A/N: As a long time fan of Zachary Zatara, it was only a matter of time before I shoved him into the Titans-verse, and this is the result. While many of the events of the show will feature in future chapters, it'll delve in and out of canon divergence. I am extremely receptive to comments, both the good and the bad (read: please be gentle!) and look forward to hearing what you lovely readers thing.
Chapter One: A Dove in Flight
It was all Zachary could do not to feel some residual bitterness as he slipped two crisp twenty-dollar bills into the sticky palm of the taxi driver. The eyes of the driver, with a dark complexion and a five o'clock shadow that had been nurtured on the job, pierced the veil of social acceptance and into the realm of expectation.
Zachary sighed, reaching two slender fingers into the breast pocket of his tailcoat and retrieving another note. It was only a five, but after sixty minutes of enduring a play-by-play of Rahim's television manuscript, a self-described undiscovered gem, he was lucky Zachary hadn't tucked and rolled as soon as they reached the freeway.
When it was clear that the tip wasn't going to be followed with gratitude, likely in the absence of false praise at the driver's works, Zachary reached for his suitcase on the seat beside him and stepped out of the taxi. The evening air was colder than he remembered, and the street occupied with apartment fire escapes and closed storefronts felt deserted – it was the complete opposite of the incessant bells, whistles and neon lights that he had grown accustomed to in Tokyo.
"Thank—" Zachary looked up and down the street before turning to the rolled down driver side window, intent on thanking Rahim, but was instead met with the ear-splitting sound of tyres warring with concrete and the scent of burning rubber. The rear door remained opened but closed dramatically as the vehicle sped out of sight, leaving Zachary alone on the pavement.
He had recited the address to the driver exactly as it was written on the screen on his phone, but the identical doorways to each building with the same sickly lights illuminating the corridors gave no indication as to which one belonged to Washington's vigilante duo.
A small voice in the back of his mind beckoned for him to turn on his heel and get the hell out of dodge, faster than he could say the words in reverse. Though in spite of the tales Zachary was sure his cousin had spun in regards to his moral ambiguity, he was inherently pleased that somebody thought he could be of some use – even if that meant facing one of the few people that had made enough of an impact to leave a bad taste in the back of his mouth.
Only a moment away from admitting defeat and reaching for his phone, Zachary winced as the sudden sound of splintering wood echoed from above and interrupted his bent arm and pursed fingertips. It was a harsh sound, immediately followed by the descent of a slim, human body. Whoever she was, her hair was as fair as unobscured moonlight and looked entirely out of place frantically snaking around her falling body.
For a moment Zachary could feel unmistakeable fear and panic take root within him, paralysing his entire physique and coercing adrenaline to course through his veins like wildfire. Admittedly he hadn't seen much combat, outside the realm of the occasional scuffle with would-be muggers after a late night stage performance, but nobody cared enough about the fledgling magician when the League already had one that could make the impossible possible.
Entirely in character, Zachary stole what few precious moments he could to wonder why she was falling, if she had been pushed, and what saving her would mean. Was she the right person to save? How many villains had he seen plastered across the media with distinguishing marks, like white hair, that screamed trouble?
It was only when the voice of his cousin flooded his ears, reminding him that everybody deserved to be saved, that Zachary swiftly rolled up his sleeves and prayed to any deity that would listen to ensure his magic didn't betray him. It was enough to have the very blood of those gifted with magic, but with it holding an inherent tie to one's emotions, Zachary's magic proved to be just as hesitant and fickle as he was.
"Wols!" It was a simple spell and one that lacked any of the natural flare Zachary knew his cousin was capable of, but it served a purpose. He could feel the thrum of magical energy snaking along his forearms, then his wrists and finally the tips of his fingers – his hands were held out before him, his fingers stretched as far apart as he could get them.
Causing the local weatherman's report of a frosty albeit clear evening to become obsolete, a swift wind emanated from the heavens and descended until it formed a cocoon around the mystery woman. It slowed her fall instantaneously, Zachary's brow furrowing as he concentrated on controlling the magical gust.
From behind him he heard the clang of a crash bar from an opening door, and chanced a glance over his shoulder, confusion infecting his features as a family of four ushered an unconscious teenager into a nearby parked car. Each of them was dressed in pristinely pressed clothing that could have been pulled directly from mannequins in Stepford, and had he not seen them transporting a limp body, Zachary would have assumed they were lost.
"Dawn!" A hoarse voice echoed from above, causing Zachary to snap his gaze back towards the floating body, just in time to watch gratefully as she gently pressed against the concrete. It was clear that she had been engaged in some kind of confrontation, the slithers of blood pooling in between her lips a clear indication. "Dawn!" The voice sounded once more, desperate and rushed, clumsy pronunciation paving the way for frantic panic.
Zachary knew that the vigilante Dove was called Dawn, in spite of never formally meeting her. Perhaps it was happenstance that he seemed to be in the right place at the right time, but he knew better than to hold any stock in fate and chance.
A body moved between the grates of the attached fire escape, shoes assaulting the metal and shaking the entire structure. It was only when the man made a final leap from the first floor to the ground that Zachary realised it was Dick Grayson, the very reason behind his attendance in Washington.
Dick immediately moved towards Dawn, the dim streetlights illuminating the purpling bruises across his knuckles and the discolouration along his jaw. His breathing was entirely controlled but the infamous mask of neutrality had slipped, betraying the fear rooted within the depths of his eyes. Zachary felt for him, and desperately sought to discover what had transpired on the rooftop above, though it didn't take an adept socialiser to discern that it wasn't the appropriate time.
"Hey, hey, listen to me," Dick moved his hands towards Dawn, his fingertips trembling as they worked absentmindedly to move vagrant strands of hair out of her face. She lacked any injuries that would have been afforded to her had Zachary arrived a minute later, but somebody had clearly sought to harm with intent. "Dawn, you're going to be okay. I promise." With that, Dick turned to Zachary and forewent any of the typical niceties. His face held all the pleading innocence of a child asking for something forbidden, hoping to be the exception to a rule they knew all too well.
Zachary took a reactive step backwards in response, hands raised in mock surrender and his dark hair moving gently as he shook his head. "Healing isn't my forte, Dick," he knew that the vigilante was entirely aware of the fact, proven in the misshapen healing of a broken leg the last time Zachary had attempted to speed along the recovery process, "her blood could clot, an air bubble could form. It's not like refilling a ketchup bottle or a car tyre." The red liquid that seeped from the underside of Dawn's body had swiftly coloured her pale sweater a deep red, the wooden debris crafting an obscene halo around her head taunting that splinters were embedded within her back.
"Zach," Dick had no intention of accepting refusal, that was clear, "I can't lose her." Had the arc of Dick's hair, slick with sweat and desperately clinging to his forehead, not moved conveniently to cover his face as his eyes dropped to look at Dawn once again, Zachary could have sworn that he was welling up.
He had addressed him as Zach. It was a nickname that the magician despised, knowing all too well that it was burdened with the bonds of reminiscence and familial disappointment – at least on his part. He had recited his tragic family backstory in the heat of the moment almost a year ago, breath shaking amidst the aftermath of euphoria, as his head reclined gratefully into a pillow that was the perfect balance of lumpiness and yielding softness.
They had laughed at Zachary's passing comment at the time, that the most memorable variable of their night together had been that singular pillow – though the vigilante, ever the detective, had assessed Zachary's soft spot and kept it hostage for a moment such as this, he was sure.
Somehow the name seemed less than excruciating from the lips of Dick Grayson. It was for that reason that Zachary had despised him when things turned sour, bitter than there was someone in the world that could reduce him to a bumbling infant with a mere symbol of affection.
"So much could go wrong," Zachary said the words that he knew were expected of him when asked to do something dangerous, his eyeline level with Dick's and his knees plunged within the growing pool of blood. His blank stare analysed the unmoving body as though Dawn was a priceless artefact, one to be admired from afar and never handled.
With a defeated sigh and all the guilt aptly afforded to one about to risk the life of another, Zachary rubbed the palms of his hands together generously. "If her body turns itself inside out, it's on you, Grayson." He didn't meant he words, and Dick showed no signs that he was listening, but providing at least some semblance of a warning somehow lessened the burden of blame. "Laeh."
The spell held no specifics and typically Zachary found himself eager to see how his magic would interpret the command, but every fibre of his being was instead willing his abilities to heed his plea. "Laeh!" He repeated the word a second time for good measure, closing his eyes and allowing the familiar sensation to consume him entirely – it felt like it always had when he performed a feat of significance, like the entire world had melted away, leaving him with nothing but the sound of his own ragged, nervous breathing.
The moment of silence that passed felt like it could have lasted an eternity, as if Zachary could open his eyes and find himself in the twenty second century. It was only upon Dawn's sharp expel of breath and hoarse coughing that Zachary opened his eyelids, still squinting so as to somehow lessen the impact of what his magic had done to her. "Is she," Zachary paused only to assess Dawn himself, "okay?"
Dick moved quickly, with all of the clumsiness of somebody clearly untrained in the art of doctoral analysis and nodded. "I think so, her pulse is stronger." His trembling fingers moved across her face delicately, as though she were made of fine china, and he made another effort to paw strands of hair out of her face. "She needs a hospital though," Dick spoke as he wrapped his arms beneath Dawn's body, lifting her torso towards his chest and cradling her head in his arms.
Beneath her it was clear in the spattered pattern of blood that the wood had impaled her deeply, trace outlines of jagged shapes indicating where each piece had been. Though all that remained were several tears within Dawn's sweater and visibly clear skin that was merely tinged with a faint red. "She could still have internal injuries." Zachary refrained from making a quip that made reference to Dick's lack of medical expertise.
As Dawn's breathing seemed to stabilise and Dick made a movement indicating that he aimed to lifted her into his arms, a fourth presence on the sidewalk startled Zachary. "Dawn!" The man was considerably bigger than Dick, ropes of muscles clearly visible beneath the fabric of his jumper. His voice was rough, hoarse as though he'd been strangled – unbeknownst to Zachary, he had been.
"Hank, she's alright, but we need to—" Dick attempted to address the man with a calming tone, trying to dissipate any immediate panic. It didn't work. Hank didn't pause to listen to the vigilante cradling his partner, and instead crudely wrestled with him for control of Dawn's body. Dick didn't argue and allowed the broader of the two to lift her up, only watching as Hank turned on his heel towards a parked car – assumedly his.
"Friend of yours?" Zachary's voice battled with the sound of the car engine roaring to life. He had given up trying to hold his own weight and slipped onto his backside, one knee raised and propping up his elbow. A simple healing spell didn't take an exponential toll, but it wasn't entirely effortless either.
Dick merely stared ahead at where the car had been but a moment ago, undoubtedly processing the evenings events. Zachary knew that it still wasn't the time to ask for details as to what had transpired, and he refrained from pressing for an answer to his unasked question. "Let's go." It was a simple instruction and Zachary got to his feet without question, wiping the palms of his hands on the buttocks of his trousers and silently heading towards his idle suitcase.
Not a word was exchanged between the pair of them as Dick led the way into the nearest apartment building, through the hallways of nauseating lighting and up three flights of stairs. The door to a single apartment had been left open, seemingly in a hurry, and Zachary stepped into a quaint living space that oozed occupancy. There was a faded throw draped meticulously across the sofa, faded pillows positioned in a diamond formation and novelty mugs left abandoned on coasters. An overflowing laundry basket stood idle in the hallway off of the main living area, and a stack of bowls balanced on the draining board served as remnants of the morning's breakfast.
Dick headed directly for a hefty black case that was stationed on the coffee table, pressing his thumb against the built-in scanner and rapidly typing on the keyboard that appeared with its accompanying screen. Zachary dared to perch on the edge of the sofa, resting an arm on the selection of folded blankets neatly stacked at the end. "So this is the guest bedroom, huh?" He attempted to lighten the mood and only sighed when Dick didn't reply.
Eventually, after the rattling of fingers rapidly pressing against plastic keys, he closed the case and took a seat beside Zachary. He leant back clumsily, his hand moving to massage the bridge of his nose as he slowed his breathing and attempted to regain some semblance of composure. It was clear that whomever the Stepford family had ushered into their car had been a friend, or an ally at the very least, and the usually stonehearted vigilante seemed to care.
"Look, Dick, if you aren't—" Zachary had stolen a few moments to mentally talk himself into addressing the metaphorical elephant in the room. Dick was clearly attempting to process something, likely the evenings events, and it was no secret that he wasn't the best company on his best day. The journey from Tokyo to Washington hadn't been an easy one, and though it paled in comparison to almost losing a close friend, he felt justified in his irritation.
"I was meant to look after her." Dick spoke, seizing the opening that Zachary had provided, "she trusted me, or she did before she thought I was abandoning her. It's a fucking mess, and now she's gone." Zachary was surprised at the emotional candour, not quite taken aback but surprised.
"She's going to be fine. Dawn is being taken to the hospital and I am certain it will be nothing but positive news." Zachary thought about placing a reassuring hand on Dick's shoulder, but decided against it, recalling just how uncomfortable he stood with any gesture of human emotion – especially when the other person had been compelled to besmirch what little connection they had once shared.
"Not Dawn. Rachel." Dick spoke in a tone ripe with his own frustrations, as though Zachary should have been aware of the difference. "She's just a kid going through a rough time. She's why I called you." Dick turned his head, chin resting on the shoulder of his jacket as he looked at Zachary.
The magician immediately raised an eyebrow and instinctively slide further away, prepared to argue until his last breath that he was last person on the planet equipped to assist in the nurturing of a child.
Sensing the assumption, Dick broke the eerie silence of the living room and laughed. It was a sound that felt alien to the room, as though laughter was a seldom found occurrence in the apartment. "No, not that kind of help. There's something about her, something in her. It's magic, or demonic at least."
Demonic. The word alone held connotations that made Zachary uncomfortable, evident in his sudden bout of fidgeting. He could almost smell the cigarette smoke and asinine flapping of a trench coat on the wind, topped off with an equally arousing and infuriating British accent.
Zachary considered his words with analytical obsession, weighing Dick's own words and explanation. There was nothing quite like the delicious prospect of dangerous exhilaration to spark the senses. "I assume you have a car?"