#boys gettin up to shenanigans and i'm ALWAYS supporting it ;w;/

[jackdup]

Yeah, no; this guy was going to be the death of him. Literally. Probably one of the reasons Timothy was sticking around, but we won’t dig into that right now because just then, as a full and hearty laugh rumbled up from Cole’s chest, he realized it was just as much figurative. He realized that, hey, something about that sound stalled him, something about the bright friendliness in his agreement hit way harder than it should have. Something had him staring like a complete and utter idiot (more so than usual, obviously) for a prolonged moment before he understood his instructions and went to carry them out.

. . . not without a mumbled, “Jeez” that was predominantly directed at his own sorry ass because c’mon. Get it the hell together and focus on what we’re here for, dammit.

“Yeah, got it. Thanks, honey,” Timmy said over his shoulder as he carefully maneuvered through the doorframe and into the darkened warehouse, allowing his eyes a brief second to adjust. He flashed the palm of his robotic hand and summoned the dimmest light to guide his way through the shelves standing like sentries in the gloom. It was surprising. Y’know, he kinda would’ve expected it to be a little bit brighter, considering—

Oh. Duh. Of course it would be smarter to keep this crap in boxes.

And when he popped one open for a gander, the telling violet glow of Eridium greeted him in a heartbeat.

Okay. They’re doing this.

“Yeah, uh . . . ” He checked a few more boxes down the line. “There’s a lot more of this than I thought there’d be—seriously, what the hell? Who freakin’ . . . Whatevs. I’ll grab what I can, but it’s, like, way weird this isn’t better protected.” Which had Timothy casting nervous glances to the dark expanse around him, spanning his light over his surroundings when he could between gathering the resource. Part of him wished he had a third hand just to readily snatch his own gun, but . . . Weirdly for him, he trusted Cole. Just enough to not completely lose his mind, at least.

“Please just . . . do a guy a solid and tell me right now that we’re not going to come back for more of this. If you’re getting ideas, just pretend you didn’t hear me say there’s a lot. There isn’t. Totally just scraps down here.”

A low, rumbling laughter pitches his head back, tumbles over and pinches folds against his cheeks, his eyes. Kerchief cotton catches the sound, swells beneath the breath of it, and the seamline burrows a scratchy track against his beard. "Sure," A grin pours over the syllable like it's meant to drown it, "My treat."

The sagging, molten piles of what used to be hinges are still breathing a ghost heat when he peels open the door. The metal groans like it's got a soul, as though the soul's suffering some miserable fate in the depths of brimstone. Despite the babel, Cole's deliberate as he wedges it securely against the wall. The interior's dark: rows of shelving heaving themselves into an inky black oblivion.

This room wasn't expecting visitors.

He lines his palm against the butt of Peacekeeper's frame, gloved callouses greeting a familiar home. He positions himself split in half by the threshold, one foot planted amid catwalk plates, the other swallowed up by the dark. Door frame lined up square against his spine, he offers, "I'll keep watch while you bag."