Pryde and Wisdom have moved up in the world: the address Kitty gave Jack
belongs to an actual /house/. It's a dirty pale blue, two stories, a
neatly-cut lawn, nicely hedges separating the yard from those on either
side - though even the fog and post-sunset dimness don't hide the fact
that the garage at the end of the driveway is notably missing. A window to
one side of the front door has its curtains drawn back, and four
candleflames burn there: three on a level, one higher and to the side.

A detached house - very upscale indeed. Jack eyes the glowing dot that is
the doorbell button for a moment, before poking it tentatively with a
fingertip. The resulting chime is thus curiously strangled, more a beep.
Hell with that. He knocks firmly on the door, instead.

Doesn't take long for /that/ to get an answer. There's a brief shuffling
inside, and Kitty tugs the door open from within. "Jack! How're things
going?" She steps back hastily out of the way, with the usual lack of
explicit invitation. Past her is a large pale-green living room, in which
there is quite possibly more furniture than there was in Pryde and
Wisdom's entire last apartment. On the left-hand wall from the door, a
couch covered with a plain white sheet is grouped with an armchair and a
low table and a bookcase, all by a stone fireplace. Off to the right, more
bookcases flank a computer table that looks slightly forlorn with just
Kitty's laptop and a printer set up on it. The usual state of mild chaos
hasn't quite reasserted itself - the stack of newspapers on the table is
orderly, and the ashtray at the far end of it is, if not empty, not
overflowing either.

Celliers gives an vague shrug by way of answer, before slipping in past
her. He pads into the center of the living room, and looks around him.
"Ah, nice new place," he offers, though there's a definitely absent-minded
air to the comment. That's the appropriate line here, right? Kitty gets a
faintly nervous glance over his shoulder - he's gone even thinner and more
fidgety than before.

There's a faint, pervasive scent of apples inside - but that's hardly
unusual in the fall. "Thanks," Kitty replies, her general cheer undented,
and closes and locks the door behind him. /Then/ she gives him a closer
look. "Jack, if you lose much more weight, you might get mistaken for a
model. Sit down." She turns and heads deliberately for the kitchen.

"Model of what?" he asks, blankly, turning to peer at her again, before
looking down at himself. Rather than sitting, he limps after her,
curiously. Even though the house is comfortable enough, he hasn't shed his
overcoat, and his hands are still balled in his pockets.

"Model. It's a profession. It involves voluntary starvation to just before
the point of system collapse for the sake of insane so-called aesthetic
standards." Kitty's opened the fridge and is poking around in it warily,
frowning - then closes it again without actually taking anything out and
starts assembling a plate of what appear to be filled doughnuts off the
counter. She pauses and hands one to Jack. "You. Eat."

"IS that why all the women in ads now look like famine victims?" he
wonders, eyeing the doughnuts with intense suspicion and more than a
little dislike. Food. Ugh. "I mean, yes, corsets were absurd, as were
bustles. But at least you could be sure that the person wearing them was
female." It's reflexive grousing, as he turns the doughnut around in his
hands. "Ah. What is this?"

"Me too?" comes a voice from the stairs, as Pete wanders down them with a
sheaf of papers. "Who's come ov-- Celliers!" The greeting is honestly
pleased. "It's a doughnut with stuff in. Lovely, really."

The doughnut sheds powdered sugar onto Jack's hands meekly. "I think that
one's apricot," Kitty contributes. "Yeah, Jack, it is. Three reverse
cheers for the direction of concepts of beauty." She holds another
doughnut out in Pete's direction in an attempt to forestall theft.

Celliers immediately proffers his doughnut to Pete. Here, you have it, so
I don't have to eat it. "Hello, Wisdom," he replies, tiredly, already
trying to remove the powdered sugar with one of those everpresent hankies.
At least it isn't the one he ruined with angel blood.

Sorry, Jack, doesn't work that way. Pete takes the one Kitty offers and
sniffs it, then looks entirely too pleased. "Strawberry. Ta, no, that
one's yours. Unless you'd like to trade." He forestalls putting his in his
mouth for the moment, and drops the papers on top of the microwave, then
slips an arm around Kitty's waist and pulls her over to kiss briefly in
greeting. "Hullo, you. Got addresses."

Kitty kisses Pete right there in front of Celliers and everything. But
briefly, at least. "Addresses? Mm. Progress." And then she slants a look
aside at Jack, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to seem ominous. "I can't
help but notice you're not eating yet. Maybe you've missed the fact that
/you/ look like a famine victim and if you lose much more weight you'll be
getting fed through a tube in a hospital bed."

Celliers looks away from the blatant PDA, though he only colors very
faintly - more fever-spotting, than a real blush. But then, Kitty's used
the f-word when discussing the activities of men and angels, so perhaps
he's getting jaded. But even her threats aren't enough to induce him to
try the doughnut, which gets juggled into his other hand. "I'm not that
badly off," he protests. "And besides - I came over to relay my most
recent 'visitation'."

Pausing, Pete turns to squint at Jack, then notes before stuffing almost
his entire doughnut in his mouth, "You're thinner than I am. I've a
completely bollocksed metabolism to account for it. What's your excuse?
Mono? Mind the public water fountains." Then the doughnut. It's really
rather shameful, and he leans against the counter, munching.

Kitty gives Celliers a wry look. "Are so. I /know/ you see yourself in
mirrors, you've been shaving - you should take a closer look." She eases
up a little then, pulling back off the nagging. "Most recent visitation?"
she repeats. "Claire?" Either way, she's managed to turn - without
shrugging off Pete's arm - so that she faces Jack. And therefore so that
she doesn't have to see Pete eating, even if it means her hair probably
/is/ getting lightly dusted with white.

Reflexively, he runs his palm over his jawline at that reminder, though
Jack's one of those blondes who couldn't grow a decent beard if he tried
for it. "I don't know. But...the red balloon was there. A little girl."
Pause. Begin at the beginning, and when you get to the end, stop. "You
see," he starts, more slowly, as if trying to arrange his thoughts clearly
isn't an easy task, "I was at the Point, near the lighthouse, the other
evening. I saw a little girl, dressed like a child from my era, but
trailing a red balloon. She was heading towards the edge, but didn't seem
to hear me when I called." The doughnut's momentarily forgotten, as he
shrugs at Pete. "I don't know, really."

"If you don't eat what Kitty feeds you I'm asking my sister to get one of
her weird friends to come up with a holistic nutrition programme for you
and *making* you follow it. Don't think I won't. And they eat tofu
and...and what else do they eat, Kitty? It's mad," says Pete quite
conversationally, after he's finished the doughnut. He reaches up over the
coffee pot, craning slightly, and takes the dishrag to wipe the dust off
his hand, then fluffs it out of Kitty's hair. "Red balloons - when did
they start being harbingers of doom? Was it that French film or Nena?"

"End of October," Kitty tells Pete resignedly. "And I don't know /what/
all they eat. Be careful or she'll come up with a Breatharian to do it."
She reaches back to pat absently at his arm. "A little girl trailing a red
balloon - Constantine's seen her too. So's Ray. Kess says she's a ghost."
She tips her head to regard Jack, attentive.

Celliers just blinks owlishly at Pete for a moment. The threat would be
far more effective if he actually had any idea what tofu was. Doughnut,
back into the other hand, sugar and all. "That would make sense," he
allows. "I was following, trying to catch her. She walked off the edge of
the cliff, and turned into a storm of black feathers. I caught one - it
was bloody. And then it was gone." His speech is clipped, as he fidgets
with the sugary thing, finally simply setting it down on the counter. The
part with his own deliberate near-fall and Claire's voice, he'll leave
out. He's got that lost, remote look again, though.

Outside the house, Constantine trudges up to the door, his trenchcoat
buttoned all the way up and belted tightly. He's even wearing thin gloves.
The smoke of his cigarette mixes with the steam of his breath. Tucked
under one arm is a fairly large rectangular package a few inches wide,
covered in blue wrapping paper with shiny gold dreidels and shiny silver
Stars of David on it. As he knocks on the door, a great big shit-eating
grin starts to spread across his face. Hastily, he hides it away again.

"...this is a dream, right?" asks a faintly alarmed Wisdom, who is
nonetheless settled more firmly against the counter, his Kitty-dedicated
arm dropping to rest loosely on her hip, far side from him. "Or a
Claire-waking-dream? 'Cos it sounds like a Claire and you were discussing
-- sorry. Spectacularly preoccupied, should just let you talk."

"Seishi mentioned the Point in connection with Claire, too," Kitty
comments, but her voice stays quiet. No, she's not nagging Jack about the
doughnut at the moment. And yes, Constantine, there /are/ candles burning
in the window, not that that should be a surprise. At the knock, she
reaches to squeeze Pete's hand lightly, then add out loud for Jack's
benefit, "I'll get that - be right back," as she heads out to the other
room to open the door. Once she sees who it is, there's not a word: she
just holds the door out of his way. Not asking about the package. Looking
mildly pained in preparation, but very much not asking.

"That'll be Constantine," Jack notes, without a glance back. OF all the
annoying times to be slightly psychic. He doesn't sound overly enthused.
"And no, I was awake and cold sober," he explains to Pete. "Was it a
vision? Of course. But Claire wasn't present. And I don't know much about
the Point, other than it seems to attract angels. Seishi I haven't spoken
to, in some time." Constantine will of course note that he's long since
passed the border from 'slightly too skinny' into 'heroin addict gaunt'
and that he's still swathed in that black overcoat.

Constantine gives Kitty a cheery smile. "Happy Chanukah, Kitty. I would've
given you two your present on the first night, but I didn't find it until
today." His smile broadens as he steps inside. "Happy Chanukah to you too,
Wisdom." He nods in greeting to Celliers, as well--he'll wonder why Jack
is here, and comment on how wretched the poor man looks, later. And
certainly discussion of Claire and visions will wait for later, as far as
John's concerned. For now, he must inflict his gift upon Pete and Kitty.
He holds out the package for one of them to take.

Honestly, Jack's starting to look like Grant Morrison with hair. It's
bizarre. Pete shoves off of the counter when Kitty goes to get the door,
eyebrows up, and pauses halfway to the kitchen door. "Ta, Conjob." Ooohhh,
Kitty can open that, yes. He eyes Jack momentarily. "Never listen to 99
Luft-- nevermind. And I know that the Point is very cold in winter. Eat
something, goddammit." He raises his voice, "Come in here, it's warmer."

There is no way Kitty is taking that box. She has more self-preservation
instinct than /that/. "They're in the kitchen," she says mildly, shutting
and locking the door. "There's food." Of course there is, Kitty's American
and Thanksgiving was not very long ago at all. "And maybe alcohol. I
haven't checked to see if there's any actually /left/, you'll have to ask
Pete." She trails in the 'warmer' direction, the only one here who doesn't
wear long coats of any description.

Celliers makes no move, except to edge out of the way of the incoming, and
nod slightly to Constantine. Constantine's Box of Big Shininess gets an
incurious glance; the symbols on the paper don't have ny meaning for him,
being raised in the age of raging goyim as he was. Is this some weird
pre-Christmas magician's holiday? "Yes, Wisdom," he replies, reflexively,
in the 'yes, dear' voice he once used on Kate.

Constantine wanders into the kitchen, looking annoyed at Pete and Kitty's
strong sense of self-preservation. "Celliers, starving yourself to death
is not going to be quite as satisfying as nobly sacrificing yourself to
save the world," he comments to Jack. To the others, he says, "Come on,
you lot, I promise this thing," he holds up the package, "isn't explosive,
cursed, demonic, poisonous, occult, deadly, or destructive in any way." He
does not, however, promise that it isn't evil. "The wrapping paper won't
hurt you, either."

Quite rationally, in the process of opening the refrigerator door, Pete
glances over at John. "Yes, but I know for a fact you mock. Thus, my mild
paranoia, I feel, is justified. Pint? Jack? John?" He's pulling out a big
tub of weird-looking green stuff that's kind of wobbly when shaken, and
has orange bits in.

"Chicken," Kitty accuses Pete - nevermind that she was hoping she'd be
able to push the package off on him to start off with. She reaches for the
package warily at last, handling as if she thought ... well, that it
/were/ explosive, cursed, demonic, poisonous, occult, deadly, or at least
four out of six. "Watch, now I'll get paper-cut to death."

Constantine gives Kitty another cheery smile. "I made sure it was gentle
paper. Wouldn't dream of getting you hurt." Ooh, did he just get offered
alcohol? "Yeah, I'll have a--'kinell is that?" He catches sight of the
liquid in question.

Celliers doesn't even deign to acknowledge John's comment, though he
shakes his head quickly at Pete. "No, thank you," Apparently drinking's
gone the way of eating decent meals, too. At the appearance of the green
and wobbly, he looks a touch green around the gills, as well. "And I
should be going, really."

"This? Green mold. It's Bass in the fridge, which is what I'm offering.
This is all mine," Pete informs everyone. He sets the green and wobbly on
the kitchen table and gets John a pint bottle, handing it over without
looking. He peers over the top of the door at Jack, squinting a little.
"Look, mate. Don't feel you have to. If you /do/ have to, /do/ come back.
I haven't been out much, because I'm going a bit mad. Which I realize
isn't the best of selling points..." Wary glance at the being-unwrapped
package. "It starts trying anything, Pryde, you're the one can, you know,
escape."

Kitty adds toward Jack, "I've got a couple more things to do before I'll
have anything for you worth mentioning. But - soon." Green around the
gills. That's entirely not a good sign. Right along with the cadaverous
thinness. One more thing to think about on top of anything else. "Real
soon," she adds as she starts undoing the wrapping paper. She's one of
those people who does it one seam at a time as if they were expecting to
keep the paper in a little prize-winning collection or something. In this
case, that might actually be a warranted caution.

Looking rather relieved, Constantine takes the pint. "Ta." His gaze slides
to Kitty as she opens the present.

        The unwrapped package, which features little cartoon fish swimming
about in a little cartoon ocean, says at the bottom, 'Bring The Tropics
Into Your House This Hannukah!' At the top, in bigger letters, it says:
Caribbean Vacation Menorah!

        Eight brightly-colored ceramic fish stand (by their fins--they
seem to have taken quite a step forward in evolution) on a base of pink
sand, their mouths open wide to hold candles. In the middle of this line
is a smiling, friendly jellyfish, reaching up with its stinging (but it's
far too nice to ever sting anyone!) tentacles to form a holder for the
shammas.

        The shit-eating grin reappears on Constantine's face. "Beautiful,
innit?"

Which is apparently Jack's cue to get the hell out of Dodge. Without
another word, he ducks out of the kitchen and lets himself out through the
kitchen door, gone positively grey in the face.

Wisdom just stares for a moment. He starts to say something, then
wordlessly picks up his big bowl of green mold (it's not as sick as it
sounds, it's lime jello with cool whip, pineapple, and mandarin orange
slices mixed in) and a spoon and starts poking at it. While eyeing the
distressing menorah. Then he takes a bite of the concoction, pondering
carefully, and finally seems to decide on his reaction.

He beams at Constantine. "It's even accurate. The candles'll burn its
stingers."

Poor Jack. Kitty'll worry about him once she realizes he's fled. For just
one instant, though, she's occupied with staring at the box, and then
giving Pete a pleading look that takes no particular effort to translate
as 'can I hit him with it? just this once? pleeeease?' And then Pete makes
/that/ comment, and she puts the box down and hides her face in her hands
and starts to laugh helplessly.

Constantine just keeps grinning for a moment, and then he breaks down and
starts laughing as well. "You're just lucky I didn't get the dragon
menorah, mate," he informs Pete. "I was bloody tempted, believe me." But
he decided he wanted to keep all his limbs.

Ah, but Wisdom is /Pete's/ surname. "Good crack, that," grins the man in
black, sidling over and offering Kitty a spoonful of the jello mold. Well,
once she can breathe. "I imagine it'd look marvellous in the checkered
room." He pauses. "Especially if I lug the urn up there. Suits it, it
does." There's a lengthier pause and Pete gives John a look that's a mix
of exasperation and amusement. "You ever going to stop taking the piss
over this?"

Kitty leans against Pete's side - it's slightly more convenient in the way
of vertical props than the counter, and closer than the wall - and makes a
face at said spoonful as she gets her breath back. "So gross," she
comments lightly in his general direction. Because she must not think of
the phrase 'dragon menorah' lest she get the image of Lockheed peering at
it puzzledly and break up again. Uh oh. Too late.

"Me? Stop taking the piss?" Constantine laughs again. "Not bloody likely."
He takes a last drag off his cigarette and crushes it out in the nearest
ashtray. "Besides, demonic jellyfish. Would *you* let that go if you were
me?" Welcome to Beacon Harbor, where 'if you were me' is more than a
casual phrase.

Pete looks mildly wounded. "There's fruit in! It's healthy. Besides.
Always room for Jell-O." Then he's grinning, shifting in order to prop
Kitty up more efficiently, having some more mold, and allowing John a
tolerant look. "No." Beat. "If I were you I'd *never* let the demonic
jellyfish go. After all, true love is hard to find."

There are ashtrays /everywhere/ in this house. Pete lives here, after all.
Kitty gets breath back, muttering, "You watch too much television -" And
then she gets Pete's last, and comes very close to choking. Her eyes go
very wide, white visible both above /and/ below the brown irises, and both
her hands come up over her mouth. After a moment she manages to get
herself back under control /once/ more and straighten up. "You two," she
observes in a casual sky-is-blue stating-the-obvious tone, "are awful."

"It is," Constantine agrees solemnly. "As Lockheed knows, pining after you
all this time and never knowing how to truly express his feelings." One
good crack deserves, well, an evil one right back. "Aren't we?" He beams
at Kitty.

"More like pine-boxing," mutters Pete, pulling the saran wrap back over
the top of the tub of jello stuff, then putting it back in the fridge and
taking out a pint of his own. He glances back at Kitty and wordlessly
holds it up, eyebrows raised.

Kitty shakes her head as wordlessly, with a flicker of a grin. "He's /not/
trying to kill you, Pete." Then, at a faint fluttering sound in the other
room, she hastily snags the doughnut Jack left abandoned on the counter
and goes to intercept any potential new arrivals at the /entrance/ to the
kitchen. Like the purple one that apparently heard his name and is now
hovering at the door giving Kitty a pathetically woeful look. "See? See?
Perfectly harmless." She gathers the little dragon into one arm and starts
feeding him bits of doughnut by the other hand.

Constantine eyes Lockheed warily. He doesn't know whether the little
dragon really does talk or not, but after his own experiences with a much
bigger dragon, he's not sure he's prepared to trust any creature of the
type. Dragons. Who needs 'em? "Does he breathe fire?" he asks, taking a
drink from his pint.

Pete gives John a long-suffering look. "Yes." He opens and downs a good
bit of his bottle, then starts wandering toward the door of the kitchen.
No, the demonic jellyfish did not scare him off. The sight of the dragon
being fed like a baby does. He gestures toward the door, sort of vaguely
indicating the stairs in the process, and notes, "I'll be up there,
looking for where I put the ... something. I don't know. Definitely
looking for something that I misplaced, though. I'll let you know if I
find it. I'll let you know what it is then, too." He tosses John a salute
and starts edging out.

"But not very /much/ fire," Kitty says earnestly toward John. "Or at least
not very often." As she's casually easing back out of Pete's way, far
enough so that there's no 'accidental' wing-battering on the dragon's part
as Wisdom passes. "Coward," she adds toward Pete, amused, and gets her
fingers sticky trying to manage the apricot bits.

"That doesn't sound harmless," Constantine mutters. "Just don't let him
destroy any houses, all right?" Apparently John bears dragons in general a
grudge for that. "I ought to be going--I told Lena I'd be at her place
tonight." He doesn't seem to realize that he hasn't talked about Lena to
Pete and Kitty before.

Pete has fled - leaving Kitty to quirk eyebrows at Constantine. "The
garage," she says defensively, "was /not/ Lockheed's fault. It was that
way when we got here." It might be noted that the place doesn't /have/ a
garage. Ahem. "Lena?" Not any particular surprise in that - Constantine
knows many people, and no few of them happen to be female. Besides,
Lockheed is cooing. It distracts.

Constantine is charitable for once (or, more likely, he just wants to get
out of here quickly), and does not say anything about the garage or lack
thereof. "Uh--my girlfriend, I suppose." In the sense that he's been
sleeping with her for well over a month now. He lights another cigarette
and starts toward the door again.

Somehow, 'congratulations' doesn't seem appropriate. Kitty just quirks
eyebrows interestedly and sets the little dragon down on the counter -
then goes to see Constantine out. Dragonless. Nice and safe. And not
wanting to know what Lockheed is going to do with that little cartoon
ocean while she's gone.