John had withdrawn from the ether more than a day ago, but it didn't take much to hear the echoes of Elise's words — no, feel them — reverberating through his bones, drumming a line of panic up his spine. It was the elephant in the room, the fear that went unvoiced, because the longer he kept up his bullshit, the higher the chance was of everyone actually believing it. John Constantine's heart did not do little skittish jumps in his chest. John Constantine did not love, and he did not fear. He protected and damned equally, and had his impenetrable mystery to maintain, after all. He couldn't let something as simple as 'a friend in need' drag that image down.

Except that he could, and did. Regularly. Women in his life just had that effect sometimes.

After Elise's worrying message, he went about the quick business of packing and preparing for a trip, which did not take long. The fridge was nearly always empty, the utilities bills drifting unpaid. His flat wasn't a homely place, and for good reason: Constantine never knew when he might need to turn tail and scarper very, very quickly. Today was a prime example, sitting in this bland office, feeling the travel agent's critical looks passing over his ragged trenchcoat, his week-old stubble, his stained shoes. The travel agent's smile was cool and practiced, but before she even opened her lips, John was there and he was ready to stifle all questions. "Direct flight on Wednesday, love. London-Heathrow to Chicago, Illinois. Cash payment."

"Yes, sir. Our cheapest rate at the moment is three hundred and—"

Three hundred pounds? Knock that down to two, eh?

"—I'm sorry, two hundred pounds, rather."

She smiled again, and this time, he did too. Magic. Gotta fuckin' love it.

But there was something pained in the corner of his smile, something tired, with a hard and glinting edge. He's not running on blind panic and luck yet, but something tells him that America might not welcome him with open arms. He's never seen Elise that rattled — and he's seen that particular woman in a lot of different places and times in her life, from cocky student to self-loathing creature of the night to confident vigilante. That iron-sharp smile meant he was getting ready to think half-cocked and desperate, which was the only way he knew how to save people. That smile meant Constantine preparing for war.

Money exchanged hands, and after pocketing a sheaf of airline tickets, John then strolled into the newsstand next door. He passed rows of stark headlines and gaudy magazines in order to step right up to the cashier. An empty cigarette pack hit the counter, the cardboard wrinkled and battered.

Silk Cut.

There was smoke and alcohol on his breath, and he was already bidding a small internal goodbye to London's lagers and brews and cheap beer. Ah, but the fags — at least he could take that little slice of home along with him. It'd have to do. Smoking steadied him, and it gave him something to occupy himself with; it warmed cold hands and put a little electric jolt into old blood that sometimes forgot how to run properly.

"Silk Cut, Ronnie. Hundred."

There was a heartbeat of a pause. It was the exact amount of time it took for Ronnie to absorb the number, to question its significance, and then to arch an eyebrow at his regular. "More than usual. Going somewhere, John?"

"Yeah. Holiday. Suntans, Polaroid cameras an' fat tourists. An' actually, mebbe I'll have the Daily Telegraph, too. I'll want somethin' to read."

The smile was broad and shit-eating. Money exchanged hands, and as the blond slowly pocketed wallet and cigarettes, the cashier mulled over some thoughts,  watching him. Finally, just as the other man was ready to turn away, Ronnie spoke up. His voice was hard. Harder than he expected, but then again, the message was an obvious one:

"You look like shit, John. Get some sleep."

Constantine grinned.

The door was already closing behind him and he was already pretending not to have heard.