-32-

"Playing House"

Despair shook her head, sadly. "Thank you so very much for recounting that horrible period of my life," she grumbled, the shadows of her deep-sunk eyes aimed vaguely in my direction. "Hell used to be one of my favorite places, before those wretched angels came along… my most loyal fanbase, cultivated for thousands upon thousands of years, utterly ruined in the blink of an eye.

Oh well... I was stupid to think it would last. It was all going to turn to shit on me eventually - everything always does. I suppose it's ultimately my fault, for being such a miserable failure of an Endless…" Despair sighed deeply, bowed her head, whimpered, and began to cry. The tears streamed down her grey cheeks and fell directly onto her tusks.

"Despair darling, there's no need to make such a fuss," said Desire, taking the red silk pocket-square out from their suit jacket, unfolding it into a handkerchief and handing it to their twin, Despair. "You weren't actually replaced, you know. You are, after all, a coin with two sides: when the angels gave their charges a hope in Hell, the Hope they got was also you."

"I know," she said forlornly, blowing into the handkerchief. "But when I'm in THIS form, it makes me feel so unwanted..."

"A coin with two sides," repeated Rose. "Yes, that's exactly what he said too…"

"Huh?" squawked Matthew the Raven. "Who said?"

"Destruction," I replied.

-Daniel's Tale-

Destruction set down his load of provisions. It was turning out to be a beautiful day, and he wanted to make note of a few words and phrases that were coming to mind. Perhaps it would turn into something - a new poem, maybe.

He took out his notepad, removed the pen hooked onto it, fully intending to jot down his musings. But as he flipped through the pages, he realized that he'd left another one unfinished, with only one more word to go.

Well, that wasn't right - if he just finished that one, he'd have completed something today; he'd even have something to perform for Barnabas.

Now then, let's see he thought…what should that final word be? I'd? Buyed? Cried? Died? Eye'd? Dried? Fried…? Fuh fuh…

Ah yes, that's it - he scritched the final word into the paper, feeling very pleased with himself. He put a hand to his mouth, though his booming cannon of a voice hardly needed amplification. "BARNABAS!"

"Pipe down, I'm right here," answered the dog, crouched down in the shade of the tree, right next to the easel holding up the painting - that's right, the painting! Destruction had abandoned it that morning, to pick up supplies. After he read the poem, he'd get back to it.

"It's finished," Destruction announced proudly.

"Great," said Barnabas, licking his dog-lips and eyeing the bag of food eagerly. "Did you happen to get any salami?"

"I dunno, maybe - you'll have to wait until after you've heard my latest poem. Are you ready?"

Barnabas put his head between his paws and flattened his ears. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"Ahem," Destruction cleared his throat, "I call this Basilisk and Cockatrice: A Moral Poem." Destruction recited his poem with great gusto; after the final line (which ended in the freshly-added word 'petrified') Barnabas was, for once, speechless - until he wasn't.

"Is that it?" the dog asked.

"It is indeed. Why, were you not satisfied with it?"

"I was waiting for the moral."

"The moral, my faithful hound, is not to look upon things which may turn you into stone."

"That is a much-needed Public Service Announcement, considering all the gorgons and basilisks running around these days."

"Art doesn't always beat you over the head to make its point - it's meant to be a metaphor."

"For what?"

"Whatever you want. How'd it make you feel?"

Barnabas scratched an itch with his hind leg. "Relieved - it was shorter than I expected."

Destruction shrugged, dejectedly. "I take it you weren't overly impressed, then."

"Doggerel," growled Barnabas. "Rubbishy doggerel."

"Ha! You'd know, right? Eh? DOG-gerel?"

"Spare me." Barnabas ears pricked up, and he crawled forward in a dance-like shimmy through the grass, pawing at the bag. "So, do I get to eat the food now?"

Destruction picked up the bag, while the dog's gaze rapidly shifted between him and the object of its anticipation. "No, I'm going to cook it," said Destruction.

"Ah." The dog looked rather disappointed for a brief moment, but then smiled. "And THEN I get to eat it?"

"That depends on how it turns out."

The dog cocked its head to one side. "I don't follow."

"Has it ever occurred to you, Barnabas, that cooking is one of the fine arts?"

"Not that I recall, no."

"It is. One takes raw materials and transforms them, by simple application of cutting, mixing, and heat, into something miraculously other."

Barnabas made a whining, groaning sound. "This is another one of your 'ideas', isn't it? Like that thing you left over there."

Destruction was confused at first, until he scanned the garden and realized the dog was referencing his statue of Venus. "Thing? THING?! Barnabas, that 'thing' is a sculpture."

"What of? A big rock with holes in it?"

"It's an abstract impression of the female form."

"I'll say - a rather vague, lumpy impression… and most of those lumps aren't even in the right places, if they were to match any woman I'VE ever seen."

Destruction laughed heartily. He leaned over, hands on his knees. "I'll tell you what, Barnabas: why don't you do your own sculpture, and I'll laugh at what YOU make?"

"Leaving aside the issue of hands, I have no desire to ruin a perfectly good piece of marble. Dogs have more sense than that - we don't make fools of ourselves, like you do.

Destruction rummaged in the bag. "Uh huh."

"Some of us, after all, have DIGNITY."

Destruction opened the bag of dog-treats, and lifted one out. "Okay… SIT!" Barnabas immediately did so, tongue hanging out and tail twitching excitedly. "Now, BEG!" Barnabas rose up on his hind legs, lifting his front paws up together. Destruction tossed the treat into his mouth. "Here you go - for that 'dignity' of yours."

"That… doesn't… count," he said while chewing. He gulped it down. "I enjoy humoring you sometimes, that's all."

"Aye, sure." Destruction stood back and assessed his work-in-progress painting. "It's too bad you only 'humor' me when it's a game, or when there's something in it for you."

"That's not true."

"Is that right? Okay then, what do you think of the painting so far?"

"Oh, I don't know… I'm not much of an art critic."

"I'm not asking for criticism, Barnabas - merely a few honest words of appreciation."

"Honestly? The perspective's shot to hell, the 'ocean' looks like toxic waste, and that olive tree looks like an overgrown stinging nettle. Also, the general color palette could've been chosen better."

"Not a critic MY FOOT! What the hell would YOU know? You're a DOG!"

"Did I ever say I wasn't?"

"I thought dogs were color-blind."

"Looking at that painting, I thought YOU were color-blind."

"Hff! You know, there are those who claim that for unquestioning respect and devotion, all one needs is a dog."

"Devotion you've got, schmuck - lying isn't in the job description."

"Fine then. I'll see to fixing it, and maybe you'll gaze up at me adoringly from time to time to show your support."

"Hmph. In your dreams."

"I make a point not to dream anymore."

"Well there's your problem. Why don't you want to dream?"

"Because my brother would be there. Wouldn't do to give too much away. Especially not now."

"I don't see what you're so worried about."

"No? Ah, Barnabas, that's because you've never met my family."

"You're right, I haven't - not that I'm complaining. Just one of you is enough to handle."

"You're the only family I need, Barnabas."

"That's nice. But if you think that means I'm going to sit here and watch you muddy up a canvas, you've got another thing coming."

"Ah well, the light's going anyway. I'll finish it off tomorrow." Without warning, rain began to pour from the sky. Destruction grabbed the painting and ran for the back door of the house.

"What's the hurry? The rain'll probably improve it," quipped Barnabas.

"Ah, shut your snout and get inside, you lousy mutt," Destruction grunted at his pet affectionately, placing the bag's handles around his wrist so he could open the door for the both of them. Once they were safely indoors, Destruction heard a snapping sound… he'd squeezed the painting too hard against him, and crushed the wooden stretcher giving the canvas its form. The splintered wood fell to pieces on the floor, and the canvas folded limply around the bars that remained in the manner of loose flesh clinging to the bones of a mangled body. He sighed - he'd have to build a new frame and re-stretch the canvas before he could paint on it any further.

Barnabas shook himself dry. "There's something happening in that room, 'round the back."

Destruction off-loaded the debris onto the kitchen table. "I can't hear it."

"Well you aren't a dog, are you?"

"Not at present, no."

Destruction grabbed the key and went to unlock the door. Could someone have discovered his location? But, how? None of his explosive failsafes had gone off, that he knew of - could they have, well, failed?

"What's in there, anyway?" asked Barnabas. "It's been locked as long as I can remember."

"I tend to think of it as 'the family room'." Destruction opened the door - lightly, he thought. But the brass doorknob he was gripping crushed inward like a soda can - upon releasing it, he could see each dent formed a perfect cast of his fingers.

He made a mental note and added it to the growing list of repairs, even as he refocused his attention upon the three figures standing in the middle of his Gallery's central pool, which was now filled with schools of colorful fish and frogs that were never there before.

"That would be us," said my mother Rose, "me, Constantine, and Delirium...

-Rose's Tale-

I didn't know we'd tumbled out of a painting on the wall - I think I may have been only vaguely aware we were somewhere indoors, in that second before we landed face-first in water.

The three of us made a big splash, and when I got up and wiped the water from my eyes, I saw we'd displaced a good amount of it all over the dark room. I hadn't seen Dream's Sigil Gallery, so I had zero context for what this room was. There were simple, unvarnished and very weathered-looking frames on all the walls, and inside those frames were symbolic objects - between these displays and the circular wading pool that seemed more decorative than practical, I wondered if we'd landed in some sort of some Modern Art exhibit after hours.

Except there were also some random dust and cobweb-covered paintings stacked against the old peeling, paint-chipped walls, and various scattered piles of drawings. This made it seem more like an abandoned storehouse.

Delirium laughed and hollered and splashed around in the already-agitated sloshing water, gibbering about wanting to go again as frogs ribbited around her. John stood up, his thick trenchcoat heavy with water and his powder-blue suit drenched nearly navy. His carefully-styled blonde hair was flat against his head and streaming wetly into his face - which was sour even before one of the frogs jumped on top of his head.

There was a light metallic clunking sound, like a key turning in a lock, and then the door to the room opened to let in a flood of daylight. In the center of that light was an imposing silhouette of a man, tall and well-built, with a dog at his heels.

"Who are you?" the man boomed, in a low and gravelly voice.

"BRoTHer! iT's ReaLLy yOU oH mY gOOdneSs yES iT iS YAY!" burbled Delirium, crawling out of the pool and throwing her arms around his barrel torso.

"DEL!" he cried, and laughed with a warm, deep joy. He grasped her by the shoulders and lifted her tiny frame straight up, like she weighed nothing. "Ah, let me look at you lass. Pretty as ever you were, by my troth. And yes, I do believe you've grown."

"Maybe a little," she admitted. Destruction set her back down; she saw Barnabas, and crouched down to pet him. "HuLLO DOggY. YoU'RE a vErY nICe

dOggY aREn't yOU? My nAMe's DELiriUm, aNd i'M gOIng tO bE a

kAngArOO whEN i grOW uP. WhAT's yOUr nAMe?"

"His name's Barnabas," said Destruction.

"I'm perfectly able to speak for myself, thanks," said the dog.

"Well come on out here then, you two, where I can see you properly," said the man, beckoning a massive arm toward me and Constantine.

I climbed out of the pool, and Constantine squelched heavily after me. "Are you Dream's brother?" I asked.

"That I am," he said. "Friends of his, are you?"

"Yeah, I guess," I answered, figuring it was as good a label as any.

"Let us repair inside," he said. "I was just about to cook dinner." He led us into the kitchen, and told us to take a seat at the table. There was a bag there, which he moved to the counter. He stuck his big, hairy hand inside and lifted out a couple onions. "So," he said, opening a kitchen drawer, "what brought you to me?"

"i diD," said Delirium.

"What I meant, Sister, is how and why have you all come?" I watched him bring out a huge kitchen knife, and wondered again, with some trepidation, why Dream didn't want to tell me his name.

Delirium went off on a rambling and convoluted explanation of our journey, the color and style of her hair changing with her mood as she spoke. She highlighted the candy-lovers, make-believe games that were real, cherries, and balloon-people; it was a very Delirium-type story that explained nothing, and made absolutely no coherent sense whatsoever. "AnD noW thAT we'Ve foUNd yoU yoU're coMiNg bACk tO uS aNd yoU'LL maKe mE lAUgh aNd i'LL dO fUNny liTTLe dANces fOr yOu aNd we'LL siNg sONgs aNd bE a fAMily aGAin," concluded Delirium, cheerily.

"I see," said the big man, who had been chopping food with his knife, back turned to us, while Delirium spoke; but when he reached to grab something else, I could see he was frowning. "So you came to force me out of retirement? To get me back into the family business?"

"Not really," I refuted. "Dream said you'd protect us."

"Ah! Dream sent you, did he? How did he know where I was?"

"I believe Dream's son might have told him how to find you," I said, glad to fill the first of the many holes that Delirium had left in her story.

"Young Orpheus? I thought they weren't on speaking terms. How is the lad?"

"...He's dead," I said.

The man looked at me over his broad shoulder. "Ah. How did that come to pass?"

I hesitated, unsure whether I should answer - but I figured that either he would understand, or I would further clarify if it seemed like he didn't. "Dream did it," I said. John raised his eyebrows at me with surprise, and looked at the big man to see what his reaction would be.

"I don't know whether that is good news to hear, or bad," the big man said, mildly. "It was always his wish to die, after his young lady met with her misfortune. But I always liked him. Reminded me of Dream: a romantic fool. Self-pitying, but with a certain amount of personal charm."

I cringed hearing this, suddenly and painfully reminded of Dream's coldness after what happened on the beach.

The man, whose name I still did not know, handed Delirium a small cup. "I made this for myself, but you can have it," he said, setting it in front of her. "It's Greek coffee. Don't drink the sludge at the bottom, or the cup - JUST the coffee."

"oH. OKaY. THaNk yoU."

"Can I get you two anything?"

"Do you have tea?" asked Constantine.

"Sure do. Milk and sugar?"

John nodded enthusiastically. "Two sugars would be great. Cheers, mate." John still looked like a drowned rat, but he was in a much better mood now - he seemed to like having a nice, burly muscle-man waiting upon him. I was starting to relax, because he was reminding me quite a bit of Hob - if Hob was suddenly much taller and became a workout junkie.

"YEeUch," said Delirium, trying to wipe the taste of the coffee off of her tongue. She passed the cup to me. "HeRe yoU haVe iT RoSe."

It shouldn't come as a shock to any of you, but I was not about to drink something after she did.

"Rose," repeated the big man. "That's a rather pretty name."

"Sorry," I said. "We just barged in here uninvited, and didn't really introduce ourselves - I'm Rose Walker."

"I'm John Constantine," said the trenchcoated warlock.

"Well met. Unfortunately, I don't know what name to give you in return," said the man. "I used to have a name that fit, but I'm not that anymore."

"MaYbe yOU OugHT tO caLL hiM JoE," suggested Delirium.

"Is that his name?" I asked.

"oH nO. NoT eVen a LiTTle biT."

"Joe is fine," said the man I now know to be Destruction. "Names aren't all that important anyway - what matters more is what you are."

Delirium decided that she'd tell him exactly what she thought we were. "WeLL CoNsTaNtinE mosTLy caLLs hiMseLf a baSTard iNsiDe aNd ouT oF hiS miNd eVen tHouGh hiS paRenTs weRe maRRied buT i gueSS iT dOesN't meAn THe saMe thiNg anYmoRe aNd he aLso haS maGic tHaT hE doeS. RoSe iS noT maRRied buT sHe's gOing tO haVe a baBy anYwAy sO i gueSS thAt mAKes iT thE rEAL vERsiOn oF wHAt JoHn saYs oR iLLegible oR wHaTeVEr bUT noW pEopPLe thiNk iT's weiRd tO caLL bABies sTUff liKe tHaT."

I froze - and John did too. 'Joe' noticed our reaction, but Delirium was oblivious.

Delirium took her cup back, apparently forgetting that she hated it, and proceeded to have the same reaction to it as before. "YEEeuch," she said.

"Del," said Destruction, carefully, "I don't believe the girl knew she was with child."

"WeLL sHe's riGhT, kiNd oF, i mEAn i looK liKe a cHiLd buT i'M noT reaLLy-"

"Not you, Del: I was talking about HER child."

Delirium turned to me with shock. "WhaT? RoSe yoU haVe a chiLd aLreaDy?!"

"You just said she was pregnant," said John, leaning forward with an intense look. "Is she, or isn't she?"

"Oh tHaT - yEAh a liTTLe squiGGLy-thiNg fROm DrEAm goT iNsiDe oNe oF heR eGGs sO proBabLy," said Delirium. John abruptly got up from his chair, turning away to smoke a cigarette.

I felt sick. I couldn't believe it. I'd always been so careful about being on the pill, even when I was with Paul and nothing was happening between us anymore. I had enough trouble being an immortal without bringing a kid into the mix, and I couldn't stand the thought of passing on any part of my condition. With all this craziness going on, my normal regimen had been completely obliterated along with everything else in my life.

It never occurred to me that an Endless could knock me up - but I should have known, right? He already had a son… with some sort of goddess, though. I guess I just thought that it was different with humans, or… actually, I don't know what I was thinking, if anything.

"Does my brother know?" asked Destruction.

"iT dOEsn't reaLLy haVe a miNd oF iTs oWn yeT eVen i onLy knoW aBout iT beCauSe RoSe's miNd kiNda-sORTa knOWs aBouT iT beCauSe oF thE stuFF maKiNg iT gO a biT spoGGLy."

"Hormones, my sister?"

"EwWW doN't taLK aBouT thAT tO mE maYbe YOU liKe THaT kiNd oF thiNg buT i doN't… whAT waS i saYing? oh yeS iT, uM, nEEds a miNd tO bE abLe tO drEAm."

"So that would be a 'no', then."

"YeAH, nO."

John turned back to me a little, but not quite looking at me. "Wot 'appened?"

"I…" I began, but then I stopped because I didn't know how to answer; I didn't even know what he was really asking. My head was spinning.

John crouched down next to me. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and placed it on the table. "Did he force you? 'Cos if he did I'll tear his rotten bollocks off-"

"You're speaking of my brother, mind," Destruction pointed out.

"Yeh? An' are you planning teh stop me?"

"From defending a woman's honor? No. I just thought you might want to consider your audience, is all. Carry on."

Constantine's blue eyes locked onto mine, searching, as if he was trying to read my thoughts.

"No," I told him miserably, eyes filling with tears.

His eyebrows knit together. "But… you HATED that punter," he said, utterly confused.

I… did I? Considering that Dream moved from threatening my life to just generally pissing me off all the time, it would make sense for me to hate him. But did that change at some point? And if so, how? When? And what did I feel about him now?

I didn't know. I didn't know anything anymore.

"I'd leave the girl be, if I were you," suggested Destruction, using a spatula to turn over what he had cooking on the stove. "Tell me more about what you need protecting from."

I sort of half-listened as Constantine told him about the jewel, and The Corinthian. I felt kind of detached from it all, like he was talking about things that happened to someone else. The only thing that I was thinking was 'how the hell am I going to deal with being a mother, especially of some half-immortal, half-Endless child?' I just couldn't imagine it, no matter how hard I tried - and there was some awful part of my brain that was telling me to give up trying, to not care about any of this nonsense or how it played out, because my life was basically over anyway.

After John had him all caught up, Destruction sighed. "My brother has changed," he said. "Before, he would not have cared so much what happened to simple mortals - he would have said 'they all die sooner or later', or something to that effect." Destruction had not stopped cooking during all of this, by the way, and was beginning to place the first dishes on the table. "What's even more surprising is that it's not one of his 'I-have-responsibilities' issues, because he doesn't even know about the bun in the oven." That reminded him to check what he'd placed in the oven, and when he opened it, black smoke wafted out with the distinctly bitter smell of burnt food. "Oh well, so much for that course," he said, unhappily. "But please, help yourselves to anything on the table - it's here to be eaten. Try some of the little meatballs - I'm rather pleased with how those turned out. What was I saying? Ah yes - change. I'm glad my brother's finally noticed there are other people in the world."

"BRoTHer hoW cOuLd yoU leAVe uS?" asked Delirium, stacking both her food and her utensils into a wild and unstable tower.

"How, or why?"

The tower fell. Destruction looked amused by this, but Delirium was frustrated and pouted heavily. "EiTHer oNe reaLLy i doN't caRe," she grumbled.

"Because I changed," he said. "Was probably inevitable, considering what I am, and what I represent.

See, it didn't matter that, in some sense, I was everywhere; nor that I was more powerful than… well, practically anything. When I looked up at the stars in the night sky and thought back on times gone, about all the living things whose lives I touched, all the planes of existence I'd seen, all the forms I'd taken… I still felt tiny. I felt insignificant.

I tried intervening more - I thought that's what our job was, to guide the natural forces we represented along a productive and sensible path. But it only seemed to make things worse.

That's when I decided to take myself out of the equation.

There's no such thing as a one-sided coin. Destruction is needed. Nothing new can exist without destroying the old.

But the Endless? The Endless are merely patterns. Ideas. Repeating motifs. Even our existences will not outlast this version of the universe.

We have no right to play with the lives of others, to order their dreams and their desires. They should have to do that for themselves.

Meanwhile, I'll make the most of what I've got. I have no idea how long my span will be - but I shall live out my days doing what I have to do, one day at a time. Everybody else can make their own destruction."

I was beginning to suspect what he was the Endless of, and understood why Dream was hesitant to talk about him - especially since it would have given me wrong expectations about this peaceful and friendly guy.

"Now I like looking at stars," said Destruction, sitting down and tucking in to his own meal. "It's the illusion of permanence, I think - I know full well they're always flaring up and caving in and going out. Gods come, gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and stars are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and then vanish into cold dust. But from here, I can pretend things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments.

It was a relief to me - I could go ahead and BE tiny and insignificant. There was a beauty in that.

But someone like Dream - hell, all of them - can't understand that. They think they've got to be important. That's why I had to get away from all of them - I wouldn't let myself be suckered back into their games.

I moved here, within a stone's throw - if I'm the one throwing it - of Dream's son Orpheus, just to be able to check in on the lad every now and then. Figured that was safe, since he was only half-Endless, and none of my other siblings had cause to visit him. I was wrong, apparently. I forgot the most basic principle of the universe: everything changes." Destruction gave up on us wanting to eat the meatballs, and set the plate down on the floor for Barnabas. "Life was comfortable and unchanging for me, these past few years. You lot have rather undone that. I should have seen it coming. But at least we've had this time together." He hugged Delirium, even as she sat backwards in the chair to pet the dog. "My sister. I have enjoyed seeing you. You were always my favorite. I trust that when your next change comes, it proves easy on you."

"...ChAnge?" she said in a small, worried voice.

Barnabas looked up, swallowing his meatballs. "Why does it sound like you're leaving?"

"Because I am, Barnabas," Destruction replied. "What did you do with the stick?"

"Nothing," said Barnabas, offended. He pointed his nose toward a walking stick, leaning up against the wall. "It's right over there."

"So you're not going to help us, then," I said.

"Sorry, lassie - my brother presumed upon my generosity, and violated my well-established desire for privacy, when he directed you to me. Probably thought I wouldn't have the heart to turn away a couple of mortal lovebirds in need..."

"Oh, no, we're not-"

"...But you've got an Endless inside of you, and I've learned my lesson with Orpheus. Besides, trouble's brewing - I've felt it for some time now. It may be that your coming here was a canary in the coal mine, giving me the sign I've been waiting for: the sign that it's time for me to get the hell out of Dodge.

I've grown quite fond of this world; but now the forces of entropy are amassing from all sides, bent on its destruction. I don't know how, or if it CAN be stopped, and I don't want to be tempted to try my hand at stemming the tide. If it turns out that this world's goose is well and fully cooked, I won't stick around to witness its demise. I don't care whether T.S. Eliot was right or wrong: regardless of whether the world ends with a bang or whimper, I won't be able to bear it. I am not my older sister."

He took up a spotted handkerchief, and strode toward the Gallery. We idly followed him and watched as he destroyed the framed sigils, turning each one into a puff of smoke with a single touch. "It's a shame my brother stopped halfway when disregarding my feelings - I would have liked to have seen him, one last time. One of you must give him my love, when you see him next."

"dO wE haVe tO?" asked Delirium.

"Yes. Also, when you speak to him, remind him that I left of my own free will, and tell him that it is not his fault. Tell him to think of this the next time he is presented with one of his terrible 'responsibilities', and thinks he has no choice in the matter. Tell him that it is important that he remember this - he forgets nothing he takes an interest in, but he forgets instantly that which he does not care about." He turned to Barnabas. "This is where we must part ways as well, my friend."

Barnabas was shocked and alarmed. "Can't I go WITH you?" asked Barnabas, anxiously.

"You would not survive in the places I am travelling to."

"Oh. I see," said Barnabas, instantly depressed. "But then, who will keep you from falling down manholes and slipping on banana peels, both metaphorically and literally? Who will endure your late-night flamenco guitar recitals?"

"You make a compelling argument for staying, Barnabas," admitted Destruction. "I have already made up my mind to go. But you've given me an idea: will you go with the Lady Delirium? Walk beside her, tread the path that she treads also, protect and lead and guide her as you would with me?"

"i caN't lOok aFTer a dOGGie."

"You misheard him," said Barnabas, "I get to look after YOU."

"So your answer is a yes, I take it?"

Barnabas looked her up and down. "Well, she shouldn't be allowed outside without a leash… but I'll do what I can."

"Good boy. Del, Barnabas can be a pain sometimes, and he has no poetry in his soul, but he means well."

"I resent that remark," muttered Barnabas.

"Of course you do." Destruction spread the spotted handkerchief out on the Gallery floor, and pulled the medieval broadsword down from its frame on the wall - it did not disappear like the others, but shrunk in his hands to the size of a kitchen knife. He placed that on the handkerchief. He then gripped the edge of the pool, and it too shrunk as he lifted it up, until it was the size of a small pie tin. He added that to the handkerchief as well, and then carefully folded the fabric around it, and the walking stick. I wondered if all the water was going to leak out of the open pie-tin pool and soak the handkerchief sack as he lifted it up, but some kind of magic was keeping it contained.

He walked out of the house, and we followed him - night had fallen, and the stars that he so loved formed a glittery canopy overhead.

"You two can stay here as long as you like," said Destruction to Constantine and I. "Everything here is yours, to do with as you will. Have fun playing house, kids."

And with that, he began to walk - up, and out, into the night sky.

We watched him until we could no longer distinguish his form from the space between the stars.

"I'm going to miss him," said Barnabas. "Poetry readings and all."

"I don't blame yeh," said Constantine. "I just met 'im, and I think I'LL be missing him."

Barnabas gave a tour of the house, and told us of Destruction's walk-in closet of his fashion creations. "You might not be able to leave the house in them, but at least they're dry," he snarked. "And if you're lucky, they'll be wearable."

Actually, our clothes had dried out quite a bit, but we were indeed in need of something more comfortable. I found a cute sundress that made me smile (because it looked like something designed for a life-sized doll), and Constantine came out with a baggy shirt that might have been form-fitting on Destruction, and a pair of blue jeans.

I threw our other stuff in the dryer, and insisted on the trenchcoat going in the washer.

We sat in chairs and watched it go 'round and 'round, as Delirium played fetch out in the warm night with Barnabas.

"This is cozy," commented Constantine, his foot tapping out some sort of beat on the floor. "Feels like I won a game show, and the prize I got was a perfect little 1950's white-picket-fence setup, completely free of charge - a nice house, a kid, a dog, and a little woman in a paisley dress to do my laundry."

I kicked him in the leg. "You can do it yourself next time. And I have no idea how to cook, so it's going to get interesting when we run out of leftovers."

There was a moment of silence. "You gonna tell me how yeh got up the duff with the horror-movie bloke's kid?"

Damn it. I'd just about gotten that to subside into the back of my mind, and he had to go and dredge it up to the forefront again. I sighed. "I don't know. It just sorta happened."

"Were yeh pissed?"

"About what?"

"Ah, sorry - I meant were you DRUNK?"

"No. Why are you so interested in how it happened?"

"Just tryin' to understand, is all."

"There's nothing to understand. He'd just mercy-killed his son, and was really upset…"

Constantine's foot stopped. I saw that he was staring at me with a weird expression.

"What?" I demanded.

He narrowed his eyes at me. "...You gave him a pity-fuck?"

I glared at him, offended. "That's a really crass way of putting it."

John turned, so that he could prop his arm on the back of the chair, and placed his other hand on his hip - and from that arrogant pose, he studied me. "But ACCURATE," he challenged.

I narrowed my eyes back at him. "It's none of your business."

"Sure it is. Who's gonna be here helpin' you out, while you grow the kid?"

"I'm sure Dream will come straight here, right after he's done with the Hell business."

"Is that right? Told you that was his plan, did he?"

"No, but he… he HAS to."

John's mouth was starting to curl upwards. "Oh? Does he now?"

My heart began to race. I told myself not to let him panic me. He was just trying to amuse himself at my expense. "Yes," I confirmed. "He can't face The Corinthian without me."

"Yeh sure he would agree?"

"What do you mean? How's he supposed to defeat The Corinthian with, at best, half his power? No, that's too optimistic...it's more like one third of his power. He can barely keep on his feet, let alone fight."

"Us blokes have a hard time admitting when we're in need of help," he said. "'Specially when it's in the form of a girl we fancy, and want to keep out of 'arm's way."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

He broke out into a full grin, which made him look disturbingly similar to The Corinthian. "'Fraid I do, luv."

"You don't understand half of what you think you do," I said, hotly. "It's not like that between us. And he's coming BACK."

"Because it was that good, eh?" John sighed and gave me a sympathetic look. "Yeh're not the first girl to get hit with a fuck-an'-run, yeh know."

I got up from my chair. "Yeah, I'm sure you would know about that," I snapped at him, turning away. "It's why you'll always be alone, John Constantine. You'll never have this fantasy woman around to bake you cookies and pie and whatever it is your mom used to do for you."

There were a few moments of quiet, and then I heard a sniff. I turned back around, and John was leaned forward, eyes on the floor, face propped up on his hand. His eyes were glistening.

I sat back down. "John?"

He was turning away, presumably to cover the tears.

"John," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"I never saw me mam's face," he whispered. "Died before I was proper born."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't know."

"Not yeh're fault. But I… I would've given anythin' to have a mam around to care fer me. 'Specially wot with me dad takin' out his frustration on me with his fists, every chance he got…"

"Oh John," I said.

"Didn't 'ave any worthwhile mates growin' up, either. Me stepmother said I was cruel-evil, rotten to me core, and said I'd be a bad influence on me stepsister Cheryl - and me stepsister believed it. Ran about tellin' on me about any little thing she caught me doing, and makin' up shit when it suited her - so everybody'd be too focused on punishin' me ta be noticin' her shenanigans with the neighborhood boys.

I spent some time with me uncle, for a spell… he was always lookin' fer an excuse to give me a beltin', callin' me bad... the bastard enjoyed it. You could see it in his eyes.

Just like those bastards at Ravenscar. I'd told the docs I'd been responsible fer the death of a little girl in Newcastle… Astra, that girl I tried to save from the demon with one a'me own. Thought I was safe in gettin' that off me chest, thought they'd abide by doctor-patient confidentiality… but no, they blabbed to every orderly in the place. They visited my cell every night teh work me over, on account a'some a'them 'avin' daughters, an' thinkin' I was some sort of child-murderer who'd escaped justice.

And then Dad, and Cheryl, and her little girl Gemma, my niece… a killer, wot calls himself 'The Family Man', got 'em all. Took 'em away from me." He turned to me, his eyes full of sadness. "Fer a long time, I wasn't sure there was good people in th'world. Seemed full a'shitbags te me…"

"There's a lot of them," I agreed.

"They're everywhere," he continued. "The rapists, the neo-Nazi skinheads and the rising spectre of fascism in eastern Europe, the cult leaders, the polluters, the yuppies… the Mengele-types of the new eugenics movement, tryin' to control the population by stopping some women from getting abortions an' then forcing it on others, even STERILIZING 'em when it suits them… the sneaky little shits who seed communities of 'undesirables' with drugs, so as they have an excuse to arrest 'em an' throw 'em in cages so hellish it would make a DEMON blush with professional envy... the warhawks, who send out their child-soldiers to plunder an' murder wherever they can get away with it... the pigs gettin' their rocks off by beatin' the livin' shite out of people with their barbarian billy-clubs and their tear-gas… queers, foreigners, hippies, or so-called 'regular folk', all of 'em just tryin' to get by on whatever meager scraps they're allowed teh have, which is gettin' teh be less and less every day.

Meanwhile the politicians of the world, they prance an' preen an' pat themselves on the back for the hard work of others whenever things're lookin' up... only te flap 'round like headless chickens an' point fingers when the schemes they hatch go awry on 'em… telling us greed is good, and that all we should be focusin' on is chasin' the money, while everywhere and all around us people are dyin' of drugs, murder, despair and AIDS.

And the Justice League? Wot Justice? They're not doing a damn thing to promote real justice in th'world! Maybe they can't - maybe the issues are too big fer them teh solved, an' they're in the same boat with the rest of us : scrabblin' like vermin in the dust of a dyin' world, roarin' at each other from our caves, pressin' our advantages against one another whenever we can, an' whorin' with the enemy for pennies. The superheroes just serve teh make us feel better about ourselves, that's all - like maybe we're not ALL selfish, unredeemable, hopeless little shits wot deserve a bad end.

An' us stupid wankers will go on hopin' that we'll be saved somehow at the 11th hour... at least until somebody presses the button and nukes us all to hell, or we all get AIDS, or Mother Nature fin'ly gives up the ghost an' takes us all down with 'er. Game over, everyone! Ta!

It might already be too late to save us… there's too much to do, and nothing that can be done."

"Giving up rather quickly, aren't you John? You didn't create all the world's problems - it's not your responsibility to fix them all."

"But it IS though, don't yeh see? Hell is where the heart is, Babe, and my heart's not in the right place - never has been.

I've mortgaged my own soul by the mouthful, to feed my twisted inner monster-child, to keep it quiet and secret in the deepest cellar a'me cold, stony heart.

It started with the fake anti-establishment rebellion of my youth, makin' a big show of givin' the finger to The Man - when in truth, I was eatin' out of his hand the whole time. I didn't really want to rebel - wot I wanted was fame, an' money, an' gettin' laid every night, an' bein' king of my castle, just like all the rest… all things The Man had to offer in spades. I didn't even hesitate to sacrifice anything and everyone good in me life, offering it all up on that altar of vanity.

Then, when I lost it, it all became about not'in more than feelin' sorry fer myself…pushed away my family, pushed away anybody I had left who might still care.

Yet still the corpses and the shit kept pilin' up around me.

I turned a blind's eye to most of it. I told meself it wasn't my responsibility to clean up the mess - I didn't owe the wankers of the world anything, least of all that. Not my fault, not my problem; that's wot I told myself. Best I could do was cover me own arsehole, and let simpletons like the Bog God do all the heroics.

But it IS my fault things're like this, Rose… mine, and all the other nasty old bogeymen. We'll never any of us admit it, but we WANTED it this way; and we'll make damn sure not'in ever changes for the better."

I pulled him into a hug, holding him close. "You're not a bogeyman," I told him.

John took a few deep, shuddering breaths. "Yeh know…" he breathed, "I think I'm gonna be jealous of the little tyke…" Then I felt a hand sliding up my ribcage. "Might not 'ave been so sickly, if I'd 'ad a pair of me own te latch onto…"

I grabbed his wandering hand and threw it aside, like it was a crawling snake or a poisonous insect. "Stop that!" I said, but my voice sounded weird and distant to my own ears.

Because this time, unlike the previous time we'd touched - when he was consciously and actively blocking me out - he'd unwittingly or perhaps purposely left the door of his subconscious mind ajar… and without meaning to, I slipped and fell right in.

It was a fearful, writhing mass of lust and confused imagery, the pornographically sexual mixed with the macabre, a strange desire to go exploring deeper than the flesh to find something just as horrible or worse than itself… hunter and prey… the life-ending explosion of a gunshot as the ultimate release... a whimper, a giggle, a mad little boy tugging at skirts… what the hell WAS this?

He didn't want comfort, not really: he wanted someone to absorb his pain, and hurt right alongside him… a perverse way of not being alone.

He didn't miss his mother - he hated her for dying.

He didn't miss his father, or the beatings, or the way he looked at Cheryl… not because it was abhorrent, but because John looked at her with those same eyes, and wanted no rival to his desires.

He didn't miss his stepsister's treachery, and he couldn't forgive her for marrying that self-righteous holy-roller crusader, who was able to go where he could not.

He didn't miss Gemma, his doe-eyed little niece, playing a cruel joke on him by looking so much like her mother, yet adoring him as Cheryl only had in his sick, scummy-minded dreams.

Oh, he loved them all right - but it was a covetous love, one that gnashed its teeth if it wasn't returned the way he wanted… if he didn't get his own way.

And he didn't feel bad at all about killing The Family Man, either. He'd outright murdered a human being - it had nothing to do with justice. He wasn't a hero. It had everything to do with destroying a rival bogeyman, who'd stolen John's well-earned vengeance against those whose love was denied him. He'd gotten away with it. He'd gotten his revenge, in secret, got off scot-free… got off...gun going off in his hand… and ohh did it feel good to watch that old man bleed out…

They were all shitbags, yes, but he was too - he hated all of them, but none more so than himself.

Except, at the same time, these were all lies. The contradictions rioted within him: he missed all of them terribly, yearned with every fiber of his being to see them once more, and the death of the bogeyman at his hands weighed crushingly on his soul. He'd vomited the minute after he'd done him...

All of this flashed through my own mind at once, in mere fractions of a second.

This was the realm of The Cuckoo, of The Corinthian. I didn't want to be here. I tore myself away, first mentally...

...and then physically. "What's the matter with you?!" I cried.

"Wot do yeh mean, luv?" Then he peered closer at me. "Ah. You SAW, didn't you? Wot I really am, on the inside? You stuck your nose in too deep, an' it gave you a bit of a fright, now dint it?" His face hardened. "Well I don't give a TOSS if you're scared - how do you think it makes ME feel? It's INSIDE me. I keep tryin' to kill it, but it JUST WON'T DIE."

I remember being furious at him - not for the awful things he was saying, thinking or feeling, but for him clinging to his own personal myth of being a monster.

"But no shame in admittin' what works for yeh," he went on, grinning at me shittily - a glinty-eyed bastard, all evidence of his tears suddenly gone. "If sobs and existential angst do the trick, I'm happy teh oblige."

I scrambled out of the chair. "Get away from me! You… you DISGUSTING JERK!"

He snarled. "An' wot's a fella wot done in his own son, eh? Does 'e get a pass 'cos 'e managed teh feel BAD 'bout it afterwards? Yeh, full a'heart, that one... wot makes him such a stud wot gets you wet in the knickers, an' me such a piece of shit, eh? My story's MUCH sadder than his."

Yes, I thought - but not for the right reasons.

"Is it 'cos I'm a bleedin' human, an' that old git is some sort've scary immortal wossit?" he went on. "Wot, a magus not enough razzle-dazzle for you? Need the flashier, more glamorous stuff to make you cum now darlin'?"

"Oh, just SHUT UP! You don't know jack-SHIT about immortals!"

I realized, as the word passed my lips, that I had made a mistake. I wished I could take it back, reverse the sound waves before it reached his ears.

Maybe he wouldn't notice… or draw the right conclusion from it...

John fixed me with a deep, inscrutable stare for a moment. "Yeh're an immortal," he said - not as a question or an accusation, but as a simple statement of fact.

I covered my mouth with both hands, but it was too late now - I'd said the words, and it was obvious from my reaction that it was the truth. No use denying it now.

I felt shaken, exposed.

I had never told anyone about being an immortal. Not a soul. I'd only ever spoken of it with Hob, and he already knew what I was long before I did - he's the one who told me, after all.

"I do know about immortals," he said, quietly. "Met more'n my fair share of them, even considerin' the business I'm in. An' I knew that's wot you were."

"How?"

"Same way you were able to take a look-see 'round me heart just now," he replied. "But the real question is WHEN I took a peek inside yeh."

"...When?"

"When you said yeh knew how old Mad Hettie was."

I reeled. "I didn't say that out loud." My mind was rapidly trying to re-interpret all of our interactions up until that point. "Have you only been hanging around me because of that?" I asked. "Did you think it'd be real neat or something, having a girl around who'd stay young and hot forever? Or... was there more to it than that? Were you planning to pimp me out to rich occult scumbags, or trade me to a demon to get yourself out of a pinch?"

John sat back in his chair, observing me coolly.

I shook my head, expelling air incredulously. "I don't believe this," I said. "Hob WARNED me about guys like you."

"An' I don't mind a nice girl like YOU telling me teh sling me hook," John replied. "It's the only right an' proper response your sort can have teh a'fella like me. Don't try teh catch me, little girl - don't trust me, and don't let me taint you. I'll only drag you down. I'm a mad dog - I 'ent housebroken, an' I never will be. Now piss off, so I can have a smoke without hurtin' the sprog."

Fine, I thought, if he's so damned determined...

I pulled his trenchcoat out of the washer and shoved it at him. "Get out."

"An' go where, exactly?"

"Don't care. Just go away and leave me alone."

John looked sourly at the dripping trenchcoat. He took it; I didn't expect him to actually put it on, but he did anyway, out of sheer stubbornness. "I think you missed the part where 'e gave the house teh BOTH of us."

"OUT. NOW."

"If yeh want me, I'll be at whatever serves as a pub 'round 'ere," he said. "Say 'llo to the Sandman for me, when 'e shows up on 'is noble steed te carry you off to never-neverland."

Constantine dripped out the door, slamming it shut on his way out.