Common sense told Behrad that Sarah would be a better choice to go to with this issue; hell, anyone would be a better choice, but he also knew that, while Sarah would be supportive and gentle, she'd also go all… Time Mom on him and that wasn't what he needed right now.

So that left him here, standing at the door of the Waverider's library, trying to pluck up the courage to go in and talk to Constantine. It wasn't as if they had a bad relationship; in fact, ever since the whole business with turning into a cat (which was WEIRD and sometimes Behrad still felt the random urge to lick himself) and fixing the timeline by having John smooch his boyfriend, they'd gotten along quite well and he was pretty sure the warlock even liked him. That being said, Constantine was prickly at the best of times and temperamental at the worst and sometimes it was hard to judge where he was on that spectrum at any given point during the day.

Still…. 'No time like the present,' he steeled himself and tapped the control panel to the library door.

"Hey, John, I was wondering if I could ask you a question?"

The Brit didn't raise his eyes from the leather-bound tome he was scowling at but gave a grunt of acknowledgment. Now Behrad had lived with Mick, who communicated primarily with grunts if possible, long enough to be fluent in the language and was fairly certain that he just heard a grunt of agreement and not one that meant, 'Go away or I'll turn you into a gopher.' So he slipped into the armchair across from the older man as the door slip shut behind him.

Behrad rubbed his sweaty palms against his jeans as he attempted to get his tongue, which felt dry and heavy and hot, not like the sweat that was gathering on his brow, to work. "When, uh, d-did, uh,…"

He trailed off, biting at his lips and wishing he'd given in to the urge to light up before coming here, as he shifted in the chair. 'Why is this so goddamn hard?'

"B?" Constantine finally looked up from his work and Behrad must have looked awful because the softness that crept John's eyes was a rare treat, usually only reserved for small children, Sara, or when Ray said something particularly endearing. "Something wrong, lad?"

"WHENDIDYOUREALIZEYOULIKEDGUYSTOO?"

'Fuck!'

Time could have been standing still with how quiet the library became. Behrad sunk his teeth into his tongue, so hard he started to taste blood and feeling very much like all the air had been ripped right from his lungs; he intensely watched Constantine's face for any sign of upset or surprise or anger. But the man had never been easy to read and now was no exception; sure, the lines of his went gentler than usual, eyes widening slightly and mouth opening just a bit but it was still mostly a blank slate.

"Look, I-I'm sorry. Forget I said anything. I-I'll just-" Behrad stammered, only to be cut off by Constantine.

"Well, let's see," John mused, scratching at his stubble as he leaned back in his chair. "You ever see that '86 film The Labyrinth? I caught it on the telly when I was about eleven and, well, let's just say that David Bowie in tights made quite the impression on me."

He paused then to waggle his eyebrows suggestively at Behad, causing him to snort in amusement as some of the tension finally began draining from his body.

"Then," John continued, "I suppose, there was my history teacher when I was fourteen. He… He was a tall drink of water, looked a bit like that blond bloke from that girly vampire show. I used to spy on him sneaking smokes out behind the gardener's shed during lunch breaks; that explains a lot, looking back."

The warlock nodded, mostly to himself then, as he lit himself a cigarette; Behrad winced at the stink, but could hardly complain… It was like weed smelt the greatest either.

Now, in the past few weeks, Constantine had definitely become more relaxed on the ship and more willing to engage in group activities. He cooked breakfast every Tuesday (he was even considerate enough to make turkey bacon for Behrad, which more than made up for his constant attempts to convince everyone that beans are an acceptable morning food) and dinner every Thursday. He played DnD with them (and always he rolled an unnatural amount of Nat 20s, much to the frustration of Dungeon Master Gideon). He let Nate thumb through some of his less dangerous books (to Behrad's knowledge at least seven of them were sentient and three were really bad-tempered) and even agreed to allow Ray to run a couple of analyses on some of John's simpler potions.

Even still, the warlock still kept most private details of his life close to the vest; John would probably rather get all of his teeth pulled out with a rusty pair of pliers than be emotionally open for more than five minutes and Behrad should have been grateful he'd gotten that much out of the older man.

But there was still one more thing he wanted to ask.

"Did- did you ever tell anyone?"

It took John a long moment to answer while Behrad held his breath, worried he pushed too hard, before the older man shook his head. "No, not while I was still living under my old man's roof. It… wouldn't have been safe."

Behrad couldn't help wince; he probably knew more about John's childhood than anyone else on the ship and, well, he got it.

-"My dad use to call me killer, never let me forget what I did."-

Not that Behrad's parents ever hit him. It was quite the opposite really, they'd coddled and doted on him from the moment he was born; he was their baby boy and their only son, he could do no wrong and all that it cost him was the ability to live for himself.

The click of a lighter snapped Behrad's attention to snap back to John. "But once I ran off to London when I was sixteen, I never bothered to hide it; none of my mates cared and I threw myself at any bird or bloke that would have me."

Swallowing against the sandpaper dryness of his throat, Behrad risked another question. "So, you were never...with another guy while you were still living at ho- with your father?"

John chuckled, a dry, bitter sound. "Nah," he said, eyes distant, and Behrad couldn't help but wonder if the older man was still talking to him or to himself, "despite the risk, I still got involved with all sorts of skeevy folks; not because I didn't know better either- I just didn't care. I was a stupid teenager full of piss and vinegar who was desperate for a bit of positive attention I could get."

Behrad fought the urge to squirm in his chair, trying to block the memories of those college nights where he went to parties so high and so lonely that he didn't even care when some asshole or other got a bit too handsy. Constantine's eyes snapped to him and he was left with no doubt that the man knew.

"I got lucky," he said solemnly. "I just found my way into the beds of a handful of idiotic bastards who wanted to fuck an angry, underage twink and never believed that same brat could have the upper hand. I got more out of them than they ever got out of me; booze, cigarettes, drugs, favors, food, a place to sleep, and sometimes just straight-up money; I took them for all I could. But if anyone with a more than half a brain ever decided to go after me? Who knows…"

There was another moment of silence before John cleared his throat with a load, obviously fake cough. "But it also fooled around with some boys my own age; you know, the way young lads sometimes do. There was my mate, G-"

Constantine's jaw snapped shut with an audible click and Behrad knew the conversation was over. Whatever private and personal tidbit John nearly just let slip was not for him or anyone else to hear and would forever remain just that, private and personal.

'And that's my cue to scram.' Searching for a reason to leave, Behrad glanced down at his watch. "Oh, look at the time!"

He hopped to his feet and forced smiled at the older man, "It's my turn to make snacks for DnD tonight and I'm making baklava, so I better get started."

Constantine gave an amused huff and nodded, "Can't wait to try it, mate." Then he cocked an eyebrow, "Everything alright then?"

"Hmmm?" Behrad felt the heat rush to his face, "Yeah, it's all good. At least, it is until Mick gets mad and starts accusing you again accusing you of cheating again."

"I make my own luck, no cheating needed," John snorted, turning back to his book. "Anything else I can help you with, lad? With the baking, I mean."

Despite what Constantine had said, the double meaning was obvious.

"No," he replied, "I- I think I'm alright for now."

"Good," the older man smiled. "I'll be here if you need me."