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The booth is hot with so many bodies squeezed into it, and it stinks of sweat and stale breath. Billy's face is right in someone's armpit, but that's not what's keeping him from breathing.
It's almost over.
It's a joke, really. He ought to be laughing. It's been, what, all of one day? He's not rightly sure; it's hard to keep track of time when you're bouncing around it. But it can't be much longer than that, and none of these folks are the type he'd normally be seen associating with. He should be glad to be going home, where everything makes sense and there's nothing that can't be solved with a pistol or a bottle of cheap whisky. But he could drown himself in liquor the moment he got back and it still wouldn't wash away the sick feeling in his stomach.
It's almost over. And Billy can't bear it ending.
The booth rocks as it lands somewhere, somewhen, and everyone bursts out like pellets from a gun as soon as the door opens, stumbling onto the cobbles of a Viennese street. The air is crisp and the others breathe deeply, but not Billy.
"So long, Frood, dude," Bill says to the fussy little Austrian geek. "Thanks for your most interesting analysis of Ted's neuroses."
The others are all lining up to say their goodbyes to Sigmund. Billy takes the opportunity to sidle closer to Socrates. The old man smiles at him, his eyes shining with joy at all the wonders they've seen. Billy clears his throat, but he doesn't know how to begin. What can he say that would adequately cover everything they've been through, and would Socrates even understand a word of it? It's already too late because they're being shoved back into the booth ready to move on.
This time he's squashed right up against Socrates, his head on the old man's shoulder like he's resting on a lover. The warmth against his cheek is a bittersweet comfort and Billy holds himself tense, afraid to relax into it. They're going home, after all, and then they'll never see each other again. No sense in getting any closer than they have to by this point.
The next stop is Washington to drop off Abe, the one man in this bunch that Billy ought to care about since they're almost contemporaries. They could probably have found some things in common if they'd tried, but Billy just couldn't bring himself to make chit-chat with an authority figure. He won't kid himself that Abe wouldn't be happy to see him hang for his crimes.
"Okay, Mr The Kid," Ted says as they pile back into the booth from the Oval Office, "we'll take you back next. Since we're in the neighbourhood already."
The words are like a bullet to the chest, tearing through Billy's heart. He stares, open-mouthed, jaw working up and down before he finally forces the words out. "Actually," he croaks past the sudden dryness in his throat, "would you mind leaving me till last? I'm, uh..." He can't help looking over at Socrates but of course the old man has no idea what's being said. "I'm just... enjoying the ride, you know? I'd like for it to last as long as possible."
Ted shrugs, amiable as ever. "No problem, Billy the Kid." He punches a number into the keypad and the booth takes off again.
Billy knows it's only a temporary reprieve, but maybe it will be enough. They're working their way roughly backwards through the circuits of time, so maybe by the time they make it to Ancient Greece he'll have figured out how to say goodbye.
He's never exactly been good with words, but that shouldn't matter here. Socrates doesn't speak English, and he sure as hell doesn't know any Ancient Greek. Somehow up until now they've managed to communicate just fine through gestures and mime. He didn't expect to like the old man so much, hadn't meant to become friends with anyone who thought a bedsheet was appropriate attire for every day, but what could you do when you were left in medieval England with only each other for company? First it was just about passing the time and making sure Socrates didn't wander off and get lost. But there was something infectious about the wonder and joy he greeted everything with, and by the time they were passing themselves off as executioners to save the others Billy knew they were buddies for life. He just hadn't thought about how it was bound to end.
The booth is almost empty now. Billy's been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he's barely noticed the others taking their leave, but suddenly there's only him and Socrates left to drop off.
Ancient Greece is hot, and maybe that's why Billy's chest feels so tight. Socrates looks small, an old man standing alone at the edge of Athens, and now Billy is out of time and he still doesn't know how to say everything he wants to. He just stands and stares, trying to memories every line on Socrates' face.
'Billy," says Socrates with a trace of a smile on his lips, and then he says something hesitant in Greek. Billy doesn't understand the words, of course, but he can guess at the meaning from the tone and the way it seems to mirror his own feelings.
"So-crates." Billy almost chokes on the word, and then he's surging forward and pulling the old man into a tight embrace. "Never gonna forget you, dude," he whispers. His eyes are stinging and he screws them tightly closed, trying to keep everything in. "Never. I promise you."
He's squeezing Socrates tightly but Socrates is crushing him right back. Everything they can't say to each other in words is in this embrace, and Billy doesn't want it to ever end. It's not like Bill and Ted have a deadline for getting back home, not when they have a time machine. So how can it matter if he stays here a little while longer?
They hold each other for what feels like forever, but it's still over too soon. He can feel Bill and Ted shuffling uncomfortably behind him as he finally lets Socrates go, but he doesn't care. "Goodbye," he says, barely above a whisper, and then he can't bear it any longer so he turns away and strides back into the booth. He keeps his gaze fixed on his boots, even after the door closes and the booth sets off to take him home.
Bill and Ted don't say anything while they're travelling, and that's good because Billy can feel something building inside him and he's afraid it'll come bursting out everywhere at the slightest provocation. By the time the booth lands back home he's fizzing with energy, all the weight of his goodbyes burning up inside him until he can hardly keep still.
"Here we are, Mr The Kid," Bill says, opening the door of the booth. "Ted and I are most grateful for all the help with our history report, but now we must say goodbye and return the booth to Rufus like we agreed."
"No." Billy's not sure what he's doing, and he's damn sure he doesn't have a plan, but his gun is in his hand and he's pointing it at Bill and Ted. He doesn't want to hurt them, not after everything they've done together, but he's not getting out of the booth.
"This is most unprecedented." Bill's hands are up and Ted's follow soon after.
"Are you going to leave us here?" Ted asks.
"Stranded in history?" Bill moans. "Bogus."
He could do it. He could force them out of the booth and leave them here. If he tells himself he'll be back later to pick them up then he might not even feel bad about it.
"No," he sighs, though he doesn't lower the gun. "I'll take you back to San Dimas. But then you let me take the booth. Deal?"
They look at the gun, and then at each other, and then back at the gun. "Deal."
–
Socrates sits in the agora, looking around the same old familiar sights, and sighs. Such wonders he's seen! So many glimpses of worlds he could never have imagined. So many colours, smells, textures. The assault on his senses was overwhelming, a never-ending rush of new experiences. Being back in Athens should be a comfort, but inside he just feels flat, empty inside. It's as though everything around him is just shadows, and now he's seen the real objects in the firelight he can't go back and be content with silhouettes.
He misses it all. Misses the adventure, the wonder, the company with their strange clothes and unfamiliar ways. And most of all, he knows, he misses Billy.
That young man, out of all of them, is the one he'll remember. Perhaps it was only kindness to an elder, but Billy was always the one reaching out, trying to include him and dragging him into escapades. Without Billy he wouldn't have seen or done half as much as he did. And now he's gone back home, wherever that may be, and they'll never see each other again.
He's fiddling with his chiton, worrying the hem of it with his fingertips and dreaming of trousers and long brown dusters, when he hears a faint and familiar sound in the distance. No one else pays it any attention but they all stare as he sprints away, sandals flapping in the dust.
It can't be real. He has to have imagined it. But he's not going to let the possibility slip past without grabbing at it, just in case.
He slides around a corner and there it is, tall and square and looking like it never left. Except the boys who owned it aren't there. There's only one person in the booth, his hat pulled down over his eyes but a smile on his lips. He lifts his head and the smile gets wider.
"So-crates," Billy says, and Socrates is so overjoyed to see him that he doesn't correct the pronunciation. Billy can call him anything he wishes. He says something more, and while Socrates doesn't understand the words there's no mistaking the outstretched hand. Socrates clasps it warmly and enters the booth.
"Where should we go first?" Billy asks, leafing through the collected parchments of the 'directory'.
Socrates just smiles, waiting for Billy to make his meaning clear.
"Eureka," says Billy with a wink, pointing to a page. He punches in the numbers, and they're on their way.