11266/Even The Hellblazer Has Days Off

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Even The Hellblazer Has Days Off
Date of Scene: 21 May 2022
Location: Cape Carmine Lighthouse
Synopsis: Even John gets a day off. And cooking lessons for two.
Cast of Characters: Meggan Puceanu, John Constantine




Meggan Puceanu has posed:
For the rest of Gotham, the day proves grey, splattered by regular thunderstorms that strafe across the flat New Jersey shoreline in depressingly regular waves. Something about the dark city practically attracts rain. It makes London look outright like Miami most days. Veiled in mist or wet in downpours, a wonder anyone bothered to rebuild the place at all after the precipitous Atlantic tsunami practically wiped it out. But that's Bruce Wayne for you -- stubborn as all get out about his home turf. Helps to have a legion of Robins, former or future or present, to rebuild. Plus those criminals and gangs weren't about to abandon it.

Cape Carmine is different, at least with Gaea's daughter installed there for the past two years. The Gotham neo-Gothic lighthouse stands tall and proud against the grey sea, the city at its back, and absolutely no rainstorms or squalls to speak of. For most it's too early to brave a toe into the cold waves pounding at the breakwater reinforcing the long, slender neck causeway that connects the lighthouse to the shore. For Meggan, a bit different, as she twirls her fingers to produce streamers and swirling filaments from the surf. Speckled bits of foam land in playful tufts upon the most resilient flowers and plants able to resist the briny bite of the sea. Not like mariners of old knew lighthouses for their vegetable or herb gardens, but it in fact has one here.

Where else is John going to threaten to burn things with Silk Cut embers? The wind wanders lazily back and forth, rustling the grass and ruffled mint that can grow damn near anywhere. The lightkeeper's cottage isn't the House of Mystery, but snug and well-built, plus stocked with a bewildering variety of liquor. To the point one might wonder if the occupant actually /eats/ anything. Plus about seventeen of his shirts, hanging on a line to dry. It's positively unnatural, as far from the squalid backstreets of Liverpool or the poverty-ridden shadows of the Lake Country as someone can get.

"Oh, sweet girl, not like that!" The blonde hurries to extract a bit of lavender from a chubby fist before that flower ends up completely munched. "You can't eat them to get honey, sweetling, that's just the bees." A disappointed pout comes from the miniature blonde version crawling around in said herb garden, distracted from the seaside waterworks. Dangerous, that pout.

More dangerous when the toddler turns those sky-blue eyes John's way. "But why?"

John Constantine has posed:
John looks up from his book. He's in a pair of slacks and a button down with the top buttons undone and a tie that hangs loose. He's also barefoot and relaxed, which is incongruent with the book he's reading -- something dark with its covers made of the skin of something sentient or another -- but when the tiny voice speaks up, he snaps the book shut and looks the toddler in the eyes.

For a moment, there's a look of complete bewilderment; not confusion, but just incredulity as what he's seeing, filled with wonder. Then he tosses the book aside, swings his feet around to the side of his recliner, and picks the tiny mini-Megg up, as he stands, swinging her around.

"Well, luv, it's called biology and everyone's got to go through it. See, the flowers don't have the honey." He walks with her towards the flowers she was going to eat. "The flowers have the _nectar_. Now, the bees will take the nectar, consume it, and then what comes _out_ of the bees is the honey."

He hefts her up a little and then picks a flower, bringing it up to boop her on the nose with it. "So it's not Flower equals Honey. It's Flower please Bee equals Honey, innit? And bees aren't the only animals that produce honey. Some ants do it, some _wasps_ do it, and there's even aphids an' scale insects what produce honeyDEW, which is like honey but not so much. And there's other relationships like that, too."

He glances at Meggan and then whispers into the ear of the little girl in his arms: "Ask your mum how delicious cat-poo coffee is."

When the little girl makes an _ew_ face, John opens his mouth and presses it to her chubby cheek, letting out a slobbery raspberry that gets her giggling uncontrollably.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Cici stares right back at John, not exactly guileless. Not when her brows are scrunched in a mask of intent thought and focus. "Why can't /I/ make honey?"

The question is compounded by small purple flowers clinging to the toddler's fist, her fingers pried open by Meggan to release the scrunched, helplessly broken lavender sprig. It will end up tucked behind a petite pointed ear, an echo of Meggan's own. The child's arms rise for John, reaching in the uncoordinated way awaiting to be engulfed, a squeak of malleable delight discovered when he moves her through the air.

The squeal is about as loud as the waves sloshing around over the large granite blocks dragged up decades ago to guard Gotham's harbour. A most serious question, though, and /he/ gets to explain that one since he brought up the process. She's eyeing up the flowers solemnly, as though she might just eat the whole bit.

"You wreck her appetite for dinner, you get to stay up when she has a tummy ache," Meggan replies, eyes green and lacking pupils again. Common enough when the fae side bleeds through, as it does now, perfectly content. "Wait until we plant the butterfly bushes. They make milk."

John Constantine has posed:
"Well, because you're not a bee, my luv. But," John says with a laugh at Meggan when she talks about ruining Cici's appetite, "do you know who CAN make her own honey?" He looks slowly over from Cici to Meggan, raising his brows. He nods slowly. "and some day, depending on what you may or may not inherit from your lovely mother, you _might_ be able to do it too.

John Constantine has posed:
"But in the long run, you'll just have to wait." John presses another kiss to the girl's cheek and then swings her up onto his shoulders, hefting her up there and looking up. "That, or when you're old enough, I'll teach you the right spell for it. We'll make a honey empire. How's that sound?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Cici's eyes get big. Really big. Almost to the point she can be trusted to possibly start floating, squirming a little without willingly breaking free from John's arms. "Bee!"

Meggan shakes her head, waves dancing down her shoulders and curling languidly. "No, not a chance. It's cold out there and not near enough flowers." The insistence of the petite imp will not change her position much on that.

"Honey?" Bright and clear rings that tiny inquiry, cheery and bright, dangerously so. "Please?" Hopefulness and a deadly amount of wriggling might work on charming flowers, but Cici doesn't know about manipulation much. Toddlers rarely do, even the terribly precocious ones. Honey for dinner, is that the whim of a man who can outfox every last demon?

Leaning over to kiss John on the cheek, Meggan floats across the grass. "You teach her to spell properly. I got that far too late. I've been trying to read to her every night but..." Her smile goes a little wan. "Not quite so good with the voices."

John Constantine has posed:
"Teach her to _spell_?" He gives Cici a mock shocked look. "You can't _spell_?" He gasps. "How dare you?" He and then he reaches up and tickles Cici as he walks after Meggan, laughing.

"We could always make honey mustard chicken," John points out. "You want honey mustard chicken, luv? I'll teach you to make the honey mustard."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"What's wrong with that? She's got it instinctively, not like you had to do. The bits come together awful quick, especially when the feelings boil up. Not that you're whistling up storms, Cici-darling, but do /you/ want to see what happens if she has a tantrum, Constantine?" A slight bit of emphasis gives his name the Breton pronunciation that it would've carried long ago, shortened vowels evident wherever someone from Brittany tries to actually use their native tongue. Meggan still laughs, resisting that urge to hold out her hands to take the bundle of wiggly joy back.

Not when little arms flail around, and Cici promptly tries to clutch hold of John's head at a wobble. Giggles dissolve into appropriately childish laughs, giving up on defense. "Honey on a chicken!" Chi-KEN! as it's properly emphasized by the little blonde, like it's some kind of hadoken equivalent.

Meggan scrunches her nose, holding open the door into the kitchen proper. With an actual large oak table that could seat twelve knights, the stored food isn't too bad. Not equivalent to the House, but that comes with its own self-perpetuating reserves and mystical library. "Long as you're not anticipating putting a pentagram on a frying pan, we can have honey mustard chicken for dinner. /And/ vegetables. Both of you need more of them. Looking outright peaky without."

John Constantine has posed:
Constantine just blows a kiss at Meggan when she mentions their child having a temper tantrum. He pulls Cici up off his shoulders and then swings her under his arm like she's luggage, stomping around overly on purpose and shaking her a bit. "You're not going to throw magical tantrums, are ya luv?" And swings her up and sits her on the edge of the table.

"we going t'eat our veggies, too. wait. Which veggies are we eating?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Cici kicks her feet effectively, but the rest of the wobbly movements are wholly to cling hold to John. Such is the nature of things, being the life preserver for another laughing, uncertain future magician. The years that scraped him have left marks on those soft knees and dimpled elbows where she trips. Falls from being unstable or braving places she can't quite navigate without a price are what they are.

Nowhere is perfectly safe. The little girl doesn't quite fall over when put on the table, but she has the lack of core stability that years of walking eventually gives. His sleeve is caught in her fist, pulled hard.

"The cooked ones," Meggan suggests, peering into the fridge in hopes it will offer up something palatable. A few bowls deserve to be tossed. "We've not been back here in a while. Takeaway is a bear this far out, takes ages and everything warms up or cools down. Let's see. Oughta have plenty of tins but so much for that salad. Unless it's pasta?" Her gaze rises. "How'd you feel about a pasta salad? I know how to throw one of them together. Or we have to go see a man about a..." The deliberate, dramatic pause comes with her hands on her hips. "Cucumber!"

"Queue-mumbler!" Cici is opinionated.

John Constantine has posed:
John snorts. "I think I can deal with the cooked kind. I'll tell you what, luv," he says, while he keeps Cici from toppling over with one hand in her tiny, chubby grip, "I will make the honey mustard chicken with our lovable little queue-mumbler here," and he pokes her tummy, tickling a little, "and you make the pasta salad, and we have a nice family meal while there aren't any world-ending emergencies."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"How often does that happen?" A question they'd be best not to answer. World-ending calamities are always around the corner. That's what you get with a Constantine of any sort. Johanna, Konstantin, John, a hundred between them. Meggan simply smiles and reaches into the cupboard for a box of rotini, followed up by a can of olives, a square of feta, and several somewhat less than dubious cherry tomatoes. Olive oil follows, and rummaging might bring up a few herb packages that suit. "If nothing else I can zip off and find the missing ingredients. Not the same as being a Flash. You know them? I met two! They were right quick, bloody hard to spot at all."

The moment passes as she drags out a near cauldron for the pasta, dropping the pot into the sink to fill with water. "We could bathe you in here, Cici-belle," she sings. "When you were very tiny, we floated in a spring and you lay just right here." A gesture shows from neck to stomach, playfully executed while the pot tops off. Cici just peers, eyes wide and curious, before properly and solemnly stating, "We are mustard chickens."

Then she grins up at John.

Because she darn well knows what she says. "You're the big chicken."

John Constantine has posed:
"I'm the most GIGANTIC chicken!" John says, turning to Cici and tickling her again, laughing. He presses a kiss to her forehead and then walks over to Meggan, their child under one of his arms, as he leans over to press a kiss against the blonde mutant's cheek. "But it's your mum's got the prominent thighs."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Chicken! Chicken!" Cici's chants become a sea of laughter, buffeted by being not exactly the best helper in the kitchen. Granted being able to walk or carry tea towels and mixing bowls is impressive enough. "Bawk? Bawk?" A hopeful sound there breaks through the giggles, and she is very much fine with being carried around like a naughty cat.

Meggan has the water boiling without actually turning the hob on, partly because she can just tell the water to get to it. Adding heat comes from being the elemental in the place, and a sprinkle of salt works on improving the preparation time. "And you've the best wings til I've got them. Little Cici-bee, aren't you supposed to be telling your da to make dinner? Or will this be pasta salad and stoned wheat crackers again?"

A pause. Her eyes light up. A grin flashes briefly as she presses her brow to John's. "Or those stoned brownies, but somehow that's only you getting the fun. Me, they don't do a bit to."

John Constantine has posed:
"Pfft." Constantine smiles and then sets Cici down on the counter. He does a short hand gesture and then taps her nose. "Stay." This is not so much an order for her as it is for the rules of the universe to keep her _still_. Magic keeps her from toppling in any one direction, and he grabs all the necessary ingredients for that honey mustard, plus the chicken.

"When you're older, I'll teach you to make this yourself." He's going to teach this kid SO MANY THINGS.

When she's older.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Oh, all the things. The world isn't ready.

Cici doesn't wiggle much because she cannot. She sits there with her feet over the edge of the table, in her cute little purple romper and shirt, beaming at the Laughing Magician. "Daddy cooks. Fancy?" Awe in that. Oh, he can reach into a fridge and make things come out. "I want to be fancy. I make a chicken with honey sauce too!"

If only cherubic intentions actually did that.

Meggan hums as she pours the box of rotini into the pot, then turns her attention to washing the vegetables and sorting them out. The joys of pasta salad, it's best served cold like revenge. "I've not even considered school. We can't send her anywhere in Gotham. Batman liked me well enough as a cat, but the moment she floats... You know how he feels."

John Constantine has posed:
John rolls his eyes and laughs. He works his way through preparing the chicken as Meggan talks, and when she mentions Batman, he rolls his eyes with a snort. "He's daft. He'd be bloody lucky to have our kid goin' to school in his city. But you're probably right he'd get all up in arms about it." He tosses the chicken on a pan and then leans over to kiss Meggan's neck. "We'll find a place. Might be wise t'wait until we know what our little miracle here can do." He washes his hands and then grabs Cici's face, smooching her.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Probably best for you to stay in the Otherworld," Meggan says to the little blonde holding out her small hands to John for something to do. Even if it's a dishtowel or to sort through honey and mustard bottles. Cici scrunches up her face and makes kissy noises at John, then breaks into giggles all over again.

John's at risk for a nuzzle of her cheek to his, daring to push him a little in front of the table or closer to the sink. "At least until we figure that out. I don't know anything about schools here. My parents had Doctor Who an' the Internet watch me. Reckon all the rich ponces would tell us to send her to some posh boarding school or public grammar school. Like we've the quid or the ability to resist these little happy cheeks." Oh no, look out for tickle-fingers, mirroring right where John kissed Cici's face. "Long as no one calls up Merlyn. Or... you now, I'm not even sure Mum would be the right choice here. Something to worry about for another day. Seeing that we barely got the hang of being adults ourselves even if we've done it a long, long time."

She whispers to Cici, "Da's done it like forty years already. He just looks better than most, cos he gets all his beauty sleep."

John Constantine has posed:
John snorts. "Money's not the object, luv. Enough of those people running those posh schools owe me favors for her education four or five times over." It's true. As posh as those institutions are, and as low-key as they want to keep it, when those smug rich little bastards get up to occult shite and start messing with powers they oughtn't to, the administration always calls the same bloke: John Constantine.

"Yer mum, on the other hand," he tells Cici, "doesn't need sleep to be beautiful."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan squeezes his arm once and then goes to save the pot boiling over with its floating array of corkscrew noodles. "Money's always an issue. Right horrible thing to say but true. People who got all the money think they have all the privilege. They shut out everyone else trying to earn any more. Looking at Gotham, last time I spoke to the mayor and another running, I tried to get them to see some of that. Not that they listen." Her gaze flicks to her phone, the most powerful weapon in her arsenal to affect public opinion. Dangerous, sharing words and ideas, pointing at a given target to stab sharp. "No middle ground, for all you can look. That's the important thing to me. Making sure we raise a good, thoughtful girl."

She grins over her shoulder briefly at Cici. "If your da can make a deal for a proper spot where you turn out better than I did, I trust him. Otherwise, we can plant you in the garden of books and see what your auntie Zee can get them to teach you."

John Constantine has posed:
"I mean, to be honest, we could just look for a magically adept teacher, or someone like that. If she ends up a mutant we can just send her to Xavier," John says, shrugging. He looks between Meggan and Cici. "Provided I'm allowed to put an explosion-protection charm on her because that place gets smithered more times a year than we've got global crises."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan shakes her head softly. "No. I don't want her to go to Xavier, not unless she wants to. Even then, it's too closed off." Her smile is a faint thing. "Dunno that the genetics pass on perfectly, what with you being all kinds of special. We're not all one stripe 'cept British, and that means..."

The cupboard door opens with a telekinetic nudge. Out falls an exciting option, wrapped in a sleeve.

Cici brightens. "Jaffa!"

"Cakes!" Meggan cheerfully crows, beaming with a smile. "Or jammy dodgers but mostly Jaffa cakes. That being, we can figure it out, I'm sure. Let's get these noodles cooled and tossed up, shall we? Where did I put that pasta strainer?" A bit of bending and peering through the cabinets with their few options doesn't take long. It's not like she owns a huge trove of kitchen gadgets, and they are mostly mismatched as is, secondhand or simply older models. "You've choices, love. Cici is as much your mite and photocopy as anything."

The little girl? Currently mashing up honey and mustard in the messiest of ways, drawing with her fingers. Still a child, no matter how precocious.

John Constantine has posed:
"I just want her somewhere safe," John admits after a few moment, watching his little toddler. "And likely Otherworld's the best place for that, ironically, given what and who she is." He shrugs. "For now, anyway. Soon she'll be old enough to decide on her own, whatever the case."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
When the little blonde girl is busy making a mess, Meggan nods. The sharpness in those inhumanly green, uptilted eyes will always seem slightly extreme, given she embodies something of a Galadrielesque figure crossed by whatever British culture deems pretty at the hour. "For now. Big family there to watch for." Bunch of gods probably squinting at a tiny demigoddess peeking up at them through her fingers, and wondering what for, but such is that. "Shall we get this dinner on the table?"

A sonnet to distract.

Cici crows, "Chicken! Daddy, fly!"

John Constantine has posed:
"All those watching," John says, looking up deliberately, "best keep their opinions and their intentions _to themselves_." Because if they thought John was dangerous before, they haven't met him when he's pissed because someone messed with his little girl.

He grabs the pan and pours the mustard chicken onto a large bowl, smiling. "Yeah. C'mon, Cici," he says, offering his daughter his back for her to climb up on. "Let's go."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The Constantine family is small and dangerous, but prone to surviving brilliantly when the chips are down. Or not surviving at all. Meggan only scrapes by thanks to her own extreme durability; Cici might inherit the synchronicity talents or the peril. Who knows. John acting as her steed -- or surfboard, as it happens -- through that wave is enough. She squeals with laughter, the toddler's voice getting louder as she clings to his back and mostly requires some assistance to stay on. That's what Mom is for, a hand to steady the rudder before John has his bearings.

Chicken can get to the table itself with the pasta, or be carried over. But for Chicken Constantine? Flight is all that matters in the shadow of the lighthouse.

As the day shifts darker, the automated lenses start into action. No need for barrels of lamp oil here, though in fairness, an angry elemental or the likes of Starfire could probably project a beam going absurd distances.

John Constantine has posed:
Dinner is, blessedly, uneventful. No demonic attacks, no alien invasions, no nothing. Eventually, it's time to put the little rugrat to bed, and John manages it -- even though it takes almost an hour -- and finally, _finally_, he comes back to the living room barefoot, smiling like someone who just put the most precious thing in the world to rest.

"She's finally asleep."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Nothing to worry about except a toddler feeding herself, the possibilities of a mess, the coursework to be done later in the day. Nothing except stories and a sleepy-eyed mite wanting to be bigger, and stay up late. Someone for whom the world is sparkling and wonderful, so rarely seen from this side of the veil.

There can be a guilty party in that, though Meggan doesn't quite share it. She curls up on the couch while John has the honours of convincing Cici to lie down, and not boggle when she asks questions about where the constellations come from or why it's bad to enchant someone. Barefoot and bushytailed, the man is so very different from their first encounter in the Otherworld to the times between.

He already has a pillow kicked out of the way on the couch, a space for him carved out. "No cheating to put her to sleep?" she asks. Cuppa tea is already in hand, a finger of scotch for him set out. "You know I've got no idea what I am doing with that. Only compass is here." A fingertip pressed to her heart. "I like that you make it look so easy. Comes natural to you, or you have us all convinced."

John Constantine has posed:
"No cheating. But I hardly make it look easy, luv." John ignores the scotch for the moment, just dropping down next to her and slinging his arm over her shoulders, pulling her closer. "And your instincts are better mothering than I've seen in my, to your count, forty years of adulthood." he kisses her temple and smiles at her.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A finger rests against her lips, and Meggan stifles out a shhh. "You do too. Don't argue with the fae, don't you know that yet?" Her smile widens in response to John's, sharpened by a keen edge. "When the angels chose Heaven, the devils chose Hell, we refused and argued the whole time? That's the story in Scotland and parts of Ireland, anyway. Always made me right laugh cos it gives no room for Lilim or the others. We're definitely not them." Her hand curls around his fingers, catching them off her shoulder easily. "Helps to have the best mum even if we only met a couple months ago. She's /famous/ for the mothering bit. Must be a tad genetic, and here you are, marvel of yourself."

Her eyes half-close, savouring the relaxation, almost afraid to break it. "You off banishing monsters this week or we planning for another dimensional collapse?"

John Constantine has posed:
"If we're lucky, I can stick around for the week and just hang out with me daughter and her mum," John says, in the tone of someone who wishes that were true but knows damn well it's very unlikely.

He takes her jaw with his hand over her shoulders and tilts her head a little so he can kiss her mouth slowly, smiling.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Don't tempt fate. Rule one of dealing with their lives. Therefore Meggan doesn't. She smiles to the kiss and returns it lightly, and then reaches her free hand up.

A snap of her fingers sends all the light in the room whirling up to the top of the tower, where it joins the beam going out to sea.