8214/So Close.

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So Close.
Date of Scene: 12 October 2021
Location: House of Mystery
Synopsis: ... and yet so far away.
Cast of Characters: John Constantine, Jonathan Sims




John Constantine has posed:
    Immediately following HUSH - Scene 8093

    "Who says I am?" John asks before they get through. Once in the house, he asks, "We going to the bar or staying here?" Because really? All he wants to do is shower off the blood, not look in a mirror and put on his favorite jammie bottoms, a t-shirt. Have a drink or twelve, a pack of Silks and get some research in.

    ...and maybe sleep.

    He pulls away from Jon and staggers a step or two before he finds his footing again without a lean-to. It's like watching a cop take off his uniform the way John empties his pockets of importants like his Silks, his lighter... and toss them on a table before stripping out of his trench coat, pulling the tie off, unbuttoning a few buttons, untucking the shirt from his pants.

    His demeanor even changes a little. It's like he gets softer around the edges.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Uhm," Jon says, "well. There's the girls. The women. The... people. Phoebe and uhm... who was..."

    He doesn't get through the rest of the sentence. It's a good thing the fainting couch is there, because Jonathan Sims faints right onto it, eyes rolling up into the back of his head and everything.

    Well, shit. Guess that answers that question.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Bollocks," John mutters under his breath as he's kicking off his right shoe. Left one still on, he shambles his way to Jon and that fainting couch. "I told you to bloody run, mate."

    He drops to his knees nearby - he really DOES spend a lot of time on his knees. He rubs his hands together quick, as if warming them with friction, muttering under his breath in Latin the whole time. At the end of the incantation, he lays one hand on Jon's forehead, the other on his chest just over his heart and begins yet another incantation.

    Blah blah something about his life force given freely to speed healing and restfulness... blah... blah.

    *ASSHOLE*

    It takes a second for it all to kick in and it took a minute or so for him to get to this point, but Jon will feel it, the warmth of that transfer of energy between the two of them.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    It's shortly after the spell starts working that Jon stirs and groans and turns over to curl up facing the back of the couch. "Martin?" he calls out, voice plaintive and vulnerable. "Martin, I had the most terrible--"

    His eyes snap open and he sits up abruptly, blinking rapidly. Not a dream. Martin is dead, and he's in the weirdest house he's ever had the pleasure(?) to be in, and there were alien bugs and an alien /in his head/...

    He groans and puts a hand to his forehead. Peers over at John, kneeling next to the couch. "What did you do?" There's an accusation in the tone. Aside from the headache he feels better than he's felt in weeks.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Nothing," John replies. "You passed out, I was just making sure you were okay, mate," he adds. It's so believable too. Oh, he could sell ice to an Eskimo and Bic lighters in Hell.

    He pushes himself to his feet and heads for the a little cabinet across the room. From it he pulls a bottle of scotch, the expensive stuff and two glasses. It would take someone paying *close* attention to him to see the way he pauses in front of that cabinet after opening the door, the way he presses one hand against the corner of the top and just stands there. Waiting for that wave of dizziness to pass.

    After a roll of his neck, a little stretching shrug of one shoulder, he turns back around with items in hand. "Want a drink?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon narrows his eyes after the man. "I /know/ you," he says. "Did you heal me? John, did you..." He sighs. "Of /course/ you did." He shakes his head. "One of the abilities of the Archivist appears to be that I heal faster than normal. Reasonable, given that I have the compulsion to stay rooted to the spot in the face of great danger." There's an undercurrent beneath the sarcasm; he's projecting it to cover over his fear.

    "Not that you care, you'll just... forge ahead anyway. Christ." Another sigh. "Yes, please. A drink would be... ideal."

John Constantine has posed:
    "Aye, mate, I don't give two shites," John quips in return. He settles the glasses down on the table near that fainting couch and pours a good triple into both. Anyone surprised when he tosses back his first like it's water and tops off the glass again?

    Truth be told, his own actual injuries are looking a little better. Better might be a relative term, he still looks pretty nasty, but all those little holes are scabbing over already. Demon blood, it's not *all* bad.

    The second drink gets tossed back, a third poured... that one he takes somewhere between a swig and a sip, swishes it like mouthwash, swallows and puts the glass down.

    With a little gesture toward what looks like an old damned radio that couldn't possibly work or play anything but A.M. stations, it comes to life... with the *oddest* of things, considering the magician behind hit playing.

    Spirit in the Sky - Norman Greenbaum. Wut?

    ...and the weird doesn't stop there. John closes his eyes, snaps his damned fingers through the intro, foot tapping and then...

    Is he *dancing*? Oh yes he is. And honestly? If he wasn't covered in scabs? That be kind of sexy in a bizarre, adorable kinna way. He's even singing and that? He does *well*.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon watches this with bemusement, drinking the scotch much more slowly than John did. Which is to say, he'll be done with it by the time the song's over. "I wonder if the Green Lanterns know the 'spirit in the sky,'" he murmurs, smmirking slightly. But he watches, head tilted a little, the way he used to watch at John's shows--fascinated, and entertained, and refusing to admit even to himself that there might be anything but friendly feelings underneath.

    Finally, though, when the song fades: "What the hell /was/ all of that, John?" He has to know. He /has/ to. Of course, he could maybe be put off for a bit, but he has a stubborn set to his jaw as he goes to pour another drink.

John Constantine has posed:
    The next song up - Somebody's Knockin' by Terri Gibbs. This is the same guy that has nothing but punk and classic rock on his jukebox in the bar. ... and he keeps dancing. He does stop singing though. That's good, means he can talk.

    But damnit, he boogies and shimmies his way right on over to Jon and holds out a hand. "Dance with me and I'll tell you mate." While he's there, close to the couch and the table, he downs the rest of that third *triple*. How the *fuck*.

    He's wearing a little cocky, half grin. But it's real for the moment, genuine, that smile. It makes those faded denim blues seem to light up. Coping... drinking and dancing, shoving it all down and tucking it all away and hiding it behind booze and whatever this is.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon stares up at him. "I--" Something constricts in his chest and he clenches his left hand, thumbing at the ring still on his finger. This wasn't the music they'd danced to, at least--he and Martin had spent a whole month memorizing Carly Rae Jepsen lyrics, for the gods' sake. And there's no risk John Constantine is going to put on 'Run Away With Me' and send him into a crying fit. So... what the hell?

    He glowers anyway, because that's required. "This is not emotionally healthy, John." But he downs the rest of the second scotch, then takes the man's hand and stands. He's not the world's best dancer, not when he's feeling awkward and has a headache. He used to hide behind characters when he was performing on stage. But he's up, and he's dancing.

John Constantine has posed:
    John, on the other hand, is a dancing fool. Who would have ever guessed it, but that boy can MOVE. ...and lead. Not that there's a whole lot of up close and personal happening, but he does grab Jon's hand here and there to send him into a spin.

    But as promised, he's also talking. "What was what? I have no bloody clue what those bug things were. I know what they came through, but I've not figured out what's causing them so frequently lately. I haven't had time. I need to though, they're getting worse."

    Make time? Between what? Chasing Cunty Cousin necromancers or hunting down Asshole Assassin sending ones? Or maybe between training teenage girls and making sure teenage vampires don't kill their friends? Or maybe he'll pencil it in right after ...

    Is it any wonder he's yet to figure out, or even think about, his most recent deal with Nergal?

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon actually appears to be used to being led, and spins easily enough, managing to /not/ trip over his own feet in the process. "You know," he says, "you ought to listen to Jake. I know you're somehow vehemently opposed to delegation, but people /can/ change, and it's a good idea."

    He frowns thoughtfully. "Who was the Lantern? Not the, uhh, alien who decided to prove why I'm terrified of being a psychic, the other one?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "I dunno, she came in for an interview for a cook's position today," John begins. The song switches to 'Crazy Little Thing Called Love' - Queen... and he keeps dancing. He does shimmie his way over to that table to pour another drink somewhere along the line though.

    "... I knew she was *something* when she walked in the door, when the map lit up to indicate trouble, well, you were there... I just brought her along. She's not like the other Lanterns though, whatever's in her ring is darker."

    He tosses back half that fourth and then he's leading Jon all over the little parlor.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Oh, that's all we need. I thought the stories were exaggerated, but the Lanterns really can..." Jon reaches up to rub at his head as John leads. "So let me get this straight. You have not one but /two/ Egyptian-tied family feuds you're dealing with, there's a vampire randomly feeding on your life energy, you owe a second debt to the demon that first set you on your path, there's some kind of thinning between the astral world and this one that you're trying to investigate, and that's on top of whatever this business is that had you giving me a blue amulet and then taking it back?"

    He regards John sardonically as he steps through some kind of sliding meanuver that looks like it belongs onstage. Stops at the end of it and says, "Have you considered taking up a hobby? Maybe you could save kittens from trees in your spare time."

John Constantine has posed:
    "No time, still have to work the side hustle to pay the bills." Because the bar sure doesn't turn a profit. "Got shot in the leg a few weeks back, some bitch wanting me to cleanse her home of her dead husband's spirit. Found out she killed him and put him six feet under in the back yard and built a gazebo over the grave."

    Then there's the random zombie infestations along the Cemetery Belt, the vampire raves...

    He stops dancing and just stands there. For just a beat in time, just a split second, he looks... so vulnerable, it's almost possible to *see* the weight of all of it pushing down on him. It passes quick though, too quick. ...and he keeps right on dancing.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "John..." He wants to stop, to walk over, to offer the man a damn hug. He almost does, dancing be damned. But even if he knows everything, he doesn't quite know how to handle it all yet. How to handle /any/ of it. He doesn't know whether a hug would be welcomed or rejected, and he /really/ doesn't know what he'd think about it himself.

    So he just sighs and shakes his head and stops dancing, to go pour himself another drink. "I really did listen," he says. "I did try to run. I just..." He frowns for a moment, fiddling with glass and liquid. "It's huge and overwhelming, and I don't know how to deal with it yet. And I'm not going to ask you to help, you've got enough on your plate. But I have /got/ to start figuring this out. Why didn't Gran--" He cuts himself off with a frustrated noise and takes another drink. It's too much, he knows it's too much, he'll have a worse headache in the morning. He cannot be bothered to care.

    Suddenly, "I need a cigarette. You want one?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "I'll make time, Arc..." And, well, just like that Jon has a nickname. "Tell me what I'm thinking right now..." It's a challenge, a pop quiz. Because he knows his mind is nigh on impossible to penetrate, especially when he's actively trying to stop such a thing.

    "I think she didn't tell you because she didn't know it would *be* you," he ventures a guess there, based on his earlier guesses. "Maybe she thought it would be that cousin, what's her name again? Sasha? What if she was supposed to get it and for some reason didn't, mate?"

    John nods to the table where he tossed his. He's still dancing, by the way, to Sunshine (Go Away Today) by Jonathan Edwards.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon grabs up the cigarettes, offers one to Constantine before he lights his own. "Martin loves this song," he says softly, then corrects himself. "Loved this song. I teased him it was just because he liked the rain. I used to... when it was sunny and he was griping about it being too bright..." He stops. Shakes his head, takes a drag on the cigarette. That way lies nothing good.

    He frowns at Constantine. "That... makes sense, actually. What she's done, Thoth would never stand for it, to have an Archivist that betrayed family like that. She should have known better."

    The frown deepens as he stares at the man like staring is good enough, like staring will pry open the man's head and give up his secrets all on its own. Of course, he's doing the work, mentally. There's a door in his mind behind which is all the knowledge of the prior Archivists, but that's not what the telepathy is like. It's more like hearing voices, but he knows there has to be a better way to think about it, because you can't just force yourself to hear a voice that isn't there. Can you?

John Constantine has posed:
    <<There's always a voice there, Arc. People never really stop *thinking*>> What the hell? Yes, John's perfectly capable of telepathy, but his is magical not... psychic. Didn't even feel him there, innit so? Sneaky bastard.

    <<Don't use a crowbar, use a bobbie pin, a credit card... pick the lock, don't try to bust it. Slip in through the cracks. Busting the entire door down is hard, especially if someone's mental fortitude is high.>>

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon shakes his head, irritable at the intrusion. He needs to learn how to put up wards. But the problem, and he knows it, is that he's a /visual/ person. The voices are a terrible jumble because they're voices, and there's another way to think about this. A better way.

    The Archivist closes his eyes, trying to remember what the Gotham University campus felt like. No voices at all, not out loud, but voices babbling, terrified, people shouting because they'd been silenced...

    No. No. Not voices. Think about it visually.

    There was a thinning in the barrier with the Astral. The Astral, realm of thoughts. And dreams.

    Abruptly the Archivist's perception shifts. They are not voices--they are nodes on the Astral, collections of thoughts and dreams, hopes and fears and jumbled emotions. There was Phoebe, bright and clear and shining, the Light pulsing out from her. There was Jessica, a tangled mess of paranoia and will, her own light just as strong, if different in color. And Thaal, his mind alien and overwhelming, terrible and terrifying in Jon's memory, a neon green that overcast everything else. There was Batgirl, daring and brave, shining purple in his Sight.

    There was John Constantine, the Hellblazer, red and orange and /fire/.

    Jon opens his eyes, letting the psychic Sight overlay his normal sight, and John is blazing fire here, but there is a barrier around that fire. Crystalline, intricate, wards made of will and words and blood. He tilts his head, studying it thoughtfully. Looking for a chink in the structure, an opening.

John Constantine has posed:
    John stops dancing and turns away to walk back over to that cabinet again. But not before the chink Arc's looking for can be spotted. The soft spot, the part of him that he tries so hard to hide from the rest of the world, the bit he tries so hard to protect from being broken even more than it is.

    The chink in John Constantine's armor... is his heart, a fist sized little patch slightly left of center in his chest.

    He opens the cabinet, rests his hand near the top again and seems to just be trying to make a choice of all the bottles in it.

    But that's not what he's doing at all and suddenly Arc *knows* it. Because he's found the chink. John's struggling to stay on his feet, to keep from passing out ... because his lifeforce is being pulled from him by a little vampire that has no clue she's doing it.

    "How about some brandy to switch it up a bit, aye?" he murmurs.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Of course it's his heart. What else would it be?

    "John," the Archivist says, and his voice is soft but firm. "Sit down, for god's sake. You're barely staying on your feet." A pause, and then, "What's she going to think when she finds out she's been taking your energy? She looked bright and happy, not the kind of person that would want to be feeding on you. How much is it going to tear her apart inside, that she's hurting you like this? That you /let/ her?"

John Constantine has posed:
    John looks over his shoulder, that hand still pressed against the top of the cabinet. The man *knows* how to hide his pain, he's a little like a dog that way. He knows he didn't give any clear, outward indication that he was in any sort of trouble.

    "You did it, mate," he offers along with a lopsided grin.

    ...and that's right about when that arm gives out, he staggers a stop forward, nearly busting his head on the cabinet itself before he staffers three steps back, one forward and then he's falling. He manages to land on his ass, but that quickly turns to laying on his back, knees bent up and his arm over his face.

    "Fuck..." Just a beat and... "I had to. Better this than her killin' a friend, aye?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon moves, but not fast enough. He ticks his lit cigarette in his mouth and kneels over Jon, checking to be sure he didn't hurt himself on the way down. "For fuck's sake, John," he says softly. "How are you going to help anyone like this? Phoebe /needs/ you. That child is terrified of dying and of what happens if she doesn't, and she's /depending/ on you to be... /you/ and figure out another way."

    There's sudden fury in his voice. "Did you even /ask/ her? Or did you just... /do/ it? Just lied to her, told her everything's fine and she can skip off into the night without a care?"

John Constantine has posed:
    John's arm over the face switches to his palm pressed against his forehead. This is typically where he would react with some sort of bluster of his own. But he doesn't. For a long few moments, he says nothing at all. When he finally speaks, it's a barely there, cracking voice that whispers...

    "It's my fault..."

    Is that a single *tear* that trails it's way down the side of his head toward the floor? He lowers his hand and rubs it away lickety split then raises that same hand to rub at one eye, then the other... hard, angry at them for starting to leak.

    Louder, not as shaky, no cracking, no more leaking eyes. "I should have forced the issue when she stumbled on me that night. Should have made her leave *before* I went into that nest."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Maybe you should have," Jon says, voice still stern, and it might be surprising. No 'oh no it's not your fault,' no 'well how could you have known.' It's... a lot like his grandmother, actually. "But you didn't. You're not going to fix it by killing yourself. If you want someone to whip you for your sins, there are places you can go to pay for that. Right now, you're burning the candle at three ends somehow, and one of these days you're going to run out of juice, and what happens when that's in the middle of some kind of, I don't know, threat to the voices of everyone in the world?" His own voice shakes; he /saw/ what they were facing, in a way John... well, maybe John had, but the Archivist /Knew/ what might have happened, if John hadn't managed that spell.

    "What happens if it's whenever we go to that door in the desert? What happens if that necromancer beats you because you're not at the top of your game? And then you die, and then Ms. Lee is left without anyone to help her navigate this, and Chas has lost his best mate, and Nettie's lost her old friend, and Phoebe's lost her father, and I've--/damn/ it, John, you don't /actually/ deserve all of this!"

John Constantine has posed:
    John drops his arm back over his face again. "It's not about ... never mind. Just go to bed, it's late, it's been a long night... I'll get up in bit."

    So fucking close, but it's almost palpable, when he starts to rebuild the wall that nearly crumbled away to let Arc *in*. Brick by brick it starts to go back up and, more like than not, even stronger this time.

    "She stopped, I'll be fine in a minute. Just a little dizzy." His voice is even, flat... all of it locked away again. "I always find what I have to when I have to, Arc. I don't fall down on the job."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "John..." He hesitates. He can feel the wall building up, and it brings a lump to his throat. After a moment, he says, "No. You fall down after." A pause. "You don't have to do that alone. You could let someone help." He reaches out a hand, to put it on John's shoulder. Squeezes, gently. His eyes are sympathetic, despite the anger he'd let out earlier. The alcohol's hit /hard/, his accent is soft than it usually is, his cadence less formal and precise. "Doesn't have to be me, but I'm going to keep making the offer as long as you need it."

    He sighs, then. "Thank you, for the... training, I guess. I'll stay out of your head. And I won't tell her, but--" He stops. Lecturing John any further on this tonight isn't going to get anywhere.

    He frowns. "You sure you don't want the help upstairs? I'm fine now, except for the headache, thanks to some meddlesome git I know." He smirks, trying to soften the joke.

John Constantine has posed:
    "If I can't make it up, the House'll move it down here," John points out. That's *insane* right. He jerks away from Arc's touch, perhaps a little too violently but that's not... it was more a panic move than an angry one.

    "Don't..." barely whispered again, but without all the cracking.

    "I'm fine." A breath and more firmly, more determined, more cerain, "I'm fine, Arc."

    Truth of it be told, he feels a little like if he breaks now, he'll never get put back together again.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon pulls back immediately. "Sorry," he says softly. "And you're not fine. But it's okay. I'll be here regardless."

    He gets to his feet, only wobbling a little, and puts out his cigarette. "I'm going to get groceries or something... soon. I need to cook something, not all of us can live off pop tarts and scotch." He was close to breaking, himself, and he's been doing his damndest not to. He knows everything about John, but John does not know everything about him, yet. Like how easy he is to break.

John Constantine has posed:
    "I'm out of pop tarts. Night."

    Scotch. He's not *that* far from the table beside the fainting couch. Hmmm, he's even closer to the cabinet. He doesn't even have to get up, just scoots the few little feet across the floor so he can snatch a damned bottle off the bottom shelf.

    ...scotch.

    By morning, that bottle will be gone and John'll be curled up on that fainting couch with a big old giant tome on Ancient Egyptian Cults in his lap and a pair of round reading glasses crooked on his face. A cigarette burned out on the floor where he dropped it as he passed out, won't have done any damage, the house can't be damaged that way.