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I’ll throw away my faith, babe, just to keep you safe
Don’t you know you’re everything I have?
And I, wanna live, not just survive, tonight
Angel with a Shotgun (The Cab)
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John had mixed feelings about God’s loyal soldiers.
Had encountered several of them over the course of his life, dealt with a handful, sweet-talked some, and tricked the others. The experiences in general were nothing to write home about, to put it mildly. No awe or overwhelming admiration, and none of that reverent love believers had gushed about, and certainly no love either.
So yeah, John had mixed feelings about the angels and by “mixed” he really meant “despised”. Did he forget to mention every winged deity he’d met till this day had either turned out to be huge dicks or showcased a range of dickish behaviors?
There was a foreign saying that basically went: the more you despised something, the likelier Lady Luck was to drop that same thing on your laps, even tying you with it so that you would spend every waking minute brewing in misery. John might have made up the last part but that didn’t mean the saying wasn’t incredibly wise and true, because the very moment he put his foot down the metal floor of the Waverider, all five senses of his were tingling with the unmistakable presence of an angel.
Right, a bloody angel boarding this time-hopping tin, which meant John was going to be stuck with them all day every single day, and if that didn’t sound like a nightmare, he didn’t know what else did. John had a half a heart to grab his tattered suitcase and turn on his heels, but then reality hit him with a reminder that behind his back was a nasty demon whose debt he owed.
Between a nasty demon and a nasty angel, huh? Had his life just gone from bad to worse? The teensy silver lining in this mess, he mused, searching for his cigarette pack in his pocket (he was gonna need a smoke later!), was that angels and demons were natural nemeses. Maybe with a stroke of luck, he could somehow pit this one against his demon, and then there would be excellent entertainment for everyone ‘round.
With that thought in mind, John braced himself for the galling introduction to the team.
To no-one’s surprise, certainly not John’s, the angel turned out to be a gorgeous male in his thirties (when had any angels ever taken anything less than breathtaking for their mortal ruse?), with admirably toned body, luscious dark hair and big, warm puppy eyes – in other words, the type John had the least resistance against. Damn the angel for reading his mind and picking out all of John’s desired physical traits to torture him, and also damn himself for walking straight into this honey trap, his traitorous heart skipping a whole beat at the angel’s smile and crinkling eyes as he extended a broad hand to John and welcomed him into their ragtag band of misfits and outcasts and celestial beings. And he was yapping a mile a minute about general sanitation, laundry, the chore wheel and how to calmly adapt to the slight issue of having only one bathroom. Great. Just peachy. Had John just moved into a community house or what?
The abnormally cheery angel – named Raymond, Ray for short – was quick to assure him that the Waverider was a sort of futuristic, advanced community house, which might explain the single toilet for about ten individuals: nothing tied a community better than queuing in front of a toilet every morning, exchanging pleasantries while subtly cursing the one inside to hurry up!
In short, John was pretty screwed.
“Oh Ray, he’s an angel alright.”
Sara’s statement and her nonplussed attitude took him aback. Had Sara – and by extension the whole crew, Gideon included – always known? Had Ray already revealed himself to them, on accident or purpose? Incidents where angels revealed their wings and halo in front of mortal eyes were not unheard of yet neither were they common, and those privileged ones tended to be prophets or persons tasked with a specific duty, both of which didn’t seem fitting for the Waverider crew’s description. A bunch of misfits and outcasts and rejects and screw-ups were more likely, in their own words. John for the life of him couldn’t even entertain the notion of God granting them sanction for carrying out holy missions; from what he’d learned of them, this team had a tendency to screw things up, and not always for the better.
Dubiously John decided to prod further with choiced words.
“Of course he is, sans the halo and cherubby wings,” Sara replied, tapping her chin. “He cooks, cleans and packs sacked lunches – sacked lunches! – and took time to note down all of our dietary restrictions and preferences. He’s like the team mom but don’t tell him I said that.”
John blinked at her, mildly baffled. So “angel” in her mouth wasn’t the same as John’s idea and the only remote connection Ray had to feathers was being a mother hen (John had nothing against mother hens, just to be clear). Still, John trusted his senses (when he was sober, that was) while there were few things in this world and beyond he could pour his trust into, and his senses at the moment were practically screaming this hybrid of a Superman-lookalike and a giant man-puppy was an angel of a fairly high order – not on par with archangels but definitely not too far behind.
And this powerful angel had chosen to tuck away his wings and mingle with mortals for unknown motives so it would be wise to keep his lips sealed for the time being and observe while preparing for the worst: personal experiences had proven that angels could be a meaner species than demons, and much harder to vanquish. Now where had he stashed his anti-angel kits?
Ray Palmer was, John had gradually learned, bit by little bit, from the time he’d spent on the Waverider so far, many a thing aside from God’s little soldier, which had been kept tightly under layers: tech-billionaire, genius inventor (had made his own exo-suit, quite an impressive feat but John couldn’t help a “for what?”), time traveler, space traveler, Knight of the Round Table (Sir Raymond of the Palms, again, why), one of Earth’s champions against alien invasions and Nazis from an alternate universe, ex member of a punk rock band, on top of being Waverider’s resident nerd and Star Wars enthusiast (although Nate Heywood came a close second, emphasis on ‘close’). Phew. What a colorful life he’d been leading, full of adrenaline-pumping adventures, and John would have been seriously impressed – and he wasn’t so easily impressed, what with all the bizarreries in his career – if he hadn’t been privy to Ray’s true colors.
Ray loved chores (that explained the so-called chore wheel in the beginning): washing dishes, tidying the common space on the ship (not that big but still), doing the laundry, and preparing hearty home-cooked meals (as much as the Waverider was their ‘home’ now) sure to make John’s mouth water since his palate had been accustomed to rubbish takeaways and cheap pub foods. The reason for his culinary talent was that he’d had to cook for himself for most of his adolescent years well into adulthood due to his severe gluten allergy and the high risk of cross-contamination in dining establishments, he’d explained to John, expecting the warlock to buy it (the whole crew had, apparently). As if. Not only was he a big Star Wars enthusiast (so big that he would never have had his fancy PhDs without the franchise – wild story, huh), he was also an ardent fan of the Doctor Who series and the musical Singing in the Rain. John might have overheard him singing its songs in the bathroom and sheer silliness aside, the man had a gorgeous voice, angelic even. He also possessed a gigantic heart and tried to see the good in each person, despite all the fucked up shits they’d committed (John wasn’t sure if it was his prerequisite for a celestial being). And thus he believed everyone deserved a chance, maybe two, in case they screwed up the first. How generous. John had scoffed at Ray’s ‘second-chance principle’, his light teasing tone charred with derision when the man tried to apply the same logic to him, declaring the embittered warlock a good man while John knew deep in his dark heart that was the farthest from the cold, hard truth he somehow hoped Ray would never find out. But for his last tethers of self-control and the timely intervention of a magical fugitive to distract Ray, John might have snapped at him and subsequently blown his cover of ignorance; he’d very much prefer to keep the pretense, at least until he cracked the puzzle of why an angel was here and what his true intentions were.
In spite of that moderate glitch, John soon found out that sharing limited breathing space with an angel wasn’t as hellish as he had initially dreaded. Surely the whole ‘single toilet’ for a crew of ten need needed a real while to get used to – though that wasn’t within Ray’s, or anyone’s, control – but other than that, living together with Ray had been pretty smooth, all things considered. His cooking was scrumptious, making John unconsciously look forward to meal times even though he was rather averse to spending time with a crowd, not to mention a whole can of worms he was not ready to open as dinners often brought back some unsavory flashbacks involving his pops. Ray was… okay at best and clumsy at worst on the field but again so was every other Legend, prompting a critical question of how they had managed to survive all sorts of menaces like time privates, time assassins, immortal psychopaths, demon-worshipping cults, actual monsters, the list went on. Still, the problem was not so much Ray’s fluctuating competence but John’s increasing tolerance of it while normally he abhorred being slowed down and having to mind his teammates (one of the major reasons he’d been on no-one’s team until now); in fact, he found his growing fondness appalling every time the team returned to the ship, battered and bruised and having escaped death by the skin of their teeth, and Ray, no worse for wear than the rest, tried to liven the mood with his endless optimism. John freely blamed it on the unrivaled shine in Ray’s eyes and his sweet, sweet smiles.
… which were invading his waking hours with alarming speed.
It was getting more difficult by the day to see Ray as the same as those haloed dicks, rather than the condensed ray of sunbeam, Labrador pup in human form that he was. The man was too honest for his own good, his lying skills worse than asking a nun to hump someone’s leg, but instead of leering at it, John found his inability to tell the whitest lie a breath of freshness in a world teeming with lies and deceits that he himself was not immune to. His heavenly root remained a thorn in John’s side but technically the warlock had never worked up the nerves to ask a straight question – no beating ‘round the bush, no mincing the words – and in Constantine dictionary, an unasked question equaled a lie unspoken.
And then there was his endearing habit, which John’s hunch convinced him wasn’t staged, to sputter and blush fifty shades of pink at a raunchy remark or any attempts to flirt – testing the waters – from John. It quickly became clear that Ray’s mind was too pure to produce a straight face or feign nonchalance in the face of John’s less sanitized quips, and drinking in the angel’s array of amusing reactions had become his favorite pastime whenever he wasn’t casting an elaborate ancient spell or opening a portal to hell and tossing their monster of the day inside.
Before long, it was almost impossible to draw a clear line between a human gravitational pull toward warmth and kindness and his specific, non-platonic affection for Ray because God, how John had fallen for the nerd’s bumbling, easy charms (like a handful of other fucked-up individuals who had the fortune to bask in Ray’s presence). As a matter of fact, the speed and depth of his attraction had instilled fear and doubt in John’s heart that maybe, just maybe there had been magic – older and more potent than he’d ever known – involved, not to mention the voice in the back of his head incessantly yapping about dangers, schemes, nefarious intents and whatnot; nevertheless, with every brilliant smile Ray generously dispensed, John found that voice of alarm shoved a little further back, into a dark, forgotten corner.
All the pushes and pulls, prolonged side glances and delicious sparks produced in a charged atmosphere whenever they were within literal arm’s reach finally culminated in a flurry of lips smashing and urgent hands roaming over each other’s body, overheated by molten desires bubbling underneath, groping hard enough to leave a motley of bruises come tomorrow while clawing at unnecessary layers of clothes, peeling them off sweat-slick skin, not giving a damn about a button or two flying. Having been accumulated over every waking minute spent since the moment John laid his eyes on Ray and had his breath stolen by angelic features, the pent-up tension, which had driven John a little off the rocker with frustration and needs, found a climactic – if a tad too quick for John’s liking – release as John collapsed on Ray’s broad chest, boneless, somewhat mindless and much content to let Ray support his entire weight.
“You’re an angel, right,” John blurted out in his heightened state, only paying half a mind to what it might mean for them, “because I just got an unsolicited sneak peek of heaven.”
He felt Ray’s breathy laughter with his whole body before he was enveloped in Ray’s strong arms as well as his heat and affection rolling from the man in waves.
So yes, John was going to cut himself some slack for getting occasionally forgetful about the truth of his lover (because the thing between them had long exceeded the one-night-stand limit and evolved into something different, with feelings and attachments thrown in the mix for the sake of complication) being God’s soldier; after all, besides a handful of harmless (adorable), humanly acceptable quirks the team and John had gotten used to and associated with ‘what made Ray Ray’, Ray very much resembled a mortal man in every aspect. Naturally, the shock was insurmountable not only to John but also to the rest of the team when the time came for Ray to unfurl his wings, both figuratively and literally.
Ray’s angelic form, in short, was awe-inspiring, a sentiment unanimously shared among the Waverider crew as every single one of them was stunned into silence, even those who had brushed with the supernatural like Sara and Amaya.
It took a literal demon to force his inner angel out, and that was no other than Neron, who had arrived to collect his debt with a certain warlock and handed the team’s collective arses to themselves in the process. In a way, John’s initial hope to pit Neron against the Waverider’s angel had come to fruition, yet instead of satisfaction, fright was the only emotion filling him because that was Ray, his friend, his lover, his light after periods of fogs and shadows. In the split second the vile demon extended his vile claws toward John, Ray lunged at him like a bullet in a move that screamed both stupid and suicidal, and John, his mind blank, let out a despaired cry of his name.
In a blink, the awkward, handsome human Ray was gone and an angel was putting himself between John and the tumbling demon, wings spread wide to occupy the width of the Waverider, eyes blazing with divine judgement.
All of his eyes. Dozens and dozens of them on his muscular, naked torso and his wings, blinking in eerily flawless synch, and most of them were not kind and lovely as his human ones, which at the moment had become molten gold.
This close, John could hear him release a quiet sound suspiciously akin to a long-suffering sigh. Good to know underneath that blinding exterior the old Ray was still lurking.
Neron’s borrowed face scrunched up in what could only be perceived as horror, and he appeared to be shriving up under Ray’s merciless scrutiny.
“Please close your eyes, all of you,” ordered the angel in a voice that sounded like Ray but was overlapped by a hundred distinct others, creating a creepy medley. Compelled by the solemn tone, John obeyed without question, but not before stealing a glance at Ray, whose arms – the same ones often winding around his waist in an adorably possessive manner – morphed into a pair of flesh swords, littered with blinking eyes. The grotesque sight was a scene straight out of a horror flick, and it struck a primal fear into his heart.
What did he say about angels being a nastier species than demons?
He trusted the Legends had enough common sense to heed Ray’s command because the consequence of disobedience could be absolutely harrowing.
…
When the dust had settled and Nero had been banished to whatever hellhole he’d crawled out, leaving his vessel demon-free, a blinding pillar of light engulfed the multi-eyed angel and a blink later, in his place stood Ray, same old Ray with the personality of an excited puppy they’d known and loved, who went on to assure them that nothing had changed except now they got a guardian angel… but don’t count on him too much because his angelic powers weren’t a deus ex machina (nerd language, so Ray-like). In true Legend spirit, the Legends accepted the truth as their new ‘normal’ with casual shrugs (from Sara, Amaya and Zari), friendly slaps on the shoulders (from Nate and Behrad) and an “always knew you were odd, Haircut” (from Mick, obviously) before they dispersed to take their hard-earned, much-deserved rest until the next trouble popped up. John found their acceptance strongly admirable and also envious, since it had taken him a lot longer to wrap his head around the truth of Ray’s nature, either one concerning his biology or one concerning his character.
With their teammates gone, they were left to themselves on the bridge.
“I suppose you’ve always known,” Ray said, his smile tinted with somberness, and he made sure to keep a small but clear distance from John. Ever the infuriatingly considerate one, John mused with indignation. Did Ray truly think so low of him that he actually believed John Constantine would get spooked by a feathered being?
“Since I stepped foot on the Waverider,” John replied, trying for nonchalance by jamming his sweaty hands into the pockets of his trench coat.
Ray’s eyes got impossibly bigger, his typical reaction to surprise. “Then why hadn’t you—”
“Outed you to the rest?” John cut him. “I’d entertained that thought a few times to be honest, but then I was reminded that it might not be a wise move, considering a majority of angels are jerks who will go batshit if their plan is foiled.”
A crestfallen look shadowed Ray’s countenance, temporarily taking away his light, even if he managed a small smile. “They are indeed. Massive.”
Ray’s uncharacteristically doleful expression tugged at John’s heartstrings more than his pride would want to admit. His tone significantly softened as a result. “Aren’t they your siblings?”
“That’s why I left a long, long time ago, and never looked back.” A beat. “For the record I’d had no plan, no ulterior motive when Rip Hunter recruited me.”
“I couldn’t have read your mind, okay?”
“I’m sure the great John Constantine would have found a way if he had wanted.”
John snorted, scratching the back of his head. “So you’ve always been Ray Palmer instead of swooping in to take the body of some poor chap?”
John made a show of giving him a once-over. “Some poor, hot chap,” he added.
That succeeded in lifting Ray’s mood and a grin quite literally lit up his features. “Since 1980,” he replied. “Before that I was a hippie, I think. Things were a bit blurry with all the weed and sex at Woodstock.”
John laughed, loud and genuine, feeing the last vestiges of a long-term weight fade from his core. It was always easy to laugh with Ray, easier to laugh because of him. “I’ve been watching you and, for the record, I like what I’ve seen so far, wings and creepy eyes notwithstanding. You are nothing like those dickheads I’ve encountered.”
To further drive his point home, John killed the distance between them in one long stride and wrapped one arm around Ray’s waist while his other hand gave Ray’s jean-clad bottom a firm squeeze, making the man – angel – jump slightly. “Does that mean the thing we’ve had so far won’t change?” Ray asked, barely keeping the squeal from his voice. Truly one of a kind, John thought, his grin making it clear he wouldn’t remove his hand.
“There’s plenty of things I haven’t tried with you, so you’re not gonna get rid of me that easily, love. Plus…”
He went on tiptoe to capture the angel’s lips. A rush of possessiveness swept over him, making him giddy and prideful. How many Constantines had managed to claim an actual angel for themselves, not to mention one willing to be claimed?
“Last time I checked, angels can shape-shift,” John whispered to Ray’s lips. “There’s a few things I’m dying to try.”
…
In the wake of Ray’s giant ‘coming out’, Sara supposed, everything else seemed proportionally smaller and less significant, things like John Constantine, buck naked but for a damp towel hanging on his bony hips for dear life (hips with hand-shaped bruises on them!), lounging outside of Ray’s quarters at two in morning, Temporal Zone time.
Sara definitely did not see this coming. So these two had been… Of course they had! There was no other platonic reason for John to be clothes-free in front of the door of another man’s room at this hour.
That actually solved the mini puzzle of their lingering side-glances and casual touches, plus all colorful ‘terms of endearment’ John had directed toward Ray, who appeared to mind neither if his indulgent smiles were anything to go by (yes, Sara’d been watching since the first time she noticed John’s hand staying on Ray’s back a bit longer than socially appropriate). Now John Constantine might flirt with anything on two legs, but he was not an overly affectionate man, quite the opposite actually (attachment issues, if Sara were to make an educated guess). Besides, Ray was the only one out of this motley crew to receive that sort of treatment from John, not Nate or Behrad and certainly not Mick, which cemented her hypothesis that those two must have had something going on.
Well, who boned who wasn’t really her business; it was just really funny to see the nerdy Ray get all flustered with John’s flirts, then turn around and spot the lecherous warlock sputter and generally lose his cool due to Ray’s random, innocent gestures. Guess the whole ‘opposites attract’ did bag some truth in it after all.
“Ya got a problem, Captain?”
John, having noticed her standing motionlessly in the hallway, staring wide-eyed at him, asked.
Despite her initial conviction to mind her business, at that moment Sara felt the need to say, “Ray’s more tender than the rest of us, so handle with extra care, will you?”
John blinked at her, slowly registering her words. “He’s a literal angel,” he stated matter-of-factly, “way more powerful than the rest of us.”
Of course Sara knew it. “But with a soft, vulnerable human heart,” she retorted.
Too soft and vulnerable for his own good, she believed, if the ill-timed romance with Kendra had taught them anything, but perfect nonetheless. Angelic. Sara couldn’t claim to have been the most surprised by his revelation.
“I’d say don’t screw the puppy but since you did it already,” she continued, “don’t be the reason for his heart to change.”
It took John a few contemplative moments to digest her advice, after which he exhaled lengthily, scratching the back of his neck, a gesture that reminded her of Ray. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
As if on cue, soon as his sentence finished, something resembling a thick cobalt tentacle slipped out and wrapped itself around John’s waist, tugging him inside.
Sara wisely stepped back, put her palm on the hand pad and closed the door.
You’re welcome.
The end