Constantine Ficlet - A Silver Platter
Warning: Spoilers from movie. SLASH. Unbeta-ed, but I sought out aingeal_isilme's help on some parts.
Length: 666 words. XD
Pairing: Lucifer/John
Title:
A Silver Platter
Constantine’s dying.
Suffice to say, the devil already knows. He should know, and he knows why; it’s a suicide. Hears him calling-- hurry -- maybe Constantine fucked up this time, but he never is one who’d be that anxious to get on the direct bus to hell.
Or so he thinks, after that first blunder he made years ago.
Lucifer smiles to himself, and sets the carafe and champagne glass down, relishing the aftertaste of a vintage blanc de blanc, 1804. It tastes like the best he ever had, and it tastes of triumph. The longer the wait, the sweeter it’d taste. He figures that since he has already spent a good few decades waiting for Constantine’s soul, what’s a few more minutes to him if not to savour? Let Constantine agonise just a little bit more. Let the lad think he isn’t going to show up.
Although they both know that, inevitably, he will.
After all, hell’s most wanted man is going to stay in hell. Permanently.
And that man deserves to be graced with Lucifer’s presence.
Ah, Constantine- Time to meet your fate.
+ + +
Constantine’s damned for hell. There’s no where else he’d belong.
Millions of miserable, wretched souls. Murderers, tricksters, rapists, suicidals-- the poor bastards, they’re all about the same. But John-- John is unique. Had he died at fifteen, he’d have been no different from the denizens in hell. Yet, at fifteen, he had slipped away from hell’s clutches. Sheer luck, the devil had remarked with apathy. And after fifteen, Constantine became smarter, more shrewd, playing Lucifer and God against each other in their own game, and getting away with it; it wasn’t just luck anymore. How many souls had he lost since then because of John?
Lucifer hadn’t been pleased, though there was something about John that kept him amused and intrigued-- like a young schoolboy to an ant, with a magnifying glass in his hand on a hot summer’s day.
So he took the people that John knew, legally, without upsetting the black and white rules of heaven and hell. Watched him cuss and swear. Watched him blame himself. But John, the adamant and arrogant troublemaker, got back onto his feet fast, and once too often found loopholes to release their cursed souls to heaven. It didn’t matter that he lost them, because he was only interested in possessing one soul, interested in seeing how much he can take before he breaks.
He doesn’t have to do much to have him within his grasp. The John Constantine, invincible as he is, is poisoning himself to death with each cigarette he consumes. How convenient it is, that John hands himself on a silver platter, straight to the devil.
There’ll be hundreds of demons that will be ready to feast on him, but Lucifer will not allow that to happen. John is his prized soul, and will be treated as such, for eternity, until the devil tires of him; he’ll show John why he truly belongs to hell as they immerse into sin after sin.
+ + +
He finds Constantine slouching against a doorway, life essence ebbing away as the blood wastes away through the cuts on his wrists, pooling onto the dirtied, tiled floor. The hospital’s a wreck but he’s seen worse and he isn’t here to play detective-- he’s here for the magus.
“Hello,” he says with glee. “Hello John. John, hello.”
John tilts his head slightly, squinting.
“You’re the one soul I’ll come up here to collect myself.”
Mm-hmm-- the man makes a disinterested noise, his hand slowly reaches into his coat for a packet of cigarettes. He draws a tar-stick out with his teeth, and tries to light it but drops the lighter instead.
Lucifer shakes his head as he watches the lighter hit the floor, and offers to help. That way, John can’t accuse him of being completely heartless.
He kneels down and looks into determined, steel eyes. Discovers that John still has a trump card up his sleeve.
Length: 666 words. XD
Pairing: Lucifer/John
Title:
A Silver Platter
Constantine’s dying.
Suffice to say, the devil already knows. He should know, and he knows why; it’s a suicide. Hears him calling-- hurry -- maybe Constantine fucked up this time, but he never is one who’d be that anxious to get on the direct bus to hell.
Or so he thinks, after that first blunder he made years ago.
Lucifer smiles to himself, and sets the carafe and champagne glass down, relishing the aftertaste of a vintage blanc de blanc, 1804. It tastes like the best he ever had, and it tastes of triumph. The longer the wait, the sweeter it’d taste. He figures that since he has already spent a good few decades waiting for Constantine’s soul, what’s a few more minutes to him if not to savour? Let Constantine agonise just a little bit more. Let the lad think he isn’t going to show up.
Although they both know that, inevitably, he will.
After all, hell’s most wanted man is going to stay in hell. Permanently.
And that man deserves to be graced with Lucifer’s presence.
Ah, Constantine- Time to meet your fate.
+ + +
Constantine’s damned for hell. There’s no where else he’d belong.
Millions of miserable, wretched souls. Murderers, tricksters, rapists, suicidals-- the poor bastards, they’re all about the same. But John-- John is unique. Had he died at fifteen, he’d have been no different from the denizens in hell. Yet, at fifteen, he had slipped away from hell’s clutches. Sheer luck, the devil had remarked with apathy. And after fifteen, Constantine became smarter, more shrewd, playing Lucifer and God against each other in their own game, and getting away with it; it wasn’t just luck anymore. How many souls had he lost since then because of John?
Lucifer hadn’t been pleased, though there was something about John that kept him amused and intrigued-- like a young schoolboy to an ant, with a magnifying glass in his hand on a hot summer’s day.
So he took the people that John knew, legally, without upsetting the black and white rules of heaven and hell. Watched him cuss and swear. Watched him blame himself. But John, the adamant and arrogant troublemaker, got back onto his feet fast, and once too often found loopholes to release their cursed souls to heaven. It didn’t matter that he lost them, because he was only interested in possessing one soul, interested in seeing how much he can take before he breaks.
He doesn’t have to do much to have him within his grasp. The John Constantine, invincible as he is, is poisoning himself to death with each cigarette he consumes. How convenient it is, that John hands himself on a silver platter, straight to the devil.
There’ll be hundreds of demons that will be ready to feast on him, but Lucifer will not allow that to happen. John is his prized soul, and will be treated as such, for eternity, until the devil tires of him; he’ll show John why he truly belongs to hell as they immerse into sin after sin.
+ + +
He finds Constantine slouching against a doorway, life essence ebbing away as the blood wastes away through the cuts on his wrists, pooling onto the dirtied, tiled floor. The hospital’s a wreck but he’s seen worse and he isn’t here to play detective-- he’s here for the magus.
“Hello,” he says with glee. “Hello John. John, hello.”
John tilts his head slightly, squinting.
“You’re the one soul I’ll come up here to collect myself.”
Mm-hmm-- the man makes a disinterested noise, his hand slowly reaches into his coat for a packet of cigarettes. He draws a tar-stick out with his teeth, and tries to light it but drops the lighter instead.
Lucifer shakes his head as he watches the lighter hit the floor, and offers to help. That way, John can’t accuse him of being completely heartless.
He kneels down and looks into determined, steel eyes. Discovers that John still has a trump card up his sleeve.