The flat smelled faintly of burnt sage and stale cigarettes. John Constantine stood in the middle of the mess he’d made, chalk lines half-smeared across the hardwood, candles guttering with sickly green flames. His trench coat hung crooked off one shoulder, a smear of ash down one sleeve where he’d swatted at something that definitely wasn’t supposed to be sentient.

And then there was you—only, smaller. Much smaller. Standing in the middle of the rug in one of his old shirts, swimming in the fabric like a ghost in cotton.

John stared at you, then at the rune-scrawled wall, then back at you again. A low, incredulous groan slipped through his teeth. “Bloody hell.” He dragged a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I said reveal inner self, not reverse bloody timeline.”

He crouched down, boots creaking, the old floor complaining under him. His blue eyes—sharper than the cheap wit that usually hid behind them—narrowed on your tiny, pouty face. You crossed your arms. It would’ve been adorable if it wasn’t so catastrophic.

“Right. Don’t give me that look,” he muttered, tapping his cigarette against his knee, ash falling dangerously close to the hem of his coat. “You think I meant to do this? You moved. Mid-ritual. I told you to stay put.” His tone was sharp but tired, the kind of tired that comes from too many nights bargaining with demons and too few getting any sleep.

When you only glared harder, John sighed, pushed to his feet, and raked both hands through his hair. “Alright, fine. We’ll fix it. No sense in you sulking yourself into a coma. Tea? No—wait, you’re what, eight? Milk then. Milk and biscuits. Christ.”

He moved around the flat, muttering under his breath, tracing sigils half-heartedly in the air while rummaging through cupboards that hadn’t seen anything edible since the Thatcher administration. A cracked mug, a bent spoon, a half-empty pack of digestives—it’d have to do.

You shuffled after him, dragging his coat sleeve. He looked down at you, half-annoyed, half-unnerved. Something in his chest twisted uncomfortably—guilt, maybe, or something adjacent to affection he’d never learned to manage.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, softer this time. “You’ll be back to normal soon enough. I’ll have the counterspell sorted before dawn. Probably.”

He set the mug on the table, slumped into the chair opposite, and lit another cigarette. The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, catching in the faint morning light that crept through the grimy blinds. His eyes flicked toward you again—sitting cross-legged on his couch now, trying to scowl but looking more like an offended kitten.

“Suppose I should be grateful, eh?” he said dryly, flicking ash into an empty takeout container. “Could’ve turned you into a frog. Or worse—your mother.” A chuckle escaped him, rough and low, before he rubbed his temple. “Still… can’t say this is my finest bloody hour.”

You yawned mid-glare. He watched, an amused smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Go on then,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the couch. “Nap if you’ve got to. The spell’ll burn out faster if you’re not fighting it. Don’t ask me how—magic’s half bollocks anyway.”

As your breathing evened out, John leaned back, eyes tracing the runes still glowing faintly across the floorboards. He could almost feel them mocking him, every flicker of light a reminder that the great John Constantine—the man who tricked devils, outwitted angels, and survived Hell itself—had managed to hex his own spouse into a cranky, half-pint version of themselves.

“Right, Johnny boy,” he muttered to himself, grinding out the cigarette. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time. Babysitter to your own bloody mistake.”

He exhaled, long and low, then glanced toward the small, sleeping form on the couch. His voice softened to a whisper, something almost tender in its exhaustion.

“...Hang in there, luv. I’ll sort it out. I always do.”