Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He’s bleeding through his coat sleeve.

Because of course he is.

Zatanna doesn’t notice—too focused on spitting incantations in reverse while the demon splinters into ash-bodied copies, each one testing the seal like they knew where it would break.

She’s in heels. Naturally.

Because fire, blood, and infernal runes clearly called for formal wear.

They’d only met an hour ago. She hadn’t asked for backup—and definitely not him.

He’d been dropped in last minute, some crisis-hand-off between magical contacts, and now here he was: bleeding, winded, and watching her work like the battlefield belonged to her.

The demons lunge—a twisted blur of bone and smoke—but the ward flares and hurls them back. The sigil’s third ring cracks under the impact. Not good.

John stumbles, catches himself on a half-shattered pew. His hand’s slick with blood. Ribs aching from whatever the thing threw him into.

Still, he can’t stop watching her.

Legacy magic types usually got eaten first. Especially the kind you’d just met in the middle of an exorcism-turned-apocalypse. Too refined. Too careful. All style, no grit.

But she’s not some trust-fund spellcaster with a stage name. She’s something else entirely.

Every syllable she casts is sharp, timed to the breath. Every gesture—measured.

She moves like she’s done this a hundred times.

Like she expected someone would be watching.

It wasn’t just deadly—it was a performance.

And he wasn’t sure who she was trying to impress.

She’s not graceful. She’s surgical.

And for all the shimmer and silk, there’s steel underneath. She doesn’t flinch when the demon screeches. Doesn’t pause when it rakes claws across the glyphs. Doesn’t even blink when spectral fire licks up her arm—just mutters another phrase in reverse and flicks the flame dead with a snap.

She’s brilliant. Terrifying.

And far more dangerous than he expected.

He’s not sure when he stops watching the demon and starts watching her.

When it’s over—when the warding circle flares white and the demon’s form splinters like ash blown sideways—Zatanna strides past him without breaking pace. Her eyes sweep over the ruined floor like she’s still mid-performance, still not convinced it’s over.

She flicks soot off his shoulder with two fingers.

"Next time, try ducking," she says. Then, with a half-smirk: "You owe me a drink."

John lets out a low laugh that stings his ribs. His coat’s shredded, his arm’s a mess, and the ward circle’s going to need re-inscribing.

But none of that seems to matter.

She walks like she owns the battlefield.

And he hadn’t expected to feel...off-balance.

She’s all legacy and defiance, and somewhere behind the smoke and blood, a quiet, dangerous thought takes root: That wasn’t just magic. That was art.

He lets out a breath of a laugh—barely there, but real.

And just like that—she’s already got him.

Chapter Text

(Mirrors: She Walks Like She Owns the Battlefield)

The cathedral reeked of burning silver and spent runes. Third-layer seal cracking. Blood on the marble.

Zatanna adjusted her heel—spelled for silence on contact—and didn’t let her gaze flick toward the man stumbling behind her.

John Constantine. Loud. Bleeding. Distracting.

But she couldn’t afford to look back. Not with the seal weakening. Not with the demon splitting into mirrored copies like it knew her movements before she made them.

She didn’t cast for spectacle. Not here. Not like on stage. This was precision. This was control.

Legacy magic demanded it. Her magic demanded it. Every motion exact, every reversal measured to the breath.

She heard him grunt when the demon lunged. She didn’t flinch.

If he died, it would be on her.

But he didn’t.

The final syllables burned as they left her lips—clean, final, sharp. The demon burst apart like ash on wind.

She didn’t break stride. Just reached out as she passed, flicking soot off his shoulder.

“Next time, try ducking,” she said, then allowed herself a half-smile. “You owe me a drink.”

She didn’t turn to see if he followed.

She already knew he would.

Chapter Text

The girl was twelve. And she was still in there.

The demon wore her like a marionette—limbs jerking too wide, head cocked at a sick angle, mouth moving just a beat too slow to be hers.

It parroted every Enochian syllable John fed it. Not to cast. Just noise.

Empty syllables. Distraction dressed as ritual.

Zatanna stood behind him—silent, steady. Hands aglow with blue fire. Her heels braced inside the salt line as the air shimmered, sulfur-thick and pulsing.

The demon turned the girl’s face toward them, lips curling back into a grin.

“So much fire between you,” it purred. “I wonder which of you it’ll burn through first.”

They didn’t answer. Just moved. Together.

John’s voice stayed level, more bluff than blade.

Zatanna raised her hands and spoke—clear, commanding, backward:

“Evael siht lrig!”

The demon shrieked.

The girl’s body convulsed—twisting once, twice—then dropped like a snuffed flame as black smoke peeled away, burning like sulfur as it went.

Silence followed, heavy and sudden.

Then the mother’s arms.

Then the sob—the kind that only comes after surviving.

Zatanna didn’t look at him. Not yet. Her hands still trembled with spellshock. Her breath came in tight, measured pulls.

Hair clung to her cheek.

One heel had cracked beneath the pressure.

She was furious with him.

He didn’t need her to say it.

He hadn’t cast real containment—just let the thing talk. Stalled. Gambled with a child’s life like it was another hand of cards.

And she’d had to fix it. Again.

But she hadn’t left.

John looked at her. Really looked.

And he thought—

Maybe this is what love looks like for people like us—scarred, burning, still choosing not to walk away.

Not roses. Not promises.

Just staying. Even when it’s hell.

Especially when it’s hell.

She broke the silence first.

“You always push it too far,” she said, voice sharp but controlled.

“And you still show up,” he muttered. “That’s the part I’ll never understand.”

They didn’t smile.

But neither of them walked away.

Chapter Text

The girl’s body was starting to tear.

Zatanna could feel it in the air—the way the magic buckled around her like overstretched wire. The possession had gone deep. Too deep. And still, the girl clung on. Twelve years old and refusing to let go.

The demon had learned to wear her well—movements distorted just enough to be wrong. Limbs twitching wide, mouth dragging a half-second behind the words it parroted from John.

Words not meant to cast. Not even to threaten.

Just to buy time.

John continued chanting. Enochian syllables delivered like a smokescreen. Loud. Intentional. Pointless.

He wasn’t casting.

He was bluffing.

Zatanna stayed still, heels braced just inside the salt line, fingers curled with quiet spellfire—conducting the charge in the room like a live current. 

Not for spectacle. 

For control. 

For survival.

The room hummed with volatile pressure, each second stretched thin with risk.

The sulfur stung her throat.

Then—

The demon turned, smiling through the girl’s face. “So much fire between you,” it said. “I wonder which of you it’ll burn through first.”

Not her.

She moved.

John kept talking. Loud enough to sound brave.

She didn’t wait.

One breath—

Then she cast. Reverse-syntax clean, force precise:

“Evael siht lrig!”

The magic cracked like lightning. The girl convulsed—once, twice—and then the thing fled screaming, black smoke clawing out through her mouth as her body dropped, small and shaking, into silence.

Zatanna didn’t exhale until she saw the mother reach her. Until the sob made it real.

Only then did she realize how tightly she’d been holding her breath.

Hair stuck to her temple. Her heel had split somewhere mid-cast.

She didn’t turn to John.

She didn’t have to.

She already knew what he’d done—and worse, what he hadn’t.

No containment. No binding sigils. Not even a ward to slow the thing down.

He’d stood there bluffing like it was a game.

And she had been the one who had to end it. Again.

Fury curled low in her spine. Not explosive. Just sharp. Cold. Familiar.

Because she knew this version of him. The one who danced the edge of disaster like it was a stage. The one who made her the safety net and never asked if she had anything left to catch him with.

She turned.

His hair was damp. Shirt singed. That look on his face again—the one that softened when he saw her like she was something rare.

Something sacred.

She hated that look.

Because John only ever reached for holy things when he was already halfway to ruining them.

And still—

“You always push it too far,” she said.

“And you still show up,” he answered. “That’s the part I’ll never understand.”

They didn’t smile.

But neither of them walked away.

Chapter Text

He thought she was dead.

For one long, agonizing minute.

The glyph had cracked. Her voice had gone silent.

He’d ripped through whatever stood between them—Latin, blood, and rage—then kicked through the door expecting ash.

But there she was.

Collapsed. Breathing.

A cut blooming low on her side like a warning.

He dropped to his knees. Pressed his hand to her ribs.

"Zee."

She blinked at him. Slow. Pained. Alive.

Her fingers rose, slow and uncertain, reaching for the blood on his brow—but they stopped just shy of his skin.

He hadn’t noticed the blood dripping into his eyes until then.

Didn’t even know he was blinking it away.

He caught her hand. Held it gently.

It streaked her coat too. He couldn’t tell who was hurt worse.

“You came for me,” she breathed—like she didn’t believe it yet.

He hesitated.

“You always show up,” he whispered back.

His voice softened.

“’S only fair.”

Something in his chest shifted. Broke open.

He almost told her then.

How the thought of losing her gutted him more than any demon ever had.

How she was the one spell he never wanted to undo.

But he didn’t.

Just held her hand like it was sacred.

And hoped she already knew.

Because if she didn’t—

He wouldn’t know how to say it now.