Work Text:
Jason is fairly sure that the man who just walked through the door is not John Constantine.
Admittedly, he only thinks that on gut feeling, not any discernible fact. Because the guy definitely has John’s face, and when he opens his mouth, his voice is the same, albeit accented differently. And that’s not the only difference — where there were blue eyes and blonde hair, there’s now only brown for either, and the clothing is fitted, dark, and easy to work in, so far from anything John in his messy tie and tan trench coat would wear. Most tell-tale, though, and something very few would notice — Jason being among the few that do — there’s no tingle of magic skittering along Jason’s skin, no faint sting of hellfire or ambient power.
It’s not John.
Which means the magician has a doppelgänger.
Joy.
“What’cha looking at?” a voice teases to his left, feminine and playful.
He glances at Emily, who has clearly caught onto his staring. A smirk pulls on the corner of her lips, and Jason rolls his eyes. “Who’s the Brit in the leather?”
Her smile grows and her eyes light with a kind of mirth that Jason thought only his brothers could produce. For fuck’s sake. “I’m not into him, Emily. But he looks familiar. Do you know who he is?”
Jason can tell by the look on her face that she doesn’t believe him, which is annoying, but fair. He is handsome, in the bad-boy, might’ve-already-been-with-his-lookalike sort of way, but it doesn’t go any deeper than an initial appreciation of aesthetics. Either way, Emily concedes and answers, “That’s Mick Rawson. He works with the Red Cell team out of San Francisco.”
Which would explain all the other strangers in the office this morning. They’re clearly familiar with the space, for all that Jason’s never seen them before. Not that that means much, considering Jason’s only been here three months, but still. They’re familiar with the team, too.
“Have the two teams worked together before?” he asks, curious. If the Red Cell team is based out of San Francisco, that means the two teams would only have worked together if Jason’s team was called in specifically to help.
Emily nods. “Yeah. Only two or three weeks before you joined up, actually.”
Huh. So. He seems like an actual, established person with a life and connections and livelihood. The FBI doesn’t let just anyone join their ranks, although they let Jason in, so that’s not saying much. It doesn’t seem like he's someone purposefully walking around with John Constantine’s face for whatever nefarious reason. Not that it can be ruled out entirely, but.
It’s interesting.
Jason’s going to have to call John.
“What’s with that look?”
Jason grimaces. Thinks about it. How catastrophic would it be if he told Emily exactly what he was thinking? That Jason has an intimate relationship with Mick Rawson’s lookalike, and that he’d bet good money that neither knows of the other’s existence. “Does Rawson have any siblings?”
The look Emily gives him is hard to interpret. Jason elects to ignore it. Still, she answers, “A sister, I think. We worked together for a few days months ago, Jason. I don’t actually know him all that well. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” The eyebrow is pointed, and clearly means that she thinks he should get over himself and do just that.
Jason shakes his head and turns back to the paperwork on his desk, staring at the text unseeingly as his brain thinks it through.
There’s no magic in the air. The man seems to have an actual, real life, one with a job and people and a background. Jason doesn’t actually know what use a doppelganger or a shapeshifter or a clone of John Constantine would be, at least not one so removed from anything Justice League or mystical, no magic in sight. In fact, having John’s face would probably only prove to be a hindrance.
Which, well. Not that face-stealing-tech or doppelganger or shapeshifter or clone or self-from-another-dimension are the only options.
John could have a twin.
Jason’s definitely going to have to call him. If it is someone taking his face for their own gain, then John might at least have a clue why, if not help Jason deal with it. And if John does somehow have a twin…
Well, that’s a problem for when they get to it.
Should he tell Hotch? He doesn’t particularly want any drama to bounce back on him, but they’re also all grown-ass adults. He’s reasonably sure they can all handle this peacefully. Of course, there’s no way he can get away with just springing this on Rawson, which means he’s going to have to talk to him beforehand. Which means he’ll know, so if he is some sort of malicious doppelganger, there will be no element of surprise. It should be fine. Jason is reasonably sure of his and John’s ability to handle anything that should arise.
Still, this is going to be a particular kind of headache.
He decides to call John first, before anything else.
Quietly dismissing himself from his desk, he ignores Emily’s lingering gaze and avoids the strangers in the office as he makes his way around desks and through the FBI-stamped glass doors into the main hallway. It’s not private, but it is more isolated, and he’s away from the nosey ears that make up just about every agent in the room.
He thumbs through his phone for the contact. It’s probably not even one he should have on his actual phone, but convenience is convenience. If someone’s really determined, they’ll find his bat-issue phone anyways if he carries it on him.
At the contact Sarcastic Bastard, he stops scrolling. Not all his contacts are labeled so… creatively, but John gets the cape shortlist of honor. He carries his phone with numbers he’s not supposed to have on it, sure, but that doesn’t mean he has to make it easy.
He presses the green dial button.
It’s on the last ring when John decides to pick up. “Jay. It’s been a minute. So what gives me the pleasure of hearing your voice?” John’s voice is blithe, casual and relaxed. Jason’s almost surprised he doesn’t hear shouting in the background. It feels like every time Jason calls, the man’s in the middle of some sort of near death situation.
“Well.” Jason glances back through the glass, towards the bullpen. And, yeah, that’s definitely John’s face. “You don’t happen to know if someone’s out there, sharing your face, do you?”
“S’cuse me?” All casualness is gone, replaced by sharp, bitten off words.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Through the glass, Rawson is chatting happily with Emily, as sarcastic and suggestive as John, if not more... put together. Jason winces, even if no one can hear the thought. “The thing is, John, I’m staring at a man who might as well be your clone if it weren’t for the dark hair and eyes.”
Jason can practically see John’s pointed eyebrow, the tilt of his head as he flicks his lighter. He can’t hear the faint whisper of the flame through the phone, but he can imagine it well enough. He waits patiently as he listens to John take in a long drag. “You’re not shittin’ me, right? I don’t much like games, Jase, and I don’t fancy walkin’ in some — what, you’re rollin’ with the suits nowadays, ain’t ya? I don’t fancy no trip to DC if I can help it, mate.”
“Virginia. Quantico.”
“Same difference.”
Jason decides against arguing, choosing to pick his battles. He’s right enough, anyways. “I’m not shitting you, Johnny, and I’m not playing games. The guy could be your copy.”
There’s another long inhale through the phone, a crisp sound of paper burning faintly in the background. “Fuck. I’m going to have to come to DC, aren’t I?”
“Seems like.”
“Wonderful.”
“What do you think it could be?”
“Hell if I know, mate. It’s not every day someone turns up with the same face as you.” Of course, given their lives, it happens more than it should. “Won’t be able to tell ‘till I get there and can run through a few of the basic tests. I suppose you can handle the blood analysis, considering he gets through all the other options?”
“What, like alternate universes or long lost twins?” And, hm. Now there’s a thought. He’s not sure that’s the answer, but he can’t outright dismiss it, either. Rawson seems too rooted in his identity and uncharacteristically… tame to be someone with malicious intentions.
There’s a huff, but no instant rebuttal of the idea like he had half been expecting.
“...John? Could you be long lost twins?”
“Fuck. Fuck. I dunno, Jase, and that’s the problem, so best I come check anyway ‘less it turn out to be some heart-eatin’ shapeshifter or summat.”
“Great,” Jason replies, skirting around the whole might-actually-be-twins thing. John doesn’t exactly seem… enthused at the idea.
But he’s not outright denying it, either.
Fuck. Somehow that potential feels more complicated than an actual doppelganger. Doppelgangers he can handle. Unexpected family situations?
Well, Jason is hardly an expert.
“Great,” he repeats, “Look. You can’t just roll up to FBI headquarters, so I’ll speak to Rawson. There’ll be no surprise that way, but, you know, cooperation is always nice. It’ll get us all to a good, neutral, secondary location. How’s that sound?”
“Brilliant,” John answers dryly. “Just send me a message, yeah? I can be there with practically a snap of my fingers. Not like I had anythin’ better to do today.”
“Sure. Will do. Later, John.”
“Ta.”
Jason pulls the phone away from his phone and hangs up. He lets out a slow, dragging breath. Now to conquer the other party.
Straightforward seems like the best approach.
He enters back through the glass doors, then crosses the office, ignoring the curious stares of his teammates at his determined gait. Rawson’s still talking to Emily, and he stops just a little in front of her desk, easily drawing the attention of the two people at it.
Emily raises an eyebrow at him, and he barely refrains from rolling his eyes. He does sigh, just a little, though. “Rawson?”
The agent half-turns, better facing Jason. Up close, the resemblance is even more uncanny. Rawson somehow manages to have even the same look in his eye as John, despite the different colors. Bemused, he answers, “Yeah? And who’re you?”
“Supervisory Special Agent Jason Todd. You got a minute?”
Rawson glances around, then shrugs. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“Great.” Jason jerks his head wordlessly towards the entryway foyer outside the glass doors. Rawson follows with a quirk of his eyebrows, but otherwise without complaint.
“So,” Rawson says as the doors close behind them. “This is nice and private. What, with the see through doors and all. Have to tell you, I’m not much of a voyeur, so I hope you didn’t pull me away just to get to know one another better.”
Jason snorts. “It’s not that kind of escapade, I’m afraid.”
Rawson raises an eyebrow. “No? Shame. So, what did you pull me away for, Agent Todd?”
He sticks his hands in his pockets, trying to bring a kind of faux casualness to his body rather than thrumming stillness. He hates family politics, which this is beginning to look more and more like. “I got a friend.”
“A friend?”
“Mm. Thing is, this friend, he has the same face as you, and I know for a fact you ain’t him.” He sighs through his nose. “And, look. I’d really rather not cause any trouble, so take me for my word that I’m not bullshitting, okay? I’m sure I got a picture of him on my phone somewhere if you want proof.”
“Sometimes people look alike.”
“Not like this, you don’t.”
Rawson studies his face, then cocks his head a little and holds out his hand. “Alright, then. What’s his name? And, show me the picture.”
“John Constantine,” he answers. Jason pulls out his phone, thumbing through his photos for the one singular photo he has of him. It’s — Well, it’s not exactly a picture Jason would choose to share with someone outside of John and him without good reason, but this does, unfortunately, count. It’s not super flattering — it was taken late at night and both of them had been shitfaced and in good spirits, and the look on John’s face had been adorable and hilarious, affection clear in his expression, in the middle of describing something or another, and Jason had been unable to resist taking a picture, more for himself than anything. But it does the trick, so he turns the phone around to show Rawson.
The only sign of surprise or shock on Rawon’s face is one, languid blink and the tightening of the corners of his lips. “Well I’ll be damned. If that’s not really good photoshop…” he looks at Jason then, a question held in the faint squint of his eyes. “Looks like you two were close.”
“Yeah,” he replies flatly. “Look, I’ve known John for years. He’s a bit of a bastard, sure, but I trust him. And, whatever’s going on, he deserves to know as much as you do, so I called him. He’s in the area, if you want to meet.”
Rawson’s eyes scan his, and Jason feels acutely analyzed. Profilers. Rawson licks his lips, sighs, then shakes his head. “I believe you. Fuck it all, I believe you. I was adopted, you know,” he chuckles a little and shakes his head again, “Sure, I’ll meet him. Goddamn. Think the bloke would mind a DNA test? Want to make sure it’s a match before we get too far into this.”
“I… don’t think that’ll be a problem, honestly. Frankly, if you hadn’t suggested it, he would’ve. He doesn’t much believe in coincidences or happy accidents or whatever the hell this is.”
Rawson snorts. “Sounds like a right treasure. Do you want to give me his number or have you arranged the meet already or what?”
“He’s agreed to meet, but I held off on making plans ‘till I talked to you. I’ll text him and get back to you before work’s over. Sound good?”
“Sure, considering I have to be, don’t I?”
“I suppose so,” Jason replies wryly.
“Great. Well, then. ‘Till later, Todd.” And with that, Rawson looks him over one last time before spinning away on his heel and back into the office. Jason can almost picture the flare of the trenchcoat in place of the black leather jacket.
“Great,” he says to the empty space. “There are two of them.”
— — —
Jason’s only waiting a moment or two in the dingey alley before orange sparks appear in the middle of the air. They expand rapidly, a fiery circle of magic and flame. He steps back as they seem to solidify for a moment, and out of the embers steps John.
“Hello, luv.”
John’s magic runs its familiar embrace along his skin and through his bones, cigarette smoke and sulfur, and Jason lets out a breath as he adjusts to the sensation, looking the man up and down. Jason wonders how he could ever mistake Rawson for John, even momentarily. There’s no mistaking this, not from the magic, to the trenchcoat, to the smug-ass smirk.
He looks good. There’s no new noticeable burns on his tan trenchcoat, and his red tie is straight for once. The shadows under his eyes are even less prominent than normal. It’s only undermined by the faint hint of nerves in the corners of his eyes and in the pinch of his eyebrows, and even that, Jason bets he’s one of the few who can even see it.
“Hey, Johnny. You’re lookin’ a little less dead than usual.”
John’s eyes flicker over Jason’s frame appreciatively, then meet Jason’s own. “Not doin’ so shabby yourself. These spooks treatin’ you decent?”
Jason shrugs one-shouldered. “They’re good people.”
John nods, satisfaction briefly flashing across his face before it returns to his usual cocky default.
“Why? You worried about me?” Jason drawls teasingly.
“Nah,” John says dismissively. “None of the other bats like me over much, is all, best keep the one that does around.”
Jason huffs and rolls his eyes. “Well, at least you’re honest,” he replies easily. This is what they do. Check in on each other every few months, every few years, flirt, lie, and spend time together before going their separate ways before inevitably meeting up again sometime down the road.
Of course, twins or doppelgangers or lookalikes aren’t usually part of the routine.
John smirks, a flash of a smile crossing his face before he claps his hands together. “Now! Tell me where this doppelganger of mine is.”
“The diner across the street,” Jason says, nodding towards the building.
“Diner across the street,” John mutters, low enough that Jason can’t tell whether he was meant to hear it or not, “how cliche.”
Nevertheless, John follows him easily across the road and into the diner.
It’s a casual sort of place — not a chain, but privately owned, and a favourite of the locals. Which, Jason supposes, now includes him. Emily recommended it to him. It’s midafternoon, between the lunch and dinner rush, and so the restaurant is only half-filled, the small space filled with soft chatter and background music. The walls are half wood panel, half cream paint, and the vibe the restaurant gives off is polished, but rustic. When the hostess asks where they’d like to sit, Jason requests the booth nearest to the back with the clearest sightlines and easy access to the kitchen — his usual spot, at this point. He quietly tells her that they’re expecting another guest, and she nods politely in understanding.
They take their seats easily, John wordlessly relinquishing the better of the two options to Jason as they sit down. It’s the little things, Jason thinks. That’s how they work.
Jason doesn’t bother looking at the menu. He’s going to leave — or more accurately, loiter outside — whenever Rawon gets here. Let the two figure out whatever they need to by themselves. He doesn’t need to be in the middle of all that.
John, noticeably, doesn’t look at the menu either.
“So, this Rawson fellow, what’s he like?”
Jason shrugs. “A darker, more official version of you. Apparently, cockiness is a universal Constantine trait.”
John doesn’t dignify that with an answer. “When’s he supposed to arrive?”
Jason looks at his watch. “Any second now.” A ding of the front door bell makes him look up. “Ah, speak of the devil. There he is now.”
John turns and twists in his seat, craning his neck to look back towards the entrance of the restaurant. Jason can tell the exact moment he spots Rawson. The warlock’s shoulders twitch and straighten and the magic in the air turns sharp, like ozone. A calculating look passes over his face before it flattens out, a faint smirk lingering around his lips, cocky and self-assured.
Jason barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Honestly.
He leans over a little as they stand. “Dude. Ease up some.”
John glances at him and raises an eyebrow as if to say, Who, me? but his stance relaxes some as Rawson approaches.
The two lookalikes stare at each other for a long, long moment.
Then John sticks his hands out, saying, “Pleasure to meet ya’. I’m John Constantine.”
Rawson takes it, returning with, “Mick Rawson.”
— — —
John wishes Jason has maybe stressed the identical part of his lookalike more. Or less. Because the similarities are almost as jarring as the immediate differences. Blond and blue meet brunette and brown, all dark colors and leather on Rawson where John is all tan trenchcoat and half-assed suit. The accent — though they’re both obviously from across the pond — that, even, is different.
The look in Rawson’s eyes is the same though. And isn’t that a hell of a thing to share with someone — of looking horror in the eye to find it staring right back, unblinking.
John’s partway convinced it’s not a shape-shifter on that alone.
‘Course, he’s still going to run his tests.
Still, it’s convincing evidence that there’s no magic in the air except what’s wafting off Jason — there’s nothing quite so distinctive as Lazarus or All magic, a heady combination unique to the former vigilante. Despite that and John’s own sparks beneath his skin, there’s nothing distinctively supernatural anywhere within John’s natural radars. It crosses a lot of things off, for all that it leaves remaining.
“Well, boys,” Jason claps his hands, looking between the two of them like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “You two have fun. John, I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah, luv.” Whether that be in a few minutes or this evening remains to be seen.
With that, Jason nods his goodbye and leaves.
And so, John turns his attention back to Rawson. He finds the other man studying him, dark eyes taking in John’s slapdash frame and disheveled clothing. When his eyes meet John’s, they twist up and glimmer, acknowledging the assessment.
“Got to be honest. This isn’t really how I thought my day would go.”
John scoffs in humor, a scrape of laughter against the back of his throat. “Me neither.”
“What’re the odds we’re both in the city at the same time, eh?”
John twitches, pulls his face into a half-grin. “Who says we were? Jase calls me outta the blue, says I gotta get my ass here ‘cause I got a doppelganger runnin’ amok. I don’t think I’ve ever been to the capitol before. Allergic.”
Rawson runs his eyes over him and snorts, but doesn’t comment.
John shifts and wonders for a moment if anyone is going to come by and ask for their drinks.
The thing is… The thing is. John doesn’t know what to do here. He doesn’t particularly want a brother. He has no need for unnecessary familial bonds, and his lookalike seems to be doing well enough for himself that all John would do is fuck it up.
‘Course, it could always be some big nasty come to trap John for whatever gain or purpose.
“So. Wales?” John asks. The accent is a dead giveaway.
Rawson nods. “So. Liverpool?”
“Since birth.”
“Huh,” Rawson says softly. “Never took myself for someone from Liverpool.” He taps his fingers against the table. “You know, I was adopted.”
Bloody hell. “Fancy that. Pretty sure my old man would’ve gotten rid of me the first chance it ever came up. Lucky you.”
The narrow look Rawson gives him is expected, but the familiarity of it is striking.
“He mentioned a twin once.”
Rawson at least does him the courtesy of not questioning ‘who’.
“Only the once. Sure as hell was memorable, though. Yellin’, blaming me for killin’ my mum, the usual. She died in childbirth. He was a right wanker, my father. And he was drunk, which wasn’t so unusual, and he accused me of killin’ my brother too.”
Memorable was one word for it. He still has the bloody scar on his back from the beer bottle his father smashed against the wall. He doesn’t even remember what he said to provoke him — he thinks he mentioned his sister, but it could’ve been anything.
“You’re right. He does sound like a right wanker.”
John snorts. It’s not a particularly amused sound.
Rawson tilts his head. “By all accounts, it sounds like we might actually be siblings.”
“Well, we certainly got the looks for it. Mostly,” he amends. Their different coloring is… odd. Something to look into later, should this prove not to be false.
“Mostly,” Rawson agrees. He leans back in his seat and sighs. “Not that I’m not convinced, but would you be willing to do a DNA test? Just for confirmation.”
John nods. “‘Course. Would you be willing to do a test of your own?” Now, this. This is the tricky part. “Did Jason tell you anything about me?”
“Not beyond the obvious.” He waves a hand between the two of them to illustrate. “What kind of test? I’m getting the feeling you don’t mean DNA.”
“Right.” Lovely. Not that he had expected Jason to say anything, but it would’ve taken a chore off his hands. John looks around the restaurant. It’s only half-full, a smattering of people buried in their own little worlds. No one is paying attention to the two of them in the corner. He snaps his fingers, and instantly, a small flame blooms above his hand. “I’m a magician, warlock, whatever you like to call it. I need to make sure you’re not one of the nasties that’s out to get me. No offense. You seem fairly solid, story-wise, but better safe than sorry.” He puts the fire out with a shake of his hand.
To Rawson’s credit, he doesn’t look too taken aback. He sure as hell looks surprised, even though all that betrays it is the widening of his eyes and the faint tick of his eyebrows. “Neat trick.”
“Thanks. I do this to prove that I’m not just pulling your strings. You have your science. I have my magic. I’d like to test both.”
Rawson grins. “It’s a changed world, John. Maybe five, ten years ago, I would’a called you crazy. Now…” he shrugs. “We have Superman and Wonder Woman. Magic seems within the realm of possibility.”
“Well.” John has to admit, at least to himself, that he wasn’t expecting that. It’s usually harder to get anyone outside the typical crowd to believe him. Rawson isn’t by any means innocent. FBI and whatever he did before that, he’s obviously seen his fair share of shit. But still, there’s a difference between your typical human asshole, and a supervillain or something occult. “That makes this easier, at any rate.”
“If you say so. What exactly are you asking for, here?”
“Lock of hair. Blood works better, but I don’t think we’re there yet. Hair’ll be fine, though. It’s less accurate, but…” John shrugs, feigning nonchalance. He’d prefer blood for the ritual, honestly, but having his own DNA to compare against will make up for where the weaker material might fail.
Rawson stares at him for a long moment. “You’re serious. Sure, whatever. Why not?”
“Great.” John pats through his pockets. He usually carries a pocket knife on him. Dead useful, that, in his line of work. Finding it, he pulls it out and hands it over. He blinks at the packaged cheek swab before him.
Rawson quirks an eyebrow upwards. “Trade you?”
“Sure.” They swap.
With a shake of his head, Rawson pulls taunt on a lock of hair behind his hair and cuts through it with ease. He waves it a little in his hand. “This what you need?”
“That’ll do,” he agrees, then swipes the swab in his mouth with practiced ease. He sticks it back into the plastic, then takes the lock of hair with his other hand. “Want to see something neat?”
“Sure,” Rawson answers, bemused.
John holds the lock of hair out in front of him and narrows his eyes. With a brief glance at his doppelganger, John starts the chant, muttering in Latin. As far as rituals go, this one’s fairly simple. He doesn’t even need any extra ingredients, besides the table salt he pulls over as he speaks. He unscrews the top with one hand and pours it into a pile on the tabletop. Placing the hair down on top of it, he cups his hands loosely over the items. As he finishes the incantation, the hair and salt go up in flames with a soft woosh.
But that’s not what makes Rawson curse or John feel a low swoop in his gut.
A small glow briefly expands from each of their bodies, a small gold thread of light stretching between the two of them before fizzling out as if it was never there.
The implications of it, though.
DNA test or no, John’s convinced as much as he can be, considering Jason believes the guy’s not just a really convincing clone or John-from-another-universe.
Bloody hell.
“Does that… Does that confirm it? That you and I are… what, twins?” Rawson — and really, maybe John should be calling the guy Mick — looks a little taken aback. Maybe, like John, he thought it was a likely answer, but somehow not what was actually happening.
John feels a little numb himself. He can barely feel his face, and not in a good way. “Yeah.”
“Should I still run the DNA test?”
“Might as well.”
They sit there. Still, no one has come to ask about drinks. John blames Jason, even while silenting thanking his forethought. The booth hides all the magic John just did, but nothing can stop a waiter popping up and just observing it for themselves.
John pulls out his phone and thumbs the contact for Jason.
John: you can stop lingering. seems legit
Jason: …
Jason: Am I that predictable?
John: yes
John: i’ll meet you at yours later
Jason: Knock. Or, good luck getting past security.
John: knocking it is
He looks up to find Rawson — Mick, goddammit — watching him critically.
“What?”
“You and that Jason bloke. What’s going on there?”
“Really? The first thing you want to do upon learning you have a twin is to harass him about a potential partner?”
Mick grins. “Now, I never said anything about a partner.”
John gives him a flat look. “We’re not together.”
They’re not-not together, either. They’re… friends with benefits, a casual hookup, the standardized off-and-on. They aren’t commited, because neither one of their professional lives allows for that kind of secure, stationary relationship, but they are two people who find comfort and fun in each other whenever they can. It works for them, and that’s all that really matters.
“Could’ve had me fooled. And I’m the profiler.”
And isn’t that the truth.
John grimaces. He loathes explaining his private life to people. “We are what we are when we’re together, and when we’re not, we’re not.” It’s the clearest, cleanest way he can explain it.
“Hmph,” Mick snorts. “If you say so, mate.”
“What about you, then? You got anyone to go home to?”
“Nah. Travel too much and I like keeping my options open.” Mick grins and wags his eyebrows.
John likes keeping his options open too. Problem is, that’s usually more trouble than it’s worth.
Maybe this time it’ll play out differently.
— — –-
John arrives at Jason’s house late into the evening, a sharp tap-tap-tap against the door.
Jason’s still up. He’d be up anyways, but he would’ve stayed up later to see if John was coming or not.
He opens the door to John leaning against the frame. John looks… well. Jason has had surprise brothers, and John certainly seems to be taking it better than he had. He steps inside and hangs up his trenchcoat on one of the hooks on the wall then loosens his tie as he walks further into the room. He looks around curiously, picking up and putting down the various little knick-knacks that Jason’s been gifted over the years.
“Nice place you got here, Jase.”
“Thanks,” he replies, sincerely. It’s a home, and he’s proud of it. It’s more than just a safehouse, some place to sleep and store weapons. It’s somewhere he, well, lives. Bookshelves stretch across one wall in his living room, and little keepsakes and pictures have made their way into the rest of the space. He even has a little snake plant by the windowsill that keeps itself alive when he has to disappear upwards of a week whenever he’s out on a case.
“I made Thai curry.” It’s John’s favourite food, Jason knows. John knows he knows, and the man sends him a grateful look as he follows him into the kitchen.
They make their plates and settle into the dining room across from each other.
It’s nice. Quiet. He doesn’t miss this, exactly, but he always enjoys it for all it’s worth when it’s here. Camaraderie. Companionship. Someone to share a bed with.
“It’s fuckin’ weird, mate,” John says, half-way into dinner and only after he’s gotten up to get Jason’s second-cheapest bottle of scotch.
“What's that?” He takes a bite of his food. It’s savory, spice heating the back of his throat and sitting warm in his belly. “Rawson?”
“Yeah. My old man…” He shakes his head, “He blamed me for my mum's death, often. And once…” Constantine stares into his glass, then knocks the whole thing back and reaches for the bottle to pour some more. “Only once, but… Well, it was fucking memorable. But once, he mentioned a twin. That I’d killed ‘em both. He never said anythin’ again, but I still have the fucking scar, so I know I didn’t think it up. ‘M not that creative.”
He drinks his glass again.
Jason sits on that for a moment. Finally, he says, “That’s fucked up, John.”
John snorts. It’s not really an amused sound, but it breaks the heavy tension that had settled over the room. “Sure is.”
“You gonna stay in town for a few days?”
John shrugs, then nods. “It’s been quiet lately, and I have a couple reasons to stick around.”
A warmth entirely unrelated to the curry blooms in his stomach.
Still, he offers. “You can either have the extra bed, or join me in mine.” Not that John’s ever not taken the second option.
John raises an eyebrow. “I don’t see how that’s much of a decision, luv.”
Jason shrugs. “Just thought I’d offer. I’m not up for anything tonight, and I know I wake you.”
“Decision’s still the same as it always is, Jase.”
Jason smiles, a soft, tired thing that only over sees the light of day in the dead of night.
He knows that John won’t stay more than a week or two — a month at most, and that’s only if something in the area catches his attention. He stayed for even less time when Jason was located in Gotham, but John had a special kind of aversion to the city and the people in it. Jason will hold tight to every moment that John is here, though. There’s just something about having someone around who knows Jason for he who is — all of who he is — and accept him unflinchingly. It makes him feel… happier, to put it simply. More content. And when John leaves, he’ll let him go. Because Jason accepts John as he is too.
“Going to meet up with Rawson again?”
“Mick. Yeah, I think so.”
“And… How is that?” he asks cautiously. He wants to know, and while he doesn’t think anything bad happened, given John’s sticking around, it’s not like Jason has the best reference to go off of.
John shrugs. “He seems alright. It’s… I dunno, Jase, outside of you, I don’t really have anyone who just seeks out my company. It’s—” he waves a hand through the air, a mild look of discomfort on his face.
That makes something in his chest seize, just a little. It’s painfully familiar, and unfortunately, not surprising. Jason knows John, and he knows that people don’t tend to stick around.
“It might be a good thing,” he says quietly. Since his recent fear toxin incident, Dick and Tim, even Damian, have all been texting him more often. He doesn’t… quite know what to think of it, but he doesn’t hate it as much as he thinks he might’ve used to.
“Maybe,” John replies noncommittally.
And, Jason understands that too. The relationship is in its early stages yet, and John’s been burned enough, often enough, that he doesn’t trust it. He might not ever trust it. The better question is whether he’ll risk it anyways.
And given that he’s sticking around, it seems like he is.
They finish dinner.
“Come to bed?” Jason asks, lingering in the doorway to his bedroom.
“Always.” John follows.
— — —
“Truth is everybody is going to hurt you: you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.”
— Bob Marley