9778/Where Yesterday and Tomorrow Meet

Where Yesterday and Tomorrow Meet
Date of Scene:	23 January 2022
Location:	House of Mystery
Synopsis:	The aftermath of dealing with angels provokes a discussion. Flamethrowers are not at all boring.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, John Constantine

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Of course, it's cold outside. Wet and rainy is exactly what the Gotham experience promises, at least for as long as the door to the House of Mystery stands open. In such a time, in such a place, she hovers on the cusp of a damp winter evening with a bracing chill.

Not that Meggan entirely notices. Stumbling inside is good enough for her, a tap of the fist to the door proffering admission home. Not that she needs to plead her belly or wounds of a sort. Tired, she leans into the space offered by the House's shelter until permitted within or John comes out. The end result is the same, looking for tea.

"Fuck angels." That is all.

John Constantine has posed:
John sits hunched over the table, hands folded between his knees and a dog-end cigarette smoking away between his teeth. He glances up at the sound of Meggan arriving, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

"You too, eh?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Hunched over a table brings any number of possibilities; reading a book, messing around with Wordle, having a gab with Chas via cursed Ouija board and the 2012 edition of the White Pages from Brighton. You just never know. She assesses matters through her golden hair, and if the lower half of Meggan's body still takes time to resolve itself from transparency to physical form, that's not totally by mistake.

"Never going to be their best mates, love, but watching them trying to rob my mum of her energy does a number. I had a little chat with Manhattan, enough that the borough caved in a spot for me to knock off a Throne or a few others though." She pinches her fingers to her brow and smiles wanly at John. "Wish I'd had half your sharp tongue though to give them what for. Thought Hell was bad, but... they're worse in a way."

John Constantine has posed:
"Tried talking to them," John says vacantly, pawing through the papers arrayed before him on the table, "Didn't do much good. One of the problems trying to con a tosser who's absolutely convinced he's right. Very little you can do to knock him off his high horse. Faith is a cunt that way. Takes more faith to fight it, and that's one thing even I'm not low enough to pretend to."

John leans back on the couch, taking a long drag of the cigarette and looking back towards Meggan.

"Wouldn't be much help to you in a fight. It's a shit of thing just to do flashy magic. I'm not gonna be out there hurlin' thunderbolts."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"I knocked them for a few moments, right before the grenades went off and flamethrowers got involved." A cheeky smile greets John then. She gives him a quick blown kiss before breezing by in search of a kettle, something to throw on the hob if it ends up not being electric. While asking the water to bubble up hot is possible, hardly polite to the House. The papers are interesting, but less than John himself. Two cups pulled down she sets off to the side.

Her smile fades, though not fully, settled back into that quieter, tired setting. "Might have been a fair bit longer without the violence but smacking them upside the heads with the goodwill and compassion we all have for one another worked. Turns out the angels fuel up their stealing of power by a great annoying ritual. It ends when a seraph or archangel offs themselves. Wasn't suicide supposed to damn you to Hell or such? I was never clear on that, we don't follow it."

Her fingers span the curve of her waist, the top of the kettle. Huffing, she shakes her head. "I met a really nice girl who flings thunderbolts /and/ muck. Sleet! A good mizzle to keep us hidden and then she mixed up all the snow and rain. Fancy meeting her again. So no, you great ponce, having you round is the way to figure out how to flip the bird /to/ the angels. You think I'm much use? Flashy magic is for the people who haven't two chits to rub together otherwise. I put a poesy in my hair and I watched a pregnant lady use a flamethrower and then an angel defended her cos they can't hurt babies."

John Constantine has posed:
"All those rules are shite," John answers with a shake of his head, "They take 'em and leave 'em whenever they like. Don't put much stock in them."

"Wait, who's pregnant? What'd I miss?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan stifles a laugh again and then rummages about for a teabag, still occasionally prone to fluttering into a zephyr and out again. Being made of the wind helps not at all for keeping a teabag aloft. She picks up the packet off the floor, dusting it off. "Sorry. I can feel it sometimes. Not easy because those feelings aren't clear the way yours are. Ms. Carter seems to be, way she was so fiercely protective. Supposing that was her husband in the field too."

Another teabag drops into his cup and she pours the hot water over both of them. The floor bag was hers, though it was only down there for a couple seconds tops. "Anyone else with a baby better be out of Manhattan. I know it's not so but I can wish for that, right?"

John Constantine has posed:
"Well, fuck me," John says with a shake of his head, "What a time to get up the duff. Still, good for her and whatever cunt whose bollocks she keeps in her purse."

"You can wish for whatever you like, luv. You're the one with all the magic."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Now, you be nice. He threw grenades plenty well to torch angel wings," Meggan doesn't scold so much as laugh and brings over a cup. No point in telling John to drink. If he wants to, he can. None of those namby-pamby fancy herbal teas are involved; that's good and black, milk and sugar optional. In her case, she drops two cubes in and goes for the milk. "Maybe I could bend a gun barrel back on itself or ask a wave to squash someone. Not much good never knowing when to do it. Everyone else seemed right and ready to spank angel arses, and all I wanted was to make them stop their ritual. You'd have had a bright idea forty minutes before we got there or mixed it all up five seconds in. Don't undersell yourself. I might have words with this bloke treating my lover like shite, eh?"

No one's going to be afraid of that. Really.

Instead, she plunks her elbows on the table and bends until at eye level with him. "John Constantine, I wish you would kiss me. There." Her nose wrinkles playfully.

John Constantine has posed:
John looks down at the papers for a moment, moving them around idly with one hand. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, pondering Meggan's words. After a long moment he lifts his head up, turning it slowly to look at her. Slowly, very slowly, a grin forms on his face.

"Ahh, alright. You talked me into it."

And he falls upon her with kisses.