dirty tricks & cheap spells

Stranger Things

                 Any conversation that starts like that is a bad one. Then again so is any that starts with the contrary, really.  He doesn’t win with these types of topics, ever.

                 But still — you’re right is something that might draw a grin on someone else’s lips (and it does, on his, occasionally), but in most cases with him, it comes with the pang that stuck in the heart because it means something went wrong, horribly wrong. It usually means someone is dead, or damned. (Those that cross path with you tend to meet that fate.)

                 Sometimes it means that there’s someone looking at him with dark eyes and grief and confusion and anger carried within their body, and it’s not worse, saying so would be nothing but wrong, but that doesn’t mean it makes it much easier on his own heart.

                 His fucking problem is that, despite everything, he still gives half a damn.

                 It’s better for her heart to be broken than her spirit, but still — it doesn’t make it easier to watch.

Stranger Things

     "No. No, you don’t.“

                 He hardly even looks up at her, concentrated on the small screen placed before him on the table that lies nearly entirely dark, with only some faint shapes drawing over it occasionally that might as well be tricks of the light. Phones make for excellent mirror replacements in spells. With a normal mirror (and thus, no background brightness), he wouldn’t be able to see shit.

                 Only then does it sink in what she’s just said and he does look up (reluctantly, because as it usually is, this will be the moment something interesting would happen).

         Unconsciously she rubs a hand across her collarbone as if some evidence of a late-night tryst had still been there and Allison needed to wipe it off, lest John be proved right. 

           ( Of course he was right, that was the unfortunate thing. There were some nights when the loneliness set in too hard and he wasn’t around and she needed something - anything - to focus on other than just how truly alone she was )  

          “Fuck whoever you want, I don’t care.”

          ( Lie )

          “I’m just surprised. You never mentioned anyone before. Suppose it’s only natural.”

          After all, hadn’t she just been another woman he’d met on one of his missions to ‘eradicate evil’ or whatever? Had it not been for the fairies in her apartment walls, the two would have never crossed paths. It made sense then that if he crossed paths with another woman, the two of them would have followed the same path she and John did. 

          It’s this thought that sends Allison digging through the closest drawer for a pack of her own cigarettes. 

     "Well, you want a list? 'cause that might be a problem. Jus' like, lately, or generally, an' are we only talkin' like girlfriends, an' boyfriends, or demons, or one night — you gotta be more specific."

                 He doesn't list those things to hurt her; not specifically. It hardly even occurs to him — he's good at reading people, but only when it's not directed towards himself. The hurt in her voice passes right over his head, and the questions are genuine — if she wants a list, then he might be able to produce a loose one, but he's not too picky about partners and didn't think she would be, either. They both have lives outside of this. They aren't a thing.

                 (At the very least, if she thought they were, she really ought to mention it, because without that conversation it's just casual. Just friends with a little fun. Didn't hurt anyone, usually, just took the stress of everyone.)

  Mm. Two fingers to the stem of the spare glass, pushed down the line toward the nicotine-infested thaumaturgist. She seemed to have quite the incredible track record of playing host to a bevy of her old conversation partners… Such was the life and times of the rich and glamorous, she so supposed.

      “The ‘me’ you’re speaking to is simply a familiar projection. In ‘reality’ I’m a popular internet personality. It’s quite a lot more fun than wasting away in a cell.”

      “Oh, no judgement from me. Anythin’ to better one’s chances in anythin’, really. All here for it.” 

                   No up and mighty moral code here. Not like from certain other people that weren’t any better but still thought they’d judge others for the calls they made to survive, and maybe comfortably so. No. Everyone for themselves first, and then anyone else, that’s what he lives by.

          She sips from her mug silently, just listening. She had a bad habit of attracting and be attracted to men who liked to disappear without a word. Perhaps that was her lot in life; after finding someone who seemed to be the perfect man and losing him, now she was destined to be with emotionally unavailable men.  Reflecting her own inability to be available, perhaps. Or maybe being overly available to compensate how alone she felt.

           “Someone?”

          There’s a tenseness to her shoulders that suddenly appears. Of course Allie knew he went off and was with other people. That wasn’t an issue. Lots of people to save and rescue and blah blah blah… No different than what she tended to do on her good days. 

         ( The bad involved a whole lot of killing but he knew that. )

          “Someone to rescue or someone to fuck?”

           Not that she cares. Of course she doesn’t. He can do whoever he damn well wanted to. She was really wishing for a damn cigarette though.

                 Of course that's what she gets hung up on. They aren't exclusive — he's hardly the person for that (it happens, and he keeps to it then, but it's a rare thing) and they most certainly aren't dating (even more rare, he can count those on one hand and have fingers left). It's fun, but that's the point, and to his knowledge, it's been just that. Using one another for some fun and stress relief. Unhealthy, surely, for both of them, but he's always been anything but a saint in every regard and she struck him as a similar soul.

     "That a problem for you, bird? 's not like there's not someone else's aftershave on ya often 'nough."

           Unfair, surely, but no more than fending him on for things like this. He doesn't need to justify himself on who he's with, and what he does then. It's not like that.

          She hears but says nothing just takes her time making the coffee, mulling things over while also simultaneously trying to keep from thinking about any of it. It was not working in the slightest, however. John had the effect on her anytime he was around, leaving her a bumbling, confused woman.

         From the few things he’d hinted at or Allie had extracted from bits of conversation with him or his acquaintances, she knew that those that went in with him didn’t tend to come out whole. If they came out at all. But all of them weren’t HER a fact that he either didn’t care about or didn’t think mattered.  Part of the frustration with the situation was the fact that never since the Alliance had Allison’s abilities been doubted. And even then, once the galaxy had been saved most people’s doubts disappeared.

        If only John could see that, could see how capable she was…perhaps he also would jump on the ‘Allison won’t be a problem’ train. It seemed like a bit of a stretch though. If John wasn’t already there after all they had been through together so far, it didn’t seem likely that he’d all of a sudden get on board. Perhaps if she put herself in a deadly position and he watched her come back….

        Entering back into the living room with her mug, she stands by the doorframe and watches him for a second before speaking. 

          “How long are you sticking around for this time?”

      "Dunno. You wanna get rid of me? Just say th' word, bird, 'll be gone in flash."

                    He gives her a grin while he speaks, cigarette hanging low between his lips, all while marking his words nearly a lie (for anyone not knowing him, that was) by leaning back far in his seat, entirely comfortable. That doesn't mean he wouldn't stand with his word — one mention, and he'd be out of the door. He's stretching his welcome with many people, but only within reason.

                    (Not always good reasons, mind you. Just any reason that seemed worth it in his mind, and right now, not much comes to mind.)

                    He shrugs, however, pulling a face immediately afterwards at how it pulls on the gash in his side. Yeah, not a smart idea. Then again, when did he ever had any good ideas?

                    She's not comfortable. He can see that. A kinder man would try to soothe her, or apologize. He? At least he has the decency to turn his voice a little more serious.

        His words do nothing to stop her frowning, only deepening her furrowed brow. She retracts her hand as he goes to light up his cigarette, not even asking for a drag like she normally would. He’s hurting and if that was the comfort he needed then so be it. 

          ( She’d steal two from him another day to make up for the missed one )

        It’s clear he’s only giving in due to her unrelenting asking and not because he fancied her company or believed she could be an asset. It’s that knowledge that suddenly reverses the desire to accompany him. It wasn’t fun unless he wanted her to go along. Allison was too old to feel like a bother to someone if they didn’t want her around. 

         “ Forget it. Just be more careful next time. ”

        Allison heads to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee with a sigh. Their relationship felt like one step forward and ten steps back, never able to be pinned down or understood by either party. Or at least herself.

     "Make up yer mind."

                 It's not unfriendly; and he isn't to say that he wouldn't appreciate someone deciding to step out of his path. It only ever benefited the people that left on their own behalf (briefly, bitterly, thoughts wander to black hair and sharp spells, but that's a dangerous line to go down to, and he shoves any images of her away).

                 Not that he would ever keep anyone from following him, not really. But he knows what things lie ahead, and he knows what he does if it comes necessary. It doesn't matter how much he likes someone else. First himself, then the greater good, and then everyone else. That's how it's been, always, and that's how it's always going to be. Or at the very least, that's what he tells himself, what lets him sleep at night, what sits between the collection of ghosts and demons he's acquired within the span of his life.

                 When she leaves the room, he doesn't follow, just sits back, taking the strain from the fresh wound. It'd be stupid to; there's no need to inflict more conflict than necessary. She'll return when she got a moment to think, or she'll throw him out — either is fine enough. Either is understandable.

      “It’s not in my genetic structure to be mean to anyone,        so I won’t tell you where you can shove those words of yours, John.”

  Still, there’s a glass of wine poured. A seat emptied for him.         So long as its just drinks, she doesn’t mind his presence.

      “Ain’t that just my lucky day.”

                  Never one to turn down an invitation. Especially not if he’s been intruding in the first place. One of these things is very common. The other, not at all.

                  Comfortable, like he’s at home here. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not — if anyone understands, then probably her.

      “John Constantine…” She shakes her head, tutting at him like a disapproving matron. “If you’re here to convince me to commit battery again, I’ll say now you’ll have to work a bit harder to convince me.” She’d learned a bit since their last encounter. Now, she took the beneficial bits up front.

      “What, lil’ old me convincin’ an upright woman such as yerself of anythin’ but followin’ the right an’ guidin’ words of our little friends up there? Why, I’d never.”

                  He could, probably, sound a little less sarcastic. If he wanted to. He doesn’t. 

            There’s a hum of acknowledgment, still stroking his hand with her fingers while she listens. It’s not an unexpected answer, John never allowing her to come along no matter how many times Allison begged to. It was always too dangerous as though she couldn’t handle the darkness or didn’t have heaps of it tinging her aura as he had told her before. 

             “it takes a lot to ruin my face as you very well know.” 

            Despite John’s refusal to let Allison deal with any of his hocus pocus stuff, they’d gotten into enough scraps that it ought to have been made perfectly clear that getting injured wasn’t an issue. That whole ‘being unable to die’ thing certainly didn’t hurt when the scraps they got into got rather ugly. Which was more often than not. The two of them made a perfect match: each of them had the uncanny ability to know when to shut up, pissing people off until they snapped back.  

           Their relationship was an interesting one. It wasn’t love, neither of them had said that and Allison highly doubted they ever would. It was more than just carnal though, too. It didn’t seem to be too far of a stretch to think that John enjoyed her company every bit as much as she enjoyed his. It was…nice to have someone around. Being alone hadn’t been all Allison thought it would have been.

           “well of course i don’t know what goes on. you refuse to let me go with you. i think i can handle myself though, john. and if not you can wiggle your fingers and hocus pocus me.”

     "Frowning counts. An' yer doin' that right now."

                 Frankly, he doesn't even have to look up to know that she does; hands occupied with finding the slim pack of cigarettes (as crumbled and crushed as he looks, although the interior might be far more intact than his own is) and slipping one out, already lightening it between hollowed hands before she has a chance to mention it. (What of it, anyway? 'Not in here'? 'You shouldn't do that, at least not after you've been stabbed'? 'Share, at least'? It'd be hard to tell.)

                 And — there it is. 'I can take care of myself, and if not, you can'. It's impressive that, after all this time, people still have faith in him. Utterly mislaid, of course, so much it hurts, stings, or would, would he allow it. He doesn't. If he did, he'd die of a bleeding heart, of all those that trusted him. List was long. The worst was, the list was so long it was hard to remember them all right away — none forgotten, but sometimes —

                 But just as well, he's never been one to keep others from running into their misery. Can only tell them so many times it's a bad idea, eventually they think you're their mom and just wanna keep them from the fun bits. Nevermind the fun bits might be far worse than death.

     "Y'know what? Alright. Next time 'm goin', do whatever. Won't keep you."

                 She says words, but she doesn't know what they mean. Sure, she thinks she does — they always do, but they also always think they can imagine what lays on the path ahead, and while he won't deny some have a decent enough idea, most of the time it doesn't quite comprehend.

           And bringing fresh blood, quite literally so, on someone else's hand is almost never an idea. At least not unless it's what he's going for, which, he has to admit, is occasionally exactly what he has in mind (and would never tell them before, that's just screaming for more trouble than it's worth), it's hardly helpful right about now.

           The wound will heal. They always do — even if healing it would be redundant as it'd take the energy from his own body one way or another, the magic beneath his skin will help the process. (Besides, if he healed all his wounds in the abracadabra way, he'd be doing nothing but.) There's nothing inheritably wrong with this one — no poison, no claws still stuck in, no curses, just an ordinary human blade because he never knows how to keep to himself, and words sometimes make things worse than better.

     "'m not sure you know what yer askin', luv. It's not jus' wavin' 'round, yellin' a bit, and all th' nasty things go away, leavin' bad aftertaste an' a vision fadin' on your retina."

                 (It is, occasionally. Those are the nice ones. Or the ones you invite to stay a night.)