Posted in Headcanon

Wasted Chances

There is a bitter smile on his face as he stares at the achingly familiar huge mansion across the road. Because all road leads him here, shivering like a drenched rat on the woods near The Bloodstone Manor.

It would seems like two months apart – give or take – is nowhere near enough to erase the muscle memory of habitually walking to her doorstep. Especially when his head is a mess of thunderstorm like now.

Or maybe he just miss her.


Eyes trained on her windowsill, he automatically reaches for his Silk Cut and light it up, inhaling the familiar scent that should have been enough to soothe his aching brain. But even a con-man like John Constanine is not so good as to be able to swindle himself.

Because nothing could ease his ailings like the combination of his beloved cigarette and her remedying voice. Her, who not only stayed after seeing him at his worst but also curb the insanity in his mind.

But she’s out of his reach now. After all, he was the one who decided to let go. To protect her mental health, to spare her the pain of being strung up for months without happy ending to promise, and to grant her the freedom of continuing her life without him as a burden.

Or maybe he just want to protect himself from the agony of watching her suffer because of his problems.

Maybe he’s just scared that, after all is said and done, he wouldn’t be worth all the pain he put her through. That he’d be a disappointment and couldn’t live up to her expectations.

Maybe he’s just too much of a coward to ask her to bet everything on him.


Looking up at her window now, he kind of wish he did. Because maybe then things would turn out differently and he’d still be granted the reprieve of being in her arms, safe and sound thanks to her fierce devotion.


Because damn it all, he can actually see it. Crystal celar.

Their white picket fence future. They’ve talked about it, what sharing their life would look like should they choose to trade their current lifestyle with settling down on a “normal” one.

He could see their house, simple with lots of open space, a library big enough to house their collections, and a garden with their dogs on it (his, actually, but he’s sure in time she’ll learn to love it as much as he does).

He could picture their habitual routine. Of him waking up early to prepare her tea, so she’d walk to him sleepily and cling on to him in those rare moments when her guards aren’t up yet. So he’d allow himself the pleasure of kissing her forehead or knuckles and maybe steal a little bit more. She’d go to work then, or college, because she sure as hell ain’t going to be cooped up inside those four walls. She’d soar, even if she’s not a monster hunter and just a Master student or whatever vocation caught her fancy, while he’d stay and take care of their home for a change. She’d come home late but he’d have dinner prepared, and they’d cuddle in front of the telly, watching nothing in particular but laughing at everything. She’d wound up on his laps and he’d carry her to the bedroom, where he’d worship her like he always does until they’d fall asleep in a heap of tangled limbs, serenely tucked against each other.

God forbid, he even knows the names they’d coined should they ever get drunk enough in euphoria and decided to adopt.


Now, though, the life he could’ve had flash before his eyes as he reach to his pocket and grip the object he always kept hidden there, away from all prying eyes in the world.


He wish he had have the guts to get down on one knee and ask her to elope somewhere else. Hell’s Kitchen, maybe. Or Glasgow. Seoul would also do, or maybe Queenstown. Sod it, he’d go to Latveria with her if that’s what it takes. Anywhere, anywhere but here.

He wish, oh he wish he had the grit to show up with plane tickets and a silver band, proposing to run away from their shackles and start over somewhere else.



It sure as hell won’t be easy, but they’ll be together and that…. that is better than what he have right now.



“Happy anniversary, luv,” he croaks to the chilling wind, concealing the droplets of tears on his cheeks in the pouring rain.






À la mort.

Prompt: Ed Sheeran’s She’s So Perfect Cover.
“If I show up with a plane ticket and a shiny diamond ring with your name on it, would you want to run away too? Cause all I really want is you.”



An emotionally invested enthusiast of pop culture. Apathetic by design. Aesthetically offensive and eloquently candid. A sentimental heathen.

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