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How peacefully the sun falls upon his face; Like the warm hand of a lover.
It brushes along his cheek, his jaw, bouncing over his eyelids. The blankets pool around him, only half covering his body.
Everything is gentle, calm.
Except his heart, his head; Those are full of a darkness much like the void.
Timothy wishes he could be in bed forever.
Surrounded by silence, feeling warm but not too hot. His head's all fuzzy, groggy.
He wishes that was always the case; Wishes he wouldn't have to start remembering and thinking.
But wishes like his don't come true.
He tries so hard to enjoy the quiet. It's too late. He's awake now, his mind is clearing.
For once, he'd like a morning to start off on the right foot. Just once-- That's all he's asking. Fate can't let him have one thing, can it?
Out of bed, ache deep in his bones, out of bed. One, two- Two tries before he successfully gets up.
Maybe it's a product of all the surgeries, maybe it's genetics. Doesn't matter, the pain doesn't go away.
You don't matter. The voice in his head both belongs and doesn't belong to him. Jack's voice.
His knees pop, crack, and he can feel the bones grating.
As he brushes his teeth, he deliberately looks into the sink. Mirrors are a curse.
Why does he get up anymore? He pretends to have some semblance of normal, tries to get into a routine.
But it's been-- He can't remember how long. He knows when his contract ends, everything else is a blur.
Time isn't something he has a firm grasp on. He's sure that calendar is months behind.
He hasn't flipped the page on it in over a year.
A quick glance at the mirror after he realizes he's been idly standing in front of his sink. God knows how long he's been there.
Things from the surgeries are starting to fade. A few orange streaks in his hair, splotches of freckles.
Still Jack. Cheeks, jaw, nose. Eyes. The eyes are what make him most afraid.
Cold.
Dead.
The dark bags collecting under those familiar, haunting eyes, it's not enough to relax him.
Even the burned, terrible scar across his face doesn't hurt as much as the eyes do.
Whatever- Whatever.
It takes forcibly closing his eyes to tear him away from his reflection.
He wants to be back in bed. The sun's hands on his cheeks.
Bitterly, he thinks that that's the closest he's had to genuine human contact in a long time.
Part of that's on him- He doesn't trust anyone to get that close. To touch him, shield the embers in his cold heart.
Timothy draws the blinds shut.
Head in his hands, on the edge of his bed.
I thought you were worthless, but, jeez kid, this is just pathetic.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
There's nothing in his head but his own thoughts. The internal projections of his former boss.
One deep breath, another; Two, three, four.
A nightlight is the only source of light in his room. He doesn't remember closing the blinds, but he's positive he did it.
The light is soft, white; It's shaped like Elpis. Supposedly. He's sure it could pass for any moon.
Probably not the best idea to keep it around.
He's had it since before all this started.
So it stays?
His fingers run over the ridges, the craters. He knows the faint humming coming from the globe is just to indicate that it's plugged in, turned on.
He likes to pretend it's purring, like a cat. The cat he used to have.
He draws his hands back to his lap.
Should he eat? Go outside? What's the point?
Better than sitting here like a loser.
It isn't.
The Pandoran sun is hot; The bandit mask feels hotter.
He lives in what looks to be the middle of nowhere. Feels like it, too.
Admittedly, only a day or two away from the remains of Helios.
Can't go too far away from me, kid.
Timothy's breath feels more like a shudder when it comes out.
Fuck! Fuck this! Fuck everything!
He wants to scream at the world, cry, he wants to just.. Lose himself.
Funnily enough, his own voice is a preventative. Instead he kicks some rocks, silent tears welling up.
When he gets back home, he barely has anything to show for his time outside. A poor excuse for a scavenger.
Rakk meat, bullet shells, he can't remember what else. He'll find it in his pockets later on, surely.
The little abandoned shack he calls home looks dismal.
Thieves cant for looted, a door rusting off the hinges, dirty glass panes.
Yep. Home sweet home.
Lights on, blinds open, he tries to cook up the bits of rakk.
Gamey, stringy, he's eaten so much of this stuff it lacks any sort of flavor.
Pinch of salt, pepper, some spice mix; The label's so worn he doesn't know what's in it.
He's on autopilot until he's back in bed. He thinks he just laid down, but he can't be sure.
Hair is damp, he can feel it. When did he shower?
Under the blankets, sprawled out. His ceiling is grey.
How fitting.
Tossing and turning well into the night; Chest tight.
Pain is all-consuming. Pins and needles, broken glass, hot coals.
Why do his knees hurt so much?
Hasn't he just laid here all day?
No, he must've gone for a walk. Right?
Hands to his head, pushing back a mix of dark and light locks. Is there even a point to remembering?
Pathetic.
His mind hurts as much as his body. Timothy can't focus on anything positive.
A fatal flaw of his, an Achilles heel; Losing sight of his goals.
Hard to keep an eye on your own future when you've just ended someone else's.
Blood, tears, blood, tears, bl--
Shut up, shut up.
Fragments of his old voice live there, they offer him a bit of solace.
He curls up with the blankets pulled to his chin.
Part of him would like it if sleep never came. Or, if it did grace him, he wishes it would give him a pleasant dream. For once.
Just this one time? He'd do anything for it. He's not that lucky.
Of course not. Timothy and luck don't really go together.
When he wakes- The sun is on his face.
Warm, gentle, like the hand of a lover.
How long has he woken up with that thought?
How long has he been trying to shake his demons off with a little sunlight?
Everything is too much, too fuzzy.
The cycle begins again.