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it was personal, actually.

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Of all the hilarious jokes culminating to create what had become Timothy’s life, he’d argue the whole “don’t give up too much” sentiment was one of the best: the type of joke that was so good you could tell it multiple times and still get the same result . . . conveniently similar to Timmy just picking pieces of himself apart until there was . . . well, someone left. Who the friggin’ hell knew what. Just Someone. But he was living and breathing and therefore existing despite everything. And that counted for something.

. . . “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) . . . 

“Maybe just a little,” he confessed, catching the playful lilt pitched in his companion’s tone. “But, I mean, I could be like every other a-hole you’ve come across and exploit you if you’d, uh . . . prefer that. I’m an actor, remember? I can pull that shiznat off, easy.” Way too easy, he hated having to admit. Best keep that to himself. “For realsies, though: I got your back. Or your front. Maybe both, but I figure we should probably work up to that first.”

Somebody's feeling cheeky — Timothy ricochets a violent ping pong game, sometimes, between anxious and chest-out confidence. Cole idly muses on whether this is Timothy's or his twin's as he bats off another humored snort for the night, refrains barely from knocking a crooked forefinger against the other's temple in return fire.

"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.

He rocks his weight from heels to toes, pushes off the balls of his feet and into a forward momentum after Timothy. "Reckon I wouldn't appreciate you bargaining with my life, no," he muses. His eyes loiter to the light slivers humming in the distance, flourescent street whites on cold silver steel; flecks of neon playing darts on wall rust. A flat-toned delivery, betrayed by the sound of a crooked grin rooted in his voice, an impish glint gleaming a knife blade's snicker in the dark, "That you lookin' out for me, Jim?"

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:/

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“Dinner first.”

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.

Sporting a shrug, “Fret not. I got it taken care of. It’s not about to affect you . . . or, ah— I’m not going to let it, I guess.”

The names out here hustle on the creative ; vomit-bitter insults and descriptors gift-wrapped in a dictionary dedicated to making grandmothers pale. Cole puffs out a conceding noise of agreement. There are worse things to be called.

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.

"That's a heavy trade," He shifts, weight rolling back to the heels of his feet as he offers back breathing room between them. His elbow glides against the wall, cotton rumpling over weathered poster patchwork; touch a guide where his vision now fails him. "This a favor or a transaction with this pal of your's?"

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this goes without saying, but building trust with timtam is like pulling teeth bc jeezum crow he has a rough time believing anyone does anything nice for anybody without wanting something in return

and, by extension, if someone does something nice for him, he immediately feels indebted to them

like wtf do you mean i don't have to earn affection? wdym you can just be good to me and it's not for some ulterior motive? don't i owe you, now?

being friends with him is rough. tread carefully ಥ‿ಥ ??

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Some Illustrations I did for @/pigeonzai on twt of Handsome Jack and Timothy Lawrence <3

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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