My attempt at something that could've happened in the movie. I've tweaked the dialogue to fit my devious purposes – including making things flow a bit better. My apologies if something like this has already been written.

John's a pottymouth, Bal's hands are magic and 'consent' is a little...dubious. Nothing too graphic.

MIRROR, MIRROR

"The face of the enemy frightens me only when I see how much it resembles me."

"Fire? I was born of this."

You piece of half-breed shit. Looking so smug even though I just blasted your sorry ass onto the table. I bet you're bleeding, propped up on your elbows, the glass cutting through that god-awful suit. Pinstripes don't look good on you. Hell, the only thing that looks good on you is holy water so I throw it in your face.

"How is Mammon crossing over, you little shit?"

Your neck snaps to the side so fast, it would break if you weren't a half-breed.

The flesh mask sizzles away on one side, the shit that you really are showing through the gaps. You're starting to look like yourself, Bal, and all this smoke – I'm craving a cigarette.

"That's better. Au naturel." And you lunge, your hand going for my neck, smashing me against the mirror.

The flamethrower hit the floor with a dull thunk.

Sharp, jagged bits push into the skin of my back like little knives.

And I'm squirming, gasping for air as your fingers squeeze tighter -

Shit! You – ah – let go – you fucker – can't breathe –

My throat is fucking killing me and – and everything's getting lighter except your eyes – more brown than red. Maybe it's the oxygen running out but fuck, do you look strange, half of that sneer held together by the green shit dribbling down your collar. Some of it's on the cuff of the hand I want to bite off –

"Don't fight it Johnny-boy." You – bastard – smiling. "Enjoy it." There's a low rumble in your chest and you're so close I can feel it. I can smell it – smell you, too. Smoke and sulphur, and something sickly sweet, like blood laced with incense.

I'm sputtering and croaking like some deranged thing but my fingers are pushing past my coat and – it's cold and it's hard and it's real. I slip the blessed knuckles over my own and it hurts like a bitch to turn like this but I'm slamming it into your face.

As you reel, class crunches under my shoes. I ignore the jab of pain and punch your ugly mug. It's a weak punch but your head snaps back.

Still catching my breath but damn you, I can still feel that hand on my neck and I punch you in the gut, once, then twice, feeling flesh. One more punch in the jaw and you're back on the table.

The crunch of the glass on my knees as I get up there myself is second to the sound of your panting. And my own.

Fuck, I'm tired. I haven't been this tired in a long time and I'd kill for a cigarette and –

I grab you by the collar – you're lighter than I thought – and punch you again for good measure.

Your head hits the table. Hard.

You groan, fingers twitching, breathing like you've just been fucked.

(It's only angels that can't fuck...well, they can if they want to but they really don't care about it one way or the other. What would Gabriel do anyway with a –)

I'm on my elbows, breathing as hard as you, feeling the shards of glass burrow into my skin. I've roughed you up before, getting my own share of ass-kicking in the process but this, this is different.

My head's pounding so I do what I've always told Chas never, ever to do. I close my eyes.

"Isn't it – isn't it exquisite, Johnny?" You're purring, you sick little – ah, a hand on my neck again and -

- somehow I'm lying on the table now and you're looming over me, your legs on each side of me. Most of the green muck of your face is now tucked away behind a sweat-glossed layer of human skin. You look like your old faux-tanned self again except your hair's mussed and some of it's falling across your eyes.

"Johnny-boy, stay with us, won't you?" Your breath's hot on my face. Sulphur and blood and myrrh scraping against my jaw like a dull blade.

I try to reach up, to claw at the skin on your face. I won't – not real – show yourself, you pathetic little shit. I arch up, fingers outstretched, and you let me and it hurts. I close my eyes and see white flashes. My backs fall onto the table with a nice thump but there's a hand behind my head.

Hot breath against my lips. "She's here, isn't she, Johnny. Your little friend." You hiss and I feel something forked and wet against the shell of my ear – what the fuck are you playing at, you – "I've seen her. Pretty thing – makes eyes at you when she thinks no one's looking. But I'm looking, Johnny-boy, but there won't be much to look at when I'm done with her. I'll rip every inch of her skin into thin little strips and you can have a front-row seat, hmm?"

I spasm, with anger, with pain, it's all the same. Fists flying, ramming against your chest, your face. I hear a couple of grunts as flesh hits flesh and then a loud bark of laughter, and then there's a hand pressing against my –

"Get your fucking hands off me –!"

"Mmm, you're so lovely when you're angry," you murmur, not stopping.

I'm spitting and snarling at you, trying to bite the skin of your hand, your neck, whatever I can reach. I taste blood more than once but you don't really seem to mind. If anything, you're liking it, chuckling every time my teeth latch onto your skin.

And I have a hard-on, goddamn it.

When my tongue joins my teeth against your collarbone – when'd you unbutton your collar? – you're hissing and those hands are pressing and stroking harder.

No, no, stop, yes, yes – right there – I'm arching into your hand and licking and biting at the sharp jut of bone under our neck. You taste like sweat and smoke and there's a sharp tang of nicotine under all of it so I suck harder and you stroke faster. I can feel you – just as hard – through your pinstripes, against my stomach.

I don't know if it's me or you who does it but now I'm half on your lap and the friction between us delicious. Your hands move from my hips, brushing painfully – wonderfully – against bits of bloodied glass.

Somehow your collar becomes your jaw then the edge of your mouth and then I'm kissing you. John fucking Constantine kissing your filthy mouth which tastes less like the shit I imagine and more like the bite of black coffee and liquorice. I swear I can feel my cheek burning a little as you roughly push your tongue over mine and into my mouth. My jaw seems to be ringing when our teeth smash and then there's the salty-sweetness of blood between us.

I feel fingers twisting in my hair, pulling me closer to that open mouth. Our noses bump and we're breathing in each other frantically.

We rock against each other, gasping, our words lost in each other's mouths and then I'm coming, harder than I have in my life. I feel your final thrusts against me and then it's quiet.

It's when I open my eyes do I realize I've closed them in the first place. A thread of bloodied saliva links our lips as we slowly pull back. I look from your half-lidded eyes to the myriad of spit-glossed purplish bruises on your neck.

"Am I interrupting something?"

We both snap our heads in the direction of that voice; there she is, white shirt partially unbuttoned, curly hair out, necklace missing. Obviously.

Shit.

Fucking shit.

"Oh, no, we're just about done." You put a hand on my hip.

I push you off but Angela's already stormed off. So I punch you, hard, and you fall back onto the table, glass crunching beneath you. There's blood trickling out your mouth – the mouth I was worshipping just a few moments ago – but you're laughing, teeth bloodied.

So I kiss you because I'm damned anyway.

It's a bit...meh but I needed to write this after watching that scene. Had to watch it in French to get some of the lines. I can't really think of anything 'fluffy' between these two unless one takes a punch to the face as fluff.

Comments are welcome and appreciated, as always. If all goes well, I plan to write a long John/Bal fic in the near future...