It was Angela again. She stood reluctantly in the doorway, watching a drunken John Constantine awake from a rather long sleep.

"Huh?" he mumbled sleepily, running his fingers through his hair, and sitting up on the sofa.

"John," Angela repeated. "What are you doing with your life?"

"Oh, it's you - why do you keep coming here?" John asked harshly, ignoring the question and walking into his kitchen. He glanced at Angela, who was still residing on the threshold. "You can come in, y'know," he added. "But this is the last time."

"Still as rude as ever," Angela looked at the stone floor and folded her arms, hesitantly walking into the apartment.

"What do you want?" John put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, taking a drag.

"I just wanted to make sure you weren't, hm, dead yet," said Angela, crossly.

"Why would I be dead?" John asked her sarcastically, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and setting it on the counter, where it singed the wood. Angela liked to blow things out of proportion, John knew, unfortunately from experience, and he figured this was one of those times.

"Oh, I don't know - perhaps because you have terminal lung cancer and you continue to smoke five packs of cigarettes a day-"

"Angela - I," John said earnestly. "am a grown man, and frankly, I'm capable of making decisions. I'm going to hell, anyway," he added irritably. "And I don't need you stopping by every week to remind me."

"John, I'm not -" Angela started, but John cut her off with a glare, and she became quite silent as she watched him take another drag on his cigarette. John, of course, was going to hell - he wasn't denying it, but then again, denial wasn't something John Constantine was familiar with. Everything he had ever done, he accepted, and faced the consequences. If one smokes continuously despite one's fatal disease, for instance, the consequence of this action is that one will eventually die.

"I know where you're coming from, John, I do. I - no, just listen to me for a minute," Angela said determinedly, taking a deep breath. "You're going to die-"

"I know," John said testily. "Seriously, Angela, get to the point. I'm not in the mood for this."

A look of aggravation darkened Angela's face and she took a step closer to John. "Just listen. You never seem to be able to do that, John. You only care about yourself."

"So?" John said, turning around to face her. "Who else do I have to care about? Who else should I care about? I don't have a reason to care about anyone."

"No, I suppose not. But I care about you. That counts for something. And I -" Angela sighed, as if looked for the right words to say. "I don't know."

"What do you want?" John repeated, but this time in a whisper. He felt exposed, as if he knew something that he shouldn't, and everyone was accusing him of it.

"What do I want?" Angela said, glancing around the room. "I want to talk to you John. None of this is just empty words, you know. I want - I want everything to be okay for you. And I want to know you - I mean actually know you, not just your exterior. But I can't do that, John, do you know why?"

John looked at her and waited, though he wasn't sure what he was waiting for - maybe he was waiting for someone to come and take him far away from here, or maybe he was waiting to die - just to die - or for Angela to talk and for himself to zone her out as he usually did. None of this is just empty words. John knew that. He may not listen sometimes - heck, he never listened - but it wasn't empty words. It was never just empty damn words.

"You know why," Angela whispered. "You know, John, I never used to understand you, and why you did what you did. But now I do. Now I understand why some people smoke a million cigarettes or get themselves drunk. Not because they want to get high - because they want to escape each moment they spend every single fucking night, thinking about what's happening in their damn life. Of course they don't forget their problems. No one ever does. But at least they don't spend their night crying themselves to sleep."

At this, John looked at her; he really looked at her, as if seeing Angela Dodson for the first time, but that couldn't be right - he'd seen her standing there a thousand times before. And something snapped inside of him as he did this, as he soaked up the woman standing before him and the truth he didn't want to face, but had to.

"Angela," John started, stepping nearer to her. "If you wake up one day and wonder why you wasted your time on me...well, I don't know if I could deal with that."

At these words, Angela seemed to crack too, and she flung her arms around John's neck and kissed him on the mouth - yes, John, who had never been kissed so intensely before. John, who had never been cared about as much as Angela cared about him. John, who was going to die, despite everything.

And she let him go, her cheeks somewhat flushed, but she kept her face close to his and looked him straight in the eyes.

"If I could do something - anything - I would." Angela said, barley audible, and John felt guilty with himself for being a wreck, for being so full of hatred, and all the while he was dying, just slowly dying. And Angela was dying too, though she didn't realize it, and that was the beauty of it all.

"But you can't." John said, and he looked straight back at her because he wasn't a coward.

"I know."

Here lies my second attempt at movie fanfiction. Sorry for the OOC-ness but I just felt the urge to write this. That is all.