Part XVIII: Drama

"Oh…god." Jade whispered. Chas nodded, as if for effect. It had taken the better part of the hour to explain to Jade—as well as details to Angela—what, exactly, was going on in this mostly typical day of John Constantine and Chas Kramer—from angels to rakshasa to John's ability to transcend the planes and travel to Hell.

"I need to…step outside." Jade muttered, standing up from the table and practically running out the door. Once outside, she leaned against the doorframe, gazing above at the symbols carved into the walls and ceiling. She'd known John was an exorcist—but…this. This was too much. Exorcism, voodoo, angels and demons were on the borderline of reality—but they stayed on one distinctive side, as far as she was concerned. However, after today—

No. They didn't exist…and yet—no. Demons don't exist, her brain taunted her—her mother had carved this mantra into her brain from the earliest age—Demons. Do not. Exist. Period.

But then, how could she explain what she'd witnessed? And not just in the past week, but through the fabric of her entire life? The dreams…the visions…the fleeting views of life on the other planes. The desires so strong, so deep, to take her life—slit her wrists, overdose on those pristinely white tablets—and the tiny voice in the back of her brain that gnawed, warned her that she didn't need to die to get her share of Hell.

"Jade?"

His voice was barely a whisper, behind her on the darkened street—when had she made her way down the stairs and out onto the street, she wondered—but it startled her still, and she briefly wondered when he'd become so ubiquitous.

"Jade—are you alright?"

She nodded, mutely, both unaware and uncaring of the tears falling down her cheeks, "Yeah…yeah, I'm fine."

He nodded, and tentatively reached out to her, putting one hand gently on her shoulder, "I…you sure?"

She gulped, and looked away, "Yeah." She blinked tears away with her lashes, and he gingerly wrapped one arm around her, pulling her into his embrace. She stood rigid for a moment, before hesitantly slipping her arms around his waist and hugging him back.

Chas had gone after her. He wasn't sure what he was going to say—"Hiya, Jade, I'm an angel, and yeah, I died a couple months ago, but I like you, and I think you like me—so can we still be friends?" He'd hurried out onto the dark street after her, where she was crying. And it wasn't until then, when he saw her eyes glistening with tears in a mix of moon-and-streetlight—that he realized, he didn't have to say anything at all.

"Rakshasa? Rakshasa!" Angela was furious. "You didn't think, it never—it never crossed your mind—to tell me about these—things!"

John winced—or would have, were John Constantine the type to wince—at her sharp tone, "Look, Angela. These things are dangerous, and the less people that know about them, the better. Not only would it cause unnecessary panic, but they leave a psychic field around their victims. You—especially with your power—can't stay in them for very long or you'll go insane. It's dangerous."

"Dangerous? They're dangerous. No shit, Sherlock." Angela stomped over to where John was standing in his supremely casual and uncaring manner and poked him in the chest, "Did it ever, ever, ever cross your mind that perhaps, just perhaps, I—Detective Angela Dodson, who happens to be in homicide—might be involved in these cases? These deaths? That are apparently the responsibility of the rakshasa? That maybe it would be a good idea to warn me about things like the psychic field? Hmm?" She punctuated each question with a painful poke.

John blinked at her and then realized what she was saying.

"Oh."

"How're you doing?" He asked, gently. Jade sniffled, and looked up at him.

"Why…why are you out here?" She wondered, why did he come after me?

He shrugged, "You…looked like you needed a friend."

She gazed up at him, regarding him silently for a moment, "Yeah…I guess I did. Thanks."

"No problem."

"Oh?" Angela felt her anger rising further—if that was possible, "John, you need to fill me in, here. You can't just…live and…go around like you—like you don't have anyone but yourself to think about!"

John gazed at her with a heady, arrogant stare, one that gave him the hardened look of a purely independent, self-sufficient cynic. She threw her hands up in exasperation.

"What about Jade? What about Chas? John, as much as I know you hate to admit it, you are not alone anymore. I don't think you ever were. People care, and you can't just leave them in the dark. That's what gets them killed."

A flash of dark emotion flew through John's eyes and Angela put a hand to her lips, "Oh god, John, I'm sorry."

Chas watched Jade as she wiped the tears from her eyes and tucked her hair behind her ears. She looked…better.

Chas turned and walked back into the bowling alley. Jade would follow eventually.

"No, you're right."

John's voice was deadened, hard and bitter. Angela visibly winced at its tone. She watched him duck into the cage surrounding his bed and sit down, looking as defeated as John Constantine could ever look. When he spoke again, it wasn't to her; it was to the room, the world, the air.

"It's my fucking fault that the prophecy is in effect, it's my fucking fault that everyone I ever got close to is dead, and it's my fucking fault that the world is going to end." He let out a deep breath with a disturbingly mortal quality about it. Angela didn't know what to say. So she said the first thing that came to mind.

"I love you."

Jade watched him leave, watched him turn his back to her and walk away.

"Thanks," she whispered softly, "Thank you, Jack."

Constantine slowly lifted his eyes to meet hers, his gaze raw and unwavering. Brusquely, he nodded—just a short tip of his head.

She bit her lip and nodded back. That was all the confirmation she needed.