Re: In-person: Zee/John
[That smile could make snow melt in the dead of winter, and she felt certain the universe had not meant to bestow it on him. Or perhaps he was a test, and she'd always thought he was, and she hadn't quite decided if she'd passed or failed.] I blame you for all types of things, John. [Her voice was intimacy. It spoke to knowledge of things corporeal and incorporeal, and it didn't shy away from the light that suffused the room from their combined magic. His aura was blackness, and he'd told her countless time that he was indigo inside. The war had confirmed that, making him immune to the corruption that the others there suffered. Too corrupt to be corrupted, and yet there was still light amid that darkness, if he would only turn it outward. But life's journey had taken her from being John Constantine's partner in illicit behavior, to being his conscience, and she wasn't certain which woman sat beside him on the couch.
She expected nothing extravagant. He wasn't a man born for lights and illusions. That was her place. She was magic, but she loved her father's art. Her mother's inheritance was part of her DNA's. Her father's inheritance was sweat magic, much like John's, and illusions built from sleight of hand. Fireworks and theatrics, and there was a reason she still ran the show. She could've given up the Mistress of Magic moniker years ago, but she hadn't, and she still loved a packed house, her skin sweating from the spotlight and a top hat in her hand. A woman who didn't like to stand out didn't live in fishnets, after all.
Her hands were turned over, and she didn't need magic to figure out what he sought on her palm. She read hands, and she read cards. When she was bored, she read both on street corners, and she collected money in a hat at her knee. They'd made it through Europe like that once, Constantine, Nick and her, before she'd succumbed to the nicotine charm of Nick's best friend. She'd been just a girl, a teenager, and John hadn't been much older.] Well? Am I me? [She wasn't secrets. She wore truths on her skin, and no one ever looked for them there. Her smile was quiet and knowing; she was entirely herself. He was himself, but he would need to find the answers to believe them. John Constantine had always been a stubborn man. A stubborn, lecherous bastard.] A tall, handsome man? That will be a nice change from present company. [The insult was, somehow, a verbal caress.]