madimpossibledreamer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2022-10-25 08:41 pm
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2022-10-25 08:41 pm
Entry tags:
between thought and consequence
because apparently i don't write enough yahf. mostly I was rewatching Constantine and had some Thoughts.
Written with Matt Ryan’s Constantine in mind but fits most versions of the Hellblazer aside from Keanu’s. (I know they're pushing the movie to prevent JJAbrams from getting a monopoly. Yay, stick it to the man. But boo, I miss Matt Ryan.)
i will say this is more different than usual because constantine likes to hang out in the grey. more than even majima, i'd say. he's not a straight (ha!) hero's hero.
also you might notice some similarities between this version, giles, and spike. that's because giles' backstory and a decent amount of spike's character were at least inspired by the hellblazer himself. (that, or there's some serious dipping into the jungian sea of the unconscious.)
Main Points:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Constantine|Hellblazer
Summary: Chaos comes to play.
Word Count: 1237
Rating: Teen, with Xander swearing up a storm. also the warnings. because it wouldn't be constantine or hellblazer without the warnings.
warnings: general depression/self-loathing, homophobia
*fag here is used for cigarette. xander doesn't smoke. the hellblazer on the other hand smokes like a chimney. and pissed is drunk. constantine also drinks a lot.
Probably should have that looked at, he thinks, in the utterly detached way one does when one has no intention to follow through.
He’d been so excited to have a cheap costume. One where he could tease Giles, too—he’s a geek with a comic book obsession like the rest of them.
He really should’ve known better. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? In this town, nothing comes without a price. Cheap costumes? Of course they’ve got a spell on them. That just about figures. If he’d had any brains about him, he’d have seen it coming.
Might sound a trifle ridiculous, pompous even, but it isn’t, it it really? Just the natural order of things. If you stand in the middle of a highway, sooner or later, you’ll get hit. Doesn’t take much of a psychic to see that one coming.
And it’s not like he blames Buffy, or Willow. True, sometimes, there’s something that they really should’ve seen, but Buffy’s already had enough of her innocence taken away by being forced to fight. Let the cynical one say the cynical things and be yelled at, and if he’s right, well, he can brag about it, as it’s all the thanks he’ll get. If he’s wrong, at least he’s the only one who has to think about all these worst-case scenarios. Let them at least live in a world that isn’t completely hostile.
Though, to be fair, he highly doubts that trench coat would have been on sale if Rayne had known the consequences. He hadn’t gotten much out of Giles, but more than he’d meant to say, he guesses. That he’d seen a similarity, hence keeping the graphic novels around where some poor impressionable child’s curious fingers bored from research could lift one, and that he’d known Rayne and thought he could stop him. Stood to reason they’d read the bloody things and hadn’t taken Newcastle for the warning it was but instead as an instruction manual. Then again, for all he knew the bastard really wanted to play his chances. For some reason, a lot of them did, eager to try their luck no matter how many times it didn’t exactly work out in their favor.
On the whole…
On the whole, analyzing it, he’s still Xander. He has the memories, the trappings. The accent, thinking about it. In a fit of frustration, he tears off the loose tie, feeling like a noose around his neck. Your imagination’s getting the better of you, Xanny boy. And yet, like most nightmares, it’s hard to shake, more’s the pity.
He’s pretty sure he hasn’t gone and snatched John’s soul like a desperate boyfriend. Even now, the thought has him throwing up in his mouth a little, a desire to prove he’s not like that.
That’s his dad talking, he knows that, and he knows also not to let the man get in his head because anything Tony Harris has to say is complete shite. But just like John’s dear old dad you’re poison, Killer it’s impossible to exorcise the words, not without a good bit of effort neither of them have put in because they don’t think they deserve better. There’s a reason so many spells use words. There’s a power in words. They’re oh-so-very useful. Which means, Xander thinks with a self-loathing sneer, he’ll be absolutely brilliant when it comes to magic, because at his most hysterical he can babble with the best of them.
The problem, he guesses, is likely to be more along the lines of being cursed when it comes to his relationships, anyhow, rather than the Synchronicity Wave or disapproval about the general state of him. In a moment of clarity, he bites his lip, the pain grounding. Sure, Angel was a demon, but he’d looked practically cuddly compared to the hyena. Xander’d shown his true colors, hadn’t he? Only took a little spot of possession for him to become the right sorry bastard he’d been all along. Why he’d expected anything after that—oh yeah, he was a selfish git, too. Suppose that’s that, then.
He forces a breath. He could sit here and pickle in self-pity, or he could make himself useful. As much as he’s aching for a fag, a good shag, getting totally pissed, he doesn’t deserve the peace of forgetting or to drag anyone else into the shitshow that is his life. He doesn’t deserve the comfort of running or forgetting, nor of having anyone else to soothe the pain away. Not yet, anyway. Particularly not when he’s having a sexual crisis on top of every other crisis under the sun. It can at least wait until it’s all gone down to a low simmer.
Back to the point, he’s pretty sure it’s just…the aftermath of a possession. Thoughts and memories entwining in his own, slotting in like it’s just a neat trick and not incredibly traumatizing for a boy who’d only just this year been pulled into the world of the supernatural with all its wonders and all its loss. Though the very nature of Constantine’s nature as a magician might be a factor, too, the magic interacting unexpectedly with whatever Rayne had used.
But in this line of work, it pays to be sure. Xander amends his earlier assessment. He could also murder a sandwich, which dictates his first stop. If it was merely a little hunger, he could just ignore it, but magic requires energy and his is flagging. John had managed it blackout drunk and running on empty before, but given that he wasn’t John bloody Constantine no matter how much his shared memories tried to insist otherwise, better not to run the risk, eh?
Time to hit the single 24-hour store in the whole of Sunnydale, the little corner store. He doesn’t have any quid on him, but that’s all right. Time to rely on the more mundane of magician’s tricks and nick some snack for a little recharge and a can of spray paint. He’d had a few more resources, when he’d—when John had—listened to two words and Chas’s angry eyebrows and had cobbled together a spell to suss out a different spell’s aftereffects, itself based on an ancient Gurage divination, but there were hidden blessings, if anything in this sorry mess is a blessing. Namely, he’s already done a spell to determine the presence of extra souls in one body, so he can bloody well improvise. He feels sympathy for the sorry sod on duty, at the mercy of vampires or any sort of late-night deviant that wanders in, sort of hopes the clerk gets hazard pay while almost certain they do not, but in the end there’s more of Robin of Locksley in this venture than at first glance. It’s for a greater cause, really, he tells himself, a sardonic twist to the bruised smile that says even he’s not buying it.
Written with Matt Ryan’s Constantine in mind but fits most versions of the Hellblazer aside from Keanu’s. (I know they're pushing the movie to prevent JJAbrams from getting a monopoly. Yay, stick it to the man. But boo, I miss Matt Ryan.)
i will say this is more different than usual because constantine likes to hang out in the grey. more than even majima, i'd say. he's not a straight (ha!) hero's hero.
also you might notice some similarities between this version, giles, and spike. that's because giles' backstory and a decent amount of spike's character were at least inspired by the hellblazer himself. (that, or there's some serious dipping into the jungian sea of the unconscious.)
Main Points:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Constantine|Hellblazer
Summary: Chaos comes to play.
Word Count: 1237
Rating: Teen, with Xander swearing up a storm. also the warnings. because it wouldn't be constantine or hellblazer without the warnings.
warnings: general depression/self-loathing, homophobia
*fag here is used for cigarette. xander doesn't smoke. the hellblazer on the other hand smokes like a chimney. and pissed is drunk. constantine also drinks a lot.
“Bollocks,” Xander announces to absolutely no one, sitting up and taking stock. He remembers clearing out with Buffy’s return. Sure, he should’ve stuck around and lent a hand, but he was a bastard in all the wrong senses of the word, and no matter how she’d crow everything was sorted, it wasn’t really, was it? And he’d wanted to figure it out first, so he’d legged it, only it seemed like Spike had gotten in a lucky hit and given him concussion.
Probably should have that looked at, he thinks, in the utterly detached way one does when one has no intention to follow through.
He’d been so excited to have a cheap costume. One where he could tease Giles, too—he’s a geek with a comic book obsession like the rest of them.
He really should’ve known better. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? In this town, nothing comes without a price. Cheap costumes? Of course they’ve got a spell on them. That just about figures. If he’d had any brains about him, he’d have seen it coming.
Might sound a trifle ridiculous, pompous even, but it isn’t, it it really? Just the natural order of things. If you stand in the middle of a highway, sooner or later, you’ll get hit. Doesn’t take much of a psychic to see that one coming.
And it’s not like he blames Buffy, or Willow. True, sometimes, there’s something that they really should’ve seen, but Buffy’s already had enough of her innocence taken away by being forced to fight. Let the cynical one say the cynical things and be yelled at, and if he’s right, well, he can brag about it, as it’s all the thanks he’ll get. If he’s wrong, at least he’s the only one who has to think about all these worst-case scenarios. Let them at least live in a world that isn’t completely hostile.
Though, to be fair, he highly doubts that trench coat would have been on sale if Rayne had known the consequences. He hadn’t gotten much out of Giles, but more than he’d meant to say, he guesses. That he’d seen a similarity, hence keeping the graphic novels around where some poor impressionable child’s curious fingers bored from research could lift one, and that he’d known Rayne and thought he could stop him. Stood to reason they’d read the bloody things and hadn’t taken Newcastle for the warning it was but instead as an instruction manual. Then again, for all he knew the bastard really wanted to play his chances. For some reason, a lot of them did, eager to try their luck no matter how many times it didn’t exactly work out in their favor.
On the whole…
On the whole, analyzing it, he’s still Xander. He has the memories, the trappings. The accent, thinking about it. In a fit of frustration, he tears off the loose tie, feeling like a noose around his neck. Your imagination’s getting the better of you, Xanny boy. And yet, like most nightmares, it’s hard to shake, more’s the pity.
He’s pretty sure he hasn’t gone and snatched John’s soul like a desperate boyfriend. Even now, the thought has him throwing up in his mouth a little, a desire to prove he’s not like that.
That’s his dad talking, he knows that, and he knows also not to let the man get in his head because anything Tony Harris has to say is complete shite. But just like John’s dear old dad you’re poison, Killer it’s impossible to exorcise the words, not without a good bit of effort neither of them have put in because they don’t think they deserve better. There’s a reason so many spells use words. There’s a power in words. They’re oh-so-very useful. Which means, Xander thinks with a self-loathing sneer, he’ll be absolutely brilliant when it comes to magic, because at his most hysterical he can babble with the best of them.
The problem, he guesses, is likely to be more along the lines of being cursed when it comes to his relationships, anyhow, rather than the Synchronicity Wave or disapproval about the general state of him. In a moment of clarity, he bites his lip, the pain grounding. Sure, Angel was a demon, but he’d looked practically cuddly compared to the hyena. Xander’d shown his true colors, hadn’t he? Only took a little spot of possession for him to become the right sorry bastard he’d been all along. Why he’d expected anything after that—oh yeah, he was a selfish git, too. Suppose that’s that, then.
He forces a breath. He could sit here and pickle in self-pity, or he could make himself useful. As much as he’s aching for a fag, a good shag, getting totally pissed, he doesn’t deserve the peace of forgetting or to drag anyone else into the shitshow that is his life. He doesn’t deserve the comfort of running or forgetting, nor of having anyone else to soothe the pain away. Not yet, anyway. Particularly not when he’s having a sexual crisis on top of every other crisis under the sun. It can at least wait until it’s all gone down to a low simmer.
Back to the point, he’s pretty sure it’s just…the aftermath of a possession. Thoughts and memories entwining in his own, slotting in like it’s just a neat trick and not incredibly traumatizing for a boy who’d only just this year been pulled into the world of the supernatural with all its wonders and all its loss. Though the very nature of Constantine’s nature as a magician might be a factor, too, the magic interacting unexpectedly with whatever Rayne had used.
But in this line of work, it pays to be sure. Xander amends his earlier assessment. He could also murder a sandwich, which dictates his first stop. If it was merely a little hunger, he could just ignore it, but magic requires energy and his is flagging. John had managed it blackout drunk and running on empty before, but given that he wasn’t John bloody Constantine no matter how much his shared memories tried to insist otherwise, better not to run the risk, eh?
Time to hit the single 24-hour store in the whole of Sunnydale, the little corner store. He doesn’t have any quid on him, but that’s all right. Time to rely on the more mundane of magician’s tricks and nick some snack for a little recharge and a can of spray paint. He’d had a few more resources, when he’d—when John had—listened to two words and Chas’s angry eyebrows and had cobbled together a spell to suss out a different spell’s aftereffects, itself based on an ancient Gurage divination, but there were hidden blessings, if anything in this sorry mess is a blessing. Namely, he’s already done a spell to determine the presence of extra souls in one body, so he can bloody well improvise. He feels sympathy for the sorry sod on duty, at the mercy of vampires or any sort of late-night deviant that wanders in, sort of hopes the clerk gets hazard pay while almost certain they do not, but in the end there’s more of Robin of Locksley in this venture than at first glance. It’s for a greater cause, really, he tells himself, a sardonic twist to the bruised smile that says even he’s not buying it.