7103/Doesn't Anyone Just Leave a Voicemail Anymore

Doesn't Anyone Just Leave a Voicemail Anymore
Date of Scene:	27 July 2021
Location:	House of Mystery
Synopsis:	That would be too easy, a voicemail that is. Seems Midnite has a message for John that he has to drag his ass out of bed to receive. Whatever the message entails, it cannot possibly be worse than Meggan forcing him to eat... cucumber sandwiches.
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Meggan Puceanu

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John Constantine has posed:
    It's not often that John Constantine actually finds the urge to just... stay home for the day and do nothing. While he hasn't yet awoken, this *might* have been one of those days. He's slept, all things considered, well and long. What few dreams threatened to pull him out of his sleep were soothed away by Meggan. They were, however, more like than not, brought on by a feverish sleep more than anything else.

    The Laughing Magician is truly not well.

    It's evidenced in the fact that, when his phone blares the theme from Taxi Driver, jolting John awake instantly - that's Chas's ringtone, bloody hell - he can't directly and immediately answer the call. ... because he's instantly rolling over and hanging half off the bed in a fit of coughing that makes it sound like he's trying to expel his lungs from his body.

    A wave of his hand toward his phone on the nightstand, if Meggan should see it, indicates the unspoken 'Answer that would ya, luv?'

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Staying home usually requires some reason for the grounding. A guest, for example, makes a good reason. It's not like the House of Mysteries requires many home improvements, and the average plumber isn't wandering around one of endlessly spilling hallways looking for a leaky pipe or the source of the occasional groaning noises.

Probably the master of the house, discovering his favourite stash of booze turned into lemons or bottles of citrusy wood polish. Or thrashing through nightmares. Or learning, once again, he's come in second for Britain's Working Class Warlock of the Year.

John not being well at least contributes to two things. One, Meggan has to figure out if wifi is even a thing in the House or she needs to submit her coursework hanging out the door into the void and hoping the nearest tower catches her signal somewhere in Gotham. It helps she already lives in Gotham for those moments of getting away, though she isn't doing that now. Two, cucumber sandwiches.

Because a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches sliced from a proper English cucumber cure just about anything. Made proper, too, with a thin veneer of shell-like vegetables glossy with their own wholesome goodness. Which means he probably wants them with a hot and sweet chili sauce hidden to the side, there if he hates good old cucumbers. Liverpudlian man, you know?

She reaches for the phone and eyes the caller, and then puts the receiver to her ear. Good time not to mimic John's voice perfectly, that would be bad. "Hullo, this is Meg on behalf of Constantine." Yup, name them out while he's gagging his lungs out, her hand on his back to soothe away the trembling pain. Not much she can do to deaden it, but the warmth of her skin might help a little.

John Constantine has posed:
    On the other end of the phone, Chas... after a second or two hesitation: "Is that John? That doesn't sound good." ... another beat, three, four, ten. He's struggling, probably, with the decision to give the news or not given the sounds of the coughing. "Meg, luv, listen. I hate to do this now, but if I don't and it turns out to be something bad...?" Well, that just would not be good. "... someone just dropped a package off at the bar, one of Midnite's people. One of those damned mummified heads, like to not it won't start talkin' until John gets here. I dunno why that bleedin' arsehole can't just leave a voicemail like everyone else."

    Over here, in John's bedroom inside the House of Mystery, the daft fool's fit passes and he rolls back to proper on the bed before reaching for his pack of ever present Silks on the nightstand. It rankles a bit, ruffles his feathers, wads his britches, when he has to pick up a dime store Bic rather than his trusted old zippo gifted to him by Chas many years ago. "So, 'tis it, luv? World burnin' down?" Because the day? It does end in 'y', dunnit?

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Quite, though he hasn't brought up anything I won't shove back into place if it starts getting uppity," Meggan cheerfully chimes in reply. Her gentle oscillations against John's back remain fixed and steady in case of muscle spasms. Touch is a potent indicator, as any physician knows. "His ears are already burning. Best have out with the details before he comes to shake them out. Like as not, you'll have to make the shaking motions yourself."

Her tone is playful and probably worrisome in its own right. But for the fact the taxi cab driver invoked Papa Midnite's name, all might be peachy as an afternoon in Georgia. The American one. The Colchic one, though amazing, not so peachy. "Oh." Her lips round thoughtfully and she hands the small plate loaded in sandwiches to John with an airy look that implies he might bloody well eat one of them, because they're genetically superior to American fast food. Also possibly his lungs aren't the only thing to be shoved into place if need be, and sending the warlock out with squirrel cheeks stuffed with neatly sliced bread and green cucumber disks is fully worth the price of admission.

The House might work against him, too, given the chance.

"Offer it a bit of smoke, perhaps, and we'll be pop right by." She glances askance again at the mage, nodding in confirmation to Chas who can't see her and the man who can. It ends in Y, they're headed out.

"I know you've probably a lot less liking for my way of getting places." Her way _is_ fast. "Though it might do you good not to tax yourself on an unnecessary portal or opening up yourself to interdimensional space when the House's got an unexpected house guest, I just point that out for you. You've a parcel to pick up and the Creepy Polynesian Post decided to send you a nice head. Also, I plan on sending a very nice white satin tophat and rum over to the Oblivion Bar for manners' sake, so no ill thoughts of Skeletor."

Skeletor cackling meme.gif, anyone?

John Constantine has posed:
    Flame to tip, the Silk gets lit. Maybe those battered lungs are just used to the abuse? Or maybe he's just better at battling off the fits when he's right and fully awake rather than just so. That first, heaven sent, drag causes nothing but a tiny little splutter and a bit of a red face. "Bloody hell, why can't that Voodoo areshole just leave a voicemail like everyon else," he laments through a haze of smoke.

    There's a reason Chas has been his best mate for all these years.

    "See ya soon then and Meg, make sure he has something on his stomach before he gets in here to drinkin'."

    ...and there might be a reason why Meg and Chas, combined, will soon become the bane of John's existence.

    "Some right proper fish and chips woulda done better," John grouses when he picks up one of those sandwiches, with two fingers, like he's maybe dangling something disgusting between them. Yuck. His nose even wrinkles. But with a long, drawn out, put upon sigh, as if this is the WORST thing he's ever been asked to do in his ENTIRE life, John takes a right proper bite out of one of it.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Take that, Silk Cut. Probably responsible for keeping that one factory in Manchestr or the paper plant in Sunderland running by himself, John helps British industry profit where basically no one else does. Sucks to be them. Literally as he sucks down profit. "You answered that yourself." Meggan beams, the smoke hardly bothersome as she points to the sandwich.

Eat. Or be eaten.

"Best not to eat the fish, sea's in a mood. Red tide problems," she adds merrily. "I expect the king to seek out the court water-witch any time now to help redress the issue, possibly after he swamps a seaside town or two." However much she's kidding about, the ceremonial Atlantean courtier winks at him and then hands over the phone. Chas must be shaking his head on the other side. "Style, darling. You have to admit he fits the bill. Those violet and white threads! Smashing. Just the whole death and undeath thing."

Right. Charmed she may be, but alliances are alliances, and Papa Midnite being John's not favourite is honoured well enough. Besides, a necromancer probably cringes at her manifestation of existence. There's a loa she resembles, when not blonde, after all.

"You're cute when you pretend to suffer, love. That's what the chili is for, if you just try it.."

John Constantine has posed:
    John's never been one for style, pomp and circumstance, flash. It's why he's an expert mystical gunslinger that rarely slings. It's why he always seeks the quickest route to the end of a spell, even if it means potential backlash; long drawn out stuffs too flowery for his liking.

    "He's a pompous arse is what he is," he grumbles around a half a mouth filled with cucumber sandwich. Blech. "Way the man shows himself off, you'd think he was makin' up for other things lackin'."

    Little bits of partially chewed sandwich go flying across the room when the next battle between John and his lungs begins. His face is very nearly a shade of purple that would do Midnite proud when it finally passes. It ends with a plate of sandwiches tumbling from his lap, him leaning against the wall at the head of the bed just trying to breathe... and a damned Silk Cut still between two fingers of the arm he's tossed over his face.

    Surely he'll be fine in a day or two, right? Demon blood'll see to it.

    "We're not flyin', luv," he finally addresses that bit once he catches enough breath to. "...House'll open it, not me, so no tax to be paid." It's the way of it really, he just speaks the words, the House does the work. It's why she and Chas can now access the place from that back room at the bar. Because, from that particular location, he's told the House to listen for them speaking the words.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"He is. But he knows when to wear a suit. Just like your trenchcoat," Meggan chimes in. The fondness for the trenchcoat, which may well be as smutted and dark as Constantine's soul itself, isn't any less than for the man; they are one and the same, all said.

She steals a sandwich and takes a bite, though it's hardly that necessary. Leaving the floor behind, she twirls around to reclaim a t-shirt -- white, but it will do, considering the state of her own clothes isn't much to speak of at all. The jeans are clean, thankfully. Switching up a fresh shirt with rapid ease, she looks up at that coughing bout with concern. Illness of a kind like that is unfamiliar. Breathing in wracked spasms, the fight to pull air through tortured, enflamed airways, brings out a shiver of miserable sympathy.

"Ever think of talking to the Doctor about that?" Not just any. Only one doctor in their world of a certain stature, and it ain't Doom or Voodoo.

Then, sliding free, she touches her hand lightly to the wall as he protests flight, and pets the doorjamb lightly. "The House can, but you sure it's safe for the house to do so? I never want to take those gifts for granted. Long as you think it's fine?"

John Constantine has posed:
    "Just that swamp water, it'll work itself out," John replies, dismissively. End of it, that discussion. Strange, oh no... like to not even if he's suffocating on his death bed, unless unable to speak for himself and someone else makes that call.

    Stubborn as a mule with a side of pride.

    His arm drops from his face, he drags from that cigarette again, one more nail in the coffin perhaps? But these fits? He hasn't had fits like than since...

    Of course Meggan wasn't around for the great cancer scare of? Was it '19? Hell, he doesn't even remember. Just one more time he cheated death, wasn't it? One more reason he's not supposed to be here, innit?

    John climbs his lanky self on up out of bed with a groan. Really and truly, he could have stayed there all damned day and been happy with it for once. But there's a head wantin' a talk that'll likely lead to something that needs doing, so...

    One piece of clothing at a time, from those pants, to that t-shirt and the button down dress over it, the tie, even his argyle socks and those same shoes... It's like he's putting on a uniform really, a sort of disguise for the outside world that hides the squishy bits of him that only those closest ever see. Meggan, Chas... it's a short list. When he ends with that smutted, dark trench coat, John Constantine, the Laughing Magician stands ready to do battle against the darkness again. It is, after all, a day that ends in Y.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Swamp water and a salve until he's in pulmonary arrest of some kind, and the world drops out for three demons to fight it out. Sure, John. Keep believing in the universal rule not applying to you, see how it goes. Meggan chooses not to argue.

He already ate a sandwich, and that has to help. The House needs some cleaning now, though how that shakes out requires another sliver of focus she cannot concentrate upon. Better to scrunch her brows in a thoughtful look, staring away from him, but still very much treading among the uncertainty he projects.

Something *is* wrong. The storm coming for him...

"Then you won't mind me taking a listen to your chest afterward," she brightly says once he's fully dressed, and therefore ready to run off in full armour to confront the world. Full scruff meets the gilded smile. The air in his lungs may be foul and the swamp water of a faerie realm is one thing, but other matters keep overshadowing well-being in a way that demands careful regard.

Or just something else. "After we're done with Chas, that is," she adds. Just because.

John Constantine has posed:
    Disquise in place, John offers Meggan wicked, crooked little grin. "Surely there's better things, things you'd rather listen to, luv? Like the sounds o'...." The rest of that sentence is drowned out when the House starts blaring Shaun Cassidy singing Da Doo Run Run throughout. Poor thing's had enough of their smut in the past twenty-four to last its lifetime.

    "Bloody wretched House!" he bellows, gaze on the ceiling. When he utters the words that'll tell the House to open a portal, the mere thought of his destination enough to land him properly there, the portal opens... right beneath his feet. He tumbles through it to land, flat on his back, with a thud and a groan on the table in the back room of The Laughing Magician.

    Wretched house!

    ...of course the portal so politely shifts to the upright for Meggan to walk through.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
That's right, John is entirely filled by darkness and Meggan only a glimpse of it, now, though her rage-filled midnight stepping inside was hardly a treat for the spirit of the place. A deeply Unseelie-aspected fae is bad enough, let alone riding an emotional wave and deep on low.

"She has a fabulous sense of music, stop!" she protests, rising off the ground to sway while John shouts at the ceiling, for all the good it does. He can stamp around, but she swishes her hips and marks the angles with a liquid grace. The arch of her arms over her head catches a beat, the softening bend of her knees supporting that riotous swerve into outright play.

When a door wrenches open, a chance for them to step through, she follows. None of the tumble, alas, unless the House aims to bumble her out with force, sending her rolling through midair with a laugh. Since it doesn't seem to be the case, she gives the door a friendly pat and a soft, "Thank you. You enjoy your peace, fair friend."

Bounce, bounce! Alighting easily, she holds out her hands to the man sprawled on the floor.