14240/On the Trail

On the Trail
Date of Scene:	25 February 2023
Location:	An Old Pub in Dublin
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Meggan Puceanu

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John Constantine has posed:
Finding a demon that's been posing as you is actually harder than one might think. It's certainly more complicated than John Constantine ever thought it was going to be. He's doubly annoyed now. Who told this demon thing that it could have some sort of power that countered his own synergistic "talents" to the point where it's pretty much immune to them? Finding his former imposter has proven to be a lot more annoying than John expected, and he's not happy.

At the moment, he's coming back to his and Meggan's table at the pub with two pints, putting one in front of her. "So apparently I was sighted here a week ago. At least it wasn't the month and a half of the bar in Germany." Getting closer?

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Dublin generally isn't the worst place for Meggan to be. A foreign city, one where the prevailing accent and touristy kitsch appeals to a good part of her soul, proof positive that Britannia and Erin aren't so deeply separated as the Celtic Sea or political divides would have. Her white hair grudgingly looks a faint strawberry blonde out here since the moment she touched down, and the smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose determines to be as irksome and stereotypical as it gets. But the Anglo-Norman pale that began here, seeded atop Norse beginnings, insists she fits the bill and so she does in a striped football sweater and black skirt to go with the other kit: the socks to keep her ostensibly warm instead of Team Leprechaun.

"Thought you'd only swing for that in Oktoberfest." Ale of any stripe, except the rarest, doesn't do a thing for her. But the taste will do, and she grins up at John with a smile showing slightly too many teeth to be purely charming and innocent. Hunter's hunting, and the winter side of her never quite forgets. "What was it this time? Workin' in the back, runnin' up a tab we're about to charge to Zee or sommat else I didn't think up right?"

John Constantine has posed:
"It looks like this time he started some actual trouble," John says, dropping into a seat next to Meggan and sighing. He takes a long draught of his beer and then sets it down, grumpily. "Beat some poor snob to a pulp. Took a bit to convince them it weren't me." He turns to look at her and leans over, pressing a kiss to her pale cheek.

"All the more reason to find him and put his arse back in Hell. At this point, it's more than just giving me the wrong kinda bad name. It's hurtin' people with my face."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Trouble by your meter stick or the extra long one kept in the cupboard for special occasions?" Meggan fishes out a mirror compact hidden in her bag, a little crossbody thing on three colourful cords as a strap. Checking her lipgloss proves the shine to her mouth isn't nearly where it needs to be, and her nose scrunches up as the freckles fade into a perfectly pale, almost too white pallor. Her hair doesn't darken much, a dark shiver of roots improving things. Nothing too out of the ordinary. His mouth leaves a nearly invisible mark and she smiles still, plaintive and dark and edged. "So the rat bastard's slogging off up to the usual and makin' your life difficult-er by consequence. Sounds about right."

The glass skids across the table and she doesn't bother to taste it, just dropping back a swallow to enjoy the taste and the cold, frothy head on her tongue. Bubbles, lovely! "Up t' me, you'd never have given this long a rope to hang him. He's not much the hanging kind."

John Constantine has posed:
"Mmhmm." John looks fairly annoyed at this. He takes another long drink and then sets the beer down again, looking off into space a little bit as he reaches out and wraps his fingers around the back of Meggan's hand, using her as an anchor; or, maybe, as a drain. She's an empath, and sometimes that means she can take a little bit of what's annoying him, bothering him, slowing him down, and he can let it drain out. It's not the nicest thing to happen, but... especially when she's in her more unseelie states... it's not so bad.

"Well, it's gone on long enough, anyway. We'll find him soon."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The anchorage of his own soul, a small sliver that used to resemble a rock and now lies intermingled with the flesh and spelled essence of whatever she is. Has to be plenty useful for something. Just beneath the veneer of that masterfully crafted binding is an ocean akin to a leyline, there for the tapping. Living magical energy or emotive energy to spare, for nothing like feeding an empathy the negative juju. She can eat those emotions same as the rest, even if they might not be the tastiest meal.

"Not my choice to make on this. It's yours. I stand by it even if that loathsome pestilence has no right to wear /your/ face and take /your/ name. Right tosspot, he is. But living and independent all the same, which would piss Mum off right proper to hear me sayin' just off him."

John Constantine has posed:
"Just been busy with other things," John grumbles a bit, squeezing her hand and then turning it, sliding his fingers between hers, interlacing their fingers together. He turns to look at her and smiles. "I'm quite lucky you'd be willing to annoy your mother on my behalf, luv," he says, which considering who her mother _is_, the sentiment is really fucking true.

He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses the back of her hand. He tries to be extra nice when she's unseelie; it balances things out.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Mum had good things to say about you. Between her and His Big Pants, anyone who dares suggest you aren't good enough hasn't a leg to stand on. I can't do a thing about you waking up drunk and smeared in lipstick or soot on the floor of a fleabag motel, but that goes with the legend, aye?" The drink knocked back, she swallows in a whole gulp and not a real need for any air until reaching the sudsy bottom. Any moustache is only temporary, licked away like so with the cold, amused deliberation of a cat that knows exactly what it's about.

"Pity you weren't there to hear her for yourself, but the high and fussy ones did, so that counts. Now you knockin' heads or we roving after your cheap American knockoff?"

John Constantine has posed:
"I don't quite feel like knocking heads tonight," John admits to Meggan with a tilt of his head. "In this place is might seem a bit like punching down, no?" He looks amused at himself, but then he's finishing his own beer and stepping out of the booth, pulling her out with his hand. "However," he says, flicking a finger at the oft-neglected jukebox that's probably been sitting there since the eighties.

A slow version of 'Ever Fallen In Love' comes on, and John pulls Meggan in close, arm around her waist, forehead to hers, and a smile. "A dance, before we keep hunting?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan's smirk lasts for only a few seconds and she allows him to pull her up, balanced just enough to avoid stumbling straight over a chair or knocking into another person's booth. Leaning into John might risk him toppling sideways if he had too much to drink. "You're in a mood. How much cleanup is there to do and how much work we got to look forward to?"

He gets to navigate over to the dingy dance floor, courteously rimmed in sticky flags and everything advertising the excellence of Guinness, of course. Toucans smile, and the languishing stack of magazines sag off a shelf. "I fancy I might be in the mood." Well, cause he's in the mood, is it really in question? Her fingers skim across his shoulder, guided along to swivel on. "We might commit every sin in the book and make him awfully jealous."

John Constantine has posed:
"Luv," John says with a smile as he slides his hand up her spin and puts his nose against hers. "Around you, I'm _always_ in the mood. And you're well aware of that." Because, again, if he's in the mood, then almost inevitably, she's... at the very least receptive to the idea somewhat. But he seems to be more or less content with the slow dancing at the moment, smiling at her.

"Right now, I'm basking in the attention we're receiving from everyone in here knowing I've got not just the prettiest an' sexiest girl in me arms, but also the most powerful. How's that for a triple threat?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Nothing like the Buzzcocks, driving on the classic 70s tune with a good lick and couple riffs synched up behind the singers. Meggan recognizes the tune after a couple moments of half-listening to the beat, and even if she couldn't, the key and tempo are easy enough to sway to. The sort of music people bop and sway to, taking no real coordination, but dancing together is another business altogether. Especially when John has the moves and panache to carry off everything up to an Elton John spangled turkey suit. Superman wearing his underpants on the outside has nothing on rainbow feathers.

Sparkly, bedazzled glasses and explosives might be exactly what they need to take on Demon John.

"They don't know you're the most clever, wicked man this side of everythin'. Power isn't anything to getting your way in the end, and you always do."

John Constantine has posed:
John reaches up with one hand and strokes Meggan's hair back over her pointy ear, with a quiet smile as he looks into her eyes. "I been getting my way a lot more since I married you, luv. You know, if absolute power corrupts absolutely, I might be absolutely smitten." He slides his fingers behind her neck and pulls her in close, giving her a slow, quiet kiss as they move along with the song, his other arm wrapped snuggly around her waist.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Poor knife ears. They're such a faddish thing, sometimes popular and other times the subject of condemnation for being a weird cosplayer. In fairness, they're not exactly wrong to say so. Meggan tilts her head forward, happy to be of a height with John instead of towering over him or diminutive enough to rest her cheek against his chest. "Getting your way's plenty good considerin' all the shite we went through to reach this point. No regrets. I'd do it all again even if it meant being holed up outside Boston with you or slogging through the misery. 'Cos you are worth it, and I'll shove that down every demon and angel's piehole if they need to hear it twice."

Kisses are beautiful things, especially to irate Irish pubgoers who groan and grumble to knock it off.