John Constantine oneshots

Land mines

Summary:

After months of not hearing from him, Constantine shows up in the ER, with you listed as his emergency contact.

Notes:

Fic Song: Landmines by Bellsaint

A/N: A commission I wrote some time ago.

Work Text:

Exhausted, you blink rapidly, trying to keep your mind on the task at hand. After working double clinic hours, you're ready to go home and fall into bed. Literally. You want to strip naked and just tumble into soft-pillowy heaven. With nothing more than a mumbled "Good-bye" to your coworkers, you slip your jacket on and make your way to the parking lot.

The next two days are your days off, and though you're thrilled to catch up on sleep, you can't help but feel a little disappointed. Because what you would really like, is company. The company of a specific person that is. But given that you haven't heard from him in almost a year, you're not getting your hopes up. It's been so long, any hurt feelings have turned to bitterness. So much so that you've sworn to punch him in his handsome face if you ever saw him again.

You ease your tired body into your car, startling yourself when the engine roars to life, a testament to how truly exhausted you. Maybe you shouldn't attempt to drive home. No one would blame you for taking a quick nap in the break room before heading home. It certainly would be safer. But considering you're already in the car, and your apartment is beckoning, you give yourself a small slap and put the car in drive.

In hindsight, you should have listened to your instincts because as you're about half-way home, your phone rings. The Bluetooth announces it's your job, and you let out a string of colorful swears. Of course, they would call you back after just working a double. It's not like you need sleep or anything. You answer the call, but before the person on the other line can speak, you cut them off.

"I'm not coming back to cover a shift," you say. "I just worked a double and I'm almost home."

The person on the other line says your name, and you recognize one of your friends from the ER. "We have you down as the emergency contact of the patient who was just brought it," they say. "He's in pretty bad shape."

"Who?" you ask, bewildered. While you have several close friends, none of them would put you down as an emergency contact, mostly because they know what crazy hours you work.

"A...John Constantine."

Brakes squealing, you pull over so fast that your car leaves tire treads on the road. The shot of adrenaline is enough to erase any sleep from your mind as you take a second to register what your coworker just said. "Constantine?" you ask. "He said his name was John Constantine?"

"Yeah, before he passed out," they respond. "Your name was on a piece of paper in his pocket. He doesn't have a cell phone or any form of ID."

"Of course he doesn't. I'm on my way."

Ending the call, you step on the gas and turn the car around, thankful the road is empty enough to allow such a reckless move. Heart beating wildly in your chest, you all but speed back the way you came. Many scenarios run through your mind as you drive back to the hospital, each one more horrifying than the next. Possession gone wrong? Attacked by cult members? Lost his soul in a bet? Anything is possible when it comes to John Constantine.

Parking in the ER lot, you barely remember to turn off your car before bolting from the front seat. The waiting room is fairly busy when you enter, and it takes you a moment to worm your way through the numerous people, toward the reception desk. Before you can get there, a nurse recognizes you and flags you down. Relieved as you swallow past the lump in your throat, you follow her down the hall to one of the private rooms tucked in the back.