outside_omens | (no subject)

Date: October 11, 2000
Status: Private - Zatanna and Crowley
Setting: Zee's apartment in NYC
Summary: Early-morning conversation and unexpected revelations.

John was sleeping, finally. Zatanna had no idea how the man functioned on so little sleep, especially plagued by nightmares as he seemed to be. Not that that was anything new--it had been the same in the old days. Maybe worse; it was tough to say after all this time. It didn't seem to faze him, but it didn't make him a particularly restful bedmate, either.

It just figured, she thought with a sigh, that her own occasional insomnia would kick in about the time he finally settled down. Occupational hazard in the biz, she supposed. Dad had had the same problem.

Wrapped in a slinky nightgown resurrected from the back of her closet this past week or so and a much more pragmatic, fluffy blue robe and slippers, she made herself some hot cocoa and sat down at the dining room table, glancing at the clock across the room. Nearly 4 am. If he kept to the pattern he'd been following so far, Crowley would be back soon. She wondered what exactly John's slick, sharp-witted friend got up to on his nightly jaunts in the big city, and she knew much better than to ask. He behaved himself when he was around the apartment, and that was enough.

Although she thought she'd have forgiven him quite a bit more demonic behavior than what he'd exhibited, now that she'd had a chance to watch them together. John and Crowley. A weirder, more unlikely friendship she couldn't imagine. But then again, most everything about John was weird and unlikely, and God knew he was rough on his human acquaintances. It didn't have to make sense, as long as it worked. And it did, that much was obvious.

Trust was not a thing that came easily to John Constantine. Zatanna couldn't help but envy the demon the easy camaraderie he shared with the man. She wondered if he had any idea what it meant. She wasn't entirely certain she did, but it had given her an idea.

The boys would be leaving soon, so if she meant to go through with it, it was probably just as well she was awake right now. It'd be easier to catch Crowley alone at this hour.

Dad would have said she was insane. He might be right, too. But crazy was already sleeping in her bed, and coming in from a hard night's mischief any minute; no sense worrying about it now.

---

Correction: The unexplained events mentioned in this comment occurred in Newcastle, not Liverpool.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Crowley just shrugged. He didn't want to know what 'sick over the whole thing' meant and tried not to dwell on the idea. John had made it back, they were friends again and that was all that mattered. Especially now. But the next time the magician got a bug up his arse, Crowley would send him to New York to let Zatanna bring him down and then send him back home. The demon wasn't going to spend what few years he had with pretty much the only person who was talking to him in serious arguments.

"I was... not happy (http://community.livejournal.com/neutral_omens/66019.html?thread=1009891#t1009891) when I'd learned he'd gone," he finally said. "But I wasn't able to do much about it at the time. Even if I had talked to him, I doubt it would have helped. Stubborn bastard had to leave Adam's protection and get attacked before he'd speak to me again. I had to have Ellie explain (http://community.livejournal.com/neutral_omens/68935.html?thread=1074503#t1074503) to me what he was even upset about."

He drank his cocoa in three scalding swallows and put the empty mug down, not realizing that he had a chocolate mustache.

"At any rate, that's why he's been having trouble. Just pretend you don't notice and he's fine."

Zatanna nodded, hiding a smile as she discreetly slid a napkin across the table. "Well, I can keep a secret." She studied her cocoa intently. It was one thing to decide to share something she'd guarded so closely all these years, but something else entirely to actually nerve herself up to do it. "And now I think maybe I owe you one. Hang on a minute."

She got up and went into the guest room to dig to the very bottom of a cedar chest that sat in the corner. Underneath a hodgepodge of mementos--her tux-and-tails stage costume with the fishnet stockings, still only a little snug in places; some more of Dad's old things, and the few belongings she had of her mother's; assorted photos, post cards, gifts from old beaus and old friends, some now dead--lay a thick, battered scrapbook dating back decades. She lifted it out carefully, shut the lid, and carried it back to the table, pausing by her bedroom door until she heard John's faint snores and fighting to still the slight tremor in her hands.

With an odd look at the napkin, Crowley wiped his mouth.

He wasn't going to tell her not to tell him a secret, no matter how bad an idea it might be - it was the currency of demons, after all - but he was intensely curious. It had to relate to John somehow or she wouldn't bother telling him.

Waiting patiently, Crowley said nothing when she returned carrying a book and looking faintly apprehensive. He'd learned through long practice that when people wanted to confess something, you had to let them do it in their own time and in their own way. The slightest pressure and they'd clam up, but faced with polite silence, most people started to talk just to fill it.

Zatanna sat down in the chair next to Crowley's and put the book on the table. She didn't break the silence right away, though. She'd been going over and over in her head how to start; there were so many things she could say that would help explain the circumstances, her reasons for what she'd done and what she was doing now. It wasn't enough for Crowley to know, she wanted him to understand. But she didn't want to get sidetracked or bogged down with too many details.

"Bear with me, please; I've never tried to explain this to anyone before," she began tentatively, idly tracing the word "Scrapbook" embossed on the book's pasteboard cover. "There were a lot of reasons John and I didn't work. My dad didn't like him, he didn't take my work seriously, we just...wanted different things out of life." She opened the scrapbook as she spoke, to reveal a collage of fading photographs: Giovanni Zatara, a handsome moustachio'd man wearing a more dated, masculine version her own stage costume; herself as a young woman, little more than a girl, really.

And turning the page, herself again, laughing alongside a very young, smiling, and very self-assured John. These were the warmer, less unsettling photos he'd been wondering about (http://community.livejournal.com/outside_omens/11961.html?thread=99257#t99257) earlier. She actually kept her least favorite picture of him on display, preferring that these stay private.

"There were other things, though. We were too dangerous together, for one thing." She glanced up from the scrapbook, eyes somber. "I'm sure you know there's more than one form of human magic. Mine is innate, and if it has an absolute ceiling I haven't hit it yet, but it's constrained by my own psychological limitations. I can't cast an old-school ritual to save my life. The paraphernilia just gets in my way.

"John, though--like I said, he hasn't got much inherent power. What he does have is this ability to grab onto an outside source, bend it to his will--I don't have to tell you how much of that he has--and focus and amplify it. And he hasn't got those psychological barriers. He'll do crazy things I wouldn't dare try in a hundred lifetimes, just to see if he can pull it off.

She was talking too much and too fast, but now that she'd started, it was just pouring out and she didn't think she could stop if she wanted to. "Needless to say, that's a great way to attract unfriendly attention. And you usually don't find out what your limits are until you've already blown way past them.

"The worst thing, though, is that it's addictive. You can learn from your mistakes but go right back and do it again anyway, because it's such an unbelievable rush. And that's what started to happen. I was the source, he was the amplifier, and when we were fully attuned to one another, the things we could do--"

She swallowed. "The last time we cast together, we pushed it way too far, and summoned up this--thing--I still don't know what it was, but John couldn't control it, and it took everything he had to send it away. He didn't wake up for days. I've never been so scared in my life; I was sure he'd burned himself out.

"But after he recovered, he wanted to carry on like nothing had happened. There was no permanent damage, and I guess to him that was good enough, but I wasn't willing to keep taking those kinds of risks. We broke up not too long after I refused to work any more magic with him. And I was right about that, too."

She turned another page, this time to a collection of yellowing newspaper articles dated 1977. They dealt with a series of "unexplained events" in Liverpool that had resulted in the deaths of several people, including a small girl, and the arrest and incarceration of an unidentified man in Ravenscar mental institution.

"Do you know what they did to the so-called criminally insane in places like that, back in those days? And he still beats himself up over Astra. Sometimes I wonder," Zatanna said, her voice thick, "if it was just John being John, or if he felt like he had to prove something. Never had the guts to ask. ...Crap. Sorry..."

The story wasn't finished, but she had to pause to find a Kleenex.

Crowley listened intently to Zatanna's story, giving her his complete attention. He looked almost wistfully at the photos of the younger John; the one who sometimes let the smile reach his eyes.

Nodding all his newfound understanding at how two people can care deeply for one another and have it still not be enough, the demon stared blankly at the newspaper articles.

When he spoke, his voice sounded far away. "I- don't really. Those people have no free will. I can't... but I remember... I was there. No, I was him but I wasn't there." Crowley sighed. "English is no good for this kind of thing. I could tell you in ancient Mayan. Those people knew something about the flexibility of the soul. They had the vocabulary for these kinds of things. I guess you could say that I didn't see his actual memories of the place but how he felt about them entwined with everything else. It's all very subjective." He knew he'd never be able to explain what he'd seen, nor did he have the right to do so; the aching black pit of guilt twisted up in colours of the mind, and the crushing fear spiking in reds and yellows and disinfectant.

Wondering if Zatanna shared this oddly warm, protective feeling for the battered man, Crowley just said, "Never mind. I'd like to hear the rest."