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Jun. 22nd, 2006 02:48 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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neutral_omensDate: June 22, 2000
Setting: Manor Attic
Status: Private (John and Loki, Complete)
Summary: John has a relapse; Loki learns about Post-Possession Stress Syndrome.
It had been a very bad day.
John kept telling himself that things were getting better, and by and large, they really were. The lingering effects of the possession had grown gradually less severe, the amnesia-induced panic attacks less frequent and the headaches fewer and farther between. The trips to London, minor glitches notwithstanding, had done a lot to restore his self-confidence; and what day-to-day problems the gaps in his memory caused, he was learning to work around almost seamlessly. (Practice, he thought sardonically, for the day when his memory would start to fail him for much more mundane reasons.) Lately he'd been able to go days at a stretch without any incidents to speak of, and could almost convince himself it was over and done with; one more unpleasant chapter in a seemingly never-ending string of the same, but one he could safely declare closed.
And then again, there were days like this, when he woke with a shout from a murky nightmare, with throbbing temples that would plague him for the rest of the day, and remembering his own name seemed almost more effort than it was worth. When he had to force himself to get up and leave the soothing solitude of his own room, kept his hands in his pockets as much as possible so no one would see them tremble, and startled violently at every unexpected brush of an infernal presence passing by, however brief or unthreatening.
Days like this one plain wore him out, and the final straw had been the stunning (and stunningly belated) realization that, while he recalled very clearly the moment that Crowley had given him back the gem that represented a one-third claim to his soul, he had no idea what had become of the thing after that.
He couldn't believe at first that the matter had escaped his notice this long. He had to have been repressing it subconsciously, he told himself, trying to stave off full-blown panic as he tore his room apart in a futile search for the gem itself or any clue where he might have put it. It was no good; if there had been any sort of clue here, it had long since been cleared out of the Manor, and knowing the way his own mind worked, he doubted he would have left any sort of evidence.
He knew he'd carried it with him for a while, but it hadn't been in the bedraggled remains of his old trench coat before he'd ceremoniously burned it out behind the Manor, nor did he recall seeing any signs of its forcible removal. He had found a few items in the pockets, receipts and such, that told him he'd made a detour to America before going to Belfast; it was possible he might have stashed the gem over there somewhere, but he couldn't believe he would have put it so far from home.
Nonetheless, he put a call through to Zatanna to confirm that she had seen him during his absence from the Manor, and that he hadn't left anything with her. The way he stumbled hurriedly and rather disjointedly through the conversation worried her, John could tell, but he didn't feel up to filling her in at that moment, and ended the conversation with a promise to call her back later and explain everything. There was nobody else on that side of the Atlantic he would ever come close to trusting enough. Well, the bog god maybe, but he knew Holland wouldn't take custody of such a thing on a bet.
He didn't bother calling Belfast. Never in a hundred million lifetimes would he contemplate leaving something that potentially dangerous with Kit, even if she would have agreed to take it--which she wouldn't, even (and perhaps especially) if he told her what it was. Whatever lunacy had driven him to Ireland and her neighborhood, he was certain it wasn't that.
There was the truly terrifying thought that it might have got left in that blasted graveyard, or somewhere on the streets of Belfast, but somehow he doubted it. He wouldn't have carried something so personally, vitally important on his person any longer than was absolutely necessary.
Leaving his room with no clear destination in mind, driven by the need to go and find the damn thing though he had no idea where to start looking, John wandered the third-floor hallways for a while, trying to extract the information that was no longer there from his not-quite-healed mind by brute force. He should know better, he did know better--this never worked, he hadn't managed to recover a single fact that way yet, and suspected he might have done himself some additional damage when he'd tried it early on. It was the equivalent of trying to cure a headache by slamming his head against a brick wall, but he couldn't help it. Everything else he was missing he could live without, at least everything that he knew was gone. But not this. This, he needed to remember.
God help him, how could he ever look Crowley in the eye and tell him he'd lost it?
Think, Constantine, he told himself savagely, yanking open the door to the attic almost without realizing he was doing it and stumbling inside to collapse in a corner, his fiercely throbbing head cradled in both hands. Better to sit here awhile and try to remember. He didn't want to run into anybody and have to explain what had him in such a state. You wouldn't hand it over to just anyone. You wouldn't really want to give it to anyone at all, but you couldn't leave it unguarded, and someone would have to know where it was in case something happened to you...who would you trust that much, come on, damn it all to Hell, it's there somewhere...
Finding still nothing but a yawning abyss of pain and disorientation, he drew himself up in the corner and cussed softly but vehemently under his breath, heedless of his senselessly dripping eyes or the fact that he'd left the door standing open.
Setting: Manor Attic
Status: Private (John and Loki, Complete)
Summary: John has a relapse; Loki learns about Post-Possession Stress Syndrome.
It had been a very bad day.
John kept telling himself that things were getting better, and by and large, they really were. The lingering effects of the possession had grown gradually less severe, the amnesia-induced panic attacks less frequent and the headaches fewer and farther between. The trips to London, minor glitches notwithstanding, had done a lot to restore his self-confidence; and what day-to-day problems the gaps in his memory caused, he was learning to work around almost seamlessly. (Practice, he thought sardonically, for the day when his memory would start to fail him for much more mundane reasons.) Lately he'd been able to go days at a stretch without any incidents to speak of, and could almost convince himself it was over and done with; one more unpleasant chapter in a seemingly never-ending string of the same, but one he could safely declare closed.
And then again, there were days like this, when he woke with a shout from a murky nightmare, with throbbing temples that would plague him for the rest of the day, and remembering his own name seemed almost more effort than it was worth. When he had to force himself to get up and leave the soothing solitude of his own room, kept his hands in his pockets as much as possible so no one would see them tremble, and startled violently at every unexpected brush of an infernal presence passing by, however brief or unthreatening.
Days like this one plain wore him out, and the final straw had been the stunning (and stunningly belated) realization that, while he recalled very clearly the moment that Crowley had given him back the gem that represented a one-third claim to his soul, he had no idea what had become of the thing after that.
He couldn't believe at first that the matter had escaped his notice this long. He had to have been repressing it subconsciously, he told himself, trying to stave off full-blown panic as he tore his room apart in a futile search for the gem itself or any clue where he might have put it. It was no good; if there had been any sort of clue here, it had long since been cleared out of the Manor, and knowing the way his own mind worked, he doubted he would have left any sort of evidence.
He knew he'd carried it with him for a while, but it hadn't been in the bedraggled remains of his old trench coat before he'd ceremoniously burned it out behind the Manor, nor did he recall seeing any signs of its forcible removal. He had found a few items in the pockets, receipts and such, that told him he'd made a detour to America before going to Belfast; it was possible he might have stashed the gem over there somewhere, but he couldn't believe he would have put it so far from home.
Nonetheless, he put a call through to Zatanna to confirm that she had seen him during his absence from the Manor, and that he hadn't left anything with her. The way he stumbled hurriedly and rather disjointedly through the conversation worried her, John could tell, but he didn't feel up to filling her in at that moment, and ended the conversation with a promise to call her back later and explain everything. There was nobody else on that side of the Atlantic he would ever come close to trusting enough. Well, the bog god maybe, but he knew Holland wouldn't take custody of such a thing on a bet.
He didn't bother calling Belfast. Never in a hundred million lifetimes would he contemplate leaving something that potentially dangerous with Kit, even if she would have agreed to take it--which she wouldn't, even (and perhaps especially) if he told her what it was. Whatever lunacy had driven him to Ireland and her neighborhood, he was certain it wasn't that.
There was the truly terrifying thought that it might have got left in that blasted graveyard, or somewhere on the streets of Belfast, but somehow he doubted it. He wouldn't have carried something so personally, vitally important on his person any longer than was absolutely necessary.
Leaving his room with no clear destination in mind, driven by the need to go and find the damn thing though he had no idea where to start looking, John wandered the third-floor hallways for a while, trying to extract the information that was no longer there from his not-quite-healed mind by brute force. He should know better, he did know better--this never worked, he hadn't managed to recover a single fact that way yet, and suspected he might have done himself some additional damage when he'd tried it early on. It was the equivalent of trying to cure a headache by slamming his head against a brick wall, but he couldn't help it. Everything else he was missing he could live without, at least everything that he knew was gone. But not this. This, he needed to remember.
God help him, how could he ever look Crowley in the eye and tell him he'd lost it?
Think, Constantine, he told himself savagely, yanking open the door to the attic almost without realizing he was doing it and stumbling inside to collapse in a corner, his fiercely throbbing head cradled in both hands. Better to sit here awhile and try to remember. He didn't want to run into anybody and have to explain what had him in such a state. You wouldn't hand it over to just anyone. You wouldn't really want to give it to anyone at all, but you couldn't leave it unguarded, and someone would have to know where it was in case something happened to you...who would you trust that much, come on, damn it all to Hell, it's there somewhere...
Finding still nothing but a yawning abyss of pain and disorientation, he drew himself up in the corner and cussed softly but vehemently under his breath, heedless of his senselessly dripping eyes or the fact that he'd left the door standing open.
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no subject
Date: 2006-06-29 02:23 pm (UTC)If only he knew more about fiends! Odin was good at healing all sorts of wounds. Fiend-damage might be anything. Loki wasn't sure whether a magic particular to another pantheon would react to rune-casting.
In fact, some sorts of magic reacted as well with each other as sleeping pills and alcohol.
He shuddered at that thought, but resolved to ask Odin anyway. It couldn't hurt to just talk about it.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-30 04:14 am (UTC)A hazy sense of foreboding coupled with a small spike of pain told him then that he'd better shut up, that he'd already said too much and risked triggering another episode if he dwelt on it. Later on, he'd analyze what Loki might do with that kind of information and panic appropriately, but for now he just wanted desperately to sleep.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-30 06:49 am (UTC)And what was that soul-thing about? He'd come across it in his attempts to figure out Judeo-Christianity, but couldn't quite picture it.
"Souls are immaterial objects." he pointed out. "How are demons supposed to handle them?"
It was probably wrong to push John for information right now and Loki even felt faintly guilty. The poor human obviously needed to rest. He promised himself to stop after this.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-30 06:00 pm (UTC)"Theydon't...jus' a claim...gem thingy. Get the real thing...when you kick it. Don' tell anyone, 'k?"
With that, he stopped fighting and let himself sink. Any further answers would have to wait.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-01 06:45 am (UTC)Besides he wasn't sure who he could get. Not Adam or Crowley. He didn't trust either of them, even though John apparently liked them. Newt wasn't competent. He supposed that he could alert Ezra, if John got any worse.
He also wondered where the 'gem thingy' came from and where John might have lost it. Maybe the fiend had taken it?
But if Ezra had killed the fiend, wouldn't Ezra then have the gem? Did you have to carry those things on you? Would Uriel know?
He'd have to research it without giving away John's secret, but then he'd always been good at deceiving people.