Constantine makes a deal with the Spirit of Kronos.
In return for all contracts he has made regarding his soul being voided, and for Kronos himself to be John's Patron, he has to take a ghost core into himself and nurture it until it's independent.
Easy.
Infinite Realms beings are fiercely independent, and he estimates that one year of hosting and three months of looking after is nothing compared to the headache that he was going to have to go through to get those contracts voided.
The Spirit of Kronos assures him that this task will be on par, and that the payment for doing this is actually equal. He'll have to be sober, not a single drop of liquor or booze, not a single cigarette, for the entire duration.
Which. Okay, yeah, that sounds a little difficult.
So John accepts, expecting this to be kinda hard. But it's not.
The Core he houses is barely noticeable. Barely there. It takes a lot of magic, and eats a lot of ecto, and he's starting to realize that this core may have been severely damaged. This may be more than a year of hosting.
Then it starts to effect him.
He gets cravings, he's a little more emotional due to Realms Spirits being based on emotions, he sleeps more because of the little core leeching off of his magic reserves.
Other heroes start to notice.
He starts getting left out of missions, JLD and JL both checking in on him periodically. They don't know, but they know something is up.
Then he feels it one and a half years after accepting the deal; the tiny core is finally ready to come into the world. Soon, so soon, he'll be able to drink and smoke again, worry free.
The tiny ghost materializes in front of him - and John lunges forward to catch it before it falls to the floor.
Because that's not a ghost.
That's a human baby.
A green sticky note pops onto the kids forehead, and John realizes he may have just been bamboozled.
'His name is Daniel, and the deal stands until he is legally able to be independent per American Law. I look forward to our partnership.
Constantine was in a pickle. Granted, he was often in them. Some assholes had decided to start collecting his soul contracts. Once they did that, then they’d be able to collect.
Not good.
So he was off to make another deal. This one… it should be his last. Kronos was a right old bastard, indifferent and cruel due to him being the embodiment of Time itself. There were some rumors though that the mad Titan did have a few things he enjoyed. One of them being fucking others over and laughing at their predicament. The only thing Constantine could offer (that he wouldn’t regret) was being able to lord it over the others that HE held John Constantine’s soul, and no other did. Not until Death itself claimed him. That should take a long, long time with the Spirit of Time as his Patron.
Fuck.
Kronos HAD to know he was coming. He was probably laughing up in his Tower, watching the human struggle to reach him. Constantine grunted as he fell, gravel skittering around him. No, hold it in. He can’t curse at the being he’s about to go try and make a deal with. He continued the trek, feet catching at times on the slick black stone. As long as he didn’t fall off into the abyss below, he was fine.
He was totally fine.
WHO THE FUCK DECIDED TO PUT THE DOOR HALFWAY UP THE SIDE OF THE TOWER
ASSHATS, THAT’S WHO
When he finally reached the door, he collapsed outside it, his back against the door. Damn, he needed a drink and a smoke before he continued on this fucking scheme. John got as far as lighting the cigarette before it was taken away by a purple hand. John was pissed. He turned to rip them to shred, only to stop as he saw Kronos before him, an amused smile on the bastard’s face. That didn’t explain why the clock man had taken his cigarette.
“Now, now, no cigarettes. Or alcohol. In fact, you’ll need to be completely sober, if you want to make a deal with me.” Kronos took the lit cigarette with him back into the tower, phasing right through the door.
Figures the bastard already knew why he was here, and that he was sadistic enough to take away some of Constantine’s few pleasures in life. Well, that and sex. God, he could use a good fuck after all of this crap.
“You makin’ that one of the conditions of our deal?” John asked, getting up so he could follow the spirit into the tower.
“Indeed. I have a few. While I am aware that you are amenable to them all, I cannot just skip through this conversation, as dull as it is.” Creepy. Totally not ominous at all.
“In return for voiding your other contracts and becoming your Patron, you will need to nurture a ghost core inside yourself until it emerges, then raise the being until it is independent. Yes, there are others I could have asked. Of the available options, you are the best. Surprisingly.” John closed his mouth with a click. Damn time spirit, knowing what he was going to ask.
“During the time you are housing the core, you must not partake in alcohol, illicit drugs, and cigarettes. If you do, the deal is immediately broken. To… assist in your recovery process, I am willing to give you some minor time abilities to allow yourself to speed through the withdrawal.”
“That’s mighty kind of you,” John said slowly, halting at the top of the stairs. Kronos continued into the center room of the clocktower, the gears shifting and moving around them. “Doesn’t seem like this is on par to voiding my other contracts. This benefits me a lot more than it benefits you.”
“From your view, yes. Consider my previous words. I have looked into the future, looking for good candidates to house this core. As I have stated, you are the best option. Such a thing must be taken on willingly. Magic, after all, is about belief and intent. Though there is a contract, you will still be a willing host and that is necessary for this core to develop properly. I assure you. This bargain is more than fair. In the end, we will both get what we want. That is the hallmark of a good deal.”
Kronos told him softly, wistfully looking at the screen where a white haired boy in a black and white jumpsuit froze a giant plant being. In fact, most of the screens had images of the white haired boy. Whoever the kid was, John felt bad for them. To have the full attention of the embodiment of Time? The kid was fucking doomed.
“‘Ight. Get it in writing for me to review before I sign. I want to see the terms, word for word!”
Ugh.
It was creepy to see such a powerful being smile at him like that. Sent shivers up his spine. John took his time reviewing the parchment he was given. Surprisingly, it was straight forward as hell and didn’t contain any extra loopholes and shit. Whoever was in that core was important.
He hoped he wasn’t unintentionally making a massive mistake.
It should only be what, a year and a half? About a year for the core to form and then a few months for the thing to grow big enough to fly off in to the Infinite Realms, hopefully to never be seen again by him.
After the signature, it was time for the core to be inserted into John.
Kronos had held the beautiful little diamond shaped core so delicately in his hands. Swirls of dark purple and black, interwoven with a vibrant blue and deathly green escaped from cracks and holes along the core. It was incredibly beautiful, and it was going inside him. Now… John had been inside people and had people inside him before.
Sexually.
This was… just as intimate, but different.
John had only briefly felt his own soul, and he usually only felt it when he was making a deal. He could tell though, that the core was nestled right next to it in his chest. He gasped and jerked slightly, sensitive and vulnerable as Kronos’s fingers brushed against John’s soul.
“I’m just adding some of my power to your soul. That will give you some power over time and allow you to call upon my strength, should you need it. Do call me Clockwork, from now on. I am your Patron. Kronos is only a name that those who do not know me elect to use. You are different now.” Those red eyes bored into him, Kronos’s - no, Clockwork’s words heavy and full of meaning. This was weird. And uncomfortable. Time to split!
“Right. Um. I’ve got a copy of the contract. I’m hosting the little ghostie. Time to go?” Clockwork made a portal, gesturing for him to go through it, eyes trained on him.
“Yes. Time to go. Remember, no cigarettes, no alcohol, and no drugs. I will be watching.”
John stepped through, wanting to get away from his new patron as quickly as possible. Ominous fucker. What luck, he’d been dropped off in that new fangled Watchtower. Eh, it was probably on purpose, knowing Kron - Clockwork. Time to go ruffle Bat’s feathers! Whistling to himself, he made his way to the monitor station.
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Three months, two weeks, and one day.
That’s 107 days.
One hundred and seven whole pissing days since John Constantine—the John Constantine—has had a cigarette. Has had a drink. Has had any source of caffeine other than the measly little cups of piss-weak green tea he has in the morning in an attempt to calm the overwhelming nausea he’s been feeling lately. Sure, his new patron said he’d negate the withdrawal aspects of quitting, but he’s still having to rush to the loo every five minutes after waking up until he’s fully emptied his stomach because apparently the gods hate him. Which, to be fair, is old news.
You’d think that, by now, he’d be used to it. You’d think that, by now, it would be easier. You’d think that, by fucking now, he’d be over the loss.
But, no. It’s been 107 days and he’s still reaching into his coat pocket for a packet of those delicious Silk Cuts—and when he remembers he can’t have one, he sighs and reaches into another pocket for his flask and then he realises that actually, no, he can’t have that either. Because of this stupid core in his stupid fucking body, he’s had to resort to refilling all of his flasks with holy water instead of that sweet, sweet nectar (except for that one he had enchanted so that even bottom shelf shit would taste like a Talisker the same age as him, he’s not that much of a masochist. That’s locked up securely in the House).
It wouldn’t be so bad, honestly, if he wasn’t surrounded by the world’s mightiest fucking idiots the whole time.
Take right now, for instance.
Look, John’s the first to admit that he lacks more than a little patience when it comes to dealing with the Justice League—at least the JL Dark knows and respects his expertise in the field and he rarely, if ever, has to explain the rationale behind whatever ridiculous deal he makes that week—but sitting in on a meeting, the majority of which could have been an email that he absolutely did not need to be CC’d in on, has left him feeling far more… irritable, than usual. And that’s putting it nicely.
“Thank you for your report, Flash.” Batman says, gruff as ever, tapping away on his tablet before turning to John. Valiantly, John resists a groan as he sinks lower into his chair. Today, he’s been chugging on Gaviscon like it’s the waters of life for the heartburn this stupid core has given him. On top of all that, he does not want to deal with the Bats. “Constantine, any updates regarding the Devil’s Gate cult operating in—”
“No.”
Batman frowns—well, John assumes he’s frowning, there’s no real change between this and the expression he wears everyday—before turning in his chair to face John fully.
“Report on your progress in the Devil’s Gate case.”
“There’s been no progress to report on.”
“Constantine, you’ve been working on this case for—”
“I know how long I’ve been working on this for, Batman, you don’t need to tell me. Still doesn’t change the fact that there’s been no progress.” John sighs, hiding the roll of his eyes behind his hand as he tries to smooth away the growing tension headache.
This case has been almost as bad as every single meeting he’s had over it. Just because the first Devil’s Gate they tried to open happened to be in Gotham, suddenly Batman thinks John owes him every single update he has—or, in this case, hasn’t—about the whole thing.
“Constantine—”
“Batman.” John snarks, before his brain can catch up to his mouth and let him know how much of a bad idea baiting the big old Bat daddy is. “There’s been no news since the last report I handed in. Deal with it.”
Everyone shifts in their seats, averting their eyes from the mistake that even John knows he’s making.
There’s quite a full roster today, unfortunately. For once, the main three are here—Batman, Wonder Woman, Superman—along with Flash, one Green Lantern (that John hasn’t ever really bothered to learn the name of, sorry), Black Canary, that cheap rip-off of Robin Hood that seems to spend more of his time claiming he’s not ripping off Robin Hood than doing any actual hero-ing, Cyborg, Zatanna, thank God, Captain Marvel, who, you know, despite his horribly cheery demeanour that John really does not need right now is better than nothing, along with a few others. John would be lying if he said he could be bothered to tie their stupid names to their equally stupid costumes.
Seriously, he doesn’t bother with the whole “hero identity” for a reason. Being a cocky, arrogant bastard is only half of that reason, no matter what Zatanna would say. The other half is that he would look dreadful in spandex and, honestly, punching things hurts and his hands are delicate.
Fuck this. John’s throat tickles and he fumbles around in his coat for his flask. It’s not in his usual pocket, which—oh, for fuck’s sake. 107 days means far too many meetings he’s had to attend sober. This is torture. This is an actual, literal form of torture. Is he sure Kronos—Clockwork—is his patron, or is he really being tortured in Hell?
“Constantine.”
Oh, here we go. That’s Batman’s “I’m concerned about you but I’m also your boss and you’re showing me up in front of everyone” voice, and frankly, John wants nothing to do with it.
“I understand that you’ve quit both smoking and drinking and while I commend you for that—”
“This isn’t because I quit smoking! This is because you’re too pompous, too arrogant, to actually believe that someone can know more about how to handle a case than you. If you look back in my last report, you’ll see that the leaders of the Devil’s Gate cult only meet when a new gate can form. By my calculations, the next potential date is over a year away. As per my last report, I’ll be waiting until then to make my next move.”
“Unacceptable.” Batman says, placing the tablet on the table to give John his whole attention, his gravelly voice as damning as ever. “To leave such a threat in the world is negligence of the highest order, we are here to protect people not to procrastinate until the last possible moment.”
“I’m not going to argue about this, Bats. This is exactly what I mean. I have made an executive decision and because it’s not the same as the one you would make, it’s the wrong one. You just can’t accept that I know more about this than you and I’m not going to change my mind!”
John slumps forward in his chair, pinching at the bridge of his nose and furiously blinking angry tears out of his eyes. Great, this is just what he needs. Crying? Really? He’s really crying over this?
He takes a deep, shuddering breath—and Christ on a bike was that the fucking core? Something shifts in his chest, something small brushes against his soul and he shivers uncomfortably at the sensation. He reaches a hand inside his coat again, but instead of going for his cigarettes like he normally would, he rests his palm on his breastbone. Is it his imagination, or can he feel it fluttering? Does it sense his emotions? Is it scared?
John takes another breath, willing himself to calm down.
“Yes,” he says, his tired voice echoing in the quiet of the room, “the Devil’s Gate cult is dangerous. Yes, if they succeed, the world would have another door wide open for all the evils in the underworld to waltz right out of. Yes, even knowing that, I will still be waiting until then to do something about it. I’m not poking that bear, I can’t risk it, not right now.”
“You can’t risk it.” Batman says, disapproval plain in his voice. It’s not a question, it’s more of a resigned statement that has John itching to lay him flat. But he’s being calm. He’s doing some breathing exercises. He’s not going to deck Batman. Not that he could do it, anyway, no matter how satisfying it is to imagine.
The last thing they need is a core of an Infinite Realms ghost exposed to the mind-numbing anger John tends to feel in these meetings. Can’t be good for it, can it? He should set a good example, right? That’s why he’s not smoking or drinking or having caffeine or eating blue cheese or going on rollercoasters or anything else that’s fun.
He can’t feel it anymore, now that he’s calmed down a good bit. It leaves him wondering if he ever felt it in the first place. How is this incubation thing even meant to go? Is this normal?
“I'm sorry,” Zatanna interrupts, making John jump out of his skin, her finger to her chin as if in thought, “I have personally witnessed you bargain your soul away to two warring demons on the off-chance that they would fight a third demon coming for your life, and you can’t risk this? I don’t buy it.”
“I’m not putting that kind of target on my back. Better to let them think that we have nothing on them, lull them into a false sense of security so that when they do try again, we’ll be able to get all of them together.”
“Constantine… John.” Here comes Captain Marvel, all caring and feeling. The concern in his voice makes John feel sick. Or maybe that’s the five gherkins he ate earlier, with the world’s grossest—best—chocolate chaser. The sourness of the pickles really brought out the sweet richness in the chocolate, okay? It’s not quite the taste he’s been craving, but it was good and John stands by it. Honestly, he kind of wants it again. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Captain.”
And John is fine. He really is!
So why the hell is he tearing up again?
Okay, so he’s stressed. His coworkers don’t value his opinions or respect his expertise in this matter, but that’s fine! He’s no stranger to that, that’s how these meetings always go!
In a few moments, Batman will grunt and stand up, which is code for “I don’t like this and I think it’s a terrible idea but I don’t know how to stop you short of locking you up and honestly I don’t think even that will work”, and everyone will be dismissed and John can go back to the House and eat a tub of ice cream—with some gherkins on the side, because now that he thinks about it, dipping them in ice cream sounds really nice—and John will be fine.
Wait, that’s ridiculous, because John is fine and—
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, because I am fine.” John says, but his voice betrays him and hitches up at the end, squeaky and so obviously thick with tears. He coughs and pitches his voice down. “I am fine. I’m fine.”
The awkward silence that descends over the table tells John he’s not fooling anybody.
Superman clears his throat, “You don’t need super hearing to know that you’re not fine, John. We’re a team, this is what the Justice League stands for. If you need help with the cult, all you need to do is ask and any of us would be happy to lend you a hand.”
Oh, that’s it. That’s fucking it! John can’t take this any more! He stands up, chair skittering backwards in his haste, and sticks his middle finger up at Superman.
“Why don’t you piss off, you big blue bellend! How dare you? The only thing I need help with right now is beating the fact that I know what I’m doing into all of your heads!”
“John, sit down and take a breath. Calm down.”
“I will not calm down! I don’t need to calm down, because I am fine! Sure, my head hurts all the pissing time, I’m constantly bloated and my ankles are swollen to shit, I’ve not had a cigarette in 107 days, and I think I might lose my mind if I have to explain to you all again why pursuing the Devil’s Gate cult is a bad idea because you’re all as stupid as bag of fucking rocks and can’t seem to grasp the concept that it is safer for everyone if we leave them alone until I am capable of taking them down without having to worry about getting hurt!”
John finishes, gasping for air, tears streaming down his face. He can feel his cheeks heating in what is undoubtedly a blotchy red rash, as he trembles with emotion. Everyone watches on, eyes wide and mouths open in shock.
“John—”
“But none of that matters, because I am fine!” He slumps back down into his chair, panting hard.
God… he wishes he could have a cigarette right now. 107 days down, only 258 to go. Fuck.
The core gives his soul a little nudge as it shifts, twisting to get more comfortable, and John shivers. Acid rises high in his throat again and he has to swallow to keep everything down. It’s going to take a lot of getting used to if it’s going to keep moving around like this. He lays a hand back on his chest and takes a deep breath. Calm.
“John, have you been cursed or something?” Zatanna snorts, more used to John’s outbursts than the rest of them. More easily able to forgive.
“If only, Zee, if only.” John sighs and sags over the desk, sinking his head into his hands. “Look, I’m sorry, it’s just… been a rough few months for me. What with the no smoking, and all.”
“Yeah, no kidding. You sound like my friend who had to quit when she was pregnant.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not… oh God, I’m gonna be sick.”
Someone (one of the speedsters, John swears he sees a flash of red before his vision goes black) presses a small rubbish bin into his hands just in time for him to spew his lunch. A hand rubs small circles on his back and, despite everything, it actually feels kind of nice.
Finally, after a few dry heaves, his shoulders droop and his stomach quietens, and he spits the last of the gross, bitter bile into the bin.
When he lifts his head, he finds the Flash standing in front of him with a bottle of water and a box of tissues. Batman is a dark, brooding shadow next to him and… Well, shite, it’s his hand on his back. What the hell?
Somehow, that’s even worse than vomiting in front of almost the entire Justice League.
“Thanks,” he croaks as he takes the tissues from Flash to wipe his face free of the sweat, tears, and vomit.
Well, that tops it. This meeting is officially the worst one he’s been in.
Batman just grunts and goes to sit back down.
Gratefully, and more than a little out of it, Constantine swills his mouth out with the water. After he’s spit into the bin, Flash vanishes only to reappear a second later with the bin clean and empty and back in his lap just in case there’s any more.
There’s a brief pause, everyone seemingly unsure how to proceed. John can’t blame them, it’s been… a lot. He sighs and rubs a hand over his stomach, already feeling the empty rumbling.
“Lunch?” he asks, ignoring the disgusted looks on the faces not covered by masks. It’s probably not a great idea, but that taste that’s been hounding him is back on his tongue and he could really eat right now. “Hey, does anyone know of a burger that tastes like it’s going to explode? I’ve been really craving that lately.”
John doesn’t miss how the Flash zips over between Zatanna and Captain Marvel to loudly whisper, “Are we sure he’s not pregnant?”
Danny is the reason Batman has his utility belt. Why he's prepared for 'anything. everything.'
you see, when they were kids, Danny's family took a trip. To study ectoplasm in other cities. They did this alot when Danny and Jazz were little, while they were waiting for funding for the portal to come through or for contractors to finish doing repair work on their home. On this occasion they were gone longer than usual for one reason or another.
Which gave young Danny and Jazz ample time to make friends. They were in Wayne Tower. Their parents in one meeting or another. Jazz found herself an out-of-the-way office in which she could start on the classwork she was missing. Danny found himself in the basement, where all the failed projects went to die. and started tinkering, fooling around.
Eventually a morose boy named Bruce joined him. Though he didn't say much beyond his name. and seemed to do his own work. Though he kept having to stop to get one thing or another, always illprepared for the task at hand when he sat down for the day.
When it was time for the Fentons to head back to Amity, little Danny Fenton handed the forlone Bruce a toolbelt. One filled with more pockets and items than it should realistically be able to fit. One that was promised to 'always have exactly what you need, when you need it"
Years later Danny would be watching the news in his college dorm and see a man in all black with a cape and an extremely familiar vibrant yellow belt, and smile to himself.
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