It's a reaction that tells him what he needs to know. And one that doesn't feel like he's hiding magic internal bleeding, or some other damn thing. Bruce lets himself be jerked closer, unflinching, liking that growl. The earlier observation was correct: he, too, could use a release.

"I have a right to know exactly what drags itself into my house," Bruce says lowly. He pushes his thumb beneath the lighter in Constantine's hand, pressing into the center of his palm. "I know what you're here for."

That old joke. Hit me, begs the masochist. The sadist whispers back, no. What, you're not getting off on the cruelty? Isn't this what you wanted?

Alright. Bruce isn't nearly that bad. But he's always taking the measure of things. Only once or twice a cursory measure of the situation has prompted him to immediately spring into action; the more someone wants it, the more he needs to understand just how thin the ice is first. He lets his hand go, thinking about his pulse and his eyes and the depth of his breathing, and shoves the soda bottle against his chest. Here. Drink that. It has the distinct air of an order.

When he steps away, he pulls his own tie off, and begins undressing on the way to the main bedroom.