'They're going to kill you.'

'Not if I can help it.'

Defoe was, in a word: finished. He knew the day would come where he was no longer of use to The Organisation, but he was hoping it wouldn't be so imminent. Apparently, making too many missteps in too short a space of time can do that to a man. He - alongside Grier, as his partner-turned-pursuer-turned-partner-again - was now racing against the odds to escape the relentless grasp of his former employer. The two of them were on some forested road in the middle of nowhere, precariously balanced between wilderness and a sheer drop. Defoe wasn't keeping track, but it felt like they'd driven for hours (and in fairness, it wouldn't be outside the realm of possibility).

'How far are you going to run?'

'As far as necessary.'

'And for how long..?'

'I don't know how that's- Fuck, Defoe, focus on the road.'

'Where are you even going, Pyotr?'

"Damn it!"

Defoe slows the car to a halt. The back-and-forth thoughts ricocheting off the inside of his skull could be enough to pitch him over a cliff, and if he's to die today that is not the way he'd like to go. He lets out a breath and surveys the area. The tree cover feels like it'll do for now to conceal them. It's enough for a small - small - rest stop, but he knows he has to be efficient with his time. Any safe space is still rarely 'safe' with the eyes of The Organisation burning holes in his back.

Grier looks over to him as he glares out at nothing.

"You ok, there?" He says, flatly, totally disregarding that Defoe does not in fact seem 'ok'.

"I... have to take a minute." Defoe's statement is almost a question, but he doesn't wait for his partner to answer.

Defoe gets out of the driver's side and slams the door. He immediately kicks himself. Great moves, there, Vlad! You could at least try to be inconspicuous! Although, he thinks, if a tree falls in the forest and nobody's around to hear it does it make a sound? Likewise, if you slam the door of your shitty Fiat Punto and the only person to hear it is currently in the car itself is it really a life threatening lapse in judgement?

Grier sits in the passenger seat, watching him leaning with his back to the door, fumbling with his lighter. He feels like an onlooker in a bad soap opera. He knows, really, he shouldn't even be here right now. If he'd just followed the plan - turned Defoe in to be imprisoned or killed or done god-knows-what to - it'd be smooth sailing. The organisation could have given him power and security; surely that would be better than, what, driving across Europe until they get hunted down and shot or one of them strangles the other?

"But", Grier decides out loud, "I couldn't". He huffs quietly and turns his attention to the GPS.

Hours prior, Defoe had been making calls - some for housekeeping, most to numbers he wouldn't give Grier the privilege of knowing. The moment he knew they were going to The Foundation for help was when he realised that in all their years working together, he'd barely scratched the surface of how well he knew his partner. He certainly didn't expect that when they both turned up at Dante's apartment, looking notably worse for wear, the seeker would let them in with nary a sarcastic jab. He'd looked rocked to the core, but without any of the animosity Grier was used to. He thinks back to how rattled Defoe looked; perched on the edge of a chair, listening to Dante lay out their options with a sense of urgency you'd only see in a man who knew he had a death sentence.

The coordinates Dante provided were to an old Foundation safehouse; abandoned, he'd said, for as long as he could remember. The grim irony of the situation was not lost on him. Grier knows that onceover Defoe could and would kill to get his hands on information like this, and now he was begging his supposedly sworn enemy to save his life. Likewise, he knew there was something in Dante's manner hinting at a history fathoms deeper than agents from two warring factions pitted against each other.

He looks back at the blinking dot on the gps. They're not so far off, now. He thinks they could maybe make it in 45 minutes depending on how... efficient Defoe wants to be in his driving. Moving in daylight was perhaps not the best plan in hindsight, but weighed together no option was ideal. They'd just have to take it as it came.

Defoe takes a last drag and stubs the cigarette out on the bonnet. He makes a face at the little circle of burnt; it's not as if it mattered before, so he wonders why he's sentimental about it now. He scoffs at himself. Ridiculous. He takes a last quick look around before getting back in the car and trying to start the engine. It coughs. He tries a second, third time, and then it catches.

"Sorry, she's a little... Temperamental." Defoe apologises, but he doesn't know why. Maybe all this 'being hunted for sport' business is making him soft. Grier doesn't quite pick up his tone and just shows him a map.

"If we go here we can hopefully cut our ETA by about twenty minutes,-" He rummages in the glove box for a pen, and draws a line between two points. Defoe is only half listening "-with any luck, we can be there before sundown. Ok?"

He hopes in saying it plainly he can maybe give Defoe some kind of relief, but his companion doesn't look like he'll be able to relax until the engine is off and he's triple locked indoors. Defoe gives a deflated 'yes, sure' and kicks the accelerator.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird cries.

Despite their best efforts, the pair make it to the safehouse in the original time they anticipated. It's a small cabin; unassuming and backed to the rock face.

The inside of the safehouse feels more akin to a doomsday bunker than an actual living space. Defoe assesses the situation in his usual frigid manner. He notes the small main room and even smaller washroom - cramped, but still workable - and he almost grimaces seeing the back room; closed off to the main area and sparsely furnished. It notably contains a desk-like-workstation and a flimsy looking twin bed. Defoe is suddenly very aware that this was built for a single person.

Still, he's not exactly in a position to complain.

Between the two of them they make short work moving what little they could pull together indoors. Defoe assesses the damage. Barely a spare change of clothes, and enough shelf stable food for a few weeks. If they're to keep moving that hopefully won't turn into a problem, but if they run out of instant ramen he knows he'll take the hit badly. Grier says he has to check the basics are in order - water, electricity, those kinds of things - and says he'll be back in a few minutes, and Defoe lets him. He supposes even if he wanted to stop him he'd be too tired to protest. The cabin itself is... definitely in need of some maintenance. He draws a line in the dust on the countertop, illustrating the thought to no one in particular. He guesses it really hasn't been used in years.

Then his mind wanders back to Grier. He tries not to dwell on how many times this is going to happen today. Why would he do any of this? In a second he'd throw out his life at The Organisation - his life on Sutos - for, what, their daily sarcastic back and forth? Some semblance of order? Does he actually like being told what to do? It's not as if Defoe's been a particularly good friend to him. He looks out towards the sun; now hanging low in the sky and casting a fiery glow through the shutters. Grier returns moments later, looking flushed.

"I'm done. The generator's working-", Grier says bluntly, and stretches his shoulders from where he's been pulling the rope start "-I'm going to, uh, wash."

"Fine."

Grier takes it as an ok - as if he needs one - and makes himself busy. Alone again, Defoe gets up and paces for a minute, then goes to work out the stove. At this point he'd do anything as a distraction from his looming demise, or from the very recognisable sick feeling this whole ordeal is forcing to the surface. He boils a pan and tries to mcguyver an instant coffee from whatever things got threw in his car. He takes an impatient swig and scalds his mouth - he doesn't care. Anything to feel something else.

Defoe hears the latch click and looks up. Grier stands looking back at him, backlit, edges of his body frayed in a hazy halo of steam. His undershirt is clinging to his chest in a way that makes Defoe swallow involuntarily; part way from the damp and the other from the size of him. Defoe thinks he should say something, then that he thinks he looks ethereal, then tries to think nothing at all.

"There should be enough water heated, if you want to, um...", Grier trails off; he seems to be becoming more aware of himself, "-Don't take this the wrong way, but you look like you need it. It's been a... long day."

Were it any other situation Defoe would have reprimanded Grier for being insubordinate, but he stands, wordless, exhausted agreement hanging in the air like a dead weight. He does feel like shit. It would be nice to just take 10 minutes to switch his brain off.

But, no.

That's exactly what they want him to feel.

What if this is a ruse? He's seen Grier in action; been there for all of it. He knows how tactical he can be. They've known each other for years. He's loyal. It's his defining characteristic. Who's to say he's not just playing the long game?

"Pyotr-",

Before Grier can finish, Defoe sets upon him, sudden change in demeanour putting the larger on the back foot. He all but lets himself be grabbed, and stumbles, finding purchase against the wall that he's being pushed into. Defoe's hands are balled into the fabric of his shirt near his throat. They're trembling.

"A-alright, easy-"

"How many people know we're here, hm? What did they offer you?", Defoe barely realises he's shouting in his face. He's frantic, angry, altogether frustrated that he could even let himself be played like this. For shame! He of all people should know better!

"I- You're damn stressed, Defoe. Do you think I'm insane?" Grier sucks in a breath, and Defoe's grip falters.

"Do you get some kind of pleasure from playing mind games with me, Grier?"

"I get nothing from this. I'm a hell of a lot worse off than I was before-",

Grier's hands have been creeping up from the wall. He places one loosely on Defoe's wrist.

"-Not all of us are shallow enough to rat their teammates out for the chance of a promotion."

"You- I...", Defoe stares at him, desperate, trying to find anything to reaffirm his conviction that he's playing lead role in the organisation's twisted stage play. There's no trace of insincerity on Grier's face, just an expression of shock-turned-indignation.

Defoe swallows and looks away, own face turning red at his outburst (and at the other's implication). He lets go of Grier's shirt. The proximity is doing things to his head, he thinks. He turns tail, retreating to the washroom and bolting the door, and then he just stands there. He doesn't know what exactly he's expecting to happen.

Perhaps Grier will burst in and end it all now while his back is turned. He waits. Grier doesn't do a thing.

Defoe lets out a breath he doesn't realise he's been holding and resigns himself to his watery prison. He sits, ten, twenty minutes, damp from the floor slowly seeping through to his skin. The adrenaline comedown and the chill in his legs are both sobering. He thinks he should probably apologise (though that's something he's never been much good at). He stands, looking in the mirror.

"What a mess you are, Pyotr."

He showers until he runs the water off. He's numb all over; his joints certainly won't thank him. He dries himself as best he can and slips back into his crumpled clothes. If there's a day he never has to speak again, it can't come soon enough.

Defoe emerges nearly an hour after his initial episode. He turns on his heel, straight shot to the back room, and pauses at the door. It's dark and quiet, save for the muffled ambience of the wilderness. He doesn't want to taint the silence, but,

"Grier."

Hearing the mention of his name, Grier just wants to ignore him. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, taking in the bleary prickle of sleep and tears and dust. He's been lying, half-dozing; he knows what he's about to hear.

"I'm sorry."

Oh. He doesn't know what he's about to hear. He cranes his head toward Defoe; rolls onto his back and sits expectantly. Defoe looks at him, arms crossed, uncomfortably maintaining eye contact. Clearly this is hard for him, and in a sick kind of way Grier is revelling in it. Defoe starts quietly, again;

"I'm sorry I attacked you. I'm not exactly in... a good state of mind. I think the whole 'faking your death and being hunted for sport' thing can do that to a person," he sounds like he's trying to stop himself from crying, "I'm sorry you thought you had to do this all for me in the first place."

Defoe steps toward the bed, sinks to his knees. He sets his glasses on the floor and stares at his open hand. The vice grip he'd had on them had pressed angry red grooves into his palm.

"You could've had so much more than this and- and you would give it up? For this? Why are you here with me? I should be dead, I'm- God, I'm such a coward, Grier."

Grier's head is swimming in questions without clear answers; questions he can't even himself confront. He opts not to address them. "I think-" he pauses, looks down at Defoe under the dusty, blueish haze, "-you need to rest," and he sits back and pats the space next to him. Defoe's eyes widen. The moonlight casts him in such a way that he looks absolutely helpless.

"I couldn't, I mean, we- I-," the more Defoe spills, the more he trips over himself, but he can't quite bite his tongue, "-I can just sleep on the floor, it's less of a bother to you."

Grier huffs, again, "-Don't be a damn fool. You've already tried to freeze yourself to death once today."

Defoe goes to snap back but thinks better of it, which is a rare occurence. Of course, Grier's right. He almost always is in these situations. He sighs and gestures to Grier to move over, and the other obliges. Defoe can barely look at him while he tries to semi-comfortably fit himself into what he thinks even without Grier's bulk would be a bed made for ants. It creaks while he shifts; by no means loud but in the moment it rings in his head like it's the last thing he'll ever hear. He settles to face the door. He resists the urge to melt into Grier completely.

Grier lays awake well past Defoe passing out. Loath as he is to admit it, his partner's outburst and subsequent apology set him a little on edge. It's not in a way where he's scared for his own safety - god knows he could overpower Defoe in a moment - but moreover, he realises he's worried about Defoe himself. His mental state. His not-coping. Grier looks down at him and absent mindedly thinks about running a hand through his hair. He seems so peaceful now; were Grier unaware of their situation he'd find it hard to believe a few hours prior he was being threatened by the very same man now breathing softly by his side. Grier's resolve never falters. Even if he doesn't get what he wants - whatever that means - he'll follow him until one of them dies.

Defoe wakes with a jolt, pulse hammering in his temples. It's dark as pitch, still, and for a minute he has trouble remembering where exactly he is. He runs a hand through sweat-drenched hair and realises as well as his chest heaving, he must've at some point started crying in his sleep, because his eyes are stinging wet. He takes a few ragged breaths. The effort to get his own body under control sure feels a lot more difficult than usual but, wait. That's... not right. Defoe takes in his surroundings for the first time since coming to his senses.

He's facing Grier and, well. Perhaps it's a little more than that. He's clinging to Grier (now shaken awake) with his hands balling fists into his undershirt. Grier seems mildly bewildered looking down at him (in truth, more because he's trying to seem supportive in a state of being unequipped to deal with a human bundle of nerves) but still he feels a broad hand bracing against his back. Defoe blushes furiously and makes a move as if to pull away, but Grier doesn't withdraw. Defoe looks directly at him, tension caught in his throat. He feels ill. He hates being caught off guard like this. A weak, "god, stop looking at me," is all he can muster, and when Grier goes to apologise he turns away and stares at the door again. Grier's hand is still firmly hooked under the button down. He can just feel Defoe's pulse, still racing, if a little calmer than before.

"I am not making you talk about whatever that was, but can you try and go back to sleep." Grier puts bluntly, more a statement of fact than a question. Defoe seems past caring about any possible transgression regarding tone of voice. There's a moment of silence. Grier almost thinks Defoe actually listened, but he speaks again,

"I thought-," he goes quiet, takes a breath, and restarts, barely above a whisper, "-they found us. I don't know how but they... Wilder was there."

The two of them lie side by side in the dark, not speaking. Grier's grip on Defoe's waist tightens a fraction.

"They had us bound and he was- He was making me watch, said he was going to kill both of us if I didn't watch."

Defoe looks feverish.

"They were torturing you, Grier."

Defoe can't get the image out of his head. Slow-motion flashes of the nightmare; him hogtied, Grier strung up by the wrists taking lash after lash, one of Wilder's slender hands roughly cupping his jaw and the other pressing a gun to his head.

'This is how we deal with traitors, Defoe; surely you know that?'

Wilder's laugh rings in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut with a grimace.

All the time Grier watches, something in him shifts. He twists round, pulls Defoe in, presses his back to his chest. He doesn't know exactly what to say (a common occurence) but in a way he doesn't have to say anything. Defoe's hand settles on the larger pair circling his ribs; he tries to focus on that instead.

The rest of the night, Defoe drifts in and out of sleep.

He allows himself to be held.