"Right," Kit snapped before giving herself a chance to think about all he'd said. "Much better to just disappear into the night, an' leave me thinking you were... Jesus," she said again, quietly, and with particular emphasis stemming from seven years of not knowing.
She didn't dare look at John again in that moment, afraid of what she'd give away - perhaps even more afraid of what she'd find. But the red-orange glow of the cigarette caught her eye in the bar mirrors, and she couldn't help but glance up: it was an all too familiar sight, that of John's face cast in light and shadow by his Silk Cut. Kit almost smiled.
Almost, but she could see in his expression the frustration, the disappointment: could practically see him repeating the mantra of how he'd only ever let her down. And he had, or so she still asserted to herself. She'd asked him to leave her out of it, to keep her safe from it, and he hadn't, and so she'd been her own defender and left Constantine and all his 'bad shit' behind her.
But their mess of a relationship, she'd realized at some point over the years spent without him, had gone both ways. Where she'd been looking for safety, he'd also wanted a sanctuary. A place where the rest of his ballixed-up world didn't matter. And there she'd been, always bringing it up, always throwing it back in his face, in the end. Perhaps, in that way, they'd both been disappointed; and perhaps it was too late for either of them to make up for it now.
"You're right," she said finally, her voice weary and resigned. "It is friggin' ridiculous. But you could lie to me, John. You could lie to the Devil himself if you wanted to." Kit, of course, had no idea just how closely this analogy mirrored actual events and would have been staggered to find out. "You just never did."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-01-28 10:58 pm (UTC)She didn't dare look at John again in that moment, afraid of what she'd give away - perhaps even more afraid of what she'd find. But the red-orange glow of the cigarette caught her eye in the bar mirrors, and she couldn't help but glance up: it was an all too familiar sight, that of John's face cast in light and shadow by his Silk Cut. Kit almost smiled.
Almost, but she could see in his expression the frustration, the disappointment: could practically see him repeating the mantra of how he'd only ever let her down. And he had, or so she still asserted to herself. She'd asked him to leave her out of it, to keep her safe from it, and he hadn't, and so she'd been her own defender and left Constantine and all his 'bad shit' behind her.
But their mess of a relationship, she'd realized at some point over the years spent without him, had gone both ways. Where she'd been looking for safety, he'd also wanted a sanctuary. A place where the rest of his ballixed-up world didn't matter. And there she'd been, always bringing it up, always throwing it back in his face, in the end. Perhaps, in that way, they'd both been disappointed; and perhaps it was too late for either of them to make up for it now.
"You're right," she said finally, her voice weary and resigned. "It is friggin' ridiculous. But you could lie to me, John. You could lie to the Devil himself if you wanted to." Kit, of course, had no idea just how closely this analogy mirrored actual events and would have been staggered to find out. "You just never did."