You're Nothing Without Me

“And when the world burns, I’ll be there… warming my hands by the fire.” 

Tim spoke in a dreamy sigh, dramatically draping himself upon the silk couch like a Victorian maiden.

Henry's face was stone, denying the other any satisfaction by refusing to react. In his hand, the weight heavy and familiar, was a Beaumont–Adams revolver, its muzzle trained unwaveringly at Tim's head.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. 

“Can’t you just imagine it, Hen?” Tim tilted his head, offering Henry a sly, knowing smile. He didn't even glance at the gun, either not noticing – unlikely, considering how obvious it was – or not caring.  Wild, strawberry blond locks tumbled over the emerald upholstery, his carelessly fastened suit jacket parting to reveal swathes of his smooth sun-kissed skin.

As always, the shorter man had missed the mark with his outfit completely. For starters, the style harked back two decades, a sartorial faux pas for someone masquerading as nobility. And then there was the pale blue satin vest, clearly repurposed from a woman’s gown. Knowing Tim, it was probably intentional.

Yet, in his ill-fitting and anachronistic attire, a strange sort of charm undeniably radiated from him.  The same kind of charm as finding a rare vintage in a cellar packed full of new wine. It was the allure of the unconventional, the magnetic pull of the peculiar that drew people to him.

To put it simply, he looked like an angel. Strange and almost inhuman, but in an awe-inspiring, breathtaking way. 

Too bad this wasn’t heaven. 

Henry’s calloused finger lingered on the safety. Just one shot and this would all be over.  A mere flex of his finger, and there would be no more hunting. No more running. He could go home.  

“Of course, I’d have to keep my distance,” Tim mused, looking down at his timepiece. On his thin wrist sat a golden wristwatch, glaringly out of place considering where they were. Or, as the ginger loved to quip, when they were. “My hands will be covered in gasoline, no doubt…”

I can do this. I can do this.

Henry’s arm was steady. He could do this. Just squeeze, that’s it. 

Tim stretched like a cat, arms over his head. “But, then again, what good is a star that doesn’t burn?”

“Shut up,” Henry hissed. The familiar weight of the gun in his hand started to feel strangely foreign. He could do this, right? Yeah. He could do this. “For once in your godforsaken life, would you shut up?!”

Tim’s grin only sharpened, and he rose from his seat, fluid and precise. It was almost otherworldly how he moved…. with the smooth glide and dangerous intent of a serpent.

Henry’s voice was a low growl, a sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul rather than his throat. “Stop.”

To his credit, Tim listened, pausing. The cold muzzle was now inches from his forehead. They were separated only by the length of Henry's outstretched arm. 

“You think this is a game, don’t you?” Henry said, his eyes narrowing into slits. Of course he did. He always had.

Tim just shrugged, pulling a Jolly Rancher out of his pocket and unwrapping it. “Isn’t everything?”

Henry's eye twitched. He couldn't believe that he had ever… What had he seen in this man?? All those years ago?

“This is life.” Even as the words tumbled from Henry’s mouth, aghast, he knew they would just go in one ear and out the other. “There are no do overs, no second chances. People die.”

“Life’s a game, babe,” Tim continued, his voice a melody of mischief and nonchalance. “And I’m just playing my part.” He popped the candy into his mouth, the click of it against his teeth echoed by the flick of the gun's safety. Still, Tim went on like it wasn't there. Instead, he dug around in his pocket, offering: “Candy?”

Henry sucked in a breath. “You think you can charm your way out of this?” he spat, the bitterness of years of betrayal coating his words like venom.

Tim's eyes danced with unspoken laughter, the Jolly Rancher clicking against his teeth. “Charm? No,” he said, his voice low and smooth as silk. “But I do believe in making every moment… flavorful.” He extended the candy towards Henry, as if offering a truce.

Henry’s gut reaction was to slap it out of his hand. But, no, that wouldn't do. It could get lost… forgotten… Some poor maid would stumble across it, setting off the butteffect, and before you know it, history’s rewritten and the Nazi’s won World War II. 

Instead, he snatched it away with his free hand, shoving it in his jacket pocket. Unlike his rival, Henry was actually dressed appropriately for the time. 

“Smart.” Tim nodded. “I probably poisoned it.”

Henry’s grip on the gun tightened, the revolver’s cold steel a stark contrast to the warmth of Tim's gaze. “Do you really want your last words to be sarcastic?”

It was the perfect time, and the perfect place. Nobody would be back here for another day or so. He’d have just enough time to clean up, to get rid of the body, and to…. and….

“Nahhhh. I’m good. Thanks.” And with that, Tim plopped back on the couch, kicking up his feet on the coffee table, and pulling out a rolled up copy of Highlights Magazine from his jacket.

For a moment, a palpable silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. “Tim.”

“Shh…” Tim pulled out a glitter pen from seemingly nowhere, clicking it. “I’m trying to find all ten differences.”

Henry's patience snapped. He lunged forward, seizing Tim by the shirt collar and yanking him off the couch with a force that sent the magazine flying. Tim's feet barely touched the ground before Henry slammed him against the wall, the impact echoing through the room. “This isn’t a fucking game!!”

Tim's eyes went wide for a second, only a second, before that stupid, slappable, smug look returned. “If you were going to shoot me, you’d have done it already.” He feigned a theatrical yawn, stretching and waving at his mouth. “Besides, you’re taking so long tha–”

With a swift, brutal motion, Henry jerked Tim around, shoving him face first against the wall and cutting him off mid-sentence. Tim tensed, and for a second Henry futility hoped that finally, finally the situation at hand was getting through Tim’s thick skull. But then the other turned, his cheek pressed into the wall, looking over his shoulder at the taller man with that stupid smirk. 

Dramatically rolling his eyes – and his shoulders with them – Tim condescendly stated:  “You won’t.”

“I will.”

“We both know you’re not gonna do it,” Tim grinned, leaning his head back so it was pressed against the muzzle, as if he were daring him. “You’re obsessed with me.”

And, oh, was Henry tempted. He was tempted all right. 

Henry’s right eye twitched. “No, Tim, you’re obsessed with me. This whole charade, all these games—it’s all you.” 

Tim's eyes gleamed with a twisted kind of amusement. He pulled back slightly, the end of the barrel getting lost between strands of messy strawberry blond hair. “Do it then. Be the hero. End this.”

Henry's voice trembled, his resolve wavering. “Shut up.”

“Do it!” Tim taunted, his voice a mix of challenge and mockery. “Pull the trigger! Be the hero you always wanted to be!”

“This isn't about being a hero!!” Henry shouted, pressing the gun harder against the back of Tim’s head. “This is about you needing to be stopped!” 

Tim's laughter was muffled by his face being pressed once again against the wall, but unmistakable. “Stopped from what? Making you face your own obsession? Admit it, Henry. You need me. You need this.” 

Henry’s heart slammed against his chest, his blood rushing through his ears. “You think this is some kind of game? That I’m doing this for fun?”

Why was he even asking at this point? Why was he stalling? Why was he still holding on??

Tim's eyes were wild, defiant. “I think you’re scared. Scared to admit you’re just like me. Or scared to admit you have a cruuuuush.” He said the last part in a sing-song voice. “Do it, Hen. Pull the trigger. Prove me wrong.”

“Do you want to die, Tim?” Henry growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Is that it? Do you have a death wish?” 

Tim's laugh was a harsh, mocking sound. “No, Henry, I want you to admit you can’t do it. You can’t kill me because you’re obsessed with me. You need me around to justify your own existence.”

Henry's grip tightened, his knuckles white against the dark metal of the revolver. The truth in Tim's words, the unsettling accuracy, gnawed at his core. He couldn't deny it, not fully. But admitting it, acknowledging it, felt like defeat. 

Tim used the momentary distraction to turn, but remained firmly with his back against the wall. Some of the insanity hidden under his easy charm was leaking through his eyes. 

“You’re wrong,” Henry whispered, the words hollow even to his own ears. 

“Am I?” Tim replied, his voice softening, almost gentle. It was a tone that Henry hadn’t heard in years. “You’ve chased me across time, Henry. Across centuries. And for what? To kill me? To stop me? Or because, deep down, you can’t bear the thought of a world without me?” 

“Shut up,” Henry said again, but the conviction was gone, replaced by a tremor of uncertainty. 

Tim took advantage of the hesitation, leaning forward so that the gun barrel pressed painfully against his forehead, yet he seemed unfazed. “You need me, Henry. You need this chase, this battle. Without me, you’re nothing but a lost soldier in a war that ended long ago.” 

Henry’s vision blurred, a mix of anger and tears clouding his sight. 

He had never wanted this. The endless pursuit, the constant strife, it had consumed him, defined him. And Tim was at the heart of it all.

"You're wrong," Henry insisted, though his voice lacked conviction. "I'm not like you. I don't need you." 

Tim's smile widened, a knowing glint in his eyes. "If that were true, you'd have pulled the trigger by now."

Tim's eyes, once mocking, now bore into Henry's with an intensity that cut through the façade of nonchalance. “Admit it,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “Admit that you can’t live without me.”

Henry swallowed a lump in his throat. “I…” It wasn’t true. It wasn't. “What, you expect me to just let you go? Let you continue fucking up the timeline until reality itself collapses in on itself???”

Tim tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I mean, if it’s worked this far…”

Now it was Henry's time to laugh, but it was dry and humorless. “Why would I ever do that?”

Tim tilted his head, smiling up at him flirtatiously through his eyelashes. “Because I’m cute?”

“You’re impossible,” Henry muttered, the words barely audible even to himself. 

Tim's smile softened, a rare vulnerability creeping into his expression. “Maybe,” he conceded, his voice barely a whisper. “But you love it.” 

The admission hung heavy in the air, a truth too bitter to swallow, too sweet to deny. Henry closed his eyes, the weight of the revolver suddenly unbearable in his hand. 

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t pull the trigger.

There was a brush of Tims's soft lips against his jaw, the most tender the other had ever been…. And in that moment of vulnerability, Henry's resolve shattered completely. The gun slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor.

And in that instant, Tim pulled back… and threw all his weight into the other as he shoved him. 

Henry's heart lurched painfully in his chest as he stumbled, his feet scrambling for traction on the smooth floorboards. His arms windmilled wildly in a futile attempt to regain his balance, but it was too late. 

With a sickening crack, Henry's back collided with the window behind him, the impact shattering the glass into a thousand glittering shards. A chorus of sharp, slicing sounds filled the air as the fragments rained down around him, catching the light in a dazzling display of chaos. 

For a fleeting moment, Henry hung suspended in midair, his body bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. Then gravity took hold with a merciless grip, dragging him backwards through the jagged opening and towards the busy victorian streets below.

The impact with the stagecoach below was sudden and brutal, sending Henry hurtling through the air like a ragdoll. Then, with a sickening thud, he collided with the hard cobblestone street below.

The force of the impact knocked the wind out of him, leaving him gasping for breath as pain radiated through every fiber of his being. His vision swam.

As he struggled to regain his bearings, a crowd began to gather around him, their faces a mixture of concern and curiosity.

“Are you alright, sir?” a voice called out from the crowd, its tone laced with genuine concern.

Henry tried to respond, but all that emerged was a hoarse croak. He felt weak and dizzy, his head spinning as he struggled to focus on the faces around him.

“Someone fetch a doctor!” another voice shouted, cutting through the noise of the crowd.

Hands reached out to help him, gentle and reassuring as they lifted him to his feet. But even as they tried to steady him, Henry could feel his strength ebbing away, his vision growing dimmer with each passing moment.

And then, with a final, shuddering breath, he collapsed into darkness, the world fading away around him as unconsciousness claimed him at last.

Tim watched in silence as Henry disappeared through the shattered window, his expression unreadable. Then, silently, he spat out the half-eaten Jolly Rancher in a nearby garbage bin.

God, he hated cherry.