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Marriage isn’t for him. Rhys knew that for a very long time and tells as much to anyone who sees fit poking nose in his, frankly, very personal business. Yet time flies and Rhys, while still just as long-legged and good-looking, is getting older. Not, like, old older but old enough to have a few gray hairs and a thin webbing of wrinkles in the corner of his eyes when he smiles.
What Rhys needs is a guarantee. That if something were to happen to him, his precious Atlas would not go to the dogs- er, shareholders. He has seen Hyperion after Jack’s death and Rhys will not let his beloved company end up in the same ditch.
He worked - and still does!- too hard to see it gone.
Should it happen.
But it won’t.
Because he has a contingency plan, yes.
Rhys rotates a small hollow circular object between his thumb and index finger. Back and forth, forth and back. Right up until the door slides open and the plan in question walks in, making Rhys curl up his fingers hiding whatever is it that he is holding in his palm.
Timothy walks in and it is such a contrast from when it has happened the very first time and Rhys remembers it as if it had happened yesterday.
Back then Jack’s double was accompanied by the guards, side-eyed by every person they passed and Rhys was not an exception. Was hard to get past the exterior, battered and worn out as it was. Harder to see the person behind the mask, when the said mask had just about stopped haunting his dreaming hours.
But… Rhys was curious. But… He may have still had a case of… what they call it? Stockholm Syndrome. Whatever Stockholm was. A person who was Jack. Someone who knew Jack and could tell Rhys more.
That was his reasoning back then. Only a) Lawrence, the treasure trove of Jackformation wasn’t cooperating in the slightest and b) as they say, curiosity killed the cat.
Or, more like, curiosity made the cat keep coming back over and over again and eventually this whole thing? It became a thing.
They became a thing.
Ridiculous. Preposterous. But also? Nice. Not that he would say it out loud or anything.
“Timothy! Hiiii!” he beams at his chief of security, startling Lawrence and making him look around.“You’re being weird.” That’s the only response Rhys gets as Tim proceeds walking towards the desk. Lawrence is not a man of many words, that is Rhys’ area of expertise but his boyfriend is all about actions. And that’s why he is the chief of security. That and Tim can shoot a skag right between the eyes from a crazy long distance. Oddly specific, yes? But Rhys has witnessed that himself. Splattered skag brain now haunts his dreaming hours more often than Jack’s mask. So…. Improvement? Maybe?
“What’s up?”
“Well… what isn’t?” Being CEO of Atlas means something is always up and thank the gods for that because if nothing is? Business is bad. “How are you?”
"Fine.”
Rhys taps his chin with his cybernetic hand, thinking of how to crack that particular nut. Not much comes to mind so he pats the well polished wooden table he is sitting at.
“I have something for you and I think you’re going to like it.”
“Oh yeah? What is it? You better say ‘more vacation days’ and not ‘more reports’ because those you can shove places, sweetheart.” The nicknames come and go, Jack’s speech patterns too deeply ingrained to be weeded out in just a couple of years but he sees Tim getting better. Rhys watches his chief of security unceremoniously plop his ass onto the very expensive desk. Not that he minds, this desk has had bare asses squeaking on its polished surface more then once. In fact, the very first time he and Tim -
“No, but you keep sweet-talking me like that and I will make sure you get enough reports to last you a week or two,” Rhys replies in his most saccharine of tones even though both of them are aware this is nothing but friendly banter. “Give me your hand.”
Tim stretches out the one that now has Atlas’ brand prosthetic on it, Rhys’ own design and same paisley pattern he has adorning his own cybernetic. Tim has several spares he can use, especially since he can’t stop complaining about how gaudy this one is but Rhys never sees him wear any other. Lawrence truly is a sentimental sausage.
The metal clinks against metal, the object that falls out of his palm and onto Tim’s is too warm because Rhys belatedly realizes he is sweating. Profoundly.
And Timothy stays quiet for longer than Rhys expects or wants him to, mismatched eyes darting nervously to and from the sharp profile bent over the flat palm.
“A…. ring?”
“A ring.”
“Rhys.”
“ I thought, you know, who will be there to give me a glass of water when I am old and frail and stuff?”
“Well, definitely not me, since I am actually older than you.” Tim snorts in amusement but he moves the ring into his flesh hand and carefully curls his fingers around it.
“As a CEO I age at a faster pace. From all the stress, yes. So you're gonna be signing those deals for me and giving me glasses of water whether you want it or not.”
“How many glasses exactly?”
“As many as I ask you to, duh.”
Timothy sighs and rolls his eyes up to the imaginary heavens, eventually turning towards Rhys and fixing his mismatched gaze on that of his partner.
Green eye used to be his own, Rhys remembers Lawrence telling him. Jack took that away from Tim as well.
“ You are so tiresome. Always so darn pushy. Always have to make everything about yourself,” Lawrence reaches into the inner pocket of the uniform he is wearing and takes something out: a small velvet box in the company colors. “Would you have waited, this would have been a restaurant and not your office. We, well ok, I would be dressed much nicer. Might have even dropped on my knee and squeezed out a sentimental tear.” He carefully and almost gently prods the box with one finger towards Rhys. “Here.”
Rhys picks it up like it’s a grenade and examines the box, finally pressing the little lock and popping the lid open with a quiet whoosh. Thin band, titanium alloy by the looks of it and his beloved paisley pattern ingrained all over the surface.
“A… Ring?”
“A ring.”
It is Rhys’ turn to lift himself out of his chair, leaning over the desk and scooping a fistful of Tim’s shirt, pulling him close enough that their noses touch.
“Better not cancel that reservation then. Oh and Timmy,” his breath is mixing with that of Lawrence, lips almost touching and his curled up in a cheeky smirk. “And wear the suit. You know which one.”