Chapter Text
The human city is nothing like he remembers. Sleek and futuristic, with hoverbikes, robots and humans in funky outfits. It’s a stark contrast to the 20th century and its citizens plagued by the anxiety of World War 3. He sighs, carding fingers through his wavy grey hair in exasperation.
The world has changed . Drastically , in the 1000 or so years he has been asleep.
He remembers the sudden chill that overtook his aching body, freezing him into stasis in the underground chambers of the vampire’s castle. Waking up about a month ago to find himself in the future, in Ooo, had taken a lot of adjustment, if he could even call himself well-adjusted. Still, his mind and body retained fresh memories and instincts of surviving the Mushroom War’s wastelands.
Surely, adjusting to the 30th century would be no issue?
Fumbling with his red scarf and heavy bag of supplies, he scans the map drawn with ketchup by a helpful talking dog he had met. Apparently, dogs could talk now. On it were directions to the only person who could help him—
Dr Simon Petrikov.
—-
The exhibit had been his idea, one sad old man’s attempt to connect with present-day society by educating them about his era. The crying Fionna and Cake fan, barking dog, and crowd witnessing his oncoming panic attack had not been a part of the plan.
“Please leave!” He yells, darting into his bathroom to freak out in privacy.
“Dr Petrikov!”
Simon turns, anger threatening to boil over, ignoring the audience who looked at him like he was an exotic animal. It was what he was, after all, trapped in a universe he couldn’t relate to. After being turned insane for a millennium. After losing all that he knew. After losing his fiance to an eldritch god, all to save his sorry butt.
“Doors down!”
Screaming in frustration as he clawed at his face, Simon slid onto the too-cold tiles with an air of defeat. After several not-so-calming breaths, he pulls himself together to leave, opening the closet of skeletons, literal and metaphorical. He picks up the Golb statuette, eyeing its four beady eyes and withholding the flinch from remembering GolBetty’s cold stare before she left him forever.
“Betty… Why?” He says aloud. Looking around the small space filled to the brim with various magical artefacts, Simon sighed wearily. “Why save me, and leave me here?”
A question he has been asking for more than a decade.
“I have to try, right? For you?” Simon shuts his eyes, whispering to himself, heart torn between grief, longing and exhaustion.
“You’re going to be Ice King until the sun blows up.” Death had told him.
“If I don’t let her try, then what am I, what am us?” Simon had replied, Betty none the wiser about his conversation with the entity.
After the curse had been lifted, he had dug up every possession of hers. Every note, every journal, every line of madness and sadness. Simon had thought he had cried enough, until he read in heartbreaking detail how his fiance became insane for his sake. Betty’s handwriting had devolved into a mad scrawl until she stopped writing completely. It was alike his own journal during the apocalypse when he sacrificed himself for Marceline.
‘I will save Simon no matter what it takes.’
Her devotion to him made him nauseous. She was his whole world, as was him to her.
And it was exhausting.
“What do I do, Betty?” Simon wept, curling onto the floor of the altar, like a devout worshipper to a god he didn’t even believe in.
—-
Twelve years of lucid grief, and a millennium of insanity, Simon found himself at Dirt Beer Guy’s bar with a disgusting drink and fracturing integrity.
“ Everything’s fine. Just fine.” It was true, wasn’t it? He was holding up well enough for a guy with a life this messed up. A fugue state? Hah. Though that took up much of his lifetime, it was only a metaphorical fraction of his issues, parts of his life even Betty didn’t know.
Betty…
What kind of loser got angry-sad at their partner for sacrificing themselves for himself?
One that was better off dead.
His self-loathing burned at the back of his throat, guilt weighing heavily at the pit of his stomach. Finn’s suggestion about being brought to the edge of death barely registered, as Simon waved for Dirt Beer Guy to refill his drink.
“No Finn, I don’t want to go on an expedition with you—” I want to die .
“Dr Petrikov?”
His stream of negative thoughts was broken by the new voice. For one, he wasn’t drunk enough for his awareness to be hindered. For another, most people in Ooo didn’t acknowledge 20th-century pHDs and titles.
Simon was Simon to most, even though some still saw him as Ice King.
Better to not go down the line of thought of which version of Simon everyone preferred.
“Dr Simon Petrikov, correct? The antiquarian of pre-Mushroom War era mythos and expert on the 20th century?” The stranger’s smile was kind behind his nerdy moustache, eyes alight with a rare enthusiasm to meet Simon. It was strange, to be met with such excitement and still be seen as himself. It almost reminded him of how he and Betty had met after his lecture. “I’ve been searching for you for weeks!”
The man cupped his hands around Simon’s, shaking it firmly. He was close enough for Simon to see the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes, behind white and round glasses similar to his own. He was dressed too warmly for the weather— a thick red scarf covering his neck, along with a moss green cardigan that was hugged by a backpack filled to the brim with supplies. For a human in Up-Ton, he was dressed… suspiciously old-fashioned.
“...yes?” Simon finds his words eventually. “Can I help you?”
“It’s a relief to finally meet you.” The man breathed deeply, calming himself. “I’m sorry for barging in on your conversation, but…”
The man evades his gaze, looking at the ground with an expression that Simon recognised in himself— lost. Simon felt his lips downturn in a frown, thinking it didn’t suit him.
“...I need your help.”
With that, Simon found a new purpose to cling to, if only to delay the skeletons in his closet.