Fic: Afterimage (Constantine)
Repost of my first Constantine fic. New title and some minor editing.
Title: Afterimage
Author: Ivy
Rating: PG-13 (swearing)
Summary: Coda to the end of the movie, somewhere between Ravenscar and the rooftop scene with Angela.
John’s keys crashed when they hit the floor - he didn’t make it all the way to the table before he dropped them. He’d bumped the door shut, not sure he’d pushed it hard enough to latch, and not caring enough to go back and check. He pulled the Spear of Destiny out of his coat pocket and dropped it on the kitchen table, then went to get a box of salt from the cabinet. He outlined a sloppy protection circle around it, then set the salt down. Never hurt to be cautious. He didn’t have the energy to fight any more demon spawn. He’d deal with the Spear tomorrow.
God, he wanted a smoke.
His clothes had mostly dried off in the car ride back from Ravenscar, turning into matted bunches of damp cloth. He’d taken Chas’ cab, feeling odd sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling the keys out from the visor where Chas kept them with his sunglasses. He dropped Angela off first; she’d made stilted conversation about hot showers and warm beds the whole way back, throwing in godawful puns about hell to try and lighten the mood. John hadn’t exactly felt talkative.
He didn’t quite remember the drive back to the bowling alley and was surprised he’d made it without running off the road. He could barely focus his eyes right now.
John continued across the main room, drawn inexorably toward the bed. He peeled off the trench coat and dropped it, then pulled ineffectually at his silk tie. He finally managed to pick the tightened knot apart. Fuck. That was ruined. And his shirt - between the burn marks from Midnite and Lucifer’s rough handling, it was a complete loss. There were only three buttons left intact, up near the collar. He chucked the shirt straight into the trash.
He worried vaguely about getting a water spot on the bedspread as he sat down, then leaned over to pull off his shoes. He’d need to polish those. He peeled off one flattened sock then gave up and fell back on the bed. The sun had come up sometime between leaving Angela’s apartment and getting home, and the gold light penetrated the shutters to stripe across his eyes.
He closed them and tried to go to sleep, but his whole body was buzzing. The warmth of the sun on his face was a pale imitation of the warmth he had felt earlier that night, when God had finally welcomed him home. True sunlight and the feeling of his bone-weariness lifting, the knowledge that his struggle was finally over….
Too bad that didn’t pan out.
Gabriel was human now. Well, he’d have to deal with that. Soon. He pulled his arm up off the bed and glanced at his wrist. Fuck. He remembered now taking off his watch - he must have left it at Ravenscar. He left something else at Ravenscar, too. Something he’d been trying not to think about.
John heaved himself off the bed and walked over to the phone. He hoped that the numbers he was punching were right. He could be dialing a Brazilian 900 number with the focus he had right now.
“I see the world didn’t end.”
“Hello, Midnite,” John replied, pinching his eyes.
“I heard a rumor that you died, John,” Midnite said, slightly bemused.
“Yeah, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” He had no idea how word had gotten around so fast. God. By the time he got to Midnite’s club to set things straight they’d be saying that he beat the devil in hand-to-hand combat and bit Gabriel’s wings off with his bare teeth.
“Chas is dead,” John said flatly.
“I know,” the voice on the other end was neither sympathetic nor surprised. Of course Midnite would know.
“His body-“ John started.
“I’ll take care of the boy,” Midnite said.
Guess you don’t have to worry about that membership, John wanted to say, but couldn’t bring himself to joke about this yet. “Thanks,” he said instead and hung up the phone.
Good. Good. Midnite would take care of Chas’s body, make the proper arrangements.
John lay back on the bed and tried to sleep again. He would have to call Angela in the morning - evening - whenever she woke up - about what the police were making of the destruction in the hospital. Maybe she could use her connections to keep him out of this. He’d bled all over the floor. Hopefully nobody would go all CSI and run his DNA and come knocking on his door. That would suck. Two murder victims though - they’d have to come up with some sort of official story. The Mexican was shot by Angela, that was self-defense, but Chas was murdered by Gabriel. Beaten to death by an angel. That would look great on a death certificate. Maybe Angela could arrest Gabriel. Let Gabriel know what it really meant to be human.
As a cause of death, though, Chas’s was pretty unique. He’d have to flip through some of Beeman’s books to see if there was any precedent. Something like that could seriously fuck with the Balance and he didn’t want Chas’s immortal soul to be caught up in some sort of celestial power struggle.
Fuck! He was not getting to sleep. Might as well get up. He glanced at the bedside clock. Seven AM. Chas would be going on duty in a half an hour. Would have been. Somebody should call the taxi company. God, he didn’t even know the number. Wait, it would be on the side of the cab. Idiot. That would be the dispatch - dispatcher - and he’d have to try and figure out who there he should notify. Yeah, one of your employees was murdered last night. When should I bring the cab back?
Later. He’d do that later. Not like Chas was ever on time to work anyway.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, thinking that if he could just soak in a nice hot bath it would get rid of some of this chill. He absently kicked a porcelain shard and it skittered across the floor. Oh, right. Angela had blown up his tub. And hadn’t that been a brilliant plan. Note to self, when attempting to drown someone, do not do it in your own bathtub. Use theirs.
He leaned against the doorjamb and stared into the wreck of his bathroom. He bet there was water damage. It would probably rot out the plaster ceiling below him. Well, with no Beeman to complain, it didn’t matter so much, did it?
He wondered if he needed to notify anyone else about Chas. The kid had said his parents were dead, but he could have just been a runaway. Plenty of those in LA. Maybe he had parents at home that would want to know. Or brothers and sisters. Or childhood sweethearts. Or a Great Aunt Tildy. He’d go down to the hall of records tomorrow - today - to see if Chas had any living relations. Shit. He didn’t want to deal with this. But there was nobody else, really.
Maybe he should write an obituary. It wasn’t really his place, though, was it? He’d been Chas’s mentor - but that sort of thing should be done by family, right? “Chas Kramer is survived by…” a demon hunter. Not so much.
He wondered if Chas had a will. Or a personal diary that would tell John everything in Chas’s past he’d never opened up about. People don’t just die and leave nothing behind.
Except John knew that they did.
John went to his dresser and pulled out a clean set of clothes. They smelled like smoke. Everything in this apartment smelled like smoke. Maybe he should move. Chas was dead, and Father Hennesy, Beeman. Time to start over. Again. Find a new supplier of artifacts, new contacts. Maybe he just needed to get out of LA. City of angels. Yeah the fuck right.
It was too quiet in here. Everything looked gray and dingy, an afterimage. He was seeing the world through new eyes again. It was like the first time he’d returned from hell and everything had seemed more faded and worn, soft around the edges instead of jagged and cutting. Except now he just felt cold and alone.
He dropped the needle onto his turntable, expecting to hear a swinging five/four drum beat. But instead of the Dave Brubeck quartet album he knew he’d left there, he heard a familiar guitar lick. “There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold…” called through his speakers, the echoey acoustics of his apartment making the song seem far away and filled with longing.
“Chas…” John whispered. Chas had said he was trying to update John’s taste in music. Only Chas would think a thirty-year-old British rock group was an ‘update.’ He’d even found it on a 33 since John was too ‘stone-age’ to have a CD-player. John had just laughed back that he preferred the classics and never let on that Led Zeppelin had once been his favorite band.
The pops and crackles of the record made the familiar chords more poignant. It was almost laughably absurd, hearing this song now. John closed his eyes and let his head fall back with the music. When he’d felt God pull him from the arms of Satan, he’d felt hope bloom where it had died twenty years ago. And - it seemed absurd in the cold light of the smoggy morning - he’d felt Chas smile at him. He hadn’t seen it, no, but he’d known that Chas was there.
“You got the good end of the deal, kid,” John spoke to the empty apartment. “Eternal peace and comfort. Not too shabby.” John stood listening to the wailing guitar until the needle clicked off at the end of the song. He took a deep breath - surprised again that he felt no pain with the action - and smiled.
Read on AO3 here.
Icon thanks to rogueapprentice.
Title: Afterimage
Author: Ivy
Rating: PG-13 (swearing)
Summary: Coda to the end of the movie, somewhere between Ravenscar and the rooftop scene with Angela.
John’s keys crashed when they hit the floor - he didn’t make it all the way to the table before he dropped them. He’d bumped the door shut, not sure he’d pushed it hard enough to latch, and not caring enough to go back and check. He pulled the Spear of Destiny out of his coat pocket and dropped it on the kitchen table, then went to get a box of salt from the cabinet. He outlined a sloppy protection circle around it, then set the salt down. Never hurt to be cautious. He didn’t have the energy to fight any more demon spawn. He’d deal with the Spear tomorrow.
God, he wanted a smoke.
His clothes had mostly dried off in the car ride back from Ravenscar, turning into matted bunches of damp cloth. He’d taken Chas’ cab, feeling odd sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling the keys out from the visor where Chas kept them with his sunglasses. He dropped Angela off first; she’d made stilted conversation about hot showers and warm beds the whole way back, throwing in godawful puns about hell to try and lighten the mood. John hadn’t exactly felt talkative.
He didn’t quite remember the drive back to the bowling alley and was surprised he’d made it without running off the road. He could barely focus his eyes right now.
John continued across the main room, drawn inexorably toward the bed. He peeled off the trench coat and dropped it, then pulled ineffectually at his silk tie. He finally managed to pick the tightened knot apart. Fuck. That was ruined. And his shirt - between the burn marks from Midnite and Lucifer’s rough handling, it was a complete loss. There were only three buttons left intact, up near the collar. He chucked the shirt straight into the trash.
He worried vaguely about getting a water spot on the bedspread as he sat down, then leaned over to pull off his shoes. He’d need to polish those. He peeled off one flattened sock then gave up and fell back on the bed. The sun had come up sometime between leaving Angela’s apartment and getting home, and the gold light penetrated the shutters to stripe across his eyes.
He closed them and tried to go to sleep, but his whole body was buzzing. The warmth of the sun on his face was a pale imitation of the warmth he had felt earlier that night, when God had finally welcomed him home. True sunlight and the feeling of his bone-weariness lifting, the knowledge that his struggle was finally over….
Too bad that didn’t pan out.
Gabriel was human now. Well, he’d have to deal with that. Soon. He pulled his arm up off the bed and glanced at his wrist. Fuck. He remembered now taking off his watch - he must have left it at Ravenscar. He left something else at Ravenscar, too. Something he’d been trying not to think about.
John heaved himself off the bed and walked over to the phone. He hoped that the numbers he was punching were right. He could be dialing a Brazilian 900 number with the focus he had right now.
“I see the world didn’t end.”
“Hello, Midnite,” John replied, pinching his eyes.
“I heard a rumor that you died, John,” Midnite said, slightly bemused.
“Yeah, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” He had no idea how word had gotten around so fast. God. By the time he got to Midnite’s club to set things straight they’d be saying that he beat the devil in hand-to-hand combat and bit Gabriel’s wings off with his bare teeth.
“Chas is dead,” John said flatly.
“I know,” the voice on the other end was neither sympathetic nor surprised. Of course Midnite would know.
“His body-“ John started.
“I’ll take care of the boy,” Midnite said.
Guess you don’t have to worry about that membership, John wanted to say, but couldn’t bring himself to joke about this yet. “Thanks,” he said instead and hung up the phone.
Good. Good. Midnite would take care of Chas’s body, make the proper arrangements.
John lay back on the bed and tried to sleep again. He would have to call Angela in the morning - evening - whenever she woke up - about what the police were making of the destruction in the hospital. Maybe she could use her connections to keep him out of this. He’d bled all over the floor. Hopefully nobody would go all CSI and run his DNA and come knocking on his door. That would suck. Two murder victims though - they’d have to come up with some sort of official story. The Mexican was shot by Angela, that was self-defense, but Chas was murdered by Gabriel. Beaten to death by an angel. That would look great on a death certificate. Maybe Angela could arrest Gabriel. Let Gabriel know what it really meant to be human.
As a cause of death, though, Chas’s was pretty unique. He’d have to flip through some of Beeman’s books to see if there was any precedent. Something like that could seriously fuck with the Balance and he didn’t want Chas’s immortal soul to be caught up in some sort of celestial power struggle.
Fuck! He was not getting to sleep. Might as well get up. He glanced at the bedside clock. Seven AM. Chas would be going on duty in a half an hour. Would have been. Somebody should call the taxi company. God, he didn’t even know the number. Wait, it would be on the side of the cab. Idiot. That would be the dispatch - dispatcher - and he’d have to try and figure out who there he should notify. Yeah, one of your employees was murdered last night. When should I bring the cab back?
Later. He’d do that later. Not like Chas was ever on time to work anyway.
He stumbled toward the bathroom, thinking that if he could just soak in a nice hot bath it would get rid of some of this chill. He absently kicked a porcelain shard and it skittered across the floor. Oh, right. Angela had blown up his tub. And hadn’t that been a brilliant plan. Note to self, when attempting to drown someone, do not do it in your own bathtub. Use theirs.
He leaned against the doorjamb and stared into the wreck of his bathroom. He bet there was water damage. It would probably rot out the plaster ceiling below him. Well, with no Beeman to complain, it didn’t matter so much, did it?
He wondered if he needed to notify anyone else about Chas. The kid had said his parents were dead, but he could have just been a runaway. Plenty of those in LA. Maybe he had parents at home that would want to know. Or brothers and sisters. Or childhood sweethearts. Or a Great Aunt Tildy. He’d go down to the hall of records tomorrow - today - to see if Chas had any living relations. Shit. He didn’t want to deal with this. But there was nobody else, really.
Maybe he should write an obituary. It wasn’t really his place, though, was it? He’d been Chas’s mentor - but that sort of thing should be done by family, right? “Chas Kramer is survived by…” a demon hunter. Not so much.
He wondered if Chas had a will. Or a personal diary that would tell John everything in Chas’s past he’d never opened up about. People don’t just die and leave nothing behind.
Except John knew that they did.
John went to his dresser and pulled out a clean set of clothes. They smelled like smoke. Everything in this apartment smelled like smoke. Maybe he should move. Chas was dead, and Father Hennesy, Beeman. Time to start over. Again. Find a new supplier of artifacts, new contacts. Maybe he just needed to get out of LA. City of angels. Yeah the fuck right.
It was too quiet in here. Everything looked gray and dingy, an afterimage. He was seeing the world through new eyes again. It was like the first time he’d returned from hell and everything had seemed more faded and worn, soft around the edges instead of jagged and cutting. Except now he just felt cold and alone.
He dropped the needle onto his turntable, expecting to hear a swinging five/four drum beat. But instead of the Dave Brubeck quartet album he knew he’d left there, he heard a familiar guitar lick. “There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold…” called through his speakers, the echoey acoustics of his apartment making the song seem far away and filled with longing.
“Chas…” John whispered. Chas had said he was trying to update John’s taste in music. Only Chas would think a thirty-year-old British rock group was an ‘update.’ He’d even found it on a 33 since John was too ‘stone-age’ to have a CD-player. John had just laughed back that he preferred the classics and never let on that Led Zeppelin had once been his favorite band.
The pops and crackles of the record made the familiar chords more poignant. It was almost laughably absurd, hearing this song now. John closed his eyes and let his head fall back with the music. When he’d felt God pull him from the arms of Satan, he’d felt hope bloom where it had died twenty years ago. And - it seemed absurd in the cold light of the smoggy morning - he’d felt Chas smile at him. He hadn’t seen it, no, but he’d known that Chas was there.
“You got the good end of the deal, kid,” John spoke to the empty apartment. “Eternal peace and comfort. Not too shabby.” John stood listening to the wailing guitar until the needle clicked off at the end of the song. He took a deep breath - surprised again that he felt no pain with the action - and smiled.
Read on AO3 here.
Icon thanks to rogueapprentice.