8223/I'm tired.

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I'm tired.
Date of Scene: 13 October 2021
Location: House of Mystery
Synopsis: John comes home to find Jon cooking. Might be nice if John wasn't so damned tired. Exhaustion erodes the walls Constantine usually has up and potential dinner turns into a mess of emotion.
Cast of Characters: John Constantine, Jonathan Sims




John Constantine has posed:
    Hours, it took hours to get the wards on Nettie's upper floors up and running. It's a *lot* of detailed work, a lot of blood shed and a lot of energy. So, when John comes through the door, he looks like Hell. Most of his sores are healing nicely though, so he doesn't so much look like a leper.

    But all of that's moot, because he bypasses saying anything at all to Jon in favor of heading upstairs. Oh-no.

    But wait, is that the shower running? Could be he'll be back down?

    ...footsteps on the stairs. When John does return, his hair's damp still, he's wearing nothing but a pair of flannel pants with little witches on broomsticks. The pants themselves, they're orange. His chest, back, arms... the all of him is covered in those little healing sores. He's also covered in scars and tattoos but that's likely not a surprise for Arc. Each one, both scars and tattoos, has its own story.

    He heads straight for the liquor cabinet to snatch a bottle before heading for the kitchen.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    It's hard to say how far smells would go in the House of Mystery, but the kitchen, at least, smells /amazing/. Cumin and onions, tomatoes and garlic, coriander and lime. If John ever had the privilege of Gertrude Robinson cooking for him he might remember the smell.

    The Archivist is cooking koshary.

    He had to soak the beans ahead of time, and there was a /lot/ of precise chopping to do, and then, well... and then he messed it all up, and had a long... well, he didn't cry. He /hasn't/ cried, actually, not properly, not since Martin died. But he had a long 'sit on the floor with his head against the cupboards and almost give up and then start all over' including re-soaking a whole new pot of chickpeas and lentils. Which took /another/ three hours.

    Point being, by the time John Constantine drags himself in, Jon is /still/ in the kitchen, finishing up the sauce, which he got /right/ this time instead of burning it and making the whole thing useless. Maybe the House is putting up with this because it knows he needs the catharsis. That or it wants John to eat something decent for once. He pokes his head out of the kitchen as John goes by, peers after him, frowns, then shrugs and goes back to cooking.

    When John comes back in, he says, "Good evening. Morning. Whatever." He has scars on his own face, now, little round pockmarks, as if some portion of John's healing last night just didn't take properly. "Everything okay? No, ahh, world-ending threats?" He glances over, quirking a brow. It's not quite flippant, but he figures /something/ had to have kept John out so late.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Had to ward Nettie's place," John replies. He settles down at the kitchen table and screws open that scotch and sucks it straight from the bottle. Someone attach a nipple to that thing. Could he look any more exhausted than yesterday? Yes he can. His dark circles have circles and the hand holding that bottle shakes a little.

    "Are you about to fight with me over eating? I know it smells good, but my stomach is turning circles right now."

    Maybe because it's being eaten away by SCOTCH, *John*.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "You know, I wouldn't have, but I might just given that you say that and then drink Scotch," Jon replies. "Anyway, koshary, like curry, is one of those dishes that cures all ills. This is the second batch, and your House has graciously put up with my completely botching the first and almost setting the whole kitchen on fire, so I think you owe it to the place to at least try it."

    A pause, and then he looks up from where he's turning off the stove under a pot of rice. "...That was a joke. I didn't set anything on fire." John might actually worry.

    "Why did you need to ward Nettie's place /right now/ and until half two in the morning? Something threatening?"

John Constantine has posed:
    After a moment, John stands again and goes to one of the kitchen cabinets. He jerks down a box of steri-strips and back to the table he goes. Everyone knows that he's pretty... insistent on being 'independent', but watching him try to use those strips on the gaping cash on his left palm by himself is *ridiculous* levels of 'I'll do in myself'. Ridiculous, seriously... but it's also an indication of just how deep that particular neurosis runs, innit?

    "Couldn't burn it anyway, it's indestructible." That's convenient.

    "No... she needed some sort of training space for her students. Well, one of them got snatched or something, but I'm not sure that's an ongoing threat and the girl left before I did."

    He continues to struggle with the strips, but, well, pulling his skin together and places the strip with one hand isn't working so well. ...and the wound looks like two cuts, not one. It's... gross honestly, the bleeding's stopped and didn't start back with the shower, but it's showing all sorts of pink meaty hand 'insides'.

    "I don't have to chew and swallow scotch, mate."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon actually stops and stares for a moment, then turns down the simmering pot of sauce on the stove and goes to grab antiseptic and gauze. He walks back over and firmly takes the box of steri-strips from John. "Let me do that," he says in an irritated tone. "'Hey mate could you give me a hand with this' are all words that are individually in your vocabulary, you know. I've heard you say each of them."

    He reaches down to take John's hand and winces visibly. Looks around. "...This would be a /brilliant/ time for a proper med kit, because the edges of this are too ragged for steri-strips." Does the House provide in that manner?

John Constantine has posed:
    "Under the sink," John replies. "In the back..." He's a little grumpy about it though and has to bite back the 'I was handling it' that springs to mind. Literally, he cannot *stand* needing help.

    ...or showing weakness of any kind. If a person's weak, then they become a victim innit so? How much of John's life was spent as a victim? His entire childhood, three years in Ravenscar?

    Don't show weakness, don't become a victim again.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon goes to grab the kit from under the sink. "Why in the bloody hell couldn't Nettie have done it herself? Or... I don't know, some /other/ magician, you two cannot /possibly/ be the only magicians in New York." He turns off the burner under the sauce entirely, comes back over to the table with the med kit, frowning irritably. "I won't bother asking why you didn't say 'no,' because I /know/ you, but she knows gods-damn well what you're dealing with by the conversation we had the other night. You're running on empty. Should I put up a sign: 'Jonathan Sims, MD, says John Constantine is not allowed to do random magic at least until Phoebe Beacon is safe'? Christ on a /stick./"

    The whole time he's griping about it, he's laying out what he'll need--the antiseptic, the actual suture kit, the gauze. He starts gently cleaning the wounds with antiseptic, his hands far gentler than his irritated voice.

    "Four wounds. Four walls, I'm guessing? And this one... good /lord/ you're lucky you didn't sever the tendon." There's barely-constrained fury in him. He's trying not to direct it at John. He's not mad at John in this. Not entirely. Maybe Nettie. Maybe the universe?

John Constantine has posed:
    "No one lays ward work like mine, mate." Now that? That isn't even a narcissistic statement, that's the hand to God truth of it. John doesn't have the raw power of the likes of Zatanna, but he makes up for it in skill and knowledge.

    Stoic, that sums up his reaction to the cleaning. He doesn't even flinch other than an involuntary twitch of a finger here or there.

    "Most rooms have four walls, mate," he jabs in return. ...and he seems fine, snarky and bitchy and just... John. Until...

    Out of nowhere, that hand starts trembling violently, along with his other one. He sets the bottle down lest he drops the damned thing. He sucks in a breath, then another, one more and that last is breathed out with, "I'm fuckin' tired, Arc." Barely a whisper and his voice as shaky as his hands.

    Where did THAT come from? The bottom of the barrel, that's where.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I know," Jon says softly. "Why do you think I'm so angry at her? I don't know much about magic, but I cannot imagine that it is an inexhaustable well, particularly when you've been doing all you have of late."


    The wounds are clean, but he can't very well suture them closed with John's hands shaking like that. So he keeps hold of the hand while he hooks his ankle around the leg of one of the chairs and pulls it over so can sit down. Keeps hold of John's hand, looks up at him with sympathy and concern. "I've seen this before, you know. I've... treated a lot of people who... help. They push and push, burn through their reserves, exhaust themselves taking care of others, but if they don't take care of themselves..."

    He hesitates. "I... I know... I understand. You're scraping the bottom of the barrel and coming up empty."

John Constantine has posed:
    "What do you do though, when you're the only one that can do it, or you're the only one that's *willing* to do it?" John asks, still a barely whispered, shaky voice to match those trembling hands. He's even fucking *shivering*.

    "When it comes down to it, yeah, maybe there are people willing to try and *help*, but Chas can't do what I do, Phoebe can't, you can't. I mean there's Zee, but... She's not around that much."

    The more he talks, the faster his words become, tumbling out one on top of the other. "... the magic, that's on me, it's always on me... it'll always be on me and I can't... lose her... I can't let them kill you... I can't let the whole world go silent... I can't..."

    "I can't..."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "You let them help you with other things," Jon replies gently. "Like food, and sutures, and... dancing to 70's music like a damn fool." He smiles softly, sadly. "You ask the /actual/ servants of the Egyptian gods for help figuring out what's going on with Phoebe. You unburden yourself to the Archivist. You let people do what they can, so /you/ can do what /you/ can."

    There's an undercurrent there, grief and pain, but Jon's doing his best to hold it back so he can help Constantine. Because he's a hypocrite. And because if he falls apart, well, one man falls apart. If John Constantine falls apart, people might die.

    He reaches out to take John's other hand. "Why do you think I keep insisting you let me help? I don't even know what all I can /do/ yet, John. Not what you can, no, but... I can cook. I can listen. I can figure out what's going on. Hell, I /did/ figure out a piece of it, earlier. That's part of why I stayed up, waiting for you."

John Constantine has posed:
    One single word flashes so bright in John's mind that it's impossible to miss, 'Synchronicity'. It's a bitch of a thing and one of the biggest reasons he's so terrified of letting anyone help. Bigger than seeming weak.

    "What did you figure out," John asks, deflecting right to something else to focus on, skipping over all the rest of it.

    Is it getting warmer in the room? Why it is. Because the House just kicked up the heat when John started shivering. Helpful House.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "No," Jon says firmly. "Not until you let me bandage this and promise to try some of Gran's koshary." His gaze is just as firm. "You may be a master of magic, but /I/ am a master of information. And I will remind you that you don't actually know what I've been doing these past eleven years. You don't know what I know, what resources I have access to. You've been so damn focused on seeing me as a puzzle to solve and a wayward soul to rescue that you haven't stopped to find out."

    Admittedly, this firm-backboned Jon is not the way the guy was at /all/ in John's memory. He was belligerent, to be sure, but the moment he was pushed on something he'd back off as if he were deathly afraid of starting a fight. Which could explain John's attitude thus far--he actually knew Jon in one of the worst periods of his life.

    Jon continues, "If I have to, I can figure out my situation on my own--not as well as you can, no, but if I have to, I can and I will. If you want to help me, you are /going/ to let me help you in the ways that I can. Which, right now, means medical attention and food, and a promise not to go haring off without me on this business, dangerous as it is."

John Constantine has posed:
    John pulls his right hand free from Arc's but it's only so he can grasp his own left wrist to try and still that trembling. It works, for the most part. "I can't eat right now," he murmurs. ...and it's the honest to God truth of it. "I'll just throw it up."

    He looks down at... whatever's down. Probably his own lap and those ridiculous flannel pants. "You don't understand, Arc. People *die* around me. They fall like fucking flies and I'm left standing in the middle of it all, still here. Even if you knew everything you needed to know about all of this stuff, I'd..." A little shake of his head, bottom lip caught between his teeth. "... I... fuck. Bloody fucking *hell*. You just don't understand."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Yes I /do/," Jon snaps as he moves back to the suture kit, picks up needle and surgical thread. "Everyone I have /ever/ cared about in my life except for you is /dead/, John. Christ, you think I don't understand?" There are tears in his eyes; he has to dash them away. "Until I walked into the Laughing Magician and saw you there, I thought I was /alone/ in the world. Every friend, every lover, every family member except Sasha is /dead/. I just went to two funerals in the space of a week, you think I don't... /get/ it?"

    A pause as he slows his own breathing and then starts to sew up the wounds. He's not skilled or practiced at the business, but he knows the basics, and has spent time practicing sewing and the like.

    "And before you say 'it's different'... it's not. It's... /me/. Or rather, the power I've been given. I would not be surprised to learn that you and Gran met so she could keep an eye on the doings of your first Silk Cut."

John Constantine has posed:
    "Try fifteen years of it," John snaps back. "Fuck... I'm sorry," softer. He's just *raw*, one big ball of emotion and nothing left to hide them behind.

    "I'm sorry," he repeats, but it's hard to say if he still means for snapping or something else. The last bit will click as important, it will.

    ... but, there it is, that first strangled, choked little hiccup of a sound that almost a sob. The turning point, the damn ready to burst. Question is, will he let it or dig deeper and plug that crack and start to rebuild those walls again.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "It's not your fault, John." Jon doesn't look up from his suturing, not right away. "It's /not your fault/. None of this. It's not /you/. He's not after me because of you, John." He ties off the suture on the first wound, snips off the end.

    Then he looks up sharply, eyes suddenly widening. "Oh, Christ, you think this is your fault. You think... you think Gran's dead and Martin's dead and I'm in trouble because /I'm your friend/, don't you? You... you /arrogant/, /narcissistic/, /self-centered/..."

    Rather abruptly, Jon leans out of his chair to wrap his arms around John in a firm hug. "It's not your fault," he repeats, fiercely. He's... not crying. Not quite.

John Constantine has posed:
    "It always is," John whispers in return. His voice sounds so *small*, like that little five year old hiding under the stairs as his father screamed and called him a murderer.

    At first that hug just causes him to go all tense and rigid, he even might feel like he's pulling away from it. For just a second he is. But that second passes and there's another of this little choked sounds, one more... and finally there's just tears.


    They're not quiet ones either. No, like magic, these tears are messy and loud and might even end with snot places it shouldn't be. This is *ugly* crying. His entire body shakes with it.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "It's not," Jon whispers even as the other man falls apart in his arms. "It's /not/. Not this time." And not so many of the other times, but Jon can't prove that the way he can prove this. Proof he'll give in a little while, when the tears have passed.

    "I'm not going to die on you, John," he says a little louder. "Thoth /chose/ me for this. He'll keep me alive for a while yet. But you... you can't sacrifice yourself, you can't /die/ on me, I don't have... I don't have anyone /else/, I c-cant... /lose/ you again..."

    And then he suddenly buries his face in John's shoulder, his own shoulders shaking a little. His tears are quieter. He's so used to holding them back that he makes very little sound when they come out.

John Constantine has posed:
    Well, aren't they just the pair? John's arms finally raise to pull Arc in closer, tighter. But who's he really holding on so tightly for? His friend or himself? Both. A little of both. It doesn't take all that long for him to end up empty on the tears side of things as well. He's exhausted and crying is *tiring*, even if it's... in a good way at the end.

    But he holds on still, waiting for Arc to get what he needs out. When they're both all dried up and rung out, John pulls back just a little and puts his right hand on Arc's cheek, pad of his thumb brushing away the remnants of tears.

    It's there, for just a split second, a sudden and compelling urge to kiss his friend. It hovers there in that moment, nearly a tangible thing before John squashes and lets his hand drop and pulls back a little further to say, "I don't know what that was, someone must have spiked my scotch, mate."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon smiles back, misty-eyed. "Must have. John Constantine can't possibly be a /human/ who needs /comfort/ at times." The sarcasm is threaded through with fondness, more light-hearted teasing than anything else.

    Then he blinks, and his cheeks darken /just/ a touch, and he's scrubbing at his tears and pulling away, all business, grabbing up the sutures again. His own walls are not as high nor as strong as John's--where the magician is a vertiable fortress at times the psychic is /meant/ to be vulnerable to people, and his defensive walls are more like a pop-up tent to protect a party from the rain. They are, at the least, /terribly/ obvious.

    "So," he says crisply as he takes John's hand back to continue sewing up the wounds, "that is, in fact, what I discovered. If I am understanding the information correctly--and I really do need to figure out how to control these things--Gran was under the impression that /I/ would not actually be the Archivist. Sasha was supposed to be the Archivist, and Gran thought that at least up until a month or so before her death."

John Constantine has posed:
    Not so stoic through it all now. Of course suturing hurt before, but John was just better at hiding it. Now he's just that much more exhausted and that much less able to do so. Every now and again sucks in a little hiss of a breath, or lets out a little half 'snarl' of a sound that's not really a snarl at all so much as it is and abbreviate, wordless version of 'fuck that hurts'

    "I can... I could... we can ask her questions. See what she knows." It's just too fucking hard yet to say 'I can summon Gertie's *ghost*." So here's to hoping Arc reads between those lines.

    "It may not be connected to me... but it's still *him* and that. I can summon him too. I've done it before, circle and all, he can't get out of it. At least not for a little while."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "She's been speaking to me in my dreams," Jon says. He's being as gentle and slow as he can, but if he goes /too/ slowly that will just prolong the whole business. "That's not how I got this information, though, I, ahh... I had a chat with Phoebe, and she turned out to be in an Archivist memory." He sighs, shakes his head. "That poor girl," he murmurs.

    Then, "As for summoning him... well. That... might actually be a good idea, when I have a better handle on this. I think he wants the Archivist power. I... alright, so the way it works is that the Archivist power goes to the eldest child of the next generation. If an Archivist dies without descendants, it goes back up and over, and so on. Sort of like, ahh, a royal family but with no gender distinction. Sasha is older than I am. We're both only children. My mother and both uncles died in order of birth."

    He glances up at John. "One of those uncles died when he was /twenty/. In 1980, seven years before either of us were born. He's been after this power for a /long/ time, John. And I think he stopped killing prospects off when he found one that would work for him."

John Constantine has posed:
    The mention of Phoebe causes him to tense, fear does that.

    He listens, processes, and learns and then... backtracks to...

    John pulls his hand away, suturing or not. And holds both hands palms up, facing Arc. He shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.

    "Nuh-uh. No. Bloody fucking hell no. No. If I summon him, you won't be there. No. That *will not* happen." He seems pretty set on that doesn't he? "You have no idea... you don't, I won't. Not with you there." Nergal *terrifies* him, probably more than just about anything he's ever faced. It's a little ironic, because at the core of it? Nergal's probably *almost* as afraid of John Constantine; the man that's escaped him more times than once. Hell, even pretty much destroyed him once by tempting him too close to the gates of Heaven. Seriously, demon bitch got smited by an Angel that time.

    But he came back, perhaps with a healthier respect for John, but also with a mind for revenge.

    "No."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon gives Constantine a flat look. "You making a deal with him won't fix this. You're not listening, John. He wants the Archivist power. He had a fully trained and prepared Archivist, and they killed the current one, and the power /skipped/ his patsy and went to me instead. That /doesn't happen/. If they kill me? It'll just back up and over to... fuck, I don't know, some second cousin? And then they can just track down everyone in the damn world and it'll /never/ go to Sasha. Because /Thoth/ doesn't want it to."

    Jon takes in a long breath, lets it out. "I don't mean right now. I don't mean anytime soon. I mean when I know what I can do, when I can /be/ the Archivist, properly. Maybe there's another way to deal with this, but I'm /fairly/ certain an actual fucking god telling this damn demon to back the /fuck/ off will work."

    Jon frowns. "...What else can we even /do/? Ward the power so strong he backs off? Destroy the whole damn thing?"

    He winces, visibly, and glances over his shoulder. "/Fuck/, I didn't /mean/ that, I just... /you/ tell me what to do then! Your bright idea was coming to the 'Constant One' and /his/ bright idea is 'summon the demon he owes his soul to twice over'!"

John Constantine has posed:
    *He* will *never* get near you," John insists. But his wheels are turning. There's... an idea there, forming but not clear enough yet. He's too damned tired for it come together.

    ...and he's anxious and irritated and when he *sees* the manifestation of Thoth an Arc's shoulder, he pulls a classic John with, "Get the fuck out of my house."

    Oh John.

    But seriously, get the fuck out of his house. "Unless *you're* going to help."

    "Ngggg..." That's a real sound and he makes it, it's halfway between irritation and frustration, with himself... because it's *right there* and he can't put the pieces together.

    "I'm tiiiired," he whines.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The ibis just /looks/ at John, and then pointedly /looks/ at the Archivist, as if to say 'I'm offering help. It's not /my/ fault you're ignoring every offer of help you're being given.'

    Then it disappears, and Jon blinks. "You... you can see...?"

    No, no, that's not important. His expression softens. "Alright. Here." He grabs the man's hand and goes to finish suturing the last wound. "Let me finish this, and then I'll put up the koshary, and we can eat some tomorrow. And you are /going/ to try it, because I did /not/ spend eight hours cooking to be the only one eating it, okay? But. In the morning." He smiles gently. "In the meantime, we can both get some sleep."

John Constantine has posed:
    Once the suturing's all done up proper, John crosses the distance between the two of them. He's a quick little shit. Both hands end up on Arc's cheeks, but only because he has to put them there in order to angle his head up... so he can plant a kiss...

    ...on his *forehead*.

    Dude's like four inches taller than him, innit so? So he had to snag him while he was still sitting.

    "He's not getting *near* you," he repeats that earlier statement just to make sure that's all clear as a bell.

    "I need to hit the library, then go to bed." Before protests can happen, John's out of the kitchen and just... gone. Because the door to the library? It's not something that can be seen unless it's meant to be seen, unless a person is invited into it.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon is left there, blinking in utter confusion for a long moment. He actually puts a hand to his forehead. What the /hell/ was that?

    He sighs. "You were right, Martin. You always are. He /is/ a nutter."

    Then he laughs softly, and gets up to clean up the medical stuff and the food, leaving out a plate for himself to eat. It's been a long day. Week. Month. Whatever.