Dead On Arrival [Peterick]

'Sorry' Doesn't Quite Cover This Anymore

Pete didn't expect to find himself crying, alone in a holding cell at the end of today. He's not entirely sure what he expected; perhaps he and Patrick running off into the sunset together, or he and Patrick lying low in some dark corner of London, he and Patrick, he and Patrick. But Patrick's not here. Pete had hoped, even if it all went to shit, even if they'd been dragged by the hair into police vans and tasered until they drooled, that they'd at least have each other to smile at and reach for.

The moment replays itself in Pete's mind again and again, yet it never quite sinks in. Over and over he sees Patrick look down at the bullet wounds in his chest, over and over he hears Patrick's soft gasp of pain, feels the horror melt through him as he watches Patrick crumble to the floor.

The room is too small and the lights too bright – the cuffs on his wrists glitter and he swears he can hear the hum of electricity through the walls. He should be terrified. He's not a criminal, his record is clean as a whistle. He's a good person, a loyal citizen, he pays his taxes and says no to drugs and nods at police officers when they pass him on the street. But all that doesn't matter one bit when he considers the fact that Patrick is lying somewhere with no heartbeat.

He lets out another runaway sob at the thought. God knows what the officers must think of him; he's been steadily weeping since they ducked his head into the car, his shoulders trembling and his words muffled through tear-strained vocal cords. He's not doing Patrick proud, he's sure of it. Patrick would have fought and screamed and tried. Pete had just stood and watched them haul Patrick's bleeding body away.

Pete stares down at his hands and doesn't look up until he hears the door open at the end of the room.

"Mr Wentz?" Officer Assad calls, her eyes disapproving as always. She never liked him. "Come with me."

With a futile wipe of his eyes, he stands and follows her. He'd hoped for some time to think before the questioning, to get his story straight and evaluate all the possible outcomes, but he can't bring himself to care. What does it matter if he goes to prison, it's not as if he'd be any further away from Patrick.

He's shoved into another, equally glaring room and told to sit down. Perhaps he should have called Joe, or asked for the duty solicitor, anyone to sit beside him and be his puppet master whilst he stares at all the broken pieces of his insides in front of him. He should be constructing intelligent arguments; instead he's watching the look of resignation burning through the hope in Patrick's eyes as he realises that it's all over. They've lost.

Assad unlocks the handcuffs and prises them from his wrists with disdain – but for once, it doesn't seem to be directed towards him. She's glaring at the door, at the voices bleeding behind it. When the door finally opens, Pete discovers why.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wentz," Wan says curtly as she strides into the room, flanked by two bodyguards, both of whom look like they'd take a great deal of pleasure in tearing Pete's arms from his shoulders. Pete cowers away from them, looking to the officer for some kind of explanation. She retains her scowl.

"You can go now," Wan tells Assad, waving her hand as if to shoo away a fly. "This is off the record."

The officer sticks out her chin, but starts walking. "I'll be right outside," she growls, the words wrapping a threat.

Wan doesn't react. Pete's not sure he can recall her ever expressing an emotion beyond her shiny fake smile. She watches the officer leave the room, then snaps her eyes back to Pete once the slam of the door echoes around the walls.

The first thing Pete does is shake his head. He's so tired of this. He's not sure if he can take another verbal assault, another glimpse into Patrick's cruel past. He wants it all to just stop. But he has a terrible feeling, looking at Wan's smiling face, that this is only the beginning.