Title: Laid Low, Flying High
Fandom: Constantine (TVverse)
Pairing: John/Midnite
Rating: PG
Length: 485 words
Content Notes: Magical drug use.
Summary: John's looking for a fix of something only Midnite can give him.


Papa Midnite’s gaze drags down John’s body slow.

“It always ends like this,” Midnite drawls, this look on his face like he’s measuring John for a noose. Probably is, the devious git.

John’s palms are itchy, his muscles tense.

“Almost think you get this way on purpose,” Midnite’s saying, and John’s maintaining eye contact out of sheer stubbornness at this point. “Laid low at my feet by your own arrogance and incompetence.”

John manages to school his expression into something like his usual swagger. “Maybe I just like the company of bottom-feeding scum like yourself,” he jeers. “Makes me feel better about myself, you know.”

He sees the movement of Midnite’s hand, and he knows it’s coming, they both know it’s coming. Midnite’s palm raises in front of his face, and John isn’t even breathing.

He can see it, copper coloured powder against Midnite’s skin.

But Midnite doesn’t make his move. Usually by now, John’s watched the purse of his lips, the careful exhale that sends the powder floating through the air. And then John’s the one floating, as it pulls him under, drags him down into dreamless sleep.

Midnite’s hand remains suspended, but he doesn’t use the powder knock John out. And it’s only when John drags his gaze away from the powder to Midnite’s face that he sees the leer there, and realises just how obvious his staring has been.

“So that’s it,” Midnite murmurs, eyes like a shark scenting blood in the water. “That’s what you’re looking for.” Fingers curling protectively over the powder, and John’s throat is dry, sweat staining his shirt beneath his trench coat.

He wants it, wants that sweet release. Yearning for it, and the way Midnite’s looking at him, looking into him, he’s realised it too.

“Must be others you can get this from,” Midnite muses. Thumb dragging over the side of his curled index finger, drawing attention to the hand held between them like John could ever look away. “But you’ve come to me. Why is that, Constantine?”

And that’s when John breaks eye contact. Because he doesn’t have an answer, just a craving, for the scent of the powder, for the way it pulls him deep and lets him forget himself. For the way Midnite looks at him, for the presence of the man, the taste of his magic in the air.

John knows people who could do this for him, who could make a spell with the same effects, make a powder so close to Midnite’s own that he’d barely be able to tell the difference. But it wouldn’t be what he’s looking for, wouldn’t be right.

Midnite’s laugh is low and throaty.

“Gonna swoon pretty for me, Constantine?” he whispers, and then he’s releasing the powder, blowing it softly.

John closes his eyes and inhales deep, and it’s Midnite laughter that follows him down into the void, just the way it’s supposed to.