#maenage

' The ancient world ... ' Those words make it sound as though it was so long ago ; as if they don't continue to make deals in and of flesh and blood. ( Why change tradition? ) Perhaps the difference now are the rules they live by. Without them ... Well, he's heard that one plenty. They may stand and live in the line of society, just below the surface in their underworld, but human nature is human nature. And a deal is a deal.

He himself has one with the Tarasovs, sealed in a growing measure of blood by the week ( and he's known them ... what? A handful a years by now? ) . And he'll continue to fulfill their greedy aspirations, as long as they pay — it's his professional loyalty. But his personal loyalty isn't so easily bought ; when Winston comes calling, not offering a job per se, but instead for a favor ... John doesn't see why he would say no. ( Few people have done more for him than Winston. )

Now even he can't help but smirk, somewhat, obviously amused. He quips, ❝ Some things never change, I guess, ❞ in a light, nearly deadpan, sort of way. ( His reputation is gaining weight, stature ; but the man still outweighs the myth or legend that waits for him him in the future. )

@maenage: (for the meta) does john's actual age affect him? and if so, how? — META TOPICS

yes it does! more mentally than physically, but there's still a few noticeable elements that the demon blood doesn't quite patch over.

first, his mind is still aging at a normal pace, though his body is much slower going about it, and i think it definitely affects his memory processes as he gets older. he already struggles with some memory loss due to the deeply unethical and unhealthy practices applied to him in ravenscar, and that will advance with time. something specific to my portrayal is that i headcanon constantine as having an eidetic memory, since he's able to pull so many little details out of a hat for such specific situations, and i've begun to work in that he's starting to have trouble recalling eidetic imagery as clearly as he used to; he has to work with more references for magic than before, and his punk band days are even hazier, now. i also think this means he sees the physical representations of his friends' ghosts less and less tangibly as time goes on; over time, they've stopped being watcher figures and become a little closer to shades: less defined features and limbs, fewer details in the face.

his age also affects him in terms of his outlook on life, since he's lived long enough to see endless humanitarian crises and failed governments doing the same shit over and over again. he's prone to acting like a grumpy old codger, but anyone who's known him long would tell you he's been a grumpy old codger since he was thirty, so it's hard to say what's age and what's him. he has developed something of a defeatist streak over time, though; he's never been an optimist, and he's always gone into fights expecting that he could die, but the older he gets, the more the players in the game of magic change and the less leverage he has, and the more often constantine walks into fights resigned to the fact that he probably will die, if he doesn't give it everything he's got. he's jaded and he's tired, basically.

physically, his frown lines and smile lines are more deeply defined than they would be otherwise, and constantine definitely has more joint pain than he looks like he should, because he's been grinding those things down for 70 years. he had pins put into his left knee during city of demons, after he got hit by a car, and over time that's started to stiffen up and become his bad knee, though he'll never let anyone but his mates see him limping on it; can't afford to let it become a known weak point for enemies to use against him. the demon blood keeps his vision unusually sharp, but doesn't stop him from getting the kind of headaches that normal people associate with 'going too long without using your glasses when you clearly need them', so he bit the bullet a few years back and picked up a pair of reading glasses, though he uses them sparingly, because he's a prideful idiot.

the murmurs coming from broken jaws or golden tongues were no tunes of flattery! even some of these burning eyes felt as if the tenants were nothing more than misaligned juries examining prized cattle. the side glances forced by the inconvenience of feeling uneased, the challenging smirks of a quiet violence instigated by a desire to prove the myth is nothing but an exaggeration of creative minds . . . it almost felt like home. but this mountain of his never once shook. walls could never pass judgement; this high pillar of authority — a realm sculpted for him alone, by him alone; a spine stuck in someone's throat, no doubt — what does a shelled man fear other than the loss of the carcass sheltering him . . . ?

the continental hotels are spread worldwide. each bedecked with their own unique architecture, staff &. courtesies. all governed by a set of unbent rules. although the refined constructions captured the same swallowed-up hostile influence in their own periphery, new york's seemed to spread wider than the main entrance &. beyond its uncracked eyes, with its snout perked at every fresh blood trail blocks away. this, of course, was none of his concern — he simply had to endure a « brief » warning from an employer drunk on his own distrust over. this land field the tarasovs were frothing at the mouth with prudent schemes to cross it was not this particular fuss he mentions.

his eyebrow perks up curiously, not aiming to dismember an analysis from the posture of the man standing before him. opinions fell short to an system they cannot change. simply put : it is not his gates to guard, or his order to keep. but one thing does matter . . .

kerry was vague about the details, not because he had to be but because, overall, it seemed easier. winston doesn't need to know any more than the barebones beats of relevance just as much as kerry isn't seeking advice for the moment. theirs is a simple trade off, one telling and one listening with minimal commentary. no small part of it is how very different their identifiable professions are, but it works for them as well.

once you find yourself high enough, choices can cross-drift. there are merely different shades and tastes of power and influence.

"maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but i will. just gotta wait for the right time."

there is a bearing about winston that feels as leaden and immutable as stone. age-worn, world-old, carrying the weight of both deeds and stories untold. it isn't magicked from loose imaginings in the way that truth cannot be - it seems as obvious and undeniable as the table they find themselves at, rich with class and style.

kerry has no doubt winston is a serious man. to say otherwise would be patently ridiculous, a lie even a fool could see as such. it's hard to feel the weight of that bearing and think anything but. steel in a three-piece suit, poise honed to a fine, exacting point.

besides, he doesn't think winston could be what he is if he weren't a hard fucking man.