Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason didn't dream anymore, a side effect of the pit, if he had to guess. And yet, one night, after he'd been shot at and thrown through a window and dropped in the harbor, he dreamt of you. Whatever hazy dream-joy he felt at seeing you quickly decayed as he took in the wider scene.

You were tied up somewhere underground—even in a dream he could feel the weight of the earth above your head. Worse, you were bleeding, face twisted in unbelievable pain that made it clear to him you'd suffered more wounds he couldn't see. Shadowy figures crowded around you. They chanted and painted symbols in the stone beneath you, carving more into your body as you thrashed against them—always the fighter.

Then you shouted his name, screamed it with pain tearing at your throat. The sound seemed to echo through his chest, cutting at his heart.

He jolted awake with your name on his tongue and an ache of yearning for you that radiated into his bones. It hurt enough he thought for a second that he'd broken a rib.

The apartment was too dark and the couch beneath him too soft so that he forgot where he was. For a moment, he could feel dirt in his lungs and the sting of broken skin on his hands. Then a siren careened down the street outside, lights flashing through the gaps in his blinds and he remembered. He'd crashed on the couch after patrol and stupidly fallen asleep with his guns still strapped to his thighs. He'd lost the feeling in one leg. Pins and needles tore through him as he moved it slowly.

Jason needed to know you were safe—preferably in his arms, your head tucked in the curve of his collarbone, your calm, steady breath against his skin. But he would take any shred of proof at the moment.

It was just a dream, he tried to tell himself. Just a dream when he hadn't had a dream in years. He couldn't go hunting you down just to prove a dream wrong. Dreams didn't mean anything.

But Jason had never had such luck as would let him actually believe that.

He grabbed the necklace out from under his shirt. You'd given it to him, a small stone pendant with a mysterious pattern of loops and knots carved into it.

"Think of it like one of your burner phones," you'd told him.

"Can't I just give you a burner phone?"

You laughed at him. "Tech doesn't always work in some of the places I end up. Since you insist on being able to check on me at all times—"

"Basic protocol," he said, already slipping the necklace on.

"Sure, it is." You rolled your eyes. "Hold this close," you picked up the pendant and held it between both hands to demonstrate, coincidentally pulling him into your space, "and think of me."

He hovered an inch or two away, bending a little as the necklace pulled him down towards you. He could see the gold in your eyes, glowing faintly like distant lanterns, could feel the warm humming of the magic that coursed under your skin. He wanted to follow it, chase it like a kid after fireflies.

Think of you? "Easy enough," he said.

"It'll call me," you continued. "You can talk to me, even track me. I know how you Bats love your tracking devices."

"Rude," he said, smiling.

"Accurate." You smiled too, reluctantly maybe, as you dropped the pendant.

Now, he held the stone tight until the carving pattern pressed red lines into his skin. He imagined your face, your sometimes wicked smile, the light of your eyes, the twisting gold of your magic and the endless black tattoos that gave it direction. He thought of your stubborn commitment to your work, your skill and knowledge and the deadly combination of pride and compassion that drove you to improve both, the human heart you tried forgetting you had. You could be erratic and distant and for every two steps closer, you took one step away from him.

And he loved you for all of it.

He had no intentions of telling you, always firmly on the side of actions speaking louder than words. Maybe you felt the same, maybe you didn't. If he could only hear your voice, that would be enough just now, but nothing yet.

Jason wasn't naturally inclined to faith. He had always made his own luck, always been his own savior when it came down to it. Doubt was a comfortable second skin. Maybe the stone was a dud and you never intended to give him something so potentially dangerous as constant access to your location. It was a dagger and directions between your ribs and he knew it.

There is no faith without doubt, you told him once.

So, he sat with the silence and the roar of his pulse. The air itself seemed to vibrate with it.

No. Not his pulse. The heavy two-step of a heartbeat, but he didn't feel it in his chest. He whispered your name into the stone.

Jason? Your voice echoed faintly in his head, cracked with pain, and whatever relief he felt at hearing you sank with the idea that his dream might be true.

"Where are you?" he asked quickly. "Are you safe?"

Oh, God. You struggled to breathe, to string words together, and he could feel your panic rising. You can't... don't come looking for me.

"I had a dream. You called my name," he said.

I know. I know. But don't... Please, for once in your life... don't be the hero.

He almost wanted to laugh. Only you would accuse him of that.

"Where are you?" he asked again as he pushed himself off the couch and started getting the rest of his equipment together.

I don't know, you said, your voice fading. It's some idiot cult... collecting magic... I stopped paying attention about... two pints of blood ago.

"I'm coming to get you," he said, trying to sound calm, feeling as if blood were draining out of him instead. He was mostly dressed. Where were his fucking boots?

Don't. They'll... I won't lose you... to these fucking amateurs!

Then you screamed, bloody rage and pain, like someone had torn the sound out of you and he felt it as a bullet to the chest as he ran down his apartment stairs two-three-four at a time.

"I'm on my way," he said. "Do you hear me? I'm going to find you and bring you home."

As he gunned the engine of his motorcycle and shot off into the dead of Gotham night, he heard you again, hoarse and fainter than ever.

I love you too much.

Chapter Text

"I need your help."

John Constantine barely looked up from the bar he was slumped over. "Do I know you?" he asked, rather coherently through the bourbon, and despite the shadow and the bloodshot, his eyes gleamed—black ice, drive carefully, they said.

"We have a friend in common." Jason didn't even try to hide the irritation, his voice modulator grinding it to a sharp point.

Hunting the man down had been a trick. He needed information, a look into a very different kind of underworld than his usual beat. Plus, Constantine's worst kept secret was his bleeding heart, crown of thorns and everything. Nobody fought demons if their heart wasn't breaking for the world; nobody drank to forget people they didn't love.

You'd learned it from somewhere, after all.

Anyone else might have missed the change in Constantine's face, but not Jason. He was just as much a son of the shifting Gotham underbelly as he was a son of the Bat. He knew a crack in the mask when he saw it. Constantine had read your name off him somehow, despite not being able to see his face, and knew exactly who he meant.

He sat up straight on his bar stool. "Bugger. I told her not to go. The magic-sucking necromancy cult was on my to-do list."

Jason shifted his weight, grunting doubtfully.

Constantine squinted at him through the bloodshot. "She called you?"

"I need to find her. I'll do it with or without you."

He held up two fingers and shook them. "No. Nuh-uh. Not happening, kid. I'll go get her." Then he slid off the stool and almost crumpled to the floor, catching hold of the bartop to steady himself. "You wouldn't last a minute."

"You can't even stand up."

He stared hard at Jason. "She did a good job hiding that leaky Lazarus magic of yours, but the undead can smell it like blood in the water. They'll kill you for it, then bring you back as one of them and you'll just get in my bloody way before I have to put you down myself. And then she'll really hate me."

You rarely mentioned your wayward mentor around Jason, but he hadn't gotten the impression that you hated him—frustrated by his smoking and drinking and emotional constipation for sure, pitied him as a walking magnet for tragedy maybe, argued with him and judged him and recoiled at any traits you had in common, but you didn't hate him, not really.

Not that Jason had any right to make remarks on complicated mentor relationships.

"I can handle myself," he said. "And I have the All-Blades."

Constantine froze, alarmingly sober all of a sudden. The air hummed around him and his clear blue eyes flashed gold. "The All-Caste are all-dead," he said, with bitter humor.

"Not quite."

He blew out his lips, sending a nauseating wave of alcohol fumes at Jason. "Well, let's just hope and pray she has better taste in men than I do. Show us the rock then."

Jason didn't bother asking how he knew, just pulled the pendant out from under his armor. Constantine didn't touch it, but he brought his smell far too close for comfort.

"Ugh." He made a face. "Blood magic. Nasty stuff. Impossible to break, lucky for us. Should be easy enough."

When he leaned away, Jason took the opportunity to step back and said, "She told me it could track her. How does that work?"

Constantine rubbed at the scruff on his chin, then snapped his fingers. "Chalk," he said and brushed past Jason to stride right out the door of the pub.

He dashed out after him, letting the sweet sharpness of the cold air fill his lungs, the wanting ache in his chest a bullet wound, blood dripping over the snow. He could not wait for this nightmare to be over, for you to be safe.

"Where are we going?" Jason asked.

Constantine didn't answer, too busy digging through the pockets of his trashed coat. He weaved through the streets almost without looking until they came to an abandoned lot. The concrete lay in shambles, weeds and spray paint ran wild, and even the snow avoided touching its ground. Something had meant to be here, but aborted shortly after conception.

Jason narrowly avoided stepping on a dead bird with a red chest.

Then Constantine pulled a stick of white chalk from his coat and began drawing symbols.

"Remarkable thing about humans," he said, "we really are proper idiots, but even the thickest of our species can sense magic. Demons love that. They don't even bother with anyone else. Where's the fun in hunting something that doesn't know you're there?"

"Lucky us," Jason grumbled.

"You ever notice the storefront in every city that's always empty? The building that turns into a new restaurant every nine months because no one can keep in business there? A big patch of dead grass in an otherwise green lawn?"

"I guess. Are we moving towards a point?"

"Places like this—" He paused in his drawing and jumped on the ground like it might bounce back, scowling when it didn't. "—are where the lines between the planes of reality are thin. Easier for demons to pass through, but also—" He drew another symbol in another spot, then jumped again, nodding in satisfaction. "—easier for portals."

"Can't you teleport?"

He scoffed, scribbling some more, slowly building a circle wide enough to fit a truck. "You say that because my dear apprentice makes it look so easy. Now you see her, now you don't. But it's a rough thing on your soul, teleportation, and not all of us have a steady hold like she does. You and I have lost our grips before. I have no intentions of doing it again." He glanced up. "Do you?"

Jason thought about the months he'd spent alive, but not himself, like he was haunting his own body. Had his soul been loose until the pit shoved it back into place? Was it even where it was supposed to be? Or had he not held on as tight as he should?

"Whatever. Just hurry up."

Constantine stood and nodded towards the completed circle. When he snapped his fingers, it burst into fiery gold. "Waiting on you, kid."

Jason opened his mouth to say something caustic, stepped into the circle, and his vision went black.