Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter couldn’t believe how this all started because of a phone call. 

A routine phone call at that, something he’d been accustomed to for the past year and never failed to answer even if he was juggling whatever shitty dinner he was making himself. 

He never refused to answer her calls, a habit of his that he displayed since their initial pairing about six years ago and even now after he “moved on” from that part of his life.

Though, part of him wishes he sent Lindsey to voicemail at five in the morning. 

They aren’t partners anymore and he’s moved on, retirement isn’t such a bad thing even if he’s bored out of his mind when he isn’t reading or watching whatever is on cable. 

It’s easier to come to terms with his retirement when he’s put himself on the bench, throwing in his own towel for the better of his health rather than getting himself killed more than twice and for better or worse, he’s glad to be alive even if it means he’s without a purpose. 

It’s fine. 

He doesn’t mind it and he likes the quiet, well, that’s what he tells himself at least. 

At least, he’s starting to miss the peace of his apartment while he waits for Lindsey in a bustling diner at six in the morning without a book to stick his nose into. He’s always been one to fidget with something while he waits, bouncing his leg didn’t seem to do the trick for long and he’d rather die than ask for a kid’s menu to draw on. 

If only he’d grabbed that damn paperback off the coffee table before walking out into a chilly and unforgivable first day of fall morning, he'd never been one to enjoy cold weather. 

After checking his watch more than any person should and finishing his second cup of coffee, Peter figured something must’ve came up and this is his sign to go home, they could always meet some other time. 

It couldn’t be that important, Lindsey hadn’t needed his help on a case in what feels like a decade but could only really be a year and some months. 

Though nothing could’ve prepared him for what daunting task and information she muttered in a hushed voice once she did sit across from him in a booth farthest away from the front door. 

He couldn’t believe his ears. 

“You want me to do what? ” He asked in disbelief and astonishment that Lindsey could even muster the courage to ask something like this. 

Her lips pull down into a slight frown, her eyes flicker from her own coffee cup to his and they linger for a while as if she’s trying to find the words to reiterate her question in the form of a plea. 

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could help me,” She says before taking a sip. “But I know you’ll be the only one who can. You’ve done it before.” 

Peter feels as though a weight is pulling at his heart, his loyalty to Lindsey hasn’t ever been questioned and she’s right whether he wants to admit it or not. 

She’d always been on the same level as him, even when they first started and had only heard about each other. 

He sighs, he’s trying to come up with all the reasons to say no and for any excuse for him to go back to his sad apartment. 

Nothing comes to mind at first. 

“Look it’s not that I don’t want to help you, I just…” He trails off. 

I just don’t want to see him in person, he thinks but doesn’t say out loud and he’s sure Lindsey has enough context clues to understand his apprehension. 

The urge to clear his throat and swipe a finger at the scar adorning his throat puts an itch into his unsteady fingers, a simmering anxiety starts to twist into his stomach. He knows Lindsey can see how worried and unsure he is about the entire situation, as if his entire body language wasn’t a big giveaway towards his feelings he tries so hard to hide. 

Damn his human emotions and his shaky hands. 

An uncomfortable silence washes over the two as their breakfast is placed in front of them, steaming hot and somewhat appetizing for diner food but Peter’s appetite is nowhere to be found, it ran away as fast as it could and part of him wishes he could do that as well. 

He pokes and prods at it while trying to think of something to say but of course, Lindsey beats him to it and charges straight for his apprehension. 

“I wouldn’t let him get near you…I mean, obviously the two of you would be face to face and in the same room but nothing too close for comfort.” She tries her best to reassure him, flashing a quick smile as if he doesn’t already know the protocol for meeting psychopathic killers and criminals. 

Peter nods like he understands and he does, he knows she wouldn’t put him in any danger but there's always some kind of a risk when it comes to conversing with— well, he didn’t know how to describe what category he, who shall not be named, fits into. 

He is still a sore subject after all this time. 

Even with the confirmation of his arrest, trial, and incarceration, Peter still has trouble sleeping at night when the idea of ever being face to face with him is still a possibility. 

It’s not Lindsey’s fault, he wouldn’t ever blame her for their…reunion– if he even wanted to label something so awkward and dreadful.  

Peter’s never been good at goodbyes or anything similar to saying “Don’t be a stranger!” When he indeed, only wants to describe him as a stranger and nothing else, if he could only remain unlabeled.

Peter clears his throat and finally looks up from picking at his eggs, “When did you want to do this?” He mutters and watches as her shoulders drop in relief of some kind, though his stomach is twisting into knots and a sour taste creeps onto his tongue.

“Whenever you’re ready.” 

He scoffs, “You mean as soon as possible because you’re on some kind of a deadline.” He retorts, slightly shaking his head as a small smile pulls at his lips because he’s used the same line before and a sense of pride fills his chest. 

Lindsey nods and rolls her eyes, “I don’t even know why I thought that line would work on you. Sometimes I think I can pull one on you but you're two steps ahead of me.” 

Her brown eyes hold warm reminiscences, a softer and more naive part of herself is showing for the first time in a while and he almost wishes he could shield her from all the horrors she’d seen during their time together. 

If only he’d pushed her out of the way, he could’ve saved her from being left with physical scars rather than only mental trauma. 

They both have that in common. 

Physical scars that haunt them, trauma that’ll only present itself at the worst times and it’ll always be hard to see their own reflections. 

Lindsey has always been better at moving past things like that. 

Peter on the other hand, well he isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to move on from that part of his life but he’s proud that the woman sitting in front of him is able to grow and live in the present. 

There aren't enough words to describe his pride towards everything she’s been able to do without him. 

She’s done a hell of a lot to prove herself. 

“Peter?” She calls out to get his attention, it's soft but firm enough to revert his attention back to the present. Back to deciding a date that’ll leave him with more unanswered questions, useless bickering, and a dread that’ll follow him around even after it’s said and done, if they even get to what they're looking for. 

“Sorry. What were you saying?” 

“It’s okay, I just asked if Wednesday is alright for you?”

Peter pretended to ponder about his schedule, even though they both knew that wednesday was his off day and even if he tried to make some sort of an excuse, it wouldn’t have any solidarity considering he’s rarely scheduled during the weekdays. 

Damn his sudden free schedule. 

“Fine.” He said, still refusing to take a bite of his cooling breakfast platter because his stomach is still torturing itself. “What time?” 

“After lunch? Unless you want to talk to him bright and early just to get it over with.” 

Peter swallows thickly at the thought of being in the same room as him, let alone seeing him at around this time in a mere two days. 

He feels hardly qualified to step foot into old shoes he used to fill everyday for god knows how long. 

“Whatever's easiest for you.” He says, clearing his throat soon after because sure his responses will start to crack under the weighing pressure of his own irrational thoughts. 

Lindsey takes a few moments to assess him, she’s trying to juggle her own judgment for the case and how much she thinks he’ll be able to handle, she’s trying to figure out if she should play FBI Agent or Best friend. 

“After lunch should be good.” 

Best friend it is.

“It’ll give me enough time to fill out paperwork.” She adds, trying to make Peter feel better about meeting the man who almost killed him twice and for pushing him into the deep end without a lifejacket. 

Peter nods and his stomach settles for a moment, he thinks about eating his cold eggs and greasy bacon but thinks better of it. He’ll just ask for a to-go box and probably eat it later or it’ll just be another box of take out food he’ll never eat. 

He doesn’t feel like eating any time soon. 

Oh well, he’ll just add it to the list of things he doesn’t want to acknowledge today or any day for that matter. 

Peter’s gaze flicks up and meets Lindsey’s eyes and they remind him of the eyes of a doe, wide-eyed and full of wonder for the world around it, a catchlight remains. He wonders if his eyes ever looked that way, soft and full of so much wonder no amount of answers could ever take it away. 

He hopes she’s learned enough, that her wide doe eyes won’t lead her astray and into something he won’t be around to save her from. 

He can hope. 

This line of work isn't for people like her, soft and full of empathy. Full of so much life and then like that, it’s taken away, then you’re left sharp and empty. 

Peter hopes she’ll never become someone like him. 

He hopes it isn’t too late. 

Suddenly a warm and soft hand places itself on top of his, pulling him once again out of his thoughts, he has to remind himself not to retract his hand like it burns. 

It doesn’t burn. 

He just doesn’t like the way it makes him feel, small and unable to handle his own emotions. 

Unable to handle anything at all really. 

“You don’t have to do this for me,” She says, staring at him with big doe eyes full of true concern for his well being. “I get it…if it’s too much for you.” She gives his hand a reassuring squeeze and pauses for a moment, trying to decide if she should pull away and move on. 

Peter doesn’t know what to say, his conscious is trying to scream at his mouth to open up and take his leave but his heart is being persuaded by his memory, a flash of Lindsey’s eyes just before she’d been wheeled away on a gurney with pieces of porcelain jutting out of her face. It’s the emotion, similar to what her eyes hold and shine with now a fading warmness that pleads with him. 

They plead– ask for his help. 

Instead of handing him a key with bloody hands and giving him a push to find the man behind it all, she’s waiting patiently for an answer she already knows. 

She pulls away soon after his reluctance to answer and excuses herself. 

Once Peter watches her disappear behind the bathroom door, he puts the palm of his hands over his eyes but doesn’t force them into his eye sockets to see static like he used to when he was a kid. It’s more or less his way of trying to block out the world. 

He can’t run away forever but some monsters are better stuck under the bed, unseen and unable to torment him in the daylight. 

It’s too much for him, he knows. 

He was always too much for Peter. 

A raging storm. 

A whirlpool. 

A tornado. 

A natural disaster. 

Peter couldn’t think of a better and efficient way to describe him . 

Peter couldn’t think of a way to pull himself out, if it’s inevitable for him to be pulled in. 

A sigh escapes his lips, he removes his hands and waves over the waitress to pay for both of their meals. Lindsey hates when he does this, she says that he doesn’t have to do things like that for her anymore but he always argues that old habits die hard. 

Maybe they don’t die at all, he thinks while waiting for Lindsey outside in the chilly air. 

The chirp of the door sounds and he’s waiting for some sort of comment from his former partner but she doesn’t say anything, she’s waiting for his answer. 

They stand side by side, watching as people load onto a bus and get off at the stop. They watch people walk on the sidewalk, people with families and lives of their own. 

People who live their lives. 

People who don’t deserve to be put into a new round of death traps. 

People who could be saved if Peter decides to talk to him and tries hard enough to form a phony connection to inevitably save numerous lives.

He looks towards Lindsey, her thin gold chain glints in the sunlight poking through the clouds and she pays no attention to him but to the little girl holding her mother’s hand while they walk. It reminds him of a time where he didn’t think she would ever feel the sunlight on her skin, never hear her mother’s voice, never know that he did everything in his power to make sure that son of a bitch would get what he deserved. 

“I’ll see you Wednesday.” 

Chapter Text

Peter always found it interesting how a person can linger. 

Well, maybe not a person per se.

Maybe how memories of a person can linger after they’re gone. 

Like when his grandmother died during his 5th grade year, and he couldn’t exactly grasp what his parents meant by saying she was gone. 

He didn’t feel that she was. 

Sure, she wasn’t physically around anymore, her funeral a blur of uncomfortable moments that Peter wishes to forget, but he felt her. 

Not in a supernatural, ghost state but in a different way than feeling a “presence”. 

He could remember her touch, the way she held him tight before he left with his parents. The way her hands slightly tremble when she held playing cards or the way her clothes smelt like spring flowers. He would look at all the clothes or things she’d given him, and he couldn’t understand how his parents packed up her things, leaving them in the attic to collect dust. 

He didn’t understand why they wanted to forget her, how they could pack it up and act like she never existed in the first place. 

He didn't understand how they could let her go. 

Now, he knew that it was some kind of coping mechanism, but he still didn’t see the point in it. 

How could people pack up an entire person after they’re gone? 

Box after box, a room condensed into a vacant space, and some people don’t even get that courtesy.

Even though Peter wasn’t one to pack up someone’s things after they’re gone or left, he couldn’t label the feeling he gets when he sees the subtle traces he left in his apartment. 

The feeling couldn’t be labeled—indescribable, nameless and always taking up space in his apartment. 

He’s always been a lingering thought in Peter’s mind, well lingering in the sense he couldn’t shake the inevitable way his thoughts seem to intertwine him with anything and everything.

Sometimes it’s a single thought, a memory brought on by an object of his belonging and Peter can only stare and think of whatever stupid interaction he’d been present for. 

Most times, well now that Wednesday is approaching soon, he can’t help but think of what life could’ve been with him . 

What he likes, if he would prefer one thing over another or if he has a strange disliking for certain things? 

Peter didn’t know. 

They didn’t know each other. 

They—Peter could only wonder, and he doubts that when Wednesday comes, it won’t be the social hour he hopes it could be.

If he wants to be honest with himself, not a new occurrence, he’s terrified and antsy at the thought. Apprehension swirls in his stomach and his throat almost closes in on itself, it’s constricting as it is crushing, and he can’t seem to find his way out. 

He’s trapped again. 

Trapped and unable to think a way out of his own trap. 

It makes him frown and sigh, he shuts the paperback in his hands and tosses it on the coffee table, watching as it slides towards the edge. 

Peter can’t fathom how close it is to the edge, how it hasn’t flipped over and lands on the rug with a soft thump.  

He doesn’t understand how it still balances while being so close to an edge. 

What’s stopping it? 

Before Peter can continue to stare and ponder about a paperback's ability to balance itself on an edge of his coffee table, his phone starts to ring. An overly obnoxious sound in such a quiet and lonely place, he doesn’t need to wonder who it could be, Lindsey is the only one calling him nowadays. 

Well, she’s the only one that’ll get an answer within a reasonable amount of time. 

“Yeah?” He says, waiting for the undeniable warmth present in her voice. 

Instead he’s met with a quick, “I think there’s three.” without any context and it makes him pull the phone away to make sure Lindsey is calling from the other line. 

Peter waits, pausing in case she decides to let him in on whatever there are three of. 

He’s greeted with the sound of a marker squeaking, furious writing from Lindsey’s brilliant mind is a probable cause rather than anything else. He’s surprised that she still hasn’t spoken, maybe she’s forgotten that he’s even on the phone. 

Does she even know he’s still on the phone? 

“Okay. Three of what?” He asked, it’ll be easier to help her thought process rather than interrupt and risk losing something big for their– her investigation. 

This isn’t about him anymore. 

He’s not running the show anymore, he’s only there to help and guide her. 

“Three of them . It can’t be only two, it doesn’t make any sense, right? There’s too much evidence for only two and they both don’t have any of the qualifications for particular tests– traps .” 

An all-knowing feeling of understanding washes over Peter as he hears Lindsey correct herself. He knows how it feels to be caught up in a case where you start to use certain terms that a psychopath uses while trying to explain your sudden finding, a moment of light seen in such a dark place and it’ll sound idiotic to anyone but your partner, former or present. 

He feels proud that she’s found a lead of some kind, that she isn’t sitting and twiddling her thumbs for another game to be found like everyone else around her. 

She doesn’t buy that he’s somehow the only living accomplice and is still running the show while being locked up; it didn’t make any sense to Peter when he saw it on the news at first. 

There’s no way Mark Hoffman is playing Jigsaw so confidently from the confines he’s bound into but of course, his confession says otherwise just as it is confusing and unbelievable. 

He’s far from clever, cunning perhaps but too unpredictable and impatient to understand the big picture. 

Kramer made it clear enough when he’d punished Hoffman with a test of his own. 

“Where are you?” Peter asks, quickly abandoning his seat on the couch to look for his keys and jacket. 

He’s already out of the door when Lindsey answers with a single, “Home.” but then she quickly states, “You better have a coffee in your hand when you get here.” 

Peter rolls his eyes and responds with a “Yes ma’am.” 

He can’t wait to see what Lindsey has up her sleeve, she’s always been organized when it comes to her thoughts and investigations. 

~

Well, he wouldn’t label Lindsey as crazy but when you walk into her dining room and see an entire wall covered in what looks like a clue board that's gone way overboard, he’d reconsider using the adjective. Though, unhinged is a word he’s been described as and maybe that’s a better representation of what his eyes are seeing. 

Still, it’s organized to an extent, her handwriting is legible, and most dots have a start and an end point, a makeshift timeline really. Clear pictures for each “suspect” and known accomplice are seen, and he doesn’t have to really ask what it all means. 

Lindsey is trying to find a– the third accomplice. 

The top of the wall is where an estimated timeline sits, each trap has its declared name and a date next to it, either from its discovery or a guesstimate when it could’ve taken place. Towards the end of the line is the present, clippings from recent newspapers of newly found carnage. 

Under the timeline is where Peter would label it crazy and unhinged. 

On the left side, there are pictures of suspects and people who have survived their traps. Some have post-its full of descriptions and information while others only have their name and a question mark. He figures that their different colored thumbtacks also have some meaning he hasn’t thought of yet. 

On the right side is where the known accomplices are, and the rundown is the same as the left side. Besides the fact that both Amanda Young and John Kramer both have a large note card over their pictures with “ deceased" written in large black letters. 

Peter wishes that his scarred face was covered with a note card, not with “ deceased ” on it but maybe “ Motherfucker ” or “ son of a bitch ” would be a better fit. 

He should ask Lindsey for one, he’s sure she wouldn’t mind at all. 

She’s been silent the entire time he’s been assessing her upscaled investigation board, sipping her coffee frequently while looking back and forth from Peter to the wall. She’s thorough in her search, the only open end is where a blank space is made for a third accomplice and he’s sure it’ll be full soon by the looks of everything. 

Another sense of Deja vu settles over him, the same overwhelming sense of missing a piece of a delicate puzzle is hanging over him and he can only wonder how much pressure it bears on Lindsey. 

She’s trapped in her own labyrinth, hoping that Peter can be her torch and lead her towards the true end. 

Lindsey wants to find the end while Peter can only anticipate what monster awaits them this time. 

They both have scars to prove how vicious and unforgiving a grieving man can be. 

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you? That’s why you haven’t said anything yet.” 

Peter looks over at Lindsey and for the first time since he’s met her, doubt and apprehension are prominent in her stature. She’s afraid of what he’ll say and he hasn’t said a single thing to reassure her. 

“No, not crazy just…missing a piece.” 

Sure, the end of his sentence could use a little work, but it was the first thing that popped into his head, he couldn’t think of a way to sugarcoat it when the answer was staring both of them in the face in her dining room. 

“Where should we start?” She asks, confidence in her voice as she tries to steer the conversation towards where it needs to be from where she wants it to be. 

Lindsey’s question steers his gaze away from his picture and towards the top of the wall. 

Peter wished the color in Lindsey’s printer ran out before she had a chance to print out such a distracting picture of that son of a bitch . 

“Where you left off before I got here. You’re looking for someone with a different set of qualities– a different profession.” 

“ Different as in?” Lindsey moves to stand next to Peter, following his gaze to see who or what he keeps staring intently at and of course, she knew she should’ve covered his picture before Peter had the chance to walk through the door. 

If she knew anything about him, it was that Peter Strahm knew how to hold a grudge. 

He refuses to drop his gaze as he responds with a quick, “No law enforcement or anything too average. Whoever it is has been trained with enough precision to avoid mistakes.” Peter moves forward and closer towards the left side of the wall, tilting his head as he stares up at a picture of one of Kramer’s only surviving victims. 

“Right.” Lindsey responds, scribbling down the comment and putting it up in the empty space on the wall. With a quick glance towards her former partner, she rolls her eyes at the man squinting at her handwriting because he refuses to wear his reading glasses even at a time like this.

Still as stubborn as a mule, she supposes. 

A thought crosses her mind about what could go down on Wednesday, but it’s quickly overrun by another much more relevant thought for the moment. 

“They have to be a survivor, someone who’s already been tested and lived.” 

Peter nods as he rounds the table to sit, “It fits. To be recruited, you have to play at least a single game and live to tell the tale.” 

“Support groups.” Lindsey states as she sticks another requirement on the board. “For the survivors, that’s how Kramer found out about Bobby Dagen and his team. You know, the call is coming from inside the house.” 

“The recruiting pool is small but successful in his twisted rehabilitation ideal. He wouldn’t have to test if there’s any duds and it’s efficient, similar traumatic experiences bring people together.” 

“It’s foolproof, that’s what you're getting at?” 

Peter hums in agreement before he asks, “Do you know where the meetings are? If they even meet anymore.” 

“I can find out, see who regularly attends and if anyone seems a bit…off?” 

“It’s a start.” He sighs.

“You think it’s a dead end, don’t you?” 

“I wouldn’t say dead, a red herring maybe but, it should be looked into.”

Lindsey nods her head and turns to face Peter, still his eyes are glued to the general direction of he who must not be named mugshot, but he quickly looks away to meet her eyes. He knows he’s been caught when her eyes soften and she crosses her arms at her chest, she’s about to ask a question that he doesn’t want to think or answer. 

“You’ve been thinking about him all day.” 

It’s a statement rather than a question and part of Peter is surprised while the other is glad, she’s done playing into his bullshit about never wanting to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Though he wishes she could’ve asked this over the phone so he could make up some phony excuse about someone else calling him from a different line. 

Life can’t always be filled with shitty excuses and phony facades. 

“Not all day…sometimes.” 

Lindsey raises her eyebrow at him.

“Alright, yeah. It’s been an all-day thing.” 

Peter can’t quite name the expression on her face, it’s a mix between pity and apprehension. Her eyebrows furrowed together for a short moment and her lips pressed into a tight line like she’s trying to contain a useless reprimand, she seems to settle on a slight shake of her head instead. 

“Are you sure you can handle it? I mean, you’re staring at his mugshot like he’s…he’s something to you.” Lindsey tries to be firm but she knows that Peter will only shrug it off and Wednesday will be excruciating to witness. 

Peter can’t keep her stare and it’s a game he’s been losing for sometime since Lindsey caught onto what was happening between them. He doesn’t know what to say, he knows what he should say and what the rational answer is but he can’t seem to make himself say it. 

It’s too tender, still purple and blue with remnants of red around the edges. 

It’s fresh and unknown, nobody truly knows when the initial strike happened. 

Nobody knows if it’ll end. 

Do wounds truly heal? 

Peter doesn’t think so, well– they don’t seem to heal for him.   

They don’t seem to heal because he can’t help but poke and prod at them, starting with light pressure and then pressing down until he can’t handle the pain.

Lindsey doesn’t take his refusal to answer, her patience is as thin as a string and all she wants is a straight answer, something other than silence. 

“I want to understand Pete, it’s just you and me right now. You don’t have to hide behind that front anymore,” Lindsey takes a pause as she moves to sit next to Peter, trying to offer some kind of comfort instead of playing bad cop in this unofficial interrogation of his hidden personal relationship with him . 

Peter scoffs and his tone is intertwined with nervousness, 

“I don’t know what you want me to say, there– it didn’t mean anything. He doesn’t mean anything to me.” 

“Don’t do that.” She says softly. 

“Do what? I don’t know what else to say.” 

“It’ll get in the way Peter, you know it’ll get in the way. He’s in the way and…it won’t end well for you. Why won’t you let me understand? You have to give me something to work with or tomorrow-” 

“Because I don’t understand it, okay? I don’t understand him and I never will.” Peter takes a deep breath and looks away, mumbling, “Not in the way that it matters to me.” 

Lindsey sighs not out of exasperation but, out of empathy maybe. She can’t help but feel bad for him, she’ll never understand it and he’ll never be able to describe it well enough.

Lindsey isn’t sure that Peter ever made it out of the trap Mark Hoffman designed for him. 

She isn’t sure that Peter is against the idea of being trapped by Mark Hoffman. 

Tomorrow is going to be a ride.  

Chapter Text

Peter couldn’t breathe. 

Okay, maybe he was overreacting, and his sudden suffocation wasn’t from an unknown cause but because he was holding his breath while waiting for Lindsey to nod at him through the two-way glass, so he could make his grand entrance. 

Peter’s never been one for dramatics. 

He wondered what would happen if he made himself pass out before he could even walk in the room. 

Maybe then, he wouldn’t have to trace old scars and cross the line he’d drawn in the sand after his first attempt. 

The temptation was too much. 

It was too easy and simple, someone should’ve stopped him. 

He should be more honest with Lindsey, if she didn’t already find out by looking at his vistitor’s log and saw that this wouldn’t be the first time Peter’s talked to him . She’s probably just saving Peter from embarrassment, a simple mistake made during a vulnerable time in his life after finding out he was indeed alive and just an hour and a half away. 

Peter’s not proud of it either, he didn’t walk out with any kind of comfort at all and if anything, he walked out knowing Mark Hoffman would always be on his mind. 

Contagious like a disease, clouding his mind and inhibiting his ability to make rational decisions. 

Heavy on his chest, a constant weight that he can only bear and never wants to let go of. 

He couldn’t– can’t let go. 

It was such a peculiar feeling, sitting in a steel chair that’s bolted to the floor, waiting in a room that smelled like a hospital but nobody was there to be saved. So much dread over took his body, it was strange waiting for someone who brought him so much pain and all he wanted to do was hear his voice. To see him in person instead of on the tv where the grain of the screen erases all of his facial features that Peter knows like the back of his hand and exaggerates one that he’s never seen in person before. 

Even if it was just for a second, a quick glance before he sneered at the guard to take him back to wherever he came from, it would’ve been enough for Peter. 

A short reassurance that could’ve meant absolutely nothing at all if either of them had the brain to quit playing the game only they understand. 

If only they weren’t so competitive. 

Peter didn’t get a chance to wonder how thick the glass separating them was before an irritating  buzz sounded through and a metal door slid open, he refused to watch while he made his way down towards the last booth. 

Peter never liked the color orange, his hatred for it only grew as it obnoxiously complimented confused blue eyes he’d missed for far too long.

The sight made his stomach twist in knots, no butterflies could live in such conditions. 

A few moments passed before either reached for plastic receivers, they stared at each other in some form of awe, a work of art compared to a car crash. 

Complex and overbearing to the eye. 

Peter tried to keep his stare towards anything but the facial scar, it wasn’t as bad in person than what he saw on tv, how it was described in the papers, and he didn’t want to disrupt the steady flow of taking in his appearance, he didn’t want to crush the fragileness that was this moment that shouldn’t be happening. Though, his unoccupied hand twitched and he couldn’t help but wonder how it felt to trace the jagged scar. 

He wondered if he would ever get the chance to physically feel the skin he knew would always be warmer than his own, if it would be too much for him and he’d never want to touch anything else.His fingers ached to feel him , so close but physically untouchable because of stupid glass and it wouldn’t be the first time a couple of pieces of glass got in the way.

He didn’t want to say anything, he didn’t know what he should’ve said at that moment and the man on the other side of the glass clearly didn’t have a clue either.

Peter sighed as he raked over features that were similar to how he remembered them but they weren’t the same, it was difficult for him to remind himself of the glass that separated them or he would’ve made some excuse as to why he needed to fuss with the outgrowing bangs delicately resting on his forehead. He didn’t mind the natural look, sure it made him look a little younger than he actually is and it gave him a boyish charm of sorts, it made him distracting to look at. 

Peter wished they’d met earlier. 

Maybe then, he wouldn’t be planning to steal evidence that was taken from his apartment in the hopes of finding a family album full of pictures that might exist. Pictures that would show a man he’s never seen before, a man that hasn’t been around for a while and a man that died along with his sister. Still, it would be exciting– interesting to see him in a different light. 

It isn’t fair.

It isn’t fair to fall in…Peter isn’t sure what trap he’s fallen into this time. 

It isn’t fair how time passes.

“You don’t have much time, Pete.” He mutters into the phone, eyes begging to hear the other’s voice and he moves forward like he wants to rest his forehead on the glass. 

The clear barrier is taunting both of them. 

“I know,” He says, unable to keep his gaze fixed to the man he came to see. “I don’t think I’ve ever had enough time.” Peter’s hand moves towards the glass, a finger presses against it and soon his entire hand is flush with it. 

A scoff attempts to leave his throat at the sad action but its interrupted by a quiet and strained, 

“You can’t come back after this.” 

All of the air leaves Peter’s lungs and he’s unable to bargain with the stranger behind the glass, his throat constricts in fear. 

In fear of losing him . 

In fear of always wondering instead of knowing. 

“I don’t want you to keep comin’ here.” 

Peter can only stare in disbelief, he can’t fathom how he’s the one being told to stay away and forget everything. 

To forget him . 

To leave him to rot. 

To walk away and throw away the key, leaving him in a place he deserves to be in. 

“I don’t- I can’t walk away from you.” Peter speaks into the phone, rage spikes on his tongue but it dies on its way out of his mouth when he confesses. “I can’t sleep or eat. I can’t do anything without wondering what you’re doing. I can’t live knowing that you’re right here and not with me-” Peter’s voice cracks at the end of his sentence, he feels pathetic and small. 

“I can’t. Okay? I just can’t.” Peter is pleading, confessing thoughts and feelings that’ll never find any comfort because he’s separated from the only one he knows can soothe him. 

He’s caught in a losing game. 

“Peter-” His voice is cut off by the same distressing buzz from earlier and Peter wishes he’d listened to his warning, he should’ve blurted out every thought instead of staring. 

It felt like time slowed at that moment, the stranger moves to get up and places his hand against the glass where Peter’s is. Both of their eyes latch onto the attempt of touch, it’s enough to satisfy a small cut but not enough to stop the blood from flowing and spilling on the floor. 

Peter straightens up when a guard comes to take him away, they lock eyes and the other shakes his head before he’s led out of Peter’s sight. 

Peter didn’t visit after that. 

Peter felt that he’d silently accepted a promise that day, a new rule for him to follow and live by. 

A second chance for Peter to trust and understand that it’s all part of some plan, he’ll blindly trust for however long it takes. 

Mark never led him astray, a very punctual man even if he can be impulsive and harsh. 

It’ll just take time , Peter reminds himself as he finally exhales and focuses on correcting his breathing before walking in out of breath like he’s just ran a mile. Maybe it isn’t too late to run, he could always make up some poor excuse that his sister called and said his mother wasn’t doing too well and that he needs to leave and never come back. 

Maybe it could work. 

It would've worked if Lindsey didn’t already know that his mother passed away a few years ago and his sister hasn’t spoken a word to him in three years because he refused to go home for Thanksgiving. 

Perhaps, sprinting towards the door and out the hallway would be a better plan of exit. 

He’ll keep it in mind. 

The same irritating buzz goes off and announces to Peter that he’s out of time, it’s too late for him to leave without saying goodbye. If only Peter didn’t love like a dog, loyal and unable to leave.

He focuses on Lindsey, watching as she straightens up and keeps her distance, her face is trying to show impassiveness but she relents and worriedly glances towards the glass. A frown pulls at her lips and as she stares for far too long, their acquaintance follows her gaze. 

Peter can almost hear the snarky comment leaving his lips but his mouth doesn’t open, it’s as if he already knows who is watching from beyond their reflections and it isn’t some kind of trick Lindsey is trying to pull on him . 

He can’t call her bluff if she isn’t bluffing at all, she’s going all in and the cards are in her favor. 

The bastard has the nerve to smile, a smirk maybe that he plays off by shaking his head and turning his attention back to Lindsey, who is still staring at the glass but has yet to nod her head. 

Maybe she’ll never nod at him and this’ll all have been a waste of time. 

Peter can hope. 

He wouldn’t mind sitting in here and twiddling his thumbs for the first time, there’s always a first time for everything. 

The room he’s in doesn’t have any sound, which is a little concerning to him, but it saved him from the “pleasantries” and small talk being exchanged by them, he isn’t sure he would want to hear it anyway. He’s never been one to enjoy it and that’s probably one of the reasons he liked working with Lindsey, she was very straight to the point while working. She knew how to talk to people and usually did most of the small talk anyway, Peter didn’t have the time nor patience to attempt. 

He didn’t find it interesting, trying to connect with someone who wouldn’t give you the time of day in different circumstances and though it used to be his line of work, it wasn’t good circumstances at that. 

Still, he couldn’t shake off the feeling of dread encasing him while watching them interact with each other. 

His best friend was questioning the man who he became obsessed with, the man who’d almost killed him more than he would like to admit, and the man constantly in his thoughts, plaguing his dreams. 

In normal circumstances, Peter still would’ve felt the same watching as his best friend met and questioned his… attempted killer and convicted felon. 

He could only imagine what his mother would’ve said if he introduced him to her with that label.

No, Peter wouldn’t have dragged him to meet his family because there is no way in hell they would’ve been able to be on the same flight and land with both of them still alive, even in normal circumstances. They’ll never live in normal circumstances, Peter knows who he is and no amount of false daydreams,insignificant thoughts or wishful thinking will ever change the choices he made. 

Peter watches as the tension that used to be in Lindsey’s shoulders has lessened, she’s intently describing something and to Peter’s astonishment, he seems to be listening and cooperating. 

Peter isn’t sure if he understands his role anymore.

If he isn’t here to play some sort of bait to get him to talk, then why is he even around in the first place? 

It’s at this particular point in time that Lindsey decides to look at double sided glass and nods for him to come in. 

Suddenly, Peter wishes he would’ve refused to answer Lindsey’s call and chose to be a professional baseball player instead like his mother used to joke about when he was growing up. Then, he wouldn’t have to feel the dread that came with talking to a convicted felon, murder accomplice, and everything else Mark Hoffman was guilty of being. 

Then he wouldn’t have to feel so out of place and angry. 

Then he wouldn’t have to act like being in the same room as him , breathing the same air and being so close to reach out, means absolutely nothing. 

It shouldn’t mean anything. 

Peter wishes he stayed behind the glass. 

The door shuts behind him and he has to force himself to walk forward instead of backing into it, a cold metal chair greets him with as much enthusiasm as he has for anyone presently in the room. It feels like one big trap, that his involvement in this case is one big cover for a game of 20 questions where Lindsey gets to ask anything she wants about what they’ve done and how much Peter knew before he disappeared, after a few hours it could get to that point. 

Peter hopes the clock runs out soon. 

Otherwise, he’ll have to add another tally to his losing streak. 

Peter hates to lose. 

It feels like every second is meticulously ticking by, though Peter refuses to glance up at the clock and risk meeting blue eyes that’ll surely be holding some sort of grudge against him for breaking their unsaid promise. 

Well that’s what Peter thought until he decides to nervously laugh and says, not to Peter but to Lindsey directly, 

“I already told you everything.” Mark says before taking a sparing look in Peter’s direction but not at him directly. “You didn’t have to drag him into this.” 

Peter almost scoffs at Mark’s sudden concern but then it hits him once those stupid blue eyes full of some emotion he’s unable to label meets his own and it makes sense. 

He’s the only one left. 

Mark doesn’t have anyone else and Lindsey knows it, she’s spent enough time gathering it from her own interviews and research from the man himself. She’s spent enough time observing Peter’s longing stares at pictures, hearing his dreams, and watching as he stuffs down his emotions. 

She’s been around long enough to know that they only have each other, a connection that none could fathom or recreate with another. 

This isn’t some kind of ploy by a dead man, this is a matter of using the cards in your hands and knowing your opponents weak spots as well as their capacity to play long enough to get what you want. 

Lindsey Perez isn’t one to play a losing game. 

“He wasn’t dragged here.” Lindsey states quickly, as if it’s some kind of accusation. “He’s here as a…second opinion. I can’t take everything you say seriously, I might try to understand and take it with a grain of salt but only he knows exactly when you’re being sincere.” 

“I’ll take a lie detector test if that’s what it takes.” Mark offers, it’s a bargain for Peter’s freedom but he doesn’t have the heart to look at him when he says it.

Lindsey doesn’t take it,

“A polygraph isn’t reliable enough. It’ll just be a waste of time.” 

Peter wishes he didn’t teach Lindsey so well, she’s too tough to be fooled this time around. 

Mark sighs and he tries to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration but is restricted by the cuffs at his wrists and an uncomfortable noise is made, an awkward sound in such a quiet room. 

The sound doesn’t make either of the pair jump but it does start an ache in Peter’s heart, it’s from a noticeable action and it makes him frown. He doesn’t understand Mark’s unwillingness to protect him, if it even is protection at all or maybe he just truly is tired of seeing Peter’s face. 

Peter doesn’t know and he’s unable to ask, his throat feels tight. 

“What will it take?” Mark asks, it’s quiet and strained in the way someone who feels defeated would ask about an alternative option that’s the path of a downward spiral. 

None answered immediately. 

“What will it take to get him out of this and away from me?” 

There’s a hopelessness twinged in between Mark’s horrid portrayal of trying to have even an amount of disgust towards Peter, it’s sad watching someone try and say that they hate someone when all they really want to do is love them unconditionally, irrevocably, and without fault. 

It’s hard trying to put on a false bravado when the audience knows how insecure you actually feel. 

“What else do you want from me?” Mark asks angrily, his hands are in tight fists while he glares at Lindsey who is unimpressed at his sudden outburst of emotions she’s never seen so strongly on him before. 

She wonders how many sides there are to him and if Peter has seen all of them, if he knows them better than he knows himself. 

She doesn’t hesitate when she says, 

“I want you to tell us everything and anything. If we get somewhere or someone , I’ll see what I can do about a one-on-one or a conjugal visit between you two so you’ll both quit looking at each other like that.” 

Again like some twisted saving grace, a buzz goes off and both men’s eyes widen at the reminder of how little time they have. 

It’s sick watching as they both abruptly stand up from their chairs, staring at each other and to Lindsey it seems they're having a completely different conversation by glances alone. The guard mutters at one to sit down and the other nods, doing as he’s told. 

The same feeling of regret washes over Peter as he watches Mark walk away from his reach, it falters for a moment when he directly says to Peter, “I’ll be seein’ you tomorrow, sweetheart.” with a playful crooked smile on his face. 

The feeling comes back when Peter stupidly nods back. 

He didn’t think he could feel excited– interested in coming back for a second round of questioning. 

Peter wasn’t thinking at that moment. 

He doesn’t even think his brain is working right. 

He’ll have to get his shit together if he and Lindsey are going to get anything down tomorrow. 

Peter can’t wait for tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

“What the hell was that!” Lindsey furiously exclaims as soon as he is out of both of their sight and she’s able to fully regain Peter’s attention. She isn’t sure if she’s had his attention at all. 

Peter blankly blinks a few times before turning towards an angry Lindsey, he opens his mouth to try and think of some excuse that’ll save him but nothing plausible comes to mind. He doesn’t think “mind control” would go over very well considering his former partner looks ready to rip him to shreds for acting like a lovesick schoolgirl. 

In his own defense, he wasn’t thinking straight. 

That seems to happen from time to time whenever he is involved. 

Peter decides that shutting his mouth and letting Lindsey tear him a new one is the best option, he doesn’t have the words to describe or a clue as to what went down in this room.

“You don’t have anything to say,” she says in utter disbelief, she’s never known for him to be out of explanations or words at that. “What the hell did he do to you?” She mutters quietly while staring at him with uncertainty. 

Lindsey’s eyes search for recognition, a sign of the man she used to know and would give her life up for at the drop of a hat. 

Where did her partner go? 

Where had Special Agent Peter Strahm gone? 

Lindsey wonders if she’ll ever see him again. 

One of her hands comes up and starts to fidget with her thin golden chain, a nervous habit she’s always had. She rolls it between her index finger and thumb, a motion that usually helps her collect her thoughts but right now it's a tactic to keep herself busy, her hand itches to slap some sense back into Peter.  

What’s happened to you! She wants to scream at him. 

What’s he done to you? She wants to ask. 

He’s fixed you. She wants to accuse him. 

I’m sorry I led you into another trap. She wants to apologize.

Out of the four thoughts in her head, Lindsey decides to keep them to herself as she walks towards the door and waits for Peter to follow her out. He gives her a confused and sorry look. 

She almost feels bad. 

She can only assume he’ll feel even worse soon enough. 

Still, she gives him one last look before leaving and says, 

“I need you tomorrow, Peter. He doesn’t mean anything to you, remember?”

Lindsey leaves him standing in the hallway, he watches and waits for her to turn around. 

He’s waiting for her to wave him over, so he doesn’t have to walk out alone. 

She doesn’t. 

Since he and Lindsey got assigned to each other, they rarely walked out of a place without the other close by. Even when Lindsey got queasy and had to step out, Peter was soon to follow her out, not because he felt the same but because they were a pair.

Where she went, he was soon to follow. 

It’s been a while since he’s had to walk out all on his own. 

He sighs in defeat and disgust, she’s right. 

What happened there? 

Peter doesn’t want to comment. 

More importantly, he has to focus on putting one foot in front of the other during his immense walk of shame back to his car. The shame slowly fades away once he’s in the parking lot, anger replaces it and he’s slamming his car door shut. Both hands grip the wheel, knuckles turning white while his breath starts to become rushed, and he can’t control the urge to slam his fists down. 

It’s almost a blinding rage, the pain in his hands is insignificant but welcome in the sense that it takes away the constriction in his heart. His pain is physical, felt in his throbbing hands rather than an indescribable tightness in his chest and with flushed hands, Peter cowers behind them. 

The rage is gone, quickly fleeting and turning into an emotion he can’t describe. 

He isn’t sure if despair or hopelessness could be what he’s feeling. 

He doesn’t know and he’s tired of drowning in the unknown. 

After calming down from his outburst and catching his breath, Peter pulls out of the parking lot with shaking hands. The drive home isn’t lengthy but long enough for him to think of an excuse as to why he can’t make it tomorrow, Peter rarely used his sick days, and it seems like the perfect loophole. 

It would’ve been the perfect loophole if he was currently employed by the FBI and not at some small bookstore hidden in the city. Still, he felt the need to call and take at least a week off for good measure, who knows what’ll come to light tomorrow? 

Peter doesn’t seem to have a clue at all these days.

~

Even in the comfort of his measly apartment, Peter still feels encased by memories and lingering moments left by Mark Hoffman. Maybe that’s why he’s refused to sell the place and move elsewhere, it’s where most of his reminders come from, the only place they last. 

The only place where Mark Hoffman is truly his and his alone. 

Just about every space in the suffocating apartment has been contaminated by the man, a sweater of his hangs in the closet by the front door awaiting his return, his pen sits on the coffee table, some of his books are in Peter’s personal bookshelf and they stick out like a sore thumb because of their genre. 

One of his shirts litters the floor of Peter’s bedroom, he refuses to move it even though the mere sight of it annoys him, but it still continues to be a lump of fabric on the floor, a souvenir. 

After all this time, Peter refuses to sleep on the left side of his bed because some thought in his brain tells him it’s Mark’s side and he’ll slip in next to him soon. Peter sleeps clutching the pillow that used to cradle Mark’s head, his nose pressed deep into it because the distinct smell of his absent lover is fading, and he can’t bear to face the reality that is his life. He’s against washing the pillowcase, the faint smell seems to be the only thing to lull him to sleep and lead him towards dreams turned nightmares. 

He knows it's wrong keeping all of these pieces of Mark in his home, visible when they should be locked in a chest and thrown in the Delaware River, never to be seen again by anyone. 

Gone from Peter’s sight like a comet. 

It’ll never be so; Peter is too much of a mourner to throw away such things. 

Sometimes, it makes him wonder if this is how Jill Tuck felt during her separation and after Kramer’s death. Possessing so many things, objects and clothes that used to belong to the man she loved. Watching as he spiraled out of control and molded himself into the monster written about in newspapers, notorious on television, and unrecognizable in her eyes. Knowing she turned a blind eye to all of the destruction and havoc he was causing. 

Peter wondered what she would say to him now, would she have any empathy for him? 

Would she look at him and scoff? 

Do you buy it now, Special Agent? 

It’s an easy trap to fall into, he didn’t see it then and he doesn’t truly comprehend it now. 

Peter doesn’t get to contemplate his failing love life for much longer because his phone starts to buzz across the coffee table. Though some part of his brain hopes it’s a call from his jail bird, Lindsey’s name is present on the small screen, and he scolds himself for the frown presently on his face. 

The moment he flips it open and presses it to his ear, Lindsey is already speaking. “We have a change in plans, tomorrow’s off.” 

A pit grows in Peter’s stomach at her words, he knows disappointment is going to be heard in his words, so he responds with what he hopes is a nonchalant hum, trying hard to remain impassive. 

Peter hopes he’s a better actor over the phone. 

“A new game is being played, and I-” Lindsey cuts herself off and Peter can hear her sniffle. 

The pit is growing larger by every second that passes. 

What’s Mark gotten Peter into now? 

“You think what?” He tries to keep a steady voice, and he hopes she’s trying to gather the courage to ask for his help once more, he hopes that’s the case. 

“I think you should leave while you can.” She starts, Peter can hear a quiver in her voice as she continues. “I shouldn’t have brought you back in, Peter.” 

“Lindsey-” 

“I’m serious, Peter. This isn’t about rehabilitating people anymore, it’s– I’m leading you to him.” 

“What? What do you mean leading me to him?” Peter frantically starts to look for his car keys, he needs to find Lindsey and figure out what kind of game is being played. 

He needs to know if he’s a player once again.

Lindsey’s line grows silent, and Peter opens his mouth to speak but no words leave his mouth, his throat constricts. 

He can’t speak, nothing he does seems to help and all at once, he sits up out of bed. Gasping for air, both hands scratch at his throat and a silent scream raises to no one’s ears. 

A dream. 

It was a dream– a nightmare. 

Peter doesn’t remember crawling into bed and slipping under the covers, he feels foolish, tired, and frustrated at himself. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s dreamt so vividly and woken up shaking, the dreams always start out so innocent in a sense. 

They always start off with Lindsey, sometimes she’s warning him or she’s right beside him, telling him they should turn around and wait for backup. Then they take a turn, Lindsey is nowhere to be found or she’s silent and finally, he can’t breathe. 

The air in his lungs is absent, taken away from him instantly and he can’t do anything. 

It’s always a trap. 

Peter isn’t sure if he wants to go tomorrow. 

I’ll be seein’ you tomorrow, sweetheart. 

Peter isn’t sure if he wants to see his sweetheart tomorrow. If anything, his sweetheart told him to stay away and now, he’s thinking about heeding his warning. 

Maybe. 

Maybe he should listen to dream Lindsey and cut town while he can, but he won’t. He’s far too loyal to leave Lindsey, he’ll be damned to see her in danger without trying to lead her away from it. 

He’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to say goodbye. 

Maybe, all he needs to do is say goodbye for a final time and then he’ll be on his way towards…some other new life where he won’t be constantly waiting for his serial killer sweetheart to come back and swoon him off of his feet with bloodied hands, a scared crooked smile on his face. 

Though he should be repulsed by the thought, a small smile is present on Peter’s face and his shoulders relax, comforted by a phony and insane daydream. 

Peter hopes to keep his focus for tomorrow. 

Who knows? 

Maybe a conjugal visit with Mark Hoffman wouldn’t be so bad after the case is closed, it could play out like some of Peter’s favorite daydreams, and they could just…exist with one another. 

Maybe tomorrow won’t be so bad. 

Peter just has to make it through tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

Peter couldn’t think his pulse could race this fast, his heart to beat against his ribs like a falsely imprisoned man pounding his fist on a wall that won’t crumble. He didn’t think he could feel so nervous anymore, not after going completely awol with Mark Hoffman for what could’ve been forever if he didn’t “chicken-out” after a month or so. 

It was the quickest and longest month of his life, a flicker of time really, that left him with permanent scars and lingering memories of someone he’s only seen with eyes. 

Someone who’ll never be seen again, well, maybe by Peter’s eyes. 

Someone who shares the same scars, memories, and feelings as he does. 

Someone who deserves to be locked away forever. 

If Peter could go back to that month and run away with his soon-to-be-found-out serial killer sweetheart, he would. 

Peter should seriously work on listening to his gut feeling. 

“You ready?” Lindsey asks after a moment of silence passes through them, she hoped riding with Peter would invoke some kind of “lightbulb” moment in him and she wouldn’t have to worry about who’s side he’s on. 

She knows he’ll make the right choice. 

His refusal to look in her direction and clearing of his throat doesn’t soothe her nerves or worries. She waits for his answer before putting her car into drive. It'll be an excruciating  ride but for all the wrong reasons and she silently scolds herself for pulling him back in.

“No,” he says after a few minutes, still refusing to look over and she finds him staring out at the passing buildings. “But I don’t have much of a choice.” 

A displeased sigh follows his delayed response, Lindsey isn’t sure if it's towards her or himself and after taking a quick glance at Peter’s folded up frame, she’s sure it’s towards himself. Whenever he’s displeased or anxious about something, Peter’s right hand always seems to twitch and it’s one of his giveaways about how he truly feels about something, Lindsey picked up on it a few months into their partnership. 

She would’ve never thought that they would be here in a million years. 

She never would’ve thought about questioning Peter’s loyalty towards her or his ability to distinguish right from wrong, she wouldn’t have thought he’d tear himself apart for a Jigsaw accomplice. 

“I’m sorry.” he confesses, sniffling shortly after. 

“I know.” she says even though it’s an empty apology and everything he says now will mean absolutely nothing the moment he looks into those cold blue eyes of his imprisoned lover. 

They both seem to be in a prison of their own. 

No words are exchanged between the two, Lindsey glances over from time to time but it’s really to make sure Peter’s hand is still balled in his lap and not on the door handle, she’d hate to watch him make such a fool of himself. Though she knows he’s too loyal to flee, not when a face-to-face meeting is on the agenda. 

It’s only when Lindsey puts her car into park and sees that they’re a little earlier than she expected, Peter mutters an excuse and opens his door, stepping out into the cool air. She saw the pack of Marlboros in his jacket pocket earlier but decided to leave it at that, he deserves to have some kind of savior if he can’t have the man behind bars that he so desperately wants to be with. 

Lindsey waits for a few minutes, trying to decide if it’s too late to put the case on someone else and if it’s possible to change careers on such short notice. She doesn’t get to ponder about it for long, Peter’s already back in the passenger seat and seems about as anxious as he was throughout the ride over. 

“You were right.” Lindsey announces, staring out at all the other parked cars.

Peter sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Lindsey, I haven’t been right about anything in a long time.” He pauses for a second and gives her a confused look. “Do I want to know what I’m right about?” 

“The support groups. We didn’t find anyone new or suspicious, no Jigsaw wannabes.”

Peter shakes his head at her friendly jab but he can’t hide the small smile on his face, it doesn’t last for long when a thought suddenly pops into his head. 

“Consistency.” 

“What?” 

“Did you get a list of who comes and goes? When did the meetings start? After what game?” 

Lindsey is taken aback by Peter’s string of questions but she’s sure he’s onto something. 

It could be nothing or it could lead to something–someone. 

“Yeah, I can get a list.” She pulls out her notepad and scribbles down a reminder before turning back to Peter. “What are you thinking? Consistency?” 

“Kramer’s work was consistent in the beginning, when it was all his doing and it started to stray when he picked up the other two, leaving them to their own devices when they saw fit. They each have a distinct style.” 

Lindsey nods in understanding, John Kramer always gave people a way out and rehabilitation could be achieved. He believed that there was method in his madness, he’d experienced it himself and wanted everyone else to seek it when their time came. He was living proof and so was his first known accomplice. 

Amanda Young rigged traps, either because of blackmail or her belief that nobody could truly be rehabilitated. She’d been tested multiple times herself and seemed to be in the line of succession until she strayed away from Kramer’s ideals and expectations. She failed her final test and it landed her in an early grave along with her savior.

Mark Hoffman, on the other hand, sought out justice for his late sister because the system he’d been a part of for more than 20 years let her murderer out on a technicality. The justice system couldn’t fail him if he took matters into his own hands and made it look like a Jigsaw trap, he only failed when John Kramer sought him out and blackmailed him into becoming his second unknown accomplice. Hoffman’s early traps weren’t rigged per say but his test subjects were close to home and by the end of his reign, he’d become someone he would’ve warned his sister about. 

The problem with the two known accomplices was their inability to stay consistent with Jigsaw’s philosophy once John Kramer had to step away and became bedridden. 

“We’re looking for someone who’s consistent enough with Kramer’s plans to the point of indistinction. Someone who had more time with him and really understood what he wanted to do.” 

“Someone who would take the time to look into the support groups and track progress…to make sure it isn’t all for nothing.” Lindsey pauses as she puts everything together and writes it down. “Someone who’s consistent in attendance!” 

“Right.” Peter says, nodding with enthusiasm at Lindsey. 

He knew it wouldn’t take long for her to understand where he was coming from, he just hopes that it won’t lead her to someone who’s already behind bars or to someone who’s unwilling to talk. 

“This is great Peter, really.” Lindsey’s gaze flickers from Peter and to the clock, a frown quickly over takes her short lived joy about finding a possible lead. 

Sadly, it was time to lead Peter into the lion’s den and dangle him like bait, though Lindsey is sure he doesn’t see it like that. 

Lindsey isn’t sure how Peter sees it. 

She doesn’t say anything while opening her door and Peter follows her lead, they don’t speak much after that. 

Instead of hiding behind two-way glass, he’s already sitting in the same cold metal chair from before and waits in agony for his sweetheart. He feels queasy, his heart races and he tries to calm down but he can feel Lindsey’s eyes on him. She’s staring at him with concern and empathy, her hand fidgets with the thin gold chain around her neck. 

“Ten minutes.” She tells him, glancing towards the door that’ll lead the second accomplice towards this room and into his line of sight. “After that, he means nothing and we have to get somewhere.” 

Peter hesitantly nods as if he has much choice, he’s grateful for Lindsey’s patience but he doesn’t want to take it for granted. She’s close to her limit, he thinks, but she’s always been one to try and make things easier for Peter because he’s always making it harder for himself. 

She exits through the door they came in and pauses while looking into the room by the square glass window, carefully watching as Peter’s stiff frame becomes slightly relaxed when a loud buzz cuts into uncomfortable silence. She leaves the window when Hoffman’s gaze meets hers and leaves with a curt nod as if she’s giving him permission to be in the same room as Peter. 

It doesn’t take long for Peter’s once squared shoulders to slump, for his hands to slightly move towards Mark’s cuffed ones, and for both men to lean in. They aren’t touching yet, very close and apprehensive, no mutters or murmurs. 

Both stare at the other’s hands, looking for any new signs of change and when they come up with nothing, Peter’s left pinky lightly grazes Mark’s right one. 

An unsure gesture if anything at all, but it’s rewarded with a quiet hum from Mark. 

“I didn’t think you would show up.” He says, still staring at their shy gesture of affection. 

Peter scoffs, “I told you I’d see you tomorrow, Sweetheart. ” 

A small crooked smile appears on Mark’s face at the term of endearment, Peter would love nothing more than to frame this moment forever if he could. 

If he could only live in these ten minutes for the rest of his life. 

“You ever thought about committin’ a felony?” Mark blurts out and he isn’t even looking at Peter to see the bewilderment on his face. “It’d make things a lot easier between us.” 

Peter nervously laughs and stares in disbelief, he shakes his head at the thought of the two of them sharing a cell together. Not out of distaste but he knows they’d be separated at all costs, Lindsey would see to that. 

“Committing felonies isn't on my bucket list and I don’t think that’ll go over well with Lindsey.” 

Mark sighs and looks up at Peter with a pout playing on his lips. His outgrown bangs rest on his forehead and it only adds to his boy next door bravado he seems to be pulling on Peter, who would love to give Mark what he wants. 

“Not even a small one?” 

Peter rolls his eyes and shakes his head at Mark’s attempt to persuade him to commit a felony so they could possibly serve their sentences together. They both know he’s too much of an outstanding citizen to try. 

Mark huffs in annoyance but his crooked smile makes it impossible for Peter to know if he’s truly annoyed, he knows Peter’s too smart to fall for his tricks and charm. 

Still, their pinky fingers are hooked together and both of their fingers itch to be interlaced with one another, it’s just a matter of who wants to take the lead next.

So many things to do and say with such little time to act.

Peter wonders if it’s been five minutes yet, if their time is almost up and they’ll have to go back to being nothing at all. 

“What do you do now?” Mark mumbles, he removes his pinky from Peter’s and flips the other’s hand, starting to lightly trace the lines of his palm.

Peter is confused at first but he comes to the realization that Lindsey would’ve kept any and all details of his post-retirement life away from Mark, so he couldn’t meddle his way back into Peter’s life. He should lie and tell Mark he’s having a wonderful time relaxing, that he’s picked up a random hobby like bird watching or crochet. 

He should tell Mark nothing of substance. 

“I work at a bookstore.” He says stiffly. “I shelve books and read when I’m done. It’s…comfortable.” 

Peter isn’t the best liar.

Mark hums thoughtfully at Peter’s response, his eyebrows slightly raise up and he nods as if he knew Peter would have ended up working at a bookstore. He doesn’t ask anymore questions and he seems more focused on tracing the lines of Peter’s palm, inspecting his left hand really. 

Peter watches him carefully, only glancing towards the window to see if Lindsey is watching their moment with a hateful glare but the window remains vacant. 

“Are you trying to read my palm or something?” 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“I don’t know how to read palms, Peter.” 

“Then what are you–” 

Two knocks on the window makes both of them draw their hands back and straighten back up, Peter’s head snaps towards the sound. Lindsey is back in the window, she mouths two to him and holds up two fingers just to make sure he understands that their time is almost up. 

She’s giving them their two minute warning. 

He nods and she’s out of his sight once again, ten minutes isn’t enough time for anything at all. 

For a moment they stare at each other once more, unable to speak with the knowledge that their time is coming to an end and they’ll be back in respective restraints. 

It’s worrisome and painful, a harsh pill to swallow when reality strikes back and you have to remember just how dangerous the one you love truly is. 

When you have to remember current circumstances and drag out old skeletons, reopen a wound and understand that it’ll never be the same as before. 

Peter wonders if the underlying feeling of dread washing over him is similar to how Mark felt when he was tested, unable to know how much time is on the clock. 

He wants to say something meaningful and significant, a confession of his love doesn’t feel right and gets stuck in his throat. He isn’t sure if Mark would’ve believed him or would’ve said it back, he isn’t sure if he believes it himself. 

“I trust you.” He whispers, looking elsewhere when the sad truth hits the other’s ears. 

Peter watches as Mark’s jaw clenches and his eyes glaze over. He turns his head and looks away from Peter, it seems painful for him to be in this room. 

“You shouldn’t.” Mark says, voice quiet and strained. 

He opens his mouth to continue but is cut off by Lindsey’s entrance, he promptly shuts it and stays silent. 

If Peter could, he would shoo Lindsey out of the room so his curiosity could be soothed by whatever Mark was about to say but sadly, they have a difficult job to do. 

It’ll be a long few hours. 

~

Peter felt he was in a continuous loop, he’d been here once before and though he hadn’t thought about Mark’s lengthy history in a while, he wished he could’ve sat this one out. 

He couldn’t fill his role as a human lie detector if Mark wasn’t trying to lie at all, shockingly, he cooperated to his best ability.

Again, Peter wondered why he was around in the first place if Lindsey was only going to get her timeline in order and approved by Mark Hoffman himself. 

Of course there were times when Mark would choose his words carefully, his response depended heavily on what he knew and how much he’d already contributed to in his original statement. 

All of his responses were similar to the notes Lindsey already made, from what others had gathered and put together. 

It was routine. 

A safe route traveled more than once, no room for surprise or doubt of any kind and it only bored Peter. 

It bored Peter up until Lindsey brought up the support groups at the last second, she had something of a hunch if he had to guess. 

“What do you know about the Jigsaw survivor support groups? Anyone from there tried to reach out to you?” 

A brief second passes where Mark seems caught, he pauses and very quickly recovers with a shake of his head. 

“Nothin’ that isn’t already written down. Bobby Dagen and his team are the only ones I knew about.” He shrugs. “We all know how that went.” 

Peter could tell Lindsey was unsatisfied with his answer but she didn’t back down so easily, she needed to bring something back or it was all for nothing. 

A waste of time. 

“Lawrence Gordon. What do you know about him?” 

Again, he shrugs and pushes past the question with a vague answer. 

“Can’t say that I know him at all, before my time.” 

“Right. So you wouldn’t know that he’s been consistently showing up at meetings even before Bobby Dagen was caught?” Lindsey pauses, waiting for a response she knows won’t lead her anywhere. “Sure, his game was a little bit before you joined but he couldn’t have been forgotten so easily. He won after all, didn’t he?” 

Mark narrows his eyes at her, curious and eager to see what she’s trying to get him to confess. 

“Yeah, he won.” He agrees while leaning forward as if he’s about to tell a secret only for her to hear. “He won and instead of pitying himself, he started those groups to give people who are just like him, somethin’ to look forward too. He’s a doctor isn’t he? His job is to help people and heal their wounds, maybe he’s just makin’ light of a bad situation.” 

Lindsey’s jaw clenches at Mark’s words, all he’s done is thrown the situation right back at her and gave her absolutely nothing to work with.  

Everything he said is true, nothing out of the ordinary if she thinks about the oath Gordon took up as a doctor. 

Still, she’s left with nothing but a sour taste in her mouth. 

Peter stays quiet while she hastily gathers her papers and watches as she gets up, leaving them alone once more. 

Before he can say anything, the door opens again and Lindsey glares at him from the open door. 

“We’re leaving. Now. ” She tells him. 

Though he doesn’t want to, Peter slowly gets up from his seat and takes a longing look at the man before him. 

So many things he could say, very little options left in his hand and he feels that a nod is the right thing to do. 

The only way he could say goodbye without embarrassing himself and ruining Lindsey’s reputation. 

He doesn’t hear a word from Mark, not a joke or a mutter as he walks out of the door and tries to keep up with a very frustrated Lindsey. 

She doesn’t say a single word to him, not when they exit or even on the way back to his apartment. She doesn’t look at him or say goodbye as he gets out, he watches from the sidewalk as she drives away. 

Peter doesn’t know what he could’ve done, what he should’ve said and how he needed to pressure Mark into confessing…something he doesn’t have a clue about. Still, he felt that he let Lindsey down again, all he did was sit there silently and waited for an inconsistent detail but nothing presented itself. 

He wonders if that conjugal visit is still on the table, probably not after almost aiding and abetting a felon with his unhelpfulness. 

It’ll only be a matter of time before Lindsey calls him, he doesn’t think she should apologize at all and if anything at all, he should be the one apologizing to her. 

He’s really dropped the ball on this one.

Well, there’s always next time, he thinks. 

Now all he has to do is wait for his phone to ring and hope that Lindsey isn’t too exasperated with him to give yet another chance. 

Peter has gotten better at waiting, it can’t be that hard when her investigation is still ongoing and he’s her only bargaining chip. 

He’ll wait and wait even if it drives him insane. 

He’s willing to wait for whoever comes to collect him first. 

He’s willing to bet on Lindsey, seeing as though she isn’t behind bars and a relatively wonderful human being but Mark can be quite the surprise. 

Peter is going to have to wait and play a damsel in distress it seems. 

Who’s going to save him first? 

Hopefully, it’ll be the man who stole his wedding ring right off of his finger this morning.

Chapter Text

A week or so has passed since Peter’s last interaction with Lindsey. She hasn’t made any attempts at reaching out, not a call or a text to check in.

Radio silence from both ends. 

Even though it’s likely his fault for her reluctance to communicate with him, he’s done nothing to further her investigation whatsoever, Peter’s made the choice to give her space and wait it out. 

She can’t stay mad at him forever. 

Right? 

Their friendship has been nothing but tumultuous since Peter disappeared for a month or so, it really couldn’t have been that long. Then again, the concept of time became tricky for him since Detective Kerry became their liaison and his whirlwind entanglement with Mark Hoffman became more than a distraction. 

It couldn’t be pinned on him straight on, he wasn’t aware that Lindsey was being protected and hidden after her one-on-one with that damn puppet. 

He likes to chalk his actions up to an overwhelming feeling of grief during that time, he was drowning without Lindsey and Mark happened to be his makeshift lifesaver. 

You’d be surprised what tools can save a life.

Well, you’d be surprised who could save your life. 

Peter wouldn’t say he thinks about that time fondly but he wouldn’t say he abhors it either, it seemed to be somewhat of a balance. 

What could he have done in a situation like that? 

Risk losing the game or risk his life? 

The stakes were far too high, he didn’t think about what would happen afterwards…he didn’t think at all. 

“Wait!” 

He can still hear the rushed and frantic command leave Mark’s lips, his outstretched arm waiting to catch the glass door just before Peter slammed it shut and locked him a box full of glittering, jagged, pieces of glass. Sure, he was just as surprised as the man already in the box but he listened nonetheless and kept a firm grip on the edge of the door, he held all the power in his hand to slam it shut. 

He couldn’t stand it, the poor look on Mark’s beaten face and amusement– fondness Peter caught in his eyes. 

It felt sickening, waiting while they both filled their lungs with air and recuperated. 

A standoff, impatient and full of warning. 

“Get in.” 

A stare full of disbelief against one full of yearning and hope. 

“No, you fucking psycho.” 

A snarl against pleading eyes watching a loss in the making, cheating with the hopes of a better outcome for both players. 

“Peter–” 

“No! Give me one good God damn reason why I shouldn’t slam this door right now.”

A pause, it’s too good to be true. 

“Son of a bitch, talk to me!” 

“Get in or it’s over. I– a pen won’t save you this time.” 

Another pause and a twitch of fingers. 

When the door finally slams shut, Peter’s far too close for comfort and his accumulated claustrophobia kicks in. 

The rest is history as far as he’s concerned, forgotten and collecting dust in the back of his mind. Even if he tends to clean it from time to time, it has a space of its own and lingers in on every waking thought of his. 

He’ll never forget how solid Mark’s body felt under his own. 

How his hands had multiple cuts and small pieces of glass in it.

How long it took for him to relax and lay on top of Mark, hearing his displeased groans and sounds of glass clinking into his back. 

In that moment of raw and painful relief, they couldn’t have been closer together. 

In an excruciating embrace. 

Exposed and bleeding, Mark’s arms clutched around Peter while he rubbed his face against a scratchy sweater. Peter figured the pain was a distraction, a repercussion and reprimand, Mark deliberately and desperately went against the rules to avoid losing him. 

He failed and cheated to keep Peter alive. 

Peter started to think how Mark was always on the losing side and for the first time, he’d won. Painfully and utterly bleeding from his backside but he wasn’t a loser this time, he was going to walk away with a prize. 

It must’ve felt good to win after such a long losing streak. 

Peter wondered if he would ever feel that way again, if they would wordlessly hold each other, suffocate with the other’s scent and skin. If they could be bonded again, stuck in a descending coffin made for two with no plan or agenda except for existing together and saving each other. 

It was far from relaxing, awkward and full of shame once they stumbled out of each other’s arms and went back to being separate beings with too many responsibilities. After an experience like that, it was hard to continue their game of chase when they both had more fun in each other’s vicinity instead of being apart. 

At that point, realization, Peter decided to stay instead of fleeing once he was able to. He couldn’t exactly resurface so quickly when the entire FBI thought he already turned heel and joined team Jigsaw for a relatively solid reason, it made enough sense for Erickson. 

Still he didn’t know what to say during that fleeting moment of time, Mark carefully bandaged and cleaned Peter’s hands so he could pick out the remnants of glass stuck in his back, it didn’t seem to be such a bad deal. It felt a little unfair to him, Mark could always hide his scars and forget it even happened because he couldn’t see them. Though Peter could’ve worn gloves for the rest of his life and blamed it on being a germaphobe, his scars were faint and few and most of the time he didn’t register them at all. He wondered if Mark wished he could see his own, if he wanted to trace them for the sake of remembering how light Peter’s touch was. 

The sudden shift didn’t bother him much, if anything he felt more at peace and home while stuck in Mark’s house. The place was quiet and private, no noisy neighbors or random bumps in the night from drunk adults trying to remember which apartment was theirs. 

It felt perfect for a few weeks, sleeping and waking up next to Mark without arguing who needed to walk into the precinct first to lower suspicion. Waiting to hear his car pull up, his footsteps on the porch and the key jingle in the lock, a curse when he missed it. A shut of the front door, a stupid and sweet call out for Peter if he wasn’t occupying the couch with a book. A peck or a touch, some sort of physical contact to remind each other that they weren’t dreaming or hallucinating the other, a reassurance and comfort. 

Their own solitude, a place untouched by outsiders and full of each other to the point of constant need. Obsessive and fervent, withdrawals would’ve been fatal if Peter’s loyalty to Lindsey didn’t outweigh his love for Mark.  

Shocking and hurtful, painful and sudden resentment towards the man he was considering being on the lam for, who he was already fully committed to. 

If he could, Peter would’ve run away and never looked back with Mark. 

At least then, he could be rotting in the same place as his lover instead of watching him from afar with faked distaste and regret. 

At least then, he wouldn’t feel so lonely and bored to the point of wishing for something to happen, for someone to come and swoop him up. 

A silly dream and wonderful lie to live by, it consumed almost every waking thought of his to the point where reading books really meant staring in between words on a page, romanticising a life that would never flourish. 

Half the time it made him sick, stomach full of knots and bubbling regret. His hands would slightly tremble, nothing too serious for alarms but enough to register once in a while.

The other half it made him relax, warm and pleased while he lazed around with only his thoughts to keep company.

“Excuse me, do you have a self-help section?” 

Startled, Peter looked up from his page and met dead blue eyes. The shade of blue couldn’t be that different from Mark’s but it held no life, it felt desolate and bare. 

It didn’t take long for Peter to recognize who was in front of him, he hadn’t met the doctor in person but after becoming well acquainted with his photo, the recognition was instant. 

Dr. Lawrence Gordon is standing in front of Peter. 

Quickly clearing his throat, Peter points towards the third row of shelves and mutters, “Second row from the bottom. We don’t have many options.” 

A pleased smile crosses the doctor’s face as if he was expecting Peter’s short and somewhat helpful answer. He nods and leaves Peter at the front of the store, he takes note of Gordon’s slight limp just to make sure he isn’t someone else. 

Peter hopes this isn’t some sort of new recruitment opportunity, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s been kidnapped on the job but he doesn’t think that’s quite his style. He decided to stay put, trailing behind the only customer in the store felt too weird and by the time he looked up again from his book, two other customers walked in. 

Two college kids probably, a blonde and a brunette, who seemed up to no good until they caught sight of Gordon and promptly straightened up. 

Peter knew it was strange, the three of them had some sort of…relationship of some kind almost like they knew each other and were horribly trying to hide it. 

He quietly chuckled to himself, rolling his eyes at the thought of Gordon having his own apprentices if he was pulling the strings all this time. 

Well, Peter thought it was funny until his own words started to ring in his head. 

Whoever it is has been trained with enough precision to avoid mistakes.

They have to be a survivor, someone who’s already been tested and lived.

To be recruited, you have to play at least a single game and live to tell the tale.

Peter stills, maybe Mark was telling the truth but he didn’t catch it and Lindsey didn’t think his answer held any truth at all. 

He won and instead of pitying himself, he started those groups to give people who are just like him, somethin’ to look forward too. He’s a doctor isn’t he? His job is to help people and heal their wounds, maybe he’s just makin’ light of a bad situation.

Sure, Gordon’s specialty is oncology but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have a doctorate in John Kramer’s twisted ideals on self-help and rehabilitation. He just needs a motive, a joining action that would explain why Gordon would even agree to work with Kramer and continue his gruesome legacy. 

He needs to find a cause, a piece of undeniable evidence and probably let Lindsey know what he’s come up with. 

He needs to find a way to keep Gordon coming back and he needs to do it fast, his target is finding his way towards the exit, silent and unnerving. 

“Didn’t find anything you liked?” Peter asked before Gordon’s gloved hand could push the door open. 

“No, I’m afraid not.” He replies, pausing his motion to give full attention towards Peter and maybe to signal to the other two that they better wrap up whatever spying they're supposed to be doing. 

“Come back next week? We’re getting a new shipment and maybe something will meet your standards.” Peter lies, they haven’t gotten any shipments in the last month but if Gordon knew he was lying, he didn’t show it. 

The man’s poker face was good, he had to admit.

He nods and smiles, taking one last look at Peter before pushing the door open. 

It makes Peter shiver and not too long after that his two minions follow him out. 

Peter figures he has a handful of options, few that make sense and those that are irrational. One that should be at the top of his list but he hasn’t been much of a rule follower in a long while, after seeing as much as he has, rules make little sense when multiple lives are on the line, including your own. 

A phone call is efficient when you have wanted information but his hunch wouldn’t be any good if it leads to nothing. 

Yet, he couldn’t go off on his own and hope that Lindsey finds a way to see what he saw, make the same connections he did. 

He felt it was time to go and see his jailbird, he couldn’t help but miss his songs full of horrific truth and sweet nothings. 

If anything, a visit would soothe his worries and perhaps smooth over everything left unsaid when Lindsey interrupted their exchange of truths.

Peter can’t wait to hear his jailbird sing.

Chapter Text

Peter had a bad feeling in his stomach, something similar to how it feels when you already know the outcome of a situation but you continue to go through with your plan anyway and still come up short. 

His stomach slowly started to churn the moment he sat down in the driver's seat like his body was telling him it was a waste of gas and time if he went to visit Mark. 

Still, he persisted and drove with sweaty hands, he wasn’t going to leave without an answer. 

I’m sorry sir, but he’s unable to meet with anyone. 

Peter didn’t have the heart to argue, it felt as though the words spoken cracked his ribs open and pulled it out of his chest. 

Sure, Mark wasn’t one to let people walk all over him so his visitation privileges being taken away didn’t sound strange but the sympathetic look in the women’s eyes as she spoke to him in a hushed tone made it sound like his jailbird wasn’t in the best of health. 

The entire walk back to his car, Peter tried to think of signs of sickness or anything that seemed off but he came up with nothing and felt helpless. 

What could he do? 

He couldn’t bullshit his way through the system even if he brought out his expired badge and cleaned himself up, he couldn’t lie through his teeth if his anxieties continued to slip past his facade. No amount of sweet talking would work, he certainly isn’t the charmer in his relationship. 

Peter sighed as he ran through every stupid answer he came up with when he knew there was only one person who could possibly have a clue as to what was going on with his jailbird. 

He wished that wasn’t the case. 

Against the sour taste on his tongue, his finger hovered over the call button and he started at Lindsey’s name with regret. He knows she’ll hear the false care in his voice as he tries to make small talk, her excitement will decrease and she’ll flat out call him out for wasting her time. 

Still, Peter thinks he’s a better liar over the phone. 

“Hey, I was just thinking about you.” Lindsey says, her voice full of warmth and relief. 

Peter wonders if she’s finally able to relax now, maybe he shouldn’t have called at all. 

“Good things I hope.” He says, hoping it comes off as friendly instead of halfheartedly. 

Lindsey hums in agreement, “Always.” 

The silence stretches between them, he wonders if she has a sixth sense of where he’s calling her from and if she’ll make some excuse to end the call early. Grey clouds started to move in, making the entire sky gloomy and depressing. Peter figures it’ll start to rain soon and he should make his way back home, he’s about to open his mouth to say his own excuse but Lindsey has plans of her own. 

“Come over for dinner.” She tells him. “I’ll order from that one Chinese place and we’ll talk over those fried dumplings you like?” 

Lindsey phrases it like a question but Peter knows he doesn’t have much of a choice, if he wants even a sliver of an answer, he’ll have to play best friend as best as he can and hope that it’ll pay off. 

“Sounds great, I’ll see you then.” Peter hung up before he could hear Lindsey’s goodbye. 

Peter used to wonder how he got himself in these situations but he’s never been able to truly think about how his actions have consequences and how those consequences always seem to come back and bite him in the ass. 

It’s only dinner, it shouldn’t be that hard for him to pretend to be his old self. 

Peter knows he’s severely fucked with a shitty hand but he’s going all in and hoping that his poker face is enough to get him by. 

The drive back into the city wasn’t exactly horrible, the rain started as a drizzle and seemed to calm Peter’s nerves. He didn’t mind the morose weather and though his jacket was mildly soaked by the time he made it to Lindey's front door, he still hadn’t come up with anything to say besides, where is he? I know you know exactly where he is. 

Peter definitely needs to work on his people skills if he wants to keep his one and only friend on his side, then he’ll truly be all alone. 

Before he got to the door, Peter passed the delivery guy and wished it were him that was hastily leaving instead of walking into his own trap, built by his own incompetence. 

He didn’t have time to think about it much longer, he didn’t realize he knocked until Lindsey opened the door and ushered him inside with a fortune cookie in her hand. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t like going over to Lindsey’s apartment, he used to find refuge in a place that was a reflection of herself and everything she found comfort in. Picture frames on most of the walls, at least one on every desk, clutter here and there but never too much to feel overwhelming. 

Her home was lively and inviting but overwhelming to him, it felt as though he was trying to fit in somewhere he didn’t belong. 

A ghost haunting a home they used to inhabit, familiar in many ways but uncomfortable and undeniably wishing for a way out. 

Peter’s steps started to falter behind Lindey’s when he caught a glimpse of a picture of the two of them at one of the banquets they were required to attend, he hated going long before he met Lindsey but she made them tolerable towards the end. 

To his surprise, Peter felt himself stop and stare at their smiling faces. 

It felt foreign to him, seeing a smile on his face and relaxed stature, he wondered how much of that feeling was real and how much of it was from the drinks. He couldn’t exactly date the picture which could be a very concerning factor but Lindsey was always around to fill in missing gaps, even if he hadn’t asked what they were missing. 

“Fall Graduation Banquet.” She says with an abundance of reminiscence and warmth. 

Simpler times. 

“We accidentally matched and everyone thought something was going on between us.” 

Peter rolls his eyes and shakes his head but a small smile is present on his face, how could he forget the looks they’d gotten all night. 

“Green is a very common graduation color.” 

“Sure but I remember you distinctly telling me you were going to wear a blue tie.” 

“Yeah, yeah and I told you that I couldn’t find it.” He says, trying to remember if this accidental matching stunt was one of the last straws in his latest marriage. “At least we looked like partners.” 

Lindsey hummed and lingered by Peter’s side for a beat longer, who was still staring at the captured happiness in such a small piece of paper. It made him wonder where all of Mark’s photos are, if he had to go through the same boring and unnecessary gatherings with only a small piece of paper capturing an insignificant moment. 

Were his smiles practiced or genuine? 

Peter wondered if they could– no , he shouldn’t be thinking about him right now. 

Thankfully, Peter’s stomach growls and saves him from his embarrassing thoughts, his wonders of meaningless what ifs. 

~

“How was I supposed to know that she was going to show up wearing the same blazer? I mean, sure, it was funny for a first date but I think it kinda creeped her out.” 

Peter halfheartedly smiles while picking at his cold noodles, it isn’t Lindsey’s fault they’ve lost their heat but as soon as he sat down it was like his hunger dissipated into thin air and he felt nothing at all. 

Maybe he should look into that, when was the last time he’s had a full meal? 

Months , he thinks, it’s been months. 

“I knew I should’ve gotten you fried rice.” She says, commenting on Peter’s uneaten noodles as if that would make a difference to his overall untouched plate. “You didn’t really like the noodles last time anyway.” 

Lindsey frowns and it feels like a punishment to Peter, he should’ve just ate instead of picking at unappetizing noodles. 

“Don’t worry about it,” He says, pushing his plate away. “I had a big lunch.” 

She doesn’t ask, rather she changes the subject by pushing an unopened fortune cookie towards him, 

“I know you don’t believe that a cookie can give you a sign but they gave me an extra one so please humor me, Peter.” 

Peter sighs but reaches for the cookie, he could play along for some extra points. 

“Fine, just this once.” 

Lindsey seems pleased and they both set off on unwrapping the cookies of their clear prisons, two cracks and crumbles of dry cookies are heard. Peter waits for Lindsey to pull out the bright piece of white paper, he prays that her fortune is good and something along the lines of: Best friends tell best friends why their murderous boyfriends are unable to meet or A conjugal visit is in your best friend's future. 

You know, the normal fortunes found these tiny cookies. 

“A treasured friend will visit soon.” She reads, smiling halfway through her speech and flipping over the slip of paper. “Maybe I should’ve opened this before you got here and it would’ve been a better surprise.”

Peter shrugs and Lindsey makes a get on with it gesture with her hand, she’s always been a sucker for fortunes. 

Peter thinks the crumbly cookie is out to get him, words on a tiny slip of paper can seem so daunting once they're revealed but maybe he’s thinking a little too much about it. 

“Don’t be afraid to take a chance when the opportunity of a lifetime appears.” He has to clear his throat before continuing with a mumbled, “What does that even mean?” 

Lindsey takes a moment to ponder Peter’s fortune dilemma, she tilts her head and reaches up to mess with her golden chain. 

“Maybe it means that you should take a chance and see where it takes you. You’ve been kind of…off and maybe it’s a sign to go somewhere else. See where life takes you.” 

Peter knows she’s only trying to help but the idea of leaving sounds impossible and crude, hell would have to freeze over before he leaves. 

“I can’t just pick up and leave.” Peter is starting to feel a little panicky, his throat is doing that thing where it feels tight and it's hard to speak.

Lindsey frowns, “I’m not saying picking up and leaving but maybe some time away would be good for you. You haven’t exactly spent your retirement in a… retired way.” 

I’m supposed to be right here, he thinks, if life wanted me to be anywhere else then I would be there . 

He doesn’t answer and crumbles the tiny slip of paper, if he could burn it he would. 

Uncomfortable silence hangs above their heads and slowly rains down, Peter should’ve brought his umbrella. 

Maybe this was his cue to leave, if he could bullshit his way past this unbearable silence and make it back in one piece, he’ll be able to ponder about Mark’s disappearance all on his own. 

A beat passes before he speaks. 

“It’s getting late–” 

“I’m off the case.” 

It takes a moment for the statement to register, when it does, his heart starts to race. 

“What?” He says worriedly, looking at Lindsey in complete disbelief. 

“I’m off the case, Peter.” She repeats. “I…I was too close and I wasn’t bringing anything new to the table.” 

Of course, he thinks, of course this is just my luck. 

He takes a moment, trying to find the words and formulate a much friendlier response than the one threatening to slip from his mouth. 

“What are you going to do now?” He asks anxiously. 

He hopes Lindsey will answer with a “I’m not giving up on it just yet, we’ll have to go rogue” but he knows she’s already thrown the towel in. 

“I’m taking some time off.” She states unsteadily, a rehearsed phrase but she wants to mean it. 

Peter doesn’t say anything, he watches as the golden chain rolls between her fingers in an anxious habit. He’s heard this all before, he’s experienced and failed. 

It’s all his fault again. 

“Come with me.” 

A plea, he’s been here before but with much higher stakes than a relaxing vacation. 

“Lindsey-“ 

“Please?” The desperation in her voice startles Peter, her eyes start to shine with the formation of tears and he goes silent, looking away from his jaded friend. 

She takes a deep breath before continuing, she hesitantly reaches out for his hands and covers them with her own. 

Peter knows this is going to be painful. 

“Just,” She pauses, her gaze flickers between their halfhearted gesture of friendship and the scar on Peter’s throat. “Just come with me, okay? We’ll go and get out of here and we won’t look back.” 

Peter stiffens and wants to pull his hands away but he’s frozen in place. 

He doesn’t answer. 

He’s stuck staring at her hands over his own. He can’t help but think of how trapped he feels and how stupid it is to feel that way. 

“I can’t.” He says hoarsely. 

Lindsey pulls her hands away.

She looks tired as if they’ve had this conversation over and over again. 

“You can’t or you won’t?” She asks but she isn’t waiting for an answer–excuse this time. “You can’t keep waiting on him like some…dog, Peter. He isn’t getting out anytime soon and you know that. You know exactly what he’s capable of.” 

Her words sound harsh and nobody ever said the truth is anything but sharp, he just didn’t want to come to terms with what–who he’s become attached to. 

“I don’t understand it. I don’t know what you see in him or what you thought you saw in him. These aren’t just tiny red flags, he’s covered head to toe in red and no amount of rehabilitation will change him.” 

Peter can’t look at Lindsey, she’s only doing her job and looking out for him. 

He’d rather be anywhere but where he is right now and he’s been in a cube made to drown him and a room made to crush him into a mangled mess. 

They don’t sound too bad to him right now, at least then, he’d have a chance of escaping. 

“ You can’t save him. He’s been a lost cause long before the two of you met.” 

Again, Peter says nothing, what could he say? 

Of course not! He just needs help.  

It’s so unbelievable, it almost makes Peter snicker at the thought of it and his lips must’ve tipped up into a small, mistakeable smile. 

Lindsey looks furious when she says, 

“What? You think this is funny? Peter, I don’t–” 

“No, Lindsey, I don’t think it’s funny.” He hears himself say. “None of this is funny and the only thing that's laughable is this. What we’re doing right now.” 

Lindsey is taken aback by his harsh words, she’s stiff and apprehensive. It’s like she’s seeing her best friend in an entirely different light, so blinding that she can’t even see him anymore. 

What’s happened to her dear friend Peter Strahm? 

She decides that she’ll never know. 

“I mean,” He hears himself start to laugh nervously while finishing his thought. “Come on. What did you expect from this? Did you think I’d just up and leave with you? I can’t just pack up and leave. I have…responsibilities.”  

A sense of Deja vu washes over him, he’s had this conversation before and look at where it got him. 

Sure, he still has his freedom and isn’t locked up in a cell but he’s certainly been in a prison of his own since his jailbird was found and caught. What could’ve happened if he’d ran away that day and never looked back? 

They’ll never know. 

“What does he have on you? How did he fix you? Don’t say you haven’t been fixed, you wouldn’t be unintentionally protecting him if you weren’t already.” She scoffs, shaking her head at him. “Responsibilities.” She murmurs under her breath. 

Peter doesn’t say anything, his sudden boldness is gone and he doesn’t know where to go from here. 

Lindsey isn’t going to let this slip through her fingers this time, not anymore. She’s lost enough to that asshole and she isn’t going to give up without a fight this time, the cards are in her hand. 

“What is then, Peter? What makes him so infatuating that you’re willing to lie to me? Is there some magical and redeeming characteristic of him that I’m missing? What makes you want him?” 

What makes you want him? 

What makes you love him?

Peter wished that he knew the answer. 

Frustration rises in Lindsey; she’s been patient long enough and it hasn’t paid off in any shape or form. She’s tired and if she wasn’t so hung up on wanting an answer from her former partner, then she would’ve kicked Peter out a long time ago. 

The frustration is too much for her, he has the same distraught and indescribable hopelessness all across his face she’s seen before in another victim of Jigsaw, Jill Tuck. It’s a tiredness, a lack of understanding because she knew Kramer long before he was Jigsaw, and they kept presenting her with all of the carnage and destruction he’d caused. 

It wasn’t her fault, no not at all. 

She just fell in love with a man capable of bringing so much pain. 

“Talk to me, Peter.” She says steadily at first, but his continued silence makes her snap at him. “Talk to me!” She screams at him. 

Nothing is muttered, Peter just stares at Lindsey, and she isn’t sure if he’s even present. 

I love him but I wish I didn’t.  

He almost whispers though he knows that won’t be enough to get him out of here, he’s made his own chains and locked himself in. He’s willing to die, if that’s what it takes. 

He looks up and meets Lindsey’s gaze, she beyond frustration and disappointment is written on all of her features. 

There beyond repair, he’s severed his only real friendship for a man that isn’t going to step out of a prison cell block for the rest of his life. 

He doesn’t apologize or mumble a rushed goodbye. 

Peter gets up and rushes to leave, before he’s out of the door Lindsey catches up to him and pulls at his wrist. 

“He’s in the infirmary, that’s why you couldn’t see him today.” 

He goes to ask how she would know about his failed visit, but he just nods in understanding, it’s an easier exit if he keeps quiet. 

“I don’t know all the details, but he’ll be out for a few weeks.” 

Again, he nods in appreciation but his thank you dies in his throat at the thought of Mark being hurt and he doesn’t know the severity of his injury or sickness. 

Lindsey lets go of his wrist, she opens her mouth to continue but she shuts the door and prematurely ends what Peter thought was going to resolve their argument. 

While walking back down to his car, he starts to wonder if he’ll ever hear his jailbird sing again, if he’ll ever get the chance to see him living and breathing. 

He assumes the news will be the first to tell him if his jailbird’s neck snaps, if he doesn’t get word from Lindsey. 

The car ride home would’ve soothed Peter if he’d made it, he bumps into two college looking kids in the stairwell and when he turns to apologize, a needle is pressed into his neck. 

Of course, he thinks while the stairwell starts to fade into black, the games are only beginning. 

He doesn’t fight though, a large part of him wants to, he knows this has to be some plot hatched by his jailbird and slips into unconsciousness without a worry.

Chapter Text

It was moments like this where Peter wished he’d taken that scholarship to play baseball at some college he can’t remember the name of because it was in an entirely different part of the country. 

The chance of a lifetime. 

Maybe then the only thing he would’ve had to worry about was further joint pain, muscle aches, and the slim chance of playing in the majors. 

Maybe then, he wouldn’t have woken up chained in an all too familiar steel room and reminded of what went down all that time ago. It was as if this room was untouched, still bare and cold and full of worthless actions. 

Bright lights buzz above, his eyes search for unused oxygen tanks that taunted him once before but now they seem to be gone. 

He doubts the usefulness of such a room without its main translucent piece, it just feels barren and neglected. 

A piece without a purpose. 

Peter didn’t bother with his surroundings, the new addition of a shackle and chain welded to the wall didn’t catch his eye but it was duly noted and uncared for. Well, he didn’t care to try and find an escape route. 

The only way he could think of escaping was impossible, a hacksaw was nowhere in sight and he refused to shatter his ankle to slip out of his chain. With his luck, the door wouldn’t open and he’d have much larger problems to deal with like a broken ankle and an unknown timer counting down his life as long as his blood seeps out of his body. 

Waiting didn’t seem too bad. 

Though, he wishes whoever kidnapped him could’ve given him a book or a pillow. If they’ve been watching him for a while, like most kidnappers do, they should know what could keep him occupied. 

Just something to pass the unknown and immensely long hours of his capture. 

Sure, there was a part of Peter that wanted to scream for help and get the fuck out of where he was but he knew it was futile. 

This wasn’t the first time he’s been in a steel box without a way out. 

This time he just had to wait and hope no one forgot he was occupying a forgotten space. 

Sure, the chance of starvation and dehydration loomed over his head and made his handshake but he still had faith for his– no, he doesn’t get the title that easily. 

Still, being in isolation meant that it was the perfect time to think about all the things he could say and do when they reunite. 

Yes, he knows that they’ll reunite. 

His kidnapping can’t be from someone else’s twisted wants and desires, he knows this comes from a place of familiarity and…some sort of affection. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures. 

Peter started to think that words wouldn’t be enough for true understanding, he definitely needed to physically handle this situation if anything was going to be said. He wasn’t going to kill the man but if an embrace turned into a wrestling match, well, Peter thinks he deserved a few free shots if this relationship was going to last at all. 

How was this going to work? He wondered. 

What was going to happen once he was out of this chain, this cold and bare room? 

There was no way in hell they could stay in the states, which begs the bigger question of how would they get out of the country? 

Peter hopes their fleeing country destination is somewhere hot and remote, somewhere like Spain or Greece, a place where they could live on a tiny island and rarely interact with people. 

He hopes there isn’t a chance in hell they’d end up in fucking Alaska. 

Even thinking about it now makes him shiver but maybe that’s from the lack of heat in the steel cage he’s currently rotting away in. 

Once, there was a time in Peter’s life where all he wanted to do was travel around and see the world for what it really was, a vastness full of people and sights to see. The only problem with that was his profession and its way of turning every single trip into some kind of grim and tiring expedition. 

Hopefully in some other life, he doesn’t have to see such morbid sights and lives in a relatively quiet place. 

If only he made better choices and didn’t fall into a meticulously planned trap, he could’ve been drinking a beer on some exotic island in the middle of nowhere. 

Peter wonders how close he is to the finish line, if there was even one to begin with, and if he truly wants his prize or if it was some kind of phony desire. 

What if, when he’s in the same vicinity without any restrictions of any kind, he doesn’t want to see his jailbird? 

What if all of this yearning and loneliness is what he’s meant for? 

What if he’s only been in love with a feeling and not the person attached? 

What if it’s all for nothing? 

Well, he doesn’t get to spiral under the bright buzzing lights for long when the steel door swings open and he’s met with a familiar pig mask staring at him. He tries not to show any type of fear but the moment he starts to move towards him, his back straightens up and backs into the cold wall. 

Refusing to close his eyes, he watches carefully and doesn’t understand what his purpose is, nor does he hold anything of importance. 

He doesn't get close enough for Peter to reach out, even if he wanted to try and take him down for any sort of reason. 

It’s as if he’s waiting on someone and it suddenly dawns on him. 

What if this has no affiliation with his apprentice and Lawrence Gordon has finally figured out what he wants from Peter? 

What if it has nothing to do with Mark? 

It’s at this point where Peter’s stomach is doing flips and the anticipation is twisting and contorting, and every fiber of his being wants to scream for help. 

It’s overwhelming and his heart is racing, it’s only a matter of time before he hyperventilates or goes into cardiac arrest, whichever happens first. 

He should be fine, Gordon is a doctor and can definitely bring him back only to put him in a trap. 

It’s fine. 

Everything is going to be fine. 

Sure, it’s a little unnerving waiting for someone to walk in through the door when there’s already a henchman watching you and it doesn’t help Peter can’t see any type of life in the gaping silts of the eyes in the mask.

Empty and waiting. 

Peter wonders if that's how Lindsey saw his eyes, empty and waiting for someone who’d never show. 

Moments pass and footsteps rise and fall, soon a chair is placed in front of him, by the other man in a pig mask, but is too far away for practical use. 

It’s sooner rather than later when the man of the hour walks in, a slight shit eating smile is on his face and Peter can’t tell if he’s in for good news or bad. The doctor seems pleased and relaxed and he definitely knows something Peter doesn’t. 

It has to be entertaining and amusing to see someone fall into a trap specifically made for them. 

Peter wished he knew the feeling but he appears to always be on the opposing side, it’s hard teaching an old dog new tricks. 

“I have to apologize for… this …” Gordon gestures to Peter’s current captive situation with a flick of his hand, as if it’s just a small misunderstanding. “You have to understand that there’s a method to this madness and we couldn’t meet in public without raising some suspicions.” 

Peter clears his throat and nods, he isn’t sold on Gordon’s reasoning for kidnapping him but to each their own he supposes. 

He isn’t entirely wrong either, they couldn’t have just gone and had coffee like regular people, it’s never that simple. 

Gordon doesn’t waste much time getting rid of his minions, he murmurs an order to the taller of the pair and they both file out of the room with haste. 

Peter can only imagine what those two are going to do but he can’t for more than a minute, Gordon decides to make use of the chair and sits down. He balances his cane on the back of the chair and settles in, Peter wonders if his existential dread comes from Gordon’s presence or the knowledge that he’s a doctor. 

Peter didn’t like doctors growing up and he certainly doesn’t like the one sitting in front of him. 

“Now then,” Lawrence starts with, pausing to take off his brown leather gloves. “I suppose you have some questions for me? Today’s your lucky day, Peter.” 

He recoils while hearing his own name leave Gordon’s mouth, it feels sterile and sickening and it’s spoken in a way that makes it seem like their old friends instead of captor and captive. 

Though his mouth feels dry and there’s only a single thought in his brain, Peter asks a relatively simple question. 

“This isn’t some sort of recruitment opportunity, right? I’m not really meant for this type of work.” 

Gordon’s lips pull up into an amused smile. 

“No, of course not. As you can see, I have all the help I need.” 

Reassurance isn’t the right word to describe Gordon’s tone but it soothes Peter’s worries in the smallest of ways, it’s only the tip of the iceberg. 

Silence grows between the doctor and his newest, reluctant, patient. Lawrence is used to apprehensive and indisposed subjects but they’re on a time constraint and well, Lawrence wouldn’t mind the senseless banter from the other man. 

This isn’t the first time Lawrence has been on the opposite side of a chained and angry man. 

“Come on,” He urges. “There has to be a question in that brilliant brain of yours, Special Agent.” 

“I’m retired.” 

“Of course, my apologies.” 

Again, silence stretches between them and Peter wonders if it’ll matter in the end if he just plays along, maybe Gordon will give him a swift and easy death rather than a brutal and long one. 

He sighs and asks, “There’s a reason I’m chained up here and not somewhere else?” I’ll make it out of here alive instead of rotting in a bathroom without a chance. Peter doesn’t add his retort into his question. 

Gordon nods, “I was persuaded to put you here as opposed to somewhere more familiar to me. You feel safer here, don’t you?”  

In some sick and twisted way, Peter reluctantly nods to Gordon’s question. 

Why wouldn’t he feel safe here? It’s one of the last places where Mark is again, his and his alone. 

For once, Gordon seems pleased with his answer and takes a quick moment to push his suit sleeve out of the way to check his watch. Peter would love nothing more than to ask what time it is but it would only be useless information to him, just as the chain sits around his ankle, he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

Lawrence hums thoughtfully, “You wouldn’t mind if I asked you a question? Seeing as though you're wonderful for conversation.” 

Peter only blinks at Gordon’s slight jab at his nonexistent conversation skills, shrugging his shoulders at the pending question. 

What choice does he have? 

He can’t exactly refuse when the man is sitting right in front of him and seems to be key to the chain around his ankle. 

“Do you think you can change him? Is that part of the appeal?” 

Peter scoffs, of course Gordon would be on the same side as Lindsey. 

The rational versus the irrational. 

“No.” He says, eyes adverting from Gordon’s gaze. 

Can’t I like him the way that he is? 

“Interesting. You like his impulsiveness, don’t you?” 

“Sure, I like something about him.” 

“Fascinating.” Gordon says in a way that sounds astonished and contemplative. 

Peter wonders if his relationship with Mark is like some kind of science experiment for Gordon, if he takes Peter out of the equation, what will be Mark’s reaction? 

Peter hopes he never finds out. 

“He’s quite striking, isn’t he?” Peter stays silent as Gordon thinks out loud about his jailed lover. “Surviving such an obstacle. It’s unfathomable how he’s even able to speak clearly, you’ve seen his little reminder, haven’t you?” 

His lips press into a tight thin line and refuse to answer the doctor. 

Of course I’ve seen it. Peter wants to say. 

I’ve seen what a mad man's work can do to a grieving man. 

“Humor me, won’t you? We don’t have much time left and you’ll be on your own, not-so Special Agent.” 

Something about Gordon’s cold eyes and unsettling way of speaking in riddles has Peter contemplating if he should try and take some kind of physical action in hope of escaping or if he should curl up into a ball and forget Gordon is even in the room with him. 

Perhaps he could put a little more effort into conversing with the doctor even if all he wants to do is take a vow of silence until he knows– sees Mark in the flesh and there on their merry way. 

Then he’ll have more than single sentence remarks. 

“Sure, yeah. I’ve seen it.” He responds with two sentences and he’s already climbing up the list of least potential saw trap victims. 

Lucky day indeed. 

Gordon seems to enjoy his late response and participation, “You two aren’t so different, surviving in almost unthinkable ways. I’ll admit, it’s quite impressive and reassuring.” 

“Reassuring?” Peter asks, confused with his word choice. “What do you mean by that?” 

Lawrence pauses, thinking thoroughly about his answer. 

“Let’s take you for example. You weren’t supposed to make it out here or your first test and yet, you did. Your will to live overthrew the odds of your inevitable death. Quite the special case, Peter.” 

“Right.” Peter says but he’s still confused on how he and Mark are two sides of the same coin. 

“Hoffman on the other hand, he survived his punishment and well, we both know how he decided to take that.” Lawrence pauses and looks melancholy for a fragment of a second but recovers very quickly. 

Peter can only assume he’s thinking about Jill Tuck and all the other lives lost due to the wrath of an injured, blood hungry man. He resists the urge to shudder and a sour taste develops on his tongue like it always does when he’s suddenly reminded of all the blood on his lover’s hands. 

“Still, he’s as relentless as they come when his life is put to the test. Admirable in a way only some could understand and make use of.” 

He nods in response and what used to be uncomfortable silence is now gone and morphed into some kind of neutral state. 

The patient and doctor have found some understanding, a breakthrough in such a fragile, unpredictable, and untimely case. 

Again, Gordon pushes his suit sleeve down and looks at the time. Instead of going back to conversation, he starts to gather his gloves and cane, standing up while doing so. 

Peter opens his mouth to ask what’s going to happen next but Lawrence beats him with yet another question. 

“Tell me, what will you do to him when you see him? A loving embrace, I assume.” 

Lawrence stands next to the door waiting for the chained man to answer his question. 

Peter decides to answer truthfully this time, he feels as if it’ll be his last chance to talk to someone who’s relatively sane in a sense. 

“Probably punch him in the face. I’ll be happy if I break his nose on the first try.” 

Lawrence seems taken aback by his response. 

“Interesting.” He pauses before knocking on the door three times. “I wish you luck, Peter.” 

Peter nods and almost murmurs, I'll take all the luck you’ll give me.

The door swings open and now there’s three men in pig masks waiting for Gordon. 

Of course, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know which of the three has been here far longer than the other two. If the all familiar black zip up and jeans don’t give him away, it’s the way he rushes into the room and rips the mask off of his face that gives Peter the answer. 

“I’ve been missin’ you, sweetheart.”

Chapter Text

Peter knew his situation could’ve been a lot worse. 

If his interaction with Gordon meant anything, he could’ve been chained and left to rot in an undiscovered bathroom for years. 

Instead, he was “spared” and put in a better– familiar room because of whatever deal his escaped jailbird was able to strike up. 

Sure, it was off-putting and indescribable being in the same room as Mark Hoffman without any restrictions or audience. 

Well, Mark didn’t have any visible restrictions. 

Off-putting in the sense that he was acting strange but in a familiar way, the charming, snarky, and sickly-sweet cocky bravado was in full swing. The crooked smirk on his face and enthusiastic open arms as he rushed towards Peter, it felt unreal. 

So close and yet so far away. 

Peter wasn’t sure who was in the room with him, perhaps it’s the sensationalized version of him only the media saw when he knew the cameras were on and eyes from all across the nation tuned in.

Poor acting for the world to view.

It didn’t last for very long, once the door slammed shut and Mark was about an arm’s 

length away, he stopped as if he was frozen in place. His smirk promptly faded, and his arms rested at his sides, he looked regretful if anything. 

Neither moved forward to embrace, Peter didn’t think his right hook would connect with Mark’s nose to break it on the first try and he wasn’t entirely sure why Mark was standing there, staring at him with concern of some kind. 

Peter was uncomfortable to say the least, he didn’t know what to do because the FBI doesn’t teach you the right ways to reunite with your long lost felon-serial-murderer-jigsaw-apprentice-lover because the course just didn’t fit into his schedule. 

He tried to move a step closer but was reminded with a loud clunk and slight pain to his ankle when the chain halted his attempt. 

He looked down and remembered that he wasn’t going forward any time soon. 

Maybe neither of them were going forward. 

Maybe they wouldn’t leave this room unless the walls slowly started to close in, creating a grotesque ending only they could appreciate. 

Peter really wouldn’t mind it, dying in a loving embrace. He doesn’t think Mark would mind it either, a considerable end to such misery with a relatively sweet, smothering, life ending embrace. 

Their mangled mess could be sensationalized or undiscovered for years to come, a twisted retelling of Romeo and Juilet that always ends in tragedy or an undiscovered display of what it means to truly love someone to death.  

A few moments pass of the stunted and longing staring contest they have going on, neither glance away but there aren't any attempts at mending or embracing. 

One is at war with himself, and the other is waiting, Peter can’t decide who is who. 

It almost makes him laugh, this sad excuse they’re having for a private reunion when once they leave this sanctuary of sorts, there won’t be any more slowed and hesitant moments between them. 

It’ll be a constant fight and flee.

Day to day. 

Motel to motel. 

Night after Night. 

City to small town. 

State after state. 

Would they even make it out of the country? 

Peter doesn’t have high hopes, hell, he isn’t sure he’ll make it out of this room alive. 

What are you waiting for? He wants to ask. There isn’t any glass keeping you away from me. 

His question and comment go unsaid but not unheard, it’s almost as if Mark could hear Peter’s thoughts and then, only then, does he slowly start to move closer. He moves ever so quietly and slowly, cautiously like a boy scared of a barking dog. 

Peter doesn’t like it. 

No, not at all. 

He’d rather chew through his leg than go at this slow pace, embrace in such a comforting and defeated way. 

So instead, like the stubborn man that he is, he resists. 

Mark closed the distance so easily between them, Peter didn’t even notice until both of his fists bawled into the sleek jacket and tried desperately to keep him at arm's length. He twists and turns, recoiling as if the contact burns his skin instead of soothing the known and bothering ache. 

He wasn’t ready to be so close to him just yet, but with his back against a cold steel wall, there was little he could do or prevent whatever happened between them next. 

Irrevocably and inevitably, Mark leaned forward, and Peter could hear the deep inhale he took in. Surprisingly Peter was the only one holding onto the other for life itself, he wasn’t sure if Mark leaned in or if he was pulling and he knew Mark’s hands were palm flat on the wall behind him. 

He’s caged in, unsure if he’ll escape anytime soon. 

Mark mumbles into Peter’s shoulder, it’s muffled even in their quiet room and he hates to ruin their moment with senseless speaking. 

“I can’t hear you when you're talking into my shoulder.” He nudges the other and in return, he feels Mark rub his forehead back and forth across his shoulder, the way a dog does when it wants even more attention. 

Peter doesn’t get a verbal answer and on any other day, he’d press and press until he heard something, but he just lets the subject drop. If it was that important, Mark would bring it up later and the mystery would solve itself. 

They stay like that for a while, Peter pressed up against the cool wall while Mark hides his face in Peter’s shoulder. He wouldn’t consider their position an embrace, his lover’s cowardice is noted and his hesitancy is prominent in his reluctance to move his own hands from the wall, he hasn’t made a move to lay his hands on Peter. 

He can’t help but think that this is some form of temporary self-punishment. 

Afterall, almost everything his lover touches is killed by his own hands or of a machine of his design. 

Peter should know, those same hands almost had him killed twice. 

He starts to wonder if there is a real reason why Mark refuses to put his hands on him, maybe there’s some sort of device in the pocket of his jacket that'll activate the hydraulics in the walls. 

Maybe this is all just a ruse for a hurtful means to an end. 

It wouldn’t be in distaste. 

Well, it wouldn’t be distasteful if they both died in this room and their remains were left undiscovered for years to come. They would finally be alone and fully consumed by one another, grotesquely intertwined to the point of indistinguishability. 

The thought makes Peter relax and a small mistake of a smile reaches his lips.  

No, it wouldn’t be in distaste at all. 

“Second time's the charm?” He asks, disrupting their moment once again. 

He pauses and forces his stalling lover to look at him, both of his hands rest at his throat to hold him still. His hands hold no sign of a shake, not a tremor, while he stares– admires the angry scar. The only thing he feels is the fair rhythm of Mark’s pulse point, a simple and regular beat that refuses to rise at such a time. 

“You’ll go through with it this time.” 

Confusion flashes over his face, eyebrows drawn together and a frown pulls down at his lips. 

“Go through with what?” He asks, playing dumb like always. 

“Killing me.” 

Mark doesn’t respond, he continues to stare in disbelief at Peter’s words, but he doesn’t try to correct or explain his nonexistent plans. Instead, his hands leave the wall and they mimic Peter’s. 

Peter doesn’t flinch when cold rough hands wrap around his throat, unsure and resting for now. 

Who’ll tighten their grip first? 

“How’d you get out?” He asks, just because he’ll be dead soon doesn’t mean he can’t get some answers. 

“Faked my death.” The answer is instant. 

Peter scoffs, “I’m surprised the sheets could hold you for that long.” 

The comment makes Mark roll his eyes and one of his thumbs starts to lightly trace the scar on Peter’s throat, the one he knows from touch alone. 

“Cancer or some bullshit.” He says, the answer not necessarily explaining what that has to do with what they're talking about. 

“Doc pulled me in one day and after that, I was in there almost every day. Fake treatments for a fake life-threatening illness that killed me.” He finishes with a shrug, as if the news of his death wouldn’t have put Peter into a coma. 

“What a shame. I would’ve loved to have been at your public execution.” 

“Lethal injection isn’t really my thing, I have a fear of needles.” 

“That’s far too humane for you anyway. I know you were just itching for the electric chair.” 

The comment makes the other crack a smile, such a small and insignificant gesture of appreciation. 

Peter wonders how long it’ll last. He wonders if it’ll take him long, when his hands tighten and his face contorts into an indescribable expression. 

Will he frown? 

Will tears fall from his eyes while he watches the light from the others disappear? 

Would he see no emotion at all? 

Would it feel indifferent to him? Just another mark to add to the tally. 

He wanted to rush, to get it over with and yet, he felt a pang. A pang of what? He didn’t know. 

His inability to decide whether he should strangle the man in front of him somehow carried over into his hands, they started to move upwards and settled down at his Adam’s apple. In a fleeting moment they would squeeze slightly and then in an instant, they would quit the motion all together. 

It didn’t alarm Mark much. 

If anything, he welcomed the attempted attack and silly game Peter kept playing, he didn’t back away or fight in any sense, he lowered his own pair of hands and kept them at his sides. 

He knew Peter wouldn’t hurt him, even if it meant he had to watch Peter fight with himself for hours. 

“I can close my eyes if that’ll help you get on with it,” he says offhandedly, brushing off Peter’s attempt at strangling him. “Is this your first time? Tryin' to kill someone with your bare hands?” 

“Shut up.” He squeezed with more force this time, just to keep him quiet. 

“Okay,” the other strains out, eyes slightly widening at the motion. “Just take it slow.” 

Peter doesn’t respond, he simply holds his ground and hopes that it’ll be over soon. 

That he’ll get over it. 

He doesn’t want to think about the consequences. 

Though, he hopes his hands leave a mark once it’s said and done. 

“How long does this normally take?” He asks, suddenly thinking about what would happen if Gordon decided to come back for any reason and see that his captive was trying to kill his true captor. 

“Dunno.” Mark responds, his face slightly reddening from the lack of oxygen. “Quicker than this probably. Just squeeze a little harder and don’t loosen up for a while.” 

Against his better judgement and murderous tendencies, Peter lets go. He doesn't know why, he isn’t sure if it's because he hates taking orders from others or if, for some odd reason, he remembers all the hardship it took for him to get here. All the lone nights, strict and uncomfortable visiting sessions mean nothing if he successfully strangles Mark Hoffman. 

Maybe the pang he felt was his heart, reminding him about the pain he felt when he was without what–who he was just strangling. 

Of course, a look of relief is plastered across Mark’s face, sure the attempt on his life lasted a little longer than he wanted it but he knew Peter needed a trial run before he could’ve actually planned to kill him. He wanted to say, I knew you couldn’t do it , but he knew that would definitely change their frail situation even more. 

Peter takes a glance at his failed work of art, a slight redness is noticeable, but the pressure wasn’t enough and he doubts there’ll be any sign at all in the next couple of hours or morning. 

Right, the morning.

He could be sure in the morning after they get out of this godforsaken room. 

He stares at the steel door for a while, trying to come up with the best way to ask for his freedom but he knows it’s never that easy, he has to win a game to get his prize.

He just doesn’t know what part he’s playing in this game. 

Is there a lesson to be learned from this game?

Peter isn’t sure he’ll find out. 

What he does find, irritatingly, is Mark sitting on the floor with an arm propped up on his knee in some dramatic pose. It’s almost as if he’s the one who’s been locked down here for an unknown number of hours. 

“What the fuck are you doing.” He snaps. 

“Sitting.” The other replies unhelpfully and without hesitation. 

It takes every last ounce of control in Peter’s body not to pounce and continue his attempt on Mark’s life. 

Peter takes a moment, trying to rationalize the situation while using his little to no context clues as to if they’ll actually make it out of this room. 

“What are we waiting for?” He defeatedly asks while trying to keep his composure. He places his hands behind his head and takes some deep breaths before joining Mark on the floor. 

Mark digs into his pocket and reveals a flip phone. 

“The signal.” He sighs. 

“Great. We’re waiting on Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum for the signal .” 

Mark grunts in acknowledgment but doesn’t fill Peter in on what those two are doing but he has a suspicion that Mark isn’t included in the entire plan itself. 

So many moving parts for an undying machine. 

There’s an unsaid barrier between them; an invisible line that’s been drawn for restrictive reasons Peter knows he didn’t install. He doubts he’ll cross it soon, that he’ll have the guts to scribble over it or erase it from existence. 

Maybe this invisible line is needed and though Peter refuses to understand its purpose, he doesn’t pull or push, he just waits. 

He’ll wait until he can’t stand it. 

Until it suffocates him in the night. 

Until it weighs in their shared fresh air. 

Until it drives him to desperate measures. 

“What’s the plan after we get the green light?” He asks, praying that a solid plan is waiting to be spoken. 

“They’ll take you back to your apartment.” 

Mark doesn’t look at Peter while he talks. It appears that a spot on the metal door has caught his eye. 

“You’ll clean up, eat somethin’, and sleep.” 

Mark doesn’t continue, his instructions for Peter supposedly end there. 

Peter isn’t happy about his role. 

Then I’ll come by and get you and we’ll ride off into the sunset. 

He wished that was the next sound he was greeted with rather than deafening silence. If he wanted to be alone and suffocated by silence, Peter wouldn’t have gone to see Lindsey in the first place. 

He wouldn’t be here. 

“So, what we’re doing right now is a last hurrah? You stupid motherfucker. You kidnapped me, chained me, let me sit here for God knows how long, only to tell me that you’re leaving and never coming back.” 

“No, I didn’t–” Mark finally faces Peter with frustration in his eyes, a sneer starts to form on his lips. 

“Didn’t kidnap me? Yeah right. What would you call it then?” 

“A crime of passion.” He blurts out, face turning red from embarrassment Peter assumes. 

“A fucking crime of passion.” Peter repeats, bewildered. “What about this is passionate? This was all planned, you idiot.” 

“No! I…I passionately kidnapped you and the chain was last minute.” 

Mark looks proud of himself at the moment and Peter can’t believe he was ever voted most valuable homicide detective in the entire metropolitan area. 

“Premeditated. Just say it was premeditated.”  

“No. What was premeditated is the number you did on my neck. You must’ve thought long and hard about getting your hands on me.” 

In a quick moment, Peter surges forward to replace his hands where they belong…around Mark’s neck. He doesn’t get too far into his mission before an unmistakable ringing starts to occur and Mark takes the opportunity to shove Peter off of him to answer the phone. Peter hears a voice over the phone, but he can’t make out the words, he doesn’t yell or wrestle Mark for the phone. 

He just waits for the short call to end. 

He waits for the end of their sanctuary. 

The phone snaps shut and Peter doesn’t know what to do. He refuses to look up, to acknowledge that their time is over and he has to go back to his shitty apartment without Mark. 

He comes to terms with it a little too quickly for his own liking but he’s ready to be out of this steel box and away from the man who’s always ruining his life. 

“You’re wasting time, hurry up and let me out of here. I’m sure I can find my way and I don’t need to be chauffeured by those two.”  

“Okay.” He responds while carefully moving forward to release the agitated man from his chain. 

Peter doesn’t watch the process unfold and he stalls his attempt at standing; their sudden closeness holds him back. He surges forward again but this time, he wraps his arms around Mark and presses his nose into the conjunction of Mark’s shoulder and neck. 

A moment passes before he feels Mark’s arms do the same. 

He tries to memorize his smell, motor oil, latex and sweat. A combination that would irk anyone else but to Peter, he just wants to wrap himself in it and never let go. 

He would drown in it if possible. 

“I’m sorry.” 

It’s a whisper but full of gut-wrenching emotion.

Peter knows what’s going to happen next. 

“I know.” He says into skin. 

Skin that he’ll never truly memorize or understand. 

He hears the rustle of Mark’s jacket pocket and when the needle pricks into the back of his neck, he winces. 

He winces and pulls back, he meets guilty blue eyes. 

Part of him wishes he had a sudden urge to fight but he knows it would’ve been futile. It wouldn’t have mattered, he didn’t have the will or the foresight. 

He couldn’t win against Mark Hoffman. 

His eyes are half lidded and dropping by the second, he thinks he sees Mark’s mouth open to say something but he’s far too late. 

Peter Strahm is greeted into darkness for a second time. 

Chapter Text

Peter woke up in his apartment. 

He didn’t have to wonder how he’d made it back and his worries about knowing those two boneheads had been in his apartment slipped his thoughts completely. 

He could only think about how stupid he’d been acting, how careless and easily ready he was to throw away his boring but free life. 

How stupid he was to think Mark Hoffman cared about anyone but himself.

It felt like hours, days, before he dragged himself out of bed and tried to get on with his life. He wasn’t moping around because he felt abandoned, no not at all, he was only moping because he knew he’d listen to the instructions Mark gave him. 

Frustratingly he didn’t have the energy to take a shower, he decided that a bath would be the only logical choice since he didn’t trust himself to stand up long enough to clean himself. He glared at the faucet and tub like it had personally offended him, he felt even more anger when the metal handle made a groan after he turned it on. 

Plugging the drain felt like signing his death warrant and watching the water slowly fill the tub made Peter’s stomach churn and throat feel tight, he couldn’t stand the sound of rushing water. 

He didn’t have to wonder why that was.

He left the tub to fill and ransacked his kitchen cabinets for anything he could eat straight out of a box, he wasn’t scared of the water overflowing, he just didn’t like the thought of leaving the bathroom for very long. 

After finding a sleeve of saltines and a stray water bottle, he hastily returned to the bathroom and found the tub about half full, he decided that was enough water. 

He stared at the white tub full of clear water, feeling far too small in his own bathroom.

He felt sick. 

He couldn’t help but feel as though he was punishing himself for some silent and nonexistent grievance. 

He should’ve stayed in bed. 

Still, he shucked off his clothes and slowly lowered himself into the tub. At first he felt the sharp burn of still water, he sucked in a breath and slowly exhaled, he could take the pain of hot water biting his skin. 

Really, he could. 

His hands gripped edges of white porcelain, knuckles white from anxiety and distraction. 

Peter closed his eyes and let his head drop back in defeat, he didn’t have much of a fight left in him. He scoffed at himself, he didn’t have to fight at all this time, there wasn’t a need to. This moment was meant for relaxation not exhaustion and yet, he couldn’t think of a single physical activity that brought him any sense of tranquility. 

Sure his multitude of books brought him to different worlds but reading was a mere distraction. He could only read until it tired him and at this rate, he was beyond tired before he could flip the book open. 

He doesn’t think relaxation is in his near future. 

Up until a few hours ago, Peter thought his future plans would only revolve around the whims of a wanted– presumed dead Mark Hoffman. He didn’t think he would have the spare time to ponder about his future, he’d be living moment to moment, there wouldn’t be time to plan. 

They’d be living on the edge like Bonnie and Clyde. 

They’d probably have the same ending too. 

Maybe there was some comfort to be found in his absurd fantasies of running away with Mark, his body seemed to adjust to the numbing water and his grip loosened. He was in love with an idea, a dream that wouldn’t be, and who wouldn’t be? 

Who wouldn’t take the chance to leave such a boring and suffocating life full of reminders of ghosts you wish to be with? 

Peter was sure there was something wrong with him, his head isn’t screwed on right and it hasn’t been for a while. 

What could be done about that? 

He doesn’t know and it’d probably cost him an arm and a leg to figure it out, if they didn’t drag him away to a mental institution at the sight of his sorry state. 

The media would eat him alive, he could only imagine the headlines and news reports of his rehabilitation or would they call it a cry for help , his break away from Stockholm syndrome .  

It wouldn’t be amusing at all, well, it wouldn’t be amusing for his family or Lindsey but for the moment, it brings a small smile to his face. Maybe if he did get locked away, his “dead” lover would come out of the underworld to plead for his release or break him out of that dull place. 

Maybe then, they would run away. 

Peter is tired of maybes. 

He’s tired of a lot of things but for right now, he’s done looking for someone who obviously doesn’t want to be found and for someone who wants nothing to do with him. 

Mark didn’t even ask him to run away, to leave his life and everyone he knows behind. 

He knew Mark could be inconsiderate, he’d seen it time and time again, he just didn’t think he would ever be on the opposite side of things. He knew the logistics of leaving everything and everyone behind would be a hard and lonely route but it wouldn’t have mattered that much to him, not when the only person he wanted to be with would be with him. 

Peter was willing to accept a burden that Mark refused to speak about. 

For now, probably forever until his bones turned cold in the ground, Mark Hoffman would just be another failed case, another infamous criminal that got what he deserved. 

He’d just be another stranger. 

Another piece of Peter that wouldn’t see the light of day. 

Another person that slipped through Peter’s fingers even if he could still remember the way his hands felt around his throat, the way his pulse faulted and quickened, the way his skin felt warm against his own shaky, cool, hands. 

Another memory only for him to cherish, alone and cold. 

He’d spent too much time trying not to think about him and when he did materialize in front of him, Peter spent too much time avoiding him. He wasted their last moment together and what could he do about it now? 

Move on , he supposed. 

If moving on was that easy, he would’ve done it a long time ago and saved himself months of sulking, obsessing, and fantasizing about a life that would never be. 

He figured the first part of moving on was getting off your ass and getting rid of everything, every piece and fragment of that person. Which meant he needed to get out of soaking in his own shame and resentment, the tub he hated with almost half of his heart. 

It was a slow process, his body adapted to the warm water and his bones and muscles felt sluggish. His body was telling him to stay for a little while longer, to stay in the warm embrace of still water instead of facing the cold exterior of leaving his comfort zone. 

After taking way longer than needed to get out of a bath, Peter got dressed in his own lounge clothes for a change and tried to think of the best place to start. 

Where was he going to purge first? The spare closet? His room? The coffee table? The bookshelf? His bedsheets? 

Peter wasn’t one to be indecisive but as the years went by and his morals started to waiver from one side to the other, he simply couldn’t make a decision to save his life if it was inherently related to Mark Hoffman. 

He decided that changing his bedsheets would be the easiest choice, considering the bedsheets he bought a few months ago as a replacement still sat in the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Shunned away like some kind of embarrassment. 

There wasn’t anything wrong with them, they weren’t special or even his favorite color, he just couldn’t stand the sight of them when his old ones still held the faint scent of his escaped love. 

He didn’t want to impose such a drastic change on himself when it could be neglected for a different time. 

It didn’t take long and Peter didn’t feel a pain in his heart like he thought. The dark blue sheets that once hugged Mark and himself were no more, only a bunch of fabric on the floor next to his shirt. A nice neutral grey replaced them, a fresh start with a color that didn’t hold any significance at all. 

He didn’t mind them and the world wasn’t going to end once he put the dirty sheets to wash. 

It was going to be okay. 

He was going to be okay. 

Onto the next task. 

~

After a few hours, Peter was left staring at a single box filled with everything that once belonged to Mark Hoffman. 

Instead of carelessly stuffing everything into the box, Peter took the time to fold and arrange everything to where you had to peek over the edge to even see that anything was in the box. It kept his mind at ease, seeing no evil or whatever the saying was. 

He wasn’t worried about what was in the box, though he couldn’t decide if he should bury it for old times sake or if he should give it away to a thrift shop. 

Still, he wanted to hold onto it just for a while. Until he was really ready to give up and move past the funk he’s been in for quite some time. 

He wanted to call Lindsey. 

He wanted to tell her everything so she could understand but he wouldn’t. What he was going to do was call Lindsey and apologize, he could at least admit to his wrongs. 

Part of him knew that she would see through him, that her sixth sense of sniffing out his bullshit would work the moment she walked in and saw the box sitting on the coffee table. He knew she would stare at the box and then back at him, she would say something about getting rid of some things? He would nod and move the box and they would go back to how things used to be. 

Well, that’s how he hoped it would go down. 

Maybe he should order some take out beforehand just as an expression of good faith, an apology really. His mother always told him to never come empty handed when you had bad news to tell, she called it being courteous. 

Before he could reach the phone, he heard a knock at the door and froze where he stood. 

It couldn’t be Mark. Hell would freeze over before he would risk being caught doing something so stupid. Peter hoped tweedle dee and dum weren’t outside either, he wasn’t due for a check up for some time. 

Slowly, he made way for the front door, careful not to make much noise at all. It felt like years before he heard Lindsey’s calm and slightly anxious, “It’s just me, Pete. I know I should’ve called but this isn’t an over-the-phone conversation.” 

Peter opens the door and expects Lindsey’s regular on the clock demeanor but he’s met with the opposite. She’s outworldly nervous, her fingers twist the thin golden chain around her neck and in her other hand she holds a folder. Before he can open his mouth to reassure her, she’s already stepping past him and rushing towards the kitchen table. 

He should’ve ordered take out earlier. 

He does the right thing and makes her a glass of water before sitting across from her, she takes it graciously but doesn’t take a drink. 

Something is definitely wrong and he knows exactly what she’s about to say. 

“I’m sorry, Peter.” 

“What?” He asks, confused in every way one could be. He was expecting a, I know you know he’s escaped, so where is he? 

Lindsey sighs before reaching over and putting a hand over his, her brown eyes are filled with empathy and a sadness only reserved for him. 

“I know you went to see him a while ago but they wouldn’t let you in. There’s a reason for that.” 

Peter nods, he knew she must’ve taken away his clearance or visiting privileges to protect him. 

“Listen, it’s okay. I know you were doing–” 

“He’s gone.” 

Peter does his best to act surprised, he tries to mock a shocked gasp and he pulls his hand away for good measure. He doesn’t look at her for a moment, he tries to think what he would do in this situation if yesterday didn’t happen. 

“Where is he now?” He asks quietly and calmly, he's going for brewing if anything. “What did he do to get transferred?” 

Lindsey doesn’t answer immediately, she calculates in her head what the best course of action is before she’s hit a very emotional ex special agent. 

“He didn’t do anything.” She says carefully. “Its a matter of what happened to him.” 

“What are you–” Peter doesn’t understand what she means by that, what happened to him. “Where is he, Lindsey?” He says with slight panic, it’s honest and true. 

Peter isn’t acting anymore. 

Instead of answering, Linsey slides the folder over to his balled fists and she flips it open. 

Peter stills when he sees the pictures, he stares and his mind goes blank. He doesn’t understand what he’s looking at, well, he knows who’s body he’s looking at but he doesn’t comprehend what is going on in said pictures. 

His eyes flicker from one corner to the other, he’s seen the chest many times, he’s traced the faint diagonal scar and come to know how it feels when the heart beats beneath the tan skin. 

He refuses to acknowledge the y-shaped autopsy scar, the first thing that would jump out at anyone looking at this photo. 

Peter’s hand starts to flip through the rest of the photos, they all share a single thing in common and he can’t handle it. 

Autopsy scars and thick black thread. 

His hands start to shake, his stomach twists in knots, he feels a fever rush over his entire body. 

Then it finally hits him when he gets to the last picture. 

He’s been flipping through the autopsy photos of the convicted Jigsaw killer, Mark Hoffman.

Lindsey came over to show him that Mark Hoffman is dead. 

“No.” He mumbles. “No, he’s not.” 

It’s desperate and small. 

Had Peter hallucinated the entire thing? Had he been so distraught after their conversation that his sick mind hallucinated his last interaction with Mark? 

Only a few hours ago had he fantasized about killing his lover and now, his lover was really gone. His body was now owned by science and whoever wanted to study his brain for the better of society. 

“I’m sorry.” Lindsey repeats, she gets up slowly and gathers up the photos, concealing the harsh truth from Peter’s eyes. She pulls her silent friend into a hug of sorts, he doesn’t fight it as she hoped he wouldn’t and after a few moments, he wraps his arms around her. 

They stay like that for a while, she waits while he desperately tries to muffle his sadness but a few times it escapes and all she does is hold onto him tighter. 

Peter Strahm has lost Mark Hoffman for good. 

There isn’t any bullet proof glass separating them, no sad excuses for an interrogation, no chain keeping them apart. 

The only thing separating them was life. 

One was full of it and the other had none. 

Peter didn’t know if he liked his place or if he wished he could follow his lover. 

Til death do them part and now, Peter didn’t know if would ever find his other half again. 

Mark Hoffman had stolen it long ago, he was buried with it too. 

At least, that’s what Peter thought until he got a postcard from Alaska in the mail a few months later. 

Don’t act so surprised, Sweetheart. I told you, I’d be seeing you around soon. Full of life and love, 

M.H.