Can't You Save Me?

•7•

The apartment was completely engulfed in darkness when Pete woke up, the only light being the flashing TV. He didn't get much sleep on the couch and maybe got an hour in at the most. So Pete groggily stands from the couch, stretching a bit before clicking off the TV and dragging his feet to the bedroom and falls back to sleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. Finally he can just forget about the Stump case, at least until tomorrow morning when he has to return to work.

The apartment is silent and dark while Pete sleeps, until the silence is broken by a sharp sound. The sound of glass being shattered jerked him out of his mostly peaceful sleep and he hops out of bed, grabbing the pistol that he kept underneath his mattress. Then he tiptoes quietly out of the room with his gun aimed forward while keeping his steps as soundless as possible. While peeking around the corner at the end of the hallway, he points the weapon in the direction of the living room. Though, he couldn't see what he was aiming at, he could hear broken glass crunching beneath something, like the glass was being stepped on. Someone's inside. Pete steps all the way into the living room and aims toward the noise. He breathes quietly, maybe even holds his breath altogether without realizing it as to keep himself quiet. Quickly, he cocks the gun and pulls the trigger, shooting blindly into the darkness.

There's a loud scream followed by the sound of a collapsing body. Pete doesn't let his guard down, keeping his gun aimed forward just in case, then slowly steps backward to the light switch. He gropes the wall a little until he feels it then flicks it up. He glares at the intruder for a long moment. He's sitting on the floor, back slouched against the wall, head down and blocking his face from Pete's eyes.
He's breathing, which Pete guesses is a good thing, then suddenly the intruder groans and grips his right bicep tightly. He groans even louder to the point that he's nearly screaming again, tossing his head back against the wall with his eyes squeezed shut, groaning even louder and, okay, he really needed to stop doing that. But at least Pete could now see his face.

"You fucking shot me!" He yells.

Holy shit it's Patrick.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Stump?!" Pete yells back, continuing to keep his pistol aimed at the boy.

Patrick's silent for a moment then puts his hand up in defense, being sure to keep the other on his wound. "Just let me explain, okay, I know this looks really bad-"

"Get to the fucking point." Pete demands.

"I need your help."

"Why the hell would I help you?!" Pete snaps, taking two steps toward him, gun still in hand.

"Please, God, don't shoot me again." The boy pleads.

"Explain, Stump."

Patrick groans in pain again. "Okay, just, can I get a towel or something? I'm bleeding."

Right, Pete almost forgot that he had shot him. He glances down at the boy's hand clutched over his arm, blood seeping from between his fingers. Fine. Pete sighs heavily and eventually drops his gun down to his side. "Don't. Move." He says firmly.

Once Patrick nods fervently, a hint of fear in his eyes, Pete goes to the bathroom for some first aid, a couple of hand towels, and a bottle of alcohol. When he returns to the living room Patrick is still sitting on the floor where he left him and Pete kneels down beside him with supplies in hand.

Patrick looks up at the older man and all Pete can see is a normal teenage boy, not the criminal that he's labeled to be. But sometimes the best criminals are the ones you least expect. Yet he still couldn't understand how he pulled off the things he'd read in his file.

Pete opens the bottle of alcohol and pours a generous amount onto one of the towels. Patrick stiffens, refusing to move his hand and stares at Pete questioningly.

"Move your hand."

The boy listens and slowly releases his arm. There's quite a bit of blood but it's not a devastating amount to where he might bleed out. He's only been grazed by the bullet, the hole in the wall behind him proves it.

"This is gonna sting a little." Pete warns before placing the alcohol soaked towel to the wound which causes Patrick to yelp and jerk his arm away.

"Shit, that hurts!"

"I said it would sting."

"'Sting' my ass! It fucking burns!" Patrick whines.

Pete rolls his eyes. "Do you want my help or not?"

Patrick nods hesitantly and relaxes enough for Pete to place the towel back to the open wound. The boy tenses up and hisses but stays still nonetheless. Pete wipes the blood from his arm then wraps the second towel around the boy's bicep, tying the ends together to ensure it stays in place.

"Okay," Pete sighs, switching from sitting on his knees to his rear. "back to your explanation."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Dude, it's late, I want to go to bed. I'm giving you a chance to explain why you broke in here and I'm blaming it on the lack of sleep. Talk."

Patrick takes a deep breath before he speaks. "If I don't do what he says-"

"Who?" Pete interrupts.

"Vaughn. He...he makes me do really bad things to people and i-if I don't he'll hurt me." The look on Patrick's face is purely made of fear, he's practically shaking as he explains. It nearly breaks Pete's heart but he has to remember that Patrick is a felon and a murderer.

"Where is he?" Pete asks.

Patrick hesitates. "That's, um, that's the part you won't believe."

The older man looks at him expectantly.

"He's, uh, he's in my, um, head."

Pete's eyes grow wide once Patrick's stammered out his answer. Did he hear him right? Either this kid is as serious as a heart attack or he's messing with him and if he is, it's not funny. Pete watches him, waiting for his face to give it away but his expression was serious with a touch of worry. The look in his eyes said it all. There was no joke being played, no sign of happiness or laughter, not even a twitch of his lips. Pete almost wished that it was some kind of a joke. He hadn't noticed how long he was silently staring in shock until he hears the boy's voice again.

"Please, say something." Patrick whispers, his words bringing Pete back to what Patrick had previously said.

"Uh, well," For the first time tonight Pete is at a loss for words. He resists the urge to ask how Vaughn got in there because it would be pretty rude and it'd be teasing the boy. But before Pete could even think of what to say, Patrick says something.

"You don't believe me." He says rather disappointedly.

"No, I believe you. It's just, it's not everyday I hear something like that." Pete gets up from the floor. "Wait here." Then goes back to his bedroom, gun in hand. He goes to his dresser and grabs some clothes, pulling on a pair of black pants and a red hoodie. He slides on a pair of shoes then goes back out to the living room, tucking his pistol in the waist of his jeans.

When he reenters though, Patrick isn't sitting against the wall anymore. Pete turns and scans the room in search of the pale ginger but sees nothing. Dammit, did the fucker leave?

"Patrick?" Pete was greeted with silence.
Then suddenly Patrick's voice cuts through the air, "Where are you going?" causing Pete to duck and yelp as if a bullet whizzed by his head.

The older man whips around to face him, looking intently into his eyes. Patrick had the image of a lost child, alone and afraid like someone kicked him while he was down and left him for dead. He seemed like an entirely different person from the one that was yelling about being shot ten minutes ago.

"We," Pete emphasized. "are going to your house. If I'm going to help you, I need to keep a careful eye on you and I can't constantly go back and forth between here, your place, and my job. You're going to stay here until further notice." Pete explains while grabbing his car keys from the coffee table.

Patrick kept quiet and followed as Pete made his way out the door.