7635/Death Needs a Life Coach.

Death Needs a Life Coach.
Date of Scene:	31 August 2021
Location:	The Laughing Magician
Synopsis:	X comes to John with an interesting offer. He accepts and surely nothing *bad* can come from moving X in upstairs, right?
Cast of Characters:

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John Constantine (370) has posed:
    Already half way through what's probably his third bottle of scotch for the day, a lot even for him, John's sitting on that stool at the end of the bar; the one no one ever seems to want to sit on but him. A Silk Cut burns in the ashtray that's already filled to the point of needing emptied about a pack ago.

    He always looks haggard, it's almost part of his charm, but right now? The mighty John Constantine just looks *beat*.

    Chas Chandler, the best damned mate and cabbie in Heaven and Hell and all the spaces between stands behind the bar polishing glasses. Every now and again, he shoots John a side-eyed glance along with a 'the fuck am I'm supposed to do with this' expression.

John Constantine (370) has posed:
    Lady Death may be wearing the disguise of Hope Svelgate today, but that doesn't mean he's not well aware of who she is... and what. He was also aware of her arrival the second she put one foot through the door. The familiar ping from his wards, a unique little buzz of a thing for each of those 'not human' on his radar has him rolling his faded blues heavenward. "Bollocks," he mutters before turning his gaze fixes on Hope.

    "Really luv? I assure you, news of my living is highly exaggerated. No more than a figment. The door's over there, kindly find it."

    Because John Constantine? He's done, baked, cooked, every single one of all of them and the entire situation can sod off. Let the Gods of Death sort it, hell or high water.

John Constantine (370) has posed:
    "How about givin' in to my 'don't give a fucks'?" John quips in return. He polishes off the contents of his glass and refills it from the bottle at his elbow. His attention is straight ahead now, rather than on Hope - sort of over and off past Chas.

    Who by the way, murmurs a quiet, warning... "John..." The 'be nice' is implied in tone if not voiced out loud.

    "Unless it's a lifetime supply of Blue Silk Cuts and rot-gut whiskey, not interested, Hope. I'm out of it, the game... done. It can all soddin' go to Hell in a hand basket, if there's any Hell left for it to go to."

    A small gesture of his hand and that jukebox comes to life, drops a vinyl to the turntable and pets out the Pistol's rendition of My Way.

John Constantine (370) has posed:
    "And what's to stop you from sellin' it to one of the three that already lay claim to it?" John asks. He's the king of poker faces, so his outward reaction is minimal. He just puffs away on that lit Silk until the could of smoke from it nearly obscures him from view. His heart does, however, thud a little faster in his chest.

    He eventually turns those tired, red-rimmed, denim blues toward the thing, but just his eyes. "You really want my help, then I reserve the right to use that for someone else if the need be, aye?" Because there are people in his life that he's more interested in keeping out of Hell than himself. Beneath the snark, the armor built through years, torn down and built again when things go south such as they have now, under the black surface of his damned soul; really John Constantine is a *good* man. Just don't tell him that, lest he lose his temper or his mind in the denying of the fact.

John Constantine (370) has posed:
    "What's the price of it then?" John asks, unwilling to enter into any sort of deal without knowing that bit. "If it's gettin' off this stool right now, no deal." Because he plans on sitting there and finishing as much scotch as possible before he's face down on the bar and like to be dragged off to bed and tucked in by Chas...

    Who, by the way, is polishing glasses as if the task is his only lot in life, a little too intensely. Man's seen dark John in all their years as friends, more than once, and he's not a fan.

    Johnny Rotten's rendition of Old Blue Eye's best known comes to an end and starts over again.

John Constantine (370) has posed:
    John's eyes widen just a touch and he barks out a *laugh*. "So, you want... what? A job? A home economics class? Law 101 from the uni?" The laughter blossoms a little be more before it turns into a little fit of coughing and spluttering.

    "*John*," More pointed, more warning, c'mon man, be *nice*.

    "I need another tender, so Chas here can stop polishing glasses until there's nothing left." He's still trying to catch his breath, trying to keep more laughter from bubbling over. It's reaching the point that it sounds a little insane, there might have even been a few hiccuping sounds in there somewhere.

    He's *really* been through it of late, really really been through it. It shows for sure. As she said, he's just a *man* and one that dances on the regular with Gods and Devils. It's a taxing thing from time to time, that.

John Constantine (370) has posed:
    "It's called a phone, luv." Really he's trying to not laugh. But John's drunk, actually drunk, so it's difficult. He takes a beat to get himself under control before, "Aye, okay... but you're not gettin' a driver's license until you pass the actual fuckin' test to drive." Last thing he wants is some poor kid run over by Death in the streets.

    "...and it's mine, to do what I will?" Just making sure there. "No other strings?"

John Constantine (370) has posed:
    "Livin' on this side, it's not all it's cracked to be. I hope you're not setting yourself up for more shite than you want," John points out and the snark's gone. There's nothing there, for that brief moment, but honesty and pain. The latter likely more than any mortal man should ever have to bear.

    His hand closes over the talisman and he picks it up. He studies the thing carefully, not the what of it, but the... 'what can I do with it'. "Chas'll teach you how to drive."

    ... cue a spit-take from the voluntold cabbie over there. Chas manages to cut off the 'what?!' and turn it into an agreeable enough, "Uh sure, just name the time."

    John pulls his eyes from the little bauble and shifts his attention to Hope. "I can have paperwork that'll pass even the closest of scrutiny by end of week. You have a name in mind or stickin' with the one you use now?"

John Constantine (370) has posed:
    John lets out a sigh of a breath and lets it out slowly before, "There's space upstairs, was savin' it for storage. I can have it fixed into a third bedroom by end of next week. Best if you're gonna learn that you're not livin' alone doin' it." Through it all, his brain screams: THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? YOU DAFT BASTARD, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE GETTING OUT NOT LETTING *DEATH* MOVE IN!

    Never mind the fact that it's *Chas's* apartment. The cabbie's eyes widen comically, he lets out a little surprised splutter of a sound but in the end, "Sure, won't take much, some paint and flooring, maybe put a closet in. Space's just being wasted at the moment..."

    "It's settled then, aye." John's hand closes around the talisman again and it disappears into a pocket of his trench coat.