Friends With Time ⌛ (Tyler Galpin x Reader)

Day 163-167

Day 163:

Chirp chirp chirp
chirp chirp chirp chirp.

The crickets chatter outside of your window. 

Click. You flick on the light switch, hesitantly walking into the room.

The milky light from a lamp floods the room. You move your bags over, walking into the small guest room.

Sheriff Galpin let you stay here after he heard the whole story.

You drag the bag with your few belongings and plop it on the bed, onto a dusty old red cover with a thick embroidery. The room is small, but there's a window that overlooks the forest near Nevermore.

You wonder how many times he ran through that forest, how many times he climbed into the window next to yours.

The window to his room is dark now. You don't think anyone stays there anymore. And that's when the final question crosses your mind like a midnight starshot, the one you've been avoiding:

Is he dead?

The silence answers back to you, ringing in your ears. The crickets chirp from behind the window. The lamp buzzes.

You sit heavily down on the bed with a thud. Are there records you can access? You gave up your USOAT computer and all your access before you left. You won't find anything there. USOAT leaves barely a trace anywhere it goes, so you won't find anything here in Jericho, either.

You pull off your shirt, get into your pajamas, and pull the covers over yourself.

You flick off the lamp. Click. The room drops into black, chattering with muffled noises of the forest and the smell of dust.

You can't contact EUOAT and ask. USOAT will see it and hail you as a traitor. You can't contact your mother or anyone else on their side, either, for obvious reasons.

The night outside your windows gets darker and darker.

And as the night wears on, you realize that there is nothing 

you can

do.

Day 167:

What now?

Rain hammers the outside of the kitchen window. Your metal spoon clinks against the china bowl.

The breakfast cereal is a little soggy, but the Sheriff assures you that he's been eating it for 10 years. He hasn't had a problem with it.

"So," you say, looking up at the Sheriff after a silent breakfast. "What now?"

He dabs at his mouth with a napkin. "What now?" He echoes. "Well. I go to work, and you go  find a job."

Find a job. Like this is permanent.

The Sheriff shrugs. "I hear Nevermore is hiring," he says, sighing as he gets up from his chair. He sets his dish in the sink with a clank. "They've lost quite a few teachers lately."

You nod. "Hmm."

He looks up. "Or the Weathervane. They're always open to part-timers."

Thunder crashes outside, and he pauses by the window. "Some storm we've been having," he mutters, then turns to rifle through a massive stack of papers on the counter. "Tons of rain reports. I need to get them filed away in my office."

He sighs, shaking his head and picking up a mug of coffee. "Too much to do and too much time."

He pauses, then adds, "I'm sure you understand."