(𝘯𝘰𝘵) 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙟𝙖𝙘𝙠

Don't ask him how, but Rhys may or may not have already known that tidbit about Jack's handwriting. (Everybody knew he had a major fanboy phase, okay? So what if he'd had a few signed posters up in his office on Helios? Or, supposedly "signed"—he'd never been able to read the writing well enough to be sure they really said Jack's name.) Considering the threads of weirdness still entangling them, he figured Timothy definitely did not need to know how far Rhys had veered into Handsome Jack hero worship once upon a time.

But, no—that weird tension seemed to be...semi-diffusing now, right? The longer they talked, the easier it was to differentiate Timothy from the real deal. All the small-talk-y stuff didn't feel as forced as it had at the start. "Yeah, ya' know? I'll take a hard pass on any of Pandora's wildlife." He may have a personal hatred for skags, but all of that planet's native creatures were vicious and all of them were a bitch to put down. "Including the Psychos," he added after a beat. Just the memory of "skin pizza" was enough to make him shudder.

Just like Timothy's brief lapse into that patented Handsome Jack Blowing-Smoke-Up-Your-Ass-to-Make-Room-for-His-Ego shtick maaay have triggered an unconscious flinch. Thankfully the much more humble stuttering that followed dispelled the illusion just as quickly.

"Nobody actually looks good while doing heroic stuff. I mean—most people's 'hero' stories are action-packed and full of explosions and gunfights, right? If they try to say they weren't panicking at least a little in the middle of all that?" Rhys made a skeptical noise. He certainly didn't know what it was like to have that kind of composure. "Probably a pretty unreliable narrator."

That said, he sure could appreciate someone with a shred of humility. The odds of finding a vault were better than the odds of finding someone humble, most days. "Just 'cause you also saved yourself doesn't change anything. Everyone else still would've died along with you, so..." Rhys shrugged. He couldn't force Timothy to take the compliment, but he'd made his point.

And man, what could be less Jack-like than disagreeing when someone called you a hero? 'See?' Rhys accused himself internally. 'Get a grip.'

"Can't argue with that," he hummed. Losing a limb was never fun, but he couldn't imagine Timothy was too broken up about one less tether binding him to Jack. Which...actually got him thinking. Rhys' brow scrunched as he looked at Tim sideways. "Hey, so, speaking of: don't take this the wrong way, but—if there's anything else...like that, we might be able to help with that, too."

But it raised more questions than answers. And it meant Timothy was staring at him for more reasons than just he’s pretty, now. Oh, and because they were having a civilized conversation—duh. Cut him, like, a teensy bit of slack, alright? He and “civilized conversation” hadn’t mixed in what seemed like years. . . . Because, whaddayaknow—? It had been years.

Fortunately, some stroke of luck from a more benevolent higher power made sure Timmy wasn’t so stupidly distracted that he missed what Rhys said next. Or maybe the higher power wasn’t benevolent at all, considering what had come out of his mouth: that continued praise of his. And—big bonus, kiddos!—it didn’t even sound schmoozy. It wasn’t like Rhys was trying to butter him up, get him on his good side, maybe get him to invest or whatever the hell CEOs were wired to do. The guy just kinda said shit like it was, plain and simple as absolutely nothing in the universe happened to be, and it was because of that . . .

Timothy almost believed him.

“Yeah, sure— I-I mean, when you put it like that, sounds like . . . ” For now, he decided to settle with it. . . . once his mouth had made a crappy attempt to still argue, naturally, and he had to cut himself off so he could swiftly course-correct. “Yeah. Thanks, I guess.” Timmy shrugged almost in unison with Rhys, deliberately focused his attention on anything but the guy’s face for at least a couple of seconds to give himself a breather.

And yet—! Brace yourselves. Timothy and breathing normally (aka: not losing his damn mind) didn’t exactly go well together, so.

Rhys wasn’t any more done with him than that previously mentioned “benevolent” higher power. Literally, by the way—

So, yeah, he was left staring at him again, and he could feel the gears in his head painstakingly clunking into place while he processed what had just been offered. (Almost as much of a challenge to process as the compliment and the fact that the CEO was personally helping him: everything was just really, really piling up against this whole “ability to breathe” thing.) “Y-you could—?” he blurted first, promptly figured he could do at least somewhat better than that. “Well, yeah, I— Of course you could, being, ah . . . in your position with all your resources and knowledge and gadgetry . . . stuff.” His fingers fluttered at Rhys’s robotic arm. “I just mean, uh— You . . . don’t have to? You’re probably, like, waaaay busy and have about a dozen shareholder meetings I’m keeping you from at any given time, so, like— Maybe if someone else could, er . . . do something— Thaaat’s probably what you meant, anyway—”

"Fair point," His shoulders bump up-and-down in a yield. A concern hums in his voice, some wary thing that hovers like a stranger at the precipice of a shadowed alley, eyes piercing out into the world, "You just make sure you ain't givin' up too much, Jim." Though, he suspects, maybe, this is a lesson that's already been hard-learned: One face traded for another, mannerisms cross-wired to a lifelong imitation.

. . . “what” still a mystery here.

It was nice, though. In the jarring sense, like he’d just been given a hug when he’d anticipated a shot in the head (the latter being the more likely in places like this). Having gone most of his life under the thumb of a psychopath who expected him to give up everything, the very notion of not doing that was about as nonexistent as peaceful resolutions. But he knew Cole meant it. Or . . . jeez, he just really, really wanted to let himself believe that.

Which was good, because—and we’re taking baby steps here, folks!—Tim almost gave him a bit of misplaced and shitty sass for even suggesting that, but managed to bite his tongue and “gracefully” take it. (Something like, Yeah, buddy. Sage advice, but that would’ve been exceptionally more helpful to me, like . . . twenty years ago when I hadn’t signed a dumb as shit contract like an idiot.)

Moving on to things that weren’t existential, though (pleasefortheloveofGOD) . . . 

It's a sightless walk without a light, dark piling upon dark, with only sound as company. Bated breath nerves don't prickle so much when Timothy's voice flutters through it and Cole's spine oozes free from the tip-toe tension, shoulders easing in the dim warmth of whispered conversation. The smell of wet and rotting paper pounds after them like a hungry dog as Timothy's footsteps get swallowed up by a halt. Cole slows to a stall at a beat delay, lands a little closer than intended to a shoulder-to-shoulder hovering.

Without missing a beat, as Timothy felt that presence close in beside him—personal space be friggin’ damned—he murmured that swift remark, like it had been primed and ready on the tip of his tongue. Knee-jerk. A smarmy smirk might’ve followed it, had the scenario been different (or just the guy expressing it), but as things were, he let it marinate in the air all on its own before he had the mind to regret a thing. Hilarious. Where did he learn that from? (Or who?)

Figuring their course was set (debatably), and they had a semi-reasonable path to take to said bar (debatably), he swung his weight forward again, this time unintentionally mimicking Cole’s oscillation when the guy posed a question. Timmy glanced back through the darkness, eyes tracing the outline of his companion’s face as if that’d at all help in reading an expression on it. Big surprise: it didn’t.

“There’s a difference?” A harsher burst of breath carrying a laugh chased his words. “I mean . . . technically, sure, but who in the hell does favors for anyone out here?” He failed to mention that those supposedly doing him a “favor” were met with his lifelong commitment to repayment whether they—again, technically—asked for it or not. People always wanted something, didn’t they? Bad idea to assume anything different.

jack can’t help it : he bursts out laughing, hand slapping against his thigh for dramatic flourish. this kid never ceases to amaze him — if he didn’t have such a soft spot for him, jack would have already kicked him out of the airlock for his almost constant reluctance when it comes to his ( genius ) ideas. still, as it stands, he hasn’t gotten rid of him yet ; timothy’s the best of the doppelgängers, after all.

—which is puh-retty much the norm, let’s be honest, and means he doesn’t really have the right to complain (ya big dumb-dumb; you signed up for this, remember?), yet . . .

“Not to be the one taking a huge swig of fresh hot pessimism, Jack, but . . . I’m gonna, so, like—” Pathetic is another good P-word here, and a stellar descriptor for how he feels both when his boss’s bark of laughter makes him somewhat flinch and when that arm slung with deceptive friendliness over his shoulder catches his breath. The guy goes and calls him his favorite as if that’s some standing ovation that should make up for all the crap he puts him through, and for a fleeting moment, Timothy almost wants to plead, Could it be some other sucker’s turn for awhile? God, please pick another employee of the month for freakin’ once.

But he doesn’t. He never does.

And after a steadying exhale, after swallowing down tempting words—and some other feverish flush in his facial region—he addresses the real issue here. (Or just an issue he feels he can get away with addressing and not be castrated for it.)

Cole slinks over the cardboard, sure-footed, at the other's warning. Soggy, fibers rotting off and pressing flat over the squashed bodies of the rest of the pile. They slip slightly beneath his weight.

Because, ya know, slinking around back alleys, trying your best not to draw attention to yourself after having just stolen from some creep who had absolutely stolen this from someone else wasn’t exactly the opportune moment to (inadvertently, but it wasn’t like Tim was complaining about it being taken that way) ask a guy to dinner. What a mouthful. Thank God that was staying inside his head. Buuut . . . there were worse ways to ask.

Timmy couldn’t think of any off the top of his head—or maybe he’d just repressed the memories of what Jack had him do—so just . . . trust him on this one. (Oh, and was he being a little unfair blaming Jack in this case? Okay, a teensy bit, but who cares? It wasn’t like the chode’s feelings were going to get hurt.)

“Hey, have you heard some of the stupid freakin’ names people come up with around here . . . ? That one? Pretty tame.” Not that the name was the main topic of conversation right now—of a conversation they shouldn’t have even been having, but we’d already hammered that into the ground. What Tim did somewhat focus on was that confirmation that came next. He felt considerably lucky, y’know? Both for obvious reasons, and because . . . see, trying to focus on what they were doing gave him a good excuse to at least pretend to be distracted by that.

—even if the thoughts rolling through his head (well, spinning, really) all culminated to one big, What?

His brows jut down as his eyes attempt to adjust. Black giving into black, the modest rattle of their own foot traffic crawling up the walls. His own breath, a little too loud, a little too forceful, in an exhale that shoulders its way from his nostrils. Hypervigilance skitters at the base of his neck, hoists his shoulders to a prowling lift. Limited Visibility's always had a habit of leaving him more animal than person.

What he did make note of—and what we’re running with here, so hold onto your butts—was that Cole made the horrible mistake of mentioning they’d . . . deal with the weirdness that was Jack’s influence on Timothy as it came. Like, okay, basically admitting he planned on sticking around long enough to find out. And if that wasn’t a confession of loyalty on its own, then Tim had no idea what—

That you askin’ me out to a date, Jim?

Timothy almost tripped over literally nothing. The most hilarious thing was he didn’t even have the darkness to blame for it. (Start placing your bets on the real reason! . . . It won’t be hard.) “Is that what that sounded like? God, I hope not. Just really . . . really losing my touch here,” he all but grumbled; what else was a guy to do? “But, uhm. Yeah, so, like— I’m not hearing a ‘no’ here? Despite the . . . ”

He wasn’t sure how to describe basically anything going on currently, so a vague flourish of one hand seemed to do the trick for the moment. “Yeah, y’know? ‘The.’ Watch your step, princess.” That last comment was as much to alert Cole to a couple of cardboard boxes doing their damnedest to trip them as it was a tried-and-true method of changing the subject. Spoiler alert: that doesn’t actually continue to work if you yourself change the subject right back, just for the record.