Chapter Text

1989

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Hob glanced at his watch for the tenth time in the last hour and saw the clock turn to two past midnight. 

The pub was still somewhat full, but people had slowly trickled off as time passed by.

He had spent the entire day watching people come and go. With plenty of time to kill, he took to people watching as he waited. He saw and noticed plenty, ranging from the ones that stuck to themselves to the overly social butterflies. People have walked in alone, with a well-put outfit, clearly looking for a good time, and have left with their much-wanted company, others have walked in with a sour and gloomy look to their faces, wanting nothing more than to drink and be left to their own devices. Some of them got their wish, others were struck with impromptu company of a friendly stranger, trying to check in.

Then, there were the ones who would show up in a group, all loud and boisterous, taking up space and attention, having a good time and not afraid to show it. Some of those groups left just like they came, others, Hob noticed, had trickled as the time passed, some of them finding new company for the night, bidding their friends a cheeky goodnight.

The pub brimmed with life and chatter surrounding him while he sat and waited.

Ah, the chaos and excitement of youth.

Hob didn’t care how all these people in the pub spanned from early twenties to around their late seventies, in his eyes they were all so young.

Hob had been there since noon, despite knowing his plans would not start until later. He made sure to arrive there extra early, as he did not want to miss his centennial appointment.

One drink had turned into two, then turned into seven. The waitress had tried to take the extra seat at his table twice already, and he had already crossed the threshold where the pity looks were getting harder and harder to ignore. He spent the entire time glancing between his clock, the door, and swirling his drink, willing the empty pit in his stomach to go away. 

But it was time to face the facts. His Stranger was not coming. 

He should have known, after their last meeting, that he would not come; but for the last a hundred years he had been holding on to the hope that he had been right, that despite having said too much, he had spoken the truth. 

He had been so sure they were friends. 

Hob had told his Stranger as such that night, exactly a century ago. He remembered vividly back when he had started speaking, the way his Stranger’s face scowled and became closed off. He should have stopped then; he should have apologized and cut his losses. Perhaps then, he would have been able to salvage his oldest connection, one that has kept him going for 600 years. 

He, not for the first time, cursed at his past self and the too vivid memory.

Perhaps, if he had held his tongue, he would not be sitting on his own at their pub a hundred years later. Perhaps, if he had waited to confront him about it, his Stranger would have accepted it someday. 

He was aware that he knew very little of his Stranger, but despite it, he still had gathered a few things from the things that he did not say nor do.

So, in a way, Hob knew quite a few things about him. 

His Stranger did not talk about himself. Not ever. Not with all the prying he had tried to do in all their meetings, and certainly not unprompted. He held himself with an air of importance, of regality, always immaculately dressed. He did not like to be rudely interrupted and did not care he was threatened, as seen with Lady Constantine two hundred years ago. He was sure enough, or even powerful enough, that a knife could not hurt him, yet came to his aid when Lady Constantine threatened him. 

Most importantly, he knew his Stranger cared. Despite him trying an awful lot to pretend otherwise. He had an inkling about it in 1689; the first time he saw his Stranger help him out. He had been at his lowest, starved and in nothing but old, stinky rags, suffering for 80 years, and yet, his Stranger did not see him differently, not once. He had gotten him food, water, and later on, a coat. He had not needed to do any of that, and he certainly had not done it out of pity. He just did.

They had continued their scheduled centenary conversation as every other afterwards, as if nothing was amiss. 

Hob smiled nostalgically as he remembered the way his Stranger had stared at him in confusion and amazement when he had told him that he still wanted to live. Hob thought that maybe he might be remembering wrong, but he swore that he had seen a flare of disappointment, or perhaps even fear in his eyes, when he had asked him if he still wished to live. He remembered how it turned to something akin to hope in his eyes when Hob had answered that he wanted to continue to live. 

Hob prided himself in being able to read his Stranger. For someone who barely twitched or moved a single muscle, and refused to reveal anything to his face, his eyes were always a complete giveaway. They were always full of emotion. 

He also knew that his Stranger valued life, and no matter how much he separated himself from humans— Hob was very sure that the man was not human—, he valued them. He felt a pang of regret and shame as he thought back to 1789; how he had been blinded by the times, by being complacent by what everyone did, when he delved into the trade business. That had been the only time he knew his Stranger had looked at him coldly and lowly. He had been right to. 

His Stranger had given him advice and made him see sense. Hob knew he had been trying to right his wrongs ever since then. 

He learned to read his Stranger, and he thought he had learned it well, perhaps that was where his false confidence had come from on their last meeting. 

He remembered the cold fury and shock. 

‘You dare?”

He had dared. He dared to call him a friend, dared to tell him he knew he was lonely. It was obvious really, he had seen the expression on his Stranger many times in the mirror on himself. That had been his fatal mistake. And even worse so, he simply could not leave well enough alone, could he? 

Hob fought the urge to smack his face against the table. He knew he looked pathetic enough without it. Why did he even do that? Why did he have to add fuel to the fire and go after him? Walking in the rain and loudly continuing his point, declaring that they were friends, that he would be back because of it and no other reason? His Stranger had been appalled by their conversation without other people overhearing, the fact he yelled from the streets must have been the final nail in the coffin. 

Hob downed the last bit of his whisky and stared at the bottom of the empty glass as if it somehow had the answers he was looking for, but of course, it did not. Seemed he had to face the music; his Stranger was not going to show up.

Something within him believed that there had to be a reason for his absence, that there was an alternate explanation. But logic told him otherwise. 

His Stranger did not consider them friends, or even close enough to even deem him a proper goodbye. Instead, he got stood up. The one he had considered his closest and oldest friend left him with no more half a thought than a footnote. 

Funny how he could love someone so much, while not being more than an unfortunate afterthought in his Stranger’s mind. 

As much as he hated it, it seemed it was time to move on. He could do this. He had to. If he braved the 1600’s, he could do anything, including continuing his immortal life without his one constant. It did not matter how during the worst times of his life, he had the hope of seeing his Stranger, the hope of knowing that there was that one thing for certain, no matter what. It did not matter that when his wife and son died, when he had never felt more grief and despair, he chose to continue to live and ignored the thoughts of how it was time to move on, to finally die. All because at least he had something, someone, to look forward to. 

It didn't matter, because now he was, perhaps for the first time in 600 years, actually and totally alone.

It did not matter. Hob would just have to keep telling himself that, and maybe one day, he would believe it.

And well, there was no point crying over spilt milk. Yet, no matter how much logic told him otherwise, he could not entirely squash the flicker of hope that continued burning inside him with the thought that perhaps, in a hundred year’s time, he would see his Stranger again. 

He would just have to live through the next century at his fullest, in case his Stranger showed up again. That way, he would have the best stories to tell. 

Mind made up, he stood up, waiting a few seconds for his surroundings to stop moving too much. He might have drunk more than he should, but not enough that he was too drunk. Some fresh air might be a good idea sooner than later though. But, not quite yet, so, he walked to the bar, ordered one more drink, and decided that it was his last one for the night. He watched dejectedly as the bartender poured the amber liquid into his cup. 

Then everything, if possible, took a turn for the worse. 

He and his big mouth just had to talk to the bartender, had to splutter his heart out and make a joke about being here in a hundred year’s time, and of course, he had to find out, on the worst day, that the bar he had been frequenting for 600 years was being shut down and demolished to make new apartments. 

Just was his luck.

Two constants in his life, the pub and his Stranger, both intertwined with the other, and both lost the same day. Or perhaps one had been lost for longer than that and he simply had not been aware. He had not wanted to be. 

There and then something within him snapped. 

The truth hit him at once. There was no guarantee his Stranger would be back, even if his Stranger returned in 100 years, there wouldn't be a pub to meet at, and it was not like there was another meeting point that they could go to. There was no way to contact him. 

He needed to do something about it. Standing there feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t fix anything. 

He needed to see his Stranger again. Even just so he could get answers, to know that he was alright. Once he found out the truth, he could, possibly, maybe, move on. 

He decided right there and then, he was going to track his Stranger down. If only for one last, proper goodbye.