7688/Wretched Pile of Sticks

Wretched Pile of Sticks
Date of Scene:	04 September 2021
Location:	House of Mystery
Synopsis:	Wretched Pile of Sticks or Wonderful Enigma, the House of Mystery is the backdrop for a shouting match between John Constantine and Nettie Crowe. It ends with sandwiches and a nap for John. Isn't that what any man needs?
Cast of Characters:	Nettie Crowe, John Constantine

---

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    It'd taken her a while to find the right Door. She had to burn through a couple of Divination decks and a 1937 Hoyle Card deck to do so. John always makes her cards burn; she didn't always understand why.

    So she arrives in front of an unassuming door in Gotham City. Today it was Generic Goth/Punk. In spite of the summer heat she was wearing a cap over her silvery hair. She had a lip peircing in, settled right above the dimple of her chin. She wore a ragged cloth vest with a bunch of pockets and patches of punk bands ranging from the late 70's to modern punk over a black T-shirt with a happy looking Jacob Sheep-style goat on it, a red plaid skirt and black leggings. Corvax had landed on the stoop before she got there, and she gave him a warning look before he flew off to occupy a street light, giving a warning caw.

    And so, the young-appearing lady, carrying paper sacks of groceries tucked inside reusable grocery bags with 'SAVE THE WORLD!' and smiley faces and daisies all over it, comes up to the unassuming door, and gives a knock.

John Constantine has posed:
    And... the unassuming door swings open all on its own.

    It's been well established that the House of Mystery is often at odds with what John believes is best for well, John. It's times like these that it's been known to work against him, or so he sees it. It's times like these that has him calling it the Wretched House, or That Wretched Pile of Sticks.

    John just wants to be left alone to do his job for as long as he can until it or something else kills him. The House doesn't agree.

    Once the door swings open, there are only two options presented to Nettie off that main parlor that's always the same. A door leading to John's bedroom - that's typically upstairs but for the moment it's not - and the kitchen, no door.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Thank you, you goregeous enigma." Nettie greets the house, plating her hand against the door with a soft smile. Sometimes, the Wretched have to stick together, don't they?

    She goes to the kitchen first, taking her boots off at the door (to be polite, who knows when the last time anyone took a broom to the floors here though!), and the first thing she does is bring an offering to the house -- a bunch of late summer flowers, yellow roses for friendship and sunflowers for joy and support, in a blue vase. It already has water in it, funny how nothing sloshed. "There, a little fancy never hurt hm?" she offers to the house in a largely one-sided conversation.

    "John? Are you up, my boy?" she calls out, opening and closing cabinets as she brings food in. Mostly easily assembled items. Peanutbutter, jelly. A container of timtams. Ginger knot biscuits for stomach digestives. A few heat-and-ready items in cans. Some that don't need to be heated, but taste much better. Bread. She searches for items that can be discarded as if it were a normal house, and after a few m oments she lifts out a bottle of scotch, and a bottle of lime gin, and makes for John's bedroom door.

    "I've stopped by the grocer's, brought some ginger and chocolate biscuits in case you felt you needed a digestive."

John Constantine has posed:
    "I bloody well am now, aren't I?!" John calls out from the bedroom "Wretched *fucking* house," he mutters under his breath before he climbs out of bed - it's a king sized properly lumpy feather deal that, all it, pillows and mattress. He answers the door in a pair of flannel lounge pants, little ghosts exclaiming BOO all over them in that pale white green that typically indicates a thing glows in the dark after being exposed to light.

    "What is it, Nettie?" he asks, leaning against the door with one arm, a door that's only opened half way and, in no way, invitingly. He's scruffy, in need of a good shave, but at least he showered after his leap into the Hudson River last night.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Like I said. Stopped by the grocers. Brought you food. I'll even heat something up if you're feeling peckish." Nettie replies, looking him up and down.

    "Heard you had a bit of a day yesterday, didn't you? Surely built up an appitite." she states, and then glances down.

    "From Chas's girl?" she inquires in amusement, "She does love her Uncle John.". The gray-hair then takes a step back in case John is going to emerge from his room like some sort of wrathful moth from a coccoon, or if he's going to just hang there.

    The scotch and gin are still in her hands, glass bottles clink slightly.

John Constantine has posed:
    Looking him up and down carefully enough would reveal so many more scars, typically hidden beneath the armor of his white button down and that trench coat. Shadow cat claws from to so long ago that scraped rib bone on his left side, the whole 'forked by a Goddess' three tine deal straight through his chest and out the back. They're all there if partially hidden by the way his magicked tattoos tend to fill in over top the spots where they were broken by such. ...and so many more.

    The years have not been kind to John Constantine since Nettie last saw him in any sort of state of undress, that's for certain.

    He raises the bottle of scotch he has in the hand that was partially hidden by the partially closed door and waggles it in return. "Got it covered, luv," he snarks. "Delivery successful then, aye?" ...the nasty little 'so why are you still here' is implied, oh yes it is.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    Nettie looks at John critically. She hides her own scars. Sigils tortured onto the skin of a screaming teenager, knowledge stolen from sages. The newer landscapes of his skin tug at her heart. "So I see." she states, and then she holds up the mirroed bottle. "Well you won't be needing this right away then. Why don't we step into the kitchen and have a chat." she states. It's not an invitation.

    "Curious thing happened yesterday, oh, 'bout mid-day. I was doing a reading for myself -- I'm sometimes in need of a little guidance with a persistant issue of my heart. You know how it goes once it gets broken a few times in our line of business." she states, and she turns, stepping back towards the kitchen. "But curious thing -- I pulled a card that most often means 'a friend of mine is in trouble', and then it burst into flames 'fore I could put it to the cloth. Now," she leans against the counter, and pulls a pack of jelly babies from the grocery bag.

    "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

    It's asked in the same way a parent may inquire something to their kid.

John Constantine has posed:
    With a little half shake of his head and a frustrated breath blown out, all scowls and 'fuck my life' expression, John does follow as far as the parlor. The rooms are close enough in space for conversation. He plops down on that ugly fainting couch that he seems to love so much and takes a swig straight from the bottle before, "Nope, not a thing, musta been someone else. I spent a realaxin' day in Shropshire, pretty countryside, that."

    The ashtray on the table next to that little couch is full near to running over and he's about to add to it. He lights a Silk from the pack next to the ashtray.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Don't you *dare* lie to me, John. I may not be the witch I was, but I know when one of my best friends is spouting shite." Nettie states. She is quietly furious, and she bites the head off a black currant jellybaby, feeling the sugary, sickly-sweet taste fill her mouth. She chews thoughtfully as she watches him, giving a second chance to answer her.

John Constantine has posed:
    John's furious isn't quite so quiet. It's not exactly aimed at Nettie either, she's just conveniently *here*. He shoves himself back to his feet. "Who the *fuck else* is gonna fix the shite what's fucked up, Nettie?!" His hands clench into fists so tightly at his sides that he's leaving little crescent shaped marks behind from nails digging into palms.

    "Chas? Phoebe? Meggan? You?" He barks out a laugh, humorous and maybe even a little cruel sounding. "End of the fuckin' world? Meggan's stupid Oath made without my knowledge or consent when made? Promises sworn to go to HELL with me when it's my time? Ancient beasts set to devour ALL the Gods because someone's turned Death to a spin that can't be tolerated? You gonna fix it? Make sure there's still a fuckin' world left in a month? ARE YOU NETTIE?!"

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    Nettie Crowe was a lot of things. Patient was one of them. She lets John get those digs into her, feeling the claws digging. She does not go for another candy, but turns to set them on the counter as he laughs.

    He seethes. She is cool, and steps into the parlor to just... sit down. On the floor. She raises her eyebrows to his questions.

    "I cannot." she states. "When I saw what humanity was capable of doing to each other, without the influence of devils and demons, I stepped back, and acknowledged that I couldn't do it, because I was alone. I stood with the ashes of my friends and countrymen catching against eyelashes like the first snow as men and women filled with joy and hatred ended lives, one by one or fifty at a time." she states quietly.

John Constantine has posed:
    "I don't have the option of stepping the fuck back, Nettie," John shoots back. Other times, her obvious sorrow might dampen the flames of his nastiness or whatever this is. "There will be *nothing* left if I don't stop this, do you *understand* that? The thing that's coming," he dare not speak its name aloud. "... It comes from the darkness at the end of things and it comes to destroy what's messed up and tilted and slanted and when it does, if I don't stop it? Nothing. Left." The shoulders of Atlas indeed.

    "Just go, Nettie, just fuckin' go so I can do what needs done." Without pulling everyone around him down *with* him in the process.

    "And if you believe that devils and demons play no part in war? Have no influence in such, don't egg it on, drive it forward, whip men to a frenzy over it? You're wrong. They're just much more subtle about it, typically, than they are now."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "I know you don't, John. And you feel like you have to do things this way so that none of us get caught up in the madness, in the danger. So that you don't have to carry our names as scars on your shoulders -- but you're not alone in this. Do you think I shut myself in the shop and see nothing, John? That I do not feel those thinning places around me, that I don't feel that Call to Arms? God /damn/ it John you are so stupid." she stands up, looking at him, small and ever-young and her powers ebbed from non-use, and she reaches up to grasp his arms, above his scars. Angry tears sting in her eyes.

    "/I am trying to help you/. You don't want us mixed up in your business, but you then mix us up anyway! Do you think I don't *know what you did* John Constantine?!" that last was wispered in a hiss. "That I don't see it in your eyes?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "Tell me you wouldn't do the same for me if you could?! Keep me out of his hands forever?!" John's voice is a booming and angry thing despite their now close proximity. He jerks away and snatches up his bottle again. The only friend he needs, that bottle. He takes a loooong, pull from that bottle as if it were nothing more than water.

    "Go back to your shop, Nettie, read your cards, drink your fuckin' tea. I have shite to do," he snarls when he lowers the bottle again. Like get piss drunk and wait for the next crisis. Maybe it'll be a relief, a release when his year's up. Could an eternity with Nergal be any worse than this life as it is now?

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "The hell do you think I was /doing/ when you decided to split the fight three ways in Hell? I had dredged up contacts in Tibet. Resourced Irish Druids and those familiar with the Old Paths. Pulling information from South America, peru, when I wasn't /holding your fucking hand like a friend should/ I was trying to find ways to fix it." Nettie snarls in return, and then she does something surprising, even to her, she goes to slap away the bottle from John's hand. "Sleepless nights and sending Corvax away and suicide watches and messages between Chas and I keeping tabs on your medications and appointments. The first man I had ever opened myself up to that way, John. The first person in eighty years I had ever said more than surface pleasantries and half-lies to. And you know what --" she pokes his chest. "Love is being down there in the trenches when all other hope is fucking /lost/. Love is watching your family struggle for air and throwing everything else y ou were doing to the side, dropping everything for the tough conversations. Love is putting aside your own sorrows to fucking band-aid and triage." she takes a breath through her nose.

    "I have never lied to you, John. This world is dark," she breathes, the tears flowing freely now down her cheeks in frustration, "it is cruel, and this path in magic wears you down to fucking /nothing/ if you let it. But I swear to you. To. /You/. I'll still be there. Later today. Tomorrow. The Next Day. No matter the petty nastiness you launch like some sort of insulting porcupine to try and drive me away. Not even if you try to keep that armor about you with all its spikes and thorns. I will be there and watching for you, because /that/ is what love is, my boyo. Not pretty oaths made in the throes of passion or sworn without knowledge to higher beings only to break when the /hard parts/ show up in life. I *was there* for you. And I am *still* there for you."

    She takes a breath. She looks up at him in challenge.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "Why the *fuck* do you want to *die so badly*?!"

John Constantine has posed:
    "Do you think I split hell three ways because I *want to die*, Nettie?! But if it's between me and someone less deserving of it, it'll always be ME!" John shoots back. The hand gets smacked aside, some of the bottle even spills as it's tipped, but John Constantine knows how to hold on to a scotch bottle like a drowning man to a life ring. Because, for some many years, a bottles been just that to him, in his mind.

    "Hell is my end for a *reason*, Nettie. I won't let someone else sit beside me in it for some stupid Oath. I wouldn't let you either." He runs a hand back through his hair, leaving it a mess of spikiness that's near comical before he adds, voice lower but not softer. "I don't want you here, Nettie. I don't want Meggan here, or Phoebe or Chas. You all *get in the way* of what *needs* doing. Don't you get that? I can't focus on what I need to do when I fuckin' have *little girls* following me into the underworld to be stabbed. Meggan was right in not comin' when my heart called to her, she was right to hide herself away from it. I know that now. You all need to run from it, hide yourselves away from it. Stop. Running. To. Me. Run the fuck away, because I can't, I *won't* see you hurt because of me."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    
    "Aye, little girl half-cocked on instinctive magics is able to make her way decent far into the Underworld. Imagine what could be done if she was trained up.

    "I don't get your way." she points out, "I stand off to the side because I know I'm far, far better at clean up and recovery than I am at actively being at your side. I stay safe, because that's my choice. You /cannot/ blame yourself for what others choose to do, John. I told you before, I am /not running/. I am not scared."

John Constantine has posed:
    John seems about to spout off more bullshit and nastiness, but sometimes the fates step in on his behalf, or maybe on behalf of the targets of his vitriol. It starts as just a slight tickle when he sucks in a breath to start his tirade anew. By the end it isn't words that come, but a fit of coughing and spluttering that nearly has him dropping that bottle.

    It's nod a demon's doing this time, it's just a man that smokes too much, drinks to much, sleeps too little and dives into the Hudson River to wind up breathing and swallowing shite, polluted water before the job he was there to do is all tied with a neat little bow. It's just a nasty cough. But it's enough to drain the wind from his sails.

    When he's recovered enough to speak, his voice is soft and cracks a little, "I'm tired, Nettie, but what *fuckin' choice* do I have." But to keep on going. "I'm up to my nose in it, barely treadin' to be able to breathe. The rest of you'd drown for sure." It's not boastful that, it's the simple truth of it.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    The Grey Witch moves to take the bottle and put it to the side. Anger fading into concern. Her arm over his shoulder as she searches one of her pockets for tissues and finding only a handful of paper napkins, she brings them up in a wad and forces them into John's hand. Her touch has moved from angry and tense to gentle and concerned as easily as one breath to the next as she steers him to try and sit down on the chaise.

    She kneels down in front of him, knowing to keep off the chase. That's John's. It's like sitting on his stool, just wouldn't feel Right.

    "I know you're tired, dear heart." she states gently. "There's a lot on your plate. Wish I could do more than fling a rope from the shore." she states quietly. She admits when she's out of her depth, one of the great benefits of being experienced.

    She reaches for his hands to take them, and tries to lace her fingers.

    "I'm still here for you, Old Son. I'm always here for you."

John Constantine has posed:
    John doesn't give in to it this time, the raw emotion of it. The cracking voice ends with that, no tears. But he does use those napkins to wipe his mouth rather than the typical back of his hand. "I don't want you to do more than that, it's the more than that'll get you killed. I can't... couldn't. You can't ever make stupid Oaths or run in bloody blind." Like the rest of them. "Be there, but don't try to save me. It's gonna end the way it's meant to, don't destroy yourself tryin' to prevent. I can't have your face through a window on a bus in Hell, Nettie."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    That was the first she's really heard about it. This time, she does move to sit next to John on the chaise. She takes a deep breath. "I"m too old for that heroic bull, John. I leave that to the young bucks and hens, like you." she offers as a weak joke. She keeps her hand on his shoulder. "If I make a promise, if I give my word, it is sacred, and I do not do it for just any old reason. I promised I would look after you, because you need looking after at times. No one person is ever strong enough to take the whole of the world on their shoulders, even if they try my boy." she gently replies. She has her hand still laced with his.

    "Is that what you saw while you were there? The accusers?" she questions.

John Constantine has posed:
    John closes his eyes and nods, it's a bobble headed little thing though, that nod. "Aye, all of'm from Newcastle on, known and not." ...and there it fuckin' is in all its glory. The *reason* for it, dontcha know. How could a man not try to push everyone away after seeing all that passed before them accusing.

    He takes up the bottle, his life ring, and swigs long from it once more. His Silk, burned in the ashtray, is replaced by another from the pack, lit with his zippo. "Time to time, I used to like to think maybe it wasn't my fault."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    Nettie finally gets it. She keeps her hand in his.

    Her expression goes from shock, to sadness, to acceptance about why he was pushing them away.

    "... John, I told you once that you carry in your heart woes that lesser men would have called mis-steps, or would have swept away. Ever was there reason to trust your heart, yes, I beleive that would be it." Nettie's smile is gently, but she doesn't look to John. She reaches up with her thumb, and scratches behind her ear at her neck a moment.

    "I do not think you are entirely to blame, John. Fate and Destiny are not two straight lines, but threads. Some threads are small, and brilliant, and fine and short. Others are long, twisting, and ever at the edges but never part of the grand picture. Your thread, I do beleive, passes within and without, crossing others, drawing others towards and back and weaving around you. That is the nature of this beast." she taps herself, and this time, she has her own cigarettes. An ancient and nearly threadbare pouch filled with hand-rolled tobacco. No filter. This she lights from a cheap plastic lighter.

    She takes a drag after a moment. "But I stand by what I said. You made a mistake. You were not strong enough to fix it, yet, but every time you have been presented with an opportunity to trade a soul, or even souls, or a group, you haven't. You are a good man, John."

    And she leans against his shoulder.

    "Some? Yes. If you had chosen a different spell. If you had gone with a different wording, perhaps fate would have come the same, or Destiny changed their hand. A thousand different timelines and a million different variants, or maybe they would still be lost. But, John... who would not be here if not for you?" she asks, and she draws her eyes up to him. "Not Chas. Not your girl who ran into the afterlife to help you. Maybe not even your lady Meggan. An' they choose to remain, like I do, knowing the dangers."

John Constantine has posed:
    "But it's not Fate or Destiny that they're down there wailing at. It's *me* that they blame, Nettie. All of'm people that loved me once, or at least cared. I murdered them all." John sniffs a little and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. That's not a teary sniffle, that's a 'maybe I've been doing things I shouldn't so I don't sleep and see them in my nightmares' sniffle. It's a sniffle born of nasal passages irritated by substances he only allows himself when things are That Bad.

    "It's not just Newcastle, Nettie," he adds as he entwines his fingers from hers and moves away a bit; the actions of a man guilty and feeling undeserved of the affection being shown, that. "So many in between then and now. No wonder my destiny's Hell, aye? I just hope they're not waiting *there* for me, they deserve better."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    Nettie grumps, but understands as he pulls away. She takes a look at John's motions, studying them.

    "... what makes you think that the dead have nothing better to do than to show up and point fingers at you? Or, in the case of the ones who we know are likely in Infernal standing--" she picks up the bottle. She sniffs at it, and then gives it a swig. She makes an 'OH GOD' expression, admitting that was a mistake, and coughs before she looks at the label accusingly "-- permitted to make the trip?" she asks, turning her gaze to John.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Because Death isn't what it was, Nettie. It's twisted in on itself and fucked six ways to Sunday. It's not the same as it was, the rules are different. I know what I saw and they were shades of the dead. Been around them enough to know that."

    Still keeping his distance, John leans back on the chase, long lanky... Boo Ghost clad legs stretched out in front of him. He snatches the bottle and pulls from it. "Hardest one to look on was Lester, but I see'm all every bloody time I close my eyes."

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    Nettie leans back, over John's legs as she considers a moment as she tilts her head back.

    "No, I suppose not." she finally answers a moment, taking a drag of her cigarette, but she turns back to John.

    She picks a couple of little fuzzballs off his pajamas, and then tilts her head back.

    "Like you said though, Death being not what it was, once upon a time, their rules might have changed as well. Jus' a thought." she states. She tilts her head back, looking up at the house around them, and then back to John.

    "I don't know how to advise on this one, John. Ordinarily I would draw cards or shake skulls or if I had to ask... but... there's nothing that's being done by the same rules now. BUt I worry. For you. For Chas. For everyone." she turns back to John.

    "I'm sorry, John. That you have to go through any of this." she whispers gently.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Pretty sure my lot in life's probably been set from birth," John murmurs before setting the bottle aside and taking up his Silk for a drag or two. He falls silent then, cigarette tucked between his lips.

    "S'not your fault," he murmurs and just after he's nodding off. Not many that make him feel the pull of sleepiness like Nettie, if only because there aren't many he feels safer in the presence of. Of course he nodded right off with that lit smoke still tucked between his lips.

Nettie Crowe has posed:
    "... probably before." Nettie whispers gently, as John nods off a bit, she reaches to pluck the silk from his mouth, and licking her thumb and forefinger, she extinguishes it, tucking it into one of her pockets.

    She draws to the side, smoothing down John's hair again, and whispering a quiet lullaby, she traces a now too-familiar little circle against his skull. Hope for restful sleep, without visions of darkness. She has no idea how it will work between his wards, but she takes a breath, and goes to stand.

    She fetches a blanket from John's bed, should the house permit her, to tuck him in with. Then to the kitchen to set up some lunchmeat sandwiches, cover them, and tuck them in a fridge. The fresh bottle of scotch is tucked away in a cabinet, and the gin is set to the side of the sink. And finally, after she's prepped something for him to grab and eat, she walks back into the parlor, wiping her hands against her skirt.

    And she goes to John's side, and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

John Constantine has posed:
    John's skin's warm to the touch, too warm for a normal man's but only a bit warmer than is the usual for him. Something about Hellfire and all it. It's warmer still to lips pressed against it, always is. S'why a mum uses the method to check for fever. He has a touch of one, a fever, but it's like to be gone by the time he wakes again with the way the demon blood in him burns away normal, mundane illnesses.

    None of it matters a whit against the soft little contented sigh of a sound he makes when she kisses his brow. Or in the face of the little half smile that curls his lips. He can deny it and rail against it all he wants, but John Constantine is just a man and all men need it; affection and kindness, the company of others of their species.

    ...to not be alone in the darkness.