Archive of Our Own ^beta

John’s pissing around the House of Mystery when the call comes in. He checks the display before answering, finding only a Gotham area code and an unfamiliar number.

Immediately, his mind skips back to the last person he gave his number to in Gotham, and the promise that had been made then. Excited by the prospect of showing Jason Todd a whole new side of his sexuality, John gleefully hits the ‘Answer’ icon.

“Constantine,” he purrs.

But instead of a charmingly throaty response, he gets a lengthy pause, a sigh, and then, “John, this is Red Robin.”

Disappointed, John slumps down into a nearby loveseat. “Ah, right. What can I do for you, little birdie?”

He’s not met Red Robin yet, but he knows enough of the Bats and their secrets to know that Timothy Drake wouldn’t be calling him unless it was dire.

“It’s Jason.”

And there dire is.

“What’s happened then?” John says. He’s already mentally figuring out the quickest route to Gotham the House can take without pissing off other members of the magical community (read: Zatanna).

“We’re not sure. But…whatever Jason is right now, he’s asking for you.”

“Whatever he is?” John asks, stressing the word.

“He’s saying his name is Camazotz.”

“Bollocks.”

“Will you come?”

“I’m already on my way. Just hang tight. And…”

“And…?”

“If he offers you any deals, for the love of anything holy or unholy, don’t take them.”

******************************

“Really not how I imagined our reunion going, love.” John says as he examines the prone figure of Jason Todd. He’s still in his Red Hood gear, minus the helmet, boots, and gun holsters. He’s also zip-tied at the wrists and ankles, his hands clasped in front of him as he rests against the headboard of an infirmary gurney tucked into a corner of the Batcave.

“Constantiiiiine,” Jason purrs out, his tone thick with lust and darkness. “I only kept my promise. The child was protected by our bond. Nothing morrrre. Nothing lesssss.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. The headache already forming there is going to be vicious when it sets in.

Red Robin, who abandoned his cowl upon realizing John knew his identity, pipes up then. “I’m thinking some backstory is in order.”

“Yeah, that’d be good. No use going into negotiations without the full tale.”

“Right,” Tim says, then hesitates. “We…he was the only option. The…thing…creature…it was magic. And insanely powerful. It was…it went after children. Jason would have gone just for that, but it had to be him.”

“The All-Blades,” John breathes.

“The All-Blades,” Tim confirms, grimacing. “I didn’t know what they did to him. I just knew they could hurt magical creatures.”

“We can deal with the guilt and recriminations later. Is your bit o’nasty still running around?”

“No. He,” and there’s no question that Tim is referring to the god currently inhabiting Jason, “finished it off. By decapitating it. It turned into this black puddle of goo, and then just kind of…evaporated. Is that a bad thing?”

“At least it’s less cleanup work for later. Good or bad, well, that’s sort of a matter of opinion.”

“And yours is?”

“That we still have a possessed birdie, and I’m not too much closer to why that is.”

A light blush dusts Tim’s nose and cheeks pink as he clears his throat. “Right, yes. So, before that happened, Jason’s fighting the thing. We tried conventional weaponry first, of course, but nothing even put a dent in that thing. So, Jason says he’s going to finish it. He draws the All-Blades from out of nowhere, which is a technology that would be super handy if I could figure out the molecular displacement principle and then maybe…”

“Tim,” John cuts him off.

“Sorry. He draws the All-Blades and starts fighting it. And he’s…he’s amazing with those swords. Truly incredible. But he was starting to lose. He got weaker the longer it went on. And he…he collapsed. We couldn’t get to him. We tried. But the creature pushed us back over and over again. I thought he was, that he’d…”

“That he’d died. Again.”

“Close,” Jason hisses. “Soul dwindling to nothing. He loves too much. Forgives too easily. Thinks too little of himself.”

Tim chokes, and John revises everything he’s learned about the situation.

“Is his soul recovering with you inside him?”

Camazotz smiles (too wide, far too wide), obviously pleased at John’s deduction.

“Yes. But slow. Would have faded if not for intervention. Honored our pact. Protected.”

“And when he does recover? When his soul reaches levels where he won’t fade away, will you leave?”

Reluctance. It’s clear in Jason’s expression, even though the familiar emotion is being expressed by a being who is unfamiliar with his host’s face.

“Camazotz!”

“Easier to hold the covenant if I stay. Easier to protect. Easier to snatch the heads from his enemies.”

“That wasn’t the deal,” John grits out, shaking his hands free of his trench coat’s sleeves. “Now answer the question. When will he recover?”

“Three days,” the dark god says, sounding almost sullen. “But recover is the wrong word.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tim says, leaping back into the conversation now that he’s absorbed that Jason is a self-sacrificing, idiotic martyr who apparently cares more than he lets on. (John may be projecting a bit, but he’s also fairly sure he’s not wrong.)

“His soul…damaged. Lazarus waters and pain and sacrifice. He is not who he once was.”

Thick silence falls over the infirmary as the proclamation is mulled over.

Finally, John can’t stand it anymore. “But he is who he is now. The covenant didn’t include constant possession, and you know it. You’ll keep your end of the bargain, then leave that body. Do we have an accord?”

Reluctance, then acceptance passes over Jason’s face. “We have an accord. I will let the child sleep for now.”

The too-dark gaze slips over to Tim. “He regrets what he did to you more than you know. He wishes for your forgiveness.”

Tim opens his mouth, but Camazotz continues with, “He will not forgive himself though. A struggle he will not admit to. A burden he carries.”

“Oh,” Tim says faintly.

Seemingly satisfied, Camazotz turns to John. “Constantine.”

“Don’t wear that name out,” John snarks back. “I thought you were going to let him rest.”

“Three days, and I will leave.” A pause, then a feral grin spreads across Jason’s face. “He has thoughts of you in here, Laughing Magician. Such thoughts.”

“Sleep! Now!”

A deep, throaty chuckle issues from Jason’s throat before he suddenly slumps back against the gurney.

“Well,” John says, turning to Tim, who is staring between John and Jason with wide eyes. “That was fun. I imagine three days from now will be even more so, but let’s call it a night, shall we?”

Tim’s jaw works a few times before he apparently gives up on whatever question he might have been developing. Instead, he asks, “Would you like one of the guest rooms, or to stay down here with him? Is it safe to leave him alone?”

“I’ll just kip in that spare cot over there.” John waved his hand to indicate the Army-style cot set up in the corner, a blanket and pillow neatly set at its foot. “As for safe, nothing with magic is ever safe. But ol’ Camazotz, he’s kept his word so far. I reckon he really is trying to help your brother out. Fellow bat and all. Just a bit unconventional about the whole affair.”

“Hmmm.”

“Speaking of fellow bats, I figured there would be more of you here.”

“Batman and Robin are trying to track down what summoned the creature here in the first place. Batgirl, Nightwing, and Black Bat are handling patrol. Oracle is running operations and Agent A is…”

“Wondering why John Constantine is standing over an unconscious Master Jason,” a cultured British voice interrupts.

John winces. Somehow, he and Alfred Pennyworth have never been on the same page, shared culture notwithstanding.

Luckily, Tim comes to his rescue. “He’s helping him. Jason will wake up in three days, and then we can figure out how to make sure this never happens again.”

“Until the next time he thinks things will be better if he sacrifices himself.” The words leave his mouth before John can really consider them, and the others’ body language instantly takes a turn for the worst.

“Why, I never,” Alfred snaps.

John throws his hands up in defense (even prepares a shield), even though he doesn’t think a punch is coming his way.

“Hey, hey, hey. You have to admit it; the evidence is backing me up on this one. And using the All-Blades…well, I can’t imagine that Ducra bird didn’t warn him about the consequences of using them.”

Tim sighs, and, after a long moment, Alfred’s posture relaxes a fraction.

“Do you take tea, Mr. Constantine?”

“If you’re offering, I’d be an idiot not to.”

“Indeed,” Alfred says primly. He takes a moment to step closer to Jason. He strokes the young man’s dark, sweaty hair back from his forehead. Shockingly, Jason (or maybe Camazotz) shudders and relaxes. “Three days?”

“According to the eldritch god.”

“Well then, I guess we’d better get comfortable.”

“Swell,” John mutters his breath. This is going to be a loooong three days.

A loud engine disrupts the uneasy silence in the cave. Batman’s back.

“Fuck,” John says, not bothering to lower his volume for innocent or ancient ears. “Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.”

Maybe he could take a quick jaunt down to Hell. It would likely be better than this. Three days were beginning to look like an utter eternity.

********************

Eternity is selling the three days he’s spent with the Batclan short.

Bruce Wayne brings new heights to the phrase, “uncomfortable silence.”

And that’s even when John’s been oh so carefully avoiding mentioning anything about Jason’s mental state (or, at least, Camazotz’s insights into it). Tim has tried to pull him aside a few times for conversations on that matter, but John’s neatly avoided it by, alternately, annoying Oracle, challenging Robin to a game of darts, lamenting the lack of good crepes in this city with Batgirl, dodging Nightwing’s attempts at “bonding,” and indulging Black Bat with increasingly more complicated magic tricks (both regular sleight of hand and actual magic).

He’s in the middle of vanishing the Ace of Hearts into an alternate dimension so he can make it reappear in Oracle’s severe red bun when there’s a groan from the infirmary bed.

“Everyone back!” John snaps, even as everyone else loitering around the cave starts to move toward Jason. John drops the deck of cards onto the coffee table and strides as quickly as he can to Jason’s side. Batman has, of course, ignored him, and is already standing at Jason’s other side.

John sighs, but ignores it in favor of the larger issue.

“Creature, name thyself.”

Jason’s eyelids slide open slowly, revealing darkness that stretches into fathomless depths.

“Shite.”

But as soon as the curse leaves John’s mouth, the black starts to drain away from Jason’s eyes, leaving teal irises and bloodshot sclera behind.

“J…n? B?”

“Camazotz, have you kept your covenant?” John asks, infusing the words with just a touch of power.

The answer, when it comes, makes everyone jump (except for Bruce, the unaffected git). A bat flies to the corner of Jason’s bed and perches on the headboard railing. Its eyes carry the same unadulterated blackness that Jason’s did moments ago, and the voice issuing from its tiny mouth is every bit the deep, oily darkness of the eldritch god. “Our covenant is honored. The child is safe, as promised.”

“And next time?” John asks, because he’s not stupid enough to think there won’t be a next time at this point.

“I will aid him if he shreds what’s left of his soul again, but…” It’s frankly bizarre to see a bat hesitate, but John is used to the bizarre.

“D…n’t,” Jason whispers, and the bat turns its attention to him.

“As you wish, child.” Just like that, the bat screeches and flies back to its brethren in the far reaches of the Batcave.

Jason drags a weary gaze up to look at Bruce before flinching and looking at John. “Not wh..t…Meant to…call.” His eyes glaze over with tears as he’s suddenly overcome. “I…

John grabs his hand just as Bruce threads his fingers through Jason’s hair.

“Gotham is safe because of you, Jason.”

John wants to tell him it’s the wrong thing to say. After all, no one likes hearing, Hey, because you wore your soul down to nothing, people are okay for the minute. Be ready to sacrifice yourself again soon!

But apparently, it’s exactly what Jason needed to hear, as he relaxes a fraction, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I…”

“Need to sleep some more. It’s okay. You can rest now.”

“We’ll chat later, Red. Take a nice, long kip, and then we’ll get you fixed up.”

“OK,” Jason says, shifting slightly. John realizes he’s trying to wipe away his tears, but can’t move his arms. Using his thumb, he brushes away the water overflowing from under Jason’s eyes. While he could stand Jason’s crying, he has to look away at the shame and gratefulness Jason turns his way. Which means he ends up gazing into Bruce Wayne’s diamond-chip glare.

“Uhhh, just take it easy, Jason. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

John squeezes Jason’s hand, sending a gentle sleep spell through the contact as he does. Jason’s eyes widen briefly before his eyes slide shut. He slumps down against the pillow, head twisting to the side.

“Well, that was fun.” John says once he’s sure Jason’s truly asleep. He’s loath to let go of Jason’s hand, but he’s pretty sure Batman is about to punch him, and that’s something’s he’d rather avoid. “I’ll be back to check on him in a couple of days.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Bruce says, and his voice is steel. John’s surprised when, instead of banning him from seeing Jason, the next words he hears are, “You promised him you’d be here when he woke up. You’ll be keeping that promise, Constantine.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“What did…?” Bruce falters, and John’s hackles go up defensively. “What did the…bat…mean? About what’s left of his soul?”

John sighs, and slaps his hand over his face. He really, really, really doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“Not my story to tell.”

“But…”

“Jason Todd died in a warehouse,” John says, voice devoid of emotion. He knows it makes him sound cold, but that’s what facts are sometimes. “He died in a warehouse, and stayed dead for six months. Then he got yanked back. Then tossed in a Lazarus Pit. That kind of damage, that kind of trauma, it doesn’t go away. Souls are tricky things. They can be bought, sold, split, shredded, torn apart, twisted, damned…”

“Stop,” a young voice chokes out. “Just…stop.”

John looks down, surprised to find the littlest bird has joined them. Damian Wayne slips a hand over Jason’s bicep and squeezes lightly, although it’s hard to tell who the comfort is for.

“Point is,” John continues, locking gazes with Bruce Wayne (Batman and stricken father), “he’s not okay. He can’t be. He shouldn’t be. The fact that he’s functioning at all is a bloody miracle, and I don’t use that word lightly, Wayne.”

“But he’s…he’ll be okay, won’t he?” Dick Grayson, possibly the only optimist left in the world.

Turning to him, John sees the rest of the gang has gathered behind him.

“Brother…strong,” Cassandra says, but she looks concerned.

“You know,” Stephanie says, “Us all standing around yapping is probably not doing much for the whole ‘letting him rest’ bit.” A few glares turn her way, and she tosses up her hands. “Just saying.”

Alfred steps in at that point. “Miss Brown is correct. I will stay with Master Jason.” Protests immediately start up, and are silenced with a stern look. John feels a little weak in the knees and wonders how he could possibly command that kind of authority. “The rest of you will go upstairs. Eat, rest, and think over how we’ll help Master Jason once he properly awakens. I don’t care in what order you do it, but you aren’t to do it here. Mr. Constantine, you’re welcome to either stay down here or avail yourself of one of the rooms in the Manor. I took the liberty of airing out one of the guest rooms, as I’ve mentioned the last three days, but I have a feeling you won’t be using it. Now, we’re all clear.”

It’s a command, not a question, but they all nod. There’s some grumbling of course, and several of them stop to squeeze some part of Jason in reassurance (his foot, his leg, his hand) before heading up the steep set of stairs or (in Oracle and Nightwing’s case) to the elevator.

Bruce is the last to go, brushing back Jason’s hair one last time before glancing at Alfred, glaring at John, and then following the rest of them out of the infirmary.

“I do believe I’m in love, Mr. Pennyworth,” John says once there’s a loud slam of a door above them.

Alfred sniffs delicately. “Of that, I have no doubt. But I don’t think you mean me.”

John sputters in shock as Alfred swans off to parts unknown with a dignified air. Then, it’s just him and Jason. He flops down into the seat next to the bed they’ve all occupied at one point or another in the last three days.

After a few minutes, he decides to call Jason’s bluff. “I know you’re not sleeping. That knockout spell was basically a temporary anesthetic. And Blondie was right, your family is LOUD.”

“V’ry,” Jason mumbles without opening his eyes. “I…”

“Don’t want to talk about it, yeah. So, I’ll do the talking, and you can nod along or flip me the bird if’n I get it wrong. Sound like a plan? Good.”

Jason promptly sticks two fingers up at him in a backwards peace sign. “And you’ve even got down the British way of telling me to bugger off. I wonder if you learned that from your classy butler.”

“Nah. One of the r’gues. ‘Sessed with teacups.”

“Not the worst one I’ve heard of.” John claps his hands together lightly and sits forward. He balances his right elbow on his knee, while taking Jason’s hand with his left one. It’s as much for reassurance as to feel the subtle twitches if he tries to lie.

“All Blades. You knew they relied on your soul. Yes or no?”

A flinch, then a nod.

“You decided that sacrificing yourself to defeat the baddie of the week was a sight better than saving what was left of your soul for your own sake.”

“That’s not…”

“Fine, I’ll put it another way. You knew you had a limit with those blades, and rather than let them go, you hung on. Yes or no?”

The pause before Jason nods is already an affirmative.

“You would have died if Camazotz hadn’t interfered, yes or no?”

A hard shudder that wracks Jason’s entire body, then the slightest of nods.

“You’re more hurt than you let on, aren’t you?”

Another damning pause before Jason shakes his head.

“Don’t lie. There’s no point. Not to me.”

The tiny twitch of a nod.

“Did Camazotz talk to you when you were…‘recovering?’”

“He…he told me I was burning,” Jason whispers.

John cringes, shutting his eyes as he takes in that knowledge. A soul burning is…bad. Very bad. Soulfire can lead to complete destruction, or a massive explosion and then complete destruction. Either way, the suffering is immense.

“John? I…I think I’m scared.”

John stands, curving his body over Jason’s prone one, drawing him up into a hug that Jason returns with all the strength he has (which isn’t much).

“Scared means you’re alive, love. Means you’ve still got another day, another hour, another minute to fight. And from what I know of you, Jason Todd, you’ll keep fighting.”

“Yeah,” Jason hiccups, scrabbling at John’s back. “Yeah.”

If John feels some tears drip onto his shoulder from the Big, Bad Red Hood, he’ll never mention it to anyone. And if he makes a silent vow to help in whatever way he can, well, there’s no one to hear the words but himself.

************

John draws the circle in chalk because blood is too risky (and he frankly doesn’t have enough for the size of circle he needs). He imbues it with power, speaks the words, and then breaks the circle with his foot so the call goes out.

Waiting is a special kind of agony, but it seems like the intended recipient of his message has been waiting for him as well.

“Constantine,” the oily voice says as a bat glides out of the darkness. He’s chosen a dark corner of the Batcave, as far as he can get from the others without actually getting ropes and climbing gear. It will have to do.

“Soulfire. Can you stop it?” he asks, not willing to mince words or go for the delicate approach.

“No. The child is burning.”

“He told me. There’s nothing you can do?”

“Not I.”

John grasps the lack of an absolute like the flimsy hope it is. “Not you. But someone else?”

“My covenant is not with you. Answers cossssst.”

And this is one of the many, many reasons John hates dealing with eldritch gods. Always with the blood and sacrifices.

“Your price?”

“A drop of your blood.”

That throws John more than he cares to admit. “You want what?”

“A drop of blood for your answer.”

It’s a suspiciously low price, but John gets the feeling Camazotz might have a soft spot for Jason. Which is alarming in its own right, but that’s a whole different problem. He pulls a knife from his coat, pricks his fingertip, and holds it out to the bat without further comment. The bat laps up the blood, its eyes glowing a brilliant emerald green for a split second before they fade back into blackness.

“Your sacrifice is accepted.”

“Good to know. Now, answers. Jason’s Soulfire. How do we snuff the flames without snuffing him out at the same time?”

“The child’s pain is self-inflicted.”

John grimaces. For a brief moment, he regrets ever hearing about Gotham, the Bats, and the Justice League. But it passes when he thinks of Jason’s shy little smile when he considered taking up John up on his offer to show him a side of his sexuality he hadn’t considered. An offer he still hopes Jason considers if John can clear up this incinerating soul issue for him.

“That’s not an answer. I already suspected that much. How do we heal him?”

“What acts as a balm to the soul?”

“A bloody riddle is not a straight answer, and you know it!” John desperately shoves down the desire to grab the bat by the neck and start strangling the truth out of it. Aside from looking insanely stupid, Camazotz would likely just leave its temporary host behind immediately.

“And you should not be this slow, Magician.”

John takes in a deep breath, then another one.

“Care to elaborate, O Great Camazotz?” It’s a struggle to keep the sarcasm wrapped in obeisance, but he doesn’t really care if he’s managed. The bat makes a weird chuffing noise that might be a derisive snort. Chalk up a big fail on hiding the sarcasm.

“Show him that the agony is worth it. That sacrifice should lead to recompense, not just death. By our covenant, he is one of my followers, yet he never reaps the rewards of his offerings. This alone is displeasing, but the Soulfire itself was lit when he decided he was better off alone. When he decided he wasn’t worthy of affection or love or joy. He…became the mission, I believe is the phrase.”

John mulls that over for a long moment. It makes sense, but he’s not really sure how the revelation will lead to a solution for Jason’s problem. Particularly when “become the mission” is sort of the Bats’ M.O.

“And how do I, how do we help him?”

Camazotz almost sounds regretful when he says, “That, I cannot say. It will be entirely up to the child to decide if he will stoke the fire or snuff it out.”

And with that less-than-cheerful proclamation, the bat flies off.

“Bollocks,” John mutters lowly. “Now what?”

********************************

“Master Jason, if you do not get back into that bed, I will be forced to put you there!”

“Alfred, this really isn’t necessary…”

John, about to reenter the room, rapidly reconsiders when he hears Alfred’s voice crack with emotion. Instead, he presses himself up against the wall beside the door.

“My boy,” he says, the words thick. “This is absolutely necessary. You almost…”

“Alfred…”

“Please. Don’t tell me it’s not necessary. This is all I can do for you. So, please, please, let me help you.”

“I…” A hitching sigh. “I’ll try.”

A soft rustling of cloth, possibly a hug.

“That is all I’ve ever required of you.” Hands clapping together. “Now, back in bed and I’ll bring you some proper tea.”

“With shortbread?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. But the second I think I’ve become a burden to you…”

“You’ll do exactly what I tell you to do for the sake of your health. You are not, and have never been a burden, Master Jason.”

“Alfred, it’s…it’s not safe for me to be here.” The words are quiet. Desperate.

“If you’re speaking about our safety, then I can assure you that we’re prepared for nearly every eventuality. If, however, you’re speaking of yourself.” A soft sigh. “Master Jason, I know you don’t consider the Manor your home anymore. But I hope you know that I have never stopped considering it so.”

“Alfie…”

“We can help you. We will help you. And Mr. Constantine, if he stops eavesdropping at the door, seems to have a vested interest in helping you.”

“Bollocks,” John hisses. He turns into the doorway by pivoting on his feet. He looks at Jason. “How in the bloody hell does he do that? I’ve dealt with hellhounds, best trackers in the world, and they somehow don’t hold a bloody candle to your butler.”

Alfred scoffs delicately as Jason just smiles with pride.

“Mr. Constantine, I am not just a butler. I am his grandfather.”

Jason’s smile slackens with shellshock as Alfred gently herds him back into the bed before he can remount his defense.

“I’ll fetch some tea. And shortbread.” To John, Alfred says, “Stimulate his company, but do not rile him up. I trust you can manage that until my return?”

He doesn’t wait for a response before exiting the room.

“Your family, mate,” John complains as he collapses down into one of the chairs next to Jason’s bed.

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, staring up at the enclosed ceiling of the hospital suite in the Cave. After a moment, he turns his bright-eyed gaze on John. “How long have I got?”

“Aren’t you going to ask if I can fix it first?” From the look Jason gives him, John knows he didn’t successfully mask his own rising despair.

“I’m a little too pragmatic for that. And Ducra, for all that she was a grumpy old mage, didn’t usually consider magic a first or even a total solution. How. Long?”

“Your bat god friend didn’t know, but his prognosis wasn’t good. This Ducra bird ever mention Soulfire?”

Jason flinches, and John has his answer.

“Jason.”

“I’ve been on borrowed time since I came back, John. It doesn’t really matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t!”

Utterly calm, Jason replies, “It really doesn’t. I’m in the family’s good graces at the moment, but that will stop the moment I mess up again. If I endanger anyone’s life, or kill, no matter the reason, I’ll be abandoned again. So, using the All Blades to take that thing down, even if it triggered a Soulfire, well…that’s fine with me. It’s nothing less than what I deserve.”

If John wasn’t already sitting down, he has a feeling that little speech would have sent him to his knees.

“You…you really believe that, don’t you?” he whispers. It would be hypocritical of him to dismiss Jason’s reasoning, but he can’t help the despair he feels at seeing this young man so blasé about betrayal and death.

“Of course,” Jason says, like it’s simply a matter of fact.

“Ah,” John says, unable to push out words through the sudden thickness in his throat. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s disappointed in Jason’s words or the fact that they’re so like words he himself has said before.

“It’s fine, John,” Jason says, although he won’t look John in the eyes.

“It’s…it’s really not. You’re giving up. And you made me a deal. You going to renege?”

That throws Jason for a loop. John can tell the exact moment he remembers exactly which deal John is referring to, as Jason’s ears and cheeks turn pink with a heavy blush.

“Oh, the uh…us being…you teaching me…”

“Me showing you all the joys and carnal delights being with a man can bring, yes. That deal.”

This time, Jason can’t look him in the eye for an entirely different reason.

“I’m not going to even pretend that sex or anything like it is going to convince you that you should keep on fighting,” John said carefully. “Frankly, with as worn out as you are from your little stunt, you’d probably pass right out. And somnophilia isn’t really a beginner thing.”

“Then?” Jason asks, somewhat petulant even if he is still blushing profusely.

“Then if we can’t make good on our deal, we’re going to douse that Soulfire some other way.”

“Yet,” Jason said quietly.

“What?”

“Can’t make good on our deal yet.”

John couldn’t help the lecherous grin that spread over his face.

“Alright! Now that’s more like it. I believe we just may have a chance, Little Red.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“It’s that or Sugar Tits.”

“Little Red it is,” Jason says.

The hope that they can fix this, really fix this, is slim. John knows this. Jason knows this. Most of the Waynes probably know this.

But John also knows very few people stubborn enough to beat death once. He’s got confidence that they’ve got a real chance to beat this.

In the corner of the Batcave, tucked among the deepest darkness, a bat with fathomless eyes chitters out a noise like laughter before diving deeper into the shadows.