Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are bells in Clockwork's tower, but Dan has never heard them ring.

It's not something he's ever been curious about, either. The clock tower is full of excessive machinery with no discernible purpose, and when his jailer is not busy badgering Dan for conversation he can often be found employed in its maintenance, waving his staff at rusted chains and gears to dispel those vagaries of time, ensuring the inscrutable mechanism continues to smoothly churn.

Ticking, groaning, rattling—the clock tower was never silent or idle.

Presumably some of that complexity labored in service of the clock face at the tower's height. Through that massive round window Dan could consult it for the time, if he so chose, though its passage was essentially meaningless to him in this tower where nothing ever changed except his jailer's moods. Apart from that one demonstratively gainful mechanism, however, there was plenty that seemed useless: glowing gears spun midair, attached to nothing. Chains stretched vertically from one fathomless void to another, taut and straining with sourceless weight. That the clock tower contained bells which never tolled was just one more unremarkably useless feature, meriting no more contemplation than any of the Ghost Zone's other improbable, nonsensical architecture.

Until one day, when an unfamiliar creaking preceded the sudden and sonorous gong of a bell, unnerving the future’s former scourge of the Ghost Zone.

Several months prior, Clockwork had freed Dan from the thermos without explanation—a prisoner removed from solitary confinement to wander the yard. Dan suspected that by Clockwork’s reckoning he was far from qualifying for parole, though admittedly this hospitality was a significant improvement from Dan’s last stint in Walker’s care.

Relief came secondary to resentment. He still had to see Clockwork’s face, after all.

In the months following his release, Dan darkened the tower’s shadows and periodically ravaged its mechanical innards to test the limits of Clockwork’s patience. In retrospect, a competition of endurance with the Master of Time was doomed to failure. Dan had only existed for a meager ten years (or thirty or seventy, depending how he counted), and Clockwork had millenia on him. The Timekeeper simply disappeared whenever Dan decided to destroy the tower’s delicate glowing machinery. Nor did Clockwork need to punish him—the consequences carried their own rebuke: chains snapped with tension and thrashed him like brutal whips, and mechanisms collapsed unpredictably when load-bearing beams were compromised, striking Dan as they fell or crushing him beneath their weight. He could have avoided the worst of it had he simply become intangible, but he ached to inflict violence with his own two hands—an impossible feat, were he not tangible himself.

No matter how he destroyed the tower’s mechanical innards, Dan never could breach its outer walls, and Clockwork always repaired the damage afterward. Standing wearily amid the tower’s wreckage as he awaited Clockwork’s inevitable return, Dan relished in the silence with mixed feelings: to vanquish time was a kind of triumph, yet the tower’s silence was unnerving, unnatural and rare. A deeply lonely absence of sound.

Without internal structure to differentiate it, the tower’s resemblance to the thermos at those times was inescapable.

One memorable outburst was brought to an abrupt halt by the weight of a massive gear collapsing on him, consigning him to the burning rubble below with a roaring scream. The impact stunned him, crushing him with breathless pain. When he’d recovered his senses he phased through the rubble and crawled to a corner, trembling pathetically with aftershocks.

When Clockwork returned as he always did and set the whole machine to rights again, each gleaming fixture restored to its former state and place, the only remaining evidence of Dan’s rage was his own scrapes and bruises, and the scorch marks on his own clothes. Weary and weakened, his vision faded in and out as Clockwork collected him from the floor and carried him to the bedroom set aside for him all those months ago. Dan had refused to sleep there out of stubbornness, and only now that he was too injured to object did he suffer to be laid to rest there, amid the purple drapery and obsidian walls that twinkled like stars.

Since then, Dan has begrudgingly taken the bedroom as his primary haunt. The drapery muffles the clock tower’s incessant ticking to a tolerably distant din, and the bedding is sinfully comfortable, stealing him away to dreamless sleep with an ease he hasn’t felt for decades.

Also, Clockwork never bothers him there, so napping is a reliable way to find reprieve from the infuriating sight of his jailer’s face.

Nestled there in comfortable repose, Dan is shocked upright by the bells’ sudden song. After the first gong subsides, the rest of the bells join in rising volume with surprising harmony. Dan has never known them to chime with such mild melody, or indeed at all without his having had a hand in it. He’s only ever heard their clamor in the midst of destroying the tower, dissonant clanging shrieks and gongs announcing their collapse into a bed of chains and gears. 

Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee, Dan thinks, a snippet of forgotten prose from his distant past, and another wave of unease washes over him as he floats from the bed and ventures into the hall, pushing the drapes aside to emerge into a different kind of darkness lit with a verdant green glow.

The bells are louder out here, and Dan winces with irritation. He’s heard much worse in the tumult of his own destructive tantrums, but the bedroom’s silence has spoiled him, made his ears sensitive to such disturbances.

Why are the bells ringing? Is it like a dinner bell, clamoring for Dan to subject himself to Clockwork’s company? It might as well be, he supposes, because he can hardly sit by and be at ease while this unprecedented clamor rattles the clock tower’s foundations. Consulting Clockwork is the only way he can discover the reason for the disturbance.

Is Clockwork commentating on Dan’s recent habit of sleeping for long hours, cheekily turning the entire mechanism to the mundane purpose of an alarm clock? Dan sneers at the thought. If Clockwork takes issue with Dan lazing around, then Dan has a few choice words for the Timekeeper on the subject of his confinement. Perhaps he’ll go back to destroying the tower once a week—futile and self-defeating as it’s proven to be.

He has just arrived at the possibility that the bells’ chiming could simply be a random behavior on the part of the tower—apart from his former habit of periodically destroying its mechanisms, Dan could lay no serious claim to any detailed knowledge of how it all operates—when he arrives in the viewing room where Clockwork spends most of his time.

Down here, the bells’ clamor is distant enough that Dan hears Clockwork perfectly when he looks over his shoulder with a mysterious smile and says, “Good evening—or perhaps I should say, good morning?”

Dan narrows his eyes. “So it’s midnight,” he surmises. A relevant detail, though not a particularly elucidating one. Why this midnight, of all the nights he’s been here? “I doubt that’s the only reason the bells are ringing.”

Clockwork turns around fully to face Dan, folding his arms with his staff tucked against his chest. He tilts his head gently, raises a brow. “You mean to say you don’t know?”

Dan bristles and mirrors Clockwork’s stance, his fingers digging into his forearms. “I don’t recall getting any advance notice of the occasion. What, then? Is it a death knell? The sentence for my crimes finally handed down by the Observants? Will you be doing the honors?” he icily inquires. He is certainly well-rested enough for a fight. But can he go toe-to-toe with the Master of Time in his own domain? Dan’s muscles tense with anticipation, and he privately admits that he doesn’t like his odds.

“No.” Clockwork purses his lips, like Dan’s ignorance truly puzzles him. “I simply assumed you already knew—given how little you think of the occasion.”

It only makes Dan angrier to know he’s fallen short of Clockwork’s expectations, of all people. Has sleep laden a fog over his brain, worn away the sharp edges of his cunning? He racks his brain for what this ‘occasion’ might be. There aren’t many dates that stand out in his mind as significant.

“The anniversary of the Nasty Burger explosion?” he guesses. He liked the date well enough this many years on for being the crucible of his creation, but perhaps Clockwork thought he would dislike it, since now it also marked his shameful defeat at the hand of his younger self.

Clockwork lifts a gloved hand to his smiling mouth. “Would you like a hint?” He drifts aside and opens his arms to gesture expansively toward the viewing screens. Despite himself, Dan is curious, and he steps forward to take a closer look.

The circular screens serve, at the moment, as windows into the lives of the denizens of the Ghost Zone. As beings born of intense emotion harboring irrational grudges from their miserably shortened lives, ghosts are generally a volatile bunch. Dan has caught Clockwork spying before, and even if he hadn’t known it from experience, the ghosts he monitors can often be found scheming, making mischief and mayhem, and fighting one another like cats and dogs for dominance in the ghostly pecking order. They are not, generally, beings capable of prolonged repose.

(Hence Dan’s resentment at being forced to while away his hours under Clockwork’s supervision doing nothing.)

And yet every ghost on every screen is doing little enough to rival even Dan’s impressive amount of nothing. Even a few natural enemies, whom he would sooner expect to go for the throat than tolerate one another’s company, are engaged in civil conversation. One screen shows Aragon and Dora sitting peacefully in the grand dining hall of their castle, the table laden with a feast fit for a king. Another screen shows Technus drinking tea in Skulker’s sitting room, of all things, when Dan was sure they hadn’t gotten together for a few more years yet. He strokes his beard in contemplation of that strangeness. The stillness.

When has the Ghost Zone ever been this... calm?

“Ring any bells?” Clockwork inquires, smiling with unconcealed amusement.

Dan sends Clockwork a withering glare. “You’re not funny.”

Clockwork moves in his periphery, and Dan tenses, anticipating an attack—but the Timekeeper only gestures again with his staff, reorienting the viewing screens to a new perspective: the human world, awash with snow and lights.

Above them, the tower’s bells stumble upon a series of notes that even Dan is capable of recognizing, despite going ten blessed years without hearing a single miserable carol.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

Dan’s black heart seizes with an intolerable mixture of conflicting negative emotion. On the one hand: the twenty years Vlad Masters spent alone after the accident, heir to a fortune and eligible bachelor on the receiving end of many expensive but thoughtless gifts, given out of obligation or for some ulterior motive on the part of the giver. There were parties, occasionally. All politics—celebrities and legislators vying for donations or endorsements. And through it all, he never had the company of the woman he desired, nor did he receive any of the gifts he truly wanted. On the other hand: fourteen years of Danny Fenton’s family life, characterized by the most inane controversies over the supernatural—for all that the Fentons devoted their life to the study of ghosts, despite never having seen one until their son became one. At a time when every other child’s family seemed content to bask in the season of giving, Fenton family bonding died in hypocrisy on the hill of skepticism.

“It’s... Christmas,” Dan says slowly, stunned by his own disgust and displeasure into answering the game Clockwork has made of his confusion.

“You may not remember,” Clockwork concedes at last, “but before you brought the Ghost Zone to heel, the Christmas truce was a longstanding tradition which prohibited ghostly hostilities.”

Dan vaguely recalls breaking up the occasional Christmas celebration in the Ghost Zone, and severely punishing any seasonal greetings spouted in his presence. Casting his mind back further, he recalls that Vlad had enough dealings with the Ghost Zone throughout the years to become passingly familiar with the tradition—enough to plan around it, though he never participated in the festivities. Though he was half-ghost himself, Vlad never sought community in the Ghost Zone. He saw its residents as useful agents to carry out his will, each with powers suited to different purposes—but he saw none of them as potential companions, and he saw no place for himself in their world beyond how he might entice or threaten them into servitude.

Suddenly hoarse, Dan only answers, “I remember.”

“Hmm.” Clockwork waves his staff, and the viewing screens change again. Johnny 13 and Kitty come into view, nursing warm mugs and cuddling on a couch—even the incessant drama of their break-up/make-up routine has been put, improbably, on hold.

“If you know I hate it so much,” Dan grits out, “then why are you showing me this?”

“I don’t mean to antagonize you,” Clockwork says lightly. “This is merely part of my job.”

Dan scoffs with disgust, averting his eyes from the schmaltzy display. “Spying, you mean.”

“Time bears witness to all things, regardless of whether I’m personally watching.” This distinction clarifies little, but Clockwork has already moved on: “Since I respect the spirit of the agreement, I like to help where I can.”

“... With the bells,” Dan realizes, his wits finally returning to him from whatever dark corner they’d crawled off to die in. “They mark the start of the truce.” Now that he considers it, ghosts have little other reason to keep track of the time, beyond anniversaries of personal significance.

“My apologies. I didn’t expect them to startle you.”

Dan bristles. “They didn’t,” he snaps.

“I considered informing you ahead of time,” Clockwork admits, “but I was unsure you would appreciate the reminder. You’ve also been holed up in your room for several weeks, so there never seemed an opportune moment to discuss it.”

Dan grinds his teeth. He would indeed have appreciated a little forewarning, but there’s no denying he’s been avoiding Clockwork. For whatever reason, the other ghost has been scrupulous about respecting the boundary of the bedroom’s threshold. He has never crossed it—with the sole exception of the time he carried Dan across it and put him to bed.

Unclenching his jaw, Dan testily ventures, “Then do you have anything else you’d like to get off your chest, while you have me?”

Clockwork taps his chin thoughtfully, as if carefully weighing his words against Dan’s impatience. Dan has control over very little, but he relishes this, at least: his ability to withhold his presence, his time, and his attention from a ghost who in all other respects has all the time in the world. Dan can’t help wondering how Clockwork will approach the challenge of speaking as succinctly as possible, given the Timekeeper’s penchant for meandering speech and speaking in riddles.

“If you’d like me to bring you any books to read,” Clockwork says, which is the last thing Dan expected him to say, “then you would do well to let me know before this afternoon.”

Dan stares, baffled by this statement’s specificity coming so far out of left field. Despite his commitment to remaining incurious in matters regarding his captor, this begs too many questions not to ask at least one.

“... And why, exactly, is that?”

Given leave to speak further, Clockwork explains, “There is a ghost in my acquaintance who curates a library. Tonight, he will break the truce and be apprehended by Walker to serve out his sentence.” He smiles and lifts a hand, as if to say, you see? “It would prove difficult to borrow a book from him from the inside of a cell.”

Dan’s brows draw together, confounded by the mundanity of the problem Clockwork is describing. “You’re the Master of Time. Is there some reason you can’t just take a book while he’s gone?” Not that he has any literature in mind, or even wants Clockwork to bother bringing him anything. But he has to ask.

Clockwork’s smile twitches wider. “That sounds like an excellent way to ensure he never loans me a book again.”

Dan throws his hands up. “Then steal whatever books you want!”

Clockwork chuckles, poorly concealing his amusement with a hand. “You’ve spent a long time imposing your will on others,” Clockwork points out. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that oftentimes, it is easier to just ask nicely.”

Dan rolls his eyes in disgust. For ghosts of their caliber, asking nicely is pointless. Why settle for companionship, when you could have compliance?

Clockwork continues, “Regardless of our differing views on this point, I stand firm on mine. So please let me know before this afternoon if you’d like me to borrow a book on your behalf.”

Dan hadn’t thought much of the offer when Clockwork made it, preoccupied as he was with the reasoning behind it. But he considers it now. Clockwork has made few demands of him—the idle suggestion here, the occasional conversation there—and offered even less. The only thing Dan could possibly want is his freedom, and that’s obviously not up for discussion. But Clockwork has correctly identified Dan’s boredom, and is offering to alleviate it—and not just by badgering Dan with conversation. A book is arguably a source of conversation that does not involve Clockwork—one between Dan and the author instead of his captor.

It is a challenge not to deny his desire out of sheer stubbornness, but as long as Clockwork doesn’t clock that he’s actually quite eager for something to read, Dan won’t have to lose face by asking.

Dan shrugs expressively and waves a flippant hand. “An old school murder mystery, I guess.” He is still nursing the indignity of failing to recognize the wintry tune of the tower’s chiming bells, until Clockwork spelled it out for him with scenes from a commensurately wintry wonderland to drive the point home. Dan can hardly engage in verbal repartee with his captor if his mind is so woefully weakened from lack of stimulation.

Clockwork hums in acknowledgment. “How do you feel about Agatha Christie?”

When memories from his younger self elicit only vague recognition—unsurprising, given he never finished high school—he consults Vlad's instead. These memories are fractured, unlike Fenton's, each a single-hued shard from a formerly-complete, resplendently colorful stained glass tableau. He lifts one such vignette to the light to examine it: a pleasant autumn evening, rain gently rattling the manor's windows, a book in hand as he sits before the fireplace, and for a short while, he is transported from his lonely life into a realm of intrigue.

“She’s fine,” Dan grunts, turning toward the stairs to begin the trek back to his room. He could fly there—but the bells still softly sing, their sonorous echoes bouncing from wall to wall in such a way that Dan suspects it would have a destabilizing effect on flight. Having a solid surface beneath his feet makes him feel less liable to be blown away like a leaf in a gust of sound.

“I’ll leave it outside your door,” Clockwork says, returning his attention to the viewing screens.

Dan doesn’t thank him. But later when he rouses from his nap, Dan finds a copy of Murder on the Orient Express floating placidly outside the door to his bedroom.

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

— For Whom the Bell Tolls, from "Devotions upon Emergent Occasions" by John Donne (1624)

Chapter Text

After finishing his borrowed book, Dan is woefully without diversion as he awaits the release of Clockwork’s librarian acquaintance from Walker’s prison. Destroying the tower holds little appeal, or at least that’s what he tells himself—it’s poor consolation for the frustration and weariness the thought inspires, knowing it’ll all come to naught anyway if he tries.

So Dan lurks in the shadows of the clock tower and observes his jailer, for lack of anything better to occupy his time.

Clockwork can’t possibly be unaware of Dan’s eyes on the back of his head, yet he acts as if he doesn’t notice as he blithely goes about inspecting the clock tower’s inscrutable mechanism. He begins by ascending the tower’s scaffolds (though Dan can’t fathom why he’d bother with stairs when he can fly) to examine the chains and gears from below. Evidently Clockwork deems them in no immediate need of repair, and when he’s done with that he drifts off to a hidden corner to make use of an unfamiliar door—one which blends seamlessly into the wall, rendering it nearly invisible if Dan didn’t know where to look.

It’s so well-concealed that Dan can’t help but suspect a trap. He hesitates, but curiosity compels him to trail after the Timekeeper anyway.

The door opens into a long hallway with a high vaulted ceiling, where all manner of mechanical clocks line both walls and chime in haunting harmony. Clockwork drifts down the hall with a slow and watchful air, as if he's wary of something. Perhaps Clockwork hadn't realized he was being followed after all—until now, that is, and Dan braces himself for the inevitable confrontation.

Yet when Clockwork does stop, lifting his head as if hearing a sudden sound, he does not acknowledge Dan. Instead, he veers from his path to inspect one of the clocks more closely—as if he had perceived some mechanical complaint by ear alone, though its pendulum swings merrily, and amid the din of ticking Dan can discern no obvious discordance coming from that clock in particular.

Clockwork opens the glass case to make adjustments to the weighted chains. He fiddles with the clock face to adjust its hands to an ostensibly more favorable time. Then, satisfied with his alterations, Clockwork gently shuts the case and continues on his way, down the hall and around the corner into darkness.

Dan inspects the altered timepiece, but can divine no rhyme or reason for the changes Clockwork made. Clearly Clockwork can perceive some temporal imperfections that Dan cannot. Presumably, these mechanical clocks are somehow connected to that unseen process to which Clockwork is so thoroughly attuned.

Dan considers laying waste to the whole gallery, but finds his destructive streak uncooperatively dormant. He’s more bored than angry today—though the incessant sound of healthy machinery soon threatens to grate on his nerves. He abandons the gallery to delve deeper into the tower and see what else Clockwork will do.

It occurs to Dan that shadowing Clockwork as he deftly manipulates the tower’s inscrutable mechanism feels like watching someone operate a spaceship. Since he can’t leave the tower to familiarize himself with its exterior, it’s almost easier to imagine a ship: perhaps they're hurtling through the timestream at lightspeed, and each observation and adjustment Clockwork makes has to do with engine diagnostics, navigational systems, or communications arrays.

The strange fantasy makes Dan sneer with contempt. You’re not on an intergalactic joyride, he rebukes himself. Clockwork is his jailer, and this is his prison. That’s all there is to it.

Even still, and perhaps owing to his former self’s fascination with the stars, the impression is difficult to shake. Despite Dan’s best efforts to emphatically recriminate his sudden imaginative streak out of existence, a faint sense of cosmic awe lingers.

Clockwork concludes his rounds in the tower’s central chamber, where he fusses with knobs and dials on a panel below the viewing screens.

Dan doesn’t think that panel was always there, but he’s beginning to suspect that Clockwork was using Dan’s violent tantrums as an opportunity to redecorate: the viewing screens themselves used to be located at the tower’s highest point, Dan is pretty sure. But now they’ve made their home in the base of the tower—as far away from Dan’s room as possible.

Like Clockwork is trying to give him space, for all the good that does him.

He can't stand the silence, and he can't stand Clockwork either, so he broods noncommittally and hovers in Clockwork's periphery instead.

That is, until something interesting happens.

It's not always easy for Clockwork to get a bead on the Observants. Since his job is monitoring the timestream, those beings which categorically recuse themselves from Time to play at outside observers fall similarly outside Clockwork's purview.

To put it more bluntly, they fervently refuse to do anything of consequence, and that makes them excruciatingly boring to watch.

Clockwork's considerable mental faculties would be better spent watching a colony of ants build a nest than devoting a single iota of his attention to a bunch of arrogant do-nothings like the Observants.

But their commitment to causal irrelevancy nets them an unusual strength: Clockwork, who is rarely taken by surprise, cannot ordinarily anticipate their visits.

Clockwork is especially inattentive to such remote possibilities today, because Dan is behaving strangely—something which never fails to capture his attention. He always intended to take his responsibilities regarding the ill-fated ghostly fusion seriously, of course, and he is mindful of their unspoken arrangement's delicacy. But Clockwork was surprised to find a satisfying challenge in trying to predict Dan’s behavior. His state of mind is volatile enough that his very existence contains thousands of possibilities, even just from moment to moment. He is not unpredictable, per se, but at times there are so many possibilities that Clockwork might as well have no idea what Dan is going to do next.

It is unexpectedly thrilling.

So it is with a heavy heart that Clockwork registers the arrival of much drearier and less interesting company. "Observants," he coolly greets without turning around. "I don't suppose this is a social call?"

"Of course not!" one of them blusters. "Don't be ridiculous, Clockwork!"

"The fate of the world—"

"Nay, Time itself!"

"— Time itself is at stake!"

With a silent sigh, Clockwork adjusts the viewing screen until it shows Danny relaxing with his friends in the aftermath of a successful ghost hunt. The sight of his charge safe and happy gives Clockwork the strength to withstand even the Observants' incessant catastrophizing, and he takes a deep breath.

"You say that every time," Clockwork points out.

"And last time we were right!" the somehow more nasally Observant proclaims. Clockwork supposes it was too much to hope for that they wouldn’t take the whole Danny debacle as something over which they could claim bragging rights.

“Were you,” Clockwork murmurs. Their proposed solution had been to destroy Danny, and Clockwork hadn’t even done that. Far from it—now there were two of them. “And you don’t suppose I would have intervened in my own time?”

“Yes, well, it’s all in the past now...”

“The past shapes the present,” Clockwork says, giving them a sharp look over his shoulder. “... Which in turn determines the future. It is not something to be so lightly discarded.” The Observants have no answer for this, and Clockwork sighs softly at finding no suitable audience for his thoughts. “What is it this time?” he asks with an air of resignation.

The nasally Observant apparently takes issue with his tone. "This is no small matter, Clockwork! The Reality Gauntlet—"

Clockwork abruptly lifts a hand—nearly stops time to ensure the Observant speaks no further, but luckily he catches on and clams up, removing the need for any more dramatic intervention. Those two words are all Clockwork needs to hone his attention on the artefact as it pertains to the timestream and analyze it for temporal pitfalls.

But it's also all Dan needs to take an interest.

“I suggest you speak with a little more discretion while you’re here,” Clockwork cautions. 

“What,” scoffs the Observant who had spoken, “Whatever for? There’s no one here but us.”

“For a pair of egg-heads,” Dan chimes in from the shadows, “you don’t seem very bright after all.”

The Observants quail and cringe from the sound of Dan’s voice, stumbling backward dramatically. Though they have no legs to trip over, they make an impressive effort to do so with their capes instead.

“Careful,” Dan laughs unkindly, “or you might just... crack.”

“Clockwork!” one of them wails indignantly. “What is the meaning of this!”

Dan had been so uncharacteristically well-behaved today, and utterly silent from the moment the Observants arrived, that Clockwork had temporarily ceased to account for all the possibilities he brought along to every situation. When weighed against the highly sensitive and reactionary Observants, Dan’s potential actions multiplied exponentially. In a worst case scenario, Dan could easily kill them, should he take offense to their involvement in his fate.

What, then, to do?

Clockwork regains his composure and exhales measuredly, taking a microscopic moment to consider his options. They do have a lot of nerve, coming here so soon after their last request, he decides.

“You’re the ones who asked me to take care of him,” Clockwork points out. “So here I am.” He gestures at Dan, draped with gargoyle-like menace over a massive gear that only turns over once a week. He must have been doing a bit of observing himself to identify that fixture as a suitable perch, and something like satisfaction settles in Clockwork’s chest to know his cohabitant has begun to learn more about his surroundings, beyond what little he can glean while he’s busy destroying them. “Taking care of him.”

“This...! This...!”

“This was not what we meant!”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” Clockwork snaps, and Dan shifts in the darkness, red eyes watching Clockwork with a gleam of intrigue. “You asked me to handle it, and I did—at my discretion.” He lifts a hand in curt, eloquent gesture, inviting them to reflect on the wisdom of their own decision-making. “If my methods aren’t to your liking... Feel free not to ask, next time.”

The Observants dither indecisively. Coming face-to-face with the consequences of their last request, they’re clearly questioning the wisdom of asking anything else of Clockwork. They glance furtively in Dan’s direction, hesitant to speak any more of their stated purpose lest they give the ghost dangerous ideas.

Dan folds his arms over one knee and leans forward attentively.

“Th-Then we’ll return another time,” the deep-voiced Observant stammers nervously.

“I’m afraid I can’t pencil you in any time soon,” Clockwork drolls unapologetically. He turns back to the viewing screens, fiddling with his staff. “Just send me an e-mail.”

“But ecto-mail is so slow!” the nasally Observant protests.

“Then perhaps your formidable powers of observation can locate a more reliable messenger,” Clockwork muses. “I know a trio of vultures that does quick work... Though they’re not especially discreet.”

In the face of Clockwork’s insincere suggestions, the Observants have no rebuttal. They share a look, conferring silently. They glance at Clockwork, who seems to have lost interest in them completely, and at Dan, whose piercing gaze gleams with the curiosity and hunger of an ambush predator.

The Observants vanish without another word.

In the ensuing quiet, Clockwork fiddles with the viewing screen. A Greco-Roman symposium full of even more Observants comes into view. The strange creatures gesticulate wildly with conversational emphasis, as the pair of representatives returning from their errand to the clock tower report back to the fold.

Dan chuckles darkly. "I was beginning to wonder if anything got under your skin."

Clockwork hums consideringly, and Dan nearly startles. He'd gotten used to Clockwork playing along, pretending he couldn’t see or hear Dan while he played at being a fly on the wall. Is he only responding now because the Observants’ visit has put a tacit end to their game? Or is it because this is the first time Dan has addressed him directly?

"Very little does," Clockwork agrees. "But I have my preferences, just like anyone."

Dan clambers out of the gear teeth he's nestled between to leap into the light, using his powers of flight to slow his fall. "So if I want to piss you off, I just need to nag you like those cowardly imbeciles?" Dan finds himself drawing nearer, watching the flock of Observants as they flit about on the screen with all the flightiness and pomp of brightly-feathered birds.

Clockwork lifts a brow, turning his head to glance sidelong at Dan on his approach. “The foundations of the timeline would surely tremble if you, of all people, started asking me to meddle.”

“Hah!” Dan barks out a laugh, and his brain tingles strangely in the rush of unfamiliar positive feeling. How long has it been since he heard a decent joke? Even when Dan deigned to keep subordinates, they were either too terrified or too stupid to make him laugh with anything but derision. The Fright Knight had been particularly disappointing in that regard—uprooting Dan’s formerly firmly-held conviction that horror and comedy went hand-in-hand.

On the viewing screen, the Observants have several screens of their own, and in the wake of Clockwork’s curt dismissal they seem to be fretting over a highlight reel of Dan’s greatest calamities. He grins with savage nostalgia, only to falter with suspicion.

“Wait... Are those spineless, pathetic little ectoplasmic snowglobes spying on me?” he snarls, hands curling into savage claws. He wonders whether Clockwork has enabled the portal function of the viewing screens since the last time Dan attempted to use them in a daring escape. Probably not, Dan laments.

Clockwork chuckles quietly. “No, they only have past recordings. This tower is one of the few places they can’t freely observe.”

It’s a dark day indeed when Dan is relieved to be under Clockwork’s thumb. He tamps down on the feeling, reminding himself that if Clockwork weren’t keeping him prisoner he could just deal with the Observants personally. Permanently. 

“And it’s not their nagging that bothers me. It’s their refusal to take matters into their own hands.”

“Is that all? You hate them because they don’t do anything?” Dan drawls, feeling persecuted for some reason. What do they have that I don’t? “I don’t do anything either, you know. In case that somehow escaped your notice, despite it being entirely your doing.”

Clockwork tilts his head, smiling bemusedly up at Dan. “You’re nothing like them.”

“Well, obviously,” Dan scoffs. “I could kill them with a thought.”

Then I wonder why you didn’t, Clockwork doesn’t say. But he’s certainly thinking it. “It's less a matter of power than potential,” he patiently explains. “The Observants never venture from their marble halls, for fear of changing something they shouldn’t.”

Growing impatient, Dan demands, “And how is that any different than what you’ve reduced me to?”

Clockwork smiles, his brow gently furrowed—like he has no idea how Dan can’t see what he does. “Your circumstances aren’t your nature. If I ever lowered my guard, and you somehow managed to escape from here... I have no doubt you’d bring the world to its knees once more.”

Dan’s lips part incredulously. “... Isn’t ‘bringing the world to its knees’ the entire reason you locked me up in here?!”

Clockwork leans upon his staff with leisurely ease. “Well, I can hardly let you go through with it. But it’s the principle of the thing.”

And what principle is that, Dan wonders? “Wholesale slaughter?” he guesses tonelessly.

Clockwork snorts. “No,” he says, like he's trying very hard to indulge a student's earnest effort with praise, although the answer is obvious to him. He lifts a hand to gesture at Dan, who rears back from the sudden movement. “It's something more akin to... self-determination.”

Dan scowls, dissatisfied. “You want to run that one by me again?”

Clockwork obliges, “Your indomitable spirit and formidable ghostly energy grants you near-limitless potential. Well—I suppose there are only so many ways to bring about the end of the world... But theoretically, you could do anything.”

It’s the last thing Dan expects to hear, and it puts him entirely on the back foot. Though he’d never admit it under pain of oblivion, his quest for power stemmed from his first and last failure to protect the people closest to him. Ever since then, he’d stifled the guilt and grief with anger at a world that could still be happy when he was hurting, consoled his bleeding heart with the conviction that he couldn’t have done anything differently. There was cold comfort in the certainty that his fate had been inevitable.

Because if it wasn’t, he’d never stop wondering what he could have done differently to avoid it.

“Even now,” Clockwork says thoughtfully, drawing Dan out of his inner thoughts, “I sometimes struggle to predict your actions.”

This strikes Dan as a rather unwise admission. If he’s hearing this right, then he just needs to do something unexpected to catch Clockwork off-guard, doesn’t he?

“Is that so...” Dan murmurs speculatively.

“Yes,” Clockwork says. “I daresay this is the most fun I’ve had in centuries.”

Clockwork must not have predicted that that was exactly the wrong thing to say—or else he knew it full well, but said it anyway to provoke Dan's anger for his amusement.

Dan lashes out to seize a fistful of Clockwork's cloak. “So my life is a game to you—” But an uncompromising grip catches his wrist mid-air, thwarting the threatening gesture.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Clockwork says in a conciliatory tone. "... And I'd prefer you avoid making any sudden movements, if you insist on standing so close."

Dan’s reflexes are beyond compare—to anyone but Clockwork, apparently. Moreover, it seems like ‘more violence’ isn’t the answer to defying Clockwork’s expectations of him. Neither violence nor avoidance would be outside the scope of behavior Clockwork has come to expect from Dan. What else is there?

Dan jerks his arm, but Clockwork's hold is firm. "So if I move slowly," he drawls sarcastically, "you don't care what I do?"

Though Clockwork clearly recognizes the sarcasm, he sounds perfectly sincere when he replies, "Not especially, no."

Dan's eyes narrow. Experimentally, he uncurls his fist into a loose cradle. Clockwork almost looks skeptical enough to refuse when Dan says, "You can let go now." But he loosens his grip, and Dan rotates his wrist until it’s free. Then, slowly, he takes Clockwork's own wrist in retaliation.

It’s almost comical how easily it could be avoided, but the strangest part is that Clockwork allows it. He blinks bewilderedly at the contact, like he truly hadn't expected Dan to bridge the gap between them just to prove a point. As long as Clockwork doesn't suspect Dan of preparing an attack, it seems he'll permit much more than Dan anticipated.

The question remains: what to do with this information?

One thing is certain: if he just stands there holding onto Clockwork’s arm, he’s going to look like an idiot. "Why do you even have this many watches?" Dan demands, a bit desperately. "Are they some kind of power source?" Vlad had been a tireless collector of powerful artefacts from the Ghost Zone, and Dan knew better than to underestimate a seemingly innocuous accessory. The Observants had also mentioned a ‘Reality Gauntlet’, and while Clockwork’s simple gray gloves were unlikely to be the bearers of such an ostentatious title, it couldn’t hurt to ask.

Clockwork peers strangely up at Dan, but answers, "They're ordinary wristwatches. Wearing additional timepieces improves my awareness of the flow of time around me."

"Is that all," Dan mutters, quickly losing interest.

"... They sometimes respond to temporal anomalies, or the fruition of remote possibilities," Clockwork says, "but that's just because I'm the one wearing them."

"Of course," Dan says, like anything about Clockwork’s ridiculous abilities stands to reason. He gently turns Clockwork's arm to examine the wristwatches more closely. Two tick forward at a leisurely pace—but the third is going completely haywire, the minute hand spinning backwards at improbable speeds while the hour hand jerks and twitches like it's trying to escape the mechanism. Dan huffs with faint humor. "And this one?" he asks, tapping the watch face with his thumb. The twitching hour hand shivers like a compass needle.

"I believe it's responding to you," Clockwork says, quiet and wry.

“What—because I’m a temporal anomaly?” Dan asks, tone dripping with careless derision.

“No,” Clockwork answers. “I already told you. You’re—potential personified.”

The way Clockwork says it makes something like pride swell in Dan’s chest. He can do anything. Even the Master of Time doesn’t know what he’ll do next.

Impulsively, Dan leans down to steal a kiss.

Clockwork inhales sharply, which makes his lips part so conveniently that Dan can’t help but press his advantage, relishing the rare taste of softness. He doesn’t belabor the point—he draws the kiss to a close with a hint of teeth and an air of finality, fangs snagging on soft blue lips and rewarding Dan with a quiet gasp, and a full-body shiver he won’t soon forget.

Dan leans back to admire his handiwork. Clockwork stares up at him in thunderstruck disbelief, jaw slack and cheeks flushed a fetching shade of dark blue.

“I don’t suppose you predicted that,” Dan murmurs, smirking with satisfaction at Clockwork’s speechless floundering. He releases Clockwork’s wrist and turns on his heel, making his way to the spiral staircase as he picks up an uncharacteristically jaunty whistle to accompany him upstairs.

It seems spontaneity is the quickest way to slip past Clockwork’s defenses, Dan muses. He can’t imagine the Master of Time has had many opportunities to be intimate, so inexperience could also be a factor—though granted, Dan doesn’t have much more experience than Clockwork. He rubs his mouth thoughtfully, faintly unnerved at the way the feeling of Clockwork's lips seems to linger. Maybe kissing his jailer wasn’t the brightest idea after all.

If nothing else, the consequences are unlikely to be boring.

Chapter Text

Being forewarned is not quite the same as being forearmed.

Clockwork sees all of time stretched out before him like a grand vista. It is a view he never tires of, a landscape painting with which he is intimately familiar, yet in whose brushstrokes and detail work he occasionally finds something he hadn't noticed before—or if he did, he may find that viewing it from a new perspective gives it a different characteristic, though no fundamental change has occurred.

Causality, his perception of it, inevitability, new possibilities—and all of it firmly within Clockwork's infinite purview, forward and backward, and sometimes, utterly motionless—for those rare occasions when he likes to bask in the moment.

Clockwork has existed for millennia, and like an author a long way from penning his story's final chapter, he had still known, on some level, the broad strokes of Dan's creation: his journey from hero to villain, the ways Dan would challenge Clockwork's capabilities, be a trial for him in every sense of the word. He might even say he'd been looking forward to their meeting, just for the brief intellectual challenge Dan would pose—a challenge worthy of Clockwork's capabilities, before the timeline went plodding along predictably as before.

Clockwork believed the possibility of Dan kissing him was exceedingly remote. Such an act would surely be odious to the ghost who so deeply resented Clockwork for thwarting his campaign of ruthless destruction. If anything, Dan might conceivably kiss him to disgust or alarm him, or out of a simple contrarian desire to defy Clockwork's violent expectations of him. Clockwork had been sure he was prepared for that, too.

It is not the mere fact of Dan having kissed him that undoes Clockwork's fine-tuned control. Rather—he realizes far too late that he was unprepared for the experience itself.

In all his existence, the Master of Time has never been kissed.

Clockwork has never craved softness or warmth, but having both bestowed so gently upon his lips without expectation makes him suddenly desperate with an incomprehensible hunger for more. He does not know how to respond, whether to ignorantly reciprocate or instinctually recoil—but Dan clearly has his own ideas, departing with a teasing bite that gives rise to a squirming, directionless desire in Clockwork's chest cavity that he has no idea what to do with.

So to say he had not predicted the kiss would not be entirely correct. He had known it might happen, and when it solidified from mere possibility into present reality, he had seen it coming with clear eyes. His folly had been taking his own self-mastery for granted, assuming right up until the crucial moment that he could remain impartial.

And then Dan's lips, which spat only cruel invective and abrasive mockery, had revealed a capacity for gentleness neither of them had ever known. The kiss was warm, and Dan's beard had scratched his chin, his nose nudging Clockwork's with a quiet exhale, which condensated in a warm, ghostly caress across Clockwork's cheek.

Clockwork's mind was like a fine-tuned watch in its own right, an elaborate and complex machine with thousands of intricate parts moving in tandem. At any given moment, Clockwork held the whole of reality in the palm of his hand, juggling a quantity of disparate thought unfathomable to any being constrained by a linear understanding of Time. 

Yet for the very first time, every thought flew from his head like a flock of birds taking swift flight, leaving only feathers and fluff in their wake.

For a long, protracted moment, Clockwork's mind is silent and empty.

And Dan, believing he had only won a small victory over Clockwork in a game of simple probability, failing to realize he had momentarily debilitated the Master of Time with desperate longing for a touch only he could provide—Dan departed without exploiting the advantage he hadn't seen.

If Dan had chosen that moment to strike, Clockwork would have been defenseless no matter what Dan chose to do to him.

When Dan has gone, Clockwork touches his lips, chasing the phantom sensation of that kiss—marveling at his newfound weakness.

Chapter Text

Antagonism aside, Dan's presence in Clockwork's tower has resulted in several unexpectedly positive changes to Clockwork's routine.

Firstly, Clockwork was free of the Observants' tiresome visits in seeming perpetuity, so long as Dan remained in residence at the clock tower.

Secondly, the Observants had evidently taken to heart Clockwork's recommendation that they employ written correspondence in lieu of further visits.

Thirdly, and most immediately amusing, is their choice of courier.

One of the vultures formerly in Vlad's employ is perched on the doorstep of Clockwork's tower, a parchment scroll tied to its ankle. It doffs its fez and bows with a theatrically modest sweep of its wing.

"Most respectful greetings to the Master of All Time," it declares, "Timekeeper Extraordinaire, Caretaker of Chronology, Most Illustrious Time Incarnate—"

Clockwork covers his mouth in a gesture of faux thought to stifle his sudden urge to laugh. "You can dispense with the pleasantries." He hasn't heard half those titles in aeons. "I suppose the Observants sent you."

"Just so, Your Perceptiveness!"

Clockwork would almost suspect the Observants of mocking him, but something this elaborate would require a sense of humor, which he's quite sure they lack. Though they often take him for granted, it seems they still hold enough respect for his station to impress a sense of deference upon those beings they consider mere participants in Time's passage.

"I see," says Clockwork. "Let's have it, then."

The vulture hastens to remove its burden, which it holds up to Clockwork with both wings like a supplicant.

Clockwork accepts the scroll and unrolls it, within which he expects to find censure at Dan's freedom of movement and much whining for Clockwork to attend to the Timeline's latest drama. Instead, he finds a politely-worded letter observing every conceivable convention of traditional etiquette, which consists only of the pertinent details of the upcoming Reality Gauntlet event, and a humble request for Clockwork's assurance that all will be as it should.

Clockwork is struck with the realization that the Observants' anxious hand-wringing must lend itself better to letter-writing than to speech. They must have had every eye on this, scouring it for errors or conceivable double meanings—because Clockwork can find no fault with it.

Clockwork reads it thoroughly, then waves a hand over it, unmaking the words like they were never there. It wouldn't do for Dan to discover the letter's contents, lest he renew his escape attempts in earnest in an attempt to use the Reality Gauntlet's formidable powers for his own ends. 

"Thank you for bringing this to me," Clockwork says, tucking the now-blank scroll into his belt. He reaches into the future where he has already written his answer, and it falls into his hand—though it's lighter than he expects. He trusts his future self, so he doesn't question it. "Would you be so kind as to bring them my reply?"

The bird scrapes and bows, and Clockwork doesn't resist the urge to laugh this time.

"Please, there's no need to be so formal." And seeing the vulture struggle to affix the scroll to his ankle with his wings alone, Clockwork beckons him closer. "Let me help you with that."

The vulture flies up with a cautious look in its eye, flapping its wings as its fiery tail feathers billow behind it. Clockwork affixes the scroll neatly to its ankle.

"What's your name?" Clockwork asks.

The bird gives him a queer look. "... Er, Ferez, Your All-Knowingness."

Yes, it's true that Clockwork knows most things—including Ferez's name, and the details of all two thousand and eight years of his ghostly existence. But that's no reason to be rude to someone who's doing him a favor. "Ferez. You may simply call me Clockwork."

Ferez inspects the scroll tied to his ankle. "If you say so," he says skeptically, though he can't seem to find fault with Clockwork's handiwork, at least.

Clockwork holds his arm out at a right angle, and Ferez is so taken aback by the informal behavior that he alights on the Timekeeper's glove like a falcon, as if by instinct. "Good," says Clockwork. He absently straightens a few stray feathers in the vulture's wing, and Ferez grunts in bewildered gratitude. Clockwork smiles knowingly. "And don't read this one."

Ferez gawks, overbalances, and falls from Clockwork's arm into the air, wings flapping frantically. "I, uh! I didn't—"

"My letter isn't nearly as interesting as theirs, you see," Clockwork kindly explains. Ferez avoids Clockwork's gaze. "In all seriousness, I trust you won't divulge what you've learned to anyone else..."

"I won't!" Ferez squawks.

"I'll know if you do," Clockwork assures him.

Ferez shivers, his feather-flames flickering with unease. "Alright, alright already! You've made your point!"

"I'm glad to hear it." Clockwork waves a hand over the clock tower's doors, activating the complex inner mechanism of interlocking gears to permit him entry. "Safe travels."

The vulture beats a quick retreat, and Clockwork disappears inside his domain.

"Who was at the door?"

Clockwork returns to the center chamber to find Dan standing there, arms folded and eyes affixed to the viewing screens. Though Dan's gaze is fixed, it is a distant and unseeing gaze—as if he is only pretending to watch what's on the screen while intently observing Clockwork in his periphery.

Clockwork smiles, and his suspicion is confirmed when Dan answers with an automatic scowl.

"A letter from the Observants." Dan did not need to know the messenger was one of his former subordinates, lest he try to secure their servitude once more. "I suppose I should be grateful you scared them off. They're much more tolerable in the medium of letters."

"Because if you close your eyes, you can't hear them any more?"

Clockwork lets out a surprised laugh, and Dan grimaces with undisguised conflict of feeling. Like he's gratified to have startled Clockwork, but displeased to have made him smile. As he stares, his expression only grows more perplexed, and Clockwork lifts a curious brow.

"Is there something on my face?" Clockwork coyly asks.

Dan's brow furrows, and he takes a step closer. Clockwork sways, but does not retreat. He suspects he's just as curious as Dan to see what each moment of their inadvisable posturing will reveal—an indulgence he can ill afford with so dangerous a prisoner, but Clockwork is lately discovering that all the knowing in the world can't lessen the temptation of waiting to see what Dan will do next.

"There could be," Dan murmurs, staring brazenly at Clockwork's blithely smiling mouth.

Clockwork may be able to account for a multitude of possible branching futures, but knowing what Dan might do doesn't necessarily tell Clockwork why, or what he's thinking. Usually the why is something he can deduce—but all Clockwork's insight into the behavioral patterns of humans and ghosts helps him little here; Dan is an anomaly in every sense of the word, and his hybrid madness creates a complex cocktail of conflicting motivations.

Dan takes gentle hold of his chin. Clockwork's cheeks tingle strangely.

"Are you just going to kiss me whenever you want to catch me off my guard?" Clockwork quietly inquires, bemused. "It won't be so surprising every time."

"You're so sure of that," Dan mutters doubtfully, but he drops his hand, dissuaded.

Clockwork is surprised to find the unusual lament of a lost opportunity clamoring in his chest. “I am sure of most things,” he says, in the midst of growing uncertainty about his reflexive impulse to question, and thereby forefend, Dan's gentleness. If Clockwork is to reform the timeline's ultimate enemy, it strikes him that it can only be advantageous to reward and indulge Dan's curiosity for nonviolence—regardless of whatever peculiar shape it takes.

Dan scowls. He lifts his hand again, and Clockwork watches it rise, sees it waver with indecision upon the fulcrum of future possibility he can see clearly ahead. When Dan decides upon a course of action, Clockwork can see it in the set of his shoulders, and he watches bemusedly as Dan reaches for him again.

Dan’s touch comes to rest on Clockwork’s waist, quickening the pendulum in his chest by a fraction of a second. Such a change would be imperceptible to most, but Dan smiles crookedly, like the reaction is obvious to him. It’s not inconceivable to imagine that Dan has grown accustomed to the tempo of Clockwork’s inner workings, with how closely he's been watching him.

The thought sits strangely alongside unaccountable feeling and clockwork arrhythmia in his chest.

Dan doesn’t hide his claws as he draws a wavy path down Clockwork's side, and Clockwork jolts. Knowing the touch will come is utterly incomparable to the experience of touch itself, interrupting all thought with inescapable sensation.

It’s been a long time since anything anchored Clockwork so inescapably to the present moment.

Clockwork is tempted to close his eyes and surrender to that sensation, but he resists—though that only leaves the alternative of meeting Dan's intently gleaming eyes.

"I can feel your ribs," Dan murmurs as a clawtip skitters over one. He smiles wryly. "I didn't realize you were starving yourself."

Clockwork huffs. "There's hardly any room in here for digestive processes... Or ribs, for that matter."

Dan pauses. He taps the pane of glass which protects Clockwork's inner workings, and Clockwork inhales sharply.

"You're referring to this."

Clockwork would not say he experiences anything like the phenomenon of human anxiety, but Dan's touch provokes something like vestigial self-preservation in him, making him feel somewhat better acquainted with the concept.

"... Yes," says Clockwork, frowning. "Don't—" 

Dan drags his claw down, and if it were mere manufactured glass, it would surely leave a mark. Clockwork inhales sharply, his breath stuttering on a quiet hiccup as Dan's claw catches over the bottom frame of the glass-inlaid door. It skates with painstaking slowness, inescapable and torturously feather-light, over the narrow band of flesh beneath the glass door.

Dan's claw comes to rest on Clockwork's belt, where it makes use of its narrow point to wedge a small gap between Clockwork's tunic and the belt in question.

Dan's smile is bright and sly as his gleaming red eyes. Clockwork stares, breathless and transfixed, as that forked tongue lashes out—scenting like a snake—and his smile widens, as if whatever smell he's detected in the charged space between them delights him.

Dan asks with careful, ponderous, lilting curiosity, "So is there anything else you don't have room for in there...?"

Dan's smile does not hide his satisfaction, but that brings Clockwork no closer to knowing which meaning of the phrase he intends. All of them, no doubt—the better to appall Clockwork with the possibilities. And none of them—because surely Dan doesn't mean to follow through with any of the innuendo he's wielding.

Or does he...?

When Clockwork resurfaces from these contemplations, he opens his mouth to make an attempt at answering Dan’s crass question—but then Dan disappears. The sudden absence of his claw pulling gently on Clockwork's belt jostles the Timekeeper forward.

Clockwork turns to find Dan at the other end of the room, scowling at a blank scroll.

"Is that all you wanted?" Clockwork asks, almost relieved to discover his purpose was something so mundane. Tension leaves him like the last sonorous echoes of a clock tower bell. "You might have asked." Though that would be even further out of character than an impulsive seduction.

Dan disdains to ask for that which he can take.

"What is this?" Dan hotly demands, as if Clockwork is the one who has transgressed by having nothing interesting to steal. "Invisible ink?" Comprehension, of a kind, dawns on Dan's face. His bewildered frown splits slowly into a furious snarl, his disdainful upper lip curling high enough to reveal the pink gum above a fang.

Dan turns his mutinous gaze toward Clockwork. His red eyes glow an ominous vermilion.

"Was this," Dan enunciates, a question that has more in common with a threat, "a... test?"

Venom oozes from the word. It's not hard to guess why.

Through the thick and heavy curtain of tension, Clockwork drifts like a cool breeze to Dan's side and reclaims the scroll—an easy task, now that Dan has lost interest in its unenlightening contents.

“No,” says Clockwork. "I already know you don't test well."

Dan’s expression of growing rage crumples into one of disgust at Clockwork’s ill-timed humor.

Clockwork tucks the blank scroll into his belt again. "I simply needed the paper to pen my reply,” he explains. “If you’re curious about what it said, you can just ask.”

Dan scoffs and tosses his head aside, dropping his hands to rest on his hips with an air of weary resignation. "As if you'll actually tell me." He glares with dim disinterest into the shadowed depths of the clock tower's mechanism.

Clockwork was actually planning to stonewall him as punishment for stealing the scroll in the first place—but Dan’s frustrated expression gives him pause. Keeping Dan in the dark is inarguably the safest option, in the grand scheme of things... But perhaps Clockwork can strategically reveal enough to appease Dan’s curiosity, while still keeping the risk of intervention low?

Part of him wonders whether his lately permissive mood has something to do with Dan's curious new interest in touching him. But, he reasons, it is uncharitable to tease a man bored out of his skull with such a tempting secret—even if he only thwarted him by taking reasonable precautions. And though the theft itself could be construed as misconduct, Clockwork considers that it may be kinder and fairer to offer Dan some information after all, in light of the fact that he managed to pilfer the scroll without resorting to violence—with so much gentleness, in fact, that Clockwork hadn't even realized it was happening.

Actually, the depths of his ruse—his pretense of conversation, his commitment to gentleness, his frankly quite compelling seduction attempt—strikes Clockwork as incredibly funny in retrospect, for all that it was essentially a cartoonish slapstick routine of misdirection that Clockwork had utterly fallen for.

All for a prize no more remarkable than a blank sheet of paper.

Clockwork hums in thought, and Dan levels him with a withering gaze that expects no charity from his jailer.

"It does concern you, in a sense, so I suppose you have a right to know..." Clockwork thinks aloud. Dan lifts an unimpressed brow, like he's expecting a 'but'. "... But I'm actually expecting another visitor soon. Perhaps we can discuss it afterward?"

Dan's brow furrows, and his lips purse, clearly skeptical of this deferment's sincerity. "Oh yeah?" he challenges. "Who's that?"

Clockwork doubts Dan will be pleased to hear it, but failing to forewarn him will only worsen the inevitable outburst. "Your younger self."

Dan's eyes widen, but he quickly recovers from his shock and folds his arms with a scowl. "What, you solve his problems once, and now he's going to start coming to you every few months for a do-over?" he demands with a kind of gobsmacked incredulity. "What is it this time? Did he get pantsed in the school locker room?"

"I believe he views me as a mentor figure. He could certainly use one." Clockwork says pointedly, "And there are certainly worse mentors he could choose."

Dan snorts. “Right... Should I hide in my room like a surly teenager, then?” He shakes his head and mutters with mulish rebellion, “It's like I never left home.”

Though he oozes insincerity, Clockwork is not opposed to Dan considering the clock tower his home. “You’re welcome to watch,” he says, “but I would ask you not to interfere.”

“Well, aren't we feeling generous today?" Dan drawls. "Thanks, but no thanks. I just realized if I have to see that stupid face of his, I'm going to break something.” Dan turns sharply away, his cloak snapping behind him as he lifts a hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Alright,” Clockwork says. “I’ll let you know when the coast is clear.”

“Don’t bother,” says Dan. “I’m taking a nap.”

As Dan departs, Clockwork thinks of surly teenagers.

Clockwork is flattered Danny comes to him so readily with the first difficult problem he faces after they've become acquainted. A boy his age shouldn't have the weight of the world on his shoulders—and if the weight is unavoidable, it's best to let others help him carry it.

He'd rather advise Danny directly than be asked to change the past at his convenience, but it's true that young people don't respond well to lectures. Sometimes the only way for them to learn is to let them make their own mistakes.

Clockwork weighs the consequences, but finds his judgment swayed by Danny's entreaty. He had played the role of villain in their first encounter to motivate Danny to heroism, but Clockwork's resolve to act impartially is weakened by the earnest admiration in Danny's eyes.

Foreknowledge of potential futures doesn't mean nothing can surprise him—nor does an outside view of future events adequately prepare him for the emotional experience of living through it. Remaining so long in isolation convinced Clockwork he was immune to the caprices of the heart—but perhaps he was simply unpracticed in navigating them. Faced with Danny's pleading expression and his earnest request for a chance to change his friends' fate, Clockwork begins to suspect that his isolation has only made him all the more susceptible to the persuasive power of sentiment.

That, Clockwork would come to realize, would be his first mistake.

Dan can't sleep. 

He's anxious, he realizes—hearing the clock tower's double doors creak open and slam shut, the grating cry of a high, pubescent voice. He strains his ear toward the conversation in the central chamber of the clock tower. His weaker self's whiny voice has to echo on so many surfaces just to reach him at the tower's apex that it comes through tinny as a radio—distorted enough he might not have even recognized it for who it was, if Clockwork hadn't told him.

Why the hell had he told him?

The knowledge that his former self is here, in a place that has thus far been a sanctum of tranquility, gives rise to a buzzing irritation along his skin, accumulating in a hot and heady outrage that smolders at the base of his skull. Just a few stories down, that brat is begging Clockwork to intervene in his mundane little life, to serve as cosmic white-out to his feckless mistakes. Absolutely ridiculous.

Where was Clockwork in his timeline, to tidy up all his mistakes? The Grandmaster of Time had only made his entrance on the stage of Dan's life long after the last threshold of unavoidable consequences had been crossed of his own heedless volition. Every time, Clockwork had earnestly petitioned Dan to stray from the path of wholesale destruction. But the more he learned about the Timekeeper, the less he credited his entreaties as mere naivete. It had to be calculated.

If Clockwork had truly wanted to stop Dan from turning the surface of the Earth into a blasted wasteland and crippling all his foes, then he could have simply prevented the inciting incident from ever occurring in the first place. 

As he curls up in his bed and laments the injustice of it all, he gradually takes notice of the fact that the conversation downstairs has gone quiet. Dan wonders if he has stewed in spite so long that he has missed the conclusion of his former self's visit, and feels a strange sense of something like loss at the thought. He had devoted so much time to meditating on his hatred that he had failed to even consider the merits of intervening, attacking, or confronting his weaker half—

Agony, sudden and electric, scorches Dan from his skull down to his fingertips, and he thrashes from the bed so violently that he rips the bedding. He crashes to the floor in a dizzying whirl of violet drapery, gasping and stunned with pain, his stomach twisting tight with nausea. He feels every impact between his flailing limbs and the hard floor like a jolt of excruciating lightning.

Dan screams through his teeth, and when he recovers his senses through the bright flashes of deliriously powerful pain, enough to suspect a culprit in his suffering, he roars with righteous fury, “Clockwork!!”

In the space between one second and the next, the Timekeeper arrives at his side. Even the Fright Knight never attended Dan so dutifully.

“What is it?” Clockwork asks, lowering himself to the floor beside Dan. He takes firm hold of Dan’s shoulder, and Dan is too paralyzed with pain to protest. It also feels like the contact with Clockwork is alleviating the pain somewhat... But he can’t be sure. It’s been ages since he felt like this—ripped apart molecule by molecule—and the pain is breathtaking, all-consuming. It's difficult to tell if movement or touch make it worse or better, when every moment of the experience replaces the last with a brand new agony.

"Feels like—" Dan's voice comes out wavering, small and tight with the strain of acute pain. "... Like I’m being ripped apart.”

Clockwork squeezes his shoulder, and Dan whines like a wounded dog, wincing and turn his head away like an animal cowering from an impending blow.

“Bear with it for a moment," Clockwork says, soft and urgent. "I’ll be right back.”

Clockwork isn’t gone for long. But to Dan, whose every second is stretched with the viscerality of intolerable pain, it feels like a lengthy and merciless eternity.

Then just as suddenly as it arrived, the pain departs.

Carefully, still trembling all-over with the lingering aftershocks of excruciating molecular torment, Dan opens his eyes—screwed shut at some point—to see his nails digging into the floor where he first fell on his hands and knees.

And between his face and the floor, a gear-shaped amulet sways gently—like it just arrived there by Clockwork's beneficent hand. 

Dan falls back on the seat of his pants in an exhausted sprawl, locking one elbow out to brace his weight upon a trembling arm. The other, he rubs up his face and rakes in nervous claws through his flaming hair. “What... the hell... was that?” he asks shakily. 

Clockwork hesitates. “... Your younger self changed the timeline so that Danny Fenton was never born.”

Dan drops his hand to stare, incredulous. “And you just let him?”

“He’ll change it back,” Clockwork says, though that's hardly any great assurance. You don't just change it back. There are always some things which remain irrevocably altered by meddling in time. Clockwork had told him so often enough, whenever Dan challenged him to fix his miserable life all those years ago. “And the information he’ll attain by experiencing this alternate sequence of events is crucial for future challenges he’ll face.”

Dan glowers mutinously. “Right,” he says, reclaiming the reins of his former indignation. “And you decided my suffering was an acceptable price for your golden boy to prosper, I'm guessing...? Without even telling me, I might add,” he tacks on—though not because he truly thought any better of Clockwork. His brazen hypocrisy simply merited some pointed acknowledgment, so long as Dan had the privilege of the broad view to recognize it this time.

Dan can't help but cynically wonder how often Clockwork's favoritism played into his allegedly impartial decision-making, where his weaker half was concerned.

But Clockwork’s brow furrows faintly in consternation. “No, I—I didn’t predict it would affect you this drastically," he admits, uncertainty lending an air of bewildered concern to his excuses. "I suppose I simply thought you were—stronger.”

A long, frigid silence follows this pronouncement. 

“... I beg your pardon?” Dan says, in a tone that neither begs nor pardons.

“I didn’t mean—” Clockwork hesitates, then starts again. “I thought you were... angrier.”

Is Clockwork saying the source of Dan’s strength is his anger? His thirst for violence and destruction, maybe? His vengeful heart...?

Dan laughs humorlessly. “Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I know what to do with it.” And how well had destroying the clock tower been going for him? The only time it didn’t make him feel worse than he started was when he’d dropped a gear on his spine, and Clockwork had carried his grievously injured body to bed.

Neither of his predecessors had been held like that since they were children—and Dan never had.

Clockwork's expression collapses into unwelcome sympathy. “Oh, Danny...”

Dan’s stomach squirms, responding strangely to the tender concern in Clockwork’s face and voice. “I’m not your golden boy,” Dan mutters, offended to be mistaken for the version of him that has apparently never done anything wrong in his life—nothing wrong enough to earn his own suffering lot, anyway.

“No,” Clockwork agrees. “But you're still my responsibility.”

Before Dan can come up with an answer to that, Clockwork’s hand slides across his shoulder blades, and he pulls Dan into the crook of his neck. 

“What are you doing,” Dan grumbles. There's an unexpected pocket of warmth in the folds of Clockwork's hood. His pale blue throat is close enough to bite.

“... What does it look like?” Clockwork softly asks, like he's actually curious. With his other hand, he completes the embrace, stroking a hand firmly down Dan’s spine.

Dan shudders, lifting a hand in awkward, aborted gesture. His heart cowers from any expression of vulnerable sentiment, and he stops short of grabbing Clockwork's arms or returning the embrace. His wayward hand lands instead in the folds of Clockwork's cloak, and he clings to it like a child might to his mother's skirts.

He sits rigidly in that embrace, and would probably have done so indefinitely—but in the wake of his pain-induced exhaustion, Dan soon falls limp, not so much relaxing into Clockwork's embrace as surrendering to it by necessity. His skin comes alive beneath Clockwork's touch as he slides his hands around Dan to reposition him, and his breath hitches strangely as he is lifted into the floating Clockwork's powerful arms.

Dan is too enervated and breathless to object, when Clockwork carries him the few remaining feet to the bed.

"I have to go keep an eye on Danny," Clockwork says apologetically.

"Of course," Dan whispers with tremulous spite, curling feebly onto his side toward Clockwork. "He's your favorite, after all..."

Dan is too busy burrowing with trembling discomfort into his pillow to catch the way Clockwork's frown turns troubled at this pronouncement. But when the Timekeeper lifts the time medallion and strokes a thumb over its insignia, it imparts a momentary gleam of ghostly blue that does catch Dan's attention—ensuring it is fully imbued with his power before laying it back to rest on the bedspread beside Dan's chest.

"As long as you're wearing that medallion, you shouldn't suffer any more ill effects from the timeline being in flux."

"... Okay," Dan says, pain abbreviating his usual ostentatious speech, curtailing his anger with brevity by necessity. He rolls onto his other side, away from Clockwork. His body aches, feels weak and sick. A tremor climbs his spine with nauseating, drunken steps. "Lemme know when it's over."

Dan is so preoccupied with shivering discomfort that he doesn't notice the blankets shift beneath him. But suddenly they are lain atop him with a feather-light caress—and he realizes Clockwork must have phased them through his body intangibly to retrieve them without disturbing Dan, and lay them over top of him like he's tucking him in.

"I will," Clockwork promises, moved to sympathy by the consequences of his negligent assumptions. "It will only be a few more hours... But I'll let you know."

Dan grunts with uncharacteristic acquiescence, pulling the bedding up to his chin and folding his shoulders in around himself.

Clockwork lifts a hand—but then Dan growls, either in simple discomfort or threatening premonition, and he is almost dissuaded by Dan's hostility from touching him any further.

But he weighs the scales: shall he heed what could easily be a threat, and leave Dan alone without another word? Or shall he ignore those warning signs and put himself at risk, in an attempt to forestall the remote potential of Dan suffering from that abandonment?

When he considers it in that light, the choice is quite easy. Clockwork even relaxes, possessed with new, unshakeable confidence in the wisdom of his course.

Clockwork tucks the blanket gently around Dan's shoulders. Blue flame flickers wildly, belying a quickening of Dan's heartbeat—though he remains still as a statue. Emboldened by the success of this first venturesome touch, Clockwork goes further—rubbing his hand slowly across Dan's shoulder blades, like he's soothing a sick child.

Dan shudders strangely. Clockwork continues stroking his back, marveling at Dan's stillness and silence, when he was certain such a touch would have resulted in a ferocious and immediate rejection. So transfixed is he by Dan's subdued state that he stays a little longer than he intends.

Until he can delay no longer.

Harboring a glimmer of regret in his clockwork heart, Clockwork pulls away, diffusing the built-up chill of their prolonged contact.

"I'll be back," Clockwork says quietly. Redundantly, perhaps. He's sure he conveyed as much to Dan just by explaining the situation. But as the hostile line of Dan's shoulders trembles just that little bit less, Clockwork reflects that there are, perhaps, enough benefits to stating the obvious that make it worth doing. To say more than only what is necessary.

He resists the urge to comfort Dan further, knowing that he really can't afford to leave Danny unattended during his sojourn into a parallel timeline—not least of all when his success shall be the fulcrum upon which Dan's continued well-being depends.

Clockwork rises from the bed and turns his back reluctantly on Dan's curled-up form, nestled in the center of a silky purple-and-midnight cocoon.

Clockwork wonders how he could have missed Dan's change in attitude—but he soon recognizes the tragic nature of his blind spot.

As futures in which Dan chose violence became more and more remote, they remained the only possibility for which Clockwork had had to maintain vigilance. A future in which Dan was calm and well-adjusted may be ideal, but seeding that future wouldn't protect Clockwork from the one in a billion chance that Dan might, say, kill him, steal his staff, and claim uncontested sovereignty over the timestream.

By devoting all his attention to a version of Dan that might one day kill him, Clockwork had neglected to consider the realities of the current Dan—the one dozing upstairs who was lost and angry, in just as much need of guidance as Danny, and just as capable of performing neutral acts—even unambiguously 'good' ones.

It would be foolish to let his guard down completely—but it would be just as preposterous for Clockwork to continue judging Dan by only his worst possible future actions—particularly not when gentleness came so uneasily to the man. Particularly when he was obviously making an effort to be otherwise—and moreover capable of suffering, and perhaps most crucially, reliant on Clockwork's care.

Clockwork would be more attentive to other possibilities, in the future—and in so doing, perhaps even encourage Dan to meet those hopeful expectations.

Chapter Text

Walker almost blasts that blasted vulture out of the proverbial sky when it starts circling the prison overhead.

He doesn’t tolerate trespassers, and his inmates certainly don’t get visitation rights. After a tumult amongst the guards, a narrowly suppressed riot by the prisoners, and a few cleared-up misunderstandings, the ruffled but stubbornly unflappable bird imperiously delivers an old-fashioned parchment scroll to Walker’s hand directly, sealed with wax.

“Mail for you,” the vulture snaps indignantly as it slaps the scroll into his gloved hand. It is evidently duty-bound to do this much, but clearly under no obligation or inclination to conceal its offense at the hostile welcome it's received.

Walker raises a brow at the old-fashioned scroll, wrapped with a rich purple ribbon and sealed with red wax. “From who?” he bewilderedly demands. The wax seal is intricate with small details, and it takes Walker several moments to make anything out. Letter initials, maybe?

The vulture preens with pride.  “The Master of Time, Clockwork!”

Walker’s hand twitches, and he narrowly stifles the startled urge to crush the scroll in an uncompromising grip. His guards glance at one another in silent speculation behind the vulture, and Walker’s eyes narrow.

“Get out,” he snaps.

The guards comply immediately, and the vulture takes wing in preparation to follow suit.

“Not you, bird,” Walker says in a tone which suggests he thinks his guest has the brain of a bird as well. “What does the Master of Time want with the likes of me?”

The vulture settles down again with a sigh, lifting its wings in an avian approximation of a shrug. “Hey, I don’t read the mail. I just deliver it.”

“Mhm,” Walker says skeptically, raking a critical gaze over the shifty bird’s feathered form. It’s been a long time since anyone sent him mail, but he supposes it’s not outside the scope of his usual paperwork. He tends to work on his own schedule, and answers to no authority but his own—but if the ghostly manifestation of Time is reaching out, it would probably behoove him to offer the ghost a timely response. “And is the Master of Time expecting a reply?”

The vulture shrugs again. “He said that’s up to you.”

“I see,” says Walker. The vulture may prove to be a helpful source of information on his mysterious correspondent. “Then feel free to take a seat while you wait.”

The vulture glances at the metal chair and its restraints with undisguised foreboding. “Uh...”

“Relax,” Walker advises as he walks around his desk. “I’m not going to imprison you for bringing me mail. Or anything else,” he adds when the vulture continues to look concerned. When it relaxes with the telltale air of a guilty conscience, Walker feels the need to reassert his authority by amending, “... Today.”

The vulture crows with nervous laughter. “Of course! Well, you just... Take your time, Mister Walker, sir!” And it alights upon the back of the chair, its beak grimacing faintly at the chains laying ominously upon the floor.

Walker sits in his chair and finds a letter opener in his desk to pry the wax seal loose. It unrolls smoothly, and reads,

Warden Walker,

I commend you on your efforts to impose order on the ever-changing Ghost Zone. It is no simple task, and with my privileged insight into potential alternate realities I can confidently say that the realm would be worse off without your intervention...

Praise had been the last thing Walker expected when he heard who had written him. Pride blooms in his chest, but just as much bewilderment accompanies it. Surely the Master of Time wouldn’t write Walker just to praise him? He’s prideful, sure—but he’s not so vain as to delude himself into thinking the Master of Time has the leisure time to write Walker a frivolous commendation on a whim. Walker is a busy ghost. Surely this 'Clockwork' is just as busy.

I would like to make clear that you are under no obligation to consider my forthcoming request, and neither accepting nor declining it will have a significant impact on the timeline—save perhaps for earning my personal gratitude, if you deem such things significant.

Walker’s brow furrows. “... What kind of ghost is this Clockwork?”

The vulture lifts its head from preening its feathers. “What, you’re finished already?” 

“No,” says Walker, gritting his teeth when he looks up and sees the puffs of green feathery down beginning to litter his chair. “But it would help me understand what I’m looking at, if I knew what he was like. His attitude,” he clarifies, knowing that much may at least tell him if he should credit his growing suspicion that Clockwork is mocking him with veiled rhetoric.

The vulture makes an unenlightening sound of indecisive thought. “I think he likes to keep people guessing on that point... But he’s pretty clear with instructions.” The vulture shrugs again, eminently unhelpful. “You’ll probably have a better idea when you finish reading,” he unsubtly suggests.

Walker grumbles and returns to the letter, despite the many mysteries clamoring for his attention.

I understand you have recently apprehended the Ghost Writer for violating the Christmas Truce, and once again I must thank you for observing your duties to uphold order in the Ghost Zone...

That’s how it starts, and it goes on to say that no one is a bigger proponent of the Truce than Clockwork himself, seeing as his tower's bells announce its beginning and end—Walker had never given much thought to that sonorous peace knell that reverberated throughout the Ghost Zone on Christmas Eve, declaring 48 blessed hours in which all the Zone’s denizens entered improbable spiritual harmony.

So that was Clockwork's doing?

Walker finishes reading the letter, and sets it down on the desk.

“... House arrest, hmm?” he murmurs thoughtfully, rummaging through the drawers of his desk. When he finds his cigar box, he retrieves a cigar—living world contraband which it is the warden's sole privilege to possess—and presses it between his teeth, mulling over the flavor of the tobacco. He turns the letter over to examine the intact wax seal and its distinctive gear-like stamp, in which rests the thorny insignia: CW. Short for ‘Clockwork’, no doubt. How quaint.

Walker leans back in his chair and lights the cigar with a snap that produces a ghostly flame, reading the letter over again. The Master of Time is a ghost not unlike Walker, it seems, albeit upholding rules on a level and scope that dwarfs the territory under Walker's humble remit. Walker mostly only respects his own authority—but it’s hard not to respect a ghost that embodies Time itself, when so much of his own daily life operates on rhythms like clockwork. Walker might even owe Clockwork a debt of gratitude, seeing as Time is the greatest tool for punishment at Walker’s disposal.

How many uppity young things and bold blowhards have sat chained in his office with defiance gleaming in their eyes, only for that vital spark to snuff out when Walker declared the interminable lengths of their sentences?

Ghosts may not be capable of dying, but their relative immortality isn’t without its pitfalls. Their minds can degrade over time, reducing them to little more than dumb animals—things better suited to Skulker’s cages than Walker’s cells. And as the lingering will of humans who died with unfinished business—those who wished they’d had more time to resolve their grudges—the threat of lost time is very effective indeed, as methods to improve behavior go.

And while Walker would not say that Clockwork was the injured party—because that would be the ghost boy, though neither was there any love lost between the warden and that errant rule-breaker—Clockwork's opinion held some inarguable sway in weighing the consequences of breaking that particular rule, as the authority by whose will the Truce was initiated and concluded.

If Clockwork really wanted to twist Walker's arm, he could have claimed that releasing the Ghost Writer would be for the good of All Time, or that the writer ought to have amnesty on some technicality of time zones—about which only the Master Timekeeper held insight, naturally.

But instead, he had only asked. And quite graciously, too.

It made Walker suspicious, searching the letter again for any sign of a loophole or pitfall to snare him in a rhetorical trap. But even on his third re-reading, he finds nothing of the sort. Perhaps Clockwork simply reasoned that his power and influence would be enough to sway Walker to oblige him. It was certainly the only reason he was bothering to consider the request. But the deferential tone soothed his desire for control, a compelling counterpoint to allay his suspicions that this 'Clockwork' was trying to overreach in Walker's jurisdiction.

Walker rises from his seat to pace the room, ignoring the furtive glances the vulture sends his way. “House arrest isn’t much of a punishment... But I suppose it was leaving that got him into trouble in the first place.” It’s not often that Clockwork makes his presence known in the Ghost Zone. He’s an even bigger recluse than the Ghost Writer is—and he’s certainly never made a request like this before. Not of Walker, anyway.

Walker returns to his desk and digs through his things until he finds a blank sheet and a pen. 

“I take it that means you’ll be writing him back,” says the vulture. Walker can’t discern if the ghost’s tone is simply curious or something else, but his perennial skepticism of subordinates leads him to assume the vulture is disappointed to have more work to do.

“You should be grateful,” Walker says around the cigar perched between his teeth. “I can’t take you into custody if you’re off doing this errand.”

The vulture shivers, and Walker smiles full of teeth.

—

After sending the vulture on its way with a letter in its talons, Walker makes the necessary arrangements.

He waits until after dinner to visit the cell block, about an hour before lights out. A few scuffs are going on behind bars, but they quickly break it up when they hear the warden’s heeled boots click sharply down the concrete halls.

He comes to a stop and kicks the bars of a cell—not even that hard, but they still rattle jarringly. On the top bunk, Ghost Writer lays with an open book on his face—but at the sudden sound he yelps and flails in comical panic, falling off the bed and collapsing onto the floor with a punched-out sound of wheezing pain.

“Good evening, inmate,” Walker breezily greets.

The Ghost Writer groans and rubs his face, knocking his glasses askew “Would you be quiet?!” he hisses, picking himself and his fallen book off the ground, weary limbs lagging. Walker elects to refrain from scolding the inmate, just to see how deep a hole he'll dig himself. He tilts his head to take note of the book in Ghost Writer's hand instead, and recognizes it as a codex of ghostly bylaws from the prison library. The content was as dull and dry as they came—but he supposes a boring read would serve just as well as a bedtime story for beasts and bookworms alike. “I just got him to sleep—!” 

Walker glances at the Ghost Writer’s cellmate snoring on the bottom bunk. The ghost is enormous—a furry green fellow with glossy black horns fit to gore a prize-fighting bull. The generously-sized bed accommodates only a fraction of its bulk, but the top bunk is more than large enough for the comparatively underfed Ghost Writer to sleep comfortably. The fact that he still managed to fall off the top bunk speaks to how poorly the awkward recluse is adjusting to prison life.

The Ghost Writer’s cellmate snorts and grumbles in its sleep, but doesn’t rouse.

In the time it’s taken for Walker to make these idle observations, the Ghost Writer seems to have fully woken—and belatedly realized just who he was snapping at mere moments ago.

“W-Warden Walker,” Ghost Writer stammers, hastening to his clumsy, sleep-tired feet. “C-Can I help you with something?”

“I wonder,” says Walker, settling into the comfortable familiarity that comes with exerting his authority over others with a smug smile. “I came to see if you’ve learned your lesson. Ready to rejoin society?”

The writer hunches his shoulders and tightens his grip around the book of ghostly bylaws, gripping his arm with his opposite hand in a defensive gesture. “Very funny,” he grumbles. Walker grants that the skepticism is understandable; the warden isn’t in the habit of releasing anyone unscheduled. Even Ghost Writer’s official sentence was uncharacteristically merciful: only one year, to be lifted by next Christmas. In an ironic twist of fate, Ghost Writer was actually quite lucky to have been brought to justice during the Truce. Walker didn’t have the heart to disrespect the spirit of the occasion by handing down his ordinarily excessive punishments. 

“You know, it is funny,” Walker agrees, stroking his jaw in mock thought. “I’ve never had anyone ask for mercy for another ghost.”

As expected, his deliberate phrasing doesn’t slip past the notorious pedant. Ghost Writer tilts his head, furrowing his brow at Walker with new curiosity. “Someone else petitioned you on my behalf?” He straightens, returning the book of ghostly bylaws to the top bunk with a distracted air. Then he hesitantly approaches the bars, wisely stopping just short of arm’s reach of Walker. He strokes his goatee, mirroring the warden—though his expression of thought seems sincere in comparison. “That is unusual...”

“I thought so too,” Walker admits. The Ghost Writer grows wary, like he’s concerned his anonymous benefactor has only served to make Walker spitefully extend his sentence. “A little birdy suggested your sentence would be better served on house arrest.”

The Ghost Writer's shoulders lift guardedly, and he wrings his hands. "And I suppose you don't think much of that suggestion," he hazards.

"I most certainly do not," Walker agrees, and for all that the writer had clearly been bracing for disappointment, he wilts with unpracticed dismay. "However, given the circumstances... and seeing as it's your first offense—" Though such considerations have never inspired leniency from the warden before—"... I've decided to oblige them."

Ghost Writer blinks a few times with confused, mistrustful hope. He clasps his hands together to stop them from fidgeting, and it pleases Walker to imagine it is a gesture of pleading. "Y-You mean...?"

"Yep." Walker relishes the ghost's gobsmacked expression as he rifles through his formidable ring of keys. "Congratulations, inmate. Your sentence has been commuted."

Walker jams the key home and slides open the bars. Ghost Writer leaps back like a skittish animal, staring at Walker with a delightful mixture of tentative hope and fear. It makes Walker tempted to back out of his leniency, just to watch the unguarded despair wash over the Writer's incredibly expressive face.

"This... isn't some sort of trick...?"

"If you don't believe me," Walker says, "you're welcome to stay here in your cell." He glances pointedly at the Ghost Writer's cellmate, muttering in his sleep.

When threats of abandonment don't inspire the reaction he wants, Walker grabs the bars like he intends to throw the cell shut again. Ghost Writer leaps obediently into the hall, stumbling into the warden's broad chest. 

Walker laughs dangerously as he steadies the smaller ghost by the shoulder, closing the cell shut behind him. "That's what I thought."

The Ghost Writer swallows audibly. "Sorry, Warden Walker," he mutters meekly. Walker squeezes the other ghost's shoulder, eliciting a satisfying flinch.

"Think nothing of it," Walker smoothly assures him. He releases the man and gestures magnanimously down the hall. "Allow me to escort you from the premises." It amuses him to make it an invitation, when the man has no choice in the matter. Even if Walker's control over the operating rhythms of the prison were not absolute, its labyrinthine halls would be intraversible for the likes of a lone, unattended inmate.

Still, as if he has been extended Walker's gracious hospitality, the writer meekly repiles, "Thank you, sir." He steps obediently ahead of Walker, allowing himself to be herded toward the exit—only requiring the occasional correction of a gloved hand on his back or elbow to steer him out of a wrong turn. Walker's prison is designed to be inescapable in more ways than one—even if the prisoners get loose, its halls will shift and contort to impede any effort to reach the exit. Even if by some miracle they landed on the right path, there was no guarantee they wouldn't meet some other terrible fate in a dark hallway or malevolent broom closet. Suffice to say the prison took none too kindly to wandering delinquents.

When Walker and the Ghost Writer arrive at the intake area, one of his men is holding the soon-to-be-former inmate's personal effects.

"Get changed," says Walker, when Ghost Writer just stands there with his coat clutched in his hands.

The writer hesitates. "Um, is there a room I could...?"

Walker smiles, bright and vicious. "Nope."

Ghost Writer's eyebrow twitches. "... Then could you turn around?!" 

Walker jerks his chin in brisk, unspoken command at the guards, who turn around without a word. Walker does not follow suit. "Can't have you trying anything," he explains, when the other ghost's embarrassed expression only grows all the more mutinous.

"What on Earth could I possibly try!" Ghost Writer indignantly squawks.

"I couldn't possibly speculate," Walker dryly demurs. "Hurry it up. I haven't got all night."

The Ghost Writer scoffs and casts about for something—a place to put down his clothes while he undresses, perhaps. There are no chairs or tables in the intake area. Walker holds out his hands with an amused smile, and in a fit of pique the Ghost Writer shoves his so recently returned effects into Walker's hands. Ghost Writer undresses quickly, dropping his stripes on the floor. Walker would ordinarily rebuke that kind of careless behavior, but the writer looks furious enough to breathe fire, so he holds his tongue. Walker is satisfied enough with the ghost's psychological torment that he doesn't even feel the need to reassert his authority. 

He further obliges the Ghost Writer by handing over each article of clothing upon request, and even refrains from commenting upon the ghost's nude and flustered state. He suspects his amused smile is mockery enough.

Sometimes it's the little indignities that break a ghost's spirit.

When the Ghost Writer is fully dressed, he inhabits his old coat like a stranger. He stands silently before Walker on the verge of bitter tears, arms crossed and shoulders hunched in the abject misery of one awaiting further orders.

Good.

A guard collects Ghost Writer's discarded stripes, and Walker turns away to escort him from the premises.

But Ghost Writer doesn't follow.

"Where..." begins that tremulous voice, weak and watery from a thousand indignities. Walker turns to watch the man squirm. "Where is my book?"

Walker frowns. "The one you left in your cell?"

Ghost Writer meekly shakes his head. "N-No... I mean, the book I arrived with."

Walker lifts his gaze to the harsh and haunting fluorescent lights, as if he needs a moment to recall such an irrelevant detail. "Oh, that?"

"The Fright Before Christmas," Ghost Writer needlessly supplies, his voice wavering.

Walker smiles. "That's evidence."

Ghost Writer's shaky composure only grows more distressed at this declaration. "B-But you've already convicted me of the crime for which that book is evidence!"

Walker shrugs unhelpfully. "Well... You're not done serving the time for the crime in question, are you?"

Ghost Writer slumps, crestfallen. "No..."

"No, what?"

Ghost Writer flinches. "No, sir."

Walker hums consideringly, and Ghost Writer cowers. "... Good. That's what I thought you said."

Ghost Writer swallows, and still somehow works up the nerve to ask, "So you'll return it when my sentence is up?"

Walker lifts a brow, and Ghost Writer clings to his scarf, wringing it hard enough to choke the damn thing.

"... We'll see."

Ghost Writer sniffles. "Y-Yes, sir..."

Walker has never known a ghost to act as terrified as the Ghost Writer while still managing to ask so many impertinent questions. "Maybe that'll keep you in line during parole, knowing I've got that as collateral."

Ghost Writer's lip wobbles, and he nods—as if he no longer trusts his voice to speak.

Walker turns away at last. "Follow me."

The Ghost Writer shuffles after the warden, suitably chastened.

—

When they step out onto the rocky precipice on which the prison rests, Ghost Writer is startled out of his maudlin mood by the sight of the prison van waiting for them.

"Get in the back," Walker says.

"You're... giving me a ride?" Ghost Writer asks with a look of quizzical gratitude.

"You're not being released with no caveats," Walker archly reminds him. "You're under house arrest, remember?"

"... Right." Ghost Writer looks undecided between relief and resignation. Maybe he just doesn't want to let on that he thinks house arrest is barely a punishment at all.

Walker is well aware. He appreciates Ghost Writer not saying it aloud.

Ghost Writer climbs into the back of the van, and as the driver slams it shut, Walker makes himself comfortable in the passenger seat.

—

The prison van drives them right up to the floating isle of earth which serves as the foundation of the Ghost Writer's library. Walker had seen it a few months ago, when he'd arrived with the rest of the ghost boy's enemies to seek reprisal from the shut-in for breaking the strictures of their sacred Truce. He drinks the sight of it in again now, if for no other reason than to satisfy his desire for information about his surroundings, a continual necessity in his striving for perfect vigilance:

Leonine marble statues guard the stairs—though only in spirit. They do not appear to be the kind of ensouled statuary frequently found on the premises of other ghostly haunts, which sometimes serve as posted guards and servants. And if they are, then they are inert for the time being. The front steps lead up to a Roman archway, atop which the Ghost Writer's initials are engraved in chiaroscuro purple shadow. As the van had approached, Walker had noticed the roof resembled a book laid down on an open page with its spine face-up—save for the bright red glass dome in the center, emerging from the book's spine like a cyst. Now he notices the colonnades resemble the spines of books tucked into shelves. That's a detail he hadn't noticed last time.

How quaint, Walker thinks with a sneer.

When Walker has gained his bearings, he gestures for the attending driver to open the back of the van. The driver swiftly obeys, and when the doors rattle loudly open the Ghost Writer jolts upon the bench—only to recoil in even greater distress when he sees the warden.

"Walker!" he yips.

Walker lifts a brow and folds his arms. "... In the flesh." He didn't think the writer's mind had actually begun to go round the bend in captivity. He begins to reevaluate that assessment.

"I-I mean... I didn't think you would personally..."

At Walker's obvious disinterest, Ghost Writer trails off and clambers awkwardly from the prison van. Walker seizes him by the upper arm when he stumbles, taking the opportunity to reassert positive control over his inmate—or parolee, as the case may be. Ghost Writer lays a hand over Walker's to brace himself as he regains his footing, smiling nervously up at the warden in silent thanks.

Warden is so disgusted by the display that he releases the other man immediately.

As the writer stands under his own power, his pointed shoes find purchase on familiar dirt. He takes a steadying breath and turns to face the library. At the sight of it, he makes a soft, choked sound.

"Oh," the writer sighs, his voice full of yearning as his eyes well with the sheer depths of his emotion.

Walker averts his eyes irately.

When the Ghost Writer clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure, Walker deems it safe to look again—though he still catches the tail end of the writer dabbing his ash grey scarf against the corners of his eyes.

"Let's see you inside," Walker says, "and I'll tell you the terms of your house arrest."

Ghost Writer takes a breath. "Yes, alright." 

As they take the first step up the marble stairway, a strange sensation passes over Walker—like walking through a paper-thin curtain of water. He stops in his tracks, and when he chances a glance aside he finds the Ghost Writer's eyes seeking out his gaze.

"... Did you feel that, too?" the writer asks nervously.

Walker's eyes narrow as he scrutinizes the library anew. Nothing seems to have changed since the last time he was here... but that's no reason to let his guard down. He steps off the stairs and pulls the writer down with him, beckoning the prison driver closer. When he gestures for their nightstick, they hand it over without a fuss.

"Watch him," Walker says with a jerk of his chin toward the writer, pushing him into the arms of the guard, who only nods. Walker rolls up his sleeves as he climbs the steps to the front door. "I won't be long."

The front door is ajar, which already bodes ill.

Inside, Walker finds signs of a struggle. His old detective instinct prickles with foreboding as he takes in the scene—an overturned grandfather clock, a broken candlestick...

When his eyes land upon a bowl of fresh fruit, and the sad smear of a crushed orange on the carpet, he has to laugh. Of course—the 'struggle' he's seeing signs of is one he personally took part in: the scuffle that had resulted in the Ghost Writer's arrest, preserved with remarkable fidelity.

But that was strange, wasn't it? When a ghost ceased to inhabit its haunt for too long a stretch, it tended to attract scavengers and stragglers. Ectopusses and small, half-formed spirits, looking to drink in the ambient ectoplasmic energy of a place of power abandoned. Yet here there were none.

Even the bowl of fruit looked as fresh as the day Walker had last seen it. 

But beside it rests a sealed scroll, its central placement on the table seeming somehow... pointed. It's the only thing in the entryway that looks like it was placed there deliberately—and the only discrepancy between what Walker is seeing now and his last visual catalog of the room.

Walker approaches, and his leery suspicion turns to weary resignation: the parchment is tied with a purple ribbon, and stamped shut with red wax. It bears the distinctive insignia of Clockwork's initials.

Of course.

Walker lowers the nightstick with a sigh. "The coast is clear," he calls, unrolling his sleeves and snapping the cuffs smartly to tug out the wrinkles.

When he receives no answer, he frowns at the large double doors and makes his way back to them. Pushing them open, he finds the Ghost Writer and the guard standing at the base of the steps, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"I said, the coast is..." Walker trails off, eyes narrowing as he perceives a strange stillness to them. The astral tail of the driver is frozen like a photographic snapshot. Ghost Writer's scarf doesn't so much as tremble in the Ghost Zone's perpetual breeze.

Walker descends the steps to stand before them, scrutinizing their faces frozen in shock. As he approaches, they do begin to move—albeit with uncanny slowness. Ghost Writer lunges forward in slow-motion, his fingertips just barely passing through the invisible barrier that surrounds the library, brushing Walker's chest in a fleeting touch. The prison guard yanks the writer back, pulling him well out of reach. Walker's brows lift as the lanky bookworm wrenches his arm savagely from the guard's firm hold, snarling at him with surprising ferocity. Walker can't quite make out the words. They come through the barrier muffled, like passing through water.

He steps off the bottom stair and onto the dirt.

"—trapped in there!" Ghost Writer snarls. "And you're just going to sit out here and wait?"

"The warden told me to watch you," the guard drawls, though in point of fact, he should not be entertaining a criminal's arguments at all. "For all I know, this is your doing."

"That's—"

"Alright, break it up," Walker interjects, causing the other two ghosts to startle and stumble back.

"Walker!"

"Sir—"

Walker lifts a brusque, silencing hand. The guard obediently subsides—but the writer clasps his hands to fidget anxiously, his lips parted with a ready question, his gaze beseeching. Walker lowers his staying hand with a sigh, and lifts it again in unenthusiastic invitation.

Ghost Writer meekly inquires, "Is... Is there something wrong with my library?"

Walker chuckles. "Why don't you come and see for yourself?" To the guard, he adds, "If we're not back in fifteen minutes, call for back-up."

The guard nods, and the Ghost Writer nervously comes to stand beside Walker. The warden takes hold of his elbow, an authoritarian parody of a gentleman's chivalrous escort. With that hold, he guides the writer back through the thin, watery barrier and up the stairs.

—

"Oh—!" Ghost Writer cries in faint despair when he sees the mess. But his brow soon furrows, taking in the details with an analytical eye.

"... Oh," he says as understanding dawns. "It's... just as we left it," he concludes. "Exactly like we left it, in fact..." He strokes his long, wavy goatee in puzzlement.

Walker gestures toward the table with the fruit bowl. "There's mail for you."

The writer exhales sharply, just shy of a scoff. "How could there possibly be mail for—?"

He pulls up short when he glimpses the scroll. He begins to walk toward it, and has to hastily side-step the broken-open orange smeared upon the carpet, letting out a nervous little whimper at the close call.

Walker's mouth twitches into a mean smile. That never gets old.

Ghost Writer clears his throat as he strides with firm composure to the table, where he takes up the sealed scroll and looks it over. "Oh! Clockwork...?" 

"Your petitioner," Walker generously reveals.

The Ghost Writer spins on his heel, clutching the scroll so tightly in his hands that it crinkles. "Clockwork?!" he squawks, his eyes going wide.

Walker scowls. "Did I stutter or something?"

"N-No, it's just..." The writer bites his lip, ineffectually stifling his wobbly, unflattering smile. He glances between the sealed scroll in his hand and the dour face of the warden. "He almost never intervenes in the lives of ordinary ghosts," he says with breathless elation. "I wonder if I have an important role to play in the course of fate...!"

Disturbed by the Ghost Writer's moon-eyed enthusiasm, Walker's killjoy instinct activates, and he scoffs. "As a matter of fact," he says, his nose wrinkling in disgust as the writer perks up attentively. "... He specifically said that it wouldn't matter one way or the other, if you were released."

"Oh," says the writer, deflating a little. His brow furrows. "Then... What reason did he give?"

Walker shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. "A personal favor, I guess."

"A personal..." Ghost Writer trails off, staring gobsmacked at the warden. Then he laughs with breathless delirium, clutching a hand in his hair. "You're saying the Clockwork, Timekeeper Extraordinaire, the Minder of the Timeline himself, asked you to release me. As a... personal favor."

Walker realizes he has misstepped in revealing this. The joy of being useful has nothing on the joy of being personally valued, and he has effectively just handed the Ghost Writer the ironclad ego boost of the century.

"Seems that way," he says with all the indifference he can muster.

The Ghost Writer giggles euphorically as he begins pacing the room. "Oh, my stars and garters! That's so...! I mean, he really...!"

"Would you quit flitting around like a fucking bird and just read your damn love letter?" Walker snaps.

Ghost Writer stops in place and sways. He clears his throat.

He does not open the letter.

"So... Clockwork," Ghost Writer says, and Walker stifles a groan. "He asked you to lift my sentence...?"

"To abbreviate it," Walker icily corrects.

"To ameliorate it," Ghost Writer challenges, and for this, Walker has no honest way to deny.

"No," Walker drawls, "he asked me to extend it, but I decided to do the opposite, just to be difficult."

Ghost Writer's brow only twitches briefly as he listens for the truth beneath Walker's sardonic tone. And as if he had only offered a simple 'yes', the writer says, "And you just... did that."

The pair stare at each other across the central chamber of the library.

"Yeah, and...? Is that a problem for you?" Walker stalks toward the writer, who stumbles back and quickly retreats, colliding with the desk upon which his missive had lain. He doesn't even spare the orange a passing glance.

Walker looms over him, savoring the writer's trembling.

"If you want to go back to prison that badly," Walker says, low and dangerous as he leans down to rest his palm upon the desk. "All you have to do is ask... inmate."

Ghost Writer shudders, clinging to his sealed scroll like a lifeline. "I-I didn't mean anything by it," he says tremulously. "To—to question your authority, or imply, um, anything... I only... I only..."

Walker lifts a brow and hums in mock encouragement. The Ghost Writer loses his nerve, dropping his gaze to mutter something in the direction of Walker's chest. With a dark, gloved hand, Walker grabs the writer's beard in an uncompromising grip, and uses that leverage to lift his chin. "Come again?"

"I wanted to thank you," the writer squeaks out.

Walker releases the man and takes a step back. "... For the free lodgings?" he wryly asks.

"F-For letting me go," Ghost Writer stammers. "E-Even if it's not exactly amnesty, well... It's still mercy, isn't it?" The writer meets his gaze, clear-eyed and terrified. But still he perseveres in saying his piece. "And you didn't have to give it. But you did anyway. So... Thank you."

Walker sucks his teeth in disgust and lowers the brim of his hat, resisting the powerful urge to retreat even further from the other man's intolerable softness. "I just felt like it, that's all. 'Tis the season, and all that."

The writer looks flummoxed. "It's... February."

Walker lifts a brow. "The van's still out front, if you wanna go for a ride."

Ghost Writer grimaces a false and fearful smile. "'Tis the season, indeed!"

Walker rolls his eyes and steps away to wander as Ghost Writer fusses with the wax seal on his letter. 

Suddenly, a chill passes over Walker, and he shivers—turning back to the writer to see the man with his fingers poised over the scroll, the wax seal plucked away and held between his thumb and forefinger. The writer shivers too.

Quickly opening the letter, Ghost Writer skims its contents and dutifully reports, "It seems Clockwork left a time-stasis barrier around my library while I was gone." His brow furrows over a smile, like he finds this a rather touching gesture.

Walker grunts. "Guess that's one mystery solved," he says.

"Warden Walker?" the guard calls, no longer prevented from hearing them with the time-stasis barrier removed.

"In here."

Walker walks toward the door, but pulls up short when he steps on a shard of glass that shatters beneath his heel. The writer winces in his periphery, and Walker looks down. Not glass, then—but his ill-fated keyboard.

When the guard nudges the door open and steps clear of the threshold, Walker steps off the broken keyboard and waves dismissively at the scattered debris. "Clean up this mess."

The guard straightens and offers a stiff salute—then begins casting about for something to clean with, when a purple broom manifests beside him. Walker side-eyes the Ghost Writer, who chuckles nervously.

"They say a library always knows just what someone needs," he conjectures unsubtly.

"Is that so," Walker mutters. He returns to the desk, leaning against one of the long sides adjacent to the place Ghost Writer stands. "Let me know when you're done reading."

The Ghost Writer, watching his movements carefully for signs of further aggression, straightens obediently at this command. "Ah... Yes, sir."

—

When the dutiful writer declares himself finished, Walker goes from leaning on the desk to sitting on its edge. 

"Then listen closely, because I'm about to tell you the terms of your house arrest."

Ghost Writer pockets the letter from Clockwork and summons a scroll and an ink quill to write with.

"Your house arrest will last until your original sentence has ended," Walker says. The writer's quill scratches briskly across the scroll. "... Which can be further commuted for good behavior."

The writer perks up. "What sorts of things constitute good behavior?"

"Warden's discretion."

Ghost Writer wilts, but dutifully jots this down.

"You shall not leave the premises of the library without my approval." The writer glances with furtive nerves up at Walker's vigilant gaze. "What is it?"

"Ah, and how shall I request approval?" the writer inquires. "Ecto-mail? A courier?"

"I'll be checking in on you periodically," Walker informs him. "You can ask then."

The Ghost Writer flushes—enraged, perhaps, that he'll have to put up with his jailer for a while yet. "Very well," the writer concedes, finishing a letter with a flourish. "Anything else, sir?"

Walker reaches into his coat and retrieves his book of rules, which he sets down on the desk with a heavy thump! It is significantly more substantial than the handbook Ghost Writer had borrowed from the prison library. "You'll be making copies of this."

The Ghost Writer stares at the massive book, appalled. "You're having me write lines?"

"It wouldn't be much of a punishment if you could just sit around doing whatever you wanted," Walker reasons. "I'll expect you to finish that before our next check-in."

The writer hesitates. "And... How often did you say those check-ins would be?"

"Oh, who knows? I'm a busy man," Walker says, his smile all teeth. "Might be once a week. Might be once a month..."

"Once a week!" the writer cries. "Do you have any idea the kind of labor that goes into writing an entire book...?!"

"'Course I do," Walker croons, leaning closer and tapping the hard cover of the thick rule book. "I wrote this one, didn't I?"

Ghost Writer swallows. "Yes, sir."

"Great," Walker says, leaning back. "Any questions, comments, concerns, gripes, or complaints?"

The writer bites his lip as he glances between the warden and his notes. "I don't think so..."

"Good," says Walker, plucking the sheet of notes from the writer's hands. The writer flails uselessly to try and reclaim it. Walker holds him away with a firm hand on his chest. "Let's see what you have written."

SENTENCE LASTS UNTIL NEXT CHRISTMAS.

REDUCED SENTENCE FOR 'GOOD BEHAVIOR'?

NO LEAVING WITHOUT PERMISSION.

ASK PERMISSION DURING WEEKLY(?) VISITS.

COPY THE WHOLE DAMN RULE BOOK BEFORE WALKER VISITS.

"You should refer to me as 'the warden' in writing," says Walker with as straight a face as he can.

"Sorry," the writer says. "I didn't think you'd... actually read that."

Walker tuts and hands it back to him. "It'll do," he says. "Let's shake on it."

Ghost Writer blinks and sets the sheet aside. "... Alright."

Walker extends an open hand. After a moment's hesitation, the Ghost Writer follows suit. Walker's fist swallows the writer's delicate lavender hand in a crushing handshake that makes him grimace, cringing with his entire body over that point of merciless connection. Their deal is sealed with a flash of green, and a scream held back by the writer's jagged cage of gritted teeth.

When Walker releases him, the writer gasps in breathless agony, clutching his right wrist as if to cut off the pain along with his circulation. Ozone smoke drifts in plumes from his injured hand.

"Holy mercy!" Ghost Writer whimpers. His fingers twitch with aftershocks of pain, and he squints at his glowing palm as the smoke clears. "Oh, for the love of..."

He lifts his hand to show Walker the jagged, glowing 'W' branded into his palm with a look of unimpressed incredulity.

"Was that really necessary?!" the writer wheedles.

Walker leisurely shakes the smoke from his hand, feeling quite satisfied with his handiwork. "Yes," he says. "Now I'll know if you break the rules."

Ghost Writer follows Walker's stride to the door with his eyes, still staring in stunned disbelief at the man's utter gall.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Walker says with a tip of his hat. "I'll be by in a few days."

"A few—a few days?" the writer croaks, turning toward Walker and bracing his uninjured hand upon the desk, as if he needs it to support him through the shock. "I thought you said I had a week!"

"Just remembered I have an opening in my schedule," Walker says breezily. "Best get writing, writer."

And with that Walker leaves, the guard abandoning his broom and following obediently with a snap of Walker's finger.

The door slams shut, and the writer huffs. "A few days," he mutters mutinously. "With an injured hand, no less... Honestly!"

Ghost Writer frowns at the pile of swept-up, broken keyboard pieces piled together with the candlestick near the door. At least the guard had the decency to pick his grandfather clock up off the floor and put it to rights, though its glass window and inner mechanism are clearly in shambles.

Perhaps Clockwork would do him the courtesy of repairing it.

Turning his back on these unhappy reminders of last Christmas's debacle, Ghost Writer surveys the rest of his kingdom in all its glory: a quiet library lined wall-to-wall with books, and finely appointed with all manner of cozy seating and creature comforts. Before his arrest, he held no higher aspiration than to spend his entire life—such as it was—within these walls. Ten short months was hardly any time at all in the grand scheme of eons, and serving his sentence under house arrest was certainly preferable to the same time spent in a dark, cold cell with an odious brute of a cellmate who snored like a foghorn and deprived him of rest.

Yet as he lifts his gaze to the ruby dome of the skylight, he finds that the dark grid-lines of the window panes cast the Ghost Zone's light into his sanctum with shadows far too reminiscent of prison bars for his liking, and he longs to go outside.

"Well... I suppose I'd better get started," he sighs. "I'm sure I had a typewriter around here somewhere..."

The double doors to his sanctum tremble like an earthquake with the force of a banging sequence of knocks, and Ghost Writer clutches his heart in startlement.

"Now what?" He goes to the door, straightening his sweater and his coat lapels before throwing them open. "Can I help you—?"

At the top of the steps rests a purple wicker gift basket, topped with a lurid green ribbon.

It is filled with oranges.

The Ghost Writer clutches his hair and screams through gritted teeth. His torment is audible even to Walker, who watches the library shrink into the distance of the prison van's passenger side-view mirror. He grins slyly, and decides his housewarming gift has been well-received.

—  

"I've brought you something," says Clockwork, when Dan has admitted him into his bedroom with an irate grunt.

Dan turns over in bed, and sits up to stare in bewilderment at the basket under Clockwork's arm.

"What are those?"

"Oranges," says Clockwork, drifting close enough to deposit them on the bed beside the other ghost.

Dan huffs. "Perks of having access to all of time and space, I guess... Though I didn't peg you for a thief."

"They were gifted to me in the present day, in fact," Clockwork primly informs him. "Re-gifted, to be precise. By another ghost who didn't want them."

Dan lifts a brow as he plucks an orange from the hoard and tosses it to test its heft. "... Huh. Who the hell is passing up fresh fruit in the Ghost Zone?"

Clockwork's smile twitches with private humor. "Who, indeed?"

Chapter Text

Clockwork sends Danny off with a wholesome moral lesson for the day, and a bitter taste on his tongue at the private knowledge of what it had cost.

It had been necessary. It had.

Such assurances Clockwork often offered with blithe and mysterious wisdom to his misguided petitioners. But this time the assurance was not meant to dissuade a mortal soul from bothering him in his sanctuary—but to soothe his own unfamiliar sense of guilt.

He had misstepped, with this little episode.

Dan had been making an effort to gentle himself all this time, to adjust to his new life of captivity, and to make the most of his circumstances. And how had Clockwork answered that commendable effort? With uncharitable skepticism. With the cool distance of one who shared only a passing and disinterested involvement in Dan's miserable plight.

But from Dan's perspective, Clockwork had been little more than a cruel and dispassionate god, overlooking all his suffering with absent calculation. Worse still, the architect of his misery.

What right did Clockwork have to coddle Danny Fenton, to offer his understanding and support in the role of a mentor—when he had consigned his jaded and suffering older self to the status of a mere nuisance to be mindful of? A novelty, at best—valuable only insofar as his onerous presence could drive still more loathsome pests from Clockwork's tower, or provide Clockwork with the occasional entertainment his unpredictable nature offered?

Clockwork was accustomed to taking the long view. To seeing all time as an outside observer, only intervening occasionally to guide it on its proper course.

Dan, who existed now outside of time, was naturally a being whom Clockwork could not treat so distantly. An existence of mutual antagonism may prove entertaining—but without any positive encounters to redeem the experience, Dan was likely to suffer an even greater mental toll beneath the dual torment of captivity and isolation.

Clockwork watches the viewing screen until Danny arrives home safe and sound to cure Vlad and his friends of ecto-acne.

Yes, this lesson in the dangers of tampering with the past had, unfortunately, been necessary.

But that did not absolve Clockwork of all the consequences of permitting it.

Clockwork reenters Dan's room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Dan shifts on the bed, curling in on himself even further. The bedspread wrinkles in a radial pattern around him, like a button upon an upholstered surface.

Clockwork considers what to say.

"... The changes made to the timeline have been reverted," he decides first to divulge. Given the physical intensity of Dan's reaction to having his future possibilities curtailed, Clockwork had deemed a full reset the safest option to ensure he would suffer as few permanent side effects from this little episode as possible.

Dan exhales sharply through his nose, in what sounds like a derisive scoff, a nonverbal, insincere acknowledgement. Clockwork resists the urge to prematurely mark the interaction as a failure.

From hereon out, he has decided to make an effort not to think of success only in terms of receiving an anticipated response. Speaking with Dan for any length of time means Clockwork frequently fails to anticipate his next move. It makes him feel caught on the back foot. He is more uncertain than he has ever been.

Just because I'm angry doesn't mean I know what to do with it.

Clockwork thinks he understands a little better now, the uncertainty of a being like Dan. His timeline was gone—his past erased by Clockwork's own hand, like a draftsman rubbing out a failed design. In a certain sense, it was not dissimilar from the complete and total destruction of life on Earth Dan himself had sought—only Clockwork had deprived him of that final victory by, in a way, claiming it for himself, and thereby prevented Dan's final actions from ever being known.

Maybe Dan would have moved onto the Ghost Zone after his conquest of the mortal realm. With every ghostly foe defeated, his power would have only grown. And perhaps he would have eventually zeroed in on Clockwork's tower—destroying Clockwork and Time itself, as his final act of vengeance against the vagaries of time and its meddlesome master.

Or perhaps he would have fled the planet altogether, roaming the stars as a lonely cosmonaut.

Clockwork suspects that, in Dan's estimation, his current state of disempowered captivity did not hold a candle to either of those lofty aspirations.

Clockwork drifts closer, settling on the bed an arm's span away from the unresponsive ghost. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

No answer is forthcoming. Perhaps Dan still blames him for the earlier drama of his sudden and inexplicable state of agony.

He would be right to, Clockwork supposes.

"... You have every right to be angry," Clockwork concedes aloud. "But I won't know if there are any lingering issues with your condition unless you tell me."

Dan's shoulders heave with a tight sigh, and he rolls onto his back toward Clockwork, nearly closing the distance between them. Clockwork can feel the chill of Dan's ghostly aura like a breeze beside his arm.

"I am angry," Dan declares with a glare that lacks his usual heat. "... And I feel like shit," he adds, which clarifies little.

"In what sense?" Clockwork asks. "Are you still in pain?"

Dan lifts his gaze in thought. "Not as much as before... obviously," he says dryly. "Feels like I just woke up after a solid day of fucking it up at the gym."

Clockwork's mouth twitches into a gentle smile. "... And how would you know what that feels like?" he asks with game interest.

Dan frowns, as if he is just as uncertain of the answer. "... Vlad," he says with a sneer. "He was obsessed with his image. Went on diets and stuff, I guess. Vain little..." But Dan doesn't finish the thought—only furrows his brow up at the glittering canopy of his four-poster bed which somewhat resembles stars. Clockwork had not conjured or stolen the furniture, as Dan might be tempted to accuse him, but sourced it as a small favor from the ghost of dreams, Nocturn, in the hopes that it would give the other ghost pleasant ones.

"I see," Clockwork says, his smile twitching again. "Then it sounds like your body is on its way to a full recovery."

"I guess," Dan says. He narrows a glare at Clockwork. "... You're acting weird."

Clockwork hums, conceding as much. "Your earlier outburst made me realize I've been treating you unfairly." At Dan's expression of disbelief and consternation, Clockwork takes the opportunity to reach out and touch Dan's forehead, like he's checking for a fever. "Your temperature feels normal," he offers.

Dan lifts a hand and wearily swats Clockwork's wrist, dislodging his touch. Clockwork's wristwatches go quietly haywire.

"Stop being nice to me," Dan says, bewildered.

"In a minute," Clockwork promises. "Can you sit up? I have some medicine for you to take."

Dan closes his eyes and maneuvers with difficulty into a seated position. "This feels like a trick," he declares, as if making his misgivings known will absolve him of the folly of complying with Clockwork's ultimatums.

Clockwork shifts closer to support Dan at the waist. In the same way that living, breathing mortals accumulate warmth with their touch, contact between ghosts gathers cold—eliciting a chill indistinguishable from a jolt of fear. "You don't have to take it," he says. "But I think it would be in your best interest to try."

Dan throws a bewildered look at Clockwork's gloved hand upon his waist—but evidently lacks the energy to argue. "Fine."

Clockwork summons a glass beaker filled to the halfway mark with lurid pink fluid.

"What is that?" Dan demands. "Pepto-Bismol?"

"Ghost medicine," Clockwork unhelpfully supplies. Dan gives him a dubious look. "If you don't want to take it, I'd rather you tell me now, instead of spitting it out. I only have the one dose."

Dan sighs heavily and reaches for the glass with a trembling grasp. Clockwork watches the hand-off carefully—and when Dan nearly fumbles it, Clockwork lifts a ready hand to support him. The look Dan gives him is one of disbelief and consternation—but he evidently deems resistance too much effort to muster, because he lifts the beaker to his mouth and gulps the contents down with a grimace.

Dan sighs loudly after swallowing the medicine. He holds the beaker in his hand and stares down at it with a look of undisguised confusion.

"... Why does this taste like diet soda?" he flatly demands.

Clockwork gently reclaims the beaker from Dan's feeble grasp. "Because that was one of the ingredients," he tells him.

"... Are you serious?" Dan incredulously demands. "What the hell did you just make me drink?"

"The stabilizing agent which cures ecto-acne," Clockwork tells him, as with a wave of his hand, he returns the beaker from whence it came.

Dan's bright eyes stare him down, uncomprehending or disbelieving. Clockwork continues to smile blithely.

"Vlad never discovered a cure for ecto-acne," Dan says slowly.

"No," Clockwork agrees. "Your younger self discovered it." As Dan's expectant expression grows angrier, Clockwork elaborates, "In the current timeline, Vlad Masters entered remission for ecto-acne, but lacked the information necessary to develop a cure. So he isolated the pathogen, and he infected Sam and Tucker to motivate Danny to assist his parents in finding a cure."

"... That sounds like something I'd do," Dan grumbles in begrudging concession. Clockwork makes a mental note of the unprecedented association, but doesn't comment on it.

"But rather than assisting his nemesis," Clockwork continues, with a tone of weary indulgence, "Danny came to me. He asked me to grant him passage into the past, so that he might prevent Vlad from getting infected in the first place."

"... That also sounds like me," Dan sighs. "So, that's what nearly killed me, huh? He changed too much?"

"Indeed," says Clockwork. "Vlad was spared by his intervention... but the contaminated ectoplasm ricocheted, hitting Jack Fenton instead."

Dan snorts, like he thinks the man deserved it.

"In that timeline, Jack was hospitalized, and Vlad and Maddie entered a relationship instead."

Dan's mouth opens—and then he looks too conflicted to follow up the motion with speech. His expression is caught somewhere between delighted disbelief and abject horror. Given that the man who pined inconsolably over Maddie Fenton for decades was a part of Dan, and the other part was Jack and Maddie's son...

Clockwork could hazard an educated guess as to the nature of the cognitive dissonance Dan was experiencing.

"I'll regale you with the details later, if you like," Clockwork says. "But to make a long story short... By confronting a version of his father afflicted with Vlad's condition, Danny was able to entertain a modicum of sympathy for his enemy's plight. And by witnessing the incident which gave Vlad his powers, Danny was able to identify the impurity which catalyzed the breakout of ecto-acne in the first place."

"... And it was diet soda," Dan says at length, still stuck on the absurdity of that point.

"Jack Fenton is scatter-brained at the best of times," Clockwork says delicately. "... Even moreso when his paramour has asked something of him."

Dan drags his hands down his face, silently despairing at the great cosmic joke his life has become. "Right," he says, hoarse and resigned.

Clockwork strokes his back in consolation. Dan peers through his fingers with yet more mistrust for Clockwork's unfamiliar, gentle touches. 

"In any case," Clockwork says, dropping his hands and folding them in his lap to give Dan a reprieve from the novelty of touch, "that was the nature of the anomaly today. I would have waited for a more opportune time to administer the cure—but since you were already weakened by a sudden curtailing of possibilities in the timeline... I was concerned that, if you were to enter remission, it would be even more unpleasant."

Dan smears a gloved hand down his face. "... Fine. Whatever."

Clockwork tilts his head. He wonders if his shift in attitude, and the knowledge and embodied experience of his own newfound frailty, was beginning to tire Dan—or if his ire was merely an attendant symptom of having his existence nearly wiped from the timeline by the folly of his former self.

"... I promised you an explanation about the letter I received earlier," Clockwork abruptly reminds him. Amid all the day's excitement, it was a distinct possibility that Dan would forget completely if Clockwork never brought it up. But Dan's disconsolate attitude is beginning to concern him, and in an effort to remind Dan of something that had recently motivated him, Clockwork takes the chance to bring it up again.

And he supposes it's only fair to throw him a bone, given the trying day he's had.

Clockwork's hopeful forecast comes to pass: Dan's eyes gleam, reminded of his ill-fated stealth mission. "... Are you actually going to tell me?"

"I will," says Clockwork. And, thinking Dan will appreciate an opportunity to be angry with him, he adds with a sly smile, "... In due time."

Predictably, Dan shoots him a withering glare.

"When you've made a full recovery. Tomorrow, perhaps," he amends, when Dan begins to look mutinous. "So long as you make an effort to tell me how you're feeling."

"What, are you my fucking therapist now?" Dan snaps. He lifts his arms, emphatic and accusatory. "Maybe you should be mentoring Jazz, instead of that insufferable brat!"

Clockwork huffs out a quiet laugh. "I think I already have my hands full with you."

Dan balks. "Wh—? You're not mentoring me," he scoffs. "You're keeping me prisoner."

Clockwork tilts his head. "Would you prefer I be cruel to you?" he asks.

Clockwork doesn't expect Dan to move, given his earlier frailty—but intense emotions give ghosts strength, and Dan's anger appears to have restored some of his fearsome vitality. In a vertiginous whirl, Dan seizes the cowl of Clockwork's hood and drags him onto the bed, using their momentum to toss a leg over Clockwork's waist, caging the Timekeeper.

"I'd prefer," Dan archly enunciates, "to know just what it is you want from me."

Clockwork opens his mouth to tell him.

Then he closes it.

"I... don't entirely know," Clockwork confesses.

He had hoped that an absence of ulterior motive would comfort Dan, but it only seems to make him angrier. "Are you serious?!" he laughs hysterically. "And where does that leave us, huh? I'm just a pet you keep around to entertain yourself?" Dan tosses his head, his fiery hair flaring. "Gee, let's hope you remember to feed me!"

"That's not—" Clockwork purses his lips. He knows a hundred, thousand things he could say. But which one will lead to the most beneficial outcome?

No—

Which one is most honest?

"... At first I believed," Clockwork says slowly, "that I had a duty to the timeline to contain you. To prevent you from doing any more harm." Dan's brow furrows, still angry—but he ventures no more immediate violence. Clockwork supposes it is promising that Dan is even listening. "The best way to prevent that dismal future from coming to pass was... Well, to permit it, and then show it to your younger self."

Clockwork thinks of the way Danny antagonized the Ghost Writer and his family on Christmas. The way he had refused to help Vlad with his painful ecto-acne. The way a little wealth had made him lose sight of all his principles, the moment the Fenton family came into some money. Forgivable foibles, particularly for a young teen—yet ones which raised concerning possibilities in the life of someone with such a profoundly important destiny. 

"Witnessing the possibilities was not enough for him to learn. He had to experience them firsthand to fully grasp the consequences—alongside his friends, who would temper his thirst for power."

As Clockwork speaks, rhetorically reducing Dan to little more than a chess piece on a board, Dan tightens his grip in Clockwork's cowl. It constricts his throat and makes him wince, but he continues to speak. 

"You've always had a callous streak," Clockwork strains to say. "It seemed... prudent to impress upon you the consequences of that, when you were still guided by moral conscience."

"So Danny Fenton is your little pet project," Dan says slowly. "And I'm just the scraps that got left on the cutting room floor... Is that it?"

"I—at first," Clockwork admits, hissing as Dan tightens his grip. On reflex, he lifts his own hands to seize Dan's wrist, though whether he means a plea or a threat with that touch, he can't quite decide. "But in the end... I thought too highly of myself to kill you. And I pitied you too much to leave you in that thermos for all time."

Dan grabs Clockwork's cowl with both hands now, resting his weight on the Timekeeper's hips for the leverage he needs to lift Clockwork from the bed and shove him violently into the mattress. "I don't need your useless, condescending pity," he snarls. His eyes are bright with smoldering rage. Clockwork can't seem to catch his breath, as if the heat of Dan's furious gaze alone has laid him low—stolen his breath like the sheer cold of high altitude, or weighed him down with forces of atmospheric pressure.

Dan's fists tighten and twist in his cowl, demanding answers. "I pity all mankind," Clockwork rasps. "You're just... the one I have to live with."

Dan shoves him roughly into the mattress again, then releases him. Clockwork gasps for air, slumping into the bed with sudden weariness. He lays the back of his hand upon his forehead as he catches his breath.

"You keep saying 'at first'," Dan remarks. "So I'm guessing that means you changed your mind."

Clockwork lets his eyes briefly close, and revels in the thrill of not knowing what comes next.

"Well? Let's hear it, Clockwork," he hisses, vitriolic doubt dripping frim his poisonous tongue, like he's waiting for Clockwork to disappoint him. Issuing a challenge out of spite—one which he expects Clockwork to fail.

Clockwork takes a shuddering breath. Laying down for the first time in ages, he feels the pendulum in his chest strain against its fulcrum. "If I am too much a coward to kill you," Clockwork says, "then I have a duty of care to not only mitigate your suffering, but enrich your life—as much as I am able, while still observing my other responsibilities."

Dan considers this for a long moment, his eyes narrowing with sour scrutiny. "... So I'm still your pet," he surmises, unimpressed.

"But a pet I think very fondly of," Clockwork says with a sly and weary smile.

Dan scoffs, averting his gaze to cast a weak glare at the corner of the canopy. "... You're unbelievable."

Clockwork doesn't often have occasion to use his legs. He generally prefers to fly or float, for which an astral tail is quite sufficient. But he manifests them now—unnoticed by the ghost resting his weight upon Clockwork's waist—and makes use of them to unbalance Dan and throw him onto the bed, planting his knees on either side of Dan's hips.

Dan looks quite startled to have been thrown when he thumps softly into the mattress, staring up at the Timekeeper like he's torn between alarm, offense, and bloodlust.

"Am I wrong?" Clockwork coyly asks. He lifts a hand and tugs on the band of the medallion still hanging around Dan's neck. "You're already wearing a collar..."

Dan's face falls as he turns his attention to the medallion between them. He swats Clockwork's hand away with a sneer of disgust and yanks the band off his neck with a snap!— then he vanishes into intangible mist, slipping out from beneath Clockwork and vaporously hastening to the opposite end of the bed, where he manifests beside it, standing.

He chucks the medallion at Clockwork, who permits it to bounce harmlessly against his ribs and onto the mattress. He gathers it up and rises smoothly from the bed, his astral tail restored. 

"I suppose you're feeling better now," Clockwork says, lifting the medallion like a hypnotist's pendulum, "if you don't need this any more...?"

Dan darts a palm to his chest, as if he's alarmed to discover he discarded it. He scowls. "Did you just—?"

"I think a little recreational deceit is good for us," Clockwork says thoughtfully, tucking the medallion loosely into his belt, beside his pocket watch. "I learn so much from these exchanges." He lifts a coy brow at Dan. "And turnabout is fair play, no...?"

Dan throws him an utterly disbelieving look. Then he averts his glaring eyes mutinously, for all that they seem unable to muster any of his customary heat.

"If you're so concerned about my enrichment," Dan seethes with undisguised skepticism, "then get me some new reading material. If I have to read Murder on the Orient Express again, I'm going to be tempted to do a reenactment."

Clockwork smiles gently. "I'll see what I can do," he promises.

"Sure you will," Dan disdainfully scoffs. He turns his back pointedly to Clockwork and folds his arms. "Now get out."

"As you wish," Clockwork says with a modest bow, and he departs from Dan's company.

In the base of the tower, Clockwork replaces the reclaimed time medallion upon the hook beside the others.

Then he adjusts the pocket watch on his waist, ensuring it is carefully secured. He wasn't lying when he said he had been learning things from Dan. About discretion—and misdirection.

There had been a few memorable moments early on, wherein the timeline's ultimate enemy had gazed with treacherous longing at the staff Clockwork wielded. That keen attention had exacerbated Clockwork's paranoia, made him guarded in the other ghost's presence. If Dan got ahold of his staff...

It didn't bear thinking about—and yet Clockwork had, ceaselessly. Agonized over which moment Dan might opportunely choose to strike, and place the timeline in irreparable peril.

And so Clockwork had ceased carrying it around. It curtailed his influence somewhat, to not always have it in his grasp to make timely interventions with the minimum expenditure of power. But the trade-off in security was well worth it, to remove temptation from Dan's sight.

He had been anxious for more than one reason earlier, when Dan had teased a venturesome claw beneath his belt. He had feared Dan's uncharacteristic interest earlier had stemmed from a realization regarding the new form that most precious and powerful locus of the timeline had taken.

Clockwork inspects the pocket watch, satisfied to find no errors in its timekeeping. Despite his bold disclosures and Dan's volatile reaction, nothing had come to harm.

And he had discovered something Dan wanted. His desire for further literature was already something Clockwork suspected, but it was helpful to have it confirmed in the context of his decision to engage more earnestly with his captive's desires.

He really oughtn't intervene too drastically in the events of the timeline... But it wasn't as if Ghost Writer ever set foot outside, anyway.

So did it really matter where he served his sentence...?

Clockwork pondered the problem. Perhaps something could be arranged...?

A curt knock at the tower doors startles him from his thoughts.

Most events are well within the purview of Clockwork's awareness. But even if he weren't preoccupied just now, he still wouldn't have anticipated an unscheduled visit.

Curious, he waves a hand to open the tower's mechanized door.

Ferez the vulture stands on his doorstep.

"Hello," says Clockwork, tilting his head as he drifts out to meet his visitor, waving a hand and absently closing the door behind him.

"O, Almighty—"

"I don't know what the Observants told you, but there's really no need to stand on ceremony. Please," Clockwork entreats. "Speak freely."

The vulture evidently takes this to heart: as all his deferential mannerisms slump from his body like he's divesting himself of a heavy burden, and his shoulders take on a jaunty, irate skew. "What's the big idea, huh? Don't get me wrong, I won't complain of having more work—but if you wanted me to send more letters, you should've just given me the whole haul the last time I was here!"

Inspiration strikes like the toll of a clock tower bell.

"Sorry about that," Clockwork says with a conspiratorial smile. "But I didn't want the Observants snooping, you understand... Your next task is very important, and must be handled with utmost secrecy."

The vulture's irritation is quickly ameliorated by covetous curiosity. "Oh, yeah?"

Clockwork nods. "But it will also require a great deal of bravery."

The vulture puffs up his chest. "Hey, I ain't afraid of nothing or nobody!"

Clockwork smiles. "Of course," he says. Having received this assurance, he produces a second letter-scroll with a flourish, sourcing it from his future self.

It is lighter, and smaller, than he expects.

... Maybe he should invest in some paper, if he's going to be undertaking what looks to be an ongoing letter-writing campaign.

Clockwork holds up the scroll. "Please deliver this," he says, "to Warden Walker."

The vulture chokes, and his puffed-up chest collapses as he beats his esophagus with a fist of feathers. "You, uh... You want me to bring that to who, now?"

"Warden Walker," Clockwork repeats with a patient smile.

The vulture grimaces nervously. "O-Oh, well... Wouldn't you know it? I don't know where the guy lives!"

"But Ferez," Clockwork reasons, "did you not assure the Observants that nobody knew the winds and currents of the Ghost Zone like you did, when they first enlisted your aid?"

Ferez startles. "How d'you know I said—?!" At Clockwork's mysterious smile, he huffs irately. "Lousy, all-seeing..."

"If it's any comfort," Clockwork offers, "it would not be in my best interest to send you into certain peril."

"Cold comfort," Ferez gruffs.

Clockwork spreads his arms with a magnanimous air. "Then let me consult the timeline for a clearer picture." And he pulls out his pocket watch and opens it, peering with higher sight into its inner workings for a fateful answer.

Then he clicks it shut and replaces it in his belt. Ferez leans forward, intrigued, as Clockwork proclaims, "No harm will come to you at Walker's prison—save for a few ruffled feathers."

Ferez cranes his neck up hopefully. "Yeah?"

Clockwork's smile turns knowing. "... Provided, of course, you can resist the urge to read it this time."

"Wh—? Hey, I ain't reading the damn things!" he squawks, his feathers bristling with offense.

Clockwork lifts a palm with gracious ease. "Then there you have it." He holds out the letter and asks, though he already knows the answer, "Can I trust you to do this, Ferez?"

"Yeah, yeah," the vulture huffs, taking wing and snatching the letter in a clawed foot before flying toward an astral current that will carry him to Walker's prison without delay.

Clockwork reenters the tower and seals the door shut.

It is unusual for him to take a vested interest in the lives of so many others, and in such a short span. Clockwork supposes it simply comes more naturally to him to keep his own counsel. Though he does precious little, monitoring the timeline is no easy task. But technically, he supposes he could do it from anywhere... His tower was simply the most comfortable place from which to handle all the particulars which that entailed.

Dan was having an interesting influence on him—and not an altogether bad one.

Clockwork touches his throat in reverie, recalling how Dan's sudden anger had temporarily restored his vitality. Clockwork never tired of watching the timeline, never truly grew bored of scrutinizing its brushstrokes in search of new details to appreciate.

But the novelty of living with Dan was a welcome change of pace. And if the Ghost Writer's sentence could be commuted, then accommodating Dan's innocuous and promising requests for further diversions would materially reduce the suffering of a kindred spirit, which Clockwork certainly didn't mind.

And how much could writing a few letters change, really?

Chapter Text

Ghost Writer lifts his head when a sudden shift in pressure reverberates throughout the still and silent air of the library—followed by the sound of ticking and clicking gears.

"Clockwork?!" he calls, shrill with shock, as he clambers out of the boxes he was rooting around in and hastily wipes the dust from his hands onto his coat.

Ghost Writer stumbles from the dusty storage closet and out onto the second story landing, catching himself on the wooden banister that overlooks the atrium of the library. He laughs with sharp-toothed delight as the temporal portal's effects dissipate, and in his foyer floats the Master of All Time.

"Oh! You're here!" Ghost Writer says breathlessly, feeling a bit foolish for announcing it. His words echo in the spacious library, as if drawing attention to the fact that his declaration was pointless. His voice sounds strange and unfamiliar to his ears.

Clockwork turns his face up toward him with a smiling red gaze. “Good evening, Ghost Writer,” he says warmly.

Ghost Writer titters, feeling his knees grow weak. “I’ll... I’ll be right down, shall I?”

Clockwork lifts a hand to adjust his staff. “Take your time,” he says with an absent smile.

Ghost Writer laughs nervously, finding this invitation quite absurd. Take his time? When the Master of All Time is gracing him with his presence? It’s all Ghost Writer can do not to trip over his feet in his haste to reach the stairs and join the other ghost on the ground floor.

Yet Clockwork waits patiently, and Ghost Writer manages to restrain himself enough not to run right up to him and make an utter fool of himself. Even having curbed his enthusiasm, he still feels breathless when at last he stands before Clockwork.

“Hello,” Ghost Writer says, nervously adjusting his glasses. The sight of the broad-shouldered, violet-cloaked, incomparably powerful Timekeeper feels utterly surreal, after months of trudging down grey halls and staring at grey walls. Though Clockwork's eyes are only a sheen of warm red with no pupil to pierce through him, it is nonetheless all Ghost Writer can do not to reflexively avert his gaze.

Though Ghost Writer's hospitality leaves much to be desired, and his jitters are embarrassingly conspicuous, Clockwork’s smile persists.

“Hello, Ghost Writer," he says, tilting his head down in a casual nod of acknowledgment. "I see you’re in good health.”

“Hah!” Ghost Writer laughs, his smile going jagged and silly. “And you’re looking... spry as ever, I see.”

Clockwork chuckles under his breath, and lifts his free hand into the air as if to offer up an explanation. “I’ve been getting out more these days,” he answers wryly.

Ghost Writer covers his foolish smile with a delicate hand to stifle his giggles. “Have you?" he asks gamely. "That’s not like you.”

“No,” Clockwork freely agrees, “but I thought I could use a change of pace... I imagine you’ve been dealing with similar feelings, lately.”

Ghost Writer’s bright smile goes brittle. “You could... say that.” Those months in Walker’s cells had been brief, but taxing. Ghost Writer had always considered himself a lone savant, a hermit of sorts—someone who could handle isolation just fine. Preferred it, really. And most ghosts did, come to that: preoccupied with the circumstances of their death, or their obsession, or their own private mischief and plots. Most ghosts did not concern themselves with finding society among other ghosts—save for that most sacred night out of the year, when they all set aside their differences to play-act at their former humanity.

Having written a poem dedicated to the occasion—two, now, technically—Ghost Writer thought he properly understood the holiday’s significance.

Yet it wasn't until he had been deprived of all possibility of society that he truly began to understand its value.

"Um," Ghost Writer says, clearing his throat around a sudden, inexplicable blockage. "Would it be alright if I—?"

Clockwork spreads his arms in invitation. "Go right ahead."

Ghost Writer throws his arms around Clockwork's shoulders before he loses his nerve. The Master of Time sways, and Ghost Writer nearly loses his footing—but then those powerful arms enfold him in a gentle embrace, and Ghost Writer hides his face in Clockwork’s shoulder.

"There," says Clockwork. "It's alright."

Ghost Writer trembles as the terrible grip of despair finally begins to loosen its hold upon his heart. He clenches his fists in Clockwork's cloak and focuses on breathing.

"... Thank you," he whispers tremulously. "I..." He takes a shuddering breath. "You saved me, my friend."

Clockwork strokes his spine. Ghost Writer shivers.

"Well," Clockwork says reasonably, "who else would I borrow books from?"

Ghost Writer lets out a watery laugh. His glasses begin to fog up, and he smears them fruitlessly against Clockwork's cloak. "Not Walker, that's for sure," he says hoarsely. "I'm afraid his collection is considerably less well-appointed than mine..."

Clockwork laughs aloud, and Ghost Writer smiles as he feels the pendulum in the other ghost's chest tick in time with that warm and vibrant laughter.

"Just the one, isn't it?" Clockwork asks.

"Yes... That infernal rulebook." Ghost Writer groans as he remembers his punishment. "And I have to copy it before Walker's next visit..."

"That is unfortunate," Clockwork agrees.

"Yes," Ghost Writer sighs, lifting his head with a hopeful gaze. "I, ah... I don't suppose you'd be willing to... assist me, with...?"

Clockwork's patient smile goes crooked, and Ghost Writer's shoulders lift with self-conscious shame.

"N-Nevermind!" he suddenly cries, realizing what a burden he's placing on Clockwork's shoulders. "I—I shouldn't have asked," he stammers. He steps back and drops his gaze sheepishly, wringing his soft scarf in his hands. "I—I know how you feel about being asked to intervene... And you've already helped me so much...! I... I'm—"

"Ghost Writer," Clockwork cajoles, laying gentle hands on narrow shoulders to impart an encouraging squeeze. "It's alright. I wouldn't have come if I didn't want to help."

"Oh," Ghost Writer sighs, lightheaded with relief. "That's... I..." He lifts his scarf to dab at the corners of his eyes. Clockwork's gaze is patient, and unrelenting. It is a uniquely vulnerable thing, to be gazed upon by one who knows your life from beginning to end. It is enough to humble anyone, to meet such a gaze in search of judgment for the decisions one has made on the winding paths of life—only to find compassion, and patience, and tacit acceptance. It is soothing, to know this soft, unwavering crimson light shines upon all time without distinction.

Ghost Writer takes a deep breath, and discovers that the impending second wave of tears he had been bracing himself to weather is unexpectedly calmed—like a once-stormy sea, yielding to the unremitting cosmic caress of the moon's inescapable gravity.

Ghost Writer exhales, and feels all his worries washed away with that heavy sigh like the whisper of a receding tide. His smile comes easier, then—albeit sheepish and humble.

"Thank you," Ghost Writer says at last.

Clockwork's answering nod is equally humble, and no less kind. "Of course," he says. "What are friends for?" 

Ghost Writer huffs, rubbing the back of his neck as his smile grows more characteristically crooked. "I appreciate that, my friend... More than words can say, I think."

"Oh?" says Clockwork, lifting a playful brow. "It's not like you to be at a loss for words."

"Hah!" Ghost Writer grins. "I've come to realize I'm no good at writing under pressure."

"No pressure here," Clockwork assures him, reclaiming his staff from where it floats beside him and drifting to Ghost Writer's side. "Take all the time you need. And in the meantime..." He gestures at the library with a wave of his staff. "How can I help ease your burdens?"

Ghost Writer regards Clockwork with a kind of concordance he's never known before—yet it is one that comes unexpectedly easy. "Well..." Ghost Writer says ponderously, taking in the spacious atrium, which seems so much more inviting than it did that morning. "The grandfather clock in the entryway hasn't been the same since Christmas."

Clockwork turns his gaze to the place Ghost Writer indicates. "Ah, my specialty," he says with an air of satisfaction. He tilts his head askance to offer Ghost Writer a confident smile. "Let's see if I can't put it to rights for you."

—

Clockwork's power is naturally so formidable that repairing a grandfather clock is child's play to him—a fact he has no qualm advertising by taking on the task in his diminutive child form.

The gears in his chest creak with unfamiliar strain as he shrinks into his more youthful form. These transformations are something he has, historically, used as embodied, on-the-fly corrections to the Timeline. He is, after all, Time itself embodied—and just as his staff and his tower are extensions of himself, his body houses Time's workings just the same.

It feels like dusting off an old cloak he hasn't worn in half an age. Its contours are familiar to him, its shape nostalgic. As he floats before the grandfather clock, he stretches his little arms, as if the period of disuse has made this form stiff with long sleep. Then he reclaims his staff from the air, twirls it experimentally, and waves it at the broken clock with a flourish of sparkling blue light.

It reassembles in a swirling shower of gears and pins, each bent and broken piece straightening in as Clockwork undoes its past destruction. It tugs at his heart, to see a timepiece so ill-used. They are his namesake, his vocation, and manifestations of his influence over the entire timeline—in the abstract sense, of course. Not every clock is his own personal spy. But, neither does he need them to be.

He already knows everything, after all.

When Clockwork at last wraps up his work, he turns to Ghost Writer and sketches a little bow—having anticipated that the most likely outcome of his contributions would be a cheery bout of polite and enthusiastic applause. But when he lifts his head at the ensuing silence, he finds Ghost Writer staring at him with a look of curious and bewildered assessment.

Clockwork springs back into his adult form to accommodate for the fact that he has found himself in the version of the timeline he had least expected to find himself. "Is there something on my face?" he asks, thumbing the scar beneath his eye. The scar has always been there, of course—a promise made by fate that Clockwork hoped he would never have to fulfill. But that possibility had marked him all the same.

Ghost Writer flusters to have been caught staring. "Oh, no! I apologize, I suppose it's—a relief to be able to look at someone without... worrying they'll take it as a challenge."

"I tease," Clockwork assures him. "But I'm curious to know if that's all that's on your mind...?" Ghost Writer is plainly grateful, and eager to express that gratitude. He was intrigued to know what might have distracted the ordinarily meticulous Writer.

"Well, I hope you won't think me rude, but I..."

"Go ahead," Clockwork invites with a bewildered laugh.

"You seem like you've become more... patient?"

Clockwork blinks. It is unusual, he realizes, to discover that others can tell him things about himself that he does not already know. He smiles indulgently. "Have I been short with you in the past, my friend?"

"N-Not as such!" Ghost Writer hastens to assure him. But his eyes fall to the floor with private doubt.

"Speak freely," Clockwork assures him.

"Well," Ghost Writer says delicately, "I suppose it's because... you already know everything that's going to happen, don't you?" He plays with the edge of his scarf—though at least he's not wringing it as if he's trying to choke the fabric this time. "It always seemed as if you were... impatient, to move on to the next thing, as it were, whenever we spoke." He laughs nervously. "I can only imagine how tedious it is, having to play out each moment like a—a stage actor, perhaps, in some sort of theater production, when you already have the script in hand..."

Clockwork knew Ghost Writer would say this from the moment his reaction strayed from the most likely of probabilities. But he takes a moment to really let the words sink in.

Perhaps it was naive of him—or perhaps he had unwittingly internalized that naive separatism that he so abhorred in the Observants—but Clockwork hadn't realized his behavior on prior visits had left such a profound impression on the Ghost Writer. Though he chided the Observants for their reluctance to intervene, perhaps he was no less guilty of their foibles by considering himself so separate from those subject to Time's flow—and thereby disregarding one when he was standing right in front of him.

Historically, Clockwork has deemed his responsibilities too important to jeopardize with social diversions, and moreover the risks of even minor interference always seemed to outnumber the potential benefits. In ancient times, he and the Observants had come to an accord to mitigate the potential chaos that could await them as history progressed: they were not to reveal their presence to those in whose lives they intervened—lest mortals and ghosts alike seek them out incessantly for vengeance or assistance.

But when he is only intervening in small ways, shining the light of gentle hope into the lives of those he cares about, mitigating suffering in small ways, Clockwork has permitted himself to be known. And he has strategically chosen individuals who—with one notable exception—will not seek him out of their own volition.

Ghost Writer, for example, knows well enough not to hubristically desire to change Time's flow. The potential dangers of tampering with Time are well-documented in the realm of fiction, for which Clockwork is grateful, and Ghost Writer is humble enough not to ask it of him.

Even Clockwork's disclosure of his existence to Walker was carefully chosen—for that domineering warden would no sooner come to Clockwork for aid than willingly subordinate himself to him by bending the knee. Walker's pride simply could not countenance a confrontation with one he considered 'above' him, in his strict hierarchical worldview. Walker would likely take private pleasure in the acknowledgment of his letter, and avoid Clockwork as best he could the rest of the time.

And as for the vultures...

Well, Clockwork's suggestion to employ them had been facetious spite, and perhaps in some small way he is to blame for that. But the consequences of actually involving them lay squarely on the Observants, and so Clockwork is content to absolve himself of responsibility for that inevitable outcome.

Regardless.

"Forgive me," Clockwork says, aging in an instant as if to reflect his newfound wisdom. His beard makes it difficult to place his palm on his chest in a gesture of sincere contrition, but he does his best. "I've been inconsiderate toward you."

"N-Not at all!" Ghost Writer stammers in a panic. "I only—"

"It's alright," Clockwork assures him. "Really. I'm glad you told me."

Ghost Writer grimaces with the pain of confrontation.

Clockwork wonders if his propensity to change forms to make minor adjustments to the workings of the timeline is not alienating to his remarkably sensitive companion. To that end, he returns to his adult form, and commits to stay that way.

"I did say I've been trying to get out more these days, didn't I?" He glides closer and rests a hand on Ghost Writer's shoulder, offering a gentle squeeze, before gently guiding the other ghost to turn around so they are standing side-by-side. "I'd be happy to make time for you," Clockwork says with a wink.

Ghost Writer huffs, as relieved as ever to have Clockwork making ridiculous jokes with him. "Well, if you're certain..."

Clockwork is trying to be mindful not to broadcast his foreknowledge to the extent that Ghost Writer enters a state of distress for failing to adequately entertain his omniscient guest. But for one who struggles to ask for help, perhaps in this instance it would not be inappropriate to use that knowledge to offer help, instead.

Clockwork strokes his chin as he lifts his gaze with a smile of mock-thought. "I have a sneaking suspicion that you're searching for an old typewriter... Perhaps I could help expedite your search?"

Ghost Writer lights up with an inner glow of joy, like the frosted-glass pane of a lantern. "Oh! Could you?" he gushes, clasping his hands with effusive gratitude. "I'd be in your debt!"

"Insofar as we are all living on borrowed time, yes..." Clockwork lightly agrees. Ghost Writer snorts in an endearingly unattractive way. "But given the circumstances, I suppose I can extend you another loan..."

"Oh, stop it," Ghost Writer scoffs with good humor.

Clockwork's smile brightens as he joshingly shrugs. "I won't even charge you interest on the principal."

Ghost Writer cackles and shoves Clockwork's shoulder in friendly disgust. Clockwork permits himself to sway in response to the touch Ghost Writer ventures, his smile growing so sly that Ghost Writer rolls his eyes, shaking his head and marching for the stairs as if he means to abandon Clockwork for his tomfoolery.

Clockwork is not often troubled by the inherently voyeuristic nature of his powers. He does not know what others think—only how they might act. And amidst Ghost Writer's prior anxiety and his current ease, Clockwork perceives everything he is not saying, but might have: how it's been ages since he's shared physical contact with anyone who didn't mean him harm; how painful it is for him to be alone in the silence of his library, after only a few scant months of the prison's cement and iron cacophony; how fearful he is that Clockwork will tire of him and abandon him still; how difficult he finds it to turn his back on anyone.

Clockwork knows these unspoken disclosures to be as true and entrusted to him of Ghost Writer's own volition as if the man had spoken them in this time.

Thus, he is not senseless to the monumental show of trust Ghost Writer is making by turning his back on Clockwork and walking away from him.

He can only do his utmost to be worthy of that trust.

—

Clockwork returns from his errand with a basketful of oranges. He was more than happy to take them off Ghost Writer's hands.

Dan will likely appreciate a treat, after so recently undergoing his own ordeal.

—

While Dan is still angry at Clockwork for causing him causal injury—but mostly for seeming to favor Danny over him, Clockwork is beginning to suspect—the oranges are an offering so bewildering that it immediately startles Dan out of his rebellious moping. His cold shoulder shatters, and he forgets to be angry as he accepts the novel gift with almost innocent curiosity.

"And I have something else for you," Clockwork says when he has given Dan a few moments to savor the morsel in his mouth.

Dan swallows his fang-shredded orange slice and wipes its juices from his chin with the back of his hand, his movements slow as he fixes Clockwork with a guarded glare.

"... If it's a family reunion," Dan says slowly, "you can forget it."

Clockwork laughs. "What? No," he assures the other ghost. "I can see you have no love of suspense—"

"No fucking kidding, so why don't you just spit it out?"

"—so perhaps I should return this after all?"

Clockwork holds up a small paperback novel, and watches with no small amount of gratification as Dan's mistrustful expression transforms into one of awed disbelief.

The novel is in Dan's hand faster than a blink of the eye. Clockwork will consider himself fortunate to have learned Dan's reflexes are as fast as ever in so harmless a context as literary enthusiasm.

"Oh my god, fucking finally," Dan groans. "I was just about sick of reading the word 'resplendent'."

"Then you will be relieved to hear that word cannot be found in this one," Clockwork dryly replies.

Dan throws him a mischievous grin. "I guess you finally manned up and decided to steal from your librarian friend after all, huh?"

Clockwork graciously forgives Dan's frankly hilarious attempt to emasculate him, and simply corrects his misconception: "As it happens, his sentence was recently commuted. So I was able to visit him at his home, where he entrusted that book to me."

Dan's smirk falls. It's a shame to see it go—but his puzzled curiosity is just as hard-won, and no less intriguing "... Is that so?"

"Yes," Clockwork says. "The timing was very convenient."

Dan rolls his eyes. "Meddler," he mutters, dropping his gaze to the book in his hand and turning it over to read the back. The front cover of Death on the Nile greets Clockwork again.

Back at Ghost Writer's library, Clockwork had realized with no small amount of concern that he had no talent for recommending books. For anyone else, Clockwork would simply spy into the future, see what book would bring its recipient the greatest joy or insight, and lean on his natural foreknowledge to guide him in the choosing. But Dan is reticent and unpredictable. He has not even told Clockwork if he likes the book he already has—though he's read it enough times by now that Clockwork can at least surmise he does not find it intolerable—and he has made no effort to tell Clockwork what he would like to read next. 

To guide his guessing, Clockwork has only Danny and Vlad's tastes to lean on, and risks offending with either.

So Ghost Writer's insistence that this was a 'safe' and 'classic' recommendation had come as something of a saving grace.

"I really don't meddle that much," Clockwork feels the need to say. "But I doubt you'll believe that."

"Not for a goddamn second."

Clockwork huffs out a quiet laugh. "Of course," he says agreeably. "... My librarian friend extends his regards, by the way," Clockwork adds on a whim.

A beat.

"Does he," Dan says with a dry glance.

"Yes," says Clockwork. "That said, he is not accustomed to loaning out more than one book at a time... So I'll need to return the first one I gave you."

Dan lifts his gaze to the ceiling in stubborn thought, like he's trying to find a way to be difficult about this—but the temptation of new reading material evidently ranks higher on his list of priorities than antagonizing Clockwork or his acquaintances, and he quickly gives up the ghost of animosity to focus instead on his prize.

"It's in the nightstand," Dan says as he immediately opens the book to the first page.

"Thank you," says Clockwork, rising from the bed and flying over Dan to retrieve it. Dan throws him a disdainful glance from his seated position on the bed, but makes no move to take advantage of their rare proximity, or Clockwork's seeming inattention.

When he opens the drawer and retrieves Murder on the Orient Express, Clockwork discovers that it looks and feels significantly more well-loved than the last time he held it. He examines the soft fraying at the corners of the pages, the gentle curve of the cover, a faint hairline crack on the spine.

"... Problem?" Dan demands in an argumentative tone.

Clockwork has never returned a book to Ghost Writer in anything less than pristine condition. He considers undoing the damages immediately—but on a whim, he decides against it. He can offer to do so when he returns it to Ghost Writer, after all.

Part of him is curious to know what Ghost Writer will make of Dan's handling.

"I don't think so," Clockwork says. He smiles at Dan. "Let me know if you want anything else to read."

"Whatever."

"And—" Clockwork closes his mouth. He can't decide if asking Dan not to get orange juice on the pages will inspire him to contrarily do so on purpose.

"What is it now?"

"I can't be sure," says Clockwork, "but there may be more oranges in the future."

Dan blinks, and a glint of enthusiasm enters his eye, belying his desire for the fulfillment of that hopeful promise. 

He hides that hope, as usual, with a snort and a snide remark. "Yeah? That'd be a first—something even you're not sure of."

"For me, time may move forward, and backward..." Dan's brow furrows uncomprehendingly. "But I believe your actions will always carry the distinction of being the first thing I wasn't sure of."

Dan scowls. "And which action is that?"

Clockwork does not say it was the kiss.

But somehow, Dan's sly expression suggests to Clockwork that he knows regardless. Has his face unwittingly revealed his thoughts?

Clockwork clears his throat. "I'll go and return this," he says, and does his utmost to depart with dignity, without seeming like he is being chased from the room by the sly, unswerving gaze of its occupant.

Chapter Text

Oranges, Dan thinks, bewildered.

He marvels at the miraculous little basket of morsels Clockwork has left behind for him.

He hasn't eaten in years. He can't even remember the last thing he ate.

But now, in captivity, he has been given the improbable gift of a bushel of tropical fruits. 

In Clockwork's presence, he had had to quench his enthusiasm and curiosity lest the Timekeeper make jest of his deprivation. But when he is alone at last—when he senses that atmospheric shift within the tower which assures him its master has departed—Dan lunges for the fruit and sets upon it with animal abandon. He shreds the bright orange skin with greedy claws, relishing the sight of the fleshy white albedo pulling free of the soft inner core.

Immediately, a burst of fragrant citrus fills the air, enwreathing Dan's flaming head with an intoxicating cloud.

His ravenous savagery is quelled by that bright and bracing aroma. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply of that sunny scent, and he considers the fruit like an alien thing. Slowly, he peels the skin completely away—occasionally puncturing the juice-packed fruit with his claws, making it bleed sticky nectar into his palm. As the rinds come away he discards each coy slip of skin in the basket with the rest of Clockwork's strange offerings.

In Dan's palm, the naked fruit feels like a damp, cold eye. He chuckles as he thinks of the Observants—but any further consideration of those odious eggheads threatens to spoil his appetite, and so he abandons that train of thought.

Dan transfers the fruit to his other hand, sneering faintly at the glossy smear left behind on his palm. He flicks out his forked tongue to taste the sticky sheen on his glove. Bright flavor alights upon his tongue, and his eyes flutter as he sighs. Dan is tempted to shove the whole thing in his mouth—to upturn the basket and gnash its contents in his teeth like a ravenous, stupid animal.

But it is better to savor such a novel experience.

Clockwork made it clear there was only a possibility there would be more forthcoming.

It would be a waste, Dan thinks, to squander such a prize with haste.

He prises a wedge from the sticky globe, its departure announced by a quiet sound like peeling tape from a polished surface.

Dan feeds the wedge from his hand onto his tongue, and between his teeth it bursts softly into a flood of tart juice. Sensation explodes behind his eyes, sends sweet shocks skittering across every neuron in his brain. Dan swallows with a shudder, and eats another.

And another.

Then two at once, and before he knows it, the orange is gone.

He eats another orange in no time at all, and a third and fourth are disassembled into a pile of wedges on his nightstand—the better to accompany him as he delves into his new book.

"Death on the Nile," Dan reads aloud. "Let's see what Clockwork's librarian friend has selected for me..."

There is a foreword by the author at the beginning, which he skims—but he lingers on the last paragraph.

I think, myself, it reads, that this book is one of the best of my "foreign travel" ones, and if detective stories are "escape literature" (and why shouldn't they be!) the reader can escape to sunny skies and blue water as well as to crime in the confines of an armchair.

... Dan huffs in skeptical derision of this sentiment, and turns the page.

—

Ghost Writer feeds a sheet of paper into his typewriter, his tongue caught in concentration between his teeth. 

"... Ah, there!" he says softly, satisfied when the page is secured.

A soft ticking pricks his ear. He glances querulously at the grandfather clock in the corner of the foyer, assuming it to be the source of the sound—but he startles when a portal appears before his desk, revealing itself as the culprit.

When Clockwork appears through the vanishing dial of the portal, Ghost Writer presses his hand to his chest to calm himself.

"Back again so soon?" Ghost Writer asks a bit breathlessly, chastening his flighty heart for being so skittish.

"To return one of your books," Clockwork says. He lifts Murder on the Orient Express demonstratively in one hand.

"Oh!" Ghost Writer says. When he asked for the book to be returned 'as soon as possible', he might have guessed Clockwork would take it literally. He hoped the ghost would use it as an excuse to visit later, when Ghost Writer had a bit more time to entertain him properly as an honored guest... but, well. He supposes that's what he gets for employing colloquialism with one such as Clockwork, who could be said to be punctuality itself. "Thank you."

"I know you're busy," Clockwork says with a glance at the typewriter, "but I wanted to ask for your opinion on something."

"My... opinion?" Ghost Writer asks slowly. "You mean, another book recommendation...?" He had been charmed by Clockwork's earlier bewilderment when he had asked for one. To see the Timekeeper so earnestly troubled by a problem the Ghost Writer found as easy as breathing was a novelty he had yet to enjoy in their entire acquaintanceship.

But surely Clockwork's mysterious houseguest hasn't already finished the book Ghost Writer loaned him ten minutes prior...? Unless Clockwork is coming from the future to lodge his request... which only makes Ghost Writer wonder if something terrible is going to happen to him soon, if Clockwork can find no better time to visit him for such things than right as he is about to begin his work.

He shudders to think what Walker will do to him, if he hasn't finished his lines by the time he comes to visit.

Clockwork drifts closer, so Ghost Writer has no opportunity to stand and voice his concerns, and he places the book on his desk. "Your relationship with literature is quite... an intimate one," he begins, "and so I was curious to know if you could provide me any insight into the last person who read this."

Ghost Writer purses his lips. "... I suppose I could, yes. But..." He lifts a hand toward the book—then closes it in a gesture of forbearance. Walker's brand stings his palm where his fingertips come into contact with it, and that punitive reminder makes him draw back even further, as if it were a warning.

Clockwork tilts his head curiously. "Is something the matter?"

Ghost Writer peers speculatively up at the hovering Timekeeper. "... That would be a rather egregious invasion of privacy, Clockwork."

This appears to take Clockwork aback. 

"Well, I..." His chin comes to rest in his hand as his brow furrows in consternation. It is abundantly clear that the Master of Time Itself has never once spared a thought for the ethical ramifications of invading the privacy of others—given all the possibilities of causality already exist within his sphere of awareness by his very nature.

An avid reader such as Ghost Writer understands well the voyeuristic impulse, and so he cannot help but smile as he swivels his chair toward Clockwork and pronounces, "You may know everything that is destined to come to pass—and even things that only might come to pass—but the one thing you aren't privy to is the private thoughts of others." Clockwork averts his gaze uncomfortably. A jagged tooth catches on Ghost Writer's lip as his smile widens. "I must say, Clockwork... I'm terribly curious to know what is so interesting about your mysterious houseguest, if you're coming to me with such things when I'm busy."

Of course, if Ghost Writer truly begrudged the company or the request, he could simply offer Clockwork a 'yes' or 'no' and be done with it.

But Clockwork's behavior is peculiar, and fascinating. Ghost Writer has never seen him behave like this before.

He is curious to see what lengths Clockwork will go to to uncover what he seeks.

Clockwork sighs. "... You are entirely too perceptive, my friend," he says with an air of resignation.

"Thank you," Ghost Writer says, preening.

Clockwork lifts his arms, at a loss. "So you won't do it?"

"I didn't say that," Ghost Writer demures. His eyes drift around the library in thought. "Perhaps we can come to some sort of... arrangement. A trade, if you will..."

Clockwork deflates—but his weary smile is far too fond and game to fool Ghost Writer. If he were truly inconvenienced by this development, he wouldn't entertain it for a moment.

"I see," says Clockwork, opening a hand toward Ghost Writer in invitation to make his case. "And what would you like in exchange?"

Ghost Writer knows just what to ask for.

He gestures toward the typewriter. "As you can see, I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment. But if you were to do my lines for me..." He lifts his eyebrows cajolingly, as if to convey to Clockwork that the deal he's suggesting is an extremely advantageous one. "... Well! Then I would have ample time to answer any inquiries you might have about that book, personally revealing or otherwise!"

Ghost Writer has never seen Clockwork look so conflicted. It's almost worth the sinking feeling that Clockwork will decline.

"... I really shouldn't do that," Clockwork says, though it sounds like it pains him to admit.

Ghost Writer does his best to conceal his disappointment with an airy lift of his hands. "And I don't think I should disclose the private thoughts of that book's reader... So I suppose we're at an impasse."

It is almost painful to look upon Clockwork's faintly crestfallen expression. One would think the Master of Time had never had to face personal disappointment in his entire existence. "Fair enough. You have your principles—"

"I didn't say that, either," Ghost Writer balks. "Everyone has a price, my friend."

Clockwork sighs. "Then can't you ask for something else?"

"I don't want anything else!" Ghost Writer's resolve wavers as his heart trembles with despair. He really doesn't want to write lines from Walker's stupid rulebook. "Come now, Clockwork, have a heart! You won't even do a single page for me? I know you're curious."

Clockwork looks conflicted again—but his expression is incredibly easy to read, and he clearly doesn't think one page will make much difference in the grand scheme of things. Ghost Writer will simply have to take his victories where he finds them.

And starting is the hardest part, he reasons.

"And what is one page worth to you?" Clockwork asks, resigned.

"You can choose," Ghost Writer graciously invites.

Clockwork lifts his eyes in thought. "... His opinion about the book," he eventually says. "I'd rather not be so ineffectual in our search next time."

Ghost Writer's lip twitches, straining to conceal a smile. He expected something of greater import to be on Clockwork's mind—perhaps his houseguest was a threat to the timeline, and Clockwork sought assurance that his mental faculties and moral fiber were intact—but a question about his guest's preferences is surprisingly selfless, for such an uncharacteristically selfish request.

It's actually kind of sweet, Ghost Writer decides.

"Agreed," Ghost Writer says. He folds his arms with a triumphant flourish to conceal his knee-jerk impulse to offer his hand to shake on it. His palm is still tender from Walker's tender attentions.

Clockwork waves his staff toward the typewriter, sending a timely breeze of blue ghostly power into its keys and springs. The first page fills with tidy text before their eyes, nary a smudge or error in sight. When the typewriter chimes its last and its blue aura fades, Ghost Writer leans forward to snatch the page from the tray with a look of wonderment. It's very tidy work. He's almost proud of it—before he remembers that he didn't actually do it himself.

As his satisfied smile falters at that somewhat disheartening realization, Ghost Writer catches sight of the judgmental lilt to Clockwork's brow, just as he folds his arms.

"Oh, don't give me that look," Ghost Writer huffs, setting the page aside. "There's no point pretending you're not making use of a shortcut of your own."

Clockwork frowns.

Ghost Writer presses, "Did you even ask your guest for his opinion before coming to ask me? Hmm...?"

Clockwork's stern look falters. "No," he mulishly admits.

Ghost Writer grins. "There, you see?" Satisfied his point is made, he does not waste time castigating Clockwork with pointed looks. He merely reaches for the book—though he cannot help but add, "We're not so different, you and—"

But when Ghost Writer's hand lands upon the cover, a cold shock courses through his arm, and he recoils with a sharp, pained yelp.

Clockwork floats urgently forward. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

Shaking the chill from his aching hand, Ghost Writer thanks his lucky stars that he had the forethought not to reach out with his injured hand.

"I... Yes," Ghost Writer says hesitantly, flexing his fingers. No permanent harm done. "It was just... a little intense. I suppose I wasn't prepared for such a powerful reading."

Clockwork reaches out to delicately touch the book. His palm obscures the front cover entirely.

"I don't feel a thing," Clockwork marvels. 

Ghost Writer clenches and unclenches his hand as the chill recedes. "You wouldn't. It's—something only I can feel."

Clockwork perches his chin in his hand as he gives Ghost Writer a worried look. "I didn't realize it would be so taxing. If it's too painful..."

Ghost Writer shakes his head and firms his resolve. He can do this much for the ghost who saved him from prison, at least. "No, just—just give me a moment..."

"Is there anything I can do to make it easier?"

Ghost Writer resettles in his seat, smoothing his sweater over his chest to compose himself as he considers the question. He takes a deep breath and pushes his typewriter away.

"... Can you push it closer?" Ghost Writer asks, gesturing toward the empty space on the desk before him. He can touch a book without communing with it, of course. But his embarrassing little episode has made him realize just how out of practice he was.

Clockwork obliges him, and Ghost Writer claps his hands—wincing when he realizes he has forgotten his injury. Again.

"Wondrous," he says, clearing his throat. "And, um..."

Clockwork watches him attentively. "Yes?"

Ghost Writer averts his gaze. "Could you... look away for a moment?" he asks awkwardly. "It's... a little difficult to read with someone watching you."

Realization dawns on Clockwork's face, and he chuckles, amused by this idiosyncrasy of his friend's power. "Of course."

Clockwork turns away—and Ghost Writer braces himself before raising his left hand and placing it upon the cover.

The sheer breadth and depth of emotion spilling forth from the book threatens to overwhelm him. He keeps his breathing slow with a concerted effort, and focuses on finding the information Clockwork asked of him.

He comes away from the experience with even more questions than he began, and a great deal more information than he meant to gather—there is something entirely absorbing about partaking secondhand of another person's reading experience, and Ghost Writer may have gotten more than a little sidetracked fielding enquiries of his own as he got a bit lost in the weeds...

But he has Clockwork's answer, too.

"I'm done," he announces. Clockwork turns back around to hear his verdict, and Ghost Writer leans back in his seat, feeling wearily fulfilled. "The previous reader found it... intriguing. And thrilling."

Clockwork tilts his head quizzically. "But did he like it?"

Ghost Writer nearly rolls his eyes. "The experience of immersing oneself in a narrative evinces a great deal of emotional highs and lows—few of which resemble the straightforward contents of a book review, Clockwork."

Clockwork smiles crookedly. "Pardon my ignorance."

"You're excused," Ghost Writer airily declares, and Clockwork laughs. The sound skitters pleasantly down Ghost Writer's spine. When was the last time he heard someone laugh with something other than sadistic cruelty? "In any case... I'm afraid I cannot offer any more clarity without studying the book further, which would take time I truly regret to report that I do not have. But..."

"I understand," Clockwork says, reaching out to squeeze Ghost Writer's shoulder. "I appreciate your efforts. And I'm sorry for interrupting. I was so curious, I suppose I... simply couldn't help myself."

Not for the first time, Ghost Writer wonders if he is dealing with an imposter. Clockwork has been behaving so strangely since arranging his release from Walker's prison. Not that he's ungrateful... But for the Master of All Time to be in such disarray, well.

It's more than a little concerning.

He can't help but wonder just what is the matter with the other ghost.

"I understand my readings are as inexact as the reading experience," Ghost Writer says, "but if you'll permit me to do some interpretive work..."

Clockwork straightens. "Please, speak freely."

"I would hazard to guess," Ghost Writer meanders, "that your guest was very... relieved, to have this book to keep him company."

All at once, Clockwork softens, and Ghost Writer smiles with bittersweet vindication. Oh, you poor old fool...

"That's very helpful," Clockwork says. "That is, if you're sure...?"

"As sure as I can be," Ghost Writer breezily declares. "That's certain beyond almost a shadow of a doubt, by the way. I'll have you know my skills of interpretive analysis are the best there is, bar none."

"Of course," says Clockwork with agreeable amusement. "Then I thank you for applying your talents to ease my mind."

"Well," Ghost Writer says, retreating bashfully from smug posturing. "... What are friends for?"

Clockwork hums warmly. "What, indeed?" he muses. He squeezes Ghost Writer's shoulder, imparting much comfort with that brief contact, before releasing him. "I won't keep you any longer."

Ghost Writer sighs. "I hope you know I... wouldn't mind, ordinarily. If only..."

Clockwork exudes compassion. "I know," he says softly. And, of course, he does.

Ghost Writer takes a deep, steadying breath as he stares at his long-disused typewriter—and at the book before him, which poses a much more tempting mystery.

"... Will you visit me again?" Ghost Writer asks quietly, before he can lose his nerve.

Clockwork softens with tender sympathy. "Of course."

Ghost Writer tries to feel heartened by Clockwork's assurance, but a strange foreboding still coils around his heart, like a black serpent waiting to strike—and he little more than a tremulous rabbit, awaiting the fateful bite.

As if sensing his unease, Clockwork adds, "In fact... You may contact me whenever you like." 

Ghost Writer looks up at him with meek hope. Like he doesn't dare to believe him. "How?"

Clockwork tightens his grip on his staff and turns toward the grandfather clock across the room. With a confident flourish, he sends a stream of gleaming blue sailing toward it. It glows brightly, then fades.

"Simply touch the clock," Clockwork says, turning back to Ghost Writer just as he regains control of his awed expression. "And I will come to you, if I can."

Ghost Writer lets out a sigh, faintly relieved. It is a touching gesture, from one with so many time-sensitive responsibilities. "Thank you."

"What are friends for?" Clockwork returns. "Now. Why don't you see me off properly?"

Clockwork needs no invitation to leave, and requires no door to enter. But Ghost Writer understands his meaning anyway. He pushes his chair back and stands, shuffling out from behind the desk to stand before Clockwork.

"I'll see you next time, then," Ghost Writer says. Parting from the only friendly face he's seen in months is no less difficult the third time.

"I promise you I will," Clockwork says.

They share another embrace, and this time Ghost Writer does not cry—though he drinks his fill of that contact while it lasts.

—

Clockwork returns to the tower with much to think about, and many things on his mind. He finds a considerable challenge in slotting Ghost Writer's recent insight into his impression of Dan—and he is so preoccupied with these whirling thoughts that he does not notice Dan's presence until the other ghost's arms wrap around his waist, concealing the contents of his chest cavity from the light of the viewing screen, shrouding it in shadow.

Clockwork inhales sharply. The scent of oranges is bright and pervasive, as Dan's chin comes to rest on his shoulder.

He only has the presence of mind to send his staff away to its hiding place—but for better or for worse, Dan's interest does not lie there.

"You certainly took your sweet time," Dan murmurs. His voice is a baritone rumble reverberating through Clockwork's spine.

Clockwork flounders—but he thinks he recovers his voice well enough to pretend to an air of composure. "... If I had known you were waiting for me so eagerly, I would have come back sooner."

Dan's face inches closer, into the hollow of Clockwork's hood—like a predator striving to scent the pulse of his prey.

"Are you so willing to be at my beck and call...?" Dan says with an air of dark wonder.

This is the furthest thing from what Clockwork expected upon his return. He almost thought Dan's prior overtures were—sweet, in a way, or at least as unpracticed as his own affections. But the way he's acting now makes it seem as if Dan has conspired to kill him or seduce him the moment he returned.

Clockwork's inexperience in these matters being what it is, he feels perilously uncertain as to which is more likely.

"You don't have to resort to this just to extract favors from me," Clockwork assures him. His breath hitches as Dan's nose knocks against his chin with animal curiosity.

"Sure," Dan easily agrees. His breath is warm and tangy against Clockwork's throat. "Not if I want diversions, or dog treats. I just have to mope around like an angsty teenager, and you'll offer those up all on your own, won't you?" Dan nuzzles against the shell of Clockwork's ear, but it feels anything but affectionate. The movement sends his hood slumping softly to his shoulders. "But I want something different, now..."

Clockwork fights for composure, but cannot conceal a shiver. "... And what is that?"

Dan splays a hand across the glass door on Clockwork's chest. "See, I realized something," he says suddenly, almost in non-sequitur. "I'm not just here as a loose end, am I? You could have just erased me... unless you needed me for something."

Clockwork shudders. He feels, in exquisite detail, the interlocking gears and springs in his chest, in response to Dan increasing the pressure he's placing on the glass. As if for some reason he feels compelled to commit their relative positions to memory—"I don't intend to use you," Clockwork says, thinking frantically to try and find Dan's angle. Figuring out what he wants from this encounter is the only way to ensure it can be brought to a peaceful close.

Dan laughs unkindly in his ear. "Oh, but Clockwork... You already have." He bites Clockwork's ear, drawing bright blood with piercing fangs, and Clockwork inhales sharply through his teeth, his voice breaking on a muffled groan of pain. "And you still are."

Dan's claws rake shrieking scores down the glass pane of Clockwork's chest cavity.

"How!" Clockwork cries with a ragged gasp. He could escape this hold, if he tried. But there was no telling how devastating the ensuing fight would be. And Dan's closeness—his near-at-hand heat, plastered to Clockwork's back and seeping into him through his cloak like the warmth of a furnace—scatters his thoughts. He cannot think past their confounding proximity, past each bewildering, unexpected, punitive touch.

He is frozen with indecision, held captive by his own prisoner.

"You know, at first I thought this was my punishment... An eternity with the meddling fool who plagued my glory years," Dan scoffs in disgust. "But it's not my punishment, is it...?" He leans in, and whispers sweetly in Clockwork's ear, "It's yours."

Dan takes advantage of Clockwork's disoriented state to shove him to the ground, where he climbs atop his narrow waist. Clockwork's pendulum strains at the uncomfortable position as, for the first time in this encounter, he is brought face-to-face with his charge and assailant.

Dan's eyes are livid with fury. His fanged grin is cruel, and smug.

This retaliation was exactly what Clockwork originally feared he would leave himself vulnerable to, if he dared to show the volatile ghost compassion.

And now all his most cynical forecasts had come true.

Had he been wrong to try and set those misgivings aside?

"I've been dying to know just what you thought you were doing," Dan says, "letting me out of that blasted thermos, granting me all these little 'privileges', chatting me up like you didn't ruin my fucking life..." He laughs hysterically, his sonorous baritone echoing ominously off the tower's every gleaming surface.

"Danny," Clockwork entreats, "please—"

Dan's grin sours, and his vibrant humor wanes by several degrees. "That's the problem though, isn't it?" he says slowly. "I'm not him. But that won't stop you from using me as his replacement... now will it?"

Clockwork lifts a hand in a gesture only half-considered—to push away, or to comfort, he hasn't yet decided—but Dan removes those possibilities by pinning Clockwork's wrists to the ground.

"You're not making any sense," Clockwork protests, straining experimentally against Dan's hold. His grip is firm and uncompromising as iron.

"Having trouble keeping up, old man?" Dan asks with a mocking smile. "Then let me spell it out for you."

Clockwork stops struggling, watching Dan guardedly as he speaks.

"Once upon a time," Dan begins with a facetious little sneer, "Father Time decided his favorite guy was a snot-nosed teen hero. But that hero's future was uncertain. So Father Time looked ahead for danger—the better to ensure his charge had a happy, easy life. One particularly miserable future stood out... But there was a problem."

Clockwork stares up at Dan, transfixed.

"The only way to be sure that future never came to pass," Dan declares, "was to make it come to pass, that he might confront his precious chosen one with the consequences—and with his future self."

Clockwork's chest feels cold and tight—like his gears are locking up. "That," he says quietly, his breath stolen by the accusation blazing in Dan's eyes. He has no words to finish the thought.

"And so," Dan continues, "Father Time played God in this dark and pitiless timeline... He poked and prodded that hero to whom he was so devoted, until he walked further and further down the thorny path of tyranny. The most remote possibilities of hardship—brought to fruition by the one who least wanted to see them come to pass."

Something like a pulse pounds in Clockwork's ears—or the stroke of a clock. He wonders if it is his death knell.

"... All so he could hand-deliver the monster he'd created to his true champion," Dan concludes, "to test his mettle, and to warn him against using his powers for his own gratification." His grip tightens—a watch on one of Clockwork's wrists shatters with a bright tinkling sound, acknowledged by neither of them. 

"... Although in this scenario," Dan adds in the tone of an aside, shelving the narrative conceit of his oration, "I'd say you're no less guilty of using your powers for selfish gain."

Clockwork feels he is rarely selfish when it counts, and he resists this characterization immediately. "I did that for the good of the timeline."

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?" Dan scoffs. "You're as self-serving as anyone, Clockwork, don't kid yourself. Which, not like I can't relate—but it's the acting like you aren't that gets me. Like you're so above it all."

I am, Clockwork thinks, but it's clear that won't go over well, so he refrains from saying it.

Then he thinks, Am I?

Not thirty minutes prior he'd asked Ghost Writer to use his powers to discern, and thereby disclose, the personal details of Dan's private inner thoughts and feelings. But he had needed that information to better understand the ghost in his charge, he reasons—to preempt attack, or else to improve their relationship some other way. To give him a chance to heal, perhaps. 

"But the reason I know I'm here for your selfish gain," Dan proclaims, "is that I'm still here at all."

Clockwork tightens his jaw. "I'm not letting you go free," he says, determined not to waver on this point no matter what Dan threatens him with.

"Yeah, I got that," Dan drawls, unimpressed. "That being the case... why don't you just kill me?"

Clockwork is speechless.

"... What?"

Dan barks out a laugh. "What do you mean, 'What?' I'm the scraps left behind by your little pet project." As Dan releases one of Clockwork's wrists, he leaves behind a shackle of lurid green plasma to keep it there. He makes use of his newly freed hand to wrap it around Clockwork's throat as his gritted teeth curl into a snarl. "It would have been laughably easy... When you let your golden boy unmake me, for example. You didn't have to intervene. But you did," Dan snarls, like he's righteously angry about missing a golden opportunity to die. "So, since I've served the purpose you made me for... Why not toss me out with yesterday's trash?"

Dan's grip around Clockwork's throat is tight enough to hoarsen the Timekeeper's voice. "Because you don't... deserve that..."

"And the people I killed? Did they deserve that?" Dan contrarily demands. "Do they not count, because my timeline was stricken from history? Every time I watched the light leave someone's eyes... I suppose that just goes away, now, does it?" Dan asks. "Or were their lives simply a fitting price for my weaker half to learn his lesson?"

Clockwork shatters the ectoplasmic shackle with a flash of blue, and he seizes the wrist of the hand Dan has wrapped around his neck.

"Don't," Clockwork says firmly, "lay the blame for your actions on my shoulders. You made your choices."

"You picked the version of me that made those choices!" Dan argues. But then he laughs again. "No... You didn't even stop there, did you? Every time I found myself at my lowest, it seemed like there you were, trying to dissuade me from my current course. And somehow... I always came away from those conversations even more determined." He huffs, humorless and bitter. "Like you didn't know I don't like being told what to do."

"I couldn't have predicted—!"

"—He says," Dan snidely interrupts, "as if I didn't play right into your hands, when all was said and done." Dan leans down, casting Clockwork in shadow. "I'm sure you rationalized it as being for the 'greater good' at the time... But despite it all..."

Dan releases his throat at last, resting his hand on the ground beside Clockwork's head as he leans down to whisper in his ear,

"You still felt guilty, didn't you?"

The gears in Clockwork's chest grind to a halt.

"I," Clockwork stammers.

"And you still do." Dan leans back with a bitterly triumphant grin. "That's why I'm still here. To assuage your guilt with your coddling."

Clockwork's head spins. He had always known he had an obligation to ensure the timeline's stability as best he could, to steer events toward the most favorable course. For aeons, that was his sole responsibility. 

But now Dan was his responsibility, too. And Clockwork doesn't know how to reckon with the other ghost's desire for restitution.

He takes a shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry," Clockwork says quietly, holding Dan's gaze unerringly.

Dan's grip on his wrist slackens, as does his furious expression. Perhaps he had expected more excuses.

"It's true," Clockwork admits, "that I played the greatest role in your suffering, more than anyone else. I weighed each outcome the best I could..." His voice softens. "But you're the one who had to suffer the consequences."

Dan frowns as he searches Clockwork's gaze for a lie.

"You're right to be angry with me. And while I really did try to dissuade you from your path... I can't say your assessment of the nature of my interventions, or my personal feelings on the matter, are very far from the truth."

Dan's eyes narrow. "So I was right," he says. "You do feel guilty."

"I feel... responsible," Clockwork concedes. "And I feel regret."

"Good," Dan snarls vehemently. "God. I cannot fucking believe you. Keeping me around just to feel sorry for yourself is beyond pathetic, you know that?"

Clockwork purses his lips. "That's not the only reason I keep you around."

"What else?" Dan scoffs. "The riveting conversation?"

Clockwork's lip twitches. "In part," he agrees. "I did tell you I find you fascinating, didn't I?"

"Right. I'm a novelty," Dan says, rolling his eyes. "I'm so flattered."

Clockwork reaches for Dan's shoulder, and in one swift and sudden movement he throws off the other ghost's weight—sending Dan tumbling to the ground so Clockwork can hover over him, their positions reversed.

"Do not underestimate the precious rarity of novel experience," Clockwork says, "to one who knows everything that has ever, or will ever happen."

Dan blinks owlishly. Clockwork takes pity on him.

"Yes," Clockwork agrees, "I could have destroyed you. But I didn't... because I wanted to keep you for myself." He tilts his head, peering inquisitively down at the stunned ghost beneath him. "Does that make me selfish...?"

Dan swallows. "Uh, yes?"

Clockwork smiles. "Then I suppose... you inspire selfishness in me."

Impulse strikes Clockwork, and he follows it—leaning down to press his lips gently over Dan's. Bright orange sweetness bursts upon his lips, which he ventures to taste with his tongue, eliciting a soft gasp from the ghost beneath him. His mouth tingles with unfamiliar tartness, and in seeking more of that novel taste, Clockwork's inexperience falls by the wayside for curiosity and enthusiasm.

Dan grunts, and Clockwork almost thinks it is a disgruntled sound, prefacing violent retaliation—but Dan only throws his arms around his shoulders and rolls them over, reciprocating his kiss with the passionate ardor in his soul that Clockwork has always been so enthralled by.