Hellblazer: Knowledge (The Sacrificial Remix)
Original Fic: Sacrifice, by moontyger
Remix: Knowledge (The Sacrificial Remix) [John/Chas, Chas/Renee, 200 words, rated PG], by gwonam
Renee'd married a cabbie, not a soldier, although there's times you wouldn't know it: times like these, when her man goes running off at a minute's notice without so much as a be-back-later.
Times like now, when she stands at the window and stares out at the street, arms crossed, lips pursed tight, because she's never trusted John Constantine and never been able to keep him away. She watches for hours, wondering if this is the time Chas won't come home.
It's not, thank God, but her relief at seeing him come through the door is cold like ashes: he stinks of Silk Cuts and shame and he won't look at her straight on.
Something dark curls in the bottom of her stomach, harsh and hateful, and she cuts off his half-formed excuses with "I don't want to hear it!" It's shrill even to her own ears; the haunted look in his eyes deepens, tearing her between rage and jealousy.
A car horn blares somewhere outside, startling her into action: slamming the door closed, locking it tight.
He turns away and she puts her arms around him, rests her forehead against his shoulderblade. There are no apologies; there can't be.
Remix: Knowledge (The Sacrificial Remix) [John/Chas, Chas/Renee, 200 words, rated PG], by gwonam
Renee'd married a cabbie, not a soldier, although there's times you wouldn't know it: times like these, when her man goes running off at a minute's notice without so much as a be-back-later.
Times like now, when she stands at the window and stares out at the street, arms crossed, lips pursed tight, because she's never trusted John Constantine and never been able to keep him away. She watches for hours, wondering if this is the time Chas won't come home.
It's not, thank God, but her relief at seeing him come through the door is cold like ashes: he stinks of Silk Cuts and shame and he won't look at her straight on.
Something dark curls in the bottom of her stomach, harsh and hateful, and she cuts off his half-formed excuses with "I don't want to hear it!" It's shrill even to her own ears; the haunted look in his eyes deepens, tearing her between rage and jealousy.
A car horn blares somewhere outside, startling her into action: slamming the door closed, locking it tight.
He turns away and she puts her arms around him, rests her forehead against his shoulderblade. There are no apologies; there can't be.