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Peter rolls over, fingers splaying over the bed's thin sheets, trying to find Hoffman’s familiar warmth and huffing when he doesn’t. His eyes open to find that the other half of the bed is empty. Peter grumbles, pulling his blankets higher over himself. The room is cold and Hoffman is like a human furnace. He’s warm enough that Peter doesn’t need a blanket if he’s laying beside him, but he uses one anyway. Because what kind of insane person sleeps without a blanket. It’s easy to tell when Hoffman isn’t in bed. Easier to tell when he was never in bed to begin with.
“Hoffman?” Peter calls out, voice muddled with sleep. He gets no response. “Fuck.” He slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes. The room is dark aside from the faint glow given by the moon through the open window. Peter swings his legs off the side of the bed, pausing to read the time off the digital clock on his nightstand. 2:13 A.M. Why was Hoffman not in bed by now? Peter staggers across the dimly lit room, hands in front of him to stop from running into things. When his palms bump the cool wood of the door, his eyebrows furrow in confusion. They never leave the bedroom door shut at night. It’s always at least cracked so that their cat can come and go as he pleases.
Peter pulls open the door, wincing at the quiet creak it produces. “Mark?” His voice is soft and full of exhaustion. Really all he wants to do is go back to sleep, but how can he rest now when he doesn’t know where Hoffman is? Peter walks down the apartment's hallway, hand tracing the wall for a light switch. He finds one and flicks it on, the living room now being illuminated by a pale warm white light. Peter looks around the room. Nothing. The couch is empty aside from a blanket folded over the back and a used one crumpled at the end. The tv is off, the remote sitting on the coffee table beside a candle that has never been lit. Peter isn’t sure if it’s even been opened since he smelled it at the store. No Hoffman.
Peter continues into the connected kitchen, turning on the flickering overhead light—they really need to call maintenance for that—and stepping onto the cold tile floor. The counters are empty except for appliances and a few mugs. No Hoffman here either. Really the only place left is the bathroom, but Peter had already walked past it in the hall and the door was open with the light off. Peter knows Hoffman is probably fine, but fear fills his lungs anyway, making it so he can’t take a full breath. Did someone find out he works for Jigsaw? Is he sitting in a prison cell right now? Or worse? Did someone hurt him because of it?
Peter rushes back into their shared bedroom, grabbing his phone off his nightstand, scrolling through his contacts until he finds Hoffmans. He clicks it and brings his phone up to his ear. With every ring Peter’s heart pounds harder. “Come on, asshole. Pick up,” Peter mutters, running a hand through his hair. When he’s put through to Hoffman’s voicemail, he stills. Something cold drips down the base of his spine—dread, fear, anxiety. It’s nothing. Hoffman might just still be down at his office, looking through more Jigsaw files. Ever since Peter was let off the case due to medical reasons—a hole in his throat and a still barely working voice—Hoffman offered to help Lindsey pick up the slack. Which is ironic considering he’s looking for clues on himself.
Wait. Lindsey.
Peter pulls his phone back, holding it now with both trembling hands, and hits Lindsey’s contact. He holds it back up to his ear, running a shaky hand down his face. “Come on.”
Peter exhales with relief whenever he hears her pick up. “Peter?” He hears her say. Her voice sounds like she just woke up, and Peter takes a nervous glance at the clock. 2:34 A.M.
“Lindsey,” Peter starts, choosing his words carefully. He doesn’t know why he called her honestly, he can’t just say, “Hey, my boyfriend who you don’t really like is missing and I won’t be able to breathe properly until he’s found”. “Uh. Sorry. I know it’s late.”
Lindsey sighs. “Two in the morning can also be seen as early, I guess. It’s fine. What do you need, Peter?”
“Uh. I can’t find Mark,” Peter admits quietly.
There’s silence on Lindsey’s end for a few minutes. “You can’t find Hoffman,” she repeats slowly.
Peter closes his eyes tightly, clenching his jaw. He knows he sounds ridiculous, but sounding ridiculous doesn’t mean the problem isn’t real. “Correct.”
“You-“ Lindsey starts, before stopping herself. “How do you lose Hoffman?”
Peter hears her slight emphasis on Hoffman’s name and rolls his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Have you called him?”
Peter knows she was talking about Hoffman’s weight, but doesn’t say anything else about it. Sure, Hoffman’s gained a few pounds in the last few months but he’s not overweight. Peter wouldn’t care if he was, but maybe Peter is just biased because he likes Hoffman with a bit of a stomach. (He also likes it because it gives him an excuse to lay on Hoffman whenever he wants.) “He didn’t answer. Straight to voicemail.”
“Hm,” Lindsey is quiet for a moment. “When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday morning before he went to work. I fell asleep before he got home,” Peter admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep at five, he had just been oddly tired and decided to rest his eyes.
“Do you know if he actually got home?” Lindsey asks carefully.
Peter’s chest tightens. He knows that it’s easily a possibility, but he wants to be told Hoffman is fine. Even if it’s a lie. He really wishes that he had just went back to sleep. But he knows that wouldn’t have made the problem disappear. Hoffman would still be missing in the morning. “No. I don’t.”
“Okay,” Peter can hear rustling on Lindsey’s end, then the jingle of keys. “I’ll be at yours in ten minutes. Stay put.” Lindsey hangs up.
Peter isn’t sure why she told him to stay put. Where would he go? He doesn’t really leave the house anymore. He’s not allowed to stop by the precinct. He’s not allowed to visit crime scenes. He’s not allowed any new evidence on the Jigsaw case—though that doesn’t stop Hoffman from showing him. He has nowhere to go, really. Except when he occasionally goes to the cafe across the street. He always orders the same thing and always ends up talking a lot longer than he should to the purple haired teenage waitress named Lilith.
Peter sets his phone down, sinking back onto the bed. He holds his head in his hands. How did this happen? Peter knew what he was getting into when he started dating Hoffman. He knew what Hoffman did and accepted it—even if he had tried to convince Hoffman to quit, even if Peter knew what Hoffman did was wrong. Peter had been through two traps himself, even if it was Hoffman who made them—Hoffman making them somehow made it worse—he knew what those people went through. He worked as a FBI agent for fucks sake. What is he doing dating a Jigsaw apprentice? Peter can’t even justify it. But he loves Hoffman. And that’s enough for him.
Peter knows it’s excessive, but he can’t stop himself from changing into one of Hoffman’s shirts before Lindsey arrives. Specifically the one Hoffman usually sleeps in—further evidence that Hoffman hadn’t even entered the bedroom—a plain dark gray t-shirt. It’s too big on Peter but it smells like Hoffman—sweat and that same ridiculously expensive cologne Hoffman is always wearing and buys for reasons Peter has yet to find out—so he isn’t complaining.
Peter practically jumps out of his skin at the sound of knocking on the apartment door. He sighs and stands up, heading back down the hallway and pulling open the door to reveal a slightly disheveled Lindsey bearing two paper cups of coffee. “Evening, Strahm.” Lindsey nods, stepping past him like she lives there. Peter closes the door, locking it and leaning back against it, letting the cold from the wood seep through his shirt and into his skin.
Lindsey puts the coffee and her bag on the small wooden dining table in the corner of the room. “Okay. I called Erickson and he said that Hoffman was in his office not long ago,”
Peter pulls a chair out, slumping into it. “Erickson is still there?”
“Yeah. Still trying to figure out that tape from the audio labs,” Lindsey picks up one of the coffee’s, wrapping her hands around the warm cardboard.
“So?” Strahm inquires with a wave of his hand, asking her to go on.
“Oh. Right. So I asked how long ago and he said about half an hour. I’m sure he’ll be home soon, Peter.” Lindsey says, her tone softening with something like care.
Peter crosses his arms, fixing his gaze on the steaming coffee cup sitting on the table in front of him. Lindsey says Hoffman is probably fine. So why does he still feel uneasy? “I don’t know,” Peter admits softly. “I feel like something’s wrong—“
Peter is interrupted by a frantic pounding on the door. Both he and Lindsey startle at the loud sound. Peter immediately stands up, pushing his chair back against the wall. Lindsey grabs his upper arm, setting her drink down. “Careful,” she warns.
Peter rolls his eyes but he understands. He slowly approaches the door, making sure to avoid the floorboards that creak, and unlocks the deadbolt. He wraps his hand around the cool door knob, twisting it and pulling it open. He’s unsure who’s on the other side, but some part of him hopes that it’s Hoffman.
And Hoffman it is. A huge wave of relief washes over Peter, and he feels like he can breathe now. But something is wrong. The second the door is opened, Hoffman collapses into Peter, who takes a shocked step back but quickly wraps his arms around him. “Hoffman?” Lindsey asks at the same time Peter says “Mark?” Lindsey quickly approaches the two, placing a hand on Hoffman’s shoulder and her other on Peter’s. Peter and Lindsey share a look. Something’s wrong.
“Told you,” Peter says, unable to ignore the fact that he was right and unable to stop himself from rubbing it in Lindsey’s face.
“Save it for later, Strahm.” Lindsey glares at him.
“Sorry,” Peter says, not looking sorry at all. Something warm and wet soaks into Peter’s shirt, and that same tightening feeling from before squeezes his lungs. Peter gently pushes Hoffman back, trying to get a better look at his face. But when he does, he almost wishes he hadn’t. Blood covers half of Hoffman’s face, dripping from a tear in his cheek that goes from the corner of his mouth to his ear. Peter, having seen many injuries in his lifetime, doesn’t get nauseous around blood and gore. But he does when Hoffman is looking at him like he is right now. Like a kicked dog. “Lindsey,” Peter says, without looking at her. He sees her nod and head towards the bathroom. “Hurry!” Peter calls, finally turning to look and watch the hallway that Lindsey disappeared down.
Peter can’t move. Sure he knows he should, knows he should be getting a towel to stop the bleeding or getting something. But he feels frozen in place. How did this happen? Hoffman had been fine the previous morning. Now he has a half ripped open jaw and blood pouring down his face and coating his shirt and Peter can’t breathe.
“Peter?” Lindsey’s voice jolts him out of his thoughts and he jumps like he’s been hit.
“What?” Peter asks, eyes locking on her. Lindsey doesn’t say anything, just holds up a hand towel and a first aid kit. “Oh.” Peter nods, chewing on his bottom lip. He’s trying to decide where it would be best to try and treat Hoffman. Probably . . . “Bathroom. Help me.” Lindsey hands Peter the towel before stepping forward to help Peter drag Hoffman to the bathroom. She places his arm around her shoulders, her arm going around his back, her free hand grips the medical kit. Peter does the same, but uses his free hand to gently press the towel to Hoffman’s cheek, stomach twisting when Hoffman recoils with a look of pain shooting across his features.
“Sorry,” Peter mutters, voice softening when he sees the way Hoffman is looking at him. Like Peter is the only person in the world that he wants to help him.
It takes quite a bit to get to the bathroom, having to walk a bit slowly since Hoffman is clearly not all there. Once inside the bathroom Peter flicks on the light, sitting Hoffman down on the closed toilet lid. Lindsey hands Peter the first aid kit, trading Peter and now holding the towel to Hoffman’s face instead while she takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub.
Peter sets the kit on the counter, opening it and digging through to find what he needs. Needle. String. Peter isn’t a doctor, but they can’t risk going to one. Too many questions would be asked and Peter wouldn’t have enough answers.
Peter has done stitches on himself before. It should be fine. Right?
Peter settles on his knees in front of Hoffman, carefully threading the needle and pulling the knot tight with his teeth. He nods to Lindsey, who carefully removes the now bloody towel and drops it into the bathtub, she grabs another, holding it below Hoffman’s jaw. “Hold still,” Peter says, placing a hand under Hoffman’s chin to tilt his head up. He doesn’t bother with the whole “this will sting” speech. Hoffman is a grown adult and has had plenty of his own injuries to know it will hurt when you disinfect it. Peter flicks open the bottle of hydrogen peroxide that he found in the sink under the cabinet, angling it to pour over the cut on Hoffman’s face. Hoffman hisses, eyes squeezing shut. His hand squeezes Lindsey’s free one, which she had held out for him to take. Usually, Lindsey doesn’t really care for Hoffman, but that doesn’t mean she thinks he deserves this.
“Almost done,” Peter says. He places the bottle onto the counter, but not before dripping some onto the needle. His hand drops from Hoffman’s chin to his thigh, gently squeezing.
“Hold very still. It won’t take long,” Peter promises, moving his hand back up to Hoffman’s neck, resting it on the back. He hesitates before pushing the needle through the first bit of skin, resulting in a pained whine from Hoffman. “I know,” Peter whispers, and he does. Stitches done at home always hurt. Unless you happen to have an anesthesiologist on hand. Which Peter and Lindsey do not.
Peter continues, ignoring any kind of sound from Hoffman. If he focuses on how much this is hurting him, he might stop. That wouldn’t be good for any of them. When he’s done he cuts the string from the needle, tying a few tight knots before dropping his hands, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Hoffman’s chest.
“Peter?”
“Hmm.” Peter doesn’t bother moving or even looking in Lindsey’s direction.
“No offense, but you need a shower,” Lindsey nudges him with her foot.
Peter feels sick at the idea of leaving Hoffman alone for even a minute—he just finished stitching up what happened the last time he did that—which Lindsey seems to realize. “I can watch him. I won’t let anything happen.”
Peter knows he can trust Lindsey, so he helps her take Hoffman into the kitchen—where she is going to clean up all the blood on him—before heading into the bathroom to shower. He turns the water as hot as it goes, liking the burning feeling that covers his skin. Showers have been a hit and miss since the box trap. The sound of running water makes his heart race and the only way he can shower is with water that is not even remotely cold. Peter supposes he can blame Hoffman for that, but the thought of blaming Hoffman for anything right now makes Peter’s stomach hurt, so he ignores the thought and instead scrubs his skin raw.
Once he’s out of the shower and changed (no longer in Hoffman’s shirt since he has to wear it) into a dark blue shirt and black pants, he’s heading into the kitchen where Lindsey sits at the table, nursing a still steaming mug of coffee. Another sits in front of the seat across from her. Peter sits down, wrapping his fingers around the mugs handle and taking a sip.
“I got him all cleaned and bandaged. He’s in bed, though he kept asking for you,” Lindsey says, giving Peter a small smile.
Peter perks up slightly, intrigued that Hoffman wants him. Even if they are dating. Even if they have been for a few months. Peter still can’t comprehend that Hoffman wants him. That he chose to date him.
Peter nods, fixing his gaze on the dark liquid in the mug resting between his palms. His leg bounces beneath the table, his teeth worrying his bottom lip.
“Peter?” Lindsey places a gentle hand on top of his. “He’ll be okay.”
Peter doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at her with an expression that exposes way too much. He knows that. Obviously he knows. But he can’t help but think about the fact that Hoffman had been fine a few hours before. Now he’s gonna have a permanent scar marring the side of his face.
Peter promises himself he’ll figure out who did it.
“Lindsey—“
She stops him, seeming to know what he’s going to ask before the words leave his tongue. “I’ll stay. Please rest, Peter. You both need it.”
Peter starts to argue as always, but when he sees the look in Lindsey's eyes the fight dies in his throat. He simply nods, standing up from the table. He makes sure to dump his mug and rinse it before heading back to his and Hoffman’s room.
The door is cracked open, faint light shining through—presumably from a bedside lamp. Peter steps inside, quietly closing the door behind him. Hoffman is lying in bed—on the right side, Peter had claimed the left when they first moved in together and Hoffman hadn’t argued—with the blankets mostly kicked off. He doesn’t seem to be asleep, but to Peter it’s too dark to tell.
“Mark?” Peter’s voice seems too loud in the quiet room and he feels the sudden need to whisper. It takes a few seconds for him to hear a response.
“Peter?” Hoffman tilts his head slightly to look at Peter, and Peter can tell for sure now that his eyes are open. Hoffman has definitely looked better, and Peter doesn’t even bother asking if he’s okay. Who would be okay after having half their jaw ripped open.
Peter can’t help the annoyance that flares in him. “Don’t talk. You’ll infect it.” Peter isn’t sure if that’s how it works, and he certainly doesn’t want Mark to stop talking; but if he keeps sounding like that—so broken and vulnerable—Peter isn’t sure he can handle it. He also doesn’t ask Mark who did it. He isn’t sure he wants the answer just yet, knows it’ll just piss him off even more. He needs to focus on Mark.
Peter climbs into bed beside Mark, pulling the thin blanket up over both of them. No matter how hot Mark runs, Peter needs a blanket.
They eventually fall asleep like that—Peter letting Mark take the left side of the bed so his bandaged face doesn’t rub against the bed and possibly injure him more—Peter lays on his back, Mark resting against his side. Embarrassingly, Peter can’t take his eyes off of Mark’s face. The white bandage standing out against his tan skin. His hair sticking to his forehead.
Peter decides that the next day, he’ll beg Erickson to be let back on the case, but for now he’s okay with having Mark in his arms. Not missing. Not gone somewhere where Peter can’t reach him. But right beside him and alive.
Injured maybe.
But to Peter, it’s better than nothing.