Who: John Constantine + Kirsty Cotton What: John is smitten, it’s disgusting. When: 8-25 Where: John's flat Rating: Low, but John has a potty mouth and isn’t sorry. Status: Complete
John wasn't really much of a homebody -- he much preferred being out and social. The nightlife was good in California, just as good as it'd been back home really. But sometimes he just couldn't be arsed about going out and playing nice in the bars.
Company was still nice though, and Chas just wasn't cutting it. Good thing for Kirsty offering to pop by. He made a half vague attempt at cleaning up his living room (throwing beer bottles and empty packs of smokes away) before she showed up. However it was she was going to show up, considering her vague internet message.
Soon there was a figure on his sofa, wrapped in white robes with a red obi-style sash around her waist. The figure’s skin was ghost white, and row upon rows of pins had been hammered into the pale flesh of her face.
After a moment, that figure shimmered away, leaving only Kirsty Cotton wearing jeans and a t-shirt. “Hey.”
John stared for a moment, eyebrows up about as high as they'd go and the silence going over the room a bit deafening all on its own. He gave it another second, and then licked his lips, shook his head, and then plopped down next to her on the couch. "Fucking interesting party trick you got there, Cotton."
Was it still Cotton? Shit. She had just gotten married, hadn't she?
“Nah, that’s juggling. But I have to be really tanked to juggle.” She handed him the bottle of scotch, grinning to herself. “How’s it going, then? Nobody’s asked you to sing Penny Lane yet, have they?”
"Hey Jude," John corrected with an expression that was dark, but not really annoyed. He couldn't be too annoyed, since he had a tally bet going on that exact thing, and was still rather looking to win. Mentally, he added Kirsty's comment to the tally. It was probably cheating, and he was just fine with that.
"Same ol'. You know. Enjoying the American Dream, or what have you." He took the drink, and didn't bother getting glasses, because glasses were for people who knew better.
“Is the American Dream sitting in a dimly lit apartment, drinking? Now that you mention it, it probably is.” She wrinkled her nose, chuckling. “Seriously, have you had any shitty dreams yourself?”
Probably it was, actually. Which was good, because it was mostly what John did. And if not in his flat, then at a bar somewhere. Now that he considered it, his life wasn't terribly exciting.
"No," he said, shrugging. Everyone else seemed to be, but he'd been left alone completely in that department. "I ended up with a coat I hadn't had before. But honestly, any bloke could have left it behind." It did fit him a little too well though. Suited him a little too perfectly.
“How many random sex parties are you having where that’s possible, Constantine? Hmm?” She grinned, looking at him. “It was a dream gift. I’ve gotten them too.” She pulled a rumpled up photograph from her wallet. It was a man in WWI British Army dress, glaring sternly at the camera.
Yeah, he really wasn't having enough sex parties to manage something like that. If he had to be really honest (which wasn't a something he enjoyed doing), he hadn't been having much at all lately. He'd have remembered it even if he was getting drunk first.
He took the photograph, inspecting it curiously before handing it back. "Yeah, I was just hoping not to be sucked up into any shite. Can't blame a bloke for trying. Who's the fella?"
“The priest of hell before me. I made him feel something once, it’s why he hates me. Or loves me, whichever.” Kirsty shrugged.
"And you keep a picture of him in your wallet." Okay, yeah, it wasn't really a question. But sort of it was. John took a pull of liquor before handing it back to her.
“I woke up one morning and it was on my nightstand. I keep it with me just in case I meet him.” She didn’t know what she’d do besides probably shoot him in the throat.
Maybe she should show him the picture first, just so that she could say she had a reason to carry it around. John shrugged, pulled out two cigarettes and lit them both before offering her one.
"Fucked up. Wanna talk about your non juggling party trick?"
Taking the smoke, she shrugged. “In my dreams, I trade places with that guy and become the high priestess of Hell so I can see everyone I’ve ever loved again. Knowing me isn’t very good luck,” she sighed.
"Everyone dies and you just think 'okay cool, I'll take this gig to have a visit'?" John knew what clever generally was, and he didn't think that was it. He took a slow drag from his smoke and propped his feet up on the coffee table. "Least you get a cool outfit?" Silver linings were very important.
“Everyone was murdered,” she sighed. “I had nothing left to live for. I kill myself, I go to hell and I get to be a peon. I take this, I go to hell and I have power.” She propped up her feet in turn and shrugged to herself. “It made sense to dream me at the time.”
Okay, yeah, that was fair. He’d probably do the same thing. But he had nothing to go on with what he’d do in his dreams but a trenchcoat. It was nice, the coat, but not very telling. It wasn’t stiff and new, but well worn. Clean, but a bit rough somehow. That meant little beside the fact that he wore it often. Maybe he wasn’t a business sort.
“What’s it have to do with the little boxes?” He remembered her talking about the boxes, the one she kept safe in a security box. Gateways.
“My friends were this group of people I met who all opened a door to Hell and lived. We called ourselves the Harrowers, we were going to save the world. Except this serial killer tortured them all for that asshole in the photo. Elliot Spencer promised him a high place in Hell if he’d do that and lure me out of hiding. And they got my dream fiance by handing him the box at a book signing.” She sounded bitter because she was; lots of it had leaked over, had bled through.
John actually looked a bit sympathetic over that story, which was weird all on its own because he was Constantine, and Constantine didn’t really do sympathetic all that well. He did make some exceptions though. Kirsty was a friend, and a good one. They were oddly like minded, and he really did wish she’d have a better time of things.
He took a drag from his smoke and then a pull from the bottle. “That’s fucked,” he said again, because it was, and because there were no kind words to offer. What was done was done, wasn’t it?
“Yeah, well. If it means I can help keep people safe here, I’ll take it. As long as I can look like myself most of the time,” she shrugged. And she wasn’t going to kick the teleporting out of bed either.
Yeah, well, who the fuck would? He shrugged too, because fucked was fucked, even if she did want to add a silver lining to it.
Finishing off his smoke and lighting another in succession, John settled his head on the back of the couch. “So how’s being married?”
Kirsty took another swig. “The same as living with him, just now we get tax breaks.” She was kidding; she really did love being married, and she really did love Giles. “How’s your bloke?”
Yeah, he saw right through it, grinning as he stole the bottle back. “He was really busy with all that nerd work until recently. Thinking of dropping by to visit one of these days now that he’s freed up a bit.” Yeah, probably he should be on that. He wanted to be on that. But then there was that whole looking too giddy part. And it was casual, him and his -- wait, no. “And he’s not my bloke.”
“Mmmhmm.” Kirsty rolled her eyes. “I’m not gonna pull your pigtails, Constantine. It’s okay.”
John might have deflated, just a little. He leaned down further into his couch and made a Face. “Right. Well. He’s not mine. But I wouldn’t want to share, either.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re dating.” Kirsty grinned.
He rolled his eyes over that. “We aren’t dating.” A pause. “But if we’re not telling anyone, I’d say I wasn’t averse to it.” But for now it was okay. Drinks and the like.
“You should tell him.” Or Kirsty might. “What’s his name again? Z? F?”
“Some bloody letter,” John said fondly, rolling his eyes even as Chas trotted into the room and pointedly jumped directly on Kirsty, offering a wagging tail and an eager expression. Bloody ungrateful, unloving dog. “Q.”
“Hey, boy. You’re not scared of me?” Kirsty was touched; dogs could generally read people. If a dog trusted her as a demon, how bad could life be? “Right, Q. Is it short for something? Tell me it’s short for something.”
John was just under the impression that his dog was a contrary fuck. It was well behaved enough, but always seemed to like others more than it did him. Probably because he wouldn’t share his beer. Chas just licked her hands in a way that John felt was entirely uncalled for.
“It’s short for something. Terribly British. He’s a laugh riot, Kirsty. All posh and bless. Bloody ridiculous.” He took another pull and then a drag of his smoke. “Really bloody ridiculous. There’s something wrong with me. I had drinks with a curvy brunette the other day. All red lipstick and sly. And do you know? I wasn’t even fucking interested. What is this shite?”
Kirsty couldn’t help it; she laughed so hard she startled the dog. “Could you sound any more grumpy about being smitten? You’re the cutest thing,” she giggled. He even got a hair ruffle for his trouble. “Grr, argh, great sex, rrrr, I hate being liked in return.”
“Fuck off,” John said, and somehow managed to not smile at that ridiculously true logic. He didn’t quite sound as grumpy as he was going for. It was really ruining his street cred.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. We stabbed a guy when we hung out tonight.” She mimed zipping her lips shut. “Hell, you’re hanging out with a goddamn demonic priestess, that has to make you sound awesome, right?”
"It'd make me more awesome if you added that bit to the stabbing a guy bit." Not that John was the sort to just go around stabbing folks. That was just cruel. Unless they deserved it. Then yeah maybe.
He shook his head and sat up to deposit his smoke in an ashtray. "S'all right, anyway. M'cool. S'alright." Yes John. Keep saying it.
“We’ll combine the two.” She smirked at him, more than able to tell when someone was considering their life choices. “You’ll sound like some sort of James Dean badass, only better.”
"James Dean. If he joined a rock band. And then quit the rock band. And then moved to California on a whim. You know what, let's just shut it and finish this bloody bottle." He was pretty sure he'd lost his own train of thought. It was over here. Time to get actually drunk.