Time isn’t linear, and Johnny hates that being hurled into a different universe is how he learns this to be true.

Thirty seconds ago that he was fighting a cosmic entity at your side, thirty seconds ago that he was busy trying to shield you from a blast and not himself. The blue extraterrestrial glow slammed him to the ground, knocking every last bit of air out of his lungs. 

He attempts to sit up, but the feeling of polished marble under his palm tells him he’s no longer in Times Square. 

Judging by the gowns and tailcoats (and a crystal chandelier big enough to crush everyone in this room) he’s most definitely in a Victorian ballroom. He’s surrounded by a sea of startled strangers, all staring at him in utter bewilderment as if he just fell from heaven (or fainted and fell to the floor). The room is filled with nothing but whispers of concern as the ensemble comes to a sudden end. 

He barely notices the cravat strangling his neck (and the ridiculous tailcoat he’s wearing) when all he can focus on is you in front of him — or rather, a version of you in this universe. You’re kneeling in a gown too extravagant for a practical joke, your gaze filled with undeniable concerns. You look just as (if not more) ethereal than ever, almost as if you stepped straight out of the Met.

His brain short-circuits as the realizations dawn on him: he’s either back in time or in an alternate universe, he has no real way of going home, and that he has no idea how people talk in this time period. Is it my lady? Your grace? Think Johnny—

“Um..” He scrambles to his feet, brushing off the nervous sweat on his forehead.