Outside Omens

"I told you I don't like flying," Crowley snapped back peevishly, moving one of the lipsticks under the obnoxious passenger's designer heel so that she'd trip. "I'm stuck thirty-thousand feet up in the air in a tin can with two hundred other people and there's nothing but an imperfect human with a stick keeping us up. And yeah, I can work miracles, but do you have any idea how much concentration and energy that would take? I barely kept the Bentley together and that was a tenth the size of this thing. Had a headache for days."

He was breathing quickly, hating the recycled air and feeling trapped. "Besides, it's not the crashing. It's the... part before."

More than anything, Crowley hated the fact that if anything did happen, he couldn't just bail, but had to stay to protect John. Although the demon could get outside to safety, there was no way he could bring the man through the wall with him. This being the first time he'd flown with someone he cared about, it made the trip that much more difficult.

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"I know," John said less harshly. A fear of falling was perfectly understandable for a Fallen angel, he supposed, but at this rate there'd be a full-fledged riot in progress by the time they landed. "Look, though, I've made this trip dozens of times and come off none the worse for it. Anyway, fuck the plane," he added with a slight smile, "I'd settle for a conveniently blown hatch, a parachute and a can of shark repellent."

Looking around for a way to distract his friend, he spotted a magazine someone had left in the mesh pouch behind the next seat up and snagged it, handing it to Crowley. "Here. Read. Or watch the in-flight film. Meditate. Whatever. Take your mind off it. We'll be there before you know it."

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Crowley gave a short, sharp smile that reflected many past unpleasantnesses. "I've made this trip dozens of times, too," he said, but he was thinking about parachutes.

With a raised eyebrow, the demon gestured to the video screen. "I've got it playing Crash Landing: The Rescue of Flight 232. Next is Bermuda Triangle followed by The Ghost of Flight 401 and Amelia Earhart: The Final Flight." He finished off his second glass of champagne, extended his chair into a bed and curled toward the window. "I'll just try to sleep. 'Night, John."

Whether he would or not was anyone's guess. He hadn't slept well since that first night in John's bed. But he could pretend.

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"Arright. G'night," John said, relieved, though he wasn't sure even the relatively luxurius first-class acomodations were conducive to a decent sleep.

He tilted his own seat back a bit and spent some time surreptitiously people-watching and wishing vainly for a cigarette before he settled down to try and get a little shuteye himself. The cabin was a lot quieter once Crowley stopped metaphysically needling their fellow travelers.

He had to admit the ride was more comfortable than coach class, though his proletarian instincts objected both to the inequality of the whole setup and the presence of so many privileged upper crust so-and-so's in close quarters. It made him feel distinctly out of place, not that that was anything new, but he didn't like it all the same. Even dressed in these clothes that were a cut above anything he'd ever owned, clean-shaven and about as respectable as a Constantine was going to get, he had an uneasy feeling that everyone who glanced his way saw right through the facade and was sneering at him behind their politely bored expressions.

Well, to hell with 'em. He'd never needed anybody's approval, let alone a bunch of spoiled, clueless snobs like these. Any one of them would have died pissing themselves the first time they came up against something that couldn't be bought or bullied into submission. John knew, because he'd had to drag more than one of their kind out of some nightmare predicament they'd stumbled into, foolishly convinced of their own invincibility because they had clout in this physical world. Two hundred people on this rattletrap, he thought darkly, and he'd eat his Silk Cuts if anybody but him was aware of the demonic presence among them. Blind and helpless in the dark, the lot of them...

Misliking the cynical turn his own thoughts were taking, he followed Crowley's example, turning his back to them and settling down to sleep until their midmorning landing at JFK.

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Having a fairly good idea where John's thoughts were going, Crowley smiled faintly. He felt very much the same about the privileged classes, despite being a member, and wondered if that was one reason he and John got on so well. As well as a bastardly demon and a snarky human (or vice versa) can get on, anyway.

Focussing on his friend and not allowing himself to think of anyone else at all, Crowley did finally manage to get to sleep. He woke half an hour before the plane landed, thanks to an ill timed overhead announcement that everyone very much regreted, and the end of the flight was, if anything, worse than the beginning.

It was a very cranky demon who stalked first off the plane into the terminal. He blew through customs, John in tow, and stopped at the baggage claim long enough for John to grab his bag, which somehow managed to be ready and waiting at the door for them.

As the sliding glass door opened, introducing them to the humidity and noise of New York City, Crowley visibly relaxed. Pushing his sunglasses back up his nose and smoothing his hair, he went to the first taxi in line and climbed in, slumping into the back seat and ignoring the protests of the passengers who'd been waiting in line. He allowed John to give the driver directions to Zatanna's place, translating them into Farsi and adding a little something of his own about drivers who take the long route in order to run up the meter, then just sighed and stared out at the Long Island traffic, letting the tension of air travel drain away.

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John let Crowley have his space and took the opportunity to enjoy a cigarette and take in the bustling city scenery once they were outside the airport. He liked America, and he didn't like it; it was everything popular culture made it out to be, and better (and worse,) but it was too new and too full of itself, missing the depth of an old country, the sense of maturity. Nowhere was that more apparent than in New York City. London had a well-earned dignity about it. New York just had a shitload of chutzpah.

Finally, a few minutes out from Zatanna's apartment building, he said, "Right, so, I hope this goes without saying, but Zee? Is off-limits." He didn't mean it in the sense he usually would when talking to a male friend, though that was sort of included. Crowley was welcome to play with the Americans all he wanted, as far as John was concerned, but Zatanna was...well, she was special, and John's own sensibilities on the subject aside, she had her own ways of dealing with supernatural annoyances. Not that he really thought Crowley was going to pull any stupid shit on purpose, but given how they'd spent the past half a day or so, a small reminder seemed prudent.

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Crowley gave John a blank look over the tops of his sunglasses. "That's what you think of me? Thanks, mate. I think I know better than to mess with the person I'm staying with." He hadn't always, but he'd learned his lesson a long time ago. With a small frown, he turned back toward the window.

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"Sorry," John muttered, sighing inwardly. Not sorry that he'd said it, exactly, but that his friend had taken it badly. He couldn't help it; he reserved the right to be just a wee bit paranoid about these things. Crowley and Zatanna both occupied prominent places on a very short list of people he would go far out of his way to look out for, and that included protecting them from each other, if it came to it.

He was taking a certain risk by introducing these two. He thought they'd get along pretty well, but that wasn't the issue. The moment they became connected, however tenuously, it doubled both their pools of potential enemies and left them each with another possible vulnerability. He only hoped the remainder of the trip would prove worth it.

"Hope you're hungry," he added with a slight smile as the cab pulled up to the curb, "ten quid says she'll be trying to stuff us to the gills before introductions are over."

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Tossing a bill to the driver for John's sake, Crowley stepped out of the taxi and got his first look at Zatanna's building. It was an older place, by American standards, with art deco touches. It seemed to have been remodeled fairly recently and the neighborhood looked solidly middle class but improving. It wasn't quite Mayfair yet, but it did remind him of the new Soho. He nodded his approval.

"Hey," Crowley said, consciously dropping his anger. It wasn't really intended for John anyway and he wanted to make a decent impression on his hostess. "If it's not something Snape made or was on that damn plane, I'd pay ten times ten quid for it."

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"Heh. Snape only wishes he could cook as well as this lady." John smiled lopsidedly as he climbed out of the cab, put out his cigarette and the two went inside. He had to fight the urge to straighten his tie and smooth his hair down as they made their way up a flight of stairs and down the hallway that led to Zatanna's door. He nearly always did, which was odd as hell, because he happened to know she liked him rumpled.

Then again, maybe that in itself was a reason...dealing with Zee was always a little complicated like that.

He paused only a fraction of a second before knocking, taking a last hurried inventory of the contents of his own brain and hoping to Someone he hadn't lost any critically important Zatanna-memories to the fiend. This was supposed to be a vacation, and there were some things he just didn't want to have to go into.

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"Crap!" Rushing around the kitchen in a state of controlled panic, Zatanna nearly dropped the pan of vegetarian lasagna she was holding when the knock sounded. "Crap, crap, crap. They're early!" She glanced at the clock. "...No? Not early? Right on time. Okay. Deep breath, we can do this. Be right there!" she called, setting the pan down carefully on the counter and fumbling to get her apron off and hung behind the door.

She hurried to the door, pausing for a second at the mirror to make sure she didn't have cheese on her nose and hadn't aged a few decades today without noticing it. Nope, it was all good, or as good as it was gonna get on a girl pushing forty anyway.

For any other guy, she wouldn't have bothered about it, but John Constantine wasn't just any guy. And when he stopped by with friends, they tended to be not just your run-of-the-mill drinking buddies from down the pub (she loved that phrase. Americans used "at" altogether too much. Very succinct people, Brits.)

Of course, there was always a better-than-even chance something insanely dangerous and scary was going to happen while they were here. But that was half the fun. At least the big limey dork had given her a little warning this time...

She yanked the door open rather inelegantly, and threw her arms around the trenchcoated figure on the other side. "John! You made it! Oh, it's so good to see you!"

"Hullo Zatanna," he said, exactly as he always did, but this time he hugged her back with less than the usual awkwardness. She took that as a good sign, even as it roused her curiosity.

Then she caught sight of John's friend, about whom she'd heard not as much as she wanted, but enough to have decided she liked him already, demon or not. "And you're Crowley," she said, stepping straight out of John's arms to hug him too.

"You are very welcome here," she said firmly. She'd never had one of the Fallen as a house guest, but if John trusted him enough to bring him here, that was all she needed to know.

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Crowley immediately stiffened, fighting the impulse to do her some kind of injury. This touch wasn't intended as a threat and he had to remind himself of that before gingerly and awkwardly patting her on the back.

The thing was, no one ever touched the demon in a friendly way. John would, on occasion, but only under dire circumstances. And Crowley wasn't thinking about the other person or the other kinds of touches. Apart from that, he couldn't recall the last time a hand had met his body without it being in the shape of a fist.

This woman knew he was a demon, too, or so John had told him. She had to realize this was dangerous, so she was either insane or didn't care, both of which were interesting.

But all he ended up saying was, "Thank you." Stepping slightly out of her reach, he straightened his jacket and gave one of his more charming smiles.

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John was well familiar with Zatanna's impulsivity--he recalled very clearly having to rescue her and Tim Hunter from the last place on Earth they should have gone within a thousand miles of, because she'd thought it might be fun for the kid to meet some members of the 'opposition'--but he hadn't expected this, and found himself holding his breath for the split second it took Crowley to react and disengage himself. He could make a fair guess why Zee had done it, though, and the thought gave him a funny choked feeling he didn't quite want to try to interpret just now.

"Yeah, and everybody knows it's the custom in New York to welcome honored guests by strangling them to death," he said drily, then grinned as a delicious smell wafted out the apartment door "Oi, what's that I smell? Bean sprouts and cabbage greens? You shouldn't have." He never got tired of teasing Zatanna about her vegetarian habits, but he never turned down a second helping either.

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Zatanna backed away from Crowley at once, not too suprised by his standoffishness and not particularly alarmed by it either. She trusted John's judgement, and she was willing to take certain risks to prove a point, but she wasn't an idiot and certainly not helpless; if the demon had actually tried anything, he would have got quite a surprise.

"You didn't tell me he was such a cutie," she said reproachfully to John after she'd actually had a good look at his friend (my god, the cheekbones!) and snagged the suitcase out of the magus' hand. "And no, smartass, it's lasagne. With spinach and mushrooms (http://www.azcc.arizona.edu/nutrition/recipes/main-dishes/vegetarian-spinach-soy-lasagna.htm). Oh, don't give me that long-suffering look," she sighed, rolling her eyes expressively, "for you, I killed a cow. There's a pan of the other kind too. Crowley can have which he likes." She leaned toward the demon--not too close this time--and stage-whispered, "Have the vegetarian, it's loads better.

"Well, c'mon in, you blokes. You timed it just right, you can get settled in and clean up before we eat." And she trotted inside, vanishing around the corner with John's lugagge in tow.

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"Flattery will get you everywhere," he rejoined with a smile. "And I've learned to rely on a chef's recommendation."

Following Zatanna inside, Crowley looked around with interest. Like John's place, (but considerably cleaner) it was full of the regular accessories of life with the occasional oddity here or there. A strangely colored and half-burned candle on a bookshelf caught his eye, as did a slightly battered top hat on an end table.

The rest of the room was cheerfully normal, done up in blues and peaches with photographs as decoration. There was one of a couple that looked very like Zatanna and must have been her parents, a couple of other folks, and on the mantelpiece, a photo of a very young John Constantine. The demon raised an eyebrow and went to inspect it, as the other two were arguing over the bag and discussing sleeping arrangements.

The John in the picture was smiling, but it was the kind of lying smile that didn't reach his eyes, which were cold and hard. Had they met earlier, and it was really a miracle that they hadn't given their proximity, that Constantine wouldn't have been amused after their first fight and wouldn't have rested until Crowley was a Ligur sized smear on the carpet. Once again, he felt that pull of being the fortunate one. The one for whom things always work out. Well - he thought of someone three thousand miles away - almost always...

Crowley saw John return to the room and look at the photos that he'd just finished investigating. The man seemed pensive, so the demon tried to lighten the mood a bit.

"Good looking bloke, if a bit younger than I can imagine..."

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John smiled at that, though the photo disturbed him vaguely. He couldn't remember when it had been taken, but had a feeling he should have, and he wondered why Zatanna kept this one on display. He was sure she had other, friendlier shots of him tucked away somewhere. Then again, even in those days she'd seen through him better than most.

"Yeah, me too," he said wryly. "Just between you and me, he was a bit of a arse. You wouldn't have liked him."

He walked over to the old top hat and stood looking at it for a moment, silently paying his respects. Giovanni Zatara--who was an intelligent man as well as a powerful sorcerer--had never much liked him, in the tradition of all fathers whose daughters kept company with scoundrels and ne'er-do-wells, but they'd shared a certain grudging professional respect despite John's long-standing disdain for the practice of hiding in plain sight behind an illusionist's facade. And he had been partly responsible for the man's death. He still wasn't sure why Zatanna had forgiven him for that.

Or, for that matter, why she always insisted on putting his luggage in her room when he visited. It wasn't as though he needed the reminder, he knew the invitation was still open. Though if he turned it down as usual, he'd be stuck on the couch this time. It bore considering.

"You're in the guest room. Second door on the left down that hall," he added, nodding in that direction. "Do yourself a favor and miracle a new mattress."

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"I heard that," Zatanna called from the kitchen as she took a tray of garlic bread out of the oven. "Don't listen to him, Crowley, there's nothing wrong with it. He's just a big wuss."

"Am not," John called back in a sullen tone, and she smiled. If he thought the guest bed was bad, he'd hate sleeping on her couch.

Who ever said Constantines had a monopoly on deviousness?

She took a step back and surveyed her work. Three-cheese lasagne (with and without dead ruminant,) garlic bread, salad and a blueberry cobbler. All right, so maybe it was more of an early dinner than a lunch. What could she say, when she got nervous, she cooked. They could always have sandwiches later.

"Food'll be up in a minute," she added, cutting the pasta into neat squares. "Anything special you boys would like to drink?"

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"He wouldn't have liked me much, either," he murmured to John, before turning back to Zatanna with a smile. "But as much as I appreciate your hospitality, I don't think I'll be needing the room tonight. I thought I'd head out into the city," Crowley didn't think he needed to or should go into specifics of what he'd be doing, "...and give you two a chance to get reacquainted." The demon grinned knowingly. The pheromones were flying fast and furious around here and he didn't think John would appreciate having a third wheel. If it were anyone else involved, Crowley might consider interrupting just for the sheer amusement factor, but John deserved better. Not to mention that two angry occultists against one minor demon was not good odds.

"What have you got?" he asked, referring to the drinks.

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"Nothing inspiring on hand, just some diet soda and juice. But if I can pronounce it backward, it's available," Zatana said, shouldering the door open and carrying a pan to the table in the adjoining dining room with potholders. "John, be a sweetheart and grab the other pan off the counter, would you?"

She paused next to table, which was covered with a pretty lace tablecloth with nothing to protect it from the hot dish. "raeppa stovirT," she stated matter-of-factly, and an instant later set the lasagne down on one of the two ornate metallic trivots that had manifested near the center of the table.

Crowley's remark earned him a sharp look, followed by a slight, wry grimace. Why she'd entertained the hope that an ancient immortal might be slower on the uptake than the twelve-year-old boy John had brought along last time was beyond her. "Gonna paint the Big Apple red, huh? Well, remind me to hook you up with a talisman before you go. I ward the place at night."

In fact, she warded it nearly all the time, but the less complicated setup she used during the day was more amenable to being tweaked for unusual visitors. Even so, it had been tricky, configuring the protective magics to ignore a specific demon for whom she didn't have a true name, sigil or any identifying information except his human pseudonym. She wasn't sure whether she believed John when he said he didn't have any of that information--if it was true, it would be a first for any demon he'd ever dealt with--but she knew better than to push it.

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"Oh, so now it's sweetheart, is it?" John smirked. "See how they operate, Crowley? One minute they're insulting your manhood, and the next they find a use for you and then it's all terms of endearment and shit...right, I'm going, I'm going," he said, heading for the kitchen with his hands raised in surrender at the malevolent glare Zatanna directed his way.

He deliberately ignored Crowley's innuendo, since he hadn't made up his mind just how to deal with that situation yet and hadn't quite expected to have to do so this quickly. Bugger.

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Crowley just grinned, watching the back and forth. They argued like an old married couple. Like... no. Not like that.

Zatanna did get an eyebrow raise at the stunt with the trivots. He hadn't met a mortal that could materialize solid objects like that. But he was more surprised that she demonstrated it in front of him. She wasn't just showing off, it had to have been a deliberate move to show the essence of her abilities. It almost seemed like a warning and a gesture of trust in one. No wonder she and John got on. But he could appreciate that. In return, Crowley said, "Allow me, then," and produced a 1794 Shiraz to go with their lasagna, expertly popping the cork and waving three glasses into existence.

He nodded when she mentioned the talisman, not expecting anything less. The demon had felt the energies adjusting to his presence, aware that it must have been a tricky piece of work to let him in when he was just the sort of being they were designed to keep out.

Turning to John, Crowley laughed. "Sorry, mate. Can't help you there. My knowledge of the domestic habits of women is sadly lacking."

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If she could have read Crowley's mind, Zatanna would have had a giggle fit right about then. The trivots weren't a calculated move; it hardly seemed like the sort of thing that would impress a demon who could pull the same trick, sans backward-speak, and she rarely thought about her power in those terms anyway. She just needed something to protect the table.

"Oooh. Good looks and good taste. I could get used to having you around," she laughed. "Have a seat, we'll just be another minute."

She passed John just inside the kitchen door. "Flirt," he deadpanned as he elbowed the door open on his way out.

"Smartass," she shot back affectionately, then put the garlic bread in a basket and brought that and the salad out to the table.

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Well, no one ever said that Crowley wasn't paranoid... He did have a tendency to overanalyse situations. Still, he was feeling relaxed and comfortable as he sipped at his wine and watched Zatanna serve the lasagna. He accepted some of the vegetarian and certainly wasn't disappointed. With the garlic bread, salad, and wine it was a meal worthy of Crowley's favourite little Italian place in Soho and he made sure that Zatanna knew it.

Through the meal, he was content to sit quietly and listen to the two of them chat. They were mostly talking about people he didn't know and sharing inside jokes and stories he didn't understand, in the way that old friends do. He tried not to mind or resent the constant reminder, but he was definitely feeling like the odd demon out.

Catching a slightly puzzled look on the woman's face, he tuned in again to hear John abruptly changing the subject. He was wearing that faintly embarrassed look that Crowley had come to know in the last few months to mean that he'd forgotten something, but Zatanna couldn't have known that. He wondered if John would tell her.

He tried to pay better attention after that, which was made easier when they started discussing Etrigan. Crowley didn't know him personally, but he was apparently a rhyming demon, which garnered an eyeroll. It was interesting, though, to hear demons discussed knowledgeably from the other side, as it were.

But it wasn't long before lunch was finished. And after Crowley polished off his second glass, he sat back and offered to take care of the dishes.

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"Sure," Zatanna said easily, curious to see how a demon would go about cleaning dishes. Not by the usual means, she was sure. "You going to take off right away or hang out for a while? I've got some board games, or we could watch a movie?"

She'd noticed how quiet the demon had been through dinner, and didn't want him to spend his whole visit feeling like a third wheel. Though the temptation to grill him about all sorts of things that weren't really her business was going to be difficult to resist. The only other demonic type she'd ever been on less-than-hostile terms with was Etrigan, and he was quite possibly the most annoying person in the Universe to try to have a conversation with, always talking in rhyming couplets or iambic pentameter (plus he was just sort of a jerk, really.)

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