| So apparently John didn't own a watch. Somehow, Casey was unsurprised. She'd waited about fifteen minutes after her shift ended (about fifteen minutes after it was supposed to end; that was nursing for you, and she was only shocked it had ended near 6 at all), and figured if he wasn't showing up then, he probably wasn't showing up very much sooner. And there were only so many pubs just the one tube stop from the hospital, anyway. Well, five, but at least three of those doubled as clubs and she was damn sure the other was a gay bar. Orgasmic it was, amusing name aside. She'd changed out of her scrubs before leaving--jeans and a some manner of large-cowled sweater, and getting rid of those hideous trainers; the place probably wouldn't even have let her in with them on--and entered the bar lookingly only vaguely like she'd just gotten off a ten-hour shift, which was just as well. Tired pubmates were no mates at all. Order up a vodka and cranberry, pop a seat at the bar where she was easily visible, and wait. And wait. And...well, where the flying fuck was he? Not that Casey was one to throw fits about being stood up, but Jesus. She could only nurse her drink for so long. "By yourself tonight, sweetheart?" the barman asked congenially. Casey shrugged, gave half a grin, and tapped her glass for another of the same. The guy obliged--God, he looked younger than she was. Sitting in a bar waiting on someone who threw demons out of hospitals. Jesus. She was either real sad, real desperate, or a bit of both. "Looks like." He didn't mean to be late. That was one thing you could say in Constantine's favour, at least: when it came to good people, he never intentionally screwed them over. It just happened. So even as John whirled through his apartment getting his own change of clothes, he knew there'd be two victims of his perennial inconstancy tonight. The first was Casey Jones, who was waiting alone and irate at the pub -- and the second was Francis Chandler, who was John's last hope of getting across town fast enough in order to ... remedy that aforementioned situation. It had taken a little bit of begging, and then a lot more of snappish temper, before his best friend finally relented. Maybe it had something to do with how exhausted and beleaguered Chas was. Maybe it had something to do with John's brief, vague description of how he'd met Casey, and the intriguingly fucked-up circumstances behind it. Or maybe it just had something to do with John promising to pay for the rounds. So they drove. Or, specifically, Chas drove the beat-up Ford Cortina through London's roads and byways until they finally got back to the hospital district -- before the cab even rolled to a stop, John was already out of the door and heading for the pub, leaving behind some mumbled order about getting the parking. He strode into the building, and it didn't take long to locate Casey at the bar. And John, in typical flying asshole fashion, took a seat as if nothing had happened. "Evenin'." "Jesus Christ," she muttered, nearly choking on her drink. Casey, it seemed, was of a slightly twitchy sort, and men randomly sitting down next to her in a bar--even if she did recognize their voice a half second later--made her twitch. "No apologies? Hell. Already bought first and second rounds." She shook her glass at him vaguely, half mocking, the way she did most everything. She wasn't really going to nag him for first rounds; after all, with the state of his coat, it was a surprise the man could afford to eat. She waited for him to order--two pints of Guinness, even after she refused one for herself; fuck, how much did he drink?--before resuming conversation. It was only polite, after all. "So did I pull you away from throwing something else out of a window?" she asked, perfectly innocent, and took a sip. Totally normal pub talk. Completely. "This an' that. Chasin' after some bugger off the streets, more like. He owes me some information." John's grin was a flash of white teeth in the gloom of the pub. He wasn't making a big deal out of the late arrival. It was part of what made him so infuriatingly forgivable sometimes -- he just kept glossing the situation over until you were too tired to fight the point anymore. In this case: yeah, I was held up, hullo love, how're you doing? But he made one small concession, and it came in the form of a pause, before he asked, haltingly, "How're the kids?" John hated children. He played the sound of concern well, though. She was a nurse, John. She knew fake concern when she heard it. "You don't have to fake it," she said, a smug grin on her face. He glossed over his mistakes; she illuminated them. It was a thing. "They're doing well. Being--ah. Mandatory meetings with the kids' shrink." She faltered, a 'nothing they haven't seen' on her tongue before she killed it and booted it away. They hadn't dealt with something like that before, and hopefully wouldn't have to ever again. Just because Casey was growing numb to it didn't mean anyone else was. A moment. Pleasantries and Casey? Didn't mix so well. But if he was going to concede things, she would, too. "How's the--ah. Everything?" John remained patient and listening politely long enough to hear a status report on the children, before he visibly relaxed. "Oh, thank bleedin' christ," he broke in with a smile. Yeah, sure, he was thankful they were doing well. Whatever. But the biggest reason, most of all, really, he was just thankful that Casey let him drop that specific facade. "Not really the lovin' happy families fatherly type. Y'can probably tell. But--" Before John could answer Casey's own attempts at pleasantry, another man came into the pub, stomping his boots on the floor and rubbing his hands together for warmth. Constantine seemed to perk up slightly at the sound, and gave him a vague wave, beckoning him over. Which he did, with a cracked smile for the blonde woman. This man was stockier than his companion, heavier-set, with dark hair and eyes -- everything about him was broad, from his jaw to his shoulders to his grin. "Casey Jones, Francis Chandler. Call 'im Chas." John heaved a theatrical sigh, and motioned to the spare pint on the counter. "I owe him." |