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RING RING
Goes the telephone hidden in the organized chaos of John (et al)'s acquired house.
Constantine was tired. Very fucking tired and aside from crashing at Lamont's place a few nights ago, the Brit looked a bit ragged around the edges. All those sharp edges. Still he looked around for the pho- oh it's… over there? Really!? He didn't even ask anymore and was convince the house move things on its own. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone, "Allo?"
Speaking of Lamont's place, it isn't as if caller ID exists yet, but on the other end an unexpected voice pipes up, cultured and educated with that delicately clipping accent against the front teeth. "I am calling for Mister John Constantine."
Constantine carried the phone with him, cradling the handset against his shoulder. "Michael, why you sound like you missed me for all is the usual terrible reasons? What can we do ya for?"
"You can read me like a book it seems, John," Morbius responds coolly. The unspoken 'but' hanging on the tail end of his sentence and leading the way into the next. "Lindon was stuck in a trance for the last 24 hours. I transcribed as much as I was present for, and would like your thoughts."
Constantine corrected him, "Thirty-six. It started well before I left. Sounds like it happened again or just wasn't done. Lamont get teh saltwater out? The more brackish the better." There was the sound of something being dragged that was heavy on wood. "Look I'm gonna need both my hands. I have hte maps he left us with if you want to come out and take a look and parse details."
Michael says something very not-polite as he holds the receiver away from his mouth, but the muffled sound of terse language is there none the less. "I will give him the benefit of the doubt and hope Lamont was not being purposefully dishonest, then. None the less, it's done. I'm waiting for him to return. Something said made the Sorcerer Supreme think of something and they left in a rush. Once he returns to watch over Lindon, I would like to come to you with the notes, yes. Information dissemination, you understand. Are you planning on leaving home in the next couple hours?"
Constantine looked around the room confused. "I was going to finishresearching Irish folklore, put the kettle on, take a shower, jerk off, get dressed and trying to bloody find fekkin Hargrove… Everyone's so into my personal adgenda today." He sighed. "That's fine. I'll be here. Come over, I'll wait for ya."
"Yes, very good," Michael seems agreeable without missing a beat as to the details. "You must masturbate very efficiently to do it after putting the kettle on. There's medication for that."
Constantine drily added, "What you want to find out and do a report for science? Be my guest. Call me when you head over. I'll move tea." His free hand rubbed his face and he hung up the phone setting it down…um… there. He cracked the lid on the trunk he dragged over and set his jaw closing his eyes and sitting o the couch stairing into it with steepled fingers pressed to his lips. Aloys what were you up to…
"You're too kind," Morbius replies and hangs up.
It's all a very very good question, really. What was he up to. What was this 'Master' up to. There were a lot of questions. And a lack of answers for any of it, especially to Morbius, but he wasn't about to bug Strange or Lamont with it. That would be admitting his ignorance to the Magician and, well, his main competition for Lindon's time. That just wouldn't do.
It's a few hours after the call when there's a neat knock on John's door. Hours are better than a day, however, so there is that. Morbius stands outside the door patiently and looking rather smart for once; looking more like a scholarly man should with the sweatervest and patches on the elbows of his jacket and everything, but all of that is swamped by his usually somewhat tatty gray longcoat and smart looking hat to cover the elfish points of his ears.
Constantine was lways one with his brilliantly dry wit. "First time anyone's ever dressed up for me to take a shower." Which might translate to, sharp, mate, sorry to rob you of your prior occasion. There was a… sympathetic look given to him? He didn't say as much but he knew he'd been spending time with Lindon and that he was dressed up meant it was intended to be a more optimistic occasion. "Wish it were under better occasion. C'mon, it's coder than a witch's tit out there." Some things were more orderly, and others formed a new project. The work table seemed to be of both worlds ina very organized amalgam of things.
Morbius steps in, looking down the front of his chest at his clothes are mentioned. A delicate pluck of a gloved hand against his vest and a puff of a sigh. "Yes, well, there was once upon a time I didn't live in a sewer. I've been—well, yes, there's no graceful way to put it, but I've been sulking." Crimson eyes rest on John, flatly, dismissing his apology for the most part. "So I thought perhaps if I dressed like a human being while I worked on a few things, I might feel a little less like tearing a hole through the lower east side. Then all of," his fingers fan out, impatiently gesturing at a multitude of things in a gesture. "this happened."
Morbius strips out of his coat, removing his hat as well. A messenger bag strapped over his shoulder under the large jacket. "Thank you for seeing me. Have you put the kettle on?"
Constantine boggled at the man in dry, but good nature, "I'm English. The kettle doesn't know how to be 'off'." He went and got the teapot set to steep. "I thought you went witht he intention of heading out with lindon somewhere. Still, I've done the same." He walked backwith everything piled ona tray and set it on teh trunk of bad memories. Occasionally I like to immitate a man that's not constantly taping the world back together at it's seems by being on a stakeout for three days. It happens."
Very, very tepid, Morbius' tone tries its very hardest to remain even and conversational as he walks into the main space and find a less cluttered area to place his bag and unpack. "No. It is very clear that where I rank above his casual bedmates as a genuine relationship, I am lesser than Cranston. The holidays are reserved for real couples." Bitter, Morbius? A possessive trill runs through the poised monster as he pulls out a notebook and flips through the pages, attempting to shake the feeling away. "This was the first I'd seen him in two weeks. Nearly made a very embarrassing mistake of disemboweling one of his playmates as well. It was a tough evening for everyone." When his eyes turn up to Constantine again, the sickly red is more brilliant, glowing softly. "Why have you been sulking?"
Constantine listened and could see where that got difficult. He'd been in similar mess before. Almost got him killed. Good stuff. "Well it's not because I'm not paying courtship to Lindon if that help." He paused and shook his ehad, "Or anyone these days. And frankly who really has time?" Dark blue eyes scoured the lofted ceiling up up up trying to find a neat summery, "In summary? No good deed goes unpunished and my past loves to keep coming back to punch me in the bollocks." He thought about it and kicked the trunk. "My late ex used to own the place. Love finding… things left over. Some even from when he plotted to sacrifice me so, there's tehe fun in that. Like easter, but where the chocolate rabbit tries to eat you. Still gives us a bit of a lead we need to help Lindon stay alive and hopefully teh toymaker Alex Cohen."
Nodding slowly while he listens to John's own personal woes before they get down to business. "Who has the time, indeed." Morbius murmurs in agreement while he finds the page and holds it open, pulling a second notebook from his bag in order to start transcribing it out of Greek. His pen scratches away. "The plaything says he knows the toymaker." An aside of vague importance as he licks his lip, thinking back on the rest of what John has to say. "That sounds like a Grimm's tale, doesn't it? Still. Not easy. I'm sorry the unpleasant things creep up on you, John. You hardly seem deserving."
Constantine boggled and said, "One of Alex's toys came to you and spoke?" Both eyebrows went up, "You mean… a… right." Now he gets it. He went to throw a splash of whiskey into his tea and offered the half bottle neck out to Michael. "Yeah, well, most of history would argue that." With a chortle there was an amusement that lit his eyes, "You're not the only one in the room that's got stigma, mate." He dropped into a padded chair and left one foot up on the box afore cursed. "Put short literally everything I have ever cared about is doomed to die or try and kil me. I am quite literally the reason I cannot have nice things. In return? I send Hell packing. Decent people seep at night. Nuns occasioanlly send me a fruitcake." He shrugged and drank his tea holding the cup by the rim. "Gotta love being born cursed. Gooooood stuff."
"I do not claim to own stigma," Morbius hums thoughtfully while he glances between the page filled with Greek letters and the clean one he's swiftly filling with English. The acceptance of tea is quickly made in order to get to the liquor bottle with gratitude for a splash of whiskey as well. "Sounds properly complicated. Congratulations, I officially feel suitably less screwed. Though, considering, you're not the only one who was born wrong, either." Morbius offers with a pop of his brows, leveling a look at John.
Constantine was not generally one to discuss his thoughts of himself. Ever. and his feelings? Neear never. There was no point. It didn't change anything and left one weak and vulnerable and put that information out there giving enemies and rivals advantage. That he said as much to the Doctor? Well maybe it was because he could rely on a fellow scientist to be matter-of-fact about these things. In that regard John was always abit feral. Still he was not without curiosity by a long shot. "Aenemia?" Ooooh highbrow vampire humor it is. Still he was listening.
The disclosure wasn't typical for either of them. Morbius had already spent an afternoon fucking with John and playing superstitions and fairy tales off each other to be a dick because he preferred sewing misinformation about vampires. Just in case some day John Constantine decided that he needed to hunt vampires. He had gotten upset when he learned Lindon had told the man about his history, the violation pretty serious in his book.
But. Fuck it. Things were shit lately.
He flicks his eyes up at John and holds on steadily while a dark eyebrow lifts. "Not usually, no. They taste rather thin for my tastes, but thank you for the offer." He leans back in his seat, hand poised still on the page. "Oh, did you mean me? Not exactly, no. What, did your mother sell your soul while you were in the womb to finance her house or something?"
Constantine lived with a vampire so having him believe a bunch of the truth already might have also deflated some of the prank. Well damn. At the glib retort? It wasn't met with a snide look but a subtle nod of approval back. Bringin up John's mother brought up a legitimate glow up in his eyes like tiny falmes in a far off furnace. Woah, John had a hot button. His jaw tightened for a while and he answered clinically, "No my mother died in child birth with my twin brother." Apparently this was very off the list of things we joke about, though he did answer honestly. He got up and walked over to grab the teapot though he did pause to refresh Michael's cup first. He was not snubbing him for inquiring at least or holding against him what he did not know. Hell he wasn't even certain if Kent knew that.
When a glib relationship is established, it's almost a promise that one of you is going to accidentally stumble over an actual sore spot. It happens. The choice becomes how to handle it. Michael? He's not an anti-social creature. He isn't anti-social nor is he socially-awkward. He can tell he said something wrong. John's matter of fact response just confirms what that was.
The predator backs down gracefully. "My condolences, John." And that was that.
Constantine refilled Morbius' tea cup as a silent gesture of forgiveness letting it pass as he filled his own and set the pot back down. He lifted the cup to him accepting the apology with a murmured, "Cheers." He took a minute to rally and went back to taht casual comfort of matter of fact glibness that they both excelled at. There was so much salt between them they could support the entire deer population of Vermont. "Eeeeh eeeevery birthday til I was twn my old man would make sure I remember that by taking me all the way out to the graveyard and make me apologize to her." he did offer though in that grim sense of humor, "Well at least we know the phrase 'beat the thought into you' wasn't tested with shoddy science." And enough of that. He leaned forward with elbows on knees peering into red of the Doctor's eyes. "We're going to need clinical minds to suss out how Aloys knew abotu Hargrove, why he was hunting me down, how I fell off the list, what maybe the subjects have in common although we have established intent and motive… but he's going to need the Archive and once our enemy realizes where his conduit is? It's going to get bad for LIndon very fast and worse for ht rest of us… I don't wish this on anyone. I know… what my reputation is and een what Lamont says of me- which" He held up a finger pausing, "Is likely accurate as a fair warining. But mate, he's too close to the affected end and I could use the bloody help mate. I'm thinking those outside of sorcery? Stop over looking the simply obvious shite in front of us." He didn't ask Michael for help. Michael came to him. he forwarded to, "I welcome any help you're willing to bring to the table. I'm happy to ward you so the fuckery and damages are mitigated to you."
Tea refilled, Morbius leaves the subject where it is if John likes, though as he continues, the monstrous man listens with his attention off his transcription and leveled on John respectfully. His eyes narrow slightly, speculation and undirected and unbiased confusion more than anything. When something was awful, he often turned to facts. The scientific method. And damn that all seemed ineffective. To what means? Ugh, sloppy. All of it. A distaste curled around his sharpened features, eventually it ebbs, but Morbius offers no more insight or opinions on the skeletons in John's closet. Instead, he hums and falls into the matter impressing currently on all of them, meeting John's gaze levely.
It's a selfish move, and he knows it. John Constantine stared into the souls of devils, and aside from Lindon, he could hold Morbius' gaze with more luck than most men. So, it's selfish, but Michael indulges while he listens, nodding minutely between.
"This is a problem rooted in sorcery, but that doesn't mean that is can't be approached from ways outside of it. That would be extremely arrogant, which," Michael's eyes widened and his tone dropped as he looked down to his notes. "Is a general problem which most of them seem to share anyway. The last time I was here I told you I would be happy to help, John. Lindon aside, this sort of thing does interest me for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that if he succeeds he's going to make life for a lot of people very bad." To put it mildly. "Warding…" He makes a flighty gesture with one hand. "I'm not familiar with the technicalities, but I would rather your head was entirely in the game rather than myself if it would split your focus."
Constantine was still a man of the scientific method first and foremost and watched, eyes locked and curious , the other part of his mind back to connecting pins on his mental murder board with red stringtracking the killer. "Warding…" He went to say something and grimaced, "You gonna play in a lab you put on a face shield? Gloves? maybe a lead vest? Think of this as the metaphysics version of that so you don't take splash damage in the work environment. It's really apply and go." He paused and squint sharing a secret, "Last person I warded I painted up like a bloody bonny easter egg. Convinced him all the colours were necessary…but I like you so lets just keep you upright and functional, yeah?"
Speak science to me, Johnny.
Morbius listens and nods once with a certain finality to it to indicate he both understands and agrees. "That seems like a no-brainer, as they say, then." The secret makes him arch his brows slightly, a smile stretched over his lips. "You really like easter imagery, don't you, John? I'm going to have to remind myself to ask you if properly ridiculous seeming things are necessary. You've made your job with me much, much harder, I think." The vampire chuckles and looks between his pages, then his spiked tea.
Vibrant eyes squint and relax in quick succession while he considers something. Coming to some sort of an internal decision, Morbius nods to himself minutely and pushes to his feet, setting his pen down.
"Does the name the flaming hand of Kamar-Taj strike any chords?" Asking casually while Morbius uses one wicked looking finger to pull the knot of his tie away from his throat, the tail end coming free with some managing, the fabric hisses against his collar as it's pulled off and draped over the back of his chair.
"Strange said Vasant, but that he hadn't heard the name in a long time. India, Lindon said." His jacket comes next, dropped onto the chair over his tie. Morbius points lazily toward a hall of the cluttered house. "Bathroom this way?"
Constantine let a hint of a grin warm his swarthy features as the rules of the 'game' were set. "If something looks like an anomoly always double check the math, mate." Yes, if you think you are being screwed with always ask.
WHen grilled he nodded, "Indian chap, part of Strange's order. Only very briefly crossed paths with him on assignment in World War II." When Michael headed for the door to the hallway on the first floor a hand went up and flicked twice. "That… is…another Easter egg." So stay on metaphor. It was funny and from the tired expression not one of those amusing ones. "Just use the one on the second floor. Hallway. First door to your right." He wasn't about to send some of the decent conversation tripping down a hall into oblivion. That was reserved for angels and door to door salesmen as far as he was concerned.
"Ah, thank you," Morbius takes it in stride and walks back to his seat the few steps, peeling off his sweater vest and dropping it with the rest of his clothes. "Yes, well, it seems he is also on the same page as the rest of us. He was looking for the 'Master'." Maximum derision. "I believe Lamont and Strange went to fetch him." He gives John a look over, expectantly, then jerks his head to the side. "Come on then. I believe that a shower was on your schedule today. I'm not going to throw you off your books. In fact, I'm pretty sure I can help you up your efficiency with the second part of your bathing ritual." Morbius walks in the direction of the staircase.
Constantine furrowed his brow and really added up the math on the Indian gent that is…was?! with Strange's order. His brow furrowed, "Lamont and Strange are best suited to find answers on that. Does… this possibly means Hargrove isn't acting alone." His brow furrowed. One could almost see the red lines orbiting pins jabbing facts into corkboard. Arching an eyebrow he laughed having this bluff called out. He got up and pointed the doctor actually throught he safter route through anything that might detonate. "What I want to know most?" he stopped on teh stair, "Is that they contacted Lindon… how'd they know they'd get a person and not a book?" He paused and looked around the workshop now that they were elevated on teh stair. "I have a feeling we are sitting on the answer." His head hurt from three days of cramming facts. He sighed and headed up the stairs to a space that was honest to goodness domesticated. "Time to brainstorm."