Author's Note: If you haven't read my one-shot "For the Best," you're not going to understand what Constantine and Angela are talking about in the car. Just a warning. Please keep in mind that this fic as well as "Another Kind of Intimacy" and the aforementioned are part of a series.

Also, I got a request to put a note stating that I'm using Weiss from the novelization more than from the movie. Just…yeah. Keep that in mind.

Chapter 6

Fernandez Used Cars

Los Angeles, California

October13, 2005

2:51 P.M.

The body had already been removed, but the area where the murder had occurred was clearly marked in white chalk and tape. The harsh light of early-afternoon L.A. sun revealed a dark brown stain in the sandy parking-lot ground where the head had been, and flies were beginning to arrive. Angela knelt by the edge of the outline and watched as one of them landed in the dark sand and flitted about, laying eggs. She stood and turned away, her stomach rolling dangerously.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump and she turned to face Constantine who looked far too at ease for such a case.

"Victim number two?" he asked.

Angela shook her head.

"I don't think so. Victim number two of this case, yes. But the same killer…it just doesn't feel right."

Constantine smirked.

"Another hunch?"

Angela shrugged.

"Call it what you will."

"Where's our good friend Weiss?" he asked, changing tack.

"On his way. He stopped by the local station to talk to the officers who were first on the scene here."

"Good idea," said Constantine, sounding uncharacteristically smug.

"John…" Angela forced herself to breathe slowly, fighting for control. She hated being trapped between the two of them, hated the position it put her in having to mediate. Weiss was the logical person for her to trust; they'd been partners for more than two years and he'd saved her life on more than one occasion. And yet recently she'd found that against her better judgment and every rational cell in her brain, it was John Constantine she'd come to rely on the most. "Listen, I let you stay on this case against my better judgment. Weiss wants you gone. If you pick a fight with him…there's nothing I can do to bail you out this time."

"Best behavior," said Constantine, entirely unconvincingly. He held up four fingers. "Scout's Honor."

Angela snorted at the image of him as a Boy Scout.

"Speak of the Devil," he said, and Angela turned to see Weiss getting out of a police car and walking toward them.

"News?" she asked.

Weiss nodded.

"The victim was a middle-aged Hispanic man by the name of Pablo Fernandez. There's been no autopsy performed yet, but the medical examiner did a cursory exam. It would appear that he was knocked unconscious by a blow to the temple—likely from a fist. The impact of the ground likely fractured his skull, which would have caused him to bleed to death relatively quickly."

Angela nodded slowly.

"So it doesn't fit the pattern."

"Pattern," said Weiss. "There is no pattern. You can't have a pattern of one."

"No," said Constantine amiably, "but every pattern has to start somewhere."

"We have an eyewitness account," insisted Weiss. "A worker who was inside the building at the time of the incident reports seeing a man matching Malone's description get out of a rather battered vehicle and ask to buy a different car. He had cash but no driver's license or any form of identification. Fernandez refused to sell him the car on the grounds that he had no license and no means of registering the vehicle. After they argued for several minutes, Malone became agitated and punched Fernandez in the temple, then got into a black Honda Civic and drove off."

"All right," said Constantine, nodding slowly. "So Malone most likely killed Fernandez. That doesn't mean he killed Neese."

Weiss continued to glower.

"You still think Malone is innocent?"

"I didn't say that. I said he didn't kill Maddie Neese."

"Was there anything else?" asked Angela, trying to stop the argument from elevating.

"As a matter of fact," said Weiss, sounding far too pleased with himself, "there is. There have already been several sightings of Malone and the car since last night, the most recent of which in the city of Bakersfield."

Angela pulled out the small PDA she carried and dialed up a map. The thing was a pain to keep track of, and it came with about a million liability and warrantee forms, but it did occasionally come in handy.

"That's about two hours north of here," she told the others.

"What do you want to do?" asked Weiss, suddenly playing cooperative.

Angela looked at Constantine for confirmation.

"Malone is the best link we have so far," he said slowly. "We might as well follow him."

While Angela's SUV was more than roomy enough to comfortably fit three people, it was nowhere near large enough to house both John Constantine and Xavier Weiss for any long amounts of time. She had picked the two of them up for the long ride to Bakersfield after a quick trip back into the city for the necessities. After nearly an hour and several narrow misses on the highway, Angela had relinquished the driver's seat to Weiss and moved into the back. Constantine sat beside her, long legs cramped against the seat in front, and pretended to sleep so as to ignore the other man's incessant prattling.

"So, Angie, did you watch the game last night?" asked Weiss. It was his third change of subject in under ten minutes, and seemed no more successful in starting a conversation than anything previous.

"You know I hate football," muttered Angela without looking up.

Weiss sighed and turned on the radio, giving up. Constantine opened one eye a crack and looked at her. She was staring absently out the window. He shook his head and shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. The back seat was undoubtedly cramped, and it was getting rather distracting.

"I know you're not asleep," muttered Angela without turning.

Constantine gave up and leaned over so his chin was practically resting on her shoulder.

"What, did you want me to entertain him?"

"That's not nice," Angela chided.

"Since when am I nice?"

She turned, nearly bumped noses with him, shooed him away with one hand, obviously flustered.

"Good point. Don't know what I was thinking."

He knew she was kidding, but somehow it stung just a little. A few minutes of awkward silence passed between them before Angela spoke again.

"Are you feeling better?"

The question took him by surprise, and for a moment he wondered if she was talking about the cancer or his latest run-in with the world of bacteria. She'd never said anything more about it after he'd admitted to her that he was terminal, but he guessed that she knew, somehow of his cure, just as she knew of Isabel's redemption. He shrugged, trying to think of some witty reply. Knowing someone cared enough to ask made him decidedly uncomfortable.

"If it's not one thing, it's another," he muttered at last. It was hardly what he'd intended, but at least it was something.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She put a hand on his shoulder.

"Yes."

"I'm glad."

Angela smiled at that and he was amazed as ever at how she seemed to radiate warmth. He shrugged out of her grasp after a moment and looked out his own window, trying to regain control.

"Angela—" He broke off, shook his head. There was something that needed to be said, but he wasn't sure how.

"What?"

"I'm sorry about…last time…"

She shook her head.

"I had it coming. I shouldn't have pushed like that." She laughed a little, bitterly. "I just…hate seeing people hurt. It makes me lose my head. That's why I shoot without looking…Ironic, isn't it?"

Constantine chuckled, then broke off abruptly when Weiss turned around to look at them.

"What would you say if I told you I know exactly what you mean?" he asked when the younger man had turned around again.

"I'd say you scare me," she answered, grinning. "But then I'd have to be afraid of myself."

"Maybe that's what you and I have in common," said Constantine, more seriously than he'd meant to. "We scare people."

"And ourselves," said Angela, going back to staring out the window.

"And ourselves," echoed Constantine, shaking his head as they passed a battered white fence on the side of the road which read "Jesus is Kin." The "g" had fallen off, apparently, and no one had ever bothered to replace it. He rather liked the new sentiment, he thought, though he was sure the locals who had painted the fence wouldn't agree.

I'll write a one-shot of your choice if I get 10 + reviews per chapter for the next 3 chapters, or 15 + per chapter for the next 2.

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