8262/How do I Choose...

How do I Choose...
Date of Scene:	16 October 2021
Location:	Back Room - The Laughing Magician
Synopsis:	Jon stumbles on a manic, panicked John that has so much on his plate he doesn't even know where to start or what to do first. In the end, John has it straight in his head, what needs to be on the front burners and what needs to be on the back.
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Jonathan Sims

---

John Constantine has posed:
    Usually pretty tidy and neat, the backroom of the Laughing Magician is currently a *mess*. It's an organized mess, but it's a mess. Two amulets lay on the table, silver and ivory, they're surrounded by a book, a bowl, a little vial of something dark green and a syringe? Odd. On the other side of the table is a map of the united states, a pendant and a dagger along with John's hairbrush and a vial of Phoebe's blood. At one end, is a GIANT stack of books, all of them dealing with demons. A few of them are opened to various pages with a note pad near by filled with scrawled little rambling thoughts of the Laughing Magician.

    John himself is standing in front of another map of the United States with a little tin filled with black pushpins. He's scrolling through his phone and adding a pin every so often, they span the *entire* country, from one end to the other, growing less dense the further away from New York one gets.

    He keeps turning back to the table then back to the map to place another pin, then he puts the pins down to move to the amulets and pick one of them up. He puts it down... he goes to the books, turns a page in one, closes it, back to the pins and the maps. He can't breathe... or it seems like he's struggling to anyway. But he's still bloody moving. He's pale and sweating and shaking, but he's *still moving*.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon spent the day upstairs on Chas' couch, firmly inside the wards John has set up... monologuing. Writing the letter the night before had made him realize he needed to put down his own racing thoughts into some kind of order, which had turned into... well... the Archivist monologues. So he'd recorded his thoughts onto a little mini tape recorder, and he felt... surprisingly better, having done so. Lighter, somehow. As if everything he'd been doing had been weighting him down and he'd /needed/ to talk it all out at something.

    Not that it made /everything/ better, but it helped.

    A vague sense of... /something/ pulls him downstairs finally, and he comes into the back room with a frown, hands dug down deep inside the pockets of his cardigan, the same one he was wearing the night before. At first on seeing John there he stops, and almost turns away. He figures John won't want to see him, will still be angry. He figures John will seek him out when he's ready.

    But then he puts everything together, and he's trained for it--the sweating, the shaking, the paleness, the breathing or lack thereof.

    Jon's tone is /very/ neutral when he speaks, controlled, pitched so as not to startle the other man. "John?" he says, softly, more to announce his presence than anything else.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Busy," John mutters, it's a little hard to even get that one word out. He's really starting to *gasp*. He does have lung problems though? Is this what that is? If it's not that... that probably isn't *helping*.

    His phone pings some sort of simple message alert and he looks down at it. "BLOODY FUCKING HELL!" He bellows... at the phone. He looks back up at the map and presses another pin into place. Then he's going back through California and counting the pins. "Two more just since yesterday," he mumbles to himself.

    Then he counts Ohio. "Six more since yesterday..."

    Then he puts the pins down again and turns for the table. If his breaths become any more shallow and rapid... they won't be breaths at all, they be fucking death rattles.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "John." His voice is firmer, this time. "You need to breathe." There's no judgement in the tone, no anger, just... a firm statement. "Stop, and take a breath, and look at me." A pause, and then, "...Please?"

    He steps all the way inside and closes the door behind him. Looks around at the map, at the pushpins, at the books and the ritual implements. Some of it he can guess at, but some of it is... he has no idea what it's for. He's got to get John calmed down before he can find out, though.

John Constantine has posed:
    John's cancer's been gone for a long time, but the damage to his lungs is still pretty significant and continuing considering he still smokes about three packs a day. So even though he doesn't immediately even seem to notice that Jon's still speaking to him, he gets sidelined.

    By a coughing fit. It's not even just a *fit*, it's something beyond that. It has him doubled over hands on his knees and coughing violently, spluttering and gasping for air; his face an angry shade of red and then purple. One hand strays up to cross over his chest, because damn it feels *tight*.

    Panic attack, probably just that, but made soooo much worse by the fact that he's at least carrying around beginning stages of COPD if not worse than 'beginning'.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Bloody /Christ,/" Jon mutters, and then he walks over to kneel down and wraps one hand around John's arm, the other over the man's hand on his chest. "You are having a panic attack," he says in a tone of authority. If John /isn't/ there isn't much to be done, and if he is a firm hand will help. "I need you to look at me."

    There's a pause, and then the next words come out thick, hit against John's mental wards harder than normal, trying to find their way past the chink in the armor: "John, /look at me/." He doesn't mean to do it, he /never/ means to do it, it's almost an instinct.

John Constantine has posed:
    It doesn't happen right away, because John can't quit coughing long enough for it to happen. Finally with one forceful hack that sounds like a cat coughing up a furball, he clear it. It's a big old giant glop of mucous and it hits the floor when he spits.

    Panic attack? Check. Chronic lung disease exacerbated by the constricting of his chest wall, the stress he's been under, the no sleep, the poor diet, the continued smoking and drinking? Check.

    When he *finally* looks at Jon, those faded denim blues are watery, red-rimmed and the left one has more red than white in the sclera. Wasn't like that before, must have burst some capillaries during that fit?

    "I can't stop... there's too much." Breaths still labored, still pale, still sweating, but he seems to at least be able to take breaths that will sustain life for an extended period.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I know it feels that way," Jon says, his tone terribly, terribly patient. "I know it's a lot. You need to breathe first." He's not really 'Jon the Archivist' or 'Jon Sims, the grumpy friend' right now, he's 'Dr. Sims' and for once he actually knows what to do. Mostly. He hopes.

    "You're dealing with a lot right now. Maybe I can help you sort through it. But first, we need to stop the panic attack." His brown eyes are firm, kind--dark-circled but not half so tired as John's. He's running through techniques in his head and starts with the simplest: "Can I give you a hug?"

John Constantine has posed:
    John shakes his head, just tiny little motions, but quick and a jerking. "No... no you don't ... you don't know." He looks up at that board with all the little pushpins. "Those are all, they're all thinnings. People have died." He spins to look at the table. "I can't find it, the thing last night. I can't find find. I can't stop. I'm failing *everyone*."

    Tears well but he blinks them back through sheer spite and willfulness. He sucks in one deep breath that sounds like it bloody well *hurts*, it's rasping like parchment paper rubbed together. One more... then another. And again, through sheer spite and willfulness, his breaths ease into something more normal, but still there's that raspy sound to each one.

    "I'm fine."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon raises a brow. He doesn't move. "I /do/ know, John. I know /precisely/ what it means to hold someone's wellbeing in your hands, to know they could die if you don't get it right. How fragile that is. How terrifying." His voice eases out of the controlled tone, a little bit. "It helps, sometimes, to talk it through with someone else. Doesn't have to be me, but I think Chas is out and I know you don't want to drop this on Phoebe."

    He pauses. Swallows. "You're mad at me. You have every right to be. I'll leave if you'd rather. But I think I can help, with this at least, even just as someone to talk this through with. If you're willing."

John Constantine has posed:
    "Do you? Do you *know*, Jon?" It might be important to note that the nickname's gone for the moment. He stabs a finger in the direction of that map. "If *one* person died for each of those pins, that's four hundred and thirty seven people." He marches closer to it and points to a pin in Arkansas. "But /fifty-two/ died just *here*! Do you know who could have, *should* have stopped it, Jon? ME! ...and the numbers won't be *smaller* tomorrow!"

    He makes his way to the table next, but his voice is softer by the time he speaks again. "I *still* haven't found that bitch and I should have *weeks* ago. I found Sasha last night and I should have *fucking killed* her. Jubilee's running around with no protection... Lydia, I haven't even ... I don't even know what's happening there yet. I have the building next door to ward before we can start moving things into it. I have a job tomorrow that can't be skipped or we won't have power *and* I have my daughter's thing tomorrow night. I get to dress up and pretend that people *aren't* dying on my watch." A snort. "Fun."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I do," Jon says as he straightens. "Maybe not four hundred and thirty seven, but I... have failed people, in the past." He frowns. "People have died, because I didn't do my job properly. And I have watched... do you have /any/ idea how many people code in ambulances every day in New York City? Do you think EMTs don't blame themselves, just a little, every time? Not to mention shit I can't /tell/ you because of patient confidentality. You're not the only person around here who deals with life-or-death situations. You're right that what you're dealing with is bigger, but of all the things I know how to do, helping the people who hold the lives of the world in their hands is the /one/ fucking thing I'm qualified for around here."

    He stops, takes a breath. This isn't the time for another argument. "Alright, look. Forget... it doesn't matter if I understand what you're going through. What matters is... alright, so." He goes over to the blackboard, starts writing on it, bullet points:

    * Phoebe's Bitch Cousin
    * Jon's Bitch Cousin
    * Jubilation Lee
    * Lydia
    * Wards on building
    * Job tomorrow
    * Fireman's Ball

    He turns to John. "Okay. What on that list can /only/ you deal with? Just you, only you, can't possibly offload it to anyone else?" He glances back. "I know for a /fact/ you're not the only person who can help Jubilation. I got her in touch with Mr. Knight at the Midnight Mission."

John Constantine has posed:
    "He won't be able to do for her what I can," John shoots back. "I have it figured out, just need to perform the ritual." Not cocky, not arrogant, just facts. Can Mr. Knight allow her to share the intimate act of feeding from her lover without the risk of killing her?

    "I don't know what's going on with Lydia, so I don't even know what needs to be done there." So maybe that can be scratched off .. for now. "There's nothing else there that anyone else can do." Again, not arrogant, in fact... he sounds a little sad.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Have you asked Jubilation about the ritual? Made sure she's okay with you doing it?" A pause, and then Jon adds, "Even if you have--Mr. Knight can keep her /alive/ and not /killing anyone/ until you /can/ do the ritual. Priorities, John. You don't know what's going on with Lydia, okay." He turns to cross it off the list. "Only you can do the wards, I believe you--does that have to be /right now/ or are you wanting to get it done so you have somewhere to stick us while you're dealing with other things?" He doesn't say it in a petulant manner--it's quite matter-of-fact.

    And then, "Whatever job you're doing, Chas can't do it? Or another of the blue amulet people?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "It's a possession in Africa, little girl." John sucks in a breath and almost seems he might be heading back toward panic mode in the way it hiccups and sticks in his chest, but he sucks in another and breathes out, "So, no... no one else can do it." It's impossible for anyone with any insight into John Constantine to realize the implications of 'possession of a little girl'. Astra.

    "And yes, the warding needs done as soon as possible, because if these thinnings progress as quickly as I'm afraid they might, not everyone is going to want to live in the fuckin' bar."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Oh," Jon says. "Yeah. That's got to be you." And that's all. He nods. He understands. "Alright. So. Six impossible things before breakfast." He laughs ruefully. "If only you had a time machine, right?"

    He scrubs his hands through his hair. Stares at the list. "Okay. Is there anything anyone else could /help/ with? Research? Me staying in the fucking House so you don't worry about me while you--"

    And then he stops and turns back. "Y-you... /found/ her?" His tone is a little strangled. "And you... didn't kill her. Th-that... ahh... umm... I'm not... upset... I'm..." He blinks rapidly. He's processing this.

John Constantine has posed:
    "I wanted to follow her around for a while, see what I could figure out," John replies quietly. "By the time I got back to my body, Paul was all fuckin'... He wouldn't let me do anything just then." ...there's someone that is allowed to 'not let' John Constantine do something? "So I had toast and eggs and by then it was time to be back here for the cleansing of a house I did today." Now that one was bogus, the woman insisted there was a haunting and there wasn't one, but who is he to say 'no' to some woman's peace of mind and a grand in the pocket?

    "Chas... Chas goes through books with me sometimes, knows what to look for. Paul. Not really anyone else, because they just don't know what to look for. Sometimes a thing isn't what it seems to be."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon just stares at Constantine for a long moment. "You... right. Well. Find out anything useful? I don't suppose she had her sinister plan put up on a blackboard somewhere?" He laughs, a little shakily. Then he blinks, peers at the pins in the map. "Oh, I forgot..." He walks over to the blackboard, writes another bullet:

    * Thinnings (doors in the Astral?)

    Then he taps at his chin with the chalk, leaving a line of white dust on his brown skin. If things weren't so fraught, it might almost be cute. "Alright. First off, I need to learn all of this so I can help with the research. Second--you should ask Chas and Paul for help with that." Then he taps 'Phoebe's Bitch Cousin.' "I don't know if there's anything I can help with here, but I'm willing to try. I know a /lot/ about Egypt, and I... already offered to help her with the Story." A pause, and then, "I would understand if you'd rather I stayed here."

    Then he suddenly stops, throws the chalk at the blackboard, and goes to sit down. Runs his hands through his hair, getting chalk dust in it. "You're right. I'm sorry. I know what would help, and you'd never do it, and I'd never suggest it."

    Synchronicity. He means Synchronicty.

    Jon huffs out a breath and looks up. "Alright, look. All this," he waves at the board, "is you. You're right. It's you. I hadn't... seen it quite so clearly before. So what foundation do you need under you, to help you..." He swallows. "You seemed happier, last night. Before I went and snapped at you like an /arse/." His cheeks flush darker, in shame. "That's Paul, right? Your, uhh, well." He shrugs, not quite knowing what to call it.

John Constantine has posed:
    John's eyes go a little... unfocused? He's staring at the wall like he's not really in the moment, but somewhere else. "He's my everything," he whispers so very quietly. "He's ... he's the one that Fell to save me and then fell again." He shakes his head and stubbornly blinks way tears of frustration again. Frustration because all he wants right now is to run off to fucking Whitechapel and fall into that man's arms and ... take a fucking breath.

    But he can't.

    "There's not much I can share about the Thinnings. I don't have a fucking clue yet." Jon was wrong about one thing in his letter. John knows perfectly well what it's like to be tossed into the deep end without a clue. He sinks or swims nearly every damned day. Knowing magic? That doesn't change that fact.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon swallows. Has to take a long, deep breath. "You said he's moving here?" He smiles, softly. "I'm happy for you. Really, truly, it's... good to hear some good news. I... imagine it'll be good for you, to have him by your side." He tries to keep the pain out of his tone. He's not even consciously aware of his own feelings for John, but he /is/ aware he misses his own version of Paul. That's not going away.

    "What started this?" He gestures around. "What... what were you panicking about, exactly?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "Whatever I chose to tackle first, means something else is going to be last. How do I choose... my daughter, one of my best friends..." He looks toward the map, maybe hundreds of people a day?" John close his eyes. He looks incredibly small and tired in that moment and sounds it too when he whispers, "How do I choose?"

    ...and his phone makes that sound again. He *almost* lets out a sob when it happens, but he chokes it back, looks down, and goes to press a pushpin into a little town in Michigan.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "It's okay if I'm last," Jon says softly. "In fact, between me and your /teenaged daughter/ and all those people... I almost have to insist." He looks at the new pin on the board, his eyes somber.

    Then, "We saved that town last night, John. And you were... I didn't get a chance to say it, but knowing you trusted us... it meant a lot. We can do this. /You/ can do this. I know you can."

    He looks at the phone. "Could someone else help on the research into that? So you can deal with the girls who need you tomorrow, at least? So you can rest, and know we're making some progress on figuring that out?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "I need to figure out what that demon was, who it was before anything else matters. That's not as easy as it sounds because... they're not always what they seem to be and unless you know what you're looking for, you might miss the smallest reference in the tiniest print on the fourth page about something that screams, this is it." John finally settles into one of the chairs with a heavy thud of a sound. He lights a Silk, not the best idea given the raspy sound of those lungs that's still happening. "Between you and Phoebe, *he's* the bigger threat. But maybe if I kill Sasha," he says that so... blase', like it's nothing to just kill the woman. "... maybe it'll throw *him* off his game long enough to take the pressure off."

    "People always have my back, Jon, it's the stuff in front they can't deal with or can't do."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon pulls out his phone. "Alright, well first off, I'm texting Chas to get his arse in here and get to looking through the books for you. He can figure out who to have running the front room while he's busy. I second the vote on killing Sasha as sson as possible; I'd like to not feel like a caged animal anymore." It surprises even him, how firmly that comes out.

    He looks up. "Third, /go see your lover/. Even if just for an hour, for five minutes, do it. Go to him, let him hold you before you leave for Africa, /something/." He even manages not to cry while he speaks. "Martin used to say that even when he was on graveyard shift and we were ships passing in the night, even just kissing me before he went in, saying we loved each other, it helped him face all the pain and suffering he saw every day. You're back together. Embrace it."

John Constantine has posed:
    "It's hard to leave once I get there," John murmurs. So hard. It's there in the way his eyelids start to look heavy, the way he slouches a little in the chair. He's crashing. ...and he knows it. He mumbles, "I just want to sleep."

    ...and he knows it. So he stands back up again and shakes his hands out, rolls his shoulders. Picks up a book and paces the room while flipping through pages. "I don't have time, Jon. And I know you're going to tell me to make time, life's too short and I *know* it is, it's too short for the people that die because of the next thinning that opens, it's too short for you if *he* wins, it's too short for Phoebe if ... I just don't have time."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "You have time to bolster yourself before you deal with all of that," Jon replies. "But, alright, I've given my advice, you don't have to take it. I'm getting Chas to come help, though, and if you want to argue with /him/ be my guest."

    After a moment, he adds, "Want a coffee or something?" To stay awake, that is.

John Constantine has posed:
    John reaches into an inside pocket of his trenchoat and brings out a little baggie of white powder and says, "I got it covered, mate," as he wiggles it about a bit. Noooo. But yes, little nose candy to keep the midnight oils burning is not something he's unwilling to do. In fact, it's something he's done a *lot* of lately, in fact it explains his complete lack of appetite sooooo well and even some of the more dramatic 'manic' moments.

    He slips the baggie back into his pocket and continues to pace the floor while paging through that book.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon... sighs. Rubs at his face.

    "John," he says, and his voice is back to that patient, 'Dr. Sims' tone, "when we have the time, we're going to have to talk about that." He nods at the baggie. "I understand the need to... I do not judge drug use, per se. You have a lot on your plate and you need to stay awake, it's a step up from coffee."

    There's a pause. His gut twists. He wasn't there. And suddenly, something flashes in his mind: Jon lying on his bed in Oxford, Martin asleep next to him at 3 in the morning, an old Nokia flip-phone to his ear, listening to John ramble on about demons.

    'Maybe you should get some help, mate,' he'd said. 'There's places that can help people going through this, you know.'

    His breathing catches and he closes his eyes. Slow, deep breaths.

    Then he opens his eyes, and his tone isn't that of a psychiatrist anymore, just a concerned friend. "Are you okay? Are you..." How the hell do you ask you friend if he wants to kill himself again?

John Constantine has posed:
    John closes the book with his thumb tucked inside to hold his place and turns toward Jon. "That wasn't you. That was *me*. That was *Astra*, you know, the little girl I banished to Hell? Yeah, that's why I checked myself in to Ravenscar, not on the advice of some nerdy little git." His words aren't harsh, even the insult isn't harsh.

    "I'm fine," John replies to the last question. "Suicidal was two weeks ago and I'm over it." That's reassuring, innit?

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's jaw shifts. "You can say that," he says. "I can tell myself that. It does not..." He laughs. "I am not immune to guilt complexes or irrational thinking. Physician, heal thyself!" He shakes his head.

    There's a moment, where he wants to make a grand declaration. Where he wants to say 'I'm going to close that place down.' Because he does, because he /will/ if he can figure out /how/. Because it infuriates him, every time it's brought up.

    Instead he just sighs. "Well, hey, let me know if it comes on again? Like I said, this is the one thing around here I'm /actually/ qualified to do."

John Constantine has posed:
    "I didn't even remember you said it until now," John points out. "After hearing a thing from so many different people over the years, just kind of gloss it over and tune it out. You're not the first to tell me I'm mad and won't be the last."

    He opens the book back up, flips a page, another, scans the text. "Wait... what's this..." he whispers to himself before he puts that book down and picks up another. He rapid fires through a few pages in the middle, runs his finger over the text while reading it and slams it shut again. Then he picks up a different on... Wheels in his head, they're turning almost visibly.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Most of the others probably don't make these decisions for a living, John," he says softly. "I've committed people, but now I wonder..." He stops. Shakes his head. Not the time; he can have his professional ethics breakdown another time. He's got at least three other types of breakdowns to handle first.

    He's going to have to make sure Chas knows, though, if for no other reason than to keep an eye on John for signs of an overdose.

    He tilts his head as he watches John's synapses begin to fire; he can /almost/ see it happening, with that telepathic sight he's developing. "What is it?"

John Constantine has posed:
    From one book to the next to the next to the next, he goes almost immediately to the page he needs, jots some notes, mutters under his breath. There's a sense of insanity to his motions, to the frantic way he's going through those books, tossing them aside, digging through another. It's a beautiful sort of insanity though, a little sad and terrifying but beautiful. It's the sort of insanity that's inflicted so many brilliant minds throughout the years and, make no mistake, despite the outward appearances of the man, John Constantine *is* brilliant. Some would argue he's a genius in his own right.

    But the answer, once he finally comes to it, isn't as impressive as all that. Or maybe it is?

    "Fuck..." Frustrated. "It's a fucking *Tupla*. *Fuck*."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon goes blink-blink-blink and then his face goes a little blank for a moment and then he says in the Archivist voice: "Theosophy or Tibetan? No, that would be /nirmanakaya./ I presume, then, you mean a being created as an emanation body, a thoughtform?" A pause. "I have actually treated self-proclaimed tulpamancers in the past. I again presume this is nothing on the same level, but the concept--this thing was created from people's thoughts?"

    A pause. Then, "I presume you mean the energy behind the doors opening on the astral plane. The thinnings."

John Constantine has posed:
    "No... no, not exactly, not this time. I think this is a small time nothing that's been made into something by ... the power of prayer and worship." John slams the last book closed and announces, "I have to go. I need to check all the prior places we've encountered these things and see if there's anywhere near any of them ... If I can figure out if there was anyone..."

    In motion that's way quicker than one might give him credit, John picks up the ashtray on the table and wings it across the room. It shatters against a wall. "It's been too long. I don't know if there's enough *energy* left for me..."

    "Arkansas..."

    What now?

    "I have to figure out *who* they're worshiping.*

    Leaving now would be a Bad Idea, he's too... agitated, he won't think straight, he'll take too many shortcuts. End up hurt.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "JOHN!" The Archivist shouts. He's stood up himself. "John if you leave who helps that girl in Africa? What about Phoebe's ball? WHAT ABOUT PHOEBE'S COUSIN?!"

    Jon, it seems, has decided Phoebe is the priority.

John Constantine has posed:
    He spins at the snap of his name and holds out a hand, one finger extended. "No, I can do it. I can get there and get back before I need to be in Africa. Phoebe's ball after. I can do it." John Constantine is the master of doing ALL THE THINGS, did you not *know* this, Jon!

    "I know the spell I can use." He's scampering about, pulling things off shelves, tossing it all into a big leather duffel he pulled down from another shelf. One bottle he pulls down is clearly marked 'Morning Glory, another 'Dream Root'. Oh-boy! Then there's chalk, a can of spray paint, a few more vials of something not marked, one green goo and the other... might be blood?

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon moves to grab Constantine by the arms, holds him firmly. "No. No. You can't do this right now. You have to... you're /not/ in the right condition for this. You need to save your energy. For your /daughter/. You have a /daughter/ and she needs to come first, you can't just go haring off to fucking Arkansas!"

    It's the answer he should have given earlier. 'What do I choose?' Phoebe. You choose Phoebe. You said she was your daughter, so you choose /her/, every time.

John Constantine has posed:
    John's face does a thing... it scrunches up a little, then his bottom lip actually puckers for a moment before he catches that lip between his teeth and gives a tiny little shake of his head. He jerks one arm away and points to the map. "Six hundred maybe by tomorrow!" he screeches, voice cracking. "How do I choose one over /two to three hundred/ more?" But then...

    How does he NOT choose his daughter.

    See Dr. Sims... see now, what he's facing?

    "How do I choose *one* life over possibly hundreds per day until I *fix this*? How? Don't you *see*, I have to do *both*."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Because she's your daughter," Jon says. "Because taking that on means saying 'I choose you over the world.'" He swallows. "And because it's not just her. It's her whole bloodline."

    Then he drops his arms and steps back. "Or... you go. Because the next place that happens could be Gotham, and all her friends. Could be here, where she lives." He shakes his head. "Do what you have to do. We'll be here when you get back."

John Constantine has posed:
    "No, you're wrong, Jon. If I ever chose her over the *world*, she'd hate me forever. I know my kid and I know what *she* would want me to do." John double checks the contents of the bag and zips it up. "This will only take a few hours. I'll be in Africa after that and then back in time for the ball."

    He's quieter now, his voice softer, because he just figured out the answer to his own question. He can't put the Thinnings all the way to the back of the stove for Phoebe, because she'd never want that. So, he has to keep both front burners on high over those and his kid... and figure a way to kill Sasha in between.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon huffs out a breath. "That child is too self-sacrificing for her own good," he mutters. But who around here isn't?

    "Take care of yourself," he says, and it's a request, not an order. "And... well, I won't say good luck. But I'll be curious to hear the Story when you get back." He grins, a little wryly.

John Constantine has posed:
    "She's my daughter, she knows what's important." John lifts the bag and tosses it over his shoulder. For the briefest of moments the urge hits him SO hard to make a stop in Whitechapel and bring Paulie along. Such an incredibly strong urge and, honestly, kind of foreign to him.

    New, because he always pushed Paul out of that part of his life before. But comforting because now he *knows* he's sure; he's sure this is where Paul belongs, beside him, not behind him, through as much of it as possible.

    The portal opens to reveal the parlor of the House of Mystery and he steps through it.