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There was a cold splash of water sucking him in - that bastard detective had gotten him, right by the scalp, no less, and was most likely beaming with sadistic glee as he drowned the thorn in his side.
Surely Peter couldn't die like this.
Amidst the fogginess of almost total sensory and oxygen deprivation, alongside an unnerving haze telling him something wasn't quite right, he could feel Hoffman's hand twitch as it steadily held his head under; his frenzied attempts of writhing or fighting free had failed him. No matter how hard and fast adrenaline has pushed him along, his body had refused to cooperate, to feel fully there, to throw proper punches or to audibly scream - and now all hope was gone. The water slowly stopped bubbling as Strahm slipped away.
☆
Peter jolted upright, gasping too hard for his wounded throat to manage without bursting into a coughing fit. He grasped in the dark for one of the many scattered glasses at his bedside, frantically swallowing the stagnant water, swallowing it down like how he'll stamp down the horrid thought from his brain.
Coming down from his terror and back into reality, Peter's eyes begin to adjust to the dark. He looks to his side; the alarm clock reads 4:16 am. Great. Another hour to kill. Exactly what he needed right now - just enough time to ruminate and do nothing of value! There's no way he could get back to sleep without running the risk of getting up late. Absolutely fantastic.
He remembers he's still on medical leave, fuck.
Whatever. He still can't go back to sleep.
The tension in the room was still thick enough to choke on. With what specifically, Strahm wasn't entirely sure. This wasn't the first nightmare he had and he was almost certain it wouldnt be the last, but why was this getting under his skin so badly? Hoffman had failed at his psychopathic scheme to snuff him out and Strahm remained alive to tell the tale and hopefully finally get him behind bars. In an ideal world, Peter thought, Mark would find himself in a similar situation to what he had just been through a few days prior... Just without any clever ways out. Surely even if he did have any he'd be too dense to figure it out in time anyways.
Whatever. He was a grown man, a very competent and skilled one at that, he doesn't need to go cry to his mommy about a bad dream, and it's not like he could anyway. That reminder made him wince. He'd rather not think about it right now.
Cringing at the cold floor under his feet, he padded over to his desk, scrunching his eyes in protest when turning his desk lamp on to review the files he'd taken home with him. If the Jigsaw case was going to pester him this much, why not do something about it, right?
Peter grabbed a loose sheet to scrawl various scattered thoughts on, and zeroed in on recounting every possible detail he could remember. This obsession was wearing him down, but finding solid evidence to bring down Hoffman would set this all right again, he just knew it.
Even then, he couldn't bring himself to think about how things could never truly be the same again.
Both he and Perez had been both physically and mentally scarred, and they got off quite well compared to the vast majority of the enforcemens going after Jigsaw & Co, with most of them being brutally eviscerated or dismembered in one way or the other, their bodies strewn in parts, neglected in equally decayed buildings dotted around the city. It wasn't fair & it only made his blood boil even hotter. Strahm was sure if he got any more livid his brain would melt right then and there, and that would still be a nicer fate than what many of his fellow law enforcers had to endure.
Perez, a woman who is nothing but good, is in pain in a hospital while that sick fuck gets a pat on the back for his "good work". Peter swore he could kill him himself, but for now he'll keep digging to prove himself right.
☆
Three brisk knocks on the door snapped his head out of the pile of papers. Oh god, when did the sun rise? Had he really not noticed? What time was it now?
Shit. 9am. Thank God he isn't working, then. He throws on a pair of old joggers & bolts towards the door.
An angel greets him, right then and there - it's Perez; finally somewhat healed up, but presumably also taking a little time off after the both of them getting shaken up. Hence why she's here, he guesses.
"Lindsey, you're okay?" He rasps in surprise, from both seeing her out of hospital & at his door, and maybe also from the fact that five hours seem to have mysteriously vanished from his perception.
"I'm good, you? When's the last time you've gotten out...? Besides seeing me in hospital," she furrows her brow in genuine concern. He looks rough. Neither of them were currently dressed anywhere near professionally or formally, but it wasn't difficult to tell which of the two had been actively neglecting their well-being to frantically try and get something, any sort of explanation out of this whole mess.
Strahm ignores the question: they both knew she wouldn't agree with his only whereabouts being wherever she or Hoffman were. "How come you're at mine this early?" his deflection comes off as more hostile than intended, almost accusatory, before promptly being cut off with a coughing fit.
"I knew you'd be up." She retorts.
They exchange an awkward pause before she invites herself in. Despite currently healing from shrapnel to her face, Strahm still takes a mental note of how lovely she appears in the soft light of the morning. The scars just added depth. Not like he'd ever admit that to her, he's sure she's self assured enough to already know that.
He follows her into his dingy living room. It's depressing, with coffee and case files creating a lopsided tower ontop of his coffee table. Both his deflated couch and the beat up B52s shirt he's been wearing for days are remnants from a bygone marriage he still bears the ring from. He's found himself wearing that shirt recently as some sort of twisted reminder that, again, things can't be the same as they were. He never liked his ex-wife's music much, anyways, and the reminder's a pleasant dull ache compared to the searing pang of terror he keeps waking up to.
Not knowing what to expect from her, he stares at his guest. More silence. She looks him up and down.
"When's the last time you showered?"
He's not quite sure what to say to that. Between long days fretting about if Lindsey would be okay, longer nights trying to gather as much dirt on a certain detective as humanly possible, and no mental barrier whatsoever - because he was normal and entirely nonplussed about being supposed to drown - danger was just part of his job and he could handle himself. And he knew his hair was getting greasy, but was it really that bad?
"I've been trying to keep my thoat dry," Peter shrugs. At least it wasn't fully lying - he had had a bath a couple of nights ago and just could not bring himself to wash above his collarbones.
"Right." she acknowledges, skeptical about the physical injury being the sole reason.
He seems offended that she can sus him out. "Did you...come here just to tell me to get washed?"
"Not at first, but.." she pauses, finding herself in a proverbial minefield. His eyes fix on her as his head tilts away, pointedly raising his brows as to say "Go on..." Perez shifts in her seat. "I know it's- It'll be difficult after what happened. If you need help I'll be there-"
"I'm fine, Lindsey. Just been busy." He's not looking at her anymore; his gaze on his hands, thumb twitching as if he were clicking a pen. She almost sees his breath hitch as his chest tightens. They look back at eachother, Perez knowing her partner's prickly wall of bitter self defense could leave her hands bleeding if she tries to reach out too far. Despite her best judgement, though, she makes an offer that'll most likely get shut down.
"Would it help if I try to wash your hair for you?"
Strahm purses his lips in contemplation before leaving the room for a moment, gesturing at her to stay put. Sounds of cupboard doors opening and closing and the clinking of glass can faintly be heard through the wall before he comes back with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He pours in the alcohol as if it were water and hastily chugs it as such. Surely his throat had already been through enough, she muses.
"Want any?" He asks flatly as he holds up the bottle towards her.
"I'm okay, I haven't even had breakfast."
He grins slightly, "Me neither."
There was no way in hell he'd let anyone get so close while stone-cold sober.
☆
The sound coming from the running water of the tap makes Strahm uneasy, but it's nothing he hasnt gotten over. The more pressing issue, he thinks, is the fact his most prized colleague is about to see almost every square inch of him, and in a vulnerable state at that. Exposing the soft underbelly of someone who seemed to never go a minute with his guard down - it was jarring to say the least.
It's safe to say he was starting to have second thoughts. But if Strahm is anything, though, he's stubborn. He'd agreed to this, kind of, and changing his mind now would almost guarantee Lindsey would see just how scared he was, and that's almost worse than being so physically exposed. And realistically, what would Perez do? She was his long term partner and hopefully a friend of his, who has willingly entered his home (completely unarmed) to check up on him. This is someone he trusts. Strahm is not in any danger.
He takes off that old band shirt & those frumpy joggers. Lindsey tries her best not to notice how he's in unfairly good shape for someone his age, although she supposes it's just due to their job. He wasn't absolutely jacked or anything, and his midriff had subtly softened with middle age, but he was still mainly lean muscle wrapped in dark hair. She couldn't say she doesn't like what she's seeing, and she internally chastises herself for thinking that when he's not really having the best time right now, and she was the one supposed to be helping that.
The water level rises. Peter's chest feels like its being pulled so tightly the muscles could snap like cheap elastic. The whiskey is repeating on him - clamouring its way up his throat and clawing at its newfound sensitivity. It stung. He pushes it and any visible doubt aside, and sits inside the bathtub.
The water is still and warm. And it's no longer rising, Lindsey had turned the tap off as he got in.
She looks at him as to say "You okay?" He nods accordingly. It's the go-ahead to set this awful scene in motion.
She reaches into the bathwater, cupping the water in her hands to pour it on him. It takes everything in Strahm not to cringe when she asks him if he's alright again. For now he's okay - minus the anxiety (and probably also the major injury) twisting his throat up alongide a thick ooze of embarrassment starting to envelop the room. His uneasiness threatened to choke him out.
Her movements repeat; cupping small amounts of warm water and spilling it into his hair until sufficiently wet. She grabs his awful 3 in 1 mens shower gel/shampoo/face wash that he always claims to be "more efficient".
Her hands are gentle, soft, and absolutely terrifying as they lather his head. If she so wished, she could catch him off guard and be done with him right here, head submerged once again. He stiffens at the thought, pushing back against the gentle kneading as dread sinks into his skin.
Perez scrunches her face in contemplation. The situation isn't particularly very pleasant for either of them - she's very aware she's treading a minefield, and she can see when his chest jerks as his breathing grows lopsided. It makes her tense up too, but she tries to keep the tension in the room to a minimum. Strahm was wound up enough for the both of them.
So she tries to let him unwind. Her touch remains delicate, as if she were handling butterfly wings. Her fingers brush through the man's hair in a circular motion; skimming his temples & kissing his crown.
The delicacy in which Lindsey handles Peter seems to calm him down. She watches his shoulders slowly slump and it lets her release a sigh she didn't know she was holding in.
The minutes take years to pass. They're lost in the serenity of it all, towing the finest line between bliss & terror.
But all almost good things must end, and Lindsey's done washing now.
She goes to scoop up the now-soapy-water with her hands again, but Strahm's had enough with her being oh-so-very careful with him and stops her.
"You're not gonna get it out properly like that. Use the shower head." He snaps, raising his open palm to stop her, pushing her hands away a little. She furrows her brows at him, silently double-checking hes's sure. He harshly meets her eyes & nods impatiently. She turns the shower head on. The splash makes her jump.
Perez doesn't miss how her partner's eyes widen in a flash of panic before attempting to seem as unphased as possible. It hurt knowing what happened. It hurt more, knowing he'd rather go through it again before telling her about what it did to him in ways less apparent than a raspier voice & patched up throat. He'd stab enough holes to destroy his vocal chords so he wouldn't have to talk about it.
The stream of water meets his head, and it takes everything in him to not lunge at his partner in a bout of adrenaline rush. Instead, his hands reflexively jolt towards his face as if grabbing at something around his head. Strahm knew, of course, that he's not trapped. He's not stupid. He'd escaped certain death and this was the price he was paying for it. Yet it doesn't stop sheer terror (and subsequent frustration at it) from seeping into every bone of his body.
He keeps still, setting his clenched fists to his lap & trying to maintain composure. He's not sure if the burning in his throat & chest is from the panic or from the whiskey. Either way, it's not dissimilar enough from drowning for any sort of comfort, quite the opposite. Enough so for Lindsey to notice the ever-more-increasingly jagged & shaky breaths he was drawing in.
For fucks sake. How long does rinsing out a little shampoo even take, anyways?
She she turns off the stream & runs her hands through his hair again; it's not unlike trying to care for a stray dog, she thinks. She acts with a soothing hand, making sure he won't turn to snap and bite like one, and he's finally let her in enough to help him a little. Even if that is with the help of a little bit of alcohol.
They share a glance to let her know she can leave the room. He stands to grab a washcloth, and curses the blood in his veins for rushing everywhere except his head.
Lindsey stands outside the door, anxious as if she'd left the man in the room with a pipe bomb. Peter's the most likely thing in this house to explode, she thinks to herself, unable to hold in a small grin at her own quip.
☆
Washed & dried, Peter leaves the room in nothing but a towel for decency. He seems a little embarassed about it, despite it being something she'd seen before, and boy, was she secretly glad to see it again. In that moment, she couldn't possibly be upset at herself for forgetting to give him a change of clothes.
He changes into a fresh pair of clothes & rejoins Perez, who had given him a modicum of privacy and returned to the living room. He sits next to her. They dare not speak of what just happened. They're fond of eachother, and he feels awful for not seeming happier to see her, but the aftershock of fear is still rattling his core. The butterflies he'd occasionally get around her were being replaced with shrapnel piercing his innards like they did her face. They'll pay for that. The thought makes his jaw clench.
Silence envelops the room. The dying embers of Strahm's panic had been revived as white-hot anger in the pit of his stomach.
"You okay?" Lindsey all but whispers.
Strahm's eyes narrow. "Minus all this bullshit. Yeah, maybe." He spits his words as he gestures to the manic Jigsaw paper collection sprawled accross his home, and then to his stoma.
She looks at him. There are layers of unspoken grief and misery behind her eyes. Behind their partnership. Behind this very moment.
A glance between the two agents had always carried a lot of meaning, but their traps had changed them. They'd experienced what so many of their coworkers, or even friends, had fallen to. Their dance with death had did nothing for enlightenment - Jigsaw's claims of such were horseshit - it only left agony. Their feet will surely hurt long after this fickle dance with him has ended. Nothing will be the same again.
It ate both of them alive. They didn't need to say it aloud.
Perez lays her head in Strahm's shoulder. He pulls a throw over their laps instead of bickering over personal space. It was grounding for him; she's here, she's real, they're still alive.
Her body heat warms him as they lay back, exhausted. He moves her head towards his chest, almost cradling her. If only they could stay like this, still in time, unmoved by the breaking down of those around them.
They had done it. They had survived. Damaged, surely, but alive and (mostly) healthy. They're one in the same.
Maybe, just maybe, if they put their broken pieces together, they could sit still and melt into something whole again.