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New fic...
Really, really new as opposed to sat on my laptop for years but never been posted new.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crowie. She knows why.
Round and round and round we go, where the slash stops, nobody knows. Multi crossover, multi pairings :-)
Disclaimer: Tragically, none of these characters are mine, I’d be a lot richer if they were. I make no money from this and mean no harm.
Rating: NC-17-ish
Warnings: Slash, crossover (Highlander/Hellblazer/Angel)
Pairing: Lindsey/Constantine (implied), Methos/Constantine, Methos/Lindsey (implied)
Notes: For Sica - for international phone calls among other things ;-)
Summary: It's not what you know - it's who.
Three Degrees of Separation
Copyright Margaret Turner
26th January 2007
Back in the States the place would have been called a dive - if it was lucky. He had no idea what the colloquial English was for the Frog and Nightgown, but using it wouldn't make him stand out any less.
Then again, Lindsey MacDonald hadn't made a career out of blending in and meeting people's expectations. For instance, wearing an expensive suit in a place like this was simply asking for trouble, therefore only someone capable of handling the trouble it would bring would dare to do it. Well, either that or they had a case of terminal stupidity. Lindsey firmly believed he fell into the former category; simply surviving the early stages of the Wolfram & Hart recruitment process meant he stood a good chance of handling any trouble that did come along and he’d developed something of a knack for calculated risks.
His unapologetic entrance caused a ripple in the crowd like a pebble dropped into a stagnant pond – inevitably a stink arose. "'S a swish boy like you doin' here?" Lindsey wrinkled his nose at the smell of alcohol sodden decay - he'd met zombies with better personal hygiene - he resisted the instinctive urge to step back but decided he’d just have to burn the suit and shower thoroughly when he got back to his hotel. "Lookin' for a bit of rough, boy? Think you can handle it? You somethin' special? Like them prissy university fucks down the road?"
With some reluctance, none of it visible, Lindsey turned to his erstwhile admirer and he smiled. It was the smile he'd perfected working his way up through the ranks of Wolfram & Hart. In his pocket he touched the small amulet he'd packed for just such occasions. It was a cheap conjurers' trick, enhanced just a touch for that little extra kick, maybe the maggots were overkill, but they all had their failings. The reaction to the illusion was as entertaining as it was swift and his admirer fled the bar screaming, though Lindsey certainly hoped the barman didn't expect him to clean up the mess on the floor.
Lindsey glanced around to see the bar crowd returning to their drinks - his credentials established and the entertainment over for the time being. Sure that no-one else was going to approach without cause now, Lindsey stepped up to the bar and ordered a JD, scanning the crowd surreptitiously as he waited.
His drink arrived at the same time as the breath of nicotine flavoured air washed over the skin of his neck and cheek.
"Nice trick."
Lindsey turned without haste, giving himself time to take in the lanky frame, the open shirt collar and loose tie and the cigarette held negligently between long fingers. The dirty-blonde hair and blue eyes could have made the man attractive if he'd cared to make it so, but strangely that very lack of care was attractive in itself. "Mr Constantine, I presume."
A toothy grin, "Presumin's dangerous 'round here, mate."
Lindsey met the laughing blue eyes without hesitation and matched the grin with one of his own. "So I've been told. Drink?"
The grin flashed wider for a moment and Constantine nodded to the barman, "Guinness."
Lindsey pulled out his wallet and tossed his platinum card onto the bar, "Set up a tab."
The blue eyes narrowed fractionally, "Feelin' generous then?"
Lindsey picked up his drink and gestured to an out of the way table, "Not at all. It would be bad manners not to at least listen to the man who just bought your drinks for the evening."
A crooked grin appeared with a nod of the head as Constantine picked up his Guinness, "Oh I'm well-known for me manners - ask anyone."
Lindsey fought down a half-expected twinge of arousal at the careless charm and hid his own smile as he started to walk towards his chosen table, "I already did." It seemed the rumours were true, at least as far as the mage's sense of humour was concerned.
He waited until Constantine was seated before triggering the second amulet in his pocket, giving them the desired level of privacy, and watched as the blue eyes narrowed noticeably, but the man said nothing. Lindsey wasn't sure if he envied or pitied the man; the direct heir of one of the oldest magical families - magic wasn't what he did, it was what he was. It was ingrained in him, as vital yet unconsidered as a sense of smell, with all the advantages and drawbacks that entailed.
Lindsey slid his business card across the table, ignoring the grime it picked up with the simple motion; it garnered a glance, but no discernible reaction. "I'm told you're a man who knows how to make or break a deal."
A raised eyebrow and a sip of Guinness, but no response. Well that confirmed a few more reports - the man was hard to impress and harder still to intrigue. Time for stronger measures; it meant playing his hand earlier than he would have liked, but... Lindsey reached into his inside pocket and drew out the thick sheaf of papers it had taken no little risk to bring with him. He tossed them onto the table and this time he was pleased to see a slight widening of the blue eyes as long fingers snagged the papers, unfolding them just enough to be sure of what they were. Constantine leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette, taking a slow, contemplative draw as he fixed Lindsey with the blue eyes that had reportedly seen and faced down more than Lindsey himself had any wish to.
"And?" A lazy drawl of a question.
"And I want out." Lindsey sincerely hoped it wasn't apparent how fucking terrifying it was to actually voice those words, but he’d examined the angles and considered the odds and it was the only choice that left him any options at all. It was the mother of all calculated risks, but they had always been his forté.
Long fingers flicked the thick bundle of papers, "Dog-boy, goat-face and bambi? That takes more than balls, Mr MacDonald."
"Are you saying you can't or you won't?"
The crooked grin reappeared, "Oh, I can probably be persuaded - if you can make it worth my while."
The sudden-seeming acquiescence tripped alarm bells, even as Lindsey’s instincts proclaimed their victory. By all accounts, Constantine was a hard man with an impressive trail of dead behind him, but he got the job done. No coercion, no tricks, much as it had gone against the grain, playing it straight with this man was the only guarantee Lindsey had of not getting a knife in the back - at least until the deal was done. The mage was difficult to read, but this time Lindsey let his own response to that grin show. He was running on a gambler’s instinct and that told him he'd played his cards right - even if he hadn't won the game yet, he'd just been dealt an ace that no-one else knew about. Lindsey reached across the table, letting his fingers brush the nicotine-stained skin of his new partner as he retrieved the contract, meeting the blue eyes with unconcealed interest even as he masked the slight niggle of suspicion. "Not a problem Mr Constantine - shall we discuss the particulars somewhere more private?"
The cigarette was stubbed out in the already near-overflowing ashtray, blue eyes glittering with amusement, "I'm not doin' this by meself mate, you gonna prove you got the balls?"
Lindsey smiled and stood, "I thought that was what I just suggested?"
Constantine unfolded his lanky frame from the hard wooden chair, "So you did." He shrugged into his overcoat and offered his hand, "John."
His skin was dry and strangely warm, but the grasp was firm when Lindsey accepted his hand. It lingered perhaps just a little longer than necessary, but then he didn't let go either. "Lindsey," he offered in return. He had a good feeling about this.
The tiny church was far older than its more ostentatious and well-known neighbour, but St Julien le Pauvre had a comfortable, worn feeling, like the sneakers he’d had since college. Lindsey crossed the empty nave and headed for the confessional. He'd never been religious, though he'd been born in the Bible belt; it wasn't so much that ultimately he worked for demons, but that he was a lawyer. He wondered absently if that strange kind of institutional atheism was the same for stockbrokers. Nevertheless, religious or not, Lindsey no longer felt that working for demons was in his best interests – he wanted out and that was rather more complicated than simply handing in his notice. So now he was here, following the instructions of a man he'd spent the last week in London fucking.
Lindsey settled himself in the small wooden cubicle and leaned back, waiting. He remembered the last morning in London; they'd fucked late into the night, but he'd woken early... well, early by their recent standards, it had actually been about 10:30. Constantine had been sitting at the small table, smoking; he'd been bare-chested and his blonde hair had practically glowed in the morning sunshine as the smoke had coiled and wreathed around his head like a dirty halo. Constantine hadn't looked at him as he'd finally given Lindsey the information he needed, playing broker for what he couldn’t do himself. The expression on his face had said clearly that he wasn't sure this was such a good idea, but whether it was on his own account or Lindsey's was anybody's guess. Lindsey had left the UK by mid-afternoon.
He heard the door of the priest's cubicle open and close, and he waited.
"How can I help you, my son?"
The voice was of a strangely indeterminate accent, not French certainly, and the English was fluent, but there was an accent beneath that was hard to place. Lindsey opened his mouth to reply and hesitated; Constantine hadn't bothered seeing him off at Waterloo, but he'd gone as far as the nearest tube station and his eyes had been serious as he'd repeated one small piece of advice he'd given earlier. "Don't lie. Whatever you do, however tempting it is - tell the truth or you'll stand less chance than a house of cards in a hurricane."
Lindsey remembered the seriousness in those blue eyes and he revised his opening gambit. "I'm hoping you can, Father. I was told I would be able to contact Methos here."
Silence, but a thoughtful one.
"I would ask you who told you such a thing, my son, but I suspect you would not tell me." There was a faint, knowing amusement in the tone.
Lindsey smiled to himself, "You would be right, Father." Telling the truth was one thing, but giving away secrets was another thing entirely. "Can you help me?"
"Perhaps you will find the services here enlightening, my son, the times are printed outside the main doors. Go in peace."
Lindsey opened his mouth and shut it. He had time yet before his 'vacation' was over, he could afford to play the priest’s games for the time being. As he left the confessional and headed for the exit, he heard the confessional door open behind him and turned in time to see a middle-aged priest emerge. He was dressed more like a monk than a priest, or at least the priests Lindsey recalled from his childhood, or indeed from his clientele. Interesting.
Still, he took note of the services posted on the door and left to find a good bar; he'd known it most likely wouldn't be simple, but still the delay chafed.
Four days later and the delay was more than chafing; he'd attended every one of those damned services and had nothing to show for it, except a grudging respect for the hold the Catholic Church had on its congregation. He’d virtually taken up residence at a small café nearby, but aside from idly people watching, he’d not learned anything of significance, except enough French to get a pretty smile from the waitress and a free coffee and he could have done that without learning the language at all. Lindsey had also seen the priest a couple of times since then and put a name to the face, but Brother Darius it seemed was something of a politician and refused to be drawn on the subject of Lindsey's request.
He was due back at work tomorrow; Lindsey planned to catch an early flight in the morning, which left it as late as he could manage, but with the time-zone change it was still workable. It was more than annoying that he'd reached a dead end, but with only Darius' name and Church to go on there was little he could do to force the issue. He'd made a few speculative inquiries to Wolfram & Hart, Paris branch, but they had been irritatingly French with the ignorant colonial and the information had been minimal. At least, he knew more than simply the name of Constantine’s suggestion now.
It appeared that Methos was an Immortal of a somewhat peculiar variety which was monitored by an offshoot branch of Watchers, but he was also presumed long dead if not completely fictional. It left Lindsey little wiser, but he was more inclined to trust Constantine's knowledge than dusty records. Still, it was frustrating; part of him wondered if Constantine had simply conjured up something with just enough truth to it that Lindsey would be sure to chase after it. It would be like the man, and certainly it would save him the hassle of getting rid of Lindsey otherwise. It was a dark thought that had the faint, familiar scent of betrayal to it, but while he would not put it past the magician, the priest had leant an air of truthfulness to the whole thing that was hard to discount.
Sighing at his circular thoughts, Lindsey stepped from the steaming shower and wrapped a towel round his waist. The hotel room was slightly chillier than he preferred, but it was a side effect of the protective wards he’d put in place when he’d checked in. He’d kept them up even after he’d found that someone had been through his minimal luggage. It was hardly a surprise, especially after he’d contacted the Paris branch; the wards were standard Wolfram & Hart client confidentiality spells – they served to keep the unexpected intruders out, the expected ones he had his own methods of dealing with. More out of form than real anger he'd bitched at the concierge about the lack of hotel security, but the man had remained unflappable and Lindsey suspected it had been him. He'd have to look into it when he got back to LA, backstabbing was common in the ranks, he was sure he could arrange for an unfortunate accident for the man.
He unwound his towel and began to briskly dry off his hair when he felt the first sensation of being watched. None of his wards had gone off, in fact they were all still in place - interesting. He slowly lowered the towel and turned, mentally cataloguing the weapons he had within reach, from the gun in his jacket pocket to the equally lethal spell crystal in his bag. The room was as empty as when he'd entered the bathroom, but the sense of presence was growing stronger and he narrowed his eyes. A flicker caught out of the corner of his eye and his head whipped round - what had been perfectly normal shadows were beginning to coalesce and take shape. He watched, intrigued more than threatened, as they assumed a shape that was vaguely humanoid. Silver flickered and a pair of eyes opened before a hand reached out to touch the wall. Shadowy lines slid from the fingertips and crept up around the wall to the ceiling, branching out until the whole room was a webwork of darker than shadow lines. He was a lawyer, not a magician, but Lindsey recognised shielding magic well enough.
The voice, when it came, was not a surprise, the strange hissing that accompanied it equally expected. "You stink of the Constant One."
Lindsey felt his mouth twist in an unwilling smile, "That'd be the cigarettes."
A short bark of a laugh and Lindsey watched curiously as the shadow detached itself from the corner until it stood independent of source. The voice seemed to shift, one moment dryer than desert dust, the next richer than a chocolate bombe as it spoke again. "What do you want?"
Lindsey arched an eyebrow, "I assume I'm speaking to Methos - one way or another." Demon messengers were par for the course in his line of work, projections not uncommon, but this seemed neither, a familiar perhaps, though if so it was of a type he’d never seen before.
“One way or another,” the shadow echoed back to him in a voice disturbingly like his own. It flickered then, shape warping as if it were trying to become something else entirely before settling again into something not quite human. Lindsey shifted his weight carefully from one foot to the other as he considered his options, the shadow seemed indifferent and quite able to wait him out.
The truth, he reminded himself, and it already seemed to know where he’d come from. "Constantine said you might be able to help me. I want out of Wolfram & Hart."
A hissing sort of a laugh, "Constantine said,” it echoed back. “‘If you really want to fuck over dog-boy, goat-face and bambi, then Methos is your best bet.’” Lindsey managed not to let show how affected he was by this thing’s frighteningly accurate imitation of both himself and Constantine, but it took work. He wasn’t too comfortable with the accuracy of its choice of words either. He’d faced down demons that could have disembowelled him faster than he could blink, but this was somehow scarier – it made his skin crawl. Damned if he’d let it show though.
The thing shifted again, becoming a twisted Rorschach of shadow and darkness before settling into something that, from the right angle, looked like a man sitting cross-legged on the floor. This time the voice was virtually human, “Your contract?"
"In perpetuity."
Another laugh, like a crackling fire, then the creature seemed to explode upwards, losing cohesion as it did so, flickering wildly before becoming something vaguely snakelike. The voice was that desert-dry rasp again, "This will hurt. Resist and it will kill you."
Lindsey had no time to ask what as the creature streaked forward like black lightning, striking him full in the chest. It burned and froze, and he had no time to breathe, let alone fight as it burrowed inside him. It twisted and coiled along his synapses, burning his eyes from the inside out as his heart stuttered in his chest. Red-tinged darkness descended and Lindsey's last wry thought was that he’d kill that bloody English bastard next time he saw him.
***
Lindsey woke up the next morning, much to his own surprise. He was in bed, safe and sound, the wards were in place and there was no sign of whatever the hell it had been in his room last night. He half-expected his head to hurt, but it didn't, though it did feel vaguely cottony, like he'd slept too deeply and woken too soon. It was almost tempting to believe the whole thing had just been a particularly vivid dream, but he wasn't stupid. Also, there was a note, written in what looked oddly like his own handwriting. It was an answer, though not the one he'd hoped for, three simple words that left him trapped somewhere between frustration and despair. 'Go home, Lindsey'.
Constantine collected his whisky and tossed a fiver onto the bar, turning to scan the crowd as he waited for his change. Perfectly normal evening; patrons drinking, arguing, passing out. Blue eyes narrowed and he scanned the room again, pausing this time on a familiar arse, swaying slightly to the beat from the decrepit jukebox. Perfectly normal indeed - a housecall then, so to speak – lovely.
Not taking his eyes off the figure seemingly absorbed in the ancient one-armed bandit, he stretched his hand back for his change, feeling the weight of coins drop into his palm. He frowned, fingers flexing, and the dull clink of the ‘forgotten’ coin made him smile. Guy must be new: no-one tried that on him – at least not twice anyway.
Stuffing the silver into his pocket, Constantine ambled over, drink in hand. A few feet away he paused, taking in the worn jeans, loose sweater and battered hiking boots. Younger and cleaner than the pub’s usual clientele, but not enough to be noticeable – one of the city’s many students who had wandered off the beaten path. He spotted the open bottle of Stella on the shelf to one side.
“Shouldn’t leave an open bottle unattended like that mate – asking for trouble.”
There was a heavy thunk and the sliding rasp of loose change, then the man turned around, ignoring his less than glittering winnings. “Is that concern I hear?” asked with the smirk of someone who well knew the answer.
Constantine shrugged, “I just don’t wanna have to clear up the mess if some poor bastard tries it.”
That got a laugh, warm and ever so slightly suggestive. Long fingers snagged the bottle neck and Constantine determinedly ignored the motion of the long throat as the bottle was drained. There was a reason they usually kept their distance – tinder and fucking spark. A mis-timed flicker of eyes and blue met green and locked. Bugger.
The pub toilets were even less savoury than usual as he dragged the smug bastard through the door and walked him over to the far wall beneath the chicken-wire glass windows.
The old Immortal was looking up at him through his lashes as though butter wouldn’t melt, but this close... Oh, this close no amount of distraction and misdirection could hide it from someone like John. Raw power radiated off the lithe body, buzzing against his skin, making it first numb, then hyper-sensitive. He could feel his muscles tense on the verge of cramp even as his traitorous prick strained to attention.
For once, it wasn’t even the bastard’s fault; he could no more control it than John could control his sensitivity to it. Nimble fingers plucked the forgotten cigarette from his mouth and lips covered his before John thought to protest the theft. Nicotine, alcohol and tongue; liquid sin and he opened wider, drawing it out and retaking control. Methos’ skin was hot through the layers of his sweater and John’s shirt; body like a furnace, mouth hotter than hell and he should know.
They broke apart with a gasp, staggering slightly, faces flushed and dicks hard. Oh yes, there was a reason they stayed as far apart as international flights allowed.
A smile formed on swollen lips and John watched as his cigarette was raised to those lips and a long draw was taken. Bastard was stealing his fags too now.
Something of that thought must have shown on his face because Methos leaned closer then, smoke wreathing gently from his parted lips, likening him to a sleeping dragon. Frozen, John watched a hand come into view and fingertips gently brushed the hair from his face. It needed a wash and this was really no time to let himself get distracted by such ridiculous thoughts.
Lips ghosted over his own, the world spun and suddenly it was his own back to the cold tiles. No words but a grin just shy of satisfied as Methos sank slowly to his knees, absently tossing the cigarette aside. Oh. Fuck.
Deft fingers opened his belt and fly, easing him from the constriction of his boxers and he really hoped those had been clean on this morning, but for some reason he really couldn’t remember. A voice abruptly intruded on his mental static turning it briefly to panic; it was too loud, too close and wholly unfamiliar. He glanced over at the door and strangled a yelp as Methos chose that moment of inattention to swallow him whole.
“Hadn’t... hadn’t you better... take care of that?” he managed through forcedly even breaths. A glitter of eyes beneath dark lashes and shouting erupted from beyond the just-opening door, rising in volume and tone. If he was any judge at all then violence would soon be in the offing. The door swung shut again and he rolled his eyes, “You could have just locked the door.”
Methos drew off his cock with torturously slow suction to look up at him, amusement masquerading as annoyance. “If you’re not interested, all you had to do was say.”
Constantine growled; his spit-slick cock was hard enough to drive nails and chilling in the cool air. “Fucker.” Of course he was fucking interested and they both knew it. Hot, dirty sex with no demands and better yet, with someone who would not, could not die on him. John didn’t like to look too closely at that little detail and he doubted Methos did either, but it was enough to know that it was there – he could examine it if he wanted to, but it wouldn’t change a damn thing.
A warm tongue curled slickly around his balls and his fingers clawed uselessly at the smooth tile. Coherent thought vanished shortly thereafter.
***
John sagged in the loose embrace, drawing slow, stuttering breaths into his oxygen-starved lungs. The floor was cold and hard beneath his arse, but the body behind him was warm and quite unfeasibly comfortable. Warm breath tickled the back of his neck, a prelude to nuzzling that was not quite as out of character as either of them were ever likely to admit.
“Get thee behind me,” he murmured.
A chuckle and a sharp nip to his ear, “Maybe next time.” Then as if his words had presaged the end of this brief interlude, strong arms wrapped around his chest, dragging him upright as the Methos rose. With neither wall nor belt to keep them up, his trousers dropped gracefully to his ankles, his boxers caught up somewhere around his knees. He glanced down and then up at his companion with a long-suffering sigh. The smirk didn’t quite vanish, “That’s a good look on you,” said with a straight face and laughing eyes.
John bent down and dragged his trousers up, tucking himself away with some semblance of dignity. He gestured offhandedly at Methos, “Don’t I get the same chance to admire?”
That got an odd tilt and shrug of the shoulders, “Not this time.”
John frowned, usually these little meetings were followed by a couple of days of not leaving the bedroom, nevermind the flat. Well, except for that one memorable occasion on Tower Bridge. “Not in the mood?”
A rare flicker of sobriety crossed the angular features, “No.” Long fingers reached out, flattening and spanning his chest, counting ribs, “You’re not eating properly again.”
John raised an eyebrow, “Masterful change of subject there – you’re not my mother.” Not even close and what did Methos care about John’s eating habits anyway? ...Shit. “Who died this time?” Not the most tactful of questions, but tact had never been his forte - he should probably carry Government Health Warnings – for a lot of reasons really.
Green eyes flickered up and John found himself caught and held in their gaze. Around him he could feel the sort of groundswell of magic that grotty east end pubs weren’t supposed to have. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as he was used to, but reflex made him fight to free himself anyway.
He was suddenly, acutely aware that he had never really established Methos’ credentials in the hierarchy of gods and monsters with which they were both so familiar. It had always seemed both invasive and unnecessary. He doubted Methos would give a straight answer anyway, but then again he might, he was unpredictable like that. John asked for favours and information and Methos provided – there was one hell of a tab building up somewhere, but that was pretty much the story of his life. Methos had never called due...
Constantine blinked, and though it took real, conscious effort he stopped struggling to hold his defences. The look of surprise on Methos’ face was almost comical, but he recovered quickly enough. There was too much to take in beyond the sheer vastness of it all; it was like trying to hug the ocean in the split second before it drowned you. John hadn’t the time to flinch as strong hands shot up and cupped his face, lips brushed across his gently and then just as swiftly retreated, taking the overwhelming tide with them. And as easily as that Methos seemed once again no more than the student he appeared to be.
The whole exchange couldn’t have taken more than a few brief seconds. Scrambling for composure, John shook a cigarette from his packet and dug in his pocket for his lighter. Frustrated when it didn’t immediately drop into his hand he went for the other pocket; a tiny popping hiss made him look up to meet Methos’ amused eyes through a tiny curl of smoke. He went near cross-eyed trying to see the end of his fag, until it occurred to him to take it out of his mouth. The cigarette tip continued to glow happily despite his glare; he shook his head, dispelling the notion, and stuck it back between his lips as he shook another cigarette from the packet. He’d have to get some more on the way home; he’d need them if he was going to think at all about what had just happened. He lit it off the first and offered it, almost as surprised by the gesture as he was by Methos’ acceptance. There was something vaguely obscene about the way Methos slid the cigarette between his lips, but they’d already been there this evening and he refused to be flustered a second time. At least not anywhere that didn’t have a bed.
Some kind of conversation seemed vaguely appropriate at this point, but he’d never been adept at small talk. “Did the Yank find you in the end?” That had been fun, but Wolfram & Hart weren’t known for their ability to share and he hadn’t liked to play those odds for too long, however confident Lindsey had been. Still, it had been good while it lasted and he even missed the man in an odd sort of way, but John was rather more attached to living than making friends.
Methos blew a thin stream of smoke up into the air and nodded, “I kept him; he’s got potential.”
“And his ability to give the filthiest blow job known to man had nothing to do with it?”
Methos laughed, “Couldn’t say, though I did wonder why you bothered with him in the first place - and you give yourself too little credit.”
John shrugged, “You’re welcome to collect.” The prospect was actually something to look forward to; his bed had been rather empty of late and there was always something vaguely satisfying and reassuringly non-magical about reducing Methos to a tangle of satiated limbs.
Methos’ responding smile was as warm and genuine as Constantine had ever seen. “I will, sooner or later. You know me, I like to choose my moment.”
Constantine blinked in vague suspicion at Methos’ meaning, the words echoing slightly off the tiles as the door swung shut with a creak. Bastard. Well, he shrugged, he supposed that made two of them.
Epilogue
Lindsey jerked awake with a gasp. He'd half expected it; he'd seen what had happened to Lilah and he supposed it had probably been a vain hope to think that his last stand with Angel would have annulled his contract, tattoos or no. Still, Lorne had been a surprise.
"I'm impressed, Mr MacDonald."
Lindsey blinked, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows; there was a man lounging indolently in the shadowed chair opposite, apparently having entertained himself by watching Lindsey revive. There was something faintly familiar about him. His dark hair was a bit ruffled, his tie was crooked, and a cigarette dangled from between long fingers; the sight, the smell and the sheer arrogance made Lindsey unforgivably nostalgic. But it wasn’t John Constantine and that 'vacation' hadn't gone at all according to plan. In the end he’d had to make his own attempt at circumventing the contract, which had apparently gone less than well, if his current state was anything to go by.
Lindsey clambered awkwardly to his feet, they'd be coming for him soon, even with whatever damage Angel had managed to inflict on Wolfram & Hart - there was always more. Always, always more and no escape, not for him. Given that he’d made his position clear, he somehow didn’t think it was too likely that they’d reinstate him in his previous job, and he didn’t really want to think of what they could do to someone who couldn’t die a second time. He was trapped like a rat, except rats at least could die their way out. Shit.
"I thought you had potential, but so many never follow through." The voice interrupted Lindsey’s less than optimistic thoughts as the man stood. Lindsey realised he had appropriated Lindsey's sword, it was held negligently, but also with a certain amount of familiarity. "They can't keep up and end up dead by the wayside, or they backpedal as fast as their little legs can carry them, running to the big bad that they so nearly betrayed, never realising that they'll be dead or worse within the year because they can never again be relied upon."
Lindsey looked at the man blankly and he smiled, "The tattoos are a nice touch, but sadly they do need to be on *living* flesh. A for effort though.”
There was a loud bang outside and Lindsey flinched; a door slamming, open or shut didn't matter, they were coming for him. Wolfram & Hart did not let go of valuable resources as the hit squad that burst into the room testified to. Lindsey looked around, hoping Lorne had left his gun somewhere nearby; he had no intention of just giving in – after all what could he possibly lose now?
"Lindsey Macdonald," the voice was heavily distorted by the mask, "Your presence is required."
A low chuckle, "Ah, civility, where would we be without it? Oh yes, I remember."
Guns rose in the direction of the previously ignored stranger who grinned and stepped back into the shadows in the corner of the room which seemed to grow suddenly darker still. The voice when it came was curiously disembodied, "Sometimes, I do like the old ways best.”
For a brief moment, Lindsey thought he saw a gleam of silver eyes, then pale hands moved in the shadows and the smouldering cigarette traced a graceful arc towards the lead man. Lindsey wasn't sure if the man was a vampire or not, but quite frankly it hardly mattered given the way he went up quicker than a roman candle.
He may have been recently deceased, but his instincts were still spot on; Lindsey dived out of the firing line and watched as the bullets flew, faster, but less effective it seemed than the sword Lindsey himself had carried. The stranger seemed almost to be moving in graceful slow motion as he advanced on the squad, ignoring the bullets that hit or missed alike. The silver streak became a red one as it seemed that wherever the sword’s arc ended it met flesh. Lindsey watched, stunned, he knew he was good with a sword, but this… It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two before the deafening gunfire echoed into silence and the thud of the last body hit the floor.
The stranger’s grin had a kind of wild joy to it as he stood in the centre of a circle of corpses, panting lightly after the brief exertion, “I haven't done that in *ages*". He seemed awfully pleased with himself and for a moment, he looked all of about 17 years old. Something nagged at the back of Lindsey’s brain as the man turned towards him, something...
“Paris is all well and good, but LA definitely corners the market on excitement."
Paris? Lindsey blinked - twice. And he remembered the young man he'd seen in the café near St Julien’s that he'd frequented and he remembered absently wondering whether he would be worth the effort of picking up. Fuck. The smile turned predatory, "Oh, I'm always worth the effort."
Lindsey ignored the obvious bait and picked himself up for the second time that evening, dusting himself off to buy time to think. He met the green eyes steadily, “Methos, I presume?”
Methos grinned, but there was an edge to it and to his voice, “Hasn’t anyone ever told you how dangerous it is to presume?” Lindsey watched the Immortal casually drop the sword onto the corpses, seeing the same grace in the lean body that he had in the fight. Power and arrogance, confidence not at all misplaced and a grin like a game of Russian roulette. Constantine had been right, Methos was dangerous in oh so many more ways than the obvious.
Paradoxically, Lindsey relaxed, this was one game he knew how to play, dead or not, “It may have been mentioned - once upon a time.”
Methos’ grin broadened at the seemingly offhand response and there was an odd kind of approval in his tone, “Bright boy.”
Lindsey glanced around the room at the wreckage and for the first time in years he felt the weight of fate lift from his shoulders. He’d played the longshot and he’d won; the details could be worked out later, but right now - he was free. He turned his head to see the green eyes surprisingly close, still glittering with adrenaline and wild victory, and his smile came unbidden. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Lindsey paused, considering, “Wanna fuck?”
And Methos’ eyes were laughing when he kissed him.
Fin
12th May 2007
Comments very much appreciated.
For
crowie. She knows why.Round and round and round we go, where the slash stops, nobody knows. Multi crossover, multi pairings :-)
Disclaimer: Tragically, none of these characters are mine, I’d be a lot richer if they were. I make no money from this and mean no harm.
Rating: NC-17-ish
Warnings: Slash, crossover (Highlander/Hellblazer/Angel)
Pairing: Lindsey/Constantine (implied), Methos/Constantine, Methos/Lindsey (implied)
Notes: For Sica - for international phone calls among other things ;-)
Summary: It's not what you know - it's who.
Three Degrees of Separation
Copyright Margaret Turner
26th January 2007
Back in the States the place would have been called a dive - if it was lucky. He had no idea what the colloquial English was for the Frog and Nightgown, but using it wouldn't make him stand out any less.
Then again, Lindsey MacDonald hadn't made a career out of blending in and meeting people's expectations. For instance, wearing an expensive suit in a place like this was simply asking for trouble, therefore only someone capable of handling the trouble it would bring would dare to do it. Well, either that or they had a case of terminal stupidity. Lindsey firmly believed he fell into the former category; simply surviving the early stages of the Wolfram & Hart recruitment process meant he stood a good chance of handling any trouble that did come along and he’d developed something of a knack for calculated risks.
His unapologetic entrance caused a ripple in the crowd like a pebble dropped into a stagnant pond – inevitably a stink arose. "'S a swish boy like you doin' here?" Lindsey wrinkled his nose at the smell of alcohol sodden decay - he'd met zombies with better personal hygiene - he resisted the instinctive urge to step back but decided he’d just have to burn the suit and shower thoroughly when he got back to his hotel. "Lookin' for a bit of rough, boy? Think you can handle it? You somethin' special? Like them prissy university fucks down the road?"
With some reluctance, none of it visible, Lindsey turned to his erstwhile admirer and he smiled. It was the smile he'd perfected working his way up through the ranks of Wolfram & Hart. In his pocket he touched the small amulet he'd packed for just such occasions. It was a cheap conjurers' trick, enhanced just a touch for that little extra kick, maybe the maggots were overkill, but they all had their failings. The reaction to the illusion was as entertaining as it was swift and his admirer fled the bar screaming, though Lindsey certainly hoped the barman didn't expect him to clean up the mess on the floor.
Lindsey glanced around to see the bar crowd returning to their drinks - his credentials established and the entertainment over for the time being. Sure that no-one else was going to approach without cause now, Lindsey stepped up to the bar and ordered a JD, scanning the crowd surreptitiously as he waited.
His drink arrived at the same time as the breath of nicotine flavoured air washed over the skin of his neck and cheek.
"Nice trick."
Lindsey turned without haste, giving himself time to take in the lanky frame, the open shirt collar and loose tie and the cigarette held negligently between long fingers. The dirty-blonde hair and blue eyes could have made the man attractive if he'd cared to make it so, but strangely that very lack of care was attractive in itself. "Mr Constantine, I presume."
A toothy grin, "Presumin's dangerous 'round here, mate."
Lindsey met the laughing blue eyes without hesitation and matched the grin with one of his own. "So I've been told. Drink?"
The grin flashed wider for a moment and Constantine nodded to the barman, "Guinness."
Lindsey pulled out his wallet and tossed his platinum card onto the bar, "Set up a tab."
The blue eyes narrowed fractionally, "Feelin' generous then?"
Lindsey picked up his drink and gestured to an out of the way table, "Not at all. It would be bad manners not to at least listen to the man who just bought your drinks for the evening."
A crooked grin appeared with a nod of the head as Constantine picked up his Guinness, "Oh I'm well-known for me manners - ask anyone."
Lindsey fought down a half-expected twinge of arousal at the careless charm and hid his own smile as he started to walk towards his chosen table, "I already did." It seemed the rumours were true, at least as far as the mage's sense of humour was concerned.
He waited until Constantine was seated before triggering the second amulet in his pocket, giving them the desired level of privacy, and watched as the blue eyes narrowed noticeably, but the man said nothing. Lindsey wasn't sure if he envied or pitied the man; the direct heir of one of the oldest magical families - magic wasn't what he did, it was what he was. It was ingrained in him, as vital yet unconsidered as a sense of smell, with all the advantages and drawbacks that entailed.
Lindsey slid his business card across the table, ignoring the grime it picked up with the simple motion; it garnered a glance, but no discernible reaction. "I'm told you're a man who knows how to make or break a deal."
A raised eyebrow and a sip of Guinness, but no response. Well that confirmed a few more reports - the man was hard to impress and harder still to intrigue. Time for stronger measures; it meant playing his hand earlier than he would have liked, but... Lindsey reached into his inside pocket and drew out the thick sheaf of papers it had taken no little risk to bring with him. He tossed them onto the table and this time he was pleased to see a slight widening of the blue eyes as long fingers snagged the papers, unfolding them just enough to be sure of what they were. Constantine leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette, taking a slow, contemplative draw as he fixed Lindsey with the blue eyes that had reportedly seen and faced down more than Lindsey himself had any wish to.
"And?" A lazy drawl of a question.
"And I want out." Lindsey sincerely hoped it wasn't apparent how fucking terrifying it was to actually voice those words, but he’d examined the angles and considered the odds and it was the only choice that left him any options at all. It was the mother of all calculated risks, but they had always been his forté.
Long fingers flicked the thick bundle of papers, "Dog-boy, goat-face and bambi? That takes more than balls, Mr MacDonald."
"Are you saying you can't or you won't?"
The crooked grin reappeared, "Oh, I can probably be persuaded - if you can make it worth my while."
The sudden-seeming acquiescence tripped alarm bells, even as Lindsey’s instincts proclaimed their victory. By all accounts, Constantine was a hard man with an impressive trail of dead behind him, but he got the job done. No coercion, no tricks, much as it had gone against the grain, playing it straight with this man was the only guarantee Lindsey had of not getting a knife in the back - at least until the deal was done. The mage was difficult to read, but this time Lindsey let his own response to that grin show. He was running on a gambler’s instinct and that told him he'd played his cards right - even if he hadn't won the game yet, he'd just been dealt an ace that no-one else knew about. Lindsey reached across the table, letting his fingers brush the nicotine-stained skin of his new partner as he retrieved the contract, meeting the blue eyes with unconcealed interest even as he masked the slight niggle of suspicion. "Not a problem Mr Constantine - shall we discuss the particulars somewhere more private?"
The cigarette was stubbed out in the already near-overflowing ashtray, blue eyes glittering with amusement, "I'm not doin' this by meself mate, you gonna prove you got the balls?"
Lindsey smiled and stood, "I thought that was what I just suggested?"
Constantine unfolded his lanky frame from the hard wooden chair, "So you did." He shrugged into his overcoat and offered his hand, "John."
His skin was dry and strangely warm, but the grasp was firm when Lindsey accepted his hand. It lingered perhaps just a little longer than necessary, but then he didn't let go either. "Lindsey," he offered in return. He had a good feeling about this.
The tiny church was far older than its more ostentatious and well-known neighbour, but St Julien le Pauvre had a comfortable, worn feeling, like the sneakers he’d had since college. Lindsey crossed the empty nave and headed for the confessional. He'd never been religious, though he'd been born in the Bible belt; it wasn't so much that ultimately he worked for demons, but that he was a lawyer. He wondered absently if that strange kind of institutional atheism was the same for stockbrokers. Nevertheless, religious or not, Lindsey no longer felt that working for demons was in his best interests – he wanted out and that was rather more complicated than simply handing in his notice. So now he was here, following the instructions of a man he'd spent the last week in London fucking.
Lindsey settled himself in the small wooden cubicle and leaned back, waiting. He remembered the last morning in London; they'd fucked late into the night, but he'd woken early... well, early by their recent standards, it had actually been about 10:30. Constantine had been sitting at the small table, smoking; he'd been bare-chested and his blonde hair had practically glowed in the morning sunshine as the smoke had coiled and wreathed around his head like a dirty halo. Constantine hadn't looked at him as he'd finally given Lindsey the information he needed, playing broker for what he couldn’t do himself. The expression on his face had said clearly that he wasn't sure this was such a good idea, but whether it was on his own account or Lindsey's was anybody's guess. Lindsey had left the UK by mid-afternoon.
He heard the door of the priest's cubicle open and close, and he waited.
"How can I help you, my son?"
The voice was of a strangely indeterminate accent, not French certainly, and the English was fluent, but there was an accent beneath that was hard to place. Lindsey opened his mouth to reply and hesitated; Constantine hadn't bothered seeing him off at Waterloo, but he'd gone as far as the nearest tube station and his eyes had been serious as he'd repeated one small piece of advice he'd given earlier. "Don't lie. Whatever you do, however tempting it is - tell the truth or you'll stand less chance than a house of cards in a hurricane."
Lindsey remembered the seriousness in those blue eyes and he revised his opening gambit. "I'm hoping you can, Father. I was told I would be able to contact Methos here."
Silence, but a thoughtful one.
"I would ask you who told you such a thing, my son, but I suspect you would not tell me." There was a faint, knowing amusement in the tone.
Lindsey smiled to himself, "You would be right, Father." Telling the truth was one thing, but giving away secrets was another thing entirely. "Can you help me?"
"Perhaps you will find the services here enlightening, my son, the times are printed outside the main doors. Go in peace."
Lindsey opened his mouth and shut it. He had time yet before his 'vacation' was over, he could afford to play the priest’s games for the time being. As he left the confessional and headed for the exit, he heard the confessional door open behind him and turned in time to see a middle-aged priest emerge. He was dressed more like a monk than a priest, or at least the priests Lindsey recalled from his childhood, or indeed from his clientele. Interesting.
Still, he took note of the services posted on the door and left to find a good bar; he'd known it most likely wouldn't be simple, but still the delay chafed.
Four days later and the delay was more than chafing; he'd attended every one of those damned services and had nothing to show for it, except a grudging respect for the hold the Catholic Church had on its congregation. He’d virtually taken up residence at a small café nearby, but aside from idly people watching, he’d not learned anything of significance, except enough French to get a pretty smile from the waitress and a free coffee and he could have done that without learning the language at all. Lindsey had also seen the priest a couple of times since then and put a name to the face, but Brother Darius it seemed was something of a politician and refused to be drawn on the subject of Lindsey's request.
He was due back at work tomorrow; Lindsey planned to catch an early flight in the morning, which left it as late as he could manage, but with the time-zone change it was still workable. It was more than annoying that he'd reached a dead end, but with only Darius' name and Church to go on there was little he could do to force the issue. He'd made a few speculative inquiries to Wolfram & Hart, Paris branch, but they had been irritatingly French with the ignorant colonial and the information had been minimal. At least, he knew more than simply the name of Constantine’s suggestion now.
It appeared that Methos was an Immortal of a somewhat peculiar variety which was monitored by an offshoot branch of Watchers, but he was also presumed long dead if not completely fictional. It left Lindsey little wiser, but he was more inclined to trust Constantine's knowledge than dusty records. Still, it was frustrating; part of him wondered if Constantine had simply conjured up something with just enough truth to it that Lindsey would be sure to chase after it. It would be like the man, and certainly it would save him the hassle of getting rid of Lindsey otherwise. It was a dark thought that had the faint, familiar scent of betrayal to it, but while he would not put it past the magician, the priest had leant an air of truthfulness to the whole thing that was hard to discount.
Sighing at his circular thoughts, Lindsey stepped from the steaming shower and wrapped a towel round his waist. The hotel room was slightly chillier than he preferred, but it was a side effect of the protective wards he’d put in place when he’d checked in. He’d kept them up even after he’d found that someone had been through his minimal luggage. It was hardly a surprise, especially after he’d contacted the Paris branch; the wards were standard Wolfram & Hart client confidentiality spells – they served to keep the unexpected intruders out, the expected ones he had his own methods of dealing with. More out of form than real anger he'd bitched at the concierge about the lack of hotel security, but the man had remained unflappable and Lindsey suspected it had been him. He'd have to look into it when he got back to LA, backstabbing was common in the ranks, he was sure he could arrange for an unfortunate accident for the man.
He unwound his towel and began to briskly dry off his hair when he felt the first sensation of being watched. None of his wards had gone off, in fact they were all still in place - interesting. He slowly lowered the towel and turned, mentally cataloguing the weapons he had within reach, from the gun in his jacket pocket to the equally lethal spell crystal in his bag. The room was as empty as when he'd entered the bathroom, but the sense of presence was growing stronger and he narrowed his eyes. A flicker caught out of the corner of his eye and his head whipped round - what had been perfectly normal shadows were beginning to coalesce and take shape. He watched, intrigued more than threatened, as they assumed a shape that was vaguely humanoid. Silver flickered and a pair of eyes opened before a hand reached out to touch the wall. Shadowy lines slid from the fingertips and crept up around the wall to the ceiling, branching out until the whole room was a webwork of darker than shadow lines. He was a lawyer, not a magician, but Lindsey recognised shielding magic well enough.
The voice, when it came, was not a surprise, the strange hissing that accompanied it equally expected. "You stink of the Constant One."
Lindsey felt his mouth twist in an unwilling smile, "That'd be the cigarettes."
A short bark of a laugh and Lindsey watched curiously as the shadow detached itself from the corner until it stood independent of source. The voice seemed to shift, one moment dryer than desert dust, the next richer than a chocolate bombe as it spoke again. "What do you want?"
Lindsey arched an eyebrow, "I assume I'm speaking to Methos - one way or another." Demon messengers were par for the course in his line of work, projections not uncommon, but this seemed neither, a familiar perhaps, though if so it was of a type he’d never seen before.
“One way or another,” the shadow echoed back to him in a voice disturbingly like his own. It flickered then, shape warping as if it were trying to become something else entirely before settling again into something not quite human. Lindsey shifted his weight carefully from one foot to the other as he considered his options, the shadow seemed indifferent and quite able to wait him out.
The truth, he reminded himself, and it already seemed to know where he’d come from. "Constantine said you might be able to help me. I want out of Wolfram & Hart."
A hissing sort of a laugh, "Constantine said,” it echoed back. “‘If you really want to fuck over dog-boy, goat-face and bambi, then Methos is your best bet.’” Lindsey managed not to let show how affected he was by this thing’s frighteningly accurate imitation of both himself and Constantine, but it took work. He wasn’t too comfortable with the accuracy of its choice of words either. He’d faced down demons that could have disembowelled him faster than he could blink, but this was somehow scarier – it made his skin crawl. Damned if he’d let it show though.
The thing shifted again, becoming a twisted Rorschach of shadow and darkness before settling into something that, from the right angle, looked like a man sitting cross-legged on the floor. This time the voice was virtually human, “Your contract?"
"In perpetuity."
Another laugh, like a crackling fire, then the creature seemed to explode upwards, losing cohesion as it did so, flickering wildly before becoming something vaguely snakelike. The voice was that desert-dry rasp again, "This will hurt. Resist and it will kill you."
Lindsey had no time to ask what as the creature streaked forward like black lightning, striking him full in the chest. It burned and froze, and he had no time to breathe, let alone fight as it burrowed inside him. It twisted and coiled along his synapses, burning his eyes from the inside out as his heart stuttered in his chest. Red-tinged darkness descended and Lindsey's last wry thought was that he’d kill that bloody English bastard next time he saw him.
***
Lindsey woke up the next morning, much to his own surprise. He was in bed, safe and sound, the wards were in place and there was no sign of whatever the hell it had been in his room last night. He half-expected his head to hurt, but it didn't, though it did feel vaguely cottony, like he'd slept too deeply and woken too soon. It was almost tempting to believe the whole thing had just been a particularly vivid dream, but he wasn't stupid. Also, there was a note, written in what looked oddly like his own handwriting. It was an answer, though not the one he'd hoped for, three simple words that left him trapped somewhere between frustration and despair. 'Go home, Lindsey'.
Constantine collected his whisky and tossed a fiver onto the bar, turning to scan the crowd as he waited for his change. Perfectly normal evening; patrons drinking, arguing, passing out. Blue eyes narrowed and he scanned the room again, pausing this time on a familiar arse, swaying slightly to the beat from the decrepit jukebox. Perfectly normal indeed - a housecall then, so to speak – lovely.
Not taking his eyes off the figure seemingly absorbed in the ancient one-armed bandit, he stretched his hand back for his change, feeling the weight of coins drop into his palm. He frowned, fingers flexing, and the dull clink of the ‘forgotten’ coin made him smile. Guy must be new: no-one tried that on him – at least not twice anyway.
Stuffing the silver into his pocket, Constantine ambled over, drink in hand. A few feet away he paused, taking in the worn jeans, loose sweater and battered hiking boots. Younger and cleaner than the pub’s usual clientele, but not enough to be noticeable – one of the city’s many students who had wandered off the beaten path. He spotted the open bottle of Stella on the shelf to one side.
“Shouldn’t leave an open bottle unattended like that mate – asking for trouble.”
There was a heavy thunk and the sliding rasp of loose change, then the man turned around, ignoring his less than glittering winnings. “Is that concern I hear?” asked with the smirk of someone who well knew the answer.
Constantine shrugged, “I just don’t wanna have to clear up the mess if some poor bastard tries it.”
That got a laugh, warm and ever so slightly suggestive. Long fingers snagged the bottle neck and Constantine determinedly ignored the motion of the long throat as the bottle was drained. There was a reason they usually kept their distance – tinder and fucking spark. A mis-timed flicker of eyes and blue met green and locked. Bugger.
The pub toilets were even less savoury than usual as he dragged the smug bastard through the door and walked him over to the far wall beneath the chicken-wire glass windows.
The old Immortal was looking up at him through his lashes as though butter wouldn’t melt, but this close... Oh, this close no amount of distraction and misdirection could hide it from someone like John. Raw power radiated off the lithe body, buzzing against his skin, making it first numb, then hyper-sensitive. He could feel his muscles tense on the verge of cramp even as his traitorous prick strained to attention.
For once, it wasn’t even the bastard’s fault; he could no more control it than John could control his sensitivity to it. Nimble fingers plucked the forgotten cigarette from his mouth and lips covered his before John thought to protest the theft. Nicotine, alcohol and tongue; liquid sin and he opened wider, drawing it out and retaking control. Methos’ skin was hot through the layers of his sweater and John’s shirt; body like a furnace, mouth hotter than hell and he should know.
They broke apart with a gasp, staggering slightly, faces flushed and dicks hard. Oh yes, there was a reason they stayed as far apart as international flights allowed.
A smile formed on swollen lips and John watched as his cigarette was raised to those lips and a long draw was taken. Bastard was stealing his fags too now.
Something of that thought must have shown on his face because Methos leaned closer then, smoke wreathing gently from his parted lips, likening him to a sleeping dragon. Frozen, John watched a hand come into view and fingertips gently brushed the hair from his face. It needed a wash and this was really no time to let himself get distracted by such ridiculous thoughts.
Lips ghosted over his own, the world spun and suddenly it was his own back to the cold tiles. No words but a grin just shy of satisfied as Methos sank slowly to his knees, absently tossing the cigarette aside. Oh. Fuck.
Deft fingers opened his belt and fly, easing him from the constriction of his boxers and he really hoped those had been clean on this morning, but for some reason he really couldn’t remember. A voice abruptly intruded on his mental static turning it briefly to panic; it was too loud, too close and wholly unfamiliar. He glanced over at the door and strangled a yelp as Methos chose that moment of inattention to swallow him whole.
“Hadn’t... hadn’t you better... take care of that?” he managed through forcedly even breaths. A glitter of eyes beneath dark lashes and shouting erupted from beyond the just-opening door, rising in volume and tone. If he was any judge at all then violence would soon be in the offing. The door swung shut again and he rolled his eyes, “You could have just locked the door.”
Methos drew off his cock with torturously slow suction to look up at him, amusement masquerading as annoyance. “If you’re not interested, all you had to do was say.”
Constantine growled; his spit-slick cock was hard enough to drive nails and chilling in the cool air. “Fucker.” Of course he was fucking interested and they both knew it. Hot, dirty sex with no demands and better yet, with someone who would not, could not die on him. John didn’t like to look too closely at that little detail and he doubted Methos did either, but it was enough to know that it was there – he could examine it if he wanted to, but it wouldn’t change a damn thing.
A warm tongue curled slickly around his balls and his fingers clawed uselessly at the smooth tile. Coherent thought vanished shortly thereafter.
***
John sagged in the loose embrace, drawing slow, stuttering breaths into his oxygen-starved lungs. The floor was cold and hard beneath his arse, but the body behind him was warm and quite unfeasibly comfortable. Warm breath tickled the back of his neck, a prelude to nuzzling that was not quite as out of character as either of them were ever likely to admit.
“Get thee behind me,” he murmured.
A chuckle and a sharp nip to his ear, “Maybe next time.” Then as if his words had presaged the end of this brief interlude, strong arms wrapped around his chest, dragging him upright as the Methos rose. With neither wall nor belt to keep them up, his trousers dropped gracefully to his ankles, his boxers caught up somewhere around his knees. He glanced down and then up at his companion with a long-suffering sigh. The smirk didn’t quite vanish, “That’s a good look on you,” said with a straight face and laughing eyes.
John bent down and dragged his trousers up, tucking himself away with some semblance of dignity. He gestured offhandedly at Methos, “Don’t I get the same chance to admire?”
That got an odd tilt and shrug of the shoulders, “Not this time.”
John frowned, usually these little meetings were followed by a couple of days of not leaving the bedroom, nevermind the flat. Well, except for that one memorable occasion on Tower Bridge. “Not in the mood?”
A rare flicker of sobriety crossed the angular features, “No.” Long fingers reached out, flattening and spanning his chest, counting ribs, “You’re not eating properly again.”
John raised an eyebrow, “Masterful change of subject there – you’re not my mother.” Not even close and what did Methos care about John’s eating habits anyway? ...Shit. “Who died this time?” Not the most tactful of questions, but tact had never been his forte - he should probably carry Government Health Warnings – for a lot of reasons really.
Green eyes flickered up and John found himself caught and held in their gaze. Around him he could feel the sort of groundswell of magic that grotty east end pubs weren’t supposed to have. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as he was used to, but reflex made him fight to free himself anyway.
He was suddenly, acutely aware that he had never really established Methos’ credentials in the hierarchy of gods and monsters with which they were both so familiar. It had always seemed both invasive and unnecessary. He doubted Methos would give a straight answer anyway, but then again he might, he was unpredictable like that. John asked for favours and information and Methos provided – there was one hell of a tab building up somewhere, but that was pretty much the story of his life. Methos had never called due...
Constantine blinked, and though it took real, conscious effort he stopped struggling to hold his defences. The look of surprise on Methos’ face was almost comical, but he recovered quickly enough. There was too much to take in beyond the sheer vastness of it all; it was like trying to hug the ocean in the split second before it drowned you. John hadn’t the time to flinch as strong hands shot up and cupped his face, lips brushed across his gently and then just as swiftly retreated, taking the overwhelming tide with them. And as easily as that Methos seemed once again no more than the student he appeared to be.
The whole exchange couldn’t have taken more than a few brief seconds. Scrambling for composure, John shook a cigarette from his packet and dug in his pocket for his lighter. Frustrated when it didn’t immediately drop into his hand he went for the other pocket; a tiny popping hiss made him look up to meet Methos’ amused eyes through a tiny curl of smoke. He went near cross-eyed trying to see the end of his fag, until it occurred to him to take it out of his mouth. The cigarette tip continued to glow happily despite his glare; he shook his head, dispelling the notion, and stuck it back between his lips as he shook another cigarette from the packet. He’d have to get some more on the way home; he’d need them if he was going to think at all about what had just happened. He lit it off the first and offered it, almost as surprised by the gesture as he was by Methos’ acceptance. There was something vaguely obscene about the way Methos slid the cigarette between his lips, but they’d already been there this evening and he refused to be flustered a second time. At least not anywhere that didn’t have a bed.
Some kind of conversation seemed vaguely appropriate at this point, but he’d never been adept at small talk. “Did the Yank find you in the end?” That had been fun, but Wolfram & Hart weren’t known for their ability to share and he hadn’t liked to play those odds for too long, however confident Lindsey had been. Still, it had been good while it lasted and he even missed the man in an odd sort of way, but John was rather more attached to living than making friends.
Methos blew a thin stream of smoke up into the air and nodded, “I kept him; he’s got potential.”
“And his ability to give the filthiest blow job known to man had nothing to do with it?”
Methos laughed, “Couldn’t say, though I did wonder why you bothered with him in the first place - and you give yourself too little credit.”
John shrugged, “You’re welcome to collect.” The prospect was actually something to look forward to; his bed had been rather empty of late and there was always something vaguely satisfying and reassuringly non-magical about reducing Methos to a tangle of satiated limbs.
Methos’ responding smile was as warm and genuine as Constantine had ever seen. “I will, sooner or later. You know me, I like to choose my moment.”
Constantine blinked in vague suspicion at Methos’ meaning, the words echoing slightly off the tiles as the door swung shut with a creak. Bastard. Well, he shrugged, he supposed that made two of them.
Epilogue
Lindsey jerked awake with a gasp. He'd half expected it; he'd seen what had happened to Lilah and he supposed it had probably been a vain hope to think that his last stand with Angel would have annulled his contract, tattoos or no. Still, Lorne had been a surprise.
"I'm impressed, Mr MacDonald."
Lindsey blinked, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows; there was a man lounging indolently in the shadowed chair opposite, apparently having entertained himself by watching Lindsey revive. There was something faintly familiar about him. His dark hair was a bit ruffled, his tie was crooked, and a cigarette dangled from between long fingers; the sight, the smell and the sheer arrogance made Lindsey unforgivably nostalgic. But it wasn’t John Constantine and that 'vacation' hadn't gone at all according to plan. In the end he’d had to make his own attempt at circumventing the contract, which had apparently gone less than well, if his current state was anything to go by.
Lindsey clambered awkwardly to his feet, they'd be coming for him soon, even with whatever damage Angel had managed to inflict on Wolfram & Hart - there was always more. Always, always more and no escape, not for him. Given that he’d made his position clear, he somehow didn’t think it was too likely that they’d reinstate him in his previous job, and he didn’t really want to think of what they could do to someone who couldn’t die a second time. He was trapped like a rat, except rats at least could die their way out. Shit.
"I thought you had potential, but so many never follow through." The voice interrupted Lindsey’s less than optimistic thoughts as the man stood. Lindsey realised he had appropriated Lindsey's sword, it was held negligently, but also with a certain amount of familiarity. "They can't keep up and end up dead by the wayside, or they backpedal as fast as their little legs can carry them, running to the big bad that they so nearly betrayed, never realising that they'll be dead or worse within the year because they can never again be relied upon."
Lindsey looked at the man blankly and he smiled, "The tattoos are a nice touch, but sadly they do need to be on *living* flesh. A for effort though.”
There was a loud bang outside and Lindsey flinched; a door slamming, open or shut didn't matter, they were coming for him. Wolfram & Hart did not let go of valuable resources as the hit squad that burst into the room testified to. Lindsey looked around, hoping Lorne had left his gun somewhere nearby; he had no intention of just giving in – after all what could he possibly lose now?
"Lindsey Macdonald," the voice was heavily distorted by the mask, "Your presence is required."
A low chuckle, "Ah, civility, where would we be without it? Oh yes, I remember."
Guns rose in the direction of the previously ignored stranger who grinned and stepped back into the shadows in the corner of the room which seemed to grow suddenly darker still. The voice when it came was curiously disembodied, "Sometimes, I do like the old ways best.”
For a brief moment, Lindsey thought he saw a gleam of silver eyes, then pale hands moved in the shadows and the smouldering cigarette traced a graceful arc towards the lead man. Lindsey wasn't sure if the man was a vampire or not, but quite frankly it hardly mattered given the way he went up quicker than a roman candle.
He may have been recently deceased, but his instincts were still spot on; Lindsey dived out of the firing line and watched as the bullets flew, faster, but less effective it seemed than the sword Lindsey himself had carried. The stranger seemed almost to be moving in graceful slow motion as he advanced on the squad, ignoring the bullets that hit or missed alike. The silver streak became a red one as it seemed that wherever the sword’s arc ended it met flesh. Lindsey watched, stunned, he knew he was good with a sword, but this… It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two before the deafening gunfire echoed into silence and the thud of the last body hit the floor.
The stranger’s grin had a kind of wild joy to it as he stood in the centre of a circle of corpses, panting lightly after the brief exertion, “I haven't done that in *ages*". He seemed awfully pleased with himself and for a moment, he looked all of about 17 years old. Something nagged at the back of Lindsey’s brain as the man turned towards him, something...
“Paris is all well and good, but LA definitely corners the market on excitement."
Paris? Lindsey blinked - twice. And he remembered the young man he'd seen in the café near St Julien’s that he'd frequented and he remembered absently wondering whether he would be worth the effort of picking up. Fuck. The smile turned predatory, "Oh, I'm always worth the effort."
Lindsey ignored the obvious bait and picked himself up for the second time that evening, dusting himself off to buy time to think. He met the green eyes steadily, “Methos, I presume?”
Methos grinned, but there was an edge to it and to his voice, “Hasn’t anyone ever told you how dangerous it is to presume?” Lindsey watched the Immortal casually drop the sword onto the corpses, seeing the same grace in the lean body that he had in the fight. Power and arrogance, confidence not at all misplaced and a grin like a game of Russian roulette. Constantine had been right, Methos was dangerous in oh so many more ways than the obvious.
Paradoxically, Lindsey relaxed, this was one game he knew how to play, dead or not, “It may have been mentioned - once upon a time.”
Methos’ grin broadened at the seemingly offhand response and there was an odd kind of approval in his tone, “Bright boy.”
Lindsey glanced around the room at the wreckage and for the first time in years he felt the weight of fate lift from his shoulders. He’d played the longshot and he’d won; the details could be worked out later, but right now - he was free. He turned his head to see the green eyes surprisingly close, still glittering with adrenaline and wild victory, and his smile came unbidden. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Lindsey paused, considering, “Wanna fuck?”
And Methos’ eyes were laughing when he kissed him.
Fin
12th May 2007
Comments very much appreciated.
*hed explodes with squee*
You already know how much I love this story but it never hurts to say it again :)
Re: *hed explodes with squee*
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Methos is some *badass*, that is too frickin' cool!
I wish I knew Hellblazer so I'd know more, I'm only familiar with HL and BtVS/Angel.
I have nothing useful to say, just...oooooooooh.
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I started this with only vague knowledge of some of the characters, certainly not as much as I usually feel necessary to write about them. Suffice it to say though, that Constantine really would fit right in with those two ;-)
Glad you liked it and I suspect this 'verse is a bit too much fun to leave alone for long, though I really must work on some other fics as well.
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I do like the old ways best
You had many good lines, but this was definitely the one that made me laugh out loud.
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I'm glad you liked the story, I had fun writing it :-)
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There needs to be more Kronosporn, I shall have to remedy this, I was working on something that stalled rather - I shall have to get back to it ;-)
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And I just realised I have not friended you yet - do you mind if I do?
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...And HL fans should never mock phallic symbols ;)
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That probably won't last long ;-)
...And HL fans should never mock phallic symbols ;)
I wouldn't dream of it - speaking as someone who owns 3 bokken, although in all fairness 2 of those were gifts - not sure if that makes it better or worse ;-)
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