Outta Time Chapter 36: The First Encounter, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 36, everybody! In which I explore what happens when you meet someone whom you've met in the past but not until the future….

Next chapter will be the last chapter of this story—thank you all for sticking with it, and I hope you enjoyed it despite the multitude of delays. *~*

Another new school year. Another six months of cooking up new ways to torture Strickland and the new kids. Ah, he loved tenure.

After marching in and giving his usual you're doomed speech as he wrote on the board, he turned to face the class—

And stopped dead.

The kid seated front-row-center—

He knew that hair.

"Hey, down in front!" he snapped. "Eyes up here!"

The kid looked up, startled—

No mistaking that face either—the kid in the time machine, Wilson.

That was him.

He kick-started his brain before anything could be made of the recognition. "Now that I have your undivided attention," Maxwell snarled, mind racing as he sketched out the rest of the lesson.

Wait until Charlie heard about this.

The first opportunity he had to call home was lunchtime, at which point he rapidly dialed the number.

"Carter residence," Charlie chirped into the phone.

"Charlie," Maxwell said, trying to keep his voice calm and even. "You will not believe who I saw today—"

"Burt Reynolds?"

"No," Maxwell said tetchily. "What is it with you and that guy?"

"While we're on the subject, how's getting me a Trans Am coming?"

"Forget the stupid car—and if I recall, I was the one who wanted a Trans Am."

"Excuses. Now what were you going to say?"

"I've decided to keep it a secret."

"Max…."

"Front-row-center in my class today—very familiar face today. You remember back in '55, Will-son, the car, the time machine—"

There was a tremendous crash on the other end of the phone.

"Charlie? Charlie!" Maxwell yelled, once he returned the receiver to his ear.

"Sorry—sorry," she stammered, back on the line and sounding shaken. "Sorry—I dropped the phone."

"Oh, is that what that was?"

"And a pan or two. Max—you know what you have to do, right?"

"Yeah," Maxwell muttered, rubbing his face. "Stable time-loop and all that." The only question was how.

"You should invite him to dinner," Charlie said, hitting upon her own solution.

"I can't do that," Maxwell said. "He might get the impression I like him."

"If memory serves, you did."

"It'd ruin my reputation as a terrible teacher."

"I told you to play nice with the other kids."

"It's embarrassing."

"That's not my problem."

"You don't play fair."

"I know. Now go invite him to dinner."

Joy.

Maxwell left his office, stalking through the halls with a briefcase and a certain look that he had long-practiced and that struck fear into the hearts of the populace. Mostly because right now he'd really love to visit some pain on people.

He found the kid walking down the hall, nose in a book with the exceptions of when he was getting a boot to the behind.

"Ha ha, that's very funny!" the kid spat finally, spinning around to yell at his tormentors—Maxwell rolled his eyes at the Kick me sign taped to his back.

"Yes, see?" the kid continued, thinking the others were shrinking back from the confrontation—well, they were, just not because of the kid. "You should all feel ashamed of yourselves!"

"You should," Maxwell agreed, ripping the sign off the kid's back and holding it up for perusal. "This is the best college students can aspire to? It gives me a dim view of the future."

The other kids tore off, leaving Wilson to leap in alarm at Maxwell before glaring in open-mouth dejection at the sign.

"Making friends, I see," Maxwell observed, as the kid took the sign from him.

"Not hardly," the kid growled, ripping the sign to tiny shreds.

"Uh-huh. Ever think about just punching them and getting it over with?"

"That's a very coarse way of approaching things."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't question my logic."

"I'm sorry, who's the student here?"

"What is this?" Strickland demanded, coming down the hall. "I hear you've been torturing the students again, Carter."

"No more than usual," Maxwell replied blithely.

"I'm sure. Higgsbury!" Strickland snapped at the kid. "I've been getting complaints about you from your dormmates!"

"What?" the kid yelped, holding a book up to protect himself. "What did I do?"

"You existed," Maxwell interjected. "Strickland, I know you're winding up for an out-of-the park pitch, but I do have to go. Come on, useless."

Biff Tannen looked up, put his mop in his bucket, and started to follow.

Maxwell wagged a finger at him. "Not you," he chided, grabbing the kid by the scruff of the neck.

"Wha-me?" the kid squeaked.

"Where do you think you're going?" Strickland asked.

"Oh, you see, my wife likes me to take students home for dinner," Maxwell explained. "And I figure this kid fits into the pot nicely. Ta!"

The kid's stammering gave him some hope.

Maybe he could pull this off and still keep his reputation and the space-time continuum intact.

It was with a small amount of trepidation that he drove the kid home.

He had to admit, there was some weirdness there—the kid probably figured it was because he was technically a professor while the kid was a student. Inviting students to dinner—especially ones that had just met—was technically not done.

Mental calculation—another seven years before he could say anything.

Because how could he explain to the kid that they had met twenty-three years earlier?

Thank goodness he had called Charlie earlier, he decided as he pulled into the driveway—there she was, bouncing at the porch railing in the growing twilight.

As he stepped out of the car and watched her run over, he reflected he'd never get tired of seeing her. Ever.

Charlie, meanwhile, seemed to have to restrain herself to keep from hugging the kid, instead settling for shaking both his hands once he exited the car.

"You must be Wilson," she bubbled. "Max said you were coming."

"Uh," the kid noised—he wondered if it had occurred to him that Maxwell did indeed have a name beyond Professor Carter.

Charlie, meanwhile, had let go and run around to leap onto Maxwell, seizing him in a hug and whispering excitedly in his ear. "It's him! It's really him!"

"I recall saying that," Maxwell returned in muted fashion, returning the hug.

In short order, she was buzzing around again, dragging them both up the steps and into the dining room, shoving them down in their respective seats and chattering away happily—thank goodness she had had a few hours to compose herself, otherwise she might have exploded.

"So Wilson," she noised after finally taking a deep breath, knocking her knuckles together. "How do you like campus life? How's your dorm?"

"I…uh…dislike it immensely," he said, poking at a pirogue. Maxwell was focusing on his own dish in lieu of participating in the awkwardness and wondering how the kid felt about having his favorite foods served by people he had never met. "I'm sleeping in the stairwell, actually…."

"What? Why?"

"My roommate said he'd break me in half if I went back in the room."

"Ouch," Maxwell muttered, trying to stifle a grin. The nasty little part of him that was often scolded by his mental Charlie voice would have paid money to see that. At the very least, it explained the Kick me sign decorating the kid earlier.

"That's terrible," Charlie said, something in her voice prompting him to look up—she was looking at him out of the corner of her eyes. Uh-oh….

"Uh," Maxwell noised, pointing with his fork. "We have a couch," he said slowly.

"Wonderful idea!" Charlie said, leaping on it immediately. "You'll stay with us."

"What?" the kid asked, at about the same time Maxwell started kneading his forehead.

"It's a great idea!" Charlie said, beaming. "You stay here, go to school with Max in the mornings, come home at night—and you both can putter around in that lab in the garage."

"Lab?" the kid echoed, completely lost.

"Come on," she said, already bouncing up and dragging the kid out of the chair. "Let's get you settled."

"I really shouldn't—" the kid tried, but too late—he had already been steamrolled.

"It's no trouble!" Charlie told him, tugging him out of the dining room. "Come on! Let me show you your room."

"Room?" Maxwell echoed, before leaping to his feet and running after them, fork still in hand. "Charlie! Charlie! There's a perfectly good couch right there! He doesn't need a room! Charlie!"

Too late—the situation had run completely away from him, and he had no choice but to sulk at the foot of the stairs.

He reminded himself how things would have gone without the kid and the paradox, and decided that he could probably get over it.

He glanced down at Chester, sitting next to him and panting happily.

"My worst nightmare has come to pass," Maxwell told the dog. "She's adopted him."