#yah my title yesterday was basically the same thing sorryyy

[set-phasers-to-whump]

breathe

prompt: "let me see"

whumpee: peter sutherland

fandom: the night agent

hi here's the part 2 to this fic from day 18. i hope you like it, i had a really good time writing both of these :)

Peter steps off the plane at Dulles in the early evening. He feels slightly better than he had on the first flight, having now gotten a good deal of sleep, and having bought some extra-strength painkillers and a ridiculously overpriced meal at JFK. At the very least, he’s not so exhausted and the pain is more manageable and he no longer feels nauseous with hunger. 

He gets a cab home, not caring about the price. Halfway there he realizes that he doesn’t have his key - it’d been in his bag, which is now gone. The cab driver mercifully has a paperclip that he gives to Peter, though he looks at him a little skeptically in the rearview mirror. 

Peter knows he doesn’t exactly look like an upstanding citizen at the moment. The bruises on his face have become more pronounced over the last several hours, and he’s still dirty and sweaty and generally gross. He makes sure to tip the driver well when they at last reach his apartment building. 

He picks the lock on his door with little trouble and heads immediately to his bedroom. 

He hadn’t bothered to buy and change into new clothes at JFK, though he certainly could have. But he hadn’t been able to stand the thought of changing without showering, and in any case he hadn’t really had the strength. 

He isn’t entirely sure if he has the strength to change and shower now, but he’s damn well going to anyway. The thought of a nice hot shower, of clean and comfortable clothes, is nearly enough to make him weep. 

He gathers clothes at random - an old t-shirt, his favorite sweats, the hoodie he’d stolen from Cisco all those years ago. Then he steps into the bathroom and turns the shower on, almost as hot as it will go. 

He strips down while the bathroom slowly steams up. First to go are his boots. His fingers shake when he unties the laces, and he has to sit on the floor to get enough leverage to tug them off.

His socks follow suit, full of sand that scatters across the floor. He’ll deal with that later. He’s relieved to see that his feet aren’t blistered - he really hadn’t walked that far - but his left ankle is swollen and tender to the touch in a way that suggests a sprain at the very least. 

He wriggles out of his pants and boxers without standing back up. His knees are both bruised and so are his shins. One of them sports a large break in the skin, blood matted into the hair around it. 

He unzips his jacket and pulls off his shirt. The cuffs of both are bloody from his wrists, despite his earlier efforts to clean them. His entire torso is like one massive bruise. He’ll have a few broken ribs, for sure. 

He can’t see the bruise around his neck, but he knows it’s there. He cannot stop feeling it, a phantom arm still wrapped around his throat. Stop thinking about it, he tells himself. You’re safe now. 

He only half believes it.

He forces himself up off of the floor with a groan of pain and then steps into the shower. The hot water stings his skin and the pressure of it makes the bruises across his body hurt like he’s being beaten all over again. He grabs the soap and shampoo and then sinks to the floor, too tired to remain on his feet. 

He covers himself in a thick layer of soap. It stings his open wounds, but he grits his teeth against the pain and keeps going. He cannot risk infection. He cannot be anything less than clean.

After this, he scrubs shampoo into his hair. The water runs faintly pink when he washes it out, and he wonders where the blood had come from. 

At long last, he’s certain that every inch of his body has been scrubbed clean. He no longer feels sand prickling at his skin and he is no longer stained with blood. He sits beneath the water and breathes in the steam until it starts to run cold. 

Out of the shower, Peter dries himself off as gently as possible. He’s also quick about it, not wanting to stand on his ankle any longer than he has to, and so when he gets dressed he’s still a bit damp and the clothes stick to his skin. 

He doesn’t mind. The feeling of the familiar fabric is comforting regardless, and it reminds him of where he is. At home, far away from the people who had hurt him. 

He rubs neosporin into the raw skin of his wrists and the cuts on his face, then swallows a couple more painkillers. Finally, he brushes his teeth until he’s spitting blood into the sink. 

He leaves the bathroom something of a wreck and heads for the kitchen. He’s hungry again. There are a few packages of ramen in the pantry, for times when he doesn’t feel like cooking. He’s extremely grateful for them in this moment, and within five minutes he’s sitting in front of a steaming bowl and breathing in the very familiar scent. It’s one he associates with his days at Quantico, and he is hit with the realization that he needs to contact his bosses. 

He hadn’t been given any instructions for communication before he’d left, so they won’t necessarily know anything has gone wrong. He needs to tell them. He doesn’t want to. 

He can put it off for a little while. It’s not like he currently has a phone, anyway. 

He finishes eating, has a large glass of water - he thinks he is always going to be just a bit thirsty, now - and then just sits there. 

His body aches and he knows he should probably get checked out by a doctor. But the thought of some stranger poking and prodding at him, after everything, is incredibly unpleasant. It can wait until tomorrow, at least. 

It is dark outside, nearing eight o’clock, and Peter does not want to be alone. He wants to see Rose.

She lives across the city from him, in a cute little house that she’d moved into only a couple months ago. He wants nothing more than to go there, to simply be in her presence. 

He’d normally call and ask whether she’s free. But he can’t. He’ll just have to hope she’s there, that she won’t mind him coming by unannounced. 

He puts on a pair of boots - thankfully not the ones he’d been wearing before, which are full of sand - and a jacket with a high collar. Lacking his phone and keys, he feels distinctly like he is forgetting something as he steps into the hallway, but he knows he isn’t. He leaves the door unlocked behind him and tries not to think about it.

He takes the bus and then the metro across town. He feels anxious, memories of the bombing overlaying themselves atop memories of the past twenty-four hours. He focuses on looking out of the window and trying to control his breathing. 

He arrives at Rose’s house a little after 8:45. He experiences a moment of doubt before he rings the bell - what if she doesn’t want to see him, what if she isn’t home - but she opens the door with a smile on her face. 

“Back so soon?” she asks. He’s supposed to have been away all week. 

Seeing her, hearing her voice - he hasn’t cried, not since it happened. He’d been too exhausted, too focused on making it to the next step. But she is his final destination. 

He starts to cry and he can’t stop. Rose pulls him inside and wraps her arms around him and it hurts but he doesn’t pull away. 

His ankle is throbbing. He sinks to the floor and she goes with him. Her fingers are in his hair and he clings to her shirt like a lifeline. 

At some point, after a long while, he does stop crying. His eyes are dry and itchy and his throat feels raw. He leans heavily against Rose and breathes raggedly. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. The word feels like sandpaper. 

“Shh,” Rose replies. “Come with me.”

She gets up and he follows her to the couch. 

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

Peter takes off his shoes but leaves his jacket on. He does not want her to see the mark on his neck. It is enough to feel it, all the time. 

Rose comes back with a container of ice cream and two spoons, and Peter feels himself nearly smile. She sits cross-legged beside him, pries open the carton, and passes him a spoon. 

The cold dairy feels wonderful on his throat, and Rose’s steady presence makes him feel safe and comfortable. He relaxes quite a bit. 

And then his jacket sleeve rides up as he’s trying to dig out a chunk of chocolate, and Rose freezes, grabbing his wrist. 

“What happened?”

He gently pulls away. “It’s nothing.”

She abandons the ice cream, turning her body to face him. “Peter, that doesn’t look like nothing.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Rose nods. “Okay. Let me see, at least? You don’t have to say anything. I just…”

He knows. 

He can hardly refuse. He’d want the same thing, in her place. To know that she’s alright. To see how bad it really is. 

He carefully removes his jacket and pushes up his sleeves. He looks down at the floor as Rose touches his arms with cold fingers. 

“Look up for a second?”

He complies. Looking down, he knows, had hidden the worst of the bruise on his neck, but hadn’t hidden it all. He swallows hard as her fingers ghost over the bruise, trying to pretend that they don’t make him think of what had happened. 

“Is there more?” 

He could lie. Except that he can’t, really. Not when it’s her. 

He nods. He doesn’t know why it feels like admitting something shameful. 

“Can I see?”

In response, he lifts up the hem of his shirt to reveal the bruising on his torso. He hears Rose suck in a breath. 

“What happened?” she asks, lightly touching his chest. There are tears in her eyes and part of Peter wants to tell her, to reveal every single detail that he remembers. But another, larger part of him cannot face it. It’s too much and too soon, and he feels like one raw, exposed nerve. He can’t. Not yet. 

He shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later. Promise.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “Have you been to the hospital?”

“I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Peter -”

He meets her eyes, really meets them, for the first time. “Please. I swear, I’ll go tomorrow. But right now - I can’t.”

Rose nods, although it’s clear she doesn’t love this plan. “Will you stay here tonight? So I can keep an eye on you?”

He hadn’t been sure of how to ask this very question without seeming like a child afraid of a monster lurking in the dark. He nods. 

Rose smiles, sad and happy at once. “Are you tired?”

He shrugs. “A little.”

“Come on, then.”

They go to her room. The bed is large and warm and smells like her and it kind of makes him want to cry all over again, for reasons he doesn’t really understand. 

“Just a minute,” Rose says. She disappears to lock up, to get ready for bed, and Peter buries himself beneath the blankets. 

She returns to the bedroom a few minutes later, switching off the light. The complete darkness makes him feel panicked for a moment, but then the bed dips and her hands find his. 

He feels her move around a bit, and then one of her hands is on his cheek. Her nose bumps into his, which hurts a bit, and then she kisses him, light and a little clumsy and perfect. 

Peter rests his head against her shoulder and lets his eyes fall closed. He falls asleep quickly and completely, breathing deep and even for the first time in quite a while.

thanks for reading!!! hope you liked it <3

#whumptober2023 #no.27 #let me see #the night agent #fic #peter sutherland #aftermath of torture #comfort #crying #my writing #i say things #i originally imagined a whole interlude in nyc but it didn't go w the prompt and was long as hell so i skipped that lmao #anyway. in a week i am going to be on a train on my trip yippee!!!! #yah my title yesterday was basically the same thing sorryyy #i hate titles so so so much grrrrrr