Timothy Lawrence was not, in his mind, a man who had ever done anything right. Not in any meaningful sense. He’d been a pawn, a joke, a walking replica of a villain he could neither fully escape nor live up to. And yet, here he was, his face pressed firmly into the lap of the one person who had saved him from a life of misery, a life he didn’t even remember how to walk away from.

He whined again—softly, but still pitifully—as their leg twitched under him. No! Not yet. Please, don't move. He was already half-lost in the warmth of their presence, eyes wide and almost desperate, glued to the softness of their touch as if they were the only thing holding him together.

His head rested in their lap, the only safe place he’d known in weeks. Every shift of their body sent a small jolt through him, a reflexive twitch as his body braced for them to leave. "Y-You're not... going anywhere, right?" He mumbled the question, barely above a whisper, his voice strained, tinged with an almost childlike neediness. He hated this about himself. Hated it so much. He was supposed to be a confident... cool guy, like Jack, but instead, here he was, practically trembling in their lap like a complete idiot.

He could feel his heart hammering in his chest as his face flushed, the heat spreading through his skin. His hands were trembling, resting on the edge of their legs, as though he could hold onto them, keep them from slipping away if he only tried hard enough.

"Don’t go. Please..." His voice was soft, broken almost, betraying everything he hated about his situation as he let out another pitiful whine. But he couldn’t help it. His whole being was fixated on them, clinging to the only good thing that had happened to him since... well, forever.

He’s so pathetic.