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Entry tags:
[12-Sep-2022][Saw] Ringing
Title: Ringing
Date/Prompt: "restroom time"/09-12-22
Fandom: Saw
Character: Peter Strahm/ Lindsey Perez
Ratings/Warning: PTSD, 322wc.
The days Jigsaw rings in her ears, Perez can't help showing up at Strahm's doorstep.
Sometimes, she reasons with herself that it's to check up on him; other times, she confronts the fear and panic swirling in the currents of her mind. This time, Perez comes to his apartment with a twelve-pack of fruity drinks and her ears ringing with the past echoes of shrapnel.
He'll never come for help, but he never refuses help either. Strahm never refuses her. He knows her knocks. He never takes long to answer, either.
For that, she's grateful.
The door always unlocks with a slow click.
Perez feels the steam from his skin the moment he opens the door, a waft of pleasant and crisp bourbon soap hitting her familiarly. She stares up at him, then grins, holding up the Walmart bag like a victory flag.
"Perez," Peter greets her. His voice rings out low and scratchy. The bags under his eyes hang deep.
He doesn't complain about the gust of wind coming through the door. He waits for her to come in, and Peter leads her in with a warm hand grazing the small of her back. He drips a trail of water, and the towel hangs low on his hips.
"Strahm," She answers.
Perez wants him to get better, but she knows it'll take a long time. She isn't finished with recovering either, but they carry on—they're special agents, and they exist to get the job done.
Strahm never prided himself on cleanliness, but he was never messy either. The apartment is perfectly clean. Too clean. Each light is flicked on, illuminating the apartment like a lone star.
"Let me fix myself up in the bathroom." He looks tired. Weary.
His medicine cabinets looked like a drug den. Peter can't sleep without company, but he never admits it aloud.
She shrugs, saying little. She'll wait. Lindsey, after all, will stay the night anyway.
Date/Prompt: "restroom time"/09-12-22
Fandom: Saw
Character: Peter Strahm/ Lindsey Perez
Ratings/Warning: PTSD, 322wc.
The days Jigsaw rings in her ears, Perez can't help showing up at Strahm's doorstep.
Sometimes, she reasons with herself that it's to check up on him; other times, she confronts the fear and panic swirling in the currents of her mind. This time, Perez comes to his apartment with a twelve-pack of fruity drinks and her ears ringing with the past echoes of shrapnel.
He'll never come for help, but he never refuses help either. Strahm never refuses her. He knows her knocks. He never takes long to answer, either.
For that, she's grateful.
The door always unlocks with a slow click.
Perez feels the steam from his skin the moment he opens the door, a waft of pleasant and crisp bourbon soap hitting her familiarly. She stares up at him, then grins, holding up the Walmart bag like a victory flag.
"Perez," Peter greets her. His voice rings out low and scratchy. The bags under his eyes hang deep.
He doesn't complain about the gust of wind coming through the door. He waits for her to come in, and Peter leads her in with a warm hand grazing the small of her back. He drips a trail of water, and the towel hangs low on his hips.
"Strahm," She answers.
Perez wants him to get better, but she knows it'll take a long time. She isn't finished with recovering either, but they carry on—they're special agents, and they exist to get the job done.
Strahm never prided himself on cleanliness, but he was never messy either. The apartment is perfectly clean. Too clean. Each light is flicked on, illuminating the apartment like a lone star.
"Let me fix myself up in the bathroom." He looks tired. Weary.
His medicine cabinets looked like a drug den. Peter can't sleep without company, but he never admits it aloud.
She shrugs, saying little. She'll wait. Lindsey, after all, will stay the night anyway.