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adventdrabblesTitle: Epiphany
Universe: John Constantine, Hellblazer
Character(s): John Constantine/Epiphany Greaves
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
Summary: To get better, he thought. 60-years-old, and at last he got it, at last he understood.
Length: 384 words
Author's Notes: Foradventdrabbles Day 30. also: external link.
Epiphany
One for good measure, he had thought. And it had been a good measure, though by what unit he was measuring was anyone’s guess. He felt arms about him, a protesting grunt.
“Oof, you’re getting heavy, you know?”
He groaned, the imprint of the gravel still pushed into his face.
“Old age,” he said as if that explained everything. “Used to be able to handle this better.”
She spared him a withering look, one arm about him, the other pushing up underneath him, trying to keep him upright.
“It’s the good life,” he said by way of apology, gesturing slowly with a hand, four fingers and a missing thumb. “That’s what it is. The good life. Makes you weaker. Makes you get drunk faster.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Of course, of course, that’s exactly what it is.” She grunted again, hefting him up. “You’re a shit liar, John Constantine, you know that?”
“Always have been,” he said mournfully.
“Don’t,” she warned.
A frown crossed his face.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be a sad drunk.”
He sniffed, steady enough to run his four fingers across his face, coarse stubble and deep lines.
“Goes with the territory, I’m afraid.”
“What bloody territory?”
Watery eyes, messy, thinning hair, bruised lips. He was pleased he couldn’t see himself.
“Being happy.”
Again, she rolled her eyes.
“Sentimentality come with that too?”
Slowly, he nodded his head, then stopped when he realised it wasn’t making him feel any better.
“Yeah. That too.”
Old and happy, was that what it had come to, he thought, surprised by his willingness to be surprised; surprised by his willingness to want this, to want to be happy, to say good-bye to all the sadness, all the grief, all the endless years of hurting. To get better, he thought. 60-years-old, and at last he got it, at last he understood.
Above them came the rattle of fireworks in the sky, the pop and fizzle of celebration. He turned slowly to face her, pushed his face close to hers, his sore lips upon hers.
“I love you, Mrs Constantine,” he murmured.
She kissed him, and then pulled away with a grimace.
“And I love you too, you sentimental lout,” she said, a wry smile on her lips, “but fuck me, your breath smells like a dead dog.”
Universe: John Constantine, Hellblazer
Character(s): John Constantine/Epiphany Greaves
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
Summary: To get better, he thought. 60-years-old, and at last he got it, at last he understood.
Length: 384 words
Author's Notes: For
adventdrabbles Day 30. also: external link.Epiphany
One for good measure, he had thought. And it had been a good measure, though by what unit he was measuring was anyone’s guess. He felt arms about him, a protesting grunt.
“Oof, you’re getting heavy, you know?”
He groaned, the imprint of the gravel still pushed into his face.
“Old age,” he said as if that explained everything. “Used to be able to handle this better.”
She spared him a withering look, one arm about him, the other pushing up underneath him, trying to keep him upright.
“It’s the good life,” he said by way of apology, gesturing slowly with a hand, four fingers and a missing thumb. “That’s what it is. The good life. Makes you weaker. Makes you get drunk faster.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Of course, of course, that’s exactly what it is.” She grunted again, hefting him up. “You’re a shit liar, John Constantine, you know that?”
“Always have been,” he said mournfully.
“Don’t,” she warned.
A frown crossed his face.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be a sad drunk.”
He sniffed, steady enough to run his four fingers across his face, coarse stubble and deep lines.
“Goes with the territory, I’m afraid.”
“What bloody territory?”
Watery eyes, messy, thinning hair, bruised lips. He was pleased he couldn’t see himself.
“Being happy.”
Again, she rolled her eyes.
“Sentimentality come with that too?”
Slowly, he nodded his head, then stopped when he realised it wasn’t making him feel any better.
“Yeah. That too.”
Old and happy, was that what it had come to, he thought, surprised by his willingness to be surprised; surprised by his willingness to want this, to want to be happy, to say good-bye to all the sadness, all the grief, all the endless years of hurting. To get better, he thought. 60-years-old, and at last he got it, at last he understood.
Above them came the rattle of fireworks in the sky, the pop and fizzle of celebration. He turned slowly to face her, pushed his face close to hers, his sore lips upon hers.
“I love you, Mrs Constantine,” he murmured.
She kissed him, and then pulled away with a grimace.
“And I love you too, you sentimental lout,” she said, a wry smile on her lips, “but fuck me, your breath smells like a dead dog.”
