Pryde and Wisdom's Flat - The Main Stretch

        The flat's up one flight, off of a musty-smelling stairwell; it's
a nice size, not tiny or particularly ill-kept, but almost entirely empty.
The scent of ashtray and stale cigarette smoke is, perhaps predictably,
faint but pervasive. The walls are bare but for an enormous black Jolly
Roger flag in the space above the couch. Yes, a pirate flag. There's a
small television on an overturned milk crate in the corner, facing a
rather tatty second (or third) hand couch. The layout of the place is such
that the kitchen sort of melts into the living area, and there's a table
and a couple of chairs over kitchen way. The table is occupied by a stack
of library books on top of a stack of newspapers, next to which is a
laptop (open, screen saver showing shifting fractal patterns), and across
from which is a half-full ashtray. A half-open door leads into the
bedroom; the bathroom's through there as well. Like the smoke, the clutter
is also faint but pervasive ... stray bits of paper, an empty cigarette
pack, a mostly-empty mug with traces of this morning's coffee. Conflicting
forces of Stray Junk and Persistent Tidying.
        In short, the place is in many ways /distressingly/ normal at
first glance. Till one notices that the blinds are always closed, even if
one of the windows is usually left partly open from the top; or the
astonishingly well-stocked medical supplies kept in the bathroom; or the
habit things have of getting knocked over, mussed, or actually vanished
when nobody's in the room. And that's without bothering to search the
place.

"...well that's bloody good to know, innit? Exactly /how/ did he - no, you
know what, I'm willing to bet /cash/ he wandered in and fucking told them
he was Sherlock fucking Holmes, and they put the straitjacket on right
then and there. But you're on your way home now?"

Pacing. Wisdom's definitely pacing. The shadow, up there in the window,
occasionally briefly goes past with both arms up - one holding phone,
other holding back of head; abruptly, the light goes out and there's the
sound of the windowshade flapping up at the top, drawn. And then Pete,
leaning out the window slightly with a cigarette, glancing up the street
but not down, listening to the phone at his ear. But John's likely already
in the stairwell anyhow, so it's /really/ going to surprise the spy.

There's a knock at the door. Well...no. It's not really a knock. It's more
like someone's kicking frantically at the door. A muffled but recognizable
voice, edged with urgency: "Wisdom, you there?"

Laughter echoes over the phone, for Pete's ear alone - literally. "You
know what? I just didn't ask." The lingering delight that she /always/
gets from one of these runs is quite audible. "On my way home, yeah. Be
there soon, love, just need to snag my laptop."

And Pete's suppressing the agita he gets from when Kitty goes on one of
these runs and he comes home and finds out about it from the telephone.
"Well /good/, because I--"

Surely she's not home this soon. And she has a key. And wouldn't kick the
d-- aha. That's a Constantine, that is. Looking a bit nonplussed for a
moment as he adjusts from conversation to situation, he goes over to the
door, still on the cell. "Mind, John's going to be here when you get in.
He sounds a bit under the weather, I'm thinking." Opening the door. "Or
maybe he just really needs to take a piss and couldn't wait to get
home..." Pause. "Shit. See you in a bit, love, it's all right." Click.
"What've you done now?"

Constantine stands there, pale and wide-eyed with pain. His right hand is
clamped tightly over his upper left arm. His left sleeve is gone--not
torn, simply gone--from the shoulder to just below the elbow. That part of
the arm itself is soaked in blood. "*I* didn't do anything," he says
irritably. "It was a fucking setup. Got a first aid kit, mate?" He pauses,
then explains, "They were trying to blow my brains out. Clipped my arm
instead. I was lucky." He puts a wry twist on that last word.

Opening the door the rest of the way and pocketing the cellphone, Wisdom
clicks directly into business mode. "Of course I've a got a first aid
kit." He steps aside, gives John a cursory analytical once-over, then
heads for the bathroom. "Mind you shut the door, all right? And lock it.
Take off your shirt, too." Sounds of things being moved about in the
bathroom, something falling and clattering, a muffled curse.

Constantine steps inside and pushes the door shut behind him with one
foot. He reaches for the lock with his bloodstained right hand, stopping
himself just in time. Instead, wincing at the use of the injured arm, he
fumbles it closed with his left hand. Then he strips off his ruined
shirt--including the remnants of his left sleeve--and drops it casually on
the floor. Beneath it glints the medallion Sera gave him. Wow, all he
needs now are sunglasses and silk pants and he could be Constantine the
Pimp.

And Pete comes out of the back, one hand holding the white plastic box,
the other in the process of rolling up one sleeve. Then he switches hands
as he's walking, rolls up the other sleeve; he's squinting at John's arm.
"Arm's the worst, then, yeah? Going to have to get the grains of powder
out or they'll scar, by the by. Want a local or just a be-- a beating for
getting yourself /into/ these situations?" Opens up the kit, sets it on
the counter. Starts pulling some paper towels off a roll near the sink.
"Start rinsing it, will you?"

Constantine nods shortly. "The arm's the only place I got hit." He rolls
his eyes. "This was the arm that hadn't got shot yet, either," he
complains. Indeed, there is a bullet scar at roughly the same place on his
right arm. He winces, but goes over to the sink and puts his arm under the
water. "I haven't a clue how it happened." Pause. "No, that's not true.
Blithe must've arranged it."

Pete eyes John for a moment. "That's the only place you got hit? You're
paler than that." There's no followup, though, just a handing over of
paper towels with which to rinse. "Are you drinking at all?" Because
you're going to need a beer while I get the black powder out with
tweezers. No, there's no easy way. He takes out the alcohol swabs and the
bandages, and turns on the light over the sink. And, yes, the sterile
gauze.

"Yeah, it--" Pause. "Now that you mention it, afterwards I got kicked."
John looks longsuffering. "In the crotch." That won't explain paleness
from blood loss, but it might explain paleness from pain. "I didn't think
what I said to her was *that* bad," he adds plaintively. Then he realizes
that he has some explaining to do. "The only reason I'm alive is this bird
had a vision of my death and ran to help me. Don't even know her name," he
muses. Oh, the romance! "She kicked me, then left, when I suggested taking
her out for dinner sometime. Uh--yeah, I am." He eyes the first aid kit.
"A beer'd be favorite right now. And, uh, be careful. My blood's a
bit...odd."

"Yeah, yeah, acid," says Pete, waving a dismissive hand. "Which means
paper towels instead of a clean facecloth." He's already turning away,
headed for the fridge. "Promise not to burn you if you don't eat holes in
the formica." Right. A beer for you, and - not going to have a beer until
he's had a chance to eat something. Not going to eat anything while
digging gunpowder out of John's arm. So, not going to have a beer for a
bit, dammit. He sets the open bottle in front of John and raises his
eyebrows, holding up an alcohol swab. "Drink first. Don't want you
screeching."

There's a key in the lock, and the door eases open, Kitty slipping through
and doing the shut-and-lock-behind reflex while she takes in the rest of
the room. Pete, sleeves rolled up. John, involuntary blood donor to the
floor. "'Shit' was pretty descriptive, all right," she comments, eyes a
little wider. Though Kitty's not looking precisely herself at the moment,
either. Actually, she's looking /their/ age, a good ten years older than
she normally would, curls showing a bit of gray and decidedly underslept -
and the dark-blue blouse and black slacks are rather less casual than her
normal mode of dress. Though the backpack she's setting on the floor is
the usual one, at least. And the whole thing is much less disturbing than
Constantine in quite that much scarlet.

Constantine rolls his eyes. "I don't think it's *that* strong of an acid."
He grimaces, picks up the beer, and downs about half of it at once. He
smiles weakly at Kitty and waves his right hand at her. This may have been
a mistake, as his right palm looks like he placed it firmly on a
newly-painted stop sign.

"Well, fuck. It'd better not be, the amount you've dripped already. Didn't
hear hisses, though, so it's just dragon-scorches...well, and
me-scorches...oi, Pryde. All right?" Pete glances up, then raises his
eyebrows again. She wasn't /kidding/. Well, at least Holmes is as good as
his name. The look in his one blue eye tells Kitty something it wouldn't
at all have told Constantine - Wisdom's in something of a Mode at the
moment. "Have something to eat. I swear, *timing*. On his part.
Couldn't've figured it out two days ago or anything." He's already looking
down again, starting to clean it once more with a fresh swab. Then we get
to tweeze. Ow.

"Let's hold off on the eating till the kitchen isn't a health hazard, I'm
thinking." Kitty doesn't actually stare at Constantine's hand; she's seen
worse. Which is, actually, kind of a disturbing thought, and she veers off
of it hastily. "What /happened/? - sorry, you'd think I'd've learned not
to ask. But I've been not-asking all evening, and may have run out of my
quota." And she's a little light-headed at the moment, but that doesn't
stop her from leaning on the end of the counter. "Need any spare hands? -
And yes. All right. Nothing more intimidating than having to scare off
some poor kid who was surfing porn from work. And we got out with what we
needed, anyway." At least the chatter might help distract John.

Constantine winces at the swabbing, then takes a deep breath and has
another sip of the beer. Yay, alcohol. He takes another deep breath before
explaining to Kitty, "I walked out of a bar and saw a man attacking a
woman who..." He pauses a moment, looking slightly embarrassed. "Who
looked a lot like Seravina. I stopped him, but she, uh, wasn't Seravina."
A beat. "In fact, she had a gun. I almost dodged the first shot--" He nods
at his arm, then winces again. "But the second would've got me if not for
some bird who'd had a vision of my death and run over to help me. She took
out the woman, and then we had to run from two other snipers." Pause. "She
wasn't happy about the whole thing in the first place, and then when I
offered to take her out for dinner sometime, she, uh, kicked me." No need
to say where. "When I got up off the ground, I came here."

"Was it at least good porn? We can move to the bathroom, I want you to eat
something. And while you're at it I'd worship the ground you walked on if
you made a sandwich or something for me, too." This metabolism and
not-eating don't get on all that well, but. Not overtly complaining. Not
even really complaining. Just getting cranky. Autopilot's so useful.
Wisdom tosses the second alcohol swab alongside the first, in the sink,
takes out a little bottle of local anaesthetic and drips some of it on the
affected area, then picks up the tweezers. "Finish your beer, you can have
another." He has /not commented/ on asking the girl out, and her reaction
to it. He does, however, ask wryly, "Were you at least /close/ to us?"

Snipers. Kitty acquires an annoyed expression that verges - very faintly -
on the protective. "Okay," she mutters, in a 'giving notice to the
universe at large' tone, "this is going to be /stopping/ now, thank you."
Aloud, she adds, "I've got no idea how good or bad the porn was; I was too
busy scaring the kid into next week. Needed the station he was using. But
it worked," and this is timed for when Wisdom is /not/ doing anything to
Constantine's flesh. "Holmes knows where Melanie and Claire are now. This
is going to be over soon." No more bullets. Dammit. And no more visions of
/death/, which is actually what has Kitty rather more disturbed. She
stalks into the kitchen and assaults the fridge, digging for that offered
second beer first before she starts rummaging for anything closer related
to sandwich materials. "You meet the best classes of women, don't you,
John."

Constantine obligingly finishes the beer. No problems there! "Sort of
close. Did you hear a crash not long ago? That would've been some rusty
old fire escapes falling down and burying the last sniper underneath
them." He struggles not to look at the tweezers. Then he blinks at Kitty.
"He does? That's good. And she was really quite a tidy bird! I don't know
why she was *that* offended." He glances downward protectively. His poor
bits.

Pete /would/ have suggested a fairly logical line of reasoning, but any
comments in that area have been superseded by the new and Extremely Damn
Important Information from Kitty. Wisdom actually stares, the hand holding
the tweezers dropping to the counter - has to wait for the anaesthetic to
take effect first anyway. While he's waiting, and staring, he's also
wiping down the tweezers with yet another alcohol swab. "Does he," he says
softly, and there's a funny kind of grin tugging at one side of his mouth.
Good. Oh my god, it /will/ end. "She's alive, then. Thank God. If we'd -
if it'd been /us/ caused her d-- but, she's not dead." Distracted glance;
he's fallen out of mode with the news, which is kind of a pain because
wound, still. "It's a naff little wound you have, John, once I've done
getting the powder out I'm packing it open. Try not to get it infected.
And stop off at the Osco down the Stretch, buy more gauze." There! Tweeze.
No warning.

Kitty nods back to Pete, silent reconfirmation; she's alive. Not dead. And
then Kitty's blinking at Constantine again. "Fire escapes /falling/ on
him? I swear, you and Seishi are the only people I've ever met whose lives
are weirder than ours." Which is what 'thank God, they're not going to be
coming after you again immediately' sounds like when run through the Kitty
filter. She opens the second beer for Constantine absently and hands it
over, then finds a spare bit of counter well away from the medical
treatment going on to reserve for food-preparation.

"That's certainly a relief," Constantine mutters. "Sick and tired of--OWW!
*Fuck*!" Swearing helps the pain. A little. It still hurts, despite the
anaesthetic. He takes a deep, shaky breath. "Yeah. That woman who rescued
me," then kicked me in the balls, "pulled it down on him." He thinks for a
moment. "One of them's still alive, I think." He frowns. "But I'm pretty
sure he lost track of me fast, or he would've shot me before I got here."
Oh, that's comforting. He quickly grabs the beer. "Ta." He then proceeds
to down it steadily.

"Wuss," says Pete with equal parts disgust and affection. The hand holding
the tweezers drops again, and Pete eyes Constantine. "You going to be
whinging the entire time? With the amount of anaesthetic I put in there,
it hurts less than getting a tattoo." He glances up at Kitty, idly
wondering exactly what she's going to put in the sandwiches, if indeed it
is sandwiches that she's in the process of making. If it's not sandwiches,
he doesn't want to know. "On the other hand, they could've been following
you. But it doesn't matter much, since half the bloody city knows where we
live." Tweeze again! No, this is not torture, why do you ask? Why are you
looking at me like that? It's not vengeance either, because what, after
all, would Wisdom have to wreak vengeance on Constantine for? What indeed.

It's at least one sandwich. Since she's not being too picky about what
goes into it, beyond that it had to be in the fridge, edible without
cooking, and nowhere near acquiring sentience, it's probably destined for
Wisdom. Rabbit food is off to the side, being more or less ignored at the
moment. "Didn't see anyone when I came in," Kitty puts in helpfully. "And
between us living this close to Chinatown and it being generally after
sunset, yes, I was looking."

Constantine grimaces. "No. I'll be fine." John is not a wuss! *Erik* is
the wuss around here, thank you very much. Ahem. "I don't think they were
meant to follow me," he points out. "I think they were meant to kill me on
the spot. That's certainly what they tried to do." He winces and bites his
lower lip, hard, but manages not to cry out this time. Also, he avoids
looking at the sandwich. He doesn't really need to be thinking about food
right now.

Bathroom's that way. "Right, right," says Pete, somewhat distractedly.
Between the one hand on John's still-bleeding arm, ow, and the other
holding the tweezers, one might wonder how Pete intends to eat the
sandwich, hint hint. But he's not going to ask. He can, however, hope. For
good measure, Pete lets go of Constantine's arm, ew blood, and picks up
the bottle of local anaesthetic again, applying it a bit more liberally
this time. He starts working the bits of gunpowder out with a bit more
dedication. The faster it goes, the less potential whinging, regardless of
what John may claim. "Kitty, would you mind setting up a pot on the stove
to boil? Not too big, just big enough to put dressings in. I have
absolutely no intention of finding out what happens when you mix potential
infection with demon's blood." He glances up at John with a distinctly
twisted grin. "No offense, mate."

"That's the trouble with these local thugs," Kitty says dryly. "No
follow-through." There's no accusation about the entire situation from
her; getting shot gets amazing amounts of leeway, really. She leaves
foodlike things aside in favor of slipping across to the stove; boiling
there shall be. "Right, this is me being a spare pair of hands. And - lo
and behold - /not asking/." Demon's blood? Weirdness threshold, invoked:
sometimes you have to stop being nosy and just deal.

Constantine winces some more. But by now it's more for show than anything
else. He just needs something to complain about. He tosses a brief smirk
back at Pete. "None taken." Yeah. There's an awful lot of getting shot
around here, apparently. He actually manages to grin at Kitty. "Not
asking's a great idea." He pauses, then asks, "Blithe hasn't tried to get
anyone else killed, has he? 'Cos this *had* to be Blithe." A beat.
"Actually, there are a lot of people who want me dead." As if Pete and
Kitty didn't know this. "But I think this one was Blithe's fault."

"You know," starts Pete, the tone not dry but completely arid, "you should
probably keep track of all the people trying to kill you. I tend to find
it ... useful. Not that anyone is after me in particular here, but in
general. It tends to lengthen your lifespan significantly." Slight pause,
as Pete glances up somewhat longingly at the sandwich on the counter.
"Most of the time. I don't know that he's tried to kill anyone else
lately, but unless you have any surprising ghosts popping up, maybe exes,
oh wait that's me." He's shutting up now. He deems it prudent. And still
he keeps on trying to get all the damn bits of black powder out of John's
arm. You'd think guns would be a bit more considerate. You shoot, the
bullet comes out, the bullet goes where it goes, there really doesn't need
to be all this fucking debris. Complicating things. Fucking complications.
"You know, these bits of gunpowder. It might just be me, but they look
like dots. I'm hungry."

"Wisdom," Kitty comments, "don't make me kill you before you're /done/
over there. I'm not really up to handling gunshot wounds." She shakes her
head toward John. "You're probably right, given the bait you mentioned.
And no, it's just you and Ray so far. Sei and Holmes are fine as of
tonight, Sera as of yesterday, and we're keeping at least half an eye on
everyone all the way up to and including Ray's ex-wife." She lets out a
breath. "And I'd better feed the bottomless pit there before he starts
giving dire warnings about his hands shaking. You'll probably want to
close your eyes."

Constantine smirks, humorlessly. "I know about most of them. Some of them
are difficult to track." He does not, however, offer any of the
information to Pete. He then turns his smirk back on Kitty. "Thanks for
the advice, love." In fact, he *does* close his eyes.

Given the speed that Pete's picked up in working at the wound, heh, he's
actually nearly finished. It is for this reason that he finds it
acceptable to look longsuffering. "Oh, ha ha, you lot kill me dead with
your jokes. This is me laughing helplessly. Don't bother me with wounds or
sandwiches, can't you see I'm busting a gut. Busting a gut, pff. Fucking
inane expression." He does glance up, pausing in the precision
undertaking, to track the progress of the sandwich. He offers Kitty a
fleeting grin, then goes back to watching what he's doing. Almost there,
almost there. "Nearly done, John. I know it's not much consolation, but we
should be glad Blithe isn't particularly efficient. Or organized." Pause.
"Or even as bright as he seems to think he is. I'm liking the lack of
follow-up."

Yes, yes, she's feeding him already. It's very much not cute, however;
efficient more than anything else. Also efficient at keeping crumbs the
/hell/ away from John's arm. "Mm. He's got a learning curve," Kitty adds,
"but it's not all that good of one. Still, if he thinks to check the
addresses the hospital has for people, things might get a bit worse.
Presuming anyone /gave/ the hospital their real address. Though I suppose
at least Jack and Kate must have, and I don't know about the rest."

"He probably just hired a bunch of druggies who were desperate for cash."
Constantine smirks yet again. Yeah, not long ago John was about to die
horribly, brains splattered all over some obscure alleyway, and now he's
making snide comments about his would-be killers. Go figure. "*I*
certainly didn't give them my real address," he comments. He's hardly
stupid. "I'm almost surprised at the lack of a follow-up," he comments. He
was half-expecting the killers to follow him here, shoot both Pete and
Kitty, and leave only John alive. That would've been hell. The ghosts
would *never* leave John alone.

It's probably a good thing Pete's mouth is full at the moment. Actually,
not that that's ever stopped him before, but there's a bit more, you know,
danger of getting bits of food in the gunshot wound on John's arm, so for
once he actually eats with his mouth closed. Which, of course, saves Kitty
and John from having to deal with his remarkable wit. For the moment,
anyway. And no, just in case you're still wondering, it's about as far
from cute as you can get. Considering the blood, the fact that it's Pete
eating, the fact that Kitty looks remarkably disturbed by the way Pete
eats, which - Pete insists - has nothing to do with the way he eats, and
considering the fact that the two of them have a bit more tact than all
that. And by the way, now he's finished. The tweezers are set down, Pete
swallows, and he reaches over to take a roll of gauze from the set of
things he'd set aside from the first aid kit, and hands it back to Kitty.
Now that his mouth is free, he notes calmly, "Toss this in the pot on the
stove? I don't trust the level of sterility of the counter." He reaches
over again, snagging one last alcohol swab to go over the entire area once
more before packing it, then steals another bite of sandwich before Kitty
walks away.

Actually, the snide comments have Kitty more reassured about Constantine's
condition than anything else. Look, he's acting like himself again! This
is either reasonably good or infinitely horribly bad. At any rate: gauze,
boiling, yes. "Mm. Hasn't been a second try on Ray, either, that I know
of. Lack of follow-up might be characteristic. Or your one guy still loose
could just be looking at what happened to his friends and deciding now is
the time to run the hell away." She sounds remarkably cheerful about that.
"Or, of course, he could be waiting outside to take another shot at you on
exit. But not too likely. Normally I'd offer to go and take a look around
in a bit, but I'm not sure I'm up to staying intangible that long just
now." And after the other day, Wisdom might just knock her over the head
for her own good if she tried pushing too hard. Oh, and yes. The ghosts
never /would/ leave John alone. Fortunate that Pete and Kitty have a
couple of knacks for getting through that sort of thing, really.

Constantine avoids watching Pete eat. Yes. Definitely. And he's silently
thankful for the lack of comments from Wisdom for those brief few moments,
too. He winces some more, although he looks grateful that the Tweezing of
Doom is over. "Sounds like that's what's happened," he agrees with Kitty.
"Blithe doesn't seem to hire the most reliable sorts. I'll be fine getting
home from here," he adds. Knock on wood.

There, alcohol swab go in sink with other alcohol swabs. Pete straightens,
tugging lightly at John's arm to position it so the wound is vaguely
horizontal. Above the heart, anyway. "Try," Pete swallows with a vaguely
pained look, then he tries again. "Try not to bleed too much while I get
those. The less blood on the floor, the better." He starts the water
running in the sink, briefly rinsing his hands, just getting them so they
look clean. Then he can't help it, he looks at Kitty first, then at John,
grinning like an idiot. He cheerfully wanders over to the stove and
reaches barehanded into the boiling water and takes out the gauze. He
squeezes the gauze. Getting the excess water out of it and trying not to
get any water anywhere other than directly over the pot of steaming,
boiling water over the open flame. No, his hand can't be anything but
sterile at the moment, why do you ask. Fucking showoff. He wanders back
over, still grinning, and shakes out the gauze a bit, trying to cool it
off some before packing the wound. Seems like a considerate thing to do.
By the time the anaesthetic wears off, it will have cooled off all the
way. Then he proceeds to actually start packing the wound. "You *are*
going to need to change the dressing at least a few times in the next
forty-eight hours. If you like, I can ring and remind you."

That /bastard/. Kitty just stares at the pair of them. And flinches.
Twice. Both when Pete reaches into the boiling water in the first place,
and when gauze contacts Constantine's flesh. She'll probably return to
being talky shortly; right now, she can't even find it in her to dispute
with John over his getting home safely.

A wry smile twitches up the corners of Constantine's mouth. "Right, mate.
Trying not to bleed too much." Then he rolls his eyes. "Bloody showoff."
But his tone is mostly affectionate. After all, the guy just cleaned out
John's rather nasty wound. John winces at the sight of the gauze
approaching him, but it's for show. "Nah, I'll manage on my own." Yeah.
Right.

"Mmhmm," comments Pete, watching John sidelong. As long as John's arm
remains horizontal for the moment, Pete can leave the gauze sitting there
until he can get a bandage to wrap around. Which he does, promptly. As
he's wrapping it, he flashes Kitty a grin, again, totally unrepentant,
then looks back at John. "I take it the local anaesthetic's working, then.
You may want to take some painkillers. Pre-emptive, like."

Kitty shakes her head, glancing away back at the stove. Maybe she can
blame /it/ somehow. "You two," she mutters, mostly under her breath.
Mostly.

Constantine winces again, almost for real this time. "That'd probably be a
good idea, yeah." Kitty gets a sidelong glance and a bright smile. Did you
say something about "us two"? Naaah, couldn't be.

There is an equally cheery grin from Pete, at Kitty, as he finishes
wrapping up John's arm, keeping the packing in place. Just tucks the end
of the bandage in, not bothering with, you know, those cutesy little
fasteners that they designed for WUSSES. "You should be used to this by
now, Kitty." Pete looks back at John, raising his eyebrows. "All set,
mate. Try not to get shot again." Pete's expression and tone get quite a
bit more serious than they've been throughout most of the conversation.
"You really were lucky." Another brief pause. "*Very* lucky."

/Both/ bastards. Kitty glares impartially at the both of them, right up
till Pete says 'all set'. "Try not to get -" Oh, for crying out loud. She
lets Pete say the rest by /himself/, dammit. "You two. Both impossible.
Try not to get blood poisoning, either," she adds to Constantine,
"presuming that's even /possible/ for I am not even going to finish that
sentence." She shakes her head, leaning back against the counter and
looking resigned, and absently turning the heat off under the water.

"I'll do my best," Constantine replies dryly. "I don't really care for the
experience, myself." Then he too goes serious. "Yeah. I know. Thanks,
mate." He nods to Kitty, then grins brightly at her. "Don't worry, it was
a transfusion." See, she really didn't want to know. With that, he heads
for the door.