Chapter Text
When the phone rings at 3am, a shrill sound that involuntarily drags you from sleep, you roll over with an aggressive huff. “Someone better be dead.” You growl and blink a few times to adjust to the screen’s bright light as you pick it up.
When you see Eric Grant’s picture, you quickly push yourself up in the bed and slide to answer. “Everything alright?” You ask, all traces of sleep gone from your voice. “What’s going on?”
Your oldest friend speaks quickly into the phone, his voice rushed and enthusiastic. His Boston accent is at its strongest when he’s feeling extreme emotions- excited, exhausted, pissed off. The rest of the time it's less in your face, but always there.
The same can be said for yours, but you've taken great care to minimize your accent as best you can.
You can tell after just a few words, how excited he is. “Kid! I did it!” You can hear it in his voice, loud and tremulous in your ear. “I finally closed the Sanders murder. Would ya believe it? The husband did it. I gotta tell ya, you were right about trustin’ my instincts. Chief said ‘Good things, Grant. I see good things’!”
“Eric, it’s -” You run a hand down your face in frustration. You glance at the clock, willing the time to be incorrect.
“We gotta go get a drink to celebrate." He exclaims, interrupting you. "I can be at ya place in like ten minutes -”
“It’s 3am.” You cut in with an exhausted sigh. “I am so happy for you. Really, I am. But the only place I’m going is back to sleep.”
The line is silent and for a second, you think he may have hung up. “Aw shit, bud.” He groans apologetically. “I didn’t realize what time it was! I was just wicked excited that I made the collar.”
You flip on your bedside lamp and balance the phone on your knees. Pulling your hair into a messy bun on top of your head, you take a deep breath. You’re happy for him, exceedingly so, but the boy has no respect for sleep.
“It’s fine, Eric. I just… I'm so damn proud of you." Picking up your phone, you rest your chin on your knees. "You're the greatest detective I know. But can we celebrate after we open the Egyptian exhibit?”
“Of course!” Eric exclaims. “I’m pickin’ ya up at seven, right?”
“Yes, please.” You yawn into the back of your hand and let your eyes close for a second. “No jeans, no sneakers. Think of a party at my parents.”
“Bunch of stiffs talkin’ about old expensive artifacts while you and I hide out at the bah?”
“Mostly.” You agree, kicking off your sheets. “But after I deliver my speech and unveil the exhibit, I have to schmooze the Director at some point. Remember, I promised him that my handsome detective friend would be with me.”
Eric attempts to make a scandalized noise but laughs midway through it. “Yeah, yeah,” he teases. “Ya only keep me around because ya boss thinks I’ve got a great ass.”
“You got it.” You swing your legs over the side of the bed and put him on speakerphone. “I want this promotion, Eric. And if letting Director Connors admire your ass for a minute helps me get it?”
“Ya talent and hardwork will be enough kid, I know it. But fine.” You hear his car door shut through his side of the phone. “The things ya do for the people you love.” The sound of his dress shoes on the pavement tells you he must be home.
“Yes.” You agree with a smile as you walk down the stairs of your townhouse towards your kitchen. “Like not chewing them out when they wake you up at 3am.”
He laughs as you hear the ding of the elevator that will take him to his floor. “Point taken.” He concedes, letting out a small huff. “I’m wicked sorry I woke you up, bud. You know I’ll make it up to ya.”
You tell him you aren’t too worried about it as he jingles his keys in the front door. He’s silent as he steps through his doorway.
“What the fuck?!” He exclaims after a second, his voice full of frustration and disgust. “Fella, gotta call ya back.” He hangs up before you have a chance to argue.
Quickly you shoot him a text to make sure he’s okay. That reaction was very unlike him. You have half a mind to call Eric's partner and ask him to swing by. But you don't want to overreact. You know if there had been real trouble, Eric would have told you to call for backup.
Still, you can’t help but worry. Eric is a very capable detective; he’s been part of the Boston Police Department since he left the academy six and half years ago. But you wonder what could have caused the outburst when he walked through the door. Not much surprises him.
Until you hear back from him, you know you won’t be able to sleep again. You scan the kitchen, looking for anything to quell your anxious thoughts. You grab a spoon from the drawer and reach for the peanut butter in the cabinet.
You know that you should go back to sleep. The Egyptian exhibit opening tonight has been the result of weeks of hard work, long hours and exhaustive efforts. As Assistant Curator of the Archeology Wing, this would be your crowning achievement.
You’ve worked for the The Peabody Museum of Archeology and Ethnology for the last five years. When you graduated, you interviewed immediately for the open assistant position. You knew you had found the perfect place to let your love of ancient civilizations flourish when you first walked through the doors.
Within minutes of meeting the Director, he told you the job was yours. Since then, you’ve given your blood, sweat and tears to prove that despite your age, you’ve always been the right person for the job. It's been a challenging adventure, but you can't imagine wanting anything else more.
If everything goes as you expect it to, you will be the front runner for the vacant spot of Head Curator. You’ve wanted nothing else since the position opened up three months back.
Director Connors let you take the lead on this exhibit with the understanding that he would push your name to the front of the line, if Havard’s investors were impressed. And they will be, you’re sure of it.
But you’re gonna blow it, you think as you stick the spoon in your mouth, if you don't get back to sleep. The last thing you want is to be miserable and half asleep for the finishing touches to all your hard work. That's how you make stupid mistakes and stupid mistakes don't get you promoted.
With a sigh, you toss the spoon into your dishwasher and make your way back up the stairs. Just a few more hours, you can do it. As you tug the elastic out of your hair, you mentally curse yourself for staying up as late as you had in the first place.
You toss and turn until your alarm goes off at 6am. With a groan, you roll over and drag yourself to your shower. Once you’ve got some coffee in you, everything will be fine. At least that’s what you tell yourself.
***
“I reckon you're going to fancy fixing that, luv.” The British accent breaks the silence of the room and your concentration. The man’s rough tone is slightly mocking, making you close your eyes briefly before you attempt to respond. Not today buddy.
You shift your weight on the fifth wrung of the ladder and stare down at the man on the ground. “Excuse me?”
The accent is attached to a tall gentleman with a mop of messy blond hair. You look him over and immediately feel relieved. He's too disheveled to be an investor.
His white dress shirt and black dress pants leant to the possibility that he was from the board, but the haphazardly knotted crimson tie gives you an entirely different impression; he’s no one official.
Plus, the tan trench coat he's wearing looks like it's been a staple of his wardrobe for years. A decision out of necessity rather than fashion, you decide.
The material's thinner at the elbows and tied in the back to hide the worn pockets. He wears it well, you think begrudgingly. So you can see why he must favor it.
“That canopic jar there, luv." The man points up at the artifact you've adjusted for the fifth time. "Unless I’m wrong, and I’m not, it’s off center." He holds his chin high, wearing his arrogance confidently.
What a cocky, pompous ass. You can feel your defenses rising and you haven’t even really spoken to him yet.
He adjusts the collar of his trenchcoat and grins up at you over a pair of god awful black sunglasses that he has no business wearing inside. "So, I reckon you might fancy fixing it, unless you'd prefer the lungs of Pharaoh Ruddy-What’s-His-Face to fall off the display.”
He slides the sunglasses off his face and tucks them into the pocket of his coat. “Not that I’m not enjoying the view from down here, lass." He appraises you hungrily with dark amber eyes and a wolfish grin.
"Bloody hell, I am. But you might fancy climbing down and having a gander yourself. If you don’t believe me, of course.”
You take a step down and glance up at the jars. Is it really off center? You stare down at the man, annoyance twisting your face into a scowl. “Who are you?” You ask as you step down the rungs of the ladder.
Your high ponytail sways as you step to the marble floor. The slight headache it’s giving you makes you wish you had worn your hair down instead.
You hadn’t had the energy to do any more than a no fuss hairstyle this morning; you’re lucky you have matching shoes on with how foggy you felt.
You're exhausted and frustrated already. This man is going to test every ounce of your patience, you can feel it. You certainly don’t need the throb of a headache to go along with it.
You can feel his eyes on you as you mentally prepare yourself for whatever annoyance he’s going to cause. Taking a deep breath, you smooth out your blouse and turn to fully face him.
He grins again, letting his eyes wander over you, as he extends his hand in greeting. “Name’s John Constantine, luv.” When you don’t take his hand, he withdraws and fishes a business card from his pocket. "Surely you've heard of me? Expert in the Oc -”
“I haven't.” You cut him off and cross your arms. You quickly introduce yourself as he steps away from you and begins touching the artifacts you've yet to place.
“I'm sorry but, can I help you with something?" You ask, letting your annoyance show in your voice. "Because I’m clearly busy and you seem the type to enjoy wasting my time.”
Surprise registers on the man's face before he schools his features into a cool mask of indifference. “Already trying to get rid of me, luv?” He asks, crossing his arms. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
You roll your eyes at the cheesy line. Seriously? "You can stop the Bogart routine, Mr. Constantine. I'm not interested."
“Come now, sweet'eart. Call me John.” He requests lightly, flipping up the collar of his coat. “All my mates do.”
You appraise him with disdain. “We’re not mates, Mr. Constantine.” You raise an eyebrow and take a step closer. “In fact, seeing as this is a closed wing and you clearly don’t work here, I shouldn’t be calling anything but security.”
Constantine grins again and you can’t help the urge to want to slap it off his face. You’ve never met anyone so maddening in your life and you’ve only been talking for a few minutes. ‘Bloody hell’ this and ‘luv’ that, god he’s infuriating. Who does this guy think he is?
“You're bloody right about that, luv." Constantine admits, pulling another card from his pocket. "I don't work here."
He closes the distance between you and presses it into your hand. “Think of me as a private consultant. Here’s my identification, if you just take a peek, you’ll find everything’s in -”
You cut him off with a laugh. “This is a six of diamonds, Mr. Constantine. Not your ID. Care to try again?” You watch his grin falter as he snatches the card back from your fingertips.
“You’re sure that it’s not my identification?” He looks at the card, then you, incredulously. You stare at him pointedly. “Bollocks, I must’ve given you the wrong card by mistake, pet.” He raises an eyebrow, but you notice that he takes a step back. “That’s's never bloody happened before.”
“Yeah, I bet.” You snort out a laugh and grab your cell phone from the crate lid to your left. “I’m sure you could try to lie your way through the rest of this conversation."
You slide it open and start typing in the number for security. "And if I had the time, I might let you just to watch you squirm when I don’t buy any of it but -”
Constantine shifts his weight anxiously and gives you what you imagine is his flirtiest smile. “I think we got off on the wrong bloody foot, luv.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. The action makes his trench coat fan out behind him. “I’d like to start over, maybe share a pint, get better acquainted, savvy?”
"Hard pass." You decide but hold off on pressing send. You don't exactly feel threatened by him personally, but everything about his presence seems dangerous. You don't hate it.
You push down the thought that there’s something about his cool arrogance and smartass demeanor you're starting to find intriguing.
You slide your phone into the back pocket of your dress pants and cross your arms again. Constantine meets your eyes and you watch his flash with hunger.
His tongue darts out quickly to lick his lips. It’s a calculated move, his eyes and body language letting you know exactly what’s on his mind.
“Does this whole man of mystery thing usually work for you?” You admonish, purposefully shifting your gaze back to your display. “Cause I bet you think the whole trench coat, fake accent thing is a real panty dropper, huh?”
“Oh, you wound me, pet.” You turn back to him and give him your full attention. He raises his eyebrow and smirks. “But I can assure you, everything about me is real. Sure I can’t prove it to you?”
You’re not going to deny that he’s attractive. You immediately noticed the lean lines of his legs when you first turned around. His dark eyes have an intelligence behind them that makes you want to argue with him, if only to see where you both end up.
The way his gaze darkened when he first saw you, made your cheeks flush and your heart thud rapidly in your chest. You wonder briefly what his lips would feel like against your own.
But you are definitely not going to let him know that. You know his type; if he had any indication that you weren’t entirely disgusted by him, he’d be relentless in his pursuit of you.
“You really are something, huh?” You ask, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in your tone. You push down your attraction and focus on how contemptuous you find him instead. "You honestly think this broody routine works?"
“You have no idea, luv.” He responds, rising to your challenge and enjoying every second of it. He shrugs and steps closer, attempting to close the distance between you.
You try to dodge out of it, even though the action moves you up against a column. Exactly where you don’t want to be.
When he realizes your back is pressed against the pillar, Constantine takes a few more deliberate steps in your direction. Your mouth goes dry as he draws closer to you. Feeling your heart start to race, you draw in a quick breath to steady yourself.
He presses both of his hands against the column, trapping you between them. “Wh… what are you doing?” You ask him apprehensively, hating how quickly your body reacts to his proximity.
Constantine smirks and leans in close to your ear. You shiver when he purposely lowers his voice. “I reckon I quite fancy it when you’re flustered, luv.” He grins, pulling away from you. “Especially if I’m the one who caused it.”
Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms in an attempt to put some space between you and him. When he sees your face scrunch in annoyance, Constantine’s mouth twists into a cocky grin. “Just give us a go, ay? You'll find I'm difficult to say no to."
“Mmhmm.” You glance over his shoulder and see Grace, one of the museum’s registrars walking towards you. She’s exactly the distraction you need to pull yourself together.
You lock eyes with Constantine and incline your head. “As much as I’m sure you’ve enjoyed hitting on me, no. I’m not interested.” You smirk, pushing past him to meet Grace as she approaches.
“Yet, luv.” Constantine calls out, his voice laced with curiosity and pride. “Not interested yet.”
Not interested ever. You roll your eyes and greet Grace warmly. She looks past you and points to the man you’ve been arguing with. “Is that Mr. Constantine?” She asks, lightly.
You nod and open your mouth to ask how she knows who he is but Grace calls out to him. “Director Connors is in his office now, down the hall and to the left.”
He never said anything about the Director. What does Constantine want with him?
“Cheers, luv.” He responds with a toothy grin. She blushes and tries to hide her own smile. You roll your eyes again as Constantine basks in her reaction to him. He turns his attention back to you. “And I’ll see you soon, pet.”
His fingers graze your arm as he walks by. You watch him shove his hands into the pockets of his dress pants as he slowly swaggers down the hall.
“Was he hitting on you?” Grace turns to you, reaching for your hand in excitement. “My God, he’s handsome. I’d like to climb him like a tree.”
You can’t help but laugh at her comment. “He’s all yours.” You tell her, waving your hand as you shake your head. “If you like that shady P.I. sort of thing.”
“Who the hell doesn’t?” She asks before looking up at your display. "And it's not like you can really talk. Seems to be exactly your type. Your friend is a detective. Didn’t you tell me that you and him had a fling a while back?"
You roll your eyes again but smile when you answer. "Eric? Yeah, but Grace, that was years ago and he is a legitimate, honest to God detective." You gesture towards the hallway. "That Constantine guy just screams 'I'm gonna put you through Hell'."
"When a man looks that good? Honey, I think he's worth the trouble."
"No thank you." You tell her as you walk back over to the ladder. "I've had more than my share of trouble. The only thing I'm interested in right now is this exhibit."
"Speaking of," she gestures to the shelf. "Is the middle jar off center?”
You huff and snap out your response. “If it is, feel free to climb up and fix it.”
“Someone needs a nap, huh?” She scoffs, raising her eyebrows at the irritated tone of your voice.
You sigh and lower yourself onto the wooden crate. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you, Grace.” You twist your ponytail around your fingers.
“I’m nervous about tonight, I didn’t get much sleep last night, and then that Constantine guy just...“ You trail off, feeling your cheeks flush with color again when you think of him. “It’s been a day.”
Grace smiles kindly and you’re reminded why you gravitated towards her when you first started working here five years ago. She’s an old soul, but a true sweetheart. She always had a knack of knowing when you needed a kind word or a hug.
Honestly, she's more like your mom than your actual mother. You’ve made the joke a few times that if she was in the market for a daughter, you’d happily volunteer.
“Sweetie,” she steps onto the ladder and turns her head to you. “Go home, get some rest. I can fix this and make sure everything is perfect.”
It’s tempting, but it’s your responsibility to make sure the exhibit is ready to go. You wouldn't feel right if you just left this close to the finish line, especially knowing what details need to be finished. You bite your lip and Grace can see the wheels turning in your head.
“Don’t you overthink this, honey. You’ve worked your tush off for months, you deserve this promotion.” She crosses her arms and peers at you over her glasses. “And when you look good, we look good. The team won’t let you down.”
“You sure?” You ask, letting your exhaustion creep into your voice. “I never want you to feel like you’re doing the work I don't want to do, or having to pick up my slack because I'm tired.”
She hands you your bag with a stern expression on her face. “We do not think that, you practically live here. Now go home, I’ll see you tonight.” She orders in a tone that tells you there's no arguing with her.
With one last glance at the exhibit, you slowly walk out the doors towards the elevators. When you pass Connors’s office and see that both the Director and Mr. Constantine are deep in discussion, your cheeks flush again.
‘I’ll see you soon, pet’ he had told you when he walked away. His voice had been so confident, so sure. He was making a promise, you both knew it. And you refuse to admit it out loud, but the thought of seeing him again is more enticing than you want it to be.