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The night started with the gunshot, Elliot bleeding out under his hands, Tyrell’s head drifting away because this can’t be real this can’t be real. And then Irving was there, and Angela, and Tyrell was crying in front of them and Elliot was in surgery and Tyrell was shaking with fear and guilt and self-hatred. Morning found Tyrell still sitting by Elliot’s bedside, keeping vigil, pale and miserable. Somewhere around noon, Irving forced Tyrell to eat something - Tyrell can’t remember what. Angela was there - but she was in and out, keeping the plan moving, talking to the doctors, taking care of herself. Tyrell can’t do any of that. He is frozen.
The sun is setting again before Elliot starts to stir. Tyrell’s heart jumps in his chest, and he leans over, almost putting a hand on Elliot’s shoulder before he yanks back, afraid of hurting him.
Elliot’s big eyes flick open, and Tyrell sees amusement and a cold intelligence there.
“Elliot . . .” Tyrell breathes. He’s back. Elliot. The real Elliot.
Elliot smiles. “Hey, kiddo,” he says.
Tyrell reaches down, and grabs Elliot’s hand, clinging to it. “God, Elliot, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I - I thought - I thought you were going to die, and then I - I - ”
Elliot looks at him, and his other hand comes up to pat the back of Tyrell’s hand. “Calm down, kid. It’s gonna be okay. I lived, right?”
“I - I shot you,” Tyrell says, softly. He feels small and worthless and afraid, cringing away from himself and what he’s done.
Elliot meets Tyrell’s eyes. “You did what you had to do,” he said. “For the plan. For me.”
Tyrell swallows. “I,” he says. “I thought you told me to do it. You t-told me to stop anyone who got in the way of the plan, and I thought, I thought I understood then, what you wanted me to do. I was so certain, and I - ” He clings to Elliot’s hand. “Sometimes,” he whispers, “I feel so certain. Of people, of things, and then I turn out to be wrong, and I look back and I - I don’t understand myself.” He thinks Elliot must understand that. The way he was talking last night, like he was someone else, someone shocked and horrified by everything they’d been working on all these months. Elliot must understand. “So I need - I need to know, Elliot. Did you tell me to do it? Or did I - did I make it all up in my head?”
Elliot squeezes his hand, and meets his gaze, steady and warm. “I told you to do it,” he says.
Tyrell squeezes his eyes shut, and he’s so grateful he could kiss Elliot right now, except he knows he isn’t allowed, knows Elliot won’t let him. There are tears rolling down his face. “Thank you, Elliot,” he whispers. “Thank you, thank you, thank you - ”
Elliot’s hand squeezes his one more time, and then lets go, reaching out to cup Tyrell’s jaw. Tyrell’s eyes flick open, and he’s looking back at Elliot through wet lashes.
“You did good, kiddo,” Elliot says, softly. “Now come here and give us a hug. I think we both deserve it, after everything we’ve been through, don’t we?”
Tyrell chokes back a sob, because right now he doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but he wants it so badly, wants the comfort of Elliot’s arms. And Elliot says he deserves it, so it must be true. It must be true. He slips out of his chair and sinks to his knees, leaning over Elliot’s bed to envelop the smaller man in his arms, awkward and earnest and needing, and he is crying into Elliot’s shoulder.
One of Elliot’s arms comes up to wrap around Tyrell’s back, his hand cupping the back of Tyrell’s neck. “There, there,” Elliot says, gently. “No matter what happens next, it’s gonna be okay. Because you and me, we’re the same kind of crazy. That’s all we need.”
Tyrell closes his eyes. Peace floods his mind and body. Elliot’s fingers toy with Tyrell’s hair, and in this moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of them, here together. “After I killed Sharon Knowles,” he says, very quietly. “I felt . . . elated. Alive. And I realized . . . I wasn’t sorry. There was no . . . guilt. No remorse. I wondered if I would feel like that after I shot you. Like it was nothing. But it wasn’t like that. It was like the world was ending, because . . . if I’d killed you . . . I couldn’t have lived with myself.” He pulls back a bit, his arms resting on Elliot’s chest. He stares into Elliot’s big, grey eyes, and he wants to believe he sees a kindred spirit looking back. “The night of the hack,” he whispers. “You called me a psychopath. I’m not. I’m not. I - ”
Elliot presses one finger up against Tyrell’s lips. “Sshhh,” Elliot says. “Take it easy, okay, Wellick.”
Tyrell breathes in. He’s so close to Elliot. He hasn’t felt this at peace since the day Joanna cast him out of her life. “I was afraid,” Tyrell says. “So afraid, that you’d hate me for this. That I ruined it all.”
Elliot’s eyes study his, and his hand drops down to cover Tyrell’s. “I wanted you here,” he says, softly. “Not Irving, not Angela, not anyone else. Because I know you’re loyal to me. Because I know I can trust you.” He squeezes Tyrell’s hand. “So, no. I don’t think you’re a psychopath, okay. You might be a fucking lunatic, Wellick, but so am I. Maybe a little crazy is just what the world needs.”
Tyrell’s lips twitch, and then he’s smiling, a desperate, unhinged smile of relief. “Thank you, Elliot,” he whispers. “I will always be loyal to you. Always.”
Elliot pats Tyrell’s hand. “That’s all I need,” he says.
Tyrell lays his head down on Elliot’s chest and listens to his heartbeat. After a moment, Elliot’s hand comes to rest in Tyrell’s hair again, and Tyrell closes his eyes.
All is well.