it's in the details

“Exactly!” Which was true in more than one way, but Blayze doesn’t say anything about it. The question bout the occult was a difficult one to answer. “Well, I have the ability to use sorcery like my family does. I’m skilled enough that I can do only BASIC spells you know? If I ever need them, but I was never interested in mastering the skill. I was happy enough with the simple stuff.” Now Blayze had other abilities that he had to focus on mastering anyway.

The vampire has no idea of what they were doing, no idea of what his aura even looked like. 

“I’m twenty. I’m one year away from getting to go to the bar.” Blayze says with a smile at that, even if he’d forever look eighteen at least he’d be able to pass for twenty-one when his birthday comes around.

“No?” His surprise is genuine, seeing as -- from an outside perspective, at least -- being steeped in sorcery as John is, his kids would follow. Or perhaps they reject it, as Conor had with their... heritage. He suspects John might be more thrilled that his son isn’t dabbling as much as the old man, at that. “Other studies to focus on, I ‘spect,” he comments offhandedly, more to himself.

There’s much about the Constantine family he’s yet to learn. He’s more than eager to discover it all.

Rhea walked out of Silvey’s, already pulling a cigarette out of their bag. They reached for their lighter and came up empty. “Shit.” They muttered under their breath. Turning to someone near them, they asked, “Any chance you have a light?” 

He was already digging in his pocket for his lighter and cig pack, glancing over for a brief moment. Gives them a nod, lights his own up before passing it over. “Ye can keep it, got more’n enough back home,” he offers. He’s headed to John’s anyway, knows how easily he can slip one from his partner.

Natasha can’t help but smirk at the man’s answer, though his honesty certainly is refreshing. At least he’s very well aware of just what kind of people he’s standing amongst - though, really, he has no idea. Not with her, at least. “Well, it takes an immense amount of strength to be able to do the things dancers do. They certainly need strong legs.”

“do me a favor– don’t take it easy? remember, i’m gunna kick. your. butt.” they throw a cocky smile at Bran. cassie is dressed in your standard workout gear, hair tossed up on a bun, and hands wrapped and ready for a fight. after spending afternoons at Bran’s bar, eating and getting homework done ( rarely drinking when the homework was out ) it had eventually come out that they both fought, so they’d been quick to ask for guidance. thus far cassie had done an EXCELLENT job of keeping their secret identity with him, considering Stinger also had a working relationship with Bran. now though, cassie had asked the irish man for help on making sure she was always getting better at defending herself, “i can’t get better if you’re going easy on me. i’ve been doing this for…. like 15 years now, i can take it,” and as they finished, they settled with their knees slightly bent, leaning forward on their toes, eyes sharp and ready to anticipate the move. [ @streakofemercld ]

It almost makes him laugh, their confident declaration of beating his ass; his Da had him training and learning to fight from the earliest age he could get away with, five or six years old. Most of his life. But he’s in a serious mode now, keeps his face impassive, as he faces off against them. Wrapped hands, work out gear, and a grim determination to help them get more fighting experience. After weeks of seeing them doing homework, feeding them (he doesn’t always charge them, either) he’s grown fond of the little firecracker, enjoying their enthusiasm and general upbeat ways.

Exhausted and tired, John continues to be alert, even with his eyes closed, body relaxed as it will get after his anger had redirected to the needle and to Bran. It’s far too easy for John to forget that he can drag a laugh out of someone, how easily he lacks the sound in all too many points in his life that wasn’t out of malevolence or pushing someone’s buttons… but there’s always an expectation that it won’t last. That any amount of happiness that comes will fade and there goes John with a new skeleton in his overflowing closet of bones and new ghost at his back. Or, perhaps he’ll become boring, no longer an enigma when his secrets are aired and his puzzles solved. Or they wise up, not set in for someone that needs so much work and effort to even start to unravel, or that they’re in danger just being around the Scouse mage to begin with.

It’s a sobering kind of voice (or voices) that reminds him of all of that, and it has long been reinforced in the ultimately tragic tale that has been John’s life thus far, and is difficult to silence completely, no matter how much he wants it to shut up and whole-heartedly enjoy something for once. But no, there’s always that other shoe, just waiting to drop. The only question is when, and where.

“I absolutely don’t believe it. Ain’t seen you get fed up, though, so I s’pose I’ll have to take your word for it… Family business, then?” He asks but doesn’t give it a name just yet, despite already figuring that part out well before his scrying (or close enough, at least). Could say something about all that bollocks himself, what with that whole Laughing Magician thing that John doesn’t believe a bit in that ran through the Constantine bloodline. Despite it making some sense, he would argue that he’d always had a talent for lying and leave it at that. He snorts at the question Bran poses. “No, not unless you give me reason to… Are you gonna start givin’ me reasons to now, love?” He asked with a slight smirk and subtle raise of a brow. It lasts for a few moments before he relaxes his expression and comes clean – or cleaner, “Meant snoopin’. Tryin’ to get better at not doin’ that.”

Leaving is easy -- to walk away from pain, from the possibility of hurt, or worse, of actually being loved. Bran has done his fair share of leaving, turning and changing course to avoid the pain of being known and seen, but it isn’t in his nature to leave easily. Part of him will stay, will wonder, and occassionally look in and see how those he’s left are fairing -- though always from a distance. In truth, Danny’s parents probably believe Bran himself has died, as they never see him now, his number changed and his address different. Left them in the same grave that near-escape lies, an apartment on a block he constantly avoids. 

Part of him can almost sense John’s thoughts spiraling, and though he can’t be sure, he pulls their joined hands up, presses a soft kiss to the pulse in his wrist. Careful affection, the lightest of tugs away from where his mind may be going.

she’d never left the country. never really had the DESIRE, for one, and couldn’t have if she’d wanted to, with the amount of money that she and her dad had been living off of for… oh, her entire life. it wasn’t until moments like these - bran’s booming laugh all around her, eyes glued onto his pretty face and eagerly awaiting whatever else he said in that ( to her ) exotic accent of his, that she really thought about where she’d like to see. what she’d like to do. ireland had never been anything but a blip on a map to her, but if it had any other men like him ( though she doubted there WERE many men like him across that country ), well… it was some place she’d like to visit. leaning across the bar a little, her tone feigned sobriety poorly - “sheep and hills have never been more APPEALING.”

gods, she loved his company. it was as simple and as easy as that. his bar had pretty quickly become one of her favorites in town to frequent, the only thing stopping it from becoming her regular being the fact she didn’t want to come off as OVEREAGER. the atmosphere was good. everything she liked from a place. the drink was good, too, but that was true of everywhere. truth was, she came for the man behind the bar, because when she was sat before him, she forgot to mope. he made her laugh, and he laughed at what she had to say, and it didn’t matter where the night ended - or how. nikki didn’t do FRIENDS, but if she did, bran was one. “not half full of yourself, are ya?” like it was a SURPRISE. she rolled her eyes, but her smile remained strong. “didn’t you know i flirt with anything that moves?” she shot back, easily, making as much fun of herself as she was him - the lie pretty fitting to her character, if she so said so herself.

her nod was soft, almost not there at all, and as he lowered his voice and continued, her hand inched across the bar, tips of her fingers grazing across his arm. “tá,” she breathed, the learnt word unfamiliar upon her tongue, a default response to whatever it was he was asking - because she mightn’t UNDERSTAND, but they both knew, by now, that nikki didn’t tend to say no. “always.” anywhere.

Despite what he’s said, Ireland is home, and he wouldn’t trade it for anywhere. If he survives to retire -- and that is a big if, considering his true profession; much more likely he’ll die somewhere hidden, be swept under the rug, not even leaving a body behind -- it will be home, Cork or Dublin. Doesn’t think of that now, no time for the future here, pretty bird on her way to being plastered across from him. “Aye, say that until ye smell them, or step into a pile of their shite,” he teases back, reaching out and tugging on a piece of her hair, fond and familiar.

“With how I look, darlin? These curls? Not daft enough to feign ignorance. I’m a doorful of man, I am,” he agrees, warm and full throated laugh at her teasing. “Anything that moves, eh? Guess the rest of the bar is frozen still,” he adds, settling on his elbows and giving her a wink.

“I don’t really know how to mind my own business. It certainly gets me in trouble, but I’m still here! Which must make my curiosity good somehow.” Blayze admits with a laugh. He has made a lot of questionable choices, but he doesn’t regret any of them.

His eyes grow wider, but if his father was dating again then he would try and get on the man’s good side. He was doing alright so far, right? “Well congrats! It’s extra nice to meet you in that case. I assume I’ll see you around more then? I’ve been here for a few years actually!” Blayze says with a hint of a fanged smile.

“Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back,” he sing-songs briefly, grin across his face. Just like John, stickin his nose in places it’s right better off being kept out of. “You’re in on the occult too, then?” He asks, because the boy... doesn’t look it, not how John’s girls did. Didn’t have the scent of magic around him, either.

Curious enough, Bran takes a moment, blinks slowly, sees a perfect after image of the boy before him. Aura around him isn’t gold, though; inky black, tendrils slipping and sneaking into the air around him. Seeping at the edges, snapping at the faint shine of others. Interestin. Something to ask John about, no fuckin doubt.

Blayze is well aware of how no one in the world is perfect, both of his parents included. Neither was he, if he had been none of the awful experiences he has been in would have happened. He doesn’t think anyone should be like that regardless, the pressure you’d have to live up to would be too much. He’s still smiling though, even laughs a little. “You know when I was younger I would try and follow him around because I was curious about what he was doing in his travels.” It was far to dangerous looking back on it now.

“His partner, like you two are together? Dating?” Blayze’s eyes widened, but this surely was a small world wasn’t it? He would be happy for his father and this man if they were happy. It was all he needed to know, right? The boy doesn’t want the gross details, definitely not, but he wants to learn more about Bran. “My name’s Blayze, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Curious lad, weren’t you?” Bran teases, chuckling. Personally, he can’t help but imagine a very disgruntled John, small child stumbling around behind him, chubby hands clutching onto that damned trench coat. It’s a treacherously cute image. 

Natasha laughs at the man’s words, though she appreciates the honesty. “There are worse things than curiosity.” She says with a smile, waving for him to take a closer look if he really wants to. It’s nice to see someone admiring what she does - ballet certainly isn’t easy, but it’s fun for her. And as people keep telling her, she does have the moves. “Oh yeah? Intimidated by the style or by the dancers?” She asks with a raised eyebrow, the slightest smirk curling the corners of her lips.

He moves in, taking careful steps, boots echoing on the floors. Could walk quietly, or at the very least quieter, if he wanted, but it tends to be something people comment on. “That’s true. And the satisfaction is worth any temporary death,” he grins, giving her position a roaming glance over. There’s something familiar -- almost eerily so -- in the way she moves. “Both,” he admits, unashamed, shrugging. “Dancer’s leg muscles could kill me easy as a snap.”

logan snorted at the explanation the bartender gave him, shaking his head and not believing it for a second. he wasn’t being loud, in fact he made it a point to be obvious here, “you think i’m an idiot, bub?” a wry shake of his head and a mirthless snort of laughter show his thoughts on that sentiment.

“hope that bullshit works on others that can’t smell a lie,” he takes his cigar back and takes a drag, unimpressed stare baring down on the man, “you keep your secrets, ya damn leprechaun,” though, at the final word, his lips pull into the faintest hint of a fond smirk. logan wasn’t bothered, he understood the need for secrecy at times.

Bran keeps his grin in place, despite Logan’s lack of amusement and dismissive head shake. “Not even by half,” he counters, mock air of offense in his voice. He knows, of course, that there’s no real fooling Logan on this one, but that doesn’t mean Bran is going to roll over and just share this secret. Much as he enjoys Logan’s company, he isn’t one to share with every bloke that gives him a smile and makes him laugh.

John relaxes the moment Bran’s fingers laces, and exhales a breath that he wasn’t totally aware that he was holding in. His fingers curl slightly tighter as he rubs his thumb in a slow, steady circle around one of Bran’s knuckles. “I know, your baby boy is so dramatic.” John snorts, though his expression softens when Bran leans in, and he doesn’t pull away when their lips fully meet.

John stuck his tongue out at Bran for that bold faced truth about his pisspoor skills when he went back to cooking. Part of him does so because it’s a great goddamn view that he would never, ever get tired of… but the largest, strongest part of John whispers that he should watch and prepare himself for when his lifestyle inevitably gets to be too much. Or, whenever he bollocks it up in some way or another, so that it will hurt less when either eventually does happen. Once Bran turns around, however John’s expression changes from a kind of melancholy to playful bordering cheeky as he teases with a laugh, “Feed me, Seymour. I’m starvin’.” His purring tone is much more confident, just hairs away from normal, despite the thoughts that he was previously entertaining.

It’s a good thing that Bran wasn’t sitting down, or John would be leaning on him more than he already was, or would have been curled into him like a nearly second skin. John settled for another chance to hold Bran’s hand once again. Astra and Newcastle were put back into their respective places; there was hardly any chance that John would take them out and replay them. Not tonight, anyway. Not around Bran. “No. I never asked, or looked.” He shrugs slightly, careful not to agitate his patched up wounds more than he has to. John hasn’t told Bran about Cheryl either, but he supposed he would in due time. Maybe later tonight, or in its own time.

Can’t help the grin that splits his face wide, at John so casually calling himself Bran’s baby boy. Stirs something deep, warm, and practically possessive in his gut, and he presses into their kiss gratefully, happily. Would stay there for much longer, if there wasn’t food to make, a hungry man to feed.

Laughing is easy, with John’s teasing, cheeky bastard grin across his face. Practically feels his voice across his skin, worming its way into Bran’s heart, his memory; here and now, Bran would do practically anything that John asked of him. Would easily allow John to curl against him, link them together like perfect cogs, and be content to barely ever move again. He settles for giving John’s hand a firm, reassuring squeeze, calloused hands together.

Lu didn’t bother with the lights in the front of the store, beelining straight for the back of the house after locking the doors back behind Bran. She squinted as the harsh lights of the work area flickered on, her eyes struggling to adjust from the dark cover of night. The computer set up seemed to flash to life on its own, Lu’s powers taking control of it without needing her touch. For a moment she glanced to Bran, who she figured was scanning the store instinctively. “There are some drinks in the mini fridge further back.” She said to him. “Figured you might be a little thirsty.” Lu teased as she pulled the harddrive out of her bag, preparing it for hook-up to her systems. 

Oh, she’s absolutely teasing, edging a finer line than she knows. As always her powers impress him deeply, and he watches for a moment as the screens flicker to light, before his gaze trails to her ass. Moment of silent admiration before he moves towards the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water, making as much noise as possible. Drains half of it in one go, before he closes the door near silently, moving back towards her, quiet as the night outside.

It’s a deeply rooted survival method that John quickly learned that has kept him from being so open like this, even to himself — forget other people (important or not). And as John grew older, this lesson was further reinstated by the mask that he has had to use countless times just to get by, to keep Hell from shutting its jaws on him, or to keep him from fully drowning in his innumerable mistakes and damning guilt. Similarly, showing softness, being gentle, or being in such a state was not an option for John at very many points in his life. Only when John was around Gemma and Cheryl, and Kit and Zee, and, later, his kids and grandkid in those all-too-scarce and scattered moments did he have the opportunity to really learn, or display what little he knew and understood back then.

Now? Here? With both Bran and Lu in equal measures? Being close to them and his only living (well, adjacent to living, in one case) family that he can acknowledge out loud… John is nothing if not hungry and eager to learn how to be something else. Something more. More than every jagged, broken edge and all the harsh bite & bark that he’s made up of. To prove that despite the Scouser’s self-assured cleverness and quite set in his own stubborn ways… an old, tired, mangy fox like him could still learn a trick or two with a little lot of patience and a little lot of guidance.

John doesn’t resist when Bran leans forward, fingers trailing upwards to follow the scar. Still slow, still uncharacteristically gentle for the mage, and he doesn’t resist getting closer, either. His pulse follows in the wake of Bran’s affection, and he can’t fight the shudder that the sight leaves in its tender wake. Words he’s never spoken, never given life to rest on the tip of his tongue. He’d almost said them once before, in the closest way that he knew how to in the past… and he’s terrified of a repeat performance of the aftermath, especially if he could somehow bring himself to say them. it’s not quite the same circumstances, of course, but the fear still lingers regardless.

Following that shiver, chasing the tender reaction he was shown, increased beat of John’s heart. Relishes their closeness, the simple feel of their skin together, warmth and solid, tangible feelings. Grateful for every scar on his partner’s body -- they show that he has lived, and been hurt, but also that he’s survived. Survived, to be here. Be in this moment, the two of them together, rest of the world could sod off. 

Lu and John, the other people he’s grown close to at Paragon (Nikki, Cassie, Logan, to name a few) they’re unexpected. After Danny, he’d become... comfortable, or something akin to it, with having only Conor to be close to in his life. Everyone else at a safe, comfortable distance. Easy enough to close his emotions off, but it hurts, deeply, even when necessary. Having them, relearning how to have them close, how to show his affection for them? It’s better than Bran could ever expect.

Careful movements, now, as he finally presses his mouth to John’s, calloused hands splayed around a hip, dipping beneath a waistband, other in the middle of his back. Gentle, guiding pressure towards the bed, slow burning desire tio be even closer. Finds another scar with his hand, follows it up John’s body, cupping his cheek. Feeling the old stubble there, rough against his skin, but he doesn’t mind a bit. Gentle hand holding John’s face as Bran kisses him soundly, none of their usual roughness, eager to go, to forget themselves in each other’s bodies.

Blayze lifts the plastic cup to his lips, taking a sip of the hot liquid. His stomach may not be pleased with it, but he was still fond of the caffeinated beverage. The warmth coming off of the cup keeping him warm, but it wasn’t like the winter weather would kill him anyway. Before he actually makes any decisions on where to head next with his day free, someone approaches him. 

Now the boy wasn’t nervous, but after the question is asked there’s a certain smile forming on his face. “Yeah, he’s my dad.” While knowing that his father was a lot of things, he still loved him a lot. 

“How do you know him?”

Huh. Shocking to see someone actually smile after being asked about John -- Bran was used to he and Lu being the only ones. Finally found a lad of yours t’like ye, he thinks smugly, grinning a bit. “You all trackin’ him down, now?” He asks, meaning it as a soft sort of joke.

John ignores the unamused look. It irritates him on some small level, that his serious warning is met with disregard. But isn’t that what usually happens, John, if they don’t wise up at some point? Zee knew – knew enough not to get too mixed in with him in the end. And Kit was attacked in their apartment due to John trying to square away his debts with Chantinelle and the First of the Fallen, only for it to backfire on the Scouser when he messed about with Gabriel. And then there’s one like poor ol’ Gaz. Wrong place at the wrong time, eaten from the inside out by a hunger demon for his trouble trying to get said hunger demon to John to squirrel away someplace safe. And he was a friend John had since childhood. “‘Swhat they all think. They tend to sing a different tune once it becomes reality.” Can’t blame them, really. He has been and always will be a first class bastard.

Plus, John has always had one foot in the grave since conception – he would be surprised if he went out with a whimper. The fact that John’s still breathing to begin with, even before gaining such a long list of regrets and enemies, is nothing short of an astronomical anomaly or coincidence. But, he won’t think about that particular truth tonight. He lets the silence stretch, hoping that Bran has finally wizened up, partially hoping that it hasn’t, but at the request to talk to the spirit hanging about his lover…

John doesn’t even realize his attitude and body language changes when he slips into his oldest persona to protect himself from Bran’s own change in body language; the older man turns to just leave because it’s not his problem and he’s honestly far too agitated at his own ghosts to be of any real help… but he gets as far as two steps away before his guilt starts tearing at him. Bran… looked like he needed closure, and John knows that look all too well; he wears it often when he’s alone. And he asked John to do something he is very well capable of doing with fairly minimal, and it hurts to see Bran look like that. Trying not to appear like it hurts or he’s in pain, like he’s trying to hold himself together. He growls at himself under his breath, “Bollocks. When did you get to be so fuckin’ soft, John?” 

The mage turns on his heels and stops as soon as he’s back in front of Bran. John extends an index finger in his face – though the arrogant and angry demeanor slowly cracks and slips off of him as he snapped, “I ain’t a bleedin’ telephone between anyone and the dead, an’ I’m not ‘bout to start now, no matter who you bloody are to me. You got somethin’ to say to whoever that bloke of yours is, say it now.” His tone is still harsher than he ever wanted to be by the time he finishes – a by-product of turning on the age old defense mechanism, perhaps, though it had faltered by the time he’s done.

But his eyes, however, hold no real bite to them. No, they seem sad, somehow. Apologetic. The reason was unclear to John as he was unaware of putting on that persona.

He recalled a spell he used on Boston Brand, once upon a time. Temporary though the spell was, it got the job done well enough then… It would probably do in a pinch. He performs the incantation to completion, and pops the collar of his old trench coat up when he’s done. As if that’ll put a wall up between Bran and Danny’s spirit, and John himself. “You got fifteen to thirty minutes, depending on the connection. You can hear, talk, and see each other. However, you’ll still go right through him if you try an’ touch him.” John moves further along the wall to give them privacy once his explanation is through… as well as a vague hope that he won’t get further tangled up in emotions that he understands all-too-well, but has no idea how to actually cope or deal with them.

Hates himself for having asked, but won’t retract the statement. Has no chance to, seeing as his mouth has disconnected from his brain, watching John turn from him. Stings something fierce, like whiskey on a wound, but it eases up when John turns back. Release of pressure, matching the deep release of a breath he’d been holding.

Closes his eyes as John strides closer, almost expecting a slap round the face. Wouldn’t be surprised, wouldn’t really flinch -- knows that John detests being used for his abilities, that he isn’t a mouthpiece for the dead. So he expects a solid punch to the jaw, a spit out fuck off, and to hear from John in a few days.

Isn’t expecting John to speak, and he opens his eyes carefully, struck for a moment by John. The anger in his partner’s voice is thrown off by the sadness in his gaze, as though he means only half of what he’s saying. Bran has long learned to watch John’s eyes and not his mouth -- the mouth wasn’t near as honest as those eyes were, not by a fucking long shot. John wears his heart in his eyes, and even still they burn Bran now, though he’s careful not to flinch.

Struck numb and dumb by John’s offer, can only watch as he speaks the incantation, feel the air tightening around him. Sees more colour, more life from the shape beside him, and something claws at his throat, a sound he can’t let out. Can do nothing but watch John move away, unmoving himself, until he comes to a stop nearly out of earshot. Bran takes a moment, closes his eyes and collects himself, sees the faint golden outline of John’s trail just to reassure himself... And he turns.

Somewhere, he expected to see Danny as he last saw him -- tore up and bloody, nearly unrecognizable, practically destroyed. Rushing wave of relief to see, instead, the boy he originally fell for -- whole and so lively looking that it brings tears rushing back to his eyes. Blinding smile, dimples in his cheeks, and those bright blue eyes -- looking at Bran with nothing but that same love, same cheer that he was used to. He’d expected hate, blame, but there was none to be found.

“Hullo, love,” Bran manages, and his voice cracks like ice. Reaches out instinctively, wanting to touch, hold; ends up hovering his hand next to Danny’s own, not touching, unable to meet. Overwhelming rush of grief, that he was the reason they were so separated. The young man from Glasgow was not meant to die so young, be killed so brutually. Not meant to make his Mother cry so, leaving his family behind the way he was forced to.

Can almost imagine he feels the heat from Danny’s skin as his other hand comes up, hovers near Bran’s cheek, his neck. Tips of his fingers trail into the skin, and it burns, burns, but Bran will take the pain of it over not feeling him at all. “Mo ghaol,” he starts, and the sound of his voice brings Bran treacherously close to tears once more. “How long will you blame yourself for this?” Saddness drags his expression down, familiar crease between deep set brows. “I knew what I signed up for, when you told me about your job. It was not your fault. It is not your fault.” Emphasis is clear, and he can barely stand to look at him, cannot look away. “Stop looking at the past. I’m not there anymore. You aren’t to blame for what happened. I want you to be happy, mo ghaol.”

Words fail him, can’t think of anything to say in response, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. Instead he stands there, silently, looking at his... Who was he, now? His lost love? His ex? Doesn’t matter, not in the moment, as Bran watched him. Standing there together, Danny’s hand going through his skin, hands hoving millimeters apart, until he begins to fade. He fades out slowly, smiling, and Bran could not say how long they’d had together. Stares into space for a moment, two, breathing deeply. In, out.

John’s fucking weird. He knows he’s weird. Knows he attracts weird shit like some kind of fucked up light house in a sea of normalcy that can’t (or won’t) turn itself off. Doesn’t know if that makes that particular pill better to swallow, or any less bitter. Most of his partners that stayed for any amount of time weren’t keen on it, or keen on the proof when they’re standing right there in plain sight. Much less those of which were a part of John’s most damning mistake, in this case.

“So, Bran. Meet the Crew. You’ve already met Gaz. That’s Anne-Marie, Frank, Ben, Ritchie, and Judith…“ He points out each of them in time, then pauses as his eyes narrow further, scanning his surroundings for the other usual members of his crowd, John doesn’t find any but the one trying to touch Bran, and there’s a smidgen of comfort to be had with that. “Ray’s not here, or anyone else, so it isn’t the whole lot. Count’s off by about a hundred or so.” Is John joking about his ghost count? His eyes says that he is, but his expression is a grim and serious one.

And all of them had known him in some capacity. Some were lovers, honest girlfriends and boyfriend here and there that turned into resentment if they were unlucky (which they mostly were). Some could’ve been considered family if not a close friend of the mage once upon a time, or was before they died, or were murdered, or sacrificed, or any other similar word. “Always tellin’ you not to get close to me, ‘cause of this lot. ‘Sgonna be your fate, one day, if you keep on with me. So, welcome to a look for what will likely be in store for you in the future, up until I’m just that little bit too slow to escape Hell and they shut the doors on me forever, design a trap I can’t work meself out of. ‘Less you wise up and go while you can… though, bein’ fair an’ all, it may not work at this point.”

This is why I don’t want you or Lu or anyone else get too close, is what he wants to say, but can’t bring himself to spit them out.

John’s about to say Welcome to the club, luv, but the new kid isn’t one of his. Granted, John can’t remember ALL of his particular spooks, but they’re not that friendly towards others outside of an obligatory ‘Do not interact with Constantine or you’ll become one of us’ warning.. John’s eyes narrow suspiciously as he still watches this newcomer, still has a spell loaded under his tongue and fingers that would buy them time, should it turn ugly or be something it’s not. He keeps said spell safely tucked away under his tongue, though, just in case they need it after all.

“Looks to be young adult. Male. Says it wasn’t your fault. Doesn’t say for what.” Instinct tells John that he should drop it, that it’s one of those things he’s not made for and he should leave it alone to begin with. He also feels he should drop the illusion of being his demon self by now, but he’d much rather have it up at the same time. It’s a very thinly veiled wall between himself and the scene that John can pretty much see how it’s going to play out, and he’s not even remotely equipped to deal with it. “Forget I said anything.”

Perhaps it says more than he wishes, that he goes on and waves at all the ghosts -- all the people John has had a hand in putting in the grave, whether intentional or not, ill or well meant. Making mental notes to ask about them, later, when they aren’t looming - ha - so heavily over John’s head. Can’t help but giving his partner an unamused look at his warning; they were starting to wear on him, though not making him go anywhere.

Life expectancy in his line of work is... bleak, to say the least.

“Told ye already, love, ain’t goin’ anywhere. Not likely t’live t’ be much older, anyway.” He retorts, attempting to ease any tension or sting his words may have caused with the quick flash of a smile. “Least I’d be a helpful ghost. Remind ye t’eat an’ the like.” Gallows humour is the best defense of the damned, doomed, and dying, far as Bran is concerned.

Any and all humour, or attempt at it, fades as John describes the ghost next to him. Face fallen, drained of colour, and suddenly his fists are tightening. If he were being completely honest, there’s a stinging to his eyes, and his jaw is clenched either to prevent saying anything, or to hide the tremble in his muscles. No. No, it can’t -- if he were a ghost, he’d be with his Ma. Wouldn’t be... Is my fault. Silence stretching, chewed bubble gum piece of time, slow and thick until Bran finally gets his mouth to move. “Can ye see anything else?”

Torn between pushing it, asking for more, and not wanting to pressure John. Can’t be easy, having all these specters around, constant reminders of the dead and gone. But oh, oh he wants to hear what this one has to say. Wants to see him again, whole and put together, not the bloody mess in the middle of their a bed, chest opened like a purse. Thrown about like such faff and mess. Corner of his eye, he catches the barest wisp of mist, can see it evaporating from his own skin. As if it were trying to touch his arm, grab it maybe. Asking for his attention? “Johnny. Can ye get a name?”