#if timmy's not panicking then he's just channeling inner jack to get shit done

[jackdup]

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."