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From twitter December, 2019

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So, here’s how Timothy’s day’s going: Not great!✨

—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.)

“A little, uh . . . a little reminder for you—not that I think you forgot, what with five thousand other acts of terrorism on the mind and all that—but we did swipe some resources right from under these guys’ noses, like . . . only a week ago,” Timothy contests. “This isn’t a friendly meeting. They probably want you . . . er, me—us—dead, and ya know—? Maybe I’m not supes down with that, like, just yet . . . ?”

@jackdup said : "this seems… dangerous."

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.

“ timmy! tim-man! timster! you gotta learn to lighten up, buddy, ” jack replies, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “ this kind of attitude will get you nowhere. ” he steps closer to timothy, arm flinging around his double’s shoulders. “ listen, tim. you’re my favorite — you know that, right? of course you do. so, see, that’s why i’m trusting you with this kind of shit. ” cue the charming grin. “ and, kid, y’know, that title comes with extra work. plus, i’m like … fifty percent sure they won’t try and kill you. forty-five percent, if they’re feeling pissed off. ”

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Timothy clocked in some time just then thinking about how ill-timed this all was. And, Hey, Bonus!, clocked in some more time to think about how thinking about this was just as ill-timed.

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?

Timmy poked his head around a corner, coming to a full stop while he mentally laid out their course. “Coolsies. Uh . . . ‘good’ might be more of a challenge—if you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly have shining standards—but, ah . . . Yeah, no. We’ll get it sorted. No prob. Here’s, er, where we’re at right now, though . . . ” Also known as his bringing us back to the present of not getting shot tactic. “Remember how I mentioned a drink after this? That’s actually part of the plan. I, uh— I’ve got a— I know a place. The person who runs the place knows what I’m up to tonight; so, she’s down to give us some refuge until we can meet our buyer. And if I owe her, like . . . my entire life and more after this, then y’know? Hey, who cares?” (Wouldn't be the first time.)

The footsteps ahead of him stumble, rhythm punched off-balance and scrambling for recovery, the itchy sound of boots kissing concrete in a tap dance. The air of fluster bustles out after, fast words, flushed pink of all the signs of ruffled feathers, and that wry-tipped smile blasts open to a grin with all the refrain of a prisonbreak. He exhales another sharp breath to keep the bark of a laugh that pounds in his chest and he feels it blow back into him in a ricochet off his kerchief.

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.

"Shooty McShootington," He drawls, "Careful, now, 'fore they start draftin' me up a new alias on them posters." A few scattered names, typoes, and a mistaken identity have blocked out the space beneath his portrait. He's not too sure if he'd survive a shoot-out if a Sheriff belted out, Shooty McShootington, put your fucking hands up. The absurdity of it would swat him in a blind-side, catch him too off-guard. Still, he's compelled to lean into it, "But, sure, Shooty McShootington loves a good Diner."

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So, lesson #1 about existing in the same space as another cognizant, self-aware being . . . ? (Psh. As if anyone should be taking any lessons from Timothy, but we’re kinda getting off-topic here.) Be grateful when you can’t read their minds. Because Timmy didn’t need to know Cole had that fleeting recognition of his pessimism. He definitely didn’t need to know about the lingering temptation to poke a little fun at those mysterious hidden talents of his—even though, yes, he totally had the right to make a joke out of it and, yes, Timothy would’ve absolutely laughed at it. (Something he couldn’t blame Jack for, because . . . c’mon.)

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.

“I mean, it, uh . . . it can be, I guess. If that’s . . . You know, if that’s something you do between all the Shooty McShootington—like, eating . . . with someone.”

Timothy's the sort that has pessimism chasing his heels, glass-half-empty clutched tightly, anxiously, to his chest. There are doubts and light-hearted answers to him muttering about secret talents with less than stellar shines, but Cole settles, neutrally, with, "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." He means well, won't insult Tim with false promises to platitudes that he might not keep, and breathes a humor-flecked fair enough at the directive. Peacekeeper mantelled in the leather-glove hug of his palm, Cole's footsteps echo after Tim's as they slink into the throat of a lightless corridor.

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.

A handful burst of air puffs out of him, quiet, when the brunette speaks again, knocked out of a balloon by the tickle of a needle. "That you askin' me out to a date, Jim?" Lips ticking to a cant, wry, "I won't say no to dinner."

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our bltps playthrough with @1iquorr basically (best possible duo)

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Danez Smith, Don't Call Us Dead

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Listen, kiddos: Timothy and Jack had—thank friggin’ god—at least one thing separating them: Timothy knew how to make himself scarce, how to blend in, how to not be the loudest, most obnoxious asshole in the room (or on the planet in general, because . . . c’mon; it was Jack).

And unlike the big attention-hungry baby, Timothy preferred it that way.

Sure, yeah, give a guy a break, it wasn’t the most heroic method of going about things: no running in, guns blazing, cackling at the expense of others in a rain of gore (which, y’know, wasn’t actually how “heroes” were supposed to act, anyway, but . . . more or less Timmy’s own experience). It didn’t exactly make for a good story, like, “Hey, yeah, I got down on my hands and knees and just crawled and crawled and prayed no one would notice me, and to my credit—!”

But it worked. It kept him alive. And when someone he actually found himself caring about happened to be with him—? Well, c’mon. No-brainer.

Tim wasn’t about to do something supremely dumb on purpose and risk getting his partner in crime hurt.

“A’ight; you hold on to that optimistic ‘no shame’ attitude, buddy,” Timothy muttered distractedly as he moved past him, surveyed their surroundings before pinpointing that narrow alley hugging the building’s side. “—when you learn other things I can do. It’s, uh . . . Look, it’s not great.” His attention momentarily danced over Cole’s gun again, and he nodded. “Let’s stick to those not-hidden talents; you’re a waaaay better shot than me, so. Keep it up, buttercup.”

He grumbled a few things to himself, some amalgamation of chastising for all his decisions yet again, and mild encouragement that they get out of this. As Tim crept into that passage, half-tempted to give them a light before deciding they’d be better off as blind as anyone hoping to follow them, he went momentarily silent only for the sake of consulting his ECHO device: an assist alongside his own memory.

“So, I’m thinking next time you’re in town,” Timothy said quietly over his shoulder, “I treat you to a nice dinner or something instead. If that’s, y’know, something you go for.”

Tim clamors back to the mouth of the vault – the dim, natural light freeing him from all that murky dark and the haul in his hands is full and swollen like a stomach bloated in the aftermath of a good meal, and there is relief that evens out his shoulders, softens out the tension mired in their hitch. Another humored snort kicks itself out of his ribs, shuttering his eyes and plunging them for the floor. His bandana cover creases with the scaffoldings of a smile, hat brim shadow obfuscating the hug of crow's feet bundling at his eyes.

"Ain't no shame in hidden talents," whiskey warmth in that voice of his, the welt of laughter churning its engine. He cants his head forward, baton pass concession: "All right, then, you lead the way. You want me to hold one of those bags, or keep point with the gun?"

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Forever a part of you

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Nothing got Timothy’s head in the game quite like imminent danger. And it was hilarious, actually, for about a million different reasons, and some to which he was entirely oblivious. Living in this crapshoot of a universe, first of all, basically meant danger by default: like a never-ending Danger Convention where everyone got together and tried to kill each other just for the fun of it all . . . or the horror, if you were one of the sad saps just trying to exist without getting maimed. You’d think the latter would fit Timmy’s vibe, right? Ha. God, you’d think. But wasn’t there a saying some asshole came up with about that?

You never feel more alive than when you’re almost dead. . . . or something or somesuch.

See? That was another part of the hilarity of it all: Timmy felt pretty friggin’ dead inside the majority of the time. But he was also in peril probably another good majority of the time, so where the hell did that even put him in all of this—?

Other than knowing he at least had enough self-preservation to pick up the pace the instant he heard the urgency in his partner’s tone. (Kind of one of those “I died inside a long time ago; I don’t need to also be dead outside” feelings. [But all in a fun and fresh way! —as opposed to teenage angst or whatever.])

He decided to focus on that immediate threat over . . . Cole quite possibly taking his mention of returning as an invitation. Or, more importantly, the fact that his stupid ass would probably still go along with it.

“You’re lucky I didn’t skip leg day,” he murmured as he finished emptying the crate he’d been rifling through, hefting the loot up over his shoulder. More like ‘You’re lucky Jack made me do all his dirty work.’ Lazy sonofa— As he rejoined Cole at the entrance, he took stock of Peacekeeper ready in the guy’s hand, his attention then swiveling outward to that darkened alley for any sign of movement. Timothy clicked his tongue, readjusted the weight of their spoils to free up one of his own hands.

“Make way, cupcake; I know a few back passages in these parts. Might as well be a specialty of mine at this rate: y'know, finding secret holes to—” He hesitated, as if he could almost hear a bastard (The Bastard) cackling in his head. And . . . out of his head, apparently. Yeah, he definitely snickered. “Don't take that out of context.”

The petname jabs a humored snort out of his ribs as Timothy steps through the threshold and into the shadowed steel carving out the vault stomach. Cole slicks a huffing "Anytime," to the return address, stamps it with a shaking head and rolling eyes, before slotting his attention back to narrow esophagus of an alleyway, to its yawning maw that spills into a dead, vacant street shining moonlight grey.

It's noiseless, save for the rhythmic drumming of Tim's receding footsteps, the ocassional creak of catwalk metal. Timothy' voice squabbles out dimly from the dark, words like tides breaking syllables against the silence. It's enough to dull the small itch nipping at his fingers, the phantom twitch looking for the rounded stomach of a cigar.

A quip curbs his drawl, blunting the edges of a deadpan flat: "Makin' a real convincin' argument there, Jim." It's meant to make the other sweat, in that black humored way, stitched together without the pointed needle and thread of malice.

Movement flutters between the slabs of the corridor. Peacekeeper unsheathes from her holster, is raised nose-up into the air and holds a silver-barrelled vigil above Cole's heart. He calls back over his shoulder, warning packing heat between his words: "Reckon we got a few more minutes 'fore someone comes checkin' in."

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Just some Hyperion Dudes with their little guys

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TW: Branding

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So, a super attractive guy sits next to you at a bar. He offers to buy you a drink. How do you respond—?

Well, let good ol’ Timothy give you a hint, kiddos: Do not follow his example.

Don’t overthink the rules of a drinking game so hard you make it unfun. But also don’t be a cocky, Jack-like bastard and respond with something along the lines of, Yeah, good freakin’ luck, buttface! You’re getting creamed! (Which you never wanted to hear from Jack, b-t-dubs; it could mean so many things.) So, what should you do?

. . . good question. If anyone figures that out, Tim would love to know.

For now, and shocking about every living thing in the system with half a brain cell, the guy wasn’t frightened off (in, like, the Ohmygod what the freakin’ hell is this dude’s problem? I better get outta here! way). He maintained a stupidly patient and mostly friendly smile. He continued to sit there next to him, making not even a single move to indicate he was even considering leaving—which was super impressive, really. (Timothy wouldn’t have held it against him, probably would’ve encouraged it the second it happened.) Hey, he even went so far as to . . . sort of offer a compliment? Was it a compliment? Being able to hold your liquor had as many negative implications as it did positive applications, so.

Coming from the kind of person who thought to challenge random strangers to this sort of contest . . . ?

Sure, whatevs. He’d take it.

Might be his only win of the night, anyway.

—especially taking his competitor’s final remark into account, one that definitely made Timothy flinch just enough to be noticeable. “Yeah, uh . . . sort of asked for that,” he murmured, but at the very least still managed half of a chuckle in spite of himself. “Hey, I mean, all evidence to the, uh, contrary, but I’m not that big of an idiot.” Timmy shook his head, the rustle of fabric enticing him to pull that damned hood down—and probably for the better, considering things were going to get hot. ( . . . In, like . . . Y’know, literally . . . because of the alcohol.) “It’s not like I’m gonna say no to a good-looking guy giving me free drinks. Oh, and speaking of ‘voicing reservations’—”

He twisted some in his seat, facing his company more deliberately as he added, “I’m not the only one here committing to something before really considering it; what makes you think I’ve got anything you might want if you win this?” Tim cocked his head, a brow shooting upward. “Like, hate to break it to you, pal, but I don’t really have much I can offer in the way of, uh . . . winnings. It’s like playing a game for the grand prize of one solid lump of skag turds.”

"It's not a bad thing," Kaeya chuckled, "it just means that you're actually a match for me. I can count on one hand the number of people who fall into that category." It almost felt odd to divulge as much, considering how opposite it was to his typical game. Normally Kaeya would feign drunkenness, play the part of a lightweight who was in over his head and getting a little too friendly in his stupor.

But Kaeya wasn't here for information. There was no job; no pressure point to oh-so-meticulously prod and push to the limit. No, he was simply here for a good time.

Debatable whether that was lucky or unlucky for his chosen company. Only time would tell.

"That's the challenge, isn't it?" he murmured as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "It wouldn't be fun if it were easy, right? Besides..." In stark contrast to the mischievous glint in that watchful eye, his smile was innocent as could be. "What makes you think I'm not the same way?"

It wasn't just about the alcohol (although that was certainly a bonus). The real name of the game was observation: a test of intuition and the ability to see through the charade. Even without some grand prize at the end to serve as an ulterior motive, who said that the game itself couldn't be just as fun?

Especially with this one as his second player. Kaeya laughed fully as his companion raised more concerns. "I think you've set a new record; I've never met anyone who asked so many questions about being given free alcohol." Reaching for his own glass, his attention remained fixed on the other man's hooded profile as he swirled the liquid inside. "If you had reservations, you should've voiced them before accepting the first drink. You're in it, now; might as well see if you can win."

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no thoughts just the neverending dichotomy of my intense love and adoration for h/andsome jac/k against timothy's neverending hatred and disgust

but hate's just another form of passion, now isn't it? (-‿◦)

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Someone kill him for Tim’s sake

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I wanna punch him in his stupid face I love him so much

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“Yeah, sure; s’long as you’re cool with my less than handsome penmanship when it’s, uh . . . when it’s my left hand— But, ya know, it actually works out, because like— I dunno how, erm, how much you knew about Jack, but his handwriting—? Not good. Did you know I actually started signing shit with that hand to guarantee it looked as crappy as possible . . . ? True story. Couldn’t make this up.” He also couldn’t count how many times Jack wrote something down for him in that good old-fashioned way that then took Timothy about twenty minutes to decipher like it was some sort of code—and it usually was (or at least some misplaced innuendo).

Oh, but hey: there we go with some positivity, right? Timmy could twist that into a good thing: working for Handsome Jack meant becoming ambidextrous for . . . well, for the stupidest reasons, but ultimately a useful skill. Ultimately a necessary skill now that his right hand was out of commission for the foreseeable future until he learned how the whole cyborg thing worked. Which, by the way, also meant other things—if you catch my drift—but the important aspect was not being completely useless. (For freakin’ once.)

This was already getting easier, too: the whole “managing actual civilized conversation without looking like a complete idiot” sitch. Because as the CEO went off on an explanation of where his fun little cybernetics came from, Timothy actually felt like a tangled string of supreme awkwardness between them had . . . sort of come undone. It was, yeah, okay, still kind of small-talk–ish, but ever since Tim complimented the guy, he seemed to be feeling better. (And what did that say about Rhys’s overall opinion of himself—? A CEO who wasn’t up his own ass about his own ass? Unheard of. Tim was liking this guy more and more.)

“Oh, yikes. Yeah, uh . . . skags are pretty much the worst. Hate those things,” Timmy said, again with that small talk air of a guy merely discussing his dislike for a particular flavor of ice cream. “I’d argue rakks are worse because, like . . . God, anything that flies—? No thank you. 0/10 would not recommend, but, uhh . . . Yeah, I mean; I get you having personal beef with skags, so. Heard.”

And then things got really crazy there for a second, because not only did that gentle touch to his arm (which was all for the sake of the reconstruction, by the way: nothing more to it) send an entire shock through his system, but Rhys’s returned praise sure as hell earned its place in the Top Ten Ways to Get Timothy to Shut Up. He was a lot less glad that he’d been staring stupidly at the guy when Rhys met his gaze after just casually laying down some compliments like they were just a thing to do without consequence. Tim was pretty sure he made a noise he didn’t . . . mean or want to make.

But he cleared his throat real cool-like and plucked at those strings of Jack-certified confidence he’d had to fake for so many years. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to toot my own horn, but I take this whole ‘hero’ business super seriously,” he drawled . . . and just, God, no, he could not keep up that absolutely abhorrent act, so all too suddenly after the fact: “Eugh— No, trust me, i-it’s not . . . It was all a very panicked, very spur-of-the-moment ‘I’m about to die’ sort of decision. I’ve, uh— I’ve had practice with those; nothing heroic about it, really. And hey, ya know, it’s just a hand. Jack’s stupid freakin’ . . . ‘winning hand’ or whatever. I’m better off without the thing.”

Considering how awkward Rhys already felt in this interaction, it was a good thing he wasn't privy to any of Timothy's thoughts. As it was, his casual agreement to Rhys' self-proclaimed "cool CEO" title threw him for enough of a loop that he had to audibly snap his jaw shut.

"Wha—really?" Oh yeah, you're sounding cooler by the minute. Keep it up! He cleared his throat and tried not to look too shocked. "Uh...thanks. Hey, any chance I could maybe get that in writing?" He was joking, of course. Mostly. "For, uh...lets say 'scientific purposes.'" Namely: rubbing Lorelei's face in the fact that someone actually agreed with him. Take that, haters!

He kept an eye on the tablet as the scanner ran its course—and couldn't help but examine the injury itself by proximity. Normally Rhys was embarrassingly squeamish (especially by Pandoran standards), so what did it say about him as a person that he was less freaked out by the cauterized stump at the end of Timothy's wrist than his—...No, you know what? Not even gonna finish that thought. Fuck you, Jack Trauma™, 'cause Jack isn't here!

At least he could blame that (frankly very fucked up) mentality on living with a similar injury for most of his life. Hard to be grossed out by something you saw in the mirror every day for decades.

Turned out he wasn't alone in pondering that similarity between them, either. Surprise painted the CEO's expression when his companion brought up Rhys' own cybernetics—not because he minded the questions, but because Timothy had asked. Ninety-nine percent of people who were somehow surviving in this messed up universe had them, so at this point, hardly anyone bothered.

"No, it's—it's fine! Really!" Said robotic arm waved through the air dismissively. "Most people don't ask 'cause they have their own replacement parts to gloat about instead; especially when you grow up on Pandora." Just that statement alone was enough of an explanation, really. It was a miracle that he wasn't missing way more, all things considered. "But yeah, it, uh...it was definitely necessary. Nearly got eaten by skags as a kid. You know how it goes." Rhys shrugged as if to say 'that's Pandora for you.'

"Obviously it sucks that you ended up with this—" he gestured at Tim's injury and the glowing, holographic recreation of it slowly being built around the original by the scanner, "—but hey, at least yours is a way better story to tell. I mean, cutting off your own hand to stop the autopilot? Saving yourself and the Vault Hunters, plus all the crazies stuck in there with you?" Judging from the stories he'd heard over the past few days, it was debatable whether it was a good thing that those people were now let loose on the universe, but he digressed.

A plaintive chime emanated from the tablet. Rhys tapped a few commands, then, without thinking, took gentle hold of Timothy's forearm, flipping it over and repositioning it above the screen until it beeped again and continued the reconstruction. "You might look like Jack, but you're ten times the 'hero' he ever pretended to be." He paused, brow furrowing. "Nah, way more than that—more like a thousand, let's be honest." For the first time since moving closer, Rhys dared to meet the other's eyes. His smile was lopsided but sincere. "A-anyway, it's still shitty, but definitely better than some of the horror stories I've heard. I guess that's...kind of a silver lining."

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one time i played borderlands presequel