Welp, I’m done. Finished episode 2 and Tyrell said, “I want you to be where you belong: here with me,” which is legitimately a thing that happened, when the sentence ending in ‘at this company’ would’ve made 1000% more sense, and then looked like THE SADDEST, KICKED-EST PUPPY EVER when Elliot turned him down. There was somber orchestral accompaniment to the moment, okay. I am exaggerating, by the way, NONE of that. So this had to happen, obvs:
AU, where Elliot accepts the position and Ty doesn’t have to make his horrible sad puppy face.
“You did good today, Elliot.”
No. I’m not Superman; I did well. Actually, I did what a moderate-level hacker on an off-day with a temperature of a hundred and three could do. “Okay.”
“While looking sharp.” He smirk-smiles down at my wrinkled shirt.
He won’t let me wear my hoodie either; I’ll be damned if he forces me into an ironing board though. He’s still displaying that unsettling expression like it’s his entry in the talent portion of today’s event. I couldn’t come up with anything for mine. Unless I count, ‘hardly abusing morphine.’ I should.
I can’t tell if the baby-faced good looks are hiding malice or narcissism. I’m not sure which would be worse, truth be told. At least I know it’s not insipidness, like I’d first suspected upon meeting him. That one would’ve been unforgivable. “Okay.”
“You don’t say much, do you? But I’m betting you always get your point across, don’t you.”
That one isn’t a question. I don’t have to answer it.
“What did you think of the company?”
His accent’s more pronounced now, sharper, stranger as he puts extra emphasis on compound syllables. He’s watching me, waiting for an answer, and his eyes are that dark side of invested in it.
I think it epitomizes the moral decay of our fucked up society, I think it’s goliath, greedy, the root of all–“Yeah. Fine.”
“I was surprised you accepted, because I am sure now. You don’t care about the money.”
I don’t think he does, either. Not in the same sense as his underlings, peers and superiors anyway. Money is only important insofar as its correlation to power. That’s what he wants and I’m not sure there’s any more thought process behind it than that he wants it. “It’s the, uh, security.”
Or more it’s that Mr. Robot thought I could be more useful inside the belly of the beast rather than being part of the parasite living off it.
“I see. It’s a fear of change that made you undergo it.” He sounds amused; I don’t know what to make of that. I realize now he’s been leading me from my office to his own; has he made me as a spy that quickly?
He closes the door behind us, uncuffs one of his sleeves. “It looks good for me, that you came here.”
I assume that’s a lot to do with why he looked so elated about it when I said yes.
He stands in front of his wall of windows; the view is probably something to be proud of in his mind. In mine, it just reminds me of exactly how far this disease of wealth and commerce has spread. I stand next to him, because he seems to want me to share in this moment - whatever it is - with him. Which, if I had to guess, is the equivalent of trying to literally dick-slap the entire city to remind it who’s on top.
I’m surreptitiously glancing at the pages on the top of his desk when he grabs my wrist and hauls me around, thumb slipping up my vein under my sleeve. “Your buttons are off,” he murmurs.
I don’t realize his hand is up behind my head until our lips have already met. When the dome of my skull should have been hitting glass, as he pushes me back into the windows, I feel only his palm there to catch it.
He’s kissing me. He’s kissing me and I’m not stopping him from kissing me and I don’t know why. His mouth is persistent. His hand leaves my wrist, finds the curve of my torso, just above my waist and circles his thumb over the fabric of my already wrinkled shirt.
His tongue is in my mouth. I still haven’t stopped him. His leg is between mine, pressing up, but I’m not hard. This much morphine, the regular haze of my entire life, it will take more. He doesn’t seem to mind. Still kisses me with conviction and the adjective should seem ridiculous on him. It doesn’t. The hand that’s cradling my head is sliding over my hair, leading the tilt of our chins, the dips of our mouths while we get the slot of them just right. Slick, obscene sounds are slipping out between the press of them, my hands are fisted equally in his jacket and the shirt underneath, his chest warm and solid beneath it.
I have no idea what I’m doing aside from not stopping him.
HIs fingers on my side are inching up my shirt, reaching underneath, and his wedding ring makes my skin jump when the cold metal meets bare skin.
We’re still kissing, he’s moaning, low and guttural but there, when there’s a knock on the closed door. He doesn’t spring away from me. Instead he leisurely pulls back, dark eyes boring into mine and he kisses me once. Twice. I cat into both like I’ve been trained to do it.
He says against my mouth, “I was hoping you would say yes,” before he straightens himself out and walks away.
I’m beginning to think that ‘yes’ will prove to be the most self-destructive decision I’ve ever made.