Baffled, wary, and maybe a tiny bit frustrated, he slowly lowers his arm when no more blows are forthcoming. That wasn't even hard enough to hurt, if it had connected with flesh. What was Constantine doing?

He's starting to realize, maybe, that he's lacking in some integral knowledge of how actual human people behave. The ones who aren't technicians, handlers, or members of his STRIKE team.

Looking from Constantine's left cheekbone to the little fluffy ball in his hand for a moment, he does finally unbend to hold out his own hand. Flesh one, this time. "Okay. ... What's it for." Presumably it doesn't cause stress. It's a little ball. It looks soft. It has... fucking eyes on it, or something.