Complicated.

"num scire volo, an tu me qouque ames."

The left hand is justice, and the right hand is mercy. How oddly fitting, then, that all blind justice statues always carry a scale on their left and a sword on the right? Suppose it makes sense, Constantine mused, considering the circumstances he found himself in. Yet again, pinned by the throat and unable to move, he faced his latest mistake. Daredevil.

"Stop, Constantine. Relax." Venom dripped from words whispered through gritted teeth. The Devil's breath against his face was a hot contrast to the chilliness of the atmosphere it was in that warehouse. The man was hot and sweaty, his chest heaving from adrenaline. John could smell his blood on him, making his stomach drop.

Defiance glowered from the occultist's eyes as he tried to push off the wall. However, that attempt was quickly stopped with more pressure on the baton on his throat. John knew he couldn't physically force himself out of that position, and struggling would only worsen it. He relented, and so did the pressure.

"You're a prick." John's strained voice was cold and sarcastic. The defiance he so proudly displayed moments before speaking shifted into a twisted, cruel smirk. His gaze didn't waver; he stared directly into those red eyes. Daredevil's jaw set. Nothingness stared back. A growl broke the vigilante's silence before he stepped back with his baton lowered.

John coughed with his back against the wall, helping him stand steady. The pain of being unable to breathe never hurt as much as the feeling of not getting enough air back in once free. It made his chest and ribs hurt almost as badly as the punch that split his lips. Once the coughing subsided, John spat a wad of bloody phlegm onto the concrete floor between them. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his trench coat.

"Three months," John said, voice hoarse with simmering rage. "Three fucking months without a word from you." His words were directed at the vigilante's back. Daredevil's fists clenched, and the creaking of his greaves was the only sound he made. John took a step away from the wall and towards the masked man, who only minutes prior had no issue throwing the first punch.

"Why?"

The question was loud and sharp as if a knife was thrown toward the hero's back. Daredevil kept silent. His fists relaxed, but he kept his back to John.

"'Why?'" the masked man finally replied. His voice sounded dark as the shadows they were in. John could hear the disdain in his voice, the frown on his exposed lips. The hero shook his head and laughed ruthlessly.

Daredevil turned to face John now.

"What were you expecting, Constantine?"

John's stomach tightened at those words. He swallowed hard, his lips twitching as he tried to keep from letting it hurt too much. Daredevil continued to speak, getting closer to the magician with each word.

"We had just one evening together, and now you think it means something?"

As he braced for the punch John expected to come, he squared his jaw. Instead, the Devil got closer to John's face leaning in until their foreheads nearly touched. His tone softened but it was just as serious. It took everything in John's power not to look away from the man.

"It didn't. Let it go."

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