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tampered2007-03-23 03:04 am
silkcutremix.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-03-23 03:04 am
Log; Complete
When; Mar21st-22nd, Blood Curse day and Post
Rating; R for language
Characters; The Corinthian [![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bitingnightmare], John Constantine [silkcutremix]
Summary; A continuation of this incident here. Constantine relapses into instability, and it's up to the Corinthian to keep him from battering his frail mortal form for the umpteenth time.
Log;
The nightmare had remained vigilant as always, suppressing the urge to sleep in exchange for the magician's well-being. He'd been worried, deeply so, despite the scathing words the man spat in his eyeless face. These were spurred on by the curse, Cori had concluded, if just for the temporary feeling. By midnight there was only the matter of cleaning Constantine's wounds, and it seemed he'd sustained several of them. With his own hands now clean of the hallucinatory blood, the Corinthian approached the cuffed magus.
"John," he said quietly.
----
Whether the magus had been stoic or surprisingly even sleeping with his eyes open was a matter up for debate. He appeared in a daze, the nightmare's words something that had drifted up, over and far away from him, the Corinthian's presence noted by mere proximity. Constantine was a twisted mess, the blood that remained in his clothes and on the floor his. For now, the spooks in his eyes had finally dissipated after having watched him suffer for each and every one of them. They would be back, John grimly realized, they always would be back. They were the ravens at the few kills he had made, eager to pick up where he would have left off.
----
"Johnny," he uttered under his breath, close to the blonde's ear as he waved a hand over those blue eyes. Cold sightless blue eyes. The Corinthian wanted to know what he was thinking, wanted to know his nightmares, but such a treat required a taste... He laid his hand on the other's shoulder. "It's gone."
----
Constantine's dry lips mouthed the nightmare's nickname, his breath cool, but there was no sound. Those eyes did not focus. His throat was parched. Hallucination and guilt, he had confirmed, were gone, yes. Cori was the only one in the room.
The wind softly whistled through the jagged ends of the glass that remained in the window frame. The edges were as white as the teeth in some grotesque maw, gaping patiently in the moon and shadow.
----
He noted the way John's lips moved, forming that name, not the ancient one... his name. Cori ran his fingers through his blonde hair, the color dulled by the dim light and the shadows thrown by the moon outside. He stepped away briefly only to return with water, then lifted the rim to Constantine's mouth.
"Here," he insisted. He wouldn't remove the metal binds from his wrists just yet. The nightmare had to be sure.
----
John felt the even cooler glass against his lips, the shock offering a little more lucidity than the night breeze that trickled in across his face. He sensed the liquid so he made a weak motion to allow the Corinthian to let him drink. Miserable blue eyes tried to focus.
----
He steadied the glass under John's mouth, minimizing spill, giving him just enough to quench his thirst but not enough to drown it. The Englishman had already drowned enough. Cori set the glass aside in his crouch beside him. He studied that miserable expression, his weak body language.
"It's over," said the Corinthian, his voice calm and steady. He hoped to the fucking seven it was over. The nightmare removed a small pair of keys from his pocket. He didn't even ask John to promise him not to make another run for the window before unlocking his cuffs.
----
The magus did not run up and bolt upon the sensation of freed wrists well bruised from his maddened struggles. He was a slump, a trapped thing drained of any spark that urged him to do something as daft as brave three stories and all the reliable gravity that came with it. His arms remained behind him, although the strained shoulders relaxed into a more natural position.
Speech was a little easier: "We're alone now."
----
Even if it risked resetting his long healed hip properly. Cori discarded the cuffs, indifferent to whether they fell on the bed or on the floor. He didn't think he'd need them again anytime soon. Instead he reached out to take one of John's arms and bring it forward, to break the tightness in his shoulders and also work on his wounds.
"Good. You did a number on yourself," said the Corinthian. He'd already removed the embedded glass from his own arms, but the small slit-like marks remained. He reached for the forceps he'd prepared for removal. "Let me help you," requested the nightmare, as if he suspected John might reject his assistance.
----
John narrowed his eyes but he had no energy to fight. There was a semblance of a sneer that crossed his features but the sadness that was elbowed aside by the tiny smattering of pride had quickly enveloped it. He felt helpless, useless. Everything, his image, identity, the personality that had taken decades to craft, felt like his own blood from the many gashes and cuts, pooling out from him, around him, away from him. He could not move his fingers, those hurt too much.
The forceps had shined in the limited light, like the glass. They flashed in Constantine's vision; he could not take his eyes off them. The blood around the glass wounds had dried the trapped shards into place. He would not fight the Corinthian.
----
For a brief moment the usually stoic and almost expressionless (one could even say cold) nightmare frowned. The tables had turned today and it was John Constantine who had to deal with his ghosts, his memories, his nightmares in a sweep of sour irony. The things he'd said as a result of it... Cori didn't take them to heart too deeply.
He was speechless as he began carefully removing each piece of glass, the smaller ones first since they were less likely to get infected from the open air. There was a bottle of antiseptic as well, but its sting likely paled in comparison to the ghosts.
----
Oh it had stung, but Constantine, of the many dousings and bubblings that resulted, had only flinched maybe once or twice. He had a high pain tolerance and adjusted to it, anticipated it, quickly enough. The magus was wordless, but his eyes were following the nightmare's hands, watching as he worked. Constantine was responding to the glass, the nightmare. Sanity was creeping back.
----
Once all the pieces were removed and his wounds flushed, Cori wrapped the largest gash in bandages, leaving the rest to air out much like the man's mind and the settling silence.
"... Say something to me," he asked, almost pleaded now.
----
Constantine's eyes trembled then, shining with something very rare and very different. Something the nightmare may have not seen. John knew what it was. He looked away. The pain in his chest was nothing compared to fresh bandages tight against his once gaping palms.
"You sure about that?" he squeaked.
----
"Yes," Cori replied. His fingers smelled of the sterile liquid, of tools and other things inorganic, but he brushed them through John's hair again. He saw the shine in his blue eyes, the blue eyes he wanted to comfort.
----
Constantine's gaze still remained in that off direction, away from Cori's face. He was tearing, crying, and the nightmare seeing him fall into such a silly act was inevitable. He was John Constantine. He didn't cry. He was too proud to cry.
----
Silly John, very silly. But not to the Corinthian. His brow furrowed when he looked away to shed his tears, an immaculate fluid with the taste of salt far richer than the taste of blood on his tongues. Rather than speak, the nightmare leaned into the magician and carefully circled his arm around the man's waist, resting his hand over John's back as he offered his shoulder
----
This gave the nightmare a fantastic view of a full head of blonde hair. Not a gray hair yet or a sign of the magus' face either, red with ache with those shining blues. However, the Corinthian could feel Constantine lean a bit into him.
Eventually, he turned his head to bury it into the nightmare's shoulder, tucked in and out of embarrassing sight. John was not a man to bawl, but he snuffled and sniffled into the fabric of his companion's shirt not unlike a child (or a woman). No words, but Cori could feel the tears soak in.
----
The presence of a gray or white hair wouldn't have come as a surprise to the man with snow down, but the lack of aged strands were impressive, though the Corinthian was in no state to appreciate Constantine's physical youth right now. Instead he concentrated on holding John close to him, tucked under the security of his arm and chin. For as old as he was, he knew there was a piece of hurt in the Englishman, wedged there like shrapnel since the womb.
"Cry me a river, baby," he urged softly, his tone gentle despite what he was, a creature spawned to make tears.
----
Teeth softly pinched the nightmare's shoulder. Constantine took a hard sniff, his nose stuffy with the waterworks, before releasing and mumbling: "Fifty-something years too old for that, chief."
----
He barely tensed when he felt the minor bite to his flesh. It was certainly nothing like getting his elbows rubbed into glass. Teeth eyes retained their faint frown even when John released him, he was not convinced by the magus' pride, but neither would he argue against it. Cori chose to take that stubbled chin in his other hand and tip it gently so that he might press his lips to the wetness along his face.
----
Another sign of trust: the magus' very precious eye only inches away from that which had a taste for them. but among pains and sorrows, what was a comforting, tri-mouthed creature that feasted on eyes? The Corinthian tasted a rare salty tear from one of the most hated men alive, or so back in London (they were celebrities here, weren't they?).
It had spurned Constantine's crying: "Cori, why can't I ever be happy?"
----
A divine taste from a mortal, even if he had his legacy and vile reputation. The Corinthian tasted it, and made sure to taste no more lest he spur his own guilt over the temptation. He pressed his forehead to John's, that question coming as a shock to him no more than those tears. His teeth eyes remained half-lidded, unthreatening for all their time together.
"Look at me... No one's got the perfect story, John, but you make what you will of the happiness you've got."
----
"It won't stay," John sobbed with closed eyes. "What's the point if it won't fucking stay and leave me and shit, look at me. I'll be a wreck."
----
Again, the Corinthian was surprised by Constantine's reaction, and his own that silently spoke in his mind. He reconsidered those words.
"I want to stay with you," the nightmare confessed.
----
Those eyes briefly opened, focused on the teeth, blue and red.
"You didn't see them did you?
----
"Does it matter? I've been here for over half a year," said the Corinthian. He leaned back to take one of John's bandaged hands and pressed it to his face, his flesh. "And I'm no ghost," even though he looked like one, a ghostly night monster.
----
"They've been with me longer," John sighed. The bandaged hand, the wounds only hours fresh, suddenly did not hurt anymore. "They... they are why I have to keep moving," until he added in a tiny voice, "until they move away from me instead."
----
"Feel this, John." He pressed those rough fingertips along his own jaw. "This is real. No blood, no ghosts," only sand and teeth made to feel like human flesh, "no firing squad." Cori's tone became more solid, concerned and determined to comfort the Englishman. "Where are they now?"
----
Constantine's fingertips were cold, chilled to the bone with the draft and bloodloss. "Heaven, hell. In-between. Days off dedicated to my mental breakdowns. Fuck if I know. They're here."
----
He took John's cold fingertips into his mouth, lips as warm as any immortal who picked up human traits, human habits. "Look me in the eyes," it hurt when the blonde said he had none, but it was a sting quickly forgotten, "look me in the eyes and tell me, where are they."
Were there ghosts standing around them, shrouding Constantine in his guilt now? Was there a trace of fear, of those memories and nightmares, when he looked at the bonewhite lining Cori's lids?
----
John's hurt gaze averted the teeth. The magus' tolerance for them had increased to a haunted buzz at the back of his mind, his lizard brain feeling nothing but base avoidance for something it had long since concluded was dangerous, but right now he couldn't bring himself to focus on them.
Guilt. Fucking ugly word that always came up and around, reliable as a piss stinking hag making her rounds. Nightmares glimmered in the carefully maintained ivory, nightmares Constantine could not bring himself to face.
He said nothing.
----
His pale brow furrowed when John averted his gaze. At the very least he knew now what these ghosts were, their true nature manifested by Constantine's ill memories. The fucking blood was to blame. The nightmare closed his eyes, human lids and lashes sliding over his immaculate teeth.
"I won't leave you alone," he said to the magus in a cool voice as he drew him closer, "I promise you."
----
How close was close? Flesh touched flesh, John's sweat-cooled brow, roughened, old skin, against the Corinthian's. John's eyes had closed too, but he had stopped tearing, darkened trails down his cheeks disappearing. Another draft filled the room with the new Spring air, Constantine hardly feeling anew. Old memories he thought were buried bloomed, red buds and regrets. It reminded him of his humanity, something he thought he could discard. He'd always be human, he reminded himself, or he would not be John Constantine.
The magus' voice was tiny. "Thanks, mate."
----
Despite the City's actions, the blood curse, Cori welcomed the night air with a deep breath into his lungs. For all the other had said to him, his lack of eyes and his own sordid sanguine past, he could not leave John alone. He was more than company and a lover, Constantine was his friend.
The nightmare's voice was smooth and close to the magician's skin. "Don't sweat it, John."
----
A friend. John could use a friend that was breathing, even if it was out of habit. The magus did not want to be alone. The lone trail he blazed called for some company, of any kind.
A wrapped hand wrapped tightly around the nightmare as Constantine pressed himself into him, a child. "Hold me."
----
Under that weathered trenchcoat, under that fifty something years of bristle and rough skin, the dirty tobacco stained fingers, was a trace of a boy who hadn't been locked away or sealed into a reflection. The Corinthian knew this, he felt it sleeping next to Constantine every night. The nightmare was a child himself, but he had age within him.
"I've got you," he said as he tightened his hold around John, "don't worry... I've got you." Cori thread their fingers together. He could smell his guilt like the wisp of smoke rising from a Silk Cut, but it made Constantine human.
Rating; R for language
Characters; The Corinthian [
bitingnightmare], John Constantine [silkcutremix]Summary; A continuation of this incident here. Constantine relapses into instability, and it's up to the Corinthian to keep him from battering his frail mortal form for the umpteenth time.
Log;
The nightmare had remained vigilant as always, suppressing the urge to sleep in exchange for the magician's well-being. He'd been worried, deeply so, despite the scathing words the man spat in his eyeless face. These were spurred on by the curse, Cori had concluded, if just for the temporary feeling. By midnight there was only the matter of cleaning Constantine's wounds, and it seemed he'd sustained several of them. With his own hands now clean of the hallucinatory blood, the Corinthian approached the cuffed magus.
"John," he said quietly.
----
Whether the magus had been stoic or surprisingly even sleeping with his eyes open was a matter up for debate. He appeared in a daze, the nightmare's words something that had drifted up, over and far away from him, the Corinthian's presence noted by mere proximity. Constantine was a twisted mess, the blood that remained in his clothes and on the floor his. For now, the spooks in his eyes had finally dissipated after having watched him suffer for each and every one of them. They would be back, John grimly realized, they always would be back. They were the ravens at the few kills he had made, eager to pick up where he would have left off.
----
"Johnny," he uttered under his breath, close to the blonde's ear as he waved a hand over those blue eyes. Cold sightless blue eyes. The Corinthian wanted to know what he was thinking, wanted to know his nightmares, but such a treat required a taste... He laid his hand on the other's shoulder. "It's gone."
----
Constantine's dry lips mouthed the nightmare's nickname, his breath cool, but there was no sound. Those eyes did not focus. His throat was parched. Hallucination and guilt, he had confirmed, were gone, yes. Cori was the only one in the room.
The wind softly whistled through the jagged ends of the glass that remained in the window frame. The edges were as white as the teeth in some grotesque maw, gaping patiently in the moon and shadow.
----
He noted the way John's lips moved, forming that name, not the ancient one... his name. Cori ran his fingers through his blonde hair, the color dulled by the dim light and the shadows thrown by the moon outside. He stepped away briefly only to return with water, then lifted the rim to Constantine's mouth.
"Here," he insisted. He wouldn't remove the metal binds from his wrists just yet. The nightmare had to be sure.
----
John felt the even cooler glass against his lips, the shock offering a little more lucidity than the night breeze that trickled in across his face. He sensed the liquid so he made a weak motion to allow the Corinthian to let him drink. Miserable blue eyes tried to focus.
----
He steadied the glass under John's mouth, minimizing spill, giving him just enough to quench his thirst but not enough to drown it. The Englishman had already drowned enough. Cori set the glass aside in his crouch beside him. He studied that miserable expression, his weak body language.
"It's over," said the Corinthian, his voice calm and steady. He hoped to the fucking seven it was over. The nightmare removed a small pair of keys from his pocket. He didn't even ask John to promise him not to make another run for the window before unlocking his cuffs.
----
The magus did not run up and bolt upon the sensation of freed wrists well bruised from his maddened struggles. He was a slump, a trapped thing drained of any spark that urged him to do something as daft as brave three stories and all the reliable gravity that came with it. His arms remained behind him, although the strained shoulders relaxed into a more natural position.
Speech was a little easier: "We're alone now."
----
Even if it risked resetting his long healed hip properly. Cori discarded the cuffs, indifferent to whether they fell on the bed or on the floor. He didn't think he'd need them again anytime soon. Instead he reached out to take one of John's arms and bring it forward, to break the tightness in his shoulders and also work on his wounds.
"Good. You did a number on yourself," said the Corinthian. He'd already removed the embedded glass from his own arms, but the small slit-like marks remained. He reached for the forceps he'd prepared for removal. "Let me help you," requested the nightmare, as if he suspected John might reject his assistance.
----
John narrowed his eyes but he had no energy to fight. There was a semblance of a sneer that crossed his features but the sadness that was elbowed aside by the tiny smattering of pride had quickly enveloped it. He felt helpless, useless. Everything, his image, identity, the personality that had taken decades to craft, felt like his own blood from the many gashes and cuts, pooling out from him, around him, away from him. He could not move his fingers, those hurt too much.
The forceps had shined in the limited light, like the glass. They flashed in Constantine's vision; he could not take his eyes off them. The blood around the glass wounds had dried the trapped shards into place. He would not fight the Corinthian.
----
For a brief moment the usually stoic and almost expressionless (one could even say cold) nightmare frowned. The tables had turned today and it was John Constantine who had to deal with his ghosts, his memories, his nightmares in a sweep of sour irony. The things he'd said as a result of it... Cori didn't take them to heart too deeply.
He was speechless as he began carefully removing each piece of glass, the smaller ones first since they were less likely to get infected from the open air. There was a bottle of antiseptic as well, but its sting likely paled in comparison to the ghosts.
----
Oh it had stung, but Constantine, of the many dousings and bubblings that resulted, had only flinched maybe once or twice. He had a high pain tolerance and adjusted to it, anticipated it, quickly enough. The magus was wordless, but his eyes were following the nightmare's hands, watching as he worked. Constantine was responding to the glass, the nightmare. Sanity was creeping back.
----
Once all the pieces were removed and his wounds flushed, Cori wrapped the largest gash in bandages, leaving the rest to air out much like the man's mind and the settling silence.
"... Say something to me," he asked, almost pleaded now.
----
Constantine's eyes trembled then, shining with something very rare and very different. Something the nightmare may have not seen. John knew what it was. He looked away. The pain in his chest was nothing compared to fresh bandages tight against his once gaping palms.
"You sure about that?" he squeaked.
----
"Yes," Cori replied. His fingers smelled of the sterile liquid, of tools and other things inorganic, but he brushed them through John's hair again. He saw the shine in his blue eyes, the blue eyes he wanted to comfort.
----
Constantine's gaze still remained in that off direction, away from Cori's face. He was tearing, crying, and the nightmare seeing him fall into such a silly act was inevitable. He was John Constantine. He didn't cry. He was too proud to cry.
----
Silly John, very silly. But not to the Corinthian. His brow furrowed when he looked away to shed his tears, an immaculate fluid with the taste of salt far richer than the taste of blood on his tongues. Rather than speak, the nightmare leaned into the magician and carefully circled his arm around the man's waist, resting his hand over John's back as he offered his shoulder
----
This gave the nightmare a fantastic view of a full head of blonde hair. Not a gray hair yet or a sign of the magus' face either, red with ache with those shining blues. However, the Corinthian could feel Constantine lean a bit into him.
Eventually, he turned his head to bury it into the nightmare's shoulder, tucked in and out of embarrassing sight. John was not a man to bawl, but he snuffled and sniffled into the fabric of his companion's shirt not unlike a child (or a woman). No words, but Cori could feel the tears soak in.
----
The presence of a gray or white hair wouldn't have come as a surprise to the man with snow down, but the lack of aged strands were impressive, though the Corinthian was in no state to appreciate Constantine's physical youth right now. Instead he concentrated on holding John close to him, tucked under the security of his arm and chin. For as old as he was, he knew there was a piece of hurt in the Englishman, wedged there like shrapnel since the womb.
"Cry me a river, baby," he urged softly, his tone gentle despite what he was, a creature spawned to make tears.
----
Teeth softly pinched the nightmare's shoulder. Constantine took a hard sniff, his nose stuffy with the waterworks, before releasing and mumbling: "Fifty-something years too old for that, chief."
----
He barely tensed when he felt the minor bite to his flesh. It was certainly nothing like getting his elbows rubbed into glass. Teeth eyes retained their faint frown even when John released him, he was not convinced by the magus' pride, but neither would he argue against it. Cori chose to take that stubbled chin in his other hand and tip it gently so that he might press his lips to the wetness along his face.
----
Another sign of trust: the magus' very precious eye only inches away from that which had a taste for them. but among pains and sorrows, what was a comforting, tri-mouthed creature that feasted on eyes? The Corinthian tasted a rare salty tear from one of the most hated men alive, or so back in London (they were celebrities here, weren't they?).
It had spurned Constantine's crying: "Cori, why can't I ever be happy?"
----
A divine taste from a mortal, even if he had his legacy and vile reputation. The Corinthian tasted it, and made sure to taste no more lest he spur his own guilt over the temptation. He pressed his forehead to John's, that question coming as a shock to him no more than those tears. His teeth eyes remained half-lidded, unthreatening for all their time together.
"Look at me... No one's got the perfect story, John, but you make what you will of the happiness you've got."
----
"It won't stay," John sobbed with closed eyes. "What's the point if it won't fucking stay and leave me and shit, look at me. I'll be a wreck."
----
Again, the Corinthian was surprised by Constantine's reaction, and his own that silently spoke in his mind. He reconsidered those words.
"I want to stay with you," the nightmare confessed.
----
Those eyes briefly opened, focused on the teeth, blue and red.
"You didn't see them did you?
----
"Does it matter? I've been here for over half a year," said the Corinthian. He leaned back to take one of John's bandaged hands and pressed it to his face, his flesh. "And I'm no ghost," even though he looked like one, a ghostly night monster.
----
"They've been with me longer," John sighed. The bandaged hand, the wounds only hours fresh, suddenly did not hurt anymore. "They... they are why I have to keep moving," until he added in a tiny voice, "until they move away from me instead."
----
"Feel this, John." He pressed those rough fingertips along his own jaw. "This is real. No blood, no ghosts," only sand and teeth made to feel like human flesh, "no firing squad." Cori's tone became more solid, concerned and determined to comfort the Englishman. "Where are they now?"
----
Constantine's fingertips were cold, chilled to the bone with the draft and bloodloss. "Heaven, hell. In-between. Days off dedicated to my mental breakdowns. Fuck if I know. They're here."
----
He took John's cold fingertips into his mouth, lips as warm as any immortal who picked up human traits, human habits. "Look me in the eyes," it hurt when the blonde said he had none, but it was a sting quickly forgotten, "look me in the eyes and tell me, where are they."
Were there ghosts standing around them, shrouding Constantine in his guilt now? Was there a trace of fear, of those memories and nightmares, when he looked at the bonewhite lining Cori's lids?
----
John's hurt gaze averted the teeth. The magus' tolerance for them had increased to a haunted buzz at the back of his mind, his lizard brain feeling nothing but base avoidance for something it had long since concluded was dangerous, but right now he couldn't bring himself to focus on them.
Guilt. Fucking ugly word that always came up and around, reliable as a piss stinking hag making her rounds. Nightmares glimmered in the carefully maintained ivory, nightmares Constantine could not bring himself to face.
He said nothing.
----
His pale brow furrowed when John averted his gaze. At the very least he knew now what these ghosts were, their true nature manifested by Constantine's ill memories. The fucking blood was to blame. The nightmare closed his eyes, human lids and lashes sliding over his immaculate teeth.
"I won't leave you alone," he said to the magus in a cool voice as he drew him closer, "I promise you."
----
How close was close? Flesh touched flesh, John's sweat-cooled brow, roughened, old skin, against the Corinthian's. John's eyes had closed too, but he had stopped tearing, darkened trails down his cheeks disappearing. Another draft filled the room with the new Spring air, Constantine hardly feeling anew. Old memories he thought were buried bloomed, red buds and regrets. It reminded him of his humanity, something he thought he could discard. He'd always be human, he reminded himself, or he would not be John Constantine.
The magus' voice was tiny. "Thanks, mate."
----
Despite the City's actions, the blood curse, Cori welcomed the night air with a deep breath into his lungs. For all the other had said to him, his lack of eyes and his own sordid sanguine past, he could not leave John alone. He was more than company and a lover, Constantine was his friend.
The nightmare's voice was smooth and close to the magician's skin. "Don't sweat it, John."
----
A friend. John could use a friend that was breathing, even if it was out of habit. The magus did not want to be alone. The lone trail he blazed called for some company, of any kind.
A wrapped hand wrapped tightly around the nightmare as Constantine pressed himself into him, a child. "Hold me."
----
Under that weathered trenchcoat, under that fifty something years of bristle and rough skin, the dirty tobacco stained fingers, was a trace of a boy who hadn't been locked away or sealed into a reflection. The Corinthian knew this, he felt it sleeping next to Constantine every night. The nightmare was a child himself, but he had age within him.
"I've got you," he said as he tightened his hold around John, "don't worry... I've got you." Cori thread their fingers together. He could smell his guilt like the wisp of smoke rising from a Silk Cut, but it made Constantine human.