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“I hate weddings.”
It’s petulant and grumpy, bordering on childish, and Chas doesn’t even need to look at John to know he’s making that particular expression, slumped down in his seat, arms folded and creasing his shirt, the picture of long-suffering boredom. But he looks, anyway, and has to suppress a smile, because John is nothing less than adorable as he glares moodily at the happy couple currently feeding each other strawberries on the table next to theirs.
The ceremony long since concluded, the happy (and not-so-happy) guests are all lingering over the meal provided for them, chatting merrily and drinking heavily. Good cheer prevails, and laughter breaks out often, infectious and bright. John, however, in a lovely three-piece suit and utterly unhappy about it – I don’t see why I can’t bring my coat, Chas, no one’s gonna care – seems to be firmly set on making Chas regret bringing him.
That won’t happen. John might not appreciate the suit, but he does.
“It’s not that bad,” Chas finally comments mildly, just to watch John’s flatly irritated expression vacillate wildly between disbelief and outrage before he finally settles indignantly on the latter, straightening up with a jerk to tell Chas exactly why he’s incorrect, and then adds, blithely: “Oh good, the speeches,” as soon as the groom rises (staggers) to his feet, and struggles, then, not to laugh outright and spoil the moment when John rolls his eyes so hard Chas is briefly concerned that they’ll stick like that.
The speeches are…lovely, actually, full of love and good humour, and Chas enjoys them thoroughly, even if John does start impatiently jiggling his leg about halfway through the first, and subsequently refuses to stop despite Chas’s very visible irritation, and for fifteen blissful minutes, he’s more or less able to enjoy the wedding for the beautiful ceremony it is, only distantly aware of the ball of barely-restrained energy by his side that is John Constantine.
Then, inevitably, they end, the music swells, the majority of the guests rise en masse to move to the dance floor and/or the bar, and several staff members sweep in to quietly clear the tables. Chas just manages to grab John’s wrist before he follows the former bunch, clearly intent on a drink, and their eyes meet for a moment before John capitulates with poor grace, dropping back down onto his chair with a discontented sigh. “Chas, mate,” he starts, in a painfully reasonable tone, “let’s not be silly about this.”
“No, John,” Chas hisses under his breath, and he doesn’t know why this suddenly means so much to him, but it does, and John must be able to sense that desperation, because after a long, searching look at Chas that leaves him more than a little uncomfortable, he nods, slowly.
Chas relaxes, tension he hadn’t even known he was harbouring sinking away in a rush that leaves him sudden, achingly tired. He sighs, reaching up with a free hand to rub at his face, and only then releases John. If he slides two fingers over his wrist to feel for his pulse as he does so, then they’re the only two that see it.
John’s expression softens, momentarily, all too knowing, and Chas has to look away, jaw clenching.
It had been a particularly bad case. Things tend to go wrong in their line of work, even under the best of circumstances – too many variables – but John had come terrifyingly close to bleeding out in Chas’s arms, slipping into unconsciousness, even as Chas rang for the ambulance, voice cracking horribly as he spelled out the address, blood smearing over the keys as he maintained a death grip on his cell, the other pressed tightly against the gaping wound in John’s arm, as if he could force it closed by strength of will, until, suddenly, it had disappeared, John’s torn skin stitching back together under his fingers. He’d woken, slowly, blinking up at Chas in obvious confusion, and for a moment or two all he could do was stare.
Three minutes later, the ambulance had arrived.
John had managed to convince the paramedics that they hadn’t made the call, meeting them at the door with a bottle in his hand and feigning drunkenness as he pretended that he and ‘a couple of his friends’ had come here for a drink, aware that it was abandoned, and fielding the expected concerns with a vague gesture and a seemingly-earnest promise that they wouldn’t cause any damage. While they were suspicious, they left amiably enough, and if they had called the cops, John and Chas were long gone by the time they arrived.
Less easily dealt with was what had healed John’s injury, and back at home, they’d spent hours researching it, hashing out various possibilities time and time again, testing anything and everything with every spell John could think of, and scouring the news websites for anything untoward, but nothing had turned up. Naturally, John had seemed only vaguely concerned, bouncing back with his usual devil-may-care grin and a ready quip, even though Chas knew he was just as concerned as he was, but Chas hadn’t recovered quite so readily.
Couldn’t.
“You need to let go a bit, mate,” John drawls, worryingly close to giving voice to Chas’s spiraling thoughts, “let loose sometime. It’s not healthy, all this restraint.” It’s amused, and, yes, a touch fond, and Chas can’t help but smile a bit, even as he shakes his head. But when he closes his eyes, he can still see John’s blood oozing over his fingers, can still taste it thick and cloying in the air, and it’s only this, seeing him alive and well and present, that has a hope of easing the panic that had wrapped tight fingers around his heart.
“We’re not twenty anymore, John,” Chas reminds him, but he can’t keep the amusement from his voice, and he knows John hears it.
John snorts, dismissing that concern with his usual carelessness, and then adds, nostalgically: “More’s the pity. Good times, those. Simpler.”
“Not simpler,” Chas replies thoughtfully. “We just cared less.”
A pause, but a comfortable one, as both men are wrapped up in their thoughts, and then, inevitably, John breaks it. “I’m not followin’ that thought without a glass in my hand, so I’m gonna go for a smoke, instead.” Chas sighs; relieved to be spared the same argument, and smiles lightly when John claps him on the shoulder and heads for the side door out of the hall.
Chas watches him go, shaking his head, and is left alone for all of a minute or two before Zed settle gracefully in the empty chair.
She’s stunning, as ever, especially so in a beautiful cocktail dress and delicate heels, with a light flush to her cheeks from the drink and the dancing, and Chas is, once again, thankful that circumstance had kept her from assisting them the previous night. Thankful, in short, that she was spared the horror of what remains imprinted on his eyelids. He smiles at her, a small, but genuine thing, and tilts his glass to hers when she suggests a toast.
“You okay?” she asks suddenly, shrewd as ever, and Chas sets his glass back on the table, smile turning rueful.
“Yeah,” he replies, voice a little rough, before clearing his throat. “It’s just,” he hesitates, suddenly lost, and finishes up with a shrug.
She knows some of what happened, having waited up for them, and so the smile she gives him then is openly reassuring. “He’s alive, Chas,” she says softly, settling one hand on his shoulder, effortlessly, endlessly comforting, and not for the first time, Chas wonders what he and John have done to end up with someone like her on their side. He almost tells her, drawn to by the look of concern in her eyes, but in the end just manages a warmer, stronger smile, pats her hand, and nods.
“Go and have fun,” he rallies eventually, gesturing towards the busy dance floor and the guests occupying it. “Don’t worry about me.”
Zed hums, thoughtful, leans in to drop a light kiss on his cheek, and pats his hand. “I always do,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling again, and then she leaves him to do as he’d suggested, understanding his need to be left, if only for the moment.
He watches her go, smiling. Maybe, just maybe, with her on their side, they’ll be okay.