AU suggestion

Bitty is a ghost from 1778 who died in the revolutionary war. Jack studies him for his thesis, learning what exactly the accents sounded like at that time and how much they’d diverged from English accents. 

(I am so sorry to do this…again…for the 700th time…warnings for obvious character death seeing as Eric is a 200+ year old ghost…)

Eric is already resting on the couch when Jack comes down the stairs, his arms crossed over his stomach, hovering the usual two inches off the cushions though his coattails still brush the fabric.

“You must have lived through some terrible conditions and this is still where you draw the line, eh?” Jack chirps, setting down his notebook and recorder to settle in. “You know I cleaned it for you.”

“I died in a barn, Mister Zimmermann. I didn’t live in one,” Eric chides, brushing non-existent dirt from the sleeve of his jacket. 

“Just can’t help myself, eh? Well, let’s get to it,” Jack clicks record and hopes this time the tape picks up their conversation and not a mess of static. “Feel like telling me about your battalion, today?”

With the tone set, Eric begins to describe his fellow soldiers and Jack zones out a bit as he transcribes, following the flow of the conversation and noting the subtle shifts in his subject’s tone.

“— We had a Frenchman just like you,” Eric says, voice suddenly fond, and Jack can’t find the will to correct him. “A Major, when I first met him. His father was a General and the other men assumed he’d bought his commission, but I never much had time for rumors. All I knew was he was handsome as the devil and twice again as deadly with a shot.” Eric smiles easily, lost in thought. “For the longest time I thought he hated me, then came Cowpens and I guess he thought we weren’t going to make it because he grabbed me and he —” Eric pauses, looking to Jack for a reaction. He must get what he wants because his transparent skin flushes a pale, rosy pink before he whispers, “he kissed me.” 

“You never mentioned being with anyone while you were fighting,” Jack swallows, fighting his own imagination, “and certainly not an officer.”

“Well, you never asked! All you wanted to know was if I fought in this battle or that siege and where were my parents from. Never inclined to be interested in my personal dealings,” Eric defends, winding a finger through a hole in his uniform shirt.

“Now, this is not to say I did not think we would perish. No, after the kiss, we lived to fight another day and I thought the good Major would forget the moment as quickly as it happened but I was wrong. He snuck me into his quarters not a week later; we had our little rendezvous, and a perfectly decent romance, until a redcoat took me at Yorktown.”

Jack had known of Eric’s proclivities quite early but this is new information and he does some quick math. “Yorktown? Were you involved for three years?” 

“Almost. Didn’t make it that far. He was a Colonel by the end and as the war dragged on he tried to make me his father’s aide-de-camp, send me to Philadelphia to keep me out of harm’s way. Imagine my joy to survive all that, only to be cut down at the finish,” Eric huffs and rolls onto his side, smushing his face into his hand. “Now, here I am, complaining, while you sit and listen like a true gentleman. Can’t even cook a proper meal to thank you.”

“What was his name? Maybe I can find what happened to him. If you want.”

“Laurent Rousseau,” Eric breathes, candid as Jack has ever seen. “He had such a good heart and I wanted so badly to see how he’d use that heart in peacetime. Not that it matters now; he survived and I assume he went back to what family he had remaining. Married some pretty thing and forgot all about me.”

“I’m certain he didn’t, you’re very … memorable.” Jack sets aside his pen and tries not to imagine how Rousseau must have mourned if he’d gone to such lengths to protect Eric. 

“Oh, am I? You’re such a sweet thing, comforting me like this,” Eric sinks a little and flails, catching himself before he ‘touches’ the cushions, causing his form to flicker as Jack realizes their time must, again, be at an end.

“I want to speak to you more about this,” Jack says quickly. “About Cowpens. Laurent. What happened at —”

Eric is gone, and Jack is alone with his thoughts once more. Thoughts of Eric, and a French officer, and worlds he can only imagine.

AAAAHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!

Part II

There’s a portrait of Colonel Rousseau hanging in the National Gallery in Ottawa. It doesn’t take much effort for Jack to hop a quick flight to investigate for himself, the sliver of wood tucked tight in his messenger bag the entire flight; Eric dormant for most of the trip while Jack’s mind runs in circles.

The how’s and why’s of Eric’s existence are all pretty meaningless when Jack finally has a chance to see the portrait up close; and Jack would be a fool to insist there isn’t a resemblance between them. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, imagining just what Eric meant to a man with cold eyes and brassy medals peppering his uniform.

No wonder Eric had been so willing to talk; after all that time alone Jack must have been a friendly face.

Someone behind him snaps a photo and Jack quickly sidesteps to get out of the frame when the man apologizes and says, “No, no, I wanted you in the photo, too.”

Jack has to wait until the Gallery is almost closed, the last guard rounding the corner, before he chances bringing Eric out. If he thought his own reaction was noteworthy, it’s nothing compared to Eric, who becomes corporeal, sees the portrait, and immediately bursts into tears.

“It’s him,” he whispers, turning to make sure Jack is looking too. “It’s him. Oh, Sweetpea.” Eric rushes up to the small plaque beside the frame, but his excitement wanes when he realizes it’s only information about the artist.

“1787. He must have gone back north.”

“You said he was French.”

“Well, he was, but he lived in Quebec before the invasion,” Eric turns, only the slightest bit confused. “You did the research, you should know that.”

“I researched, but this was all I could find. A few lines and this painting. You know more about him than anyone, uh, living.”

“So, this is all that’s left of him,” Eric mutters, tense like he’s trying not to touch the canvas. “A painting.”

They have at least until the next guard comes around, though Jack knows he could live here and it’d never be enough time for Eric.

“Jack, why do you think I’m here?” Eric sniffs, eyes still locked on the portrait. “I thought…I thought I was a good person. It can’t be because I loved him, because he’s not here, either.”

“I don’t know, bud.”

“I miss him. I miss my family.”

A new addition to Jack’s personal list of regrets: inability to hug ghosts.

“Do you . . . want to stay here? With him? I could leave the stick here.”

Eric’s laugh is an empty sound Jack does not enjoy hearing.

“Not tryin’ to get rid of me are you? I know it’s only a handsome painting.”

“This can’t be it. We didn’t travel all this way for nothing. Unfinished business, right? That’s what Shitty was saying. What’s your biggest regret? Anything. Something you did or didn’t do,” Jack stands from the bench and walks to the painting, pointing at Rousseau. “Him. You’re here because of him. Maybe you never said goodbye, maybe you had a fight —” Jack turns and Eric is there, far too close for comfort.

“Well, I never told him . . .” Eric’s eyes a bright, shining and damp like he’s a moment away from crying again. “I never told him I loved him. Don’t think I had the words for it back then.”

“You think that’s it?”

“How could I possibly tell him now?” Eric bemoans. “How does that fix anything?”

“Here!” Jack gestures at the painting. “You can say it now. It’s not for him, it’s for you. I think. It can’t hurt to try.”

Eric scrubs his face and Jack takes the moment to fish the scrap of Haus wood from his pocket, setting it gently below the portrait.

“I’ll give you some space, eh? Can’t hurt to try. Just say, you know,” Jack catches Eric’s gaze, “I love you.”

The moment the words leave his lips, Jack realizes he means them in an entirely different context. He loves Eric. He loves having the spirit of a short, gay Revolutionary War soldier to keep him company. He doesn’t want this to end, but he can’t stand to see Eric hurting like this. Waiting for an afterlife that might never come.

“Can’t hurt,” Jack repeats, clearing his throat. “You can just . . . I’m just gonna take a lap,” he turns quickly and heads into the next room, away from Eric, Laurent, and his own complicated feelings.

_______

If he’d known it would be the last time he’d ever see Eric, he would have said goodbye.

_______

After the second week of not-mourning, Shitty slides into bed beside Jack, wraps him in a hug and says, “Alright, your adorable soldier-boy is gone, we all miss him, but little dude was trapped in this fuckin’ reclaimed barn-house for like three hundred years. He deserved to move on. You helped with that.”

“I miss him,” Jack mutters against Shitty’s bare shoulder. “I liked him.”

“I know, brah. But, consider the whole thing about you and him and that Laurent guy, you look just like him. Eric only talked to you first. You were the only one that could see him. Sounds like some predestination shit to me.”

“So, what,” Jack shimmies out of Shitty’s hold, “you think I’m related or something?”

“We had a ghost from the 1700s living here. Literally everything is on the table. Fuck, you’re probably his reincarnation cause you’re such an old soul. Maybe Laurent came back just to help him move on. Liberate the little fucker.”

“You’re high.”

“That is true, but consider this, too, maybe time isn’t linear. At least not for the dead. You may have helped Eric pass on, but he’s just as much then as he is now, get it?”

“This is nuts.” Jack flops back onto his pillow.

“Walk this back, maybe you were this Colonel in your last life, now you’re you. Best possible upgrade —” Jack slugs Shitty in the arm “— ow. Okay, now, Eric died in like 1781, years before you, so maybe he had time to nab a new life, too? Clearly there’s some kind of fate thing happening here. Like, maybe he’s gonna walk right up to the front door and —” A soft knocking from downstairs interrupts Shitty’s rant and he stares at Jack, wide-eyed. “—that wasn’t me.”

“Bull-shit, you got Holster in on this,” Jack wiggles out from under his teammate to head downstairs while Shitty scrambles to follow pulling on his boxers as he runs down the hallway.

“Holster, I swear if you forgot your key again —” Jack opens the front door to find a student with a duffel bag over one shoulder, who’s attention is trained on the LAX house across the street. The man turns, sun shining on his strawberry-blonde hair, his embarrassed smile painfully familiar.

“Hi, I am so sorry to bother y’all this early in the mornin’, but I need some help finding my way around the campus? I saw the hockey sticks and thought y’all must be friendlies —”

“Holy fuck,” Shitty breathes, coming up fast behind Jack. “I’m psychic.”

Jack’s brain is offline long enough he realizes he hasn’t spoken, and the man who can’t possibly be Eric offers a nervous wave.

“Yes.” Jack blurts, startling the man. “We are hockey players.”

“Little bro,” Shitty shoves Jack aside and offers a hand. “S. Knight. I think we’ve met. You’re name wouldn’t by chance be Eric, would it?”

Jack’s going to pass out.

“Um, wow, you have no pants — Well, I mean, my name is ‘Richard’ but I go by Eric to keep things from getting confusing since my Daddy and I share the same name. Y’all have already heard of me? Did Coach Hall tell you I was coming?”

“No, I,” Jack stops and takes Eric in, whole, breathing and wondrous. “Yes. I’ve heard of you.”