tampered | (no subject)

(no subject)

When; Friday, April 18th
Rating; R for blood
Characters; Eden Mac Cionaoith

eiremagic and John Constantine

lullabyoflondon
Summary; Eden decided enough is enough. John's coming back whether he likes it or not.
Log;

Eden hated magic.

It was a waste of time; a waste of energy, and it served almost no purpose at all. But sometimes, even she had to admit that it was the only solution. It resonated in her blood, bitter and powerful. She was her father's equal - more than that, truly.

She opened the little bag of bandages. John's blood, demon tainted. She could feel power in it, but more importantly, she felt the anchor in it. That was the secret, really; blood always returned to the source. She had calculated this for days - to find John, not the demon whose blood infected his. That was easy enough. If there was anything that Eden was a master of, was blood.

She traced out the heavy lines of her equation, watching them shimmer wetly, the cut on her finger throbbing. She could feel the corrosive reaction in her gut. Every line, precise, done ten times in chalk before she even thought of doing it in her blood, before she even considered adding power. She turned them. There were no words, no focus; she was past that level. Words did nothing.

The reaction was the same; like a hole in her stomach, her lungs began to collapse. The human body wasn't designed to wield the power. Her sacrifice was always herself. She would never imagine using anyone else. She refused to be her father's daughter.

She found John in London; reached through, dropped the anchor on him. It was up to the idiot to feel her back.

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John Constantine loved magic, no matter how much it hurt him.

He didn't love the City. But he couldn't let it go, either. Not until he understood it.

Which was why, in his free time over the past few months, he'd been studying. Hunting down references to pocket dimensions and tales of mysterious hidden worlds. Looking for clues left in his world. Searching for the door that would lead him back.

(And, occasionally, learning some Irish Gaelic--but he wasn't going to tell Eden that. Yet.)

So when the pull came, he was ready...

...almost.

Actually, he was at a bookie, in disguise, trying to convince them that he was not, in fact, John Constantine, and yes, they should take his bet. After that, he was planning on restocking his cigarettes and having a drink.

Now all the plans were off.

He bolted from the building (leaving bewildered faces behind him), pelted down the street, and threw himself into an alley. In the debris-strewn dirt he drew runes of communication and poured his power into them:

Eden. Hold on, love. I'm coming.

And he ran, trusting to his fickle mistress synchronicity to bring him home before Eden's power and life ran out.

After all, if he returned to the City without the notes and supplies he'd gathered while here, what was the point of it all?

Hold on?

Hold on?

Was he high? Of course he was, this was bleeding John Constantine, the wanker probably had to get his tossing fags before he would even step foot into any kind of portal. She followed him through the street the best way she could; through his blood. She couldn't see him, only sense him, and she opened her mouth.

Somewhere in Eden's shady blood history there was Fedelm of the Sid. That was the theory, anyway; who knew if it was actually true. But somewhere further down that slippery slope of blood was something far more insidious. She opened her mouth, and a gashing wail came out - the bean sidhe's cry. She knew that John would be able to hear it. Go mbrostaí tú, may you hurry.

It wasn't a suggestion. Old scars began to pop. Pain scurried down her legs, but she was friends with that, old sweet friends with the heat and the hurt.

She pressed her hands against the floor, her black eyes watching the floor, watching the pattern shift to accommodate John. She knew her craft well.

He could feel the pain and the power at the other end of the connection, and he wasn't sure whether he was about to be sick or about to come, in every sense of the word.

Nothing new.

John let go of the runes and the sigils, reached out through the worlds--

(Once, in San Francisco, he met an overeducated shaman who tried to convince him that "multiverse" wasn't a big enough word. "You want to say pleiocosm instead," said the shaman, "from the Greek."

"You're a daft old bugger and all I want to know from you is where you get whatever brilliant stuff you've been smoking," John had said at the time.

Now he knew the daft old bugger had been right.)

--and took the banshee wail. He'd danced with death before and come out the victor; he figured that gave him the right.

He held onto the power in it, the power in Eden, and he took.

But there was a danger in that even beyond what he'd anticipated: with the hands of his spirit buried elbow-deep in Eden's soul, she could feel him, too.

Could feel the mad rush running through him along with the burn, could feel the terror and guilt as he realized just how much she was hurting, could feel the dizzying high of being in the magic more than he was in the mortal world, could feel his raw determination and anger at the gods of the City (ceaseless anger at authority that bubbled up at the slightest excuse, that only latched onto those deities because they were convenient and in charge).

And the next thing he knew he was in his dingy flat, even though he couldn't remember when he'd burst through the door; the synchronicity highway was like that when he was using someone else's power to ride it.

John wasted no time now. He kicked the ragged rug off the floor, revealing a pre-made mess of circles and runes. Onto it he shoved a stack of boxes, and then he grabbed a bag, and then he threw himself there as well.

All it needed was the command and the will.

"Aperire!"

Well.

That was odd.

Eden felt his hands touch her; even though they weren't his hands, and she understood. She knew his touch, knew his power; an old rivalry, something that stemmed deep in her flared. This was her shape, not the little girl who hadn't filled out all the way, but the old shadows, the deep connections to something old and bitter and rotting. She could feel John and feel every second of his years, feel ever single misdeed he had ever committed from nicking fags to killing and she could wipe them away. Blood roiled beneath them.

She reached out her hands again and grabbed him. Hell if she would let go, hell if she did. Her anchor was stronger than both their weights, strong enough to carry...were those boxes?

There was no time for her to roll her eyes at his daftness, and her focus didn't waver, not even to take stock that although the pain was still there, it wasn't worsening; she didn't feel like vomiting, her lungs hadn't filled with blood.

The acid hadn't come. She didn't feel the universe zeroing in on her for the kill. Why not? John's magic was symbiotic, transfixing, addicting, electrifying.

She gripped him. Sex could not be better than this. No wonder he liked it, if it was as exhilarating as this every single time. She felt more than she saw the lines of her old blood magic colliding with him, with what he was.

The lines of blood opened like a wound, and John tipped out.

And out he fell into the City once more, as if (he might have said in one of his more Freudian moments, of which there were many) something were giving birth to him. All the blood only made the comparison more apt, after all.

The boxes and the bag came with him, and they tumbled to the floor too. There was the sound of paper rustling, and glass and metal shifting, but nothing broke--he was just lucky that way.

Crouched on the floor, he breathed raggedly, trying to adjust to the new and different light.

There was only one thing to be said:

"Was it good for you too?"

She sat there for a moment, half in shock. He looked like he had gone to war with a pool of red dye.

There really wasn't much to do in the situation, except to grab him around the scruffy shoulders, the blood getting all over her shirt (which was typical for her, anyway) and crying, "Yeh soddin' wreck of a bastard!"

She wasn't nearly sentimental enough to cry. She let go then hit him, "Hold on? Wha' kind of tossin' idea was that? Yeh be glad I didn' send the hounds after yeh, you soddin' idiot!"

She crossed her arms and looked at the boxes. "So. What did yeh bring me?"

For a moment, as she grabbed him, he actually relaxed a little--looking stupidly grateful that she was all right, or at least all right enough to yell at him. He started to reach out to hug her--

--only to get hit instead. "I deserved that, didn't I?" he said, rubbing at his jaw. "Look, the circle I'd got ready was at my flat. Without it I hadn't anywhere near as much chance of getting back without killing us both. And all my shit was there too," he added, as if as an afterthought--although judging from all the boxes he'd brought, it clearly wasn't.

"Ah," he added, "now you hold on--"

He started opening the boxes and shoving aside things--old notebooks next to objects that looked suspiciously like skulls, lighters on top of strange collections of shining gears, a keyring that looked like it had been through history and sampled the keys of every era--

And he pulled out a t-shirt with writing on it. GOD BUGGER THE QUEEN, in letters filled with the pattern of the Union Jack.

He grinned the grin of a man expecting to be hit again.

Eden stared at the shirt in disbelief, then started to laugh. "Yeh're a sick, sick fuck, I hope yeh know that." She took the shirt and set it in her bag so it wouldn't get too covered in filth. "I s'ppose that I should forgive yeh, then. It was the easiest callin' I've ever done."

She rocked back to sit up on her heels and examined his stash. "Oh, yeah," she remembered as she saw the skulls. "I kicked yer roommate out, he's stayin' with his scanger while I did this. Couldn' do it at home, yeh know, McClane migh' throw a fit."

Eden took a deep breath. She told the truth, it had been the easiest calling she had ever done, but she still felt a little sick. The retribution would hit her any second; the pain to the gut or the fingers. Whichever it was, she had handled it before and she could handle it again. "Magic sucks," she told him. "But yeh're back, so it's not so bad."

He gave her an angelic smile--or about as close as he could get to one without the universe breaking.

"Was it, then?" he said. "Maybe I ought to add that to my job description. John Constantine, comes when called." A wink.

"He'll live," John added. "So long as you didn't hurt the booze, anyroad." And then he gave her a more genuine smile. "I never meant to leave. Not until I'd sussed out what's going on in this bastard place. I don't give up like that."

She rolled her eyes at the smile and returned it with one of her own; if the universe broke with his, it screamed with hers. "Shite, I'm just glad I caught yeh before yeh turned crazy. Yeh know how much blood in that rag i'n't yers? I'm surprised yeh haven't kicked it, yet."

She stood and offered a hand. "Of course yeh didn'. Too many fuckin' curiosities, too many fuckin' odd bits. Yeh know we were on the bleedin' Titanic the other day? Nearly froze tae fuckin' death."

She smirked. "Good thing yeh weren' here. Yeh'd have whined about the smell."

For a moment, his casual smugness faltered. "Yeah. I know. I--fuck it, never mind that bollocks, there's worse than having a bit of Hell in you. Like having a bit of you in Hell."

With effort, he shook off the looming melancholia before it could descend on him, took the offered hand, and pulled himself to his feet. "The Titanic, no bloody joke? I always thought those deities had a sick sense of humor. Glad I missed that," he added with too smug of a smirk.

She pulled him up and then her legs gave way; she sat down again, hard. "Shite," she muttered. "No, I'm fine," she protested. "Tons better than I'd be otherwise. Promise, swear, all that nonsense."

She sat there for a minute. "It was a fuckin' nightmare," she said. "People wailin' all over the place, I couldn' get anythin' runnin', cold as all fuck. Of course yeh'd miss is, yeh lucky bastard."

She cocked her head to look up at him. "Fags on the bed. Thought I'd use 'em as an anchor if the shite hit hard."

He hesitated at the sight of her like that--but her reassurances were good enough for him. "Right," he said, adding with half a grin, "but no more magic before supper."

His expression darkened, though, and he shook his head: "I'll catch the next rotten curse here, count on it. For every bit of good luck I have, there's a sodding awful spell around the corner--"

He was already heading for the bed, gratefully picking up the cigarettes and lighting one.

"Yeh're not me da," she retorted and stood up, shaking a bit but managing to keep herself upright this time. "Don' want yeh tae be, either." She pulled herself up to kiss John on the lips, her hands in his hair.

She pulled away a moment later. "Shite, fucker," she said. "Yeh need a shower."

"Good on you--" And he was quite happy to kiss her back, at least until she pulled away. Then he just kind of looked sheepish. "I didn't exactly have time before coming here, you know. Bit of a rush and all that, in case you didn't know."

She grinned at his sheepish expression. He looked like a goofball, really. "'sides, that's the blood of me ancestors yehr soaked in, yeh should pro'lly get it off yehrself before yeh break out in hives or some shite." She raised an eyebrow. "Magical hives. Like the kind given by magical bees."

She reached for her bag. "Don' wanna keep yeh," she said with a raise of an eyebrow.

"Pure and honest blood?" He smirked, back to the cocky bastard again. "Fuck me, I'm lucky I haven't swollen up and died already."

He was on his way to the shower already when he saw her reaching for her bag, and there he stopped. "Cassidy ought to be out a while longer, right? You can stay a bit if you want."

She nodded. "But it's useless, don' even think about keepin' it. I leached all the magic out to get yer sodden ass back here."

His words reached her, and she felt the remainder of her blood go straight into her face. What was she, 12? There were results, of course there were, they had just shared what could be equated to a magical orgasm and she was blushing like a schoolgirl! She sat down on the bed.

"Oh. Yeah, righ'," she added, the blood rushing in her face. "'m not blushin'," she lied. "It's just the retribution, yeh know, when the universe snaps back like a rubber band."

He regarded her with half a smile playing across his face for a moment. "Oh, yeah?" He absently reached up to rub at the back of his neck with the hand that wasn't preoccupied with his cigarette. "That shite's probably nasty--I wouldn't know. No retribution in my magic, and all that."

This much was true, but what he didn't add because he didn't like to think about it was that his magic often came with a crash. The low after the high.

There were, of course, ways to put it off...

"If you're feeling low enough, you probably ought to go," he said after a moment. "Rest up a bit, like."

He was offering her an easy out. There was, after all, no way for him to know if she really was feeling that bad.

Eden looked up at him and her stomach rolled. The universe had it in for her. She shook her head. "No, no, I'll stay," she said, curling her legs under her. "Yeh don' mind me sleepin' here, right? While yeh shower, while the universe refixes it's target on someone else."

Another moment of that ambiguous smile. Then he said, "You do what you need to, love." And he tossed his cigarette into an ashtray and headed for the shower, pulling the door half-closed behind him.

Eden watched him leave. She didn't know why she couldn't leave; she didn't know if she ever would.

She collapsed against the bed. The pillow stank; whatever. She'd shower, later.

Eden closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

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