Disclaimer: I own nothing but a hoard of occult books, some sketchy plants, and vast quantities of Satanic literature. I'm not making any money from this; I simply wanted to bring some darker Chastine fic into the world. Rated M for language and sexual content.
A/N: I should note that I don't make up the names of the books, journals, grimoires, etc. that Chas and John read. They all actually exist, although probably different in form and content than what I describe them as being. Line breaks indicate a change of scene/time/place/perspective/something.
Chapter Five
"Am I more than you bargained for yet?
I've been dying to tell you anything, you wanna hear
'Cause that's just who I am this week..."
- Fall Out Boy ("Sugar, We're Going Down")
There was a lump in his throat that wouldn't go away. Chas tugged on his clothes, fumbling in the darkness of the living room. He collected a few of his books from the coffee table; he couldn't read their titles but knew they were his by the way they felt, not belonging to John at all. The teen grabbed his jacket from the coat rack by the door and fled the flat, remembering at the last moment to pull the wards closed behind him.
The lift was still out, so Chas took the stairs two at a time, all the way down. Fluorescent lights flickered eerily overhead, by turns making the stairwell either glaringly bright or almost entirely dark. Except for his sneakers hitting the steps and the buzz of the failing lights, the building was quiet, its atmosphere oppressive. Chas pushed open the double entrance doors and stopped to let himself breathe in the cool night air. He hadn't noticed he'd been holding his breath; the teen exhaled with a wavering sigh, hating the sound.
He'd get in shit if he turned up at home at this hour, mostly for the fact that the floor was creaky and would wake up his mother's boyfriend. It wasn't as though his mother cared where he went. As for sleeping in the cab, Chas knew from (decidedly uncomfortable) experience that the three days of neck pain that accompanied it wasn't worth it. He glanced around the empty street, watching dead leaves and bits of newspaper rustle in the breeze. There was absolutely no way he was going back to John's place tonight, he decided. And that settled it: he had nowhere to go.
Chas left his books in the cab and started walking. He turned his collar up against the crisp, early morning air and folded his arms to keep his hands warm. The streets were as deserted as London's ever got; a few delivery trucks were starting to make their rounds, but most of the club-goers had called it a night long ago. This wasn't really the area for that sort of thing, anyway, Chas thought, passing by more corner grocery stores than nightclubs.
The wind picked up, sending garbage rattling down the sidewalk. Chas walked faster, letting the chill of the evening seep into his mind and wipe it clean. The clarity was a sharp contrast to his earlier, alcohol-induced haziness, reminding him that John had thought him drunk. The teen stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. He didn't want to think about John.
Of course, want had little to do with what did or did not occur in his life; Chas had that much figured out by now. He wondered if this was why magicians were so messed up: they were ultimately just glorified control freaks. They had more skills with which to bend the environment surrounding them to their will, and were that much more disappointed when things didn't turn out in the way they intended.
Chas tilted his head back, staring up at the star-less, overcast sky. John was dying, and he, Chas, had fucked up. Royally. But it was hard, impossibly so, to spend day after day watching John get sicker and sicker, and not want to help. It was like being in a room with broken glass on the floor: most people wanted to sweep up the glass before someone got hurt; Chas wanted to put the shards back together and see what they made.
The sky, never truly dark in London, gradually grew brighter. Chas stumbled onward, numb from both anguish and the early morning chill, and nearly asleep on his feet. At last he ducked into a doorway on Cromwell road, sitting down on the cement steps more abruptly than he'd intended. He'd have to move soon; people were waking up and going about their days, and the nearby tube station was already getting crowded. Chas watched three crows fighting over the remains of a less fortunate starling, and decided that maybe if he picked up breakfast to take with him, John wouldn't kill him when he arrived back home.
John had given up on trying to sleep shortly after hearing Chas leave. He showered quickly, and then paced his flat, lungs burning, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. His apprentice (yes, his), shouldn't be behaving like this. The magician raked his fingers through his hair, attempting to calm himself. A lot of strange shit was happening, but wasn't that just his life anyway? He bet his definition of normalcy was a helluva lot weirder than that of anyone working a nine-to-five. But this time the craziness was different; this time he was dying. And didn't that just throw a wrench into all his schemes.
The exorcist forced himself to sit down, immediately fumbling for a cigarette. He lit up and took a drag, hoping it would slow his thoughts down enough that he could observe them and pick them apart. It didn't work. One hour and seven cigarettes later and he was still nowhere near to figuring out Chas' motives. Sure, he had a dozen solid theories on them, but he also had a dozen solid theories on why Beeman liked bugs, and those had never done him any good either.
John got up and flicked on some lights. He decided a trip to see the witchdoctor was in order, even if all he got out of the man was another bottle of knock-you-on-your-ass cough syrup. John tried to stay out of the games that Midnite played for the most part, preferring to do things his own way. He'd always figured that getting too involved with the houngan would get him killed, and he'd assumed that the feeling was mutual. But Midnite was getting pushier of late, and John supposed that there were more things going on in the demonic world than his funeral-party planning. Midnite's neutrality involved a lot more behind-the-scenes string-pulling than the man would ever admit. The facade he presented was one of benign indifference, but in reality, Midnite had a finger in every pot and a knife at every throat.
The magician rubbed the back of his neck at the thought, wondering just what Midnite had planned for Chas and himself. Midnite obviously didn't want him dead, that much he could count on. And his theories on how John could cure himself ostensibly benefited Chas too, in a rather horrid, roundabout way. John saw it as coming down to two options. One: he lived, and Chas got initiated, and then he went to jail when Chas went to the police, and Chas looked after exorcisms as best he could while suffering some extreme psychological problems. Or two: he died, and an uninitiated Chas carried on with his job until his psychic abilities went haywire, or Balthazar snared him, or any other awful thing he could imagine befalling Chas when he didn't have anyone to look out for him.
"Fuck," he muttered, heaving a sigh. He hoped Chas would show up soon, if he showed up at all. I shouldn't have kicked him out, John thought, I should've let him- No. That was not happening. John went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, checking his liquor bottles while he was at it. There weren't any drastic changes in their content, so Chas couldn't have been too drunk. Which made things a helluva lot more complicated. "Fuck." John swore more loudly this time, gulping down the bitter-tasting water.
"Fuck what?" A voice asked from the doorway. John caught a whiff of coffee. He fought down the flood of relief that swept over him at the sight of the voice's owner and tried to make his face expressionless. Chas stood in the doorway, his clothing rumpled, looking like hell. The teen's eyes were surrounded by dark circles and a nasty-looking bruise graced his cheekbone. John winced when he saw it.
"Chas, we need to talk." John gestured for the boy to sit down.
Chas ignored him and stayed standing. After a moment's pause, he spoke. "So you want to talk now, huh?"
"Don't try to be mean, Chas, you're no good at it."
"That's surprising, given who I hang around with." The teen left the two paper cups of coffee on the table and stalked to the bathroom. A few seconds later John heard the shower turn on.
"Make yourself at home, brat-ling," John called softly to the closed door. He picked up one of the cups and took an experimental sip. It was decidedly lacking in the sugar department, and must be Chas', he figured. The second cup was perfect, exactly how he liked it, and didn't that just make him feel like shit.
Chas emerged from the bathroom a while later, dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a black Ramones t-shirt that John thought might once have been his own. John waited for him to say something, but the teen simply grabbed the other cup of coffee and headed for the door.
"Chas, wait."
"I'm going to work."
"I need a lift to Midnite's." John finished his coffee and started towards the teen. His apprentice turned, back to the door, frowning.
"Standard rate."
John snatched the coffee from Chas and set it hastily on the counter. He slammed his hands onto the door behind Chas, his arms on either side of the teen's face. John was surprised at himself, he really hadn't intended on getting this close to the boy. I'm going to get my nose broken in a second here, he thought. It'll be even harder to breathe.
"Fuck off, John." Chas glared at him for a moment, then seemed to be disconcerted by their proximity. He set his gaze into the apartment behind John and refused to look at him. C'mon Chas, John thought silently, take a swing. Instead, his apprentice just swallowed nervously, almost like he was trying not to cry. Shit. John leaned his weight onto one hand and used the other to touch the bruise on Chas' face. The teen flinched as John's fingertips slid over his skin, then went very still, eyes fluttering shut.
"Don't," he murmured.
"Should've put some ice on that," John mused, leaning in close.
"Too late now," Chas replied softly.
"Yeah," the exorcist muttered, backing away from the teen as his brain decided to re-engage. What the fuck am I doing?
Chas had the door open as soon as John stepped back. "I'll drop you off at Midnite's. Hurry up," he called, already halfway down the first flight of stairs.
"C'mon Midnite, I'm trying to do the right thing for once." John loosened his tie and sat back in his chair, trying not to sound petulant. His gaze roamed around Midnite's office, taking in the religious artefacts. The witchdoctor's latest acquisitions included an unassuming Bodhi tree and a Grecian urn. For some reason, it struck John as funny. Midnite's voice, edged with irritation, refocused his attention.
"Sparing Chas and damning the balance of this city because of it is not the right thing, John."
"He can fix things after I'm gone. He'll have to anyway. And he'll be better able to do so if he's not completely emotionally traumatized before I die."
"Tell me, how will an uninitiated teenager, even one as bright and capable as Chas, be able to fill the void you seem to gleefully intend on leaving? It's good that you're training him, good that you're letting him help, but for christsakes, John. It would be a lot fucking better if you didn't let the cancer kill you."
"I am magician, Midnite. Not a goddamn miracle worker. What if I did force Chas into the ritual? Whatever the consequences of that, I could still get hit by a bus the next day. It would all be for nothing."
"John: listen to me." Midnite was getting riled up, John could tell. It didn't show except in the tension of the houngan's hands and voice. John tried fervently not to laugh at the absurdity of having this conversation again. If he did, Midnite would probably kill him himself, and the balance be damned. The exorcist bit the insides of his mouth, praying it didn't show. Having six shots of rum at the bar before entering the office was a stupid idea, he decided.
"Constantine!" Midnite slammed his fist down on the desk, regaining the magician's wandering attention yet again. "I know you," he said softly, calming himself down as quickly as he'd been angered. "I know the things you're capable of, and I know as well as you do exactly where you're going to end up after death. Taking these things into account, I must ask: Why are you protecting Chas when, were he anyone else, you would've sacrificed him already?"
"Midnite-"
"You're a selfish man, John. Even when you're pretending not to be." The witchdoctor handed John a small glass bottle; its contents glittered strangely in the soft lighting of the office. "Get out."
The flat was quite dark, a light in the kitchen and a small lamp in the living room providing the only illumination. John was spending his evening sitting on the sofa, flipping through the mess of papers on the coffee table. He'd poured himself his fourth glass of whiskey and was pleasantly buzzed when he felt Chas slide through the wards like a whisper of smoke. Figuring the teen was trying to avoid him, he didn't look up, and Chas stayed out in the kitchen. When he heard his apprentice rattle a few bottles, looking for something half decent to drink, he decided to speak.
"I think it would be best for all of us if you stayed the hell out of my liquor cabinet, Chas."
All he got in reply was a muffled sounding 'Fuck you' and the sound of glass being placed un-gently on the countertop. "Don't break anything," he muttered, picking up a bunch of envelopes and setting them to one side. He passed over three American spiritualist tracts on exorcism (deliverance, they called it) and the latest edition of Abraxas, looking for the utilities bills and organizing them into a pile. He'd make sure they were paid off: one less thing for Chas to worry about. He should switch the names on his subscriptions as well, if Chas wanted to keep them.
"How do you feel about the New Equinox?" He ventured, hoping Chas' natural curiosity would prevent him from being ignored. "Or the Lamp of Thoth? I think Ultraculture's gone the way of Barbelith, but there's always Chaos International if you wanted to keep up with all the latest mind games."
"What?" Chas appeared from around the corner, a bottle clenched in his fist. John grinned, and the teen realized he'd been tricked.
"Fuck off, John."
"Come here, Chas. Your opinions are valid and necessary."
"Don't mock me, Constantine."
"I'm not. Or at least, I'm trying not to. You make it difficult, sometimes."
"Stop trying to be funny." Chas had a strange expression on his face. He ducked back into the kitchen for a second to grab a glass, then sat sprawled beside John on the sofa. "What do you want?"
"Do you wish to continue subscribing to any of these illustrious journals? I'd keep Abraxas, if nothing else. There's often a nice pair of tits on the cover."
"I don't care. Whatever." Chas took a sip of his drink (he'd apparently found a bottle of Chartreuse that John had long ago abandoned any hope of stomaching) and winced. "Are you drunk?" he asked abruptly.
"Not nearly enough."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it," John waved a hand benignly, misinterpreting the teen intentionally. "I've got a whole crate of gin somewhere in this dump."
Chas rolled his eyes. "No, John, I'm sorry. About last night."
"Are you sure?" John refused to make this any easier. "You don't seem very sorry to me. Pissed off, maybe."
His apprentice watched him with a pained expression. "John-"
"You shouldn't have kissed me."
The teen couldn't help looking indignant, despite himself. "Why not?"
"For a hundred legitimate reasons, Chas, not least of which is the fact that I'm practically a dead man. You have no idea what you're starting, or the consequences. Hell, I don't even know why you did it; it didn't seem like something you would do. I could be completely misinterpreting this whole thing, and still it wouldn't end well for you." John finished his whiskey and poured another. He saw something like resolve forming in the boy's eyes, and wondered how much longer he'd be able to match wits with him.
"I'm not scared of you, John." Chas looked ready to put up a fight.
"You should be. Think about it. My friends drop like flies. How much longer do you think you have, Chas?"
"I already knew a lot of your friends are dead."
"You don't find that odd? Disconcerting?"
"It's not like you killed them."
"Chas. That is exactly how it is."
"So what, you're moonlighting as a serial killer and I just didn't notice it?"
"Don't laugh." John's voice was icy. "They're all dead, and it's my fault. Because it came down to them or me, and I chose me. I always choose me. And I don't understand why you're still here, knowing that. I don't know why I try to make you understand it." He paused. "It'd be better for me if you didn't."
"John-"
The exorcist silenced Chas with a glare. They sat quietly for a moment, trying to figure each other out and failing miserably. John finished his drink and poured yet another, careful not to spill any on the papers that littered the coffee-table. It was difficult; he'd been drinking all day. Chas was working his way through the hundred-proof herbal liqueur with surprising alacrity; he hadn't even put ice in it. John watched the teen's larynx move in his throat as he swallowed.
Chas caught him looking. Emotions flickered across the boy's face: anger, and then a sort of embarrassed vulnerability. He took off his hat and sat it and his glass carefully on the table. The teen muttered something under his breath, turning away.
"What was that?"
"I said, I don't get you."
John snorted, bravely resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands. "I'm sure you do more than most people, Chas."
"Not like that." Chas gestured expressively, reminding John of how much alcohol they'd both consumed. "I mean, I don't know what you want..." The teen trailed off, suddenly fascinated by his fingernails.
"You shouldn't be worried about what I want." John caught Chas under the chin, making the teen look at him. "You're not responsible for me." His apprentice felt almost feverishly warm, and John realized his mistake in an instant. Chas leaned into his touch, turning to wrap his arms around John's neck. He hooked one leg over his thighs, and settled onto John's lap. The part of John's brain that wasn't entirely pickled in alcohol made a half-hearted protest.
"Chas. I thought we discussed this. I'm not... I'm not good for you."
His apprentice shifted his weight slightly, bracing himself on John's shoulders and moving around until he was comfortable. The contact left John half-aroused. His hands came up involuntarily to support Chas' lower back, sliding under the teen's t-shirt. Chas leaned in closer, and John basked in his warmth, his hands rubbing small circles over Chas' smooth skin. Chas started to unbutton John's shirt, nuzzling and kissing the skin he exposed.
"Chas. We should really stop this, before it goes any further, okay?"
His apprentice eyed him dubiously for a moment, his hazel eyes dark in the dim light. He slid his tongue along John's throat, making the magician clench his fists in the boy's shirt.
"That's not fair. I knew you were more pissed off than sorry. And you are drunk tonight, so hands off."
"I'll let go when you do, John." Chas sounded almost wistful, his fingers clutching the exorcist's collar. He refused to look at the older man.
John realized he had a white-knuckle grip on Chas' shirt, his arms wrapped around the teen. He pulled his apprentice closer to him and inhaled deeply, the scent of sandalwood and cedar filling his aching lungs. "I'm sorry," he muttered against Chas' shoulder. He didn't think he'd apologized to anyone before.
Your thoughts/comments/complaints are always appreciated!