Author: charlies-anomoly PM
John allows himself to show remourse. Rated for swearing.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Angst - Words: 1,104 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 8 - Published: 01-08-06 - Status: Complete - id: 2742804
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Summary: John allows himself to feel remourse. Rated for swearing.
A/N: First attempt at Constantine. I'm sorry if this storyline has been done to death, I didn't know. I didn't write it as a slash, but take from it what you will. Please enjoy, read and review.
His apartment is cold; a window is open and cool, biting air flows in, tousling his hair and still present overcoat. A particularly strong gust knocks into a lamp – it sways briefly, throwing the furthest part of the long room into dim, golden light for a few moments. Another breath sends a small pile of papers flying, landing scattered upon the floorboards.
John doesn't notice. It doesn't matter.
He just paces. Can't stop. If he stops, stands still… or sits… He'll have to face it. Angela faces her loss back in her own apartment, with her cat. Lucifer faces his, down in the fires, content at least with the knowledge that John didn't escape. The knowledge that John just has to live with everything now, sans tarred lungs. The knowledge that John has to live with… it.
He takes a deep breath and freezes his movements, standing in the center of the room. Steeling himself he turns his head slightly and looks down at the table.
A full glass of whisky, a box of abandoned cigarettes, a lighter…
And the hat.
He took it. Somehow he needed it, and he slid it into his jacket. Now it sits still on his table, immobile, out of place… practically taunting.
It shouldn't be still. He… He was never still. Always moving. Bobbing his head to the trash on the car stereo. Curls and hat shaking as he pulled exaggerated faces at whatever John had berated him for this time. It was obscene, almost; the hat just sitting there. Immobile. Wrong.
Inhaling deeply, he forces himself to make measured, controlled steps over to the table and slide listless into his worn down chair. His fingers twitch, desperate for a cigarette, or the whisky, but he reframes, settling his gaze upon the hat.
He shouldn't have been there. He shouldn't have let him go. What had he been thinking? Just a kid… sixteen at the most. John had never known his proper age. Seventeen actually, he supposed. Innocent, or as much as he possibly could be, in today's world. Completely enthralled by John's world, and completely trusting. John would look after him, John wouldn't put him in harms way. John might be an asshole at times but he wasn't heartless…
He sighs. He knows it's too late to take it back now. He looks down at his hands, at his still wet and blood stained sleeves. He looks at the hands that gently lifted the boy from the floor, hoisted the body into his strong arms, held him close to his chest. He looks at the hands that, moments before, had felt at the boy's neck, searching almost frantically, desperately, for any sign of life. Any warmth, movement, murmur. Finding none. He looks at the hand that ran one last time through the boy's curls, giving an affectionate head-tousle, farewelling.
John Constantine doesn't cry. It's not who he is, it's not what he is. He's strong, stony. He loses people all the time. All his life. He can deal with it. It wasn't like Chas was…
John's eyes sting briefly, as they gaze down steadfastedly at his hands. The hands and subsequent arms that carried the sodden body out of the building, Angela trailing slowly behind quietly, respectfully. The hands that carried the body out into the street, and down the path, and didn't stop until he found that place. The apartment, 'home', that his young protégé spent his whole lift avoiding. The hands that tightened briefly upon the body when the scratched wooden door opened, revealing the hard face of the so-called father, more gone than he was home. The hands that trembled, trembled! when the man and the woman at his side crumpled, tears exploding from their faces, a dreadful wail escaping the man.
The hands that deposited their boy slowly, carefully upon the couch, gently and steadily righting the torn, sopping clothes.
The hand that tightened momentarily upon the boy's shoulder, thumb caressing the smooth skin of his neck briefly as a goodbye, before the rest of his body forced itself to move; to turn away, and flee the apartment, leaving the dysfunctional but loving family to grieve.
John's eyes betray the slightest hint of moisture, as they return to the hat. His hand shakes slightly as he reaches for it, tightening his fingers around the soft material quickly before lifting it, regarding it fondly, sadly. His fingers itch for a smoke, or the glass of whisky. To drown his sorrows, so to speak. He doesn't want to deal with this while he is sober.
Shaking his head, he reaches for the glass with a spare hand, eyeing it for mere seconds before flinging it with some force into the wall. The glass shatters into a million pieces, littering the floor.
Controlling himself, John sinks back, slouches, against his chair. Holds the hat in his lap, running his fingers delicately over the material. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he hears Chas laugh sarcastically at a joke, hears him complaining loudly about the smell of smoke in his car, hears him whining about never being allowed to help out. Hears him speak quietly, tonelessly about his family life, and how he loves being around John.
He sees Chas smile warmly at him in the early morning, ignoring John's hideous 'early morning' expression and sour disposition. Sees Chas rapping his fingers along the steering wheel as they wait at the lights. Sees Chas fast asleep in the drivers seat, waiting patiently for him to return.
He sees Chas' limp body freefalling from the roof, blood streaming from his nose, skin pale. He sees the life flee the boy's body in one last breath. Gone, forever.
He sees the boy's mother and father sinking to the floor, wailing, screaming, crying. Sobbing.
And all of a sudden, John can't see at all. All he knows is the strange, unusual sensation of water trickling from his typically hard eyes, and trailing down his face, and the sound of ragged, moaning breaths.
Fuck it. This time, he's going to let himself feel sad.