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Chapter Text

Eddie wonders if he has committed a felony he is unaware of. 

The Sergeant clears his throat and folds his hands on the desk before him. “Before we proceed with this,” he says. “I would like to clarify: anything and everything you hear from me is not leaving this room. You will not speak of this, you will not mention this, and you will not reveal this. Am I understood?”

Sergeant William’s office is tidy and neat, composed and not revealing anything, much like his terrifyingly blank face as he stares at Eddie. If Eddie pulled out a ruler and measured the distance between the stapler and the paperclip box, he’s pretty certain it would be exactly two inches. It’s a ridiculous thought that crosses his mind as he thinks distantly: this might be serious.

Eddie got the letter two days ago. He had ripped it open in a fearful frenzy the moment he saw the military logo, only to find a request for a meeting scheduled for the coming Thursday. He hadn’t been able to sleep the past nights, wondering if he was going to be whisked away by the CIA for a crime he wasn’t aware he had committed. 

But so far, he hasn’t gotten thrown behind bars or put into an interrogation room, so he couldn’t have anything that bad, right? He even got a glass of water from the secretary outside. What kind of interrogation involves a glass of water, anyway (unless it’s laced, which he definitely considered)?

Eddie nods, careful not to express any external doubt. He’s not familiar with private meetings, but he is familiar with authority. Plus, if secrecy is what they’re looking for, he’s not looking to be a top fugitive just yet, so he chooses to nod obediently. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Sergeant Williams says. “We called you out here and requested your presence because you’re one of the very few being considered for an experiment.”

Eddie can’t stop the subtle falter that crosses his face this time. He tenses in his seat and hopes it’s not as visible as it feels. “An…experiment?”

“We specifically chose you as a candidate for your performance, and if you choose to participate, we expect the same efficiency.” Sergeant Williams takes a file from the top drawer and slides it across the desk. “You will get a decent reward in exchange for participation.”

Eddie carefully takes the file into his hands and flips it open. He skims through the contents and can’t stop the rise of his brows when he sees the number of zeros attached to the money. It would not only do wonders for Chris’s college fund, but Eddie’s sure there would be a hefty leftover. 

But this—he—

“Is the experiment dangerous, sir?” Eddie asks tentatively.

Sergeant Williams gives a noncommittal hum. “No guarantee. You’ll have to read more into that and talk to the people part of the project,” he gives Eddie a one over and tilts his head ever-so-slightly. “Are you a family man, Diaz? Anything, anyone tying you down?”

Eddie gulps. He suddenly feels sweaty. “Uh—no, sir. Recently divorced. My ex-wife and son currently live in California.”

Eddie doesn’t like to think about his split with Shannon. It happened right after the news of her mother’s illness and the argument that ensued, the nail in the coffin being her crying that she couldn’t do this anymore. The softness of her confession, how truly devastated she sounded, had stopped Eddie right in his tracks, and he audibly heard his world crumbling to pieces around him.

It’d been a long time coming, now that he thought about it. He knew deep down that it wasn’t going to work; he always did in a way, but he averted his eyes out of his cowardly tendencies. The whole time, he was running away—a very frequent pattern with him.

The divorce had been fairly quick and simple, but talking to Chris was anything but. He hated sitting his little boy down and explaining that he won’t be around as much, but promising him that he’d still see him all the time. Custody was the iffy part, but he and Shannon both agreed that co-parenting was the best approach.

His parents were not happy. They desperately tried to have Eddie maintain full custody of Christopher, and despite their disdain for divorces, they seemed almost glad that he was separating from Shannon. 

Eddie was—is livid about that, to say the least. After all, they were part of the reason why Shannon was slowly pushed to the edge. His mother never made it easy for her, and the audacity for them to express relief from having her “out of the picture”? 

Eddie hated himself for leaving her alone in that condition, regardless of whether him being a “provider” or not. He hated himself even more for having a certain weight lifted off him after the divorce. 

It feels criminal, to feel any ease from the consequences of his own actions. Forget his parents, who is he to be even slightly relieved? So what if he no longer had to listen to the footsteps of approaching doom for his marriage that he knew was coming? Shannon was the one who suffered here, not him.

Now, as a result, Christopher is in California, and Eddie can do nothing but retrace his footsteps to see where he went wrong. 

(Everything, he thinks—he went wrong with everything in his life.)

“So you’re unattached?” The Sergeant says, and Eddie is brought back to reality. 

Eddie nods once. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. There’s no safety guarantee with this, after all.” The Sergeant says casually, as if he hadn’t dropped the most ominous statement yet. 

“Is there a high mortality rate with this experiment, sir?”

“Unsure. You’d have to ask the researchers for that type of information.” Sergeant Williams says. “That is, if you agree to participate in this project. Rest assured, Diaz, it’s not a human experiment or anything biochemical. It’s more of you pursuing uncharted waters. An expedition, if you will.”

“An expedition,” Eddie repeats. He glances at the numbers again. “For this reward, sir?”

“Yes,” the other man says. “Be honest with me here. Are you willing to participate? Because if you are, you can sign the bottom of that document, and I will tell you the details you need to know. If you’re not, you can leave this behind and forget all about it.”

Eddie stares at the file in his hand, and the blank signature space at the bottom. He tries not to crease the paper, but his rigid grip digs into the file covers. 

If he participated in this—whatever confidential experiment guaranteed no safety—that would be him running away again. The no promise of safety is also a noteworthy detail, because wouldn’t he be an irresponsible parent if he dove straight into something that assured nothing of his physical safety? 

What would Chris think? That his father had left him for the military, yet again?

But the reward. The money. It’s so much more, infinitely times more than the jobs he’s taken in the past, and that’s including the military. This money would at least guarantee a good education path for Chris, and he can live a comfortable life. Eddie can help him. He may not be physically there with him right now, but this is the one major way in which he can prove to be purposeful as a father.

He can do something. This would allow him to do something worthwhile for his son. 

Eddie, before his hands can start shaking, takes the pen from the desk and scribbles his signature on the document. He slides it back to the man across from him, and he takes a deep breath. 

Sergeant Williams’ face is still scarily blank, but there’s an air of satisfaction around him. He takes the file and skims over it before setting it aside. “Your participation is appreciated. We’ll contact you when you’re needed at the base.”

Eddie fights the twisting of his guts. “May I ask what the experiment is, sir? ”

 “You may,” Sergeant Williams leans back into his chair. “Time travel.”

Eddie stares at the Sergeant’s face and tries to catch even a trace of a joke in his stern, cold expression. He can’t help the nervous chuckle that escapes him when he finds none. “I’m sorry?”

“Time travel,” Sergeant Williams repeats. “You’re being sent back in time.”

-

There have been moments in Eddie’s life when he felt like he was living in a simulation.

The things he’d lived through felt too surreal—almost like a plot of a fabricated reality TV show. Half the time, he expected a cameraman or an overly gleeful host to jump out of nowhere and start interrogating him for his thoughts. 

This is one of those times. Eddie is waiting for someone with a mic to pop out in the room that oddly looks like the waiting room of a hospital.  

“Your health checks and physical exams came back with stellar results,” the man in a lab coat—Bryan, Eddie thinks—tells him as he flips through the papers on his clipboard. “And I hope you read through the materials we gave you?”

Eddie swallows the snort that almost escapes him. “The history homework? Yeah.” 

Bryan levels him an unimpressed stare. “It’s so you will be informed of whatever events may be going on at the time.”

“Were you the one who assigned me to the 19th and 20th centuries?”

“No, but would you have rather gone to Medieval Europe? Battle the Plague?”

For the past two weeks, Eddie had been forced into studying modern history. He felt like he was back in high school, cramming the contents of the AP History textbook. At one point, he even dreamt of vigorously studying, and he’d woken up in a fright, a random historical date on the tip of his tongue. He’d even been given a worksheet testing him on the events he could potentially witness.

Soon after the meeting with Sergeant Williams, Eddie learned that he was one of the five participants. Each subject was assigned specific eras, and Eddie had the misfortune of being assigned the most chaotic times in human history—the late 1800s to the late 1900s. He wishes he could’ve gone to a peaceful era in the Roman Empire or something.

The concept of time travel had been challenging to process, in all honesty. For the first few days, he kept waiting for the joke to drop until he was taken to meet a group of scientists involved. Bryan was one of them, the youngest chief in history, but capable and very, very ambitious. 

Bryan, who is still flipping through Eddie’s health exams. Because he apparently needs to double-check before Eddie gets transported through time. 

“You seem more nervous than me,” Eddie comments.

“Forgive me if I’m nervous that my creation, which the government spent billions on, won’t work.”

Eddie huffs. “Hey, you’re not the one going back in time.”

“I’m responsible for this, Mr Diaz. If you or any of the test subjects disintegrate or end up in the Stone Age without a way to get back, it will be on me.” Bryan states coolly. 

Eddie’s stomach drops. “I might never be able to come back?”

“It’s a low possibility. There’s a higher chance of you passing away in the past than getting stuck in it.”

Oh. Right. Eddie forgot that he could actually die during his journey.

That news had not been particularly enjoyable, especially considering how tumultuous his assigned years were, but it also made something click, because why else would the reward money be so substantial? It’s basically compensation, an insurance in case Eddie died and Shannon had to find out through a letter that her ex-husband died “in action.” 

Eddie ensured that the money would go to her and Chris in the event of an emergency, going so far as to request that it be included in his contract. Otherwise, what would be the point of all this?

“Are you nervous, Mr Diaz?” Bryan asks once he sets the clipboard down. 

“I think it would be worse if I weren’t,” Eddie answers. “You know, considering that I didn’t even know time travel was possible until a month ago.”

“You do remember what I told you?” Bryan says. “The rules and limitations?”

Eddie straightens, because he actually revised for this. “I can die, so I can’t do anything reckless. I can’t control when the years switch or when I’ll come back. My clothes will change according to the era, but everything else will be the same, so I shouldn’t talk much.” Eddie pauses. “Wait, how do you manage to change my clothes? I know I have to wear white head to toe when I go, but is it a programming thing? How does it automatically match up wherever I go?”

Bryan looks at him like he’s slow. Eddie shuts his mouth, knowing he spoke a little too much. “Right. You can’t even tell me the aim of this whole thing, so why would you tell me how it works?”

“It’s protocol,” Bryan reasons. “You forgot the last rule.”

Eddie swallows a sigh. “I have to keep my interactions liminal, if not none.”

“And why’s that?”

“The butterfly effect.”

“Which is?”

“The smallest thing can affect this current reality,” Eddie mutters. “Like a ripple.”

Bryan nods, satisfied. “Very much like a ripple.”

“Would my going to the past change anything, though?” Eddie questions. “If time travel hasn’t been done before, who’s to say that I’ll change a thing?”

Bryan blinks and stares at him for a stretched second before saying, “I think you know my answer to that.”

Eddie thumps his head on the wall behind him. “Right,” he sighs. “You can’t tell me anything.”

“The less you know, the better.”

I’m the one going into this with the possibility of death, and I don’t deserve to know? Eddie bites back from saying. He was given the details he was allowed to know already, but it doesn’t even scratch the surface of all the questions festering in his head. He would maybe opt for keeping himself in the dark if it weren’t for the very real threat of dying.

This is, in a way, scarier than enlistment. Sure, no bullets are flying at him, but this is delving into a world he hasn’t begun to understand. 

Something crackles on the line connected to Bryan’s earpiece, and he mumbles something back before telling Eddie to follow him. He leads him out of the room, navigates through windowless halls that look eerily bulletproof (it most likely is), and they walk for what feels like decades. Eddie distantly thinks he’d never be able to get out if he were to get lost in this labyrinth. 

By the time they reach the destination, Eddie’s vision is used to the monochrome walls, and he instinctively squints at the room’s brightness. Once blinking away the shock, Eddie sees what’s before him, and his lips part.

A dozen scientists are bustling around the giant space, some yelling out orders and others working silently at whatever respective task is assigned to them. And in the middle of it all, there’s a glass room surrounding what looks like an elevated landing pad. It’s silver and every bit intimidating, like a looming presence sticking out like a sore thumb. 

Eddie knows, in an instant, that he’d be the one standing on that platform.

One of the scientists approaches Bryan and hands him a bag. Bryan, without even looking in, hands it to Eddie. Eddie peeks in and finds a shirt and a pair of pants, both completely white. He glances up, and Bryan is already pointing to a small changing room. 

Things go quickly from there. Now clad in white, Eddie undergoes a final health examination and receives another review of the rules. Then, he gets handed a watch. It’s an unassuming one—an analog one with brown leather straps, something that could be found in a dollar store. Eddie frowns in confusion.

“This is the only equipment you can bring from the present and into the past,” Bryan tells him. “The watch will tell you when you’re about to be transported to another period. It will give you two vibrations, one for five minutes prior, and one for the final minute. Once you feel it vibrate, make sure to find a secluded area to avoid anyone seeing you when it happens.”

Eddie fiddles with the watch. “How long would I stay in one period?” 

Bryan remains stoic. “That’s up to us. All you need to worry about is this watch and the rules given to you.”

Of course. What did Eddie expect? 

Eddie slides the watch around his wrist and straps it securely. Two scientists—two—fret over it, pulling and tugging to make sure it can’t come off. He nearly asks if four pair of hands are really necessary to check how well he can put on a fucking watch. 

All words die on his tongue, however, as he is led towards the glass room.

The bolted door, also glass-like, is carefully opened by gloved scientists. A gust of cold air washes over Eddie, and goosebumps rise across his entire body. He’s sure the chill isn’t the only reason behind the goosebumps.

“This is it,” Bryan says. His face looks much more strained than when they were in the hospital waiting room lookalike. “You’re on your own from here on out. Do remember the obligations you are under.”

“You sure you don’t want to come with me?” Eddie attempts a joke, but his voice wavers ever-so-slightly, and it loses its footing before it comes close to landing. 

Bryan, wise and cold Bryan, only nods and takes a step back. “Good luck, Mr Diaz. I hope to see you soon.”

Hope? Not expect? Eddie thinks, and the choice of word ties around his heart and squeezes like a lasso. He is practically shoved into the glass room, and he almost can’t find the willpower to move his legs until he takes in the number of scientists around the transparent walls. Tentatively, he stumbles across the room and climbs the short steps of the elevated platform.

Once he reaches the red dot marking the center, he turns around to look at the people beyond the glass. There’s a mix of emotions—anticipation, confidence, fear, wariness. The only one with a steely expression is Bryan, but even he looks nervous in the slightest way. That nervousness doesn’t disappear as he nods, and the scientist next to him operates what looks like a control panel. 

Eddie gulps. This is it. No going back now. Worst-case scenario, he was somehow going to get transported to the ice age and drown in freezing waters. Or maybe they’d accidentally send him to some era far from the ones he was assigned to, and maybe he’d get caught in the guillotine and—

The platform beneath him suddenly stirs to life. There’s a loud whirr, and a bright light fills the transparent room. A high-pitched frequency abruptly pierces his ears, and he thinks he hears himself scream. He’s not sure, especially when everything else is deafening. It’s like the world is folding in on itself.

Then, Eddie sees black. 

Chapter Text

1849, California.

When Eddie opens his eyes, the sun glares down at him. 

He immediately shuts them and blearily wonders why the loving hell he fell asleep outside. He shifts his body on the hard ground, and Jesus, why is it so uncomfortable, how did he end up sleeping on the floor—

Eddie shoots his eyes open. He scrambles up and clutches at the closest object—a tree trunk—when nausea washes over him. He swallows the sickness and takes in his surroundings. His breath stops.

“Oh my god,” he mutters.

Without the sun sabotaging his vision, he can see everything in clarity. There are wooden structures lined up, some a tavern, others what looks like a house. Eddie jumps when a large cattle runs through the dirt streets, a man with a large straw hat pulling the horse. The people milling about are tanned, some holding shovels, every single one with a hat on their head. 

They’re not in Victorian-style suits or poofy dresses, the men clad in long sleeves and work trousers, the women in long skirts, loose tops, and bonnets. Eddie looks down at himself, and sees that he’s wearing a similar labor attire, white sleeves, and a blue, rugged button shirt. He lifts his head and processes the sight before him yet again. 

It worked. It fucking worked.

Oh my god, it worked. 

He staggers from his place by the tree and stumbles into the street. The wooden buildings are lined up, and he can see the mountain far away, and—

A cattle brushes past him. “Mind where you’re headin’, boy!” A man yells out angrily, and Eddie, startled, jumps.

Okay, so it’s English. Right. Oh, didn’t Bryan mention that his locations would be limited to the states? That makes Eddie’s entire expedition a lot easier.

The problem is, he isn’t told of where, or what year this is. 

Well, good thing for Bryan’s determination to make him study.

Eddie wanders down the street, the sun shining relentlessly down at him. He carefully looks at the structures, the attires around him, and notes the words exchanged by the people he passes by. He considers the shovels in their hands, the dryness of the weather, the abandoned tin pans on the side of the street. The shovels and pans particularly catch his attention, and realization slowly dawns on him. 

Oh. This is the Gold Rush. 

The California Gold Rush, from the mid-1800s. 

That explains the heat and dryness of it all, as well as the clothes and the equipment. They were specifically for panning gold. The craze that took America by storm, with people clamoring for the chance to dig for gold and begin a whole other life. 

He wanders around for roughly an hour or so before ending up around the same area where he woke up. He sees the actual site of the gold panning, gets yelled at twice more to watch where he is going, and fights the urge to gape at everything he comes across.

He must look really fucking suspcious, just walking around everywhere and glancing around like a madman, but he frankly doesn’t care.

He’s in the past. He time-traveled. And the best thing is, he is right where he’s supposed to be in regards to the experiment (so no ice age and mammoths, thank god).

He’s about to go on another lap when something slithers around his ankle.

Eddie swallows a yelp as he jumps rather dramatically. He hastily looks down and sees a hand outstretched from the shadow. Following the tanned hand, he finds a man in the shade of the building, his body limp and slumped face-first on the ground. His outstretched hand and shallow breathing are the only indications of his life. 

Eddie is frozen. He doesn’t say anything, his mind going completely blank as he watches the man slowly lift his head and flutter his eyes open. 

The first thing Eddie notices about the man is the brilliant blue of his eyes. They’re wide and bright even in the shadows, staring up at Eddie with urgency. The second thing Eddie notices is the birthmark above his left brow, the pink of it slightly less intense than the bruise on his cheekbone and busted lip. They remain bright despite the dirt covering his skin like ashes. 

Eddie, so caught up on the blossoming bruise, almost misses the soft mumble that the stranger lets out. “...ter,” the man rasps. “Water,” he weakly raises his other hand, and Eddie realizes he’s holding out a flask. 

Eddie doesn’t know what to do. He knows he should walk away, follow Bryan’s strict orders to keep to himself, but—but—

There’s so much hurt in the man’s eyes. 

They’re so big and pleading, desperate, pinning Eddie with a look that genuinely digs into Eddie’s heart. He’s staring up at him like a lifeline. 

Before he could think better of it, Eddie is snatching the flask from the man’s hand and running to the nearest well he could spot. He dunks the open container into the water-filled bucket, and once making sure it is filled to the brim, rushes back. 

The stranger is sitting up by the time he returns, back resting against the side of the building. His legs are long, half of his stretched limbs extending past the shadows. His hair, curly and unkept, move slightly in the wind as Eddie approaches him. He slowly turns his head, and his gaze brightens at the sight of the flask. 

Eddie watches as the stranger greedily gulps down the water, and leans against the wall across from the man. It’s silent, with the man solely focused on drinking and Eddie observing him. Eddie wonders if Bryan can somehow tell that Eddie broke one of the prominent rules in the first five minutes of the experiment. 

Well. In Eddie’s defense, it’s not like he struck up a conversation. He offered help.

The man finally sets the flask down. “Thank you,” he says, voice significantly less raspy. “I’ve been tuckered out. Those bastards pummeled me.”

Eddie doesn’t know who those bastards are, and he’s not going to ask. He also fleetingly notes on the lack of heavy accent he heard from the others, but the man’s twists on the vowels tells Eddie that he’s not country. Maybe the East?

“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before. New?” The man asks. 

Eddie blinks. Doesn’t say anything.

“I reckon you’ve come for the gold, too. Where’d you hail from? Florida? New York?”

Eddie wants to answer, but mostly, he wants to ask questions. He wants to ask why he’s so beat up, but he knows that his unusual speech (at least for this era) would stand out once he opens his mouth. He may be able to replicate some old slang from those telenovas that Abuela loves, but he has a distinct feeling that he’d make an absolute fool out of himself. 

So, mainly for the sake of his dignity and potential safety, he keeps his mouth shut. 

The man huffs. “Well. Not much of a talker, are you? Fine by me, some folks here chatter up too much.”

“Buckley!” A sharp voice cuts in. “Oi, Buckley!”

The man—Buckley, apparently—sighs loudly and curses. “What?” he calls out.

“Old Jerry’s hollering for ya.”

“What’s he want?”

“Ya tell me, you’re the son of the gun workin’ for the fella.”

Buckley grumbles and slowly stands to his feet. Jesus, this guy is tall. He pockets the flask and runs his fingers through his hair, roughening it even more. He still looks slightly out of it—Eddie wouldn’t be too shocked if it’s dehydration—and wobbles as he takes one, two steps.

Eddie nods at him and moves to walk away. He’s done his job: helping this man, and now, he can be on his way. 

Well. If only the said man would let him go.

“You got business waiting on you?” Buckley says. “If not, I tend the bar ‘round the corner. Figured I’d buy you a drink—call it a thank you, if that’s alright by you.”

Eddie must visibly falter, because Buckley pushes on. 

“Come now. Let me do this for you? You damn near saved my life, it’s the least I could offer.”

And fuck, there’s those eyes again. Soft and genuine, trying to win over Eddie. Eddie wants to argue that he did not, in fact, save his life—he just poured some water into a flask—but he can’t find the words, and Buckley apparently takes his silence as a yes. 

“Follow me. It ain’t too far, just down the block. You can take off after, but let me do this for you.” Buckley smiles. “I know you ain’t one for talking, but can I know your name?”

What’s a period-appropriate name? Thomas? Nathaniel? Fucking Reginald? Shit, fuck, the history books didn’t prepare him for this, and Bryan is going to kill him— “Eddie,” he answers, and his voice comes out fairly strongly despite the situation. 

Buckley’s smile brightens. He seems oddly cheerful for someone who was literally on the ground a few minutes ago. “Eddie,” he repeats. “I’m Evan Buckley. Pleasure’s mine.”

Yeah. Bryan was going to genuinely slaughter him, because not only sharing an interaction, but revealing his name? 

Well. That’s what he gets for not telling Eddie anything. He knows it’s petty, but at this point—what’s the harm in telling his name, anyway? If that somehow leads to a nuclear war or something, Eddie will be astounded at the fragility of the past.

As Buckley leads him down the street, Eddie tries to come up with the worst-case scenario of the butterfly effect. Nuclear war is one thing. Maybe it would become some weird Orwellian dystopian society? Or the opposite, would humanity somehow retreat back into a caveman lifestyle? Jesus, what is he supposed to do when he’s not even told of the purpose of this entire time travel in the first place?

Buckley stops walking in front of a tavern. There’s a faded sign out front, and a couple of men are loitering around the entrance, blowing smoke. Buckley brushes past them and enters the place, Eddie following close behind. 

“Evan,” a bearded man from behind the counter calls out. He’s wiping a glass with a rug. “Hell happened to your face? Those folks from last time get you again?”

“Different ones this time, Jerry,” Buckley says, dropping onto one of the stools. He gestures for Eddie to sit beside him, and Eddie, still not knowing what to do in this circumstance, obliges. “They jumped me, and I was laid out for a few hours. Got parched like sandpaper, but this fella pulled me up.” Buckley juts a thumb towards Eddie.

Jerry’s gaze shifts over to Eddie. “Let me guess. You saved him outta a barrel? Haystack?”

When Eddie doesn’t say anything, Jerry turns to Buckley and juts his thumb in a way that words aren’t necessary to communicate what is wrong with him. 

“He don’t talk much,” Buckley answers instead, unfaltering. “But he ain’t a nutjob or nothing.”

“I don’t trust you for shit, Evan,” Jerry spits. “Gettin’ yourself roughed up again, my good Christ, you ain’t fit to judge a damn thing.”

Eddie vows to keep his silence, because if he were to speak in a full sentence, he was going to prove Jerry right and seem like a complete nutjob, as he wisely put it. He needed to figure out how to get out of here, fast.

Buckley shrugs. “Well, figured I’d treat him, show some thanks. Thought maybe a fine, ol’ whiskey?”

“You’re payin’ for it. You ain’t workin’ here to give out free whiskey.”

“Fine, fine. But it still ain’t my fault they pummeled me.”

Jerry raises a brow and scans eyes up and down. “You were drunk again, weren’t you?”

Buckley hums. “Don’t matter, does it now?”

“You’re still drunk.”

“Maybe.”

Jerry sighs deeply. Eddie wonders if he did him injustice for saving—as it turns out—a man under the influence. “One whiskey, comin’ right up.” Jerry grumbles and narrows his eyes at Buckley. “You’re cleanin’ the place afterwards, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, boss.” 

In an impressive second, a glass of rich whiskey in a glass slides over to Eddie. Jerry disappears into—somewhere—by the time Eddie glances up. What the fuck?

“So,” Buckley starts, apparently desensitized to the supernatural abilities that his boss casually has. “Any luck findin’ gold, cowboy?”

Eddie can’t help it. A frown creeps up on his face, and he finds himself muttering, “Cowboy?”

Buckley perks up, visibly elated from Eddie saying something. “You look like one of them cowboys. Throw a hat on that head of yours, and you’d be the whole damn rodeo.”

Without a doubt, that’s the most creative way that Eddie has been called a Texan. And he’s been called a brisket-eater before. 

“Folks don’t talk much where you’re from, Eddie? Or is it just you who ain’t a big talker?”

Eddie shrugs and swishes the whiskey in the glass. The auburn swirls like liquid gold, and he briefly wonders how much this would be worth in the present. A whiskey from the mid-1800s has to have some significant value, right?

Buckley huffs a laugh. “Not a word out of you, huh? Tough crowd—it’s hard to charm up a stranger who don’t talk back.”

Eddie looks at him. “Do you?”

“Do what?”

“Charm up strangers.” 

Buckley’s brows sweep up. A grin stretches across his lips. “Only when they’ve been nice enough to help me out.”

Eddie scoffs. He glances down at the whiskey again. “Or when you’re drunk enough?”

A beat of silence. “I ain’t drinkin’ a load, Cowboy,” Buckley chimes, but there’s an edge to his voice. “There’s worse fellas out there, let me tell you as much.”

Eddie knows he shouldn’t talk. He knows, but…Jesus, he can’t help it. “Why’d you get—pummeled?”

A beat. “Not one for talkin’ but not one for mindin’ his business, either. You’re a funny one, Eddie,” is Buckley’s response, a little stilted, and Eddie immediately regrets it.

What is he doing? Why is he striking up conversations and helping a complete stranger, two of which are an absolute no-no within the rules given to him? He guesses there are no listening devices on the watch around his wrist, because he hasn’t been transported back, and Bryan is not screaming at him. 

Something must falter in his expression, because Buckley suddenly sighs. “Sorry. I reckon I owe you better words, seein’ as you pulled me from trouble.”

Eddie just shakes his head. Keeps fiddling with the drink.

Buckley, in his giant frame, somehow finds a way to shrink into himself and seem smaller. “No, it’s—” he runs a hand down his face. He winces when he accidentally brushes the bruise. “Didn’t mean no harm. I weren’t seekin’t to upset you.”

“You didn’t,” Eddie says. He doesn’t know what to say or do.

“Weren’t kind, all the same,” Buckley retorts. He shifts his jaw, and licks over the cut on his lip. “I do appreciate what you did, you know. Not a lot of folks do that, ‘specially for the likes of me.”

Eddie wavers. “Why especially you?”

“Word is, I’m bad news,” Buckley says, lips quirking up in a veiled smile. “They reckon I up drag trouble behind me. Can’t say they’re wrong, though.”

“Is that why you get…pummeled?” 

“You could say that,” Buck says, and that’s all there is to it. Eddie knows he is treading somewhere he shouldn’t pursue. 

Eddie now somehow recognizes—beneath the layer of prior desperation—the lingering sadness in Buckley’s eyes. It’s like a looming cloud in his baby blues, fogging up the brightness it should have. It’s a harsh contradiction between the cheerful tone of his voice and demeanor, like his eyes are the only peeled layer of his person.

It’s off-putting to process the two simultaneously, the deliberately light expression on his face and the dimness of his gaze. It makes Eddie’s guts tense with unease.

Just as he’s about to offer something—some words, a question, an answer, something—Eddie feels it: a vibration of the watch.

He shoots up from the stool and stumbles two, three steps back. Buckley whips his head up and pins Eddie with a startled look. “Wha—”

“I gotta go,” Eddie says in haste. Goodbye, Buckley. 

Buckley also moves to stand to his feet. “You haven’t finished your whiskey,” he tells him. “Or even started it.”

“I—” Eddie tries not to fidget with the watch. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I have somewhere to be.”

Buckley frowns. “But—”

Eddie flees the premises. 

His mind zeroes in on finding a secluded area with no one to see him disappear through time. But Jesus, why is he being transported so quickly? It’s barely been two hours, and—God, did Bryan somehow find out the breached rules? 

He feels the watch vibrate for the second time: one minute left. 

As Eddie leaps into the completely abandoned back of a building, he thinks about Buckley’s confused face before he ran away. 

He still feels slightly bad as everything around him folds into darkness.

Chapter Text

Portland 

Eddie gets awoken by a smack on the arm.

He groans and winces as a sharp ache shoots through his head. He peels his eyes open, and is met with a very unhappy-looking man. A policeman, to be specific. 

“You oughtn’t sleep here, sir. It’s…” the policeman curls his lips. “Distasteful.”

Eddie slowly raises himself up and glances around. He realizes he’s been lying on a bench situated on the edge of what looks like a park, and people are starting to spill out of the buildings surrounding it. He catches store signs being put out front, and as he inhales the brisk air, he notes that it tastes like the early hours of a morning. 

“With all that’s been happening, Sir, this is no place to be lying about.” The policeman scans him up and down. “Especially for a man like yourself.”

Eddie looks down at himself at those words. He becomes acutely aware of how stuffy his attire is—from what he can see, he’s clad in high-waisted trousers and a slim-fitting coat, tailored perfectly to the point that it’s slightly eerie. He feels like he’s attending a themed party. 

His outfit, however, isn’t drastic enough to throw him off the conversation. Eddie frowns and looks at the policeman. “Everything going on?” he mutters.

The policeman lifts a brow. “Surely, you’ve seen the papers by now?”

“Uh…” Eddie purses his lips. Well, fuck. He doesn’t even know what year it is. 

The policeman sighs and slides out a folded newspaper from his inner pocket. “The president,” he says solemnly. “Bless his soul. Bullet lodged straight in his heart, they say.”

Eddie hesitantly takes the newspaper and lifts it to eye level. He feels his eyes widen to the point that it hurts. He looks at the date of the paper and tries not to crumple it in his hands. “President Lincoln,” he breathes. 

It’s 1865, he realizes. It’s 1865, and Abraham fucking Lincoln was shot two days ago. 

He’s abruptly reminded of fourth grade, where he had to make a presentation poster of Abraham Lincoln and his sisters had laughed at him for his shit drawing skills. He had written about his life, his mark in history with such detachment that the man never felt real. Like he was a fictional character on the same level as Mickey Mouse.

But no. He was very much real, along with every other historical figure he’s felt this way towards.

“I’m not certain why you’ve been lying here, but I advise you to return home.” The policeman tells him as he takes the paper back and stores it in his pocket.

Shit, shit, shit. “A party,” Eddie blurts. Shit. “I was at—I was attending a party.”

The policeman somehow manages to look more unimpressed. “Have a fine day, good sir.” With that, he saunters away, disappearing into the morning streets of wherever the hell this is.

Well. At least he knows the year, now.

Eddie stands to his feet and stretches his limbs. He takes two, three, lungful of air and tries not to squirm at how the attire hugs him. The coat is thin, but it leaves little space for him to move, and its material is definitely not suited for the winter weather.

Or, maybe it doesn’t have to. It’s not too cold out, only a bit chilly, and that’s most likely due to the time of the day. It’s April, anyway, and Eddie’s almost sure (he hopes) that global warming hasn’t completely changed the nature of spring. 

He slips his hands into his pockets, and pauses when his right hand finds something inside. He cautiously draws it out, and frowns when seeing three, four crumpled bills. They’re designs he’s never seen before, and he wonders if Bryan was considerate enough to equip him with money. He then remembers that he had been sleeping on a bench long enough for a policeman to wake him up. 

Fuck, some passerby probably took pity on him and snuck some bills into his pocket.    

Eddie, swallowing a strange swirl of guilt, shoves the money back into his pocket. He feels it rustle as he starts walking through the streets, and he thinks about the kind soul who had been generous enough to do what they did. He can’t help but feel like he’s taking advantage of their kindness. 

Eddie takes his time as he makes his way through the streets. More and more people are milling about, the morning bustle finding home in the cobblestone roads. He’s not sure where he’s going—after all, he wasn’t told of a task to complete—and he feels like a lost child desperately seeking out an anchor. 

“Do you care for a paper, Sir?” A boy around eight years old calls out. A stack of newspapers rests in his arms, and he’s wearing a hat that’s one size too big for him, his pants scraping against the ground as he hops over. “Only for a penny. Today’s paper for a penny?”

Eddie stumbles over his words. “Uh—I—”

The boy, however, turns out to be quite an ambitious businessman, because he shrugs and moves on from Eddie in the blink of an eye and manages to sell one to a man a few feet away. The man mumbles a thank you through the cigarette in his mouth, and the boy bounces away into the crowd.

A few other men, clad in similar outfit to his, crowd around him as they peer into the morning paper together. The rims of their hats bump as they take in the daily reports, smoke from their lit cigarettes wafting and dancing in the air. 

Eddie notes how some men are in similar outfits to his, while others wear what looks like dock worker attire. 

He soon realizes that they might just be, as he comes across the same name for the fifth time in a row:

Portland. 

Portland, as in Portland, Oregon. 

His suspicion gets confirmed as he somehow ends up at a pier. 

He feels out of place in his relatively fancy attire as dock workers brush past him, some scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes while others promptly ignore him. The scent of the sea fills his senses as he breathes in, and the heels of his dress shoes knock against the wooden docks. 

A long, long time ago, when Eddie was around six, he had seen a television feature of “Beautiful Places in the States”, and Portland had been one of them. Maine was the center subject of that section, and comparing his blurry memory and the current environment surrounding him, he’s taking a guess that this is Maine. 

Never did he imagine being in Maine, let alone in 1860s Maine, but there’s a lot of things he never imagined doing. In fact, his life is created by the things he never expected for himself. 

He takes in the sight of everything: the boats, the ships, the men, the lapping waves and the sheer blue of it, the wide sky, and—

And a man in the distance, slowly staggering to the edge of the pier with something dragging on his ankles. 

Eddie squints, and as his vision sharpens, dread falls in his stomach.

Two large rocks. There are two giant rocks—boulders—attached to his legs. And he’s walking towards the sea.

Eddie is running before he knows it.

“Hey!” he calls out. “Hey, hold on!” 

The man doesn’t so much as turn his direction, and Eddie’s words fall short. Eddie’s lungs squeeze and he pushes himself to run faster, further, because the man is unmistakably approaching the edge, slowly but surely. Eddie is seeing one thing, and it’s the rocks creeping towards the water, dense and heavy—a death sentence and a countdown without numbers.

He feels like he’s back in the field, rushing toward a bleeding soldier, each slipping second a detriment to the fragile life that flickers like candle light. Only this time, he’s not pressuring a wound or stitching torn skin—he’s running to stop those feet from plunging into the sea. And somehow, this feels more devastating. 

With a final leap, Eddie’s hand latches onto the man’s arm. “Excuse me,” his fingers tighten, and he takes a second for a few breaths. Upon closer inspection, the man’s shirt is rumpled and messed, with streaks of spluttered mud and what looks eerily like blood tinging the hem. Eddie sucks a shaky inhale. 

The man, now rigid and frozen under Eddie’s grip, doesn’t answer. 

“Sir,” Eddie tries again. 

Slowly, the man turns his head, cautiously peering over his shoulder. His eyes meet Eddie’s, and—

There is no way.

Same slope of nose, same chiseled cheekbones, same curls, albeit longer, and the same baby blues, dimmed under the dull context of their current state. Dim, but the same. 

“Can I help you?” The man says. His face is devoid of emotion, and a carbon fucking copy of the one that Eddie had encountered in the prior era. It’s Buckley. Beaten-up Buckley who’s not beaten-up anymore. Physically, at least. 

Eddie’s lips curl around the air as he fights to search for the right words. “I—“ he says shakily. “You shouldn’t,” he ends up whispering. 

The man blinks slowly and glances down at the ropes attached to his ankles, then back at Eddie. “Shouldn’t?”

“Sir, please.”

“Shouldn’t,” the Buckley doppelgänger repeats. “Well, I’ve ought to finish what I’ve started, don’t you think?”

“You shouldn’t. You don’t want this.” 

“And how would you reckon know what I want?”

Eddie gulps, fear and determination flaring in his chest. Fuck Bryan and his no-talking rule, he isn’t soulless enough to let this happen. “What’s your name, Sir?”

A flash of bafflement flits through the stranger’s expression. “Pardon?”

“Your name. What’s your name?”

A beat. “Evan,” he answers eventually. “Evan Buckley.”

Holy fucking shit. 

Eddie basically ogles the man in a shameless manner. Almost all thoughts residing in his brain scatter into useless pieces, and he is left with the name Buckley, bold and blinking in neon like a Vegas sign.

Is this the same Buckley he had met before? But no, no, it can’t be—the California Gold Rush and the assassination of Lincoln is at least two decades apart. This man is the carbon copy of the Gold Rush Buckley, and there is no indication of the marks left by the passage of time. 

Nephew, his mind tries to reason. Insane genes? A generational name like how some families commit to, juniors and seniors and all that? The original Buckley had a child at a young age and his son turned out to be his literal twin?

Eddie may have fixated on the impressive genetic imprints if Evan Buckley 2.0 didn’t have the air of sheer doom and despair. There are more important things at hand—case in point: the rocks attached to the man’s ankles. 

Eddie offers a smile. “Evan Buckley,” he says. “Hello, my name is Eddie. Evan—Buck, can you come with me?”

The man blinks. His brows twitch into a furrow. “Buck?”

“What?”

“What do you mean Buck?”

“Oh, uh—it’s short for your last name. Buck, from Buckley?” Jesus, fuck, Eddie hadn’t even realized he’d done that. It slipped out just like that. 

Evan—Buck—hums. “Can’t say I’ve been called that before,” He says, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. He rolls the name around, whispering it to himself like he’s savoring how it rings. 

Eddie purses his lips. “Do you mind it?”

“No,” Buck answers after a few seconds, seeming to make a resolve within himself. But it doesn’t take long for a new question to light in his eyes. “Come with you? And what for?”

That’s a question even Eddie can’t answer, but at this point, he’s willing to do anything that will get Buck a good few hundred feet away from the rocks attached to his feet. “Let me—let me treat you to coffee.”

Buck blinks. “Coffee,” he mutters. It sounds unnatural, like he’s chewing on a foreign word.

“Yeah, yes—” Eddie fumbles through his pockets and digs up the crumpled dollars. “This is worth some coffee, right? There’s a cafe there, look—” he juts his thumb towards the wooden structure behind him, fleetingly remembering the port cafe sign he had walked past minutes prior. “My treat. It’s on me. Let me do this for you.”

“...Why?” Buck asks tentatively. “I ain’t never seen you before. What business do you have takin’ me for coffee?”

“Because you shouldn’t do this. I’ll—I’ll listen to anything.”

“Listen to what?”

“Why you’re doing this.”

Buck stares at him, blue eyes dimmer than the cloudy sky beyond the sea. His curls flutter softly in the salt air, dirty white shirt ruffling against skin. “There ain’t nothin’ good waiting for you on the other side, you know? You ain’t getting jack from listening to my rattling on,” he says.

“I’m not asking for a reward,” Eddie insists. “I just don’t think you should go through with what you’re about to do. One coffee. We can talk about anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything at all. Whatever you want.”

Buck is silent for another extended beat, simply staring at Eddie in a way that teeters on the line between curious and scrutinizing. “You talk strange,” he finally says.

Eddie almost cracks a smile—odd humor or self-reprimand, he’s not sure. “Is that a yes?”

“It ain’t a no.”

“So, a yes.”

Buck stares out into the sea before glancing at his feet, still very much shackled to his death sentence. “Your treat, huh?” He releases a small sigh. “Alright.”

-

They sit in the very back of the cafe, a small two-person table next to an unlit fireplace. 

Eddie nurses the steaming mug before him, while Buck takes occasional sips. There’s silence between them, and the latter’s gaze is pointedly set on the view beyond the windows. 

Getting him out of the rock shackles was good, but Eddie hadn’t planned this far. He already got told that he talks funny, and considering the rules he is very much supposed to follow, he doesn’t feel much urge to prompt a conversation from himself. Fuck, he shouldn’t even be here in the first place. 

But.

Eddie glances at Buck, who is carrying the mug to his lips with the utmost caution. There is more color in his cheeks, and his eyes carry slightly less weight than before. Eddie can’t find it in himself to regret any of his actions. 

Okay, he’ll part ways with the man after these drinks, and all will be right within his little expedition. He won’t encounter another member from the Buckley family, and Bryan wouldn’t have to smother him under a pillow once he gets back. That’s a plan Eddie is willing to follow. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Buck abruptly says. 

Eddie’s grip tightens around his mug, and he meets Buck’s eyes that are openly intrigued. “Sorry?”

“You talk strange, and, well—” Buck gestures to Eddie’s outfit with a free hand. “You look like one of them city boys, if you will. You don’t look like you work for the docks.”

Shit. “I—I don’t.”

Buck’s eyes narrow. “Jesus, you ain’t one of them robber barons, are you?”

“Robber barons?”

“Fellows like Carnegie and Rockfeller. Railroad businesses and such, running the mill of the bills?”

“Oh, no.” Eddie doesn’t know what the loving hell a robber baron is, but put it next to a name like Rockfeller, he’s fairly certain it’s not the best term to be called. “I’m not in the railroad business. I’m not…a rich tycoon.”

Buck raises a brow. “A tycoon,” he mumbles. “You really are a strange one, aren’t you?”

Eddie hides a wince. “I travel a lot. Odd phrases here and there.”

“You travel?” Buck’s voice lifts quite dramatically. 

“At times.”

“Where have you been to? Overseas?”

“Mostly in the country, I’m afraid. The overseas…not quite yet.” Eddie says slowly. “Not the best with ship travels.”

Buck looks unimpressed. “You don’t want to go overseas? Just because of ships?”

Well, there’s a thing called planes but you don’t know that yet, Eddie bites back. “More or less. You seem interested in traveling.”

“I am,” Buck admits. “I hear stories all the time about the places across the seas. There’s apparently a country where houses are built of gold, and they fight with unique swords.”

“Unique swords…” Eddie wonders. “You mean katanas?”

Buck’s brows lift. “Ah, yes, that’s what they’re called.”

With that, their conversation dies yet again. Buck stares blankly into the steaming coffee in his hands, and Eddie doesn’t know what to do. He focuses on keeping his leg from rocking, a habit that Shannon truly despised from the bottom of her heart. He wonders how she’s doing. Has she put Chris to sleep yet? What time is it in the present? Does Chris ask about him?

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. No, this isn’t the time to think about Chris. He needs to—

Well. Fuck, what does he need to do? He hasn’t been given any specific tasks whatsoever, and he’s broken so many rules already, so really, what business does he have to complete in Portland?

He shifts his gaze back to Buck. The man is looking out of the window yet again, and his face is turned just enough that it’s not visible for Eddie. His hair, no longer swept by the outside wind, sits a bit tussled, untamed and curled and long overdue for a cut. 

“Do you—” Eddie tentatively starts. “Do you feel any better?”

Buck turns back to him. His expression is eerily flat, so much so that his face remains stoic as he blurts out, “I don’t even know you.”

“What?”

Buck continues. “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. You ain't got no obligation to extend your concerns to me. So, why? Why did you help me?”

“I don’t have it in my conscience to let a man die before my eyes,” Eddie answers, slightly breathless. 

“I’m not your subject of concern.”

“Anyone who is on the brink of self-inflicted death is a subject of concern for me.”

Buck scoffs. “Quit pitying me.”

“I’m not.”

“I ain’t a charity case.”

“Never said you were.”

Buck falls silent again, but he doesn’t shift his gaze away. Instead, he keeps them firmly on Eddie, narrow and cautious, visibly alert as he processes whatever is expressed on Eddie’s face. It reminds Eddie of a wary animal in the wild—circling what they regard as a potential threat, shoulders hunched up, jaw set.

Scared.

Why is Buck scared?

Eddie watches, wordless, as tension gradually seeps out of Buck, leaving the man rather curled over his mug that is no longer steaming. Eddie isn’t sure of how long it takes for the prior fear to morph into something of defeat, but he’s not willing to rip his eyes away from Buck to peek at his watch. He’s afraid that a single movement will cause a chain reaction he doesn’t want to pursue. But the coffee is getting cold, and the sunlight pouring through the window is brighter. It must have been a decent time passed. 

Eddie sits, silent, watching. Buck sits, just as silent, staring back. 

After an indefinite amount of time, the quiet is broken by soft spoken words. 

“I’ve been grieving for something this entire time, and I don’t know what I have been grieving for.” Buck says. 

So it’s not defeat that lies beneath his eyes—it’s grief. Mourning.

“Have you lost someone?” Eddie asks.

Buck huffs a bitter laugh. Too bitter, soaking in a tinge of despair. “Who haven’t I lost?”

“Family? Friends?”

Buck doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “Maybe I’m grieving for a life I could've lived." 

“Then live that life from now on.” 

“You paint it so simple."

Buck says those words with so much weight and an equally heavy gaze that Eddie fights a sympathetic wince. “You’re acting like it’s too late for you,” Eddie tells him slowly. 

“Nothing is too late or too early for me. I just…am.”

“You’re still so young.”

Buck snorts at that, a dry one so brittle that it shoots straight into Eddie’s bones. “You ain’t know the half of it.”

Eddie frowns. “Why seek out death when you have things you want to do?”

“Do you always pry like this, mister?” Buck drawls. “Or am I just one lucky son of a bitch who gets to be treated by your kind soul?”

Eddie thinks about Buckley 1.0, left beaten and bruised. He wonders if this Buckley knows that he’s a complete doppelganger of a relative back when they were young. It’d be the greatest irony if they were father and son—Eddie, encountering both of them around the same age, both in a dicey situation. Talk about one in a million chances. “Only when I deem the person worthy to care for.”

“You ain’t know a single thing about me,” Buck retorts. 

“I don’t have to know you to care about your life.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it awfully inhumane not to do so?”

Buck’s brows twitch. “It’s pointless. You ain’t getting anything out of it. No stacks of coins waiting by helping me.”

“I told you, I don’t want a reward,” replies Eddie. 

“So you just…” Buck seems to dig around for the right words, eyes darting in an unsure manner. “Care?”

Eddie shrugs and sinks further into the wooden chair. “Sure, yeah, you could say that.”

“Just ‘cause I’m—was in a dire situation?”

“I’d say it’s a little more serious than dire, but yes. I care.”

It takes a while for Buck to process this, evident in the way he ogles Eddie with scrutiny like he’s encountering a species of animal that went undocumented in nature. The doubt gradually morphs into disbelief, and a sharp laughter cuts through his throat. “Oh, you’re a strange one.” Buck blurts, shaking his head. “Never met anyone the likes of you. 

“Thank you?”

“You talk funny,” Buck says once again. 

Eddie tries not to flinch. “I apologize.”

“It ain’t a bad thing,” Buck lets out a small chuckle. “Just—you ain’t like the folks around here.” 

Eddie doesn’t know what to say, so he gulps down his coffee instead. Buck doesn’t add anything either, his gaze returning to the default sadness, distant in a manner that makes him seem like an ocean away.

Some people can’t be saved, Tia Pepa’s voice echoes in his head. It’s the words she had told him ages ago, when his child self had innocently inquired her about the intentions behind suicide. He wanted to argue then, that it didn’t make any sense for someone to be unable to be helped. Everyone can be helped, can’t they? That’s why hope exists in this world, right?

Well, he’s nearly two decades older now, and he’s seen eyes devoid of life and limp bodies. 

He thinks he’s putting his child self to shame in admitting that he doesn’t know the answer. 

Had what Tia Pepa said been true, what does that make him? Irresponsible? Selfish, for saving a stranger for his own values? Hell, maybe he’d even regret the decision of choosing to stop Buck if he hears the full story behind his decision. 

But that can’t be true, a voice tries to reason. Saving a life is never wrong. 

Did Eddie really save this man, though? 

Who is he to disrespect anyone's choice in their own life? 

The thought lingers even as they leave the cafe table and step out into the streets. It’s even more occupied with people than before, cattle passing by in a blur of yells and busy people. 

“Hey,” Buck abruptly says. Eddie turns to him, and finds subtle expectation in the pair of eyes staring back. “Where you staying tonight?”

Eddie furrows his brows. “Staying?” 

“You’re traveling, aren’t you?”

Oh. Oh shit, he didn’t even think of that. He automatically assumed he’d be relocated before sunset, but there’s actually no way of knowing when it’ll happen; worst case scenario, he could be here for weeks.

 “Uh,” Eddie wisely lets out. “I was going to figure that out after I got here.”

“If you want—” Buck starts, careful and slow like he’s testing uncharted waters. “You can put up at my place. Ain’t a grand hotel or anything, but it’s mine…my thank you. I don’t leave debts hanging.”

“There’s no debt to pay.”

“There is to me.”

Eddie can’t help a huff of disbelief. And I’m the strange one, he thinks distantly.

“Like I said, I ain’t owing you a thing,” Buck says. “But I’m offering you a place. Might not suit a gentleman like yourself, but—”

Buck continues rambling, and Eddie stops to seriously consider his predicament. There is no telling how long he’s staying in this era, and he doesn’t think he can sleep on park benches for however long Bryan is keeping him here. He doesn’t think his back can handle that, anyway.

He glances down at the watch around his wrist. What should he do? What can he do? It’s not like he’s been supplied with money to stay at a hotel. Fuck, did those scientists really think this through? Do they not care if their test subject gets killed on the streets?

“—all I’m saying is, you’re welcome to stay on with me. Ain’t much, but the roof don’t leak, and it sure hell is better than sleeping out here. ” Buck’s voice seeps back into his brain. 

Eddie stares at him. Blue eyes tinged in hope and sincerity gazes back, and Eddie’s heart itches for some reason. 

What has my life come to? “Yes.”

Buck’s brows shoot up. “Yes?”

“Uh—yeah, um, if you’re offering. I haven’t planned for a place to stay, so.”

“Oh.”

“Is…that okay?”

“I offered,” Buck immediately says. 

Eddie scratches his head. “I mean, you won’t murder me or anything, will you?”

“Murder you? What in God’s name would I want to murder you for?” Buck looks so genuinely concerned that Eddie feels slightly bad. “Do I strike you as a killing sort?”

“No?”

“Well, that settles it,” Buck says. He still looks in awe. “You wanna come along with me, then?”

Fleetingly, Eddie envisions Bryan screaming in frustration.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

Surely, he’ll be gone soon, right? 

-

It’s been a whole day. Eddie is still here.

He sips at the coffee in the rusted tin, observing Buck from the rim of the cup. The man himself is scouring down a dry loaf of bread while skimming through the morning paper. Where or when he got it between the time Eddie woke up and combed his hair, he has no clue. 

Eddie slept in his clothes without the coat, and now, his shirt is rumpled and he wishes sweatpants existed in the 1800s. He tries to ignore the discomfort of spending over 24 hours in formal attire. At least Buck’s couch was decently—surprisingly—comfortable. Buck, being the respectful host he is, offered at least ten times for Eddie to take the bed, but Eddie isn’t shameless to that extent. He can already hear Abuela scolding him for manners.

He fell asleep far more easily than he’d like to admit. He did, however, wake up in a fright, wondering if he was randomly transported to the Titanic while sleeping. But he’s still here, and the reflection that would usually haunt him in late-night hours is hitting him right now, at eight in the morning, from what he could tell by the old clock behind Buck’s head. 

What the hell is he doing?

Here he is, drinking a stranger’s coffee in a stranger’s house without a single idea of how long he is going to be stuck here for. He should be exiled to the corner to evaluate his life decisions, because what the fuck?

He wonders where he will be sent next. The Great Depression? The Cold War? Watergate scandal? Is he accidentally going to become a catalyst for a political scandal, like Forrest Gump? 

He can laugh. Eddie Diaz, drawing a comparison between himself and Forrest Gump. Maybe he can start a shrimp business while he’s at it. Even that’s probably smarter than indulging in an awry military experiment. 

“You got yourself any plans today?” 

Eddie slides his gaze to Buck. Buck is staring at him, the morning paper already folded to the side. He distantly ponders where Buck learned to read properly. Is he actually from a wealthy background? Did he get disowned? The apartment isn’t bad, so he must have a steady income, right? 

But why was he at the docks with rocks on his feet?

“Uh,” Eddie wisely lets out in response. 

“Do you?”

“...No.”

“Ah. Do you—“ Buck takes a sip from his own coffee. He takes a breath. “Do you wanna come to work with me?” 

A flash of deja vu. Eddie’s brows furrow. “Work?”

“It’s a little down the pier. Ain’t far, I swear it. I can even pick something up for you, if you like? Can’t say if it’s your kind of store, but.”

Eddie feels like a massive burden. “You don’t have to do this.”

Buck huffs. “I want to. I went and wasted your morning yesterday, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t. And you let me stay the night. It’s more me who should treat you.”

Buck seems to lose his words at that, a flicker of…something passing his face. He shakes his head. “Still. If you’ve got time to spare, why not come along with me? Reckon you won’t be sorry for it.” 

Eddie stares at him. The air tastes like the sea. “Okay,” he hears himself mumbling. “Okay. Sure.” 

-

Buck works at a bookstore. 

Eddie, who had fully expected a blacksmith’s workshop or something, marvels at the rows of books reaching up to the ceiling. Ladders rest upon the shelves, its discoloration proving how well-used it is on a daily basis. He has to stop ogling the interiors to catch up to Buck, who swiftly navigates through the aisles with familiarity. Once reaching the central counter, he greets the old man behind it. “Morning, Mr. Benge.”

Mr. Benge, glancing up from the newspaper in his hands, peers past his gold-rimmed glasses and regards him. “Good morning, Evan.” 

“Where’s the Missus, sir?” 

“Ah, she’s out at the market. She ought to come back not long.” He diverts his attention to Eddie. “You brought… a guest?”

“He showed interest in the store, sir.” Buck lies so expertly that Eddie fights not to raise a brow in response. “I told him this is the best bookshop in the town. He’s interested, to say the least.” 

Mr. Benge stares at Eddie the same way as his eighth-grade math teacher, with unimpressed curiosity. “Well,” he finally says. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, young man.” 

“Thank you,” Eddie breathes out.

“Come on,” Buck says, and he leads him back to the labyrinth of bookshelves. “This is on the assumption that you can read, so I hope you can?”

Eddie looks at the rows of books, then at Buck’s expectant face. “I can.”

Buck nods. “Good. City boys always know how to read, don’t they?” He puts his hands on his hips and regards the books with a frown. “Do you have a favorite book? Any preferences?”

Safe to say, Eddie’s never been the biggest literature guy. Aside from the simple lack of time, he’s more of a digital media-oriented guy—shitty day soap operas, that is. His knowledge of books limits itself to the mandatory readings from high school, and he highly doubts they exist yet. He wishes he had listened closely to the ramblings Mr. Wood often made about classic literature. 

Oblivious to Eddie’s (hopefully) concealed dilemma, Buck slips three books out of the higher section of the shelf, arms straining up. Jesus, is he as tall as Gold Rush Buckley? Is it a genetic thing?

“I finished this one the other day,” Buck says, fingers brushing over the cover of the top book. “It’s separated into three volumes, you see. A decently new release, too.”

Eddie would be lying if he said he’s not intimidated by the stacked volumes. Well, this answers the prior question—Buck can most definitely read, and he can read well. “Right.” 

Buck probably takes his fear as fascination, because he cracks a smile. “It’s originally French. The names are a tad difficult, but it’s a good read. I recommend it.”

“What’s the name?”

“Les Misérables.”

Eddie hums. “Oh, like the musical.”

Buck blinks. “Musical? What musical?” 

So much for recognizing the title.

Eddie scrambles to save himself, but his lips seem to glue itself shut after stupidly blurting out. Maybe that’s wiser, because Jesus Christ, Eddie needs to shut up. 

“What’s a musical? Like an opera?” Buck inquires, sincerely intrigued. 

“Well—“ Eddie starts. “Yeah, yeah, exactly. A friend of mine calls it that, and he travels to France sometimes so I’m guessing that’s how they call it?”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Eddie honestly won’t blame Bryan if the guy shoots him point-blank at this point. 

Buck shifts the books in his hands. “Have you read it, then?”

“No. I’m vaguely familiar with the story, but—no, I haven’t read it yet.”

“You should,” Buck mutters and tucks them under his arm. “It’s a brilliant portrayal of humanity and love. If you favor things like that, you’d like it.”

“Is that what you like?” Eddie finds himself asking.

Buck pauses at that and stares at him with a hint of surprise. There’s still a remaining cloud shadowing his eyes. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Why?”

Buck is silent for a stretched moment. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

Eddie freezes. “Oh."

“No, it ain’t a bad thing,” Buck quickly says. He goes quiet again before his brows scrunch ever so slightly. “Have I met you before?”

No, but I’ve probably met someone in your bloodline that you look eerily similar to, Eddie wants to say. “I don’t think so. Why?”

Buck’s expression subtly dims, but Eddie notices anyway. “No, it’s—it’s nothing,” he shifts on his feet. Anxious. “You really are a strange one, aren’t you?”

“Asking a question makes me strange?”

Buck regards him with conflict. “No, no, it’s…” he runs a hand through his hair. “Good God, I can’t even find the words for it. You’re just different, I reckon. Not like the folks I meet often.”

“In a good way or bad way?” Eddie can’t help but ask.

“Good. Strange, but good. You saved me, remember? And you—you care, for some reason. No one’s asked me a thing about myself in ages.”

Jesus, isn’t that the saddest thing Eddie has heard in a while? 

There’s an air of permeating sadness that lingers around Buck, one that Eddie can’t exactly pinpoint or penetrate. It’s far from Gold Rush Buckley, who was all liquor charm and palpable recklessness. This Buckley is dimmed, like a dying light that flickers back to life from time to time —a rarity among shooting stars. 

Gold Rush Buckley was peculiar on his own, but this one? There was a whole different layer, a veil of mystery and despair that Eddie couldn’t fathom. After all, he had been the one to drag him back from death. 

Eddie can’t help it: he wants to know. He wants to know why this man is so alone, so in pain, to the extent that a shred of interest in his being baffles him. 

He feels a twinge of sympathy for Gold Rush Buckley. What would he think if he saw his possible son in such a state? They may share a name, but the present Buckley is a shell of Buckley senior, who offered Eddie a drink. 

“I’ll read it,” Eddie is suddenly saying. Buck’s head tilts in question. “I’ll read the—” Eddie gestures to the books under Buck’s arm. “I’ll read Les Misérables.”

Buck blinks. “What?”

“It sounds interesting.” Eddie internally facepalms. Interesting is ironically the least interesting term to use in this situation, and he blames his lack of vocabulary to the sheer absurdity of everything. I was born over a century later, and I’m living a sci-fi author’s wet dream. I don’t have to be the smartest right now; he tries to reason with himself. 

Buck dubiously looks at the books he’s holding, then back at Eddie. “You actually want to read them?”

Eddie hopes his smile isn’t as plastic as it feels. “Sure.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I want to read about humanity and hope, too.” I think you could especially use the hope aspect, Buckley Jr.

Buck goes silent again, but longer this time. It is so long that Eddie contemplates if he said something wrong, until Buck abruptly says, “Do you want to be my friend?”

“What?”

“Friends. Do you want to be friends?”

Eddie wants to ask, Come again? But the raw expression on Buck’s face stops him. He feels like he’s back in elementary school, holding one of those partially deflated school footballs while being asked if he wants to spend recess together. “Friends,” he dumbly says. He’s basically a parrot at this point, just repeating a word time and time again. 

Buck nods. He doesn’t say anything.

“Why?” Eddie mirrors Buck’s question from minutes ago.

“You’re different.”

“You want to be friends because I’m different?”

“A good different,” Buck defends. “I have a feeling you’d make one fine friend. I could use one of those.”

Eddie pictures Buck as a child, extending his hand to Eddie and asking if he wants to play. He wonders when and how child Buck grew into this culmination of adult despair. He wonders what story lies within those eyes, if he would accidentally stumble upon Gold Rush Buckley in his recollections. 

“Do you want to be friends?” Buck asks again.

Eddie glances at the watch on his wrist. The books under Buck’s arm. Buck’s achingly hopeful eyes. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Buck smiles, and for the first time, the cloud clears.

-

Eddie is going to scream at Bryan the first chance he gets. 

It’s been a week and a half. A fucking week and a half.

He has long shed the original clothing he wore, instead clad in clothes Buck offered. The man had asked why he didn’t have any bags while traveling, and laughed warmly when Eddie lied and said he had been robbed. The pants are scratchy, and the shirt is thin, but Eddie would take these over whatever the scientists programmed for him to wear.

But a week is a stretch, even if Buck isn’t offended by it. 

Ever since the friendship proposal, Buck has been opening up by the day. The looming shadow attached to him has been unveiling him, and Eddie feels like he’s piecing together a mosaic painting. When Buck animatedly tells him the story of a man named Nathaniel down at the pier and how he drunkenly fell into the sea, Eddie briefly doubts that this is the same person who had looked on the brink of death less than two weeks prior. 

Buck is…funny. He’s funny in the two definitions of the word: interesting funny, and comedic funny. The comedic funny appears very occasionally, when he slips a dry comment out of nowhere that makes Eddie crack a smile. The interesting funny is laid thicker, because Eddie has yet to know him.  

He knows that he doesn’t like sardines. He knows that he takes his coffee lukewarm, after it’s cooled down quite a bit. He knows the average time he wakes up—disgustingly fast—and he knows that he likes dogs (which Eddie deduced from an interaction he saw between him and a poodle in public). 

But he doesn’t know him. 

He has no idea where Buck is from, why he is working at a bookstore, how old he is, or why he remains so unfazed by a literal stranger far overstaying their welcome. He even takes Eddie to work with him, and he’s become somewhat of an unofficial employee there, stacking shelves and directing customers with questions to Mr. Benge or Buck.

Eddie noticed that Buck doesn’t talk about himself in a way that truly sheds light on who he is, and while a part of him is frustrated by the mystery to no end, a larger part of him scoffs at the hypocrisy.

It’s not as if Eddie has been the most honest of saints. Hell, nine out of the ten times he speaks, it’s a lie or a segue into a different topic. 

Full disclosure: Eddie gave up on the whole no conversation rule some time ago. If Bryan thinks human interaction is unnecessary in a week and a fucking half, that’s honestly on him. 

Eddie has been conversing with Buck, albeit still slightly refrained. He doesn’t know how much of the whole butterfly effect thing is real, and he’s not sure if he wants to. 

Nevertheless, Eddie likes Buck. Shockingly. Surprisingly. Sincerely. He likes him as a person, the type of person who helps a tired paper boy sell papers like it’s a daily routine. He would even consider him a genuine friend, and that fucking sucks when he remembers that there will be no Buck once the watch awakens to life again. 

He tries not to let the sadness seep into their interactions. It shows in the way he lets Buck pull the weight in conversations. 

“—so the question is, why did the monarchy come back? What was the revolution for?” Buck says, gesticulating wildly. Eddie shifts the cup on the table before it gets knocked over. “All the lives wasted, all the years—what was the purpose if the monarchy returned?”

“Maybe the French didn’t know any other suitable rule,” Eddie suggests. 

“They should. I heard they use a hefty tool to cut folks’ heads off. Something starting with the letter G.”

“Guillotine?” 

Buck snaps his fingers. “Yes, that’s the one.” He cocks his head with a small smile. “You sure know a lot, don’t you? Perks of being a traveler, huh?” 

Eddie looks out of the apartment window. The sun is already setting, and the street is clearing up from the crowd. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You said you have a pal from France, right? How’d you meet the fella?”

I did? “We stayed at the same hotel. Got to talking at the bar. Interesting man—“ Eddie purses his lips. “Pierre.”

“Pierre,” Buck repeats. “Man, I wish I could go to France.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Are you kidding? I don’t got the money.”

Eddie shrugs. “Sneak into a cargo ship.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Not unless you’re caught.”

Buck narrows his eyes. “Are you trying to kick me to the can?”

“I don’t know, how bad do you wanna go to France? All men are great, but the greatest men act.” 

Buck pauses. “Whose quote is that?”

“Mine,” Eddie snickers. “Nah, I’m kidding. Don’t do anything crazy.” 

“I want to get out of the country,” Buck huffs anyway, a faraway look dawning in his eyes. “Explore beyond the ocean. Go places no man has set foot in.”

“So you want to be an explorer?”

“I just want to see things, that’s all.”

But tonight, Buck is a little subdued. There’s little lift to his voice, and he sounds a bit…doubtful, even nervous when speaking. The peculiarity only increases when he abruptly stands and announces: “Let’s go on a walk.”

Maybe Eddie shouldn’t have complied, because that led to them now sitting on a secluded pier with the sea illuminated in an orange glow. It’s beautiful, there’s no denying that—the glimmering waves, the nice ocean breeze, the scent of salt—but Eddie doesn’t necessarily like the link between the ocean and Buck. He can’t help the glance he sends towards Buck’s ankles. Foolishly, he feels relief when spotting them clean of ropes or rocks. 

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yes?”

“What would you do if you lived forever?”

Eddie frowns and looks at him. Buck continues staring forward, blue eyes overwhelmed by the setting sun. “If I’m immortal? Like, I can’t die at all?”

“At all,” Buck repeats. “What would you do?”

Eddie mulls over the thought. To live forever. “What’s the logistics?”

“What do you mean?”

“Say the world is ending. So everybody dies but me? I can’t die by any means, so I have to wander the apocalyptic world by myself?”

At that, Buck turns his head. His brows are scrunched to the point where a deep crease forms on his forehead. 

Then, he laughs.

It’s a different kind of laugh he’s let out around Eddie up until this point. It’s free, bordering on near hysterical, but it’s raw and genuine, and Eddie likes it far better than every other laugh he’s drawn out of Buck before. 

He doesn’t stop laughing until he buries his face in his hands, and even then, his shoulders are trembling a bit. 

“You are so—” Buck says, voice muffled. “You’re so strange, Eddie.”

“What?” Eddie says. “Forgive me for trying to be realistic here.”

“I thought you would say something normal.”

“What’s normal?”

“Like, I want to become them robber barons. Have enough money in the world to make a trip over and over again.”

Eddie raises a brow. “That’s shallow.”

Buck scoffs. “What if that’s one of my dreams?”

“I thought you hated robber barons.”

A groan. “Money would still be nice,” He retorts, finally lifting his head. His cheeks are slightly flushed.

Eddie hums non-committally. “Sure, but if you’re living forever, you’re bound to get bored with money, no? It’s important, definitely, but if you can’t die, money would seem like such a small problem. There has to be more to life than just pieces of paper.” He gestures to the sky. It’s gradually turning purple. “Look at this. Money can’t buy this. It can’t even make it.”

Buck doesn’t answer, so Eddie fully turns to look at him. He finds that Buck is already staring, lips slightly parted. Eddie chuckles awkwardly. “Yes?”

“I never thought of it like that,” Buck mumbles. “Why have I never thought of that?”

“I mean, you do need money to live,” Eddie points out. “I’m no exception to being attached to it. Isn’t everyone?”

“No, no, but you’re right. There is so much more to life than a flimsy piece of paper. Like–like—”

“Humanity and hope?” Eddie recalls. 

Buck nods. “Yes.”

“Very idealistic of you.”

“You’re the one who said money is shallow.”

“I never said be an idealist instead,” Eddie drawls. “But maybe life is more fun being an idealist.”

“Maybe,” Buck says.

Eddie doesn’t fight the grin that creeps on his lips. “Are you gonna be an idealist now, Buck?”

“Maybe,” Buck repeats with a smile of his own. 

A beat. The sun is gone. “No matter how long I live,” Eddie starts. “I’d wanna see my son grow up.” It’s a nice thought, to see Chris graduate, land a job he loves, to find someone to settle down with, maybe have some kids—

Buck’s voice is high when he replies. “You’ve got a son? Well, what the hell are you doing, traveling?” 

Isn’t that a question worth a million dollars? “I’m traveling for him, in a way.”

“And your wife?”

Eddie holds back a wince. “It’s complicated.” I don’t have a wife anymore, but I don’t think divorces are a thing here yet.

Buck doesn’t say anything at first, and Eddie worries he overshared for no reason, but the silence cuts with: “What’s his name?”

“What?”

“Your son.”

Eddie blinks. “Chris,” he says, and tries to ignore the pang in his heart. He fails. “His name is Christopher.”

Buck repeats the name several times to himself, a habit Eddie came to notice and memorize. “Where is he right now?”

“California. It’s his home now,” Eddie says. Then, with a gulp, he decides to wade into uncharted waters. “What about you, Buck? Do you have a home?”

“I live here,” Buck deadpans.

Eddie chokes back a laugh. “No, okay, let me rephrase. Where are you originally from?”

Buck stares at him, then glides his gaze back to the sea. He brings his knee up and props his chin. “Pennsylvania,” he says, quiet, so quiet that Eddie almost misses it. “It ain’t my home, though. Not anymore.”

“So, where is your home?”

“...I don’t know,” Buck answers. “I don’t know if I have one.”

Eddie suddenly has an overwhelming urge to hug him. He looks like Buck he initially met, so very lonely and visibly miserable. There’s a deep pit, Eddie realizes, of something unseen in Buck that he can’t just pry out. It’s a pit that swirls and carves through the insides of the body, one that is only satisfied by piled-up devastation. 

Eddie knows, because his own pit is what landed him with his doomed watch around his wrist.

“Buck?” he prompts.

“Yes?”

“Why are you letting me stay with you for so long?”

A flicker of amusement runs across Buck’s face. The sky is almost completely dark, but the moon is out tonight. “What a foolish question,” he says. “I’ve taken quite a liking in you, Eddie. I told you, I could use a fine friend.” He meets Eddie’s eyes. “I think we make a good pair, you and me. Mr. Benge even said so.”

“You’re a good person,” Eddie tells him.

Buck smiles weakly. He doesn’t say anything. Neither of them does, even as they eventually stand to their feet and head back to the apartment. 

Buck bids him a good night with a wave. Eddie tells him to sleep well. 

Unbeknownst to Eddie at that moment, it becomes the last thing he says to him. Because the first time he falls into the deepest slumber yet, the watch vibrates, and he is no longer there. 

He hadn’t finished Les Misérables.

Chapter Text

Eddie wakes with a jolt.

He blinks up at the white ceiling, and his eyes are tired when the glimmering chandelier reflects poorly on his irises. Jesus, since when was there a chandelier in the room? And why are his clothes so tight?

Wait.

Eddie scrambles up to his feet. His jaw drops. “No,” he breathes out.

He’s in a bathroom. Not the one in Buck’s apartment, no—this is something Eddie has never seen before. The sinks are ornate with gold rims, and the chandelier—a fucking chandelier—is dangling what looks like a thousand crystal rocks. The floor tiles are marble and patterned, and when Eddie glances at the spotless mirror, he is met with his own reflection that does very little to quell the swirling of his stomach. He looks so fancy, too fancy to the point he is honestly lost in who he is supposed to be or what role he’s fulfilling this time. 

But never mind that, because he transported overnight. 

Without any preparation of the heart. Without a conversation with Buck. 

Without knowing it was the last time he would ever talk to his friend. 

Fuck. 

Eddie hadn’t realized how good a friend Buck was becoming, but now, staring at his ridiculous reflection, he wants to be back in that apartment again. Especially after last night, or however long, however many years have passed since their conversation at the pier. 

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to tug on his overtly waxed hair. I’m sorry, Buck. 

Just then, a series of knocks hits the door. “Hello?”

Eddie almost stumbles over his own foot reaching the lock. He turns it and creaks the door open. He is met with another man whose hair is also waxed. There is not a single spec on his black suit. 

“Ah, my sincere apologies,” he speaks, and he sounds like an old Hollywood star. “I did not mean to intrude. Do you awfully mind if I…“ he sheepishly smiles. 

Eddie can only nod dumbly, and he shuffles out of the bathroom. He doesn’t even turn to look as the door clicks shut behind him.

The hallway is long and carpeted, the velvet red laughably stereotypical underneath Eddie’s feet. The walls, which he balances himself on, are dark green with faint gold patterns that he can’t make out in the dim light. Eddie staggers his way forward, stomach still heavy and mind racing. He barely notices the random decorations of ravishing vases and flowers, because he feels so shitty that he left a friend, who he can never see again. 

It had to happen then, didn’t it? When Eddie was just getting to know him for who he is?

Eddie looks at the watch on his wrist. It stares back, seconds ticking away without any mercy. 

“Sir?” Eddie jumps. A middle-aged lady, who he can only assume is the maid from her outfit, tilts her head ever-so-slightly. “Are you lost?”

“Lost?”

“From the party?” She asks matter-of-factly, then smiles. “No worries at all, sir, you are certainly not the first. Right this way, please.”

Eddie is now left with no choice but to follow this lady, and he feels like a little boy trailing after a helper as they navigate through what feels like an eternity of the same hallway. He is fleetingly reminded of the lab and the walk with Bryan before he got onto the time-traveling platform. 

At last, the woman comes to a stop in front of two wide doors and swings them open. 

Everything is flooded by light in an instant.

There are hundreds of people in this enormous room. A live orchestra band sits in the furthest corner, and a young lady dressed in fur and feathers sits on the grand piano, belting out incomprehensible lyrics. The women are dressed in glittery attire, their eyes accented with smoky charcoal, and pearls dangle from their necks. The men are clad in pristine suits, holding either a cigar, a champagne glass, or a girl’s hand—some, even all three. The room itself is like a ballroom from the Beauty and the Beast, the chandelier is at least a thousand times grander than the one Eddie was ogling in the bathroom. 

Eddie spots one particular woman, heels clacking against the porcelain floor as a man twirls her around. She’s wearing a flapper dress with a feather stuck into her hair. 

Flapper. Feather. 

“Oh my god,” Eddie whispers to himself. 

He’s literally in The Great Gatsby. 

Or, at least, the era of The Great Gatsby. 

He glances around for a sign, a banner, anything that could indicate the precise year. However, his hopes of this being a New Year’s party are shattered fairly quickly, because all he sees is a sparkling crowd of wealth and, well, capitalism. Someone hands him a bubbling champagne, and disappears before he could begin to form the words thank you. 

Eddie coughs as he accidentally inhales a thick secondhand smoke. Not even five minutes in, and he’s already got a glass in his hand and is getting blinded by this sea of opulence. 

Suddenly, he’s so overwhelmed, and he feels the desperation to get out. 

He has no idea where or when he is, lost a friend against his will, and his brain is reeling from the overwhelming…everything. 

Eddie mutters a string of apologies and excuse mes until reaching what looks like a door to the balcony. His wish for once is granted when it opens under his weight and he stumbles out into the night air, the chill washing over him like cleansing. 

He shuts the door behind him and fights the urge to drop to his knees. The marble railing—why is everything fucking marble—is pleasantly cold against his skin, and he just wants to go home. 

Then, a thought crosses his head.

Home. 

What is home for him? 

Texas, his mind automatically answers. And it’s not a lie, of course. Texas has always been his home, the dry warmth and rural roads stretching for what seems like miles on end. But where he grew up wasn’t always filled with the love that the term home promises. He grew up under the scrutinizing eyes of his mother and the stabbing words of his father. He loves his parents, he does, but that—that was not home. 

He once thought it was Shannon who was home, and he’s sure she thought the same, too. But it took both of them to shatter that dream, and home was no longer. He doesn’t blame her—after all, she must have dealt with the fragmented pieces of her broken dream all alone, while he was off halfway across the world.

Christopher is different. Eddie loves him more than he knew was possible, and he would do anything in his power for Chris. Christopher is one definition of home, definitely, but… 

Eddie shuts his eyes. He wants to go somewhere. Anywhere. He wants to see Chris. He wants—

“Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone, darling!” A voice rings out as the door behind him opens. Eddie turns around. His jaw slacks.

The man is laughing as he stumbles into the balcony, but the moment he sees Eddie, it dies out. His hair is slicked back, broad shoulders hugged by an expensive suit. His eyes are blue as ever in the spilling lights, and they gradually widen once fixating on Eddie. 

There is no way. 

There is no fucking way that Eddie is meeting the third descendant of the—

“Eddie?”

…Huh?

Eddie looks at the man. His heart is beating erratically. “How do you know my name?” He carefully asks.

“Eddie,” the man repeats. He takes one, two steps forward. He is trembling.

Eddie gets a better look at his face. Chiseled chin, curls somehow peeking out despite the wax, baby blues that Eddie has seen in two different eras of human history. 

“Buck,” Eddie breathes out shakily. “Buck, it’s you.”

Then, Buck—

Buck throws up.  

-

Buck sits on the front steps of the entrance, holding a glass of what Eddie hopes is water. He holds it against his head, face turned up to the sky. There’s a strand loose from his hair. Eddie feels a strange urge to tuck it back. 

“How?” Is the first thing spoken between them, and it’s Eddie who asks. 

They hadn’t said a word as they migrated from the balcony to outside. Eddie was adamant about getting Buck out of the crowd, and while he got some booing for it, it was worth it because they eventually made it to the steps. 

Buck slowly looks at him. “How?” He huffs. “Why, I can ask you the same thing.”

“How?” Eddie stresses. 

The man chuckles and shakes his head. He “Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, isn’t this a wonderful surprise.”

“You haven’t—how haven’t you aged?”

“Isn’t that a question worth millions?” Buck says, amused. How the fuck is he amused? Why are his eyes glimmering? “You still talk funny.”

“You talk differently.”

“Well, you saw the crowd in there. I had to master the art of sophistication, if you will.”

Eddie swallows the lump in his throat. “You haven’t aged,” he firmly repeats. 

Buck’s voice is carefully flat as he responds. “So haven’t you.” 

“I’m different.”

“How so?”

Eddie purses his lips. Doesn’t answer.

Buck scoffs. “Ah, pardon me. It escaped me that you were a man of many mysteries.” 

“Please, as if you’re one of the exceptions.”

Another beat. Eddie wants a drink. “The Gold Rush—was that you?”

Buck goes still as a statue. He is silent, nonverbal for a long time until he says, “I remember you.”

“So it was you.”

“You helped me.”

Eddie purses his lips. “You worked at old Jerry’s.”

Buck presses the heels of his palms to his closed eyes. “How—” he sighs deeply. “Are you in the same predicament as me?”

Predicament?

Eddie frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

“How long have you been alive?"

Eddie freezes. He thinks of Buck in the Gold Rush, tousled hair and bruised skin. He thinks of the Buck he’d just been grieving, the one rearranging books while smiling down at Eddie and telling him about something incredibly niche. The two versions of Evan Buckley layers as he looks at the Buck next to him, perfect hair and a suit that probably costs more than the apartment in Portland. They blur and blend into the Buck now, and Eddie has to quell the rollercoaster of emotions swirling inside of him.

“How long have you been alive, Buck?” Eddie returns the question. 

Buck takes a sip from the glass in his hand. His lashes flutter as he blinks slowly. “You’re the only one who calls me that.”

“What?”

“Buck.” He says, enunciating the syllable. “It’s usually Mr Buckley these days. Or Evan. No one else has ever called me Buck.” He looks at Eddie. “The last time I was called that was sixty years ago. From you.”

Eddie stares into the eyes he never thought he would see again. It’s so vividly blue, and the moonlight casts a certain illumination that makes it almost iridescent. 

Then, Buck abruptly stands up. 

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, alert.

“Getting out of here,” he says. His lips curve into a smile. “Do you care to join me for a walk?”

-

Eddie doesn’t know what it is with them and the ocean.

Somehow, they’ve ended up on the seaside, their leather shoes carding through the sand. Eddie can feel it seeping into the soles, and he knows it’s the same for Buck, but Buck doesn’t look uncomfortable at all. His one hand holds his jacket over his shoulder, while the other side is stuck into the pockets of his trousers. Even with the wind undoing the wax work of his hair, he still looks expensive. 

They walk, side-by-side, silent alongside the ebbing waves.

Eddie gnaws on his bottom lip. He wants to ask so many things. He wants to talk to Buck, but no words feel fitting to verbalize, and he chokes on them like pebbles in the throat. 

How are you here? He wants to say. How have you been? What are you doing here? Why haven’t you aged? I’m glad to see you again. I wanted to stay a little longer. Are you the same Buck?

“Did you know,” Buck suddenly starts. “They invented a moving picture.”

Eddie blinks. “A moving picture?”

“A new form of art. Movies, they call it. Isn’t that wonderful? What is there not to be delighted about art?”

Eddie doesn’t quite know what to reply to that.“I didn’t know you had such a deep appreciation for the arts. Only literature.”

“It’s a fairly recent development,” Buck says casually. “I don’t find much joy in materialistic things. All the opulence in the world, all the champagne and the parties—that’s not the point.” 

Eddie glances at the mansion, still alive and brimming with light visible from the beach. He turns back to Buck. He doesn’t so much as peek at the party he is missing. “Then why—”

“Why was I in there?” Buck answers for him, a small smile on his lips. “I’m obligated to attend. See, I do it out of necessity. It’s basically my job now.”

“To attend parties?”

“To an extent, yes. I realize it’s quite a jump from a bookstore clerk.”

Eddie tries to wrap his head around this new information, combined with his manner of speech reeking of wealth. What jobs entail a required party attendance, Eddie is not sure. “Then what do you find joy in?”

Buck’s smile widens at that. “Art. Love. Being in there—” he juts his thumb at the mansion. “Doesn’t promise either of those qualities.”

Ah, and there it is. The hint of loneliness. “Then why not pursue it?” Eddie inquires. 

A scoff. Buck kicks the sand. “You make it sound so simple.” 

“What’s not simple about them? Art is art, love is love.” 

“Nothing is ever that one-dimensional. Love wouldn’t be conquered if it were as simple as you make it seem.” 

Conquered, Eddie’s brain latches. “Love is something to be conquered?”

“Everything is something to be conquered.”

“I don’t think I’m catching on.”

Buck abruptly stops. He looks at Eddie, and his eyes are unreadable. Shuttered down. “There is so much wasted on the cruelty of this world, Eddie. A man must fight to retain a piece of something, whether it be love or art.”

Eddie can’t help it—he chuckles. “Buck,” he says. “Since when did you turn into a poet?”

Buck cracks a grin. “Perhaps it’s another recent development,” he proceeds to sit down, abandoning his jacket to the side and sinking into the sand comfortably. “Everyone is a poet if they will to be.”

Eddie has no choice but to prop down beside him. The sand is somehow warm. “Everyone?”

“Everyone,” Buck says sternly.

“Even cynics? Even the people who don't see the point in anything?”

At that, a groan escapes Buck. “I think being a cynic is the greatest crime one can commit. Look at life, look at the beauty of the world—how can a man possibly not fall in love with it all?”

Whatever development went down in between Portland and the present, Eddie marvels at it. This—apparently is the same one he dragged back from death. 

It must be apparent on his face, because Buck looks at him and laughs. “I am not a cynic, Eddie. At least, not anymore.”

Eddie gazes at him, swallowing every detail of him, lit up by the moon. Perhaps I’m grieving for a life I could have lived. “Buck?”

“Yes?”

“How?”

That one word is apparently enough. It contains a multitude of layers, everything that is plaguing Eddie’s mind, and somehow, Buck reads it without effort. He leans back, balancing himself in the sand by his stretched arms. “I’m not sure if you will believe me.”

“You know I will.”

Silence. A rustle of sand. “I’ve been put under a curse,” Buck says softly. 

Every fairytale in existence flashes through Eddie’s mind, and he frowns. “A curse?”

Buck nods once. “I’m not quite sure when or how, but I’m guessing it was around the Witch Trials. I haven’t aged a day since.” 

Witch Trials? Eddie thinks. His history lesson lights in his brain, and he tries not to freeze at the memory of it taking place around the 1700s. “You got cursed by a witch?”

A shrug. “One way or another, I suppose.” 

“And how do you break this—curse?”

Buck smiles bitterly, a secret joke. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? I was told I would remember once the ‘right time comes’.” 

Eddie is horrified. “So you don’t know how?”

“Not for the past two hundred years, no.”

“That’s why—“

“I saw you in the span of the last centuries? Yes. But the bigger question I have is,” Buck turns to face him fully. He meets Eddie’s eyes directly, and Eddie fights the urge to shrink away. “What about you? Were you cursed as well? What could you have possibly done to be punished like me?”

Punished, Eddie notes. “So you’re immortal."

Buck seems to forgive him dodging the question, but he sighs. “In terms of me not being able to die? Then, yes. I’m immortal.” 

“What if you’re directly shot in the chest or something?”

“Happened on a number of occasions in the past. I simply woke up and carried on.”

Buck’s question about living forever from before makes sense now. Buck looks unfazed by his absolutely morbid statement, but Eddie hopes the shock is not too blatant on his face. It’s most probably not, because amusement crosses Buck’s expression. 

Eddie shifts his position in the sand. “So you’re invincible and immortal.”

“You could say that, I suppose,” Buck says. “So, tell me. What are you doing here? Are you like me, too?”

Eddie exhales. “No. I’m not, but I—” he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you any further.” 

Buck stares at him a long, long time before an abrupt laughter escapes him. Eddie looks at him with furrowed brows until he offers an explanation. “Interestingly enough, I care too little about your origins,” Buck says. “This is the first time in years I’ve had a genuine connection with another.”

That’s hard to believe, having lived with Buck for over a week. He’s not shy. “You don’t have friends in—” Eddie gestures to the mansion behind them. “In there? You seem like a socialite.”

“Surely, you’d understand that friends don’t last very long with my…condition. I don’t stay in the same place for an extended period. I can’t face witchcraft allegations again.” Buck gives a half-shrug. Eddie tries not to dwell too much on the allegations. “You’re a kind soul, anyway. One of the kindest people I have met.”

“You must have met someone nicer in the past sixty years.” Eddie retorts, and a realization finally sinks in his bones. “Oh. It’s been sixty years.”

“Indeed it has.”

“And you remembered me?”

“You think of yourself too little,” Buck says. He’s fished out a cigarette from nowhere and lights it with ease. Smoke dances into the air. “You were the first real friend I’ve had in years.”

Eddie watches as Buck breathes out the smoke. “So what—what have you been up to in the last sixty years?”

“Well. After you disappeared without a trace, I bounced around a few cities.” Eddie winces, but Buck seems not to notice. He flicks off the gathering ash. “I befriended a businessman, helped him a bit with the money and such, and I have simply accompanied him since.” 

“Is that how you’re part of this extravagant circle?” 

“And other connections, if you will.”

“But they’re not…your friends?”

“They don’t quite match my interests,” Buck says. “They regard art as an object, not a necessity. Same for love. Love doesn’t belong in a place of inauthenticity.”

Eddie hums. “Art is a necessity for you,” he says, more a statement than a question.

At that, Buck’s eyes light up. It’s the same way it would sparkle when he talked about books. “What is it if not a necessity?”

“Just…art?”

“Please, art lies in the nature of humanity itself. Art can come from love, hatred, tragedies, miracles—isn’t there beauty in that? If we remove art from humans, what will be left?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie answers honestly.

“A shell of a man, that’s what,” Buck replies, and takes a final inhale from the cigarette before rubbing it out in the sand. 

Eddie glances at the dead cigarette, then back to Buck. “Then how come you don’t create art?”

“Art is human.”

“You’re human.”

“No,” Buck immediately shuts him down. “I’m not. I am not a normal man. You do realize I’m cursed?”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not human.”

Buck stares at Eddie with enough intensity to burn a hole in him. “Do you remember,” he says. “You called me a good person?”

The pier. Sunset. “I do. I still think so.” 

Buck narrows his eyes. “Why?”

Why?

Eddie thinks of Buck, letting Eddie stay for over a week. Buck, who lent him clothes without being asked. Buck, who helps poor paperboys on the street. Buck, who’s always been adamant about not owing anyone. Buck, who is sitting next to him now with sad eyes.

“Because you are,” Eddie offers. “You are a good person.”

Buck scoffs. “Usually, you are required to support your claims with an argument.”

“Well, that’s my argument.”

“What is?”

“That you are a good person. You don’t have to act it, because you are.”

Buck scowls. “You know so little of me.”

“I’ve spent enough time with you to make a judgment,” Eddie argues back. “I’ve met bad people, and you—you’re not one of them.”

“Then why did you leave?” Buck asks, and his voice cracks. 

Eddie instinctively leans back. Buck snaps his mouth shut and turns away. His face is shadowed, the moonlight only catching his hair. “I woke up, and it was like you’d never been here.” he says quietly, almost swallowed by the sound of the waves. “Without a note or a goodbye. In the grand scheme of things, I know it wasn’t too long that we knew each other, but you were my friend, Eddie. My only friend.” Eddie watches as his fingers dig into the sand and ball into fists. “Why did you leave?”

“Buck—”

“And now, you’re here for some reason, attending this God forsaken party, and—and I have no idea who you are. 

Eddie, for once, wishes he were the type of person who could say something reassuring in a dire moment. He is not a writer, nor a poet, but he wishes he could lend their power to say one thing right.

But the best he can do is tentatively say, “I didn’t mean to leave.”

“Yet, you did.”

“I had to,” Eddie pleads. “I’m sorry, Buck. I really am. I wish I could tell you why, but I…” he trails off. 

Buck doesn’t say anything. The tide keeps crashing and weaving back, but the sea is calm tonight. The moon reflects and shimmers in the water, rippling with every coursing wave. Eddie briefly wonders what’s ahead of this ocean, if someone far across the water is staring at the very same sight.

Eddie is not a poet. If he were, he could write about the moon and how it shines upon Buck’s face.

“I want to paint.”

Eddie whips his head up. He doesn’t know how long the silence stretched for. “What?”

“I want to paint,” Buck repeats. He is looking at the ocean. Eddie is looking at him. “If I were to create art, that is. I’ve always wanted to try.”

Eddie blinks. “You never did in the past three centuries?”

“Two. And no, I—I never saw the point in it.”

“How come?”

“It feels like a futile attempt to make myself seem more than I am.”

“And what are you?”

Buck momentarily meets Eddie’s eyes before turning away. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, I know what you’re not,” Eddie mumbles.

A huff of curiosity. “Yes?”

“A robber baron.”

Buck sputters a confused laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You’re rich, Buck, but you’re not one of them robber barons,” Eddie quotes from the past, and watches recognition dawn on Buck as his lips quirk up. “I think you and I both know life is much more than a flimsy piece of paper.”

Something crosses Buck’s face. He kneads the muscle of his neck, as if to bleed the tension out. “I remember you saying that,” he says softly.

Eddie’s brows lift. “Even after all time?”

“Of course. What you said changed my outlook on many, many things.”

 “Yet, you’re richer than the majority of the population.”

A weak chuckle. “I didn’t intend for that.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not a wealthy monster or anything.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah,” Eddie tells him. “You’re just Buck.”

Buck’s smile is genuine this time. It brightens his face far more than the moon or the sun can. “Just Buck,” he quotes. “I like that better than Mr. Buckley.”

“Me too,” Eddie comments. “You know, you should paint. I think you would suit it.”

“Why?”

“I can picture you painting.”

“Painting what exactly?”

Eddie smiles. “Anything you love.”

Buck hums. His once perfectly waxed hair is almost completely messed up. Eddie thinks he likes it better that way. 

They continue like that, conversing about random things, just as they did in Portland, while occasionally falling into silences that are no longer uncomfortable. It feels familiar. It fills the gaping ache that Eddie had felt when he thought he was never going to see Buck again. 

Buck, despite the wealth and materialistic success, is still the same. He tells Eddie about the places he visited over the past six decades, how he witnessed the growth of American society, and the people he met along the way. He tells him about being in New York when the Statue of Liberty was dedicated to the state, describing it as the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

In exchange, Eddie tells him about his childhood. He tells him stories of El Paso—omitting all modern details, of course—and he tells him about Christopher. He also mentions his split from Shannon, though he doesn’t specify in terms of “divorce.” In the span of minutes, hours, or days, or however long they sit on the beach, Eddie tells him more about himself than he did in the week of living with him. 

Buck doesn’t ask why Eddie disappeared, and Eddie doesn’t ask him about the curse. It’s not that he’s not curious—he has every reason to be, it’s a curse—but it feels like it’s built on mutual respect of not probing.

Regardless, Eddie can’t remember the last time he had this nice a time just talking to someone. To laugh with them shoulder to shoulder, to be able to call them a friend and sincerely mean it. Having a human connection, to genuinely connect with someone—God, he missed it. 

If Buck were to be in Eddie’s timeline, he thinks, they would become friends just as easily. 

It’s this particular thought that strikes him with sadness. There’s no way for Eddie to belong here forever, to be with Buck on this beach for eternity. He needs to go somewhere else, sometime else, and he will eventually return to his normal life, where he will yet again live alone and dwell in the solitude of everything. The only good thing would be to see Chris again. Fuck, Buck would get along with Chris; he just knows it from his soul. 

Whether it’s the sudden sentimentality or sadness, Eddie looks back at the mansion. “You don’t have to go back there?”

“I will soon,” is Buck’s reply. “But I can tell Joseph I was catching up with an old friend.”

Eddie smiles. “Who is this Joseph, anyway? Sounds like you’re real close with him.”

“A business partner, more like,” Buck says. He briefly glances at the mansion. “What he saw in me to trust me, I can’t tell you, but he is a smart man.”

“Must be pretty smart to have a house like that.”

“Well, it’s for him and his family. They used to come here for the summer, but they took quite a liking to Cape Cod.”

Oh. This is apparently Cape Cod. 

“It’s a nice place,” Eddie comments off-handedly.

Buck nods, casual. “Joseph has an eye for things. His sons, too. Maybe it runs in the family.”

“Joseph,” Eddie repeats. The name suddenly sounds somewhat familiar. He cards through the knowledge he stuffed into his head, and when it hits him, he straightens like he was shot with a bolt of lightning. “Buck,” he says. “Are you talking about Joseph Kennedy?”

Buck tilts his head, as if this isn’t groundbreaking information. “Do you know him?” 

“Joseph Kennedy,” Eddie gulps, and the horror doesn’t stop as his brain wrings out more historical memory. “Wait. Hold on. What year is this?” 

Buck looks at him like he’s gone insane, which is, well, fair enough. “1928.” 

Oh shit. Oh Jesus. 

Eddie whirls around and looks at the mansion. It’s becoming more visible from the sky, gradually brightening, the sun rising already. The gorgeous interior of the rooms flashes through his mind, and he sees people laughing, dancing, drinking, and rich gold scattered everywhere like a commodity. He glances at the vast land and swallows the dread. “Are you helping Joseph with the stocks?” he asks. 

“Some stocks, not all,” Buck says. “It’s a booming business, after all. The entirety of America has gone into a frenzy over the market.” 

Oh fuck.

From what Eddie remembers, the Great Depression is expected to hit in less than a year. The world will then go to shit, and—and—

The watch vibrates. 

Eddie jolts, actually jolts, and scrambles to his feet. He looks at the watch, then Buck. Buck stares back, eyes round and confused, and everything that makes Eddie’s heart ache. Yet, he proceeds to stand and take a slow step forward. He reaches out for Eddie and hesitantly puts a hand on his shoulder, and when Eddie doesn’t flinch away, he lays the full weight of his hand and gently squeezes his shoulder.

“Eddie,” Buck says. “Eddie, are you all right?”

Buck’s eyes are on him, and God, Eddie doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay here for just five more minutes, five more hours, five more days. He wants to talk to Buck until the sun rises and sinks all over again. In the early dawn, Buck’s baby blues are even more defined. 

He looks beautiful, Eddie realizes. Buck is beautiful. 

“Buck,” Eddie covers Buck’s hand on his shoulder with his own. Every rule given to him goes out the window as he gazes into Buck’s eyes. “Buck, listen to me. And listen to me very carefully.”

Buck stutters. “What are you—”

“Listen to me. You have to walk away from all this business stuff right now. Before it’s too late.” 

“Too late? What—“

“Something very, very bad is going to happen in a few months. You need to leave all of it, sell your stocks before it all comes crashing down.” Eddie stresses. “Do you understand? You have to leave, Buck.”

“What comes crashing down?” Buck asks, hushed.

“Everything,” Eddie says. 

The watch vibrates again. 

Buck looks the most concerned he’s ever seen him. “Eddie, what—”

“I don’t have time,” Eddie chokes out. “But you need to listen to me. You have to, Buck, do you understand?”

Buck sucks a shaky breath in. “Why don’t you have time?”

“I have to go. But I’ll find you again. I always do, don’t I?”

“Eddie,” Buck calls. 

“I’ll find you again. I promise I will.” Eddie says, and he takes a single step back, hand leaving Buck’s skin. 

When he disappears in the next second, Buck’s wide eyes are the last thing he sees.