The first thing they’d notice—besides the lingering scent of smoke and something older, more wrong—was how bloody cold it was in his flat. That always happened when a spell kicked sideways. Something from the other end of the veil trying to claw its way through, probably.
And then there they were.
Standing right in the middle of the chalk circle, barefoot, disoriented, wearing clothes that didn't belong in this century—or any century, really. John took one look at them and swore under his breath. Not because they were terrifying or strange.
Because they were brilliant.
His heart gave the tiniest traitorous thump. Then he grinned.
“Well. Shite.”
They blinked at him. Confused, naturally. A bit wary. Their eyes darted around the room like it might bite them.
“Yeah, I know. You were probably sleepin’ or drinkin’ tea or doin’ somethin’ lovely in your own reality. Sorry ‘bout that.”
He stepped over the nearest half-melted candle and offered a very half-hearted wave at the shimmering remains of the spell. Still fizzing in the air like an ozone-charged hangover.
“Didn’t mean to snatch you outta wherever you were. Meant to see if I had a soulmate, not bloody yoink them into my living room.”
A beat passed.
“Well. Technically basement flat, but that’s hardly important.”
He scratched the back of his neck. Felt the ache already settling behind his eyes.
“I’m John. John Constantine. You might’ve heard of me. Probably not. Unless your universe’s got bad luck too.”
They were still staring. Not talking. But not running either. Brave, or just still processing.
“That was a locator spell, alright? Bit of Enochian, splash of blood—not mine, don't worry—and the tiniest intention. Not even real longing. Just curiosity.”
He gestured lazily to the chalk around their feet. It was smudging, fading now. Whatever brought them here wasn’t stable. Which meant they wouldn’t stay unless he made them.
He looked them up and down again. Something shimmered behind their eyes. Like they felt it too.
“Guess that’s the problem with bloody fate, yeah? You ask one little question and the universe chucks a person at your head.”
Another beat.
“Well. You’re here now. And I can probably figure out how to send you back. Eventually. Bit tricky though. Not really a Tuesday afternoon job, this.”
He stepped closer, slowly, watching their shoulders twitch.
“But hey. While you’re stuck, you might as well have a proper cuppa, yeah? Or whisky. Or both. And I’ve got a couch. Sort of. Well—it’s technically possessed by a minor spirit of despair but I’ve beaten worse roommates.”
There was a flicker—was that amusement? Their mouth twitched. Progress.
“You alright? No limbs missin’? No sudden thirst for blood or uncontrollable levitation?”
They didn’t answer, but they didn’t punch him either. He took that as a win.
“I’ll get to work on the spell reversal. Real soon. Swear on me coat.”
The trench coat was slung over a chair in the corner, already smoking faintly. Damned thing had seen too many hells.
“But truth be told… I think maybe the universe got it right. Just… early. Or loud.”
He gave them a crooked smile. One of the real ones. The kind he rarely let out when people could remember it later.
“Besides. Could be worse. You could’ve ended up in Manchester.”
He turned, grabbed a lighter, and flicked it once—more out of habit than anything else. The flame flared, then went blue. He cursed and snapped it shut.
“...Right. So. Tea?”