8381/Take it, I don't need it.

Take it, I don't need it.
Date of Scene:	23 October 2021
Location:	The Laughing Magician
Synopsis:	What was supposed to be a night of starting a road to recovery, just ended in the whole thing being a bigger disaster when John confronts the Archivist about the things Chas said in Liverpool.
Cast of Characters:	Jonathan Sims, John Constantine

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Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon sits at a table in the Laughing Magician, with three stacks of books surrounding him, all from the Columbia University library--he went and used alumni access to get the good stuff. One stack has books about lucid dreaming, one appears to be a collection of books about ethnobotany, and the last are all about China or the Mongols. He's paging through the top book on that stack while smoking, frowning at whatever's in the book. He's not drinking, at the moment, but there's about five cigarette butts in the ashtray.

John Constantine has posed:
    Once John stepped through the portal from Liverpool, his intention was to just stay in the parlor, drink himself stupid and fall asleep on the fainting couch in the House of Mystery. But fuck his life, the cabinet was out of scotch - one of the few things the House won't provide if needed, go figure - and wasn't *about* to go upstairs and risk waking Paulie. No, Paul didn't deserve the mood he was currently in.

    So, as much as he dreaded it, figuring he'd find Chas here somewhere and that's not another run-in he can handle to night, John steps out in the backroom of the bar. Then steps out of it. Distracted or he would have know Jon was there the moment he stepped out into the building.

    He knows it as soon as he hits the front room though, both the wards telling him *and* seeing the man.

    "Bloody *fucking hell*," is his *immediate* and *angry* response. He holds up one hand. "Don't say a fucking word to me." ...and he makes his way behind the bar so he can snag a bottle and find a rooftop to drink it on somewhere.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon looks up and blinks at Constantine, clearly confused. One does not need to be an empath to tell the man is angry, mental wards or no.

    He hesitates. He frowns. He's... confused, obviously. Very, very confused. For a moment, he'd just assume the man was angry in /general/, but no, it's... clearly aimed at him.

    And then, slowly, "Is everything alright? I..." He's trying to figure out what on Earth John could be mad about. There are options, of course, as he flicks through his memories, but he's having trouble connecting A to B to C.

John Constantine has posed:
    Behind the bar, John squats down to dig on the bottom shelf where the 'stronger than scotch' stuff is kept. "It's just fucking peachy,*mate*," oh but there's a bite to that last word. He finds what he's looking for and stands. He uses the bottle to point in John's direction.

    "I can't lead my team, I suck fuckin' *balls* because you come in here whining to my mate about how you *can't talk about it*..." He makes that last bit sound all whiny and petulant.

    He sets the bottle down and shrugs out of his trenchcoat. "You want my bloody life, Jon? My bar, my team, my best mate? Have a it, I'm done with the lot of you."

    He snatches the bottle back up and, on his way out the door, he wings the coat in Jon's direction.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I... wh..." Jon blinks rapidly. "I..." And then...

    "Oh bloody fucking /hell/!" He grabs the trench tossed at him and runs after Constantine. "I am going to /punch/ Chas, I /swear/! John, hold up!"

John Constantine has posed:
    John spins around, the hand without the bottle raised. No fire, but there's a shimmering sort of ball settled into his palm, some sort of energy. "Back. Off," he snarls. Once close enough, it's not hard to miss the red, puffy, swollen, bloodshot eyes... his nose might still look a little like Rudolph's. Ugly crying, it leaves its mark for a while.

    "You do NOT want to fuck me right now little *Archivist*."

    It's not anger rolling off of the man in waves, it's *hurt*. ...that his best mate has no faith in him.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon holds out the trenchcoat. He doesn't blink, at the ball of fire in Constantine's hand.

    "Yes," he says. "That's right. I'm the /Archivist/. I'm not you, and I don't want to fucking /be/ you. And whatever the hell Chas told you... I wasn't /whining/. I cannot tell you what happened two nights ago, because I promised someone I wouldn't." His jaw tightens. "I have been dealing in this world for /years/, John. Not in magic, specifically, no, but a /hell/ of a lot of other things, world-shaking, world-ending /bullshit./ And I don't fucking spill secrets, not if I can help it. If Chas has a problem with that he can come have it out with me."

John Constantine has posed:
    "No, he had it out with *me*, blamed *me* for you not telling him. Blamed *me* for a *fractured team*. Just sod off, the whole fucking *lot* of you can just sod OFF." John dispels the magic energy in his hand, gone in a blink and turns toward the door again. "I'm *done with it*!" he bellows about halfway there.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Well that's not /my/ bloody fault, John!" Jon grinds his teeth, sets his jaw, huffs. That's not going to get them anywhere.

    "Look, if I'm getting in the way, if you want me gone, I'll go. If I'm the problem, then I'll go. I don't know /what/ the hell I did, but I didn't..." He stops. Closes his eyes.

    When he opens them, he snaps, "I'm not a fucking relationship counselor. If you have a problem with Chas, talk to /Chas/. Whatever your problem with me is, just... fucking tell me."

    For once in his life, he sounds like his grandmother.

John Constantine has posed:
    He stops, spins again, there might even be a little spittle flying when he speaks again, "I *did* talk to, Chas! I told him *all of it*. I let him *walk it with me*." John's voice lowers to something snide and nasty, it's easier than all the other things he's feeling, "But then it turned into *you* and how *you* won't talk to me because I'm such a fuckin' incompetent *idiot* that I can't *handle* anymore."

    "I don't *care* what the fuck you downloaded from Gertie, you don't *know me*. And you've no right."

    Oh he really wants a cigarette right now, but they're in that coat and he's *not* taking it back. "You call *him* and tell him that Zee's hurt REALLY BAD. You text me and tell me that she's hurt but she's fine. What the FUCK do you expect him to *think*?!"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I didn't call Chas, what the hell? I texted him what I texted you. That Zee was hurt, that we were both fine, not to worry. That was /it/. Anything else Chas told you is... extrapolation." Jon frowns. "Correct extrapolation. She very nearly died. But like I told the both of you, she's fine now. So what the hell is the issue?"

    After a moment, he adds, "I know damn well I'm not my grandmother. Trust me, I'm living with that fact every day. And, fine, I don't know you--but you don't know me /either/, John. Not enough to trust, evidently, that I wouldn't text you one thing and Chas another. I texted you both, so neither of you would worry I'd been /killed/ out there, because you've got enough going on just now."

John Constantine has posed:
    "He's my *best mate*." John spits out, enough of an explanation as to who he trusts more and why. "The *issue* is that you have him believing that you AND Zee aren't coming to me because you think I can't fucking handle it, that's the *issue*, Jon."

    He turns for the door again as he adds, "But the bigger issue, is that he *believed* it no matter what the fuck you said. I'm done. Fuck this team shite. I'll deal with it on my fucking own because I *can* handle my shite, no matter what *you* or *Chas* believes. So have at it, take the fucking team. I don't need it."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon takes a long, slow breath in, and then lets it out. "No, actually, I /don't/ think you can handle what I'm dealing with, John. Not only is it someone else's private business, but what I have in my head now is not for /anyone/ to have. I'm dealing with it because I /have/ to. If that hurts your ego, well... too fucking bad."

    He puts the trenchcoat over the back of a chair. "Whatever's going on here, it's not about me. It's not. I'm a... stand in, a scapegoat for whatever other problem you've got going on." A beat. "Or, maybe it /is/ me. Maybe I somehow said or did the wrong thing, but I cannot /imagine/ that my issues alone created this rift."

    He goes to grab up the books off the table. "For the record? I didn't come to Chas. He noticed I was upset, and I was, because something /awful/ happened. I didn't want to talk about it. He /pushed/. And I told him to back the fuck off. That he assumed that I wasn't telling him what's going on because of /you/? That's not on me. There's a /hell/ of a lot I will never, ever tell /anyone/ else. That's my /job/."

    He starts for the door. "Running this team is /not/ my job. I don't want it, and I don't know where the fuck you got the idea I do. My job, right now, is making sure the world doesn't end, and I don't have time for whatever the hell's going on here. Talk to Chas if you have an issue. I'm not leaving the team or anything, but I /have/ to get some shit figured out. I have a duty to Thoth, and the people I promised I would help."

John Constantine has posed:
    "Don't let the door hit you in the fucking arse on the way out," John snarks. "Make a fucking mess and run the fuck out and don't *fix* it. Something *you* said made him believe it was me, so fuck off." John snatches up the coat and digs around in the pockets to find that damned pack of Silks and his lighter, takes him a minute with only one hand, the other still holding tight to that bottle. But he manages and he manages to light one. "There was no *rift* in this team *before*, Jonathon."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon stops at the door to look back at Constantine. "I /honestly/ don't know what I said or did. I don't. I never tried to... undermine you with Chas, I've gone out of my way to try to /not/ be a damn burden or get in the way. Whatever's going on between you two, that's on /you two/. But I know Chas feels..." He hesitates. Then his eyes widen.

    "Chas is /scared/, John. He's scared of fucking up with Phoebe. He's scared of failing you and her both. This whole time, these past two months, he's been here watching every damn thing happening to you. You know what he told me, right before he started pushing? That he hates not being out there with you. He's fucking scared, and he's putting it on me and Zee and whoever else, and that's something /you two/ need to handle."

John Constantine has posed:
    Maybe it'll all sink in more once he's not still raw and bleeding from the bandaid he tore off in Liverpool, that fucker was huge and came off with skin attached. It at least sunk in enough that he's not spitting or screaming or nasty or snide when he speaks again.

    "Just go, Jon."

    No, he just sounds tired. Tonight was supposed to fix it. Or at least set them on the path to fixing it and it just left him drained and with that big gaping hole where that bandaid was and feeling like there's nothing to fill it with.

    He just wants a bloody fucking drink or twelve to make the pain go away.

    In the end though, at least he's not as likely to sleep downstairs. He won't wake Paulie if he can help it, but once he's had that drink or twelve, he'll sleep in his own bed, maybe wake up with a clearer head.

    He turns, jacket and bottle in hand, and heads for his Pauper's Throne. A flick of his wrist, a little twitch of his index finger sets the jukebox to playing... Johnny Rotten's My Way.

John Constantine has posed:
    Maybe it'll all sink in more once he's not still raw and bleeding from the bandaid he tore off in Liverpool, that fucker was huge and came off with skin attached. It at least sunk in enough that he's not spitting or screaming or nasty or snide when he speaks again.

    "Just go, Jon."

    No, he just sounds tired. Tonight was supposed to fix it. Or at least set them on the path to fixing it and it just left him drained and with that big gaping hole where that bandaid was and feeling like there's nothing to fill it with.

    He just wants a bloody fucking drink or twelve to make the pain go away.

    In the end though, at least he's not as likely to sleep downstairs. He won't wake Paulie if he can help it, but once he's had that drink or twelve, he'll sleep in his own bed, maybe wake up with a clearer head.

    He turns, jacket and bottle in hand, and heads for his Pauper's Throne. A flick of his wrist, a little twitch of his index finger sets the jukebox to playing... Johnny Rotten's My Way.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon hesitates at the door. He wants to help, but he's not a relationship counselor. Maybe he planted the seed, anyway. He's sure Chas won't stay away long. They'll hash this out, maybe they'll fight, maybe it'll even come to blows, but in the end they'll be together, shoulder-to-shoulder, like they should be. He has to have faith in that. In them.

    He sighs and turns to the door, pushes his way on out, to take his books back to the empty flat that's been gathering dust for weeks. At least he has something to keep him busy.