I love fics with Danny and Constantine! From Danny being a gremlin and Constantine being terrified of the eldritch abomination the League just summoned, or being so done with the chaos Danny brings, or Danny owning Constantine's soul, it all brings me so much joy!
Here are some of the fics I've read. If you've got any recommendations put them in the comments!
Best Foot Forward
Magicae ad Mortem
Damning Actions
Like A Lamb
the royal line
An Unlikely Deal
I Just Wanna Talk
John Constantine Stop Selling Your Soul for Five Minutes Challenge
John Constantine‘s Infinite Trouble With The Infinite Realms
The Peacock Au
The Soul Trade(ing Card Game)
Be Not Afraid! (Or whatever)
Restless Summons
Uncle John
It's Hard to Make Friends When You're Half in the Grave
Beach Day Demons
“I’m a twin”, Damian said one night. He could feel the narrowed eyes of his family drilling holes on his back in disbelief. Not that he could blame them. Damian had never so much as implied being raised with a companion, much less a sibling.
“I had a brother”. Damian paused to recollect himself. He had not said his brother’s name out loud in over 8 years.
“His name was… Danyal”. Damian hated the way his voice wavered, but he could not help it. Danyal was everything to him, his other half. Their heart beat as one and when one heart stopped beating, the other one died with it. At least until his family put his heart on metaphorical life support without ever realizing.
“Where is he now?” His father asked, voice filled with knowing grief and a hint of betrayal. It had in fact been 6 years since Damian first showed up on his doorstep.
“Up there”. All eyes shifted towards the specific star he was pointing to. “Right before he died, he promised me he’d guide me from the stars. Unfortunately, the stars are not visible in Gotham, so my brother is unable to be of much help unless I leave the city.”
“Your brother is Polaris, the North Star?” Tim questioned warily, most likely in attempts to not offend him. Damian was aware of how stupid it sounded, but Danyal had promised, and his brother never broke his promises.
“Yes. Danyal is with the stars now, just as he always wanted”
Danny Fenton Was 32 When His Parents Built a Strange Machine
✨The Master Post✨| Teapot's Stories
This Prompt by nightblackowlbat, featuring contributions from Dreadmothrosemary71 , Thatrandomsarahchick , pyroprotectoroftrees ((Ummm.... with some deviations and creative liberties though... sorry not sorry))
nightblackowlbat: "Watchtower technician Danny had his portal accident when he went to visit his parents for the holidays. [...] Now if he could only keep his new powers under control so the heroes he works with don’t investigate and arrest his parents, that would be great."
32 year old Doctor Daniel Fenton is a mechanic repair man for the Justice League. It may not be the astronaut job he dreamed of in his childhood, but he gets to work amongst the stars and do his part in helping save the world (even if it's just by supporting the heroes who do all the heavy lifting). After his parents kill him in their boarderline supervillain evil scientist lab, Danny has to keep various ghostly changes under wraps and maybe even kind of sorta save the world? But he's just a mechanic and his only job is to help the heroes who do all the world saving and he is not one of those heroes.
Read the Final Draft on Ao3:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rough drafts:
Chapter 1: This is Why We Have Lab Safety:
Part 1 | Part 2
Chapter 2: Oh No is This Ghost Puberty?:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Ao3 Chapter Exclusive
Chapter 3: The Unintentional Space Walk:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
Chapter 4: Super Cool Training Montage:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6
Chapter 5: Almost the End of the World Again:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Sam & Danny Art by nightblackowlbat
Danny Sketches by dreadmothrosemary71
Poltergeist the Technician art by this teapot
Tip: You can follow this post to receive updates from me in the comments! Please do not post your own comments here on the master post.
This draft is now complete! I am going to take a break and then work on editing! I have plans for extended scenes, including some scenes that I'd cut for interest in time. Follow this post to be notified in the comments when I post this on Ao3!
===
For reference, here are the ages of people in the story. I used This Post by teentitanimals as a reference. And then aged the other JL core members based on vibes and some cannon.
Danny & Sam (& Tucker): 32
Green Lantern: 40
Flash: 45
Superman: 49
Batman: 50
Wonder Woman: Several Centuries
Martian Manhunter: A Few Centuries
Esposito is 58; Jim is 44; Tony is 39
Jack, Maddie, and Vlad: In their 60s
To add some perspective, the bat kids: Babs is 39; Nightwing is 37; Jason is 32; Cass is 32; Steph is 30; Tim is 29; Duke is 24: Damian is 21
I know it's really fun to show off your work in a visible way, but I am begging more of yall who post fanfic on Tumblr to utilize the Read-more feature
Sorry for the wait, got busy and a bit distracted, but here's part 4. I planned on posting this last night, but my power went off until 6 in the morning, and I was enjoying being asleep by then, but here it is.
Part 4 Masterlist Part 5
__________________________________________
The first sign that the safehouse was becoming something more didn't arrive with a declaration or a dramatic event. It seeped in quietly, carried on the faint, industrial scent of cheap laundry detergent and the soft rustle of fabric one week into staying with the kid.
Jason was knelt on the floor of the main room, a mountain of his own dark, practical gear sorted into two distinct piles. The system was simple, honed by years of solo survival: the 'Tolerable to Wear Again' pile—items that maybe had another day's wear in them—and the 'Needs Washing' pile, reserved for things that were stiff with dried sweat, grime, or the occasional, stubborn speck of blood that hadn't been scrubbed out in a sink.
Danny, who had recently graduated from being a permanent fixture on the couch to shuffling around the apartment with the careful, hesitant gait of a newborn fawn, paused in the doorway. He watched for a long moment, his head tilted, observing the ritual with a quiet intensity. Then, moving with a slow, deliberate pace that spoke of both lingering pain and firm resolve, he limped over and sank carefully to his knees beside the piles.
Without a word of explanation or request for permission, he reached out and began to re-sort Jason's world.
His slender, pale fingers—still bearing faint, greenish-yellow bruises along the knuckles—plucked a heavily stained Henley from the 'Tolerable' pile. He held it up, the fabric standing almost rigidly on its own. This, he deposited with a soft thump onto the 'Needs Washing' pile with finality.
Jason, who had been watching this silent coup with bemused tolerance, finally raised an eyebrow. "Hey. I was going to wear that."
"To a chemical weapons convention?" Danny asked, his voice a study in deadpan. He didn't look up, his attention already captured by a pair of socks that had seen better decades. "Because the smell might be a viable deterrent." He picked one up between his thumb and forefinger, holding it aloft as if it were a radioactive specimen discovered in a forgotten lab.
A surprised snort escaped Jason. He leaned back on his heels, crossing his arms. "It's called building up a protective layer. Gotham's air is corrosive. This is adaptive camouflage."
"Your laundry basket is a registered biohazard, Jason," Danny countered, his tone utterly flat, but a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes betrayed him. He continued his quiet, methodical work, his movements slow but sure. He was like an archaeologist carefully cataloging artifacts, his touch surprisingly gentle. He found a black tactical t-shirt that was only marginally worn, its scent still clinging to gun oil and Jason's particular brand of soap, and after a moment's consideration, he left it in the 'Tolerable' pile—a silent, surprising concession.
Jason watched him, this kid who had been cradling his own insides in a dirty alley, now meticulously organizing his laundry based on a hygiene standard that felt both foreign and… embarrassingly necessary. Sunlight, weak and diluted by the grime on the window, caught the dust motes dancing in the air between them. The scene was so profoundly bizarre, so utterly and disarmingly domestic, that the last of Jason's resistance bled away. He couldn't stop him. He didn't want to.
"Fine," Jason grumbled, the sound rumbling from his chest as he pushed himself to his feet. "But you're folding it. All of it." He gestured vaguely at the now-significantly-larger 'Needs Washing' mountain.
"Deal," Danny said, and a small, victorious smile was clear in his voice even if Jason couldn't see his face. He held up a pair of cargo pants and patted down the pockets. "But if I find any live ammunition in these, I'm keeping it as a hazard-pay tip. I'm thinking of starting a collection."
Jason just shook his head, a reluctant grin tugging at his own lips as he retreated to the kitchen. It wasn't a debate about principles or a screaming match. It was just laundry. But as he listened to the sound of the washing machine humming to life from the other room, a sound he usually associated with mundane chores, he realized it felt different. The steady, rhythmic thumping wasn't just cleaning clothes; it was weaving a new, quieter rhythm, it felt, unmistakably, like a place where two people lived.
__________________________________________
A couple of days later, the safehouse was steeped in the deep, velvety silence of a Gotham night, broken only by the distant, mournful wail of a siren several blocks away. At the small kitchen table, under the warm pool of light from a single hanging bulb, Jason was engaged in a familiar ritual of maintenance.
Before him, disassembled into a constellation of intricate components, was his Red Hood helmet. The stark red shell was upturned, looking for all the world like the carapace of some strange, mechanical beetle. With a set of precision screwdrivers and a soft, lint-free cloth, he worked. He cleaned the internal lenses, wiping away the faint smudges of grit and smoke that accumulated every night. He checked the delicate wiring of the internal HUD, his large, calloused hands performing the task with an unexpected gentleness. The scent of isopropyl alcohol and ozone from the electronics mingled with the ever-present undertone of gun oil that clung to his gear.
On the couch, Danny was a still, quiet presence. He had found a pad of graph paper and a charcoal pencil in one of Jason's drawers, and for the last hour, he had been sketching. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his hand moving with a slow, sure grace. The only sounds from him were the soft, rhythmic scratch of charcoal on paper and the occasional shift of the cushions. This silence wasn't empty or charged with unspoken tension. It was a living, comfortable thing, woven from the shared understanding that neither of them required conversation to feel less alone.
After a long while, the scratch of Danny's pencil paused. He didn't look up from his drawing, his voice soft enough not to shatter the peace he’d just broken.
"You don't have to, you know."
Jason's hands stilled for a moment, a tiny micro-screwdriver poised over a nearly invisible connection. He didn't look up from the helmet's intricate guts. "Don't have to what?"
"Stay in here with me," Danny said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if commenting on the weather. "I know you've got… stuff. Patrol. Or just… stuff that doesn't involve babysitting." He finally glanced up, his eyes catching the light. "I'm okay by myself. Really."
It was a simple offer of an out, a quiet acknowledgment that Jason's world was far beyond the confines of these four walls. A few weeks ago, the past Jason Todd who had clawed his way out of the Pit would have taken it without a second thought, using the excuse to retreat into the city's embrace, where rage was a simpler language than this quiet companionship.
But present Jason looked down at the helmet in his hands. He saw his distorted reflection in the dark red polymer—a fractured, monstrous visage. He saw the careful, meticulous work of his own hands, maintaining the very thing that hid him from the world. He thought of the cold, isolating weight of it on his head.
He finished securing the connection, the soft click sounding deafening in the quiet. He set the screwdriver down with a definitive tap.
"I know," he said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual defensive edge. He still didn't look at Danny, focusing instead on reassembling the helmet's outer shell. "I'm good here."
He didn't need to see Danny's face to feel the shift in the room. From the periphery of his vision, he saw the subtle, almost imperceptible relaxation of the kid's shoulders, a slow release of a tension Jason hadn't even realized was there.
A moment later, the soft, rhythmic scratching of charcoal on paper resumed. Jason slotted the final piece of the helmet back into place, the familiar weight solid and whole in his hands once more. But instead of putting it on and heading out into the night, he simply set it aside on the table. He picked up the soft cloth and began methodically polishing the red finish, wiping away the last traces of fingerprints.
The quiet stretched on, but it was different now. It was warmer. It was a choice. And in the safe, lamplit stillness, with the city's distant heartbeat their only soundtrack, that choice felt more like a victory than any street-level brawl ever had.
__________________________________________
It was the screaming that jolted Jason awake. Not loud, terrified screams, but choked, desperate sounds. He was on his feet in an instant, a knife in his hand before he was fully conscious, scanning the dark living room. The sounds were coming from the couch.
Danny was thrashing, tangled in his blanket. "No, no, please… not again…" he whimpered, the words barely audible.
Jason’s blood ran cold, this wasn’t someone breaking in, this was a treat that he was woefully unequipped for. What was the protocol for this? A splash of cold water? Shaking him awake? He remembered his own nightmares in the League, the disorientation and violence that followed being startled out of them. He couldn't do that to the kid.
He stood there, hovering uselessly, the knife feeling heavy and stupid in his hand. He felt a surge of shame. He could dismantle a criminal empire, but he couldn't figure out how to help a kid having a bad dream.
Just as he was about to retreat, to give Danny privacy in his torment, the thrashing stopped. Danny’s eyes snapped open. He didn't gasp or jolt. He just… woke up. His chest was heaving, but his eyes were clear, scanning the dark room until they landed on Jason’s frozen form.
"Sorry," Danny rasped, his voice rough with sleep and remembered fear. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't," Jason lied automatically, lowering the knife. He felt like an intruder. "You, uh… you okay?"
Danny pushed himself up, running a shaky hand through his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, just… the usual broadcast from the memory bank. All repeats." He offered a weak, tired smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Jason didn't move, rooted to the spot by his own inadequacy. "I… didn't know what to do."
"Nothing to do," Danny said, his tone matter-of-fact. He pulled his knees up to his chest. "I'm used to riding them out on my own. It's… fine."
The word 'fine' hung in the air, a transparent lie. Jason knew all about lies like that.
But then Danny looked at him, really looked at him, and his next words were softer, genuine. "But… it's easier when there's someone there after. Makes the quiet feel less… loud. You… you make it feel safe."
The admission was a punch to the gut. ‘You make it feel safe’. The Red Hood. A source of safety.
The last of Jason's hesitation crumbled. He walked over, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He didn't sit on the couch, but on the floor, leaning his back against it, right beside where Danny was curled up. It was close, but not imposing. A presence, not a cage.
He felt Danny relax behind him, a slow release of tension.
For a few minutes, they just sat in the dark, listening to each other breathe. Then, Danny started talking. About the stars, about how he missed seeing them properly in a city like Gotham, about a stupid theory he had about constellations being the ghosts of ancient heroes.
Jason didn't say much. He just listened, his head leaning back against the couch cushions. The kid's voice, steady and calm, wove a shield against the lingering dread of the nightmare. The words eventually drifted off into soft, even breaths.
Jason stayed there on the floor, his own eyes growing heavy. The knife was still on the table across the room. For the first time in a long time, he felt no urge to reach for it. The only weapon he needed tonight was the sound of a kid finally sleeping peacefully, and the newfound courage to simply sit and make sure it stayed that way. He didn't move until the gray light of dawn filtered through the blinds.
Only when he was sure Danny’s breathing was deep and even, the nightmares held at bay for the rest of the night, did Jason finally rise from the floor, his body stiff and protesting. He looked at the kid, asleep and finally peaceful.
That newfound calm, hard-won in the quiet of the night, was put to the test just a few evenings later on a rain-slicked Gotham rooftop.
__________________________________________
The comms in his helmet were a live wire of controlled chaos. A weapons deal between the False Face Society and some upstart gang from the Bowery was going down in the shadow of the old clock tower.
"Hood, I have four hostiles on the north side, armed with automatics," Oracle’s voice was calm in his ear. "They're your primary bottleneck."
"Acknowledged," Jason growled, already moving. The old, familiar script was right there: crash the party, break bones, leave them in a heap for the GCPD to scoop up. The green itch was right beneath his skin, eager for the release.
He dropped into the midst of them from a fire escape,. The first two went down easy—a dislocated shoulder, a shattered wrist—their weapons clattering to the wet concrete. The third lunged, and Jason caught his arm, twisting it back at a brutal angle. He heard the pop of the shoulder separating, the man’s scream cut short as Jason slammed his face into a brick wall.
The fourth, the last one, was just a kid. Maybe nineteen, twenty at most. He fumbled with his gun, his hands shaking, eyes wide with terror behind a cheap plastic mask. He was backing away, tripping over a discarded crate.
The madness under his skin whispered, One more. Just one more. He’s nothing.
Jason took a step forward, his own fist clenched, ready to deliver the final, crushing blow. But, for a moment, he didn't see a nameless thug. He saw a different kid—pale, bruised, and trusting—telling him in a raw whisper that he made him feel safe.
The memory was a bucket of ice water. The green haze receded so fast it left him dizzy.
So, he didn't strike, just stopped a couple of steps away, his boots scraping on the gravel. The kid with the gun was sobbing now, frozen in place and looking terrified at him.
"Drop it," Jason commanded, his voice a low, controlled thrum.
The gun immediately clattered to the ground.
"On your knees. Hands behind your head." The kid complied, trembling violently.
Jason zip-tied his wrists with efficient, practiced movements. He didn't break another bone. He didn't offer a single threat. He just left him there, kneeling in the rain, as he melted back into the shadows.
The silence on the comms was deafening. He could feel their confusion, their held breath.
It was Oracle who broke it, her voice carefully, professionally neutral. "All hostiles contained. Good work, Hood."
The channel clicked off. A moment later, a private line buzzed. It was Tim.
"Hood." There was a long pause. "What was that?"
"Cleanup," Jason replied, his voice flat. He was already grappling away, the city lights smearing in the rain on his visor.
"That wasn't your usual 'cleanup'," Tim pressed, his detective brain unable to leave the anomaly alone. "You just… stopped. Since when do you take prisoners that can still walk?"
Jason swung onto a new rooftop, landing silently. He looked out over the city, the memory of a quiet dawn and a sleeping kid a shield against the old urges. "Since it was the right thing to do. It was just a kid Timbit, you really expect me to beat the shit outta him?" he said, and for the first time, he actually believed it.
He cut the comm before Tim could respond. He didn't need their suspicion or their analysis. The validation he needed wasn't out here in the violent symphony of Gotham or in the expectation of the other bats. It was back in a quiet safehouse, where, for one night, he’d helped another kid keep the nightmares at bay.
And that was a victory no body count could ever match.
__________________________________________
I just find Jason learning to be there for Danny wholesome, am I right or am I right? JayJay is healing, and I am all for it
Batman halted in the door of the conference room, taking in the sight of a strange being lounging imperiously in his chair. His white hair seemed to defy gravity ever so gently and his green, glowing eyes—Jason’s eyes—stared back with none of the regard or fear so many people showed towards Batman. His tanned face was speckled with tiny stars that Batman had to actively resist becoming memorized by. The boy’s choice of covering was sheening armour that refracted the light through his chest-plate of black ice. The white sleet that sharpened his knuckles seemed perfectly capable of movement despite it encasing his hands in similar fashion to the chest-plate; glassy in it’s brutal edges and as hard as the sheets that form over the coldest of lakes.
The watchtower had been invaded. Batman had questioned why the place was so cold when he’d arrived. Now he knew.
The only thing that kept Batman from immediately reacting might have—very much—had to do with how young he looked. A boy in the second half of his teens.
And the fact that several other Justice League members were at Batman’s back as he strolled further into the room, watching the boy warily.
The boy’s eyes were unconcerned as he watched the Justice League file in. Worryingly so. Who was he that he would be so unfazed, how powerful? Or was it faith he wouldn’t be harmed, taking advantage of the Justice League’s strong morals?
The teen had commandeered the chair with all the authority of a king and the confidence of one assured of their own position. He sprawled across it. The chairs were all identical of practical, unassuming make, but this boy made it look like his throne as he leaned heavily on one side and stretched one leg way on the other. A hand was extended to dangle off one chair-arm and he had a knee braced up, showing an armoured shin protecting his black, sturdy, cargo-like pants and iced boots that jagged treacherously upwards.
The boy smirked. “Took you long enough. I was getting bored.”
Batman resisted the urge to clamp his hands over his already protected ears from the unearthly static and screeching glaciers that came from the boy’s mouth. He noticed Superman flinch and his face grimace.
“Who are you?” Batman growled. This boy was obviously inhuman. He was also an unknown. Batman would be foolish to underestimate someone who had somehow infiltrated the watchtower without being seen or setting off any alerts. Who exuded too much confidence, as if the entire world was at his fingertips.
Attacking took the back-burner in favour of garnering information in such a concerning situation.
“You may address me as. . .” He contemplated a bit too much for Batman to believe whatever he would give them would be his true name. “Danny.”
“. . .Danny.”
The name was so. . .normal.
“How did you get here?” Wonder Woman asked with hints of warning and aggression.
The boy smiled. He had fangs. Too many sharp teeth. He didn’t answer and was revelling in their ignorance.
“What are you doing here?” Superman asked. It said something about Danny’s energy that even superman was being cautious about approaching.
“Waiting for you.” He smirked.
“Why?” Batman pushed as much threat and intimidation into his stance and words as he could. He usually didn’t have to think about it. “What do you want?”
Danny chuckled and a shiver ran up Batman’s spine. Goosebumps formed even through the protective layers that shielded him from the cold.
“Why don’t you sit?” The words should have been innocent. They felt like a trap. “You’ve gathered for a meeting, haven’t you?”
The league members didn’t move. Danny sighed.
“Fine, fine, fine.” He rolled his eyes and Batman was eerily reminded of how much the adolescent exasperation reminded him of his own children. Danny leaned off the chair arm to lean an elbow on the table instead, propping his chin up. He was all teeth. “The Infinite Realms wishes for peace. I’ve come to investigate the possibility of a treaty on behalf of the High King.”
<><><><>
“THERE’S A DENIZEN OF THE INFINITE REALMS IN THE WATCHTOWER??!!!”
Batman held the phone away from his face at Constantine’s uncharacteristic display of panic. It did not bode well and it settled uncomfortably in his bones.
He grunted in affirmation.
Constantine swore up and down enough to fill Alfred’s swear jar ten times over. “What do they want?! What did you say to them!? Ohhhh, bloody ****! You’ve already antagonized them haven’t you?!”
“No.” Batman ground out.
Constantine was quiet. Several seconds ticked by.
“. . .WELL?!”
“He claims the High King wants to negotiate for peace.”
There was silence on the other end. Batman usually preferred it when Constantine was quiet, but this was thick and seemed to claw out of the phone to infect the watchtower. It muffled the noises and beeps and drowned out the presence of the other league members who had stepped out of the conference room with him.
Then there was a great, controlled release of wavery air. When Constantine spoke, it was more serious than Batman ever remembered hearing him.
“Okay, okay.” Constantine mumbled to himself. “Listen closely, Bats, and repeat everything, and I mean everything, to your circus clowns.”
Superman cleared his throat. “We’re here.”
“YOU LEFT THE AMBASSADOR ALONE?!”
“Of course not! Wonder Woman and Martian Manhunter are monitoring him.” Batman said.
Constantine grumble-sighed. “Good.” He mumbled. “Two of the competent ones. I don’t trust Bats not to **** this up and get us all killed.”
“What now?” Flash said.
Batman was a little offended. “Constan—“
“NO!” He yelled vehemently. He sounded a little manic. “Batsy, you have the emotional intelligence of a wet paper bag, a sad, trampled, wet paper bag with so many holes that it can’t even be considered a bag anymore, you have the emotional intelligence of wet, paper scraps and the diplomacy of a feral hyena! Unless he addresses you first, Do. Not. Initiate! Do not open your mouth! I have no faith in you whatsoever!”
“I will n—“ Batman tried to growl again, but Constantine cut him off. Again!
“No!” Constantine reiterated oh, so eloquently. “Look.” He sighed. “Getting news of the newest High King since he defeated the last one has been near impossible. All Deadman will tell me is that he’s better than the last guy and we are incredibly lucky our entire dimension wasn’t wiped out after that stunt the American government pulled with the Anti-ecto Acts.”
Batman saw some of the leaguers pale. He suddenly wasn’t feeling the best either.
“Anti-Ecto Acts?”
“Laws declaring their species non-sentient and illegal, I dealt with it, thing is, this is an extremely delicate situation.” He stressed. “We don’t know what kind of ruler he is, what little thing might set him off, and we cannot afford to set the High King off! Capiche?! It’s a good sign that he’s willing to negotiate peace, but he could change his mind. Some ghosts are very temperamental.”
“Ghosts.” Several of the leaguers repeated. Constantine let out an incredibly exasperated sound.
“Do you idiots know nothing?! Yes, ghosts! The Infinite Realms is the dimension between dimensions, the land of the dead and the never-born! They are incredibly powerful entities and many of them could level our planet easily! Whatever you do, DO NOT ask how they’ve died! It is highly taboo and you’ll get yourselves killed!” Constantine let out a stressed groan.
“I would come back and deal with this myself, but I am. . .occupied at the moment. Don’t try to negotiate without me! You lot will muck everything up! And seriously, DO NOT ASK HOW THEY’VE DIED! Keep the Ambassador happy until I can get there, convince him to stay! We might not have another chance like this, don’t annoy them, do not ignore them, and, just in general, don’t give the ambassador any reason to deliver anything negative to King Phantom and have him erase us all, got it?”
The Justice League exchanged several, stunned looks.
“Got it?”
Batman grunted.
“Good. And Bats.” Constantine added lowly. “If this fails, I am blaming you for the end of the world.”
Constantine ended the call and the phone beeped before drowning everyone in silence. The leaguers shared more looks.
