neutral_omens | (no subject)

Date: January 21, 2000
Status: Public
Setting: Manor grounds
Summary: John gets introduced to Frankie, and plays counselor again.

He wasn't really a dog person. So when, on his way back from a visit to town, John first caught sight of the skeletal mutt romping happily about the Manor grounds, his first impulse was to laugh incredulously (from a safe distance,) and his second was to give it a pass. Whatever demon owned the beast was welcome to it, as long as it wasn't gnawing at his ankles.

Unfortunately, for a thing without any ears, the undead dog had excellent hearing. Apparently it was also as curious as any specimen of the living variety, because it turned at the sound of his laugh, cocked its skull inquisitively, and made a beeline straight for him, mandibles hanging open in a fashion that suggested its tongue would have been hanging out jauntily had it possessed one.

"Ah, crap," John muttered, too far from the Manor entrance to get inside before it reached him, and lacking anything that might have made an effective weapon.
"And me without a newspaper." Knowing better than to turn and run, he opted to stand his ground, shifting his stance a little so he could present his leather-clad forearm if the thing made to bite him.

He spared a glance around the area to see whether its owner was anywhere nearby. Presuming it actually had an owner and wasn't, say, an unexpected side-effect of the general Manor weirdness.

"There's a good boy," he said in as friendly a tone as he could muster, bracing himself as it loped up to him. It was wagging its bony tail. That was a good sign, right?

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"Of course you're not stupid," John said wearily. He wasn't going to keep arguing in circles with someone who was clearly enjoying being miserable and wanted to share the experience. "But if you don't mind my saying so, mate, you are one bloody frustrating son of a bitch to try to hold a conversation with. Don't take it personally, though, I talk that way to most everybody. ...Stephen who?"

He wanted to tell Raphael exactly why he trusted Crowley--the latest reason, specifically--just to see the look on his face, but frankly it was none of Raphael's business. And the fewer people who knew about it, the better.

"Of course I'm not. I'm good at what I do... and I'm not going to Fall, no matter what anybody says." He petted Frankie. "And I don't mean to be frustrating. I just don't talk very often about these sorts of things. I talk about medicine and things like that - I don't have much common ground here with most of the beings."

Frakie jumped up on him so Raphael bent down and threw the stick for him again.

"You probably wouldn't know him. He's a physician friend of mine - well, was before his hands got mangled - who does a little bit of messing around the the occult on the side. Dr. Stephen Strange. I fixed his hands for Christmas so maybe he can practice a bit again, from time to time.

He stays up on all the lastest medical trends though. Very informative. We had an excellent conversation about cough medicines and antibiotics the last time I visited. Great guy and one of the best surgeons I've ever known."

Stephen Strange? You mean the big ponce from New York who flounces around in a red and gold cape calling himself Sorcerer Supreme? John almost laughed out loud, as much at the bizarre juxtaposition of Raphael and Strange as friends as anything, but he kept both his amusement and his opinion to himself with a considerable effort. Fair was fair, after all; he'd just berated Raphael for criticizing his unlikely friend. And, his questionable fashion sense aside, Strange's reputation suggested he was in fact an occult force to be reckoned with. He wondered whether Raphael knew just how much "messing around on the side" the man actually did.

"Well, that explains where you got the dog," he observed mildly. "Strange, eh? Haven't met him personally, but I've heard of him. Word has it he's a pretty big player when he wants to be. Didn't know he kept company with angels, though. Funny old world."

He looked up at the Manor house. "You know what, I'm sorry you don't like being here, Raphael, but I'm sort of glad you are. I got this feeling the time's going to come when you will be needed, and I don't think anybody will see it coming. Don't let all us cantankerous ingrates chase you off, all right? Some of us aren't as bad as we like to make people think."

Raphael shook his head.

"Nah, Stephen didn't give me Frankie. I got him from another surgeon. And I knew Stephen before all the... other stuff. Back in medical school. Showed promise but had a few personality problems, shall we say. He's gotten a lot better since then; I'd hoped he would though he lost his surgeon's hands in the process, after the accident.

The whole thing turned out rather well though. Funny that."

Frankie came back and dropped the stick at Raphael's feet then sat next to him.

"'Don't like' is a mild way to put it. I can't stand it here. It's bad for me, I can feel it. I can feel myself sliding a little more everyday, doing questionable things, feeling... the wrong emotions, I guess.

And I personally think you're wrong. Everything so far - Aziraphale, whatever Crowley did, and so on... it's all been handled by other people. In the meantime bird flu is breaking out, there's a famine brewing in Kenya, there are all sorts of medical frauds going on... Not that it's unusual. With six billion people, there's always a problem somewhere. And I'm holed up in a mansion with a bunch of beings, half of whom I dislike and none of whom need my help."

He looked John in the eyes.

"I don't mind all of you. But I've basically been chained here with people I don't care for who are keeping me from helping the ones I do. Sorry to disappoint, but that means I'm getting out of here as often as I can without violating orders.

Don't count on me." He frowned. "And if what the rumors say comes true, if what Crowley says is accurate... when the time comes I might not even care about healing, period."

John sighed inwardly and nodded, letting the matter drop. In his experience, when someone kept contradicting themselves and couldn't see the upside of anything, it meant they weren't ready to let anybody else help them sort it out. At least nobody could say he hadn't tried.

"Wish you luck, then. Nice talking with you again, Raphael. I gotta run." He offered the bone dog a cautious pat on the head. Er, skull. "Good to meet you, Frankie."

Raphael bit his lip.

"Constantine?" He asked, dashing over to the man.

"Could you wait a moment?" He pleaded. "I need to ask you something."

John paused, looking back at the angel in surprise as he hurried up. "What's that then?"

The angel swallowed nervously. He had been feeling relief at being guarded, in a way, but he'd also been feeling guilt. And since Constantine seemed like a man who was, at the core, practical, he hoped that an answer from him could justify quashing that guilt.

"If... if you told a half-truth to somebody, if you... left something out, but they were happy and you needed them and everybody got what they wanted - would it be so bad? Practically speaking. If a truth would badly hurt somebody, would you tell them? I mean..."

"Me?" John said, a strange little half-smile playing about his mouth. "I probably wouldn't, no. Not until something forced me to. And sure as shit, it'd come back and bite me in the arse sooner or later."

He shrugged. "Then again, that's just me. I'm an absolute bastard with the worst luck in the known Universe. Ask anybody."