Work Text:
It was two in the morning. He had a deadline to meet by this weekend. He was almost done - just two more pages and he could move onto the next project.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He gripped his quill.
Tick.Tick.
He touched it to the paper.
Tick.
He couldn't do it.
He had a deadline. It was almost done. He was itching to write. But he couldn't do it.
His mind was too busy. Thoughts whizzed through. He knew which ones were supposed to be important. But they all butted in front of each other, tried to get there first. It just made it...
Tick.
No. No time for delay. He had to finish this now.
He stared blankly at the paper.
Damnit. Why was this so hard? He could usually write for days on end without stopping. What was different now? He wasn't tired. He didn't feel tired. Maybe he'd forgotten what it felt like to be tired.
Tick.
Maybe he'd forgotten what it felt like to not be tired.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Stress. That's what he was feeling. Every tick of the clock rung out in his ears. He knew that each one meant another second passed. Another second closer. Another second well spent - or wasted. Usually he let that knowledge fuel him. But...
Tick.
It was petrifying. He couldn't move. He couldn't write. He couldn't think. One of these seconds, it would be over. One of these ticks would be the last. Eventually, the clock would strike. It would strike.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
He shook his head. "I am not throwing away my shot," he whispered. "I am not throwing away my shot."
No. Too slow. He matched the tempo of the clock. He would never beat it like this.
"I am not throwing away my shot. I am not throwing away my shot." He sped up, chanting again and again like a mantra.
He leaned forward in his chair and dipped his quill in ink. "I am not throwing away my shot," in double time now. He couldn't hear the clock anymore over the sound of the quill on the paper.
Again and again and again, louder, faster each time. In his own time. Not stopping anymore.
He wrote until the clock struck two that afternoon.