9361/Illustrious Matters of Angelic Import

Illustrious Matters of Angelic Import
Date of Scene:	30 December 2021
Location:	House of Mystery
Synopsis:	That's it: homo magi and the elemental empath are going to the Otherworld for a holiday.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, John Constantine, Zatanna Zatara

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
After the whole business of the Justice League Dark meeting, the best solution might be heading straight home and forgetting the dangers present. Discussions about leadership, places to languish for a time -- Shadowcrest being an immediate possibility -- and the thousand ways to stop an archangel hellbent on doing his Old Testament best are all stewing in many brains.

Meggan's response to this is raiding the kitchen and preparing some kind of meal, like normal people do. Drinking would be useful if only it did anything for her. Or was advisable under the circumstances. A bottle of some fey gin sits on a counter, and she works on surveying eggs with a gimlet eye. Nothing a bloody crepe can't fix. Or just a simple fry-up, since fancy ramen might end up dumped on her head.

"What are your thoughts on zipping out through the Dreaming realm for a bit?" It might be a serious question.

John Constantine has posed:
"I don't want to deal with that Robert Smith-looking cunt," John answers, his voice muffled as he lays face-down on the sofa, "I feel like wearing a cravat and writing shite poetry whenever I'm near him."

A sigh, and he pushes himself up off the couch. He stretches one arm up over his head, yawning wildly as he does.

"That said, if angels are going to eat the whole of the universe for supper we might as well change address."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"I like Robert Smith. He did an amazing duet with the blonde girl in the one band, and he's shameless about his eyeliner so how do you not love it?" Meggan's not of an age to know him back when, surely, but the way she talks about Robert Smith? Bit of a soft spot there. John's presence on the couch practically beckons her over, though she refrains, still lost in the kitchen. Her hand sways, and a fluttering of air caresses the Laughing Magician from nape to back gently. "You wouldn't know the first thing to do with a cravat. Imagine wearing a morning coat back when."

A pause, then she laughs.

"Imagine /me/ in a morning coat, that's another story." Bit of a saucepot, isn't she?

"We can change address. I grew up there, for a bit, and know the good spots. I ever tell you there's an actual river of whiskey? Flows through the air, you can grab a quaich and sip up."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
A disembodied voice asks, "Is he going on about Robert Smith again?"

        Pfft.

Zatanna portals in, blowing past wards, guaranteed to test John's patience with her. "What's for supper? Something smells better than usual." A smile curves her lips as Meggan teases John about morning coats and cravats. She walks out of the portal doorway.

"Ta da. Are we going to drink whiskey someplace? I could use a good stiff one so I don't paste anyone in the face and ruin my sensitive magician's hands." She holds up her slender, long-fingered hands for them both to admire and does a abracadabra flourish.

John Constantine has posed:
John, out of nowhere, begins to whistle furiously an old Pogues tune. He goes from lying face down to jumping up onto his feet, practically clicking his heels as he leaps into the air. He begins to sing of all things:

"Last night as I slept, I dreamt I met with Behan! I shook him by the hand, and we passed the time of day. When questioned on his views on the crux of life's philosophies, he had but these few clear words to say ... "

He leaps over the back of the couch, running and falling into the kitchen to grasp Meggan by the hips and spinning her with him as he sings more.

"I am go-o-ing, I am go-o-ing. Any which way the wind may be blo-o-wing. I am go-o-ing, I am go-o-ing. Where streams of whiskey are flo-o-wing!"

The sudden voice causes him to turn and bound across the floor to Zatanna, grasping her by the hand like-it-or-not and twirling her.

"I have cursed bled and sworn! Jumped bail and landed in jail!"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
John didn't front Mucous Membrane without good reason, and the fact he picks up on a proper tune raises a golden laugh from the maiden of air and midnight sparkles, ruthlessly harsh in her aspects. Until softened, anyway, by the brightening sunshine accompanying her despite the fact it is indoors, dark, and not directly exposed to a burning ball in the greater heavens. A frying pan provided by the House ends up stuck on a burner, a twist of the wrist halted when John catches her.

Reason for the world to incandesce, and for an instant, she's off the ground in his arms, turning in a tight orbit that finds her slinking and shifting to adjust with the same base graces that any star of Strictly Come Dancing might be green to watch. The roll of her hips and the curl of her fingers insinuates elegance in the primal beat encouraged by the Irish reel. Heel bouncing off the floor, she pivots and faces Zatanna.

"Breakfast for dinner, why not? Hullo, Zatanna! Careful, he is in a mood." Her warning isn't needed as she plucks up the gin and asks, "A glass, please?" Who? The House. Open a cupboard and at least one is there, decoratively campy, red and black and glittering. Fitted for pouring out a finger, no more. "Take it slow, though the magic in you ought to blunt it some. Unprepared, it'll put you on your arse in a moment or straight into sleep." Because the fae are like that, whereas their lady there can't take a sip without it being good as tasty water.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Much to her surprise and maybe John's, she grasps his hand back, using him as counterbalance to fling herself into the twirl, light on her feet.

She woos loudly, joining the chorus, "I am go-o-ing. I am go-o-ing. Where streams of whiskey are flo-o-wing.

Her hair lifts, two raven's wings as she whirls and comes to a sudden stop, hand out for the offered glass. "Comfort food and whiskey fit for the gods!" Breathlessly, she laughs, "When is he not in a mood?"

John Constantine has posed:
"My two favourite gels," John breathes as he finally stops spinning with Zatanna, "Meg's right. A holiday seems well in order. You need it, Zee, and I need it, too. Disasters'll still be here when we get back."

A glance from face to face: "So how about we get right pissed, sleep it off, then go galivanting into Faerie like we own the joint. Since some of us do?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"I'm for it, as long as I'm not late for the end of the world and Katz's deli."

Zee has a mouth for pouting and gives them both her finest, "Can we at least save them? I need to get pissed."

Eyes narrowed she looks at Meggan, "We have something to discuss but NOT tonight! Will faerie take me into its bosom?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Fit for /a/ god, though not this one," Meggan tosses back to a twirling Zatanna over her shoulder. "It's a sight better than that rye fizzy drink I tried the other day. How awful is it, John, I haven't had a chance to mix a proper drink in a /week/." The horror of a bartender at the Empire Club among other barely paying gigs clearly weighs on her enough to induce a frown, as the gelid insults of angels and seraphim on high marks her brow. "I ought to share a piece of my mind with that reckless punter about all this. Bet he's not had a decent Negroni and got his knickers in a twist."

With a shrug at that, she smiles again and then steps back, snagging another glass down and pouring out a dram for John. "I mean it. Go slow. Stuff tickles bit like a moonbeam going down, but it catches to ice and then fire through the veins right after. Goibniu knows his shite proper."

Igniting the stovetop isn't hard, and from there, tossing a few cracked eggs into the mix to begin what counts for a proper scramble. "Sounds fair and proper to me. You ought not to have any extra trouble, love. You," a nod to Zatanna, "haven't much to worry about either until we get fairly far in. Bring along a few sandwiches from Katz's to bargain and you'll have them eating from your hand. I can make you pretty safe in the Astral or the Dream, up to the Lord's house anyway. He'll honour an oath."

John Constantine has posed:
"If Faerie won't then I will, luv," John reaches out to unceremoniously snake an arm around Zee's hip to draw her in close for a side hug. The other hand reaches out to accept the glass from Meggan, downing it in one and gesturing for her to come over and join the impromptu group hug.

"See? Oaths honoured and all that lordly bollocks. We'll go skinny dipping in the whiskey river."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Grinning widely, she slips her arm around John's waist and bumps hips with him. The bottom of the glass glimmers in Meggan's brightness as she tips it back to drink down the finger of magic.

"Promises kept, our honor bright, we go into faerie to celebrate tonight! A skinny-dipping we go!"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The side hug might be cause for narrow, green-eyed fury if stories are to be believed, but those stories are lies and then some. The empath in the room knows plenty well what the flavour in the air tends to be, and she hums a bit of the Pogues herself before falling into the Dropkick Murphys while gathering herbs, a few spices, and a bit of milk. Secret weapons all and all. Hello group hug after it's set to stir itself.

Mostly because the milk is a liquid eager to please the elemental who asked it to move nicely. Group hugs are dispensed with sheer glee. "Not lordly, fundamental to your existence. Where angels /commanded/, we offered."

A laugh vibrates. "So they tell me anyway. Mum's supposedly really glib."

John Constantine has posed:
"This is what I've been looking for," John answers, going in search of yet more liquor and downing it with all the fervor of someone who knows they can get a new liver if they need it, "Time spent with you two. Better yet, time spent with you two somewhere else."

Extricating himself reluctantly from the hug, he slumps back down onto the sofa and pats the seat on either side of him. When he speaks, it's almost a murmur to himself.

"This is where I want to be."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zee catches Meggan's eyes, sapphire blue to green, grins and gives her a barely discernible shake of her head then holds out her glass. Rumors be damned. Love there is but the love born a brother-in-arms. She would walk through fire for the rascal and knows that he would do the same.

"I wouldn't be any place else in the world were heaven to come storming at my door!" She declaims dramatically and plops onto the couch next to him.

"Faerie then?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Rumours are what they are, a great album for Fleetwood Mac and not a whole lot better than that. Not much is going to compare with Stevie Nicks, in fairness, and such is the magic of good music.

Delight or satisfaction give a hit as strong as the liquor, but that's a secret rarely divulged by the Tuath scion. Emotivore that she is, Zatanna and John being themselves provide more nutrients and nourishment than the sun or the eggs ever will. At least in this form; bets are off if she turns green or they get red-faced.

"That's all that matters in life. Being together, and having a fine evening of it. So shit-faced we get and laugh the whole way home." Agreement comes with a rustle and then a reluctant nose-wrinkle eggward. The flames wobble. Liquid rises up in a wave, though there's not much of it, shrinking around like a rug trying to finish itself. Benefits for sometimes mucking about. "Not just Faerie, the great cities of the Fae Realms. Home to me, as it is. I got an invitation to a party at one of them. The Whiskey River you know and the Unseelie Court's made a show for the seasonal hunt. Just began for winter. Plus we sometimes knock about Dream's house."