Fic: Better than This
Title: Better Than This
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own anything at all
Excerpt: John's hands twitch instinctively towards a pack of cigarettes he knows damn well aren't there: with a scowl he shoves them into his pockets the still their restless wandering. He needs a smoke. He needs a drink. More than anything else, he needs this not to be happening.
It's a grey and listless sort of day, overcast skies giving no hint towards either rain or sun. Weakly determined light filters through the clouds, fading slowly as night begins to fall. The funeral is almost over.
He's been to a lot of funerals lately, or so it seems. First he saw Hennessy buried as that damn amulet twisted again and again between his fingers and mud splattered wetly against the sides of the coffin. Then it was Beeman's turn, closed casket to hide the hideous mess Balthazar had left behind. Attendance hadn't been exactly stellar: Midnite showed up, and a few other members of the occult community.
That's expected, though. Exorcisms and religious artifacts don't make for a sparkling social life by any stretch of the imagination. This is different. John's hands twitch instinctively towards a pack of cigarettes he knows damn well isn't there: with a scowl he shoves them into his pockets to still their restless wandering. He needs a smoke. He needs a drink. More than anything else, he needs this not to be happening.
God, but it was hard to watch them bury the kid. He's always known Chas didn't have much in the way of family or friends. He knows the premature death of one more stray teenager isn't big news - hell, not in LA. But the reality of it...less than ten people at the grave side, and that's including the priest. Midnite. Angela. One slightly batty great-to-the-power-of-umpteen aunt, and a few bewildered schoolfriends from way back before Chas had dropped out to get a job and pay the bills. And John Constantine, in desperate need of cigarettes and alcohol, and in a position to have neither.
Everyone else has buggered off home, but Angela's still standing in silence. He wonders distantly if she was aware of what was happening. If she knows what might have happened to her if Chas hadn't been there to pick up the thread when John's abused lungs failed him. At least she has the sense not to say anything.
And what can she say, anyway? 'It's not your fault'? Kind, but untrue. 'It'll be okay'? She's a cop. She's seen enough death to know what bullshit that is.
"At least you know where he went," she says after a while, and he remembers that she has the Sight too. And that, at least, is true: no way, no fucking way did Chas go to Hell. Kid died saving the damn world - if that's not a free ticket up, he doesn't know what is. But he doesn't say that. It doesn't change the fact that Chas is gone, one more name on the long list of people who died too soon because of their association with him.
Soft footsteps on the grass behind as she leaves. It's dark now. The kid deserves better than this - he doesn't deserve an early death and a lonely grave and no-one but John Constantine, professional asshole, to miss him. Something should probably be said, but he can't think of anything that won't sound irredeemably stupid. 'I'm sorry' is sort of taken as read in a situation like this, and the only other things going through his head Chas would probably have laughed at him for. 'I love you' is definitely out.
His fingers trace the familiar patterns on his lighter, safely tucked away in his jacket pocket. On an impulse he takes the lighter out, takes a step closer to the grave. "You did good, kid," he whispers and sets the lighter atop the headstone.
He turns, starts to walk away.
Hears the rustle of wings behind him.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own anything at all
Excerpt: John's hands twitch instinctively towards a pack of cigarettes he knows damn well aren't there: with a scowl he shoves them into his pockets the still their restless wandering. He needs a smoke. He needs a drink. More than anything else, he needs this not to be happening.
It's a grey and listless sort of day, overcast skies giving no hint towards either rain or sun. Weakly determined light filters through the clouds, fading slowly as night begins to fall. The funeral is almost over.
He's been to a lot of funerals lately, or so it seems. First he saw Hennessy buried as that damn amulet twisted again and again between his fingers and mud splattered wetly against the sides of the coffin. Then it was Beeman's turn, closed casket to hide the hideous mess Balthazar had left behind. Attendance hadn't been exactly stellar: Midnite showed up, and a few other members of the occult community.
That's expected, though. Exorcisms and religious artifacts don't make for a sparkling social life by any stretch of the imagination. This is different. John's hands twitch instinctively towards a pack of cigarettes he knows damn well isn't there: with a scowl he shoves them into his pockets to still their restless wandering. He needs a smoke. He needs a drink. More than anything else, he needs this not to be happening.
God, but it was hard to watch them bury the kid. He's always known Chas didn't have much in the way of family or friends. He knows the premature death of one more stray teenager isn't big news - hell, not in LA. But the reality of it...less than ten people at the grave side, and that's including the priest. Midnite. Angela. One slightly batty great-to-the-power-of-umpteen aunt, and a few bewildered schoolfriends from way back before Chas had dropped out to get a job and pay the bills. And John Constantine, in desperate need of cigarettes and alcohol, and in a position to have neither.
Everyone else has buggered off home, but Angela's still standing in silence. He wonders distantly if she was aware of what was happening. If she knows what might have happened to her if Chas hadn't been there to pick up the thread when John's abused lungs failed him. At least she has the sense not to say anything.
And what can she say, anyway? 'It's not your fault'? Kind, but untrue. 'It'll be okay'? She's a cop. She's seen enough death to know what bullshit that is.
"At least you know where he went," she says after a while, and he remembers that she has the Sight too. And that, at least, is true: no way, no fucking way did Chas go to Hell. Kid died saving the damn world - if that's not a free ticket up, he doesn't know what is. But he doesn't say that. It doesn't change the fact that Chas is gone, one more name on the long list of people who died too soon because of their association with him.
Soft footsteps on the grass behind as she leaves. It's dark now. The kid deserves better than this - he doesn't deserve an early death and a lonely grave and no-one but John Constantine, professional asshole, to miss him. Something should probably be said, but he can't think of anything that won't sound irredeemably stupid. 'I'm sorry' is sort of taken as read in a situation like this, and the only other things going through his head Chas would probably have laughed at him for. 'I love you' is definitely out.
His fingers trace the familiar patterns on his lighter, safely tucked away in his jacket pocket. On an impulse he takes the lighter out, takes a step closer to the grave. "You did good, kid," he whispers and sets the lighter atop the headstone.
He turns, starts to walk away.
Hears the rustle of wings behind him.