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You don't wait, just sling open your door and run out, checking behind you. You feel childish, and underdressed. But you feel them at your neck, just a breath away. Your safe space has been taken and replaced with where you once were, where you suffered, exaggerated and made more disturbing through your mind.

The fact that it was a dream matters not. This castle feels like your home. It feels unsafe. Your feet make a loud sound against stone as you walk, and you jerk, look over your shoulder. They'll find you, you feel. But you know they won't. They're not here. They've never been here, nor do they have any idea of where you are. But you feel their cold hands at your back, sinking their fingers into your skin. It hurts, and you travel forward faster.

The arches of your feet ache from the cold, and your heels burn from the hard ground. You don't dare look at them, or slow. You just hug yourself, in your thin tights and drawstring shirt, and continue forward.

You have no plan on where to go. You know that people are safe. That the Seconds and Wilkins are safe, as is Time. But you do not know where they are, and you would not be able to explain your panic.

You head to the only other place you can think of. Hoping for presence, but checking around corners in fear of anyone seeing you. So small, childish and afraid. The thoughts make your cheeks warm in an unpleasant way.

Across from the Hall of the Living is dark and gloomy. Time sees peace in it, he's told you. And you have too, at times. Now it seems too dark.

You rush into the Hall of the Living, thinking of closing the gates behind you. Making sure you're safe. But they're loud, you can't help but worry. Time will be mad, and it'll make your skin crawl.

You walk slowly back to the gate, checking either side of the hallway for anyone. When you see no one, you slip your fingers through the intricate designs, and slowly swing one side of the gate closed, and then the other. It creaks, but not too loudly. Just enough to make you check over your shoulder, and remind yourself to breathe. Once the gate is closed and latched, though not enough to keep anyone out, it makes you feel more secure.

You walk to the end of the platform, watching each pocket watch as you pass. Reading each name. Right before you reach the end, you sit. It's not as cold here. Still colder than bearable in your lack of clothing, but enough to make you feel less afraid. You wonder if it's the light, and then you wonder where the light comes from. You stare up and ahead, squinting. Your eyes have barely adjusted to the room, and it's much brighter the farther you look.

You curl in on yourself. You can't feel the light here like you can the sun, but you're aware it's there. It's still uncanny, but comforting and familiar.

Time had told you, once, on one of his softer days, that when two people started a relationship, their pocket watches would sometimes align. They wouldn't live longer, or tick at the same beat, but their chair would shorten or lengthen, and they would sit beside one another in this hall.

Time had admitted another night, this one dreary with the death of multiple people, that he did not have a clock in the Hall of the Living. And, therefore, his and Iracebeth's could not line up. He said that was how he knew people were made for each other. If they aligned. Because they often didn't. He had also said that he didn't think he'd take another chance like he did with Iracebeth. He did not help her, nor make her happy. Her sister did that.

You'd tried to console him, but had no words left. He was an immortal taking a chance on a mortal. It went badly. You doubt he'd try again for a long, long time. But you had faith in him and his decisions, and told him as such, and he had thanked you solemnly.

You hear the gate creak. You jerk around. All the feeling of safety you had gathered is gone. You jerk to your feet as Time pushes the gate, and slips through the small opening.

"I trust you were not making trouble?" He glances around the hall. He'd know if you were. He'd feel it, or hear it, you're sure.

You nod, quick and jerk. He does not look angry, it is very obvious when he is angry. But you doubt yourself. Perhaps he is. Perhaps he just wants to be gentle with you. He'll send you to stay with Mirana or the Hatter until you can find your way back home.

"I'm sorry." You say quickly. Hopeful that it'll improve things, loosen your chest and quiet whatever enviable anger he has towards you.

He shakes his head. "You have done nothing to apologize for." He steps closer, slowly. He's no longer wearing his hat, and his bun is messy. It often happens when he's not taken a break to freshen up, or been working for a long amount of time. "What is wrong, my dear?" His voice is soft, but matter-of-fact. He'd like an answer

He's concerned, you tell yourself, not angry. But you don't know how to reply. Your fear is replaced with a rabid anxiety, eating away at your thoughts and words. He puts his hand to your back, and you jerk just slightly, shake your head, desperate to communicate what jumbled in your brain. He takes his hand away, and his eyebrows pull in.

He's concerned. You've worried him. If you would've stayed in your room, you wouldn't have worried him. You have so much to do and explain and fix, and not enough words to start, much less finish. You have no energy to open your mouth. No energy to think. You want to sleep again, but the thought of your room makes your stomach sink.

"Sorry." You say again, because it's the only thing you can reliably say. That will make sense. That will convey anything worth conveying. He shakes his head. You keep your sight on his eyebrows, not his eyes.

He sits, slowly and carefully, right by where you once were. He looks across the clocks, admires them with a bitter joy. He holds his hand out, to help lower you down. When you put your hand on his, he doesn't bend his fingers or take your hand. He just leaves it as a crutch, a support. You sit beside him, follow his gaze.

"Life is unpredictable." He says. "I am, too, in some ways. You can count that 12 o'clock will come, but not that you will make it there. Often, people do not believe in the unpredictable parts of me. They believe that if they do enough, or love hard enough, they will escape. They will not tick their last tock. And yet, they do."

He looks calm, lets himself slouch. "I like to watch the watches, the people. The chains lengthen and shorten, change place, move. It is hard to see, as it happens so slowly. So many choices that lead to their destination. And then I must end it when they chime. But they are at peace, I know, and that comforts me. I like to think I have my own, in some room I have yet to find. I would like to see it twist and turn, if it does. If my life has ever changed direction. Or perhaps I am stuck as I am. Perhaps immortality comes with the price of recurrency."

You rub your hands up and down your arms as you look across the pocket watches. Shining and golden, reflective of the light. "Perhaps you have the clock. And it is not repetitive. Not all the time. Alice took the chronosphere, and your rhythm changed. Perhaps you need to search for variety to find it, to change your direction."

He hums, and nods. "Yes. But at the price of time itself, that is something I cannot afford. Perhaps I must forfeit variety for the consistency of other's."

"Maybe the price of immortality is the choice between variety and recurrency. Not the lack of either."

He hums again. "Perhaps."

He goes silent, and stays seated. You find him watching you more so than listening to the ticking of the clocks. But you try to see them shifting. Look up as high as you can and try to see the chains move. "Do they ever move quickly? I can imagine they do, with big decisions and changes."

"Hm. Yes. The Hatter's does often. Though it rotates more in a circle. Constant change in directions with no true direction stuck to. Until Alice's last visit. His family seems to be pulling him out of the cycle. Once he finds and fulfills what he was meant to do, I'm sure his countdown will start, and then he, too, will be gone."

"Huh." You're quiet, now. Out of questions, knees to your chest, feet cold.

"May I ask why you are awake?" He's gentle in his question. Quiet and careful.

"I have nightmares. About things that have never happened, or things that have, just worse. It makes me feel unsafe. I am not sure how… familiar you are."

His hand hovers over your back, and when you do not move, he strokes it gently, up and down. "Iracebeth had them rather often, but woke up angry rather than… feeling unsafe. But she resolved them."

You slouch, curl in on yourself a little bit more. He brings his hand up, strokes a little firmer along your shoulder blades. "Mine can't be resolved. Maybe. Over years, possibly. But I doubt it." You shiver. This hall is no longer warming you. The cold has soaked into your bones, and the adrenaline has drained. You are tired, but your room still feels unwelcoming.

"I understand." He says gently. "And that is okay. They cannot be resolved, perhaps, but helped."

You give a shrug. "I guess that is true. Not sure how. But, it's fine. I'll probably just end up sleeping in a bit."

"Would company help? As you sleep? I have a couch in my office, though I have no bed I could offer."

You don't feel brave. You never feel brave, if you are being truthful. You simply just grapple for purchase on an ever-rising cliff. You simply want to survive, your heart to beat at a rhythm that suits you. Your tiredness makes this need for survival apathetic, it makes you more needy, longing for what you want. Or, perhaps, what you need. But you've never been able to differentiate needs and wants.

Needs are water and food. Sleep is debatable. Everything else can be supplemented and dealt with when in depression.

"May I ask for something?" You ask this quietly, your voice worn and raw despite being mostly unused.

"Of course," is Time's reply, his attention on you no longer sheepish or hidden. He watches your expression, your motion.

"May I lay on you?" You would like comfort. Warm, and skin. You would like to be held, but you do not say it, for it is not a need. It is not a singular person's job to provide that. And they will only provide it if they would like it too, even if they want it to quiet you.

"Of course," He repeats, but it is no comfort. He is trying to help. You make no move to initiate. It is a test, of sorts, to see if he is truly willing. Willing to do the closest thing you allow yourself to have to being held. He does not move, your heart feels heavy.

He looks into the distance for a few moments, and you wonder what he is thinking, if he will ask. You wonder what will hurt more, his question or his silence. "Give me a moment." He says, finally, and it startles you.

He stands, and walks towards the gate. You briefly think that he will leave, and not return. That whatever glimpses you previously saw of him will lessen. But if he wanted to leave, he would not have spoken. That much makes sense, so much so that your curiosity overrides your anxiety, and you watch him.

He takes something off his shoulders, the thing that gives him the hourglass shape. You don't quite know what to call it. A jacket? Obnoxious shoulder pads? Under he has a large sort of cape. He takes that off, as well, and is left in a button-down and a vest. You can see, layers shed, that his pockets are filled and bulging. You wonder what fills his pockets. What he holds so close and stuff his pockets with.

He leaves his shoulder pads leaned on the gate, but brings his cape as he approaches you again. Sitting where he once was, he adjusts his neck and groans. "My neck has not been serviced in a long time. Perhaps Wilkins should take a look at it." He turns his head again, it creaks.

Gently, slowly, he throws his cape over your shoulders. It's warm, and the heat seeps into you like dulled sewing needles. You twitch, but grab the side and pull it to you. It's comforting, and makes your eyes heavy. Time slips under the other side of the cape, his hand running under the fabric and caressing your shoulder, pulling you into him.

He adjusts the cape, keeping you both sufficiently covered, and then relaxes his arms around your torso. He holds you, and you nearly weep. He is warm, his body making a steady mechanical noise. If you had the energy to listen, you could pick out the sound of each gear and vein in his body. You lay your head on him, your ear warming. You hadn't realized your ears were so cold. You touch the other one. The cape falls away, no longer in your grip, and Time retrieves it, wrapping it back around you before you feel the cold.

You're tired, and you long for more comfort. You're grateful, but want to be engulfed whole. Fall into the endless abyss of a too-soft bed. Suffocate in the softness of skin and fabric. You twist, and bury your head into his chest. He smells like paper and sugar and oil, distinct and strange and new. He smells like old couches and lemon candies covered in powdered sugar. You breathe him in, and your bones loosen.

He rubs your back, and pulls you in. The world goes dark as you're pulled into the dark cave of him and his coat. You breathe. "Thank you." Your voice is soft, softer than you're used to hearing. Not happy in that tight way, or rough and unused, or soft with face care. It's sleepy and careless and loose as the rest of you.

You expect him to pull away, now that you've thanked him. The thanks means you've been fixed, that he may now leave you alone, assured that he's helpful while you sit alone with your degrading brain again. Your shoulders tighten, and you miss your calm. You count the seconds, try to soak him in with the time you have left. But he does not move.

He runs his hands over your back again. Gentle but firm, over your shoulder blades, willing them to again let go. But you cannot take it from your mind. When will he leave?

"How long will you stay here?" You ask.

"For my life, if I could. Until Time is no longer needed, if it was what you needed, my dear."

"I am afraid to ask for things. For comfort." He holds you closer.

"Your comfort is mine, as is your discomfort. Would you like me to ask for things, as well? There are many things I would like to ask for. Though not all of them for here. Not all of them for now." You nod into his chest, and he runs human fingers through your hair, pulling on your scalp in a way that makes your body melt.

"Will you sit in my lap?" He seems shy at the request. "So I may hold you properly?"

You push yourself up on still arms rather than replying. He forgets the cape in favor of helping you into his lap, pulling you to him. Then he covers you both. Holds you as you fold up, squeezes you and breathes in your hair.

"I have one more request for tonight." He looks hopeful at you, saturated eyes wide and eyebrows pulled in.

You nod, smile, aware it's small, but not with energy for much more.

"Sleep here, on me." He asks. "Please."