ACxDC Desmond/Constantine | Drabble inspire by this post by @theyaregayyourhonor!
Desmond's hand clutches at empty air where, a mere moment ago, it'd fisted the silk of Constantine's tie and reeled him in. The empty hand closed around nothing, flexed, released. Again, small muscular tensing and relaxing, before it unclutched completely.
It was always like this.
Constantine was among the more regular of his patrons which, if he was being frank, he never would have expected from the man if he'd met him in any other way. If he'd met him when he was still alive, and still himself. Fully himself.
Instead, he was a fragment of Desmond Miles that had carved out a piece of unreality for himself, a part of the Grey between dimensions, in the moment that the Isu and their Calculations should have burnt him to cinders in willing - if by virtue of being fated - sacrifice.
Somehow, that piece of unreality had manifested as this - this bar, this sanctuary for the souls of those who were on the verge of incalculable loss at the hands of world-ending events of every persuasion.
He'd always had an inordinate number of visitors from Constantine's universe. Practically every member of his little coalition of heroes had graced the stools of his bar, dazed and disoriented by peace. Desmond did as he always did - as he had for some imperceptible stretch of time, now - he served them a drink or a snack or even just a few minutes' low-stakes conversation. Then they left.
Desmond didn't send them on their way; they left under the volition of whatever force brought them to him in the first place. He didn't think they remembered their visits, either, if his experiences with repeat patrons were anything to go by.
Except Constantine.
The Brit was - hot, obviously. Obviously. He had the grizzled flair of a consummate asshole, his choice of drink was usually just short of actual paint thinner, and clearly the heroing gig was enough to keep anyone fit, even a magician drunkard.
And that was all that he had been, to Desmond, at first. A patron, if an attractive one. One to serve and then lose, and wonder if this one would end up a regular, or if Constantine's universe was the sort that only tended to have the one real cataclysm every few generations.
Sure, Constantine had made him laugh. And - sure, when Desmond had complied with the request to fill up the man's flask, rather than serve him a real cocktail, their hands had brushed and Constantine had smiled at him in a way that reminded him of the best of nights at Bad Weather.
But Desmond hadn't expected anything to come of it. That was until Constantine came back, and he very clearly remembered Desmond.
The Laughing Magician kept coming back, and kept remembering, and kept flirting, until one day they'd finally given in and gotten their hands on each other -
Fuck, but it actually sort of stung, the sinking realization that if Desmond were to have anything with Constantine, it would only be stolen moments on the very edges of death and destruction for gods-knew how many. If Desmond were a decent person, he'd wish to never see Constantine again.
It would be better for more than just the two of them, if he didn't.
But life - or afterlife, or whatever complicated sort of state of existence Desmond was in - continued. More patrons came and went. Desmond tried to slyly ask some of the ones from Constantine's universe about him when they came in, but they didn't give away much and Desmond had more tact than to make them spend their few moments of peace indulging his crush.
He had a crush. It was so embarrassing. It was even more so because he didn't see Constantine again, not for a long time. When he saw someone named Dinah and dared to ask after him, she gave him a tight-lipped smile and simply said that Constantine was getting help.
Desmond had almost resigned himself to never seeing him again. Had begun to fade into the routine again, had lost that spark that had drawn him out of his - perhaps endless - bar shift and back into himself, even if only by inches.
Then a strange woman who, to look at her, he would have assumed to be a stage magician, appeared in his bar.
She didn't blink into existence seated on a stool or at a booth or table like his usual patrons did. No, she used the door.
No one had ever used the door.
"Okay," she said, before he could so much as react. She strode up to his bar, heels making a staccato velcro noise on the sticky bar floor with each step. "I cannot take one more day of Connie's mooning, so I am doing this one favor -"
"Um - how can I - Connie?" he stammered, then his jaw snapped shut when she slapped down a paper in front of him.
"A contract," she said without introduction. "To give Constantine the right to summon you from this personal pub dimension of yours for up to twenty-four hours at a time, once very lunar cycle. It was the best I could do, since contracts aren't really my thing."
"A - contract?"
She snorted. "Yes. Are you signing or not?"
A beat. Desmond glanced down, scanned the paper in front of him. He'd never really been big on documents or legalese, nor had he very really been able to reel in his impulses - see the motorcycle incident for proof - and, well, he wanted.
He really, really wanted to see Constantine again. He wanted his own moments of reprieve and comfort, and if that was to be in the arms of a handsome magician?
There were worse fates.
He accepted the pen that the top-hatted magician offered him and happily signed.
