Today, John Constantine is forty years old.

The realisation hits him like a sack of bricks when he's buying cigarettes at the local shop and he happens to glance at the nearest newspaper: MAY 10, 2008.

"Well, fuck me," the man says under his breath, and he laughs, because god fuck it, he had actually managed to forget his own birthday. Big number, too. Forty. Just like the packet of Silk Cut he was in the process of buying. Can feel the midlife crisis coming on, rearing its head dark and ugly, with warning bells clanging.

Not yet, though. The first thing he does is to slouch over to a payphone and call Casey. The connection's shit, but works well enough to receive the verbal lashing he gets from the other end. She's disgruntled, and he's not surprised.

"Can't fucking celebrate if you don't give me any warning, John."
"I know, I know. Clean fuckin' forgot it me own self."

Exchanged words and complaints about work schedules ensue. Tentatives. Half-formed plans. Her night's full up already with the hospital. He hangs up feeling lonelier than he started.

When he calls Chas, it's the exact same thing ("Can't just take the night off work, John, I'm sorry"), and Constantine finds himself loathing regular work days more than he did before. Punch in, punch out, watch the clock, the same goddamn daily grind every single day -- and not to mention, it keeps people from him. Him, John fucking Constantine, saviour of men on how many occasions, and he can't even get a hold of someone to laugh about his fortieth with him. Christ.

He buys a bottle of whiskey and trudges home alone, feeling distinctly sorry for himself. He's managed to turn himself into a miserable mess of self-pity by the time his keys click in the lock--

--and then John Constantine walks in on his own surprise party.

Surprise!

He's stunned and taken aback at the small sea of faces, and he's surveying the people he hasn't seen in far too long -- Nigel, Header, Rick the Vic, Mike, and goddamn, even Zee's shown up, and there's Ellie smirking at him from the corner, and in the midst of them all, towering above the rest, arms thrown open wide, is the lord of the dance. The spirit of parties, the soul behind getting shitfaced and celebrating every last minute on this godforsaken earth. He's an old friend.

"Happy birthday, Constantine, you piece of shit."

Everyone's grinning, and John finds himself grinning back for the first time since that morning.

"You did this?"

"'Course I did." The lord's laugh booms -- it's a sound which reverberates right through the bones, aided in part by the way he claps one burly arm around the blond Englishman. "Can't turn forty like a sad sorry fuck without the help of your friends, can you?"

The night rolls onwards, the music plays, and John Constantine celebrates in the best way he knows how: piss-drunk and singing off-key. He remembers the bog creature stopping by for an appearance later on in the evening -- he remembers the monumental marijuana tree they made him sprout in the living room -- he remembers Zatanna talking backwards in the kitchen.

Things get kind of blurry after that. Until it's five am, and it's finally just him and the lord of the dance, the first and last guest to arrive, the one who organised it all, and their latest bottle of beer is half-empty and John's head has cleared enough for groggy, still-tipsy conversation. Until the lord just -- goes.

And he's gone.

Then it's just John in an abandoned apartment, feeling tired but happy, reeking of beer and liquor. Weed litters the apartment, along with the occasional vomit stain and conspicuous pile of -- is that rabbit shit?

He thinks back to the party. Good guests. Good friends. Good surprise. Still some faces missing, though...

Which is how John finds himself suiting up in his emblematic trenchcoat once more, and hailing an early cab to take him to Casey's. (Fare isn't a problem, as it never is. The meter stays fixed on zero the entire time. Magic's handy that way.)

In a few hours, the headache will sink in. But for now, he's outrunning the impending hangover. He's still got some pain-free time left. Which is time enough to get his arse over to her side of London, at least.