SpN ficlet: A Crooked Man

[roxy]

I'm just thrilled to death that something came out. I'm on a slow motion roll, ya'll! This thing, the Kill the Green Arrow fic--woo-hoo! Look out world, she's dangerous!

Title: A Crooked Man
Fandom: SpN/Hellblazer
Pairings/Characters:Constantine
Rating:PG
Category:Gen
Word Count:592
Spoilers:Lazarus Rising? Vaguely. Very.
Summary: he's not quite a holy tax accountant. More like a morally ambiguous mage…
Notes/Warning There's no porn. Sorry. There could be some of the M/M variety, though. And with John, it's canon.


Tired. So tired of fighting. So…shit. Tired of failing, tired of…breathing. And still. And still, there's the need, to keep moving—stay alive.

He grubs a cigarette out of a crumbled pack, it's cock-eyed and dribbling tobacco but it's dry, and that's the important thing. Pressed between cracked lips, he sighs in relief, slumps to the floor and just. Sprawls. Done. A bright spear of pain makes him jerk, blood spreads between the fingers pressed over his stomach. The wound probably won’t kill him but it hurts like a fucker. What really ticks him off--broken fingers. That's just…shit. Cruel, that's what it is. Makes it hard to work the lighter. He flips the Zippo open, thumbs the wheel, thumbs the wheel, thumbs…the fucker won’t catch. He throws it and it skids through the pool of blood under the girl's head. The girl. The shell left behind when the demon fell again. He sighs. A nap would be good right now. Someone else taking the lead for a bit would be good right now….

He pats pockets, searching for matches with the good hand…always got a backup, never know. His head is pounding now. Fuck. He was pretty sure the wound was minor but his limbs are ice cold. Shock? Not even all that important. Not much. Not for the moment. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and there's a voice in his ear.

John.

"Fuck off."

John. We have heard your voice and answer your call. You have work to do.

John takes a breath and shifts the dry cigarette to the corner of his mouth.
"Got a light?"

Light?

"You know, a light, a fire, a—"

The end of his cigarette flames for a moment and goes out. John inhales deeply.
"Help? How?"

We require, ask for the use of your body--

"Fuck no!"

--and will protect you while you sleep. When you put yourself in our hands--

"What about 'fuck no' don’t you understand? No one's wearing me but me." He inhales again, and snorts. "No one wears me."

--you will be safe and unaware and do great things. We need you to help in this way. And it will count.

Shit. Shit. He shifts the butt from side to side, ash dribbling across his shirt and the burgundy stain grows and grows, and the cold inches up his legs. "I'm broken."

We'll fix it.

"Demons ride a mount to death, what about—"

We are not immune to anger.

"Okay, okay…maybe. Don't make me think about it just ye—"

Blackness, warm, clinging, he rolls to his side and smacks his lips and wants to scratch and wonders…this soft bed, this warm night….he stretches and there's nothing to stretch, he blinks to clear his sight and sight is all around him and nowhere. He can see before him and above him and behind him and there are no eyes to wipe, no hand to wipe them with and no ears to hear with but. He can hear. He's doing that now, and listening and he's pretty sure that his rider's unaware of that. He grins…takes a peek.
'Well, that's all right then. We'll have to get to know him. This might be…fun.' Do angels smoke?

It's odd to feel his mouth open and not want it to, to hear his voice and be unconnected to it, odd to have words form that he hasn't thought.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition…."


11-14-2008

Comments

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

Thank you *so* much!

And yes, that was my evol plan, *G* He would make a damn fine Constantine.