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Constantine called LIndon down to Chinatown to that woeful building where both of their problems with Aloys came to a crux. In part because he wanted to see if LIndon was being tailed. Okay he wanted to see if Lindon was being tailed by someone not Michael morbius. 'Scuses us, Doctor Michael Morbius as he didn't gspend 7 years in Monster Medical School(tm) for no good reason and to be called 'Mister' (See Morbius for details).
The door was as always open because one had to know whatere to go to get here. Wizrds and cloaking man.
Lindon doesn't seem to be followed. He takes Lamont's towncar to about a block away, then walks the rest of the way. He raps on the door and waits. In one hand he's got two bottles of whiskey by the neck. One for Cassidy and one for John. Never come without a tithe to the gods of fortune when coming to this cursed house.
Constantine arched an eyebrow taking the bottles and murmuring, "Well hell I need to have you over more often. Come in. Have a seat. Been going through some things. Have a new list of questions and you're not going to like what iI ahve to ask of you, mate. First though, How you feeling since everyone lost their fekking marbles?"
"I'm all right," Lindon says. He eyes John sidelong. "I feel fine. What questions do you have that I'm not going to like?" He's been over here enough that — while he'll never be comfortable here — he doesn't mind helping himself to a chair. "Physically, I mean. Mentally, I've had to redo everything, haven't I? If my own coworkers are part of this, there's no reprieve anywhere I go."
As John had pointed out more than once, his stereotype of lurking around the houses was a little embarrassing, if necessary. His eternal patience put to the test in silence, and considering how things were going, stalking was being upped when he wasn't doing the tasks assigned to him and working on his own work. Pointedly: stalking Lindon from afar was becoming more frequent. Exhausting and silent, but frequent. But when his path takes him to /that/ building, there's a lidding of Morbius' gaze.
Well, it was either sit out here in the cold and be mocked for it later, or…
He debated it. Honestly, Michael debated his choices long enough to let Lindon get inside on his own and settle in before the front door is simply opened up and in strolls Michael with all the familiarity in the world, shooting John a lidded look while he makes a bee line for a drink. Not a word, you.
Constantine said to MOrbius drily, "Well Iw as wondering how long you'd sit out there. I was going to have to take some tape to teh Bat Signal to make it have a scowl to send you a formal inviatation if that didn't bloody welll work." Oh he'd DO IT TOO. The one bottle of whiskey was set aside whicle his got cracked open. His ears though were tuned into LIndon. "Yeah, we need to talk about that. Hargrove's people are getting desperate and that means we're going to ahve to keep an eye on Cohen." He looked to… well the stalker in teh room and blinked expectantly. What did he expect him to fucking volunteer?
Lindon startles when the door is opened, then relaxes when he sees it's Michael. "Michael," he says with a small smile, uneasy but happy to see his lover. He nods to Constantine and says, "That seems like a good idea. Cohen's the key to his army. Without him, the domination of Earth is a pipe dream." He grimaces, rubbing his forehead as he says, "I live in a world where those words make sense."
"Do you think I've become so domesticated and housebroken that you no longer need to leave a hot drink out for me, John? That's disappointing." Morbius pours himself a drink from the liquor side table, followed by a gesture in the vague realm of the kitchen. "Kettle on?" Smirking over the idea of the signal, there was no discouragement, only the driest amusement.
His attention finally shifts toward Lindon and his uneasy smile. With tenderness, he murmurs, "Hello, asteri mu." No sense of apology even lightly on him for apparently stalking Lindon for however long. No fawning or mooning over the man. There's serious matters at hand.
The look from John has Morbius arching an eyebrow in return as he dropped his hat beside the line up of bottles. "There is only one of me, John." Holding his fingers out in gesture toward Lindon as if to say 'and what do we do about /him/?' "If we need to keep Cohen safe, why is he not somewhere safe?"
Constantine squint at Michael snpping drily back, "I'm bloody English of course the kettle's fekkkin on. God mate, I ain't been around colonials that long that I've lost all sense." Oh the bickering. It was good to have friends again. He sighed pacing back and forth "Christ, what do you want me to do, Michael? Summon down teh call of the bloody Marches and stake him out? It doesn't work like that." It may when THE Michael hears this and bulwards and battle lines start getting discussed. Bloody hell there will be no living with them after this.
Lindon glances between Constantine and Morbius. "I believe Mr. Cohen is safe for the time being behind wards," he says delicately. "Though that's not a situation we can count on for much longer. Elmo knows him. Maybe he can talk to him. That community tends to trust themselves more than outsiders."
"Spare me your false indignation, John," Michael flicks his fingers through the air at Constantine, dismissing him by all outward appearances. "Yes, actually, if you could get on that, you may as well for all of your expectation." Turning a gloriously petite smile on Constantine, just pleasant as can be to really be a dick about it. It /was/ good to have friends again. Best of friends.
Morbius contentedly walks to the kitchen to take care of the kettle and hot drinks. "Yes, they're somewhat insular. What is the status with Cohen? How much is he aware of?"
The wards….were not built to take the force they encounter. Saying the name Michael - it may have been intended for Morbius, but apparently it's snagged the very original, the one and only. There's a sense of something enormously powerful at the door, beyond mere sorcery into the celestial….but whatever the being is, it does knock politely.
Constantine noted Morbius had the kettle and Lindon was answering the questions. THere was… aknock?! Who knew how to find teh place that didn't walk in? John let LIndon answer that, though he answered the door fumbling idly with his zippo in hand. The door opened. There was an angel there. The door closed on the angel. John siiiiiiiiiiighed hanging his head, "Fuuuuuck me sideways." He sighed once more and opened the door making a gesture to teh angel to scoot his wings on in there. "Noooooow I know how Kent must feel." SOmething about the old curse 'I hope you have 2 just like you, John'.
"I don't think Cohen knows all that much," Lindon says to Morbius. "Though I don't know. I'm not in the loop with that." He fidgets, lowering his gaze. "I've taken measures to stay safe, though. Since what happened. I'm thinking of working from home for the foreseable future." John gets a Look when he uses Lamont's real name.
Morbius hears John groan on that colorful curse and he walks out of the kitchen, carrying a tea pot in one hand, looking around curiously to see what's going on, an eyebrow arched. In that moment, he steals a second while John is off answering the door to reach out and touch the side of Lindon's face for a thieved moment of intimacy between work. No immediate comment on his safety, their focus is somewhere else at the moment, but it is part of the greater story and specifically the resident stalker.
John returns and Morbius' hand slides away, wandering back toward the kitchen with a look of surprise to Michael and a smile. A smile? A smile. "Michael." It just sounds like a 'hello, welcome, tea?'
Invited in. Mike, first Mike, old Mike, however they want to differentiate him from undead Mike, steps in. He's in his usual poor but clean human getup, and has grace enough to scrape off his boots before he enters. "Hello," he says, affably. No wings, but he does have an honest to God (ha, right) halo. Not the golden disc depicted in so many medieval churches, but a shining aura of golden light. As if he were lit by some other source than anything present here in the mundane world. "Oh, hello," he says - quite literally sunnily. He *is* glowing like a sunbeam.
Constantine sighed. Living Mike. Please don't call the vampire dead, the necromancer can't take teh diatribe of self-indignation. His mental pricess was sa simple mantra of Don't punch the angel. Don't punch the angel. "Michael." See? John could be polite. "This about LIndon, COhen, or the thing I found in the basement?"
Lindon leans into the touch and gazes up at Morbius with a soft smile. Then he puts on his serious face when unliving Michael greets celestial Michael. "Oh, hello, Michael," he says gently. "What a lovely surprise." Punch the angel? But… but… he's so sunny!
Quiet rummaging happens in the kitchen as Morbius keeps on making tea for the troops while the angel joins them. "Who /is/ aware of what's happening with Cohen. John? Honestly with as many irons as this seems to throw in, we are going to become stretched too thin if we don't consolidate shortly."
"That depends on what you found in the basement, John," says the angel. Still glowing like a Christmas tree, as she shuts the door behind him. "Hello, my dear," he says, with immense fondness, before looking expectantly around. "What did you find in the basement?"
|ROLL| Constantine +rolls 1d20 for: 4
Constantine has the big brass balls to make a bold faced lie to the angel. "Absolutely nothing on consequence." Be concerned. Be very concerned. As casually as if his question were answered, which it was, he waded over to the desk and handed Michael a manilla folder. He raised an eyebrow and drank his whiskey looking back, "He's not wrong. FIne. Since you ahve everyone rotating on shift which is… optimal, I'll grab Cass and look in on Cohen."
|ROLL| Michael +rolls 1d20 for: 6
|ROLL| Michael +rolls 1d20 for: 12
"It wouldn't be a bad idea to coordinate our efforts," Lindon says. "So far we've got Cohen and, er, obvioulsy what happened the other day. Finding Hargrove himself, of course." He chews his lower lip. "I'll look over my notes from the vision. It would be a shame to let that information go to waste."
Michael takes the folder as he comes back with a tray, providing tea service and tucking the folder away under his arm for the moment. John gets a splash of tea in his whiskey glass with a sly look like 'complain, go ahead'. Pouring for Lindon and doctoring it as he likes, there's a gesture otherwise to please go ahead while he goes through the packet. Sanguinous eyes glance up at John over the pages and back down. "I appreciate the volunteering. If I find extra time I can help relieve as well. Do we have an update with whats-his-name and family? Are they off…wherever?"
"John," The angel's voice is positively wounded, and he lays a hand on the sorcerer's shoulder, almost tender. "There's no need to lie to me. Really. I'll check on it later." ….is he baiting Constantine? Even Mike has his less than saintly moments. But he turns acurious look on Lindon. "Efforts to what end?" he asks, in that mildvoice.
Constantine jsut bristled squinting at the angel. Just because John didn't want to be damned didn't mean he didn't resent his jailers. It was comical to look defiant and… defiant hold the glass of whiskey out to catch tea in. MANLY ANGRY TEA. It's an exorcist thing. He's European, challenge him on it. He didn't look back to Morbius because that would be admitting something and while the vampire wasn't wrong were John to aknowledge this there'd be no living with him after this. No no and no. John stayed his tongue though and focused tirelessly on the riddles at hand while everyone else was mired on concerns, hten again John was used to cutting losses to get ahead. He was trying not to this go around. Still, he had his own horses in this race of not seeing Hargrove succeed. "James Yancy is currently in watched company. I understand there's appointment to get adi to his family. Upon completion we'll be helping him relocate."
Lindon murmurs a quiet thank you to Morbius, and he shoots a tender look his way, all unspoken affection. He then says to Michael gently, "There is a dark wizard who is attempting to do some very bad things. Unfortunately it involves inconveniencing us quite a bit. He wants to kill other mystics to steal their gifts, and he wants, ah, knowledge. To broaden his power base. We're understandably opposed to this."
|ROLL| Constantine +rolls 1d20 for: 4
"Mm," Morbius hums under his breath as he reads the paperwork. Glancing up over the edge, this time not to John, but peering at Lindon. Thoughtfully he reads it a second time, pausing heavily over parts to re-read them before sliding the whole package back into the folder and pressing the metal flatpins to close it. His attention flicks back and forth between John and Michael, the battle of wills happening and watching it fall before he has to entertain the thought of slapping an angel to get him to stop distracting them.
"That is about the round of it, yes. Help yourself to the pot, Michael. I don't know how you take it," Morbius confirms Lindon's summation neatly. "And this person that Yancy was working for? Any update? I've been feeling peckish and could use a tribute since I have been spending my hunting time being a stereotype lately." A cool smile resting placidly on his face.
Watching Michael try to think is….it's like watching someone confuse a golden retriever by faking a throw of a tennis ball. It sinks in with visible slowness. But he turns away from John to look at Lindon, gravely. "I take it he is hard to find? If you will help me find him, I'll destroy him for you."
Constantine drank his Angry Euro Tea(tm) listening to Lindon's assessment agreeing, "I believe that's exactly the crux of it. Yes. Ummm Yancy siad Hayden Spurloing I'm reaching out to London Sanctum and seeing what we come up with. They actually owe me a few favours. I'm calling a couple in." He looked back to Michael (flapy, not fangy) and siad offhand, "That's provided he's not answering to a higher power like Kae…cillius…" Not that the two had anyhting to do with one another reaonsbly, but something about the statement or the revelations sparked some synapse in John's head enough to light up a lightbulb. Literally, though that could be Michael-the-flappy's nimbus too. Distracted to teh utmost he breezed acros the room grabbing his trench and headed for… the closet!? Oh shit that closet that said never open looked like it went 80 feet back with branched off it. The door closed behind him. If opened later one might find it goes back only 5' and dead ends. Mages man.
Lindon goes home.