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tampered2007-03-08 06:54 pm
bitingnightmare.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-03-08 06:54 pm
Log; Complete-o
When; Mar. 1 (evening)
Rating; R (language, injections, ODs)
Characters; John Constantine![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silkcutremix, the Corinthian bitingnightmare
Summary; With the full moon cycle approaching, the magus and nightmare experiment with a suppressant at a near lethal price.
Log;
How long had Constantine been dealing with these monthly visits already? Surely it and menstruation were different (then again, he could never be so sure) but now, especially now, he had a greater admiration and appreciation for the trials and troubles of being a woman. Not that he disrespected those of the female gender anyway. He had been gazing out the window, seeing the creeping moon as it approached its three day full cycle, feeling his body react to the glowing sphere with an ominous creeping sensation just under his skin. He never could sleep on these nights, restless, his body already burning to hunt even if his prowl's yield would only turn up something from the fridge. Nicotine would only provide a temporary relief. Alcohol made him uncharacteristically violent.
Time to see if the suppressant worked. Saul's batch would last only a few moon cycles but a few months would be more than enough time to figure out the formula. Nothing like a puzzle to keep him going, a distraction from the usual routine of smoking, drinking and checking the terminal.
"Cori, where's the stuff?" he asked, eyes fixed to the beckoning outside, the magus a dark shape against the moonlight.
---
If John Constantine were to even hint that a woman's monthly cycle was remotely similar to his lycanthropy there might a call for blood, his by the estrogen brigade. It was an amusing thought, one that had visited the Corinthian's head more than once. The humor lightened the severity of each approaching full moon phase; John wasn't a blood thirsty beast bent on consuming human flesh, he was just on the rag, Cori would say. Unfortunately that wasn't the case.
He shifted his gaze from the glowing embers of his cigarette to the magician's silhouette against the window. 'The stuff,' the very stuff that'd been used to detain him and torture him in Saul's little warehouse headquarters. How was that brat doing again, Cori wondered, reminded of the cross kept in the lock up.
"Are you sure it's ready," asked the nightmare as he approached the kitchen. His body was no longer sore and the marks made the weekend before had all but disappeared from his skin. One wondered what kind of damage Constantine could have made during the full moon.
The white blonde opened the refrigerator to retrieve the carton of everything concocted from the one serum they'd stolen from Saul.
---
John heard the fridge, glancing out of the corner of his eye this time. "Ready as I'll ever be, unless you're sure this place doesn't mind werewolves. Fuck I doubt they'd allow large dogs." He rubbed his arms, the skin warm, flesh tight.
---
"I don't think they mind werewolves." The complex heard that howl from the few nights before, or so the Corinthian concluded from the request written on a new post-it: Muzzle up. Wordplay. "But they'll mind you breaking out," he nodded.
Causing wide damage to public property, assaulting other citizens, that sort of thing was rather frowned upon in their world and the City. Cori set the chilled box on the counter. In it were a few vials, the original serum bottle, and three sealed hypoderms. He removed one of the latter and pulled its wrapper away.
"How much," he asked the Englishman while pulling off the needle's rubber tip.
---
A needle. John Constantine had never been a fan of needles. The tiny sliver of hollow metal had evoked too many memories, too many painful memories. The needle was a slim pinch of control, their sign of dominance over John's thoughts, John's physical state, his feelings, emotions. The needle numbed and the needle altered. One dose and his world was distorted.
(They had used the needle and straps when they had eventually found out he had been palming his pills. Throwing them out and flushing them. Burning his journals. They had decided he was dangerous, too smart.)
"Nothing on the bottle?" John's gaze resumed outside.
---
He could almost hear the man's subconscious uttering its name. Ravenscar. The nightmare wouldn't pretend to not know what it meant, but John had never spoken of it, neither would he. Cori studied the label on the cold vial, hypoderm in his other bare hand. They had no need for latex gloves, this was 'roughing it' so to speak.
"10ml for a standard dosage," he read out loud. There was no indication on the label whether that was for suppression or sedation. The syringe in his hand could take 20ml.
---
John curled his lip. Suppression or sedation. How much had they used on him when they were injecting? He could not tell in the darkness. They had made sure to stick him in the black. Made it easier for them to "accidentally" break a syringe in his knotted muscles and add to his agony.
"Let's get on with it then."
---
Cori stared at the Englishman a moment. Did he know what they were doing? There was no telling what the dosage was for and as far as he recalled they hadn't seen anyone actually use the vials. Saul and his men had packed the formula into bullets. The 10ml could have easily applied to a dosage meant for dilution with another chemical, or even water.
"John," he said the other's name, concerned, but he knew the magician probably wouldn't listen anyway. The nightmare removed the metal seal and stuck the slim needle into the rubber stopper. He pulled the concoction up to the line like a professional. Cori looked at him again behind his black shades. "Where do you want it."
---
John was as frightened for himself as Cori was, his expression sure but his eyes had said it all for him, trembling, avoiding the syringe. He made his way to the bed, giving the nightmare a "wherever you think is best" before lying there. Better to have an adverse reaction there rather than the floor. That would mean a headache rather than that with a sore back included.
---
Leave it up to the Corinthian. His brow furrowed over the man's silent decision, what would he do if John reacted terribly? But what else could he do. Cori shook his head briefly then approached the bedside, moonlight making his hair almost glow in the dimly lit apartment. The needle on the other hand glinted sharply.
Arm or neck. He stared at each spot silently, evaluating the pros and cons of the injection sites. One would go to his brain faster, the other would go straight to his heart. Cori rubbed the back of his neck, still unsure as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. They didn't even have any alcohol pads.
"I'll be right here," said the nightmare, the only reassuring thing he could say as he tipped John's chin to make him face the wall. He didn't give the man any other warning as he inserted the needle into the side of his neck.
---
A minor comfort, having to not look at the needle as it came in with that familiar bee-sting pinch he had been all too familiar with at Ravenscar. Still his eyes were closed, and that made his visualization at the injection site all the more vivid: He could feel the suppressant burn into his veins, flood through his blood stream. It would not be long until its effects would sink in he would imagine. Suppose it would makes sense for a neck injection; he was no authority on the biology of his condition but surely the transformation had to be brain triggered somehow.
"Ta," he muttered, already feeling a numbness creep into his fingers.
---
The Corinthian said nothing as he depressed the 10ml slowly into John's bloodstream. He made sure to avoid air pockets, he made sure to pull it from his flesh delicately. There was nothing pleasant about this situation, this experiment, but he could try to make it as comfortable as possible for the Englishman.
"There," Cori said once the needle was out of his skin. He set the emptied syringe on the night stand and took John by the wrist, to time his pulse. The nightmare wore no watch, but he knew.
---
Something was wrong. Constantine could already feel it. When Saul and his lackeys had the needle, the effects of the drug felt something like a dulling normalcy, all to keep him vivid for when they brought him how to play. Right now, he felt something else. He spied his hand, his head still turned, watching it. It was still the same old hand he had for all of his life, sans the temporary addition of stitches, but it didn't feel right. He felt something prickle.
His breathing shallowed. His fingers did a few mindless flexes to assure they were still attached. He couldn't feel them at all. He didn't turn his head but his eyes flicked the best they could back to Cori, who had his other hand.
---
He counted the seconds that ticked by in his head, compared them to the thrum of blood under John's skin. Too fast. Cori spied the whites of his blue eyes, noticed the very veins in them enlarge.
"Fuck," he growled. Too much. He reached for the Englishman's chin to face him, waved his fingers in front of his eyes to catch the movement of his pupils.
---
Didn't feel him. The Corinthian turned his head and the world swayed. Didn't stabilize, didn't do anything. He was lying there but his body wanted to slide off; the bed was tilted and tilting. He wasn't supposed to be on the bed if it was crawling up the wall.
Those eyes did not move but he had a hand. He had fingers! His fingers were attached to his head, see? He wished Cori could nail his palms to the bed instead.
---
"Stay awake, bastard," he didn't plead, he ordered even if it was futile. His heart rate had climbed up then fell, no different from a shot of smack. Fuck.
The nightmare removed his sunglasses, almost certain the magus' senses were already too twisted to even acknowledge his teeth. He slipped his arms under John's to make the man sit up, didn't care if it risked getting vomit on his shoulder. Cori pressed his palm to the other's brow, temperature, sweat. If he was cold he needed the hot water, if he was heating up he needed the cold. Fuck.
"Come on, stand up," he growled, trying to support Constantine.
---
Cold. John's insides were turning with the rest of the world though, so whatever he had eaten wanted off the ride. It all escaped to the nightmare, hot bile and stench dribbling along his arm and side. Constantine's attempt to stand with the nightmare had only yielded more vomit, more escapees from the madness. He felt himself turning inside out, cleaning up. He could have sworn he saw limbs and things crawling in his puke so he shuddered. The vomit was warm though. He was cold.
His fingers twitched, unable to grasp.
---
Vomit on his shoulder, hot bile along his arm. None of it fazed the Corinthian more than it was John emptying his guts across the apartment floor. He forced the man onto his feet and dragged him to the bathroom, left the light off but the hallway light on so the shine wouldn't blast his pupils away. Cori brushed the shower curtain aside and pushed the blonde into the tub. He made sure to keep his razor out of reach.
Christ, he groaned to himself, but the nightmare managed to turn the water on, hot water to help manage his temperature and heart rate.
---
"Am I dying yet?" John mumbled under his breath, the darkness and dim swirling above him, warm pooling along his arse and creeping over his body. He wanted to see the fingers caress him before they tore him open like children on fucking Christmas Day, but his gaze was transfixed on the ceiling, buckling above him as if the universe was ready to cave in. It was kind of beautiful. He could have groped it and made love to it if he had not felt himself coming apart at the seams. That's okay though, that would mean more for the warm fingers. Sharing was good. Sharing was really good. It was always a good idea to share. He knew his alphabet. He was a good boy.
He grinned stupidly in between his gurgling gasps. His body throbbed. He was a good boy.
---
He didn't respond to the man's question, something Cori didn't want to answer as much as he wanted to say no. John needed to stay awake though, awake and warm. He reached over to pull his shirt off, undo his pants and strip them away if allowed. He could keep his skivvies just for his dignity. The nightmare still hadn't bothered to rinse the vomit from his arm, to rinse the smell of it from his skin.
"Keep talking to me, Johnny boy," Cori insisted, noting the stupid grin on his stubbled face.
---
John might as well have blamed those fingers again, taking his clothes away before they took off the rest of him. The universe had teeth. His eyes wanted to roll back into his skull and hide there for a little while. He had seen enough white on black for today.
"Hullo," he mumbled, coughing violently as his stomach tried to pass things that did not exist out and away before finally passing out.
---
Cori's teeth eyes widened. Blacked out already. His fingers (those fingers) felt over John's chest to test his breathing, over his neck to check his pulse. "Wake up," the white blonde growled, "wake the fuck up."
He slapped the magus' cheek.
---
John did not respond. Should the Corinthian have tried opening his eyes, he would have seen whites. His breathing continued to gurgle, his heart rate sinking.
---
He did pull the Englishman's lids apart, stared into them with gritting teeth that noted his whites had practically rolled over. But they twitched, something cognitive if a still a bad trip. He kept his fingers pressed over the veins in John's neck, feeling his heart rate sink to a faint thrum on the surface of mortality. He was barely alive, but he was alive.
Cori's expression twisted, he wasn't relieved at all, but he had to remain vigilant. He would remain vigilant, until the magician could wake again.
---
It must have been the longest two hours of the Corinthian's existence, but eventually the magus had come to, although through painful layers of chemically induced weight that had threatened to pull him back under. It made the magus all the more terrified, putting more fight into him to survive. Returning to the City was a violent rebirth, inner to out, muscles twitching as control trembled back to him with all the full brunt of overwhelming sensation, information.
His consciousness was a mewling puppy groping blindly for a teat. His nails scratched against the smooth tub as he struggled with reality, his body trying to stabilize the rest of itself. He hadn't thought about speaking yet, not trusting the world yet. It still felt as if had wanted to get up and go without him.
---
What was time to an immortal other than a stretch of space that no longer mattered because his very existence defied the tick of the clock? In this case however it was John's existence teetering on the line between mortality and immortality in death. Two hours Cori waited for his breathing to become full again, for his pulse to increase, for his eyes to show that vibrant blue once more.
He hadn't once closed his eyes, sacrificing sleep to remain beside the magician, to check his vitals every other minute. There was a cup of water ready for John, Cori was certain he'd feel dehydrated upon waking. If--no, when he woke.
---
"Cori," the magus moaned impulsively. Six months had made the once roaming mage somewhat dependent. When was the last time he had muttered someone's name other than the Almighty and something vulgar? Buck the fucking trend.
Nails that had scratched now clung to the edge of the tub for dear life. He could slide away at any moment, down another tunnel to fuck knew where. His first tour was enough. He was not up for another one.
John was crying.
---
Time to check his pulse again, his internal clock announced. The nightmare reached down to feel Constantine's neck for a heart rate, and while he detected a pulse he also heard the man say his name.
".... John," Cori spoke quietly. He thought to shield his teeth eyes, but he couldn't pull them away from the sight of tears in those blue ones. He was dependent too, and how. With another utterance of his name Cori reached under John's arms to better prop him up in the tub. The water had long stopped running and there were towels already over the blonde's torso.
---
John's eyes struggled to focus but the nightmare soon registered, the one he'd rather see than anything else right now. There were plenty of other nightmares still tumbling in his head, lurking in his short-term memory as they slithered back into the darkest reaches of his mind. They'd be waiting to be evoked again.
"What the hell happened?" he moaned, his body easily manipulated into any position the nightmare wished. He was mostly limp.
---
Cori kept his arms tucked under the other, supporting John's weak body. Shit he was glad to see him pulled out of the dark depths of an overdose, but he felt a touch of anger too over the fact that their bad decision had put the Englishman under the waves. No time to make anything of it now, the nightmare was still relieved to see him awake.
"Too much of a dose," Cori said although that was only a guess on his part, "stay put, I've got water." He reached aside for the cup on the edge of the sink, held it to John's lips for a sip.
---
This scene was familiar, as John managed to take in a little of the water, only he had lips that worked as they should this time around, and he was not lapping it up from an open palm instead. He could still feel things, feel things with a strange acuteness that had made him shudder, made everything around him tremble, especially that sampling of water that slid down to his warped gut.
"Think we figured that out," he mumbled. "I can't get up."
---
"You don't need to," yet anyway, the nightmare shook his head. Eventually the blonde would have to walk, to ensure his blood was circulating through his heart. "Are you feeling hot or cold," Cori asked, having no hands free to feel his forehead or neck.
---
"Shitty." If it had not been for the warmth of the bathroom, Constantine would have been cold, his skin pale and clammy, ready for the casket and six feet under. Whether John or Cori was paler was up for debate now.
---
The difference being the Corinthian was naturally light while Constantine at the moment looked positively ill. He took that answer for the better in any case and set the cup down when John had had enough to drink. "Thanks for losing your dinner on me," he said, if just to put him in higher spirits.
---
"Don't think I'll be getting it back soon," John replied, limp as a ragdoll. His muscles were a dead drag on his bones. "Bloody start to a weekend. Think I would have preferred the monthly outing."
---
"You just need to drink up, water only," Cori insisted as only a good mate would, though maybe the thought of downing a few frothy thick pints would guarantee turning John off from the alcohol for tonight. Probably not. He tightened his arms around the magician's torso.
"It was a valiant effort. Are you ready to get up," asked the white-blonde.
---
"Haawwww!" the magician snorted. "Can't even get it up if I tried."
---
The nightmare looked at him. Humor, typical Constantinian cynical humor maybe, but it was a good sign. A soft huff escaped his mouth before he brushed his lips along a track left by one of John's tears. Cori had been afraid, genuinely afraid for that stretch of two hours.
"I'm here to help you," he nodded.
---
"I wouldn't expect anything less from you." John offered Cori a weak, genuine smile. Hardly rare now, but they seemed to be reserved only for those John felt worth keeping near him.
---
The sight of those teeth, slightly stained and mildly crooked, reassured him that the magician was cognitively better. At least his current condition didn't warrant a return trip to the hospital, but for now it was too soon to tell if the suppressant had had any other effects on John's body. He tightened his hold again.
"Great. On the count of three then," said Cori as he prepared to lift John to his feet.
---
Constantine was an independent man, but the very thought of getting to his feet filled him with a heavy dread: He knew he could not and he dared not. He didn't want to move and was content to let himself dissolve in the fucking tub if he needed to. Shit that stuff was strong.
"You're strong enough, aren't you?" Not the "one two three" Cori must have been expecting.
---
"Yes," he stated in a matter of fact manner.
If he had eyes in his sockets to roll... but the return of John's stubborn streak relieved Cori too. Without warning then he pulled the blonde up, tucked his head under the other's arm to support him out of the tub. He had cleaned up John's face, free of sweat and bile, good enough to move him to the bed.
"Sure you don't... hff need to take a piss," grunted the nightmare.
---
"Feel like I'm going to be more than pissing if you want to show me to the bog," Constantine grumbled. Should he have been vertical and his feet even touching the floor, they would have trembled and wobbled. The whole thing felt like a horrid dream even; the bed was so close, their studio so small, but it now looked almost a world away.
---
"Are you serious," Cori asked in a similarly serious tone, "because the shitter is right there." Did the magus really want to risk soiling the place in which he slept? John's feet were dragging too, if only because that was the easiest way to lift him out of the tub.
---
"Why are you asking then?" Constantine growled. "Mummy knows best, doesn't he?"
---
Having stripped John down to his skivvies it wouldn't have taken much effort to get him bent on the pot in that case. He tolerated the man's remarks as it could have been worse, John could have not woken up at all. "Have a seat," on the can, he gave the Englishman's skivvies a tug, "I'll get you more water." The mummy remark irritated Cori, at the same time he did voluntarily fill the role of his caretaker.
---
Oh, it should have irritated Cori. John was more than irritated himself, if because of his circumstance, the weight of the drug, the intensity of where he had been the last two hours, and every-fucking-thing else. The more awake he was, the more shitty he felt. Shitty was hardly the case right now; he felt more like a friggin' two year old, the skivvies falling to his ankles as he wearily sat. His bowels were empty at the moment but still he fumbled with his cock and aimed it down to empty whatever he could from his bladder.
A snappy Constantine was better than a dead Constantine anyway.
---
His time on the can was important for his health too. Anything different about shitting or pissing was worthy to note, whether he felt like a two year old or not. Cori quickly returned with a fresh cup of water, at least it didn't come with one of those colorful translucent twisting straws.
"Any blood," he asked John, serious about his inquiry.
---
John could do without the twisty straw. He scooted back in wobbling shuffle. "See for yourself.?”
---
Cori peered over, completely unfazed by these circumstances. John seemed unfazed too, all of it almost natural and expected as the aftermath of an overdose on the suppressant. He really wouldn't give any less than what the magus expected either.
"Looks clean," he offered the cup, "then we're getting you into bed. It was a fucking stupid idea..."
---
John took it with a trembling hand, having some difficulty getting it to his lips. "If I'm not biting anyone tomorrow, it worked."
---
The nightmare kept one hand under the bottom of the mug to keep it from dropping or spilling down the man's chin. "Your heart barely kept ticking," he said with a furrowed brow.
---
"Then we learned something," John snorted, only a naked man on the bog, "that was too much."
---
"You're going to try it again," asked the Corinthian with a pinch to his glasses, only a nightmare in a fresh t-shirt with a most human concern for a mortal.
---
John furrowed his brow. "What other choice do I have? Do you like it when I rampage around and do a bit of meeting and eating with the locals?"
---
"I don't like you dead either," Cori replied in a soft huff, "you scared the shit out of me." Funny he should say that, a nightmare with hair as white as fright.
---
That only meant John wouldn't be able to tell the difference. "Nah. Think the sexlife wouldn't be as great if I snuffed it." He paused for a moment, longer than usual. "Sort of bloody funny, once you think about it, you being a nightmare and scared."
---
Now that was a truth as any, a dark mirror covered in the white of fear. Never could tell the difference, except when his brow was furrowed and his teeth eyes in a subtle frown. John had the advantage there now that he was becoming accustomed to looking at them. "No, it wouldn't," Cori said in agreement, "and it isn't funny."
Normally he had a morbid sense of humor, but this time it hit too close to home. The fear hurt. "It doesn't matter," the nightmare shook his head, "I'm glad you're all right."
---
"Glad I'm alive too. I'd have to find another way out if I weren't." John gave his glass a thoughtful look while he held it, the bottom resting on his lap. "Can't leave if I'm dead." Never mind that Cori was immortal. "S'wanna piss off to bed now, mum."
---
That barely registered with the Corinthian, how death here wasn't quite the same as death in their world or Death herself. But it had happened before, people dying and not coming back, people dying when really they had been sent home. Cori couldn't fathom being alone again. Rather, he could but didn't want it.
He reached down to take the glass for John and set it on the sink again. "Get your pants on, Johnny boy," said the nightmare with a faint smile. He even gave those skivvies a pinch and half-assed tug.
---
"I don't need them." John wasn't sure if he could even perform the simple act of reaching down for them and pulling them back up again, but surely he in the buff was nothing to the nightmare. That and if the drug did not work, that would be one pair of good skivvies saved from the wrath of a large tail and everything else that came with it (Or they could have been no different from those of the friggin' Hulk and stay intact unlike the rest of his attire -- a lot of werewolves seemed to have pants).
---
"Your choice," he easily conceded defeat because sleeping in the buff was absolutely not new to the Corinthian. He used his toe to pull John's skivvies off his ankles then and offered the other his arm.
---
John took that arm, grasping for dear life with a pathetic grip that rivaled that of a child's. Fuck him if he could open a pack for himself, if the nightmare would let him smoke that is. "To bed."
---
No smokes, not if the Englishman was still experiencing a parched dehydration. While feeding his addiction might have been psychologically soothing they didn't know if the overdose of suppressant could react to a strike of nicotine either. It was only one fag, John could have it in the morning.
"To bed," Cori nodded, supporting the other with his arm then shoulder. Leave the pool balls on the floor, he'd clean up the rest of the apartment later. He led John to the bed, cover replaced so he wouldn't have to sleep in his own vomit. "Anything else," asked the nightmare.
---
"Haaw," the magician weakly laughed, collapsing into the bed and sinking deeply into it once he was settled. What else could he do? His senses were dulling away as he grew more lucid (this was what being a true human felt like again, he reminded himself) but already sleep was beckoning him again, but this time he would be drifting off in his right mind. "A kiss goodnight."
---
He pulled the clean cover up to John's chest then settled in the kitchen chair at the bedside. No way was the Corinthian planning to sleep after this disaster. But he could oblige a kiss, whether the man was joking or not, despite the fact that he had recently lost his dinner. He leaned over to kiss Constantine full on the mouth.
---
Like the mum John never had, shit. He did not get into it, mumbling, "You sure you want to figure out what I ate today, mate?"
---
"I cooked it, I know," he mumbled in return.
---
"I added something to it."
---
"Big deal," Cori replied oh so casually as he straightened up.
---
John adjusted his position. "It tasted better going down than up, for one."
---
"You complain a lot," the nightmare remarked of his patient.
---
"I'm British."
---
"Shut the fuck up and go to sleep, old man," Cori said with an equal dose of impatience and care in his voice.
---
"Cunt," John growled under his breath, eyeing the nightmare.
---
"Twat," he replied coolly before leaning back in his chair.
---
"Wanker," John shot back.
---
"Tory," Cori returned a serve in kind.
---
"That was a low-blow, arsehole."
---
The thought that ran through his mind was anything but conservative at that point, however the white blonde kept his hands to himself. Instead he wore a semi-satisfied smile on his face, but it was mostly evoked by John's wit.
"I know," he brushed his thumb across the man's forehead.
---
Oh, that's his boy, the magus figured. In a fair fight, he darted below the belt. Fighting dirty was the most beautiful way to win a match after all.
"You're sure you want to be a bigger arsehole than me?"
---
"At the top or at the bottom I'm still sitting with you," he said to John, having a way with words that allowed him to fight dirty or express himself eloquently.
---
"Touching," yawned Constantine, a golden tongued conman although still crude in many more ways than refined.
---
"Maybe you won't remember it in the morning," Cori nodded.
He averted his gaze briefly, perhaps unnoticeable under those shades though Cori also had no eyeballs to look whichever way. Leave it to John to keep that edge razor sharp, even coming off of a dangerous overdose. That was something the nightmare knew he could count on, losing it would be devastating.
Rating; R (language, injections, ODs)
Characters; John Constantine
silkcutremix, the Corinthian bitingnightmareSummary; With the full moon cycle approaching, the magus and nightmare experiment with a suppressant at a near lethal price.
Log;
How long had Constantine been dealing with these monthly visits already? Surely it and menstruation were different (then again, he could never be so sure) but now, especially now, he had a greater admiration and appreciation for the trials and troubles of being a woman. Not that he disrespected those of the female gender anyway. He had been gazing out the window, seeing the creeping moon as it approached its three day full cycle, feeling his body react to the glowing sphere with an ominous creeping sensation just under his skin. He never could sleep on these nights, restless, his body already burning to hunt even if his prowl's yield would only turn up something from the fridge. Nicotine would only provide a temporary relief. Alcohol made him uncharacteristically violent.
Time to see if the suppressant worked. Saul's batch would last only a few moon cycles but a few months would be more than enough time to figure out the formula. Nothing like a puzzle to keep him going, a distraction from the usual routine of smoking, drinking and checking the terminal.
"Cori, where's the stuff?" he asked, eyes fixed to the beckoning outside, the magus a dark shape against the moonlight.
---
If John Constantine were to even hint that a woman's monthly cycle was remotely similar to his lycanthropy there might a call for blood, his by the estrogen brigade. It was an amusing thought, one that had visited the Corinthian's head more than once. The humor lightened the severity of each approaching full moon phase; John wasn't a blood thirsty beast bent on consuming human flesh, he was just on the rag, Cori would say. Unfortunately that wasn't the case.
He shifted his gaze from the glowing embers of his cigarette to the magician's silhouette against the window. 'The stuff,' the very stuff that'd been used to detain him and torture him in Saul's little warehouse headquarters. How was that brat doing again, Cori wondered, reminded of the cross kept in the lock up.
"Are you sure it's ready," asked the nightmare as he approached the kitchen. His body was no longer sore and the marks made the weekend before had all but disappeared from his skin. One wondered what kind of damage Constantine could have made during the full moon.
The white blonde opened the refrigerator to retrieve the carton of everything concocted from the one serum they'd stolen from Saul.
---
John heard the fridge, glancing out of the corner of his eye this time. "Ready as I'll ever be, unless you're sure this place doesn't mind werewolves. Fuck I doubt they'd allow large dogs." He rubbed his arms, the skin warm, flesh tight.
---
"I don't think they mind werewolves." The complex heard that howl from the few nights before, or so the Corinthian concluded from the request written on a new post-it: Muzzle up. Wordplay. "But they'll mind you breaking out," he nodded.
Causing wide damage to public property, assaulting other citizens, that sort of thing was rather frowned upon in their world and the City. Cori set the chilled box on the counter. In it were a few vials, the original serum bottle, and three sealed hypoderms. He removed one of the latter and pulled its wrapper away.
"How much," he asked the Englishman while pulling off the needle's rubber tip.
---
A needle. John Constantine had never been a fan of needles. The tiny sliver of hollow metal had evoked too many memories, too many painful memories. The needle was a slim pinch of control, their sign of dominance over John's thoughts, John's physical state, his feelings, emotions. The needle numbed and the needle altered. One dose and his world was distorted.
(They had used the needle and straps when they had eventually found out he had been palming his pills. Throwing them out and flushing them. Burning his journals. They had decided he was dangerous, too smart.)
"Nothing on the bottle?" John's gaze resumed outside.
---
He could almost hear the man's subconscious uttering its name. Ravenscar. The nightmare wouldn't pretend to not know what it meant, but John had never spoken of it, neither would he. Cori studied the label on the cold vial, hypoderm in his other bare hand. They had no need for latex gloves, this was 'roughing it' so to speak.
"10ml for a standard dosage," he read out loud. There was no indication on the label whether that was for suppression or sedation. The syringe in his hand could take 20ml.
---
John curled his lip. Suppression or sedation. How much had they used on him when they were injecting? He could not tell in the darkness. They had made sure to stick him in the black. Made it easier for them to "accidentally" break a syringe in his knotted muscles and add to his agony.
"Let's get on with it then."
---
Cori stared at the Englishman a moment. Did he know what they were doing? There was no telling what the dosage was for and as far as he recalled they hadn't seen anyone actually use the vials. Saul and his men had packed the formula into bullets. The 10ml could have easily applied to a dosage meant for dilution with another chemical, or even water.
"John," he said the other's name, concerned, but he knew the magician probably wouldn't listen anyway. The nightmare removed the metal seal and stuck the slim needle into the rubber stopper. He pulled the concoction up to the line like a professional. Cori looked at him again behind his black shades. "Where do you want it."
---
John was as frightened for himself as Cori was, his expression sure but his eyes had said it all for him, trembling, avoiding the syringe. He made his way to the bed, giving the nightmare a "wherever you think is best" before lying there. Better to have an adverse reaction there rather than the floor. That would mean a headache rather than that with a sore back included.
---
Leave it up to the Corinthian. His brow furrowed over the man's silent decision, what would he do if John reacted terribly? But what else could he do. Cori shook his head briefly then approached the bedside, moonlight making his hair almost glow in the dimly lit apartment. The needle on the other hand glinted sharply.
Arm or neck. He stared at each spot silently, evaluating the pros and cons of the injection sites. One would go to his brain faster, the other would go straight to his heart. Cori rubbed the back of his neck, still unsure as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. They didn't even have any alcohol pads.
"I'll be right here," said the nightmare, the only reassuring thing he could say as he tipped John's chin to make him face the wall. He didn't give the man any other warning as he inserted the needle into the side of his neck.
---
A minor comfort, having to not look at the needle as it came in with that familiar bee-sting pinch he had been all too familiar with at Ravenscar. Still his eyes were closed, and that made his visualization at the injection site all the more vivid: He could feel the suppressant burn into his veins, flood through his blood stream. It would not be long until its effects would sink in he would imagine. Suppose it would makes sense for a neck injection; he was no authority on the biology of his condition but surely the transformation had to be brain triggered somehow.
"Ta," he muttered, already feeling a numbness creep into his fingers.
---
The Corinthian said nothing as he depressed the 10ml slowly into John's bloodstream. He made sure to avoid air pockets, he made sure to pull it from his flesh delicately. There was nothing pleasant about this situation, this experiment, but he could try to make it as comfortable as possible for the Englishman.
"There," Cori said once the needle was out of his skin. He set the emptied syringe on the night stand and took John by the wrist, to time his pulse. The nightmare wore no watch, but he knew.
---
Something was wrong. Constantine could already feel it. When Saul and his lackeys had the needle, the effects of the drug felt something like a dulling normalcy, all to keep him vivid for when they brought him how to play. Right now, he felt something else. He spied his hand, his head still turned, watching it. It was still the same old hand he had for all of his life, sans the temporary addition of stitches, but it didn't feel right. He felt something prickle.
His breathing shallowed. His fingers did a few mindless flexes to assure they were still attached. He couldn't feel them at all. He didn't turn his head but his eyes flicked the best they could back to Cori, who had his other hand.
---
He counted the seconds that ticked by in his head, compared them to the thrum of blood under John's skin. Too fast. Cori spied the whites of his blue eyes, noticed the very veins in them enlarge.
"Fuck," he growled. Too much. He reached for the Englishman's chin to face him, waved his fingers in front of his eyes to catch the movement of his pupils.
---
Didn't feel him. The Corinthian turned his head and the world swayed. Didn't stabilize, didn't do anything. He was lying there but his body wanted to slide off; the bed was tilted and tilting. He wasn't supposed to be on the bed if it was crawling up the wall.
Those eyes did not move but he had a hand. He had fingers! His fingers were attached to his head, see? He wished Cori could nail his palms to the bed instead.
---
"Stay awake, bastard," he didn't plead, he ordered even if it was futile. His heart rate had climbed up then fell, no different from a shot of smack. Fuck.
The nightmare removed his sunglasses, almost certain the magus' senses were already too twisted to even acknowledge his teeth. He slipped his arms under John's to make the man sit up, didn't care if it risked getting vomit on his shoulder. Cori pressed his palm to the other's brow, temperature, sweat. If he was cold he needed the hot water, if he was heating up he needed the cold. Fuck.
"Come on, stand up," he growled, trying to support Constantine.
---
Cold. John's insides were turning with the rest of the world though, so whatever he had eaten wanted off the ride. It all escaped to the nightmare, hot bile and stench dribbling along his arm and side. Constantine's attempt to stand with the nightmare had only yielded more vomit, more escapees from the madness. He felt himself turning inside out, cleaning up. He could have sworn he saw limbs and things crawling in his puke so he shuddered. The vomit was warm though. He was cold.
His fingers twitched, unable to grasp.
---
Vomit on his shoulder, hot bile along his arm. None of it fazed the Corinthian more than it was John emptying his guts across the apartment floor. He forced the man onto his feet and dragged him to the bathroom, left the light off but the hallway light on so the shine wouldn't blast his pupils away. Cori brushed the shower curtain aside and pushed the blonde into the tub. He made sure to keep his razor out of reach.
Christ, he groaned to himself, but the nightmare managed to turn the water on, hot water to help manage his temperature and heart rate.
---
"Am I dying yet?" John mumbled under his breath, the darkness and dim swirling above him, warm pooling along his arse and creeping over his body. He wanted to see the fingers caress him before they tore him open like children on fucking Christmas Day, but his gaze was transfixed on the ceiling, buckling above him as if the universe was ready to cave in. It was kind of beautiful. He could have groped it and made love to it if he had not felt himself coming apart at the seams. That's okay though, that would mean more for the warm fingers. Sharing was good. Sharing was really good. It was always a good idea to share. He knew his alphabet. He was a good boy.
He grinned stupidly in between his gurgling gasps. His body throbbed. He was a good boy.
---
He didn't respond to the man's question, something Cori didn't want to answer as much as he wanted to say no. John needed to stay awake though, awake and warm. He reached over to pull his shirt off, undo his pants and strip them away if allowed. He could keep his skivvies just for his dignity. The nightmare still hadn't bothered to rinse the vomit from his arm, to rinse the smell of it from his skin.
"Keep talking to me, Johnny boy," Cori insisted, noting the stupid grin on his stubbled face.
---
John might as well have blamed those fingers again, taking his clothes away before they took off the rest of him. The universe had teeth. His eyes wanted to roll back into his skull and hide there for a little while. He had seen enough white on black for today.
"Hullo," he mumbled, coughing violently as his stomach tried to pass things that did not exist out and away before finally passing out.
---
Cori's teeth eyes widened. Blacked out already. His fingers (those fingers) felt over John's chest to test his breathing, over his neck to check his pulse. "Wake up," the white blonde growled, "wake the fuck up."
He slapped the magus' cheek.
---
John did not respond. Should the Corinthian have tried opening his eyes, he would have seen whites. His breathing continued to gurgle, his heart rate sinking.
---
He did pull the Englishman's lids apart, stared into them with gritting teeth that noted his whites had practically rolled over. But they twitched, something cognitive if a still a bad trip. He kept his fingers pressed over the veins in John's neck, feeling his heart rate sink to a faint thrum on the surface of mortality. He was barely alive, but he was alive.
Cori's expression twisted, he wasn't relieved at all, but he had to remain vigilant. He would remain vigilant, until the magician could wake again.
---
It must have been the longest two hours of the Corinthian's existence, but eventually the magus had come to, although through painful layers of chemically induced weight that had threatened to pull him back under. It made the magus all the more terrified, putting more fight into him to survive. Returning to the City was a violent rebirth, inner to out, muscles twitching as control trembled back to him with all the full brunt of overwhelming sensation, information.
His consciousness was a mewling puppy groping blindly for a teat. His nails scratched against the smooth tub as he struggled with reality, his body trying to stabilize the rest of itself. He hadn't thought about speaking yet, not trusting the world yet. It still felt as if had wanted to get up and go without him.
---
What was time to an immortal other than a stretch of space that no longer mattered because his very existence defied the tick of the clock? In this case however it was John's existence teetering on the line between mortality and immortality in death. Two hours Cori waited for his breathing to become full again, for his pulse to increase, for his eyes to show that vibrant blue once more.
He hadn't once closed his eyes, sacrificing sleep to remain beside the magician, to check his vitals every other minute. There was a cup of water ready for John, Cori was certain he'd feel dehydrated upon waking. If--no, when he woke.
---
"Cori," the magus moaned impulsively. Six months had made the once roaming mage somewhat dependent. When was the last time he had muttered someone's name other than the Almighty and something vulgar? Buck the fucking trend.
Nails that had scratched now clung to the edge of the tub for dear life. He could slide away at any moment, down another tunnel to fuck knew where. His first tour was enough. He was not up for another one.
John was crying.
---
Time to check his pulse again, his internal clock announced. The nightmare reached down to feel Constantine's neck for a heart rate, and while he detected a pulse he also heard the man say his name.
".... John," Cori spoke quietly. He thought to shield his teeth eyes, but he couldn't pull them away from the sight of tears in those blue ones. He was dependent too, and how. With another utterance of his name Cori reached under John's arms to better prop him up in the tub. The water had long stopped running and there were towels already over the blonde's torso.
---
John's eyes struggled to focus but the nightmare soon registered, the one he'd rather see than anything else right now. There were plenty of other nightmares still tumbling in his head, lurking in his short-term memory as they slithered back into the darkest reaches of his mind. They'd be waiting to be evoked again.
"What the hell happened?" he moaned, his body easily manipulated into any position the nightmare wished. He was mostly limp.
---
Cori kept his arms tucked under the other, supporting John's weak body. Shit he was glad to see him pulled out of the dark depths of an overdose, but he felt a touch of anger too over the fact that their bad decision had put the Englishman under the waves. No time to make anything of it now, the nightmare was still relieved to see him awake.
"Too much of a dose," Cori said although that was only a guess on his part, "stay put, I've got water." He reached aside for the cup on the edge of the sink, held it to John's lips for a sip.
---
This scene was familiar, as John managed to take in a little of the water, only he had lips that worked as they should this time around, and he was not lapping it up from an open palm instead. He could still feel things, feel things with a strange acuteness that had made him shudder, made everything around him tremble, especially that sampling of water that slid down to his warped gut.
"Think we figured that out," he mumbled. "I can't get up."
---
"You don't need to," yet anyway, the nightmare shook his head. Eventually the blonde would have to walk, to ensure his blood was circulating through his heart. "Are you feeling hot or cold," Cori asked, having no hands free to feel his forehead or neck.
---
"Shitty." If it had not been for the warmth of the bathroom, Constantine would have been cold, his skin pale and clammy, ready for the casket and six feet under. Whether John or Cori was paler was up for debate now.
---
The difference being the Corinthian was naturally light while Constantine at the moment looked positively ill. He took that answer for the better in any case and set the cup down when John had had enough to drink. "Thanks for losing your dinner on me," he said, if just to put him in higher spirits.
---
"Don't think I'll be getting it back soon," John replied, limp as a ragdoll. His muscles were a dead drag on his bones. "Bloody start to a weekend. Think I would have preferred the monthly outing."
---
"You just need to drink up, water only," Cori insisted as only a good mate would, though maybe the thought of downing a few frothy thick pints would guarantee turning John off from the alcohol for tonight. Probably not. He tightened his arms around the magician's torso.
"It was a valiant effort. Are you ready to get up," asked the white-blonde.
---
"Haawwww!" the magician snorted. "Can't even get it up if I tried."
---
The nightmare looked at him. Humor, typical Constantinian cynical humor maybe, but it was a good sign. A soft huff escaped his mouth before he brushed his lips along a track left by one of John's tears. Cori had been afraid, genuinely afraid for that stretch of two hours.
"I'm here to help you," he nodded.
---
"I wouldn't expect anything less from you." John offered Cori a weak, genuine smile. Hardly rare now, but they seemed to be reserved only for those John felt worth keeping near him.
---
The sight of those teeth, slightly stained and mildly crooked, reassured him that the magician was cognitively better. At least his current condition didn't warrant a return trip to the hospital, but for now it was too soon to tell if the suppressant had had any other effects on John's body. He tightened his hold again.
"Great. On the count of three then," said Cori as he prepared to lift John to his feet.
---
Constantine was an independent man, but the very thought of getting to his feet filled him with a heavy dread: He knew he could not and he dared not. He didn't want to move and was content to let himself dissolve in the fucking tub if he needed to. Shit that stuff was strong.
"You're strong enough, aren't you?" Not the "one two three" Cori must have been expecting.
---
"Yes," he stated in a matter of fact manner.
If he had eyes in his sockets to roll... but the return of John's stubborn streak relieved Cori too. Without warning then he pulled the blonde up, tucked his head under the other's arm to support him out of the tub. He had cleaned up John's face, free of sweat and bile, good enough to move him to the bed.
"Sure you don't... hff need to take a piss," grunted the nightmare.
---
"Feel like I'm going to be more than pissing if you want to show me to the bog," Constantine grumbled. Should he have been vertical and his feet even touching the floor, they would have trembled and wobbled. The whole thing felt like a horrid dream even; the bed was so close, their studio so small, but it now looked almost a world away.
---
"Are you serious," Cori asked in a similarly serious tone, "because the shitter is right there." Did the magus really want to risk soiling the place in which he slept? John's feet were dragging too, if only because that was the easiest way to lift him out of the tub.
---
"Why are you asking then?" Constantine growled. "Mummy knows best, doesn't he?"
---
Having stripped John down to his skivvies it wouldn't have taken much effort to get him bent on the pot in that case. He tolerated the man's remarks as it could have been worse, John could have not woken up at all. "Have a seat," on the can, he gave the Englishman's skivvies a tug, "I'll get you more water." The mummy remark irritated Cori, at the same time he did voluntarily fill the role of his caretaker.
---
Oh, it should have irritated Cori. John was more than irritated himself, if because of his circumstance, the weight of the drug, the intensity of where he had been the last two hours, and every-fucking-thing else. The more awake he was, the more shitty he felt. Shitty was hardly the case right now; he felt more like a friggin' two year old, the skivvies falling to his ankles as he wearily sat. His bowels were empty at the moment but still he fumbled with his cock and aimed it down to empty whatever he could from his bladder.
A snappy Constantine was better than a dead Constantine anyway.
---
His time on the can was important for his health too. Anything different about shitting or pissing was worthy to note, whether he felt like a two year old or not. Cori quickly returned with a fresh cup of water, at least it didn't come with one of those colorful translucent twisting straws.
"Any blood," he asked John, serious about his inquiry.
---
John could do without the twisty straw. He scooted back in wobbling shuffle. "See for yourself.?”
---
Cori peered over, completely unfazed by these circumstances. John seemed unfazed too, all of it almost natural and expected as the aftermath of an overdose on the suppressant. He really wouldn't give any less than what the magus expected either.
"Looks clean," he offered the cup, "then we're getting you into bed. It was a fucking stupid idea..."
---
John took it with a trembling hand, having some difficulty getting it to his lips. "If I'm not biting anyone tomorrow, it worked."
---
The nightmare kept one hand under the bottom of the mug to keep it from dropping or spilling down the man's chin. "Your heart barely kept ticking," he said with a furrowed brow.
---
"Then we learned something," John snorted, only a naked man on the bog, "that was too much."
---
"You're going to try it again," asked the Corinthian with a pinch to his glasses, only a nightmare in a fresh t-shirt with a most human concern for a mortal.
---
John furrowed his brow. "What other choice do I have? Do you like it when I rampage around and do a bit of meeting and eating with the locals?"
---
"I don't like you dead either," Cori replied in a soft huff, "you scared the shit out of me." Funny he should say that, a nightmare with hair as white as fright.
---
That only meant John wouldn't be able to tell the difference. "Nah. Think the sexlife wouldn't be as great if I snuffed it." He paused for a moment, longer than usual. "Sort of bloody funny, once you think about it, you being a nightmare and scared."
---
Now that was a truth as any, a dark mirror covered in the white of fear. Never could tell the difference, except when his brow was furrowed and his teeth eyes in a subtle frown. John had the advantage there now that he was becoming accustomed to looking at them. "No, it wouldn't," Cori said in agreement, "and it isn't funny."
Normally he had a morbid sense of humor, but this time it hit too close to home. The fear hurt. "It doesn't matter," the nightmare shook his head, "I'm glad you're all right."
---
"Glad I'm alive too. I'd have to find another way out if I weren't." John gave his glass a thoughtful look while he held it, the bottom resting on his lap. "Can't leave if I'm dead." Never mind that Cori was immortal. "S'wanna piss off to bed now, mum."
---
That barely registered with the Corinthian, how death here wasn't quite the same as death in their world or Death herself. But it had happened before, people dying and not coming back, people dying when really they had been sent home. Cori couldn't fathom being alone again. Rather, he could but didn't want it.
He reached down to take the glass for John and set it on the sink again. "Get your pants on, Johnny boy," said the nightmare with a faint smile. He even gave those skivvies a pinch and half-assed tug.
---
"I don't need them." John wasn't sure if he could even perform the simple act of reaching down for them and pulling them back up again, but surely he in the buff was nothing to the nightmare. That and if the drug did not work, that would be one pair of good skivvies saved from the wrath of a large tail and everything else that came with it (Or they could have been no different from those of the friggin' Hulk and stay intact unlike the rest of his attire -- a lot of werewolves seemed to have pants).
---
"Your choice," he easily conceded defeat because sleeping in the buff was absolutely not new to the Corinthian. He used his toe to pull John's skivvies off his ankles then and offered the other his arm.
---
John took that arm, grasping for dear life with a pathetic grip that rivaled that of a child's. Fuck him if he could open a pack for himself, if the nightmare would let him smoke that is. "To bed."
---
No smokes, not if the Englishman was still experiencing a parched dehydration. While feeding his addiction might have been psychologically soothing they didn't know if the overdose of suppressant could react to a strike of nicotine either. It was only one fag, John could have it in the morning.
"To bed," Cori nodded, supporting the other with his arm then shoulder. Leave the pool balls on the floor, he'd clean up the rest of the apartment later. He led John to the bed, cover replaced so he wouldn't have to sleep in his own vomit. "Anything else," asked the nightmare.
---
"Haaw," the magician weakly laughed, collapsing into the bed and sinking deeply into it once he was settled. What else could he do? His senses were dulling away as he grew more lucid (this was what being a true human felt like again, he reminded himself) but already sleep was beckoning him again, but this time he would be drifting off in his right mind. "A kiss goodnight."
---
He pulled the clean cover up to John's chest then settled in the kitchen chair at the bedside. No way was the Corinthian planning to sleep after this disaster. But he could oblige a kiss, whether the man was joking or not, despite the fact that he had recently lost his dinner. He leaned over to kiss Constantine full on the mouth.
---
Like the mum John never had, shit. He did not get into it, mumbling, "You sure you want to figure out what I ate today, mate?"
---
"I cooked it, I know," he mumbled in return.
---
"I added something to it."
---
"Big deal," Cori replied oh so casually as he straightened up.
---
John adjusted his position. "It tasted better going down than up, for one."
---
"You complain a lot," the nightmare remarked of his patient.
---
"I'm British."
---
"Shut the fuck up and go to sleep, old man," Cori said with an equal dose of impatience and care in his voice.
---
"Cunt," John growled under his breath, eyeing the nightmare.
---
"Twat," he replied coolly before leaning back in his chair.
---
"Wanker," John shot back.
---
"Tory," Cori returned a serve in kind.
---
"That was a low-blow, arsehole."
---
The thought that ran through his mind was anything but conservative at that point, however the white blonde kept his hands to himself. Instead he wore a semi-satisfied smile on his face, but it was mostly evoked by John's wit.
"I know," he brushed his thumb across the man's forehead.
---
Oh, that's his boy, the magus figured. In a fair fight, he darted below the belt. Fighting dirty was the most beautiful way to win a match after all.
"You're sure you want to be a bigger arsehole than me?"
---
"At the top or at the bottom I'm still sitting with you," he said to John, having a way with words that allowed him to fight dirty or express himself eloquently.
---
"Touching," yawned Constantine, a golden tongued conman although still crude in many more ways than refined.
---
"Maybe you won't remember it in the morning," Cori nodded.
He averted his gaze briefly, perhaps unnoticeable under those shades though Cori also had no eyeballs to look whichever way. Leave it to John to keep that edge razor sharp, even coming off of a dangerous overdose. That was something the nightmare knew he could count on, losing it would be devastating.