all of those selves that you tried [closed]

[refactor]

Who: Handsome Jack + "Handsome Jack" (Timothy Lawrence)
Where: Tim's Apartment
When: W4D2
Summary: The only person that Jack trusts with his well-being is ultimately himself.
Restrictions/Warnings: Likely to contain themes of emotional abuse/stockholm syndrome, yikes. Also, Jack is especially crazy. he sick

[ Jack knew that he couldn't avoid this for long. He knew it, but it still pisses him off, because here he is, trying to do good, and these dirty, diseased assholes have to ruin it. He's far from the only Company worker at Intake to get sick once the infection started to spread, because there's little better breeding ground for illness than a prison that takes people from all over. But for a few days, he'd pushed through it. He hadn't bothered, because even if he felt like shit, he had a job to do.

Naturally, that tune had changed once people actually started dying.

It sparks a panic that's rare for Jack, but it's not the first time he'd felt it. It's the sort of manic energy that makes him do dangerous, risky things, because he feels he has so much to give. He refuses to die, but the threat of it also unnerves him greatly. The last time he had felt like this, he had escaped with his life and a scar, but it had also lead into wrapping his hands around his boss's throat until he felt his trachea crumble. That had turned out fine, because the easy solution to his fear was to kill it. But when it's illness?

He's at more of a loss than he'd like to admit.

It's a rare moment where Jack realizes just how short the list of people he trusts is. It's almost an empty list, if not for Angel, but he wouldn't go to her. Not like this, because he would never risk the exposure. He could survive it, he figures, but Angel never could. It takes most of a day of stubbornly fighting with himself, because there's not a single person he'd like to let that mask slip in front of. But as his thoughts blur, and his face—his scar—feels like it's burning red hot, he comes to the conclusion that there's only one person he could trust with this.

By the time he gets to Tim's apartment, his head is absolutely swimming, and he can scarcely remember taking the trip here at all. It half occurs to him that this is irrational, that there's nothing his friggin' body double could do, but that's not the point. Jack is operating on a deeper anxiety that he doesn't want to admit to, and that's the fact that he doesn't want to be alone.

He fumbles briefly with the keys, but he opens the door, unannounced as always. Jack always appears unexpectedly and barges in like he owns the place, because, well, he does. Technically. But this time, instead of the sort of energy and cheer that means that Jack has some kind of great and terrible idea in his head that he needs his double for, it's clear that something is wrong. He looks sick, but it expresses itself as something almost wild and unsettling. ]

'Sup.

[ Even just that one syllable almost sounds threatening, which Jack doesn't necessarily mean. He reaches up to the hinges of his mask as soon as he closes the door, which is also rare. Even in front of Tim, he doesn't usually take off the mask. But there's fire in his head, and a wolfish smile and the sort of manic energy that truly makes Handsome Jack a notorious figure on Westerley is how he expresses it. ]

You— Hah, look, I'm not askin' here, Tim, but I'm- I'm gonna crash here for a little bit. That cool? Course it is.

Comments

[blap]

[ Jack can be... strange about their shared face at the best of times and something primally cautious inside Tim knows from the moment Jack darkens his doorway that these times are very very far from the best. All at once he feels like he's made a terrible mistake going maskless in his own home. He half-turns toward the couch in a show of inviting Jack to take the crash site he's after, hoping maybe that it might get him to turn his gaze somewhere else for a second. ]

Wow, are you—

[ Stupid question. Jack's not okay; it shows in the blood-flush close to the surface of his exposed skin, the way his mood seems to undulate between joyous delirium and tight feral agony right before his eyes. The fact that Jack isn't even up for maintaining the illusion of Tim's Jackness—though the sound of his name makes something bright bloom in his chest in spite of himself, every time—is cause enough for concern. ]

Should I—I mean, uh, anything I can do, [ self-conscious, forcefully casual: ] Boss?

[ Besides stand where he's standing at the nearest arm of the offered couch, fidgeting a little and hoping for the best. ]

[refactor]

[ It probably doesn't seem like it to Tim, but as soon as Jack sees himself, some of that anxiety coiled in his gut relaxes. He was right to come here, at least. He's certain of that, because now he's not alone with that looming idea of just how far this illness could go. In fact, there's no small part of him that's justifying this as being the only person he could come to, because it's only right that his body double would have to go through this too. He's supposed to be his mirror image, after all.

It's that thought of the mirror that has him pulling away the mask. Sometimes that realization of how they were different was bitter and dangerous, but today, it's ironically safer. He feels the hinges against his skin prominently, even though he's long since gotten used to their presence, and the mask feels suffocating against his too-hot skin. He takes it off more confidently than he tends to, because the blow to his pride that usually comes with the gesture is distant. Jack reveals that unnaturally discolored scar and the near-blind eye without much hesitation, but the wide grin doesn't exactly make this comforting. ]

That's- God, that's better. Friggin' mask. Y'know, sometimes I wonder, maybe I should've just gone with the plastic surgery but nah. Too many people to kill, right?

[ He laughs like that's a joke, but that's not always clear with Jack. He heads over to the couch, and though his gait isn't stumbling or uncertain, it's still rather clear that he's pushing himself. Jack basically sprawls himself onto the couch, then rubs at his face tiredly. ]

Get me some water, pumpkin. And a towel. God, and like your whole friggin' medicine cabinet, I'll pick and choose.

[blap]

Right, right. Yeah. Of course. That'ssss—like, not. Crazy. Not... hey, you know what, I'll be right back. Don't goooo—uhhh, yeah. One sec.

[ But, after all, Jack's right to feel relieved here. He has to know he's in a place where he's safe, where he can generally trust that he's trusted. That Tim will... yeah, you know, that he'll. Take care of him. That's kind of embarrassing to think about. But Jack's more than a boss, isn't he? At this point, he's even kind of a friend. Tim nods briskly and beelines into the hallway because much like Jack is, somewhere deep down, he's still a decent person.

And because he has to.

No stranger to decisive action anymore, Tim's quick to gather the many necessary items Jack's asking for—though his hand stutters over the disinfectant, sutures, needles, scissors, all shoved away in one corner of his bathroom shelf. Shoulder aching in memory, he slides the kid behind a wall of hair products before he turns on the light. Let's maybe not give Jack access to sharp objects right now. As much as is possible.

Tim perches on the edge of the coffee table as he holds the glass out to Jack on his return, all the various pills and bottles rattling messily in the makeshift terrycloth rucksack he's let drop into his lap. He's definitely more of a physical injury sort of guy these days, but you don't live in Old Town (or anywhere else on Westerley) without being prepared. ]

Here, sir. Jack. Sir.

[ He forces himself to look Jack in the eye. ]

[refactor]

[ While Tim collects everything Jack has asked for, Jack waits, and surprisingly, he's almost patient. Not completely, of course, because when is he ever, but he knows Tim will do what he asks. He laughs to himself, since he knows it because the guy has to. It's that simple, and that makes it incredibly easy for Jack to trust him. People were fickle unless you had them by the balls, or in this case, by the face.

The laugh at least trails off before Tim comes back, and Jack instead puts his arm over his eyes. It's hot, and he knows it's the fever, but he swears he's never felt a fever like this. It's around his scar, but every time he closes his eyes, it's an oddly specific thing that comes to mind. It's lava. It's lava so hot he can almost picture the volcano it comes from, high in the air, and looking up to a massive moon. It's not the moons of the Quad, but—

Tim returns to the room, and the thought it broken and lost. He pulls his arm away and sits up. Jack greedily takes the water and gulps it down like he's dying of thirst, or maybe that he's just hoping to put out that fire a little bit. Though when Tim's eyes meet his, he's smiling again. It's hard to tell what Jack is thinking, but to be fair, he's not even completely sure of that. His thoughts are bouncing around a mile a minute, but he just keeps coming back to the scar. Jack drags the back of his hand over his mouth, since he'd been drinking quickly enough to be careless, but then reaches out to Tim's face. He cups Tim's cheek in a way that could be fond if not for the how his fingers dig in slightly and hotly. Even from his hand, it's easy to feel the fever. ]

There you go, that's better. [ It's not super clear what Jack is talking about here, but his grip at least relaxes to give Tim a condescending pat on the cheek. ] Thanks, sweetheart. Knew I could count on you.

[ He sits back again, then starts to dig through what Tim has brought in terms of medicine, but he's not being very careful. Even in just sorting through the contents, his gesture are full of dangerously manic energy. ]

Hey- Y'know, I can't remember if I ever told ya. You were so close to getting a scar just like mine, you know that, right?

[blap]

[ Like an animal, Tim freezes in Jack's grip and doesn't move even once he's free, because Jack doesn't talk about his scar but it is not pretty. Sour dread churns in his gut, warring with uncertainty—because he means, like, as part of his cosmetic surgery. Right? He's gotta mean it that way.

But he's just afraid enough to ask to decide not to. ]

Oh... that's. Cool...

[ It's a very Jack sort of inflection, that condescending good for you! roundness flattened just slightly by the weight of real anxiety. It'd be nice to change the subject. ]

And... yeah, you totally can. Count on me. That is.

[ He keeps his tone soft, placating, as he picks up the tried and tested pain reliever/fever reducer that Jack appears to have missed and presses it into his hands, which are just. Burning between his own. How contagious is this thing from person to person?

A seed of guilt has started to germinate in the back of Tim's mind: he works for Jack. His job is to take on all the really dangerous crap that Jack can't afford to deal with himself. It's not like he could've jumped in front of the pathogen like a bullet, but the fact that he's the one to escape this unscathed (so far) is weirdly... shameful?

The fact remains, though, that Jack can't die. What would he even do? ]

Just try to chill out for a while. You'll probably be... fine, after that.

[ It'll be fine. ]

[refactor]

[ The placating tone at least does its job, because though Jack hears that condescending tone and is briefly irritated by it, that's thankfully forgotten with what Tim adds on. Of course, what he puts in Jack's hands doesn't hurt either. He huffs out a hot breath, then starts to open the bottle. He's not so out of it that he can't manage that, though it definitely seems close.

He's aware of that too. It shows in how his eyes briefly flicker to Tim's again as he gives more placating words, but he doesn't respond immediately. Jack pours a few pills into his hand, and he doesn't bother to count them out before tossing them into his mouth. It's a few, so it'll be enough. He doesn't really care at the moment, and he breathes out a laugh at the thought. The smile stays on his face, but it at least calms enough to not seem so threatening. ]

Probably.

[ He repeats that word as he takes the towel. He rubs the towel across his face, and that gesture is more careful than any of the others. The scar that cuts a path across it might be old by now, but sometimes, he swears it's not a normal scar. But that has to be all on his head, and he knows that, even know. ]

Yeah, probably, that's- That's the problem. You heard about this right? Some Leithian crap.

[blap]

[ Tim's no good at speaking in absolutes. Not like Jack. As he rises and moves to and from the kitchen again, glass in hand, his voice ricochets off the narrow walls. ]

Okay, but what I don't get is like... Why unleash a plague just so one rich bunch of assholes can get at another rich bunch of assholes? I mean, that's just. A dick move, right?

[ He's returned with a glass that's much taller and an icepack wrapped in a frayed dish towel, and something in him senses the thunder in Jack's head because as he settles on the unoccupied end of the sofa his tone softens, his demeanor gentles. (Treading lighter, if you want to be kind of negative about it.) ]

Here, Jack.

[refactor]

[ Jack takes the second glass and immediately takes a hearty gulp of it, but at least he doesn't down it one go this time. The more Tim responds to his demands so obediently, the more that manic energy seems to ebb away. For one part, it's nice, as always, to be listened to and to have someone completely unquestioning of what he's asking, but underneath that, there's a part of Jack that's genuinely comforted. It's buried so deep that he probably wouldn't choose to grasp it even in a better state of mind, but it's that part of Jack that's much more vulnerable than he'd like to admit.

Of course, Tim's probably seen hints of it before. Those rare moments where Jack falters, maybe says a comment that sounds like self-doubt, expresses that he's lonely, all the things that are the anti-thesis of who Jack desperately wants to be. It's that part of Jack that's just glad to have someone here. Even if he does distantly realize that it's pretty friggin' sad that the best he can do there is his body double.

Well, whatever. He takes the icepack and sets it on his brow with a deep, heavy sigh, and some of the tension bleeds away from his posture too. That's--better. Not perfect, but better. It's enough for him to focus more on what Tim is saying instead of the heat. ]

Yeah, it's friggin' idiotic. But that's what rich assholes do. They've got no vision, 'cause, hell. Why do they need it, right? Never had to work for anything, so they don't give a shit if they unleash a plague that kills a buncha people.

[ He scoffs, though it's bitter and sharp. This... isn't exactly what he wants to talk about, but it's far better than the alternative, which is that fear he feels. He'll avoid that one if at all possible, and so he goes into a related topic off what Tim had said. ]

Yeah, like- Hah, no, I bet I didn't even tell you. Did I tell you? [ jack just calm down and tell him first ] Met some cousin-kissing Kendry idiot at a bar, and the jackhole was so rich he didn't even understand bar courtesy. Thought I was trying to, I dunno, kill him or something because I covered his drink.

[blap]

[ Jack's professionalism is usually questionable, sure. He's flippant and rude and super into himself and occasionally Tim feels a little bit like he's being undressed with his eyes and that is really weird, but it's always been those little cracks in the mask that keep Tim believing that there's more to Jack than meets the eye. While Tim knows only the parts of their past that Jack's let him know, it's obvious that large pieces of it are rough, complicated. Painful, he imagines. And here's Jack, determined to shoulder his own burdens without anybody else's help, maintaining a carefully cultivated image that he only mostly succeeds at. If Tim hadn't been born with the material fortune of a bag of dirt he might've made a living as something that makes use of this brand of intuition: an actor, an author. He always kinda dreamed of being an actor.

Well, he's kinda living the dream. Every day he's acting as a guy who's acting as himself. Times like these, Tim wishes he was able to tell anyone who he is or what he does because not to toot his own horn but that was like, crazy deep just now.

As Jack begins to relax, Tim feels the tension he wasn't aware he was holding begin to drain out of his own body. He settles against the armrest with a smirk at Rhys's expense, absently turning a pill bottle in his fingers. ]

That our little buddy again? What's that kid's name, uhhh, Rhys?

[ Rhys is both taller and older than you are Tim but ok ]

...Wait, he wh—kissed his cousin? Hahah, gross.

[refactor]

[ He just has to keep talking, he thinks.

That's actually a pretty tried and true method for Jack, because that had unintentionally become something of a strategy for how to deal with, well, everything. But in this case? Talking is a distraction. It's something else for him to focus on instead of slipping into-- Something. He's not sure what, but his head is full of haze, and he knows that he's getting worse. He can hear it, very lightly, not quite a ringing, but a dull, low rumbling like a roar. He ignores it. Jack would rather talk about petty things, because acknowledging that— That'd make him crazy, right? And he's not crazy. ]

Yeah, Rhys. Rhys friggin' Kendry. Which, I mean, damn, of course he kisses his cousin? That's a stereotype about Qreshi, but hey, stereotypes get truth somewhere. He's the truth. Guess if you don't have to work for a damn thing, you'll get bored and fuck your cousin. I dunno.

[ That's kind of a leap from kissing your cousin to actually having sex with them, but. Just ignore Jack while he's rambling. That's true most of the time, but it's especially true when he's unlikely to remember a word he's saying, especially if he's getting foul, which is equally rare. ]

He's not bad for a Qreshi though, like, relatively speaking here. Can- Could look past the incest thing because whatever, mostly a joke, because, hey, at least he doesn't threaten to friggin' report me for touching him or whatever. I'll call that a "not bad."

[ Belatedly, something dawns on him, though. Jack pauses in his rambling, then asks: ]

Wait, "our"? Did I, uh, tell you about him before?

[ Even if he did, Jack probably isn't going to remember it all that well now. This is definitely not a way for me to cover my ass because I'm actually terrible at keeping track of who knows what and when. ]

[blap]

[ Conciliatory, careful to frame Jack's oversight as ancillary to his reply rather than, you know, a direct correction: ]

Yeah, Jack. I mean, also I got back from Leith like two hours ago.

[ sweats.

Yeah this internal consistency thing is a lot harder than it looks, thinks, um, Tim. Yeah, Tim. He's still feeling gunshy about his little slip-up during Harvest Week, no matter how small (they're never as small to Jack), but at least now he's got yesterday's visit under his belt. Between that and the, er, treatise on cousin-fucking, he's never really seen Jack like this before; worry flares sharply in his chest despite himself.

That's really gross about the cousin thing though. ]

Hah—o-okay yeah no, great, I'm gonna think of that every time I see his face from now on. Why. Are rich people. The worst.

[ After a beat: ]

Think the meds are helping?

[refactor]

Oh. Yeah, right- Right.

[ He at least doesn't get defensive over Tim pointing out his error, though that's largely to do with how Tim chooses to phrase it. There's a talent there that Tim will never be able to speak to, because learning how to deal with and diffuse Jack's volatile temper was an art in itself. But as he remembers why Tim had gone to Leith in the first place, Jack sighs with mild irritation. ]

Assuming he lived? Is living. Whatever. I don't care right now, considering if anyone's gonna get a cure, it's gonna be— [ His expression twists up in a frown as he cuts off his own thought, since it's an unpleasant one. The fact is, if there were a choice between who was more likely to receive something like that, it was going to go to Rhys. Even if Jack had a lifetime of service, and good service to the Company, he still wasn't as important as some low tiered as Rhys.

He lifts the icepack off of his head to look at Tim instead, though his face is— shifting? That's the best word to describe what he's seeing, because it's flickering between the face he knows—his old face—and one where he sees the scar. The scar almost looks like the lava he's feeling in his veins, red hot and still burning. ]

It's, uh— [ He pauses, almost uncertain, but then reaches up with a hand to massage at his temple like that'll get that picture out of his head. ] God, no. It's only been a friggin' minute. Relax, cupcake.

i'm back and i'm 29% less horrible

[blap]

[ Tim lets out a soft laugh at the reprimand and Jack's hazy scrutiny, uncomfortable. ]

Ah, yeah, y-yeah, of course.

[ He hesitates more than strictly necessary when Jack pauses his diatribe. He's not wrong; Rhys looked like crap back on Leith but it was obvious from the moment he walked in that he was sitting as pretty as could reasonably be expected, with a cure just around the corner. Probably literally. It was, y'know, a. Hospital. Anyway. Jack's never been wrong about it. So Rhys was born with a certain last name. That gave him a bigger right to live than the rest of them? Nothing about that feels right. No need to rub it in when Jack's the preacher to his choir in the first place.

There's a moment where Tim takes in Jack's perplexed squint and he wonders just what it is he's seeing. His face is ruddy and damp with fever, the icepack already significantly floppier than it was in the beginning. Frowning, Tim steels himself and reaches out with what he thinks (hopes) is an adequate amount of warning. ]

Hey, lemme check you for a second? Okay?

[ If neglecting to wait for Jack's assent before pressing the back of his hand to Jack's blazing cheek is a serious mistake, well. Let's just say that if these are his last words they're really unfortunate: ]

Wow, you're, uh. Really hot.

[refactor]

[ rip in pieces tim, cod: embarrassing last words ]

[ At the very least, even if Tim had waited a moment more, it's not like Jack could have anticipated what came with that motion. Jack doesn't move or try and shy away from the touch of Tim's hand, because for better or for worse, he did trust Tim. More than anyone else but maybe Angel, but in both of their cases, a large foundation of that was their tie to Jack. He trusted them because they needed him, and that gave him just enough security to allow them more than he might allow others. Like in this case, though he's wary because of his own self-consciousness, he lets Tim touch his face.

It's something he immediately, violently regrets.

The touch of his hand feels like an impact more than simply feeling his temperature, and all at once, every muscle in Jack's body seizes up. He reflexively pushes back and away from Tim's hand, and whether it's intentional or not, Tim is going to get a swift kick to the gut for all his efforts. Jack's hands come up to clutch his face, though with where they're centered, it's clearly his scar that's paining him. He spills off the couch and onto the floor with a hoarse, almost inhuman sound growl of pain, and in what he mutters, his voice is dangerous and on edge. ]

What- What the hell did you—

[ But he gasps, taking in a shaky breath as he pulls his hands away. His scar is burning. He can see the light of it, a bright, fiery orange, but it's not really there. But more than that, he sees- He can see everything. Those flashes of lava, of a monster, of power all meld together, and he understands what those feelings were. It's painful, and it feels like his head might just overflow and pop from all he suddenly just feels he understands, but there's also no understanding in it. He can watch a winged woman float high above him, the creature burst from the lava and descend upon them both, and then- A symbol. He knows the shape, and he feels the shape as if it were boring itself right into his bones.

Though probably most chilling is the fact that as Jack pulls his hands away, he laughs. Tim has probably seen this reaction before, because there's some threshold where Jack expresses pain as this laugh instead, manic and unhinged in every way, but the danger of that laugh isn't focused on Tim. It's looking up at the ceiling, far away, as if he's looking at something that isn't there.

A map. ]

Hah— Hahah, that's- The Warrior.

[ He breathes out the name with a shaky laugh, because he knows that creatures name, and in his feverish haze, he doesn't understand why he knows that. He doesn't understand what it means, but he doesn't feel he needs to. ]

That- You see? You see, right?