#also yes i Am making every minor character in hellblazer at least a little gay. and what about it

[talentforlying]

28.     felt at total peace with themselves and everything around them. 

28.     felt at total peace with themselves and everything around them. 

he's forty, and he's cross-faded, and zatanna is off her face on the kitchen counter, levitating mange the talking rabbit three feet off the floor. he thinks he pissed on the phantom stranger's shoes in the alley a few minutes ago, and it's a whole lot funnier than it probably should be. header and rick the vic disappeared off to the toilet longer ago than he wants to think about, and the six-foot-six giant who put the whole shindig together is slugging back tennent's super like he's a fish and it's water.

it's his birthday, and for the first time in a long fucking time, he thinks he's gonna be okay.

almost unreal now, with this much liquor warming his belly and a high that reduces his eyes to burning cinders, to think that the day started out badly — kit unexpectedly visiting family, chas on a shift he can't shake. that sinking, lonely feeling that he's getting old, because he's lived twice as long as he ever thought he would and ten years more than his mum ever did, and he doesn't know what to bloody do with himself when he's not doing magic. feeling guilty about it in a way he never has before kit; before a normal, domestic life abruptly became a real option for him.

it's a zero-sum game any way he chooses to go about it: he's forty, and he's still fucking around with forces beyond his comprehension, still trying to play a young man's game. he's forty, and he hasn't worked a regular layman's job in his entire sodding life, but if they're going to pay the rent, he'll have to strike up and stick with it, SOON. he's forty, and he sees his sister every other weekend, sees his best friend twice that, and goes to bed every night with the love of his life beside him, and none of it feels even halfway as real as the shite he sees in his nightmares.

so, one more bad birthday. why not. what's there to celebrate, anyway?

except. except THEY all seem to think it's worth celebrating, don't they? his friends. the fact that he's still got enough of them left to throw him a surprise party is enough to stone crows the world over, but that they still think of him well enough to put in the effort in the first place is . . . sort of fucking mind-boggling. they like him enough to remember his birthday in the first place, enough to pop in from hell and scotland and america and . . . wherever it is the immortal lord of the dance fucks around these days. enough to stick around and keep him company until the wee hours of the morning, if they're good for their word. ( and he knows they are. ) enough to invite the sodding swamp thing, and the fact that the big hedge even showed was more of a kick in the teeth than the fucking phantom stranger.

obviously the free booze doesn't hurt as incentive. or nigel's supercharged wacky backy, either. but any one of them could've gotten that elsewhere, if they'd felt the urge, and they chose to get it with him. he's forty, and he's got more friends than he would've ever thought possible.

jesus fuck, the nerve of them, making him sniffle at his own bloody birthday party.

he loves them all, each silly blighter.

the lord of the dance crushes another crate as easy as snapping a toothpick and laughs at some inane shite nigel is spouting on about. ellie's gone and rescued mange from the inevitable crash to the floor, holding him gingerly by the ears, but the furry git doesn't seem to mind; still effing and feffing about pulling magicians out of hats, as per usual. zatanna is utterly lost in the world of the monumentally stoned, reading the ingredients on a packet of instant oatmeal backwards like it's the most important magical text in the world. header and rick are STILL conspicuously missing, and god, he wishes he could hear what brendan finn would have to say about that one: something filthy about rick being at his best when he's on his knees, just ask god.

' mere hours into a fourth decade and you've already lost the ability to hold your liquor. jesus wept, john. '

ellie's apparently left mange to his own devices to come and join him on the sofa, sinking into the cushions at his elbow and propping her arm up on his shoulder to lazily skim her fingers along the collar of his shirt. she doesn't look halfway blotto for all she's been drinking, eyes still sharp and clear as she studies the room and its motley inhabitants with dry disinterest; she smells like cinnamon, sulfur, and asphodel, and if he didn't know better, he'd say she almost seems relaxed. ' what are you smiling so big about, anyway? you know you'll have a hell of a hangover to look forward to when all this is done. '

is he smiling? he hadn't realized. but sure enough, he lifts a hand to his face and feels the grin there, broad as a barn; feels the way it hurts his cheeks like it's been there for a long bloody while now, and it doesn't feel like it's going to go away soon, either.

fuck him. HE'S FORTY.

it's the best thing he's been in ages.

@fightwing / MOMENT IN TIME PROMPTS