Owner	Pose
Meggan Constantine	The playlist bleeding through the byways of the House of Mystery rips a page straight out of the squalid East End. Black Flag roils from the speakers of a phone propped up against the wall:     "We are tired of your abuse     Try to stop us; it's no use!     Society's arms of control     Rise above! We're gonna rise above!     Think they're smart; can't think for themselves     Rise above! We're gonna rise above!" It's not as danceable as Wire or The Ramones, though 'Baby, I Love You' is due up next on the playlist. A dozen bottles rest on the counter of the kitchen where a blonde whirlwind dances to the guitars and drumbeats riffing on a classical English howl against authority. Glasses filled by various concoctions form a spectrum from clear to something cloudy, dubiously green-gold, and possibly glowing. Meggan shakes her hips along with the crushed ice in a proper cocktail shaker -- hence the purpose -- with one of John's rarely worn t-shirts stolen from the back of a closet somewhere. The House probably knows her needs on that one, if she asks nicely enough, supposing she didn't dig it out on her own. The hem knotted rather high leaves the low-slung jeans doing mildly illegal things. "Bam-bam-bam-bam, we're gonna rise above!" she sings, not at all off-key, working on another mixology. Her elementalism isn't entirely obvious without looking at bottles or glasses, where the perfectly layered liquor forms ruler-straight lines or another where the various ingredients form a tiny waterspout to her request.
John Constantine	John had been absent. Given that he was now beyond things like the need for sleep, sustenance and even just stopping to think he was always somewhere doing something. It had seemed like he would have stepped immediately into the fray with the angels, but rather he'd set about the duties of the Spectre in his own inimitable fashion. After three days away, the figure of John Constantine - save for silvery flesh and a green, hooded coat - manifests in the kitchen as Meggan dances and sings. "Hey, luv," he says, his voice a normal volume but somehow cutting straight through the music as though it bypasses the ears and goes directly for the brain, "Mind tellin' me the time? Uh, date included. Ta."
Meggan Constantine	There are times he flies off and she follows. Granted his speeds outrun hers unless she drops into a completely elemental form, splitting along the bleeding edge of the universe's constant. John doesn't exist entirely alone. She swore as much to God, didn't she? The girl shoots a look over her shoulder at the rattling against her senses, and her smile rises to bloody brilliant. "Saturday afternoon. Twenty-sixth of February, same year. All the twos." She stands on her toes, and then plops the drink shaker down onto the counter, pulling out two glasses. Ice doesn't need to be shovelled in as the playlist flips over to Poison Heart.     "I lock you in a dream, I never let you go     I never let you laugh or smile, not you,     Well, I just wanna walk right out of this world,     Cause everybody has a poison heart." She keeps swaying to the beat, Meggan practically unable to stop. "Missed you. Back for a trice?" The sprinkle of a lime adds a sharper citrus note to the melange of liquors, and she slides one his way. For her, it's essentially fun-flavoured juice. Sins have the lightest of fingerprints on her -- what crimes has she accomplished by petty theft in the past? And under it, a little burning star completely spotless of it all.
John Constantine	"Right, good. Sorry - all kind of gets muddled up. It's like my brain wants to go linear, but my soul's got different ideas." Whatever the Spectre sees - the being that is part of him but not John Constantine - does not seem interested in unfurling its fingers to take Meggan in its grasp. She's an innocent soul, or as close to innocent as to make no difference. That side of him returns to sleep, eternal eyes closing. "Ugh," John murmurs, shifting suddenly to a more human-looking version of himself that speaks in a normal voice, "You know, this was meant to be a done deal. But it's like there's a hundred different bloody things that need to fall into place first." He leans forward, giving Meggan a quick kiss on the cheek from behind. "Back for now. However long that is."
Meggan Constantine	Meggan's smile holds a degree of compassion and she holds out the drink and then her open arms to John, drawing him into an embrace to ensure the man is hale and whole as he ever might be. A sliver of his soul rests in the spellbound tattoo of an eternity knot on her left hand, after all, acting as her lodestone. By the Vishanti's decree, bound safely. She turns to kiss him on the cheek. "Must say I prefer this look more to the other. Not that the green coat isn't something delightful, but rings a little too much into Titania's court. Being winter still, I have an allergy to it 'til spring." A habit of glancing to the calendar proves foolish when she just told him the date. "Less than a month now. I thought we would be drinking far too much and swatting one another with a besom broom, sunning ourselves on an Ibiza beach. Not..." A swirl of her hand leaves his shoulder for only a moment. "As you said, it never goes as simple as we want." A shrug follows, and she nudges him with her hip, steering him to the counter. "Got a bit of a raise from the club for getting my license. Been mostly readin' and holdin' down the castle here, trying not to upset the House much. Or figure out the whole morning routine. So."
John Constantine	"It's gonna end," John explains, taking the drink and hugging her distractedly, "I know it is. Because I've been there. But I've been here, too. Or ... I am here. I don't know." He shakes his head, giving her a squeeze before pulling away and taking a sip of the beverage. It doesn't burn on the way down like it used to - like it should. It doesn't muddle his senses. It just flows through, so many bonded chemical elements suspended as a liquid solution. "I fuckin' hate this."
Meggan Constantine	"That bad? When drink and sleep become miserable like that, makes right sense why a heap of angels get so bloody tetchy." Meggan smirks into his hairline, only for a moment. A tousle of her hand sets the familiar blond mop to rights, and she leans back a little to examine her handiwork. "You're still you, John. Ever will be, no matter what the godbothering entails. Surprised you didn't go hieing off to the gates of below and slug a couple archdukes." Part teasing and part honest, she curls her fingers around his shoulder and nudges him against the solid weight of the bar. The House has its own particular strength, a mystical solidity that anchors in some respects. "Fancy being in your own chair for the night? What can I do to help?" The empathy that comes reflexively bleeds in more when she thinks, truly concentrates, and eases all the more along a physical conduit to match the psychic. A kiss brushes over his brow. "Won't be forever, love. We have to get through the rough patch and get Chas out. Then you can have a whole new set of worries to carry around in your arms, and Mum help them all, if you /still/ have to go off when /that/ time comes, I'm going to go tell the Almighty about giving you a bloody weekend off."
John Constantine	"Know I'm still me," John tells her, "Not worried about that. This thing can't change that. Needs a conscience, a soul, to function. Can't get rid of me, can't change me. But it sure could suck the fun out of a blowjob on a fuckin' rollercoaster." John shakes his head with a sigh, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Can't stay too long. Got ... I dunno, judging to do, I guess. Just figured I'd stop by and bring you along for company."
Meggan Constantine	"You sure 'bout that?" He has her halfway to cleaning up the liquor-swapped mess, and John suddenly receives that scintillating dance of laughter. Her hand claps over her mouth to stifle the sound. "May have to put the complaint to the test." Meggan offers another quick squeeze and looks down at her outfit, shaking her head. "Give me a second, not right going anywhere in this getup. I suppose I have to wear shoes?" The despondent tone lingers on her lips before she reluctantly withdraws, taking a couple steps in the direction of whatever hallway deigns to lead to a bedroom. "Where you go, I go -- gladly at that. Someone has to make sure it's not all piss and misery, not that He left you much room between the two posts. Since we need to match, /stay put/. Promise. It'll be worth it." Probably. Because by the time she returns roundabout five minutes later, they do very well match. Slinky green ensemble for her, slinky green trenchcoat for him. Though in place of his loose collar, her catsuit barely holds onto her shoulders and dons a sharp vee plunge instead.