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John slowly blew out a mouthful of smoke, watching as it raised up towards the night sky before dispersing in the chilly air. The scratch on his cheek was still stinging like hell, even after it had been cleaned and disinfected, and so did all the other small gashes and light cuts that covered most of the skin of his arms and chest. His shirt, while not exactly torn to shreds, would have probably ended up in the trash the next morning. The time and the effort he would have to put in repairing it wouldn’t have been worth the poor results.
Sticking the cigarette back between his lips, Constantine muttered a heavy curse under his breath. Normally, he would have paid no mind to that kind of wounds, since he was used to dealing with much worse, and by now he should have made peace with the fact that his clothes got ruined more often than not. It was part of the risks of the job, something that couldn’t be helped and that he had to put up with, no matter how aggravating for both him and his wallet it could be.
However, in that particular occasion, the culprit also happened to be the source of his current bad mood and, if there was something John was good at, it was holding grudges, even, and especially if he had to be honest, for the most stupid things. The events that had taken place that night were part of an overused, bad script that, somehow, never seemed to get old and kept repeating itself over and over and over, much to the magician’s chagrin. The fact that he was to blame for all that as much as his opponent was, in his eyes, a detail of no import. It didn’t change the fact that he had been forced to flee outside and get some air, instead of being inside with the others, enjoying his drink.
“Bloody fuckin’ bird,” he muttered under his breath, moodily chewing the butt of his cigarette.
His eyes moved up towards the sky. The feathered fucker constantly glared at him, no matter what he did or said, no matter if he had been paying any sort of attention to him or not. He probably thought that John was a bad influence and that he could exert his role as such even just by existing in the same room where Tim was. And deep down, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out aloud, the magician might have almost agreed with the owl. However, that didn’t give the bastard any right to attack him at the slightest pretext.
Constantine let out a low groan. He wasn’t even sure of how the fight had started this time. Maybe he had said a word too much, maybe he had glared at the bird for a bit too long. Or perhaps it was because he had messed a little with the winged wanker’s food. Chas had advised him against doing it, but of course he hadn’t listened. In his defence, Tim had been around for a few days and John had really tried to behave at first, but it had been impossible for him to keep the act up. The two of them just weren’t capable of getting along. Why exactly, it was a mystery and John’s guess would have been as good as any, if he had cared enough to make one. It seemed to be one of those things that simply were as they were, almost as if they had been meant to be.
Oh, he was bad at handling those. Very, very bad.
The wandering trail of his thoughts was interrupted by the light sound of wings flapping and Constantine turned his head on his side, already scowling before his eyes could properly land on the bird that had come to perch on the railing next to him. There were several feathers missing from his plumage and the magician couldn’t help smirking in smug satisfaction, knowing that he had been the one to do such damage. He might have gained his own wounds during the fight, but the bastard looked just as worse for wear as he did.
“Woh’s up now? ‘Ell, can’t a bloke ‘ave a bloody fag n’ some bloody alone time?” He grumbled under his breath, turning his head away once again. “Didn’t yeh get enough already? Sod off, yeh tosser. ‘M not in th’ mood to go again rite now.”
The sharp look that Yoyo shot him was even harsher than John’s tone had been, but then the owl seemed to choose to ignore him and instead he started to preen, trying to make up for the mess that had been made of his feathers. That moron was a jinxed menace, a walking magnet for trouble, and he reeked of alcohol, cigarettes, bad habits, misery and, literally, of Hell itself. He shouldn’t be allowed near anyone, especially not his human companion.
And yet, for some reason that kept evading him, Timothy seemed to have grown quite fond of Fate’s Fool, against what most people would have surely agreed was common sense and good taste.
Seeing his words falling in death ears, John rolled his eyes and went back to his cigarette, barely holding back the impulse of blowing out the next mouthful of smoke directly in the bird’s face. His gaze, however, kept darting towards the owl. He didn’t trust him not to sink his cursed claws or damned beak back in his flesh the moment he had turned away for a moment too long.
The silence stretched for a few minutes, the time that Constantine needed to finish his smoke and lit out the new one, while Yoyo kept trying to cover the holes in his plumage, taking the time to shoot the man an outraged look every time he lifted his head to move his attention to another spot.
“Yeh know, if me presence offends yeh tha’ much, yeh can’ fuck off,” John eventually commented, after the umpteenth glare. “Christ. Yeh could even jus’… ” He waved a hand, gesturing to his unwanted guest to scoot away. “Lots of space on dis bloody railin’, innit?”
Once again he was ignored, just as he had expected to be, and he glanced away, muttering one more curse. He didn’t know what was worse, not being able to relax and breath, which was what he had come out to do, or the sparks of irritation that kept being fed by the bird’s snobbish attitude. It was another thing that he would have never admitted out aloud, not even under torture, but the fucker and his insistent scowling managed to make him feel every bit like the piece of trash he had to be in the bird’s eyes.
Something sharp suddenly jabbed him in his side and he started. “Oi! Yeh fuckin’ wanker!”
He whipped around to fully face Yoyo. He had meant it when he had stated that he wasn’t in the mood for another round, but, if the bastard wanted to go for it, he would have made him regret it. However, he paused when he found the owl with one wing extended, pointing towards the window of the balcony.
Look, you idiot.
The displeased expression didn’t abandon Constantine’s face, but he reluctantly did what he was being told, his eyes landing on the small scene that was playing inside the apartment. Tim was sitting on the couch, holding a glass that was probably being kept dutifully refilled by Chas. The cabbie had to be spinning one of his stories, because he was gesticulating animatedly, perhaps a bit more than it was strictly necessary, most likely in the attempt of keeping the teen as involved as possible in whatever was being told.
Despite himself, John found himself grinning slightly. Poor old Chas. He probably felt like he was failing miserably with Tim barely offering polite nods to show his participation, even if the lad had to be appreciating the snacks that kept being shoved in his way, considering how quickly they disappeared from his plate.
What a domestic scene, carrying the taste of a normalcy and of the tranquillity of daily life none of them was truly used to. An old cassette playing in the background, complementing the warm lights that lit up his best friend’s flat, the lingering smell of the homemade dinner they had shared. It tasted like warmth, like safety, like home. A thin and yet sturdy shield against all the possible, ugly realities they had witnessed.
The promise of a better, brighter future.
John turned back towards Yoyo, finding that the owl was staring at him expectantly. And, hell, if he couldn’t feel the weight of those expectations. He groaned and the bird hooted at him, irritated and firmly, preventing the magician from just ignoring him as he had been tempted to do.
So? Did you get it or are you that thick?
Constantine puffed out a bit more of smoke, but then nodded, glancing briefly towards the window one more time. “…Aye, aye, got th’ fuckin’ message,” he grumbled under his breath. “Loud n’ clear, mate.”
Those words, however, didn’t seem to satisfy Yoyo because the owl pecked him once again, a bit harder than he had done to get his attention. The flash of satisfaction that touched his dark eyes when the magician winced was impossible to miss.
And?
“N’ ‘m tryin’, alrite? ‘M fuckin’ tryin’. Fuck, it ain’t easy, yeh know? N’…good t’in’s ain’t exactly me forte,” John was forced to continue, rubbing his forearm. Yet another bruise to add to the list. “But, if there’s somet’in’ I can do to stop all tha’, too keep ‘im ‘ere, wit’ us, away from…wohe’er ugly fate’s waitin’ ‘ed for us…Be bloody sure tha’ I’ll do it. N’ I’ll leave not’in’ untried. No ma’er th’ cost.”
Their gazes met for a moment and, after squinting at the man for a moment, Yoyo this time seemed pacified. His faith in John Constantine wasn’t the strongest and it would have never been, but he could recognise heartfelt sincerity when he saw it. There was no reason to believe that the magician’s attempts would have been enough, because history had often shown how useless will and good intentions could be at the end of the day, but it was a start. And it was something they could agree on. Some common ground, together with their shared despised for that filthy crow.
Fine. Truce. At least for tonight. But be ready to meet my wrath if you even just think about making a false step around Tim.
“Wohe’er,” John replied, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. Then a smirk opened on his lips. “…Fuckin’ stinky duster.”
The peck that reached his hand was strong enough to make him yell, but he found himself laughing mere second after, holding his bleeding fingers, not giving a damn about how Yoyo had puffed out his chest and his feathers, wings opened in a clear threatening pose.
His shout had been loud enough to attract Chas’s and Tim’s attention and the cabbie was already getting up from his seat, most likely to come and retrieve him, and perhaps even to give him another scolding about how he needed to stop poking the bird, but he found that he didn’t care about that either.
He grinned, widely, waving his injured hand, and damn. Behind the facade of offended anger and ruffled feather, he could have sworn that Yoyo was smirking right back at him.