#firendship

“I’m just having a drink,” he said, holding up a glass of stout as evidence. A pitcher of the dark liquid was on the table in front of him, and Zari could see it was more than half-empty.

“Well, I’m glad you stuck around and are still… relatively sober,” she said.

“Oh, yeah, why’s that?”

“Because I’ve made my decision.” She paused a moment. “I’m leaving. I’ll go back into the totem.”

“Will you now? What about dear old Nate?”

“He understands. If I stay, Behrad will die. Nothing more to say.”

“So, a life for a life, then, is it? I’ve heard that tale before.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, growing tired of his barbs. “I’d say it’s more like two lives for mine, maybe even three. Behrad…’your’ Zari…and you.”

“My soul is still damned to Hell, love.”

“But this other me, she makes you happy, doesn’t she?”

Throughout their conversation, she had kept one hand behind her back, and now he motioned for her to turn around.

“What are you hiding there?” he asked, trying to peer around her.

It was an obvious attempt to change the subject, and Zari simply shifted her body to remain facing him. “You should be celebrating, John. Not drinking yourself into unconsciousness.”

“Either way gets me the same result, love. Anyway, I’m rubbish at goodbyes.”

Zari raised her eyebrows at him. “So, this is about me?”

He began to take long swallows of his drink, and she grimaced. John’s trench coat was off, draped over the back of his chair, and the black stout contrasted sharply against his white shirt. Only after Constantine had drained his glass did he speak again. “If you’re going, we’d best get this over with, eh?”

Tomaz squared her shoulders, urging herself to do what she had come to do. “Just... do me a favor.” Zari plopped onto the chair next to him and held up the Polaroid camera she had been hiding behind her back. “Smile.”

He blinked and then the meaning of her request cut through his alcohol-induced fog. He managed a smile and Zari took their photo.

Before the picture had finished developing, she set it and the camera on the table and stood up. “Everyone else is waiting for me,” she explained, not meeting his eyes. “I—I have to go,” she finished breathlessly. She left the kitchen and didn’t look back, didn’t see John following her with his eyes as he tucked the photo into his pants pocket.

---

That night, long after he had seen the team scatter in different directions aboard the ship without the original Zari, Constantine was still awake.

He had retreated to the library, where he took the Polaroid photo from his pocket and stared at it. Silently, he could admit to himself that he hardly looked his best in it. His shirt was wrinkled and his hair was sticking out in different directions from the wear and tear of their last mission and his drinking. Still, his tie was in place—however, loosely—and he had a hand on Zari’s left shoulder, which was closest to him.

They were both smiling, and the light from the camera flash made their eyes shine bright. If Behrad had seen it, he might have teasingly asked if they were crying. But John wouldn’t let him see it. This was for him alone, a gift from Zari, just as the photo of him with his mother had been.

After hiding the photo safely away among his possessions, he wandered into the game room and found Behrad asleep on the couch. On impulse, John picked up a fallen throw and draped it over Behrad’s body. The young man stirred, his left arm hugging the throw to his chest, but he didn’t awaken.

“You’ve gotten soft,” Constantine muttered to himself, recalling Astra’s words. As if in response, the Air Totem on Behrad’s exposed wrist glowed red for a moment, and John let out a chuckle.