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tampered2006-09-13 11:50 pm
bitingnightmare.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-09-13 11:50 pm
Log; Complete
When; after the Red Massacre (Sept. 10-11)
Rating; PG-13 (language, gore)
Characters; John Constantine (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silkcutremix), The Corinthian (bitingnightmare)
Summary; the midnight hour bordering days, Constantine offers his assistance to The Corinthian who begins recovering from his encounter with the Red Pyramid, Alessa, and V
Log;
The Corinthian fled the grisly scene as soon as it became clear the other trio were no longer interested or paying him any semblance of attention. His throat was cut but he could make a clean--er... soundless getaway. The balisong was recovered and along the way the Nightmare shed his jacket and white tank to make a strip out of it, covering the gaping neck wound. It still soaked through, but the rain had washed much of the blood from his hair and body so that only the white collar appeared a dark shade under nightfall.
Great shape he was for having his throat slit, still dead embarrassing. At least he knew the way back to The Coliseum with its most conspicuous thumbs up signage.
John had taken to exploring what he could of the city, observing the denizens, the buildings, and the other oddities. It was a lot to take in, but John had been well accustomed to fantastic places (Albion came to mind). His greater concern was acquainting himself with any pubs, bars, hell, anywhere that offered drinks and a place to hobnob he could find, as well as finding a place that could replenish his supply of smokes.
Needed to cover the necessities.
Coincidence, he a master of, had lead him to the nightmare, who looked, bluntly put, terrible. What had he been up to? Constantine grinned.
“Fancy running into you.” He appeared as if this whole neck slitting business was perfectly normal. As if the Corinthian were making a bloody fashion statement. “Rough night?”
The Corinthian staggered past the magician with a wave of his hand, preferably in Constantine's face.
*Screw off.* rasped his left teeth eye, both exposed uncharacteristically. From the sound of it the Nightmare couldn't even speak properly, er.... that is, through his proper mouth. His breathing was slow and careful, the wet bubbling of his wound muffled by the damp shirt. Hey at least his exposed torso showed no signs of fatal wear and tear. That leather jacket had seen better days too, kind of like the trench coat.
“That must be a yes,” replied the Englishman. The end of his Silk Cut glowed. There was no real urgent concern for the nightmare; it'd take more than this to bring him down, but that was enough pissing him off: He was the only thing so far in this city he felt any remote connection, of sorts, to.
Constantine gave the Corinthian another look over, then offered him a supporting arm.
“Alright, mate. Let's get you back.”
As yes as a 'FUCK YES.' would have expressed, but John was right to think that it would take more than a throat slashing to bring him down. Now if V had slashed him, soaked him in gasoline, then set him on fire, well that would take a few days to heal with a much more mouthy Nightmare.
The Corinthian turned a dark eye at John, seemingly careless of the mirrored act, but he was too weak to serve his purpose, his function. There was a bit of overload on that tonight, which should not have happened at all.
-Don't walk me into a fucking pole.-
He warned the conjob, for Constantines were tricksters and fools, but he accepted the arm anyway, having no other choice except to go alone, and that wasn't a preferred option.
“Nah. Might have to settle for walking you off the curb when you least expect it.”
Soon enough, the aging magus, both holding each other as if they had been longtime mates, guided the Corinthian along the street. The withered hand resting on the nightmare's shoulder was rough like leather, weathered by years of chain smoking, the brittle fingernails stained. His coat had an unusual odor to it; not terrible, but nothing really pleasant either. It was just a strange smell.
He remembered where their place was, if just by luck, or synchronicity. He didn't know anymore; his senses were reliable and the both of them were behind the Coliseum, the location marked by the very unforgettable thumbs up. Bloody thing brought a smile to his face it did.
*Asshole* said the toothy eye for the smartass remark, not that John seemed to mind being accused of (or admitting to) his occasional lapse into asshattery. The Nightmare was fortunate enough that the magician even bothered to see him home. Well... 'home,' because it wasn't his real home, but it was a place to live.
The Coliseum was a decent bar with a group of decent regulars, the raucous laughter was tolerable, and the drunker they were the less likely they'd notice the mess traversing across the front steps. Another entrance around the corner was more private, inconspicuous. With some effort he tugged the key out of his pocket. Amazing he hadn't lost the thing in the fight.
The comment had tickled him all the way there. Still in high spirits, despite the blood and sliced vocal chords, John allowed ol' Corinthian to retrieve his "house" key. It was better than breaking in.
His first visit to the Coliseum was all right, more of a relief really. After a drink (or, erm, two. Three. Dammit.) and allowing himself to absorb the atmosphere, as well as observe what would later become the familiar faces, Constantine decided he had a place to fall back on should he feel the usual inkling to get smashed. So far, his search for a more comfortable pub had turned up fruitless. Indeed, the Coliseum would do for his ritual alcoholism.
Damn right it was better than breaking in, breaking in and losing the lease. One wondered how *did* he pay for the place, and if money was in abundance in The City then why wasn't it overcrowded? Wait, maybe it was hah. Still, The Corinthian was a good if somewhat strange tenant, and therefore allowed to bunk in the tiny barely furnished apartment. Being close to the alcohol was a big plus.
Silently the Nightmare opened the door to 1D and trudged through. The apartment had only two lights in the living room, more of a studio really. Note the absence of a kitchenette.
Not that John minded too much. It was considerably nicer than his current flat back in London, wherever London was now. He didn't consider the kitchen, more concerned about getting the injured Corinthian to the couch and setting him there.
It probably wasn't the first time the old bugger sustained an injury like that, maybe even worse considering. In any case, Constantine felt no harm in leaving him to his own devices. He had other matters to attend to, namely his stomach.
“There ya' go. Don't go getting anything else slit while I look for some grub, eh?”
There was a couch, yes, left by the old tenant if that counted for anything. It seemed clean, didn't smell as unique as John's trench coat nor was it the color of the undersides of his nails. The Corinthian settled onto the soon-to-be-dirtied furnishing and shed the leather jacket to collect any.... fluids... from his neck wound.
Without a thought he raised his middle finger to the Constantine then proceeded to unwrap the nasty wound. Fabric had become stuck to some of his unhealed flesh and what had mended appeared a fine faded black, like the smoke dreams in his eyes.
John had not caught the finger, but even if he did see it, it would have been laughed off with the Englishman continuing along his way. Typical Constantine egoism. He continued to poke around.
“Where's the fridge?”
He really knew how to get on a supernatural's bad side didn't he? Fortunately The Corinthian had more patience than Naughty Nigel, even if he didn't seem like it right now. The wound appeared a quarter healed, enough to keep his neck from wheezing but not enough to provide him with a real voice.
Instead of using his eyeteeth the Nightmare just pointed to the short box in the corner of the room. Empty of course.
Make that empty except for a few bottles of beer.
“Cheers,” replied the Englishman, sauntering over to the little box and opening it. Upon seeing nothing he could possibly consume and fill his belly, he settled for the beer. He'd pay back ol' Cori if he said anything, through his mouth or his eyes.
After taking a reasonable swig, he continued, “I guess we're having takeout then.”
We're? The Corinthian stared at John, his gaping eyes almost emotionless if it weren't for the furrowing of his brows. Exactly how were *they* going to have takeout when half of them didn't have a properly functioning throat.
*Planning to mop.*
-The mess?-
His eyes asked while the Nightmare pointed at his mangled neck. He didn't mention the beer at all, if only because his wound was a more serious matter.
John cocked an eyebrow, ready to give an offhand reply of "More for me" but was caught off-guard to the prospect of mopping the floor of pooling... blood. Well, whoever owned this place wouldn't appreciate the stains, would they?
“Your mess.”
But he wandered around to find a mop, or anything else that could soak the supernatural fluids up for that matter.
Pooling blood and pooling beer, how fantastic would that be? If only they had a Hellbound Heart to feed under the floor, or seeped in the mattress. Rightly so though, hellblazer--er... hellraiser or not, the landlord would not appreciate such a mess, the smell during the afternoon would be enough to warrant an eviction.
Unfortunately for John there didn't seem to be a mop nearby, not even paper towels. The spots so far were minimal, that was until The Corinthian decided to stand and make his way to the bathroom. The wound needed to be flushed so that it might heal better, maybe even stitched. The City be damned if the water had turned to coffee again.
The sound he made when he bent over the edge of the bathtub was not particularly pleasant.
The lack of absorbing things was not a good thing. The Corinthian deciding to stand and worsen the mess was an even worse thing.
“Now you're cleaning that up!” the Englishman called after the nightmare and his little blood trail leading to what he figured was the bathroom. He had to cock an eyebrow at the sound following.
Guess he had that coming.
Hardly thrilled with being face with yet another mess that was put upon him to be cleaned up, John left the room to scour the dumpster, bar, anywhere for a towel or mop. There was little enthusiasm, especially with the pangs in his belly.
But the prospect of mopping the hard floor certainly had the potential of yielding faster results than say... scrubbing the stains out of the sofa. The laughing magician should be so glad that the Nightmare could take a few initiatives alone, like helping himself to a bit of bloodletting in the bathroom. Of course, John wasn't obligated to stay and help out, or was it the beers that kept him around?
The only answer the Englishman would receive was a second purging of the bad blood and infection. Very pleasant. The call of dumpster toms might be music to his ears then.
Rating; PG-13 (language, gore)
Characters; John Constantine (
silkcutremix), The Corinthian (bitingnightmare)Summary; the midnight hour bordering days, Constantine offers his assistance to The Corinthian who begins recovering from his encounter with the Red Pyramid, Alessa, and V
Log;
The Corinthian fled the grisly scene as soon as it became clear the other trio were no longer interested or paying him any semblance of attention. His throat was cut but he could make a clean--er... soundless getaway. The balisong was recovered and along the way the Nightmare shed his jacket and white tank to make a strip out of it, covering the gaping neck wound. It still soaked through, but the rain had washed much of the blood from his hair and body so that only the white collar appeared a dark shade under nightfall.
Great shape he was for having his throat slit, still dead embarrassing. At least he knew the way back to The Coliseum with its most conspicuous thumbs up signage.
John had taken to exploring what he could of the city, observing the denizens, the buildings, and the other oddities. It was a lot to take in, but John had been well accustomed to fantastic places (Albion came to mind). His greater concern was acquainting himself with any pubs, bars, hell, anywhere that offered drinks and a place to hobnob he could find, as well as finding a place that could replenish his supply of smokes.
Needed to cover the necessities.
Coincidence, he a master of, had lead him to the nightmare, who looked, bluntly put, terrible. What had he been up to? Constantine grinned.
“Fancy running into you.” He appeared as if this whole neck slitting business was perfectly normal. As if the Corinthian were making a bloody fashion statement. “Rough night?”
The Corinthian staggered past the magician with a wave of his hand, preferably in Constantine's face.
*Screw off.* rasped his left teeth eye, both exposed uncharacteristically. From the sound of it the Nightmare couldn't even speak properly, er.... that is, through his proper mouth. His breathing was slow and careful, the wet bubbling of his wound muffled by the damp shirt. Hey at least his exposed torso showed no signs of fatal wear and tear. That leather jacket had seen better days too, kind of like the trench coat.
“That must be a yes,” replied the Englishman. The end of his Silk Cut glowed. There was no real urgent concern for the nightmare; it'd take more than this to bring him down, but that was enough pissing him off: He was the only thing so far in this city he felt any remote connection, of sorts, to.
Constantine gave the Corinthian another look over, then offered him a supporting arm.
“Alright, mate. Let's get you back.”
As yes as a 'FUCK YES.' would have expressed, but John was right to think that it would take more than a throat slashing to bring him down. Now if V had slashed him, soaked him in gasoline, then set him on fire, well that would take a few days to heal with a much more mouthy Nightmare.
The Corinthian turned a dark eye at John, seemingly careless of the mirrored act, but he was too weak to serve his purpose, his function. There was a bit of overload on that tonight, which should not have happened at all.
-Don't walk me into a fucking pole.-
He warned the conjob, for Constantines were tricksters and fools, but he accepted the arm anyway, having no other choice except to go alone, and that wasn't a preferred option.
“Nah. Might have to settle for walking you off the curb when you least expect it.”
Soon enough, the aging magus, both holding each other as if they had been longtime mates, guided the Corinthian along the street. The withered hand resting on the nightmare's shoulder was rough like leather, weathered by years of chain smoking, the brittle fingernails stained. His coat had an unusual odor to it; not terrible, but nothing really pleasant either. It was just a strange smell.
He remembered where their place was, if just by luck, or synchronicity. He didn't know anymore; his senses were reliable and the both of them were behind the Coliseum, the location marked by the very unforgettable thumbs up. Bloody thing brought a smile to his face it did.
*Asshole* said the toothy eye for the smartass remark, not that John seemed to mind being accused of (or admitting to) his occasional lapse into asshattery. The Nightmare was fortunate enough that the magician even bothered to see him home. Well... 'home,' because it wasn't his real home, but it was a place to live.
The Coliseum was a decent bar with a group of decent regulars, the raucous laughter was tolerable, and the drunker they were the less likely they'd notice the mess traversing across the front steps. Another entrance around the corner was more private, inconspicuous. With some effort he tugged the key out of his pocket. Amazing he hadn't lost the thing in the fight.
The comment had tickled him all the way there. Still in high spirits, despite the blood and sliced vocal chords, John allowed ol' Corinthian to retrieve his "house" key. It was better than breaking in.
His first visit to the Coliseum was all right, more of a relief really. After a drink (or, erm, two. Three. Dammit.) and allowing himself to absorb the atmosphere, as well as observe what would later become the familiar faces, Constantine decided he had a place to fall back on should he feel the usual inkling to get smashed. So far, his search for a more comfortable pub had turned up fruitless. Indeed, the Coliseum would do for his ritual alcoholism.
Damn right it was better than breaking in, breaking in and losing the lease. One wondered how *did* he pay for the place, and if money was in abundance in The City then why wasn't it overcrowded? Wait, maybe it was hah. Still, The Corinthian was a good if somewhat strange tenant, and therefore allowed to bunk in the tiny barely furnished apartment. Being close to the alcohol was a big plus.
Silently the Nightmare opened the door to 1D and trudged through. The apartment had only two lights in the living room, more of a studio really. Note the absence of a kitchenette.
Not that John minded too much. It was considerably nicer than his current flat back in London, wherever London was now. He didn't consider the kitchen, more concerned about getting the injured Corinthian to the couch and setting him there.
It probably wasn't the first time the old bugger sustained an injury like that, maybe even worse considering. In any case, Constantine felt no harm in leaving him to his own devices. He had other matters to attend to, namely his stomach.
“There ya' go. Don't go getting anything else slit while I look for some grub, eh?”
There was a couch, yes, left by the old tenant if that counted for anything. It seemed clean, didn't smell as unique as John's trench coat nor was it the color of the undersides of his nails. The Corinthian settled onto the soon-to-be-dirtied furnishing and shed the leather jacket to collect any.... fluids... from his neck wound.
Without a thought he raised his middle finger to the Constantine then proceeded to unwrap the nasty wound. Fabric had become stuck to some of his unhealed flesh and what had mended appeared a fine faded black, like the smoke dreams in his eyes.
John had not caught the finger, but even if he did see it, it would have been laughed off with the Englishman continuing along his way. Typical Constantine egoism. He continued to poke around.
“Where's the fridge?”
He really knew how to get on a supernatural's bad side didn't he? Fortunately The Corinthian had more patience than Naughty Nigel, even if he didn't seem like it right now. The wound appeared a quarter healed, enough to keep his neck from wheezing but not enough to provide him with a real voice.
Instead of using his eyeteeth the Nightmare just pointed to the short box in the corner of the room. Empty of course.
Make that empty except for a few bottles of beer.
“Cheers,” replied the Englishman, sauntering over to the little box and opening it. Upon seeing nothing he could possibly consume and fill his belly, he settled for the beer. He'd pay back ol' Cori if he said anything, through his mouth or his eyes.
After taking a reasonable swig, he continued, “I guess we're having takeout then.”
We're? The Corinthian stared at John, his gaping eyes almost emotionless if it weren't for the furrowing of his brows. Exactly how were *they* going to have takeout when half of them didn't have a properly functioning throat.
*Planning to mop.*
-The mess?-
His eyes asked while the Nightmare pointed at his mangled neck. He didn't mention the beer at all, if only because his wound was a more serious matter.
John cocked an eyebrow, ready to give an offhand reply of "More for me" but was caught off-guard to the prospect of mopping the floor of pooling... blood. Well, whoever owned this place wouldn't appreciate the stains, would they?
“Your mess.”
But he wandered around to find a mop, or anything else that could soak the supernatural fluids up for that matter.
Pooling blood and pooling beer, how fantastic would that be? If only they had a Hellbound Heart to feed under the floor, or seeped in the mattress. Rightly so though, hellblazer--er... hellraiser or not, the landlord would not appreciate such a mess, the smell during the afternoon would be enough to warrant an eviction.
Unfortunately for John there didn't seem to be a mop nearby, not even paper towels. The spots so far were minimal, that was until The Corinthian decided to stand and make his way to the bathroom. The wound needed to be flushed so that it might heal better, maybe even stitched. The City be damned if the water had turned to coffee again.
The sound he made when he bent over the edge of the bathtub was not particularly pleasant.
The lack of absorbing things was not a good thing. The Corinthian deciding to stand and worsen the mess was an even worse thing.
“Now you're cleaning that up!” the Englishman called after the nightmare and his little blood trail leading to what he figured was the bathroom. He had to cock an eyebrow at the sound following.
Guess he had that coming.
Hardly thrilled with being face with yet another mess that was put upon him to be cleaned up, John left the room to scour the dumpster, bar, anywhere for a towel or mop. There was little enthusiasm, especially with the pangs in his belly.
But the prospect of mopping the hard floor certainly had the potential of yielding faster results than say... scrubbing the stains out of the sofa. The laughing magician should be so glad that the Nightmare could take a few initiatives alone, like helping himself to a bit of bloodletting in the bathroom. Of course, John wasn't obligated to stay and help out, or was it the beers that kept him around?
The only answer the Englishman would receive was a second purging of the bad blood and infection. Very pleasant. The call of dumpster toms might be music to his ears then.