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“Read the fucking papers. I saved that little girl.”
You only catch the end of Hoffman and Strahm’s argument as you approach the hospital room. You dodge out of the way of the door as Hoffman throws the door open, storming out of the room and down the hallway. You gently catch the door before it closes and slip inside.
Your breath catches in your throat at the sight you come to. Peter is in a chair by the bed with his head in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. He doesn’t notice you come in, but you notice the bandage on his throat and feel your stomach drop with the gravity of what he’d been through. He looks exhausted and beaten down in a way you’re unfamiliar with; he doesn’t look like himself.
“Hey,” you murmur softly, not wanting to startle him. He looks up at you, and his eyes tell you all you need to know about how he’s feeling. You walk over and sit on the edge of the bed in front of him. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I just got stabbed in the throat,” he snarks back, sighing. His voice is low and hoarse, and you briefly wonder if his impromptu tracheotomy did permanent damage. You reach a hand out and gently examine the bandage on his throat, watching him carefully.
“I’m glad you’re okay.” While that may seem obvious, that’s the lightest way to put it. You were a crying mess when the precinct called you to let you know he’d been stuck in a trap; the fact that was he in front of you and breathing made you feel like you were the world’s luckiest woman. Most people didn’t come back from a Jigsaw trap.
Your hand slides over to the side of his neck, your thumb smoothing over his jawline in an idle, comforting motion. You note the way he leans into your touch, and the way it sends butterflies through your stomach. He’s quiet for a moment, enjoying your presence. He’s always been a man of few words, but you learned a long time ago to not take it personally. It’s just how he is; the fact that he’s letting you near him when he’s in such a state tells you more than words ever could. You’re curious about what him and Hoffman were arguing about that had Hoffman so heated, but you don’t want to push him at the moment.
His right hand comes up to rest over your own. “You were worried about me, weren’t you?” His voice is soft, despite the hoarseness of it. You nod, a little embarrassed at how obvious you must be for him to notice. Then again, he always does joke that your emotions show on your face, no matter how you try to hide it.
“I got that call from the precinct and…,” you trail off, trying to find the right words. Your hand moves off his neck to hold his, your eyes studying his hand idly. “I thought they were going to tell me you were dead.” Your voice is thick with emotion, even though you’ve been trying to fight it down since you got here. His hand tightens around yours, and the warmth is comforting; the reassurance that there’s living, breathing blood pumping through the veins of his hand soothes you. Despite that, you still feel tears sting your eyes. You were so… scared. Your mind starts to race. What if he gets kidnapped again? What if he gets injured beyond repair?
What if one day he never comes back home?
“Hey,” he murmurs gently, seeing the panic rise in your eyes. He scoots his chair closer so your knees are touching. “I’m here, okay? I’m going to be fine. I made it out, didn’t I?”
You swallow hard, meeting his gaze. “And if next time you don’t?”
He doesn’t have an answer to that. He can’t reassure you that he’d come back next time. It would be a lie.
So, he kisses you instead.
He pours of all of his emotion, all of his love for you, into this one sweet kiss and hopes- no, prays- that you’ll both get out on the other side of this mess. That you’ll never have to wake up to a cold a bed, that you’ll never have to pack away his things. That you’ll never have to attend a service for him. He’s not afraid of death, but the thought of what his death would do to you? That’s what keeps him up at night. Your hands cling to his shirt like you’re scared he’ll disappear right in front of your eyes, and his hands settle on your hips in response, reassuring you that, at least for now, he’s with you.
You break the kiss first, all of the feeling and passion behind it you leaving you breathless. You look up at him carefully, swallowing down your feelings. You want to cry, to beg him to quit, to take a different case, a different job, a different life. But you know none of it will do any good. Your hands slide over his chest to rest over his heart, the gentle beat another reminder that you get to keep him close for as long as fate allows. He leans down to rest his forehead against yours, and when he speaks, you’re both surprised to find that he sounds awfully close to crying too.
“Let’s go home.”