It was all over the news.

Peter Sutherland, wanted by every three-letter federal and government-run organisation for the kidnapping of VP Ashley Redfield’s daughter Maddie, which he hadn’t done, and to boot, Farr had started spinning the story that he kidnapped Rose too. Hard to beat those allegations when an assassin couple was out to kill them at the behest of an unknown fucking rich guy.

He was getting cornered by the minute; people who wanted to help him were either dropping like flies or actually on the dark side. It was convenient, wasn’t it? Go after the guy whose father was accused of treason and could never prove it— he had to hand it to them, though, he made a good fall guy. He’d prefer not to spend his life in the Florence Supermax for treason, multiple counts of kidnapping and a terrorist attack. At this point, he only had one contact left who maybe wouldn’t sell him out to the authorities. You, his best friend since you both were in diapers.

You knew him better than anyone, you’d been with him in every playground fight, helped him with homework, got him through that long period of time where his father was being investigated by the FBI; if there was anyone who really knew he wasn’t a traitor, it would be you. That, or you were currently in the middle of an existential crisis, questioning everything cause your best friend was labelled as a criminal on multiple counts on every news channel and social media page in the country. It was a clusterfuck, to be brief.

After leaving Rose with his godfather, making sure there were no trackers on him, he made his way to your place, knocking on your door. When you didn’t open it, he took out the lockpicking tools that Rose had given him — conveniently, she had them, which was both impressive and concerning — and cautiously stepped in… and found chairs overturned and glass on the floor. First sign of trouble; his gun came up instantly. Second sign of trouble was that your alarm system was disabled, so his eyes darted around, moving further in, trying to check for blood, adjusting to the dark—

He was flipped over by you, luckily avoiding the table and finding the barrel of a gun looking him in between the eyes— shitfuck, he couldn’t breathed. Maybe this was it. “Don’t shoot, don’t fucking shoot,” He wheezed out, catching his breath.

“It’s me, ok?” He coughed, putting his hand out, the ache in his back ebbing away the more he stayed in one position. He didn’t know what he expected, but getting slammed into the floor like he weighed five pounds wasn’t it. “It’s me, Peter.”

His back hurt like hell, brain feeling like cotton as his chest heaved from lack of breath. Blinking away his blacked out peripherals, he looked up at you holding a gun to him, holding his hands up. He was too tired for this shit. “Put the gun away.”