ʀɪᴄʜɪᴇ (beepbeep) wrote in evaluation, @ 2019-11-13 22:12:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !rooms: one, !rooms: one: day eight, dc: constantine: john constantine, it: chapter two: richie tozier |
Who: Constantine & Richie
What: Ow
When: A little after this, wherein Richie was thrown like a rag doll screaming 'NOT THE LIQUOR, YOU SLOPPY BITCH'
Where: Heading to the front hall
Rating: Pretty low, discussion of violence and injuries
Status: Complete
“Right. That’s done, then.” Sort of an anti-climactic announcement, John supposed, but he didn’t have the energy to devote to something more triumphant. They could throw a party later, maybe, take stock of the liquor that survived a full-body impact from an airborne comedian, throw a rager the likes of which this house had never seen. Or. And this was probably the smarter option: they could go see if the fucking doors were open. Offing the angry spirit might have unlocked the house, right? Stood to reason. John would go check on that as soon as his legs felt stable under him again. Right now, he was doing his utmost to stay on his feet and to keep up with Richie, who had gone tottering off to chuck up everything he’d ever eaten. Into the piano, apparently. “Not a music fan, lamb?” John, who always sounded a bit like he’d been gargling gravel as a matter of daily habit, could barely grit out words. His throat felt raw, like it would bruise up spectacularly later, but at least he was still breathing. That was always a plus in his book. Both hands sported a few narrow slashes, courtesy of clutching makeshift knives a little too hard, but they were steady enough as he reached to snag at Richie’s shoulders. Maybe he was leaving bloody handprints all over his borrowed finery, but at this point, what was a little more blood? Reginald Carstairs was a dramatic little bitch. If the gust of hair-blowing wind (and speaking of hair, right now Richie’s looked more ‘fresh from the killing fields’ as opposed to ‘fresh from the runway’) didn’t prove it, then the invisible piano player during the final battle was the nail in the coffin. He never wanted to see or hear from that piano again, which may be why he’d chosen that as the place to puke his fucking guts out. That, or it was the nearest receptacle, sort of. And why was he puking, you ask? Because a group of them just cut the heart out of a draugr, with glass mirror shards - not even anything remotely surgical. No, it was a back alley operation all the way. “Stop talking,” he told John, arms going around his waist - and maybe they were both holding each other steady at this point. “You were just strangled by a curtain cord. Give it a few hours and your throat will look like auto-erotic asphyxiation in a Bangkok hotel room gone wrong.” He paused, bleeding and sore, though luckily nothing was broken. It would just be a very painful limp to the front hall. “You’re okay otherwise, right?” he asked, forehead touching John’s briefly - partly because he wanted some kind of contact, and partly because he’d been going for a ‘WE’RE ALIVE’ kiss, but then remembered at the last second that he’d thrown up and kissing someone with puke mouth was just rude. The flash of teeth in John’s mouth couldn’t quite be called a smile; a little too wide, a little too manic, the hint of something wild in his eyes making him look exactly like the kind of person capable of straddling a thrashing, headless corpse to do impromptu surgery in the middle of a ghostly hurricane, but. He was standing. They all were, point of fact. No long term damage done, mission accomplished. “What’s a few ligature marks, anyway?” John rasped, because frankly, he’d had worse. The dead were a feisty bunch with all sorts of nasty tricks ready to go, and he wasn’t well-practiced at managing them without any magic at hand whatsoever. Big pain in his arse, that. Might be a point well taken, though. He’d gotten a little soft, relying on his own bag of tricks, and if he hadn’t the ready help of other people- equally insane and ready to throw themselves bodily at an otherworldly threat- he would’ve been toast. “M’fine. Ready t’go.” Something was definitely happening now. John could feel the house stirring, though it didn’t seem to be gearing up for another round of what horrible bullshit next. Hopefully not, anyway. “You?” Pulling back, he squinted at Richie, measuring. Truth be told, Richie found the ruthlessness and that glimmer in John’s eyes to be a little...hot. Desperate times called for desperate measures, he was well aware of that - and he hadn’t ever planned to jam a hatchet into Henry Bowers’ skull either, for example. But he appreciated someone who would just fucking do it, without stopping to think about it too much. Sure, they’d planned this attack on Carstairs, but once it began and they were literally fighting a headless monster, it was kind of balls off the walls. That didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned in the aftermath, though. “I’m also fine,” he replied, fingers gently touching the marks on John’s throat where he could see the imprint of the curtain cord. His lips pressed there a moment later, because that was fair game even if he’d just emptied his stomach. “Ready to go too...” Though his grip tightened just a little. And not only because he was still bleeding. “What if I never see you again?” They could walk out the door, presumably, now that they were free - and then what? Richie chilled at the idea of going back to it...whatever it was. The grief of Eddie’s death crushing him under anvils, being completely alone and only a letter from Stan to keep him afloat in that dark sea, where he buried everything again, in a steel box beneath pounds and pounds of sand. His trauma, his sorrow, his love for another man. He didn’t want that. He wanted John, and how completely and utterly right the whole thing felt. Richie liked him in a way that was new, because he didn’t have to hide it - and it was fucking terrifying, but yeah. It was right. What might happen now, John couldn’t say. He didn’t fully understand how they’d been brought here, though the why seemed obvious enough now. Maybe. There were still inexplicable things, little niggling details that didn’t jive with the whole, and he’d get uneasy over those if he thought too long. That was usually the best trick, really: don’t think too much, go with gut instinct and hope you had a little luck yet to spare. Another squeeze of Richie’s shoulders, gentle in deference to bruises and cuts and who knew what else, and John peeled himself back. He caught at a hand instead, undeterred that his own was oozing blood. Hopefully Richie didn’t care, either. If he did, it was too late to be fussy now. “C’mon. Better start moving.” Before they stiffened up, and not in the good way. Before somebody else found another problem, or the house changed its mind, or some other hinky magic trick turned up and fucked them over. “Did I tell you,” John whispered- slightly more than a whisper, but only just, accompanied by the tired crinkle of his eyes as he steered the out of the ballroom- “I know some people with a time ship? Cause I do. Means whenever or wherever you end up, I can find you again.” Maybe. Probably. He couldn’t promise that, but it was the most reassuring thing he could say and it would just have to do. “Yeah, well - “ Richie didn’t mind their bloodstained palms touching, the hand gripping his. He didn’t care. If this was the last bit of contact he got, then he’d take it. “You and your time-traveling pirates better find me then, John Constantine.” They reached the front hallway, and it looked like more people were gathering here - the house had changed, a ripple effect, making it feel less oppressive like darkness pressing in. Colors ignited, their cage had been unlocked, whoopee. “I’ll handle the talking,” Richie added, since maybe others would have questions. And the guy that had his larynx briefly crushed shouldn’t be answering them. He also didn’t want to talk about how there was very little chance he’d actually see John again - though he could still hold out hope. Even in the velvet of the dark, there was still the light of the stars. |