Sandbox

London was bleak this time of year.

London was bleak year round, John thought, as he lit another silk cut. The night threatened rain on it's cold breeze only strong enough to billow the hem of his coat.

This week there had been an exorcism and since then he'd been playing hide and seek with Michael. Fortunately, he knew places to hide out. Never long in one spot, john took his lit fag and wandered to the next shitty bar he could find. The sort of bar with gum in the urinals and piss in the bin. The sort of bar where the beer was flat, but it was cheap.

The sort of bar where you found a bloke who looked like that.

Curiosity piqued, John took the seat right next to him and ordered a pint.

"I've seen you in the papers," he said casually.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

diabolicalcunt

Billy Butcher didn't used to find himself in a lot of bars anymore. His life without alcohol and cigarettes was a better one. At first it was to keep himself from falling into the same shit and losing Becca. He's lost Becca twice more, now and self-control is, for the moment, a thing of the past.

That's not quote true, he thinks. Just the other day he didn't beat up a homeless bloke that asked to suck his cock. Even that was a weak victory: Billy's not some sad homophobe who's gotta pound on a lad down on his luck. Anyway, his dick is on vacation, never to return.

That doesn't mean he hasn't thought about how much this bar looks like one of the many he and Susan pounded one out in. He didn't know his wife was still alive, then. As if that wasn't complicated enough to begin with.

Another finger of whiskey down the hatch, he affords only the slightest glance to the lad now beside him.

"Could say the same," he grumbles, finishing the whiskey in his glass. "Autographs are 50 pounds."

Edited Date: 2020-11-10 09:23 pm (UTC)

From:

petty_dabbler

"Oh, so you're famous like that, eh?" John smirked. That? That was an attitude he could get behind.

He took a minute to size him up, ostensibly to see if he was worth that much, but really he was taking in every detail he could. Easier to con a bloke...if it was necessary.

He could just hear Chas telling him he didn't have to con anyone.

Taking a sip to buy just a little more time, John finally flashed him a dashing smile. Charming as shit- he knew how he looked. He looked like two weeks into a relationship and that smile would get him punched.

"I'll pass. I don't even know how to use eBay," he lied.

From:

diabolicalcunt

There's no relationship but Butcher wants to punch the smile right off his face. There's a reason Billy stopped drinking, smoking, carrying the fuck on. It's among the many reasons he left London to begin with. That an a lucrative job offer with the CIA.

"Something you need?" Butcher asks. He's getting the feeling he's being sized up and with all the liquor sloshing around in him, he's feeling bristly.

From:

petty_dabbler

"Maybe. If you're half of what I've read about you, I think you're exactly the man I need tonight. Want to make a few quid?" John asked.

John had no problem pulling anyone when he put in a bit of effort. But this was simply a job offer from a dodgy stranger who smelled of lager and stale cigarettes. Of course he didn't say what the job was right off. The people who would say no right off were not the sort of people who could handle what he worked with.

From:

diabolicalcunt

Butcher raises a brow, amused. "What is it you been reading about me, exactly?" If this is who he thinks he is, the lad's got a reputation for a lot of things. A man like this - like either of them, really - anything could be true.

From:

petty_dabbler

"Well, I read you're a terrorist," John said, not seeing any reason to mince words. "And in my experience, terrorists get things done, and know how to get things done. This won't be political. More, erm, religious. Ten thousand. Forty eight hours. Then you can get on with your life."

John pulled out a cigarette then, placed it between his lips, and held it like some kind of security blanket. The way he smelled, he may as well be smoking it inside anyway.

From:

diabolicalcunt

Butcher seems flattered by this assessment. Even though he's a free man now, he can't think of a lot of reasons to go back to the states and any one that he can think of would advise strongly against going with this one. They ran in different crowds enough that Butcher's not even sure they would know the name John Constantine if he bit them in the ass. And he might.

It's the word "religious" that really softens his dick. He rolls his eyes so hard that his half-drunk head spins a little. He laughs.

"Boy are you barking up the wrong fucking tree, mate."

From:

petty_dabbler

"It's just a ruddy demon," he said. "But if you'd rather cry in your beer, more power to you."

He produced a card out of thin air, just his name, a phone number, and the simple word, Occultist.

"The problem's not going away, so tuck that in your ass and call me when you run out of dosh."

John picked up his beer and swallowed it down in one go, his throat working as he gulped swallow after swallow. The glass hit the bar, then a fiver, and John rose.

"Or, you know, when the urge to kill something's a little stronger than the need for dinner," he said, his voice a seductively low rasp. That wasn't the sort of thing people just said out loud in public.

From:

diabolicalcunt

He's a little drunker than he likes to be when talking shop, so he is unable or unwilling to be impressed by the little card trick. Anyway, he's got his opinions about the occult and people with trench coats that aren't as cool as his own.

The last bit, though, that earns a bit of a turn, a sidelong glare of loathing but not disinterest. It's not about the money. It shouldn't be about the money.

It's a little about the money.

"What if I say no?" Butcher asks. "What if I say I think what you do is fucking stupid and that I think you're a weeping vagina?"

From:

petty_dabbler

"You're sweet, mate, but you can't get this wet ass pussy," John countered. He smirked while he fished a silk cut out of his pocket and tucked it between his lips so he could light up the second he was outside.

"You say no? My job just takes longer while I find someone else," he shrugged. It made no difference to him. It'd get sorted eventually. That's what he did.

From:

diabolicalcunt

Obviously, Butcher is vaguely amused by this. Rather than commit to anything more than a tiny smirk, he just raises a brow. Is this how people feel when they talk to him? He's not going to do anything to change his behavior, but for a second, he gets it.

Some amount of money is slapped onto the bar. It may or may not be the correct amount, but that doesn't matter. He's just here to see his mum now that his father is finally fucking dead and buried, maybe spit on his grave quick, and then he's getting the fuck out of London faster than this cunt can talk about his moist cunt.

He stands and says, "half the money up front." He's digging out his own cigarette now, because either they're leaving together to do a job or Butcher is just fucking leaving.

From:

petty_dabbler

Half upfront? A bargain at twice the price, considering he'd probably get the bloke killed and keep five grand in his pocket.

"Deal," he said as he left some cash, too. "My car's outside, unless you'd rather drive."

He followed two steps behind and lit up the second his right foot was out the door. John looked to the left and right and when he saw nothing out of the ordinary, he settled into his smoke.

"It's not supes," he said. "I'm...almost positive."

What a fucking lie. He was absolutely positive.

From:

diabolicalcunt

It's been a while since Butcher worked for money and even longer since it was off the CIA books. There was always a way to work a deal where he could at least break even on rent, takeout and gas, and the rest he could get by one way or another. Having money means having something to square debts away, but the price on any one of those is high and doesn't usually have an associated monetary value.

"Leave it out, lad," Butcher says, watching with tasteless amusement as this chucklefuck lights up another cigarette. "We both know what you deal in and it ain't Supes. If I had it my way, you'd tell me what the fuck we're on about without the snow job, but I'll settle for basic decency. Call it honor-amongst-cunts." He's stopped in front of a car, waiting.

From:

petty_dabbler

"Alright," he nodded. "We're going to go kill a demon and save a child. Easy peasy. Five minutes, in and out."

He plucked his fag away and exhaled a cloud that was inconceivably thick. He couldn't have possibly taken a drag that big.

"I'll handle the magic. You be the muscle. And grab the girl and run."

He pulled a fat stack of cash from the pocket of his shitty trench coat, measured it in half, and passed Billy the money.

"Might be a bit more exciting than I'm making it sound."

From:

diabolicalcunt

It doesn't actually matter how much he's got because he's got nothing and nowhere to go, but he takes a cursory look anyway to make sure they're not fucking coupons bandied together or the like. The cash gets stuffed into the back pocket of his pants, beneath his own ruddy coat.

"Doesn't matter: I don't trust you, anyway." This is the sort of the thing he'd be happy to smirk about under normal circumstances, but he's lost everything. Before he knew Becca was alive, before he'd met her son and before he'd lost her again and then again, there was something in his life to keep him quipping. Now, he's a man without even vengeance to keep him warm. Homelander is fine. He's been castrated by Vought for his crimes and Butcher has taken the one thing he wanted, but that's empty as all fuck.

A pair of keys are produced from his pocket. He begins to unlock the nearby shitbucket he probably stole at a rest stop and says, "treat me like your driver and I'm running you over."

From:

petty_dabbler

"I've got a driver, mate," he grinned. A cab rolled up slowly, a weary looking man behind the wheel. He opened the door to let Billy in, then crawled in, too.

"Chas, Billy. Billy, Chas. Billy here don't trust me."

Chas glanced back.

"He's smarter than me, then," he said and pulled away from the curb.

"So. Billy. Is it true what they said in the papers? The terrorism bits."

From:

diabolicalcunt

Judgement slams into Butcher's face hard when he sees the fucking cab pull up. He suddenly feels like a call girl getting in a car with a creepy businessman. When he gets into cars with shady characters, at least he's doing the driving. He doesn't like being out of control, and he started pretty low. He would have to be desperate to find himself back in London, a place he swore he'd never return after his brother died.

Butcher nods in greeting to the driver, their eyes meeting in the rearview for a second. This doesn't make him feel less like a whore. Worst case scenario, he kills everyone in the car and blows it up. Come to think of it, that would make for a pretty great evening.

"Sure," Butcher answers, because there's a chance some if it might be. Then, he amends, "depends where you get your news."

From:

petty_dabbler

"Around. Here and there," he answered vaguely. He'd even heard rumblings in Gotham, capital of vigilantes.

"I know enough to know you're my man. Fortune smiled on me."

And he'd known it would. The cards this morning had been strangely specific.

From:

diabolicalcunt

That is certainly not something anyone has said to Butcher before. No one ever sees his loud shirt and duct-taped coat and says, thank God that wanker is here. They sure as fuck didn't in Gitmo.

"Weren't me killed Vought's girl," Butcher warns, if that's what this chucklefuck means by terrorist. Even if hd had, that would be just a drop in the bucket of sods Butcher's wasted in his time. He's not like Frenchie: he doesn't count them up like ticks of days gone by on the wall of a prison cell. Some people sew. Some people pain. Butcher kills. And maybe it's high time he get back to that.

"Gonna tell me what this is really about?" Butcher asks, glaring over at John and Chas in equal measure. "Cuz if you fuck me raw on this it'll be the last mistake you fuckin' make."

From:

petty_dabbler

"We're just rescuing a girl..." he said.

John paused to light another cigarette, not even bothering to crack the window. The tip of his finger burst into a flame and the silk cut crackled as he pulled in a breath.

"...From a cult. That's going to kill her. And who would definitely kill me if I go in alone. I need you, Butcher. I need specifically you."

From:

diabolicalcunt

Once something resembling the truth is out, Butcher cranes his neck as if to say finally.

"There. Was that so hard?" Butcher drawls, all but rolling his eyes.

The finger fire is a neat trick, but he has more questions.

"Seems you got all kinds'a tricks up your sleeve. What's an ex-pat terrorist got to do with all that? Figure you know I ain't the type got fire spitting from my dick, 'n if you know who I am," and his eyes flash because he clearly does, "you know I ain't no friend'a power. 'God' or Supe."

If tonight's the night he's forced to reckon with the concept of Heaven and Hell, fine. If it's real there's not going to be any kind of contest for his soul.

From:

petty_dabbler

"I'm just a magician," he said with a raspy chuckle. "Well, I dabble. I need you, Billy, because I need a bona fide ordinary person. My magic is useless until we break the circle, and I need someone who can get it done and not piss himself at the last second. I appreciate that in a man," he said with a smirk.

From:

diabolicalcunt

This time, Butcher does roll his eyes. It's about a lot of things. There isn't anyone in this fucking world that needs him. Not anymore. He tells himself it's fine, great, much better this way. But Billy is shite without people. Since he'd left his people behind without a second glance, he will take what he can get until something better comes along.

"This what your life is, then? Pickin' up muscle in bars to save innocent girls?"