It almost struck him ironical that after all he’d seen John Constantine take on, smoking would be the one thing to conquer him. If Chas had been able to as much as appreciate irony when all he was thinking was He’s fucking dying!, that was.
“Nothing she can do.” He repeated, needlessly, the fact only slowly sinking in. He looked up at John; of all the things he might have expected? That sure wasn’t among them.
“…how long, John?“ How long he’d known, how long he’d been given by the doctor, either question he would have liked to have answered at this point … just when he’d planned on telling Chas that he was freaking dying as they spoke.