7920/The One with the Sitcom

The One with the Sitcom
Date of Scene:	21 September 2021
Location:	Suburbia
Synopsis:	Somehow Constantine, Chas, Renee, Geraldine, Paul and Phoebe get stuck in a sitcom. Everything is immediately wrong, considering John Constantine does *not* sell insurance.
Cast of Characters:	Phoebe Beacon, John Constantine

---

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    It was the strangest sensation. Last night John had one of his 'Dates'. Things were a little fuzzy after the first half hour or so, but when he wakes up, he's not in the bed he fell into. The linens were fine, 300-count cotton. A nice, soothing sky blue color, beneath a matchinv coverlet in a queen-sized bed. There's dressers with pictures on them, a couple of knick-knacks here and there. One of those fancy, high-tech clock radios where the time and date is projected onto a screen, and it's playing relaxing, music, some smooth listening version of 'Dance with Me' on an acoustic guitar.

    The whole place smells like clean laundry. It doesn't even smell like cigarettes. It smells like Paul.

    There's a window partially open, and he could hear Renee's voice calling out: "Geraldine Chandler! Stay *out* of the mud!"

John Constantine has posed:
    "What the..." For a moment or two, going on three, then four, John just lays there. No matter where he's at when he goes to bed, he *always* puts his Silk Cuts on whatever serves as a bedside table on his side of the bed. ...and no matter where he wakes up, the first thing he does is reach for them.

    Stands to reason, that's what he does now, dunnit? Second thing he does is bitch about it if they're not there and the third thing he does is check to see if he's alone in the bed.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    He is alone in the bed, although there's signs someone's slept there -- head dent in the pillow. The side was at least flipped back over into 'almost made' position.

    There is a shiny silvery, thin laptop to the side, partially open. There's a picture of him and Paulie on the bedside table, both wearing sunglasses, and there's some big sky and desert behind them, along with one of those twinkie-looking campers.

    Last night... last week... seemed fuzzy. Like a bad dream or a distant memory. Even his bruises and cuts had faded away to nothing but clear skin.

    There's not even tattoos. He... had tattoos, right?

John Constantine has posed:
    Lots of tattoos, most of the mystical and some of them pretty painful a process, at least the more powerful once. But the lack of them doesn't register quite as much of an alarm as the lack of those cigarettes. How many a day has John smoked since he was an awkward teenager with acne? Way too many. Those things are as much a part of him as his right arm.

    So, rather than call out and announce himself, John slips quietly from the bed to take a look in the dressers, the closets, the bathroom if there's one off this room. Snooping, that's what he's doing.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    John finds button-downs and T-shirts. A collection of dark colored, plain ties. The macbook? Opens up to a word processing document called 'Blazin' Hell - The Adventures of a Blue Collar Warlock' -- latest chapter involves some lady in red and ghostbuster dogs, at a glance.

    The clothes in one of his dressers is sized to fit him, even his socks and the Scooby Doo underroos. All the pictures are of him, or Paulie, or Chas - Renee and Geraldine. There's a picture of Geraldine's dance recital from a few weeks ago that's not in a frame yet. She's being held up by four laughing adults while someone else takes the picture.

    The other dresser is all Paul's stuff. Some books and their passports. A sweater vest. A Ferris wheel tieclip.

TThe bathroom is oddly clean. Shower's seen use recently -- the curtain's still wet. There's two toothbrushes. One is white, one is black. Inside the bathroom cabinet? Quitter's lozenges for quitting cigarettes. It's been opened and there's a few missing.

    There's the smell of bacon coming from somewhere downstairs.

John Constantine has posed:
    Quitter's whatnow? All the rest of it registers as *weird*, definitely not unpleasant, but *weird*. The lack of the Silks and those lozenges? Those two things register as *wrong* and unpleasant, John wants a damned smoke.

    Trench coat pocket, he always has an extra pack there. He goes back to the closet to check for the coat. Surely it's there, somewhere?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Open the closet? Nicer suits. Jackets. A couple of winter items and a box marked 'PAUL'S STUPID STUFF' and 'JOHN'S BULLSHIT' with a smiley face after it. Pulling both boxes down would show that it's mostly pictures, older stuff. A couple of feathers. 'A Night in Paris' from a Vegas chapel. Weird. Unusual. Definitely not cigarettes.

    "John? are you up?" comes Paul's puzzled voice.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Lookin' for my Silks," John calls back after a long few moments of hesitation. Where the fuck is his *coat*. He closes the closet door, a little too hard, and spins to look the rest of the room over again. "This isn't..." Right. But that's not even the right word, because it is right; it's perfect.

    ...and he might have been lulled right into it if two of the things that have actually been right by his side through thick and thin and up and down for *years* were here. The lack of those two things have alarm bells ringing loud in his head. So loud, that he's wondering if he's finally gone mad for real or... if this isn't some trap.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "That desperate two days in?" Paul answers. "You should have an emergency pack in your jacket on the coat hook in the mudroom. Pretty sure you were keeping in reserve." Paul's voice is understanding. Undoubtable Paul. It feels real. So very real.

    "But just *once* I'd like to kiss you and not taste the cigs!" he follows up with a friendly verbal jab. "You coming down soon or am I going to have to come up and get you?"

John Constantine has posed:
    John looks through the things that are obviously his... and is obviously trying to find a white button down shirt, a tie, and a pair of dark pants to go with. One he finds those things, he hurries to dress. If he doesn't, he'll end up in whatever's closest to that.

    It's the old habits that are tripping it up, the bits and pieces of John Constantine that have become permanent fixtures and each one of them a tiny part of the armor he puts on every day to face the world. It speaks a bit to his psychoses that it's those things that are his focus, doesn't it?

    "Down in a minute!" he calls back, but he's unable to keep the confusion from his tone.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    You gotta have your habits. John dresses. White button down. Dark tie. Dark trousers. His uniform, minus the trench coat. That's got to be downstairs, doesn't it?

    His shoes aren't there, though. Those must be downstairs too.

    When he opens the door, there's a little square hallway with two other doors. One is marked 'OFFICE'. The other's marked with a sign that says: "Geraldine's Other Room" in childish crayon. Someone's scotch taped it there. The bathroom across the way is open and shows a ruber ducky shower curtain.

    Definitely would not have been John's first choice.

    Down the stairs, and the stairs give a turn to the left, there's the mudroom. It leads to a back yard with some raised beds for gardening. A bunch of flowers are in bloom. There's a pair of buckets with gloves and sun hats and trowels and clippers.

    And down the hall from the mudroom? Paul is in the kitchen. His dark hair is damp. His scruffy beard is trimmed into a goatee. He's shirtless, no scars from his wings. He's wearing a pair of pajama pants with little mallards all over them, and there's a plate of bacon, a plate of not-bacon that looks kind of like bacon, and some eggs and toast.

John Constantine has posed:
    Mudroom is where he goes first, John needs his Silks if he's going to face the rest of any of this. He breathes out a sigh when he spots the trench coat. He actually takes it off the hook and puts the damned thing on, same as he would any day of any week. He checks the pockets. If his Silks aren't there he checks the pockets of the other jacket, the one he'd never wear.

    Either way, he better have a damned cigarette lit when he walks back into the house. Paul. When he finally gets there the sight of him takes John's breath away. Something's wrong, he's felt it since he got up, but... how can this be *wrong*.

    "Mornin'," he offers while leaning in the doorway, his voice all thick with whatever emotions all this is causing. It's a jumble of them really.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Right after John says 'mornin', leaning in the doorway, there is cheering. An odd amount of cheering. And a wolf-whistle or too. It seems normal.

    Paul waits until the cheering dies down.

    "There you are--" he pauses, and looks John up and down a moment. "Going to work? On a Saturday?" he asks incredulously. There's a titter of laughter.

    "New boss must be working you pretty hard if they want you to come in and sell insurance to an empty building. Have you considered early retirement?" Paul asks, and he's made up a plate for John. Pretty blue plates, with buttered toast, a couple of pieces of bacon (although it's the crap American streaky bacon, and not the good British bacon), and some scrambled eggs. Wholesome.

    "Was just going to say that we were invited out for lunch, but if you're going into the office --" he smiles, "It can wait."

John Constantine has posed:
    Insurance... into the office? None of it fits, even though John's starting to have a hard time remember what does fit, that certainly doesn't. He lingers in the doorway, that uncertainty obvious in his expression.

    "This is... what I always wear," he murmurs... that same little bit of doubt coloring his words too.

    Early retirement... The laptop upstairs niggles at the back of his mind.

    "I... this is..."

    Paul, standing there in the kitchen, cooking breakfast like it's just a thing that's done every day. "I'm... I should go outside and finish this smoke, aye?" Where did *that* come from? When did he ever give two shits about smoking outside or inside?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    At least every Saturday. And sometimes Wednesdays when he runs an overnight shift.

    "Aye, you do wear that, when you go into work..." Paul trails off a moment. "Are you all right, John?" he asks, "... it's not the nightmares again, is it? Last time I let you stay up late and watch The Thing from The Swamp again!" he gives a smile, comes around, and presses a little kiss to John's forehead, to a chorus of 'awwwwww'.

    "Finish your smoke, have some breakfast then, aye? Oh -- and I thought I heard a 'thump'. Chas's little girl might have landed her frisbee or a ball on the shed again."

John Constantine has posed:
    Nightmares. Another thing that's been with John through it all for so very long. He closes his eyes through that kiss to the forehead. That little chorus of 'awwwwws' has him opening them again and looking around though.

    Nightmares. Astra... the name pops into his head in a blink and is gone just as fast.

    "Geraldine," he whispers the word under his breath before taking a step back and a little louder, "Aye, I'm fine."

    Because he should be, this is all perfect isn't it? It is. It's perfect. "I love you," back to whispered again and then he turns to head out to finish that smoke and, maybe, try to puzzle out why what's so right feels so wrong.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Yes, that'd be the one, unless I've lost count and they've gotten another in the last couple of weeks." Paul states good naturedly, and he smiles. He steps forward, looping an arm around John.

    "I love you too. Always." Paul whispers against John's forehead as he gives another fond kiss, and then the shirtless inspector is back to finishing up the eggs.

    Outside, there is a back garden, bushes are trimmed. There's a four-foot tall picket gate, and on the other side a dark-haired girl is swinging on a sturdy, wooden playset.

    "Uncle John!" she calls out, the minute he registers on her radar, and she leaps off her swing, skidding a bit in the dirt of the back yard, and she makes her way to the fence.

    She almost barrels through the fence. "UncleJohnMyFrisbeeRanOffAgainAndIThinkIt'sOnTheGarage!" she calls out. The leaves overhead are just beginning to turn colors, the earliest kisses of autumn.

John Constantine has posed:
    When Geraldine comes barreling his direction, John holds that cigarette out at arm's length in one hand as he squats down and opens the other arm for a hug. "I missed you, Sprout," he murmurs quietly. But the words feel weird. Didn't he just see her yesterday?

    No, no... her last birthday. Or was it yesterday? No, it wasn't yesterday. It wasn't even her last birthday it was when he told her to plant a seed for him. That doesn't make sense either.

    "I'll get it down after breakfast, luv, okay?"

    He stands again, and takes a drag from his Silk and that, that feels solid, feels like it's supposed to feel. It feels right. It feels *not perfect* because it's a fucking cigarette and it's tar and smoke and gross and wonderful all at the same time.

    Like life.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Geraldine smiles, and she wraps both arms around John in that hug. She feels solid. Real. And honest, like all the good and innocent things in the world. "All right. Are you gonna play kickball with us when it gets dark? Mum says we have to use the nerf ball, 'cause of what happened last time."

    Last time, the rubber ball had been kicked by Paul, right over the back hedge, and knocked the nosy neighbor lady down, covering her in iced tea. Appropriate for her spying and trying to report the swingset to the Home Owner's Association; Chas and John had spent the weekend building it, with Paul's help (and Geraldine supervising the use of power tools and advising everyone of safety).

    Of course she panted a seed; it's in Renee's back yard.

    Or was it in the vegetable patch by the shed?

    He must have seen her yesterday. She comes outside to play. Renee doesn't like it when he smokes around her, though, but Geraldine's a good kid and never tells if he does. Neither does Chas, who comes out of the back door of the garage, wiping his hands, wearing old, holey jeans and a T-shirt.

    "Mornin' John." Chas states, wiping his big hands on a shop rag and then throwing it over his shoulder.

John Constantine has posed:
    Nothing, literally nothing, has ever been *perfect* in John Constantine's life. It started on a bad note and got worse from there. It's been a struggle from the day he was born, the day he lost his mother. It would be so easy to just accept all of this as truth and be done with it, wouldn't it?

    But nothing's ever that easy, this easy.

    "Chas..." Since awkward and acne, always there. "Working on the cab?" he asks. But his gaze is off over his friend's shoulder, at the house his best mate just came from. "Renee inside?" He hears it in his own voice so he's sure Chas must too. Renee's not supposed to be inside because Chas doesn't live with Renee anymore.

    "Something isn't right here, mate." It figures it would be *Chas*, there since awkward and acne, the man that picked him up from Ravenscar, his platonic ride or die, that he'd mention something to first.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Yeah, you know, sometimes those old cars just don't wanna give up, and neither do I." Chas gives a grin, and he looks to the cig a moment, then back to John. "Yeah, she's inside. Got up early with her granola-and-yogurt stuff. I know Geraldine's going to sneak over the fence once the dishes are done and try to get a bacon sandwich from Paulie." Chas states, "Girl's growing wiser than I'd like..." he pauses a moment, and then he looks confused "... yeah, Renee's..." he points a moment, and turns to follow the line of his finger.

    "... well, what the Hell's *that* supposed to mean?" he questions.

    "... is that witch across the way giving you crap again about Paulie? I swear, she says anything else or leaves another Chick tract, I'm going to... I dunno. Salt her lilies or something."

    He gives a concerned face, but doesn't seem to notice the titter of laughter.

    "... could bury her in the garden. With all the manure she spews, pretty sure she'd make *great* fertilizer."

    That triggers full blown laughter from *somewhere*. A crowd of laughter.

John Constantine has posed:
    What the... John looks up. Disturbing, that laughter is disturbing. He presses the heel of one hand to his forehead. "No, Chas, something's *wrong* here, this... it's not... none of this is... it's just *wrong*."

    But it all feels so freakin' right. "Newcastle." He's not even sure where the word came from. "How did we meet, Chas?" he asks. In part because he's no longer sure himself, but also because he wants to know if Chas knows, if he remembers.

    What he *does* remember of the beginning of their friendship is a weird blur of a fat, mean mother and a ... monkey?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Chas also looked about at that laughter, and gives a soft whisper of 'what the Hell was *that*...'

    And at the mention of Newcastle... how did they meet...

    "... I was..." he begins, "You were... we've been friends since Acne and Awkward... I helped when you had your band..." he trails off a moment, and looks up at John.

    "... Newcastle wasn't a band stop." he states, disturbed. And he looks down, and then looks back up at John.
        "Are you okay, John?" he questions, "You've been more off than usual."

John Constantine has posed:
    "Chas, what do I do for a living?" John asks rather than answering the question. He glances back over his shoulder at what's supposed to be his own house. "I want it to be real, mate... you have no idea how much... I *want* it to be..." He looks back.

    "Something bad happened in Newcastle. And I don't think I sell insurance for a living." Partly because even in his *fantasy* it would never be that. Not that. Private Investigator, Stand-Up Comedy, still the front man for a band, hell... even one of those dudes that stands and stops traffic at construction zones is more exciting than *insurance salesman*.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "... you sell insurance. To protect people in case shit goes south." Chas answers, and then he stops. He rubs his chin a moment.

    "... no you don't." he murmurs. He looks up at John, and he leans forward a moment when Renee calls out:

    "Chas? Can you give me a hand with the couch?"

    " -- Be right there!" he calls out, and then looks to John, and says: "We'll talk later. Let me... this is just... weird." he states, and he turns to head back into the house, to help Renee withs omething.

    Geraldine gives a wave to John, and then also heads into the house.

    John is alone in a back yard in suburbia, on a cul-de-sac of perfection. A nice, and normal house. Chas has a ranch.

    Over the garage space, a window opens. There's someone living above Paul and John's garage.

John Constantine has posed:
    In case shit goes south. Because it always goes south. But John doesn't sell insurance. He's there when shit goes south.

    He looks up at the sound of the opening window. Whatever this is, he knows it's part of the process, he needs to go up there. But there's something he needs to do first. He turns his attention back to watch Chas disappear into his perfect house with his perfect little family. Something about that makes him feel sad, a little guilty even. But he flicks his spent Silk to the ground, after not having really even smoked it and walks back to the house.

    "Paulie?" he calls out tentatively as he opens the door. Why is there a lump in his throat?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    There's thumping from upstairs. Paulie has unfortunately put on a shirt.

    "Hey." Paulie smiles, and there's another, brief brush of a kiss to John's forehead.

    "Your eggs are getting cold, love. I'll make a fresh cup of coffee." he states, padding back into the kitchen.

    "I suspect Geraldine'll be over for lunch. She already sent an E-mail asking for a real breakfast."

    THere's that laughter again.

John Constantine has posed:
    John looks up at the sound of that laughter, rolls his eyes and mutters, "C'mon, that wasn't even fuckin' funny." By now he's half expecting the 'fuckin' to be a bleep when it comes out. But his attention returns to Paul. "I love you, Paul. Life isn't perfect, no matter how much we want it to be. It's not." He takes a breath, one more. Almost seems like he might hyperventilate before he gets his shit pulled together. "I don't sell insurance and the only time you cook me breakfast is when I stop by after something bloody well fuckin' tried to kill me, again. I don't *want* to just *stop by* anymore."

    He holds out a hand, index finger out but not exactly pointing, as if to say... 'don't'.

    He glances up at that sound. "Who's up there?" But he doesn't wait for an answer before he's heading, well... up there.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I love you too what's this abo--" Paulie asks, looking bewildered. It's not 'Fuckin' that comes out, it's 'Freaking'. Sharp correction. Paulie looks confused at John's behavior, and opens his mouth, and closes it. "Johnny, what's gotten into you? I cook breakfast every Saturday, sometimes Geraldine drags Chas and Renee over too -- and you *know* who lives up there -- you invited her! John!"

    Up the other set of stairs John goes. There's a door with a lock, but it's open, just cracked open, and if John bursts in --

    Phoebe. She was taken in after her house was burned down. Her mom had significant injuries, and she had no where to go, so she's been living in the 'studio', since it had a 3/4 bathroom and its own entry.

    It has a bunch of houseplants in it, crowded around the windows. A couple of posters of bands and scientists and a singed reproduction of some Lord of the Rings bullshit sword.

    and sitting on a milk crate was the young woman herself, looking very, very confused as she holds a map.

    "... John?" she questions, in mild confusion.

John Constantine has posed:
    The laptop, red coat, dogs. And now the girl. John stops in his tracks once through the door. "This is supposed to be above a bar, my bar.... Chas's bar. In Hell's Kitchen," he stammers. As much as he wishes it could be he knows, "This isn't bloody real, it'll never be real."

    He probably looks more than a little crazed, there's likely no laughtrack now. There's nothing about a man going half mad that's funny, is there?

    "What's happening here, Phoebe?" Why is he asking her? He has no idea. Only that she's the only one that he hasn't actually spoken to yet? The one that *may* not be sucked into this little fantasy like all the others seem to be.

    "Renee and Chas are *divorced*, they don't live together." He sounds like he might be trying to convince himself. "You live with him above the bar." Just a beat, a little hiccup of a sound. "...and me and Paulie will *never* live together. Because that's not how my fuckin' life works."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Well. I am *definitely* not hiding a dog on Geraldine's behalf." she states.

    There's a bark from under the bed.

    "... okay. I'm definitely hiding a dog on Geraldine's behalf." she adds. There's that laughter again. And she looks straight at John.

    "... why do we have a laugh track?"

    Laughter again.

    She takes a deep breath, and she rubs her face.

    "I must be dreaming. I've got to be dreaming, because I fell asleep in a room above a bar and now I'm in a room over a garage. And I know that's Chas's little girl who was playing in the back yard. And you're never open to me and ask me what's going on, because I'm dumb when it comes to all this stuff." she states, spreading one arm out. "So it's got to be a dream, right?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "...well it's not my dream." But a dream makes sense. It's either something like that or it's something like Nergal fucking with him, right? His voice lowers just a little, kinda sad really. "In my dream, nothing changes but..." John shakes his head and glances over his shoulder toward the door.

    The dog.

    "She asked you to hide a dog for her?" His brow furrows a little, thoughtful that. Has Chas mentioned Geraldine wanting a dog recently? Renee's definitely the sort to say no to that.

    "You're not dumb," he adds a little more loudly. "...you just don't know enough yet, there's a difference."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "It's not my dream." Phoebe admits, rubbing her left arm. The circle's not there in the dream, and she stands up, moving the milk care, and gives a soft kissing noise.

    A shaggy dog makes its way out, giving a shake, and sits all nice and calm.

    "So. It's not your dream. It's not my dream, because my dreams aren't typically this nice." she explains, "... or this clean."

    She scritches the dog thoughtfully. "I don't think it's Paul's, because I can't imagine me being included with you as a package is his ideal. Geraldine doesn't know me. I've never met Renee..." she pauses, her nose wrinkles a moment.

    "You don't think this is Chas's dream, do you?

John Constantine has posed:
    John closes his eyes. "Fuck..." Because even if it's edited to freak, he is not changing it from his end. "Has to be," he murmurs, that sad back in his tone. "Of course this is what he wants." ...and it's John's fault he doesn't have it.

    ...and it's going to be his fault again because they can't stay here. "Well, I guess I have to go bust my best mate's happy bubble..." he says before turning for the door. Now to figure out how to make Chas ... wake up or whatever needs to be done to fix it.

    Fix it. Seems more like 'breaking it' truth be told. The thought of Paul standing in the kitchen nearly stops him in his tracks. Would it be so bad to just stay?

    It's not real. It's not *real* and, honestly, he doesn't want it if it's not *real*.

    So, out the door and next door it is.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Wait, John --" Phoebe starts, and she reaches out -- but notably doesn't touch him. Matter of fact, even in the dream world she looks hesitant to touch anyone.

    "Why would Chas dream about me living with you? Wouldn't I still be living with him?" she questions, "Or not figure into his personal life?" she asks, leaning out the door.

    "... and why the hell would he still be a *taxi driver* in his dream and not something more badass?" she reaches for her shoes, and goes to follow John.

John Constantine has posed:
    So maybe it's *not* Chas. Okay, well, one way to get to the bottom of it. Once outside, John raises his voice to that bellow he can manage when he wants to despite his scarred lungs. "I'm callin' a family meeting! On the lawn! Everyone, outside now! Paul! Chas! Geraldine! Renee!" He stands there, between the two houses and waits, expectantly, for everyone to file their way outside.

    ... that's John isn't it? Nothing much subtle about him is there?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Paul sticks his head out the window, and looks concerned.

    Chas and Renee come out the front, and Geraldine runs out first:

    "NO NO NO Don't tell Them about her!" she cries out. Poor Geraldine.

    Phoebe and paul come out and look very confused about this whole thing.

    "I... honestly don't know what's gotten into him. He got dressed for work..." Paul trails off, sounding a mixture of hurt and confused.

    So the whole 'Family' comes to gather on the back lawn, in a mixture of pajamas, housework clothes, and grass-stained jeans.

    Phoebe brings the dog, who barks happily and immediately tries to go to Geraldine.

    "--is that a dog? Chas, did you *get Geraldine a Dog*? Or was it /John/ just to peeve me off!"

    Yep. SOmething's monitoring the language used.

    So, they're all there, John.

John Constantine has posed:
    "No, I didn't get Geraldine a *dog*," John replies first. "...because none of this is *real*." Way to rip off the bandaid, right? "I don't sell insurance." He sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. "I *am* the insurance. ...or I try to be. The policy that protects ..." Another breath and a barked out, humorless laugh. "Bloody stupid analogy, John," he mutters under his breath.

    "One of you is dreaming this and it needs to stop, because *this* will never be reality. Chas, you and Renee don't live together anymore." The words physically hurt and he can't look at his best mate when he speaks them. "You divorced because she couldn't bloody well handle *my* shit and me dragging you into it."

    Paul, when he turns toward him, does get the brunt of his attention. "And us? We will never live together because as much as we love each other, you can't handle my shit."

    He turns to Phoebe next, just in case it *is* her. "...and you can't run from whatever it is that you are, you can't hide from it."

    Then to little Geraldine? Well, all he can say is, "Sprout, luv, Uncle John is *so* sorry that he ruined your life."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    The group all looks at one another.

    "John are... you sure you're all right?" Paul asks, reaching out to put his hand on John's shoulder. "From the moment you woke up this morning you've been off, and now you're saying that this isn't real?" Paul asks, looking to Chas. Chas looks mildly disturbed by the subject matter at hand, and reaches to draw Geraldine close. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Chas states firmly. "This... this has got to be real. It *Feels* real." he states.

    Renee looks just like a wet cat. "What do you mean we *divorced* because of you? What did you drag him into that made that happen? What's going /on/? Is he on drugs? He's got to be on drugs. Or maybe he should be on drugs.

    Geraldine looks very confused by all this, and quietly goes "Uncle John, you didn't ruin my life. My life is fine... do... you need a hug?"

    The Audience gives an 'awwwwwww'.

    Phoebe's the only one who reacts to it, looking around in concern.

    Paul's very quiet.

    "... John, were you writing in that story again?" he asks quietly, reaching for John's hand. "Dr. Huntoon said you shouldn't be writing in that anymore."

    Phoebe's eyes are narrowed, and she brings her hands together, and she draws them apart as everyone else is talking, and then she reaches to her shirt and pulls up the side of it, looking to her stomach where there is a huge, gnarly burn scar.

    "... what if we're all dreaming?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "No, it *doesn't* feel real, Chas because it's too fucking *perfect*." And life, least of all the life of John Constantine isn't *perfect*. It's all there now, now that he's broken through it.

    "Newcastle is where I damned a girl to *Hell*, Chas. Three years later, you were picking me up at Ravenscar."

    To Paul, "Right before I landed there, you Fell. An Angel fallen from grace because you saved my miserable life. ...one you can't bring yourself to share with me now." That last bit is barely audible and causes a lump in his throat that feels like it's the size of a fist. He swallows it after a few tries.

    "It's not a *story*, Paulie. *This* is the story."

    John spins on Phoebe, faded denim blues a little crazy and wide. "Then I'm ready to wake the bloody hell *up* because havin' what I can't have shoved down my fuckin' throat is *not* fun."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "... that's what I'm missing. I'm missing the circle." Phoebe states quietly, and she turns her left wrist over.

    "And I'm separate from you. Why." she asks quietly, and she looks over to John, watching him.

    "How did we meet?" she asks.

    "Your house burned down and you were too old for emergency services to place with a family and you didn't want to be at a hotel alone." Paul states as he stands.

    "And John, you're not well. Come now love, let's... let's get you inside, and we can talk."

    "... no he's right. I chose him over..." Chas begins, and Renee looks positively aghast.

    "He saved my life, Renee, how could I /not/?"

    And poor Geraldine just sits down with the dog, scratching the ears.

    And Phoebe squats down next to the dog, and looks at the furry, fluffy dog, and states to Geraldine:

    "It'll be all right, Geraldine. I know it's scary when the grown-ups start yelling, but this is just a dream. When you wake up, you're hardly going to remember a thing." Phoebe states gently.

John Constantine has posed:
    Out of all of it, it's Paul's words that register first. Confusion, fear, guilt, sadness... it all gets shoved aside by anger. He spins to face the fallen angel even more directly. It takes everything he has in him to not just sock Paul in the face.

    ...as it is, he strides forward and gives the man a shove with all he has, which isn't all that much truth be told. "Why?" First shove. "So you can say 'no' again?" Second shove if not stopped. "So I can lay it on the fuckin' line, open the bloody door and you can say 'NO'?!" Another shove. "*Fuck you*, Paulie!" Because anger's easier to feel than the hurt that's really driving him. "You *saved* me to leave me *alone* in a fucking *miserable* life because you can't handle it?!" SHOVE. *FUCK YOU!*"

    Poor Geraldine indeed. Poor everyone really, especially poor Paul?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Poor Geraldine. Such language! She cries out and reaches for John, since John is apparently angry enough to hit, Chas is walking forward to stop them, but then a quieter argument errupts out of Chas and Renee.

     Phoebe snatches the poor girl up and comfortingly says "Hey, it's all right. This part's the bad part of the dream--" she trails off, and puts the leash in the girl's hand.

    "Take our friend and go inside. I'll make sure things are okay out here and no one gets hurt. I'll send your dad in, in just a moment." she murmurs gently.

    "Fuck me? Fuck /you/! I Fell to save you! I gave up my entire existence so that you could go on, and then stayed in your life as long as I could until you sent me out, over and over again. You do not *want* me in your life, bossing you around, taking your freedoms. And instead what to do you? You go out and find people to beat the hell out of you instead! Do you think I do not see it, John, that I don't *feel* it every time you drag to the end of your rope and then just stop breathing for a moment? What am I to do? Break a promise that we both made just so *YOU* can kick me out again?" Paul just errupts, al though he doesn't lay a hand on John. "You can't leave the life well enough alone for a damn *week* let alone to actually manage having a healthy relationship because you'd just... go and self destruct again to drive me out!"

John Constantine has posed:
    "I didn't ASK you to save me, Paul!" John bellows back, right up in the taller man's face even if he near has to tip toe to do it. "...and the time that I *did* ask, you said no." That last bit is softer, barely over a whisper, but the pain in his heart his huge and loud, so loud. Then he just turns and walks away, both hands shoved into the pockets of his trench coat, pulling it tighter around himself like the ratty suit of armor it is.

    He doesn't have a clue where he's going, doesn't have a clue where he's at even. Could be he'll make it to the end of the street and the whole world will just end.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "John -- JOHN! Don't you walk away from me!" Paul calls out, taking a few steps, frustraited nearly to the point of tears.

    And as John walks, there are footsteps that follow behind him -- not Paul's, the footsteps are too quick and soft.

    And the girl in the Pink Floyd T-shirt falls into step, a half step behind and a step to the left of John as he walks into the mid-morning sunlight. It's a lovely sixty degrees. Someone's mowing, they wave in a friendly fashion to the two.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Go away," John mutters without even looking back. He does slip his shades from an inside pocket of his trench coat to put them on. Fucking sun. He doesn't look back, because he can't.

    He lights a cigarette with that familiar zippo and tucks it between his lips before shoving his hands back into his pockets again. It may be sunny, but it feels damned cold to him.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Nope. If it's my dream, I get to make sure the people I care about don't walk alone." Phoebe states, sticking her hands into the pockets of her jeans, though she squints in the light. "So you don't have to talk, just know that I try to listen when you do. I gave up a lot of things. If my dream's to be living in a garage loft of an insurance salesman, what's that say about me?" she gives a soft scoff, and just walks with him quietly. Just so that he's not alone.

John Constantine has posed:
    John keeps walking. He reaches up with his right hand to wipe at one eye and then the other, just smoke in them, breeze is blowing in his face. "You need to stop following me, now." His voice is firm, soft but firm.

    ...and he just wants to wake the fuck up. "If it's your dream, then fucking end it because it bloody well sucks."

    He walks a little faster, long legs eating up the distance between himself and the nowhere that he's heading.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I've been trying. Typicall my dreams aren't as nice as this. They tend to be a bit more gruesome, nightmareish type of dreams. And as nice as a change this was," Phoebe looks over to John as she jogs to keep up. "I just wanted to say a couple of things before I wake up, if it lets me. One: I'm still thankful for the chance to learn from you, and for your help." her pace picks up "And two: ... at least when I go looking for a punch in the face, I heal up before Chas sees it. He worries."

John Constantine has posed:
    "You shouldn't be, you won't be soon enough. You'll tire of it eventually, like everyone does... except Chas. Everyone gets tired of it or dies. Either way, they're not there in the end, when..." When he needs them most. John shakes his head and trails off, leaving that alone.

    "I'll start using make-up to cover them then. Not everyone has that luxury, aye?" His voice cracks, it cracks hard... "Now just wake the fuck up, please."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "No. I won't. I've had opportunities to leave. You've even told me to a few times... but I stay. Even when it feels like you don't want me. I'm used to not being wanted." she replies in a faux chipperness, "After all, you don't get abandoned in a liquor store because your parents want you. Choices were made. I've lived all my life that way -- but I think I have an idea now of what to do, to Fix It, Phoebe."

    And then, John is alone. Just a little patch of neighborhood. A curb. A mailbox that says CONSTANTINE, and has the address of whatever seedy little motel he was in tonight.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Give it a year, luv and you'll be sayin' no when I ask too," John murmurs to himself once he's alone. He fishes the flask from his pocket and polishes off the contents in one go. "Blimey, looks like I've shot me load," he mumbles. "Shoulda spelled myself one of those."

    Maybe, if he's lucky, whoever was in that hotel with him will still be there when he wakes up. If he's *really* lucky, they'll be in a bad mood.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    In order, the others awaken. Geraldine wakes up, surrounded by her dolls, and tiredly looks for the shaggy shepherd dog that had accompanied her. She hadn't even told her mom she wanted a dog -- she was sure Renee would say no.

    Renee and Chas wake up at the same time. Each had expressed that they missed their former 'other halves'. Both admitted they could have made better decisions.

    Paul wakes up with John's name on his lips in his Whitechapel apartment, sitting up with this strange, impending sense of doom.

    Phoebe, though, had already snuffed the candles in the circle and covered the little pot of insence she had lit, tucking everything -- and the pink floral pegasus -- back in her room.

    By the time anyone was able to rouse to full wakefulness from the accidental dream, the lock on the bar had been picked, the till had been emptied, and Phoebe had a passport identifying her as Janelle Baker (A cat behavior specialist from Bludhaven), and was booking a flight to Heathrow.