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tampered2006-10-09 07:17 pm
bitingnightmare.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-10-09 07:17 pm
Log; Complete
When; Oct. 8th (evening of)
Rating; PG-13
Characters; John Constantine (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silkcutremix), The Corinthian (bitingnightmare)
Summary; a diagnosis is very much in need
Log;
The Corinthian could not dream walk their way to the underground, seeing as how John had to come with him, neither did he trust the man's synchronicity when he was running a fever ehehehe.... So Delilah it was, and the nightmare was quite adept at driving one-handed, his other palm on John's to make sure he didn't lose the man on the way. He took a different entrance into the Underground, this time legitimately through the descending roads and paths of The City. Things felt more like home here, not quite like the jester's circus, no this was more like the underbelly of an urban sprawl, perhaps London or New York City, familiar. He parked the bike, knowing no one on the surface level would take it since they'd be across the damn street, else they'd have a nightmare on their ass at night. Ahem right, he offered to help John off the girl.
"I found a guy, only shop set up around this damn place," he nodded to John, adjusting his shades.
The street doc, known as Cadaverous Castile, had a clinic primarily for stabbings, bullet removal, and other unsavory operations that didn't want insurance involved. He also specialized in unusual wounds, such as the one the magus had received. The shop itself seemed unassuming, a piercing parlor with a fluorescent sign above the dim window, 'Steel Bells.' What made The Corinthian think they could trust this guy... well, if the man was a screwball there were always threats and thievery.
---
John had been doing god awful.
He had not budged from the couch since sitting down after the attack, the sickness that festered inside of him taking hold and keeping him there, from first aid and even his precious cigarettes. He hated being a dependent with all that Cori had done for him, but then again, he had spent most of the day vomiting in a bucket. No food or drink; all was promptly puked up and then some. He felt himself becoming a husk. His mind often swam as the injury throbbed with tenderness and he was hot all over. He only wished he could arrive there in his pants; too hot to care about what they thought of it.
Was this rabies? How bad would this be if he did not have any demon blood?
Burning still in his clothes, the magus used Cori as a support as they walked inside. Where were the normal hospitals in this madhouse? At this rate, however, he'd see anyone.
---
He'd done what he possibly could to ease the magician's pain during the day. The Corinthian had served as a field soldier many times, a doctor at others, he knew what he was doing when it came to on the spot first aid, but this fever, the fever was beyond his help. Even digging into the wound with his tongue yielded only disease, virus, rabies, but if the thing had carried the virus John would be gone by now. He thought the demon blood kept the blonde running, but they were running out of time. The more John heaved, from his breakfast to dry acid, the more the nightmare worried.
He helped the man hobble along to the shop, in fresh bandages, a new shirt, another jacket, but he'd brought the ruined shirt with them in case it should be tested.
"Almost there," The Corinthian kept an arm around John's waist, supporting him upright.
Walking through the door yielded the sound of a bell, old fashioned it was, though the piercing materials and the chair were clean and very sophisticated for the area. A woman with a labret spike and several brow piercings arched a brow at the pair, to which the nightmare revealed they were here for a Cadaver Cocktail. Yes, that was necessary code for accessing the backroom; one wondered where the white-blonde had learned this. The double doors were ajar. A man with long red hair was busy cleaning his tools, blood stained on his latex gloves and white coat. Even the hem was ragged.
"Welcome," said Castile in a cool and almost cheerful tone, "do lay your friend on the chair if you will."
---
John was guided to a chair, to which he collapsed into it, letting his body sink, letting it consume him. Shady operations were hardly an oddity to him, and at times he would frequent a few back in London that had anything of worth. He tried to study the red haired man but he found himself back adrift in an attempt to grow distant from his sickly shape. His eyes were closed and his mind bobbing away. Sweat beaded his forehead.
---
"As you must have already realized, money is useless here, what would you have to give me for a diagnosis and treatment," asked the good doctor, hardly bothering with their names, for such things of power were not readily given nor demanded as by the code of etiquette for the underground. He set his tool aside, a sort of pick, and removed his gloves to wash his hands in the sink.
The details of their transaction may have come across as fuzzy to the Englishman, but it boiled down to the nightmare having in his possession an eye, the eye of the living. His little mouths were the perfect technology for developing the images imprinted on the retina, but the cadaverous man need not know that. The temptation of such an experiment was too much to pass up for the doctor. He stared at the single sphere hanging from a flesh string pinched between the nightmare's fingers, tempted, desirous. Castile was missing both eyes as well, having a blood shot cybereye in his right socket and well... absolutely nothing in the other. One wondered how he performed surgical work that way. The man accepted the exchange, but would not take the eye into his possession until after suggesting a treatment for the blonde, whom he stood over now.
"Do tell me what happened. You, undress," he posed the question and demand.
---
Groggily, John realized that the last bit amidst the sludge of exchange was directed at him. He gave him a tired look for a moment, which stopped when he buckled over to violently dry heave. Once that had passed, he shakily got up, and struggled to undress. Any attempts at helping him were turned down, even forcefully with the little strength he had left.
"Dog bit me," the magus breathed, his fingers suddenly too thick for the fly of his pants. "Big dog. Think I have rabies, or summat. Just last night. Don't think dog was normal. Couldn't be normal."
Eventually, laboriously, Constantine was leaning against the wall for support in his pants, suddenly cold and shivering, but sweating still. He looked white as death, his skin having lost its color. Even his hair seemed to have lightened from its normal gold.
"Should I undo these?" he gasped, a trembling hand brought up to the bandages securely wrapped around the wound. Probably an obvious question, but just to make sure...
---
"Dear god, man, not on the shoes," Castile made a face, almost a sneer as the magic man dry heaved, but quickly that expression vanished so that he might assist in propping the man up. He pulled a penlight from his pocket to shine it into John's baby blues as well. "No no, allow me, I'm the doctor here," he offered a grin and tucked the penlight away to snatch a pair of scissors and cut the amateur's work off. "Interesting story, if it were rabies you should be frothing and seizuring by now, unless you're more than a man," said the redhead as he handed the bandages off to this one's companion.
Relegated to the position of nurse or something similar, the nightmare narrowed his eyes and obliged anyway, tossing the dressing into a trash bin.
"Hydrophobic," Castile asked as he led John to a workbench, have a seat boyo. He pressed around the man's chest, his organs, around the wound.
---
No rabies? Constantine thought. What else...? His mind was too sluggish, too muggy to really come up with anything.
"No, I -uhhhaaahhh!- don't think." Any water or liquids the Englishman had ingested had shared the same fate as his food. "I drink. It- Gnnn!- all comes up." His eyes were distant and dull, far from the vibrant blue and soft spark they had usually carried.
---
The Corinthian kept his teetheyes on the good doctor, to make sure he didn't try to pull a fast one on them, he remained silent otherwise.
"I see," he pressed his two fingers against John's solar plexus, then into his ribs, the sensors built into his fingers acting like a stethoscope. "Three heavy breaths," he requested, "and what of the animal?"
"It died," the nightmare explained, "it bit him then it died. The body went with the wind." He wasn't speaking in cryptics either, it was the truth, it'd dissipated and washed away with the night breeze, only further proof that the attack was not a coincidence.
"You didn't save anything for testing," Castile arched a brow, ahh but the white-haired one did have what appeared to be a bloody shirt, which was tossed onto the table. "I'll have to test that, meanwhile, take this," the good doctor attempted to wedge a clean thermometer into the Englishman's mouth.
---
John breathed. His lungs shuddered, and it wasn't the normal ragged huff brought on by the tar buildup compliments of his chainsmoking. He felt himself bristle upon listening to the Corinthian, having been more concerned with him that the mutt. Red flag: That dog was hers. Had to have been hers.
He bit his lip, the affected, marked lip, before a thermometer slid in. That explained a lot. He now wished he were strong enough to kick himself for not weaseling out that bitch's name.
One step ahead of things. Who was he kidding? He was older, but shit, fuck him if he were getting wiser.
The mercury rose to a discomforting 102.
---
"But you survived, did you," Castile asked the man with the sunglasses, almost as if to implicate the client's companion.
That made him bristle, however the nightmare remained cool as always. "Yes, it didn't bite me. I pulled it off with a knife," he explained, "I took a few stabs at it."
"Interesting," the good doctor purred near the magician's face, his one eye on the specs. "Watch him, I'll take the shirt. It won't be but two minutes or so. Don't try to leave," Castile said with a cheshire grin before he grabbed the bloodied shirt and took it into an adjacent room, where he performed all the chemical and DNA testing, and x-rays. The place was larger than it looked from the outside.
Now that they were alone for a moment, The Corinthian adjusted his glasses and took a better look at the thermometer reading. "You're burning up 102," he said to John.
---
"No wonder," the nightmare's companion growled, the thermometer bobbing. He shut his eyes. "Sure as hell feels like it."
The shirt tests did not reveal much, if anything at all. Any traces left by the dog, its hair, saliva and whatnot, had dissolved with the body, all blood staining the fabric being Constantine's. Whatever had infected the magus had festered exclusively inside of him. It was the only place it could live.
---
Hn, the nightmare released a slow and heavy sigh, silent. He had nothing else to say that he hadn't already, what was the point of saying anymore? Words of comfort were only that, words, and he got the feeling John was beyond verbal sympathy.
"Congratulations," the good doctor burst back into the room, all too cheerful, "although there was little trace evidence, I found not a single cell of the rabies virus. However, you most likely have a bacterial infection. It must be a moot point to ask if you're allergic to dogs." Castile tipped his own chin thoughtfully, single eye on John. Something about the magus tickled his curiosity so, but he was being paid to analyze the wound, not the nature of the man, so he left his musings at that.
"That means what, antibiotics?" The Corinthian asked, not at all entertained by the doctor's jovial antics.
"Certainly, if you are the doctor here," the redhead retorted with a smirk, "I'll give you that though, antibiotics. In the meantime, we're going to flush this wound out."
That meant pain, if the Englishman wasn't paying attention to the tools Castile gathered. A little tube and syringe, some cotton pads, the iodine, oh yes this was the fun part of his job.
"Just as I thought, high fever," Castile plucked the thermometer from the man's mouth as he set his equipment on the table, "sweat, a little lung congestion, but no neurological damage which should be your main concern. You are feeling mentally sound, I hope?"
---
"Sound as shite." A gravely growl in his throat.
Antibiotics better help, or something. A feeling told him that they would do nothing; better to believe in the placebo bit anyway, if it would help his symptoms. Must have been a really sick dog to cause a bacterial infection so quickly.
Sickly like Colette.
"Very allergic to dogs, then," Constantine had then mumbled in addition, more to himself than to the other, hardly watching the good doctor Castile retrieve his tools. The anticipation of more pain hardly bothered him, however. He had felt worse before.
---
"Oh and witty too, definitely not a man infected with rabies," Castile smiled, placing a hand on John's shoulder, "do brace yourself." Oops too late! The good doctor wedged the tube into each puncture of tooth, to flush out any remaining bacteria left by the creature. "You never know what's been in such a creature's mouth, especially around here. You're lucky to not require surgery for this," the redhead nodded while effortlessly applying the proper chemicals, it was as if he was oblivious or completely desensitized to pain. For the curious, his doctor's handwriting was impeccable.
The Corinthian remained nearby, his unblinking gaze on the two. At least the doctor knew what he was doing or he certainly acted that way. He wondered what the bastard was going to prescribe, some pharmaceutical crap or a drug.
---
Anticipation or not, Constantine moaned and yelped, especially with the initial plunge of the tube, wincing and face twisting as Castile cleaned away with his confident indifference. Perhaps he had glanced at Cori for a moment, but he did not expect any hands to hold, nor did he want to. He was glad the Corinthian was aware of the fact that he desired no sympathy either. Words were words, and a lot of them were bullshit. He should know that well enough after all these years.
"They must not be in short supply either," the magus groaned. His stomach once again trembled, but he held back the urge this time, somehow. It took all he had left in him to keep from dumping a helping of acidic muck on the floor.
---
One wondered what Castile was even so concerned about, regarding an acidic muck getting on his shoes and coat, the blood stained coat that he wore even while prancing around this man's open wound. Hell the doctor thought himself that damn good at his work. Flush flush, squidge, he used cotton to swipe up the fluid that escaped the punctures, to keep them from running all the way down John's side and back. After that was said and done, he set the tube aside and proceeded to apply the stinging fluid, the one every patient loved, but this one left a cooling effect after application.
"You see, the very fact that you feel pain lends itself to the diagnosis that you do not have rabies," Castile explained while patting the wound down, "you are very lucky." He offered a broad grin, "but you're not out of the woods yet."
He tossed the wet pads aside and grabbed a roll of gauze to dress the wound. "Antibiotics and painkillers, the first that I can provide, the second you can pick up on your way home. I wouldn't recommend a shot of morphine to a man running a temperature of 102, how does that sound," he asked the Englishman.
---
A tired look marked by more pain from the tampered wound, but it wasn't as obviously shown, in true Constantine fashion; one would have to know the man to know his true feelings behind the stern, dismal poker face, the visage of an old, constant gambler. The eyes barely focused. Too fatigued to.
"Glad of that, then." The coolness after the pinch was a temporary relief. "Anything right now'll do. I'm as sick as a fucking dog."
A dog. How appropriate. How it made his stomach churn comfortably while his mind flashed black and teeth. The scene momentarily played out in his mind in all exaggerated vividness: the red, the thoughts, the primal terror of becoming prey...
Something wild in within him, something suppressed by the formality of law and civilization, then stirred. He clutched his moist forehead, eyes resumed shut.
---
"More ironic is your fever, I do believe dogs are over 100 naturally," the redhead grinned while winding a roll of bandages around the mage's shoulder. He snipped the end and tucked it under then gestured for the patient to get dressed.
As a dark mirror he need only look into those cool blue eyes to understand the trickster's being, but he was not like that, and the nightmare was more than determined to not have to use his ability to understand John Constantine. Why he wanted to... well that was a personal reason, by now he was already well aware of the man's feelings towards sympathy, empty or full, and it wasn't like a white horror to hold hands anyway, right..?
"Look alive, my friend," Castile said, tossing a plastic bottle to the contemplative Corinthian.
He snapped out of his thoughts just in time to catch the thing with one hand. Interesting label too, the antibiotics were dated for the year 2068.
"Make sure he takes those, and this I'll be claiming as mine now," said the cheerful redhead, eyeball rolling in the little metal tray in his hand. "Do come back if the condition worsens in the next few days," he suggested, nodding.
"Yeah, all right, thanks," the nightmare replied, tucking the bottle into his pocket before offering an arm for John's support to make their exit.
Rating; PG-13
Characters; John Constantine (
silkcutremix), The Corinthian (bitingnightmare)Summary; a diagnosis is very much in need
Log;
The Corinthian could not dream walk their way to the underground, seeing as how John had to come with him, neither did he trust the man's synchronicity when he was running a fever ehehehe.... So Delilah it was, and the nightmare was quite adept at driving one-handed, his other palm on John's to make sure he didn't lose the man on the way. He took a different entrance into the Underground, this time legitimately through the descending roads and paths of The City. Things felt more like home here, not quite like the jester's circus, no this was more like the underbelly of an urban sprawl, perhaps London or New York City, familiar. He parked the bike, knowing no one on the surface level would take it since they'd be across the damn street, else they'd have a nightmare on their ass at night. Ahem right, he offered to help John off the girl.
"I found a guy, only shop set up around this damn place," he nodded to John, adjusting his shades.
The street doc, known as Cadaverous Castile, had a clinic primarily for stabbings, bullet removal, and other unsavory operations that didn't want insurance involved. He also specialized in unusual wounds, such as the one the magus had received. The shop itself seemed unassuming, a piercing parlor with a fluorescent sign above the dim window, 'Steel Bells.' What made The Corinthian think they could trust this guy... well, if the man was a screwball there were always threats and thievery.
---
John had been doing god awful.
He had not budged from the couch since sitting down after the attack, the sickness that festered inside of him taking hold and keeping him there, from first aid and even his precious cigarettes. He hated being a dependent with all that Cori had done for him, but then again, he had spent most of the day vomiting in a bucket. No food or drink; all was promptly puked up and then some. He felt himself becoming a husk. His mind often swam as the injury throbbed with tenderness and he was hot all over. He only wished he could arrive there in his pants; too hot to care about what they thought of it.
Was this rabies? How bad would this be if he did not have any demon blood?
Burning still in his clothes, the magus used Cori as a support as they walked inside. Where were the normal hospitals in this madhouse? At this rate, however, he'd see anyone.
---
He'd done what he possibly could to ease the magician's pain during the day. The Corinthian had served as a field soldier many times, a doctor at others, he knew what he was doing when it came to on the spot first aid, but this fever, the fever was beyond his help. Even digging into the wound with his tongue yielded only disease, virus, rabies, but if the thing had carried the virus John would be gone by now. He thought the demon blood kept the blonde running, but they were running out of time. The more John heaved, from his breakfast to dry acid, the more the nightmare worried.
He helped the man hobble along to the shop, in fresh bandages, a new shirt, another jacket, but he'd brought the ruined shirt with them in case it should be tested.
"Almost there," The Corinthian kept an arm around John's waist, supporting him upright.
Walking through the door yielded the sound of a bell, old fashioned it was, though the piercing materials and the chair were clean and very sophisticated for the area. A woman with a labret spike and several brow piercings arched a brow at the pair, to which the nightmare revealed they were here for a Cadaver Cocktail. Yes, that was necessary code for accessing the backroom; one wondered where the white-blonde had learned this. The double doors were ajar. A man with long red hair was busy cleaning his tools, blood stained on his latex gloves and white coat. Even the hem was ragged.
"Welcome," said Castile in a cool and almost cheerful tone, "do lay your friend on the chair if you will."
---
John was guided to a chair, to which he collapsed into it, letting his body sink, letting it consume him. Shady operations were hardly an oddity to him, and at times he would frequent a few back in London that had anything of worth. He tried to study the red haired man but he found himself back adrift in an attempt to grow distant from his sickly shape. His eyes were closed and his mind bobbing away. Sweat beaded his forehead.
---
"As you must have already realized, money is useless here, what would you have to give me for a diagnosis and treatment," asked the good doctor, hardly bothering with their names, for such things of power were not readily given nor demanded as by the code of etiquette for the underground. He set his tool aside, a sort of pick, and removed his gloves to wash his hands in the sink.
The details of their transaction may have come across as fuzzy to the Englishman, but it boiled down to the nightmare having in his possession an eye, the eye of the living. His little mouths were the perfect technology for developing the images imprinted on the retina, but the cadaverous man need not know that. The temptation of such an experiment was too much to pass up for the doctor. He stared at the single sphere hanging from a flesh string pinched between the nightmare's fingers, tempted, desirous. Castile was missing both eyes as well, having a blood shot cybereye in his right socket and well... absolutely nothing in the other. One wondered how he performed surgical work that way. The man accepted the exchange, but would not take the eye into his possession until after suggesting a treatment for the blonde, whom he stood over now.
"Do tell me what happened. You, undress," he posed the question and demand.
---
Groggily, John realized that the last bit amidst the sludge of exchange was directed at him. He gave him a tired look for a moment, which stopped when he buckled over to violently dry heave. Once that had passed, he shakily got up, and struggled to undress. Any attempts at helping him were turned down, even forcefully with the little strength he had left.
"Dog bit me," the magus breathed, his fingers suddenly too thick for the fly of his pants. "Big dog. Think I have rabies, or summat. Just last night. Don't think dog was normal. Couldn't be normal."
Eventually, laboriously, Constantine was leaning against the wall for support in his pants, suddenly cold and shivering, but sweating still. He looked white as death, his skin having lost its color. Even his hair seemed to have lightened from its normal gold.
"Should I undo these?" he gasped, a trembling hand brought up to the bandages securely wrapped around the wound. Probably an obvious question, but just to make sure...
---
"Dear god, man, not on the shoes," Castile made a face, almost a sneer as the magic man dry heaved, but quickly that expression vanished so that he might assist in propping the man up. He pulled a penlight from his pocket to shine it into John's baby blues as well. "No no, allow me, I'm the doctor here," he offered a grin and tucked the penlight away to snatch a pair of scissors and cut the amateur's work off. "Interesting story, if it were rabies you should be frothing and seizuring by now, unless you're more than a man," said the redhead as he handed the bandages off to this one's companion.
Relegated to the position of nurse or something similar, the nightmare narrowed his eyes and obliged anyway, tossing the dressing into a trash bin.
"Hydrophobic," Castile asked as he led John to a workbench, have a seat boyo. He pressed around the man's chest, his organs, around the wound.
---
No rabies? Constantine thought. What else...? His mind was too sluggish, too muggy to really come up with anything.
"No, I -uhhhaaahhh!- don't think." Any water or liquids the Englishman had ingested had shared the same fate as his food. "I drink. It- Gnnn!- all comes up." His eyes were distant and dull, far from the vibrant blue and soft spark they had usually carried.
---
The Corinthian kept his teetheyes on the good doctor, to make sure he didn't try to pull a fast one on them, he remained silent otherwise.
"I see," he pressed his two fingers against John's solar plexus, then into his ribs, the sensors built into his fingers acting like a stethoscope. "Three heavy breaths," he requested, "and what of the animal?"
"It died," the nightmare explained, "it bit him then it died. The body went with the wind." He wasn't speaking in cryptics either, it was the truth, it'd dissipated and washed away with the night breeze, only further proof that the attack was not a coincidence.
"You didn't save anything for testing," Castile arched a brow, ahh but the white-haired one did have what appeared to be a bloody shirt, which was tossed onto the table. "I'll have to test that, meanwhile, take this," the good doctor attempted to wedge a clean thermometer into the Englishman's mouth.
---
John breathed. His lungs shuddered, and it wasn't the normal ragged huff brought on by the tar buildup compliments of his chainsmoking. He felt himself bristle upon listening to the Corinthian, having been more concerned with him that the mutt. Red flag: That dog was hers. Had to have been hers.
He bit his lip, the affected, marked lip, before a thermometer slid in. That explained a lot. He now wished he were strong enough to kick himself for not weaseling out that bitch's name.
One step ahead of things. Who was he kidding? He was older, but shit, fuck him if he were getting wiser.
The mercury rose to a discomforting 102.
---
"But you survived, did you," Castile asked the man with the sunglasses, almost as if to implicate the client's companion.
That made him bristle, however the nightmare remained cool as always. "Yes, it didn't bite me. I pulled it off with a knife," he explained, "I took a few stabs at it."
"Interesting," the good doctor purred near the magician's face, his one eye on the specs. "Watch him, I'll take the shirt. It won't be but two minutes or so. Don't try to leave," Castile said with a cheshire grin before he grabbed the bloodied shirt and took it into an adjacent room, where he performed all the chemical and DNA testing, and x-rays. The place was larger than it looked from the outside.
Now that they were alone for a moment, The Corinthian adjusted his glasses and took a better look at the thermometer reading. "You're burning up 102," he said to John.
---
"No wonder," the nightmare's companion growled, the thermometer bobbing. He shut his eyes. "Sure as hell feels like it."
The shirt tests did not reveal much, if anything at all. Any traces left by the dog, its hair, saliva and whatnot, had dissolved with the body, all blood staining the fabric being Constantine's. Whatever had infected the magus had festered exclusively inside of him. It was the only place it could live.
---
Hn, the nightmare released a slow and heavy sigh, silent. He had nothing else to say that he hadn't already, what was the point of saying anymore? Words of comfort were only that, words, and he got the feeling John was beyond verbal sympathy.
"Congratulations," the good doctor burst back into the room, all too cheerful, "although there was little trace evidence, I found not a single cell of the rabies virus. However, you most likely have a bacterial infection. It must be a moot point to ask if you're allergic to dogs." Castile tipped his own chin thoughtfully, single eye on John. Something about the magus tickled his curiosity so, but he was being paid to analyze the wound, not the nature of the man, so he left his musings at that.
"That means what, antibiotics?" The Corinthian asked, not at all entertained by the doctor's jovial antics.
"Certainly, if you are the doctor here," the redhead retorted with a smirk, "I'll give you that though, antibiotics. In the meantime, we're going to flush this wound out."
That meant pain, if the Englishman wasn't paying attention to the tools Castile gathered. A little tube and syringe, some cotton pads, the iodine, oh yes this was the fun part of his job.
"Just as I thought, high fever," Castile plucked the thermometer from the man's mouth as he set his equipment on the table, "sweat, a little lung congestion, but no neurological damage which should be your main concern. You are feeling mentally sound, I hope?"
---
"Sound as shite." A gravely growl in his throat.
Antibiotics better help, or something. A feeling told him that they would do nothing; better to believe in the placebo bit anyway, if it would help his symptoms. Must have been a really sick dog to cause a bacterial infection so quickly.
Sickly like Colette.
"Very allergic to dogs, then," Constantine had then mumbled in addition, more to himself than to the other, hardly watching the good doctor Castile retrieve his tools. The anticipation of more pain hardly bothered him, however. He had felt worse before.
---
"Oh and witty too, definitely not a man infected with rabies," Castile smiled, placing a hand on John's shoulder, "do brace yourself." Oops too late! The good doctor wedged the tube into each puncture of tooth, to flush out any remaining bacteria left by the creature. "You never know what's been in such a creature's mouth, especially around here. You're lucky to not require surgery for this," the redhead nodded while effortlessly applying the proper chemicals, it was as if he was oblivious or completely desensitized to pain. For the curious, his doctor's handwriting was impeccable.
The Corinthian remained nearby, his unblinking gaze on the two. At least the doctor knew what he was doing or he certainly acted that way. He wondered what the bastard was going to prescribe, some pharmaceutical crap or a drug.
---
Anticipation or not, Constantine moaned and yelped, especially with the initial plunge of the tube, wincing and face twisting as Castile cleaned away with his confident indifference. Perhaps he had glanced at Cori for a moment, but he did not expect any hands to hold, nor did he want to. He was glad the Corinthian was aware of the fact that he desired no sympathy either. Words were words, and a lot of them were bullshit. He should know that well enough after all these years.
"They must not be in short supply either," the magus groaned. His stomach once again trembled, but he held back the urge this time, somehow. It took all he had left in him to keep from dumping a helping of acidic muck on the floor.
---
One wondered what Castile was even so concerned about, regarding an acidic muck getting on his shoes and coat, the blood stained coat that he wore even while prancing around this man's open wound. Hell the doctor thought himself that damn good at his work. Flush flush, squidge, he used cotton to swipe up the fluid that escaped the punctures, to keep them from running all the way down John's side and back. After that was said and done, he set the tube aside and proceeded to apply the stinging fluid, the one every patient loved, but this one left a cooling effect after application.
"You see, the very fact that you feel pain lends itself to the diagnosis that you do not have rabies," Castile explained while patting the wound down, "you are very lucky." He offered a broad grin, "but you're not out of the woods yet."
He tossed the wet pads aside and grabbed a roll of gauze to dress the wound. "Antibiotics and painkillers, the first that I can provide, the second you can pick up on your way home. I wouldn't recommend a shot of morphine to a man running a temperature of 102, how does that sound," he asked the Englishman.
---
A tired look marked by more pain from the tampered wound, but it wasn't as obviously shown, in true Constantine fashion; one would have to know the man to know his true feelings behind the stern, dismal poker face, the visage of an old, constant gambler. The eyes barely focused. Too fatigued to.
"Glad of that, then." The coolness after the pinch was a temporary relief. "Anything right now'll do. I'm as sick as a fucking dog."
A dog. How appropriate. How it made his stomach churn comfortably while his mind flashed black and teeth. The scene momentarily played out in his mind in all exaggerated vividness: the red, the thoughts, the primal terror of becoming prey...
Something wild in within him, something suppressed by the formality of law and civilization, then stirred. He clutched his moist forehead, eyes resumed shut.
---
"More ironic is your fever, I do believe dogs are over 100 naturally," the redhead grinned while winding a roll of bandages around the mage's shoulder. He snipped the end and tucked it under then gestured for the patient to get dressed.
As a dark mirror he need only look into those cool blue eyes to understand the trickster's being, but he was not like that, and the nightmare was more than determined to not have to use his ability to understand John Constantine. Why he wanted to... well that was a personal reason, by now he was already well aware of the man's feelings towards sympathy, empty or full, and it wasn't like a white horror to hold hands anyway, right..?
"Look alive, my friend," Castile said, tossing a plastic bottle to the contemplative Corinthian.
He snapped out of his thoughts just in time to catch the thing with one hand. Interesting label too, the antibiotics were dated for the year 2068.
"Make sure he takes those, and this I'll be claiming as mine now," said the cheerful redhead, eyeball rolling in the little metal tray in his hand. "Do come back if the condition worsens in the next few days," he suggested, nodding.
"Yeah, all right, thanks," the nightmare replied, tucking the bottle into his pocket before offering an arm for John's support to make their exit.