#sardonicmd

Any moment now, he'd see his car pull into the parking lot of the shitty hotel, on the outskirts of the city. He'd already watched him on his morning run, keeping a watchful eye as he made his way back to the house he only seemed to occupy in the mornings. As the man took his ice bath, Johnny was tucked away in the trees, and he wondered just what about that the man found satisfying.

Following him had been easy. That’s the thing with routine schedules; they were easy to pick up on. The first time he’d spotted him, had been a spot of luck, just enough chance for them to cross paths. He’d studied his features, the energy radiating off him screaming to be fully let loose.

Johnny had made sure to book the room next to his, waiting patiently outside, smoking a cigarette. He leaned his forearms on his truck, eyes finding his targets as he got out of his car. This wasn't the typical place people made small-talk. Most people who stayed in a place like this were either being unfaithful, or they were using as a glorified dog house. Again, he's curious which was the case. If he had a home, why be here?

It started as a little gut wound, courtesy of a switchblade. It escalated to infection, as these things tend to go, because as handy of a field medic as he can be, he didn't sanitize well enough. The only thing he's done correctly is seek help when he realized the redness was spreading. Having nearly lost his right arm and his life to MRSA some years back, Mox isn't keen to play with his health- especially after beating the odds already. He edges fate enough. He doesn't need to play chicken with sepsis.

Thing is, yeah, he got help, and yeah, he consented to sit his ass down long enough to run an intravenous course of antibiotics, but after that, it had been right back to work. Unlike some gangs, the Riders aren't covered in tattoos. He's got several, but none that scream affiliation. Neither does he have the bravado so many do, but he certainly does have the visitor- a dead-silent bodyguard claiming a spot in the initial ER room as a dear friend.

Death Riders can't manage anything alone. That's what everyone says. Probably wipe each other's asses, the way they're talked about. Mox doesn't hold the opinion of outsiders in particularly high regard.

This, unfortunately, includes Frank, who is now stitching him up for the second time. Why? He didn't follow lift restrictions, tore right through, and had the wits to come back for help immediately two days after initial treatment.

He's a model patient in some ways- strong, takes care of himself, never raises his voice. He's a horrible one in others, so prone to pushing beyond reason and, as his pulse and blood pressure seem to confirm, incredibly nervous in medical settings no matter the reason.

"I'm not agreeing to that." There's no sleep to be had in a hospital. Constant noise, constant check-ins, pills, temperature checks, blood draws...he'd need to be doped up on ambien to not have a panic attack, frankly, but he's in a good place for pills. "It won't happen again." His body's a map of horrors- the sort that leave white and pink scars behind. He's peculiar about what doctors he'll let see as much as a result.

Pac, in a bedside chair, seems engrossed in his phone. The reality? He's watching every passing pair of feet from beneath the dividing curtain, a doberman ready to pounce.

They've been through some shit together, Mox and Pac.

Neither man's armed. They're following hospital policy without a fight, at least.

This part of town is well known at the hospital. Their social worker made them familiar with the particular needs of this side of town. It’s poverty stricken, addiction addled, and violence laced. What the hell was Johnny thinking bringing him here? He didn’t know. Was this a usual haunt? Did he have friends here? Maybe this was his mistake for consenting to this little field trip. There were a few former patients, convicted criminals, lurking at the bar. Langdon’s stare must have been obvious. Or maybe theirs was obvious. “if they know you're with me, they'll leave you alone.” “And how do I declare that I’m with you? A sign? Maybe a label on my forehead?” He’s at Johnny’s side, though his gaze is settled on two particular men across the bar. Men that he knew had domestic violence charges. Men he’s stitched at the hospital while they remained cuffed to the bed. Dangerous. “Next time— I’m picking the bar.” It’s a low mutter into his beer.

It’s clear the venue makes him uneasy. Not for bad reason, either. There’s a reason Johnny doesn’t feel the need to hide his real face in a place like this. The dim lighting (more to do with faulty bulbs than for ambience) was just enough to make a person feel a little bit hidden. The familiar smoky haze filled the room, and Johnny added to it by lighting his cigarette.

“C’mon.” He nods towards the bar, not responding to the other man’s quips. A short huff, almost resembling a laugh left his throat; next time. “Two shots, rail whiskey.” Johnny ordered as the bartender approached.

It's not often that Johnny keeps his food alive this long. Usually, he's ranting and raving back home to his family about how he's working on a new victim. This one, however.. he's keeping him to himself. This was new, and uncharted territory, even for him. Johnny didn't want to rush this, and he knows that he has a tendency to get carried away when his family becomes aware of his plans- almost like a dog fighting for his share of food in a pack of wild dogs.

❛ I—- don’t think you’re as bad as everyone says you are. ❜ (from @sardonicmd for Johnny)

The words were strange, and while Johnny hadn't had many nice things said to him, he feels the weight of the sentiment. What parts of him had this man seen, and thought: 'that's not so bad'? He was rotten and twisted, and more often than not that thought didn't bother him.

It bothered him now, that he's sitting across someone being kind to him. The first instinct he has is to scoff, lash out- CUT him to prove him wrong. No, he wasn't as bad- he was worse. Johnny doesn't do any of that, though. He sat silently, eyes focusing on Langdon, trying to scan his features as if his eyes could peel back layers to uncover the truth. What was he thinking?

“Yeah. That you think I’m crazy.” Constantine says the sentence like he thinks Langdon’s being absurd. He’s busy rifling through old, dusty books with strange writings etched into leather and yellowed papers. Whatever are in these things aren’t written in english, that’s for sure.

Point is, he doesn’t really care what @sardonicmd thinks. They have names for it; psychosis, hallucinations, schizophrenia. But John knows it’s none of them. A trip to literal hell and back might do that to a man—make him seem a little crazy.

Taking the spot of Dana was not an easy one to fill. Each day had been filled with a new series of questions and judgements of her taking on the position. It wasn't a cruel type of judgement, she knew better than to let her feelings be hurt by this sort of thing. Instead, she was more intensely aware of the large hole that Dana had made by departing the team, one that Mary only HOPED she could fill over time.

She had FIGURED she had been done with introductions until a new set of eyes met hers. Hesitantly, she looked up from the clipboard in her hand with her head tilted to the side.

Taking the spot of Dana was not an easy one to fill. Each day had been filled with a new series of questions and judgements of her taking on the position. It wasn't a cruel type of judgement, she knew better than to let her feelings be hurt by this sort of thing. Instead, she was more intensely aware of the large hole that Dana had made by departing the team, one that Mary only HOPED she could fill over time.

She had FIGURED she had been done with introductions until a new set of eyes met hers. Hesitantly, she looked up from the clipboard in her hand with her head tilted to the side.