Wouldn't that just be the worst. If Bruce tied him up to be nice to him. Suffer.

"Don't know any blasphemous party tricks?" Water into wine. What's your magic even good for. (A lot, he thinks. He thinks Constantine could be an incredible force for good, far better than Bruce and his anger issues, if he could just get a fucking grip.)

His waistcoat is off, discarded, and he's unbuckling his belt. But he stops, and looks at the other man.

"Alright."

Do it, then. He stands and waits, eyes already adjusted to the dark of the room. Beneath his clothes, Bruce is as ever, grotesquely scarred and improbably fit. He's pushing fifty; there is an inevitable loss of skin elasticity in the beginning stages of plaguing him, and he'll never again be in his prime. The spare parts that make up his spine do an excellent job, but he's always one back injury away from being permanent tech support. And yet he's still out there, night after night, beating the shit out of people half his age like it's the easiest thing in the world.

But not tonight. He reaches out when Constantine is in range, jerks him forward, careless of whether or not he might unbalance him.