Constantine stumbles, and Bruce doesn't budge. (The immovable object to Superman's unstoppable force; that he's human, nothing special besides his own manic stubbornness, has never seemed to matter.) And he doesn't flinch when the spell hits him, though he does raise his head, which might be a concession to what the fuck.

Though he did basically dare the man, so, this is just what he gets.

Bruce raises one hand, watching gold-flecked pseudo-fire vanish around his wrist, consuming the last thread of a shirt cuff. He always thinks he can smell something, around magic. Like the molecules that make up air have changed somehow. It seeps in between the cigarette aura, but only for some fleeting, half-imagined moment.

"That's very specific."

Didn't even burn off the waistband of his pants or anything.

His raised hand then finds Constantine's jaw, not so different from when he'd grabbed him earlier. This time, though, it's just to hold him firmly in place when he kisses him, hard and scraping. There's no punishment in it, but no real affection, either. He isn't sure if they have any for each other - that they'd be willing to admit. But there is familiarity in it, and that counts as something. Bruce pulls at Constantine's tie and thinks - even more askew than usual, shirt and skin alike marked with grime and dried blood - that even though there's no helping that he tastes like stale tobacco, at least he got some electrolytes in him. Tie off, he reaches lower, yanks up his shirt.

What are you waiting for?