Author's Note: Sorry for the lack of update last weekend. Hopefully things will be a little less insane now. For anyone who didn't see, I posted a oneshot called Risk last Saturday. I'm also working on a humorfic that you'll hopefully be seeing soon. For those of you who said the pace needs to pick up—I know you want action, but there's necessary stuff I have to get in here first. Trust me, you're actually getting plot info, you just don't know it yet. Hopefully this chapter will be a little more to your liking.

Remember- 10 reviews, I update next Saturday, less, I update in two weeks.

Chapter 19

Holiday Inn Express

Eugene, OR

2:33 A.M.

October 19, 2005

The scream was barely out of her mouth when a hand clamped it shut. Another took hold of her shoulder, pinning her against the bed, and Angela kicked out instinctively, managing only to get her legs tangled in the cheap hotel sheets. The hand on her shoulder loosened, and she attempted to sit up, smacking the back of her neck painfully against the headboard. A moment later the light came on with a click, and she found herself face to face with John Constantine, his hand clamped firmly over her mouth, looking as if he didn't know whether to laugh or chastise her for being so clumsy.

"Quiet," he muttered, then released her and sat on the bed, very narrowly avoiding her legs. Angela threw the covers off and sat up, ignoring the way Constantine was eyeing her. He seemed unnaturally interested in her body, even for him.

"John—"

"You were dreaming again," he said calmly, stating the obvious. For a moment Angela seriously contemplated slapping him again. Then she remembered just what the dream had been, and all thoughts of anything else were forgotten.

"There's—"

"Another murder," he finished, grabbing her shoulder as she attempted to get up again. She fought back fruitlessly, suddenly desperate to get out of the room. She was freezing, though the heat was on full blast in the room, and her nostrils seemed to be full of some unidentifiable scent.

"There's a restaurant," she murmured, her own voice sounding foreign in her ears. "McDonald's. About a mile from here." She pushed him forcefully away from her and swung her legs over the side of the bed a little too quickly, swearing and grabbing onto him again as a wave of nausea washed over her.

"Jesus," muttered Constantine as she doubled over, digging her fingernails into the knees of her pants. "Don't puke on me."

"Asshole," she grated, managing a shaky breath and sitting up again, more slowly this time.

"Sorry, babe, I'm just not a hold-your-hair-back kinda guy." There was a playful lilt to his voice, but in his eyes he looked truly hurt. She felt bad for what she'd said, but he was being confusing again—one minute sweet, the next as much of a bastard as ever. That alone hurt more than anything he could physically do or say to her.

"Doesn't matter," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "We've gotta get going." She got to her feet and grabbed her coat off the chair next to the bed, then turned back and caught Constantine staring at her again. "What?"

"That wasn't there before," he muttered. Angela narrowed her eyes at him. Why did he care so damn much all of a sudden?

"What?" He was wasting time and had to know it as well as she did.

"Your jacket. When I left you had hung it up in the closet. With the rest of your clothes."

"What the hell were you doing looking in my closet?" It was a stupid question and she knew it, but lack of sleep had made her temper dangerously short, and he was treading on her last nerve.

"Give it to me."

"John!"

"Give me the jacket," he insisted, holding his hands out as if to conjure it from her body. Impatiently, Angela pulled the bulky jacket from her shoulders and thrust it at him, forcing back the temptation to hurl it at his head. She felt like a fussy two-year-old on the brink of a temper tantrum.

"How do you explain this?" Constantine was holding her jacket up to the light like a piece of evidence, pointing suspiciously at what appeared to her to be a wrinkle in the fabric.

"What, John?" She was getting tired of repeating herself.

"This." He brought it under and thrust it under her nose, and suddenly Angela saw what he'd been looking at. The dark fabric was peppered with tiny water marks, like it had been on a person caught out in the rain. Her heart jumped into her throat at the sight, and immediately her brain began working to rationalize this finding into something she knew it wasn't.

"The air-conditioning vent must have dripped on it."

"Angela…it's forty degrees outside. The heater has been running strong all night."

"It still could have dripped." She had no idea why she suddenly felt the need to defend such a stupid explanation; it wasn't as if it meant anything at all, except that there was one more confounding event on a thoroughly confusing case.

"There's no vent over that chair." He was right, of course. There wasn't. Angela shrugged forcibly and all but tore the jacket back out of his hands.

"We'll deal with the mysteries of my clothes later. Now let's get the hell out of here before Morton and his crew get the call."

"Angela—" He started to say something else, but broke off, coughing violently. Angela was hit with the realization that she'd entirely forgotten about his doctor's orders, chalking his palor and irritability up to lack of sleep and stress of the case. He most certainly hadn't been taking it easy, and if she knew John Constantine, hadn't bothered to fill any prescriptions either.

"Sit down," she ordered, her detective's instincts kicking back in. She might be distracted by this case, but she was still more than capable of controlling a situation like this.

Constantine did as he was told, though Angela guessed it was more out of physical necessity than any kind of respect for her authority. Brushing damp hair out of his eyes, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, wincing.

"You've got a fever." As if there had been any doubt.

"I'm fine," he muttered unconvincingly. This statement was entirely undermined by another fit of coughing.

"Lie down," ordered Angela, her heart racing. The rational part of her brain told her that there was no reason for panic, that getting to the crime scene was still her primary objective. But she knew Constantine well enough to know that any show of weakness meant he really was in trouble.

"Crime scene," he muttered, among something else unintelligible, still trying to catch his breath.

"I'll go." Taking hold of his shoulders, Angela pushed him back against the bed.

"No you won't."

"Yes, I will. I'm a big girl, John. I can handle a crime scene." Truthfully she wasn't sure she could, but she didn't have a choice.

"Coming with you," he insisted, and she had to force him to lie back down.

"No," insisted Angela, "you're not. You're staying here, or I'll show Morton that wonderful scrap of paper you 'found.'"

"Bitch," muttered Constantine, but there was no conviction in his voice. Angela gave him her best glare for good measure, then slipped her shoes on and left, shutting the door a little too hard behind her.

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