4663/No Milkshake Til Boston

From Heroes Assemble MUSH
Jump to navigation Jump to search
No Milkshake Til Boston
Date of Scene: 09 January 2021
Location: Boston, MA
Synopsis: Drinking. More drinking! This irresponsible drinking can't have any consequences.
Cast of Characters: Meggan Puceanu, John Constantine

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Five hundred years ago... if he wasn't strung up for consorting with the Devil and she wasn't considered a complete harlot travelling cross-country as an unwed woman, disregarding pesky social mores, they would have enjoyed a restless night in a snug tavern and tramped downstairs for the evening's pottage in an iron cauldron warmed over by the fire. Maybe a posset. Certainly no tea or coffee, and the best to be drunk, a short beer of some kind. Things aren't so different where the margins of Faerie lie, or heritage-graded buildings trying to cater to a faded glimpse of Glorious Britannia.

They probably have no idea Britannia's icon - one of them - combs through her hair and splashes her face with water. Bringing extra clothes is a lost cause and repairing her jeans from the many tears and cuts left from a giant spider isn't going to work. Meg can make herself shorts and attract attention, go about scandalously, or deal with something else. That something else happens to be a calculated regard for nicking someone's laundry with a regretful smile. For the moment, she uses a few basics in her weathered pack to put herself to rights. Whatever time John slept, she was basically curled up on a pillow in the corner. No real other need for anything save a blanket; he gets the bed. Only fair since there's a fair chance she turns into a cat if he thinks too hard about sleepy animals.

John Constantine has posed:
An evening in a motel with an attractive blonde is normally an opportunity John wouldn't hesitate to leap at. But flinging primal fire comes with a price of energy and exhaustion. He eats at dinner like a starving man, drinks like a sailor on a desert island, and then when it comes time to sleep he collapses facefirst on the bed and is out cold almost before he remembers to kick off his shoes.

Meggan would learn at that point that John does not sleep well. He tosses and turns often, and it seems nightmares plague much of his rest. It's not until the wee hours that he finally relaxes into true slumber, at least for a while.

In the morning the two are up and moving soon enough; John's breakfast is black coffee, four cigarettes, and a few shots of whisky. In short order John brings them both into Ilchester proper and casts around near the Market Square until he finds what he's looking for-- a Way Gate, near-invisible and defined only by slightly-more-faded stones in an old retaining wall. A little magic and a little attention and the Way opens to them both.

Once inside they're in an area that looks quite a bit like Ilchester must have four or five centuries ago. Rocky hills, rolling plains, lots of greenery. A tower can be seen in the distance, impossibly far away but somehow perfectly visible at the same time.

"Right, from here we need to walk to the London Hub," John tells Meggan. "It's not too far. Keep a thought of London in your mind and we'll get there quick enough."

Node-stepping in the Astral realm is more about thinking than walking, after all.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
As a fully blooded empath, that restlessness is a shared curse. He sleeps poorly and projects any emotions, she will drink them like a bitter tea. Walls can be thrown up, mental barriers, but it's like ignoring the presence of the sea. The brine smell might dim, the waves lapping at her feet dulled, but always the ocean churns in proximity that will not be denied.

Rude good health is Meggan's blessing. It won't make her immune to an absence of sleep, a worried crease perpetually shadowing her eyes and lips bruised by pressing tight before. Now, there is only the resurrection of her energy from black coffee, a cup of tea, and a very large orange to be peeled, segmented, and devoured like a bee after a flower. Ilchester stirs sleepily enough, unrushed under leaden skies, and warranting a welcome smile on High Street while they wander by. Rolling around in the daylight weakly filtering through a coffee filter dimness, John and her surely would stick out if not wholly in the element of going places they shouldn't. Every corner holds a fascination for the sleep-deprived blonde, a smirk on her lips.

Every Way holds a wonder for her to chase, and when they plop through another era, her smile widens. "Oh, that's easy. Ravens and the Tower, a parliament, and thirty-three nails."

John Constantine has posed:
John gives Meggan a swift look of approval and nods once. The two start walking, and about five minutes later Meggan would pick up on John softly humming the harmony to 'The Guns of Brixton'.

It would be hard to say precisely /when/ the topography changed, but they're no longer walking over rolling Welsh hillsides. There's a cobble path and old stone buildings here and there now, though most of them seem either far too new or far too old to be livable. Little phantasms flicker in and out of existence around them, ideas too vague to gain a real foothold in the Dreaming.

"What're you studying?" John's voice comes after a long and surprisingly companiable quiet. They're navigating some minor streams that happen to be an exact replica of the London waterways, albeit rendered just a few inches deep and barely a yard wide. Trees surround them, old proper oaks like haven't been seen in England since the Norman Conquest was in vogue. "You mentioned classes, in Boston, aye? You a student at one of the colleges there, or just whiling away the hours doing homework for fun?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The Astral isn't a place where Meggan really goes overtly, but what truths prevail there chase her around with a distinctive afterglow most commonly found in dreamy photoshoots or music videos of a particular calibre. Her nicked jeans -- they'll do -- and Scottish flag t-shirt may be mundane, her ears round, but Meggan Puceanu lives up to the last name at least. Something especially akin to a diffuse aurora dancing all over when it wants. She doesn't quite notice at first, but there it is.

"The Remembrancer's gone to court today, it's time to pay the toll. An axe, a knife, and you'll keep your life, or you'll swing from the gallows. Six shoes in a sack and you'll surely come back, it's time to pay the toll. A ceremony of sixty-one nails so England never fails," she sings, that ancient lilting tune strange and fey and wild. The landscape around her withers and blurs in shapes that emerge, gloomy and grave and tall, striving to find their purpose. Bard and magician walk those paths chased by knights and brigands and nightmares between, always fascinating, never certain.

She nudges at a stream, humming to it, the Ceremony of the Quit Rents remembered by someone, at least, outside the judicial system. "Earth sciences. Mostly NYU, full ride there, though I wander about Gotham for a few specialized ones. Climate, the world's falling apart and at least best know how to fix it." She gestures lightly as though the ancient boughs might become real where instead buildings likely rise, and John's shadow falls over a greensward long since eradicated, a tiny tributary of the Thames buried. "Break a system, it eventually breaks you. How did you become a wizard, anyway?"

John Constantine has posed:
"Teen rebellion. Shagged a lass, ran away together when we were kids. Turned out she was a Wiccan. Shite with spellwork, really, but we made a little magic together." His tone is casual, glib, and a little vainglorious. It sounds more like a fish story than the truth. "Seemed more fun than going barmy sitting in a schoolhouse, so I picked up the practice. Once you open that door you can't close it, y'know."

A few brick houses pop up now, with proper roofs instead of thatching. The Egg is vaguely visible between the trees, but as a glimmeringinly incadescent crystal of white light. A ghostly bicycle with no rider shoots past them, soundless.

"So you're a barefoot hippy and a half-elf Romani changeling. That's a new one for me," John informs Meggan. They're stopped by a tall iron gate and detour around it into a cemetary that stretches for uncountable miles, and takes about two minutes to cross before they're on track again. "Romani make pleasant company, I've found. A little standoffish but it's worth making friends just for their stews and brisket." He glances back at Meggan. "You still in touch with your old caravan, or are you a runaway?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A wisp of a double decker moves among Georgian facades that remake themselves in perfection every few minutes. The creep and crawl of Victorian antiquity chomps old mismatched roads that bear strange names, closes and wandering paths forcibly straightened. "Isn't that a story of life? Find a partner in the midst of trouble, wander into a new direction. Sometimes we pick up the funniest things, just because the opportunity is too good to pass up over an empty stomach."

John's story is taken at whatever value she dares, since Meggan offers a beaming smile. His own take on her chapters go mostly uncorrected, though that enigmatic tip of her head could mean anything. "Romanischal by adoption only." Just the gentle correction there, making no claim to the blood. Oh, and what blood could sing. She gives the gate they wander to a careful look, but no hives are breaking out that he might see. Just a look. "All I know, my father's from a well and my mother from a tree, or the Duke of Westminster and a BBC broadcaster. And you? A practicing wizard with a card, from Liverpool, and knocking about the UK or stateside. Got to be more to it than that. Though quite right on the brisket or stew. A proper spiced stew is a marvel." The sigh is almost ripe with longing, a promise out of reach. Such is life.

Those headstones bear angels and lofty arches, shaped figures and weathered slabs, row upon row in a vastness beautifully rimmed in yews. Death's trees, always, shared across Europe. Her lips purse, blowing a kiss to one of them in fond greeting or farewell. Easier to face them than him, her body language shifting, cagier, measured. Hearts on sleeves can still warrant a protective shelter. "Yes and no." A halted slant, her measured words don't move as easily or freely. "There was Zod. Some of them..." She shakes her head.

John Constantine has posed:
"Ah." Zod explains it all. Even for the glib silver-tongued magician, it's a word synonymous with death. "Lost a few of my mates to that fracas, as well."

There seems to be little to add for a while while thoughts of the dead cloud their minds. Wisps of faces echoe their maudlin memories until they're standing in front of a large pool and in the heart of London. A wagon drawn by two galloping pumpkins and piloted by a cat rockets pass them at breakneck speeds. There are more living things in the area, people and animals and things that might one have been people or animals. The Dream of London, populated by the imaignations of the residents there.

John gesturs at the pool. "Right, Paddington Station here," he tells her. "It's a quick swim but it's easy to get lost down there if you get distracted. Don't follow any pretty lights," he tells Meggan, and offers her his hand to hold. "Deep breath, and Bob's your uncle, we'll be in Boston."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Death. Suffering. Loss, compounded on a scale that matches global disasters, natural ruin, catastrophes peppered through human history that cause eye-watering casualty rates. Even one being with glowing eyes and surreal hate can levy the ruin of China's river of sorrow, the plagues with their evocative, horrid names. She doesn't give a smile to that. "Nothing much to be done then," Meggan murmurs, a bit hollow, emerald eyes bedimmed to a grayish shade with a mossy ring. Their brilliance is unnatural normally. Now, cooler, thoughtful.

Death begs to breathe of that maudlin remembrance. Memorials for the lost in war, nation-building, birth and old age stagger around, and she brushes her fingers over the metal barriers holding the dead in, them out. Two mortals not going anywhere, shapes twirling around them, awaken spectral murmurs and bawdy songs from long-ago times. Pidgin of Mandarin Chinese and English and Hindi melt into French, Dutch, Flemish. The Dream of London has a place for all, for magicians and Tuatha de Danaan.

"Breathe?" She laughs then, sounds of bells chiming among the wheezing HVAC systems discharging fumes and fans. Her fingers curl around John's. "No need, Mr. Constantine. It's Meggan Puceanu, by the way." Names to a guide, names for a partner, since they haven't full resolved that. "Squeeze hard if you run low on air. I never run out."

John Constantine has posed:
"Oh?" John grins again, that amused mischeviousness. "You do a respirator impression, eh? Buy a lad a drink first, I'm not that easy," he lies.

He grips Meggan's arm and the two of them fall into the pool. It's not water; it doesn't feel cold like water, or get them wet, or blur the vision. It's like swimming through air, air that's buoyant and perfectly translucent. John looks this way and that. Once the path's located he points in that direction for Meggan's benefit and starts swimmng. He's about as strong a swimmer as he is a runner and his cumbersome breast stroke isn't going to win them any Olympic events. A subway tram rolls by under their feet, except it's upside down and there are a few dozen strange creatures sitting on the roof like it's part of their casual, every day commute.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"That /is/ the drink. One of your magic oceans, isn't it?" A content grin shines like the sun before Meg hitches up her stolen jeans to make sure they don't slither off midkick or something. Wouldn't that be a provocation? No thank you! Or maybe reckless fortune gone crooked. Her voice rises in a spark of surprise, and she almost bites her tongue. "I keep people alive. That's why they stuck me in a lighthouse, or I managed to keep an Atlantean king from swamping half the seaboard."

He will find her hand firm, fingers curling in effectively to avoid being yanked aside. Hold her breath; that almost turns conceivable for an instant. Crashing into it, and her body is already reacting at the atomic level to handle the impressions bombarding them. The buoyancy that would give her away is simply accepted, her ability to fly calculated to see if it helps any. Not that overtaking Constantine is very smart, nor is she trying. But pushing him along like a swimmer coming up behind another is easy enough, especially if having a long pair of flukes or a mermaid's fin makes any difference. Both are as natural to her as not-breathing, distilling oxygen or simply finding something entirely different to sustain her morphology. Pretty shapes, strange faces, her head tilts up to catch shapes. Mustn't ^gasp.

John Constantine has posed:
John burbles a warped, delayed 'hey'! when he's manhandled, but then they're actually making good time rather than him wallowing around like a flailing fool. Join points at a pool of light that Meggan steers them towards. When they surface it's more akin to falling upwards than surfacing and they alight smoothly on the ground. John exhales stale air from his lungs and takes a few deep breaths.

It's a bustling, newery city around them. All old bricks and shiny new steel. A city that breathes and surges around them. A massive, fat green giant the size of a mountain sits not far away. It turns to inspect them with a midly curious expression, face adorned with white paint and hash marks, then goes back to doing whatever had it preoccupied before.

"Hah, Boston it is," he says. "The Green Monster wouldn't be anywhere else." He points, then lets his hand drop. "All right, Monster's there, there's the Castle..." The same castle they'd seen in the distance just outside Ilchester is still visible, as if it hadn't moved an inch. A backdrop on a canvas that never changes.

"Right then, we're almost there," he tells Meggan and they start walking again. John opens a freestanding door and they step into what proves to be a huge library. "This is what Boston College's dreams look like," he tells Meggan. When she turns, there's still a door, but no more of the city. John walks around the door twice and sketches a rune on the surface with a piece of chalk. The rune glows, the door swings open, and the smell and sights and sounds of the city ripple into the library. The books all groan protest at the sudden and unexpected noise.

"Sorry-- sorry!" John calls, and hustles Meggan through the door. "Bit of a draft, I'll get the door."

They're in an alleyway. There's no door behind them at all anymore. 'Thomas O'neill Library' and an arrow sign indicate the building next to them.

"There you are luv," he tells Meggan. "Boston."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Making good time counts, if only to nudge John along for all his sassy quips. No whiplash speed here. He wants to lie and tease things into his favour, Meggan will make it possible for nature to have its say or tease him along. Swaying movements come more naturally with the undulations that guide them through the braided interweave of spaces between spaces. Cracked fissures between realities beckon them to traverse the distance however they can. Warm hands squeeze his, the pressure of her shoulder driven lightly to his with a momentum usually found with lifeguards braving cross-currents and tides.

Stale air and peppery gasoline on ozone come together on a brackish bay paved over. Staggered buildings huddle beneath a hill, and their antiquity reaches not nearly so far. Mature civic roots sink into the stones, not quite like that oak they left where primeval Caledonian forest ruled. Young but old in its own mind, it calls. A huff of air and her lungs draw in a torrent, the giddy sweep urging her to nearly topple forward against him. "Oh, that's something else."

Green Monster, this earns her head-tilt and a proper nod of respect due from a smaller titan anchored to the Wild, the Dream, Gaea's great sweep of the arm. Where they head into another castle, one to learn rather than pursue financial dreams or Mammon's greed, her voice escapes as a murmur at his ear, a trill somewhere behind. Small only in the chosen frame, same as John is scruffy only from without, so much greater within. Packages and whatnot. A wiggle of her fingers becomes friendly.

"Fancy," she murmurs, Scots and Welsh and Irish squashed up against Romanichal English and Cumbrian lilts. They could stand and stare at the stones or the books or the people for hours. He's moving. That sudden awareness pulls her along, her fingers trailing as though she might catch it. Doors within covers, words elevated to a halcyon shine. Sunken cobbles bob and weave to turn an ankle, knocking them together. "We'll need a pint or a milkshake. Maybe both. Things to do predicated on that, isn't it?"

John Constantine has posed:
"Always time for fatty foods and sugar drinks," John agrees. "I'm sure there's some dreadful concoction we could find that'll get us drunk and give diabetes as well," he reassures her.

John looks around, then tilts his head to the quad. "Come along then, Miss Pucceanu," he says with exaggerated formality. Students mill around, laughing, talking, looking at their notes, hustling to class. Meggan and John don't get a second look, back among the mortals once more. "As they say in Boston, 'let's get wicked bombed.'"

He can even approximate the accent fairly well.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Any food in a storm," Meggan adds. "Pays not to be picky, though I prefer less processed now." A show of a smile crests out of a thoughtful moment that flickers over her features and passes. So much sand driven by the wind, scouring clean everything else. The college isn't familiar to her any more than other colleges are, and navigation to the noisiest part might be her only indicator where to go. Better to let Constantine Guide Service work well on that front.

Riding the wave, as it were, for good or ill. Weal or woe, the words are shaped on her lips but not spoken, some bygone relic of a time. Sliding through the meandering body of humanity is easy enough, he cuts a path clean on their way. "Wicked bombed." In her accent, it doesn't sound nearly so Bostonian. Not even close, unless the actual original town gets a shake. And to be clear, his English accent is closer to hers, but hers caught the Celtic tiger in an alley, robbed it blind, and stole its stripes for good measure. "Fancy luck's a real thing?"

John Constantine has posed:
"You want the complex answer or the simple one?" John inquires. He glances back at Meggan, gauging her interest. "Simple answer is yes. Complex answer is yes, but you're still fucked."

He walks with his hands in his trouser pockets. The hem of his coat flares behind his knees with each stride. "Luck's a zero-sum game. You take some, you give some. Win some, lose some. And Lady Luck, she's fickle and doesn't like being treated poorly. In the end, the house always wins," he concludes with a shrug. "The dealer's not looking out for your best interests."

He turns right abruptly and takes a few steps down a side-street. "Here, this will do," he tells Meggan, and hauls the door open. John peeks inside, prompting some irritated sounds from the residents as a chill wind cuts into the pub. It seems to do; the place smells of beer and fried foods, there's a bar with liquor, and no one looks like they're going to draw a gun on someone else over a misunderstanding.

"Ladies first," he prompts Meggan, and invites her to precede him into the Bryant Street Pub with a magnaminous wave of his hand.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Either will do; a gentle nod of acceptance sends ripples through Meggan's golden hair. The shade is unusual here but not so strange to cause heads to snap in her direction. Neither is there an allotment of the otherworld illuminating the activist. No, the headsnaps are more due to that extensive social media presence, most of which has her face attached to it. Icons and avatars are funny that way. Murmurs rise and fall in the chattering currents, cleaved by a man in a tawny coat and a girl who barely touches Mother Earth at all. Lengthening stride keeps them both apace, though the sudden right turn leaves an odd gap.

Mostly because John has a woman floating at his elbow for several steps. "Feels something like that. I never expect that anyone looks out for me but me, and I look out for the rest. Try to," an admission of truth given clean, "especially for those things forgotten. It's a funny thing, looking behind the veil."

The pub won't seem too out of sorts to her, a girl used to loitering in less reputable places -- and then some, and any cockroach or cricket in sight knows damn well to flee instantly when she enters. No clear reason for it but those particular insects have a habit of scattering on recoil. Shadows don't move. The place is cheerful enough with life instead of glaring faces, baleful eyes, shadows that don't match the bodies. Those are things to look for. Things instinctively sought, with the mental bombardment of a city weighing down on her. Six steps in, twelve to the side, a booth squashed to a wall will do or failing that, a table. Give a smile to the bartender, an upnod tailored around British drinking culture. "Naught here to avoid getting smashed. Lovely. Perfect for the end of the world and start of the next," she quips over her shoulder to John, eyes bright in the dark. Too bright, a slight hint of a beacon that shouldn't be.

John Constantine has posed:
A table it is; John picks a perch that shares a corner with Meggan, careful not to sit on his own coattails. A packet of cigarettes and a lighter are set on the table in front of him. They disappear up his sleeve when the waitress comes by, and then are set out again a moment later.

"Warm lager if you have it, Guiness if you don't," John requests of the waitress. "A shot of Johnny Walker Black also, and some of the crisps. Er, fries," he amends. "And then, whatever the lady's opting to drink," John says, and gestures towards Meggan with a glance in her direction. "I think she said something about a milkshake, are yours any good here?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
No doubt sitting on his own coat limits John's cool factor. Limits an easy escape, too, if it came down to it. The table makes a perfectly respectable shield if it comes down to it, not that signs seem likely.

That's worth the paper it's written on.

Meggan inclines her head when he palms the cigarette pack like it wasn't there in the first place. Brows rise, signalling an amused response to his atomic legerdemain. "Rememberin' the Americans have laws, yeah?" Give her somewhere close to 5 minutes and she sounds utterly like the Bostonians born and bred around them, her palm resting on her chin and manner as casual and cool as the rest. Those keen eyes measure up the back shelves of the bar as much as the menu, a paper thing left on a sticky plastic stand. She needs a few moments, but the pauses are worth it. "Shot of cognac, I think." Right, because that's totally exciting. Disappointment for the magician? Probably not, since she immediately brightens and the full force of her smile lights up the damn corner. "Finlandia vodka, Giffard vanilla liqueur, Kahlua, Meletti Cioccolato liqueur, vanilla ice cream or gelato, and a shot of espresso. I think you've got all that?"

John Constantine has posed:
The waitress blinks, writes it all down dutifully. "I... think we can do that," she says, and checks her notes once more. "I'll be back with your, um. Food."

John's giving Meggan a look of wary appreciation; it takes a certain confidence to place a complex order like that at any restaurant, and she does it decisively.

"I remember I don't like being lectured," he explains, and produces a cigarette from the pack to be drawn between his lips. The pack's offered to Meggan before he puts it away and cups fire in his palm to stoke it to life. A toothpick scratches a symbol in the surface of the tabletop and it flares to life with a little blue puft of minor magic. John's smoke climbs almost directly skywards and wriggles out through a gap in the ceiling, weaving through the slow-rotating overhead fans to get there. A little glamour and illusion to keep anyone from noticing him enjoying a smoke with his drink.

"So. Easy as you are on the eyes, I can't help but notice that people keep looking over here and checking their phones," John tells Meggan. "I'm sure they're not looking t' me, because I don't photograph well." Another minor glamour at work. "You famous? Celebrity? Shagged some politician, wrote a tell-all?" he inquires with a glimmering mirth in his eyes.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Not like boozy milkshakes are ever simple. Besides, picking bottles out there speaks to something. "I'm a bartender. 'Mixologist,'" cue finger-quotes from the blonde, "so it's bit of a secret handshake. It'll either come or I get swill in a jar with a flame atop. Mind your eyebrows." A wink and she goes back to resting her chin on her knuckles. It's a study in casual posture, her back arched just so, face turned away so the golden torrent of her loose hair slipping down from her hair concealing her profile in part. Happens just by chance, rather than deliberately hiding.

John, in turn, is studied, as one might examine a work by a Florentine master for a deeper survey. Silver and gold, worn copper and smoke; they're defined in abstracts, but a person's sum might be more. Over and swirling that smoke goes, a pathway to places higher than reached by mortal hands. "You do make that look fancy. Nicely done. She wants to complain, she'll have to pay you a few quid for the performance."

She tucks her knees in closer, and that wrenching desire to look over and see what the others are doing hauls tighter on her. She closes her eyes, ignoring the smoke, isolated behind the Thinnest veneer of self-possession when the whole world vibrates and curls at their feet. So much water in the psychic realm, coming and going. "I don't want to know," she purrs, tongue curling to her palate. "You're fine in a rough around the edges looking way and that calls in plenty of people. Men and women. Don't deny that, and the accent always gets them puddle. American thing, they ran so hard to get free and one arch statement, they're smiling broad as the Wash. Good folk, for their quibbles about tea and representation. Something about risk and tarnish. If only they knew." Lilting laughter descends into a gentle hum, not in the least mocking, more a calibre of understanding one of the hidden truths of the world and not being afraid to admit such.

A blink, those eyes open, unfocused and greener than any leaf has a right to be. Wells of spring itself, kept in reserve for the shifting of the season, a trace of blue ice-locked around the edges, and she smiles. "Mmm. Take a few acronym companies to task for robbing communities blind, gutting towns, killing us with their products, it upsets them. Might have had a few words with Roxxon. Might have been forcibly disappeared and 'twas caught on several dozen cameras. Does a number for some people. I just started the protest to keep the Lake District clean. Grew on its own."

John Constantine has posed:
John 'aaahs' softly, taking both the explanation and the praise in stride. "Hope you weren't upset I didn't pick up on your fame angle," he says. "I don't watch the telly and I don't carry a mobile with me, so--" he gestures vaguely at the flickering attention from the pub. "Now I know why they're looking. Or at least, part of why. Flattery gets you everywhere, you know," he reminds her, and his eyes crinkle with an amused grin around the cigarette dancing between his lips.

Making a pack disappear is easy, but it takes real skill to make a lit cigarette vanish when the waitress returns with their requests. John immediately gulps down the whisky and requests a refill with a tap of his finger. The fries are pushed to the center of the table, offering Meggan her fill, and he curls his free hand around his Guinness. The empty shot glass serves as an ashtray for his cigarette, and he holds the cigarette between two fingers while sipping his drink.

"Roxxon. Second time I've heard that name of late. You know that detective lass, uh..." His thumb scratches furrowed brows. "Jessica Jones, works out of Hell's Kitchen. She was in on an angle with those blokes."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"They do things they shouldn't. Of course all companies do to some degree. I'm not that naive. They do /wrong/ things, though. I ought to talk to her. Might be a way to help someone else dig in, though they know my face on sight. The one at the moment, that is." Cat's out of the bag, horse left the barn, and both are jumping over the moon with a spoon. Meggan isn't entirely bothered with the divulging, but a fair bit can apparently be found circulating among the stews of YouTube and LexBook and various media, Twitter foremost among it. She hasn't produced a phone in the whole encounter, but others here doing it for her barely scratch the surface. "I think they deal in mining unnatural resources. Extracting old energies, that sort of thing. Long past oil. Mind you, I've heard they traffick in people and meet in secret board meetings with a dark Illuminati. Pretty sure those are raw conspiracies."

The waitress doesn't have a chance to see something gone in an instant, like the whisky or the cigarette. It would be impressive otherwise. There's surely a question about flagging for ID, especially that close to a college, if a preliminary matter. While John gets the Guinness, she gives a quick flash of the card plucked from the battered backpack that goes with her. Certified New York state residency card, since driver's licenses aren't a thing for pseudo-Millennials. What the number says, anyway, makes her young enough. "Jessica Jones. I'll remember that one. Thank you. What other interesting things do I need to pry out of you, archive of wondrous facts that you are?" Her smile lights up again, and she blows out a breath. The air tugs lightly this way and that, twirling one of the smoky coils into a simple ring and threading up as the spell demands. But a tug there of the air to play with it, all the same. "Think nothing of it. I don't mind -- the fame was a byproduct of the actual work. Sides, put a target on my back the size of Germany. You're more likely to find trouble than not where I go. Are you sorry for it?"

John Constantine has posed:
"Trouble finds me anyway, luv," John reassures Meggan with a sort of mild derision. "I've a knack for it, I suppose. Or it's that turn of luck I was talking about beforehand. Any trouble you could bring to my doorstep isn't likely to be worse than what I'd pull down on my own head, so don't lose any sleep over it."

He picks up a couple of fries, munches them down. John's a serial smoker and a serial drinker; the way he shifts drink and food and cigarette around is a little feat of dexterity all its own, never looking clumsy or forced.

"As for th'other... I'm officially a private investigator. Unofficially I'm an exorcist for hire. Demons, ghosts, vampires. Monsters under beds. Trollnappings, sometimes even hexworking. Once in a while I find a pixie that needs a slap on the arse." He sips more of his Guinness, powering through the creamy stout. "Pays about as much as eco-protesting, I suppose, and not much in the way of repeat customers. Most people are happy never to see me face again after I've had to intervene." He shrugs, his expression indicating how little that bothers him.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
French fries are taken one by one, rather than crammed in her mouth like a heathen. Meggan covets the salt and fat and starch as much as the next person. Maintaining the balance and mass of a roughly humanoid shape comes with its special cost. But really digging into the meal would be rude, and manners triumph over scarfing down a platter she didn't play for. Maybe it's an act of savouring instead of a remnant of not enough to eat.

The waitress slips back to put down a cardboard square, and on it, a rather brimming glass with a straw stuck in it. Nothing on fire, but that's a healthy amount of chocolate syrup and the eyewatering addition of a metal tankard for the additional mouthfuls of boozy goodness could probably fell a school kid. She accepts both with thanks, and turns back to the conversation. Some things are easy to circle, like a shark. Not a shark. No need for teeth. "Trollnapping? They don't live under bridges and steel sheep, surely. Those were the Scots, yeah?" It's all said in an American accent, like they never had a linguistic divide in the first place. "Exorcism a hot career around here, or one of those things you show up because of the need and not the cash? I get it, that bit. Money, that is. Activism is something like that; help until the problem is solved and move on. Right ready to toss me into the water or over the next hill, those who are afraid of the change, thinking it gets passed onto their kids. Doesn't matter how you show them their air is making them sick, the soil gave them the health troubles... Change is scary."

The irony of that is profoundly gentle, as is her verbalisation of it. Then she's into that milkshake, eyes bright, a neat, long sip proving just perfectly blissful. "And those that are happy, what happens then? Doubt you can have repeat hauntings just coz?"

John Constantine has posed:
"The only ones happy to see me are just as pissed I didn't fix it right the first time," John clarifies. "Some kid with a spark of talent invokes a demon, or a djinn. Lets some magic get loose. It bites them or their family, hard. I come along and banish or bind it, stitch things back up. Tell the kid not to play with fire. Sometimes they listen. Mostly they don't. I'll hear about someone running away or dying of mysterious causes. Not a lot of happy endings for young magus. Mostly because hormone-addled teens aren't responsible with that sort of power."

He exhales smoke through his nose, downs the second shot of whisky without tasting it. "Make some good money off the rich ones, makes up for the poor ones that pay in chickens and well-wishes. It's enough to get by on. For now, at least."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Hormone-addled teens, getting into trouble? Never. You were surely straight as an arrow and wiser by half, learning from a Romanichal girl." Meggan manages that between sips of the milkshake. Trying to pace herself only works so well. For someone who works extensively mixing up drinks, the opportunity to enjoy one is rarer than anyone might expect. Especially with fewer consequences. Liquor threads through her system, a frozen wash and a summer's glow. "Mmm. Not a lot of happy endings for anyone with power spontaneously coming 'round, the way they put it. So many sad stories. Or stories where people hate their abilities, despise what they got or didn't get enough of. At least for that a girl can be grateful." Fingers curl and open, her palm laced by a bit of salt but otherwise fine. Steel doesn't earn a crawling sensation, the spoon she pushes aside chiming its protest. "It was never easy. So much to be learned, but I like what and who I am. Something I've learned along the way. Being comfortable in my own skin?"

A cheeky grin for John dares to question that. "Try some, if you want." A nudge of her milkshake. "You can't have /me/ being the only one smashed and not a hint of that cognac in sight. Besides, what happens if neither of us can walk straight? May have to float right along with me. Since I don't pay in chickens."

John Constantine has posed:
"Like I said. Went straight into surly adolescence," John replies with a grin. He dips a fry in the offered milkshake and drags out a chocolate-dipped deep-fried potato shred. Manna from heaven. "Mmm. Not bad," John approves.

"I'm not sure liquers count towards being sloshed," he remarks. Said cognac arrives, borne on steady hands by the waitress and set before Meggan. He signals for another shot as well, and polishes off the last of his Guinness while the waitress ambles off. "Don't try to keep up with me, anyway. I'm a professional drinker," he observes, slurring his words just a bit. "It'll ruin your liver and your good looks. Proof positive, right here," he says, and leans back to gesture at himself dramatically.

His cigarette's gone to the butt so he discards it, reaches for another and lights up. "Support we'll have to lean on each other then, figure out where to go from here," John suggests. His eyes dance merrily. "We could pick up a bottle of something more reasonably priced, find our way to somewhere warm and cozy to hole up and see who floats off first."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Cognac, the truth of western France. Golden-amber shot with fire, she doesn't even take a moment to appreciate it much. The rim to her lips, the glass she tips back until the tawny fire runs down her throat. One long, straight sip bares the line of Meggan's neck like a college student with something to prove, except that the measured swallow at least gives her an impression of a reasonably good well drink. Chocolate-fry is bound to follow after she puts the glass down and gestures, smooth sweep ahead of her. "Be my guest. It plays off the vodka well. I won't mix in tequila, though maybe something with Pernauds to get a proper bite. Or Fernat. Have you ever had it? Bit of an acquired taste but it goes down so well." Trust the bartender to elevate her craft for a little, though the warning from a professional exorcist widens her eyes.

Moments slip the gauntlet and leave a pregnant pause between them, swelling by the moment. "Things don't look ruined from where I'm sitting. Maybe you mean you're more of a folly instead of charred wreckage?" A fingertip extended prods him at the wrist if he doesn't dodge away, light and playful. "My liver you're worried about? Very kind of you. I've weathered all life threw at me so far, what's another round to do? I'd rather keep you company than let drink alone, supposing all things are equal."

An offer on a neat white card with pretty black script wouldn't be more clear under the circumstances. She isn't slurring but then, there might be a giddiness bubbling up and carrying her along like a craft. "Sides, I did offer you a lift, didn't I?" The shorn vocabulary dances through the elongated vowels echoing the south shore, but less, melting Merseyside rather than Cheapside or Forth of Firthish. "Figure out where to go. Definitely /not/ Salem. Mmm, going anywhere near the Isabella Museum with all the paintings could be promising but they'd probably blame us for attempting another heist at the place. That's where all the really spendy art got nicked and they never found out who did it. My money's on an inside job." She purses her lips around the straw of the milkshake, diminishing it by a good fifth, whatever remains. No slurp there, though the cold bites with a hissed breath. "Famous bookstore round here, plenty of cemeteries, though that's not warm, not really. Mmm, Franklin Park ruins are something else entirely. I should be looking on my phone about this. Place with a firepit on a roof and no one aware it's in use? They're easy to spot."

John Constantine has posed:
John grins at Meggan's prodding at his wrist. There's a little electric contact at the touch, the discharge of auras flickering against one another. Another fry's dipped in the milkshake's remains and he gnaws on it hungrily. It's a sweet and salty treat, a rare combination of savoury and sugary. He holds Meggan's eye contact steadily with that knowing, ever-amused blue-eyed gaze. Roguish and rakish, enjoying the fencing with the blonde changeling woman.

"I thought you said you were going to school around here?" John inquires. "I supposed you'd have an apartment or the like. I'd be a gentleman and offer mine, but I've a three hour bus ride to New York and I feel like we'd lose this delightful buzz by either sobering up or getting too sloshed to see straight."

He pauses, lips twitching into a lopsided grin. "Not that I'm ruling out the other options, mind, but I imagine the bookstore would look down on us if we got caught snogging in the periodicals section."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A little spark, and gods know what her aura does, a rainbow spreading like a halo in rings that swirl with watercolour prisms. They melt together and weave apart, two people eclipsed around the margins. Her fingertip traces a lazy circle, painting a pirouette in the air, a disk punctuated by another pursing of her lips to avoid a grin showing up. A rake up against a bon vivant; what might happen? Long-term volatility, short-term explosions, or a duet worthy of the cosmos. Stars have been exploded from less dust and possibility, suspended on a slender thread of creation. A vibration that rolls with a shared laugh, even as she turns the last of the milkshake out from the metal container into the glass one. "Trust me. I will ask for Fernat, add it to this, and you're going to swallow half of this fast as you can."

The waitress is earning her tip, signalled for another of that herbal Italian libation to add to it. Something to cut through the sweetness with a bitter spark, a snap that awakens the deeper half of the palate and stirs unbridled comparisons where chocolate slinks and simmers. "Lighthouse in Gotham," she laughs merrily. "Mmm, all said and done I could beeline it in... Hour and change going slow? New York's an hour, though you couldn't claim to be cold or uncomfortable." If it could be a cheekier statement, so be it; she shrugs her shoulder and smiles crookedly, twirling a finger around. "Different buzz from being there. Though if we really booked it... hmm, napkin, please? So, what, 750 miles an hour? And Boston's roundabout... You said three hours, so that's 180 miles give or take." She draws the fractions on the table, peering at the grain and specks of water. Each numeral forms. "All right, so 180 divided by 750 or so is like...." Numbers. Numbers suck. Long division, the way she does it, makes her a relic not of a super-modern school district. "Point two-four? So quarter of an hour. You can handle fifteen minutes, you'll be on the ground. Bit peaky without a hat, though."

A neat wipe of her hand washes away the math, such as it was. "Periodicals? What would I even do in there? Put us somewhere a bit more interesting, and not even a broom closet because that's hardly /fun/. Not done right, anyway. I go to NYU, by the by, most of the time. Sometimes down in Gotham for a couple courses offered only there in partnership, but NYU brought me in after the whole disappearance bit. I could /probably/ find something around here in a trice if I tried. Will need the phone, then, got to be an AirBNB or something on Radio Free Fae." A wiggle of her finger teases. "Forget politicians."

John Constantine has posed:
The liquor's delivered and mixed. John hoists his share in salute, offering the rim of the glass as a chiming toast to Meggan's good health. The cognac's thrown back and he pointedly doesn't gulp it straight down, holding Meggan's gaze.

John's poker face is pretty good, but the bitter Italian amaro is too complicated and novel for even his palate to weather. The flavors don't smooth out, they just keep escalating their dance on his tongue. Finally John gulps and inhales air-- getting one last fresh rush of new sensations-- and coughs.

"The gentleman from Liverpool cedes the point," John wheezes. "Bloody hell, like drinking a spiced pie," he remarks, and coughs again. The last of his Guinness slakes the spices and herbs lingering at the back of his throat and he clears it twice."

"So. Where were we?" he says, rhetorically, and looks down at Meggan's notes. "Right. Yes. We're both sloshed and you're doing math about a cozy nook for the evening." John rests his folded elbows on the table, leans a few inches into Meggan's personal space. "Nerd," he whispers, drawing the word out. A wink pulls any sting from the statement and he sits back.

"I told you, I'm not one much for flying, luv, even in the arms of a beautiful woman. Not unless my life depends," he says. The magus stands and fishes in his wallet for some bills. A little math is done and he lays down enough to cover the food and a modest tip to boot. "So what's it to be, wee lass?" John inquires. He steps closer to Meggan, well inside arm's reach, with one hand resting on the table and the other on his belt. "It worked out the first time you guided me somewhere, I'm willing to give you the lead to do it again."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
For her part, Meg has nothing of a poker face. What one sees is generally what they get. She bites her lower lip and breaks into that stellar smile, full of good humour when she hoists the milkshake for a toast. Odd choice but not the weirdest, for the clink to John means well. Besides, she takes only a mouthful and waits for him to get the cognac down. Then the Fernat.

It is, after all, an acquired taste. One good push puts the milkshake in front of him if he needs it, swallowing vanilla, vodka, and chocolate with Kahlua to chase the rest away. Hard enough for her to manage to take the cold slurry in herself, but she gulps in a most unladylike fashion. Eyes water, her hand fanning the space in front of her face while he's swallowing down Guinness like a right proper black brew of Ireland will do. Nothing stands before the mighty harp. "Ugh, brain free---"

And then it's not an issue, and her mouth parts. A few coins will be fished out after the lyrical crack of her laughter spills out. "Fine, you can be the one to say you missed out on the last y ddraig goch flight on these shores in... possibly ever, but I wouldn't say ever ever when I don't know. Make the most of it." A toss of those golden locks would be full of attitude as she carefully unfolds a few American bills from the zippered pocket, adding them to the mix. Not perfect math but it will do, crossing the space under John's arm to make it happen. Then the easier to bounce up on her toes and brave him almost nose to nose. "One day if just might. If I went the Romanichal way, you'd have me jimmying a lock on some poor flat two blocks over. I'll do one better. Twitter."

Yeah, benighted as it is, she still has a following. Popping round to find her phone and wake it up will take the time they need to reach the door and out into the alley, punching away a few quick terse requests to the tune of @TheLadyoftheLake / @LadyoftheLake (V) asking about a landing pad in Boston, night, next 30 minutes. Instark-Grammy goodness follows with a quick snap of a street sign, none of them. It takes no more than four minutes for it all to be set up and signed out, in which point the wandering path heads for the common.

"Give me a few to sort through all this. You're responsible for finding the next drink."

John Constantine has posed:
John grins at Meggan. It's a game of chicken to see who blinks first, and apparently, neither of them do. She slips past him by a hairsbreadth and he follows along, moving away from her to navigate around some bystanders. His path takes him near the bar, then to Meggan again, and the two are out in the alley in moments.

He's silent while she sorts out the phone and the app and all, and it's only when it goes back into her pocket that he reaches into his jacket and produces a mostly-full bottle of Hennessy VS. "Bartender was flirting with some bloke, seemed a shame to just let this go to waste," John remarks. He uncaps it, takes a swig, and offers the bottle to Meggan. "Any more of that Fernat will put me in a puddle in short order but I figure, we can stretch this out quite a ways between the two of us."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"No one drinks a bloody bottle of Fernat unless truly woeful, cursed by Pope and mama," Meggan scolds. "I mix with it, rarely straight. Rarely a bottle. You're mad." She moves quick with that phone, navigating with him, very much on the balls of her feet. Her heels don't know how to hit the ancient cobbles or winter-scorched green. It's much more a game of sway with the tide, like kelp, except far more ambulatory. "Mmm. Place here past Back Bay, summat called Kenway. Looks promising, has the necessary roof. It's a bit of a ramble unless we find a bus. They don't believe in proper trains here, do they?" The melody sings with another incoming barrage of messages, and she diverts two flicks over. "Private room south of here, something over the theatre. Ouch, a golden 150 bucks? I think not." Another few swipes and she leans hard into John, peering over his shoulder since he bloody well plucked a bottle free. "How... no, I'll accept it just happens. La, here we are."

She holds up the phone, precious screen shining and bright with a vision of blue paint, a deep window seat, wood panels. "There. Two blocks. We'll have to be out by six tomorrow, or something, whatever time it is." A shrug there as she grabs him by the wrist and pulls John straight through the grass, zigzagging like none of those students are a permeable barrier.

John Constantine has posed:
Off they go, John scrambling to keep up with the changeling girl. She's nimble and quick; John's not quite as graceful but hard-won reflexes help him keep up with her effortless quick-stepping along.

"Oye, don't shame me for not being an expert on Fernat," John objects. "I'm used to buying my liquor in a plastic jug. I'm a professional drinker, not a mixologist."

It doesn't take long to reach the place in question, and the little electronic mating call of phone and doorlock conspire to let John and Meggan in with little issue.

"Blimey, this is that AirBnB?" he marvels, just inside the doorway. The magus gives the entrance a quick look-around and paces around to make sure no one's going to jump out at him. Aside from the lack of personal touches like pictures and sentimental bric-a-brac, it has an almost homey feel to it. "Maybe I'll have to rethink my policy on phones. Beats a dodgy fifty dollar a night no-tell motel." He undoes his tie, letting it slither out from his shirt collar, and wads it up before tucking it into his seemingly endless coat pockets.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Not judging." Palms up, even if their hands are extricated are not. "Ought to have said it kicks bloody hard, but then surprises add spice to life." Her body's already fighting back against the liquor streaming through her blood, disassembling and coping with the whirligig effect wreaking havoc on balance. The buzz is no harm, but it certainly does make for compensating by floating more than not. Ibexes might get a little jealous. "You're a professional drinker, and I'm a poisoner then. Remind me of that when it comes relevant at some point. Which it will, just not this moment."

The building is old, that much is clear, but nothing in this part of Boston is young. Eighteen hundreds in make, popped Victorian windows scaled up to about five floors where the aspirations to get higher cut off. Ivy would be invasive; the greenery is gentle, poked into a brick facade reinforced by too much brushed steel and oiled bronze to be period. Old and new crash together, right down to the rickety fire escape bolted to the side and a much nicer set of stairs. The access to the roof is through a descending trapdoor stair set, all of which is illustrated by a helpful hand-drawn sign on the wall and too many plants to be fake. The interior is easier on the eyes, that accent wall and bed substantial, some kind of squished kitchen offering glasses, plates, forks and such. "Helps we're off-season," she adds, dropping off her backpack on a chair and phone going face-up on the table. "Looks nice enough. Let me wash up a glass and we'll see what we've got? Ice?"

John Constantine has posed:
"I should hope ice," John calls back. "Not sure I'd trust anything they have here for eating."

There's no fireplace but there's a little corner stove, the sole holdout some buildings had against the winter. A modest little stack of kindling is nearby. John takes off his coat and tosses it over the back of a chair, then starts feeding kindling into the steel canister.

"Infernus," John murmurs, and touches a finger to the center of the stack of wood. Fire licks, then surges to life with just the faintest scent of brimstone vanishing up the chimney. He closes it, ensures the flu and air flow is open, and retrieves the bottle before sprawling lazily on the sofa facing the little but mighty stove. Despite Meggan's search for ice he takes a few swigs from the bottle direct while waiting for her to join him.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Refrigerators make for an excellent addition to history, and the building is fully wired, not some relic of old there. Pulling open the freezer door reveals a row of plastic ice cube trays, a forgotten bottle of Fireball that's half-full, and a couple gel ice packs for no apparent reason. Her stifled chuckle is reaction enough as she pulls out one of the trays, another that clearly isn't all cubes. "You get the Titanic. Lusitania or Bismarck, if you knock the smoke stacks off." It's a gag set to allow the callous twenty-first century admire the sinking of the great ocean liner in a sea of Hennessy. Next it's over to the sink, using the petite bottle of Palmolive to lather up her hands and then the warm water splashed through the single sink. Four glasses get doused and run over with a fresh sponge from the packet, plastic crinkling. Magic is evidently faster and better for starting fires, but when it comes to cleanliness? Even draw, maybe.

John's work isn't lost on her, watching him go back and forth before spilling out like a great cat. She hums a tune under her breath, wound up in the ancient, wild reels of Cornwall. One glass slips and bumps the others, chiming, as she chases after it. The process for two ought to be simple, two more left drying upside down on a towel. In short, an act of simple benediction and reverence, and with the gift of the Romanichal still nagging in her ear, she leaves a pound coin slipped under the lining of a cabinet.

"So, wizard, exorcist, drinker, vagabond prince, where were we?" Questions worth asking with the giddy delirium tumbling cartwheels and bringing her to his feet, stooped forward until they're near enough of a level to count. Looming over people? Not so much her thing. Looming over world-eaters? Whole other matter.

John Constantine has posed:
Leonine, John is not. Too lanky, too narrow in the hips, shoulders too wide for how thin he is. But there is an air of resplendent ease about the man. He shows none of the hesitation some might feel traipsing in another person's home (no matter what the commercial arrangement says). John owns his space, even as Meggan's shins bump the sofa near him.

"You tell me," John suggests. He leans forward, then past Meggan; his shoulders brush against her waist, and one hand rests against her hip for balance while the other's preoccupied with topping off two glasses. The bottle's set back, and he pinches the glasses between thumb and forefinger. John relaxes back into the sofa, which is old and plush and embraces him fondly. The hand on her hip drops away and he offers a glass up to her.

"I think we were toasting the night and indulging in some mutually pleasant company," he suggests. "But if I'm remembering incorrectly, feel free to make a correction."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Even skinny lions can lounge with purpose. Cheetah would be appropriately lanky and run to get away-y, but nervous energy seems to be lacking. So a cagey cougar, and leave it at that. The golden-haired girl holds out her hand, glass presented to him, for all that it's probably little more than worthwhile as a vessel. First the left, neck to the rim so the bottles gifts flood in readily. She leans in further as he finishes up the pouring and pulling away, testing them both with the tip of her tongue. "Doesn't seem off, that's a plus. Considering the other option was drinking from the source." A vibrant laugh follows him all the way back and she drops down for that last sliver of cushion not flattened by John's greater sprawl, driven down to support her. The easy part about being underhanded in her motives, she can just arrange herself as she likes and hold put, floating above him on her stomach.

"That's right. Something about staying warm." A flick to the firelight acknowledges that effort, and her damp fingers tiptoe up past his bicep, anchoring on his shoulder. Not like a balloon about to sail away and bump to the ceiling, but rather a place to comfortably curl around. "Slainte." The glass kisses her lips and she takes it slow, but those sips aren't exactly small. He's had time to catch up and surpass, so only fair to distribute that. "Maybe go get a hit of cold air and come back in. Sky's the limit for /me/. Yours... mm." Amother click of her glass to his is a toast. "You'll have to say."

John Constantine has posed:
"Drinking is an art, and a science," John remarks. He cranes his head to the side, examining the floating standoff Meggan's established. "But as a bartender you know that. A professional drinker never gets so drunk that he passes out, aye? Need to set that pace and maintain a steady hand at it."

Despite his admonishment, John's /definitely/ slurring his words a little. But only a little. His hand rises and his palm runs down the side of her ribs. When it finds her waist a finger hooks in a belt loop, tugging her minutely to one side. Careful hands drift her closer and John pulls the changeling girl into his lap, shifting to set his drink aside for the moment. "What say you? Caught up enough, or d'you need a little more liquid courage?" His hand rises and the back of his fingertips flicker along the underside of Meggan's jaw, then gives the slender point of her chin a playfully gentle chuck.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"I'm not the bravest person, not like Superman or Captain America, but I have enough to bring stray sorcerers out of the Otherworld and not let them loose hedgespiders or sentinel weavers onto Ilchester. I held my breath and braved the width of the sea in London Town, so I'd say that answers all." A crook of her fingers settles the angle as the space diminishes between the mage and the mendicant. Theirs is a woven act of plaintive mischief, that weight of the Hennessy dragging its nails along her spine and dulling Meggan's reactions only some. Everything is caught through the hazy mist coalescing like sunshine, pooling like her hair does against his flank in great swirls. A nudge and her knee presses to his side, angled higher to support that elongated boundary blurred out between them. Chin tilted up, there's a flash to her eyes purer green than most, a wisp of what really lies behind the mask.

Takes a fair bit of looking, a blinding parade of sunshine and the smut of Hell still scorching the edges of her aura, already turning glassy crystalline with an opalescent scar tissue proving of what can overtake the most impossible of things. Faerie escaped from somewhere, then. The only jangling is the borrowed jeans, the ice in the glass, the kiss of steel and sand and water. Promises, promises.

Her fingers balance the liquor on the back of the sofa, abandoning the post to parlay a different tale along his shoulder to the opposite side. Allowing some latitude in travel, he's soon traced up to the neck, those digits ascending the ladder of his nape and eventually higher. "If you thirst, drink. Hungry, eat. If you want..."