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kittyscabin · 5 months ago

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shows up to give you the coffinchain challenge

Please be more careful when you cross the road You’re a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

Stray cats.

Peter had always likened the apprentices to a group of stray cats, in his mind.

At first it was out of distaste. They were a nuisance; a band of drifters slinking around the alleyways, catching their quarries unaware. The quick, sharp jab of a hypodermic needle might as well have been the efficient killing bite that a cat might deliver to the throat of its prey. They worked in the shadows, occupying all of those lonely abandoned buildings and reworking them for a new, twisted purpose.

Then, begrudgingly, he’d found himself wrapped up in Mark Hoffman. Chasing him, hunting him, hellbent on bringing him to justice, then on killing him, then on understanding him, then…

Well, Peter didn’t know what he was doing now.

All he knew was that sitting in his apartment, in varying states of composure, were three of Jigsaw’s disciples.

Dr. Gordon sat on his couch, eyes trained down as his hands worked on bandaging a fresh wound on the arm of his younger accomplice. Stanheight sat quietly and allowed for the medical attention with little fight. Hoffman himself sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch close to the other two.

Peter remained standing, trying not to buckle at the absurdity of his situation. In true stray-animal nature, he had made the mistake of allowing Hoffman into his home once, twice, thrice, and now he’d come back with friends.

‘Don’t feed the strays’, indeed.

Accept that he did know the other two, at this point. The polite Dr. Gordon was well-spoken and direct; Peter had found him infuriating in the beginning. He was a hard man to interrogate and an even harder man to intimidate, as level and unflinching as he was. Unlike Peter, he never seemed to let his anger get the best of him, and he seemed to know that. Dr. Gordon was a man who always seemed very aware of how much more control he had in the conversation. It was enviable.

Then there was Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. Mouthful of a name. It was strange enough for Peter to wrap his head around the fact that the kid was alive, let alone working with Jigsaw. He was angry- had more rage in his scrawny little body than what felt possible. Stupid and impulsive, Peter had found him annoying. Just a petulant adolescent who had gotten himself into bigger trouble than he yet realized.

They’ve come a long way since then. Both apprentices had grown on him, maybe because they reminded him of himself in their amalgamate qualities. The cold, callous bluntness of the doctor. The white-hot temper of the kid. The way he had never seen the former so gentle nor the latter so complacent until now, as they patched themselves together on his bloodied furniture.

Peter had been reluctant to welcome them all inside. It was bad enough to shelter one serial killer, but now three? It reminded him that everything he’s been doing as of late is against what he once stood for. Fuck, it would solve a hell of a lot of his own problems if he didn't care. If he’d let them all rot, make them regret thinking that Peter would risk his own hide just because he's been friendly with them. Dr. Gordon and Stanheight had seemed to understand this too. Their expressions had been apprehensive, looking ready to flee like the animals they were. Peter wonders how long ago he would have given chase.

Hoffman had spoken, then.

“I didn’t-” His voice was shot and exhausted. “I didn’t know where else to go, Strahm.”

And just like that, Peter took them in. Those words were all it took. Hoffman limped inside on a bad leg and described some sort of police-raid, premature. John Kramer and Amanda Young hadn’t even been there, so it had just been the trio, and they were forced to flee. Unable to go far on foot in their current state, Hoffman had brought his injured companions here. To Peter.

Why did that make something strange stir within him?

The three of them were soaked to the bone from the rain. Peter watched Hoffman sluggishly attempt to remain alert, but every so often his head would lull and come to rest against the soft thigh of Dr. Gordon. If the doctor noticed it, he didn't say a word as he continued to diligently work. He looked tired. Stanheight was putting on the best brave face he could manage, but Peter’s keen eyes caught his shoulders trembling, only eased when Gordon’s hand came to rest on one and rubbed gently. They all looked so tired.

Unable to watch any longer, Peter finally broke the silence.

“So why are you still doing this?” It took everything in him to not fidget idly as he spoke, brows furrowed at the three men.

All eyes were on him quite suddenly, sharp as they regarded him. Three clever pairs of observant eyes that all screamed out ‘I know more than I’m letting on' to Peter. He held their gazes, muscled arms crossed over his chest.

“You know what I’m talking about.” He scoffed, lip curling. “What’s the point of doing the old man's dirty work when he just lets things like this happen to you?”

Silence.

Hoffman broke first. He laughed, eyes closing as he rested more fully against the couch. It was good-natured but ultimately dismissive.

Dr. Gordon frowned at Peter, one brow quirked as if he had asked them something incredibly naive. Like he expected Peter to know already.

Stanheight didn't react. Not outwardly, anyways. He only stared, something new and strange glittering in his eyes that Peter couldn't place.

“What,” Peter grit his teeth, an edge to his voice. Less of a question and more of a prompt.

“Nothing, nothing. Apologies, Mr. Strahm.” Gordon sighed, turning his attention back to his handiwork. He appeared to nearly be done with the worst of Stanheight’s injuries now. “It’s just… not that simple.”

“Not exactly the kinda job you can put your two weeks in for.” Hoffman corroborated, a smirk tugging at his full lips.

Peter felt his face burn hot, and he huffed in frustration. “You fucking- Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like it’s a stupid question. I’ll throw you back out onto the fucking curb.” He jabbed a finger at Hoffman in particular, who for his part did indeed shut his mouth. “You listening? Good. What I’m saying is that John Kramer is one demented old man. What is actually stopping you?”

This time, the quiet was punctuated by Hoffman and Gordon exchanging an uncomfortable glance. After a moment, Hoffman shrugged and ran one hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of, uh, checks ‘n balances.”

Peter raised an eyebrow skeptically. Hoffman continued.

“Information is power, etcetera. Kramer keeps basically everything on a need-to-know basis. Including, I dunno, who you’re workin’ with half the time. Hell,” He rolled his eyes, and lazily raised a hand behind his head to pat Gordon’s arm. The doctor made an annoyed noise in response, shifting away from him. “He only told me about these lovebirds when he needed help lookin’ after ‘em.”

“I’m still mad about missing out on a trip to Mexico.” Stanheight quipped. His voice was softer than normal, but Peter supposed it was a good sign that he was speaking at all. He wasn’t used to the younger man being so quiet.

Gordon straightened up a moment later, gently patting down the new bandages and brushing some of the hair from Stanheight’s face. “There you go.” He sighed. The warmth in his tone was so palpable that Peter had the distinct feeling it wasn’t meant for his ears. Despite being in his own apartment, he somehow felt he was intruding. “Get comfortable, alright?”

Peter watched as Stanheight pulled himself to his feet, stopping short just a little ways away from him with an awkward shuffle. Gordon patted his thigh and spoke his next words like they took all of his energy to say.

“Your turn.” He didn’t even bother to look at Hoffman. The detective grinned anyways, wasting no time in clamoring up into Gordon’s personal space and slinging his leg across the man’s lap. Gordon shook his head disdainfully, but carefully began rolling back Hoffman’s torn pant leg anyways.

Peter guessed he wasn’t the only one that Hoffman lived to irritate.

“Christ, Mark.” Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter’s shoulders stiffened as he took a step forward to look. His stomach sank despite himself; from where he was standing Hoffman’s calf looked like a bloody mess. Peter’s a man who’s seen more gore in his line of work than anyone should hope to see in their lifetime, and yet here he is, staring in alarm. It was unlike him, and woefully he could only attribute his own uneasiness to the owner of the calf.

As if he could read his mind, Hoffman looked up towards Peter. “Hey, it’s just-” He winced, hissing in pain as Gordon began to clean the wound. “It’s no big deal- no bullet inside. Just grazed me.”

“You were shot?” Peter balked.

“Grazed,” Hoffman corrected.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in a quick-rising frustration. Hoffman was impossible.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Gordon’s voice was little more than a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took an unnecessary risk. Do you think I enjoy patching you back together? Honestly, if I didn't know any better I’d assume you were trying to get your sorry self killed.”

Dr. Gordon’s tone left the detective bristling. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He scoffed. “Hell, I don’t bother you when you’re workin’ in the sickbay. Why don't you just- fuck!”

Hoffman yelped at the unceremonious splash of disinfectant. Gordon gave him the sort of well-practiced fake smile that only a doctor could.

“My bad,” he murmured, unapologetic.

Peter decided he’d seen enough. He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, telling himself that he was just stepping aside to get ice in case the doctor needed some. He knew it wasn't the truth, though; he scolded himself quietly as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his graying hair.

The truth was that he couldn't keep standing there, staring at Hoffman’s leg injury.

It’s ironic, because it feels like not too long ago that Peter would have done anything to put a bullet in Hoffman. Now the thought makes him feel… queasy. And a bit confused.

Peter found himself comparing the apprentices to strays again.

He couldn’t get the image of roadkill splattered on the side of the highway out of his head.

From what he knew of John Kramer and his cult, the apprentices were expendable parts. It doesn't even sound like they can trust each other half the time. One wrong move or fatal mistake would be all it took. Peter wasn't even sure how long it would take him to know something had happened.

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps so quiet that he knew exactly who they belonged to before turning around. Stanheight stood at the entryway of his bare-bones kitchen, watching him. He’s probably spent the least amount of time alone with him.

“What is it?” Peter’s frown deepened.

The kid didn't answer immediately, instead coming to lean against the wall beside him. He was quiet for a moment, and then shrugged.

“Wanted to check on you, I guess.” He answered simply.

“Check on me? In what way do I need checking on?” Raising a brow, Peter gestured towards the living room. “Look at you three, for fuck’s sake.”

Stanheight held his hands up defensively. “Hey, hey, I just- I get it, alright?”

Peter didn't know what that meant. He stared down at the shorter man, scowl ever-present, silently prodding him to elaborate. Stanheight’s expression was… almost sympathetic, but his eyes had that same strange look from before: the one that Peter couldn't place.

The kid was easy to underestimate, Peter knew it from his file and from his current involvement. He wasn't about to make that mistake with him.

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Stanheight finally said. He was muttering now, glancing once over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. “One thing to know what they're doing and another to see them come back with blood and bits of their skin hanging off.”

Peter felt his stomach turn. “No,” he lied. “If Hoffman’s gonna be reckless and get himself killed then so be it.”

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid.” Stanheight laughed dryly. “You don't gotta lie to me, okay? I’m on team Peter here.”

“Are we forgetting that you’re one of ‘them’ too?” Peter steeled his gaze, unamused.

Stanheight grimaced. “I mean- kind of. Not really.”

“‘Not really?’ What’s that mean?”

“I- like- like I’m with them but I’m not one of them. Old Johnny-boy has never and will never give a shit about me. Not exactly in the running to be his heir or whatever the others think will happen.” Stanheight huffed, rolling his eyes as he explained. “Pretty sure he wouldn't even notice if I went missing if it weren't for the pictures ‘n schedules I go and get for him.”

Peter is quiet for a moment.

“Why stick around?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer.

The kid just snorted in lieu of answering, and the two fell into silence once more for a couple of seconds.

“Glad that Mark has you.” Stanheight suddenly murmured, thoughtful.

“He does not ‘have me’.”

“Maybe you can knock some sense into him.”

Peter scoffed, looking elsewhere. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Stanheight laughed, “I’m not kidding, though. It always freaks me out how Mark gets when he’s like…”

Raising a brow, Peter waited for him to sort out his thoughts.

“Like, when he gets hurt, right? He just- just runs off. Or he’ll go and get hammered on the other side of town and when we find him he’s a mess.”

At that, Peter’s shoulders went rigid. He was aware of Mark’s habits, his unhealthy coping mechanism. He hadn't thought about who else might know, how deeply it might run. He hadn't thought about how often Mark must be alone.

When he looked back at Stanheight, he realized the kid was staring at him intently. There was concern in his expression, but also something fierce.

“John’s really messed him up. Worse than he was before all of this.” His voice was low, almost cautious. “All of them. Lawrence, Mark, Mandy, none of them deserve this. You know that, right?”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “I…”

Straightening up again, Stanheight stepped closer to Peter. Before he could see it coming, a smaller hand took his own and held it, inspecting it. “I think Mark needs you.” He said, “maybe all of us do. So you gotta take care of yourself too.”

Something confused seemed to bloom in his chest then, an uncertain warmth that he could feel rise up to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he couldn't decide on anything to say.

“Just think about it, ‘kay?” Stanheight let go of his hand again and started to leave the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to look back at him. “Oh, one more thing.”

“What is it?” Peter’s voice was hoarse.

Stanheight gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. “Welcome to the family.”

Then he was gone, Peter’s protest to that statement dying on his lips, and Peter was left to think on everything he said.

Hoffman needing him. Hoffman hiding himself away in dark corners to nurse his wounds. Improperly set bones and too much bandage.

Stray cats.

Peter’s family used to have cats. His sister’s cat had been an old, white, raggedy thing that she named Alfredo. When Alfredo passed away, he had hidden under the bed and refused to come out. Peter thinks he remembers reading somewhere that pets do that on purpose, so their humans don't have to see them die, but it's been years and his animal knowledge is limited.

Peter wondered how hard it is to socialize a stray cat. To reintroduce it to domesticity.

He stepped out of the kitchen, lingering at the entryway, and watched the apprentices from where he stood. Gordon seemed to have finished with Hoffman’s leg, speaking to him in a quieter tone than before. To his surprise, Hoffman looked like he was listening. Stanheight was on the couch with them now, leaning his head onto Gordon’s shoulder.

Peter found that he wished he could freeze this moment with the three of them in it. The bubble of safety that was his living room felt far away from everything Jigsaw. Maybe they were always meant to be here, on soft furniture, and not crouching amongst rusted pipes and jagged metal.

Tamed. Domesticated.

He sighed through his nose and walked around the couch, three sets of clever eyes on him again as he caught their attention. Now that he was there, he could see that Dr. Gordon had just begun to wrap up Hoffman’s leg and he silently motioned to ask for the gauze, kneeling down between them.

Understanding the gesture, Gordon handed it over, smiling at Peter warmly enough to raise his body temperature by a degree.

“Strahm-” Hoffman started, bewildered, but Peter simply began wrapping his leg neatly.

“Shut up.” He grunted. “Let me help you, stupid.”

#saw #coffinchain #chainshipping #hoffstrahm #coffinshipping #hoffstrahmdonheight #asks #jennilah #I LOVE YOU JENNA I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG #these are supposed to be short fics . uhhhhhhhh #i prommy i'll get better at this whole ficlet thing #anyways god i hope any of you like this bc i already hate it LMAOOO it's mostly dialogue and idk if it's anything #oh well #sometimes you write 3k words and then just go 'this sucks' and post it anyways #could've been softer given the song i rolled BUT i wanted to ease y'all in since this is technically my first posted coffinchain fic #pls tell me if you do like it ;w; and also don't be afraid to keep sending ships/characters bc i'm still up for this song lyric prompt #writing #fanfic #peter strahm #mark hoffman #adam faulkner stanheight #lawrence gordon #ughgg i love them. i really love them i wish i could do them more justice than this

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littleplantfreak · 1 month ago

Text

Midnight

So...this is a self indulgent Ume/Reader kinda not too much Ume about your cat passing away and going through it because that's where I'm at right now and I thought writing about it might help. (i named it after my cat too so)

Word count: 800ish (sorry i know that's a lot)

Cws: Hurt/Comfort (I tried to make it a little happy at the end), Animal Death, Grief

I only read it through once so no beta and under the cut :0 because I don't wanna make anyone sad who doesn't want to be.

It’s snowing again and the white powder muffles sound, making the walk from the car to your front door quieter than usual. Your keys jangle loudly in opposition when you take them out of your purse to unlock the door.

“Hey, I’m home Mid-”

The words die in your throat, realizing there’s no one to call out to. Hajime is still at work, and your cat, who would normally greet you with trilling mews and a smack of his tail is gone.

His sickness came quickly and in the end it was better for him to go peacefully rather than to let things fail on their own, causing unnecessary pain. Logically, you know that, but you never realize how big the hole will be until it stares you in the face.

Hajime had tried to stay strong until the very end, if not for you then to make sure the last time your cat saw your faces they wouldn’t be scrunched up in upset. You saw the shatter of his walls the minute the vet let you know it was over though.

The small funeral you held for him in the backyard had left both of you snotty and puffy faced. It’s a beautiful grave, especially once the two of you were through planting the flowers and placing painted stones in a few extra spots. Loved and certainly not forgotten, your cat’s absence is felt now more than ever when you’re by yourself.

His cat tree is still in the living room, still fuzziest where he liked to rub off on it, and a little green mouse is still under a side table, only visible if you walk past it the right way.

By the time your boyfriend comes home, you’ve been on the couch for about an hour. You pet the white blanket around you as if it could possibly come close to feeling like your cat's fur. It doesn’t.

“Too quiet?” Hajime’s voice guesses as he sheds his jacket. He knows what’s wrong without you having to say it. He feels the spaces left behind too.

“I still expect him to come around the corner to look at me with those big green eyes,” you sniffle, pushing the tears back. Grief is not easy. It bubbles up when you least expect it, yet the world doesn’t stop turning and it rarely gives you a breather. You both pushed through the work day though if it’s any consolation.

“Me too sweetheart,” he says, walking into the room. He curls up next to you as he brings you close, a blanket of warmth that you're so familiar with. It almost feels unfair to be comforted like this, but the thought is pushed quickly aside when his fingers thread through your hair to massage small circles, a pleasant distraction from the ache in your chest and the soreness of eyes that’ve cried too many tears.

You rub and pat and feel his back and shoulders, molding them like putty in simple reciprocation as if the whole of you is saying to each other “I’m here, you can feel me, I’m not going anywhere.”

It begins there. With little comforts like a text to tell him you’re home or the radio left on throughout the day so that when you walk through the front door you just might be able to sing to the song playing. With a weekly pruning and upkeep of the little grave whose flowers are just starting to bloom.

The wound doesn’t necessarily heal, but it gets stitched up. The scar doesn’t fade but if you run your finger down it, you don’t wince like you used to.

Which is why, when there’s two little mismatched eyes peeking at you from the top of an old cat tree, months and months past since the last time it’s been used, you can’t help but feel a dull throb.

It wasn’t planned; most cats aren’t in your experience. Still, she is quite cute with her eyes that remind you of Sakura and an orange glossy coat. At first you were afraid to forget your first cat, but the longer you have her, the more differences you pick out between the two. She’s an addition, not a replacement, and you both agree wholeheartedly.

“Yowch! She’s climbing up my back again,” your boyfriend whines from the kitchen. You can hear small mews signalling she's made her way to her perch.

“If you hadn’t taught her to do that and ride on your shoulder everywhere, you might not have scratches on your butt that I have to keep disinfecting,” you sigh exasperatedly back at him as you fold the laundry.

“She likes to be tall!” he defends and you can see that, considering her favorite spot to jump up on is the top of the fridge. She fills her own spaces, just like your cat before did, and you can’t help but be grateful for that.

#mari writes #i guess?#I'll put it in the ume tag but like...i wrote it to see if i felt better ig :0 so u know how it is. maybe? ive never written to vent b4 #umemiya hajime x reader #im working on actual writing stuff i prommy!!!#i tried writing what i was working on before this though and kept getting sad #so this was born!#oh! i should say you can reblog it if you want i did write it and put it in the tag #its up to you tho reader!

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