Chapter Text
Superman, also known as Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet, knows well and good how a sentence or two can change your life. He does this for a living, okay? The hero thing is, well, something of an extracurricular, considering it doesn’t really put food on the table.
Still, it’s yet another Tuesday, and yet another bunch of villains think it’s a good idea to try to take over the world. Only this time it’s not murderbots or mind control or giant carnivorous plants. This time it’s magic.
Rao, how he hates magic. No, Batman doesn’t get to call dibs on magic-hating. Not when something about Kryptonian physiology makes them particularly susceptible to magical attacks.
It takes two sentences to make this Tuesday a Bluesday.
“Superman, Constantine, coming in hot, on your left!” yells Zatanna. She and the other members of the League’s magical and occult unit, have been called in as reinforcements in the battle against Morgan Le Fay and the self-styled goddess known as Circe.
“Did you say ‘go left’?” John Constantine, the team’s occult specialist, yells back. His hands are on fire as he shoots mystical flames at swarming demonic cherubs conjured by the enchantress. The magic had fried their coms minutes ago.
Clark opens his mouth to say no, but Constantine dodges left, and his magic flames collide with a burst of light just as it leaves Zatanna’s wand, and he doesn’t even have the time to scold Constantine for his language when he grits out “fuck me” before the whole world whirls and goes white.
At the last moment, he grabs at the closest hero—Green Lantern, as it turns out—and does his best to shield the other man from the blast.
For the next few moments, all he knows is a mad tumbling sensation, like someone’s picked him up and tossed him in a spin-dryer.
When the swirling stops, he, Hal Jordan, Zatanna, and John Constantine are on a beach, in what looks to be the middle of the night. Superman does not appreciate the mouthful of sand he gets for landing facefirst into a dune. He rolls over, coughing, and fights the nausea that rises as it always does when he gets exposed to magical energies.
“Ah, fuck a duck in the muck,” Constantine spits out. Somehow, he is already seated with his back to a large rock, cigarette dangling from his lips. He flicks his lighter on and lights it (and seriously, why carry a lighter when you can conjure fire with your hands?) then leans back.
It takes a few tries because there’s still grit in his mouth, but Superman manages to clear his throat and say, “Language, Constantine. We’re still on mission.”
“Eh, fuck you, Big Blue.”
“I’m just gonna see if I can figure out where we are,” Hal Jordan, the Green Lantern who is assigned to their sector of space at the moment, says into the awkwardness caused by Superman’s affronted shock at being told off and Constantine’s nicotine-drenched lack of fucks. His ring lights up and encases him in green, and he lifts into the air.
“Damn, but that’s a fine arse,” Constantine says, still slouching against the rock, his head tilted up as he idly and with much appreciation watches his fellow hero float away in a green glow and tight spandex.
Superman is grateful when Zatanna reaches over and slaps Constantine up the head.
“Anyway,” Zatanna says, “I’m not so sure it’s a question of where we are as when we are.” She holds up a piece of trash, some kind of yogurt or pudding cup that’s grimy and covered in sand. “The manufacturing date on this is 2019.”
“How did you even think to look for that?” Superman wonders.
Zatanna flushes. “Uhh, when I was with the Young Justice team for a bit, Veronica had Batman running survival workshops on some League-likely scenarios and what to do when we find ourselves in them. One of them was apparent teleportation and/or dimensional travel. The first order of business is to determine if we’re just displaced in our world or universe, ported to an alternate dimension, or time traveled.”
He frowns. “Why don’t they do that for the rest of the League?”
She offers him a kind of “eh” sound and a shrug. “You’re asking me why Veronica Mars and Batman do what Veronica Mars and Batman do? Why don’t you ask them? I might be willing to bring it up with Nica, but you can handle the Dark Knight on your own.”
“Yes, he certainly can,” Constantine says suggestively. His sniggers are stopped by another slap up the head. “Ow, fuckin’ shite, Zee!”
“Shut up, John.”
Constantine huffs and lights up another cigarette. Superman opens his mouth to ask why he insists on using a lighter. “Wh—”
“Well, I’m pretty sure we’re in Neptune, California,” Hal says as he lands, and how did he miss the Green Lantern coming back their way? As Batman always says, the glowstick isn’t exactly subtle. “Looks a little different from how I remember it, though. That big monstrosity of a house Bruce Wayne built isn’t there, which was why I had to check twice.”
“Huh. So. Alternate timeline, alternate dimension, then,” Zatanna says confidently.
“How’d you figure?” Hal asks, then nods when Zatanna explains her reasoning in a succinct and logical fashion that has Batman’s stamp all over it (with bits of snark that show Veronica’s influence). Superman decides he really needs to talk about the League’s two strategic leaders about offering the older members the same kind of training they offer the Young Justice team.
“What’s the recommended protocol in this situation?”
“Recon,” Zatanna says promptly. “Figure out the differences between our timeline or universe and this one, see if we can recreate the situation that got us here, and lay low. Try not to affect their timeline too much, if we can help it.”
“Well, I can tell you one main difference,” Hal says grimly, offering them what looks like a wadded-up newspaper.
Superman takes it from the other hero, straightens out the page as best he can. LT. LOGAN ECHOLLS, 33, DEAD IN TRAGIC BOMBING, the headline reads.
He swears.
“Language, Big Blue,” Constantine mocks.
But Superman is too busy speed reading through the article. “It says Logan Echolls died yesterday as the final victim in a series of bombings that has rocked Neptune for the past several weeks. Veronica solved the case, but missed one of the bombs being planted in her car, which Logan was in at the time.”
Hal frowns. “That kind of carelessness doesn’t sound like Tiny.”
“Yeah. She’s almost as paranoid about double-checking stuff as Bat—”
Superman cusses again.
“Twice in one night? Maybe I’m rubbing off on you,” Constantine snarks. “Come on, mate, share with the class. And also, has anyone ever mentioned that you swear like a country bumkin?”
“He died on his wedding day.”
“Ah, shit. Blondie.” Hal, who’d been floating and keeping watch over the perimeter, dropped to the sand, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Ohhhh fudgebucket,” Zatanna says, tearing up.
Constantine scowls. “Wait, wait, wait! While dying on your wedding day sucks and all, what kind of shitefest am I missing here and why am I the only idiot not in the know, eh?”
“There—There’s only one person Logan Echolls would marry, in any universe,” Supermans says in a low, hoarse voice.
Green Lantern nods in agreement. “Veronica Mars.”
“Ah, fuck me. We’re gonna be screwing with the timeline to save this bloke, aren’t we?”
The answers are hard and grim on everyone’s faces.
“Shite, I’m gonna need another fag. Or seven.” Constantine takes a long drag of his cigarette, then stubs it out. Almost instantly another one is dangling from the corner of his mouth, and he’s lighting it again. With a lighter, again.
“So then,” Zatanna says cheerfully. “What’s the plan? More time travel? Body swapping him with someone? Resurrection ritual? Though I can’t imagine V would be open to something that would have us sacrificing a life for a life.”
“Eh,” Constantine grunts. “She his soulmate?”
“Of course!” Superman says, offended.
Zatanna snorts. “Supergirl told me you’re the OG LoVe shipper on the team.”
With a smirk, Superman shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, popping the P. “That would be Batman. He’s head of the matchmaking team to get Team LoVe together forever, because they’re years overdue.”
Constantine chokes on his next inhale, coughing up smoke like he’s got the cancer he so justly deserves, given how many cigarettes he’s gone through in the past 30 minutes. “The Bat is matchmaking? For little V? How in the seven circles of hell have I not heard of this before?”
Zatanna shrugs. “You told me you had no patience for League gossip.”
“Cause you quack like ducks in mating season!”
“Well, now you know why, huh?” Hal says. “Team LoVe is basically the whole JL at this point. Even the Martian and the midgets are in on it.”
“Well, that’s good news for us then,” Constantine says. “Give me a moment to work some things out, will ya, lads?”
“Ahem.” Zatanna glares at him.
“And lass.”
So they fall into silence only broken by the crashing of waves on the beach and Constantine’s long, slow drags of his cigarette. Cigarettes, at this point. There’s a small shower of stubs at his feet.
“Okay,” Constantine says finally. “Even if we could find his spirit to stuff him back in his body, he got blown up, right? So reimbodiment rituals are out.”
“Yep,” Zatanna says helpfully.
“Yeah, figured. Plus the spirits have to volunteer to be put back, which is a bitch to talk them into, most times.”
“You say that like Logan wouldn’t be willing to do anything to get back to Veronica,” Superman huffs.
“Shut your fangirling, Blue, the professionals are talking here,” Constantine snipes back, making Hal snort.
“Yeah, you’re the epitome of professional, Constantine.”
“Ooh, when did ickle Lantern learn such a big word?”
“Shut up, both of you!” Zatanna says. “Who knows how long we’ll be here? I’m sure Batman and Veronica—our Veronica—are working on a way to get us home as we speak. And once they’re here, they’re not gonna let us mess with things.”
With another drag of his cigarette, Constantine sighs. “Fine. Reincarnation ritual and an aging spell.”
Zatanna frowns. “What? But he won’t remember anything then! What would be the point?”
“The point,” Constantine says, “is the key to regaining your memories after being reincarnated is—”
“True Love’s Kiss!” Zatanna squeals.
Constantine frowns. “I was going to say re-establishing a connection with your soulmate.”
“I like the sound of the kiss better,” Superman says, smiling.
“Anything to get those two idiots past the UST stage, just because they broke up forever ago,” Hal agrees.
“Fine. Whatever. Let’s do this.”