Eliot stares, a lump in his throat and his eyes feel like they're burning. He's not sure if that was from the drinks or because he's dangerously close to breaking down, but it doesn't matter. He's focused on Carter and the pain in his chest is almost too much to bear.

Carter tried and then Moreau got him back and that was it. It was almost comforting in a way, to think of Carter having a heroic last stand, trying to be a good guy, holding out for as long as he could. And Moreau was, well, Moreau, and with that lifestyle, it was only a matter of time, right?

He'd suspected Carter might have been killed in the ensuing years, anyway.

So many names, so many faces, so many people he's killed and it weighs so heavily on his heart, but with Carter it feels like the weight's doubled into something unbearable.

And the red on his hands won't ever, ever go away.

"I think I'd like that." Eliot looks up at him, his eyes still shining, a ghost of a sad smile on his face.