So much coffee and tea drinking. Like so much. And absence makes the heart grow fonder (and, emotionally, hornier…)
Chapter 32 of What's up, Danger?: At the Bottom of the Cup
The new day brought a brighter disposition to the inhabitants of the House of Mystery despite the moody atmosphere from the dark curtained windows and soft lighting from the sconces along the wooden panels.
In the heart of the library, Sabine wrestled with a dull headache from the previous night's antics as she funneled magic into her palms. Gold and shimmering, she pulled it to the surface with practiced ease.
Before her was the giant desk, on its surface, planted amidst the piles of books and potted plants, a mug; glazed teal with a slim gold handle that matched the glint around the rim.
Her tired eyes hyper-focused on the task of transfiguration: turning Earl Gray tea into coffee.
Constantine watched with some interest behind the giant mahogany desk, tipped back on the hind legs of a wooden chair that creaked every time he rocked on it.
"Go on then," he said, hands joined behind his neck and eyebrows poised high up on his forehead.
Sabine shot him a look that read for him to zip it. His know-it-all voice was a bigger distraction than anything.
She focused, hands compressing close to the mug and undulating her fingers purposefully, mimicking the movement of waves. The dark orange tea bubbled and fizzed noisily like a volatile potion brewed in a cauldron.
She poured her resolve into the spell and imagined the aroma of her favorite medium coffee roast mixing with sweet notes of caramel and chocolate.
The magic in her hands cascaded out like a powerful wave. A fissure shaped like a lightning bolt shot through the side of the ceramic mug. Tea wept out, its consistency turned gelatinous as it oozed through the cracks. Jellified Earl Grey pooled on the table and chunks dropped to the floor, squelching on impact.
An intense shattering sound followed as the mug burst into dozens of jagged fragments. Sharp pieces whizzed across the room. Several embedded into the desk while others mutilated the books on nearby shelves, puncturing the spines like thrown daggers.
One shard flew and ripped across her arm, slicing the skin. She felt the sting before she saw the thin red ribbon of blood that welled to the surface. It trickled down her arm. Red droplets dribbled onto the carpet, creating a constellation of off-color stains.
She winced with pain and hissed loudly, "Shit."
She clamped a hand down around her forearm, trying to stymy the flow. Bright red welled out through her fingers.
Constantine clicked his tongue, not entirely sympathetic. He scooted his chair back, stood up, and strolled over to her. Shimmering blue fire, healing magic, wreathed his right hand, and he gestured for her to remove her blood-stained palm.
Sabine hesitated out of stubbornness before obliging, revealing the gory streak that split her outer arm—a long, diagonal cut from her bony wrist to halfway up the elbow.
A cooling flow of magic consumed the weeping gash, washing over it like a soothing balm.
Blue eyes focused, he watched as her skin enmeshed itself back together. "Looks like transfiguration isn't your forte."
Her eyes flicked up to his and she pointed out, "I'm sure being hungover doesn't help."
Constantine, in his typical fashion, didn't take an ounce of blame. "True, true."
Bleeding staunched, the new scar tissue resembled a shiny and pale valley carved along her skin. Not pretty by any means. She rolled down her sweater sleeve to cover it.
Evidence of other failed attempts littered the cavernous library—buttons into coins and colorful sheets of paper into leaves. The buttons had turned into metallic, amorphic splatters instead of round coins. Some shiny shapes grew legs that skittered under the bookshelves to hide from further augmentation. The pieces of paper had curled in on themselves before flaking apart into multicolored ash.
She turned away from him, arms crossed tightly over her chest and a deep-set frown on her face. Annoyed, at herself. She never considered herself a perfectionist by any means, but she was trying, dammit!
He side-eyed her. "Don't get pouty. Elemental magic just comes easier to you, is all."
Subtle Constantine sentiment for be less hard on yourself.
She hummed back, wordlessly agreeing. Though, it was hard to be kind to oneself when it felt like the cold hand of death haunted her every move.
The end of winter break was hurtling down the gutter. Less than a handful of days were left and she'd need to return to Gotham. With everything going on, it felt silly and petty to worry about academic obligations.
Constantine stepped away and surveyed the damage to the room. It wasn't too bad, but Orchid wouldn't be pleased with the disorder. Better to deal with it now than be scolded later.
He clapped his hands together before smoothly sliding his palms one over the other in opposing directions. Glimmering yellow orbs descended around the room, encapsulating every broken chunk of ceramic. In a flash of light, all remnants of her spellcasting mishaps vanished.
Stupid grin on his face, he inclined his head to the side and asked unabashedly, "Up for trying your hand at reading tea leaves?"
Sabine scrunched her face. With a slight head turn, her gaze slanted back towards him. "I think I'm done with tea today, thanks."
That pulled an amused laugh from him. "Well, with your little ability to see I thought divination might be more up your alley."
Seeing. Somehow that didn't feel like quite the right word to call it, but it was the term they settled on.
She fell quiet for a minute, thinking deeply in a way that contorted her features. Her teeth dug in and indented her bottom lip as her mind flashed to an image of Jason's hand—large, calloused, and littered with scars. A hand that told the story of the kind of life he lived, full of violence and caring too goddamn much. A hand that she wanted to grab, knot fingers with, and let dwarf hers. All the desires of her heart were so fucking loud.
"How—how do I touch someone without seeing?" came her meek question.
It immediately dawned on her that it was a mistake to ask.
An awkward hush came over them. Constantine's head snapped towards her, attention wholly magnetized on her and a world-class insufferable smirk slapped across his devious face.
Then, his eyebrows moved. It was never a good sign whenever he waggled them. And he did so at her. Salaciously. Suggestively. Insufferably.
He leaned on the very edge of the desk and emanated smugness, smirking broadly. "Oh, thinking of someone in particular?"
Her eyes jumped from his face to the floor. A dark blush splashed across her cheeks. She hadn't thought much of touch beyond innocent hand-holding and…and…okay, okay maybe her thoughts did stray a bit further than that. It was only natural. Hormones and body chemistry coalesced into a desire for intimacy.
Almost too lost in her thoughts, Constantine cleared his throat to snatch up her attention again.
He pushed himself off the desk. Hands on his hips, he said, "Honestly, you're overthinking it."
She gave him a jaded huff. "Yeah?"
"It's about control and awareness more than anything," he said, tone surprisingly helpful for such a scoundrel. "It's a helpful ability, sure, but you let it overwhelm you and suck you in."
"You make it sound so simple," Sabine murmured back. Her mouth twisted to the side, doubtful.
He waved a hand and snorted. "If you're having trouble shutting it off completely, then flip the connection the other way. You tried that yet?"
With a tilt of her head, she reminisced back to the first night she slept over at Jason's—both tucked in on opposite ends of the couch, buried under a thick comfy blanket, legs tangled together. Video games, pajamas, the warmest sense of safety, and how they'd both fallen asleep like that. Then, a nightmare caused Jason to thrash, waking her. She'd plucked her favorite memories of them and poured them into her palm. Gently, she'd carded her hand through his hair and then touched his stupidly handsome face.
Her lips shaped into a soft smile. There were still some good things underneath all the fucked-up happenings.
The sight of her sappy and sentimental expression prompted him to gag. "Gross."
Sabine narrowed her eyes. "You asked."
"A simple yes would have sufficed, you didn't need to get all…," he tried not to grimace, failed, "…dreamy-faced about it."
"Fine," she responded tersely, chin jutting towards him in annoyance, "yes."
He flexed his hand before extending it out in front of her. Palm open and facing her, fingers spread out. "Wanna give it a go?"
After a long pause, she just stared at his hand, considering the proposal. To anyone else, it was just touch. Innocuous skin-to-skin contact, nothing special. But to her, it was a gateway to chilling memories and secret pasts.
Seeing. Transference. Whatever-the-fuck the gift her mother had imparted to her from birth that she ignored for over two decades in favor of trying so hard just to be fucking normal.
She tucked errant strands of deep brown hair away from her face, determined. "All right." She inched closer and made another face. "Do I have to think of memories of you or…?"
"Whatever makes you happy," he shrugged, "just remember, I can see it too."
She nodded and lifted her hand. The magic in her fingers pulsed in perfect rhythm with her rising heartbeat. Whatever makes you happy. Sentence ringing in her head, what made her happy?
Cozied up in front of a fireplace that filled the room with heat, paperback book in hand. The first time she hiked with her dad when she was ten, the drizzly mist of the forested mountains created a rainbow overhead. Sitting in the oversized moon chair by the large window in her family's living room, sipping tea on a rainy day. CEO's languid form sunbathing in the golden streaks that came in through her window. Sitting in a diner, eating breakfast food at 4 am, mesmerizing verdant eyes staring back at her from across a red laminate tabletop…
Taking a few seconds to collect herself, she pressed her hand against his and the sensation was a gentle trickle, warm and bright. No grisly visions of demonic forms, blood splatters, or the screaming young girl.
They remained still, palm-to-palm, for several seconds until Constantine's hand lowered and he tucked it back inside his pocket. "See? Not so bad."
The corners of Sabine's mouth quirked up and she curled her hand into a fist, pleased with the small sense of control.
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. The ominous rings bounced off the walls, long and haunting like the dying wails of a ghost.
Constantine scrubbed at his eyes. "Have some things to do today," he said out of the blue. He made a vague, broad gesture with his arms and lobbed ideas at her, "Just…practice? Read? Get rid of that blasted hinkypunk?"
With a brow raised, Sabine couldn't stop herself from asking, "What do you do?"
Halfway across the room already, he rolled his eyes without so much as peering back over his shoulder at her. "I'm going to pretend you didn't ask me that."
Constantine didn't hang around to hear the entertained sound she made, stepping out into the hallway, and was gone.
A wave of exhaustion crashed through her body, magic exacting its toll for the day in the form of fatigue and wobbly jello legs. She slid to the floor and let her head thunk back on the desk.
The House of Mystery answered with a large white mug of cafe mocha set on a saucer as if more caffeine was the perfect remedy for the wicked combination of lack of sleep and a hangover.
Sabine reached for the sloshing mug and brought it to her lips. Probably more sugar and chocolate than caffeine, the temperature already perfect for sipping.
In a blink, Orchid was beside her, face level with hers.
Spooked by the purple phantom's sudden appearance, Sabine nearly choked on the drink. She dabbed at the dribble that escaped her lips with the cuff of her sleeve.
Orchid didn't apologize for the near heart attack she gave her. Instead, she greeted her with, "I'm pleased to see you two on better terms."
"Yeah?" Sabine said through a tiny cough, still wiping stray coffee droplets off her chin and lips.
Orchid gave her a silent nod, a rare smile spreading across her face.
Sabine's inquisitive eyes dropped down to Orchid's hands. She set the mug back down on its saucer, then said, "How come—"
Orchid inclined her head, already aware of the half-formed question. "—when I touched your hand you didn't see anything?"
Sabine leaned in and bobbed her head.
"The House was made in the Dreaming," Orchid explained loftily and as if that made a lick of sense, "it used to belong to Cain."
Sabine's head swung right to left, eyes huge as they roamed over the long and deep shadows of the library. She took in the peculiar decoration and old furniture: the towering wooden bookshelves, the peeling wallpaper, the cracked oil portraits, the collection of curios displayed on pedestals, and the dirty and scuffed carpeting. "Dreams made this house?" She swallowed in disbelief. "And Cain? The biblical Cain?"
Orchid's face remained inscrutable, far away. "Yes, he's a storyteller. And a murderer. The House changed hands several times. John won ownership of it in a poker game."
Sabine let out a soft, delighted laugh. "Why am I not surprised?"
It wasn't unlike him, she thought, to somehow swindle his way into homeownership of such a baffling abode. Probably cheated, too.
"The House of Mystery has a fraught history," Orchid went on, "and is a repository of stories, most being horrific and violent. I sensed your ability when we met. I am not just an extension of the house, I am the house, too." She stilled in a way that was so very human-like. Sabine didn't know if Orchid had any need for oxygen, but her breath hitched just the same and her jewel-toned eyes flicked to the side. "And I…did not want you to see all that."
Sabine met her eyes with a wide, empathic stare as she processed Orchid's troubling words.
"And, quite frankly," Orchid continued, tone somber as her detached disposition returned, "it would drive you insane."
Sabine's spine straightened and pressed flat against the desk, immediately grateful that Orchid took care to shield her from the house's nightmarish past. That was…a lot to unpack, leaving her with more questions than answers.
"Oh, damn, really?" was all Sabine could dully say in return, hand cupping the mug set down beside her.
Orchid hummed, off tune, and stared off fondly into space.
Sabine lifted the mug again and clutched it against her collarbone, letting its warmth transmit to her skin and wash over her sternum. She imagined the warmth was a hand pressed over her frenetic heartbeat. In a house as whimsical and mysterious as this, she figured as she enjoyed Orchid's silent company, there were many things she preferred to be kept in the dark about.
It was nearly four in the morning in Gotham.
Post shower and eyelids drooping over bloodshot eyes, Jason blinked several times with exhaustion as he inspected the tiny row of patchwork stitches on the side of his abdomen. Not his finest work, but he was so damn tired he patted his skin dry with a towel and taped a wad of gauze over it nonetheless. Pinkish red seeped through the white cotton.
His bathroom was a mess. Medical kit ripped open, its contents strewn all over with bloody fingerprint smudges on the once pristine marble countertop.
Kevlar, good for bullets. Not always so good for a hench wielding a knife with two-hundred pounds of dumb muscle, murderous intent, and 'fuck you' behind a wild forward thrust. The blade hadn't gone deep, but rather sliced its way through the tightly woven fibers of his body armor, carving a jagged line into his skin.
He pistol-whipped the goon in retaliation. Knocked him out, stone cold. Concussion if the guy was lucky, brain damage if he wasn't. Bruce might've had something to say about the excessive force if he was in town.
And he made damn sure the shipment was disrupted and Oracle got the information she needed before making the journey home on his bike to lick his wounds.
Mentally, he rattled off a list of things he wanted. Painkillers. Tea. Shut eye. Wake up in a few short hours just to put himself through hell all over again.
Jason controlled his breathing, and kept it steady, as Sabine's voice bubbled out through his phone that was balanced on the messy bathroom counter, with a smear of his bloody thumbprint across the screen with her contact info lit up.
They had been talking for five whole minutes, and Sabine was none the wiser about his current state. Because spilled guts on the pavement or not, he'd be damned to miss a chance to hear her voice that he associated so much familiarity and comfort with. Even at such a wretched hour.
"I feel bad for lying to him," she admitted, referring to her father, "about all this. I think he'd understand, or try to if I told him what was going on. "
"You and your dad are close?" he asked, pulling on a clean shirt over his head. On the tiled floor, we're pieces of his uniform—jacket, helmet, tactical gear, and boots—all lumped together in a clumsy heap that he'd swapped out for soft sweatpants and a comfy Henley.
"Yeah," she said, sighing, "but it wasn't always like that. Took work. Family therapy. He took me in and he didn't have to. Was married with a kid on the way. Had every right to believe that my mom's friend was lying to him about me. He flew out from Jersey to California to meet me. Of course, once he saw me, he knew. Still, there was a paternity test and court hearings. Had to stay in a group home while that was sorted out."
"Christ," he muttered, "sounds like a rough time."
"Yeah, it was," a yawn escaped her, "I don't even really remember most of it. It was such a blur. I know I lived it, but I can't remember anything about that time. I kind of just…floated through it. Funny how trauma does that to the brain, makes it all fuzzy."
A soft, pained noise of agreement dragged from Jason's throat, familiar with the blurred edges of dissociation. The sensation of untethering from your body and watching your life play out like a helpless viewer behind a screen. "Yeah, I get that." Then said, rougher and through gritted teeth, "A little too well."
"Does…" she paused, voice wavering when she asked, "Your dad—does Bruce Wayne know what you do?"
Jason didn't know quite how to answer that. It was another topic to add to the growing pile of conversations they couldn't have and one he wanted to avoid as long as possible. His inability to wholly open up was another barrier between them and their growing closeness. If he gave away too much, she'd put together the dots. Eventually.
She didn't say anything for a beat, allowing the silent friction to fizzle between them over the phone line.
Anxiously, Sabine backtracked, "I mean, I guess what I'm asking is, do you think I should tell my dad?"
With a burned-out exhale, he said, "It's up to you. Your dad…sounds supportive."
A dejected sigh left her mouth. "He is, but…"
A sad frown tugged at his lips at her internal struggle. He wished he could simplify things for her but there was no one-size-fits-all answer, no magic eight ball he could shake or a crystal ball to peer in.
He deliberated over his next words with a morose and thoughtful hum, then rephrased, "Do you feel ready to tell him?"
"I don't know," she heaved out, riddled with guilt.
He rubbed at his dry eyes with the back of his knuckles, ridged watercolor purple with a fresh smatter of bruising. "Pretty sure that's a no then."
Jason washed his hands, dry swallowed two painkillers, then picked up his phone and headed to the kitchen. Deep cleaning the bathroom and scrubbing the blood off the surfaces was a problem for later in the day. A twist of the metal sink faucet, he filled a tea kettle and set it on the stove. The front range flickered to life with blue-tipped orange flames that licked the bottom of the kettle.
There was a long pause before Sabine spoke again. "How long have you been doing this?"
Jason lingered near the stove. "Long, long time," he replied with a breathy laugh.
"That's…vague." Sabine chuckled lightly, too. Then she let out a soft sound. "I'm not trying to be nosy again—"
He didn't let her off the hook and countered, teasing her with, "Sure sounds like you are."
"I just…," she sniffed, voice turning quiet and tentative, "I just want to know you better, that's all."
The way her sincere words made his tormented heart thump against his ribcage was downright sinful. Almost made him blush in totality.
"I know," he managed, finally, through a clogged up throat.
A shrill whistle erupted from the kettle's spout, boiling water ready. Without rushing or spilling a drop, he poured it over a tea bag, fully knowing the slight side stare of disapproval Alfred would give him for not steeping the tea in the pot.
Fingers curled around the steaming mug, he made the sleepy shuffle into his bedroom and settled on top of the snuggly covers, moving slowly and minding his injuries.
He could give her something, he decided selfishly, a sliver of truth because he wanted her to know him, too. Emotional intimacy was, somehow, more revealing than shedding clothes.
"I was Robin, number two," he said with raw honesty. Without a spoonful of sugar or a dash of lemon, the green tea almost tasted like grave dirt and dead grass in his mouth at the bitter memory.
Her mouth clamped up, temporarily struck mute. "Jason, that's—that's so fucked," her voice cracked, the jagged sound only bearable to him because she was thousands of miles away or else he'd want to scoop her into his arms, "you were…you were a child."
Grief skewered his chest like a hot poker and twisted. Twelve years old when he met Bruce. Fifteen when he died. Six months later, choking on green fluid with a body that felt alien to him. Still, some of the weight he carried floated off his shoulders.
"A teenager," he corrected as if the technicality of how old he was when he first donned the green, yellow, and red costume mattered any. He leaned back against the headboard and ran a hand through his damp hair, shoving back the overgrown fringe from his heavy-lidded eyes.
Neither said anything for several seconds.
Whatever his late-night confession made Sabine feel, she crammed it into a little box and shoved it down. For his sake. With another heavy sigh, she blew out a whole gust of barely contained feelings.
"Jason," she said his name in such a frayed tone it made his heart ache. Her voice was filled with concern and a touch of dark humor when she mumbled, "I think we both had fucked up childhoods."
Jason had to laugh. The amused rumble of his chest pulled at his stitches. "You're just realizing this now?"
"Oh, shut up," she groused out but there was no venom behind it. "Shit," she said suddenly, apologetic, "I keep forgetting—"
"—time difference?" he supplied as she sputtered. "Where are you today?"
"Edinburgh, by the Royal Mile. It's so late over there in Gotham—," he heard her smack her forehead, "—sorry, I'll let you go."
"Sab, it's fine," he insisted, assuring her. "I wouldn't have asked you to check in if I didn't mean it."
"Okay, okay," she said, calming down, "I'll see you soon, Jay."
Not talk to you soon but see you soon. Jason nearly fucking melted.
"Feels too weird to say good night or good morning," he drawled, scratching at his chin, "so, yeah, see you soon, Stringbean."
She let out a short, breathy snort at his lame joke before hanging up.
He let his phone drop from his hand and bounce on the pillow. Over-emotional thinking gnawed away at him when he should just let himself pass out. The we're just friends dance they did every time they interacted was such a fucking lie.
A younger Jason, freshly spewed out of the Pit and flooded with a tidal wave of self-loathing, would've fled from the feeling because he wasn't ready to face it. It would've been too much, too soon.
It was all too easy to slip into daydreams of colorful bouquets left at her doorstep, early mornings walking hand-in-hand to grab breakfast at a nearby coffee shop, huddling under a heated blanket together as they tended to their virtual farm, and her soft curves when she leaned into him.
He realized, in the moment he caught himself, his right hand had slid down to his hip bone, inched closer to his…
His fingers curled over his thigh, willing some self-control into the truant extremity, and bunching the fabric of his sweatpants in his grip. He tipped his head to the ceiling and his nostrils flared when he unleashed a tiny huff of frustration. He didn't want to think of her, his friend, like that. Use her, like that.
She poured so much goddamn affection into her words and actions towards him. So much endearing comfort. God, he didn't deserve it—to be treated kindly, to be looked at softly, to be touched gently—after the things he'd done.
Sabine and desire, growing like weeds in the back of his head. A dandelion, yellow and bright. Yellow like the old Gotham City street lamps they walked under. Yellow like the light of the diners they ate at. Yellow, overtaking the dark corners his mind drifted to.
So much of his life was red; his helmet, the bat symbol on his chest, blood on his gloves, the dizzying strobe of police lights. Felt red.
Yellow was new. Slow, steadying, warm, and bright, bright, bright like sunshine.
The delectable reverie of yellow was enough to chase away the coldness he felt as he glanced at the vacant side of his bed next to him.
He shifted, agitated by the sweet unadulterated yearning that seeped into every crevice of his touch-starved brain, and swiped The Three Musketeers paperback off his bedside table. Cracked it open, drank his tea, and forced his mind to read the passages on the page until he fell asleep.
A week and a half into her stay, Sabine finally stumbled into the kitchen in the House of Mystery. Old woodwork accented with chipped sage green paint, a deep ceramic sink under a bay window that overflowed with potted herbs, dark parquet flooring, and a table, red oak, shoved into the corner.
Sitting on a stool with a mountain of scones dappled with dried fruit in front of her on a massive plate, Sabine tossed back the last remaining dregs of her coffee. She stared down the pile of pastries, all the magic she burned through lately left her ravenous but her ever-present anxiety made her queasy anytime she wanted to eat. She was so damn tired of the constant knot in her stomach. Thankfully, drinking tea or coffee was somehow palatable.
And then there were her thoughts about Jason. Robin, number two, she recalled him saying. With every snippet of his past that he divulged, a quiet fire burned inside her. Anger at those who hurt him, fury at those who let him down.
Bruce Wayne had to fucking know, right? What kind of guardian was he if he didn't notice the odd nightly comings and goings of his adopted son?
She bristled, jaw clenching so hard it ached and grinding down on her molars. She'd read Jason's death certificate, knew how small he'd been when he…
Her eyes squinted dangerously, imagining setting the innocent plate of scones aflame as an outlet for her simmering wrath. Her fingertips sparked in warning but hollow hunger pangs won out.
Sabine shook her head, not wanting her furious thoughts to send her into another doom spiral. There was some good there for him, right? He'd mentioned his grandfather who taught him how to bake and cook, some of the family members he seemed to begrudgingly spend time with, and his friend and vigilante partner, Roy.
Her fingers still ran hot as she finally reached for the baked goods.
Constantine appeared, smelling like menthol and misery. He staggered into the golden kitchen lighting. His blue and tired eyes fixated on the tarnished vintage coffee pot set on the chamber stove.
"Up for practicing warding?" He posed the question as if he was asking her if she wanted to run some menial errands.
Sabine's posture went ramrod straight and she nearly fumbled the blueberry-lemon scone she'd laboredly selected, thoughts of vengeance for Jason blotted out by the shift in conversation.
"Warding?" she echoed, muffled through a small bite. Crumbs fell out of her mouth and onto her knitted top.
"Protective magic," he started, "is probably the most important thing for you to learn before going home."
Blankly, she stared back at him. "Then…why didn't we start with that?"
Constantine ignored her pointed question as he moved across the cramped kitchen. "Doesn't take a lick of magical ability to set up a ward," he rattled on, slow and serious, "just need to make sure you do it right—or else you'll be sitting pretty in your circle, behind your symbols, thinking you're untouchable, and some demon will come along, rip open your stomach, and show you your own intestines."
Sabine's whole body tensed at the visceral imagery he painted.
"Put something together for you," he said, producing a crossbody bag that was utilitarian in design over fashionable and made of faded brown canvas. Passing by the table, he stretched an arm to push it across the wooden slab to her. "Parting gifts."
With thinly veiled curiosity, because Constantine absolutely did not seem like the type of person to give someone gifts, she undid the two clasps and examined the contents within; canisters of salt, vials of water, and an assortment of glass small jars filled with different powders. Her brows knitted together as she rifled through the strange items. She picked up one of the many slim vials of clear liquid, glass catching in the shine of the dim light overhead.
"Holy water, basically pepper spray for demons," he clarified. Back to her, he frisked a mug out of one of the peeling green-painted cabinets and poured himself a cup of coffee. Carrying the mug by the rim with his fingertips, he settled on a stool across the table from her.
"And the salt?" she wondered.
"Circle of it will keep ghosts out," Constantine explained, sounding oddly professional, "so long as it remains unbroken."
Sabine lifted her head and muttered, "Can't be that easy." But also, ghosts? Add that to the list of things she just learned existed. Made sense, she supposed darkly, if people could return from the dead and demons were real. She held up a mason jar next, not even wanting to hazard a guess at what ingredients were smashed and combined into the fine powder. "And this?"
"My personal blend of hexing dust. Good for protection if you line your windows and doorways with it…and curses," he jested in afterthought. "Try not to curse anyone though, don't need a reason for the League to knock down your door." He slouched over the table and propped his chin up on his closed fist, looking at her in a not-quite-fully-awake daze. "Back to warding. Practiced any? Remember any?"
Tucked away in a locked album on her cellphone were dozens of pictures of wards she'd taken from the books in the library. Sometimes before bed, she'd tap through the album and try to commit each shape and line to memory, drawing it in the air with a finger.
She surveyed him, noting that this was the first time she'd seen him with a drink other than alcohol. She answered honestly, half-shrugging through another sweet bite of crumbly scone, "Sort of."
"Good, good," he murmured, only half-listening. He blew on his coffee, sending little ripples across the dark liquid surface. "Last thing," he reached over to yank on her flowy sleeve and dropped a fucking switchblade from his pocket into her palm.
Apprehensively, Sabine's fingers curled around the knife. Holding it carefully, her thumb glided over the spring mechanism and the tiny symbols carved into the handle. Brows pinched over the bridge of her nose, she gazed back up at him. "And this is for?"
"Strongest wards use blood. Animal blood isn't exactly easy to stock up on or come by in the field," he said, sipping too-hot coffee and making a childish face at the acidic and bitter flavor notes he wasn't accustomed to. "Best to use your own in a tight spot. In case of emergency, break skin."
With a thick swallow and face pale as paper, she nodded again, understanding his macabre instructions. She'd seen his forearms before but didn't want to pry. The pale skin with tattoos that peeked out from under the rolled-up sleeves of his wrinkled white button-up, and, under the ink, the violent overlapping of scars. Freshly inflicted layered over old.
Losing interest in his coffee, Constantine nudged the still mostly filled mug over to her and stood up. "Have that too. When you're done, meet me in the library."
Sabine barely had time to process the request before he disappeared. Her eyes fell to the scone in one hand and the blade in the other. Break skin was a morbid phrase, not one she'd ever imagine any sane law professor uttering in a lecture. Just another grisly reminder of how far off the track she'd veered from law school these past few weeks.
A/N: Another chapter that was split in two! Because my brain just looks at anything over 8k words and just. can't. process. it. So this fic might have a few more chapters than I said a few updates ago!
Jason is so tightly wound at this point, poor guy. He burns, he pines! And Sabine is just like…slowly losing her mind and wants to burn to a crisp everyone who has ever hurt him? One piping hot emotionally horny reunion coming up soon…
And some songs that I listened to while writing this chapter:
Kids — PUP
Notre Dame — The Bombpops
Graveyard (cover) — The Animal in Me
Thank you for reading and your patience between updates! :)