The room was small and sparsely furnished--probably a nun's cell at some point in the Manor's past--which suited him just fine; he didn't need that much space, and he'd never have been comfortable in a posh suite like the one downstairs that Crowley and Aziraphale shared.
The size might have been more of a problem if anyone else had been living in the same space, but the one person he'd really have liked to share it with would have agreed with him about the decor, John thought.
He ground his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray on the bedside table, and shut his eyes as he settled back against the headboard, nursing another migraine.
Kit. He could see her plain as day (raven black hair, deep green eyes, snow white skin...Miss Ireland,) standing in that ridiculously overblown red room, wrinkling up her nose, puzzled and amused at the explosion of velvet and satin and gilt. And by Crowley, he thought with a soft chuckle; oh, she'd have liked Crowley very much. And she'd have seen right through him in a heartbeat, too. "So you're a demon, are you? Not a lawyer too, I hope? Aye, well, good. We'll get on fine then."
She'd have liked the nice hardwood furniture though, maybe. Not one for excess, Kit, nor did she grow so attached to things that she couldn't give them up when they stopped being good for her, up to and including her own family. But she was a practical lady and appreciated quality and durability, the kinds of things that would last for generations and be expensive antiques one day; not because they were fancy, but just because they were still there. More than he did, in fact.
Roots and heirlooms and all the things that went with them were a bit of a sore spot with him. John could trace his bloodline all the way back to prehistoric Mesopotamia, if he cared to do so, and it seemed there had been very few generations that didn't contain at least one certified, dyed-in-the-wool, mad bastard like himself--though not all of them had been his direct ancestors.
It was astounding, really, that the family name had been carried on to present day. What woman in her right mind would want it, or if born to it, wouldn't try to change it at the first opportunity? (Lady Johanna didn't count, she'd been no more in her right mind than any of her male relatives.)
To those in the know, the name Constantine--or at least the particular branch he belonged to--was synonymous with the Black Arts, thievery, treachery, dereliction, and yes, murder. John's own hands were not clean on that count either, though by some standards of justice it could scarcely be called murder to put down the serial-killing psycho who'd done for your own father. (Who had been an unconscionable bastard and a murderer in his own right, inadvertantly killing his wife with the botched abortion that had also killed John's twin but left him alive.)
It was a name steeped in ugliness, soaked right down to the marrow, and it could only be a good thing for this tired world when it came to its end. Gemma might have inherited the bad blood, but with any luck it would be diluted and lose its potency without the name there to invoke it. Same with Tefe, who at any rate had another, cleaner, and he hoped stronger heritage to counter any Constantinian taint he might have passed along.
So, Kit...she was far and away safer and better left in Belfast, well away from Tadfield Manor and from him. He hoped he hadn't pulled some idiot stunt while he'd been there, tracked her down, hurt her again or worse, tried at this very late date to patch things up.
The possibility, however slim, that they had somehow miraculously made things right and he couldn't remember now was just a little more than what he could bear, so he refused to entertain it.
It was an old train of thought, this. He wasn't sure he could pin down when and where he'd had it before, but a line kept replaying itself in his head, and he knew it had to be one he'd used as a litany to comfort himself at moments like this in the past.
It's no failure to be the last Constantine, 'cos now no one else has to be.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2006-05-21 08:51 pm (UTC)The size might have been more of a problem if anyone else had been living in the same space, but the one person he'd really have liked to share it with would have agreed with him about the decor, John thought.
He ground his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray on the bedside table, and shut his eyes as he settled back against the headboard, nursing another migraine.
Kit. He could see her plain as day (raven black hair, deep green eyes, snow white skin...Miss Ireland,) standing in that ridiculously overblown red room, wrinkling up her nose, puzzled and amused at the explosion of velvet and satin and gilt. And by Crowley, he thought with a soft chuckle; oh, she'd have liked Crowley very much. And she'd have seen right through him in a heartbeat, too. "So you're a demon, are you? Not a lawyer too, I hope? Aye, well, good. We'll get on fine then."
She'd have liked the nice hardwood furniture though, maybe. Not one for excess, Kit, nor did she grow so attached to things that she couldn't give them up when they stopped being good for her, up to and including her own family. But she was a practical lady and appreciated quality and durability, the kinds of things that would last for generations and be expensive antiques one day; not because they were fancy, but just because they were still there. More than he did, in fact.
Roots and heirlooms and all the things that went with them were a bit of a sore spot with him. John could trace his bloodline all the way back to prehistoric Mesopotamia, if he cared to do so, and it seemed there had been very few generations that didn't contain at least one certified, dyed-in-the-wool, mad bastard like himself--though not all of them had been his direct ancestors.
It was astounding, really, that the family name had been carried on to present day. What woman in her right mind would want it, or if born to it, wouldn't try to change it at the first opportunity? (Lady Johanna didn't count, she'd been no more in her right mind than any of her male relatives.)
To those in the know, the name Constantine--or at least the particular branch he belonged to--was synonymous with the Black Arts, thievery, treachery, dereliction, and yes, murder. John's own hands were not clean on that count either, though by some standards of justice it could scarcely be called murder to put down the serial-killing psycho who'd done for your own father. (Who had been an unconscionable bastard and a murderer in his own right, inadvertantly killing his wife with the botched abortion that had also killed John's twin but left him alive.)
It was a name steeped in ugliness, soaked right down to the marrow, and it could only be a good thing for this tired world when it came to its end. Gemma might have inherited the bad blood, but with any luck it would be diluted and lose its potency without the name there to invoke it. Same with Tefe, who at any rate had another, cleaner, and he hoped stronger heritage to counter any Constantinian taint he might have passed along.
So, Kit...she was far and away safer and better left in Belfast, well away from Tadfield Manor and from him. He hoped he hadn't pulled some idiot stunt while he'd been there, tracked her down, hurt her again or worse, tried at this very late date to patch things up.
The possibility, however slim, that they had somehow miraculously made things right and he couldn't remember now was just a little more than what he could bear, so he refused to entertain it.
It was an old train of thought, this. He wasn't sure he could pin down when and where he'd had it before, but a line kept replaying itself in his head, and he knew it had to be one he'd used as a litany to comfort himself at moments like this in the past.
It's no failure to be the last Constantine, 'cos now no one else has to be.
What it was, though...was lonely.