3089/A Good Pub is Hard to Find

A Good Pub is Hard to Find
Date of Scene:	25 August 2020
Location:	The Duke of Glouchester Pub
Synopsis:	Peggy and John are drawn to the same pub for the same reason -- a good pint like back home. What they find is a slight mystery in each other and ice golems.
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Peggy Carter

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John Constantine has posed:
There are only a few proper British pubs in the city. Oh, more than a few Irish pubs-- places comfortably familiar for the descendents of the Irish families up from Boston, for instance. But a pub is only properly British if it has three things: bad food, warm beer, and a proper fireplace. It's hard to hit that trifecta, but the Duke of Gloucster achieves it.

It doesn't hurt to have a place with some bar games, and John's playing darts against two other gentlemen. Shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loose; he looks like every other office worker stopping to have a pint on his way home from work. Shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loose, John aims and takes three shorts with unsteady concentration, and fails to deliver.

"Bollocks," he grumbles, and retrieves his darts before retiring from the line. The other player steps up and hurls his three, and his friends cheer as the fellow takes the win. "Ayy Johnnie boy, guess you're not king of the roost tonight," one of the other chivvies him with a thick accent.

"Take a piss mate," John instructs the fellow-- but he's digging cash out of his wallet and hands over three twenties. "Ayy, don't run off-- double or nothin', huh?" he bids the fellow. But the other gentlemen are already finishing up their drinks, and his opponent shakes his head.

"Nay, off fer 'ome. Work in the morning. Don't get so pissed you sleep it off in the alley," the fellow bids John. Some boisterous back-slapping follows and John's left staring at the dartboard with a sour face and fewer bills in his pocket, twirling a dart between his fingertips.

Peggy Carter has posed:
The place wasn't exactly new, though it had been when she was last in New York City. Now, it's considered historical and comfortable. And it's truly been broken in, earned it's reputation as a proper British Pub. Peggy was a bit wary to try, but in desperate need of a good pint of Bass and some comforts of home, the brunette makes her way inside with hopes of some comforting familiarity.

The accented discussion at the dart board is the first thing that reaches her ears and she cannot help but smile. She pauses a few feet before the bar, just taking in the good natured ribbing and slightly heavier Manchester accent from one of the players. Dark eyes flicker over to the group, watching them long enough it might be considered staring, before she shakes off the nostalgia and makes her way to the bar.

She cuts a lovely figure tonight, other than her right arm in a casual gray sling against her body and the somewhat nasty, green and yellow bruises that peek out from the edge of her dress shoulder. She's in a dark green number cut in a fashion that fits more in 1940 than nowadays, but maybe she's one of those retro instagram girs? Her hair's done in soft vintage waves and she's even got that classic matte red lipstick on.

She waits politely enough but when the bartender turns around to see her, she slides a credit card across the bar. "Bass, please, pint. Just keep them coming, thank you." Her accent is more proper London than anything, but it's most certainly present. She leans against the bar, waiting for her drink as she casts a glance at the other departing Brits.

John Constantine has posed:
"Here Jerry, guess I'm done for the night." John steps up next to Peggy with the darts case in hand and his overcoat clutch negligently in the other. "I think you ought to get those looked at, the blue ones have rubbish fins. Been letting the kids have a go at them and they're all jammied up."

"Didn't seem to give Bill any trouble, John," the bartender rumbles.

"Get fucked, Jerry," John says with a convivial tone, and slides a crumpled $20 across the wood. The bartender collects both and reaches for a bottle of scotch. "Bit of the kreacher?"

John shakes his head. "Pint of lager, Jer, those bastards took my drinking money. Going to have to make it last."

He knocks his knuckles atop the money to apply it towards his tab and while Jerry's getting his lager pulled, John digs a pack of smokes and a lighter from his pocket. A cigarette's drummed loose and pulled with his lips and he cups the beaten old gold zippo with a curled palm. The blonde fellow gives Peggy a quick once-over- then another one, just for good measure, and uplifts his chin while he stokes the cigarette to light.

"Cor, hate to see what the bloke who did this looks like," John tells Peggy with a wry tone. "Or'd you lose a wrestling match with a trolley?"

Peggy Carter has posed:
If he's actually good at piecing people together by looks alone, Peggy's got a few things a casual inspection might not catch. Probably carrying at least two weapons somewhere under that skirt and, while she's prone to curves, all of her is disciplined and toned enough to say she'd be prone to being plump if she wasn't quite so trained. His comment about how the other man looked might not be wrong if her muscle definition alone means anything. She's probably not just a pretty face.

Dark eyes flicker back across her shoulder, towards the darts, studying them for a few narrowed moments before she looks back to him with a throaty bit of a laugh. "Those fins are in perfect shape compared to most of what you find here. Can't blame your throw on shite darts when that's all that's on the board." She offers with a touch of teasing behind her clipped tone, before she turns dark eyes back to the bartender.

She accepts her pint thankfully, a respectful tilt of her head going to the lady and a deep drink of it taken before she looks back at her new companion. "Probably a few broken ribs. I went gentle on him. And I never lose." There's an enigmatic tint to her smile as she says that, pulling another sip of her beer.

John Constantine has posed:
John, on the other hand, is an ugly mess of contractory features. A little too skinny to be called athletic, with strong shoulders but gangly limbs. His sallow features and the dark rings under his eyes suggest a decided lack of healthy lifestyle; maybe an office worker with a drinking habit?

But when he goes for his drink, it's hard to miss a goodly collection of scars on his knuckles and forearms. Some one gets from boxing barehanded, some can only from thin, sharp tools. And some are nearly unidentifiable, disappearing under tattoos partially concealed by his sleeves.

"Ah, you're just in league with Jerry," John says with a dismissive wrinkle of his nose. He grips the mug from the top and his throat bobbles with a few hefty chugs.

He turns in place to face Peg with one hip resting against the bartop and looks her over again, eyes narrowing in thought. "'Don't lose', eh? I allus heard losing builds character. Unless you're hustling someone for a few quid," he amends. "What is it then?" He gestures at her with his smoking hand and reachs for his lager again. "Cage fighter? Bouncer? Somehow I doubt you got roughed up at a metal concert."

Peggy Carter has posed:
While his demeanor is rough, it seems Peggy's intrigued enough to stick around -- a few minutes, at least. She shifts to sink to the side on one of the nearby barstools, swiveling around to more fully face him now. That's when she really drinks him in, trained eyes going from face, to body, to outstanding features, mentally building that profile already. The knuckles, hands, and tattoos are all noted with a slightly more interested glimmer from her gaze, but she doesn't remark on them yet.

She crosses her legs smoothly, getting comfortable on the barstool and letting her good arm lean against the edge of the old wooden bar. Her good hand remains around the half drank pint, nursing it casually but a bit more interested in the contradiction at her side. His commentary about being in league with Jerry gets a deep smirk, "Trust me, I'm *never* in league with a Jerry." The way she says it is far more like an old soldier than a modern name.

His questioning about the shoulder gets a little chuckle. But she was the braggart about it. Peggy looks from him, down to her pint, then back to her fellow countryman at her side. "A misunderstanding in a warehouse. When the floor went out from under me it was a dislocated shoulder catch or falling a story. I chose the first. But it's all cleared up now." She's not lying. She's just casually talking about something that sounds like an explosion as if it were a regular Monday.

John Constantine has posed:
"Cor, misunderstanding she calls it?" John's voice rises in pitch with a whimsical amusement. "I'm not sure if the story just got more interesting or not. Warehouse floors aren't meant to just fall out y'know. I hear the Yanks have safety inspectors and all to keep that from happening," he says. He seems to be challenging her story just a little-- but encouraging her to expand rather than dismissing it as a fable.

John hangs his coat up on a hook and seats himself next to Peggy, propping both elbows up on the bar. The hand with the cigarette goes opposite her seat, kunckles propping against his head to support it. Jerry hastily slides an ashtray closer to him. John's other hand curls around his lager and he takes another few gulps, more interested in consuming than enjoying the beer.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"The place was abandoned, so, I rather doubt it had been inspected any time recent. And my new friend may have helped it along before we...hit that understanding. You know. A regular Sunday night." Peggy deadpans, her eyes betraying her dry voice as she's getting a certain amount of joy out of stringing him along with the story which would sound near impossible to your regular New Yorker.

Dark eyes flicker to the side, taking him in as he finally picks the seat next to her. The cigarette is given a long look, the sort that says she isn't certain if she wants to be annoyed or *wants one*, but she's doesn't ask yet. As he takes his beer up, she remembers hers, but she sips far more delicately. She came here to savor bad British beer, not to chug it.

John Constantine has posed:
John doesn't miss the look; he flicks the pack like a magician (or con man) and makes a cigarette jump out. 'Silk Cuts', a distinctly British brand and one that's nearly impossible to import to the US. He twirls it on his fingertip and holds it out towards Peggy, butt to her. "Sounds like you've earned a ciggie then," he bids Peggy.

A trio of men come into the bar, nothing remarkable save for how unremarkable they look. Burly, thick necks, jowled features and outfits that differ from one another only in color rather than wardrobe. They move to a table towards the rear and take their seats, body language closed to the rest of the pub.

John watches them cross the bar with a nonchalant sort of interest that evaporates when he looks back at Peg. "Tell you what, I'll make you a wager," John suggests to Peggy. "You give me three chances to guess your job, and if I get it right, you buy the next round. Whattya say?" he suggests with a mischevious uptick of his eyebrows.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Silk Cuts. The microexpression that shifts across her face, for not even a heartbeat, tells the whole story. Craving, nostalgia, and surprise all at once. Even if she'd quit ages ago -- smoking was going out of fashion in the 80s, she reaches her hand over and prim red nails pluck one from the pack. "You're smoking my brand." She teases lightly. Her pint is abandoned so she can slip the cigarette between her lips and lean over to accept a light from him as well. If he doesn't automatically reach for it, she gives a pointed look to his lighter and back up. Yes, she will train someone to be a gentleman with her eyes alone.

The trio of men aren't entirely missed. Instinctively, her gaze traces them into the room across the bar. She doesn't move, but she shifts on her bar stool just enough that her back is a bit more protected and she always has the group in the side of her gaze. Her posture is perfect to remain looking natural while just subtly going on alert.

"...Mm. There is every chance you know already and I'd be daft to accept a wager that is a clear set up. But...it's a pint of Bass. Or, whatever you are drinking. So, keep it to the ales or the bottom shelf, and you've got yourself a deal. Guess away..."

John Constantine has posed:
John's hands dance, moving towards it just a second before Peggy looks askance at him. The lighter comes up with a snap of his fingers for a finger-length red flame to dance under the cigarette. Once she's got it stoked John slaps the lid shut against his opposite palm and sets the lighter atop his pack of cigarettes. It's a beaten, dented old thing, with a number of engravings and marks that are either arcane to the point of being unintelligible or marred past the point of being legible.

"All right, let's see." John twists in his chair and resettles his weight, one arm braced against his stoolback and the other on the bar. Fingers curl around the mug and he taps a nail against the edge of the glass.

"First guess, you work for the papers. Fashion section, yeah?" He uplifts a finger; when he gets a negative response, his finger falls. "Hrm."

John looks over at the three men at the table. They're drinking, but not talking. They look like strange carbon copies of one another, going through the motions of looking inconspicuous. Then at once, with eerie precision, they turn and look at John directly. Then turn back to look at each other.

Perhaps then, Peg would notice that they haven't said a word to each other since they sat.

"Second guess, uh..." John digs in his coat pocket for a moment and comes up with a silver cigarette case. It's engraved like his lighter, and he plucks a handrolled cigarette from it. "Professional barfly," he sats, not really committing to the guess. He stokes the new cigarette to life fairly quickly; it smells like it's laced with something exotic, not quite incense but close to it.

"Right, uh, last and final guess," John sats. He uplifts his chin at Jerry and beckons him over. "Jer, want you to know up front that this one's not my fault. Best you scarper out the back, good lad now," John sats.

Jerry gives John a wary look, but Constantine's doing anything but joking. Even his smile is grim, thin-lipped and humorless. Jerry looks at John, looks around, and curses under his breath.

"Be the death of me, Constantine," the bartender sats, and makes a discreet gesture at his waitress. Other customers seem to sense the tension in the bar and even the drunkest of them decide to perhaps enjoy their beverage out on the terrace.

The last of them are filing out and John leans well into Peggy's personal pace, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "Third guess is more of a gamble, really," he murmurs. His palm slides across Peggy's dress without touching it, close enough to cause electrical currents to tingle-- and a fingertip lands right on her holstered firearm without him intruding on her person. "It's about to get proper hairy in here, lamb, and I'd hate to think you're packing around something you don't know how to handle."

John leans back and dons his coat. The three men look sidelong when John rises, but before they can get on their feet he's coming around the bar right towards their table. He stops a few yards away.

"All right you jabby fucks, I'm here," John tells the trio. "Any of you want to sat something intelligible, or should we just step right to the Irish jig?"

The three men look at one another, then the one in blue abruptly gets to his feet and lunges at John with a strange, inhuman noise. Constantine nimbly dances back and jams his cigarette into the fellow's eye, provoking an unnatural scream no animal would make. The one in blue staggers back holding his face. Rippling orange chases over his skin like fire ashing a cigarette's papers. When his hands drop, his face is *gone*, and all that can be seen is a runny block of what looks like ancient, raw winter ice.

"C'mon boys, you takin the piss?" John jeers-- and for his joke, catches a violent two-handed shove to his chest that sends him flying backwards ass over teakettle over several old tables behind him. Glass shatters as some of the heavy old furniture is knocked aside; John takes the worst of it across his ribs, though, and comes up wheezing.

Peggy Carter has posed:
The moment Peggy realized the men weren't speaking, she knew something was wrong. Her body shifted, tensing incrimentally, as she's been preparing for some sort of fight longer than he's motioned for her weapon. His guesses at her profession get momentary, askance looks and a quick shake of her head, "You aren't even trying..." She mutters to the second guess. But the little game is going to have to wait.

In a dress like this, the only place for her holster is under the skirt. She's packing a small SIG today, something that fits in the well fitted thigh holster and drowns in the few layers of fluff that is the slip to her dress. Her body tenses as he goes to tap the side of her thigh, but it looks like she's getting ready to fight HIM, just in case he tries to draw her weapon. Instead, he's coaching her to do the very same.

"Oh, you have no idea..." She mutters to his comment about hoping she can handle her gun. And then, chaos breaks out.

Peggy doesn't want to use her gun unless it's necessary, inside and there are civilians in at least two rooms around them. But she's got other weapons to her. She doesn't fight at his side as naturally as she would someone she's trained with, but she's good enough to quickly pick up his style and give him the room he needs while keeping the third from immediately sweeping in to attack after John's been shoved. She crosses the space violently quick, using her own body's momentum to deliver a well formed, vicious side kick to the third creature's temple with the pointed heel of her shoe. She doesn't give it time to recover as she follows up with a right hook meant to send it's jaw through it's opposite cheek. Body slightly turned, she grabs an abandoned glass and it's pitched fast-ball throw into the melted creature's face.

She does her best to keep her back close to the bar or a wall, never wanting to leave herself open. She fights fast but defensively. "You know what these things ARE?!" She breathlessly asks over the chaos.

John Constantine has posed:
"Ice golem!" John wheezes.

Big and strong, but not terribly good reflexes. The one Peggy assaults weathers her attacks with a mute endurance and only turns to her in time to catch the pitcher in the face. It leans back, dazed, but only for an instant. The impacts shatter the skin like so much fragile frost to reveal the ice below. It's old, hard ice, but the form these things have taken at least makes them more or less move and react like men.

Still that cross to the jaw is going to hurt like hell tomorrow.

John is up on his feet faster than one might think; the blinded golem's features are wet and freezing over in layers as if it's trying to reconstruct the damage John did. The one in yellow rushes John with heavy steps and a lot of momentum; it's all he can do to roll out of the way as the creature smashes indifferently through two heavy, solid oak tables that could have borne the weight of five men. John leaps onto the golem's back and hastily scratches something on its neck with a corkscrew. It takes the creature a few seconds to realize it's under attack, but by then the rune is in place. Arcane whispers slip John's lips and the rune flares to light. The golem roars in pain and confusion and staggers around, ice turning to rivulents of water as it melts into the searing red heat of the rune John scribed there.

The one in blue staggers around with big, blind attacks that aren't immediately a threat, but it does create an obstacle all the same-- and the Peggy assaulted lumbers towards her with outstretched hands and a face devoid of expression.

Peggy Carter has posed:
The one saving grace Peggy has in this fight is, injured or not, she's much faster and trained than the massive golems that wreck havoc on the place. She abandoned use of her sling seconds into the fight, probably going to pay for it tomorrow but adrenaline keeps any other pain at bay right now. "Golem. Right." No arguments from her, no shrieks that those things can't exist. Just processing information and keeping herself in the fray.

She's dancing around them, jerking to the side as lumbering, violent hits come her direction. The pitcher helped some, but his statement seems to make her think she needs bigger fire power. One of the bar's poor, defenseless chairs is brought up and she swings it full tilt into the side of the blue one. The goal is to lay it out next to John and the one he just finished marking. "I'll knock'em down if you can take them out!"

She doesn't have time to see if laying that one out worked. The chair is more effective, but it's slowed her down as well. The still standing golem gets a raging swing in on her that she manages to half dodge, but her left arm she's brought up to block is going to be horribly unhappy tomorrow. She stumbles back but doesn't go down, shoving two vicious, body weight driven kicks into it's middle.

John Constantine has posed:
They're big and dense, impervious to pain and they don't *give* the way flesh does. There are no vulnerable spots or tender nerves to strike. Hitting the blue one makes it stagger and swipe around blindly in new directions. The red-clad golem doesn't even blink as she kicks it, driving all that force and experience into a midsection that gives no less than their skulls.

"Blimey you daft git, shoot 'em!" John shouts. He's still riding the one in yellow to the floor, keeping that utterance going in a steady stream of whispers. It falls to its knees and one hand, and there it quits moving. It looks like nothing so much as an abandoned sculpture of a man left to melt in the sun.

John turns to Peggy just in time for the golem in blue to grab him by the throat. It cuts off his voice with a gurgle and the golem lifts John off his feet. He kicks hard with the toes of his shoes but gets no results. Blind, but not deaf, apparently, the blue golem whips John around and slams him atop one of the tables. It bears weight down against his windpipe, and it's all he can do to get a knee braced against the monster's chest to keep it from simply mashing him into mush.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Well, the fact her attempt at a kick matters not one BIT, the things almost seeming to get stronger, helps make her decision. She sure as hell knows how to use her gun and it's pulled out of her holster as she ducks another swinging attack from the one she was attempting to fight. She'd shoot it, but John looks in far worst danger now. It takes a matter of not even two seconds for her gun to be unholstered, safety pushed off by her thumb, and it's jerked up into position. She snaps off two disciplined shots at the head over John's shoulder. They are expertly aimed.

That's the only clear shot Peggy gets as the one she was fighting catches up with her and, suddenly, she's being laid out flat by a violent pummel to her side. Already cracked ribs scream in pain, vision going white for a moment as she hits the ground, breath gone. She's operating on training alone, coughing for breath, as she instinctively rolls over out of the way of where it expects her to be, so she's not there when it's foot comes down to echo the initial attack. Firearm up, she jerks out two shots at it's center mass. No time to aim for the head right now.

John Constantine has posed:
Whatever they are, the damage Peggy does is disrupting them. Ice shatters and bursts and the creature throttling John staggers and falls sideways, crashing to the floor. It tries to move but the damage is simply irreversible and it creaks to failure with strange, machine-like complaint.

The golem over Peggy is rocked back by the bullets. Water, with subtle deep-sea shades of green and blue, runs like blood from those wounds. Cracks spiral over the golem's 'clothes', revealing that icy core'. It regains its balance and refocuses on Peggy, then lifts both hands over its head for a violent hammer-blow that will turn Peggy into paste!

It's then that there's a huge noise and a spray of ice crystals and water. It soaks Peggy and puts out several lights. There's a sense of lurching displacement and then the fast departure of some unseen entity as the golem's reduced down to so many icy slivers that immediately melt upon hitting the ground.

John looses his grip on the single-barrel shotgun he's holding, letting the barrel *thud* against the ground. One hand remains curled around the stock. He's panting, heavily, and there are bruises on his throat.

John uplifts his chin at Peggy with a wry expression and tries to say something.

"<hhnhn>". He blinks, and tries again. "<hs shh iff>," he says with a squeaky rasp.

John rolls his eyes heavenward and tosses the gun aside with an irritated expression so he can offer Peggy a hand up. So much for a quippy one liner.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"Fuck." Peggy breathes out as she looks up at the thing which manages to get it's balance back. She's about to fire once more in a desperate bid to not become so much pulp when the sound of something far louder than her SIG comes. She winces at the ice and water, hair flattening to her temples and dress suddenly giving a somewhat better show of her toned frame, but it seems done. She lays there, panting a few ragged, sore breaths through her nose for just a moment.

"...thanks." She exhales as she sees his hand. Her usual, wry smile is half back, "...didn't quite catch that." She offers to his lost quip, but she's still getting her feet back from under her. Left hand accepts the assistance up, her right arm hanging sore and half limp again at her side. It's not dislocated again, but it's not happy. Once she's on her feet, she pushes her damp hair out of her face with her more functional hand and gives a worried look around the room, trying to make certain none of her bullets went somewhere unintended.

John Constantine has posed:
Peggy might look fetching with a few pints of water artfully mussing her hair; John just looks like a wet rat. He walks around the bar and pulls down a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, hidden up from out of casual sight. It's uncorked and he pours two tumblers, one for Peggy and one for himself.

John then chugs down fifty dollars worth of blended scotch without blinking. And pours himself another one.

"... is it done then?" Jerry sticks his head out the door to his office, looking around with a dismayed expression. "Jesus and Mother Mary, John, you've wrecked me fuckin' bar!" He stumbles over some broken furniture and glassware. "Again! This is the second bloody time, Constantine! I'm fixed to ban you for life-- and stop drinkin' that whiskey!" he fumes, building up a temper.

John lifts a hand and clears his throat, putting his palm against the bruise. "These things happen, Jer." It's some effort to speak. "This is the only bleedin' place in New York I can get a proper lager," he rasps. "I'll square it up with you. You know I'm good for it." He takes the shotgun off the bartop and puts it back where Jerry keeps it hidden under the coutner.

"And the lady here-- she's with the government. Constabulary, you know. Allies abroad. She'll make sure there's no questions from your insurance agents."

Jerry's fitting himself for another outburst when John starts looking around the serving area. "Bloody shame, all that liquor that got smashed up," John says, and looks up at the perfectly undamaged bottles of highland scotch overhead. "Never be able to get a proper accounting of it once the cleaners are all done, I'm sure."

This thought mollifies Jerry somewhat; John looks back at Peggy, massaging his throat, and offers her a click of the glass to toast the agent's skill.

Peggy Carter has posed:
It's a few ginger moments as Peggy makes her way back to her, somehow untouched, barstool and sinks down there. She lets John get the celebration drink and manage initial explanations, taking a few mental notes that this is a repeat incident. Now she *definitely* needed to know who he was. She settles in and her left hand comes up to carefully twist the sling back into place and force her right arm into where it's SUPPOSED to be recovering. So much for taking it easy.

His insistance she's with the government gets him a tired smile, "SHIELD, actually... but close enough. Jerry, I'll cover the next few. Just put it on the car. And...here." Left hand digs into her small purse, pulling out a little black business card. Margaret Carter, Field Agent, SHIELD. A number and a public facing email. It's boring, as cards go, but does the job. "If you have issues with insurance."

Then she does pick up the poured whiskey, clinking with John as she studies him a bit deeper across the rim of the glass. "...Alright. Your turn. Who are you that ice golems are something you *know about*, and you've smashed up this bar before?"

John Constantine has posed:
John digs in his coat pockets, looking for something. A little silver pill carrier with a few un-labelled pills in it; he fishes out something that looks suspiciously like vicodin and pops it, then washes it down with his scotch.

"First, I didn't smash it up last time," John wheezes. "I got tossed out the glass front over a little misunderstanding over a game of billiards."

"Hustling pool, you git," Jerry growls. John heaves an exasperated expression and levels it at Jerry. "Jerry, go for a swim in the river, eh?" John invites, and pointedly jerks his thumb at the back room. Jerry grumbles and heads back again.

"My name's John Constantine." He digs in his breast pocket for his cigarettes, but the packs' been smashed before repair. John curses and throws the cigarettes aside and starts rummaging around the bar for a pack forgotten by a drinker. "I'm a consultant. Little work for the Yard back in the day, bit now with the locals hereabouts. Private dicks, they call them here in the States," he says. "I mean, if I bothered to get such a stupid thing as a license. Ah!" He finds some cigarettes and extracts two, offers one to Peggy, and lights up the other with his battered old Zippo. The rush of nicotine soothes him faster than anything else and John finally lets his shoulders relax.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"John Constantine." Peg repeats his name as if she was tasting it. No immediate file swims to mind, but there's no doubt she's going to be looking him up later. A skeptical brow arches at his lack of a license, but she seems more amused than anything. She gives a little shake of her head in a token show of disapproval as she accepts that cigarette from him. "Well, I'm Margaret Carter but, since we're both rather off duty, feel free to call me Peggy." She'd offer him a hand but her good one is busy balancing a new little cigarette between sips of her drink.

"And while I'm certain your profession of consultant is completely above board and routine, a consultant who deals with ice golems and knows runic work is *not*. So, I'm left to wonder exactly what kind of consultant you are..." And what use you might be to SHIELD. Though the last words go unspoken, since she's revealed her alleigences now, anyone who knows a spy knows the implications that hang in the air.

John Constantine has posed:
"Naw love, you're not wondering that at all," John informs Peggy. "You're thinking to yourself, 'What's this bloke's hourly?' and 'is he on the up and up or is he having a go at me for laughs?'" He settles his elbows on the bar with his hips cocked behind him, putting his head on level with Peggy's on the other side, and extends his lighter over with another snap of his fingers to summon the flame.

"I can tell you I didn't leave it on good terms with the Yard, and most New York cops don't like hearing 'yeah gremlins are having a go at your homeless population'."

He takes a heavy dray on his cigarette and sips more scotch. "Now, you blokes at SHIELD, you might have a little more open mind." Sharp eyes; he must have seen the card. "But truth be told, I got a reputation for being good at what I do and hard to work with, and you'd be better off not even askin' the question you're *really* itchin' to put to me," he informs Peggy. He doesn't quite smile, but something mischevious works into his eyes anyway.

Peggy Carter has posed:
The brown eyed stare he's getting across the top of her tumbler is dry enough to drain the desert, smoke lazily drifting from where it's balanced between her first two fingers that aren't busy holding the glass. She doesn't look exactly tired, but the emotion behind her eyes is very much questioning why she does this to herself. Peggy sighs deeply, downing a deep enough gulp of the whiskey that her eyes should be watering, but it barely gets a blink. Yes, she's doing this.

"Yes, I am curious about your hourly rate. No, I don't think you're having a go considering you clearly have *some* experience and aren't a completely useless lush as you seemed at the top of the night. No, most New York cops don't know their ass from their aliens. And yes, I am very good at working with the impossible to handle. So... might as well enlighten me. Unless you're just playing hard to get. You're about twenty years too old for that to look good on you, luv." She gives him a smirk in response to that mischevious smile, but her dark eyes haven't left his face. She's waiting. Soaked, aching, but eternally patient. She'll wait.

John Constantine has posed:
"I think you like to *think* you've got no patience for playing, but I notice you haven't yet thrown in the towel, either," John retorts urbanely, and matches her smirk with a knowing smile that never occupies both sides of his mouth at the same time. "I think you're just the sort of gel who goes around the bend anytime she finds something that doesn't fit in a neat box." He draws a square with his fingertips in the air between them. "But that's me luv, all day. Square pegs, round holes." His wrist rolls and his index finger describes a circle in the same space.

"Truth is, this--" he gestures at the puddles. "This is pretty run of the mill. Amateur hour hit job. Loony hedge mage or some devotee of that bastard who's been laying down ice castles all over town. Don't know that it was him direct, because if it *was* it was a damn slapdash job." John tops off both glasses without waiting for an invite. "And rather than piss and moan about the sorry state of things where my good bar game's gone to rubbish because of it, I'm taking this as a learnign opportunity. Motive, means, opportunity, eh? Someone with just enough power to wrangle three ice golems, but not enough planning or foresight to use them effectively." Brows raise and his index finger uncurls from his glass, gesturing at Peggy. "Ahh, see how it goes once you get a corner piece of the puzzle? Sloppy criminals, they make life much easier."

Peggy Carter has posed:
As he reads her almost as well as she reads most people, her smirk grows. But Peggy doesn't disagree. There is just a slight tilt of her head in agreement to his assessment. She even offers quietly, "...One doesn't work in SHIELD while pretending things only fit in neat boxes. I left those a long while ago." With a certain super soldier and an unlikely serum, really.

She takes another sip of her whiskey, letting the heat of it relax her by inches. While they are surrounded with distruction, broken glass, and she's still soaked, she sinks to the side and goes back to the almost lounging position she'd taken at the bar previously. Her cigarette is ashed right before it joins the debris on the floor -- no reason to be impolite. "Amateur hour or not, the question is why would someone pull a hit job on *you*. If you're just a boring, unlicensed detective with some minor knowledge of magic. Unless, you're not. Unless you have a lot more knowledge or talent somewhere hidden in that soused body of yours. The sloppy hit job is far less interesting than the actual motive behind it, which you've yet to truly elaborate."

John Constantine has posed:
"All excellent questions, all very insightful," John agrees. He finishes his cigarette and ashes it in a puddle of water, then throws back the last of his scotch. "You might even start to pull together half a profile on me if you really lean into it." He digs out a worn out old business card and sets it on the bar between them. Peggy's is somehow a statement about her lack of need for celebrity. John's just looks like it's meant to deter business. 'John Constantine', and below it 'Occultist'. And a phone number.

"We're out of time," he remarks. Sirens can be heard in the distance and closing. "Gunfight at the pub does bring in the bobbies. I'm gonna skin out the back before they come in and start asking me uncomfortable questions about parking violations. Been an absolute gas, Peggy. We'll have to do this again sometime," he suggests, and heads towards the alley emeergency exit.

"Pity we don't have more time, because you *still* didn't ask the question you really wanted to," John says over his shoulder, and flashes a showman's grin at Peggy. "C'est la vie, as they say." John slips out the heavy door whistling 'Bridge over the River Kwai' until the sound is cut off by the door slamming shut in his wake.

Peggy Carter has posed:
The sound of sirens on the distance gains a sigh from her that is more than a bit world weary. She tosses a look in Jerry's direction, unwilling to let the poor, beleagued bartender handle this alone. So, it looks like Peg is staying around for the clean up. His card is smoothly accepted and she slips it into her little purse, next to her back up gun and wallet. "I'm far less forgiving on the second date. We'll see if you're up for it." She comments teasingly, but then gives him a tilt of her head and tacit permission to book it before he has more questions to answer.

Dark eyes watch him the whole way out the door, her smirk never leaving. "...Well, he's a real charm, isn't he, Jerry?" She mutters to the bartender before finishing off the rest of her whiskey, stabbing out her cigarette, and smoothing her hair neatly back with one hand. Time to play diplomat. As usual.