Work Text:
The Timekeeper, by any means, had a habit of overworking herself. Sonetto knew of this habit all too well, she thought as she peered into the study.
Vertin sits in a softly lit room. Her hat laid neatly atop a wooden office table, her hair undone. She holds a ballpoint pen. Books and folders are neatly stacked on top of one another, and a cup of tea sits silently. She’s still wearing her suit, and all of a sudden Sonetto feels underdressed in her white nightgown.
Quietly, the Timekeeper scratches at the papers in front of her, diligently working.
Sonetto watches her through the door’s window. Half past one, she knows. What was Vertin doing up so late?
It’s not like Sonetto is one to stay up late either. In fact, she makes sure to keep her sleep schedule perfected, waking up the same time and sleeping the same time. She’s been doing it since her days at St. Pavlov.
That night, however, Sonetto had found herself tossing and turning in her bed, something—someone—on her mind. So, she decides to walk it off, hopefully growing sleepy sooner or later.
It was hardly a secret that Sonetto held the Timekeeper in high regards, having certain appreciations for the girl. Since they were children at St. Pavlov Foundation, she had always been fascinated with Vertin.
She remembers when they were only eleven, when Vertin had given handfuls of stones and leaves to her. Sonetto remembers Vertin’s frizzy hair and scraped knees. She remembers Vertin’s tiny hands clasped around her own, handing Sonetto knick-knacks and trinkets she had found.
No matter how hard Sonetto tried to get her message through, in the end she had to toss away those pieces of scrap—always with a stern no. That girl just wouldn’t listen.
Vertin had always been a rebellious child, even to this day. Had she caught Vertin awake this late when they were children, there would be no doubt she would’ve reprimanded her. Things change.
The childish, curious, and naive Vertin she once knew was no longer there. Yet, she was still fascinated. It grew all the worse when Vertin became the Timekeeper—and Sonetto her assistant. Her curiosity grew, and naturally, turned into infatuation.
A part of her yearns for the past, from when they were children. From when the only thing on Vertin’s mind was simply nothing. Sonetto longs for those pieces of toffee, for sticks and stones and frogs and whatever.
She watches Vertin again. She watches the girl sip on her cup of tea. Earl grey maybe? Or chamomile? Sonetto doesn’t know.
Sonetto and Vertin aren’t close. They aren’t even friends. They don’t make small talk, they don’t even talk normally. She is merely the Timekeeper’s assistant, nothing more, nothing less.
Either way, Sonetto can’t help herself. She turns the doorknob with a click.
“Timekeeper?” she asks. “Do you have a moment?”
Vertin looks up from her papers, a tinge of surprise on her face. “Sonetto? What do you need?” She stands up from her desk, straightening the documents in hand. Sonetto can see the beginnings of dark circles around her eyes.
Sonetto looks around clumsily. “I’m wondering what you’re up to.”
“I’m just organizing my records,” she says, a soft smile on her face.
A beat.
“I’ll help.” The Timekeeper shuffles the papers around in her hand, scrunching her eyebrows.
“Sonetto,” Vertin sighs, “it’s my responsibility. Please, get some rest instead. It’s late.”
Sonetto aches. For as long as she can recall, Vertin always kept to herself, no matter if it be her duties or her feelings.
“I’m your assistant.” Sonetto closes the door to the study, barring herself of any escape. “It’s my responsibility too.”
“Sonetto—”
“Timekeeper,” she repeats, “I’m your assistant. Let me help.”
She doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, she pulls a chair and sits down, right in front of Vertin’s desk.
Vertin frowns. “Very well. There’s no helping it.” She grabs a spare teacup from a drawer on the side of her desk, the fragrant smell of something sweet lingers in the air. “Do you want some?”
“What is it?”
“Hibiscus.”
Sonetto nods, and Vertin pours her a cup. The tea is steaming, swirling. Sonetto can see her reflection. It smells sweet and almost fruity, like the flowers Vertin used to give her. The tea is dark and red and inviting. She brings it up to her mouth and takes a sip, savoring the complexity of it. Sonetto sighs with content.
“Why are you up?” Vertin asks, before she sits back down on her chair.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Please, Sonetto,” Vertin repeats, “go back to your chambers. You need the rest.”
Sonetto notices the hints of frustration through Vertin’s voice. Vertin is kind. Vertin is caring. Sonetto understands this and knows the Timekeeper only wishes for her wellbeing. That will not deter her from her duties.
“Timekeeper.”
Vertin makes a noise of understanding—or discontent—a small hum. Sonetto knows that Vertin hasn’t given up, but neither would she.
“Here,” Vertin says, “please just organize these in descending order. I don’t want to keep you long.”
The Timekeeper hands Sonetto a file folder, and she opens it. Inside, there are records detailing Vertin’s experiences from braving the Storm. Excerpts from the 1970s and The Swinging Sixties. Time turns backwards.
Sonetto has never braved the Storm herself, she’s never watched the rain fly away, never watched the world erode from the ground up. She’s only seen traces of it on Vertin’s face every time she’s come back—scrunched brows, unconnected eyes, and a bite on her lip.
She only wishes to comfort the girl.
Sonetto takes another sip. Bitter. She should’ve asked for sugar. Either way, she begins to organize the papers.
It’s only two when she finishes, but the Timekeeper is already fast asleep, resting her head upon the table.
Her hat is strewn to the side, laying on the edge of the desk and nearly tipping over and onto the polished floor of Vertin’s office. Her hair is just the tiniest bit messed, and her eyes are peaceful.
Sonetto watches her breathe in and out, slumbering softly. Finally taking a rest, she assumes. Vertin’s lips are just the slightest bit pouted, and drool is making its way down her chin. Her cheeks are red, maybe she’s cold? Either way, Sonetto is glad the Timekeeper is resting.
Quietly, Sonetto stands up, making sure to not make a peep. She opens a cabinet under the desk, where a soft, woolen blanket sits. She unfurls it and places it on top of Vertin’s body.
Sonetto gingerly pulls back a lock of Vertin’s hair, placing it behind her ear.
She bends over—making sure to do so with utter silence—and whispers, “Rest well, Timekeeper.”