spear of god

“I’m never smarter than flattery, mate, just wise enough to bring it with me.” John retrieves his own cigarette from the pocket of his trench coat, lighting it with a snap of his fingers. Then, he takes another glance around the office, feigning to look for another person among them.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your pity party. I promise you can get back to it when I leave, but you’re gonna wanna sit down for this, because I know you’ve been sensing the magic rift goin’ about these days.”

“I am sitting.” He decides not to quip back on the rest of that, too much energy. He really has no clue how these funny-guy types deal with it. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Was hoping it was just something up with the Spectre, but I guess things are never that easy.” 

“We’re both married to Jason-slash-Etrigan, who counts as a single being. Ergo, we’re married by proxy. I’m your wife. Get my book down.”

She’s being rude, definitely, but it’s not like Jim Corrigan hasn’t been flashing her some withering, disgusted look from time to time. Mostly when she mentions Etrigan, but it’s still not very decent of him. “It’s that middle one with the Saxon runes. I need it.”

“Okay, what the hell kinda logic is that? If you and me were handcuffed together, are we one person? Hell, fuckin’, uh, conjoined twins exist, they have the same damn body, and they’re still two people. And, hell, even if they were the same, does that make every chick Etrigan’s been with your exes?” If he needs to do a mental quadrouple backflip to get out of that statement, he will.

He doesn’t process the question at first, but when he does, he swear he can feel his blood run cold, nonexistant lungs struggling to breathe. He turns his head to face him, eyes a stripped-bare blue.

“Bitch.” Loki leans down and fetches another one item of clothing. This one’s hers—a red, lacy bra that has been noticeably ignored, but that’s fair enough. She throws it anyway. “I’m serious, I need one of those books. I’m your wife, be nice to me.”

“As nice as that sounds, babe, I dunno if you could handle spending that long without AC.” He’s teasing of course, something he rarely gets a chance to dole out.

“Best not out here,” John says, wedging the rest of himself through the door, “pryin’ minds, n’ all.” 

Once he’s inside, he pulls his coat off to get comfortable, throwing it over the arm of the chair by the desk and takes a seat. It’s possible he’s not as drunk as he lets on, but he’s feeling nice enough, and like always - he has his reasons. 

“Like what you’ve done with the place.”

“It’s a shithole office with a desk and a chair.” What the hell is he trying to be nice for? Since when was he nice? “Thought you were smarter than to go for flattery, John.” He stops to light a cigarette, not bothering to offer one to him.