Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He rowed the lifeboat a safe distance away, then carefully stood up, and steadied his balance.  Blue eyes fixed on the mega-yacht, he began pulling things out of the multitude of pockets on his trench coat.  The tail of a salamander.  A sliver of wood from the yacht itself.  A Zippo lighter engraved with spell circles.  Holding the first two between the fingers of his left hand, he began to chant in low, measured Latin.  One click from the Zippo, and he set both components alight.

He saw the flames before the smell of the smoke reached him.  He’d done the spell right--the entire 95-meter vessel caught fire all at once.  He didn’t dare take his eyes off the yacht as he finished the incantation.  He didn’t dare take his eyes off of it at all .  

He watched as a humanoid figure sprinted full-throttle to the railing of the main deck, hit it at the waist, and went toppling overboard.  He watched another do the same, and another.  He watched two hit the water with a hiss, and a third somehow manage to turn midair and claw at the hull.  He watched its nails dig into the steel, watched gouges open up in the metal as gravity dragged the flaming body to the water.

Yup.  He was right.  All ghouls, then.  There was not a single living soul left on that ship--they’d all been turned as they boarded by their host, a vampire.  Poor sods.  It looked like he himself was the only survivor--and he’d done right staying out of sight, stealing the ship’s manifest for a head count, casting a spell to see how many undead were on the vessel.  The numbers matched.  So out came the salamander tail.

He watched the boat burn, watched the ghouls mindlessly throw themselves overboard.  Watched them burn, or sink.  Any undead that didn’t get immolated would sink fairly quickly, without air in their lungs.  They’d be crushed by the inevitable blackness under the waves, no longer a threat to humanity.

Yep.  Not a living soul aboard the ship.  And he’d finished off all those hundreds of undead with one spell.  His work here was done--wait, was that Superman flying up from the bow deck, carrying a singed Batman in his arms?

Oh no.

Oh, no .

The salamander tail and splinter of wood burned to ash in his hand; he tossed their remains overboard and shook his hand off.  Out from another pocket came a pack of Silk Cuts, crushed, only two left.  If there were ever a time for a fag, it was now, when he was about to die.

He watched Superman deposit his singed friend on something black bobbing in the distance--probably a Bat-boat or something.  He could feel the Bat-glare from here, he was sure.  And then he was flying towards him, the man in blue pajamas with hands like polar bear paws, the man from the stars who could shoot laser beams from his eyes.  All he could hope for at this point was to reach the end of his cigarette before his brain got melted.  He had to weather a horrified, vaguely condescending look before Superman spoke.

“Did you do this?”  One of those ham-hands gestured at the burning yacht.

He let out a long, smoky breath.  “Do what?”

“Set the yacht on fire .  Did you do that?”

“Nah, mate.  Must’ve been you.  Misfire of the ol’ laser beam eyes, maybe?  S’okay; don’ let it bring you down.  I hear misfirin’s a statistical probability for men your age.  Nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

He watched the Man of Steel choke on something--emotions, probably, because walking humanoid nukes weren’t allowed to have them--before taking a deep breath and leveling a steady glare at him.  Oh, brilliant .  What was that, a tired dad look?  A reprimanding glare?  Fucking ponce.  The boy in blue was the last person he needed that shit from.

“How did you even get out here by yourself?  How old are you, anyway?”

Normally, his intense distrust of authority would have him lying, or dancing around the answer in some way, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he was about to get laser-roasted, and it loosened the truth from him.  “Fourteen.”

“Fourteen-- fourteen --you’re fourteen years old , out on the open ocean, and you set a mega-yacht on fire-- why ?”

“It was full’a ghouls, mate.  I’m sure you noticed.”

“We did notice, which is why we were on it too .”

“Well how was I supposed to know that?”  He took another drag from his Silk Cut.

Superman let out another strangled sound, a perfectly human frustration warring with the need to not curse out a child.  He kneaded his temples and took a deep breath.

“I don’t even want to ask how you did this, or how you knew about the ghouls.  But who are you?”

“You can call me Johnny.  Johnny Constantine.”

Chapter Text

Chomp.

Johnny lay slumped on the couch in the living room at Mount Justice, feet up on the coffee table, muddy red Chuck Taylors still on.  One hand sat on the couch cushion, idly mushing the channel-up button on the remote, while the other hand idly dove into a purple bag of something crunchy and spicy and snacky and shoved more of the stuff into his mouth.  He hadn’t even looked at what it was when he nicked it, but it tasted good enough.

Community service, they’d said.  That was why he was here.  Bullshit.  So much bullshit.

Turned out he’d set the mega-yacht on fire in international waters, so it was up to the UN to determine what was to be done.  When they’d heard Batman and Superman’s testimony that while yes, there had been property destruction, but that the boat had been full of undead , and as such there were no deaths, the UN had stopped them there.  What did or did not constitute murder when magic bullshit was involved was not their forte--so they’d put the matter solely in the Justice League’s hands.  Which meant Johnny’s fate was up to the two tossers he’d nearly burned to death--well.  Superman wouldn’t have died by fire, but he sure had been cranky.

And of course, singed or not singed, the second Batman had found out that Johnny had been abandoned before birth by his father, that his mother resided in a mental hospital in London, and that he’d been homeless and living on charity, tricks, and luck since he was 8...well.  He’s Batman.  He did what Batman does, and insisted the shitty little whelp had a soft bed and a hot meal.

Bastard.

Batman had had to compromise with Superman, though.  Superman was all for the “give the homeless child a place to live and food to eat” plan, but he also insisted that Johnny pay some kind of debt to society for property destruction.  So the Justice League had voted on it, and decided that his sentence was eight months of community service--by serving as a member of the Young Justice team.  And living at Mount Justice, a fortress with soft beds and hot food.

Bastards.  Bastards, all of them.

He didn’t need their damn charity.  He was fine on his own.  He’d milked the wealthy and gullible of Liverpool and then London to pay for his mother’s hospital bills for the last six years, and funded another five beyond.  He’d gotten the bloody Demons Three into his debt.  He’d swindled demons, fairies, kelpies, shapeshifters, a goddamn tulpa , and men and women from all walks of life, and made a livelihood from what they’d given him.  He didn’t need bloody Batman or bloody--what was her damn name, the biker chick--Black Canary breathing down his neck.  He sure as fuck didn’t need to be a God damn superhero .  He didn’t go in for the flashy shit.  Not his scene.

Still.  It was nice to have consistent access to telly.

“Don’t let KF find you doing that.”

The remote went flying as Johnny startled upright.  “ Bloody --bastard ghost --”  He whirled, scowling at the grinning face of Robin as the cheeky 13-year-old superhero perched like a gargoyle, feet balancing his slight frame on the back of the couch.  “Do ye have t’do that every bloody time you wanna talk to someone?!”

“Yup.”

Johnny let out a sigh, kneading the bridge of his nose.  “Why do I bother askin’.”

Robin nodded to the purple bag of crunchy snacks still in Johnny’s hand.  “I mean it.  Don’t let KF find you eating those.  Those are from his personal stash.”

Johnny blinked at the snacks.  Then, just to prove how much of a fuck he didn’t give, he plucked one out and chomped on it loudly.  “Why not?  Ee's a pushover. What’s mister long, pale, and ginger gonna do?”

“He might eat you. You haven’t seen him hungry yet.”

That only made him chomp louder.   “I en't afraid of the big bad ginge.”

That was about when the screaming started.

Johnny blinked at his hand, suddenly empty of snacks.  He blinked up at the ginger in yellow pajamas who had materialized out of nowhere--well, no.  Unlike Robin, who just melted out of shadows like a circus-colored vampire, the ginger just went so damn fast you couldn’t see him until he stopped .  It was unnatural--and this was coming from a wizard .

“MY TAKIS!!”  Kid Flash shook the half-eaten bag of chili-covered corn snacks in Johnny’s face.  “YOU MONSTER!!!”

“Yer wot ?”

Kid Flash shook the bag closer to his nose for emphasis.  “TA-KIS.  At least READ the BAG before you steal someone’s snacks!!”

Still perched on the back of the couch, Robin giggled--but also seemed keen on diffusing the ginger bomb.  “He also ate some of Kaldur’s fish.  And you know, it’s not cannibalism if you’re different species.”  He gave Kid Flash a meaningful look, an unspoken play along, please .  

Johnny wasn’t interested in de-escalation, or gratitude to Robin for trying.  He was hungry, and wracked with ennui.  He got to his feet, and just glowered at the speedster in the key of Goth Kid Major.

The speedster apparently wasn’t interested in peace, either.  He looked like he was vibrating-- physically vibrating; did he just do that or was it a trick of the light?--as he shook the bag in Johnny’s face yet again.  “These are MY Takis, you little thief! MINE! Do you have any idea how hard it is to find these things in Central?! I have to run all the way to California for them! Hot Cheetos don't even compare!”

That was it .  He didn’t have to take this--he didn’t care what kind of juice powered this kid, scientific or magical or some kind of radioactive bullshit--no one had a right to talk to him like this.  He snatched the chips right back out of the ginger’s hand, and shoved an aggressive handful into his mouth, chomping furiously.  It was sheer, unadulterated shock that kept the kid from yanking the bag out of the way at super speed, frozen at the utter gall of the shitty little Brit.

Robin sighed, his patience obviously wearing thin.  His tone grew perfectly serious.  “Listen.  KF’s pissed and hungry, Kaldur won’t mind if you steal more fish, and I’m from Gotham. Things get lean in the winter, and I know a few people with recipes for long pig. So maybe you should give those back before I get them myself, hm?”

Johnny glowered at the kid’s masked face.  The kid’s masked face glowered back.  He sighed, then slammed the stupid chips into Kid Flash’s chest.

“Fine. Eat the damn--what're they called?”

“Takis.  TA-KIS.  Corn cornucopias covered in spicy powder.  MY spicy powder!”

He rolled his eyes.  “Alright, alright; don' get yer knickers in a twist.”  He jammed his hands into his coat pockets and stalked away.

Sometimes Robin was alright.  Sometimes he had that damn holier-than-thou attitude, just like his old man.  The ginger was always annoying--mostly because he hated Johnny.  But that was fine.  Everyone had always hated Johnny.  He was used to it.  He risked hanging about in the living room anyway, because sometimes the telly was worth it--but it wasn’t worth it now.

He knew he’d made the right move when the tell-tale chime echoed through Mount Justice, the one indicating an incoming call from Batman.  The old man had a mission for the kids.

Nope.  Nope.  Absolutely not.  He’d avoided every mission that had been given out in the week since he’d arrived, and he wasn’t about to be saddled with one now.  He hustled into his bedroom before anyone could see him, locked the door, and drew to a halt.  He stood solid, held his hands out in front of him, thumbs and forefingers creating a triangle, and began to chant in quiet Latin.

Space rippled, and a little tear crawled through the air, a distortion with a blank whiteness shining through the crack.  He grabbed the edges of the crack, pulled it open, and with a little jump, yanked himself inside.

Ah, yes.  Blessed quiet.  He’d been using this pocket dimension--a sphere of blank white space, about ten feet in diameter--as object storage for years.  It was only recently he’d learned that he could survive in here; there was about sixteen hours of air per instance of opening the tear.  He could hide in here, play Animal Crossing in here, sleep in here--which he’d been doing more and more of ever since he arrived at Mount Justice.  Fuck soft beds if the Justice League were just going to yank him into their bullshit.  It was none of his business.  He wasn’t a hero.  Sod all of that cape and cowl nonsense; it wasn’t for him.  Not his scene.

Sure, all of his stuff was crowded in here, but that wasn’t a problem; he didn’t have much stuff to share space with, anyway.  And sure, there wasn’t gravity in the pocket dimension, but that probably wasn’t going to be a problem.

Probably.

Chapter Text

Part of him wondered if it was wise to spend six to eight hours a day floating around in a blank white pocket dimension space.  Time synced up to the material plane just fine, and he wouldn’t run out of air as long as he came out once every sixteen hours, but still.  It was harder to nick food when he was focused on hiding, so all he’d really been eating the last four weeks since he arrived was snacks, but…

But then he’d whip out his Switch and get lost in Animal Crossing, and then he stopped giving a fuck.

He just wished he had more smokes.  He’d managed on what he could nick, when he lived in London, but the opportunities to steal cigarettes while living in Mount Justice were less than nil.  Would’ve been nice to nick a bottle of scotch, too; he had a decent tolerance for someone his age, but it didn’t take much to get a decent buzz going, short as he was.  He could make strong liquor last a while, not have to worry about acquiring it so often.  If only he had a pack of Silk Cuts and a bottle of something strong, maybe a case of ramen noodles...he liked them dry as well as anything...then he wouldn’t have to come out except to open up the rift for air every sixteen hours.  He only wished.

Johnny did his best to pass through the kitchen like a ghost:  quiet as possible, fast as possible, a thought unseen.  He was still working on an actual invisibility spell, but even without it, he was decent at avoiding eyes.  Even so, he heard things.  He heard the Team had taken on a new member: a bird.  Lovely.  He didn’t care.

He had to start caring, though, when said bird opened up the rift to his pocket dimension the next day.  He looked up from his Switch and blinked, boggling at a half-Italian girl with dark hair, vest and tailcoat like a stage magician, only visible from the waist up as she pulled herself into the pocket space, blinking at him with eyes too bright and too blue and too beautiful--

Focus, you git.

“Uh.”  Smooth.  “Yer in me space.”

There was a pause before she spoke, and all Johnny could see was her big cerulean eyes blinking at him, perfectly innocent, perfectly curious.  “...Black Canary said you should come out and say hi.”  She glanced around the spherical white null space, with empty packets of crisps floating around, a couple of loose Switch games in various states of disrepair, a wad of clothes trapped in a laundry basket with a lid, four or five spellbooks open with their pages flapping about, and a rather puzzling array of arcane odds and ends.  “...Do you live in here?”

He blinked right back at her again, ice-blue eyes wide and baffled.  “Erm...s'ppose I do?”  But then, he scowled.  “Biker bird did, eh?  What for?  So Batman can pick me up by the scruff an' throw me at some mission I got no business bein' a part of?” 

The girl pointed back over her shoulder, which Johnny found amusing, considering the rift was more below her than behind her.  “Dinner time?”  Oh.  Oh right.  Food was a thing.  “Robin apparently brought food from someone he knows as a ‘welcome to the team-slash-Red Tornado has his legs back’ party, and he said it would be ‘totally asterous’ if you came.”

Asterous .  Of course he did.  As if it wasn’t hard enough understanding all these damn American accents, here was Bird Boy making up words from butchered bits of the English language as he pleased.  Johnny shifted the lollipop in his mouth from one side to the other with a flat, irate look, then returned his eyes to his Switch.  “Red Tornado?  You mean the git with the robot mask?  Why should I be arsed?  It's not like I'm here 'cause I want to be.”

The black-haired girl just shrugged her slender shoulders.  “You don't have to, but he's got fish and chips, and it smells amazing.”

His gaze immediately flicked up to her face, every line of him frozen.  Daring to hope.  He narrowed his eyes.  “Where'd you say the food was from?”

“Someone he knows?  He cited ‘Bat secrecy.’”

Johnny’s eyes dropped back to his game, and he let out a quiet grunt, disappointment bleeding off of every pore.  “It'll be shit, then.  No chance of findin' a decent chippy in the States.  Yanks haven't got a clue how it's done.”

Johnny watched the girl close her eyes and let out a deep breath.  He watched her find her focus.  He felt a tingling in the air, even in this extra-dimensional space, a faint taste of lightning on his tongue, and then…?  “.spihc dan hsif eht fo elpmas a em gnirB”  And lo, a piece of fish and some proper British chips appeared on a plate in her hands.

Johnny froze, his eyes huge , and the Switch, loose in his shocked hands, went floating away.  The cherry lollipop floated out of his mouth too, as his jaw hung loose, gobsmacked.  “Y…”  Bloody hell, use your brain , Constantine , he railed at himself before he could get out more than a syllable.  You didn’t even think to ask how she got in here?!   “Y...you’re magic .”  And human.  A human mage.  Like him.  He’d never met another person like him.  “Y...where the bloody hell’d you learn that ?”  He twisted to push a toe off the edge of the liminal space and float towards her.  “Were you speakin’ backwards just now?”  He reached tentatively towards the plate, huge eyes still fixed on it, but at the last moment pulled his hands back, as if afraid that it wasn’t real, or that it would curse him.

“My dad,” the girl answered, as if it were nothing.  “And...yeah? I'm not really the best at it, but I've got that summoning spell down now, at least.”  She held the plate out to him, like she was trying to coax down a frightened cat.

“Not the best?” he blurted.  “ Not the best?!   That was--that was brilliant , that was”  He could barely breathe, and it was all he could do not to trip over his words.  He wasn’t sure what amazed him more:  this girl , or the smell of the beautiful plate of fish and chips in front of him.  His stomach twisted on itself, growling angrily as it reminded him of his crisps-and-candy diet.  He took the plate tentatively from her, then stuck his foot down to push himself off the bottom of the sphere and back a bit, floating up and away.  Johnny inhaled the steam deeply off the plate, then picked up a piece of fish and took a single, careful bite.  “...b...bloody hell .”  He was six bites in before he spoke again.  “This beats the best chippy I’ve ever --”  He cut off as he devoured more.  For a few long moments, everything was a blissful delirium of fish and lemon and malt vinegar, and he didn’t speak again until there was a only a few meager chips left on the plate.

No, he did not have tears in his eyes, and he would absolutely deny it if accused.  Johnny licked his fingers, now a bit calmer.  He looked up at the girl, studying her for a moment, blue eyes curious and a bit less wary.  “...What’s yer name?”

She leaned on the edge of her hole into the pocket dimension, watching him as he ate--and grinned like the sun when he asked her name.

“Zatanna Zatara.  You’re Johnny Constantine, right?”

“S’right.”

He went back to his chips.  They were perfect, really, just the right amount of crisp on the outside--and then the surname sank in, and he nearly choked on one.  He swallowed, then coughed, then boggled at her.  “Did you say Zatara ?  As in, Giovanni Zatara ?”

“That’s my dad, yeah.”

Zatanna Zatara.  Giovanni fucking Zatara’s daughter.  Giovanni fucking Zatara, the greatest mage of his generation, without doubt or dispute.  Honestly, put Zatara up against any of the Justice League’s villains, even Superman’s, and Johnny’s money would be on Zatara.  Every time.

Throat still raw from nearly choking on potato, he let out a wheeze.  “What the bloody hell are the capes keepin’ me around for, when they’ve got you ?!”

She shifted, a little bashful, and looked away.  “Well, I haven’t set anything as big as a yacht on fire yet.”  Yet .  Oh, he heard that yet .  And the grace on her, to be bashful about this --

He wheezed again, inhaling a little too hard, and this time he did breathe in a chip.  He pounded himself on the chest until he coughed it out, and it began floating beside his face as he coughed and wheezed.  Great.  Smooth one, Johnny C.  Beautiful girl comes and gives you the angels' own fish and chips, and you're hacking up potato and your own spit into a zero-gravity zone.  Brilliant.  Wonderful.  You sodding git.   Bright red from ears to neck, eyes watering, he thumped on his chest until the involuntary coughing stopped.

Zatanna just started to giggle.  It was a guileless sound; despite the fact that she was probably laughing at him, he could never hold it against her.  “Do you want some more?”

Johnny wheezed until he found his breath, then wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist.  He nodded, face as red as a tomato.  “Uh-huh.”

She grinned at him, radiant and toothy.  She leaned up as much as she could, snatched his ankle, and dragged him down towards her rift in the pocket dimension.  “Come on, then.”

“Hnngh--?!”  He flailed for a moment as the plate and the last two chips floated out of his hands; he scrabbled for anything, but there was nothing to grab onto.  So, with a helpless wheeze, he just surrendered, and let himself be yanked out of his own pocket-space by this backwards-speaking angel.  He folded out of the tear in reality and unceremoniously crumpled onto the floor, forgetting for a second that gravity was a thing .  With an eloquent ugh , he began to haul himself to his feet, still wheezing a bit.

Zatanna was not content to wait for that; she grabbed his wrist and hauled him upright in one tug.  “There you go. Come on, before Kid Flash eats everything.”

He blinked at her, face redder than ever, eyes still wide and fixed on her...and then he blinked and came back to himself, his face folding into a scowl.  “Like fucking hell he will!” he growled.  Johnny rolled up his sleeves, and stalked out the bedroom door, ready to raise hell in the name of good English comfort food.

Zatanna followed close behind, giggling like mad.

Chapter Text

He’d never been to a party before.  Not a real one, anyway.  He kept on thinking how it was nothing like he’d imagined, but instead just a bunch of mates milling about, acting like immature tossers and having a great time.  He himself was preoccupied with eating as much fish and chips as he physically could, swatting Kid Flash’s hands every time the little ginger fuck tried to snatch food before he could grab it, and trying not to look like he was staring at Zatanna as he stared at Zatanna.  She was honestly the strangest person he’d ever met, and he’d met demons and an immortal shapeshifter.  He couldn’t put his finger on it for half the night, until it finally hit him.

She liked him.

She actually enjoyed being around Johnny Constantine.

No one did.  He’d only ever been a waif or a burden or a baby con-artist.  He wasn’t exactly happy that way, but those were just the cards that life had dealt him, and he’d spent all his energy focusing on playing a winning hand regardless.

It was just so damn weird being liked.  He couldn’t stop staring.  She laughed at his jokes, even when they were raunchy or dark.  Especially when they were dark.  Her smile was radiant, but she had a wild streak to her. She was the singular most fascinating person Johnny had ever met.

Didn’t hurt that she was so damn easy on the eyes.

He partied until the party petered out, then went to bed.  Not to his pocket dimension--bed.  He was knackered , and didn’t realize it till he stepped into his room.  He barely was able to get his shoes and trenchcoat off before lightheadedness sent him plummeting face first into his mattress.

Robin shook him gently awake the next day.  He had no idea what day it was.  Sunlight was coming in through the skylight in his room--or what time.  He registered something about it being his day with Black Canary, and tried to burrow under the covers, but Robin helped him out of bed.  Damnit.  Johnny was two inches taller than the svelte 5’1” bird-boy, but it wasn’t enough.  The tiny bastard was still able to all but carry Johnny out into the living room.  His feet stuck on the carpet as he tried to veer towards the kitchen, and coffee , but Robin lead him sure as starlight to a sailor into the room adjacent to the training room--a cozy little lounge where meetings with Black Canary happened.

It turned out that the biker bird was a licensed and practicing therapist--and a good one, too.  Appointments with her weren’t mandatory, but she was always available to the Young Justice, and this room was where she came to sit with the kids when they needed to speak to her.  Johnny had heard that she did appointments for members of the Justice League too, and he still couldn’t get his head around it--imagining Batman sitting on the therapy couch with a tissue box was just too much.

But he was a special case , he couldn’t help but remember snidely.  Homeless and parent-less for six years, with a rap sheet and a rather interesting medical record, the Justice League had thought it a good idea to encourage Johnny to regularly talk with Black Canary.  They said he was under no obligation, that it was just to talk.  Bollocks.  He wasn’t born yesterday; this was a part of the damn community service.  To make sure he wasn’t a danger to society.

He’d had two or three sessions with Canary, though, and...well, she wasn’t that bad.  It kind of was just casual conversation--mostly.  It annoyed him when she assumed he wasn’t smart enough to see right through her probing questions, when she had them--and he let her know how annoyed he was with jabs and diatribes.  But she always backed off when he snarled.  It was weird.  Most adults trying to tell him what to do had only doubled down when he went on the attack.  It was kind of nice to see someone just back off when he wanted them to.

He wasn’t sure why Robin was all but dragging him into the session room today, though.  Something about it felt...off.  Johnny’s ears were ringing a bit, so it was hard to understand him when he talked.  His brain wasn’t quite on.  He just wanted to go back to bed.

But after depositing Johnny gently onto the couch, Robin did come back and put a cup of coffee into his hands.  Thank Christ .  Johnny sipped on it gratefully, eyes closed as he inhaled the blessed bitter steam.

His head stopped ringing after that.  Ah, yes, that’s what it was--caffeine headache.  He hadn’t had one of those in a while.  How long had he slept ?

Johnny blinked blearily as Black Canary came into the room, and sat calmly down on the couch facing him.  He blinked again, and took a sip of his coffee, silent, watching her.

“Good afternoon, Johnny.”

“Mm.”  She sounded grave.  Something was up.  Something serious.  He felt annoyance already rising in the back of his throat.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Mm.”  Another sip of coffee.  He narrowed his eyes.

“Did you have fun last night?”

He wanted to answer that one honestly, so he nodded.  He’d had a great time.  Zatanna was a delight, he’d had a blast bitching at Kid Flash, and for the most part, everyone was nice to him--or at least not an outright dick.  But he took another sip of coffee, watching her carefully.

“Good.  I’m glad.”  She smiled that gentle smile she had, but there was something worried in her eyes.  Genuinely worried. He didn’t know what to make of it; he’d never seen that on her before.  “...I heard that you weren’t doing so well last night, Johnny.”

That made him blink.  “Whaddyou mean?”  Fuck everything, there was not enough coffee in the world for this.  He had no idea what was going on.

“Other members of the team said you were having a hard time staying on your feet.  That you were getting winded easily, and your balance was poor.”

Well.  Yeah.  That was all true, but he hadn’t thought much of it.  “Prolly getting sick again,” he groused, dismissive.  “Get sick all the time.”

“...I think that may be a separate problem,” Canary answered thoughtfully.  “The symptoms they described were that of muscle atrophy.”

Johnny blinked at her, not sure what he was hearing.  “You wot?”

“Atrophy, Johnny.  I heard you told the team that you have access to some sort of extra-dimensional space that lacks gravity.  Is that where you spend your time when you’re in your room?”

He slouched a little further down in his seat.  “M’be.”  He took one last long sip of coffee, draining the mug.

“Johnny…”  The look she was giving him was gentle, worried, soft--almost imploring .  It was baffling, to see that on such a strong person.  “Astronauts who spend any amount of time in zero gravity conditions keep to a strict regimen of exercise and physical therapy in order to keep their muscles from losing mass.  Atrophy in zero gravity conditions can set in in as little as five days.  How much time do you spend in your extra-dimensional space?”

He slouched further down, setting the cup on the cushion beside him, glowering sullenly, saying nothing.

She sighed, rather patiently--too patiently.  The annoyance clawed at the back of his throat.  “I would like you to see a doctor, Johnny.  We have one we can bring here who’s not only highly qualified, but who is vetted and able to keep your identity a secret.  They would be doing a physical exam and asking you a few questions to evaluate your health needs.  After that, they would be recommending a physical therapy regimen for you.  Have you been getting enough to eat?”

“...mostly snacks.  Don’ wanna get caught in the kitchen.  Not gonna get sucked into some damn mission.”

She sighed again, as if she already knew that was going to be the answer.  She looked like she had more to say, but rather than continue, she paused to study him quietly.  “How are you feeling right now?”

“...Tired.”

Canary stepped over and plucked the empty coffee cup from the couch.  With one hand, she gently scooped up Johnny’s ankles, pushed them to rotate him on the couch until he was lying on it properly, then set his feet down.  He just blinked up at her, eyes wide.

“You can go back to sleep if you like, Johnny.”

He blinked at her again, brain not processing that correctly.  “ Here ?”

“It’s not the weirdest place someone has ever slept on the team.  Either team.”

“...oh.”  First Robin hauls him out of bed, then Canary lectures him about his shite health, then she tells him he can go back to sleep?  He was lost.  The coffee eased the headache, but it hadn’t helped him wake up any.  He did not want to get up again.  It took an honest-to-God monumental effort to even get this far, even with Robin’s help.  He was still sweaty under his collar.  He hadn’t thought much of it--he really did get the flu all the time.  But muscle atrophy ?  An astronaut disease?  She had to be taking the piss.  This was insane.

Regardless, he didn’t want to move, and she’d given him permission not to move, so that was good enough for the moment.

“...Okay. Jus'...don' stare at me, or nothin' creepy.”

She moved out of his space and went to sit down again; he could see her posture relax a bit more than usual out of the corner of his eye.  “I’ll be here, on the couch.”  Keeping vigil, apparently.

Johnny was too tired to care.  His next answer came out a little weaker.  “Okay.”

He closed his eyes.

When he woke up, little had changed except for the light.  It was sunset light coming in the skylight, instead of early afternoon.  Black Canary was still there, on the couch opposite him--he could see her out of his periphery, looking at her phone.  There was a light blanket on him.  He felt incredibly weak--still exhausted.  And honestly, that was as much sensory input as he was willing to take in.

Fuck today.

He closed his eyes.

Time passed again without him.  The next time he opened his eyes, there was no natural light in the room, and Canary was shaking his shoulder, gently.  He registered that she was trying to get him to get up, but he just groused at her and refused to move.  There wasn’t much he could do, however, when she slung his arm over her shoulders and hauled him to his feet.  She helped him walk, and he was already sweating by the time they made the door.  His knees sagged, and his head filled up with air, and he tilted--and felt Canary’s arm under his knees, and the ground fell away from him.  She’d picked him up and was carrying him bridal-style, and he didn’t even have the energy to be humiliated.

When he opened his eyes again, everything was white.  Funny--he didn’t remember closing them in the first place.  He blinked a few times to get the world to resolve itself, and found himself in the infirmary.  Canary had just set him down on a bed.  Wonderful.  Brilliant.  He hated hospitals, and anything that looked or sounded or smelled like one, but.  Maybe it was better to have an excuse to just lay in bed and not move.  Maybe the damn Justice League would leave him alone for a while this way.

He wasn’t about to get peace any time soon, apparently, because Canary made him sit up as she plonked a tray of food in front of him.  God, but he didn’t care anymore.  It looked like hospital food.  Smelled like hospital food.  But the fact that he was hungry as hell outweighed the impulse to crawl out of his own skin.  He ate as much as he could, and lay down, and closed his eyes, and willed everyone and everything to just leave him the fuck alone .

It seemed to work.  He felt someone pick up the tray and carry it away.  Someone turned out the lights in the infirmary room.  All the footsteps faded into the distance.  All sound began to fade.  He was so tired. He was so tired.  He just couldn’t bring himself to give a single shit about anything else.