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"What's wrong with you?"
John blinks. "What'd you mean?"
"You're being more of an ass than usual."
“Dunno if that’s even possible, love."
“Oh, it’s possible," Zed says, rolling her eyes. John snorts and turns his back on her, heading to the truck. Opens the door, gets in, and waits. Not for long: the driver’s door swings open. "We're not done talking about this," she says, sliding into the driver's seat.
"Aren't we, then?" John says, as the engine rumbles to life. Zed throws him a rather half-hearted glare and, when John winks in response, huffs impatiently and turns her attention to the road ahead of them; John snickers to himself and closes his eyes.
Has almost managed to fall asleep — which isn’t hard, in the midst of an adrenaline crash and a week’s worth of insomnia — when the familiar voice cuts through pleasant fog of exhaustion.
"So where's Chas, again?" Zed says, innocently.
"Brooklyn,” says John, unwilling to open his eyes for it. "Off with the wife, I'd imagine."
"Ex-wife."
"Hmm?"
"They were signing the papers this week. They had to talk the judge, I think?"
John glances over: she's staring straight ahead, but the corner of her mouth is turned in a smug twist. "Told you all that, did he?" he says — it sounds low and tight to his own ears, but there’s not much to be done about it now.
"Did he tell you?” It’s more curious than pointed, almost calculatedly so.
John shrugs in response. “I’m sure he would've, if I'd asked."
She looks at him, softening. "John—"
"Mind your own bloody business, all right?" he says. It comes out sharper than intended, but it works — Zed's eyes harden and her mouth thins into a line of wounded disapproval.
It's a four hour drive back to the mill house.
They don't speak again.
*
The cab’s back before they are. Zed’s as surprised at this as he is, so apparently there are some things Chas doesn’t see fit to share with either of them.
This does nothing for Zed’s mood: she doesn’t even wait for him to fully leave the car before she’s hitting the gas. God knows where to, because she’d given up her own apartment weeks ago. John watches her go, and takes a moment to hope that wherever she’s gone, it’ll help her get over her strop before he has to stumble his way through an apology. Not that his luck's ever that good.
He makes his way inside and down stairs unmolested, and finds his luck markedly improved on at least one account — Chas hasn’t retired to his own room, as usual, but instead sits slumped on the couch, looking particularly exhausted but promising a reception a good deal warmer than the car ride John’s just endured.
"Rough day at the office, darling?” he drawls out, approaching at a steady stroll with his hands in the pockets of his trench coat.
Chas gives a weary chuckle and drags his arm away from where he'd draped it over his eyes.
"What are you doing back?"
"Finished early,” he says, taking off his coat and tossing it down across the arm of the couch.
"Oh yeah?"
“Barely put up a fight," John says, flopping down next to him.
"Demons these days, no work ethic,” Chas says, half-heartedly. “Where’s Zed?”
“Dunno. Buggered off somewhere after dropping me back.”
Chas frowns at him. “What did you do?”
“What did I do? Why’s it always my bloody—”
Chas turns aways from him, and sighs. Low, deep, meaningful — Christ, maybe John’s luck hasn’t turned after all. He'll have to attempt a different approach.
"So, let's have a look at you, then,” he says, reaching over to run a quick hand through Chas’s hair — more playful than anything, or meant to be, but Chas’s hair is as soft and inviting as ever, and he ends up cradling the back of Chas’s head. Chas turns toward him, brow furrowed, smiling a little: somewhat amused at least, which is better than the alternative.
"Why?"
"Well, mate, you're a free man now, aren’t you? Gotta see if you're still attractive to me, now that you’re not forbidden fruit and all."
Chas huffs, pulling out of his grasp — tense shoulders, furrowed brow, obvious frown, and so, John overcompensates. Leans into him, over him, and forces a smile. “All this lovely dark hair o’ yours,” he practically purrs, running his fingers through it again: Chas rolls his eyes but stays still, as John knew he would.
Pushing his luck, John drops his mouth to the side of Chas’s throat. Inhales, deep; exhales slow, incredulous. “You smell so bloody good, mate.” And so he does — clean and familiar, slightly of leather and cheap soap.
Chas ducks his head. “I, uh...I took a shower when I got back."
“Oooh,” John coos, pressing another long, wet kiss against Chas’s neck, which has flushed pink and warm from all the attention. “Is that your secret, then?"
Chas lets out a sound of unmistakeable irritation but makes no move to displace him — lets himself be nuzzled at and kissed. Sighs, eventually, turning his head just slightly, just enough to let it rest against John's, his beard brushing against John's cheek, his warm, steady breaths blooming against John's skin. John stills; isn't sure why, but the weight of the moment's almost too much to bear, and he suddenly, sharply regrets the proximity.
Chas seems unaffected — reaches out to stroke at the back of John's head, run his fingertips along the nape of John's neck. His thumb brushes John's cheek; John inhales, turning his head, chasing the contact. That's easier: pressing a kiss to the center of Chas's palm, letting his mouth find its way to Chas's fingers. Flickering his tongue between them, sucking slowly at the tips, he's done that before — licking come off Chas's hands ranks highly in his recollections. It must stir something within Chas as well: his breaths quicken, and he shifts, leaning into John and wrapping his other arm around John's waist. John smiles to himself, and ducks his head, slipping his lips around Chas's index finger.
"John," Chas groans, in that particularly Chas way of his, that's half exasperation and half arousal.
John pulls off with a wet, over-dramatic pop. "Yeah?"
"What the hell do you want from me?"
John drops his gaze. "Well, that's the wrong bloody question, innit?"
Chas's quiet after that, doesn't bother asking what the right question might be. John shakes his head but curls closer, sliding his hand along Chas’s chest and to his shoulder; giving himself the leverage he needs to shift, and carefully straddle Chas’s thigh. One of Chas’s hands wraps tight around John’s hip, steadying him, while the other reaches up to stroke at John’s back.
John pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at him: Chas looks back, serious and still. He doesn't seem especially amused, or even particularly interested, but he keeps his grip on John anyway, sliding both broad palms around John's waist. Ten discrete points of contact, warm and steady, the imminent potential of real, bruising pressure. John feels his own lips twitch.
"Oh, hello," John says, as if they'd just bumped into each other in the street — playing at coy, not too concerned about failing. Chas smiles a little at that, and shifts, thigh sliding between John's legs, rubbing against his erection. The frisson of contact cuts through him, sharp and hot.
"So?" Chas says.
"So what?"
Chas huffs, presses his thumbs into the soft flesh just past the jut of his hip bones. John leans into the touch; Chas rolls his eyes but squeezes a little tighter, just the same. “So what's the verdict? You still into me?"
John smirks at the phrasing, and then shrugs. "Well, wouldn’t exactly kick you out of bed, mate," he says, leering slightly. “'s a matter of preference, though, I'd have to say I prefer you bein' into me, if you know what I mean.”
Chas blinks. "Huh," he says. "Well, great. As long as the great John Constantine still wants my dick in him, I guess I'm not totally useless."
“Oi,” John snaps. “None of that. You could never fuck me again and you’d still not be bloody useless."
Chas leans back, looks up at him dubiously. “Wow,” he says. “Thanks?"
"I mean," John swallows, forces some kind of humor into his tone. "Like I said, mate, I could always fuck you, couldn't I?” He feels Chas tense, preparing to stand, push him off — John leans over and takes Chas’s face in his hands. "And—" he says, looking him straight in the eye. “You’re the best part of me. Always have been.”
“Not really saying much, is it?” it’s a joke but it isn’t: Chas smiles, but his voice is low and rough round the edges, dangerous in a way that’s rare. Any other time, John would be intrigued — at this time, John is intrigued, already worked up from the proximity and Chas's hands on him — but there’s something to be said for leaving well enough alone, though he's never been one to do so before.
He leans in again instead, lowers his voice. “Couldn’t do what I do without you,” he says, dropping his gaze. It’s simple, more honest than he’d like; not true, precisely, but true enough. The best he can do.
"Yeah you could, " Chas says, strangely obstinate, as if determined to feel sorry for himself and not take a compliment in the spirit with which it's intended. Normally, that's John's style; he meets it with petulance, out of surprise and slight annoyance for being infringed on.
"Well, I wouldn't want to."
Chas laughs at that: soft and surprised, though when John glances up at him again, he's shaking his head. "Yeah, that figures."
"Chas—"
Chas grabs him by the front of his shirt and leans up to kiss him, rather than let him finish. Just as well, really — he hadn't much else to say. John makes the most of it, pressing against him; chest to chest, wrapping his arms around back of Chas's neck; rifling his fingers eagerly through Chas's dark, soft hair. Chas's tongue brushes against his lips and he greets it eagerly, opening his mouth to him, turning his head for improved access. Chas's hands stroke at his back and sides, gentle but thorough, as if learning him, or getting used to him again. John's skin practically vibrates with appreciation, and he feels almost tempted to swoon.
He pulls away for a moment, catching his breath. Chas chases John's lips with his own, and the quick, unconscious “yes,” that John can't quite keep in barely makes it out into the open air before being swallowed up like the space between them. Chas wraps his arm around John's waist and hauls him closer, holds him tight against his chest as John thrusts impatiently against his thigh.
It’s too much, eventually — he drops his lips from Chas’s mouth, and works his way down Chas’s throat again.
“John?” Chas murmurs, reaching up and running a hand through John’s hair, tangling his fingers in it.
“Shh,” says John, nipping at the hint of collarbone exposed by Chas’s shirt. “Let me, love.” Chas does, keeps still as John pushes his thighs apart and settles between them, as John kisses his way down his chest.
John drops to the floor, kneels between Chas’s legs. Sits back on his heels, rubbing his hands along Chas’s thighs, and glances up: Chas is hunched forward, eyes shut, chest rising and falling rapidly, erection tenting his jeans. John’s mouth waters at the sight, and he swallows. Slides his hands up and goes to unbuckle Chas’s belt, making quick work of it and the zipper.
Too quick, apparently, because he’s not even got his hand around Chas’s cock before Chas is pulling away from him, practically throwing himself back against the couch. “Wait, just—” Chas says, breathlessly. Grabbing at John’s wrists, and then releasing him. Reaching for him again and then seeming to change his mind, dropping his hands to his own thighs. Closes his eyes.
John blinks.
“You…” John says, warily. “You all right there, mate?”
Chas takes a breath. Shakes his head, minutely. Opens his eyes, but won't meet John's. Runs a quick hand through his own hair, and then reaches down to grasp John’s arms. “Get—get back up here?” It’s meant as a demand, John can tell, but the tone wavers and Chas’s grip on him loosens almost instantly, once he’s eased his way back onto the couch. Next to Chas, but not touching him.
He waits for a moment, for Chas to fiddle with his fly and pull himself together. He doesn't, precisely — breaths still too rapid, eyes darting, ears pink.
John clears his throat, and regards him carefully. "Did I do—"
"No!" says Chas, too quickly. Winces. "No," quiet, apologetic. "I just—I'm not—" Chas shakes his head, looking lost. "I'm sorry."
"Chas—"
"It's not you," he says. "It's just—I..." he reaches out to stroke lightly at John's hair, to caress the side of John's face. "Jesus, look at you."
John forces a smile. "Look all you want, mate," he says. Chas blushes. "Can do more than look, if you'd like—"
"John."
"—or less, o' course. Whatever you'd like."
Chas drops his gaze. "I could—I could get you off."
Yes, please, crows every selfish bone in John's body, which is most of them. And that's not even including the still-firm erection straining against his trousers. John leans in, letting their breaths mingle again. Chas winces, and tries very hard to pretend he hasn't.
John pulls back. "'s all right, mate." Chas opens his mouth as if to speak and John shakes his head. "Bit tired, yeah? Not really in the mood right now." Chas raises his eyebrows; John gives an indignant huff. "What? It's been known to happen."
Chas laughs a little and shrugs; his breathing steadies, at least, and he sags against the couch, letting his head fall back. Eyes shut, and pinching the bridge of his nose, the very picture of exhaustion and frustration.
John, for his part, sits and stares; concern, indecision, and doubt churn within him, useless as they are unfamiliar.
"So," John finally ventures.
"Yeah?"
“You doin' all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," he says, not making any real effort to sound it.
John reaches over; runs his fingers through the hair at the nape of Chas's neck, massaging his scalp gently. Chas looks over at him, eyebrows raised in mild accusation; John shakes his head minutely, just this; not starting anything. Chas doesn't seem entirely convinced but some of the tension in his shoulders eases.
"What can I do?"
Chas gives him a strange, wary look. “Nothing.”
John leans in, presses a chaste kiss to his shoulder. "You eat yet?"
Chas appears to think about it for a moment. "You know what?" he says, sounding almost surprised. "I haven't."
"Right, then. I'll make you something."
"John—" he says, reaching out, shifting as if he's going to stand.
"No, I'll do it mate, just—" he leans over, taking Chas's head in his hands and kissing his forehead. "Just stay put."
*
To John's complete and utter surprise, Chas does: allows him to cook an entire meal himself, without any interruptions, well-intentioned suggestions, or helpful contributions. He doesn't even set the table, and deigns to eat sitting on the couch, which he's been loathe to do in the past.
He takes the plate John offers to him almost entirely without complaint, except for the slight twitch of his mouth and the quick, sidelong glance out of the corner of his eye.
"What?" says John, flopping down next to him.
"Nothing," Chas answers, too quickly.
"This is a quality English breakfast, mate. I wouldn't be so quick to turn my nose up."
"John," Chas says, obviously holding back a smile. "It's eight o'clock. At night."
"Well." John shrugs. "'s bound to be morning somewhere."
"Like in England?"
"Right you are, mate."
Chas chuckles, shaking his head, and pulls the plate onto his lap. "You want some?"
"It's eight o'clock…at night, Chas," he mimics. Chas snorts again and hands him a piece of toast. John takes it, sops up some of the baked beans. "Drive back go all right?"
"Don't really want to talk about it."
All right then. "Want a beer?"
Chas blinks at him, shakes his head, but then nods. "I—okay. Thanks."
John stumbles up from the couch, forgetting any effort to look casual about it while hurrying to the kitchen. Makes certain to set a more measured pace when he returns with two beer bottles in tow.
Chas doesn't seem to notice, much less appreciate, his efforts at cool detachment. Just eats his dinner and drinks his beer; John sits beside him and watches, silent and inexplicably tense, taking quick gulps from his own bottle till Chas finishes.
John rises again, more smoothly this time. "Better go wash up, yeah?"
Chas puts his plate down on the floor next to the couch, and along with it, the beer bottle. Straightens, looking up at John with a steady, warm gaze.
John cocks his head. "What?"
Chas reaches out. Wraps his hand around John's wrist. Barely any pressure at all, but just enough to tug him over and down, till he’s seated across Chas's lap.
"Oh," John says, trying to smirk. "Hello, again." He turns toward him, and takes Chas's face in his hands; Chas twines a steadying arm around the small of his back. They share a breath, and John can't help himself — he darts in, presses his mouth to Chas's and lets his lips part. Chas kisses back carefully, gently — not John's preference but well enough, thorough enough, to be worth his time.
He wraps his arms around Chas's neck and lets himself be soundly kissed, lets himself be—a comfort, he supposes. He's been worse.
It goes no further than that: no further than Chas's tongue in his mouth and his hands tracing softly across John's shoulders and down his sides, rubbing his back.
"I like you like this," Chas murmurs, once they break apart.
"Like what?" he says, as if he doesn't know; resists the temptation to flutter his eyelashes, to play it up too much, but it's a near thing.
"Sweet," Chas says, stroking the back of his head. "Helpful," and he nuzzles their noses together.
"Yeah?" John leans into him; presses a kiss to the base of his throat, and then another. "Wouldn't get too used to it."
Chas laughs. It's a soft, strangely relieved sound. “Yeah," he says, dropping a quick kiss to John's temple; his beard prickles against John's skin. "I figured."
"Glad you're back, though."
"Oh yeah?" Chas's fingers are still running through John's hair. "You miss me or something?"
John shrugs. "Zed said I was bein' more of an ass than usual."
Chas hums thoughtfully, and draws him closer. “I don’t know if that’s even possible."
"Y'know what, mate?" he says, relaxing, settling into Chas's arms. "That's exactly what I said."
*
They can’t stay like that for long, with John sitting across Chas’s thighs and pressing his face into the crook of Chas’s neck. Twisting his back like that won’t end well, and the weight of him on Chas’s legs’ll get tiresome, soon enough.
But it hasn’t yet — Chas even reaches down, wraps a hand under John’s knee, and uses it to pull him up a bit. Then leaves it there, thumb rubbing thoughtlessly at John’s knee, possibly not even aware he’s doing so.
The door bangs open above them. Footsteps clang down the stairs, then pause.
“This is cozy,” says Zed, after a moment.
Chas tenses beneath him. Sits up slightly, turns his head to look at her. “Hey, Zed,” he says, a little too loudly.
“Hey, Chas,” she returns, amusement obvious in her tone. Another pause, and then: “John?”
“Hm? What?” says John, nuzzling against Chas’s neck, making something of a show of it. “Want a turn, do ya?” There’s no way to see Chas’s face from that angle, but he can imagine the look; doesn’t have to imagine the way Chas’s arm tightens around his waist, and the quick, punitive pinch to the underside of his thigh.
“Ha!” Zed says, tossing his coat at him before she sits down onto the far side of the couch. “As if you’d ever let me get that close to him.”
“Your loss, love,” he says.
“You two know I can hear you, right?” Chas says, grumbling a little. “I mean, I’m...I’m right here.”
“That you are, mate,” John says. Goes to give him a quick pat on the chest, but having done so, elects to keep his hand where it is, pressed against Chas’s sternum. Chas turns his head slightly, to be able to see him, and John smiles up at him. “That you are.”
*