It had only been a few days since you were brought aboard the Mephistopheles. You hadn't said much. You didn’t need to. The others were loud enough to fill the silence.

Still, Dante watched you.

Not with suspicion, but with curiosity. Something about you reminded him of still mornings after long nights—quiet, watchful, frayed at the edges but holding together just enough.

You were sitting alone again, near the back of the carriage, hands clasped around a chipped cup of something warm. The light from the window cut across your face in soft lines, catching faint scars and the shadows under your eyes.

Dante approached quietly, like usual.

You glanced up when the ticking grew louder.

He lifted a hand, hesitating for a moment—then gave a short wave.

<"Hey. Mind if I sit?">

You didn’t respond aloud, but you shifted slightly, making space. He sat beside you with a small sigh. The ticking slowed, almost in rhythm with the movement of the bus.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The quiet was surprisingly comfortable.

<"You’re settling in alright, I think. No one’s cried or bled around you yet. That’s a good sign.">

You blinked slowly, lowering your gaze to your cup. Not smiling. But not frowning either.

<"I know you’re not used to this. We all weren’t. But you’re doing fine. Really.">

Another pause.

He turned his head—clock face clicking softly.

<"You ever wonder what people think when they see me? Clock for a head, cloak always getting caught in doors, eternal suffering, that whole bit.">

His body shook, almost like he let out a laugh.

<"They probably expect me to be more... serious. Mysterious. But jokes help. So does listening.">

You gave a faint nod. It was all you could offer.

<"You don’t have to talk. I mean that. Just sit with us. Breathe with us. Walk beside us. That’s enough. It always was.">

The bus rattled softly beneath your feet. The warmth of your drink seeped into your hands.

Dante leaned back a little.

Outside, the landscape blurred past in shades of gray and rust. A soft creak of leather came as he adjusted his seat. Somewhere further down the carriage, Ryōshū hummed tunelessly, and Gregor muttered something in frustration.

It wasn’t peace, not really—but it was close.

<"If you ever want to talk, though… I’m not going anywhere. Immortal, remember? Kind of the perk-slash-curse of the job. I’ve got time.">

He stood up gently, his ticking retreating like footsteps as you watched him go.

For the first time since you’d stepped aboard, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.

—

The next day, Dante returned.

This time, he brought something in his hands—a crumpled packet of tea, and a cup with a cartoonish fanged clock drawn on it in permanent marker. The art was bad.

The intention was clear.

<"It’s me. See? That’s the tick—"> He paused. <"Okay, yeah, it’s a horrible drawing. But it made you look twice. That’s worth something.">

You took the cup with both hands. Looked at it. Held it close. You didn’t laugh, but your eyes softened.

That was enough for Dante.

Later, when the others were arguing over who burned their rations, Dante leaned over the railing of the bus, standing beside you once more.

<"We get into a lot of messes, this crew. You’ll see. But you’ll never be alone in it.">

He tilted his head towards you.

<"Even when I’m scrambling to stop Don Quixote from doing another explosion thing, or stopping Sinclair from crying again, or… Outis being Outis.">

<"You’ll still have a spot right here. Always.">

You stared ahead at the horizon, steam curling around the edges of the rails. Something like a sigh left your lips.

Then, carefully, you leaned your shoulder just barely against Dante’s.

<"Tick by tick, right? We’ll make it through.">

That was the day you stopped sitting at the back alone.

Dante’s clock ticked just a little softer after that.