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bantha_fodderThese Pills To Fill Up My Soul, by Pen
Constantine (movieverse, mostly), gen, rated PG.
I do not own any of the characters depicted within.
With thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aliaspiral and utopos.
I
Chas sits on the ground, his legs spread out before him, and shrugs. "I thought it would be different, you know?" Beside him, dress stained with dirt and soaked in water, She nods. "I mean, more white. Maybe more wings. Definitely less flowers." She pauses meaningfully, the trowel in Her hand still filled with soil. "Oh, they're great," he says, quickly. "They're beautiful. Absolutely stunning. But not exactly what I expected." He stutters out the last, and She frowns.
"Oh, you've done it now," says the Metatron. "She'll be sulking all afternoon, thanks to you."
She turns her head, and pokes Her tongue out. "You take that back," gasps out the Metatron. An ant crawls across the root of a flower, and She pauses to let it crawl up Her arm. "I can't believe I'm listening to such a potty mouth."
She rests two fingers on Chas' cheek, and presses a bright red flower into his hand.
"Thank you," he says, and when She smiles up at him, wings burst from his back. In awe, Chas flaps them. The force sends him tumbling forwards, and She laughs with Her pleasure.
"Oh, honestly," says the Metatron, and he rolls his eyes.
II
Angela goes back to work and tries to go back to normal. She sits at her desk and reads case files. She interviews.
She does not think about John every chance she gets.
She's not that sort of woman, for fuck's sake.
She gets called in on a case, a missing boy and three dead women. Their bodies are blocked by blood and the flash of the crime scene camera, but she can see the symbols carved into their chests from ten feet away.
As she steps through the door and out into the chill night air, she stops to write a name on the glass.
She doesn't notice her hand moving.
III
Gabriel breathes.
The air is acrid, and leaves the taste of ash on its tongue. It breathes deep, and coughs.
Gabriel eats.
From bins and tables and unattended picnic baskets, Gabriel eats, though it has no need. It breaks the necks of rabbits and cats; eats them raw and cooked and builds pyramids with the teeth.
Gabriel watches.
The world is flat and devoid of colour, but is filled with life and sin and joy, and it watches with intent.
Gabriel listens, and later, Gabriel speaks.
Under bridges and behind buildings, Gabriel predicts the end of the world.
God has left it with that much, and it can still hear the Word of the Lord.
Gabriel waits.
IV
He can feel something in the air, and he waves his hand for a cab. He does that now; waves his hand in the air and lets a stranger drive him around. From there he watches the patterns in the sky and reads the stories forgotten on the rough leather seats. His fellow travelers always leave pieces of themselves behind.
John rubs the cigarette between his fingers. He pretends, briefly, that he's not the sort of man who enjoys tempting himself, but he won't lie. Not to himself; not to anyone.
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and all that shit.
When the call comes, he thinks about not answering it: no action, no repercussion, and he can’t accidentally damn himself, but not doing His work is just as damning as fucking killing himself again.
He answers the phone, and swears as he cuts his hand on the jagged key he never quite got around to fixing. “John,” she says, and it’s the second time this month she’s asked for his help.
“I’m not your damn slave, Angela,” he spits into the phone.
“No,” she says, and her voice is bitter. John listens for the accusations that never come. “You’re not. Now come do your job.”
“It’s not my job.”
“Don’t be more of an asshole than you actually are, Constantine. Come and do God’s work.” The sarcasm is worse because it doesn’t exist: she means it, and he hangs up the phone with a grimace.
He snaps directions at the cab driver; a man he has never before met.
In the dark, he counts his blessings, and listens for the sound of wings.
V
Papa chews delicately, and with care. A meal cannot be rushed, he knows, and the metallic tang in his mouth is worth savouring.
"Midnite," says his visitor. "I'm not here to watch you eat."
"Indeed," says Papa Midnite. He pushes away from his desk. "Please come with me." Through door and hall and door they walk, and when they stop, The Chair is in front of them. “I trust you have used it before,” he comments, and idly kicks a bloodied bottle of rum out of the way.
“Of course.”
“Then please,” says Papa Midnite. There is a smear of blood on his hand. “The payment first.”
Papa does no favours.
END
Constantine (movieverse, mostly), gen, rated PG.
I do not own any of the characters depicted within.
With thanks to
aliaspiral and utopos.I
Chas sits on the ground, his legs spread out before him, and shrugs. "I thought it would be different, you know?" Beside him, dress stained with dirt and soaked in water, She nods. "I mean, more white. Maybe more wings. Definitely less flowers." She pauses meaningfully, the trowel in Her hand still filled with soil. "Oh, they're great," he says, quickly. "They're beautiful. Absolutely stunning. But not exactly what I expected." He stutters out the last, and She frowns.
"Oh, you've done it now," says the Metatron. "She'll be sulking all afternoon, thanks to you."
She turns her head, and pokes Her tongue out. "You take that back," gasps out the Metatron. An ant crawls across the root of a flower, and She pauses to let it crawl up Her arm. "I can't believe I'm listening to such a potty mouth."
She rests two fingers on Chas' cheek, and presses a bright red flower into his hand.
"Thank you," he says, and when She smiles up at him, wings burst from his back. In awe, Chas flaps them. The force sends him tumbling forwards, and She laughs with Her pleasure.
"Oh, honestly," says the Metatron, and he rolls his eyes.
II
Angela goes back to work and tries to go back to normal. She sits at her desk and reads case files. She interviews.
She does not think about John every chance she gets.
She's not that sort of woman, for fuck's sake.
She gets called in on a case, a missing boy and three dead women. Their bodies are blocked by blood and the flash of the crime scene camera, but she can see the symbols carved into their chests from ten feet away.
As she steps through the door and out into the chill night air, she stops to write a name on the glass.
She doesn't notice her hand moving.
III
Gabriel breathes.
The air is acrid, and leaves the taste of ash on its tongue. It breathes deep, and coughs.
Gabriel eats.
From bins and tables and unattended picnic baskets, Gabriel eats, though it has no need. It breaks the necks of rabbits and cats; eats them raw and cooked and builds pyramids with the teeth.
Gabriel watches.
The world is flat and devoid of colour, but is filled with life and sin and joy, and it watches with intent.
Gabriel listens, and later, Gabriel speaks.
Under bridges and behind buildings, Gabriel predicts the end of the world.
God has left it with that much, and it can still hear the Word of the Lord.
Gabriel waits.
IV
He can feel something in the air, and he waves his hand for a cab. He does that now; waves his hand in the air and lets a stranger drive him around. From there he watches the patterns in the sky and reads the stories forgotten on the rough leather seats. His fellow travelers always leave pieces of themselves behind.
John rubs the cigarette between his fingers. He pretends, briefly, that he's not the sort of man who enjoys tempting himself, but he won't lie. Not to himself; not to anyone.
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and all that shit.
When the call comes, he thinks about not answering it: no action, no repercussion, and he can’t accidentally damn himself, but not doing His work is just as damning as fucking killing himself again.
He answers the phone, and swears as he cuts his hand on the jagged key he never quite got around to fixing. “John,” she says, and it’s the second time this month she’s asked for his help.
“I’m not your damn slave, Angela,” he spits into the phone.
“No,” she says, and her voice is bitter. John listens for the accusations that never come. “You’re not. Now come do your job.”
“It’s not my job.”
“Don’t be more of an asshole than you actually are, Constantine. Come and do God’s work.” The sarcasm is worse because it doesn’t exist: she means it, and he hangs up the phone with a grimace.
He snaps directions at the cab driver; a man he has never before met.
In the dark, he counts his blessings, and listens for the sound of wings.
V
Papa chews delicately, and with care. A meal cannot be rushed, he knows, and the metallic tang in his mouth is worth savouring.
"Midnite," says his visitor. "I'm not here to watch you eat."
"Indeed," says Papa Midnite. He pushes away from his desk. "Please come with me." Through door and hall and door they walk, and when they stop, The Chair is in front of them. “I trust you have used it before,” he comments, and idly kicks a bloodied bottle of rum out of the way.
“Of course.”
“Then please,” says Papa Midnite. There is a smear of blood on his hand. “The payment first.”
Papa does no favours.
END
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-14 06:50 am (UTC)and, as always, Metatron! *dances*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-15 11:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-14 07:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-15 11:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-16 02:55 pm (UTC)Also, one of the queens of this delicious to-the-point, etched writing (the other being Sloane). This cuts straight to precisely what it means, and yet delivers whole reams along with it. Each bit is awesome, but I particularly like Chas here, and that's not something I say often. Very, very nice.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-16 06:46 pm (UTC)I hope you really did like this, and aren't just saying it to please me. :o)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-16 09:16 pm (UTC)I mostly don't like Chas because authors fuck him in the ear and have Constantine fuck him in... yeah, well, anyway. If an author's got the goods on Chas, I can enjoy it.
Also, Angela was cool, but I do say that a lot. *G*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-04-16 09:21 pm (UTC)But they call it Chastine. FOR SERIOUS, THEY CALL IT CHASTINE. I can't get my head around a smush that bad.