Can't stop writing about this dude. Have another angsty internal thought process fic, guys. Oh and btw - readers of Dark Times, I WILL UPDATE SOON, I PROMISE. Just...Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them...has, like, swallowed my soul... and commandeered my keyboard for the time being. This little piece was already mostly done, or it never even would have seen the light of day. NEWT SCAMANDER. That's all I'm saying.
But yes. Hope you like this! (Don't own anything!)
The Waverider is filled with dust. The motes drift slowly through the air, shifting, turning, casually floating away and out from underneath whatever illuminating beam of light they'd encountered. Each one is golden – they shine like tiny, insignificant stars.
Rip watches them, the frequent specks of dust, as he wanders the ship. They've always been there – that lingering dust; he knows that. It's part of the air – the ship has an air filtering system, but it's not perfect. That'd be impossible. There's no escape from slight error, a small interval of inconsistency. Those few dust particles came from their clothes, their shoes – swept in with the change of pressure whenever the doors open. At the moment, there's more than usual – a result of the ship's current condition. The filtering system must have gone offline in the chaos. Everything is in shambles – an understandable result of nearly flying the ship into the sun. A huge mess, and a lot of dust.
Rip wants to track them all down, pinch them out of existence. He walks the halls, seemingly idle, and searches them out. He'll find a lighted area – observe the speckled air, dotted with those sparse fragments. He'll stand there – stand and watch. And then move on.
Still. It's not like he's got much better to do – the thought wanders through Rip's mind, and he dismisses the fact that it's absolutely not true. The team is back in 2016 – with Savage dead, the mission is technically over. He's left them to decide whether or not they want to continue – twenty-four hours, a few days, however long they need. Rip's willing to wait.
Except – time ship. The word wait doesn't apply – and there he is, parked in the temporal zone, wandering the ship in search of dust. He could start the repairs – his beloved Waverider is really in terrible disarray, and he'd like to get it back in working order before retrieving what's left of the team anyway. He doesn't, though. Rip wanders, silent, throughout the near-deserted ship, and thinks.
He feels almost lethargic. It's really quite strange, to be here on the other side of a goal. Accomplishment. It doesn't really feel like it should. There's every reason for it, of course, but it's still strange.
How long has it been, since this all began? What with all the time travel, and time spent here in the temporal zone, Rip really doesn't know. Gideon records the passage of time from the ship's linear point of view, but Rip hasn't checked in a long while. He can't bring himself to do it now, doesn't really want to know.
However long it was – all that time, what felt like lifetimes – all that time was spent on this. His mission. So much focus, so much energy – and now, here, there's barely any satisfaction. Just – he can't even work it out. He feels – muddled. Strange.
They're gone.
Rip lets the though fill his mind for the millionth time, pressing it against the walls of his consciousness. Savage is dead, and they're gone. There's nothing more to do. Nothing left to try. No way to go back.
My family is dead.
Time wants to happen. It's a phrase that Rip has come to accept over the years, a law of nature. Was that really the Oculus at work, all along? Or is it the actual nature of things? One or the other, it didn't matter in the end – it was true. Time wanted to happen, and time wanted Rip Hunter's family to die.
If only Rip could have gotten what he wanted, this one thing – he would have given up everything else. He would have accepted a lifetime of failure just to get that one victory.
The thought used to scare him – knowing just how much he would sacrifice to save them. It doesn't anymore. Maybe that's because it doesn't matter now – maybe not. In truth, he's always known that his mission wasn't to kill Savage, not really. Killing Savage, in his heart, was a nice bonus to compliment the real goal – saving Miranda and Jonas. Deep down, that was the truth.
But he was always too proud to admit his selfishness, even to himself. He can say it, now – he was selfish, all along. He'd always wanted to be good; being a Time Master surely would see to that. The allure of heroism never dimmed to his eyes, and yet – underneath it all, the truth remained. Even while hunting Savage with his Legends – all the while, it was always about them for him. First his family, and then Savage.
Sometimes Rip wonders what would have happened if somehow, somewhere along the line, their actions while fighting Savage had changed his family's fate. If it had – if one day, after another outing with the team, he returned to his study and asked Gideon that well-worn question – has the timeline changed? – and if she'd said yes–
If only–
Even the thought of the possibility brings back that faint ache, the longing for something impossible. But even if it were – then what? He can never decide. A part of him wonders if he would have continued hunting Savage. A part of him wonders if he really would have simply taken them, his Miranda and Jonas, and left. Gone somewhere to hide. Safe and sound, and selfishly happy.
He really doesn't know.
But Miranda never would have let him do that, and he doesn't think that he could face his son while knowing that his would-be killer was still out there – and it doesn't matter, in the end. If, would, could. He doesn't know, and he never will. But it still bothers him sometimes.
And it bothers him that he would even worry about something like that while his family is dead–
Sometimes, Rip wonders if even he knows what his priorities are.
The occasional spurt of rage still sparks within him, sometimes, and he'll go in a fury against himself for not having saved them yet – he'll hate himself for even questioning whether or not he would put them first. Sometimes. But other times–
Other times, he'll think of them, Miranda and Jonas in the past tense, and he'll be surprised to find that he's not filled with fury. No self-hatred – just lingering sadness, and a sense of weariness. That faint ache. I'll always love you and I'll never not miss you, but nothing more.
The feeling usually doesn't last very long, and afterwards he'll go on to hate himself again for not hating himself for not having saved them – usually. But now is one of those times, those other times, and for some reason… he hasn't gotten to the afterwards part yet.
He has the strangest sensation that he's not going to, not this time.
And to be honest, Rip really doesn't know what to think. Not being angry – not hating his failures – it's foreign, alien territory. Like letting go of a life-long grudge – but Savage is dead, and although Rip won't ever be able to say that Savage paid for his crimes, he can say that there's nothing more to do. Meanwhile, letting go of the need to save his family… well. Rip used to think that it was akin to letting go of breathing.
But now, it's not.
It almost feels… right.
And the second that Rip thinks that, he expects the self-disgust to come; he expects the rage, the hate, the same circle again. He expects it – and he waits, and he waits...
…and it doesn't come.
He finds himself back in the vicinity of the flight deck, and he gravitates towards his study on instinct. Several of his prized antiques are scattered on the floor, and all of the maps and papers that he'd kept scattered across his desk are now scattered across everything. Despite the mess, it's home sweet home – Rip collapses into his armchair, running his hands over his face in exhaustion. It's here that he always comes, whenever things are wearing thin; here that he can find a shred of peace, a hint of strength, amongst all of the books, relics, memories, and –
–a certain recording.
He's played it thousands of times, surely – over and over and over, whenever he'd had a particularly bad time. It isn't just a memory, it's a promise – it was a promise, one that sworn Rip would return to them. A promise he'd always intended to keep.
Now, he stares at the spot where the projector would do its work – and somehow, it doesn't tempt him the way that it usually does. This time, he makes his own deliberate and calculated choice – he goes through the movements that he'd long since memorized, and the old recording flickers on once more. Jonas's projection is grainy and the color is off, but it had always served its purpose – to push Rip forward, to restore his determination to continue. The imperfection of the recording was something that could drive him mad, but that was the point – he couldn't let it. So he kept going.
Now, though, he stares at the paused image and it doesn't feel the same. Frowning, he plays it.
Go ahead, Jonas. He's listening.
Hi, daddy. We miss you.
And love you…
And love you.
It goes on, exactly the same as always – except it's somehow not. Somehow, it's not the same. The knowledge is almost terrifying. Almost, though – it's almost not at all terrifying, too.
Rip lets it play twice, and then he shuts it off with a wave of his hand. He chews his jaw, frowning while deep in thought.
The conclusion that he comes to is new and unheard of, for him, but it's somehow not terrible. He takes a long breath and releases it with a sigh. "…I don't think I'll be needing that anymore."
His words are half wondering, half stunned. He looks up with a start when another voice replies, a moment later.
"Would you like me to delete it, Captain?" Gideon, always present, asks crisply.
Rip stares at nothing, feeling more muddled than ever. But beneath all of his confusion, there's still that feeling… the feeling that this change is for the better. As terrible as that should have been, it's somehow not.
Rip takes a long while to reply, and when he does, his words are decided. "No, Gideon," says Rip slowly. "Not today." Beneath his words, though, his tone says the rest.