Log: Complete

[bitingnightmare.livejournal.com]

When; May 23 (evening)
Rating; R (language, violence)
Characters; John Constantine silkcutremix, the Corinthian bitingnightmare, that guy 200dollarshirt
Summary; The stakes are raised when a rivalry escalates beyond an eye for an eye.
Log;

Constantine had taken his eyes over a game of Texas Hold 'Em.  He knew that game, he knew how to gamble, but the Englishman and the American were too alike.  A fifty-fifty fucking split between blonde and brunette, old and young respectively, and for what?  So Constantine could please his monster flatmate live-in lover.

His anger and frustration (and embarrassment) flared like the flame from his lighter.  Constantine lit the tip of his cigarette then puffed smoke.  He thought he had the perfect solution at his fingertips, the perfect revenge, and he didn't even have to be in the other magician's direct presence to enact it.

The Corinthian was oblivious to the vengeful presence outside of the Coliseum pub.  They were celebrating something tonight weren't they... what was it?  Another great round of sex on the beach?  To a week of relative peace?  Whatever had happened over the past few days, something about running a high school, then Imperial Rome, had taken little toll on the nightmare.

All things considered it was a good time.  He raised his electric blue drink to John with a smirk.  "This is toast.... what," Cori asked, incapable of remembering the number.

----
"Bugger me if I know."

The same blue concoction clinked against the other glass, to which Constantine swigged, treating it like a Guinny and letting it glide down his throat. Not too bad. Maybe a little fruity for his tastes. It filled the several day gap void of memory the City curse had brought on. He was not bothered.

It was only the usual.

----
For a slightly fruity lime-tasting drink it was loaded with more liquor than a pint of Guinness.  The best part was how one could barely taste the alcohol, thus leading them to order another as time went on, becoming more intoxicated without knowing it.  Cori hadn't reached his limit just yet, although his face felt a little flush.

"Ass," he grinned at John before taking a gulp.  He slipped an arm across the blonde's shoulders.  "After this... you, me, and two," the nightmare held up two (2) fingers, "car bombs."

John Constantine (Constanteen) was unaware of his perfect timing.  He tilted his head in the general direction of their building, the low apartment complex complete with pub attached.  He removed his cigarette then pinched the silver tube chained around his neck and lifted it to his lips.  The dark-haired magician gave the whistle a short and quick blow.  A test.

----
"Two car bombs," the red-nosed magus smiled before a sharp pain tore through his ears. It was a red shock of lucidity through the creeping drunken haze. He briefly winced. What was that? Was his hearing going out?

Nothing. Two car bombs.

----
"Bad idea," Cori asked the other man curiously, having noted the brief wince.  Maybe John should lay off the hard liquor after all.  He gave the magician's shoulder a casual squeeze.

No howls yet, but the silver instrument was almost audible to his own ears.  John tightened the tuning device.

----
"N-no, great idea," the other John mumbled, giving Cori a befuddled look, which would have been inevitable anyway if the nightmare had even dared to suggest that John lay off. Just his own imagination...

----
Cori arched a brow, suspicious of the magus' reaction but not one to come between a man and his liquor.  John didn't sound unhealthily drunk, and he knew from past experience he could certainly hold his alcohol.  Hm, he pat that shoulder once more then took his arm away to signal the bartender for two old fashioned Irish Car Bombs.

A pity Constantine wasn't anticipating an explosion of this sort.  "I can have you for breakfast too, motherfucker," he hissed to himself.

With the whistle properly tuned, its pitch set at just the right frequency, the brunette took a deep breath then funneled all his oxygen into the piece.  It created a shrill noise that sounded like mere silence to human ears.

----
Constantine (the British one) shot up before buckling over to clutch at his searing skull in a painful hunch, screaming to maybe drown the noise out. His fingers dug into the yellow hair, his muscles rigid and tense. The sound arrowed past his ears into their base. His eardrums were hot coals.

It. Fucking. Hurt.

----
"John!"

The nightmare shuffled off his barstool immediately, knocking the remainder of his drink across the wooden counter in the process.  Both hands came to the Englishman's sides in an attempt to help keep him steady.  The outburst brought more than just a couple stares in their direction.

"What's wrong??"

For good measure, the American followed his blast with several short ones then a long one to the tune of God Save the Queen, the safety pinned version.  He couldn't see the other Constantine, he couldn't really see at all, but he wouldn't stop delivering those shrill blows until he heard something crash with a howl of pain.  Something satisfying.

----
John made an involuntary motion to snap at the nightmare in his agony, but his body was ill equipped to do so. Neck was too short, face was too short, teeth were too dull... So he gnashed those dull teeth and pressed himself into the hard top. He screamed again, the noise dwindling from human pitch to the deep chesty pitch of a dog.

Someone was doing this to him. No one else in the pub was affected, other than the amused handful that were watching him with a morbid curiosity.

----
"Shit!"  The Corinthian retracted his hand so as not to get bit, even if it was John's human mouth doing the gnashing.  His other hand however took a strong hold of his arm to guide them out.  He too didn't think this was any supernatural coincidence.  "Come on," his tone ordered as he pulled John along.  Once they reached the safety of their nearby apartment they could figure out what was happening to the blond.

This of course required exiting the Coliseum firstly.  The cigarette smoking man across the street, in his black suit and tie, white shirt neatly pressed, wouldn't see them, but he might hear them.  A pair of wrap around sunglasses covered those empty sockets.  They weren't truly empty, but who really wanted to see new eyeballs slowly regenerating in the rot?

Constantine ceased whistling for a moment to suck on his cigarette.

----

John was gasping, his ears ringing and showing no signs of subsiding. The nightmare could pull him along easily as quite a few pairs of eyes followed their departure through the door. Soon the magus was dismissed as very drunk.
 
"Cori, didn't you hear it? Bloody awful noise. Can't you hear it?"
----
"Hear what, I don't hear a thing," he countered with an arm around John's waist and a hand to his chest.  Cori kept him upright in case the blonde should decide to throw up as they pushed through the doors.  "Breathe," demanded the nightmare as the heel of his palm rubbed in circles.

That was better.  He heard some kind of instant noise, four steps and panic.  How John Constantine had managed to make his hearing more acute within a week was his own dirty little secret.  The exorcist smirked, recognizing the voices.  But would they recognize him?

----
The blonde was still recovering from his shock to note any of his other senses, namely a familiar one drifting along that would have signaled his antagonist's presence. Not quite yet.

"I'm breathing," he panted, straining to listen to Cori yet wanting to give the palm a puzzled look. The pain was in his ears, not his chest.

----
Teeth eyes looked up and down the street.  As it was only evening there were some people still about, some who noted the stumbling blonde, some who noted the solitary brunette and his funny noisemaker that made only silence for humans.  He wasn't sure what to make of it yet, knowing John was in pain but not why.

"Over here, assholes," Constantine smirked to himself, replacing his cigarette with that silver tube again for one long blast.

----

John could not pinpoint the origin of the fucking noise, not over the maddening pain it was inflicting on him. Immediately his hands resumed clawing at that skull, the rest of him falling into a fetal position. He no longer screamed, but howled like the beast that was formerly snug within that warm human skin.

----
He noticed him this time, that cocky dark-haired exorcist in the black suit get up, taking on Constantine's name and now the Corinthian's trademark sunglasses-at-night.  His teeth eyes narrowed sharply at the--fuck.

He felt John fall away from his hands.  The connection between silver piece and John's pain hadn't sparked yet, but he knew that American son of a bitch was behind it.  Cori knelt beside the Englishman, to try and comfort him even if it was futile, or at least appear to be comforting.  He pulled the balisong from his boot.

"It's your blind side," he muttered to John.

"Blind but not stupid," Constantine retorted with his acute hearing.

----
The other Constantine had to catch his breath, the rigid muscles relaxing as he uncurled on the pavement. He wasn't sure if he could hear anymore, would be able to ever hear again. His vision was swimming in red.

A distant mumbling tickled his numb ears. "Not sure if I caught that, Cori." Wasn't fucking joking.

----
Shit, for all he knew the magician saw him as just a white thing wearing jeans and a t-shirt in a silent film.  Cori sneered at Constantine.  He had his shades, and his mannerisms were that of a blind man, but he could deal with it.  The nightmare had done so before.

"Stay here," he said to John, whether he heard him or not.  Cori's hand brushed along his sleeve before he stood up to approach the other Constantine, balisong held between his fingers blade first.

"Don't think about it, Corinthian."  The American was getting smarter, rather he was learning to use this place to his advantage.  He dropped his cigarette to the asphalt and pulled his good old lighter, marked now so that it could permanently serve as a fucking blowtorch.

----
The magus managed to roll over flat on his back. He could sense something, something that forced him back onto his shaking feet. A cold sweat had formed on the back of his neck. He could not keep himself still. His hands shuddered to the bone as he leaned on the brick for support.

Did not budge from his spot yet. One step and he'd be back against the street.

----
The Corinthian didn't have to think.  Constantine could hear their voices, their footsteps, but the nightmare was betting he couldn't hear cold steel splitting night air.  He threw the butterfly blade, impaling the dark exorcist through the hand.

"FUCK."  The American growled.  He hadn't seen it coming, nor heard it, but neither would he let it stop him.  That blow meant the Corinthian was nearby.  He flipped the top of his lighter and held it up, cloth already tied around his palm to flood the street with a bright golden fire.

Perhaps the Englishman would be glad he couldn't devote his full attention to the assault on their senses.

----
The Englishman could not quite hear the events, but he could smell some of it. Light. Flame.

Fuck what the nightmare said. He was not going to stand around and let him be blowtorched for the nth fucking time.

"Cori!" He wobbled after him, trying to keep his legs, his feet, his world straight.

----
Divine flame.  Too bad the brunette hadn't quite acknowledged the Corinthian's separation from western Christianity, but the fire alone was a threat to his very skin.  Constantine's stumble stopped him from further approaching the torch-wielding one.  But the pale nightmare had seen all he needed.

Cori disregarded the safety of his own teeth; light sensitivity was not the issue.  He turned away from the fire and reached out to cover John's ears.  Never mind how ridiculous they looked or how confused the magician might be over his action, it was better than having the pitch shatter his ear drums.

"Dog whistle," he shouted at the blonde under the loud rush of flames across the asphalt.  Cori pulled John aside, perhaps taking them both down on the sidewalk.

----
Buggering fuck? A dog whistle? The magus did not hear the howls of other canines in the vicinity but a glimpse of the culprit was all he needed.

The both of them fell to the pavement. John twitched as the nightmare's fingers were wedged uncomfortably into his ears. It did not stop the penetrating assault, Cori feeling the muscular tension twist the other man as his head fell back into another wretchedly deformed howl.

----
A dog whistle.  It sounded ridiculous, but to the magician's ears it may as well have been murder, especially in such close proximity.  Cori covered most of John's head area with himself, as if it might minimize the shrill sound.  Unfortunately he had no way of knowing.

When the heat just at their footsteps subsided he raised his teeth eyes to where the American magician had been.  All that was left there was the blade itself, but a closer look would reveal a scattered blood trail.  Would John's head even be right enough to follow it with him?  Cori removed his hands from the other's ears too.

"The little son of a bitch fucking ran," growled the nightmare.

----
John was not going to stand for that shit, especially for something that humiliating. His evening may have been on the downturn, but seeing how his lesser half would do without both his eyes and fingers would make all the fucking different. He could smell the blood.

"He wants to play that game again?" he snarled, uncurling, rolling to his belly, slinking into his pseudo-crinos shape at the risk of blowing his cranium open. "I'm up forrrr round-twoorrrr." His nostrils flared, his footsteps still shaking but managing to avoid his discarded shoes (he lost track of how many pairs he forgot and left somewhere) and approached the bloody remain on the wall to track the scent. The flames were enchanted; the heat on the pavement was only a pleasant warmth on his pads.

His ears still rang. His skull still throbbed. His vision didn't sit right.

----
"Are you sure," he asked John, skeptical of how he really felt inside his ringing cranium.

The Corinthian would have liked nothing more than to get back at that fucking exorcist for trying to deport him, flame him, whatever the hell he used for tricks.  Mostly, he wanted to pull those sunglasses off and get a lick in those sockets, a taste of the new bulbs growing in his skull.  He'd already dined on the hazels.

"Keep it coming, you bastards," growled the dark haired magician from the shadows only one block down.  His hand ached, soaking blood through his coat and still it left a scent trail.  Fuck if that limey cunt was going to come after him in that form though.  Constantine anticipated as much with the whistle involved.  He blew it again to gauge how far away they were.

----
Before Constantine (the hairy one) could reply, he felt the burn pinch at the base of his drums again, or would have should he have been in human form. The half-lupine form not only intensified but also increased the whistle's effectiveness range.

He was howling, but he did not fall into the fetal position.

He's not going to play nice, you stupid git, he told himself. He has you by the balls. Have to fucking think of something to get around that damn whistling long enough to tear off his fucking fingers.

His blood boiled in frustrated anger like the water in a pot nestled in his memory. His human arm dipping into it unscathed had given him an idea.

It had better work.

----
What the fuck did that mean?  Cori couldn't interpret the howl for anything more than pain, pain that he too wanted to give back to the American double.  He picked his knife up along the way, remembered not to wipe the crimson off in case having Constantine's eyes and blood might prove useful in the future.

All he knew from John's howl was that the brunette was still in their vicinity.  "I'll go first," said the nightmare, like a white shadow.  The whistle had no affect on him, and as long as he didn't make a sound that little fucker wouldn't hear him coming.

Think fast, Johnny Boy.  Those two were relentless assholes; the chase wouldn't end just because he disappeared.  He was leaving a fucking trail for chrissake, he could smell it.  Constantine turned away from the mouth of the alley to pull his sleeves back.  He needed to light his path.  But would he succeed before they found him?

----
Scrying. The magus could find just about any person with a good fresh blood sample and the Corinthian's knife would be perfect if the thirst for getting even with that Yank cunt was that driving.

He did give the nightmare a puzzled look but he slunk down to all fours to acquire the scent of the other John's shoes, then the traces of it that bled with each footstep into the pavement. There were a multitude of other odors, many many other footsteps, but knowing which one to look for made the desired trail "glow" (it was hard to describe to someone without such a nose). The nightmare would have to look over his shoulder to confirm the tracking and direction.

----
Or a souvenir, the nightmare would have suggested with a smirk had the magus said that out loud.  He already had a pair of trophies from Constantine though, procured by his Constantine.  And he did glance over his shoulder now and then, to make sure they both stalked in the same direction, towards an alley way across the intersection.

"Light this damn place up already," the brunette hissed, knowing every second wasted in the dark was a precious second closer to their discovery.  The light alone would give away his position, but the whistle at his neck would keep the faster of the two at bay.

The glow wasn't as intense as the torch, but it distorted the fabric of light around him enough to be conspicuous.  "Fuck me," Constantine growled as the light spilled backwards; dead-end alley.  The only way out was the way he came in.

----
The burst of light from one point of the alley made the magus and the nightmare appearing at the other end, the only end, all the easier.

The Corinthian's "pet" companion had his teeth bared into a grotesque bestial grimace, an attempt at a smile.

Got you, you daft twat.

----
Bootsteps, claws clacking, they were already here.  Constantine remained where he was, whistle in hand.  "Keep the son of a bitch back unless you like them deaf," the brunette threatened with a dark expression.

Cori appeared to ignore the threat, he had already acknowledged it earlier but John's drive was strong enough to pursue despite it.  He flipped the balisong in his hand, blade to handle to blade, casually.  The action smeared some of the American's blood on his fingertips.

"Only if you don't go anywhere," the nightmare smirked viciously.  It wasn't the playful kind he usually offered to the Englishman.

----
The English... man could not speak in his current shape, bugger the lost speech spell, but the jaw full of teeth and malicious glint in his eyes (or was it something else?) was all he needed to convey just what he had in store for the Yank:

Nothing good.

Sod the Mexican standoff. He rose to his hind legs to approach the exorcist with tightened "fists," a brutish lumbering silhouette.

----
Too damn close for a stand off, Constantine knew this as well.  He didn't have enough time to relight the holy cloth and blind them both with fire.  He had two objects within reach and only one fully working hand.  It seemed as if he were well fucked, and not in the pleasant sort of way the other two enjoyed.

The Corinthian worried for the wolfmagus' ears as he approached the other man, but he wasn't one to get in John's way just yet.  Instead he watched and waited, calculating the exorcist's every move.  He saw him reach his good hand into his coat pocket, fishing for a weapon no doubt.

Indeed Constantine could wield two.  His fingers weren't damaged enough to keep him from pinching that whistle and giving it a harsh blow.

----
The magus would have been collapsing to his knees to howl in that dismal miserable manner, a sound the nightmare had been growing accustomed to tonight. That solid hunch (caught between a bipedal and quadrupedal setup, he could not keep his back straight for long without getting tired and sore) did not fall.
 
The whistle did nothing. Constantine lunged.

----
"Bite this," growled the dark haired magician.

The whistle didn't work, but he was sure the item nestled over his fingers was sure to pack a punch.  The brass knuckles, engraved with several wards, some even carved in silver, came sailing out of his pocket to crack against the wolfman's face cum muzzle.

The Corinthian wouldn't wait to see if that metal-enforced fist landed or not.  He dove for the brawling pair, knife in tow.  He had seen silver brand its mark in John's flesh, he wasn't going to stand back and see if this weapon could do the same.

----

Unfortunately, that led to the glint and flash of something making a crash course for his face. Fortunately, the lupine magus' reflexes were fast enough to have the knuckles whistle over the long fur of the back of his neck. The nightmare had collided with his shoulder, the momentum throwing him to the filthy pavement.

----
Constantine had two options: the whistle that wasn't working for him (he could tell by the lack of anguished howl), or continue to attack the pair with the weapon he had already brandished.  The latter seemed like the safest course of action until he could retreat.

Air whistled over the misconnected punch, but the exorcist knew to stop there was to invite himself to injury.  He immediately whipped his fist back, cracking the holy metal against an unintended target, the nightmare.  Whether he lashed back or not, Constantine gave the Englishman a hard kick to the ribs before turning his attention back to the paler one.

The Corinthian stumbled into the opposite wall, his sunglasses knocked clear from his face.  Be fucked if he was going to need surgery for the many times someone (Constantines) broke his nose.  He slashed his knife outward, cutting a clean swipe across the American's clothing, but Constantine continued forward, landing another blow with those hard knuckles to Cori's mouth.

----
"Haaawwrrr!" 
 
The man in Constantine wretched but the wolf insisted on snapping, which in turn his head had indeed snapped up and out, teeth open to snap back with an angry clip, that anger fueled by the injured nightmare. The other Constantine (Constanteen) was occupied with him. He could hear the collision all too well. No whistle.
 
Good. The English one sought to lock his teeth around his calf.

----
Fuck.  The nightmare felt bone crack in his mouth as not one but two teeth dropped from his bloodied lips.  That little shit was going to pay now.

Constantyne was an immediate threat physically, but the Corinthian was the one who could alter more than just perception.  John needed to take that white-haired fucking freak out first.  The sound of something being spat from the mouth satisfied him enough.  He didn't have long to enjoy his victory however as jaws clamped around his leg harshly.

"Motherfucker, get off," the exorcist growled.  He knew all too well what that bite meant for him.  He directed his complete attention back to the magus by slamming those holy knuckles against his head several times.

----
The fact that there was a blunt object making a crash course against the fur of his skull had guarded him from the damaging effects of the silver. Another fact was that this guy was punching really fucking hard and the last time he checked, he was not fucking Superman.

Risking brain damage, colors swimming, Constantine forced himself to clamp harder and shake with that thick neck. Throw him off balance. Sink those teeth in deeper.

He realized there was one person worth passing his little bane to and he hoped he couldn't find a cure or any fucking bricks.

----
Like winning the fucking lottery.  Constantine collapsed to the ground with that shake, briefly disoriented as his position changed from upright to who knows what the hell.  All he could do was try to pull away, and if that didn't work he attempted to kick at the wolfmagus, aiming for the sensitive black nose he couldn't really see.

Blind man's bluff, the nightmare thought to himself.  He felt marks at the side of his mouth, in the shape of crosses.  Although he wasn't a demon from Hell, whatever had been engraved on those knuckles left its magic on his face; several centimeters of flesh that had veined around the crosses, but not sanded.

The Corinthian wanted to stab John himself so only he could have his way with the exorcist.  No, he could contain that urge.  Instead he crouched to grab the American's damaged hand and slide his fingers into the wound.  "Feels goo', dun'it," the nightmare purred despite the blood in his mouth.

"Christ--aauuuuhh!!"  His yell of pain wasn't quite satisfying enough for Cori.

----
Those feet were still a bit dangerous for the magus' comfort. Already his head was throbbing and he wasn't sure how he was still conscious. His thirst for getting even with the sore little fuck overrode most of the pain that wanted him down. 
 
So Constantine released, and lunged for his shoulder to tear into it. Briefly, he toyed with taking a chunk to taste, curious about its flavor. When was the last time he consciously had human flesh? He was many times damned anyway. What's a little more?
 
Let's see how good we can make you feel, cunt.

----
John wasn't the only one toying with the idea of absolute cruelty.  Cori still had his knife in hand, and he thought about using the balisong (a non-sawing blade) to saw the man's fingers off.  Too cruel, he simply pulled the man's middle finger backward, snapping it at the knuckle.  He was angry, his recent brush with sanded death fresh in his memory.

Constantine groaned loudly from the break, then a throaty gasp followed when teeth sank into his shoulder.  Those two had done much to destroy his body, the budding milky white seeds in his sockets exposed now that his own sunglasses had come off.  He wasn't going to let them kill him, the exorcist had been through much much worse.  He managed to utter small and low, a minor hex to amplify sound.  His best bet.

With a Latin phrase that professed to make sound so sharp and spiritual fucking Heaven could hear it John gave that whistle one long blow.

----
Fuck!

That got him but the other John now worked to tear him open. He silently cursed himself for not going for that fucking throat. What a lovely little sound that would be, the exorcist whistling through the new holes in his neck once he was done.

His clawed pawhand would have to do. He released, but he did not scream, unable to meditate on an illusionary silence that had kept him safe from the other blast. At the least, the delayed pain had chosen this point to manifest in the form of throbbing eardrums.

He closed his claws viciously around the whistle, around the other's hand. He'd break his fucking wrist if he did not stop.

----
Cori didn't help John this time, too engaged in breaking the man's index finger despite the whistle blast.  He knew he should be helping the blonde's ears, he knew it was more efficient to kill the motherfucker than torture him, but he couldn't stop himself from satisfying the need to hear the exorcist's joints pop open.

The instrument itself had minor silver content, but the silver chain was blessed as much as the brass knuckles covering the hand that held it.  Were John's paw pads as well protected as his skull?  Constantine was bleeding out across the pavement, and the scuffle had brought attention to the alleyway, but who would get in the way of a werewolf and nightmare.

----
Who'd recognize the white fur? The coat would be a dead giveaway to his identity, as his name made its rounds well enough as it was, but John (the English one) was well past the point of caring. The exorcist's hand had guarded him against the effects of the silver, but a grope for the chain and a painful brush of pad was a good indication that that little toy was made with him in mind.

Arsehole! John could not quite pinpoint just the right words for it, but the gaping wounds were his feelings represented enough.

That and it would be better if the exorcist lived if just so he could finally see the curse work for him, in someone he did not like. It would have made his bloody little toy moot.

He stumbled away on four shaking limbs, still disoriented from the blow to his skull, to let Cori finish. The brunette would have been dead if he had intended it to be so.

----
Gaping wounds was an understatement.  Constantine looked like he'd been ravaged, and in a sense he was.  His adrenaline was coming down, that blast from his lungs grown weak till the whistle barely made a sound and fell from his mouth.  He was a fucking blind man with one useless hand, a torn shoulder, and a bitten leg.  To think, he could have gotten away were it not for the block in that fucking alley.  He couldn't even bring his tattoos together.

Perfect.  Two of the Yank's fingers were bent back at very unnatural angles.  Cori decided not to finish his hand, he had other plans in mind regardless of who was fucking watching.  He let go of the brunette to crouch in front of him and stick his bloodied fingers in those sockets to raise John's head a few inches.

"If 'e goes deaf I'm 'aking your fuh'ing ear," the nightmare threatened, his growl low.

Talk about fucking pain.  Those fingers in his damned holes rivaled the rips in his shoulder.  Still he had the strength to mouth off.  "Fight's not over... asshole."

Constantine knew something about the metal on his fist hurt the nightmare, and he knew wounding the nightmare would keep the magus occupied.  With his last push of willpower he closed his one good hand around the Corinthian's wrist.  This time it was he wouldn't let go.  "Like a fucking barbeque..."

----
The Englishwolf was in turn fucking death and angry, but that pressing thirst for revenge matter had been satisfyingly quenched although not yet completely subsided. The real beauty of this whole ordeal would come later, and it would be worth any long term hearing damage that the bloody whistle might have caused. His ears no longer moved with the interesting noises of the world, keeping their comfortable stationary position: airplaned flat. John did not hear the nightmare's threat.
 
He only smelled blood. Twisted body and weakness. Finish. Kill. Feed.
 
No. He was salivating but he would not; that wanker's misery was only beginning. He smiled as he panted, never mind the shrill buzz in his ears and the numbness that followed. But what was he doing, grabbing the nightmare like that? wasn't he finished, his arse kicked good and proper?
 
The smile faded. His furry brow furrowed. 
 
Lighter. Flamethrower.
 
He brought his arm back and used all his supernatural lupine strength to give that overdue corpse a powerful thwack. Whether he was getting personal with the wall or rolling towards it like a flimsy toy, it didn't matter: John was not going to be magically recreating the nightmare's face like he did with his palms.

----
"Fucking cunt," hissed the Corinthian while his little mouths rasped in response.  He aimed the tip of his blade to slash the American's wrist as crosses branded his skin.  John (the British one) however did the job for him.

The exorcist slammed into the brick wall, his grip on the nightmare pried by a heavy hand.  Constantine coughed up blood, a testament to his serious injuries.  He closed his eyes(ockets), the lids almost fully reconstructed since the blonde's less-than-professional ocular removal job.

"I'll kill him," threatened the nightmare as steam dissipated from the markings on his hand.  Now wasn't the time to annihilate John Constantine (not his John Constantine), too many on-lookers, too much to lose over a rivalry that didn't belong to him.  He looked at the Englishman, blood covering the lower half of his pale face as well as some of his white shirt.

They should leave, but Cori felt he needed to be taken away else he'd give in to that urge.  It took enough effort just to flip his balisong blade back into the handles.

----
The Englishwolf had craned that shaggy head in the nightmare's direction, giving a heavy, throaty snarl. Of satisfaction? Justice served? He might have not been able to hear but he could see the nightmare as he moved, and smell him as well as he did the bystanders. He would have held him back if it were not for their audience. 
 
On second thought, a little assistance in departing from the scene of the crime was necessary: Constantine had a powerful grip, taking the nightmare's shoulder as he lumbered away. The black claws poked through the fabric in warning, attention. The look in his eye that flickered as he flashed a look: We're leaving.

He would survey the damage when they were home.

----
A good idea to flee the scene of the crime.  This was manslaughter, completely unpremeditated (liars), and they didn't have the proper tools with which to dispose of the body had they killed him.  Cori was unaware of any special tricks John had to do such a thing, as for his own they hardly had the time to dig a ditch and procure quick lime.

Who would miss Constantine if he were gone, the nightmare wondered though he didn't particularly care.  However, friendships and alliances in this City ran particularly strong without a police force, and Cori preferred to maintain his image of 'far more ruthless than he looks.'

Those pinpricks to his shoulder motivated his feet to move.  He went with John, noting the look in his sharp blue eyes but not responding to it in acknowledgment beyond departure.  The American had been savaged enough, and whether he deserved to be left there without the assurance that someone would send him to the hospital or not didn't matter to the bloodied white horror.

He left his teeth behind.

----
Constantine's discarded shoes weren't.
 
Once the two had been a considerably safe distance from the scene of the crime, heading towards their flat down a dark, quiet street, Constantine was the first to speak despite the constant ring. He could hear again, some of the physical damage repaired on his shift back, but his world still remained very dull. There was still a numb buzz in the base. Skull still throbbed and ached, but his exhilaration was nothing.
 
"Cori." He was able to give the inflicted wounds a better look. Wolf eyes were not things that tracked intricate detail as well as his own. Motion and night, not-- bloody hell. "We kicked a deserving wanker's arse good and proper. Shouldn't you be gloating?"

----
The Corinthian hadn't spoken along their escape to the silent dark street towards their home.  He'd reasoned that John wouldn't have been able to hear him anyway, those ears having been subjected to several shattering blasts of high pitch.  He also didn't feel like talking much anyway.

He had a gap in his mouth now thanks to that wanker, and all the blood he'd managed to wipe from his face had migrated to his stained shirt.  The nightmare spoke only when the magus spoke to him, but he kept his toothy gaze low.

"Maybe," he managed to reply without dropping all his consonants, though his vowels still sounded tall due to missing teeth.  "He damaged my fucking face," Cori muttered.  Under the dried blood three crosses were draped across the bridge of his nose, another three at the left side of his busted lip, and illegible Latin scarred four centimeters down the center of his wrist.  The surrounding area of these wounds were marked further by pale vessels.

"What is this shit," he asked John, gesturing to the 'brand' on his arm.

----
Now John was able to see the nightmare's face clearly with the occasional flicker of an overhead lamp. Now it was apparent why he was not too chipper: If he was pissy because of his wrist and teeth alone, the magus made note to pick up a bomb shelter on the way back when he finally saw what was making his face so sore.

Whether the exorcist had damaged the nightmare's face or his pride more was a matter up for debate.

"Holy mark," John noted when he took the wrist and gave it a good once over. "You're not a demon, are you? I'll counterward it when we get back, just to be safe. No guarantees if it'll work. Doing it by memory makes me regret burning me books already."

----
"No, I'm not," he shook his head, but he was a nightmare.  Did that make a difference?  Cori shouldn't be displaying marks and veined flesh in the first place, beyond the physical limits of the engravings.  Whatever magic it was it had penetrated his immortal flesh, he could feel those brands on his face, and the flesh surrounding them had gone icy.

His pride was wounded, wounded by a shit gambler who bared the name of the man with which he shared a bed.  The American was a crass imitation, but that imitation had gotten the better of both of them tonight.  It didn't matter that they retaliated in kind and two times over, he had gotten them.

"It feels cold," he said to John, a little calmer when the Englishman held his wrist.  The surfacing vessels under his already pale skin made the border around the marks appear a washed out blue and purple.  "How bad does it look," asked the dark mirror without a looking glass.

----
John squinted, giving the marks a second glance; not that good. Frowning, he brought a hand out to touch.

"Are you sure about that demon remark?" he muttered, words louder than his damaged ears perceived, feeling the throbbing in his head pulse harder. The holy knuckles did not make contact with his skin, thank Christ, not like it had done to the Corinthian.

----
"You're shouting," he said casually, more for John's benefit than his own.  No doubt it was harder to hear himself speak with that buzzing between his ears.  "It depends on your interpretation," Cori added regarding the demon remark.

The fact that the blonde hadn't answered his question did not fly under the radar.  Cori assumed this meant it looked bad.  Nothing a nightmare couldn't heal over with time and effort (he hoped), he didn't feel sanded or glassed yet, but his pride was a different story altogether.

His flesh flinched when touched, unexpecting of John's warm fingers to his own temperature drop.

----
"What we care about is what the lovely parting gifts our mate inflicted on you thinks." Constantine, his voice consciously lowered, furrowed his brow; no time to be blunt yet, not unless he was certain that Cori was going to be all right... or not.

The first, he reminded himself. No glass or sand. Flesh. Irritated flesh but flesh. Cold flesh.

"Let's carry on home. Best to do bugger all without the whole friggin' City watching."

----
"His new holes should be just as fucking happy," Cori said, his expression sour.

The librarian could be of some help now, if Constantine couldn't figure it out himself.  Cori liked to think he could heal these things over alone, but he wasn't a mage and he was shit at magic compared to John.  He'd come to rely on the other man.

"We'll get your ears checked," the nightmare nodded once, adding to their to-do list of damage assessment when they returned to the apartment.

----
"I can hear you," John growled, still keeping his hold on his hand. He didn't mind walking with it all the way. "Come on, you poor bugger. He did a number on you." Enough about Constantine. A little dimmed hearing was a normal mundane occurrence, right?

----
For a middle aged man, certainly, but not over one night.  The Corinthian was confident that Constantine's hearing would return to normal by the weekend, perhaps with minor damage because anything beyond minor was the American sealing his own death wish.

Their hands held together was a comforting gesture.  By now the nightmare thought little of its implications, only that it felt natural.  "Don't remind me," Cori huffed in response though his grip on John's hand tightened too.

----
A normal, brutally honest mirror would be doing that to the dark one in due time. John had been deciding how to brace himself at ground zero, still unsure of how to keep himself and the flat intact as they were stepping into the door. There, he released the nightmare's hand.

"Best you wash up, mate." Constantine, backing off, was unsure of his survival chances otherwise.

----
Cori noted John's mannerisms, an indirect surefire warning that his face was not pretty.  Not pretty at all.  The nightmare wasn't 'pretty' to begin with but for certain those holy brass knuckles had knocked out some of his finer marblesque features.  He felt their hands separate.  Time to look.

A few steps through the dim apartment took him to the bathroom.  He walked in without turning on the light, left that gesture for the last step as he huffed softly.  One, two, three.... Warm yellow spilled into the hallway, but the Corinthian made not a sound.  The faucet turned, bloodied water swirled down the drain.  So far nothing.

He emerged in a short moment, shirt discarded and his face still very much injured but clean.  With a tug he pulled the bathroom door shut.  Hard.  So hard the hallway rumbled and something inside the bathroom fell off the sink with a shatter.  Cori didn't bother to check and see what it was before he slumped on the sofa, scowling.

----
There was an uneasy silence.

John glanced over at his companion next to him. His tongue may have been golden but even now, he was fumbling for something to say. Funny, this was his specialty, or the magus had finally wizened up to the fact that there were times where it was best to keep silence indeed.

He let his actions speak instead, a warm hand taking Cori's. Smile. It's alright, mate.

----
Another huff escaped his mangled mouth.  He didn't look at John, not wanting to face those all knowing blue eyes yet.  Even with his teeth for eyes the magus had learned how to read Cori's expressions.  The hand that took his was a comforting gesture.  Still he didn't raise his gaze.

"I look like a B Horror reject," said the nightmare... as if he hadn't already looked like one with just his toothy eyes.

----
Such would have been John thoughts back when they had first met, but months later, the teeth eyes were something easily overlooked. It would have been odd not to see them, or see a deep blue pair instead.

"It won't scar," John said in turn. He could not guarantee that, but it did remind the magus to get to work on counterwarding, rather than pitying his mate.

----
Cori would have found a deep blue pair of eyes odd as well, not a gift or punishment he took lightly.  The teeth were a part of him, rooted in his very nature.  Thank the seven the damn exorcist hadn't knocked those out, once was enough.

The white blonde drummed his fingers along John's darker hand, over the hairs on the back of his palm.  It was an anxious gesture for himself.  "I'll hold you to it," said the Corinthian, not quite serious about that but he could hear the uncertainty in the magus' voice.

----  
Meanwhile, the magus traced his marks along the cross-shaped injury along the nightmare's wrist, reaching into his coat for a blade of his own. It was a simple blade, a small thing that had traced a seal along Elle's flesh. The magus knew how to use it and he could handle it with great dexterity.

His brow once again was knit, thoughts of their impacted sex life briefly crossing through. He'd be keeping his hand off his zipper for a few days, or more. The magus may have required dental work should Cori punch too hard, but the nightmare was a shark.

"Don't flinch." Pointless words.

----
They had other holes to plunder, though he had grown rather fond of their seemingly natural call of mouth to meat.  Cori enjoyed giving.  This would not put a damper on it for long.

"I wouldn't," the nightmare replied, noting John's own blade.  He was accustomed to knifework, and being an avid user himself he could take it as well as he dished it.  His muscles relaxed, knowing tension would make the Englishman's work harder.  Those teeth eyes remained open, he watched unafraid.

----  
They'd find ways around it indeed. One lost preferred method called for creativity to make up for it, and the both of them were in no short supply.

And so John worked, manipulating the knife with an unusual skill and caution, the flesh a delicate, unforgiving canvas. It was an interesting contrast from Elle, but one noticeable change from the other was that the whole time he felt those teeth eyes watching. The magus enjoyed showing off but for some reason, the Corinthian's gaze had unnerved him somewhat.

"I am not as deft as you when it comes to knifework of this sort, I realize," he commented out of his uncharacteristic uneasiness as he worked. It was more to ease himself than Cori.

----
He hadn't considered that aspect of his watchful gaze.  With that remark he shifted it away.  "I'm not afraid, that's all," Cori replied.  Perhaps he should have known John would know that.

The nightmare didn't flinch or twitch or wince as the magus cut him open, parting his skin and flesh.  He was used to this, knew how to do it for centuries though this incarnation had practiced it for little over a decade.  His blood welled appropriately, warm and human-like.

"Will you have to do it to my face too," he asked casually.

----
"No." John made the final mark over and around the cut, a slit through the cross to defy Him, a desecration rendering the symbol into something else, something the exorcist would have not intended. The Corinthian won't be harmed, should it have been intended.

(John knew more about defying and destroying the cross than he would have liked to know, but that was what the mages' guild that took him in wanted him to be. They wanted him unafraid of the cross, what it stood for. The magus was in control, not a comforting influence of religion.

For the better. John was in charge of his own life, not the whim of some god, or that God.)

"Finished." He got up, returning with a moist towel to pad over the wounds.

----
"An 8.2 for technique, a 9.4 for style," he scored the Englishman, a faint smirk on his marred lips as John pat the wound.  Already he could feel a little warmth returning to the cut site.  "Thanks," Cori nodded once, "anything I can do for you?"

It seemed the nightmare had grown accustomed to taking care of the magus, but he wasn't quite used to the reverse without reciprocation.

----
John grinned. "I didn't catch that bit." He stuck his finger in his ear for emphasis. "Bit deaf in this ear here. Run it by me again?"

----
The Corinthian gave Constantine an unamused look.  He balled his unmarked hand and gave the other a nice clean sock... to the shoulder.  "Sign language," he explained with a smirk of his own.

----
John was solid against the fist, still grinning. "Give us a sign then."

----
Too easy, Cori thought to himself.  He gave what that grinning mug baited anyway; a single middle finger held up, complete with dried blood and some dirt under his fingernail.  Then he leaned forward to kiss John's broad nose, not one to kiss his mouth with his cut lip and missing crowns.

----
"Fucker." John was not the one to tongue that injured mouth either, but those lips on his nose was enough for him. "But a fucker well worth it."

----
Tonguing it might prove ridiculous unless John found the space between his teeth alluring.  Cori didn't think he did, so a well-placed kiss would suffice.  He remained within inches of that stubbled face.  "Keep pumping my ego, old man."

His anger had subsided but not evaporated.  The nightmare had simply reined it away from the unintended target, the British magus.  Their business with the American one wasn't finished, it was only beginning.

----
Gappy mouths weren't really Constantine's favorite, especially gappy tender mouths with open nerves. Passing that, he'd head south to suckle the nightmare's white flesh. Checking on the exorcist in a few days from now would be in order. A week or so.