Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You were too late, as always, a moment too late to benefit. News of the commotion at the bank had rippled through Dayton, stirred almost everyone from their stations, their homes. You’d followed the crowd as they all had, in hopes of getting Time, free Time, of stealing back what should have been freely given. When you arrived, the timekeepers, or rather just one of them, had shown up and put a momentary stop to the chaos. What could be stolen had already gone and people were starting to disperse. Those who’d been lucky enough to fill their clocks loitered, enjoying the new freedom they’d gained.

When the real confrontation started, you tucked yourself back into the door you’d come from to watch. Sylvia — you’d seen them both named on the news — had pointed her gun at the timekeeper and fired. The sound had ricocheted loud enough to make you wince. He fell back, wounded, onto the road just a few metres from where you were.

Then, to the surprise of everyone watching, Will had given him Time. He’d knelt down and transferred minutes from his own clock, onto the arm of the timekeeper. Everyone knows that they live day to day, loading on their hours between shifts, living on the precipice of their allowance. Without Will’s donation, the man would surely die and who would complain? Timekeepers aren’t popular in Dayton.

You watch as Will stands, leaving hand-in-hand with Sylvia, the woman from New Greenwich. Do they even know what they’ve done? Their robbery had saved lives, would save lives. There’s more Time on the streets now than there ever has been. If you weren’t so choked with adrenaline, you’d feel bitter about it. Where was your lot? What happened to your share? Your clock is still low and counting against you.

The timekeeper’s lying in the road, groaning, rolling himself into the tarmac.

He won’t survive here, not on his own, not without his unit. A bee is only strong with its hive. Before you even realise what you’re doing, you shout out to him. His head twists in your direction. You invite him to your hiding place, willing him closer with a frantic palm.

‘This way,’ you say. When he doesn’t move, you wave him forward again. ‘Quickly.’

He frowns at you, hand still pressed to the wound on his shoulder.

The crowd is forming slowly, pulling together and toward him as they begin to realise what’s happened, who he is. ‘If you want to live,’ you say, pushing your hushed voice louder. ‘I don’t have time to wait.’

He looks around him. Clocking the danger, you hope. Then, slowly, he starts toward you, pace increasing once the crowd catches on.

‘Come on,’ you urge.

He stumbles through the doorway, pushing past you clumsily. Once he’s in, you slam it shut, locking the bottom and then bolting the top. There’s shouts behind the door but you ignore them. Whatever has possessed you to help him, will wain the moment you take notice of what they’re saying.

‘This way,’ you tell him, avoiding eye contact as you overtake. ‘I can get you somewhere safe but we have to be quick.’

He doesn’t reply but he follows, and that’s enough for now. Neither of you have time to stand and explain.

You were helping a timekeeper, a bastard timekeeper. You’d seen him before you realise, briefly. He and his colleagues had been rounding up some kids who’d taken Time from their boss. Or, at least, that’s what you’d gathered had happened from the snippet of conversation you’d heard. You hadn’t wanted to wait around to listen.

‘How much did he give you?’ you ask, leading him through the factory floor. It’s empty, with everyone on the street, but just as winding to navigate. ‘I saw Will make the transfer.’

‘Why?’ his voice croaks from behind. ‘You going to steal it from me?’

You cast a cold look over your shoulder. ‘Fuck you. You’d be dead if I left you out there.’

Reluctantly, he nods. ‘You’re right,’ he says. It doesn’t make you feel any better. He waits until you face forward again and then adds, ‘Four hours.’

Mercy when he has none. Will had given him enough to get away, to find another timekeeper and survive. Potentially. If someone else didn’t get him first. ‘Maybe I should’ve left you,’ you muse, forcing through the plastic covering of the next doorway. ‘They’ll be coming for you, right?’

He huffs, following through with some difficulty. ‘Slow down.’

‘No.’

‘I was shot.’

Your voice softens unintentionally. ‘It’s just a little further.’ You don’t have to look at your clock to know what it says, to know what this is costing you. Every step taken with him, every second, is unnecessary expenditure. One you hadn’t accounted for. ‘Here.’ You push open the fire exit, which spills you both onto the shaded alleyway behind. ‘The stairs and that’s it,’ you say. You’re talking him through it like a child, but from his gait and the strain on his face, it’s needed. ‘Do you want—‘

‘I’ve got it,’ he bites, ignoring your half-offered hand. He goes ahead, leaning against the railing as he climbs, his boot-tips catching every other step.

When he gets to the first floor, he looks back and you nod, ushering him forward again. You’ve lived above the shop for years now and this was the first time you’ve used the side entrance. If it was locked, well, you were fucked. They’d tear him from the street in seconds; after helping him, they’d have you too.

He tries the handle. It struggles, but gives.

‘I’m the first door on the left,’ you tell him as you skip the final steps. He waits inside, leaning against the wall as you find your key. You’re clumsy under the pressure. Wasting time on actions that you usually have perfected. ‘There.’

The door opens and he enters first, leaving you to secure it behind him. Once you’re in, you feel your chest relax, feel the breath come easily again. No-one would find you here, no-one knows to look. You can fix his shoulder and then send him away again once it’s dark. His team would be here by then anyway, ready to pick him up and refill his clock.

‘Bathroom, please,’ you tell him, walking past in the hope that he’ll follow. The last thing you want is blood on the carpet; it’d taken you four days of overtime to pay for that.

‘What do you do?’ he asks, panting from behind you. Like that mattered now. Like you had to prove your worth to him.

‘What we all do,’ you reply sharply, ‘push buttons in the factory.’ You reach the bathroom and pull the lid of the toilet down before stepping aside. ‘Sit.’

He watches you from the doorway. His hand is red, fingers pushed firmly against the wound. He doesn’t look like most timekeepers do. There’s a sharpness to his face, a grim weariness under his eyes — the ones that are blue, and cold, and set so cautiously upon you.

‘I was a nurse,’ you explain, because you have to. ‘Now, sit. Please.’

He obliges, passing you to balance on the improvised seat. ‘Was?’

‘Take this off,’ you order, ignoring him to tug on the lapel of his coat.

Wincing, he peels it off, revealing another jacket beneath. Black and leather again. Without needing to hear it from you, he unzips and shrugs that off as well.

‘Surprised the bullet even went in,’ you mutter. You turn away from him, busying yourself in the boxes beneath the sink. You don’t have a full medical kit but you have enough to make do. ‘I need to see the wound.’

‘I know,’ he says. He groans as he removes another layer. When you look back, he’s shirtless, and taut with pain. His skin’s so pale, the blood looks like oil on water.

You stand and lean over him, ignoring the brush of his hair against your stomach, to see the back of his shoulder. ‘No exit hole,’ you confirm aloud. ‘I’ll have to take the bullet out.’

‘Great,’ he says, sarcastic though he’s in no position to be. You step back and he straightens again, wincing with the movement. ‘Have you done that before?’ he asks, forcing the words through the set of his teeth. ‘Removed a bullet?’

‘Does it matter?’ You’re the only one here and the concept is easy enough. ‘You should be grateful I have the things to do it,’ you say blankly, reaching into your supplies for the forceps. ‘I’d have to use cutlery if I didn’t.’

‘Lucky me.’

The bullet landed in the softest tissue, just beneath his collar bone. If the layers he wore had slowed it enough, there won’t be much lasting damage, but it’ll be sore to remove. Agony maybe. ‘What’s your name?’ you ask.

He hesitates. Then his eyes drip to your hand, and the tool in them, and he says, ‘Leon.’ Always taking his time, you notice. It hasn’t sunk in yet that he only has a limited amount of hours to keep him going.

‘Well, Leon,’ you put your palm flat against his chest, just beneath his throat, ‘on three.’

He steels himself beneath you, his eyes closing. You don’t wait until three, you push the forceps into the wound on the first count, and he sucks a sharp breath between his lips in response. Thankfully, he doesn’t move. He just curses into your ear like he hates you.

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘I know.’ You push the forceps deeper. ‘I almost have it.’

‘Hurry up,’ he hisses. ‘Fuck.’

‘Now you worry about time.’ Metal hits metal, so you close the ends and pull. ‘There,’ you say, standing upright to show him. ‘It’s whole, you’re lucky.’

‘Yeah?’ His eyes are open again, staring, and his forehead’s sweating slightly. ‘I don’t feel lucky.’

You drop the bullet into the sink and abandon the forceps on the side, moving quickly now the hard part’s over. ‘Push this on it.’ You hand him the nearest towel, blindly, and he takes it. So willing to take orders when he’s in need, so ready to criminalise others out of Time. The more you think about it the less you want to help him. He shouldn’t be in your flat, he shouldn’t be in your bathroom dripping blood onto the linoleum. You should never have caught his attention in the first place.

‘I’m assuming they can stitch you up later,’ you say, meeting him in the reflection of the mirror. ‘I don’t have anything for that.’

He nods slightly. Your eyes drop back to the clutter of medical supplies in front of you, but his stay on your image in the glass. ‘Why aren’t you a nurse anymore?’ he asks.

‘I’m not telling you that.’

He snorts; the sound itches under your skin. ‘Why? Would I have to arrest you?’

You turn to frown at him, antiseptic liquid and fraying-gauze in your hands. ‘You have a terrible habit of assuming the worst of people, Leon.’

‘Habit built from experience.’

Like he looks for anything else. Like he comes to Dayton and pays attention to anything but what his bosses have told him to look for. His presence alone is enough to dirty the neighbourhood, if he bothered to care about the people here, he wouldn’t see anything but well-intended acts of desperation. ‘Surround yourself with bad,’ you churn, ‘and bad is all you’ll see. Lift it up.’

He pulls the towel away and, in the same breath, you pour antiseptic over the wound.

‘Jesus!’ He recoils, rocking into the porcelain back of the toilet. ‘A little warning?’

You grit your teeth and dowse it again, ignoring his complaints. ‘There, it’s done. You’ll be fine until they get you.’

‘If they get me,’ he corrects. ‘They probably think I’m dead.’ He takes the gauze from you and packs the injury himself, holding it flat while you tape it into place.

‘Well,’ you say, not bothering to hide your bitterness, ‘you’ll just have to walk back to your nice car, and tell them otherwise.’

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head to look you over. ‘Is that what this is? You want Time?’

‘What?’ You snatch the ruined towel from his lap and toss that into the sink too.

‘You’re hoping I’ll let you take Time from my car, aren’t you?’ He laughs, lightly, sickly, like he’s worked it all out. ‘I mean, and why wouldn’t you?’

There’s a quota, there has to be. There’s some sort of ego level that they all have to meet in order to fill the role, to wear the timekeeper badge. He can’t help himself. ‘I don’t want anything from you,’ you dig back at him. ‘I should put that bullet back in your shoulder.’ You should grab his wrist and take the Time from his clock, you should turf him out and let the community have their revenge. ‘Have you no fucking gratitude?’ you spit.

‘Nothing comes for free,’ he counters, like this is a game and he’s winning.

You laugh. He’s right. This was costing you seconds, minutes. You’ve almost lost an hour to him and his judgements.

‘I don’t want anything from you,’ you repeat. He doesn’t seem to believe you. His eyebrows raise slightly, like he’s expecting you to continue, to change your mind. You look him over once then turn to leave. ‘Clean yourself up if you want,’ you tell him. ‘Then you can go.’

Five minutes later, he joins you in the kitchen. Though, it’s more of a general living space; kitchen, dining, and lounge, all pushed into one. You’re leaning against the single, long countertop when he emerges. He’s dressed again, partially. His shirt’s done up, blood half-dried and almost rigid, and his jacket is on but open. With that and the long coat over his arm, he looks somewhat casual. Normal. Like he fits with the backdrop, rather than clashing against it.

He stops in front of you, a few steps away, and you widen your eyes as if to say, well, go on then, say something.

‘How far are we from the city?’ he asks.

‘The centre? About an hour.’

‘An hour?’ His brows pull together. ‘No, we didn’t walk that far.’

‘From the bank,’ you agree. ‘The bank isn’t in the centre.’ You watch his face fall and connect the dots. ‘But your car is.’

He nods.

‘You have time to get there,’ you say, shrugging. There should be nearly three hours on his clock still, and that’s more than most people have to spare. Especially with the knowledge that he can add more as soon as he’s arrived.

He laughs once, putting his coat over the back of the nearest chair. Under the light his hair looks brown, deep and chestnut, before it just looked black. ‘If it’s even there still,’ he says, amused in the hopeless way. ‘Someone will have stolen it by now. Or cashed my Time for me.’

‘No-one’s that stupid.’ But they are desperate. You’d probably consider doing the same if you’d found an abandoned timekeeper’s car in the city.

‘You don’t believe that.’ He sighs and lifts his eyes to the ceiling. ‘I know people,’ he drawls, ‘I know what people do.’

And yet he couldn’t possibly believe that you’d helped him for nothing. ‘Well, let’s hope you’re wrong.’

His gaze falls back onto you. ‘You could lend me some,’ he says, casually, like he’s on your doorstep for a spoonful of sugar. ‘A few hours as insurance.’

‘Sorry?’

He wasn’t just arrogant, he was ignorant. Wilfully so.

‘Time,’ he explains. ‘Incase I have to wait longer.’

You scoff, head shaking. ‘Do you even realise what you’re asking?’ An hour is nothing to him, of course. To you it was a meal, your ride to work, your lifeline between payments. You pull your arms up to fold them across yourself. ‘No,’ you tell him, ‘no absolutely not.’

‘I’ll repay you.’

‘When?’ You have enough to last you until tomorrow evening, right up to the mark. Enough minutes to keep you alive until your wage comes in.

He shrugs. ‘The morning.’

And if he doesn’t? If he takes your Time and you never see him again?

‘That would be it for me, you know,’ you say sharply. ‘You may not be used to living like this, but I can’t just, just, give out Time like it’s nothing. It’s all accounted for.’ Every minute is planned, distributed. There is no spare change, no left overs, you barely have enough to live on as it is.

He swallows, tilts his head away from you and then back again, like this is tedious. ‘I said I’d repay you.’

‘And I should just trust that?’

‘You trust me enough to be in here,’ he argues, palms lifting, gesturing to the room. ‘I’ll be back, alright? You have my word.’

Whatever had possessed you to help him in the first place, whatever indescribable air he had that drew you in, made you disregard reason and morality, is there again. Swamping you. Making your decisions for you. He stands and waits while you consider, his jaw set, tensing. There isn’t an ounce of patience about him. He looks annoyed that you are even taking so long to think about it, and yet, for some reason, you arrive at the same dumb-fuck conclusion as before. Yes, you will help. Yes, you will sacrifice Time and God knows what else for a stranger, a timekeeper. Yes, you will keep him alive.

‘Fine,’ you bite, before you can change your mind. ‘But if you’re late—‘

‘I won’t be.’ He shakes his head, stepping forward a fraction.

‘If you are,’ you continue, purposefully, ‘I’ll make sure it’s known that you took it from me.’ It’s a weak threat, you both know that, but he nods like it’s landed. ‘They’ll know you killed me,’ you promise.

‘Alright, yeah, fine.’ He’s shrugging an arm out of his jacket, rolling his sleeve in preparation. ‘I’ll put it down in writing,’ he says, ‘if you want. Sign my name, whatever.’

It feels like he’s mocking you but you can’t decide. Half the things he says arrive with a certain inclination of irony, a tilting of smugness regardless of his intention. If this is a joke to him it’s a bad one, a cruel one; you’d rather believe that he’s being sincere. You shake your head and offer your left hand to him. The clock on your forearm is loaded with twenty-three hours, roughly, its digits illuminated and winding down with each second.

‘Two hours,’ you offer. ‘That’s it.’

Leon nods, he’s learnt not to push his luck.

He steps again to close the short distance between you and takes your arm. His hand wraps around the soft tissue beneath the ditch of your elbow. You do the same to him, so that your forearms are flat and against each other, locked in the way they have to for deals such as this. For a moment, neither of you move. His thumb is rough, pressed against the crease of your arm, and his skin is neither hot nor cold. You’re glad of that. Your own skin feels like it’s coming alight, burning with adrenaline, or fear, or simply the blushing awkwardness of having a stranger so close and so intimate; if his arm feels no different from yours, it means that he’s none the wiser to it. Before the pause can feel too unnatural, he twists his wrist so that his clock is the one facing upwards, and you both watch the Time load onto it. Your Time. Instead of counting down, his numbers begin to roll upwards, which can only mean your clock is dropping, hidden from you but waining all the same.

‘One,’ you count, feeling your fingers unconsciously tighten around his forearm.

His clock reaches four hours and continues, the minutes adding quickly and freely. It’d go all the way if you let it. Your Time would reel onto his clock with no concept of self-preservation, of restraint. It would go and go until you had nothing left, and the clock read zero, blank and striking across your skin, and he would walk away like it was nothing. Because it was nothing. Time was what kept you all alive, the only thing anyone needed and worked for, and yet it was impossible to keep, to maintain. Gone like smoke between fingers.

‘Two,’ he says, having watched the transfer as closely as you did. His grip breaks and your arm drops slack by your side. ‘Thanks.’

You snort, nodding. Yeah, thanks, no problem, Leon. ‘I hope you need it,’ you snark, though what you really mean is, I hope this doesn’t fucking kill me. ‘When you come back tomorrow, come through the side again.’

‘I will.’

You watch him fasten the button of his shirt-cuff. He’s rushing for the first time, eager to get moving now that he has a fuller clock, which makes little sense. ‘Are you going after Will?’ you ask, question dropping from your lips as soon as you’ve reached the assumption.

‘I’m going to my car,’ he answers quickly, gaze down as he re-dresses. ‘Will and Sylvia are long gone by now, I’m sure.’

‘But you will tomorrow?’

He sets his overcoat onto his back, tugging the lapels until it sits flat, and snug, on the line of his shoulders. ‘No,’ he says, then he sighs, and half-rolls his eyes until they settle on you. ‘Tomorrow I’m coming here, remember, to repay my debt.’

You don’t ask him what happens after that, partly because he won’t say, and partly because his answer will just make you feel guilty. Guilty for helping him, for setting him back on the streets. He is a timekeeper after all. If it isn’t Will he goes after, it’ll be someone else just the same. If you’d have left him there, shot and bloodied on the ground, that might not be the case.

‘You should go now,’ you tell him, sourly, turning away to busy yourself with whatever catches your eye first. ‘It’s dark enough.’

You don’t get an answer. The door opens and closes again before you’ve thought to look.

Chapter Text

You barely slept. You stared at the numbers on your arm until they were printed on the back of your eyelids, until they hovered in the dark every time you closed your eyes, begging for rest. The great clock that kept you alive, now kept you fucking awake too. You checked it every half an hour like it would melt off your skin somehow. Like the Time you had would dissipate into thin air, pull away from your pores with the guilt, the pressure. It could have been the stupidest thing you’d ever done. No, it was the stupidest thing you’d ever done. Giving first-aid to a timekeeper was one thing, letting him in your apartment was another, but giving him Time? It would’ve been less stressful to go into the street and wait for a bus to plough you down.

At four, you give up on sleep and move to the sofa to watch the news. Somehow it feels like an insult to even have a twenty-four hour news channel. Here, they said, look how much Time we have, look how freely it passes between us. You stare at the anchors like the weight of it might push them through the screen, send them clattering into the dusty floor behind your TV. That’ll humble them. Their suits alone cost more than your monthly wages.

They’re still reporting the robbery, describing the pair as a modern day Bonnie and Clyde. Then an image of Leon flashes up: a photo taken from above, hovering over him on the tarmac, the blood blurred like it matters, pixelled-out like anyone cares. You click the channel over before they can start talking him into your living room.

He has two hours to get here before you leave for work. Two hours to keep his promise.

You sigh, and pull yourself up to go to the bathroom. Maybe after a shower you’ll feel better. The dread will wash down the drain, the towel will pat you back into certainty. He will come. There’s no reason for him not to, two hours is nothing from his payroll. It’s the roads between districts, they’re busy, maybe, surely. You never expected him to come before five, anyway.

He has one hour.

Does he know when the factory opens? He must do. He’s been in and around Dayton for years, God knows how many years. Body frozen, clock constantly topped up, he could be a century old and you’d never know. If he said the morning, surely he meant the morning before you left, the morning when you were still free. Once you leave the apartment he’ll never find you. If he doesn’t get here in time, you’ll be cutting it close. You’ll have to run to work, skip lunch, tell Marley you’ll repay her tomorrow. Your day, without the two hours, won’t finish you, but it won’t be easy.

He has thirty minutes.

Where the fuck is he? You set your coffee mug and look at the digital clock on your microwave. You have to leave soon. Some fucking cheek, he has, some absolute lack of care and empathy. You don’t know what you expected; always too good for your own self, your mum used to say, never know when to watch your own back, instead of someone else’s. A timekeeper of all the sorts, you had to lend your lifeline to a timekeeper. If you make it through the day, you’ll find him yourself and take back what you’re owed.

There’s a brisk knock at the door; so sudden and so sharp, that you’re in motion before you can even think to assign a name to the pattern. When you pull it open, it’s not Leon standing there, but your landlord, the man who owns the shop downstairs.

‘Oh,’ you say, false pleasantries to hide the disappointment, ‘hey, how are you?’

‘Fine, fine.’ He clears his throat, then coughs into the curl of his fist. ‘Look,’ he says, awkwardly, I hate to do this, I do…’

Christ. Oh Christ, you’d forgotten, you’d forgotten the day.

‘Rent,’ you bark. ‘It’s due? Is it Friday already?’

He lets you pay him at the end of every week; he’d ask for it more often, but you run the counter on the weekends and that evens it out for him, a debt you can manage to maintain.

‘No, no.’ His head shakes, blonde hair long, and rattling by his ears. ‘I need an advance on the payment.’

‘An advance?’ No one does advances round here, no one can afford to. ‘But I always pay on Fridays,’ you say.

‘I know, but, well, with inflation, you know, and people buying less…’

You’re going to die today. This is it, this is what’ll finish you, a seventy year old man who looks like a surfer still. A Time-grabbing, greedy, parasite of the system. Even if Leon hadn’t borrowed from you, this would do you in. This will do you in.

‘It’s a lot to ask, I know,’ he continues. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it was avoidable.’

‘Fine. It’s fine.’ You glance at your arm though it’s covered by your sleeve; a habit you can’t help, a nervous twitch. Beneath the cotton you have ten and a half hours. ‘I can’t give you it all, not today,’ you tell him. ‘Will three do?’

He winces.

‘Four?’

‘Love,’ he says, ‘I have bills myself.’

Your jaw sets. ‘Five, then.’ You won’t even make it through your shift. Five hours left on your clock will take you to 10AM, barely even reaching your lunch break. ‘Do it now, please,’ you spit out, lifting your arm to him. Take it then, seal the deal. You’ll have an empty apartment again by noon, you cold bastard.

Once he’s left, after robbing you of every leeway you had, you’re out of the door. You can’t wait around for Leon now, you have to figure something out. You have to find someone to lend you Time.

What if he never made it to his car? What if someone robbed him before he could? The irony of it is lost on you, it isn’t funny now that it’s fucked you too. If he had just showed up, if he had kept his promise, you wouldn’t be running toward the time-charity like the truly desperate do. It’s still early. There’s a chance they’ll have some to give, especially after Will and Sylvia’s stunt yesterday.

You reach the corner in eight minutes; you’d hoped it would have taken five.

‘Excuse me,’ you pant, into the glass window the priest sits behind. ‘I need help, I need Time.’

‘There’s a queue,’ he answers, lifting a hand to point at the line beside you. There’s three others there. You hadn’t even noticed them in your hurry. ‘Please wait like the rest.’

‘Sorry.’ You nod, already moving to stand behind the woman at the end. You don’t want to look at your clock, don’t want to see how much this is costing you. You shift your weight from one foot to the other just too feel like you’re being proactive, like you aren’t wasting what you have left.

When you’re finally at the front he asks to see your clock and then tuts, and says, ‘I can give you thirty minutes.’

‘What? That’s it?’

He shrugs. The white dog-collar should singe his neck for his indifference.

‘But that isn’t enough,’ you push. ‘They don’t pay us until we’ve finished our shift.’

‘Anyone with three or more hours is offered thirty minutes,’ he lists, ‘except for, and not restricted to, in exceptional circumstances, being that they can be proven to be exceptional, that is.’ He pauses. ‘Are you in an exceptional circumstance, miss?’

You stare, your eyebrows root into your hairline. ‘What the fuck is an exceptional circumstance?’ you ask. ‘I have no Time left.’ That is enough of a circumstance, for anyone, surely.

‘Do you have belongings?’ he retorts, without so much as blinking. ‘Things you could pawn?’

‘Yeah, no, I don’t—‘

‘Then, thirty minutes is all I’m allowed to give.’

‘They robbed a bank,’ you whine, ‘they poured money into this place, I watched it on the news.’ It couldn’t have just disappeared overnight, it had to be in there. They were storing it. Withholding it from you. ‘I’m in need,’ you stress. ‘Why don’t you care?’

He sighs and extends his silver device through the glass cut-out. ‘Do you want the Time, or not?’

If this really was your last day alive, you would not waste it in the fucking factory. The risk of losing your job was currently hand in hand with the risk of hoping that you could pawn your way into living some days longer. If the TV was worth enough to keep you going, if the vinyls your dad left added any minutes to your clock, maybe you could find a new job afterwards. Maybe Bill, in his stupid little shop, could hire you full time. Could let you stay in the apartment for free, in exchange for labour. It was all just a bunch of maybes. A scattering of whim that might work, that might somehow convert into Time and then, in turn, living to see the next sunrise.

God, you’re tired of this.

This isn’t how it has to be, and yet this is how it is. Scraping the barrel every time. You thought in the end you’d be sad, but you’re just tired. You’re just annoyed. Of all the things that would wipe you clean, it was a badly timed gesture of good will and fucking rent. Rent. Taken two days early, and for what? Part of you doesn’t even want to go home to look for things to pawn. You may as well sit by the river and wait, because it’s coming anyway. One way or another. You aren’t even running anymore.

When you’re half-way down the hallway, you notice your door is ajar. You’d locked it when you left, you always do, you always check the handle twice. It’s sitting open just enough to see that the light is on.

You reach the doorway and stand a moment, stilling yourself, before nudging it open fully. It swings out slowly against its hinges, creaking with the movement.

An angel of death, then, that’s what he is.

‘Fuck, you’re here.’

Leon was there, in your living room, stood, no, pacing, with his palms clamped to the sides of his head, and now he’s facing you, eyes wide like you shouldn’t be there. Snapped to attention like you’ve set off an alarm. ‘You’re here,’ he says again. He looks manic, frantic. You feel like you’re living in a nightmare.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ you burst, starting toward him. You’re in front of him in two steps, your hands pushing against his chest, shoving him back until he’s stumbling into the dining table. ‘I waited for you!’

He scrambles to get you off him, throwing your wrists away so that he can step sideways and force space between you. ‘I was here,’ he says quickly, his voice peaking. ‘Where were you?’

You grab the magazine from the table and toss it at his head; it unfolds and wafts down in the air, landing and sliding down his chest weakly. ‘I was at the fucking church asking for Time,’ you bite, unable to stop the break in your voice. ‘I waited for you until I couldn’t.’

‘The church?’

‘You took too long.’

‘It was that bad?’ he asks skeptically, face pinching.

‘Get out,’ you bark. You lurch for him again, grabbing his coat and pulling carelessly. ‘Unless you’re here to give me— Fuck!’

He’s shoved his palm down your sleeve, the pressure and friction burning under the strength of his grip. When you realise what he’s doing your complaint dissolves in your mouth; you drop your head and watch the digits of your clock roll upwards, flitting through the minutes, up, up, going and going. The longer he holds it, the faster they spin.

‘What are you doing?’ you ask. He’s given you the two hours and still hasn’t pulled away. You flick your eyes from your joint arms, to his face, but he isn’t looking at you. He’s counting the Time as it goes.

‘There,’ he snaps, eventually, dropping your arm like it's burning steel. ‘Are we even now?’

Twenty-four hours. Twenty four. A whole day, he’d given you a whole day. ‘What is this?’ You cradle your arm against yourself. ‘A day?’ You weren’t dying, not now anyway. Twenty-nine hours is good for you. Fair, easy. You force a breath but it shudders out, chugs through your lungs, slowly falling away. ‘You’re giving me a day?’ you ask again.

‘I was running late,’ he says, talking through the ring in your skull, the hum of blood behind your ears. ‘I didn’t know if I was going to make it in time.’

‘Twenty-four hours,’ you say, the words an echo of the voice in your head. ‘I can’t…’

‘I have savings.’ He’s still in front of you but he may as well be in the hall, he sounds so far away. ‘My car is around the corner, okay,’ he explains, ‘so it doesn’t matter. It’s fine, it’s fine. So, just, take it, alright?’

You must look disgusted, or shocked, because then he scoffs, and half-shakes his head.

‘God, you act like I’m fucking heartless, or something.’ He laughs but it isn’t genuine. ‘Can’t I do you a favour too?’

You feel your knees buckle; he catches the failing before you do, his hand going to your elbow before you can drop.

‘Jesus,’ he hisses, ‘are you alright?’

Your head is spinning, twisting around itself like cotton pulling in a mill, winding up and up into the noise. You can breathe again, you can, in theory, but it isn’t coming. You try blinking but it doesn’t make a difference, you’re still tumbling back into reality. You weren’t going to die, you weren’t going to time-out. You have enough, it’s enough. He gave you enough.

Leon guides you into the nearest chair. You sit, mindlessly, like it’s programmed into you. Your heart stutters out of your mouth, your breath catches beneath your ribs. ‘I thought I was going to die,’ you mutter.

You were about to pawn off your belongings, just to make it long enough to go back to work, to earn another day of existence. You were staring mortality in the face, and then he’d poured it onto your arm like it was nothing.

‘Yeah, well, I thought you might’ve already,’ he says. His head’s level to yours; he’d crouched in front of you when you’d sat, but you’re only just noticing it. ‘You’ve got Time now, so…’ He shrugs. Comfort is not easy to him. It grates over his shoulders, makes them rigid, defensive.

‘Take it back,’ you tell him quickly, urgently. ‘I don’t want it.’

‘What?’ Now it’s his turn to look disgusted. His dark eyebrows knit together, his nose scrunching slightly. ‘No,’ he says, shaking his head, 'I’m not taking it back.’

‘I can’t owe this to you.’ You won’t live to repay it. It’ll just keep going and the interest will build, and build, and then you’ll be racing to sell your silverware for minutes, for seconds. ‘I can’t owe anyone anything else,’ you breathe. ‘Please, take it back.’

He leans back onto his heels. His arms rest on his bent knees, fingers tangled loosely with each other. ‘It’s not a loan,’ he says, like you’re stupid. ‘I’m giving it to you.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Consider it payment, for yesterday.’

You squint, running your gaze across his features. He doesn’t seem the sort to be generous. Timekeepers never are. ‘I don’t believe you,’ you say. There has to be a catch.

He stands quickly, bursting up like a spring finally let free. ‘You really do think I’ve got no heart,’ he snarks, stepping away and then back again before he’s finished. ‘You know, when someone does something for you, you’re supposed to just say thank-you and move on. Not, fucking, shove it back in their faces.’

So, he isn’t generous, then. From the way he’s acting, this is the first nice thing he’s ever done, for anyone. The resistance is embarrassing him, making him regret it. ‘Okay,’ you concede, ‘thank-you. Sorry. It’s been a stressful morning.’

His sharp eyes settle on yours, holding them still in the iced-depths. He nods.

‘I really did think I was timing-out today,’ you admit weakly.

His Adam’s apple bobs, bouncing as he swallows, and then he sighs. ‘Sorry for being late.’

You shake your head. It doesn’t even matter now. Your arm feels heavy on your lap, though it can’t be. Time doesn’t weigh a thing. ‘How’s your shoulder?’

‘Fine.’

‘Did they stitch it?’

He nods again.

Sighing, you sink into the chair. ‘You can really just give away a day like that?’ you ask, dropping the question into the awkward quiet between you.

He fidgets. The leather of his coat creaks against itself. ‘I work overtime,’ he says.

You laugh and it feels especially soulless for you. He isn’t just a timekeeper, he’s an obsessive one. A dedicated one. ‘You could have any job in the world,’ you start, coming into yourself now that the shock has passed, ‘and you pick this one.’

His brows furrow, hands settling on his hips. ‘I don’t remember asking for your moral judgement, [y/n].’

Your back straightens. You never gave him your name.

‘I know why you aren’t a nurse anymore,’ he says, blankly. Voice stripped bare of any emotion. He isn’t judging you in return, isn’t scolding. The emptiness is somehow worse. You can’t for the life of you work out his angle, his point.

‘No, you don’t,’ you counter.

He smirks. ‘I can take a guess as to why you dislike timekeepers now,’ he says, ghosting a laugh behind the statement.

‘Like I needed a reason,’ you quip. He’s bluffing, he has to be. If he’s looked you up, he’s smarter than you thought, if he hasn’t, he’s taking a swinging guess. If he is telling the truth, he had even less reason to give you the Time he had. ‘So, what, you gonna take me away?’ you taunt. ‘Keep me alive just to press charges?’

He scoffs, shakes his head and pushes his tongue into his cheek. ‘Un-fucking-believable,’ he scathes through a sigh. ‘Fucking Daytoners.’

You watch him carefully; he paces across to the kitchen and then back again, smoothing his hair into place though it had never fallen. He’s clean shaven as he was last time, his sideburns sharp, and purposefully so. They’re the only clue that he may be older than you, his body paused in the same mid-twenties state. Sideburns are not to the taste of younger men. How much of a gap there is, you have no idea.

‘Our debt’s settled,’ he says, stopping again once he’s back where you’re sat. He stoops his neck down to you, angles his gaze until you’re uncomfortable, fidgeting. ‘Right?’ he prods. ‘We’re even?’

‘Yeah,’ you nod, ‘we’re done. It’s paid.’

‘Good.’ He spins on his heel and starts for the door. Before he can get there, he pauses, and turns with a finger in your direction. ‘This didn’t happen,’ he warns, ‘alright?’

You shrug. It was the due-end of an already questionable arrangement. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ you promise, more than welcome to his departure.

His head dips a fraction. Then he’s leaving, and you’re watching his black-clad figure pass out the door, around the corner. ‘You’ll need to fix your lock,’ he barks, rattling it down the hall, like it wasn’t him that broke it in the first place.

You sigh, dropping your head into your palms. At least you could afford it now.