Life Is About Choices, Right?
Summery: Tim wonders if dying gives him the right to abandon his family
There aren’t many steps between him and his family.
Of course physically, there is quite the distance separating him from the manor, but this wasn’t about distance. Not really.
Pursing his lips, he lets his hand slack, allowing his suitcase to tumble to the ground. It makes a loud noise, a clatter and then nothing.
Briefly Tim wonders whether he is being cruel. Vindictive? Merciless?
If he could only muster up the strength to walk up the path, hail a taxi and put in the ten minutes work it took to make it to the front gates. He was sure his family would welcome him back with open arms.
He’d only been gone for seven months, nine days and twenty-two hours and counting. They’d grieved long enough, looked for him long enough and then resumed their lives long enough. They looked happier now. Content, recovering.
Still, no matter how rosy their lives looked from the outside Tim knew it was anything but. He’d been in a similar situation after all. Had seen the devastation, the denial, the anger. Had firsthand witnessed Bruce spiral out of control, had witnessed Dick Grayson’s broken heart.
He knew they had missed him.
Grieved him.
Loved him, in their own way and lost him.
Wasn’t it then cruel to not go back?
If they had fought for him; five months, seven days and nine hours. If they’d been relentless in their pursuit for him, in his rescue; despite the lack of evidence, despite the hopelessness of the case, despite the horrors. If they’d given him five months of undivided attention, didn’t he owe it to them to go back?
His knee buckles and Tim draws in a sharp breath. Ouch.
Bringing his left hand down to his weaker leg, he clams the fingers around the joint, pressing hard enough to bruise. It again flares up but eventually the burn resides and he removes his hand.
It leaves behind a dark patch of red on the otherwise pristine jeans.
Closing his eyes, Tim tries to imagine his welcoming.
He imagines Bruce with his disbelief, Dick with all the hugs and tears and Jason with the snark, but his eyes would be wet and his arms would be shaking. And it would show Tim all he needed to know about how much his ‘death’ effected Jason. Cass would kiss both his cheeks and Alfred might pull him into a hug to hide his tears. Duke would openly cry of course and Damian, well, Tim isn’t quite sure about Damian. But he might welcome him back too. After all the kid had grown quite a lot since he last saw him.
Bruce will hug him too in the end. After he got over his suspicion and fear, he would hug him. Would hug him so tight Tim would hardly be able to breathe through it.
They’d missed him after all.
Coughing suddenly, he wheezes until it feels as if his lungs are about to burst. Chest rattling, he grimaces.
What did one owe loved ones when you’ve lived your whole life paying an unpayable price to them?
Did you owe them peace? Happiness? Relief? Love perhaps? Tim wasn’t sure anymore.
He’d been gone for too long. Been deconstructed, and then reconstructed. Been hurt, and then had hurt. Had died and then had lived. Yes, he’d lived. Free from responsibilities, free from consequences, from sadness or fear. From debt and deception.
He hadn’t been happy, but he’d been alive.
So what did one owe a family who could strip that all away?
“If you want to go back, I’m not going to stop you kid.”
His mouth suddenly feels dry and his eyes sting. He doesn’t turn around to inspect his visitor. He doesn’t have to. “I told you I wanted to do this alone.”
“I know,” John says, voice mild but Tim knows, oh Tim knows.
“Then why are you here?”
He has yet to move from the very position he’d found himself in the moment he’d stepped into this street. He hasn’t moved. Partly because he can’t; just the thought of putting one foot in front of the other brings him unimaginable pain. But also because he won’t. It’s not fair, but he won’t. And Constantine is well aware.
Maybe that’s why he hates him so much.
“I came for moral support?”
Tim snorts.
John huffs.
“Yeah, sounds stupid. But it’s true.”
John Constantine.
A year ago and Tim wouldn’t have paid him much of a mind. Six months later and he’s willing to lay down his life for this very man.
Funny this world they lived in.
“Do you want to go back Tim?”
Did he?
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not going to stop you if you do.”
He wouldn’t.
John was many things but he didn’t enforce his life on anyone. If Tim decided to walk away, decided to hail that cab, get in and drive to the manor. He was sure John would let him go. Would he be disappointed? Sure. But he wouldn’t stop him. Tim could appreciate that.
“I don’t want to go back.”
“Oh?”
“I mean,” for the first time his voice falters, he still doesn’t turn around. Fingers opening and closing, eyes fixated on the gray suitcase lying in the dirt. “I want to, but that’s my mind tricking me. Trying to drag me back to the familiar. I can’t go back. Not if I hope to find Bart.”
He hears John shuffle behind him. Poor Constantine could be awkward at the best of times. Tim finds himself smiling at the consistency. “I could find your friend on my own you know. He is the last one.”
Tim shrugs. “He’s my family. I need to be there when you do.”
“Aren’t they your family too?” John is next to him now, leaning down to right the suitcase. One arm casually coming up to rest on his shoulder after he straightens. Tim doesn’t say anything, but it makes him smile. The consideration.
“They are. But, they are the family I chose. Bart is the family I love.”
“Is there a difference?”
Leaning heavily on the man next to him, Tim finally closes his eyes and shudders. “I would die for them, but for Bart, for Kon, for Cassie I--”
“Would sell your soul.”
Tim smiles. “Yeah.”
“Very well then.”
John smells of smoke and death and power and comfort. John Constantine smells of home and sacrifice, of rescue and bargain. He is what Tim turned to in his time of need. When no one came, when he cracked, when he died.
John Constantine was his path now.
Going back to the manor would been going backwards. Would mean abandoning Bart. Would mean never getting the others home. Would mean setting the Wayne family’s healing process back a few steps.
No, Tim couldn’t go back.
He could never go back.
“When will we leave?”
John drops his hand, pulls out a cigarette. Tim lifts his own hand, flicks his fingers and lights it. “Right about now kiddo. Hold on.”
When the shimmering glow falls shut behind them, all there is left on the deserted street of San Peters Avenue is an old gray suitcase that once belonged to the deceased Timothy Jackson Drake Wayne, age twenty-one and counting?
The End
@throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @river9noble @miss-choco-chips @punjabj-ninja
This really isn’t a long fic (maybe an au, I’m not sure) but it’s something that popped into my head, so while I don’t know if you’ll like it, better safe than sorry right?