the fool .

an independent, low-activity, and plot-oriented interpretation of john constantine as seen in vertigo  &  detective comics’ hellblazer series containing inspiration and influence from a plethora of works within the supernatural and horror genres. content warning for violence, death, and religion. due to mature themes being present  ( and frequent ),  minors dni.

he   doesn’t   show   it   on   his   face   ,   but   it   does   amaze   mason   to   see   how   casual   &   unbothered   the   detective   appears   about   their   unplanned   reunion.   it’s   almost   as   if   there   was   no   past   between   them   at   all   ,   as   if   they’re   just   two   friends   shooting   the   shit   &   talking   about   their   lives   ,   going   about   business   as   usual.   mason   also   dons   a   mask   here   ,   he   has   to   in   order   to   avoid   his   heart   getting   hurt   ,   but   that   didn’t   seem   to   help   at   all.   john   acting   as   if   things   were   fine   ,   as   if   things   weren’t   weird   between   them   does   hurt   him   a   bit   ,   making   him   wonder   if   that’s   how   he   really   feels   ,   or   maybe   he’s   putting   on   a   front   too.   it’s   hard   to   tell   with   a   man   like   him   &   judging   from   what   he   knows   from   his   past   ,   it’s   possible   that   it   is   all   an   act.   but   he   laughs   ,   he   smiles   .   .   .   he   slouches   in   that   way   mason   remembers   seeing   all   the   time   back   in   new   york.   all   of   it   presents   a   very   casual   &   unbothered   man   &   it   makes   it   very   difficult   to   read   him   fully.   mason   is   supposed   to   be   the   actor   here   ,   yet   john   seems   better   verse   in   the   craft   than   he.

❝   i   mean   ,   calling   you   wasn’t   my   idea   ,   in   case   you’re   wondering.   ❞   mason   only   means   to   be   honest   ,   but   part   of   him   wonders   if   that   might   damage   him   to   hear.   mason   honestly   tried   not   to   think   of   john   as   much   as   possible   after   everything   &   he   was   almost   successful   too   ,   until   tonight.   ❝   the   owner   of   the   theatre   is   .   .   .   concerned.   we   all   are.   there’s   been   some   .   .   .   weird   goings   on   here   lately.   all   actors   know   about   the   scottish   play   curse   ,   so   we   all   know   to   keep   our   mouths   shut.   less   out   of   superstition   &   more   out   of   respect.   a   theatre   tradition   of   sorts.   ❞   mason   can’t   say   he   believed   much   in   the   curse   himself   ,   though   he   isn’t   too   sure   if   that’s   really   true   anymore.   you   can’t   be   sure   of   anything   once   you’ve   been   around   john   constantine.   ❝   there   have   been   accidents   &   .   .   .   just   really   strange   happenings.   many   actors   have   been   close   to   getting   seriously   injured   &   it’s   frightening   people.   there’s   talks   of   some   actors   wanting   to   leave   ,   which   has   our   director   really   spooked.   ❞   mason’s   arms   cross   over   his   chest   ,   the   light   of   the   streetlight   flickering   above   them.   a   terrible   spotlight   for   the   moment.   ❝   the   theatre   owner   is   superstitious   ,   so   that’s   where   you   come   in.   i   don’t   know   much   else   other   than   all   that.   but   .   .   .   yeah.   it’s   been   a   strange   few   days.   ❞   he   sighs.   ❝   guess   that   means   i’m   gonna   be   seeing   you   a   lot   now   ,   huh   ?   ❞   he   grins   ,   but   deep   down   ,   he   cringes   at   the   thought.   this   will   be   hard   to   deal   with   on   top   of   everything   else.   ❝   hope   that   means   you   got   a   place   to   stay   close   by.   &   no   ,   my   place   isn’t   open   to   you   if   not.   sorry.   ❞

i nod as i take in his words though i’m left with more questions than answers and something tells me mason has said all that he’s needed to say given how quickly he moves on to noting that he doesn’t have a room for me. touché. there’s a lot to unpack here and i’m not really sure to begin; the case seems pretty cut and dry so i struggle to understand why i, specifically, was called. in my professional opinion, i’d prescribe the theatre a deep clean   ─   a total cleaning of energy and maybe just in general. i’d throw a priest into the mix too, just to be safe. after that, everything   ( in theory )   should be peachy fucking keen   ─   no more strange happenings or actors threatening departure, just thespians practicing their latest take on billy elliot or whatever’s the latest trend of stage productions. i’m not needed, there’s no telltale sign of demonic or otherwise otherworldly activity, so the problem wouldn’t benefit from my expertise but i say nothing. i decide that i’ll, at the very least, investigate what the director has flown me in for. if i’m right, i’ll be paid for my time and my trip here will come to a swift end   ─   which is a good thing. it’s clear that i’m not wanted.

donnie,

i’ve left longing.

i’m not going to fill this letter with a shoddy excuse of a cock and bull story. i’m gone and i don’t know how long it’ll be until i return, if i even return at all. 

when you walk the path i do, you find that oftentimes it’s better to walk it alone. it’s dark and dangerous and you’ll be bartering at crossroads instead of crossing the street to exchange sugar for an egg with a neighbour. people will get hurt. people will die. there’s no two ways about it   ─   one or the other will happen and you will have to be used to it because that’s just how the world works. she’s a cruel mistress. she doesn’t stop turning just because i have willed it for one more night or week of selfish serendipity before reality slaps me across the face and confronts me about my affair with greed. this means all you can do is slow down the inevitable so, naturally, this is the part of my journey where i have to hurt somebody. it’s not enough, but james will be okay.

you’re probably wondering why i’m telling you this and honestly, me too. it crossed my mind that i’m wasting time, that you probably don’t give a fuck and this letter will meet the bottom of your rubbish bin with your sad leftovers the second you realise who it’s from. throw it if you want, i won’t be around to care. i know you’ll dig it out and read it properly once your general disdain for me has subsided and you decide to not be a prick for five minutes. 

i need your help, it’s as simple as that. 

it’s bold of me to ask that of you, i know, and i wouldn’t have turned to you if it wasn’t important which you know. follow my instructions, don’t follow my instructions, it makes no difference like i said   ─   but i need to write this down, to you, so i know it’s been said. this is evidence that i have been here, that i loved, and that i still love.

i’ve left james a letter, similar to this one, with very little detail of my disappearance. it’s sat to the side of me right now, half-written, and by tonight it will be full of honesty so unrelenting it strips me bare, right down to the bone. it’s bursting at the seams with everything my heart couldn’t carry and i need you to treat it as a lie.

it shouldn’t come with effort. i’ve made hating me pretty easy   ─   i’ve had over two decades and a lifetime of mistakes to perfect the art of bringing about abhorrence with my name so choose something. anything. say i left because i no longer love him   ─   say it happened overnight, i found someone else, and i moved on. dig something up from my past to support your point. do whatever you have to do, just as long as the end goal involves him, by your side, loathing john constantine.

i know you can do it, and that will you do it, and that you’ll understand, despite my explanation or lack thereof, why it has to be this way. i’d do it myself but james is smart   ─   he’d try to talk me out of it. it wouldn’t work: we’d argue and scream obscenities at each other until one of us caves. fuck, he’d probably present a convincing case to let him come with. he’d die for us if he could. 

i’m hoping to one day be naught but a distant memory; a blur of somebody you both used to know. there’ll be stories that you might try to remember but my name won’t leave your tongue   ─   you’ll swear you haven’t forgot and yet you can’t seem to fully recall how it sounded. it’s like your body is physically preventing you from thinking of me in a way that matters. john-something, you’ll say, and ignoring the pang in your chest and gut you’ll laugh, hastily moving onto the next story.

he leads with the heart and you lead with your head. you always have. this is why i ask this of you, donnie. i’m sticking the knife in now and walking away before james has even realised he’s bleeding. duty calls and i can’t do that while accepting something i never deserved. 

he’ll be safe that way. so will you.

i told you, i’m a nasty piece of work.

the kettle’s boiling in the background, shrouding the atmosphere in the sound of bubbling water and rattling metal from its old age. it’s with the noise that it dawns on me how few yorkshire tea bags i have left   ─   and i like to think of myself as a good host. my hospitality is often something that i personally believe should be celebrated   ─   but i’m hoping that he has forgotten that i had offered him a hot drink and opts for a tap water instead, the same way i’m pretending to forget what exactly the poor bloke was blabbering on about by giving him a shrug and a single, raised brow. this could be interesting. if not, at least he’s beguiled me enough with his idiocy to leave this conversation with a story.

            “   who died and made yer the boss o’me  ?   ”  donnie snaps,  wrenching his arm out of john’s grip and leaning protectively over the ford ranger’s exposed engine.     it’s james’ old truck,  her red paint as faded and tired as the man trying to breathe new life into her.   donnie had spent entire summer afternoons tinkering with this thing,  pulling the engine apart and cleaning every component in hopes of uncovering the faults that kept it from running smoothly.   he promised james he’d figure out what was wrong with her,  and he’d never broken a promise in his life.   especially not to james.   

despite the way things seem,  his anger isn’t because of what @hellblazing​ had asked of him nor because of any suggested slight against his intelligence.   this anger,  this jealousy,  has been building steadily for days,  simmering under the surface of his forced smiles and feigned hospitality.   (   his mother’s claws still scrape against the surface of his bones,  compelling him to put his good manners before all else.   ‘   sit straight,  boy  !   stop slouchin’ at my dinner table  !   ’   )   he’d kept the act up for emma’s sake,  who’d never seen the raging fire that made a home in donnie’s chest.   he intended to keep it that way.   james being stuck to john’s side most of the time had helped too.   james gallowes has been hurt at the hands donnie’s impulsive temper more times than donnie would care to admit.     

“   i ain’t stupid,  ‘ve been fixin’ engines as long as ‘ve been walkin’,  n’i know this truck better than y’know yer own goddamn hand,  ”  he says,  jabbing the handle of his screwdriver against john’s collarbone,  “   so fuck off n’quit tellin’ me what t’do  !   ”  

yeouch! somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and for once, it wasn’t me. today, i’ve actually woken up feeling more than pleasant and my morning smoke was one of the best i’ve had in a while  ( all thanks to having company to wake up next to  &  share one with, no doubt )  so i can’t help but grin when he prods me with the screwdriver. i know this idiot is looking for a fight, i also know that if he isn’t given one all of the rage he holds in his fists will likely be taken out on me, yet all i can do is find it mildly amusing. you’d think i’d have mistaken it for a prius and waged war against his entire family with how easily venom rolls off of his tongue over a suggestion regarding a senior truck’s shabby motor. i couldn’t make this shit up even if i tried and this is coming from somebody who could win britain’s got talent by solely using my ability to bend the truth.

i look down at him, shaking my head before i speak. donnie’s only a couple of inches shorter than me, so there’s scarcely any competition if we wanted to have a dick measuring contest, but it’s an advantage i enjoy taking. i even go as far as leaning closer, my nose hovering above his own. i’m so concerned with inflating my own ego to prove a point that the fact it may rile the other up more than my presence seems to have already done barely even registers. it’s obvious in the way i don’t bother nudge the tool he waves around so carelessly away from my body. that’s mistake number one.     “   oooh, scary,   ”     my words are condescending, i know that. i also don’t care. that’s mistake number two.

      THERE’S   A   LONG   PAUSE   BEFORE   HE   ANSWERS,   AND   SHE   WONDERS   WHAT   THOUGHTS   PLAY   IN   HIS   HEAD.    what   tragedy   lives   within?   what   horrors   paint   themselves   onto   eyelids   as   they   close?    she   knows   there   must   be   something,   there’s    a   look   in   his   eye   at   times   that   she   knows   must   come   from   somewhere,   but   she   trusts   him.    above   all   else,   she   trusts   him,   and   she   does   not   offer   up   loyalty   easily.    he   has   hers,   without   a   doubt.    he   is   the   father   she   always   missed,   the   protector   she   wished   she   had   had,   a   guide   through   the   two   worlds   she   occupies.

       ‘   trust   me,   i   don’t   think   you’d   be   getting   sued.   ‘   she   snorts.   she   knows   her   family   loves   her,   really,   but   there   will   always   be   the   part   of   her   that   wonders   if   their   lives   would   be   easier   without   her.    if   her   absence   would   be   a   gift   rather   than   a   torment.    ‘   what’s   she   look   like?    ‘

       she   hopes   they   may   find   her,   that   the   girl   has   not   been   stuck   in   this   place   of   rotting   flesh   as   nature   for   too   long.   but   they   will   save   her.    john   always   saves   people,   sabrina   believes   it   with   every   part   of   herself.

my jaw tenses. it’s another question that cuts me open  &  bleeds me dry and i can feel myself slowly turning to the comforting presence of my anger yet i hold back. i can’t snap, i refuse to lose my temper over an inquiry i should’ve known was coming   ─   i couldn’t expect her aid in recovering astra from the ashes and rot of this place if she didn’t know what the kid looked like but i wanted to believe that she could. there couldn’t be many northern english children trapped here so how would details pertaining to her likeliness help? the upside down would be tailoring to a very niche, very specific audience if they had the brains enough to do so but they don’t. this wasn’t any sort of scheme, in fact it was something much more sinister. this was a consequence.

this time, it’s better for me to not answer. so i don’t. i focus on continuing my way through the house as my fingers trail the wallpaper that seem to crumble beneath my touch. i realise then that this place isn’t dead, it’s dying; something is killing it. i wonder how long it’s been stood here, empty, with nobody to come back for the slain that litters its halls. had anyone been here at all? is it being forgotten? 

─     like how you’re forgetting astra, john? ─     i haven’t forgotten her. i would never. ─     you can’t even remember what she looks like.

“   her name’s astra.   ”     that’s all i give her and i offer it in present tense because i won’t settle for finding her in any other state but alive. i omit the part where it’s been several years since she had disappeared  &  i keep my comment casual enough that it seems as though i don’t know her, or her family, beyond a surface level. it’s business. it’s a rescue mission. it can’t be anything more or less than that. my jaw is still tense. i rub it, leaving behind a dusty, dark residue from the wall i had just touched.

it takes me a moment to realise that she’s talking to me  &  the realisation comes with a jolt   ─   a shiver that i try to disguise as suddenly being aware of the cold that shrouded us like a thin, worn blanket and i don’t want to answer. it’s selfish, i know, but i begin to think that if i leave her words in the air long enough they’ll be dragged down by the weight of the silence, soon to be forgotten, and i can act like i didn’t hear her in the first place. it’d be easy, it’s not something that requires a lot of effort, but the thought alone cuts me open and strips me bare: i want to be selfish because i’m scared of admission.

to admit i understood would mean to finally be honest: about newcastle, about gary, about chas, about my sister and niece and everyone else who had the misfortune to know me. i had done well so far to keep the truth at bay; i let the sadness drain through me for this reason, allowing it to travel through every cell and reach the ground like a bolt of lightning before it ever had the opportunity to greet anybody else. i should come with a warning sign   ─   maybe i already do. maybe jordan’s ignoring it.

            with his attention captured by the danger lurking at the mouth of the alley they’re hiding in,  james doesn’t seem to notice how tightly he’s squeezing at john’s wrist,  or how much he’s crowded into his personal space.   they’re practically chest to chest,  breathing as one singular entity.   only john constantine would manage to turn james’ quiet thursday evening into a wild goose chase around the streets of manhattan.   and only james gallowes would miss the rush of the chase enough to go along with him.   (   even if he has spent the past hour and a half calling john ‘  a bonefied,  a - grade,  certified fuckin’ moron  ’ and scowling at the back of his head for dragging him down this alley and up this street and along this avenue.   )   sometimes he worries that he’s missing longing too much,  that he’s missing the constant suffocation and the possibility of needing to run at any given moment.   sometimes he worries he’s becoming restless like his father.

one of their would - be attackers bounds by the alley without giving it a second glance and james’ shoulders drop under the weight of his relief.   then he looks up at john and his ears grow warm as realisation of their close proximity dawns on him.   he knows he should move and put as much distance as he can between them before his heart swells any further.   (   his heart batters inside of his chest,  beating against his ribcage in a desperate attempt to be heard,  to be acknowledged,  to be freed.   it weeps for the love that it has lost,  for the heart that had once beat alongside it in perfect tandem,  and it will continue to weep.   but it’s never stopped aching with want.   james’ heart is a greedy thing,  complicated and ravenous.   )   

no attempt to move is made,  and james simply stares up into john’s face.   his eyes are so warm,  james thinks stupidly,  blinking up at them in wonder.   then,  as if remembering something long - forgotten,  james’ eyelashes flutter and he shakes his head.   though the fog shrouding his mind does not appear to lift.   he clears his throat and releases his hold on john’s wrist.     “   we should   …   we should probably keep moving,   ”  james says,  patting his companion’s chest with a gentle hand before finally giving the poor man room to breathe,  and rubs the back of his head sheepishly.   “   i don’t think my place is too far from here,  we can uh,  you can crash with me   —   not with me,  not like that,  but y’know like   —   with me at the apartment,  my apartment.   you can stay over.   for the night.   with me   …   ”     

here we stand, in a shadow cast by walls thicker than my arm is long, with a chill creeping over the cobblestone. the scent of late fall is laden into gusts that push impetuously into us and i almost don’t notice james’ grip that refuses to loosen. i’d ask if he was scared but that’d be a stupid question   ─   he makes his answer evident by the way his fingers dig into the fabric of my jacket, feeling for the bones under my skin. but i’ve been chased before by strangers   ─   and monsters   ─   far stronger  &  in larger numbers with all odds stacked against me and lived to tell the tale, so i wasn’t as scared as i was mildly inconvenienced. not that anybody could blame me: deciding to claim a debt in the middle of the week is entirely on them and nothing on me. sure, i had no intention of actually paying it, but it’s not like they knew that. i tend to not make habit of wandering around the states frolicking my pile of unpaid dues. today, i was just minding my own business.

and i keep minding my own business, even though i’m painfully aware of how close james is to my chest and how hard my heart is pounding against it. i wonder if he can hear it   ─   maybe he can feel the rushing pulse through his hold of my wrist and i wonder, then, if the constant queries regarding what james can feel through two layers of fabric is only making it faster. if he asks, i can pin it on adrenaline. it’s only natural i needed that extra push to narrowly avoid facing hell’s personal bailiff so i’m sure it’d take little convincing to make him believe it, rather than the fact his immediate proximity is causing heat to rise through my sternum and straight to my cheeks. thankfully, i’m an a-grade student in pushing things the fuck down and keeping them there, so that’s exactly what i do and the blush that would’ve been is replaced by a lopsided smirk.

                                    she had the ability to see right through him. it was usually his bullshit, but   ―    beggars can’t be choosers. zatanna is glad he’s not dead, though. john might literally drive her insane, but she’d be lying if she didn’t still care for him. they have history, after all. ❛  get comfy on the couch. i’ll bring some ice and a wet cloth.  ❜ she angles her body to the side, arching an eyebrow at him. ❛  all i ask is that you don’t get blood all over my furniture.  ❜

in the light of the early morning that flows through the windows of james’ kitchen, i strip myself of my shirt and tie, throwing them over the counter  &  not bothering to pick them up when they fall. i barely notice the host of the party walk in, tending to his wounds and moving to the sink to grab himself a cold cloth and a moment of reprieve; i’m far too busy examining the injuries of my own to pay any sort of close attention. i spend time prodding at my own skin, gliding my fingers over great purple welts that only make me inhale sharply through gritted teeth. against my ghostly skin, they’re grotesque. horrifying. i guess i’m lucky not to have broken bones or a swollen eye but blood still drips from my nose  &  my lips are sore from being nicked by some geezer’s wedding ring, colouring them maroon. it’s disgusting. it’s so fucked up. it hurts. i can’t look away. 

─   but i do eventually. look away, i mean. after a few seconds, seeing your body like this is just sad. embarrassing, even. i resolve to replace that feeling by drowning in a pool of vexation, breathing hard as my hands move from my bruises to the damage that peppers my mouth. i come to the conclusion that it doesn’t feel too bad   ─   they’re soft, tender   ─   and when i pull away only a light sprinkle of blood comes away with it. a sigh of relief escapes me though there’s still a twinge of discomfort:     “   fuck.   ”

i forget that i’m not alone. i’ve been celebrating my pity party for so long that i’ve hardly given any sort of acknowledgment to my friend who was also caught in a wave of cuss words and flying fists. i should really thank him   ─   not right now, but soon. when i think the time is right. just because i got us into this mess doesn’t mean i owe him anything. he did of it his own accord. the frustration begins to settle in my face through the means of furrowed brows and i find myself being rough with my body. i hastily wipe my face with the back of my hand, i pull off my belt and drop it to the floor, and i ignore the grazing feeling of bruising taking form on my ribs. i could’ve handled it, if you ignore the bleeding under my skin and the coarseness of my throat. 

he grabs me by the arm and i groan, remembering  ( albeit painfully now, thank you very much )  that he’s been stood by my side all this time. it’s poetic, it’s stupid; there’s something to be said here about two people who are unable to stray from each other despite the bad luck that seems to stalking them. i don’t have the right words for it and james doesn’t really give me the time to attempt to think of any   ─   before i know it, he’s wiping at my face with the clean edge of the cloth he had been using earlier, and he’s being oddly gentle about it. i hold my breath so i don’t give him reason to suffocate me with it. or worse. 

i watch him clean me up. he moves with such grace that i don’t feel him run the tips of his fingers over my biceps, finding more sore parts under my skin that have yet to make themselves known with splashes of grey and green. in fact, i don’t even know he’s doing it; my attention was undoubtedly his, and it came with such intensity that everything   ─   all annoyance, all pain, all distrust  &  unfamiliarity   ─   i held in my muscles seemed to disappear and i relax, almost leaning into james completely. i don’t think he notices. i’m thankful for that.

when he moves to reach past me, grabbing a handful of bandages and anti-septic, i notice how his eyes aren’t entirely blue like i had originally thought. they’re a little grey, a little brown, a little green. they’re an interesting accumulation of colours and definitely not the kind you’d typically sing home about but they were still beautiful in the way that thunderstorms were. this discovery throws me off my original train of thought. i’m confused. yet, i stand by it.

i realise then that i’m not holding my breath so i don’t distract him or say something that i’ll regret later. i’m not holding it to stay still and avoid the consequence of a wavering hand. i’m holding my breath because i’m worried that, if i don’t, he might also realise what he’s doing. it’s like he’s running on autopilot and i daren’t disturb him. is it selfish that i don’t want this to end? 

your soul is   ...   pristine:     do not consider it a compliment. there is something deep and awful hidden beneath that gleaming coat. years of harrowing actions   ─   malicious decisions and excruciating consequences   ─   have worn this vessel thin. it pulses weakly, its exterior eroded from all the years spent scrubbing at it, removing even the most minuscule specks of wrongdoing. creating perfection at the cost of learning from such mistakes, however painful. you wonder if you ever would have been liked for who you really were. you understand that there is no going back and finding out.

                             ❛  i’d hate to see the other guy.  ❜ her nose scrunches as bright eyes scan his face, lips pressing together. maybe there’ll be one day where she encounters john on good terms. they always part ways like that, but it seems like he’s always asking for her help these days. she should be flattered. 

there’s half a vial of zydrate tucked into the waistband of my pants,  covered by my shirt and my jacket.  all i have to do is move too fast and it’ll slip,  cracking on the floor underneath me.  i’d lose my job.  they’d take my heart.  i could put it in my pocket,  instead.  i don’t.  i used to swear i’d never use,  but at some point,  alcohol stopped being enough to drown out my memories.  i went into medicine to help people,  and now i’m stealing drugs from my patients - you proud of me yet,  mom?  

“ first round’s always on you. ”  i link my arm in his ; i have to,  to remind myself that i’m real.  that the people around me exist elsewhere than my imagination.  i don’t need to ask where we’re going – i know his haunts too well.  i wouldn’t call john a friend,  but he’s the closest thing there is to a decent human in this place.  besides,  it’s go for a drink with him or it’s go back to my empty apartment and spend the rest of a night in a z-induced stupor. 

oh,  who am i kidding?  i’m going to do that when i’m done with him,  anyways.  i pull him towards the exit to the building,  smile at the security guards as we walk out.  they don’t search me.  they never search me.  i could’ve put it in my pocket. 

i allow myself to be led out, which i seem to be doing a lot of these days; she leads  &  i follow. to some it might read as a grotesque misalliance   ─   it was evident in the way we carried ourselves, unwilling to shoulder the guilt individually and instead choosing to pass it off on each other. if i were to go down, then she would surely follow. this, i knew. it made everything a little more bearable to know that i wasn’t the only one roleplaying as the divine. after all, it was her idea to leave the girl behind, not mine. all i did was agree.

still, these very thoughts left me feeling bitter. it was a pill hard to swallow  &  i wonder if i was even aware i was doing this to her. i don’t remember having it weigh so heavily upon myself like the way of atlas and now i worry that it was a subconscious doing; my selfishness was a way of self-protection, human shields were something i used frequently, often without a second thought, yet here i was, walking towards the bar with a thousand second thoughts  &  what ifs. i have to remind myself that we’re business partners   ─   i have no obligation to her. she isn’t somebody i need to protect or befriend or even like. i don’t doubt she would throw me under the bus if she had half an opportunity.