𝖇𝖆𝖉 𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖘.

Leaning against the bar, Lois had been waiting outside for ten minutes, expecting exactly the scene she saw now, the exact silhouette, all dirty blonde hair, sharp coat. She took a step out of the shadows, and then sat down on the kerb. “Constantine,” she greeted briskly. “You know, I think you might have been thrown out of more respectable establishments than I have.” Which was saying a lot, really. It actually made Lois trust him - as far as she ever really trusted anyone. But anyone who was good at causing trouble was someone who understood that there were times when trouble had to be caused. Lines needed to be crossed. Rules broken. 

“Well, actually…” she held out her own pack of cigarettes, dangling it in front of his. “I’m down to two. Long day. Don’t tell my doctor. How about a trade? My two here are all yours … if you throw in some of the usual information.” The thing was, nobody knew the magic community like Constantine. And given the the one person in the world that Lois wanted to protect above all others had a weakness against magic … well, Lois liked to keep touch with Constantine, when she could. 

John’s eyes remained fixed on the street as she dangled the carrot in front of his nose. He was still sobering up and didn’t want to make another rash decision he would regret in the morning. Typically, the ones offering him ultimatums were either desperate or stupid, as it was widely known in the magic community that deals with John Constantine tended to go pear-shaped. Lois was neither--perhaps a bit out of her depth, blind to the true dangers lurking in the shadows--but she had good intentions. He knew the potential risks of allowing her to get tangled up in this. The supernatural world was treacherous in that it was unpredictable; even the best mages could have the wool pulled over their eyes if they weren’t cautious.

“Yeah. No worries,” he replied, nodding to the one in the other’s hand. “Well, if that’s straight up black, you’d probably die with one sip of mine.” Johnny accepted the one he handed back, watching as he poured the contents in his cup. “Just helps with the taste?” He questioned  as he raised his gaze back to look at him. Johnny smirked, warming his hand enough just to heat his coffee up again. “Man after my own heart. I feel that.”

John took a swig of his coffee, his face grimacing as the whiskey he added burned his mouth, prompting him to clear his throat. It was the sort of pain he savored, a brisk slap in the face to remind him to stop dawdling and do something productive with his day. “It’s medicinal, believe it or not. Helps clear my mind.” His fingers found his lighter again, the cigarette embers quick to ignite as he held it close. “That’s a nifty trick you’ve got there,” he said pointedly, more intrigued than before. John’s eyes were trained to pick up on everything, even the subtle variance of steam from a coffee cup. “It’s not magic, obviously—so go on, tell me how it’s done.”

Glass beer bottles clinked together as the bartender on duty began to wipe down the countertops with a damp cloth. He uttered something about closing soon but John couldn't hear him, too busy nursing the same glass of whiskey for the last half hour. He knew if he had any more to drink that evening he'd find himself in the ER with alcohol poisoning. Which, in retrospect, didn't sound like a terrible place to be. Not after he was thrown out of the bar by a significantly larger man, who didn't seem as keen as John to engage in amicable conversation. He'd settled onto the curb outside, his clothes tousled as he reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. "Enjoy the show?" John asked before taking a long drag, blowing out the smoke slowly as he looked up at the bystander. "Don't tell me you're looking to bum a cigarette. Afraid it's my last one. I suppose we could share if you'd like, granted you have something to offer in return."

           ❝ let's take a walk on the d a r k s i d e then. ❞

« jack mullarkey, 30, he/him, dc comics » ∙∙ loading case file for john constantine. known aliases, if any: the hellblazer. current location: new york, new york.  current occupation: occult detective. he is known to be quick-witted and selfish, so proceed with caution. their current alliance: civilian. penned by ree. ©

"Jesus!" Jessica shouted, stumbling back from the street. The snow was slushy and half-melted now, and the taxi drivers of New York were, predictably, assholes. She was soaked from the waist down with muddy slush. "Goddammit. This city needs less superheroes and more street cleaners."

"Too right, love," John concurred, appearing seemingly from out of the blue. "Say I actually paid my bloody taxes; I'd be a real twit if I weren't at least somewhat concerned where all that money's being funded, but that's private industry for you. Bunch of wankers." He took a step back as he examined the state of the woman's clothes. Surely she must be freezing given the temperature. "I hope you’re not considering knocking about in that all day. You’re guaranteed to catch a cold.”

“Okay, I swear to God this isn’t some shitty pick-up attempt,” Johnny started as he caught up to the other person. He held up the coffee cup and turned it around so the name was facing them. “Not me. And if that’s mine, I really don’t think you want the ungodly amount of espresso shots that’s in it.”

John’s fingers went slack midway through lighting his cigarette, blue orbs casting a skeptical glance in the direction of the stranger. At their words, he bit the stick of nicotine between his teeth and reluctantly accepted the cup of coffee, exchanging it for the one currently in his possession. “Honest mistake,” he replied, void of much interest as the robust smell hit his nostrils. “I reckon for your sake it’s a good thing you returned it. May as well be black tar, what’s in there. Wouldn’t want you puking your guts out, mate.” With his free hand, John fetched a small, shiny flask from the pocket of his trench coat, unscrewing the cap before pouring its contents into the piping-hot cup. “I’ve found this helps to wash out the taste.”