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Warning: This story contains a lot of conjecture, random references, and name dropping.

Almost all the objects in this fic can be seen in Rip's study on the show. For a complete list of what I spotted while researching this fic check out my Guide to Rip Hunter's Study.

Opening scene inspired by this photo.

Title: Collected Treasures and Forgotten Memories
Characters: Rip, Ray
Rating/Warnings: G
Genre: Humour, Friendship, Angst
Word Count: 2500
Spoilers: Set mid season 1
Summary: Nothing can stand in the way of Ray Palmer's curiosity and enthusiasm not even a grumpy Rip Hunter.

“This is so cool,” said Ray with great delight. “It's like a real stormtrooper helmet.”

Rip, who had been attempting to restack his scattered record collection, turned to look at his fellow teammate and sighed.

Ray was standing in the middle of Rip's study with a large, battered helmet covering his head. The helmet with its built-in fearsome expression looked rather ridiculous when paired with Ray's current ensemble of burgundy sweater and black jeans.

“Dr. Palmer, if you wouldn't mind,” Rip said tiredly. He was beginning to sincerely regret accepting Ray's offer to help tidy up his study after their latest mission had once again thrown its contents into disarray. So far Ray had spent far more time examining and enthusing over various items than actually putting them away.

Ray pulled off the helmet revealing a slightly sheepish expression on his face though it wasn't long before childlike enthusiasm replaced it once more. “Hey, it's not really a stormtrooper helmet, is it?”

Rip gave him a look he hoped conveyed just how ridiculous he thought that statement was. “You are aware that stormtroopers don't actually exist?”

Ray returned the look with one of his own. “Of course, I do,” he said. “I meant is it actually part of the uniform of some real intergalactic space army.”

“No, it's not,” said Rip. “It... belonged to a friend.”

Ray reached up placing the helmet on top of the tall cabinet where it usually sat. He then proceed to pull down the metal helmet that sat beside it.

“Wow,” he said. “The guy who wore this must have sure been intimidating.”

“Yes, she was,” Rip said absently as he attempted to return to the task of restoring his records to their proper places.

Frowning, Ray flipped the helmet over. “Wait. Is this a soup pot?”

“Dr. Palmer!”

“Sorry.” Ray returned the metal helmet to where he'd found it. “It's just all this stuff is so fascinating. I haven't had the chance to really look at it before.”

“Yes, well, you can do so while you put things away.”

Thankfully, this time Ray listened. He remained silent as he righted a toppled lamp and began placing some fallen books back on the shelves.

Meanwhile, Rip managed to finish putting away his record collection and took the opportunity to examine his old gramophone. It seemed alright despite having tumbled from its perch. He really needed to find a better way of securing the things in his study. It had never been much of an issue before but recently the Waverider kept getting shot at and crash landing all over the place causing havoc for his collection. He picked up an African statuette, a figure made in darkly stained wood that he had picked up in Ivory Coast in 1796, and sighed when he found a chip on the back of its head. Maybe if he set up some forcefields, he wondered as he replaced the statue back on its pedestal. Picking up several rolled documents, he began setting them in order.

Unfortunately for Rip, Ray's silence didn't last long. It was only a minute or two before he was commenting enthusiastically over everything he found once more.

Upon studying an Egyptian scarab: “Ooh. You know if you tilt this in the light, you get this awesome blue shimmer effect.”

Upon finding a white half mask with a red circle on its forehead: “Hey. Oliver has a friend who has a mask just like that.”

Upon seeing the wanted poster for Hex: “This isn't a very flattering picture of Jonah. It barely even looks like him except for, you know, the scar. Was he seriously wanted for murder?”

“Several murders as I recall,” Rip replied giving up on the papers and just dumping them on a table in a corner. “It's a long story.”

Ray had already moved on to another object, a long flute made of tarnished metal. “This is weird,” he said as he picked it up. “It's got like twice as many keys as a normal flute. How would you even play it?” He brought it up to his lips to blow into it.

Seeing what was about to happen, Rip immediately rushed over, palms outstretched. “That's really not a good idea.”

Ray frowned. “Why not?”

“Because the sound from that flute has been known to cause some very detrimental effects on the human psyche,” Rip explained. “I took it off a rather nasty individual who was using it to perpetrate some rather, well, nasty crimes.”

“Cool,” said Ray with a grin. “I mean not the criminal part obviously but using sonic vibrations to effect the mind. That's pretty awesome.”

“You wouldn't have said that if you'd been there,” said Rip wincing at the memory.

Ray raised his eyebrows. “What happened?”

“Another long story,” Rip said dismissively. “Can you just put it away?”

Ray opened his mouth as if he was going to say something else but seemed to change his mind and put the flute away instead. He then picked up a lantern that was sitting on a top shelf. “Is this one of those old railroad lanterns?” He turned it over in his hands. “Hey. There's a poem written on it. In brightest day, In blackest n...”

“That's not such a great idea either,” said Rip as he snatched the lantern out of Ray's hand and placed it back on the shelf. “The last thing we need is the Lantern Corps after us.”

Ray frowned. “The Lantern Corps?”

“Could we please just get back to work?” said Rip, rubbing at his head in an attempt to stave off the headache he was sure was soon to come.

“Sorry,” Ray said, apologizing again. “I guess it's the scientist in me. I like to know things.” He picked up a black sphere from between a statue of an owl and a WWI gas mask and began tossing it from hand to hand. “Like what on Earth is this thing?”

“It's a bomb,” Rip deadpanned with no small amount of pleasure.

Ray immediately stopped tossing the sphere, his eyes widening. “A bomb?” he exclaimed holding the thing as far away from himself as he could. “You keep a bomb in your study?”

“It's a smoke bomb,” Rip explained putting him out of his misery. “And you don't have to worry. It's been deactivated.”

Despite Rip's reassurances, Ray was very careful as he put the thing away. “You could have mentioned some of this stuff is dangerous.”

“Only if you're careless,” Rip replied. Turning, he went over to his desk and began restoring it to some sort of order, but apparently, Ray was still more interested in talking than tidying.

“Why do you have a smoke bomb anyway?” he asked.

Rip wondered if the rest of the team would protest if he duct taped Ray's mouth shut. “It belonged to someone who helped me out once.”

“Oh, come on,” Ray protested. “You've got to give me a little more than that.”

Rip turned to glare at him in exasperation. “Does your curiosity seriously know no bounds?”

Ray shrugged. “Like I said, I'm a scientist,” he said. “And I like stories,” he added with a smile.

Rip's glare turned into a frown. “Stories?”

“Yeah,” said Ray perching himself on the edge of the table in the centre of the room. “Adventure stories mostly: sci-fi, westerns, spy novels. Didn't you read that sort of stuff when you were a kid?”

“Well, yes,” Rip admitted, “when I could get my hands on them.”

“Well, this place, these things...” Ray gestured to their surroundings. “...are full of stories. That's what makes them so special. I mean I've collected stuff, action figures, comic books, and really expensive pieces of artwork, but those were just things. These are treasures.”

“I suppose,” Rip said with a vague gesture. Giving up on his tidying efforts, he slumped down on the seat by his desk.

Ray gave him a look. “Come on. You can't honestly tell me that there isn't a story behind every single object in this room.” He went over to the other side of the study. “This globe for example,” he said gesturing to a large globe in a wooden stand displaying a very old map of the world.

“I got that in a flea market in Kent in 2032,” said Rip truthfully.

“Ok. Bad example.” Ray pointed at Rip's desk. “That microscope. Where'd you get that?”

Rip turned to gaze at the microscope. It was from the 1920s, made of brass and iron.

He cleared his throat. “That,” he admitted, “belonged to Marie Curie.”

“See,” Ray declared triumphantly, and then his expression turned into one of confusion. “Wait. Why do you have Marie Curie's microscope?”

Rip rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I borrowed it.”

Ray gave him an incredulous look. “You borrowed it?”

“Yes,” Rip said somewhat sheepishly. “I just haven't gotten around to giving it back to her. I'm sure I will eventually.”

Ray grinned. He snatched a spyglass from where it sat on the centre table. “And this,” he said. “I suppose it belonged to Columbus?”

“Napoleon,” said Rip, unable to stop the small smile that appeared on his face.

“You borrow that too?” asked Ray raising his eyebrows.

“Stole it actually,” Rip confessed.

“Right, and I bet this statue was a gift from Buddha himself,” said Ray gesturing to the Buddha statue that sat on the shelf behind Rip.

Rip snorted. “I'm pretty sure Buddha didn't have statues of himself,” he said. “No. It was a gift from John Lennon.”

Ray's grin grew wider. He pointed to small statue of a squid. “That?”

Rip grimaced. “You really don't want to know.”

“Ok, but you see,” Ray exclaimed. “These things are full of stories. You are full of stories.”

Rip gazed at the objects that filled his study. They were treasures, trophies he had taken from old missions, mementos of old friends, old places, pieces collected from across the timeline. He liked to surround himself with them because they helped ground him as he jumped from one period of history to another. Right now though they mostly seemed like reminders of an old life, one he'd lost.

The faint amusement that had been emerging in Rip vanished as quickly as it had come. “We need to get back to work if we're going to get this place fixed up,” he said getting to his feet. He turned his back on Ray as he began arranging the contents of his desk once more.

Ray, though, wasn't ready to let things go. “Rip.”

Rip ignored him.

“Rip,” Ray said again.

Rip still didn't reply, reorganizing things that he'd already organized.

Ray sighed. “Look. I'm sorry. I know you don't like to talk about your past that much.”

“There are some things I'd rather not dwell on,” said Rip, finally speaking up but keeping his back to Ray.

“But there must have been good times as well,” said Ray. “What about all those missions you went on as a Time Master, the adventures you must have had? From what little you've told me, you've done some incredible stuff.”

Rip stopped his restless reorganizing and closed his eyes. “Yes,” he agreed. “But that life is over now. Even if we manage to complete our mission, there's no going back to it. I can never be a true Time Master again.”

“That doesn't mean you have to forget that life,” said Ray. “Why not share some of your old adventures?”

Rip finally turned to look at Ray, a sad smile on his face. “You know going around bragging about your adventures is generally not something a Time Master does, not the least of all because if you start telling people you travel in time they'll haul you off to an insane asylum. The only people I could really tell about my missions were...” He trailed off gazing at the floor.

“Your family,” Ray finished for him.

Rip nodded. He crossed his arms over his chest and let out a deep breath. “When I still worked for the council, I always did my best not to stay away from my family for more than a few weeks at a time.”

Ray opened his mouth to ask something but Rip waved him off already knowing what he was going to ask.

“I synchronized the time spent on the Waverider with the time that passed for my family in the 22nd century. Miranda and I agreed early on that it wouldn't be fair to her or Jonas if more time passed for me than it did for them. Each time I came home, no matter how long I was gone, I'd tell them about my latest mission, about where and when I'd been, what I'd done. Jonas especially, when he was old enough, was always so eager to hear about it. It became sort of a family tradition.”

Rip stopped biting his lip as a new wave of grief washed over him. He closed his eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath and continuing.

“And I guess... I guess I'm not used to sharing those adventures, as you call them, with anyone else.”

“Well, you've got us now,” said Ray with one of his hopeful smiles he always seemed to pull out of nowhere.

“So it would seem,” said Rip tiredly wondering how that man could have so much hope when he had so little.

“Listen,” said Ray. “I know you're going to get your family back. I know you are, but in the meantime, you can always share your stories with us. It'd actually be nice to get to know you a bit better, because frankly we've been on this ship for months and I know more about Mick than I do about you and he isn't exactly chatty.”

Rip actually laughed at that, a quick huff of air. “I suppose I have been a bit reticent.”

Ray shrugged as if it were no big deal. “So change that.” He reached over and grabbed the clear sphere that sat in its usual place on a stand on the central table. “Start with this,” Ray said holding it out to Rip. “Because I seriously need to know if this is a crystal ball because it seriously looks like a crystal ball to me.”

Rip smiled, a small lopsided curve of his lips. “It's a druidic orbuculum.”

Ray's nose scrunched up in confusion.

“Yes,” said Rip shaking his head in defeat. “It's a crystal ball.”

Ray smiled in delight rolling the crystal around in his fingers. “So is it actually enchanted?”

Rip nodded. “It's supposed to show the location of anyone who means you harm.”

“Then why don't we use it against Savage?” asked Ray.

“Because it doesn't work.”

“Why not?”

“Because John Constantine is a bloody pain in the ass,” Rip grumbled.

Ray raised his eyebrows. “Ok. This is a story I have to hear.”

Rip sighed, but then he smiled once more, a fond sort of smile, and sitting down, told Ray of the one and only time he ever asked John Constantine for help.
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