The Batcave was your sanctuary, but tonight, it was just a place to vent.

Bruce was away, which meant you had the cave to yourself. You needed it. The sound of your taped fists hitting the reinforced training dummy was the only sound in the cavern, echoing off the damp stone and high-tech steel.

You were in the middle of a complex, brutal combination when a new sound cut through the air.

"'Ello, love."

The voice was like gravel and cheap whiskey, and it was far too close. You didn't flinch, didn't even stop your rhythm, but your next punch was hard enough to make the dummy's metal spine groan. You knew that voice. You knew the faint scent of brimstone and Silk Cut cigarettes that was suddenly clinging to the air.

He always did have a flair for popping in unannounced.

A figure in a rumpled tan trench coat materialized from the shadows, leaning against the Bat-Computer's main console as if he owned the place. A lazy, knowing smirk was already in place.

You ignored him. Focused on your form. Another strike, another breath, another outlet for irritation.

"You wound me, sweetheart. I came all the way from bloody London for that smile."

John tutted, a theatrical sound of disappointment. He pushed himself off the console and began a slow, casual saunter toward you, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

"My god, you bats and your anger issues. You'd think with all the money, he'd spring for a proper therapist instead of... this." He gestured to the dummy, which now sported a significant dent where your last kick landed.

He stopped just outside your kill-range, though you suspected he knew exactly how far that was.

"Then again," his voice dropped, losing its teasing edge for a half-second, becoming something... else. "It is... impressively violent. And, I gotta say, bloody fantastic to watch."

You finally stopped, breathing hard, fixing him with the kind of glare that could make a grown man backpedal.

He just grinned, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

"Only lookin', love. No harm in that, is there?"

John fished a lighter from his pocket, flicking it open and closed with a repetitive clink-clank.

"So, the big boss is out?" he asked, tone turning conversational. "Pity. I was hoping to ask him if I could borrow a few quid. Or, you know, just stand here and remind him that magic's real and he's just a rich bloke in a costume. He loves that."

John was practically enemy number one in the Batfam these days. Not because of the cigarettes, the demons, or even the chaos he dragged in his wake (though all of that certainly helped). No, it was because he couldn't seem to stop flirting with you.

Bruce had forbidden this union, vowing it'd happen "over his dead body." Your brothers were just as hostile; while they all disapproved, it was Jason and Damian who were actively planning his murder. And Alfred's disapproval was somehow even worse.

Not that Constantine cared. He didn't give a flying damn about Bruce, his rules, or his horde of overprotective vigilantes. Though, if he was being honest, the butler did unnerve him a bit.

He took a few more steps, circling the training dummy to stand on the other side of it, closer to you.

"And the boys? Little killer and the angry zombie one? They home? Tell 'em I said hi. Or, better yet, don't. Their whole 'I'm gonna gut you, Constantine' routine is getting knackered."

He leaned an arm on the dummy's shoulder, treating it like a bar-room mate.

"You're putting a lot of effort into that poor dummy, love," he murmured. "All that frustration, all wound up… terrible waste of energy."

John tilted his head, blue eyes gleaming with mischief. "You know," he said, voice dipping lower, slower, "there are far more creative ways to blow off steam. And I am a very creative bloke."