Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter felt shame as he put on the handcuffs in the back of the SUV. He felt fear over what might come next. But more than those two things, he felt broken because his anchor, his lifeline, and his love was gone. Forbidden. And it wasn't a suggestion like what Alice said back in Thailand - better and safer not to have the attachments. Even though he didn't call, though, he could have. Could have texted. Contacted her somehow. But this time it wasn’t a suggestion. This time it was an order. Final. Permanent. Even when they’d been separated before, he’d still felt that anchor, that tug, that whenever he was done, he’d still be able to get to her. Even if she’d moved on, even if it couldn’t be romantic anymore, knowing she was there and he could get back to her, that she’d be okay, was enough to get by.

Now he wouldn’t know anything. He wouldn’t be able to afford to even look. It wasn’t even about not being allowed. A burner phone wouldn’t matter. Encrypted messaging apps. A VPN or passing messages through Catherine, which she'd never allow anyway. There wouldn’t be a safe way. And even if there was a shred of a chance, he wouldn’t be able to take it. It wasn’t just about her safety, or even his. It was about what could happen to the country. His actions had already awarded a complete sleazeball the highest office. It would cause millions of people to suffer. Exacerbate injustice and corruption. A year ago, two years ago, he’d been the perfect, upstanding agent, frustrating but ultimately content to serve locked in a closet with a phone that never rang. Fighting the good fight, protecting democracy, all that crap. Honored to defend the institution. And then he learned. Rose helped to show him how complicated things really were, urgently but somehow still gently when he didn't want to believe it. How you couldn’t always trust the good guys. How good was subjective. How everyone actually thinks they’re the good guy, that they’re doing the right thing. Back then, he thought he was doing the right thing. And he did a lot of the time, like with the metro bombing. Protecting that little girl, digging up the corruption in the White House, saving the president’s life. Then he went to Thailand and came back and it wasn’t so clear what the right thing was anymore, and he sure as shit didn’t know if that’s what he was doing. And when Rose showed up in New York, it was hard sometimes, because it became really apparent to them both that maybe he wasn’t that same good guy, the hero. He was trying, but it was too rough. He tried to do the next right thing. He tried. She helped as best she could to pull him back to being that good man that she knew he was, no matter what. She'd always had faith in him, even when she was upset with him. Even when the chips were down and she was scared, she didn't leave him. Everyone else did, but not her.

And now he was here. Handcuffed in the back of the blacked-out SUV with his boss who was about to put him on an off-book mission with the king of blackmail and the presidential candidate he was puppeting.

He started out the perfect agent, with flawless motivations. The king of doing the right thing. He learned the truth about his father and vowed never to let that happen to him. And there he was. About to disgrace the American people. A criminal. A secret. Just like his dad. Just like everyone thought he'd turn out. Everyone except for Rose. But despite it, he didn’t know if Rose would ever be able to keep loving him. For as shameful and scared as he felt, the grief that was settling in as they drove through the city sucked the air from his lungs. His chest caved in, and his heart hardened like a stone under his sternum.

Catherine peered at him in the rear view mirror. “You know you can never contact her again, right?” He stayed silent. He registered her looking at him, trying to make eye contact via the mirror, but he didn’t look up. “Peter. You know you can never contact her again - it’s for her safety as well as yours. It’s too much of a liability, and -”

He cut her off. “I know,” he said tersely. He sighed and looked up, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I know,” he repeated quietly. Catherine directed her eyes back to the road, and Peter leaned to rest his head on the window. It was uncomfortable, but it didn’t matter. Physical discomfort had basically been his life for the last year. And honestly, it didn’t matter. Peter didn’t think he’d be capable of feeling anything anymore. Not without her. Not without even knowing. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel that kind of love again, the love she had for him. He felt it every time she told him to be careful. She always found him. Always stuck up for him when no one else would. Put herself at risk to defend him. It was beyond romantic love. It was real, and his chest burned at the idea that he’d never have that again. He didn’t want it again unless it was with her.

Fear. Shame. And to add another layer to the shame…he didn’t care about being the good guy anymore, not deep down. Not if it meant he could never contact her again. Not if it meant not even knowing if she was okay. She told him she wanted normal. They both knew that’d never be possible, not for either of them. Her aunt and uncle had even tried normal, and even then it was never possible, no matter how close they’d come. He and Rose both knew better.

She wanted normal. He’d dreamed of what it would have been like if they’d met under different circumstances. Or even what would have happened if everything had stopped after saving the president. They could have stayed in his apartment, or gotten a new place of their own. Maybe he could have transferred to California. They'd have made it work. Her clothes would be in their closet instead of Zoe’s. He wasn’t sure how she’d like things, but he’d let her decorate however she wanted. He’d have loved to see that part of her - comfortable enough to truly settle. He’d come home and maybe she'd be working on a project, trying to put together a new business or something, with an energy drink and an empty cereal bowl because she was a genius and would never stop once she got going. Her eyes would be tired. He’d take her to bed. Their bed. He thought back to when they were on the boat, after they’d had sex for the first time. Rose wearing the oversided tshirt. Maybe she’d wear one of his to bed. They’d brush their teeth next to each other, her with heavy, sleepy eyelids, and they’d slide under the covers, and if she was ok with it, he’d gently slide his hand under her shirt, rough fingers slipping up her smooth skin to massage her perfect breasts. She’d liked that before. Maybe his other hand would dip under her panties and he’d find the spot she liked. She was so responsive, got wet so quickly for him. He’d do anything she wanted. Anything she asked for. He loved all of it, anything to hear her sounds, anything to make her back arch, to beg, to chant his name. Anything to make her happy. He loved having her seated on top of him, hands clasped together to keep her upright and eventually sliding down to her hips to drive even deeper, desperately looking into each other’s eyes as they both got closer to going over the edge. He loved admiring her, praising her. He was in awe every time. Watching her perfect tits bounce with each thrust. She could be as loud as she wanted together in their bed, in their room, in their home. He’d miss her sounds. He’d miss the way her pussy would grip him when she came. He’d miss filling her, claiming her, merging with her, knowing in his chest that she was his. Maybe he’d gaze up at her, see her glazed dreamy eyes, and tell her how much he loved her. Not maybe. He’d definitely do that. At any opportunity he could. He’d do anything to make sure she knew.

He'd been so beaten up and went to scratch a scab when he felt the cold pull of the handcuffs on his wrists. He was cruelly pulled out of the dream, the possibility that could never be. The one where they were together, the one he fought for that was no longer even possible. The price of saving her was to destroy them.

He couldn’t breathe. His world view distorted when his father was arrested. His idea of the father he idolized was shaken. When Zoe left, it stung, but he kept going. When he eventually learned the truth about his dad, it rocked him, but he had his own purpose. And Rose was there. It hurt. But this, her - he’d never get over her. He’d never get over them.

And as Catherine finally pulled onto the highway, his heart shattered.

Chapter Text

Rose stared helplessly at the car as it pulled away. The windows were blacked out and she could only faintly see the outline of Peter's head. She frantically wondered if he was looking back at her, if he could see her. If he even wanted to look, because while she couldn't stand to see him pull away, the only worse thing would be to look away.

She told him she wanted normal. And that was true, but despite its truth, she knew normal would never be possible. He was leaving her, vanishing from her life, to keep her safe and that potential safety would be what could give her a chance at the life she said she wanted. But she’d realized the life she told him she wanted only existed with him in it. She couldn't imagine anyone else. It was Peter or no one. It wouldn’t matter if she bought a house with a yard and a new car and a dog and whatever else comes with that life if he wasn’t there. From the moment assassins broke into her aunt and uncle’s house, normal was out the window. She knew that now. She would never be capable of making plans that didn't involve him, even if it meant going through the motions for the rest of her life. She felt profoundly broken, shattered like glass yet somehow still standing, still breathing. Normal would never be possible but she was desperate for anything she could get.

---

There had been that sweet month before Peter had left for his first mission as an actual night agent where they got to hold hands and go on dates without having to outrun or hide from anyone. He took her to his favorite hole in the wall restaurants and gave her the full DC tourist experience, though it was hard to lean into the patriotism of the monuments and whatnot given what they'd just endured. On more than one night, they’d fallen asleep on the couch with the TV on, and Peter would scoop her up and take her to their bed. Those were her favorite nights, at home with the blinds closed, curled up together, talking about their lives before he answered that phone. She'd found one of his high school photos and as consolation, dug up one of her own. They went shopping, because neither of them were that fond of her continuing to wear his ex-fiance's clothes and she didn't exactly have anything else. Along with the basics she'd picked up some delicate, lacy underthings that he'd been awestruck by after undressing her one night. Getting to see her like that was a dream. She'd felt so proud and beautiful, seeing him look at her like that. Like she was a goddess. They'd had sex before. It wasn't like he'd never seen her naked at that point. Sitting back against the headboard of the bed, he'd watched her with glazed eyes as she stepped toward him. From the side of the bed he'd pulled her down to straddle his hips, and she felt his hardness as she let gravity settle her against him. He let his hands graze over her shoulders and down her sides which made her shiver. When his hands settled on her hips he pushed them down and toward him, giving them both some delicious friction and eliciting a cracked whimper from Rose. And the second he heard that sound, he flipped them over, settling his hips between hers. She'd made no secret of how much she loved when he kissed her collarbones, her breasts. She delighted in his fraught restraint, appreciative of the care he took of her but secretly knowing that he wanted to tear her brand new lingerie off like gift wrap and fuck her senseless against any surface he could find. She couldn't wait until the day he got comfortable with the idea that he could do that. She'd revel in it. Until then she was more than happy with how he eclipsed her, how secure she felt with his weight above her. In the beginning she'd tried not to make a lot of noise, but she didn't make it very long. Besides, he seemed to love her sounds and her cries. He seemed unconcerned with neighbors. Either the walls were thick or no one said anything. She'd cry out and if his mouth was between her legs he'd grip her tighter and lick her even harder. If she was seated on top of him he'd grind into her that much more. If she was under him he'd lift one of her knees and plunge like he was desperate to merge them together. In a daze he'd suck at the base of her neck so hard he'd leave a mark. All because he wanted to keep hearing her cries, her begging, her chants. She'd had good sex but it had never, ever been like this. That night, he'd started so carefully. The first time they'd had sex had been on a boat. He'd had stitches in his side, for fuck's sake. This time, though, they'd do it right. And she appreciated his efforts to keep her very wet panties intact, to be careful with her considering the amount of bruises and wounds they'd both accumulated since they'd known each other. Then he'd slid two fingers inside of her and she'd cried out and dug her fingernails into his rigid back, whining please into his ear and reaching down to stroke him. He'd removed her hand from his shaft and slowly kissed his way down her abdomen to her inner thighs and rested her hand on top of her clit.

"Show, me, Rose," he mumbled, before he hooked his arms around her thighs and buried his face in her. He licked and sucked at her and to her amazement managed to commit to memory the movements of her fingers. Every time she'd cry out he'd lick harder, delving his tongue inside of her. Eventually she started to beg, louder and louder, until her back arched off of the bed, their bed, and she gripped his hair so hard she was afraid of hurting him. While she was still roiling in her orgasm he lifted himself above her and pushed into her, eliciting primal sounds from them both.

"God you're beautiful," Peter ground out. And Rose truly felt it. "Can you do it again? Please Rose," he rasped.

She looked up at him, her lips pressed together and her brow furrowed. "Maybe. Harder." He slammed into her and she clenched around him.

"Fuck Rose. Please," he ground out. "I can't last much longer."

"Keep talking to me," she whispered, biting into her lower lip so hard she thought she tasted blood.

'Fuck, um," he started, caught off guard and a little self-conscious. So he decided he'd go with honest. "You're so beautiful Rose. I thought you were from the minute I met you. You sounded like it on the phone and then I saw you and you're fucking stunning. We went through hell, Rose, and here you are, underneath me, with me, and I love you so fucking much -" he caught himself. He hadn't meant to say it, it just came out. He slowed down, afraid he'd ruin it, but a grin had spread across her face and he knew it'd be okay. She couldn't stop smiling. She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him sweetly, then let her lips graze across his cheek to his ear.

"Then show me," she whispered, clenching around him. With a new resolve he powered into her and brought one of his hands to her core, remembering what she'd just done to herself. Not long after, her spine was arched from the mattress and she was slapping at his shoulders. Her muscles squeezed and fluttered around him and his thrusts became more erratic until he released into her. After a moment she drew his face back down to hers, bringing their sticky, sweaty foreheads together.

"I love you too, Peter," she whispered. "So much." He rested his face on her chest and she let her fingernails graze down his spine. She wondered if love had felt like this for him before. He'd been engaged, after all. But it had never felt like this to her.

---

They had that month to play house. Everything was theirs. Two toothbrushes on the counter. Shampoo in the shower that didn’t also double as soap and conditioner. He’d never directly said that he loved the smell of her shampoo, but she occasionally caught him taking deep breaths with his nose burrowed into her hair. It happened in the elevator a lot. Sometimes she'd give in to the fantasy that they'd go back to California and she'd get a new job. He'd transfer to whatever FBI field office was in NorCal and they'd start a normal life, as normal as was available to them. He was probably really good at grilling. His jaw and haircut screamed "grill guy." They'd both work weird hours. Kids weren't realistic, though she'd never been sold on the idea of having them anyway. It wasn't spoken, but they both knew better. She'd cooked up that lie at the motel about her fake ex killing her cat, but maybe they could actually have a cat or something. Peter seemed like a dog guy, though. Maybe they'd talk about it. Maybe someday, in the dream.

For around a month, there had been an “us.” They’d had a home together, even if it was temporary. She wished they’d had more time back then. Now she wished she could eschew reality completely and take up residence in those few weeks. They’d hidden plenty of places. If only they could hide indefinitely in that pocket of time. Before he left, before things became infinitely more complicated and dangerous. Before her PTSD set in and she'd wake up screaming and alone and unable to reach the only person that could keep her safe from it. She knew that wasn't healthy. Even before her therapist told her, she knew. It didn't matter now though. She'd lived through everything she'd been through in her life up until this point. Absent mother, food insecurity, losing her company, going bankrupt, the murder of her aunt and uncle. She'd survived being hunted and attacked and kidnapped. But she had no idea how she was going to survive this. She didn't know if she wanted to.

Her breathing picked up as things started to hit her in rapid succession. She found one of the scientists responsible for KX and it put his family in jeopardy and ultimately killed him. She helped to produce a deadly chemical weapon and just barely stopped it from being used in a terrorist attack. And despite the fallout he knew it would cause, he went back for her, trying to convince everyone else that it wasn’t really about her - but everyone knew better. The incredible amount of damage they caused simply to keep each other alive and keep themselves together was impossible to stomach, but Rose didn’t know what she’d have done differently. She knew it was selfish, but she couldn't. She always wanted to do the right thing, knowing full well that the right thing in any given situation was complicated. She wanted to do the right thing when Peter started to go off of the rails, to right the ship. She wanted to help Noor and her family, to be honest with them. More than anything, though, she wanted him. And for a little while, amidst immense chaos, she’d had him. Snuggled up in bed with him. Smiled to herself as he helped fasten the back of her dress and saw the glint in his eye, even though they were bickering at each other the whole evening leading up to the event. He was upset that she was going but she felt the warmth of his hand on her back as he opened the van door for her. Ever the gentleman. Jesus, they’d be getting chased down the street and he’d STILL open her door. It was ridiculous, his commitment to chivalry in those moments, but once she had time to decompress, it warmed her heart. Even when they weren’t pleased with each other, bleeding and stressed and being hunted, he still took care of her. And she took care of him. Through everything, she was the only one that was truly out for him.

When she saw herself in that green dress the night of the party at the Iranian delegation, she wasn’t sure. The color was beautiful and it made sense to cover her chest and arms. Anything less would have been disrespectful. But she wasn’t used to looking at herself in that kind of dress, and it’s not like Peter’s apartment had a full length mirror around. She did the best she could in the beat up bathroom mirror and hoped it wouldn't look like a costume. It wasn’t until she saw his reaction that she was able to exhale. He made no secret of the fact that he didn’t want her going, that it was too dangerous. But she’d looked beautiful. His favorite color from then on was green. It wasn’t before, but it was after that. In another universe she’d be wearing that and he’d have a nice suit and they’d be going to a party as guests, no espionage or heisting involved. They’d have dinner and drinks and make eyes at each other. He’d take her arm in his, and at the end of the night he’d wrap his suit jacket around her to keep her warm as they waited for an Uber home.

She could almost feel the weight of it, feel the silk jacket lining. She raised her hand to her chest and instead felt her own wool jacket, the same one she’d been wearing since she arrived. And there she was. Out of the dream, onto the sidewalk, barely able to see the SUV anymore and unable to breathe. It was just a speck going through an intersection two blocks down. She followed it with her eyes, thinking that if she could still see it that he wasn’t really gone yet. Her breath hitched and her eyes started to well up, and then it disappeared from view. It was real. He was gone, truly gone this time. And even though she had everything at her disposal to find him again, she was forbidden to. If anyone could, it'd be her. But it never could be.

It was a reality that everyone would tell her that she'd have to accept, even Peter. The reality that there was no him, no them, that everyone would tell her she'd have to accept, and that she never would. She wiped her nose with her sleeve and looked up toward the sky, blinking away tears. She'd never accept that. She wouldn't put him, or them, in danger, and she didn't care how long she'd have to wait. Someday, she'd find a way.