Constantine (brim_stoned) wrote in evaluation, @ 2020-01-19 16:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | dc: constantine: john constantine, it: chapter two: richie tozier |
Who: Richie & Constantine
What: It's a rough morning and they make it worse by arguing over why it's rough, because feelings are hard and stress is plentiful.
When: Day 7, morning
Where: Hotel hallway into Room 7
Rating/Warnings: Low (language, some references to drug use, mentions of grief/loss)
Status: Closed/Complete
Plenty of times had Richie woken up hungover, his attendance at some celebrity shindig culminating in headaches or nosebleeds (sometimes both) - he generally felt like shit, and it was nothing a greasy breakfast or aspirin or hair of the dog could really fix (though they helped, somewhat). Today, however? After day whatever in their hellish tropical paradise?
The ache in his skull ebbed and flowed like the tide - it felt like a balloon in his cranium, inflating, pressure building. His stomach lurched dangerously and gurgled, because when was the last time he ate real food (it was kind of hard to grab something from the buffet when everything was drenched), and he may as well be a depressed donkey because there were black clouds still hovering over his head, owwww.
It took him a second to register where he was. The hallway, it seemed, because when he blinked his stuck-together lashes open, and adjusted his crooked glasses (he’d passed out with them on), he registered the hotel’s wallpaper. The lights, illuminating the path onward to their room - but yes, he remembered now, the hallway had been the go-to place because it was windowless and, well, there was really no place else to go.
He’d gotten the jar of sleeping potion after Rose told him where it was, mixed it with the last of the vodka and fruit juices he could find and made sure John finished that tasty beverage his partner concocted for him, mmmm. It didn’t take Richie long to fall asleep soon after him, no potion needed.
Now he awakened, on the floor with actual dry blankets, arm slung across John’s chest and his cheek pressed there too; he probably had indentations, and messy hair, and - well, he didn’t want to look in a mirror just yet. “Angelface?” he coughed, clearing his throat, dry and thick with sleep. “Wake up, it’s morning.” Not that it mattered, when the past two days were dark as fuck outside.
“Nn.”
Eloquent, and all John happened to be capable of producing in this particular moment in time. He could probably tack on a few additionally pathetic sounds, but he wasn’t sure his throat had enough moisture in it to bother. Plus it might make his head fall off. That seemed precariously attached this… morning?
Who could even tell? It had been dark for days. Time was meaningless and it wasn’t like anyone had a schedule to keep. There was nowhere to go.
Not on this earth, anyway. Given enough water or enough wind and they’d be making more otherworldly arrangements.
One eye cautiously pried open, studied what seemed to be folds in someone’s garishly-printed and incredibly wrinkled clothing, and closed again. “No.” There. That was an actual word instead of just a sound. Progress!
“You rebel,” Richie mumbled, though it wasn’t like he was in any hurry to wake up either. He actually wasn’t even that certain it was morning, so he could be entirely wrong; it just felt like he’d slept long enough for the night to pass them by.
Was the storm still raging outside? He didn’t know that either, but there was a chance it actually stopped - the way it was going, the hotel was set to blow away or cave in, becoming that pile of rubble he’d seen in his vision. However, since they were still alive and in the same spot they were in last night, he supposed the powers-that-be decided to spare everyone. Live to be a lab rat for another day.
He pet John’s hair, fingers running through gently. “How’re you feeling?” Probably not great, but, “...no matter what, you still look beautiful, just so you know.” It was true - his face, his hands, the sleep crust in his eyes. Richie was smitten as a kitten and had been worried, thank you very much.
John had never been beautiful, much less after a few days of non-stop dashing about like a complete plonker, trying desperately to make things happen that hadn’t mattered a goddamn whit once the storm really got going. All that effort for nothing.
Teach him to care about whether other people lived or died. John usually looked out for John and let the rest sort itself.
Again, an eye peeped open, bloodshot and searching. There was a bruise high up on one cheek, incurred when Gretel popped him (well-deserved, he would admit), assorted scrapes and scratches along his hands and arms, and he still had about as much colour as soggy toast. His hair was sticking up in places and pressed flat in others, and none of his limbs seemed inclined to work in tandem toward anything like motion.
Well enough. He could stay right here, thanks. It seemed dry enough for a change. “Been better,” he grunted, finally. “Been worse, too. We still alive?”
That seemed improbable. He was almost disappointed.
Richie chuckled humorlessly, sitting up to lean against the wall. He took his glasses off, rubbing his eyes which were no doubt just pupils in sloshy blue waters, floating there - maybe he had circles beneath too, shadowy rungs of Hell. Again, mirrors were a thing he’d be avoiding for right now.
“That’s the spirit,” he popped his glasses back on and reached over to trace over the bruise on John’s cheek. Damn, Gretel hit hard - but he supposed he couldn’t be too surprised by that, given her profession. “We’re alive. Was touch and go for a bit there for you though, which I kind of wanted to ask you about? Meaning, why the fuck?”
Don’t bullshit him either, John - he was fully prepared to get answers by pulling out all possible stops.
They were moving. Were they moving? Fuck that. John’s body felt like someone had pulled it loose, like taffy, and then crammed him back into skin that felt raw in places. Seawater was a bitch and anybody who said different was trying to sell some asinine new skincare regimen. “Why what?”
He didn’t follow. Brow pinched, John shoved his way upright with absolutely no grace, and on second thought, he started to drag himself all the way to his feet. This hallway was making him claustrophobic the longer he looked at the walls. “C’mere. I want t’check a window,” he muttered. He couldn’t hear the storm, but didn’t want to bank on it having ended while they slept.
A hand extended, pale fingers curled inward and beckoning. He couldn’t leave Richie in the hall… though maybe it was safer here, but. Logic was not firing on all cylinders yet. If it ever did.
“No, hey - “ Richie stood up too, despite the fatigue making him feel like just hanging there limply, laundry on a cold day. But if nothing else, anxiety would win out because he still wanted to know -
He caught up with John, grasping his hand - one, and the other, held in Richie’s own so he wouldn’t run off. “I had to dose you with a fucking sleeping potion so you would actually rest because for the past couple of days you haven’t, and I really want to know why you pushed so hard. Because that can’t happen again.”
Goddamn. Now he was awake, synapses firing like some aurora borealis. A cluster bomb, in addition to feeling like his brain had been pickled in brine.
Running was right out of the question, but maybe a hasty shuffle for the nearest door that gave them entry. Which hall were they even in? John’s head swiveled, narrowed eyes skipping over numbers until he clocked that they were actually not far from their room. Good.
Assuming everything in there wasn’t coated in broken glass and floating in a few inches of water, anyway. And even if it was, no big loss. The clothes weren’t anything to write home about, though John would mourn the loss of the minibar.
“Wait, what?” His head craned back around, suspicion kindling across the sharp planes of his face. “You did what now, lamb? Think I misheard that.” He hoped, anyway, because the hell?
Richie’s jaw clenched, blue eyes touched by storm clouds for a second there - he wasn’t mad, mostly just frustrated. Sure, he guessed everyone was by this point - but this was a special brand. “Oh, nothing. I think I asked you something first.”
He wasn’t going to answer a goddamn thing until John stopped tapdancing around the bigger issue - maybe he didn’t realize he was doing it, because he was brain scrambled, but he was still doing it.
When they reached room seven, he leaned against the door, back hitting it with a thud of finality. Blocking the entranceway, because he was bigger, he was taller, and he was a literal, actual mountain that would not be moved, so deal with it.
Well. That was both unfortunate and unexpected. John paused, thrown by Richie doing his finest impression of a bouncer at a club, and stepped back to rub a hand over his face. He wanted…
A lot of things, with a shower uppermost on the list, but that assumed that they had hot water and that once they opened the door, they wouldn’t be looking at the kind of storm that sent them packing back out into the hallway for what meager shelter it might offer. But apparently what he was going to get was Richie in a strop over something.
“What,” he repeated, worn. Dark eyes, underscored in sleepless bruises, looked like pits over the sharp-edged lines of his cheekbones, hollowed out sharper by stress and sickness and general lack of appetite. “Spit it out already, what’d I do?” He didn’t remember doing anything particularly horrible, but maybe this was about tussling with the little witch. Not his fault. She’d literally tackled him first as he recalled.
A sigh escaped Richie, because really? That’s how this was going to go? Guess spelling it out or slapping him over the head with the reality of the situation would have to do; if it didn’t work he might have to actually find a mirror after all because, wow, John - look at you. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground because of this storm - like I get wanting to prep for it and pitching in to help but you just wouldn’t stop, and you haven’t and it’s beyond concerning, okay? You were about to literally drop dead before Gretel found you and...”
How did he not see it? Richie felt guilty too - it sat on his chest and in his brain, gasoline churning in his guts because maybe it was something he did. Maybe he could have stopped it before it got out of hand.
“If I made you feel like you needed to pretty much kill yourself to ensure everyone’s safety I’m sorry, okay?” He pushed his fingers up beneath his glasses, rubbing his eyes because they still felt like they’d been polished with sandpaper. “That’s not - I never wanted you to hurt yourself like this, it hurts me too.”
John’s brow furrowed. He was in trouble for trying to help too much? Because usually it was the other way ‘round, where someone (usually Sara) snapped at him for being disengaged and uninvolved with whatever shenanigans the team wanted to wrap themselves up in, bunch of obnoxious do-gooders that they were.
So this was confusing, to say the least.
“Wasn’t trying t’kill myself,” John grumbled, taking exception with the idea. He wasn’t. Fine, okay, if he gave too much magic and energy away to someone else, it would be fatal. He’d learned that one the hard way once and didn’t intend to repeat it, but. Needs of the many and all that, and the last thing he’d wanted was Richie beating himself up over not having some fancy vision early enough to prevent someone else’s injury or death.
He exhaled, heavy and with a longing thought about cigarettes that were probably too waterlogged to enjoy, and cocked his head to one side. “You were already feelin’ guilty, like you could’ve done better to warn everyone. I didn’t want you thinkin’ any of this was your fault, is all.”
“Oh.” Richie wasn’t expecting that - he blinked, owlishly, turning everything over in his head. Now that he was like, awake and coherent - yeah, that made sense. The motivations, anyway. He did feel a twinge of guilt, but for other reasons now, nothing having to do with ensuring he had enough time to warn people about a hellstorm they tried to prepare for and then discovered it mattered fuck all what they did anway.
Hands drifted toward John’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “You must really love me, huh?” He smirked a bit, but there was a glint of unmistakable fondness in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I got...too wrapped up in the future, I guess. I gotta pay better attention to the present.”
A lot of it probably had to do with how being able to peek into the future came about - Eddie had been killed and he hadn’t been able to do anything about that, so of course since he had this shitty parting gift after he lost everything, he wanted it to actually be useful. But no, it shouldn’t be his sole focus - he couldn’t become obsessed with it. It was obviously hurting the person he loved now.
The way John saw it, if Richie fixated on those visions as any kind of solution, he was only going to fry his brain trying to get them to cooperate with him, and that was a bad call all the way ‘round. The future was a moving target, no way to really pin it down with any certainty. Pushing that, like enough effort or focus or practice might change it, wouldn’t do anything but burn Richie out.
So, yeah. If he could circumvent Richie’s guilt, he would damned well try. This wasn’t about seeing what was coming. It was only about trying to handle now, because clearly no amount of trying to prepare made a difference.
“Don’t go spreadin’ it around,” John grumbled, leaning into Richie’s chest. Christ, he was still tired, like all of his bones were filled with lead and trying to drag him down. “S’nothing we can do ‘bout any of this, lamb. Warning, no warning. Make plans, don’t. All ends the same, may as well focus on ourselves.”
“Yeah - I....yeah,” was what Richie settled on, because he knew John was right. They’d both tried to do all they could to mitigate the effects of this storm after he’d seen the hotel in literal, actual ruins - but considering they’d spent the night in the hallway, and Richie had to go to extreme lengths to get his very exhausted person to sleep, there was little payoff for all their efforts.
Or no payoff, as it were.
He slid his arms around John, giving him a squeeze. “Secret’s safe with me, anyway. But I love you too.” So much. Sometimes, he still couldn’t comprehend how filled he was with it - how it stretched through him, his entire being. He could climb a mountain or win a gold medal, whatever, and pretty much nothing would compare to how it felt.
“Alright, let’s see the damage,” he decided, moving away from the door so they could go inside.
Right, they had passed the doorstop portion of the day. Wonderful, John thought, reaching to get the doorknob. He tried to brace himself, breath held against the likelihood that he’d get this door open and they’d be slapped in the face by howling wind and yet more saltwater, but really there was no way to prepare for what did greet them inside.
“What,” John mumbled, squinting dubiously at a room that had been wholly redecorated when no one was looking. He edged further in, spun in a slow circle, and screwed his eyes shut like that would help him deny what he’d just seen. “Okay. I don’t actually know what’s worse, so help me out here. Either I’ve finally had a psychotic break, or the decorator from Carstairs’ creepy house followed us here and has been very busy.”
Having been in more than one psychiatric hospital before, probably the former was more likely. Crazy was all relative, wasn’t it? Took all kinds, as the saying went.
“Fucking really?!” Richie nearly kicked something when he went in and took in the glorious sight of lace curtains and dolls. Oh, and cobwebs, hanging there like sheets of old hag hair - no mistaking it, this was one of the rooms from the haunted house.
Was the minibar gone too? Fare thee well, booze and iced coffee. He’d miss you greatly. “You haven’t had a psychotic break - we’re just being fucked with again. I mean, I’ve had - dreams about the house. About Carstairs. So we thought we were done with it, but obviously it’s not done with us.”
And he really didn’t want to know what else they possibly had to do in that hellhole.
“At least the bathroom’s not made of candy?” Small favors.
“Are you sure?” John muttered, cautiously peeking into the adjoining bathroom to determine, yeah, all right. No candy in sight this time ‘round, which was the smallest of small favours, wasn’t it? No showers that smelled like taffy and soggy, mouldering gingerbread.
Sighing, he eyed the beds, which at least still existed in some form. The covers were all different, but everything was dry. Good thing, since he supposed all this lace wouldn’t survive if it saw even a little water. The cobwebs, either.
He prowled back toward the windows and, tugging the gauzy curtains back, stared again at the sight of an untouched beach and sun-dappled waters. “Oh. Right. While we’re at bloody improbable things.” All that worry, and now he couldn’t tell there had even been a storm. His head thunked against the window in defeat.
Richie didn’t want to look, but he knew he had to - seeing all of this just confirmed that it didn’t matter an iota what they did. Because if the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, what was the goddamn point? Besides to mess with them. Being a social experiment was bullshit.
“Like, that’s some really crazy tech,” he noted, joining John by the window - yep, there it was. The shining sun, emitting wave after wave of heat, an orange ball in the center of a pale blue sky. Soft dunes tumbling to kiss briny water, a perfect beach scene.
What. The. Fuck.
“I mean - it’s like whomever just pushes a button and they can do whatever they want.” His hand came up, rubbing at the spot where John’s neck and shoulder ran together; it was basically one giant knot of tension at this point. “Fuck it. We just gotta put up with the haunted mansion decorating job for a little while, until the next world-change.” Which should be like...soon. Really soon.
They’d suffered a day of darkness and two days of rain, the kind of winds that kept everyone scuttling, afraid of the increasingly high risk of the whole building coming down like a house of cards, and now all the poolside furniture and bars that had been blown away or reduced to matchsticks were right there again. Untouched. Scenic.
If John didn’t know better, he’d think the whole thing was some kind of mass hallucination, but. No. It really was some impressive tech, or magic beyond anything he could even imagine.
And his imagination wasn’t so bad.
“They’re doing a bangup job driving us all a little mad,” he observed, voice a low, raw rasp. This was a lot of up and down, a lot of stress. Someone was bound to crack sooner or later. He hoped it wouldn’t be either of them.
He turned, a wiry arm circling Richie’s waist. “Don’t think I can go out there again today, lamb.”
“We don’t have to go anywhere,” he assured, leaning against John - or, arms slid around him in turn, and Richie attempted to fix his warlock’s hair. It was a disheveled blonde mess but it just made him all the more attractive - who needed a comb, anyway? “We could shower though. Like, together. To conserve water.”
Oh, that old bit, sure - it worked like a charm every time, right? Like it wasn’t ever wrong. Important to save the Earth no matter where they were (unless you were these fuckers creating the madness-inducing scenarios, then who cared, you could just press a button to create a new Earth).
While John would’ve thought they’d both seen enough water, he would make exceptions for a very hot shower. It was just a pity that the hot tub in the room had gone the way of the minibar. He was pretty sure his knots had knots. Who knew sleeping in a hallway could be so hard on the spine?
“Think I’m done saving things for a bit,” he decided, expression very bland, “But maybe you and I can keep one another from an embarrassing accident involving not enough sleep and wet tiles.”
It would be a shame to get this far and die in a shower-related slip, wouldn’t it? Terrible for the reputation.
“Right, exactly,” Richie hooked his fingers in the front of John’s beachwear trousers (he really just wanted his clothes back - it was stupid to not have any possessions from his former life, not even his own fucking boxers) and tugged, closing the distance to kiss him lightly. “Plus, I mean, I’ll take any excuse to get you naked.”
May as well just say it. He even did a dastardly little villainous eyebrow waggle, to add levity to the situation - if nothing else, he could always be counted on for that.
John huffed a short chuckle and leaned in, nose brushing Richie’s unshaven jaw so he could press a glancing series of kisses from the corner of his mouth right to the center. Morning breath was a thing, and he was completely unsure about what he’d been given the night before to finally knock him out, but fuck it.
“Right, then,” he murmured, “Let’s clean up now and worry about the rest of this bloody nonsense later.” It would wait for them or it wouldn’t. But John could really only cope with one thing at a time right now and he’d set his focus on shower. Hopefully by the time they emerged from the bathroom, they wouldn’t be walking through a sea of rats. Or worse.
They’d just have to take it as it came… and maybe talk through things before leaping to wild, maybe inadvisable action.