tampered | [Log: Ongoing ]

[Log: Ongoing ]

When; September 29th
Rating; R for Rampant-Pottymouthing
Characters; John Constantine [

silkcutremix], The Corinthian [

bitingnightmare], Dr. Gregory House [

vicodincrutch]
Summary; The cactus might be sitting contentedly in its pot, but there are matters of the colon variety in need of more, er, proper medical attention of the non-nightmarish variety.
Log;

John had been in pain.

There was the pain of constipation. There was the pain of the Corinthian's beautiful concoction that nearly blew him another anus.

John had been in pain.

It, with the earlier frustrations, had led him to finally suck down his overbearing masculine pride and seek out proper medical attention unless the Corinthian finally snuff him out with his experimental home remedies (not possible, he reminded himself). There was Zatanna but the little imp might have picked up a cake that could not have been remedied with a knife and a smile. He was feeling a little wary of her. He did not want to proclaim to the City that he had a problem expelling his bullshit either. Best keep that in the smaller circles.

A pride issue.

So the logical mundane means was to go to the doctor. At the very least the City had established a hospital that was not in the Underground, without the fever reduction meds laced with parvo, the ne'er-do-well madmen with a scope and aim. The pair had been through enough. The magus would be checking out whoever was checking out him.

And so, as fate would have it, John was there in the waiting room, thumbing idly through a magazine. His posture was odd but his ringpiece was sore. Bloody Corinthian.

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"He knows his shit," said the Corinthian, pun not intended.

He hadn't met House formally, only through a need-to-know basis via his employer Christopher Styles, inevitably tied to Nicholas Brocklehurst who employed Dr. Gregory House and his assistant Simon Tam. None of this mattered to Cori, so long as someone knew how to diagnose what the fuck was wrong with Constantine. The fastest route would have been to threaten it out of Holland, hardly the easiest route. Zatanna was someone he didn't want to deal with, not over this matter. They didn't need the walking deus ex machina except in the most extreme circumstances.

The nightmare didn't think the magus had reached that point, yet...

"Shit," Greg thought to himself as he looked down at the clipboard. He did have an appointment today after all. This would put napping farther down the list of things to do. And he had been requested as well. Just peachy.

Would it be another over pepped young girl who worked herself into exhaustion? If that was the case he hopped that she had a great personality and...screw it, Dr. House wanted a fox. That hope died as he reread the name.

Constantine, John. Shit.

White coat ready, he headed toward the small room.

Yes, a male. The good doctor was stuck with a patient of the Y-fronts variety.

Constantine had glanced up in the direction of approaching footsteps. There was a heavy thump of authority in those steps, far from the shuffle of a newcomer none too exited with the approaching fate of a small room and an examiner's table.

Man in white coat. Doctor. Cane. The cane was the odd bit.

Feeling like a steer anticipating a bolt gun, he waited.

"He's older than you if that helps," smirked the nightmare. John's seniority complex amused him much, considering how it seemed to apply only in the City. It was severely lacking in men over the age of thirty, much less over fifty. Both Constantine and House fit that criteria.

Upon the approach of those footsteps, the Corinthian pushed up his shades to further conceal the teeth. Whether House was a professional or not he preferred those ivories remain a non-issue during John's examination. The white haired nightmare nodded once when the grizzled cane-bearing doctor made his entrance.

"Doctor," Cori said in a cool voice.

Not one but two people waiting. Both grown men. Curious. The man still standing was exceedingly pale, eyes hidden behind shades. Either he had a glorious day already or was photosensitive. Albinism? The other, the patient he assumed, sat on the examination bed. Trench coat and already he could smell cigarettes, calling Dick Tracey?

"Good morning, gentlemen." Was it even morning? He could have needed more coffee. "I'm Greg House, what's the trouble?"

The nightmare had a point. There were not many his age, but the magus had entertained himself morbidly with the thought that the young had died young. He was fortunate to be as old as he was, tracked by unseen eyes for so long while an ever-changing pair of hands had stuffed words in his mouth.

He had gotten used to it. He should have gone to a shrink if he wanted to get into that sort of bollocks.

John had given this grizzled doc his own once over. Still, there was a sea, and there was a tiny island in that sea, the contents of that said tiny island being a face close to his physical age.

"Morning," he gruffed as he stood up, almost happy to be relieved of that funny position avoiding pressure around his anal region. He brought his hand out to shake. "Shit problems."

Blunt.

He let John speak for himself, choosing to nod once at Greg House from behind his dark shades. Tallest man in the room, also the palest, youngest, perhaps the creepiest with his 'albino' factor. Christ was he that light? Cori would have thought he'd maintained a natural fair skintone by now; too much time dodging demons and getting dirty on the field to have any sort of complexion one would consider porcelain. Far from it.

"I made a chili from minced beef spiced with Mexican and Thai chili, stirred with Indian curry. He had milk for a chaser," Cori admitted as the chef behind such a volatile recipe.

Beating around the bush was for wimps. Shit problems it was. "Care to elaborate on that?" House approached closer. He didn't need to ask if this man was a smoker.

"Atomic chili would be a cause I suppose. Have you tried the pink stuff by any chance?" One hideous bowel movement and you run do the doctor? Constantine didn't look the type.

No shake? He brought his hand back.

"That caused the bowel movements," clarified Constantine, calm about his whole embarrassing affair. He was a doctor. Given the City there had to have been worse cases, and he was confident in the number of piss 'n' shit problems behind closed doors untold about anyway. "Imagine, if you will, a walking pile of vegetation grafting a plant to your best mate's head and then clogging your bowels with its flora." He gestured to Cori. "He torched the jungle. Need to see if it's coming back."

"It's true," said the nightmare, nodding to House to confirm John's words no matter how farfetched they sounded. Holland had done exactly that, and not for the first time either. Hell the big bog bastard had done it to Elle Driver, it wasn't a condition to take lightly.

"So I whipped up some chili and let him have it with a dose of Milk of Magnesia just to get his stomach pissed. It worked I think, but we need to make sure. However, I'm no doctor," Cori shook his head, bearing a mild smirk. He had no professional practice relevant to Constantine's situation but had suggested his own home remedy anyway. In his opinion it still worked, this check up was just a matter of confirming John's relief.

"Acidic shit, got it out nonetheless," he shrugged and pat the Englishman's shoulder for good measure.

The heel of Dr. House's palm rubbed circles in his furrowed brow. Suspend belief, he is suspending his disbelief. "Mr. Constantine, you're pretty fertile up there I'm sure. Lots to take root." The very idea of some crawling ivy wrapped snugly about the large intestine, although interesting and frightening.

"To clear the air," oh there would be many fart and poop jokes, he could feel it. "Describe for me the before effect and after."

Pat, pat. John, my boy. If the Corinthian felt he could cure just about anything... His colon still felt sore.

He turned to Doctor House (safe as friggin' houses, he mentally added at the funny name). This was professional business. The poop jokes would be timed in seamlessly.

"It made me miserable the last few days," Constantine nodded. "Before the chili or before the bloody mess the Bog God had set on me?"

He felt he could stave off death if anything, and it seemed he succeeded unless an ingredient in the chili mix was a harbinger of the Lady for Constantine. With all that demon blood and bad habits Cori didn't think so. Come now, even an Endless would have noted the presence of something as volatile as arsenic or plutonium in his recipe! Destruction (perhaps not the best Endless of choice) hadn't said a word, consuming an entire bowl of what could have easily led to his namesake.

"Constipated since Monday, given a diet of Milk of Magnesia and other liquid meals till Friday which is when he had the chili, sat on the bog for a good hour, went to bed and... here we are."

The nightmare shrugged with three grins, but two of them remained hidden.

Bog God? God of toilet? Stomach flora surprisingly was what made the most sense. Since MONDAY was not at all a good, for any person old or young. "Got any more nuggets up there, Mr. Constantine? I'll be needing a stool sample. I don't think it'd be too hard, because all of this seems like a load of bull. Amuse me won't you?" House stepped toward the counter to don gloves.

"At this moment are you experiencing any discomfort? Dizziness? Hunger? Fever?" Symptoms, dammit. Other than standard information the chart on the counter beside the tongue depressors and cotton balls was blank. Did any of the nurses think to do more than put a patient in a room? Utterly useless.

John was eying those bloody gloves, for a moment imagining the latex fingers in places normally reserved for the Corinthian. Given the nature of his questionable condition, something would be giving, or going.

"I'll fix up something special just for you," he replied, awaiting the shit bucket and a point in the direction of the mens room. He had went this morning with little trouble, discounting the burn, come to think of it. The problems better be over. "My ringpiece hurts, with a list of other places."

Cori also noticed the gloves, the unmistakable snap of latex against flesh. The image amused him as it simultaneously stirred his possessive habit. No one else should be going up there, but this was with the Corinthian's permission, he reassured himself. At the very least, Dr. House wasn't a quack or he was very good at masking his own eccentricities. The nightmare would have seen through such an act by now, having the experience of working with not one but two quacks in the City alone.

"He's special," added the toothy man who gave the Englishman a certain look. Maybe the demon blood had kept John alive to this point, but what would House know of Nergalian vitae?

"Home made brew. Thanks," the doctor smiled and briefly batted his eyes in no specific direction, not meaning his glee at all. "When you say list of other places, I assume that it doesn't hurt enough to discourage you from walking. Running I'm sure." Vague.

House noticed that both of them were keeping an eye on the gloves. What? He wasn't going to dive in just yet. And if he was...Oh. Another couple?

A stout, wide mouthed container was waiting for its sample. For now, Greg moved to John with a thermometer. "Open up. Keep it there until I tell you." If his body was attempting to boil away the virus, for now House decided it would be best to treat it as a stomach virus, gone bad.

"Special, hm?" Greg turned to Cori, "Is his stomach and ingestion trek usually sensitive?"

"It keeps me from sitting comfortably." It all had left Constantine with a preference for standing. Not too far from the early parts of his deepening relationship with Cori when he was opening himself to the pleasures of the backdoor entrance again really.

Who did not know they were a couple, and quite a happy one with a somewhat turbulent first year under their belt? Funny that it all used to be awkward.

He took the thermometer. Virus gone bad, indeed.

"Usually it's cast iron. Ate a cigarette more than once, though that might be a weak example considering his habit," the Corinthian nodded to House. He knew from experience John could consume many volatile things, and that was before he ever picked up his curse. He watched the Englishman handle the thermometer as if it were a fag, then hooked a thumb to it. "See?"

Really, who didn't know besides the green recruits and those too oblivious to see the signs? Separately they fared well though, able to maintain two independent lives that happened to work even better together. Cori ran his fingers through his hair once more, glancing to the tray, the gloves, John, the tray, the gloves. What about a blood test? Was that really a good idea, considering who employed House... The nightmare knew it wasn't just the City General.

"Is this going on the record," he asked coolly.

"Okay. That sounds like good enough base work to start up from. Bad stomach problem needs to work its way down. Chili is the medicine, gastric explosion after five day stock pile." Greg was setting out needles on his own. Peeling back wrappers and setting each piece down on a sterile tray waiting for the beep of the electric thermometer. The nursing department needed some serious leadership.

"Smoking kills, but I'm sure you both knew that. If the warning labels, commercials and other doctor's testimonies haven't changed your mind it is your problem until we get our first dark blot on an x-ray." X-rays would come later today. After the sample.

House quirked an eyebrow at the pale man's question. "Nah. Of course this is not going on record. I'm just going to write stuff down because I love how illegibly it is then toss it. What kind of a doctor would I be if I threw out what I just put down?" That said, Greg knew now he was going to have to watch himself because no one else was there to do so.

Snug under his tongue, around his tongue... The magus was unsure of his normal body temperature, willing the mercury to hover to a very normal 98.2 degrees Fahrenheit. The City was full of supernatural creatures no doubt but Constantine was a man. Best read like one.

It did not distract him from the familiar glinting point. Christ. The needles. Bugger the smoking, all of it was nothing new to him, even the ominous blots that condemned him the first time. He cured that, and despite the beauty of a second chance, he lit up anyway. Such was him, choosing to be daft. Still hated needles he did, no matter how many times he had to shoot himself up before.

Now, that was an odd reply and not all that assuring. The weight of his lighter assured the magus that it would be burning whatever records written, a little electronic witchery destroying what else comfortably nestled in the machine.

Beepbeepbeep! Beepbeepbeep!

"Been there, done that," said the Corinthian for Constantine with regards to the potential dark blots on an x-ray. "He beat cancer in a month, I beat AIDS in three, if you're so interested in terminally ill habits," he shrugged once, perfectly nonchalant despite the weight of his words.

Perhaps it was more information than necessary, but who didn't know John had kicked the illness in the ass with a little help from his demon 'friends'? Old news. Even House had to know he wasn't your average man, magic man. Had he noticed the ivories behind the nightmare's sunglasses yet? Regardless, whether Gregory House was a mere mortal or not, he wouldn't push the doctor about his gimpy leg.

At the tone, House removed the thermometer recording the digital numbers. Supernatural human beings in his own little room. How special indeed. "He can beat cancer but he can't beat a plumbing clog," he said while scribbling. The plastic end of the thermometer was tossed away into the garbage bin. Greg now reached for the needle syringe and began to assemble the parts.

Truth be told, he was impressed. Obviously there was some kind of magic at work, magic he questioned and didn't believe in. Super humans out to live it up while mere mortals struggle. The wooden cane rested on the examination table, hanging by its looped handle a reminder that as smart, and smartassed as he was, Gregory House was not a superman.

"Your pick for what sample first." Needle or cup?

Magic, witchcraft, deviltry.

The two were far from normal, despite their (mostly) normal exteriors. Constantine noted that cane again, which reminded him of his diminishing limp, the bother in his hip hardly worth mentioning now. He assumed it had been from the constant shapeshifting, the injury quietly edged back into place with each grind of bone, or the urge of demon blood. A creature did not exist for thousands of years to be hindered by the likes of a bum leg.

Now, what did that make of his scar on his cheek? Why was not that repaired? The cross on his shoulder had its own explanation.

Tch, the thoughts were distracting him from choosing his own poison.

"I don't think the blood test is necessary, chief." John gestured with a casual flick of his wrist for the cup. "Give us the shit bin."

"Ironic isn't it," said the Corinthian, raising his chin briefly to acknowledge House's assessment. It was peculiar how he could beat cancer and not something as basic as shit. Then again the tar had completely human origins, Silk Cut to be exact. The earthly elemental was no run of the mill flora.

"You might want to hold off on the blood test. He's liable to melt your hypoderm. You're best off with the microscope," Cori nodded to the grizzled doctor, "and the usual..."

The nightmare made a gesture with his hand, similar to the motion of a prostate exam.

House lightly sneered at the prospect of that but he knew it was coming. If this man's shit hole was not properly functioning, dumpster diving was in order with the aid of machinery thankfully but it was going to happen. However something sparked his enthusiasm. "Melt? I want to see that."

John got his 'shit bin' and House sat down, writing even though it should be a nurse's job. Or a duckling. "Toilet is down the hall, second door to the left. Head on back."

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[Log: Ongoing ]

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[Let's play pretend: That cig is a thermometer!]

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