Part I: Incomplete
Detective Angela Dodson sighed heavily as she shuffled through a pile of paperwork on her otherwise pristinely kept desk. The sliding-glass doors opened as Officer Kent walked in, dragging a man spitting blood, in handcuffs, behind him. As the two men passed Angela's desk, she felt a wave of blackened sin wash over her, and visions of what this man had done…of who he had killed, and what he'd done to his victims before-hand…she took a deep breath and tried to push the auras of blackness away from her, mentally. It had been three months since she'd truly discovered the power she had, and she'd since realized that it wasn't quite as glamorous or exciting as one might think. Three months since the literal spawn of Satan had tried to push its way through her bodily portal and into the earthly world…three months since she'd solved the mystery of her beloved twin's death…three months since she had spoken to the infamous John Constantine.
She groaned inwardly as she felt a familiar rush of emotion flurry up inside her as the name 'John Constantine' scattered its way across her mind. She looked at her huge stack of files to sort through; she, Angela Dodson, certainly did not have time to be feeling any emotions toward John Constantine. Especially not if he didn't have any intention of having anything to do with her, which he'd made quite clear on the night the son of the Devil had almost succeeded in taking over their world. John had mentioned…rather, pontificated, the benefits of them not seeing each other, and at first she'd thought he was simply terrified of the idea that he might be finding someone to be close to on this planet. Angela knew, that as an ostracized walker-between-the-worlds of the living and the dead, John couldn't have had much reason or desire to grow close to anybody, and she could forgive his fear. But it was only after she had left him standing on the roof, gazing over the cityline, and he hadn't come after her…that she'd realized it wasn't him, it wasn't the situation, the world, or even the underworld keeping them apart. It was her. She had fallen into an unrequited cycle of near-love, and it was never going to end. So, she did the only thing she could do, to save her pride and whatnot. She drove into her work. Which, of course, was exactly what she was doing at this very moment, before her train of thought had been oh-so-unceremoniously derailed by fantasies of the notorious John Constantine.
Now that she thought about it, she actually had no idea what had happened to him, anyway. For all she knew, he could be halfway around the world now, enjoying his newfound freedom, his third-time-renewed chance at life. In fact, that's probably what he was doing; after all, there was nothing for him here. She couldn't quite see him relaxing on the sunbathed beaches of Australia, however, so perhaps he'd made his way somewhere along the French Riviera. Yes, that was probably it. And she was here, stuck in Los Angeles, behind a monstrous stack of papers, leading the very same mundane life she had been before he'd inserted himself right in the middle of it and stirred things up. Well, she'd been doing the same thing for almost thirty years now, so it couldn't be all that hard to continue with, could it?
After all, she thought sullenly to herself, It's not like I need him…I have myself…my cat…my…lonely apartment…
Angela sighed. Oh well, there was no use in looking back and regretting things now. Anyway, she had a date tonight, with a lovely man who worked on the second floor of the station, Jason Grey. He was an attractive man, she supposed, with dark blonde hair and green eyes, and he stammered quite a bit when she was around him, and she was certain they could go to dinner, get to know each other, and get along fabulously. Yes, that's right. Fabulously.
Take that, John Constantine. I have a date, and we get along fab-u-lous-ly.
"Detective Dodson, are you almost done with those files?" Angela snapped out of her reverie, glancing quickly up at the towering man above her.
"Chief Marsden! Uh…yes…hold on," She scrambled to scoop up the shuffle of papers in front of her, "Here they are, I've, uh, looked through them all, and I think that…there is…no evidence…that is…apparent, to convict the criminal…just yet…"
Marsden raised a skeptical eyebrow at her, "There isn't? I could've sworn that I saw a paper stating…"
"Well…I haven't been getting a lot of sleep. So, you should probably have Detective Brantz take a look at it as…well, because I'm feeling somewhat…dizzy."
"Oh? Well, you do look a bit pale…why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off, and see how you're feeling tomorrow," Marsden gave her a concerned look, "And get some sleep, Angela."
"Of course, thank you, sir." Angela snapped her laptop shut and pushed it into her briefcase, thankful for a break from the mind-numbing work she'd been catering to for the past three months straight. Three months since…oh, no, don't you dare go down that road, Angela Dodson, she mentally warned herself.
Angela unlocked the door to the apartment as Jason stood behind her. She turned to him, smiling graciously, "Thank you for walking me to my apartment, Jason."
She had found the date to be surprisingly pleasant, and Jason to be completely stammer-free in the non-station environs. In fact, Jason had been a suave, almost oily-smooth, complete gentleman the entire evening. Angela slowly pushed the door back open behind her, as she smiled charmingly at Jason. He didn't appear to be moving. Perhaps he wanted a kiss? She smiled, and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek, "Well, I'll…see you tomorrow, I suppose." She finished nervously. Jason smiled at her. She smiled back. Why wasn't he leaving?
"Can I come in?"
Angela glanced at him, startled, "Well…um…of course, I'll make us some coffee."
And with that, he followed her into her apartment, and she heard him close the door quietly behind him. She made her way slowly into the kitchen, and filled the coffeemaker with water, flicking the switch on. When she turned around, he was nearly in her face. Angela giggled nervously, "Um, Jason, I don't think you—" He cut her words off with a deep kiss. Her eyes stayed wide open, and he pulled away, presumably because she wasn't responding.
"Jason! I don't think—"
"Hush," he whispered, and kissed her again, "You're a very beautiful woman, Angela Dodson…and almost thirty—" She let out a squeak of indignation, "…and not married?"
"Jason, I really don't think that you have any right to—" He covered her mouth with his hand, his green eyes flashing with lustful desire.
"Angela, I think I…love you."
"Angela, I, think, I," He punctuated each word with soft kisses, "Want, you, now…"
His hand moved up her blouse. So, she did what any self-respecting woman would do. She brought her knee up, hard.
"SHIT! YOU LITTLE BITCH!" Jason hissed, not releasing his grip on her.
"Let GO of ME!" Angela yelled, kneeing him again, and the kicking him in the stomach as he sank to the floor. Suddenly there was an echo of footsteps running from her bedroom. Her eyes widened in terror. In the past three months, she had often awoken, after being dragged—literally—through Hell and back, to the echo of mysterious footsteps in her apartment. She assumed it was some sort of demonic creature from the underworld, but she'd never come face to face with it, though it seemed she was about to, now. And, she glanced at Jason, still writhing on the floor in pain, it looked like she was on her own.
She grabbed a butcher knife from a drawer and held it ready to throw at whatever was making the footsteps when the kitchen door burst open and a weary-looking, bloodied John Constantine slammed through it. Angela gave a little gasp and the knife clattered to the counter. John swept a lock of dark hair out of his eyes, and gave her a quick once-over, panting from his dash from the bedroom.
"What are you doing here?" Angela gaped.
"Long story." Constantine regained his composure and straightened to his full height, "Demons, you, I wanted to…explain why your bedroom was such a mess."
She tilted her head curiously and then took in his appearance—dark hair mussed, shirt halfway unbuttoned and jacket torn, holy shotgun dangling from his left hand, "What? Demons…here?"
"Yes…they've been a few times…like I said before…there's no going back. You see them, they see you. End of story. Who's he?"
She nodded slightly at his explanation, "So that explains the dreams I've been having…he's my date."
John gave her an incredulous look, "Your…date?"
Angela shot him an indignant glare, "Yes, my date. I do date, you know. I am a single, attractive, twenty-eight year-old woman, I have many qualities many people would look for in a life mate, I cook, I clean, I can shoot accurately from one-hundred yards…"
John held up his hand, "Yes, yes, spare me. Well," he glanced at the man on the floor, who was currently looking at both of them with a somewhat terrified look on his face, "I'll let you get back to your…date." He took in Angela's un-tucked blouse and sounded disgusted with himself, "Sorry to interrupt." And with that, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Angela picked up the butcher knife and mused quietly as she watched him go. Jason picked himself off the floor, looked at Angela and her knife nervously, meekly whispered good-bye, and fled. Angela sighed, putting the knife back into the drawer, and wrapped her arms around herself. She could hear John in the other room, gathering his stuff, and she gulped. She listened quietly as the door to her bedroom clicked closed, and then the door to her apartment.
She trudged silently into her bedroom, and sighed. It really was a mess, everything scattered everywhere…but she had no desire, or even the energy to be shocked or dismayed, so instead she walked to the closet, pulled out a woolen blanket and extra pillow, and went over to lay down on the couch. As she lay silently staring at the ceiling, she blinked back what felt like it might be a tear. She hadn't cried since her sister died. She hadn't cried in three months.
She remembered the look of betrayal in John's eyes, and the disgusted tone of his voice—not disgusted with her, but disgusted with himself…and she began to sob, the tears falling relentlessly, streaming silently down her cheeks and onto her pillow as she slowly, painfully cried herself to sleep. There were no second chances, as far as trust went, with John. She knew that.
She awoke nearly an hour later, with the soft click of her apartment door, and it was then that she realized, too late, that she hadn't locked it when John had left. Sitting up, adrenaline pulsing through her veins, she slowly stood, reaching for her gun. The door to her living room opened slowly, and she held the thin blanket against her camisole-and-underwear pajamas, steadying her gun at the door.
She simultaneously breathed a sigh of tense relief, and felt a wash of emotional battering come over her once more. Remembering the pain of him leaving, she choked back a sob—she would not let this man see her cry. His tall figure was silhouetted against the hall light, and she slowly put down her gun and reached over to turn on a table lamp. The sudden flush of light reminded her that she was wearing next to nothing, her face tear-streaked and the remains of her make up probably running down her face. She gulped. And looked at him. He looked so…imposing…so tall, and undeniably gorgeous. And…tired. He looked weary. Well, he should look weary, serves him right, she couldn't help thinking, spitefully. He also looked…dangerous.
"Angela, he wasn't your boyfriend."
She blinked, "What? What, how do you know?"
He paused, "Well. You probably wouldn't yell at your boyfriend to get off you."
"Well…well what if it was…a game?" She searched desperately for some excuse to not look like a complete fool in front of this man. In a matter of seconds John had crossed the room and was standing directly in front of her, towering over her. She felt tiny, scrutinized under a microscope, gazing up at him, but she held her ground as best she could, "I don't see why it's any of your business, John, who I choose to date, or not. So, please leave."
"You don't mean that."
"I…what? Of course I do."
John studied her intently for a moment, as if trying to comprehend her, as if trying to decide what to do with her. It took him all of that minute to decide what to do with her, and the next thing she knew, he wrapped one muscular arm about her waist and dragged her roughly to him, leaning down and slanting his mouth across hers. His kiss was harsh, demanding, possessive…and she melted. Had he not been supporting her, she would have sunk into a puddle at his feet. He pulled away, then, as abruptly as he'd started it. She gazed up at him, wonderingly.
"He's not," John kissed her again, fiercely, "your," his other arm snaked around her waist and held her tightly to him, lifting her slightly to the balls of her feet, "boyfriend."
"No…" Angela whispered lightly, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his muscled chest, "he's not."
John buried his face in her shoulder-length hair, "Thank god," he whispered, sinking onto the couch and pulling her with him.
"John, I—" He cut her off with an ardent kiss, and then put his finger to her lips, gently.
"Angela, I'm sorry I haven't been around, at all, lately, I've had some things to take care of. This is my last chance at life, and I can't mess it up. But…" He paused, and she saw him swallow audibly, "This might scare you, but I don't think I can…this chance I have…um…it's…fuckit. I love you, Angela Dodson. I love you so fucking much. Don't ever, ever question that." He held her back and gulped, waiting for some reaction.
Angela looked into his intense brown eyes and began to sob.
"Angela? Angela, I didn't mean to upset you…I can leave, I can…"
"No," she whispered into his chest, "No, don't you ever fucking leave me, John Constantine. Don't you ever fucking leave me, ever again. I fucking love you, too."
"Why, Angela Dodson, I believe that's the first time I've ever heard you swear…you kiss your mother with that mouth?" John smirked. Angela smiled through her tears, and swatted him playfully, "No," she whispered, kissing him ferociously, "I kiss you."
"Well," he whispered, "I won't complain, then."