down into the dusty cushions of the sofa. Chas fought. He swore. He thrashed, all knees and elbows and desperation. John, with preternatural strength for a dying man, held Chas down, opening the boy's lower lip with a hard smack to the face. He leaned in, kissed Chas' mouth, tasted blood.
"John." The boy whispered, trying to meet his gaze. "John."
John drove into him. Chas keened in pain, and screamed when John started to move.
"You deserve this, Chas, you whore. You do, you do…"
John awoke with a yell.
He sat up in his bed, drenched in sweat, his sheets twisted around him. Light from the streetlamps shone in through the window. The pain in his lungs was nearly unbearable.
"Fuck." John waited until he could fight down his nausea, then got up and padded softly to what passed for his living room. Chas slept on the couch, snoring softly. The magician sighed and went back to bed.
While reviews are nice, I also appreciate being notified of spelling, grammatical, and continuity errors. Issues as to what Midnite is suggesting will be resolved eventually. All grimoires mentioned actually exist (though I have no comment as to their usefulness), tantra is defined for the purposes of this fic as esoteric sexuality, and the Marquis de Sade is the dude from which we get the term sadism (and sadist, sadomasochist, etc.). But you knew that. Just sayin'.