Chapter Text
They never should have been able to meet in the first place. They didn’t exist on the same plane of reality, not really—they both counted as objects, but they would never meet.
And yet the human brought them together for motivations nobody would ever really know. Maybe it was just an urge to play god, maybe it was genuine affection, warmth, love—whatever it was didn’t matter. All Timothy had to know is that he was face to face with someone that needed his expertise.
“Now, I am well aware that very few are as attuned to the pace of time as I am, but that is no excuse for wariness! Luckily, you’ve been introduced to one who knows the tick of the clock very intimately. Timothy Timepiece, at your service.”
Of course, Timothy knew it wouldn’t likely be an easy process. The shadowy being before him clearly didn’t talk to many people, which…well, Timothy had experience with that, too. No matter—all will straighten out in due time, especially with a meticulously crafted schedule composed by yours truly. With a flourish, Timothy slipped one of his personal pocket watches out of his breast pocket, one of the hardier ones, and held it out to who insisted on being called “xxXShadowL0rd420Xxx,” even though it was clearly not his real name. In fact, the human (both adorable and infuriating as they are) had told him he would be helping someone named “Skips,” but he was not here to judge. After all, a different name also wasn’t too unfamiliar to Timothy.
“I’m sure you don’t have a way of telling time on your own, so I shall lend you one of my watches—it must remain in pristine condition while in your possession! We shall meet again tomorrow at noon exactly, not a moment before and most certainly not after!” Timothy moved the hand holding the watch, trying to ignore the soft twinkling of the silver chain.
Pale hands took the gleaming silver watch, fingers brushing against Timothy’s gloves. Where most contact would be warm, this moment was cold, yet it was not unfriendly. As the shadowy man held the watch carefully, Timothy found himself proud of the one he’d chosen to lend. It wasn’t his favorite, of course—he much preferred golden timepieces, as evidenced by the fact that he was practically dripping in the warm metal—but it was still a deeply treasured member of his collection. Intentionally tarnished silver was a difficult look to pull off, but the little watch had such intricate designs, characteristic to the Victorian era, that the age filled the grooves, creating stark lines of darkness that made the design of a horse-drawn carriage that much more evident.
“Uh…thank you,” the shadow said after a few moments, gently teasing the watch open to look at the face, nose scrunching, “but how do I know it’s noon with this?”
That question ripped Timothy from his prideful haze, prompting a sigh, “Ah, yes, I suppose that was an oversight of mine. When both hands are facing upward toward the hinge, they are pointing to the Roman Numeral for 12. I can teach you the rest at our next meeting. You must look for the second time it assumes that position from now, as the first will be midnight. Once again, I shall teach you about the beauty of time when the scheduled meeting arrives.”
Tick-tick-tick, the silver watch slipped into its 3:00 position, and Timothy nodded, bidding farewell to the shadow and turning a proper 180 degrees to head off to his next appointment. Well, appointment was a strong word for it; he was hiding away until noon the next day.
It was quite pitiful, really, that the reality of his schedule was so monotone. Three hours per day—that was how long he could keep himself going. He was an old clock, though his soul and body would never show it, and time wore odd patterns into all things. That was the beauty of time, the way it slowly but surely set wrinkles into human skin, teased flowers to bud and wilt and grow again; even the way it slowly caused humans’ minds to slow and splinter and fail was enchanting—and yet he still somewhat wished it hadn’t worn him down like the rest.
He had 15 minutes before he started to fail himself, and he counted every second with more care than usual. His incorporeal soul drifted up the stairs, slipped through the barest crack of the home-gym’s door, and he decided to try and contain himself inside of his vessel there.
13 minutes, he entered the simple clock, his least sophisticated domain, and entered the maze of wires and electricity. Timothy never remembered the other 21 hours of the day anymore, but he knew they were spent doing nothing good.
10 minutes, he tried to find a place he hadn’t hidden recently. Whoever he happened to be after his energy ran out seemed to not be as aware of the mechanisms of his domains, but not stupid. He’d come to his senses so close to wandering the house far too many times, back when he thought he was just tired. Back when he had a few cozy spots he’d curl up in and sleep it off—back when the other one was content dozing or whatever it did. Back when the blackouts just began, when he held the 21 hours he’d lost control over. Back when he would be comfortable enough to speak to others around the house, when he was so naive and sure that everything was okay. Back when he brushed off every moment he didn’t remember as a moment of distraction, words he’d never said repeated back as just absentmindedness in the moment. Back when he had a presence in the house.
8 minutes, he was starting to feel nervous. Had he hidden here more often than he realized? All of the places he could think of had been his spots over the past week, and even the places he didn’t think of were too familiar. He had no time to go to another spot, not without running and alerting everyone who sensed him that something was wrong, not without inviting concern and visits from well-meaning objects who would then see the thing he’d become. He just had to hope that it took more time than he estimated for the other to find a way out.
6 minutes, he felt a little bad for calling the other a thing. He wasn’t sure who the other was, didn’t really know a name, but he knew it was some sort of person, even if it always messed things up.
3 minutes, he settled into one of the less familiar places, hoping. He felt his grip slipping, reality becoming less solid, the wires of the clock becoming faint.
2 minutes, vision flickered, his limbs felt floaty, the tick-tick-ticking of the clock being the only thing to reach him now. This was it for the day, he couldn’t keep his grip much longer.
1 minute, tick, tick, tick, Timothy held his breath, and he never felt himself release it.