Not a fairytale

Rain and blood really mix well together; at least as far as his whole longsuffering antihero persona is concerned.  There’s a gash on his head, or forehead, or maybe his brow is split open again – he can’t really be sure, but his vision is turning blurry and maybe his knees are beginning to go out a little too because he’s swaying to the left. He feels himself reach out blindly and grip the grimy brick wall by his side in a last ditch attempt in preventing the inevitable. It happens regardless though, like it always does,  his blood stained hand slips over the rough texture and he lands face first in a murky and muddy puddle, chuckling darkly at the very nature of his existence.  He thinks then, that perhaps if Fate was just a tad more creative she’d have written his end right here – drowned in two inches of water in a no name corner of Hell’s Kitchen.  

With whatever ounce of strength that’s left in him he manages to roll over; a well-deserved groan escaping him when he realizes he’d trundled on his right side – the one with the ‘perhaps bruised-perhaps broken’ rib. He wheezes and coughs out a bit of lung and for the first time in six months he’s left wondering if this was because of the knee to his lung he received earlier or the cancer in it. Every inch of him is sore, bruised, and battered, and he simply stares up at the sky and wills himself in counting down from fifty before he dares move again.

By the time he reaches twenty he passes out.


“-stine! “ he hears distantly, the world around him is cast in a heavy black blur “-ohn, Joh -..” the voice seems more concerned now, whoever it is. At least it sort of sounds human. He can never be too sure though, but to him at least the other side always sounded a little bit off. Like they were trying to play a part and not quite landing the role. “John if you die on my couch so help me I will cross over and pummel you for a few years till I’m over the trauma!” Couch?

“I’m up. Jesus.” He croaks even though he’s pretty much still talking to a blurry outline of his savior.

“No.” and he can practically hear the smirk in the tone “Just Eve.” He groans. Of course he’d pass out where she could find his sorry excuse of an ass and rescue him. What make this then? The 30-th time he owes her?

“I’m on a couch.” He says dumbly, because the last thing he remembers being is blistering cold and miserably wet.

“Perceptive little thing, aren’t you?” she smiles down at him and shoves a cup of something warm that he immediately latches on too. He takes a greedy gulp and immediately regrets it.

“What the fuck is this?!” he hacks out, coughing and spitting the foul taste out of him. There is no describing it, no comparison comes even close except maybe ….  “It tastes like ass.” He supplies helpfully. She chuckles.

“I’ll take your word for that. Sadly I’ve never had the pleasure.” She says breezily, and he watches her still blurry hands pull up a blanket over his very naked chest. He frowns down, looks under it, and with a still semi-lucid tone he asks :

“Where are my clothes?” she sighs.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, your virtues are very much intact.” She pats him on his knee and stands up. “Though we may not be technically human we still live in human bodies. I wasn’t about to let the great John Constantine die of hypothermia now was I?” she adds and stops at a the kitchen counter in the far corner “I took them down to the laundry room, they should be dry by morning.” And just like that, whatever flight-or-fight instinct that is left in him gets kicked into gear, and he makes a move to stand, panic and the memories of what exactly he was running from rushing over him all at once. Because staying here is out of the question. Putting somebody else in danger is out of the question.

“I can’t – I have too – “ he tries, but his legs won’t cooperate “It’s dangerous.”

“Chill.” She smiles from the kitchenette “And I wouldn’t move much if I were you, I put a gravity ward on your feet in case you were dumb enough to try and walk again on a slashed leg. “ she sing-songs, mixing serenely in a pot of boiling … something.

“Evelyn, you don’t understand.”

“I also warded the house with ‘Nochian seals and devil’s traps. Whatever it is that you were running from won’t get inside this place unless it’s god himself. Or … herself. Because hey, ya never know.” She says it so plainly, so easily that for a moment even Constantine forgets just what an enochian ward implies, or how much it takes out of you to put up just one, let alone …. His eyes  travel across the small apartment then, taking everything in and wondering just how much power this little girl can have. The four pillars of the room have been sealed with enochian wards, the corners layered with demonic seals. The windows are laced with salt and gofer dust, and the exits are all guarded by devils traps. Come what may, not even Lucifer herself is getting in here. Except…

“No mountain ash?” his voice cracks over the question, and he takes an absentminded sip of the ass-liquid. The regret is instant. She smirks.

“Should there be?” she asks, raising a questioning brow in his direction and he simply shrugs.

“It wasn’t a werewolf.” He says instead, and she nods sagely.

“I know it wasn’t. I couldn’t smell any on you.” He stares at her dumbly for a moment after that, enhanced senses are not something a normal glitch has in her repertoire.

“What did you smell then?”

“Pestilence … “ she says, and then adds quietly “And death.” Constantine simply nods, taking yet another ill-advised sip of his drink.

“Oh Jesus Christ, somebody take this way from me please. Why do I keep drinking it?” he asks, pushing the drink on the small coffee table in front of him, only to grab it a few seconds later. His eyes narrow over the cup, and then at the snickering young girl on the other side of the room “What did you do?”

She shrugs, petulantly and single-shouldered “Nothing, just hexed the cup to make you drink it till it’s done.”

“BUT IT’S ASS!”

“It’s ass that is good for you.” And Constantine can’t believe he’s having this conversation. “You might as well drink it willingly.” She adds then in a tone that is neither threatening nor placating. He grunts and takes the first willing sip of the helldrink since he’d first tasted it, fighting against the urge to spit it out over his saviors pretty blue couch.

“What is it anyway?” he asks, despite every single fiber of him screaming that NO he does not want to actually know the answer to that question. She shrugs.

“Goboa tail with mandrid root, laced with some skiver entrails infusion.” She says, and when she finally notices that he’s stunned into silence she looks up from her stove and smiled over her shoulder at him “Before you puke your guts out over my couch remember that I can cross hell and I will find you. And that that assdrink in your hand saved your sorry …err… ass.”

“AHA!” He says suddenly, accusing finger pointed at her  “I knew it was an assdrink!”

Few more days had passed and Amelie was starting to grow bored of Midnite’s small and far too crowded apartment. It was welcoming and warm, but it was almost impossible to move around without stumbling over a book or prevent from cutting into a vial. In all honesty the man lived through his books, or the books lead him, everyone’s free of choice, but never the less the place was a downright chaos. After the small talk they had, somehow, they seemed to open up to each other; conversations growing more animated than the previous short-sentenced ones. Apparently Midnite was a very interesting and funny person that what she judged at first sight, which taught her another lesson; pre-judging a person just by the looks would eventually turn out to be wrong, or right, depends of the situation at hand.

On the other side Midnite was taking pleasure in learning about his goddaughter. She would bring that part of him on the surface without too much effort and even though there was this frightening thread of feeling creeping up inside at just how easy she would make a person as serious as him, because yes, he was a very serious person, burst out laughing from the stupidest act or answer, he couldn’t be bothered by it or even try to suppress it. Amelie was sneaking her way under a man’s skin and that was a weapon that he had to remember to make her use it as less as possible and only in certain situations that did not involve Lucifer and co.


“Could I go out?” Amelie asks as she tiptoes her way over the island in the middle of the kitchen jumping on it and bringing her legs under her.

“No.” the reply doesn’t sound annoying or disturbed and Amelie has to think if to push it or not. She decides on the first choice as she lets out a puff of air a bit too strong forcing her lips to mimic the sound of a dying scooter. “Can WE go out then?” she accentuates the plural, hoping it would at least change his mind.

“No.” this time the answer had a threating edge and Amelie couldn’t help but let her face drop into a very displeased look. “Not fair.” She mumbles, dropping on the floor strongly to accentuate her displeasure.

Midnite took the liberty to look smug even though he knew she wasn’t able to see his face under the sink, where he worked for the past half an hour to try and fix that god damn pipe.

After grabbing a root juice that Midnite had prepared early that morning, which by the way, tasted ten times better than her used-to-be favorite sour cherry fresh, she abruptly stopped in the middle of the kitchen, red-eyes glued on Midnite’s half writhing body and a psychotic grin stretching her lips before turning into the smuggest expression as she casually walked over his half and turned the faucet on her way.

“YOU FUCKING BRAT! What the hell-shit-fuck!” the curses reaching her ears was probably the best sound she ever heard in some time.

“Language ‘Nite!” she calls from the living room, dropping on the couch and smiling pleased at her sweet revenge.


It took him half an hour, all the time sending glares at Amelie every time she smiled with superiority back, to get to the point of submission towards the little brat.

“Fine. What do you want to see?” he spat grabbing his jacket from the hanger and dressing up before turning towards Amelie with his arms across his chest.

“Nothing specific, anything that doesn’t look grimly would do just fine.” She copies his posture as perfectly as him, the only difference being the raised eyebrow.

“You are impossible.” And before she was about to reply at his statement he was out the door and some good meters away from her. Amleie sighs and just closes the door firmly, hexing it as Midnite taught her the last few days, scribbling down some runes before breaking open a small jar containing mountain ash. She takes one last glance at the door, places her glasses over those obviously not humanly eyes then as she hurried after Midnite her hands pulls the large hood over her already garnet colored hair. She let her hand wrap around her slim neck, her fingers brushing slightly the hot piece of cloth that Midnite had given her just a week and half ago. The first time she had touched it, flames engulfed her entire arm, but they were warm and not the burning ones she had expected. Midnite explained that it was for her and that if some other demon would touch it he would burn to ashes. When she had asked why, he stayed silent, the answer lingering in the air but not really heard, yet she knew there was, perhaps, a part that would be revealed later so she willingly dropped it, smiling just enough to give the right message to Midnite. He assured her it will keep the demon inside her caged until she would be ready to control it and before she knew it, he wrapped it around her neck. It would be a lie if she would say there were more than five times she tried to unwrap it but every attempt seemed to choke her further and burn her stronger so eventually she let it go.


“You are slacking, what’s wrong? Changed your mind?” Midnite questions, his eyes glancing from the corners at her posture.

“Nah.” She waved grinning at his as she tucked one strand of hair behind the hoodie. “Just thinking.” She waves dismissively face staring forward.

“Ah.” is all he says as his hands goes deeper into the pockets.

Humans say that “Words and ideas can change the world around you. “ They can be the stepping stones towards a new resolve, the heavy weights that tip the scale in your favour , the hammer that can tear down the walls around you, or the water that can put out a world on fire - And at the end of the day, when the line is drawn, what matters most if how well you walked through the flames.

Words hold power. Ideas are what sparks that power.

This is your typical human philosophy. And like most of humanity’s philosophies, it is only half right. Words are powerful, but not only for the ideas they hold behind them, but also because of the intent in which they are used.

The world around you is laced with power. It intertwined in every corner and fibre of existence, and the few that woke up enough to wield it learned very fast that some of that power can be … spoken. It is the reason Merlin was only known as Merlin, and the reason Excalibur was given by a creature known only as the Lady of the Lake. It is because words bond with the object they describe, and naming something gives you control over it. However, knowing someone’s name puts their life in your hands.

Words hold power, that is why behind the veil not one name is shared. For the souls that walk the veil no other secret comes even close to being as well kept as the name they were born with. To know a name, or to be given it freely is a mark of great honour and trust. And to come across it is the key to a battle won.

He’s always known her name. Evelyn Kramer. She was born with it. Human and pathetic sounding even for a 50’s whelp. He’d asked her if she wanted to change it at one point, or go by anything different at least. She was ten. She refused. The name given to her by her grandmother, by the one person that loved her being too cherished of a memory to cast away. In a sense it was her way of clinging to her humanity for a bit longer, in another … it was stupid.

She goes by Eve now, mostly. Very few know it’s a nickname, Derek being the only soul alive that knows her last name; and she wonders dumbly if that isn’t perhaps a foretelling of how things would always stand between then.

Eve never really questioned how he came to be, what he truly was, or why he chose to never tell her his birth name. She knew Derek was a name initially fond to him for whatever reason, just like she knew Hale was supposed to be ironic and fitting. These were information she happened to stumble over, or was told of as a consequence. ‘Accidentally informed ‘ she liked to bitterly refer to the circumstances by which she was told even this little; joking and brushing off the very idea of sharing anything too personal with the man that was supposed to be her mentor to the world. But if she were to be honest with herself then perhaps Eve would admit that it hurt.

It hurt to be kept in the dark and at an arm’s length by the man who she would give her life for, and who on many occasions proved would give his life in exchange just as easily. His life was private, hidden, secure. His business was his own, and any attempts she might have had when she was little to find out more about him and his affairs were instantly shot down and belittled.

So gradually, over the years, little by little Eve started keeping herself closed off from the world; or, at the very least closed off from Derek. Maybe it was the petulant rebellious side of her that saw the entire situation unbalanced and unfair. Maybe it was her broken heart that quietly whispered that she should try and heal somehow even if that meant putting up a few walls around herself. Maybe she was just so tiered of asking him to let her into his life. Whatever it was, over the years Eve talked less and less about herself, and more and more about the world around her. Conversations were derailed through observation rather than personal information, and the ease in which he so freely dismissed her inquiries about something as benign as his ‘day’ became obsolete before she even realized it. Because somewhere in the process of him telling her to fuck off, and her avoiding to talk about herself, she somehow fell out of the habit of asking to be let in alltogether.

She became content with quietly observing from the outside, and never asking for more details than she was given. And maybe, quietly, she reached the conclusion that Derek simply didn’t care or trusted her enough to share to begin with.

A little frown tugs at a pair of full copper eyebrows, and the long silver spoon that was stirring the pot of boiling blue liquid is suddenly gripped tighter. She hated going down this particular rabbit-hole. The mood she got out of it never did much but leave her bitter for it. A sigh and a few more stirs later and whatever it is that she’s making is deemed passable enough to be poured into a clear mason jar and sealed with a silver coated lid. She throws a cautious glance towards her unexpected guest that’s passed out on her comfortable blue couch and tries not to grin too much when she notices the great deporter drools in his sleep.

She’ll make him clean that little spot with his tears come morning, but for now the sight is amusing enough that she forgets about her werewolf problems for a little while longer.

The glass jar bubbled a bit, even under the sealed silver lid, and does a bit of a wiggle towards the edge. Eve stares it down.
“I can always dump you in a bath of acid if your current accommodations aren’t to your liking.” She hums innocently, and the glass suddenly stops moving. “Atta boy.” A smile stretched her lips sweetly, and her eyes seem warm and almost gentle under the kitchen lights “Just a few more hours and you’ll be all grown up and ready.” She smiles and a little purr escaped from the jar. “Maybe I’ll call you Doby.” She says fondly, a light finger brushing over the jar “And I promise you can have all the sock.”

“God, you’re a dork aren’t you?” John stirs from the couch, lazy hand slowly dragging over the corner of his lips while Eve gives him a half shoulder shrug in response.

“It seemed fitting.” She says easily and smiles down at the small glass that is now vibrating in content. It’s learning fast, picking up on tones and projected feelings. When it would eventually be ready, she likes to think it would be powerful but caring.

“What colour is it ?” John asks and squints at the jar, slowly sitting up and pleasantly surprised when he notices the gravity hex slowly loosening around his feet.

“Blue.” She says, picking the jar up and carrying it into the living room. She places it down gently on the nook of the living room window and wonders if it loves the rain as much as she does. John however has gone quiet at that, and when she looks over her shoulder at him she smiles at the contemplating look that he’s giving her. “I don’t need your pity, John.” She says it in a way that sounds entirely too sweet, entirely too innocent. It sends a shiver down Constantine’s spine.

“I know. It’s just – “ he tries to explain, gives up half way and rubs a tiered hand down his face, groaning. “I didn’t know.” He finally settles on and she nods in agreement.

“Very few people do.” She answers back, and takes a seat by the jar. They don’t say much after that, allowing the cold and uncomfortable silence to engulf them entirely and settle over them like a suffocating blanket. At least as far as John is concerned that is.

Eve however seems almost … grounded – and he wonders for a moment if this is what he’ll be like when he’ll finally stop fighting against his inevitable and accept his own end. It hits him then just how much they have in common. Both of them are young, both of them are otherworldly, both of them are in over their heads, and both of them are dying. But while Constantine did it to himself, Eve had it done to her.

And in lies the difference. He’s dying of cancer. Eve is dying of a broken heart.

Glitches aren’t regular souls. That much we already established. They function differently, they operate under different rules – and as such, they bond differently too. A glitch’s soul is often times seen as incomplete, and being solitary often leaves them open and vulnerable. They survive just fine on one soul, some even thrive on it depending on how fast they learn. That is, until they fall in love.
You see, we are built in pairs. Every single soul on the planet is. Even glitches. They however have a harder time finding their half. It always has to be the right kind of soul, the right kind of energy, the right kind of patch that can fit into and be stitched over their gashes. Not just any soul will do, and that is why so very few of them actually find love.

In many ways glitches and werewolves are very much alike. Hey both need that one special soul perfectly catered to them, and they both mate for life. But while a were’ can live without the love of their life - albeit in agony, a glitch that doesn’t have their love returned withers and dies.
A ridiculous as it sounds, Eve is dying of a broken heart.

“You think it will work?” John finally asks, throwing an inquisitive nod towards the jar by the window. She shrugs.

“For a while at least.” She says honestly and looks down at the little concoction. It’s clever solution really, even if she does say so herself. The thing in the jar is a familiar, summoned and created for the sole purpose of assisting its master. When they are made, depending on the colour they take they choose the reason for their own creation based on the kind of emotions and feelings the master experiences at the time: Red is for vengeance, yellow is for illness, pink is for friendship, green is for studying, and blue is for accompanying a broken heart.

They grow in a matter of hours, bond instantly to their creator, and choose the shape that best suits both the situation and their master. They don’t have a lifespan, and if properly tended they can be virtually immortal. However their reason for being, their purpose if you will, never changes; this is the reason why so many witches choose to slaughter their own familiars when their usefulness is outlived, and the reason so very few are actually made now-a-days.

But for Eve, Doby is a patch to a gaping wound. He will work just fine for a while – loving her unconditionally and tricking the threads of her soul enough that the pain in her chest will slowly become a manageable murmur. But it won’t work forever. Eventually it will stop being enough. Inevitably it will start hurting again. And one day, a little too soon, she will die.

“Who is it?” John asks, feeling a little on the spot in the deafening silence. He secretly hopes it’s not him, that he isn’t the reason that she’s dying. He also secretly hopes that she wouldn’t tell him either way. She smile.

“It’s not you.” She chuckles and pets the silver lid once before raising her eyes towards the window. John for his part feels like a douche for sighing in relief. “And nobody that you’d know.” She says There’s an edge to her tone when she says it, and if he weren’t paying attention he’d almost miss when she adds under her breath a few seconds later : “Nobody that anyone could know, really.”

It is funny how, for every species, there are certain rules that are supposed to be followed; I say supposed, because as in every community, there are certain people that do not abide by them, being completely oblivious, or ignoring on purpose the fact that those certain rules are made to prevent chaos from unleashing. Naturally some rules are since the begging of time, no one questioning why, or how, or when they were constructed, and of course, by who; they were just there.

We have established that certain souls goes by certain rules but what happens when some decides to trick Lady Fate just by a mere stubborn decision to go against her, for some sick selfish entertainment to see what happens.

You see, every species has their own way of finding a soul mate; as we have mentioned earlier, glitches are by far the most complex souls so they need stricter, more complex rules to go by. Angel’s souls could be placed second under glitches, because an angel does not find his soul; it’s given one at birth and that’s where begins the challenge. It is sort of like an arranged marriage, where you don’t have a say, you just go by what you’re told. Love it or endure it, nothing much to be done, though there is a catch. Being the pure souls they are, for angels the perfect soul is made to match their own. It’s a pattern Heaven uses to keep purity within the gates; it’s sick, indeed, but nevertheless they just seem to be content with the arrangement.

That is why the bonding comes naturally; there is no gasp, no spark, both just know they belong to each other and they embrace it happily, knowing that at the end of the day, the love is returned equally.

Now let’s talk about demons for a bit. As we said, demons are by far the most horrible supernatural beings; I don’t need to get to repeat myself, since each one of you knows what the purpose of a demon is, therefore their way of finding their soul mate is a sadistic-masochistic one. Ruled by its craving for power, a demon finds its other half by the same amount of power it holds. I mentioned earlier demons have this wicked way of binding that involves blood; once you find your matching soul, you get a rush of power flooding through you, there is no mistake to it, and then it clicks.

They have a ritual; two drops of blood offered by will that serves the purpose of rebirth. Demons are not immortal; as there is nothing on this planet or universe that, at one point does not die, but they can however, live for as long as the drop is still intact in each other’s rings or it serves the right purpose. That is why when a demon chooses their mate, they do it carefully and trustfully, because there is a chance that if one of them holds more power than the other, or along the way gains it, then the urge for dominance comes in. While the blood gives life, it also takes it, together with everything the soul contains. It’s a twisted way they have, but the whole purpose is to be chaotically stirred within the dark souls, to agonize and suffer for eternity, unless, the two of them lives in perfect balance.

That is why, if by chance, someone else falls for them, they tend to devour that soul to its last bits. The whole point is to find the perfect amount of power matching in absolute balance with the other, no more, no less, because either way, if by chance, it’ s not right, then it’s either you are devoured or you devour. That is why many dark souls tend to avoid searching for their mate, because to be in such balance is very rare and requires a lot of self-preservation, which many doesn’t have.



So when Sean had decided to go against fate, he had no idea what he signed for.
Eyes darted to his left to check the time on his little glass bed table. He groaned when the little blinking blue led showed four forty-five in the morning while a large hand was pulled lazily over his eyes to brush away the frustration from his face. Since that call he had not closed an eye, feeling the exhaustion creeping under his skin. He hated being in such a weak body which required a certain amount of rest time, certain amount of sleep, not to mention food to keep the body going. After all these years you’d say one gets used to such a way of living, but it wasn’t the case for him apparently.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had a nightmare free sleep and the obvious black bags under his eyes showed just how much his body suffered.

He sat, shoulders leaned forward, chin touching his hairless chest, at the edge of his bed, hands on each side of his shaking body as he tried to gain focus and a bit amount of energy so he could get up and head for the shower, hopefully it will ease the burning sensation his skin seemed to emit.

It took him a good amount of time to do so, but eventually he found himself under the sprinkle of his shower, head resting against the tiles as he let himself be revitalized by the chillness of the water.

There was a question that had been running through his head since the moment of that call. Why he had not been able to sense her, if all this time she had been there. He was supposed to feel her somehow and that thought alone disturbed the peace within that he so much managed to settle.






Amelie and Midnite have been walking in complete silence for the last few hours, the sun showing it’s time to disappear as the puffy clouds took an orange-purple combination of colors. The park turned out to be pleasant as they paced through the almost dried leaves that delivered a crumpling noise with each step they took. It was rhythmically, Amelie darting her eyes from her feet to Midnite’s to see the perfect synchronization of the legs. A fond smile stretches her lips while her fingers pull the sleeves down to avoid getting frozen.

It was cold outside, the late autumn slowly turning into winter without even giving a chance for people to adjust with the sudden change of temperature. There was a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach and she took it as the power swirling within her.
Midnite saw the wrinkled forehead but he chose to stay silent, waiting patiently for her to make the first more, but then again it might take ages until she would finally open up to discuss about her feelings. He decided to leave her be for now.

It doesn’t pass minutes before he hears an incoherent mumble from his left. He waits a bit more and he finally deciphers something ending with –unny before he gives a sigh and stops mid track while Amelie keeps on going until she finally stops about a feet away from him.

“Pardon?” he asks, amusement edging his question.

“I feel funny.” She states not turning to face him, but keeps on standing there with her shoulders slumped forward.

“It’s normal.” He smiles reaching to touch her shoulder only to have her flinch at the contact. He frowns taking a step around to watch her face.

“No I don’t think is that.” She shakes her head, couple of garnet strands of hair poking from under the hood to frame her face. “I feel…empty.” She shrugs.

He took a moment to lean in in order to check her face closely. “You want to go back?” he asked gently.

When the shake of her head showed her answer he sighed. “Then?”

“Can you-? She stops and bites her bottom lip, taking a moment to think. “Canyoutellmetruth?”

And there it was, blurred out so fast that almost got Midnite aback. It took him about a moment to process when it sank to him that it was probably the best to tell her everything she wanted to know.

“I suppose there is no reason to keep it from you. How about we go and grab a drink?” he smiles fondly as he stretches his arm for her to take it. “Get ready for a long night My Lady.” He laughed and despite the feeling she follows his example and laughs free.

There are a lot of things that Derek Hale thinks he is well enough equipped to deal with; devil, demons, angels, gods, demigods, and every pathetic Halfling in-between. He’s faced them all off – sometimes individually, and sometimes … he wasn’t as lucky. But come whatever it may, he’s survived them all, and macabrely, he often jokes about facing far worse things that death at one point or another in his significant lifespan. The funny thing about this statement is that it’s most likely true. He’s been around for a long time; his lifespan so far measuring in a few normal human ones – and he’s still kicking.  The trick, he realized, was to never take living for granted, and always treat everything with a heavy dose of paranoia in anticipation of the other shoe dropping . And arguably this strategy has worked quite well so far; it’s what kept him ahead of the loop and out of the extinction process for so long, it’s what made him a survivor while every single member of his clan burned around him.

Derek Hale is a survivor, and no soul alive can claim otherwise.

So you would think that incorporating this dose of nihilistic survival he would eventually stop being surprised when things go horribly sour, and when the proverbial shoe does indeed drop. But like Jeff Goldblum said when dealing with his friendly prehistoric problems:  Life finds a way. And no statement in heaven and earth is more honest and raw than that, because for this very moment Derek didn’t have a contingency plan.
He blames himself, really. He should have known well enough to anticipate and prepare himself somehow for this; at the very least mentally. But it still shakes him to his core . Or maybe that’s the blood loss talking.

You see, earlier that evening Derek got bored of being cooped up in his  proverbial nest of blankets that over the passing days have slowly begun to lose their Eve-like perfume. So, against all odds, he went out. He got drunk. Then he got depressed, an aliment for which the sole cure seemed more alcohol. Then Derek got stupid and got into a fight with a Darak. Suffice it to say that it didn’t go all that well.

He won, just barely, but because it was a darak of all things his wounds weren’t really closing, and by the time that his heeling factor finally kicked into first gear the blood loss was consistent enough that even to his inebriated mental balance it seemed … troubling.  It was the perfect excuse really to show up at her doorstep sporting battle wounds the sickening discoloration of death. It was a situation that would excuse him seeing her without showing any sign of weakness,  and consequently avoiding any smug smirks from her. He would get to have his cake and eat it too.
At least that was the plan.



The moment he steps close to her building the smell hits him right away. It’s always the same, no matter how many times he’s encountered it; the stale and bitter stench of cancer with a hint of nicotine. Constantine carried himself like a waking cigarette ready to be burned off at both ends – and he smelled like one too. He’d gotten used to it over the years, came to expect it from him. What he didn’t expect was to find it laced around her window, inside her building, and sneaking from under her door.  And perhaps it was the moonliquor in him still doing the thinking, but the very idea that she let him in, that he was inside her house, angered him enough to make him see red.
He could hear them talking from outside her door. Constantine was apologising quietly; he sounded sincere and Derek wished he’d drank less because right now he couldn’t pick out a heartbeat if his life depended on it. But she’s calm when she replies and that settles him somewhat – she’s dismissing him, easily and effortlessly.

“I don’t need your pity.” He hears her say, and maybe he smiles dumbly a little at that because that’s the woman he fell in love with being independent and strong in front of a strange man inside her house. Inside her territory. And then Derek remembers why he was angry to begin with. And he remembers he has superstrength

“Good evening.”  Is what he chooses to open with. He doesn't so much knock on the door as much as he slams it open. And he doesn't technically open the door but more like jarred it off its hinges.  The lock probably broke when he forced it; he can feel bits and pieces of the doorknob crumbling out of his fist when he takes a steady step forward  and maybe he feels guilty enough to consider replacing her door. A sturdy one, with a deporter hex laced into its edges.

“Good evening to you too.” She says instead, in a tone isso mild, so frighteningly unimpressed that for a second he forgets that he wasn’t expected and that he didn’t just break her front door open. She turns her back to him just as easily, walking over to the window and covering something with a little towel before she finally throws a glance at him over her shoulder. Derek frowns. “I take it you’ll replace my door then?”  Derek just nods dumbly.

“What’s he doing here?” he deflects instead, trying not to focus on the fact that Constantine is on her couch half covered by what Derek knows is her favorite blanket, and the half that Derek sees of his is distinctly … naked. Ok, so maybe Derek quietly starts venturing on a mental journey that ends with the headline 'and they only found his left leg.', because right now tearing him into bite sized pieces seems oddly settling.

“We were fucking.” She says mockingly, and even though he knows she’s lying, even though the sarcasm practically drips off her tongue, his stomach still drops at the thought.

“Nevermind us, Derek …” John smirks, and Derek knows instantly one of them will live to regret this - he's currently just not quite sure which one of them will though. “What are you doing here?”

“I followed the stench of death and though I'd pay you a visist.” He snarks back, taking a vindictive glee in the fact that he made Eve chuckle into her fist by his side.

“Har har. “ John says, eye narrow, but whatever retort he had coming seems to die on his tongue. This is ... uncharacteristic, Derek thinks - because knowing Constantine, even half dead and he'd still snark back enough sarcasm to drown him. He narrows his eyes at him for a moment, takes a quick wiff through his nose and then frowns deeper when the citrusy smell of magic lulls over him.

“What did you do to him?” he turns towards Eve, and the small evilish smile that stretches her lips makes his blood run a bit colder. She shrugs though, nonchalantly and carefree so it couldn’t be that bad. Right?

“I gave him a tonic,” she smiles, and John mutters something about a drink made of asses under his break, and Derek feels more confused now than before he got his answer. “In a hexed cup.” She adds, and he can’t help the small 'Ah.' That comes out of him at the realization.  It shouldn’t have been this hard on him . “  she clarifies “But then again –“

“He was injured.” Derek concludes, and she just nods. “So it hit him harder. Either way, nice job. At least now I get to have the last fucking word in a conversation with him.” Derek smirks, and Johns eyes narrow.

“Oh yeah, laugh it up. Your pupil gave me a healing tonic that put half my collective brainpower to sleep. But yeah, take advantage of the disabled.”

“Disabled?” Derek snort “If right now you lost 60% of your higher brain functions you would still be technically above average compared to a regular human. So please, spare me your bullshit.” Derek says and John gapes and blinks at him owlishly.

“Did he just call me smar?” he asks turning to Eve “I mean, I may be dumber than a box of crayons now, but that sounded like he called me smart. Right?” he asks turning towards Eve while she just smirks and turns to Derek.

“Good luck with this by the way.” she says, and Derek just grunts.

“I did not. It’s a simple fact of evolved souls.”He answers back, voice going slightly higher and strained  in frustration “We think differently than humans. It's nether 101.”

“You called me smart. Future me better remember this conversation.”

“You will.” Eve reassures “By the time you wake up tomorrow you’ll be back at full capacity.”

“And I’ll play with Doby.” He adds petulantly and nestles down  under his blanket. Eve smiles warmly, and Derek feels his blood boil .

“And you’ll play with Doby.” she smiles kindly

“What the fuck is a Dody?” he asks, irritation sleeping through his tone

"Dody will like your socks best." John murmurs sleepily while a tiny purr comes from the window. Jesus Christ what a fucking night.

The bar was quiet, couple of humans chatting with each other, the music in the background giving a warm sensation, probably made to ease the tension. It was casual, Amelie noticed as they sat at the bar, both lost for the moment. Once in a while she would steal a glance at the bartender in the far corner only to be regarded with a nod and a small smile. Nothing screamed demon about him, her mind questioning the knowing look he gave. She decides to shrug the curiosity, eyes falling down at the red liquid she currently kept on stirring to the point that it almost flew out of the glass. She got disturbed earlier when she asked for rum and they kindly apologized for not having it, instead they recommended something else and to her surprised she liked it; Might as well add it on her list.

She took a sip, grimacing like every other time for the bitter taste it left in her mouth. She would get used to it.

“Didn’t know you like bitters.” Midnite spoke as if they had been talking until now. Her eyes doesn’t move from her fiddling fingers against the glass, but she gives a somehow uninterested shrug of her shoulder. “I don’t, but it seems appropriate to drink something different as I wait for your story to start.”

At that Midnite’slips turn into an ‘o’ but doesn’t give an answer, instead he starts laughing behind his glass. At that Amelie raises an eyebrow at him. “What?”

It takes few minutes until he manages to stop his embarrassing outburst before taking a deep breath and glance over at the surprised face Amelie was sporting at that moment. “How about you ask questions and I answer?” she frowns and he brings a hand over his chest. “I promise to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.” He smile and she snorts, mumbling something about old men.

“Fine.” But despite the whole scene she smiles as she takes a sip.

“So why am I still alive?” she decides to just ask the question that had been running in her head since…her eyes closes for a moment before she shakes her head.

“Because an archangel fell for you.” He states in all seriousness. “You know the history of heaven right?” she nods. “Then you know that normally angels do not get to find their soul mate, so one is made for them.” She nods again but this time she turns her head towards him. “Well this particular archangel was a Seeker; their purpose if to send a guardian angel to each soul on the planet. Because – “ he stops for a moment to suck in a breath, “- you have a dark soul – a soul that has no chance at purification, you are not given guardian, but if you have your mother you get strength from her. As you got none, you didn’t have chances to live, but he came for you. I don’t know the whole story or how he managed to find you, but you survived.” He smiled at her wide eyes.

“So he gave me strength?” she asked slowly but Midnite’s negative shake of his head brought a frown on her face. “No, we don’t know how he did it, or what actually happened, because neither I nor your father was there. The doctors told us that you recovered and you will be as healthy as a normal infant. He said it was a miracle.” He laughed. “We don’t believe in miracles.” She puffed at that statement.

“And this archangel, is he somewhere here?” she cautiously asked, stirring the almost melted ice cube with her index.

“Yes.” He smiles again watching her with a raised eyebrow. “He will offer you a safe place to stay.”

“An angel….offering me a safe- is this some kind of joke?” she turns her head to stare at Midnite. “He is an ANGEL, me here is a demon.” Her hands waves towards her to make a point. “Is this a joke?” she gets up, eyes brightening with rage.

“Sit down brat, as long as you are under my arm nothing will happen to you.” He places a hand on her shoulder and pushes her down with a thud. “Sides he is a fallen angel, he already sinned in front of god by falling in love with a demon.” His voice turned slightly bit more serious and filled with anger as he drowned the last remaining liquid, signaling for another round. “He will give his life for you, offer you a safe place and train you together with me.”

Amelie was speechless. She was staring at Midnite with so much anger that if her vision had lasers then most likely he would burn to ashes. Not that she lost everything, she had to even change places, leave all her stuff behind and go live with a pervert and a witchdoctor that she knows absolutely nothing about, how did her life became so twisted?

She opened her mouth to say something but nothing could top the fact that he was right. “When?”

“Soon.” Midnite frowned. “As soon as the other two gives their answer.”

They sat there for maybe another couple of hours, Amalia asking questions and Midnite answering them without any remorse. He explained everything she wanted to know and by the end of the night Amelie was overwhelmed with the worst headache she could pull off, but it was worthy. At least she knows the truth now, or what was left of it.

When she placed her head on the pillow that night she had a feeling that everything would turn out ok.

The evening goes considerably more smoothly after that; chosen words and banter aside that is. But somewhere between Derek calling Constantine a walking rotting corpse and Constantine reminding him petulantly that sticks and stones could break his bones but words could always kiss his ass – Eve stuck in a movie, made some popcorn, and settled down at the foot of the sofa - tugging at the corners of the blanket John wasn’t using.

It’s The Notebook, because she still feels a bit hollow and raw even if he’s a little bit closer, and a little cry always helps settle her senses. It’s the perfect excuse to sniffle without seeming week, and the perfect way of making sure both of them are out like a light before half the movie is even finished.

It works surprisingly well.

A quarter in to the film and Derek is drooling himself into a puddle on the floor next to her; angled away and his neck might look a bit crooked but Eve shrugs it off – werewolf healing factor and so on, he could probably sleep through a broken neck let alone a sore one. John however reclaimed his blanket and declared the movie beneath his standards, and with a characteristic huff that could only mean the effects of the tonic were wearing thin, he turned and passed out in a cocoon of blue and grumpy.
And that left her. Alone, with the blue hue of the rain scene washing over her skin and making her look ghostly and otherworldly. She keeps her eyes glued to it, heart stuttering over the moment they kiss in the rain and finally, with a slow exhale, she lets herself soundlessly cry. She doesn’t sob, doesn’t whale, but just lets the tears fall. It’s oddly cathartic in a masochistic sort of way, to vent by association, but it does help.

The silent crying is a habit she picked up a few decades back – back when she was just a kid and he was just a big bad wolf. She figured out pretty fast that he felt uncomfortable and out of place when faced with a sobbing little girl, and generally speaking when Derek felt out of place he tended to take it out on anything near him. So, pretty early on, to spare unnecessary collateral damage, Eve learned to cry without making a sound. It worked; Derek stopped noticing and eventually stopped threatening to kill anything he thought might have upset her - even if more often than not Eve cried because she missed her old life, her grandmother, or her humanity.

That last part always caught her by surprise. The thing that nobody mentions about glitches is that they aren’t always …glitched. An average glitch can go for several years after birth undetected – behaving and acting like a normal human soul. The ability to cross over, their crippling soul singularity, that surfaces after the soul matures enough to seem itself ready. There is no set date, the maturity of a glitched soul varies from individual to individual – some glitches surface when they’re seven, some when they’re nine, and some when they’re in their late teens. It’s a relative process that some theorise is a built in defence system against the other side; the soul keeps itself safe until it stops looking like a prime cut rib at an all you can eat buffet for your average low level demon. And until they surface as glitches, most of these kids feel … human. And all of them end up missing humanity when they lose it.

Over the years the yearning to feel human dimmed down into a background hum. She was rarely aware of it anymore, only surfacing when she’d come across a family walking in the park, or average random toddler being cared for by his mother – things she would never have, things she could never have. But t thankfully with age came in power, and with power the feeling of humanity distances itself bit by bit.
She hardly felt connected to humanity anymore. She knew she missed it, but couldn’t for the life of her remember what it felt like to have it. She felt sadness, loss, hurt, comfort, and love , sure – but the core of what makes one human, the undoubtable unquantifiable chaos and noise inside the very essence of humanity; he turmoil and the perpetual search for peace and balance, was missing. There was silence within her, no struggle that humans face to coming to terms with a decision or accepting their fate, no second guessing or the odd insecure voice in the back of her mind. No, just silence. Being the only soul within a body sometimes had its perks. Not sharing a consciousness was one of them..

A settled sigh climbs out of her and ghosts over her lips before she slumps against the back of the couch. The tears are slowly drying over her skin and the sheer dejection of it all wills her into letting them do just that, and settle for once for the lazy approach. There’s movement from her left; a small hum shortly following and she realizes perhaps a little too late that her familiar is about to face the world for the first time – and a good master always helps him take the first steps. She scrambles to her feet, pushing and pulling the blanket over the dead-to-the-world-deporter and reaches blindly to catch the jar that is perilously close to the edge of the window still. There is no happy ever after in Eves life, and happy irony rarely makes an appearance – so she trips on the blue blanket, falls on the loosely placed throw rug, and skids with it head first into the underside of the windowsill on the freshly waxed hardwood floor. Of course the jar tips over, and of course it falls and breaks over her head because fate is a bitch like that. But between the pieces of glass, the blinding pain and the trail of blood that’s beginning a descend down her forehead she manages to see something roll off the top of her head and crouch in front of her in fear.

“Oh.” She says dumbly, a bit stumped by the shape it chose to take and somewhat pleasantly surprised it didn’t turn out to have teeth and wings “This is …surprising.” The thing in front of her pokes a pair of bright green eyes through the fluffball that it managed to make itself into and honest to god looks almost indignant. Eve chuckles. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” She amends and extends a hand towards it. A pair of ears perks up at her, one half chopped and one half crocket , and she can’t help but noticed just how fitting they are to her entire situation. A perfect character trait for an empathic familiar.

“I’m Eve.” She smiles and starts to sit up when the little furball that sort of looks like what the grim brothers tried to say a black witches’ cat should look like but somehow failed miserably. It’s small and frail, maybe only a kitten, maybe that’s how it chose to come out full grown because you can never know with familiar. Its eyes are emerald little pearls, and its fur is darker than the darkest ebony. The legs don’t look right – they’re thin and scrawny but end in thick fat paws that have one too many claws. Its tail is fluffed up and full, and unlike most cats it tends to curl at the tip and like to stay pointed up. Its lean and in shape, with a roundish head and exaggerated wickers . But, if Eve thinks better of it, every part of him seems exaggerated - like he tried just a little bit too hard to come out looking ridiculous and weird.

She loves him a little for that fact alone instantly.

“I suppose you won’t like Doby then?” she asks, but the thing purss, jumps on her shoulder and nestles against the crook of her neck. “Or maybe you do?” she giggles uncharacteristically. It’s working already, she can already tell. The gaping wound within her is slowly being bandaged over and a part of her still can’t help but wonder just how pathetic this entire situation is that she needs to make something to love her rather than being loved for who she is. The cat however senses whatever dark path she is beginning to trail down too and swats a paw at her nose not too hard to actually hurt, but enough to catch the girl off guard just enough to make her flinch, loose balance, and tumble over.

“You little shit!” she screeches jovially and brings the adorable little terror in for a quick little kiss.

“You called?” a groggy voice answers from the couch, shortly followed by a bed of messed up hair and the face that distinctly screams ‘I am not a morning person so politely fuck off’. The man yawns, stretches, and narrows his eyes at the little scene. “Hey1 It hatched!” he smiles, and tries to stand up from the bed but somehow in-between using his locomotor skills and the gravity hex she put on him earlier John trips and falls right over the sleeping werewolf at his feet. Well, Eve thinks darkly, formerly sleeping werewolf.

“Son of a~” she hears a grunt and sees Derek roll on his side and curling in on himself, cradling his lower regions “You mother fucker.” He adds a second later, probably through tears even though whatever damage John caused is probably well healed by now.

“Sorry?” John ties and fails to sound genuine, but shrugs it off the moment he manages to will away Eves hex and crawl by her side next to the proud looking black cat that seemed to thrive on the attention.

“You’re not sorry, you’re not even close to beginning to feel what sorry feels like. But I promise you, no one in the history of torture, will be tortured with the kind of torture you will be tortured with.” He takes a deep breath while John rolls his eyes, and stands; eyes narrowing over the two of them and then settling over the furball in her lap.

“What color was it ?” he asks immediately, not needing the details or the gist of it but somehow being able to understand half the problem just by observation.

“Green.” She lies. And Derek? Derek catches it immediately.