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understood in the context of a user

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The butt of the gun is warm and greasy with fake butter when Mr. Robot pulls it from the popcorn machine and presses it into Tyrell's hand.

"I'm trusting you with something," Mr. Robot says.

His expression still as unreadable as it was when he stood from the computer to retrieve the gun. The fans in the machine behind them all continue to whirr steadily as fsociety's code wrangles E-Corp's data and places it in a chokehold and admittedly, Tyrell's still there with it, nerves buzzing with adrenaline.

"I've never fired a gun before, Elliot," Tyrell mutters, looking a little put out by the assignment already.

A grin slowly spreads over Mr. Robot's lips and the wild glint in his eyes finally returns.

"I'll teach you," he says.

Their eyes both drop to the gun as Mr. Robot takes his time sliding his hand under Tyrell's and guiding his fingers to wrap around it. His fingertips slide back around, just grazing Tyrell's skin as he points to the safety and disengages it. His thumb drops back, touching Tyrell's inner wrist before showing him where to pull back the hammer before he pulls the trigger. Their eyes meet and Mr. Robot bites his lip as he slowly cocks the gun. The click is loud in the quiet of the arcade.

"Do you know what happens next?" Mr. Robot asks as his hand curls back around Tyrell's.

Tyrell's breath catches when his attention is torn from Mr. Robot's bottom lip. He shakes his head.

"The trigger snaps the hammer forward, sending the firing pin into the primer in the bullet casing. It ignites the gunpowder, forcing the bullet out of the chamber as the casing ejects from the gun. Barring misfire, it's a chain reaction that won't be stopped once it starts. Do you understand what I'm saying, Tyrell?"

The gun felt lighter than Tyrell expected a gun to feel at first, but now it's heavier with intent. He feels powerful then; like the god he and Elliot are meant to be, because while it's unlikely he'll ever need to use the gun, the promise of protecting Elliot's vision is intoxicating. The giddiness of it spreads a grin over Tyrell's lips too.

"I understand. No one can stop this. Us," Tyrell says.

Mr. Robot's hand tightens and his smile dissolves. "Someone will try," he says.

"No one," Tyrell repeats.

"Good boy. Now show me what you've learned."

 

--

 

Tyrell's still wearing his wedding ring. Mr. Robot knows this because when they part ways three days later, Tyrell reaches out to weave their fingers together and lodges the metal, warm from Tyrell's skin, between his ring and pinky fingers. Even if Tyrell's face is nothing but awestruck when their eyes meet again, the object still feels like a betrayal lying in wait. There's nothing he can do, he supposes. He's done what he can to help Tyrell understand the cause, and besides, part of that goofy look in his eyes is from a level of infatuation that says there's no way he'll wander off. Maybe it's love. He could almost laugh at how much of a fucking mess it'd be if Tyrell loved him. He presses his fingers against the metal.

"We'll see each other again," Mr. Robot reassures him.

"We'll see each other again," he repeats, "and when we do, we'll finish our work."

Mr. Robot steps closer then and cranes his neck up just slightly to reward Tyrell with a soft brush of lips and a kiss that's just barely there, but the minimal contact still pulls up a whimper from the back of Tyrell's throat. The escalation is so smooth from there that when Mr. Robot feels the ring again, it's under his shirt and pressed against his back to hold him close as he's backed up into one of the games.

"Joystick's digging into my ass, Tyrell," Mr. Robot mutters against his lips.

Tyrell laughs and it sounds as good as kissing him felt. Mr. Robot pushes him away to slide off the machine.

"You'll wait for me," Mr. Robot says, just above a whisper.

Tyrell nods and moves in for another kiss, but Mr. Robot turns his head.

"Say it," he says.

"I'll wait for you," Tyrell repeats, obedient as ever.

He could say more, but there's no time when Elliot's waiting in the wings. He slides a hand into Tyrell's jacket pocket to retrieve his car keys and leaves him there, alone in the arcade, still dazed and drawing his fingertips over his lips.

Mr. Robot drives until the sunrise stretches an orange glow ahead of him and his eyes start to droop from lack of sleep.