#buggeringme

At first, when he'd had enough sleep to notice the white box sitting on the camper's couch by his feet, John had done what he'd thought was the polite thing and informed his landlady, doubting it was meant to be his. Assuming it'd been forgotten or something. The old woman had returned to the Airstream in the late afternoon after a day's work, doubtful. She had taken a glance at the box, admitting to not knowing when it had even arrived and confirming it hadn't been left behind by the previous user. Before pointing out the obvious fact that there was a note attached to it. She picked it up, giving it a cursory glance and confirmed it was meant to be his. And John had gingerly taken it, read it and chuckled. Of course, somehow, the old man had known where to find him before he'd even gotten there. Trust Batman to have his ways, aye? Almost as mysterious as God's...

John had read the note then, felt a weight lodge in his throat upon reading the few words scrawled in geezer's handwriting, almost able to hear his voice and then remembered he had an audience. So John had refocused his attention on the old lady, apologising for making her come for nothing and earning himself an indulgent chuckle as she patted his cheek before seeing herself out. Politely, John had followed and watched her walk towards her house, further up from the beach, small dot of stability in his otherwise uncertain horizon. Then he returned inside the camper and returned to the box, finding himself unable to open it. For some unexplainable reason. Lips pursing, the blond put away the box for the evening, focusing instead on cooking himself an actual meal. His first in a while. And after a good shower, he'd all but comatosed his way back into bed.

Next morning he was basically traipsing around Hell to pick up some kids far too good at getting into trouble. Then a minute later, he was in Star City like a dutiful fake boyfriend, or like a well-meaning friend of sorts really. And then he found himself in Metropolis somehow? To willingly walk into a building on fire as well. All that for a friend who hadn't even told him her full name until well into a month of knowing him, needing to be certain he wasn't a fae of sorts and could be entrusted with it. And then, sure, he was back to Florida. But by then, the box had sat unoped for a while. Unintentionally forgotten but not unappreciated, Bruce's note tacked to his fridge with a magnet, a polaroid picture of hedgehog Silky taken by some kids and Zee's letter he never found it in himself to respond to for sole competition.

So when Terry eventually informed him via some informal text, John didn't take it particularly personal, just sat on his couch, a nod in his throat and tears welling in his eyes as he recalled their final conversations, recalled an increasingly mellow Bruce just knowing the sort of love he wanted, with the marriage and the building a home was just out of hands for him and begging John, broken as he was, to stay, so neither of them would be alone...

And a part of him, the mean part that loved to twist that sort of knife, had him wondering. Wondering if it all could have been avoided had he been a better person, a person able to trust, a person who'd have stayed? For what though?

Would Bruce have loved him? Would he have loved him truly? Fully? If he had let him? Would he-would-what was the point? He was dead now. It was all dead anyway. John Constantine was meant to be an ending note in most people's life, mentioned in passing, never so definitive, so important. The type of selfish bastard who'd make somebody else's death about his own pain and sorrows... Somehow...

Because at the moment all John could feel was a building anger, at Bruce for being, somehow, lonelier than him, for dying when John had expressedly told the Bat not to go dying on him, on them, really, all the people who didn't want to have to figure out how to live the rest of their lives without him in it. And now would have to anyway...

Wiping away the quiet tears that had rolled down his cheeks and the wetnet at the tip of his nose, John went to retrieve the bottle of fancy champagne he'd confiscated from rowdy kids on the beach earlier today who kept yelling 'champagne shower' at random women before dousing them, thinking it was befitting. He read the unknown label: "Armand de Brignac, Blanc de Blancs..." He chuckled. French. Surely fancy. Such a waste on a bunch of yuppie cunts whose first reflex when told to stop being violating arsehole was to namedrop their daddies like the names were supposed to mean something to John. The exorcist hadn't cursed anyone in a hot minute, especially with bowel issues, but oh well, it was good to know he was still capable.

"Come on Silks." The blond declared, bottled in a hand and picking up his cat with the other before struggling a little to open the door of the camper. Constantine installed the curious critter in the chair next to his before sitting down and undoing the cork of the champagne in a soft pop, a little dripping down to the side. John shook his wet fingers who'd been holding the bottle. "To you, old man." He declared, in his most neutral accent, voice quiet, reverent. And poured some alcohol in the sand, a sort of offering. "A hell of a fighter, a hell of a kisser." John declared before taking a long sip of the alcohol. And another swig, tipping his head back and feeling the bubbles go up his nose. "Shit." This wasn't alcohol to get cheaply drunk on aye? Had to be savoured or something...

Silky meowed, curious, front paws on the edge of its own seat and John indulged the cat scritches underneath its chin, leading to soft purs. "D'ye mind if we stay out for a while like this, mate?" John asked, pausing and the cat merely blinked slowly, quiet, unbothered. "Alright then." John put the bottle down and brought Silky to his own lap, letting the cat resettle comfortable and ending up petting its head as he watched the sun disappear and the night envelop it all, feeling oddly numb.

How much loss did it take before it stopped hitting like a truck? John couldn't quite tell...

Eventually, the night grew cold, and John, holding a sleepy Silky headed back inside, expensive champagne bottle forgotten where it stood, standing upright, half burried in the sand for stability. John brought Silky to the feet of the bed, where the cat liked to settle and eventually moved to the white gift box, finally ready to open it. Eyes growing prickly at the mere sight, the exorcist powered through, carefully undoing the lace ribbon holding it close before opening it. The blond chuckled, picking up the glittery reusable water bottle. Experimentally, he sprayed some of the cologne on his wrist an inhaled sharply at the familiar scent profile, though it wasn't exactly Bruce's, no, it seemed to be a blend that felt more him, more John, with notes of a gone's friend's embrace.

As for the leather get up, John only managed to take out the leather jacket, suddenly reminded of a younger, spunkier, and far less jaded kid eager to stand on stage with his band, their tour taking them to Newcastle... John put the garment on, a little amused by the spikes and chains and other punk rock detailing. It felt both very befitting and like somebody else's... His in another life... Perhaps then, in that other life, he and the old man would've had more time...

But this wasn't another life. So John would have to find a way to make that jacket his, to honour Bruce's gift. And willingly wear the reminder of another lost friend with pride.

divider credits.