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It was said John Constantine courted death. Rubbish.
He’d never one given her flowers; unless you counted numerous wilting arrangements left on other’s graves (she didn’t). He’d never written her poetry, though could be surprisingly eloquent when praying for people not to take her hand. It even rhymed sometimes.
He’d never taken her out to dinner, met more than one of her family or bought her presents other than the demons he sent into her embrace (which left the smell of sulphur in her hair for days).
No, John Constantine had never courted Death. He was a dynamite shag though.