no answers in this head

[madimpossibledreamer]

i am predictable, news at 11
Earshot (for the 15^th time)

Main Points:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Constantine|Hellblazer
Summary: Xander can't do anything the normal way.
Word Count: 970
Rating: Teen, with the warnings. because it wouldn't be constantine or hellblazer without the warnings
Warning: reference to underage drinking, mostly  this one's also fairly mild.

         Buffy expects...she doesn’t know. Thoughts about sex. Magic. Maybe food. Not a really confusing house. There are doors and doors and half of them don’t lead anywhere sensical, like the next room. No, they lead to a pavilion, or an apparently endless void, which gave her a really bad feeling, or an empty graveyard that just feels sad.
         She reaches for the next doorknob, only to feel a gentle hand catch her arm. “I wouldn’t, luv. Not that one.”
         She doesn’t know why she’s so surprised to see him in his own head, but she still starts a little as she glances over. She’s become really familiar with the accent since Halloween.
         He’s...well, he’s mostly himself, though he generally doesn’t wear that trenchcoat. He’d gotten accused of trying to sell drugs by Snyder and gotten detention, the one time he’d worn it to school, and after that he’d mostly only worn it when they were preparing for something big (“more pockets”, he’d mentioned casually, before offering to try to research a spell to increase the size of pockets on her ‘trousers’, make it easier to carry things). They’d tried to keep him out of the fight a few times, but he just kind of kept showing up, acting casual like he’d actually been invited, so they gave up. Sometimes he’ll wander off, like the time he’d found a bomb, apparently, in the basement, but he’ll always show up.
         The rest of the clothes are just about as rumpled as you’d expect. He looks a little...softer, this way, but that’s not out of place, but something’s—
         Those eyes. Those aren’t the normal color. They’re a brilliant blue, just this side of something unnatural and inhuman.
         “Xander?” she asks, letting him lead her to a room with a gigantic fireplace and table and old bookshelves with older books. He’s holding her hand the whole time, at least until they make it here. She’d be weirder about it if she didn’t get the sense, like one does in a dream, that he’s serving as her anchor, stopping her from drifting away in this place. And, you know, the sense that he’s not an enemy and doesn’t mean her harm.
         He winces slightly. “Not exactly, but close enough.” He holds his hands up in surrender when she tenses, wondering if her Slayer senses were wrong. “A friend, really.”
         Wait—if he’s not—“From what I hear, bad things happen to John Constantine’s ‘friends’,” she states casually, and doesn’t expect him to grin at her.
         “Right you are, but I’m not Constantine neither. I’m...who he could’ve been, I suppose. Might-have-beens, Platonic Ideals, and the power of possibility, darling.” He gestures for her to sit at the table, where he’s apparently been working at mastering yet another spell from a spellbook. There’s a glass of wine on the table, which from what she can tell is unusual—apparently he’s been stealing Giles’ beer sometimes.
         “Right,” she states skeptically, and he shakes his head, fond smile still on his face—at his own inability to explain? At her cynicism?
         “The Laughing Magician. Look it up, or ask the Watcher. Wouldn’t ask Xanny boy, though, not with him so on edge. Make him panic, it would. He’s not me, never will be, not in this universe anyhow, but.” For the first time, he looks a little grave.
         “But?” Buffy prompts. There’s always a catch, in her experience.
         “But magic and intention are dangerous. It won’t go well, if he gets his hands on, well, this…” he gestures at his body, and it could be an innuendo if not for how seriously he’s taking it, “...and he shouldn’t, not with the way things are, but it’s not the first time he’s defied fate, and magic pulls the impossible into arm’s reach. If things seem inclined to go awry, here…” He presses a key into her hand, and it feels warm like it’s been sitting next to the fire. Not hot to the touch, not burning, but comforting. “Things like that, they’re supposed to be one-way doors, but since when have we ever done what we were supposed to, eh?” He actually winks.
         “Buffy!” Another voice—the same voice—calls from another part of the house, and the Laughing Magician stands, dusting off his hands theatrically.
         “Reckon that’s my cue. Take care, Buff.” He puts a finger to his lips, turns sideways, and then...simply vanishes.
         Xander skids into the room, smile of relief gracing his lips before he’s putting his head down and trying not to pant. Other than the trenchcoat, he’s dressed the same, complete with sloppy tie, but even when rumpled he looks a little sharper. “You’re all right,” he gasps, breathing hard. “Was goin’ out of my mind trying to find you, all these corridors—damn House of Mystery—” He finally glances back up, and the words die on his lips as his eyes narrow almost involuntarily. “Something happen?” he asks instead, gaze sharp and missing nothing.
         “Your mind is weird,” she tells him bluntly to watch him laugh.
         “Suppose it is, at that.” She can feel the tension and worry drain out of him, relief and comfort replacing it, like the content of a well-petted cat sleeping in front of a fireplace. He walks to a door, opening it and gesturing extravagantly. “After you, ma’am.”
         “Don’t want me poking in all your secrets?” Buffy teases, as a cover for...whatever had just happened. She’s definitely asking Giles about it later, though.
         His face darkens, though almost instantly he’s plastering on a smile to cover the cracks beneath. “Any secrets in here are Constantine’s, probably, and those secrets are better left buried. Even I don’t like spending much time here. Probably best you don’t, either.”
         They take a step forward, and suddenly they’re back in the library.