Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The worst case Peter Strahm ever faced occurred before he was promoted to the FBI. It was a case the FBI probably should have been handling, but somehow it had been designated to the homicide unit. 

To Peter, specifically. 

The killer was white, mid-30s. 

Gossip called him the big-city Jeffrey Dahmer. He targeted men, near and around his age, merely in a desperate attempt for someone to understand him. A lot of serial killers look for a diamond in the rough, that needle-in-the-haystack person who can join them in violent debauchery. It’s the manifesto of sickos, as Peter’s old partner used to say. Deep down, Peter was always certain that these men were just lonely. 

Back in the day, he’d even felt a certain level of empathy for this guy specifically. It was a case where he got too close, absorbed too much information on the killer to prevent things from feeling personal. 

It was his empathy that caught him off-guard.

He should have shot first. 

It was nighttime in late July when he found the killer, Curtis Amspoker, squatting in an abandoned townhouse listed under his grandmother’s name (a woman whose record he’d nearly wiped off the grid). 

Close, but no cigar. 

“Hands behind your head!” Peter had called out. 

Physical evidence was strewn about the revolting property, and the stench of excrement and rotting food glinted sharper in his nose as he progressed. Peter has never forgotten that, no matter how hard he tries. 

When push came to shove, he was taken down because he hesitated. 

He saw the face he’d been looking at only in awkward police sketches, the face he’d been dreaming about without the right pixels in frame, and he just froze up. 

Amspoker got Peter. Fair and square. 

Tied up on the bed like all those other men had been. Dozens at that point. Starfished and helpless. Peter Strahm had shouted until his throat ached and his limbs went limp from exhaustion.

The conversation is a blur now. 

Curtis appeared in the door and talked to him for hours. Talked at him more like, because Peter at some stage had to stop screaming expletives at him and just listen. Still, he blocked out as much as he could. 

He was terrified, and if there’s one thing about Peter, he can never let that show. 

Can’t let that kind of vulnerability win. 

Peter had prepared for the worst by the time Curtis Amspoker approached the bed. But instead of becoming just another dot on a document regarding this killer’s M.O., he was released. A knife cut up his restraints and the ropes fell by the wayside. Shock stalled Peter, until Curtis’ voice possessed his senses. 

He said something that would haunt Peter for the rest of his life.

“You’re different,” he had whispered, close enough to Peter’s ear to inspire goosebumps. “I know you are. You can be like me, you have that darkness. Don’t you Peter Strahm, don’t you want to do what I do?” 

Peter hesitated again, mouth parted over silence. 

That haunts him, too. 

Amspoker was arrested after Peter regained his faculties and was able to take him down. Then and only then had he managed to spit at him and assure the degenerate he’d never be like him, not in a million years. 

The killer’s laugh was bloody. 

“He does not die a death of shame. On a day of dark disgrace, nor have a noose about his neck, nor a cloth upon his face. Nor drop feet foremost through the floor. Into an empty place,” Amspoker had muttered hysterically through a bloodied grin, a mantra, on and off as he was cuffed and led to the police van. 

Draped in a shock blanket, Peter heard him even after he left. 

“Tell me how to open it,” Peter demands, banging on the glass box. 

Mark stares with vitriol, otherwise unreadable. 

“How do I open it!” 

The walls close in, scraping against the floor with the heavy industrial crank of machinery. John Kramer was an engineer, but this room is something else entirely. It’s a compressor made with the express purpose to crush a man. Fat iron walls continue rolling on a conveyor, able to be stopped only by Mark Hoffman. 

Peter attempts to escape, anyway.

He attempts to win. 

He isn’t one to give up, not when every scenario has options. 

Peter pushes the walls, distracted momentarily by the protruding lightbulbs in the room shattering as the walls continue mechanizing slowly, Mark’s smirk increasing. Peter fumbles for the gun on the floor and starts to shoot the glass coffin, and only then does Mark’s face shift. A transformation of every feature. 

Their eye contact is fleeting. 

Peter’s imminent death is almost forgotten, as he can’t escape his stifling gaze. A gasp catches in his throat as Mark reaches for a panel on the inside of the box and the door of the coffin swings open.

Freedom. 

Id takes over his Ego and Superego. His human nature is screaming for freedom, from death, from pain. It needs to be taken and that’s the only thought his brain can conjure in the face of Mark’s mercy. 

Peter gawks for too long and Mark snarls.

“Get the fuck in here.” 

Peter whips his head to the side, the walls closer now. Mark is fully descended into the floor, and he’ll be safe if he climbs in alongside him. Mark is allowing him to live and has apparently changed his mind.

He doesn’t wait. 

Peter tucks his gun into the back of his pants and climbs in, despising how awkwardly they have to maneuver to both fit. Awkwardness shouldn’t be present when he was just about to get murdered. 

Mark reaches up and closes the lid on them. 

The lock clicks shut again. 

Mark rests his arms on Peter’s back, shifting with a grunt to the side to give him an inch more space. Peter’s body feels hot all over with the convocation of adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins. 

The walls close together quickly after that.

Peter’s head is tucked into the crook of Mark’s neck. He’s staring at the glass siding of the coffin with saucer-wide eyes. Mark’s arms are, by happenstance, still wrapped around him. 

Their bodies are aligned. 

He shifts jerkily in reaction to becoming self aware of this fact and gasps when his spine bumps the top of the coffin almost instantly. 

Peter panics, claustrophobic. 

“Stay calm,” Mark mollifies, staring directionless at the front of the casing. “It will let out in a few minutes.” 

Peter doesn’t know what he means by that until the box starts to move, rolling clackingly along a conveyor belt towards an unknown destination. The lights inside the cage are so bright, it’s daunting. 

Their breaths are their only communication. 

Peter has no idea what to say. He won’t thank Mark for saving his life, but threatening to kill him the second they get out of this shared space feels almost sacrilegious in the face of what just happened. 

“This wasn’t meant to fit two people,” Mark informs. 

The glass case keeps on rolling onward.

It feels like it works to fit two people, but only just. 

Peter wonders if that was by design. 

His throat burns with the intense impulse to say something but every possible word is caught in his throat. He can feel his heart rate spiking, adrenaline rushing through him so fast he may very well be shaking. He turns his face against Mark’s skin, inadvertently pushing his lips and nose and whole face into his neck.

The skin-to-skin contact is making him feel strange, and too tight in his clothes. He puffs out a hot, nervous breath, clutching fingers sporadically. Unable to touch anywhere that’s not Mark’s pants, arms. 

Mark is everywhere. 

“Doin’ alright?”

“Fuck you,” Peter manages, teeth grating against each other. 

Mark doesn’t respond. 

When the box rolls to a rackety stop, Mark grunts loud enough that Peter has to check on him. Naturally, he’s wincing. 

There’s glass shards digging into the guy’s back. Serves him fucking right, Peter thinks. 

Mark punches numbers into the keypad inside and pushes the door open again. Peter exhales a deep breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. Mark doesn’t verbally ask him to get up, but he stares until Peter gets the hint to bend up and out of the glass box. He takes stumbling steps backwards when Hoffman hops out of the cage with the stealth of a feline, faster than he expected him to be able to move. 

They’re in the sewer-system basement, right by the crushing room. 

Mark’s eyes lock on him. He takes a step forward. 

“What do we say, Agent Strahm?” 

He’s closing in, broad and aggressive. 

Peter scowls with offense, rearing up for a fight. 

Back to their old game, then. 

If Mark believes he’ll say ‘thank you’ he has another thing coming.

Turns out the deferential prod was a distraction, as Mark is reaching above them to grab an apparently loose piece of rod-shaped shrapnel. He brings down the metal object hard against the side of Peter’s head. 

It sufficiently knocks him out cold. 

Peter wakes up in an uncomfortable chair. 

He groans, shifting against steel. 

When his senses start returning to him in increments, his eyes snap open. He starts scrambling up out of the seat like he’s been burned. He’s been in one of Jigsaw’s traps; he won’t go there again, he can’t!

Fortunately, he isn’t tied down to the chair. 

Peter is in a warehouse, much different in style than the out-of-place house he discovered hours prior. It must be hours now. His chair was nudged up against a long work bench, where Mark sits in his own. 

He leaps back. 

Mark doesn’t flinch. 

“Where the fuck did you take me?” Peter exclaims, rushing around to look for an exit. Or iron walls at the ready to crush him to death which could be hiding absolutely anywhere. He has to be prepared this time.

The space is small, and unhelpful. 

Mark continues tinkering with something on the bench. 

Glass shards are still poking out of his back. He’s taken his jacket off so now the blood stains on his white shirt are fully visible. Peter tries not to let his gaze linger on them, or let himself think about the pain. 

“Sit down, Strahm.”

“I’m not sitting anywhere,” Peter spits with rising contempt. He fingers around for his gun, unsurprised to find it missing. While Mark is seemingly distracted, he discreetly scans the room in search of a weapon. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mark says eerily once Peter picks up a hammer. 

His back is turned to Peter, yet somehow he knows.

Before Peter can offer up a sneering response, an electric thrum sounds off…right around his wrist. He drops the hammer from the shock, though he can’t feel anything aside from a light vibration for a few moments. He nearly shouts when he sees he has one large metal wristband locked around his right hand. 

It explains the strange heaviness of his body.

He’d marked it down to a concussion.

Instinctually, Peter tries prying it off.

It’s industrial metal and doesn’t budge, as it’s snug enough to leave a mark even if it’s not tight enough to cut off circulation. There’s a light on it, and a screwed panel he doubts could be opened even with a drill. 

“The fuck did you do to me?” Peter trains his voice as best as he can to sound unhindered by the contraption, but he knows his anxiety is likely noticeable to an advanced detective like Mark Hoffman. 

When Mark finally turns in his chair, Peter immediately catches sight of the same wristband on him. His is on the left wrist. 

“Here’s how things are going to go,” Mark begins, standing up and leaving a uniquely-shaped tool behind. Peter instantly takes several steps back, not out of fear but because he's unsure what Mark is planning on jumpstarting. “You’re going to help me finish John’s work. Jigsaw's unfinished business.” 

That came out of left field. 

Peter sputters, forgetting himself. 

“Excuse me? You wanna try that again?” 

Mark’s dead-eyed expression isn’t wavering. 

“Try walking approximately thirty feet away from me, and the device around your wrist will explode.” Peter’s protests die in his throat. He’s helpless to the urge that has him glancing back down at the metal band on his wrist. “At twenty-five feet, it will start sounding off as a warning. And you better hope you have the ability to find your way back to me, otherwise it’s a matter of time until you’re mincemeat.” 

“You’re lying,” Peter breathes unsteadily. 

Mark raises a brow. 

“Try me.” 

Feeling exposed, Peter reacts frenetically. Without a second thought, he grabs the hammer and starts to run in the opposite direction. He barely makes it out of the room before the device around his wrist starts beeping and vibrating lightly. “Fucking hell…” Peter’s gasp is strangled as he tries to pry it off again. 

The beeping stops. 

Mark’s footsteps approach him. 

“I’m the only one who can extend the distance of these devices, and the only one who can take them off. Now, I’ll tell you again, Agent Strahm. You’re going to help me finish his work. And then maybe at the end of all this, I’ll let you go. Does that sound like a deal?” Mark reaches out a hand, the motherfucker.

Peter stares at him with wild eyes. 

“You’re insane,” he whispers. “You’re fucking insane if you think I’ll help you.”

Mark lowers his hand and regards him.

“There’s no other option for you.” 

Peter opens his mouth, tongue curling in preparation to come up with something solid, any kind of comeback that will have Mark tossed off the course. 

He’s interrupted. 

“I’m going to be watching you at all times. There will be no situation where you find yourself able to contact the outside, and no way for you to escape. At night, I will make sure our distance is lowered.” 

Menacingly, he steps forward and says quieter,

“The options were death or trust, and you chose trust.” He grabs Peter’s hand to shake it once, their wristbands bumping against each other with a clanking sound.  “So, I’m going to trust you now, Peter.” 

Peter wants to ask, you call this trust?!

His throat is dry, spasming.

Mark concludes with, "I'll trust that you don't want your intestines splattered in eight different directions."

“You sick fuck,” Peter voices defeatedly. 

He scratches at the band after gaining the wherewithal to tug his hand away. He’s never felt so hopeless in his entire life, not since Curtis Amspoker. Not since he watched Perez be marked for death by Jigsaw. 

He snarls bitterly. 

“If our cooperation is going to work,” Mark starts, “you might as well say what’s on your mind.”

“You murdered my partner.”

It’s one individual. One friend. Mark Hoffman has participated in countless atrocities, and yet it’s the only thing Peter can think to dredge up. The only thing that keeps him up at night while scrutinizing the case. 

Hoffman's committed worse, hell, he's tried to kill Peter. 

But this needed to be unearthed.

Peter’s been wanting to shout it at the top of his lungs since he was first positive about Hoffman's identity. Since he remembered the slithering manner in which he apologized for Agent Perez' death at the hospital.

“She murdered herself. She knew well enough not to approach a trap unprepared. It was her inexperience that killed her.” 

Peter sees red. 

And isn’t that just the way. 

He swings a punch which connects with Mark’s jaw. 

The bone clicks. Mark directs a glare at him.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Peter growls, lifting up the Jigsaw disciple by his collar. “What’s to stop me from snapping your neck and dragging your body to wherever the hell they can get these wristbands off us?” 

Mark’s mouth splits into a bloody grin.

“Because they’re connected to my heart rate.” 

“You lying motherfucker.” 

“Wanna test it out, Agent?” 

Peter bares his teeth, bringing his hands up to Mark’s neck. Presses inward. He’s not sure how long he squeezes, or if he’s even squeezing hard at all. The silver glint of the bands in the dim warehouse light makes Peter do a double take. He realizes how badly he wants to live, to survive this twisted game. 

A vein protrudes on Mark’s forehead. 

The killer coughs. 

“Shit,” Peter hisses.

He pulls away, bowing his head.

“Come on,” Mark pushes, clearing his throat. He doesn’t acknowledge what just happened. “I need to take care of your concussion.” 

The tonal whiplash gives Peter vertigo. 

Mark is already strolling out of sight, towards God knows where. Peter jumps when his wristband starts beeping again. Mark is stopped down the hall where he woke up, eyeing him with amusement. 

“You gonna come or am I gonna keep walking until I hear your blood painting the walls?” 

Peter scowls, but follows fast at his heels. 

The sick bay appears surprisingly sterile. 

“Sit.” 

“Where?” 

“On the cot, numb nuts.”

Peter grumpily sits, warily watching Mark dig through a cabinet of seemingly bottomless medicines. He pulls out two separate bottles and spills two pills from each into one palm. In the sink, he pours Peter a Dixie cup of water and walks them over to him, placing them on the metal tray propped up beside the bed.

“You feeling any nausea?” Mark asks. 

Peter shakes his head.

“Headache?”

Peter doesn’t shake his head at that inquiry, because yes he is sporting a massive headache, a pounding one actually. But, his resolve refuses to give Mark the satisfaction of affirming that he does. 

“Best to take both,” Mark suggests, nudging the metal tray forward. 

When Peter does nothing, Mark bluntly says,

“For everything you resist, I’ll lower the distance parameters by one foot. Got that?” 

"You're punishing me for disobedience?" Peter remarks in disbelief. "I'm not a dog!" 

Mark squints.

"Then don't act like one."

Peter releases a shuddering breath, angrily scooping up the pills to pop into his mouth. He washes them down with the stale-tasting tap water and winces as the medicine scrapes past his trachea injury. 

“Don’t act too happy a camper, but you’re off the hook for a couple of days.” Mark takes a kiddie-sized flashlight and shines it in Peter’s eyes. Peter flinches hard, cursing under his breath and averting his gaze. “To be more specific, you only have to observe my process for now. Concussion means you get to rest.” 

“This how Kramer recruited you?” Peter questions. 

“No.” 

Peter waits for elaboration but he gets none. 

Mark leaves him sitting on the cot as he pads over to a desk with disinfectant. He peels his bloody shirt off, wincingly. There are a few glass shards stuck to his skin like feathers. It’s so surreal, Peter almost can’t comprehend that his back is a gory mess and not purely a beautiful, macabre painting. 

Where the hell did that come from? 

Peter swallows what feels like rocks in his throat. 

He is able to look away for a minute before his eyes are drawn back to Mark’s process. The detective is already opening the disinfectant bottle. Pouring some on a thick wad of gauze.

Peter hops off the cot automatically, crossing the room.

“Did you sleep through your Operational Medicine Program?” he gripes, ignoring Mark’s sharp glance in response. Peter pushes aside the gauze and recaps the disinfectant bottle. “You need to remove the glass first.”

“Didn’t feel any,” Mark answers. 

Peter washes his hands quickly and doesn’t ask before he starts plucking several shards from the outer dermis layers of Mark’s skin. His brow is furrowed as he works, tossing them in a tiny bin by his feet. 

Only one shard forces a noise out of Mark. 

It’s stuck in his lower back, in the sensitive nook right below his tailbone. 

None of them need stitches, luckily. 

“If you’d been treating a civilian the way you were just trying to treat yourself, I’d have reported you to your superiors.” Peter swats Mark’s searching hand away when he tries to reach for the bottle. He doesn’t trust him to patch himself up properly. “Must be spending too much time tearing people limb from limb.” 

“Must be.” 

Mark’s voice is soft, as are his eyes when he gazes back at Peter from over his shoulder. Peter has one hand on his shoulder, keeping him still as he presses the disinfected gauze to the wounds. 

Incidentally, they make direct eye contact. 

Mark’s body is very warm. 

Peter slips his hand away, biting his inner lip so hard he tastes blood. 

“What the fuck am I doing,” he half-laughs, in an attempt to minimize his instinct to patch up a psychotic serial murderer. Carelessly, he tosses Mark the gauze so he can finish the job. 

Mark doesn’t say anything. 

Peter pours over Jigsaw’s stock of medicine as he waits, grimacing at the harder drugs that must be used only to knock victims out. Or as severe pain killers. Always relentless pain with the Jigsaws. 

If he’d been crushed by those walls —

Best not to think about it. 

Indolently, Mark stalks up behind him and pats his hip, making him startle. “We don’t have much time. I need you to come with me.” 

“Apparently I’m going to be coming with you everywhere,” Peter grumbles, increasingly pissed off. Mark doesn’t look humored by his distaste for their situation. 

As if Peter’s just supposed to shut up and take it. 

“I still have to show up to work you know,” comes Mark’s ominous reply to his assessment. "And you're sure as Hell not gonna be there when I do." 

Peter does not want to know where he’ll be put when that happens. 

“Where are we going?”

Mark meets his eyes with mettle. 

“You’ll find out when we get there.” 

"What the fuck?! You sick fucking bastard!" Peter almost doubles over when the dead body comes into view, cut through in the stomach like a pig for slaughter. 

Meat slabs, oh God, it looks like cuts of meat from a butcher.  

The taste of bile is heavy on Peter’s tongue. 

"They had to see who could cut the most flesh off before the timer ran out," Mark explains.

"Jesus what does it — It doesn't matter what the game was, you motherfucker!" Peter reaches down to check the man’s pulse. Fully inactive. He covers his mouth with an elbow, looking around frantically. 

"This was the most recent game. Feds haven't found it yet. For your eyes alone at the moment."

"Yeah, I really feel special," Peter sneers.

“I need to make sure everything is in order for when this becomes a crime scene,” says Mark, leaning down with gloves on to scalpel out the shape of a jigsaw piece. He doesn’t draw a line, just cuts out a perfect puzzle-shaped skin flap. Peter watches with disgust as Mark tucks it away in a dainty plastic bag. 

However, he realizes that now is an ideal time to ask questions. 

He’s not helping, he won’t. 

That doesn’t mean he can’t ask about Jigsaw’s process, just to learn more when it comes time to prosecute. When Mark inevitably slips up and lets his guard down so that Peter can arrest him. 

“Where do you and the others put the pieces you collect?”

Mark’s eyes roll upward, staring at him for a few beats.

“In my wallet, right next to the condoms,” he responds dryly. 

Peter scowls, a bitter retort on the tip of his tongue. 

“In a freezer, Strahm.” 

He hands Peter the scalpel.

“Hold this.” 

Mark dabs the bloody incision with damp paper, catching the droplets that obscure the design. Peter realizes it must have not been more than six hours since this man’s death, as livor mortis would have set in and prevented the body from bleeding. Jigsaw’s games are always ongoing, continuous and horrific. 

“This is everyday for you,” Peter rasps.

Mark huffs. “Not everyday, that’s absurd.”

“Damn close.”

“Maybe.” 

The scalpel is filched back from Peter’s hand and taken aside. Peter is left to stare at the body, slipping into a trance as he imagines the man’s family. Perez used to inform families their loved ones had croaked. 

Peter never had the stomach for it. 

“He loaned folks money.” Mark fiddles with a few switches in a panel attached to the wall. The lights flicker, then shutter off completely before powering on. It looks like he’s mimicking a power outage, likely signaling the authorities. “Down on their luck folks, I mean. Purposefully overcharged on interest and scammed people out of what little money they had left to pay it back. He—”

“You think this makes it better, don’t you?” Peter explodes, rising to his feet in a gust. “It doesn’t matter what you tell me this man is, it doesn’t make a difference! This isn’t justice.” 

“And the pedophile we ripped apart with hooks?” 

Peter feels his perpetual scowl twitch. 

It’s true, is the bad part; that case made him feel the righteous sliver of justice he’s sure Mark daily feels. As well as the satisfaction that comes from seeing a rapist’s eyes get punctured through to the base of the skull. Yes, those cases were effective, especially when they leaked on the news. 

He’d asked Perez to feel that righteousness. 

To know it intimately, as intimately as Jigsaw. 

So that they know where the line is, and never cross it. 

That feeling of satisfaction is what egged him onto continuing with the Jigsaw cases, forced him to keep going. He never wants to feel so thrilled at the thought of mutilation, of torture, ever again. It’s not right. Just because Jigsaw has a God complex and thinks he can single-handedly dispense justice.

“This leech on society loaned a mother of five three-thousand-dollars,” Mark continues, stepping into Peter’s space. “The interest rate was fair, but he never gave the promised loan. Not in full. He gave it to her in installments of a hundred over the course of a year so that she needed to pay back the loan with that money, and then some.” 

“So the guy’s scum, yeah, I see those guys everyday. Your point?” 

“And how many of those guys do you see learn their lesson?” 

“The crime rate has been dropping for — ”

“Not the fucking crime rate, Peter,” Mark debates. “Learn their lesson, as in not get off scot free. When do you see that kind of scum being plagued by themselves? Enough to actually do something about it?” 

Peter buries his face in his hands and nearly rips out his hair. 

The weight of the wristband on him has fury parting angry waves in him, anew. 

“What about Paul Leahy?” Peter closes the increasingly shorter space between them, practically right on top of Mark. If proximity is what he wants, he’ll hand it over. “What about people who did nothing other than have trouble finding their will to survive? You remember Adam Stanheight? Oh wait,” Peter laughs. “Of fucking course. You were working for Kramer when Adam and Paul were abducted, weren’t you?” 

“I didn’t claim to agree with everything John preached,” Mark remarks. 

“Right.” 

Peter scoffs, spinning on his heel to face the grating barrier between the room. Nobody is on the other side, so the other victim must have escaped. Blood is on the floor, the table, on the weapons. 

He tucks his head down. 

“I don’t,” Mark insists, more subdued. “Half the reason I needed to do this,” he grabs Peter’s hand, the one with the trapping wristband, “is because that’s what I want you to understand. If you haven’t noticed, Jigsaw isn’t targeting men like Adam Stanheight, or Paul Leahy. Not anymore. Why do you think that is?” 

Peter rips his arm away.

Mark's jaw clenches.

“Do you want a medal for killing worse people?” Peter, regardless of his acidity, is losing his chutzpah in the face of these grisly murders. These mutilations are filled with personal vendetta. "It's killing!"

"Please," Mark laughs. It's disconcerting, for a man who so often seems unamused by everything. "You're a cop, definitely not a saint. How many have you killed?"

Peter glowers at him.

"What do you want from me?"

“I want your understanding.” 

“I’ll never understand you,” Peter spits, overly defensive. 

“We’ll see,” Mark murmurs sourly. He wipes his gloved hands on the table by the door. “We need to get going now. Can’t waste anymore time here.” 

“God forbid the police catch us and manage to get your hideous friendship bracelets off us,” Peter grumbles, itching once more underneath the band, as far as he can reach. Peter never liked jewelry. 

He’s always too aware of what he’s wearing, what’s touching him. Hypersensitive about his surroundings, maybe, but he doesn’t have the time to intuit or even attempt to fix his matured mental pathways. 

“It’s a good look on you,” Mark cracks dryly. 

Peter has one of those surreal, wobbly life instances when they step out of the warehouse, a glimpse of hope. He sees a man across the street walking his dog. He considers calling out to him, begging for help. 

Something terrifyingly close to curiosity stops him. 

He watches the man turn a corner and disappear. 

In the end, Peter gets in the shotgun seat of Mark’s car. 

Peter's never seen Mark's apartment.

It's surprisingly homey, for someone who works all day in grime and gore. Peter is shocked when Mark suddenly announces, "I'm gonna shower. Make yourself at home," and abandons him in the flat.

Peter tests the front door. He can leave easily, but also he can't, can he? 

Tactically, he quickly makes his way to the kitchen when he distantly hears the water in the shower start to run. Peter takes the blunt end of the heaviest (yet slender) looking knife and tries to shove it under the band around his wrist, bend it off. It doesn't budge. The sharp end is considered, but Peter warily sets it aside. He can't risk blowing it up, not in such a fire hazard of a building. It could kill innocent bystanders.

No shot will he try chopping his hand off. 

The thought makes him laugh out loud, like a strangled chicken, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.

Peter ends up pacing bitterly, stopping every now and then in front of the same packed bookshelf. A few of the books aren't dusty, but only a few. Despite mild curiosity, he doesn't check the titles.

Just idly wonders how Mark finds the time to read. 

The latter half of Mark's shower is spent searching for a phone, but of course there's none. And the computer he finds has a lock code. He jabs the power-off button with a pointed finger when the water turns off. Nervously, he waits for the screen to black out and then slips his hands into his pockets. 

He doesn’t know why he wanders close to the hall. 

"Getting into trouble?" Mark drawls, almost playfully, emerging from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Another smaller one is used to dry his hair. 

His body is golden and dripping.

Peter is so flummoxed by the sight, he neglects to come up with a fiery comeback.

"Shower's yours." 

Mark pushes past him in the hallway so he can stroll into his bedroom, right next door to the bathroom. Peter decompresses, letting out a long hissing sigh before he leaves to shower.

The bathroom still smells like an ocean breeze with a sharp tinge of pine. Cologne-y. The blend is nauseatingly Mark Hoffman. Peter spends longer than he should under the hot spray, until the water runs cold.

He dries off enough to leave his towel on a rung and dress himself back in his sweaty leather jacket and jeans. Under no circumstances will he be caught dead naked and exposed in front of Hoffman.

Maybe that’s wishful thinking in their predicament. 

Mark is in a gray wife-beater and green boxers. He's lying on the bed, wristband on his bare arm looking out of place in his state of undress. Peter hadn't even questioned if these bands were waterproof; he'd merely assumed.

"Here's how tonight, and every other night from then on, is going to work,” Mark immediately starts in. “I'm going to let you borrow some clothes for bed, just until I have time to grab something that'll fit you. Once you're ready, I'm going to lower these bands to three feet. That's me being generous, got that?"

Peter bristles with burgeoning humiliation.

He doesn't say anything. Mark takes this reaction as an affirmative.

"Good." He tosses him a baggy t-shirt and small boxers. "You got a slim waist, that's as best as I could manage. Shirt should be fine, too."

"You're so benevolent," Peter mutters.

He turns around, shrugging clothes off with as much dignity as possible to fit into the makeshift pajamas.

"Aren't I just," Mark deadpans.

Peter is more hesitant with the boxers, but he bites the bullet and drops his pants. He's not going to wear underwear for longer than forty-eight hours. If Hoffman sees his ass, so be it. He doesn't know why he feels strangely empty when Mark doesn't expel any crude comments. Silence is less expected from him as it is. 

"Cozy?" Mark mumbles, seemingly bored by Peter's unrelenting phases of fluctuating panic.

Weirdly, yeah, he’s cozy. 

That doesn’t mean he’s ready for bed. 

He’ll never be ready to fall asleep next to a killer. 

"I need to brush my teeth."

"I left you all that in the bathroom, did you not see it?" 

Peter swallows with effort and retraces his steps. He hadn't exactly been examining the sink earlier but he sees what Mark's talking about now. A fresh brush is placed in the rack beside a used blue one. Peter's is a swirl of red and purple, not even out of its plastic casing yet. 

He even left an unopened tube of paste for Peter . As if the items were bought with this express purpose. But they couldn't have been.

Could they?

“How long have you been planning this?” Peter whispers to himself.

While brushing his teeth, he glares daggers at his own reflection. 

When he returns, washed up and ready for bed, Mark is under the covers. 

Peter doesn’t budge from the doorway. 

“I sleep for four hours every night,” Mark tells him, cocking his head to gauge Peter’s reaction. “I don’t have time to sleep any longer. If you’ve got a problem with that, you better get used to it fast.” 

Truth is, Peter doesn’t sleep much these days.

He pulls all nighters too often and experiences one REM cycle per night if he’s lucky. That said, he’s never been great at going with the flow of someone else’s schedule. This is going to kick him in the ass. 

But it’s also the least of his problems. 

“So, I’m going to be sleeping in your bed,” he observes.

“Yes.”

“Why can’t I sleep on the floor?” 

“Do you want to sleep on the floor?” Mark asks, incredulous. 

Peter’s frown deepens. “It’s preferable.”

Mark scoffs, reaching over to throw the covers down. 

“Get the fuck in,” he orders. Peter was weak to that demand last time too. Reluctantly, he climbs onto the creaking mattress. It’s big enough to hold two bulky men without them touching, but only by a margin. 

The second Peter is settled, Mark flips onto his side so that his back is facing him. Peter doesn’t have the time to even consider peering over the detective’s shoulder to see what he’s doing, but dread cements into his gut when he hears his own bracelet buzz briefly and then stop. The distance is officially lowered. 

He’s three feet away from exploding. 

That’s sure to help him sleep tonight.

Mark clicks a part of the band shut. Now it’s too late for Peter to check how in the hell he opened or tampered with his wristband. The detective turns back around and props himself up on an elbow. 

“Keep in mind that if you try to kill me tonight, you kill yourself.” 

Peter’s even breathing picks up slightly. 

Mark seems to have no issue shutting the lamp on his bedside off and closing his eyes after that. He sleeps on his front, face tucked snugly into one of his strong arms. At first, it’s too dark to see anything, but then the outline of his body comes into Peter’s view. His scars, browned since earlier, aimed at the ceiling. 

Light snoring stirs out of Mark in under five minutes. 

“Jesus Christ,” Peter mutters, turning his head from him.

The sight of the closed bedroom door feels less incriminating to watch. 

A sleepless hour passes. Then two. 

Peter is actively trying to sleep now, but everything is rushing through his mind. The steps it would take to die. Just a few of them he imagines, if he impulsively decides to dart for the bedroom door. He’s also thinking about the game that the Feds are probably uncovering right now, the fucking pounds of flesh. 

At some point, his hand brushes the skin of Mark’s stomach. Accidentally. He retracts his fingers as if they’ve been burned and is once again injected with the first stages of fight or flight. 

The problem is, he can’t do either. 

A third hour passes, which bleeds into a fourth. 

Mark’s snoring hasn’t stopped, and strangely, it’s the only thing keeping Peter sane. He can predict when it’ll stutter off in a loud manner, or go on for droning minutes of soft trilling. It’s a decipherable pattern. 

As long as he can predict Mark, he can win this. 

Whatever ‘this’ ends up being. 

Finally, the night (or morning, rather) comes to a head when Mark’s snores taper off completely. When the pattern doesn’t restart like it’s been doing. Peter’s head is pounding by now and his eyes burn with the sickly sensation of exhaustion. Even his worst all nighters have never amounted to this much discomfort. 

Mark’s eyelids snap open, like a horror movie slasher. 

They instantly focus on Peter who is too tired to furiously bare his teeth the way he’s been dreaming of doing for hours. 

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” 

His voice is attractively thick with sleep. 

“Who could?” Peter means to run down a list of general reasons why a normal person couldn’t sleep beside Detective Mark Hoffman of Jigsaw Inc. Because Mark’s purified evil, because he has killed more people than one can count on two hands. Instead he manages, “You snore like a personified boat horn.” 

“Good morning to you too.” 

Mark rolls over and fiddles with his wristband. 

Oversensitive to the world in his restless state, Peter jumps out of his skin when the brace around his wrist buzzes again. Another metallic-clicking addendum and Mark is facing him once more, looking pleased.

“The distance is restored.” 

Peter lets out a sigh he hadn’t known he was holding in. Turns out he was lying rigidly the whole night, flat on his back. Barely moving a muscle, likely out of fear that somehow he’d set a fatal timer off. 

There’s a crick in his lower spine when he stands up.

He curses, rubbing the sore spot. 

Mark bought a mattress as hard as rocks. 

The Devil himself is already getting dressed, no mindfulness for decency. Yet he notes, “I can get you some muscle numbing cream. If it’s really bad for you. Don’t use it much myself these days, anyway.” 

“I wouldn’t accept that shit from any Jigsaw groupie, thank you very much,” Peter remarks. 

A harrumph is delivered in reply. 

Mark shrugs into a light blue shirt and black suit jacket, with pants to match. He looks like an average officer. It’s no wonder nobody suspected him at the station, despite how he’s worked for Kramer all this time. The betrayal stings; a betrayal of code and of conduct. Peter wonders why it stings so personally. 

Maybe it’s because Peter’s burnt the candle at both ends for years, just trying to match what is expected of him under a host of a hundred unbendable rules. Maybe he wishes he could easily choose wrong. 

But no, of course he doesn’t wish that. 

“I don’t have much food,” Mark warns. 

“I don’t eat much,” Peter answers. 

He is so tired, namely of fighting. 

They end up eating toast with peanut butter. Peter doesn’t normally care for peanut butter but he gobbles the buttered loaf down. It’s a feasible distraction from the cinderblock-heavy drowsiness doing him in. 

He’s something approaching grateful when Mark hands him a cup of black coffee. 

“I drink it straight,” Mark informs, like it’s alcohol or some shit. 

“I like it black too,” Peter mumbles anyway. 

He’s fighting waves of exhaustion on Hoffman’s couch when the guy decides to turn on the abrasive TV to the news channel where anchors speak in raucous tones and shine bright neon colors at Peter’s eyes. 

Mark turns the volume up. 

“Fuck you,” Peter groans.

“Shh.” 

The anchors are talking solemnly about a new Jigsaw case. Oh God, it’s too early for this. Peter groans more, burying the noise into the palms of his hands. Leaning forward on his elbows, Mark listens intently. The details of the pounds of flesh trap are revealed, explicit and gruesome. Nothing that hasn’t been heard by the public before, however. Then, breaking news of a leaked APB headlines the morning segment. 

Peter’s interest is peaked. 

He shouldn’t have taken his hands away from his eyes. 

There he is, Peter Strahm, plastered across the screen. His gaze darts all over the screen, noticing phrases like expected to be on the run and possible connections to Amanda Young and John Kramer. Peter panics, rising up on his feet to bring himself closer to the screen as if it’ll project something else. 

“No, no,” he mutters. “No.” 

“Fingerprints at the crime scene are suspected to belong to Special Agent Peter Strahm of the — ” the female news anchor’s voice tapers into a ringing white noise. Peter clutches the edge of the TV.

The world blurs. 

“Peter,” Mark’s voice breaks through the static. “Don’t you want to know?” 

“What?” he rasps, muted even to his own ears.

“How I framed you.” 

“You were planning this,” Peter realizes aloud. “God, this was your plan all along. To what, recruit me? Make your murders my murders? How did you manage this all by yourself so fucking flawlessly?” 

“I wasn’t by myself. John gave me a game that could incriminate you,” Mark says, pausing to contemplate. “Or give me an opportunity to incriminate someone else, anyone integral I think. But I was never supposed to save you from that room, Strahm. So the answer is no, I wasn’t planning any of this.”

“Did Kramer want you to recruit someone else or did he just want you to take out the one person who managed to figure you out?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Like Hell you don’t know.” 

Mark stares, not past him, but into him. Into the deepest parts of Peter, the crevices and caverns he doesn’t dare brave even in his best moods. 

“He told me to detach emotion. I couldn’t when it came to your final test.” 

Peter gapes at him, baffled. He’s bordering disbelieving when he suggests, 

“I’m an anomaly, then.” 

“No. You’re mine.” 

It’s spoken possessively, without a doubt. 

Peter turns his tortured expression up at him, feeling pathetic from where he’s knelt on the floor. “You can’t own people, that’s not how life works. The only thing keeping me from killing myself to escape this fucking circus act is the off chance I’ll find some damn way to reveal your true colors to the world.” 

Mark’s smirk vanishes.

“The only thing?” 

“What do you want from me?” Peter growls. 

Mark kneels down in front of Peter, slamming one hand so hard against the TV screen that the footage stutters back and forth between static and broadcast. His piercing eyes sway close, caging Peter in. 

Peter doesn’t react to his intimidation. 

“I’ve never met a better liar than you,” Mark whispers. 

Peter doesn’t know what he means by that. 

He doesn’t care. 

Peter knows intimately how it feels to have his lungs clench and contract as they burn with the inescapable need to breathe. He feels that exact sensation now as Mark leans toward his ear and clarifies, 

“That’s not what I meant when I called you mine.” 

Mark’s on his feet, sauntering off from Peter before the electricity of their eternal clash can spark flames. He’s far from him, off to the kitchen, by the time Peter’s wristband starts buzzing and sounding off. 

Peter glances up and sees Mark watching. 

Neither of them move. 

It’s a game of chicken now. 

Until Mark tauntingly takes another step away from him.

The wristband sounds off louder, vibrates hard enough to make his fingers tremble, but Peter breathes heavily through his nose and grits his teeth against his razor-sharp survival instinct. A sick part of him wants to know if Mark actually has the stomach to kill him. He didn’t succeed the previous two times. Mark waits a minute longer before he takes another step backwards. 

Peter is confident until that third step. 

When the buzzing kicks up a notch on the third step, Peter finds himself leaping away from the TV set until he’s safe standing by the living room couch. In blazing frustration over his own failure, he kicks one of the couch’s legs. 

Mark is smirking under the kitchen’s fluorescents. 

The broadcast continues speaking plainly about the case, covering Peter Strahm as a potential Jigsaw disciple. Each hour spent with Mark Hoffman seems to be dragging him into a newfound circle of Hell. 

He assesses it’s going to be a long day. 

Mark pours them juice. 

Mark apparently doesn’t have to go into work until 1 pm. 

“Why nobody ever noticed your backwards-ass hours clocking in at the station is beyond me,” Peter hurls out on their ride to God knows where. Mark has shaded windows installed in his car which makes Peter feel even more alienated from the world. Cars drive by them oblivious to the plight of the rider inside. 

“People only care about themselves,” Mark posits with fortified cynicism. “Especially people whose job it is to care about everyone else. The world is made up of shades of greed and selfishness.”

“I always thought you Jigsaws were just a cult of nihilists.” 

“Realists.” 

“How nihilistic of you to claim.” 

“I’ve been working the inside for years.” Mark glances at him, one hand on the wheel, and one on tightening on the stick shift. “Not one of you suspected me until Rigg’s game. Why do you think that is?” 

“It tells me your department was full of morons,” Peter claims bluntly. He doesn’t quite believe that, but he refuses to entertain an argument about morality and standards with a serial killer. 

“Nice try. You know Rigg, Kerry, and even Matthews were all top of their class.” 

“And yet you killed all of them.” 

“Amanda killed Kerry,” Mark counters.

“Jesus,” Peter exclaims. “Fucking semantics!” 

“I’ve only ever rigged one game. My sister’s murderer was — ”

“You lying fuck, you rigged my game!”

Mark inclines his head at Peter. “You were told not to proceed. You proceeded. The rules were simple Strahm, just as they were in the room with the glass box. You just didn’t listen.”

“The rules told me to trust you. What chance in Hell did I have?” 

“Next to none. Yet here you are.” 

“Here I am,” Peter echoes bitterly. “Having a fucking ball.” 

“Incapable of having a pleasant conversation,” Mark accuses.

Peter howls, crossing his arms over his chest with the force of his laughter. “Jesus Christ, Hoffman. How the fuck do you expect me to have a pleasant conversation with you, you've basically handcuffed us together!” 

“You curse like a sailor.”

“Yeah, you really bring out my colorful side.”

“More than usual this morning.” Mark parallel parks in front of a block of apartment complexes. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, and Peter slumps when he evaluates there are no security cameras in sight. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Something you want to get off your chest. What is it?” 

“I haven’t slept one fucking wink. I’m on edge, okay?” Peter stammers out curtly. There is resounding silence as Mark takes the key out of the ignition. “Fine. Where am I going while you’re at work?” 

Mark doesn’t answer him. 

He steps out of the car. 

Hostile, Peter slams his car door shut and follows. 

They enter the complex with its door made up of green warped wood, without knocking or pressing a doorbell. Peter glances around the dusty residence, turning his nose up at the rat-infested appearance of it. 

“We can’t stay here for long,” Mark warns.

Waddling like a goblin, Mark trots upstairs. 

Peter should laugh at him, but instead he’s quietly endeared. It’s nice to know someone as macho-presenting as Detective Hoffman, Jigsaw extraordinaire, can still look like a fucking goofball. 

Let’s pretend I never boarded that train of thought.

He shadows him quickly, instinctually reaching backwards for a gun that doesn’t exist in case there’s trouble. “I still don’t know where we are,” Peter grumpily reminds, only to be met with silence. 

“No one’s here,” Mark placates, noticing his posture. 

Peter calms down momentarily, tensing up when Mark disappears into a room at the top of the foyer’s stairwell. He waits outside of it, accumulating the hunch that he doesn’t want to know what’s inside. 

He’s mildly confused when Mark appears with a stack of photographs, professionally shot by the looks of them. 

“What is this?”

Peter doesn’t ask before he’s snatching them up, rifling through the pile. Many are of people he doesn’t know, but there are several photos of Pamela Jenkins, a local news anchor, scattered amongst them. 

These photos appear to be proof of routines, so that each abduction can be smooth, relatively unseen, and carried out successfully. Peter Strahm’s worked on enough killer cases to know that much. 

There are just so many.   

“Who provides you with all this information?” 

These questions are more Peter thinking aloud because he knows Mark will evade any and all questions pertaining to accomplices. He’s not a tattletale, as Peter is begrudgingly and gradually starting to learn. 

“I need to get to work,” Mark deadpans, passing Peter. 

The wristband starts to buzz while Peter gets distracted with the photos. “Damn it,” he mutters, bumbling down the stairs after his captor. “Jesus, Hoffman, don’t walk so fucking fast.” 

Mark pauses at the entrance to the apartment and waits for him to catch up.

“Slow poke,” Mark says pointedly. 

Peter gawks at that, mostly because he kind of wants to laugh. Mark waits a few beats, as if he expects him to. They stare awkwardly at each other until Mark eventually smiles knowingly, and heads to the car. 

Yep, already a long day. 

Peter’s heart rate starts to go erratic when they pull into a warehouse in the middle of nowhere, far from Mark Hoffman’s apartment. Encroaching on the time Mark needs to head off for work at the station. 

“You always look scared I’m gonna put your head in another box. It’s cute,” Mark grumbles sardonically, like it’s putting him out just to deal with Peter’s rational and altogether justified paranoia. 

“Can you fucking blame me?” 

“I want you to understand what I am,” Mark reminds, slipping the car keys into his pocket. “I thought giving you a chance to choose trust in your last game would be an indicator of whether or not you could. But I’ve realized I have to take my time.” He scans Peter’s face intensely. “I can make you trust me.” 

“Good luck with that,” Peter spits. 

“You don’t know the full story yet.” Mark gets out of the car and opens Peter’s door for him, kicking him lightly in the shin to force him to get a move on. “One day, you could be singing a different tune.” 

“I highly doubt that.” 

“Come on, you know how Erikson gets.” 

Peter thinks, as they approach the creepy warehouse, that things are going better than expected. Mark hasn’t put him in another trap and he’s had enough autonomy not to have a mental breakdown at every aching breath. And he’s walking up to the warehouse like an equal rather than a hostage. 

That is until they enter the abandoned building and a sharp pinprick in Peter’s neck has him shouting out loud, scrambling back from the onslaught of Mark’s sudden weight on him. 

The sedative works immediately, even as he thrashes. 

“Sorry, sweet cheeks,” he deliriously thinks he hears Mark say as he’s hauled head first into a ginormous wheel barrow. It’s preposterous, however, and easily dismissed in the face of his assault. 

Peter should have noticed the human-sized wheel barrow when they fucking entered the building, and really the spite he feels at himself for not paying attention is what trumps the horrid sensation of sleep seeping into every nerve and muscle in his body. Firm hands rearrange his limbs while he blacks out. 

Peter wakes up immensely comfortable, which is legitimately more disturbing than when he woke up in a head-box trap. He tenses upon opening his eyes, but his surroundings are not threatening in the slightest. 

He’s lying on a foamy mattress, on the floor. Draped over with several silky blankets, and head resting on a pillow with the same consistency of the mattress, with just enough firmness to offer support. He groans, coming out of his drugged haze too slowly for him to be satisfied with. He needs to know where he is. 

It seems they’re still in that warehouse they drove to, or at least Peter is. 

The room is small, jail cell-sized, and the walls are molded cinder. He glances up at the light source, beaming in from between strategically placed steel bars on an open window. Too high for him to reach.

There’s a toilet, paper, even a bucket of fresh water in the corner. 

A TV is in the room, strangely. 

And it’s on. 

Peter reaches groggily for the remote he notices positioned next to a metal tray with a cloche and fiddles with the buttons until he’s unmuting the TV and is abruptly tuned into a station playing a Judy Garland film. 

He ignores the TV, though leaves the noise on.

It’s oddly comforting. 

A note is lying on the tray beside the cloche. It reads;

Food for you

—Mark 

“Incredibly succinct,” Peter mumbles, crumbling up the note into a ball. He considers trying the door, as he’s not chained to anything, but he is positive it won’t budge. He’s getting the picture, slowly but surely. 

He removes the cloche to reveal a glass case of lasagna. 

It’s still warm. 

Peter is starving. 

He picks up the fork left for him, but that’s as far as he gets. He pushes the tray aside and sidles up to the TV on his knees. Disoriented still, he gives himself a minute to settle before he begins diligently taking it apart. He unplugs it first, and struggles to find something that can pry it open, but settles for kicking in the front of it. He doesn’t need the glass either way. Peter isn’t a technician, but he’s known many in his time. 

He gets to work trying to see if he can set up a communication system. If Peter can send or broadcast a signal outward, from this approximate location, it’s likely someone can hunt him down. 

How he’ll explain the evidence against him, he doesn’t know, but he has to try. 

It’s hours later that Hoffman returns. 

Peter nearly jumps out of his skin when the detective appears in the doorway, disappointment permeating through his whole demeanor. The TV set is more than wrecked; it’s shattered into hundreds of pieces.

Strahm overestimated how well he knew the inside of a device like this. 

He gotten nowhere with his broadcasting idea.

Mark turns on his heel, and for a moment Peter fears he’s going to be left to rot alone in this room. With only a cold lasagna to tide him over until he perishes from thirst, but his wristband buzzes once to knock him out of the paranoid trance. Mark turns back around, revealing he’d been fiddling with his own. 

“Try something stupid like that again, I’ll lower the feet by two.” 

Peter snarls with showmanship, rolling all his weight on his heels to kneel higher. He’s been exerting himself too hard to stand, having sweat through his clothes. He’s panting like a dog from lack of water. 

Mark doesn’t look any better. 

Bags under his eyes tell of a restless day at work. 

He tosses a bag of fast food to Peter, sighing at the sight of the uneaten lasagna. Peter doesn’t touch the bag. It’s from his favorite fast food joint, Sonic. Nonetheless, he refuses to appease Hoffman’s God complex. He scrounged up that information maliciously; Peter won’t reward a stalking motherfucker. 

“Bad day at work?” Peter sneers. “Any surprises?”

He can only hope the bureau is actually doing their job and looking outside of the obviously leading evidence against him, but he has a hunch they’ll be more incompetent than ever without him on the case.

Mark appears to be considering telling him something pertinent. Peter almost regrets choosing to act out, because he can visibly tell when Mark decides to keep the secret to himself. 

“Eat the food and we can go home,” Mark says. 

He’s staring blankly at Peter, mind in a different place.

“No.” 

Mark blinks, narrowing his focus on Peter. 

“That’s not a request,” he snarls, with more acidity than Peter’s ever heard him expel. He’s averagely stoic, and incapable of being riled up like this, or so Peter assumed. 

There’s those electric sparks from earlier. 

Sunset glows through the window, warm and enticing them into action. 

Peter feels more alive than he ever has.

Despite the ache in his knees, the rocky floor digging into his bones, he careens upward from where he’s propped on the floor. Uses the height to show he’s unintimidated. Grinning a bit madly, Peter spits,

“No.” 

It happens in a flash. Mark kicks him bluntly in the chest, a maneuver which has Peter toppling off the safe perch of his knees. He’s splayed on the floor when Mark climbs over him, thighs crushing his ribs. 

Peter curses, his gasp curtailing into a whimper. 

As much as he tries to push back, Mark doesn’t budge. 

Gravely, he realizes Mark let Peter win that first fight in the room with the glass box. 

Bastard. 

Mark curls fingers around his throat, pressing cruelly into the sore spot where his tracheotomy was made. “If I have to pry your mouth open and force feed you, I will. Once more, I’m telling you to eat.”

The world view of Peter’s tunnel visions to the hand clenching around his neck, Mark’s thighs weighing down his torso, and the gruff yet velvety voice that commands more than he’s ever been willing to give. 

Their breaths mingle, hot with ire. 

Peter starts to get hard. 

He’s so taken aback by himself that he finds himself nodding fervently in a blind plea to get Mark Hoffman off of him before he can figure out what is really forcing him to submit to his bullshit ego. 

Mark seems too self-satisfied to notice anything. 

He climbs off of him. Replaces the Sonic bag in front of him. 

“Can I eat it in the car?” Peter asks hoarsely. 

His voice sounds small. He’s drawing up his knees discreetly, to obscure himself, despite sporting the barest of erections. If Mark sees it, he — he doesn’t know what might happen. He doesn’t want to know. 

That’s what he tells himself. 

Towering over Peter, Mark regards him. 

“Yeah. Don’t get crumbs anywhere, though.” 

The tonal whiplash once again fucks Peter up the ass like a barbed wire dildo. He scoffs at the air, relentlessly boiling in his damp clothes and wondering where he went wrong in life to end up here. 

“Or what?” Peter forces out. 

Their game is continuous, after all. 

“Or I decide that pretty face of yours could use a scar or two.” 

In his classic ghostly dissent, Mark is out of the room before Peter can even begin to sputter. He’s screwed, in more ways than one. He snatches up the fast food bag when his wristband starts to vibrate and hurriedly leaves the lasagna to the rats and whatever remaining residents exist in the shithole warehouse. 

Peter doesn’t think he can sleep tonight. 

So, when Mark starts snoring, he waits thirty minutes until he calculatedly rolls over to check where his captor’s wristband is. Fortunately, it’s tucked within reach on his pillow, right by Mark’s droopy cheek. 

Cautiously, Peter reaches out and taps lightly at Mark’s band. 

It’s not hard to intuit the detective is a heavy sleeper. 

He snores on, unencumbered by Peter’s escape plan. 

Peter tries tapping a variety of patterns, morse codes, braille. He attempts to stroke along the edges of it, hoping that if there is a haptic sensor that responds to physical touch, it might eventually click open. 

Of course, it’s a pipe dream. 

Peter isn’t one to give up easily, so he spends a ripe amount of time on this. He must get too close into Mark’s personal bubble or begins pressing too hard on the band because Mark is suddenly wide awake.

All at once, emanating contempt. 

Automatically, Peter rears back.

He opens his mouth to say — anything

But it’s too late. 

Mark is pouncing on him, ravenous in his unfiltered fury. Apparently, despite Peter’s countless betrayals, this attempt is the last straw. He’s got a knee digging targetedly into Peter’s lower back, a forearm nailing him down like he’s a rabid animal. Flailing at first, Peter swiftly comes to a revelation. He can use Mark’s impulsive rage against him by enacting tactics Mark would need to have complete focus to expect. 

“Ungrateful motherfucker,” Mark grinds out amongst a crescendo of harsh, heavy breathing. His speech is nearly incoherent amid his inhuman retaliation. 

Peter yells, using his relatively free leg to spin them around and tackle both of them to the ground. He himself lands roughly on a shoulder, rolling so far from Hoffman that his wristband begins vibrating frenetically. Luckily, Mark’s feline eyes settle on him, and he’s leaping in the next moment, their bodies connecting. The wristbands quiet down when they touch, and it offers a brief tranquil effect on Peter’s nerves. If he ever correlates any of this with the words ‘Pavlovian” and “Response” he will need to be put in a psych ward. He doesn’t think about the fact that already, subconsciously, he has done so. 

Their fight turns bloody. 

Gums bleed from feverish punches and scratching swipes, black eyes are birthed from knuckles, and Peter gets punched so hard in the gut he painstakingly fears he’ll suffer the same fate as Houdini. Strangely, Mark looks to regret the throw for just a second. A second is all Peter needs to knock Mark on his ass to sit on his hips, one hand digging into his throat, the other knocking away Mark’s violently grabby hands. 

Mark tries to surge up, but Peter has distributed his weight perfectly so that he can barely come an inch off the ground. When Peter feels nails in his thighs, he doesn’t hesitate to slap Mark hard in the face. 

A loud groan is let loose from the detective’s throat. 

Peter is hypnotized by the weakening body under him. 

Can’t think how the broken sighs and loosening muscles underneath him is reminiscent of —

Mark tries revolting again, knocking his hips up to buck Peter off him, but Peter tacitly removes his hand from Mark’s throat to smack his cheek lightly once only to deliver a much sharper blow to the other. 

It disorients his opponent enough that Peter can grab him by the hair and finally make himself heard. Gripping the thready locks, he drags Mark’s face (bloody nose, split lip and all) close to his own. 

He feels spittle fly from his mouth while hissing through gritted teeth,

“If I kill you, it will end everything. I’m willing to make that sacrifice.” 

He’s taken Mark down, fair and square this time. 

Caught him off guard and regained the upperhand. 

He doesn’t expect Mark to give in, but he also doesn’t expect Mark’s feral expression to transform into one of infatuation. It’s giving Peter a taste of his own medicine, because now he’s thrown for a loop.

“This is why I picked you,” Mark ardently declares.

Peter is caressed with the redolent taste of blood, dreadfully realizing seconds into the passionate kiss that Mark closed the distance between them and aligned their lips in an intimate embrace. Warm. 

Mark’s lips are warm. 

Hands stop their grappling, reaching for Peter’s cheeks.

His face is grasped tenderly, angled for a deeper kiss. 

The fire-hot adrenaline coursing through Peter’s veins, and likely through Mark’s, is so potent, that he can’t help but moan into it. Helplessly, he feels his mouth moving against Mark’s and taking what is offered. Those bulging lips devour his own, murmuring unintelligibly in gentle vibrations against slick skin, sucking each quivering lip between his. Peter melts. He’s harder between the legs than he’s ever been. 

There isn't a thought, good or bad, in his brain that's not revolving around Mark's mouth. 

It’s the distraction of the century, he’ll give Mark credit there. 

Peter thinks Mark’s hand shooting out to grip the edge of the bedside table is a desperate stretch of arousal, but really, he isn’t surprised when he feels a pinprick at the base of his neck, injecting him fast. 

Their kiss breaks. 

Mark is unreadable. He is panting. 

“Fuck you,” Peter gasps, limbs liquifying for all the wrong reasons. 

The bedroom spins, darkens, and goes cold. 

Chapter Text

For a few tepid seconds, Peter is at ease.

He is caught under a heavy blanket of delusion, that he’s woken up at home in the comfort of his own bed. Then the sound of labored breathing trickles past the soft birdsong of morning, and Peter’s face steadily twists into a tortured grimace as he remembers everything. 

“Fuck no,” Peter groans, rolling face first into a pillow.

“Morning,” Mark greets. 

Every bone in Peter’s body is aching, really, he’s far too old to be having fist fights every other day. When he stubbornly forces his eyes to open, he observes how beat up Mark appears in parallel. 

“Called in to work and took the day off.” Mark points to his reddened nose, dried blood still crusted by his nostrils. “You broke the damn thing. Had to reset it last night.” 

“Boo fucking hoo,” Peter mutters, jaw tight. 

“I let you rest two hours longer,” explains Mark, like Peter even cares. He doesn’t care. Everything is wrong and nothing makes sense. “That sleeping agent is pretty tough.” 

Peter doesn’t respond. 

Perhaps childishly, he clutches his pillow to his face and sequesters himself to the opposite corner of the bed. Mark is sitting beside him with a notebook in hand, sketching blueprints of machines. Traps, there’s no point in theorizing otherwise. Peter feels guilty for not caring as much as he would’ve yesterday. A part of him feels numb; he hopes it's the sleeping agent. 

In Mark’s fist, a scalpel is clutched.

He sharpens his pencil with it and then, in a swift maneuver, has it wielded against Peter’s cheekbone. The blade cuts so shallowly Peter doesn’t feel it, but his breath hitches all the same. 

“Are you gonna behave?” Mark whispers with a dire lilt. 

Peter doesn’t particularly want a scar on his face. 

Cautiously, he nods.

Mark nods back. 

“Good. It’s time to go.” 

Peter glares at him from behind his pillow. 

Neither of them move. 

Mark cocks his head, like he legitimately can’t comprehend Peter’s resistance. The detective parts his lips with his tongue, drawing attention to the purpling bruise on his plush bottom lip. 

Manifestly, Peter refuses to stare at it. 

He stares anywhere else. That leads him to Mark’s droopy eyes, and pouchy cheeks. The attractive downward incline of his nose, and his currently neatly combed and gelled hair. 

No, fuck no, no. 

“Why you lookin’ at me like I got three fucking heads?” 

“Coffee,” Peter rasps. “Can we get coffee first?”

He needed to say something, anything, that wasn’t god I want you. He feels pathetic not resisting like he has been doing. For finally acting complacent, in the way Mark probably wants him to. 

Mark blinks from the unexpected response. 

“We’re on a tight schedule,” Mark tells him, for no reason other than to hear himself say it, Peter assumes. He looks like he’d offer Peter just about anything if he asked. “But yeah.” 

Peter’s still wearing Mark’s clothes. 

Mark said he was going to get him others, but there hasn’t been any new articles to change into. He wants to ask why. He wants to inquire about everything that just doesn’t matter. 

If only it would get his mind off last night.

“I washed your stuff.” Mark tosses Peter his leather jacket. 

And the rest of the clothes he thought were tossed. 

Over coffee, Peter huddles close in proximity to Mark and feels insane for doing so. A medical professional might claim that he’s in shock from yesterday. He might claim that he’s psychotic. 

Mark’s eyes are pouring over a newspaper. 

Peter keeps his face half-buried in his coffee mug. 

“Pamela Jenkins is off her rocker with her theories again,” Mark gripes, sipping harshly at his own cup before slamming it back down on the kitchen table. A droplet splashes atop the surface. 

“She’s never been on the rocker to start,” Peter remarks. 

Mark glances at him, appearing mildly surprised that Peter is engaging in casual conversation. There’s about fuck all else to do, what can Peter Strahm actually accomplish by ignoring him?

“Only problem is,” Mark continues warily, “she’s figured out something confidential she shouldn’t have. About John’s will. And she’s trying to get big press to talk about it.” 

It’s a surefire way to get Peter’s senses to sharpen. 

He sets his cup of coffee down.

“What about John’s will?”  

Mark waits a beat, as if waiting for Peter to say more, then proceeds to confess, “He left a box for Jill Tuck, to be opened only by her, following his death. Only she, I, and John’s lawyer know about it. Despite the fact that it’s now apparently public record, according to Miss Jenkins.” 

Peter frowns. “John would have crafted numerous precautions. He wasn’t the type to let a mistake like that slip under the radar.”

“I know. That’s why none of this is sitting right with me.”

“You think someone…tampered with the records.” 

Mark averts his eyes, tracing a finger around the rim of his steaming cup. Peter grits his teeth and rocks back against his seat. There’s no way Mark is going to let him in on every detail, regardless of his state of confinement. 

“There’s more,” Mark abruptly says, “more people that know about the box.”

“More fucking groupies,” Peter utters. “Of course. Just how many of you are there?”

Without any brass, Mark smirks. 

“Not a lot.” 

“John Kramer knew what he was doing.” Peter hits his fist lightly against the table. “Jesus. An officer of the law, maybe more. His own fucking wife. Which isn’t a surprise, by the way.”

“Jill’s a hypocrite,” Mark spits with palpable resentment. “Likes to pretend she has nothing to do with any of it, yet bore witness to nearly every single grisly day of John’s lifework.” 

“Don’t act like you’re not a hypocrite.”

“I’m not. I dispense justice, I just do it my way.”

“You think what you did to Seth Baxter was justice? He played your sick little game and you killed him anyway. Blamed it on someone else, too. Where’s your fucking philosophy there?” 

“I’ve paid my dues for him.” 

“Not lawfully.” 

Mark tips his head back and laughs. Peter watches him, attempting to scrounge up animosity he doesn’t feel. He’s either too tired to keep fighting or something broke inside him last night. 

He doesn’t want to think about either option. 

“You like to dig, Strahm. You like to shovel at a problem until you’ve found all the pieces to the puzzle but what people don’t actually admit about diggers, is that they’ve got no clue how to rearrange all the pieces when they do. Baxter did more damage than I ever will in a lifetime.”

So did every abuser Jigsaw kidnapped.

But that isn’t the point, how can’t Mark see that? 

“That’s not for you to decide,” Peter hisses. “You’ve been a cop for over twenty years, you know how damaging this kind of rhetoric can be. You’ve been consumed with power.” 

“Jesus, Peter,” Mark mutters, spoken so familiarly, it stunts Peter’s velocity. “I was consumed with power before all of this. Consumed with being able to do whatever the fuck I wanted. Because you know the force encourages that behavior. You know it, they know it. No one cares.” 

“You can’t exchange corruption for corruption.” Peter scoffs with a shake of the head. “That cancels it out, all the work you think you’re striving for—” 

Mark’s upper lip twitches into the barest of snarls. 

“You don’t know what I’m striving for.”

“Kramer’s done a number on you.” Peter looks at Mark, as if seeing him for the first time. There’s a boyish frustration in him, a nervous energy. “When did you stop thinking for yourself?” 

That affects Mark, subtly but surely. 

“I’m the only one left. I’m uninfluenced now.” 

The door shut between them opens a crack. 

Peter catches the opportunity and jumps for it. 

“You can stop the games, Hoffman. You have the power to do that. You have more power than John ever did, because you at least have retained…some fucking level of common sense.” 

Mark grinds his teeth together.

He stares at the black depths of his coffee.

“What’s stopping you?” Peter harps on. 

“These games, what they mean, or represent, it’s beyond me,” Mark explains vaguely, brow furrowing. “You don’t understand.” 

“So help me understand.”

Mark glances over, eyes glistening. 

Roughly, Peter sighs. 

“You told me,” he reminds, “you were going to make me understand.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” 

Peter raises his hands in capitulation, waiting for Mark to react. He’s gawking at Peter like he’s the one with three heads now. At least their communication is progressing this morning. 

“Where am I gonna go?” Peter voices cynically. “You’ve got me.”

“Yeah, I do,” Mark replies, soft and contemplative. 

Silence stretches between them, interrupted only by crows cackling outside. It’s abrasive compared to the morning birds singing their precious little tunes. The day is impatient to start. 

Peter feels impatient too, for all the wrong reasons. 

He can’t help himself; Peter glances at Mark’s lips. They’re slightly parted, revealing a mere glimpse of pink tongue tucked behind teeth. He tears his gaze from him, pissed at himself. 

Neither of them have brought up the kiss. 

Mark must have done it as a distraction, that’s it. Of course that’s it. Why in the Hell would he try to come on to Agent Strahm? They’re enemies, regardless of whatever Mark ends up telling him about the Jigsaw murders. They’ll never be on an equal playing field of understanding. 

“We need to go to Home Depot,” Mark announces. 

He stands with a rickety stiffness and sets off to wash the dishes, leaving Peter stammering over stupefied protests, none of which ever make it past the tip of his tongue.

“What?!” he manages to reach. 

“There’s one by the closed park, down on eighth,” Mark simply says. “Doesn’t have operational security cameras. And if you go in with a disguise, there should be no problem.” 

There’s still so much risk.

It doesn’t make any sense to Peter. 

“Or you could just lock me in that fucking warehouse,” he retorts, regretting it immediately because he’d gotten ravenously stir crazy the previous time and dreads a repeat of that event.

“I’d like you to watch my process.”

“I’ve been to Home Depot.”

“Not to buy tools for a Jigsaw game.”

Peter has another instance of stifling self-awareness of where he is, who he’s with, and how he has no way to escape the infernal torture of being imperceivably chained to Mark Hoffman. 

“Grand,” Peter moans into the palm of his hand. 

“By the way.” Mark swerves to face him, drying a mug. “Threaten me again, like you did last night, and I’ll make sure to knock you out with a sleeping agent every night starting today.” 

Peter doesn’t want to be caught unaware.

Plus, that sleeping agent is really taking a toll on his body.

His nod is jerky at best. 

“Shake a leg, Pete,” Mark mumbles at him, kicking the peg of Peter’s chair. He’s gathering his wits when Mark swoops down, close to his ear, and quietly adds, “You tasted good.”

Freezing up, Peter struggles to swallow. 

Mark is out of the kitchen, and not long after, the wristband starts to buzz. It’s instinct at this point, for Peter to scramble up from his seat and follow until the device stops sounding off. 

By the door, Mark is smirking.

He’s holding Peter’s disguise. 

Peter’s anxiety over Mark’s last comment dwindles in the face of the impending nightmare this trip to Home Depot is turning out to be. Scowling, he snatches up the disguise and heads out. 

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” Peter complains as Mark cinches his jaw between two fingers to hold him still. If Peter’s heart is starting to beat louder than the car’s engine, that’s nobody’s business but his own. Mark’s other hand closes in on him, fingers painted blue. 

“Making sure your cover ain’t blown.” 

He streaks the paint down one side of Peter’s face. 

The thing is, Peter knows what Mark is doing. 

The disguise he’s given him is that of a hyper-obsessed football fan. Adorned with a backwards baseball cap, a sports jersey, shorts, and now stereotypical facepaint one might wear to stadiums. 

He feels like a glorified Ken doll. 

Peter scrunches up his face as Mark finishes painting the entire left side royal blue. He hisses as Mark’s grip tightens on his chin after a new paint is distributed to his fingers. An orange hue. 

“It smells like plaster,” Peter grumbles. 

“You’re FBI. You’ve smelled worse.”

Shutting up, Peter lets Mark finish painting the other side a bright, neon orange. The sooner this is over, the better, though he worries about how long it could take to wash this paint off later. 

“Don’t you think it’ll draw attention if you’re walking around with a crazed sports fan,” Peter points out, nodding to Mark’s casual yet still business-like attire. “Is there even a game today?” 

“As a matter of fact, there is. And no. It won’t.”

“I don’t know why I question your authority when you never have the actual sense to take my advice,” Peter snaps back, shadowing Mark out of the car. Mark locks the doors, slipping the keys into his pocket. He doesn’t know why he also says, “I’m still your superior, you know.” 

Mark chuckles attractively. 

“Yeah, you’re real superior.” 

They approach the hardware store. 

Peter restrains himself from crossing his arms over the front of his chest to hide his attire. One would expect he’d just found himself at a nude beach, the way he’s carrying himself, but he’s not used to this. Not being on the clock at work, wearing the tackiest shit he’s ever seen in his life. 

Aiding and abetting. 

Home Depot shines vividly under the sunny afternoon sky. Peter’s stomach growls from lack of breakfast, but he doesn't dare bring that up with Mark. Mark would be all too eager to please. 

He hates that. Hates what it makes him feel. 

Wanted? 

Peter scoffs, following at Mark’s heels.  

“You better hope we don’t run into Erickson buying drywall,” Peter cracks as they pass the outdoor array of potted plants and cross the threshold into a superfluous macho setup of carpets, tiles, tools, graced with the cringy elevator music emanating through distant, staticy speakers. 

“Erickson probably lives in one of those hideous glass houses.” 

“Not in this city.” 

Peter ignores a mother and her pig-tailed child staring at him, obviously taken aback by his getup. Further ignores the dominating urge to shout at them to run a mile a minute to escape the Jigsaw apprentice near in proximity to them. 

“You ever think of moving out?” Mark asks, barreling over to the orange hand-held carts. He grabs one off the rack and swings it in front of them, eyeing the signs above each aisle.

“Of the city?” Peter huffs. “Is that even an option for me?”

“Do you suspect I’ll keep you forever?”

Peter suspects Mark’s foolish for deciding to start this conversation in a Home Depot. They turn into the tools aisle, and Mark heads straight for the shelves of nails. 

“I don’t know what your end game is.” 

A smile breaks across half of Mark’s face. 

“Even now?” 

Peter has no clue what he means by that. 

Their eyes meet.

A frisson of heat ricochets between them. 

It always does, even before Peter knew who he was. When Mark bumbled his way through Kerry’s crime scene investigation and played dumb when pried about a second accomplice. 

Peter breaks eye contact, a frown twisting his features. 

“See if you can find some framing nails,” Mark encourages, nodding downward. Peter considers refusing, but he doesn’t want to cause a scene in a store and get anyone else hurt. Mark’s liable to lower the distance between their wristbands if he does, anyway. “I found what I need up here.” 

Peter bends down to scrutinize the shelves. 

When he finds a box of them, he snags it and hands it to Mark. He makes sure to make a face so undeniably spiteful of what they’re doing here together that even the cashiers might feel the ire emanating off of him in waves. Mark, the bastard, doesn’t flinch and smiles with nonchalance. 

And…it doesn’t incense Peter. 

For once. 

Tired, he begins to decompress. 

“I never wanted to live in the city,” Peter tells him plainly, not seeing the harm in it. “It just happened that way. More crime in urban areas, more reason to gravitate out here.” 

“Me neither,” Mark murmurs. “Thank you.”

He tucks the boxes they need in the cart. 

“You moved out here for the force?” 

Peter feels silly having a semi-serious conversation in such gaudy makeup, but he also strangely feels invisible to the general eye. Like he can’t be incriminated for talking casually with a murderer if he’s not even presenting as himself. Perhaps that’s a twisted way of seeing things. 

Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. 

Figuratively wearing a mask shouldn’t make him feel more at ease. 

“Nah.” Mark’s gaze lingers on the racks of nails, despite stocking up on all he needs. He can’t quite tear himself out of whatever trance he’s fallen into. “Moved out here for my sister.”

“Why kill Baxter like Jigsaw did?” Peter lowers his voice, peering over his shoulder to make sure Mark hears him clearly. “It couldn’t have just been because it’d be easier to get away with.” 

“I thought he wouldn’t do it.”

“Huh?” 

“I thought…I thought he’d be a coward. Let the pendulum swing, because he’d be too afraid to crush his bones. I wanted to watch him cower,” Mark wades through the admission gradually. 

“And when he didn’t?”

“I couldn’t watch the light leave his eyes,” Mark murmurs. “I never can.” 

Peter wraps a hand around Mark’s wrist, where it’s still resting on one of the shelves before them. They’ve been fortunate enough not to get interrupted by any customers, and yet, Peter feels like he’s speaking for an entire audience when he professes darkly, 

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Oh yeah?” Mark’s up in his space so fast, Peter can hardly catch his breath at the abrupt impulse to close the distance. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you?” 

He swerves, marching out of the aisle. 

Peter scuttles after him, mind swimming. 

Turns out, they didn’t need much more than nails and paint. 

“We need to paint a mechanism John made before his death,” Mark elaborates in the car. Once he’s given Peter a towel and water bottle to clean his face with. He does his best not to spill anything anywhere, or leave any marks, lest he face the wrath of his not-so friendly captor. 

“Paint? Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Why does the…design matter?”

“Visuals are key,” Mark argues mildly. “Jigsaw pieces represent the missing will to survive, in those who are chosen to play the games. The spiral represents change and evolution.” 

“FBI has it designated as a symbol of rebirth,” Peter recalls.  

“Close enough.” 

Bitter at the prospect, Peter crosses his arms. “I doubt the victims are going to be admiring Jigsaw’s penchant for symbolism while their intestines get slurped out of their anuses.” 

Mark hums like he’s suggested a delicious meal. 

“Don’t joke about that shit,” Peter exclaims. “That’s disgusting.”

“You’re the one who came up with the idea.”

“It’s not an idea, it’s—Jesus, don’t you dare use that as an idea!”

Mark’s smirk wavers. 

“Just kidding, Strahm.” At least now he sounds serious, but then he makes Peter’s blood run cold again. “Doubt I could make it work, anyway. You’d need a solid vacuum apparatus to attach to the—”

Peter swats him in the face with the paint-drenched towel. Although offense is brightly apparent on Mark’s face, a smile dawns across it immediately. Like they’re two friends having a laugh. 

He looks dorky enough covered in paint that the sight inspires vines of humor to weave up Peter’s throat and settle uncomfortably in him, laughter tickling at the base of his mouth. 

Peter stops himself from laughing. 

“Don’t,” he utters, weakly, unsure of what he’s referring to. “Just…don’t.”

 Languidly, Mark’s smile fades, and their drive continues on in silence. Peter sits slumped like a condescended child, remembering belatedly, the streak of blue paint across Mark’s cheek when he hit him. He doesn’t know what’s up from down anymore, because he finds himself moving before he thinks about doing so. Dabbing water on a clean end of the towel, he reaches out and gently wipes it down Mark’s cheeks, washing away the color. Mark’s brow gives a light twitch. 

Only when Peter’s drawing away does he mumble,

“Thanks.” 

Peter doesn’t know why he keeps giving into these rash impulses. Mark drives him up the wall, but he also drives him to do the worst possible things he can imagine, like take care of a wanted criminal. And damningly feel something bordering excited when he’s thanked for doing so. 

Stockholm syndrome, Perez’ voice muses in his head. 

If only it could be as simple as that.

If only Peter’s eyes had never lingered too long on Mark’s upper chest during work hours, if only Peter had never briefly considered asking the shy, somewhat reclusive, Detective out to a sports bar which he has never ever considered coveting anyone for throughout his career, if only he hadn’t liked how it felt to be held down by him in every fight following Mark’s unveiling. 

Peter tugs off his hat, ruffling flattened hair up. 

He chugs one of the water bottles Mark keeps stashed underneath the shotgun seat in his car. It’s warm, but that doesn’t matter so much when he feels like he could die of dehydration. 

He licks a stray droplet of water off his top lip. 

When he looks over, Mark quickly turns away. 

He was watching. 

Sinking deeper into his seat, Peter glares out the window. 

“God, why couldn’t I have just been crushed,” Peter groans, covering the view of the soon-to-be crime scene with his palms. There’s a carousel installed before him with six seats attached for future victims. 

A shotgun mechanism is pointed directly at it. 

“It spins continuously until four of the six are dead.” 

“You’re telling me, at least four of these people are marked for death?” Peter rips his hands away from his eyes and furiously stomps up beside Mark who is tinkering with a loose screw in one of the seats. He tightens it as Peter continues yelling, “Where the Hell is their so-called chance?!”

“They can do their best to convince the dominant player why they deserve to live,” Mark deadpans, pulling on the seat to certify its stability. “The choice of who can live and who can die will be left up to their boss, the CEO of Umbrella Health.”

Peter has never needed to ignore the fierce pang of reason in his chest that screams, Yes, oh fuck yes, upon hearing what a Jigsaw game entails more. If he has nothing left, Peter has morals. 

And yet.

“Sick fucking motherfucker,” he settles on, without gall. 

Mark shoots a sly grin at him.

“You like it.”

“I li—What? You’re insane!” 

A hand is held out to him, palm up. 

“Spray can, please.”

Peter throws it at his head. 

Mark ducks, glowering when he readjusts his position on the floor. He might often find Peter amusing, but today it seems like he has only the patience to do what’s necessary and get out of here.

“Pick it up,” Mark snarls. 

Peter mirrors his expression.  

Make me, is just about to break through.

Their communication is reflective of treading across an icy lake. Constant weight giving out underneath them, throwing them off balance, with cracks that threaten every wading step. 

The (by now) familiar weight on his wrist arouses the memory of the wristbands in Peter and he growls in frustration, swooping down to grab the rolling can before it can disappear fully underneath the carousel. He doesn’t trust reaching under there, how could he? 

Mark filches it from his grip. 

“Be a good boy and flip the switch on the wall over there, too.” Mark achieves acidic apathy in tone, nodding to the nearly imperceptible switch on the wall, inside the cage. “Now.” 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Peter barks, knees pushing up to do as he’s told. 

He flips the switch so hard he’s positive he almost breaks it.

Slowly, the carousel turns. Lights flash in the room. 

Mark stands and wields the spray-end of the can, eyeing the outer surface of the spinning mechanism. “Maybe I should start in the middle,” he grumbles. “Amanda was supposed to do this, not me.” He jumps atop the wheel, wobbling towards the center in his disorientation. 

Peter’s nurturing instinct kicks in despite himself.

“Be careful! Jesus.” He takes a step closer but realizes it’s circling too fast for him to approach without putting himself in danger. Suspiciously, he eyes the dormant shotgun on the ground. 

“She always left the runt work to me,” Mark barrels on, seemingly calculating the starting point of the design in his head, oblivious to vertigo any normal person would be accosted with. 

“Wait a minute.” Peter crosses his arms, a proverbial light bulb clicking on over his head. “I knew these were at least blueprinted by John, but you’re telling me he built every single trap?” 

He knew they were mostly built by John but he assumed the cancer patient’s disciples had taken over at some point. Now that he thinks of it, however, they are all brilliant pieces of engineering. 

“Every single game, and every remaining game, features mechanisms made only by John Kramer’s hand. Amanda and I would adjust gear ratios, or do as such,” Mark explains, gesturing to the paint can. “But we’re only—we were only carrying out the grand scheme he left behind.” 

That’s a load of horseshit. 

“Don’t want to let his Easy-Bake-Oven-a-person-to-death booby traps go to waste.”

“Cute.”

Finally, Mark appears to decide on where to start. He swiftly draws the can around in an increasing circumference, painting an all-encompassing spiral on the grate of the wheel. 

Peter scoffs, watching him work. 

The wheel rocks suddenly, just as Mark is finishing up. It jostles the detective and nearly tips him off the circular surface. Automatically prepared to intervene, Peter charges a step forward. 

Mark catches it in his peripheral, teeth baring in a grin.

“Didn’t know you cared, Agent Strahm.” 

His voice drowns in pitch as the carousel continues to whirl him around in every direction. Peter refuses to have a conversation with him on the equivalent of Disney’s Mad Tea Party attraction. 

“Just hurry up so we can get the fuck out of here.”

“Don’t wanna get caught red-handed?” Mark questions, voice slick with devious intent, impulsively spraying red paint all over Peter’s hands where they’re still crossed over his chest. 

Blanching, Peter careens backwards, not noticing as Mark hops off the carousel to shut the spinning wheel down. “You’re so fucking insane, what the fuck,” Peter groans failing to wipe off the paint from his hands and arms. It’s gotten all over his skin, and a bit on his sports jersey. 

He doesn’t care so much about the jersey. 

“I gotta make a call.” Mark exits the cage, watching a stammering Peter expectantly until he follows out of necessity, cursing under his breath. Mark locks the cage door behind them. 

They don’t leave the abandoned museum, or aquarium, whatever it is, quite yet. Peter is paraded down a series of grotesquely eroded corridors and off into hidden backrooms spaced out with fruit quantities of modern technology, including various unheard of Kramer-themed devices. 

Mark unlocks a storage closet by a gargantuan desk. One mop and shelves of miscellaneous items fill the interior. There is a chord that attaches to a light bulb which Mark clicks on. 

“Get in there.” 

“Excuse me?” Peter spits.

“Just for a few minutes. I need to make a call.”

“You said that. Can’t I just—block my ears?”

Mark smirks, eyeing the dead air around Peter’s head as if he’s reliving that twisted shit he pulled with the water cube. “What’s wrong Strahm, still a little claustrophobic?”

“Oh, fuck you.” 

“Get in.” 

“One day I’ll break your fucking neck,” Peter opines hatefully, stepping into the tiny space of the closet. Mark’s hand lingers on the door, not shutting it quite yet. 

“I’d like to see you try, sweet cheeks.” 

The door is slammed so hard, Peter’s teeth chatter. 

So, I wasn’t imagining the ‘sweet cheeks.’ 

Peter’s face burns with humiliation and a twinge of something else he does not want to even try putting a label on.

For just over sixty seconds, Peter shifts around, futilely trying to get comfortable. He has room enough to lie against the cement walls inside the closet, but no room to sit down in a way that doesn’t make his legs strain. It’s not long before he hears Mark’s muffled voice through the door. 

It’s too muted to make out words. 

Grumpily, Peter sighs. 

He was hoping Mark’s immature idea to shove him in a closet to prevent him from eavesdropping wouldn’t actually work, but it does. He can’t hear a damn thing. However—

Peter Strahm being the way that he is doesn’t let situations such as these lie. With the fluorescent bulb on, it’s uncomplicated to scan the contents of the closet. His surroundings are made up of unused cleaning supplies and paint buckets. There are a few glass jars full of metal scraps, the size of buttons, being stored for God knows why. Inspired, Peter grabs the cheapest looking one.

He dumps the metal all over the floor. 

Then, he lines the glass jar up to the flat door and presses his ear directly against the base of it. Miraculously, the sound waves funnel in clearly enough to catch a partial conversation. 

“I ain’t asking him to come back to the field,” Mark grumbles into the phone. “You know I’m not. I just have questions about some of the pictures he took. Can’t exactly ask John now.” 

There are several beats of silence. 

Though painful, Peter presses harder into the jar. 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Mark answers someone. “Yes, I’m being careful.” Another beat of silence then offense and irritation comes out plainly in Mark’s voice. “I heard you the last time, Lawrence.” 

Lawrence. 

Lawrence Gordon? 

Peter doesn’t know who else it could be. 

He feels his stomach drop to his toes from the wave of nausea that passes through him. One of the most celebrated men in the field of medicine, an oncologist for fuck suck, is another disciple of Jigsaw’s. Not to mention the two of them are discussing the elusive photographer who took the photos of Pamela Jenkins and the other future victims. Peter bites his cheeks to prevent himself from screaming. He can’t let Mark know he heard this. He needs to have an advantage. 

When he asked just how many accomplices there were, he’d been half-joking. He hadn’t considered a ring and hopes Jigsaw’s followers don’t expand into the double digits. 

“You’re one to talk,” Mark gripes over the phone. Peter almost forgets he hasn’t hung up yet and readjusts his position with the jar. “Listen, I have to go. Peter can’t deal with closed spaces.” 

Peter frowns significantly. 

He lowers the glass jar, setting it aside. 

What the fuck does Mark care what he can deal with? 

Neither of them are friends. Neither of them are catering to the other’s wants and needs. There’s absolutely no reason for Mark Hoffman to accommodate him other than to offer him essentials. 

It’s maddening, figuring out Mark’s angle. 

He makes sure he’s standing tall when Mark comes to retrieve him, bumbling unlocking the storage closet door to reveal a tamed smile. He’s obviously still simmering from the discussion over the phone. With Dr. Lawrence fucking Gordon. Peter bites his tongue very, very hard. 

“Gotta take you to the warehouse,” Mark explains. “I have business.”

“With who?” Peter needles. 

Mark’s smile shifts into a real one. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

On their way out of the facility, Peter begins to overflow with the intrinsic need to say a thousand things, mostly to taunt. He settles on the negging dig, 

“It’s taking up more of your time to babysit me than you expected.” It’s subtle, but Mark’s pace picks up as they reach the dirt road behind the enormous building. “What’s the point, Detective, if not to kill me when you finally get bored? We’ve done nothing but fuck around for the past few days. You’ve shown me nothing I haven’t seen before.” 

“You’re still healing from your concussion.”

“You’re doing a great job not stressing me out,” Peter responds dryly. 

“Thank you,” says Mark, just to be an asshole.

And it works. Peter is enraged. 

“I’m not going to be your fucking accessory.” 

Mark rounds along the length of his car, reaching for the door to the front seat. He glares at Peter over the hood of the vehicle and hisses, “You’ll be whatever the fuck I tell you to be.” 

Peter swings his side open and hops in, lurching over the console to make himself heard. Mark isn’t looking at him despite their proximity, keeping to himself as he revs the car. 

“You have no clue what to do with me.”

Faintly, Mark’s fingers stumble over his keys.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mark murmurs.

The car engine roars, rumbling beneath them. 

“You can pretend, but I don’t have to,” Peter continues, slamming his hand over Mark’s on the wheel so he’s forced to listen and can’t drive. “You didn’t have a plan when you saved me.” 

“We can discuss this later.”

“No, we can discuss this now.”

“Who has control here, Strahm?” Mark’s fatal expression falls on Peter, eyes abnormally wide, as if spotlighted under an absent interrogation lamp. The two-faced detective is trying to maintain a façade of command, yet Peter knows for a fact he just hit the nail on the head.

“I think you better ask yourself that question,” Peter tosses back, clenching his fingers over Mark’s hand. “Because it looks to me that your entire existence right now, revolves around me.” 

The hard look in Mark’s eyes softens. 

He glances down at where their hands are touching.

Peter’s eyes follow his, swallowing over how natural it feels to be touching him. He retracts his hand with sparse dignity, turning back to find Mark’s eyes boring into his own again. 

“Would you have rather I succeeded in killing you?” Mark whispers, curious. 

Peter should say yes. Days ago he’d have said yes, under these circumstances. If only to get under Mark’s skin. But, he doesn’t want to die. And Mark doesn’t make him want to die. 

Despite it all. 

“No,” he answers, truthfully. 

“At least there’s that.” Mark’s conclusion is vague, and Peter wants to ask him why they’ve steered away from the actual meat of the confrontation as the car takes off down the road. 

Urban blocks begin to fade into view on their drive. Peter realizes too much time has passed to return to the topic searing his mind. Mark Hoffman has no clue what he’s doing with Peter.

And Peter has no clue why that thrills him. 

“Not gonna drug me so you can throw me in a wheelbarrow this time?” Peter bites out, walking far enough away from Mark that he can’t be jumped by surprise. 

“I did that last time so you could get some sleep,” Mark says. 

Disbelieving, Peter huffs. 

He unlocks the door to Peter’s room.

Not only is the lasagna gone, but the tray it was on is also gone. A new TV has replaced the old, the debris of the broken television set also missing. The soft, foamy bed is the same.

All waiting for him.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t break this one,” Mark teases with little humor. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. I won’t leave you here overnight, though. I don’t wanna make a habit out of this.” 

“Out of what?” Peter drones. “Double-kidnapping me?” 

That makes Mark beam. 

He’s handed a bag of fast food that they stopped to pick up on the way over. It’s full of veggie burritos from Del Taco, another one of Peter’s guilty pleasures he never told Mark about. 

There’s an awkward pause where neither of them know what to say. Mark turns his back to him and shuts off the distance of their wristbands, swerving to face him when he’s finished. 

Peter has a short window to knock him out and run for his life, right out the front door of the warehouse. If he jumps him this instant, full-bodied, just goes for it, he could be free. 

“I’ll make us a big dinner later, alright?” Mark says, lazily sliding the door shut. A mockery of remorse filters through the Detective’s gaze as he eyes the small bag of food on the way out. 

A thump in Peter’s chest distracts him. 

Thump. Thump. 

He doesn’t respond, feet planted to the floor as the door is shut and locked. 

He had absolutely no excuse not to take that opportunity. 

Plopping down on the foamy bed, in front of the TV, Peter exhales and watches the blank screen as he unwraps his first burrito. He’s starving more than ever these days, and food only fills up a fraction of the emptiness. 

The thing is, he’s not unaware. 

He’s aware there’s a part of him that enjoys this—everything—the weird back-and-forth where they both feel contempt for each other but contempt so strong it stirs up a bunch of other, achingly unwanted feelings that neither Peter, nor Mark, can seem to shake. And yet. 

It’s simpler to pretend that part doesn’t exist. 

Simpler to pace the cell he’s trapped in and wait for Mark to return so he can stop waiting for Mark to return. Like this neurotic routine makes any sense. 

It’s just that it’s easier to pretend the part of him that enjoys being caged like a fucking dog doesn’t exist when he’s actively in the space of said provocative man who overwhelms all that he’s ever known himself to be. When he's alone to miss it.

The last time here, he’d taken apart the TV in an attempt to escape. Now, he’s not even inspired to kick the door until one of the hinges creaks. The old Peter would have. 

Or maybe he was just trying too hard. 

Oddly, he feels more aware of himself than he’s ever been. Maybe it’s the alone time he needed, world enough and time, that is. Being held captive isn’t so bad for a certified vacation, one which he never took and which his superiors would always need to force upon him like a shock blanket. 

Peter bites down to his sore nail beds as he brainstorms where Mark could be, as hours and hours pass without a sign. Lawrence Gordon couldn’t have needed to speak with him for this long.

Lawrence. 

It’s a name he can’t shake. He spends the remainder of his time alone trying to think back to those casefiles. Lawrence Gordon and Adam Stanheight’s game never interested him much, perhaps because the FBI had detailed testimonies from the Doctor explaining every contingency. Testimonies that may need to be investigated for perjury, if Peter ever escapes Mark’s reign. 

What does interest him, now, is Adam Stanheight’s disappearance. 

His family death-stamped the kid’s record officially, but the FBI never considered him dead. Just missing, like Detective Matthews had once been. How much was Lawrence involved with Adam’s disappearance or murder? Maybe he’s been working for Kramer as long as Mark has. 

God, he wishes he could ask Mark. 

But he needs to keep this knowledge close to his chest. 

He’s practically climbing the walls by the time the sun sets and Mark returns appearing haggard and pent up. Peter Strahm is at full alert, shutting the TV off the moment he hears the lock rattle. 

“Got here as fast as I could,” Mark informs in a low voice, but for once, Peter wasn’t holding him to any standard. He expected he might get left here overnight, all things considered. 

“What happened?” Peter asks, stepping close. 

Mark’s lips part, eyes darting around frenetically, then he seems to remember himself. He turns around and swears at the wristband. Peter could get the jump on him again, but he doesn’t. 

This time, the choice not to ambush Mark feels deliberate. 

The wristbands buzz to life, stopping after a second.

Peter feels relief streak sharply through his body.

The relief is the most terrifying thing he’s ever experienced, next to impending death (twice). It causes him to go mute as Mark rambles under his breath to himself, pawing for car keys. 

“Come on,” Mark tugs at his wrist, giving his room the barest of scopes. 

He’s hustled through the warehouse like they’re in a chase. 

“Are you going to keep me in the dark?” Peter exclaims once they’re outside. Crickets trill to project themselves, and nature’s ambience is suddenly too serene for the storm they both make. 

Mark’s reply is ominous.

“Not this time.” 

“Then what…” 

“In the car!”  

“Hoffman,” Peter states demandingly once Mark’s shaking hands have locked the key in the ignition. It takes a minute for Mark to register the name, glancing off-center at Peter from his seat behind the wheel. 

“Home,” Mark rectifies. The syllables take the shape of a question, but don’t quite get there. “Let’s wait till we get home.” 

There’s no reason not to wait. 

As far as Peter knows. 

Naturally, he wants to nag Mark Hoffman until he tells him just what the Hell is going on, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even give in to the urge to respond with, Your home isn’t my home. 

His own home never felt like his anyway. 

Peter was always as aimless as a nomad. 

That’s clearer than ever now. 

“I bought you clothes,” Mark tells him, the pitch of his voice so quiet Peter nearly doesn’t hear him. He sets out two cardboard boxes from a high-end boutique. “Should be your size.”

They are Peter’s size. 

More importantly, they’re all incredibly expensive. 

“Fucking hell,” Peter mumbles, rifling through the pronounced selection. There are two pairs of pajamas. One is a soft two-piece long-sleeved pajama, white with red pinstripes on both articles. The other is an emerald robe, paired with silky, obscenely tight, black briefs to wear underneath. 

Peter’s not sure he’s ever worn anything more than underwear and a t-shirt with holes to bed (other than Mark’s clothes, of course), not that he’d ever admit to it. 

“I wouldn’t have picked these,” he echoes his thoughts aloud.

Surprisingly, the off-handed insult seems to get Mark to lighten up.

“Wear them,” Mark debates. “They’ll look good.” 

“Uh.” 

Mark isn’t deterred. 

He trots over and points at the white and red set. “These look like they’ll be snug,” he notes. “Try these first.” 

Peter scratches his nose to hide his blush. He doesn’t need Mark to tell him what he does or doesn’t look good in. Nonetheless, he chooses the two-piece pajama to fold over his arm. 

To his own ears, he sounds pathetic when he replies, 

“Fine.” 

“I’ll make tea,” Mark utters, leaving Peter in the living room. 

Peter scurries off to the bathroom to shower and change. There’s something about that warehouse that makes him feel like he’s going to get infected with about eight different strains of viruses. 

“I got called into work,” Mark confesses while they’re both sharing the couch. Mark’s slumped back on the cushions, shirt unbuttoned and tie loose. His feet are propped up on the coffee table. 

Peter cradles his steaming mug closer to his lips. 

Adorned in his new pin-striped pajamas, which are stupidly comfortable ( fuck you, Mark ), he sits crisscrossed at the other end of the couch, using the arm as a back support. 

“Did they mention your nose?” 

“Erickson did.”

Anxiety ripples through Peter. 

It’s good if Erickson suspects him, not bad. 

He repeats it like a mantra in his head. 

“They were pressed about another matter,” Mark clarifies, pursing his lips at his cup of tea. “Weren’t too concerned about my reset nose when they have other shit to worry about.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” 

Mark sets his cup down. He tucks his knees up to the couch, stretching an arm around the back of a cushion. His posture is open, pliable. Whatever is on his mind is undoubtedly important.

“Agent Perez is alive.” 

Peter nearly spills his tea. 

Trembling, he sets it down next to Mark’s. 

With effort, he manages, “How long have you known?” 

His voice sounds like gravel, bitter and dark. 

“The other day. They kept it from me too.” Mark quickly gives him the rundown. “They wanted to work with me, claimed they wouldn’t keep any more information from me now that we’re cooperating. The kicker is, Perez just came up with the bright fucking idea to look at old tapes. Specifically, because I used a different scalpel at both the Baxter scene and the recent one.” 

Peter’s mind races.

“Your voice is gonna be on that tape, not mine.” 

“Hence my dilemma.” 

“What are you gonna do?” he voices absently. 

Mark’s head tilts sideways. 

“Suddenly you care how I’m gonna weasel my way out of getting caught?” 

Peter’s face twists and he covers his eyes with both hands, shaking his head. “I didn’t say that, Hoffman, I asked what the fuck you’re going to do. We’re tied to each other, remember?” 

Mark appears speechless.

It’s so quiet Peter could scream. 

Peter criticizes Mark for something mindlessly trivial under his breath, only half-aware of what comes out of his mouth. The clock ticks on, and their wristbands are unrelentingly active.

“I would have expected you to tell me that Perez being alive changes nothing,” Mark eventually admits. “Does it?” 

“Of course it doesn’t change anything,” Peter snaps back, with no chutzpah whatsoever. What would it change? It’s not like he despises Hoffman only for trying to kill Perez, and not the dozens of other deaths he’s complicit in. That would be borderline sociopathic of Peter. 

“You might try saying that with feeling.”

“Fuck you.” 

“Ask me not to kill her.” 

Peter tears his hands away from his eyes, going stiff as a board at the command. In increments, he turns to face Mark who has inched closer on the couch and is staring him down. His eyes rage with fire, for how hotly they burn into Peter’s skin. And, fuck, he’s offering Peter autonomy. 

Is this a choice Mark will genuinely heed? 

Mark analyzes Peter’s gawking expression.

“She’s getting closer,” Mark firmly reminds him, egging him on. “Every second I allow her to continue prattling on to Erickson is another second wasted. That said,” a smirk dances over his face, relishing his upperhand, “if you ask me nicely…” 

“Fuck you,” Peter repeats in a whisper. 

He feels conquered. 

 “Ask me nicely. And I’ll consider it.” 

“Consider…”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Sparing her.” 

Peter supposes the last day or so was the calm before the storm. He feels stuck between a rock and a hard place. Caught in a whirlwind of homicidal, suicidal, and plain old destructive urges. 

“Fuck,” he stutters, bounding off the couch to the nearest wall. He presses his hands flat against ugly beige wallpaper and tries not to let the desire to break every object around him take over. 

He won’t ask nicely. He can’t. 

Mark will kill Perez anyways. 

Peter’s being toyed with.

Hysterically, he lets out a tortured laugh. He’s not even the dog in this dynamic, he’s the fucking dog toy. 

Mark’s winning every aspect of the game, but namely, he’s breaking Peter. He’s weaponizing the perfect tool against him, snapping him like a twig under pressure. And it’s easy for the prick. 

“Alright, then.”

The couch squeaks as Mark gets up, probably bored with the proceedings. 

He’s gravitating out of the room. A full cup of tea is dumped down the drain in the kitchen sink, but before Mark can wander off to the bedroom, Peter treads the distance between them. 

Peter feels detached from his actions. 

Starting with one knee, he lowers himself to the floor, kneeling before Mark whose eyes are widening slightly at the submissive display. Peter’s tone is utterly subjugated when he begs,

“Don’t kill Lindsey. Please don’t.” 

Mark’s lips part, delivering an unreadable stare. 

Peter gulps down the taste of bile.

“Mark,” he grits out. “I’m asking you not to kill her. I—I’m asking nicely.” 

At his name, Mark’s throat pulses in a silent gasp. 

There has been an invisible chain linking them for days now, and occasionally an electric current that has nothing to do with the physical word passes through it and lights up every cell in Peter’s body. Right now, his nerves feel fried for the shockwaves that pummel him when Mark moves. 

Tentatively, he reaches out to touch Peter’s cheek. Peter flinches but he doesn’t pull away, painstakingly maintaining their eye contact. Mark’s gentle touch is gone as fast as it came. 

Visibly, Mark steels himself. 

Peter pants with exertion he shouldn’t feel. 

“Alright,” Mark declares. 

In a stately manner, he disappears into his room.

Peter wavers on his knees, swinging out a hand to grab the wall so he doesn’t topple over. He grinds his teeth together, riding wave after wave of numbing frustration before his legs feel solid enough to stand upon. Alright. It’s not a promising word, but Mark’s tone was. He was fully serious. 

He’s not going to kill her. 

It takes Peter an unreasonable amount of time to brush his teeth.

He’s procrastinating. 

The lights are off in the hall after he’s finished. 

When he emerges into the bedroom, Mark is asleep, back faced to the door. Peter shudders out a sigh and unbuttons his new shirt. He’ll sweat to death if he doesn’t, he reasons, and sets it aside. 

Climbing in, he faces the opposite direction.

Mark wakes briefly at the dip of the mattress, mumbling briefly as he fucks with their wristbands’ distance. Peter isn’t shocked as his brace buzzes and stops, signaling the distance has once again been lowered to a few feet. Mark readjusts himself and starts snoring again. 

Peter should be thinking about how to contact his partner. Now that he knows Perez is alive, He should also feel alleviated. She’ll know he’s not Jigsaw, and yet, that fact rankles deeply at him. 

Instead of theorizing and brainstorming, Peter drifts to sleep at the recognizable pattern of Mark’s snores. Rain patters against the windows, adding to a surreal sense of comfort. 

When he stirs awake, it’s still dark.

And he’s still tired.

He holds a groan captive behind gritted teeth, trying to eke out what woke him, when he realizes Mark’s soft snoring is absent. Head lighting off his pillow, he sighs when he sees the breathing lump of blankets beside him. They’re still in Mark’s apartment, Peter is merely restless again. 

Then he hears Mark’s voice. 

It’s muted, nearly unintelligible. 

Peter rolls over fully, surprised to find Mark is facing him now, eyes screwed shut like he’s stuck in a bad dream. “Angie,” Peter thinks he hears, noticing Mark’s fingers curling into his pillow. 

Angie. 

Angelina 

He remembers the articles all too well. 

“Angie, no.” Mark sounds so vulnerable that Peter’s initial idea to wake him up falls by the wayside. He felt such animosity for him when he was forced to beg for Perez’ life, and yet, all he wants to do now is find a non-intrusive way to help him stop mumbling his dead sister’s name. 

Senselessly, Peter touches Mark’s cheek. 

He brushes a thumb in tender strokes across the chiseled bone there, pausing only when Mark’s breath hitches dramatically, resuming when it settles. Mark’s expression twists anew.

However, he looks satisfied. 

Mark is leaning into the touch.

Peter swallows and continues, rubbing knuckles in a gentle soothing motion across his jawline, mesmerized by how the rigid detective is notably relaxing under the ministrations. He wants to hush the minute whimpers rising out of Mark’s throat, but he also doesn’t want to wake him up.

Doesn’t want to have to stop touching him. 

He feels like he’s getting away with something right now, but not in the way he was before. Trepidation itches under his skin because every impulse to escape has been replaced with the desire to touch Mark, feel along the details of his face, map him out for personal reference. 

Peter wonders how thin the line between contempt and desire is. 

If he analyzes that line, his faculties will be sent adrift. 

Inching closer, Peter observes the change in Mark’s unconscious form. 

Moments ago, he’d been writhing in distress. Now, he looks resolutely content. His cheek nuzzles into Peter’s palm, his lips suddenly caressing a sensitive spot in the middle of it. 

Peter tugs his hand away.

It’s a mistake, because Mark wakes up. 

Mark ogles him with eyes that look like black lakes in the moonlight. Peter resists the suffocating need to continue. Every bone in his body aches for it, yet he resists. 

Their faces are only inches apart, their breaths mingling. 

Whenever Mark watches him, his eyes follow every twitch and furrow in Peter’s face, as if he’s memorizing him. No one has ever looked at Peter like that, not in his whole life. 

“Why am I alive?” Peter asks him. 

Why has Mark not done away with him? 

They must be in an alternate timeline, one that branched away from the legitimate narrative where Mark should have smirked through his gruesome demise, crushed by fortified iron walls. 

Why. 

“Touch me again,” Mark murmurs. 

Raucously, Peter’s heart pounds. 

He repositions his hand without a second thought, feels his breathing pick up as Mark butts his head into the caress. It doesn’t take long for the detective’s not-so-innocent nuzzling to escalate; Mark’s lips purse against his palm, tickling kisses up the length of his hand, then his fingers. 

Peter gasps when Mark slips the tip of his middle finger between his lips, wetly kissing it. 

Mark gazes at him from behind thick lashes, waiting for Peter to protest, then he deliberately sucks down the length of Peter’s finger. Sucking upward in a drowsy, sloppy kind of way. 

“Oh,” Peter voices, arm going limp. 

Gaining velocity, Mark lathers damp kisses down the incline of his wrist, trailing over the fine hairs of Peter’s forearm, growing incriminatingly closer to his upper chest, and his face. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have removed his shirt. 

Mark’s hot breath puffs over his skin, racketing icy shivers through every muscle, making them go slack and useless. Peter gravitates towards him, helplessly, overcome by his proximity. 

“I want you,” Mark whispers, voice husky. 

A kiss is displaced to his shoulder. 

Peter short circuits—the wet lips by his collarbone are not helping him concentrate, focus on what his goal should be. Mark scrapes his teeth against the tender skin on his neck. 

“I won’t do it if you don’t want it.” 

Mark sniffs at his neck, nosing timidly at his chin. 

“Peter,” he voices softly. 

Peter doesn’t answer him, how can he? He’s not going to say out loud that he wants a serial killer. That he strongly wants to be swept away by whatever unbeatable force is consuming him. 

He wants. 

Peter drags spit-slick fingers down Mark’s neck, cinching his furry nape between them, and tugs him forward to resume the kiss rudely interrupted by a sleeping agent the last time. 

It’s returned with fervor. 

“Shit,” Mark exhales, crawling closer.

Now that the floodgates have burst, Mark is everywhere. 

He shoves Peter onto his back so he can push a knee between his thighs and constrict around him like he’s trying to devour Peter from the head down. An ouroboros, Peter cynically refers to. 

He’s being heavily groped, at a fierce pace he can hardly keep up with but trying his damndest to, palming Mark’s breast to feel up the soft rise of each of his pecs. Able to cup their shape, fondle the meat of them in his hands— finally —has his cock straining against his new trousers. 

Peter distracts himself with Mark’s lips. 

Which really isn’t a better distraction at all. 

Mark peels away from where he’d been nibbling his ear lobe when he notices Peter’s angling for a kiss, and his jaw practically unhinges to devour his mouth in response. 

The snake comparisons weren’t altogether wrong. 

Peter tries not to linger on that thought. 

Tries not to imagine how much he’d enjoy being eaten alive. It’s a sick thought, but not as sick as what they’re doing. What he’s submitting to, and even worse, full-bodied shaking in desire for it. 

He moans softly at the knee settling into the groove of his groin, gyrating in an effort to get him hard. Mark doesn’t need to overexert himself because Peter’s already half-there. He’s starting to think being in Mark’s presence at all can get a rise out of him, in regards to anger and arousal. 

“Baby,” Mark rasps, sucking hickies down his neck. 

Peter sighs, his voice weak and entranced.

“Don’t call me that.” 

Mark rocks against him, slightly off-center, but with intent filled with enough passion to make them both grasp tighter at each other, paw for more. Not moving fast enough to erode his doubts, Peter starts scraping at the hem of Mark’s boxer shorts, fingers dipping beneath the waistband. 

There’s no turning back now. 

If there was a chance, it’s been wiped away. 

Peter’s head is filled with obscene things, and no exit doors. For now, he likes it that way. 

“You first,” Mark growls quietly, spinning Peter around so fast that the agent lands awkwardly face-first into his pillow. He grumbles out a few choice words, yelping in surprise when Mark rips his pants off in one swift move that leaves them tangled around his ankles. “God, your ass.” 

Peter’s face feels like scorching, anxiety and desire roiling around in his stomach to make him mildly nauseous. He hasn’t had sex in years, maybe a decade, so he’s deluged with ignominy. 

His cheeks are pushed apart by Mark’s large fingers. 

He gasps when his dry entrance is rubbed with both thumbs, then—Peter maybe should have considered jumping into bed with a psychopath—Mark is swooping down to lick hard and fast over his hole to get it slick, framing the tight opening with both hands to really get in there. 

It feels so good Peter could scream.

Instead, he turbulently pounds a fist against the mattress as he bites through the sensitive skin of his tongue to prevent himself from shouting out every expletive under the sun. 

The taste of blood fills his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Mark’s low voice vibrates against him, thick with desire, smacking a palm harshly against one of Peter’s ass cheeks before vigorously resuming the task of eating him out. 

Peter muffles a whine into his pillow, clutching it feverishly to his face as he ignores the way his own hips hitch up to meet each separate aching swipe of Mark’s tongue. The pace is what has him trembling out of his skin. They went from zero to sixty in seconds and now he’s lit up like a livewire. He moans as Mark circles his thumb around the rim, continuing to tongue fuck him. 

“Fuck, you’re loving this,” Mark observes, trailing wet kisses around his cheeks, leading upward to his curved lower spine before biting down to force out a whimper. “Listen to you.” 

That’s just what Peter needs, the serial killer he’s screwing to call attention to his deplorable vocalizations. He groans, tossing one of his legs backwards to kick Mark in the ribs. 

“Fuck you, fuck you, fucking piece of shit.” 

“Since you’re nice and loose for me,” Mark muses, dipping his thumb into his twitching hole, making Peter bury his head further into the pillow, “how about we do it the other way around?” 

Oh God. Mark wants to fuck him.

“Oh God,” he echoes, because he wants it. 

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll be nice.” Peter tenses as the bed dips, listening to the rummaging of one of the drawers beside the bed. Mark returns and spanks him gently on the ass with a lube bottle. 

“That is, if you think you can handle me.” 

Peter’s response tumbles out of him in a manic rush.

“Get on with it!” 

“I’d make you beg, but you’ve already done that once today,” Mark announces thoughtfully, clicking the cap of the lube open. “Wouldn’t want to wear you out.”

“You fucking bastard.”

Peter throws a piercing glare over his shoulder, losing all his bravado when he sees how swollen Mark’s lips appear to be, glistening under the rays of the moon filtering through the windows. 

His traitorous cock throbs. 

“I always thought you had such a dirty mouth for such a pretty face,” Mark murmurs, reaching around him to circle slick fingers around Peter’s erection, dangling in need between his legs. Peter’s eyes pull shut and he groans in agony even though it’s the best relief he’s felt in years. 

“Fuck,” Peter whimpers. “Ah.” 

Mark pumps him a few times and releases him. 

Peter jerks, grappling awkwardly at the sheets. He feels like he’s been left for dead, on the precipice. One person should not be effecting him this much; sex in general shouldn’t be. 

Lubed fingers spread his tingling hole, rubbing it as if to soothe. Mark’s middle finger slides deftly inside, feeling around to coat his insides. For a brute, his touch is surprisingly dexterous. 

Perhaps it’s the years he’s spent engineering. 

Peter gasps, images of Mark fixing gear ratios and Mark expertly fingering him open overlapping in his mind. “No, no,” he mutters into his wristband, the cold metal achingly soothing to teeth on. 

Mark’s hand stops moving. 

He’s knuckle deep inside him.

“Are you sure?” 

It takes a minute for Peter to wrap his mind around what Mark is asking him, then he realizes Mark believes he was just saying ‘no’ to what is currently unraveling. God, no. 

Stopping is not an option right now. Peter can’t stop.

He needs this. 

“Start with two,” Peter rectifies swiftly. “I can take it.” 

He’s not sure he can. But he wants it to hurt. 

Mark’s shifts like he’s about to pull away, then he’s grinding the knuckle of his index finger up against his throbbing entrance, alongside his middle, biding his time until Peter fractionally loosens. His index finger unbends, and the tip prods inside, two fingers sinking deep into Peter. 

It burns brightly.

Peter’s on cloud nine. 

“My coworkers were right,” Mark muses thoughtfully, bending over him without hindering the pace of his fingers, fucking him gently with just the two. He kisses the top of Peter’s spine. “You really do need to get laid more often. Agent Kerry used to call you a disgruntled eunuch.” 

“Don’t fucking— uhn. ” A moan creeps out of Peter’s throat as his prostate is grazed by Mark’s broad fingertips. He regains enough sense to spit the rest out after the hand slows, “Don’t talk about people you’ve killed while you’re inside me, you fucking freak of nature. Fuck.” 

“Amanda killed Allison.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Peter sobs into his wrist, biting down on the bone so he doesn’t do something rash like reach backwards to snap Mark’s neck while he’s fingering him. 

“Act high and mighty all you like, Peter,” Mark purrs, licking teasingly up the line of his neck. Peter is glad he’s on his front so Mark’s mouth can’t reach the wound in his trachea. God knows what sounds he could inspire from him. “Now I know what really makes you shake.” 

A third finger pries him apart too soon.

Peter groans, genuinely in pain this time. 

“Fuck, you’re tight.” 

“No shit,” Peter grits out.

Mark emits a noise similar to a growl, abnormally more primal, diving back down to tongue him where three of his fingers are buried inside Peter. 

Pleasure snaps in place of pain, tearing a hoarse moan out of Peter’s throat. Each thrust burns, and is then balmed with a warm swipe of Mark’s tongue. It disintegrates every remaining protest in him. 

It takes him aback when he feels the telltale pang of euphoria in his chest, warning him that he’s on the verge of coming. A part of him freaks out, as Mark continues mouthing and probing him, prepping him for what’s ahead. He does not want to come apart like a fucking virgin on the guy’s tongue. He’s not that desperate, is he? At that exact moment, Mark’s tongue swings down to lap from the dangling tip of his cock, up his shaft, swirling twice around his balls, before rounding back to his gaping hole to plant a kiss on it. With a grunt, Mark finger fucks him in a frenzy. 

Yeah, no, Peter is toast. 

Heart bleating against his ribs, lips part, mouthing wordlessly as he attempts to figure out with his minimized mental capacity what he can say to warn Mark that he’s close, so, so fucking close. 

Mark’s fingers, those not thrusting rhythmically inside him, ghost down from where they were resting on the rise of his ass and abruptly grip him around the base of his sack, tight as a vice. 

“Huh?” Peter exclaims, feeling every rising pulse of pleasure stall inside his gut. “What the fu—what do you think you’re doing?!” 

“If you think I’m gonna let you come without my dick inside you, you’ve got another thing coming,” Mark deadpans. “Now shut up and take it.” 

Peter’s voice is high pitched, offended and turned on and so fucking pissed, when he remarks, “You’re such a fucking asshole, fuck you, god—fuck, fuck, there!” 

Mark’s got all three of his fingers right on top of where he needs them the most, and he’s not even fucking them into Peter anymore. He’s grinding them down over and over until he leaks. 

The other hand squeezes a tighter ring around Peter’s balls. 

He gasps, blinded by sensation. 

“Turn over,” Mark suddenly demands.

He removes his fingers from Peter.

Peter doesn’t know if he wants to turn over; he assumed he would be taken from behind and wouldn’t have to reconcile who he was doing this with, not really, not how it counts. 

A hand strokes down the expanse of his back.

“Please.” Mark’s voice is a light trill. “Peter.” 

What the fuck. How is he doing this? 

Wincingly, Peter turns over, avoiding eye contact. He’s sore, but that’s mostly because of his age. He’s too old to be jumping right into rough sex after a near decade of unintentional celibacy. 

Mark tips Peter’s chin up with his knuckles. 

Situationally, Peter meets his eyes. 

“Tell me you’re not doing this because you think you have to,” Mark whispers, lowering himself closer, resting his elbows on either side of Peter’s head. “Tell me you want this too.” 

Vulnerability twines through Mark’s tone. 

He needs to hear it. 

Quivering, Peter licks his lips and decides on giving Mark the most he can offer as of now. He can’t say it, but he doesn’t want to let Mark think this is anything other than a mutually coveted affair. Peter isn’t deserving of being allowed to dismiss how much he wants this, not anymore. 

He takes one of Mark’s hands and directs it to the spot on his chest, right over his heart. He’s fearful it won’t have the desired effect until he sees Mark’s eyes bulge, feeling his hand clench. 

Peter knows its beating uncontrollably. 

He can feel it in his chest practically bruising his ribcage. 

“Okay,” Mark murmurs, as if convincing himself of something. “Okay.”

Hesitant, he draws his hand away only so he can cup Peter’s cheek, holding him still. He plants a delicate kiss atop Peter’s lips. Softer than it should be considering the route they’ve taken. 

He tastes like musk, blood, and Earth. 

Peter’s legs move on their own, framing Mark’s hips as he’s kissed deeper, more passionately. They’re inching into the dangerous territory of making love, instead of fucking like animals. 

Bad. This is bad. 

Peter’s too far gone to stop it.

“You’re the worst mistake of my life,” Mark admits breathlessly, in between kisses. Peter doesn’t pause in meeting him beat for beat, tongue flicking up against Mark’s exposed teeth. 

“Prove it,” Peter snarls. 

Silver glints in Mark’s eyes, like a tempered blade. 

Lifting Peter up under his knees, Mark bends him almost in half, with his ass raised in the air. Gravity lines them up and let's Mark bottom out with little resistance, in one surefire thrust. 

Throwing his head back, Peter yells. 

Mark frantically readjusts his grip right where his femurs meet his knees and starts pounding him into the mattress. The whole bed and its frame starts to creak and moan from the intensity. 

More so than either of them. 

That’s saying a lot since noises are punched out of Peter with every thrust. Mark’s mirroring them, grunting more like a bodybuilder at a gym than someone sharing intimate relations. 

It’s hard to see past the initial tearing pain. 

But it fades quickly .

Then Peter finds himself scraping nails at Mark’s back and begging before he can think to zip his mouth shut. “Fuck me, fuck God, yes,” Peter breathes, eyes screwing shut as pleasure builds. 

“Keep talking,” Mark pleads, snarling above him. 

“No—ugh.” He tries to say ‘fuck’ and instead gets the whole syllable fucked into dust, with Mark thrusting like a literal machine. There’s no break for even a single breath. 

“You’re a fucking monster,” Peter hisses. “I hate you.” 

Mark grins, their lips bumping up against each other in the frenzy. Both of them are gritting their teeth too hard to resume their biting, violent kisses. That doesn’t stop Mark from pressing his lips fiercely against Peter’s, mouth spreading wildly as he responds in rough confidence,

“You’re gagging for it.” 

Peter forces himself to look, jaw dropping slightly at the sight of his cock bouncing back and forth between their bellies. He’s never been taken hard enough to feel so infinitely small. 

“Oh,” he utters. “Shit.” 

Mark bends his knees lower, the ache from Peter’s inflexibility making itself known. He doesn’t say a word to stop it because it has Mark’s girthy cock digging even deeper into him. 

It’s surreal to watch their hips meet. 

Peter moans, grinding his hips into Mark’s purposefully. 

“That’s so fucking hot,” Mark rasps.

He lurches down to take Peter’s tracheotomy scar between his teeth and sucks. Pricking sensations surge there anew, and Peter means to swat Mark away when he drops both hands into his hair and tugs, but rather discovers himself pushing him closer, silently asking for more. 

“Mark,” gasps Peter, “Please.”

There goes the last of my dignity.

Calling out his name is the only thing that makes Mark’s pace stutter. The cock inside Peter slows as Mark relishes what he just heard. Peter’s face twists sadly, and he shakes his head. 

He feels tears brim in his eyes. 

Mark’s hips come to a complete halt. 

If he lets even one of the crushing doubts swimming in his brain surface to the forefront of his mind, he’ll be the shell of a person he once knew. Not yet. 

“Don’t you fucking dare stop,” Peter grinds out, swinging his legs out of the cradle of Mark’s hands to wrap them around his waist. For seasoning; “You pathetic shitbag motherfucker.” 

A smile breaks over Mark’s face. 

It’s genuine, for a second. Then it curls deviously. 

“Wasn’t planning to, sweet cheeks,” Mark murmurs, rocking slowly. Peter’s eyes snap open, saucer wide, at that ridiculous fucking name he can’t seem to stop calling him. 

“Call me baby, or sweet cheeks, whatever the fuck, one more fucking time—” 

Mark kisses him. 

Peter melts. 

It breaks with the headboard cracking loudly against the wall, and a moan splitting between their lips. Peter isn’t sure which one of them made it, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. 

The pause seemed to build up the next stretch, because every sensation Peter suddenly feels ten times more than before. Every thrust stings better, every stolen kiss serves to send him spiraling. 

Mark starts getting chatty when he’s close, but differently than he was before. 

He spits out a fiery spiel of curses and short, sultry phrases that have Peter tingling hotly at the base of his spine for how obscene they are. He can’t even repeat them in his mind. 

It comes to a head when Mark’s body rubs up against his own, repeatedly. He’s been lowering himself slowly as his pleasure has started to soar to new heights, too exhausted to hold himself up. 

That means Peter’s erection is stimulated by his muscled abdomen, and his chest is caressed by Mark’s plush pecs (tits, they’re fucking tits, Peter cannot keep pretending they’re not sexy, beautiful boobs, fucking hell) which are unfortunately Peter’s absolute and ultimate weakness. 

“Fuck,” Peter inhales. “Fuck, fuck.” 

He comes without a hand on his cock.

He didn’t even know that was possible. 

It’s certainly not the first time he’s ever been fucked, but it’s the first time anyone’s ever fucked him so good he spills all over his stomach and has the equivalent experience of seeing stars. 

Peter moans in a way he will definitely regret later. 

Mark’s orgasm quickly follows as Peter clenches around him. Peter startles out of his post-coital haze when a fist punches down aggressively next to his head, nearly hitting him and making the mattress groan. Mark muffles several expletives into Peter’s skin, biting a nipple to top it off. 

A sharp noise is torn from Peter’s throat. 

He swats Mark away for real this time. 

Mark isn’t so easily deterred, humming as Peter pinches and scratches in revulsion at his face and anywhere else he can reach. Mark’s peppering sopping kisses all over Peter’s mottled neck. 

Time slows to a crawl.

“Should have asked if you wanted to use a condom,” Mark says belatedly, single-handedly shooting an arrow through what should be post-orgasm basking. It’s a kill shot. “Sorry.” 

“I think,” Peter answers drowsily, “That’s the least of our problems.” 

Mark doesn’t seem to be planning on getting up. 

His softening cock shifts inside Peter, making him grunt

Peter pushes insistently at him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mark grumbles in response, slipping out and leaving a trail of come behind. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

Peter’s motor function starts to return with his brain power. It’s a terrible combination; it has him wanting to run for his life. It has him wanting to take back everything that just happened. 

He can’t take it back.

There’s proof of it leaking out of his ass.

Had it been just sex, maybe. But it wasn’t. 

There was intimacy, and knowingness. 

Complicity. 

“You gonna freak out on me, Strahm?” Mark questions, the wording meant to be taken as a mild jab, but even Peter can hear the threads of worry weaving into his tone. 

“Make the distance parameters higher,” Peter requests evenly. When Mark furrows his brow at him, half-way through pulling up his boxers, Peter elaborates, “I want to take a shower.”

Mark huffs, turning his back to him.

As always, the wristband buzzes. 

“Don’t take long,” asserts Mark, refusing to face him. 

It’s not the first time today Peter’s felt like a Barbie doll. His legs are stiff and unbending as he hastily moves off the bed, trying to plant his feet on the floor so he can retain a semblance of balance. He pants, taking a moment so he doesn’t hyperventilate, then sets off to the bathroom. 

Mark’s eyes are on his back as he leaves.

He knows they are. 

Peter goes through the motions, unaware of himself as he does. He turns the dial in the shower to lukewarm and starts to feel more like himself when he steps under the pressuring spray. 

He gasps for air under the showerhead.

Stale water seeps into his mouth.

Because Peter’s life is a certified mess, his thoughts naturally drift to what Curtis Amspoker once said to him. Just that last bit, the excerpt from a poem nobody remembers. 

His fingers fold into a fist, white-knuckled.

Shouting, Peter punches the wall. He keeps punching until he sees red on the white tile, plaster and fragile stone crumbling under the force of his fist. He doesn’t hear the knock at the door.

Chapter Text

Peter doesn’t listen to the knocks at the bathroom door, nor does he respond. He showers, with shaking hands and a loofa laid out just for him. Blood from his knuckles whisps down the drain in thin, brown streaks. He presses a clenched fist to his lips, tasting iron which makes him alert. 

He shuts the water off. 

The dent in the wall drops its last shard of debris. 

When he reenters the bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, Mark readjusts the parameters of their invisible tether. The wristband on him buzzes, but Peter’s learned well to ignore it now. 

He starts to dress, not unaware of Mark’s eyes on his naked form. 

If anything came from the sex, at least he doesn’t feel shame about their lack of privacy anymore. He’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing on the spectrum of his broken moral code. 

He knows several broad certainties. 

Mark Hoffman is a bad man.

Peter Strahm is here against his will. 

When Mark Hoffman’s eyes are on Peter Strahm, Strahm enjoys it. 

“Why do you do it?” Peter inquires, voice evenly icy, sliding pajama pants up and over his hips. He faces Mark when he’s granted no response, and finds Mark confused as to the question. Elaborating, he adds, “Why do all of this when he’s dead and gone. Why carry on his legacy?” 

Perhaps it’s the way he asks it; glaringly lacking the volition to do anything with the information he receives, with a defeated tone in his voice that Mark potentially finds capable of pitying.  

In the end, he’s not sure why Mark suddenly starts telling him the truth, all the obfuscations that came before this moment falling by the wayside. An unfiltered purity to the honesty now gifted. 

“At first it was blackmail,” Mark begins, settling his weight on an elbow as he watches Peter get dressed the rest of the way. “Then it was loyalty, now it’s commitment. Soon, it’ll be nothing.” 

Nothing, huh? 

Absently, Peter hums. 

He’s finished dressing. There are no more excuses to delay it. 

“Come back to bed.” 

Mark lifts the sheets off of Peter’s side. They’re wrinkled, from sweat and intimacy. Peter’s hair is too wet to comfortably lay down flat, and his towel lies far from him across the floorboards. 

“We shouldn’t have had sex,” Peter states bluntly. 

He’s staring diligently at a sweat stain. 

“It’s a bit late for that, Peter.”

“Since when are we on a fucking first name basis?” Peter sidles up to the edge of the bed, knees bumping against the plush mattress. He knows for a fact he’s radiating displaced acidity. 

“Ever since my dick had you moaning mine.”

“Fuck you.” 

“I’m considering it,” Mark murmurs, smiling when he sees the blush that rises on Peter’s face. It doesn’t change Peter’s mind, however, as much as he does want him in every carnal multitude. 

“I’d like to sleep,” Peter grits out.

“Then sleep.”

Mark rolls over on his other side, back facing Peter again. That makes him sigh and finally give into the desire to crawl underneath the sheets and plaster his wet body to the mattress. He feels as if he could conk out in seconds, though doesn’t. Something keeps him wide awake and dwelling. 

“I don’t think you’ll stop,” Peter declares with tapering animosity. “I think whatever final game you’re planning, it won’t be the last. You’ll never stop, not with who or what you are.” 

“That’s an interesting theory, Agent Strahm.”

“You don’t need to sound so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not pleased with myself,” Mark argues mildly. “I’m amused by your naivety.” 

Peter resists the urge to say ‘fuck you’ again. He can’t trust the response—physical or otherwise—he’ll earn from that insult, not after his and Mark’s inescapable tryst.

They lie in silence for a long time. So long, in fact, that Peter is almost positive Mark is asleep save for the absence of his snores. There is heavy breathing beside him, and he has a hunch sex might just throw off the guy’s snoring pattern for some reason. He doesn’t want him awake. 

Especially not after he impulsively whispers,

“Where will you go? When it’s all over.” 

A few ticks of the clock pass. 

Relief almost has time to settle into Peter’s bones. 

Mark’s breath hitches, but when he responds, it’s not to answer a question. Not directly, anyway. Peter has no clue what to make of it, despite what he thought he knew about the detective. 

“Angelina and I,” Mark murmurs, lingering on her name, “when we were in foster care, we used to share this dream. We lived together at a lighthouse, away from the people and the cities, what have you. Didn’t have to do anything but make sure the light was working. We’d catch crabs for lunch, fish for dinner. And we’d take long walks on the beachside, wondering about the existence of mermaids. Or, she did. I thought more often about sailing a ship. Seeing where it’d take me.” 

When Peter says nothing, Mark adds,

“It was ridiculous kid shit. Stuff you’d make up to forget you were switching parents the next weekend.” Mark pauses, clicking his tongue at a memory. “I’ve never actually been to the sea.” 

Never? 

How is that even possible? 

Disregarding every instinct in him that demands to ask further questions about these childhood ruminations, Peter instead points out, “It’s a pipe dream. Owning a lighthouse is the worst safe house imaginable. You’d have to deal with coastguards, permits. You’d never get away with it.” 

Mark scoffs, humored rather than irritated. 

“Not to mention the smell,” he grants Peter. 

Peter blinks. 

“Yeah,” he agrees curtly, though he can’t quite work up the capability to say it in a way that smarts Mark’s nerves. “Yeah, that too.” 

More ticks of the clock pass them by. Peter is beginning to believe he’ll have another sleepless night at this killer’s side. Mark speaks up again, with more vulnerability yet less accessibility. 

“Do you like the sea, Strahm?”

“Is this your freakish version of pillow talk?” 

“I asked you a question.” 

“I don’t have an opinion one way or the other.”

“Yes, you do.”

“It’s fine. I have extended family that live seaside.” Peter doesn’t know why he’s admitting that to one of the most dangerous men he’s possibly ever met. “Haven’t been out there in years.”

“We could go,” says Mark. “If you want.” 

Peter doesn’t know if he means to visit, to live, or to die. He’s not sure it matters either way. He doubts he’ll live long enough to make it there with him, and if he does, he might as well be dead.

“No. We can’t,” he answers quietly. 

It’s the last time they speak before the night takes them both into its heavy, languid arms. Peter gets much needed rest and later, Mark wakes him up without startling him. Truly, it’s a miracle. 

“Ordered something for you,” Mark informs the next morning. 

He rises suddenly from the breakfast nook, leaving Peter to stew in confusion until his wristband buzzes erratically. Grumbling (he doesn’t like to be taken from his coffee), he shadows him. 

Peter doesn’t know when a shipping package shuffled its way into Hoffman’s living room without him noticing but the big cardboard box sits smack dab in front of the TV. Mark is bending over it, ripping the packing tape to shreds without a box cutter in sight. He’s worse than a rabid dog. Mark doesn’t beat around the bush, soon revealing a long trail of silver chain link. 

Two shackles are attached at either end. 

Peter’s mouth goes dry. 

“Didn’t want to force you out to the warehouse anymore. Thought I could keep you here without any issue so long as I could make sure you don’t kick the door down. You’ll have limited mobility but I’ve made sure it’ll be long enough for you to reach the couch and the kitchen.” 

He nods down the hall. 

And the bathroom, is left unspoken. 

Peter is shallowly grateful those three places are all close to each other. 

“Okay,” Peter deadpans. “Ankle or wrist?”

Mark glares at him like he wants Peter to resist. 

Tough luck. 

“Are you leaving now?” he asks, in lieu of resisting.

“Uh huh. Gotta come up with a new way to get Perez and her posse off my trail,” Mark explains, unlocking each of the shackles, both of which appear more like they will fit an ankle than a wrist. 

Good. He doesn’t need another wrist cuff anyway. 

He’s stock piled with shackles. 

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” Peter mumbles, kicking a slipper off to offer up his socked foot. Mark glares harder, snapping the silver band around his ankle. It automatically locks. Peter returns the glare, albeit more muted, as Mark attaches the other end to a bolted vent. 

“Are you so sure I’ll keep her alive?”

There’s something in Mark’s voice, a sliver of something so humiliatingly predictable that Peter is forced to hold back a laugh. He fiddles with his pants drawstring, working his jaw in circles.

“I think I make you weak,” Peter spits. 

Mark stops in his tracks, hand half in his pocket as he slides the key to Peter’s freedom out of view. There’s only one unsteady breath before Mark snorts and keeps moving, grabbing his coat. 

The sun hasn’t even greeted the sky yet. 

“Stay outta trouble, Peter.”

The front door is slammed. 

Holding his ground is one thing, as is retaining confidence regardless of his helpless situation. Then there’s reality, and personality types. And the kind of man Mark Hoffman actually is. 

He has to consider that Mark won’t keep his word. 

Even when Peter has a gut feeling he will. 

Even when it’s impossible to think otherwise. 

Now that he knows Perez is alive, he fears so many things and also nothing. The game has changed, whether he wants to admit it or not. There’s been a shift in their dynamic. None of what they are used to align, and now nearly every part of them is aligned. All it took was a little push. 

A little promise, a little kiss. 

But none of what they shared last night was—is—little. 

It just helps Peter if he actively works to minimize it. 

Nearly the whole day passes without a mere sign of Mark. No matter how many channels on the TV he flits through out of morbid curiosity. It takes three toasts with jam, four bathroom trips, a shower, and a brief nap on the couch for Peter to conclude that Mark has initiated a new game.

He's used the day to kidnap the necessary participants. 

And it's off to the races.

So much for nudging Perez off his trail. If Peter knows his partner, he knows very well that she won't slack when she suspects someone. She'll have people tailing Mark if she even so much as catches a sniff of suspicious activity. Christ, he’s surprised no one’s shown up here at all yet. 

And here Mark is undergoing one of Jigsaw's most elaborate and daring games. Fucking hell.

Just for good measure, Peter makes another slice of toast with blueberry jam. One person shouldn’t have so much wheat in a single day, however, it’s that or leftover Chinese food.

It might come across as stress eating but he thinks, at this point, he's allowed. 

At three in the morning, Mark comes stumbling into his apartment. This wakes Peter up from his extremely light and restless slumber. Rolling off the couch, he swats around for one of the lamps.

When he flicks on the light, he gasps.

The whole right side of Mark's face is a bloody mess, though he notices a few perfunctory stitches holding the cheek together. Mark grunts in the barest of acknowledgement and then zooms by him, off the bathroom where Peter hears rattling. He swiftly clambers after him.

"What the hell happened?!" Peter asks, hating how much his voice shakes.

"Jill fucking Tuck," Mark growls, the enunciation garbled as the detective tries his hardest not to open his mouth more than an inch. He needs to stay quiet to heal properly but Peter doesn’t think that’s going to happen. To emphasize Peter’s concern, Mark adds a brutal, “That fucking cunt.” 

While Peter paged Jill Tuck as a liar, he didn’t page her as an overtly violent individual. Suspect or not. He supposes being married to someone like John Kramer might prove otherwise.

"What?"

“Remember Amanda Young’s original case?”

“Of course. Something about a bear trap, yeah, I remember.” Peter pauses after he says it aloud. He stares more at Hoffman’s unique injuries and says, “Jill Tuck…put you in that contraption?”

“Yes.”

“Why?!”

Abruptly, Hoffman looks livid.

“Because John Kramer fucking told her too.” 

The betrayed tone in Mark’s voice stuns Peter. 

Did Mark really think John cared about him? 

“And she got away?”

“I was a bit preoccupied trying to make sure my jaw didn’t explode,” Mark retorts. “Yeah, she got away. But she can’t run far. Jill knows so long as I’m alive, I’ll be hunting her to Hell and back.” 

“That’s dangerous for you too,” Peter murmurs with a smidge of disdain for Mark’s inherent, foolish, and brash commitment to this choice. “She’ll probably go to the authorities first.”

“And ask for immunity in return for me, I know, I wasn’t born yesterday. Doesn’t matter. Feds already know it’s me. I fled a sting, set up by Perez and Erickson, and I didn’t do it quietly.”

Heart pounding out of his chest, Peter stammers,

“You didn’t…”

“Course I didn’t kill her,” Mark grumbles, eyeing him wildly. “You asked me not to,” he iterates like it absolves him of anything. Like it makes any of this even a fraction better than it was.

It does. It does make it better.

Peter feels like he can breathe properly again.  

“So, what’s the plan?”

Mark watches him for a moment before digging through the cabinets for pills and disinfectant. He dabs his cheek with one hand and tries opening the tiny pill bottle with the other. Peter sighs and grabs the bottle raucously from his hands, popping it open for him. Mark says nothing and downs two. Pain medication, no doubt. Peter puts it away in the cabinet and lets his eyes follow every movement of Mark’s hand. He’s wiping away scabbed blood and leakage from the stitches. 

Finally, Mark slurs out,

“The plan will take a while.”

“How long?”

“Why, you got somewhere to be?”

“Don’t talk down to me when you know I have every reason to be concerned. Knowing you, your plan could involve bombing the entire department of federal bureau investigations.”

“I thought about it,” Mark replies nonchalantly. 

Peter feels like he’s going insane.

Who knows how long they have left until the feds bust the front door down. He supposes he should be relieved by the encroaching expiration date of their game here, but he’s not. He reasons that he isn’t relieved because the Feds could easily kill Peter by putting a bullet between Mark’s eyes. 

He throws his hands up in the air.

“Of course you did. Why the fuck not.” 

“I won’t do that. It’ll call SWAT. Backup. I need to get in and out of the jailhouse fast. They’ll be keeping Jill there when she goes to them for help. Hell knows when that’ll be. Months, maybe.”

“Months?” 

“Do you suggest an alternative?” 

Peter pours over the evidence, coming up with next to nothing, unless—

“Use me,” Peter suggests frantically, taking the small bloody cloth from between Mark’s fingers and setting it aside to grab his attention. “As bait, a hostage. Tell them you get Jill Tuck or I die.”

Mark snorts. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? They may know about me, but they still think you’re behind a good chunk of it, Pete. You’re a moron if you think I’m gonna help you clear your name by doing things that way. As hot as the idea of you playing the damsel is to me.” 

God, he hates when Mark calls him Pete. 

Snarling, Peter distances himself. 

There isn't a lot of space to walk in the bathroom. He faces the mirror above the toilet, trying not to look himself in the eye. He’s not sure he can stomach the face that divested morality long ago. 

He had trouble enough looking at mirrors before he’d even met Mark. 

It’s only gotten worse. 

“The plan’s already set in motion, anyway,” Mark tells him. “You aren’t completely brainless. I am gonna give the Feds the opportunity for exchange. A life for life. Or a few lives, for Jill.” 

“A few lives?” Peter echoes blankly. 

“Yes.”

“Not another—”

“It has to be done.”

“How are you going to set one up all by yourself in such a short amount of time?” Peter swerves to face him, blanching at how Mark took it upon himself to strip down entirely. “I-I mean, how are you planning on setting up another game? You’re not an engineer, you said so yourself.”

“If you wanna hear I have help, yeah, I have help.”

Lawrence Gordon.

Peter remembers the phone conversation. Brief and to the point. He didn’t expect Gordon to be helping Mark with something like that, something so risky that could incriminate him at the smallest mishap. Unless there's more, more people behind the mask than an amputated surgeon. 

“You’re not going to get away with it this time.”

“I’ve already lost, Strahm. They already know it’s me!”

“I meant you’re going to get yourself killed. Is she worth it? Jill Tuck? All this work you’ve done, this whole legacy you’ve tried to keep afloat. It’ll go down the drain with your blood.” 

Even Peter has to admit he despises the idea of Jill taking any credit for the legacy of Jigsaw, and the moniker’s downfall. Tuck is a self-serving hypocrite, Strahm sniffed that out from day one. 

Mark tests the hot water in the shower.

He shoots Peter a bitter look over his shoulder. 

“You seem pretty confident about it.”

“If you die, I die, remember?” Peter retorts. 

That excuse—the one Peter uses to make it seem like there’s only one reason he is invested in Mark’s fate—gets weaker every time he wields it. 

“One of my smarter moves, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think you’re a hedonist desperate for sycophants.” 

“Big words,” Mark muses, stepping up to him as the steam begins to rise in the bathroom. His fingers dance over the waistband of Peter’s trousers, voice lowering. “How about you join me?”

Peter considers himself exceptionally bright, but things do happen to fly over his head now and then. 

“In your suicide mission? Please.”

“In the shower,” Mark clarifies with a chuckle. 

The world tilts on its axis, almost in a vertigo-inducing way. Peter’s head tilts with it, as Mark’s suggestion is so out of left field it might as well have been pitched from the moon. 

“I…” Peter has a hard time curtailing the subject matter from discussions of felonies to what this is—uncalled for and yet utterly desired on Peter’s part despite the fact he won’t admit it. “Um.”

“I’ve fucked you. I think a shower’s no big deal.”

“Don’t remind me.” 

“You’re cute when you blush.”

“I’m about to walk away.” 

“Okay.” Mark lowers his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “Okay, I’ll cool it.” 

The suggestion is still swinging back and forth; a pendulum. 

Mark’s eyes skate down Peter’s chest. Then, his thumbs are tweaking the first button of his shirt. Peter sighs, expelling a significant breadth of resistance with the breath he’d been holding. 

Not necessarily by choice. 

“Don’t try anything,” Peter posits weakly, even as Mark is helping him unbutton his shirt, pushing it down his shoulders. He proceeds to step out of the rest of his clothes. “I mean it.”

Maybe catching him off guard was the point. 

Mark chortles softly, not looking him in the eye. 

The beginning of the shower goes smoothly. Mark does his best not to put his wound in a direct line of spray, though washes off remaining speckles and patches of dried blood. Peter occupies himself by the shelf, pumping shampoo into a palm and rubbing it through his own hair. Mark turns, appearing unfairly sexy. Wet from head to toe, he says, “Do me up, if you don’t mind.”

Peter’s long-winded scoff breaks apart while he does as he’s told.

There’s no reason for this idiot’s charm to be working on him so well. 

Peter jots down a mental note to chastise himself for all the times he scoffed at the concept of Stockholm Syndrome in his mandatory criminal psychology classes. Fuck all of this. 

And fuck that he wants it. 

He retrieves more shampoo and tries to dispense it in Mark’s hands but Mark steps under his fingers, nudging him as if he were more cat than man. Peter sighs and pushes the product through Mark’s hair, forcing himself to detach from how pleasing the act is. It’s hard, with Mark’s eyes closed and his soft purring almost overpowering the abrasive noise of water hitting tile. Unconsciously, Peter takes a step closer. The fronts of their bodies brush, nipples perking. 

It’s a mistake. 

Mark is able to wind arms around Peter’s naked waist and press his forehead into his solar plexus, kissing at his chest in a way Peter would have given him a black eye for weeks ago.

Now, he’s just confused. 

“Hey.” Where is all the indignance and self-respect he thought he had? “You s-should probably get some sleep.” A gasp follows Peter’s words as Mark tongues one of his areolas. “Oh.” 

“Right now?” Mark murmurs, lips tickling against his skin.

Peter opens his mouth to respond but Mark is circling around him, thumbs tickling his hip bones as they dip lower in exploration. Peter doesn’t realize he’s lost his voice for at least two minutes, Mark kissing the middle of his back startling him back to reality. The shower beats against them. 

“No afterwards,” Peter murmurs, adding a low-steamed, “Idiot. Move things along.”

“If you say so.” 

They rush through the conditioner phase of the shower. When Mark grabs his loofa, he pumps an excessive amount of soap onto it and washes every nook of himself, missing a blind spot on his spine. Foolishly, Peter takes the loofa from his hand and washes that part, with a tender touch. 

“Let me help you,” Mark whispers in response. 

It’s a request worded so genuinely, it leaves Peter speechless again. 

He supposes what happens in the shower stays in the shower. 

If Mark notices the dent in the tile wall, he doesn’t say anything. It stares back at Peter mockingly while Mark grabs the body wash. 

He stands still as Mark exchanges his loofa for Peter’s, applies soap, and starts to wash him. It’s turtle-slow, as Mark considers every part of him as he brushes the gentle material across his skin. When he reaches his intimate parts, he doesn’t linger, but reveres them with serious dedication. 

Peter’s throat feels like it’s closing up. 

Mark is on his knees, washing his legs, his feet. 

All the while, he remains tender. 

Loving. 

It’s unnerving. It’s unnatural. 

Peter feels himself falling, though he doesn’t lose any footing. 

When Mark’s done, he gazes up at him from behind thick lashes, hair matted back against his scalp with dollops of gel conditioner. He looks like a disciple, and hell, he was one once. 

Just not for Peter.

Maybe it’s in his blood, that need to be a follower. 

Peter swallows, reaches out his hand, and tries not to grunt as Mark leans an exorbitant amount of weight on that hand to stand up. He doesn’t release Peter’s hand before he kisses him, hard. 

Jerking back, Peter’s eyes quickly meet Mark’s. 

Mark doesn’t look smug, or even horny.

He simply looks alone. 

Peter stutters over air silently, telling himself internally to shut the fuck up, before he’s soaring back into him for a return of the previous kiss. It’s angrier than the one Mark just gave him. 

It’s full of rage, and confusion. 

All the conflicting emotions that have been driving him crazy. 

Mark immediately meets him beat for beat, as if he’d been waiting to be told what to do. What to feel. How to react. Peter can’t think. All he knows is that he’ll give Mark what he wants. 

He’ll show him how to feel if that’s really what he wants. 

Peter doesn’t detach from Mark’s devouring mouth when he scrapes a hand up into Mark’s hair and grips his hair viciously tight, corralling him into the wall. Mark hisses into his mouth, the broken wall digging painfully into his back. Peter hisses back, their teeth knocking together. 

It’s too much and not enough. 

Peter needs to be inside him. Mark seems to know that. 

Mark breaks the kiss just to turn around. The moment Peter realizes what he’s doing, he takes over, spinning Mark around the full way and shoving him hard, face first, into the concave wall. 

“Ah!” 

Peter forgot Mark’s face was injured. This thrills him. 

The noise is undeniably pained but Mark is throwing an arm back to push Peter’s mouth against his neck, wanting their bodies completely in contact from head to toe. Peter wants that too, he won’t even deny it anymore, but what he wants more is for Mark to hurt in the way he’s hurt him. 

Peter squirts some lotion in his palm. He’s not sure which bottle it’s from, if it’s okay to put inside someone or not. He’s trembling as he slathers his fingers up, feverish as he dips his hand down to warm crevice between Mark’s legs, and unceremoniously shoves two fingers inside. 

“Jesus fuck,” Mark groans. 

His free hand flies up to grab at the wall, a loose tile breaking off in a puff of dust from Mark’s frantic grappling. Peter bites Mark’s shoulder to muffle his own grunts, and pumps his hand. 

Mark is resistant but not for long. His body opens faster than anyone Peter’s ever slept with. Especially considering that when Peter pulls two fingers out to push three in, he sees blood. 

The brief hesitation this sight causes must shatter the desired air of desperation because Mark is growling, pawing blindly for Peter’s dick, and lining it up to where he’s throbbing, hot, and in agony. 

Yet, when Peter pushes his erection in without a protest, Mark moans like he’s never experienced any better feeling in the world. He moans like that again on the second thrust, and the third. Every time. 

When Mark tries to look back at Peter, catch his gaze, Peter thrusts so hard into him that it knocks his head against the tile. Mark actually whimpers. It’s the hottest noise Peter has ever fucking heard. 

Peter grabs a clump of his perfect hair and grinds his head into the tile, causing Mark to shout and clench around his cock like a vice. But he’s moaning louder with every following thrust. He imagines Mark’s stitches have come out, how could they not have by now? He doesn’t care. 

This is the most free Peter has ever felt. 

“You fucking whore,” Peter scowls as he fucks him hard, abandoning his grip on Mark’s shivering hip to reach around and palm his half-hard cock. “And you said I was gagging for it. You’d let me fuck you with a cleaver and the funny part is,” he’s interrupted by his own moan, a noise wrenched out as Mark clenches hard around him again, “you’d fucking thank me for it.” 

He feels Mark leak over his fist, even soaked to the bone. 

“And worse,” Mark promises darkly, croaking after, “Oh God.” 

Peter lets go of Mark’s hair, ogling the apprentice’s head as it flops back, neck strained in a lewd arch when Peter grips his hips with both hands to begin pistoning into him at a breakneck speed. 

The shower is beginning to run cold but Mark’s body runs so hot inside that Peter doesn’t notice. 

Mark throws himself back into the merciless pummelling, so much so his head is rolling over Peter’s shoulders, so weirdly disconnected from reality he seems drugged in Peter’s eyes. 

From here, Peter can see the bloody mess of his mouth. The stitches popped open, the inside of his cheek exposed. Peter puts his mouth on it, sucking and lapping at the gory wreck he resurfaced. 

A full-bodied shudder runs through Mark, and though Peter’s pace has slowed down, his hole is fluttering around Peter’s cock so suddenly and intensely—his orgasm wracking him head to toe—that Peter has to stop what he’s doing to gasp for air, as he squeezes him so tight Peter fears he’s going to break. Mark’s whimpering again, such beautiful, soft noises that Peter thinks he may never hear again so he starts grinding into him, desperate to keep them coming as long as possible. He’s spiraling into his own orgasm now, wheezing into the bruised skin of Mark’s back.

A relieved moan filters through the small space. 

Peter cringes when he realizes it’s him, and again when Mark chuckles lightly at him. 

He pulls out too suddenly, not thoughtfully, wincing when he sees more blood. He doesn’t quite know what to do in this situation. He’s never fucked anyone this hard, this violently. And Mark is…okay with it. 

Losing balance instantly, Mark nearly slips down the wall, spinning around slowly to press his back against the tile. He’s heaving in breaths, one half of his face barely visible underneath all the blood. Christ, he looks like a victim of Jigsaw’s even more so than he did when he stumbled into the apartment. 

Blood trickles down Mark’s thighs. 

Mark touches his cheek and hisses, smirking a bit. 

“I love the way your mind works, baby” 

Peter scowls in response, hands balling up into fists. His expression fades quickly when Mark places a palm on his cheek now, slowing the fervent response down to a crawl. It’s efficient. Peter finds himself melting into an alternate version of the union, limbs loosening and muscles lax. 

“I kept thinkin’ of you tonight,” Mark confesses quietly, stroking at his back’s incline. “Couldn’t let that bitch win with you waiting for me back here—home. Didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“It wouldn’t have been a disappointment.”

Peter sounds like he did when he first got his tracheotomy. His throat hurts. He tries to ignore the hickies left all over Mark’s shoulders and neck when he glances up to meet his eyes. 

Mark deadpans, “Yeah, you want me dead. I know.”

“I don’t want you dead,” Peter counters honestly, surprising himself.

Mark’s eyes widen only a fraction. 

It feels like drawing a bowstring back between both arms, and not letting go. There’s no release as Mark wordlessly continues their washup, rinsing the conditioner out of his own hair before herding Peter under the harsh spray to help him do the same. Debris had come out of Mark’s hair, a byproduct of being pushed against the broken wall, Peter imagines. He tries not to feel guilty about it and fails. He’s guilty because he really did want it to hurt, wanted to incur pain. 

Only after does Mark say,

“I think I believe you.”

He reaches for the nozzle and it shuts the water off abruptly, leaving Peter cold. 

They dry off, redo Mark’s stitches, and head to the bedroom. 

In the nude, Peter lingers by their bedside looking off into space. Mark tosses him a pair of boxers which he puts on without argument, ogling Mark stretching briefs over the rise of his ass.

Mark slips on a bathrobe and eyes his wristband, and then Peter’s. 

The invisible chord between them feels heavier than ever. 

“What are you thinking?” Peter asks nervously, though to his credit, he makes sure his voice is stoically calm. 

“Doesn’t matter what I’m thinking.” 

“Everything matters.”

“What do you want from me, Strahm?” Mark questions waspishly. “I understand learned helplessness. I was in the foster system, I know that phenomenon like the back of my hand.” He approaches Peter, stocky with a defensive posture. “This isn’t that. I can’t fucking predict you.” 

Peter inclines his head, glaring concretely. 

“I don’t think you’ve ever properly been able to predict me.”

“No, I have. I knew you’d fall for both of my traps long before I set ‘em. And you did. Because you’re the kind of man to take the correct route, not the route that feels right. And is right.” 

“What route do you think I’m taking now?”

“I don’t think you know the answer to that question.”

Peter scoffs. “Neither do you, so where does that leave us?”

Mark searches for something in Peter’s eyes, scanning him in depth. He looks between them, takes Peter’s hand—the one entrapped by a fatal band—and he shocks him by lifting it up and kissing the folded knuckles. It makes Peter loosen his grip which gives Mark the opportunity to bend over his arm and…unlock him. A cool gust of air makes his newly exposed wrist twitch. 

Holy shit. 

Peter rears back, grabbing his wrist with his other hand, feeling the raw skin left marked by the band’s weight. Mark sets aside the unlocked band and removes his own with the same haste.  

“What—?”

“Where does that leave us?” Mark echoes Peter’s earlier words. 

A rush of adrenaline fills Peter Strahm with a purpose. He feels wild with it, the newfound energy. The motivation. But he’s lost as to the forked path ahead of him. In his manic state, he can only see two options: he can kiss Mark or he can kill Mark. There really isn’t an inbetween. 

Mark’s left him without an inbetween. 

Or, that’s how it feels. 

Peter’s hand shakes, feeling lighter than a feather now that the proverbial ball and chain is gone. He forms it into a tight fist and stares at Mark’s face, a gentle and trusting target to take revenge. 

He’s not sure he cares to have revenge. 

However, the other path frightens him with where it could lead, and what it could mean. Despite coming around to a state where he no longer hates Mark, and where he no longer wants to kill him, he can’t see the way out of his own dissonance other than to destroy the point of contention. 

Roughly, he swings. 

The punch connects with a crack on Mark’s jaw.

It seems to be counterproductive to stitch Mark back up when he’s going to continue rupturing them like this. At this rate, he’s also hurting himself. The punch rings through his fist achingly.  

Peter curses, rubbing his knuckles. 

He initiated a fight, and yet time is moving like molasses. It takes a moment for Mark to pull himself up onto his palms on the floor, to gaze up at Peter with an expression not wholly surprised. He’s resigned, if Peter had to gander, resigned to a fate that must be all too predictable. 

Well, that just pisses Peter off more. 

Peter growls and kicks him in the torso. 

Mark grunts, grabbing his side, but he doesn’t move. It’s like watching a newborn pony fumble and lie there in its own muck. Pathetic and childlike in its innocence. Mark is never any of that. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Peter exclaims. “Get up, fight back!” 

When Mark doesn’t respond, dark eyes trained on the rug, Peter becomes angry enough to fall to his knees and elbow him hard across the ear. The maneuver knocks Mark clean to the floor. 

Not even a noise.

Somehow, the stitches have stayed in place. 

The more Mark refuses to interact, the more enraged Peter feels. 

His face is turning a deep shade of red, Peter is aware of that. He can’t stop. When Mark rolls lazily onto his back, blankly staring at the ceiling with a split lip, Peter climbs halfway across him and digs one forearm into his throat. Mark doesn’t even raise his hands to grab his arm. 

He lies there, lets his cheeks go blue. 

Doesn’t even have the decency to make eye contact.

“Oh, fuck you,” Peter snarls. “Fight me!” 

Mark doesn’t. 

Peter retracts the weight on his throat and punches him hard in the face before he can catch a breath. It gives Mark a bloody nose, and forces a short whine out of his throat. This isn’t the whimper he heard in the shower; it’s animalistically sad. Mark pants heavier and doesn’t betray any reaction other than exertion. Peter yells and punches again, and again, until his knuckles ache. The stitches do pop, eventually, and it isn’t pretty. Bits of Mark’s face scatter over the rug. 

With every thrash of his head, blood flings. 

After it, Mark’s face is black and blue. 

Mark coughs up blood, watching him briefly as Peter finally climbs off him and buries his face in his hands. He can’t do it. He can’t kill Mark. And he knew that when he threw the first punch. 

Did Mark know that?

Mark spits blood onto the floor purposefully this time. Then he stands, painstakingly, taking a while to balance before hobbling by Peter and out to the living room. He shuts the bedroom door behind him. Doesn’t even have the decency to slam it. It clicks shut with cold, calculated precision. 

Distantly, Peter can hear water running.

They’ve both taken one too many showers today.

Peter draws out of his teary trance once his eyes are dry and he feels like he won’t crumble into a million pieces. It’s a start, though not a great one. He wonders if sleep will do anything for him.

He’s in such a rotten headspace, he doesn’t even consider how in his freedom, he could walk out the front door right now without looking back. He could go right to the FBI and explain himself. 

He isn’t even thinking of that. 

How could he? 

He climbs into bed, tucking his bloody knuckles against his chest like he’s about to be mummified, and shuts his eyes against every sense alight in his body. It’s difficult, but it works. 

Peter is able to sleep, without stirring.

Peter wakes up in the afternoon.

The sun hits his bare back in strong rays, and he groans upon hearing a loud pickup truck beep outside. He rolls over to find the opposite side of the bed cold. It startles him completely awake. 

Mark. 

He tosses the thin sheet off his body and marches out, underwear only, right into the center of the living room. There’s no sign of Mark. Not in the bathroom, the kitchen, nor anywhere else. 

The small med kit from the bathroom cabinet is gone. 

He couldn’t have left for work, not after all that happened. 

There’s only one explanation.

With shaky hands, Peter makes a coffee for himself and toast (he needs energy if he’s going to be able to get through the upcoming days) and turns on the local news station. There’s no big news, which is surprising. He would have expected Mark to fall into an impulsive fury and go after Jill Tuck without waiting to heal. Or without waiting for Peter to concur one way or the other. 

He doesn’t need Peter’s opinion now.

Their tether has been severed. 

It leaves Peter feeling more isolated than he’s ever felt. 

As he relishes his steaming cup of black coffee and half-listens to the newscast on burglaries and federal prison escapees, dread creeps up Peter’s spine at the prospect of leaving the apartment. 

He doubts Mark will be back for a long time. His absence feels final; he’s leaving to prepare just like he promised. Prepare for the next and final game. Prepare for his fucking suicide mission. 

And now Peter’s survival doesn’t matter.

It means nothing in the grand scheme of things. 

It always felt like their time together was leading up to something. Something awful maybe, but something intense—meaningful if not moral. Similar to a rare, destructive storm, but now… 

Now. 

Mark is incriminated. And Peter didn’t choose the path on the fork that felt right instead of what path was technically correct, so what use is he to Hoffman anymore? 

What use is he to anyone? 

Peter sets down the empty cup of coffee and his plate. He wipes his mouth on a sliver of paper towel and thinks about the next step. A normal person would walk out the door and head to the station. Tell the feds everything there is to know about Mark Hoffman as well as the active case. 

He’s not sure if it definitively makes him a good or bad person, but that’s not what Peter is going to do. It takes him a second to be sure of that. He’s in it for the long haul, whether he personally likes the truth of it or not. He doesn’t have to figure out if he likes it. All Peter knows is that he won’t be locked up for questioning while the FBI twiddles their thumbs and separates him entirely from the game about to commence. A game he was a player in from the very beginning. 

Until he deals with Mark himself, he can’t turn himself in. 

Maybe in the meantime, he can find a way to clear his name. 

To kill two birds with one stone, he’s aware of where he should go to start. The only person who may know where Mark Hoffman is hiding, and the only person he knows he could trust to help. 

Ducking from a tenant passing by in the complex’s long, grandma-perfume scented corridor, Peter approaches the apartment door hunched over so Mark’s hoodie hides his facial features. 

Firmly, he knocks twice. 

As he waits, he tries valiantly not to linger on the thought that Mark’s clothes smell so much like him. In a way that’s annoyingly intoxicating and simultaneously infuriating. 

Lawrence Gordon opens the door, with one hand positioned behind his back. Peter Strahm’s been in the force long enough to know he’s wielding a weapon, although the guy is a fantastic actor otherwise. There’s a calm and almost angelic look to him that subconsciously puts Peter at ease.

Maybe it’s a surgeon thing. 

“Can I help you?” 

He can apologize later, but right now, Peter doesn’t have any time. 

He juts his knee forward right into Dr. Gordon’s groin. It’s comical—Lawrence’s eyes bulge in shock and he doubles over, gasping for breath. Time is scant so Peter swiftly takes advantage of the direct opportunity to grab for the gun he can now see flailing in one of the doctor’s hands. 

Lawrence gives it up without much of a fight, snarling as it’s peeled hastily from his fingers. He’s half on the floor still, attempting to regain his posture, harder since he has a prosthetic. 

This isn’t something Peter feels guilty for. 

He’s sure there’s hypocrisy in the cracks of his ever crumbling morale somewhere, and he’s not going to analyze himself right now to figure out where and why. 

Peter points the gun steadily at Gordon. 

Gordon finally manages to stand up straight again. 

“Not a word,” he grinds out. “Sit down so we can talk.” 

Choice words, Peter immediately regrets. 

“Want me to get back down on the floor? I can assure you, I’m more than familiar with doing so,” Gordon remarks with enough sarcasm to crack through Peter’s hot-headed demeanor. 

“I’d like to think we share similar interests, Doctor,” Peter tells him, wagging the gun towards the couches he can see peeking out beyond the foyer. “If you let me explain myself, I think we can come to an understanding.” 

Lawrence’s hair is askew, puffed up like a poodle’s. 

He tosses his chin, getting it out of his eyes. 

“I suppose I have no other choice.” 

Peter follows behind him, pausing momentarily when he hears voices murmuring as they close in on the living room. Lawrence pauses with him, a sly yet guileless expression painted on his face. 

“My company was just leaving. No need to worry about them, they won’t go…chatting,” Lawrence assures Peter. He barrels ahead and announces to the faceless voices, “Brad, Ryan, I believe we’re done here. If you’d like to convene again with me this week, feel free to page me.” 

“Who’s got a pager anymore?” A deep voice jokes. 

There’s a sound of bags rustling. 

“Bye, Doc,” a lighter pitch says. Two young boys, college-aged, emerge into the corridor. They glance at Peter (hiding the gun behind his back now, go figure) but don’t linger on him. They giggle to each other on the way out, laughing about some girl they seem to dislike named Dina. 

“Entertaining?” Peter mutters, not sure what he means by that. 

“Heavens no,” Lawrence chuckles, far too calm for what is happening. He sits down on the bigger couch and pours himself a cup of tea. There is a kettle and a stack of cups on a tray atop the coffee table. Peter doesn’t reach for any of it; he crosses the room to sit parallel to the doctor. 

“You know who I am,” assesses Peter.

“Your face is plastered all over the news damn near everyday,” Lawrence points out. “Of course I know who you are.”

“But you’re not surprised to see me knowing Mark’s been keeping me virtually on a leash?” Peter takes pride in the minute twitch between Lawrence’s brows, how the other man crosses his legs to deflect from a physical show of agitation and subsequent acknowledgement of the name. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.” 

“Mark Hoffman, your colleague. His face is hardly forgettable.” Peter insists with an edge of sharp, remorseless humor. When Lawrence doesn’t immediately reply, he pushes the hoodie off his face. The air in the room smells floral, and hits his face in a breeze. He must be under a vent. “I’ve been a detective for years, Dr. Gordon, I know when someone’s lying to me. And there’s no point. I know everything. I know you’ve been working under Jigsaw’s name as well as Mark.”

“Fools and the promises they wage,” Lawrence utters without an ounce of restraint for the contempt in his tone. “He told me I would remain anonymous, as John told him he would be.” 

“And you believed him?” Peter huffs. “That was your first mistake. The guy’s as reliable as a cheap fence post in Kansas.” 

Dr. Gordon barely smiles, though appears bemused. 

“So, special agent, am I going quietly?”

Lawrence is far too even-toned to ‘go quietly’ even if that were why Peter came. He must have a contingency plan for this scenario, as he’s too smart not to have one. 

“I’m not here to arrest you.” 

There’s a flash of surprise, but it swiftly vanishes. 

“Surely Kramer’s rehabilitation tactics didn’t speak to you.” 

Peter sets the gun aside on the couch, now that it’s relatively unneeded. “You sound like you’re mocking it. If you think Jigsaw’s philosophy doesn’t work, why the hell do you fall in line?” 

“Don’t pretend to know me,” Lawrence warns icily, voice kept strictly even. “Or my motivations. You don’t. No amount of intelligence or experience will wring out an answer.” 

“Fine. You don’t need to explain anything to me. Frankly, I don’t give a shit either. What I care about is Mark going off half-cocked and getting himself killed in a blaze of fiery glory.” 

Only now does Lawrence’s shock filter through his stone-cold unreadability. 

“Are you telling me you don’t want the man who kidnapped you, and forced you to aid and abet his work, dead?”  

“I don’t want him dead,” Peter mouths out each syllable slowly. It isn’t hard to say, but it’s hard to imagine each step it took to get to this headspace, a place where he wants everyone at peace. 

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Hard to believe or not, I’m here to make an offer.” 

Lawrence sips his tea, signaling silently for Peter to go ahead and start offering.

“In exchange for my silence on your involvement, you’ll let me hide out here until I find out where Mark is. And you’re going to help me find him,” Peter asserts, eyes unrelentingly hard. 

“Oh, is that all.” 

“Don’t act like that isn’t a good deal. You can live out the rest of your life unseen.” He pauses, adding weight to the next sentiment, “And your daughter will never know a damn thing about it.”

At the mention of his daughter, Lawrence’s half-smile falls. 

“Deal or no deal,” Peter continues, before Lawrence’s animosity can fester into something unreasonable. “I can figure out a different way,” he lies, “It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. This is just the easier option. And it’ll be easy for you to say yes, no? You’ve said yes to worse things. Things I probably can’t even imagine, despite how long I’ve been on this case.” 

A clock ticks quietly in another room. 

Lawrence studies him, hands likely burning around the rim of his cup. 

“I don’t understand Mark’s predilection for you, with this cavalier attitude of yours and all the mess it encompasses,” he drones. “I suppose it makes for a good cop. You’ve painted me into a corner, after all. Fine, I’ll do my best to aid you. But I can’t guarantee I’ll know more than you.” 

Peter sighs, relaxing in increments. 

“It’s better than nothing.”

“If you say so.”

Run down by the amount of stress carrying out this scheme dredged out of him, he’s startled when Lawrence slices through his encroaching trance and says with only a spot of bitterness,

“Shall we begin?” 

Lawrence has work in the evening. Before then, he and Peter compile a list of locations where Mark could potentially be stationed. While Lawrence is at the hospital, Peter spends the rest of the day hunting down these safe houses and abandoned warehouses, coming up short on each of them. He returns around midnight, not altogether shocked to find Lawrence typing on his laptop. 

“Shoes off by the door with the rest,” he mumbles sharply when Peter takes one too many steps past the threshold of the front door, boots adorned. 

Peter kicks off his shoes and doesn’t speak to Larry, not until an hour later when the man decides it’s time to go to bed apparently. Dismissively, he points out the extra blanket on the couch. 

“Thank you,” Peter voices, preparing the couch cushions for himself. 

Lawrence merely scoffs, and closes his bedroom door behind him. 

It’s far too early to sleep. 

When the light in the surgeon’s room turns off, Peter sits up and stealthily crosses the room to the laptop sitting on a kitchen island. He opens it, grunting when he sees it is password protected. 

Of course it is. For fun, he types in Jigsaw. 

Password Incorrect. 

Peter shuts the laptop and goes to lie on the couch, stewing the rest of the night away.

While Peter trusts Lawrence Gordon to keep his word, having remembered him as a man of secure, unwavering loyalty in his old police interrogation tapes, he still doesn’t want to take any chances. He makes sure he stays awake the first night in Gordon’s apartment, with an active ear.

Past two in the morning, Peter can hear rustling. 

Warily, he gets up from the pull out couch and crouches across the floor to the door of Lawrence’s bedroom. There’s murmuring, so Peter scrambles for one of the cups on the coffee table and presses it lightly against the frame of the door. Gordon is on the phone, naturally. 

“You can’t come home this weekend,” he says with an ounce of regret in his tone. Peter’s brow furrows, wondering if he’s talking to Mark. It sounds oddly informal. “Oh, don’t fuss—It’s not safe, that’s why—Agent Strahm is crashing here you might say—No, no everything is fine. Yes, I promise.”  There’s a deep pause, and Peter rears up to lurch back if he needs to. “Well,” Lawrence chuckles, almost bashful. “That’s something to think about. But I don’t think it’ll be safe to call me.” Another brief pause, and a huff. “You’re the one who wanted to remain dead.” 

It suddenly makes so much sense. 

“Yes, I love you too.” 

An obscene amount of sense. 

“Don’t say that. Now I’ll never get back to sleep,” says Dr. Gordon. “Jesus, Adam, you don’t think about anything else, do you? I’ll contact you when the coast is clear, alright? How’s that.” 

Yeah. 

All the sense in the world. 

Peter sets aside the glass cup but can still hear the quiet voice, with a fluttering inflection, “Okay," Dr. Gordon sighs heftily. “Goodnight. Tell Brad and Ryan the next meeting’s off until I phone.”

Brad and Ryan, those two boys, they’re in on it too? 

There’s a blunt clunk, signaling the phone has been set down. Peter scuffles back to the pullout bed, wincing as he lies flat across the springy surface. Fuck, this arrangement is a real pain. 

At least Mark’s flat was comfortable. 

He drifts off into a half-sleep following the phone conversation, drafting theory after theory on why Adam Stanheight decided to join up into whatever hellish crusade these survivors have conjured for themselves. Why he wanted to remain dead when his family and friends have upkept forums and investigations into the whereabouts of his remains. And the ‘I love you too’ sticks with Peter long into the morning. What is it about these games that makes everyone so damn horny? He wakes to the sound of a whistling kettle. Tea again? Peter ponders resentfully. 

As if reading his mind, Lawrence says,

“British on my mother’s side. Don’t know if you heard an accent or not. I was born and raised in Chicago but I’ve been told I adopted some of her more refined parlances.”

“Didn’t notice,” Peter lies, because he doesn’t want a history lesson on this goon’s life. As if he gives a shit. He just wants to find Mark and do whatever he can to save him from himself. 

And of course, save the innocent victims of whatever he’s planning next.

That is the top priority. He’ll do well to remember that. 

“Green or black?”

Lawrence isn’t even asking if he prefers coffee. Peter supposes if he doesn’t have a choice, he’ll go with the type that is sure to have caffeine. 

“Black.”

Humming, Lawrence pours them two cups. 

“Hoffman must be at a secondary location,” he says casually, sitting beside Peter in an old, plaid armchair. “I don’t know why I didn’t consider it before. He’d be an idiot to go to the central houses. The secondary locations are where most of Kramer’s old workshops are located.”

“Where you paint the freaky dolls?” Peter asks, half-serious.

“Yes, actually. Though I never paint them myself.” 

Does Adam? He almost asks before catching himself. 

Peter stalls, extending every branch of his mind to find the right words.

“You’ve been working with Jigsaw ever since your own game.” He didn’t mean to say it aloud, yet his curiosity has flourished since last night, and lack of sleep has lowered his inhibitions.

“If you must know, he saved my life.”

“He tortured you. Tortured your family.”

“I’d be a fool not to remember that,” Lawrence regards Peter diligently. “I’d also be a fool to ignore debts, consequences. The effectiveness of involvement rather than willful ignorance.” 

“Do you enjoy being obtuse?” grumbles Peter, “Or does it come naturally to oncologists?”

Lawrence’s responding smile is vitriolic. 

“Would you like the secondary locations, or not?” 

Peter shrugs. 

“The sooner you give me information, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

Lawrence nods politely, and begins listing every location in walking range. Peter spends a good portion of the morning hunting down these spots, inspecting every nook and cranny for a sign of Mark, and unfortunately coming up short. He’s starting to suspect the good doctor isn’t being entirely honest about these locations, but he does find remnants of the Jigsaw cases the FBI never uncovered. He knows these locations are real, and have been used, he just doesn’t know if Lawrence is sending him on a wild goose chase when he could be giving him a genuine lead. 

When he returns to the complex, Lawrence has left for work. 

Peter tries to dig around for his computer’s password again, as he’s left the laptop open on top of the kitchen counter. A hunch overcomes him during his search, but he doesn’t fully break down and try to follow through with it until he’s scrutinized every drawer, closet, and cabinet in sight. 

He types into the laptop;

AdamStanheight

Password incorrect. 

Frowning, Peter sits there and then is struck with a memory. That was never the kid’s full name; he remembers writing up a report and being forced to remember his hyphenated double surname. 

AdamFaulknerStanheight

The computer begins buffering, logging Peter in. 

“Jesus, this guy’s whipped,” Peter mutters, starting to sift through the man’s folders and files. He comes up with absolutely zip, not even contact information for Adam which Peter may have utilized. It would be clever to accumulate extra collateral in case Lawrence refuses to cooperate. 

Instead, he goes online and discovers the most used web page is a chat room. It’s curious, as Lawrence seems to be the type of person to only use his laptop for work and maybe storage. 

He goes on and finds one chatroom saved. 

There’s a warning on the site about using a VPN. Peter ignores it, and begins reading the chat logs. 

Peter’s eyes widen when he starts to uncover the full scope. They’re using code names but it isn’t hard to intuit that the person Lawrence is chatting with regularly is Mark. The most recent messages are from this morning. Lawrence left a long message that has no reply but was read. 

I can delay him, but he won’t be delayed forever. Finish your plans tonight or I’m going to lead him right to you. I’ll come to the warehouse tonight and see what I can help with, but that’s all. 

Peter memorizes the words. 

Then, he exits out of the tab and closes the laptop. He swallows hard, twice, drafting a plan in the short amount of time he has remaining before Lawrence pretends to return from the hospital. 

It’s an impulsive decision, finally, when he uses the phone to call one of his oldest cousins. He never in a million years thought he would have to cash in on this one particular favor, nor did he ever think he’d want to. His cousin is an ex-convict, and perhaps the only person in his family who will answer him without calling the police straight after. Gerald’s also the only person who might really help Peter. As long as he’s still willing to go through with such an enormous favor. 

With reluctance only an experienced detective like Peter Strahm could read, Cousin Gerald made good on his decades old offer. It’ll take time, nonetheless, and it’s time Strahm does not have. 

The plans are set in motion, however, so he can’t go against the grain. 

He plays along with Lawrence for a few more days. Narrows his eyes at the sly, secretive, expression on the doctor’s face as he slips away every evening to ‘go to work.’ 

Then, he searches Lawrence’s room top to bottom. Nothing is ever scrounged up, not an address or a phone number. Or anything. He makes sure everything is put back in its exact place after. 

Three days, Gerald said.

It isn’t long in the grand scheme of things. 

It just feels longer as Peter spends every waking minute in front of the television, looking out for news on Hofman or a new game. Of course, as fate would have it, every news channel begins to chirp about a new game on the evening of the third day. Peter was just about to call Gerald and confirm if everything is in order, but floundered when he saw the faces of several missing persons on the screen. They are all somehow related to Bobby Dagen, one of the most infamous Jigsaw survivors to date. Peter’s never gotten a good impression from him, and now his suspicions are confirmed. The man was never a Jigsaw victim, he was just play-acting as one. 

He scoffs aloud, shocking himself at his own disdain. 

Frenetically, he flips through different channels until something else catches his eye. One channel is reporting on breaking news of a…different game at an old junkyard. An explosion just blew it up. A distraction, likely. For the Dagen game. It’s not hard to deduce even from here. 

Mark’s killed all the good detectives. 

Nobody can see the big picture like Peter can. 

No one can appreciate it. 

In the commotion of the explosion, Peter finally notices the stack of VHS tapes underneath the TV. He noticed them before, the top one specifically being a copy of Scooby Doo: Zombie Island which appears very out of place in Gordon’s otherwise clandestine apartment. It must be for someone else. Peter thinks he can guess who. There’s one unmarked tape underneath the stack. 

Peter reaches for it. 

And then, on a hunch, he inserts it.

His heart drops into his stomach when John Kramer appears on screen, appearing sullen. 

“Hello Dr. Gordon,” Jigsaw greets, grave and intent. “You are perhaps my greatest asset.” 

Chapter Text

Peter drives as fast as he can to the location Jigsaw cited on the tape. It’s rash; he knows that deep down, and that’s never stopped him before. He probably should have waited to see Lawrence return home before heading out, but the idea that Mark could be killed by the time he’d arrive at the scene was too ugly a thought. He’s the only one here with unfinished business.

No one should be allowed to decide Mark’s fate but him. 

Not the courts, even. Certainly not Jigsaw. 

He is shocked, however, to find himself sauntering up to the house where he was almost crushed to death. The scared child inside of him screams not to go inside, hollers, with righteous caution. 

Peter double checks the address, though he knows he’s at the right place. There are few locations belonging to Kramer undiscovered by the bureau by this point.

Then, he heads down to the basement. 

Downstairs, there are no lights. There are green shadows, dark hallways that Peter could hide in and never be found if he so chose to hide. Continuing onward, he stops only when he hears the telltale noise of a cane clacking against cement. Coming in his direction. Then, he hears a muffled scream. Hoffman himself, undoubtedly, releasing blood-curdling yells and curses. 

Peter hides in a shadowed nook, plastering himself to the wall.

Lawrence strolls by him, an easy expression on his face. He doesn’t notice him, and Peter takes a quick second to thank the powers that be for that small mercy. He watches him go, full of ire. 

The doctor is heading back out of the basement, leaving Mark to rot. 

Or, that’s what Peter concludes is happening.

He tries not to feel violent in response but does. Where does Lawrence get off carrying on what Jill couldn’t succeed at? These apprentices seem to be involved in a war to be daddy’s favorite. 

The only problem is, daddy has long since been dead and buried. 

When the coast is clear for sure, Peter picks up the pace down the corridor and rushes up to the giant yellow door he saw Lawrence walking away from. It may not even be the right door. 

It’s almost sacrilegious to imagine he’d been this close to another room full of likely horrors when he’d first been down here. And he’d sauntered past it then, a man on a dire mission. 

Peter presses his ear to the door. 

Mark is growling like a rabid, frustrated dog; he’d know that growl anywhere. A sound of loud chains adds to the fit of rage. He must be chained to the wall or—pipes! This is the bathroom. 

The game Peter only ever read about.

The one the Feds never located. 

That’s why he told Dr. Gordon on the tape that this location would be important to him. 

Peter pushes against the grain of the door with a grunt of exertion. It’s extremely heavy, yet not locked. Miraculously. He doesn’t notice Mark’s growls quiet down in a silent shock. Finally, the door starts to move slowly with an echoing, industrial sound. The chains stop jangling entirely. 

From the dim light of the hall, Peter can see Mark cast in green, on his knees watching the door with such surprise on his face that Peter is frankly offended he never considered this a possibility. 

“Pete,” he whispers hoarsely.

“You didn’t think I’d let you off the hook, did you?” Peter mutters, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure Lawrence hasn’t returned for whatever reason before trotting over. 

He’s glad he brought a flashlight. 

Peter fishes it out of his hoodie pocket and shines a light on the shackle chaining Mark’s ankle to the pipe. Maybe he should have brought heavy duty pliers or something. He might have to leave him here and come back. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he catches sight of the corpse.

“That’s not actually Adam Stanheight,” Mark informs him. “In the interest of honesty.” 

Peter nods, grateful for that interest. 

“Who is it?”

“Detective Tapp.” 

They never found Tapp’s body. It was theorized he was lost to an unlocated game. He wants to know why Tapp ended up here, in Adam’s clothes, or, similar clothes and condition. He doesn’t have time to ask. He supposes he can ask later, when he’s freed Mark from this rancid shithole. 

“There’s a key in the drain trap,” Mark notes, “Should work for this one too. I don’t know how you could get it out though.” 

Peter searches around the room for something long or at least blunt so he can bash the tile in and reach the pipes underneath the tub. Mark keeps tugging futilely at his chain, cursing like a sailor. 

“Just hand me the toilet lid over there. I’ll break my foot.” 

Gasping, Peter exclaims, “Jesus, no.”  

“I ain’t sitting here all night, Peter. I have to wipe that smirk off that prick’s face,” Mark grumbles darkly, grunting wildly as he continues to jerk the chain around. “I’ll kill him.”

“No. You won’t.”

“Why the fuck did you come back then, Peter?” He’s defensive, at the end of his fuse. Peter knows how to deal with men on the edge; after all, he lives with himself. “I don’t need you."

Peter laughs from where he’s standing, gazing down at Mark’s dirty clothes and mussed hair. “Yes, you do,” he replies simply. “And you’re going to take what I give you from now on.”

“What the hell does—”

Swinging out an arm, Peter slams the blunt end of the flashlight over Mark’s head, successfully knocking him out cold. He’s glad that move worked and didn’t take a few more, awkward tries. 

Unfortunately, knocking Mark out breaks the flashlight. Luck seems to be turning around, however, because the lights in this death trap actually work. He wishes Mark would’ve told him. 

Peter leaves and returns half an hour later with pliers and sedatives. He can’t risk inflaming a concussion he likely caused by knocking him out with another blunt object, or risk Mark fighting back. He fondles the chains in his hands, testing the give and make of them. It’s weak enough. 

They’re made of softer metal than he anticipated.

He manages to break the shackles’ lock and slip the restraint off Mark’s foot with ease. However, it’s lugging Mark out of the bathroom that arouses issues. He finds a wheelbarrow in the hallway and thinks, well of course, as they seem to use these for every damn Jigsaw trap under the sun. 

Peter rolls him out to the car and uses the tape he bought alongside the pliers to tape him up in every feasible way. His arms are glued to his sides and his legs are taped together so he can only flop around if he wants. He doesn’t put him in the trunk of the car he’s hotwired, though. He lays him out flat in the backseat. Peter doesn’t know if it’s more or less sadistic to do so, on his part. 

He’s going to have to ditch this car soon if he doesn’t want to be caught before arriving at the destination he’s been planning to escape to for days. And he’s going to need Mark on his side for that. So he’ll explain everything when he wakes up, as he’s got him right where he wants him. 

Mark appears oddly gorgeous, hair cresting over his eyes with a restless look on his pretty, unconscious features. As Peter is buckling him in so he doesn’t roll around aimlessly, he has to make an effort not to just press one closed-mouth kiss to his striking lips, swollen from biting. 

Peter opts instead to pet through his hair once. 

Then, he’s driving away from the scene with exactly what he came here to retrieve. 

It’s a successful night, all things considered. 

Mark wakes up halfway through the drive, much later than expected. Peter exhales as he begins hearing instant signs of struggle. Mark mumbles something from behind the duct tape placed strategically over his mouth, something not so nice if Peter were forced to hazard a guess. 

“Hey there,” Peter greets, taking the exit that’ll lead them out of the city and towards the shore. Mark is straining, attempting to lean up so he can look out the window at where they are. 

Peter lets the situation hang for a few seconds. 

He wonders, briefly, if Mark thinks he’s going to kill him. 

Then, he says, “For once, you’re going to listen to me. I think that’s only fair. You had me leashed like a dog for weeks, so now I get to tell you what I want to tell you without you running off and ruining what I’ve painstakingly put in place prior to getting where we need to go. Okay?”

Mark has quieted down, but Peter is sure his eyes are still molten with resentment. 

“Before anything else…” God, Peter’s not even sure he knew where he was going with this. But he can’t stop himself now. He finally feels free, free enough to say what he actually thinks rather than make a mess of his sense of self just to be accepted. “I didn’t want to hurt you that badly, I mean…back there, when I…punched you a few times.” Mark scoffs, amused by that comment. 

“It was less than you deserve,” Peter murmurs, “but beyond what I wanted.”

Mark doesn’t make a noise. Another car zooms by them. 

“And you were right about one thing, in your warped sense of morality and self.” Peter glances back to take a look at Mark. He’s bruised, yet mostly he looks tired. “I may not understand why you do what you do, but I do know that I don’t want anyone else to figure that out for themselves through you.” Peter turns back to the road, glowering down at the dark street. “The FBI are never going to understand, or put a stop to this cycle of succession John Kramer kick started. What I do know is that I’m the only one who can stop you, even if I can’t stop the cycle. And I can’t stop you by returning to who I used to be. That’s not how this was ever going to work. You killed me the moment you saved my life. And I intend to use this second chance for my version of good.” 

Rain begins pattering all across the car noisily. 

Peter turns on the windshield wipers. 

“You’re probably confused.”

Mark grunts in agreement. 

“I have a place. It isn’t a very nice place, though. It belongs to a cousin of mine. He’s sort of the black sheep. The feds would never trace anything back to him. They couldn’t, and I thought…”

He doesn’t know why he expects Mark to jump into the conversation when he’s duct taped his mouth shut. He supposes the constraint was just as much an influence to keep him on track too. 

“I’m taking us there.” 

A red light stops the car in its tracks.

Peter glances back, blanching at the unfamiliar shred of hope he sees in Mark’s eyes. He’s never seen that much emotion in him, a creature he would’ve condemned as a mindless killing machine just weeks ago. Somehow, it all makes sense then. Seeing this sad, child-like optimism in Mark. 

He curses under his breath and reaches back to rip the tape off his mouth. 

Mark licks his sticky lips immediately but, surprisingly, says nothing. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” mutters Peter grudgingly. 

“No,” Mark answers hoarsely. “You’re not the type.”

Humorlessly, Peter laughs. The red light turns to green and he rolls forward. Off towards the shore. “I thought I was,” he admits. “I was afraid I was. Once, a serial killer told me I was like him. Or, that I could become like him. It stuck with me. The darkness he was sure I harbored.” 

“Nobody is without darkness, Peter,” says Mark. “It’s what you do with it.”

“Yeah, well nobody can say I ever did great with it.”

“I think you’ve got it ass backwards.”

Peter scoffs. “Do tell.”

“You think it’s a good thing you can’t kill me. And don’t pretend it’s because you don’t wanna stoop to my level, like some heroic primetime bullshit. You’ve killed before, in your line of work, so many times I doubt you can count on two hands how many you’ve killed. But you can’t kill me because, while you don’t understand what I do, you understand me.” 

Peter has no answer for this. 

“I’d be flattered,” Mark continues, “if I hadn’t known we’d be right here at the end of it all.” 

“What, together?” 

“No longer at odds. At the very least.”

“Trust me, I’m at a lot of odds with you,” Peter grumbles, abruptly feeling scorned for some reason. “Don’t act like you could predict this of me, us. You wouldn’t have left otherwise.” 

“Did you feel abandoned, baby?” sneers Mark. 

“I will drive this car off the freeway.” 

“Ever consider leaving was a deliberate choice? I knew you would come crawling back. You’ve always found me, no matter how hard the scavenger hunt I’ve laid out for you ends up being.” 

Peter nearly slams his foot on the breaks.

“Wait, did you know I was going to go to Gordon?”

A pregnant pause. 

“Hoffman.”

Nothing. The rain patters louder.

“Mark.” 

“I may have warned him it was a possibility.”

Meaning, yes, Mark definitely predicted he would go there. Is nothing sacred? Peter is angry enough to stay quiet for a few minutes, the truth swinging back and forth, nervously undulating.

“Speaking of Lawrence,” Peter mumbles, unhappily straying from the previous topic. He doesn’t want to appear agitated. However, that’s nearly an impossible feat, even in conversations he entertains with people other than Mark Hoffman, resident killer. “You aren’t going after him.” 

“Oh, I’m not, am I?”

“I don’t care what kind of cat fight you two had that made him lock you up in that revolting bathroom, but yes, you aren’t.” Peter pauses. “I know Adam’s alive. I know they’re together.” 

Mark sighs abrasively.

“The kid would do better without him.”

They sound like gradeschoolers , for fuck sake. 

“I’ve been a detective long enough to know that killing Lawrence would send this ‘kid’ on a spiral that would not be good for society whatsoever. They seem…entangled with each other.” 

“You’re not wrong.” 

“Whatever Lawrence has done, you’ve done worse to your own kind and then some. Amanda Young?” 

Mark doesn’t respond. 

“Leave them alone,” Peter insists. “They aren’t the types for senseless violence. Don’t give either of them a reason to be.” When Mark refuses to reply again, he adds, “You got that, Hoffman?” 

“I like it better when you call me Mark.”

“Maybe I don’t think you’ve earned it yet.”

The tone shifts just a bit, enough to make Peter feel a little hot under the collar. 

“And what would I have to do to earn it?”

“For now,” Peter drives steadily down the road, more focused on his destination than he’s ever been despite many external temptations, “Just stay with me. And we’ll see where that takes us.” 

“I suppose you’re in charge now.”

Peter tries and fails to repress a smile. 

Several hours later, the evening has encroached. The sky is a lighter indigo than it normally is, cascading over the distant ocean in an inexplicably beautiful manner. Peter pulls the car up to a cliffside where the small lighthouse attached to a two-story seaside cottage resides, visibly worn and unused for many years. Mark cranes his head up so he can see it, lips tugging up at the sight. 

“Not much, huh?” he mumbles. 

Peter shrugs, taking the key out of the ignition. 

“I guess I was…giving you a meager estimate of the property.”

“I’d say.” 

He grabs the pliers before circling around the car to the backseat. He opens the door to find Mark staring backwards, up at him. The motherfucker is grinning as he carefully snips down the thick line of duct tape. Peter’s not sure why he’s trying to be delicate when they’ve both hurt each other more than is healthy, safe, or sane. The moment Mark’s arms are free, they surge up to grab ahold of his jacket. Peter tenses, fight or flight kicking in and preparing him for a brutal fight, and then he’s thrown completely off guard by the firm kiss Mark drags him down into. It’s upside down, with Mark still horizontally flat and Peter bent over him awkwardly with pliers in his grip. Peter bites his lip through in retaliation, lurching the pliers forwards dangerously fast. Mark hisses, sharply jerking away. Luckily, the pliers manage to sever the rest of his confines. 

They make eye contact for an overextended period of time. 

Mark doesn’t try to kiss him again. Peter desperately wants him to try. 

Peter tosses the pliers onto the floor of the backseat and heads inside. As his cousin promised, a key is left underneath a single potted plant by the front door. He sighs in relief and unlocks the house. He doesn’t wait to see if Mark is following; he knows he is, knows he could never resist. 

He takes in the shithole, not so dissimilar to one of Kramer’s worse for wear properties. 

It’s unkempt, likely attracting so much TLC they might as well demolish the entire thing before even attempting to fix it. However, Peter’s always coveted difficult projects. He can manage this. 

They can. 

Speaking of, Mark saunters inside curiously. 

Peter waits for his reaction or review of the future laid out before them. 

Mark scans the room, the stairs, the giant windows overlooking the cliffside and sea. With bated breath, Peter waits to hear what Mark might have to say about any aspect of this risky decision. 

“I have to piss,” Mark notes, and leaves the room. 

Peter sputters but can’t get a mere syllable out. 

He puts his hands on his hips and tries not to blow a gasket. 

By the time Mark returns, Peter is somewhat certain he’s calmed down. Enough that he doesn’t feel like wringing the guy’s neck right away, at least. 

The pipes make a gurgling, banshee-pitched screech as they work to accommodate a flushing toilet. “Plumbing works,” Mark tells him evenly, scanning the room again. “That’s neat.”

“I regret everything.” 

“Don’t talk like that, Peter,” Mark murmurs in his ear, suddenly too close for comfort. “We haven’t even christened an inch of the place yet. We could right now, y’know. Right here.” 

Peter isn’t going to dignify that come-on with a response. 

“We need to make sure there’s a place to sleep first and foremost,” Peter explains, taking the initiative and ignoring the proverbial Devil on his shoulder that Mark has always been. “Then, tomorrow, I have to drive the car to my cousin who agreed to take it for parts. That’ll give us some money anyway, for a bit, while our accounts are frozen. Eventually, we’ll have to figure out changing our identities, one or both of us getting a job, preferably work-at-home jobs…”

“You’ve got this all planned out, huh.”

Peter does look at Mark then, taken aback when he finds his eyes glistening. 

Mark is stupefied, endeared, angry all at once.

It’s a lot to take in. 

“You don’t even sound sure of yourself,” Mark accuses. “You don’t sound convinced you’ll survive the night, let alone long enough to follow through with any of this. Does that scare you?” 

“Yeah,” Peter admits simply. “It does.”

Mark scoffs, though doesn’t emit a noise.

“You could go, you know. Turn me in, do your due diligence. Explain it all, everything, to the feds. Let me escape, wait for the pin to drop before I kill Gordon, watch the likelihood of that little runt of his chasing after me for a few more months before I kill him too. Watch it all unfold behind the rim of that favorite coffee mug you used to parade around like it was your girlfriend.”

“I could.” Peter tilts his head. “Does that scare you?” 

“Yeah,” Mark replies easily. “It does.” 

Peter can feel Mark’s breath on his shoulder, always too damn close. He can’t stand it. Can’t stand the tension of not being tied by the wrist anymore, can’t stand another fucking second of it. 

With all his might, he shoves Mark backwards with two palms colliding hard into his chest.

Mark stumbles back, not quite hitting the mantle of the blackened fireplace like he wanted him to. Though Mark is backing up against it, all senses on high alert as Peter closes in for the kill. 

He kisses him hard, ripping at strands of his hair to angle Mark’s head properly so he can devour those haunting lips. Mark aligns himself against the fireplace, the top shelf of the mantel likely digging painfully into his neck, but Peter doesn’t care. He drags him closer to his own body while further pushing him into the hard lines and foundations of their new home. They snarl into each other’s mouths, nipping and battling for dominance. Mark’s fingers tear at the fabric of his clothes. The kissing, grinding, pressing of hot, aimless body parts breaks for only the amount of time it takes to slide the hoodie off himself and curl back into Mark’s all-encompassing presence. 

Mark moans as Peter trails growling kisses down his throat, hands pawing all over in him with unbidden excitement. He’s grabbing his ass, grinding into him as he bruises his hips, nibbling sharply along the vital veins throbbing along his neck. Letting out increasingly pitchy breaths. 

“You’re mine from now on,” Peter hisses out the promise. “I’ll never let them have you.” 

Mark grimaces, Peter isn’t sure from pleasure or pain. 

Then, he’s knocking a heel out to trip Peter. Peter goes flying to the floor, the weak floorboards creaking under his sudden, dead weight. He doesn’t have time to gather his wits before Mark is climbing into his lap, straddling his hips, and surging down into a fiercer, more unforgiving kiss.

“One more fucking chance, Agent Strahm,” Mark growls, eyes wild with purpose and unhinged arousal. “One more chance to leave now and never feel like this,” he reaches between them and cups a hand hard over his throbbing erection, making Peter bare his teeth, “ever fucking again.” 

“You’ll have to drag me out by my ears,” Peter hisses into his mouth.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Mark rips Peter’s shirt open, fabric tearing loudly, piercing the strange silence from the seaside, and relocates his biting kisses to his furry chest, scraping sharp-edged canines across his nipples. 

A large wave crashes against the cliff near them. 

Thunder booms very distantly. 

“Why did I never notice you?” Peter whispers, hand curling through Mark’s soft, yet somehow also wiry, hair. “Before it all went to shit, you ghosted through that job unseen. Camouflaged.”

“I worked hard to make you not see me.” 

Their intensity slows to a crawl briefly when Peter swipes a thumb over Mark’s plump bottom lip. Mark gazes up at him from behind thick lashes, resolutely patient for the first time in his life.

“I should’ve seen you.”

He doesn’t realize how self-deprecating that sounds. He’s not trying to say he missed what was right in front of him when it comes to the case. He can pour over every minute, every second he spent on that case picking apart what he missed. What he should’ve seen was Mark, as a man. 

As a person deserving of being seen amongst an identical faceless crowd. 

“You were never a bad detective,” rasps Mark. “I never felt more alive,” he swears, cupping Peter’s neck so he can drag him forward into an all-too-intimate kiss, “than when you found me.” 

Peter knows he doesn’t mean the bathroom. He knows he means originally, when Peter knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was Mark Hoffman behind all the new Jigsaw killings. 

Every fiber of Mark had been in those forgotten, rusted traps he uncovered.

Every single aching, lonely cell in Mark’s body transmuted into Kramer’s deadly machinations. Remorse oozing through the gears, and the conveyors. Shades of this complex monster Peter Strahm never wished to see, yet cannot unsee now that he’s beholding the monster in all its glory. 

“I think you wanted to be caught,” Peter snarls in spite of it all. 

He doesn’t know why he feels like it’s a win.

All he’s ever tried to do is condemn Mark as unfeeling, unencumbered by the darker functions of his mind. 

To his surprise, Mark shakes his head but says,

“I don’t know. Don’t think I’ll ever know.” 

Peter has the stark realization he knows more about Mark than Mark knows about himself. He wonders if it’s the same, the other way around. If Mark knows more about Peter than he does. 

They stare at each other, all the ferocity from moments ago banished. And yet, Peter finds himself laughing. A slow burning chuckle building up in his throat to something hysterical.

Mark laughs too, quieter and less intense, though he sees the humor. 

“I don’t think I’ve laughed since…” Peter pauses before frowning deeply at a burgeoning revelation. “I don’t think I’ve ever laughed…at anything.” Not in a way separate from cynicism, at least. 

“I’d prefer you moaning my name while I’m in your lap, but I can live with that.” 

Peter smirks at him, running hands over Mark’s hips as he ponders whether or not they should save this for later. Then he freezes as Mark brushes over the scar on his throat from the tracheotomy. Tenses when he leans down and sets his mouth on it, licking fire over the mark. 

He feels his own cock spring at the touch. 

Traitorous prick. 

Literally. 

Is he really so pent up? 

“It’s gonna take some serious work to unravel all that sexual repression you imposed upon yourself in the force,” Mark murmurs, pressing into the responding heat between his legs. 

“What about you, you sexless freak?” 

Mark chuckles, trailing open-mouthed kisses down his neck. Peter’s back is starting to hurt being on the floor this long and he considers flipping them over and regaining dominance over Mark. 

“I fuck, Strahm.”

“Yeah, I bet it’s a big old orgy over there at the Jigsaw club house.”

As if physically repulsed, Mark shudders.

“I wouldn’t touch Lawrence Gordon with a ten-foot pole.” 

“Ouch.” Does everyone hate each other in Kramer’s crew? He decides to ask Mark more about his time there later, when they’re sated. Far from the initial stages of a tumultuous co-existence. 

He’s not sure sex right now would be a good idea either. 

“Help me up,” Peter mumbles. “Please.”

Mark seems to be at peace with the fact Peter isn’t going to pull a fast one on him or run away anymore, so he moves off him and helps him stand. Peter cracks his back with a few movements. 

“Listen, about tomorrow,” Mark starts, sounding unsure. “There was a bag I was bringing with me, before I got jumped by the Doctor.” Peter regards him, confused. “I’d, uh, appreciate it if─”

“Are you asking me to retrieve it?”

Mark shifts, in a way that signifies this ‘bag’ is more than important to him. 

“I can’t show my face over there again.” 

“You think I can?”

“Lawrence has little henchmen, whatever you wanna call it. He doesn’t have the time to set up shop and wait to see if I escaped, but I guarantee he’s got those guys stationed there, waiting.”

“Brad and Ryan?”

Mark’s face twists up.

“Okay, actually, you knowing everything is starting to piss me off.”

Peter just laughs, a bit connivingly. “Yeah, I’ll take that as a compliment. Thing is, Brad and Ryan will recognize me. I met them at Gordon’s place, briefly, but still. They saw my face.”

“Damn it.” 

“But, you’re right,” Peter adds with servile surety. “Better me than you. I don’t think they’ll do anything if they see me there. I’ll make it look like I’m there on official business. I mean, they’re kids, what do they know? And I’ll be able to tell if they’re tailing me back to the lighthouse.” 

Mark gawks at him.

“You’ll get it for me?”

“Just one thing right? One bag?”

“Yeah, it is. It’s, um,” Mark glances around for a piece of paper, patting his pockets aimlessly in his disarray. He pauses with concern. “Wait, how will you shake ‘em? If they follow you here.” 

“I’m Peter fucking Strahm. I can shake them.”

“Thank you,” Mark whispers.

It feels like the tables have turned, though their proximity feels no less intense. 

There is a mattress on the second floor. 

The second floor isn’t a floor so much as a vast bedroom with an adjacent bathroom. Peter inspects the mattress for mites, fractures, anything that may indicate they need to get another. It seems in perfect condition oddly enough, but maybe that’s because it was bought and never used. It’s just dusty which Mark appears to think can be fixed by bouncing on it. Clouds of dust puff up as he sits on the edge, bouncing to and fro. Peter watches onward with stern bemusement. 

The stale air is filtered gray from the dust now. 

Peter finds an old vacuum in a storage closet and gets to work. During, Mark flits around the room, looking for small tasks. He finds nothing he can keep his fingers busy with. It’s endearing.

“Are we sleeping in the same bed?” Mark inquires gruffly even though there is only one bed in the entire property, let alone a singular bedroom. Peter whips his head back to glare at him, hard.

He shuts the vacuum off, finished anyway. 

“Are you five?”

Mark rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t exactly know what the rules are here, Pete.”

“Don’t call me Pete,” Peter growls darkly, taking a second to cool off before responding with, “Not everything in life comes with a set of rules, Jigsaw junior. Learn to live with it.” 

“I don’t want to, uh…” 

Peter turns to him again, after he finishes aligning a mattress cover with the mattress. It’s soft, a flannel rolled up into a pristine roll in the scant bedroom closet. As if his cousin just bought it. 

“Want to what? ”

“I don’t wanna fuck this up.” 

Vulnerability from Mark Hoffman? 

Peter wishes he was shocked. Mark has been vulnerable before, he just never wanted to hear it. And for good reason. What right does a serial killer have to voice deep-rooted fears, worries? 

Yet. 

“I’m not going to pull the rug out from under you,” Peter assures, with as little condescension as he can manage. “If you piss me off, I won’t backtrack. Might push you off this cliff, though.” 

A gradual smile breaks over Mark’s face.

“I can swim,” he claims.

“Thought you’d never been to the ocean.”

“One of my foster parents had a pool.” 

Peter nods, wanting to know more about his childhood under foster care. He shelves that topic for another time, silently requesting the comforter he kept for last. Mark throws it over to him. 

It’s a thick quilt that has tiny cartoon boats decorating its pastel color. 

It’s a little kiddish but they’ll live. 

“Can I introduce you to the ocean?” asks Peter. He doesn’t know why they’re talking to each other a little like they’re awkwardly asking each other to the prom, though he decides he doesn’t hate that Mark makes him feel young like that. “I haven't been in a solid number of years.” 

Mark softens, a caramelizing expression that fills Peter’s mouth with cloying sweetness and an overwhelming suffocation. He’s not sure he’s going to survive the night for this reason entirely. 

“Yeah. Sure.”

Neither of them have swimsuits. 

They walk down the cliffside on the manmade path to the shore in jackets and pants. They’re both not wearing shoes, however. He promised Mark he would enjoy the feeling of sand between his toes. They don’t speak until they’re on the beach itself. Empty for miles except for pebbles, shells, and a plain of sand extending far beyond where the eye can see. The water is aggressive. 

It crashes higher and higher, reaching their feet quickly.

“The tide is coming in,” Peter informs. 

“Is that bad?” Mark asks, like a timid kid.

Peter sighs and slaps a hand on his back.

“Nah, not really.”

A wave crashes against a rock for long enough, it crumbles. 

That process takes a millennium. 

It’s not worth concerning oneself over. 

He walks a few steps forward and sighs again as the cold water laps over his feet and extracts his stress with it, curling back into the foaming ocean. Mark steps up beside him, more circumspect. 

There’s mist on Peter’s face from the sea. He breathes it in.

When he breathes out, a deep exhale, he dares to look at Mark and startles at the sight. Mark is staring at the waves ahead, tears streaming down his cheeks. Not one sound from his parted lips. 

“Mark,” Peter voices. 

Mark catches himself, turning his head too late to hide his tears. 

“The salt’s irritating my eyes,” Mark grumbles meekly. 

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Peter answers, turning to gaze back at the ocean. “If you want a rule, there’s one for you.” Sympathy pangs unusually in his chest. “I don’t care if you cry. It’s…fine.” 

“Gee thanks.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Peter remarks. “I meant─ hey!” 

 Mark is marching off towards the path up to the house. Peter grabs him by the arm, spinning him around. Not before Mark is lurching out of his grip, eyes reddened, swollen with emotion. 

“I can’t stay here.”

“What?!”

“Not the house. I meant─the beach, it’s…” Mark sniffles, biting his lip hard to stop himself from slipping into a full blown series of sobs. His voice is unsteady when he continues. “Angelina never got to see it. Never, because I couldn’t protect her. And after everything I’ve done, I don’t deserve to see it. Not before her, not instead of her. This was all she ever wanted, and fuck, I…” 

Peter thinks it’s smart to let the confession linger. 

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” Mark finishes solemnly. 

He’s wiping the tears from his eyes, apparently over the major hump. That’s when Peter decides to close the distance between them, unsure of how to fully comfort him, but landing on taking his hand in his, and leading him back to the shore. There’s a smidge of resistance, yet Mark goes. 

When he kneels down, he tugs at Mark’s hand. 

Mark sighs and abruptly falls to his knees, playing along. 

Peter brings his hand through the waves crashing closer to them, getting their clothes wet. He guides Mark’s hands through the cool, almost clear water. Caressing his digits across the soft sand. He lets go after a minute, watching him do it by himself, mesmerized with the ocean’s unique nature. Mark is calming down in increments, enough so for Peter to voice his thoughts. 

“I didn’t know her,” Peter says. “I wish I did. She seems a hell of a lot nicer than you.” Mark scoffs lightly at that sentiment, amused and seemingly in agreement. “But I know she wouldn’t want you to be unhappy. I don’t know how she’d feel about the rest of it. But she is your sister. And if this is what would’ve made her happy, at peace, she’d want you to have it all the same.” 

Mark eyes him, dubious.

“Do you want me to have this?”

Peter swallows over a lump in his throat.

“I want your pain to stop.” He pauses, facing the horizon. “I want mine to stop too.”

Scarcely, Mark’s eyes widen. He turns to face the waves.

In the sandy mud, Mark finds a pink seashell. 

It seems to break something in Mark. 

He collapses inward, clutching the shell hard against his palm as he heaves in volumes of air. Tears spill over again, falling and dissipating into the salt water. He’s frantically attempting to catch his breath and failing, fingers scrabbling wildly for purchase in the fluid, evasive sand. 

He can’t ground himself, can’t achieve control. 

Not here. 

Peter rests a hand on his trembling shoulder, patient.

He’s not sure he’s ever been patient with anyone else.

“I just wanted him to suffer,” Mark whispers, voice shaking. He turns and looks Peter dead in the eyes. “Seth Baxter. He’s the only one. The rest of them, it was…I was chasing it. Chasing him.”

“Chasing closure his death never gave you.”

Mark looks at Peter as if he’s never seen anyone else.

“Yes.” 

They sit in silence for a long time. Mark seems less skittish, swishing his hand languidly through the friendly water, lapping at him like an old friend. Peter stays deep in thought, regarding Mark. 

He gathers water in his palm and brings it up to Mark’s face, letting it stream down his forehead. Mark closes his eyes instinctively before reopening, a questioning yet trusting glaze over them.

Peter brings more water up to him, spreading it across his scalp, slicking his hair back with it. Mark shivers, though doesn’t protest as Peter patiently and diligently works the sea water through the locks. He looks picturesque like this; as if he just emerged from the deep, cleansed. 

He looks otherworldly, always has.

Those big eyes void of something human, his lips seducing. 

Akin to a siren or another equally enticing mystical creature.

When Peter leans in to kiss him, he tastes pure salt. 

Mark is cold to the touch, yet so warm with his surprisingly tender and timid hands reaching out for Peter in response, Peter comes away from the embrace unbearably scorched to the bone. 

They fall asleep early that night, soon after dinner. 

Mark clutches a pillow to his chest and snores. While Peter feels more at peace than he ever has, ready to catch some z’s at any moment, he can’t quite convince himself he should sleep heavily. 

He wants to stay in this memory a while longer. 

And he does, until he dozes off and catches a few hours of rest in the early morning hours. Mark wakes him up inadvertently, blundering through their bedroom in search of clothes. There are old sweaters and sweatpants, work trousers and overalls. Mark picks a dark beige sweater, and baggy pants the color of midnight. Peter drowsily watches him stretch like a cat and abandon the room. 

Not even an acknowledgement of Peter’s presence. 

As if they’ve already lived here a dozen years. 

He catches one more hour of sleep before the seagulls take to the sky above their homestead with a vengeance. There is no maintenance they need to attend to for the lighthouse itself, as this particular property went out of commission with the industrial surge of navigation technology. 

So, he heads straight down to the kitchen to find Mark cooking. 

There is a dissipating scent of coffee in the air. They don’t have time to reheat it. 

“I’m not a chef,” Mark tells him. “Not really.”

“Trust me, I know.” 

“You heading out soon?”

If Peter wants to make good time, he has to. 

He nods. 

These coeds, Brad and Ryan, can’t possibly be stationed where Mark needs him to pick up that bag all day. They have lives too, errands to attend. He ponders if he’ll even run into them at all. 

“Strawberry or grape?” Mark asks. “Jam.”

Peter watches him fixedly. 

“Lingonberry,” he grumbles.

“We don’t have that.” 

It’s spoken entirely seriously. 

A laugh ruptures into Peter’s voice. 

“I was joking, Mark.”

Mark blushes a bit, embarrassed, and doesn’t ask Peter again what type of jam he prefers. It obviously doesn’t matter. Triviality doesn’t matter anymore where they’re concerned. Not here. 

Where it feels like another world altogether.

Peter is sure it’ll be a rude awakening to step back into society on this solo road trip today. When he sells the car to his cousin, he wonders what it’ll feel like after. To be tethered to this one spot. 

This one man. 

Forever.

Or till death do they part?

He considers that he’s been tethered to Mark long enough to hazard a guess. 

“You think a lot,” Mark notes.

He appears particularly kissable this morning, in that sweater. Without any reason in the way of Peter kissing him because he wants to. Peter buries the impulse for now, pouring himself water.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t know.” Mark hands Peter his plate. The toast is slightly burned but it’s slathered to death in grape jam. Peter likes his toast drowning, weirdly enough. “I don’t think as much as you do.” 

“You got that straight.”

“I walked right into that one.” 

Peter smiles, eyeing Mark’s plate. He chose strawberry. 

They eat in silence for a short interim.

“Don’t feel pressured to fix the place up,” Peter insists. “I’ll be back soon enough. It’ll be easier with four hands on deck. Maybe fix the shower curtain if you’re looking for something to do.”

“Have you forgotten I’m the engineer here?” Mark grumbles. Peter forcibly bites back a smarting rebuttal to that claim. “I don’t need to stick to shower curtains. I’ll fix the tiles in the kitchen.”

“With what tile?” 

Mark doesn’t have an answer for that.

“We’ll figure it out together, okay?” Peter swallows the last piece of his toast. He chugs down his glass of water and grabs the car keys he threw atop the counter the other day. “I gotta head out.” 

“Peter.”

“What.”

Mark stands to follow him to the front door, though he isn’t finished with his breakfast. Instead of pulling him into a passionate farewell kiss, like Peter is half expecting, he stops a foot in front of him and regards Peter from head to toe, considering something. Then, he’s leaning forward.

Pulling Peter into a hug, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders. 

Peter is so taken aback, he stands there stiff as a board until Mark begins to discreetly retreat. He doesn’t allow him to, wraps arms around his lower back, pushes his palms into the hard lines of his spine, keeping him pressed intensely near. Almost imperceptibly, Mark sighs and folds closer. 

Their cheeks touch lightly. 

It may be the gentlest Peter has ever allowed himself to be. 

And he knows it’s been a long time since Mark allowed himself to roll on his back like a wounded puppy and demand without words that his soft underbelly be caressed, doted upon. 

It’s far too ardent for what they are. 

Peter doubts they’ll get into a habit of embracing like this. 

But it makes sense right now. 

Peter doesn’t know why it does, but it does. 

“I’ll be waiting,” Mark murmurs, a promise and a parting term of endearment. He’s unable to meet Peter’s eyes as he pulls away, heading back over to return to toast that’s likely gone cold. 

“I’ll try to be quick,” Peter swears. 

He knows it will take time. He likely won’t be back until dark. 

Clenching the keys painfully tight, he leaves swiftly. 

Peter was right about the lighthouse feeling like another world. Half-way on the drive home, he starts to spiral and considers turning himself in. Bringing the feds to the lighthouse and offering Mark up like a morbid peace offering. He can’t do that; he knows he can’t, yet he thinks about it. 

And that’s just as damning as doing it. 

It’s simply the overbearing reality that this’ll be his last trip into a society he still recognizes. Grabbing the bag and bringing it back to Mark like he’s some golden retriever doing its master’s bidding will be the ultimate test of whether or not Peter wants to live the life he’s condemned himself to. A life of senseless forgiveness, untenable passion, and a disregard for all morality. 

Or rather, the morality he’s unrelentingly structured his life around.

Mark must know that. He must’ve when he hugged him, knowing that it may be the last touch he could ever revel in before Peter would come to his senses, bringing the house down around them. 

That’s the hitch.

Peter isn’t coming to his senses. All signs are pointing to the sea, back where Mark is warm and waiting and wanting. The urge to destroy it all, and watch it implode, is born purely out of fear. 

He’s afraid of the man he already is. 

Afraid he gave in so easily.

Afraid Curtis Amspoker was always right. 

Peter Strahm has never cared to be wrong. 

And maybe it’s not fear but the fact he’ll always be a stickler about sticking to his guns. As much as he tries, he’ll never outrun how stubborn he is. But he doesn’t have to let his unwavering tendencies rule him. 

Although reckless, Peter puts extra pressure on the gas pedal. 

He zooms through the remainder of his drive.

There was an explosion at the site Mark sent him to. 

Luckily, the police haven’t located the charred remains of it yet. A bag lies several feet away from the explosion; Peter can picture Mark collapsing after Lawrence managed to subdue him. 

He picks it up and considers rifling through it. 

Peter decides it’s best to keep that for later, perhaps when he has Mark’s input. 

He flits around the scene, pretending to do police work. 

He doesn’t feel any eyes on him, however, and he’s usually right about that sort of thing having been in this business for most of his adult life. He leaves after a few more minutes of scrutiny. 

Nothing remains except fragmented parts of dolls and traps. 

The FBI will have nothing to work with, as always. 

They’ll never know about Lawrence Gordon, his two young ‘henchmen’ as Mark puts it, or Adam Stanheight being alive. They won’t know about any more apprentices hidden in the sidelines. Jigsaw will fade into obscurity, hopefully, and it’ll eventually become a dead case. 

As dead as Peter is to society.

As dead as Mark.

He thinks, for once, he doesn’t fear death. 

Not if he has someone to share it with. 

When he returns home later that night, it’s to a sight he could’ve never expected.

Mark got the TV on the mantel working, and the internet, a mystery Peter will have to grill him on later. For now, he’s distracted by the breathing white lump on Mark’s lap, smaller than the TV remote lying next to it. Mark doesn’t get up to greet him, but he grins from the ugly floral couch.

He lifts up the thing─a kitten─loosely by its neck.

“What d'ya think of this?” Mark asks. 

The kitten mewls, eyes barely open. 

“I…that’s a cat.”

“Yeah.”

There is a criminal lack of elaboration going on here. 

“Where…?”

“Are you allergic?”  

Peter drops the keys on the coffee table as he walks closer, getting a better look at the squirming kitten that Mark is still holding by the skin of its neck. He doesn’t know how to tell him he’s holding it wrong without upsetting him, but really only mother cats should be doing it this way.

“No,” he answers Mark. “Here.”

He reaches out. Mark plops it down in the palm of one of his hands. It fits, small as it is. Peter handles it gently, turning it over on its back to inspect the thing. Weirdly, she looks very healthy. 

“It’s a girl,” he murmurs. “Mark, what the fuck?”

“I went down to the hardware store─”

Peter interrupts, hastily taming the pitch of his voice to not startle the kitten.

“I told you to wait.”  

“─and I found the thing in a dumpster.”

A pang strikes Peter right through the chest.  

At least he knows his meter for empathy isn’t broken. 

“Hey, there,” Peter whispers softly in the little kitten’s ear. He’s never been an animal guy, but he’s also never been a monster. He can appreciate their ‘cuteness’ for lack of a better term. “Hi.” 

“Couldn’t leave it there,” Mark finishes blankly. “Her.” 

He wants to tell Mark he did the right thing but he’s too shocked by the situation to begin with. They have a cat now, Peter guesses. They can’t just go willy-nilly and hand it off to the local pound. Not yet. Not while they have to be sensitive about showing their faces in civilization. 

He supposes there isn’t anything wrong with nursing it, helping it thrive. 

Maybe just until she’s of an age where they can entrust her to someone else. 

Somehow, Peter knows that future will likely never come. 

He cradles the kitten to his chest, supporting its hindlegs as she paws aimlessly at his shirt.  He pets her with two fingers, crooning soft nothings at her, and subconsciously begins to bounce her. 

Mark watches with awe.

“You’re really taking to this,” he mutters.

Peter bares his teeth, bitter at being called out.

“Did you name her?” he asks, in lieu of senseless cruelty.

“Found her squirming around in an egg carton,” Mark mentions, scratching the back of his neck. “I sort of keep calling her Egg.” The kitten meows loudly, fiercely even, as if to affirm the name. 

Peter chuckles. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Weird name, but okay.”

“She was also starving so I had to stop for groceries, cook up some kitten milk replacer. I’m not sure how sufficient it is but she seemed to quiet down when I fed her, so,” Mark rambles on.

“You did an okay job.”

“Gee thanks.”

“No, I mean it,” Peter assures. “Really.”

Mark stands up and scratches underneath Egg’s ear. 

Egg mewls, settling more comfortably into Peter’s palm. 

“You get my bag?” Mark asks quietly, as if afraid of the answer. 

“Yep.” A beat passes before Peter adds, “Should I know what’s inside?” 

Mark shrugs. “I’d rather you didn’t, but I’m not stopping you.”

“Good to know.” 

Mark heads off to the kitchen, not saying a word more. 

Peter had walked home from his cousin’s place after exchanging the car, so he’s too tired to go make himself dinner or do anything other than sit in the warmth Mark cultivated on the couch. 

Petting Egg is ridiculously soothing.

He’s almost upset at how easily having a pet in his vicinity is calming him down, because he could’ve utilized this factoid about himself a long time ago had he had any inkling. 

Egg meows dazedly, pawing at him. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Peter whispers.

It is okay, he believes. It will all be okay. 

They finally rock Egg to sleep. 

She’s a bit feisty, and hard to put down. But once she’s out, she’s out like a light. An old pillow from the storage closet is used as a makeshift cat bed. They leave her upstairs in their bedroom as they tip-toe down the steps to share a nightcap. It doesn’t take long to pour drinks, sit down. 

“Do you remember when we first met?” Peter questions, half-way through his scotch. The ice crackles as he swishes the liquid around the clear perimeter. 

“Sure.” Mark lets out an amused chortle, eyes dancing over the memory as they speak. “I was trying to convince you Amanda and John were working alone. You didn’t buy it for a second.” 

Peter scoffs and shakes his head.

"That's not when we first met."

Mark is quiet for a bit, proving that Peter's stumped him for real this time.

Then, Mark sets his own drink down.

“Jesus, Peter. That was a long time ago.”

Good, he does remember then. 

“José's going away party,” Peter recalls aloud in order to set the scene. “Which happened to double as the department’s Christmas party. Normally I would never even attend one of those─”

“Neither would I.”

“─but José was a good guy.”

Mark doesn’t confirm or deny that much. 

“Angelina encouraged me to go.”

Had it been that long ago Angelina was still alive? Peter wonders how fresh her death was after the party. If it happened a month later, or a handful of years. He can't remember when she died. He can't remember much of anything while on the force. Time blurred together. He got partner after partner, hands bloodied by each exchange. One morning, he looked in the mirror to see a scared young boy, and the next, he saw a man nearing his middle-age eroded into an empty husk.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don't remember speaking to you,” Peter murmurs. How could he? He can't even remember if he’d been promoted to the bureau yet or not. He was, he thinks.

“You didn't.” Mark reminds him, reminiscing on the meeting fondly, apparently. “I did though, just kept saying ‘excuse me.’ We bumped into each other. There was, um, mistletoe I think.”

He admits it in a secretive way that informs Peter he recalls these pointless aspects of their shared memory with excruciating detail.

“God, that's right,” Peter muses.

Mark had been entering the main office where the party was, from the corridor, while Peter had been trying to sneak out unseen. He was never a social creature, regardless of his rookie naivety. 

It was one of those awkward moments where they tried to navigate around each other but kept moving at the same time and couldn't quite squeeze by without their chests colliding. He remembers Mark avoiding eye contact at all costs. He also remembers glancing up to discover mistletoe, and that being a motivator to grab Mark by the shoulders, push the lumbering man aside, and scatter from the premises. Mark had gruffly apologized, far too late for Peter to reply.

“Maybe I should’ve kissed you,” Peter grumbles, honing in sharply on the ticking clock nearby. He doesn’t remember a clock being on the property. “Wonder where that would’ve led us.”

“Here?” Mark suggests. “Somewhere else entirely, maybe.”

“Do you think I could’ve talked you out of killing Seth Baxter?”

“Do you think I could’ve convinced you to join me in doing so?”

They meet each other’s eyes, lightening ricocheting between them. 

The tips of Peter’s fingers tingle with opportunity. 

He sips at his drink and ruminates.

“I wanna fuck you at the top of the lighthouse,” Mark states. 

As if he’s suggesting what to have for dinner. 

Peter gauges him, waiting until he squirms before he offers the gift of a reply. 

“Let me down one more drink so I can stomach having sex with you.”

Mark smirks, a slow-acting poison that ignites a fire in Peter that doesn’t fade until it’s stoked on the balcony of the lighthouse. The air is cold up there, tickling their skin with harsh, unforgiving winds. It’s several minutes after the perfunctory preparation; Mark is fucking into him at a rhythmic yet agonizing slow pace. Each thrust is punishing, though distributed with so much passion it has Peter crying out even as he attempts to reign in every traitorous moan and wail. 

Thankfully the ocean beneath them drowns out the worst of it. 

Mark strokes one hand over his back, finding his neck and clasping so tight, weighing him down, that Peter is forced to bend over the railing even further. When he opens his eyes, he’s struck with vertigo. There are rocks below, waves crashing viciously against the cliffside. Peter gasps. 

“I wish someone was sailing out there,” Mark’s voice rumbles low by his ear. “Just passing by, so that they could see you up here being taken by me. You’re mine, and if they saw this…no one could deny it.” 

“Fuck off,” Peter murmurs, strained with pleasure. 

Mark has a firm grip on his hip with his other hand, pulling him back into the sharp stabs of his cock. Peter nearly bends the metal railings with how tight he’s holding on in order to take it. 

“Do you know how many times I jerked off thinking about having you like this?” Mark’s voice travels down his spine with his teeth as he gnaws love-bites into the unblemished skin. “God, when you survived the trap I initially rigged, it got me so hot. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Don’t talk about that shit while your dick’s inside me,” Peter hisses.

Mark picks up the pace, knocking a feverish moan out of him. Desperately, Peter throws a hand back, grasping for any part of Mark he can grab. Pulling him closer, harder against him. 

“Damn right,” Mark hisses back. “You’re shameless. Don’t pretend you’re not.” 

Peter screws his eyes shut and ignores the impulse to flip them around and toss Mark off the balcony. The blood would spatter across the rocks and seep into the ocean. It could be beautiful. 

He moans weakly at the thought, thighs shaking. 

“That’s it, baby,” Mark croons, and Peter’s too far gone to deny him the pleasure of using that term. “Come on.” He fucks harder into Peter, trying to catapult them both to the finish line. 

He wraps a muscled arm around and begins to stroke his cock.

Peter collapses, nearly losing his grip on the railing.

It’s exhilarating. 

He bites through his lip in an effort not to cry out at every burning hot stroke of Mark’s calloused fingers. Then, come is jetting out of him, disappearing off the side of the lighthouse and into the water. He can’t see it past a few feet, and would question if he came at all if it wasn’t for the whitening pleasure wracking him head to toe, perpetuated by Mark’s animalistic thrusts. 

“Peter,” Mark rasps on his neck.

The word is full of emotion, specifically one emotion Peter wants to pretend he isn’t bearing witness to in all its glory. Distraction comes in the form of Mark’s orgasm, torn out of him. 

His groan staggers, as Mark tries to bury half of it in Peter’s skin. 

Mark pumps his hips into him a few more times before pulling out entirely and leaving Peter to experience an unpleasant cold gust of wind on his damp inner thighs. It’s somewhat awkward, to grab their clothes and the towels they brought upstairs and retreat from the balcony where they just─

Yeah. 

Later, in their bedroom, after Mark’s played with Egg to wear her out, who stirred to wobbly wakefulness the moment they entered, Peter bends down to get a closer look at the satchel he retrieved from Jigsaw’s final worksite. 

Mark is leaning against an array of pillows barriered on the headboard. Egg is splayed out on his chest, asleep now, and he’s rolling his knuckles over her delicate spine, staring absently at Peter. 

He doesn’t say anything as Peter zips open the bag. 

Peter glances once at Mark before digging through the contents. 

There aren’t nearly as many things as he expected there to be. 

There’s a few weapons Peter discards as useless. 

There is a fake ID of Mark under a new identity. He wonders if Mark worked to create this persona himself or if John printed out fake IDs for all his disciples, in case of an emergency.  

There are non-perishable foods. 

Then, he finds a framed photo of John and Amanda together. 

Amanda is posing for the photo, appearing macabrely giddy, and there is a dead look in John’s eyes as he gracefully accepts the arm she’s thrown around his shoulder. He’s sitting in a wheelchair; it’s more recent than not.

Peter gazes at the photo for a minute, unsure what to glean from why Mark was carrying this around and saved it from the explosion. 

Mark remains silent.

The only other object of note is a book. 

It’s quite thin, and Peter is shocked to find it is a singular poem.

The Ballad of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde. 

It sounds familiar. 

Peter flips through the pages, heart stopping for a beat as he catches sight of the excerpt Curtis Amspoker once recited to him. It can’t possibly be a coincidence.

“Why do you have this?” he asks unsteadily. 

He locates the only verse Mark has bookmarked. 

Silently we went round and round,

And through each hollow mind

The Memory of dreadful things

Rushed like a dreadful wind,

And Horror stalked before each man,

And Terror crept behind.

“This one always stuck with me,” Mark replies. “Don’t know why.” 

That answer doesn’t satisfy Peter.

He rereads the bookmarked verse over and over and tries to understand why the universe seemingly wove them together with the hands of fate, like they’re threads without free will. 

He wonders if he cares how the destiny of it all doesn’t irk him. 

“Oh,” Mark adds. “I got it from your office, actually.”

Peter perks up.

Not fate then, but─Mark Hoffman inserting himself in every nook and cranny in his life. 

“Huh?”

“Meant to return it to you.” He shrugs. “I’m not the type to ask to borrow shit.”

“I don’t think you forgot you grabbed this from my office,” mumbles Peter. He thinks Mark was carrying this around knowing Peter could’ve been taken from him at any minute, for any reason. 

He's more of a sentimental fool than Peter could've ever predicted. 

“Think what you want.”

Egg mewls as Mark tenderly relocates her to the makeshift cat bed on the floor. Peter watches as he pets her soothingly until she swiftly dozes back off, then he rises, ghosting back over to their bed. 

Mark watches Peter unreadably. 

“I wasn’t holding onto it because I liked it,” Peter explains. 

“Maybe I can read it to you,” Mark suggests quietly, gauging. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.” 

Peter climbs under the covers, never taking his eyes off Mark. 

“Maybe I will,” he murmurs, sliding forward until their chests are touching and their hearts are beating rapidly against one another. Mark holds him close immediately. “Maybe tomorrow night.” The ocean waves lull him into a near-unconscious state. “We have eons of time for me to come around to it.” Peter can feel Mark’s smile on the top of his head, slow and understanding. 

“Yeah, we do.”