@foundhim.
it’s a gentle knock; knuckles barely grazing the frame of the door before she allows herself entrance into the office lit only by lamplight and computer screens. to others, it might appear forbidden territory, but Strahm’s office as always been hers too (despite his occasional protestations).
❛ of course you’re still here, ❜ she chides her partner perhaps a little more quietly than necessary. A hand brushes the back of his shoulder as she moves past him to perch against the heavy wooden desk, folding her arms across her chest.
❛ go home, Peter. you need the rest. ❜
rest doesn’t come easily anymore. it’s become a foreign concept, something he ought to attain and yet always remains just out of reach. it only comes when he catches a criminal, puts a man or woman behind bars where they belong, never again to lay a hand or a blade to another human being’s flesh with ill intent. he knows he looks tired -- even without the dull ache in his bones, the briefest glimpse in the mirror of the bags encircling his normally bright blue eyes tells him that. ( he doesn’t necessarily want to go home. there’s nothing there to greet him. ) ❛ speak for yourself, ❜ he replies, absently thumbing through the contents of a manilla folder. ❛ you’ve been here just as long as i have. ❜
