Six months into living in the Ghost Zone, you got less and less sleep each night. You had graphic and vivid nightmares that scared you to the bone. You felt so afraid and alone when you woke up, the things in your dreams were confusing, but you knew that what you saw would hurt you.

It was times like that, that made you wish you had a sibling, or even just a friend.

For probably the fourth time that week, you had crawled out of your bed to seek Clockwork for comfort. He took one look at the tears running down your face and gave you a big hug.

"Calm down," he soothed, "it was only a dream, (Y/N)."

You had looked up at him as he wiped off your cheeks with the sleeve of his violet cloak. "It can't hurt you."

Even if the nightmare you had wasn't real, that didn't mean that it couldn't ever happen. Some dreams come true, that meant nightmares could too.

You refused to let him out of your tight hug until you had fallen asleep on him a while later.

He must have laid you in your bed after you drifted off, you were safe and warm under your blankets when you woke up in the morning.

Clockwork and you played for most of that week. He taught you patty-cake, a game where you would smack your hands together in an organized handshake, singing a fun rhyme. When you were bored, you had a habit of popping into the tower's center room and ambushing him into playing with you.

He rarely minded, he didn't do too much most days. His job was mostly watching the Viewer, keeping track of time and history; removing inconsistencies and intervening when necessary.

A few times the door to the center was locked and Clockwork told you he was working on something. He made you promise not to take advantage of phasing through walls and to go play until his task for the day was complete.

You were patient until he opened it again, immediately noticing his gloves had extra padding in the fingers and there was a bit of ectoplasm seeping through the tips.

"What's that?"

"I injured myself sewing." He stated calmly, as if telling a young one wouldn't end with you offering to kiss it better, he declined.

"I'm alright." He said.

"You promise?" You asked and held out your pinkie to him.

"Yes, I promise." Clockwork shook it with his own.

"Good!"

His mysterious injuries persisted for a week and your nightmares remained anytime you fell asleep, but then everything changed when you went into your room at bedtime one night.

You skipped along in your white fleece ghostly onesie with a cartoon face on the hood. You got into bed, shuffled under the sheets and laid down.

Only, you felt a lump underneath your head. You reached under the pillow and pulled out a homemade teddy bear.

A pale green fur body, inner ears and paw pads of red velvet, the eyes made from two gears sewn into it and a smooth cherry colored nose. It even had its own cloak of patches of different cloths, along with one of Clockwork's signature time medallions wrapped around the neck.

You lit up in delight and held your new best friend to your chest as tight as you could. "I'm going to name you... Sir Patchworth the Third!" You pat his head as you spoke to him directly.

"Is that okay?"

You waited for a response.

Silence.

"Glad you like it! I'm (Y/N), nice to meet you Patch!" You smiled and shook his paw.

Clockwork entered the bedroom to tuck you in, but only after you and Patch learned more about each other. "Well, hello there. Who's your new friend?"

You screeched and smashed your cheeks together, "How rude of me! Clockwork, this is Patch!"

He smiled and pulled the blankets up to your chin, "Well, I'm pleased to hear you have a bedtime guardian."

You clutched Patch to your chest and smiled, "Yeah! He can chase away my nightmares! Like a warrior in shining armor from our stories! Right, Clockwork?"

He nodded, "I'm sure."

Blowing out the lantern that kept the room lit, he phased out of the room without another word.

Though you had your very own Patch the Protector now, you were still a little weary of going to sleep. What if Patch was too tired to battle bad dreams?

You laid there with your eyes shut for a bit, half asleep. The door opened with a creak. You could see the tower's low green lighting and the Ghost Zone's hazy glow through your closed eyelids. He knew you were partly awake, but neither of you would discuss it later on.

Clockwork was hovering at your bedside when he reached over to pat your head lightly. You couldn't help but smile a bit.

He stayed for a minute or two, humming a comforting lullaby, before leaving for the rest of the night.

You pretended you didn't hear him and he pretended he didn't know.

Birthdays weren't as bad as someone may have expected them to be. Most children have a party or a get together of some sort; with friends and family, balloons and entertainment, cake, presents, maybe even a bouncy castle if they got lucky. While a traditional party like that sounded nice, you would be lying if you said you would prefer that type of celebration over what you had at home. You liked things simple and spent with the one you cared about most, that one being Clockwork.

Your favorite was your fifth birthday, merely a year after coming into the Ghost Zone. He gave you plenty of books to read, a quilt for your bed that was much heavier than the blankets you already had, and a golden pocket watch. The best gift he'd saved for last, which was a deep green hooded cloak like his own, a gear shaped pin holding it closed at the left shoulder. It was way too big for you, but he said you would wear it when the time was right.

He spent that day braiding your hair and reading some of your new books to you until you fell asleep. He tucked you into your bed with your new quilt and gently pushed Patch under your arm, he pat your head and left the bedroom with the door cracked so you could see the green light of the Viewer from the center.

You remember drowsily calling after him, asking him to finish the last story he was reading, but he didn't turn around. It was your bedtime and there wasn't any sense in keeping you awake longer. Your words were too incoherent to be considered anything other than the sleepy babbling of a small child. You reached out your hand in the door's direction limply, like you were trying to pull him back. But after a second, you gave up and let your fingers curl into the quilt, nuzzling your nose underneath it and drifting off once again.