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Case files spread out across the dining room table. Darkness creeping into every corner, warm lamplight barely cutting through. Weary heads and silence hanging over crime scene diagrams and scrawled-out notes and coffee gone cold.
It's how most of Tyrell's visits to the Edgeworth household go — always late in the night, after Miles is asleep and the world is quiet, where they have room to discuss away from prying eyes or ears. Light conversation about murder.
He wishes they could have met under better circumstances, but he's made a lot of wishes that haven't come true.
Gregory reads a police report, finger tracing a path along the words before he stops, squints at it, and starts again from the top. He's read the same paragraph five times over. Tyrell had given up on anything with words a while ago, sorting through photos until those starts to blur, too; a mess of blood and chalk and sugar surrealism on glossy paper.
So, for a long moment, he lets himself give in entirely, just resting his head on his hand and watching Gregory. It's the one bright side in this dark situation, the little spark of light in his life. He doesn't know where he'd be without that man. To be able to spend so much time with him, to see his brilliant mind at work and to hopefully bring about justice by his side, is something Tyrell considers a blessing.
But blessings are always two-sided coins in his life, and justice in the courtroom is messy at best.
There's a deep, deep ache in his heart seeing how Gregory is worn so thin, how the shadows that pool under his eyes and mark the edges of his frown persist past the night, exhaustion becoming a permanent fixture of his face. Both of them are beyond tired. Tired of looking at the same pieces of evidence for months on end, of searching for solutions that never appear, of fighting against a system that should be fighting for them.
It's been hours since either of them have had a coherent thought. Months since they've made any substantial progress or felt any real hope for this dead-to-rights case.
Gregory puts his papers down in a huff, his hands drop limply to the table and his shoulders slump. "It's too late for this," he says with a sad smile, then glances at the clock. 12:37 AM. His face falls. "Or too early."
It's not the first time Tyrell has stayed this late, but this feels different. Like the night has stretched on too long. He wouldn't have been surprised if he had turned around and seen dawn streaming through the curtains — or if day never broke at all; he couldn't blame the sun for not wanting to come up again.
"You look... like you need some rest," Tyrell suggests, but his words sound empty, helpless, starkly obvious.
Gregory's expression turns bittersweet. His eyes are dull and hazy, drained of color by the darkness. "I could say the same about you."
They both linger in the silence for a minute, knowing that any admission of concern would just seem hypocritical. Tyrell sits with that double-edged feeling, inspects it thoroughly like a witness testimony: two people in the same deep, dark pit, both caring more about the other than themselves. Tyrell wonders if Gregory had seen this murky side of the law before. He certainly didn't hesitate to throw himself into it.
Gregory begins to sort through the documents on his side, scooping up polaroids and paperwork and annotated notes, placing them into stacks and tucking them away into manila folders. Tyrell hesitates. A swirling, nauseous feelings sits cold in the bottom of his stomach. He keeps his eyes on Gregory, not wanting to be buried beneath the mountain of murder evidence again, but the pictures of the scene and the victim mock him from the edges of his vision.
Gregory is so selfless. Tyrell used to be like that, when he was still a fresh-faced officer. It doesn't seem that long ago, but the job finds your weak spots and whittles you down quick, throws you right into the depths of the fire until you either burn out or toughen up. He finds it hard to keep caring. In times like these, it feels thankless, always ends in heartbreak.
"I..." he begins, but when Gregory meets his gaze, he forgets how to speak or what he was trying to say. "It's just..."
Maybe his dread is written on his face, because Gregory sympathetically puts a hand over Tyrell's — his fingers are soft and cold, small compared to Tyrell's — and with the other begins to wrangle the mess on the other side of the table. "Hard to look at?"
Tyrell doesn't want to seem ungrateful, but he's frozen. For a moment, he feels hyperaware of a little papercut on his ring finger and the sound of documents being shuffled around. He watches, motionless. "Hard to convince myself that I'll actually make a difference, against... everything."
Gregory pauses, in thought, then turns his attention back to Tyrell. "I get that. Just remember that you're never alone, okay? The truth is out there, and there's always people who will fight for it. I'm always with you."
That's something he could never forget. He often feels guilty that a man as good as Gregory got dragged into this, and has found himself wishing that it could be his burden to bear alone. But that weight would be enough to crush him without Gregory as his partner, and besides, who else would fight for the innocent as valiantly, with such conviction? Anyone else would have given in by now. He would have, if he were alone. But he wouldn't be here, with Gregory, if it weren't for the case.
It's an awful, perfect storm.
"There's no one I'd rather have by my side," he says, utterly true even if it isn't the full truth. When they're together, things don't feel as hopeless, the world less harsh and lonely.
Gregory responds with a warm, tender look, and gives his hand a little reassuring squeeze before withdrawing. Holding tight onto that scrap of comfort, Tyrell spurs himself into action, cleaning up the last of the files on the table. He shuts the final one with a bit too much force and sighs once it's all out of view. Out of sight and out of mind, as much as it can be.
It's only them. No murders, no courts, no case. Just him and Gregory, sitting at the Edgeworth's dining table at a quarter to one in the morning. Two cups and some meaningless stacks of paper between them. The sleepy quiet of the night. Nothing else.
They sit in still silence for a minute and let the rest of the world disappear. Piece by piece, falling away. A surreal image comes to Tyrell's mind unprompted: a tempest sweeping through the room, with white sheets pulled away on the wind like a flurry of feathers. Fog clouding out the rest of the world, rain rinsing them clean and leaving behind nothing but the fresh scent of ozone and a pleasant chill. The comforting rumble of distant thunder. The blood washed away.
He can't erase it all from his memory, he's never been able to do that, but he lets it fade until it's far, far away, fuzzy in the back of his mind. Like something for yesterday or tomorrow; another time, another place. It doesn't belong here, tonight, in good company. The weight on his shoulders feels lighter. A little bit of relief. It feels like being on the cusp of a dream, but not quite ready to give in.
Gregory reaches out to his mug, taking a deep breath and a deep sip. He then grimaces and shakes his head when he gets a taste of too-sweet coffee rather than his usual herbal tea. "Oh, that one's definitely yours."
Tyrell laughs, despite himself. His own ears almost can't believe the unfamiliar sound. "Hah, we're all mixed-up tonight... I think I'm getting a little delirious."
"As am I — if you can't already tell." Gregory's sweet, genuine smile chases away the last of the lingering sorrow. His eyes seem brighter, albeit drowsily half-lidded, and it makes Tyrell feel the same bleary contentedness. "Say, you should stay the night. I don't want you driving home like this."
That catches Tyrell off guard. It makes him feel embarrassed, for some reason, like the mere act of sleeping over is something new and intimate. But the idea of spending another night on his own with whatever horrors his terrible mind can unearth fills him with dread. Here, with the soft lights and the cute family photos on the wall, he's more at home than he ever was in his dingy apartment. His coat is hung up on the back of his chair, Gregory has on a ratty sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, both unusually bare, almost domestic. He feels vulnerable yet safe, two emotions he thought would always be diametrically opposed.
"Thank you... I would appreciate that," Tyrell replies, nearly stumbling over the words.
Gregory nods, nonchalant. "The couch pulls out to be a bed. It's very comfortable, Miles and I often fall asleep there watching movies. I'll get it set up for you." He rises from the table and sets off into the hall.
Tyrell, still a little flustered, busies himself with cleaning up their dishes. He takes the mugs to the sink to dump out the last lukewarm dregs and can feel all his dark, scattered thoughts washing down the drain, making room for something new. He focuses on the warm water running through his fingers. He tries not to wonder if Gregory ever drinks coffee, or if it's just for guests. Or just for him. They met at a café once, and Tyrell ordered coffee; Gregory, with his tea, had joked about Tyrell's drink being mostly cream and sugar. Did he remember that?
Tyrell dries his hands and glances at the drawings hung on the fridge. He finds himself smiling. He imagines waking up with Gregory and Miles in the morning; he even lets himself imagine, as his mind briefly wanders, fitting himself into their routines. Becoming a part of something. He shakes his head and chases away that impulsive illusion. He quickly reassures himself that there's no meaning to it, that his daydreams being as senseless as his night-dreams clearly just means that it's time for bed, nothing more.
Soon, the futon is set up with a few pillows and a blanket. To Tyrell's weary mind and body, it looks impossibly inviting — the combination of caffeine and sugar must be wearing off. He collapses into it, exhausted and thankful, before Gregory can finish saying, "It's all yours."
It's very comfy, although he's not sure he would even notice if it wasn't. The lights are turned down low. They bathe the room in a warm glow, just bright enough to keep the surroundings in silhouette, a gentle kind of darkness that doesn't feel uneasy. It almost lulls him to sleep the second his head hits the pillow.
With a gentle touch, Gregory leans down and tucks the blanket over Tyrell, who had forgotten about it in his sleepy haze.
"Goodnight," Gregory says in a dulcet, cotton-soft voice like a lullaby, still lingering close, with one hand resting on Tyrell's shoulder before moving up to cup his cheek. It's like their touch from earlier, but amplified; smooth, slightly cold fingertips against a flushed warm, stubbly jaw. A thumb runs across his cheekbone. There's a fond look in Gregory's eyes, muddled by sleep but still clear as day.
Tyrell's breath catches in his chest. A shiver runs through him.
Gregory jumps back a little, looking like he had been shaken out of a dream, suddenly more awake.
"I, ah, must be tired, huh?" He laughs, breathless and embarrassed. He looks to the side, staring at the blank wall, fidgeting. A rosy blush and a nervous smile spread across his face. "I don't know why I did that. I must have gotten mixed up with Miles' routine, I — ha, I was about to give you a kiss goodnight."
Without thinking, Tyrell reaches up and takes him by the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him in, gentle but urgent. Gregory lands on the bed, propped up on his elbows, wide-eyed as their faces are little more than an inch apart. The flush of his cheeks has spread to his ears. In a fraction of a second, a look is shared between them — an understanding.
Gregory closes the distance and presses his lips to Tyrell's with a sigh of relief, his nervousness melting away. One hand tangles in Tyrell's hair, the other barely holding himself up.
There's no logic to it in the moment. It was too late for rational reasoning, too sudden for doubt. His heart moved before his mind could catch up. Tyrell only knew that he couldn't let Gregory leave, even if it was only a step away, or to the other room. Kissing him feels right, like something perfectly clicking into place, like the cracks in his foundations being filled in.
When they part, they stay close, letting their breaths mingle in the silence. Their eyes meet, and his feelings are mirrored back to him in Gregory's gaze. A look that's warm and sweet and languid. Weary in a way that sleeping in someone's arms could fix.
So Tyrell isn't really surprised when Gregory crawls into bed with him.
"It's too far to my room. I don't know if I'd make it in this state," Gregory says in a hushed tone, doing an awful job of hiding a smile.
Tyrell kisses his forehead and pulls the blanket over his shoulders. "Guess you'll have to stay with me, then..."
Gregory holds him close, his nose pressed into the curve of Tyrell's neck. "I didn't even mean to do that, but I'm glad I did. I couldn't stand being alone tonight. I needed you."
"Me too," he murmurs into Gregory's hair. He can't quite work up the nerve to say I love you, stomach fluttering at the mere thought of the phrase, so he settles for, "I'm so glad you're here."
One arm is wrapped around Gregory, tightly but not tense, like he never, ever wants to let him go. Tyrell feels him inhale slow and deep; back rising then falling, a puff of air against his collar. It continues in a lax rhythm.
"I think this was meant to be," Gregory whispers in a soft breath.
It feels easy. No regret, no decisions to make, nothing to fight against. He falls into it without resistance, as easy as breathing. As easy as falling asleep.
Tyrell usually has nightmares. He can't remember the last time he had a good dream, when he wasn't haunted by the darkness of the day. It always had a way of finding him, and as the years went on, he accepted it as inevitable. But tonight, he has a feeling they won't reach him here — hidden under the covers, with Gregory by his side.