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[dangeroushabits.livejournal.com]

Date: August 24th, 1999 (Afternoon)
Status: Private - Constantine
Setting: Soho, London
Summary: John reflects upon a pile of rubble, and resolves to summon up some answers.



John Constantine had never actually set foot inside the little bookshop, but it had been one of his favorite places nonetheless. He'd first heard about it from a friend with an interest in rare tomes, and had thought it worth the trip to Soho to maybe get a look at the infamous "Buggre Alle This" Bible. It was, after all, a sentiment near and dear to his heart.

The last thing he had expected was to find the place plastered with signs of an angelic presence. Not that the owner had been careless, no, not by a long shot; but if you knew exactly what to look for, you could tell. He hadn't even gone inside. No sense calling attention to himself.

He had, however, kept a careful watch on the place for several days afterward, wondering what one of those sanctimonious blighters was doing hiding in a run-down storefront in Soho, and why he, John, hadn't caught wind of him before.

The demon's arrival on the scene (and in a 1926 Bentley, the least demonic mode of transport he could imagine, even if it was painted black) had only piqued his curiosity further. (1)

"Well, now. You do enjoy living dangerously, don't you, mate?" John had muttered, perplexed. Angels and demons, he knew from painful personal experience, didn't mix well.

Apparently, someone had forgotten to tell these two. Bemused by their sheer chutzpah, and the fact that they seemed to have successfully pulled the wool over the eyes of both Heaven and Hell, John had made it a part of his routine to stop in every now and again and see (from a safe distance) how they were getting on.

He couldn't have said why he took such a voyeuristic interest, except maybe that it was comforting to watch them together, and to think that somebody involved in the pointless shitstorm that was the Great War had managed to see past the partisan propaganda and just get on with their lives. Very ordinary, mortal-style lives, by the look of it.

He wasn't sure just how close the two actually were, nor did he particularly care; all that mattered was that they'd done the well-nigh impossible here, carved out a cozy little oasis of peace and sanity. John had found himself taking an almost proprietary interest in seeing to it that nobody buggered it up for them, going out of his way to discourage other occultists from coming anywhere near the place. (2)

It couldn't have lasted, of course. One side or the other was bound to catch wind of it sooner or later. Which side it had been was pretty obvious--the place still reeked of brimstone, though by the looks of things it had happened days ago.

He wondered whether the demon had been here at the time, or if they'd gone after him separately, and whether either one of them was still alive.

"Well, shit," John said softly, dropping his cigarette butt and grinding it out with his heel as he automatically reached for another.

If there was one thing he hated, it was seeing the little guy get messed about by the big, the bad and the ugly.

Time to make a few inquiries, he decided, and walked away from the wreckage without a backward glance.

---
(1) Especially since he knew this particular demon, having run into him down the pub a few years prior. He seemed an unusually decent sort, for an agent of Hell. After a few tense moments of mutual indecision, they'd arrived at an unofficial gentlemen's agreement: John didn't get reported, and Crowley didn't get deported, and they both got to finish their drinks in peace. Which, both agreed, was far and away the most important consideration.

(2) Some of his more corrupt colleagues would give their eyeteeth to know about this setup. John didn't care to think what they might do with the information.