Whoever said time travel was the magical cure-all to fix everything clearly never bothered trying it themselves. A bloody liar, the lot of them. I let out a long sigh, my trench coat flaring dramatically behind me as I stepped into the House of Magic, my real headquarters—not some rat-infested alley I'd been pretending to make do with lately. The moment I crossed the threshold, the air shifted. It always did when she decided I was welcome. Felt warmer somehow, like walking into your favorite pub on a cold night, where the pint's waiting and the fire's just for you.
The House of Magic wasn't just a place; she was alive, temperamental, and far smarter than I was. And unlike most of my bloody decisions, she was one thing I'd gotten right. Reclaiming her after so long was like slipping into a well-worn coat—familiar, comforting, and mine. I'd spent years being a wanderer, using whatever hole in the wall I could find, but standing here now, I realized just how much I'd missed her.
Her walls shifted subtly, bookshelves rearranging themselves to make room for me. Candles lit themselves in the sconces, their warm glow casting shadows that danced across the room. Even the ancient armchair in the corner seemed to groan in relief, like it had been waiting for me to collapse into it again. "Miss me, love?" I muttered, running my hand along the banister of the spiral staircase. She didn't answer, but the way the floor creaked beneath my feet felt like a welcome home.
I set my bag down on the long oak table in the center of the room. The table wasn't just furniture—it was history. Every nick and burn mark had a story, most of them mine, and it was sturdy enough to handle anything the magical world threw at it. Hell, it'd survived longer than I had, and that was saying something.
With a flick of my wrist, the bag unfastened itself, and its contents spilled out—scrolls, maps, bits of enchanted trinkets I'd picked up on my travels. The House adjusted to accommodate them, shelves rearranging themselves to make space for the chaos. "Don't get too smug," I said, pulling out a half-burned Silk Cut and lighting it with a snap of my fingers. "You're still the most temperamental house I've ever lived in, but at least you're better than that alley."
I unrolled a particularly stubborn map, its edges curling back like it had a mind of its own. I slapped it down on the oak table and pinned one corner under a heavy brass candlestick. The other corner? My boot did the trick. "Right, what've we got here?" I muttered, tugging on the cigarette dangling from my lips. Smoke curled lazily toward the high ceiling as I squinted at the faded ink. "Treasure map to a lost relic? Recipe for some apocalyptic stew? Or just another shopping list for some tosser with delusions of godhood?"
Predictably, the map didn't answer. Too much to hope for. I tapped my fingers against the table, my gaze flicking to the mismatched candles glowing nearby. One was black, dripping what looked suspiciously like blood, the other a cheery red-and-white-striped thing I'd nicked from a Christmas market a few centuries down the line. Both flickered like they were having a competition for the most ominous lighting award. Didn't do much to help me read, but at least they set the mood.
As I leaned over the map, the House hummed softly, almost like she was trying to offer help. Or maybe she was just bored. "Oi, not now," I muttered, waving a hand at the nearest wall as if she'd listen. "I'm trying to decipher the universe's most unhelpful map, so if you've got a clue, now's the time."
The shadows in the corners shifted, and for a moment, I thought she might actually respond. But then, the map rolled itself up, smacking me in the hand like it had decided to be a cheeky bastard. "Oh, you little—" I snatched it back, slamming it flat against the table again. My boot came down harder this time, and I glared at the thing as if I could intimidate it into behaving.
"Oi, you mind?" I snapped at a rat that had nosed its way out of the skirting board and was sniffing around my boots. The little bugger squeaked indignantly before scurrying back into the shadows. "Bloody freeloaders," I muttered, blowing out another puff of smoke. "I've already got one sentient house to deal with. I don't need a rodent uprising, too."
Despite the aggravation, I felt... content. Strange, that. The House had a way of grounding me, reminding me who I was—or who I was supposed to be. Reclaiming her wasn't just about having a roof over my head. It was about having a home, something I hadn't felt in... well, longer than I cared to admit. She didn't care about the bollocks I got myself into outside her walls. Here, I was just me, John Constantine. A bastard, sure, but her bastard.
Anyhow, time travel isn't just a pain in the arse; it's a bloody guessing game. Like playing darts blindfolded in a hurricane, hoping you don't hit someone in the eye. Sure, knowing the future sounds like a cheat code, doesn't it? But it's more like knowing the answers to a test, only to find out the questions have all been scribbled out. Sometimes you can head off the odd apocalypse—sometimes being the operative word. But finding people or things in the past? Forget it. You can know exactly what you're looking for, but if it's not where—or when—you need it, all that future knowledge means sweet bugger-all.
I've been at this for months. Time gets slippery when you muck about in it too much, like sand running through your fingers, no matter how tight you grip. One minute, you're sure it's Thursday. The next, you're in a century where Thursdays haven't even been invented yet. Lovely stuff.
The map in front of me wasn't making it any easier, either. I swatted at it like a fly, as if that'd make it cooperate. Instead, it flopped dramatically off the crate, drifting to the floor like it had all the time in the world—which, technically, it did.
"Brilliant," I muttered, crouching down with a groan to retrieve the damned thing. My knees popped like a string of firecrackers, and I winced. "Oh, don't you start on me now, you bastards. I've got enough problems without my own joints giving up the ghost."
Straightening up, I slapped the map back onto the crate with more force than necessary, pinning it under my boot to stop it pulling the same stunt again. But as I turned to grab the scroll I'd balanced precariously next to it, the bloody thing teetered. Of course, it did.
"No, no, no—don't you dare—" I lunged for it, managing to catch it just as it rolled off the edge. Victory, right? Wrong. Because as I grabbed the scroll, my elbow clipped one of the candles.
The blood-dripping candle. Obviously.
It hit the crate with a heavy thunk and began oozing its way toward the edge like some malevolent slug. "Oh, for fu—" I bit off the curse, snatching the candle up before it could cause any more damage. The blood—or wax, or whatever the hell it was—had already started to smear across the wood. Great. Just what I needed. Cursed furniture.
I shoved the candle back into its holder, giving it a warning jab with my finger. "There. Stay. And if you summon any bloody demons while I'm not looking, I'm chucking you into the river. Got it?"
The candle didn't respond, of course. It just flickered innocently, like it hadn't just tried to sabotage my entire evening. Typical.
And the candles, scrolls, and map weren't even the worst of it. The room itself—if you could even call it that—was probably cursed. Or alive. Or both. Walls that shifted when you weren't looking, shadows that stretched just a little too far, corners that whispered your name when you were trying to concentrate. The kind of place that made you question your sanity, like it was all part of some cosmic joke.
"Would it kill you to stay put for five bloody minutes?" I muttered, glaring at the walls like they were an ex who hadn't quite forgiven me. "I'm trying to save the bloody world here. The least you could do is cooperate."
The walls, naturally, stayed silent. Just like the map. Just like the candle. Like they were all in on the same gag, and I was the punchline.
With a huff, I flopped back into the rickety chair I'd claimed as my throne of misery. The thing creaked under me like it was considering giving up entirely, but it held. For now. I kicked my boots up onto the crate, letting them pin down the map while I dug another Silk Cut from my coat pocket. The one I'd been smoking was burned down to the filter, and I wasn't about to put myself through all this nonsense without a bit of nicotine to take the edge off.
With a flick of my thumb, the cigarette lit itself, the flame flaring brighter than usual. Always does when I'm in a mood. Magic showing off, trying to be clever. I took a long drag, leaning back until the chair groaned again in protest.
Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, and I watched it for a moment, letting it swirl and dissipate into nothing. Felt fitting, somehow. Everything I'd been chasing, all the pieces I'd been trying to put together—it all felt just as intangible. Slippery as the smoke in front of me, always just out of reach.
The map glared at me like it knew I was useless. Smug little bastard. I took a long drag off my cigarette and blew a smoke ring at it, watching as the wispy circle drifted lazily into the stale air. "Yeah, yeah," I muttered, flicking a bit of ash onto the crate. "You're a real pain, you know that?"
It didn't answer, obviously. Maps don't answer, do they? But if this one could talk, it'd probably be laughing its inky arse off at me. I leaned back in the chair, my boots still pinning its corners down, and glared right back. A staring contest with a piece of parchment. That's where I was in life. Bloody brilliant.
What I needed—what I really needed—was proper bloody records. Not scraps of maps with half-faded coordinates, or scrolls written in languages so dead even the ghosts don't speak them anymore. Proper filing systems, neat and tidy, with everything you need exactly where it should be.
And I hated that I was even thinking that way. Because it meant one thing: Spooky was right.
I groaned, rubbing a hand down my face. Saying it out loud felt like admitting defeat, but there it was, bubbling up in my throat until it spilled out. "Spooky was right," I muttered, grimacing so hard it felt like my face might crack. "There. I said it. You happy now, you smug git?"
No answer there either, though I could almost feel the ghost of Zatanna's voice somewhere in the back of my mind, all sweet and smug. Told you so, John. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the thought. The last thing I needed was her showing up to actually rub it in my face.
Still, I couldn't ignore it. Months of combing through moldy archives and vaults so dodgy even I felt uneasy about stepping inside them—months of drowning in mismatched clues, half-baked leads, and the occasional outright wild goose chase—and for what? I'd gotten a pouch of Dream's sand, nearly set myself on fire twice, and was still no closer to stopping the apocalypse than when I started.
The more I thought about it, the more I got why certain people—certain smug people—were so obsessed with filing cabinets. Because chaos, for all its charm, wasn't exactly efficient when you were trying to save the bloody world.
Not that I'd ever admit that to Spooky's face. Hell, no. The last thing I needed was her smirking at me, jotting it down for posterity so she could remind me of it every time I cocked something up.
I stubbed out the cigarette on the edge of the crate, leaving another blackened scar to join the countless others. The wood was practically a patchwork of burn marks now—a little history of every moment I'd been stuck in this purgatory of magical admin work.
"Right," I said, standing up and brushing the ash off my coat. The chair creaked in relief as I stepped away, and the map flapped slightly under my boots, like it was mocking me for thinking I'd made any progress. I shot it one last glare before rolling it up with a flick of my wrist. "Back to it, then. The apocalypse isn't gonna stop itself."
The House shifted slightly as I moved, the shelves groaning and rearranging themselves like they were getting ready for round two. "Oh, don't start," I muttered at the walls. "If you've got any bright ideas, now's the time. Otherwise, just sit there and look spooky."
The House, predictably, didn't respond. But the ceiling seemed to loom a little closer, and I could swear the candles flickered in a way that felt suspiciously judgmental. Typical. Even the bloody architecture was a critic.
With the map tucked under one arm and a fresh cigarette dangling from my lips, I headed for the stairs. I had work to do. And, yeah, maybe Spooky was right about needing proper records. But if I was going to get my hands on something useful, I'd have to make it happen the old-fashioned way—kicking and screaming until the universe gave me what I wanted.
"Let's see you try and stop me," I muttered to the map, flicking the lighter one last time as I disappeared up the stairs.
Time travel's a funny thing. Not funny-ha-ha, but funny in that I-need-a-drink sort of way. Took me nearly a year to piece it all together, and even then, I kept asking myself why I bothered. I'm an exorcist, not a bloody detective. That's more up Damian Wayne's alley, and the kid was off doing whatever brooding nonsense the League of Assassins had lined up for him this week. I don't even know why I thought about him, to be honest. Probably just jealous he had a better knack for clues than I ever will.
Still, somehow, I managed. Almost a year of rummaging through old archives, bribing shady antiques dealers, and sweet-talking—or occasionally threatening—every magical contact I've ever had. And for what? A pouch of sand. Not just any sand, mind you—Dream's sand. The kind that's got more power in a single grain than most wizards can manage in a lifetime.
Found it at a bloody estate sale, of all places. Some posh berk with more money than sense must've picked it up thinking it was a nice bit of mystical decor. I'd barely stepped through the door when I felt the thing tugging at my magic like a kid yanking on your sleeve. Took me a whole five minutes to clock its location. Spotted it nestled between a gaudy crystal ball and what might've been a cursed Fabergé egg. That's when I made my move.
In and out, quick as you like. Snatched it right out from under Johanna Constantine's nose before she even knew I was there. Lucky me, she hadn't caught my magical signature yet, or I'd have had to talk my way out of one hell of a row. Still, I couldn't help but think of her—tears streaking her face, the way she'd mourned her Rachel. I'd seen the pain that bloody pouch had caused her. Not this time. I wasn't about to let it hurt her again.
The memory of her sobs was enough to send a chill down my spine. I shuddered, shaking it off. "Not this time, love," I muttered under my breath as I wrapped the pouch in a layer of silk, handling it like it might explode. For all I knew, it could.
So, I took it. Quick as you like. Once it was bundled up, I shoved it inside a rowan wood box lined with silver lime x, and thought, Nope, not this time, Johanna. You're not going through that again.
Not that she'd thank me for it. Oh, no. She'd bloody kill me if she knew I'd meddled. And honestly? Fair play to her. But the way I see it, if I've got to play the arsehole to keep her safe, I'll wear that hat. It's not like I'm new to the role.
What stuck with me—what really gnawed at me—was this thought: If I could save Astra, why stop there? I mean, isn't that the point of a second chance? To fix the whole mess, not just the parts that keep you awake at night?
Doesn't mean it's easy. Christ, no. Every time I thought about what I'd done to Astra—what I almost did—it felt like claws dragging through my chest. But I fixed it. I bloody well fixed it. And owning my soul again, feeling that weight lifted... it's enough to make me think it's worth trying to fix the rest, too.
Not for me. I'm not delusional enough to think I'll ever be squeaky clean. But for them—for Astra, for Johanna, for all the people who never asked to get caught in my crossfire—I reckon it's worth a shot.
The box was a proper bit of protection magic if I do say so myself. Not the kind of thing that could keep an Endless out, of course, but it'd hold for now. Long enough to get it back where it belonged. The moment the lid clicked shut, I felt the oppressive weight of its power dull, just a bit. Enough for me to breathe without my chest tightening.
I leaned back against the wall of the dingy flat I'd holed up in, the box perched on the edge of the crate like it might grow legs and scarper if I looked away too long. For the first time in years, I felt... light. My soul, free and clear, untouched by any deal or compromise. Astra wouldn't be damned. Not this time. I'd fixed it, stopped myself before I could make that colossal mistake.
Owning my own soul again. Yeah, that's a laugh, isn't it? Strange bloody feeling, like waking up and realizing you've been dragging an anchor around for years without noticing. It's light. That's the word for it. Feels like someone finally cut the strings, and I'm walking around without some cosmic debt collector breathing down my neck. Took me long enough to get it back—nearly ruined myself trying. But now, I've got it. Mine again. No strings attached, no bloody fine print waiting to screw me over.
All because I got a second chance. One that I didn't deserve, let's be honest.
That's the kicker, though, isn't it? Getting a chance to fix your mistakes, to look at the worst decision you ever made and say, "Not this time, mate." Astra'll never know what it's like to burn in Hell because I stopped it. Before it started, before it could swallow her whole and drag me down with her. One bloody day—one day before the worst night of her life—and that's all it took.
Funny, isn't it? You spend years trying to convince yourself you did everything you could, that you weren't a complete bastard for mucking it all up, and then—snap—you're there again, one step away from the same mistake. Only this time, you know better. And knowing better? That's half the battle.
It's not just Astra, though. That's the thing. If I get a second chance, then why shouldn't someone else? Someone like Johanna, for instance.
I'll admit it—nickin' that pouch of sand from under her nose felt a bit cruel, even for me. There I was, slipping through an estate sale like a phantom, and there it sat—Dream's pouch, plain as day, just waiting to screw up someone's life again. And Johanna, well... I know what it cost her last time. Rachel. The tears. The empty look in her eyes after it all went tits up.
I glanced at the box again, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Astra, Rachel, Johanna... you'll all be safe now," I murmured, the words barely audible over the hum of the room. Talking to myself. Classic Constantine. I knew better than to trust the peace wouldn't last, but for now? For now, I could let myself believe it would.
Of course, that feeling didn't last long.
I might've been successful saving the girls—Astra, Rachel—but the boys? Yeah, that was a bloody mess. Dream's location was the worst of it. Felt like having a name on the tip of your tongue that you just couldn't spit out. I should've known where he was. I did know where he was, deep down, but the knowledge? Locked up tighter than a nun's knickers. Someone way above my paygrade didn't want me getting to him. The Fates? Destiny? Hell, maybe it was Desire. Wouldn't be the first time one of the Endless decided to play chess with the rest of us poor sods.
But I couldn't sit around brooding on it forever, could I? Well, I could, but that wouldn't do much good. So, I shoved the whole Where's Dream? fiasco to the back burner and started looking for Billy Batson. Poor kid. I'll never forget the sight of him being ripped apart by parademons, screaming for help, and me? Too far away to do a damned thing about it. Not this time. I wasn't letting him slip through the cracks again.
Problem was, Billy was clever. Street kids usually are. You've got to be, to survive out there. He'd managed to keep himself safe, even while dodging CPS and whatever other horrors came his way in Fawcett City. But that cleverness? It made him bloody impossible to track down. I'd never been much good at location spells—not without a bit of personal flotsam to go off. Blood, hair, a crumpled receipt, something. And Billy? Well, I didn't exactly have anything of his lying around.
I tried everything. Scrying, charm spells, even that dodgy tarot deck Chas swears by. Nothing worked. At the end of it, I was sitting at the House of Magic surrounded by empty cigarette packs, staring at a map of Fawcett City like the answers would just pop out if I glared hard enough. Spoiler: they didn't.
In the end, I had to call in some favors with private investigators who owed me—real old-school types, the kind who don't ask too many questions so long as the cash keeps flowing. They did the legwork, and eventually, one of them got back to me with a location. A dingy little alley off Magnolia Street.
When I finally found him, he was perched on the back steps of some rundown diner, gnawing on a crust of bread like it was his first meal in days. His clothes were ragged, his shoes barely holding together, but his eyes—sharp, alert, taking in every movement around him—told me he wasn't about to let anyone catch him off guard.
"Billy Batson," I said, keeping my voice low as I stepped closer. No sudden moves. The kid looked like he'd bolt at the first sign of trouble.
He froze, his eyes narrowing as he sized me up. "Who wants to know?" he asked, his tone sharp, defensive.
"Name's John Constantine," I said, lighting a cigarette with a flick of my thumb. The flame flared for effect, but he didn't so much as flinch. Impressive. "I'm here to make sure you don't end up dead, ripped apart by parademons, or worse."
"Yeah, well, I'm not in the market for saviors," he shot back, standing up and brushing crumbs off his hands. "So, if you don't mind—"
"I do mind, actually," I interrupted, stepping into his path. "Because whether you like it or not, you've just been handed the worst job in the bloody universe. Champion of Magic, yeah? Bet some old geezer in a robe gave you a big speech about power and responsibility before zapping you with lightning."
His jaw dropped, just a little, before he snapped it shut again. "How do you know about that?" he demanded, his voice rising. "Who the hell are you?"
"Someone who knows exactly what kind of mess you've been dragged into," I said, blowing out a puff of smoke. "And someone who's trying to make sure you don't get yourself killed before you've even had a chance to grow a proper beard."
That shut him up—just for a moment, mind you. Long enough for me to get a foot in the door. Not trust, exactly, but something close. An alliance. A shaky one, sure, but when the kid's been living on the streets and dodging anyone who looks remotely like authority, even that's a bloody miracle. He didn't see me as a threat anymore, and that was a start.
Didn't matter, though. I'd cocked it up. Too late to stop him from being chosen. The lightning had already struck, and Billy Batson was officially the new Champion of Magic. All the power of the Wizard, crammed into a scrawny kid with holes in his shoes. Lucky him.
Still, there was one thing I could do: make sure Doctor Sivana didn't get his grubby hands on the bloody Seven Deadly Sins. Because if there's one thing worse than a maniac obsessed with magic, it's a maniac with ancient demons whispering in his ear.
And let me tell you, that part wasn't easy. Wiping Sivana's memories was like trying to erase graffiti off a brick wall—it clings, no matter how hard you scrub, and you're always left with the faint outline of something you'd rather forget. The bastard's mind was sharp, jagged even, like broken glass. Every time I pushed magic into his head, it pushed back, threatening to slice me up from the inside out.
Took me half the bloody night, crouched in that lab of his, muttering sigils and carving runes into the air while he twitched and groaned like he was about to wake up. By the time I finished, my head was pounding, and my magic felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. I nearly keeled over on the spot, but the job was done. Sivana wouldn't remember the Wizard, the Rock of Eternity, or anything about the sins. To him, it was all just a bad dream.
The sins themselves? Safely locked away, for now. I made bloody sure of that. Sealed them up tight with every bit of magic I could muster, and then some. It wouldn't hold forever—nothing does—but it'd buy us time.
When I finally staggered out of that cursed lab, I was ready to collapse. My legs felt like jelly, my head was pounding like a drum solo, and the cigarette I lit on my way out tasted like pure heaven.
But, of course, there was Billy. Waiting for me outside, wide-eyed and scared, with that "what now?" look plastered all over his face. He looked at me like I was supposed to have all the answers, like I was some sort of magical messiah here to tell him exactly what to do next.
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered, taking a drag off my cigarette. "I'm not a bloody babysitter."
He didn't laugh. Didn't even crack a smile. Just kept staring at me, like I was the only thing standing between him and the apocalypse. Which, to be fair, wasn't entirely untrue.
"Right," I said, rubbing a hand over my face and trying to think of something—anything—that might help. "Here's the deal, mate. You've got the power now, yeah? Big responsibility, all that jazz. But you're still a kid. And the world's got no business throwing this kind of weight on your shoulders."
He crossed his arms, defiant. "I can handle it."
"Yeah, that's what they all say," I replied, blowing out a plume of smoke. "Until they can't. Look, you're tough, I'll give you that. But this?" I gestured vaguely, meaning the whole magical mess he'd been dragged into. "This is different. You need time. Training. And most importantly, you need to keep your head down. Don't go shouting your name at the sky like a prat, yeah? The less attention you draw, the better."
"And what about Sivana?" he asked, his voice cracking just slightly on the name.
"Sorted," I said, waving it off. "The sins are locked up, and he won't remember a thing. But trust me, there's always another lunatic waiting in the wings. You've got to be ready for them."
He looked like he wanted to argue—chin jutting out slightly, lips pressed tight, the kind of look kids get when they're trying to act tougher than they feel. But after a long pause, he just nodded, small and slow, his arms dropping limply to his sides.
"What do I do now?" he asked, his voice quiet, like he wasn't sure he even wanted the answer.
That question hit me harder than it should've. I don't know why—maybe because it wasn't just a question. It was a plea. He wasn't just asking what he was supposed to do—he was asking what I was going to do about it.
And that's the problem, innit? What can I do? I've got no business taking in a kid, let alone one who's got a destiny heavier than he does. I lit another cigarette, more for the comfort of having something to do with my hands than for the nicotine. It flared up brighter than it should, magic still buzzing angrily in my veins after the mess with Sivana.
"Look," I started, the words slow, deliberate, trying to figure it out as I went. "I'm not exactly parent material, mate. Never have been, never will be. But I'll tell you one thing for free: I'm not leaving you on your own."
His eyes flicked up to mine, hesitant, searching, like he wasn't sure whether to believe me. Can't blame him for that. Life's not exactly been kind to the poor sod, and trusting strangers isn't how you survive on the streets.
"Listen, Billy," I said, crouching down so I wasn't looming over him like some authority figure. "I've seen what happens when kids like you get dragged into battles they've got no business fighting. It's not pretty."
And I had. Christ, had I. That dismembered body still haunted me, even now. This very same kid ripped apart by parademons, left in the dirt like yesterday's trash. And worse than that? Knowing I couldn't stop it. Knowing it was just another casualty in a war none of us signed up for.
Billy shuffled his feet, his trainers scuffing the pavement, but he didn't say anything.
"I wasn't in time to stop you being chosen," I continued, straightening up and taking a step back to give him space. "But that doesn't mean you're doing this on your own. Not this time."
He furrowed his brow, confused. "Chosen? You mean... the Wizard?"
"Yeah, him," I said, waving the cigarette around like it didn't matter, even though it bloody well did. "Big beardy bloke, all doom and destiny. Gave you the powers, yeah?"
Billy nodded, biting his lip. "I didn't ask for them," he muttered. "He just—he said I had to."
"Course he did," I said, rolling my eyes. "That's how they always work, mate. Big speeches about responsibility, leave out the part where it wrecks your life. But that's the thing—magic doesn't care about you, Billy. It's just a tool. What matters is what you do with it."
He didn't say anything, but I could see the gears turning in his head. Good. Thinking was better than panicking.
"Here's the deal," I said, dragging on the cigarette and blowing the smoke out slow. "You're gonna need someone to guide you, teach you how not to blow yourself up—or anyone else, for that matter. I can do that. But I'm not your dad, alright? I can't be. You've already lost your parents once. You don't deserve to go through that again."
Billy's eyes narrowed. "Why? You planning on dying or something?"
"Not planning on it, no," I said with a snort. "But I'm not immortal, Billy. Not like you. You're gonna stop aging, did you know that? Once you hit your twenties, maybe thirties, you'll stop. You'll stay young as long as you're the Champion of Magic. Me? I'll grow old. I'll die. And if I take you in, you'll lose another parental figure. You don't need that kind of hurt."
His face tightened, jaw clenching as his brow furrowed deep enough to carve rivers. Processing it all, or at least trying to. Can't blame him for that. Kids need time—especially when the universe has just dumped its weight on their shoulders without so much as a how-do-you-do. So, I gave him a minute, didn't rush him. Leaning against the crumbling brick wall behind me, I dragged on my Silk Cut and let my mind wander, because that's what I do when things get too big to handle.
The immortality thing—that's what stuck in my head. It reminded me of someone. Hob Gadling. Good old Hob. The bloke who kept on living because he'd made a choice: life over death, every time. Didn't matter what the world threw at him. Plagues, wars, the literal apocalypse—he still managed to find something worth sticking around for.
It was hard not to fall a little bit in love with him in that ruined future. Hell, maybe I did. Wouldn't be the first time I fell for the wrong person at the wrong bloody time. Hob was a ray of sunshine in a world that was permanently overcast. In an apocalypse where most people curled up and waited for the end, he kept smiling. Kept helping. Kept hoping.
And me? I'd just stood there, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. I never let myself do anything about it, though. I couldn't. Not when I was still mourning Zatanna. Not after that drunken mess with King Shark—seriously, don't ask. And Hob... well, Hob deserved better. So, I stayed. Close enough to bask in his warmth, but far enough to keep from snuffing it out.
With Hob, at least I never had to worry about him dying. I could just... be. For once in my miserable existence, I didn't have to brace myself for loss. He was the one thing in that apocalyptic hellscape that felt constant, unshakable. And then came the call from Raven.
I'd left. Of course, I'd bloody left. When she told me Damian was in trouble, there wasn't a choice. I packed up, kissed Hob on the cheek like it didn't mean anything, and went off to chase shadows. By the time I realized I'd made a mistake, it was too late. Earth was gone, Hob was gone, and all I had left was Raven, Damian, and this half-baked time travel scheme to fix everything.
And now, here I was. A timeline where Hob didn't even know me, and it hurt more than I cared to admit. Especially since Dream was alive here. And Hob? Hob would always choose his Stranger over everyone. Not that I could blame him. They had centuries of history.
Not that it mattered. Even if Hob did know me in this timeline, I wouldn't put him through it. Not again. Losing Zatanna was bad enough for me; I wouldn't wish that kind of loss on anyone else. Especially not Hob. He deserved better.
But maybe... maybe he was the answer. Not for me, of course. I'd cocked that up long before it even started. But for Billy?
Billy needed someone steady, someone who wouldn't just keel over and leave him to pick up the pieces. Someone like Hob. Hell, Hob would be perfect. A man who'd lived long enough to see the worst of the world but still found joy in the smallest things. A man who'd make a bloody good father if someone would just give him the chance.
Billy could be with Hob. They'd be good for each other, wouldn't they? Billy, who couldn't be killed by time, giving Hob his dream of being a father again. And Hob, who'd stick around long enough to make sure he turned out alright.
And maybe—just maybe—I could help Hob find his way back to Dream. He'd never admit it, but he missed his Stranger more than anything. And while I might not have a shot at being Hob's anything, I could at least give him that.
I stubbed out my cigarette, grinding the butt under my boot as I pushed off the wall. Straightening up, I met Billy's eyes. "So," I said, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at my lips. "How do you feel about moving to London?"
His brow furrowed. "London?"
"Yeah," I said, casually brushing ash off my coat. "Big city. Lots of history, weirdos aplenty, and—best part—no parademons. You'll like it. And I've got a mate there who'd love to meet you. Trust me, he's exactly what you need."
Billy tilted his head, suspicious but curious. "Who?"
"You'll see," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "But first, let's get you off the streets. You've got enough on your plate without having to worry about where your next meal's coming from."
He nodded slowly, and for the first time, I saw a spark of something in his eyes. Hope, maybe. A bit of that same light Hob always carried, even in the darkest of times.
As we walked away, I let myself smile. It wasn't much, but it was a start. For Billy. For Hob. And maybe, just maybe, for me too.