Friends With Time ⌛ (Tyler Galpin x Reader)

Day 140-141

Day 140:

You touch the edges of your father's journal. The paper is frayed at the edges, gray and soft.

"It's tomorrow," you say softly, shaking your head.

You sit on the concrete just outside of the glass enclosure, your picture hanging up on the wall across from him. Inside the glass, he sits, tracing his muscular hand along a piece of paper.

"I guess we'd better get packing, then," he jokes, the words quietly drifting across the still air. His mouth quirks up in a smile.

You sigh, ruffling through the worn pages of the book, the book that got you through your time here at sea. "My mother hasn't said anything since I announced it. I haven't... I haven't seen her."

Tyler frowns. "Maybe that means she's accepted it," he says. "She'll come around eventually."

You're not sure. Your mother has never just given up like this before. She was always there pushing, molding, trying to shape your destiny like a glassblower forming a swan. She never gave up. She never stopped pushing.

And now she hasn't even talked to you about it.

"It's not like her," you say lamely. How do you express that to him? How do you express that your mother's hands have always gripped your life like a crystal ball, and now they've just... dropped it. It doesn't happen. It doesn't happen unless everything is about to shatter.

"And Afua tried to warn me, too," I add, turning my head.

Tyler nods slowly, eyes flickering up to yours. "Well, whatever happens," he says, "I'll take care of you. We're going to make it out."

You huff a laugh, a smile coming to your lips. "Tell me about it. What happens when we leave?"

Tyler turns his head, smiling. "Well, first things first, we've got to get you to Paris, right?"

"And you can come with me," you add, grinning back at him. "We'll paint together."

"We'll paint together," he echoes, sitting back with a deep, relieved exhale. "And then I'll go back home. Make my apologies."

"I'll meet Sheriff Galpin," I add. "He'd like that."

"He does like you," Tyler says, looking at you with those dark eyes, black as chasms of star-studded onyx. "And I'll make you your drink, for once. You're a tea-drinker, right?"

You giggle. "Yeah."

Tyler pauses, looking at his hands in front of him.

You turn to look at him. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah. Just..."

He sighs. "When we get out of here. Y/N, will you... will you promise to stay with me? Can we stay together?"

You shoot him a glance, then smack the glass with a hand. "Yeah. And you have to stay with me, alright?"

"Yes, I just..." he shakes his head, his hair flopping around as he frowns at the ground, trying to puzzle it out. "Just. When there's no more USOAT around us, and you don't have to stay-"

"I will," you say firmly, cutting him off. "You don't have to worry about it. I'm staying." Your voice softens. "We're staying."

And you know you will, as you tell him goodnight and walk back up the stairs. You take in your living room, all white, the TV, the punching bag, the kitchen, and the door to storage. It was your first day here, and tomorrow it will be your last. You remember being here first: the fear, the trepidation. The worry that it would all turn out like last time.