7069/A Mage, Two Gods and a Faerie and a bar.

A Mage, Two Gods and a Faerie and a bar.
Date of Scene:	25 July 2021
Location:	The Laughing Magician
Synopsis:	What price will karma toss at John for pranking the Gods? Perhaps Loki knows the answer to that? But, after a meeting between John and Thor with a side of Loki and Meggan happens without the city imploding or exploding? That's one for the win column for certain.
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Thor, Loki, Meggan Puceanu

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John Constantine has posed:
    It's three days in on the opening of the Laughing Magician and Constantine is still lacking one of the things he wants for the place. He's a man that's used to getting what he wants - no, that's a lie. John gets half of what he wants and the rest of the time he spends totally screwed.

    It's the latter that makes this ONE thing so important. Contacting a God? Certainly he's capable of that. Certainly it takes an elaborate ritual that involves exotic ingredients from all over the world and ends in a Big Boom or some such?

    ... or maybe he just calls the dude? Or whatever the equivalent of 'calling Thor' might be? Does he have a phone? Certainly he has a way for friends and fellow warriors to get in touch? Whatever that way is, John uses it.

    ...and waits, on his stool, at the corner of the bar, with a drink and a smoke and some Ramones blaring on the jukebox in the corner complete with the hiss of vinyl that makes it that much more appealing to him.

    The place isn't as crowded tonight as it was last, but that isn't to say it isn't crowded. As before, seems half are here to see if the next attempt to claim the Laughing Magician's soul sticks and half maybe be here to see that it doesn't. It's split evenly tonight, down the middle, as there are no 'mundanes' in the mix. No, bar's closed to those sorts, shrouded with a sort of 'look away' thing that makes them walk on past.

Thor has posed:
From a distance, the sound of Thunder can be heard. Certainly not subtle - as though, a storm was coming. Then, a flash of lightning, closer, followed swiftly by another crash of thunder. Silence.

The door to the Laughing Magician slams open. In the doorway was the silouette of a very large man. Long flowing blonde hair. A red flowing cape. Was that a hammer in his belt on his right side? Armour, boots, etc. Stepping into the light was the God of Thunder himself, Thor of Asgard.

A grin finds its way to the well-chiseled face of Thor, and his voice rumbles throughout the room as he calls out, "Did someone request the presence of Thor?!? Is there mead?" Looking for a bar wench, Thor removes his cape and drops it on a table near the door. Then, he positions himself in the centre of the room, looks at the bar, and says, "A drink to quench my thirst good bar keep!"

Loki has posed:
Loki isn't one to stand on ceremony, certainly. He enjoys a corner pub, actually. One that caters to a proper sort, that is, those that understand that others simply wish to be left alone.

With impeccably tailored suit with matching tie, dark green with flecks of gold upon the silk scarf that hangs 'round his neck, Loki is looking both muted and fashionable, all at the same time. His walking cane leans against the table where he's seated, the light of the candle dancing, giving the small area a glow. A glass of dark liquid sits in what would be referred to as a 'pint glass', and the Prince of Asgard looks all the world as if he's simply rela-

Oh.

The appearance of Thor has him honestly.. facepalming. It //is// a bar, after all, so why wouldn't the oaf make such an appearance. The question is now, should he bother making his presence known, or rather, more obvious?

No.. not really.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan actually works in a bar, and earns a decent living at it. The truth about hanging out where you work stings hard for a third night spent at the watering hole in Hell's Kitchen, and it does not help a croaking raven seems absolutely amused by this. "You are not helping," she murmurs to the bird. "Tap if you see him, will you?"

Ravens go wherever they damn well like. This black-plumed friend sits atop a container of orange chicken, savagely tearing out the soft centre and leaving the crispy, gel-gooped shell piled up like skulls. It gulps up the morsel and stares at her with a knowing eye, blinking twice. The bird cackles to the golden-haired girl, or rather gutturally chuckles, and narrowly avoids being slapped in the face by a sweeping braid when she goes pack.

Karma exists. It may be slow to move, rusty like an overburdened train chugging over India to reach its destination, but packing momentum. So with a bird grumping over one strand glowing like starlight on its fancy head, she pushes open the door to the Laughing Magician. Light doesn't leak in much, only the sound of a car with a loose muffler rattling by. The door thumping shut cuts that off, and she can almost forget the need to keep her feet on the ground when arrowing for the nearest open spot somewhere in the thick of it all.

She looks mundane enough, or tips probably more to the side of passes pretty well for a human. That is, of course, a consummate lie for anyone with a wisp of talent. The raw energy contained inside her, forcibly battened down with every step, is rather loud. It sings of Alfheim and its faerie echo over the British Isles. Looking for John takes barely a second.

The others coming in ahead of her don't immediately quite register, but she smiles anyway.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Bloody hell, but he's a showy bastard, inni he?" John mutters from his bar stool. He slams back the contents of the highball glass in front of himself and takes a long drag from his Silk Cut before he calls out, "Hey Storm Cloud! Over here, ya?" while exhaling a cloud of his own in the form of the previously inhaled smoke. He waves a hand along with it to get Thor's attention. "Be easy on the door, aye! Place isn't paid for yet!"

    John himself is looking a wee bit more haggard than is generally the norm. A night spent manically looking up spells, learning new spells, spelling new trinkets, contacting contacts and generally trying to solve a mess before it happens takes its toll. At least he remembered to wipe the white powder from beneath his nose before parking himself at the bar.

    Oh, Loki, rest assured, someone knows the Prince is in the building, from the moment said Prince walked through the door. John's still seeing spots from the PING off the wards that caused him.

    Meggan's entrance is noted, it's noted in a calming her particular 'ping' causes in John's otherwise wild, mile a minute, mind. It's noted in the way his leg stops bouncing up and down like a junkie off the stuff. ...and he doesn't even realize it's her causing the reaction. Just knows she's here, 'cause... wards. But the knowing is enough for a subconscious that knows what the man needs even when he's consciously unaware.

Thor has posed:
At this point, Thor may or may not know that Loki is present. As it is, he does not look in the direction of his brother. His attention is straight ahead and the direction of the alcohol. As he was wont to do. Always. Since, well, recorded history began. Slightly before perhaps.

As Meggan arrives, Thor takes a moment to look sideways, luckily does not spot the raven, or thoughts of Hugin and Munin would be walking all over Thor's subconscious. Smiling politely, Thor returns his attention towards the bar, and moves closer, hoping to score himself a flagon or two of mead, or something better.

As John's voice rings out, Thor's giant blue eyes find the man, and the smile on his face turns into a grin, threatening to eclipse the light in the room with his pearly whites.

Moving towards John, Thor reaches for the man with his very large right arm, attempting to wrap his arm around the man in a friendly embrace. "Constantine! My fellow warrior against the darkness! Did I hear you correctly? Wine and women for everyone?!?" Okay, his hearing was very...inaccurate.

Loki has posed:
'Showy bastard' is certainly one way of describing his brother's entrance. Loki can't really talk too much in that there have been occasions that he's been deposited by Heimdall via the Bridge, and it's made a mark in the landscaping. Not recently, however.

The God of Mischief is being a touch more subtle these days. If one doesn't count the ICE castles in New York City, that is.

*cough*

Meggan's entrance, Loki is a people watcher after all, is noted, and the elfin quality of the young woman does cause his head to cant, green eyes upon her, watching her movements. And he does catch the raven, which causes him to shift in his seat, a little uncomfortably. It certainly //does// remind him of the All Father's ravens...

Though, is he staring? Quite probably, and if caught at it, he'll take a swallow of the thick brown ale that is in his glass and look away. Easy enough to explain the shift of attention when it comes to Thor and his bellowing for mead and wenches.

'Wine and women for everyone?!?'

There are just some days...

"No, brother. I'm certain that is not what was said." Loki speaks up from his spot. "Do not prevail upon your host thusly. It is rude."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The raven munching on discarded takeaway is fortunately outside, being that his role as a watch-raven might be somewhat inhibited being inside a bar that people tend to look away from without arcane talents. Something that separates them from the norm, at any rate. Presumably the drinkers can take care of themselves. He croaks, and then preens at a passing pair of mortals wandering past the door.

Thor's claim of wine and women for everyone may fall under that 'not paid for yet' condition from the raggedy mage, though several heads have got to turn at the booming offer. An invitation extended is an invitation accepted at least from a table or two. "Wait, what?" Meggan, being an actual woman, misses a step or two upon hearing that. It doesn't particularly matter given her tenuous connection with the floor, her flowing manner of walking harbouring a definitive unusual relationship with gravity. Surprise arches her golden brows for a moment.

Sharp green eyes that are practically electric tilt to the bartender, in case *he* wasn't notified about the whole arrangement. Then back to the source of someone appraising her, spotted somewhere in the mix of things. Loki will soon enough have himself the Tuatha scion just a patron-occupied stool over, leaning over to ask for an apple ale. Hey, if Lara Croft drinks them...

Might not be the best measure of canniness, but it counts!

"He's a particularly forgiving host," she asides with a merry smile that can kindle stars.

John Constantine has posed:
    He knows it's coming and he braces for it as Thor approaches. Big strong God, little squishy mage. John tolerates the embrace and even half returns it, all the while listening for the sounds of is own ribs cracking. He lets out a sigh, or maybe that's just from his sudden ability to BREATHE again when he's released with no broken bones. "Wine, sure... sure Thor, but ladies? Well, that's on them, mate, sorry."

    ...he is NOT running a brothel, no matter what the rumors may be saying today.

    But that's not a bad idea... faded denim blues even stare off to the side, over Thor's shoulder for just a second while he ponders the logistics of that possible venture.

    Oh, no... wait, Meggan. Brothel bad, John, bad. Bad bad BAD John.

    Sure, he knew Loki was here, but... now Loki is *here* and John's going to have to manage to divide attention between TWO Gods and try to keep this situation from spiraling out of control. "Nah, that's not rude atall, mate!" he calls back to Loki. Rude? Rude is sending a succubus to try to suck a man's soul in his own bar?! That's RUDE and who in the bloody nine dimensions of hell would WANT to suck that thing?

    "Meggan!" he calls out along with a slightly manic, strained grin. Help me please... that's what that grin says. But bless, she's *already* on it.

    Back to Thor, "So, let's get down ta business, aye, mate? Then we can see about that ladies issue." Surely there's a handful in the crowd that would be willing to... walk a God of Thunder home?

Thor has posed:
Now that was a voice he recognizes. Looking over at Loki, Thor has a smile for his brother. As always. "Ah, little brother, I didn't see you there!" Looking sideways at Constantine, then back at Loki, Thor says, "I would never prevail upon anyone! You should know that by now." Was Thor kidding? The mischief in his eyes could almost be from the God of Mischief.

"Friend John, you know my brother, Loki of Asgard?" Waving Loki over, he continues, "This is John Constantine Loki. A Champion of Earth! It appears you know each other?"

Thor spots Meggan again, smiles, and says, "Apologies beautiful maiden! I am sometimes impolite. You are welcome to join us in what is to be revelry and fun into the wee hours of the morn'!"

Finishing his embrace, Thor removes his arm from around Constantine. Grinning, Thor turns his volume down one or two notches, which was still loud. "Business. yes. A drink first, then tell me what you require my friend. I am here to help."

Loki has posed:
"Don't encourage him," is muttered. God or no God, there is some semblance of propriety, yes?

Apparently not.

"There's no going back now."

See, though? A perfectly lovely lady is caught in the crossfire of such words, and Loki looks back at Meggan and shrugs his shoulders in an 'I tried' gesture. As for an apple ale? No..

Loki is.. not really here *here* as it were. He's resisting being manhandled and pulled into everything. Just wants a quiet pint at a quiet pub before retiring to an apartment he shares with the Lady Sif. Who is anything but quiet.

Loki inclines his head in John's direction, and with a light lift of his beer, offers a silent greeting. To Thor, however, he offers up a somewhat theatrical, put upon sigh before he deadpans. "Yes, yes I should. What was I thinking?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Look, it's not like Alfheim doesn't have triple-jointed pleasure elves, and they are in fact some kind of distant cousin to the clearly Very Human blonde. Meggan doesn't need triple joints to execute the same kind of uncanny grace at moments, though ordering a drink does not make count as one of those demonstrations.

Else she really should be behind the bar and making an act of performance commensurate to her salary, and John would be completely bankrupt even if he cashed in half his favours. The rogue who managed to coax her into this smoke-stained paradise may already have given the two Asgardians a measure of his abilities.

She leans forward while the bartender is busy and palms a cardboard drink mat, the better to spare the need. No precognitive glimpses of something spilled, either. The stool beside her isn't open, neither the one keeping a barrier between trickster and environmental rebel. Pity that poor fool currently considering whether he left the stove on or if he'll nurse that pint all night, like someone idling in a parking spot to irritate the waiting cars.

"Constantine," she chimes in cheerfully, his surname turned into a cheer for a win on the footie field or the best kind of accusation, the sort that usually ends in 'you didn't!' When hs that ever happened?

"He never told me that he knew the Prince of Asgard," she protests in the best of ways. The golden-haired Thunderer gets her peering past the sandwiched warlock, and she raises her palm to hail him properly. "Enchanted to meet you." Really! She just might be, laughter brimming in her green eyes. "Both Thor and Loki. I'm Meggan Puceanu." Her blended accent twists and turns through the Celtic dialects of Great Britain, underneath it all flat-out Elven. Elvish. Tolkien could only dream.

See, the funny part is behind the noise, some of those impulses might stand out and she reads them as cleanly as Christopher Lee enunciating Saruman's disdain or glorious pride. So it is for her to put her back to the bar once the apple ale is in hand, and she rolls her shoulder in a mutual kind of shrug for Loki. "It's a good place not to be seen. I can let you be, as you like."

John Constantine has posed:
    Champion of Earth? Wut? John grimaces. Bugger, Thor keeps that up and his reputation as a ne'er-do-well might just be blown. Nah, he'll do something to make up for it tomorrow. Sitting there, however, on his bar stool with his drink and his smoke and the company of one VERY LOUD God on the tail end of a sleepless night...

    ...what was I *thinking* is the phrase playing on repeat in John's mind over and over again.

    "Well, Thor, as ya might have already gathered on yer own, I've opened a little drinking establishment and, well, I called ya here tonight to discuss the possibility of The Laughing Magician... uh... er... well, um... carrying your particular brand of spirts?" Please Thor, can we sell Asgardian Mead here? John Constantine has to be the only man ALIVE that would summon a God to ask: Yo, can I buy some of your booze, bro? He's claimed to be a lot of things in his lifetime, sane is not one of them. "Some of me clientele, well, y'know..." Sotto voce, "...aren't exactly human and it takes a little bit more, y'know, umph..." A beat before, "I can try to make it worth your while."

    If John were aware of Loki's intentions for the evening, he might just point to the name on the sign outside the bar and ask, 'really, Loki?' There is NOTHING quiet in Constantine's life.

    Both of his shoulders shoot up in a helpless shrug aimed at Meggan. "I get around, luv," he returns... sometimes he forgets to mention things like... rubbing elbows with the GODS, it's a small oversight really and honestly, it's only been a handful of times? ...and he only almost died that once, so none of it really sticks out in his mind.

Thor has posed:
Watching the interaction between Meggan and Loki, Thor continues to smile but ignore the true meaning of the glances. Purposefully ignorant is the term. "Exactly brother! What WERE you thinking?" Reaching to clasp the man on the shoulder, bringing him into the group, Thor says, sincererly. "It is good to see you brother. I hope you are well." And not up to anything.

Smiling at Meggan, Thor raises his hand, and hails her in return. "Hail and well met! It is truly a pleasure Milady Meggan!" Thor's grin returns. "Truly, a wonderful encounter!" Turning back to John, Thor continues.

"Indeed my friend!" looking around the bar, Thor adds, "Good for you! Opening a lawful establishment! I have a few suggestions on how to make this truly successful, but we can discuss that at another time!" Thor turns, and looks John in the eyes.

"I see! You mean Asgardian Mead? Interesting. That might be challenging but it is possible. I will have to discuss it with the appropriate people in Asgard. Right after i figure out who they may be." Thor frowns, thinking.

"You know how...potent it is right? Ah yes. For non-mortals. Indeed. Most mortals cannot take even a drop but others sometimes do need more! I will see what I can do." Thor again looks lost in thought.

Loki has posed:
In comparison to living with Sif?

This IS quiet. Minus Thor, of course.

"Lady Meggan," is returned before Loki sits back to take another swallow of his ale. It's got something behind it, but certainly not anything resembling the heady taste of Asgardian Mead. Or, for that matter, wines from the vine. Or beer.

It's not fated for him to actually finish it, however, and Loki rises from his spot under the hand of his brother, leaning slightly from the pressure. Once 'in place', he offers a slightly self-conscious and almost embarrassed smile before, "Yes, yes I am, actually. Things have been.. rather good. Thank you."

It seems perhaps they haven't seen each other for a little while?

As for the request for mead? Loki's brows rise, and his head begins to shake ever so slightly. "Hrulfr wouldn't allow it, Thor. Remember the last time you tried that-" He pauses, smiles tightly for those, "Our brewers can be a little possessive, and understandably."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The noise and the bonhomie do not in any way impact Meggan's ability to enjoy that drink. It is, in effect, apple juice after the first swallow blossoming in a murky pulpy remedy that wants to be apple-oriented, and ends up coming off like spoiled bread. The face cast into the glass shows no great appeal for the beverage, and she plops it onto her drink mat, nudging it to the bartender. "Not my speed, mate, though put it on my tab."

Lara Croft's taste in drinks is purely suspect. A brief pause might almost find her clearing the bar in a bound to mix something palatable. Instead, she turns to Thor with his brow creased in thought and mead on the mind. "May I call upon your expertise, Thor? Assuming it would not be too grand a thing to ask." Not a favour, not with one whose existence ties to vows spoken, promises twisted. "What would you recommend for a libation, were *anything* an option? Anything John's got in stock, that is. Surely there can be something delicious if Asgardian mead isn't on the menu."

This is how you get drinking contests. This is how you get drinking contests that invariably end with a problem or a new best friend.

Some deeper context is at play and for that point, distracting the proprietor from putting a foot in it is practically necessary at the moment. "Possibly there might be a tasting of some sort of other meads to see which comes closest to the real thing? It could very well be a contest." An excuse to get rip-roaring drunk or just to drink, without unleashing a thief in the night on stocks Loki just announced were that much more precious. Really! She bounces on the balls of her heels, and gives her head a light little shake.

Pointed ears.

John Constantine has posed:
    John reaches into the pocket of his trench coat. Does anyone ever wonder what he keeps in those pockets? How deep there are? What other dimensions they access? It's best not to, honest. He pulls out a simple, plain, silver flask and lays it on the bar. "I'd be forever grateful, mate," he announces as he taps the flask twice with his right index and middle fingers and mumbles a few words in Gaelic under his breath. To all that might understand, all he said was '...and so it is finished.' Apparently he's finished up a spell started earlier.

    The flask glows for a moment, a flash really, a deep purple fading to blue and then out again. "This is for your troubles." Because he has no doubts that the God of Thunder will come through for him despite the Prince's nay saying. "One only needs to fill it from a source and then speak the words, 'Blimey, looks like I've shot me load,' and it will refill itself from the same source." Over and over and over again, until the source runs dry. It's a pocket party! With the added benefit of Thor walking around yelling about shooting his load a hundred times per day, maybe?

    "...but yes, I fully understand and it will be kept under lock and key," and wards, lots of wards. "...and only brought out for the appropriate customers."

    ... well, "There goes me bar," John murmurs quietly when Meggan's intentions penetrate.

Thor has posed:
"Good. Good!" Thor smiles and releases his brother. "That is good to hear brother! I am glad you are doing well." A pause, as he absorbs the last from Loki. "Hrulfr...Hrulfr...I know that name..." As Loki continues, Thor gets that *BING* expression as though a light comes on. "Of course! Of course." Thor's smile fades.

"Friend John, it may be a challenge. Leave it with me." Looking at Loki. "Perhaps you would like to assist me brother?" Thor raises an eyebrow. That may be a first. The Brothers Odinson working together.

Turning back to Meggan, Thor nods, and says, "I believe there is no Asgardian Mead here at this time." A side glance at John does not assauge that question. "I would suggest the oldest of a drink called "Scotch" or, some of the wine from a place called Italy is passable. Oh, and a drink called a "Cosmo" is quite tasty if light weight. Also, a drinking contest would be fun!"

Watching as John does his magic trick, Thor reaches for the flask, looks it over, and says, "Aye." That was all he says about that. "I will remember that. " Thankfully he does not repeat it. "I will attempt to go undercover and discover the whereabouts of the fountain of Asgardian mead!" Thor laughs.

"Plus, it will give me a place to go on Midgard to drink true Ale!"

Loki has posed:
The fact that John is trying to get something over on his brother does give Loki a chuckle. It would be amusing; a prank such as that could be amusing. In the proper settings, of course. He turns to his brother and inclines his head, "I think it most certainly should be discussed." Even if they don't steal the mead for Midgard, then it should be put to good use regardless!

Loki looks to the brief spectacle that Meggan sets, the offering of drinks that could created by Thor's suggestion. He raises his hand to pat the older Prince on the arm, "Go, build your legacy. I think I'll turn in. Finally. Perhaps Sif will already have arrived back and is in her chambers."

Loki turns to each met this evening, inclining his head, "All. I bid you good night," before departing.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"You heard the man, John. Grab the Mortlach and let's make merry," Meggan chimes in, laughter invigorated by the cascading options in order of precedence. Cosmos? Probably not here, unless she were to douse something like a potion into it to make it anywhere near fruity enough.

Loki's preparations to turn in, apparently with Sif, could well be a matter of wonder and sublime gossip. Failing that though, she gives a little crook of her fingers in a wave to him as he takes his leave.

Her gaze returns to Thor. "Quite the adventure ahead of you. Fare thee well and good luck!" Though she hesitates a moment, it might not be for a reason that probably gives John a reason to worry. Maybe the heart attack is forthcoming. "Would you be so kind to let Lady Amora know I said hullo? I've not had seen her much of late."

She beams. "And she *did* promise a lesson or two after we took down that Mayan god."

John Constantine has posed:
    What John has failed to mention is that every time Thor utters the magic words, the Laughing Magician will hear the tiniest of rings of a bell just to let him know that the God of Thunder is out there somewhere shouting about shooting his load.

    When you live the life of John Constantine, it's the smallest things that bring a spot of joy, truly.

    "Blimey, looks like I've shot me load," he repeats for good measure. "...and make sure you put a little umph behind it."

    When at least on one of the Gods departs without issue, an inward sigh of relief echoes in John's brain. He refills his own glass of scotch from the bottle near his elbow on the bar and drinks from it, if only to hide the little snigger of a grin he can't quite fight back.

    "Well met, as always, Thor Odinson," he finally manages, with a straight face.

Thor has posed:
"Thank you and good night, brother!" Thor says to Loki as he departs. Turning to Meggan, Thor bows slightly at the waist, and adds his good byes. "It has been a pleasure meeting you Lady Meggan. I will pass on your regards to Amora. Until next time."

Lastly, Thor says, "I will try John. I must be off." Which adds a new level of fun to the line. "Well met. I will do my best to secure your mead. Be safe, and well!" With that, Thor grabs his cape, fastens it around his neck, pulls his hammer out, and heads out the door.

There is the sound of thunder, and Thor is gone.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Lady Amora..." Eyebrows raised questioningly in regards to what John would not address in the presence of the Gods. "...seems I'm not the only one not tellin' all the tales," he adds before downing his scotch, yes the bottle by his elbow IS the Mortlach and, it's almost gone already.

    "Don't suppose ya care to elaborate, Meg?"

    ...says the man that just pranked THOR? Pfffft.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
That's two gods down, one behind. Good stuff, all in all, if the bar stands in one piece and the activity that John planned for his amusements turned out relatively well. Dealing with a bluff warrior capable of tearing a planet apart is well within his wheelhouse, whereas Loki's witnessing of that deal will be its own complication. Only fair.

Remember, karma eventually shows up.

The tension bleeds out when Meggan gets scotch, though if it's the one she gifted John or something from the shelves is up to Chas. Not her. "You weren't in the Empire Club when she kept trying to take me on as her apprentice," she enthuses, eyes brightening. "The druid deflected a little of her interest. I can't remember if Blade was there too. Putting in a good word with her might be useful in some way for your insurmountable ambitions."

And therein lies the sheer harrowing impact of a blithe changeling, for little seeds planted weeks or months ago set to bloom when suits could well pay dividends. "Stop looking so glum, love, you got Thor calling you his friend and champion. You'll have to take that back to the Justice League and see what they make of it?"

Teasing. Really. The cocaine- or drink-fuelled research binges aren't beyond her ken, but keeping things level and light with a healthy dollop of mirth cannot possibly hurt. "If you decide to burn the midnight oil, at least let me mix the drinks? Like as not you could accidentally down petrol and not even notice, whereas I know exactly what's in the glass at least."

Elementalism at its finest: mixology.

John Constantine has posed:
    "No, suppose I wasn't," John mumbles. "I'll show ya insur*mountable* positions," he adds with a side-eye look in Meggan's direction, glass raised to his lips. Maybe he heard her wrong? Probably not.

    "In case y'hadn't noticed, Thor isn't exactly... the sharpest tool in the family box, aye?" He polishes off that drink in hand way too quickly considering how quickly he's polished off the others before it.

    "I have a thing ta do in a bit," the 'on me own' is implied in this tone and the finality in which he slams that glass back onto the bartop.

    ...is the thing related to the other thing that might be related to what happened in the back room last night? Probably.

    "Just need t'check out a hunch, quiet like... I'll be back before sun-up, promise." Which means he likely believes that to be true, as he may have a silver forked tongue with just about anyone else, but her? And Chas? Dancing about it may be fair game, but never outright /lying/.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Oh, is that how it's going to be?

The proper way to drink scotch is slow and appreciative of the flavours. None of that namby-pamby shooting it business, and definitely no dilution by ice or additives. A proper glass with two fingers will do, which is why Meggan takes a long sip while John gauges the relative intellectual capacity of Asgard's princes.

When the heat blooms, she pulls the vessel away. A lazy flick of her wrist sends the amber liquor spinning. Fire and smoke, a touch of peat, dominated by the underlying natural minerality and mash transformed into this, the waters of life. A golden drop blots her mouth, and she casts her viridian-bright eyes in his direction under a wealth of tawny lashes blunting the impact.

With a hint of an 'Mmm' audible, she runs her very much silver, but not forked, tongue across her lips to catch that last trace of scotch before it turns into little more than water itself. Oh, the woes of the fae! For no mean reason was Asgardian mead a hopeful proposition.

"Wouldn't I be the one to ken the best mounted positions? Being the one who..." A wave of the hand indicates floating in place albeit so close to the ground, it takes a very close assessment to realize. The only thing that's regularly suggested as being supernatural.

"And will you be sleeping at sunrise, or will I have to enterta..." Ah, no. The trailing tone swivels off into nothing, full of promise and a knowing weight. That.

John Constantine has posed:
    She took the bait he tossed out and tossed it back tenfold. As short as four months ago, John would have returned it twenty and it all might have just ended with him shutting the bar down and 'breaking the place in' or some such like that.

    That's not to say that he *isn't* feeling a little heat bloomin' of his own.

    ...but, "There's somethin' comin', luv. I can feel it in me bones, just can't put me finger on the pulse of it yet." Next glass poured, next glass shot back. How is he still sitting upright? Seriously. "I can feel it vibratin' in the very core of me." And it's killing him that he can't 'see' it, find it, figure it out, head it off at the pass, stomp it out with his heel.

    "So, no, it's doubtful I'll be sleepin' at sunrise..." Well then, perhaps a wee bit of a distraction could do a thrice damned man a spot of good? But who knows what condition he's likely to return home in? What frame of mind? It's a crap shoot with John in the best of times, innit?

    Why in the name of the Powers that Be Meggan keeps rolling the dice? It's truly and honestly beyond John.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Something is coming, and that storm raging behind an unseen wall of low-lying cumulonimbus clouds blinds them all. That doesn't mean throwing out all hope and gloomily going to the end.

As it stands, she tilts to the Seelie Court more natively than not, and confidence built from past performances that brushed up against far-from-trivial darkness only sends the light blazing warmer and brighter out of defiance.

A few months is a handful of time. Patience and hope do not quaver in the face of that. John only earns himself a bubbly laugh, champagne problems sent scattering to the four corners of the bar. "Suit yourself, but I'm still making a fry-up. Considering I have class in the morning, it spares me having to trudge all the way in to stay at Kayla and Simone's. You know how it is with artists. Havin' a flat at all in the city is mesmerizing. One day, tell me how you paid for this place when we've barely two shilling sto rub together."

The spellbinding truth of the matter may be just that. Why does he breathe? Why does the sun set and rise, and each time cause such wonder in the mortal heart? What condition he *could* come home with matters.

And it's probably why a knowing look to Chas at one point or another is better than the raven's betrayal.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Who says I paid for it, luv?" John asks with enough sincerity to indicate that he probably didn't? It's more like that he cheated someone out of it, Synchronicity was sitting at the card table if he didn't cheat, or that he bloody well stole the damned place right from a corner in Liverpool? And and all or more are equally possible with the Laughing Magician. Was the building even ... wasn't it maybe condemned or something the day before he opened shop?

    After one more half glass filled, his bottle's empty. John tosses back the remains and plants a quick kiss on Meggan's cheek. It's really the first actual sign of physical affection he's shown since his six week stent in some rando hell dimension.

    Patience and hope are usually rewarded when it comes to dealing with John, if a person has enough of both.

    "Gotta go, witching hour'll be here and gone before I get there and back if I sit here all night." He could be talking about 3 AM or just... tossing the term out there as a general, 'I'm about to be late', who knows?

    But the small book in his pocket, the one with just the barest of skin covered binding sticking out more like than not means that he's aiming for the 'hour of power'.

    "I'll have me coffee black, luv!" In the morning, because he'll be home before sun-rise, right?

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
She offers her cheek when John approaches, in that last moment when his intentions telegraph themselves such that a very silly girl cast somewhere in tenuously youthful confines can catch it.

No tears. No fluttery reactions, save the abrupt cessation of her pulse being remotely normal. Glass to her lips, she finishes off the whiskey and returns the emptied vessel back to Chas.

Oh, but for those passing moments, the slanting grace of sunlight when clouds break and offer a glimpse of whatever is beyond. Meggan doesn't look the gift horse in the mouth and neither has she the lack of fortitude to swoon and break everything to pieces. That can come later.

Preferably when melded with the waves, the ocean hearing her languid mellifluous tales, and laughing in every breaker plunged upon the shore.

They've dealt with skin books before, grimoires written on human flesh. Boston's a memory freshly pulled from the deep. "Proper. Tomatoes to go with the eggs. You'll need to be re-energized, no doubt," says Meggan with the usual brimming delight that marks everything. Oh fie, storm, for the Thunderer made you not and whatever darkness rides tonight best watch out for tricksters at the crossroads and bright, smiling ingenues. "Black as ever. Shoo, 'fore you run out of time, love. Go." With blessings.