#hellweek

Hellweek day 6: Autumn

hellweek day 2: ships.

It's day/month btw

Some HCs to go with this!! TW for medical neglect, child neglect, and parentification

HELLWEEK DAY ONE: Childhood

John looked at his watch with a frown.

He knew he was late, he’d planned to be at Ray’s before the sun went down, but things never went to plan when he needed them to.

The street was dark, only the lamplight to greet John as he opened the door to Ray’s building and let himself inside. No lights were left on in the business to greet him, even though he’d called Ray and told him he’d be coming. No music or sounds of the telly in the distance, and no Ray muttering to himself as he puttered around and put things where they belonged.

Unsettling, seeing Ray’s shop without a soul in it. He always had someone hanging about, keeping him company, more than a few of the local undesirables found their way under his protective eye. As a local elder gay, he considered it his duty to shepherd lost lambs when the opportunity arose. John would be jealous if he didn't know that he was the favorite.

“Ray?”

John called up the stairs toward the door to Ray’s flat and was greeted by the sound of his dog, Johnny’s, angry chuffs.

“Ray? Hullo? It’s John!”

Johnny barked this time, clearly upset by something, and John felt dread wash over him.

He made his way up the stairs and let himself in with the spare key Ray made sure he had on hand for bad nights or if he was just in the area and wanted to pop in. The entryway was dark, but John could see a small, dark shadow come barreling toward him as it let out several aggravated barks before spinning in a circle at his feet.

“Hey, mutt. Where’s Ray?”

Fuck. John didn’t like dogs and Johnny didn’t like John, but Ray hardly ever left Johnny alone, especially now that he was an elder dog. He’d named the dog after John to tease him, but his girls at the drag club liked it so much that it stuck, by John’s next visit, Johnny knew his name too well for John to issue a proper complaint.

The place was pitch dark, much like the store below, but at least the windows below had let the streetlamps light through. For whatever reason, Ray had closed all the curtains and made the place as dark as he could manage.

Ray never closed the curtains.

He didn’t leave Johnny in the dark, the little corgi didn’t like it, and John didn’t like it either. With Ray being so frail, especially this time of the year, John had horrible nightmares about the man tripping when he couldn’t see and falling down those stairs or hitting his head on a corner or on the floor. Twisting an ankle and not being checked on soon enough. He knew that Ray wasn't in need of constant care, but the thought of Ray being alone all the time, especially when he needed people, made him worry.

Hand against the wall to keep himself steady, John followed the shuffle of little paws on carpet and the sound of unhappy whining until they reached the sitting room. A sliver of light from the slight gap in the curtains illuminated Ray, sitting still in his brown leather armchair by the fireplace.

Johnny scampered quickly to Ray and awkwardly got on his back legs to put his paws on Ray’s knee. Johnny looked back at John and gave two sharp barks before he whimpered loudly.

“Oh hell.”

Ray had bottle and an empty scotch glass on the little table, next to a picture of himself and Sgt. Bill from right before the Falklands, a lovely shot that made John’s chest ache every time he saw it after Ray’d had it developed.

Taken just before the word that Bill’s ship, Sir Galahad, had been bombed. Ray had never smiled like that after.

Head soft, heart racing, John stepped forward.

“Ray?”

His chin was against his chest. His eyes were closed.

The bottle was mostly empty.

John came over and knelt next to Johnny to get into Ray’s line of sight.

He felt Ray’s wrist for a pulse, mouth trembling as he pressed into Ray’s soft skin.

It was there still, and strong.

Thank god.

John took a few breaths and blinked back the pressure that’d started to build behind his eyes.

“Ray? Ray, it’s John. Wake up.”

Ray was alive.

“Hmm?”

Ray’s eyes fluttered as he slowly, so, so slowly, lifted his head.

“Oh, dear. I must have dozed off.”

Johnny yipped loudly and pawed at his knee. Ray reached out to scratch his ears, hardly looked in John’s direction as he soothed the unhappy pup.

“I’m so sorry, Johnny. Poor boy.”

“You alright, Ray?”

Ray nodded slowly as his hand moved to scritch under Johnny’s chin.

“It was a hard day, that’s all. You know how things get.”

A hard day.

Yeah, the week before the anniversary was always hard. That was why John was in London in the first place.

“You scared me, Ray. Scared Johnny, too.”

“Oh, poor Johnny, my poor, poor boy.”

Ray let out a pitiful noise as he reached out to pat his pooch on the head. Johnny whimpered again and Ray frowned.

John didn’t know what to do for the man. He loved Ray more than anything, the man who’d taken him in when he’d had nothing, who’d supported his dreams and wanted nothing but for John to be happy and cared for. Who'd loved him like family and didn't turn him away when John'd acted up and out.

He'd been there when John was at his absolute lowest. There was no way in hell that John wouldn't be there for Ray in his hour of need.

John ran his thumb over the back of Ray’s hand, tried to soothe whatever demons had come to rest in his heart while John was away, to prove to Ray that John was there for him and he wasn’t alone in this, no matter how much it hurt.

Ray pulled his hand away.

“Would you mind taking Johnny for a quick walk? It’s been hours and I’m quite tired.”

It wasn’t a request made lightly, Ray knew that John and Johnny didn’t like each other, the dog had pissed on his shoes on more than one occasion and nipped at him plenty since Ray had picked him up, but…

Well, John wasn’t going to make Ray walk down the stairs in the dark when he was in his pajamas and robe, probably still drunk, and not in a good mind to be out and about. He got up and pressed a kiss to Ray’s temple.

“Sure, let me turn the light on for you first. Close your eyes.”

He waited a beat before he turned the switch and Ray’s reading lamp dimly lit the room with enough of a glow that John could confidently leave Ray to his business. Ray’s hand immediately covered his eyes and he grimaced.

“Ugh.”

“Just sit and let them adjust, I’ll take Johnny for a walk and then I’ll help you to bed.”

John clicked his fingers and started toward the front door, where Johnny’s leash hung, waiting.

“C’mon, mutt. I know you know what the word walk means.”

The dog let out a pitiful whimper, but trotted along after John to the door and let John hook his leash to his collar without even snarling or snapping once, an improvement on their usual relationship.

It was funny, the both of them were quite jealous of Ray’s affection and didn’t enjoy sharing, but they could get along when Ray needed them.

Normally, John knew that Ray walked Johnny slowly around the neighborhood, letting him toddle and sniff and go as slowly as his old doggy hips desired. Instead of a long meander around the neighborhood, Johnny went to the little grass patch and did his business, before he immediately started back to the building, tugging on the leash as he tried to pull John faster.

“You’re worried, aren’t you?”

Johnny huffed as he looked back at John.

“Yeah, mutt. I’m worried, too.”

Johnny hardly let John get the leash off before he ran off down the hall, making loud little doggie noises.

Ray was still in his chair.

He’s started to shiver, the familiar motion to his shoulders of sobs kept quiet to avoid attention, and his head was in his hands. Johnny settled himself on Ray’s feet and started making soothing, rumbling doggy noises.

A scrapbook on the floor caught John’s eye.

Ray was in the clipping business, he had all sorts of things plucked and preserved, saved for later and organized. It wasn’t unusual for Ray to have scrapbooks around. Bill was big on photography in his spare time, and Ray always said that pictures preserved things. Anything recorded wasn’t truly gone.

It was unusual for it to be fallen onto the floor with pages bent, though.

John picked up the book and immediately grimaced at the contents. He didn't know what he'd expected, but he'd hoped it was pictures of the two of them, Ray and Bill, or something like his girls at the drag club.

“He burned on that ship.”

Instead, it was an entire scrapbook of newspaper articles, carefully collected over years, depicting the entirety of the Falklands war. A mention of the upcoming anniversary of the bombing of Sir Galahad in today’s paper was the last thing inside.

“Don’t do this to yourself, Ray.”

John put the book down on the mantle over the fireplace and grimaced at it.

Ray developed a fear of fire and aged a decade overnight when Bill died, his hair turned fully grey, his skin seemed too thin on his hands. He was still handsome and charming as always, but frail in a way John had never imagined him to be, never expected. It took his girls two years to make him comfortable with the fireplace again, which he needed, because the winters were so, so cold in that little flat above the shop.

It wasn’t cold enough to need it yet, but…

“I worried every day. Wished I could write to him, but you know how things are for us. His unmarried, bachelor roommate sending him letters so often? It would have been devastating to his reputation.”

John lifted Ray’s hand and kissed his knuckles.

“I know. Ray, he knew you loved him.”

“Not enough. Never enough.”

No, it wasn’t enough, was it? Could never be enough, when the person you loved with your whole heart and soul was so far gone from you.

“Don’t do that, Ray. Bill wouldn’t like you doing this to yourself, being angry and mourning him and hurting yourself while doing it. This isn’t how he wanted you to love him.”

Ray sobbed and John pressed Ray’s hand firmly between his own, in his best attempt to offer comfort as he knew how.

As Ray had taught John to do when he had been hurting.

“C’mon, Ray, let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

“Yes. Bed. I am quite tired.”

John helped Ray to his feet and used himself as a support for Ray to lean on. He glanced over his shoulder at the album propped on the wall and turned his head to John’s shoulder.

“Perhaps…perhaps it’s best if you took that somewhere else. I shouldn’t stare at that ship any longer, I think.”

“I think that’s a good idea. Out of sight for the time being, you don’t need it right now.”

Johnny wuffed and led the way down the hall to Ray’s bedroom as the two slowly followed behind.

It was hard seeing Ray like this. When they’d first met, Ray sang and danced on stage in heels, he taught John to ballroom dance. He was vibrant and full of light that seemed to fill any room he entered without effort.

The fire in him had gone dim and John didn’t know if he was even capable of stoking that fire or if he was just going to make it worse.

Ray’s bedroom was simple. A bed large enough for just himself, a lamp, a dressing table, and a wardrobe, but since the last time John had been in the room, Ray had added had a small, carpeted ramp next to it that John didn’t fully understand.

Until Johnny toddled his fat little arse over to it and shuffled up onto Ray’s bed.

“When did you get that?”

“Tish got it for me.”

John took Ray’s robe and helped him get under the covers, tucked him in and kissed his knuckles again as Johnny wobbled over and flopped down right against Ray’s side.

“If I’d known you let the dog sleep with you, I’d have wiped his feet before he got into bed.”

Ray smiled as Johnny chuffed and snuggled in close, his head rested on Ray’s shoulder as he closed his eyes, contented.

“I’ll get bedding washed tomorrow.”

John snorted and shook his head.

“You mean, I’ll get the bedding washed. Can’t believe you let the mutt sleep with you when he’s a perfectly good and stupidly fancy dog bed right there.”

“Well, someone has to keep me company.”

John smiled and leaned over to kiss the center of Ray’s forehead.

He loved this man with his whole heart.

Hated his pain in equal measure.

Despaired that he could not soothe this man who he loved so dearly.

“Yeah, well, he’s lucky you put up with him. Stray like him knows when he’s got it made.”

Ray let out a worried noise and started to sit up.

“I didn’t put out any bedding.”

“Ray, hush. I’m a grown man, perfectly capable of getting myself a spare blanket. You just rest, don’t worry about taking care of me. I’ll handle breakfast.”

“You’ll burn down my flat making toast is what you’ll do.”

“I’ll order in.”

Ray sniffled and hid a sob in a laugh as Johnny wuffed at them again.

“Shall I leave the hall light on for you?”

Ray shook his head.

“Too much like flames on a bad night. Johnny’s been out and I can navigate by touch, I’m fine. I prefer the darkness these days.”

John smoothed the blankets and tried not to worry. Ray didn’t like fire, but he’d always kept at least one light on in the hall, always kept something lit in case anyone needed to come in, in case they needed him.

But when he needed someone else, he turned the lights out.

“Okay. You get some rest and in the morning I’ll feed you and get your bedding to the launderette.”

“Goodnight, John.”

“G’night, Ray.”

Johnny chuffed and Ray reached out to put his hand on Johnny’s head.

“Yeah, yeah, g’night to you too, mutt.”

John would dispose of the scrapbook somewhere that neither Ray nor Johnny would stumble across it. No sense in Ray looking at pictures of that ship and imagining the fate of poor Sgt. Bill.

He pulled the bedding from storage and laid it out on Ray’s couch before he picked up the scrapbook and shoved it beneath the cushions. He’d deal with it in the morning.

As John went to the window to pull the curtain closed, he caught sight of the picture frame on the table. He let go of the curtains and picked up the photo. 

Bill’s smile as he looked at Ray was undeniable.Their blissful smiles made his chest hurt.

With a sigh, John put the photograph under the cushion with the photo album.

---------- Hardly a Holiday ----------

Forty-five minutes. 

That's what John had been promised, just under an hour before they reached St. Helens, where Aunt Dolly and Uncle Harry would be waiting to take them to their temporary home.

But, no, the train had other ideas. It stopped only ten minutes into the ride. The guard said something about a signal failure.

That was it. Signal Failure.

John had asked Cheryl what that meant, and she told him she wasn’t sure and went back to her magazine. He was beginning to get antsy in the way only 6-year-olds with too much on their mind get.

Now he had come prepared. Just like Cheryl told him to.

John packed his red jumper into his bookbag that sat in front of his seat. He brought a toy — or, well, it wasn’t a proper toy. Not the kind Cheryl had in mind when she said to bring something that would occupy him. He brought his cards to work on his tricks. And he brought them because he brought his big book of magic tricks! It was really very important that he practice because when they went back home, he needed to show Darian. Darian was a boy at his school who was a few years older. He was tall with black hair and played football. His eyes were a dark brown that did that shiny thing when he was impressed. 

Expressive. That’s the word Cheryl would use.

His younger brother was in John’s class, and Darian told John once when he saw the magic book that magic was boss.  So he needed to practice just in case Darian asked to see a trick.

Unfortunately for John, his pack of cards was no longer in his possession. Cheryl had taken his cards from him after they exploded everywhere when his trick had gone wrong. After she scolded him she told him to quietly read his book. But what good was reading a book that told him how to do something, and he couldn’t even practice what it was telling him! Chery didn't care; she wasn’t having any of his excuses after she collected the cards and apologized to the people around them. 

The train still hadn't moved, and the blue seats were turning hard under his bottom, and if he closed his eyes, he was sure time had stood still. The brown trousers Cheryl made him wear felt stiff like cardboard. He had wanted to wear his jeans for the train, but they had a hole in them, and he needed to look “presentable”.

They were stuck for twenty more minutes. Twenty minutes and Cheryl looked about ready to toss him out of the train, Trolley. John moved between tapping his forehead on the glass, reading over Cheryl’s shoulder, and gagging at the love letter column of her magazine (that earned him a forehead flick), and then moving his seat up and down (that earned him a threat from the person behind him to call the train guard). 

After that, Cheryl turned to him and warned him that if he kept acting like a brat, then she wouldn’t let him get any snacks from the cart. Scandalized, John crossed his arms and pouted, looking out the window. 

“I don’t want to go to bloody St. Helens.”

“Language.”

John ignored her, “And I don’t want to live with Uncle Harry. His breath smells like fish and cigarettes.”

“I know. But we have to live somewhere while Da’s…on holiday.” Cheryl didn’t look at him directly.

He watched her fiddle with the fraying edge of her yellow jumper. 

That meant she was nervous about something. 

John turned to her quickly, “Well, why can’t we stay home? You do all the things at home anyways. What would be the difference?”

Cheryl sighed, “I'm not an adult, John. That’s the difference.”

“That’s bollocks—“

“Language!” She said, pinching his earlobe.

He muttered an apology, rubbing the sting away, “What do you mean 'on holiday”? Where’s da’ gone?”

She tucked some of her blonde hair behind her ear, not looking up, “Away. He’ll be back soon.”

“Is he in trouble?”

Cheryl didn’t respond, which was answer enough. 

No one would tell him what happened. He just came home from school one day, and there was a police officer talking with Cheryl. Thomas was gone. Their next-door neighbor looked put out. Her cheeks were big and ruddy, and she still had her hair in rollers despite it being three o’clock. He remembered the officer kept looking at Cheryl the way people looked at that old horse during the May Day Parade that carried a cart too heavy. Not that anyone did anything about it.

When Cheryl had seen him standing there, bag in hand, she rushed over. She told him to get inside, and before he could ask, she blurted out that everything was fine, “Da’s fine”. Which only made John worried because he hadn’t even ASKED about their dad. But Cheryl was pushing him towards the house with simple instructions: put the kettle on and start your maths.

John did not start on maths and forgot to put the kettle on because he had his nose pressed against the glass the moment the door closed behind her. 

Whatever had happened to their da’ is was bad enough for the police to be there.

He wasn’t at the hospital, or they’d have visited. 

John thought maybe he had killed someone…

Or robbed a store…

All he could do was guess.

One thing he did know was that their da’ was not on holiday. 

“Hardly a holiday then….” He fidgeted with the cover of his book, “What if I don’t want him to come back?”

Cheryl looked at him, her brows furrowed and lips pressed together tight, “That's a horrid thing to say, John. He’s our da’.” And then resigned, “ ‘sides if he doesn’t come home, then we stay with Aunt Dolly and Uncle Harry.”

John goraned “Don't want that either!” He moved to kick the seat in front of him, needing to get the buzzing and frustration out.

Cheryl put her hand on his knee and said low and sharp, “Stop it this instant, John Constantine. Or I promise you will regret it the moment we set foot off this train.”

The mom voice. No winning with that.

Cheryl took a deep breath and took another book out of her bag. A beat-up paperback book: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. “Hush up, and I’ll read to you.”

John was about to protest when she shot him a sharp look, he settled for grumbling his complaint about not being a baby. But still, he settled against her arm.

“There’s a good lad,” Cheryl said with a smug smile. Resting her cheek on the top of his head, she began to read.

Somewhere between Cheshire smiles and Dodo birds, John’s eyes grew heavy. 

“‘I’m not myself, you see,’ said Alice.”Cheryl read softly.