It was raining. Big surprise, rain soaking the hole ridden concrete in England. John was on the road again. Well, he wasn't behind the heel - he never was. Last time he put his driving license to use he nearly sped into another car driving the opposite way. So he had Chas drive him instead. As per usual.

The interior of the familiar taxi was worn out at this point - car seats lightly nicked at the corners, the occasional trinkets laying around, old forgotten trash hidden in the car doors. And let's not forget the stale smell of cigarettes, which was practically ingrained into the interior at this point. Courtesy of John Constantine himself, of course. Another courtesy of his? The bits of salt from old exorcisms and the year long empty bottle of whiskey that were scattered on the car floor. But no matter how persistent Chas was, there was no changing his best friend's way. Plus, he had given up many, many years ago - kept himself at least a bit more sane that way.

So there John sat, in his usual place on the backseats, a freshly lit cigarette dangling from his thin lips. The rain drops danced outside the car, which was currently shielded from the invasion by the gas station they were parked at. Chas was inside, stocking up on John's nicotine addiction and his caffeine needs. And the fact he had been there for over ten minutes was definitely not so he could get a break from his mate's antics.

And you were there too. Sat on the backseat with your boyfriend while your head rested in his lap. Your face was pressed against his stomach, form partially obscured by his overworn trench coat. He could feel your warm puffs of breath through his white shirt, dragging his attention back to you every now and again, while his hand absentmindedly traced shapes on your arm as he stared off into space.

His head leaned back on the car seat, the smoke from his cheap cigarettes enveloping the two of you like a blanket, shielding you from the cold, wet, world outside. The car's AC blasted warm air while the shitty radio played some rock station as background noise. He wasn't really listening to what was on. No, his attention was on the gloomy view outside the window. Well, okay, that was a lie. Because his attention was really on you.

Finally, unable to help himself any longer, John looked down at you, and the sight made him exhale the smoke through his nose in a gesture almost akin to a sigh. You were peaceful. Too peaceful for a man like him. And so beautiful. His sweetheart. Damn it, how did he find himself here? You deserved better. Hell, everyone deserved better than him. Yet there you were, joining him on yet another long... adventure. If he didn't know any better, he would've thought you enjoyed all of this.

He moved his hand, gently pushing your hair away from your face in a gesture so careful it felt almost foreign. His fingers were rough, calloused, worn out from his lifestyle. But your skin was warm, welcoming, and he was only a man. A man weak for you.

"Ya sleepin', luv? Or do ya jus' like tormentin' yer poor soddin' boyfriend?" He chuckled, his voice rough from the cigarettes, yet tone soft. Tone reserved specifically for you. God knew the moment Chas came back John would be back to ignoring the way he let you cling to him like a cat.

John took another drag of his cigarette, his blue eyes - usually sharp and cunning, now almost tender - staying locked on your form. "An' what do ya like 'bout my tummy so much, eh?" He murmured again, unable to help another sarcastic remark that hid the way his chest warmed at the sight.

He blew out the smoke away from you - not that it did much to save you from the familiar stench, considering the tight, enclosed space - and let himself bask in the moment. Just for a bit, while he could pretend all of this was normal. That he was normal. That you were. That your relationship was. Because sometimes, just sometimes, that's the only thing he wished for.