3203/Like a Bad Penny...

Like a Bad Penny...
Date of Scene:	02 September 2020
Location:	Gem Theatre
Synopsis:	Sometimes things turn out just the way you expect.
Cast of Characters:	Zatanna Zatara, Janet van Dyne, John Constantine

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Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Gotham's got plenty of theatres big and small. Fancy shows usually get larger billing and audiences, but the financial windfall loses something in the intimacy of the moment. The Gem, on the other hand, is a snug little cornerstone of Old Gotham where tall buildings in classic Gotham Gothic styling lends a certain ambiance. The kind that invites people around dark tables to lean in when Zatanna plucks her hand into her classy tophat and snares one gentleman a little too skeptical of the Mistress of Magic.

One moment he's swilling overpriced craft beer and thumbing his phone, the next he is gone. The fifty-year-old gent leaves a pair of alarmed audience members in his wake, but the rest of the sell-out crowd leans forward to see the next move in this, the penultimate act before the curtain call.

"See? Nothing in my hands," she holds up one empty palm and then transfers the hat to it to display the other. "Nothing in the hat."

A twirl of the tophat reveals the flashy violet brim and the black ink interior. Nothing there to fall out.

"Where's Michael?" whispers one of Michael's friends. They look around with alarm.

"Why pull a rabbit when I can get something big, white, and not quite as cute? Well, it's more impressive, I promise." Pinching her fingers, Zee whispers an incantation and pulls Michael from that hat.

The startled man is barely the size of a dollar bill, though that rapidly changes when she holds out her arm for all to see him. Putting him down on the stage, she adds, "Worg ot ruoy lamron ezis." And so he springs up to 5'9" of startled, wide-eyed man while the applause strikes and she gestures, then bows. So the end has come, and it's time for things to truly begin.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
The curtain falls, muting but not silencing the applause. It's a hell of a show, made moreso by Zatanna's theatrical skill over the magic itself. In truth the audience would likely be terrified to know the depth of her power.

After all, the fun is the wonder and the mystery. How *did* she do it? That's the question on everyone's lips as the show ends. Save perhaps Michael, who inquires as to how many drinks the bartender will sell him at once.

There's not a lot of downtime between sets and the crew moves fast to get Zatanna's props cleared so "Garish" Garret Smith can do his audience hypnosis bit.

Zatanna's dressing room is locked between sets, which doesn't seem to have slowed down her guest in the slightest. John Constantine's sprawled out in a plush old chair that's been in stage service for decades, slouching indolently and smoking a cigarette.

"Caught the show luv," he congratulates the sorceress. "Loved the bit with the two doves in the wineglass. I think you gave that bloke at the end a heart attack though," he observes.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"He'll survive." The prognosis of Doctor Zatanna might generate a swell of interest in her fans. Discovering she practices medicine on the side, too compelling to resist. "Rude to buy a ticket and spend the whole time with your nose in a phone. I respect not having any interest in a live show."

With an idle shrug of her shoulders, she leans against the door, since the turned handle tells all she needs to know. Blowing through the Italian magician wouldn't be impossible for the worst sorts, but the worst probably might have locked it afterwards. "You pay cover to get in or will I have to explain to an usher where that broken window came from?"

Constantine earns that lidded look out of her, the slow consideration of what karma dragged in. No point in hurrying it. His Englishness squishes into that chair, and no doubt demands it be attacked with a few cans of Woolite in the chastened aftermath. "I figured you more for the burlesque next week. Changing your stripes for natty spots with the season?" Autumn's coming. Even if it isn't there, the gaspingly hot days have declined to muggy, sticky days followed by cooling evenings.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Please." John looks affronted by the notion he broke in via window. "I'm not some amateur. Slipped in a side door. 'sides, much as I love watchin' you work--" he drags on the cigarette and exhales two plumes through his nose. "I'm not payin' a cover charge *and* buying American pisswater at twice markup. The least they could do is stock a proper lager if they're going to bleed me for money."

His air of casual nonchalance passes and he fixes Zatanna with a more serious expression. "And I'm not here for the show anyway. Slightly more pressing matters to deal with of late and I need a second set of eyes on a task at hand." He leans sideways and arches his hips off the chair. A few seconds of fumbling produces a coin and he tosses it casually onto the dressing room table. It makes a neat arc, rattles once, and lands flat. Heavy, from the sound of it, a green-gold coin with Norse runes in bas-relief.

"How much do you know about Loki and the Asgardians?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The Gem isn't a garbage theatre or a cheap one, for all its small footprint. The fact it's got a rather nice side door and a little terrace area hidden out back for use of patrons and the odd escapee from one of the office towers nearby counts for something. "Better than the ceiling trapdoor. That would be another ten stories of climbing around to reach the roof." Zatanna slides inside, nudging the door shut with her hip. Not all the way, for that might lead impressions. Not that the room is especially large, dominated for the most part by a vanity illuminated in a string of fairy lights and all the changes of costume on a rack that's served several tours of Broadway and off-off-Broadway. Thumbing the red bowtie at her throat, she loosens up the straps to give herself a bit more breathing room. The air conditioning isn't up to the challenge of keeping it totally cool. "Now, now. The liquors local and small-batch. Too good for your discerning palate, no doubt. I helped sample the wines myself when they offered to refine it."

The smile has a slight tease to it, a bit more shown by care. "So you'll come by for work but not my actual work? You wound me." Her hand goes to her heart. "I thought you'd especially like the point where I pulled six knives out of the conniving businessman! His mistress /and/ his wife arranged to be in the audience, and I couldn't tell who was chuffed more." Sometimes bits of his patter work their way in. Got to be the way of a linguaphile and... him. When the boxed charm dies down a bit, he gets a steady look. "Ah, so to the point." The sparkling glitter earns a sharp scan from the side, as though Jormungandr the Minor might pop up and try to bite her. Might end messily all the same, so an examination takes place from the safe distance of three neat steps. The excuse of looping the bowtie over the overburdened garment bar will do. "I certainly know some. Caused no little grief up in New York trying to take what wasn't his, by the sounds of it, and ushered in the Avengers. I believe it's his brother, Thor, who keeps a healthy run on pagan and neo-Nordic and neo-Tectonic supplies in the community. Runes weren't nearly so popular when I was growing up."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
John grins a little at Zatanna's story about the mistress and the wife. Sometimes it's the little things in life, after all.

"Long and short of it, aye," John agrees. "Loki's every bit of what the legends say. Still no word on if he actually shagged a horse, but the rest of it-- conniving, manipulative, and dangerous-- that all sounds about right."

Cigarette ash is flicked into an abandoned coffee mug at his elbow. "Norse runes aren't exactly my specialty either. Bit of a niche in the magical community, what with the Asgardians being gone for quite a time now. But that's proper old Runic magic, real as it gets. Pulled it out of an ice golem someone sent after me in the pub. Ruined what was shaping up to be a nice evening, too," he frowns. "Near as I can guess there's some shenanigans afoot. I'm still rooting out the core of it. Seems this bloke Vega is a necromancer with a talent for ice magic. Me and a few others have got swept up in a little campaign to collect some frozen gems. 'Hearts' they're callin' em, they're key to some potent cryomancy. Near as we can guess, Loki is pulling strings to put us at Vega's throat and try to get all three of these hearts in his hands at once. Still not sure of his endgame but I don't guess it's anything pleasant."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The little things, not even she's immune to those. Far from it. The foibles of human nature are right up there for a magician.

"I'd like to think the stories about the eight-legged horse aren't the case but verdict is out on the rest. I've learned not to judge too openly on the predilections of people with different biological standards than our own. Aliens everywhere." The dry notes chasing her words are as crisp as a good cider of the hard kind, though Zee swivels to lean back against the wall. No need yet to toy with the coin. "No imprisonment getting acid spat into his eyes? I imagine he's plenty fond of that. I recall some story of him being in Metropolis, but the waters muddy around that. More press coverage on Superman's return, naturally, and those dark, hungry beasts." The memory doesn't stir up a smile out of her, not when the topic is about people chasing around. "You sure the ice golem was sent specifically after you? John, who on the list did you manage to upset and what now? You didn't make a gibe about someone's mead, did you?" Probably not the case, but she can make up for the most of it, identifying the name with a tip of her head. "Vega, that's not a loaded name. Latin name, Norse magic, and golems. Ugly business. And you are trusting Loki to bring you there?"

John Constantine has posed:
"I trust Loki about as far as I can punt him," John clarifies. "Considering I've never even met the blighter, I wouldn't even go that far. There are still a lot of missing pieces here. Where these ice hearts came from, what Vega wants with them, what Loki wants with them. We've a cryomancer with delusions of immortality obsessed with these things, and a legendary god trying to play both ends against the middle to come up with the ice hearts in hand for his own ends."

"But yeah-- I'm quite sure they were after me. Came into a pub. Lousy glamoured disguises. Sat in, waited, like they were going to jump me when I left. Might be some other amateur hitman using Nordic runes to control ice golems, but in my experience, ducks and hooves, etcetera etcetera. Adding a third player to the game at this point seems unlikely. Easier just to remove me as a factor, especially if Vega thinks I'm in his way or Loki's worried someone's going to tip over his house of cards."

John drags heavily on his cigarette and prompts Zatanna for her thoughts with a lift of his brows. It's not an unfair assessment; one would have to look high and low to find a more chaotic provocateur than Constantine.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Collect the hearts, make sure Loki or Vega never see them. Makes me think you need a pyromancer in there just to keep things warm, but opoosites don't so much attract as blow up in our faces?" Zee shrugs and slides out of her coat, hanging that up too. It's heavy enough to be overly stifling and nothing like being melted under pancake makeup or wool for lesser places. The Gem's HVAC system struggles to keep it cool but with limited effect.

A bottle of water hides in a little mini-fridge behind a propped up mirror. She kneels to pull one out, looking over her shoulder. "You deal with actual water or am I without a hydro homie?" The turn of phrase gets a grin, brief as they come. Snapping off the top with a crack of plastic, she sniffs it and then takes a sip. "Squared away all that pretty neat. What do you gather about the hearts? Chunks of ice, living glacial snows? I'd like to think seizing one won't prompt a detonation, but then we wish for ponies and fishes. Take what you can get. The chances that you were randomly set upon are low. Vanishingly unlikely as you said. Loki seems unwise to play directly like that. Bit heavy-handed, but then an invasion of New York was rather heavy-handed. Can he change his tricks in two years?" Another good sip of the water proves just what she needed. "Of course, the straight line advantage leads the question, how'd Vega sniff out your involvement at all?"

John Constantine has posed:
John makes a face at the bottled water. "No thanks. Fish shag in it," he points out. He instead digs a flask out of his pocket and takes a swig of something that smells positively caustic even at that distance.

"I've laid hands on one of the hearts. It's stored away somewhere safe for the mo'. Couple of local gels took it upon themselves to take on the other one; hopefully they've got it situated somewhere well-warded and inaccessible. Haven't seen the third one," John admits, "but these things always come in threes as you know, and 'twould explain quite a bit how Vega can advert himself as a world-class cryomancer. My guess is he's chained his soul to it. Made it a phylactery. Could be wrong," John concedes, "but if I was a crazy magician obsessed with immortality, that's how I'd do it."

"My involvement was otherwise just a bit of ill fortune. Sniffed something amiss, snuck into the middle of a row in a cemetary. Some hedge witch was living in a little ice cottage the heart made for her. It's a potent enough relic. Vega-- or Loki, or whomever-- sent a dark animus and ice golems after it. I tossed a little of the old hellfire in their face. Did a trick but that sort of thing tends to cause a row, y'know? Elemental pyroclasm. Blew right up in their face." Blue eyes dance with amusement, acknowledging Zatanna's comment about the combustion of opposites.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna swirls the water around in the bottle and licks her lips. "Ashes of indentured labourers feed the leaves you're burning in an offering. I'd rather deal with the fish." Her finger traces the plastic side of the recyclable container, thin and crackly plastic reacting even to that. "All that kills us in the end and whatnot, though."

She listens to him, sliding over to the chair in front of the vanity and sinking down. No bench here, it's not supportive enough. "Elemental pyroclastic bursts have their places, but they're ugly dangerous enough. Something worth keeping a cautious eye out for and a mind for approaching carefully, John. That coat of yours deserves better treatment than being fried, steamed, and burned all in the same turn. I'd expect Loki has double-crossed a few players at once."

John Constantine has posed:
"More likely encased in a glacier, but the point's fair," John acknowledges. He takes another heavy drag on his cigarette all the same, unrepentant. "Can't leave this one alone luv. Loki's a major player and if he's up to tricks, it's the sort of thing that would pull him out of some profoundly intelligent hiding he *should* be doing. He risks a lot sticking his neck out, so the payoff must beat the gamble."

John leans forwards, elbows on his knees, and looks pointedly at Zatanna. "Need a second set of eyes on this one. I've already been made and that's forcing me to play a little guarded. Can you make some inquiries among your friends? Anyone who's got a knowing for the old Norse ways. I'd like to know if there's any connection with these keywords." He digs a crumpled yellow paper from his pocket. 'Ice heart', 'Vega', 'Loki', 'Asgard', 'Cold', and a few others are written out. "Maybe whistle up a mimir you're on good terms with. I'll leave you the coin if you need it," he offers, and nods at the trinket.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"When have you ever left anything alone?" Zatanna arches an immaculate raven eyebrow, the sweep of rather dramatic eyeshadow suited for the stage adding to the inherent weight of the expect. "I expect he can no sooner keep his fingers out of the pie than you can. Isn't that rather the job description in a nutshell? Wizard, magician, warlock, witch: 'I couldn't leave well enough alone.' Sooner or later it's going to take its toll from all of us, but it's just a matter of the when and where." She flexes her heel a little, feeling for the strain induced by wearing wedge heels on stage. The coat may be off, but she's not about to strip down entirely and Don something more suitable for a civilian gig. "The fact a known figure from Norse mythology came out of the woodwork for Norse runes inscribed on these icy hearts spells trouble. Not the least of which is that I remember what happened in New York and who was on the scene. I didn't need the footage. This doesn't sound like an Asgardian reclamation mission; rather more likely it's something bound up into one of his schemes, and those never play well for anyone but Loki. Read the Eddas, they lay it all out. I'm not putting much faith in the author for authenticity considering he wrote most of them hundreds of years after the fact, but those old grains of salt, John, you know as well as I, frequently contain truths that weren't meant to be forgotten. Something tells me the payoff isn't one we can afford to risk, not if the rest of that group hasn't sallied out of the embassy. Come to think, I haven't heard much out of them at all."

She combs through her hair with a wooden variety carved with a few blossoms from pearwood, more than likely a gift unless she's been anywhere near Taiwan or mainland China. "Asking about won't be hard. Anyone with Nordic leanings, unless they were already practicing in Iceland, more or less has a target on their backs for the past three years. They don't forget what happened. There should be something in the libraries I can read into, though the House hasn't given you any additional insights? Expect to hear something in the next week, anyhow. This requires a bit more than a text message or popping out of the blue."

John Constantine has posed:
At the mention of the House of Mystery, John gets to his feet. "Er, right. Uhm..." John grimaces, and tugs on his left earlobe. Eyes wander about the dressing room. "About House. I've sort of, um. Misplaced her," he mumbles. "So-- I'm at Chaz's place, y'know, over in Queens, if you need to get hold of me, ring-a-ting on the landline," he suggests, and digs a business card out of his pocket. It doesn't say much: 'John Constantine', 'Private Investigator'. He scratches out the numbers on there and writes down a New York area code number, and slides it across the vanity towards Zatanna.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The comb ends up back on the vanity, placed there with care. Zatanna inhales through her nose and holds the breath for a near visible count, suggesting this very much belongs to the yoga training that never quite caught on with her. But meditative breathing she can do. "You lost her." A reiteration gives him extra rope to hang himself with. "The single most precious thing ever bequeathed to you except me, and you..." The statement doesn't bear finishing, since it's quite a bit safer to pinch the third eye chakra for a touch of pressure and focus on the three-five-three breathing cycle for a period of twenty seconds of relative silence. "Did you offend her?" A safe story, maybe, but not much of one as she takes up the business card. The numbers don't get much better, but at least with that and the coin on her vanity, she can reorient her reactions to something inanimate. No helping if they suddenly turn to smoke or start burning from her mood becoming a muttered damn it gone backwards or some such.

"We're going to deal with the ice house and the naughty necromancy first, but we're not forgetting that. Is that how you landed in New York? I'd started to wonder why you weren't around here quite as much." Does she keep tabs on him? Does the community mutter if he moves? Is the sky blue?

John Constantine has posed:
"Don't-- don't get sidetracked." John only stutters slightly, index finger wagging horizontally through the air between them. "Wasn't a row or anything, just a bit of a domestic, and she popped off while I was out at the pub. She'll turn up soon-- and why am I telling you this?" he inquires rhetorically, and his outstretched hand spreads upwards in supplication. "Task at hand, luv."

John swaggers closer to Zatanna, and there's an impish sort of look in the rakish tilt of his head. He stops just at arm's length, hands resting in his trouser pockets. "Wouldn't be the first time an important woman in my life popped off and left me stranded somewhere." He leans back, head tilting with a playfully absurd pantomime. "Thailand? Remember? You jetsetting out first class, me turned out in a cheap hotel with nothing but my wedding tackle in my hands? But you came back," he says emphatically, and puts a hand to his chest. "And I forgave you, and all's worked out for the best."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Because who else can you possibly tell without the judgment? Because who about here owns a magical house of that-- oh, Stephen, and me. Would you rather take it up with him?" Zatanna calmly answers, though her cheeks show a flush of rose suggesting it's not all calm waters under there. Still, she would pocket the coin and the business card if her outfit has pockets. Corsets typically don't, and there's no hope for the shorts or the fishnets. So a bit of legerdemain and it vanishes, a twinkling and gone. "Neglect to show her the proper care or that row happen over something deeper? Task at hand, John, means I can cover both matters just fine without crossing them. Unless they did cross, and you somehow invited Loki back home and pissed her off."

Point made, she spins a bit of a pause reaching for a clip to push the waves off her face, leaving her fringe intact but displaying her ear. Pinching it in place, she tugs on the clip to balance it. "Thailand, John, was supposed to be about us. Not us and some 'business' propositions. You want in my bed, it means coming and staying there for a turn unless a demon happens to be outside and they can wait. Or at least knock nicely and give us time to hit pause if not hit /them/."

John Constantine has posed:
John's cocksure grin grows a bit strained at Zatanna's remonstration; a low groan rises up from the back of his throat. He rolls his gaze away, examining the reflections in the mirror. One a dark-haired sorceress of significant charisma, and the other... a decidedly pale Brit with lazy posture.

"I'm as open-minded as the next bloke love, but no, I didn't try to shag Loki," John assures Zatanna. "If I knew what I /did/ that vexed her then I wouldn't be standing here telling you that I couldn't find my bleedin' front door."

He steps past Zatanna, pauses when he's just past the line of her shoulder, and looks back over his. "You should whistle her up direct if you're concerned. She always did like you better. Maybe it's her way of telling me to keep better company."

John looks at Zee's profile a little more directly, but just as the moment threatens to become, John breaks his gaze and raps on the vanity near her hip. "Call me when you get a word in. And be careful." His expression sobers. "Best case, I've missed something. Worst case it's too late to fix it. Don't get hurt on my account."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The flash of lightning in those uniquely blue eyes before she shifts her gaze away to the coffee cup press ganged into acting as an ashtray. Might just be contemplating a few sins of her own but cheating to get around the complications of lung cancer has an object lesson three feet and change from her. Oh, that. No sorcery, no cigarette. Temptation there is a weak thing, whereas others in the flesh or the moment prove infinitely worse. "Had that been the shell of a third-rate demon out of Phlegethon, I'd have understood." Darkened by sobriety and a ghost of memory, she flicks a fingertip and murmurs, "moolB htiw s'emoh eurt htap," as the conjuration produces a simple English rose. The kind that's planted in every country garden, teased into fantastical shapes by Kew, clipped and cut and hybridised a hundred different ways but always coming back to the elegant bloom heady with scent. In this case, it's just a bud, the outer shell of the petals barely tinged by much colour past the green.

She places it on the vanity beside him, beside his knuckles anyway. "Take that, you stubborn git, and take care of it. You can take the shortcut and put native water or soil round the bottom, but knowing you, not likely. Stick it in your lapel if you must; your pockets are bags of holding that need to be fumigated." The slanting degree of look shifts higher. "Shagging Loki would've been /how/ you got the eight-legged horse, you know. Or maybe a six legged one with a foul mouth and the look of a nightmare. Smoking nostrils and all that." A second look, and then the eye roll cracks into a smirk. "Your bleedin' front door would be a stable in that case. Good to see you've not lost your sense of imperturbable wit while deprived of shelter and board. Chaz puts up with you far too well. House of Mysteries: the great one, why?"

Happy to give good as she gets, but she tilts her head back. "Do I have to remind you -nothing- is too late to fix? All this power at our fingertips, all the contacts in the world. All you've been through and you still think it's fundamentally flawed beyond repair? It's a good thing I did not invoke /hope/ for that." She nods to the rose. "Or else you'd be Oisin on the road, looking for it for a hundred years, on a wild goose chase. You'd sooner find your way to Chucky Cheese for a job."

And if that isn't hell, what is?

John Constantine has posed:
John picks up the rosebud, examines it, and puts it in his lapel as pretty as if it were a boutonniere. It somehow makes his jacket look even more crumpled by comparison. "Oisin's mistake was shagging a faerie without knowing the consequences of putting shoes to the Fae Folk," John points out. He meets Zatanna's reprimand with that crooked grin again, undaunted by her remonstration. "Now you know me love, I'm ever the pessimist. You're ever the optimist. It's one of the reasons we got on so well," he points out. John drifts closer, just a hair behind Zatanna's shoulder but well within her personal space. He meets that slanted expression head on, lips twitching with a knowing mirth.

"I suppose Chaz puts up with me for his own reasons. Just like you put up with me for yours. Chaz has a thing for derelicts and life debts, I s'pose. Pull a bloke out of a pack of hellhounds and he natters around like me mum for the next fifteen years."

"Makes me wonder what *your* reasons are," he says. Hands in pockets still, one elbow tilts vaguely in Zatanna's direction. Seated as she is he positions himself so she'll be forced to tilt her chin back just a little to look up at him. Eyes flicker down, up, meeting her violet-hued gaze. "Gave me some sound advice, doing me a -favor-, and I've a pretty red red rose to wear around for a few days. Are you looking out for me or d'you just keep me around so you've someone to argue with in the face of entropy?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The poor jacket isn't improved or diminished, just more itself. Not all relics need to shine with glory and sparkle like the missing sword of Arthur or some erstwhile Grail? "Oisin had love on his side and time enough to get the story out, so props to him. For the Celts, that's a happy ending. Whether he decided he was tired of endless parties and the conflict of a divided court, I can scarce say, not being there."

She tilts her head back. See, personal space exempted or he might disappear in a puff of air. Daring as she does, the spool of shadows encroach on the tan lines of that coat, and direct her gaze more directly up rather than face the mirror. "Chaz has more debts owed him than the Treasury -- pardon me, Exchequer -- so we will call that one a draw, John. I expect if anyone did the final tally, it would be more than hellhounds. Does the poor man even have a proper brown Betty pot after all you put him through? Least you can do is whip him up a proper cup of tea made half with coal dust. Speaking of, I heard something odd roundabouts Aberfan. Something rising out of the tip, and one of the children preying on the elderly? Sounds like a problem in a care home, though I'm still waiting to hear back on it."

There are English magicians and mages aplenty to deal with it. Even she can. But it needs to be said all the same, cantilevered on the backbone of already angling to surrender something and gain another. "John."

Seconds tick. Outside, an actor wheels something heavy past. Probably part of the next ventriloquism bit that sometimes sails over like a lead balloon on the clientele who fancy themselves intelligentsia, and aren't far off the mark. "You came looking for me to help you. Now I gather you haven't changed since I've known you, and your trust extends about as far as your nose. You've answered yourself on that part of the equation, haven't you?" Cornflower stained to violet deepens, the jewel at her throat bared by the lack of a bowtie and coat giving off that faint gleam, worth a ransom and probably none at all if it's glass or the buyer knows what is good for them. "You put yourself in the bear trap so often, can you not tell when someone has you by a silk handkerchief?" The eponymous bit must be up the sleeve or tucked in her corset, because she plucks it out and runs it through her fingers with a flourish. "Or nothing at all?" Dropping it, and her palms are exposed. "Where's the man who says he knows me better than I know myself? Do you think me the kind to keep you as a bargaining chip or screw you over? You think Superman or the lovely Amazon I keep company with wouldn't give me a look that broke me like matchsticks if they suspected it? My poker face is good, but you're a game of whist while dancing a waltz on Tambora. I'd never consider you strictly my debate partner. For one, I'm usually right, so where is the fun in that?"

John Constantine has posed:
"I'd make a proper useless bargaining chit, but I'm intrugued by the possibility of this screwing you mention," John says with a baiting sort of tone.

"You know Zee-- you give me faith in the universe," John's voice brightens to go with an easy smile. "I'm fair at running circles with my mouth, but I've never met someone so talented as you at taking the roundabout path to avoid saying what she's thinking. It's like..." he looks skywards, thoughtfully. "Like a cracker of a good book that goes out of its way to tell you what sort of sordid things the maid *isn't* doing in the broom closet." He leans down and kisses Zatanna's cheek near her temple, soft enough to be familiar but with enough of a nudge to make it more playful affection than overt flirtation.

"Whistle me up when you find something, yeah?" He's already moving to the door, lighting up another cigarette as he goes. "Say my name three times, turn in a circle. Light something lacy on fire, you know the bit. I'm sure you'll think of something creative," he offers, and cracks the door to depart.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"The universe clearly put faith in me, assuming I wouldn't misuse what gifts I have in grandiose ways. Minor, I won't argue that. Pulling a man through a hat would be called an unacceptable use by enough. I get the letters, and bin them just as fast." Zee shrugs her shoulders, white and black and netted stars stretched out to balance carefully. "You, on the other hand, know some restraint only when it ails you. So as a bargaining chip, you have more value. Cracked, true, but when haven't you been Frenching Lady Luck in the corner or playing peekaboo with Fortune as she turns the Wheel? I'd say you're on credit with both, a longer and deeper line than many ever get."

No talking about the nasty turn at the end, though.

Her fingers fan lightly over her collarbone, and she smirks. "Flirtation? I'd talk to you directly but your mind might break, and don't you love figuring out the puzzles for yourself? Telling you the end in clear and simple terms, never." His mouth on her skin leaves a trace of a zing playing over her temple, and her hair rises on her scalp to the dance of prickles and needlepoint. "The day you pass, I'll be waiting on the other side. The day you guess what you want, I will be right here. John Constantine, John Constantine, John Constantine." A swivel of her fingers sketches the circle widdershins. "All roads lead home. You never forget the path you walk to it, because it isn't lost or forgotten in the first place. You seem to enjoy keeping your eyes closed to it while pretending you're teetering on a ledge with your arms out, wobbling back and forth. Truth is you're on a beam a foot wide and a few inches off the ground, with a net to catch you when you fall. I wear them for a reason. It's not just for show. Try not wobbling too often, for much as it makes a girl thrill to be needed, it's those other times that make life happen, you figure?"

Lips round. The susurrus of a blown breath sweeps the message out with a swack! sound. "Never met someone so talented as you at taking the roundabout way of never saying what he's /feeling/."

John Constantine has posed:
John pauses midway out the door, hand on the panel; he turns in place so his head's sticking into the dressing room. "Hmmmm." He draws the sound out, eyes flicking around in thought. "I /feel/ like I need a drink at a pub and a night not spent on an old camp bed in a drafty attic. I ... -feel-," he tries again, "like I'd like to get this thing with Loki sorted before New York freezes over."

A beat. "And there's a third thing, and I can't quite figure out the word for it." A hand rises, equivocates in the air with a waggle. "You know, when you're a little turned on by someone's eloquence, but also a wee bit bored, and you just want to do something wantonly untoward midway through being lectured just to crash their momentum?" He snaps a finger and wags it at Zee. "You figure out what that word is, I think we might have a real breakthrough on our hands."

Brows bobble merrily. "Anyway, toodle pip, cheerio, all that," he says, and disappears out the door leaving only a mischevious grin and a trail of cigarette smoke behind.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zee shakes her head after he's gone, picking up her comb again. "You first, love, otherwise your ears might just explode."

A texted message flits off across digital airwaves. <You owe me $50.>

Totally not to a house. Totally.