Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gotham winters were always brutal. Even after his arrival at the manor, Jason always spent them wrapped in extra layers, spending as much time as he could inside. Now, after his resurrection, the biting cold seemed unable to reach him, leaving him free to work while everyone else stuck to the warmest place they could find. Almost everyone, anyway.

Unfortunately, the cold was not enough to ward off Black Mask's crew, so Jason was forced to run back and forth across the alley putting out fires. All too often, literal ones. As of right now, he was seated on the roof of an old office keeping an eye out for a group he knew would be passing through. Gotham flickered through his mind like a second set of eyes, watching the men stumble down alleys through gargoyles and storm drains. Mikey said they had been hassling some of the kids out on the east end of the alley, kicking them out and threatening the ones that resisted.

The anger that ran through him was familiar, though it was much more him now that he was back in Gotham. Hard to go on a mindless rampage when you had a city prodding you for attention every few minutes. Still, he had needed to take quite a few deep breaths before he was ready to find them without leaving them bloody. Gotham cast her eyes outward as the men finally came into his view, keeping watch for anyone who might interrupt him.

Jason dropped onto the first guy's shoulders, sending him to the ground with a cry. His friends had barely started to turn by the time he had grabbed another by the collar and sent him flying into a wall. The two still standing had finally realized who they were up against, and seemed very ready to ditch their friends, “Whoah, easy! We're not looking for trouble-”

He didn't get the chance to finish, as Jason's boot hit his chest with a crack, leaving him to wheeze through his broken ribs. As he moved toward the last man, Gotham sent him flashes of a girl dressed in purple swinging toward him. A new one, since he was one of them at least, and not one he recognized. He changed course, kicking the man's knee in as he ran past. He leaped into a climb that carried him up onto the nearest roof, hoping she would stop for first aid or info. She didn't. Evidently I'm a big enough threat to be worth ditching injured civilians. Good to know. Didn't matter now, he just needed to get away.

One of the first things you learn in Gotham, whether you're in the gangs or not, is that you can't outrun a bat. Luckily for Jason, his new title didn’t take away any of his training, and he knew this city better than anyone. Purple, however, had no way to know this, and stubbornly kept chasing after him. He glanced down to the streets below as he threw himself from yet another roof, hoping to find some trouble to distract her with, but the streets remained quiet except for their chase. Jason shifted his focus, letting Gotham guide his path as he drew his gun. He twisted around as he ran, firing at her feet. Unsurprisingly, she leaped out of the way, cursing under her breath.

Jason was fast, but he couldn't run all night. Eventually Purple would call in backup, or worse, land a tracker on him and give up; and despite B’s thoughts, he wasn't interested in outright fighting anyone who didn’t deserve it. As far as he knew, Purple was clean, and so actually shooting her to get out of this was off the table. That left him with a timer on how quickly he could lose her, and with Barbara on her side it wouldn't be easy.

Gotham led him toward the docks, showing him gun deals, bar fights, and anything that might draw her attention away from him. He pressed himself, running faster as he shot his grapple line. He threw himself off the roof, pulling his legs up to break the window into a room of Penguin's lieutenants. Guns came out before his feet were even on the ground, bullets hitting his armor and no doubt leaving plenty of bruises; but Purple didn't get the warnings Gotham gave him, and stumbled to get out of the way. Jason slammed his shoulder into the door at the end of the room, dropping down the nearest stairwell, letting Gotham ease his landing.

As he broke out onto the streets, he ducked as best he could out of the camera's sights. Turning into an alley, he pressed the release on his helmet, tucking it under his jacket as he began the trek back to his current safehouse. It wasn't pretty, and definitely wasn't heated, but it was far enough from the bats, and didn't make the fire he stored in his soul crawl, so it counted as a win. He sighed as he wove through his traps, tossing his gear to the ground and pulling out ingredients for dinner. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

           Shit. It was rare that John’s work went well, but this was bad, even for him. His head hurt, his ribs hurt, his legs hurt, and he had cuts covering his arms and chest from the shelves he’d been thrown into. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and limped out into the street. He was damn tired, but there were too many bloody people around to open a door home, and with as much magic as he'd used already it was a bad idea regardless. He staggered as he patted his pockets, hoping that his lighter hadn't fallen during the fight. 

            Constantine had been looking for an old book on magical weapons when he stumbled into a summoning, and now he was trekking back and forth across the globe to keep the damned thing in hell where it belongs. His search had led him here, to western Connecticut, where he had successfully found the ritual, but also found a very upset demon, and got beaten to hell and back for his trouble. By the time he had sent the bastard back to hell, almost all of the runes he needed to examine were scraped beyond recognition, and he was no better off himself.

          Now he was going to have to do a whole new tracking spell to find another site, which meant more time for them to prepare, which meant an even worse day when he did catch up to them. He cursed under his breath as he pulled his hands out of his tragically empty pockets. He would have to stop by a gas station. He desperately regretted not charming his pocket, and with the exhaustion that bore deep into his bones he doubted he should be wasting energy on lighting fags with magic. God he was tired.

          He staggered into the corner store at the end of the block. The sound of the bell on the door struck new pain into his head, making him sway in the doorway. He scanned the spinning rack by the counter for a lighter, nearly knocking some to the floor as he grabbed one. He leaned against the counter and tried to ignore the way the cashier eyed his bloody shirt. If he didn't say anything, she probably wouldn't call an ambulance, and he'd be able to keep on his way unbothered. For once, the world took pity on him and she let it slide, so now he could have a smoke at the very least.

          The smoke eased the pressure in his head a little, but the back of his skull still throbbed as he wandered toward the city center. He was in no state to get home on his own, but if he could find somewhere with enough of its own magic, he could draw on it to summon a door. Hopefully he'd feel better in the morning to track down another ritual.

          The way to the subway was cold and half uphill. John's dried blood pulled against his skin as he walked, and he pulled his torn coat closed to hide it from view. Buildings passed as he staggered towards the subway. The tiles were grimy and chipped from years of people passing through, and nobody gave him a second glance as they trudged towards their destination. Glancing for transit cops, Constantine heaved himself over the turnstile, wincing as he landed. Wind began to rush through the tunnel as he limped up to the platform. Weaving between the crowds, he stared down the tunnel at the approaching train.

          The screech of the brakes echoed off the concrete walls, announcing the arrival well before the artificial voice came over the speakers. John's side lit up with pain as passengers shoved past him to leave the train. Hissing through the pain and pressing against his barely healing wounds, he stepped aboard and dropped into the first open seat. 

          Taking deep breaths to brace himself against the pain, John shut his eyes and let his awareness spread, running through the consciousness of the crowd like an electric current. The train pulled itself into motion as he began to search the area for the magic he would need. Annoyingly, the states didn't have that many truly old buildings. The few that they do have are often guarded or under the watchful eyes of dozens of tourists, making them miserable places to do magic. Resigning himself to a long ride, he leaned back in his seat and kept his mind above ground, watching for someplace he could use.

          By the time he found someplace fit for his use, John's body ached from the rocking of the train, a constant push and pull that did nothing to help his headache, and kept the pain from his cuts fresh. Blindly stumbling out of his seat as the train pulled into the station, he pressed forward the moment the doors began to open. Gritting his teeth as he climbed up the stairs, he pressed up into the light. The place he had found was only a few blocks west, but with the speed he was walking it was likely to take a damn long time. He cursed every decision he’d made to get here, and started walking.

          At this time of day, especially on a day when respectable types would all be at work, the library was almost empty. The railing was ice cold as he pulled himself up the cracked steps, but he was almost grateful for the numbing cold. One less ache was a good thing.

          The library was old, and the wooden doors creaked as they opened. John was met with an echo of almost a century worth of people's dedication. It would do. He ducked past the help desk while the librarian was doing paperwork, covering the blood on his shirt with his trench coat.

          Old books on older shelves stood tall on either side of him. A quick glance to either side proved that he was alone, and he set to work. Calling on what little magic was woven into the place, he opened a door.

          Home. He'd missed the place. Some stitches and lots of bandages later, and he was sat at the table, shoveling leftover takeout into his face so he could go to bed without his stomach waking him. Most likely, it had been in his fridge long enough to put him in the hospital. He didn't really care. He'd use a healing spell when he woke up.

          He did wake up. It was as impressive as every other time he'd made it through a fight, and just as painful. His whole body cramped as he pulled his way out of his blanket, limping to the kitchen. At the very least, his magic seemed to be rekindled. A handful of ingredients and a few sentences were enough to clear him of the worst of his injuries. Now he had to actually do shit.

          The tracking spell took almost three hours to set up, and by the time he was done his back was hurting and his leg was asleep. After setting it up it was fairly quick to cast, and he let fire pour out from him to sniff out the next summoning. Sparks danced across the room, then swarmed, until there was a small fire the size of a candle sitting a ways south of where he was now. Gotham. Goddammit all.