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Fictober 2022: Constant-Dream Edition

Summary:

A small handful of ficllets and oneshots from Tumblr's Fictober prompts. (Because I have neither the time nor energy to do all of them.)

Notes:

First of all, I was going to do all of them, but realized that was putting too much stress on myself to get them all done in time and be happy with them, especially since my job uses up so much time these days, so I picked quality of quantity.

Second, I knew this installment for day 2 is a couple days late. Saturday was... hectic. So, better late than never.

Chapter 1: Nobody Warned You about Me?

Chapter Text

 

Of course Dream knew of the Laughing Magicians. The line that confounded mortal and immortal alike for over a millennia. Their exploits graced the infinite shelves of his library, and the frustrations brought by their actions recreated time and again in the dreams of those they dealt with.

His older brother still rued the well-meaning and naïve gift he’d bestowed upon them, and tried his best to create checks and balances to it.

And even if given the choice to do so, Dream would never forget the great favor done to him by Lady Johanna over two-hundred years before encountering her descendant and namesake, the retrieval of something held dearer to his heart than even his tools. But getting her to do it hadn’t been simple.

The Lord of the Dreaming knew as well as anyone that a Constantine was best kept at arm’s length, and dealt with as little as possible (something Britain’s royal family was either incapable or unwilling to learn).

And yet he found himself here, pretending he hadn’t seen the politely skeptical look on Lucienne’s face, and the more blatant disbelief on Matthew and Mervyn’s (the latter muttering something about yelling at brick walls).

To Constantine’s credit, returning home to the sight of him standing in the middle of her cluttered flat didn’t startle her (he suspected little did), but instead elicited annoyance and perhaps reluctant amusement.  

“I suppose waiting in the bloody hall is too much to ask of you.”

“I thought to spare you questions from the neighbors.” He explained.

“Like hell you were.” She snorted as she carried her bag of groceries to the kitchenette and (unbelievably) started putting them away. “Is this a social call, or did you lose something again?”

“Your expertise would prove beneficial to this matter.”

“In other words, ‘Please, please help me Constantine, even though asking is beneath my dignity as a royal arse!’.” She said this in some approximation of his voice of such exaggerated quality that could only be intentional.

“This is a matter wherein your line of work overlaps with my realm.”

She faced him fully for a moment. “Let me guess, something to do with incubi or succubi, if not both?”

He nodded.

Constantine raised her eyebrows before returning to her cupboards. “Must be livening things up at your place.”

He frowned. “I don’t suffer lightly those who use my realm or subjects to harm humanity.”

“Well neither do I, to be honest.” She concluded with the end of her chore, stepping out to stand before him with arms crossed. “And we both know I rarely am.”

“What?”

“Honest.”

He ignored this comment, and began the same speech he’d given another Johanna Constantine many lifetimes and one imprisonment ago. “I cannot pay you in gold or anything of monetary value…”

“Can you give dreams that comfort people?” She interrupted.

Once again, this woman had caught him off-guard and not done what he’d expected. “I… create them to serve every purpose.”

The woman sobered noticeably. “And if I requested you give them to someone?”

Her lack of hesitation was rather concerning. However, it reminded him of her associate, and the vicar’s troubling nights, peppered with great sadness, the face of a little boy, and occasional violence.

“The Reverend Erica has suffered a great loss, has she not?” He asked her to confirm, gentling his voice a touch.

“Your sister hasn’t told you?”

“No.” Though he’d promised Death and himself that he’d make an effort to speak with her more often, he didn’t want to meddle in her job unless she invited him to witness it.

Constantine cleared her throat. “Her nephew was stabbed to death. A mugging gone wrong.”

Ah.

“He seemed like a great kid. They were pretty close.”

Perhaps that also explained why Constantine had been dreaming of her young niece more often than she was prone. But he thought it wise not to bring this up yet.

“I am sorry for her loss. And I assure you, his passing moments were greeted by a kind face and words of sympathy.”

“Was it?” She asked, with sharp skepticism.

“Death is the kindest of the family.”

“Not exactly setting the bar high, is it?”

“She is… more loving to me than I deserve.”

He’d learned much. A glimpse of humility would do wonders where pride and rank failed.

Still, she squinted at him, a bit guarded.

“Your request should be a small matter.” Dream told her.

A dimple appeared in her left cheek. “Asking for my help twice within the same year? That’s cutting it close.”

He tilted his head in a silent bid for her to elaborate.

“Nobody warned you about me?” Humor and bitterness in equal measure.

“You have, certainly.”

Her mouth twitched, and he considered it a small victory. “It’s dangerous business, working with me. And not because of the demons.”

“I know.” He murmured, gaze holding hers.

Constantine stood there for all of ten minutes, trying to read between the lines.

She then returned to the kitchenette to pour herself a glass of whiskey before plunking down on her sofa.

“Tell me all the details, and then I’ll decide.” She told him before taking a generous sip.

Not an unreasonable request.

“An incubus has been taking the form of famous film actors to beguile their admirers.”

“So? Nothing new about that.”

“But it has been gaining more ground than usual. It’s been using the form and voice of some actor with a possible connection to Arthur Conan Doyle and a probably misspelled name…”

She almost choked on a sip of whiskey as she doubled over in laughter. Clearly there was a reference there he hadn’t yet understood.

“If you are quite finished…”

“A fucking incubus has been masquerading as Benedict Cumber-whatsit?”

“I don’t believe that is his actual name.”

For some reason this made her laugh again. And, for some reason, he couldn’t find it in himself to be too bothered.