The Taste of a Promise

Author's Notes:

This is another small piece I wrote on a whim, inspired by some of the shenanigans thedemonconstantine and sirhisslot draw on Tumblr from time to time! It's based on their headcanon of John's extremely conflicting relationship with Tim's feathered companion, the owl Yoyo. Tim and Chas also make a background cameo towards the end.

Above, a related piece of art drawn by thedemonconstantine!

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John slowly blew out a mouthful of smoke, watching as it raised up towards the night sky before dispersing in the chilly air. The scratch on his cheek was still stinging like hell, even after it had been cleaned and disinfected, and so did all the other small gashes and light cuts that covered most of the skin of his arms and chest. His shirt, while not exactly torn to shreds, would have probably ended up in the trash the next morning. The time and the effort he would have to put in repairing it wouldn't have been worth the poor results.

Sticking the cigarette back between his lips, Constantine muttered a heavy curse under his breath. Normally, he would have paid no mind to that kind of wounds, since he was used to dealing with much worse, and by now he should have made peace with the fact that his clothes got ruined more often than not. It was part of the risks of the job, something that couldn't be helped and that he had to put up with, no matter how aggravating for both him and his wallet it could be.

However, in that particular occasion, the culprit also happened to be the source of his current bad mood and, if there was something John was good at, it was holding grudges, even, and especially if he had to be honest, for the most stupid things. The events that had taken place that night were part of an overused, bad script that, somehow, never seemed to get old and kept repeating itself over and over and over, much to the magician's chagrin. The fact that he was to blame for all that as much as his opponent was, in his eyes, a detail of no import. It didn't change the fact that he had been forced to flee outside and get some air, instead of being inside with the others, enjoying his drink.

"Bloody fuckin' bird," he muttered under his breath, moodily chewing the butt of his cigarette.

His eyes moved up towards the sky. The feathered fucker constantly glared at him, no matter what he did or said, no matter if he had been paying any sort of attention to him or not. He probably thought that John was a bad influence and that he could exert his role as such even just by existing in the same room where Tim was. And deep down, even if he wouldn't have admitted it out aloud, the magician might have almost agreed with the owl. However, that didn't give the bastard any right to attack him at the slightest pretext.

Constantine let out a low groan. He wasn't even sure of how the fight had started this time. Maybe he had said a word too much, maybe he had glared at the bird for a bit too long. Or perhaps it was because he had messed a little with the winged wanker's food. Chas had advised him against doing it, but of course he hadn't listened. In his defence, Tim had been around for a few days and John had really tried to behave at first, but it had been impossible for him to keep the act up. The two of them just weren't capable of getting along. Why exactly, it was a mystery and John's guess would have been as good as any, if he had cared enough to make one. It seemed to be one of those things that simply were as they were, almost as if they had been meant to be.

Oh, he was bad at handling those. Very, very bad.

The wandering trail of his thoughts was interrupted by the light sound of wings flapping and Constantine turned his head on his side, already scowling before his eyes could properly land on the bird that had come to perch on the railing next to him. There were several feathers missing from his plumage and the magician couldn't help smirking in smug satisfaction, knowing that he had been the one to do such damage. He might have gained his own wounds during the fight, but the bastard looked just as worse for wear as he did.