Timothy hates Elpis. He hates that he has to worry about breathing, that if he jumps too high he can't control his limbs from flailing in fear, that kraggons are sometimes half lava, and that he can't go a five minute lunch break without getting shot at by scavs.
Hence why when he's shoving pieces of his ham and cheese sandwich in his mouth handfuls at a time, there's a pistol in his hand, and when he's not, a fanzy two handed laser instead. He's used to swapping guns so fast, at least. Wracks up the interest.
At least he's good at multitasking. He's just finished his sandwich when his ECHO pings, and he sighs. Rhys. Back at it again with a shirt that makes Tim's eyes sparkle when he sees it.
Just two messages in and they're on the private channel, and Tim's heart has sunk low in his chest. Leave? Rhys wants to leave??
There's too much going on for Tim to fight back with good responses or reasons. He holds his ECHO in one hand, pistol in the other as he types. Then swaps the the laser until the next ping. It makes him anxious, not because he's afraid to get shot, but because the topic leaves him feeling sick and afraid. He can't leave Jack. Jack will hunt him down even across the universe. And his face is easy to put on a wanted poster, and even easier to recognize in public. He swallows hard as he shoots a scav and their head explodes. Cha-ching.
By the end of the conversation he feels nothing but regret and anxiety. Rhys wants to leave, with or without Tim. He feels a little awful that not even their relationship can keep Rhys here. He'd rather leave Tim alone. He doesn't mention that, though. It's a selfish thought.
But what he does do, is pull up Jack's ID on the ECHO. A text would be ignored. He should really vid-call his boss if he wants a hold of him. It rings. Then again. Several rings go on until the number says it's busy. He tries again, squeals when a tiny midget scav lunges for his ankle. Bam. Headshot.
"WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE SO IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW THAT YOU NEED TO CALL ME TWICE?"
Tim's good at keeping a straight face, even if his lower half jerks in a twitch from Jack's angry tone. And face. Tim just blinks.
"Am I not allowed go check in with my boss every so often? This place is still crawling with scavs-" Flashes from his gunshots confirm, and Jack scoffs.
"That's great, pumpkin but daddy's busy and really gots to go-"
"Rhys is trying to leave."
That stops Jack in whatever motion he was making to hang up on Tim. The silence that drags on leaves Tim's ears ringing. He ducks into cover, and him and Jack engage in a staring contest.
Tim’s face is flat from years of practice. There’s no fear in his eyes, or a telltale sign that he could or could not be lying. Just. Blankness. Stark contrast to Jack’s crinkled brows. He’s staring at Tim, trying to pick him apart. It’s clearly frustrating how he can’t, but Tim just bores eyes back into Jack’s and swallows hard.
Staring at Jack doesn’t feel like a mirror to Tim. It never does. Sure, he might have that same chiseled jaw, same mismatched eyes, the same latches and mask fastened to his face. But the man’s never been a mirror to him. He can only wonder how Jack feels. Well, besides narcissistic lust.
“You two got in a little fight, didn’t ya?”
Tim’s face breaks, and his brows furrow now, “What?”
Jack’s face leaves the screen, and he’s off doing whatever he was doing before. Tim can still hear his voice, though, so he turns to combat again and listens.
“Wow, Tony. I’m impressed. Trying to get Rhysie in trouble because you two had a wittle argument.” Tim flinches when he get’s Rhys’s name mostly right, but not his own. Cool. Dick. The next face he shoots he imagines as Jack.
“The only thing we fought about was him leaving. I told him not to. He insisted.” He can feel the anxiety pooling back in his stomach. What is he doing? His mouth feels weirdly dry. When Jack’s face reappears but he doesn’t speak, nor look at the comm, Tim goes on, “He keeps talking about it. And I’m worried he might actually try.”
Jack is weirdly calm. Tim feels the need to continue. So he does. “I-In private. He asked me to leave with him a bunch. Like, to Pandora. Or somewhere else. He- He mentioned the Crimson Raiders. I said no. Told him not to try.” Tim can feel his voice starting to shake. Suck it in, Tim. “But he seems to think he can, with his tech and-”
“Shshshshhssssshhhhhut uuuuuuuuuup.” Tim pastes on a flattened expression, lips a tight line when Jack cuts him off. “I can’t focus when you’re over here yabbering my ear off! Kitten, love hearing your gorgeous, sexy voice but stop with the rambling for once.”
Tim can’t tell what Jack’s doing, and it’s killing him. He’s shot all the scavs. He kicks one idly, clearing his throat. For a second he forgets he’s on a call with Jack. His chest feels heavy. His mouth is unbearably dry.
“Aww, sweetheart, you look like you’re about to cry on me here. Don’t worry, kiddo.”
Tim hates that Jack’s voice is so reassuring. Softer than usual. Tim knows without looking that Jack’s face is filled with fake pity.
“I’ve got it all taken care of, Tamboy. You just keep doing what I told you to do and don’t check back in with me ‘till you’re done, ‘k pumpkin?”
The feed cuts out before Timothy can mutter, “Got it.”
He feels like he’s gonna puke, but instead, he just keeps heading towards the check mark on his ECHO.
Last thing he remembered, Tim was sitting on the edge of the hostel bed he and Rhys has been sharing. His partner sat on the opposite side of the dirty mattress, knuckle deep in his cybernetic arm. It made Tim ungodly anxious as he listened to the other fiddle with wires and other tech, checking over it obsessively as if he was convinced something, anything was wrong. Tim had to give him credit, though. Obsessing over something other than the danger that hung over the both of their heads was probably the more emotionally helpful choice.
Tim stared at the echo in his hands. He’d put on something for noise. A video teaching him how to make the perfect, quality omelette. Omelette du fromage. And like, ham or something else. The double was hardly paying attention. Just. Blank stare. Dissociating, if he’d known the word existed in the moment.
Then there were footsteps. Rhys’ fiddling stopped. Tim clenched his jaw. Just someone passing through. He released tension when the steps left. The door was locked. It’s fine. Tim looked back to the video. Cook on low heat for 3 minutes. Add a little salt and pepper. Don’t touch it.
His head snaps up when the door has flung open, off it’s hinges, just past the foot of the bed. Tim’s on his feet in half a second flat, making a move to digistruct the cheap gun he’d picked up in Concordia’s hub. Just a pistol. Hyperion made. It’s a habit.
Wilhelm terrifies him. He’s big, he’s full of cybernetics, and boy does he hit hard. And boy does he hit hard. Tim doesn’t finish digistructing the gun. All he can manage is to squeeze his eyes shut before metal connects with his nose.
When he opens his eyes, the hostel room has turned into a cell. His nose aches. He can feel blood on his upper lip. Blood on the floor where his head’s been resting. Tim makes a groan of a sound, and decides it’s better to just play dead on the cold floor for now.
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