Author's Note: So I actually started a Constant Gardener fic, but now I am still without a category to put it in. I've made the request twice now, so we'll see what happens. If anyone else wants to write a oneshot and request with me, I will be eternally grateful.

Remember-Hmm…just for fun…let's try something new. 10 reviews, I update next Saturday, less, I update in two weeks. That part stays the same. However if, by some miracle, I should get more than let's say…20 reviews (right), I'll update as soon as I get to that number.

Chapter 17

Holiday Inn Express

Eugene, OR

11:21 PM

October 18, 2005

"We've got problems," said Angela briskly, slamming the door and plunking herself unceremoniously down on the bed. Constantine followed and sat down beside her, grabbing a half-full pizza box from the middle of the comforter and setting it on the bedside table.

"That's a surprise." He'd only just gotten back from a day spent on the darker side of town, trying to pick up a hint of their killer. Angela gave him a look that he wasn't entirely sure how to read. She was agitated, certainly, but he wasn't sure whether she was angry with him or someone else. She just sat staring at him, looking like she couldn't decide whether she wanted to scream or cry. All in all, it was completely unnerving to Constantine. He was shit at comforting people, most especially crying women. Considering the circumstances, he did the best thing he could think of. "Pizza?" he asked, gesturing to the box on the nightstand.

"John…" Constantine noticed that she said his name a lot when he was getting to her, though she seemed to use it equally as a sign of affection and chastisement.

"Problems?" He grabbed a slice of pizza from the box and took a large bite out of it, ignoring the look Angela gave him. He had offered it to her, after all, if she wanted to deprive herself, that wasn't his problem.

"Where the hell have you been all day?" she snapped. She looked awful, Constantine thought with a momentary pang of sympathy. She'd stripped down to a tank top and sweatpants, this time all black. He couldn't help smiling a little at the thoughts that brought up, but this obviously wasn't the right time.

"Sniffing out Malone," he said simply. "And yourself?"

"Briefing our good friend Captain Morton on this beautiful case of ours. Searching the airport with a couple of his field officers who were a hell of a lot more interested in looking down my shirt than at any kind of evidence. On the phone with the office back home." She paused, reached out, grabbed a piece of pizza then threw it back down almost violently. "Out looking for you."

"Angela…" Constantine wasn't sure how to respond to this, or how to take it. She obviously cared, cared too much for his comfort, but he was sure in this instance she had to be more interested in the case than anything else. "Problems?" he repeated, on edge.

"Morton is intent on turning this case political. He's going to do nothing to listen to us or aid in any actual investigation. His people will find Malone, arrest him, and call it case closed."

"So that's why we're here. To make sure that doesn't happen."

"But we don't have any authority over them," Angela corrected, picking the pizza slice up again and pinching it between her fingers. "Morton is determined to block our investigation. And so is everyone at home."

"So…what? They weren't going to solve this case before, Angela. We'll do what needs to be done to solve this case." Constantine chanced a hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away and stood up, pacing nervously. He noticed that her hands were shaking.

"Weiss is flying home in the morning," she said at last, sounding utterly defeated.

"Angela…" Constantine sighed. He had nothing useful to say on the matter. They were in a bad place, at least as far as Angela's career was concerned, but as far as he could tell they had no choice but to forge on ahead. He had never had any intentions of sticking with the legal investigation anyway, but of course he couldn't tell her that. Especially not now. "It's almost midnight," he said at last. "Go to sleep."

Angela sat back down on the other side of the bed and shook her head. She was plainly exhausted, but in a way Constantine could hardly blame her. He himself had gone long stretches of time without sleeping just trying to avoid the nightmares. Hers had to be fifty times worse, and yet she still had yet to say a word about them.

"No, thanks. I think I'm going to stay up and work a little longer."

"On what? Angela, there can't possibly be anything left for you to do on this case tonight. What are you going to do, stay up all night so you won't have to know where the next murder takes place?" He felt bad the minute the words left his mouth, but it was already too late.

"John Constantine don't you dare tell me what to do." Her voice was soft, low, deadly. He imagined it was the way she spoke to a murderer she was about to gun down.

"We need you on this case," said Constantine lamely.

"Oh, really? So I can tell you where to look for the next body? What am I, your fucking Divining Rod? Put her in bed and see which way she points."

Despite everything that he knew he should think and feel, this struck Constantine as nothing short of extremely funny. The tension in the room was so think he felt he could have cut it with a knife, or maybe a saw, in their killer's fashion. Try as he might, he couldn't keep the smirk off his face. Silently, Angela got to her feet, made her way around the bed, and slapped him soundly across the face.

Constantine resisted the urge to flinch, deciding he'd gotten off rather lightly considering who he was dealing with. The change in Angela's face was immediate. Her anger drained away in an instant, leaving her looking pale and scared. Sure she was about to cry, Constantine did the first thing that came to mind—he stood up and pulled her into a rough hug.

"Sorry," she said softly, her breath tickling his neck distractingly.

"Hey, happens all the time." The sad thing was, it was true. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest, hers heaving as she struggled to control herself. The feelings this brought about—a sensation somewhat like a vacuum cleaner being applied to the inside of his stomach—made him want to turn and run. Either that or throw her down on the bed and kiss her until they both died of asphyxiation.

She pulled away after a moment, and Constantine found himself staring at her, absolutely at a loss for words. He wanted to tell her that he was afraid, that he cared more than he'd likely ever tell her, that she suddenly made him sorry for being everything that he was. This was a power that few people had ever had over him before, and every time he'd allowed them to know it had ended badly.

"You need to sleep," he repeated, more gently this time. She nodded, but didn't move. "I'll walk you back," said Constantine, suddenly remembering that her room was at the other end of the hall. Angela just nodded, and allowed him to lead her out of the room. They were silent on the way down the hall, the tension more palpable than ever. Angela's hands shook again as she tried to open her door, and Constantine snatched the cardkey away from her, too anxious himself to watch her fumble.

"Lie down," he ordered as they made their way inside. Angela gave him an odd look, but obeyed, slipping off her shoes and stretching out on top of the covers.

"What are you gonna do, stay here all night and make sure I sleep?" she asked almost a little playfully as he did the same.

"Yes." Constantine moved closer and gently put his arms around her. She didn't protest, didn't say anything at all, but the tension in her face eased a little and she closed her eyes as he worked his fingers over the tight muscles of her back.

He stared at her lips when he knew she couldn't see, and thought about what it might be like if he wasn't—well, the way he was. He imagined running his fingers through her hair, the feeling of her skin bare against his. She was warm, and that simple fact never ceased to amaze him. After a few minutes he was sure she was asleep, but he stayed for nearly an hour anyway, wondering what would happen if he never left.

Finally, Constantine forced his mind back to the case—they had a killer to catch, after all—and made himself get up. He switched off the light as quietly as possible, then turned back, suddenly struck breathless by the sight of her face in the moonlight. She wasn't dreaming, at least not yet, and she looked years younger with the lines of tension in her brow eased.

Without thinking, he leaned over and brushed his lips ever so lightly against hers. She didn't stir, didn't make any sign that she even knew what had just happened. Of course she couldn't have. Constantine sighed and left, feeling suddenly crushingly sad.

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