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bookdancerfics · 2 years ago

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sympathy in hand (inevitability at your door), a Night Agent (TV) fic

Summary: Cisco has known for a few years that he’s Peter’s emergency contact. That doesn’t make him feel any better when he gets a call after hearing about the metro bombing on the news.

Relationships: Peter Sutherland and Francisco "Cisco" Jenkins

Warnings: N/A

Also available on AO3 and FF.net, both under Bookdancer. The AO3 link is in the content source of this post.

I do not own The Night Agent, and thanks to @queenofmoons67 for beta-ing!

It’s a clear night, one that Cisco would normally find perfect for a date, except his date ended when the sirens started blaring and word of the metro bombing hit the news. Part of Cisco wishes the guy had stuck around, if only for a distraction, but the other part of him knows that wouldn’t be fair for all parties involved—Cisco, his date, or the person he’s still waiting to hear back from.

Forty minutes ago his phone was lit up with text messages, “I’m safe,” “I’m home,” “I wasn’t in the city,” all variations of the same twenty words with the same intentions. His parents and grandmother live outside the city—safe. His partner, like him, had gotten home from their shift almost four hours ago and then never left—safe. His sibling is out of town for a concert—safe. His ex, his buddies from college, most of his friends from Quantico—all safe.

But that’s the quandary, isn’t it. Most of his friends from Quantico.

Most, not all.

Not Peter.

And Cisco worries, whether Peter likes it or not. Maybe, if Peter had anyone else besides his fiancée in his corner these days, then Cisco would let it go. But when you’re one of only two people who really, really care about someone, then you tend to worry about them a little more. So sue him for being a good friend.

Point being, Cisco could have been spending a relaxing evening with a date, but instead he’s stress watching the news and checking his phone every few minutes, hoping to see a message from his best friend even now that his phone has gone quiet. Or even just to see the little “Read: ‘whatever time Peter decides to actually check his texts’,” so Cisco knows Peter is even alive. Because hell, Cisco texted him “i’m safe, you?” almost fifty minutes ago, and Zoe hasn’t heard from him either, and Peter being Peter would never let either of them go so long without an answer unless he had a good reason.

Every news outlet out there has said that despite the crowded train, there was only one casualty.

That one casualty haunts Cisco; being dead is a very good reason to not answer a text.

And then, just as CNN is finally getting a more conclusive statement from the commanding officer on scene—Cisco’s phone rings. He jumps, expecting a text but not a call, and his phone bounces from his knee to the couch to the carpet, sending him scrambling after it in a panic. It’s on its fourth ring when Cisco finally manages to hit the answer button, barely registering the unfamiliar number as he lays on the floor.

“Peter?” he asks, willing himself to stay calm even as his voice pitches up.

“I’m sorry, this is the George Washington University Hospital, is this Francisco Jenkins?”

“Shit,” Cisco says, and his heart won’t stop pounding. “I mean, sorry, yes, this is him.”

“Hi Francisco, I’m calling about Peter Sutherland—”

If he’s being honest with himself, Cisco doesn’t remember much of the call after that. He thinks whoever was on the other end of the line said something about him being Peter’s emergency contact, which checks out. Peter had made the change not long after Cisco dropped out of Quantico, and had even talked a bit about keeping it the same after he got married—Zoe would be his next of kin, but Cisco would still get a call if something happened. Knowing he’s Peter’s emergency contact is a lot different to actually experiencing it though, and he’s pretty sure the hospital didn’t say anything about Peter’s physical state. Whether that’s a good thing or not he’s not sure.

The next thing Cisco knows he’s standing in front of the University hospital, putting in a 50% tip for the Lyft driver who was somehow willing to drive him halfway across the city the same night of a bombing. His phone buzzes, showing that Zoe liked the text he sent to let her know he was heading to the hospital for Peter.

“I can’t make it out there tonight, pls keep me updated!!” follows a couple seconds later, and Cisco stares at it, not quite sure he’s reading it properly. But he doesn’t have time to wonder what else she’s doing that’s more important than being there for her fiancé, or to question Peter’s choice of life partner.

Instead, he somehow finds it in himself to make the short walk from the curb to inside the hospital’s waiting room, where about three quarters of the seats are taken up by people waiting to be seen or waiting to see someone. Cisco doesn’t know enough about hospitals to even guess whether there’s more people here than usual, but there was a bombing barely an hour ago. Maybe he shouldn’t have to guess.

Instead he hurries up to the front desk and the young woman manning it. The woman—Nurse Boden according to her name tag—has short dark ginger curls and a smattering of freckles that remind him of Peter. There’s a lump in Cisco’s throat that won’t go away.

“I’m here for Peter Sutherland?” he manages, and Nurse Boden must see something on his face, because she smiles at him and there’s a sympathy there that Cisco doesn’t know what to do with.

“Give me one second,” she promises, and he nods as she taps away at her computer. The only reason he isn’t fidgeting is because he got rid of that habit at Quantico, a few weeks before Peter helped him pass Basic Water Survival.

“That’s Sutherland spelt S-u-t-h-e-r and then ‘land’, right?” she clarifies.

“Yeah,” Cisco says.

“And you are?”

“Uh—” There’s a brief moment where they both stare at each other, Nurse Boden in expectation and Cisco in confusion, before the light bulb finally goes off in Cisco’s brain and he fumbles for his wallet. “Right! Sorry, I’m normally more put together than this, I’m Peter’s emergency contact, Cisco Jenkins.”

He slides his ID across the desk and Nurse Boden gives it a cursory glance before handing it back.

“Great,” she says. “Mr. Sutherland is in one of our exam rooms right now being looked over, but if you take a seat in the waiting area then I can ask another nurse to let him know you’re here.”

“Can you tell me how he’s doing?”

Cisco’s request is just met with another sympathetic look though, just as useless as the last one. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Sutherland hasn’t authorized us to disclose that information to you. I can have the nurse ask but we can’t make any promises.”

“Right,” Cisco says, even though it feels like his parents’ dog is using his heart as a chew toy. “Okay, I’d really appreciate that, thank you. I’ll just—I’ll just be over there.”

He waves vaguely toward the back corner of the waiting room, somehow still empty, and then trudges off before Nurse Boden can give any more depressing news. Once he’s seated though, he does see her speak to a Black man in the same color scrubs as her, likely another nurse, and from there Cisco tracks the man visually, down another hallway to the second door on the left. Finally satisfied that he’s at least 99% sure he knows where Peter is, and telling himself that they couldn’t ask his best friend to disclose information unless he was conscious, Cisco settles into one of the waiting room’s plastic chairs to… well. Wait.

None of the TVs in the hospital are airing the news, but given Cisco’s suspicions about why the waiting area is so full, that’s not exactly a surprise. Instead they’re showing the local hockey game, and although it seems to be distracting some people, Cisco can’t bring himself to care about the Capitals when he still doesn’t know how badly Peter is hurt. He tries to tell himself he also doesn’t know why Peter is here, but given the events of the night Cisco is pretty sure that’s bullshit. He knows exactly why.

Speaking of which—Cisco glances at the TV again, just in time to watch the Caps’ opponent score, then pulls out his phone. It only takes a quick Google search to pull up a variety of news articles on the metro bombing, but he’s barely clicked on the first one when the same male nurse from before hurries up to him. From this short of a distance Cisco can finally see that his name tag says Nurse Daniels, and the bags under his eyes suggest he’s at the tail end of his shift.

“Hi, Cisco right?” Nurse Daniels says. “Peter asked if you could join him.”

“Yeah of course—” Cisco jumps up and immediately falls into step behind the other man. “I don’t suppose you can tell me anything now?”

Nurse Daniels shoots him a glance, once more sympathetic. Cisco can’t help but wonder if all hospital personnel are trained in those, or if it’s just the nurses. “I would, but Peter’s doctor is probably going to go over everything anyway.”

“But he’s okay?”

“He will be,” Nurse Daniels says, and maybe it’s ironic to think so, but for the first time since Cisco heard about the bombing, a weight lifts off his shoulders. “Here we are.”

Nurse Daniels opens a door, and Cisco thanks him before moving inside. In front of him—Cisco really hopes this is a case of “it looks worse than it is,” because Peter, quite honestly, looks terrible.

He’s stretched out on a classic examination table, head resting against the faux pillow and feet dangling over the other edge. One of his feet is bare, his pant leg rolled halfway up his calf, and he’s also shirtless, which means Cisco can see every single scrape and bruise and laceration, and there are… a lot of them. Peter’s torso looks the worst, huge splotches of purple and blue bruising covering both of his sides, and he’s hugging his right arm to his chest in a way that tells Cisco the laceration on his bicep is causing him more than a little pain. His face also took a beating, with scrapes and cuts all over his nose and forehead, dried blood making him look like he could star in a horror movie.

And yet, it’s the bruised knuckles that finally make Cisco pause. People could get any manner of injuries from an explosion, but bruised knuckles? The only way that could happen was if Peter tried punching the bomb, which was illogical and definitely not something he would’ve done. Something else happened. Maybe the timing of Peter being in the hospital so soon after the bombing was a coincidence?

Behind Cisco, the door shuts.

At the noise, Peter’s head lolls over from where he’s listening to a Black woman in a white coat who’s no doubt the doctor. She’s a fair bit older than both of them, with reading glasses perched on her nose and braids pulled into a bun.

“Cisco?” Peter asks. His voice slurs a bit at the end, and his eyes are half closed, making it obvious that he’s only barely staying awake. Cisco mentally adds concussion to the list of physical ailments plaguing his best friend. That or he’s really tired, but they’ve both been trained to let exhaustion affect them as little as possible, so Cisco doesn’t really think that’s the case here.

“Hey,” Cisco says, and somehow his voice is soft, not betraying his anxiety from the past two hours. “Hey, Petey, yeah, I’m here.”

He crosses the room in just a few steps, nodding a greeting at the doctor, who apparently took his entrance as an opportunity to pull out a clipboard and mark down some notes.

“Cisco Jenkins, right?” she asks. At his confirmation she holds out a hand to shake. “Doctor Catherine Reynolds, I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you but I think we both wish this was under better circumstances.”

“Yeah,” Cisco says, shaking her hand. “Definitely.”

He looks back down at Peter, whose eyes are still only half open, and shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from touching him. He’s not sure of much, right now, but he is sure that touching Peter will only cause him more pain.

Cisco lets the scratching of Dr. Reynolds’s pen fill the silence for a few minutes, then looks up at her. She seems focused, a small frown on her lips, and every now and then she checks something on her clipboard against Peter himself. But Cisco has to know.

“Hey, doc?” His voice cracks, but he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed, even though that hasn’t happened since he was at most 19. “Do you know what happened? Why he’s… why he’s like this?”

Dr. Reynolds shoots him a sympathetic look—and damn if that isn’t the fourth one in the same hour—but nods even as she keeps working. “I’ll admit I don’t know all of what happened, but what I do know is that Peter here got caught in the blast on the metro. And that if it wasn’t for him, there would have been a lot more casualties.”

Cisco swallows, but the lump in his throat persists. Having confirmation for what he’d already suspected somehow hasn’t helped.

“Hey, Cisco,” Peter mumbles. Cisco looks down; Peter’s eyes are almost fully closed at this point, but he seems to be stubbornly hanging on. Even as Cisco watches, Peter reaches over with his left arm, ignoring the cautioning words of the doctor that follow.

Peter’s hand fumbles in Cisco’s direction for a few seconds before Cisco figures out what he wants, and takes it. “Yeah?”

“‘m okay. I pr’mise.” Peter’s eyes open a little more, letting Cisco see just a sliver of brown, and he can’t help but squeeze Peter’s hand in thanks. It doesn’t escape him that the injured one of them both is the one doing the comforting.

“Yeah, Peter,” he whispers. “I know you are.”

There’s not much else he can do after that besides keep holding Peter’s hand. Peter dozes, partly because of the concussion and apparently partly because of the pain relief in his system. It’s a minuscule amount, certainly not enough, but Dr. Reynolds says Peter had refused heavier drugs.

She also says it’s perfectly fine for Peter to sleep, despite the concussion, and Cisco’s movie knowledge has always taught the opposite, but he does his absolute best to trust her on this. To trust her with Peter.

It’s harder than he ever thought it would be, when his best friend is lying beat to all hell in a hospital bed.

Still, she’s the doctor, so he holds Peter’s hand and tries to stay out of the way. Over the next hour or two, Dr. Reynolds talks both herself and her nurses through addressing all of Peter’s injuries.

There’s a lot. A whole laundry’s list of them, actually, from the concussion to a twisted ankle, from scrapes and bruises to three ribs that were cracked and broken, from busted knuckles and a bitten tongue to the laceration on his arm, which had also torn through the muscle.

He’ll need surgery for the last one. Not immediately, but sometime soon—within the next couple of weeks. Cisco wonders, somewhat bitterly, if it will be him or Zoe who sits by Peter’s bedside then.

It’s not the kindest thought he’s ever had. After all, he doesn’t know why exactly Zoe couldn’t make it to the hospital tonight. But the fact remains that Peter has a fiancée, and she’s not the one who’s here right now. Cisco is.

So Cisco dutifully takes notes on everything Dr. Reynolds tells him, even as he keeps holding Peter’s hand, and when the final bandage is in place and Peter has been changed into a hospital gown, Cisco is also there as they move him to a gurney and transfer him to an actual hospital room for observation.

Throughout it all, Peter never stirs except to squeeze Cisco’s hand, like he’s checking that Cisco is still there. Each time Cisco squeezes back and Peter falls asleep again.

The trouble comes, as he should have suspected it would, when he tries to stay in the room.

“Sir I’m very sorry,” one of the nurses tells him. “But our visiting hours are over.”

The nurse is unfamiliar, with pale white skin, brown curls, and a name tag that says Nurse Drake, but he’s sporting another one of those sympathetic looks. Cisco is beginning to really hate those.

“I’m a little stuck,” Cisco tries, wiggling the fingers of the hand Peter is still holding. Maybe some humor will defuse the situation. They’re also in a room with just one bed, Peter’s, so it’s not like they’ll be disturbing anyone else.

Nurse Drake pauses, eyes on their joined hands, and then his gaze travels very deliberately to Peter’s face. And it’s been awhile since Cisco did any kind of FBI training, but he thinks there may be some recognition in the nurse’s eyes.

“He was on the train, wasn’t he?” The words come quietly, Nurse Drake’s eyes softening at the corners. It may be sympathy, and Cisco may hate it, but if it gets him to stay with Peter then he’ll use it.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Nurse Drake takes a quick look around the hallway, then turns back and gives Cisco a nod in return.

“Just don’t tell anyone,” he says, and the door closes.

Cisco figures someone else will find out at some point, but it’s not a problem right now, so instead he taps out a quick text to Zoe, letting her know they’re staying overnight but Peter is relatively okay, given the circumstances. Then he leans forward as best he can with Peter still holding his hand, pillows his head in the crook of his right elbow, and goes to sleep.

Cisco wakes, surprisingly enough, to the sound of birds chirping outside. Surprisingly, because he honestly did expect to be kicked out at some point in the night. Maybe someone else took pity on them. Or Nurse Drake made sure he was the only one checking on Peter. Either way, Cisco can't complain.

Raising his head, he finds that his entire right arm has gone numb, but somehow his left hand is still holding Peter’s. Considering it’s been at least six hours, Cisco thinks that’s rather impressive.

And then he looks over at Peter, and Peter looks back.

Cisco scrambles to his feet, the chair tipping over behind him. “You’re awake!”

Peter nods, then winces, and when he speaks his voice comes out rough and dry. “Yeah. Not long though.”

“Hey, well you sound better at least. No more slurring.”

Peter, in the middle of lifting their joined hands, pauses. “Slurring?”

“Yeah.” Cisco squeezes Peter’s hand. “Probably from the concussion.”

“And the hand holding?”

Cisco smiles, and tries not to think about how long it’s been since he last did so. “Well you wouldn’t let go, and what was I supposed to do? Cut my own hand off?”

Peter’s lips curl up at the edges; not quite a smile, but he’s clearly amused. “You’d pass out from pain first.”

“Probably,” Cisco agrees. He squeezes Peter’s hand again. “Don’t ever do that again though. And I’m not talking about the hand holding.”

Peter lets out a brief laugh, then coughs. “Yeah. Yeah that would probably be for the best.” He stares at their hands, then lets go. Cisco jokingly shakes his hand out, pretending not to miss the warmth. Peter looks back up. “No promises though.”

Cisco stops shaking his hand.

There are things in this world that are inevitable. No one ever really knows what all of them are, although Cisco can name a few. Eating shellfish will make him break out in hives. His dad will boo the Orioles even when they’re terrible and losing by ten runs. Cisco is going to steal Kevin back when he drops Peter back at his place, and he’s not going to feel guilty about stealing from a wounded man at all.

And Peter Sutherland, to Cisco’s continuous consternation, will always put other people before himself.

So in the end, even as he’s standing next to his injured and bedridden best friend, all Cisco can do is swallow around yet another lump in his throat, nod, and hope to whatever god may actually be out there that Peter won’t die young.

#peter sutherland #francisco “cisco” jenkins #cisco jenkins #the night agent #night agent fic #fanfic #fic #my fic #mine #it's been so long since i've posted fic i'm so glad to be doing this again #hope you all like it!

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