Understanding

Alone.

It was a Saturday evening and Renée Chandler had once again been left to watch over Geraldine by herself. Though her sort-of-not-quite-ex-husband had been spending more time at home of late; after that thing with Faust or whatever his name was, they were together again, but he was still absent for large amounts of time. At least this time she knew where he was, helping some mutual friends finish moving, rather than the usual, less pleasant alternative; that being fighting supernatural entities with a truly obnoxious Englishman who Renée still wasn't comfortable around. Sure, she understood why he did what he did and was the way he was much better now however that didn't mean she approved of his reckless attitude and often abrasive personality.

No, tonight she didn't have to worry about what might have been happening to Chas, short of his possibly getting squashed by homicidal furniture. She could curl up quite happily with a glass of wine and watch Orange is the New Black without that nagging concern in the back of her head that maybe this time he wouldn't come back. Either dying for good, or leaving her for a more interesting life. And even though she knew he would never do that, it didn't stop her worrying about him.

Just as she pressed play, however, there was a knock at the door. Mildly irritated, she paused the episode and went to answer it. Who could it be at this time, almost eleven o'clock? Opening the door, she prepared for late-night fanatics, trying to convert her, insomniac sales-people trying to foist some junk on her, or maybe some guy bringing pizza to the wrong address, or hell, even Father Christmas, anyone, anyone but a bloody and battered John Constantine, nose dripping, eyes swollen, painful smirk on his face.

"Alright luv? 's Chas in?"

"Jesus Christ what the hell happened?" Renée took in the injuries of the man before her. There was a cut by his left eye, joining the steady nosebleed trickling down his face. He was slumped over more than usual, shifting from foot to foot as if it hurt to put weight on either for any length of time. His clothing was in disarray, not abnormal for him, but worse, white shirt stained with blood.

"Doesn't matter. 's Chas in?" he repeated the question, more insistent. Desperate, even. Renée shook her head, about to explain where her husband was but John smiled a forced grin. "Never mind then." he turned away, starting to limp off. Renée sighed, putting on the nearest pair of shoes and going after him.

"Wait," she said, taking him by the arm, surprised when he leant on her and didn't pull away. "You're in no state to go wandering off on your own. You need to see a doctor."

"People've been saying that to me for a long time," he chuckled darkly as she guided him inside. "I'll be fine."

He fumbled as he tried to bend down and remove his shoes, swearing as he did so. Renée glared, a pointed look John carefully elected to ignore. If anyone was good at ignoring other people, it was him. Somehow he managed to remove his shoes and made it into the living room, where he promptly collapsed on the sofa and began reaching for a cigarette box that Renée snatched away from him.

"No smoking in this house."

"Bollocks."

"And no swearing either," Renée met the exorcist's glare of hatred with ease. She hadn't grown up with three brothers for nothing. "Geraldine's sleeping upstairs and I don't want her picking up any more words from you. Not after she told her principal to 'sod off'. They had to google what it meant. I was called into school and completely humiliated."

John laughed again, coughing as he did so, blood. He was coughing blood. Quickly he wiped it away, pretending it had never been there but Renée wasn't stupid, even if he was. She stood up to go and call an ambulance. Before she could get to the telephone, the idiot started trying to speak.

"D'you, d'you have anythingto drink?" he managed, after a few uncertain starts.

"Yes. Water." Renée said firmly. There was only one way to deal with somebody like this, and that was to set ground rules and stick to them. Worse than a child, he was.

"It's a fucking totalitarian prison innit? Worse than bloody hospital. At least they give you painkillers there even if they are a bunch of wankers."

"Language." snapped Renée

"English." retorted Constantine, coughing again.

"I'm going to call an ambulance now."

"No," John said, breathing raggedly, voice trailing off. "Please Renée?" he begged.

It was possibly the first time she'd ever heard John ask for anything politely. Please he'd said, he'd actually said please, through choking breaths, best approximation of puppy dog eyes he was capable of on his face. Normally that wouldn't work on Renée, but in his pitiful state it made her feel unbearably sorry for the broken man on her sofa. All of his defences were down, arrogance and smirk wiped clean away, replaced with wounds and blood and probable broken ribs and fear. And she decided just this once to relent, to go and fetch him a drink. God knew he needed it.

When she got back into the living room, beer in hand, she found he had passed out from the pain or from exhaustion – how exactly had he got here? - either/or. At first she stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do, then she called, or tried to call, Chas. No answer. It looked like she was in this on her own. She headed upstairs to get a damp cloth to clean some of the blood off, and a blanket in the probable event of him staying the night. As she rant the tap, she heard Geraldine getting out of bed.

"Mommy? What's going on?"

"Nothing sweetie," Renée lied.

The confused, sleepy little girl blinked a few times, rubbing her eyes. "I thought I heard you and Uncle John arguing."

Uncle John. No matter how much Renée had tried to discourage her daughter from using that affectionate term of address, Geraldine had continued. Uncle John. Geraldine was so innocent, could only see good in the man despite everything. It had been harder for Renée to even acknowledge John as Chas' closest friend, much less accept it. To give up trying to persuade her husband to keep away from his dangerous companion. But now she could see something quite clear and that was that John needed Chas to keep him safe. Otherwise he'd collapse on your sofa in a heap, bleeding and swearing and trembling. He really was a complete idiot, what else could he be? It was just who he was. And there was nothing she could do about that.

Renée sent her daughter to bed and headed back downstairs with a cloth and a blanket. John was still asleep, if you could call that sleep. Taking the cloth, she bathed the wounds around his eyes, cleaning some of the dried blood from his nose, which had stopped bleeding at last. Swollen, purple bruises were becoming visible now. They looked painful, tender to the touch and dark in colour, but John didn't wake as she washed his face. When she was done she set about removing that horrible scruffy coat he always wore, which smelt as though it hadn't been washed in years. Probably hadn't. That was going in the wash whether he liked it or not. Then, and she was hesitant about this, she removed his shirt. Under the numerous bruises she could see his tattoos, on his arms and chest. Not that she was an expert, but it felt like there were broken ribs. Were there? Maybe, maybe not. If he was lucky, he might have escaped relatively unscathed insofar as broken bones were concerned. How could she tell if he wouldn't let her call 911 for him? Forget that, she wasn't about to let anyone, not even John freaking Constantine, die on her sofa, under her watch. She was calling an ambulance for him and he couldn't stop her. Putting the blanket over him, she was just dialling the number when something stopped her abruptly.

Movement. A murmur. A whimper. Incoherent mumbling. Startled, she pulled back, thinking he was awake, but then she realised he was only dreaming. A dream? No, a nightmare. Tossing and turning, which couldn't be doing him any good at all. She tried to quieten him, but the dream seemed to only get more frantic, more terrifying.

"No..." he moaned. "No!" sitting up, bolt upright, throwing the blanket off himself. He saw Renée leaning over him and jumped. "Christ on a fucking bike Renée you scared the shit out of me!"

"Are you okay?" she ventured, eyeing him cautiously as he reached for the beer she had left by the sofa.

Ignoring her, he took a sip and smirked. "Someone was keen to get me out my clothes. Always knew you secretly fancied me."

Under any other circumstances that would have earned him a slap. But right here, right now, they reminded Renée of something Chas had said, once. Something she now recognised to be true.

John uses humour to deflect from his emotions. He tries to piss you off intentionally because he can't deal with his own shit and hates relying on anyone else. He can be a genuine bastard sometimes but others he's hiding something.

"Bullshit." Renée snapped.

"You mind your language luv." sniggered John as if he was the cleverest, wittiest man alive and hadn't had the shit kicked out of him earlier in the evening. "Geraldine could be listening."

"I know you're not okay. Chas has told me what you're like."

The exorcist, demonologist and all-around asshole snorted. "Chas should learn to keep his gob shut."

"That's my husband you're talking about." Renée bristled defensively, forgetting the fact they were legally speaking, still separated.

"Yeah? He's me best mate, I've known him longer than you have." John responded, almost competitively. God, he was such a child, needy, jealous and ridiculously stubborn. Then he seemed to deflate, slowing down, switching tracks from defiant and obnoxious to melancholy. "He's my only real friend left, isn't he?"

"What about that Zed girl? She seemed nice."

So nice that Renée had told her to stay away from John Constantine for her own good. Had she heeded the warning? Had she left him? There was a time when that knowledge would have made Renée feel content but that time had long since passed, replaced by this awful situation with a half-naked Constantine on her sofa. She put the blanket back over him and he grunted non-committally.

"Got her policeman boyfriend to run off with now hasn't she. Only a matter of time. Everyone leaves, or dies, 'cept Chas and no offence luv, he's a right idiot sometimes. Bloody awful taste in friends."

For years – yes, it had been years – Renée had thought her husband was exaggerating John's issues. Had thought the other man was attention seeking if nothing else. Faced with the true extent of his self-loathing, she was having to re-evaluate previous encounters, things he had said at the time which had sounded arrogant but in retrospect carried the weight of his seemingly endless problems.

"Chas is your friend. God knows I've disapproved of that at times, but the point is, he really cares about you." Renée had never known why Chas took the interest he did in John's welfare but now she was starting to understand.

"More fool him." John muttered, staring up at the ceiling, beer drunk and discarded. He still seemed shaken from his nightmare.

"You have a lot of bad dreams don't you?" she wasn't sure why she asked. Concern, most like. He nodded, blinking rapidly in the desperate pretence that he was noton the verge of tears. "What did you-" she cut off, realising she probably – definitely – didn't want to know.

The injured man answered tonelessly. "I saw Chas and Zed and you and Geraldine and-" he stopped, words sticking in his throat. "Astra. I saw you all dead, Renée. Cut up into little pieces and I was the one holding the knife. It was my fault."

He was opening up to her, which suggested possible concussion if Renée was being honest, since she couldn't imagine any other time he would talk so openly. It was hard to see someone who seemed so confident become so vulnerable. The weight of that trust was almost impossible to bear, and she had to wipe tears from her eyes while he wasn't looking. These dreams, these horrific things; he saw them every time he closed his eyes. No wonder he drank so much. No wonder he smoked the amount he did. No wonder his entire life seemed like a quest to destroy himself – because every time he fell asleep, this happened.

It was then that her cell rang, Chas at last. John didn't seem to notice, just continued staring up at the ceiling. Stepping into the hallway and closing the door as quietly as possible, she answered.

"Renée. I'm so sorry I missed you call earlier. Is everything okay. You and Geraldine, you're both okay?"

"Yeah, Chas, we're fine. It's just..." Where to start? "John Constantine is semi-conscious on our sofa. He's in a bad way but he won't let me call an ambulance." she lowered her voice. "I think he was in a fight."

"Jesus Christ I'll be right there." said Chas, hanging up immediately. Leaving Renée alone again. Dammit. And then Geraldine decided to come downstairs at which point Renée gave up and decided to prepare some milk and cookies for a midnight snack that Geraldine insisted she had to share with beloved Uncle John, who practically snorted milk out of his nose at the absurdity of it. Geraldine had been rushed back upstairs before she could get her toy doctor's kit out and conduct medical tests on him; and before darling Uncle John could teach her any more colloquial British expletives. After that, John drifted off again, into troubled sleep, leaving Renée to her glass of wine that she had poured all that time ago. It felt like forever. There was no point in starting an episode now, not with John asleep at last, and besides, she suspected John would appreciate a show with that amount of lesbian activity in rather differently. Douchebag. What a fucking douchebag, coming into her home and ruining her night. She couldn't really be angry at him now though. She wasn't an utter bitch; she did have a heart. Though right now she wished she didn't because it hurt.

It really fucking hurt.

It took a couple of hours for Chas to arrive. During that time, John had passed in and out of consciousness, taken a couple of painkillers and blacked out again, occasionally waking to make sarcastic remarks. Poor guy. He was trying so hard to be his usual arrogant self but it fell flat. Even beaten to a pulp, he was making poorly-timed, wildly inappropriate jokes and still complaining about being unable to smoke.He had tried to get up to go outside at have a cigarette, but he had neither cigarette nor lighter, and anyway, he had tripped and collapsed back onto the sofa again, where he was still sleeping when Renée heard Chas getting home. She went to greet him in the hall, pressing a finger to her lips to keep him quiet.

"He's asleep right now." she whispered, hugging him tightly. "Peacefully, for once." she didn't mention the nightmares, figuring Chas already knew about them.

"Dammit John." he muttered, then looked back to Renée. "I'm so sorry." her sort-of-ex-husband, though she wasn't sure what to define him as any more, whether he could be considered 'ex' anything. "You shouldn't have had to deal with this."

"No," she surprised herself with her answer. "I understand now why you can't leave him. He's a walking human disaster zone."

"He's also not deaf and would appreciate it if you ladies would keep your voices down when talking behind his back." came the shout from the living room. Chas smiled faintly, as if he had expected that to happen. The appalling sense of humour must have been comforting, a familiar indicator that yes, John was still alive, yes he'd be okay, and yes he was still an asshole. Some things never changed.

"You go to bed, Renée, you look exhausted. I'll deal with him."

Under any other circumstances, she would have been inclined to agree. But not tonight, not after all that had happened, all she had seen and heard. Tonight she was going to help.

Tomorrow she could hate John Constantine again, as she struggled through the day in a sleep-deprived haze and tried to get the blood off the sofa, but tonight...

Tonight she would be there for him.