Chapter Text
Francis Sinclair was in a tight jam. Which is really quite something, considering the events that had led up to the point. He was so sure he had everything down to the second. The symbols, the procedure. Everything should have brought him right back to where he had been.
Nineteen twenty-two.
He supposes he could be there. But it’s the where that’s got him all balled up. It’s the middle of the night, nothing but the stars above in the clear sky. The air is cold, not even considering the wind that cuts through his thin knitted sweater like it’s made of tissue paper. He’s also in the middle of a forest. Tall pines for as far as the eye can see, which isn’t that far, but it’s nowhere near the cabin. His cabin. His father’s cabin, where this whole mess had started.
He hears a scuffle and turns toward the sound. It could be anything. Bears, wolves, bandits. No matter what year it is, he’s in danger, or is about to be. His eyes are adjusting to the dark, and he can see a dirt path. Wide enough for a car, or a wagon, he figures. He can’t really tell in the dark if there are tire treads.
He hears another noise. The huff of a breath. Scrabbling against the stone.
A wolf’s howl.
It’s one, and then it’s two, and then six wolves are taking careful steps into his periphery. He shouts, turning and running in the opposite direction. His shoes slip on the mud as he sprints as fast as he can. He spots a tree with a branch low enough to haul himself up onto. The hounds are on his heels, and he puts everything he has into jumping up onto the branch. He smacks into it at the center of his torso and scrambles his legs up. He climbs as quick as he can, putting several more feet between him and the creatures snapping at his ankles.
“Scram!” Francis shouts, waving with his hand. “Beat it! Find someone else to be your meal ticket!”
The wolves don’t seem too convinced. Francis’ foot slips on the branch. He manages to grab another to steady himself, the rough wood cutting into his hands. It’s only a matter of time before he loses his grip and he’s a goner.
“Help!” He calls. “Please!” For all he knows this path hasn’t been used in years, and he’s shouting in vain. Of all the ways to die, he never expected this.
The sound of hoofbeats startles him, and he almost slips again. There’s a rider on the trail, headed his way. The stranger pulls out a handgun and fires a few shots at the feet of the wolves. The turn and growl, not wanting to give up their meal so easily. He rides right up to the tree, the wolves scattering around the mount as it kicks out at them. The man riding seems to stay on without any problem, turning in the saddle to aim his pistol at any strays that still hang around. They seem to be backing off, the kill becoming more trouble than it’s worth. They disappear into the woods, leaving the two behind.
“You okay?” the stranger asks. Francis realizes he’s shaking where he’s holding onto the tree.
“Right as rain,” he replies. His shoes slip on the bark again, and he makes a little yelp.
“Should prolly get down,” the stranger mentions. Francis realizes that the man’s waiting for him and begins to descend.
“As soon as I’m able,” Francis says slowly. He gets to the last branch and drops to the ground, feeling rather relieved about landing on two feet. “There,” he comments, brushing off his hands. He looks up at the man who had saved him. Long dark hair, maybe a moustache. It’s hard to tell in the night. “I suppose I’m not in any position to ask for a favor, but if I could ask for a moment more of your time…” he pauses for a response. The man says nothing, just watching with dark eyes. “Could you give me a ride into town? I think I’ve gotten myself a little turned around.”
The man says nothing yet again, and Francis wonders if he should mention that he doesn’t have any money on him.
“Hop on,” the stranger says, stowing his weapon and offering a hand. Francis takes it gently as the man pulls hard, hauling him up onto the back of his horse like he weighs nothing. Francis scrambles for balance, tentatively putting his hands on the man’s waist. As soon as he’s settled the stranger clucks his tongue, his horse moving to a trot.
Francis shivers in the cold, fighting the urge to bury his face in the man’s back. But at least he’s moving, at least he’s not getting eaten by wolves. And his savior doesn’t seem to want to harm him. At least, for now.
“Thank you,” he blurts. “For that business back there. I owe you.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” the man replies.
“I can usually hold my own,” Francis doesn’t really know why he’s still talking. “I’m a boxer, you see. Nothing to write home about. Just a hobby. But typically my opponents don’t have so many claws.”
Francis catches him looking back at him, and their eyes meet briefly.
“Sorry, manners,” Francis adds. “Francis Sinclair.”
“Jack Marston,” the stranger replies.
“Jack Marston,” Francis repeats. “Happy to meet your acquaintance.”
Jack smirks, looking back towards the road.
“You don’t happen to know the date, do you Jack?” Francis asks after a beat, remembering the more pertinent issue now that his life wasn’t at risk.
“May,” Jack pauses. “Eleventh, I think.”
“And the year?” Francis asks. Jack glances back at him.
“How’d you end up out here again?” Jack asks skeptically.
“Just got a little turned around,” Francis repeats quickly, his heart stuttering.
“Awful far from town to get lost,” Jack points out.
“Perhaps got quite a bit turned around,” Francis mutters, avoiding his gaze. Jack doesn’t press further.
“It’s nineteen twenty-two,” Jack supplies. Francis lets out a deep breath. So it had worked. He was home, after all this time.
They pass by a lake, smooth as a mirror and reflecting the starry sky above.
“Oh!” Francis sits up straighter. “Is this Owanjila?”
“Yessir,” Jack replies.
“My cabin is nearby,” Francis explains. “I don’t suppose you could take me there instead?”
“Any other requests?” Jack asks.
“I don’t mean to give you a pain,” Francis begins. “Town is perfect, I’ll-”
“Just a joke,” Jack interrupts. “It’s fine.”
Francis guides Jack for the last bit of the trail, eventually to where the cabin sits just off of the main path into Strawberry. The cabin just looks like he left it, or at least when he had left it last time in this year. It really must have been no time at all.
“Thanks again,” Francis nods. Jack says nothing. “I don’t have much to chip in, but I could offer a bit o’ hooch? If you’re the kind.”
Jack seems to chuckle a bit to himself before he nods.
“Sure,” Jack agrees. A stray thought wonders if Francis had survived the wolves only to invite one into his home, but he brushes it off. He doesn’t have much to steal, and if the man wanted to kill him he would’ve already done it.
Inside, everything looks to be in the right place, nobody had looted or broken anything. The mural of collected sketches, his rambling notes, everything that had led him to his predicament in the first place is stashed away. He goes to the kitchen table and lights a lantern, flooding the room with light.
Francis turns around and his breath catches. Jack is handsome. A well defined face, covered in freckles and framed by dark hair. Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a trim waist. He’s also tall, looming over Francis in a way that’s less about his height and more about the way he carries himself. His expression is serious, but it also holds something else. Mischief, danger.
Jack raises his eyebrows, and Francis realizes he’s been staring.
“Sorry,” Jack ducks his head beneath the brim of his hat. “ ‘s prolly rude.” Why is he apologizing? It takes a few moments for Francis to understand.
“Nothing to worry, sport,” Francis replies. “Just a flush of the skin.” He gestures a bit to his birthmark. When Jack looks up Francis notices his face looks flushed in a different sort of way. Francis’ stomach does a little flip. He turns away, rifling through his cupboards. There’s a loose board in the back, and he fiddles with it until it gives, revealing his hidden stash. He pulls the bottle of wine from its hiding place, letting the board fall back into place before turning and showing it to Jack.
“Eighteen ninety-nine,” Francis declares. “Quite the year.”
“You old enough to know?” Jack asks, quirking an eyebrow. Francis feels his face heat.
“Just about,” Francis defends. Jack smiles, kind of lopsided in a way that makes Francis’ head feel a little light. He grabs a couple of mason jars and opens the bottle, pouring each of them a glass before gesturing to the kitchen table.
He feels like they should toast. After all, he did manage to make it back to his own time, not to mention not immediately getting eaten. Francis raises his glass, wine scarlet red in the lamplight.
“To serendipity,” Francis declares. Jack’s lip twitches into a smile, and he clinks their glasses together. Jack watches him while he drinks, Francis feeling like he’s being hunted, somehow.
“You talk kind of odd,” Jack mentions, after they’ve finished their first glasses.
“Do I?” Francis replies as he refills their drinks. “I spent some time out in the City. New York, I mean. Schooling and all that jazz. Had to come home when my mother fell ill.” He takes a swig of his wine. Bitter with tannins, it makes his mouth dry. He knows he’s got stronger stuff in his hideaway, and he thirsts for it. “She’s passed on now.”
Jack hums into his glass.
“Nevermind me,” Francis smiles. “What about you? Live nearby?”
Jack fiddles with the edge of the table, not meeting Francis’ eyes.
“Somewhere around Great Plains,” Jack says, sounding like an admission of sorts.
“A farmer, then?” Francis asks. Jack flicks his eyes up to Francis and smirks.
“Something like that,” Jack says.
Francis was right, he had invited a wolf into his home. But the question now is what he wanted to do about it. There’s something about him that’s achingly familiar. Like he belongs to a different time. Francis always felt a bit of that every time he visited home. West Elizabeth was always stuck in the past, in some sort of way. But Jack has a kind of nostalgia to him that’s intriguing in its own right, with looks that keep Francis wanting more when he should just let the man go on his way.
They finish the bottle easily, mostly with Francis talking, Jack asking questions here and there. He has an intense stare, one that keeps Francis feeling like he needs to explain himself, like he has to sate Jack’s curiosity. When they’re done Francis pulls out a bottle of moonshine, and that goes down just as easily.
It’s nice, getting to just talk. Not having to deal with the consequences of his actions, navigate society, pass an exam, or rub shoulders with the elites. Jack’s on the quieter side but he’s attentive, and he’s smarter than Francis first thought.
He has no idea what time it is. His wristwatch is in desperate need of a wind, and the darkness outside doesn’t give him any idea what hour it might be.
“I shouldn’t keep you much longer,” Francis admits as he stands to put the bottle of moonshine back into the cubby. He stumbles into the counter behind him.
Oh, he is utterly jazzed. He turns around, trying to save face while he puts the bottle back. It catches on the lip of the cabinet, and it slips from his grip. He fumbles to grab it, but in a flash Jack’s hand appears in his vision, snatching the bottle out of the air. Francis realizes just how close the other man must be, bracketing him up against the countertop as Jack reaches over him to set the bottle inside the hiding place. Jack shuts the board and takes a step back, just enough so that Francis can turn and face him.
“You’re a fascinating man, Francis Sinclair,” Jack says as he reaches up to brush the backs of his knuckles against Francis’ cheek, right where his birthmark lies. Jack’s eyes are calculating, like he’s trying to figure something out about him. His raven locks hang on his shoulders, and Francis wonders if Jack’s hair is as soft as it looks.
“I’m rather more run-of-the-mill, I’m afraid,” Francis admits. Jack retracts his hand, and Francis feels like he can breathe again.
“Run-of-the-mill or not,” Jack returns. “You’re interestin’.” He pauses for a moment, something hanging in the air between them. “You ever been to Great Plains?”
“Not in some time,” Francis replies, unsure where the question is leading.
“If New York can spare you, I could show you around,” Jack offers. Francis desperately hopes Jack can’t hear how fast his heart is racing.
“I could find the time,” Francis is grateful he gets the sentence out without stuttering. Jack smiles.
“I got a room in Strawberry tonight,” Jack mentions. “But I can come around tomorrow.”
“Alright,” Francis agrees. Jack takes a step back, and Francis uses all his willpower to keep from swaying into the empty space.
“See you then,” Jack confirms. With that he turns and leaves, the door shutting solidly behind him, leaving Francis clutching the countertop behind him and trying not to crumple at the knees.