Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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The world dissolved in a haze of embers and static as Zatanna stumbled through the teleportation spell, her body folding the moment her bedroom walls materialized around her.

She didn’t fall so much as melt—knees buckling, palms slapping the floorboards to catch herself, her breaths already coming in jagged, whistling gasps.

The fifteenth battle that week had left its mark: her waistcoat and gloves were torn, her signature top hat long lost in the chaos of the battlefield, her fishnets torn at the thighs where a hex had grazed her.

Blood trickled from a gash above her eyebrow, mingling with sweat and soot as it dripped onto the rug beneath her. She didn’t wipe it away. Couldn’t. Her arms trembled too violently to lift.

The room was a tomb of her own making. Spent candles littered every surface, their wax pooled and hardened into grotesque shapes.

Spellbooks lay splayed open, pages crumpled and ink smeared from frantic late-night research. An overturned vial of painkillers had spilled across the nightstand, pills scattered like forgotten runes.

She’d tried, after the twelfth battle, to mend her wounds. Tried and failed. Magic required focus, and focus required a soul not frayed at the edges.

Get up. Heal. Breathe.

But her body refused. A whimper escaped her, thin and needy, as she slumped sideways against the bedframe. Her fingers clawed weakly at the mattress, too exhausted to grip it, her forehead pressing into the edge as if she could physically shove the tears back inside.

They came anyway—silent at first, hot streaks cutting through the grime on her cheeks. Then her ribs caved, a ragged sob tearing loose from her throat.

It was a child’s cry, raw and unguarded, her breaths hitching in uneven spasms. She didn’t bother covering her face. Didn’t have the strength. “P-please…” The word dissolved into a whine, high and desperate, as she curled tighter into herself.

Her shoulders shook, each gasp for air sharper than the last, until her lungs burned and her vision blurred. She couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe.

The weight of the week—the blood, the fire, the endless chanting of cultists hungry to unmake the world—crashed over her in a wave, leaving her drowning in the wreckage of her own resolve.

---

John materialized in the corner with his usual flair for the dramatic—a snap of sulfur and a swirl of trench coat—but the smirk died on his lips the moment he saw her.

"Oh" 

Zatanna was crumpled beside the bed, her face half-buried in the mattress, one arm slung over the frame like she’d been trying to claw her way upward before collapsing.

Blood streaked the sheets beneath her, and her breaths came in shallow, stuttering hitches, each one punctuated by a whimper that made his chest tighten.

He’d seen her battered before. Seen her furious, seen her scared. But this? This was a raw, animal unraveling—a side of her she’d never let the League glimpse or him as a matter of a fact.

Walk away

his instincts hissed.This isn’t your mess. But his feet moved anyway.

“Zee.”

He kept his voice low, cautious, as if approaching a wounded animal. She didn’t react. Her fingers twitched against the bedsheet, her cries muffled but relentless, each shuddering breath louder than the last.

“Zatanna.”

He crouched beside her, close enough to see the tear tracks cutting through the dirt on her face. Her lashes were clumped with moisture, her split lip trembling as another whine escaped her. This time, she flinched at his voice.

Her head lifted sluggishly, eyes puffy and red, and for a heartbeat, she stared at him like a ghost haunting her periphery.

Then recognition flickered, and her face crumpled all over again. “J-John?—” He didn’t let her finish.

In one motion, he hauled her against his chest, her forehead thudding against his collarbone. She stiffened—then broke, her fists knotting in his shirt as she dissolved into violent, gasping sobs.

“I’ve got you,”

he muttered, hand cradling the back of her head. His fingers tangled in her hair, matted and stiff with dried blood. “Let it out, love. S’alright.” But it wasn’t. Her cries escalated, shrill and devastating, her body thrashing weakly in his grip. She sounded feral.

Shattered.

Her nails dug into his chest, her breaths coming in jagged hitches that left her begging for air like a child. “H-hurts,” she choked out, the words slurred and sticky with tears. “E-everything… h-hurts...”

“I know.”

His throat burned. He’d never admit it, but the sound of her—the feel of her coming apart—was a blade to the ribs.

“I know, Zee.” --- He tried the healing draught first. The vial appeared in his hand, iridescent liquid sloshing as he uncorked it with his teeth. “Drink,” he ordered, pressing it to her lips. She turned her face away, sobbing harder. “N-no."

“Zatanna."

He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, pupils blown wide with exhaustion.

“You’ll bleed out on my shirt if you don’t. And I like this shirt.”

A weak, wet laugh escaped her. She relented, letting him tip the liquid into her mouth, though half of it spilled down her chin.

He wiped it away with his thumb, his other arm locked around her waist to keep her upright. “There. Not so hard, was it?” She didn’t answer. Just sagged against him, her trembling easing slightly as the potion knit her skin back together. The gashes closed, the bruises faded, but the tears didn’t stop.

If anything, they worsened—great, heaving sobs that left her limp and boneless in his arms. “Why?” she wailed suddenly, her voice cracking. “Why won’t it s-stop?” John’s jaw tightened.

“Because you’re human, you daft witch. Even with all your sparkly theatrics.” She shook her head, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. “Th-they need me…” “And what happens when you’re too gods-damned tired to stand?”.

His grip on her tightened, his voice rougher than he intended. “When you miscast a ward and blow us all to confetti? Who saves the world then, eh?” She flinched, her breath hitching in that awful, childlike way. “I d-don’t know…”

“Exactly.”

He pressed his palm to the nape of her neck, grounding her. “Breathe, Zee. In… and out. Follow me.”

It took minutes. Long, agonizing minutes of her fighting for air, of him murmuring curses and coaxing breaths until her lungs finally steadied. Her cries dulled to whimpers, her fists unclenching from his shirt, her forehead resting heavy against his shoulder. “I'm...Sorry,” she slurred in a small voice.

“Nothing to be sorry about love.” He reached into his coat, retrieving a silk handkerchief—black, embroidered with tiny golden runes—and dabbed at her face.

The blood came away first, then the tears, until all that remained was the hollow ache in her eyes. “You’re a disaster, but you’re my disaster.” A weak laugh left her lips “Takes one to know one.”

---

He didn’t let go.

Not when her breathing evened, not when the moon dipped below the horizon and Gotham’s sirens wailed in the distance. She slumped against him, her weight a familiar anchor, her fingers still tangled in his sleeve.

“Next time,” he said, staring at the wall, “call me before you collapse, Or I’ll curse your stockings.” She didn’t answer. Just nestled closer, her breath warm against his neck.

Outside, the world kept ending. But here, in the quiet ruin of her bedroom, John Constantine did the unthinkable for once—he stayed.

Chapter Text

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Morning light spilled through Zatanna’s curtains, soft and golden, painting the cluttered bedroom in hues of warmth. The remnants of the night’s collapse—overturned spellbooks, smudged candles, a cracked crystal ball—still littered the room, but the air felt lighter somehow, as if the sunrise had scrubbed away the worst of the shadows.

Zatanna stirred first, blinking blearily at the unfamiliar weight against her. Her head rested on John’s shoulder, his trench coat draped over her like a makeshift blanket. For a moment, she froze, disoriented, memories of the previous night flooding back—the tears, the exhaustion, the way she’d clung to him like a child. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

Oh god. He saw all of that.

But before she could bolt, John’s voice rumbled beneath her ear, rough with sleep. “Mornin’, kid.”

She sat up too fast, wincing as her stiff muscles protested. “I’m not a kid,” she muttered, swiping at her face. Her eyes felt swollen, her throat raw, but the suffocating weight from last night was gone.

John smirked, stretching his arms above his head with a theatrical groan. “Could’ve fooled me. You cry like one.

“John—”

“Kidding.” He flicked her forehead lightly. “Mostly.”

Zatanna scowled, but the effect was ruined by a traitorous sniffle. Before she could retreat, John tossed her a silk handkerchief—clean this time, embroidered with tiny golden stars.

“For the waterworks,” he said, already standing and brushing imaginary dust off his coat. “You’re a mess, Zee.” She caught the handkerchief, glaring. “Says the man who smells like a pub floor.”

“Ah, there’s the fire.” He grinned, sharp and fleeting. “Knew it wasn’t gone for good.” --- The kitchen was a disaster—dirty dishes piled high, a half-empty cereal box spilling onto the counter, and a wilting potted plant Zatanna had forgotten to water. John rummaged through the cabinets, muttering curses, while Zatanna slumped at the table, her chin propped on her hand.

“Since when do you cook?” she asked, watching him crack eggs into a pan with surprising competence. “Since I realized you’d starve otherwise.”

He scowled at the stove. “What’s with the kale in your fridge? You running a health cult now?”

“It’s for smoothies,” she mumbled, hiding a smile behind the handkerchief. “Smoothies.” He snorted. “Next you’ll tell me you do yoga.”

“I do yoga.”

“Christ.” He slid a plate of scrambled eggs and slightly burnt toast in front of her. “Eat. Before I lose all respect for you.”

Zatanna poked at the eggs. “You’ve never respected me.”

“True.” He dropped into the chair across from her, lighting a cigarette. “But I’d hate to see the League’s star magician pass out mid-spell because she forgot to eat.”

She rolled her eyes but took a bite. The eggs were… good. Surprisingly good.

---

They didn’t talk about the tears. Didn’t talk about the way she’d clung to him, or how he’d stayed. Instead, they bickered—about her terrible coffee (“Tastes like battery acid, love”), his smoking (“You’ll die before forty”), and the merits of kale (“A crime against humanity”).

But when Zatanna reached for the painkillers, John’s hand closed over hers. “Try this instead,” he said, tossing her a small jar of honey. “Local beekeeper in Wales. Works better than that chemical rubbish.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You? Supporting small businesses?” “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my reputation.”

Zatanna smirked, drizzling honey onto her toast. The sweetness bloomed on her tongue, warm and comforting.

---

By noon, the apartment was… not clean, but less apocalyptic. John had magicked the dishes into washing themselves (“Showoff,” Zatanna accused) while she’d righted the spellbooks and relit the candles with a snap of her fingers.

“You’re getting better,” John remarked, watching her mend a shattered vase with a whispered "Ecalper." She glanced at him, surprised. “You’ve never complimented my magic before.”

“Don’t get used to it.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Still sloppy on the consonants.” “Says the man who pronounces every incantation like a drunk Shakespearean actor.” “Oi, that’s style,  darling.”

Zatanna laughed—bright, clear, a sound that made the room feel lighter. John’s smirk softened, just for a moment.

---

When he left, it was with a dramatic swirl of his coat and a promise to “check in before the next apocalypse.” Zatanna stood in the doorway, arms crossed, the morning sun turning her hair to ink-spill black. “You’d better,” she said. “Or I’ll tell everyone you’re secretly a decent person.”

John froze, halfway through a portal. “You wound me, Zee.”

“And John?” She hesitated, then smiled—small but genuine. “Thanks. For… staying.”

He tipped his hat, shadows already curling around him. “Anytime, kid.” The portal snapped shut, leaving behind the scent of smoke and a folded piece of paper on the kitchen counter. Zatanna unfolded it, rolling her eyes at the jagged script: “Next time, call me before you drown in tears. P.S. Burn the kale. —J.”

Beneath the note sat a new jar of honey and a tiny, hand-carved rabbit—a twin to the one she’d lost in last week’s battle.

---

Epilogue

: The world kept ending. But now, when Zatanna Zatara stood on the front lines, her magic hat held honey and a wooden rabbit. And when John Constantine smirked at her from across the battlefield, cigarette dangling from his lips, she smirked back. They weren’t okay. Not yet. But they weren’t alone.