Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The earring that Hoffman had oh-so-kindly left in Strahm’s apartment, the one that Strahm had almost feverishly shoved through the unbroken, virgin skin of his ear lobe, had infected Strahm’s ear to the point that even the breeze brushing against it as he walked to the corner store and back was horrendously painful. He’d had worse injuries, his throat still fucking killed, but the dull, poisonous throb of his ear was getting to him a little bit. A reminder that he was a horny, lust addled cretin who split his own skin apart for Mark Hoffman, of all people. It didn’t help that he couldn't stop fiddling with it either. 

He twirled and twiddled until there was clear, repugnant liquid on his hands which made him curl up his lip and slap a hand against his forehead. It was gross, is what it was. He dabbed a clean flannel against his ear, earring in a glass of rubbing alcohol and he vowed not to touch it for at least a couple of days. Which is also when he would go to Hoffman’s apartment and throw it back at him. Really toss it. Maybe it would skewer into his big, bawdy chest like a harpoon and Strahm could be done with him. 

Maybe he could get over this ridiculous obsession he had churning in the surly depths of his stomach.

It was possible. 

So far, since fucking Hoffman, he’d vacuumed his apartment, dusted, cleaned out his fridge and bought a selection of beers that he’d immediately drank and weirdly felt a lot better about everything that had happened to him in the last couple of weeks. His place looked pretty presentable, if he did say so himself. Somewhere you might bring guests around if you were that way inclined. Strahm scraped a finger over the cleanest kitchen countertops he’d ever had, it almost could bring a tear to his eye. 

It was overcompensation at its finest, of course. 

If you had bleach burns from how clean you suddenly decided to keep your ratty, boring bachelor pad, it was because you were trying to not think about the swollen, pulsating lump that was your infected ear which kept you up at night with thoughts of some rat bastard’s big fat lips and his soft doughy thighs wrapped around your hips as you fucked him harder and better than you’d fucked your wife on your wedding night. 

Strahm rolled his shoulder, jaw tight and mouth tacky as he pressed the cool flannel back against his ear. He could have gone to get some antibiotics for it, but that seemed like giving up somehow, the shallow gaze of his general practitioner as she clucked her tongue and raised her eyebrows. Feeling a little daring, Peter? It’s what she had said when he broke his wrist attempting to jump over the bonnet of his car once. In hindsight, it was one of the funnier things he had ever done and the gormless look of sheer confusion on Perez’s face had been something to behold. 

The delicious snap of a bone in the line of duty wasn’t exactly the same as his red, raw ear though. There was no heroic feeling. It wasn’t shameful either. He just felt stupid . 

At seventeen he had ridden his dirt bike, completely new and splattered with beautiful blue accents, into the side of a hill. He had felt a sense of complete and unbridled joy for a split second after jumping a mound on the track him and his friends used to ride around, before it had all come hurtling down on top of him and his skull had shaken so violently in his helmet that he thought he might never be the same. 

Maybe he never had been. 

Afterwards, Strahm had told everyone it was because his girlfriend was there and he wanted to impress her that badly. In truth, his best friend’s older brother who had a leather jacket and long, almost pitch black hair had been beaming at them from the side lines. Tossing his hand about in the air and whooping. Strahm remembered the way he jolted his head to look at him, the air around him caught him in its grasp and everything slowed down for a second and he could almost see the split ends in the older boy’s hair and the dirt under his fingernails as he cheered them on. Cheered him on, perhaps. 

Then he had crashed his bike and chipped a tooth, he remembered that bit well because he’d spat it onto the dirt as the older brother had wandered over. He had looked at Strahm like he was the most dimwitted creature on the planet. Spitting blood and specks of enamel at him. 

It was the only other time he’d felt so mind numbingly stupid as he did post-Hoffman. 

Ah. Speak of the devil. 

His phone buzzed from the kitchen counter, the sound bright and it made his insides shake around strangely because no doubt it was another text from the man himself. The count at that point had gone up to twelve and Strahm was sure if he ignored him for the rest of time, Hoffman still wouldn’t ever give up. He’d just keep bothering him until they were both grey bones in a grave. Hopefully in separate graves and hopefully both very dead so Strahm could get some peace from the lumbering idiot. 

He scowled, he could feel the way his eyebrows knit together with the motion; because Hoffman wasn’t even really an idiot. He was the epitome of just some guy and given the amount of books, films and music that was stuffed to the brim into the crevices of his apartment, he at least had an appreciation for the things that Strahm considered to be reasons to be alive. If there was anything that might bring you back from a stony, cold depression it might have been John Carpenter’s The Thing and if it didn’t make Peter Strahm feel a bit off kilter to think about how Hoffman might feel the same way. 

He pressed his thumb down into the button that popped open the SMS from Hoffman and the twitch at the corner of Strahm’s mouth was simply at the concept of his gorilla-like hands smashing at the buttons again and again until he could cajole Strahm into being interested in whatever babble he had to say. He probably fucked it up multiple times before he could hit the send button and that made Strahm feel much better as he scanned his eyes over the message, the prickle of annoyance ghosting over his top lip and making it crackle with irritation. Like someone had stuck pin pricks into his skin. He wiped away a brief spot of sweat that he wasn’t aware had dribbled down and wrapped his gaze over the message a final time. 

The wndw of my office is open. Mayb u wudnt need to br8 in this time. 

Peter had a niece who had gotten a Motorola V220 phone (pink) a few months ago and she texted surprisingly similar to Hoffman. Giddy at the chance to get into a new age of communication which also allowed her to listen to Ciara from the same device she would beg Uncle Pete to send her cash for her birthday this time and not Polly Pockets. 

Strahm wondered if she shared that interest with Hoffman too. 

The window was open. Only a slither, but it backed onto the department's fire escape and wouldn’t that have been just the icing on the cake? Taken off the case to rest and recuperate, and instead of doing that Peter was found scaling the metal laddering like some sort of pervert Spider-Man, on his way to see the jack-off he’d been hollering about finding suspicious not too long ago. Plus, he hadn’t decided to come for any reason other than the fact he wanted to hand Hoffman his earring back. He clasped it stiffly in the pocket of his jacket, the little plips of rain dashing against it as he pressed his thumb into the prong of the earring, daring to push it a little further and ruin yet another slab of his skin. 

Hoffman sat, smug as ever, in his huge, weathered leather chair, piles of papers smothered across the dark wood of his desk as Strahm wrenched open the window and his long legs slipped across the threshold. He shook himself like a dog once on dry land, Hoffman still beaming at him like someone had just pulled the silver casing off of the world’s biggest turkey. Strahm could see it now, he’d be slathered in butter and the slippery slice of Hoffman dragging a knife up and down a sharpening steel stick echoed in his brain until Hoffman broke the silence by tapping a finger against the desk. 

Suddenly, Strahm felt very silly. Out of place. Unwanted in this precinct. 

Then, Hoffman smiled softer, secretive. 

“Glad you got my message.” 

Strahm ignored him for the moment, deciding instead to shove both hands into his pockets and hope to God that nobody noticed him in there, something that Hoffman seemed to pick up fast enough that he was out of the chair, which creaked in his great wake. He fiddled with the blinds of the office, shuttering them closed and then deposited his big behind onto the edge of the desk, the picture of casualness and coolness. Or probably so he thought. To Strahm, he mostly just looked like a massive, slightly sweaty, middle aged man. 

Sadly enough, they both were exactly that. 

He licked his lips, 

“Messages, actually. You sent me a shit ton. It’s why I’m here, to tell you to stop bothering me in my private domicile.” He fingered the rim of a coffee cup and watched as Hoffman’s eyes went bright at the corners, ever the perfectly pretending host. He made a break for the coffee machine, messing around with it until the calming rumble of coffee being brewed cradled the sounds of their conversation. 

Hoffman’s hand came out and Strahm flinched away, but all that came with the action was Hoffman murmuring, 

“What’s in your pocket?” 

Strahm swallowed involuntarily, 

“You left your trash in my apartment.” 

The frown Strahm was met with was mildly funny, as though Hoffman really had no clue as to what he alluded to, so Strahm tugged his hand from his pocket. Unfurling it so that Hoffman could peer over and for a second he went up onto his tip-toes to get a better look, despite the fact they were almost the same height. Strahm wanted to dig his teeth so far into his jugular that there was no way he could come back from it. 

“That’s not trash, that’s my earring?” 

“No shit.” Strahm kept the bark at bay, settling on grinding his teeth together, “What if it had fallen onto the floor and pierced my foot?” 

After a brief pause and a heady rolling look up and down of Strahm, Hoffman’s glee was unmeasurable. 

“So—What?—Did it fly up and pierce your ear instead?” Hoffman winced but it was all for show, shaking out a packet of brown sugar, the thin ones they had in pots at cafés. Strahm could just see it, Hoffman stuffing his pockets full of them to line this shitty little faux-Parisian setup he had going in his office. Probably bought the fucking coffee machine with his last Christmas bonus for being such a good little piggy. Strahm took a breath which was stifled by Hoffman continuing, almost jovially, 

“That looks pretty fucking grim. You want an aspirin?” 

“An aspirin?” Strahm could feel the vein back to its almost perpetual state of pulsing, “I want an apology.” 

He threw the earring with all his might and it bounced lamely against the front of Hoffman’s work suit. It was pinstriped in grey and fit him well, frustratingly. They both peered at the earring which fell to the floor with nothing more than an almost inaudible tinkle, then rolled away and underneath the bureau that the coffee machine was deposited on. 

Hoffman’s head rose like a great beast of the plains and he blinked slowly at Strahm, 

“You take sugar, right?” 

His lapels were grasped in Strahm’s grip so quickly that when he might have thought about the action later in the day, all that registered was a blur of colour and sensation before Hoffman’s thighs met the back of the desk and Strahm shook him for all he was worth. Frustration whipped a frenzy of crackling energy that had Hoffman grinning at him and after a second all Strahm could do was laugh, weary and low as he released Hoffman and let his face fall into the crook of his shoulder. 

“Two.” 

Peter winced as Mark’s thumb dragged across his throbbing ear lobe, itching to shove him away but it wasn’t easy to hide the real reason he had driven in the rain to come and see a man he proclaimed to not like or trust in any manner of the human experience. 

“Two sugars? Baby, you’re sweet enough.” 

Strahm groaned. If his life was a joke then it wasn’t particularly funny. 

The blinds didn't ascend the entire time Strahm perched himself on the edge of the desk, Hoffman slumped in his chair as he sipped on coffee and used his work computer to look up the best home remedies for an infected ear. Which made Strahm hate him even more but at least when he was engrossed in shoving his snub face into the screen of his computer, he irritated him less. His forefinger scrolling through a page on some hippy-dippy website about dipping leafs and shit into hot water and then holding a compress against the infection. 

“My sister didn’t take a painkiller for the last five years of her life. She’d just do this sort of nonsense and claim she felt better.” Hoffman’s eyes didn’t leave the screen and Strahm lifted his piping hot drink to his mouth as a respite from the sudden, clamouring of sentiment that had flooded into the space. “She had a couple years in the 90s when she was into all that witchy bullshit. Remember how there’d always be a psychic goth girl in films?” His eyes finally met Strahm’s and the man nodded jerkily so Hoffman continued, “She loved that. Wanted to be Wiccan or whatever.” 

“She looked like she fit the part.” 

Hoffman’s finger stopped scrolling, 

“What’s that mean?” 

The sides of Strahm’s neck flourished into a red hot column of heat and awkwardness. He sort of had assumed that Hoffman knew that Strahm had rifled through his drawer and thumbed into the photo album and stared at it like some sort of weirdo home invader. Evidently, with the darkness to his eyes and the way his hair was beginning to slip from its cocoon of wax, maybe he didn’t. 

Strahm opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then said, 

“What? You think the entire time I was snooping around your place I wasn’t rooting around your shit?” Hoffman seemed to mellow a little at the honesty, sinking into the chair a touch and the sole of his shoe scraped across the dull carpet to thunk against the rubber of Strahm’s own. “You had some good holiday snaps.” Strahm breathed.

“Do you think you should be trying to connect with me like that? On a human level?” The question from Hoffman was completely baffling and it riled Strahm up in the way he wondered deeply if that had been the intention, which in turn made the muscle in his arm jerk and he almost ended up spilling what was left in his coffee cup over Hoffman’s lap. 

“We’re talking. I talk with criminals all the time. Used to spend time in places you got put when you did really fucked up things for fun.” Strahm rolled his shoulder, voice dipping into that scratchy register it couldn’t help but tumble into since he’d shoved a bundle of plastic into his trachea. It mostly appeared when he was stressed and wasn’t actively thinking about tone. 

The page that Hoffman had open with infection remedies was closed sharply, 

“You’ll go to your grave thinking I’m a killer.” 

It wasn’t a question. But it also didn’t hide behind any kind of pretence that Hoffman wasn’t amused by the play Strahm was acting in, so Strahm couldn’t help but curl his mouth into a crinkling smile and it reached all the way to his eyes before he could stop himself. 

“Yeah. Maybe. Guilty until proven innocent.” Strahm shrugged.

Hoffman’s foot butted against Strahm’s again. 

“That’s disgusting. You shouldn’t be in your line of work with ethics like that.” 

The way his voice rumbled out of him had Strahm vividly aware that the cartilage and tendons in his knees were distinctly more unsteady than usual and his hips jolted to the side as he wobbled slightly and his buttocks slipped off the desk that had just been holding them aloft. Hoffman caught the motion and grinned. Then laughed behind a big hand which then was offered to Strahm to steady himself. 

“Jesus. We fuck once and you’re like this?” Hoffman tutted.

Strahm punched his fist into the soft centre of Hoffman’s palm as hard as he could and all it did was make Hoffman laugh harder, eyes soft and hot before he attempted to grab at Strahm’s hips. Pull him closer and make Strahm do something stupid a second time. 

Strahm resisted the best he could, dancing away from him and slamming the coffee cup down on the bureau so hard that it made the back of his own teeth rattle a little. When he whirled around, Hoffman had his elbow propped on his desk and he looked up at Strahm in a way that made him equal parts angry and maybe a little bit hot under the collar too. 

The look actually did wonders for the dark circles underneath Hoffman’s eyes and the tired, almost sour downturn that his lips attempted to tug themselves into when he stopped slapping them back up into a smile. When Strahm really looked at him, beneath the jokes and bravado, he looked beat. 

“You know, you look like you could do with about one hundred and twenty winks.” Strahm glanced casually at the window, hoping Hoffman got the idea that he was inkling to leave, “Something on your mind?” 

Hoffman scoffed, “C’mon. We both went through Jigsaw’s tests and now I’ve got a whole department on my back to deliver some sort of real answer. Kind of feel like that warrants being a little fucking worn out.” 

“S’interesting.” Strahm stuffed his hands into his pockets. 

“What is?”

“You say tests.” Strahm cocked his head to the side a little, “You don’t say traps. You say tests.” 

“That’s my prerogative, Detective. You going to get the fuck out of my office like you’re dying to do or are you going to come over here and—What?—What was the intention here?” There was a moment of silence and then Hoffman had shuffled himself onto his knees and was rooting around underneath the bureau where the earring had rolled itself under. His hand dragging it out and then he dropped it onto the desk, the rounded head of the diamante bulb teetered around the wood before ending its jaunt with a last, singular roll. Strahm wished that it was in Hoffman’s ear still and maybe that they were both in their early 30s and he didn’t have so many fucking to contend with to have a simple interaction with someone. 

“Thanks, man. Maybe I did want this thing back after all.” Hoffman’s finger lingered for a second to the right of the earring and Strahm could feel him looking at the red, broken skin of his ear. 

Strahm’s mouth was dry as hell, 

“I never finished my beer.” 

Hoffman frowned, “What does that mean?”

“You offered me a beer when I broke into your place. I never finished it.” He shrugged, trying to make himself as non-threatening as possible and the hungry look Hoffman gave him in return made him want to crawl out of his skin and hit him all in one movement. “You got that big, jerk-off television. You like films?”

Hoffman scoffed, “Do I like films?” 

Strahm swallowed, aware that Hoffman had slunk closer and before his mouth found the skin underneath Strahm’s jaw, Peter managed to groan up and through his throttled throat, 

“You like Carpenter?” 

Mark moaned. 

~

It was completely ludicrous, if his sister was anywhere near at the point of talking to Peter after the huge bust up they’d had in March of 2003 then she would have raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms. She used to look at Peter like he was eleven years old once more and he’d tracked dirt into the house from soccer practice, straight onto mom’s clean carpets and into the watchful eyes of a sibling who waited for him to do something stupid so she could tattle on him. 

Instead of trailing soil and grass onto cream carpets, Strahm had shaved his chin and put on a clean t-shirt to stand and almost sweat through it as he wobbled from foot to foot outside of Hoffman’s front door. It felt wrong to be coming in through the front. It would have been infinitely funnier and in character if he had ripped open the window and barrel rolled in, gun in hand. Gun was most definitely not in hand but it was in its holster underneath his armpit, if Hoffman had a problem he would cordially take it out, show him he meant no harm and then place it on the coffee table. 

Even Stevens. 

No hostility and so what if he kept plying Hoffman with drinks until he admitted that he knew more than he let on. A slip up on Hoffman’s end, but it wouldn’t be as though Strahm had beaten it out of him. No violence. No guns. Just two guys who didn’t even really like each other, sitting down to watch films and drink a couple of beers. It was the picturesque view of modern America, really. 

The Hoffman that greeted him at the threshold of the door was someone completely different than the ones Strahm had encountered in the past weeks. No suit. No hair wax. Goose-flesh broke out across the back of his neck and Strahm could only think that this was how people in horror films must have felt when they came across the great, pale, unknown creature that lurked in the basement. Only human enough to know what could hurt you and still otherworldly enough to make you feel like looking upon it was borderline sacrilegious. 

In truth, it was just Hoffman in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, much like the one Strahm was wearing. Either way, it was kind of fucked. 

“Is there any way you could look at me without looking like you’re gonna hurl?” Hoffman began his shuffle back into the main room without any other preamble, his hand hitching up his jeans a little. No belt. Strahm shook his head a little, why would he be wearing a belt in his own home anyway? His eyes followed the motion anyway, aware that jeans slipping down your ass was an indicator that you’d lost weight, if even just a little. 

He understood. You got wrapped up in things and forgot to eat lunch. 

Most days he spent hours thinking about Jigsaw until his head ached and finally, at about five o’clock, he’d would realise he hadn’t eaten all day and would order something. He was in the worst shape of his life. He clenched his fist by his side as Hoffman led him into the warm, scarily welcoming bough of his abode. The fingers of temperate lamplight curling around his legs and coercing him into walking right into the lion’s den.

He should take up jogging. Get himself into some semblance of shape where if something were to happen to him, he could fight back. He was still comfortable in the knowledge that he could beat the ever living shit out of Hoffman, but he had spent a little too long sitting on the couch the past couple of weeks since his all-but-discharge. If his working theory was correct, it was at least slightly likely there was a collection of little Jigsaw acolytes hanging around New Jersey, butting elbows and ripping people to pieces in the name of some dead old fuck.

“Beer.” Hoffman grunted, one in each hand and Strahm had barely noticed him digging through the fridge to get them, completely lost in the idea that Hoffman looked like he should be big all over and suddenly he was ravenous. Salivating at the idea of eating anything, just to be able to watch Hoffman stuff his face right next to him. He ran a shaking hand through the hair at the crown of his head, completely confused as to where the thought had come from but for the moment, it was all he could think about. He wanted to push his hand down the back of his jeans and feel the waistline constrict the blood flow from his wrist. 

Jesus Christ. He used to make his wife her favourite meals at the drop of a hat when she was looking a little down. 

He wasn’t an asshole. He’d never been an asshole.

And he wanted to be an asshole to this man, this snake with something slithering behind his eyes that made Strahm think he was up to nothing but maliciousness, but instead he took the beer from his hand, nodded in thanks and suggested slowly, 

“You got good pizza places around here?”

~

The steady stream of beer Strahm was supplying Hoffman from his own fridge was hampered only by the pizza Hoffman was guzzling down at such a rate that the concept of him not eating properly recently might have been correct. He looked like he hadn’t had a full meal in, well, probably the same amount of time Strahm also hadn’t had one. His fingers were damp with grease and his eyelids heavy and happy as Strahm passed him another beer. As it was passed over, it almost slipped out of his grasp and Strahm caught it just in time. His fingers grazed Hoffman’s as he handed it over a second time, Hoffman nodding in thanks and there was an itch at the back of his skull that this wasn’t humane in some way. 

Deceitful and wrong to try and press information out of a man who was probably, in his own fucked up Hoffman way, just trying to be kind to him. 

His throat ached and Hoffman took a gulp of beer to wash down the mass of pizza he’d been chewing over. He burped quietly behind his hand and cleared his throat afterwards, before murmuring, 

“Damn. Excuse me.” 

Strahm’s teeth ground together. 

It was in no way endearing but he wanted to kiss him all the same. Then headbutt him a little perhaps, just for good measure. 

“I forgot to feed my dog breakfast and dinner once, when I was about thirteen years old and my parents had left me and my sister alone.” Strahm started, watching as Hoffman’s eye tracked from the centre of the television over to his peripherals, waiting for Strahm to finish whatever diatribe was no doubt coming, “And even he had better table manners than you when he was fucking starving.” 

Hoffman just smiled, mashing pizza against his closed mouth like it was the world’s finest lip balm and then sucked the slice down at such a rate of knots that if any had slipped into his airway then Strahm wouldn’t have even considered abdominal thrusts because it pissed him off so much. 

“I’ve been busy.” Hoffman said after a moment, the TV casting shadows across his face, the bags under his eyes sullen and grey and his top lip twitched suspiciously. Like he wanted to continue the sentence, to spill some sort of secret but he held it at bay with a big, heaping hand. He looked sad. Then Hoffman did a complete one eighty and wiped a hand across his mouth, the grease from the pizza shining in the silvery light of the television as he said, overly loudly, “Didn’t know you had a sister.”

Strahm snorted, “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know that you look like a donkey when you come.” The sentence was muffled slightly behind the glass lip of Hoffman’s beer bottle. 

Strahm smacked his over beer down on the top of Hoffman’s, the sound sharp and Strahm could only watch with glee as Hoffman’s eyes went wide and his big, idiot mouth twisted into shock horror as beer foam crested up the neck of the bottle and spilled all over the crotch of his jeans as he tried in vain to suck it up in time. 

“What the fuck?” The befuddlement and anger that snuck under Hoffman’s tone was almost sexual to Strahm, the excitement of it zipped up his spine and a cackle blustered past his own lips as Hoffman stood up, almost dumping pizza everywhere and more specifically onto Strahm’s socks. “Jesus. You got beer all over my dick.” 

It was about as eloquent as Strahm expected Hoffman to be. 

He shrugged, stretching and thumping his feet up onto the coffee table like he owned the place, 

“You certainly can dish it out but can’t take it.” 

“You’re awfully playful for the dipshit who brought a gun into my apartment for a movie date.” Hoffman snapped, prying open the zipper on his jeans and peeling them down his thighs. The wet fabric sticking to his wide, pillowy thighs and the comment almost was lost on Strahm as his eyes stuck to Hoffman’s hands as the jeans descended down and down until they pooled at his feet. 

Strahm’s tongue found its way back into his head finally, 

“What did you say?” He scowled, “It’s not a fucking date.” 

Hoffman whapped a hand across the damp fabric of the jeans, then rolled his eyes like they were sixteen year old girls arguing over if one of them had stolen the other’s lip gloss. 

“You give off pretty mixed signals for someone whose mouth was lodged pretty firmly up my ass.” Hoffman grunted, looking completely silly standing in front of the couch in his sock, underwear and a t-shirt. He looked disgustingly young and the top of his tummy was rounded off from all the beer and pizza he’d consumed. It looked soft and homely, nothing like the young man in the photos with his youthful leanness, his body having settled into middle ages’ rounded edges. It suited him and he wanted to suggest going to a corner store and getting a tub of ice cream.

Strahm almost had the mind to throw more beer over Hoffman so he would leave the room for long enough that he could cool off because it was sickening to see, but not at all for the reason he might have expected. His hand twitched beside him and he tried to focus on the coolness of the bottle, count to ten or whatever bullshit they’d tried to get him to do when he’d been ‘having conversations’ with a psychiatrist a couple of years ago after he’d punched some moron in the face. The moron had been his partner at the time but that was besides the point. 

His wife used to tell him that he ‘felt big’. He laughed big, he cried hard, he screamed loud. It was just the way that he was and she loved him regardless, but even she had her limits. The fixations and the loudness was all too much for her and the divorce had been settled pretty amicably, but Strahm could still remember the way she looked grey around the edges whenever he’d get over enthused about something that would have him up for days. Just like his sister laying her hand onto his arm and telling him of his obsessions. 

Hoffman’s hand tugged the beer from his own and Strahm peered up, the motion surprising him.

“You’re squeezing that so tight you’re about two seconds from breaking it.” 

Hoffman’s voice was low. Understanding. 

“And what if I did?” Strahm glanced at his cuticles, “What if I broke it?” 

Hoffman was halfway out of the room already. He had hot dogs on his socks. Strahm’s eyes were stapled to them. 

“I’d probably smack the shit out of you for getting blood on my couch.” His hip angled towards Strahm as he spoke quietly and everything felt too normal. He had to leave. “Then I’d stitch you up. I’m not an animal. I know how to take care of someone.” 

Strahm's mouth was so dry when he inhaled it spiralled in a wheeze down his ruptured gullet. 

When Hoffman returned, a pair of jogging bottoms which had definitely seen better days on, Strahm was on him in a second. Hands on his shoulders as he pushed him back onto the couch and Hoffman looked genuinely surprised as Strahm straddled his lap, eyes wild and he wanted to crawl into Hoffman’s skin when he, comically, stuck out his bottom lip and muttered, 

“I did want to watch this.” He hummed sadly, “I fucking love The Thing.”

The sound of television was muted behind the ringing in Strahm’s ears as he shoved his mouth against Hoffman’s and kissed him so hard that his tinnitus got about seven times worse than it usually was. It was like someone had thrown a flash bang into the room and dashed away, leaving Strahm’s head fuzzy and his dick just a little bit hard. Hoffman’s mouth was dry and his tongue was hoppy and mellow. He still had remnants of pizza stuck in his back molars and Strahm ground himself against the crotch of his soft home-pants. Feeling the way Hoffman’s hands spasmed on his hips, dragging Strahm into him so their chests were flush and it was awful. He smelt like blacktop and pizza. Underneath that it was something more, like hot, slick oil and splintered metal. 

“You like that?” Hoffman murmured, hair soft across his forehead and the bags under his eyes still as prominent as ever, but his eyes shone all the same, “You like the idea of me pulling a needle through you. Again and again. Making you better.” 

Strahm’s hand curled around Hoffman’s throat, the memory of doing it the last time was heavy inside of him and it just spurred him on even more. Squeezing the sides until Hoffman’s face was pink and his eyes threatened to bug out of his skull. But he was smiling. It was plastered across his face and didn’t even falter when Strahm kissed him, over and over until he knew that Hoffman was on the verge of passing out. A tear slipped down from the inner corner of Hoffman’s eye and only then did he peel his hand away, watching as all the air in the room rushed into Hoffman’s lungs and his chest expanded in a way that made Strahm’s cock ache. 

“You’re a wild animal.” Hoffman croaked. 

Strahm felt like one. 

He wanted to howl and get to Mark twenty years earlier so he could mark his territory. He’d never been into piss though and time travel wasn’t an option, so he settled for prying open Hoffman’s jaw with two fingers and spitting into the gaping maw, watching as Hoffman’s eyes rolled back into his head and his whole pelvis jerked upwards to press his dick into Strahm’s behind. It made him want to make another mistake, then about five more straight afterwards until he couldn’t convince himself that fucking Mark Hoffman was anything but the best idea he’d ever had.

It certainly was something to fill the time. 

“You top?” Strahm tried to sound like he wasn’t a second from rutting his dick against the bare skin of Hoffman’s belly if he didn’t get some sort of sexual contact from the man that was more than teenage grinding. 

Hoffman’s eyebrows danced around his forehead comically before landing firmly nearer his hairline than his eyelids. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I top.” His hand slipped under the seat of Strahm’s pants and Strahm could feel the way his hand was shaking. For a guy who proclaimed that first time that he’d been out fucking other guys, he seemed just a tad nervous. Strahm nosed his way into his neck, enjoying the prickly fuzz of Hoffman’s unshaven jawline against his tongue as he lapped at him. He could feel his pulse and all he wanted in the world was to know if his blood was sweet or rotten. Bitter like he desperately wanted Hoffman to be so this would be easier to let go when he had to kill him. 

“Stop jerking around and take me into your room.” Strahm breathed, hot and sticky into the crevice of Hoffman’s neck. 

“Not like you don’t know the way.” Hoffman returned, his hand squeezing Strahm’s asscheek. “I could empty my drawers this time, so you can really have a good look through?”

Strahm had enough time to respond. He had more than enough time to come back at Hoffman with something witty and cruel, but instead, he tugged hard on the hair at the nape of Hoffman’s head and grazed his teeth along his Adam’s apple. The laugh that bubbled up from the man below him was syrupy and Strahm squawked as Hoffman whisked him up into his arms. Bold with beer and arousal as he picked up a fully grown man and laughed deep in the hollows of his stomach as he carried him into the bedroom. 

~

Hoffman had pulled out and come across Strahm’s ass when he finished, one massive hand anchored on Strahm’s hip as he gulped in a breath and whimpered like a struck beast. Shaking from how hard he had been fucking Strahm just moments prior and Strahm luxuriated in the sensation of it for a long second, knees that had been locked just moments before were loosened as he let himself spread out on the bedding. Straight into the wet spot of his own cum, something totally ignorable with the hazy comfort of being within the couple of beckoning post-sex minutes that often seemed to stretch on forever but still ended all too quickly. 

This time, they were ended by Hoffman dragging his own t-shirt, which had been slumped on the carpet next to the bed after Hoffman had all but wrenched it off of himself, across Strahm’s wet hole and skin. He pressed a kiss to Strahm’s behind and Peter couldn’t even be bothered to kick out a leg behind him, kick him sharp and hard in the ribs. The beers he’d consumed had settled into his belly, only moments before they had been sloshing around nervously as Hoffman had wound his fingers around his flesh and pushed himself into him again and again. 

“You’re smug.” Hoffman shuffled his bare ass up the bed and stretched his huge legs out in front of himself, Strahm could just sense that he was wiggling his toes obnoxiously. Like a happy little kid. 

Strahm didn’t bother to pull his face from the bed, eyes still shut as he muttered, 

“This wasn’t my plan. Weirdly.” 

“So—” Hoffman laced his fingers over top of his belly “—What was your plan then? Because when I had more time for shit like this, if I wanted to fuck someone’s brains out, I generally would go over for movies and food. You got a triple threat right there. If anything, you accidentally found the direct line into my bed.” He smiled, proud of himself, “It’s pretty much the direct line into my heart, too.” 

Strahm retched theatrically, 

“Jesus fucking wept. I’m about to get dressed and leave if you shut up long enough to let me go.” 

“Damn. You’re really fast. I could barely see you moving with how quickly you’re jumping out of my sheets.” Strahm’s hand shifted slightly on the bed until he could splay his fingers slowly on the downy hair of Hoffman’s thigh, and Hoffman continued his annoying tirade, “Jesus Christ! Slow down, man!” 

It made Strahm laugh. He wouldn’t admit that to any external sources though. 

“I don’t like you.” Strahm mumbled, voice soupy with sleep as his fingers rippled over the pliable flab of Hoffman’s leg. Pawing him like your childhood cat might gently pad and claw a blanket. “I’m going to put my clothes on in a moment. I don’t like you one fucking bit.” 

Hoffman’s hand brushed over Strahm’s strong shoulder blades and they itched .

“You don’t really have to.”

Strahm grumbled, hand like a vice against Hoffman’s thigh. 

“My sister’s name is Elizabeth. Lizzie. She’s a massive bitch and absolutely fucking insane.” 

“What made you come back around to that?” Hoffman’s voice was quiet and his hand gentle, especially against the jagged edge of a scar that bisected the back of Strahm’s rib cage. 

Peter was already completely asleep.

~

Strahm had the sourest look possible the next morning, stood in some bullshit coffee shop as Hoffman counted out change and smiled pleasantly at the girl behind the counter who warily glanced between them. 

“I need to go. I’ve got a ton of things to do today.” Hoffman took a sip of his coffee and curled his top lip, verging on a snarl, at the temperature of the drink. Then went back in for another one.

Strahm almost felt like he was being blown off, but truth be told all he wanted to do was go home and strop over yet another lapse in self control around Mark Hoffman. 

He almost blew his top when he realised Hoffman had slipped some sort of syrup into his coffee. It tasted like hazelnuts. 

“Fine by me. I’m a busy man.” Strahm started for the door, Hoffman following at his heels like the good little doggy he was. It made Strahm’s heart hot with smug glee. He was almost tripping over himself to trot behind him. 

Hoffman’s hand caught his elbow and he wrangled Strahm into a halt, coalescing the man into the waiting circle of his arms until Strahm could realise what was happening and he jerked away. It didn’t stop Hoffman though and he leant in, eyes fluttering shut straight into the palm of Strahm’s hand as he slapped it against the front of Hoffman’s face. 

Voice a low growl, “Don’t even fucking dare.”

Mark kissed his palm in response. 

“I’ll break your fucking nose.” Strahm groaned.

"God, you’re hot.” 

Hoffman was just trying to piss him off, he was sure of it. Especially with the way his hand shot up to cup Strahm’s face. He just about managed to stop himself from biting the ragged skin of Hoffman’s fingers. 

He settled for turning on his heel and walking away, the strange lilt of Hoffman’s laugh followed him the entire way home. 

~

Strahm went to the gym for the first time in months that evening, eyes darting about the place nervously, trying to see if there were any younger, fitter guys sniggering behind his back about him even daring to step foot into the place. In truth, it was a bunch of regular people milling around and going about their lives, just trying to do exactly the same thing he was attempting. Get back in shape. Sort out his head. By the end of the session his whole body felt lighter. Felt like he’d accomplished something for the first time in a long while. He’d even gotten a look of mild, twenty-something year old admiration when he’d almost put his back out deadlifting a hundred and forty kilos. 

He felt like he could move forward. 

~

Two days later, Strahm was sequestered back into Hoffman’s apartment, an episode of The Next Generation playing on the television and Hoffman reared his head towards the sound of it, twisting his spine strangely as he attempted to get a glimpse of what was going on. Strahm caught a handful of his hair and pulled him back towards his dick, sticking out of the fly of his pants and slathered in Hoffman’s saliva. 

“What’s happening?” Hoffman took the chance to grab at a beer that had been teetering worryingly near the edge of the coffee table, which had been shoved to the side so he could fit between the open harbour of Strahm’s long legs. He took a sip and peered up at Strahm, still trying to yank him back to his erection. 

Hoffman wasn’t budging until he got what he wanted though. 

Strahm sighed, 

“A barrel knocked the shit out of Worf and now his back is fucked. He’s asking Riker to kill him because of Klingon valour or whatever.” He kicked at Hoffman with his shoe, “Look, are you going to get on with that?” 

He didn’t get on with it, but he did give Strahm a sort of pity handy while he swivelled around to watch a bit more of the show. Something Strahm couldn’t be too angry about because like most episodes of the show, it was pretty fucking good. 

“The episode is called ‘Ethics’.” Strahm read off the back of the DVD case, squinting at it in the low light of the living room. Only one lamp stood illuminated and it made it hard to see what expression Hoffman was pulling. When he finally turned back to Strahm, his eyelids low and his mouth curled up, it made heat flood into Strahm’s belly and he couldn’t stop himself before he curled a finger under Hoffman’s chin and murmured, 

“Jesus. Sometimes you could even be described as good looking.” 

Hoffman’s face did something incomprehensible and then he bared his teeth. Like a chimp. 

“I’ll bite your dick off.” 

The snap of Hoffman’s teeth did nothing to dissuade Strahm’s pleasant mood, maybe it was the calming voice of Picard or the fact he’d eating a big fuck off plate of lasagna before he’d come to see Hoffman, but he felt almost God damn balmy. 

“What? You can flirt with me but I can’t give it back?” 

Hoffman just grunted, obviously not used to that kind of behaviour from anyone, which seemed a little absurd. He wasn’t hideous. Not really. Just sort of lumpy looking. In low light Strahm might have stretched his compliment into telling Hoffman he looked pretty. Especially with those big plump lips that Strahm desperately tried to angle back towards his cock, butting it against the soft lower one until Hoffman finally relented and sucked him back down again. Stuffing his tongue under the hard flesh and dragging it over and over that special little spot under the back of the head that made Strahm’s toes curl in his socks. 

“Fuck.” He groaned, cupping the back of Hoffman’s head and he tried his best not to shove himself into the back of his throat, “It’s a shame you’re a low-life, murdering asshole because you are spectacular at that.” 

Hoffman snorted, tongue swiping over the head a few times before he sat back once more, “ Spectacular . What sort of frou-frou language is that? Most regular guys would just slap me on the back and say ‘Good fucking head, moron’. You’re using thesaurus words.” 

It caught Strahm off guard enough to make him laugh. Hard. He threw his head back against the couch and cast his hand across his face to try and stifle himself, not even stopping when Hoffman joined in, tittering stupidly below him and then kissing the head of his dick like this was an intimate moment between two normal people and not between two complete cunts who were most definitely actively ruining their lives with each other. 

“You’re missing the episode. Sounds like a good one.” Hoffman continued to jerk Strahm off, the casualness of it almost making Strahm start laughing all over again and he knew that if he let that happen, it would become hysterical and he’d have to be led out of there by some sort of professional. 

“Sorry. Sorry.” He wrenched his eyes from Hoffman’s mouth descending back onto him once again and up towards the television, Worf begging for his honour to be bestowed back onto him by killing him now that he lay imobile on Dr Crusher’s table. “You think you’d murder someone if they asked you to?” He was speaking before thinking, “If you were Riker, would you put Worf out of his self proclaimed misery?” 

“Could you just stop yapping and let me suck your cock?” 

“Oh, come on. I bet you think about murdering people all damn day, what’s a little moral question for funsies while watching Star Trek? That’s what Star Trek is made for. You’re meant to look at the funny people and think about your pathetic little life.” 

“You’re real chatty today.” Hoffman said, eyes locked onto Strahm’s in a way that made Peter all too aware that he was thinking about something. He could hear the cogs grinding away in that big melon of his. “For someone who quite clearly would rather disembowel himself than treat me like a human being, you’re being decidedly nice.” 

Strahm threw up a hand, “See. You’re even thinking about disembowelment right now. Show me your cock right now so I can see if you’re getting hard from the thought. Get it out.” 

“You’re a fucking lunatic.” Hoffman almost sounded giddy and the statement was laid down as the cusp to him diving back in. This time, he didn’t stop until he had a mouthful of Strahm’s cum and the delicate follicles at the back of his head had been almost pulled clean out by Strahm tugging as hard as he could on them as he shoved his cock right into the back of Hoffman’s throat as he came. 

After a few swigs of beer and a rearrangement of limbs on the couch, Strahm even let Hoffman throw an arm around the back of his shoulders as they finished the episode together in nearly comfortable silence. Only broken by the slurp of Hoffman chugging down another breath of beer and Strahm’s tutting when Hoffman’s fingers would become slightly too acquainted with the wispy hair at the nape of his neck. He was trying to be cute and it wasn’t working. 

Another swig of beer had Hoffman shuffling around, smacking his lips together and obviously trying to work out how to articulate something, but it appeared to be stuck stiff in the enigma of a brain that resided within his bulbous head. So, Strahm took it upon himself to help by stating loudly, 

“Fucking hell. You’re squirming around like you got ants up your ass. Sit still or do something useful and do that on my dick.” 

Hoffman’s nose scrunched up, 

“How many times have you been punched in your life? I bet it’s in the double digits with the way you fucking talk to me.”

Strahm took a sip of beer,  “Boo hoo.” The bubbles tickled his nose and he swiped a finger back and forth across it, trying his best to be conspicuous as he leant himself into the crux of Hoffman’s arm as it still lay across the back of the couch. He smelled like oil again. Like raw dirt and oil. The smell of a bike shop when you first walked in and were unaccustomed to the scent and it got right into the back of your throat. It was good though. Masculine and strange. 

Hoffman pressed a kiss to Strahm’s temple and Strahm punched him in the thigh so hard it winded him, but Hoffman laughed all the same. 

“I really fucking love this show.” Strahm grumbled as Hoffman rubbed his hand up his sore thigh beside him, “It’s pretty perfect.” 

“It’s not actually my DVD.” Hoffman confided, eyes glued to the screen, “Only put it on because you looked excited about seeing it down there with the others in my collection.” His hand found its way from his own thigh to Strahm’s and he palmed the taut flesh of Strahm’s quads, feeling the way he jumped slightly at the sensation. 

“They came from Angie’s apartment. I got a bunch of her junk after—” 

Hoffman’s throat went tight and Strahm finished the sentence for him before the thick, tarry feeling of awkwardness could settle any lower into the air of the room. 

“Like I said, it’s a really good show. When you’re not tying people to racks and ripping off their thumbs or whatever you Jigsaw groupies do, you should watch some more.”

Hoffman’s eyes were glassy but his voice hinted nothing towards anything less than him being as stoic and stony as ever, 

“Maybe.” He clucked his tongue, “I’d kill someone if they asked me. If they were in pain and it’s all they wanted. I’d probably do it.” 

“Pretty morbid. Even for someone like you.” 

Hoffman grunted, arm now tight around Strahm and he couldn’t help but feel like a hapless girl on a date in a movie theatre, bracketed by a big burly and definitely brutish arm of some football player who probably just wanted to peel off his panties in the back of his car. It was almost pleasant. Like a lost childhood he could have had. 

“When I come out the other side of this fantasy you have about me being Jigsaw with my name clear, you’re going to get down on your knees and do whatever I want. No matter how depraved.” 

“I wouldn’t even open a jar of fucking pickles for you, asshole.” 

Hoffman’s hand shoved down on Strahm’s head, bowing him, 

“You’re going to apologise to me. One day. And maybe I’ll give you a nice cushy job in my precinct and you can rub my feet and make me coffee in a tight little skirt.” 

“Get your horrible paws off of me.” Strahm growled, the playful edge to it wasn’t lost on Hoffman and he grinned and pressed play on the next episode. 

“Down, boy.”

Chapter Text

‘Nothing lasts forever’ had been the last thing that Strahm’s mother had said before she died, which had quite frankly just served to piss Peter off and make him resent her even more than the rest of the things she’s said to him in the time he’d known her as the woman who gave birth to him but didn’t seem too phased about it. It had been fitting though. Strahm had just been fired from the singular job he’d had before he got into the police, working at a diner in their New England hometown back in the spring of 1980. So, no, nothing did last forever, but he didn’t need a woman to tell him that with her dying, annoying last breath. 

Neither did he need his sister to remind him of that as he shoved his phone into the crook between his shoulder and jaw as he gathered up dirty clothes from the floor, attempting to fill the time from his case dismissal and ‘sick leave’ with cleaning once again. He shoved his hand into the pocket of a pair of pants, finding a receipt from when Hoffman had refused to leave his apartment after Peter had let him sit on his dick and he’d been ‘too worn out to drive home’. The receipt had been from Hoffman taking ten bucks out of his wallet the morning after and buying them both coffee. He hadn’t bought Strahm a pastry but he had himself. He was a complete asshole and Strahm had ripped the piece of carbon paper from his hands and demanded that Hoffman pay him back every cent he had stolen from him. 

But then he’d forgotten about it completely because Hoffman had confessed he’d cried while watching Stop Making Sense in the fall of 1984 when he’d gone to see it with his sister and her friends. The image of a young Mark, bracketed by a gaggle of girls, gazing up at David Byrne’s huge suit was almost awe inspiring. It had made Pete’s throat squeeze into a tight, impenetrable ring and it had taken five swallows of saliva to alleviate it.  

Strahm kept his mouth firmly shut about the fact This Must Be The Place was one of his favourite songs in the world, but he had willfully forgone his own demands for Hoffman to put money into his hand there and then or he would start smacking it out of him. Instead he sipped his coffee and allowed Hoffman the time to gather up the remainder of his things from the night before. He hadn’t even whinged when Hoffman stuck his nose into Strahm’s hair and sniffed. Hard. 

“You smell good.” Hoffman rumbled. 

“Don’t go too far in there. My father’s genes aren’t good enough to warrant me having all my hair in the next couple of years.” 

Hoffman snuffled a laugh and slid his belt back into the loops, obviously having been casually belt-less while picking up their drinks. Strahm felt like calling him some sort of derogative name that might suggest he slept around and went out half dressed, but unfortunately, he was more than aware that Hoffman wasn’t fucking anyone else. Mostly because he’d told him point blank and had acted like that was fine. 

What if Strahm wanted to sleep around? What then?

He didn’t. But, still .

“You’re not listening to me.” Liz snapped over the phone. 

Right. Phone call. 

Pete sucked on his teeth and replied slowly, 

“Sorry. Lost in thought.” He tossed the laundry basket he’d had bumped onto his hip onto his bed, the duvet billowing out at the force of it. “If you can bear to remember, I’ve been going through some stuff recently.” He touched his fingers to his throat, smiling before he could stop himself. “You’re going to tell me next that you forgot about the fact I had to shove a biro through my own throat.” 

Liz scoffed, “Of course not. You still sound like when you had laryngitis a couple years ago.” She hummed and Pete could just imagine her twisting her hair around her finger, “You cried for two days straight, which just made it worse.” 

“It wasn’t a couple, Liz, I was eight. I think that warrants being a little bit freaked out.” 

“You need me to come up and see you? You do sound like you’ve been through the wringer.”

Pete rolled his eyes so hard it made his head hurt, like a red hot poker behind his eyelids, 

“If I had wanted that then you should have come up however many weeks ago it was that it first happened. I’m fine now.”

“ Right. ” Liz had no doubt heard the way his voice had risen. God, she was annoyingly good at pinpointing all his problems and slipping into her ‘I’m a big sister’ routine, despite the fact she usually only called him when she wanted to bitch about their father, or just wanted figure out if she needed to bother driving to New Jersey for major holidays instead of staying in Connecticut. 

“You know—” Liz sniffed and Pete could hear the way she passed the phone from one ear to the other “—Dad says you haven’t spoken to him for long enough he was beginning to think he doesn’t have a son.”

Strahm’s ass found the seat of his couch and he kicked his feet up on his coffee table, Hoffman’s to-go coffee cup was still there from days ago. 

Dick.

“Dad all but told me I won’t be in the will. I haven’t been his son for at least forty two years.” He mumbled, sticking a finger into his mouth and biting on the skin around the nail.

“You’re forty three, Pete.” 

“You know he decided pretty fucking fast that he didn’t like me.” Strahm flicked on the television, just on low volume, enough to abate the lightning shot of stress that ratcheted up his neck with a little white noise in the background as he sucked in a breath and added quietly, “I got taken off the Jigsaw case by the way. Not sure I told you that bit.” His voice became tight, “Think I got too close.” 

He could hear his sister swallow on the other end. 

“Maybe it’s for the best, Pete.” 

He knew what was coming. 

“You know how you get about things.” She smacked her lips together, miles from the teenager who would torment Strahm to no end when he’d steal her barbies and bury them in the garden to play detective games, moreso a big sister now, “You get fixated on things and usually it might actually help with a job like yours, but you have to take a step back sometimes. You almost died.” 

“I’m seeing someone.” Pete blurted out.

It didn’t feel like a lie. That was the worst thing about it. 

But it shut her up, which was the main point.

“Jesus Christ, Petey.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Strahm’s eyebrows wrinkled so hard in the middle into a frown that he had to forcibly stop himself after a moment, the beginnings of a headache creeping around the corner if he hadn’t. 

“You don’t make your life any easier do you? How does she feel about the fact you were stuck in some whack-job, serial killer, John Kramer trap.” 

“John Kramer is dead.” The finger found Strahm’s mouth again and he gnawed for all he was worth.

“Okay. Right. The point still stands.” 

“Quite frankly, Liz, I think he might be the serial killer who put me in the trap.”

“Get fucked.” Liz scoffed, “You’re such an asshole.” 

The phone line went dead and Strahm threw back his head and laughed, loud and bitter.

~

Hoffman’s head was heavy and his hair smelt like wood smoke, hot and acrid at the back of Strahm’s throat as he stuck his nose into it, one hand clasped onto Hoffman’s jaw. Anchoring him against Strahm’s chest and he hoped Hoffman couldn’t hear how fast his heart was hammering inside of the wounded cage of his chest, because to him, it felt like a bird, unchained from anything, was beating at his inside, desperate to escape. But Hoffman felt so solid and warm in between his legs and from where he gazed down at him, Strahm was completely baffled as to how two grown men their size could fit into a bathtub but apparently Hoffman had been using that promotion money for completely frivolous things like new fucking bathtubs . Ones that fit huge men. Either that or he just revelled in renting places with bathtubs that could only be used by huge, hulking homosexuals.

“Is this as uncomfortable for you as it is for me?” Strahm all but whispered, lips dry.

Hoffman hummed and Strahm could see the way his eyelashes spread out against the very tops of his cheeks as he closed his eyes and mumbled, voice thick and tired, 

“I’m actually very comfortable.” 

Strahm rolled his eyes, fingers trickling up Hoffman’s cheek until he had almost his entire face in his grasp, vaguely aware that if he tried his hardest he probably could have snapped Hoffman’s neck and let him drown in the bathtub while he watched. 

“I meant the fact that we’re enjoying each other's company without fighting. Or violence. Or fucking each other.” 

Hoffman snorted a laugh, one knee drawing up and Strahm watched the way the air dried the course, downy hair that sporadically littered his skin. Quite clearly not a man to let anything past his neck to see the light of day anymore, because what could have been beautiful tanned skin was now milky and the flesh broke out with goosebumps at the chill in the bathroom air. 

“Speak for yourself.” His hand dragged Strahm’s own from his face by his wrist and when he spoke the next time it was clearer without it grasping him, “I’d love to fuck you right now.” 

None of it felt right. They should have been biting at each other and trying to crawl into each other’s skin, but instead Strahm wiped a wet hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead as he debated turning on the hot tap to top up the temperature. Maybe that way they could have a little more time in there. A little more time to pretend like everything that had happened to Strahm over the last month was what he wanted.

“I spoke to my sister. I told her I was seeing someone.” 

The way that Hoffman’s head whipped round was comical, like his neck was on a swivel, 

“What the fuck does that mean?” 

“It means I panicked.” The tips of Hoffman’s ears were red and Strahm leant down to sink his teeth into the skin there until Hoffman was groaning and shoving his hand into his dick, “I also told her I think you’re the next Jigsaw killer.” 

Hoffman sank lower into the bath, hand away from his pelvis now and Strahm watched as he travelled inch by inch until it rested over the flesh directly above Hoffman’s heart. No doubt pumping just as hard as his own. He could imagine the manic flutter of it if he were to hold it in his hand. The way it would pulse and spurt tepid blood onto his ring finger if he scooped it out of Hoffman, he wondered what he would taste like if he bit into the one thing he would go to his grave saying he didn’t want.

“Can’t be saying shit like that to people.” Hoffman grunted, eyes still shut, “I’ll be investigated.”

“I want them to. I want them to lock you away for a long time.”

A smile wormed its way onto Hoffman’s lips and Strahm wanted to kiss it while it squirmed around the pit of Hoffman’s face. 

“You’d miss me.”

“Not for one fucking second. Like a hole in the head.”

“Good thing it’s complete bullshit and you’re paranoid.”

Strahm’s hand slithered to cup over the top of Hoffman’s hand where it still lay on his breast bone and Strahm felt the rise and fall of it all. Felt it beck and call his own. He lowered his head again, tucking his nose into the short but strong line of Hoffman’s neck, his teeth itching for his lips to peel back like a hungry mutt’s and he could feel himself getting hard at the thought of taking a bite out of Hoffman’s pulse point with frothing lips. The same peaks and troughs of his heartbeat would douse him and he could close his eyes and know that part of Mark Hoffman was sliding down his gullet in the last way he could have him. 

“You just want to be right. You’re stubborn. You want to be right and you don’t care.” 

Hoffman sounded tired.

Strahm’s teeth retracted and instead he pressed a dozen kisses into the skin below Mark’s ear, 

“I don’t want what you think I do.”

~

As it turned out, it didn’t feel good to be right. 

Nor did tossing himself into a bed of shards of smashed glass which littered what could only be described as a coffin. It seemed fitting and he might have laughed if he wasn’t a couple of seconds away from screaming bloody murder or maybe crying. The voice on the tape chiselled into the back of his head as it played and despite the warping of the audio, the husky remnants of Kramer’s tone were sewn into the sound, but it wasn’t him. It hadn’t been him for a long time and it hurt to know just about as much to have cool slices of glass sneak beneath your skin.  As much as it did to catch a glimpse of the man you wished you had never set your eyes on prying his way through the open door you’d just made your way through, skin grey and forehead sweaty. 

He watched as Hoffman’s open palm reached out and he shrunk back from it, gun in hand and voice hoarse, sounding just like he had when Hoffman had approached him at the hospital. Voice box shredded. It wasn’t physical this time, there wasn’t anyone pressing their fingers around and squeezing his throat, but it felt all too much like there was a huge, looming presence that was doing just that. Shadows ran across Hoffman’s face as he stepped closer, breathing shallow and sheer, limitless terror streaked through his expression. The taps of his expensive Italian work shoes echoed in the strange, tall tomb like chamber that Strahm had stumbled his way into. 

“You trusted me.” 

Hoffman sounded like a wounded animal, whimpering and head bowed as he approached Strahm further and the detective almost expected him to have laid down on the floor and exposed the soft flesh of his belly. Strahm had no clue what to do with any of it, so he clasped his hand, knuckles white and almost glowing with the force he held onto the side of the coffin and he lured Hoffman closer and closer. Until he stood before him, sickly sheened with sweat and Hoffman’s eyes danced all over Strahm, unable to focus on anything. He looked unwell with excitement. 

Strahm spat into his eyes and he watched as Hoffman sucked in a breath. Fantasy of whatever this might be completely shattered as it dripped down his cheek. 

“I don’t trust you. How could I fucking trust you?” Strahm hissed, well aware that the voice that trickled down into the pit of his stomach from within the tape player had foreseen this, all he had to do was trust it. 

Hoffman took another step and Strahm’s voice broke as he all but yelled, 

“Don’t you dare.” The gun shook as it pointed towards Hoffman who stared on sadly, eyebrows drawn up and maybe if it all was different then maybe he might have clipped a leash to Hoffman’s collar and taken him home from the pound to give him a chance. Give him a different life. 

He ignored the hot prickle of what could have been tears if Strahm knew how to cry anymore.

“This is what you want.” Hoffman steadied his voice, lips parted as he panted into the dark, dingy mausoleum of a room that they occupied and Strahm had the distinct feeling that something horrible happened here. Maybe not to him. Maybe to another version of him. But something had changed. Then Hoffman did the single most terrifying thing Strahm had ever encountered, and he echoed that sentiment, his tone so sincere as he crooned to Peter, “You’ve changed. I’ve changed you.”

His hand skated along the plains of Strahm’s face and it felt warm and good to press into it. As it did to reel back his arm and careen his balled fist into the same cheek on Hoffman’s face that he attempted to clutch onto even as he staggered back, silly shoes clip clopping as he went. The curl of his body was winded as he coughed out a retch, holding his face before lunging forward. Strahm was cornered. The air from the space around him was pilfered greedily by his lungs and it rattled back and forth, in and out, Strahm on the verge of hyperventilating. The gun in his off hand rattled and all Hoffman did was glare up at him, poised on the brink of what looked to be leaping straight at Strahm; but he withheld from the motion. With great pains it seemed.

“You wanted to get into the box.” Hoffman panted, eyes wild, babbling almost, “You trusted me and you wanted—”

Strahm snapped, surging forward until he could grab a hold of Hoffman’s hair and he whirled him round. A dance towards the box and he smashed Hoffman into the back of it, watching as his eyes went wide with the sharp pain of those same glass shards that had pierced his own back, and were still wet with his blood, as they scurried their way beneath the pricey fabric of Hoffman’s work suit and into the squishy flesh of his back. 

“You said your sister was dead.” Strahm’s breath was hot on Hoffman’s face, his feet on either side of Hoffman’s as they inhabited the coffin together. “You told me your sister was dead but you never fucking told me that she was Angelina Acomb .” 

Hoffman licked his lips, dots of sweat lined his upper lip and it looked as though he hadn’t shaved properly that morning. Sprinkles of facial hair were already beginning to crop up and Strahm forced down, along with stomach bile, the thought of how he had watched Hoffman shave his face in his bathroom a couple of days before. He’d pushed him up against the sink from behind and nothing in the world had felt as good as watching Hoffman’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he attempted to stifle a smile. Jesus Christ. They were like teenagers only seventy two hours ago.

“I didn’t lie to you.” Hoffman finally supplied, cheeks pink, as though he was actually embarrassed by it. Like this was a lovers tiff and Strahm’s gun wasn’t pressed into the softness of his belly currently. 

“Seth fucking Baxter. It was you.”

Hoffman’s face screwed up, but something underneath it leaked into the anger of it all. It was disappointment. Inside rotting disappointment that Strahm could only attribute to the fact Hoffman was sad that his brain hadn’t clicked into whatever late stage of lunacy he wanted from Strahm and he hadn’t immediately fallen into his arms and thanked him for murdering Baxter in cold blood. Regardless of what the cunt had done to Angelina.

The image of Liz on her sixteenth birthday flooded his brain all of a sudden. She had braces and she hugged Pete hard when he had told her he used all his money to buy her a Carpenter’s album just because she had told him she loved Karen. It was information his child brain had somehow retained and it had been the happiest he’d ever seen her with him. 

He probably would have killed for that Lizzie too if it came down to it. 

He didn’t voice that thought to Hoffman.

“You weren’t there.” Hoffman’s voice quivered, “He butchered her.” The gun drove forward an inch and Strahm could hear Hoffman’s shaky inhale before he croaked, “Close the door, Peter. Just close the door behind you and we can go. I can explain.” 

Strahm’s gaze shifted to the door of the cabinet, wide open and he could reach it if he pulled the gun from Hoffman’s stomach. He could drag it shut on them and maybe thankful, blissful peace could come in the form of them ending up down here. Together forever in a tomb of their own creation all because neither of them could stop this madness that had tied a cord around the both of them and anchored them to each other.

He hung his head, head pounding and he shook it out, attempting to fling away the need to just shut the door. Follow Hoffman’s request. Melt into his skin. 

Strahm opened his eyes, having found them shut, and he was met with a jagged piece of glass just to the side of Hoffman’s head. He could see himself in it and he didn’t like it. He looked weak and woefully full of something that he’d been gestating inside of him from the moment that he allowed himself to kiss Hoffman when all he should have been doing was following his instincts about him. 

“Pete. Shut the door.” Hoffman’s voice beckoned from below him. 

“You can’t call me that.” His hand twitched. 

“And you can’t fucking tell me that you don’t want me to.” He looked good below him, savage and sweating. A trickle of blood skirted down from his nose, no doubt from the punch. “Baby.” He pleaded, eyes huge horrific puddles of soapy blue, “Close the door and come down with me.” 

Strahm’s body moved without any thought and the lid clicked shut on the two of them, what seemed like a tight fit turned out to be the perfect shelter as his body went limp against Hoffman’s. Glass rupturing his skin still and he knew when they peeled off each other’s clothes, which they no doubt would, it would be terrible and maybe when he looked at the dried flecks of blood that would stain his carpet, he would come to his senses and drive the nearest sharp object through the heart of Mark Hoffman. 

Hoffman’s hand cupped the back of his head as the room clicked and whirred, the doors shutting marking the arrival of the change and Strahm braced himself as they were lowered together, Hoffman’s hand shaking the whole time. Either from adrenaline or from the fact he had won. He’d won. 

“I knew you’d pick me.” His voice was low, steeped in secrecy. “You just didn’t know what you wanted until now. I saved you.” 

It was preposterous. Hoffman was a lunatic with not just a penchant for violent revenge a lá Kramer’s style of retribution and rehabilitation, but maybe all the years in the police had driven him into some state of needing to force people into his own line of thinking to save their souls. Like some great messiah who apparently had a working knowledge of hydraulics. 

He let Hoffman kiss him once. Short and dry on the mouth. 

When it was finished, Strahm found himself surging back for another and that time he could taste the blood from Hoffman’s nose as it leached in between them. It was cold now and where Strahm might have thought he would enjoy sucking it down, he could find no enjoyment in it. He swiped a thumb across Hoffman’s face as they descended further, holding his face against his own as he counted out his breaths in his head. 

Hoffman seemed to opt for a more manic approach to the situation, chanting under his breath, “I did it. I changed you. I changed you, Peter.” 

Strahm found it hard to disagree as the glass chrysalis slipped into the recesses of the room and he wondered which of them might survive the metamorphosis. 

A sick part of him hoped it would be both. 

~

“Go easy.” Strahm shifted away from Hoffman, trying very hard to not think about the way the walls of that hidden room that they’d been sequestered in together had drawn closed. Leaving them in complete darkness together, fused into one hot, sweaty mass of limbs. He couldn’t stop thinking about it all. The glass was still lodged in his back and every piece that Hoffman tweezed out of him made Strahm shudder. 

“I’m trying to be careful.” 

Hoffman had been subdued since they got back to his apartment. Frightened almost. Like he’d just lost something. From where Strahm stood, it seemed like Hoffman had also just gained the most valuable alibi of his whole Jigsaw wannabe career. He’d coerced an FBI agent not only into his bed but into the pit of snakes that was the murderous fiddle job he had on the side. 

A cool flannel wiped down Strahm’s back and it didn’t surprise him that its place was taken rather quickly by Hoffman’s mouth, pressing a kiss to the mottled, carved skin. The dish full of glass tinkled almost jovially, like the sound of Christmas, as Hoffman plonked it onto the bathroom’s counter. The two of them sat cross legged on the floor, like boys at sleepovers, both in just their underwear as they peeled and pried pieces of glass from one another. 

“You know—” Hoffman began “—I had this idea that I would have stuck a needle into you if you hadn’t gone easily.” He mimed pushing a syringe into his own neck and there was something morbid that apparently had been living and growing inside of Strahm for the whole time he’d been spending with Hoffman, because he laughed at it. Chuckling with his whole body beecause what the fuck else were you supposed to do when you came to the conclusion the guy, who bought you coffee in the morning and kissed you in your sleep when he thought you couldn’t feel it, was a crazed killer. 

“I would have beaten the hell out of you.” Strahm bit back, “Fought you until I couldn’t.” 

Hoffman nodded, rubbing his own back, “That’s all it ever was. You fought me until you simply couldn’t. I’m almost proud of you.” He stuck his nose into Strahm’s neck and sniffed, a pastime of his seemingly, “It might have been boring if you’d done anything but exactly what you did.” 

“ Boring .” Strahm sounded incredulous, but somehow, he wasn’t angry. 

“You’re remarkably calm.” 

When Strahm peeled himself from Hoffman’s grasp and swivelled himself wholly round on the badly grouted tiles ( he wondered offhandedly if Hoffman had done it himself to save money ) to look at him, Hoffman still had dried blood snuffled into the skin of his nostrils. He reached up tentatively, swiping at it until Hoffman had to bat him away, sniffing and wriggling his nose and it made Strahm want to throw his head into his hands and wail for all he was worth. 

“I’m about three seconds away from having a screaming meltdown, man.” Strahm pressed his hand into his eyes, rubbing at his aching head, “I don’t know what made me do that. In the room—” He gulped, a deep visceral feeling as he tried to manually force saliva down his still sensitive throat “—I should have left you there. I don’t know what made me do what I did.” 

There was a beat. 

“I know what made you do it. I know.” Hoffman murmured.

Strahm’s hand shot out to grip Hoffman’s arm, squeezing as he attempted to contain himself. He knew what he was alluding to. He could see it in the love drunk way Hoffman would hang his head, dip his eyelashes and stare at Strahm up through them like a teenager might with their first boyfriend. He could feel it in the way Hoffman had brushed his fingers over his back as he pulled glass from him. How he’d beamed at him the moment they’d extricated themselves from their bed of thorns and stuck his fingers around Strahm’s face so he could kiss him as hard as both of them wanted.

“I don’t even like you.” Strahm’s voice was weak, even to his own ears. 

“Yet, you’re here with me.”

Really, it was the biggest ‘gotcha’ and Strahm walked straight into it. 

It was a little hard to disagree with in all honesty and Hoffman’s grin overtook him, peeling away the veneer of hardened, brutalising maniac and it was like Strahm could feel the spray of the Falls on his face as Hoffman pushed himself forward to press their foreheads together. He could hear the rushing of the water in his ears and maybe if he squeezed his eyes shut hard enough then he was right there with Angie and Mark, in on the joke and laughing along with them.

Mark’s hand cupped the back of his neck and he squashed himself up against him as hard as he could. He didn’t fucking care about John Kramer or Jigsaw or anything but the way that Mark Hoffman smelled and the puff of his breath on his lips until that was snuffed out by Mark surging forward. They managed to wrestle each other to the ground, Strahm’s hands bracketing Hoffman where he laid on the soggy floor, wincing at the pain but it flickered away as soon as Strahm melted into his mouth, sucking on his tongue like he’d only just learned to kiss the day before. He couldn’t help it though, he’d lost all rational thought from the moment he set eyes on the mountain of man he had between the parenthesis of his thumbs. 

Hoffman pulled a face once again as Strahm drew back, it was hard to make out but if Strahm had gotten even slightly good at reading the other man, it was an expression of pain. 

“We should go to the bedroom.” Strahm murmured, the thought of taking Hoffman’s hand and leading him there had his dick twitching to life. As did the look in Hoffman’s eyes in response to that, his pupil feeding black outwards until his iris was a sliver. A ring of light. 

“What? Don’t want to fuck me on the floor like an animal? Like you still hate me?” There was a bitter tang to the underside of Hoffman’s words and Strahm had no response for it and it wasn’t until they’d both wrenched themselves from the floor, indents of tiles scoring their skin, and they had made their way into Hoffman’s bed, did Strahm even begin to supply some sort of retort. 

“I don’t know what's happened to me.” He watched as Hoffman lounged across the bed, arms above his head and Strahm wanted to bury his face into the peaks of his chest. Instead, he followed him cautiously, dragging himself into the centre of the bed where he could look at him properly. “We sort of fell into this pretty hard and fast.” 

Hoffman’s mouth quirked up in the annoyingly devilish way it often did when he was about to say something ridiculous, 

“So…Love at first sight isn’t a good enough answer for the grandkids?” 

Strahm didn’t have the energy to laugh. Nor did he want to. 

“I don’t want to stop. Not just yet.” 

It was the most truthful Strahm had been in a long time with himself and as soon as he’d said it, his chest unclenched. Spewing a flood of chemical relaxant into his brain and his body slumped down and he had to catch himself with a hand on the bedding as he said with all the honesty he could muster after quite possibly the second hard day of his life, falling just behind his first run in with Hoffman’s mangled attempts to recreate and aid Kramer’s insane lifestyle, 

“I don’t want to stop, not until I have to. Not until someone stops you.” 

Hoffman beckoned him in with open arms and Strahm went easily, tucking his head into his shoulder as Hoffman stroked a huge hand down his spine and Strahm’s ear ached. His throat ached. His back ached. Every part of him that Mark had touched and ripped apart felt like it had fire inside of it and Strahm wanted to make him hurt just as much as he had hurt him, just so he could pull him back together into a new, better man. 

A little voice inside of him whispered that he would have him even if he didn’t get better. Even if he killed and killed until all that was left was the two of them and the crater they’d created around them. 

“Sweetheart.” Hoffman smiled, holding Strahm against him, “ Baby. ” He breathed, his whisper licking into the tissue that lined Strahm’s stomach wall and made him feel sick as a dog and his dick to spring to life again, twitching against the lining of his underwear. He didn’t even blink at Hoffman sliding a hand between them as he curled his fingers down into his boxers to play with him, something he used to hate his ex-wife doing when he was still soft, but Hoffman looked hungry. Starving. 

“I want you until you don’t want me.” Hoffman mumbled, words thick with arousal if his own erection was anything to go by. Strahm was a little impressed, honestly. The knowledge that if they’d met in their younger years they probably would have killed each other from the sheer amount of fucking they’d do was stark considering Hoffman was about forty years old and his cock had reacted like he was twenty one. 

“And even when you don’t want me anymore I’ll follow you and find you. I’ll wait at your door.” Hoffman squeezed Strahm’s dick and it didn’t feel like a threat, it felt like a love letter, “I’ll wait at your door like a dog until you take me back in.” 

“ Jesus .” Strahm had to swallow a few times lest his brain explode, “I know you will.” His hips lurched up into Hoffman’s hand and all thoughts about all the various pinpoints of pain about his body were forgotten with the sheer, gut wrenching need to pull Hoffman’s legs up in the air and fuck him as hard as he made Strahm’s chest hurt. 

“Nobody else?” Mark peered up at Pete so sincerely, with huge, unyielding and damp eyes. Perpetually sticking sharp things into the outer casing of the shell that surrounded Peter’s weakening heart until he could jab the knife in and twist, restarting it for a few days until he could find another way to hurt him all over again. Rinse and repeat. 

The urge to kill for Mark bubbled up for a moment before Peter could wonder where it came from. Or who he might even be killing. 

But he understood what was being asked. 

“No. No.” He brushed his mouth over Mark’s, “Nobody else.”

“I showed you a part of me today. Do you get that? Do you understand me?” 

“I understand.” Strahm pursed his lips a little, “I’m not sure I like it. But I understand. Anyway, John Kramer is different. Kramer—”

Mark tilted his head, 

“Let’s maybe just leave talking about that until after I’ve got my hand on your cock.” 

Strahm snorted, suddenly feeling very shy. Virginial. 

“Sure. Whatever. Asshole .” 

“There we go.” Hoffman began touching him in earnest again, “Strahm’s back. You’re a real freak, you know. Multiple personalities.” 

“Little insensitive. Plus, rich , coming from you.” 

“I think you should shut your mouth and fuck me.” 

Strahm’s mouth went dry at the thought, 

“I think you should shut your fucking mouth and suck my cock first.”

“How the fuck am I meant to suck your cock if my mouth is closed, idiot?”

They struggled for a moment, a grin breaking out across Strahm’s face and it infected Hoffman almost instantly, the two of them staggering into borderline hysteria as laughter sprung from both their mouths as Strahm shoved his hands down hard on Hoffman’s shoulders. Pinning him to the bed as Hoffman secured his mouth in a ring against Strahm’s skin, sucking all his blistering blood to the surface and maybe it was a good thing that he was on a leave from work because he’d never live it down if he walked into Hoffman’s precinct with a neck full of bites. 

The laughter died down as soon as Strahm fingered Hoffman’s underwear down, dragging them away until they became lodged under the heft of his ass and he smacked at Hoffman’s thigh until he lifted his hips and did the forever awkward kicking off of the fabric. Eyes urging Strahm to get himself just as nude and it took all but a second. He wanted nothing more than to grind himself into the hot lines of Hoffman’s erection and when he pushed himself forward, the bliss that bled from the inside of Hoffman into his expression was beautiful. He looked dreamlike as he gazed up at Strahm, lips pursed in that special way Hoffman seemed to have as a default face and he pressed his fingers so hard into Strahm’s hip that he was sure when he checked tomorrow there would be dark, purling spots of Hoffman’s affection skewed into his skin. 

“Maybe you could—” Hoffman began, eyes darting around the room with a strange shyness that didn’t often overtake him “—Come up here. Sit here.” He patted at his breastbone and Strahm squinted, not quite understanding until Hoffman’s beckoning hands called him forward, conducting him to travel up his soft body until he was perched at just the right angle that Hoffman’s head could careen forward and kiss the head of his cock. He jerked forward and the silken skin of his erection bumped against Hoffman’s lips, daubing them with precum and Strahm shot a hand out to find purchase on the wall above them. It was hard to deny the effect Hoffman had on him, he’d spent forty plus years of his life having sex and he’d usually have to be in the most out of body throes of arousal to be leaking even before he’d come. Hoffman’s grip on him was thorough though and with perhaps just a mere glance at him, thighs splayed open and sweet lines of his pecs and stomach prominent in lamp light, he had Strahm wet. 

It took a little rearranging to get a comfortable state where Strahm could tangle his cold, itching fingers into Hoffman’s dirty hair and drive his cock into his mouth, but in the end it was the best he’d ever seen the man below him. Eyes hardened and throat relaxed and pliant as Strahm fucked his mouth, Hoffman’s tongue fat and heavy on the underside as he gulped and gasped, tears beading at the corners of his eyes before Strahm would pull away and let him gather himself. Dabbing at his eyes and then gesturing for Strahm to come back, the rippling motion of his fingers were hypnotic and Strahm pushed back into his mouth. He wanted to stroke through Hoffman’s hair, dig his fingers into his scalp and watch as his eyes rolled back into his head. He wanted to dig in until he could drive himself into the cold, spewing matter of Hoffman’s brain and press pieces into his mouth, deriving divine knowledge of why he was the way he was from suckling on the flesh. 

It didn’t take long for Strahm to be almost coming, thumping his head into the headboard and letting Hoffman swallow him down, eyes closed and actions jerky from the position. Strahm helped it along with snaps of his hips, not enough to make Hoffman choke, the first time that would be the case, but enough movement to satisfy the baying beast that was skulking in the pit of his belly, howling up through the jagged skylight of his ruptured throat to fuck Hoffman’s face raw. He didn’t. At that moment in time it felt sickening to do anything but practically bend in two and let Hoffman do whatever he wanted to him and if blowing Strahm within an inch of his life, how was he going to complain?

When he did come, he practically yanked himself from Hoffman’s pouting lips, trailing drool and Hoffman gulped down a breath and Strahm could feel his mighty hips lurch up, lifting him up momentarily as he worked a hand over his cock. Stroking himself over the waiting canvas of Hoffman’s face, smoothed of any lines that came with being on the planet for four decades, a look of pure dedication and relaxed devotion as he peered up at Strahm. Then he opened his mouth. Tongue lolling out and Strahm swore and squeezed his cock harder as he stroked himself, pearls of sweat beading at his hairline and he knew he looked ridiculous when he got too into fucking someone. Funny faces and all that. But Hoffman just looked at him like he was the most handsome man to grace the planet.

“Close your eyes.” Strahm choked out and Hoffman looked crushingly disappointed, so he followed it quickly with, “For the cum. So I don’t get cum in your eyes.” Which mostly just served to make Hoffman laugh, the sound rumbling out of his chest and straight down Strahm’s cock. 

“Don’t laugh.” Strahm’s throat felt tight and his brain pulsed, “Close your eyes and don’t laugh. I’ll come.” 

“Freak.” Hoffman mumbled.

" Shit .” Strahm smashed his lips together and then groaned loud enough that it hurt the back of his teeth. He watched as Hoffman’s eyelids fluttered closed and the first few hits of cum stained his face, splaying across the delicate skin of the bridge of his nose. They were followed by the stripes across Hoffman’s mouth and he tucked his tongue out as soon as it happened, darting out to lick away whatever it could reach until Strahm forcibly stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. 

“Stop. I want to see you.” The wrung the last few pearls of cum out of himself, shivering and rolling his neck before he shuffled back and sat onto Hoffman’s hips, staring at the glistening lines of cum dashes across his face. He tried to commit it to memory, the glowing sight of Hoffman, feral dog, semi-tamed and obedient as he squinted open an eye and sighed happily at Strahm. 

Peter’s hand met Mark’s face, holding him so he could drag his thumb across the mess, leaving him incandescent in the lamp light as it hit the highs of his cheeks and the accents of Strahm’s cum. He still had bags under his eyes and the divots of wrinkles in his forehead from all the frowning he did, but Mark’s eyes focused on Peter so intensely it was as though he never wanted to lay down to sleep ever again, just in case he had to lose sight of him.

“God, you’re gorgeous. Makes me sick.” Strahm said, slotting their mouths together, kissing and biting his cool mouth until the knotted hole in his throat stung with sentiment as he urged down the need to grab Hoffman’s head as hard as he could and scream down the void of Hoffman’s own oesophagus that he needed him more than he’d needed anything. 

Hoffman slicked a hand down his face, evidently wishing he had something a little better than bare skin to wipe himself clean, but it would do for now. It sent an elicit shock up the back of Strahm’s spine to know that he was still settled into the pores of Hoffman’s skin, even if it wasn’t visible anymore. 

“Feels odd for you to be nice to me.” Hoffman smirked as he spoke, “Makes me feel like a kid on Christmas.” His hand traced lazily over the meat of Strahm’s asscheek, gathering up a handful of heft and he kneaded it until Strahm could feel himself giving up. Leaning into the touch and dragging his asscrack along Hoffman’s erection. Once again he was mildly impressed with Hoffman’s tenacity to hold an erection while there was other stimulus present and he could feel the solid score of his cock sliding in between his asscheeks, the sudden urge to slide down on it without any preamble was voracious, despite knowing how awful an idea that would have been. 

“My back’s fucking aching. Let me lie down.” It wasn’t a lie from Strahm, but the need to be bracketed by Hoffman’s jumble of ridiculously fluffy pillows and have Hoffman leer over him, wide and warm, was so strong that he needed a reason. A reason to let Hoffman push him down and fuck him in an entirely different way than they’d allowed themselves to fuck previously. He thought he might have given up more of a fight, but just like his cowering acquiescence to Hoffman’s whims inside the glass tomb, he rolled over and offered himself up without another thought. 

He imagined Hoffman’s jaws closing around his throat, carrying him back to his filthy den, streaked with gun oil and whirling buzz saws that threatened to rip the sinew out of him just to meet the same fate as Hoffman’s accursed Kramer, martyred for a cause Strahm couldn’t even begin to imagine ascribing to. 

Yet, just as Hoffman had said, there he was. 

Falling into bed with a man with blood on his hands. 

The bed suckered him in as Hoffman kissed down his belly, the two of them standing about the same height but Strahm drank in the fact they were shaped like they were their own men with their own lives. Own habits. Where Hoffman was pudgy around the middle with broad, squishy thighs, Strahm was lean and unrelentingly hard almost everywhere except his ass, funnily enough. Both were as powerful as each other, as much as he hated to admit it, but it made him giddy with arousal to be able to feel that muscle and strength from below layers of Hoffman’s soft, sweet fat. When Hoffman leant over him, hefting one of Strahm’s thighs around his arm so he could get back to his spiritual mission of groping the detective’s ass, Strahm took the opportunity to supply the information helpfully of, 

“You can fuck me.” He licked his lips, “You should fuck me.” 

Hoffman’s fingers stuttered and his face grew very serious, as though this was something to behold, regardless of the fact Strahm had let him fuck him a handful of times since they’d started seeing each other. 

His internal monologue scoffed at that. Seeing each other . Fucking hell . Get a grip. 

“You know what would have been beautiful?” Hoffman breathed reverently, “If you had let me do it in the glass chamber.” 

Strahm scrunched up his face in disgust which then rapidly filtered into complete bemused bewilderment, 

“Oh, come on. You have to be putting that shit on. You’re a big fat idiot who likes fucking on a big comfortable bed, preferably with a can of diet coke on the bedside table so you can take a massive gulp afterwards and sigh like life couldn’t get any better.” He tutted, grabbing a fistful of Hoffman’s hair, “You’ve trained yourself to be some sicko killer but I know all you want is the good life. Kramer’s warped you good.” 

Hoffman’s mouth brushed his and pinpricks of electric fever zipped back and forth between their skin, 

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew how Kramer had to warn me off the blood. Lead my nose off the scent of killing because he said it was distasteful .” Hoffman snorted, “As if he’s not the most prolific killer in the state. I heard they got victim groups where they sit around in a circle and talk about their pain. You know how many people you need to make a circle? A lot more than fucking two or three.” He lurched over to where they kept the lube, rattling it out and it didn’t take long until he was pressing two eager fingers into Strahm. The first had been little more than a suggestion with the quickness of it, the second took its time though, curling into Strahm as Hoffman continued, “Maybe I want both. I can be better than him. Bigger and worse than him. And I can come home after doing righteous work, every night, and find you waiting here for me and we can have the good life. Just us two.” 

Strahm moaned, thin and reedy, as Hoffman fucked his fingers into him, spreading open his hole and pushing into him with a sickened, infected love that made Strahm’s insides crawl. 

“I wouldn’t want that.” He didn’t know which part he was disagreeing with, the part about Hoffman’s ‘work’ or the latter half of the sentence, it was too hard to think with Hoffman’s stupidly thick fingers dragging in and out of him. Wet and loud when he’d curl them deep into him and sucker them right back out again in the same motion, making Strahm’s stomach lurch.

“I know you want to domesticate me.” Hoffman’s voice was low, calculative.

“You’re the one talking about playing house.” Strahm snapped, “You’d neuter yourself if it meant you could live inside of me forever. You’re sick and you want equally sick things—”

“And you give it to me every time.” 

It wasn’t an insult. It was a fact. It made Strahm shudder with anger all the same and he thought about throwing Hoffman off. About kicking the heel of his foot into his solar plexus until his breath rattled around inside of him. Instead, he drew Hoffman closer, tripping his fingers down the space where the exposed bumps of his spine made a course down his back. Feeling the way a third finger slipped in beside the others, the stretch making him suck in a tiny, almost inaudible breath and with a great exhale he said, voice reverent, 

“Of course. Happily .” 

Hoffman’s head lowered and he kissed the slowly healing skin of Strahm’s ear, 

“You know, now that I’ve let you in on my great secret, I can’t allow you to leave.”

Strahm just nodded as the fingers were swapped for Hoffman’s erection and when he yanked his legs up so he could push himself into the waiting body of the man below him, Strahm let his head fall back against the pillows. The cotton bunching around his ears dampened the sound of his own laughter because Hoffman was right. He was stuck there. 

A switch flicked in his brain as Hoffman began the slow cant of his hips, head hung as he picked up the pace in increments until Strahm could only bow his back and hope his knees didn’t start protesting from how his legs were bent up alongside the long stretch of Hoffman’s torso. 

He didn’t care. 

He didn’t fucking care one bit that he’d been sucked into the rotten mire of Hoffman’s lunacy and work because he did like him. 

He was vile and thick and violent. But Peter didn’t care. 

“Fuck. You love me, don’t you.” 

It wasn’t a question and Mark didn’t take it as one. 

“That’s not enough. It’s not enough to describe how I feel.” He was strangely coherent for a man fucking the life out someone else, but when Peter met his gaze, his eyes were unfocused, incongruent with the sharp, lucidity of his words, “I need you. You complete me.” 

Strahm tossed his hands over his face, laughing a little incredulously,

“You’re a hack. You’re a complete fucking hack. You’ve gone too far into hoaky villain territory now.” 

“It’s true.” Hoffman urged, “Baby. I need you.” 

Pete’s hands slid from his heated, embarrassed face to toss around Mark’s shoulders, dragging him close as he spread his thighs a little wider and used the heel of his foot to urge Mark deeper into him. His breath puffing hot against Mark’s ear as he attempted to collect his thoughts enough to murmur, 

“You need to stop saying corny shit like that.” 

Hoffman bit his neck so hard it made him yelp and pummelled a fist against his back until he yielded, teeth just barely grazing his skin. A hidden threat of what he could do if Strahm tried to be shitty again.

“Stop talking now. I’m sick of it.” 

Peter hoped Mark understood what he meant. 

Show me how much you love me then, cunt. 

He did. Hard. Face tucked into Strahm’s shoulder as he fucked him until all the both of them could do was pant and Strahm had had the most regular amount of sex in his life. He could remember almost all of the major experiences he’d gone through when it came to fucking. First time. First time with a man. Wedding night. But there was nothing in living memory that made him ache the way that Hoffman did whenever they spent quality time together like that. It drove him back to his twenties, crows feet under his eyes and decades of life lived meant nothing when Hoffman and him were together. Like someone had plunged a syringe full of adrenaline into the base of his spinal column, whether that was to fuel the feelings of hate or something completely different, he didn’t care.

All he cared about was the way that Hoffman’s damp face slid across his neck, breathing him in as Strahm smushed a hand between the both of them, he wasn’t quite hard again yet, but Hoffman’s muted grunts and whimpers were getting him there. As was the throb of his insides as Hoffman kept ratcheting his hips into him, stuttering and shifting to find the best angle, but he was persistent with his movements. Goal clearly set in his mind it seemed as he grasped at Strahm, holding him to him, glueing their bodies together. Forged in the middle. Strahm arched at the thought, he and Hoffman were two sides of the same coin and of all the decisions he’d made in his life it was the hardest one to justify; but he would have. The way Hoffman cradled him and treated him just exactly the way he wanted, without asking, he would have stood before a court and argued his case for fucking a murderer. Hand on heart, eyes to God. 

Hoffman made a tight noise in his throat, hips moving faster and faster and Strahm sighed and closed his eyes. Head against the pillows as Hoffman drove into him and he sank further in the bed, no other place on the planet accepting him as well as Hoffman’s bed. He blinked his eyes open owlishly at him, Hoffman’s brow was furrowed and his mouth hung open. He was going to come any minute, Strahm knew that, could tell from the way he became uncoordinated and primal in his thrusts. 

“Where’d you want it?” Hoffman burbled, mouth full of saliva. 

It was mildly off putting to hear him suck it back and swallow, but Strahm tried not to dwell on it. 

“Don’t care.” Strahm ground out, “Stop trying to be cute.” 

“Not being cute. Wanna come in you but I’m being kind.” 

“Kind?” Hoffman had never been someone Strahm would describe as kind, even before he found out he tore people apart as a hobby, “Do whatever.” 

Hoffman’s hips stopped, “Stop being a prick. I just want to hear you say it.”

Strahm pulled a face. Maybe he could let him have it, just this once. 

“Fuck. Fine.” He propped himself up on his elbows, far too old to be indulging in behaviour like this, “You wanna come in me? You can come in me.” 

Hoffman seemed to have no problems with the jabbing nature of the request, not if the way he moaned and started fucking Strahm for all he was worth only moments after the words had left his mouth was anything to go by. Or the way his tongue lapped at the sweaty underside of Strahm’s jaw and he would have had to have been a much stronger man to not like any of what was happening. So, Strahm groaned, straight from the hot bottoms of his lungs, and pulled Hoffman close again. Stroking his hands down his massive back, feeling the bumps and ridges of old scars, not wanting to put much thought into if they were from work or from the terrible things he’d been doing since Angelina died. 

When Hoffman came into him, it was like all the air in him was pulled out by an unknown hand, his body folding and his forehead pressing even closer into the crux of Strahm’s neck. He whined sharply, the sound you’d make when you were sick and nothing could cure it. 

Because he was sick. They both were. 

“I don’t want to pull out. Not yet.” Hoffman was a heavy weight against him, dopey post orgasm brain making him foolish as he reached up to tangle his fingers into Strahm’s hair. Not petting, just holding him. 

“God you’re fucked.” Strahm shoved him off of him, but there was no aggression behind it, and he wrinkled his nose as Hoffman’s dick left him. “Get off me. Lie down.” 

Hoffman shuffled away, a strange look across his face and he did the most Hoffman thing he could have done as he pointed a finger at Strahm’s crotch and said, very matter of factly, 

“You’re hard.” 

“We were having sex.” Strahm tucked a hand around his cock and squeezed, watching Hoffman’s eyes go dark once more, “I’ll stay soft next time, huh?” 

Hoffman just moaned, leaning forward like an animal sniffing out a creature it hadn’t quite encountered yet. 

“Yeah. Touch yourself like that.” He muttered.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Strahm did just what Hoffman told him to do. 

It didn’t take long to wring another orgasm out of himself and when he did, Hoffman pitched forward so he could swallow it all. Strahm’s hand in his hair as he held him on his erection, Hoffman’s tongue swiping back and forth and up and down until he had to drag him off. Watching as Hoffman’s eyes boggled and his mouth split into a huge grin as he said, quiet but so intensely it made Strahm feel sick to his stomach with want, 

“You just keep getting better.” 

Strahm rolled his eyes, keeping the want to bundle Hoffman into bed with him back with as much power as he could, 

“We might both be dead next week given how you want to live your life, so enjoy it while you can.” 

“Are you ever going to want to say something sweet to me?” 

“I know you. Give you an inch, you'll take a mile.” Strahm rolled his shoulder and flexed one of his knees out, “Go get some tissues.” 

Instead, Hoffman kissed him like any of this was fine. 

~

In the end, it had been the pervading thought of ‘ I found Jigsaw 2.0 ’ that had made Strahm mellow into the fucked up situation he had been living in since he had slip beneath the catacombs of the coffin room. It was the only thing to keep him from losing his rag honestly. He’d done his job. He’d found him. Especially since he had accepted that he could either have a normal fruitful life, where he worked in the job he had spent his life dedicated to, or he could have Mark Hoffman. So, in the end, the decision hadn’t been hard, not if he allowed himself to sink into the terrible, unyielding whirlpool of Hoffman’s cataclysmic being. Swirling round and round his little finger until he too would no doubt end up on the end of his infamous ‘tests’. He nearly had been. He knew the walls would close in one day. 

“You want anything?” Hoffman’s elbow nudged him, dressed in his work suit and a heavy woollen coat draped over the top, it had suddenly become blisteringly cold and Hoffman’s nose was pink at the end. 

Strahm shrugged, not used to being cordial with Hoffman in public just yet, 

“Americano.” He rubbed his mouth, it fell chapped and he tried not to think about Hoffman biting it before they had left Hoffman’s apartment, “Thanks.” 

The car was silent as Hoffman drove towards the station, Strahm keeping a tight hold on his cup; otherwise, with the way Hoffman drove, he would have pitched his boiling hot coffee onto himself and scalded his crotch at a moment's notice. They lurched around a corner and his chest sank at the knowledge that he would watch Hoffman’s hulking frame disappear behind those doors and he would slink back to his own home, tail between his legs at Erickson’s request to keep him tied to his kennel with an increasingly shortening chain. He sipped his coffee and seethed silently. Hoffman had a job still, even with everything he had done, and yet he was the one relegated to skulking in his hovel, scolded. 

“You got a face like a slapped ass, what’s the matter?” If it was from anyone else, the clipped, sighing tone at the end of the sentence might have seemed like Hoffman actually cared about Strahm’s wellbeing. Maybe he did. But at that moment, Strahm was boiling inside. 

“No, I’m fine. I get to go home and watch day-time television while the guy I’m having sex with goes to work to catch—Well—Himself, basically.” He slumped in the seat, the leather of his jacket creaking, “Why would I love to be engaged with a killer who gets to go and eat staff room pastries while I rot away.” 

Hoffman scoffed, hands tight on the wheel, 

“Fucking hell. Cheer up, buttercup.” 

Strahm scrambled to shoo him out of the car, wrenching his seat belt from himself as he clambered out of the car and around to the driver’s side. And when Hoffman rose from the car, like some sort of swamp creature, he gripped the lapels of his coat and pushed him up against the frosty, morning steel of the car. 

“I don’t have to like anything about this.”

Hoffman didn’t seem to blink. 

“Okay. I’ll see you later.” He pecked Strahm’s mouth and he wanted to drown him in the nearest open source of water.

“Prick.” Strahm seethed. 

“I love this routine.” Hoffman’s smirk was as irritating as it was sort of charming, “I’ll see you tonight for when you’ve calmed down and want to be back on my side.” He ran a thumb down the slit in Strahm’s ear where the earring had been shoved, “I’ll be back later. Use the spare key for mine and I’ll see you when I finish. I lo—”

“Oh, go fuck yourself. Absolutely not.” Strahm had already begun briskly walking away from the situation. 

~

To give himself credit, Strahm waited at least an hour and a half past when he expected Hoffman to lumber back through his front door before he started chewing at the corner of his thumbnail and pacing back and forth. The lamps were on, he’d ordered food, he’d slipped Speaking In Tongues onto the turntable and the album had played, start to finish, twice. He’d not felt too nervous the first time he’d flipped the LP and delicately placed the needle back onto Burning Down The House. But, by the time This Must Be The Place had rolled around for the second time, there was a pit in his stomach. 

Hoffman had good whiskey at least, fine crystal glasses too. Just right for a frightened finger of drink to be poured into then tossed back into Strahm’s throat. It burned ever so smoothly on the way down and Strahm pressed the cool glass against his pounding head. He wasn’t worried about Hoffman, or at least, that’s what he tried to drill into his brain. He was worried that someone might find out he was the bride of Frankenstein and his husband had been throwing girls into the river. 

His nails had been bitten to the quick by the time the door slipped open, the billowing shadow of Hoffman snuck through the gap, slithering into the room and finding himself standing directly in front of Strahm, the detective's hands slotted firmly onto his hips. Eyebrows slotted down, as was his mouth as it twisted into the biggest frown Hoffman had seen grace his face. Which, really, was quite a large feat for a man who spent sixty percent of his time frowning. 

Strahm opened his mouth, ready to say something, but the image of his mom screaming at his father when he would come in from a bar late at night crossed his mind, so he snapped it shut again. Instead, he skittered away, spitting out as he went, 

“There’s food on the counter. It’s cold. Go fucking crazy.” 

“You’re mad.” 

Hoffman had such a knack for angering Strahm with the fewest words possible. It was almost impressive. 

Another finger of whiskey was poured and Strahm fiddled with his earlobe, it burned hot beneath his fingers, 

“I’m not mad. I’m going to head home. My home.” He threw back the drink and picked his coat from the back of a chair, swinging it over him as he shoved his arms in, “Your hi fi is on, you might want to turn it off.” It wasn’t quite as simple as swanning past Hoffman though, because a humongous hand grasped his wrist as he tried it, turning him back to face Hoffman and he could see the bags under his eyes had deepened. There was dried blood smeared across his jaw. 

“Peter.” He sighed, voice rough and low, “Let’s just sit down. Please?” 

He wasn’t asking, he was begging. 

Strahm went, as much as he didn’t want to, his legs found themselves walking to the couch and Hoffman’s hand slipped into his as they sank into it and Strahm let him take it. He even let Hoffman lean forward and kiss him quietly, his mouth closed and dry, neither of them pushing angrily into one another like they usually did. It was the type of kiss you gave someone because you cared about them. Which was why Strahm couldn’t fathom why Hoffman would anoint him with it. 

“Don’t do this again. I’m not waiting around for you. I mean that. Don’t do it again.” Strahm muttered.

“A new test is about to begin. I need to go and oversee it.” Hoffman breathed against his mouth, his sincerity was scary, just as much as his voice was soft. 

“You don’t need to do anything. You choose to do these things.” 

“And you choose to keep me close anyway. I’d say we’re as bad as each other.” Hoffman said brusquely. 

Strahm scowled, 

“Don’t compare yourself to me.” 

“Get the fuck over yourself.” Hoffman snarled, beast-like all of a sudden, “If you didn’t love me the way I am you wouldn’t have hurried into that coffin with me. We made our marital bed amongst those shards of glass and you loved me for it.” 

“You spent too much time with Kramer. Talking that psycho, lyrical talk like you know what you’re even saying.” He took a breath, lightheaded suddenly, mouth parched, “You sound like an asshole.” It took Hoffman clenching at his hand to realise their fingers were still entwined, linked together. Hoffman had blood underneath his fingernails. Strahm wondered if he had been out, kidnapping people that night, when he could have been eating and drinking and listening to Strahm’s favourite song with him instead. 

“Perez is alive, by the way.” 

Hoffman’s words settled into the crevices of Strahm’s aching brain for all but two seconds before he tugged his hand away, drew back his arm, and punched Hoffman straight in the jaw. The shudder of it felt good against the rattling bones of his hand and he watched as Hoffman was thrown against the couch, all the ragged breath leaving his lungs in one fell swoop and the noise it made eased the bellowing and howling in Strahm’s head. 

He stood, knees turned to a slop within the skin and he almost pitched himself forward with it. 

“You fucking cunt. ” He sounded close to tears. He was. “You disgusting, evil motherfucker.” He pushed his hand through his hair, it shook the entire way through, “You told me she hadn’t made it. I fucking mourned her.” He paused, “How has she not contacted me? How have I not found out?” 

Hoffman sucked on his teeth before murmuring, 

“She was in a short coma. They kept her for a long time.” He shrugged, “You seemed preoccupied with me. I fear that part of this might just be you being a shitty friend.” 

Strahm’s head swam and he pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

“And I blocked her number on your phone too.” Hoffman added. 

Strahm punched him again and Hoffman just offered himself up, lamb to the slaughter and his eyes big and wet. Strahm had seen him cry a few times, but this time it hurt . Because, deep down, he understood why he’d done it. He’d already begun the conjoinment in his head, body and soul, to Mark. It was hard to hurt him but it came too naturally after everything. 

He touched Mark’s face, an apology, as he said, 

“You’re inhuman.” 

“You’ve always said I’m your dog.” Hoffman’s nose looked wrong as he spoke and Strahm wondered if he had broken it. 

“Yeah.” Strahm swallowed, “And I’m your man.” 

He bent, kissing Hoffman’s mouth and feeling the way he leant into it like it was the last thing he might ever do. 

“Play your game. Kill your—?” 

He flapped a hand at Hoffman for him to elaborate on it. 

“Health insurance assholes.” Hoffman wheezed. 

Strahm sniffed, 

“Yeah. Them.” He paused, “But do it nowhere near me, because if I catch wind of any commotion, I’m mailing you straight to Erickson and my partner who you lied to me and told was dead.” 

“I love you, Peter.” Breathed Hoffman, eyes sparkling as he gazed up at Strahm, powerful above him. 

“No, you don’t.” 

Strahm clambered into his lap and pushed their mouths together.

Chapter Text

It was relatively easy to ignore the news just in case the game had begun already, so Strahm ignored it. He went for long walks and sat on park benches, drinking coffee and staring up at the sky as he invented long, winding fantasies of how he might escape this. He could fake his death. He could kill Hoffman. He could turn him in and claim innocence. 

They could also run away. Imagine that. 

He took a sip of his coffee and dug out a bagel from a paper bag strewn across his lap, watching a swan laze its way across the lake in front of him. He crossed one leg over the other, ankles crossed and with the motion he was vaguely aware of someone settling on the bench next to him. Disturbing his little piece of heaven. He swung his head towards them and was met with a face he’d only seen photos of in his hunt for the Jigsaw truth, someone he’d never expect to see walking around alive just like everyone claimed he was, if he weren’t sitting there right next to him. 

“Dr Gordon. I always thought you were a myth quite frankly.” He took another sip of his coffee and pulled a croissant from the bag, offering it to Lawrence, an olive branch. The doctor shook his head, smile tight and polite before Strahm shrugged, placing it back down onto his lap. Peace offering refused. Disappointing. 

“Interesting way to start a conversation. Makes me sound like a Bond villain, I quite like it.” Lawrence’s gaze turned to the lake, leg at an angle and Strahm knew exactly what leg it was. “I just saw you over here and thought I’d introduce myself. I used to speak in length to the police down at the city’s precinct back when. Used to drink a lot of their coffee. Somehow even shittier than hospital coffee.”

Strahm’s arm sprawled across the back of the bench and Lawrence eyed with what could only be called reserved contempt, he obviously had no time for cops of any level, Strahm could understand that, 

“Don’t suppose you’d let me in on the real secret of how you got out.” 

Lawrence grimaced but quickly transformed it into something a little more cordial, he almost looked human, 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t lying to all those other reams and reams of police officers when I said I have no idea. I passed the tests too. The lie detectors that is.” He tapped his cane against the ground, “I heard that you were there when they found Kramer and Amanda Young dead. Must have been a big day for you.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, lie detectors.” He wasn’t going to drill him for that, even if it sounded like complete bullshit, “Well, you know, I actually got taken off the case for that whole business.” He sipped at his coffee and found it to be empty, his cheeks went pink, he was trying to be the big man as much as he could, “You’re a smart guy, I know you were wondering why I’m sat, alone, on a park bench at two o’clock on a work day.” he cleared his throat, “So, you just decided to come over and speak to me?” 

Lawrence nodded slowly, 

“I felt like if I walked past and we met eyes, it would be even worse.” He patted his knee, his good knee, “You know, I first heard your name from a colleague. She said she’d had some close dealings with you. Called you a bit of a hard ass.” Lawrence laughed gently, like he’d just told an inside joke only he understood, “I just thought it was funny that I’d heard all about you but never spoken to you. So, do you live around here?” 

Strahm knew when he was being cased. He wasn’t stupid. 

“I—Uh—Maybe.” He blinked a few times, “Didn’t realise I was so popular among the medical field? Hope there were some kind things thrown in amongst me being described as a ‘hard ass’.” If Lawrence could be cagey and yet prying all at the same time, he could too, “Who is this mutual connection then?” 

“Oh, I don’t want to bring names into this. Feels impolite.” Lawrence shuffled himself up in the seat a little, quite clearly fixing himself to rise and leave the conversation, “Safe to say, you’ve had some in depth chats.” He pushed himself up, a quiet grunt leaving his lips and Strahm wasn’t going to help him in any way. Mostly because he wasn’t sure if he liked the man, and also because it felt pretty fucking presumptuous that Gordon needed the help. 

“I’m sorry, I’m back at work and I was just having a walk on my lunch break before I go to meet a friend.” Gordon’s hand came out and Strahm shook it, “I hope when we meet next we can have a better chat. I always thought that if you were going to have an interesting conversation, it would be with someone else who survived a Jigsaw test.” 

“Trap.” 

“Pardon?” Gordon’s eyes were silently stormy all of a sudden. Grey.

“We usually call them traps. Not tests.” 

“Mm. Sure.” Lawrence nodded, unphased, “Well, it was nice to meet you. If you ever need anything, do come and call by my office. I’ll make you a real coffee.” He smirked at Strahm’s empty cup, then he was off, limping slightly even with the aid of his cane until he was a small dot on the horizon of the park. It was only then that Strahm felt himself release the breath he’d been holding for the entire time Lawrence had been hobbling away into the distance.

Something was off with the interaction, the entirety of it, but as was almost every interaction he had had in the past with other Jigsaw trap survivors. He knew about the meetings they held, knew about where to find them and corner them when they left. Nobody came out the other side of life or death situations like those unscathed, Dr Lawrence Gordon wasn’t any different. He’d heard he was a work obsessed weirdo even before he’d been locked in a bathroom with the other guy, that Adam kid. If you were to put a sample selection of people who had survived traps into one room and asked each of them if they felt mentally sound, he doubted that any of them would answer yes.

Lawrence was, unfortunately for everyone around him including his patients, off putting in that respect. 

Strahm stood, pulling his phone from his pocket and ignoring the way that the tips of his fingers throbbed with the cold and he scratched at the skin around his cuticles before hitting the speed dial he had for Hoffman. Something he had begrudgingly added to his set of numbers after Hoffman had pestered him about it for about a week and a half. In the end, Hoffman had peeled Strahm’s fingers off his phone while he played a game of snake while waiting for coffee to brew one morning and had punched it in for him, shoving it back towards Strahm when he was done. He had grunted, ‘ Use that .’ Which Strahm did, with many pains.

Hoffman answered with a clipped noise, evidently at work, and relief washed over Strahm. 

“What?” Hoffman finally said to the background sound of a door closing shut, probably moving into his office just in case someone was listening. 

“I’m picking up food for later, you want beer too?” 

Hoffman groaned happily, 

“Sometimes I’m so happy you didn’t die.” 

“ Right .” Strahm was glad Hoffman couldn’t see the smile that filtered across his face, “Next thing you’re going to be taking me to pick out curtains at Laura Ashley with that kind of fucking attitude. Get a grip.” 

“I was thinking blue for the bedroom and paisley for the li—”

Strahm hung up on him.

~

The bag that Hoffman dumped behind Strahm had him jumping out of his skin, coffee almost flying out of the mug he was drinking from and he snapped around so viciously that some did end up splashing across the leather of Hoffman’s couch. He wiped it off with the sleeve of the sweatshirt he was wearing, getting it damp and he scowled. Now it was going to be cold against his skin. 

“Why are you slamming around?” He twisted a little so he could fix Hoffman with a look and found that he was drenched through. It had been raining on and off all day, but when it had been on, it had been in great torrents that gushed from the skies. Strahm had quite enjoyed it, sitting at home with the television on as the sky darkened. He’d found soup in the back of Hoffman’s cupboard and had rang his sister and it had almost been a normal day up until the point that his murderous something-or-other had waltzed through the door and ruined it. 

“Work.” Hoffman grunted, wiping rain water from his eyes. His hands were stained with some sort of black oil and sharp lacerations bisected his fingers, as though he’d been suffering terrible papercuts all day. Strahm knew better than to ask what they really were. Saws and knives that would no doubt end up buried deep in the worst parts of someone you could imagine sharp things being buried into. 

Strahm’s eyebrows raised and he ignored the way his blood ran cold. He needed to get used to this if he wanted to stay with Hoffman. 

That was an odd thought. Staying with Hoffman. 

It hurt more to think about being separated than it did to be with someone like him, and that made Strahm feel slightly unwell. 

“ Work work or—” He flapped his hand, “—You know. The other ‘work’.” 

Hoffman grinned salaciously from across the room, seemingly pleased that Strahm was so easy to speak about his extracurricular activities, and he poured himself a glass of water. He chugged it down greedily, the excess spilling out the corners of his mouth and when he finished, looking back at Strahm once more, he looked exhausted and wild. Hair dishevelled and shoulders set tight. Sometimes Strahm wondered if Hoffman enjoyed any of this, he was caught between two answers. It felt as though he would never quite understand Hoffman’s inner workings, nor did he particularly want to understand the base, id parts of Hoffman’s squirming brain; but sometimes he got close enough that it did scare him a little. 

“ That kind of work.” Hoffman broke a chocolate bar in half, his post-creeping habits were hard to break and Strahm had watched him devour countless amounts of junk in the past week as he tied up the last few ends of his new ‘game’. It almost felt like he reverted back to a child-like state directly after committing atrocities, needing to devour sugar to fire up the neurons in his brain that made you human. His mouth was full of chocolate as he spoke again, “It’s almost done.”

Strahm shut his eyes, a hand pressing against his forehead, 

“I’m not sure I want to know. If I know too much, it’ll make me want to start making phone calls to get you arrested.” 

Hoffman was silent as he crept up behind Strahm, his sticky fingers slid around the curve of Strahm’s chin and he pulled it up and out so he could lean down and kiss at Strahm’s jaw, the vague threat of teeth was introduced and Strahm’s body went rigid with excitement. Hoffman’s voice was strangely calming and placid as he murmured into the stubble beneath it, 

“You’ve gone too far. We’ve been through this, you wouldn’t turn me in. I’d also just implicate you into everything. Sometimes at night I press things against your fingers so your prints are on items you wouldn’t want them to be on.” He was grinning like a cat, still kissing Strahm’s jaw when he could until Strahm slapped at his face and he retreated. Smile still on. 

“Yeah, well. The threat of it keeps me sane.” Strahm crossed his arms, “Asshole.” 

Hoffman scoffed, but for a man of his ilk, it was a playful sound, 

“ Asshole. Cunt. Dick. Dipshit. ” He deposited his heavy body onto the couch beside Strahm and, another chocolate bar in mouth, ripped the remote from his fingers as he had been trying to change the channel to anything that might hold their attention well enough that Hoffman would be quiet, “One day, you’re going to be calling me something a little sweeter. It’s nice. To have someone to call you baby.” 

Strahm’s lip curled, 

“You didn’t have many relationships as a teenager, did you? I got all that shit out when I was about seventeen.”

Hoffman tossed an arm around Strahm’s shoulders and fingered the remote until the channel landed on a true crime documentary on Kramer. Strahm watched his jaw clench as Amanda Young’s photo was flitted up on screen for a moment as they discussed the life and legacy of the man. 

“I had a girlfriend when I was fourteen. We didn’t really do anything. She wrote me a note after three weeks that said she didn’t like me anymore.” Hoffman said, shoulders shrugging, “I never was particularly good at that kind of shit. Never had a boyfriend. Guys would always describe me as intense, married to the job.” He shrunk in the seat, deflated at the delve back into his personal history, quite clearly something he didn’t speak about much, “You’re the only one who's stuck around like that.”

A still of Jill Tuck was shown and Strahm glanced away, seething anger at his own actions just as much as at her riling up inside his belly. 

He watched instead as Hoffman’s hand slid across his knee, it wasn’t sexual though. Not a request to allow Hoffman’s tongue into his mouth or anything of the sort. Just a simple, heavy weight on his skin as Hoffman thumped his head against Strahm’s shoulder, making himself small to make himself intimately engaged with the whirling, vile feelings that Strahm had for him. He was clever like that. He knew how to pull at all of Strahm’s strings.

“Maybe.” Was all Strahm could supply to Hoffman’s last comment and he wasn’t even sure what he was trying to convey. 

“You were married weren’t you?” Hoffman smoothed out the wrapper of the chocolate he’d been eating, then folded it neatly, tying it into a knot afterwards, “What was that like?” 

Strahm stared straight at the television, unblinking. How would you even go about describing a long term, pretty regular relationship to the man you currently were exhausting all your energy into. Even when you knew what sort of beast had hidden itself inside of him. Strahm licked his lips and tried to think of the best way to broach the subject of his ex-wife with Hoffman. 

“Nice. It was nice to have someone around constantly that was your family in that respect.” He kept it simple. He didn’t want Hoffman knowing much more than that, he had too much respect for his ex-wife to spill their best kept secrets of their relationship to a man like Mark Hoffman. He could worm his way into his present, but he wasn’t going to let him push into the happy thoughts he had left of his previous life and infect them with his special brand of personal living. Knowing him, he’d probably find his ex-wife’s address and put her into a trap for daring to have fucked Strahm before him. The thought made him laugh quietly, even though he knew it shouldn’t have. 

“You pity me, don’t you?” Hoffman asked, a finger tucking around Strahm’s hand, leaving his pinky free so most of the focus was on his ring finger, something that made Strahm feel more nervous than he had been when he’d been in the coffin. 

“Why? Because you’re a freak who has never had a real relationship?” Strahm rolled his eyes as the presenter on the television rambled on about Kramer’s life before his cancer. He’d heard it all before. Read it all in files. “I don’t pity you. I don’t know how to pity something like you. You’re nothing like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Maybe I could take you out. Go out for dinner.” Hoffman was hopeful. It was a bit sad.

“I’m not sure.” Strahm spoke, attempting a sympathetic affectation he didn’t often use, “I think we’d both find that incredibly uncomfortable and it would end up with a gun in someone’s mouth.” 

Hoffman’s smile was slow and creeping, 

“I don’t know, I quite liked it the last time I had your gun in my mouth.” 

Strahm didn’t have the energy to laugh, but he did let Hoffman bring his hand, the shaking it did wasn’t visible thank God, up to his mouth to kiss it gently. 

He had the horrible mental image of him as Ann Darrow, furled in the great King Kong’s paw, limp as the beast yelped and hooted atop the Empire State Building. 

“Sort of wish they didn’t put so much about Amanda in this thing.” Hoffman broke Strahm’s reverie with a jerk of a thumb towards the television, “She was even more cruel to me than you are.” His eyebrows knitted down and his thumb stroked over the skin of Strahm’s hand, rougher than any other normal lover would pet you but Strahm was used to it, “I used to hear her calling me ‘ that gorilla ’ to John sometimes. She’d make me go out and do all the grunt work that she couldn’t, meanwhile she was being overseen by Kramer and I was—” He stopped, eyes darting to Strahm like didn’t want to let anything slip. 

“Mad because daddy didn’t love you like he loved her?” 

It felt good to make Hoffman hurt a little, but to Strahm’s surprise he just laughed, tossing his head against the couch as he tried to catch his breath. Huge ribcage shaking and shuddering until he had managed to calm himself, and he wiped at his eyes a little before he spoke. 

“Jesus. You’ve got that shit completely wrong. Amanda was the one who had to beg at his feet to get that sort of attention.” He cleared his throat, laughed once more and then added, “And I think maybe John loved her too. Channelled some of that paternal shit he didn’t get to give his dead baby into her. Not me though. To me he was—” He trailed off, trying to think of the words “—To me, he was a colleague. At most, he was a mentor.” He clicked his tongue, “Reluctant mentor. Kramer was an intelligent man, even if I’m sure that tumour pressing on his brain made him go a little bit mad after a while.”

“Would you have cared if I had died the same day that the both of them had? Just like you’d intended with that unwinnable trap you stuck me into.” The memory of water filtering in around his ears made Strahm shudder and his neck to pulse unpleasantly. Hoffman must have picked up on it because his chest puffed out proudly. It was frightening to see but at that point, it came with the territory. 

“I don’t think I would have. You were an irritation and I wanted to get rid of you.” Strahm could feel the way Hoffman’s eyes became fixed on the side of his head, boring into him with ferocity, “But you surprised me with your escape. I remember watching you being wheeled out on a paramedics gurney and it made me so excited. There’d been unwinnable tests before. Amanda had created her fair share. But, it was crazy to see you leave there alive. I was almost angry about it, but then I just kept thinking about you. God, I was ob—”

“Obsessed.” Strahm finished, “Yeah. I know the feeling.” 

Hoffman tugged his face towards him, pressing their mouths together in a way that was so gentle that it scared Strahm deeply. Down to the bone. 

“It was like it was a sign you were meant for me.” Hoffman breathed against Strahm’s mouth and he sounded like a complete madman, but it was the most tender thing Strahm had ever heard. 

“You wouldn’t catch me dead agreeing with that.” Strahm ran a hand over the side of Hoffman’s face, a finger stretching to poke at something that had completely missed his gaze for the entire conversation, but now he had it under his fingertips and within his eye’s grasp, it was almost ridiculous he hadn’t spotted it before. He gripped Hoffman’s earlobe with a finger and thumb and tugged on it, watching Hoffman wince at it. 

“Jesus, Mary and Fucking Joseph. When did you do this?” 

It was the earring that he’d recklessly shoved through his own ear, now nestled comfortably into Hoffman’s own flesh. 

“I had a needle that was about the same size to hand.” He shrugged.

“Of course you did, psychopath.” Strahm bit back, liking the way that Hoffman just smiled back at him. 

“Thought it made me look young. I quite like it.” He rubbed his oily nose into Strahm’s face and Peter was reminded of his pet Cocker Spaniel when he was young, “Feels good to have something in me that was in you.” 

“I hope you get the same infection.” Strahm muttered and the documentary on the screen showed a clip of Hoffman’s promotion for ‘saving’ the Denlon kid.

“I’m not fucking stupid enough to go ramming things into me without cleaning them. I disinfected it and also heated the needle up with a lighter. It was pretty easy.” He flicked the earring once and then touched the grisly hole in Strahm’s ear, almost as if to say ‘ I’m better and smarter than you’ .

“Come on.” Hoffman crooned, attempting to drag Strahm into his lap, but given he was about the same size as him, bar the weight, it was a hapless task and he soon gave up. Instead he settled for just pulling Strahm closer, hands like creeping vines as they squirmed their way around his thigh to yank him even further into the recesses of Hoffman’s gravitational pull. “You think I’m nice to look at.”

“Yeah. Like a car crash down a highway on a boring day.”

“What’s your favourite thing about me? You’ve got to have something you find attractive about me.”

Strahm’s mouth flattened into a sharp line. There were lots of things he thought were overtly sexual and attractive about Hoffman, but it was only in certain situations he allowed himself the ability to verbalise them; and this definitely wasn’t one of them. Hoffman was currently post-hunt, more animal than man and if he went too far he knew he would just get scooped up and deposited into the bed and all he really wanted to do was watch a film and then fall flat asleep. He could see Fargo calling to him from the collection of films and the idea of Hoffman enjoying it was amusing, he could almost see him hollering with laughter. Black comedy was definitely up that man’s alley. 

“You always have good whiskey.” Strahm said, flippant. 

“Whiskey…” Hoffman echoed, “I meant—” He frowned, evidently disappointed “—Doesn’t matter.”

“ Jesus .” Strahm all but cooed, liking the way Hoffman’s face fell. Liked the knowledge that he would be the one to make him happy again as he murmured into his ear, “You’re a big, dumb ape.” Hoffman’s eyes went flat and lifeless, ready for more disappointment but Strahm continued, “At least, I sort just assumed you were. But, you’re not.” It was hard to be kind, it didn’t come naturally to Peter, “You’re pretty fucking sharp. You like good music and good films. And like I said, even better whiskey.” Strahm shrugged, attempting to remain casual, “You’re handsome, too.”

Hoffman didn’t smile, but Strahm could feel the energy of it radiating out of him and into the air around. Like an oil slick in a previously untouched sea. 

“You called me beautiful once.” 

“I said you could be described as beautiful. You’re beautiful like those frogs in the Amazon are brightly coloured. It’s a warning.” He sifted his hand through Hoffman’s hair and watched him lean into it, “I bet if I swallowed you whole you’d poison me.” 

“Stop.” Hoffman groaned, “You talking about eating me is practically foreplay at this point.” 

He wasn’t wrong.

“I’m putting on a film. Do not get your cock out.” Strahm peeled himself from Hoffman’s grasp, ignoring the look he had on his face. He wasn’t going to fall for Hoffman’s phoney love confessions just yet, as much as his body begged him to. It had been a long time since someone was as completely devoted to him. “Go shower. You stink of blood.” He plucked the DVD he wanted from between the rest and turned it over in his hands and as Strahm knelt, he could feel the air shifting as Hoffman followed his instructions and by the time the menu had popped up, he could hear the pattering of the water being turned on. 

It was almost domestic, if you willingly ignored the death. 

~

Three days before the game, as Strahm found out later, they went for dinner. Hoffman had done his hair, washed and styled, and when bustling into the bathroom to piss just before they left, Strahm had even found him standing in front of the mirror. He’d wiped a hand across the condensation from his shower and in the smear of clearness, Strahm watched as Hoffman plucked the centre of his eyebrows. Wincing as he went. 

Obviously, he had whirled round, red faced and cheeks puffed up in embarrassment. Strahm had simply just shoved him aside, enough room to get to the toilet.

“Old fucking queen.” He muttered, not caring that Hoffman was watching him piss. 

“Shut up.” Hoffman had bitten back, finishing off with a few more extremely quick and sharp plucks before tossing the tweezers back into a glass on the counter, then stormed out. Big, clomping steps echoing after him. 

The dinner was nothing to ring home about, just as Strahm had predicted. It was too normal, too cordial. Too much like regular people. At one point Hoffman had enclosed a huge hand over Strahm’s atop the tablecloth and the smile he sent Strahm’s way was so sickeningly lovestruck that Strahm hadn’t known what to do except say out loud, 

“We’re not dating.” 

To no one in particular. 

He hadn’t moved the hand though. 

Deep down, perhaps it was nice to act out the scenario, and by the second glass of red wine, Strahm had at least leaned into the fantasy a little more than when they had arrived and Hoffman had announced that they had a reservation for their anniversary. Strahm had blinked at him in disbelief, mouth flapping open to say something as they were led to their table and the bored looking waiter had shoved some menus their way and left rather quickly. Hoffman tucked his coat onto the back of his chair, Strahm had ignored completely the fact that he did look like he’d made an effort outside of eyebrow plucking with the shirt and sweater he’d picked, then the deceptive, evil, murdering bastard had said simply, 

“If we tell them it’s our anniversary we might get free dessert.”

Strahm had almost started screaming, right there and then. 

It was an experience, in the end. Something to get out of the system while they still were breathing. 

Annoyingly, it was still the best dinner date Strahm had been on in about a decade and for all he made Hoffman out to be a useless dimwit, he slotted himself into the character of charming date relatively well. Playing the part right up until the final moment, where he had whipped out his wallet and said, rather condescending but on point for an average jack-off taking you for dinner, 

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll pay .” 

Strahm had wanted to throw him across the table and headbutt him until they both couldn’t see, instead he smiled politely and wondered how hard it would be to push the prong of a dinner fork through a man the size of Hoffman’s hand. 

“Thank you, sweetie.” Strahm muttered, teeth tight together.

The waiter had looked between them like it was barely the weirdest thing he’d seen that evening and taken Hoffman’s card without a word.

As Strahm tucked his seatbelt on as they slipped back into Hoffman’s car, he turned to the other man and said, very matter of factly, 

“Well. They didn’t give us a free dessert, did they?”

“Darling.” Hoffman turned the key in the ignition, “Shut your mouth.” 

~

The day before the game, Strahm left his apartment in the late afternoon after spending the morning cleaning. The thin layer of dust that covered his surfaces had made his insides run deathly cold because he knew exactly why it had settled. He had barely been home since he’d started this ridiculous thing with Hoffman. In and out a few times to pick up mail, sift through his emails on his desktop computer and clean all the shit out of his fridge that was slowly rotting from neglect. He didn’t think too hard on it after the first realisation, there was only so much you could take in a short amount of time and to know, deep in your heart, that you were quietly moving into the home of a guy you purported to be an enemy, was enough to make the strongest man wither. 

He didn’t have a spare key to Hoffman’s. That might have been the final straw for him, but luckily, he had been spared the pity of snapping a piece of metal that allowed him 24/7 access to the lion’s den onto his keyring. He could almost imagine the look of glee that might have befallen Hoffman’s face if that was the case. He could picture in his mind. The curl of Mark’s mouth, winding up until his cheeks were fattened with cruel happiness that he lauded the domestic retreat of his apartment over the head of Strahm. 

His hands shoved themselves into his pockets, more out of necessity to not let himself start picking at his fingernails or lips as he tossed around the concept of what Hoffman might do to him if he started just dumping his own furniture into his living space. He knew he was particular. He could tell from the way everything had a place on the shelf and when you would pick it up, the base would cast a darkened ring on the surface, from months of not being moved. It has its place, as did Strahm. 

When his feet finally met the slab of Hoffman’s doormat, he slipped the key that kept itself tucked under a fake plant off to the side of the front door into the lock, clicking the barrels quietly and then elbowing the door open and shut, all in one practised movement. It wasn’t unusual to find himself alone in the apartment, drifting around and attempting to memorise every part of Mark that lay separate from the entity that was Hoffman. It occupied him, kept him just above water as his feet paddled desperately to the beat of a ticking clock, counting down the days until Hoffman fucked up. Let someone in. Let someone notice he was ruthlessly devout to the altar of a man whose ideals should have died along with him. 

The game was less than twenty four hours away as Strahm pulled open the door in Hoffman’s bedroom, pulling out the photo album that had brought him to the place he seemed to be stuck in for the last, jumbled handful of weeks. Maybe months. He blinked at the calendar that had been hung on the wall, scribbles of duties Hoffman had to attend at the station dotted the boxes. The etchings of the thin veneer that Hoffman had dragged over himself like a plagued blanket to try and detract from the dogma he’d convinced himself was worth his life.

He wasn’t exactly sure how long he sat on the bed, feet planted firmly on the ground to try and centre himself, and flipped through the pages of the photo album. It was a ritual at this point. A sickening game that he played with his own mental state to try and trick himself into buying the illusion that Mark and him had been in a regular, non-horrific relationship that spanned decades and the photo album was a testament to a life together. Not that he would ever, under even pain of death, tell Hoffman it was something he conjured up.

It was sad. Even to him, it was a sad little lie. 

But, since the coffin, it was something he found himself drawn back to. Strahm often debated dragging out his own photo albums and slipping photos of himself into the mix. 

Instead, he looked at Mark until his eyes watered and hurt.

His hand turned the page and his line of sight fell onto one of his favourites.

Strahm stared at the cool blue eyes of Hoffman at probably age thirty, a photo he’d looked at for probably hours at this point. He was sure that if he closed his eyes he probably could see it projected onto his eyelids, but it wasn’t enough. He suddenly felt something he had encountered a few times since drawing the photo album out while Hoffman was out in the real world, causing problems. It hadn’t occurred to him the first few times what the sensation was, the slimy, slithering feeling that twirled up his body like a snake wrapping around a handler’s arm. 

It was sad, sympathy. Sympathy for the young man who never got a chance to live for anything but his own hatred and bloodlust. 

The photo itself held no one but Mark and he stood in a snow covered vista, dappled light from the evening street lights and it filtered down onto his face and illuminated his huge grin. He held up a hand, a wave of hello to whoever was taking the photo, no doubt his sister. He was wearing gloves, the photo not of a good enough quality to see much detail on them, but if Strahm squinted it looked as though they were striped, green and blue. He rubbed his fingers together and could almost feel the scratchy warmth of them and he bet that if he rifled hard enough through Hoffman’s drawers, he might even find them. 

A tear lined the corner of the photo, just small enough that while laying flat in the cradle of the photo album it posed no threat to the integrity of the paper, but when Strahm slid the photograph from beneath the cellophane that held it there, it caught. Ripping a little more and he fiddled with it idly as he stared at Mark’s soft, young shoulders; picking at the edge until it frayed more and more. A corner of the photo peeled away and Strahm held it between his fingers, the edge of Mark’s old street, black-blue with speckles of snow. Like a dream he hadn’t had. Or a memory he himself hadn’t been invited to.

He put it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. 

Once he started, he couldn’t stop. Committing to memory the image from the photo as he ripped pieces off and stuffed them into his mouth, chewing as much as he could to soften the sensation of photographic paper sliding down his gullet. Tickling the inside of his throat and he rubbed the knitted together, scarred tissue of his tracheotomy hole as he shoved more and more of Mark into his mouth. Eating up the last good piece of him until there was no more photo. There was no more photo and there was no more Mark Hoffman before John Kramer. Before Angelina’s death. 

Strahm managed to rush to the kitchen, heaving as his body attempted to reject the mush of paper inside of his belly, but there was no use. It filled him, pulpy and heavy as he grasped a glass off of the draining board and filled it to the brim with tap water, greedily glugging it down as he gasped through it. His head hung over the sink and he retched a few more times before his body became quiet and still, ribs aching as they pressed into the cold metal of the edge of the sink. 

He managed to drag his body over to the couch and he flicked on a lamp as the sun began to set over the city, and as Strahm flopped down, a hand smoothing over his aching belly, somewhere Hoffman slunk from his office. Strahm cast an arm across his face, taking in deep, laborious breaths as he attempted to lull himself to sleep and had no idea that it was all about to go horrendously wrong. Instead, he closed his eyes and ignored the roiling in his belly and tried not to give into the sensation of unfiltered joy at the knowledge that part of Mark Hoffman, as he used to be, would stay in him.

Strahm sat up suddenly, disgusted at himself, and when he swung his head over to the clock his eyes had barely enough time to settle on its face before his brain supplied the information that it was very, very early morning. That specific blue light waning its way into the living room, curtains wide open and Strahm’s body ached as stretched his neck around to peer into the city from Hoffman’s window. It was a better view than from his apartment, he’d give him that and after peeling himself from the couch and making himself a coffee in Hoffman’s stupid little gay shot machine, he peered across the lines of apartment blocks and buildings. The coffee was good, his belly was settled and it was normal enough to push Strahm into changing into the gym shorts he’d shoved into a rucksack before making his way to Hoffman’s apartment. The t-shirt he pulled on wasn’t his however and it was clear Hoffman wasn’t too much of a t-shirt person because it was stiff from being folded into his drawers and smelled slightly fusty. 

Strahm tugged the neckline of it up to his nose and sniffed as he placed his cup into the sink and felt better than he had in weeks. 

The rest of the day whistled by, Strahm’s head clear and if maybe a smile graced his features when the girl at the gym smiled at him as he entered, then that was his business. If another one was drawn out as he picked up breakfast on his way back to the apartment after the man serving him told him to have a good day, he wasn’t going to think about it. Even the fucking ducks in the park he ambled through while stuffing a breakfast bagel into his mouth made him feel more human than he had in a long time, enough to turn his usually perpetual frown into something a little softer as the slurry like mire that had wrapped his brain up tight began to dissipate.

Hoffman’s shower wasn’t quite as luxurious as his bathtub but Strahm scratched a hand through his hair under the stream and sucked in a breath of steam, clearing out his lungs of invisible poisons as he pressed his forehead into the glass screen that encased him. It felt like the first day off he’d really had since that first trap and if he squinted his eyes and tilted his head, he could almost imagine that nothing had ever happened to skew his life into what it was. And as he kicked up his feet onto Hoffman’s coffee table and pressed play on Hoffman’s DVD of The Big Lebowski, he decided that it probably was time to do something he’d been putting off out of shame. 

His hands shook slightly as he opened up a new SMS to Perez, number unblocked but conscious still clouded because he felt like a highschooler. It was one thing to not look any further into the death of your partner when you had all the ability to delve deeper, but it was a whole issue when the reason you were off in cloud fucking cuckoo land was because you were becoming involved in inappropriate ways with a man who quite clearly had everything to do with said partners injuries. 

There was no way to make up for any of it and if Perez was even allowed anywhere near her phone, because Strahm had been in the department for long enough that he knew they loved to throw around protection orders more than anything else, then he wouldn’t blame her if she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. 

He wrote the message and sent it all in one breath. When he was done he placed his phone, closed and on silent, onto the coffee table and watched two films in succession without even looking at it. It laid there and he daren’t not touch it. It could have been a red hot coal with the way his eyes darted around, nervous at the mere thought of picking it up with his bare hands. He needed some heavy duty gloves or a ten foot pole.

He had just begun the third film by the time his phone buzzed and it felt like a warning. A warning that he should have heeded when Perez’s last word, or what he had thought was her last word, was the strangled utterance of Hoffman’s name.

P: I’m sorry. I’ll get in trouble if they find out I’m speaking to you. Erickson had me put into protection but wouldn’t tell me why. But I’m back on the case.

Strahm found that he was sweating and he wiped a hand over his top lip as another message was sent through. 

P: I’m glad you’re okay. I’ll talk to you properly when I can. 

P: I promise that I’m going to find out who did this. I’m so sorry you can’t be here with me. 

Strahm barely thought about his response as he typed it back, a voice in his head barking at him that it was in no way professional to be speaking to a partner like that but he ignored it as his fingers flew over the buttons. Bile threatened the back of his throat with its bite as he rolled Perez’s ‘ I’m going to find out who did this ’ over in his head.

S: Be careful, Lindsey. Please. I miss your bullshit and I want you to stick around long enough for me to hear it again.

He got a single response and it made him snuffle a quiet laugh, reminded entirely that Perez was quite a bit younger than himself and that frightened him in itself.

P: :^P

With the snap of his phone closing he imagined the face Perez might pull if she were to be told what he’d been doing all this time. He thought about the way the shine would leave her eyes and her face would drop, mouth turning down. It made his heart race with guilt and in his mind he could imagine himself putting his hands on her shoulders as he shook her, pleading with his eyes as he gasped out ‘ Leave it alone. Please. Get a transfer. Don’t look further into him’ even though he knew she wouldn’t. Like a dog with a bone. He’d taught her well. 

He’d have to draw Hoffman away, Strahm thought as he shoved his thumb into his mouth and chewed on it. Games were one thing, fucked up thing to think, Pete, but the woman he’d watch grow into the most loyal and powerful partner he’d ever had was anything thing. He would draw him away. Pull him off her scent and towards his own, because if he had anything with Hoffman, it was the power to draw his focus solely onto him. He’d done it before, while out drinking one night like they were perhaps just work buddies, shoulders hunched over as they sat at a bar together after Hoffman had slumped home from work. It was terrifying to see, the way that Kramer had manifested himself into Hoffman as his ears had perked up towards some asshole talking big behind them, Strahm could barely remember what the man’s crime was but it was enough to flip a switch in Hoffman and Strahm had read Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde when he was about thirteen. It was uncanny to look at Hoffman and have the memory of it flood back. 

His hand balled up on the bar and Strahm could almost see in technicolour the plans that Hoffman had brewing inside of him as the man flapped his gums about what a low life he was.

“We should go home.” Strahm had muttered, eyelids purposefully low and Hoffman’s body swung around to look at him, instantly relaxing when he noticed how Strahm was gazing at him. “Come on. I’m done drinking. Let’s go.” He had done his best to smile without it quivering and Hoffman had lapped it up. It hadn’t felt like too much work either, because deep down where no one but himself could get to, he had wanted to go home with Hoffman. Wanted to stop throwing back drinks and crawl into bed with the worst man he could know; let him sneak his hands around him and pretend he didn’t notice. Allow Hoffman’s mouth to rove over his neck and his hands to spread apart his thighs until he laughed, annoyed and turned on all in one, like most nights since they’d exchanged blood in their coffin.

“Okay, baby.” Hoffman had grunted and then tugged Strahm by the cuff of his jacket, one thing in mind now and Strahm had won . He’d turned off the killer instinct and when Hoffman kissed him after brushing his teeth, his face was soft. Rugged anger washed out of him completely and maybe the man had been an asshole, but talking big about stealing cars in a city of millions wasn’t enough to warrant being put into a death machine by a hulking, horrifying man.

He could do it again. 

Maybe he could pack everything up, put Hoffman’s records and films and coffee machine into boxes and pile them into his car and use the rotting love that Hoffman festered inside of his heart for him to persuade him to move away and never hurt anyone ever again. 

Strahm stroked a hand over his stomach, remnants of what could have stayed within Hoffman’s soul now within him. 

If anyone could change Hoffman, it was him. Just as Hoffman had changed him in turn.

He’d barely realised he’d fallen asleep again until he blinked at his watch, arm heavy with dopey slumber as he peered down at it and murmured out loud, “Jesus.” Irritated that since the age of about thirty five he had fallen into the trap that his own father fell into most days where the mid afternoon rolled around and the call of the couch was too much. Thank God he at least had enough dignity left to not fall asleep with his head thrown back and mouth wide open like his father used to, instead he’d cross his arms over his chest and snooze that way. Perez caught him a few times in their shared office and every time Strahm would snap awake to her laughing and calling him an old man. 

Strahm rubbed a hand over his face and smiled, relieved that maybe soon he could see her face light up again with glee as she made fun of him. 

Then, it hit him. 

He hadn’t seen Hoffman in over a day. Not since he’d blearily, through sleep crusted eyes, watched him leave for work after Hoffman had appeared in the middle of the night in Strahm’s apartment. Slinking in between his sheets and shoving his face into the space between Strahm’s shoulder blades as he shuddered breath against his skin. It had been unusual but Strahm hadn’t cared to pry too deep into it, mostly because he hadn’t really cared what Hoffman had to say to explain why he was so worked up. 

The click of the remote plunged the room into shrouded darkness, only the flaring, blinking lights of the city illuminated anything around him, the moon a broken fingernail behind the clouds as Strahm flicked on a lamp. The sickly hue of yellow glared across the furniture as he was filled with worry. The sort of worry you allowed to filter into you when you were a kid and your mom wasn’t home in time after work and you had no idea how to contact her to find out what was wrong. The same kind of worry when you’d call for your dog at dinner time, loud and brisk into the backyard and all that you got in return was bleak silence. 

Peter sat with his knees together, back ramrod straight as he ticked through the ideas of what might have happened. Visions of Hoffman in handcuffs as he was shoved against the hood of a car, or perhaps he’d fallen into one of his own traps and was currently being turned into the closest thing a human being could get to a kebab. Or, maybe he was fine and was out at a bar, drinking and eyeing up beautiful men that might sway past him. 

The latter hurt more than anything, ridiculously. The thought of Hoffman looking at anyone else that wasn’t him with those big, wet eyes as he played with the beer mats and tried to act cute. 

Hoffman could die. He could die and it would upset him, but one day he would be fine. He couldn’t pick anyone over Strahm though. The hurt of it would racket through his body and the jealousy that came forward at simply thinking about it was enough to let Strahm know that he would do absolutely anything to make sure that Hoffman only had eyes for him until he did die. And if that meant that one day he would have to kill him himself, he could live with that. 

The latch went, the soft click of a key twiddling round in the lock had Strahm’s head whipping around to it. All the colour drained from his face as Hoffman hobbled in, trailing a sticky line of blood as he went and for a silly moment all Strahm could think about was how the neighbours would gawk at the rusty drips as they left their front doors the next morning. 

Hoffman’s speech was garbled as he shoved the door shut with his foot, his hand bloodied too as he tried not to fall and his hand shot out to steady himself and it splashed a wash of colour against the light wood. The other hand cupping his face and for a moment that was why Strahm assumed his speech was slurred, it wasn’t until Hoffman stepped closer, stumbling a little, did he see what was truly wrong. 

“Pete.” He coughed and it sounded wet and meaty, “Pete, I need your help.” 

Strahm was on him before he knew what he was doing, holding up Hoffman’s heft and it was hard, he was massive and in Strahm’s arms he felt like lead. Weighing him down as he dragged him into the bathroom, depositing Hoffman onto the edge of the bath and turning away from the mess of flesh that was what was left of Hoffman’s face.

Chapter Text

Strahm was on him before he knew what he was doing, holding up Hoffman’s heft and it was hard, he was massive and in Strahm’s arms he felt like lead. Weighing him down as he dragged him into the bathroom, depositing Hoffman onto the edge of the bath and turning away from the mess of flesh that was what was left of Hoffman’s face. 

“It’s bad. Isn’t it?” Strahm could just about understand him as he spoke, Hoffman’s face grey as he turned it up to him and Strahm swallowed and closed his eyes as hard as he could. He didn’t want to see. Any of it. 

“Stop talking. You’ll make it worse.” He pulled a reel of toilet paper from the roll and threw his arm out so that Hoffman could take it, “Put this on it for a second. Where’s your first aid kit?” He could hear the squish of skin and gristle as Hoffman pushed the paper against him and he groaned in what was no doubt complete agony. 

“You said not to talk.” Even with half a face Hoffman was being a dick. 

“Mark. ” Strahm snapped and it lured Hoffman out of whatever this pretence of holding it together he had pulled over him.

“Under the sink.” He flapped a hand, drenched in blood, towards the bathroom sink. Strahm moved instantly, peeling out everything he might need to repair someone’s face and of course there wasn’t enough to do a perfect job, but it seemed like Hoffman had thought about an eventuality where part of him might be damaged to the point where he needed to stock needles and surgical thread. 

“You want a shot of something before this?” Strahm murmured and he could see Hoffman’s teeth as he shook his head, “Yeah. I guess it might just all end up on the floor.” He laughed but it sounded empty and when Hoffman’s glazed over eyes met his, he bowed his head in apology. Not the time. Not the time at all. 

It was a mess. Hoffman’s face was falling apart and Strahm could barely work out what went where as he pushed him back together, fingers sliding around his skin from all the blood that was dripping in great bouts from his broken flesh. He smelled like iron and a strange sweetness that Strahm couldn’t put his finger on, but he centred his mind onto trying to jog his memory because it was a lot better than getting stuck on the fact he could quite easily stick his finger into the softness of Hoffman’s mouth through the side of his cheek, if he really wanted.

He didn’t want to.

For a relationship whose beginning was based on power and hurting each other, there was nothing more that Strahm wanted to do than hold Hoffman together. Mould his hands around his broken, distended face and push until he came back together, a fully formed man. No cracks and no blood so Strahm could lean in and kiss him without a shade of guilt. 

“You’re shaking.” Hoffman dribbled blood onto his shirt as he spoke and Strahm stroked a hand over the back of Hoffman’s head, feeling how his hair was wet with sweat. 

“I mean it. Shut up so I can do this.” Strahm could hear how tight and wound with emotion his voice was, and he cleared his throat and set his shoulders as he slowly and carefully washed his hands in the sink. Washing away the blood, for now, and he watched as it slicked down the sink. He wasn’t going to begin to think about what did this, but he could guess. And that was enough for now. 

With the needle threaded, Strahm tried to calm himself, he would need a steady hand to try and knit Hoffman back together. He wasn’t a doctor. He wasn’t close to a doctor and his bedside manner was fucking terrible but his brain was screeching at full volume that he needed to fix him. The tremors stopped at the first plunge of the needle into the fat of Hoffman’s cheek as both of them tried to hold it all together. Hoffman didn’t wince. He didn’t move. But Strahm could feel his eyes on him, piercing into him as he tugged the needle back and forth, stopping ever so often to dab away blood as it spilled over his fingers. Hoffman’s bathroom towels were taking a beating, saturated with blood and sweat as Strahm wiped at his forehead and then swished the fabric across the ground to mop up any blood he’d missed from the first sweeps of toilet paper. 

“I got stabbed once.” Strahm murmured, tone strangely soft for the topic at hand, let alone what his hands were caught up in, “He got me in the leg, but he slashed at my face first.” He ran a finger over his face, along the memory of the wound where his scar carved its path along the top of his cheek, smearing blood as it went. He sniffed once, then started pulling the needle through Hoffman’s face again, the sloppy sound of his face being yanked back together was just about audible as Strahm added, “Thought that it would ruin my whole fucking face, but now, fifteen years later; I barely notice it.” 

Hoffman tried to laugh at that, eyes slipping closed as his body rumbled and Strahm could tell that Hoffman knew he was pitying him. Trying to turn this into something that both of them could fully laugh at in time. If either of them managed to last that long. 

Hoffman’s hand touched Strahm’s, stilling him for a moment as he croaked, voice wet,

“You still think I’m handsome?”

Strahm didn’t answer, just turned Hoffman’s head back slowly and slid the sharp end of the needle back into him, sewing Hoffman back into some sort of semblance of a human being as his face flapped open, twisted and terrible. But he was. He was still handsome, even with eyes like piss holes in the snow and skin so pale from shock that the blood splashed across him almost glowed under the bathroom lights. Illuminating him like the saints that adorned the iconography that littered the walls of Strahm’s father’s house, that he would stare at as a child and wonder what made them so fucking special. 

“I’m almost done. I don’t really know what it’s going to look like when it’s healed but—” Strahm sighed deep and shaky “—you’ll live. I think. Quite frankly, you could get sepsis and still die, but I did my best.” 

Hoffman nodded slowly, careful not to disturb the stitching or Strahm’s hand, and placed his own hand onto Strahm’s knee where he was perched on the seat of the toilet. With the touch, Strahm’s brain turned off, slipping into a neutral state of cool, calm white and he squeezed his eyelids together. Face screwed up as Hoffman rubbed at the place where the fabric of his shorts met the skin of his leg, and he shouldn’t have been the one to be comforting the other. It was absurd. It all was.

He finished quickly after that, sewing Hoffman up as best he could until his face looked much more like a face again, and less like a pile of meat. Using piles of toilet paper that ended up bunched and discarded to the side, to wipe away any blood that was left smeared across Hoffman’s cheek. It was a jagged, retched piece of work, only serving to drag Hoffman’s skin back together rather than to do it well, but when Hoffman pulled himself up and looked in the mirror, he smiled. Pleased with Strahm's work. 

Then, in quick succession, he groaned in pain and fell so hard against the sink that it looked like it might have come off the wall if it hadn’t been for Strahm jumping to his feet and yanking Hoffman up by the waist. Holding him against him as he pleaded, 

“Don’t puke. Please, don’t fucking puke. I can handle blood but not that.” 

Hoffman’s laugh was terse and breathy, and he sounded like he hadn’t quite worked out how to speak without his teeth cutting into the newly joined skin of the inside of his mouth as he muttered,

“M’not going to puke.” He heaved in a breath, allowing Strahm to walk him with shuddering steps into the bedroom, where he gently let him down onto the bed and Hoffman nodded in thanks, a hand inching up to cradle his mangled face. 

“I don’t know what to do.” Strahm said, body a straight line as he stood prostrate with a whole host of emotions he couldn’t label because if he began to, he would realise they centred all too much around how much he very well may have liked Hoffman. “What should I do? You should probably go to the hospital, man. I did a piss poor job with your face and it could come undone and—”

“I can’t go to the hospital.” Hoffman said flatly. 

Strahm’s hackles went up, 

“Why? What the fuck did you do?”

Hoffman leaned forward, hands on his knees as he peered up at Strahm and asked so sincerely it made Strahm’s insides ache for him, 

“If I asked you to, would you kiss me right now? The way I am?” 

“Don’t change the subject.” Strahm frowned, “What did you do?”

“Killed Erickson.” There was no hesitation this time, just Hoffman’s eyes glowering up at Strahm as he tried not to bend in the middle at the shock of hearing it out loud, even though he knew it would come one day. Hoffman licked his lips, eyes damp and Strahm didn’t want to hear what might come next. 

“Who else?” His face felt numb. 

“Some technician. They took me away from my game.” Hoffman could barely finish the sentence before Strahm pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sighing deep from the pit of his belly and with the sound of it his hand shot out. Grabbing a fistful of Hoffman’s hair as he held him still, forcing him to look him in the eye as tears threatened to corners of the larger man’s eyes. 

“If I ask you about her, will you lie to me again?” His grip got tighter, just to show Hoffman he wasn’t fucking around. 

“You’ll believe what you want to believe.” Hoffman looked to be on the verge of bursting into tears and it settled in Strahm’s chest, miserable and cold, “I didn’t hurt her. I couldn’t do it. All I could think about was you bitching me out if I’d gone through with it. I let her leave. Stupidest fucking thing I’ve done because now she knows .” His breathing became laboured, the reality of his life seemingly slipping through the cracks of the fallacy he’d created as his own belief system, “She fucking knows it was me.” 

For a man like Hoffman, to spare Perez’s life, it was almost like a gift to Strahm. 

Most couples got each other roses. 

Strahm didn’t pick apart the fact his mind had referred to them as a couple. 

“We should probably go to my place. They’re going to look for you and I’d say that your apartment would probably be the first place to look if your department was any good at police work. Which is debatable, but I don’t want to leave it to chance.” 

When Strahm looked down, tears streamed down Hoffman’s face, wetting his knees as they fell from where his head was ducked in contrition. Like a penitent child at mass and all Strahm could do was tip his face up to meet his own, other hand having left Hoffman’s hair to instead cup the back of his head. Reverently leaning down to kiss Hoffman’s mouth softly, the softest kiss he could give a cold hearted killer, even if in that moment he didn’t feel like one. Hoffman felt like a child, terrified and ashamed, though Strahm knew that wouldn’t last. Pride would drag away anything that made Hoffman human these days.

“Sometimes I think you care about me.” Hoffman all but whispered, breath smelling like blood and spit as it puffed against Strahm’s face and he wrinkled his nose at it. 

“It’s complicated.” Strahm answered, shuffling forward until he could stand in between Hoffman’s legs, allowing the brute to press his aching face into the fabric of his t-shirt as it shielded his belly and when Hoffman finally found his retort, his voice was muffled as he spoke into it. 

“It doesn’t have to be.” His hands began their ascent up the small of Strahm’s back, holding him against his face and it no doubt hurt, to press your recently sewn face into anything, “It can be so easy.” He rubbed his mouth into Strahm’s stomach, fingers tight against his back, “I love you. You know I do.” 

“Yeah.” Was all Strahm said to begin with, wondering how easy it would be to leave the country when the man you were with would probably become one of the most wanted criminals in the states in the next few days. 

“Is that it?” His speech was still muffled and Strahm could feel the wetness from Hoffman’s drool on his shirt. 

“You’re okay, I suppose.” It at least made Hoffman laugh, even if Strahm could feel the way his shoulders sagged against him, and it was an odd sensation, to feel bad for the worst person you knew. Sympathy was not saved for men like Mark Hoffman, but it still flowed through Strahm as he clutched at Hoffman’s head, holding to him to belly and murmured, quiet enough that if he tried hard enough he might have been able to ignore himself, “I know you do. You’re fucking sick in the head and I think I might just be too, because I feel the same.” 

Mark sucked in a huge, heaping breath that shook through his body and drew to a close as Strahm shuffled them around enough that he could bend down and kiss him, over and over until he knew that Mark was hard. Could feel it in the way that he leaned up into the kisses, groaning in between them whenever their mouths could part. 

Mark ended up on top of him, sat astride Peter’s hips as he pushed himself down onto Peter’s cock, dried blood caked onto his neck as he craned his head back and moaned. Peter grabbed onto his thighs, hands ripened with sweat as he gazed up at Mark and found him to look peculiarly soft. Young. Almost otherworldly in the low light of the bedroom as he rocked himself back and forth, barely making it seem like his goal was to come. More so like he wanted to grind Peter into him so far that he could never leave.

“Fuck.” Peter breathed, feeling the shift of Mark’s fat as he writhed on top of him, face grim and grimy still but maybe the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen in his life. It took his breath away and left him feeling as if Hoffman were to draw a blade from behind his back, at that very moment, and plunge it into his heart; he would thank him. In spades. Then beg for more as the blood flowed.

Mark pressed his hips down hard and Peter came into him harder. 

~

It was completely odd to realise, as he crowded Mark against him, a leg thrown over his hip and the duvet pulled up to their ears despite the warm weather, that he didn’t need to jump through a thousand mental hoops to justify this. He may have needed it later, but just for that moment, Peter allowed himself the base, human experience of holding another warm body against yourself and liking it. He could feel the soft cadence of Mark’s breathing and the faltering tremble that accompanied it. Even when they shared the bed, this bed, they didn’t hold each other like they were. It was perfunctory before, something to do rather than something to feel and Peter could feel everything. The rasp of Mark’s chest hair against his own, the bumps of frayed scars on his skin, the slice of his fingernails as they pressed into Peter’s back. 

“We need to go.” Peter said, and he sounded like how he used to speak to his wife and that scared him a little. “We should get up and go to mine.” 

“We’ll be alright.” Mark answered. 

Peter wasn’t sure if he meant in general or them. Just them. 

What he could tell was that Mark was mere seconds away from falling asleep, eyelids tumbling down and his mouth hung open slightly as his gentle, wheezing breaths swung in and out. Peter was hit unceremoniously with the idea that he might not wake up if he did. That his body would slip into shock and his life would peel away from him like a second skin. He roused him softly, shaking his arm and Mark frowned and smacked his lips together. 

“I feel like shit. Stop.” He croaked, sluggish as his tongue tried to roll and scrabble over the syllables to get them out.

“We should have taped some gauze over that. You’re still bleeding.” He shouldn’t have cared, it wasn’t his pillow cases that were bearing the brunt of Mark’s sticky, crimson blood. But, he did. “Hey, stay awake for a bit. Please.”

The last word of the sentence seemed to draw Mark out of his slumber and he sighed out, long and hard, then tucked his hands into Peter’s back. Pulling him even closer into him and Peter could see the spots of red as they pearled out of the gash on his face. 

“When’s your birthday?” He just wanted to keep him talking for a little bit. Just a little longer. 

Mark scoffed, eyes open now and he scanned Peter’s face, unsure until he mumbled, 

“May. The twenty-seventh. Why do you care?”

“October the thirty-first.” Peter replied and that seemed to amuse Mark to no end.

“Halloween? Fucking makes sense. Creepy fucker.” He sniggered quietly, every word out of his mouth sounding painful to wrap his lips around but he continued nevertheless, “That makes you a—” He considered it for a second “—Scorpio. That also makes sense. I’m a Gemini.” 

“I don’t know what that means. I don’t know why you would know what that means.”

Mark smiled thinly, 

“Angie loved that sort of shit. The entire year of 1994 she wouldn’t stop giving me tarot card readings.” He smiled wistfully, “She’d get really mad because every time she’d draw a card I’d go, ‘that’s good, right?’. Every time. Man, she’d get so fucking red.” He winced, touching his right cheek slightly, “I’d sit in her apartment and she’d have all this fucking incense and candles. Think I said before, she really thought she was going to get into witchy stuff.” 

“So?” Peter murmured, “Are Geminis and scorpions good together?”

“Scorpios.” Mark said, voice muffled as he spoke into the pillow, “I don’t know. She never told me enough about for me to understand what the fuck it all meant.”

Peter pressed his mouth together then said, all too sincerely,

“Sorry.”

“It’s not—” Mark began, then frowned “—Don’t be. I don’t need pity about it.” 

“It’s not pity.” Peter pressed, “Just trying to be nice. Christ.” 

“Didn’t realise nice was a concept you were familiar with.” 

“Right.” Peter tried not to dig in and make a jab and he managed it for all of two seconds before he added, snottily, “Well, if you fucking hate me so much why don’t you leave me the fuck alone.”

“No.” Mark said, plainly. 

“Why do you mean no ?”

“Just. No.”

“Oh my God.” Peter couldn’t stop his smile. He felt borderline manic, “This is insane. I shouldn’t be here.” He pressed his forehead into Mark’s, what might have been a simulation on other instances of affection had turned into something else and he revelled in it, in the sensation of Mark’s burning hot skin against his own, flushed with pain, “I didn’t even want to fuck you to begin with.” 

“That’s a lie.” Peter had never heard Mark sound the way he did in that bed, the usual gruff timbre had dissipated with the blood down the drain and he was left to sound quiet, subdued, “I didn’t force you here.” His face did a funny thing and he conceded gently, “Uh. Well, only a bit.” 

Peter snorted, 

“Moron.” He tugged on the back of Mark’s hair, knowing deep down that they were incredibly unlikely to speak of this time again, “Don’t die in your sleep.”

“Cats often eat their owners after they die if they’re left to starve.” Mark was already half asleep.

“Dogs too.” Peter murmured. 

~

They packed what they could carry, Peter’s hands heavy with boxes and conscience heavier with the knowledge he was about to harbour not only a fugitive but a man who had done things so awful that if he had looked in on their situation, he might have torn the hair from his head in despair. How could a human willingly spend time and take in a creature like Hoffman? It was confounding. Well. It was, until it wasn’t. 

Mark was hunched over a crate of records, flipping through them at a snail's pace and it made the vein in Peter’s forehead pulse wretchedly. At any moment someone could burst through the door, gun aimed at the spongy flesh of Hoffman’s chest and in a second, Peter could have been ripped from this ludicrous fantasy life he’d painted for himself within the cavern of Hoffman’s atrocities. Perez was alive, a mercy, but surely someone must have found Erickson and any other poor soul that crossed Hoffman.

“Could you go faster?” Peter chewed at his ring finger’s nail, “You’re acting like you didn’t murder an FBI agent.” 

“I’m going.” Mark kept flipping at the same rate, “You’ve got my clothes. All the shit that I need to live. Let me fucking do this.” 

Peter could have strangled him. Wrapped his hands around the thick cords of his neck and pushed until something popped and all this was over. Instead, he stood and tapped his foot on the ground, whirling back through memories to try and work out how and why he managed to get himself into this situation. Unfortunately, the answer was a simple one and it lived in the way that Mark glanced up at him, a patch of gauze now tapped haphazardly to his face.

“I’m sure you’ll want me to take this.” Mark held up the gatefold for Speaking In Tongues, waving it at Peter, “Never known someone to listen to something so many fucking times in a row.” 

Peter crossed his arms over his chest, “It’s a good album. Put it in the fucking box and let’s go.” 

“What’s your favourite track?” Mark was being obtuse. 

“If I tell you, will you come the fuck on?” Peter pushed his hair back, the armpits of his shirt beginning to feel sticky with nervous sweat. All he could think about was a life in prison for himself and probably something much worse for Hoffman. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” Mark leaned his elbow on the record crate, fixing his face onto his hand with a look that suggested that movement caused great pains to his cheek, “Tell me and I’ll go right now.”

Peter shuffled his feet. Shy suddenly. 

“ Burning Down The House .”

“Liar.” Mark grinned and Peter knew he had settled into that permanent place in one's heart when you looked at someone and it made your insides ache hotly, “Tell the truth.” 

“Jesus Chri—” Peter groaned, impatient and waning towards anger now “—Okay. It’s This Must Be The Place .”

Mark smirked so hard it almost looked agonising, 

“I’ll make sure to remember to put it onto our wedding playlist.” 

“Find someone else to stay with.” Peter almost wailed, hand flung into the air as he marched outside to his car, Hoffman having dumped his own. They’d probably buy a new one anyway. “I’ll be in the car. Try and keep your head down when you come out.” Hoffman had had an old hoodie on, something he probably hadn’t touched in years, just so he could pull the hood around his face. The graphic on the front was peeling off from so many washes, but it was still legible and Peter made a note to do a big fucking laugh later at the fact Mark had a Beastie Boys hoodie tucked away. It was tight around his stomach and the dates on the back for the Licence To Ill tour suggested that Mark had travelled overseas for the shows which made it infinitely funnier. 

Peter couldn’t hold himself back, ignoring the cold fear of being caught if they took a second longer, 

“Did you find that at a thrift store or were you really a big Beastie Boys fan?”

Mark stood, a collection of records stuffed into a box as he rose and stared at Peter for a long moment before he admitted quietly, 

“ Run-D.M.C were playing too.” He looked as though he were a second from running out the room in shy embarrassment. It was all too strange to think they had lives before this, “My grandma is Greek and we were in the UK for a couple of days before we flew over. May twenty-third, 1987; just before my birthday and Angie had bought me tickets because she knew we were staying in some place called Camberwell and the venue they were playing was nearby. I broke my finger because I got too excited when they played No Sleep Till Brooklyn . They have these metal barriers about halfway down the venue and I punched it.” He looked wistful, eyes soft, “Best fucking time of my life.” 

“Yeah. Well.” Peter muttered, thumb nail in his mouth, “You’ve really set yourself up to never have anything as good as that again.” 

Mark’s eyes bore holes in him, 

“I suppose.” 

“Camberwell?” Peter breathed, guiding Mark out the door gently, a handful of DVDs in his hand, “We should watch this tonight.” He held up Mark’s copy of Withnail & I , “Camberwell carrot.” 

Mark laughed brightly, hood now pulled up as they tried their best to walk down the stairs, ignoring the lift, with as much nonchalance as two criminals (because they were both criminals now) could. 

“Camberwell fucking carrot. Hm, I guess there’s no more drug tests for me. You gonna arrest me if I smoke a spliff in your apartment later?” Mark pulled the hood even tighter around his face and it was like Peter was talking to a walking pair of lips as he slipped into the passenger seat of Pete’s car. “You’d have to go out and buy, obviously.”

Peter clipped his belt on, eyebrows flying up to his hairline, 

“I’m still a federal agent, you fucking bimbo. I can’t go and buy you weed.”

“ Bimbo ?” Mark seemed to be shocked into silence, then he regained himself, eyebrows tilting down, “Jeez.” He huffed, looking about eighteen years old as he shuffled down in his seat, arms crossed, “You know, you should probably quit. Be a lot easier when we need to relocate to a new place.” He stuffed the aglets of the hoodie’s ties into his mouth, chewing on them and truly finishing the picture of teenage him as Peter cautiously drove at the speed limit, checking all his mirrors and blind spots, just to not alert anyone that they were complete wrong-doers, “Think about it. Stretch out on the couch, film on, spliff. You ever got your cock sucked while you’re high?” 

Peter frowned, tapping his finger on the wheel, indicator flashing, 

“No. Well, yes. But you don’t need to know about it.” He ignored the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as they passed the precinct and Hoffman shuffled even lower in the seat, “I’m not quitting. I’m on paid sick leave right now. I’m not quitting yet.” 

“You can’t stay. You know you can’t. Not with me in your life.” Mark’s hand touched his knee softly and Strahm jerked away. 

“You’re not a permanent fixture.” He murmured, unsure if he was convincing himself or Hoffman. 

“Right.” The gauze on his face crinkled as he smiled, being a complete shithead, “I’ll check in on that in a couple weeks and see how you feel then.” 

Peter grit his teeth together so hard it gave him a migraine, but at least with the curtains drawn in his apartment as Hoffman unloaded his shit into the landscape of Peter’s home, it created a warm bubble of knowledge that the whole time they were hidden away, Hoffman was safe.

~

Hoffman was splayed on the couch, legs in Peter’s lap and Peter’s hand wrapped around his ankle, doing his best impression of a guy who still hated the man he’d willingly allowed into his home. 

He flapped a hand, wafting away the tangy smoke that Hoffman was blowing at him, a malicious little grin spread across his face with a spliff perched between his fingers. “I like this song.” Hoffman giggled, eyes almost blinking independently as he turned his big head towards Peter, “It’s just so—Y’know—It’s good.” 

“Everyone likes All Along The Watchtower . It’s a fucking classic.” Peter used all his might to push back the need to snap at Hoffman, instead he stroked up to his shin.

Hoffman gestured a hand to the television, spliff drifting smoke as he went, 

“This street they’re on, they filmed some of Quadrophenia nearby.” 

“How do you know that? How can you see that in your state?” Pete frowned, “You can barely hold your head up. When even was the last time you smoked? You’re going to be passing out if you smoke that whole fucking thing.”

Hoffman thought about it, shoulders up near his ears as he wriggled down into the couch a little more, hair fanned out over the cushions that Strahm’s wife had bought for their previous house, then hadn’t noticed when Strahm had stolen them in the divorce. He ran a thumb over his mouth, sucking on the tip and if he wasn’t so droopy-eyed stoned then Peter might have thought he was trying to be sexy. 

“1993? Maybe? Had a long vacation after accruing a shit ton of time. Had been in the force for something like seven or eight years. I don’t know. Kind of assumed they couldn’t kick me out for a little bit of weed. Plus, I’d walked in on the chief of police at the time doing lines with the reception officer, who was also his nephew.”

“Fucking hell.” It didn’t surprise Strahm, but he breathed out his exclamation anyway. 

“Yeah. So.” Mark smacked his lips together, “Early 90s.” 

“Your tolerance break has been over a decade.” 

“Mm.” Was all Hoffman said for a moment, before he asked, “Do you like the Dylan version or the Hendrix version?” 

Peter relaxed, shocked into the intimate domesticity of the moment by the question and the soft, downy hair on Mark’s ankles under the palm of his hand. 

“Hendrix. Dylan pisses me off. Can’t sing for shit.”

Mark sniggered, finally clipping off the spliff and discarding it into the ashtray to the side of him, he’d no doubt finish the rest tomorrow morning, 

“Hell of a harmonica player though.”

Peter laughed, hushed and secretive, liking the way that Mark looked on his couch, relaxed and warm. 

“I’m sorry, by the way.” Mark said, voice thick with smoky sweetness that coiled around Peter’s brain and it caught Peter off guard to begin with, enough that he was silent for a good while. Turning the phrase over in his head. Attempting to take it in. 

“Okay.” Was all that he responded with. 

“I dislike who I’ve become as much as you do.” He sounded sincere. Maybe it was the weed or maybe it was the way Peter had welcomed him into his home in his time of need, but it was a hard thing to disregard the openness of the statement. 

“I’m sure.” Peter nodded, thinking about Kerry’s insides ripped apart, like a hanged angel, “Will it end?” He licked his lips, grasping Hoffman’s legs so he knew he wasn’t going anywhere, “You can’t do this forever.” 

Mark’s eyelashes hung low, casting ragged shadow across his skin. He had freckles that Peter had never noticed before, but now he did. 

“I have things to finish. Work to tie up. I won’t make you wait.” 

“I’ll wait, but I can’t promise I’ll stick around.” Peter watched as Mark dragged his eyes up to him, puffy and pink, a smile tickling the corners of his plump lips as he played with his earring, a golden hoop now. A ring. “Just don’t make me wait long.” Peter added, tired and old.

“I won’t.” He swung his head back to the television, “I love this bit.” 

Peter sickened himself. He had almost replied with ‘I love you ’. 

~

Six months.

It took six months for the invisible enemy that had coiled itself around Hoffman’s heart to untangle itself and come splurging up his throat and into the world once more. Painting everything around him with black, slithering darkness that hung around and ruined the peace they’d slowly been cultivating together. It clung to the both of them, completely incapable of shucking it off once it stuck to their skin and Strahm watched as Hoffman’s eyes darkened over time. The rough scar on his face healed but the hatred in his heart growing, gathering scabs that were picked and ripped off every time Angelina came up in conversation. 

But for those first six months, it had been the closest to a normal life either of them had known for a good while.

The lease had come up on Strahm’s apartment after about five weeks of Mark skulking around, occupying his territory and cluttering his shelves as he slowly moved things over. Huge sunglasses and coats pulled up so he could bring over his life to Strahm’s place, dumping anything that he didn’t need. It, quite horrendously, reminded Peter of when his wife had moved in with him when they were youngsters, which hadn’t at the time been an official decision. She’d brought over toiletries, then clothes, then everything else. At the time, it had been almost beautiful. To know someone loved you enough to combine their life with yours. Peter was undecided on what it was like to have Hoffman smash theirs together. 

He hadn’t renewed. What he had done was repack everything, toss it into a moving van and upheave the both of them in an attempt to subdue Hoffman’s urges by keeping him as far away from New Jersey as possible. Which only turned out to be Quincy, but Strahm was sure that Hoffman wouldn’t be driving almost five and a half hours, on a good run, to get back to his old haunts. Plus it had meant they had travelled through Peter’s old hometown, and while Mark had sat (hid) in the back of the moving van, reading a copy of Flowers in the Attic like a complete lunatic, Peter had visited his sister for the day. 

Liz had looked him up and down, seen the moving van and wilted, but not in disappointment, in relief, 

“Thank fucking God. I always thought that job was going to kill you.”

Peter had smiled thinly, 

“It almost did.”

She’d waved him off at the very tail end of the afternoon, dusk’s curtain of velvet blue was already descending and if Peter shed a tear or two, that was his business. He missed the town. Missed the way that everyone was ingratiated with everyone else. Someone he hadn’t seen for more than twenty years even waved as he set off and vaguely in the back of his head he could remember being friendly with them when he was a young man. He waved back, every mile away from New Jersey was a weight off of his shoulders.

By the time they had left the I-93, Peter’s whole body felt like jelly and Mark had stopped shoving CDs into the player, body slumped against the window, his breath fogging up the glass as he slept; snoring gently. The place they were renting was near the town river bay inlet, a townhouse on Curtis Avenue with blue slats. Two bedrooms. Peter had hoped that Mark might gravitate towards having his own bedroom, but of course they had ended up sleeping together, they were all they had out there after all. 

Six whole months they stayed there, Peter taking walks down to the river in the evenings as winter had allowed spring to scrabble its finger under its blanket, tugging it off so sharply that the spring of flowers, in their tiny patch of grass they called their front yard, had taken Peter by complete surprise. He’d brushed his fingers over them, smiling quietly while Mark banged around inside, having been given the go-ahead from their landlord to be able to put up shelves and the like. 

They both took whatever jobs they could, the place they had wasn’t cheap and Mark had taken to handyman work easily, a scary smile on his face as he admitted that he’d become quite good at engineering and fixing things with his hands since he’d been slotted into John Kramer’s world. Peter had ignored him and told him that he couldn’t wear his expensive Italian shoes to work anymore and Mark laughed and shrugged, a look in his eye that suggested he was upset about it, but wouldn’t let on. 

Nobody questioned them the entire time, nobody even looked at them twice. Well, save for a few odd looks at the scar that cut its way across Mark’s face. But that was easy to live with and answer for, and the answer changed daily, depending on the person who was staring or even bold enough to ask what happened. Sometimes it was a shaving accident, sometimes it was something a little more gruesome. Like, he had fallen into a saw while trimming the hedges at their old place. Each time it happened, Peter watched as Mark’s eyes sparkled with the chance to tell a big fat lie to someone he didn’t know. 

While Mark worked away, manual labour and sweat stained shirts at the end of the day, Peter had ended up working in the stacks of the Thomas Crane public library, five minutes by car from the townhouse or a half hour walk through the north end of town. Either was pleasant enough, nothing like the painful drill of driving to the station while he was working on the Jigsaw case. He could park his car and walk into his place of work and heave a sigh of relief that no one had to be ripped apart on his watch, life was as simple as moving books around and cataloguing titles and authors into a clunky system that Peter could understand much more than the older women who already worked there. Which is why he had landed the job in the first place, all he had said was, “I use computers every day” and the man and woman interviewing him had smiled wide.

He’d come home smelling like dust and inked pages and for six months it was absolutely perfect. Or, Peter having cornered himself, believed it was. Skewing his brain into seeing Mark not as Hoffman but as some other entity that only existed within the four walls of the house they shared a tenancy in. It was all fake, obviously, but it wasn’t tearing yourself apart to try and solve crimes that ultimately ended up in your bedroom and against your mouth as they kissed you dryly. 

Peter placed a dried plate back into the cupboard above him, glancing at the clock on the wall, everything that they didn’t own previously had been cobbled together from thrift and cheap antique stores, it all had had a life before it was brought to their home. Just like the two of them. It was just past six o’clock, Mark usually pulled into the drive just gone five thirty and there was an itching feeling ascending up Peter’s tailbone as the second hand crept along, clunkily hounding Strahm with the message that Mark was late. He was never late. Never. 

He’d finished all the washing up and changing the bed linens, mindless jobs to keep himself occupied and by the time Mark pulled in, ten minutes to seven, he had bitten his fingernails raw. As he lurched through the front door, slamming it behind himself, his heavy work boots stamped straight past the mat and tracked mud onto the hard wood floors. By the time that Strahm managed to get a good look at his face, he could tell that the last week of miserable, sour faces Mark had been pulling meant something. A dark, heavy cloud hung over him as he tugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair and when his eyes met Peter’s, the whole fucking thing came tumbling down around him.

Peter’s chest tightened and he felt sickened, mouth turning dry and tacky. 

“You’re late.” 

It wasn’t the right thing to say, but what else was there to say?

Mark’s eyes glazed over, mouth twitching, holding a sneer at bay, 

“I was working.” He dragged a glass from one of the cabinets, filling it all the way up and then choking back glugs of water so fast it sounded painful. Then he did it again, throat working to suck down the liquid and it spilled over the corners of his mouth and down the divots of his neck. Strahm watched the journey, lost as to what had happened to this man to cause this. 

“Didn’t take a water bottle with you or something? What’s the fucking problem.” He snatched the glass from Mark’s hand, the noise of it slamming onto the countertop was loud and it even seemed to startle Mark out of his daze. His eyes going wide and his hand slithering out so he could wrap his fingers around Strahm’s wrist, calloused now from all the work he’d been doing here.

In our home, Strahm thought.

“We need to go back to Jersey.” Hoffman grunted, pulling Strahm into him and holding him so tight that Strahm wondered if he were to look at his skin the next day, he would find four perfectly round bruises there. 

“I’m not fucking going back there.” Strahm baulked, trying to extricate himself from Hoffman’s grasp but it was no use and he withered in his hold, feet cold on the floor and when Mark glanced down he pulled a face and tugged both of them over to the carpet. Which just served to agitate Peter. 

“It’s Jill Tuck.” Hoffman muttered, eyes down, almost afraid of Strahm. 

Strahm sucked on his teeth at that, arms crossed over his chest, 

“I don’t give a shit about Jill Tuck.” He touched Hoffman’s elbow suddenly, the need to appeal to his better judgement, his human side, clawing its way up inside Strahm until he was softening his voice and saying quietly, “Come on. You’re lucky enough that no one around here seems to ignore the fact you’re—” He paused, trying to gauge what sort of mood Hoffman was in “—You’re you .” 

Hoffman’s hand cupped Strahm’s cheek, ignoring everything that had been said to him, and when he leaned in, he smelt like sweat and dirt. Like blacktop. Just like that first time. He smelt like the road and Strahm grit his teeth together, the sharpened prong of realisation that Hoffman had been driving all day jutted into his mind and before Hoffman could butt in with anything else, Strahm snapped, 

“Where the fuck were you today?” He scrutinised Hoffman’s face, finding nothing but tired lines that hung like nooses around his eyes, accompanied by the thick, purling of what Strahm knew to be at least four sleepless nights. He’d heard him rise from the bed (their bed) enough times that for the past week he knew something was off. “Did you go back there?” Strahm could hear the manic flair in his voice and he didn’t care, “Jesus Christ. Tell me you didn’t waltz back into that city by yourself.” He scrubbed his hands down his face, marching off all of a sudden to jam closed the curtains. The fear of being seen with Hoffman mounting out of nowhere. 

“I went to Boston.” The sentence was clipped, ladened with something that Strahm couldn’t place and Peter waned, sliding into the closest piece of seating; their couch. Eyes not leaving Hoffman as he followed Strahm, the palms of his hands facing the ceiling as though he was asking for some sort of absolution after the way he had entered their home that evening. 

“I went to Boston, and I went and saw Angie. She’s in the plot where they buried my parents.” Hoffman licked his lips, taking a daring step towards Strahm and it was rewarded in Strahm making room for him to sink into the couch and it was only then that Strahm really noticed how different Hoffman looked. Leaner, less refined than when he was playing Lieutenant Detective in his charade. No longer afforded the chance to sit in his office all day and instead working on his feet all day, he’d slimmed down. He looked simultaneously younger and yet more weathered too, something that startled Strahm a little as he took it in. 

“Right.” Was all Strahm could say to that and the silence between them stretched on until he snapped it in two by adding, “I would have gone with you. If you had asked, I would have said yes. I’m not that much of an asshole.” 

“You were working.” Hoffman concluded, hands clasped together in his lap, “I needed to go alone."

There was no point in pressing the matter of whether Strahm could have accompanied him, deep down (although, not really, sort of quite near the surface) he would have felt the stab of intimacy to have joined Hoffman. His ex-wife’s mother had died relatively young and the first time they’d walked down the muddy tracks of the cemetery to see her headstone, Strahm had found himself so overcome with emotion that he had shed more tears than his wife had as they stood there. He knew he was a snappy, controlling asshole sometimes, but he wasn’t soulless.

“We lived in the Arlington area, back then. My mom moved after the war when she was tiny and my grandparents just settled there. Guess they saw a bunch of Greek flags in the neighbourhood and went with it.” He had that wistful look about him, and for a second Strahm might have forgiven him for what came next, “Angie loved it. I loved it. Then she moved for college and I couldn’t bear to leave her, so I followed. And I guess it all comes back to me fucking following her around, even when she’s six feet under and I’m staring at a piece of stone in the ground, thinking about who I need to kill to make it seem like she didn’t die for a stupid reason.” He tilted his head back, as though he wanted to keep the waterworks hidden beneath the rings of his eyes, “I went to see her and I sat there almost all day today. Sat there thinking about where I needed to go next, and I know now.” 

“And that place was fucking Jersey?” Strahm blinked at Hoffman, “What’s got you like this? You’ve been perfectly happy this whole time.” He balled his fingers into fists and shook them for emphasis, “This whole time. What’s even more fucking crazy is that I’ve been liking this whole charade we’ve got going. My work is rewarding. I finally don’t get migraines anymore. I like it here. With you." He sounded like all the oxygen had left his lungs, leaving him deflated. He felt it. 

“If you go back there—” Strahm started, wondering how quickly he could get all of his shit out of the house before Hoffman could get his hands around his throat and squeeze “—I don’t give a shit. I’ll go. I'll leave you. Then you won’t get to play house with me anymore and you’ll get fucking caught and spend your life rotting away. If they don’t execute you. Whichever one, I won't be there and I won't look for you.”

Hoffman’s face didn’t twitch. Didn’t move an inch. He just smoothed a hand down to Strahm’s knee, grasping it like a vice and Strahm steeled himself, the need to yank himself away was rising, the untamed look that came about Hoffman was startling.

“I’m not playing house.” Hoffman grunted. 

“You’re insane.” Strahm breathed, stiff as a board like a deer in the headlights. Eyes wide and wild, flitting about in the attempt to not look directly at Hoffman, but then the worst happened. He left the couch, kneeling in front of him, the facsimile of a proposal with one knee hitched up as he peeled Strahm’s fingers away from where he had them clasped together. 

“I need you to come with me. I need to get to Jill Tuck and I’d be completely fucked without you.” Hoffman looked hopeful, a horrendously off putting visage to see on a man like him. Crooked scar twisting up his face and for six months that scar had looked like the memory of something they weren’t ever going to go back to, but as Strahm peered down at him, it instead now looked like a warning of what may be to come. 

“What if I just flat out refused. Tossed all your shit out and changed the locks while you’re gone.” Strahm set his jaw and for a moment all that disturbed the silence in the house was the drip from the tap in the kitchen. 

Hoffman’s hand tightened around Strahm’s slowly, crushing it until Strahm could see his skin turning white with the pressure of Hoffman’s grip. Then, he pulled Strahm towards him, top lip sneering up like he was just about keeping something terrible and blackened in his heart at bay. When he spoke, Strahm was surprised that his ridiculous Jigsaw voice was back and Strahm almost wanted to leap to his feet and find a tape for Hoffman to record himself into; clearly in some sort of power crazed haze. 

“I’d kill you.” His face betrayed him slightly, eyes morose and huge, “If you don’t come back with me and help me find Jill Tuck, I’ll kill you.” It was as close to begging as Hoffman might get, Strahm knew that. It was as close to Hoffman truly and sincerely telling him that he cared too, something that would never leave Strahm’s lips out loud to acknowledge. He knew how mad all of this was. “Please, Peter.” Hoffman all but whispered, mouth downturned as though he was as miserable as a man could get, “Please. And then, I’ll stop. No more of Kramer’s shit, no more Jigsaw. She’s the final piece.” He pressed his forehead to the back of Strahm’s hand, a silent prayer, “If not for me for Angie—”

“I’m driving.” Strahm couldn’t let him finish that final thought. It was a sickening false pretence, bringing up a poor, dead woman, but of course it was the final way for Hoffman to get to him. Strahm rose from the couch, shaking off Hoffman’s hand and it fell pitifully, leaving Hoffman semi-knelt on the carpeted floor. Sunken eyes and sorrow slung across his face. 

“Come and help me make some food. If we’re going back there then I want to eat tonight. You look like complete shit, you need it too.” Strahm managed to grit out, voice drifting as he wandered wearily into the kitchen, throwing a look behind himself that had Hoffman scrambling to his feet; bounding after Strahm. He found enough forgiveness in his heart for Hoffman to allow him to shove his face into the space between Strahm’s shoulder blades, and he could feel the rise and fall of his shirt at the force of Hoffman’s breath as he swallowed down gulps of air. 

The sound of Hoffman’s speech was muffled when he finally spoke again, muted into the fabric of Strahm’s work shirt, 

“I don’t want to have to hurt you.” It was said as though it was the most reasonable thing in the world, Hoffman’s hands creeping around to affix themselves together at the front of Strahm’s belly, scarily close to a posed wedding photo or something of the like, “But, you know you can’t say no. If you want to keep this—” He splayed a hand outwards, as if to say everything we have here “—Then you know better than to say no.” 

“You know, I was just beginning to think you might be better.” Strahm murmured, cupping one of his own hands over Hoffman’s. A white flag. “You’re still sick. Manipulative.” 

Hoffman just brushed his cheek against Strahm’s back, 

“Do this for me and when we come back here, I won't even hurt a fly.” 

Strahm sniggered, and as soon as the sound left him he felt disappointed with himself, 

“Norman fucking Bates.” 

Hoffman laughed along, as if that was funny.

Chapter Text

Strahm had made a strange spaghetti concoction. It wasn’t particularly good, but Hoffman, playing the diligently grovelling something-or-other to Strahm, had eaten it without a single comment. Smacked his fucking lips and patted his stomach and said ‘thank you’ like a good boy before being shooed upstairs to bed, a pittance but it was honestly more than he deserved for slouching back into the persona he had adopted thanks to John fucking Kramer. 

Strahm had cocooned them both into bed, dragging Hoffman forward into his space until their noses were almost touching and the evil, faraway look that had haunted Hoffman’s face for the past couple of hours dissipated until all that was left was Mark . Quiet and contemplative as he touched the small of Strahm’s back, a child asking for forgiveness as he said slowly, 

“If I hadn’t made you, would you have chosen to be here with me?” 

What a question to ask. A question with an answer that would horrify Strahm to speak out loud, and delight Mark to hear. 

“I don’t know.” Strahm breathed in response, watching Mark’s eyes dart back and forth between his two, huge and deep blue under the dim light of their bedside lamp. “I don’t want to talk about that now. You need to go to sleep.” It was a statement of fact, but the way that Strahm’s hands mirrored Mark’s, smoothing down the soft skin of his back, feeling the way his muscle shifted beneath him. Parting to fit Strahm’s needs as though he could bend the entirety of Hoffman’s bad to fit his whims. 

If only. 

“I’ll take you to Boston, to see Angie—” Mark’s face was frighteningly sincere, too much so “—If you want. Ton of shit we could do together there. I don’t know. I’d like you to come, I would.” 

It was too familiar, too kind, too sweet, too everything that Strahm had attempted with everything inside of him to keep away while they were trapped in the recurring limbo that was their life back in New Jersey. But, here it was different. Each day he had woken up to the light blue ceiling of the bedroom that they shared in their townhouse in the middle of Quincy, it was different. About four months into this charade they’d been playing out, Strahm had been brushing his teeth and when he looked at himself in the mirror, eyes trickling up to gaze into his own pupils, he had smiled. A genuine smile because against all better judgement, he had dug into the putrid, sticky core of Hoffman and carved out a man that he could see himself holding the face of and bestowing true, human forgiveness on, in spite of all his crimes. 

Something dislodged inside of his heart and rattled up from inside him as Strahm said, voice choked, 

“That photo album of yours. I took a photograph from it. One of you stood on a street while it was snowing. I don’t know, you looked maybe early thirties.” 

Mark smiled, flattered perhaps, 

“You liked it that much, huh?” He was close enough as he spoke into the air between them that Strahm could smell toothpaste on his mouth and the wax he often slicked through his hair. 

“I ate it.” Strahm burbled, embarrassed but insistent to let Mark know what had gone on that afternoon, “I ate it.”

“Excuse me?” Mark blinked at him, looking more baffled than Strahm had ever seen him and it was amusing. More than amusing. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He kissed Mark on the mouth once, mumbled a ‘goodnight’ and then turned over, pulling the blanket up to his ears and then forced himself to even out his breathing. Willfully ignoring Mark as he pawed at his shoulder. 

“What the fuck? You ate my photo?” He dug his fingers into Strahm’s shoulder but the man dutifully ignored him, tips of his ears red, “You’re not asleep. You can’t just say that and then roll over.” Strahm could feel the unwavering, piercing gaze of Mark’s eyes drilling into the back of his head, heating his bubbling insides into complete embarrassment and if he had still been face to face with Mark, he might have seen a mottled flush bursting across his cheeks. 

“I don’t know why I did it.” Strahm muttered into the fabric of his pillow, mouth dry. 

“I don’t believe that. You’re not stupid.” Mark answered, fingers having gone from trying to pry Strahm back towards him to brushing gently over his shoulder, changing up his tactics and it didn’t work at all, but Strahm appreciated the effort. 

“Not my proudest moment.” Strahm grit out, not even grumbling as Mark slid in behind him, curling up around his body and a hand found his stomach, splaying out over it like Mark understood entirely. Understood what Strahm had done in that moment of madness. 

Then, once again frightening Strahm to his core with how well he could seemingly read minds, Mark said, voice softer than it deserved to be, 

“You’re not crazy.”

“I never said I was.” Strahm touched the hand covering his belly. 

“You’re thinking about it though, aren’t you?” Mark’s nose found the back of his neck and his breath tickled the hair there as he spoke, “It’s okay. I think if you had died in the coffin room, the trap with the closing walls, I might have taken your body home and eaten you.”

“Oh my God.” Strahm laughed, “You’re a fucking lunatic.” He plastered his hand across his eyes, shoulders heaving with laughter, “You’re joking.”

Mark was quiet. 

“No. You’re joking, right?” Strahm repeated, attempting to turn and face Mark but he was stopped by his arms locking tight around him, holding him in place, “Mark. Tell me you’re joking.” 

“You’re so fucking easy to scare.” The low dip of his voice did something horrendous to the pit of Strahm’s stomach, equal parts frightened and aroused.

“Shut up.” Mark pressed up against him a little more and Strahm added, “I can feel you getting hard. Psycho.”

“You really ate one of my photos? I kept them for a reason, you fucking asshole.” 

“Your hair looked stupid anyway.” 

~

Five o’clock in the morning was as good a time as any to drag his body out of bed, fix a cup of coffee and stand on his porch in the freezing cold, an ultimately cold snap having forced its way in, knowing that in a couple of hours they would be booking it back to Jersey to entangle themselves into yet another, what Strahm would like to call to soothe his aching conscious, caper. He leant on the railing of his porch, their porch, and could feel the tip of his nose and ears freezing as he stood there, staring into the darkness. Watching the light blooms of car headlights in the distance, fracturing off into sharp points as they disappeared into the town. People going to work, coming home from work, doing everyday things that by the grace of God they were allowed to because they were alive and breathing. People who had no idea that people like John Kramer and Mark Hoffman could steal them away, force them into situations that would make the most hardened person crumble in terror. 

A flurry of red snapped across the small patch of law in front of him, sleek and long as the fox darted by, stopping once to stare back at Peter, its eyes flashing. He lifted his coffee mug in solidarity, his eyes following as it stole away into the neighbour's yard, the flick of its tail the last thing he made as in the shimmery, dark blue light of the morning. 

At least he’s free. He thought, fingers dark pink with chill as he wrapped them around the steaming mug of coffee, trying to shoo away the worst of the cold. It didn’t do much.  

The sound of a zip being done up behind him reminded Peter of his companion, and when he turned, Mark had pulled on a black jacket, lined with pockets and not something he’d seen him wear in a long time. About six months give or take, surprisingly. He watched as Mark shoved his hands into his pockets, puffing out a breath of frozen air and he shuddered quietly, the warmth of the house holding no sway over him as soon as he had left its grasp to find Strahm outside. 

“Come inside. It’s fucking frozen out here.” Mark murmured, sleep crusted around his eyes like he’d only just woken up moments before, haphazardly tossed some clothes on, and retreated out into the glacial air to find Peter. 

“I’m alright.” Peter answered, hip leant against the wooden railing, painted white by Mark almost as soon as they’d moved into the place and the weather hadn’t turned awful just yet. He’d smeared paint across a good pair of pants, right across the asscheeks of them and Strahm had found it so funny that he’d almost forgotten why they had moved there in the first place. It had been a moment of respite. 

“Sweetheart—”

“I’m not in the mood.” Strahm said, eyes firmly back on the road that stretched across the bottom of their front yard and he blinked rigorously a couple of times because the aching scratch of the thought that this might be the last real time he got to enjoy the fact he had a front yard. Spring had yet to flourish in its entirety and summer was still yet to come, and these were things he might never experience, he knew that. They had honeysuckle growing around the back porch, if Hoffman were to be caught, if the both of them were to be thrown with full force against a barrage of criminal offences and sentenced, he would never see them flower.

“Sorry.” 

The word felt foreign to Strahm’s ears, probably about as much as it did to Mark’s tongue. 

“It’s fine.” The ceramic of his mug clinked against the front of Peter’s teeth as he tapped it there gently thoughtfully, pulling it away to mutter, “I’ve been thinking…Why is Jill Tuck suddenly such a hot topic for you?” He’d been rolling the question around his head since last night, trying to parse her. Trying to understand. 

“Why was she for you?” It was a fair enough retort from Mark, but it still made Peter scowl and toss a look towards him that suggested he was this close to grabbing his jaw and telling him to get fucked. 

“Because I thought I could get something out of her. I thought maybe the wife of one of the most prolific killers in the last decade might be able to shed some light on the investigation.” He pressed his fingers into the top of the bridge of his nose, an attempted self soothing, “And, because, Mark, I thought it was the right lead to follow.”

The distant crackling sound of a siren wailed by in the distance and Strahm followed the way that Hoffman’s eyes flitted over to it, half-lidded but still fearful, as though he could ever know what real fear was. 

“Well, you royally messed that one up, didn’t you?” 

Strahm knew Hoffman had only said to get under his skin. He had the innate ability to do that. To make his temper flare and his hackles rise like a cat discovering another male roaming his territory, ears flat back and teeth bared. Strahm could feel himself bristle, feel his fingers twitch for a gun he hadn’t touched in half a year and without meaning to, his brain conjured the simpering image of Hoffman on his knees, mouth wrapped around the barrel. The beginning to all of this and if Strahm wasn’t such a fucking coward he might have taken that gun and pushed it as far as he could into Hoffman’s mouth and ended it the same way, but this time with the back of Hoffman’s empty head smoking, and the scent of nitrocellulose high in the air. 

“Get fucked.” He wasn’t loud as he spoke, wasn’t brash or aggressive, it came out like a passing comment more than anything. A simple demand, really. Mark even laughed quietly, a hand over his mouth like a tittering school girl being told a joke by an older boy. It made Strahm’s blood boil and so he snapped it again, louder this time, enough that a light flickered on in the house opposite theirs. Their neighbours were seemingly nosy fucks in the wee hours as the curtain twitched for a moment, then the light was switched back off again when they obviously found there was nothing of interest going on. 

“Can you stop yelling?” Mark all but laughed, hands on his hips, “I like most of our neighbours.” He looked like the perfect emulation of a sitcom boyfriend, quirky little grin across his face and his head cocked to the side. Strahm half expected him to start shaking his head and the studio audience would guffaw and clap at him. His fingers twitched, needing to grasp the column of Mark’s throat for just a moment, just enough to get out his frustration. Instead, he wound those fingers around the porches railing, ignoring the tantalising prickle of wood splinters snuggling their way into his skin. 

“Yeah, well—” He cleared his throat, nose held high “—I like our life here, but you’re sticking the knife in and twisting.” 

Mark’s eyes twinkled and it was almost hard to imagine that beneath that floaty little look on his stupid face was the memory of people screaming and screaming in agony as Hoffman’s traps ripped them to pieces, 

“ Our ?”

Strahm’s lip curled up and he snarled in response, 

“Don’t fucking act like you don’t love it here too.” He flapped a hand at their yard, slips of dew sprinkled across the grass, “Smelling the fucking flowers and pretending we’re a normal couple.” 

Mark nestled in next to him, their arms and shoulders brushing and Strahm’s resolve began to wane slightly with the warmth of Hoffman’s body pressing into his. The smell of him was natural, maybe a little deodorant but he had yet to spritz on any kind of body spray, he smelled like their bed. Their sheets. Like cold skin that once had been sleep warm and Strahm couldn’t stop himself from thumping his head against Hoffman’s shoulder, an iota of shame rumbling around his insides at the motion but he waved it away. There was enough to worry about without thinking about how he could be allowed a shred of human contact from the man he’d been living with for six months. 

“You’re admitting a lot.” Hoffman murmured next to him, sliding a slow, careful hand to pry Strahm’s of the railing so he could hold it, the tips of his fingers pink in the morning cold, “So, we’re a couple now too?”

Strahm was deflated by that point, lulled into calmness by whatever evil magic Mark could whip up in the air around them as he spoke, Strahm huffing in great lungfuls of it. Gone from raging bull to coddled lap cat as he rubbed his temple against the fabric of Mark’s jacket and muttered in response, 

“What do you want me to say?” 

“I don’t know.” Mark shrugged slightly, the material of his jacket rustling loudly in the cool still of the morning, “Maybe just stop bullshitting me all the time.”

It almost hurt to admit, and as Strahm’s mouth moved he could feel the tightness in the skin of his lips, threatening to split until he licked them, allowing himself a moment to think before he dropped himself fully into the churning whirlpool that himself and Mark had been swirling around each other for some time now, 

“We’re just—” How to phrase it “—We’re with each other now. For better or worse.” 

“Pretty serious vows, those.” Mark sounded almost childishly gleeful. Like he’d won. 

He had, really.

“Not a vow.” Strahm grumbled, wishing he had more piping hot coffee and a man who was normal, “It’s a threat.” He swilled the remainder of his coffee around in his cup, watching the circles it made, “It’s a warning.” 

“Baby.” Mark started.

Oh fuck, here it came again. Strahm thought, eyes lifting to the heavens. 

“I love you.” He finished, hideously sincere. 

“Okay.” Strahm’s eyes hurtled down to the coffee cup again. 

“You’re not ever going to let yourself have that, are you?” 

Strahm snorted, half a laugh and half a cry for help. 

“I’m just trying to keep a little moral credibility. We’re about to go back to a place where you’re going to Mr Hyde yourself into this huge, hulking beast that I can’t fucking reason with. And if I can’t, nobody can.” He felt a little smug to admit it, but it was true, “If you had given me another six months in this place, I might be a little more indulgent towards your obsessions. 

“You were the one eating photographs of me.” Mark said brusquely. 

“You were cute.” Strahm allowed himself a small smile, mouth still painfully tight, but at least the smile stretched it out slightly, “I don’t know what came over me.” 

“You know, you might feel better if you just said it back to me.” 

It was a borderline childish request, the end of Mark’s sentence pitching up and if Strahm wanted to be a real asshole he might have admitted to hearing the words shake as they left his mouth. It was a last ditch effort. A silent plea for Strahm to break down his mental barriers and clasp his hands together and tell him, Mark, angel, I love you more than anything. His lip curled as he thought about it. It wasn’t that easy and he wasn’t into inorganic declarations. He’d barely wanted to speak his wedding vows out loud at his own wedding because why should’ve all of those people known his deepest, devoted thoughts about his ex-wife? It was for him to know and to feel, and if one day he ended up looking into Mark’s cold, black eyes and the moment called for it, perhaps he would tell him he loved him. 

Instead, he fell back into old habits, the phantom of his FBI badge filling the inner pocket of his jacket, over his heart. 

“I’d feel like I was betraying everything I stand for.” 

“Fine.” Mark snapped, patience fizzling out with the stars as the sun snuck around the horizon as they stood there, becoming closer to arguing with every second, “You don’t have to say it out loud. I already know you’d do anything for me.” 

“You sound about five years old right now.” 

“Get fucked. At least I’m not a miserable coward and I know how to express myself.” Mark bit back.

“Yeah.” Strahm breathed, body relaxing into the familiar cadence of their arguing, “You look about five seconds from crying right now.”

“Stuck up asshole.” 

“Boring response. Try something else.” Strahm felt like glancing at the cuticles of his nails to drive home his point, but he didn’t want to stray too close to Hoffman’s childishness. 

“ Kiss me. ” Came the response.

Strahm rolled his eyes, Mark’s hands already tugging him back into the house, 

“Bite me.” 

Hoffman’s jacket flumped loudly onto the hard wood panelling of the floor in the quiet of their house and the ETA for reaching Jersey ticked towards being an hour later than first expected as Hoffman yanked Strahm upstairs and into the bedroom. Tangling his fingers into his belt and tugging down his jeans so he could fix his hot mouth around his cock, still soft but the way that Hoffman’s tongue played with him had him twitching into life. Not as fast as if they were lying in bed together and biting insults back and forth as Hoffman dragged his own cock against Strahm’s hip, but the slobbering mouth of the man at least had its up side. 

Strahm’s hand sifted through Hoffman’s hair, gentle waves of motion as the man below him surrendered to whatever needs he currently had pulsing through him and stuffed the entirety of Strahm’s cock into his mouth. Breathing hard through his nose until he couldn’t keep it all in and had to pull away, eyes unfocused as he knelt on the floor in front of the bed. Diving right back in as soon as Strahm was hard enough that it would be easy to roll his tongue around him and shove him as far as he could into the back of his mouth, chest jumping as he tried not to gag. 

“Stop that.” Strahm chastised, tugging at the back of Hoffman's hair to try and extract him from choking himself, “Calm down. You’re being crazy right now.” 

When Hoffman’s eyes met his, they were full moons of black, 

“Sorry. I just really want to suck your cock.” 

That made Strahm laugh, eyes closed as sincere laughter rippled through him and Hoffman’s lips closed around the head of his cock, making Strahm snap his mouth shut and push his hips forward. Which in turn shared the laugh from Strahm over to Hoffman, and he pulled away to snigger behind his hand. It was too much, Strahm fisted his hand back into Hoffman’s hair, drawing him close and forcing his eyes to watch as Mark’s mouth secured around him again. Tongue flat against the bottom as he blinked up through short eyelashes and when Strahm scratched his fingernails against the back of Mark’s head, he leaned into it; obviously enjoying the sensation. 

“Go on then.” Strahm said quietly, “If you really want to.” He forced himself to grin down at Hoffman (not forcing, actually, it came naturally at this point), turning the charm up to eleven as he continued to pet at him, scratching the back of his head and feeling the way Hoffman shivered and shuddered on his knees. Mouth wet and drooling as he curled a hand around the bottom of Strahm’s cock, sucking him off in a way that always freaked Strahm out, because a deep, dark part of him would have loved to be the first guy to ever fuck Mark. A silly need. Based entirely on Strahm’s crawling, creeping want to curl himself into every part of Hoffman that was human before he had become corrupted. 

Mark’s thumb and forefinger pinched at the flesh of Strahm’s thigh, 

“Why am I fucking doing this if you’re not even paying attention?” 

“Sorry.” Strahm breathed back, fiddling with the back of Mark’s collar, “Keep going.” 

“Chopped fucking liver.” Mark muttered as he lowered his mouth again. 

When Strahm came, he grabbed a clump of Hoffman’s hair at his hairline and pulled his face back, exposing his Adam’s apple and Strahm watched it bob as he streaked cum across Mark’s chin, his own belly twisting at the sight. He loosened his grasp when he was done, watching as Mark’s eyebrows wriggled as he tried to lessen the itching pain at the top of his forehead. Then his eyes dipped as the pink of Mark’s tongue darted out, attempting to lick off the cum that had landed nearest his mouth. It alerted something in Strahm’s brain and he, borderline panicked, blurted out, 

“Don’t. Wait.” 

Mark stopped dead in his tracks, peering at Strahm like he had grown a second head and when Peter leaned down and kissed him. Loping his tongue along his bottom lip, then lower until he was crowding into Mark’s space, hands tight on the back of his head as he lapped and sucked at Mark’s chin and then all the way under his jaw. Sucking at his skin until Mark grunted, hands balled at his knees from where he was still kneeling. 

“Fuck.” Hoffman was muffled as Strahm moved against him, reverent hands cupping his head as he cleaned himself from Mark. 

The ETA changed once again as Mark threw himself at Peter.

~

It felt illicit to break through the state lines and cruise their way back into the city, and really, it was. Peter was harbouring a fugitive and Mark was a wanted murderer, with a sprinkling of a few other horrible crimes which if Strahm were to read over on a piece of paper, he would have to have a lie down because a migraine would no doubt begin pulsing behind his eyes. They peeled away from the main highways as they rode into wherever the fuck Hoffman was leading them, pointing at streets that Strahm had never once used in the entire time he’d been momentarily living in Jersey since they were introduced into the case. An image of Perez flitted across his mind as he pulled into a multi storey parking lot, and as he turned the key and the car’s static rumble turned into nothingness, the vision of Lindsey smiled sadly and cocked her gun, her hand shaking as she held it aloft to Strahm’s face. 

Yeah. I probably deserve that. He thought, hands tight on the steering wheel. 

They ended up abandoning each other for a few hours, Hoffman lurching into his murder-persona as his jaw squared and his brow dipped as he left Strahm to go do whatever he deemed necessary to coalesce his plan together. What that plan was, Strahm could only begin to imagine, and quite frankly he didn’t want to. Instead, he drifted into a restaurant he’d been meaning to visit before this whole mess, but never got around to with the mounting insistence of solving the Jigsaw case. 

He might have taken Perez at one point, if they both had the time. 

But, they weren’t exactly friends, so he had never known how to ask. They were co-workers. Co-workers who had invested interests in the other not dying and even though Strahm knew Lindsey was a NSYNC fan and her dad’s name was Thadeus and she didn’t like scrambled eggs because they looked ‘funny’, he never really thought they were friends. 

She deserved a gaggle of women her own age who adored her, not some forty-something weirdo who had no real friends of his own outside of work because he was for all extents and purposes, a huge asshole. 

They were something though, and as he ate, he knew she would have appreciated the thought if he had invited her there. He could picture it, as he sat and fiddled with his napkin, the idea of Perez sat opposite him with a huge smile across her face as she ordered the most expensive thing she could on his good dime. 

It wouldn’t have been a formal affair if they had gone, Strahm knew that. For one thing, she wasn’t a woman who dressed up much anyway, they’d attended formal events together for promotions and work parties, and Perez had always looked uncomfortable and tight in the dresses that Strahm knew her mom had bought for her. He would have much rather she turn up to a restaurant for a sit down dinner in sweats than to force her to squeeze into the strappy numbers that collected dust in her wardrobe until the moment her work deemed it necessary for her to wear them. 

He’d once watched Miss Congeniality when it had graced whatever television station he’d been flicking through, and Strahm couldn’t even wait until the film had finished before he was grabbing his phone, flipping it open and calling Perez to tell her she was never going to believe him, but he’d just seen a film written about her life. 

The next day, Perez had punched his arm and demanded he buy them both coffee for the next week. Which he had. 

It must have been odd to any outside viewer, a middle aged man sat by himself in that restaurant, staring glumly out the window as he thought about the fact that he had one single person in his life that came close to liking him as he was, and Strahm straightened his back a little as two women walked past. Their eyes surveying him as they went. He probably looked like some miserable bachelor. 

He knew it was rude, he’d scowled at people for lesser things in restaurants, but tucked away in the corner he couldn’t fight the need as he pulled out his cell phone, hand shaking as he hit the call on the speed dial for Perez. The button of the number that was assigned to her was worn down, more rubbed off than any button on the keypad and it was because she was the person he called most. For five years he would call her up before work and tell her what was going to be happening that day, but sometimes he’d call her just to ask if she wanted coffee. 

He was a jackass. He was a complete asshole and cold, creeping dread that the smiley face she had sent him all those months ago had worn down its welcome, and when she picked up (if she did pick up) she would scream and swear at him for not contacting her for all that time. He tried to think of an excuse, brain rattling through a few as the tone rang on, but none seemed to be good enough and as the call was picked up on the other end and Perez sucked in a breath to presumably say ‘hello’, Strahm blurted out, 

“I’m so sorry.” 

It was quiet on the other end, and Strahm’s eyes danced around the restaurant, the lunch rush having dissipated a while ago, but he still was wary of people listening in. Not for any illegal reasons, he wasn’t going to admit particularly too much to Perez, but mostly because he could feel the way his chest was tightening. Something that didn’t happen too much. He felt guilty . 

Finally, the silence was broken by Lindsey murmuring down the receiver, 

“I should hope so.” She sounded relieved, down below everything else, much like Liz did when she realised Pete had wormed his way out of the bureau, “I thought you might have had some sort of mental breakdown and moved to the Alaskan wilds, and that’s why you never answer my calls.” 

“It can’t be that bad…” Strahm trailed off, the ragged side of his pointer finger’s fingernail lodged into his mouth, “You call that often?” 

A soft huff met his ear through the phone and Perez said, very matter of factly, 

“I’ve tried to call you every fortnight for about the last five months.”

“Six months.” Strahm breathed. 

“Six mon—” Perez scoffed, but it sounded all too good natured for the situation. She was always far too forgiving of him “—Yeah. Six months, Strahm.” There was the sound of fabric rustling, like she was swapping the phone from ear to ear, “They told me you quit and then you disappeared off the face of the earth.” She sounded sad. Disappointed. “You’d been, pardon my French, freaking the fuck out about the Jigsaw case and then you took that sick leave, and you didn’t seem to want to talk to me then. Then everything happened with—” Perez’s voice got caught in her throat. 

“Erickson.” Strahm finished. 

“I got my own sick leave for that.” She sniffed, “I kept waking up in the middle of the night, sweating and yelling myself hoarse, thinking that Mark Hoffman was cutting my throat.” 

“Right.” Strahm managed to choke out, guilt closing his airways and he had to gulp down a glass of water before he could croakily add, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Linds.” He didn’t apologise much. He wasn’t around other people enough in that respect that he ever felt the need arise. He did things and if those things then later had consequences, that was someone else’s problem. 

“It is what it is. I’ve seen people die before, we both have. The biggest occupational hazard. It could be worse, I could have been Silence of the Lambs -ed by Hoffman.” She paused, “Or is it Hannibal ? Whichever is the book where Clarice ends up going with him and they become lovers.” Perez laughed gently, the sound whooshing down the line and Strahm managed a small smile, “I always wondered if that was a thing that really happened. I guess serial killers can be pretty charming. Remember that guy in Wilmington, the one who kept putting people into trunks and then throwing them into rivers?”

Strahm gulped and made a noise of confirmation into the phone. 

“Yeah, him.” Perez continued, “Remember how polite and easy to talk to he was? Yuck .” Strahm could hear her physically shiver, “I still have no idea why he let me go.” She sighed, the sound heaping out of the depths of her as though that moment in her life was the one she truly could not comprehend one bit, “Could you imagine? What if he’d kidnapped me. What if I’d ended up in one of his traps? What if I was now sitting in a Florencian penthouse eating tartufi bianchi and drinking glasses of Bâtard-Montrachet. His little pet.” 

“Lindsey—”

“I’m not stupid.” She said, voice wavering in the middle, a small child speaking to their family when they knew something was wrong. “He lets me go and kills everyone else, then I don’t hear from you for all this time? I’m not stupid.” 

“I know you’re not.” 

“Did you just fall asleep during all that training we did about that exact thing?”

Strahm blinked, 

“Are you making a joke about this?”

“Pete, if I don’t laugh, I’ll fucking cry.” Perez sighed once more and Strahm could just imagine her shoulders slumping, “What about that woman you were seeing a few years ago? She was nice. She had those two dogs you liked.” She paused, “She didn’t maim and kill people as a hobby for a start.” 

“She was always covered in dog hair. Even when she took her clothes off, just fucking dog hair everywhere.” A waiter gave Strahm a strange look as they floated by, but said nothing, “And I’d get bitten by fleas every time I went around there for dinner.”

“Anderson. Back in Washington, remember we did that three day kayaking thing with him as a bonding exercise when that woman took over HR and wanted us all to become better acquainted.” Strahm made a noise of disgust and Perez laughed a little, the sound making Strahm’s shoulders ease up from where they’d ascended to his ears at the knowledge that Perez knew .

“You remember Anderson though, right? He liked you. Remember he’d trip over his feet to try and get you coffee in the morning. Then when you fell out of the kayak he literally shoved me out of the way to do CPR.”

Strahm sniggered, face feeling hot at the memory. Not out of any sort of feeling towards the guy, more embarrassment on his part. 

“I didn’t even need CPR!” He said, mouth curled into a smile, “Asshole was just sexually assaulting me at that point. Slobbering on me while I was trying to cough up river water. Like I’d even go for drinks with him.”

“So that’s the line you draw? Guys who slobber on you are out of the picture but guys who try to kill you are fine?” 

“He tried to kill me twice, technically.” Strahm said, voice lowered and he could feel Perez’s eye roll without even needing to see it, “I’m sorry. I sound like a lunatic and I’m probably going to get kicked out of this restaurant if I talk too loudly.”

“Is he there?” Perez sounded out of breath all of a sudden. Frightened perhaps.

“No. I don’t know where he is. I don’t want to know. I just wanted to sit here and feel like a regular person for a while.” He tripped his finger around the rim of his water glass, a slight ringing sound echoing out, “Remember I kept talking about that place downtown with the really good tiramisu. I’m there. I’ll be here for a while if you want to come down and we could talk in person?”

The silence was back. Cutting into the peace that had accumulated in Strahm’s brain from even just a short talk with Perez. She had that effect on him, it’s why he’d almost begged for her to be his partner half a decade ago. She never expected small talk between them, she treated him like the asshole he was when he was in a mood, she knew how to stand up for herself against him and all the other rude, obnoxious men that filled the seats at Quantico. 

“I know you’re sorry.” Perez began, “But, I don’t think I’m ready to see you just yet.” She swallowed, loud enough that Strahm could hear, “You’re not denying anything. You’re not telling me I’m crazy for thinking you’ve run away with the exact person you almost died trying to find.” 

The edge of Strahm’s finger was bleeding slightly from how hard he’d been chewing it and he sucked it into his mouth, strangely enjoying the bitter tang of his own blood. It wasn’t any wonder that the taste reminded him of Mark. 

For six months he’d known where he was every day. Sitting alone in that restaurant felt wrong in that respect, hidden from whatever whims Hoffman was falling victim to in the city. 

He almost missed him. Even with the company of Perez on the phone.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” 

She wasn’t asking. She was begging. 

“I don’t think I can.” Strahm mumbled, “I’m sorry.” 

“You keep saying that. I’m going to have to be a massive bitch and say that I don’t forgive you. You know that, don’t you? He’s killed—”

“You don’t need to explain. I understand.” Strahm slumped back against his chair, feet splaying out on the carpet beneath the table, “You’re not a bitch. I’m a bitch. I’m something. I don’t know.” 

“You can’t fix someone like that.” Perez said quietly, a strange comfort twining its way around her words. Almost a lament, but not quite, more so as though she was trying to absolve Strahm of something he couldn’t put his finger on, “If that’s what you’ve been trying to do with him. You can’t fix him.” 

“I didn’t particularly go into this thinking he was a rescue dog. I didn’t think I could rehabilitate him.” It wasn’t easy to admit out loud, Strahm’s throat constricting again and he could feel the bundle of scar tissue at his neck twisting and tightening, “Honestly, I think we both would be put down if we got taken into the pound. He is the way he is, and I am the way I am. I like him like that. I think. It’s hard to get my head around.”

“Jesus.” Perez was trying to sound as jovial as she could, Strahm knew that, “I should report the both of you. I’d be heralded as a hero. I bet they’d promote me and all.”

“I’d let you. If it was you, I’d let you handcuff me and everything.” 

“I bet you would. I bet everyone thought you were the man in charge, meanwhile the whole time, you were my sidekick.” That had him laughing, soft puffs of air that made him feel slightly better about everything that was dawning on him slowly during that phone call. 

“What have you even been doing this whole time?” Perez asked, sounding more like herself now, teasing and open, “How the hell has no one realised who you are?” She was intrigued, wonder overtaking terror now, “Have you got a new job? Who would even hire you? You’re a dick.” 

There was a beat.

“I work in the bottom of a library, I mostly do cataloguing and stock. I don’t really interact with the general public.” 

“No fucking way.” Perez breathed, “So, you don’t even need a gun?” 

“Why would I need a gun at a library?” 

She wasn’t listening. 

“Of course they wouldn’t let you near the general public. You’d start biting.” 

“Okay, that’s—”

“You’re insane. Running away with a mass murderer and becoming a librarian of all things.”

“I don’t think it counts as mass just yet. Also, I’m not a librarian. You need a degree for that, I think.” Strahm added. 

“Is it better or worse than our work?” Perez sounded weirdly interested, maybe she was intending to leave police work for the regular life too. 

“It’s just different, Linds. It’s something to occupy my time while I sit and think about how fucked up my life is now that my boyfriend is a—” He lowered his voice “— You know. ” 

“ Right. ” Perez chirped, all notion of the fact they were talking about a man who had murdered people in front of her out the door seemingly. What a weird pair they were. “Your boyfriend . You said that as if it was the first time you’d managed to get it out. You’ve never been big into displays of affection, have you? Remember when Anderson gave you one of those awkward, one armed hugs and you almost hit him?”

“What is with you and that Anderson guy? I’m kind of committed already.” He regretted it as soon as he’d said it and he could imagine the glee on Hoffman’s face if he had ever admitted in front of him that they were boyfriends committed to each other.  

“You sound like you’re about to puke.” Perez joked.

“I might. Say something to distract me. Please.” 

“I’ve been seeing my therapist. Outside of therapy I mean. She’s got this really sexy long grey hair and she knows about what wines are good. I think I’m in love with her.” 

“Jesus Christ. Your therapist? Is that ethical?” Strahm frowned. 

“Ethical?” Perez yelped down the line, “Are you talking to me about what is ethical or not? Why don’t you go ask your serial killer boyfriend?”

“ Come on .” Strahm could have continued, but he had nothing else to convince her with. She was right after all. 

“It’s nice talking to you.” Perez murmured finally, and the sincerity of it made Strahm squirm in his seat. Never too sure how to take positive sentiments from people who weren’t direct family. Even then he sometimes would feel the need to tear his eyes away from his sister when she told him she loved him, the nervous sensation of not knowing how to wrap his fingers around the emotions that tumbled inside him was uncomfortable and made him shift from foot to foot. It was worse when someone he respected said something kind. 

“Yeah.” Strahm cupped the phone to his ear, wanting to see Lindsey’s face more than anything, “You think we can do it again sometime soon?” 

“I don’t know, Peter.” It struck him right in the heart, Perez’s voice so dour it physically pained him and he had to secure his hand around the phone, otherwise it might have flown out of his grasp. His hand suddenly drenched with sweat. “I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

“I understand.” Strahm crossed his legs under the table, thinking about the last time they’d seen each other outside of work. They’d gone drinking, a bar that someone at Hoffman’s precinct had suggested, Strahm with a cocktail and Perez with a beer. They’d had to swap drinks when the guy had brought them over to the table, putting the cocktail in front of Perez and the beer in front of him. It had made them laugh and jab their elbows into each other. Strahm could vaguely remember that Hoffman had been lurking around the place too. Tucked into a corner with two fingers of whiskey, nursing it like a phantom haunting the dark outer edges of the bar. Their eyes had met once. Maybe that had been the start. 

“If you ever forgive me, could you keep a hold of this number? Because if that happens, I’d really like to hear from you again.” Strahm murmured, hoping he sounded like he cared. Because he did. He did care. 

“Of course.” Perez answered, “Don’t let him fucking hurt you.”

“You sound like a father. Don’t hurt my little girl .” 

“There’s a difference between young boys being assholes to their girlfriends and the things he’s done.” 

Strahm sighed, wiping a hand down his face, aware he’d been clogging up his table at the restaurant for far too long at that point, 

“I know. I know.” 

“I don’t want to come to your funeral.” Perez’s voice was clipped.

“You won’t. I’m alright.”

“Are you sure ? Cough three times into the phone if he has a gun on you right now. Or—no—it probably wouldn’t be a gun, would it? Cough three times if he has you in a trap that smashes a big comical anvil into your head if you admit you don’t love him.” She stopped, throat clicking, “Do you love him?” 

Why was everyone so invested in that concept?

“Something like that.” Strahm muttered, almost on autopilot. 

“If you haven’t died in a year or so, I’ll take you out. I’ll call you up and I’ll take you out. I’ll ignore the elephant that jumped into the grave of John Kramer, and I’ll get you drunk and we’ll have fun again.” 

Strahm smiled, wistful and wobbly, 

“Sounds real good.” 

“This blows.” Perez bemoaned, sounding like the young woman that Peter knew she was below her veneer of professional FBI agent. She was thirty five after all. That wasn’t old by any means. “I’m going to miss you.” 

Strahm didn’t want to cry in a fucking Italian restaurant. 

He blinked three times and swallowed. 

“You sure? You always said I was a pain in your ass and a huge grump.” He knew his voice wavered. He wasn’t sure he cared. 

“Don’t die.” Was all Perez said. 

“I won’t. Well, I’ll try. I’m holding you to that drink, Lindsey.”

It felt like a breakup. Like saying goodbye to the person you’d spent your entire college career living with. Like the last day of high school when you stared into your best friends eyes and knew you weren’t ever going to see them again after that point. Not really.

“I need to go. I’m getting really into daytime television while I have this ‘mental health’ break, you know? I think I might start watching those buying channels and get myself a really big diamond. Or an antique pipe.” Perez sounded misty, like she was holding it all back. 

“I’ll let you go.” Strahm all but choked out, dragging the back of his hand across his nose, sniffing quietly, “It’s been nice to hear from you.” He swallowed again, jaw tight, “Thanks for not freaking out on me and ratting me and him out.” 

Perez hummed, sounding like she was unsure if that was the best decision. Strahm accepted it wasn’t and he honestly wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d called in a SWAT team to the exact restaurant he was sitting in. 

“Don’t make me regret it. Goodbye, Pete.” 

“Bye, Lynds.” 

The line went dead and Strahm smudged away a single tear before it even dared to crest the top of his cheek.

Then, he sat in silence for a good five minutes, his reverie only broken by the sound of plates clattering in the kitchen and the general chatter of people as they began to fill up the place as the evening service loomed large.

He sighed, the distraction of the restaurant had run its course seemingly. The bright idea to find himself there just so he knew he wouldn’t run into Hoffman was sputtering out into nothing more than a cheap trick to play on his own brain, and he crumbled, body slouching in the seat as his waiter appeared and asked if he wanted dessert or coffee. To which Strahm tapped his finger on the table, considered his options, then ordered tiramisu and a big glass of brandy, despite the fact it was in no way near enough the time to be indulging in it. The waiter nodded, barely even there, and returned a little while later with his bowl and glass. 

“Thank you.” Strahm murmured, his smile tight and polite as he pulled out his phone again and asked via message where Hoffman needed him.

Chapter Text

It was the same bar, the one that he and Perez had visited on that last night out together, still smelling like stale beer with an undercurrent of sweat that had Strahm’s nose twitching as he settled into a booth at the very, very back of the place. He tucked his hands into his lap, Hoffman already taking up half the bench, hood pulled up high and his hands stuffed into the pockets of a hoodie he’d magicked up from somewhere unknown. He looked the picture of trouble. Nobody turned up to a bar with their hood up unless they were trying to hide something and it was making the back of Strahm’s neck sweat uncomfortably. At any moment someone could catch Hoffman’s eye and it would all come crumbling down around them. 

Instead, people simply just bustled about the bar, laughing and doing exactly what people did when they went to bars: drank and focused on hardly anyone around them except for their friends or co-workers or dates. 

Hoffman’s arm drew around the back of the booth where Strahm was sat, the leather of the seat creaking as he shuffled himself closer to Pete, fingers curling around his shoulder and before Strahm could protest, Hoffman grunted, 

“People won’t look at us if they think we’re just two homos on a date in the back. Trust me.” 

Strahm snorted, settling into the semi embrace as he swirled his drink around his glass and vaguely became aware of how all the men, who once might have glanced their way out of no necessity other than the human eye wandering, were suddenly very interested in peering intently at their drinks. Or into the eyes of their friends chatting to them.

“Homos?” He kicked a foot against Hoffman’s heavy work boot, a pair he’d gotten when he first started working in Quincy. Peter had bought them for him and it was like Mark hadn’t been given a gift in a long time, because he’d looked at him, slack jawed and then gone red from the top of his cheekbones to the tips of his ears. It might have been endearing to someone else, but to Strahm, all it had been was incredibly funny. Enough so that the gift had been pushed to the side as they argued for five minutes. Which of course had evolved into kissing against the kitchen counters until Mark had an erection and Strahm had broken his rule of not having sex anywhere in the house other than the bedroom. 

“Lucky enough to never have been called a homo by one of these morons?” Hoffman waved a huge hand at the men who milled around the bar, leering over it to get closer to the woman serving, who just rolled her eyes and pulled disgusted faces. “I’ve never really been able to get a reading on what you even are. So maybe you haven’t.” He tilted his head and just below the ominous shadow that was cast below his hood, Strahm could see him smirk, “Lucky.” 

“ What I am. ” Strahm scoffed, “Well, I fuck men. I’ve been fucking men since I could. Take a wild guess as to whether I’ve been called a fag or a homo or whatever else in public.” He huffed, a hand slipping to curl around Hoffman’s knee. A gesture that had him jolting in his seat slightly, then leaning into Strahm even further, turning his nose into the gentle curve of Peter’s neck, inhaling him in that way that Hoffman seemed to crave when they were close. 

It was almost like a date. 

“I’d kill them.” Hoffman said, voice hot and it streaked like smoke up the back of Strahm’s spine as they sat there, pressed together. “Give me names and I’d find every one of them and I wouldn’t even put them in traps. I’d just kill them there, with my bare hands. Right in front of you if you wanted. Pull their fingers out of their joints. Press my thumbs into their eye sockets until it popped.” 

Peter just laughed, too far gone into this fantasy that he and Hoffman were living to find it questionable that this man would be sat, clutching him like they were newly-weds, and talking about cold blooded murder. Head scrambled with infectious lust and Strahm could always feel the incessant lurch that drove his body. Drove it towards Hoffman and towards almost certain doom. It was hot and sickly and when he closed his eyes all he could see behind them was the photographs that Mark had hammered nails into the wall above their bed to hang upon. The bed that scuffed along the hardwood floor when they fucked each other like their lives depended on it. In their house. Their place.

Fuck. He loved him. More than anything. 

“I appreciate the sentiment, but that was a long time ago. I don’t really remember.” Strahm licked his thumb and then wiped away a smear of white dust from Hoffman’s thigh. Probably from whatever job he’d been doing last in those pants. He vaguely remembered him saying something about driving into town to put up some shelves and window blinds for a woman,  the dust no doubt from all the drilling that entailed. “Plus, I was with my wife for all that time. Not like I was getting abuse hurled at me during that.” 

“Don’t rub it in.” Hoffman grumbled, “You need to give me an entire timeline of you and her, so when me and you end up being together longer, I can have a party on the day that it happens.” 

“Psycho.” Strahm muttered, mouth ghosting the rim of his drink as he grinned, liking the way that Hoffman’s eyes followed the motion. He knew if Hoffman could have his way, they’d be in the bathroom. Strahm would despise it. The floor would be sticky and people would be bumbling in and out while he tried to suck Hoffman’s cock as quietly as possible. Hoffman would probably be moaning and groaning like a moron. A big, smug grin plastered across his face as he pulled at Strahm’s hair and inevitably came across his mouth just like Strahm had done before they’d left the comfort of their beautiful home for this fucking awful place. 

“Why are we even here?” Peter asked gently, finding that approaching things softly usually goaded a better response out of Hoffman, “I feel like, with the situation you’re in, going to the bar for drinks isn’t exactly the best course of action. Come on, we should go unless you need to be here.” 

Hoffman pointed a finger at the door, 

“I’m waiting for a particular guy to walk through that door. He comes drinking in here and I know for a fact he works with Jill Tuck. I just want to talk to him, you know, somewhere private. You don’t have to hang around after I see him. Here.” He tugged a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans, pushing it into Strahm’s hand, “I’ve got some things to do while I’m here and I don’t want you—” Hoffman stopped all of a sudden, mouth tight in a line before he could continue softly, like he was concerned “—I don’t want you to be around when I’m doing them. Okay?” 

“Fine.” Strahm flipped open the piece of paper, peering down at it. It was an address. “What’s this?” 

“Apartment. Used to be something that John owned, then it got passed to me. He’d bought it back in the 90’s, I think. Nothing special, but nobody knows about it but us. Under the table type shit. I think it was actually meant for Amanda for a long time, some place where she could be safe and John could drop in and check on her. But then, you know—” He mimed his throat being slit and Strahm wrinkled his nose in semi-disgust. “Take a cab over there. I’ll give you some cash for it if you want. I just want to make sure you’re safe too.” 

It was a frightening concept, a murderer proclaiming that he wanted you, above all others, to remain safe. All the while his eyes danced back and forth between bar patrons and the door, watching like a predator for the next lot of flesh it wanted to dig its teeth into and then pry out from between them with a sharpened claw later in the evening. 

“Big bed?” Strahm quizzed, his hand sliding higher up Hoffman’s knee. 

“Tiny. We’ll have to squeeze in tight if we both want to fit.” He was grinning again, Strahm didn’t have to look at Mark to know he was. He could hear the purr in his words as they curled their way out of the upturned corners of his mouth, self-satisfied and self-serving as he turned his head and pressed a quick kiss to Strahm’s jaw. There and then gone again. 

“Eyes on the door.” Peter muttered, wanting nothing more than to leave and go and curl up in that tiny bed. They’d driven for about six hours and of course woken up in the wee hours of the morning to get there, not to mention he’d gorged himself on food while at the restaurant; so safe to say, he was fucking beat. He wanted to drag his body into a warm, soft bed and wind his arms around Hoffman’s neck and enjoy whatever time left they had together. 

Strahm could hear them both inhale sharply as the door did swing open, two young men waltzed in however, laughing as they went and knocking into each other until they could secure two bar stools up front. One of them gestured down the bartender, his smile big and pretty and two drinks were very quickly whipped up for them as they nudged each other and leant against the bar top like they owned the place. 

“You’re staring.” Hoffman grunted, nodding his head at the boys, “Would you fuck ‘em?” 

Strahm pursed his lips, eyes heavy with sleep now he had begun to think about laying his head on a cool pillow, “They look about twenty five. No. I barely liked guys in their twenties when I was also in my twenties, let alone now I’m in my forties.” He smirked, resting his elbow on the table in front of them and his head upon his hand, “Jealous?” 

“No.” Hoffman, at least consistent, grunted again, “Just wondering.” 

It was then that a familiar face found itself amongst the fray of just this side of unruly bar patrons, the tap of his cane completely inaudible but Strahm could just imagine it’s resounding clunk as Lawrence Gordon joined the boys at the bar, dragging his prosthetic leg a little as he made his way up. A seat was offered to him by one of the young men, the other clapping him on the back as though they were long friends. Not exactly the kind of person you would expect to see in this kind of place, but as Strahm watched the three of them crowd together, he supposed it wasn’t that unusual. 

“You seeing that?” He said quietly, ducking his head to use it to point at Gordon and his boys, “That’s—”

“Dr Lawrence Gordon.” Hoffman finished for him, “Yeah, I see it.” He sniggered a little, the sound shaking its way up to his shoulders, “You know, I never actually saw his game. Wish I had, it sounded fun.” 

“Fun? You’re a complete sicko sometimes. Nothing fun about two men chained to pipes in a bathroom.”

Hoffman shrugged, 

“I don’t know, it always sounded kind of romantic to me.” 

“You’re joking. I know you’re joking.” Strahn deadpanned.

“Those two would be about the same age the other guy in the bathroom was.” Hoffman’s eyes roamed over the two young men as they attempted to ply Gordon with shots of something and he waved them away cordially, “Mid twenties. Wonder if he surrounds himself with them because he feels bad.” 

“Feels bad for what?” Strahm frowned, trying his best to hide his face so that if Gordon swung his gaze around to them, he might not notice it was him. 

“John said something once, in passing, about people breaking promises. Something like that. Said that Dr Gordon promised he’d go back and get the other guy out of the bathroom.” He scoffed, “Managed to drag himself out, sans a foot, and get himself to safety and then I guess just forgot about him. Dick.” 

“It’s not easy.” Strahm started, eyes low, “Surviving a trap. Fucks with your head.” He swivelled his head, enough that he could meet Hoffman’s gaze, “Not that you’d care. Your MO never fit with Kramer’s rehabilitation schtick anyway. I know you were only in it for revenge.” 

“Retribution is a prettier word.” 

Strahm rolled his eyes, 

“He probably does feel bad. He seemed like a wet blanket from what I had read about him. Crying after sex kind of guy.” He watched as Lawrence ordered a glass of white wine and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket to show the young men, “Do you think he fucks them? Kind of weird.” Lawrence folded the paper and slid it into the hand of one of the boys, who smiled and took a swig of his beer, “Oh.” Strahm whispered, suddenly remembering his encounter in the park, “He came over and spoke to me once, Gordon did. When we were still living in Jersey, just before your face got ripped open.” Hoffman made a noise of discomfort and Strahm allowed him to wallow in the pain of the memory before continuing, “He wandered past me while I was in that park near your old place, just sat himself down and started talking at me.” 

“Weird.” Hoffman was scowling at Gordon, face still hidden under the hood of his pullover but Strahm could see the jagged, downturned twist of his mouth and the scar as it scrabbled its way up his cheek, “Was he hitting on you?”

“What a fucking dumb thing to say.” Strahm scoffed, the hand on Mark’s thigh secured itself even tighter, the denim of his jeans rough against Strahm’s fingertips, “You going to kill him too if I said yes?”

“I sort of want to kill him anyway, he dresses like a dipshit.” Hoffman muttered. 

“I thought you went for white supremacists and—and rapists. That’s what you said, right?” Mark had sat him down once, just past tipsy, and tried to explain his whole philosophy to Strahm. It was borderline a load of bullshit, but he’d humoured him enough to let him talk him all the way through it, “I don’t think being middle class is worthy of being thrown into another trap.” 

“Upper middle class, if I had to guess. You know he’s actually British? Moved over here when he was young. Something like that.” Hoffman pulled a face as though that was the worst thing he could think of, “I barely had anything to do with his test, sort of just did grunt work. Planting some wrongful evidence. A little perjury, that was fun. But personally, I think the kid should have gotten out and not him.” 

“You just don’t like him because he’s a stuck up prick and you’re a scumbag prick. You know two of the top professions that psychopaths and narcissists tend to go into? Medicine and law enforcement. You and Gordon are two peas in a pod. I bet if you went over there now and struck up a conversation, you’d be best buds in thirty minutes.” Strahm pointed a lazy finger at Lawrence, “And look, you could each have a dumbo, twenty-something boy-toy to entertain you. It’d be great. You could go out on his yacht.”

“Could you shut the fuck?” Mark hissed, but then the sound devolved into a laugh and soon he was shaking and giggling against Strahm’s shoulder, his arm tight around him as he laughed, “Just, shut up. Anyway, You said he came and spoke to you, what did he say?”

Strahm shrugged slightly, tugging at his bottom lip with his forefinger and thumb, mind wandering back to the moment, 

“Said something about a colleague talking to him about me.” The minute hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention, though he wasn’t sure why, “I guess to guys like him, being polite and introducing yourself is—I don’t know—next to Godliness.”

“A colleague?” Hoffman’s voice was low, perhaps concerned. 

“He didn’t really go into it.” He could feel the way that Hoffman squirmed next to him, he had a hard time trusting people even before slipping into the mad fantasy that was Kramer’s reality. Even before he’d had his head placed into a mechanical deathtrap and almost been pried into two beautiful chunks of red meat. “I’m not worried about him, Mark.” Strahm soothed, “He’s just another chump that got shoved into a death game and somehow managed to make his way out the other side. And if he’s miserable because he left some ratty little kid in that bathroom to die while he was probably cooped up in his own hospital, on a drip and minus a foot he had twenty four hours ago; then I’d say he deserves to have a drink.” 

“And two boyfriends.” 

“You’re not funny.” Strahm smiled, in spite of himself, “You see your guy? The door’s been flapping open and shut while we’ve been gawping at that bozo.” 

“Hm?” Hoffman hummed, “Oh. Yeah. He came in about ten minutes ago. Think he went to the bathroom. Just need to wait around until he leaves and I’ll take it from there.” He took a sip of his drink, slurping on the edge of the glass as dribbles of it skidded down the outside. These days, he often had slightly less control of his face and mouth when he performed certain actions, like the connectors from his brain to his nerves hadn’t joined back up when Strahm had sewn him back together. Mark never complained though. Strahm sometimes saw him, sitting and stroking the scar like it was the most precious thing that he owned. The gift of Strahm’s kind, gentle stitches to piece him back together after he’d come undone. 

“You’re not going to be an asshole and do something ridiculous are you?” Strahm hadn’t meant to sound so worried, nervousness slicing right through the middle of his tone and leaving him open to whatever Hoffman might take from the inflection. 

What he got in return was soft eyes and a withering smile, Mark’s face shifting minutely but it wasn’t enough to escape Strahm and he curled a heavy hand around Mark’s own. Brisk and tight enough that he was sure he was hurting Hoffman, but he showed no sign of it, just kept looking at him with those eyes that might have turned Strahm to a molten, smouldering liquid once upon a time if they had met in different circumstances and he felt more sympathetic towards the man who kept him prisoner, calling out from beneath Mark’s ribcage as the sinews of his heart slipped and snapped around Peter’s wrists and kept him there.

“My idea of ridiculous and your idea are probably different.” Mark supplied with the shrug of his shoulders and the drag of his finger in a circular motion on the wooden tabletop of the booth, smoothing a swirl of spilt beer into the grain. He was embarrassed. Stunned into shyness by Strahm worry, flipped on his head from rampaging murderer to a small boy, playing with his fingers and unable to meet Peter’s eyeline. “I’ll be alright. If that’s what you’re getting at.” He peered up finally, the sweep of his eyelashes was hypnotic as they bowed up against the breast of his brow, casting away any notion that Strahm had festering in his stomach that he didn’t think Mark was, beneath everything, a gentle beauty. 

He relented. To himself and to Mark. 

“Okay. Okay .” He thought about their huge couch at home, second hand from some guy in town who’d been flogging it off cheap because his wife had bought a new one. It was red and a deep green, chequered. Laura Ashley. It had made Mark laugh hard and ask if Strahm finally wanted those matching curtains. 

The horrible thing was that he did . 

He wanted to fix and make good and decorate their home until he couldn’t remember he was FBI Agent Peter Julian Strahm II and the man he held so dear was Detective Lieutenant Markos Piramus Hoffman. Rather, he would dedicate his time to being spun round and around with builder’s tape until sickening with dizzy gladness that all he could smell was fresh paint and Mark’s dirty hands as he slammed their trucks door closed and pulled the scent of honest, hard work into the fray.

“Nothing dumb.” Strahm’s eyebrows hitched up his forehead, a question hidden within the sentence. Begging Hoffman to come back. 

“When have I ever done anything dumb?” Mark huffed, his breath smelled like spearmint gum and hoppy beer. 

“Is that the guy?” Strahm nudged a finger towards a man leaving the men’s bathroom, jangling his belt back into place.

“Mhm.” Hoffman hummed, low in the back of his throat like even he wasn’t happy about this, which cemented in Strahm’s mind that he was working under the concept that his was work. He probably likened it to the police work he spent the first two decades of his life doing. It was this that hurt the most, the misguided idea that he was working for some greater good. Toiling in the blistering sun of Kramer’s huge unending ideals, so that he could reach heaven through pure, unadulterated violence. 

“So—what?—we just sit here until he leaves and then you tail him?” Strahm wanted another beer more than anything, but that would involve leaving the booth and looking the waitress in the eyes. He was too jittery inside for that. The humming energy of knowing something horrible was about to happen rattled around him, setting the tips of his fingers twitching. Spikes of brittle nervousness.

“Are you going to kill him?” He tried to ask it surreptitiously, nose held high in the air like he couldn’t care one atom. 

“Don’t know.” It tumbled out of Hoffman’s mouth more like ‘dunno’, blasé and sheepish all at the same time, “Probably will have to.” He grit his teeth together, “Fuck. And I’m wearing a jacket I really like. Hope he’s not messy.” 

Strahm’s stomach flipped and turned sour. He didn’t want a beer anymore. 

“Let’s just sit here quietly for a bit, okay?” He tried to smile at Hoffman, pushing any images of what the man’s guts might look like out of his head. 

Hoffman wasn’t paying any attention to him, eyes trapped solely on the man as he shuffled into a seat at the bar, just around the corner from Lawrence and his boys. He looked like a perfectly normal man. He probably went to work and came home and ate dinner with his wife, then traipsed to the bar like any other person on the planet that had no idea that Mark Hoffman was soon to come hurtling towards them at a rate of knots. Knocking them off kilter and spilling their hot inner contents onto the pavement. 

I know that feeling . Strahm thought, just this side of bitter. 

“Yeah.” Hoffman smiled, wax work looking and off , “Let’s just sit here.” 

He angled his face up and Strahm knew what he wanted. What he was asking for to keep him quiet and placid during that wait, so he kissed him on the mouth and out of the corner of his eye found that a handful of men quietly averted their eyes, despite the fact they’d barely been looking at them to begin with. 

By ten o’clock the man was tugging his coat onto his arms, waving a heavy hand at a collection of other men clustered in the corner of the bar, friendly smiles and jokes passed between them as whoever this guy was took what would no doubt be his last sip of beer. Ever. 

“Don’t follow me.” Hoffman huffed, brushing the back of his knuckles along Strahm’s hand, “Okay?” His fingers were cold, “Wait in here for a while too. Twenty minutes or so. I’ll come and find you at that address I gave you when I’m done. I—” He paused, chewing on his bottom lip, the movement of it just visible from under the shroud of his hoodie “—I’ll probably be a few days.” 

The door shuddered closed and Hoffman rose suddenly, casual as ever as he drifted away, no more conversation to be had with Strahm seemingly. Completely silent as he fled, ghostlike and creeping. Hood still pulled high, shielding him as he shifted past Lawrence and the two young men where they were sitting close to the door.

Lawrence’s eyes flickered and Strahm’s heartbeat caught in his throat. But the glance was momentary and there was no movement of recognition, Gordon simply continued the line of sight until he was looking at a menu of cocktails behind where Mark had passed.

Strahm let the air leave his lungs in relief and he sagged against the table.

The slip of paper with the address lay on the booth’s table still, face up, and Strahm flipped it over quickly. Panic surged through the tendons in his neck and he glanced around, his eyes flicking back and forth while he kept his head ramrod still. As he tucked the paper into the inner pocket of his jacket, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will his hand to stop shaking as it went. 

“Bye then.” He grumbled after Hoffman, only catching the very back of his shoulders as he slid through the door and after the man, his heart sinking at being left bereft, without even a shred of a goodbye before Hoffman slipped into this persona he was still attempting to uphold. 

Strahm ordered two more beers. Then drank them very quickly in succession, quietly seething. The anger doing a very good job to cloud and muddy the torrid sensation of fear that ran its cold, dreadful fingers up the column of his spine. It bent him at the waist and he hunched over the booth. Had Hoffman cornered the man yet? What was he asking? Had he put his hands on him and let the dark, pulsating evil thing overtake him until he had whatever information he needed and his bloodlust was satiated? 

“Hey, would you mind moving?” 

One of Lawrence’s boys leaned into Strahm’s space suddenly and Peter found himself squinting up at him. Fuck. He needed glasses when it got this late and this dark. 

“Sorry.” The man gave Strahm a weak smile, scraggly blonde hair tousled around his ears. He looked like a complete dipship, the kind of guy that Peter used to hang around in his youth. Probably fucked a handful of men just like him. 

“It’s just that there’s one of you and three of us. There’s no other booths and my pal can’t sit on the bar stools for much longer. His prosthetic leg is killing him.” He stuck out his bottom lip and wagged a finger between Strahm and the other two men, still at the bar, but slowly rising now, “Come on. Don’t be an asshole.” 

Strahm rolled his eyes as hard as he could, pushing his beer bottles out of the way, clearing a space for them, heart thundering in his ears at the idea of having to strike up yet another tense conversation with Gordon. 

“Yeah. Fine. I was just leaving.” Strahm muttered, rubbing a knuckle into his eye, not even needing to fein tiredness. The needy ache of it seeped its way into his bones and he was just glad that the apartment wasn’t too far of a ride, he could flop down into the back of a cab for thirty minutes and watch the stretch of lights as they tumbled past. He could crane his head back against the seat and count the ways that Hoffman could be apprehended. Then it would only be a matter of time before they came for him. 

“Agent Strahm.” Lawrence’s voice was utterly faux charming as he hefted himself over. A tuft of his hair hanging down across his forehead, let loose from its confinement of his perfectly waxed and styled hair. He noticed it almost immediately, his hand sifting up to push the strands back. 

“I’m just leaving.” Strahm said again, thighs knocking into the edge of the table as he shuffled out from the booth, not meeting Lawrence’s eyes. He wasn’t going to indulge him in conversation. He was exhausted now that he was thinking about it properly. 

Something stopped him though, and he added, quieter this time, 

“I’ve left the field actually. So, I suppose it’s just Strahm now.” He held out a hand, gesturing for one of the boys, the blonde one, to slip into the booth. As the young man went, he dragged his eyes up and down Peter. Jilted movements. Not appreciatively. Nervously. 

“That’s a shame. I’m sure you were doing good things.” Lawrence settled in beside the brown haired young man, resting his cane against the table as Strahm stood there, the need to rise up onto the tips of his toes great within him. His body wanted to set itself into a starting position. He would run to get out of this conversation if needs be. 

“Agent?” The blonde haired one asked, eyebrows dipping down, “Like, real estate?” 

Lawrence’s facade slipped for approximately one millisecond and a look of contempt fluttered across his face, before it was snapped up by a slow smile, snuffing it out before he could get any further with his apparent dislike for how the boy had spoken. 

“ FBI agent, Ryan. He worked on the Jigsaw case.” 

“Right.” Ryan’s voice was flat, almost bored sounding. Airheaded. “Cool.” 

“My name’s Brad.” The brown haired one said, fingering the top of one of Strahm’s empty beer bottles and grinning at Strahm with a lot of small teeth, “Sorry. I felt left out. Just wanted to introduce myself.” 

“Put your tongue back in your mouth.” The one called Ryan grumbled. 

“You were leaving. We won’t keep you.” Lawrence announced, the tips of his ears bright red and if Strahm had to guess, it appeared that may have been his tell for when the doctor was about to start becoming incredibly annoyed. “I do hope we bump into each other again. Maybe next time we can have a proper sit down chat. How long’s it been?” Lawrence rubbed a finger along his chin, “A little over six, seven months?” 

“Yeah.” Strahm’s mouth was gummy, “I don’t know. Yeah. Something like that.” 

“Honestly, I would invite you to sit with us, but I don’t think you’d find us that interesting.” Lawrence cocked his head, “These two are med students. It’ll be all blood work this and bone marrow that.” 

“Med—” Brad began but snapped his mouth shut quickly, opting instead to murmur, “Yeah. Med students.” 

Do they think I’m stupid? Strahm thought. 

If he wants to fuck these two, that’s not my business. 

“Right.” Strahm said slowly, eyes dancing between the three of them, “Well, enjoy—” He looked the two young men up and down, Brad smirking at him like a moron and Ryan frowning beneath his clump of blonde hair “—Enjoy your drinks.”

“Careful out there.” Gordon smiled, eyes wrinkling. 

“Great.” Was all Strahm replied to that, before tearing himself away.

He was most certainly glad to be in the back of the cab when he managed to hail one down, thoroughly perturbed by the whole interaction. The sour, stale second hand smokey smell of the driver and his mindless conversation about a baseball game that they’d both seen was miles better than having to spend a second longer with Dr Gordon and his minor gaggle of mindless toy boys. 

~

The apartment was cold. The walls grey and cobwebs hung between the upper corners of them, strung delicately like halloween decorations, the first sign of neglect. Then the second, and third, and fourth were noticed as Strahm wandered through the rooms, dragging his hands over the tops of counters, collecting the dust and crumbling it away between his fingers. It felt strange to know that at one point, Amanda Young would have walked through that door, probably tossed herself down onto the couch and lived and breathed in the space. Like a real person, outside of the magnetism of John Kramer. 

Strahm tried the tap in the kitchen, it groaned once metallically, then burst into life. Spewing water into the waiting mouth of the sink, cool and clean, as though nobody had ever left the apartment bereft of human contact. He pushed his fingers into the stream of water, wetting them and then sucking the moisture off his skin. It tasted of nothing, no underlying tastes of rot or anything untoward that would stop Strahm from immediately hunting for a glass, washing it down of grime and then filling it full so he could take two long drinks. Throat tight and parched, the water abating that sensation until Strahm could lean against the sink and pant.

Strahm glanced up, swivelling on his heels until his behind rested firmly on the lip of the sink and when he tracked his eyes up and up, Amanda’s influence still seemingly haunted the place because taped haphazardly to the wall was a poster for a 1999 show at The Roxy in New York, around the name ‘Skunk Anansie’ someone had used sharpie to draw circles and love hearts. Strahm had never heard of them, but the name itself sounded like something Amanda Young would listen to and like. A smile ghosted across his mouth, it reminded him of himself when he was a teenager and he’d tape Bowie posters to his walls until his mother pulled faces and complained about the tape ruining the walls.

Except, Amanda wasn’t a teenager. She was a woman and was currently lying in an unmarked plot somewhere in a New Jersey cemetery. Neck shredded and gaping open. No amount of Kramer’s Godly restorative justice could have put her back together after that, and something wormed its way into Strahm at the thought of that. A cold, miserably alone woman who’d had one glimmering chance at love and consolation, and it had been wasted on someone who inevitably was going to find themselves dead one way or another. Leaving Amanda alone once more. 

There was a purple blanket draped across the back of the couch in the centre of the adjoining living room area. It had green flowers sewn into it. Maybe handmade, maybe bought, but definitely something that looked like it had been carried through from childhood into adult life. Dragging along the raw edges of Amanda’s timeline, no doubt catching on the moments she struggled the most, wrapping around her and giving her some sort of respite with its frayed corners and soft wrappings. Strahm touched a hand to it as he wandered over, debating holding it to his nose to see if it smelled like anything. His sister was much older than Amanda had ever gotten to be, but he knew the tart, flowery smell of teenage perfumes that would often stick with women into their twenties; once you liked a scent, you often kept with it.

When Strahm had looked down at Amanda’s body in that room, she looked cold but sweaty at the same time. Pale and sticky. She very well may have smelled like coconuts or strawberries if he had bent down close enough to her. Maybe she used to do things that everyone else did at one point before being coddled in the suffocating, woollen burial shrouds of Jigsaw’s emphatic teachings. Strahm could just picture her, wiping plastic lip gloss across her mouth and then doing something like tugging on roller skates, probably around sixteen years old in his mind. Nobody began evil. 

Dust layered everything as he crept further into what was once the lounge area, his feet scuffing along the edge of a trampled rug, once something akin to sheeps skin but now was so matted and tatty that it could have been any sort of creature. Below the couch was a pair of Garfield slippers, his bulbous 3D eyes staring darkly back at Strahm. Liz had liked Garfield. She probably still did. Her telephone from age eleven to fifteen was Garfield and she would spend hours yapping to her friends, Pete slamming into her room, begging her to get off the phone so he could call his friends to talk about baseball or whatever young boys wanted to talk to their friends about back in the day. 

Garfield watched as Strahm turned on a lamp on a cabinet to the side of a very old, very chunky television set. It, thankfully, did hum into life when Strahm pressed the fat button on the front of it, the bunny ear aerial just about picking up an analog channel. The fizzles of static jumping through it, but it was something. Not that Strahm really felt like watching TV. The VHS player attached to the television barfed up a copy of Kenneth Branagh’s 1994 Frankenstein when he pressed eject, and Strahm felt sad for approximately fifty three seconds as he held the tape in his hands. The sticker on the front of the tape announcing the title was sun faded, like someone had watched the film again and again, leaving it on the media units side out of the box until the world itself had erroneously stripped its details away. Amanda’s love for the film boring away its finer, defining point.

Every other videotape that Strahm uncovered from the television unit’s sarcophagus of physical media was just as different as the next, the personality and taste of a woman in her early thirties that seemingly was dictated by everything she had been before her transformation. Strahm stacked them up, glancing over things like Muriel’s Wedding, Go Fish, The Rescuers, The Princess Bride, Misery, Slumber Party Massacre. It went on and on. A never ending supply of VHS tapes, slapped with cheap price tags from any number of thrift stores. Amanda’s pennies spent on keeping herself entertained while she probably sat and waited patiently until John needed her. Calling her over to some dim, dirty warehouse where huge, pendulous death traps swung in time. Or at least, that’s how Strahm envisioned it all.

He wiped a hand across his face, cupping his jaw and tilting his head to the side as he conjured the mental image of his life just before packing and leaving for Quincy. 

It wasn’t all too dissimilar. Sat on Hoffman’s couch, waiting with his hands between his knees for Mark to stroll through the door.

He could just imagine him and Amanda Young, both perched on the sofa behind him, feet up on the coffee table as something like Fargo played on the television. Amanda would have holes in the heels of her socks and a necklace sucked into her mouth as her glazed eyes stared on at the TV.

Hey. Listen to this. There once was a man from Nantucket— Imaginary Amanda smirked, scraping hair up into a clip at her hairline that once might have been speckled with glitter, but only held remnants of the shiny scraps now. 

Really? Strahm frowned at her, his legs about twice as long as hers where they were stretched out.

Imaginary Amanda just laughed. 

He picked up a copy of Disney’s Sleeping Beauty , the box pristine, as though no one had watched the tape from the moment it was bought. 

“Weird.” It was the first word he had uttered into the resounding silence of the apartment, shattering this strange veil that he’d dragged over himself, like he’d been walking around someone’s wake. No other attendees. Only him. 

He shook the box. There was no plastic rattle of the VHS inside, just the muted, light thud of something else. Strahm peeled open the case, the cracking of the plastic astronomically loud to his ears and when he peered inside he was met with a dark blue notebook. It had cartoonish, drawn sheep adorning it and was wrapped tight with a slither of leather, tied tight with a double knotted bow. Obviously to keep people out, but if somebody went out of their way, they could have quite easily gotten in. Which Strahm did, tugging the bow loose and the pages fell open in his waiting palms, spread onto a page that was marked in blue biro ink, ‘1st Oct ‘04’.

It was about three weeks after Dr Gordon and the kid’s game.

In beautifully straight writing, the wrist only smudging the page once as Amanda had written, the words sat neatly on the page. The punctuation and spelling just as one might expect from your average person, no carvings of Satanic symbols or mad ramblings or anything that someone might expect from the co-host of New Jersey’s most terrifying, never to be broadcasted, game show.

John’s gone off to Mexico for some sort of treatment. Personally I think that it’s bullshit but he’s got that look in his eyes where he thinks that maybe something good will come of a shitty decision. It’s how he looks at me sometimes and it makes me think of when my mom would force me to join swim club or cheer squad or chess team when I was still little enough for her to be making my decisions for me. They look at you as though they think one single thing is going to fix everything. Stop other eight year olds from telling you to your face that you have a pig nose or two left feet or when I tried to do a handstand and some stupid cunt pushed me over and I broke my finger. It’s hard to say no to him when he starts talking about anything, that’s the problem. That’s my personal problem. He gets on his soapbox and sometimes I think that he would have been a fucking hit in the 60s or 70s when everyone was going crazy and joining cults. Talking about how we’re going to change lives. The world is going to change. I’m going to change. I’m going to be better. Then I start thinking about being in a Catholic middle school, when your knees would have to be on those ugly fucking cushions, the lines of the embroidery digging into your skin for later. And they always smelled musty and gross. Full of pew going people’s skin. That was my favourite bit though. I used to think, gee, that’s neat. I get to kneel here and tell God all about my problems and if I’m good maybe he’ll give me a break and maybe I’ll let his big, invisible hand cup my heart and I won’t want to do any of the things that would worm their way into my head. John would hate it if he read this. He doesn’t want to be a God. Or he says he doesn’t. 

Strahm’s eyes trickled to the next page, the date now reading ‘3rd October ‘04’.

Can’t sleep. Keep thinking about the way that when Adam was— The next word in the sentence was scribbled over again and again with the pen, but Strahm could guess what it said underneath. Dying. When Adam was dying —he didn’t fight. He didn’t fight me, he just stopped. I barely even needed to hold the bag around his head. It was like he knew what was coming. But the sound. I don’t think I’ve heard a sound like that before and I’m so fucking scared that now it’s started, it won’t stop. I won’t ever be able to get away from this and Adam is going to be hanging over my head, floating three feet above me. Choking and gasping. It was horrible. It was like all the air in his body clawed its way out of his lungs and got stuck in his throat. Rattling around while he let me do that to him. He just wanted it to end. I watched my grandma kill a sick chicken once. It had been getting pecked by the others and it was scrawny and its ass was bald from where the feathers had been ripped out by what it probably thought were its sisters. They could sense in it that it wasn’t going to last and that it was the weak one. Adam wasn’t weak. He just got a bum fucking deal. Not that I’d say that to John’s face but whatever, it’s true. He died and Gordon lived and that’s all he’ll ever know. 

Tears stained the page.

He liked my hair. 

More tears.

I want to go back and move his body, bury it somewhere. John said no. I can’t sleep.

“Jesus.” Strahm breathed, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It was like reading the most depressing version of an anxious teenage girl’s diary, except the teenage girl was a grown woman and would go on to help commit some of the most frightening crimes Strahm had seen in a long time. 

Still. He’d have to be the world’s biggest asshole to not feel a little bit bad for her. Cooped up in his apartment, rotting away all alone with the thought of murdering a kid that she seemingly held some sort of pity for. But anyone could have pity. Even the vilest people could see a pathetic, bleeding creature lying on the cold ground and have something inside of them flicker into feeling unadulterated pity for it. It’s what they did to follow that finding that suggested the type of person they were; putting it out of its misery or simply just walking away. Leaving it to the elements and to the will of God. 

It appeared that Amanda was the former, rather than the latter. 

The next entry was about a week after the last one and was written frantically, the soft swoops and loops of Amanda’s previous handwriting had devolved into chicken scratch, written at an angle like she’d had the diary on a strange surface, and lacking most kinds of punctuation and capitalization. Although even that was erratic, like lucidity was creeping between the pen strokes, peaks and troughs that ebbed and flowed around Amanda’s fingers as she wrote. There was a smear down the side of the page, a thick, burnt umber that petered off at the  end. Blood. It was a juxtaposition to the iridescent, holographic star sticker that she had stuck at the top of the page. Two whole people inside of Amanda Young, the woman and her blood, and the girl. 

woke up at fuck o’clock by that bozo yowling down the line to me because it’s fucked it’s all fucked. they werent going to help him they never were going to help him and its still in him its still eating its way into his fucking brain and hes going to die and im going to be left here with this stupid fucking apartment that he wont even visit because he doesnt want to ‘muddy the waters’ and make me think like i could ever have anything that was close to a normal life and i was praying fucking PRAYING— Praying was written in big bold letters, almost leaping off the page with their ferocity— for his revival, for some higher power to come down and suck the tumour out of his skull and leave him beautiful and clean but i told him I sat him down and I said to him, John, this doesn’t sound right but ofcoursehe didn’t want to listen to me and now i’ve got a flight booked to Mexico and i’m going to kill all of them i’m going to make sure they all hurt i’m going to ask God like im nine years old and praying for my mom to loveme im going to ask him to save John. 

Underneath was a small prayer and then a single sentence, dated a few days after the previous entry. 

John and I have been discussing the house a lot, I think it’s a great idea. Watched All Dogs Go To Heaven and cried. The little girl in it got killed by her deadbeat piece of shit dad. Hoffman called me afterwards and asked me something stupid. Made soup. 

Went for a walk earlier and while I was having a cigarette I saw a dog with a fucking mohawk. Crazy. They don’t allow pets in this building. Not even a hamster. Fucking stupid. 

Wish I’d learned to play the guitar then I could be half way across the world, touring with a band of beautiful girls. Maybe I could buy one. But then I think about Adam and all it does is make me feel like shit. Rockstar. Rockstar. Rockstar. Rockstar. Rockstar. Rockstar. Rockstar.

Couldn’t sleep again tonight it’s too dark in here all I could think about was when dad would shut me in the closet when I’d been bad and I’d scream and scream in the dark and she wouldn’t even help me she’d sit on the couch with him and pretend like it was my fault but it wasn’t my fault. Had to turn all the lights on it’s too dark. 

Had the best food of my life tonight and I made John laugh for the first time in a while. When I passed by a mirror, I was smiling. Holy shit!

Strahm closed the diary for a moment, the creeping feeling that this was desecration of a human being’s thoughts and feelings was still something that could be extended onto people like Amanda Young, and all he could picture in the pit of his mind’s eye was the purple diary that his sister kept inside of her bedside table. He had been told, finger wagging in his face by Liz, to never read it under pain of death. 

“ If you ever read a girl’s diary— ” Liz’s eyes had gone dark, her nose turning to the heavens and her mouth drawing into a thin, terrifying line “— That’s it. You’ll be struck down dead by a lightning bolt. ” 

“A lightning bolt.” Strahm murmured to no one but himself, diary cupped in his hands like it was Amanda’s last will and testament. It might as well have been. “I’m sure this would have been a fucking key piece of evidence about a year ago.” He turned the diary around in his hands, peering at the back at how Amanda had stuck more stickers, all different kinds. Overlapping one another, the original design of the diary was almost completely overtaken by the bright, often glittery pieces. It felt slightly demented to gaze at. Amanda Young was enough of a real person to go to the store and buy herself stationary like colourful, borderline childlike stickers, so she could peel them off and carefully place them onto her diary that she hid in a Sleeping Beauty VHS tape. Hiding her most private thoughts and feelings from her mentor. Her guardian. 

More pages were flipped, for a long while it seemed as though she had calmed and her writing mirrored that, her pen strokes back to being legible and smooth. At one point Strahm noticed that she had even begun using what appeared to be a glittery gel pen, though it was quickly forgotten for a classic black biro once more. It seemed as though she could get the effect she wanted where words would be emphasised with a violent press into the page, indenting onto the other side, the word being lined again and again until it was clear that she really, really wanted it to stand out. 

John’s name often was highlighted with this treatment. As was Adam’s. 

As the months and days progressed, entries appeared about watching someone, spending nights sitting outside of a hospital and smoking cigarettes until a particular person wandered out from a long shift. Strahm had never seen Lynn Denlon’s real face, just the smouldering pile of viscera and bloody chunks that once may have been parts of her forehead and jaw. Nothing left to be distinguishable as a human face. But he could imagine that she was a handsome woman given the way that Amanda waxed poetic about it in the diary. Cigarette ash streaked across the pages as though she had sat on a wall, chain smoking and staring big, round, cow eyes at a woman that she at least (quite poetically) would be allowed to die in the same room as. 

The word beautiful came up more times than Strahm would have liked to count by doing anything more than drifting his eyes across the pages. That would be too intimate. Too invasive. He allowed Amanda the dignity of keeping her crush addled musings to her own inner sanctum of a brain, only glancing briefly to try and determine time and pacing. The diary was racing all too quickly towards Amanda’s death, the nerve gas house had been and gone and the all encompassing, Sisyphean task of caring for John and trying to piece together a life was stumbling her. Dragging her to the bitter ground and pushing her face into it for her troubles. 

Strahm turned a page and found the spread of the next two completely filled with doodles of Lynn Denlon’s face and eyes. The eyes never seemed to focus on the artist though, they stared off to the side. Amanda had seemingly managed to capture the most basic of things she saw, a woman who didn’t see her back. As she crept in the shadows and plotted to kidnap her away, thrusting her into the limelight of Jigsaw’s befuddling performance of a storyline. 

He kept flipping through, intrigued more than ever now, sat cross legged in a dead woman’s apartment as he waited for his man to finish whatever insidious thing it was that he had dragged them back to that hell hole to do. 

Something caught his eye. 

Undated, but during a period of Amanda’s clarity if the general presentation of the page was anything to go by. 

Hoffman was definitely one of those kids during school that wouldn’t shut the fuck up during class and would ask about a thousand questions so no one else could move on and get on with their shit. I can picture him so well. Thrusting his big, hamhock hands into the air and going ‘Please sir, just one more thing’. But the thing is, he’s not dumb. He’s fucking smart and that’s why he knows exactly how to piss off everyone around him. He can pinpoint what’s going to make you lose your shit and do just that for the next forty five minutes until you want to tear your hair out. He’s easily the worst that John has brought around. But sometimes he freaks me the fuck out. I don’t like him. I don’t like him but he makes me feel like shit sometimes because of course he’s fucked in the head. If someone murdered my sister like that I’d probably lose my marbles too. I don’t even have a sister, I’m the most classic only child you could find in a five hundred mile radius, but I get it. I get what it probably does to your brain to find that. But it still freaks me out when he looks at me and all I can think is that he’s seeing something in me that he probably saw in her. I don’t even treat him good. I scream and piss and moan, everything he deserves because he can’t build for shit, and usually he gives it right back. Calling me an annoying bitch. But then sometimes, he just shrugs and takes it. Like he misses that kind of banter. I said something the other day, I was trying to be cooperative, be a team player like John says like he’s some sort of fucking football coach, so I said something vaguely supportive about how he tightened a lugnut or something stupid like that and he looks at me. He looks right through me and he goes pale and then he goes pink and then he says ‘Thanks, Ange’. Neither of us knew what the fuck do after that so I just left. I needed to go for a smoke and so I left because how does anyone respond to that? Thanks, Ange! Thanks, sis! You’re dead and I’m having a mental breakdown and calling a woman that I hate your name! It’s fucked. I guess I feel bad. I probably won’t bring it up to him. But I do feel bad.

Strahm slid the diary closed. He didn’t want to read any more tonight. He blearily peered at his watch and found the time to be almost offensive, so he dragged himself from the ground, his knees groaning as he went. Sleeping in the bed felt like yet another indignity to Amanda, sliding between her sheets and knowing that another day meant another twenty four hours with the burden of a father figure who was going to grind your moral compass to battered pieces so that he could warp it for his own gain. 

Instead, Strahm slipped onto the couch, drawing his knees up to his chest and tugging the blanket from the back of it down onto him. It barely covered him, much more suited to a smaller frame but it felt fitting. He was an intruder. This wasn’t a place for him, so why should he be entitled to the amenities fitting his needs. 

He ended up on his back, ramrod straight as he stared up at the ceiling and the descending wisps of cobwebs as they swayed back and forth from an unknown draft creeping in through a crack somewhere no doubt. He laced his hands over his belly and wondered, slightly blithely for the situation, if Amanda ever had friends in the city. Real friends. Not the people that she may have hung around when she was at her lowest. People who would have brushed the hair from her eyes and held her shoulders and told her that she could have been better than any of the impurities that John pumped into her veins, keeping her sick with need. 

Lizzy had seven bridesmaids when she got married. 

Amanda Young’s succinct and perfunctory funeral was attended by no one. 

One of the few people on the planet who may have seen something better in her, the glimpse of a girl who was untouched by all the madness that clung like soot to the people who gathered around the juddering flame of Kramer, even he wasn't allowed to mourn for Amanda. A secretive comrade, hidden in the rafters, overseeing her demise and for all extents and purposes completely silenced on the matter. 

Strahm wondered if it had crossed Hoffman’s mind when Amanda had been killed that he had lost another. 

It would perhaps explain some of his more manic behaviour towards Peter. The desperate need to keep at least one person that gravitated around his orbit of chaos safe and sound. No blood, no guns, no machines. 

“I’m sorry.” Strahm muttered into the open air of the apartment, jostling the stillness and his voice echoed around the walls for a moment before it fell back onto him. A blanket of quiet. Amanda Young wasn’t there anymore, but he still was sorry for it. Sorry that it all happened the way it did. 

“Jesus Christ.” He laughed bitterly, pushing his hand into his face, “Fall in love with a murderer and you suddenly start feeling sorry for all of them.” He laughed again, his voice wobbling at the end of the sound so he clipped it short, snapping his mouth shut. 

The phantom of imaginary Amanda that had been sitting on the couch next to him earlier made her way across the room once more, settling her ass onto the coffee table and leering at Strahm like she owned the place. Which, well, she sort of did. 

That’s fucking funny. You’re in love with him. I wish I was alive so I could make fun of the both of you. 

“I’m going to sleep.” Strahm shut his eyes, pointedly ignoring the mental manifestation of his descent into some sort of insanity. 

Not cool to read my diary. I had private things in there. 

“Goodnight, Amanda.” 

Goodnight, whoever the fuck you are. 

Chapter Text

In retrospect, if the apartment wasn’t freezing cold (a boiler was broken and Strahm wasn’t going to try and do anything about it) and bereft of a change of clothes so Strahm had to venture to a store that was two miles away to find cleaning detergent, all so that he could sit in the cold of the bathroom while his clothes soaked in the tub; he might have regarded the stay there as some sort of vacation. 

He could do what he wanted, when he wanted, for six whole days. Accompanied by Amanda’s supply of video tapes, and various meals cobbled together from corner stores and takeout places, he lounged for almost a week on the couch. It probably helped that he’d been drinking a lion’s share of whiskey too. Dulling the pain he had pushed right to the back of his mind that Hoffman was doing, by all regard of the word, bad. He was doing bad things out there and once again, Peter was secreted away in an apartment, a kept wife for a blood sucking, menace dealing piece of shit who left Pete alone and—

He pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply and when his breath met the cold air of the apartment it fizzled out into steam. The condensation on the inside of the windows was beginning to grow worrying from all the sighing he had been doing since Hoffman had skirted his way out of that bar and left Strahm dangling like a worm on the end of a line for his own mental gymnastics to snap him up. He could think himself into the biggest of holes with six undisturbed days of trailing around a dead woman’s apartment. 

He’d finished reading Amanda’s diary by day two and all that served to do was make him feel fucking miserable. As miserable as Amanda had died. Begging for someone to love her like she obviously wanted to love someone back. No doubt if she had survived and John had rightfully been pushed six feet into the ground, she would round his grave and sleep there, baying at the moon. 

“You sound fucking crazy.” Strahm said to himself, which only served to prove his point and anger him even more. He was sure that if he looked in the mirror at that exact moment, the top of his forehead would be lined with a crimson crease of embarrassment and it would shoot hot guilt into the pit of his belly because Amanda Young was never meant to be someone that he empathised with. She was John Kramer’s shadow. Lurking at the back of every crime scene like the wisps of smoke after a gun was fired. Damage done. Only her. 

Strahm glanced at his phone idly, he had about thirty photos on it. Tiny and pixelated because no way was he buying one of those new fancy phones. Hoffman had been talking his ear off about this new Sony phone, he’d seen it in a magazine while he’d been doing work at some young guy’s house in town. Plumbing work. Which had made Strahm laugh because what the fuck did Mark know about plumbing? Turned out that he could generally do anything he put his mind to, which of course was equally frightening as it was impressive, because it did explain how he could dole out such woefully horrible prizes in his games. 

“It has a three megapixel camera.” Hoffman had said, hands on his hips, “Over three! Three point two. I’m gonna go down and get one.” 

“Why?” Strahm had been sitting at their breakfast bar, drinking coffee with tired eyes and stubble still on his face. He hadn’t shaved for work yet, “The only person you call is me and you never take photos with it.”

“I take photos all the time.” Hoffman took a bite of a banana, looking thoughtful about something. 

“On your camera, yeah.” Pete tossed his head over to the cabinet where Mark stored his camera, something he’d picked up from a second hand store in town, fixed it up a little and then Strahm had lost his man to the call of the single guy in town who wasn’t a big Walmart or Walgreens, regular places you might take a spool of film. This man was seventy three and had a dark room in his basement. Hoffman would go, have a few coffees with him, chat, and then come home with a new packet of photographs. Most of them were basically esoteric. Things only Hoffman seemed to want to look at and ponder. Bits and pieces around town. Weirdly avant garde for a man who, at his core, liked nachos and American football and laughing loud and drinking scalding hot coffee. It was, for lack of a better word, cute. Cute that he would wander around the safe haven they’d created for themselves and photograph odd things, things that must have caught his eye. 

There were, of course, about fifty photographs of Strahm too. All PG. It would have been inappropriate to force a geriatric man to develop photographs of dick and balls, a direct quote from Hoffman. So the photographs were incredibly normal in nature for that very reason. Also because, although they didn’t hide it, they also didn’t really go around announcing that they were quite clearly more than friends, even if the two of them never truly touched on what the label of that relationship would be. Not out loud. So the photographs mirrored that; Strahm down by the bay. Strahm waving from the garden as he muddled around in a flower bed. Strahm flipping Hoffman off from the same flowerbed moments later. Strahm in a comically huge coat when it was winter and they went over to Nantucket. They had pretended to be newlyweds, Hoffman’s idea, and had pointed at the snow as though they had never seen it before, clutching each other’s hands and making a whole joke of how funny it was. How funny to touch the rough skin of each other’s hands, fingers wound together as they enjoyed a vacation with each other’s presence as the greatest gift they could receive.

So funny. Strahm thought. 

“I just want to take photos of you.” Hoffman had admitted quietly, pulling on his work coat, “It’s less clunky than a camera. I could get all kinds of shots of you and you would never know because it’s so small.” He had a grin about his face that suggested he was thinking about something, that if spoken out loud, would no doubt fire up Strahm’s irritation and make him snap right back at him. So he had kept it to himself, shuffled over and kissed Strahm goodbye. Something that still startled Strahm no matter how much time they spent together. Of course they kissed and slept together and fucked, but sometimes it felt as though they were a strange selection of things. Friends? Unsure. Enemies? Yes. Lovers? That was the one that fit the most. 

A sweet, loving couple? 

That one stumped him. 

There were fleeting glimpses of it in the way they swanned around each other in their days shared together in the townhouse, but it still was nerve wracking. Every time that Mark would kiss Strahm before work, or after work, or before they fell asleep, Strahm had to wonder if leaning into it would be the worst mistake of his life. If allowing himself to become fully immersed would break off whatever brittle fight he had left in him to fully give himself over to the strange, almost mystical power of Hoffman’s allure. 

“You don’t need more photos of me.” Strahm grumbled, a hand coming out to curl his fingers around Mark’s wrist, holding him still so that he couldn’t flee out the door to work without Peter having a final few words, “Creep.” 

Hoffman just smirked, eyes shooting down to where he was kept prisoner by Strahm’s hand, 

“You’re just mad because if I get a better phone then there’ll be less physical photographs of me hanging around that you can eat.”

“I shouldn’t have told you that.” Strahm tried to keep himself calm, his fingers tightening around Hoffman’s wrist, “I should have never told you about that, you absolute asshole.” 

“I’m fitting a new kitchen in a house downtown today, I might be late back.” Hoffman’s eyes sparkled as though he was still thinking about the photograph eating incident in deep detail, “Don’t get nervous if I am, okay?”

“I’m not that obsessed with you.” Strahm added another sugar to his coffee, needing it, “You just want me to make dinner again, don’t you?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.” Hoffman scoffed, gently prying off Strahm’s hand, “You can’t cook for shit. I just don’t want you flying into a fit of hysteria because I’m not home at the right time. I know you. I’m your favourite chew toy.” 

“Ha ha.” Strahm faux laughed, looking up at Hoffman and thinking about how handsome he looked until the thought met the deep processors of his brain and cut it short, “I’ll see you later. No new phone.” He pointed a finger at Hoffman, eyebrows drawn down, looking as serious as he could until the corner of his mouth twitched and Hoffman answered it with a cheerful, 

“Ah. I got you.” 

He leaned down once more, kissing Strahm on the mouth, hard , three times before relinquishing he hold and easing himself away, voice soft and deep, making Strahm’s skin break out into goose pimples and his belly flop around like he wasn’t forty four years old and was actually sixteen. 

“Baby, I love you. I need to go.” Hoffman tipped Strahm’s face up with a finger below his chin, eyes softer than honey and the jagged ripple of his scar undulated across his skin as he smiled. Full of love. Full of painful, unadulterated love for Peter as he added quietly, “You look pretty today.” 

Peter could have snapped at him. Told him to go fuck himself. 

But that was pre-running. And this was now. 

So all he did was dip his eyes, flutter his eyelashes (without realising) and smile up at Mark. The delicate edges of his mouth touched the bottoms of the apples of his cheeks as he all but beamed at him and murmured back, 

“Go to work.” 

“Okay.” Mark kissed him again, quickly. Sneakily. “I’m going to fuck you later.” 

“Weird. Don’t have to say it out loud.” Strahm had said back. Only semi joking. 

“Baby?” 

“Mm?” Strahm lowered his coffee cup, all attention on Hoffman. 

“Nothing.” He grinned once more as he zipped the coat up, hair soft and floppy over his forehead. He looked happy, “I just wanted to see if you’d respond to that again.” 

Back in the present, Strahm lowered his phone, the pixelated image of a sleeping Mark lay dormant on the screen. His hair a mass of tossed cool brown against the pillow, his mouth gently parted as he breathed deeply. After hating the wheeze of it to begin with, the rhythm of it usually lulled Strahm to sleep most nights now and after five nights of sleeping alone in Amanda’s apartment, he missed it. Missed the way that Mark would click his throat. A strange alien sound, but so strangely unique to him in his sleep that the click click click of it as he slipped into the first stages of sleep left Peter pining for it when all he had was the soft drip of the tap in Amanda’s apartment. Or the shout of a distant neighbour downstairs. The wailing moan of a car alarm on the street. 

He pulled his phone closer, trying to get the image of Mark as near to his eyes as he could, wanting to drink him in. Suck the vestiges of personhood from his marrow and—

He was acting crazy. Jesus Christ. A couple of days and he was degrading into who he was before the two of them were together . The beast who pressed earrings through his ear just to be closer to a man who could have quite easily taken him in his hands and squeezed until something inside of him popped. Leaving him free of the haughty constraints of life and hung in his arms, limp and pale. 

Peter wanted to text him more than anything, but he knew it wouldn’t go through. He’d probably shoved it deep into a duffle bag, a needless distraction from whatever he was doing. Probably creeping around the shadows, terrifying the wits out of Jill Tuck until he could grab her. A villain. Strahm could picture Hoffman tying her to the train tracks, twirling a moustache and cackling. It’s how he acted about her, why not lean into the theatrics of it all? Deep down, along with the queasy feeling that thinking about Tuck drew forth, Strahm knew that it would never be anything like that. Trying to convince himself that Tuck wasn’t going to end up as a pile of unidentifiable red slop on the floor was a useless endeavour, only serving to make his head pound and his mouth to dry up. 

If there was one person on the planet he never thought he would feel a deep, aching sympathy for, it would be Jill Tuck. He almost could see the slaughter house peeking up on the horizon, hot and reeking of bloody death as she was led up the winding hill. He could have saved her. He could have found her, grasped her by the shoulders and with spittle flying, told her what was going to happen. Begging her to flee. But for all he could do to plunge down the clawing need to be a bad person , the strongest force in the known world to Peter Strahm was that of Mark Hoffman, suckering him in with the needy call to love him. Love him and be loved in return. And if they surmounted into someone’s death, then so be it. Jill Tuck could lie dead in the ground, human shaped or not, but as long as he had the touch of Mark’s hand in his own, he would turn a blind eye and turn the other cheek for his man, bathed in the crimson, horrendous light of his transgressions. Beautiful and righteous and horrible. He’d come this far. It would be almost pathetic to give up now. 

There was a knock at the door, shaking Strahm out of his thoughts and his body tensed up with palpable fright. He slithered over to the door, body low and ready to spring away if anything terrible was behind the door, his breathing shallow as he inched his eye up to the peephole. There on the landing of the apartment block stood Hoffman, battered and weathered looking, shoulders heaving as though he had run the whole way back to Strahm. Maybe he had. Not like wanted people could take taxis. 

“Hurry up.” Hoffman hissed, the sound almost entirely muffled from behind the door and Strahm almost wrenched the whole thing off of the hinges, tossing it open so Hoffman could barrel through. Flying into the room and throwing his arms around Strahm’s shoulders so he could drag him in, he smelt like death and bile and Strahm’s nose wrinkled in disgust, burning with it. But that didn’t stop him from holding him right back, squeezing his arms around him as much as they physically could, Hoffman’s body was cold and rigid, but that slowly seeped out of him, allowing him to crumble against Strahm. 

“Fuck.” Was all Hoffman said before attaching his mouth to Strahm’s, kissing him. 

Or rather, attempting to devour him. Devour his being, his taste, his history, his all encompassing love that Strahm knew he had gestated inside of him for this man. 

Before he was aware, they had been making out like teenagers, but without the comforting safety net of that excuse, ending up as two middle aged monsters standing in the entrance of Amanda Young’s apartment. The small hallway of it hung with a single photo of her and John, her arm slung around his shoulder and a tiny smile gracing his face. Their haunting eyes watched the two of them as Strahm pushed Hoffman against the wall, holding him in place so he could kiss him over and over. Allowing Mark’s body to go almost limp in his arms as he tucked his arms under his armpits, securing him there as he spread out his open palms on Mark’s shoulder blades behind him. The spackle of the apartment’s wall digging into the back of his hands, jagged and prickling, in complete opposition to the warm, inviting softness of Mark’s mouth. 

“I missed you.” Peter muttered in a brief moment of respite from the kisses, “Don’t tell me just yet what you’ve done, I can only assume. But I missed you. I want you to know that.” 

“I’m sorry I left.” Mark answered, forehead pressed against Strahm’s, “Felt weird.” 

“I think we’ve become conjoined. Inadvertently.” Strahm quirked a smile, shy all of a sudden, “Fuck. I just heard myself. This is insane. I sound insane.” 

Hoffman’s hand crept below to press against the front of Strahm’s jeans, insistent and questioning all at the same time, 

“We don’t need to think about it. You wanna fuck in Amanda’s bed?” 

Strahm pulled a face, but his hips were deceptive and gave him away as they lurched into the cup of Hoffman’s hand, 

“Not really.” 

Imaginary Amanda rolled her eyes from behind Hoffman and checked her cuticles so Strahm squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blank her out and thankfully when he reopened them, she was gone. Nothing but the empty space of the lounge behind Hoffman’s shoulder, her blanket now back folded over the back of the couch, where it belonged. This was her space after all. The two of them were simply invaders, parading around in a ludicrous display of tossing someone’s mortality back into her face. 

Strahm stopped thinking about Amanda after that, if only for a while. Focusing all his mental energy onto the man in front of him, the man who was currently trying to paw his way into Strahm’s jeans, struggling with the zip with only one hand. Making an entire meal out of the action until Strahm could extract his hands from Hoffman’s back, making a point to touch his hands and tug them away from his jeans as gently as possible. 

“I don’t want to be a cunt, but do you want to shower first? There’s hot water, it’s on a different tank or something. But there’s hot water even if the place is freezing.” He stuck his face into Hoffman’s neck, breathing in deep and not caring that what he got in return smelt festering and awful. Beneath it all he could smell his skin and he wanted that. Just that. 

“That’s the polite way of saying I’m foul.” Hoffman’s head thumped against the wall, then in a moment of complete and sincere vulnerability, he said quietly, “You think you could just be in the bathroom with me while I shower?” 

There was no playing off the fear in his voice. Something had happened that had jostled him to the core and Peter would ask about it later, but not now. Instead he sank his teeth into the flesh of where Hoffman’s neck connected with his shoulder, pushing until he heard him make a noise of discomfort, which slid quickly into a sharp, moan. Hands pried him off in the end, dragging Strahm to arms length so Hoffman could stare at him, shoulders heaving as he panted and dick hard in his jeans. 

“Well?” The tips of Mark’s ears were red.

“Sure.” Strahm nodded, mind hazy with want and as soon as Hoffman wasn’t covered in grime and spit and sweat and blood, he was going to grab him by the back of the neck and bend him over whatever he could get him bent over. He wanted to shove his tongue into his hole, push Hoffman’s cock down his throat, wind his arms around his shoulders as Hoffman rocked into him. Anything that would bring him closer, as close as the two of them could get without him digging his hand down his throat and working his way into the chambers of his pulsating heart and crushing it beneath the strength of his waiting palm. 

“Okay.” Hoffman breathed, pulling off his coat and wandering, trance-like, into the bathroom. He must have been here before if the ease of which he found the bathroom, his hand grazing the edge of the door and within a second of Strahm watching with careful eyes, ready for it to happen, Hoffman buckled. Fingers gripping the frame, his body slumping against it as he gasped, quite clearly not aware that he was as fragile in that moment as he truly was. 

“Fuck.” It came out of Hoffman gritted, embarrassed.

“Calm down.” Strahm soothed, hefting him up onto his feet and guiding with a hand on the small of his back, now that he was down to just his boxers and undershirt, he could feel the stickiness of his sweat, the material drenched with it and stuck flat to his skin underneath and Strahm made a noise of vague distaste, then followed it quickly with, “Come on.” Leading Hoffman into the bathroom further, thankful that the shower had a bath below it and he flipped on the taps, flooding the tub with tepid water, praying it would heat up a little more. 

“I’m fine.” Hoffman grunted, peeling off his boxers and shirt, his body covered in bruises, though Strahm couldn’t place what might have caused them with the way they sporadically patterned his skin. 

“You can barely stand.” Strahm offered gingerly along with a hand and Hoffman took it with a scowl, still quite clearly embarrassed that he needed help. Then, with his hand still clasped in Strahm’s, he stepped foot into the bath, still filling with water and when Strahm dipped a hand in and swished it around the water, the temperature was absolutely not something he’d be getting into in a hurry. But Hoffman plonked himself down, water displacing around him as the taps kept on chugging water into the tub, a slow curl of steam now rising from the stream and Strahm could allow his body to relax a little. Knowing that Hoffman wasn't going to freeze in there. 

“Don’t move.” Strahm touched Hoffman’s shoulder, his skin clammy, “I’ll be back in a second, okay?” To which Mark nodded, eyes suddenly heavy and his lids were droopy as he peered up at Strahm. He was back in an instant, crowding back as close as he could to the bath but now with a cushion from the couch and as soon as Hoffman saw that he perked up. Leaning his arms on the side of the bath as the tumbling din of the taps spewing water bracketed his words, 

“Are you seriously that old that you need a little cushion to sit on or your ass hurts?”

Strahm snorted, getting himself comfortable as he leant on the fibreglass covering of the bathtub, the material’s cool casing could be felt even through the material of the t-shirt he had on, slicing into the bare skin of his arms when he rested an elbow on the edge. Trailing his fingers up until he could wrap his fingers around Hoffman’s wrist, anchoring him to himself as he sank lower into the water, using Strahm to keep him afloat. Keep his head above water. In every way possible. 

“Careful.” Strahm murmured, like he was talking to a skittish animal, “Don’t drown.” 

“I’m tired.” Was all Hoffman said in response, voice thick and syrupy, dipping into his lower register in a way that made Strahm think it wasn’t a devious ploy to try and get him aroused, but that he truly was bone tired. Aching for a bed to lie his weary head and if Strahm could have allowed him to fall asleep in the bath, he would have. As though there was nothing in the world he wanted more than for Hoffman to rest. To stop. To halt the frenzy that hurriedly bounced around his heart, willing him into hysteria and making him do things like drag them from their safe place and abandon Peter for almost a week in a dead person’s home, in search of a singular woman. 

“Hey.” Peter said faintly, watching as Hoffman stopped swilling his hand around the surface of the water, gazing at the swirls and swells of water as it danced over the scarred skin of his hand, “I’m ready to know.” He careened a hand over, tucking some of Mark’s hair behind his ear, a token of peace between the two of them, almost akin to waving a white flag. A signal lighting the night sky that he wasn’t going to be the aggressor here. Wasn’t going to push or press any information out of Hoffman that he wouldn’t want to willingly give. 

“Did you do what you wanted to do?” Peter kept his tone even, shovelling a calm curiosity into it so that Hoffman wouldn’t bolt. The strange stupor that was keeping him hostage was startling and it was clear that he had done something terrible in the last handful of days. Strahm swallowed down the need to shout. To bellow at Hoffman and beg him to change his ways and stop this madness that held the both of them down so they couldn’t progress with their life. But, he didn’t. He stroked a finger down the scar in his cheek, feeling the rough, bubbling skin, closing his eyes momentarily so that he could fully picture Mark with his face falling apart. A stark reminder of what happened when Jill Tuck got ahold of him and hurt him. 

“You look like you’re about to barf.” Peter joked, tilting Hoffman’s face up with a finger under the chin, “And I’ve told you before, I wouldn’t be able to fucking hack it if you hurled on me.” Hoffman snuffled a laugh, the highs of his cheeks were pink and Strahm had to lean over and finally turn off the taps, otherwise Mark would start steaming and he wouldn’t want to boil his brain before he managed to wring information out of him. Not now that he was mentally prepared to receive it. 

“She’s dead.” Hoffman whispered, looking ridiculous with his long legs stretched out in front of him in the bath. A forlorn giant, hunched over the side of a tiny, grubby bath, his hair slicked to his forehead with the humidity that had engulfed the room. Strahm was reminded of his childhood dog after he’d become filthy outside on a walk and his dad would dump him into the tub, his tiny little eyes gazing up at the humans as if to say ‘what did I do to deserve this?’ as water was dumped over his head. He could almost imagine Hoffman might start whimpering at any moment. 

“She’s dead.” Strahm echoed, the gravity of it trickling in through the cracks in his composure until he could repeat it, voice tight in complete harmony with the answering tightness in his chest. Maybe part of him never expected Hoffman to actually go through it. As though their time apart from the kill has lessened his need. Seemingly, he was wrong. “ She’s dead. ”

“Pete—”

“That’s it, right?” Strahm could hear a manic twinge creeping into his voice, “Quicky and easy?” 

Hoffman was silent for a long while, eyebrows turned up and face despondent as he pawed the edge of the bath, his hands always giving him away whenever he was feeling the tiniest bit stressed; fiddling with whatever he could find, twiddling his fingers around as a huge tell tale sign. A minor insight into the mind of a man who somehow managed to keep himself well under lock and key when it came to his emotions. Well, except for his love for Strahm. He was horrible at hiding that.

When he finally did speak, it was a croak, 

“No.” He shook his head, droplets of water flinging in every direction. Splattering onto Strahm’s face and he wiped the back of his hand across his cheek, “Quick enough. But not easy. Not painless.” He sounded far away. Lost. “I had to. There were so many ends to tie up, everything would have gotten fucked if I hadn’t done it. She was a liability.” 

He paused once more, head dipped shamefully, as though he could read Strahm’s thoughts, then muttered, 

“Just like Amanda was.”

“ Jesus —”

“I had to.” Hoffman sounded like he was trying to convince himself, “Everything about it was completely fucked. John and his lost little girl, muddling through all of it, not to mention Tuck. I have to get rid of all of them or they would have gotten rid of me.” His breathing was becoming abrupt with every inhale and exhale. Dredging out a thick, greasy panic from him that Strahm wasn’t going to placate because at that moment, Hoffman didn’t need someone to hold his hand and tell it was all going to be okay. He had created this world for himself, now he had to live with the consequences. 

Or at least, that’s what Strahm thought. The wild thumping of his own common sense banging on the walls of his brain, as an inner him screamed at himself to extract himself from the web that Hoffman had weaved around the two of them. Howled and clawed at him to pull away from Hoffman, otherwise he would become wound even tighter and find himself eaten alive, the only good part of him sunken into the belly of the beast as Hoffman smiled and swallowed. 

Strahm pushed down that need. His eyes tracing over the scars on Hoffman’s back and the one segmenting his face, the yowling creature needing him to flee was punched back into its recesses as Hoffman’s eyes met his own and he pleaded, chin on the side of the bath as he all but prostrated himself in front of Strahm, 

“I had to. I had to.” There was a lingering malice to his words, the Hoffman that loved to manipulate in full swing, but Strahm couldn’t even find an iota of power to fight back. To tell him to shut up and fuck off, anything to make him stop. Instead he just allowed him to go on, blathering into the void wildly as he tried to do justice to the fact he had killed again. Not just her either. Others. Countless people who would never realise that the moment they stepped into that police station, it would be the last thing of worth they would do that day. 

Strahm swallowed, his mouth flooding with saliva and he knew what that meant, his stomach rolling as he thought about Hoffman winding his way around the city. Leaving behind him a trail of disaster and despair, like the wake of a boat as it viciously streamed through a previously calm lake. Spewing fuel and oil out, disturbing the delicate, pristine balance of nature, just as Hoffman spat his blackness into everything he touched. 

The image of the flowers in their yard sprung into Strahm’s mind, obfuscating the entire line of thought that raced through his brain with the memory of morning dew kissing their petals as Strahm pulled on his work coat and smiled for the first time in years about the simple, tremendously human concept of going to work. 

Somewhere in the bowels of the city, a fox yelped. 

“You’re crying.” Hoffman murmured, his hand coming up to touch Strahm’s face and he flinched away out of instinct, then immediately felt horrendous about it. Especially with the way that Hoffman sagged into the water, his face warping into the perfect picture of woefully agony, “Pete. Don’t be scared of me. You’re crying.” 

“You flicked water onto me.” Strahm reasoned, a viable excuse, “It’s just water.”

“Here.” Hoffman’s thumb brushed over the high of Strahm’s cheek, catching a tear as it skirted its way down, only for him to then tuck the thumb into his mouth. Sucking away Strahm’s single tear as he closed his eyes and relished it, licking his fingers clean and then going back for more, clutching the sides of Strahm’s face as more slipped from the corners of his eyes, nothing to hold them back now. Only being stopped by the makeshift dam of Hoffman’s tongue as it tracked across his face, taking into himself Strahm’s bitter sadness.

“You could have just left it.” Strahm mourned, Hoffman’s hands still on the sides of his face, “You didn’t have to give into whatever the fuck it is that Kramer planted inside of you. We could have just stayed in our home.” 

“You promised me that you’d allow me this, you promised—”

“Six days.” Strahm snapped, smearing away more tears, “You left me for six days. I’ve been sitting here, alone, watching Amanda Young’s fucking Disney tapes just to distract myself. The whole time wondering if you’re alright.” He laughed, completely lacking in any kind of humour, “That’s the worst thing.” He took a shallow breath, “I hardly had a passing thought about anyone but you. Jill Tuck didn’t deserve whatever foul, evil thing you did to her, but that was pushed all the way onto the backburner because all I could spin round and round in my head was the worry that you might get hurt.” He laughed again, the sound of it overtaking him as his shoulders heaved up and down until it became clear the laughter was no longer there, and in its place were quiet, aggrieved lurches of half-sobs. As though his body was attempting to dissuade himself from allowing the indignity of crying properly. 

It had him gasping, clasping the edge of the bath as the idea that Hoffman might have left him, might have left this mortal coil , whirled around inside his head tumultuously. 

“Fuck.” He laughed again, quieter this time, shoving his hand across his face as he shielded himself from Hoffman’s prying eyes, “That’s what mattered most to me. You. Sitting here biting my nails to the quick because you’re a murderer and I wanted you safe because all I could think about was the fact that we have those steaks in the freezer.” The water must have been colder now and Hoffman shivered visibly. Either that or he was as scared as Strahm felt. 

“You don’t even like steak that much.” Hoffman said, fingers white on the edge of the bathtub with how hard he was gripping it. 

“I know!” Strahm yelped, “I got them because you do. How fucking stupid is that? You’re everything that I ever wanted to find when it came to the Jigsaw case and instead of riding your arrest into an early retirement as you’re thrown into whatever hell hole prison for life, I’m thinking about how I want to make myself so angry in our kitchen because I can’t fucking cook and I don’t even like the shit I’m making, but I know that you like it.” Another hot tear trickled across the planes of Strahm’s face and Hoffman diligently wiped it away once more as Strahm continued, “This should have never happened. I should have resisted you and turned you in.” 

“But you didn’t.” Hoffman cooed, beginning to preen under the weight of Strahm’s semi-confession, “You chained me to the dog house. Fed me scraps from the table.”

“It’s my fault. And I’ll never forgive myself for domesticating you.” He sighed, shoulders sagging, “But I’ve let you in. Your scents everywhere. Not much I can do about it now.” 

It was flippant. Blasé. Nothing like the tempest that was swirling inside of Strahm as he watched Hoffman shake and shiver, naked in a bath, fresh from the hunt and sick from the chase. 

“She had to die. You have to believe me. Trust me .” Hoffman’s hand cupped Strahm’s face softly, the hidden threat of his fingers flexing there not lost on Strahm, “You trust me, don’t you?” 

“You should get out of the bath. You’re shaking.” 

“Answer me.” Hoffman snapped, the ugly thing inside of him rearing its head momentarily until he managed to lure it back under control with the clearing of his throat, “I just want to know. Please. Because if you say no, you can’t leave this apartment. You know that. I love you, but you know I wouldn’t let you step one foot outside of here unless I know that I can trust you.” 

Strahm wiped the hem of his t-shirt across the corners of his eyes, exposing his belly to the growing chill of the bathroom, his arms covered in prickly goose pimples as the evening cold descended further around them. Suffocating the sweating warmth that had swaddled the two of them the whole time they had been willing the other to relent and throw up their arms in forgiving devotion, the events of the last six days released and forgotten, left in their wake only the obsessive compulsion they both had for preserving the others life. 

“Okay.” Strahm sighed.

“Say it.” Hoffman’s eyes were dark. Predatory. 

“Jesus.” Strahm laughed quietly, unamused and maybe a little frightened, “I trust you. I trust you to keep the both of us alive.” He offered out an open palm, which Hoffman took. A handshake. A deal made between the two of them, completely unspoken, “Doesn’t mean I have to like what you do.”

“Nobody likes it until they have to.” Hoffman’s hand squeezed his, tugging Strahm in until he could nose at his cheek, inhaling deeply, “At least now the last piece has been put into place. Tuck is dead and I can finally move on.” 

“Keep telling yourself that.” Strahm pressed their cheeks together, feeling the coolness of Hoffman’s skin now that the bath was chilling him, “I’ll call your fucking bluff when in five years time you get cut off in traffic and decide to put some dipshit into an elaborate machine.” 

“You’re joking.” Hoffman muttered, “You love joking.” 

“I’m adding levity to a situation that might kill me if I don’t. I’m done talking about this for tonight. We can continue another time. Maybe.” Strahm peeled himself away from Hoffman with a small, sad smile, slinking over to where the towel that he had been using for the last six days hung. When he first had picked it up, it had been laddended with dust and needed a thorough shaking out on the miniscule juliette balcony that adorned the apartment’s facade. As he handed it to Hoffman the man stood, water cascading off of his body and he shook even more, obviously freezing in the now frigid air. The towel did little to cover him too, obviously made for a much smaller person and it took all of Strahm’s mental power not to reach out and grab a handful of exposed flesh. The siren call of the fat just above his hips left Strahm wanting, mouth dry and heart pounding, even with thoughts of Jill Tuck’s demise at the hands of this man freshly dredged to the surface.

“You should get into bed.” Strahm croaked, suddenly excessively tired.

“Yeah?” Hoffman’s eyebrows drew up, excited, “Are you going to come?”

“I’m going to get some air.” Hoffman’s feet were wet on the bathroom floor and Strahm had to avert his eyes otherwise he might start declaring love to him there and then, “You get in and I’ll come join you. I’m going to have a quick smoke.”

“You don’t smoke.” Hoffman scoffed, eyebrows knitting together, baffled, “I’ve never known you to smoke.” 

“Mm.” A packet had been bought by day three in the apartment, Strahm’s eyes darting to the display behind the man in the bodega, the owner’s cat mewing gently as he had pointed out the brand he wanted and wasted about four bucks on something that only served to make him hack, “Trying not to get back into the habit honestly, but I guess I’m failing.” He raised an eyebrow, opening the bathroom door and allowing more cold air to flood in and he attempted not to smirk at how Hoffman’s shoulders drew up and the hairs on his arms stood straight in the air, “You of all people can’t fault me for it. At least my habits don’t have a body count.” 

Hoffman’s eyes rolled around his skull and he shoved past Strahm, towel still just about clinging to his waist, threatening to show explicit slices of skin. 

“Get a life.” He murmured, “When was the last time you even had a cigarette?” 

Strahm trotted along behind, pleased to be past the murky distress of Tuck, 

“Quit when I was about thirty three. My wife didn’t like it.” 

“Ex.” Hoffman reminded him, helpfully. 

Strahm just snorted, always a great enjoyer of jealousy when it overtook Hoffman, 

“Yeah. Yeah, ex.” He watched as Hoffman rocked from foot to foot, held in the breadth of the kitchen-cum-lounge’s mouth, the bedroom door only metres away but instead of leaving Strahm’s side he seemed reticent. As though he was nervous that if he were to leave Strahm alone now, he might never come back from the balcony. Strahm could just imagine the look on his face if he were to pitch himself from the window, Hoffman’s hand grasping through the air as he jolted against the ground, head cracked open and secrets that he would have to take to the grave, lest he lose the one person he had felt such a burning obsession for, spilled across the concrete. It would be deserving. For both of them. 

But Hoffman didn’t need another death in the family. 

It would just beget more death in its wake. 

“Get into bed.” Peter urged, rubbing at his throat absentmindedly. It barely ever hurt anymore, luckily, “I’ll be there in a bit, I just need some fresh air.” 

“Cigarette smoke isn’t fresh air.” Hoffman concluded, borderline whining. 

“Get into bed now, moron.” 

“Give me a kiss.” 

“Sure.” Strahm breathed, taking a handful of steps until he could press his dry mouth against Hoffman’s, a startled look plastered across his face as though he didn’t ever expect Strahm to relent so quickly and easily to the request, “Happy?”

Hoffman let out a gust of air, chest deflating, 

“Ecstatic.” 

With that he wandered off, almost floating. 

The packet of cigarettes lay beside Amanda’s journal on the coffee table and Strahm ran his fingers down the cover softly before he picked them up, a parting prayer, something from thirty plus years ago when he attended a boarding school in upstate Connecticut with very strict chapel attendance. Religion was only ever brought out in the Strahm household during holidays and as a stark reminder to not bring his father to the cusp of a temper, but Peter had grown in his youth to be almost beholden to God. Nothing came of prayer, not that he could see, but it had always felt good to offer up something. He didn’t often feel a lot, empathy came not as second nature to him, more rather limping behind self preservation, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it at all. Touching Amanda’s diary made him feel. As did thinking about Jill Tuck, harassed by himself, alone, husband dead and a lumbering shadow of death, first-name: Mark, following her until her untimely death. 

So, a small prayer was thought for Amanda. Then Jill. Then for the juliette balcony that he leant against as cool, crisp air bit his cheeks and nose as he lit a cigarette and sucked on it like he might not ever smoke a cigarette again, which he hoped would be true. Perhaps after that one he would toss the rest of the packet into the black-blue sky and acquiesce to the knowledge that the only other bodily damaging habit he would partake in for the rest of time was falling in love with someone who knew what it smelled like to tear into someone. Be it with their own hands, or a terrible machine. 

Strahm peered down below him, to the streets. It would be a pretty clean route if he climbed up onto the other side of the balcony and he recalled briefly the photograph he’d once seen of a woman who jumped from the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building. Her body cocooned in the metal of a car below, pearls clutched in her hand, almost as though she’d simply fallen asleep in the disaster that clutched her limp body. 

“You wouldn’t be so pretty.” Strahm muttered to no one in particular, then took another drag of the cigarette, holding the smoke inside of him until he couldn’t, then snorting it out through his nostril. The tendrils of smoke dashing away into the air and he resolved to never think something as completely fucking stupid as what he had been mulling over for that little while. 

If anyone deserved to kill him, it was Mark. He wouldn’t deny him that joy by killing himself. 

Amanda rounded him, looking tired and pale, 

Share? She whispered, voice crackly with Strahm’s memory trying to catch up once again to how she sounded. He’d only heard it a few times on tapes and every time she’d visited his thoughts in the apartment, he had to really think to piece her entire being together. 

He held out a hand to nothing, but still her phantom took a drag of the cigarette, the smoke blooming out of the back of her head and she almost moaned with the taste of it on her tongue once more. 

You can stay at my place as long as you like. Not him though. 

Strahm sniggered, wondering if he was going completely nuts or if this was just what his life was like now. 

Hey, guess my favourite film. Amanda nudged Strahm’s arm. 

Strahm flicked the cigarette off, ashes tumbling to the city below, 

“Frankenstein. It was all fucked up from how much you watched it. Sun bleached.”

No. Not quite. 

Amanda’s face swam a little as Strahm turned to look at her properly. Like trying to remember someone from a dream. 

“I don’t know.” He stared at the woman. The ghost. Memory. Whatever she was. A spectre conjured by his chipped psyche to help him through this time of great trauma. That’s what his shrink would say, if he still had one, “Tell me. I don’t know.” 

Amanda smiled and for a moment looked hazily like the photograph of Angelina that had been taken in front of Niagara Falls, hair tumbling around her ears and a grin painted across her face. Cheeks and nose rosy. 

All Dogs Go To Heaven. 

“Do they?” Strahm sounded afraid. 

I sure hope so. AmandaAngelina turned to the city, leaning over the edge of the precarious balcony’s lip with such force that it would have winded someone if they were alive. 

Because otherwise, you and him are fucked. 

~

Mark didn’t turn over when Peter barreled into bed, stinking like cigarette smoke and cold from the wind, both of which Mark commented on and tutted like an old woman. He still clasped Peter’s hands as they tucked around his middle, the front of Strahm’s knees drawing up into the back of Mark’s as he made the most delicate little spoon out of a household name killer. Shoving his face into the back of his neck and breathing in deeply, smelling stale water from the bath and whatever soap Amanda had left behind that Mark had given himself a quick wash down with. It was a blunt smell, not fruity or sweet, just a plain soap. Like the crescent moon that a father would leave and become angered at if you dared to question it, or God forbid throw it away. Just enough to clean you, nothing more. 

“You were out there a while.” Mark said half into the pillow, allowing Peter to sink his teeth into the dip of his neck, the only sound that left him was a small, muted gasp that was swallowed very quickly by him clearing his throat and adding, “I thought maybe you had really jumped. I would have been impressed if you had. There’s probably not many ways you could get yourself out of this one.” 

“This one?” Peter grazed his top front teeth over Hoffman’s skin again, wondering how hard he might yelp if he were to bite as hard as he truly wanted to, “What do you mean?” 

“I know your eternal torment is the knowledge that deep down you’d give your right fucking hand to be rid of me. Clear your conscience of every shitty thing I’ve done and remove yourself. You don’t want me to be caught because you don’t want yourself to be caught.” 

Strahm bit. 

Mark’s replying sound was sorrowful and aroused all at the same time, Peter’s hand dipping to touch his cock and it wasn’t hard, but it was fat enough that he knew if he bit again then they would end up fucking. The bed was a single though, which would have made that much harder than either of them would like to admit. It was a struggle to not topple out even with his entire body crowded into Hoffman’s, the threat of the threadbare carpet loomed large as Strahm’s ass rested well outside the edges of the bed itself. 

“I don’t want you gone.” He tried to sound emotive, but too often sincerity was a tricky one. It didn’t come as easily as sarcasm or anger, but it wasn’t beyond him and he tried it again, kissing the red welt of his bite mark on Hoffman’s shoulder, “I want you here. With me. I don’t care what you do anymore.”

“You do care. You wouldn’t have taken your job if you didn’t care .” 

“Let me rephrase—” He licked his lips “—I know who you are and what you’ve done.” 

“And—?” 

“We all have our bad days.” 

Hoffman’s laughter shook the both of them, tumbling out of his huge body until Strahm was snuffling into the nape of his neck, giggling like a complete idiot along with him. A tasteless joke that would have sickened him a year or so ago, but now just felt like an in-joke between the two of them. Both twisted around each other with the malevolence that came with abandoning your morals for love. It was addictive. 

“Fuck.” Hoffman pressed his palm over his face, “What have I done to you? I used to dream about touching you and turning you into this perfect version of what I wanted from you. Ruthless. Maybe even a killer. The two of us held above everything, doing what Kramer could never do and properly punish those who deserved it.” He let the hand fall and it curled around Strahm’s hand, still clutched around his belly, “I never expected this. Never expected you to be so fucking batshit crazy.” 

“Speak for yourself.” It wasn’t a character assassination, Strahm knew that, despite the fact it sounded like one. It was the reasoning of someone who had lost the plot, bewildered by Peter joining him in a jaunt through it all. 

“I could hear you talking to yourself by the way. While you had a cigarette.” Hoffman’s fingers clenched around Strahm’s. They were clammy. 

Ah, well. Might as well tell him. 

“I’ve been hallucinating Amanda Young since being here. It might be the first sign of some sort of psychotic break. I suppose only time will tell.” 

It felt quite freeing to admit it out loud. 

“Amanda?” Hoffman muttered, “I don’t know what to say. That’s weird, even for me.” 

“I found her diary actually. She doesn’t like you much.” He paused, “Didn’t. Didn’t like you.” 

“I’m not surprised.” Hoffman had the audacity to yawn before the next sentence, rubbing a fist into his eyes like an overgrown child, “It was my fault that she ended up dying.” 

“Oh.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Agitation was quick to line the underbelly of Hoffman’s words.

“Nothing, I just—” Strahm’s head swam with the image of Amanda’s handwriting and the personal thoughts of her diary, written in glitter gel pen like she was any other woman on the planet with emotions and likes and wants and needs “—Nothing.” He finished on, nose pressed tight to Hoffman’s neck as he took a few breaths in and out, barely filling his lungs. His chest burning with the need to spin Hoffman around and shake him by the shoulders and say that leaving a wake of dead people behind him wasn’t going to bring her back. 

“You sound disappointed. You didn’t even know her.” 

“Let’s not talk about it. In fact, I don’t want to talk about it. Ever, if possible.” It was like desperately pulling out every trick in the book to calm a raging bull with Hoffman sometimes, but Strahm’s method of guilt-tripping tended to be a sure fire way of calming him, mostly through confusion on Hoffman’s part. 

“Don’t tell me you feel sorry for her. Or Jill Tuck. Next you’ll be crying about Kramer.” 

“Unlike you, there’s still some humanity left in me in that respect.” 

Hoffman went rigid. 

Then something strange happened. 

He agreed. 

“I know.” His voice was quiet. Reflective almost. 

“I’m being an asshole.” Strahm countered, pulling Hoffman closer to him, begging for the warmth of his body as sentiments that would have never dared to spring forth began flooding his mouth, “That was shitty of me. I didn’t need to say that.” 

“I’m not stupid, Pete.” It felt strange to have a conversation the way they still were, Hoffman speaking into the wall that bracketed Amanda’s twin bed, “I don’t leave my body and float above myself when I kill.” 

“I didn’t say you were.” 

“I understand why you took the photograph and did what you did.” Hoffman’s knees drew up a little higher as he made himself small, the confession regressing his body language to that of a younger man, well aware of what horror he’d put out into the world, “I know she’s dead. I know none of this will make it so she’s here with me again.”

“Mark, it’s—”

“No, just, shut up for a second.” Hoffman huffed, body still tight, “I’m there when I’m doing it and I can’t stand myself, but it’s like that old adage, ‘I’ve started so I’ll finish’.” That made Strahm snort a laugh, in spite of the topic of conversation, “At first it was for her, and I hated it. Then, it wasn’t for her anymore, it was for me. It was solely for me. To make me feel better.” He groaned quietly, as though remembering a delicious meal. It set Strahm’s teeth on edge as Hoffman continued, “Then, slowly, it was for you. To bring you closer to me. So you could see me and know me. Then, I just knew what I had to do with Jill, and it was to keep you safe.” 

Strahm was silent, the only sound was the harmony of both of their laboured breathing, until Hoffman spoke again, voice low and strangely charming, 

“Don’t you want that? I thought you wanted that, Pete.” The name drop made Strahm’s stomach drop and his heart pound, though not with any kind of fear, instead with utmost devotion to the insanity that lived inside of Hoffman and leaked out of him until it could chew him up too and spit them both out, one completely new being. 

“I want it.” Strahm groaned, holding Mark so tight it hurt him. 

“I can’t be the man in the photograph just as much as I can’t have her back. But I can kill everything that might harm you from staying with me.” 

Strahm’s forehead butted against Hoffman’s shoulder blades, his broad back the perfect shape for smashing the front of your skull against in times of great trouble seemingly. 

“ Fuck. ” He murmured, grinding his hips into Hoffman’s behind in one juddering motion until Mark wrenched an arm away from where it had become entangled in Strahm’s and he physically stopped the movement in its tracks, stilling Peter’s pelvis with a firm hand.

“You need to sleep.” Hoffman grunted, back to his usual, monosyllabic facade he fell into all too well, despite harbouring an eloquent and intelligent man inside of himself. 

“You’re right. I feel like shit.” Strahm sighed, “I just wish I knew you before everything was fucking terrible.” 

“No you don’t.” Hoffman returned to stroking a hand down where Strahm’s own were still perched on his stomach, “For better or worse, you like me a little bloodthirsty. I think deep down you still want the thrill of chasing me. Want the excitement of maybe ten years down the line handing me over to the police and watching me rot away in a cell until I was unrecognisable and clawing at the walls.” 

“Perhaps.” Strahm didn’t have to feign the yawn that overtook him suddenly, leaving an unpleasant ache in his jaw, “At least I would always know where you were if that did happen.” 

“Conjugal visits would be fun.” Hoffman supplied. 

“Isn’t that usually reserved for spouses?” 

“Maybe.” It was stressful, jumping between hatred and fear and deep love and joyous joking between the two of them, but he wouldn’t have it any other way, “I can think of a way to fix that problem.” 

Strahm did his best impression of a sleeping man after that.

Chapter Text

Something touched Peter’s ear lobe, startling him awake and almost toppling out of the narrow bed that they had somehow shared the entire night. The curtains lay open, the light signalling that it was probably about six o’clock in the morning, maybe earlier. Pete’s eyes blinked a few times, the soft sensation of Mark’s hand nudging his knuckle up and down his neck, petting him, was verging on ticklish. But he allowed it all the same for a few more moments, then turned a little to face him better, finding that Hoffman had pillowcase lines cast across his face. Slicing right through the scar on his face, making him look much younger than time allowed. His hand found itself drifting up, pulled by its own whims, and Strahm smudged his thumb through the inner corner of Mark’s eye, touching his eyelashes as it went and when the hand disappeared he was met with Mark peering curiously at him, dipping his head in confusion. 

“Sleep.” Strahm said softly, voice croaky with the morning’s heavy blanket, “You had sleep in the corner of your eyes.” 

“Mm.” Hoffman hummed in return, “Half expected you to push your thumb into my eye and blind me.” 

It wouldn’t have been a joke to anyone but the two of them. Lesser couples would have found it in bad taste. 

Not them though. 

“Fucking stupid thing to say.” Strahm grumbled, but his mouth was still tipped up into the curved shape of a smile despite it, “You’re a messy sleeper. You snore. You drool. Not surprising I always wake up and you’ve got crusty eyes.” 

“Alright.” Mark muttered.

“Like one of those ratty, yappy little dogs.” Strahm’s hand found the small of Hoffman’s back, “Jersey rodents.” 

“Can you just tell me when you’re going to be finished?” Hoffman rubbed his fist into the other eye, seemingly shy about the fact he was a human being in the morning now that Peter had spent all that energy pointing it out so graciously, “I was going to get up before you and make you coffee, but I don’t see the point now that you’re being an asshole.” 

“You woke me up fiddling with my ear.” Peter supplied, helpfully, then dragged Mark closer to him. Unwilling to lose him to the call of Amanda’s almost barren kitchen, where he knew for a fact there was only drip-filters and cheap coffee he’d purchased from a corner store, then immediately disliked anyway, “It’ll open up and get infected again if you play with it like that.”

“Don’t fucking lie. It’s completely closed.” Mark’s thumb ran over the miniscule hole where the earring had once been laid, “Just was wondering if you’d consider getting it done again. Professionally.” Something funny happened. He went a little red in the face and his eyes failed to meet Strahm’s during the whole latter half of the sentence, “Maybe for your next birthday. We could both go.” 

“My father pierced his ear at age sixty. A late in life mid-life crisis type of thing.” 

Mark’s face fell. 

“It was only a suggestion.”

They were both quiet for a moment, the room bare of almost anything that might fill the void of silence as they laid there facing each other, an impasse stretched between them because when they strayed too far into the mundane, the everyday romance that knitted normal couples together, it was too close to an unexplored territory. A pool that the two of them just about dipped their toes into in Quincy, but still felt strange and new. It was complicated to go from your first interaction to involve firearms pressed into the soft palate of your mouth, to then neatly sway and flow into things that might be considered dates. 

Once more Hoffman managed the terrifying ordeal of seemingly reading Strahm’s mind as he mused about it all by murmuring, 

“Don’t look so nervous. I won’t force you to treat me like I’m human if you don’t want to.” 

“That’s not it.”

“Sure, sure. You were very happy to dedicate time to watching television and films with me previously.” Hoffman looked a little smug as that passed his lips, chest puffing up as though he’d found the perfect gotcha .

“That was before—”

“Before you knew I was Jigsaw. Right.” 

“Jesus. Are you going to let me fucking finish?” Strahm’s face compressed into a thick scowl and he knew that he must have looked hideously old and crotchety as he glared at Hoffman, “Anyway, you’re not Jigsaw. You’re a derivative of the idea. You’re an angry man who somehow stumbled into it all.” He watched as Hoffman’s eyes flashed with something. Perhaps a quiet recognition that, after all, he wasn’t The Jigsaw and Strahm was completely correct in his speculation. An angry, tired man who tossed a hand over his eyes as he peered up at the withering light of an ideology that Kramer managed to pot-mark with so many holes that even the greatest and darkest of philosophers wouldn’t be able to draw conclusion from it all. 

Mark had gazed through the cracks in a dying man’s last hurrah and found his own way to carve something from the bones. 

“When we go home—” Strahm paused to cup the side of Mark’s face, a movement that was meant to be something of an olive branch “—I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll go for dinner with you. I’ll go to the movies. Pierce my fucking ear, whatever you want.” 

“Why?” Mark sounded completely baffled, lips pursed in a silly way that had Peter turning his head to stop himself from laughing at the sight.

“If you had let me finish you’d get it.” Strahm’s mouth mashed together, thoughts sprinting collectively around his mind at such a rate that he felt the surly creep of dizziness threatening the back of his eyes, but he pressed on regardless. Knocking his nose into Hoffman’s and feeling the exact same way he did when he’d spent the first night with his wife. Bravado being shaken at the bottom of its ladder by the hands of childish, loving nervousness, but not enough to knock him off his perch as he had ran his fingers through her hair and hoped that he could always wake up to something as beautiful. 

It was jaw hurting-ly funny to know that he did. Even now. He did wake up like that.

“I barely liked you when we first started spending time together. It was something to pass the time between being able to fuck you.” 

“Okay.” Hoffman scoffed a laugh, “Christ. Okay.” 

“It was simple to sit on your couch like that because it was before I actually gave a shit about you.” He squeezed his eyes shut, “No, that’s not how I want to say it either.” He tutted at himself, fingers pressing tight into the soft fat of Hoffman’s back, “It was easy to do those things with you then and it’s hard now because now I’m under this great, atmospheric, dense pressure to somehow convey to you that, despite the fact that I call you a prick and an asshole and a total shit, I care about you so deeply. Enough that I’ve spent the last six days since you abandoned me solely wanting you to come back because I thought of something really fucking funny to say about one of Amanda’s video tapes, one of the films, and I turned and you weren’t there and it scared the shit out of me.”

“That’s—”

“Hold on.” The ball was rolling and nothing could stop it now, “You were intriguing before this and I was obsessed with you. The idea of mysterious and weird Mark Hoffman. But now you’re interesting . I’ve found out the things I need to know about you and I hate some of them, but I like others. Like some of them a lot.” Mark’s body was tight against his own, ramrod straight and Strahm could feel the delicate hitch of his chest as he tried to keep his breathing steady under the weight of probably the most that Strahm had ever said to him without being stopped, “Isn’t that fucking stupid? I like you. I think you’re crazy and foul, but I want you like that. You’re interesting. And all the obsession I held for you I’ve laser pointed into— You know —”

Mark shook his head, 

“No. Into what?” 

“You know what I mean, Mark. You know exactly what I mean by that.” Peter kissed him for the first time that morning, mouth stale and dry from pouring out a torrent of emotion that he kept behind his well oiled facade of middle aged brute, unfeeling and unwavering in that unfeeling, “I don’t care that you hurt people. I’m past caring for that at all. Despite it going against pretty much every single moral code I’ve been taught as a person, I like the selfishness of knowing that even after everything you’ve done, you’re still good to me.” 

“I’ve been shitty to you.” Mark’s voice creaked out of him like the hinge of a whiny door, almost slipping up the octave, “I’m not always good to you.”

“And I’m a cunt back to you. Equal. Even.” 

“I might kill you one day.”

“Great!” Strahm barked, eyes wild, “How fucking fun that would be! The perfect end to a perfect companionship between the two of us. The natural conclusion.” He fisted a hand into the back of Mark’s skull, voice borderline panicked, “But until that point, I will get down onto my knees and beg you to let me have you exactly the way I deserve to have you. You can do whatever you want with me up until that point.”

“You’re having some sort of breakdown.” 

“I’m being honest.” Peter pulled on Mark’s hair a little harder, jutting out his chin, bathed with stubble that made the back of his pelvis bubble with hot, broiling sexual arousal, “And, you are probably right, I think I’ve been stuck with Amanda Young’s ghost prodding me for too long this week and I’m having a mental break, but I like you. And if you don’t like it—well—you can go fuck yourself.”

The degree to which Mark’s body shook with laughter could possibly be measured on the Richter scale, his torso jumping against Strahm’s as he laughed harder than he had done in a long time. Not since they had been long sequestered in their townhouse together, totally safe from the outside world and Hoffman was sure that he could fully be himself. Which turned out to be someone that laughed at things, although rarely, so hard that it made him gather tears at the corners of his eyes, which he dabbed at with the corner of Amanda’s blanket. Dampening the material as he continued to laugh and shudder, clutching onto Strahm as though he might suddenly dart away, embarrassed. 

“There’s something wrong with you.” Mark couldn’t help but smile, the tired lines around his eyes smoothing out with the motion, lending their shape instead to the corners of his mouth. Strahm would have much rather he had wrinkles from being happy rather than exhausted. Not that he would voice that opinion outloud, instead he smiled thinly back and said slowly, 

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” 

“Hey, I never asked—” Hoffman brushed his thumb over the stubble on Strahm’s jawline, matching his own well, although Strahm’s had slightly more prominent silver flecked through it “—What did you tell you work? You must have said something to get yourself back to Jersey. You do still have a job, right?” 

Strahm blew out a puff of amused air, 

“You know they fucking love me down there.” 

Hoffman peered at Strahm, a singular eyebrow raised, 

“Well?”

Strahm shrugged, nonchalant as he could possibly be, 

“I said I was having a family emergency and considering I’m always there, they said I could take some of my leave. Nothing crazy. I didn’t murder them just to get back to this shit hole. Plus, Maggie said she’d water the plants while we were gone.” 

“You let someone come into our home?” Mark sounded incredulous, despite the fact Strahm completely disallowed any sort of murderous and/or fucked up paraphernalia in their townhouse, so it’s not like she would have found anything incriminating. Except for maybe some very mild, almost boring sex pieces if she went poking around in the bedroom. Which, knowing women in their fifties, she very well may have done, just to be nosy.

“You like Maggie. I’ve heard you say that out loud, in front of her, so don’t be a prick.” He huffed, wanting to cross his arms over his chest in a display of aggrievance for Hoffman’s ability to do the stupidest things a human could do when they were a wanted man, but still found the time to turn his nose up at Strahm’s decisions, “You know, you wouldn’t be so worried about it if you didn’t think the acceptable answer to someone pushing in line in front of you would be to—I don’t know—hoist them up by their toes.” 

“That’s a terrible trial. Jesus. It’s a good thing John died when he did, imagine if I had tried to recruit you into the Jigsaw brigade.”

“Don’t make it sound like the Boy Scouts.” Strahm grumbled, “It wasn’t some cute little club.” He sniffed, “Plus, I would have had some great ideas for games. I just don’t think enough about them to have them immediately to hand.” Strahm squinted, pushing his fingers a little further into Mark’s back, just to annoy him, “Brigade, huh? So, you, Amanda, Kramer—?” He trailed off, eyes prying Mark for more information and he blinked a few times before muttering in answer, 

“I think there was some other man, too. I didn’t really see him much.” He tapped a thick finger against his mouth, making Strahm a little bit horny but he wasn’t going to bring that up, lest he be hounded for the next few hours because so what he thought Hoffman had a pretty mouth? So what?

“What was he—” Strahm began, frowning “—The clean up crew or something?” 

“He was some sort of medical guy. I don’t know. I think he’d been in the forces. Optician maybe?” 

“ Optician .”

“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.” Hoffman looked like he wanted to throw up his hands in exasperation, but they were trapped under the blanket.

“Did they make you take the literacy and numeracy tests at the police academy or did they just allow you to put shapes into holes and call it a day?” 

“Yeah, very funny. I’m stupid. Okay. I get it.” Hoffman yawned, big and loud, right into Strahm’s face, “Do you want to fuck?” 

Strahm laughed, the sound tight in his chest, 

“I told you yesterday, wouldn’t that be weird?” He peeled up the blanket, waving it at Hoffman a little, “It’s got Hello Kitty on it. That’s weird.” 

He could feel Hoffman’s hand descending to grab a palmful of his asscheek, kneading it gently as he attempted to look what Strahm could only figure was seductive. Suave, perhaps. An eyebrow perched slightly higher than the other one, lips pursed in that way that made Strahm have to suck in a breath to not burst out laughing. It was strangely soothing, the rhythmic squeeze of Hoffman’s hand, which soon turned into his fingers dipping into the crease of his behind, Mark’s fingers rolling into the space between his asscheeks. Nothing too demanding, but enough that Strahm felt like he would do well to hitch his leg and close his eyes, breathe out a long breath and let Hoffman push a finger into him. Just to the first knuckle. Just enough to get Hoffman’s pupils big and fat, and Strahm’s dick interested in what the tight push of Mark’s finger might lead to. 

“What? You don’t think that Mandy wasn’t fucking people on the Hello Kitty sheets?” Hoffman smirked, watching Strahm’s eyelashes brush his cheeks and his eyes flutter closed. His ring and middle finger, both now out of Strahm’s hole, stroking the outside of him and Strahm wanted to seize his wrist and suck them down into his mouth. Roll his tongue between them and get them wet enough that it wouldn’t hurt so much to let Hoffman shove them inside of him, properly this time. 

“You guys ever talk about that? Getting laid?” Strahm questioned, surreptitiously trying to push back against Hoffman’s hand.

Hoffman pondered this for a second, eyes to the ceiling. 

“Not really.” His hand returned to cupping Strahm’s bare asscheek, annoyingly, “We didn’t talk about much. We didn’t see eye to eye on most things.” 

“You wish you did.” Strahm felt daring, the need to crack away a little bit of Hoffman’s caginess about the relationships he had within the so-called ‘Jigsaw squad’ loomed large in his mind.

“Maybe.” Was all Hoffman said at that, eyes sad and round. Glassy. 

“I’ll go buy us coffee. The shit in the kitchen is—well—shit.” Strahm offered Hoffman a smile, “I could do with a walk.” 

The smile he got in return was hopeful, as though Hoffman was thinking of a better time, a nicer place. The look he often got when he spoke about Angie. 

“Could you buy lube?” 

The moment was soured, but only slightly, by that request. 

Strahm rolled his eyes, oddly fond of Hoffman’s need to grab his hand around the softer moments that the two of them shared, and shatter it like a piece of glass with his unwavering dedication to being a complete fucking lummox of a man. 

“I’m seeing Amanda’s ghost right now and she’s shaking her head. No sex in the dead woman’s bed.”

Hoffman whipped his head around towards all available space in the bedroom, the hairs on his arm standing straight up, quite clearly terrified of the concept of a ghoulish Amanda staring down at him from her unholy perch.

“She’s here? Really?” 

Strahm scoffed, slapping a hand on Hoffman’s hip and making him jerk in the bed,

“Of course she fucking isn’t.” He tutted.

“You’re freaking me out. Stop.” 

Strahm wiggled his fingers in front of him, 

“The ghost of your former murder-co-worker is pissed and she’s coming to get you in case you get spunk on her kitty sheets.”

Hoffman’s foot connected with Strahm’s shin under the sheets, and Strahm had to bite his lip to keep an undignified yowl at bay. He scowled at the other man, darting down a hand to rub at the shin, but as he did he was dealt another kick, shoving him to the edge of the bed until the two of them were fully scrapping with each other. Hands pushing and feet kicking out until Hoffman got the upperhand and managed to topple Strahm out of the bed and directly onto the dirty carpet. He looked a sight down there, mouth agape in shock and hair smushed up at the back of his skull from where he had been lying on the pillow all night and had yet to brush it back into a suitable style. 

“You complete bitch.” He gasped at Hoffman, ass sore from the journey to the ground and fists balled on the carpet next to him, “You stupid motherfucker.”

Hoffman just grinned back, lying on his belly on the bed and kicking his legs behind him like nothing was wrong in the world and he wasn’t slowly ticking up his murder count since the last time they had been in New Jersey. 

“Go get me coffee. I can’t go anywhere anyway. The car is parked pretty far still, so you’ll need to walk too.” He beamed, ankles crossed behind him as his face rested on his hands, elbows on the bed, “And, buy lube. I’ll figure out a reasonable place to ma—”

“Let me just stop you there. I’m going to sock you in the mouth if you say ‘make love’.” Strahm wrenched himself off the ground, knees protesting as he straightened himself up and as a parting gift to Hoffman he wound his arm up and smashed his open palm down over his bare ass. The ripple of it staggering through not just the doughy, beautiful flesh of Hoffman’s chubby thighs and back, but also through the tendons of Strahm’s arm. 

“I’ll be back in a bit.” He muttered, just about hearing as Hoffman wheezed back, clearly in some degree of pain from the slap, 

“ Great .”

~

The very tips of Strahm’s fingers were frozen, despite being shoved as deep as they could go into the pockets of his coat, March unusually cold and as he tripped over the curb as he crossed the road towards that the closest bodega he’d visited previously, he longed for the pair of gloves he knew was in a drawer in their hallway in Quincy. Gifted, very kindly, to him by a woman who frequented the library in town and despite him hardly ever venturing up to the upper floors where most of the customer service was done, she still had apparently seen him a few times looking completely put out in the lobby as he tried to warm his hands on one of the radiators. It was nice to be down in the basement, lurking around the stacks, peering at an Excel sheet as he trawled through book buying sites for stock improvements, but it wasn’t half cold down there. So, Strahm would stand in the lobby for a little while, warming himself before he had to make the trek downstairs to what his colleagues thoughtfully called ‘Pete’s Lair’. 

He stopped outside the bodega, gazing up at the sign above the windows and the thought of the gloves turned very rapidly into a thought about their home, then that turned into a thought about their home would be snatched away from them all too soon if somehow someone saw Hoffman last night. What if they had spotted him dashing into the apartment building. Then maybe that same person had seen Strahm walk out of that building. Then , what if that same person put two and two together and realised that a successful FBI agent had gone all but missing, along with the murderer he had been hunting. 

He chewed his thumb nail, peeling at the skin at the side of it, the bloom of blood bursting into his mouth as he nibbled just a little too hard. 

“Safer to go elsewhere.” He murmured under his breath, looking around quickly after he had said it, caught up in his own timidness now. 

Which is how he ended up walking forty minutes into the city, just enough that he wasn’t near the precinct and far enough away from the apartment block that the hammering of his heart in his chest had calmed to a dull throb. Just enough to keep him alive but not enough to send his blood pressure up and over the limit of what a middle-aged man should have racing around his body. Which probably wasn’t helped by the fact he had smoked two cigarettes on the walk over, his mouth tasting sour and stale from them as he smacked his lips together and instead of picking the biggest Walgreens he could. With enough space to have everyone around him keep a three metre radius, just in case. 

If Mark expected hot coffee at that point, he was plum out of luck. 

There was a Dunkin directly opposite, so Strahm hoped that he liked iced coffee, with all the ice no doubt melted by the time he had managed to lug it all the way back to the apartment building. He probably would need to take another route back as well, just to make sure no one saw him on the way down then really got a good look on the way back and—

Strahm stopped. 

“You sound insane.” He said out loud, louder than the last comment to himself and a woman walking past him to the entrance of the Walgreens gave him a cursory side-eye, obviously trying to assess if he was a lunatic or not. When he smiled back, she took that as a sign towards the affirmative it seemed and her walking pace became at least two steps quicker. 

With the blue plastic of the Walgreens basket digging into the crook of his arm, Strahm wandered around the aisles, enjoying the strange blue-green, stick floored, hum of a dimly lit pharmacy, different to that of a normal supermarket. Suddenly you began to feel like you needed five different nail files and maybe you were getting a sore throat so yes, it was perfectly reasonable to buy in bulk a packet of lozenges. Peter, of course, ended up in the ‘sexual health’ aisle, the very top of his hairline a bright scarlet, almost glowing under the strip lights that lined the ceiling. A lone man wandered the end of the aisle, bewildered by the shine glaring off of various condom packaging and Strahm just nodded; it was a little overwhelming. 

He turned a bottle of generic lubricant around in his hand, Mark usually bought things like that. Not for the sake of saving Strahm any sort of embarrassment, more so because he was the type of man to walk into any store and immediately be overthrown with the feeling of thinking that their humble home was getting low on certain things. This mostly included milk and bread, but their bathroom counter was now also adorned with three too many hand soaps and two more than necessary lube bottles. Which, as Strahm stared at the luminous, multi-coloured wall of plastic bottles, struck a chord of sentimentality through the centre of his heart because despite everything, Mark was still the type of man to stand in front of supermarket shelves and wonder if their home needed restocking. 

Strahm swallowed against a hoarse, tight throat, tossing whatever lube he had in his hand into the basket or else he might have stood there all morning. Thinking about how much he adored the big, idiot lug. 

“Hey, do you mind?” 

Strahm spun on his heel, rather ungraciously, coming face to face with a young man. Mousy brown hair tousled in that way that young men thought was attractive and a broad smile stretched across his face as Strahm realised slowly who he was looking at. The memory of being shunted from his booth by Lawrence and his two boys about a week ago springing to the front of his mind and he pressed his mouth into a firm line, trying not to look too shifty or begin sweating all over the linoleum of the pharmacy’s floor. 

“Sorry, you’re right in front of something I need.” The young man chirped, then focused his eyes a little more, “Oh. You’re that guy.” He pursed his lips, racking his walnut-sized brain for the scrap of memory as to who Peter was, finally grasping it with a limpness that had him murmuring, almost mocking himself with the way he repeated his previous words, though Strahm had no doubt it was rather that he could only process so much at a time, “That guy! The guy from the bar.” 

He nodded vigorously, hand stuffed into the pockets of his jeans as he gave Strahm his best charming smile, 

“Larry’s friend.”

Strahm scoffed, 

“I’m not friends with Larry. I just know him. Know of him.” He frowned, stepping aside so the boy could get to whatever he was after. Lube. Seemingly. 

Gross. Peter thought briefly. Ol’ Larry is going to fuck this one later probably. 

“Everyone knows Larry.” The young man shrugged gently, doing what Strahm hated most in the general human populace and engaging in conversation that didn’t need to be held, “He survived a Jigsaw game. Everyone knows him.” He peered up at Strahm, grinning once more, “We’re going for drinks again later. Maybe you would want to come? We’re just here to pick up Ryan’s prescription right now. We don’t usually come this far out.” He smiled, “Needs must.” The smile deepened, “So, what do you think? Want to join us tonight?” 

“I don’t think so—” Strahm inserted a pause, raising his eyebrows, trying to coax the young man’s name out of him.

“Brad.” Said Brad, and Strahm could imagine that if he had long hair he might have been twirling it around his finger if he could, “I did introduce myself last time. Maybe you forgot. And you are—?”

“I’m married. Sorry. Not interested.” 

It was the first thing that came to mind. 

Brad laughed and shook his head, 

“That’s not what I meant. I meant your name.” He reached over and rooted around until he could grab two bottles of generic lubricant, boisterous youth and bravery fueling his action as he attempted to brush Strahm’s shoulder with the back of his finger on the pull back, instead only getting Strahm leaning out of the way. Seeing the move from a mile away.  

“Why don’t you ask Larry.” Strahm snapped, getting a little sick of the kid’s tomfoolery. 

“He was married too, you know.” Brad shrugged again, the movement annoying Strahm to no end, “Not anymore.”

“Are you done?” Strahm said, using the basket as a physical barrier between him and the young man, “I need to go.” 

“Whatever, man.” Brad murmured, “I never forget a face.”

Then he smiled in a way that was quite clearly meant to be sweet, perhaps he was used to chatting up women and not quite too well versed in how it tended to go a little differently with middle aged men. Although, if Strahm’s theory was correct, he’d managed to bag Lawrence Gordon, so maybe the young man had something going for him. Not his smile though. The smile was horrendous. 

“Right.” Strahm muttered in return, already beginning the wander away from Brad, only looking back to see that the blonde one, Ryan , had joined Brad with a paper bag in his hand with what was evidently his prescription, and Strahm snapped his head back round quickly at the sight of the two of them together. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it made the very bottom of his spine icy cold and he had to swallow three times to push down the lump in his throat. He could almost imagine Lawrence Gordon, risen from the grave, wrapping a huge, silken cloak around the two of them and then all three of them descending upon Strahm. Tearing into his jugular and laughing all the while, in the way that annoying men in their twenties often did. Braying donkeys. 

They were off putting. 

The way they whispered to each other, eyes dark and on Strahm.

He didn’t like it.

He attempted to shake off the feeling as he quick-stepped through the aisles, though it still lurked nevertheless, attached to his back with its claws dug into his shoulders as he wandered through the baby food aisle. It was completely mad to be semi-frightened of two young men, but there was something insidious about the way the two, dim boys floated about. Like the twins from The Shining, looming at the end of Walgreen corridors. Strahm half expected to turn the corner and see them both, hands linked and chanting, come play with us, Petey. 

That at least drew a laugh out of him and he took refuge in the makeup aisle for a brief moment, taking a breather before he peered around the corner, just to make sure his mental fantasy of creepy little girls wasn’t manifesting itself before his very eyes. 

“Jesus Christ.” Strahm sighed, tucking his hand against the back of his neck, touching the sweat that had gathered at the nape. 

He needed to get back to Quincy. He was too paranoid for a simple trip to a pharmacy in the middle of the day. 

He barely even wanted the lube anymore. 

Still, it stayed in his basket nevertheless, and as Strahm sauntered as nonchalantly as he could around the place, he tried to calm the thumping pulse of his heart in his chest. Calming and soothing himself, like an animal, frightened and manic. He’d worked with horses a few times as a teen, his friend was unbearably wealthy and kept them on his family’s land. Strahm felt like a scared colt, jumpy and ready to kick out behind himself at the first sign of danger, even if that danger was simply just two young men encroaching on the safety that Strahm had manufactured for himself. Moulded around himself and Hoffman. The thought of touching his hand to the soft, velvety snout of a riding horse that had twine twisted around his ankle came to him, the gentle movement had calmed it enough that Strahm and his friend had unravelled the beast. It felt a bit mad to be trying it on himself, but as he took a few deep breaths and stroked his hand over the back of the other, he felt a little better. 

He didn’t even make eye contact with Brad and Ryan as they crossed his path again, he just smiled and stared ahead, thinking only of a wide open field and then of Hoffman waiting for him. 

Eyes and mouth soft. Thighs softer. 

The lube suddenly felt like a good idea again. 

~

The route he took back was even longer than the one there, a sour wind, smelling like the filthy pavements, whipped around Strahm’s ears the entire time. Making him squint his eyes and tug his coat a little closer around himself until he gave up and sent Mark a text, almost begging him to let him know where the car had been hidden away. When he finally responded, the answer had Strahm sighing happily because he knew he was close to the road. When the car was in full view, he almost felt like kneeling down and kissing the body of it. The taste of the bitter dust would have been a wonderful treat at that point with the way that Strahm’s feet ached and his stomach was twisted from the strange interaction he had with Brad, despite the fact he hadn’t said anything untoward, he still felt caged by the sensation of a deep, unsettling fear that the two of them together brought to the back of his throat. 

Thank God he had pocketed the car keys when he had left as well. 

Even if he did then have to park absolutely miles away from the apartment. Just to be careful. For his own mental benefit. 

Amanda Young’s apartment felt like heaven after Strahm’s little charade into absconding into the strange, barren outskirts of New Jersey for two and a half hours. The door swung open and Strahm felt like, for the second time, dropping to his knees and pressing his nose to the carpet in thanks. Unfortunately, he was all too aware that if Hoffman found him on his knees, he wouldn’t let Strahm get away from him. He could just picture his leering, darkened eyes as he gazed down at Strahm. A finger might be tucked underneath Strahm’s chin as Hoffman pulled his eyes up to his own, mouth curved into a smile. 

Strahm swallowed. 

“Baby?” He called into the apartment, completely out of character but he knew that if he allowed himself the few seconds of personal embarrassment that came with calling Mark petnames, he could snare Hoffman out of the hole he had sequestered himself into in the apartment. Soon enough, he came lumbering out of the woodwork, eyes huge and beautiful and blue as he wandered out of the bathroom. Rubbing a towel into his hair, mouth just hanging open enough that Strahm knew that he had shocked the man a little with the term of endearment. Which was confirmed when Hoffman whispered, reverently, 

“ Baby? ” 

“Is there an echo in here?” Strahm slipped off his shoes, stepping on the back of each and depositing them to the side. Nothing like home, where he was incredibly anal about where everything was kept and if Hoffman trundled home from work and didn’t put his work boots into the correct place on the shoe rack, he would get the stink eye for the rest of the evening. 

“Sorry.” Hoffman shook his head slightly, like a bewildered dog, unsure of where the sound was coming from, “I just can’t remember the last time you said anything like that to me.” His eyes wandered off to the side, as though he was deep in thought and that apparently was true as Hoffman followed it up by murmuring, towel draped over his hands like the world’s most semi-naked butler, “About three months ago you called me ‘babe’ while on the phone to  me.”

Strahm opened his mouth to say something and Hoffman immediately cut in, pointing a finger at him as he continued with, 

“You called me ‘babe’ in November when you were half asleep.” 

“I’ll swing this plastic bag around and beat you with the lube inside of it in a second.” 

Hoffman just laughed, hip cocked and looking younger than ever as he cast his head back, gleeful at Strahm’s threats like he always was. No doubt he knew deep down that it was all big talk, though Strahm did consider winding his arm up and swinging with abandon at him just to make a point, but he might have the offer of sex withdrawn if he started physically attacking Hoffman, so he held back. Instead, he dumped the bag on the ground, the soft thump of it against the carpet had Hoffman’s attention in a second and Strahm took the four steps towards him in leaps and bounds, the tips of his fingers were numb with desire that had appeared from nowhere, only the mere sight of Hoffman’s bare chest had whipped him into a frenzy. His internal temperature skyrocketing with every inch he grew closer to Mark and as soon as he was in arms reach he grabbed at his hips, dragging him closer as he tucked his face into Hoffman’s neck. Digging his fingers into the fat that sat lovingly around Hoffman’s hips and all Strahm wanted was to yank the towel from around Mark’s waist and shove his face into the flesh of his thighs. Even with the weight lost from manual labour in Quincy, Strahm thanked God that Hoffman hadn’t lost his shape. He was still big. Still soft and fat in places. He might have cried if he had lost his tits. 

The thought of them alone made him groan quietly and he could feel the vibration of the sound against the damp skin of Mark’s neck, which of course led into Strahm sinking his teeth into the goosebumped flesh that was offered so readily to him with Hoffman tilting his head to the side. Making space for Strahm to settle into him, one of Mark’s hands stroking down the sloping side of Peter’s shoulder, urging him to bite deeper. Harder. Mark’s body shuddered the entire time, not questioning Strahm’s motions at all, he just allowed it to happen. A good, obedient boy. 

When Strahm’s mouth withdrew, a perfect rosy ring of teeth marks adorned Mark’s neck like an abrasive gift from Strahm, a gory necklace. Sore and sharp as Mark touched a hand to it and made a sound like a wounded creature, eyes heavy with arousal as they flitted back and forth between Strahm and the doorway to the bedroom. Evident in his need, and Strahm didn’t have to cast his eyes down to know that if he were to shove their hips together, he would find that Hoffman would be growing hard from the bite alone. 

“I changed the bedding. The sheets.” Hoffman garbled, cheeks red and chest heaving up and down with the knowledge that he was about to get fucked, “No more Hello Kitty.” 

Strahm nodded, stroking his hand down the back of Mark’s skull, twirling his fingers through the hair at the base of his neck, enjoying the way that it curled softly when it was wet. No tacky, waxy product to weigh it down, just droplets of water twisting it into ringlets that made love hearts appear in Strahm’s peripheral vision. 

“Good job.” He squeezed the water out of his hair, wiping his hands on the gentle place locked between Hoffman’s shoulder blades, “You think that’s good enough for me to fuck you on her bed?"

Hoffman gulped, almost comically, the top of his chest a rosy red to match his cheeks,

“Uh.” He blinked, taken aback by Strahm’s question, “Yes?” 

“I’m messing around.” Strahm grinned, a strange wave of endearment for Hoffman overtaking him at the bafflement that crossed his face with that ‘yes’, “I’m not going to make you beg for me to fuck you on Amanda’s bed. I didn’t walk two hours to a fucking Walgreens in the middle of nowhere to go and buy lube to then come back and not put out.”

“You don’t have to put out.” Hoffman murmured, oddly kind for a madman. 

Strahm scoffed quietly, rolling his eyes, a motion he knew well since moving in with Hoffman, 

“You know what I mean.” He pulled Mark a little closer, inhaling as subtly as he could, finding again that he smelled simply like the neutral, earthy soap that Amanda had obviously left however many years ago it was that she last graced the inside of the apartment, “I am telling you, I, Peter Strahm of sound mind, did not traipse across Jersey to have to face the spotty kid at the checkouts in Walgreens to buy a big, pervert bottle of lube and then not come home and fuck my beautiful wife.”

Hoffman frowned, 

“I’m the wife, presumably.”

“Who else do you think I’m talking about, moron.” 

“You didn’t even buy me coffee.” Hoffman’s eyebrows slid up his forehead, smugness was a look that he portrayed well, annoyingly , “You forget in your haste to get back to me, huh?” 

Strahm’s stomach went cold, the memory of the young men fluttering through like a trapped moth, 

“Shit. Sorry.” 

His arms went tighter around Hoffman, anchoring himself as the thought of being surrendered up to the people he once called his colleagues scurried through the pulsating mess of Strahm’s grey matter. Not to mention the thought of the beaming, moronic faces of Gordon’s toy-boys staring at the two of them as they went down. 

“What?” Hoffman’s eyebrows almost met in the middle with how concerned he looked, the facial expression not something Strahm saw all too often, “You look—” He chewed on his lip, thinking, before muttering “—You look nervous.” 

“It’s those two assholes that Gordon was with. I somehow ran into Tweedle Twink and Tweedle Dee while I was out and they’re fucking creepy together.” 

Mark pulled a face, 

“The twink joke wasn’t very good.”

“Jesus fucking—” Strahm scowled, interrupting himself to take a deep breath and peel himself away from Hoffman “—That’s not the point. They were there in the bar, then they were there today. I didn’t like it, it made me feel like they were holding hands and whispering to each other about how they knew something was off with me.” He rubbed a hand up and down Hoffman’s back, attempting to self-soothe himself with the best way he knew how, touching Hoffman’s skin, “Like they were going to put a bag over my head and turn me over to your old precinct and that would be that. I’d be fucked. And I’d have to admit defeat at the hands of those two, who look like the kind of male models who don’t know what a caterpillar is.” 

“You’re paranoid.” Hoffman was doing his best to angle them towards the bedroom, Strahm could feel the gentle push of his body against his own, “Come on. I’ll forget the coffee.” 

“Have we got to a point where the romance is gone and you’re just shoving me into the bedroom as the precursor to fucking?” Strahm let his shoulders sag, attempting with his best efforts to forget not just the coffee but the sickening sensation that came from the two young men hanging around at the end of the aisle, staring with huge, bulbous eyes. His body was not fit for letting things go, but he tried it nevertheless, wiggling his fingers as though to expel all his bad feelings through their tips.

“I could pretend to break in?” Hoffman smiled in the way a mother trying to cheer up a child who had dropped their ice cream might. Offering something not quite as good as what was previously lost, but trying their best all the same, “I could act like I’m going to murder you. Would that work?”

Strahm leaned his head back, stared at the ceiling and then barked a single, loud laugh, 

“Get in the bedroom. You’re not right. Get in the fucking bedroom.”

~

As Mark shed his clothes, the Hello Kitty sheets now laid stuffed to the corner of the bedroom, Kitty’s smiling face warped and crumpled as she stared from the ground. He peeled away his outer layers, tossing his shirt over the top of her face and Strahm felt a rush of relief, he might have found it slightly offputting to fuck Hoffman with a cartoon feline staring, unblinking at them the entire time. It was a rather perfunctory beginning to the encounter, the two of them slowly adding to the pile of clothes until they were completely bare, then their eyes met in the middle and the energy of the room changed. It slipped into a raw, almost feral thing as Strahm wrapped his hands around Hoffman’s shoulder and pushed him as hard as he could into the bed, climbing into his lap and ignoring the way that his face felt as though it were on fire. Regardless of the fact they’d been fucking for almost a year, he still felt a wash of shyness when he allowed himself to be open and naked with Hoffman. Not just physically though, emotionally. 

Stupid. He knew it was.

Hoffman peered up at him, eyes so full of devotion that they brimmed with it, sparkling in a secretive way that had Strahm smiling like a complete idiot and rushing forward so he could kiss him over and over. Both of their mouths leaving the other’s wet and even more needy for the next kiss than the last time, their bodies sliding to meet each one another in the middle and the concept of boiling themselves down to the very base of what it meant to be human, then swirling their seeping viscera together to create something new was hot and heavy in Strahm’s mind. It sounded mad to even him, but he suddenly understood why people had children when he spent enough time with Mark. He wanted something that was solely created from the two of them. Entirely theirs and moulded from the best parts of them. If they had any left. God, he hoped they had some left.

He wasn’t going to think too hard about it. Any of it.

He had once begged slightly too hard for Hoffman to cum in him and afterwards Mark had spent about ten minutes poking fun. 

“I don’t like pineapple.” Hoffman grunted.

“What?” Strahm reared back, perplexed, then repeated a little firmer, “ What ?” 

Mark tipped the bottle of lube towards him, shaking it gently, 

“You picked up pineapple flavoured lube. What do you think we are…teenagers?” 

Strahm scoffed, 

“I was in a rush. I told you. Strange men were stalking me.” 

“I was going to eat you out but this isn’t going anywhere near my mouth.” Hoffman squinted at the bottle, “The chemicals in this must be insane.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Who said I wanted you to—” He snapped his mouth shut, embarrassed with himself despite the fact his tongue was in Hoffman’s ass more than it wasn’t quite frankly “—You’re just making up scenarios when we haven’t even talked anything through.”

“You’re acting like we’ve never fucked before. What’s up with you? Are you really getting shy with me after all this time because I finally suggested licking you out instead of you doing it to me?” Hoffman looked entirely too gleeful, like he’d finally found the crack in Strahm’s bravado armour, “I never bring it up. Come on. I never bring it up because I know you’re a little priss who loves to eat me out but every time I even look too hard at your asshole you get all antsy.” He laughed, “How I’ve fucked you is still so confusing.” 

“Is this you trying to get laid? Is this the way you think you’re going to get some?” Strahm snapped, “Fine. Go on then. Maybe I was saving myself for you like that? You ever think about that, dumbass?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Hoffman groaned, all in good faith and humour, then gestured for Strahm to come up the bed, just like he did when he’d get Strahm to sit on his chest and he’d suck him off that way, “Come on. Get your tiny, prude ass up here and sit on my face and then I’ll be so happy. Might even stop murdering. How about that?” He pouted, faux sadness, “All you ever needed to do was let me stick my tongue in your ass and I wouldn’t have done any of this. Damn. Imagine that hanging over your head.” 

Strahm was already winding up his hand to punch Hoffman in the thigh so hard that he actually had to wheeze a little bit at the force of it, then wasn’t able to draw enough breath in the following moments afterwards because Strahm scrambled up his body with such fervour that it left him breathless. All he could manage was a gasped ‘fuck’ and then that was smothered by Strahm’s thighs as he settled himself on his face, shuffling around until he felt comfortable. 

“This feels stupid.” Strahm sighed once he had stilled, eyes on the wall above the headboard. There were glittery stickers stuck there. As well as a polaroid of a dead racoon on the side of the road. Amanda Young was an enigma. 

“Do you feel stupid?” Strahm continued, gazing down at the very small part of Hoffman’s head he could see, his hair fanned out against the bedding, “Oh. Sorry.” Then, to let Hoffman speak he had to face the mortifying ordeal of holding up his dick and balls as he sat up on his knees, and below him he heard Hoffman take a huge inhale of air, before groaning, 

“Sit back down. This is the most erotic thing to ever happen to me. I’m going to kill myself tonight because nothing will top it.” 

“Are you jerking off?” Strahm semi-joked. 

“Mhm.” Hoffman affirmed, and if Strahm focused he could feel the jolt of his arm as his hand moved up and down his erection. 

“Oh my God.” Strahm laughed suddenly, “I was kidding. You’re really getting off on this?”

“ Yes. ” 

“Why?” It was a little bewildering. 

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Hoffman groaned again, trying to drag Strahm back down, “I know you get hard when I press all my weight onto you. It’s the same thing. This might sound crazy, but I’m a huge faggot and I like big, strong men. Sit down, right now.”

“You shouldn’t say that.” Strahm’s thighs trembled with the force of keeping himself up at the angle he was, hovering above Hoffman’s face.

“I’ve been gay since the seventies, get a grip.” 

His hands grasped at Strahm’s hips and with a heave, he dragged him back down, pulling apart his asscheeks as he pulled him down. His tongue found Strahm’s hole immediately and the gasp that worked its way up out of Peter’s abdomen got caught up in his throat as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried his hardest not to just start pushing right back against it. He was going to keep some of his composure and not allow Hoffman to win this one. Because perhaps he had been thinking, for a respectable five months, about asking Mark about maybe switching some things up and letting him be the one on the receiving end of that . 

Mark’s grip was vice-like, keeping Strahm so close that all that he could do was rock shakily against Hoffman’s mouth as he licked over him, swiping across his hole in fevered, manic licks. All the fervour behind the motion was tangible as Hoffman pushed his face into his ass so hard that he was almost bucking Strahm off of him, even with his hands clamped that hard around the nearest skin he could get his mitts onto. 

“Shit.” Strahm muttered after a moment, finally letting the cracks show and after that it was like the floodgates had opened and he thumped his head against the wall in front of him, fingers sheet white on the headboard as he hung on for dear life and thanked God for the fact he’d been doing squat lifts at the gym so that his legs were in the right kind of shape at the age he was to keep him at just the right height that he wasn’t killing Hoffman with his ass. Not that he really thought Hoffman would have minded, especially with the way he was attempting to yank him further and further down against his face, the muffled sound of his moans echoing from between Strahm’s thighs. 

“ Fuck it. ” He said, voice low and crackly and absolutely packed full of just barely restrained arousal as he ground himself down against Hoffman’s mouth and finally let himself go. In return, he got Hoffman licking over his faster, wetter. The sensation of his tongue lapping at him had Strahm’s stomach jumping and he barely even registered that his dick was hard, to which he retracted a shaking hand off of the wall and wrapped his fist around it. Stroking himself as quietly as he could, as not to alert Hoffman that it felt good . Felt just as good as it felt to push his own fingers into the curve of Hoffman’s ass and lick into him just like he was doing to Strahm, not better or worse though, felt as good as an equal exchange of love through disgusting, wonderful sex. 

Strahm didn’t start making noise in earnest until Hoffman began licking into him, not just over and over, fat tongue eating him right the fuck up like he couldn’t get enough of how he tasted. How he felt against his mouth. The sounds of Hoffman’s noises in reply to Strahm’s were begging and needy, hands still full of Strahm’s tendons and flesh as he pulled him down and down. Even further until Strahm felt like they were going to melt right through the bed and out the other side. Peel their way into the downstairs apartment and ruin someone’s day. 

He couldn’t help himself at all as Strahm scraped his forehead against the wall, half expecting their to be a stripe of fresh blood against the wallpaper with how hard he smashed his skull against it, and moaned,

“Tell me I can move. Let me know if I can move or I’m going to break your nose or something because I need to move.” 

Mark just groaned, reedy and in the back of his throat, the noise trapped against Strahm’s ass and it died there, though not before Strahm could hear it and allow a shudder to wrack through his body. 

He took that as a ‘yes’.

So, with that confirmation, he started riding Hoffman’s face, something he would staunchly deny later when he was questioned on it no doubt, but the need to rock his hips back and forth as Mark fucked him with his mouth was swarming around his thoughts like a handful of angry wasps. The need clouded his vision and dragged away his mental power to think about anything that wasn’t how Hoffman sucked on his skin and then kissed his hole, sounding wet and hungry the entire time. He momentarily allowed the thought of ‘ God, I wish we were so much younger and I could have enjoyed this years before now ’ to shake him to his foundations, the concept that he usually managed to push away with a mental wave of his hand, but still was big and bold and bright enough that it was still hard to do that. Because, deep down, all he could have ever wanted in the world was to have Hoffman at all stages of life. To meet his eyes in the classroom. To take him to Homecoming. To fuck him in the back of the car because whoever he shared a dorm with in college didn’t want to see that. To see him through the academy. Promotions. Life events. Birthdays. 

All he had ever wanted would have been solved by Mark being there with him. Touching his face and changed enough that John Kramer might have never sunk his claws into him. 

But that wasn’t real. It was a fantasy. 

Thankfully, the Mark he was allowed; Hoffman, was perfect. Despite everything, he was beautiful and perfect and terrible.

Strahm grasped a handful of Mark’s hair, tugging as hard as he could to get his attention and he managed to extricate himself from Mark’s mouth, heaving himself away and letting himself pant into the tight air of the bedroom, 

“Stop. Stop.” 

There was a mild commotion as Strahm tried to shuffle away, Hoffman’s hands grabbing at him the whole time, trying to draw him back up to his face. Eyes unfocused and hazy, mouth hung slightly open as his hands grasped at the air around Strahm. A lost man, desperate to find his way back to the shore. 

“No, don’t.” It was a whine, no other way to explain the sound that left Hoffman’s lips with the words, “Please. Come back here.” 

“I changed my mind.” Strahm said, very matter of factly. 

“Huh?” The way that Hoffman often swung his head towards Peter, confused and sad looking, it was amusing and upsetting all in one, “You don’t want to have sex?”

“No.” Strahm reached for the lube, creaking open the cap and holding up Hoffman’s hand so that he could pour lube all over his hand, a glob of it slopping down onto their thighs and the bedding, something that Strahm would worry about later when he was finished, “I’ve changed my mind about fucking you. I’m going to ride you.” 

“Oh.” Hoffman’s lube-free hand found his face and he slapped it over his eyes, head wrenched back as he all but wailed, “Oh, fuck. Don’t say that. I’ll come.” He peeked out from between his fingers, “You jerkin’ me around?” 

He sounded so Bostonian that Strahm had to grin big and wide, all teeth, as he murmured, soft and babying, 

“No. I’m being serious.” An eyebrow was raised, a go-ahead, “You going to finger me or just lie there and cry?” 

Mark’s cock twitched violently against the underside of Strahm’s thighs. 

~

Perhaps his legs weren’t as strong as he first gave himself credit for, because as Strahm rocked himself back and forth on Mark’s cock settled deep within him, the tops of his thighs were beginning to burn. The lining of his lungs gasping for air as he pushed himself right to the limit of his middle-aged stamina with every motion he made. But it was enough. More than enough just to see Mark’s face scrunch up in the perfect state caught in between despair and pleasure, his hands wrapped around the slats in the headboard of the tiny, twin bed as he shoved his hips up to meet Strahm in the middle. The damp sound of his cock driving into Peter wasn’t loud, but if Strahm tuned his ears right, it was deafening, along with the slap of the skin of his ass against Mark’s pelvis. He found himself wishing, as he always tended to do when their fucking was bereft of it, that they had music playing. He’d seen a CD player stashed away in a console table in the living room, he could have dug that out. No doubt if he had put on whatever was inside of it, they would have ended up fucking to Linkin Park though. 

“Pete.” Mark groaned, hand leaving the headboard and he grabbed at Strahm’s wrist, tight and sweaty, “ Pete .”

“Yeah.” Strahm agreed, “Yeah, I know.” 

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Mark begged, eyes wild. 

“You’re the only person I’ve slept with who wants to chat during sex. Maniac.” He laughed all the same, trying to shove himself onto Hoffman in a way that rubbed his cock against his prostate, but despite his own prowess, it was a little distracting to try and do that while holding a conversation with the man, “I’m thinking about how we could have ended up listening to Amanda’s Linkin Park CDs if I had got out the CD player I saw.” 

That seemed to tickle Hoffman to no end and his body shook underneath Strahm, jolting him around and making his chest swell with sentimental care for the man, because he wasn’t usually someone who cared much for people giggling during sex, he might have thought it cheapened the mood at one point; but not with Mark. With him, it was a testament to their innate ability to leave everything at the front door as soon as their clothes came off. As soon as their mouths touched one another, nothing mattered except the two of them. No death. No pain. Just the two of them, ensconced in the fluttering, sweet sanctuary they had created together. Hoffman could laugh, scream, cry, do absolutely while they were fucking like this and Strahm wouldn’t give one single shit. All he would care about was that Hoffman loved him and only him. 

“I love you.” Hoffman murmured and if Strahm squinted his eyes a little, he looked eerily similar to the photo he had devoured and that thought took all the breath from his lungs, squeezing it out of him till all that was left was the singular being inside of him that only knew one simple thing; how to love Hoffman right back. 

He leaned down, bowing his body so he could push their mouths together, kissing him for all he was worth in the hope that Mark would understand the thought behind it. 

“D’you hear me?” Hoffman’s arms wound around his shoulders, “I love you.” 

“I’m listening.” Strahm answered, letting Hoffman hang off of him and fuck him like that, foreheads mashed together and slipping against each other, “I’m listening.” He shook gently, overwhelmed by everything. This was the closest they had ever gotten to what might be considered delicate, loving, sweethearted sex, and the weight of it rushed through Strahm and left him lightheaded. Brain reeling with the pressure of it crushing him as Hoffman pushed his cock into him and all he could do after that was pant and whine. Pushing himself right back and burbling complete nonsense into the crook of Hoffman’s neck, telling Mark how good he felt. How big he felt. How he filled him up and made him go fucking crazy. Stroking his ego in the way that only he knew how to do, how to pet the beast without getting bitten in return. 

“I’m going to come in you.” Hoffman ground out, doing what could only be described as nuzzling his head into Strahm’s temple and if Strahm could bear to envision Hoffman purring while doing so, he might do so.

“Okay. Go on.” Strahm stroked his fingers down the bumps of Hoffman’s spine, feeling as they dipped and peaked, wanting nothing more than to slip his hands underneath his skin and rip them from their bed of muscles, “Get yourself off. Come in me.” 

Hoffman nodded with wild abandon, head whumping against the pillow behind him with the motion as he muttered to himself, “Yeah. Yeah. Yes.” His hand finding Strahm’s cock as it was crushed between both their bodies, warm and leaking, but it was swiftly batted away and Strahm tutted softly and said, 

“Absolutely fucking not. You’re going to come first.” His mouth attached to the underside of Hoffman’s jaw, sucking the blood to the mottled surface of his flushed skin, blooming it into circular flowers like that was his gift to him, “You want to come in me?” He dug a hand into Hoffman’s hair and pulled, pulling back just enough to watch as Hoffman’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in a gulp,  “You think you deserve that?” 

“You motherfucker.” Hoffman croaked, “Stop getting off on being cruel to me.”

“No.” Strahm grinned back, “Tell me how much you want to fuck me. How much you want to come in me.”

There was no pause between the demand and the answer. Hoffman’s hands shivering and twisting wildly as they clamped onto Strahm’s hips and used them for leverage as he fucked him in short, hard bursts of energy, panting with the exertion. 

“Please. Fuck. I’m going to come, I want to come in you.” He sucked in a shuddering breath, then moaned quietly, “Please, please. I need you.”

“Everything that you are, everything you’ve done to people, and you’re still begging me to let you fuck me.” He could feel the follicles of Hoffman’s hair springing free of his head with the force of how hard he was yanking and, begrudgingly, he freed it up a little bit before murmuring, “Come on.” He pet his fingers through the hair, an awkward angle but he wanted to feel Hoffman shudder against him at the softness of the action. He couldn’t help but also feel the way that Hoffman’s arms tightened around his neck, verging him strangling him and inadvertently Strahm held his breath, only letting it go when Hoffman whimpered and said with a shaky voice, 

“Fuck. Pete .” 

Strahm’s mouth opened in a pant as Hoffman squeezed the life out of him and pushed his cock up into him one last time before groaning low in the barrel of his chest as he came into Pete. Holding him against him tight and hard, the almost unnoticeable throb of his erection as he emptied himself inside of Strahm and whimpered like a kicked dog, digging his fingernails into the soft flesh of Strahm’s shoulder until it was unbearable and he had to pull himself away, otherwise he might break through the skin and he had visions of bloodlust taking over Hoffman if he were to get the scent of his blood. 

Strahm sat on, Hoffman’s cock softening inside of him and as much as he wanted to get off, never being one to particularly enjoy letting someone stay in him after they were done, he kept him there. Sitting back on Hoffman’s thighs to touch himself, thinking about the jittery, needful sound that overtook Mark’s voice as he pleaded with him. He’d heard him beg before, heard him push his face into the pillows as Strahm fucked him and asked in a weak, watery voice for Strahm to please fuck him harder. But he’d never done it while he was in Strahm. It was a whole new angle and Peter shivered with the memory of it, almost wishing that he had let Mark touch him while he fucked him, but this was good enough. Planted on his hip, dick still inside of him as he stroked himself, touching his erection the exact way he wanted and knew how to. 

Mark’s hand found his thigh, clutching at him as though the bed were swaying like a boat, needing to find purchase and press skin to skin. Make sure that Strahm was still there. That he wasn’t leaving him. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Strahm panted, swiping his thumb over the head of his dick and clenching his hole around Hoffman’s cock, watching his eyes flutter shut and his chest expand as he sucked in a gasp. It probably didn’t feel the best, too overwhelming and scolding inside, but he wasn’t letting up now. His hand moving on himself quicker as he stared down at Hoffman and after a heady moment he had to steady himself on Mark’s chest, clenching his palm on the meat of his breast as he muttered, almost to himself, “So gorgeous. Your tits are so fucking hot.” 

He sounded insane, like the make-believe version of what he always wanted to be when he was in his early twenties; a smooth, sexy talking grown-up. But it just tumbled out and he was unable to stop before he made a fool of himself.

Thankfully, Hoffman just nodded, eyes completely gone and unfocused as he tried to lock them onto Strahm as he breathed, 

“Baby.” 

Not a question, not an answer. Just a simple name. 

Strahm’s hand slid up Hoffman’s chest all of a sudden, searching for purchase as he came across his belly and it had been a while since he had come so hard that all he could see behind his eyes was fuzzy static, his ears ringing with his close and personal friend tinnitus, the whine of it resounding around his brain. When he finally came to, he had managed to splatter cum all the way up to where his hand was. Cum streaked across the hair that was sporadically splashed across Hoffman’s breasts, clinging to them and before Strahm could stop himself he was pulling himself off of Hoffman’s cock and licking across his chest, sucking his own cum off of Hoffman’s soft flesh with his eyes closed and mouth spilling groans right back into the soft smattering of hair. 

“Holy shit.” Hoffman breathed, sounding reverent and maybe a little shocked, “Holy shit. What the fuck got into you?” 

Coming back around, ears still ringing, Strahm let himself flop back onto the miniscule space next to Hoffman, squashed between his hulking form and the wall that bracketed Amanda’s tiny bed, 

“I don’t know.” He wiped a hand down his face, a little shocked himself, “Who was that guy?” He jerked a thumb behind himself, glancing around in mock terror, “Pete the fucking pervert, I don’t know.” Once again Hoffman laughed, soft and light, all the energy sapped out of him and Strahm didn’t blame him, he just gathered him up as best he could, snuffling his nose into his neck in a display of complete disregard for his own usual embarrassment when it came to overly cutesy display of affection. Kissing him over and over, making Hoffman paw at him until he could pry him off as he said, 

“Get off. Fucking slobbering all over me.” 

“I’m feeling generous.” Strahm purred, eyes already closed, despite the fact he would need to rouse himself to go and clean up, “Come here. Get closer. Get closer to me.” 

Hoffman tangled himself around him, half off the edge of the bed, twining his hand with Strahm’s, 

“You want to just stay here for a couple of days? We could fuck.” Strahm hummed happily in response to that and Hoffman continued, grinning, “We could get a shit ton of food.” Strahm hummed once again before letting Hoffman go on, “We could sit on Amanda’s couch and watch films.”

“Mm.” Strahm hummed once more, “Sounds almost normal.” Despite drifting to sleep, a single, lone moment of fear passed over him briefly, “Might make me almost forget that you killed Jill Tuck.” 

“Okay.” Hoffman said, whisper quiet, stroking a hand over Strahm’s hair, twirling his fingers around it and counting the grey hairs that made his heart hammer in his chest, “You don’t need to think about that right now.”

“Get me up in ten minutes.” Strahm’s face was smushed against the pillow, his voice drifting off somewhere far away, “Wake me up. I need to shower.” 

“Yeah.” Hoffman was glad that Strahm couldn’t see the dopey, stupidly loving smile that was plastered to his face, “Ten minutes. Aye, aye, Captain.” 

“I love you.” Peter muttered, before even thinking about it, on the brink of sleep.

Mark laughed a single laugh. The sound tangling up the chords of his throat. 

Then thumped his head against the headboard, staring at their feet tangled together, and then the crescent of sickly orange sun as it bled down the slices of buildings that lined the horizon, eyes prickling. But if anyone were to ask, it would be from the light cast into them, not anything else.

Chapter Text

“Why did you put this on?” Strahm struck his foot against Hoffman’s chest from where they were sitting on the couch, behinds planted on either end and feet and legs tangled in the middle. 

It was a small couch though. Small enough, just like the bed, that they would have never thought to ever buy it for their home, but it made sense for Amanda. She could have quite easily splayed out on it and still had a little room left to spare, but not the two of them. However, as silly as it was, there was something that wriggled its way into the sticky part of Strahm’s heart and soul when they were muddled together on a couch, barely an inch of space between them and he could smell Hoffman’s skin, warm and low. Could listen for the rhythm of his breathing through the material below them and match his own to it, a harmony of their existence and dedication to each other spread out on corduroy couch cushions. Laid bare from the start of their romance to the very end, guarded closely by the sounds of sci-fi and drama. Horror and romance. From the Coen Brothers to Coppola to Tarkovsky to Leone. 

That had been a funny one to stumble upon while in Quincy, their love of spaghetti westerns that both of them had hidden from the other, out of nothing but personal preference because sometimes it paid to keep things guarded. Hidden under wraps until you could finally spool out everything inside of you to the person you loved. Nobody went into a relationship fully open. Strahm held countless mysteries about his personage that he knew Hoffman would never find out because it was better that way. Habits and quirks. So to spread their skulls to one another and chip away a little more of the enigma of their love, the revelation one evening when suggesting films to watch, that they both were completely enamoured with anything that Ennio Morricone lent his musical wisdom to, was somewhat of an epiphany. Like lightbulbs flickering on above both their heads as Hoffman had, with all the playfulness of a child, said greedily, 

“Tell me your favourite film he scored in 3, 2, 1—”

And when they had both yelped ‘ Once Upon a Time in the West ’, it had illuminated the future that Strahm could have only blindly grasped for before that point.

A stupid ideal to hold, but he held it reverently like an injured bird in his hands, well aware that they had hinged a lot of this engagement on spending good honest, unbridled time together while joining their mutual love of the silver screen. Something he would have never considered a shared love, but when he came home from work and Mark stood in the kitchen, their kitchen, hands on his hips as he surveyed his great kingdom of food preparation, he didn’t have a doubt in his mind that there was anywhere he might want to be other than sinking into a big couch with that man, enjoying the fruits of his labour in the kitchen, and watching a gargantuan, dazzling, ridiculously long film together. 

Or, as he discovered while hiding away in Amanda Young’s apartment, he even loved it when they stuck together like melting candles, oozing into each other, on tiny couches too.

He kicked again, nudging Hoffman out of a semi-daze, 

“Hey. Are you listening? I said, why did you pick this one?” 

Hoffman cleared his throat, it was rapidly closing in on four o’clock in the afternoon and that was his allotted middle-aged man napping time, 

“I’d never seen it before and she talked about it once. I don’t know.” He shuffled down on the couch a little further, feet popping out on Strahm’s side more as well, “I never thought Amanda would like girly films but she said she dug this one and I suppose I just wanted to give it a go.” He smiled sleepily at Strahm and it ignited a big, suffering pit of want and arousal in his belly that he considered very closely as to whether he would follow up on it, “I’m trying to be thoughtful. You know, I’m a changed man. Turned over a new leaf.”

Strahm scoffed, 

“Fuck off. You murdered someone less than a week ago. You’re a nutjob.”

“You’re red, by the way.” Hoffman murmured, leaning a big hand down to root around in the bowl of popcorn they had. It was a whole to-do this movie watching palaver they slipped themselves into. Many careful steps to make sure the environment was perfect, so as not to damage the balance of man and movie. That is how they had engineered it in Quincy together, so Strahm should have known something was up the nights prior to the drive back to New Jersey, as Hoffman had been antsy the entire time they lounged on the couch together. He hadn’t even eaten a single handful of popcorn. Nor any chocolate that Strahm had wafted in front of his face tantalisingly. But, now, with danger now safety deposited somewhere deep where it couldn’t touch either of them with the untimely demise of Jill Tuck and Hoffman had somehow found it in his huge, hunkering black soul to, quite frankly, chill the fuck out. 

He was still horrendously annoying, but that was a whole other issue. 

“Red?” Strahm blushed even more, “I’m not red. I’m warm . You fixed the boiler wrong and now it’s about a thousand degrees in here. How you can wear a sweatshirt and have that blanket over you still is insane.” He pointed a finger at the famous Amanda couch blanket and scowled, “You’re going to get a headrush. Or something.” 

“You’re a dumb motherfucker.” Hoffman answered, stuffing popcorn into his mouth and speaking around it, kernel flecks wrapped around his teeth which made Strahm strangely endeared and when that sentiment clicked, it in turn made him very annoyed. 

“Quite clearly I am not.” Strahm huffed.

“You think I’m too stupid to know when you’re looking at me because you think I’m sexy?” Hoffman smiled, big and toothy like a particularly rambunctious shark. 

“Eurgh.” Peter wrinkled his face up in disgust, “You’re over the age of forty, saying ‘sexy’ is generally frowned upon past that age.”

“You’re fucking forty-four and you called something ‘bogus’ the other day.”

“Sorry that I think the 80s were the most bitchin’ time to be alive.” Strahm was quite enjoying this actually. 

“Oh my god.” Mark half wailed, attempting to pitch the sole of his foot into Strahm’s face but he managed to swerve just in time each kick of the leg, “I liked you better when you hated me. Now all you do is sit around and make cow-eyes at me. Get a job.”

“Why do you even care about preserving Amanda Young’s dignity through watching shit like—what even is this called again?” He scooped the VHS tape off the ground and peered at the case, “ Ten Things I Hate About You . Stupid name.”

Hoffman shrugged as a first response, chewing thoughtfully on his popcorn before offering a vague, 

“I told you. I’m changed.”

“Bullshit.”

“You wouldn’t like it if I said I just wanted to watch the film either. You’d want to hunt for reasons. So, here's my reason.” Hoffman snapped, patience suddenly evaporated into nothingness right before their eyes, “I feel shitty about taking up her space and so, in lieu of a funeral that nobody fucking went to or cared about, not even me, I thought it would be nice to watch a film I actually listened enough to know she liked. I could have watched the horror films or the dramas she has down there that I know I like, but I thought I’d give a silly chick-flick a go.” He nudged Strahm with his foot one last time, “Is that alright, Mr fucking FBI?” 

“Jeez.” Strahm muttered, a smile creeping onto his face like a tiger through the long grass. Sleek and smooth. Dangerous. “Fucking Mother Theresa over here.” 

“Get fucked, four-eyes.” 

“That’s for people who wear glasses, you dimwit.” 

They both were smiling by that point. It was always a favourite game of theirs to play. 

“Dimwit? What are you going to call me next? A scoundrel? What sort of 19th century insults—” Hoffman’s hand found Strahm’s under the blanket.

“Calling you a cunt got boring about seven months ago.” Strahm squeezed it.

“Doesn’t seem to have ever stopped you though.” Hoffman wished he could bring the hand up and kiss the knuckles but they were too spread apart. 

“Okay then, you’re a dumb cunt.” Strahm grinned. 

“I love you so much.” Hoffman rumbled, eyes just glassy enough that Strahm was worried that if they continued, big fat tears would roll from them, “ Dipshit. ” 

That had Strahm cackling, throwing his head back against the arm of the couch and laughing for all he was worth because wasn’t that just the way? Everything has crumbled around them and into place like falling silt and rocks that crushed people’s houses and lives in the wake of a volcano. The left remains forming beautiful and terrifying sculptures of brutalistic natural emergence and there they sat in the midst of it all, two men who felt nothing for anything until the other scraped out the pulp from their rotten insides and illuminated their lives with the soft, gagging glow of an angered love. Dredged from death and denial and forged together with their base human nature to find a partner who understood and forgave, regardless of the crime. 

“You’re spitting on Amanda’s memory by yammering over the fucking movie, asshole.” Was what Hoffman got in return from Strahm, but then after a second of silence between them, only shrouded by the soft noise from the television, Peter murmured, “It’s not too bad actually.”

“Yeah.” Hoffman echoed, “It’s okay.” 

About an hour later Hoffman had tears in his eyes, which he quickly rubbed away, grinding out, 

“Stupid fucking poetry.” 

Strahm patted his knee and nodded sympathetically. 

~

“Pizza?” 

“No.” 

“Ramen?”

“No. Well. Maybe .” 

“Italian?” 

“No.” 

“Give me a fucking clue here.” Hoffman moaned, face flushed from steaming himself in the shower and his eyes nervously drew towards the clock in Amanda’s living room, knowing that if it got any closer to late evening then Strahm would become some sort of strange Cinderella, but instead of his riches turning to rags, it was his appetite turning to pure anger at the fact he hadn’t eaten already.

Strahm picked at some nuts in a bowl on the counter top, idly wondering if he blinked fast enough he might summon the mental spirit of Amanda just to see if her eyes would widen in disgust at the sight of Hoffman with his balls out in her living room, towel currently being used to dab at the sprinkles of shower water that dusted the tops of his shoulders. Which in turn drew Strahm’s eyes to the freckles that adorned the skin there too. He chewed on some cashews and tripped his fingers through the rolodex in his brain that held all the information of how to get Mark aroused enough that they could maybe fuck before the food arrived, because the sight of things like freckles or wayward acne on his chin every now and again or stretch marks on the inside of his thighs made Strahm’s blood pressure rise all the way and his dick to start getting interested. 

“You could cook?” Peter suggested, eyes locked firmly on Hoffman’s crotch, still stuffing nuts into his mouth in a way he knew wouldn’t be sexual to anyone but a madman who was thoroughly obsessed with his target, “That would be nice.” He nodded his head towards the cupboards that he knew that Hoffman knew were full of groceries, because Strahm had made such a song and dance of buying them, along with some clothes to see them out while they hid away in the apartment. 

“I could.” Hoffman grunted, seemingly not impressed by that suggestion, “It’s easier when you’re at work or in another room though.”

Strahm squinted, displeased,

“Why?”

“You hover. You hover and you get in the way. Sticking your pokey little nose into my shit while I’m trying to do things.” The towel became attached back around his waist and Strahm almost felt like marching straight over and pulling it off. “This place is tiny, you’re going to butt in and annoy me, then you’re going to get annoyed and you’ll probably phone Quantico and turn me in.” 

“You can’t really just phone Quantico.” 

“It was a joke.” 

“Make me dinner.”

“Suck me off.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Strahm shrugged, lazing his way off of the counter and he used all the power inside of him to not immediately start laughing at Hoffman for the way his mouth hung open, lax and dumb, at the concept of Peter jumping at the chance to suck dick. It didn’t happen often, of course. Not since the cube trap. Not that they explicitly talked about that being the reason. 

“I wasn’t—”

“If my tendonitis flares up from kneeling for ages then I’m going to be really fucking unhappy with you,” Strahm warned, already in front of Hoffman with the miniscule dimensions of the apartment easily taken by the strides of his long, long legs, of which Hoffman often commented on how they went ‘all the way up’, “It’s embarrassing to wear those knee supports, let alone wear them because I’ve been sucking cock.” 

Hoffman’s mouth stapled together for a moment, then wriggled away from itself like something had gotten into it before he croaked, 

“When you talk like an old man it really gets me going.” 

Strahm grinned, a laugh caught just behind his teeth, 

“That would sound like you were joking if I didn’t know you were being serious.”

Hoffman smiled right back, sugary and melting away the worry lines in his face, leaving only the soft curves around his lips. Laughter lines worming their way into Strahm’s cubconscious once again, leaving him breathless at how someone so bad could find it within themselves to love so perfectly correctly. 

“Well, you know me.” Hoffman joked quietly, touching Strahm’s cheek as he descended onto his knees, the resounding click of one of them making them both snuffle laughs. 

“Yeah.” Strahm peered up at Hoffman before pressing his face into the front of the towel, breathing out a happy sigh at the feeling of the lump of his cock below the fabric, “I do.” 

~

As it transpired, his jaw tended to ache more than his knees ever did when he sucked dick in the least preferred position, on his knees in the middle of a room. It wasn’t something Peter ended up relishing upon Mark if truth were to be told, he liked getting head and he liked Mark’s slightly odd style of giving head, wherein he tossed away most technique for overenthusiasm and what Strahm had once drunkenly claimed was a ‘staggering cock-lust of which I’ve never seen’. Which had made Mark laugh and looked embarrassed, as though he didn’t know how many inches made up the average length of human intestines, from first hand, eye witness experience. 

Lying on a bed with Mark flipped prostrate, head comfortably on the pillows while Strahm could lavish his own comfort on the bedding while nosing his way into Mark’s pelvis; now that was preferable. 

On his knees, hands on the back of Hoffman’s thighs as he forwent the pleasantries of holding the base in his hand, happy enough to allow Hoffman to press back and forth into his mouth, keeping a watchful, internal eye on how far he shoved himself. If it got into the territory of making him choke or gag, then he would do away with the act and go back to sucking only at the head. Which wasn’t much of a punishment, as Hoffman most often came from hardly any mouth at all. Strahm could stroke the entirety of him and let only his tongue loll at the top, as a little fun extra to the glorified handjob, and still Hoffman would moan and whine and buck his hips and come. Feral boy hungry for anything, even if it was the smallest of banquets. 

“Your eyelashes.” Hoffman murmured, drunk sounding, “You have these massive, cartoon eyelashes.” 

Strahm chuckled at that, well versed with the odd way Mark would phrase things. Then was struck by the other way he offered up compliments as Hoffman added, quieter this time, 

“You’re beautiful.” The gulp of Strahm’s throat around his cock made his eyes unfocus and his chest tremble before he said, “And mine.” 

Possessiveness from a partner didn’t register to Strahm much in the past, he’d barely had enough relationships other than his wife to be allowed to render his mind to the sensation of being held in that regard by someone. His wife had of course called him ‘her husband’, but that was a given, passed down by traditions of nuptials. But, if he were to scrape the corner and edges of his memory and track down a particular one; he had spent five weeks with a guy when he was about twenty-two, the guy had been twenty-one and had been insane, but in a good way. High the whole time, long blonde hair and a smile that made Strahm fall in love with him the moment he saw him. He looked like his friend’s older brother, back from when he’d smashed his face in. Maybe that had been the catalyst. The guy had fucked like a madman, gathering up Strahm’s hips and making his face well acquainted with the pillows beneath it, Pete unable to do anything but cry and take it. 

The man would tug at the clump of hair at the nape of Strahm’s head, it was fashionable of course to have a bit of a mullet in the 80s, yanking him up and exposing the soft, velvety skin of his throat. Exposing him to any predation that might occur in that bedroom. Then he would come in him and shake him, nothing he didn’t want, but shake him nonetheless and whisper right into the curling, steaming hot ridges of his brain that he was his . 

Which he was, if only for those five weeks. 

It had been the best five weeks of his life up until he met his wife.

So, maybe he did like it a little bit. The possessiveness.

“You okay?” Hoffman’s voice echoed from above him, nervously pawing at the side of Strahm’s face as he managed to drip spit all over his knees and when he sucked what he could back into his mouth he broke into laughter, wiping his palm over his jaw and mouth. The momentary distraction was enough to worry Hoffman it seemed. 

“I’m okay.” Strahm affirmed, “Sorry. Forgot where I was a second.” Then with no other preamble went right back to sucking Hoffman down, dipping his middle and ring finger into the crack of Hoffman’s ass and feeling him jolt and taking great glee and pride in the motion. Given the time, he could genuinely find himself taking the utmost pleasure in fingering Hoffman for longer than any man particularly needed to be fingered for, if that was even a thing. There was something in holding down a man that for all intents and purposes was a bad man , and sliding your fingers into him, curling and crooking them until he was squirming and begging to be filled by something else. Strahm could go into puppet and puppeteer analogies but that would be borderline crass and extensively silly.

His fingertips brushed Hoffman’s hole, firmer this time, and Mark’s knees buckled for a millisecond before he could correct himself. 

“I’ll fall.” He groaned, hand on the crown of Strahm’s hair and thighs trembling like he was about to come anyway, which he usually voiced but sometimes would shock Strahm with it, just to be a bastard, “Be careful.” 

He didn’t fall. 

Obviously. 

But he did come down Strahm’s throat when his middle finger pressed into him, not particularly far but enough that Hoffman no doubt had visions of what might follow the head and given the way he whined as he came, letting Strahm slather his tongue around him, it was no surprise that he fell to his own knees with a huge thud and went wildly for Strahm’s belt. Jangling the metal of it until he could get it off, then without a hint of embarrassment or shyness, he rolled himself onto his front on the very foot flattened rug that laid between the television and the couch. Hips in the air and head down low, hands clasped behind his neck, almost in a backwards, warped prayer. Body still shivering with the force of orgasm.

“Jesus.” Strahm muttered, sticking the tongue those words had just leapt off into the crease of Mark’s ass and licking into him. Trying to dredge up the memory of where they’d last left the lube, the concept of not fucking in ridiculous places in Amanda’s apartment had been forgotten almost immediately after the first time in the bedroom and it felt like a honeymoon. It felt like the honeymoon they would never get. 

The lube, as it transpired, was lodged down the side of the bed, this close to spurting its contents onto the wall and when Strahm returned, slicked his fingers and tried not to gag at the flavour of it as he pushed two whole fingers into Hoffman’s hole and let his tongue lick around them, Hoffman’s throat clicked with the effort to not start yelping. The gravel of his speaking voice usually was blown away by his own innate need to be loud and aggravating during sex, a chemical need that brewed within his synapses and stood opposite Strahm’s usual quietness when they fucked. Of course Strahm could moan. Could gasp and talk nasty little things into Hoffman’s ear, but that came with a whole lot of personal growth that he was still working on. 

Not Mark though. Abrasive, mouthy Mark. Snapping his teeth and howling and panting. 

Voice pitched up past regular register as Strahm pushed his fingers in and out of him, humming happily as he tilted them down, down and towards him, watching as Mark’s whole body sprung about an inch up the rug and it would be a little while before he got hard again but he knew that it felt just the right amount of badgood to make him desperately need to get hard again, as soon as possible. 

“Peter.” Mark moaned, smashing his face into the floor, mouth gaped open. 

“Yeah?” Pete grabbed a handful of Hoffman’s left asscheek, digging his fingers right in, “What?” 

“Three.” Was all he got in return. 

“Three what?” Strahm split his fingers apart as wide as he could and slid his free hand off Hoffman’s ass to get himself properly out of the front of his underwear and pants, belt hanging loosely to the side. 

“Next time I fuck you I’m going to be just as obtuse.” 

Strahm laughed loudly in response, genuinely tickled, then pressed a third finger into Hoffman and felt him sink further into the floor in thanks. The beautiful slivers of silver than ran lengthways down the inner part of his thighs shone in the low bloom of light that hung across the room, turning Strahm’s insides into a sizzling mass of lust when he saw them. When they returned home, he was going to make Mark come to the gym with him and get big and strong again. Push him to the edge of his limits and make him thick and fat with power that he had seen before. If the promise could be made real he would never hurt anyone again, Strahm would share his little oasis of solitude that was the time he spent in the gym with Hoffman. Carving out a place for the two of them to sweat and grow together. 

He hadn’t noticed he had been palming Hoffman’s thighs until Mark brought his attention to it, almost giggling at it, if a grown man could giggle, and wriggling back into the hand as he said, 

“That good? You like that?” 

Strahm groaned in reply, a little sad that he thought Hoffman was so handsome in the way he had thrown himself to the floor to be fucked, that it would feel like a disservice to wrangle him out of the position so that he could sit on Strahm’s face. The idea of it had his brain frosting over with cool, unabating heat. An oxymoron, but that’s how it felt. 

“You’re smaller now.” 

Mark stopped riding back on the fingers and made a confused noise before muttering, 

“That’s a fucking weird thing to say.” 

“You just used to be bigger.” Strahm shook his head, “Sorry. Stupid thing to say.” 

“Potato potato .” Hoffman said.

“That’s not how you use that.” 

“Whatever.” Hoffman pushed back once more, hole slick and pliant and Strahm withdrew his fingers just to watch it twitch back into place as Hoffman sighed, “I get it. You’ve got a thing for fat guys. It’s okay. I used to like twinks.” 

Strahm let his mouth fall open, completely ready to defend himself but there was nothing to use, that would hold up in a court of law, to come back at that accusation because as he rolled through all the memories of grasping for Hoffman’s fat thighs and ass and belly, he kind of had him pegged. 

“Used to?” This routine of chatting while they were fucking was something they quite desperately needed to pull themselves from, but the domesticity of it called to Strahm a little too much, “What are you into now?”

“Big broad guys who wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.” 

Strahm got a hold of himself in between laughing and rubbed the tip of his cock against Hoffman’s hole, watching the hair that was wet from lube whirl into a spiral with the circular motion of it, entrancing him until he managed to pull himself out of it by smacking himself against him, watching the ripples in Hoffman’s flesh with the impact. 

“I’d piss on you if you were on fire. Mostly just to piss on you.”

“I’m not into piss.” Hoffman grunted.

“Neither am I. I mean it would be funny and I don’t fucking like you.” 

“If you stop yammering and fuck me I’ll eat a whole pizza if you want.”

Strahm smacked a hand, hard , on the side of Hoffman’s hip, 

“Shut the fuck up, that makes me sound like a horrible pervert. I just think you’re—You know—”

“What? No. What?”

Strahm squirmed, unable to aptly describe the feelings he had for when Hoffman was content enough, not riddled with terror for the crimes he had committed and the wreckage he had left behind, to be happy and big. He knew they were tied. He knew there was an ebb and flow to the delicate balance of his mental state and the amount he could stomach, Peter wasn’t stupid. 

“I just think you’re hot.” 

“Hot!” Mark all but shouted, eyes wide as he tried to twist around to see Strahm’s face but was met with a hand clasping on the back of his neck and shoving him into the carpet, “Fuck. Hot . I’m going to take that to my grave. Hot.” 

“You’re way prettier when you’re not talking though.” He mashed Hoffman’s face into the floor a little further, feeling his body shake with more of that maddening giggling, and pushed the entirety of his cock into him without stopping. The shake of laughter being halted as his hole clenched and unclenched on him, trying to satisfy its own need to justify the intrusion and briefly when he turned his head a little to gasp in a gulp of air, Strahm could see Hoffman’s eyelids fluttering. The irises and pupils that pinpointed them rolling into the backs of his eyes and the shock of white was transferred to his own vision, Peter snapping his eyes shut as he left no room to breathe between them and started fucking Hoffman with such ragged, violent thrusts that the noises that were wrenched from the both of them were alien and unknown. Riptides of sound that launched and quelled within the almost bare containment of Amanda’s apartment, far too loud for paper thin walls and it was good they would never step foot here again because Hoffman was on point with his loudness, mouth free of the threads and fluff of the rug beneath him as he gasped and groaned. 

Strahm’s hips staggering him and they sank lower and lower, his hips had begun risen but now they were both parallel to each other and almost flat against the floor, Peter’s body effectively trapping Mark’s with the weight and breadth of a man addled with cataclysmic need to fuck him until he was crying and begging. The thought of that made Strahm take in a lungful of humid air, tasting on his tongue the scent of Mark’s sweat, bursting free as he hadn’t put on any sort of deodorant after the shower. Just clean skin marred, no, anointed, with the tang of manly musky sweat and if he was on his back then Strahm would have stuck his nose into his armpit and licked at it until it was biting salty and sickening onto his tongue. Clogging up his senses as he sucked on the hair beneath Mark’s arm and humped his cock into Mark’s like he was sick with it all. And he was. He was. 

His hand found Mark’s chin, folding into the line of his gullet as he used it to hold himself against him, stabilising his body to drive his cock into Mark as hard as he could. Enough so that his knees slid about, the almost matted material of the rug rasping against the delicate skin of his knees and he knew that both of them wouldn’t come out of this unscathed. They would bear the battle scars long associated with tremendously vigorous fucking of rug burn and every time it stung in the shower for the next day or so, Strahm would get hard and think about how Hoffman’s hole fluttered around him, sucking in his erection like it was all he had ever dreamed of. 

“You think about this a lot?” Strahm groaned next to Hoffman’s ear, “You want to fuck me like this? Like an animal?” 

Hoffman moaned, the sound billowing up from his belly, caustic in the way it scratched the sides of his throat as it spilled out, the sound dangerous and submissive all at the same time. 

“Yeah. Yes .” Hoffman whimpered, dick probably red and sore as it rubbed against the ground, “If you’d let me.” 

“I’d let you, angel.” The pet name sounded foreign in his mouth, but Strahm ignored the nervousness that accompanied letting it loose into the room, “My good boy.” It felt a little silly to call a grown man who dutifully paid his taxes and looked both ways before crossing the street that, but from the way Hoffman became red about the face and groaned out puffs of air, Strahm couldn’t care a bit, “You want that? Want to fuck me with my face down. Come in me?” He could see Hoffman trying to nod, body jolting rhythmically with Strahm’s thrusts pulsing into him, “Make me ask nice for it. Force me to be polite because it’s the only time you could get me like that. Maybe me beg for you to come in me and knock me up.” 

Hoffman’s body went completely rigid at that, tightening up enough that Strahm had to still his hips inside of him as not to just come there and then. 

“Wait—” Hoffman gasped, hands relocating to the ground and clenching there as if he might float away if he didn’t.

“Did you—” Strahm laughed quietly, reaching around to yank up Hoffman’s hips and touch over his cock and the ground beneath him, “ Fuck . Did you come?” It was a redundant, completely rhetorical question because, yes. Yes he had come. All over his front and, unfortunately for a dead woman, on the rug beneath him, the splash of it wet against Strahm’s palm as he rubbed his hand over it, again and again, completely blown away by the fact he had somehow managed to get hard again and come in that amount of time. No doubt if he turned Hoffman over he would look at him with big, embarrassed, open eyes and probably turn his gaze from him, so he didn’t have to settle the fact that he liked coming in Strahm that much, that he could come from it while being fucked himself. 

Strahm covered him after that, engulfing the whole of Hoffman’s body with his own as he allowed him the dignity to be able to breathe as he fucked him, but nothing much else. The strength that Strahm had cultivated from gym visits and keeping himself relatively healthy came to the front of the process line, firing through his muscles as he held Hoffman to the floor, rendering him motionless as he pushed into him, back and forth. When he did come, his teeth found the meat of Hoffman’s shoulder and he bit hard enough that, out of all the times he bit Hoffman (which was a lot), the noise it ripped from Hoffman was another unheard thing. Rattling around his mouth until it scorched its way out, making Strahm shiver as he emptied himself into Mark’s body below. 

He butted his head against Hoffman’s back, darting his tongue out to lick up the sweat there, feeling Mark wiggle around and say, gruff and low, 

“That tickles.”

Peter nodded, lips smushed against his skin still and when he spoke it was slightly garbled with the way his mouth was crushed, 

“I bet.” He licked him again and had to laugh, bright and hard, when Hoffman attempted to buck him off like a bronco. Hissing when Strahm pulled himself out of him, the head of his cock popping free and Strahm stared at his hole for a moment, debating whether he could forgive himself if he swooped down and licked his own cum out of Hoffman. That may be a little too much. Instead, he kissed it instead, thumb dragging apart his cheeks until Hoffman was making noises of discontentment, attempting to pull away and Strahm allowed it, his eyes bidding a farewell to his wet hole. 

The suggestion of a shared shower from Strahm was very quickly snapped up by Hoffman, and Peter enjoyed the wobble of his ass as he padded off to the bathroom, casting a look behind him that made Strahm feel like he was twenty years younger and falling in love for the very first time. 

He was absolutely fucked. 

~

The blinds had been drawn and the television hummed happily on an analogue channel as Hoffman slid video tapes around in front of him, the muted clunk and taps of the plastic jolting against each other as he attempted to find a film, the visage of him almost mirage-like through the steam that was currently rising from the food Hoffman had whipped up like it was absolutely nothing. As though he hadn’t just been fucked on the floor like a beast. Although Strahm did notice his legs shaking a little bit as he had bent down to get something from a lower cupboard, a wince passed through his features like a ghost before he corrected it and managed to force a neutral look back upon himself. 

They huddled on the couch once the film was chosen, leaning over the coffee table and near enough dropping food onto the carpet as they ate, but it didn’t matter at all at that point. Not with the way that Hoffman would steal looks at Strahm, the television reflecting in the shine of his eyes and after the fourth look Peter had to smack his leg and tell him to “watch the fucking film”, but deep down he wanted it. Wanted the gaze to last the length of the film. Longer. Years. Decades. 

A distraction was created in Peter drilling Mark on the names of the things he’d made, simple enough food but Peter’s family had lived in New England for as long as he could think of, and then before that they had been German, but that didn’t translate into any of the food he grew up eating. Mostly strange salads and mac and cheese. Easy things for his mother who had worked late nights and a father who couldn’t tell the difference between a cucumber and a zucchini. Nothing like what Hoffman had wrung his fingers white with nervousness as he placed it in front of Strahm and nodded gently, as if to say “this is from my family to yours, please eat and become happy and part of that.” Or, at least, that’s what Strahm hoped it meant. 

“Kolokithokeftedes.” Mark held one up, wiping his thumb across the corner of his mouth and Strahm shook with the barely concealed need to kiss that thumb, “You’re looking at it like it’s something crazy. It’s shit you make when you’re a kid because it’s nice and simple.”

“I’m not!” Strahm rolled his eyes, “I’m interested. Can I not be interested in your life? It took you long enough to tell me—Christ—anything, basically.”

“I told you a bunch.” Hoffman tutted, his foot finding the side of Strahm’s beneath the coffee table and it was as though everything became clearer in that moment. Like blinking into a pair of new glasses and seeing the leaves that had eluded you for autumns passed. 

“Tell me this one.” Strahm pointed a fork at a soup in front of him, “Do the fritters taste good dipped in?”

“It’s just things like tomatoes and carrots. Onions. Some beans. Try.” There was a look of pure joy on Mark’s face as he spoke, eyes boyish and bright. Like this had been the key all along. He had no mother, no father. Angie was gone. No family to share traditions and break bread with. 

But he had Strahm now, and Peter would never deny him that.

With that, another fraction of the soft hatred he still nursed for the man, deep below everything, filtered away. Barely leaving any left. 

“You didn’t say what it was called.” Strahm’s vowels were short and closed around the mouthful of piping hot beans and aromatics, hand hovering under the spoons as he leaned over the table, ready to catch anything that fell. 

“Fasolada.” To which Strahm immediately mimicked, making Hoffman’s eyes wrinkle with yet another smile. They felt neverending suddenly. 

“You don’t speak any other languages, do you?” Mark’s fingers were greasy from the fritters and he rubbed them on the knee of his jeans, cocking an eyebrow at Strahm like this was the funniest fact that could exist. 

“A little French from highschool. But, no, I can’t really. I can’t imagine you do either.” 

“When I was a kid, but all that stuck with me were cuss words and the names for food. Maybe enough to get me through when we used to go and see my grandmother and she’d get angry if we couldn’t have a conversation with her.” His shoulders sank a fraction, a movement that only someone who had spent a year or so with him might notice, “Angie was so much better than me. She did most of the talking for the both of us.” His lips wobbled, then curled a millimetre, “Wouldn’t that be nice still.”

“Where was your grandmother?” It felt daring, to pry this much into Hoffman’s heritage, but the hunger for it struck Strahm like a crisp, crackling bolt of lightning. The excitement to think of him, ten years old and stepping off the plane and having people around him that loved and knew him.

From the look that befell Mark, he was still clearly caught up in his memories of Angie, and as he pushed another kolokithokeftedes into his mouth, his hand waywardly caught the very outer corner of his eye. The threat of a tear was thwarted before it could even begin its life. 

“Huh?” He sounded far away and Strahm knocked their knees together and asked the same question, the television almost completely ignored now as Mark licked his lips and continued, “Oh—uh—Mykonos.” 

“I think we went on vacation there in the 70s.” 

“Fuck.” Hoffman laughed, “That’s all anyone has to say about it. Oh, me and the wife went there for our honeymoon. Great.” 

“I was trying to connect with you. Dumbass.” Strahm spoke around more food. 

“Would you want to go there again?” Hoffman placed another fritter onto Strahm’s plate, the offering of food to go with the offering of a vacation together. Running away. Elopement. 

Strahm looked between the food and Hoffman. At this point, it may as well have been an open box, holding a glinting ring. 

“I wouldn’t say no.” 

What he wanted to say was “Of course I want to go with you, asshole. I would go anywhere with you. Never leave me. Please never leave me” but those sorts of phrases weren’t within the remit of the relationship they had built together. That would leave a gap open that was a little too raw and susceptible to weakness leaking in like a thick, black tar that would tarnish the precious safety that Strahm had cultivated for himself. That might get him murdered. To be open and loving could mean murder . 

Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. 

“Family vacation.” Hoffman grinned in a way that meant he was about to say something that would make Strahm’s blood pressure spike and the vein that was close to thrombosis start pounding in his forehead, “You want to talk about what you said while we were fucking earlier? Or should I just leave it so you don’t get pissy with me for even asking?” He blinked at Strahm like butter wouldn’t melt and the fork in Peter’s hand was worryingly close to being bent in half. 

“Whatever do you mean?” 

“Nothing.” Hoffman turned back to the film, just lights and colours at this point, the real drama was allowing Strahm to seethe silently beside him until he couldn’t hold it back any longer and it came spilling out of him in the form of him gritting his teeth and snapping, 

“It’s not what you think.” He shuffled in the seat, suddenly feeling rather small, “You never wanted a family?”

Hoffman’s face went blank, 

“No.”

“No?” Strahm baulked, laughing quietly to ease the irritation that blossomed onto Mark’s face, “Come on. I know you don’t want to hear it, but my wife and I talked about it a long, long time ago. I guess it’s one of those things you never really forget. Everyone wants to be normal.” 

“We’re not normal.” Mark muttered, eyes dark. 

“No.” Peter’s shoulders fell, defeated before they could even begin, “I think you’re right.” 

“Ex.”

“Hm?”

“Ex-wife.” Hoffman’s eyes were tight on the television, that was until Strahm snatched up the remote and turned it off, the flash of the box’s lights leaving the room also left the space within those four walls bereft of the comfort it had provided the both of them. A warm, coddling presence that cusped their conversation and lined it with sound and brightness, now all that surrounded the room was the sudden storminess that Hoffman’s mood change had brought about. 

“Hey.” Strahm kept his voice low and soft, like speaking to a frightened animal, “Eat your food. I’ll be back in a moment. Stop looking so fucking angry.” His plate clattered as he deposited it onto the table, “You’re never going to stop correcting me on that one, are you?” 

“Not until you stop calling her your wife.” 

“What can I say, it makes me a little hard when you get jealous.” 

That at least had Hoffman trying to conceal a smile, and not doing a particularly good job of it. 

By the time he returned, Amanda’s CD player in his hands, clasped like a swaddled baby, Mark’s whole body had deflated. Though seemingly not from any sort of moroseness if the way he was smiling gently at photographs taken with his phone, thumb tapping the pad, dozens of photos of everything that had culminated into their life away from Jigsaw and the FBI. Quincy pictured in a light only Hoffman could understand, through the eyes of someone who probably never considered they would live long enough to find any sort of peace. Let alone love. 

He gazed down at a picture of Strahm asleep, Peter just close enough that he could see on the small screen his own hair mussed against the pillow, mouth slightly open as he spilled saliva onto the pillow and Hoffman’s finger tracked down the phone screen, attempting to savour what he no doubt considered a moment of beauty and simplicity. 

“If you’re trying to build a portfolio of character so you’re spared the electric chair, I don’t think it’ll work when the FBI agent assigned to catch you is also fucking you. I’m already too deeply implicated.” 

“Not to mention all those finger prints I planted.” Hoffman beamed at Strahm, the scar on his face warping handsomely, a reminder that nothing could kill a man like him. Worryingly. 

“Of course.” Strahm plugged the CD player into the wall to the side of the couch, placing it onto a cabinet that looked like an older gentleman had bought it. Nothing that a young person would claim for their space, which had Strahm’s blood running a little cold at the thought of John Kramer purchasing furniture for Amanda like she was his child, moving out for the first time. Hypocritical on his part. Mark and himself had been looking at new tiles for their upstairs bathroom not too long before they had taken their trip back to New Jersey. “The fingerprints. How could I forget? Exactly what I wanted by the way. Usually people’s boyfriends get them shit they need, not twenty five to life, but you know better. Know just what I need.” 

“Makes the hairs on my arm stand up when you say shit like “boyfriend”.” Hoffman picked at the last of the food, leg tucked up beneath him as he leant onto the back of the couch, obviously curious as to what sort of ambient music Strahm was going to be playing for them. 

Amanda’s CDs were stacked within a CD storage rack, collecting dust and missing their owner, probably never to be listened to again if the two of them hadn’t blustered their way into the apartment. Strahm made a mental note to pack them into the biggest container he could find the place and take them home with them, it was the least he could do for a woman who he couldn’t say that he particularly liked or agree with, but to say he didn’t feel sorry for her would be a complete lie at that point. Especially considering he had read a few more entries of her diary since Mark had arrived, most of which had made his heart sink and his throat close with the barely ignorable need to retch at the overwhelming misery that was hidden within the scratchy writing as Amanda descended further and further. Lamenting that she would never know love or life in the way everybody else did. A lost cause with a singular cause. Death and retribution. 

Strahm shook his head, shaking off the spiral that intended to suck him down with tumbling, ragged thoughts of a woman who could have very well been a good replacement for Angelina for Mark. 

Well, not a replacement. It was clear that no one could replace her. 

But maybe a friend. A confidante. If things had been different. 

At the bottom of the CD rack, laying on the floor, wrapped with a piece of ribbon. A present. 

Strahm scooped the three CDs up, peeling away the ribbon and peering at the gift tag that was attached to it that read, horrifying, 

Happy Birthday. From John.

“That’s fucking depressing.” Peter said, more to himself than anything but Mark tossed a look his way, eyebrows turned down in confusion. 

“What? The album?” He frowned, “It’s not fucking R.E.M is it?” 

Strahm huffed a laugh, 

“Kramer got her these. She never even opened them.” He chewed the corner of his lip, conjuring the image of an LP his father bought him in the 80s which he never took out of the casing, let alone opened the gatefold. Out of pure spite for his father and a need to never follow in his footsteps, whether that be through profession, personality, or just simply the shitty music that he listened to. As it turned out, things his father enjoyed in the 60s had turned out to be things that Strahm considered musical greats now he was also middle aged. He just had the good grace to not be a homophobic motherfucker while listening to them. 

“Let me see.” Hoffman murmured and Strahm turned the CDs towards him, a rush of amused air leaving Hoffman’s mouth at the sight of them before he said, “Doesn’t really feel like the type of thing she’d be into. Not that she’d ever talk to me about things she liked, but I don’t think any of those would have been her speed.”

Strahm nodded absentmindedly, 

“They’re albums a dad would buy for a kid he barely knew.” 

“That one is pretty good.” Hoffman ignored the previous comment, quite clearly not wanting to keep into the politics of Kramer and his attack dog, a finger pointing towards the one Strahm had clasped in his hand currently, “Put it on.”

In busying himself with clacking open the CD case and fiddling around with the player, Strahm barely noticed Hoffman creeping up behind him. It set off a big, blaring alarm behind his eyes and sent him tumbling back to the coffin’s room, the walls looming large around him, closing in further and further until—

Mark’s hands touched his hips, fingers bleeding warmth into him as his own fingers found the play button, bringing the room back to life again with smooth, flowing music and the bitter memory of his own descent into his own chosen life left him. The walls of Amanda’s apartment returned to their regular states, opening outwards, and the couch looked much less like a glass casket and more like, well, exactly what it was. Adorned with the crumbs of a meal made by a man who did wrong, but that extended less and less towards Peter. A selfish ideal, but one he held close to his heart, which now beat ever faster as Mark’s palms turned him round and closed the gap between them. With a look of complete shock, Strahm suddenly realised where this was going. 

“Absolutely not.” He griped, “Don’t you dare. This is demeaning.” As Hoffman pulled him more to the centre of the room, a huge, widening with the seconds, smug look slapped across his face. 

“If you can say nasty things when we have sex then you can indulge me a little bit with this.” 

The swaying had already begun, Mark’s hands clasped on Peter’s hips hard enough that it would have been nigh impossible to escape at that point, despite how much Strahm wanted to bolt. He hadn’t danced at his own wedding. His wife had cried about it about a month later, eyes manically dancing about the room, avoiding his gaze as he had begged her to explain why . Because he didn’t get it. That was the problem. He didn’t get it. 

“Is this to make me suffer?” Strahm muttered, arms limp and loose at his sides, unsure of what to do. 

“If I wanted to make you suffer I’d be getting out my notepad where I designed the water cube trap and bounce some new ideas around. Maybe make you weld a wedding ring to your finger. Solder it right on there and smell your flesh sizzling with how much you want me.” 

“Okay.” Strahm deadpanned, “You’re losing your touch a little. That one is a fucking cop out.” 

“Come on.” Mark’s hands slid up to the small of Strahm’s back, moving him gently with the music until Strahm finally allowed himself to place his own hands onto the curve of Hoffman’s ass, “You ever heard this album?” To which Strahm shrugged and Hoffman added, “Came out 1973. Seminal.” 

“Don’t use that word like you know what it means.”

“Stop being prickly because I’m making you dance with me.” A wayward kiss found Strahm’s jaw, “Next album he put out had a song called ‘Cocain’”

“Okay?” 

“ Did you hear a story about Cocain Lill? She had a cocain house on cocain hill. She had a cocain dog and a cocain cat. She even had a cocain rat .” Mark crooned, voice sounding slightly off-key despite the fact Strahm couldn’t place the tune, looking as pleased as pie with the way it was making Strahm’s eye twitch and his mouth shift downward. Although, secretly, he did sort of want to grin back. 

“Great. Thank you for that.” He grumbled, “Let’s dig around a little, we might find a karaoke machine and you can go crazy.” 

“I bring levity. You bring a violent, wild eyed, threatening atmosphere.” 

It was hard to concentrate on anything when all Strahm could toss around his brain was the fact that he was dancing in the living room, putting up barely any kind of fight as he played into the warm circle of Hoffman’s arms around him, leaning into the rise and fall of his chest as he moved them languidly to the music still. Mark even had begun to hum under his breath, ruining any kind of illusion that Strahm could hold within himself that he didn’t find the man before him endearing and sickeningly sweet. On occasion. Not always. But at that very moment, he had hearts dancing and bobbing above his vision as Mark swayed back and forth rhythmically, fingers pressing into his back, clutched onto Strahm as though he expected him to dart away at any second. 

“It’s not so bad.” Strahm said all of a sudden. 

“Hm?” Mark’s nose had found the underside of Strahm’s jaw, breathing in deeply and the swipe of his tongue made Strahm squirm, wanting to tear at the hair at the back of Hoffman’s neck and sink his teeth into the exact same place on his neck he was currently trying to suck like a terrible excuse for a vampire. 

“The music.” Strahm’s fingers found the back of Hoffman’s head, though he held back the need to yank at the hair there, instead he cupped it and said, “It’s not bad. I think I like it.”

“That does mean you like a choice that Kramer made.” It might have sounded smug if it was said any other way, but instead it just came out of Hoffman sounding slightly sad. As though he was looking back over the course of his life. Not finding much to be happy about. 

“His choice in music and his incredibly questionable, stupid morals aren’t exactly in the same ballpark.”  

“What are your thoughts on my morals?”

“Don’t ask dumb questions. I can stop dancing with you anytime I want.” 

Mark’s mouth smiled into his neck, teeth grazing his skin and it set Strahm’s own teeth on edge, arousal working its way like lightning through his legs as Hoffman said, voice low and rumbly, 

“You won’t. You’re enjoying being normal. Next thing you’re going to be begging me to get you pregnant again.” 

“It was a joke. A bit.” Strahm kept his voice steady, knowing that if he became enraged in any way then Hoffman would have won, “Just shit you say when you’re fucking.” 

“I sure fucking hope so. I don’t think I need to go into the mechanics of why that won’t work.”

“It’s not even really that. Come on.” It was almost amusing to notice that they were still dancing gently to the music, if it could really be called dancing, it was more like awkward rocking, but (annoyingly) Strahm knew it would stick with him for a long time, “First time we fucked you were gleeful at the fact I forgot the condom.”

“Rookie move, by the way.”

“As I said, you weren’t complaining.” 

“You want to go back into the bedroom?” 

Once again the thought of honeymoons sprung to Strahm’s mind. Cold drinks and hot sand were all well and good, but the sensation of child-like excitement at the knowledge you were joined in a way that so many deemed the height of personal, romantic relationships. Euphoria leaving a heady glow around everything you did and it was found in the way that Strahm’s first thought a year ago to any of this happening would have been to tear Mark to shreds, but now, after everything, it was a similar turn of phrase rocketing through him but with a very different sentiment behind it. 

Even their first few months in Quincy hadn’t been like this. 

It was a shame that it had to be the murder of Jill Tuck that set in motion Pete’s ability to finally let go. 

What a tale to tell, stood in front of friends and family, at an imaginary wedding that existed only in his head. 

So, it was when my husband here brutally killed another serial killer’s wife that I finally thought, wow, he’s truly the one for me. I love that man. 

He sniggered to himself quietly, feeling Hoffman shift against him before he said quietly, 

“We don’t have to.”

“No, it’s not that. I’ll tell you later.” He smiled, something that once felt borderline unpleasant to do around the other man but now felt as easy as anything. As easy as blinking and breathing. 

“That’s my favourite track by the way. That last one.” 

“What’s it called? I would check the jewel case but I get the impression that if I tried to leave the space around you right now you’d start foaming at the mouth.” Strahm tested the theory by tugging himself as gently as he could in the opposite direction from Hoffman and was rewarded with his arms tightening around him.

“ Go Down Easy. I like it.” Hoffman sounded dreamy. Like he’d been keeping that information within himself for years, decades maybe, waiting for the right person to share it with. 

Thank you, John Kramer. Strahm thought, with not a hint of sarcasm in the thought, strangely.

“Would you let me go if I said I’ll go to the store for some beer? I’m starting to get worried that you’ve slipped me something and that’s why I’m allowing this bullshit to happen.” 

“And beer would help that?” 

“I need some air.” It wasn’t a lie. The heat that rose from his insides had flushed its way all the way up to his brain and through the fog that it caused he could just about wade through it to grasp the aching need for a cigarette. Blaring like an exit sign in the distance, because he hadn’t felt the way he felt in that apartment for a long time, and that was shaking him like a limp body in a great, massive paw. He’d once thought of Hoffman as King Kong and it still held true. The beast that held all the sadness in the world behind his dull eyes, felled only by the love he had conjured for the beauty that had accidentally entangled themselves in its life. 

“You want a cigarette.” 

Sometimes it was uncanny when he did that.

“ And some beer.” He pried himself away finally, Hoffman’s hands grasping his biceps and then sliding further down and down his arms as he pulled away until he was holding Strahm’s hands in his own. His palms sticky with sweat. Clearly nervous.

“I’ll be back in like twenty, thirty minutes.” Strahm ducked in to kiss him on the mouth, wondering if he could convince Hoffman to strip himself down and allow himself to be waiting and open when Peter returned. But he wasn’t in the mind to ask for anything so needful, not when he’d offered himself so emotionally bare. He wouldn’t want to be crass or crude with that offering. 

“Twenty.” 

“Don’t be a fucking baby.” Strahm murmured, already a step away from Hoffman and he could feel the palpable frustration that sweated out of him at him retreating, “I’ll be back when I’m back.” He paused, hearing himself. Hearing the old him, before he added, “Give me a kiss. Please.”

Which Hoffman responded to in spades, kissing him until Peter had to extract himself, laughing gently as he went. Allowing Mark one single moment of true contentment as he leaned into another kiss, mouth warm and rough, and said just quiet enough that Mark may have had to strain to hear, but he would hear nonetheless, 

“I’ll be back in a bit. I love you.”

To which Mark responded with a gasp that hiccuped into his throat.

It was almost saddening to see Mark’s face disappear as the door shut behind him, jacket fastened all the way up and cigarettes fat in his back pocket, calling out to him. As he took the first step onto the sidewalk, he drew them out, a deep exhale leaving Strahm’s body at the sight of them, something that no doubt would make the women he worked with back in Quincy tut and shake their heads. You’re a young, fit man, Peter. No need to ruin that. He laughed under his breath, snapping on the lighter he had lodged into his pocket and lighting the cigarette, the wind making it a much harder job than it needed to be, then started his wander to the bodega. 

With the best intentions, he kept the trip as quick as possible, not wanting to disappoint Hoffman, the thought of his miserable face drifting through his mind. Thanking the store attendant with the closest thing he could muster to a human smile, and taking his jangling bag of beers like a twenty-one year old, overly excited to legally drink for the first time. Especially considering all he had bought was beer. He might have found the energy to flush under the scrutiny of the eyes of the young man who served him, but he was too full with home-made food and the dizzying effects of two cigarettes one after the other. 

The bodega’s door clicked shut behind him and the bite of the wind immediately met his face, making Peter squint against it, nose wrinkling up in distaste. At least in Quincy the cold didn’t have the audacity to be bitterly unpleasant in its scent along with freezing, and he suddenly was struck with the sadness of missing the salty smell of the bay. A strange thing to become used to at first, but once accustomed to it, it was hard to not love. 

The side street he stepped into, as he dreamed about taking long walks along the bay, was silent. Empty of any sort of life, save for a rat that scurried past his shoes and he barely was able to process it before it darted away, squeaking wildly as it went. Just as frightened of Strahm as he might have been of him, if he wasn’t so lost in thought, swimming around the blissful pools that were the memory of being completely anonymous, with his hands in his pockets as he gazed out at what would trickle out and become the Boston harbour. 

An elbow connected with his head from behind, stunning him for a moment, stifling his ability to wheel around and stop the person from continuing. His knees shuddered violently as another blow, this time from a fist, struck his neck. A violent, shaking breath forcing its way out of him, sending him staggering to the ground, the concrete and gravel biting nastily into his skin, despite the layer of denim protecting them. It didn’t save him much as whoever was behind him continued to rain down blows upon the back of his body and he was vaguely aware that the beers in the bag he had been holding had shattered against the ground. Spilling liquid and glass everywhere, the latter of the two slicing into his palm as he tried to push himself up, but he was stopped in his tracks by a hand on the back of his neck. Different than the first, adorned with a cool leather glove as it twitched its fingers against his skin and as the first person rounded him, Strahm could just about send his gaze up and found a man, slender and tall. A ragged looking pig mask sat atop his head, sending Strahm’s heart into overdrive. 

“What?” 

The man beneath the mask laughed, amused at the befuddlement that lay itself with unrestrained and unfortunate ease across Peter’s face. 

A second person rounded him as he tried in vain to catch his breath, hand screaming with sharp shocking pain as more glass sliced into him as he attempted to get up again, only to be met with the hand around his neck shaking him. Then a knee met his chin, shocking him and sending a deafening ringing through his ears, blood blooming from his right nostril and searing down his lips, soaking his tongue as he begged, 

“Stop! I’m fucking FBI. I have a gun.” 

The person behind him made an amused noise and as soon as they spoke, Strahm felt like slapping himself in the face for not following the wrenching gut sensation that had befallen him every time he had come face to face with them. Not to mention what now was apparent was their lackeys. 

“He’s lying. Remember. He left the service.” Dr Gordon’s hand left his neck and he stalked around him, tugging off the boar’s head mask he had on himself, “You have no gun. All you have are some broken beers and those nasty cigarettes. They’ll kill you, you know.” He smiled in a way that made Strahm want to leap up and tear out his throat with his bare teeth, smug and queasy, as though he still wasn’t quite accustomed to violence. A means to an end, perhaps. 

“What the fuck—” 

It was an apt last shout before Brad pulled off his mask, a salacious grin spreading across his face as he said, nowhere near as sincerely as it should have been, “Sorry, man.” And clocked Strahm so hard in the face that there was nothing else to do but slip into unconsciousness. 

Chapter Text

The house smelled like coffee and clean laundry, that was the first thing that Strahm was aware of as he pulled himself up in bed, curtains drawn all the way to the edges of the windows and if he were to look outside he would see the wisps of new plants just beginning to tuck their heads from the earth. Beneath the coffee smell there was something else though and he inhaled deeply, shuffling a little further up, propping himself on the pillows behind him. Perhaps Mark had cleaned. It was incredibly unlikely, he tended to point his eyes to the ceiling and skirt around any kind of dirt that would accumulate in the corners of their home, but maybe the tides had turned and he had decided to finally become acquainted with the cleaning supplies under the sink. 

The window was cracked ever so slightly, the breeze that wormed its way through was sharp and the hairs on Strahm’s arm stood to attention as it grazed its chilly palm across his skin. He inhaled once more, a big, bright breath that whirled around his body and left him feeling alive and also starving hungry. The pit of his stomach suddenly raised its fist, shaking it furiously within him, bringing about glorious pangs of pain and when he glanced at the clock, it wasn’t surprising. He had somehow slept until ten o’clock. He never did that. 

His body quite clearly was begging for rest after everything that had happened, screaming to be laid down and to stop. Stop moving, stop thinking. His alarms completely forgot, not even registering to his exhausted brain. He didn’t even remember turning them off, just vaguely remembered the dull screech of the alarm clock and the heavy, numb feeling of his arm trapped beneath the pillow and his own fathead. Unable to reach out and silence it. It had chirped unpleasantly for a while and then there was only darkness in his memory. 

His feet met the carpet, Strahm’s legs having swung out from beneath the bedding almost as though they had a mind of their own, fuelled entirely by the need to hunt down the scent of the coffee and perhaps see if Mark would cook breakfast. Something big. Greasy. Poached eggs and fried bacon, smiling on a plate back at him as he scolded his gullet with coffee and peered at him, the grey in his temples encroaching further back into the real meat of his hair, running shining streaks down the strands. Forty-five years old, to sit perfectly alongside Strahm’s dignified forty-seven, just the right side of fifty and feeling younger than he had in his mid-thirties because now he felt like the things he was waking up every morning to fill his time with were worthwhile. It was all well and good to wear yourself thin, the omnipresent hand of the federal bureau looming down from the clouds and squeezing the life and love out of you because at the end of the day you knew you were at least spreading some sort of good into the world by handling crime into its rightful boxes to be dealt with, but what was that truly worth when you opened your eyes in the morning, sunlight splitting a crack through your skull, and you knew deep down that the only thing that would brighten your day would be for someone to shoot you clean through the head. Maybe then you might get a little peace and quiet.

Strahm shrugged on a dressing gown, short and thin compared to Hoffman’s completely overindulgent gown, which no doubt lay strewn on the bathroom floor after he had shed it like a second skin before a shower that morning. He tended to wander around the house, like a 1950s housewife on Sundays, gown tied tightly as he shuffled around the rooms, opening the curtains and allowing light to stream in. Nobody would have ever guessed that beneath the fluff and puff of that gown was the heart of a man who would tear flesh from the bone if it meant he might gain something. 

A man who once stood over Lawrence Gordon and stamped his foot so hard into the meat of his skull that when he had finished, all that was left was a red smear across the concrete of the warehouse. Splintered shards of bone that looked crimson and sharp amongst what used to be the brain of an intelligent, living human being, rendered into nothing but colours and shapes beneath the heel of Hoffman’s boot. He had scraped his shoe along the ground and spat at what used to be Gordon when he was done and when Strahm had looked close enough, eyes watering and gag reflex kicking in as his retch pounded in his ears, he could just about make out some of a nose and ear, the rest was so unrecognisable that he had to grasp onto Hoffman’s shoulder to stop himself from falling. 

He had seen worse. Much worse. A man trying to piece parts of his girlfriend back together after an RTC when he had been a cop a long, long time ago. Another man ingrained into the fabric of his living room chair, melted into the seams after he had died there, alone. But nothing had shaken him like seeing the blinding hatred and rage that had crossed Hoffman’s face as he had tossed an almost incapacitated Gordon down and told him to his face what he was going to do to him for even daring to cast a glance over Peter, let alone hurting him like he did. After that, it had been by the grace of God that his knees had locked in place, eyes turned completely from the piles of limbs that was Brad and Ryan, crumpled in the corner, as Hoffman had forgone every single thing he had learned from Kramer about letting people atone for their sins through a trial of fire and he had begun the onslaught of stamps. 

The edge of the bathroom sink caught him as he gagged a little at the memory, his face pale and sweaty as he looked up at himself in the mirror. The smell of Gordon’s sickly sweet blood and viscera was ever present these days. A stark reminder of what had to be done to allow them to continue their lives in Quincy, stuck into his sinuses and waking him at night all too often. Nightmares of Gordon stood above his bed, staring down with a single semi-crushed eye, leaking a sticky, yellow liquid onto what used to be his cheek. Staring and staring. 

Strahm dabbed at his mouth with the side of his hand, sucking in a breath to calm his queasy stomach, the force of it calming him just enough to push away from the sink and gather his wits so he could ghost down the stairs. Barely touching them seemingly, hand floating a foot above the bannister. He was sure that Mark had painted the railing an ugly grey, nothing like the blue he had asked for, but the paint underneath his palms looked a grimy pink. Flakes of rotted red chipped through the paintwork. He shook his head and the paint looked blue once more. Jesus . He needed his eyes checked. 

“Are you making breakfast?” Peter called into the air between himself and the kitchen, the sound strangely muffled, but the curiosity of it was washed away all of a sudden by the waves of delicious, mouth-watering smells of cooking. Just as he had been dreaming, conjuring mental images of stuffing forkfuls of eggs and pancakes and sausages slicked with syrup into his mouth, there was Mark. Stood in the kitchen with pale sunlight wrapping him like a blanket, shining on the curve of his stomach to the front of him and the swell of his ass at the back. Absolutely beautiful.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” The answer came finally, Mark smiling thin but kind, something he’d been practising. They smiled more and more these days. 

He held out a hand towards Strahm, the glint of his simple golden wedding band was something that Strahm never failed to let his eyes claw their way towards, a much needed respite amongst the distress that had led them to that point in time where they had decided that there was no one else they wanted or needed. Only the two of them. Destined to be together even as outside forces attempted to rip them away from each other. 

They had married in the summer of 2008. A bit more than a year after—

Or was it 2009? It was hard to remember. 

It was a long stretch of blurry time after Erickson. Tuck. Gordon.

Strahm’s temple throbbed but he ignored it as he took Mark’s hand and was whisked towards him, light blooming behind them through the bay windows that lined the back end of their kitchen and he was blinded momentarily. Happiness choked its way around his throat until the need to cough was so prevalent that he had to lean out of the circle of Hoffman’s arms to hack once, then once again. Mouth dry all of a sudden and he slapped his lips together, lolling his tongue around his mouth until he could gather enough saliva to wet the itching, sharp back of his throat. 

“You want a coffee?” Mark hummed, thumb touching the outer corner of Strahm’s eye delicately, “I made coffee.” 

“Yeah.” Strahm croaked, “I think I must be getting a cold. Allergies. I don’t know. I suddenly feel like shit.” 

Mark’s hand found his forehead, pressing against it softly, testing for fever. 

“You’re not burning up or anything. I think maybe you got up too quickly.” He wheeled Strahm round until he could sit him down, the hard wood of the chair startling Peter slightly and he murmured, more to himself than anything, 

“Didn’t we buy cushions for these? From that yard sale?”

Hoffman shrugged, “Maybe they’re being washed.” He ducked down almost immediately after saying that, pressing a kiss so soft and precious onto Strahm’s mouth that it had him sighing out, the sound leaving him before he could stop himself and as it flitted into Hoffman’s space, the man smiled big and vicious. A lick of something old and evil coming out of him. Pawing to the surface and he surged forward, kissing Strahm again, harder this time. Mashing their mouths together, licking in between them and sucking on Strahm’s bottom lip like he used to kiss girls when he was twenty. Like he used to kiss boys too, actually. 

“Okay.” Peter laughed into the onslaught of kisses, shoving him away with a gentle pat against his belly, “ Okay. Come on. Get me some fucking coffee.” 

“I took the dog for a walk since you decided to sleep in by the way.” Mark said quietly, almost reflective, “You were completely out of it every time I checked on you.” 

“The dog.” Peter murmured, pressing his fingers into the sockets of his eyes, “Shit. Sorry. I forgot I said I was going to do that.” Something licked the exposed skin of his ankle and Peter didn’t even bother to glance down, knowing it would be the mongrel they picked up from a shelter in Boston after visiting Angelina’s grave about six months ago. He was brown. Brownish grey? Scruffy and ragged around the edges, like any good dog should be, but so were they. 

Strahm’s head pounded again. 

“Babe.” He croaked, “Coffee. Please. I think I’m really coming down with something, I really need a drink.” 

“You did drink a lot of whiskey last night. Maybe it’s that.” Hoffman appeared at the counter top, sloshing boiling hot coffee into a mug and then swanning back over to Strahm so he could plonk the cup down in front of him, “Let me get you something to eat. You’ll feel better.” It was as though the words themselves had spurred the food onto the plate and it was in front of Strahm before he could even blink properly, though he did, a few more times just to make sure that he wasn’t imagining any of this. 

Mark settled on the chair opposite him, eyes big and brown and soft. Trickling honey down his cheeks, past the crow’s feet and freckles labouring under those beautiful hazel eyes. His mouth supple and plump still, in spite of the marching of age, stomping towards the both of them recklessly. Looking as handsome as he did the day that they had tied the knot. Tie firm around his neck. The almost staggering memory of it made the ring of muscles of Strahm’s throat tighten with emotion, he could picture it all so clearly, despite the fact his head was swimming. 

“Whiskey.” He hummed in agreement to Hoffman’s statement, long gone by that point it felt, “I guess I did. Sometimes it’s hard to know when to stop.” Peter stared at him for a moment after speaking, drinking in the billowing, gossamer sight of Hoffman as he crackled around the edges and the dog licked his ankle again, whimpering with joy at being let into the kitchen to dance around their feet. 

“Are you happy?” Mark asked, hands drawn together in front of himself on the table, the tablecloth twisting slightly as his skin stuck to it and he moved, only an iota, but enough to jostle the material, “I really want to think you’re happy.” When he looked up his eyes were damp around the edges, the criss-crossing red of his sclera in stark comparison to the blue of his irises, blue enough that you could dip your head under it and scream until your lungs caved into nothing and nobody would hear you. 

Strahm felt confusion set in. Deep. Right beneath the very lowest level of his skin and fat. 

“Huh?” 

“Your food is getting cold.” Mark smiled. 

“You just put it down in front of me.” Peter tutted, hand going to pick up his fork but he found the table bereft of it. The dog licked his ankle again and he shook his leg gently to dissuade it. The fork was in Mark’s hand when he finally managed to haul his lead-laden eyes towards the other side of the table again, feeling like his whole entire being weighed a thousand pounds more than it actually did. “What did you put in my coffee?”

“You haven’t drank any of the coffee yet.” 

“I—” Strahm started, but Mark was right, he hadn’t.

“What colour are my eyes?” Hoffman shot up, leaning over the table. Looming like a dark cloud over Strahm’s forehead and it took everything within him to get his eyeline to focus on what was in front of him, the sunlight from the back windows was ploughing in now, unrestrained and unbridled as it smacked an open palm across the waiting canvas of his pupils, blinding him near enough. 

“What is your problem?” Strahm garbled, mouth suddenly just as thick and heavy as his eyes. 

“He’s freaking out.” Mark sounded confused, voice trailing off into the corner of the room, drifting into spaces Strahm could neither see, nor wanted to see. Something was living within them that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and the room breathed in tandem with his own laboured breaths, streaking their way out of him in painful yanks of his chest being tugged towards Mark, through the centre of the table as it opened up around him, wood splitting and splintering into shreds. Scraping along the edges of his arms until he was face to face with Hoffman, mouth wide enough that it felt as though he might have been able to crawl inside and down would come his teeth, holding him within the prison of his incisors, an enamel trapping where he would dissipate on the soft palate of his mouth. 

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Strahm was almost begging by that point, hands splayed into painful claws, all mobility lost from them. 

“Do I hold his head?” Mark gasped, sounding frightened, “What if he chokes on his tongue? I don’t know why you’re not back here.” 

“I don’t understand you. What’s—” Strahm began, then threw up the contents of his stomach down the front of his chest and blinked three times, heaving in a huge, shaking breath before he realised he couldn’t see. Not properly.

It was then, and only then, that he felt the gentle, rhythmic juddering of the car beneath him. 

That was right. He’d been bundled into a car. Something big. Shiny and new. 

Blood money from a doctor who had lived to tell the greatest tale.

He blinked again, casting away tears and spitting onto his own lap.

He must have been seizing in the seat.

There were snippets of what could only be semi-identified through the haze of whatever Gordon had given him, blurs of colour and shapes of buildings perhaps. Then there was nothing, as one of the boys, Strahm didn’t know which one, pulled the sack back down, chastising the other one for ever pulling it up. Snapping at him as though he was stupid and Strahm had just enough energy and wherewithal to let out a strangled laugh and murmur, 

“You are fucking stupid.” A string of spittle dribbled down his mouth under the hood of the sack as he said again, firmer this time, trying to get his mouth to follow his instructions but it was becoming harder and harder, “Fucking stupid.” 

“I told you not to pull up the fucking hood, Ryan.” Brad grumbled, crossing his arms on the left side of Strahm. He was bracketed by the two of them, Lawrence presumably driving. He’d already worked out, even through the drugs, that they’d driven in circles a few times already. Possibly to make it seem as though they were taking him further than one might think, when really, they probably were still in the city. 

Lawrence was a doctor. He wasn’t a criminal mastermind. 

This was clearly the first time he’d really done something like this. 

He must have been angry.

“I was looking at his eyes.” Ryan said slowly, the wet sound of his licking his lips was loud, “Just to make sure he was alive. That was fucking terrifying. What did we give him again?”

“Midazolam.” Gordon’s voice came from the front seat, drifting like a bird bobbing on a lake towards Strahm’s hammering head, “Too much, evidently. I told you not to be heavy handed with the needle.” 

“Yeah, Ryan. ” Brad snapped, the urgent sound of stress rising to the forefront of his voice, as though perhaps he could just about handle anything that had come his way since joining Gordon’s little band of misfits, but kidnapping frightened him, “You’ve done something wrong. He’s choking.” The air displaced around Strahm with the force of Brad’s arm striking the gap between them in a gesture as if to say ‘See! See!’, “He’s going to die before we even get there.” 

“You were the one who sucked up the shit into the syringe. You didn’t measure it right. Or you didn’t squirt some out of it before you put it in him and now he’s got an air bubble in his veins.” 

“How the fuck was I supposed to know what to do? It should have been you anyway. All the Tren you do.” 

“Oh, bullshit.” Ryan was as close to seething as he probably could get in that moment, strapped into a car with a man with dangerous levels of benzodiazepine running through him, “You’re just jealous because—”

“Shut up.” That was Gordon, voice sharp and with all the precision of a man who at one point was probably well versed in being a father, though perhaps had forgotten with time how to control himself in that respect. Hands tight on the steering wheel as he admonished the squabbling boys in the back seat, all the while Strahm spat out watered down vomit, sluiced with saliva. Trying to get the taste out of his mouth. It wasn’t working.

“He’s going to turn this car around. Just you watch.” He garbled.

It wasn’t a time to be a smartass. But Strahm was at least eighty percent sure he was about to be stood in front of a grey wall in a warehouse in the middle of New Jersey, probably only a few thousand feet from the next human being, and shot point blank. Gordon would probably get one of the boys to do it. Strahm blearily wondered through the tangle of benzo ladened thoughts, wearing off minute by minute, if the doctor had ever done anything for himself in his life. He probably got somebody else to fuck his wife for him. A thought he desperately wanted to voice but then there was the sound of movement, shuffling around like one of the boys was attempting to find something in the footwell of the car. 

“Careful.” Gordon warned, low and authoritative. A teacher. 

“Drive slower and I’ll be fine.” Brad sounded tired and strung-out, clearly bored of being cooped up in the car, “He won’t die from this, will he?” 

“So what if he does. Wouldn’t that just make it eas—”

“Ryan.” Gordon practically hissed it. The sound whistling through his teeth, even with no assonance to be found within the name. 

There was no fight to give when one of the boys yanked his arm towards him and dealt what would very likely be yet another completely wrong dosage of the anaesthetic. Strahm could almost smell the brain cells within him fizzling into little bursts of nothingness, if he tried hard enough. 

“You can’t keep sedating me.” He slurred, the needle leaving his arm for presumably the second time that day. 

“He’s a doctor.” Ryan’s smirk was hard to hide, even with a sack over Peter’s eyes. The smugness riddled his words, “It’s not like we’re short on it.” 

“A few minutes, Agent Strahm.” Gordon muttered from the front seat, “Just give it a few minutes.” 

“Not an agent.” Was the last thing he managed before it become increasingly clear that coherent speech was slipping out the window of the car, along with any hope he might have had for a quiet evening. 

“Thank fuck for that.” Ryan bolstered to the answering sound of Ryan braying like a donkey with laughter. 

~

Whatever flooring Strahm had been deposited onto was sticky and cold, his fingertips touching at it slowly, trying to ascertain where he was before the sack was ripped off of his eyes and he no doubt was plunged into whatever hell Dr Gordon had thrown him like a sackful of yowling kittens. He swallowed, slightly unimpressed with his own metaphor there. No need to think things in bad taste, Peter, he chastised himself, his legs twitching out in front of him as he fingered the grouting lines. 

Grouting lines. 

Either Lawrence Gordon had his own private murder swimming pool, something he wouldn’t put past the man who wore waistcoats to gentle strolls in the park, or he was sitting on the cool but filthy floor of a bathroom. 

All the air around him suddenly went cold. As cold as his blood felt as it sloshed around his body, just about keeping him alive after a death defying amount of anaesthetic had been pumped into him by a couple of bumbling morons, probably only roped into this whole ordeal for the money that Gordon no doubt had. Hard-working, salt of the earth, Dr Lawrence Gordon. Earning his keep and helping out the little guy. That was it, just here to help. 

A laugh wriggled its way out of him.

“I’m not entirely sure why you’re laughing.” Gordon’s voice drifted over, the clammy walls trapping his voice and it fluttered like a dying bird, just shaky enough that Strahm’s idea that Gordon might not be as versed in this as he might like to think was probably correct, “I know you know you’re not in a good situation at this exact moment.” 

“Could be worse.” Strahm said without an ounce of insincerity to it. It really could be. He’d been in at least two other situations much worse, and those involved a man who he now shared a life with. 

“I don’t think so.” Gordon answered, almost sounding like a consolation. 

“You want to take the bag off my head?” Strahm cleared his throat after speaking, the back of his mouth full of cloying mucus and his head pounding. Coming out of his borderline anaesthetic-induced coma was clearly not meshing well with anything within him, something that didn’t surprise him as his eyes were suddenly blinded by the glowing, buzzing fluorescent lights lining the ceiling as the sack was unceremoniously torn from his head. His brain aching even more from the sudden onslaught and Strahm gasped quietly under his breath. 

“Fuck.” He gagged a little, nausea from the medication surging to the forefront of his mind and he raised his hand to shield his eyes, casting a grimy shadow over his eyes and Gordon slowly came into focus. Sat atop a rickety metal chair, clearly dragged in from some other grotty part of wherever the fuck they were. Annoyingly, he had been entirely correct about the room he was in being a bathroom, and for once in his life Strahm almost had tears brought to his eyes about being far too knowing for his own good, because he would have to be completely braindead to not know which bathroom he was in. 

He glanced to the side and the breath caught in his throat. The almost bare skeleton, clothed in a rotting white shirt and jeans, of a young man he realised was Adam was propped up next to him. Skull lolled to the side, a pathetic image which for the first time in a long, long while, had Strahm feeling the shooting pains of complete misery racking through the bumps of his spine. He swallowed again, a few ratty wisps of Adam’s hair still adorned his skull along with scraps of desiccated flesh flaking on the edges of his skeletal remains. 

“Not very funny now, is it?” Gordon didn’t sound particularly mocking, perched on his creaking chair in front of Peter, “Pretty gruesome.” He smiled tightly and nudged his cane towards Adam’s corpse, “I have to admit, I haven’t been back here for a long time.”

“Why?” Strahm rubbed at his eyes, “Makes you feel guilty?” 

“Yes.” The answer came quickly, Gordon’s eyes flashing with something that maybe suggested that it went deeper than that, “You don’t have to get smart with me about it. The answer is yes.” His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed tightly, doing a single, huge blink that made Strahm feel a mixture of uncomfortable and perhaps a little sad, “I don’t make it a habit to come back here. I’m sure you can understand. My foot is about a metre away from me currently.”

“Do none of you motherfuckers tidy up after yourselves?” Strahm leered forward as he spoke, an attempt to show Gordon that he wasn’t afraid. He was so far from afraid. Or, at least, that’s what he wanted him to believe. It was only then that he realised that the lingering sensation that weighed him down wasn’t just the anaesthetic tugging down his limbs, despite his first thoughts. He could quite clearly move his hands, his arms were increasingly less and less heavy, so the gentle metallic screech that jangled behind him was clearly nothing to do with the medication he’d been non-consensually administered. 

His hands shot up, breath coming quicker and quicker as the spiralling thought that he could have ever been so stupid to ignore the weight around his neck smacked his clean across the face. He grasped the ring of metal around his throat and tugged, chest heaving as he made no attempt to calm himself. The water cube was a fluke in his mind, a complete act of God’s judicial and almost random luck that he had bestowed upon Strahm that particular evening. The coffin full of glass shards was something else completely that Strahm wouldn’t even like to think about past what he had already stressed himself ragged over last year. 

“It’s good, isn’t it.” Gordon’s smile widened, less queasy about the idea of being back in the bathroom and more proud of himself, “The boys thought it would be more amusing to put a manacle around your ankle. A nice little call-back. I believe that’s what that’s called.” Gordon did smug well, his prosthetic leg splayed out in front of himself as he sat there, the cat that got the cream. A saying Strahm had never quite put to a human being before that moment, but Gordon peering down at him as he perched on his chair, leering at Strahm’s body on the cracked, dirty tiles, it all became clear that as nervous as he was to exact whatever vengeance or anger this was, he also was full of a gleaming, child-like glee as well. 

“From what I gathered, you had a little incident with your throat before.” Gordon nodded his head towards the bundle of blistered, scarred skin sitting prettily at the front of Strahm’s trachea, “I just love that. Tying everything nicely together, you know?” 

A light above them flickered ominously, the drip of a tap that should have long had the water completely switched off tap tap tapped into the porcelain sink below it, driving Strahm almost mad with frustration, something that didn’t surprise him too much because of course only he would be chained by the next a few feet away from a rotting corpse and find the time to be irritated by an everyday sound. He swallowed, throat clicking below the coldness of the metallic collar, bound like a hound. A lowly mutt with the stinking reminder of what would no doubt befall him if he didn’t weasel his way out of the situation just to the side of him, dead as a doornail. Except, there was no weaselling this time. There was no Hoffman cajoling him into the coffin with talk of cocoons and becoming what they were always intended to be. No pen in his pocket. 

Just Lawrence Gordon, a mocking smile dashed across his plump cheeks, tucked neatly onto a rusty chair and almost swinging his cane in clumsy giddiness. 

“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.” Gordon might as well have been checking his fingernails idly as he spoke, obviously pleased with the powerplay occurring. Strahm forced to sit on the floor, gazing up repentantly at him as he opened his arms like a God and dealt the justice he deemed fit for whatever inane and insane reason he was keeping beneath his cloak, “I can see in your face that you think I’m being terribly insincere, but I’m not. Truly, I’m sorry. But unfortunately, you’re proving to be a wonderful means to an end.” 

“What have I ever done to you?” It was a childish question and Strahm could hear the way it crept into his voice, “I barely even know you. And, what? Now you’re another in a seemingly never-ending line of Jigsaw wannabes?” He scowled, feeling genuine anger, “Give me a fucking break. Have you guys got a pet dog too that bites at people’s ankles while they’re in the death traps?” 

That got a sparkly laugh out of Gordon, becoming more comfortable with his role of game-master seemingly. 

“You’re a funny man. I bet it serves you well, gets you places. When you’re not being an aggressive hot head who threatens his way out of situations.” Gordon tilted his head, eyes narrowing, “You and him suit each other. It wasn’t particularly surprising to find out that the two of you had gotten together.” 

A strange, faraway look came across him all of a sudden, in complete contrast to his jovial mood just a moment ago and Gordon shifted in his seat, abruptly uncomfortable. Strahm could just about glean from the pale, sallow look upon Gordon’s face that perhaps he was conjuring images within himself of his own personal relationships. He’d dug a little bit after that first encounter in the park, nothing too in depth, just enough to find out that Dr Gordon’s wife had left him. Almost immediately after the bathroom incident, actually. 

Then it finally hit him. What Gordon had just said to him. He knew about the two of them. A thing so normal now that it barely registered, but for Gordon to be aware of the two of them being together? That spelled disaster.

Panic set in, sweat beading and then creeping down Strahm’s hairline. 

“How did—”

“How did we find out about you and Detective Hoffman?” The tap dripped again, a constant annoyance that somehow left Strahm’s head pounding even more than the benzos, “Same way he found out about everyone that he, John and Amanda shoved mercilessly into their games. You pick up those sorts of things. Plus, I’m sure you’ve picked up on the fact that Brad and Ryan may not necessarily be the sharpest tools in the shed, but they’re incredibly good at following instructions. You’re not as conspicuous as you might imagine. You sat and had a drink right by us, I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that one.” He quirked a smile, the sound of his heavy woollen coat shifting was loud in the suddenly silent room, the tap mercifully giving a little respite from its incessant dripping, handing the baton of grating noise over to the rustle of Lawrence’s overly dressy closing. 

“He’s never spoken about you. Amanda. John. Some other man I’ve never heard of.” Strahm licked his lips, the knowledge that he desperately would need water after that much anaesthetic beginning to set in and the cracks in his lips suddenly felt like valleys, “But never you.”

“I kept myself out of his way. I’d seen the way he interacted with the world around him. An inarticulate, aggressive child. He probably had no idea that I was ever in his vicinity. I’m pretty sure Kramer made sure of that one. He had a tight little web spun around all of us, I guess that goes without saying. Anyway, I was there for skill only, Amanda and Mark were like lost animals, tangling themselves around John’s ankles. I served a purpose and they were there for—” He waved a hand, trying to conjure up the right phrasing “—I don’t know. Kicks, probably. Nothing better to do on a Tuesday night when the baseball wasn’t on.” He smiled thinly, “Go Red Sox, right?” Despite the almost friendly tone to his words, Gordon looked as though he was growing tired of the conversation, but Strahm had the feeling that once he left the room, that it would be curtains for him. 

“You attacked me and bundled me into a car at the behest of a dead guy. I’d say you and Mark are on pretty even playing fields right now.” 

Gordon’s eyes shifted, face growing steely, 

“You have no idea who I do things for.”

“Oh, come on.” Strahm could feel the acid reflux sensation of nervousness rising in his body, trying to keep the conversation going so Gordon wouldn’t leave him, but also he couldn’t stop himself from biting right back. A smartass and a wise guy and a jaw-flapper at heart, “The pig masks are just for fun then? You’re going to tell me you’re not labouring under the guiding hand of John Kramer right now?”

“He allowed me to live after I cut my own foot off, nursed me back to some semblance of health, and I promised I’d keep his wife safe after his death because that’s what adults do. I’d say that’s borderline neighbourly, really. Not particularly untoward.” 

“Jill Tuck.” Strahm murmured, voice hushed, to the returning, knowing smile of Gordon. 

“Jill Tuck.” 

A shroud was pulled over the two of them, as though they had stepped into an anechoic chamber, everything was dulled by her name being brought up and it sickened Peter to the very depth of his stomach. It didn’t come as a surprise, more as an agreement of fact between the two of them. A looming threat that one could see coming from a mile off, all signs blooming red and glowing as they were passed in the night. Zips of colour from the car. Like sensing the impending danger of a lover being unfaithful, something always told the delicate balance of your mind and body that there was something wrong. 

“I didn’t—” Strahm began, mouth dry. Lips feeling as though it was a struggle to simply form words with how chapped they were, “—I didn’t kill Jill Tuck.” 

“No.” Gordon leant back in the chair, the groan of the metal almost deafening once again, “No. I know you didn’t. But Mark did.” He sighed. A huge, deep sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his humanity, “I feel the need to apologise again. But you do have to understand that you are entirely complicit with all of this. I highly doubt the man who screamed and pulled a gun out in a woman’s interview was going to go out of his way to stop his lover from murdering her.” 

“He’s not my lover.” He couldn’t stop himself from barking that back. 

“You’re his lap dog.” Gordon replied smugly, “And you’re going to stay here until he inevitably turns up to burst in like the hero he no doubt thinks he is, and I’m going to make sure he dies. And while I’m going to take no pleasure in that, I’m not going to feel any sort of guilt for it either.” He patted his knees, “Well. I hope that clears everything up.” He began to stand, pushing hard on his cane to get himself up and a siren began blaring in Strahm’s mind. Fear overwhelming every other sensation and flooding through his body, goosebumps spreading across his skin and a thin sheen of sweat dampening below his armpits and the backs of his knees. 

“What about me?” It was another childish sounding request. No reasoning for justice or sympathy. Just a pure, ragged and wanting need to know what was going to befall him as he was chained like an animal to the wall in that bathroom. 

“I don’t know.” Gordon loomed large above him, hair falling in his face as he sniffed once, seemingly uncaring but perhaps the way that his bottom lip quivered gave away the fact that, once again, this was surely not a world he had ever considered a foray into, “But I don’t think you’re going to leave this bathroom.” He paused, semi-turned from Strahm’s form and the shadow of the doctor skimmed over Peter with the movement, “I’m sorry.” 

The sound of his footsteps harmonised with the heaving breaths that Strahm took in and out, no attempt to steady himself or calm the rush of panic that was beginning to feel like a mainstay inside of his guts at that point in the conversation. 

“You can’t fucking leave me here.” Strahm’s voice almost had found a higher octave as he begged, watching as Gordon’s hand clamped around the huge, mouth-like door frame that bracketed the bathroom.

“I’ll leave the light.” Was all he was handed in return. A pittance.

Then the door was slammed shut. 

A handful of the light strips in the bathroom flickered off with the force of it, leaving a single one above Strahm, illuminating him and Adam’s withered body. 

A true pittance. 

~

The face of Strahm’s watch stared back at him for the sixth time in around fifteen minutes, the time that ticked back was just as unsettling and irritating as the last time he had checked and he solved this by turning the face around to the other side of his wrist. A punishment to the concept of time for stabbing a great long blade into his heart and then not even caring enough to leave it in to stem the bleeding, yanking it out full pelt until he was bleeding minutes and seconds against the cold floor. The pool unspooled beneath him with the twist of the watch’s leather strap against his skin, twisting the delicate hairs atop his arm. He focused on the sensation for a moment, a kind distraction from the weight of the metal clasped around his neck. 

He couldn’t even find a shred of comfort as he sat on the floor, behind him was a bathtub, hulking and freezing, the constant chill of the room having slipped well inside its cladding and when Strahm had leant back against it about two hours ago, frigid fingers had pressed into the back of his shirt. No doubt his body would have to give up sitting ram-rod straight and he would melt into the side of the bath, exhaustion tugging his body into a state of precise and biting uncomfortableness, just for a moment of respite and rest. 

He flexed his toes. Someone had taken off his shoes at some point and the beginning tingles of pins and needles were starting to creep underneath the skin there. The buzzing sensation was like a television that had lost its aerial connection. Like wasps fluttering violently within him. 

Strahm blinked, head falling back to stare into the ceiling instead, an attempt to shuck the grasp that worry had around his aching body. 

“Fuck.” 

It was the first word he had said since Gordon had left him about three hours ago and it sounded wrong and flat in the room. Dull against his ears. As strange as speaking to yourself in an empty room often felt. Embarrassing almost. Which in turn made Strahm laugh nervously, hairs on his arms standing up with the entirely human notion of the worry that someone out there may have encountered you doing something that the both of you may deem unusual or stupid. He cleared his throat, watching the way that a light above him swayed momentarily, then a trickle of dust tumbled down from the tiles that lined the ceiling above him. That would suggest that, frighteningly, he was below another room where no doubt the boys and Gordon were stomping around, free as anything while they trapped him in the semi-dark like a rat. 

It also would suggest that if he were in a basement, sound would travel even worse than if he were above ground and near a window. Screaming wouldn’t help. Nobody would hear even if he screamed for so long and so hard that his voice gave out, not that he was capable of that, he had done irreparable damage to his own voice box when he had smashed a biro pen through his throat. He often croaked in the morning and evening now regardless of if he had been yelling like a banshee, that was just the way his life had panned out after encountering Mark’s little love notes for him in the shape of life-threatening traps. 

The tap dripped again and throwing the concept of staying silent to preserve his own mental picture was thrown out the window as Strahm let out a wild, animalistic howl and slammed his fist on the floor next to him. Begging Gordon to let him out. Let him go. He didn’t fucking kill Jill Tuck. It was all Mark Hoffman. 

It had always been Mark Hoffman. 

He didn’t realise he had begun crying until the tears started to dampen his pants, falling almost in slow motion and spreading in annular patches on the fabric, widening and growing as more joined them. His hand came up, touching the hot skin of his cheeks, smearing away the tears and Strahm took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself but he was entirely correct. Everything revolved around Mark and it was his fault. But he didn’t care. The single thing he could take from the terror that was enlarging within him with every thunk of the second hand roaming around the watch strapped to his wrist was that he didn’t care one bit what Mark had done. Even the things he had done personally to him, Peter. All that he wanted was for him to break down the door that sat, unmoving, in front of him and wrench the chain from the wall and set him free. 

“Is that pathetic?” He turned to look at Adam’s corpse, a wave of nausea strolling over him for a brief moment in time before he managed to shove it down and control it as he added, “I’m forty four and I’m thinking about my partner saving me like I’m in some sort of cheap romance novel.” 

Adam didn’t respond. 

“Maybe a little pathetic.” Strahm sighed, the palm of his hand wiping away the last few tears and that made him joke quietly, “Man, I’m glad you’re too dead to see that.” He laughed, scarily close to being humourless, “You probably cried a whole bunch before you died, so I’m not sure what I’m worried about. Probably cried buckets and buckets. Whinging like a baby.” It didn’t feel particularly good to be bullying a dead boy, but it helped to push away the silence nonetheless. 

But then, the embarrassment became too much. Billowing over him like and filling his pores until he had to settle back into himself, retreating back inside. 

Another couple of hours passed in silence after that. 

Creeping by. 

Agonising. 

His legs twitched in front of him.

Head pounding from the anaesthetic still, Strahm raised his eyes and smacked his lips together, thoroughly parched after being denied water for so long. 

Another thirty minutes. 

He peered to the side, grey and mottled flesh scraps catching his gaze. 

He sighed, quietly and sad.

Then, with his hands around the metal around his neck, Strahm shuffled his body around fully to sit closer to Adam, scuffing dirt and dust onto his pants as he went. He gulped, the sound almost funny with how loud it sounded, then wetted his lips. Eyes roaming over Adam’s body, bones limp and incredibly saddening to think that this was a young man, in his prime. Destined to be betrayed by Gordon, left to rot in deep, unknowable fear, then killed by a miserable woman who perhaps only did it in a way to salvage her own almost completely ruined soul. 

“I’d say out of the two of us, you probably had the worse deal.” 

It felt a little better to speak this time, no more embarrassment that scratched a ragged fingernail into the back of Strahm’s brain, scraping at him sharply every time that he opened his mouth to speak to a dead man. He’d spent the entire time alone in Amanda’s apartment speaking to her. Why should it be any different now? At least he had a physical form in front of him and if he looked at Adam from his peripherals he could almost imagine he was alive. The material of his dirty shirt stretching and releasing as he breathed into the bathroom, misting the frigid air with his warm, living breaths. 

Strahm’s knee came up, his arm resting on it as he attempted to lighten the mood, a strange delirium scrabbling its way into him and it was no doubt the benzos. There was no way on earth that he hadn’t suffered some sort of damage from being injected that much by two men who probably had wasted most of their own brain cells on steroids, cheap beer and putting plant pots on their heads and allowing the other to smash them with a baseball bat. He laughed at the mental image of that, feeling a shivering lightness come over him and he almost lost his breath momentarily. Head swimming and it finally came, the need to lean himself against the bitterly cold metal of the bathtub behind him, eyes slipping closed as he tried to calm his breathing. Throat tightening into a tightly gripped ring, as though someone had pressed their fist down and down into his gullet, fingers squeezing his oesophagus with joyous abandon. Unable to be calmed or ease itself back into allowing Strahm to swallow without a grating sensation sending shudders of grievous pain through him.

The panic attack he’d been withholding from allowing himself to revel in was coming thick and fast. Adam’s body growing larger and larger in the corner of his glassy, rolling visual field, an omen of what was likely to come for him even if Hoffman were to figure out where he was and come and find him. Gordon wasn’t in any way a stupid man, he was fastidious and attentive to the finer points of what appeared to be his own personal brand of revenge, working to appease a dead Kramer. He would surely capture Hoffman as soon as he stepped a singular foot into wherever he and the boys had deposited Strahm, tossed like forgettable rubbish until he served his purpose. And what a purpose he would serve, to bring about the end to another intricate piece of the Jigsaw history. 

He’d probably shut Hoffman in there with him just as a sick kind of joke. Chain him to the other side of the room and watch from the shadows as they both deteriorated, unable to reach each other. No final kiss. No touches of comfort before they slipped away from hunger, eyes boring into the other, wondering what would happen if the other were to become loose and drag their way to the other side of the room. Visions of Hoffman’s dark eyes drilling into him as he broke whatever limb was necessary to entangle himself from his bindings, mouth watering as he dug his fingers into Strahm’s brittle flesh and bones, eating of him gladly. Keeping himself alive by means of using Strahm as a sustenance pool. Using him. 

Strahm’s nose prickled and he wriggled it gently, trying to abate the need to wail and cry as hard as his body would allow him. That would be a waste of energy and would no doubt see him dead much earlier than needs be. 

He exhaled, loud and trembling, closing his eyes as he tried to not picture all manner of terrible things that could come to light in that bathroom. 

It worked. Slightly. 

The pangs of fear still zigzagged up and down him, dotting his forehead with spots of sticky, tepid sweat. They dribbled down his skin, tucking into the dug-out lines of his wrinkles as his face was twisted with agonising anxiety, the strain turning his body rigid against the bath and all there was to do to relieve himself from the clutches of the situation he was in was the most basic, human need and the only thing Strahm could draw to mind. He needed to sleep. There was no need greater at that very moment to draw himself away from a situation that he was struggling to find a way out of.

His breathing became easier, gentler, slow whooshes of oxygen in and out of him as he once again ignored the growing want to press a glass of water to his lips and quench his thirst. Nothing life-threatening at that point, moreso a rumbling, nagging itch that pried at his nerves because he had thought a single thought about being thirty however long ago. Like remembering you needed the bathroom before a long sleep. He tried to get that thought out of his head quicker than any thoughts of water, the concept of pissing in front of a dead man was a little too strange. Although, of course, inevitably the need to drink would become much more pressing. 

It had only been a fistful of hours by that point though. He could last longer. 

A little longer. 

“Do you think he’s coming?” Strahm’s eyes remained closed, savouring the darkness, “Mark, I mean. You think he’s even noticed I’m gone?” 

Unsurprisingly, once more, Adam did not reply. 

~

“I wonder by what hour in being here you really started freaking out.” Strahm was sat up, having woken from a fitful, uncomfortable sleep that lasted maybe a couple of hours. The fear of never waking up again after all the benzos was enough to startle him out of slumber and when he had peered, bleary eyed at his watch he had let out a loud groan. The passage of time felt like a hindrance but also a saviour. The more time he spent in the room the more his brain told him that Mark would come. He would figure out where he was. He just needed time. A little more time to work it out. 

But, of course, Gordon and the boys were waiting. So maybe it was all in vain and he would end his days clutching his stomach in pain and dying as empty as it all felt in that very moment. 

“I heard that you thought that Dr Gordon was coming back for you.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the stubble that was beginning to sprout from an overnight stay in the worst hotel this side of the Turnpike, “That’s a pretty raw deal. Because he's out right now. Did you know that?” He blew out a puff of air, feeling startlingly bad for the kid, “I guess that means Kramer said no to that request and you died down here, what—a few days later when Amanda came and wrapped a bag around your face?” 

He stared at Adam. 

“I actually don’t know what’s worse, suffocating to death or starving to death.” He didn’t think too hard about dehydration because he still was completely parched and his head was pounding again, either from the drugs or from the lack of water, he wasn’t sure. 

The corpse before him was silent, empty eye sockets glaring back at Strahm until he laughed quietly, nervously , and said in a way that perhaps suggested his delirium was creeping in again by mimicking what might have been Adam’s voice. A sad little puppet in Strahm’s manic hands, 

“ Suffocating. Suffocating’s worse. ” 

He nodded sagely, pressing his fingers into his temples as he briefly debated how insane he must seem if Gordon were to be watching him from somewhere. Probably behind a two-way glass. Stroking a glass of scotch like a true villain, Brad and Ryan dipping back and forth behind the shadows, leering and giggling as Strahm turned to ventriloquism of a dead boy to keep himself well enough to muddle through however many days he was to be locked in the room. He’d only been there a day. The cracks were frighteningly striking.

“Bears eat you alive. That’s a pretty fucking terrible way to go.” His fingers plucked at a stray thread on the outer stitching of his jeans. He had caught the side of them on the jagged corner of a piece of semi-broken furniture in Amanda’s apartment just three days ago. A reminder that, even from the grave, Amanda’s influence was able to tear its way in his life, something he had begun a strange fascination with since he had read her diary. Compounding more within his aching mind as he sat on the floor of the bathroom, mulling it all over. And over. And over again. As though a cosmic line of misfortune was linked with the moment he had pulled apart the dutiful bow that Amanda had tied at the front of it, her heaven-bound bad luck leaking out of the diary and onto his hands. A Pharaoh's curse. Coming back to get him when he was at his highest point.

“You sound crazy.” The borderline disrespectful mimicry of Adam returned as Strahm tried to piece together what the man formerly looked like, before the ravages of death and the bitter, almost acidic air of the bathroom whittled away his finer point. He’d seen photographs. He could almost do it. So, he drew a mental image of a young, crop of dark hair, sharp nose and shoulders drawn up. Keeping out the world as he looked around with slitted eyes and a cigarette dangling out of his small mouth. 

Damn. Strahm really wanted a cigarette. 

His head throbbed and he squeezed his eyes shut, then laughed nervously and in answer to “Adam’s” declaration that he was mad, Strahm mumbled, 

“Yeah. I suppose I do.” He clicked his tongue, trying to moisten his mouth to no avail, “Do you think this would be a good time to turn to God? Is that what you’re supposed to do when things get this shitty?” 

“What did you turn to last time?” Adam’s voice still sounded wrong in Strahm’s mouth. 

He stopped. Staring at the rusted, red-raw metal of the door in front of him, still completely shut despite his best efforts to will it open. 

Strahm’s shoulders fell, body falling lax against the flooring though still in an upright position, all energy was suddenly lost at the realisation. Eyes still shut, afraid to turn them to the world.

“You know the answer to that one.” It croaked out of him. 

“Well, no I fucking don’t.” Adam’s voice was decidedly more lifelike, more true to the real iteration of him and when Strahm finally, finally , opened his eyes he was met with the startling image of a young man sitting in the corpse’s place. Clothes filled out with flesh and bones, deep, tumbling breaths cascading from within him. Like he hadn’t breathed in a long time. 

“Huh.” Was all Strahm managed, blinking a few times, trying to bring the withered body back into frame, “Sorry?” 

Adam tilted his head, smiling in a way that Strahm would have never taken from the still photos he had seen of him. It was cheeky. Boyish. Alive. 

“So.” Adam urged, looking as though he was on the edge of his seat for the big reveal, “Which was it?” He held out an open palm, “God?” Then another, “Or him?” 

“I’m not talking to dead people.” The hair on Strahm’s arm were standing on end.

“You know that he put that pen into your pocket, don’t you?” Adam’s short, stubby legs stretched out in front of him and he groaned happily. The first stretch in years no doubt, “And he made sure you survived that coffin. But I don’t know if you should be relying on him too much for this one.” He pulled a face, semi-mocking but underneath the joking was something that made Strahm feel sick with worry, “You can’t really rely on people to get you out of these things.” He laughed then, mood switching, “I should know. I really thought he was coming back for me and it fucked me. I mean, how embarrassing, you know? Asshole promised me. What a bum fucking deal.” 

Strahm pulled his knees up, feeling rather small at that moment. Like he was part of something much greater and much more evil than he could ever imagine as he wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his cheek upon the top of his knees, 

“You truly thought that dipshit was coming back?” He tracked his eyes over Adam. He looked much like his photograph, but the pink in his cheeks and the twitch of his fingers was worrying him. Midazolam. Used for routine surgeries as an anaesthetic, he knew that much. He couldn’t remember much but he could remember his wife being administered too much during a small surgical procedure she had when they were about thirty. Medical malpractice wasn’t too new to him. She’d been loopy from it, seeing things that weren’t there, completely drowsy, headaches too. With the amount he had presumably been given by the idiot twins, it wasn’t too much of a surprise to be hallucinating twenty-something year old dead boys. Fully formed and speaking to him. 

Strangely, it was a relief. Just to have someone to talk to, to calm himself down. Stave off the sleepiness. Abate the headaches. 

Although, his mind must have been sharper than he thought if he could piece together the story of Adam and Lawrence out of thin air. 

He wouldn’t think too far into it. Not yet. 

“When someone who took the Hippocratic Oath tells you that they’re coming back for you, you believe them.” Adam toyed with the hem of his shirt, still stained with muck from the bathroom, “Stupid, I know. It’s hard to go through something like that and not put all of your faith into the nearest warm body.” He smiled in a knowing way, pushing the packet of cigarettes concealed by his jeans towards Strahm. Or, perhaps, his arm simply found the power to extend further to reach them. It was hard to tell. 

“He doesn’t seem like the sort of guy I’d trust with anything, let alone my life.” 

“You’re really not someone who can talk.” Adam snapped, embodying the burning, aching back of Strahm’s brain that yelled at him daily to leave Mark. Get himself out of that situation. Leave. Go. “Shacking up with a guy who actively murders people. Lawrence is an asshole but he’s never gone that far. He’s too afraid, I know he is.” His eyes went sad. Huge and wet around the edges. He looked so young, “People don’t go into a profession like the one he’s in to hurt people. That’s what you think as well, isn’t it? Mark wouldn’t have gone into his profession if he wanted to harm other humans. That’s what you think about when you think too much about the things he’s done, right?” 

It was a self interrogation, Strahm knew that. 

The tap dripped again. 

“I don’t know what I think.” He muttered.

“You’re his lapdog.” Adam noted, head knocking back against the pipe behind him. No chains on him. Strahm clearly didn’t want to think of a shackled young man now, “That’s what Lawrence said to you, that you’re his lapdog. Is that something you’re going to take? You’re just going to lay down here, head down, and wait for him to come and get you like you’re his child that he left at a soccer game? That’s depressing. I got shot and I screamed and wailed for Lawrence when the door was shut on me. I rattled the pipes and shouted until I couldn’t.” He sighed, cheeks damp with tears that would never be shed by him ever again, “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get him to come back for me and I think I probably died wishing I could see him again.”

“Lapdog.” Strahm echoed, thinking of all the times he sat and waited for Mark to come back to him. 

“You don’t have to be.” Adam urged, eyes widening in barely contained panic, “You don’t have to give up entirely. You can do something.” He tried to touch Strahm’s hand but, of course, he felt nothing. There was nothing, “They’re above you. You’ve heard them stomping around. Bring one of the boys down here. Your chain is longer than mine ever was.” He licked his chapped lips, rambling on, “You’ve been too tired and weak to move, but you can move. You can reach the sink.” 

“What? Why?” The fog that had been tugging down Strahm’s eyes since had been deposited into the filthy room was beginning to lessen and dissipate. Unclouding his vision but it had taken a rotten corpse’s kind eyes and snarky smile to get him to that point. 

The tap dripped.

“The sink.” Adam hissed, “It hasn’t stopped the whole time you were here. The drip. There’s water. Lawrence’s better nature got the worst of him. He’s not John. He lengthened your chain and there’s water running through the pipe that leads to the sink that I would have never been able to reach, even if I hadn’t been shot.” 

Strahm’s head moved in slow motion as he tossed it over to where the drip was emanating, the sound that had been causing him great annoyance since he had gotten there was beginning to sound like the delicate chime of angelic choruses, drawing him and filling his heart with sudden ferocious fires. Pumping him with adrenaline and the need to survive. To find a way to get himself out of there, no matter what the cost, and if Mark were to find him, he wouldn’t be withering away on the ground. He would be fighting back with as much tenacity and spirit as God had given him when he was seven years old and touching his mother’s hand in church, feeling full of grace. 

“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing he could say in that moment to the thought of Adam after his own revelation, and the following knowledge that he didn’t need him anymore, “I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s whatever.” A relatively normal answer for a man in his twenties, regardless of whether he was rolling diligently around the mortal coil or not, “Maybe it’s just nice to know that he feels guilty about me. Feels like he could have done more.”

“You’ve clearly stuck with him.” Strahm smiled for the first time, a real smile, even if it was at a phantom created by the overuse of benzos, “Must be nice to know that someone still thinks about you all these years later.” He swallowed, throat still dry, “Does he—I don’t know—love you?” 

“I wouldn’t know.” Adam said, sadness and tiredness creeping into his words, “I wouldn’t know because you don’t know.” 

“What about the tap? The chain?” 

Adam grinned, 

“Come on, man. Give yourself some credit. You did all that, you just needed a nudge to get you out of that funk.” 

“It’s likely.” Strahm tugged on the metal ring around his neck, the weight of it suddenly oppressive again, “I think it’s entirely likely that this place did something to him and some part of him misses you.” 

“You’re projecting.” Adam laughed, a hand coming up to cover his mouth as though he was embarrassed by the alignment of his teeth perhaps, “You just want Mark to miss you.” 

“There’s a chance that he doesn’t give a shit that I’m gone.” 

“Dude, shut up. I was kidding. Don’t be a fucking idiot.” Adam scratched at his jaw, wriggling his toes in front of him as he spoke, “He’s probably checking every single place that he knew Kramer and his band of misfits frequented. I bet he’s tearing random warehouses to shreds to find you. I bet—”

“Maybe.” Strahm cut him off. 

“Fuck, man. He’s obsessed with you. And you are with him.” Adam tapped his temple, “I know that because you know that.” He wiggled his fingers as though him mentioning that again was something entirely spooky.

“Obsessed gets you nowhere. Nowhere real . Obsession gets you to the place that Lawrence got to with you. Miserable and wasting his time with two boys who probably are about your age. Looking and sounding and being nothing like you.” 

“I wouldn’t start comparing yourself to him right now.” Adam clicked his fingers, gathering Strahm’s attention, “Get up. Come on. Get up.” He flapped his hands, unable to rise from the floor because Strahm couldn’t imagine him that way, only soft and relaxed on the floor, a final act of comfort for someone he would never know in real life, “Get up and take a drink. Take a drink and then think about how you’re going to get yourself out of this one.” 

“Okay.” Strahm agreed almost immediately, body twisting to use the bath tub behind him for leverage to pull himself off the ground, feet slipping on the tiles below him and thighs shaking with the effort after spending so many hours on the floor. Adam was correct, or rather, Strahm’s own instinct was correct and as he inched himself towards the sink, lined with rust and a mysterious brown sludge that Strahm didn’t want to think about any more than necessary.

“Keep going.” Adam urged again, face bright and gleeful as Strahm used whatever was nearest to him to get himself to the sink, the chain that fixed the metal loop around his neck jangling as he went, but didn’t end. It kept piling out from behind the tub itself, inches longer than Strahm ever expected and he wanted to tear at the follicles of his hair with anguish at how stupid he could have been to simply not check how far it stretched. The helplessness had gotten to him early. Not to mention, once again, the drugs. 

His hand found the tap and slowly creaked it on, the pipes groaning and rumbling, bringing forth nothing for a few despairing moments. But then, as Strahm’s eyes lit up before it, the tap sprung to life. Chugging out at first a sickening brown liquid, coughing and spluttering it into the sink, then after another tense moment, clear water piled out. Wetting the sink with not just water but also with relief.

“There.” Adam spoke the single word softly and when Strahm turned to face him, his lips were pursed and a cigarette hung from them, lit and smoking. A final gift to him in Strahm’s mental arena, a battle to keep himself afloat, but if the consolation prize was the calming presence of a boy who was nothing like himself, but a wonderful thing to see nevertheless, then he could live with that. 

“Fuck.” Strahm’s knees shook and he dashed his hand under the flow to cup water until he could ladle it into his waiting mouth, gasping as he sucked it down, grateful that whoever paid the water bills for the place was seemingly up to date. Or at least that one single sink appeared to be functioning, even if the others around may not have been. 

“Yeah.” Adam laughed, smoking his cigarette slowly, savouring it, “Fuck.” 

He drank and drank, chest heaving as he attempted to breath through it, head becoming clearer by the second as he swallowed water that no doubt would sicken him in the coming days, but it was enough to have his thirst quenched. To have his mind brighten with every drop and the slurry that riddled his brain from the anaesthetic to be washed away by it. 

A plume of smoke, merely an apparition, drifted from Adam’s fingers as Strahm turned, breathing deeply after his guzzling, and murmured, 

“Thanks.” Strahm wiped the back of his wrist over his mouth, “Thank you.” 

Adam shrugged, pulling a face that suggested he was more proud of himself that he might be truly letting on, “Not me, man. It’s you. It’s all you.” He tapped the ash onto the floor, swishing it away with the heel of his foot, smearing grey against the tiles, “He is going to come by the way. It’s at the back of your mind, hidden right behind the thought that he won’t come. You know he wouldn’t let go of you.” The thin smile was back, “Be a fucking nightmare if both of us got left here.” 

“I’m sorry.” Strahm really didn’t know what else to say. It wouldn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t really there, but it felt better to get it out. 

The cigarette bumped against the plastic bag that had appeared around Adam’s head and he laughed behind it, sounding breathless, 

“Whatever.” He tried to suck the cigarette through the plastic then sighed in annoyance, “Maybe make him bury me. I want him to know where to come and find me that’s not a bathroom floor.” His smile shone through the blurring of the bag, “I want him to feel guilty about me until he dies.” 

“Or I do.” Strahm muttered. 

“Either or.” Adam stubbed out the cigarette, “You should turn off that tap.” 

Strahm turned quickly, not wanting the water to go to waste, he had no idea if it was hooked to a tank now that Adam had mentioned it, “Shit. Shit.” He turned the tap, closing the stream off and the pipes groaned once again, shaking slightly, “Thank you.” He turned back around, feet almost squeaking on the tiles with the speed of it. 

The corpse of Adam sat slumped on the floor. Same as ever. 

Strahm swallowed, “Right.” It echoed slightly around him.

Take a drink and then think about how you’re going to get yourself out of this one. 

The drip had stopped.

Lawrence Gordon wasn't John Kramer. Perhaps he could be swayed. Or frightened.

Strahm took a big breath and started howling as hard as he could, hearing the footsteps above him turn into a dance. 

You’re going to get yourself out of this one. 

Chapter Text

It wasn’t unusual for a thirteen year old to get strep throat, that’s what the paediatrician at the surgery Pete’s mom had whisked him to had said, it was a little more unusual for it to be so aggressive almost immediately. Strep was dangerous. Strep could kill you. But it generally was a progression of leaving it and leaving it that led to an untimely, hot fevered demise that could have been caught earlier on. Strahm seemed to have simply woken up three days after his thirteenth birthday feeling like he was on the verge of death, right there on day one of the infection, and when his mother had tilted his head back and found red spots dotting his tonsils and soft palate, it wasn’t surprising that he’d been shoved rather briskly into their Sedan and taken to see the family physician. 

He’d spent the time at home, with antibiotics being pushed at him by his frazzled mom, dazed and weary in bed. 

More to the point, his throat had (quite obviously) killed. A dry, rasping pain that hummed in the back of his mouth no matter how many times he swallowed. Sandpaper sensation ruining almost every gulp of liquid he took in, nothing to quell the feeling that someone had pumped his tonsils full of poison and rubbed glass into his throat. He’d become mildly addicted to honey at that time, sucking down spoonfuls that his mother gave him as she tutted and wondered aloud if it was because he was kissing . As if that was the only way to contract bacteria from anything. Kissing. Of which, no, he hadn’t been kissing. He was newly thirteen and hadn’t begun to even think that the children around him were also human beings, let alone girls, as clearly by that point in the 70s he hadn’t wrung his hands around the concept of boys as well. 

It was miserable. A miserable time. 

As he screamed and wailed in the bathroom, he almost longed for the comfort of pain and misery in a soft bed. Mother waiting on him, that sullen look on her face that she always used to have whenever things would go wrong for him because she loved him, but maybe didn’t like the things he did most of the time. He would have liked to have seen his mom again, maybe just once, as he slammed his hand on the metal of the bathtub and howled like an animal. Tearing his already tender throat raw, memories of strep twirling in and out, in between the thoughts of ‘Jesus Christ, this hurts’. Doing anything he could to annoy the men above into perhaps wrenching open the door and stalking in to beat him unconscious, beat him into a quiet submission so that they could wait for Hoffman in reasonable quiet and watch the latest reality television show that the two boys were no doubt fawning over. They seemed the type. Pretend that they hated the onslaught of The Simple Life clones in search of higher forms of entertainment, but if Strahm tuned his ears enough he could almost hear the jingle of America’s Next Top Model. No doubt that would be a contender for shows those nimrods would devour in a second, stuck-up twenty-somethings with notions of greatness injected directly into the pleasure core of their brain by one Lawrence Gordon. After years of being beautiful young things. He wondered idly, between yelling, what their trap had been, because there had definitely been a trap. There was always a trap. 

He paused, only momentarily, it was a hard feat to scream yourself hoarse for as long as he had been and he shuffled to the sink to wet his throat once again, sucking down water. Eyes glossing over towards where Adam lay again, looking much smaller than when Strahm had arrived the previous day. He was an unusual but constant companion in the exercise of freedom through bodily mutilation in the form of stripping his vocal cords to the very ribbons that held them together. Silent and non-judgmental in a time where, in normal and civilised life, Strahm would never make this much noise; although he quickly then came to realise that was a lot more bullshit than he first thought, because he certainly did raise his voice quite a bit on the job. 

Peter managed to scream for another seven more minutes, almost non-stop, deafeningly loud, before there was a slam up above him. Almost shaking the bathroom, though he knew that was just his imagination, it was surely sturdy enough to withstand what was probably the throwing arm of a young man. Lawrence Gordon didn’t strike Strahm as the kind of man who would lose himself so easily to temper and throw the heft of a door against its lip. Although, he was certainly being proven wrong about the man since he had drugged him and tossed him into the room that by all accounts he should have died in himself, or at least had the good graces to die along-side the boy whose death that he quite clearly hadn’t gotten over entirely all those years after it. It would have been a kind, noble thing, Strahm thought as he waited for the footsteps to come down the stairs that must exist somewhere, all the way along the hallway until they finally would meet the metal door that almost engulfed the other side of the room. A good noble thing for Lawrence to have died in that room with Adam. But he wasted it. 

The door was pulled open. Creaking as it went and Strahm felt the sick rise in his throat. 

Illuminated from behind, looking like something out of a horror film was, 

Brad. 

Thank fuck. Brad. Smiling Brad, sitting and grinning at Strahm in the bar like his tongue was two sizes too big for his mouth and he’d seen the most delicious meal of his life. Brad, who no doubt spent all his time with Ryan and Gordon, perhaps begging for interaction with someone else. Sick to the back teeth of his partner in dubious crimes and the middle-aged bore who forced him to waste his time in abandoned buildings, watching over a prisoner who yelled and yelled down in the depths. That’s what Strahm would make him think at least. He’d charmed one killer, why not try his hand at another. 

It was a canny thing to have. The ability to know when men were interested in you. 

That ability might save his life.

“What is your problem?” It was quite frankly the funniest thing anyone could ask a human being chained to a bathtub and it made complete sense for a fool like Brad to be asking as he stomped in, what looked to be a nightstick tucked into his belt. Swaying as he stepped. Malicious foreboding leaked out of it, but Strahm could take a hit. Shit . At that point, he could take twenty. 

“Brad.” Strahm sighed. Make connections. Say the person’s name. Make the human connection that says I know you. I know you, “Come on, man. What’s going on?” 

Play dumb. Make him think he’s the smarter one here. 

“I’m sure the doc explained. I don’t think I should be talking to you anyway.” He looked confused, maybe a little perturbed by the sight of the room. His eyes darted around, resting on certain places, including Adam’s corpse and when he finally met Strahm’s gaze, he was a little green around the edges. “Why are you screaming? You’re supposed to be quiet.” He licked his lips, seemingly not understanding why this wasn’t going exactly as Lawrence had probably assured them both that it would, “What’s the matter?” 

Strahm swallowed, the flickering thought that this might be the longest long shot of them all bounced around his skull as he peered at Brad and tried his best to look pathetic. Like a sopping wet cat in the rain, mewling and begging for help against the elements. 

“I don’t understand.” He croaked, looking up at Brad, allowing him to feel big above him, “It’s not me that you guys want for your stupid, endless revenge killing. It’s Hoffman. So, why take me first? Surely you could have just found out where he was already.” His shirt felt sticky with nervous sweat, “Followed me back to where we were staying and burst in.”

Brad shook his head, 

“No. Doc said he didn’t want us to work that way. He wanted you to help ‘lure’ him out or whatever.” He set his shoulders, clearly liking the role he was taking. Prison guard. Borderline judge, jury and executioner. “We need you here and we need Hoffman away from other people. Plus—” He looked embarrassed “—We all knew that we couldn’t take him on his patch. He might not know much about Doc, but we know a lot about him. He’s big. He’s strong.” 

“So are you.” Strahm raised his head, looking Brad in the eyes, “You could have taken him. You should have taken him.” 

“Huh?” Brad’s face was blank. Then full of intrigue. Then smug. Finally, leering. 

“He kidnapped me.” Strahm left a tremble to his voice, a play of theatrics to sell the role, “You think that a fucking FBI agent would willingly go with a murderer?” That one stung a little to bring up, but was necessary, “Come on, you’re smarter than that.”

Brad tossed a hip to the side, the cogs working slowly in his brain and he, comically, clicked his fingers as though he’d discovered the big plot and said quietly, through his teeth, “Holy shit. I knew it. I knew it was too fucked up to be true.” He clicked his tongue then, placing his hand onto his hip and smiling big at Strahm like he was a prize to be won in this game of drawing Hoffman from his hiding hole, “So, what? Did you get Stockholm Syndrome’d or something?” He sniffed, one foot sliding ever so slowly forward until he could take a step towards Strahm, hand still on his hip, the other on the nightstick, “I’ve seen you two together. I bet you think we didn’t all see you in that bar when you were sitting there. Cuddled up in the corner.” 

“He’s a killer.” Strahm’s throat felt rough and raw, “I’ve been playing nice for about seven, eight months. Over a year since it all really began.” His shoulders hunched a little further, pressing himself inwards, drawing in Brad’s eye, “He’s obsessed with me. I survived one of his traps and it went to his head. I went along with it because I didn’t want to end up in another. It’s all fake. It’s fake.” 

No point mentioning the coffin. That was personal. A date. An anniversary in his mind. Something to be celebrated.

“Are you sure, man?” Brad’s mouth twitched, he wanted to smile. He wanted Strahm to wriggle like a fish with a hook dashed into the thin skin of its gulping mouth.

“Come on.” Strahm begged, “ Please. You can’t keep me down here.” His hand slammed onto the side of the bathtub high above him as he wrenched himself to his feet, the sound echoing around the two of them, “It’s the truth. You must know what it’s like—” He took in a breath “—You’re really telling me that you like hanging around with Gordon? That you think this was the be all and end all of life? Watching television while you have a man trapped in the basement while you wait for his kidnapper to come around so you can, what? Bash his brains in? Put him down here with me?” His eyelashes brushed his cheeks softly as he looked down at Brad’s feet. He was wearing socks and nothing else. “Don’t put him down here with me. Please, man. This is the first time I’ve managed to get away from him in almost a year. Please. Brad. ” 

Brad’s face went red in about three different spots, splotchy and childlike, 

“I can’t do anything. Sorry.” 

Strahm stared at him, stared hard and right into the gooey middle of the poor idiot, 

“Your hair looks different.”

Brad’s eyes lit up. 

Jesus Christ. What a mess. And what a way to tidy it up. 

“Oh! Thanks, man.” He had apparently forgotten the situation in which he currently stood, mystified by Strahm’s attention, “Bought this new stuff, it’s like a powder. More volume, you know?” He touched it gently, “Nobody else has noticed.”

Strahm nodded, mouth pressed tightly into a line as he weighed up the options of this conversation as it spooled out in front of him. Keep his dignity or keep his life? It bounced around his head haphazardly, not even touching the sides. Quite frankly, there were still a few notches in the belt that was his dignity to have hammered in after the bathroom, he knew that, so it wasn’t too much of a hard decision. He wanted his life. He liked his life. Up until the very second he didn’t, which was unsurprisingly the moment that he’d been attacked in alleyway. So, to keep the old thing chugging along, he looked hard at Brad and said in the softest, more cajoling voice he could manage, 

“Looks good.” He licked his lips, “You know, I’m a cop. I’m FBI—”

“Used to be. You said you weren’t anymore.” 

Strahm’s teeth ground together. He imagined thin reams of them being egged away like pressing a cheese skimming slicer through gouda. 

“I was FBI for a long time, but they’ll remember me. They’ll honour me if I bring in Mark Hoffman.” His stomach twisted for the first real time since he’d gotten there, he was used to going without food, a horrible habit but one that rescued him in its own unique way, “They’ll want Gordon. Ryan too. But I could get you out. Witness protection, you know?” He froze, “Wait. Are there cameras down here?” 

Brad shook his head dumbly, like a cow grazing the fields, and relief flooded Strahm in the place of the sheer panic that had imbued him just seconds before, 

“No.” Brad frowned, “Doc doesn’t want to–You know—See him .” He shuffled the toe of his boot towards Adam, keeping his eyes off of him. It was probably like staring his future in the face if things went wrong with the doctor and his twin disciple, and surely it would probably go wrong. Strahm didn’t particularly want more bodies down here with him if he were to die there. Not that he’d be alive for it. But that wasn’t the point.

“Brad, trust me. It’s going to go to shit very quickly around here and if you help me out then I would repay the favour.” 

Dear God in heaven. He might regret it for the rest of his life, but what it was worth, it was worth entirely. 

Strahm’s voice dipped, as did his eyes, keeping himself prey-like and for the whim of the man in front of him. Sickening to do for a twenty-something, but he knew how Brad had looked at him. 

“You’re better than them, Brad. Please. You get me out and I’ll get you out, but you need to do it before Hoffman gets here or we’re fucked. You, me, Gordon and Ryan. Dead. And he won’t do it nice like Gordon thinks that he’s doing right now, he’ll put you into a game that you’ll never make it out of. Or worse, he’ll swap our places. You want to be down here with the dead boy that Gordon used you as a replacement for?” 

Brad gulped. Audibly. 

“H–huh?”

“You fuck him?” Strahm reached out a hand and just about managed to touch Brad’s arm before the chain pulled taut, “Because if you fuck him, he’s thinking about the corpse over there. That’s not right, is it?” 

He could have grabbed him. He could have tugged the arm in his hand and put his hands over the top of Brad’s ears and twisted until he was dead. But something in him knew that the man didn’t have a key for his chains on him, why would Gordon reward him or trust him with that? So he kept steady, kept still. Eyes watching him as the young man shuddered gently.

“ Adam .” Brad murmured, lost. But also understanding deeply.

“I wouldn’t do that.” Strahm’s thumb touched the skin below where Brad’s t-shirt sleeve stopped, “You like him? Gordon? He treat you the way you think you should be treated?” 

Brad shrugged shyly. It was almost too easy. 

“You’d like me more. I’ll treat you better.” Strahm smiled, feeling woozy from an onslaught of sudden hunger and woozier from quite literally fulfilling his own prophecy that he had initiated right back when him and Hoffman had first fucked. He’d thought to himself, back then, about honey-pot traps and how they seemingly worked, but even at the time it had been a semi-joke even within his own brain. However, with the way that Brad swayed on his feet and looked at Strahm like a lost sheep, they actually did work. And worked well. Hopefully. 

“I—” Brad worried his lip, a finger jumping up to suck on before he muttered “—I can bring you some food. Just for now. To keep you going. I don’t know what else to do.” 

Well. It was a start. 

“Okay.” Strahm kept his words slow and short, not trying to ail the kid with too much to take on at the time being, “Okay, that’s good. But I mean it. You want a big house? You want money to keep yourself safe? It’s the FBI, Brad. Jigsaw is a big fucking deal to them.” His throat tightened but he managed to just about push out, through the embarrassment that was curling around his stomach from how ridiculous his next words were, “I could get you in touch with TV execs. You could talk about how you survived the horror of multiple Jigsaws. Have your own show. You could be the hero. Rescued an agent from here.” 

That was the magic latch key, even if Strahm wasn’t sure which parts, the TV deal dangled like a carrot before a donkey or the idea of being a hero. Although, it appeared to be both as Brad went starry-eyed and glowy as he breathed out, full of childish glee and enchantment, 

“I knew I was meant to do something cool. Like, I wanted to be a firefighter as a kid. Save lives and shit.”

Strahm felt bad for a moment. 

“Mom always said I’d be a TV star as well.”

He felt less bad. 

“You’re better than all of this.” Strahm coaxed, thumb now rubbing at Brad’s skin and he watched goosebumps bloom underneath the rough pad of it, “Work with me.” 

“Can I see you again? I mean—Uh—They won’t know I’m down here. We’re supposed to be spread out in case Hoffman turns up. I just was in a room where I could hear you today.” He smiled with his tiny teeth, “Lucky, huh?”

“Super lucky.” Strahm felt like he might pass out. 

“You look pretty fucking terrible, dude. You should sit back down. Here let me help you.” 

Which Strahm did, playing the role of dutifully grateful prisoner, oh so charmed and thankful for the strapping young man who had come to save him. It was like something from the books your grandmother would read. Lamplights. Huge text and text so raunchy and explicit that it would make you never want to look her in the eye again. 

“Thank you.” Strahm breathed as he was taken back to the spot in front of the bath and lowered so he could sit. Then, as Brad began to stand, Strahm shot out his hand, grasping onto Brad’s and holding him as close as he could, “Think about it. You’re smart, Brad. You need to think about it.” His finger brushed over the back of Brad’s hand and he watched as the young man pulled it away as if he had been burned, clutching it in his other hand. Cradling the spot where he had touched him. 

“I will.” His cheeks were flushed as he stood up properly, rosy and freckled. Not Strahm’s types at all. Far too young and far too little bloodlust. But he made the effort to look up at Brad like it was the first day of his life and he’d just woken up. Amour personified. 

“Do you like peanut butter and jelly?” Brad spoke as if he had once again forgotten where they were. 

Strahm nodded, tired now, 

“I do. That’s a good guess. A real good guess, Brad.” 

“I make a fucking amazing peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Ryan gets shitty with me because he’s allergic to peanuts and Doc doesn’t like sweet things much.” He started to leave, caught up in his own fantasy, “I’ll bring it when I can. Don’t die before then.” He stopped mid-step, “That was a joke. But, like, actually don’t.” 

“Here’s hoping.” Strahm sighed. 

~

The hunger had died down after a while, replaced with anxiety that Strahm had never before felt in his natural life. Sure, he felt the regular amount. That was a given. Nobody liked large, throbbing, loud crowds or disruptions to their morning commute, of course it would serve to drive someone into despair if there were traffic works down your favourite road. Everybody felt that way. He assumed. Safe to say, anxiety lived within Peter Strahm and over the course of the last forty plus years he’d made a comfortable home for it and nurtured it like any good person would. He had once been told by some shrink about five years ago that the feelings that he was ladened with on a day to day basis were actually to do with some neurological disorder, but by the time the woman had explained it he’d all but switched off, not needing another thing on his plate to deal with. So, anxiety wasn’t a new one, but the rolling way that it engulfed him as he sat and waited for a man who probably only learned to tie his shoes at age twenty-one was almost life threatening. His throat tightened up, still as unpleasant as ever to feel with the reminder of Hoffman’s love and dedication slashed across the front of it, and his stomach twisted and turned. 

Adam’s corpse lay silent, overbearingly silent, so Strahm wet his lips and said, “What would be the first thing you did if you got out of here?” He stretched out his legs, the looming threat of his own internalised fright making it feel as though someone was creeping up behind him, ready to slap their hands onto his shoulders and drag him into the bleak darkness of whatever came after the bathroom. Probably just complete and utter nothingness. A big open void where nothing began and ended all at once. 

“Judging by the cigarette packet on the ground, I guess it would be ‘have a smoke’.” He tried to breath and his chest wheezed quietly, a hand pressed against his breastbone as he tried to follow the motion of it with his palm. Ease himself into unlaboured breaths before it did something terrible to him, “Would be nice. Can’t seem to find a lighter down here though. I’m sure you have one.” He smiled, eyes dead on the shut door, willing it to open. 

“When I’m out—” He tilted his head down, glancing through his eyelashes at the door till his head hurt, although not as bad as it was the other day, the anaesthetic had entirely worn off (he somehow knew he wasn’t quite out of the woods with the repercussions of it though) “—When I get out I’m driving right the fuck back to my house. I’m not thinking about anything up to Yonkers and I’m having a big sucker glass of scotch. Maybe stick the television on.” He blinked, “I don’t think I want to even do anything wild, you know? I wonder if it would have been the same with you.” He preferred Adam when the benzos were making him hallucinate a talkative creature honestly, it was hard to have a conversation otherwise, “Go home. Kick your feet up. Try not to develop neurosis or survivor’s guilt. Because, in my play of this, I think he would have stayed down here, and you would be doing whatever it is twenty-five year old kids do.” 

At twenty-five he’d been barely there. Funnelled into police work with no clue of where it might take him or who he wanted to be. When he was twenty-one he had wanted to be a musician or something equally achievable but just as frivolous, to his parents at least. But he was only semi-formed. Not ready for the real world. At forty-four he barely felt like he’d scratched the surface of meaningful life and there was a boy, almost half his age and never moving past that room to pastures greener. To better jobs. To richer things. A life snatched away. 

“Tough break.” It wasn’t much of a consolation, but Strahm had never been adept at consoling. Plus, it wasn’t as if Adam could hear him. 

Small mercies. 

“Maybe we should just sit here in silence.” Strahm peered at his watch, mind a little jumbled as to when he had been brought into the room now that he thought about it, but safe to say, it was already too long. Verging on worrying as yet another hour trundled by. Then another. Brad perhaps had difficulty with grasping the concept of telling someone he was going to do something for them, then actually doing it in a timely manner. No wonder he was working for Gordon. He was surely night employable if he considered this acceptable waiting service. Strahm laughed quietly at his own joke, sliding down against the bathtub and settling his hands across his belly, sharp, writhing jabs snuck within it as he moved. Something he could ignore for now. 

He just needed Brad to come back. Needed to be able to hiss into his ear, because manipulation would never work with Gordon that way. He was whip-sharp and quite clearly dead set on enacting this ridiculous revenge set-up he’d been playing around with like a petulant child that he’d created for Hoffman since the death of Jill Tuck. Ryan was clearly a lost cause in the sense that he looked completely bored when he’d laid eyes on Strahm. But Brad? It could work. It would have to work. 

Because, as much as Strahm had fallen into the perilous trap of trusting Hoffman, he didn’t want to succumb to his wounds down there. 

“I think perhaps when I get home I might get a dog.” Visions of the sticky fever dream in the back of Gordon’s car laced their way around him, “Something for when he’s out of the house.” He didn’t bother mentioning who the ‘he’ was to a dead boy, why would it matter?

He scratched his nail over the tile to the side of him, chipping away flakes of dried, rust brown blood. No doubt from Adam himself, “Think I might be fucking sick of being left by myself after all this.” He huffed a laugh, “Isn’t that stupid?” 

He waited for an answer.

There came none.

“ Right .” 

He chipped more blood away until his nail was embedded with it. A crescent moon slice of Adam. Stuck in him.

~

The night passed without a glimpse of Brad, not even the shuffling of feet mutedly above Strahm’s head as he tried to remember the names of saints and their blessings. Their meanings. He’d chewed his thumb nail ragged and the skin around it was raw and peeled away, revealing a soft pink underlayer, sore to the touch when he sucked it into his mouth. Trying to soothe the sensation, but even the air of the bathroom whooshing against it, as he flicked his hand back and forth to try and alleviate the pain, was painful in itself. Self inflicted and yet miniscule agony as he was stuck between his watch and the door. The hours digging their fingers into the folds of his skin, pushing into and under the epidermis to skate its nails down his sensitive under-layers, sending a shiver down the back of him as he eluded sleep for a few more hours. Not wanting to miss Brad, a sick feeling inside of him that the man was scatty enough to see a sleeping Strahm and think ‘Ah, I’ll come back at a better time’. 

The ceiling rumbled with the tremor of footsteps and Strahm’s heart leapt up into his throat, almost knocking him out in the process and he staggered to his feet, breath coming in blows to his sternum. Pushing and pulling him as he scrambled up and stood there, legs spread to try and steady himself if it wasn’t Brad stomping down the stairs, but someone else. Although, by the sound of the footsteps, it wasn’t Gordon. His gait had taken on a different rhythm with the prosthetic. So, either it was Brad come to deliver him, at best, an easily incapacitated body to lower onto the floor with the key for his chains hidden neatly in his jeans pocket. Or, at worst, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Even if the latter would at least keep him going until he could find another way to get himself out of his binds. 

A saw lay threateningly off to where Gordon’s foot had melted into a shrivelled piece of skin. 

He wasn’t taking that route. Not if he could help it. 

The door lurched open and with a bright fluttering sigh of relief from Strahm, Brad wandered in. Looking bewildered and tired, like he had just come out of the longest nap of his life. Perhaps the life he was being forced to lead by the doctor was catching up with him. Or perhaps he had simply just fallen asleep on a couch somewhere, an episode of Family Fortunes droning on in the background as he slept much easier than Strahm ever could down in his cage. 

“Sorry, man.” Brad lamented with all the apologeticness of a child who had just snuck a handful of biscuits from a jar. No regret in the tone at all. Nothing. “Doc wanted us to swap around. Ryan took babysitting you by sitting upstairs for a bit while I had to go and sit in the freezing fucking cold and watch the front door.” He scoffed, once more unaware that this wasn’t a casual conversation between friends at a coffee shop. However, if Strahm could keep up the ruse that they were friends, it might work all too well to his advantage. 

It was a little like the way that Strahm had learned to speak to people in general with Brad, vague interest and figuring the best time to nod and hmm and mmm. Catching Brad’s eye in a way that might suggest flirtation but really was because the strip lights in the room were like jagged bits of glass sliding into the pulp of his eyeballs after being lit under them for so many hours. He wanted a rest from them. Not to mention a rest from Brad trying to blink at him like a cow, slow, sluggishly meaningful glances like he was trying to catch a crushes eyeline in a school room. 

Brad spoke for ten minutes unrestrained about the woes of being akin to a hired goon and just adjacent to what could only really, slightly ungraciously, be described as a paid companion. Whether that actually included fucking was truly yet to be seen. Brad’s face when it was brought up almost gave it away, but Strahm couldn’t quite make up his mind about the relationship between the two men and Gordon to be entirely presumptuous about it. For all he knew they could simply offer their shoulders to cry on when the doctor got too down in the dumps about becoming yet another heir to the Jigsaw lineage. But, they also could be performing strange sexual dances for him behind closed doors too, it was a bit hard to tell. Not that the fucking was what Strahm protested, more so the replacement of some poor deceased kid by the two of them. That was the weird bit. 

When he finished, Brad stared unblinking at Strahm, mouth tucked into a small, patient smile. Like he was waiting for something. Anything. Rapturous applause perhaps? He seemed to want to be a performer and the dramatics he went to describe his descent into ‘this work’ would have fit better into the aesthetics of a diary room in an episode of that television show Big Brother . Because it was a performance. A cry for attention amongst rotten body parts and piles of grimes and dust. 

If this was the company that Gordon kept out of sheer desperation, Strahm almost felt bad for him. 

“Wow.” Strahm grit out, “That must be really hard.” He didn’t have time to beat about the bush, so followed it quickly with, “Hey, did you bring anything?” He tried not to sound too desperate, but coming up on three days with nothing to eat was beginning to battle suddenly with the fear that lurched around him like a train about to come off its tracks. Impending disaster just about kept in check, a thin line between catastrophe and being saved. 

“Sorry, man.” Brad looked flustered, hair a little limper than the last time. He’d obviously been napping a little, one side flatter than the other, “I couldn’t get anything to make a sandwich. But I found some crackers and fruit. Ryan doesn’t eat fruit, he’s doing this all protein diet. It’s bullshit.” He rolled his eyes, time spent with his co-conspirator to murder was beginning to grate on him, “Doc doesn’t eat here. He goes outside. I think he gets sick to be around this place. Bad memories, I don’t know. Anyway, I’ll go get them.” 

He slouched out of the room suddenly, leaving Strahm with his fingers so tight around the collar around his neck that his knuckles were white. Pasty and clammy against the cool bite of the metal. 

He left the door open. Just a touch. Enough that he could slip out of it to go and retrieve the food he had pilfered. 

Enough for Strahm to squeeze through as well. 

Hope ignited within him, and then was quickly abated by the ruffle of Brad’s hair as he almost immediately popped back into view, a sleeve of crackers and a single apple in his hands as he awkwardly shoved the door a little further open with his hip. Instantly regretting it as he pulled a face of pain at the metal doors heaviness against his bones. 

“I’ve thought about what you said—”

“And?” Strahm cut in quickly, eyes narrow as Brad shuffled closer, reticent and slow. Strahm was a caged tiger and Brad didn’t want to lose any fingers.

“I don’t know.” Brad breathed, “I’m not sure, dude.” 

He didn’t even spare Strahm the dignity of passing him the meagre amount of food, although it was something he should at least be mildly glad for at that point. Brad tossed them towards him, the crackers skittering against the floor and the apple rolling in the opposite direction so Strahm had to scramble around and pray that the fruit didn’t pick up any of the millions kinds of filth that festered on the tiling beneath them. In the commotion, Brad had drawn himself away, sequestered over in the opposite corner. Not near the door, that was at least true. Not slamming the thing in Strahm’s face and peeling away back to tell on him to Gordon. 

“I promise that what I’m telling you is true.” Strahm’s throat was ragged from the screaming and it hurt to lie so brazenly, like Hoffman might one day find out and chastise him for it. Or become upset. That would be even worse. “Thank you for the food. Honestly. Out of the three of you you’re clearly the only one with a sense of humanity.” It felt very strange to be speaking to someone the way that he was, Strahm never spoke with such gentleness to people who didn’t deserve it. It sounded theatrical, even to him, it all had done since he started trying to convince the kid. But Brad apparently hadn’t noticed. Dumb luck. 

“Doc has humanity.” Brad shrugged, hands in his pockets, “Ryan has humanity. There’s nothing wrong with us.” 

“No. No.” Strahm’s chest tightened, “But do you see them down here with me? You’re a good kid, Brad. I can untangle you from them. And maybe they don’t have to get hurt in the process. Don’t you want to save them from this?” He tossed a hand at Adam’s corpse. At the bathroom itself. 

Brad’s eyes went watery. He clearly wasn’t as enamoured with the life he was leading as one might think. 

“You’re good at this.” He wiped the cuff of his long sleeve over his eyes, scrubbing away the unfallen tears, “Good at convincing. Is that how you got away from Hoffman? Or did he just let you wander around downtown by yourself anyway?” 

“He kidnapped me. I don’t know what you mean.” Strahm didn’t sound very convincing at that moment.

“I don’t give a fuck. At this point, I really don’t give a single fuck.” Brad pointed a finger at Strahm, the digit shaking minutely, “I wouldn’t even be here if your stupid boyfriend hadn’t killed that lady. You think me or him want to be Gordon’s side-kicks?” He made a noise like his whole body was deflating, “I don’t want to hurt people. He said he’d help us through everything. We watched our girlfriend die and it was our fault. We made that choice because we were angry and bitter. Doc said he could help. But he just wanted us to do the things he couldn’t.” 

He was beside himself, shaking and dribbling tears and snot down his face. 

If Strahm had to think about it, it was one of the most awkward moments of his life. 

He dragged himself to his feet again, carefully placing down the life-line of food that had been thrown his way as he murmured softly, 

“This is why you need to help me.” His fingers wrapped around the collar, “You need to find the key for me. I can feel the lock. There’s a key somewhere.” 

Brad was still verging on hysterical, the weight of his actions over the past however many months dawning on him as he shot terrified looks around the room until he settled on Adam’s body once again, breaths coming in short sharp puffs that rattled him to the core as he rasped out, 

“That’s going to be me, isn’t it? He’s going to leave me down here when you and Hoffman are dead. He’s going to leave me in the fucking dark with Ryan because he doesn’t need us anymore and—”

“Brad.” Strahm’s voice was firm, “Brad. Walk to me.” 

Strahm felt weak in that bathroom. Tired and sore. Hungry. Thirsty even with the water that flowed from the tap. 

But if consoling a wailing young man was what it took to get himself free, he’d make himself strong for him. 

Hesitantly Brad wobbled over, the bottom of his socks looked dirty. He’d not been wearing shoes in the rooms above it seemed. The rest of his clothes looked just as sad and well worn, like he’d been sleeping in them since Strahm got there. 

“You need to get me the key.” Strahm repeated, trying to drill it into his head, “I told you. You can be the hero here.” Brad was close enough that he could touch his shoulders, feel the tremors running through his body. It only took a second, but Brad’s eyes drifted lazily to Strahm’s face and something opened up further, his mouth twisting into a grimace of pure misery as he continued to cry. 

“He was nice. But he doesn’t care, you know?” His eyes fell, “It’s like he’s stuck down here.”

Strahm nodded stiltedly. He could understand that. Some parts of him felt stuck in the water cube. 

In the coffin. 

“It’s his fault.” 

For a moment Strahm assumed Brad was speaking about Gordon himself, but then he looked down and saw his hand, almost bound to his side with an invisible rope, pointed at Adam’s corpse behind him. The shame and blame directed onto a man that in all likelihood might have gotten on with the two young men, given the fact they were around the same age. 

“Okay,” Was all Strahm could manage to say, the full body rigidity that had come over him as a consequence of the man displaying such open emotion in front of him was staggering. He used to clam up like that all the time as a younger person. Unable to get a read of what to say. How to hold himself. How to make them feel better. He’d learnt with age the rules for it all, but with Brad standing in front of him, tears tracking down his face, he felt very young again. Unable to understand why his sister was upset with him. His friends. His mom. 

“You seemed cool. I don’t know. Nice, maybe.” Brad murmured, Strahm’s hands still on his shoulders.

“You barely know me.” It wasn’t the right thing to say in the orbit of Strahm’s intentions to (borderline) seduce the man with pretty ideas of heroism and perhaps even prettier ones of his interest in him. 

“You just—” He made a noise of agitation and Strahm quickly abated it by squeezing his shoulder, grounding him “—You seemed like an okay guy. If a little standoffish.” Strahm nodded as if to accept that, because the kid was, annoyingly, right, “So, I’ll help you.” Brad looked a mess as he gazed up at Strahm, “If you help me.” 

“Yeah.” Strahm smiled, his lips feeling tight and cracked, making it into the hardest gesture to pull off sincerely, “That’s the plan.” 

“Witness protection. Hush money. I want a new apartment.” Brad muttered, “You promise you can do that for me?” 

Strahm nodded, “Of course. Yes.” 

“And maybe I could see you?” Brad’s voice was misguidedly hopeful. It was sad. 

“Yeah. I think so.” Strahm did his best impression of a man wow-ed at the chance to become entwined in the life of a twenty-something, and not someone who desperately wanted to get the fuck out of that bathroom and go home to his partner. Brad probably just wanted a friend. Someone to spend time with that wasn’t the other two.

It also stuck with him long after Brad had retreated out of the room, having wiped his face with his sleeve again and agreed that he would find the key for the collar, that Gordon was pumping his own special brand of neuroses into the two of them all in the name of burgeoning the fires of his own problems. Stoking the flames to drive himself, and now those two, mad. All in the name of self-serving guilt, soaking inside of his chest cavity while he knew exactly where Adam lay. Knew exactly where he could find the root cause of his need to surround himself with broken boys, fresh from the abattoir and still soaked from head to toe in the blood of their girlfriend. He probably set up their trap himself and Strahm didn’t want to think about what they might have had to go through. He’d never looked it up, not out of ignorance that they might not have been in a trap, but because he didn’t want to know anymore about traps and games and ringmasters. 

Gordon and Hoffman were probably more similar than either of them ever wanted to know.

Strahm’s mind supplied, incredibly unhelpfully, a snapshot of Angie before he could squeeze his eyes shut and tear the picture from his head manually. It was a disingenuous and terrible route to go down, for him to start wondering the possibilities of replacements. Brad and Ryan. Amanda. Him. It wasn’t real. Just the way that the mind worked when forced to sit with nothing but your thoughts, as well as the thoughts of a young man full of grief for his current affairs, but it wasn’t genuine. 

Strahm’s stomach hurt. Not hunger, as he had already torn open the packet of crackers and devoured one by the time Brad had locked the door. 

It was the same needful ache that had made a bed for itself in his guts after eating the photo of Mark. 

He missed him. And wanted him more than anything in the world.

He looked at his watch; three days. Bang on the mark. 

He’d give Hoffman until five days before he started to really get upset.

~

There was no sign of Brad for a good long while, only the tip-tap of footsteps up above, sounding too far away. Like the chance to fulfil this terrible, stupid plan was drifting out of Strahm’s reach by the second. Then, those seconds became minutes, then hours. The rope slipping through his hands as he felt himself falling into the pit that Gordon had hoped he would tumble into when he put him down there as bait. It was one thing to be a prisoner, it was another entirely to be used to entice someone who you thought loved you, but hadn’t appeared. Because Strahm knew he would cause ruckus and hell when he did appear, tearing through anything that got in his way until he could burst through the door and scoop Strahm into his arms. 

What a fucking joke, right?

It was a nice fantasy, even if it was feeling underwhelmingly unreal at that point in time. 

Strahm, after about four hours of nibbling crackers and eyeing the single apple like it was ambrosia from heaven itself, tried his best to get himself comfy in the room that was all but bereft of any sort of comfort. Blaring lights above him and hard floors beneath him. His behind was all but numb from sitting on the tiles and whenever he shifted it just darted the pain to the other side of his ass, a cruel joke. 

This was his punishment. That’s all he could think as he sat there, twiddling his thumbs until Brad might return. Punishment for seeing any sort of sense in the idea of shacking up with Hoffman and tying a nice big bow around their lives as if that was the end of all of the madness that had come before, the final act of a play that he had no power of the inking of the words. This would probably be his last scene. A sad, slow eeking out of life if Brad didn’t resolve his own mental battles and throw Strahm the key. 

He didn’t know what he would do with the boy if and when he got his hands on that key. 

Kill him? 

He swallowed. 

He might. If it came to it. 

The apple provided a welcome respite from the finer details of escaping the most ridiculous and elaborate entrapment a group of people could contain a single man to. It really was clear this whole thing was a theatrical endeavour to Gordon when Strahm sunk his teeth into the foundations of it, mulling it over again and again. A radio production. Sound and voices for Gordon to smile and nod his head to. He wasn’t coming back down into the bathroom, that was for sure; not if he could help it. It was probably the only way for him to cope with it, distance yourself and create a fictional, false reality in which you create insane predicaments to enact violence. Why chain Strahm to a radiator in a regular building, or lock him in a normal room, when you could attach him with a metal collar like a feral animal to the room that the corpse of someone you will never get over in this lifetime or the next inhabits. 

Strahm had to laugh at that, quiet and raspy, one hand coming up to nudge at his chin, scratching the stubble. 

“Motherfucker thinks he’s Shakespeare.” He laughed again. 

Mark had never been one for theatrics, not in the traditional sense. Of course he loved film, even enjoyed on occasion musicals , but it all revolved around pushing himself into the couch in their living room with a beer and nothing much past that. Which was absolutely fine with Peter, if he had to drill the point any further of how their love of film was basically the cornerstone of their relationships he would end up talking until blue in the face. It hadn’t translated at all into when he had bought them tickets to an am-dram production of Waiting for Godot, performed at the Curtain Call in Braintree. Strahm had done the lighting for most of his highschools productions as a teenager and the shuffle of patrons and the shushing in the theatre halls before performances was something that delighted him, even up into middle-age it seemed. 

Strahm wriggled on the floor again, ass filled with static numbness which would surely lead into the worst pins and needles he’d experienced in a long while. 

Mark had joined him, begrudgingly, although beneath that he hadn’t been quite able to hide the fact that he had a certain sense of boyish glee at the idea of Strahm taking him on what seemed like a date. He’d worn a pair of black jeans that Peter had never seen before and most likely had been bought especially for the event, and a shirt that by the end of the night had found itself in a bundle on the bedroom floor. Despite the enthusiasm that shone through the new outfit, Hoffman’s attention had waned as the production had gone on, his body sinking into the seat as he peered, eyebrows furrowed, at the men on the stage. 

At the time, Peter had thought it was the perfect play for Hoffman, if a little on the nose with its themes when it came to the way that Mark had decided to live his life over the last bundle of years. 

“It was alright.” Hoffman had shrugged after the show, Strahm having been almost three hours into a headache because why wouldn’t Hoffman love every single thing that he loved? “Kind of boring.”

The comment had made Strahm laugh right in Hoffman’s face, then have to power walk after him as he stalked back to the car in a righteous grump. 

“Sorry!” Strahm had called after him, “It’s just really funny. You’re funny. I’m going to jot that one down though, Waiting for Godot is boring. You’re an intellect, man.”

Hoffman had turned down every offer to see any other theatre production after that. 

It was basically the most contrarian thing he could do, and hypocritical, considering the fact he had gone out of his way to create umpteen, radically different, absolutely crazy traps in which to perform his little dance of deception and nasty, bad, evilness. 

Strahm snorted, finding comfort down in the depths of that bathroom in the memories of Mark’s foolishness, a trait he regrettably loved dearly. 

The apple was finished by that point, Strahm’s teeth aching with the energy it had taken to eat the damn thing, and he placed the core gently down to his side. A visual testament to the fact that he could convince Brad to help him. He could persist. He could get himself out of there. As silly as that all sounded. 

His head clunked against the bathtub once again, wondering how many days a sleeve of crackers would sustain him. 

He’d enjoyed that performance, in Braintree. He’d never seen a production of Waiting for Godot up until that point.

He imagined Adam turning fully to him and twisting his finger around his temple to suggest that Strahm was a complete and utter fucking lunatic. 

And you thought that play was on the nose for Hoffman? Sheesh. He might have said. I’ve practically got front row seats. 

Strahm had the strange urge to kick the pile of bones. He pushed it down.

~

Strahm had stopped checking his watch after too much longer, there was no real point, he would assume by his internal clock that an hour would have passed and then found as he gazed at the face of it that only twenty minutes or so had passed. So, he gave up on that one. There’s been training, a long, long time ago that, unfortunately for Adam, fared him a little better than the average man down in the bathroom, that was the only consolation prize to be won in the grand scheme of things. Putting an ex-FBI agent into any sort of tricky situation, the agent would have probably had to sit through some sort of seminar at the college at Quantico, someone leaning against a podium as they flicked images onto the wall behind them to drill into your head the person you were going to be from that point onwards. So as far as people thrown into what basically constituted an oubliette went, he was on the ‘more likely to survive’ end of the spectrum. Or, at least, more likely to not die from total panic and despair. It was astounding how the mind could corrode the body in some circumstances, so he tried his best to remain just this side of positive as he shook his legs around and tried not to let them go numb while he waited for Brad. 

He ate another cracker, wishing for the roast lamb that Hoffman had made one evening back in Quincy, with mint sauce and potatoes so crispy that Strahm had been borderline angry at how good they were. Mark was annoyingly good at too many things that weren’t in fact related to murder in any way. 

Drawing. Cooking. Fishing. Chatting to people as though he’d known them for a lifetime. 

That last one had afforded them some particularly lovely furniture from yard sales. 

Strahm snuffled a laugh, feeling a little dazed and disorientated, 

“Old queens.” 

The door opened. Gently and with Brad’s hands coaxing it to be as quiet as possible, the hinges looked like they needed to be oiled and it was a miracle that no one had heard the other times it had been open and shut. Although, Gordon probably wouldn’t have cared much if someone was sneaking down to feed Strahm through the bars of his cage, if he lived longer and kept up spirits then they’d have their bargaining chip for longer too. He imagined himself as a worm with a hook pressed through the middle of him, floating through a churning river, waiting for Hoffman to come and devour him, only to be wrenched up into the arms of the doctor anyway. 

“Did you get it?” Strahm sounded tired, washed out. Humans could survive for longer than you might expect in terrible situations and for all his faults he had been granted water, a big proponent to being alive, and food, even if it was in small quantities. But Strahm was tired . Right the way down to the molecules and atoms that had pieced themselves together into a man whose main desire after everything:

Hoffman, Jigsaw, Perez, Erikson, Amanda, Adam, Gordon, 

Was simply to put his feet up and watch a movie.

Brad nodded, looking white as a sheet, 

“Took ages, man.” He didn’t elaborate past that, which was fine with Strahm, less needless talk and more action. 

“Come here.” Strahm flapped a hand, gesturing for Brad to shift himself over to him and he did, dutifully fulfilling his end of the bargain as he marched towards Strahm with his fist clenched around what he hoped was the key for the collar. The lock of it jangled behind him tantalisingly, taunting him with fantasies of the click of the mechanism as the metal peeled away from his sore skin and clattered to the ground triumphantly. 

“You need to be quiet.” Brad murmured, “Ryan is upstairs.” His eyes followed Strahm as he agonisingly pulled himself to sit on his knees, hands flat on his thighs in the promise of being good and not biting the hand that feeds. 

Well. Even good handlers get bitten sometimes. 

And Strahm bites. 

“Okay.” Peter whispered, hands sweating where they lay still on his thighs, “But be quick.” 

“Oh, don’t you fucking worry. I will be.” Brad rounded him but Strahm stopped him with the soft flat of his palm. 

“Wait. I want to do it. Is that alright?” He opted for a kind sincerity to his words, eyes big and placid as he tugged Brad back to his front by the fabric that lay atop his shin, the denim feeling like victory under his skin, “Please. For my own peace of mind. I want to unlock it.” 

Brad mulled it over for a very brief moment before crouching down, then sliding onto his knees to mirror Strahm. An equal exchange between the two of them. Or so he seemed to think. 

“Yeah. That’s okay.” His eyes flickered back and forth between the door, “But really, you need to hurry up. There was a load of commotion at a warehouse that Kramer owned, your lunatic boyfriend burnt the place down. He probably was mad about the note I left.” 

“Note.” The exchange of the key had slowed and Strahm had to pry open Brad’s hand to get to it, not even beginning to truly process what he had just said about Hoffman, “Wait. What? What do you mean?”

“Doc was getting a little impatient. So he sent me out to try and coax Hoffman out. Turns out he didn’t need a nudge and he was just—I don’t know—getting himself ready.” He looked sheepish suddenly, “I think we just pissed him off. It’s why we need to be quick. He’ll be here at some point.” 

Strahm’s head swam with possibilities, all leading to the end point that was ‘he’s coming to get me, he’s really fucking coming to get me’. His hands even sweatier as he fiddled around with the lock behind his neck, the angle uncomfortable and awkward to get at it properly. Not to mention the fact he was sore and exhausted. 

The lock pinged open.

“Oh, shit.” Brad grinned. 

Then, Ryan appeared at the door, sweating and red in the face. 

It was a bit saddening, to hear the way that Brad’s breath got sucked back up into his body as Strahm, free from the collar around his neck, tugged the chain around Brad’s throat and pulled him up and into him. Using the force of it to gather both of them to their feet, Brad’s soles, clad in socks still, slipped and slid against the tiles as he gagged and gulped. Fear and confusion painting his face into an ugly shade. 

“Brad!” Ryan yelped in such a way that might have been comical if it weren’t for the circumstances of the yelp. He took a step forward and Strahm’s hands tightened, just enough for him to see and Brad to gurgle a noise as Ryan looked dumbstruck and maybe a little bit upset, “Brad what the fuck did you do?” 

“You should walk away, Ryan.” Strahm’s body was begging for more water, he’d all but forgotten to drink over the last few hours and it was coming back to bite him in the ass as he snapped at the boy in the doorway, tongue feeling acrid and sandpapery inside his mouth, “I’ll let Brad go if you let me walk out.”

Brad’s hands scrambled for the chain around his gullet, attempting to drag it off and away from him but even with his waning body, Strahm was stronger. More adept at holding himself firm. He wished he had his gun but this would do for now. 

“You’re fucking insane.” Ryan laughed, cheeks pulled up into a manic smile, “He’s an animal. Gordon said—he said he’s an animal and I think you think you’re in control of him but you’re not.” He shook where he stood, shivering from the ratty blonde hair on the top of his head down to the black, dirty boots he had on. Ready to run at a moment's notice. 

“I’ll put Brad down. Just move out of the way.” 

“I don’t care what you do with Brad.” Ryan’s lip did a strange dance around his mouth, quivering like he was holding back a slew of expletives or maybe a torrent of tears, “He fucked my girlfriend.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Strahm sighed, “Really? Jesus. Okay.” 

Frat boy drama could end his life. That was a new one. 

A sound went off, near Ryan’s hip. As it did at Brad’s too. When Strahm reached a hand down and found a hospital issued pager hung off of his jeans, blaring a tinny sound into the room and when Strahm peered at the text that appeared, it was bracketed quickly by Ryan making a noise from the doorway, something akin to a whimper as he stared at his own and said with a voice so tight it almost mimicked the sounds that were leaving Brad, 

“Oh, fuck. He’s in the house.” 

They all stood there, completely silent except for the sound of their laboured breathing, and it must have been at least five minutes of this unnerving stand-off between the three of them. Ryan was clearly completely terrified, it wasn’t often you got to stare death in the eye more than once. The trap and now Hoffman. Strahm wasn’t sure what was worse and that made him laugh at the tail end of their silence. 

“You made peace with the fact following Gordon has royally fucked you?” He said, snideness coming easily.

A hand found Ryan’s shoulder from the darkness behind him, the lights in the hallway leading to them had been turned off it appeared, perhaps to keep Hoffman from sniffing them out all too quickly. Although, that was a false hope if Strahm ever knew of one, you didn’t send a terrier down a dark, dingy rat hole and expect them to come out with nothing between their teeth. Hoffman could see in the dark. Hoffman could smell blood. 

“Deal with him.” Gordon murmured into Ryan’s ear, sending the boy to what was probably certainly doom and the look on Ryan’s face suggested that he knew that, but he scampered off all the same, footsteps echoing down the hall as Gordon stepped further into the bathroom.

Chapter Text

Gordon’s face fell grave and stricken with a barely disguised fear as his eyes understood what was in front of him as Strahm held onto Brad as tight as he possibly could without killing the boy. 

Maybe he did care for the boys. Not that it really mattered.

Not anymore. 

“I had a feeling you’d do something exciting.” Gordon leaned on his cane, overcoat off completely and it left him in a dark red jumper and corduroy pants, comfortable clothing for what he surely has assumed would be another easy day of waiting around to murder a man. It was odd to see him in something that Strahm considered all-too-human clothing, he’d rather imagine him in slightly ill-fitting scrubs (despite the fact that Strahm was sure Gordon hadn’t worn scrubs to work in a long time with how high up in oncology he was) or a much better fitting suit. With a waistcoat. Prick. 

“In-house entertainment sucked, what else was I meant to do?” Strahm kept his eyes from rolling as he shot it back at the doctor. 

“There’s three of us and two of you, so put Brad down. It’ll be easier.” Gordon’s foot tapped against the tiles, irritated now. His tone was that of a father reasoning with his child who had stolen another boy's toy. Put it down. Play nicely.

“I’d say it’s more like two of you.” Strahm’s hands pulled on the chain and Brad let out a noise that set the hair’s on Strahm’s arms on end, a gurgle that staggered its way out of him and if he were facing the young man, he might have seen the way his eyes widened painfully and his hand scrambled up to try to pry away the metal from the brittle skin of his throat. 

The sound was horrible. Gut wrenching.

Something changed in Gordon all of a sudden at the advent of the sound, the terror that he had barely fought to contain was unleashed into a pure expression of fear and it warped his face into something that was closer to the theatrical than real life. His body lurching forward into the stark lights of the bathroom and as he did Strahm could see the sweat that pebbled at the very top of his forehead. Bringing it alive with human emotion that Strahm wasn’t all too sure that Gordon could experience. His cane wobbled as he moved, finding purchase on the grimy tiles and it slipped once into the divot of a grouting line, the hard rubber of the bottom making a squeaking noise as it went and Strahm was poised ready to catch the man if he tumbled. But just like the way he had risen with a grunt from the bench when they had met all those months ago with great effort, it wouldn’t have been an action of pity, but a human need to help. Even in the face of Gordon’s unbridled wrong-doing, Strahm just wanted to help. 

It shocked him and made him shudder in disgust. He shouldn’t be finding an iota of care within himself for the man, but the pale look that crossed his features along with the bowing of Gordon’s body under the weight of his fear for Brad, it was hard to not dredge up some sort of feeling for him. 

That was until he put a shaking hand up to his mouth, looking as though he’d seen a ghost and then gasped, with all the trepidation of a man who for all extents and purposes had seen a ghost,

“Adam.” 

“You motherfucker.” Strahm barked it out with a crispness to it that suggested he was almost on the cusp of laughter. A shocked laughter, but laughter nevertheless. 

“Adam.” It was weaker the second time, dribbling out of Gordon like the feeble drip of an old tap, a pathetic sound as his eyes stared through Brad and Strahm. The gaze petered off into the distance and if Strahm had moved he was under no doubt that he would have fallen straight into the arms of the corpse that lay tattered on the floor. He might have melted right into the marrow that was left of Adam if it weren’t for the whimper that left Brad that seemed to break him out of his trance, although only just enough to draw some respectability back into himself and straighten up his back, even if the weight on the cane before him was clearly enough that it looked like it was beginning to buckle. Just slightly. 

Clarity was a hell of a thing and the way it passed over Gordon was less like a gentle trickle of feeling and more like a great gushing flood that had his face turning bright red, a shining beacon in the midst of a moment of time that was maybe one of the most turbulent times of his life. Bar, of course, his previous encounters in the bathroom. 

“I’m—I’m sorry.” He gasped and Strahm felt his own hands loosen on the chain around Brad’s throat, a very sympathy for the devil it would seem, “Brad.” The name sounded strange in Gordon’s mouth, as though it had never once been tasted by his tongue in such a reverent and careful way. 

“I’ll kill him.” Strahm’s hands didn’t match his words as they peeled away even further, feeling Brad go lax in his grasp and he didn’t want to give it away that he had quite likely passed out. Either through lack of oxygen or from fear itself, Strahm wasn’t sure, but he used every last ounce of strength in his body to keep the fully grown man upright against him. Knees and back and everything else protesting with screams of agony, but it paid off almost instantaneously as Gordon rushed forward, pure dread and panic moving his legs a few steps forward. 

“Don’t.” Gordon’s voice shook, a tremor that rattled all the way into the atmosphere, shaking the foundations of the bathroom to such a degree that the whole situation felt like it had been flipped on its head. Despite the man weighing him down, Strahm felt a surge of power flow through him and in that strength he made the decision to let Brad clatter to the floor. The sound of his flesh slapping against the tiles was loud and abrupt, echoing in a way that made Strahm’s teeth hurt and think back to every single time he had seen a dead body drop. All of the young man’s limbs in a heap as he lay bundled on the ground, looking a little bit blue at his lips and maybe Strahm had choked him a little bit too hard for a little bit too long. 

He might have assumed Gordon would throw himself to the ground with Brad, weeping and wailing as he let the phantom of Adam overtake the man who lay crumpled like a screwed up piece of paper on the tiles. Breathing, but just barely, the slight rise and fall of the t-shirt as it shifted on his back was at least a giveaway that Strahm hadn’t killed him, even though he might have threatened moments before. The gravity of it all dawning on him in a rush, even his own situation; thrust into a dingy bathroom to wither away like a princess trapped in a tower, waiting for an almost-charming prince to come and rescue him so that he could fall into the deepest pits of peril just the same. 

It was a dream-like situation to behold and an even dreamier one to be involved with, watching as Gordon blinked and gaped like a fish out of the water as he stared at Brad on the floor. The corners of the bathroom were hazy and foggy, although that may have been from lack of sleep and real nutrition, but it was a sight to behold as the man, who Strahm had truly begun to consider might be the one who would end his life, crept forward again, inching closer as Strahm tightened his grip on the chain which had tethered him to the wall only mere minutes ago. 

“I wanted to come back.” Gordon croaked, cheeks still red with embarrassment and shame, “I was going to come back for him.” He didn’t look at Adam’s corpse as he spoke but down at Brad instead, the glamour holding thick and fast onto his better judgement, “I couldn’t. I was too weak. I lost so much blood and I—”

It didn’t feel all too good to put his foot on Brad’s body, pushing down on his lungs with his sole as the young man below him wheezed out a puff of breath, a noise that made Gordon’s body tense up once again but made Strahm relax a little further. It was another sign that he wasn’t choking on his tongue or spewing vomit into his mouth to block his airways. But the action in itself was a dirty, malicious thing to do all the same, something that Strahm wanted to smack Gordon over the head with as another reminder that all this existed into the vacuum of his little game of life and death. 

Just like Hoffman. 

Exactly the same as Hoffman. 

If it weren’t for the methodical trickery that sounded all of them with the ultimate conclusion of pain, suffering and death, Strahm might have actually thought it would be therapeutic for all of them to go and have a beer. With all the discoveries of how similar the doctor and Hoffman were, it probably wouldn’t go amiss to tuck themselves into a booth somewhere and wile away the hours with tales of John Kramer’s greatest moments and biggest blunders. 

“You left him to rot down here because you couldn’t say no to Kramer.” Strahm said, keeping his voice calm and composed in the face of what could turn into Gordon drawing what might be the best concealed gun in the world on him. Or perhaps a knife. Or a syringe. He wasn’t too sure of the way the man might operate in that regard when it came to one on one, hand to hand combat. 

“No.” Gordon baulked, sounding very small. Nothing like the bravado and smugness he had ladened like treacle into his voice when Strahm had been chained up and he had sat facing him on that chair, a smile plastered to his chubby little cheeks, “That wasn’t it at all.” 

Steps resounded somewhere above them. Then, the clatter of something heavy falling. 

Strahm’s throat tightened and his belly ached. He had no doubt the way that everything would go, even if Gordon was the one true outlier to that situation in respect of the fact that Strahm couldn’t pin down how the man functioned at all. Ryan was a goner, that didn’t strike him as anything that could be contented with at that point. Poor, hapless Ryan was probably being thrown about like a ragdoll by the mighty heft of Hoffman as he held out his hand like he held the power of a furious God behind the action and throttled the young man until every last breath was taken from his lungs and blood dripped like a tap from his nostrils. 

Poor Ryan. 

But, Gordon was something else. He’d surprised Strahm enough times that it made him sick with nervousness. He would have been lying if he said that had any idea of the events that had taken place in the last seventy-two hours of his life, but something within him, even in the moments that befell him when the clawing notion that Hoffman might not have come for him, had crooned into the pulsing crater of his mind that he wasn’t going to be left in that bathroom. 

He wasn’t going to be left behind to be made a martyr by the ghost of John Kramer. Not like Amanda. Or Adam. God rest their souls in their tightly wrapped chambers of eternity where the devil himself, Jigsaw (the man and the concept), warped and twisted them into whatever shape he saw fit to mangle them into. 

All four of them in fact: Adanda, Adam, Gordon, Hoffman. 

Puppets to dance for the dollar of nothing but neverending pain and misery that they only knew how to perform again and again. Against each other. Against others. Against the world. 

Strahm knew, deep down in the blackest pit of his belly, that he wasn’t going to end up like that. 

And he certainly wasn’t going to let the remainders of the world’s least pleasant extended family fall to the devices of an idea that was completely shitty to begin with. 

A shadow moved behind Gordon’s left shoulder and all the breath left Strahm’s body in one fell swoop, rendering him imobile for the longest second of his life as the doctor went to twist his body to find out the identity of whoever it was lurking behind him, a flash of hopefulness finding his face in the hope it might be Ryan. But that was quickly quelled by the light shifting across the face of the only man in the world that Strahm might have thought was imbued with supernatural powers to survive any situation and come out the other side with barely a scratch. 

Well, that was until the unnatural light of the bathroom illuminated Hoffman’s face and Strahm could see that he was littered with dirt and dust, his hair shadowed almost grey with the amount that had been brushed into it. The bang above them was no doubt the culprit and as he took a step it shed from him, the tiny particles dancing down towards the floor with every new step he took into the space. With those steps, the air fled. Strahm could see it in the way that Gordon’s body rose up, trying to suck breath into it but Hoffman had left him bereft of the ability. Fear poisoning him in that particular way it did when you knew you had made the worst possible decision and the road you had picked to wander down might not lead to the place you wanted to be. 

Despite the fact that Ryan gave up more of a fight than Strahm may have first thought, the borderline heroic gait that Hoffman had to his steps was enough to suggest that Gordon might be wise to throw the first punch and to Strahm’s disbelief, the man did. He wound his elbow back and struck Hoffman with the throw of a man who had probably never punched another human in his life and the scrap that it incurred was frightening for all the wrong reasons. 

They were two men unleashed upon each other, Hoffman stumbling with the punch but only seemingly from the shock of it appearing to begin with. He clearly didn’t think that Gordon had it in him and he let out a small ‘ oof ’ noise when the hand struck against his cheek, but barely wavered in his stance. But after that, there were no rules and in a blur of shapes and colour in front of Strahm’s haggardly tired eyes, they set about attacking each other. Gordon trying his best and Hoffman giving his all. 

Strahm watched as Hoffman grabbed a handful of Gordon’s hair, yanking back his skull painfully and the doctor hissed and struggled against the grasp, writhing around until he could smash the wood of his cane into Hoffman’s shin and then as he tumbled back he clocked him in the nose, drawing a gasp out of the larger man and getting back in return a punch to his sternum that had him faltering to the ground in a heap. Much like an answer to Brad’s body as it still remained in a bundle on the floor in front of Strahm, an echo. 

Hoffman fell on him in a second, grabbing hold of Gordon’s ears and Strahm’s feet found they were rooted to the spot, unable to offer any sort of help to either man as Hoffman used the cold hard tiles as a stopping force to smash the back of Gordon’s skull into it as it offered the perfect end point to the journey of the motion. Sending Gordon’s eyes to dance about the room in a whir of pain and confusion, his hands flying up to try and shove Hoffman from him and reach for where his can had clattered only moments before. 

He still couldn’t move as it all unwound in front of him like a ball of string tumbling away from his hands, even though he might have wanted to reach out and drag it back to him. Strahm watched, as though in slow motion, as another blow landed on Gordon, his body shuddering underneath Hoffman as he continued to pin him down with the sheer weight of him and his face began to swell with the force of the hits. Billowing out and blooming with angry red welts of agony that lingered just below the thin skin of his eyes and cheekbones. 

There were no words exchanged between them. There didn’t need to be. 

Gordon didn’t offer any pleading up on a platter for Hoffman and neither did Hoffman give any sort of opening for the doctor to argue his case. There was no confusion as to why they were hammering at each other and no words were necessary in the most human but also deeply animalistic answer to any sort of wrong done by the opposite party. All that was left was the need to drive into each other until maybe all that was left was a bleak red stain smeared across the bathroom floor. 

Another hit landed. Then another. 

Hoffman’s eyes were wild, but the most terrifying part was that behind that wild frantic wideness to them was a blissful calm that had overtaken him. Once more, he knew the part he played, he had accepted the leading role of Jigsaw’s guard dog and when his teeth clamped down, there was nothing to draw him away from the scent of blood. Given Gordon’s almost sheer refusal to fight back in any meaningful way by that point, it seemed he was all too aware of Hoffman being the leading man all the same.

In hindsight, it could have been all part of the plan to distract Hoffman enough for his next move.

Gordon’s hand managed to worm its way silently into his trouser pocket, even through the barrage of punches, and the glint of the pocket knife was sharp against Strahm’s eyes and for the first time since the two men had started attempting to beat the shit out of each other, his legs suddenly felt like moving. Slightly too late it would seem as, driven to the kind of madness that Strahm had only seen from him in the shuddering wake of traps and games, Hoffman was too far lost in the tumbling sea of that wretched emotion to notice that Gordon had slid open the blade of the pocket knife and Strahm watched as he drove it into the meat of Hoffman’s thigh. Startling a great heaving shout out of Hoffman and he scrambled away from the man below him, knuckles bloodied and the relative quietness of the bathroom was stolen away by Gordon opening his mouth and shouting as loudly as he could, 

“Ryan!” 

The sound reached its fingers into the hallway that led from the bathroom, fizzling out into nothingness as nothing also was offered in return. No shout back from Ryan to signify that he was okay, no sound of him stumbling to his feet in the rooms above. Nothing. And that nothing dawned on Gordon like a ton of bricks as the fist holding the pocket knife shook violently on the floor, Hoffman’s blood leaving a trail towards his body as he dragged himself away from the blade. Like a cat hissing and spitting as it retreated from a battle of territories. 

Gordon launched at him when he truly realised that it was only him left in this fight, no lackeys to back him up and it had apparently lit a fire within him as he drove the knife into the nearest piece of Hoffman’s flesh he could. Slashing the material of his jeans as Hoffman tried to aim a kick to Gordon’s face and it was only then that Strahm intervened and in between the mad dash to pry him off of Hoffman, Gordon still managed to imbed the knife into the muscle of Hoffman’s calf. Drawing a guttural yelp from him even as Strahm caught Gordon around the neck and wrenched him backwards, smashing himself into the ceramic of the sinks behind him as he fell over his feet in an attempt to lift Gordon’s body off the ground to no avail. The sting of pain rattled through him and Gordon’s fingers dug into Strahm’s arm as he gagged and choked against it, fingernails scratching divots into his skin that were left red and raw from the force of it. 

Even through the pain of his back, not to mention the strain of being locked in a bathroom for three chains and chained to a wall, Strahm kept a tight hold on Gordon even through the pulses of energy that he exerted in a vain attempt to free himself. 

In the midst of the struggle, Strahm finally had the chance to cast his gaze across the bathroom and it was then that his eyes caught on Mark’s. 

They both inhaled at the same time. Mark’s mouth moved to smile and Strahm felt the ground fall away beneath them all.

Fuck. He had come.

Gordon writhed again and the joy that had grown within him was lost in an instant as Strahm brought his other hand up to secure his arm against his throat further, doing his absolute best to keep Gordon as far from Hoffman as he possibly could. Splitting up the fighting boys in the playground. He didn’t even feel the need to hurt Gordon himself past the inevitable chokes that slipped from him, quite frankly all he wanted in that moment was to slam the door on the man in his grasp and drag Hoffman away from everything that had anything even slightly to do with both of their less than salubrious side hustles.

“Stop.” Strahm hissed into Gordon’s ear as he held him still, watching as Hoffman yanked the knife from his leg, wanting to comment on how that was the worst thing to do with knife wounds but Hoffman would no doubt know that already. He could make his own choices and honestly Strahm could feel the unusual sensation of being afraid to speak to Hoffman creeping up the back of his spine. Like nerves on prom night. Making your tummy sick and your mouth go dry. He wanted to call out to Mark and ask him if he was okay but the sound lodged firmly in his throat, ripping it raw, the wound festering just above the tissue from his trach.

Luckily, Hoffman prised open the scar with abandon.

“You fucking idiot.” Hoffman couldn’t keep the laugh from his voice as he smashed his palm against the blood stemming from his leg, dragging himself to his feet.

“What?” Strahm rasped in return, brow furrowing as he frowned with the force of three days locked away from a man who made him frown more than anyone else on the planet. 

Hoffman rolled his eyes, using the wall behind him for purchase, 

“Not you, dumbass. Him.” He used a pipe as something to hang onto as he pointed the tip of Gordon’s knife towards him as he panted in Strahm’s grasp, “Put him on the ground. Put him down.” 

“But—”

“Put him down, Pete.” Hoffman wiped away sweat from his forehead and it left a sticky read smear across his skin, “He’s fucked it. Without those two he’s got no fight in him.” 

“Mark —”

Gordon went still. Placid. Temperament changing for the better. 

“Put him down.” Hoffman gestured once more with the knife and with all the apprehension of a man scorned at least thrice by Gordon and Hoffman’s specific brand of maniac, he let him tumble to the floor and as he went he heaved the biggest breath that Strahm had heard a man take. He watched as Gordon rubbed at his throat, coughing and hacking as he dragged air into himself, one hand propping himself up on the tiles. Then he did something that Strahm wouldn’t have imagined he ever might and he slowly, excruciatingly dragged himself over to where Brad lay on the floor, wincing in pain as his bad leg shot sparks of discomfort through his body. 

“What did you do to Ryan?” Gordon murmured after a few hot moments of silence, his hand pressing two fingers against Brad’s neck, feeling for a pulse and Gordon’s face brightened ever so slightly when he found it to be strong and forceful beneath his skin, “Did you kill him?” 

“Was this it?” Hoffman ignored the question entirely and that made cold hard dread break its way into Strahm’s body, “Two college kids and you ?” He said it as though it was the most incredulous thing in the world and when Strahm stopped to think, maybe it was. He could have laughed if he wasn’t so bone tired but he did at least manage a small rumble and when it left him, both men in the room peered at him like he’d grown another limb. 

“I made a promise to John.” Gordon wiped blood from his eyes and attempted to prop Brad up against him, “All your sneaking and conniving.” 

“Like I’m the bad guy here.” Hoffman snapped back, falling all too comfortably into the role of a man who for all appearances was having a simple and almost casual argument with a distant relative. 

Gordon’s face screwed up at that and Strahm was finding it harder and harder to believe that Hoffman had no idea that Gordon was also running around with the gaggle of other lunatics that looked to Kramer as a great leader. They revolved around each other in such a way that it boasted a certain sense of familiarity. 

Or perhaps that they just were injected with a particular je ne sais quois that you became irradiated with when you spent enough time lurking in the back of dank warehouses and wielding spanners as you tightened the bolts of the latest and grimmest murder machine. 

Hoffman spat out a token of blood onto the floor, his fingers pinched on his nose as he attempted to soothe the throb from where Gordon had whacked him with his cane, “Sneaking and conniving .” He spat again, “Stupid fucking—” He stuttered, dazed from the fight and if Strahm were to ask him later about it he might have admitted that he was scared shitless at the idea of losing him to a depressed middle-aged know-it-all with commitment issues and a dead toyboy “—Motherfucker.” 

Gordon squinted, mouth pulled down into a grimace, 

“Very clever.” His eyes remained firmly away from Adam, “Very fucking clever.” His composure was beginning to break it would seem, “You know, I always told John you were a waste of time and effort. Amanda was the brightest out of all of us.”

“I bet that keeps you up at night, doesn’t it.” A strip of Hoffman’s shirt was ripped off and he tied it around the worst of the stab wounds on his leg, “You were so fucking useful to Kramer that I apparently didn’t even get to be introduced to you.”

“Some of us like to work without any sort of fanfare or pat on the back.” Gordon shot back as quick as ever. 

“Oh, come on. You’re a doctor.” 

“And you were a cop.” 

It was the most insane situation Strahm had found himself in, two men battering each other, including the use of a sharp knife to create a new series of scars in Hoffman’s calf, and then bickering like kids. In the bathroom where one of them had previously hacked his foot off. With a kidnapped boyfriend. And one dead boy and one unconscious boy.

The laugh found its way out of him fully this time. 

“Holy shit.” Strahm’s hands went to his hair and he had half a mind to start tearing it out, “What are we doing? This is fucking madness.” 

Hoffman snorted a laugh at that, 

“No. You’re absolutely right.” Then promptly marched over and wrenched Brad from the ground and jabbed the tip of the knife into Brad’s neck, rousing him from his near-concussion and when his eyes opened they rolled around his head in a way that made Strahm feel sick with anxiety. Brad was dim. Brad had made bad decisions. But Brad was kind, down beneath it all. 

Gordon made a noise like a kicked animal and tried to drag himself closer to Hoffman’s looming figure, his hair falling about his forehead in greasy strands and chin tipped down to sneer at Gordon like the ground was the only space he saw fit for the man to occupy. Clearly disgusted with the man before him, but the wetness that adorned the rims of his eyes maybe might lead someone to believe that there was a hidden disgust lingering inside of Hoffman for himself. Detachment from the monster he had long since created with the catalyst that was Angie’s death. 

It was one thing for Strahm to threaten violence towards Brad but this was an entirely different kettle of fish and the further the tip of the pocket knife drove itself into Brad’s neck the more Gordon looked like he was about to explode with terror. Face still covered with painful welts from the beating Hoffman had given him and how exactly he was able to see clearly from the black eyes that were going to be forming in the next day or so, Strahm couldn’t say. The haze that weighed him down was heavier than any bruise or beating though as Gordon, with shaking fingers reaching towards Brad like he was the final prize, murmured in a voice stricken with the only kind of pain a man who had lived his experiences could muster, 

“Adam . No .” 

Christ. There it was again.

That croak from the man slumped on the floor fuelled a fire within Hoffman that Strahm hadn’t seen in a long time. 

He didn’t like it. 

Maybe he should have mentioned Gordon’s almost self inflicted delusions.

“That’s fucking rich.” Hoffman’s hand shook as he laughed and the slick of blood that dribbled from Brad’s neck was stark against his pale, almost grey, skin, “That’s just perfect.” He laughed again, grasping the back of Brad’s tufty hair, “You fucking people and your funny little twists.” He punctuated the sentence with a twist of the knife and Gordon's face went as grey as Brad’s was.

Clearly the visions of Adam hadn’t left him after the beating as much as Strahm hoped it would.

“Stop it.” Gordon gurgled, the fight lost from him entirely. 

“All for Jill Tuck?” Hoffman sneered, the scar on his face almost glowing under the lights, “Nothing to do with the fact you left him and Kramer didn’t give a shit. Didn’t care even though you asked him to. Probably begged him to let you go and get him. But, no, that wasn’t part of the test, was it? Amanda did the kid a bigger favour than you ever did him and she killed him.” 

Hoffman’s hand tightened once more in Brad’s hair and the man looked younger than ever in his grasp as his head was yanked back, on full display, lamb to the slaughter in front of Gordon’s bulging eyes as he babbled about how sorry he was and how he wished Adam would forgive him. Adam. Adam, please. Adam. Don’t hurt Adam.

Brad had been snivelling for about as long as he had regained full consciousness, driven to dry sobs by Gordon’s insistence on not seeing him as a whole person but clearly as a ghost formed from the festering remains of a situation and relationship between two people that would have never functioned in any sort outside of the four walls of that bathroom. 

It might have been miserable to see and hear for Brad. Even more so than the sensation of Hoffman’s keen hand driving the knife into his delicate skin. 

To live in the shadow of someone else. 

Strahm had called it though, sadly. 

“Mark.” Peter’s voice was strained, even at a whisper, and he watched as Hoffman swung his head round, dazzled by the bloodlust that cruised around his veins at the speed of light, leaving him incapable of anything but panting like a madman and shaking at the wrist where the knife was clasped so hard that his knuckles were white. 

“What?” He barked back, voice clipped and rough. 

“You’re hurting him.” Strahm took a wobbling step towards the scene of hapless creatures all huddled around each other, “Put the knife down.”

“Of course I’m hurting him.” Hoffman almost sounded offended at the idea that he might not be causing another human being pain, “Sorry?” He tilted his head, inhaling deeply through his nose, like he was trying to suck in some understanding from the air itself, “Did you forget that they kidnapped you and stuck you down here for days, or is that something I should just be overlooking? Thanking them for?” 

“Put the fucking knife down.” Strahm snapped, anger lacing his veins with a heat that made him stalk forward until he was close enough that he could smell the fear emanating off of Brad in thick waves that burnt his nose and made his eyes sting, “Please.” That was softer. Gentler. As he extended his arm and drifted his fingers around Hoffman’s hand, slowly, as not to startle him and have him drive the knife into Brad’s jugular and spray Gordon with a torrent of blood that, if he weren’t already completely traumatised by the harrowing experience all those years ago, he would be from the next one. 

Mark allowed Peter to tug his hand away, his skin rough and warm beneath Strahm’s palm and Jesus he had missed him. Only three days away and even in the face of a series of events that was simultaneously more frightening and also more stupid that anything he had ever experienced even in the deepest, blackest pits of what FBI agent work could dredge up, he missed Hoffman more than anything he might have ever missed in the entirety of his forty four years on the planet. 

“No more.” Peter murmured, dragging the pocket knife into his own hand and holding it firmly away from Hoffman, “No more, okay?”

He didn’t need to explain himself further than that. He didn’t particularly want to either. It might have set the situation off into another bout of ridiculous tumbling around and punching, culminating in Gordon potholing Hoffman with even more stab wounds and Hoffman tearing Gordon’s ears straight off of the side of his face.

Brad made a choking noise in front of them, a wretched gurgling noise that had nothing to do with the fact he’d had cold steel jabbed into him, moreso driven to the sound by Gordon gripping the bottom of his jeans and attempting to drag him down to his level. Nose crusted with the blood that Hoffman had eked from it with his series of punches and mouth warped into the perfect picture of body compounding misery as he tried his hardest to dig his shaking fingers into the fabric that was clad around Brad’s shivering knees and pull him down. Instead, Brad, still crying big fat angry tears, wrenched Gordon to his feet by his armpits and set him to his feet. His hand jutting out to allow Gordon to hold onto him for support, his bad leg at such an angle that suggested that he needed to readjust the strappings on his prosthetic, as though dragging himself around the floor had misaligned it. 

Hoffman’s nostrils flared at the sight of Gordon up and Peter was quick to quell it with a hand to the small of back, which then turned into a fist as he grabbed a handful of his clothing and pulled him further away from the two men in front of him. 

“I mean it.” Peter said, voice absolute, “No more.” Adam’s withered, incredibly small seeming, body was sharp in his vision from behind Gordon and Brad, “We won’t be back to New Jersey.” The knife remained in his hand as he spoke, as did Hoffman’s wrist, even though he could feel the beads of sweat forming and smearing around the back of that wrist as he hung onto it like a lifeline. And a tether. And a leash. 

“No.” Gordon gasped, finally finding a sensible voice, “No, you won’t.” He cleared his throat, “Brad.” It was an instruction. 

“I don’t want to.” Was the insolent answer to it from Brad. 

Gordon’s head flung to face him so fast his hair was whipped even further from its containment of wax, already ruffled beyond its usual slicked back appearance from the fight with Hoffman,

“He killed Jill Tuck.”

“I don’t fucking know who that is!” Brad all but screeched, still keeping Gordon upright despite the fact he could have very well let him crumple to the floor again, “I don’t know her or John Kramer. I don’t know whoever the fuck that is.” He pointed a finger at Adam’s corpse, “Not really.” The last part was semi-whimpered and the sound must have gone straight to the better part of Gordon’s conscience because he began nodding at such a rate of knots that any quicker and he might have developed whiplash. 

“They’re going.” Brad begged, “Okay? They’re going. Let them go.” 

Strahm could hear the underlying thought pinned to the wobble of Brad’s words as they left his mouth. 

Let them go. Let it all go. Let Adam go.

Strahm raised the knife, as slowly as he possibly could, a defence and not a threat, 

“All of this. It’s going to get you nowhere.” He attempted to direct that comment to both Gordon and Hoffman at the same time, “We’ll go.” He swallowed, thinking about the flowers in their front yard and the smells of coffee in their kitchen in the early morning, “Who the fuck do you even answer to anymore now that he’s gone? Huh?” His hand shook from the simple exertion of holding the knife up for more than a few moments, “What’s the end of this? I have a family. What if they found out you killed me? What if they killed your wife, Lawrence?”

At the mention of Alison, Gordon’s eyes looked panicked, even though the words that scraped from him were, 

“My ex-wife.”

It reminded Strahm of himself. Annoyingly. And it hurt a little to say what he said next. 

“You have a kid, right? What about your daughter?”

Gordon’s face went even paler, if that was possible, and he bent at the waist in Brad’s arms. Pitching himself forward as he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, as though he had never once thought that the claws of this misdoings would extend to his family. As if it hadn’t happened before. Memory was a hell of a thing, you forgot what you wanted and you lived what you needed to get you through. 

Lawrence Gordon was not a well man. 

That much was simple to see. 

“We’ll go.” Negotiating was never one of Strahm’s true abilities, impatience a ticking clock in his head, counting down to the moment he lost his cool and blurted out something that would set him down a route that would inevitably blow the whole thing. Even with years of learned experience on the job. It didn’t come naturally. But he could adapt. Now that he could see the ever growing cracks in Gordon’s facade, peeling away the paint like the railings in his house in the dream, he could see the colours underneath the man that suggested he wanted none of this. He probably didn’t even know Jill Tuck any closer than you might know a passing acquaintance. Did they speak? Did they laugh together?

Strahm doubted it.

But the threat of a ghoulish John Kramer and his requests to fulfil evil actions even after the grave was a frightening one, even for a man of Gordon’s constitution. 

“We’ll go.” Strahm would keep repeating himself until all the fight in Gordon was lost. Soaked up into Brad who would in turn change it into a comfort that the doctor perhaps hadn’t seen since his test. Who was there even to hold him after he was flung back into the real world. 

He didn’t expect Kramer to be the kind of man to hug his apprentices and say, ‘Good work, champ. Let’s go toss around the old pigskin.’

“I don’t want to see either of you.” Gordon whispered, looking defeated. A strange icon in the midst of the bathroom, and as Gordon sank further into Brad’s arms he morphed into a perfect visage of a Pietá. The steps he had taken in the St. Peter’s Basilica when he was a teenager echoed through Strahm’s mind and if it hadn’t been for the hand tucked into the small of Hoffman’s back, still gripping his shirt, he might have faltered a little. Memory and hunger flowing in waves over him. As well as sympathy. A deep driven sympathy for every single flawed and hurt man stood in that room. 

“You won’t. You won’t see us again.” Hoffman spoke that time, voice low and agreeable, but even then Strahm could see how Gordon’s face sunk into a frown. 

“He never trusted you.” It wasn’t hard to understand who Gordon meant.

“And did you trust him?” Hoffman shrugged, tired now, “Did you ever truly believe anything he said?” 

“He saved me.” Gordon didn’t sound convinced. 

“And all it took was a twenty-five year old to die in your place.” Hoffman hissed.

“Stop.” Strahm snapped, unwilling to let it descend any further into the philosophical cesspit that was anything to do with post-Kramer lives, “Both of you fucking can-it.” He let go of Hoffman, hand shaking with nerves and stomach currently somewhere in his ass as he left the warm, safe space around his partner and it was one, two, three, four long steps until he was close enough that he could pick Gordon’s cane off the ground, the wood cool and smooth in his grip. 

He offered it up to the man like the only symbol of peace that would ever befall that horrible room. Tinged with the smell and splatter of blood and tears and sweat. An olive branch. A white flag. 

“Please. Take it.” Strahm murmured, “You need to reset your nose and I need to bandage up his leg. I want to go home.” It took everything in him not to whimper as he spoke. Because he did. He really did. “Brad, can you look after him if we—you know—” He jammed a thumb towards the door as if he were at a friend's house and ready to leave after watching the big game.

“Yeah. Okay.” Brad sounded a thousand miles away as Gordon leant himself onto the cane, one hand on Brad’s shoulder still though. Fingers pressed tight into the fabric of his shirt. The shirt itself had a video game’s logo splayed across it. Strahm hadn’t noticed it until that point and when he blinked at Brad, catching his eye, he realised how young he truly looked. No lines beneath his eyes, not a single sign of grey hair. Just deep purple bags that slept beneath his terrified eyes, weary from the last few days no doubt.

He could have killed him. 

Strahm couldn’t hold it in any longer and he blurted out weakly, 

“I’m sorry, Brad. I’m sorry.” 

What a sight. What a scene. Four men stood around like lemons with corpses surrounding them. 

Brad’s bottom lip trembled, making him look even younger and, Oh God, Strahm wanted to gently tuck Adam into his arms and place him in the back of his car and bury him. Tossed to the side as they fought amongst themselves for petty, historic reasons. He was a victim in all of this. As was Brad. As was Gordon. 

And Hoffman too. 

And him. 

“It’s okay.” Brad mumbled, embarrassed by Strahm’s trickery, but glad to hear it nevertheless. 

“You won’t come back.” It wasn’t a question from Gordon but a hard-line fact, “You’ll stay away from Jersey. You won’t hurt myself or Brad. Or Ryan.” The latter name was almost an addendum and as Gordon spoke he looked to Hoffman as one might look at a beast about the pounce; apprehension and fear dotted across the planes of his face. Until Hoffman nodded quickly, keeping the roll of his eyes tucked away. He knew not to upset the incredibly delicate balance of the situation any more than he had already jangled it by storming in and smacking Gordon around.

“You and Brad will be completely ignored.” Hoffman smiled in that way that was wholly unnatural, mouth pulled tight across dry lips, looking almost painful, “And Ryan.” 

The unspoken if he’s alive was almost a shout.

“And you’ll bury Adam.” Brad piped up all of a sudden and it made Gordon frown deep enough that it looked like the lines would forever remain on his face. Gouged into him.

“You’re not making the demands here.” Gordon breathed, a simple explanation rather than a chide against the man. 

“No. No, he’s right.” Strahm breathed, thinking of the small man crumpled on the floor, a phantom bag around his head as he smiled and never got to see the light of day ever again, “Bury him.”

Gordon’s face shifted through about four different expressions, barely staying on one long enough to make him look even a little bit human, rather he looked like the facade of a man pushed into the crevices of what used to be. Overwrought. Exhausted. Miserable. Strahm could go on and on with the descriptions as Gordon bore holes into the two of them with his eyes when he had settled on his final expression; a calm, quiet acknowledgment. An understanding. 

A deal had been reached. 

“Will I be burying Ryan too?” Gordon clung to Brad still, knee at an odd angle. 

The question was a pertinent one wrapped in the niceties that you might expect from the man,

Is Ryan dead?

Hoffman’s lip curled and he cast his own gaze to the ground, finding a cracked piece of tile very interesting as he rubbed at the nearest laceration that Gordon had given him with the flat of his palm, 

“No.” 

Strahm let go a sigh of breath that he didn’t know he was holding. 

Then, with all the timing of the greatest showman you might ever want to meet, 

Ryan came lunging out from the shadows of the doorway with a rusted piece of metal in his hands. An offcut from some sort of machinery, held aloft in his arm as he made a loud grunt of exertion as he shot into the room, full of anger and force as he brought the piece of metal down onto the nearest body to him, which just happened to be the man who had clearly giving him the battering of a lifetime only a little while before. Hoffman still covered with the dust from that same tussle, though it shed off of him once again with the force of Ryan hitting him directly in between the shoulderblades with whatever it was he had found amongst the various bits and pieces of vile engineering that had no doubt lived in that place since Kramer had departed it with a wave and a gurgle, throat slit from ear to ear. 

Hoffman made a noise that was half-way between a grunt and a yelp, clearly startled by Ryan’s appearance and his eyes met Strahm’s briefly, widened and full of confusion before he was shocked down to his knees. His bones making a sharp thwacking noise as they collided with the dirty floor, making the top half of him judder with the force of it and Strahm almost felt like crying out to Ryan that he’d hurt him. He’d hurt the only person outside of his family and Perez that he’d cared enough to almost feel the pain that racketed through Hoffman, his whole body winced with the power of it and in an instant Strahm felt his body moving. 

The air around him whooshed, the sound of tinnitus loud and angry in his ear, like the whine of a jet engine miles above his head as he fell upon Ryan. Unlike the fight with Gordon, this attack had set something alight inside of him, firing up a striking red hot fury that had his fist driving into the back of Ryan as he attempted to get his hands around Hoffman’s throat and squeeze. Which he did manage, if only enough for a moment to make Hoffman draw out a profound gagging noise as his fingers scurried to free himself of Ryan’s strong hands. Evidently working for Gordon while perusing the gyms was enough to get the upper hand on Hoffman, but only after he had been stabbed a few times. Go figure. 

Strahm could see the lights of the bathroom in his peripheral vision and they danced and swung, although only in his head; in reality everything outside of him pounding on Ryan’s back, as he too continued his campaign of assault, was still and motionless. Gordon and Brad were almost deathly still next to them, the only sound and movement from them was Gordon’s stilted breath and Brad hand easing down his chest as he tried to help his mentor the best he could. Ryan was a lost cause to them. Hidden behind the grief that Gordon felt and the shame that grew inside of Brad at his own abominable actions. They were no help to their fallen comrade and as Strahm drew back his hand that’s when he noticed the blood that was soaked into his skin, fresh and warm. Salty under his nose as he took a step back from Ryan, the younger man’s body stilled just the same as Gordon and Brad’s, his hands having left Hoffman’s neck as the man below them coughed and inhaled deep breaths. 

“I—” Strahm had just enough time to say the single syllable before he glanced down and realised that the pocket-knife that he had been holding the entire time was nowhere to be seen. His grasp bereft of it. 

He peeled his eyes towards Ryan once again. 

The blade was lodged into the back of his ribs, driven in so hard that if it had been pushed any further the hilt of the knife would have ended up inside of him. His t-shirt wet with blood, seeping out of him and feeding the fabric with a dark, unenviable presence that took Strahm by such a degree of shock to see it that he fell back into the porcelain behind him, feet unable to find purchase on the ground as he grasped for the nearest thing behind him. Which happened to be the top of a toilet, covered in mildew and what Strahm would only describe as “grot” if someone were to ask him. 

The turn that Ryan took from Hoffman was slow, laboured, and he fixed Strahm with a look as he moved. Eyebrows up the very top of his forehead in shock as his mouth slid into a perplexed grin, a laugh shaking through his body wetly as he swung around fully. His knees shook as he took a single step forward, pursed his lips and murmured, 

“What?” 

Before toppling over. Knife still embedded in him. 

He managed a few weak breaths on the ground, chest moving in an odd stilted way and maybe later Strahm would realise that without even thinking about it he had managed to carve the knife straight into the young man’s heart, puncturing it so that the blood flowed steady and even. Draining him as he lay on the ground and wheezed, the kind of stab that stole the life from you before you even knew it. He had seen it umpteen times before in his line of work, you nicked a major artery or you got a major organ and it might only take a few minutes to bleed out on the floor. 

The world was surrounded by a sharp whining sound that overtook Strahm’s ears and turned his vision cloudy as Ryan twitched on the floor, opening and closing his mouth like a fish as his darkened eyes moved between Hoffman and Strahm in long, slow, uncalculated movements. He looked so far away, blurred around the edges as Strahm’s heart bumped in odd staccato jilts inside of his chest as it caved into the singularity of the event which was him killing. Or, what would be killing once Ryan took his final breath because there was no coming back from this for the young man, not with the way his face had grown grey and sallow, looking as scared as one might imagine a twenty-something, hardly having lived life at all, to look as they lay in the growing wake of their own inevitable death. 

Adam would have looked the same as he was laid down by Amanda’s cruelkind hands onto the edge of the bathroom’s walls. 

It was a wretched and strange feeling to have overcome him that the ringing in his ears and the blaring siren in his head as he watched as the last bits of Ryan’s life ebbed out of was nothing like the feelings he felt when he had shot Jeff Denlon. The line of work he had attended for all those years imbued a certain sense of callousness and bitterly cold detachment from the person who might be at the muzzle end of your gun once everything went completely wrong. He didn’t know Jeff Denlon. He acted in self defence at the time and it had all been forgiven and forgotten, even to himself. 

This was self defence too. 

He barely knew Ryan either. 

But that didn’t negate the fact that his knees locked in place as he tried his best not to puke the little matter he had in his belly onto the ground as a hand came up to smash the back of his palm into his mouth in disgust for himself. Disgust and shock. An undeniable tour-de-force when it came to the human body reacting physically to what was presented to it, culminating in Strahm retching twice and then having to let Hoffman steady him as he stepped directly over the dying man to grasp Peter in his hands. 

Gordon was silent. 

As was everyone else, all unsure as to what to do.

Ryan gulped one last breath then everything faded from him. 

Gordon’s throat clicked as he swallowed.

It wasn’t exactly an “eye for an eye” situation. It wasn’t that full stop, but when Strahm was able to finally swing his head around to the doctor and his companion, fog still pursuing his vision in thick sticky clumps that made his head pound and his blood pressure sky-rocket, Lawrence looked like a man who had all but given up. A sad almost wistful look engulfing his peaky face as Brad steeled his face against the next bout of tearful wails, a hand clutched at Gordon’s elbow and it surprisingly wasn’t the doctor who spoke up, but him, 

“I need to go home.” His voice shook, “I have work in the morning. I need to go and feed my cat. Doc, I think you need to take me home.”

It was staggering how that single line was the catalyst to every single person in the room realising that it was all over. No more. No more dead boys. 

Not if any of them wanted to go home. 

Strahm thought about Quincy and how Hoffman’s side of the bed smelled like cedarwood. He inhaled through his nose deeply but only found the smell of blood and stagnant rot. 

He wanted to go home too. 

“Tidy this up.” Gordon didn’t sound angry. He didn’t particularly sound anything but tired and he slumped against Brad as he was led out of the room, face still red raw with battle scars from Hoffman’s knuckles kissing him as hard as they could, “Don’t come back to Jersey. Tidy this mess up, Detective.” 

“Get his legs.” Hoffman had begun already, slipping ever so easily into his role as grunt work-horse as he nudged Strahm with his shoulder, “The car’s outside, I know somewhere we can bury him.” 

“What?” Strahm could still hear the ringing in his ears and he looked at Adam’s body, half expecting him to be in the same condition that Ryan lay in, a pool of blood carved around him in waves, like he had only died yesterday. Although, there would have been no blood leaking out of Adam, but it was hard to draw the two boys apart from each other now. They merged in Strahm’s head and as Gordon passed him he regained a little more composure and said with all the venom he could muster after days of exhaustion, “Don’t you fucking turn your back on him again. I’ll come back and bury him myself if you won’t.” 

“Would you at least allow me a moment to go and fix my face?” Gordon hummed, mouth twisted downward, “Allow me a moment to breathe after your better half beat the living shit out me?” It was funny to hear him swear still, his accent slipping back into what it must have been like before America had twirled into something a little more twangy, “I won’t forget him.” Gordon attempted a smile, self-deprecating humour worming its way into his words as he finished on, “Not this time.” 

Strahm didn’t want to laugh but he did. Then, Gordon was gone. 

“Get his fucking legs.” Hoffman said, like he was talking about a piece of lumber wood to be hefted onto a trolley at a hardware store.

Strahm looked down and found his feet soaked in Ryan’s blood. 

The ringing did not subside. 

~

The car smelled strange when Strahm sunk his heavy body into it and the smell persisted for the fifty or so minutes it took to drive out to the Pine Barrens, the car rattling ominously as they went. Strahm wondered what Hoffman had been doing in the car in the seventy-two-ish hours he was in the bathroom. Filling it with mysterious smells and rattling the chassis so it clunked every time that they went over even a small bump in the road. He stared at the CD player, fingers twitching because he knew that there was a copy of All The Right Reasons by Nickelback in the player and the last time the player had been blasting music into the cab of the car, Hoffman had very resolutely told Strahm that he, “fucking loved Rockstar ”. Strahm had managed not to laugh for a whole ten seconds before breaking down and proclaiming that he hated the song. Hated the band. Hated Chad Kroeger. 

He smoothed his thumb over the eject button on the console, the CD peeking itself out with a small whir and he rolled the window down with the crank and tossed it out the moving vehicle. 

Hoffman didn’t move his head towards, his eyes never left the road. But his hands did squeak on the wheel.

“You could say thank you.”

Strahm snorted, 

“Oh, shut the fuck up. I just didn’t want you congratulating yourself by blasting that awful fucking song when I’m still recovering from—oh, you know—Lawrence Gordon’s mid-life crisis in the form of a Jigsaw test.” 

Strahm didn’t need to look at Hoffman to know he was smiling, he could hear it in the way he spoke, 

“That’s cute. You called it a test. Not a game.”

Strahm’s eyes glanced momentarily into the interior mirror of the car, miles of road stretching behind them as trees appeared and disappeared behind them, long and thin and ominous looking. His eyes fell on the lump in the back of the car, covered with a dirty piece of tarp that Hoffman used in Quincy for when he was painting. Strahm willed Ryan to breathe under there, to shift the crinkle the material of the tarp and inject with a sense of relief that he hadn’t plunged that pocket knife into his heart and killed him. He didn’t. He lay still and stiff. 

“You had to.” Hoffman murmured, hand leaving the gear stick (only a man who loved pain like him would opt for a manual) and it touched Strahm’s knee gently, squeezing it through the fabric of his jeans. 

“I don’t want to talk about that.” Strahm didn’t push the hand away but he didn’t allow himself to enjoy the touch, “What I want to talk about is why it took you three days to find me.” 

“Well, maybe I don’t want to talk about that .” The car petered to a stop three quarters of the way up a long winding dirt road they’d been following for a minute, the sound of crackling audible even inside the car as sticks and twigs broke underneath the tires, “Get out. We need to walk a little.” 

Strahm scoffed, 

“And we’re just going to carry him?” He sighed, tired, “You’ve done this before. Haven’t you?”

Hoffman was out of the car before he could even answer Strahm, slamming the door behind him as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared across the scenery like they were there for a leisurely stroll or to walk the dog. Strahm followed suit, slamming his door even harder and the car shook with the force of it as he stalked around the bonnet and he could see the fear in Hoffman’s eyes as he drew closer, footsteps taking him all the way until he was practically nose to nose with Mark. He probably smelled terrible and he hadn’t brushed his teeth since Amanda’s apartment and Mark squinted at him in a way that suggested that was something he could definitely tell. 

But, all the same, he didn’t protest when Strahm flung his arms around Hoffman’s neck and pressed their mouths together so hard that their teeth clanked and his tinnitus became at least four times louder in his ears. 

Mark hadn’t expected that, Strahm could feel it in the way that his legs faltered underneath the both of them and they almost toppled to the ground, but he steadied himself quickly and Strahm was glad for it because pine cones crunched underfoot every time he moved to push himself further into Mark’s space. Sucking the air out of him as he kissed him and kissed him and in the back of his head he could hear himself whimpering but he didn’t care, not at all. He’d barely eaten, drank and slept since he’d left the comforts of Amanda’s space but his body didn’t beg for anything but the feeling of Mark’s hands on the small of his back and his mouth moving against his. 

“You taste fucking horrible.” Mark muttered, mouth still close enough that for all extents and purposes it could be called kissing, but still with enough room between them for him to chastise Strahm’s oral hygiene apparently, “You been drinking toilet water?” 

Strahm laughed, delirious, “Might as well have been.” He leant against Mark, curling into him as he rubbed small circles into his back, a killer’s sympathetic petting for their protégé, “Don’t take me to anywhere you’ve dumped Jigsaw victims. I don’t really think it’s fair to bury him with your scraps.” 

“You say that as if you give a single shit about the guy.” 

It didn’t quite make Strahm see red for Hoffman to say that, but it didn’t best please him either and he did everything in his power not to immediately snap at him and ruin the soothing that Mark was doing to his aching back after hours of sitting uncomfortably on the floor of the bathroom. 

“I think I’m maybe just a little culpable for what happens to his body after the fact that I—”

His mouth slammed shut and his cheeks went pink in deep, agonising shame. 

Ever the same, Hoffman just shrugged and gave Strahm’s back one last rub before peeling himself away to open the door to the back seat, 

“Yeah. After you killed him. I guess I get it.” 

“Stop talking like this is normal.” 

Hoffman rolled his eyes, dragging out Ryan’s body by the feet, the tarp crumpling loudly as he yanked him to the ground and Ryan fell with a whump and Strahm didn’t even bother to hide his full-body jolt at the sound of it. 

“Fuck, man. Be careful!” He didn’t mean to wail like some great, terrible woe had befallen him but it was hard to see Hoffman fall back into bad habits of uncaring and murderous temperaments as he handled people like bags of meat. It was clearly something he had a lot of experience with and that was frightening beyond belief, but not a shock to see. Not at all. 

“There’s cords in the back of the truck, we should wrap him up tight and then we can probably drag him the way, it’s pretty flat out here.” He sniffed, hands on his hips, weighing up the job, “Put the shovels in with him in the tarp and drag them too.” 

Strahm’s insides went cold, 

“Why do you have two shovels anyway?” 

Hoffman blinked, 

“I used them when I was digging that pond for those people over in Belmont.” He frowned, scratching the underside of his jaw, “What do you want me to say? I have two shovels because I murder people willy-nilly still.”

Strahm wrinkled his nose, 

“Don’t fucking use the phrase ‘willy-nilly’.” 

Hoffman’s arms crossed over his chest and he looked like the closest thing to an Angel that Strahm had ever seen in his life, illuminated from behind by the rising sun as it chuntered its way from the horizon, bracketed by those thin trees that shot straight up from the ground. Strahm could see the sun beating through the thin skin of the tops of Hoffman’s ears, the slivers of veins that bisected the skin too. He wanted to reach out and press his thumb around the whirl of the shell of Hoffman’s ear tip, feeling the fine, papery skin beneath his own.

“We should go.” Hoffman looked completely perplexed at Strahm’s unwavering stare. Maybe he, at that time, had no thoughts as to how loved he was, regardless of the situation, “You’re going to crash soon. You look pale.” 

“Okay.” Strahm said, cracking the knuckles of his right hand and letting the calm wash of not thinking about it surge over him as he watched Ryan’s face be recovered by the tarp as Hoffman tucked him up. Tight and cold. Ready to be stuffed into an unmarked grave. Already failing in that single mission to not think about it as he imagined Ryan’s parents, in his head they were faceless randoms, weeping as another week out in the open world trailed sluggishly by without their son returning to them.

“Oh!” Hoffman said without an ounce of true surprise in his voice, like he’d been waiting to bring it up for a while, “There’s a sandwich and some chocolate milk in the trunk. Chips too.” 

“Why?” Strahm wasn’t too sure what else to say and Hoffman suddenly looked very embarrassed. 

“I just thought you might want to eat once I got you out of there.” 

“You—” Strahm looked between Mark and the car “—You bought me a sandwich on the way to come and rescue me from your ex-coworkers murder trap I was in for days?”

“No.” Hoffman looked offended, “I bought chips and chocolate milk. I didn’t buy the sandwich, I made it.” He let Strahm open the trunk and baulk at the food set aside for him, grasping the chocolate milk in his hand so hard it almost shot all over his dirty shirt but Hoffman managed to distract him quick enough to avoid that disaster by saying, “Come on. Put that shit in a bag, we can have a snack in a little while. You ever dug a grave? Takes fucking ages. We really need to go. Grab the stiff.” He pointed to Ryan.

“I’m going to pass out, hold on.” 

~

They walked. Then they walked some more, then a little more after that. Until Strahm couldn’t walk any further and Hoffman had proclaimed that if they had gone any deeper into the Barrens then he would be helplessly lost and they might die out there. Strahm hadn’t laughed. 

Then there was the digging. Strahm had not dug a grave before, unsurprisingly. His mother had been lowered into a pre-bought plot that a professional had dug before the funeral and he had looked away at the last moment, just as the wood of the coffin descended into the gaping hole that was going to be where she slept for the rest of time. Afterwards, he lit a cigarette and held his sister’s hand and wondered if people who dug graves ever thought about the people going into them. If they felt pride for their work, a bed laid specially for those who gave them purpose in a career. 

He didn’t feel any pride for Ryan’s grave, even as he sweat and shook as he and Hoffman dug it for hours on end. The sun cutting shards of light through the trees and searing his skin as he wiped the rivulets of sweat away from his eyes and the top of his lip, his back and legs aching from lack of sleep and lack of anything of value to eat except for Brad’s apple and the sandwich Hoffman had made for him. 

He only had to throw up once while they dug for a good five or six hours, hunched over in the distance as Hoffman continued to dig by himself, grunting with exertion. He’d taken off his t-shirt a long time ago and the vomiting had actually come from the fact Strahm’s brain had wandered to thinking about Hoffman gardening in the same white vest he wore as he dug. His shoulders were wide and there was a sheen of dampness across the tops of his collarbones that made him look slick and appetising. If they were home he would have leaned on the porch at the back of their home, the air smelling like freshly mown grass and whatever food Mark had going in the kitchen, and Strahm would have waited patiently until Mark noticed him there. Then he would move over with a strange grace that you would never assume would be afforded to a man who looked stronger than most people you met, gardening gloves still on, and he would kiss Pete like they were dating . 

Strahm had envisioned it all, vest the reason for the day-dreaming, then he had looked down as his shovel dug into the hard earth and thought about how Ryan had sounded as the last few breaths had rattled and wheezed out of his body as he was robbed of the next fifty or so years of his life had driven bile and saliva up Strahm’s throat and he had dashed away to bend at the middle and expel it. 

But then there hadn’t been anything else to do but spit a vile mouthful at the clumps of dirt around the tree he leaned on, roots jutting out like fingers, and then rejoin Mark to continue digging. 

Once it was done, the grave a large wide chasm in the ground, the sound of birds cawing in the background, Strahm and Mark sat themselves down on the dirt and grass around the hole and took a moment to rest. Strahm’s muscles begging for bed, begging for the hug of his pillow bracketing his ears and blocking out the noise of the wind through the trees and the bark of distant foxes, yapping madly as no humans would bother them this far into the treeline. 

“Do you want to talk about it yet?” Hoffman wiped the back of his wrist over his forehead, “I mean it, you had to. He was a lot tougher than he looked.” 

Strahm drew up his knees, positioning his arms on them as the bark of a tree ate into his back as he pressed himself against it for purchase, 

“I think I almost killed Brad. I could have killed him, if I pulled a little harder on the chain around his neck.” 

Hoffman nodded slowly, pulling up the fabric at the hem of his vest to wipe his face properly and Strahm wanted to burst into tears at the sight of soft belly, damp with sweat as well and the hair that worked its way up from the line of his jeans to the bow of his breast was slicked down. 

When he spoke, he sounded like he was trying his very best to be accommodating to the idea that Strahm found no pleasure in killing. It was a little funny. 

“If you hadn’t killed him—” Strahm closed his eyes at the use of the word but Hoffman didn’t stop, just sighed quietly and continued speaking “—Would you be happy with an outcome where I might not have come out of the bathroom with you?”

The answer was reticent and slow, 

“No.” Strahm muttered, letting his legs slide out in front of him, hands out and open in his lap now, “No, I wouldn’t say that’s something that would make me happy.”

“You killed Jeff Denlon.” 

“That was different.”

“Was it?” 

“That—” Strahm stopped himself before he could even try to defend himself because he didn’t really know what to say. He imagined Jeff’s face looked as he had shot him, full of a raging terror that only someone who had endured a Jigsaw trap could feel, shaken to the point of wildness by the thought of his deceased son and wife until it flooded his senses forcing him to whirl around and ended up with a bullet in him. It hadn’t felt good. It hadn’t felt like anything. It had felt like every other time that Strahm had wielded his agent assigned gun at a person and pulled the trigger, as though someone else had taken over his body and he was floating above himself, watching it all happen before him. 

“He’s dead.” Hoffman supplied, gesturing at his body wrapped in the tarp off to the side of them, “Jeff’s dead. Jill Tuck is dead. Kramer is dead.”

“Adam and Amanda are dead.” Strahm added, not out of his growing sympathy for the two of them but rather for the need to press Hoffman into realising that the things they did weren’t normal. Murder shouldn’t be normal. Not in the way that Hoffman did it and then went for a coffee afterwards like it was a session at the gym. 

“I’m glad you killed that guy.” He spoke with the conviction of someone who truly believed it, “When he had his hands around my throat, he wanted me dead. He probably wanted me dead when I was throwing him around upstairs. It probably was the only thing he could think of because that’s what Gordon had taught him. When I was building traps for John and stuffing people in the back of vans for him, it’s all I could think about. I thought I was doing exactly what God wanted me to do.” 

“Don’t bring God into this.” Strahm allowed a small smile to grace his mouth and Hoffman returned it in spades. It was an odd scenario. 

“Fact of the matter is, he would have killed me and then convinced Gordon to kill you. Or killed you himself. Or kept you in that bathroom for even longer until you wished you were dead.” 

“This is the weirdest therapy session I’ve ever had.” Strahm let his head fall back against the tree, the bark cutting into his scalp. It felt a bit like retribution. He wanted the pain, “I think once upon a time I wanted to kill you. I had a dream once that I had my hand around your throat, just like Ryan with you, and I pushed and pushed until any normal human would be dead but you just kept looking at me. Like an animal, not knowing why someone would hurt it.” 

“Do you still feel that way?” Hoffman asked, eyebrows down and heavy. 

Strahm didn’t even need to think before he answered, 

“No. And that’s why I killed him. Because if the choices were between you dead and him still there, and the outcome that I got with my actions, I’d choose to kill him every single time.”

Hoffman’s eyes were wet when Strahm looked up and he rushed to push his hands into them, managing to smear dirt across his cheek as he went and Strahm could feel his insides shaking with the need to fling himself at Mark and kiss him just like he’d kissed him outside of the car. No embarrassment or shame as he might have pressed his body flush to Hoffman’s on the ground, a swathe of nature around them as he sucked at his neck and just below his ears. 

“But I still regret it.” Strahm murmured, shocking himself with his own honesty, “It feels—” He searched the air for help with how to describe how he felt, coming up with nothing for what felt like a long while before he settled on, rather lamely “—It feels bad.” 

“I’m alive. And you’re alive.” Hoffman bobbed his head like he was only really assessing the situation fully with the utterance of them still being there, “Just focus on that.”

Strahm looked at Ryan’s body again, 

“I’ll try.” 

“Yeah.” Hoffman pushed himself up off the ground, brushing down the back of his jeans, dirt and dust crumbling from the seat of his pants, “Do you feel any better?”

“Yeah.” Strahm lied, “A little.” 

“I’ll finish up here.” He picked up and then tossed the rucksack that held the food he had bought for Strahm towards the man and it whumped onto the ground in front of him, “If you look in the front pocket you’ll find—”

“If it’s condoms I’ll be so fucking mad.”

Hoffman already had Ryan in his grasp, still worryingly blasé about everything in the last couple of hours, 

“Cigarettes. I bought you cigarettes. Go and smoke somewhere while I recover the grave. Think about puppies and kittens.” He frowned at Strahm but he could tell there was a smile doing its best to hide behind that expression, frustratingly amused by Strahm. Always. “Dipshit. Fucking condoms. What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you ?” Strahm unzipped the front pocket and the way the cigarette packet felt in his hands felt like the biggest breath of fresh air after being stuck in a confined space. It felt like getting off of the subway on a hot day into a gentle breeze. Like a glass of shudderingly cool tap water after a vigorous run. 

“You just moaned.” Hoffman said smugly, “Did they not give you cigarettes in that bathroom?”

The cigarette was lit, stuffed into Strahm’s mouth, and he sighed in unregulated joy as the smoke flooded his lungs and set his brain quiet for a single moment, “They don’t tend to offer room service in those sorts of situations.” He turned himself toward the expanse of the barrens as the landscape lay flat and vast in front of him, back to where Hoffman dragged Ryan into the hole that he wouldn’t ever be able to find a way out of. Strahm watched a murmuration of birds, fingers shaking as he tucked the cigarette into his mouth over and over, drawing the paper down to the filter faster than he had ever smoked a cigarette before in his life. 

“Do you think Gordon will actually bury the kid?” Strahm wasn’t too sure why he was asking, Hoffman could very easily have given him an answer he really didn’t want to hear, but it felt right to make conversation. If only to cover the sound of the dirt hitting the tarp as Hoffman covered the boy over with it. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it ends up in his house with him.” Hoffman grunted quietly as he shovelled soil onto Ryan, “In his bed.” 

“Don’t—don’t call Adam ‘it’.” Strahm stumped the cigarette butt out underneath his foot and went straight for another, his head beginning to feel woozy already, “And don’t say any of that other shit either. That’s fucking nasty.” The lighter clicked, lighting the end of the cigarette and the cherry smouldered once again, “I still don’t think I believe that you didn’t know he was in on the whole Jigsaw thing.”

The sounds of dirt smacking against Ryan continued as Hoffman spoke, sincerity laced into his voice like it had been woven there by delicate hands, 

“I didn’t. I didn’t know at all.”

“You knew Adam was still down there though, I remember you talking about it.” 

“Well—” Hoffman paused, seemingly trying to find the right words to placate Strahm “—It wasn’t my job, or my place, to do anything. I had other issues to tend to.” 

“Like, me?” Strahm joked, one hand on his hip. 

“Yeah.” Hoffman’s voice was clipped, no humour, unlike Strahm’s, “I really had no fucking clue about Gordon. But then, he kept you in a bubble. Kramer. It’s why he bought Amanda that apartment on the outskirts of the city. It’s why he didn’t tell me about the doctor. He had you living in these microcosms of the crazy fucking ideals he put into your head.” Strahm didn’t turn to face him, but he wanted to. He wanted to turn and draw him into his arms but instead, he smoked his cigarette and listened. No eye contact was perhaps the best for both of them at that moment. “I didn’t have anyone but him and Mandy for a long time. You kind of forgot that people existed. I used to have friends, people I liked. People I wanted to spend time with, you know?”

“Was it just him that did that?” Strahm asked, rather bleakly, “Or was it—you know—Angie.”

The shovelling stopped and after a tense moment Hoffman said, very quietly and breathily, 

“Yes. That was probably the start. It all started spiralling. Then John found me and I thought maybe, just for a second, it might help. And it did stop things from getting to me. Then it stopped a lot of other things. I forgot how to be around people who weren’t him and her. So much that I didn’t even notice Gordon I guess. Didn’t notice anyone that I didn’t want to hurt. Tunnel vision.” 

“Yeah.” Strahm knew exactly what he meant. It’s how he had felt after that first time, all those months ago, that he had slipped into Hoffman’s apartment and looked through his photo album, “But, you noticed me.” 

Once again, Strahm could hear the way Hoffman smiled into his words, it bled out of him all too happily. A welcome juxtaposition to the tragedy that had delved itself into the cracks of the last couple of days as they formed through the breakages that Strahm had caused. 

“Yes.” Hoffman sounded like he was beaming, ear to ear, “I did notice you.”

“I missed you.” Strahm couldn’t keep it in, voice breaking at the end of the word ‘you’, “Why did it take you so long to find me? Didn’t you know? Didn’t you know where I was?” He went to turn to face Hoffman but settled against it, taking another drag of cigarette and continuing to watch the murmuration of birds dance around the sky, the sky streaked with cloudy lines of pink that ended and began in places that Strahm couldn’t begin to fathom. He felt a bit like crying again.

“Baby .” Hoffman’s voice was weak, “I thought you’d left me. I spent the first day inconsolable because I thought you had taken the car and left. Then I went and actually looked and the car was still there. And a bunch of broken glass. And your lighter on the ground. I felt like a fucking asshole.” He swallowed so loud that Strahm could hear it and that was apparently the final straw and he whirled around to look at Mark dead in the eyes. He found a man with tear tracks dribbling down his cheeks and he sniffled pitifully, shovel still in hand, “I didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long. Don’t you think I feel fucking terrible about that?” 

“I’m sorry.” Strahm breathed, mouth hot and tasting like ash, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” 

The shovel clattered to the ground, the grave only semi-filled in and it only took a few long steps for Hoffman to be directly in front of Strahm, his arms tight around him and Strahm had to hold the cigarette aloft as not to burn Mark’s shoulders with it as he squeezed the life out of him. Face damp and warm as it pressed into Pete’s neck. 

“I feel like a real fucking asshole. And I’m sorry.” 

“Mark—”

“In that bathroom. Alone. Starving and thirsty. Fuck, man.” 

“Mark.” Strahm laughed quietly, wondering when he might want to bring up the fact he had borderline seduced a young man to free himself, “It’s alright. We can talk about it later.” He nudged him gently, “When we’re home.”

“You want to come home with me?” 

“What a stupid fucking question. Where else am I supposed to go? Let me call up my sister and ask her if I can come and move in with her.” He rolled his eyes as hard as physically possible, holding Hoffman at arms length, “Can you get this dead kid covered over. The fact I’m still standing right now is a miracle.”

“You’re a serial moment ruiner.”

“Okay. You’re a serial killer.” 

“Yeah. Glass houses and all that shit.” 

“You ever watch that episode of The Sopranos ?” Strahm allowed Hoffman to retreat from his grasp, returning to his mercilessly toiling at the mouth of Ryan’s grave. A wickedly thankless job but the sooner he got it done the sooner they could get into the car and drive home in relative silence. Or, at least, that’s what Strahm hoped. 

“What kind of question is that, I watched that shit from the start. But, which one? Do you mean the—”

Before Hoffman could finish Strahm was butting in, 

“The Pine Barrens episode, yes!” He laughed, just this side of manic, exhaustion finally taking a toll, “Imagine. Good thing you made me that sandwich and we got the chips left, or else we’d be shivering in the car. Eating packets of ketchup.” 

Hoffman’s returning laugh was broad and deep, the sound making Strahm’s insides crumble like someone had pushed their thumbs through the fine dustings of his stomach. 

“Fuck, man. Wandering around in the snow. We should watch that when we get home.”

“We should.” Strahm stubbed the second cigarette out, glancing only for a second at Ryan’s blood crusted beneath his nails. 

He would live with it. For now. 

“So, you mean it? You actually want to come back with me after this whole fucking thing?” Hoffman paused, leaning on the shovel. The grave was almost completely full of dirt and Strahm bid a silent, guilty final prayer for Ryan’s earthly soul as it was sealed into his soil ladened casket. Six feet under. No marker. Strahm wished him well and felt the creep of sickness come over him once again. 

Shit. Maybe this wasn’t an easy fix.

“Pete.” Hoffman tapped the shovel onto the grave, smoothing down the soil in an ‘S’ shape, “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Strahm lied again, becoming a habit obviously, “I mean it. I want to come home.” He shrugged, shy all of a sudden, “I love you.” 

“Every time you say that it gets a little bit easier to believe you.” 

“Jesus. Don’t be a dick.” He hefted the rucksack onto his back, just about keeping himself together and upright, “I love you.” 

“I missed you too. For what it’s worth.” He reached to pick Strahm’s own shovel from the ground, hands completely caked with dirt and red raw from where he’d been gripping the wooden handle for hours, “Right up until I came into that bathroom. Missed you being a righteous, nasty little cunt. Missed your frown.” 

“I don’t frown that much.”

“You’re frowning right now.” 

“Jerk.” Strahm tightened the rucksacks shoulder straps. 

“I left them alive for you, by the way. I would have ripped Gordon to pieces if you didn’t stop me. You and the kid.” Hoffman’s mouth did the particular thing it did when he was attempting to smile when he was actually feeling horrible inside. It was tight and inhuman, but he tried nevertheless, “That’s a win, right?” 

Strahm waved an imaginary flag limply. 

“I love you. I’ll drive.” Hoffman said, wiping dirt onto his jeans, “We’ll talk more when we’re home. When you’re not dead on your feet.”

Strahm stretched his back sharply, groaning in defeat at the waves of nausea that overtook with the action, a moment away from passing out and the thought of the long arduous walk back to the car was painful. He wished Hoffman was strong enough to carry him but he was a six foot tall middle-aged man and despite Mark being built like a brick shit-house, he really doubted it would work. Even if the daydream of being tossed over his shoulder when they were safely back in their home, then carried to the bedroom, was intoxicating. 

“One more time. Just for luck.” Strahm joked, hoping Hoffman would get it. 

“I love you.” Hoffman evidently did get it, grinning in a way that made him look twenty years younger, “Do you want to hold my hand on the walk back to the car?”

“Isn’t that a little in bad taste when we’ve just buried a body?” Strahm watched as Hoffman’s hand started to drift towards his own and he snatched it away before he could, invigorated by the simple way they revolved around each other. A soft give and pull of joking harshness followed by all encompassing love. “Get a fucking life, moron.” He smiled properly for the first time that day, then began marching off in what he hoped was the direction of the car. 

Hoffman calling after him as he walked, 

“I love you, honey!” 

Then the sound of quick footsteps, 

“And remember, If I go down, you go down with me!” 

Yeah. Strahm thought. I fucking hope. 

~

Strahm slept for the first couple of hours in the car, the lights blurring past beneath his eyelids as he tossed and turned, remembering the way the benzos had felt as they poisoned him in the back of Gordon’s car. Once he awoke to Hoffman taking a piss break about an hour and a half away from their home, they swapped, Strahm arguing the case he was totally fine to drive, although in hindsight, he probably should have never begged to get behind the wheel of their car. 

The way Hoffman’s sleeping face leaned against the window coupled with the soft rise and fall of his chest was a wonderful prize, enough so that it warranted the blaring headache driving gave Peter. He touched a hand to Hoffman’s knee, feeling him jolt against his palm, then slowly settle back down into the seat. Sleep covered him like a blanket and Strahm kept driving with the knowledge they would soon be back in their bed, wrapped around each other. 

“Love you.” Hoffman murmured, half awake half asleep. 

“I know you do.” Strahm soothed, hand back on the steering wheel. 

Ignoring the pit in his stomach all the way up until their city’s outer limits.

The lights of Quincy blooming out in front of him. 

He turned on his indicator and breathed out. 

Fuck.

Chapter Text

The cat, which hadn’t been bought or adopted but simply wandered into their house one day and had never left (much like Mark), stretched itself in a way that smothered its belly against Strahm’s left ear in bed and he rubbed at its back with the palm of his hand. Digging his fingers into the cat's tufty fur and the urge to turn his head just enough to stuff his nose into its soft earthy smelling tummy and inhale deeply overwhelmed him completely. So he did just that. 

“It’s eight thirty.” Mark said, trying to push his hair out of his eyes as he attempted to peer at the scar on his cheek, rubbing bio-oil into it. Less so out of embarrassment or nervousness that someone might recognise him, despite the fact nobody seemed to give a single shit about the Jigsaw killings anymore (go figure), and more so in a desperate dive into his own vanity. Hoffman did not appear to be a deeply vain man, but that was surface level. Peter had in fact watched him, for the best part of two years since they first started this whole exercise into emotional self-mutilation (and bodily mutilation), primp and preen himself on a regular basis in front of the mirror. Mark had explained that, while he thought the scar was a very good reminder to not go charging into situations or allow blonde women to put John’s traps onto your head, it often hurt to smile and that was his ‘most handsome feature’ and he need not ‘deny the world of it’. 

To which Peter had frowned incredibly hard.

“Did you hear?” Mark scraped the long dark hair at the nape of his neck, that he’d been growing for a while, into a hair band. A sprout of hair jutting from it almost comically in contrast with the loose curls of curtain that fell about his face. Not exactly the most charming look for a man in his mid-forties but who was Pete to tell an ex-killer that his haircut was stupid. 

“I heard. I’m still on long-term sick until June.” He smelled the cat again. She smelled like their garden, “I don’t need to be anywhere.” 

Mark tapped his foot twice against the hardwood floor of the bedroom and the sound travelled for a brief moment before being muted against the rug they had bought from an old woman’s yard sale during what Peter referred to in his head as ‘The six months of joy’. 

Before the bathroom. 

“You should still get up. I have time before I go to make you breakfast.” Mark calmed his foot from where it had begun tapping anxiously again, stilling it so it didn’t cut in over his words of persuasion, “Eggs?”

“Coffee.” Strahm said, shuffling himself up to prop his back against the headboard, “Maybe eggs. I don’t know.” 

“You only had chips last night.” Mark frowned. 

“And guac.” Peter laced his fingers on his belly and let the cat climb into the semi-circle it created, his arms raising goosebumps at the feeling of her fur drifting across it as she moved.

“Okay.” Mark was trying not to sound increasingly agitated, Peter could see it in the way his shoulders raised to his ears and he clenched and unclenched his fists. He did a good job at keeping himself cool nowadays, but his poker face needed a little bit of work, “That’s not really food. Chips and dip. That’s a snack.”

“Why do you care?” It sounded completely ridiculous the moment it had left Peter’s mouth and he regretted instantaneously. 

The cat had the good graces to dart off of the bed as soon as Peter’s body tensed up from the waves of excruciating guilt and regret that jumped out of him, skittering past Mark’s bare ankles as he took two steps towards the bed where Peter lay and then stopped himself. Eyes squinted and mouth in a hard line. He let out a sigh, almost involuntary, something that his body needed to push out to try and limit the annoyance that had settled into the hot pit of Mark’s stomach, then he licked his lips and said in the most irritatingly grown-up way,

“I know you’re not—” He paused, just for a second and Peter watched mild panic come across Mark’s eyes before he settled on saying “—not well. I feel like I’ve been accommodating and tried my best to be kind and patient with you. I’ve left you alone. I’ve given you company. I will even make you coffee exactly how you like in about three minutes.” Then the particularly adult, or adult in terms of how Mark usually conveyed emotion, line of thinking was thrown out of the window as he finished with, “But that doesn’t mean you have to be fucking mean to me.” 

He then promptly stomped off downstairs.

Peter tapped a finger against the back of the hand it rested on, beating a rhythm for him and only him. Sat in complete silence for at least five, maybe ten minutes until he decided to leave the bed and attempt an apology.

Only to find Mark had already left for work. 

~

If you took a leisurely stroll, it might take a little over ten minutes to get to Mound Street Beach from their townhouse. If you walked at the pace that Strahm was pounding his feet against the floor, it took about six minutes. Practically a speed-walk and he was very much aware that to anyone that passed him by, he looked like a man on a mission. Eyebrows shot downwards in frustration and fists clenched around a travel mug full of the strongest coffee that he might have ever made in his life, not particularly out of a taste for it, but because he was in such a blind rage when he was stood in the kitchen mulling over if he wanted to stay indoors and stew or be outside and stew. The latter was the obvious pick, if he had stayed indoors he might have been brought out of his stupor by the cat and he wanted to hang onto the feeling for as long as possible, so it wasn’t lost by the time that Mark returned home from work. Only a short day that day, he’d be back around one o’clock, covered in whatever muck he’d picked up from whatever job he was doing. 

There was a bench that looked out across a dock, boats bumping against the wood in solid thumps as the water sloshed around their bases. The sound, although distant from where the bench sat, was comforting almost immediately to Peter, his hands unclenching and his brow creases sliding away as soon as he sat down. The wood was warm beneath him, heated by the sun as it skimmed back and forth beneath clouds. It was too nice of a day to be miserable, but if there were any emotions in the world Strahm had become accustomed too recently, it was misery. 

It had made a place within him since being in that bathroom and he knew that if he had followed through with his sister’s begging to see someone and talk about it. “Talk it over, babe.” She had said to him as if he hadn’t murdered someone. As if he was just a little bit blue. Which, for all extents and purposes, that’s all that she knew of it. He’d spoken to her a lot since they had returned back home, his hand finding the phone more easily than he had done anything else, the simple human need to seek out those that had once been closest to you. Part of him had wished that it wouldn’t have felt like a betrayal to open his phone and type in the number he knew was Lindsey’s, just to hear her voice. Hear her chastising him and joking with him all in the same breath. 

His sister was a welcome difference to Mark’s inability to truly understand how he felt, and although he could never tell her what had happened to him, he could fill in the gaps in such a way that almost felt like a truth. Warp the story into something else, something normal. So, in the end, his sister understood that he had broken his ankle while fishing and been stuck for three days in a tent with no phone signal. Cold and hungry and terrified. Until his partner had made his way to him. Saving him. It was, of course, completely stupid and ridiculous, but it was something. Lizzie hadn’t even mentioned the fact her younger brother, swathed in the cladding of their life-long dynamic of an affection that went largely unspoken, had mentioned his partner during the tale. Not a girlfriend. Not a wife. Partner.

“You could come stay with me?” Lizzie had said, voice low and steady, in the way that she spoke to him when she knew he was worked out. Not to startle. Just to gently prod him into making a choice for himself that would actually benefit him, even if that would usually make his blood pressure spike and that vein in the left side of his forehead to start pulsing. Despite all outward appearances, Peter Strahm was plagued with a deep, undeniable need to help those around him and leave himself in the dark. Chained to a wall. So to speak. 

“I can’t stay with you, Liz.” He’d sighed, fingernail in his mouth, “It’d be unfair to—you know—”

“Why are you too nervous to talk to me about the fact you have a boyfriend?” Liz’s voice was nothing but loving still and it made Peter’s head feel light, “He can stay too.”

“He can’t.” How could you explain to your sister, the woman who threw cassette tapes at you when you made her mad as kids and made you pancakes the next morning to apologise, that the man you had picked from everyone around you to love was in fact a killer. Sure he’d joked about it the first time he’d spoken to her about it, all those months ago, but that's what she would assume it was. A joke. Mark was someone she might recognise and inform the authorities where the two of you had been holed up this entire time, burrowed away, coveting your love above all other things, even in the wake of the dead.

“I won’t ask.” Liz said, “I won’t ask, okay? But don’t do that thing where you keep everything inside of you. You used to get so frustrated when we were kids and I never knew how to help you. Then you’d let it all explode out of you.” Strahm had started to butt in but she hadn’t allowed him, just kept talking, which was for the best really, “Then you’d go quiet. Maybe a day. Maybe a week.” 

“Liz—”

“I’m free most evenings. You know that. If you’re going to be a complete asshole and refuse to see a therapist, then at least speak to me. We eat at about seven, but I’ll be sat on my ass in front of the television by eight.” He could hear the smile in her voice whenever she spoke her husband or the kids, it was something that he had been jealous of for almost twenty years, “Jack’s been rewatching M*A*S*H and there’s only so many times you can watch a show you love before you get tired of it. I’d much rather hear from you.”

“Yeah.” Strahm had shrugged to himself as he spoke, when really he had wanted to burst into tears, “Makes sense.”

A child ran along behind a dog as Strahm crossed his legs out in front of him on the bench, flicking sand behind him as he laughed wildly and evaded the calls of his parents to slow down. The dog and the child both whipped around about three quarters of the way down that part of the beach’s breadth, the little boy still giggling with abandon and he scooped up the dog into his arms and ran full pelt towards his parents who allowed him to tangle himself into the two of them. 

“Cute.” Peter murmured, not full of as much spite as he first intended it to be. 

He was a little tired. 

You love being an island, babe. Liz had said it to him at least thirty times in their adult lives. Maybe even before that. 

His cellphone was heavy in his pocket, bulging the fabric of his jeans and he slipped his hand into that pocket and drew it out, turning it over and over in his hand. Watching as the kid was pulled up and over his father’s frame, up onto his shoulders as they continued their walk down the beach. 

Liz was at work. Mark was at work. He had no other friends. 

Well. 

His thumb was sweaty as he dialled the number and tried not to think about Ryan’s pool of blood drifting out around his body as the water lapped against the shore, the sand a deep rugged brown colour and maybe a little bit later Strahm would peel off his shoes and socks and slide his toes into it. The sensation calmed him. 

The phone rang five times, the dial tone sharp against Strahm’s ear. 

“Hello?” Lindsey sounded out of breath and a little confused, Peter had changed his phone since their last conversation. He’d never forgotten her number though. 

“Perez.” He breathed out, chest deflating. 

“Oh.” Lindsey laughed quietly into the word, “It hasn’t been a year.” 

“I know.” Peter said, “You know I’m not great with dates though.” 

“Mm.” Perez hummed and the sound of it made Strahm’s shoulders slide down, relaxed and calm, “It’s good to hear from you. Glad you’re not dead.”

Strahm’s hand pressed against his forehead, thumb and forefinger squeezing to try and relieve the sudden onset of the sharp, digging pain that scraped its way across his temples and the band across the very front of his head. 

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.” 

“I got time to talk.” Perez whispered, voice tight, “I have time for you.” 

“I think maybe you need to promise you won’t turn me in after this.” 

“That’s a tall order.”

“Lindsey.” Strahm felt his chest tighten, “I need to hear that promise.”

The line was silent for a moment that stretched on far longer than Peter wanted it to. 

“Okay.” The answer came finally, “I promise.”

~

A body rounded the bench that Strahm hadn’t left all morning, Mark’s thigh touching his own as he settled onto the wood, making it creak beneath him and immediately Peter’s hand shot out to wrap his long fingers around the firm flesh of Hoffman’s upper thigh. Strong underneath the dark work jeans he had on, soft at the outskirts of the leg though, fat pillowing out and Peter wanted to go home and bury his face into them. 

“You been here this whole time?” Mark, probably on a lunch break or maybe even finished with the job for the morning, peeled open a banana and in a way that might have annoyed Peter if he were anyone else, began speaking around the mulch of it in his mouth, “Sorry if I pissed you off.”

“It’s alright.” Strahm had learnt to be more forgiving with Mark. He had forced himself to be. Hoffman was the way that he was and in turn, Pete was hardly likely to change either. He knew that. 

Peter watched as Mark’s eyes drifted out to the water, mouth still chewing thoughtfully, his hand curling around Pete’s own on his thigh. A slightly too large signal of non-private affection for Strahm, bigger than a simple hand on the thigh. Not that he was ashamed to be seen with a man, but what people called ‘PDA’ made his skin crawl more often than not. Why should anyone else know that he was a living, breathing being? He allowed it however, enjoying the feeling of Mark’s rough skin and how cool his hands were after being sat out in the sun for so long, baking away. 

“You’ve got that look on your face where you’re clearly ruffled by something but won’t ever tell me. Should I start guessing or would you make it easy for once?” 

Strahm snorted a laugh at that, embarrassed, 

“I spoke to Perez.”

Mark shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, 

“Okay. Should I start packing our shit before the feds get here or—?”

“Don’t say ‘the feds’. Sounds stupid.” Strahm pressed his fingertips into Hoffman’s thighs a little deeper, wanting to sink in, “No. No, I don’t think so. I think mostly she’s disappointed in me.” He snorted again, not exactly finding it too funny but he had to dispel the air from his lungs somehow, “Told her about Ryan.”

“Oh.” Mark said, banana hovering near his parted mouth, “So you’re a fucking idiot?”

“Well, remember, baby. It was self defence.”

“Ouch.” Mark muttered, “Okay.” 

“Unfortunately, a little bit like you, she’s forgiving and forgetting and enabling all in one go.” Strahm snuck his hand away from Mark’s thigh finally, settling it with his own, lacing his fingers together as he ignored the rumble in his belly that called for food. Called for him to sit at his own dinner table and let Mark feed him. “She’s happy I’m alive. She’s also leaving that line of work and said she’s moving to California with a new girlfriend, going to run a fucking coffee shop or something. She asked if we might visit her one day.” 

The laugh that burst from Mark was loud and boisterous. A flock of birds shot off in the treeline behind the dock, the sound carried so far.

Peter wanted to laugh along and after a moment of keeping it all to himself, he shared the sound with Mark until they were being supplied strange looks by passersby, only trying to have a nice, peaceful walk at lunchtime. 

“Shit.” Mark sighed, “Can you imagine? I’d have to hide in the luggage space in the plane. Or get smuggled in a big box like a Looney Tunes cartoon. You’d have to pay postage.” 

“Yeah.” Strahm wiped at his eyes, smoothing away the tears that gathered there. He suddenly felt slightly better, “I think she thought it was a dumb idea as soon as she said it too. She sort of made this funny noise down the phone, like a squeak.” He leaned back against the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him once more, crossing an ankle over the other and not missing the way that Mark eyed him up, “It’s a nice thought. Made me wonder if we could go see my sister. She barely watches the news, she probably wouldn’t even know.” 

The end of the sentence trailed off slightly, slipping into the calm silence of the beach. An unspoken what a terrible idea left hanging.

“Sorry.” Mark said, shrinking down into himself, “I know you’d like all that crap.” 

“Eloquent way of putting it. By ‘all that crap’ do you mean a partner I can take back to my family without them screaming in terror? Yeah. I guess.” He shrugged, attempting to parade the idea that he was totally fine with the choice he had made to harbour and love a criminal, “We are sat out in public right now. Nobody gives a fuck and we’re only a couple of hours from your slaughterhouse—”

“Don’t say that.”

“Sorry.” Strahm didn’t meet Mark’s hot gaze. You didn’t look into the eyes of a predator.

“I think about it a lot.” Mark’s voice sounded wet, but still, Strahm didn’t look, “I feel—” He sighed, clearly frustrated “—Guilt. Regret? I think. I don’t feel wrong for killing Seth. But I know that I followed the wrong path.” It was a little amusing to watch a man struggle finally with the moral conundrum of being a follower of what might be considered a cult while holding a half-eaten banana limply in his huge hands. Pete didn’t mention it though, “I’m sorry. For it all. I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“Mark.” Peter caught the edge of his lip with his teeth, unsure how to phrase the next part, “I don’t think I’m the one you really need to be apologising to.” 

Mark laughed quietly, the sound warm but sad, 

“You really don’t think you’re a victim in this, do you?”

The question startled Peter. He hadn’t expected that wording. 

“I—Huh?” 

“Maybe if you did, you might actually feel a little better.” Mark’s hand gripped the bench, knuckles turning white, “You’ve been completely fucking miserable for weeks and I know you.” Strahm felt like saying do you? But it would be an easy answer, because, yes. Mark did know him. “It wasn’t your fault. And I’m not just here to make you dinner and wash your fucking jeans. I’m here to shoulder most of the blame for getting you into a position where you had to—you know—do what you did to survive.”

“I have agency.” Peter sniffed, nose turning upwards, “I was happy to be with you. Knowing what you were.” 

“Okay.” Mark nodded, relenting, “Okay, baby.” Sometimes there was no use fighting the point with Strahm.

“I’m not a victim. And I’m not struggling.” 

“Do you want to go home?” Mark changed the topic as quickly as he could, “I’ll make lunch. Maybe fuck you.” He was up and off the bench before Peter could come out with a response, merely laughing in an indignant way and glancing around to see if anyone heard that. 

“Jesus Christ. Finish your fucking banana, idiot.” Peter snapped, good naturedly, “And, well, jeez. When you put it like that, Mark. How could I say no?” 

He really wanted pastrami and lettuce, and he gently caught Mark’s hand and let him know as they wandered back to their home. 

And he didn’t think about it. Any of it. Not once.

~

Playing utterly no caution to the wind in terms of letting the neighbours become forcibly aware of what they had abandoned their pastrami, lettuce and tomatoes (from the greenhouse) sandwiches for, the window was open all the way as Mark leaned into Strahm’s space. A grin plastered across his face as the lace curtain swung in and out of the open space with the breeze, the smell of freshly cut grass from their neighbour to the right’s lawn filtering in and Strahm took a huge breath in, savouring it. His hand on Mark’s arm, skin dented in with the force of it as Mark pushed his erection up against Peter’s, tucking itself into the crevice between hip and Strahm’s own cock. The curls of Peter’s pubes were damp from where Mark had stuffed his face into them and licked, sent out of the bedroom only moments before to wash his hands of breadcrumbs like a naughty child. Then Mark had asked so nicely to push his fingers into Pete that for the first time in a while he hadn’t thought for any more than a millisecond before he had blurted out a ‘yes’ and let Mark suck on the soft skin of his stomach as he fingered him. 

“Your leg hurt?” Peter mumbled, head back against the pillows and eyes closed as he listened to the sounds of Mark slathering lube onto his cock, taking an inordinate amount of time to do it. Clearly trying to be an asshole and a tease so that Pete would relent and snap his eyes open to glare at him, but he wasn’t going to fall into that trap so easily, so he let his head lay comfortably against the pillow behind it. Peering at the lack of colour that painted the inside of his eyelids. 

“A little bit.” Mark answered, touching the tips of two fingers to Strahm’s hole and pushing them in just enough to pull down on it, laughing quietly when Pete angled his behind away and made a noise as if to say ‘stop that’, “It’s alright. Hurts more at work.” 

“Good.” Strahm said, sighing out when Mark slid a finger back into him. He could give in and ask nicely for it to be replaced with his erection, but he didn’t feel like it, “Glad that being stabbed doesn’t impede our sex life. I might complain if it did.” 

“Nice to know we still have a sex life. I thought you might go off me after being hit on by that nice young man.” 

“I shouldn’t have told you about that.” It didn’t necessarily feel right to be laughing about poor Brad in the bathroom, surrendering to a crush that easily. But, sometimes, you had to laugh. Otherwise you might cry. 

Mark’s face descended, even with his eyes shut Peter could feel the way that the air displaced around him as he bent at the middle and fed himself into the hungry expanse of the space around Strahm’s mouth. Their lips within kissing distance from each other and when Mark spoke his breath smelled like soft sandwiches and hot tea, sweetened with at least two sugars. He clearly wasn’t sweet enough without. 

“Do you think he could have fucked you better than me?” 

It was completely ridiculous, but the moan that left Peter haunted him for days to come. 

“No.” He breathed out. He didn’t put up much of a fight when it came to silly, flirtatious, oftentimes completely insane, banter during sex anymore. He liked it, actually, “I don’t think he could.” 

“Would you have let it get that far? Just to get yourself out of there?” 

The finger left Pete and Mark’s hand pushed gently on the back of one of his thighs, exposing him more to the air of the room and he shivered quietly which made Hoffman chuckle and apologise under his breath. Although, Peter was fully aware that if he were to open his eyes, Mark would be staring with all the ferociousness of a hungry animal at where his hole was wet and open. Hair spiralled around it neatly and he had only kicked Mark the one time in the head when he had sighed happily and told him how cute it was. Cute. Stupid motherfucker. 

Too lost in reminiscing about how a grown man could call another grown man’s asshole ‘cute’, it completely flew by Strahm as Mark bent him in a very indecent way and before he could answer the question that had been posed to him, Mark’s tongue slid across his hole. Flat and dry until he could gather some spit into his mouth and spit it onto him, a groan ripping its way out of Mark’s throat as he pushed his face further into him and licked into Peter as fervently as he could. Wet sounds cut through the shrill sounds of birdsong from the open window and Strahm slapped a hand over his mouth and pushed down into Mark’s face, crushing his nose a little into the space behind his balls and when Mark drew back after a minute or so his eyes were unfocused and his lips were pink. 

“I love fucking you at lunchtime.” Mark groaned, voice deep in the pit of his belly and it curled around Peter and made his dick lurch to the left as he was lowered, “You’re way more susceptible to me being a nasty pervert at this time of day.” He swirled his thumb around Pete’s hole, hand tucked between the grasp of his cheeks as his other hand slowly slid a few strokes around himself, still wet from the lube he’d cracked out a few moments before. Before the hunger to eat Strahm right the fuck up had over taken him. 

“Are you going to fuck me or just keep talking?” Pete let one of his legs fall open. 

Along with the ability to allow Mark to have his silly little sex talk when they fucked, Peter had also found that during the initial six months of ignorant bliss they had lived in before it had all gone pear-shaped, it was astoundingly fun to lean all too easily into the role that he had played in his early twenties of being a profoundly beautiful whore. Or, that’s how Mark had described it the first couple of times that Peter had drank two glasses of wine and let the sharp, sweet liquid make his head go just the right amount of fuzzy and also make his legs fall open and his eyelids flag needily. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” Mark, with an ease that made Strahm’s stomach fizzle hotly, pulled up Pete’s hips and stuffed a pillow underneath them. Then with a thumb pulled his cheek to the side so he could tap the head of his cock against him, “Would you have let the little twerp fuck you if it might have saved you?” He pushed just enough to let the head of his dick slide into Pete and the corner’s of Mark’s mouth twitched with unbridled, almost evil, glee as Pete swallowed audibly and then huffed out what could only be considered as a meek little whimper. 

“Absolutely not.” Peter ground out, trying to push himself down onto Mark but he was held still. Not from any real strength that Mark possessed over his own, if anything he could probably bench more if he really wanted to, but from the innate knowledge that when they fucked like this, in the mindset they were in right there, it was Mark who called the shots. He was the one who held Pete down and pulled him around wherever he saw fit. Just like how Mark would relent when Strahm’s hand would find the back of his neck when they fucked other ways, his mouth open and wetting the pillow beneath him as Peter fucked him from behind. 

It was all just games and roles. 

Somewhere along the way, sex had started to feel less like a battleground and more like, well, fun. 

Something Peter did with someone he actually cared about. 

Finally, finally , Mark pushed in properly. Allowing all of the air that was currently residing inside of Strahm to exit rather quickly out of his nostrils and it hardly left anything in him to be able to moan but, by God, did he give it his best try. The sound luxuriating its way out of him and Mark smiled in a cat-like way, the exact way he always did when he knew he was doing something to curl sounds out of Strahm like smoke. Idling his hands around his heart, spooling out Peter’s guts into a big heart on the ground until it had him whining, full of love. 

“So—” Mark started, and Peter immediately looked decidedly more glum because he knew something stupid was about to be said and if Mark just moved a little then Peter could arch his back and urge him into action “—What you’re saying is that you only ever want to fuck me? No one else?”

“Are you forgetting the bit about me being chained to a wall? In a bathroom. With dead bodies.” 

“Okay.” Mark inched his dick a little further into Strahm and looked more smug than ever, “But, still, you don’t want to fuck little twerps.” 

“Hoffman—”

“You want to fuck me.” 

“I’m kind of going off the idea if I’m being really fucking honest with myself.” 

“I’m sorry. Just so you know. I’m sorry.” 

It was out of place and almost sickening to hear when Mark’s dick was inside of him, his hands propped on either side of Strahm’s ears, his arms so strong and thick as Strahm’s eyes travelled up them. Brushed with dark hair and the valleys and mountains of his tight muscles made the heaviness of his own sexuality blunder around his thick, sex muddled brain.

“I don’t want to hear that right now.” Peter said, mouth soft and pleasant. Not a smile, but not a scowl. 

“What do you want to hear?” Mark looked like a man searching for something, eyebrows dipped and lips pursed. He looked ridiculous. Strahm wanted to kiss him until he was sick. 

“How hot I look.” Strahm attempted to keep himself steady, but a tiny grin broke its way across his face. Unable to keep it away as it begged to be allowed to kick about the place. 

It didn’t fix the gaping hole that had been left from a killing. A murder. But it felt like a breath of fresh air to think more about how much he wanted Hoffman and not so much about how heavy Ryan’s body was as they loaded it into the car. 

Peter shut his eyes. Banishing that from his mind as well. Flitting his eyes open as soon as he had scornfully tossed the thought away. He would suffer. He would allow himself to suffer, he knew that. But for that moment, all he wanted was to languish in the gift of Mark there, breathing, in front of him. 

Mark groaned, looking youthful and in love, 

“You are. You’re gorgeous. So hot.” His thumb dragged across the edge of Pete’s mouth and in the back of Strahm’s mind all he wanted was to suck the tip of that thumb into his mouth. Watch the way that Mark’s eyes would go big and wide, pupils huge. Instead, he smiled again, affable and slight. Eyes locked onto Mark’s and when he started to be fucked, hard, the smile vanished in a snap with the shifting of his mouth into an open gape. 

They hadn’t really done anything since they had returned. Quiet, awkward fumbles in the shadowy light of the television on the couch. Mark’s mouth on his hips as Strahm struggled wretchedly to get hard, fear that a dead man might come lurching out of the shadows of the room looming large. Weeks wasn’t necessarily a long time to go without having sex, Strahm had been married once upon a time, he knew that the ache of tiredness would drag you into bed at a reasonable hour to sleep, rather than any other extracurricular activities. But weeks felt a little like years when all you wanted was to settle back into comfortable home-life. 

So, when Mark stuck his face into Pete’s neck and breathed hot air out at him as he snapped his hips so hard and fast that Strahm didn’t have a moment to think about where he was, who he was, or if he had inadvertently murdered someone with his own hands. 

It was horrible. And completely blissful in the simplest way possible. 

“Jesus.” Strahm had to laugh, just a small quiet thing, as Mark used every ounce of his bodily power to push up into him. He had to press a hand to the small of the man’s back to get him to yield once it started to become too much. Not too rough though, just too much. He was over-exuberant in the stark light of Strahm’s enthusiasm to have sex and it made him silly and excitable, unable to hold himself back.

“Sorry.” Mark said, voice cupped into the dip of Strahm’s shoulder, pooling in the hollow until he could lick it back out and listen to Pete’s pleased exhale of air, “You want anything?” His hips stilled, waiting for a response. 

“I don’t know.” Peter sounded far too shy for a man of his age, but he allowed it. In the space of their shared room. Any neighbours below the window be damned, “You?” 

“Sheesh.” Mark breathed, “That’s fucking terrible.” He grazed his teeth along Strahm’s jaw, tasting the remnants of shaving foam from the morning’s perfunctory shave, “I liked it better when you used to call me a useless mutt.”

“You have your uses. I’ve changed my mind.” He stroked a thumb down Mark’s back, feeling the scars from the glass coffin rise and fall in a staccato rhythm against the pad, “You going to keep going or get on my fucking nerves?” 

“Old bitch.” 

“Get on with it.” 

“Yeah. Bet you’d love for this to be over.” 

Strahm laughed properly at that, chest lighter than it had been for weeks, like his heart was stapled to the ceiling and he was only just catching up to it finally. When he opened his eyes, blinking up at Mark like it was the first day of his life, he found that he was smiling. Not in that patently terrifying way he often managed to slide his mouth into, but something slow and soft. Regarding Strahm with the highest of emotions. The dark smear of stubble across his chin and jawline, making him look about ten years younger and hotter than Peter would ever like to admit out loud. However, the whim took him before he could stop himself. 

“I don’t tell you it enough—” Peter rounded a hand around Mark’s backside and dragged him towards him until his pelvis was almost flush with his own “—You’re a good looking guy.” 

“Okay.” Mark nodded, looking as bashful as any man could, “Thank you.” 

“You going to fuck me?” Peter asked, unafraid for once in his life of the waves of embarrassment that came with being so forward with his own wants.

“Yeah. Trying to. If you’d stop yapping about how much you want me.” 

“You—” 

Strahm was allowed the chance to speak one single word of his sentence before Mark stuck a hand into the hair at the crown of his head and stationed his elbow on the bedding to the left side of Peter’s face, anchoring himself, so he could drive his hips into him. Not as hard as he last had been, but fast enough that Peter couldn’t focus his eyes or brain long enough to comprehend anything past the sensation of Mark inside of him and his hair drifting across his brow bone. 

“Fuck.” It ended up half garbled as Strahm strained his head back as he spoke, throat exposed to Mark’s eyeline and with a dip of his head he suckered his mouth around the nearest piece of flesh he could. Teeth a welcome threat at the edges of the sucking kiss as he untangled his hand from Strahm’s hair and shoved his hand underneath his back, lifting his hips in such a way that the pressure was taken off of Strahm’s aching lower back and all the intensity was sent straight to his prostate. 

The sound he made was pathetic and loud . Louder than he ever tended to be in bed and it was answered by the sharp chirp of the birds outside, singing a two-part harmony in response. The leaves of the black cherry tree that grew outside of their bedroom window stroked its hands down the windowpane and cast a greenish glow to the whole affair, dappling the light across Mark’s back and Strahm wanted to see the scars he could feel so badly. Wanted to know that everything had been for him because it had been. Every trap he’d been put into had led up to the final one, a trapping that he would happily lay down and surrender to. 

Who would have known the last one would in fact include drinks at a jazz club on Tuesday nights with a seventy two year old librarian he worked with.

He curled around Mark at the thought. 

Life didn’t end with water filling his lungs until the grasping pain sucked the life from him. It certainly didn’t end being crushed into a mass of his own insides and bones within the coffin room. If anything, it began there. And with all the hope that he could send to whoever made the world he currently walked around in, it would end in the house where he watched Mark hang mugs onto wooden mug-trees in the kitchen with gentle hands and then moved to fix them dinner because that was how he showed Pete that he loved him.

Mark’s hand tucked itself around his neck, a searching look coming from the man above Pete as he pulled himself from the back of his own head, getting lost in thinking about how all he wanted now, after everything, was to fold Mark’s socks into a pair and put them in the correct place in the chest of drawers in their bedroom. 

The hand tightened and Pete moaned softly and clipped, closing his eyes as Mark fucked him in short deep motions. Unable to draw himself any further from the tight heat of Peter’s body so he settled for sharp quick thrusts that kept them as close as possible. 

Peter clasped a hand around his erection and knew that Mark watched the movement with intensity, eyes probably glowing like the eye-shine from a fox in the headlights of your car in the pit of the night. 

The hand tightened once more. 

Then, without much further ado, Peter was back in the bathroom with a metal ring around the delicate skin of his neck. 

His chest tightened, throat closing up. His eyes darting about the room, the phantom smell of Adam’s musty corpse snuck up his nose with the intention to turn that moment, something that should have let him finally breathe after all those weeks, into a festering failure. 

“It’s okay.” Mark’s voice was far away, like he was speaking from behind several panes of glass, “Baby. Look at me.” The hand had left his throat probably as soon as Mark felt the shift in his body or saw the sweat start springing from his hairline, “I’m sorry. Sweetheart, look at me.” 

When he did, no air left in his lungs and feeling on the brink of a significantly embarrassing death, Mark’s face in the peeling blackness that threatened to creep from the corners of their bedroom was the beam of a lighthouse. A small, secretive smile across him, like he didn’t want to startle Pete, but knew exactly what he was thinking. 

He looked at Mark. He looked at him. 

The bathroom melted away. Just for now. But it was enough. 

Peter looked at Mark. 

“I’m sorry.” Mark said. 

“Hit me.” Peter said back. 

Mark’s hips stilled, “What?” 

“Don’t stop.” Peter murmured, hand around his cock and he swirled the palm of it around the head, “Okay? Don’t stop. And hit me. Fucking hit me.”

It was something he loved deeply about the beast that had turned itself to the human world and walked upright called Mark Hoffman, it rarely took much prompting for him to do something. Especially when it tied in a subtle violence to him fucking Peter. Or vice versa. So, with little preamble, he fucked Pete with renewed vigour once more, rearing back like a bear about to strike. Then he did. 

His hand moved in seeming slow motion until it collided with the side of Pete’s face and it felt like being awoken from a long deep sleep. It shook his head and all it took for him to come was for his hand to strip his erection a couple more times in the ringing wake of the slap and then Peter was gasping wetly and arching his back into the pounding sensation of Mark fucking him like he might die if he didn’t. It was a shock to the system, after a couple weeks of not going all the way with their messing around. The slap juddered through his whole body and Mark made a noise that could only be described as a whimper as Strahm shot strips of pearly cum across not just the dip of his pelvis like usual but all the way up to where his sternum met the soft curve of his chest. 

“Oh Christ.” Mark burbled, clearly trying to chase his own need, “You liked that?” 

“Mhm.” Strahm couldn’t speak. All he could do was stagger in breaths, muscles flexing and shaking as Mark’s cock pushed into him and made him feel both small and strong all at the same time. 

Mark’s face descended into the space next to Strahm’s ear, their chests flattening together and Strahm could feel the slick squash of the cum between them, that in itself making his insides clench around Mark because they shared everything nowadays. Life. Food. Even bodily fluids. It was a little funny but mostly it made a spring of tears bubble from his eyes and he hiccuped a single breath and wound his arms around Mark’s neck. 

“God, you’re good.” Mark muttered into his neck, voice loud and deep where it was next to his ear, “You’re my good boy.”

What Peter wanted to say was, ‘I'm forty-four. I’m not a boy. And neither am I good.’ 

Instead, he moaned, mouth full of saliva, and nodded. 

“I can’t hear you, baby.”

He’d beat Mark’s ass later, for now he swallowed the spit in his mouth and croaked, 

“Yeah. Yes.” There was barely a chance in hell he could get hard again but that didn’t stop him from wondering if he prayed prettily enough that God might allow it because he wanted to come again so frighteningly bad in that moment, “Your good boy.” 

“Good dog.” Mark laughed slightly and Strahm answered with his own exhausted chuckle. It was a joke. A shared one. But it still made him warm inside. 

An in-joke. As simple and stupid as it was.

It also served to have his cock perking up, a miracle really. Whatever prayer had lifted the sticky veil of refractory periods had pierced through the heavens and while he wasn't all full-mast in a matter of seconds, his dick was clearly taking a renewed interest. Perhaps it was the lack of sex. Perhaps he just loved Mark that much. Strahm wasn't about to start complaining.

“Come in me.” He said quietly after that, and it was a button press that generally, through experience, made Mark dip his head and grit his teeth and come. Peter used it often. It made him feel powerful.

Mark did, with a stuttered movement from his hips and a short gasp, he pushed into Strahm one final time and came. 

Peter pushed Mark’s hair back from his face, so long now and beginning to curl, then kissed the side of his temple. Tasting tangy sweat and moisturiser just below that and he wished he could spend all of his time tasting Mark, he would gulp him down in three long swallows if he had the chance, he thought. 

“I can do you now.” Mark rumbled, a hand flapping around to wriggle between their bellies so he could jerk Peter off, or maybe more if he found it within himself to pull his cock out of Pete and wrench himself to a position where he might get his mouth around him. 

“In a second.” The bed sheets shifted and moved like water beneath where Strahm’s legs shuffled to pull himself aloft, head thumping against the bedhead and unsurprisingly after not much sexual activity between the two of them since they had slumped back to Quincy, Peter could just about feel that if he were to stand up, he would end up having to waddle to the en-suite bathroom to clean Mark’s cum from between his thighs and maybe all the way down to the inside of his knees. So he stayed propped up in bed, burgeoning second erection waning slightly until Mark could manoeuvre himself in between Pete’s thighs, stopping only to pry them apart further and suck a neat line of rosie pink love bites into where he’d naturally aggregated a cluster of curly beautiful hair. 

With a hand on the base of his cock and his lips propped up against the wet tip of Strahm’s erection, although only after dragging himself away from the wonderful call of Pete’s sweaty inner thigh, Mark smiled furtively and blinked once. Then twice. Then smiled a little bigger and said with the most hushed tone that Pete had ever heard come out of the man, 

“Marry me.” 

It wasn’t what he had expected. 

It wasn’t what he particularly wanted to hear.

“Let’s not get into that right now.” Was what he settled on for an answer to Mark’s demand, as it didn’t sound like a question, the way that he said it.

“Okay.” Mark smiled wistfully, a sad look flitting across his face and stayed for just long enough for Pete to make sense of it, “I just thought I might bring it up. While you’re in such a good mood.”

That at least made Peter laugh and when he touched Mark’s hair it felt smooth and soft beneath his fingers, like strands of woven silk that slipped through and between his fingertips as though he were spinning it himself to be fed into the machine himself. Master and artist to the spectacle that was the unmaking of Hoffman and the fresh and fine birth of simply Mark. 

“Another time.” He all but whispered, playing second fiddle to the sound of the bird song outside the window. 

“I’ll ask again.” Mark smiled like a real boy for the first time in a while. Less so like an approximation of what it was to be human. He was learning. Leaning back into older ways.

“I know you will.” Peter guided his mouth downwards, “Just—Just later.” 

“Hold you to it.” 

~

A week tripped sluggishly by, full of awkward dinners and then silent crowding of each other on the couch afterwards as an apology passed between the both of them for those awkward dinners. The sun rose earlier and earlier every day it seemed, setting so late into the evening that Strahm could sit on the porch to the back of their home well past seven o’clock, despite the fact it was still chilly around the bared skin of his ankles when we decided to sit out without the protection of socks. He liked the feel of the cold grass beneath him when he would sit out. Basking in the way it sent a shiver up the back of his stiff spine, bones tucked together with anxiety more often nowadays than it wasn’t. Cramped in together beneath his skin as he folded himself down every single time that his mind would stray back to Ryan. 

Poor Ryan. Poor, pathetic Ryan. 

A hand slid across the back of his shoulders as he sat on the bench that overlooked the garden. His forsythia bloomed yellow, buttery and bright against the dim greens of the background, his eyes glazing over as he attempted to pick out the rest of his plants. Only the forsythia stuck out at that moment. As well as the smattering of pansies that Mark had decided on when they had visited a flower nursery. 

“Hello.” Mark murmured, kissing the tip of Peter’s ear, the softest thing he had done for days, “I want to ask you something.” 

“Sorry. I’m waiting till marriage.” Peter realised rather quickly that was a stupid joke to make given what Mark had asked of him the week prior, “Or. Whatever. Yes? What?” He brought a sweating glass of water to his lips, the ice cubes clinking jovially and it felt like summer already, despite the fact the season would remain hidden for another handful of months, “Go on.” 

“I think we should go to Boston. Tomorrow.” Mark didn’t settle on the bench next to Peter but he wished that he did. He smelled like clean laundry and his hair was tumbled up into a tiny ponytail at the very back of his head. 

Which revealed the fact he had re-pierced his ear. After months of the hole being bereft of the earring and its flesh suckering itself back together, he had decided to re-open the hole and a shining gold hoop had been pressed through the bleeding slit like a bullet into the chamber. The target was clear. It was Peter’s battered and bruised heart. 

He shifted in his seat, eyes down to the floor, 

“Can do.” He sipped his drink again, “If you want.”

“Can’t you ever just tell me what you want?” 

Strahm’s mouth went tight and he knew exactly the point that Mark was trying to make, but it still pissed him off nevertheless. 

“Yes. I’d love to go to Boston with you.” He kept the need to roll his eyes at bay because Mark was trying for him and as much as he stuck to his guns with his ornery persona, the way that Mark looked at him like it was all he ever wanted to cart Strahm around his old home was melting the resolve, “Is that what the earrings for? Get into the role.” 

He shuffled his body closer and the feeling of their shoulders brushing hurtled him back to the rose-tinted halls of his senior year in highschool when, for the first time in his life, he had taken a single knee and tied the shoes of a boy in his year as he smiled down at him. Then brushed a hand through his hair, fingers so light against his scalp that he might have thought he imagined it if it wasn’t one of the best, most wonderful moments of his life.

Well. 

Up until the moment Mark had first looked at him like he loved him. Which, worryingly, had been within the coffin, pressed so close to each other, breath fogging up the panes. 

“I just know you like it.” His finger flicked the hoop and he just about suppressed the wince it caused to the still tender flesh, wound reopened in an act of strange response to Strahm’s personal and historic tribulations with earrings. Or as a truthfully honest way to impress him. Mark was hard to read in that way, “Wanted to look nice.” 

Strahm could sense he was weedling for a compliment and he indulged Mark with a curt reply of, 

“You look fine.” 

Mark grinned, resting his sewn cheek on Pete’s shoulder, touching the most delicate part of himself to him. Sharing the pain in a comfortable way. 

“Okay.” Pete murmured after a moment, “Make me a coffee in the morning. I would love to come to Boston with you.” His finger inched out and curled around the pinkie of Mark’s own hand, “Maybe some eggs. Sausage. Nothing crazy.” 

“Jesus Christ. You want toast or a bagel? Full continental spread?” 

“I like your breakfasts. It’s why I’m fatter.” 

Mark hummed happily, 

“Yeah you are.” 

“Feed the fucking cat, dipshit.” Pete laughed, swatting away the hand he had just made an effort to touch, playfully drawing Mark off of the bench and back into the warm bough of their home. The aforementioned cat mewling from the open doorway and as he turned to look back into it, watching Mark pad barefoot after the animal, his throat went tight with something he hadn’t felt for a while. Before the bathroom. Most notably a Thursday afternoon when they’d been living in Quincy about three months and Mark had slipped on water he himself had dripped onto the tiles of the kitchen floor, falling onto his ass and laughing so hard at himself that tears had gathered in his eyes. They had slipped down his cheeks and Strahm had almost been bowled over by how much he loved him. Loved the human he could be. 

When he tried. But also didn’t try at all. 

“Hey.” Pete said, Mark caught just at the lip of the door and he turned to gaze back at Strahm as he spoke, “My pretty boy.” 

Mark scoffed, but there was no malice behind it, 

“Dick.” 

~

Pete didn’t do well at burial grounds. He avoided them when he could and when he couldn’t he didn’t stay for long, just gave a quick nod to the earth and a look to the clouds then he was gone. That was evidently not the way that Mark believed was the correct way to honour the dead and the solemn look that he gave to each grave that he seemingly recognised stuck a long, cold dagger into Strahm’s being because he had never truly thought to even begin thinking of the man as knowing others. As though Mark had risen, fully formed, from the earth and found his one true directive of being the most terrifying motherfucker to ever grace this side of the East Coast. 

It didn’t shock him that they ended up where they were.

Going to Boston would have never been about getting lunch. Window shopping. 

They were there for Angie. Just as they both should have been the day before they left for New Jersey all those weeks ago.

Peter had swallowed around a ragged throat when Mark had pointed a blithe finger towards a gravestone and said the air of someone who could barely remember their life past the great tumultuation that was Jigsaw apprenticeship, 

“He knew my father. Me and Angie used to get our shoes fixed at his shop when we ran them into the ground because we didn’t have enough money for new ones at that point. Until I started working.”

The tombstone in question was barely legible beneath the weathering and moss accumulation, dark green and grimy grey. Probably cold to the touch. 

“What was your first job?” The path beneath them began to turn rough and it split out into tufts of grass and clods of dirt beneath their feet as they wound themselves towards where Angie and Mark’s parents lay, “Let me guess—” Strahm took the opportunity to dip his hand into the clammy palm of Mark’s, enjoying the way that his whole body jolted at the shock of the sweet gesture “—One of those rinky-dink restaurants where everything is delivered on rollerskates.” 

“In this fantasy—” Mark squeezed his hand and didn’t stop squeezing, they were probably nearing the grave “—am I on roller skates or am I just some dumbass in the kitchen flipping burgers?”

“I’d take either.” Strahm shrugged, the idle twinge in his back that played up every now and then since the bathroom nagged for a moment. Then he steeled it away with a twist to the left and another squeeze of Mark’s hand, “Roller skates would be the pervert thing to say.” 

“Hey.” Mark grunted, “We’re in a fucking graveyard. Have some respect.” 

“So—” Pete elongated the vowel “—No skates?”

“Ang and I worked at a grocery store. She was on the tills and I bagged.” He smiled as though it was the best time of his life. Perhaps it was. “We were only teenagers and we got paid in cash straight from the registers. Barely anything compared to now, but it helped out our parents and it meant we could go to the movies. See bands. I’d buy her anything she wanted. She asked and I got it for her. On just over two bucks an hour.” He scrubbed a fist across his eyes and as Pete went to take another step he was halted by the tug of Mark’s hand that held his. 

The plot was simple. Two headstones. 

Loving parents . Same date on the same stone for the both of them. 

Peter had never asked about Mark’s parents, it had never felt like it was the right time. What he had done was rifle through his personal file at the precinct over a year ago and then searched for any sort of information in the database about the Hoffmans, to which he had found a wealth of information about something he had no business delving into. 

Angie’s headstone was brighter, like it had been recently cleaned and Pete could just picture it. Mark cleaning it through floods of tears with a damp cloth in a fit of madness and regret the last time he was at the burial site. The text inscribed on the front made Pete’s eyes dart away. 

He could only think of the girl in front of The Falls. Hair swept away with the wind and a smile so wide it was barely contained upon her face. A beaming phantom of a better time.

It wasn’t right to read the words that Mark had clearly picked out reverently and shaking for her headstone. No brother should be forced to pick a carved epitaph for their sister at that age. Not after having to pick one for their parents as well. 

“I’m sorry.” Mark said, quieter than he’d probably ever spoken. Or maybe that’s just how it seemed in the moment. 

“It’s okay.” Strahm answered, which made Mark laugh. 

“For once I didn’t mean you.” His eyes didn’t leave the grave, “Feels shitty to not come and see her and not apologise. Not that she can hear.”

“I was raised Catholic, man.” Pete imagined Angie lying below their feet, breathing quietly in her coffin. Asleep. “Heaven is where God is and it’s everlasting. Supposedly. I don’t really understand or remember half of it.” 

Mark shrugged, “Like I said, she wasn’t really the kind of girl to be big into the classic organised religions. She believed in nature. Weird shit.” 

“Well.” Pete said the single syllable and thought a long while about how to follow, then slowly said, “I’m sure she can hear you. In a way.” 

“She always did like dirt too. So, she’d probably be pretty happy that’s where she ended up.” 

The look that Strahm whipped around to give Mark was scathing for a single second, then it dissolved into a clumsy smile as he realised that not everything that revolved in the tense space that orbited a dead person had to always be stuffy and without humour. Mark’s wonky grin made his eyes crinkle at the edge as he smiled and muttered, 

“Stupid fucker.” 

“You would have liked her. She was my biggest critic before you turned up.” Mark tugged absentmindedly at the freshly pierced earring, turning the lobe a shiny red, “She’d completely fucking despise me for following him.” He didn’t need to specify who the ‘him’ was as there were no other big Hims floating around Mark’s guilty consciousness and there probably never would be another. At least, Pete hoped that would be the case. 

“Seth deserved what you did.” Strahm’s teeth ached after he ground it out. Face feeling hot and soul deeply angry at the fact that he truly believed what he’d said. Seth Baxter did deserve it. He just wished it hadn’t been Mark to dole out the heaping punishment.

“What about Ryan?” Mark’s eyes darted towards Pete’s, dark and searching. 

“No.” 

“But you still wish you hadn’t done it.” 

“Yes.” The answer came from Pete quickly. What else was there to say? 

“You wish you’d never gotten involved with me.” It sounded like a question, the way that Mark’s eyebrows shot up and he gazed directly into the centre of Peter’s worried face, eyes almost swirling round and round with the intensity of the look. But it wasn’t. It was a statement of fact and Peter scrambled to disagree. 

“Absolutely not.” A child laughed loudly down the way and Mark’s head turned towards the noise. When he twisted his face back round it was met with Strahm’s palm sliding to cup his cheek, falling completely foul to the need to love him regardless of the fact they were smack bang in the middle of an open space. Eyes could have easily fallen onto them. He didn’t care though, “It would be completely fucking unfair for you to start implying that right now.” 

“Oh, come on, Pete—”

“You’re my friend, Mark.” Strahm said, one finger brushing the earring, “I don’t know what else to say. You know I’m shit at it. How crazy is that, though? After everything, you’re my friend and my partner.” 

“You won’t fall down dead if you were to tell me you loved me.” 

“Yeah.” Strahm nodded, “Yeah, you’re right.” He smiled in the way that people told him made him look attractive, “I do love you.” 

“I love you.” Mark echoed. As though it was the first thing he’d ever learned to say. The peak and pinnacle of language. To express to the man in front of him how he felt. He wouldn’t need another word. 

“You look like you want to say more.” He nudged Mark’s arm with his elbow, “I’m waiting.” 

“I brought something.” 

“Oh, Jesus.” Strahm laughed, “You going to ask me to marry you again?” 

“Shut up. No.” Mark swung the rucksack on his back to the front of his boots, rifling through the contents, hand scraping against the jagged teeth of the plastic zipper making Peter smile at his enthusiasm. When his hand reappeared, in his grasp was a rectangle. A plastic frame.

Strahm’s throat crushed in on itself as the frame was flipped over and he came face to face with Mark and Angelina stood in front of Niagara Falls. 

“Christ.” He breathed. 

“I went through the album. I wanted to bring something that was just us.” He brushed his thumb over Angie’s grinning face and it squeaked quietly over the glass, leaving a smear which he immediately wiped away with the cuff of his zip-up, “This one was always my favourite. She’d just broken up with a boyfriend and so she could come on a road trip with me.” He grinned right back at her, “Freed up her calendar. You know?” 

The way the sun peeked from behind the cloud suddenly alighted onto the photo frame, the glare of it bursting into the back of Strahm’s head from the curve of his eyes and he felt his knees buckle slightly before he managed to steel himself. A bird cawed overhead and all he could hear was the whooshing of his own blood within himself and the way the leaves brushed against each other in the red oaks that bracketed them. Bursts of shocking colour that he slid his eyes to and fixated onto until he could draw himself away from that first time he had noticed Mark. 

It felt like a lifetime ago.

His heart clenched as he thought about sitting, legs splayed in front of him, in that bathroom without the comforting knowledge that Mark was out there somewhere.

What if he had never picked up that photo album.

“I’ve seen it before.” He all but wheezed, face pale, “When I broke into your old apartment. I found it.” He licked his dry lips, finding them lined with sharp cracks, “I think I stared at it for longer than I actually realised.” 

“We were so young.” Mark sounded so far away. 

Peter could feel him tumbling away from him. 

The air smelled like rot and mildew. Adam’s head turned. 

Big baby. At least you got out. 

“Hey.” Mark’s hand mirrored the way Strahm’s had touched him previously, his fingertips cool to the skin as he pressed them into Pete’s cheek. An attempt to drag him back into the open. Away from the room, “Are you alright?” 

“Just—” Strahm laughed, slightly hollow “—Just funny to think what could have been. You could have killed me. I could have killed you.” His insides buzzed unpleasantly, “I could have died in Jersey. In a fucking bathroom.” 

“I wouldn’t have let them do that to you.” Mark grunted. Absolute in his words. 

“You thought I’d left you. You could have driven all the way back to Quincy and thought nothing else about it, or about me.” 

“You know I’d never do that.”

“Why did you bring that photo?” Peter asked, “Why that one?” 

“Because it was the last time I remember feeling like myself.” 

Just like the coffin, it didn’t feel particularly good to have predicted that. It felt like a short, sharp stab to the stomach and Strahm just about kept the need to bend in half at bay. Taking a deep, centering breath as he slid his eyes shut and remembered the way it had felt to first learn that Mark was a real boy. It felt othering in a sense. To know that the worst person you knew had a life outside of the manic game of cat and mouse you were embroiled in. Even after time had shifted, rolling the two of them in its great palm, turning what were ultimately the worst parts of them into something bursting with goodness. Love born from something that could have crushed the both of them. Even still, it was the one thing Peter struggled raggedly against, the ability to compartmentalise Mark into a being before he’d touched his life with his specific brand of withering, bloody compassion. 

“You looked happy.” 

“No shit.” Mark smiled, “I was always happy with Ang.” 

“Is it for her?” Liz had once left a photo of their family on their mother’s grave. Someone had taken it almost immediately. 

“I just thought that maybe if I left something with her from—I don’t know— before, then it would sit here with her. Keeping her company until I can join her.” 

“Morbid.” Peter regretted saying it immediately, but thankfully Mark just smiled again and gently set the photo frame onto the stone lip of her grave. 

“Yeah. But I think I’d feel better for it, so who gives a fuck.” He shrugged, “Plus, if it’s here with Angie then you’re less likely to eat through the rest of my photo collection.” 

The tips of Strahm’s ears went a deep red, 

“Okay.” 

“Because you ate that other one.”

“ Yeah .” 

Mark laughed hard enough that a woman gently weeping twisted her head to look at him and Peter cleared his throat then shoved at Mark with the jut of his elbow, hissing under his breath to stop. But he didn’t. He laughed until three tears rolled down his cheeks. 

Then a fourth. Then another six. It took that long to realise he was weeping along with the stranger. 

“I’m here.” It was all Peter could think to say. 

I’m here. He thought. Please let me always be here.

“I’m sorry.” Mark gasped. 

“You’ve already said that. I think she heard you the first time.” 

“No.” Mark croaked, “You’ve not been the same since we got back. And I’m sorry. I knew I’d gone too far as soon as I killed Jill Tuck. I could feel it, feel the way I’d fucked up the worst I’d ever fucked up. This nasty fucking cold, sick feeling that made me puke right there. I knew Angie was dead before I even heard about it. I just knew. It felt the same as soon as I did that to Jill.” 

“It’s okay.” The entirety of Pete’s body felt like it was squashed into a single cubic metre of space, “I’m getting back to normal.” 

“If you wanted me to turn myself in, I would.” Mark’s eyes glowed weakly beneath the tears, bright with emotion beneath the grey sky, “If you could forgive me after, that’s all I’d want.” He ran the back of his sleeve across his nose and Peter barely even registered how disgusting he might have found that before he had so pathetically fallen in love with the beast in front of him, “I’d go. I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay with me because of all that shit I said before.” 

“What shit?” Peter frowned. 

“How I’d incriminate you.” Mark groaned like it pained him to bring up, “I did want you to come with me, if I had to be found. If they arrested me. But, not now.” His hands shook and Peter tucked his own into one. Some stability for himself too. “I just want you to be alright. I’d go. If you wanted me to.”

Peter’s mouth surged to meet Mark’s and it caught him so off guard that he stumbled back two steps before he could steady himself. Then he threw his arms around Peter’s neck and drew him as close as possible, kissing him over and over until the both of them drew back with twinned gulps of air. 

“Of course I don’t fucking want you to leave me.” Peter managed to stop himself from wailing but it still came out strangled and incredulous, “Don’t you ever fucking leave me. I want you . I wanted you when I couldn’t bear to think of you as anything but Hoffman. Like you were some sort of monster that I wanted to separate from myself.” He felt lightheaded as he laughed and said, “You never noticed that, did you? The slip from only calling you that. Now I can’t think of you as anything but Mark.” 

“ I noticed .” Mark breathed. 

“Don’t go.” Peter begged. He’d crawl onto his knees if he had to.

“I won’t. I’m sorry. Please don’t go back to the bathroom.” 

Peter knew what he meant. Don’t slip and skid down that terrifying slope that led straight to the hungering pit that was the terrible mood he’d been in for weeks. A rain cloud perpetually hung over his head even in what should have been the most free years of his life now that he had finally settled into a life he would have never seen himself living, but loved nevertheless. 

“I want to leave her something.” He didn’t know what brought it on, but as Mark smudged away his tears all Peter could think about was the recurring thought that this was basically meeting his sister in law and he hadn’t even brought a gift. “For Angie. I don’t have anything.”

“Nothing in your pockets?” Mark’s voice was wet and snuffled as it left him. 

Peter had once in disgust thought of him as having a pig-like nose. Snuffling and pert. 

Now, he just thought it was cute. Wretchedly. 

It was a point though, to rummage around his pockets for anything. The leather of his jacket squeaked as he stuffed his hands around the material, finding lint and dirt at the bottoms, rough against his fingertips. Until he unzipped the inner pocket, the one that touched his breast whenever he put the garment on. 

Inside was his wedding ring. 

He had taken it off when he had entered the coffin’s room. Unwilling to allow Mark to see the final token of his previous life. 

It was worryingly fitting to leave it beside the photograph that not only held the shadow of Mark before the fall he had taken but also was the reminder that even men like him deserved forgiveness from those that loved them most. And he did love him the most. It would have been ridiculous to deny it. 

The ring was cold and alien as Peter held it up in front of his eyes. What had once been the most precious thing to him was relegated to a simple piece of metal that held nothing but wilting memories which, while held in high regard, were fleeting and fragments of a past that Strahm was grateful for but would never return to.

“You really want to leave that?” Mark sounded regrettably hopeful. 

“Yeah.” Peter nodded, “I do.” 

The wrinkles beneath Mark’s eyes made Peter’s heart beat faster as he smiled in return and murmured, “I hoped you’d say that.” He allowed Peter to lay the ring next to the photograph, the gentle clunk of it sounded like the heralding of a new kind of freedom for the both of them and Peter swallowed, unashamed to realise that he would never know the man in the photograph that he had obsessed over so incessantly, enough to want to devour him, but that was fine. Because he still wanted to gorge himself on anything the man stood in front of him surrendered to him even more. 

“I’ll get you a new one.” Mark let the boisterous but endearing confidence overtake his words with a nod of his head towards the ring, “I’ll ask again. Then I’ll get you a new one.” 

“I told you, I know you will.” 

“You ever think about any of this happening when you first broke into my place?” 

“Jesus. If I had predicted any of this I’d be the world’s greatest psychic.” It made Mark chuckle and Peter wanted to take him home right then and there. That, or have God as his witness and officiant for the world’s first and foremost gay wedding conducted at a gravesite. 

“I knew you’d like me.” Mark fiddled with his earring, tugging on the golden hoop, “I knew you’d come around to me in the end.” 

“Didn’t make it easy.” 

“You want to go and get lunch?” Mark tripped his thumb down the cleft of Peter’s chin, “I know some good places. Show you around town.” 

“Sounds good.” It did. It sounded perfect. 

Peter leant in, kissing the soft skin below Mark’s earlobe, breath ghosting over the hoop through it and as he drew back Mark took the opportunity to pinch his chin between his thumb and forefinger. Holding him in place as he flicked open the clasp on the earring and slid it, through gritted teeth as it pulled on his raw flesh, out of his ear. It lay in the centre of his palm as he offered it up like a religious artefact to Peter, his gaze upon it reverent and doting. Like the earring meant much more than one might first imagine. Which it did. 

Just like the photo. It was the beginning and end of them as they knew it. 

Now, they were something else entirely. 

“I want you to have it.” The golden loop shone against the rough skin of Mark’s weather, working hand, “To replace the one from your pocket. Have this. Until I can give you something real.” 

“This is real.” Peter said, voice hushed. 

“You know what I mean.” He offered his palm up further, almost beneath Strahm’s nose, “Take it. Please. It would mean a lot to me.” 

Liz’s word ran in a jumbled mess through Peter’s head, although now, they were optimistic rather than scathing and nervous. 

Obsessed, Pete. 

He plucked the golden hoop from Mark’s hand and nodded once before sliding it into the inner breast pocket of his leather coat. 

A piece of Mark. Not in his stomach. 

Above his heart. 

~

In the summer of 2008, at the age of forty-five, just as his delusion induced dream had predicted in the back of Lawrence Gordon’s car strangely, Peter Strahm married Mark Hoffman in their backyard. 

There was purple wisteria blooming above the back decking and a photograph of Angie, on the white wood table Mark had built with his own hands, as a witness. 

Mark’s fingers pushed into the greying hair of Peter’s temple and kissed him.