Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jigsaw doesn’t make mistakes.

That’s what Strahm had said in that hospital room, when he was out of his mind with rage and probably still in a hell of a lot of pain. It’s not necessarily that he was wrong, Mark knows. It’s more that Strahm doesn’t realize that the mistakes are only far and few between but still there regardless.

The only difference is that they’re always emotional mistakes. Stupid shit that John didn’t think about, or stupid shit that Mark didn’t think about. Maybe sometimes both. Maybe sometimes Amanda added her own mistakes into the pot, too. But John... John had always made plenty of mistakes, but not in a way that could be traced. Mark makes more mistakes than he wants to admit.

He’s not sure where those mistakes started—maybe it was the first time he stepped into a bar after Angelina died, when he had been in a hazy stupor and looking for anything to dull the pain. Maybe it was the first time he called off work simply so he could stare at the wall all day, already putting a plan together, already thinking of what he wanted to do to Seth Baxter. Maybe his biggest mistake was watching through that peephole and realizing just what it was he had actually done. Regardless of what mistake had been the breaking point, it’d still been enough for John to figure out, and now it seems like Strahm’s on his fucking ass, too.

Or, well, he’d been on Mark’s ass. Now he has a problem of a different sort.

Despite everything between the two of them, it’s still painful to watch the way Strahm’s bone finally snaps from the pressure and tears itself right through his wrist and up his arm. More painful still to listen to the awful howl that raises out of Strahm’s abused throat when it does. Blood hits the coffin with a terrible wet slap, staining the entire view above him red. He feels like he’s watching the scene like he’s in a darkroom, like he’s watching through a filter of whatever it is that keeps Strahm alive right up to the second he dies.

This man, who will do anything it takes to survive. This man, who had shoved a pen into his neck just to be able to breathe. This man, who had beaten the everloving shit out of Mark just to throw him into that coffin. He'd gone against all orders no matter the cost just to follow him here. And now, sure enough, here he is indeed. Ten feet off the ground as the walls close in around him, unable to do a damn thing about it as he bleeds freely onto the floor.

Mark watches, and he won’t look away until he physically can’t watch anymore. His back burns from his neck to his hips from the glass poking through his suit jacket, his broken nose aches, and he can feel the way blood sticks the fabric of his clothes to his skin.

Strahm, for his part, acts like a cornered animal. He's still feebly trying to escape the walls, trying to drag himself through the grate above him like it’ll make a difference. He’d kicked at the grate, he’d climbed up there with every intent to escape, and only now does he truly realize that he has nowhere to go. Mark can see the way one hand clutches at it hard enough to leave indents in his skin. He wonders if he'll get to see them, or if that will be pulverized, too.

As more blood splatters onto the front of the coffin, Mark merely blinks and curls his lip a little. Something inside of him doesn’t want to accept this. He’d wanted Strahm to understand, had tried to push him to understand him twice, and both times Strahm had refused to see him. He’d refused to put together the clues that Mark had left for him.

Mark knows it’s a refusal and not an oversight, because Strahm’s far too intelligent to ignore what’s right in front of him. He may be a hothead, and stubborn, and he may hate Mark’s guts, but he’s not stupid.

Strahm wails angrily, moving his feet up until his shoes are scrabbling at the wall facing him, but it’s no use. There’s nothing to save him, no way to survive this. He’d made his choice, had refused to trust Mark with his life. Now that very life is about to be snuffed out, about to vanish along with all the others, and all Mark will do is watch. There’s nothing else for it. Just another mistake. Just another failure. He’s not sure where to go after this.

And then, quite abruptly, the walls grind to a halt.

Strahm lets out a sob, but he’s still alive, and Mark stares up at him. Strahm’s wedged there, his legs the only thing really holding him in place. His back is shoved hard against the one wall behind him, and he looks a little like he’s just a second or two away from either folding in half or simply snapping into two separate pieces. Even from down below, Mark can see the way he shakes, the way he cries, the way he curses and snarls and spits like a rabid animal in a cage.

“Ah, shit,” Mark says.

The coffin finishes its descent into the floor and starts to roll away.

-

It doesn’t take him much time to hurry over to the doors once the coffin unlocks. He’s in a decent amount of pain from the glass still stuck in his back, but it doesn’t matter much when he has more important shit to do. He checks the failsafe, checks the wiring, checks the buttons, checks everything and double checks it again. It makes no sense that the walls would suddenly stop, except for maybe some kind of fuck-up with the actual hydraulics themselves. Shit.

This hadn’t been something he’d planned for, just as he hadn’t planned for Strahm to survive his first trap, either. He has no backup plan for something breaking, has no backup plan for Strahm surviving again. This motherfuck literally refuses to die. It’s a bit admirable, even if Mark’s not quite willing to admit that yet.

Sighing, he hits the button that opens into the room and sticks his head inside.

From above, Strahm’s still crying quietly where he’s folded in half between the walls. There’s a lot of blood on the floor underneath him, but not enough to have been immediately life-threatening. He must’ve gotten incredibly lucky that his splintered bone hadn’t shredded through either one of the arteries in his forearm, but he’s bleeding enough that it’s rapidly becoming a problem regardless. Mark can hear Strahm suck in a sharp breath, and then let out another furious, terrified yell.

“Help!” he shouts hoarsely, likely because he heard the door open. He sounds panicked. “Get me the fuck out of here!”

“Who do you think is gonna hear you?” Mark asks, and he actually means it. There had been no one in the room besides the two of them, and anyone who could have followed Strahm was undoubtedly at the other game by now. No one to help, no one to bear witness but Mark as Peter Strahm ceased to exist and Jigsaw took his place.

This time he hears Strahm gasp and then swear at the top of his lungs. Or, well, at least as loud as his throat will allow him.

“Fuck you!” he snarls, though it sounds a bit slurred. Blood loss, shock, who knows. “Fuck you, Hoffman!”

“You sure you should be saying that to the one person who can get you out of there?”

Strahm settles down at that, though Mark can still hear his terrified panting. More blood drips to the floor, loud in the silence that follows Mark’s question. Mark can see Strahm illuminated by the soft blue lights overhead, casting shadows against the walls, and takes a step closer. The same walls are just wide enough that he can squeeze in, though before he does he makes extra sure that the failsafe is in place. The last thing he needs is for both of them to be pulverized into goop.

“...fuck you,” Strahm finally says again, but it sounds fainter. Mark hears him kick at the wall with the limited space he has left.

Mark tilts his head as he stares up at him.

It takes a second, and then Mark’s eyebrows raise as he really understands just what it is he’s looking at. By all rights, Strahm should be dead. That much is obvious, and it’s just sheer dumb luck that the walls had stopped. But now that he can actually see him, he realizes that Strahm had somehow managed to work his own belt off and had looped it around his arm. Mark's pretty sure he can see the impression of teeth in the leather. A fucking tourniquet, while trapped between two walls. How he’d managed it, Mark can’t begin to figure out, but… well, Jesus Christ. Talk about a man who won’t take no for an answer.

He can’t see Strahm’s face from down here, but he’s sure that he’s pale and ashen, that his cheeks are shining with frightened tears. Even if Strahm’s not the kind to spook easily, Mark’s seen enough men in the face of their own painful deaths to know that every one of them cries at the end. He had done it himself, after all, when he’d been staring down the double barrel of a shotgun.

“Do you want me to get you down?” he asks. “Or do you wanna die up there? It’s your choice.”

Strahm outright hisses at him, which is kind of funny.

“You’re giving me a choice?” he spits, but Mark watches as he suddenly slips down an inch and cries out in pain when it wedges him further between the walls.

“I always gave you a choice, Peter,” Mark replies calmly. “And both times you chose to ignore me.”

Still, there’s a twinge of something else that starts in Mark’s chest and settles in his stomach as he gazes up at him.

Even now, with no escape, stuck between two walls that were meant to kill him in a gruesome, agonizing way, he’s still fighting. Strahm still has the will to live, has the will to fight for it, just as John had always been prattling on about. Strahm wants to live. Most people would’ve passed out by now, either from the pressure or the pain or the blood loss, but Strahm’s clutching at consciousness just as stubbornly as he is the grate above him. He's still cussing Mark out, still refusing to accept defeat.

“You fucker,” Strahm slurs, and slides down another inch. It’s not enough to actually let him fall, but with one useless arm, Mark’s pretty sure he won’t survive the landing if he does. It’s hard to tell if he'd slip down though, or just stay where he is. His long legs seem to be what's both keeping him up and keeping him stuck without anything to help him get down.

“I can get you out,” Mark repeats, staring up at him impassively. “You just have to ask me to do it.”

“You sick son of a bitch,” Strahm says. His voice is trembling, and Mark can see he’s trying not to fade out and failing miserably. Shock, then. “You fucking… you fucking asshole…”

“Live or die, Strahm,” Mark says calmly. “Make your choice.”

There’s another pause, another moment where Mark wonders if Strahm’s finally given up. If he’s passed out, if he’s going to die up there. Not a tangled mess of tissue and organs, but a frightened man trapped with nowhere to go. It doesn’t seem like the right death for someone as tenacious and noble as Peter Strahm, and Mark has a split second where he thinks he might rescue him regardless.

“Get me out,” Strahm says finally, just loud enough to be heard. His voice is still quivering, and he sounds terrified. “Get me out— get me out, please, get me out—”

That’s the sort of humility that Mark had absolutely not expected. He sighs, and gets to work.

With the hydraulics broken, Mark’s not able to actually get the walls apart, but he can scootch himself into the room far enough that he can direct Strahm on what to do. It’s a process, sure, but he keeps his arms up and just quietly tells Strahm when to shift a leg, when to shoulder down another inch. More of Strahm’s blood drips down, splatters onto Mark's face just as it had when the glass coffin had been covering it, but he doesn’t actually care.

Mark can’t remember the last time he saved someone properly. Years ago, maybe, before he met John Kramer. It feels… distant. Odd. He had been doing this for twenty years, he had been comforting young children and shoving people behind him during a gunfight and throwing himself at perps before they could hurt anyone else. It had been something he was good at, and then Angelina had died and all of that had been snuffed out the same way her life had been. Painful, bloody, lonely.

But it comes back, somehow. Strahm’s still fighting panic and unconsciousness, and he swears a few times at Mark when Mark pushes him to go a little too fast, but he still listens to Mark’s gentle guidance. He slowly slides down, inch by inch, foot by foot, until Mark can touch his thighs. He keeps it as gentle as possible, trying to provide some physical support.

“Okay,” Mark says in a quieter voice than he means it to be. “I got you. Now you just gotta straighten out one leg, then the other.”

Strahm does as he’s told, and Mark can tell he’s biting down more pained sounds as his arm gets jostled. It’s limp at his side, completely useless, and Mark has to avoid looking at it. Seeing it up close is a lot more jarring than watching it happen from far away. The skin and muscle of his arm is absolutely shredded, and the bone itself is splintered like a tree branch after a storm. There’s so much blood trailing down towards his hand that it drips sticky and thick off the tips of his twitching fingers.

Once Mark has one hand in the small of Strahm’s back and the other against his stomach, he can finally tell him to lower his feet onto the ground. It’s just as slow a process as it had been for him to work his way down in the first place, but one foot taps onto the floor and then the other.

Strahm sways a little. His face is pale and green, and his eyelids flutter, and he turns to Mark like he’s about to say something. His mouth works a few times, and he takes a step forward like he might punch him. Instead, the motion sends him slumping forward against Mark’s chest without a word.

Mark catches him, mostly out of shock, and it only takes him a second to realize that Strahm’s finally, finally passed out.

“Ah, shit,” Mark says again, and pats his back awkwardly as he tries to figure out what the fuck to do next.

Chapter Text

Lawrence, predictably, isn’t happy.

“Are you out of your mind?” he snarls, looking at the unmoving figure on Mark’s bed. It’d been hard enough to haul him up to the ground floor, and harder still to get him onto the bed while Lawrence drove over. The open wounds on his own back hadn’t helped much. “This man needs a hospital, Hoffman, not a goddamned back alley surgery!”

“You survived one, didn’t you?” Mark asks flatly, and Lawrence rolls his eyes so hard it carries his head with him.

“You are out of your mind,” he hisses, running his free hand through his hair. The other clenches tight to his cane, and Mark has a feeling that Lawrence would be pacing if he could. “You have no idea how much medical equipment this would require, let alone the fact that you’ve gone and framed him for murder!”

Oh, Lawrence is definitely pissed off, and Mark can tell. Some of that accent from when Lawrence had studied abroad years ago comes through, and that only happens when Lawrence has worked himself up into a lather. He has half a mind to mock him for it, but Lawrence doesn’t look like he’s in the mood so he behaves himself.

Still, Lawrence’s sense of duty as a physician must win out over his anger, because he finally limps over to Mark’s desk chair and drags it to the bed. As soon as he sits, he’s already checking out Strahm’s injuries with a far too serious look on his face. He presses careful fingers to Strahm’s throat first, barely glancing at the bandage before he tilts Strahm’s head back. Strahm’s still breathing, at least, and Lawrence nods to himself.

“He’s in shock,” he mutters, like Mark couldn’t tell. “Get another blanket, would you?”

Mark huffs a little, but he does as he’s told while Lawrence continues his examination.

His nose wrinkles, and Mark can’t blame him for it. Strahm’s belt is still wrapped tight just above the elbow, but Mark had also gone and wrapped the bottom half of Strahm’s arm in his own suit jacket. It had been covered in blood and glass and shredded in the back anyway, so it wasn’t as though it were a real loss. Sure, it may not have exactly been the best way to take care of things, but he’d been working with what he had—which wasn’t even a lot to begin with.

Lawrence is quiet, studying what’s in front of him with an intensity that Mark can’t quite remember ever seeing from him. The belt clicks as Lawrence slowly slides the leather through the buckle, and then he carefully peels the last of the blood-soaked cotton wool away from the wound and lets both the belt and Mark’s ruined suit jacket flop to the floor with a wet thunk.

Mark’s still digging out another blanket from his closet when there’s a clattering from just outside of the room, followed almost immediately by a frustrated, “oh my god.”

Mark looks over his shoulder at the sound, his eyebrows raising. He knows that Lawrence brought his new pet or whatever, but it’s still kind of annoying to have to deal with him. All he seems to do is throw fits or get angry about little things that don’t matter. Lawrence barely even lifts his head, carefully pushing up the cuff of Strahm's sleeve from around his arm to check the damage, but Mark can tell that he’s listening.

It takes a second, but then Adam wanders in with a bag slung over his left shoulder. He looks almost as irritated as Mark feels just by being in the room, and he ignores Mark as he walks past. The clatter appears to have been the various medical instruments he has tucked under the other arm, like they fell out of the bag.

“I got all that shit you asked me to grab,” he tells Lawrence, depositing all of it onto Mark’s desk. He sounds monotone and incredibly unhappy. Lawrence looks up at him, and there’s some kind of expression on his face that Mark can’t quite read. It’s something between relief and also sadness.

“Thank you,” he mutters, and Adam snorts.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, and leans back against one of the walls with his hands in his pockets.

Mark finally waddles over with one of his winter blankets wrapped up tight in his arms, barely able to see over it, and at Lawrence’s direction he tucks it over the ones he already has on the bed. Lawrence had told him to do so over the phone, so he’d chosen whatever sheets and blankets he had no particular affection for and bundled Strahm up as much as his wounds would allow. Looking at him now, he could be sleeping if not for the horrific pallor of his skin and the blood still staining the covers.

Without a word, Lawrence carefully tugs Strahm’s ruined arm out to rest it carefully on his own lap, and Adam makes a faint noise from his corner. Lawrence glances up, more with his eyes than his head, but goes back to what he’s doing. He pulls on some bright blue vinyl gloves that he dug out of a box from his bag. It’s so weirdly sanitized compared to what they usually find themselves doing that he could laugh.

He doesn’t. But he could.

“I feel that you may have been underselling the seriousness of the situation on the phone,” Lawrence finally mutters, once he's given Strahm's arm a good once-over. It doesn’t look any better than it had when it’d first happened. It’s still bleeding sluggishly, the bone protruding at a horrific angle, and Mark actually hears Adam gag from the other side of the room.

“I thought you would’ve started getting used to this,” Mark muses in Adam’s general direction, though he also can’t quite look at the mess. He’s not sure why.

“Fuck you, Mark,” Adam snaps, sounding a bit like he’s trying not to pass out. “You asshole.”

“Please don’t start this,” Lawrence mutters, sounding guilty. “Adam, could you please bring me my syringe bag? I’m going to have to set the bone enough to keep it in place until I can get him proper treatment, and he’s not going to like it when I do.”

Mark watches with mild interest as the blood drains from Adam’s face in real time.

“You mean… like…”

Adam mimes shoving something into his own arm, and Lawrence nods.

“Like I said,” he says grimly, “he’s not going to like it.”

Lawrence finally gets all of Strahm’s arm fully out in the open. He finished rolling up the rest of Strahm’s shirt sleeve, but it did look like he actually contemplated cutting it off entirely at the shoulder before thinking better of it.

“Okay,” he says, almost to himself, and carefully runs a gloved thumb along the edge of the wound to get a better look at it.

Strahm makes a soft sound suddenly, and then to everyone’s shock, his eyes open.

A second later his back arches off the bed and he screams.

It’s a sound of warbling agony, wet with tears and absolute confusion, and Mark watches as he tries to wrench his arm away from Lawrence’s hands. It gets blood everywhere as the motion seems to tear the wound open again, and that has him crying out again in more pain.

“Peter,” Lawrence says loudly over him, standing up as much as he can, “Peter, you’re safe. Listen to me. Listen. I need you to look at me. Can you do that?”

Strahm’s blue eyes are wild and absolutely lost, staring up at the ceiling as he hyperventilates, but he does manage to shift them over to Lawrence. He’s got that rabid animal look again, even if it still looks a bit like he’s going to faint again, too. He’s trying to cradle his arm to his chest, but Lawrence presses a gentle hand to his shoulder and takes the arm away again with the other.

“I’m Dr. Gordon,” he says. His voice is so calm that it shocks Mark just a bit. “You’re very injured, Peter. I need you to relax.”

Without any warning whatsoever, Strahm promptly rolls over and vomits onto the floor. Lawrence barely even flinches.

“Jesus Christ,” Adam says, and when Mark glances over he can see how green he is. He definitely looks like he could puke, too. “Can I leave, Lawrence?”

“For now,” Lawrence mutters, both hands working to keep Strahm on the bed. His professionalism is shocking, given what he’s doing and where he is. “I may need you in a little bit. Is that alright?”

Adam flees the room without answering, and Mark can hear him finally hauling up whatever had been in his stomach. God. Everyone’s throwing up in his damn house.

“Fuck,” Strahm wheezes, some bile dripping off his lips and joining the mess on the floor. “Fuck, fuck, what…?”

“I need you to be calm,” Lawrence says, and digs into the little bag that Adam had brought over to him. His voice is short, but his words are clear and slow. “I’m going to give you a few shots to numb your arm, and then I’m going to push it back into place. It’s crucial that I get your bone realigned before I splint it. I want to get it stable right now, because it may take a couple of days before you can get surgery. Do you understand?”

Strahm stares up at him, and Mark can tell at once that he’s not taking in any of that information. He looks like he’s not even on this planet, his eyes glassy and his face pale. Clearly Lawrence is thinking the same, because he gently pushes Strahm back onto the bed with one hand.

“Adam,” he calls, and Adam pokes his head back in like a gopher. He looks immensely terrified of whatever it is Lawrence is about to ask him. “Could you please get some ice from the kitchen and put it into some Ziplock bags? Big ones, if Mark has them. The gallon kind.”

“Cabinet next to the pantry,” Mark mutters, irritated. “I’m right fucking here, you know.”

The look of sheer relief that flashes across Adam’s face could almost be amusing if he weren’t so annoyed. Mark can hear him limping for his life towards the kitchen, clearly using any excuse to run from the carnage as quickly as his bum foot will let him.

“Mark,” Lawrence says simply. “Could you hold him for me?”

Strahm’s eyes flash over to Mark, and he quite literally tries to scramble away from him. All it does is make him gag and dry heave again, which really solves nothing.

“Calm down,” Mark mutters, and watches Strahm nearly collapse onto the bed. “I’m not gonna do anything to you.”

“If I were him,” Lawrence says lightly, “I wouldn’t trust you either.”

Mark sneers, but does as Lawrence directs him. He’s shocked to find that Strahm’s shivering, maybe from pain, maybe from shock, maybe even from fear. He can’t quite look Strahm in the eye. It’s not that he’s guilty, but it might be more that it’s a lot more visceral than he was expecting it to be.

“I don’t want you to fucking touch me,” Strahm hisses at him, trying to move away again. “I don’t need to be fucking held down. Get off.”

Despite the fact that he sounds incredibly sure of himself, there’s still a haze about him that Mark’s not surprised by at all. Strahm’s still clearly in enough pain that it’s making it hard for him to do anything, making it hard for him to focus or concentrate. His hands are shaking, a slight tremor in the good one, and his teeth are chattering just a little.

“Fine,” Mark says a bit snidely, and backs away again. “Have it your way.”

Strahm watches him do so, like an animal in a zoo paying attention to the visitors as they walk by. It’s not exactly unreasonable for him to want Mark as far away from him as possible, though it seems like it’s just going to make everything a bit more annoying in the long run. Still, he’s not going to go out of his way if Strahm’s going to be petulant.

Adam chooses that moment to come back in, carrying a few big bags of ice and an expression on his face that heartily suggests he wishes he were anywhere else. He dumps the bags right alongside all the other stuff he brought with him, and Mark can see Strahm visibly tracking every movement, visibly trying to put two and two together.

“Are you going to clean up all your fucking puke?” Mark asks the second that Adam hurries over to get as far away from the bed as possible. “Because you look like you’re ready for round two.”

“Shut up,” Adam mutters. “I’m not like you. This shit makes me sick to my stomach.”

That gives Mark pause.

I’m not like you.

There had been a time where Mark had been squeamish at the sight of things like this. That’s an undeniable fact, because he had remembered the way he’d cried and thrown up outside his car after he’d killed Seth Baxter. He’d expected the act to feel righteous, to feel like he’d finally gotten revenge for Angie. Instead he was only able to think about Baxter’s intestines as they flew out of his body, of the blood that slid down from his hands as the metal bore through his palms.

No, there had been a time where Mark wouldn’t have been able to stand the sight of Strahm’s bone torn through his skin at an angle. There would’ve been a time that the blood still on his face would’ve made him nauseous. But that Mark Hoffman died a long time ago—he died the first time he met John Kramer, and there’s nothing that’s going to bring him back.

“That has nothing to do with you cleaning up after yourself,” Mark finally says. “You think I want your puke on my floor?”

“God,” Adam says loudly. “Fine.”

“Could you two please be quiet?” Lawrence says, sounding distracted as he rifles through his little syringe bag that Adam had given him. “Believe it or not, I do need to concentrate.”

Mark watches as Strahm seems to fade in and out, rotating between letting his eyes drift closed and struggling to keep them open. The awareness becomes clearer and clearer, though. Mark can see how he looks around and takes in everything he can manage, how he looks for details and exits and clues. He’s still an FBI agent, after all. Mark’s not surprised that he’s still stuck doing the things he’s used to, rather than succumb to unconsciousness and make himself vulnerable all over again.

“Are you allergic to anything?” Lawrence asks. Mark watches as he inserts a syringe into the cap of one of the little bottles from his bag and slowly draws it out before checking the contents to make sure there aren’t any air bubbles. “Lidocaine, penicillin? Anything like that?”

Strahm somehow manages to shake his head, and Lawrence nods.

“Alright, then just keep still.”

Mark can actually see the understanding start to return to Strahm’s expression. He looks entirely like he’s not sure if he’s alive or not, but it’s starting to give way to more and more clarity the longer he stays awake. The blood loss must be getting to him though, because he’s still pale and he still lays back, breathing too heavily. His eyes shift from the ceiling slowly towards Lawrence, and then finally downwards.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Strahm whispers when he sees his arm, and Mark has to agree. “Holy fuck.”

“I’ve seen worse, believe it or not,” Lawrence says, clearly trying to be supportive. “You might not want to look.”

He inserts the needle, slowly pushing the plunger before he sets it down on the bedside desk without even glancing behind himself.

“This is going to be the hard part,” he warns. “I’m going to do it on your count, Peter. But we need to do it right now.”

Strahm swallows, his throat bobbing wildly.

“Uh,” he says, slurring a bit. “Uh, okay. One… two… three— fuck!”

It’s bad enough having to watch the initial wound happen in the first place, but watching Lawrence lean in and push the bone back into the meat of Strahm’s ruined arm actually does turn Mark’s stomach a little bit. It’s a horrific sight, and without even glancing over he can tell that Adam’s got his gaze firmly set on something else. The sound’s a little difficult to ignore, though.

“Oh shit,” Adam says weakly, his voice a bit strangled. “Oh, I can’t fucking deal with this—”

The noise that Strahm makes is certainly one that Mark’s not going to forget anytime soon. He’s started to cry softly again, and once more there’s a strange guilt that floods Mark from head to toe. He’s not really… used to feeling like this. It’s been a while. Maybe it was when he started to see the toll it was taking on Amanda, maybe it was just understanding that he’d never actually believed in any of this from the start. Maybe it was once Rigg failed his test.

“Don’t try that at home,” Lawrence murmurs, and starts applying pressure back on the wound.

Strahm makes another little noise, pushing his other hand up hard against his eyes. Lawrence, for his part, grabs a compression pad to press against Strahm’s arm before starting to wrap gauze around it, his expression calm and clinical.

“We’re going to have to bring you to the free clinic I work at,” he explains. “You’re in pretty rough shape. You need a blood transfusion and unfortunately, I can’t steal bags of blood. Little bit harder to do so than a splint.”

Strahm nods.

“I appreciate that you didn’t bother trying,” he croaks. “Might look a little suspicious, wouldn’t it?”

Lawrence huffs out a laugh.

“At least you can still make jokes,” he says warmly. It’s a bit weird to hear Lawrence speak so kindly, but then it’s not like Mark’s ever tried particularly hard to make that sort of connection. He holds Lawrence at arm’s length at all times, and it makes his life ten times easier than if he tried to forge any sort of friendship with him.

“Okay,” Lawrence says in the meantime, carefully lowering Strahm’s arm. “You want good news, bad news, both? Or do you want to live in ignorance for now?”

Strahm blinks slowly at him, and then sighs, lifting his head just to thunk it back against the pillow. It’s a motion of sheer stress, something that speaks to pain and anxiety mixed together in two.

“Alright,” he says. “Just get it over with.”

“...there’s probably both nerve and muscle damage,” Lawrence says, and his voice is shockingly gentle. Strahm stares blearily up at him, but he’s paying attention. “The bone will probably heal—in fact, I’d say that it has the best chance of healing well. But… you may have some mobility issues, and you might never get full use of your arm back. It’s something you should probably prepare for.”

There’s a silence that falls over the room. Mark figured it’d be bad, but he hadn’t expected it to be worse than his expectations.

“...okay,” Strahm murmurs, eyes closing again. “Well. Thanks. Better than nothing.”

Actually, Mark can’t help but think, it’s better than dead.

“Adam, could you bring the ice over now, please?” Lawrence asks, and Adam startles from the corner. “We need to pack it up against the bandage.”

Adam audibly swallows, but then he’s grabbing the gallon bags stuffed with ice by the zipped ends. He and Lawrence spend a good amount of time silently pressing the bags up against Strahm’s ruined arm, and Mark watches. He’s not sure exactly what he’s supposed to do in this situation. It’s not like anyone in the room wants any part of him, and he likes it that way.

“Fuck,” Strahm hisses, face tightening up at the cold.

“I know,” Lawrence mutters, carefully lifting Strahm’s arm up enough to get the last bit of the ice in. “It’s going to numb it up along with the lidocaine, though. It’ll make it a little easier until we can get you to the clinic.”

Adam steps back once they’ve got all of the ice settled, and Mark watches as he starts picking at his cuticles, then one of the threads sticking poking out from his sleeve.

“Shouldn’t you, like…” Adam wavers, his voice getting thin. “I don’t know… be drugging him or something?”

“Not if I want him alert and answering questions,” Lawrence replies. “Trust me, the lidocaine is doing enough for now.”

“I disagree,” Strahm mumbles, eyes closing. It’s obvious he doesn’t entirely mean it. “He’d very much like to be drugged.”

Mark finally decides he’s had enough of this conversation for right now, and makes his way out of his bedroom without another word. Adam seems to agree, because he follows, limping behind Mark with a noise like he might puke again. The second they’re out in the hallway, Adam runs both of his hands down his face and then keeps them there, his sleeves slowly sliding down until they rest just under his wrists.

Mark glances sideways at him. He hadn’t really paid much attention to whatever had been going on between Adam and Lawrence, because he hadn’t particularly cared. But Lawrence had fought long and hard to keep Adam from taking photographs for Rigg’s test, and then Adam had ended up doing it anyway. He wonders how that particular conversation went.

“So what’s your problem with Gordon?” he asks into the silence, when it becomes clear that neither one of them are going anywhere. He can’t help but be curious.

Adam shoots him a look.

“Uhh, gee, I don’t know,” he says, pretending like he’s thinking. “Maybe… that’s none of your business? Can’t say for sure.”

Mark grunts.

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?” he says, not caring if it’s a good idea or not. “Just asking. You two were on cloud nine a few weeks ago.”

Before Adam can launch at him, presumably to try and beat his ass, Lawrence interrupts with a stern tone as he sticks his head out of the door. Mark hadn’t heard the tapping of his cane as he made his way over.

“Do you think you two could hold off on the death match for right now?” He’s got a supremely unimpressed look on his face. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but there’s a man in there with a very fucked up arm, and I need to use the phone. So shut up.”

They both quiet down after that.

-

“We should be leaving soon to take you to the clinic,” Mark says as he sits down. “And then we’re going to head out to another doctor who can take care of your arm.”

Strahm’s staring up at the ceiling, ice packed up around his arm and his breathing still a bit ragged through the hole in his throat. He doesn’t look over at Mark, apparently content to figure out the patterns in the spackle and paint above them. Mark watches him contemplatively and patiently. He has to say something eventually, and Mark's content to just sit there and wait.

Strahm’s bright blue eyes tighten at the edges when it becomes clear to him that Mark’s not moving, and he lets out a slow, calming breath.

“Okay,” he finally says, and his voice is so hoarse that it sounds like a tire over gravel. That’s apparently all he’s got, though, because he returns to staring silently at the ceiling.

“Lawrence knows a guy,” Mark continues, as if he hadn’t just tried to kill the man laying in his bed not a few hours ago, “but he lives out in Colorado. It’s gonna be a bit hard to get you there, since you’re shit out of luck here.”

That seems to actually get Strahm’s attention, finally, because his eyebrows furrow and he turns his head on the pillow to look at him with… well, less curiosity and way more confusion. His lips part, like he’s going to ask a question, but the conclusion comes to him so quickly that Mark’s impressed. Well, Strahm’s not part of the FBI for nothing.

“You framed me,” Strahm whispers, sounding full of rage. “That’s right. You fucking framed me for your shit—”

“Yeah, I did,” Mark says calmly. “But I also gave you the option to avoid that.”

Strahm looks like he’s moving to sit up, but then whatever blood is left in him drains out of his face and he flops down again. Mark wonders if he’s passed out, craning to look at him, but then those long eyelashes flutter and Strahm takes a deep breath.

“I guess flying’s out of the question,” he croaks, his face pinched.

“Yeah.”

“Then what the fuck are you going to do to fix this?” Strahm hisses, turning his head to glare at him again. There’s so much sheer rage in his eyes that Mark wonders if he’s ever set someone on fire with that gaze before. Strahm’s eyes are so blue, but unlike the strange, icy coldness of John’s or the ocean of Lawrence’s, there’s something in them that doesn’t quite have a place. The sky, maybe.

“I’m gonna drive you there,” Mark replies easily. “We’re gonna take a little roadtrip together, you and me.”

This time, Strahm gapes at him.

“...are you fucking crazy?” he finally asks, not seeming to care how the rise in volume must hurt his throat. “What the fuck makes you think I would ever get in a car with you? Let alone fucking drive to Colorado? You’re lucky I haven’t already tried to strangle your murdering—”

“Yeah, you’d get a lot done with one working arm,” Mark comments over him mildly, and somehow Strahm still manages to flush.

“Fuck you,” he says, and looks away.

“Look,” Mark says after another bout of silence. “Think of it this way. If I’m with you, I can’t run John’s next game, which means lives are gonna be saved. Isn’t that what you want? To stop me?”

This time when Strahm looks at him, there’s something both intelligent and accusatory in his eyes, in the way he really and truly looks at Mark. They scan him up and down, and something about the look says that Mark’s already been tagged.

“There’s another game?”

Mark nods.

“In a few weeks, yeah. But I can’t do it if I’m halfway ‘cross the country, can I?”

Strahm snorts.

“That’s a piss-poor way to convince me not to just call the police,” he mutters finally, but something’s shifted in his tone. Mark wonders exactly what it is, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Yeah,” he says, and shrugs. “But you don’t have much of a choice, do you?”

Strahm finally turns away from him again.

“Thought you always gave me a choice,” he parrots snidely. His voice cracks midway through, and he winces but still presses on. “What makes this time different?”

Mark studies him thoughtfully.

“The fact that you could still go to the police,” he says finally. “The fact that you could clear your name. No one’s keeping you here against your will. But that gives me a head start, and that gives me time to do what I need to. It gives Lawrence and Adam time to get out of dodge, and it gives me time to set up. You think Gideon’s is the only place where John ran games? Be real.”

Strahm rolls his eyes, and even that motion has anger to back it up.

“Thank god you’re not a fucking attorney,” he mutters, sounding disgusted. “That’s the worst argument I’ve ever heard.”

Mark scratches idly at the side of his nose and shrugs. The action reminds him that it’s broken, and he winces before lowering his hand again.

“Then call them,” he says. “Or come with me to get your arm fixed. I think the guy’s even gonna do it pro bono. How’s your insurance with the FBI, by the way? They gotta have someone to take care of you in jail.”

“Fuck you, Hoffman,” Strahm says through his teeth, for what’s probably the tenth time today.

He doesn’t say anything else, but Mark’s able to read between the lines. He sits there, watching as Strahm staunchly refuses to acknowledge him anymore, while also apparently trying to fight off passing back out. He seems to be doing a poor job of it, because his eyes flutter and he slowly drifts off again. He’s too pale, too clammy, but otherwise he does look a bit like he’s sleeping.

…Mark can’t help but stare at him, though.

It’s not that he didn’t notice that Strahm was an attractive man when they first met. No, that had been pretty much the thing he’d noticed immediately. Strahm’s got a strong nose, blue eyes that look fathomless with intelligence. He’s tall and clearly built well—goddamn FBI—and he’s competent. Competent enough that he ended up not only being a threat, but being the one to take it all apart.

He traces the scar on Strahm’s cheek with his eyes, moving slowly from top to bottom. He can’t help but wonder where it came from, how long ago it was, how deep the original wound had been. It looks like Strahm could’ve lost his eye, but all it does is add a ruggedness to his handsome face that works for him.

Mark runs a careful hand down his own face, stopping over his mouth. God. Fuck. This is probably going to end badly.

When he finally heads downstairs, it’s with a new, increased pain. His nose is starting to pound all the way to his ears, and his back is fucking killing him, burning with blood and still-fresh cuts and what’s probably a few pieces of glass still stuck in his skin as well. He can hear Lawrence talking on the phone, and he waits until he hears him saying goodbye before he heads in that direction.

Lawrence, for his part, looks up the second that he sees him.

“How is he?” he asks, closing his cell phone with both hands.

“Not good,” Mark mutters, wincing as he slowly makes his way into the kitchen. After he’d cleaned up the last of his puke in the hall, Adam disappeared somewhere into the living room, presumably because he’s still pissed off at Lawrence. “How soon before we can get him to the clinic?”

“I called one of my residents at Angel of Mercy who works there, too,” Lawrence says, watching Mark move around gingerly. “He’s getting a few things ready so that we can sneak him in and sneak him out.”

“You told one of your residents that you’re sneaking an FBI agent into the free clinic?”

Lawrence purses his lips, looking annoyed.

“I didn’t give him those specifics, no,” he says, like Mark’s an idiot. “But trust me when I say this resident owes me big time. He won’t tell anyone what we’re doing.”

That gets Mark to raise his eyebrows, staring at Lawrence with no small amount of surprise. He hadn’t expected Lawrence to merge so easily with everything that they’ve been doing, especially now that John’s dead. But perhaps it’s less that Lawrence is actually involved because he wants to be, and more because he’s doing what he can to protect Adam. It wouldn’t faze Mark in the slightest to know that Lawrence keeps himself in a situation he doesn’t want to be in just to keep the little shit from getting hurt again.

“Well—” Mark starts, and then hisses instead of continuing. He has to arch his back a little to try and avoid more of the pain that’s dripping down towards his tailbone, closing his eyes against it. Fuck, that hurts.

Lawrence watches him quietly, and then sighs and reaches for the bag that Adam had brought for him.

“Sit.” Lawrence points at the kitchen chair he has in front of him. His bad leg is stretched out underneath the table, and his cane’s been hooked on the armrest. “Let’s get the glass out of your back before you pass out or something.”

“...didn’t know you cared, Doc,” Mark says dryly, moving to take off his button up and the white tank top underneath.

“Oh, I don’t,” Lawrence replies, snapping on another pair of vinyl gloves. “Actually, if I had my way I’d let Strahm throttle you, but unfortunately he only has one arm and I have an obligation as a doctor.”

“Didn’t you sew a man’s eyes shut recently?”

“He wasn’t a patient. Sit before I change my mind.”

None of the cuts need stitches, at least. He could’ve argued some more, but truth be told he’s actually kind of grateful for the offer. He wasn’t sure how he was going to take care of it all otherwise. They sit there silently while Lawrence plucks the few pieces of glass out of his back and patches the deeper cuts with butterfly bandages. Mark, for his part, uses his shirt to wipe off the last of the blood on his face—it’s both his own from his nose, and the blood that had dripped down from Strahm’s arm when he’d helped him get back onto the ground. The shirt’s ruined anyway, and it’s not that much of a loss. He can get another one.

Lawrence’s phone chirps just as he’s finishing up the last of the cuts, and Mark turns around on the chair to regard him curiously.

Lawrence just flips it open, studies the text for a moment, and then snaps it closed again.

“Dr. Nelson’s on his way,” he says curtly. “You’re going to want to get Strahm up again. I think between the five of us, we only have six working feet. He’ll need to be able to get himself into the car.”

“His cranky ass wouldn’t want anything less,” Mark mutters, and starts to shrug his tank top back on.

It still hurts, and he’s going to be sore for a while given that they’d also beaten the shit out of each other before Strahm had thrown him into the glass coffin. Actually, the more that Mark thinks about it the more he wonders if Strahm has any other injuries besides the obvious.

“Oh, one more thing,” Lawrence says idly, gesturing at him. “Mark, could you look at me for a second?”

And before Mark can so much as blink, Lawrence reaches up and cracks his nose back into place with a wet snap.

Mark fucking howls, immediately reaching up with both hands to cup his face as he bends at the waist in pain. Holy fucking shit, that hurt. He’s pretty sure it’s started bleeding again, and sure enough he can feel something hot and wet gushing down through the webs of his fingers and onto his shirt.

“Fuck!” he snarls, nasally and enraged. “You fucking— god! Fuck!”

He can feel Lawrence grinning at him, the fucker.

“There we go,” he says cheerfully, completely ignoring the way that Mark continues to cuss him out from behind his hands. “All better.”

Chapter Text

Though Mark’s loath to admit it, Lawrence really ends up being a godsend. The resident he called brings a tarp for the backseat, a few extra painkillers, a proper sling for the splint on Strahm’s arm, and an almost hilariously unimpressed attitude.

“I don’t even want to know,” he declares the second he sees Mark help a bleary Strahm hobble out of the door and down the stairs. “Don’t tell me anything. I want plausible deniability.”

They get Strahm into the free clinic easily enough, given that he’s half-conscious and still in shock, and then Mark’s pretty much off on his own again. He still doesn’t know how he feels about the whole thing, but Lawrence all but tells him to fuck off and go home. It’s not like he’s much help anyway, and Mark can acknowledge that. He doesn’t even leave his own car, just watches the two of them haul Strahm into the clinic before driving away again.

It’s when he actually does get back home that’s the problem.

The first thing he does is try to get out of his clothes and into something resembling pajamas. When he sees himself for the first time in the mirror, though, he winces. He’s covered in bruises that are getting more vivid by the minute, and the soreness that’s bleeding into every muscle makes him feel like he’s aged ten years. Strahm really did a number on him, but Mark sure did come out on top of that fight in the end in more ways than one.

The next part is to clean up after the entire ordeal. He stands in the doorway of his bedroom and simply stares at the mess left behind, rubbing a hand through his hair and sighing. There’s blood everywhere, including on his sheets. His ruined suit jacket is still in a sad puddle on the floor, along with Strahm’s belt, and that’s what finally coaxes him into the room to get a closer look.

Sure enough, there are bite marks imprinted into the leather. Almost in a daze, Mark loops the bloody belt around his own arm and starts to measure with his eyes, trying to figure out what had happened. It lines up perfectly. Trapped between two walls that had merely seconds before been about to pulverize him into a mess of tissue and organs, Strahm had managed to take his belt off and tighten it above his elbow. He’d managed to live.

Mark tosses the belt back onto his suit jacket and sets about cleaning up his room with nothing more than a quiet grunt.

The mess is the hardest part if only because he has to spend a lot of time hiding the evidence. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to be gone, and he certainly doesn’t want to leave behind his sheets, his bedding, and most of his mattress covered in Strahm’s blood, but he’s also not entirely sure what to do about that. He’s sore as hell, too, especially from the wounds in his back.

Ah, fuck it. He puts it down in the basement, though it takes at least an hour to get everything down there and into a solidly discrete place.

The next thing he has to do is come up with an excuse for why he has to leave for a week or two. It’s not the smartest thing he’s ever done, given that he knows Strahm’s framing is about to go nuclear, and if Mark vanishes he’s not sure how they’re going to take that. But with Strahm missing and Perez dead, it’s also entirely possible they’ll have more important things to worry about.

All in all, not the best plan he’s ever come up with. But at least it’s not the worst.

It’s only the next morning that he actually realizes just how fucked he may be. A lot of people stare at his nose and his shiny black eyes, but they don’t say anything about it. Good move. He just ambles over to his new office after getting some coffee from the bullpen and quietly takes the picture of Angelina down to bring it with him. He has to get a bag together, and he’s already used his status as a Lieutenant Detective to sneak into Strahm’s hotel room and snatch his go-bag. There’s not a lot in it, and suits are 100% out of the question given that they’re going to be on the run. He leaves those there, checks for anything else that might be suspicious or missed.

Truth be told, it doesn’t look like Strahm brought a lot with him. In fact, Mark’s not even sure if Strahm works at the New Jersey field office or if he came in straight from Quantico. He doesn’t know anything about him, really, and while Mark would normally not give a singular fuck, right now it feels… a bit weird. A bit interesting.

Strahm’s an interesting man, and he already was before he damn near killed himself twice just to live. There’s something beyond that stubborn tenacity that speaks to a man who has nothing to lose and still fights for it anyway. Mark remembers the wedding ring on Strahm’s left hand, but he’d had zero visitors at the hospital as far as Mark knows. He’d like to know more about that, and it’s that revelation that gives him a hard pause.

Mark slowly sits in his chair, staring at his picture of Angelina. He’s… confused.

Seeing Strahm lose hadn’t been what he wanted. Like Rigg, Mark had been hoping that maybe Strahm would be able to understand what it is he’s trying to do, or at least what he had been trying to do before giving up on the idea all together. People don’t change, and punishing them means more than giving them a second chance. He’s sure that Strahm’s figured out at least some of it by now, though Mark doubts he found out about the blackmail. John had been particularly good at hiding that part, after all.

But Strahm’s stubborn. He’s a fucking bull of a man, or maybe a dog. Mark can’t help but picture some kind of wolfhound, something big and just a bit scraggly as it sniffs its way after prey. Whatever Strahm had found, it’d been enough. I got you, motherfucker. He’d said it with such determination, such surety. Mark’s never been caught before. His anonymity had been something he and John had both banked on, and he’d worked hard to maintain it.

Had he really left that many clues behind? Had there really been that many mistakes?

But for all that the two of them couldn’t stand each other in the short while they’ve known each other, there’s a… grudging respect that Mark can’t help but extend towards him. Strahm had shoved a fucking pen into his throat just to survive, after all. That’s the exact sort of insane shit that a person does when they have the will to live, and it has nothing to do with trust.

Shit. Mark rubs at the bandage on the bridge of his nose. It hurts, and it gives him the clarity he needs to start planning what it is he needs to do next. He has to pack his own bag, has to get whatever money he can in cash. He has to buy a map, plan the fastest route they can. It’s not like this is a trip of leisure, after all.

When his cell phone rings, it actually startles him a little bit. He has to take a second, and then flips it open to press it against his ear when he reads the caller ID.

“I’m assuming you have good news,” he says as a greeting, and Lawrence snorts on the other end.

“How good do you think it could possibly be?” he says dryly. “You snapped his bone right out of his arm.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t fucking die,” Mark gripes. “Just tell me what’s up.”

Lawrence lets out a slow breath, and Mark can hear him tapping his fingers against the surface of his desk.

“Well,” he finally says, “we were able to get him a transfusion and sew up his arm. That’s the good news. He’s stable for now, but that arm needs a lot more than a cast and a few weeks of rest. It’s… bad, Hoffman. I don’t think you’re aware of just how bad it is. There’s a lot of detail I could get into.”

“Could you get to your point instead, then?”

“I called in a favor, and I didn’t do it for you. Let’s be clear about that.” Lawrence pauses again, like he’s thinking. “He needs to get rods put into his arm, and the muscle damage is quite extensive. He might not be able to use it ever again, though if he’s lucky he’ll still have some mobility. It depends. I can tell you more when you come to pick him up. He should be good to travel for now.”

Mark sits back, thinking about that for a moment.

“This is a bad idea, isn’t it?” he asks.

Lawrence hums.

“Oh, of course it is,” he says airily. “But you’re not the first one to make a huge fucking mistake with someone you’re interested in.”

Mark, who had reached for his coffee to take a sip, chokes on it enough that he starts coughing. Before he can even ask Lawrence what the fuck he means, though, Lawrence just hangs up. Mark thinks about calling back, if only to start in on him about whatever he’d just been talking about, but Fisk pokes his head in with a few taps on the doorway.

“Hey, Hoffman, you good?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.

Mark waves him off.

“Yeah,” he coughs. “Wrong pipe. What’s up?”

Fisk walks in, hands in his pockets. Mark trusts him more than he trusts the other officers, though he still wouldn’t tell him the truth if he had a gun to his head. He’d try to let Fisk in on the secret, maybe try to test him the way he’d tested Rigg, but Mark already knows how that would end. Fisk is too smart, too noble, and he doesn’t make the same mistakes. He actually goes through with protocol, and he’s a good man in a different way than Rigg had been.

“I heard you were following a lead on the Jigsaw case,” Fisk says, standing at a respectful distance. “You need backup?”

Mark shakes his head.

“Nah,” he shrugs. “I don’t know if it’s even a good one. May have to go UC. Depends.”

“You?” Fisk snorts in amusement. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you go UC. That’s a surprise.”

Ha. If only he knew.

“You just keep working on what you’re doing here,” Mark says. “I trust you.”

Fisk laughs quietly, more a breath out through his nose than an actual laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “Right back at you, Hoff.”

-

After packing a quick bag, Mark heads over to the free clinic. It’s a bit more bustling than it’d been last night, of course, and he has to pull over to the back where Lawrence had instructed him. He and Nelson had apparently been working an overnighter after they took Strahm in, and Mark waits patiently after texting Lawrence to let him know he’s here.

It takes a few minutes, but then the back door opens up and all three men step out. Nelson’s got a hand under Strahm’s good arm as they head down the steps, and Lawrence follows behind with a small bag slung over one shoulder.

The second he sees Strahm, Mark takes a closer look.

In all honesty, Strahm looks like absolute shit, his face still pale and his arm in a splint and bandage. It’s held tight to his stomach by a sling that Lawrence must’ve taken from the hospital, because it looks professional. Lawrence must’ve lent him some clothes, too— the sweater’s definitely not Strahm’s style and it’s a little loose around the belly. He’s got some stubble, and his hair is greasy, and the exhaustion that weighs every inch of him down looks as heavy as the earth itself on Atlas’s shoulders. But he’s up and walking, and the second he sees Mark a huge scowl damn near splits his face in half.

Yeah. He’s fine.

They reach the bottom of the steps and Strahm says something to Nelson, who nods and lets his elbow go without any fanfare. Then Strahm’s shuffling over to the car, leaning against it with a wince. Lawrence, for his part, just limps over and raps on the back window pointedly.

“There’s medications in here, antibiotics and the like,” he says once Mark’s unlocked the car. “Some extra gauze, some painkillers, some sleeping pills. Try to use everything but the antibiotics sparingly, because I doubt you’ll be able to get any more.”

Nelson sticks his hands into the pockets of his scrubs, watching the whole thing with a weird look in his eye. It’s like he’s scanning the entire scene for threats. Mark watches him before deciding it’s not worth his time to figure out, and instead just watches as Strahm works the passenger side door open with one hand.

It takes him a second, though. It looks like he’s at war with himself, trying to figure out whether he actually wants to get into the car or not. Mark can’t blame him, if he’s to be honest, though the hesitation does get on his nerves a little bit if only because he wants to get on the move.

“You still have time to call the police,” he says irritably, and Strahm’s sharp blue eyes snap over to him. “Or else you can get in the car. It’s your choice.”

Strahm’s scowl deepens, but after a long pause, he starts to sidle himself in. It looks like every motion hurts.

“Good luck,” Lawrence says once he's given Mark the address and phone number for his colleague in Colorado, and he sounds somewhere between politely cheerful and ready for the whole situation to be over with. “I still think this may be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, and that’s a high bar.”

“You’re such a nice guy,” Mark says dryly, and Lawrence smirks.

“I’ve never tried to convince you otherwise,” he says. “Have a safe trip.”

Mark watches as Lawrence and Nelson make their way back inside the clinic, and then he looks over at Strahm. The first thing that Strahm does once he’s in the car is fumble around and then lower the seat back as far as it’ll go, until he’s nearly horizontal. He grits his teeth the entire time, and Mark watches him with no small amount of curiosity. Strahm’s moving like an old man.

“What’s your problem?” Mark asks, an eyebrow raised.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Strahm mumbles, eyes still closed, “but I was almost crushed to death very recently. I’m sore.”

Ah, so he is acting like an old man.

“Well,” Mark says, “you’d better get over it. I’m still a cop, and you need to put your seatbelt on.”

“I hope I choke on it,” Strahm announces, but he does as he’s told. His voice is still hoarse and brittle, but he’s just as ornery as he was the day they met. “I can’t believe you talked me into this. If we both make it to Colorado alive it’s because I managed not to kill you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Mark mutters, and pulls the car into reverse. “We’ve got four or five days ahead of us stuck in this car with each other. At least buy me dinner first.”

“I don’t have any money, asshole. I’m being kidnapped by a serial killer.”

Mark ignores that. They have to get onto the turnpike, so he starts heading down towards the nearest exit. Strahm’s finally quiet from next to him, and he just stares at the roof of the car for a few minutes before finally closing his eyes. The bags under them have gotten more prominent, though they’re nothing compared to the shiners under Mark’s. He’d ended up telling everyone that he’d gotten into a fight with a homeless man, and they’d roasted him alive for the broken nose.

Neither of them particularly want to make any small talk. It doesn’t surprise Mark in the slightest, and he can actually tell when Strahm dozes off. His breathing evens out, chest slowly rising up and down, but it doesn’t look like a very restful nap. His eyebrows twitch together, and it only takes about fifteen minutes before he wakes up again with a sharp inhale and looks around with wild eyes that seem half awake.

“Fuck,” he breathes, after settling down.

Mark doesn’t comment on it. That’s none of his business.

They’re going to have to go through Pennsylvania first. Mark’s used to the idea of it, because the damn state is so long and he’s had to do it before for a case. He’s a bit more concerned about how long it’ll take before Strahm starts bitching, but already he’s started to fade back out again into a fitful sleep. Mark can’t help but think about what he’d said.

I was almost crushed to death very recently.

Yeah. He doubts Strahm’s going to be back at the top of his game for a long while. Once he’s properly asleep again, Mark chances a side glance at Strahm’s arm. It’s wrapped up tight in a splint and an almost insanely well-done gauze wrap underneath it, and even while he’s stretched out on the lowered seat, it’s still strapped tight to his stomach.

It adds another weird sense of humility and guilt to the entire thing. No, he really hadn’t wanted Strahm to fail. He’d wanted him to listen to the entire tape, and he’d wanted him to get into the coffin. Hell, he’d been prepared to make it happen, had prepared to stab that tranq into Strahm’s neck and shove him into that coffin anyway. If not for Strahm’s tenacity and rage, it could’ve very well happened.

But no, instead he had to start a fucking fight and break Mark’s damn nose. Though he supposes compared to almost squishing Strahm between two walls, they’re a bit disproportionate. Whatever.

It takes about an hour this time for Strahm to wake up again, and once more he jerks awake with a soft noise and a gasp. This time, though, he doesn’t seem to immediately know where he is. He sits up too fast and hisses, holding his stomach and curling over. His breath comes in too quick, and his shoulders lift immediately until they’re nearly under his ears. He’s shaking too hard, and Mark has half a mind to pull onto the side of the road just to give him some time to pull himself together.

“What the fuck is up with you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow while he stares ahead.

Strahm makes another soft noise.

“Fuck you,” he breathes, and slowly unfurls until he can lean back down.

“You know,” Mark says, his voice flat, “you have to come up with something better than that. I’m getting real tired of hearing it.”

He’s expecting another and far saucier fuck you in reply, or maybe for Strahm to simply open the door and barrel roll out, content to take his chances in the wild as an alleged serial killer rather than spend another minute in the car listening to Mark say another word.

Instead, Strahm just takes a shuddering breath in and then out before closing his eyes again and covering them with a hand. There’s a tremor there that hadn’t been there before, like its rattling Strahm’s bones against the bridge of his nose. It clearly hurts for him to swallow, but he does it anyway before sliding his hand down to cover his mouth. He seems as scared as he had in that room.

Mark stares out the windshield, stunned.

From the start, even before the puzzle had started to come together for him, Strahm had seemed like one of his favorite hobbies was to distrust Mark. He was right to do so, of course, but part of Mark wants to know if that’s something that just comes out of being in the FBI or if it’s something that’s specific to Strahm himself. So to see him decide to stay silent and show even this modicum of vulnerability is shocking. To see Strahm acting just as frightened as he had when he was almost crushed—

And then it all suddenly clicks into place. Yeah, Strahm’s in the FBI, but Mark’s been a detective for a hot minute too. He knows how to put things together.

I was almost crushed to death recently.

Well, shit. Strahm’s probably feeling claustrophobic in this tiny little car, surrounded by four little walls and scrunched up in a seat that has almost as much space as the crushing room did.

Without a word, Mark reaches up and slides the cover to the moonroof open. It breathes some life into the car, letting the mid-morning light filter in and open the space up a little. The car has a tan interior, but it does still feel a little too small. They’re still on the turnpike, so he doesn’t feel like he can open the windows yet, but… well, it’s good enough.

It doesn’t seem like Strahm’s figured out why Mark’s done it, but he does look up and stares at the blue sky above. There’s only a few clouds in the sky, a perfect late spring day. Mark can hear him swallow again, can hear how he breathes out like he’s trying to calm himself down.

Mark’s not used to this, even if he’s only known Strahm for a little while at this point. Strahm has a presence that seems to push other people out of the room—at least, everyone but Perez. Mark can’t help but think about how Strahm’s eyes had softened around her, how his voice had been gentle every time Mark had caught them talking. He hadn’t wanted Perez to die either, had given her a warning just as much as he had Strahm, but neither of them had listened. They were both too tenacious, too focused on solving the case. Maybe that’s why they made such good partners.

He almost wants to apologize for it, or at least say something. But he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have the right, and Strahm would probably bite his head off if he tried, so he lets it go.

Another half hour passes in silence. Strahm pulled his seat back up at some point, apparently unable to get back to sleep properly. He stares out the window, and the fingers of his right hand fidget over and over, like he needs something to do with it. He fidgets enough that it sticks out—tapping his fingers against his thigh, shaking one leg, chewing once or twice on his thumbnail.

Finally, Mark reaches out and flicks the radio on to whatever station he’d been listening to last. The radio hosts cheerfully start to tell them about the traffic before pulling up some rock band that Mark only vaguely recognizes. Strahm doesn’t seem to notice nor care about the music, still staring out the window. He doesn’t say a word.

That’s probably why it’s such a shock when he suddenly explodes.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snaps wildly, rounding on Mark in his seat. Whether it hurts his arm or not, he doesn’t let it show. “If you’re going to try and fucking kill me, just do it already instead of drawing all of this shit out!”

…okay. Well. That requires them to pull over.

He flicks the hazards on and once they’re settled on the shoulder, he fully turns to stare right back on him.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks. “If I wanted to kill you I would’ve left you in that fucking room. Fuck, if I wanted to kill you, why would I psychologically torture you like this first? Waste of my fucking time.”

Strahm just gives him a look.

“...okay,” Mark allows, thinking back to the enormous amount of psychological torture John Kramer inflicted on others. “But I only psychologically tortured one person on my own, and he fucking deserved it.”

Maybe it’s the fact that they’d stopped that gives Strahm the energy to unclip his seatbelt and get out of the car, stalking away towards the trees. This time of year in Jersey means that all of the leaves are a gorgeous green color, and the contrast of it against the blue of the sky combined with the rush of air from the passing cars could almost make it peaceful.

Mark has to get out of the car too, because he’s pretty sure that Strahm’s either going to toss himself into traffic or try and escape into the woods to live as a mountain man. It’s not like he can get very far, given the way he’s still walking like everything hurts, but Mark doesn’t want to take any chances. Not to mention all of their forty-plus years of life isn’t really conducive to the fistfight they’d had the night before, and Mark winces when his own body reminds him of it.

“You’re being an idiot,” he says, catching up to him. “Get back in the car.”

“I’m an idiot?” Strahm snarls, turning around again. “Yeah, actually, you're right. I am. I got into this fucking car with you. But you’re the one doing—doing all this, whatever the fuck it is. What the hell are you trying to do? You think we’re gonna be friends? Huh? What do you want to gain from this, Hoffman?”

That’s a question, isn’t it. Mark takes a breath.

“I want you to understand,” he says, not breaking eye contact. “You don’t get it yet.”

Strahm actually snarls in anger so loudly that Mark can hear it over the tractor trailer that flies by.

“Understand what? That you’re fucking insane?”

That’s certainly a word for it. Mark watches Strahm’s dark hair ruffle in the wind, watches the way that Lawrence’s sweater stretches across his broad shoulders. Mark’s never actually seen him in daylight this way—even with his disheveled appearance, the handsome cut of him stands out with the way he’s lit by the sun. He really is an attractive man. Mark can only imagine what he must’ve looked like when he was younger, when his whole body wasn’t aching from the near death he’d experienced the day before.

Mark takes another deep breath.

“Maybe,” he allows. “But you said it yourself. You’re here too, Strahm. There’s no way you’ve got it all together, either.”

“I’m saving lives,” Strahm snaps, and then all at once he bends over and spits so much that it takes Mark by surprise until he realizes that Strahm’s clutching at his throat with his hand and coughing. The strain on his wound must’ve finally gotten to him, and it’s kind of hard to watch such a powerful man fall so far all of a sudden.

Mark stays where he is, absolutely positive that if he steps any closer Strahm will strike out at him like a man possessed, so he simply watches him.

The saving lives thing doesn’t surprise him. William Easton may have what’s coming to him in the end, but John was prepared to set up other people in that game that definitely came from nothing more than pettiness. Mark’s not one to judge a man when it comes to revenge, but sometimes pettiness is just different altogether. So maybe Strahm’s right. Maybe he is saving lives, at the end of the day. Maybe that’s what he needs to tell himself to get through this. Maybe he thinks it’s noble.

Maybe it is.

“Fuck,” Strahm chokes out, wiping at his mouth. “You’re right. I’m fucking insane to be here.”

Mark lets that sit for a second or two before continuing.

“You good?”

“You’re the one who did this to me!” Strahm tries to yell, but his voice is so hoarse that it all but cracks down the center. It comes out like more of a whisper. “You— how dare you ask me if I’m good—”

“Get back in the car,” Mark says, growing frustrated as he watches Strahm bend over again, coughing. “We can stop at a gas station and get you some water. You probably have to take some painkillers anyway.”

“Stop acting like my fucking babysitter.” Strahm’s face is still pinched tight with pain, one big hand wrapped over the bandage still taped to his throat. “You fucking asshole.”

With a little more annoyed coaxing from Mark though, he does eventually get back into the car. He settles into his seat with so much stiffness that there’s no doubt in Mark’s mind that he’s even more sore than he had been. It can’t be good for someone’s muscles to have been scrunched up like that, let alone keeping all that weight up ten good feet above the ground until he could get some help. Add that with the arm and having to sit in a car for a few hours, and it’s a losing battle.

They end up stopping at a full rest stop rather than just a gas station, and the first thing Strahm does is get out again and spit onto the ground. There’s a bit of blood mixed into it, clearly the result of all the yelling he’d been doing. The only thing Mark can think to do is ask, “do you want anything?”

“Go!” Strahm snaps, the word more a warbled growl than anything else. He sounds pissed, which is nothing new, and Mark shrugs and ambles his way into the rest stop.

It’s a pretty typical one, as far as they go, with a few chain restaurants on one side and a half market and half gift shop on the other. He gathers up some water, pours a couple coffees to stick into a cup carrier, and finally pauses by the fridge. There’s a pack of Jell-O, and for some bizarre reason he reaches out and takes that out, too. The coldness of the gelatin will probably feel good against Strahm’s throat, and it reminds him of what they give out in hospitals.

There are a few people who stare at him before looking away nervously, and there’s… a brief moment where he feels paranoia lick at his chest. He’s positive that no one could possibly recognize him. But when he reaches up to rub at the corner of his eye, it hurts so sharply that it reminds him of his bandaged broken nose and his twin black eyes.

Ah. Right. That’d be enough to be stared at.

With that solved, he waits in line, balancing the coffees and thinking hard about what Strahm had said on the side of the road.

What the hell is he doing? All but dragging a (former?) FBI agent across the country to get his arm patched up when Mark’s the one who inflicted the damn wound is already a bad idea in the first place, but the fact that Strahm’s also entirely aware of the fact that Mark’s been helping John with the Jigsaw games makes it worse. It’s not a hunch, or a theory. It's an indisputable fact, and Strahm’s holding that just as easily in his palm as Mark holds Strahm’s freedom in his.

While he’s considering exactly that as the cashier rings him up, a voice interrupts his thoughts from behind. It’s a bit high-pitched and very fucking annoying, grating on his ears. He turns, eyebrow raising as he looks the stranger up and down.

The kid reminds him a bit of Adam, with how squirrely and small he is, his hair dark and his clothes too big. He’s looking up at Mark with what seems to be irritation, though it quickly flares up into something that seems a lot more nervous.

God, Mark’s too fucking pissed off for this.

“What,” he says flatly, voice hard.

To his credit, the kid doesn’t back away.

“Um,” he replies, his eyes flick between Mark and the cashier, looking very put out. “I just wanted, uh, directions to the… to the nearest hotel. Or a map, if you’ve– if you’ve got one.”

At least this isn’t his fucking problem. He almost rolls his eyes, but decides against it if only because the kid does look like he might start a fight if he were irked enough. Standing aside, Mark just smirks at him and inclines his head towards the cashier in a wordless gesture, letting him go on ahead once he’s paid.

Mark watches the kid walk away when he’s done talking to the cashier. He really does remind Mark of Adam, the more he thinks about it, and he remembers what Strahm had said. I’m saving lives.

Mark’s never really committed to John’s view of things. For as much as Adam annoys the shit out of him, he hadn’t really done anything that warranted being put in the bathroom. Had he also just been some little fucker who bought a map, a pack of cigarettes at some random gas station? Someone who bothered a stranger? Adam had been simply living his life before he’d been tossed into that bathroom, and while Mark has no real affection for the kid, he can still understand—quite easily, in fact—just how unfair that’d been.

As a second thought, he takes the bag, the two coffees, and makes his way over to the chains. One sells more homestyle fast food than deep fried and greasy, and he scans the options before ordering some broccoli and cheddar soup. Again, it’s for Strahm, and again he has to fucking wonder exactly what his plan is, why he feels like he needs to take care of the most pissed off man in the universe who’s currently standing outside his car.

The soup’s hot and smells amazing, packed up in a paper bag with the top folded down and stapled shut. It hadn’t actually occurred to Mark to buy anything for himself, but he just shrugs and adds it to the rest of the balancing act in his arms as he leaves the rest stop.

Half of him wonders if Strahm made a break for it, which wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest. But Strahm’s still hanging out by the car, his head turned towards the sky. Mark stops to watch him, tilting his head.

Strahm’s eyes are closed, those long lashes dusting across his cheeks whenever he takes a breath. His lips are gently parted, pink and chapped, and he’s still got that layer of scruff across his jaw. He looks like any other man on a long trip stuck in a car, save for the sling and the bandage over his throat. Even as Mark watches, a gentle breeze flutters through Strahm’s hair and he tilts his head into it. He looks like shit, yeah, but he looks a little calmer. Not at peace, of course, since Mark’s pretty sure Strahm’s never felt peace for a second in his entire life, but maybe something a little close.

That near-peace pretty much shatters instantly the second Mark gets close enough. Once he clues Strahm in on his presence, Strahm turns, all of the tension flooding back into his body and making him tense as a rubber band. He watches Mark come closer, and then his eyes flick downwards.

“...what the fuck is that,” Strahm says, squinting at the bag in Mark’s hand. Mark can see him trying to flex the fingers on his left arm, and it’s clearly causing him pain. His hand is shaking.

“It’s soup,” Mark says, holding the paper bag up. “Broccoli and cheddar.”

Strahm stares at it like it might bite him.

“...okay?”

Mark rolls his eyes.

“It’s for you,” he says, and tries once more to hand it to Strahm once he’s put the coffees and the plastic bag on the roof of the car. “Figured it’d be good for your throat. Bought some jello, too.”

Strahm gapes at him again, his eyes wide. Again, Mark can’t help but notice how different he looks in the sun. His skin’s pale, but the soft warmth outside seems to have put some color back in his cheeks. It makes the scar under his left eye a bit more noticeable.

“Oh my god,” Strahm finally says. “You’re definitely going to dump my body somewhere where they’ll never find it.”

Mark snorts.

“I haven’t decided if I’m gonna do it on the side of the road or just toss you into the Delaware,” he says, and shakes the bag a little. The soup sloshes around inside. “You want it or not?”

“You’re fucking with me,” Strahm says blankly, still not taking it.

To be fair, he is fucking with Strahm for the most part, but it’s still pretty funny to see the color rise in Strahm’s cheeks as he realizes that Mark’s being serious about the soup. They stare at each other, right there in some parking lot off the turnpike. There are people chattering nearby, some of them sharing lunch on one of the picnic tables, some of them looking at maps. Hell, he can see the kid from earlier talking with a blond man outside of a much nicer car than theirs. There are families, couples, people alone with no one else to accompany them. People simply living their lives, unaware that there’s a serial killer’s accomplice only a few feet away.

Strahm looks like he’s a second from either punching Mark in the face or bolting like a horse, but he just stays where he is instead. He’s giving Mark that intense look, all wide eyes and pinched mouth. It’s the sort of look that makes Mark feel a bit like he’s being sized up, or perhaps seen through.

Finally, Strahm just asks in that hoarse voice, “did you get any water for my painkillers or not?”

Mark rolls his eyes and shoves the paper bag at Strahm’s one hand, finally taking the plastic bag and coffees off the roof of the car. He slots both coffees into the cupholder between the seats and tosses the plastic bag onto the floor where Strahm’s been sitting.

“Yeah,” he says, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Come on. We got a few more hours to go if we want to make good time.”

Strahm sighs, like he doesn’t even want to ask. He’s managed to tuck the bag of soup up against his side, given that the other hand is still useless.

“Good time for what?” he grits out, and the paper bag crinkles like he’s clutching too tightly at it.

“I grabbed the bag you had in your hotel room, but you’re gonna need more clothes,” Mark says idly, putting on his seatbelt. “We can go to a Goodwill or something, get you a few extra shirts.”

“Great,” Strahm mutters, finally lowering himself into the car. He doesn’t open up the bag of soup, but he doesn’t throw it out the window, either. “Exactly what I wanted to do with my time. Go clothes shopping with you. Great bonding exercise.”

“Yeah, well,” Mark says, and backs out of the parking lot. “Lucky for you, we’re just getting started.”

Chapter Text

“I have something for you,” Mark says.

Strahm’s hoarse voice comes from the gap between the top of the changing room door and the ceiling, and he sounds as aggravated as ever.

“I don’t want it.”

Mark sighs and rolls his eyes a little, waiting for Strahm to come back out with whatever armful—quite literally armful—of clothes he’s picked out for himself. Lawrence’s sweater is flopped over the top of the door, dark against the light wood, and it smells vaguely of sweat and the air freshener in Mark’s car. Next to it is Strahm’s sling, carefully taken off first and deposited there for easy access. Mark hadn’t offered to help, already knowing that Strahm would’ve said no, but he still wonders how he’s faring in there.

“You didn’t want the soup, either,” Mark says a bit testily. “You ended up eating that, didn’t you?”

He can hear the way that Strahm huffs like some kind of pissed off horse, and then Lawrence’s sweater slithers back into the other side of the changing room door and there’s more shuffling before the sling follows. He can almost hear the way that Strahm’s trying to bite back whatever sound of pain he wants to make, even with the painkillers he’d downed an hour before.

“I haven’t eaten since the clinic,” Strahm finally says, and the door clicks open. “Sue me for being hungry.”

God, he’s annoying.

“You got everything?” Mark asks, rather than tempt the beast some more. He watches as Strahm tries to clip the sling back with only one arm, and he’s a bit impressed when Strahm manages it. It’s strapped around his torso as well as over his shoulder, and it keeps his arm so tightly pressed against his stomach that Mark’s sure it’s entirely so that he doesn’t use it more than he has to, and yet here Strahm is. He’s already sacrificing a clean heal simply for his independence. Mark wishes he could be surprised.

“The point is,” Mark continues as they make their way to the front, Strahm with the clothes tucked under one arm, “you could stop being so fucking stubborn about it.”

Strahm scoffs.

“I still don’t know why I’m here,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.

Mark’s starting to understand the whole throttling someone with your bare hands kind of thing.

“Then leave,” he says calmly, taking the clothes away and letting them all flop onto the counter in front of a bored looking clerk writing on some scrap paper.

“I already said I wouldn’t,” Strahm grits out, teeth clenched.

“Then stop complaining.”

Strahm scoffs again, rolling his head up like he’s praying for patience. Knowing what he knows about him, Mark thinks that might be exactly what he’s doing. Strahm seems like he might’ve grown up Catholic once. His name is Peter, after all.

Mark had already said he’d pay, and maybe a part of it comes from a clear desire to make sure Strahm knows that he owes him in more ways than one. But Strahm, regardless of the helplessness he surely must be feeling, still looks like he might take out his wallet if it weren’t back in the car. He seems like the kind of who would risk the FBI tracking his credit card if it meant fucking Mark over.

“Thanks,” he tells the clerk at the desk. They just wave him away.

The bell above the door rings as they leave, and it seems like only a few scant seconds before Strahm starts up again. Seems like if he can’t argue then he just might drop dead on the spot.

“I could have paid for that,” he gripes.

“I don’t really care,” Mark replies. “You can pay for something else if you’re that strung out about it.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Maybe I don’t give a fuck.”

He would’ve let Strahm pay for it, probably. But the hardest part of the trip so far—besides, of course, convincing Strahm to actually do it—was getting his money out of his bank account. Mark knew Strahm had plenty, judging by the watch on his wrist and the quality of his suits. And despite Strahm’s shitty attitude, they both knew they had a couple of days at best before the FBI would really try to come down on them.

He’d had a decent amount in his savings, given his salary, and they’d managed to get in and out without the CCTV really picking them up. Just a quick deposit slip written out and handed to the teller and they were on their way. Being law enforcement meant that they both knew exactly what to do to avoid it, though Mark wonders if Strahm had somehow managed to throw a sign or warning when he wasn’t looking. It wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest, but Strahm seems like he’s in it for the long haul.

Still, they’re several thousand up in their budget now, with the cash safely stowed away in the glove compartment that Mark keeps locked. He’d already gone to the bank even before he’d properly set up the glass coffin, just in case the plan hadn’t worked and he’d needed to flee. That, too, he keeps in the glove compartment.

Once everything’s paid for, they make their way back to the car. The clothes all came from a Goodwill, so they’re all going to have to be washed at the first motel they stop at, but at least Strahm has a few more shirts and jeans now. The ones he’d been wearing the day before had been an entirely lost cause, with his blood splattered all over the thighs of the jeans and the sweater soaked and tacky up to the shoulder.

Outside, the sun’s not as high in the sky as it had been, starting to cast a softer light as it begins its descent. Even from the door, Mark can see how his black car reflects the clouds above them. He wanders over to the car while Strahm watches. There’s still a tremor about him, like he’s just barely holding something back. Maybe it’s his anger and frustration. Maybe it’s whatever he’d dreamed about in the car that had woken him up like that.

“You wanna get dressed first?” he asks, looking over his shoulder. “We still got another forty minutes.”

“Forty minutes for what?” Strahm grumbles, finally making his way over. He’d demanded to carry the bag of clothes, and it looks like a bit of an effort.

“‘til the motel,” Mark answers. “I checked our map while you were picking out clothes.”

“You have a map?”

Mark rolls his eyes, tries to avoid pinching his broken nose.

“Do you really fucking think I have, like, some kind of GPS in my brain that’ll get us to Colorado? Of course I have a fucking map. Can we go?”

Strahm’s silent at that, but his cheeks have gone a bit red. Maybe Mark was a little harsh, given that Strahm’s probably still recovering mentally from the shit he’d gone through the day before, but it was a stupid question. He doesn’t actually feel all that bad about it.

There’s a sudden, whiny little part of him that tells him that maybe he should feel bad, but he ignores it.

The car beeps when he unlocks it, a happy little trill that doesn’t fit the mood at all, and then he’s tugging open the back door. He gestures a little impatiently for Strahm to toss the bag of clothes in, but Strahm’s just standing there with an unreadable expression that still looks a little angry. His mouth is thin, like he’s thinking really hard, but after a second of that he just walks over and tosses the bag in.

“I’ll wait,” he says. His voice is tight. “I need a shower first. And I need to maybe burn these clothes.”

“Even Gordon’s sweater? Kinda ungrateful, don’t you think?”

Strahm huffs at him.

“Everything but the sweater,” he amends.

Mark just shrugs and walks over to the back of the car while Strahm watches him.

“That reminds me. One sec,” he says, clicking the fob to unlock the trunk. He’d almost forgotten. The trunk clicks open as he raises it, and Mark searches around for a second or two before letting out a quiet, “ah” and taking out the black leather jacket he’d stored there.

There’s no blood on it, at least. When Strahm had taken it off in the crushing room, he’d tossed it to the side. It meant that when he had been hemorrhaging blood everywhere, the jacket had completely avoided the worst of the mess, and Mark was able to grab it. It smells more like cologne than it does sweat, though some of it’s faded and it’s taken on the musty smell of the trunk instead. But the plaid lining is soft and probably warm once it soaks up body heat, and he hands it over to Strahm without a word.

Again, Strahm stares.

“...you can’t be serious,” he says quietly, clearly stunned. “You kept my jacket?”

Mark shrugs.

“It’s a nice jacket,” he says by way of explanation. “I think your badge is still in the pocket, too. Didn’t check.”

He doesn’t mean for the jacket to be an olive branch, but when Strahm reaches out with that trembling hand and wraps his fingers around the leather, there’s just a brief moment where they’re both holding it. That’s what it feels like. Just the slightest moment of understanding and connection, and then Strahm’s scowl is firmly back in place.

“Great,” he mutters, and looks it over as best as he can. His left fingers still seem like they’re probably useless, so he has to balance it by tilting a bit and resting it on his hip. “Uh. Thanks.”

It’s Mark’s turn to stare this time, and his eyebrows nearly reach his hairline.

“Huh,” he says, surprised. “You’re welcome.”

-

The motel isn’t exactly a five star, or even a three star, but it’ll get the job done. It’s the kind where you can slide some twenties across the desk per night and never have anyone question it. It spreads out into a long row of rooms, with bright red, chipped doors and matching brass knobs and locks. It’s two stories, but Mark had managed to score them a ground floor room, and he pulls the car up to their window and turns off the engine with a sigh. Eight hours of driving. They made it through Pennsylvania without any hitch, and now that they’ve crossed the border he feels like it’s a good place to stop.

“Hey.” He nudges at Strahm’s shoulder. “Get up. We’re here.”

Strahm stirs, though it seems like it takes him a bit too long to wake up.

“I don’t suppose we’re already in Colorado,” he finally mumbles, eyes pinching tighter before opening.

“Nope.”

“Then where are we?”

Mark grins cheekily.

“Welcome to the great state of Ohio.”

Strahm groans, rubbing at his face.

He’d somehow managed to sleep for the last four hours of it, though he kept waking up periodically with that same frightened gasp or small jerk of his shoulders. None of those gasps seemed quite as terrified as they’d been the first time, at least, but he still kept looking around now and again like he was trying to figure out where he was. He’d also used his leather jacket as some kind of blanket, and Mark ignores the way that makes him feel.

Everything about the motel screams dirty and cheap, which makes it a perfect hiding place. Strahm spends most of the walk to their room with a sleepy scowl on his face that suggests he might be smelling something foul, but Mark’s already used to that expression. It barely even fazes him.

He gets a two bed room, because he isn’t stupid, but he can already tell that Strahm’s pissed off about having to share a room with Mark at all. He’s carrying his go-bag in his good hand, because he’d refused to let Mark carry anything for him. It’s kind of funny to watch him hobble around, clearly unbalanced by having a complete lack of use of his left arm. Mark’s not exactly walking with confidence, either—his back is fucking killing him. Turns out having a million little cuts from the top of your spine to the bottom makes sitting in a car a lot more painful.

They have to get something else to eat. Mark contemplates pizza, and god knows he needs to wash himself off for maybe the next three hours, but Strahm gets there first. He dumps his bag on the bed closer to the door and heads immediately towards the bathroom.

Mark switches the bags as he walks over in that direction too.

“You gotta cover your arm if you’re gonna take a shower,” he says, remembering one of the many bits of advice Lawrence had forced him to listen to. “We need a plastic bag or a garbage bag or something.”

“First of all,” Strahm growls, “we don’t need anything. Second of all, do you really think I’m gonna let you in there with me?”

Mark sighs.

“No,” he says, annoyed. “But believe it or not, I’d like you to get to Colorado without any infections. Gordon said it could happen.”

“Third of all,” Strahm says over him, which seems to be incredibly difficult given how fucked up his voice is, “I’m taking the bed by the door.”

“No you aren’t,” Mark replies easily, even if he’s still annoyed. “You’ve got one fucking arm. What are you gonna do if someone comes in here?”

Strahm glares at him and then makes his way into the bathroom.

“You still need the garbage bag,” Mark calls after him.

“I told you, I need a fucking shower,” Strahm bites out without turning around. “Granted, I got just an absolutely lovely sponge bath at the clinic while I was half-conscious and dying, but I still feel disgusting. I don’t want to wait.”

Mark rubs at his forehead with a hand. It’s like arguing with a brick wall, mostly in the way that any attempt to convince Strahm to do anything seems to bounce right off him. Mark can’t help but think his words are a bit like a rubber ball, smacking Mark right in the face if he doesn’t dodge it. Strahm’s so fucking stubborn that it borders on stupid, but Mark still holds out the same hand with what he wants to be a diplomatic sort of motion.

“Okay,” he says. “Give me five minutes to get the fucking garbage bag, alright? You wanna do the whole macho FBI thing, I really don’t care. But you get an infection and I have to haul you to the nearest Urgent Care, this all goes up in flames. You go to jail, I go back to Jersey and kill a few more dozen people. Which one you wanna do?”

Strahm growls again. He sounds like he might actually want to bite Mark’s throat out.

“...fine,” he acquiesces, finally. “Fine, whatever. Get the garbage bag.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Mark mutters to himself.

He has no doubt that Strahm’s not going to go anywhere while he makes a quick trip to the front desk, and he’s not sure why. But Strahm’s had multiple opportunities at this point to make a break for it—the rest stop, the Goodwill, hell, he could’ve begged Lawrence to get him the fuck away from Mark as fast as that peg leg could take him—but he stays. Mark trusts that he’s not going to book it, for whatever reason.

The person sitting at the front desk hands him a garbage bag without much of a fuss once he explains what he needs it for. It’s not like they hadn’t seen the sling keeping Strahm’s arm strapped down. He gets back to the room with minimal issues, and finds Strahm sitting on the edge of the far bed with his face in one hand and his back bowed.

That damn tremor catches Mark’s eye a second before Strahm looks up at the sound of the door closing. Everything about him seems worn down, like he’s swaying between consciousness and fainting, a pendulum of exhaustion. His face is pinched tight with pain, though he still manages to glower at Mark without a word.

Mark checks his watch, then hums to himself. It’s been a couple of hours since Strahm took his last dose of painkillers, and he’s probably going to have to take the antibiotics first thing in the morning. In the meantime, though, he hands the garbage bag over to Strahm.

“Here,” he says. “Just wrap that up around—”

“I fucking know,” Strahm snaps. “I’m FBI. I know it’s easy for you to forget that, but I’m not actually an idiot.”

That does kind of stop Mark in his tracks, especially with the realization that Strahm had heard him. He can actually feel his cheeks heating up just slightly.

It’s not that he doubts Strahm’s intelligence. No, it’s actually quite the opposite. He’s vividly, crucially aware of how smart Strahm actually is. Even from the first moment they met, it was clear that Strahm wasn’t the typical suit that just fumbles around trying to seem smarter than everyone else. Strahm is smarter than everyone else. He puts puzzle pieces together so effortlessly that it’s admirable, even when it’s biting Mark in the ass.

Maybe he can admit to the fact that he’d forgotten that, though. Or at least disregarded it when he didn’t mean to. He could make the excuse that he’s spent the day before seeing Strahm half-conscious and all but delirious, but he knows at his core that he’d just… forgotten.

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s almost shame in it. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

If the apology surprises him, Strahm doesn’t show it. He just snatches the garbage bag out of Mark’s hands and stalks off to the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind himself. Mark hears the sound of the sink turning on, followed by a few angry curses that involve Mark, the intelligence of his ass, and the garbage bag.

Mark can’t really blame him for being angry about it. The FBI isn’t exactly an easy club to be in, and he knows that any agent has to have a hell of a time even getting into the academy. And from the peek he’d taken at Strahm’s badge, he either is or was a supervisory special agent. He has enough brains and experience to be in charge. Despite how much he’d love to believe the contrary, he know that wasn’t just handed out willy nilly to whoever the fuck wanted it.

It’s weird to feel guilt over something like this. He and Strahm have never gotten on, not from the first moment they met, but he didn’t actually think the guy was stupid or anything. Maybe a little bullheaded, yeah, but not stupid. It’s a weird kind of shame.

He masks the shame by sorting through some of the take-out menus that had been stacked neatly on the desk by the window. There are a few for Chinese, a couple Italian, and then a pizza and wings place. He chooses the third, if only because a pizza truly is easy enough to just order without having to talk about it. From behind him, he can hear the shower running, and wonders how Strahm’s faring with one arm.

After ordering the pizza, he stands there and rubs at his temples with a hand, thumb on one and forefinger on the other. He needs a shower too, and a shave, and he needs to get into something more comfortable. He’s still sore from their fistfight, still feels like his back is on fire, and his body won’t stop reminding him of how it felt hauling Strahm up two flights of stairs while he was all but dead.

Problem is, Strahm’s taking forever in the shower. It takes the actual delivery of the pizza and then two slices before Strahm finally comes out of the bathroom, letting loose a cloud of steam that floats towards the ceiling.

His hair is sticking up a bit oddly from the water, and he’s shivering a little despite the rush of warm air that fills the room. He looks… unnerved, maybe. Anxious. Mark can’t pretend to know what went on in the bathroom, because the groan of the pipes and the sound of the water was loud enough to drown anything out, but Strahm’s giving off the energy of a dog that’s right on the edge of snapping.

Mark considers asking if he’s good, but decides against it when he actually gets a look at him.

Seeing Strahm wearing civvies had already been a bit of a weird thing from the start—though he’s not sure how much their suits actually account for professional uniforms—but seeing him in a t-shirt is extra strange. He looks like he was probably incredibly fit in his younger years, because he’s still plenty fit in his forties. Mark tilts his head, taking in the view of Strahm’s powerful shoulders.

The other thing that catches his eye is that Strahm’s covered in more bruises than Mark actually thought he’d be. He also has quite a few scars. There’s one or two on his biceps, like he was cut by something, and then a thick, raised one that was probably a gunshot wound. The scruff makes him look more rugged, too, and his messy hair. It’s all a very different picture from what he’d gotten used to. Clean cut Strahm is a little different than on-the-run Strahm.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, when Mark points at the pizza without a word. “I just want to sleep.”

“...you slept for half the ride,” Mark says, a bit confused.

“That wasn’t a restful sleep, asshole,” Strahm says, sounding frustrated. Whether it’s at himself or Mark is actually a fair question, though Mark’s leaning towards it being both. “I haven’t actually had a good night’s rest since they first put that fucking Jigsaw file on my desk. And being with you isn’t helping.”

He ignores that it makes sense, though Mark’s not sure what to say to that. He watches as Strahm just makes his way over to the bed (and it does look like he’s still angry about having to take the one furthest from the door) and sits down heavily with his back to Mark. Mark turns a bit in the chair and watches, ignoring the clear invitation to fuck off.

Strahm’s moves a bit stiffly, and after a few minutes of that, Mark finally gets up and wanders over. It seems like Strahm’s struggling with the gauze— he growls a bit hoarsely, clearly trying to untie it and failing.

“I told you not to get it wet,” Mark says before he can stop himself.

“I didn’t,” Strahm snaps, not looking at him. “It’s bleeding a little.”

Oh. Well, that can’t be good. Mark’s already trying to get a good look before he even realizes what he’s doing. Strahm tries to use his broad shoulders to box Mark out from being able to see, but he’s right. There’s a good-sized splotch of blood near his wrist, where the cut is deepest. His fingers are barely twitching, and Mark can’t help but wonder if they should only get a couple hours of rest before going back on the road again.

Silently, he reaches out and gestures for Strahm to let him see. Strahm just glowers at him.

“I don’t need your help.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!”

“You can’t even shave,” Mark says a bit snidely, gesturing at the coarse hair dusting across Strahm’s jaw. “Just let me fucking see it.”

There’s a standstill for so long that Mark almost considers backing off just so that he can actually take his shower. But finally, Strahm lets go of his arm and shoves it in Mark’s direction, looking away with his cheeks red. He seems to have finally acknowledged to himself that if the bandages need to be changed, he won’t be able to do it on his own. There’s simply no way. He can’t even show Mark his arm without help—he has to use his good hand at the elbow of his bad arm to direct it where he wants it to go.

Mark takes Strahm’s wrist in careful fingers, and Strahm hisses in pain.

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, but the guilt tries to weasel itself back into Mark’s lungs before he can stop it. Strahm’s fingers are curled inwards, rough looking with a few angry-looking scrapes on the palm. Despite its size, the blood patch doesn’t look too bad, though— it’s probably more from the way he’s been moving it than a serious problem. Strahm’s pulse is beating a bit too wildly against Mark’s fingers, though.

“What’d you do while you were in the shower?” he asks, still holding Strahm’s wrist with both hands. “Looks like you might’ve popped a stitch or two.”

Instead of snapping something back, Strahm’s silent. It’s uncharacteristic enough that Mark looks up at him with an eyebrow raised. Now that he’s close enough, he can see that Strahm’s eyes are bloodshot, and that doggish anxiety is practically tangible up close.

“Nothing,” Strahm finally says.

That’s a lie if Mark’s ever heard one.

He has half a mind to push the issue further, but Strahm’s not looking at him. There’s a sense of…. shame, maybe, that’s started to weigh Mark down a little. He’s trying not to let it get to him, because when you let things get to you that’s the first crucial mistake. Caring leads to losing, and he’s not about to do that again. That just ends in tragedy. That just ends in clutching someone’s hand and sobbing wildly in front of your colleagues. That just ends in a shotgun pointed at your chin.

“Well, whatever,” Mark says, and gives him his arm back. “You want help getting the bandages off?”

Strahm actually hesitates, holding his broken arm in his lap. The blood truly doesn’t look like it’s too much, but they could probably stand to replace the gauze anyway. Still, he doesn’t move.

“I just want to sleep,” he finally says quietly, not looking up. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

His hoarse voice can barely be heard over a few cars that drive by, and Mark shrugs.

“Alright,” he says. “Eat some pizza. We’re gonna get an early start in the morning.”

Once more, that trembling hand comes up. This time, though, Strahm just runs it through his still damp hair and sighs. He doesn’t press the issue, but he doesn’t get up to grab a slice of pizza either. He just sits there. It seems like there’s a weight that’s starting to settle on him again, bending his shoulders forward a little bit.

Unsure of what else to do, Mark makes his way towards the shower. Before he gets there, though, Strahm’s gravelly voice floats over.

“You’re not concerned I’m gonna book it the second you close the door?”

The thought had crossed his mind, yeah. It’d be really easy for Strahm to run to the front desk, to call 911, to snatch the keys and take the car while he was shampooing his hair or something. In fact, it’d be so easy that Mark’s not entirely sure he isn’t going to come out of the bathroom to a legion of SWAT officers with their guns drawn while Strahm points and shouts, that’s him! That’s Jigsaw!

But… in all honesty, he’s curious. Strahm really has had plenty of opportunities, and he hasn’t taken a single one. Instead, he’s proven time and again that he’s going to stay the course for at least this far. Maybe this is just a test of a different sort.

He glances over at him, head tilted thoughtfully before he answers.

“This is about trust, Strahm,” he says, and Strahm lifts his head to look at him. “If you trust me, I trust you.”

Strahm’s mouth thins.

“Have you learnt enough to trust me,” he mutters mockingly, but then to Mark’s surprise he flops back until he’s sprawled over the duvet. “God. Get a different thing, Hoffman.”

It’s the first time Strahm’s called him by his name since their fight back on the turnpike, and it makes him pause. He’s trying to work the… joke around in his head. At least, he’s pretty sure it’s a joke. It’d be a little too weird if Strahm made a joke, though, so he chalks it up to him being too tired to put a proper bite on his insult. That makes more sense, at least.

“Like I said,” he says slowly, after thinking about it. “Stop saying fuck you and maybe we can both work on being creative.”

A shadow of something flickers across Strahm’s face, but Mark’s sure it couldn’t possibly be a smile. There’s no way.

The shower’s probably one of the harder things he’s had to do outside of the actual games themselves. The hot water feels vivid and painful against his back, and he can’t quite reach the spots he knows he should check. The water doesn’t run pink, though. That’s a positive.

It’s also a bit hard to wash his face with his nose as painful as it is, and he’ll have to dig out one of the bandages that Lawrence had given him along with the medical tape. At least he doesn’t have to stuff gauze up his nose, which is a definite plus.

It’s only when he pulls the curtain back again that he realizes it’s lopsided. Confused, he looks up and tugs on it a bit before noticing there’s a plastic ring missing from the rod stretched between the walls. Actually, there’s two missing, and he’s about to chalk it up to shitty housekeeping when he sees a flash of white in the garbage can by the sink. The two plastic rings sit there, cracked right down the middle each.

Mark sniffs once, mostly to feel the pain, and decides not to think about it any more than he has to.

When he comes back out, his back and his nose stinging, he finds Strahm asleep on the bed by the door instead of his own. He even went and switched their bags, too, and Mark’s has been haphazardly tossed onto the floor at the foot of the bed.

What a dick. It makes him laugh softly anyway, even as he’s shaking his head. He probably should’ve seen that one coming.

Strahm’s a stomach sleeper, which actually surprises him. Or maybe it’s just the safest way to keep his arm propped up. He has it rested on several pillows next to his head, keeping it elevated and straight. He’s buried under all of the blankets, his long eyelashes brushing against his cheekbones the same way they’d done outside the rest stop. It makes sense to keep his arm up, and it makes Mark wonder if Strahm’s ever broken a bone before.

He watches him breathe for a minute or two. Strahm’s a snorer, it turns out, though it's soft rather than sawing logs or something. Another strange little quirk that humanizes him, maybe. Makes him real. Makes him more than just a problem that Mark’s struggling to solve.

Well. Whatever. He needs to get some sleep himself, so he stretches himself out on his own stomach to avoid any more pain from his back and sighs. The bright yellow headlights of the cars go by through the curtains as the sound of Strahm’s soft snoring fills the room.

Mark can’t quite remember the last time he shared a room with someone. When he falls asleep, he’s not even aware of it. The only thing he really knows is that he’s more comfortable than he’s been in a while.

Chapter Text

Angie looks a bit perturbed, which is weird. She’s standing at the window, wearing his police academy sweater and chewing on her thumbnail as she gazes out into the blur just beyond the glass. Mark’s not even entirely sure why she’d be doing that, so he takes a few steps until he’s at her side.

“What’s up?” he asks quietly, nudging her with a shoulder.

“Seth’s gonna kill me,” she says matter-of-factly, with no preamble whatsoever.

Mark stares at her.

“...what?” he asks, startled by his own scared tone.

She shakes her head a little bit, her lips pursed as her ponytail bounces. It’s a little bit curled here and there. She’d gotten their mother’s curls and her dad’s eyes, while Mark had taken more after his own father, but they still look alike. Sometimes Mark wonders if people think she’s his daughter instead of his baby sister. The age difference definitely doesn’t help, but he tries not to think about it. Fifteen years is fifteen years either way.

“He’s gonna kill me,” she repeats, like she’s commenting on the color of a passing car.

“The fuck do you mean?” Mark presses, his voice getting harder. “What the fuck, Ange? Is he pissed off at you?”

“No,” she says, her voice flat. “He’s just gonna kill me.”

Mark has to pinch the bridge of his nose. It hurts, for some reason. He’s not sure why.

“Angelina,” he says slowly, “you can’t just drop shit on me like that. What the fuck are you talking about?”

This time, she turns to look at him. Her eyes have gone from that soft, grassy hazel to an ocean blue, the same color as his. She’s watching him with something like mild interest, like she’s only just realized he’s there. Her hair is down, a waterfall of soft brown hair, and she’s wearing a white spaghetti strap tank top.

“Seth’s gonna kill me,” she says again. “He’s going to tie me to the bed, fuck me, slit my throat, and then I’m gonna bleed out onto the floor.”

“What?” Mark whispers, horrified. “No, he’s not—”

“He is,” she says, and reaches up to brush some of his hair out of his eyes. “It’s okay, Mark. It’s gonna be okay. Thanks for getting lunch with me the other day. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s not gonna be okay,” he chokes, breath coming in far too quickly. “How can this be okay? Are you out of your mind? Of course I have to get lunch with you. What do you mean?”

“I know. I know.” This time her soft fingers brush a tear away from his face. When had he started crying? He squeezes his eyes closed, shaking his head along with her words. “I know. Right now you’re feeling helpless, Mark. You’re gonna kill him. You’re gonna kill a lot of people. You’re helpless. I love you.”

Right now he’s feeling helpless. Her throat is gaping from ear to ear, bleeding all down her front. Without warning, she falls backwards onto the bed in front of them, her arm tied to the bedpost. He’s helpless to stop her, frozen in place. He doesn’t remember when he opened his eyes, but he can only stare.

Suddenly he’s on the other side of the bed, and she’s laying upside down and limp on the mattress, her own eyes empty. There’s a pile of meat and bones on the floor below her, all of her pretty brown curls spilling over it and drying with matted blood.

“You’re helpless,” she repeats, and her voice is garbled and hoarse.

Helpless.

Helpless.

Helpless.

She smiles up at him, teeth full of blood, and then his eyes snap open.

The ceiling stares back at him, slats of light running across the paint from the rising sun through the blinds. His back is fucking killing him, all points of sharp, cruel pain that make him lift a shoulder off the mattress with a groan. The cars from outside zoom on by, and there are people just next door talking quietly as they make their way out. He turns his head blearily to look at the clock sitting on a side table in the middle of the two beds, blinking hard to get the sleep out of his eyes.

6:49am. Well, at least check-out isn’t until noon. He’d almost been afraid they’d both sleep past that.

He shifts his gaze up, past the bedside table and to the other bed. Strahm’s still asleep, so at least Mark’s nightmare had been a quiet one. He’d moved from his stomach onto his side at some point during the night, though his arm’s managed to stay elevated on one of his pillows. The snores have turned into an awkward sort of wheeze from the way he’s got his face squashed up against his other hand, and the hole in his throat probably doesn’t help all that much either.

Mark looks closer, searching. The blood spot on Strahm’s wrist doesn’t seem to have spread, and it’s dried to a dark brown. That’s good, at least. They’ll still have to change the bandages, still have to check to make sure too many stitches haven’t torn, but there’s definite relief in knowing that it doesn’t seem to be that bad.

Once Mark realizes that it is a relief, though, he has to get out of bed. He doesn’t have time to think about the consequences of that train of thought. He can just pretend it’s because he’s still half-asleep, and soon enough he believes it.

And yet he can’t help but look over at Strahm again, looking him up and down.

Strahm’s hair is a complete and utter mess, and that scruff around his jaw and under his nose has gotten thicker over the last day. It’s tinged with gray here and there, not really patches but more of an even spread that borders on salt and pepper. It makes him look older when it’s combined with those deep bags under his eyes, but there’s still an almost regal quality to how it accentuates the strong line of his jaw. A black tattoo pokes out of the sleeve of his left shoulder, and Mark stares at it. Yet again, it’s a small detail that’s so human and real that it makes him feel something he can’t put a name to.

He flees to the bathroom as silently as he can.

As soon as he’s splashed cold water onto his face, Mark looks at himself in the mirror, taking in his own appearance. The sheer exhaustion there is evident, and his twin black eyes have gotten even darker. Soon they’ll fade to an ugly puke yellow, and maybe his nose will heal crooked even with the way Gordon had reset it. His hair is curling a little at the ends without the product he normally puts in it, but he’s never had the sort of gentle curls Angelina’s hair did. His comes off as more of a wave, unruly and unattractive.

He has some five o’clock shadow too, but unlike Strahm’s it just makes him look like a mess. It makes him look like he’s slowly losing control of his life, and god fucking knows he is. It might not be evident to anyone else, but he can see the remnants of the nightmare in his own eyes. That blue stares back at him, reminds him of Angie’s eyes in his dream and how wrong they’d looked.

“What are you fucking doing?” he whispers to his reflection, but of course it doesn’t answer. It only stares back at him, just as disheveled and confused as he is. Maybe this shit would be easier if the two of them could switch places, and all he had to do was watch this shitshow through the looking glass. Alice in fucking Wonderland, wandering around without a single clue.

Strahm, meanwhile, sleeps right through Mark’s troubled morning routine. He’s still wheezing away when Mark comes back out of the bathroom freshly dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans, and doesn’t even stir at the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut. There’s a brief moment where Mark actually feels a bit concerned about how much Strahm’s been sleeping over the last day, but he thinks better of doing anything about it.

For now, anyway.

He finally meanders his way past the beds and out of the motel room, letting Strahm sleep in for a little while longer. Despite his mention of trust, though, he does take the key with him. It just seems like a good call, though he’s not sure why. Maybe he’s just still paranoid from his nightmare. Maybe he’s less worried that Strahm’s going to try and escape and more that someone else is going to try and get in.

It’s early enough that the morning is dewy and wet, the clouds rolling above and hiding the still-rising sun. It casts a strangely warm gray over everything, and it makes the day feel… fragile. As if the slightest thing could shatter this peace that’s crept over everything, and he’s not sure if he wants to be the one to do it.

His nightmare returns to his thoughts, entirely unbidden. The way that Angelina had smiled at him, upside down and sprawled over her bed. The chunks of meat and bone that had been scattered across the floor. The way she had thanked him for lunch, the way she had told him she loved him.

He remembers that lunch. He remembers how she had ordered a Coke and a burger and had stolen his fries because she’d eaten all of hers, as if he’d ever say no to her doing it anyway. She’d been wearing that white tank top underneath a plaid button-up, and it had been the last time he’d ever seen her alive.

Mark had thought about that lunch every day for a fucking year, and the first day he hadn’t, the guilt of it had been so overwhelming that he’d thrown up in the department bathroom. Matthews had come in at Kerry’s insistence, but once Mark angrily waved him away he’d fled without a word, like he was relieved he didn’t have to do any actual comforting.

The day that Angelina died hadn’t been anything like this. It’d been a little brisk, a little windy, but the sun had been in the sky. He’d worn his jacket, the same one that he had thrown over the chair by the desk inside last night. The day had been nothing like this soft gray peace, and he suddenly finds himself resenting it.

He curls his lip and turns to go back inside.

“Hey. Wake up,” Mark says once he’s closed the door, walking over and kicking the bed frame.

He watches Strahm’s eyebrows pinch together unhappily and kicks the frame again.

“Strahm. Get up. We’ve gotta get moving.”

Strahm mumbles something vaguely insulting and decidedly doesn’t get up.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty, don’t make me kiss you,” Mark warns, and then adds, “fuckass.”

“If you kiss me,” Strahm says stiffly, eyes finally blinking open, “I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Then your problems get worse. Let’s go, up and at’em.”

“Are you my fucking mother?” Strahm asks, but he does start to sit up. He hisses the second he puts too much weight on his arm, but then he shifts onto the other one and stretches out from his shoulders down to his toes. The muscles in both biceps bulge a little, and Mark has to look away the second he sees some of that black ink from the tattoo stretch out.

“How’s the wrist?” he asks, mostly to distract himself.

He’s expecting some kind of bitter reply, but Strahm instead looks down at the little blood spot and shrugs. He still looks exhausted, and Mark watches as he starts picking at the small metal clasp that keeps the gauze in place.

“I do need to change the bandages,” he admits quietly, not looking at Mark. His voice is still hoarse, but it’s a little bit stronger than it was yesterday. “I’m not really looking forward to it. It’s gonna suck.”

Mark sighs through his nose, though more out of agreement than annoyance, and then scratches at some of the fuzz on his cheek.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

Strahm looks like he wants to say something to that, but instead he just scoots himself one-armed to the edge of the bed with a wince of pain. He’s still moving like he’s aged a few decades, but once he’s off the bed he seems less stiff, stretching out again before wandering into the bathroom. He shuts the door behind himself, clearly to take a piss, so Mark just starts shoving all of his own stuff into his bag while he waits.

When he finds the little bag that Gordon had packed for them, he swears quietly and goes to knock on the door.

Strahm sounds annoyed, shocking absolutely no one.

“What.”

“I got the gauze and shit,” Mark says through the door. He’s reminded of the dressing room. “Let me in.”

There’s a pause, and Mark wonders if Strahm’s going to tell him to fuck off, but then the lock clicks. It’s loud in the quiet of the little space, and he pushes the door open once he gives Strahm a second to gather himself.

The first thing he sees is Strahm leaning over the sink. He’s doing the exact same thing Mark had, studying himself in the mirror with a frown on his face. The little square of gauze that had been taped to his throat is missing, and Mark can’t help but take a closer look.

He hadn’t actually expected stitches in that little hollow just below Strahm’s Adam’s apple, but it makes sense when he thinks about it. There’s just two little black knots closing up the makeshift tracheotomy he’d given himself.

Strahm studies that little hole, head tilted, but then he just sighs.

“I guess I can keep it out now,” he mutters, mostly to himself as he prods carefully at the skin around it. “Fuck…”

Mark can’t help it.

“That was fucking insane, you know,” he says, gesturing at him. “With the pen.”

As expected, Strahm turns and glowers at him.

“Yeah, well,” he drawls, “it was that or drowning. Not exactly a hard choice.”

He says it like it should come naturally. Like the will to survive is so deeply ingrained in him that it was precisely why he hadn’t so much as hesitated before doing what needed to be done. And despite himself, Mark wishes he could have seen it. He’s seen plenty of men stuck between the choice of life or death—Rigg, Matthews, Blank, just as a few—but for most of them, the choice was made for them whether they wanted it to be or not.

The choice had been made for Strahm too, inevitable and unwinnable. Mark himself had made that choice for him when he’d locked that cube around his head. And yet Strahm had looked death right in the face, told it to fuck off, and stabbed a pen into his own throat just to survive. It’s not just admirable, it’s enviable. Mark wonders what he would do if he were ever put in the same position, if he’d be willing to mutilate himself to escape an otherwise inescapable scenario.

He’s brought back down to earth by the sound of Strahm swearing under his breath. When he looks over, he can see that Strahm’s struggling with taking the topmost strap off the splint, trying and failing to undo it with one hand. There’s still a tremor there, barely visible.

Not really thinking, Mark reaches over.

“Don’t,” Strahm snaps, jerking away from him. “I got it.”

Mark clicks his tongue, annoyed.

“Just let me help,” he says testily. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can get out of here. I’m not gonna sit around and wait for you all day just because you’ve got your head up your ass.”

Strahm’s mouth thins into a straight line, his nose wrinkling up in distaste. He must be running the options through in his head, though, because after a brief pause he sighs hard and sticks his arm out. It's a more immediate concession than Mark was expecting, but he takes it in stride and carefully tugs Strahm’s arm towards himself.

Getting the splint off is in fact the hardest part, and he’s not surprised Strahm was having a rough time of it by himself. It extends just past his elbow, keeping it at an angle, and every time Mark slowly pulls another of the velcro straps off he can tell Strahm’s biting back a hiss of pain. Once it’s off, though, Mark just steps back. He knows Strahm would sooner punch him in the face—again—than accept any more help from him right now, so he just watches.

It takes Strahm a few minutes to get the gauze fully off, slowly unwinding it to avoid bending his arm at all. The bone’s been set, Mark assumes, but probably not to a point where it’ll heal as well as if Strahm were to get the surgery he undoubtedly needs for the muscles and tendons. It must hurt, even with the painkillers, but Strahm doesn’t let out so much as a grunt. He just keeps slowly rotating his good arm in a circle around his bad one, exposing the wound little by little.

Finally, when it’s out in the open where the both of them can see it, Mark just stares.

He hasn’t seen it since that night, of course, but he also hasn’t forgotten how the bone had split through the skin like paper, how much blood had splattered onto the coffin. The gore of it turns his stomach for some reason, and he thinks of Angie’s throat. Slit and bleeding everywhere, trickling blood in thick, sticky ropes down onto the floor beneath her. Strahm’s blood had done the same thing when he was wedged between the walls.

The wound’s a little red around the edges, and he makes a shaky mental note to check how many antibiotics they have left. It doesn’t look quite infected yet, but it could get there if they’re not careful. That’s the last thing they need, for more reasons than one.

To Mark’s surprise, Strahm reaches out and carefully grabs the splint again before slipping it back on and securing the top portion. It only belatedly occurs to him that it’s to keep his arm steady. Two of the stitches have popped near his wrist, the ragged skin underneath yellow with the slow healing, and dried blood crusts around the edges.

Lawrence had done an excellent job with the stitches, of course, but it’s also clear that they’re temporary until Strahm can get the proper treatment that he needs. The long line of the wound and the orange tint of the iodine stands out in sharp contrast against Strahm’s too-pale, clammy skin, stretching all the way from his wrist to midway down his arm. Again, Mark’s shocked that an artery wasn’t severed along the way.

“Fucked up, isn’t it?” Strahm asks, and when Mark startles and looks up, they make eye contact. He was watching Mark, rather than looking at his own wound. “Dr. Gordon said just about everything in there’s torn to shreds.”

Those blue eyes stare at him, unblinking. It feels as though Strahm’s looking right through him, like he’s seeing something no one else can, something no one else bothers to look for. That gaze is unsettling, and he almost has to take a step back just to get away from it.

He’s gotten so used to Strahm being full of rage and unstoppable tenacity that he’d forgotten the sharp, curt agent who had walked down those steps that day they’d met. It had been that Peter Strahm that he had known first, the one who had immediately pieced together the scene of Kerry’s death with little more than a glance. It had been that Peter Strahm who had casually swung a key around at a crime scene, who had immediately wanted to know why a SWAT officer would be watching a police interrogation, who had put together every piece of Mark’s puzzle within a day.

And here he is again, looking at Mark like he knows every possible thing about him.

“Yeah,” Mark says, and goes to grab the medkit that Lawrence had given them. He feels unnerved. “Yeah, it’s fucked up.”

Strahm doesn’t have anything else to say about it. He just takes the motel rag that Mark hands him and runs it under warm water, carefully dragging it along the length of the wound when it’s damp enough. It has to hurt, but he doesn’t so much as flinch this time, washing it and slathering vaseline on it after he pats it dry. It’s so practiced and precise that it borders on shocking, and Mark can’t help himself.

“You've done this before,” he says, rather than asks.

Strahm snorts.

“I’ve been shot twice,” he says roughly, tearing open a pack of gauze with his teeth. “Yeah, I’ve done this before.”

That raises more questions than it answers, but Mark doesn’t push the issue. Now that he’s up close, he can see the thin raised line across Strahm’s upper arm in clearer detail, and he can definitely recognize it as a gunshot wound. Probably grazed him in the middle of a firefight, if Mark had to take a guess. The other scars on his arms look like a motley mix of knives and what were probably a lot of improvised weapons. Once more, he finds himself wondering about the scar under Strahm’s left eye.

Strahm manages to work the splint off again, but it doesn’t take long before Mark can see him growing frustrated with how he’s trying to wrap the gauze. However he’d done this in the past, he’d clearly had use of both hands. Now, he’s just struggling with even getting the end wrapped around his forearm.

“Fine,” he snaps suddenly, and Mark jumps again from the abruptness of it. “Fine. Fuck. Just do it.”

It takes Mark a second to put two and two together, but then his chin lifts just a bit with understanding, lips parting as he tries to think of something to say to that. He could mock him, of course. It’d be what Strahm deserves, after being too proud to want help in the first place.

You’re the one who did this to me. How dare you ask me if I’m good?

“Yeah,” he says, and takes the gauze out of Strahm’s shaking hand. “Alright.”

They sit in silence, and it occurs to Mark as he carefully takes Strahm’s arm again that this is the first time they’re really touching skin. There had been other times, of course—they’d beaten the shit out of each other, and Mark had manhandled an unconscious Strahm more than once. But this is… gentle. Purposeful. Strahm’s skin is a little cold, a strange contrast to how hot-blooded he is. Some of the hair had been shaved off to make stitching up the wound a little easier, and Mark watches as little by little all of it disappears underneath the gauze once again.

“There,” he says, once they’ve secured the splint back into place. “Think that does it.”

Strahm doesn’t look at him.

“Thanks,” is all he says before he stands up and starts getting his things together.

-

“Antibiotics can make people tired,” Lawrence says over the phone, sounding rather like he wants to be part of literally any other conversation on the planet. “I wouldn’t be too concerned.”

“All he does is sleep, though,” Mark says. He’s annoyed, not concerned.

Lawrence hums thoughtfully, and Mark can hear him tapping a pen against his desk.

“Maybe he’s bored. You’re dragging him across the whole damn continent, and I’m assuming you two don’t talk very much.”

Mark looks over at Strahm. There isn’t any continental breakfast, given that they’re at a motel, but the lobby does have a meager selection of muffins that Strahm’s currently inspecting with all the solemnity of a man at a funeral.

“…neither of us has much to say,” Mark finally continues, shrugging a little. “His voice is getting a bit better, though.”

Lawrence sighs.

“Look,” he says patiently, “I don’t know what to tell you. Keep up on the antibiotics, don’t let it get wet, don’t strain the arm. There’s not much else to it. And stop bothering me about it.”

The line clicks dead, and Mark can’t even be mad. It’s probably exactly what he would’ve done if their roles were reversed, so he just stuffs his phone back into his pocket and wanders his way over to Strahm.

“Anything good?” he asks, and Strahm frowns down at the banana-nut muffins specifically.

“Doesn’t matter, I can’t eat them anyway,” he mutters, sounding disappointed and almost wistful. “I’m still supposed to be on the liquid diet for another week.”

Mark blinks.

“You are?”

Strahm turns to look at him, absolutely flabbergasted.

“I have a hole in my throat,” he says, like Mark’s an idiot.

“So you’ve mentioned,” Mark replies, unfazed.

Again, for just a moment, Strahm looks like he wants to say something. He must think better of it, though, because he just turns back to the muffins with a crease in his brow. His mouth thins, but after a few seconds he seems to move on from whatever it was he’d been thinking because he wanders off towards the door, his bag in his good hand.

Mark watches him go. Strahm’s wearing his leather jacket again, though he hasn’t put either arm into the actual sleeves. He’s just letting the jacket drape over both shoulders, like a cape, and it hides the sling a little bit. The plaid lining of it’s a lot more noticeable when it’s unzipped, and he looks… comfortable. Casual, even. It’s like he’s just another tourist. Just another guy on some impromptu adventure, looking to see the sights and expand his worldview or something.

It’s almost funny. Mark rubs at his temples with a thumb and forefinger and then follows Strahm out the door.

The grayness has given way to more sun with only a few wisps of clouds in the sky. Strahm’s staring up with one eye squeezed shut against the brightness of it, and it lifts his mouth up into a weirdly endearing snarl. Mark glances away, ignoring it, and they dump their shit into the backseat before both of them start looking around again.

The motel’s next door to a miniature little strip mall with an antique shop and a mom-and-pop restaurant, and Mark considers both thoughtfully. They could stand to have a real breakfast before they make their way out again–or well. Maybe they can get something liquid for Strahm to eat, since apparently Mark fucked that one up royally.

Either way, it’s going to be another long drive if they want to get to Colorado before Strahm’s arm starts giving them some real problems. They could probably pass all the way through Ohio and Illinois if they make good time, but that would involve minimal breaks.

“You really chose the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere to stop,” Strahm muses, squinting at one of the signs in the window.

“It’s Ohio,” Mark replies. “Half of the damn state is Bumfuck, Nowhere.”

Strahm scoffs a little.

“You’d be amazed how many places are worse,” he says, straightening up a little from where he had been crouching to read the sign better. “When I worked out of Quantico they sent us to all sorts of mind numbing towns.”

“You worked out of Quantico?” Mark asks, a little surprised.

This time, Strahm shrugs. He suddenly looks uncomfortable, like he didn’t mean to share that much of himself. He doesn’t answer otherwise, just taps on his thigh with his good hand where he’s standing. It’s a nervous, impatient gesture, and Mark suddenly remembers the way Strahm would click his pen in the department offices while he was thinking.

“...you wanna wait in the car while I get us something to eat?” Mark asks after an awkward silence, and Strahm glances at him.

“...no,” he decides, though he still sounds unsure of it. “I’ll go in. I’m starving.”

Mark doesn’t have a snippy comment, so he nods his head. The entire exchange is probably the most civil they’ve had, and he’s not in the mood to ruin it quite yet.

The place is a nice one, even if there’s that old-wood smell of a building built longer than they or their parents have probably been alive. The restaurant stands off to the side, and Mark watches as Strahm wanders his way over in that direction. It’s a strangely quaint thing to do, as if the both of them were simply on a pitstop. They are, in a way, but not in the way that anyone around them would probably expect.

Mark gazes curiously at the antique store, and before he’s really thought about it he heads in. The bell above the door jingles when he does, and the clerk peeks her head up from the book she’d been reading and greets him warmly.

The book gives him an idea, and he remembers what Gordon had said about Strahm being bored on the drive. It’s a stupid idea, but he doesn’t fully form the plan in his head before he starts to look around.There’s a spinning metal rack off in the corner that’s advertising $1 books, and he meanders his way over. He has no idea if Strahm likes to read or not, but then someone with his sort of intelligence probably does. He spins it around a little bit, picks up titles here and there that he thinks would be interesting until he has five tucked under his arm.

Fuck, the soup cost more than that.

“Oh wow. These are some really good books for the dollar shelf,” the clerk says when he goes to pay, turning them over to read the backs as she scans them. Her dark curls remind him a little of Angie. “You need any recommendations?”

Mark considers that.

“...nah,” he finally says. “They’re not for me, anyway.”

She shrugs, sliding the books into a paper bag and handing it over. There’s a smile on her face, though.

“Nice of you,” she says kindly. “A lot of people don’t think about buying books for someone. It’s an underrated gift.”

The idea of it being a gift throws Mark for a loop, and he blinks a few times. At his blank expression, the clerk gives him a weird look, like she’s not actually sure what the problem is.

“Well,” she says, clearly bemused as she hands him his change, “um, I hope you have a nice day.”

“Thanks,” Mark says a little blankly, and shoves the change in his pocket.

He heads to the restaurant side of the building, scanning through the few people sitting down before he catches sight of Strahm at one of the booths. He’s looking over the menu with a frown, though he doesn’t look cranky so much as thoughtful as he reads through the options. Mark watches Strahm’s bright blue eyes flick across the two pages before he finally makes his way over, flopping into the opposite booth with a groan.

Strahm flicks his gaze up at him, but doesn’t say anything.

“Anything look good?” Mark asks, noticing there’s only one menu between the two of them. Strahm must not have let the host know he was with someone.

Petty asshole.

“Not really,” Strahm says, and puts the menu down on the table with a slap. “The usual. Everything’s covered in grease.”

Mark rolls his eyes and takes the menu, looking through it himself. There’s a bunch of breakfast options, omelets and waffles and the like, but a stack of pancakes with a side of eggs and breakfast meat sounds good. They don’t have a lot to eat in the car, mostly chips and the jello that Strahm still hasn’t touched. He wants to fill up before they leave. There hadn’t been a fridge in the motel room, so the pizza had been tossed unceremoniously.

The server brings over some water, apologizing to Mark that he’d only brought one, but Mark just waves him off and orders his breakfast plate and a coffee without much fanfare.

“I’ll take the strawberry banana smoothie,” Strahm says, not quite rude so much as blunt when the server looks his way. “Thanks.”

“...a smoothie?” Mark asks, trying not to sound too amused as the server walks away with the menu Mark hands him.

Strahm glowers at him, clearly unamused.

“I didn’t have a lot of choices,” he says sourly, and points at his throat. “It was that or a milkshake, and it’s fucking eight in the morning.”

“You should’ve gotten the milkshake.”

“I’m a grown man,” Strahm gripes, sitting back with a thump. “I’m not having a milkshake at eight in the morning.”

“Shame,” Mark says, shrugging a bit as he adds some sugar to his coffee. “It's the little things in life, Strahm. Maybe you’d loosen up a bit if you had a milkshake for breakfast every once in a while.”

He can see the apples of Strahm’s cheeks turning a bit pink at that, like he simply hadn’t expected it. Mark’s not surprised at all that Strahm’s high-strung enough to not want a milkshake for breakfast, but he’s a bit surprised that pointing that out would embarrass him. To cover the moment up, he pushes the little bag of books in Strahm’s direction.

“Here,” he says. “I picked some books up for you to read in the car.”

Like with the jacket, Strahm’s shocked enough that he can’t seem to answer. He just looks down at the bag, eyebrows up, before hesitantly reaching for it and carefully dumping the contents onto the table. It looks awkward with how he still only has the use of one arm, but Mark watches as Strahm gathers them all up in a little pile and picks the first one up.

“...what the hell is all this?” he demands after a pause, going through the books by balancing them on the tabletop as he reads the titles out loud. “Into Thin Air? Lonesome Dove? Redwall?”

“I don’t know, they were all a dollar. I just grabbed a bunch.”

“Beebo Brinker?” Strahm turns it over and then goes completely red. “Hoffman, this is a book about lesbians.”

“Huh,” Mark says, mildly amused. “Sounds like it might be good, summary like that.”

“This one is fucking John Grisham!” He sounds even more outraged. “He hasn’t written a good book since A Time To Kill!”

Surprised that Strahm pulled that right off the dome, Mark asks, “Have you read this one?”

Strahm looks supremely affronted.

“Of course not.”

“Then shut up. You know what they say about books and their covers, and about looking gift horses in the mouth.”

Once more, Strahm tapers off into silence as he stares down at the books on the table. His eyebrows are pinched together, lips slightly parted, and it’s such a thoughtful expression that it throws Mark a bit for a loop.

The problem is, Strahm gives off the obvious impression that he runs full tilt into whatever fight he finds himself in. But Mark’s starting to see more and more that he also backs off to think about his next move if he finds himself at a disadvantage. When they had been in Perez’s hospital room together, after all, Strahm had done the same thing and retreated almost instantly. It had been like he knew that he didn’t have a leg up and wanted to shuffle through his options before trying again.

It speaks to that same intelligence that had come out when he had been regarding Mark with those too bright eyes earlier in the bathroom. Strahm’s a hothead, sure, but he’s fucking smart, too. More and more of that’s starting to show, and Mark’s not sure how that makes him feel. Nervous, maybe. He tries not to think about it any more than he has to.

They sit in silence for about ten minutes, neither of them really having anything to say. Strahm goes through the books again, fully reading the backs of each one and flipping through them one-handed. At least once or twice, he lets out a long, soft sigh as he reads something, but it doesn’t seem annoyed or tired. Mostly it seems like he’s not even doing it, like it’s something that releases tension from somewhere in his chest.

“Fine,” Strahm finally says, right as the server shows up with his smoothie and Mark’s pancakes. “But if they suck, you’re gonna hear about it.”

“Wow,” Mark drawls, reaching for the maple syrup. “Like I won’t hear about it anyway.”

Strahm just scowls at him from across the table.

Chapter Text

Surprisingly, he doesn’t actually hear about any of the books being shit, because apparently they’re not.

Strahm chooses the Krakauer novel first, some bullshit about Mount Everest, but he actually does seem to enjoy it. Granted, it takes him a while to figure out how to hold the book with only one working arm, but eventually he manages to get his left fingers to cooperate. That, combined with using one knee to balance the book so he can turn the pages, means he actually does start to read it. He looks engaged, turning the pages with rapt attention.

No, it’s more than just engaged. He looks content.

Which is really fucking weird.

“You, uh, you read a lot?” Mark asks after an hour of mostly silence. It’s not necessarily a bad silence. It’s really just the gentle shuffling of book pages and an occasional huff from Strahm as he makes his way through the novel. “You seem really into that book.”

Strahm grunts at him absently, turning another page.

“I’ve read Krakauer,” he mutters vaguely. “The new one, the Mormon one. Hated it.”

Mark, who has no fucking idea what any of that means, nods.

“Right.”

“This one’s better.”

“...okay. Glad to hear it.”

They settle back into that quiet again, just the sounds of those pages turning and the cars driving past them. They've been making their way through Ohio, sticking on I-80, but he’s not looking forward to the next few days. A lot of the states they’re about to pass through, Ohio included, don’t offer many interesting sights to make the drive go faster, or at least make it a little less mind-numbing.

It’s not a trip of leisure, of course, but at least there’d be something to keep his attention instead of just endless fields of corn and cows and the long dark line of the interstate in front of them. They can probably make it through the entirety of Ohio and maybe most of Indiana if they keep at it without stopping, which is the ultimate plan anyway. The less stops they make, the better. Food and drink, motels for the night. That’s about all they’ll need.

Another turn of the page, and Strahm hums quietly to himself. It’s such a natural, unconscious little thing to do, something that makes Mark want to glance over at him just to see his expression. What part is he reading? What chapter is he on? Does he like it? Is he grateful now that he has something to do?

Those thoughts are dangerous, though. It’s not like they’re friends, and Strahm had made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want to be. Mark’s not particularly aiming for that either, not after everything that he’s done to Strahm in the first place, and certainly not when Strahm’s probably the most annoying person he’s ever been forced to deal with.

Maybe at one point, long before this when they were much younger, they could’ve been amicable coworkers, if not friends. Strahm still has the sense of justice that Mark used to have, still dedicates himself to trying to help people when they’re at their lowest. There could have been something there, but once you try to kill someone—twice— that makes it pretty hard for them to want to have anything to do with you.

Still.

Still, the idea of it flutters through his mind like a butterfly, or like a dazed little bird.

Could Strahm understand? He’d figured everything else out, after all. He’d been the first one to put all of those pieces together, had been the first one to trace it all back to Mark. He had been the first to see the mistakes and track them, and even now Mark has no idea which ones he’d left behind. Could he also put together what Mark had been trying to show him in the first place?

Rigg hadn’t been able to get it. Mark remembers the disappointment he’d felt the moment that Rigg had crashed through that door, the moment he’d put that bullet through Art Blank’s head. He remembers what it’d felt like to be sprayed with blood and brain matter and shattered ice as Rigg set off the last piece of the puzzle that had finally ended Matthews’ life.

He hadn’t felt particularly bad about that part, granted, not with what he knew. Without Eric Matthews, after all, Mark wouldn’t even be sitting here driving this car. Amanda wouldn’t have accidentally killed Gideon so many years ago, John wouldn’t have lost his damn mind, and then Mark would’ve probably just killed Seth Baxter with his bare fucking hands and done the time for it.

That brings his thoughts back to Angelina, and his lips tighten along with his grip on the wheel.

Maybe he wouldn’t be here if he’d just followed his gut, if he’d smashed Baxter’s head against a wall and told him to never even look at his baby sister again. If he had done his job as her older brother, he would’ve told that piece of shit to fuck off from the get-go. If he’d just let himself trust that suspicion from that very first meeting, Angie would be alive. He’d have his sister, and he wouldn’t be a murderer, and he would’ve never even met John Kramer.

But she had looked so happy at the time as she clung to Baxter’s arm and introduced them. And Baxter hadn’t given any indication at the time that he would treat her badly—it had just been the look of him, and the feeling that twisted Mark’s stomach up.

His stomach twists up again. She’d been so happy, and he’d let her go. He’d shook Seth’s hand and said it was nice to meet him, but his grip had said otherwise. His grip had made a promise that he’d end up keeping a few years later.

What would Angie think of him now? He tries not to let himself think about it either if he can help it, but the thought makes itself known in the quiet of the car and now it won’t leave. What would she think of this road trip? What would she think if she could see how far he’d fallen, and how desperately he’d wanted to drag himself back up at first?

But there were a thousand times he could’ve, a thousand times he could’ve told John to go fuck himself and just turned himself in instead. He was a fucking coward. He’s still a fucking coward, if he really thinks about it. He’d been given one chance, and that shotgun had decided his fate for him.

Do you like how brutality feels, Mark?

No.

Maybe.

He’s not even sure. He thought he did, but he keeps thinking of Strahm’s echoing screams in that room as his bones strained against an inevitable death. He keeps thinking of Rigg bleeding out on the floor where Mark had left him, ice and glass and brain matter haloed around him as he died. He keeps thinking of Matthews’ head smashed into little bloody bits, and Kerry’s ribs torn out of her body. Perez, with pieces of shrapnel embedded in her face and neck. Sing, his head blown off into nothing but meat. Tapp, his throat scarred and his mind even worse.

Seth Baxter, with his guts sprayed up against the wall. John Kramer, covered in blood and throat torn open. Lawrence Gordon, half-dead on a gurney with his foot sawed off. Adam Stanheight, starved and bloody and broken beyond repair.

Strahm, blood trickling down from his throat, blood streaking down to his elbow, blood splattering onto the glass above Mark’s face. Strahm arching and screaming at the ceiling of Mark’s own house as Gordon tries to fix his arm. Strahm waking up from every nap with a strangled gasp and a cry, as though he were dying all over again.

Angelina, with her throat slashed open, staring up at him. Angelina, with her arm tied to her bed and her underwear pulled half off. Angelina, with her own blood caked into the ends of her hair and matting it together. Angelina, smiling at him across a café table with a french fry in her mouth.

“Hoffman—”

She’d hate him. She’d probably scream and shout at him, tell him that she’d wished the shotgun had gone off and taken him straight to hell for what he did. There’s no way she could forgive him, not at this point. Not for Seth Baxter or any of the others that followed. He can imagine how she’d stare at him with fury in her eyes, with disgust, with despair. She’d been there for his graduation ceremony, she’d been there when he’d passed his detective’s exam, when he had been promoted. She’d been so proud of him.

“Hoffman—”

But then, none of that matters, does it? He wouldn’t be here if she were still alive. He wouldn’t be haunted by the ghost of her slit throat every time he closes his eyes. He wouldn’t have tried a million different ways to make someone, anyone understand that in the beginning he’d only wanted the people who deserved to die—

“MARK!”

Something hits his chest so hard that it actually jolts him back, sending pain shooting up his spine. He snaps back into himself just in time to realize that he’d been barreling full speed towards the line of cars in front of them that were slowing down for construction traffic, and he slams the brakes. It sends them both jerking so far forward in their seats that Mark actually wonders if they’ll have whiplash.

His heart is pounding, breath caught in his throat. He’s been close to death many times in his life, all of them painful and violent, but this one comes as such a shock that he can only sit there white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“Jesus,” he breathes, and looks over.

The thing that had hit his chest had been Into Thin Air, though it’s on the floor now. Mark’s not sure if Strahm threw it at him or smacked him with it, but either way it looks like he had to bend over his bad arm in order to do so. Now he’s curled around it, breathing hard.

“You idiot,” Strahm says, voice thin and eyes shut tight. “Pay attention to the fucking road.”

“Sorry,” Mark says before he can think better of it. “Fuck. Sorry. Your arm okay?”

“It’s fine,” Strahm hisses, leaning back in his seat. The long line of his throat bobs as he swallows back the pain in his arm. “Better than being dead.”

Mark remembers thinking that only two nights ago, when Strahm was actually closer to death than he is now, and it gives him pause. Better than nothing, Strahm had said. Better than dead. Better than nothing but meat and bone strung up in a room where no one will ever find him. Better than the two of them crunched into the car like a fucking accordion.

Another stray thought catches his attention, though, and he looks over at Strahm with his eyebrows raised.

“...Mark?” he asks a little blankly, but he’s starting to grin a little. It’s something of a cruel grin.

Strahm’s face instantly goes bright red, though with anger or embarrassment Mark isn’t sure.

“You were about to kill us,” he snaps, defensive. “I had to get your attention.”

Mark can’t help the smirk that lodges itself firmly onto his face, especially as he watches more color rise in the apples of Strahm’s cheeks. Strahm turns away sharply, working his jaw like he’s tonguing at his cheek for half a second before he fidgets and then covers his eyes with his hand.

“Get me my fucking book,” he mumbles through his teeth, and Mark laughs as he bends at the waist to pick Into Thin Air off the floor by his feet and hands it over. Strahm snatches it away from him, though he has to twist a little in his seat to do so. The traffic slowly starts to crawl forward, and Mark just keeps grinning with his hands on the wheel.

“Didn’t realize we were on a first name basis,” he says lightly, and Strahm growls.

“We’re not.”

“Then why did you call me Mark?”

“Because you were going to kill us!” Strahm repeats, his face now gloriously closer to purple than red. “Fuck you!”

“So I can call you by your first name?” Mark continues, like he didn’t even hear the second part. “That’s where we are?”

“We aren’t anywhere, asshole,” Strahm says nastily as he slumps into his seat to continue reading. “You know what? I honestly don’t care. Do what you want.”

“Whatever you say, Pete,” Mark replies easily, and then expertly ducks before the book can hit his head.

-

Somewhere around six hours in, Mark pulls back into the parking lot of another rest stop. His legs are stiff, especially his knees, and he’s so hungry that his stomach’s been gurgling for the last twenty minutes.

Strahm’s still buried in his book, but the relief and exhaustion mixed together are tangible when he closes it over a finger and looks out through the window.

“How far are we from the next motel?” he asks, tilting his head to squint at the rest stop sign.

“Maybe three hours. I’m starving, though.”

This time Strahm peers at the clock on the dashboard, his eyebrows raising a little bit in surprise.

“Shit,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself. “I didn’t realize it was that late.”

Mark snorts, but doesn’t say anything to that as he leans over to unlock the glove compartment. He gets right up into Strahm’s personal space, relishing the way Strahm immediately sits back as far as he can with a growl of protest. He says something under his breath about it being “fucking rude” and “get the fuck away from me asshole” but then wedges himself against the door enough that he can open it up and make his way out into the parking lot.

Given that it’d been exactly what he’d planned for Strahm to do, Mark gropes around a bit as he searches for the envelope of money they’ve been using. His fingers graze his registration, the cassette tape he keeps there, and the yellowed driver’s manual before he finally finds it and tugs out some cash.

Once the glove box is safely locked and he has about $50 in his pocket, he meanders out of the car and searches for Strahm. Unsurprisingly, he’s already made his way into the building without Mark just as he had the other time. There’s no sit-down restaurant at this one, but there is a little corner of tables and chairs tucked away for any travelers that want to eat something before they get back on the road. Mark eyes it curiously but ultimately decides against it. They shouldn’t stick around any one place for too long.

Strahm, for his part, seems to have already dug out a small cup of what Mark vaguely recognizes as combined vanilla and chocolate ice cream, complete with the wooden spoon taped to the lid. It reminds him of elementary school snacks and ice cream trucks circling around the blocks back in Jersey. Maybe it reminds Strahm of that, too.

“Ice cream for dinner?” Mark asks, his lips quirking up a little as he nods his chin towards it.

Strahm lifts one eyebrow.

“Better than a milkshake for breakfast,” he says, and Mark snorts.

“Never living that one down,” he says before he can stop himself.

If he recognizes the accidental implication that their companionship—however strained—would last past this little trip of theirs, Strahm doesn’t acknowledge it. He just works his jaw a bit without looking at Mark before he makes his way towards the cashier, heedless of whether Mark actually wants anything of his own. Besides the ice cream, he’s got some kind of protein drink and some Gatorade tucked under his right arm, and what looks to be a few little packages of yogurt clutched in his hand along with the ice cream.

Mark clears his throat to get rid of the awkwardness as he follows behind, trying to decide if he wants to heat something up in the shitty little area they have for microwaving pre-packaged meals.

“Liquid diet seems like a real bitch,” he says, and Strahm lifts a leg and uses his knee to try and balance everything.

“Wait until you find out how much of a bitch it is to only have one arm.”

Well, that’s fair. Mark doesn’t press the issue any further, and decides on a pre-made Italian sub. He doesn’t feel like microwaving anything, anyway. It would take too long, and he doesn’t want to be here for more than a half-hour. They still have a lot more road to cover if they want to make it to Colorado in good time. Strahm’s still on the antibiotics, and he seems like he’s doing okay, but Gordon had warned that infection comes swift and without mercy and Mark’s really not in the mood to deal with that.

He does end up plucking the Gatorades and protein drinks out from underneath Strahm’s arm—with extreme prejudice, judging by Strahm’s outraged reaction—but once he explains that he’s paying for it and it’s just easier to share the load, Strahm seems to settle down. He’s really not as argumentative about reasonable things as Mark would’ve assumed, and he finds himself surprised by it.

They stand there silently, Mark with his sub and some snacks in one hand and Strahm’s drinks tucked under the other arm. The sun’s lower in the sky, and it’s casting a reddish-orange glow outside.

“I’m waiting for someone to ask us if we beat the shit out of each other,” Strahm finally mutters, tapping his foot as they wait in line. There’s still a few people in front of them, and he seems to be getting impatient. “Everyone keeps looking at us like they think they’re next.”

Mark just shrugs, thinking of his bashed up face and Strahm’s broken arm.

“I mean,” he says quietly, to avoid anyone hearing him, “it’s not like they’d be wrong. We did beat the shit out of each other.”

That strange little something that could pass for a smile flickers across Strahm’s face again.

“Hm. True.”

Something else, unbidden and unexpected, flickers in Mark’s chest, too. He doesn’t want to think about it, so he just shelves it for another time and silently pays for their food and drinks before they’re back on the road.

He ends up thinking about it.

It’s hard not to, with the silence that falls over the car again. He can’t recall having ever seen Strahm really smile, save for his quiet interactions with Perez. He knows next to nothing about that relationship, and up until this point he hadn’t particularly cared. But now he feels… curious about it. They’d shared smiles, they’d shared hushed words that they’d hid from the rest of the department, and he’d even caught Strahm breaking up a cheese danish and giving her the other half.

Strahm had lost his damn mind when Perez died, gone absolutely blind with the need for revenge, and Mark… Mark can relate.

He’d watched the Jill Tuck interviews afterwards, when he was back in the department after his “ordeal” at the warehouse, and they had surprised him. He’d watched as Strahm slammed the wall next to her head so hard with an open palm that he could even imagine the plaster giving way, had watched as Strahm threatened her with prison time if she didn’t give up any information she had.

And yet he’d also gotten quiet, respectful even, when Jill had given him the full picture of what Gideon’s death had done to their family. Mark had watched him nod his head, and even with his back to the camera it was clear that Strahm was giving that loss the silent respect it deserved. It had been soft. It had shown him another side of Strahm, however small.

But even before that, just barely noticeable, Strahm had flicked Perez’s shoulder as if he were asking to switch places. It had been such a friendly, rehearsed, caring little gesture that Mark had paused the video and run a hand through his hair while he’d leaned back and sighed.

He hadn’t meant for Perez to die. That was the truth of it. And now, faced with the fact that she had, there’s something like regret starting to settle somewhere in the depths of his stomach again. It joins the ranks of people like Paul Leahy and Laura Hunter. People like Adam. People who didn’t deserve to be in the same classification as some of the others that had met their gruesome end at the hands of John Kramer’s insanity.

Those are dangerous thoughts, though, so he shoves them away and keeps driving.

The next motel’s a little bit nicer, though not by much. Mark wants to keep their presence low, and he wants to save as much of the cash as they can, so even three stars is out of the question. Still, he’s not going to resort to the lowest of the low. At minimum, the sheets should be washed regularly.

When they pull up into the parking lot, Strahm sighs and then stirs. He’d stopped reading about an hour ago, when the light started to make it a little trickier to do so, and had settled in for another nap. Mark had found himself wishing he could do the same.

“Where are we now?” Strahm mumbles, squinting out the window as he runs a hand down his face. The rasp of his dry palm against the stubble on his face is loud in the soft quiet of a late night.

“Indiana,” Mark mutters as he shifts into park. “Almost to Illinois, but I wanted to stop for the night. We hit nine hours about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Jesus.” Strahm rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand and tries to blink the sleep away. “Felt like a lot longer.”

“Says the guy who’s been napping.”

Strahm sneers sleepily at him, and moves to get out of the car. Mark can hear the sound of various joints cracking as Strahm slips out and groans, trying to stretch without jostling his arm. Mark watches him do it, and something feels strange in his chest. It’s another natural, unconscious movement, the way that Strahm puts a hand to the small of his own back and bends backwards.

“Are you getting out?” Strahm asks suddenly, and Mark blinks. “Or do I have to start charging you by the hour? Stop staring at my ass.”

“I’m not,” Mark snaps, fully aware that he’d been staring. “Fuck off and get your shit out of my car.”

For the first time, Strahm smirks at him as he tugs the back passenger door open and grabs his bag.

The room’s small but good enough when they finally get the key, and Strahm immediately throws his bag onto the bed by the door again. This time, Mark doesn’t bother with trying to tell him otherwise. He just wanders over to the other bed and sits down, wincing. Driving for nine hours would be hard already, but his back won’t stop reminding him of how old he’s getting.

Strahm yawns then, wandering over to the plastic bag from the rest stop. He digs around in it a bit and produces one of the bottles of blue Gatorade. Mark just watches as he cracks it open and takes a few sips.

“You want the bathroom first?” he asks, jerking his thumb in that direction, and Strahm looks at the door out of the corner of his eye.

“...no,” he finally says, and his voice is… strange. Small, almost. “I’m gonna skip the shower this time.”

Mark eyeballs him, his nose wrinkling a little, but Strahm seems determined not to elaborate on the subject so Mark might as well let it go. He just shrugs, already grabbing his sleep shirt from his bag.

“Suit yourself,” he says, “but if you stink tomorrow I’m going to dunk you into the nearest pond.”

“Right,” Strahm mutters into the lip of the Gatorade. “As if that’d be the first time you’ve tried to drown me.”

-

Mark sleeps a little easier than he had the last time. He doesn’t have another nightmare about Angelina; in fact, he doesn’t really remember what he dreamed about at all. Just like the day before, he wakes up to the sunlight streaming in through the window and tries to stretch without pulling at the scabs on his back.

He rolls over, groaning, and then freezes.

Strahm’s bed is empty.

The first and immediate thought is that he’s a fucking idiot, and this was a terrible decision, and that any moment the police are going to bust in just as he’d pictured they would. The second thought is that he’s amazed it took Strahm this long to actually run, given what he knows, what happened to him, and the position he’s found himself in multiple times where he could’ve just wrung Mark’s neck or smothered him with a pillow.

The third thought is that Into Thin Air is on the bedside table with a receipt-turned-bookmark nestled between the pages that tells him there’s still about sixty pages left to read.

For some reason, that tamps down some of the panic in his chest. Strahm had had a bit more than that to go the night before, which means he’d read at least another chapter since Mark had fallen asleep. It means he’d been awake before Mark, it means he’d had full opportunity to run but had instead laid in bed and read more of his book. More of the book that Mark had bought for him in the first place.

It’s then that he can hear the sink running in the bathroom, and something loosens back up in his chest again. He’s not quite sure what to call it, but it could be something close to relief. Whether it’s relief over not being immediately snatched up by police, or relief that Strahm had stayed—fuck, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to think about it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and moves to get out of bed.

It’s easier than it had been the night before, but the soreness that starts to leak back into his arms and legs reminds him of how messed up his body had actually been after that fight. He’s really too old to be going all out in a brawl like that, but needs must. And boy, had there been a need to try and beat the shit out of Strahm.

He wanders his way into the bathroom after a few stretches that crackle his joints like paper, and stops dead in the doorway while he takes in the sight in front of him.

“...wow,” he finally says, blinking. “You look fucking stupid. What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Strahm snaps miserably.

“It looks like you’re fifteen and stole your dad’s razor for the first time.”

Strahm turns and flicks foam at him.

“You’re the one who said I couldn’t shave,” he says, scowling before he goes back to the mirror and runs a clean line up towards his jaw with a shaking hand. The effect is somewhat hampered by the foam still on his face, giving him the appearance of a particularly pissed off Santa. “And I’m tired of looking like I’m homeless.”

“Aren’t you?” Mark says, and regrets it the second the words leave his mouth.

Sure enough, Strahm makes every attempt to kick him out of the bathroom, and Mark has to duck out of the way while being heartily sworn at.

“Fuck off, you asshole! I didn’t ask!”

“You’re getting shaving cream everywhere!” Mark snaps, but he’s almost laughing while Strahm tries to strong-arm him through the door. He clutches at the threshold and braces his legs, and even if Strahm’s got the muscle, he still only has one arm and Mark’s got a lot more mass. “Are you seven fucking years old? Get off me!”

Strahm just keeps shoving at him, each haul of his powerful shoulders accompanied by another tight and angry word.

“You’re so— fucking— annoying!”

And while Mark knows how easily he could win this battle, he does back off even while he’s still trying not to laugh. There’s foam all over the front of his shirt now, but at least he was going to change anyway. Mostly it was just hard to take Strahm seriously with shaving cream all over his face.

“Alright, alright,” he says, holding his hands up. “Relax.”

Strahm’s still clearly pissed off, radiating irritation in such powerful waves that they’re practically tangible, but he does go back to the mirror. His bag’s resting on the toilet next to him, which explains where the shaving cream and razor came from, and Mark leans against the doorway to watch him.

“I didn’t ask for an audience,” Strahm says testily, turning his head a bit to scrape another line off his face.

Mark just shrugs, crossing his arms.

“Maybe I wanna go next,” he says, voice light.

In truth, he wants to see if Strahm can actually manage it. It’s no easy task to shave with one arm, or at least it’s not easy to get a clean shave. The pair of them may have been shaving for close to thirty years, and Mark doesn’t doubt that Strahm’s thinking that himself, but he can already see where Strahm’s struggling.

It’s not until Strahm lifts his chin up and then gasps in sharp, high pain as the razor clatters into the sink that Mark remembers the other variable to this problem.

“You alright?” he asks immediately, trying to look. “Fuckin’ pull your stitches out on your throat, too?”

Strahm keeps his hand over his throat with his eyes shut tight and his teeth grit hard as he shakes his head. Mark watches his throat bob as Strahm swallows down whatever sounds or curses want to come up, but he still manages to squint his eyes open enough to glare over at him. He doesn’t say anything, though. He just breathes raggedly.

Both of them probably should have seen this coming. But Mark had still managed to goad Strahm into doing something that was just going to cause another issue, and he’s already not looking forward to the argument that’s about to happen. Still, there’s only one way to solve it, and he’s not too proud to admit it, so he moves forward.

As expected, Strahm moves away from him in the same exact motion. It’s not a gesture of fear or panic, though, and Mark can see that instantly. It’s a gesture of defiance. Strahm knows what’s about to happen here too, and he’s going to fight it tooth and nail before he lets it happen.

“Look—” Mark starts, but Strahm cuts him off.

“No way,” he whispers hoarsely, still holding his throat. How he manages to pull off angry and determined when he’s still covered in shaving cream is quite honestly admirable. “Don’t even fucking try it.”

“You wanna walk around with a bald spot on one cheek?” Mark says, and shrugs. “Or you could try to give yourself some mutton chops, I guess. Doesn’t seem like you’re the type to pull it off, though.”

“Shut up.”

“You think you can do it on your own?” Mark asks, and jerks a thumb back behind himself. “Because I don’t have time to wait however long it’s gonna take you.”

“Shut up!” Strahm repeats, glowering. “This is your fucking fault!”

“I didn’t tell you to try shaving. You did that on your own.”

Mark knows it’s a pride thing. Strahm’s not exactly a humble man, and it’s probably because he’s smarter than nearly everyone he meets. And once he’d said that Strahm wouldn’t be able to do one of the simplest tasks, one that both of them do every day, it had been an instant challenge. It doesn’t surprise Mark in the slightest that he can’t, though. His sense of balance is off, he can’t pull his skin taut, and he still looks like he was run over by a truck.

And apparently, he can’t tilt his head up, either.

“You already started,” Mark reasons, more patient than he’d expect himself to be. “Just let me finish it. I want to shave too, you know.”

Strahm’s face is so dark and stormy that Mark wonders if he really is going to just go out into the world with only half his face shaved. It seems like something he’d do just to be contrary. It’d definitely give Mark something to mock him about, though, and maybe that’ll be enough to convince him.

They stand there in that deadlock, neither one backing down.

And then, quite abruptly, Strahm surrenders.

“Fine. Fine.” His voice is thin and angry. “I don’t care. Get it over with.”

It’s so shocking that it blindsides Mark for a second. It was a quick concession, and he blinks a few times before he nods and gestures towards the lip of the tub. Strahm moves in that direction, but first he grabs his bag still sitting on the toilet seat and lets it thump heavily to the floor. Once he’s perched on the edge of the tub, he just rests his elbow on his knee to cover his eyes. His hand still shakes, a gentle tremor that Mark can’t ignore. He wonders how long it’s been there. He wonders if he put it there.

He wonders why that gives him a thrill, and he wonders why that thrill feels almost like guilt at the same time.

Mark’s never given another man a shave before, and it does have a bit of a learning curve. He rinses the razor off in the sink as he sits down on the toilet seat and waits for Strahm to uncover his face. There’s shaving cream running along the edge of his hand all the way to the tip of his little finger, but he just wipes it off onto one of the faded bath towels and then looks straight at Mark.

“Well?” he asks, and Mark huffs out something like a laugh as he reaches to carefully steady Strahm’s head.

He’s done this before, though Strahm doesn’t know it. He had kept his head up while he’d secured the seal around Strahm’s neck, careful not to let it thump down onto the glass lest it wake the fucker up and start a whole new fight. The sedatives were powerful, yeah, but Mark didn’t feel like taking any chances. Strahm had already nearly caught him with the way he’d found the warehouse, and he needed to be one more casualty for the plan to work out.

There had been something almost innocent about how Strahm’s cheek had been squashed up against the bottom of the cube. Mark had stared at him as he slid the glass door shut, so close that he could count acne scars and birthmarks, could see each individual eyelash, could see every minute twitch in Strahm’s unconsciousness.

He had warned him. Mark had left that tape for him, with John Kramer’s voice both his disguise and his alibi, and Strahm had ignored it. Even now, Mark can still picture that look of defiance in Strahm’s eyes as the sedative crashed down into him, as it brought him to the floor entirely at Mark’s mercy. He’d spent every last second that he held onto consciousness glaring at him, almost daring him to kill him even as the panic was setting in.

And now he’s here again, just as close as he had been before. Close enough to see the ridges of that scar beneath Strahm’s eye, close enough to count the pale freckles, close enough to count exactly how many crows feet crinkle the corners of those bright eyes. Strahm stares right back at him, and Mark wonders what he’s thinking, too.

His fingers just barely ghost over the two stitches holding the makeshift tracheotomy hole together as he slides the razor up. He can feel the way that Strahm’s breath catches at the touch, and wonders if it’s from pain or surprise.

Strahm’s the kind of man who grows facial hair halfway down his neck, but the hair fades out into smooth skin before it ever gets to the wound itself. It’ll make shaving under Strahm’s chin a little easier. Still, it grew in pretty fast over the last two days, and Mark won’t be surprised if they have to do this again either in or even before Colorado.

“Don’t know why I took you for a straight razor kind of guy,” Mark finally says, concentrating as he pulls the blade up over Strahm’s cheek. It leaves behind a stripe of smooth skin in its wake, and Strahm wiggles his nose a little as Mark taps the razor over the sink.

“You could just say that you think I’m a pompous ass,” he mutters.

Mark snorts.

“Yeah, I don’t need the details of your shaving routine to know that.”

They sit silently after that, with the scrape of the razor and the running sink the only sound between them. Strahm has another scar on his lip, barely visible, and it looks like it came from a fight. There are all sorts of stories on his skin. A soft tan, the thick bags under his eyes that make him look older than he is. There are soft wisps of hair at the nape of his neck where Mark holds it to keep his head steady, but they’re getting a bit greasy from their long hours in the car.

He could leave another scar, add his own story to Strahm’s skin. He could slip with the razor and claim an accident, watch as Strahm cursed at him and tried to stem the flow of blood as it ran down his cheek. He’s left scars on Strahm’s skin already, yes, but those had been through Strahm’s own actions. None of them have been put there by Mark himself.

It’s a curious thought, and he sets it aside for later.

There’s something to be said about the way that Strahm follows where he guides him. Mark just has to place a gentle hand against his chin and turn him to reach a new part of his face, and Strahm just goes. He tilts his head to the right, then to the left. He lets it happen, but there’s an undercurrent of energy that Mark can’t put a word to.

“Alright,” he says once he finishes Strahm’s upper lip. “You’re done.”

Neither of them move. Strahm doesn’t say anything, no thanks or fuck yous or even a demand for Mark to get out. He just watches him, and Mark can’t help but imagine what he’d been thinking. Was he trying to plan for what he’d do if Mark actually tried to cut him? Was he thinking about the water cube, or the coffin? Was he thinking about the walls that had nearly crushed him and thanking God they hadn’t? Or was he just waiting silently to see what Mark would do?

Finally, Strahm lets his spine curve a little bit downwards, as if he were letting some of the tension drain out. He licks his lips and then lets the lower one stay caught under his front teeth, like he’s thinking. His eyes flick back and forth across the tiles of the floor, and then he just reaches for a hand towel to run under the flow of hot water. Mark watches as he does, watches as he wipes off the last of the shaving cream that had covered his face.

When he emerges, fresh-faced and damp from the rag, Mark can only stare at him.

He looks like Strahm again. Throw him in a suit and he could be walking down that grimy stone staircase with Perez, as if none of it had ever happened. As if they had just met, as if they’re just moderately annoyed instead of having tried to kill the other. As if Mark were any other stupid police officer, unable to figure out that a second accomplice was the only logical conclusion.

But Mark knows better. He knows what’s been left behind by what he’s done, and there’s no hiding it, no disguising it in memory.

When he reaches out, Strahm stiffens.

Gently, he touches those two little stitches in Strahm’s throat again, this time with the pad of his thumb. Strahm’s long, dense eyelashes flutter, just a bit, and Mark wants to know if it hurts. He’s on some pretty powerful painkillers for his arm, but Mark has no idea if he’s taken them yet.

He thinks back to the warehouse. He knows he should’ve checked, knows he should’ve made sure that everyone was dead before he went to fetch Corbett Denlon. But it had been—in his mind—such a foolproof plan that he hadn’t even considered that Strahm could survive. He’d taken his gun, his phone, his flashlight, he’d taken everything but that damned pen, and that had been all Strahm had needed.

And then the second time, it had been less of a test and more of a curiosity. Like with Rigg, he’d been aiming for one thing and one thing only—to see if Strahm would understand. If he would pick up all the pieces and realize that things are never straightforward and easy, that there are hard decisions to make. Decisions that’ll save your life. He’d given both Rigg and Strahm the tools to survive and both times he’d been ignored. He had told Rigg never to go through an unsecured door. He had told Strahm to get into the coffin. But where Rigg had failed, Strahm had won. Without a single possible escape, Strahm had beaten the odds. With this time, though, he’d only gotten by with sheer dumb luck.

“What are you doing?” Strahm asks, but his voice is barely above a whisper. He’s watching Mark with an odd look in his eyes. It’s that doggish look again, the calm before the storm, the animal waiting for the exact moment to bite the hand that feeds it.

“I could kill you right now,” Mark says quietly, and Strahm stiffens. “I could just kill you and leave you here. This whole problem would go away. They’d find Jigsaw. They’d find you, dead on a dirty motel bed.”

There’s a silence that settles over the pair of them, and then Strahm leans into Mark’s touch.

“So do it,” he says, staring up at him.

There’s a challenge in his eyes, one that Mark wants to match. So much of this trip has been spent on a tightrope, a high wire without a net underneath waiting to catch them should they fall. They had both stumbled into this sense of false security, but it comes back full force as they both hold the other’s gaze in this shitty little motel bathroom somewhere in Indiana.

“Why should I?” Mark asks, his voice soft.

Strahm’s mouth curls up, just a bit.

“You tell me,” he replies, and Mark tilts his head.

Killing Strahm really would be easy. It would solve so many problems—the problem of there being another person who knows that Mark is another Jigsaw. The problem of having to haul him across the damn country because of his own mistakes, his own certainty that Strahm would get into the fucking coffin and the certainty that if he didn’t, there wouldn’t be anything to point towards Mark.

Does Strahm know? Does he know what brought them both to this moment? How much has he figured out? How much is he hiding? How can he know so much about Mark, when Mark knows so little about him? What would he admit to if death came calling again?

Mark wants to find out.

He presses his thumb in harder, and it has to hurt, it has to be agony, but Strahm just keeps staring at him. Mark can feel the rings of Strahm’s trachea and he keeps pushing until they start to give. He feels more than hears Strahm’s breath hitch, feels the way his throat jumps. It’s the instinctual need to breathe, to survive, and it comes out in the form of quiet hiccups and gasps as Strahm tries to pull in air.

Mark wonders if it reminds Strahm of being in the water cube, if he’s remembering what it was like to drown. Did he have water in his lungs when they rescued him? Did he need CPR? How did they even get him out? Did they smash the glass, or was that too dangerous? Were they able to break the seal on the rubber that he’d secured around Strahm’s neck?

Pushing a little harder still, Mark’s words come out as a breath.

“No,” he mutters, his own gaze flicking between Strahm’s eyes. “I won’t. Not yet, anyway.”

He’s owed Peter Strahm’s death. He’s already had it snatched away from him twice, and each time made him feel just a little more fascinated with the strange, deadly person sitting in front of him. He had escaped the water cube, but had failed the glass coffin. One test that was impossible to win, and one test that had given him every chance to survive, and he had somehow mixed them up through sheer determination. Clean-shaven, with a t-shirt and jeans, he looks like any other man who had never experienced those things.

But the hole in his throat, the stitches running up the inside of his broken arm, the scar under his eye and the others telling stories everywhere else across his skin… they all let Mark know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Strahm’s not like any other man he’s ever met in his life.

Strahm just stares up at him even as his body starts to spasm in a desperate quest for air. He doesn’t move to push Hoffman away, doesn’t try to fight him or lean back to get out of his grip. He just keeps staring at him, and there’s something about it that raises the hair on the back of Mark’s neck. Once more, he feels like Strahm’s looking right through him, like there’s something just underneath Mark’s skin that only he can see.

Mark finally lets go, watching how Strahm gags and doubles over while he sucks in sharp, panting breaths. Nothing about it feels weak or helpless, and Mark looks down at his hand. His thumb carries the faintest impression of blood, tinged a light red. He stares at the way it follows the swirls of his fingerprint, as if he were about to be booked at the police station.

“You’re a hard man to kill, Agent Strahm,” he finally says quietly, and he’s not sure what he means by it.

Strahm coughs, his eyes watering and a string of spit hanging from his lips, but he still looks up at Mark with a growing smirk on his face as he holds his throat.

“Yeah,” he croaks, his blue eyes shining with something Mark can’t identify. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Strahm hasn’t spoken to him for three hours.

When they first met, Mark probably would have given anything for Strahm to shut the fuck up and never speak to him again, but right now it makes the typical quiet of the car even louder than usual. They’d packed up all of their things in silence too, though it had been broken more than once by Strahm trying to stifle a cough. That had been the first hour, and the next two have been spent in the car.

Mark’s blood is still buzzing in his veins, though. He’s not sure if he could classify it as a confrontation, but it had certainly been something he hadn’t expected. Strahm hadn’t been acting like himself for the trip, not that Mark could blame him, but that flash of who he had met across Kerry’s limp shoulders had come back with a vengeance. It was exhilarating. It’s still exhilarating.

He had met him toe-to-toe in that tiny, shitty little bathroom. Strahm had been acquiescing to whatever it was that Mark wanted to do these last few days without more of a fight than a few short, angry words. But there, right there, he had reminded Mark of why he had been so fascinated with Strahm in the first place. He reminded him of why he had wanted Strahm to see him, to understand, to follow the path that Mark had laid out for him and put all of those pieces together.

The steering wheel creaks softly as he tightens his hold on it. Strahm hasn’t picked Into Thin Air back up since they got in the car, content to just stare out the window and go back to his restless fidgeting. He’d stolen a pen from the desk in their room, and occasionally he breaks the silence by clicking it a few times near his ear. What ought to be a frustrating, annoying sound just ends up reminding Mark of the same pen that Strahm had dug into his throat.

It’s a form of communication all its own. It makes him feel alive, on the precipice of something still forming.

The fields pass by like an endless strip of film. There isn’t much to break up the view except for the cars that speed past them, the huge trucks that barrel along, the occasional billboard for a tourist attraction that means nothing to either of them. Mark’s good at sitting silently, but he wants more of whatever happened this morning. He wants to see what else Strahm has in him.

It’s Strahm who ends up reaching out and flicking the radio on, letting the sounds of some rock and roll band fill up the lasting silence between them. It’s something Mark’s heard at the station before but can’t place. Some shit Matthews had put on, probably.

Maybe Strahm can’t handle the silence anymore. Maybe the idea of having to sit with Mark in that quiet is getting to him. Mark’s been meaning to ask about the fidgeting and the pen clicking and all the shit in between, but he figures it’s probably because Strahm doesn’t seem like the kind of person who can sit still for very long. Always moving, always thinking, always trying to plan one step ahead.

When Mark flicks his eyes down to the dashboard, he can’t help but sigh. The gas gauge is reminding him—yet again—that it’s time for another fill up, and it’s getting increasingly more annoying how he has to do it himself rather than let an attendant do it for him.

If the sigh catches Strahm’s attention, he doesn’t show it. He just clicks his pen again.

It takes about twenty minutes before Mark pulls into the next rest stop they pass that has a gas station attached. As the car’s engine rumbles into silence, he pushes some of his hair back and thumps back against the headrest with a low sigh before getting out. The sun’s high and bright above them, and he has to squint against it as he looks back into the car. Strahm stays in his seat, and Mark can see that he’s just staring ahead like he’s thinking really hard about something.

Mark leans down and taps the top of the car a few times with a flat hand, watching as Strahm’s eyes flick over to him.

“C’mon,” Mark says calmly. “We still got four more hours and I’m not pulling over if you need to take a piss.”

Strahm’s mouth curls up a little in disgust, and he opens the door with a bit more force than might be necessary. Still, Mark can see the relief that flashes over Strahm’s face as he takes a long stretch to shake off some of the stiffness from sitting in the car for so long. He’s wearing a polo now that they’re starting to move into the hotter days of late spring, and once more Mark can catch the tattoo on Strahm’s right bicep. Right now Strahm’s got a PTA dad thing going on, with his shaven face and nerdy shirt, but his hair’s flopping down into his eyes and he still looks far too exhausted.

It’s fucking attractive, and Mark’s actually a little angry about it. No man should be attractive in a fucking polo.

Leaning back down into the car, Mark unlocks the glove compartment and takes out some money again before slipping the map out of the center console. He spreads it out on the hood of the car, trying to pinpoint where they are on his outlined route. He can tell that despite Strahm’s lingering annoyance, he’s still trying to sneak a covert look over his shoulder.

Mark runs the tip of his finger from Indiana to his planned stop in Iowa, glancing over at him.

“Maybe another day and a half,” he says, and Strahm’s frown tells him that he’s not pleased about being caught peeking. “Depends on how you feel. We can push it more if you think you can handle it.”

Even with Strahm scowling at him, Mark means it and he wants Strahm to know he means it. He can tell that Strahm’s really tired, more tired than he had been a day ago. He seems almost like he’s heading back to where he’d been when they’d first started, and Mark’s caught the pallor of his face, the way he winces every now and again when he jostles his arm.

Still, pushing too hard in the car isn’t exactly a good idea either. Mark’s learned enough about what the human body can handle, and he’s already figured out that being stuck in a car for too long after what Strahm went through isn’t ideal. Factor in the hole still healing in his throat, and it’s a recipe for disaster if Strahm has some sort of medical event before they get to Colorado.

Mark probably cares about that more than he should.

Strahm finally breaks his silence, and his tone is annoyed but his voice is stronger.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I just want to be fucking done with this.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, studying him.

“What’s your problem?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know. He just wants to rile Strahm up, wants to bury the idea that he might be worrying about… well, everything.

Strahm doesn’t take the bait, though. Maybe it was too flagrant a taunt, or maybe he’s simply sick of arguing all the time. Either way, he runs his good hand through his hair, and the grease in it makes it stick up a little. He trails his fingers all the way to the nape of his neck, where some of it curls against his collar, and then leaves it there while he closes his eyes. His lashes cast warm shadows across his cheeks.

“I’m tired,” he says. “I’m hungry. I’m sore. I’m in pain. Take your pick.”

Mark considers that, letting out a slow breath while he looks away again. It’s an open confession, even if Strahm’s hiding it behind the aggravation and exhaustion that still colors his tone. It’s worth something.

“...alright,” he finally says, and Strahm opens his eyes to look at him. “We’ll get to the next motel, sleep for a bit, and then head out again. Maybe drive through the night. Not particularly a fan of driving that long when it’s dark out, but I can deal.”

To his surprise, Strahm smirks a little.

“What,” he wheedles, “you can’t drive in the dark?”

Mark glowers at him, unamused.

“I can drive in the dark,” he says flatly. “I do it a lot, actually. Remember?”

It takes Strahm a few seconds to understand what it is Mark’s implying, and then he scowls right back at him. Yeah, Mark drives in the dark a lot. Hard not to when half the games he runs take up the majority of a night, when he has to kidnap people without raising any suspicion. He’s probably been driving more at midnight in the last two years than he had in his entire life before he met John.

“Whatever,” Strahm mutters. “I’m going inside.”

“I’m gonna fill the tank up first,” Mark replies, and hands over a twenty and a ten to pay for the gas. “Then we can get going again.”

Strahm snatches the money out of his hand and leaves without a word. Mark watches him go out of the corner of his eye.

He’s still wearing the sling that holds his arm tight to his stomach. He still flexes his left fingers like he’s testing them out, still leans back in the car now and again to just close his eyes and doze. They don’t exactly strike up conversation all that often, even when Strahm isn’t pissed off at him, but the fatigue is clear. They should probably move faster.

The gas pump beeps loudly to let him know that it’s prepaid and ready to go, and he blinks those thoughts away.

Once the tank’s full again, he sets the pump back into its holder with a clunk and follows Strahm inside. He still has to squint against the sun, and once he gets inside he blinks the glare out of his eyes. It takes a second for him to be able to see, but once it clears up he searches for Strahm in the small store and then stops dead.

Strahm’s chatting with someone. Just a woman with blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail, but it’s the look on his face that actually has Mark staring. He doesn’t exactly look happy, no, but he looks like he’s perked up a bit. Maybe even a little relieved. Strahm gestures towards his arm and shrugs a little with both shoulder and head, and Mark feels a wave of anxiety so powerful that he almost walks over there to drag Strahm away as fast as he can.

The woman nods her head, smiling at Strahm in a way that makes her look like a model, and then just like that the conversation’s over. She waves goodbye and passes Mark without a second glance as she leaves the rest stop. She smells like expensive perfume, and Mark turns around to watch as she jogs up to a big truck where there’s a man waiting for her.

All at once, Mark remembers the wedding ring on Strahm’s finger again. He hasn’t thought about it in a couple of days, and Strahm hasn’t slipped it back on since they left. It’s because of the damage to his arm, Mark’s sure, but it still hadn’t really crossed his mind until just now.

Strahm could’ve put it on his right hand. He could’ve put it on a chain around his neck. Mark’s not even sure where it is. Why isn’t he wearing it? Does his wife think he’s dead? Has she told anyone that he’s missing? Has she found out yet that all the signs point to Strahm being Jigsaw? Does she believe it?

He rubs his thumb against the rest of his fingertips, hand at his side while he thinks. No. Strahm hadn’t told his wife anything about who there are or what they’re doing. Of that, he’s pretty confident. And judging by the easy way that woman had just left without even acknowledging Mark, Strahm hadn’t told her anything either.

Mark wonders if shit’s starting to unravel. The anxiety stays, repugnant and pulsing painfully in his chest, but he finally meanders his way over with an aloofness that’s well practiced.

“What was that about?” he asks, like it doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

Strahm glances over at him.

“None of your business,” he says easily, and turns to head into the restroom.

Mark’s anxiety rapidly turns into anger that he has to tamp down. They’re both getting restless, and it’s making both of them irritable and tense. He knows that. But it doesn’t stop him from stalking back outside again with the rest of the money in his pocket, knowing that Strahm won’t be able to buy a damn thing without him. He stuffs it back into the bag in the glove compartment and slams it shut without locking it, content to just sit in the driver’s seat and wait for Strahm to come back out.

Not buying anything to eat turns out to be a bad idea. Another hour into the drive has his stomach rumbling, and he can tell that Strahm’s getting annoyed too because he keeps taking gulps of Gatorade like he’s been crawling through a desert. Neither of them are willing to admit to the other that they’re hungry, and it’s only making the tension in the car worse as the minutes go by. Something's about to snap, and it's all because they're both starving.

God. They’re grown fucking men. Mark’s actually ashamed of it.

“I’m stopping at a drive-thru,” he says, irritated at himself for the surrender. “What do you want?”

Strahm clicks his tongue, sounding equally testy.

“A coffee,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Mark really and truly does not want to deal with Strahm’s contrarian attitude on top of being hungry. He scowls, flexing his fingers on the wheel as he glances at one of the signs on the side of the road. It cheerfully lets him know there are a few chains just off the next exit that’ll do in a pinch.

“You can eat a parfait or something, right?” he asks, trying to play nice. “Or ice cream, I guess.”

Strahm glares at him.

“A coffee,” he repeats coldly.

He truly has an unwavering fascination with pissing Mark off in as many ways as he can. It’s kind of incredible.

“Fine,” Mark snaps. “Then don’t get shitty with me when you’re hungry later.”

“I’m always hungry,” Strahm shoots back. “Try a liquid diet sometime, see how full you get on jello and soup.”

“Which is why I’m fucking asking if you want anything that you can eat.”

“Oh, how charitable of you.”

Mark's able to let that sit and ruminate for a grand total of thirty seconds before he breaks.

“You know what?” he says with venom as he pulls off the interstate, “I don’t know how you can walk around bitching about everyone else in the world when you’re such a raging asshole all the time. You wanna go on and on about how I piss you off, fine. Not like I don’t deserve it. But you wanna know why I got away with all of it better than Amanda Young?” He smiles, and he knows it’s a deadly look. “Because people like me. Try it sometime.”

He’s expecting Strahm to back off, just like he always does when Mark has a point to make.

He’s sorely fucking mistaken.

“I don’t give a shit whether people like me or not,” Strahm says fiercely, and while most people would be hiding that statement behind hurt and defensiveness, Mark can immediately tell that Strahm means it with his whole chest. “Why should I give a shit? I’m there to do a job, not to make friends. It doesn’t matter to me if people think I’m the biggest asshole they’ve ever met, because I’m always right and I know it. I was right about Jill Tuck. I was right about you.”

That last bit is said with so much smug superiority that Mark can’t even come up with a response.

“Besides,” Strahm continues, and Mark can tell he’s gearing up for a real rant, “the people who do like me are the only ones I care about.”

Mark glances sideways at him, sneering.

“What, like the wife that didn’t even visit you in the hospital?”

Strahm freezes.

“Yeah,” Mark says, and pulls into the drive-thru, pleased that he stopped Strahm dead in his tracks. “That’s what I thought.”

Strahm stays quiet while Mark orders, staring at the dashboard with an unreadable expression on his face. His fingers are drumming repeatedly on his thigh, tapping over and over again. This isn’t backing off, though, and Mark knows it. This is Strahm fully seething, this is Strahm with something to say that he’s biting back solely for his own benefit. This is Strahm who could strike back like a snake and actively chooses not to.

It means he’s not paying attention to the order, and it means that when Mark leans over to get some money out of the glove compartment, he jumps in shock. He’s breathing a little hard, like he’d been thinking about something that had taken so much of his attention that coming back down to earth had been too hard a landing.

It's quiet again as they inch forward, but it's far from peaceful.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Strahm finally says while they wait at the second window. He sounds distant, angry.

Mark doesn’t care.

“Yeah, well. You’re not exactly an open book,” he says, just as the drive-thru window slides back open with a thunk. “Don’t blame me for not knowing anything.”

Strahm’s right hand tightens itself into a fist on top of his thigh, but he stays still otherwise. It’s like he’s not sure how to take that, what to say to it. It seems like Mark’s actually managed to put a real tangible chip in that armor Strahm wears around himself, for better or worse. Mark, for his part, just turns to the worker trying to hand him the paper bag through the window.

Once he has the order in his hands, Mark slots a cup into Strahm’s side of the console. Strahm looks down.

“There,” Mark says smugly, already knowing how this is going to play out. “I got you a milkshake.”

Strahm stares at it for a full five seconds before he snaps the glove compartment in front of him shut with enough force to make the windows rattle. Mark can’t lock it while the keys are still in the ignition, but it’s fine. He makes a mental note to do that once they reach the next motel as he smirks and pulls out of the drive-thru to get back onto the interstate.

The milkshake melts between them, untouched.

-

They creep through Illinois, but there are dark clouds starting to gather in the distance that make Mark a little nervous. They’ve had pretty good weather for the drive, but that luck seems to be running out. He leans forward, craning his neck to take a closer look. The clouds look aggressive, and even as he watches he can see a flash of lightning dart from one through the other.

“Shit,” he mutters.

Strahm stirs at that, having settled off into a doze in the last fifteen minutes. Mark’s actually starting to wish that Strahm could drive and Mark could take the naps, but one-armed driving doesn’t exactly sound like their safest option no matter how good Strahm probably thinks he is. The constant naps are worrying him on top of that, too. He really wants to get to Colorado, but he’s already made up his mind about driving in the rain.

“What happened?” Strahm asks blearily, blinking hard. He seems to have forgotten their fight from earlier, or at least he’s too sleepy to recall it.

“Storm,” Mark says, still squinting at the clouds in the distance. “Looks like a bad one, too.”

Strahm furrows his eyebrows, looking confused. His bangs have flopped down into his eyes.

“So what?”

“So, I’m trying to avoid a car accident,” Mark says dryly. “Just because I know how to drive doesn’t mean the other assholes on the road do too. Unless you’re in the mood to get caught.”

Strahm sniffs, then sighs. He seems to accept that well enough, because he leans his head back and closes his eyes again.

Sure enough, the rain hits about thirty minutes later. It comes down thick and hard, pelting the windshield with bullet-like snaps of noise that have the wipers working overtime to keep up. Strahm wakes up immediately with a jolt and then a wince of pain, but Mark’s too busy trying to navigate into the right lane to really pay it any mind.

“Jesus Christ,” Strahm says, his voice thin. Mark can’t help but agree.

“Alright,” he says tightly, listening to the thwap-thwap-thwap of the windshield wipers as they fly back and forth, “you’re the one with the broken arm. You wanna stop at a motel until it’s over, or just wait it out at a rest stop? Either way, we’re not driving in it so you’d better make a fuckin’ decision.”

“...just find a fucking motel,” Strahm replies, his voice still a little too croaky to be normal. “I don’t give a shit either way.”

Mark could point out the contradiction of Strahm immediately making a decision while also claiming not to care, but he’s too busy trying to see through the fucking deluge assaulting their car. He has to lean forward just to catch some of the signs on the side of the road, but they’re still in the middle of fucking nowhere. He has to push ahead and just pray no one’s stupid enough to crash into them.

It’s going to put them back some, having to stop so soon. Mark tries to picture the map in his head, but stopping in Illinois five hours into their drive’s probably going to push them into another full day, unless they keep going and don’t stop once the rain clears. It might be a waste of money to get the motel, but it’d be worse to crash the car.

Once he manages to find one with a vacancy sign he’s turning into the parking lot. There are a few other cars, with people furiously running towards the entrance with their bags held over their heads. The amount of people all at the same time doesn’t necessarily make him feel comfortable, but it’s the best they’re going to get.

“Get some cash out of the glove compartment,” Mark says, distracted as he tries to find a space to park in. “Like a few hundred. Enough for a room.”

It takes Strahm a few seconds to dig through and find the bills, shuffling around inside the small space. Mark can hear how he pauses for a long moment, presumably to count out the money, and then Strahm hands over the little wad of bills without a word. When he closes the compartment, though, it’s softer this time, more careful. The click of the latch as it snaps shut is barely audible over the rain.

“Thanks,” Mark says, still trying to see through the rain as he blindly stuffs the bills into his pocket, but Strahm doesn’t answer.

None of the parking spots near the entrance are empty, which means the two of them have to hurry as fast as they can through the pouring rain. They're pushing hard with both their bags and their sore muscles as their shoes slap wetly against the pavement, and Mark can hear Strahm panting behind him. It’s not dark out yet, but the storm clouds above are so thick that everything’s washed out in gloomy shades of gray. The wind doesn’t help either, whipping around them as they sprint towards the entrance. The second they're close enough, Mark twists his hand into Strahm’s stupid polo and drags him under the arch of the motel entrance.

“Fuck,” Mark wheezes, and Strahm spits some rainwater out into the stream running along the curb once Mark lets go of his shirt.

A crack of lightning shoots across the sky at the exact moment they make eye contact, and the brightness of it illuminates every angle of Strahm’s face. There’s water running in streaks and dripping onto his collar, and his hair’s plastered to his forehead. Mark thinks of the water cube again, of Strahm trapped and drowning, of Strahm soaking wet as he's loaded onto a stretcher, and his stomach jumps. There’s something imperceptible in Strahm’s expression, like he’s gazing at Mark under a microscope. Like he knows exactly what it is that Mark is picturing.

There’s another clap of thunder that shakes them both out of whatever spell had been cast over both of them, and they make their way inside.

There’s a line, which doesn’t surprise him. It’s only about five or six people, thankfully, and Mark’s already digging into the cash that Strahm had pulled out of the glove compartment. For his part, Strahm’s shivering with the cold, but Mark can’t even blame him. He’s not exactly doing that great himself, pushing his sopping wet hair out of his eyes with a grunt as they wait their turn.

“Only have a twin double on the second floor,” the clerk says when they get to the desk, sounding only vaguely apologetic. “Is that okay?”

“It’s gonna have to be.” Mark’s not in the mood for games. “How much?”

Once the room’s paid for, they make their way down the hall, leaving a trail of rainwater behind them. The carpet’s squishing unpleasantly from all the people before them. Mark’s not exactly happy about that feeling, nor is he happy about being on the second floor, but he's going to have to deal with both. Strahm follows behind him, but Mark can tell that he’s taking in everything around them just like he always does. Checking for the emergency exits, checking what the people around them are doing.

They both pause at the elevator though, and Strahm takes a slow breath in and out while Mark looks around.

There. He takes the left and heads towards the stairs instead, not particularly caring if Strahm’s going to follow him or not. His bag feels a bit heavy on his shoulder, but that’s because he’s cold and hungry and sore from the last few days stuck in the car.

“Where are you going?” Strahm asks, and Mark glances over his shoulder.

“I don’t like elevators,” he says, and keeps walking.

He can feel how Strahm stares at him for a few seconds, eyes searching for anything suspicious in the words. He must not find anything, though, because he hefts his bag into the crook of his arm and follows after him. He seems relieved, though Mark can’t imagine why.

They thump their way up the stairs, Strahm’s sneakers squeaking behind him. It takes them both some time, and they both grunt the entire way up. Mark feels old, bones still aching from how long they’ve been driving, and Strahm must feel much the same. He keeps hissing in pain every once in a while, but every time Mark turns to look at him, he just keeps pushing himself up the stairs.

“Are you good?” he finally asks, frustrated. It’s barely two flights, but Strahm seems like he’s struggling a little.

“I’m fine,” Strahm says tightly, leaning against the bannister. “My arm just hurts.”

That’s fair enough, but it still has Mark more troubled than he wants to be. The gauze wrapped around Strahm’s arm looks like it’s gotten wet, even if the sling probably caught the worst of it. They should probably try wrapping it again. Still, he’s not going to bring it up until they’re dry. His clothes are starting to stick to his skin, and it’s making him grumpy.

Once they’re finally in their room, Mark tosses his bag onto the nearest bed and kicks off his shoes. The rain’s still loudly beating on the roof, still rattling the windows as Strahm closes the door behind them. It’s one of the nicer motels they’ve stopped at since they started, given that they didn’t have much of a choice, and Mark makes an immediate beeline for the bathroom. He needs to towel himself off, take a shower, and check the wounds on his back.

Strahm leans against the wall near the door, eyes closed as he sighs in relief. He looks flushed, water streaking down the sides of his face from his hair and dripping off his chin. Then, to Mark’s shock, he shakes himself out like a dog, spraying rainwater every which way. It doesn’t seem to do much except get hair in his face and make him stumble with dizziness.

“Fuck,” Strahm says to himself, sounding cranky as he straightens up again.

Mark tries to ignore him, peeling off his plaid overshirt. He lets it hit the tiles in the bathroom with a wet slap, figuring he can hang it up after he’s done rinsing off.

“We’ll just have to take it easy for right now, I guess,” he says, rummaging around in his bag for some dry clothes and watching as Strahm goes about tugging off his shoes and socks. He’s getting better at doing things one-handed. “Hopefully the rain lets up. We should probably check the weather and see what it looks like for the rest of the day. We might still be able to make it to Iowa.”

The clouds outside don’t exactly give him much hope of that, but it’s at least worth a shot. He leaves Strahm with a towel and a simple request to find out what the weather’s going to look like before closing the door behind him. He strips, turns the faucet in the shower as high as he can take it, and finally steps under the hot spray of the shower.

The warm water is a godsend after the chill of the rain, and Mark tilts his head into it with a sigh. It still doesn’t necessarily feel good against his broken nose, but it’s refreshing enough that the sparks of pain feel more like an afterthought than taking center stage. He washes his hair with the cheap shampoo and scrubs himself off with the equally cheap bar of soap. He has a brief thought where he imagines Strahm using the same amenities, the two of them smelling like the same cheap, unscented cocoa butter.

It’s an insane thought, and he relishes in it a little as he rinses himself off.

When he opens the door back into the main bedroom, he finds Strahm sitting on the edge of the far bed and flicking through the channels on the shitty little television. His wet clothes are neatly draped over the desk chair, though they’re dripping onto the carpet underneath. Strahm himself is in a t-shirt and some sweatpants, his wet hair pushed back off his forehead and his gaze distant. He seems to be thinking about something, the towel that Mark had given him tossed over his shoulders to catch any lingering drops of water.

“Did you find the weather?” Mark asks, glancing at the screen as he towels off his hair. It’s on a commercial break right now, some bullshit about a new car, and he watches as it kicks up a cloud of dust behind it while the announcer smoothly describes its features.

“It’s gonna rain ‘til around midnight,'' Strahm replies, gesturing with the remote, but his tone is still far away and vague. He’s just watching the television, and Mark catches the curls at the nape of his neck where his hair’s started to dry. “Should clear up by one.”

Mark groans, running a hand down his face. The pain from his nose keeps him centered, as does the weight of the towel flopped on top of his head.

“Well,” he mutters, “at least they’ve got vending machines.”

Strahm’s shoulders twitch oddly, and it takes Mark a second to realize that it’d been something like a laugh. Just one puff of air through Strahm’s nose, like he was barely paying attention but recognized the social cue in time to give it a response. It doesn’t seem like he’s really engaged in the conversation, which is fine by him. He moves towards his bag, trying to find some comfortable clothes.

“How’s your arm?” he asks, tugging out his own pair of sweats. “You said it was bothering you.”

Strahm doesn’t answer. He just bounces his leg.

After another minute of silence, Mark tries again. For whatever reason.

“You gonna take a shower?” he asks, and gestures towards the bathroom.

Strahm shakes his head.

“You gonna eat anything?”

Another shake.

Mark shrugs his shoulders, growing tired of the attempts. They haven’t been able to stop this dance, this back-and-forth, the two of them going between amicable and at each other’s throats like a pendulum. It never seems to stop for very long, and Mark can’t help but wonder where it’s going to land next.

“Well,” he says dismissively, finding a t-shirt, “you should at least dry off—”

“I’m not married.”

Mark looks over at Strahm, the white towel still resting on his head like a nun’s veil.

“...what?”

“I’m not married,” Strahm repeats, still twisting the remote around in his hand as he bounces his foot. Mark can’t see Strahm’s face from where he’s standing. “Our divorce was finalized six months ago. That’s why she didn’t visit me.”

Mark slowly drags the towel off, eyebrows coming together.

“...okay,” Mark says slowly, confused by the sharp turn in conversation. “Then why were you still wearing the ring?”

Strahm’s quiet for so long that Mark thinks Strahm might have just decided to ignore the question entirely, that he might have decided he’d shared too much again. But when Mark turns to finally finish toweling off his hair, he hears the soft confession from the bed— he almost doesn’t even catch it.

“I guess I just wasn’t ready to let go of it yet.”

Mark thinks of burgers and fries, a plaid shirt, a bright smile. He thinks of a cassette tape handed to him for his birthday with a handwritten track list. He thinks of the framed photo tucked safely into the pocket on the back of his seat, thinks of the feeling of cold skin pressed to his lips that still haunts him.

He thinks of the pen he’d stolen from evidence, still packaged and labeled and hidden away in the very bag he’d just been digging through.

“We’ll get going again when the rain stops,” Mark says finally, and leaves it at that.

Strahm doesn’t say anything. He just bounces his leg.

Chapter Text

The motel’s carpets are striped, and Mark stares at it for a couple of seconds before flicking his eyes back up to the vending machines. He’s not even sure if he’s hungry, and there’s nothing for Strahm in there at all, but it’s better than staying cooped up in the room.

They’d both laid down for a nap until the rain started to let up, but Mark hadn’t been able to sleep for more than a few hours. He’d managed at the very least to rest his eyes, but actually sleeping felt like—and still feels like—an impossible challenge.

Doritos look good. Or maybe a snack mix.

What’s really bothering him more than anything else is how readily Strahm had given up the information about his ex-wife. Not because Mark thinks it’s awkward to have to know that Strahm apparently had a marriage crumble and burn within the last few years, but because Mark doesn’t exactly know what to do with that.

Strahm had been right when he said that Mark really didn’t know anything about him, and somehow it’s starting to feel like he should. After all, Strahm has to know something about Mark that he’s not telling. How else would he have nailed him as Jigsaw? So really, the scales are probably only slightly tipped in Mark’s favor.

The vending machine beeps pleasantly as he punches in his choice, and then he’s watching the metal conveyor swirl as it slowly deposits a bag of pretzels.

He’d told Strahm he was just going for a walk, a quick lap around the motel to try and get his head on straight. But really he’s just standing here, in front of a vending machine, realizing that Strahm had told him something private and personal and above all painful to admit. There had been that question of trust again. Mark’s words about being cruel and standoffish hadn’t cut through his armor, but mentioning that no one had come to visit him in the hospital seemed to have done the trick well enough. It had opened him up enough to admit something that he probably wouldn’t have told Mark even with a gun to his head just three days ago.

Why the fuck is he thinking so hard about the fact that Strahm doesn’t have a wife anymore?

He hasn’t dated since Angelina died, and that’d been fine by him. He’d tried, maybe once or twice, but not too many men found the idea of dating a clinically depressed, alcoholic police officer very appealing. Fair play. He never fought that part.

But when your life for the last two years has been riding on blackmail, torture, murder, and learning civil engineering at light speed… dating takes a backseat. He hasn’t really cared. He hasn’t even thought about it. It didn’t matter.

So why does he care now? Why does it matter now?

It comes down to fascination, he guesses. It’s not an idea of dating, let alone having a relationship, and he knows it. He’s fascinated by Strahm, and with the proverbial go-ahead through finding out that he’s single as well, that attraction to him comes back full force. That’s what it had probably been these last couple of days. The sharpness of Strahm’s blue eyes, the strength of his profile, the intelligence hidden beneath grouchy indifference… they’re all things that have captured his attention in a physical sense that kind of makes Mark want to do something careless.

He scratches at his temple with the back of his thumb, then moves it to press his thumbnail against his teeth before sighing heavily. He’s not stupid, however people might want to view him. You don’t make a pass on a man you tried to kill twice.

And especially a man who definitely wants you dead. Strictly speaking, though, that kind of makes it way more interesting.

Mark grins against his thumbnail, the sharp point of his index knuckle pressed against his nose. He leans down to snatch the pretzels out of the slotted door and makes his way back to the room. Whether or not he decides to act on anything remains to be seen, but Mark can’t say he’s going to rule it out quite yet.

He passes by a couple as he heads back, carefully squeezing to the side to let them through without bringing too much attention to himself. They’re pretty damp from the rain too, and the girl’s blonde hair hangs in hanks nearly down to her waist.

That’s not what draws Mark’s attention to them, though. What catches his attention is that the man has a tight hand around her wrist as he pulls her by, and that has Mark slowing to a stop. He tries to watch them as indiscriminately as he can, mostly out of the corner of his eye, and once they’ve disappeared into their own room he just curls his lip and continues on his way.

The locked door clicks when he turns the key, and he lets himself back inside. As soon as he closes the door behind him, the first thing that occurs to him is that it’s muggy, like a particularly humid day. He drops the key and the bag of pretzels onto the desk by the door and looks around, confused. The bathroom door’s open, and there’s steam still gently billowing out through the upper part of the threshold. The coffee machine by the microwave is gurgling away happily as it brews what’s undoubtedly going to be the worst thing he’s ever tasted in his life.

The mystery’s solved pretty fast when he catches sight of Strahm. His dark hair is wet again, combed and slicked back to dry, and he has a flush across his skin. What really stands out, though, is the fact that he’s pacing in short, sharp circles around the room, and only stops in his tracks when he hears the door closed. He looks on edge, his good hand clutched in a tight fist at his side and his shoulders so stiff that it looks almost painful.

Mark takes a quick look around the room, just a scan with his eyes that he’s done a million times before. Bathroom door opened, windows slightly fogged behind the curtains. Strahm in new clothes that look a little tighter than usual. Garbage bag shoved into the trash can.

“How the hell did you take a shower in the five minutes I was gone?” he asks, bewildered.

“It was not five minutes,” Strahm says through his teeth, and the need to start pacing again looks so overwhelming that he’s practically vibrating. “It was more like ten. And I always take quick showers.”

Mark remembers how he’d thought about the two of them smelling the same, and he’s struck with the desire to find out if it’s true. Still, he wouldn’t be able to, not really, not with the way his nose is still swollen and how Strahm would try to kick his ass for it. It’s simply not an option no matter how tempting it is, so he just shrugs his shoulders and moves to check outside again.

“It’s still raining,” Strahm says, and his foot is tapping a little. “But I think it’s clearing up.”

“That’s good,” Mark replies, using the backs of his fingers to brush the curtains aside. “Maybe we can hit the road when the sun rises.”

He gets the usual noncommittal grunt that means Strahm’s agreeing with him, and then the pacing starts up again. Mark looks over his shoulder, eyebrows coming together while he watches before letting the curtains fall back into place.

“What’s the matter with you?”

The answer is immediate.

“Nothing.”

It’s only been a couple of days, but Mark’s getting good at reading between the lines of what Strahm's saying when he tries to brush off any questions. Nothing, for example, means fuck off, and Mark’s more than happy to press on anyway.

“Why do I have a hard time believing that?” he asks, moving over to the coffee brewer as it beeps to let them know it’s done. The coffee inside’s dark and its warmth is welcoming as he pours some into one of the styrofoam cups stacked next to the brewer. “You look like you’re about to jump through the window.”

Strahm doesn’t answer. His jaw just tightens, his glare twisting one side of his mouth up.

Reaching for one of the lids, Mark notices something out of the corner of his eye and stops short. They’d gotten ice when they’d first settled in, though they hadn’t used it much. The little tub is open now, with a trail of cubes slowly turning into tiny puddles on the desk surface. Mark tilts his head, curious, and looks over at Strahm.

It’s then that he catches a single drop of water dripping between the gaps of Strahm’s fingers, and before Mark can think better of it he reaches over and snatches him by the wrist. Strahm lets it happen, but there’s a wired energy to him that means he’s ready to snatch it right back if he needs to.

Strahm’s hand finally curls open, though it looks like it’s a struggle. When he does manage it, Mark finds himself staring down at a melting piece of ice sitting in his hand. The water follows the creases of his palm and slides down past his wrist, towards his elbow. Strahm doesn’t say anything. He just watches Mark with that eagle-eyed stare of his, the scar under his eye thrown into sharp contrast from the lamp on the desk.

“What the hell’s that about?” Mark asks, confused. He’s staring at the spot where the ice has been sitting, watching as blood slowly flows back into skin that had become yellow with cold.

“It helps me think,” Strahm says, his voice monotone.

They stand there silently, staring at each other. Then, with Mark’s hand still wrapped around his wrist, Strahm just tilts his hand so that the ice cube slides off his palm and down his fingers. It leaves a line of water down his skin, and the melted piece of ice falls onto the carpet between them before Strahm pulls his hand away and marches over to his bag.

Mark watches him for a moment or two before following suit.

Just like the last time, they pack in silence. There hadn’t been much of their personal effects out anyway, and Mark takes a quick break to sip at his coffee and eat a few of the little pretzels from the bag. The rain’s letting up at last, the clouds starting to loosen but drops still stubbornly coming down.

That ice cube is bothering him. Something about it is scratching a corner of his brain, like he’s run into that before, but he can’t think of what. The more he thinks about it, the more he’s sure that he has. But it’s not until he’s halfway through folding up one of his shirts that he finally pauses, eyebrows scrunching up.

Ice cubes.

He remembers all at once having to reach into an empty soda cup and press an ice cube into a hyperventilating college girl’s hand after she’d reported her boyfriend. He’d closed her fingers over it, told her to focus on the cold. Focus on how it made her feel, focus on the sharpness of the ice. It’s a grounding technique used to slow down panic attacks, and they’d learned it in DEI. The FBI must use it too, he assumes.

But that had been in the early 90s, when Angelina was still alive. He’d forgotten it entirely, even if he hadn’t forgotten that girl or any of the ones that followed. He barely had to ever use that trick again, and it had faded from his memory in lieu of other, more important things; had eventually faded in lieu of far worse things.

He glances over at Strahm, who’s packing up the last of his clothes, and doesn’t say anything at all. The ice cube leaves a little patch of water on the carpet as the last of it slowly melts away between them.

-

The rain clears up a little while after that, though the humidity’s dense enough that they can feel it even in the building. Walking side-by-side proves to be a challenge in the narrow hallway, so Mark lingers back a little bit to let Strahm lead the way. It’s early in the morning, enough so that when they pass by a window, the sky’s only casting a little bit of blue through the curtains.

“Where are we going today?” Strahm says, keeping his voice low to avoid bothering any of the other guests.

Mark tries to picture the map in his head, one eye closed while he glances up at the ceiling.

“Iowa,” he says after a moment, his gaze tracing over a water stain in the corner of one of the tiles. “And then we can probably push to Colorado after that.”

Strahm sighs, sounding annoyed.

“So what—”

Right about then, a shrill sound has them both stopping dead in their tracks, and Mark looks behind him. They’re not too far down the hallway from where he’d been musing in front of the vending machine, and he recognizes the door the couple from earlier had gone through. There’s a slapping sound, and then the room goes quiet before a voice rises. It’s angry, bitter, full of venom and teeth.

It sounds like a fight. The girl seems to be trying her best to reason with her partner, but the man’s clearly having none of it. He sounds enraged, almost demented, and there’s another slapping sound accompanied by a whimper of pain.

The wave of rage that crashes into Mark is so visceral that he automatically takes a step forward, fully intending to kick the damn door off its hinges and give that man a taste of his own medicine. The autopsy report he’d forced Tapp to give him all those years ago had mentioned bruises in the shape of fingers around a wrist, a footprint against ribs, hands tight around her throat—

A hand grabs his elbow and he jumps, spinning around too fast.

“Come on,” Strahm says quietly, though there’s a rage in his eyes that feels cold and detached and yet familiar at the same time. He’s staring at the door, too. “We can’t do anything about it right now.”

“We could,” Mark argues through his teeth. “We fuckin’ could, and you know it.”

“We can’t.” Strahm’s voice is firm. “We’ll make it worse. And you’re the one who said we have to lay low.”

Mark can’t help but scowl. He can normally keep his head in tight situations, with only a few notable exceptions, but the crackling, electric anger in his chest is threatening to bust him right open. Maybe it’s because he’s been cooped up in the car. Maybe it’s because he’s already tense as it is. Maybe it’s because violence has become less a mask and more the automatic choice. Maybe because it’s the only way he can think to feel better about it.

Strahm suddenly makes an impatient noise, the kind that throws his head around.

“You said to trust you,” he hisses in a low voice. “Well, Hoffman, it’s time for you to trust me.”

Once more, they’re locked in a staring contest where neither one wants to back down. There’s nothing more that Mark would like to do than barge into that room and kill that man, or at least teach him to never put his hands on a woman like that again. He still sees the videos that Ivan Landsness had taken, still hears the sounds, still thinks about those pictures. Still compares them to Angelina. He’s good at keeping his composure when he needs to, but right now—

“I’ve seen it before too,” Strahm continues, like he can read Mark’s mind. “We need to go.”

Mark wrenches his arm away from Strahm’s hand at his elbow and hitches his bag further up onto his shoulder as he makes his way down the stairs. He can hear Strahm following behind him, but he doesn’t really care. He’s already trying to think about how he could get his hands on the list of guests in the motel, already thinking about the game he’d construct, what exactly he’d do to make it all but impossible for the man to win.

When they reach the ground floor, though, Strahm doesn’t head towards the side exit. Instead, he strolls up to the front desk with his shoulders squared and his stance almost frightening in its intensity. Mark pauses, not quite hesitating so much as watching in confusion before he finally jogs to catch up.

Even with his one arm still strapped against his stomach, Strahm looks both imposing and immovable as he stops in front of the desk. Despite having always been taller than Mark, it’s never been until right this moment that Mark can actually feel that difference between them. At his full height, Strahm feels more like a fucking tank than a man.

“There’s a fight happening in room 204,” Strahm tells the person behind the counter, and they look up at the same moment that Mark’s eyes widen. “It sounds physical, like he’s hitting her. Call the cops, please.”

His tone isn’t polite, even if his request is, and he just stands there and stares at the clerk with that familiar, unwavering glare.

A few seconds pass, and then Strahm says, “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Looking incredibly nervous all of a sudden, the clerk reaches for the phone.

“Thank you,” Strahm says flatly, and neither of them leave until the clerk’s midway through the conversation with the police. As they go, Mark watches Strahm slide a pad of paper off the desk as well, shoving it into his pocket.

Mark’s fully ready to drive off as soon as they reach the car, still feeling that indomitable rage in his chest. They should’ve fucking done something. He won’t be surprised if they pick up a newspaper in a rest stop and see her face in a little 3x4 portrait on the second to last page, detailing how she’d been found dead in some motel in Illinois. He won’t be surprised if the boyfriend gets away with it. But the idea of being that close to the cops makes him want to leave ASAP, makes him not want to leave any of this up to pure chance.

That hand touches his elbow again, and just like the last time he jumps and turns. Strahm’s eyes are on the motel rather than on Mark himself, but he doesn’t pull away. It’s a gentle touch that says wait, just wait, one second, but it’s so startling that it does its job. Mark looks back towards the motel, too.

As the cop cars finally pull up, their lights flicking back and forth in that familiar red and blue flash, Mark shakes his head. He’s not sure what Strahm’s waiting for, but he already knows how this is going to end.

“They won’t fucking do anything,” he mutters, leaning back in his seat and watching as two officers walk into the building. “I would know.”

“Just shut up for a second,” Strahm replies, and Mark huffs angrily at him.

They sit there in silence for about fifteen minutes. Every time Mark thinks he can give up and drive away, though, Strahm shakes his head and stops him. He’s just staring at the doors, his expression intense. Mark’s seen it before, even if it’d been a different situation, a different time, a man dressed in an impeccably fitted suit rather than jeans and a t-shirt.

When finally, finally, the cops come back out with the boyfriend in cuffs, Mark runs a furious hand through his hair and then uses that hand to gesture towards the three men.

“I don’t know what kind of fantasy world you get to live in with the FBI,” he says, “but trust me. They’re not going to do anything. He’ll be out in a few hours.”

“I know,” Strahm says. He suddenly opens the door and gets out, and Mark simply doesn’t have enough time to grab him and haul him back in. Doing so would require him to grab Strahm’s broken arm anyway, so he can only watch with stunned anxiety as Strahm makes his way over to where the girl is standing by herself, having followed the rest of them outside. No one’s really tending to her, not even the cops that had been talking to her before, but Mark still can’t help but imagine all of the ways they’re about to be caught.

He watches as Strahm talks to her for a few seconds, keeping at a respectful distance. She looks frightened, even a little bit confused, but she doesn’t move away as Strahm leans over the hood of the nearest car. Mark watches as he writes something on the pad he’d taken from the front desk, with the same damn pen he’d taken from the last motel, and rips the paper off to hand it to her. Her eyes scan the paper, her mouth thins, and she nods at him before slipping the paper into her pocket.

Without any fanfare, Strahm walks back over to their car and gets in. He doesn’t seem to immediately notice the way that Mark’s staring at him, but then he looks up and stares right back, looking annoyed.

“What?”

Mark gestures towards the motel, absolutely bewildered.

“What was that? You could’ve gotten us caught.”

Strahm scoffs.

“I’m not stupid. I gave her the number to a domestic abuse hotline,” he says, and his seatbelt clicks. “I usually have a business card or something for those sorts of things, more personalized stuff, but obviously—” He looks at Mark pointedly. “I don’t have one this time around.”

“...you have that number memorized?” Mark asks, eyebrows coming together.

Strahm gives him an odd look.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, sounding confused and maybe even a little offended. “It’s my job.”

Mark doesn’t answer right away. He just shrugs, those lingering feelings of anger and hostility finally tapering off into something softer. There’s this strange little ache in his chest that wants to take offense at such a flippant response, but he knows there’s more to it than that. It’s not as black and white as he wants it to be, even if Strahm being so callous would make all of this easier to swallow.

“Yeah,” he says, shifting the car into drive, “I guess that makes sense.”

-

They spend most of the car ride in silence. It’s not like that’s anything new, but it does mean that Mark’s allowed plenty of time to continue his thought process from earlier. He’s still not sure exactly what led Strahm to admit that he’d gotten divorced, and he’s still not sure why that matters so much. But it does.

Mark asks once or twice if Strahm wants to stop for drinks or to relieve themselves, but every time Strahm just shakes his head. He seems thoughtful about something, resting his chin on his knuckles as he stares out the window. Eventually he lets the window down a little, and the rush of air feels good enough that Mark does the same.

It’s not like there’s a lot out there to gaze at, but Strahm seems to be thinking very hard about something anyway. Mark can’t see his expression very well, between paying attention to the highway and the way that Strahm’s head is turned, but it’s easy to tell just by how distant Strahm’s demeanor is. Mark steals a glance at Strahm’s long jaw, at the scab that’s still healing around the stitches at the base of his throat.

About an hour in, Mark decides to see what the hell is up.

“Alright,” he says, letting a car pass them in the left lane, “you’re driving me insane. The fuck are you thinking about?”

Strahm stirs, looking startled as he glances over.

“What?”

“You’re being weird,” Mark replies, gesturing vaguely in his direction. “What are you thinking about?”

He can see the way that Strahm’s eyes flick back and forth as he stares at Mark, slowly lowering his hand from where his elbow is resting against the door to lay in his lap instead. Almost immediately, his fingers start to rub together with a soft rasping noise. It’s a tic that Mark’s noticed, same as the pen clicking and the thigh tapping; too much energy with nowhere to go. Strahm ought to get the damn book out again.

“Doing work in my head,” Strahm finally says. “Keeps me calm.”

Mark makes a bewildered face at the windshield.

“Work?” he repeats, absolutely baffled. “Like, FBI work?”

“Yeah.”

Mark spreads a hand out over the wheel to wave in a straight line across the horizon, like he’s giving a presentation.

“Care to share with the class?” he asks, but Strahm doesn’t answer. He just turns back to the window, as pensive as he was before Mark interrupted him.

Mark lasts about fifteen minutes before he breaks the silence again. They’re moving slowly through some traffic, and he has the time to actually look over without having to worry about keeping his eyes fully on the road.

“I have a question,” he asks, and Strahm barely even flinches this time, his voice flat.

“You always have a fucking question.”

That’s fair enough, though Mark ignores it. He points at Strahm’s face, close enough that Strahm actually backs away from him with a scowl.

“What the fuck are you—”

“What’s that from?” Mark says, ignoring him. Strahm blinks a few times, looking confused, but then his hand comes up. Mark watches as Strahm runs careful fingertips over the thin scar under his eye, trailing the dip in his skin with his index finger.

“Oh… shit,” Strahm says, surprised as he drops his hand. “Yeah. I had forgotten about that.”

“You forgot a scar on your face?” Mark asks incredulously. “How do you forget a scar on your face?”

“I don’t exactly see it as often as other people do,” Strahm drawls, looking unimpressed. “Sorry it slipped my mind.”

Still, Mark can’t imagine just forgetting about something like that. The scar’s fascinated him for days now, the way it trails halfway down Strahm’s face, the way it starts just at the corner of his eye and stops at his cheekbone. It hardly seems like a wound one would just forget. Mark’s pretty sure if he had a scar like that on his face it’d bother him every damned day.

“So how did you get it?” Mark asks, still curious, but Strahm just scowls at him.

“None of your business,” he says, one of his favorite phrases. “Why don’t you just shut up and drive instead of trying to pry into my personal life. Again.”

Mark unfurls his fingers around the wheel as if to put his hands up in surrender, but doesn’t say anything otherwise.

He could cite the fact that Strahm had given up the information about his ex-wife willingly, but Strahm’s already in a pissy mood and that would probably only make it worse. Still, it doesn’t stop him from wanting to know the story anyway. There’s a lot about Strahm he wants to know, and now that he has one foot in the door he wants to jimmy it open further.

By the time the sun’s fully in the sky, they’re coming up on a bridge that goes over the Mississippi River. It’s a four-lane number that stretches out nearly a little over half a mile in front of them, with a green underside and very little space on the shoulders.

In less than a minute they’ll be out of Illinois and into Iowa, with only one and a half full days of driving left before they get to Colorado. A day and a half, and this drive will finally be over. Whatever happens after that is going to be up to them, and Mark’s not sure exactly where either of them want it to go.

Strahm suddenly shifts in his seat, sitting up a little straighter.

“You know what, Hoffman?” he asks, his tone purposefully light. “I think I do want to share what I’ve been thinking about with the class.”

He leans forward to unlatch the glove compartment, and Mark blinks as he tries to figure out what Strahm’s doing. Then it hits him all at once when he remembers what it is he keeps in the glove compartment—the money, the driver’s manual, and the—

Oh god. Oh fuck.

It only takes Mark half a second to realize what’s happening as Strahm reaches inside. The window isn’t down far enough that anything will fly out, but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all. Mark’s stomach lurches so abruptly and so painfully that he almost gags, but he forces himself to keep his eyes on the road.

“What are you doing?” Mark says, trying to keep his voice even, trying to act like he’s curious instead of terrified. “Don’t you know it’s fucking rude to go through people’s things?”

It doesn’t work. His voice trembles a little.

“You see, I have a few questions, too,” Strahm says, and Mark knows exactly what he means. “”And it’s about time I got some answers.”

There’s a soft rattling sound as Strahm calmly slips the cassette tape out, holding it carefully in his hand. He doesn’t take it out of its protective case, nor does he close the glove compartment again. He just sits there, staring down at that little plastic rectangle that means more to Mark than anything else on the damn planet. Mark forces himself to keep his eyes on the road, only able to watch out of the corner of his vision.

It isn’t one of the small ones they had all used for games. It’s bigger, built for holding music instead of voice recordings. He sees Strahm’s eyes flick across the label. Just four words, nothing special—except they’re the most important words in his life, and if Strahm does anything to that cassette, Mark will genuinely kill him.

It isn’t hyperbole. It isn’t a passing thought in the heat of the moment. Forget the idea of sleeping with him, or getting him the medical help he needs. It won’t be like before— he won’t give Strahm a chance like he did the last time.

He will genuinely kill him.

He’s too afraid to say anything. He’s terrified to let Strahm know how important that tape is, out of a very real fear that such a weakness is going to be used against him immediately. Strahm’s a petty man, and all it would take is a single flick of his wrist to send the tape out the window and onto the bridge. That’s it. One simple move, and it’s crushed under the wheel of another car or floating away in the river.

Mark should’ve locked the glove compartment. Why didn’t he lock the fucking glove compartment?

“I saw this yesterday when I was getting the money out,” Strahm finally says, seemingly unaware of how Mark’s heart is in his throat. Or maybe he is aware, and he just doesn’t give a shit. “You don’t have a cassette deck in here.”

Mark doesn’t answer.

“So then I thought,” Strahm continues, like he’s giving a deposition, or explaining a case, “it had to be important. Right? No one carries around a cassette tape in a car without a deck unless it means something to them. Especially since no one even uses them anymore. CDs and iPods are the moneymaker nowadays.”

He’s not doing anything with the cassette beyond slowly passing it up and down through his fingers, like a magician with a coin. The tape has his full, undivided attention, and Mark doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to stop this from happening without dire consequences. All of that time spent mocking Strahm on this trip, fighting with him, threatening to kill him two nights before… All of that alone would be enough for Strahm to want to get revenge.

But Mark had almost killed him, twice, and in absolutely terrifying ways. It hadn’t been a threat those times. It had been real.

“To Mark, from Angie,” Strahm reads aloud, his voice soft. He starts to fiddle one-handed with the cassette again.

Mark knows the look on his own face is one of fear and anger— he can feel himself shaking with it. He’s only ever felt this way one other time, when he was strapped to a chair with no chance of escape.

“...please,” Mark finally says, his voice hoarse. He’ll grovel. He’ll beg. He’ll do anything it takes to keep that tape safe. “Please don’t.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds before Strahm speaks again.

“Don’t what?”

Mark inhales, and it shakes so much that it’s more of a shudder.

“Don’t… do anything to it,” he whispers, the sound of it painful. It’s a fucking Hail Mary pass, begging Strahm to leave the tape be. There’s nothing else he can fucking do. He can’t pull the car over, because Strahm’s holding Mark’s life in his one good hand and he can do whatever he wants with it in a split second. “Please.”

Strahm hums, just one thoughtful little sound. Then he silently and carefully puts the cassette back into the glove compartment and shuts it with nothing more than a gentle click.

That’s all. Strahm just sits back in his seat and looks out the window again.

Mark makes a soft noise in his throat before he can stop himself, his eyes and nose burning.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

Strahm doesn’t answer.

The nausea in Mark’s stomach suddenly burbles back into his awareness, and he almost dry heaves from the feeling. It would’ve been easy for Peter to destroy that tape. He has every reason to want to do it, to want to shatter that last thing in Mark’s life that connects him to Angelina. He could’ve taken the water cube, the glass coffin, the crushing room, and he could’ve used every bit of those feelings to destroy Mark, too.

But he’d put it back instead.

They cross over the other side of the bridge and Mark immediately veers right onto the first exit he sees, pulling them around a sharp bend and then taking a hard left. He’s probably going faster than he should be, with how they’re trying to lay low, but that’s just the thing. He needs to be away from other people, or at least he needs to do this somewhere a little less open.

There’s a hotel on the side of the road, right next to a small marina where a handful of boats seem to be stored. He pulls hard into the parking lot of the hotel, trying to see if there’s anyone around. There are a few cars lingering around, but no one’s outside at the moment and his cramping stomach can’t take much more waiting anyway.

Mark pulls the car over and gets out, slamming the door shut behind himself. He can hear Strahm get out too, maybe following him, but Mark doesn’t really give a damn. He’s parked parallel to the line of trees growing along the edge of the parking lot, and once he’s sure he’s hidden from nosy eyes, he bends over and pukes his fucking brains out.

It burns. It’s 90% pretzels and 10% coffee, and neither of those things feel great as they come up. But more than that, it’s the terror and anger that comes up and out, hitting the dirt with a disgusting wet slap that makes the nausea worse. He holds his stomach with an arm and dry heaves again, pain cracking through his throat like lightning as he brings up stomach bile.

The anxiety’s making his hands shake as it curls up into a harsh ball at the base of his spine and spirals outwards, little tendrils of panic that have him struggling to breathe. Almost in a daze, he pushes off his knees into a standing position again and tries to force himself back into control before he has to bend over again with both arms around his stomach. He’s shaking so hard that his teeth are chattering.

A water bottle appears at his side, held out by a steady hand.

“Here,” Strahm says evenly. “Wash your mouth out.”

Mark smacks it away, barely noticing how it hits the ground.

“Fuck you,” he chokes out, a feral animal on a rapidly fraying leash. “Fuck you, fuck you—”

Strahm just watches him placidly. It’s the calmest Mark’s really seen him in a while. The expression on his face is methodical, or maybe deliberately clinical. He’s not looking at Mark with any one particular emotion; rather, it seems like he’s trying to see what emotions Mark’s feeling instead and cataloging them for usage later.

After a brief pause, Strahm just walks over and leans down to pick up the water bottle again.

“Or don’t,” he continues, as though he’s speaking to the air. “I just know puke tastes like shit after it’s done coming up, too.”

“What the fuck,” Mark whispers, his voice raw. “Why the fuck would you—”

“Call it professional curiosity,” Strahm replies, like the asshole that he is. “I told you. I saw it last night, and I got curious. I wanted to know what it meant to you. Now I do.”

Mark doesn’t even consider his next move before he does it—he just grabs Strahm by the collar and drags him over, hauls him against the side of the car with so much force that Strahm’s body practically dents the metal. Mark’s other hand grabs at Strahm’s sling and tugs it hard, jerking his broken arm enough that Strahm’s face pinches up tight with the sudden agony. The water bottle hits the ground again.

“You,” Mark hisses, “don’t know a fucking thing.”

“I do,” Strahm says, his voice tight and his eyes triumphant through sudden, unspilled tears of pain. “I know more than you think I do.”

Mark squeezes the sling tighter, and Strahm makes a soft noise in the back of his throat as his fingers twitch hard. It’s a dark, cruel grin that splits itself across Mark’s face as he watches Strahm struggle to keep himself together. It feels good to force Strahm to share his pain, to force him to feel the consequences of what he’s done to Mark.

It’s not brutality when it’s deserved. It’s not revenge when the other person struck you first. He leans against him, feeling Strahm’s body heat against his chest, and imagines what it would feel like to squeeze until Strahm’s bone popped right back out of his arm. It’d feel good to hear him howl in pain again, to have him at his mercy, to make him beg for his life. It’d feel good.

Wouldn’t it?

“I’m sorry,” Strahm says suddenly, and Mark’s about to tell him that he doesn’t give a damn about apologies when Strahm continues with, “about what happened to your sister.”

Mark sucks in a sharp, startled breath, and the words hang between them before he can answer.

“...what?”

“I’m sorry about what happened to your sister,” Strahm repeats. There’s nothing more to it than honest condolence.

He means it.

Mark can’t remember the last time he had this conversation, can’t remember the last time someone brought her up. John, maybe, and that’s hardly fair to her memory. It’s hardly fair to remember her like that, but there’s really no one else who seems to care. He can’t remember the last time someone even said her name. He can’t remember the last time that someone acknowledged her death, her pain, he can’t remember the last time anyone even acknowledged that she existed.

“How do you—”

“I saw the photos,” Strahm says before Mark can get the question out. His voice just barely shakes with pain. “When I was… when I was trying to prove who you were. I saw the crime scene photos, and the articles. I know why you acted that way at the motel. I know why Landsness had such a brutal test. I know why all of the people in Rigg’s game were abusers and rapists and pimps.”

He suddenly grins, even if it’s laced with pain.

“You can fool everyone else into thinking you don’t give a shit about anything, Hoffman,” he says, that grin a bit too sharp, “but you can’t fool me. I know who you really are.”

Mark clenches his teeth so tightly that they creak. He had forgotten again. He’d forgotten just how fucking smart Peter Strahm is, how easily he picks things apart and puts them back together just the way he needs to in order to understand someone. Mark had forgotten who he was dealing with.

But… that understanding is unfamiliar. John had told him that his sister’s murderer deserved another chance, that Mark himself hadn’t understood what it meant to test someone. John had taken Angie’s death in stride, because she was dead and her killer was the one who deserved to learn from it. He deserved to fight for his right to live, after he’d stolen Angie’s.

“Did you see the Seth Baxter photos while you were digging around?” he finally asks, forcing the words out. They’re still practically nose to nose, and the pain he’s causing him has Strahm panting a little. Their breath mingles between them. “The pictures of what I did to him when I killed him? You see that, too?”

Admitting it out loud is odd. Odder still is the fact that he’s admitting it to a fucking FBI agent, admitting it to someone he’s spent the last three days with, admitting it to someone whose opinion he shouldn’t value in the slightest. But he admits it nonetheless.

“…yeah,” Strahm replies, staring up at him unblinkingly. “I did.”

Mark presses harder against him, knowing there’s a threat in his eyes.

“And?” he asks, voice low.

Strahm takes a deep breath.

“And,” he says quietly, not looking at him, “he deserved it.”

Mark moves away without warning, letting Strahm go and stepping back a good few feet. Strahm just slumps a little, holding his broken arm in his good hand and taking a few deep breaths before he continues. He looks suddenly exhausted, like all of his energy just rushed out of him like water through a burst dam. His eyebrows pinch together, like he’s willing the pain away again.

“I had to put it all together somehow,” he says, like a confession. “So I looked for other Jigsaw victims, and I found him on the list. And that led me to your sister’s murder. It was the FBI database, so there were pictures. I saw the blood, and I saw the crime scene, and I…”

Strahm trails off and then doesn’t keep going.

“You understand,” Mark finishes, his voice soft.

Strahm makes a pained face.

“No,” he says, but it sounds like he’s talking to himself instead of Mark, “I don’t know that I do.”

Mark leans towards him again, trying to catch his attention.

“You do,” he presses, something tight building up behind his ribs. “You do understand. You get it. You see these things all the time just like I do, you understand wanting them all to suffer for it. I know you do. You said that you do.”

“I don’t,” Strahm insists, looking a bit wild as he snaps his head up. “I said I know why you did it!”

“Five years,” Mark says through his teeth, the poison of the words still burning his gums like acid every time he has to say them. “Five years for killing her. That’s all he got. On a technicality. Why should he get to walk when my sister’s dead? Tell me, since you know so fuckin’ much.”

Strahm’s silent. The wind ruffles his hair, and a bird sings one sharp note above them as he just stares at him, looking almost lost.

“Tell me,” Mark says again, voice raising into a shout. “Tell me! What would you have done? Huh? Tell me, Strahm. What would you have done?”

His repeated questions echo off the trees, off the side of the car. The sheer accusation of it twists his hands into fists, and he just glares at Strahm, furious at his silence. Furious at the fact that the answer should be simple, that the answer should come as easily as breathing. Just another person who’s going to tell him that it’s all brutality, that he enjoyed it, that Baxter deserved to live despite what he’d done. Just another person who doesn’t understand, who’s going to tell him that justice shouldn’t be taken into the hands of the people who were hurt the most.

The silence stretches out between them, and Mark just fucking gives up, scoffing in disgust as he moves back towards the car.

It’s just not worth the effort anymore. He had thought maybe, just maybe, he’d made progress. He’d found someone who could understand. He’d found someone who had seen what he’d done and said, yes, this is what should have happened. This is what you were trying to say.

“...I don’t know,” Strahm finally whispers, covering his eyes. His voice breaks. “I don’t fucking know.”

Mark freezes dead in his tracks.

“I don’t know what I’d do,” Strahm continues, leaning down until it seems like he’s curling into himself. “What I would’ve done. I thought I knew, but I don’t anymore. I don’t fucking know what I’m doing.”

Mark… doesn’t know what to make of that confession. He thinks of Strahm with that phone number memorized, thinks of the way he had glared at that closed motel door. He thinks of the way that Strahm had been so careful with the cassette tape, even when he had no reason to be. He thinks of Strahm flicking Perez’s shoulder, thinks of that gentle smile he hasn’t even seen for himself, that he probably won’t ever see for himself.

Strahm runs his hand down his face, and Mark can see how his nails bite into his skin when he squeezes his jaw. His stubble is already starting to grow back in again. He looks old, worn down.

Mark feels the same. He slowly moves towards the front of the car, perching himself on the end and leaning forward. They got lucky that there wasn’t anyone around, that no one had apparently seen him try to assault Strahm against the side of his car. But all of that emotional labor had drained the rest of the energy right out of him, and he has to just… rest. Just for a little while, at least.

He lifts his head up enough to watch as Strahm walks past him, and then the car tilts forward just a bit as Strahm sits down next to him on the hood. Their thighs don’t quite touch, nor do their shoulders, but with the way that Strahm’s arm has to be kept strapped to his stomach, their elbows get close enough. They sit there silently, neither man really able to muster up anything else.

“It was a stupid accident,” Strahm says suddenly, and when Mark looks over at him, he sees that Strahm’s running his fingers down the scar on his cheek again while he speaks. “This. My ex-wife and I, we went to visit one of her brothers up in Connecticut about… ten years ago? And they had a trampoline that my nephew really wanted me to jump on. Please please please, Uncle Peter, I wanna jump on the trampoline with you. So, you know. You don’t exactly tell a seven-year-old you’re not gonna do it.”

Mark can feel a grin spreading over his own face.

“No way,” he says slowly. “Your big bad FBI agent face scar was from a trampoline?”

Strahm gives him a wry look.

“Listen,” he says, and his eyes are actually twinkling with some kind of private joke between the two of them that Mark has yet to catch up on, “I never said it was from being an FBI agent. I told you, I don’t even remember it’s there half the time. You assumed.”

“So what happened?”

“I fell and smacked my face right off one of the springs—it had a little jagged edge at the bottom and I managed to hit it just right. I nearly lost my eye, and my sister-in-law apologized so many times you would’ve thought she’d pushed me herself.”

Mark snorts. He can’t imagine Strahm being any sort of family man, let alone the kind who jumps on a trampoline with a child and breaks his face open. But then, as Strahm had said—there’s a lot about him that Mark simply doesn’t know.

They both sit there on the hood of the car, neither of them particularly ready to get back to driving. The river sloshes against the banks just past the hotel, and the birds are still singing annoying songs overhead. It’s a weird sort of calm, the kind that doesn’t come before the storm but after, when all the damage has already been done and there’s nothing left to do but sift through the wreckage.

“Do you ever listen to it?” Strahm asks after a while, and then clarifies. “The tape.”

They’re both quiet again, and the wind blows softly through the trees above them.

“I burned a CD with all the songs on it in the same order,” Mark finally admits. “But I haven’t played the tape in… in a long time.”

Not since she’d died. He couldn’t bear the thought of trying to play it and having it unwind, or break, or any number of things that would sever that last little bit of connection. He can’t even remember the last time he took it out of its case. But it’s there when he needs it to be.

“What’s on it?” Strahm asks, after a respectful pause.

Rather than answer, Mark reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He can feel the way that Strahm watches him, but he ignores it in favor of slipping a piece of paper out. He has it memorized, and doesn’t even need it anymore, but that’s never mattered. He’s carried it with him for nearly ten years. The folds are worn, and the paper has gone soft as velvet with age, but he can still see the imprint of the words written there in blue pen on the other side.

He slowly unfolds it, looking down at the songs and bands listed there in her messy, loopy handwriting.

Queen, Blue Öyster Cult, The Clash. Bands they’d listened to in the car when it had been just the two of them and nobody else in the world, bands that he can hardly stand to listen to now. Songs that come on the radio, songs that people hum under their breath, songs that people sing every day without ever realizing what they mean to him, too.

“Here,” he says, and holds it out for Strahm to take. “She wrote down the track list when she gave it to me.”

Watching the shock on Strahm’s face as he realizes the extent of the gesture almost makes him laugh. Strahm just stares at the paper like it might bite him before he finally takes it, flattening it out against his thigh a little before lifting it up to read. The care he shows the list is the same as he did the tape, and Mark looks away.

“Celine Dion,” Strahm mutters, sounding impressed as he scans the paper. “Huh. I didn’t expect that.”

Something swells wildly in Mark’s chest, a balloon desperate to pop with more emotions than he knows what to do with. Emotions that make him feel seen, noticed. Understood. Vulnerable.

“Yeah,” he mutters, remembering how her eyes had gleamed mischievously. “She put that right at the end as a joke. I hate Celine Dion.”

There’s a pause, and then Strahm huffs out a laugh. While Mark watches, he carefully manages to fold the tracklist up one-handed and gives it back, their fingers almost touching in the same way as when they had both held Strahm’s jacket.

“I like her style,” Strahm says, and squints back up at the sunny sky. “You have the CD in the car?”

Mark’s voice is quieter than he can ever remember it being in a long, long time.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Peter pushes himself off the hood and moves back towards his side, hitting the roof of the car once with an open palm. Mark watches him, his throat tight. “Her taste in music is way better than yours.”

Chapter Text

“How’re your fingers?”

Mark recognizes the absurdity of that question, but he decides to own it and doesn’t try to clarify. Peter, for his part, seems to mull over how he wants to answer that before going back to his attempts at eating a yogurt cup they’d gotten from the lobby.

“I can hold it alright,” he mutters, but Mark can hear the rattle of the plastic as Strahm’s hand shakes. “It hurts like a real bitch, though.”

He’s trying to keep the cup in his bad hand and use his good one for the spoon, but it doesn’t seem like it’s going well. Mark thinks back to what Lawrence had said about nerve damage or muscle damage or even both, but doesn’t comment. He just sits back on the bed and sighs.

They’ve got one more night before the final push to Colorado, and Mark’s not exactly sure what to do with that knowledge. It’s only been… four days? Three? And it’s felt both like a lifetime and all too quick to keep up with.

The drive through Iowa had been mostly made up of listening to Angie’s mixtape, eventually arguing over the better works of some of the artists that had been on it. It had been oddly relaxing. Companionable, even. They’ve spent so much of the ride—and really, for the entire time they’ve known each other—genuinely arguing that it’s weird to have had a good-natured squabble instead.

Strahm had smiled while they’d listened to the CD. It hadn’t been anything crazy. He hadn’t beamed or laughed uproariously—it had been soft and sweet, almost. He had huffed out a fond laugh when a few of the songs had started, and for other ones he’d simply been contemplative. Maybe he knew how much of Mark’s soul was being bared every time the next track began, or maybe he was just enjoying the music.

Either way, he’d smiled. It lit up his face, crinkled his eyes at the corners. Mark had felt his heart crack down the middle and then stitch itself back up again.

When the last song ended, Peter had sat back in his seat and said nothing at all.

Now the CD’s safely tucked away again in the center console, and they’d gone back to the radio for the rest of the drive. The tape’s only about an hour and a half long, so it really hadn’t been much time in the grand scheme of things, but Mark knows that hour and a half has firmly parked itself in his head as one of the most important moments in his life.

He’s not sure what to do with that moment now. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with it.

Right now they’re relaxing in the motel room, with Mark sitting on the bed and Strahm at the desk. They really only have about five or six hours left to drive, and if they really wanted to they could make that final push, but neither of them are really up to it. Strahm just seems flat out tired, and for the better part of that last hour he’d looked almost nauseous. The yogurt seems to be helping his stomach somewhat, but he still looks a little green around the gills.

Mark had asked him about it, but he’d just said that it was probably the antibiotics.

“I’ve had to take them before,” he’d muttered, eyes closed and leaning against the headrest. “They make me sick sometimes.”

Thus the yogurt cup, though Mark’s sure that it helps with Strahm’s throat as well. He’d snatched up one for himself, given that his stomach was still feeling a little unsettled after his own vomiting spell, but he’d finished it a while ago. Strahm’s still trying to power through his.

Mark can feel the drive starting to wear down on him, but it’s a lot more obvious with Strahm. He just looks exhausted, maybe even a little drawn. It’s not a great combo, having to take antibiotics while on a liquid diet that’s made up mostly of coffee, and it’s starting to show.

Once the yogurt’s finally been conquered, Strahm drops the cup and spoon into the little trash bin next to the desk and huffs with a hand to his temples. Mark watches as he seems to try and rub away a headache, kneading at the skin next to his eyes.

“Good?” Mark asks after a few minutes of silence, and Strahm glances up at him from over his hand. His eyes are a little glassy.

“Okay,” he clarifies, and actually sounds like he means it. “I’m just never going to get into a car again after this.”

That makes Mark snort with laughter before he can stop himself.

“Yeah, well,” he says once he’s tamped the amusement down again, “trying to get you on a plane would’ve been far worse. Gordon said your muscles would’ve popped like balloons or something.”

“Why do I doubt that’s what he said?” Strahm replies dryly, though he does resituate himself on the chair so that his long legs are stretched out, heels dug into the carpet and feet straight up. His hand slides up to cover his eyes as he leans his head back. “Whatever. It’s better than being locked up for murder, I guess.”

Once more, he peeks over his pinkie finger at Mark, but this time there’s an unwavering accusation in his eyes. It’s incredible how long he can go without blinking.

Mark works extremely hard to keep his face straight, and just lifts his eyebrows at him.

-

When the alarm goes off the next morning, Mark sighs into the pillow and gropes for it without raising his head. It’s a nasty sounding alarm, the kind that blares out that sort of piercing, crackly note that shoots through his skull like a bullet. He’s grumbling angrily by the time he finds the snooze button and smacks it, slowly lifting his head once it’s quiet.

The room’s starting to shine a light yellow from the sun coming in through the blinds, and he yawns hugely as he slowly sits up. Today’s the last day of the trip, and it feels… weird, but comforting. Being in the car for as long as they have in such a short period has made the whole thing feel like both a new normal and the strangest, longest experience in his life.

He looks over at Strahm’s bed and then frowns.

Strahm’s face is pinched, though he still looks asleep. He’s got his arm rested on the pillow, just like always, but his fingers keep twitching and his entire face is flushed and sweaty. Most of the sheets have been kicked down, leaving him exposed from the waist up, and Mark can see where his shirt’s bunched itself towards his shoulder blades. It shows off the line of his back and the dimples above his waistband. For a man on the later side of forty, he really has more muscle than is particularly fair.

Mark scratches at the hair at the nape of his neck and sighs before grabbing his cell phone off the bedside table and getting up. The card that Lawrence had given him that first day is still tucked in his bag, and he flips it over to stare at the number before making his way outside. It’s a nice day out, not too much wind but enough that the air’s crisp and comforting.

“Dr. Kuznik’s office,” the receptionist answers, sounding a little sleepy. Mark can’t blame her. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Um,” he says, and pinches at his nose. The pain grounds him, as always. “Mark Hoffman. I’m a… a colleague of Lawrence Gordon’s. I think Dr. Kuznik was expecting us? We should be at the hospital today, uh, maybe in about six or seven hours?”

There’s the clattering of a keyboard for a few seconds, and then the receptionist hums once.

“We didn’t have a set date for your arrival,” she says, and Mark’s stomach flips before she continues, “but Dr. Kuznik left a note that you can head right into the ER and we can work on admission. It’s a broken arm, correct?”

“Yeah. Yes. It’s not me, though.”

“Okay.” More clacking. “I’ll let Dr. Kuznik know that you’re on your way.”

Mark thanks her, and after a few more cursory questions he closes his phone with a soft snap. He should’ve known he’d have to talk to a receptionist and not the actual doctor herself, but he’d been planning to ask about the antibiotics and Strahm’s apparent discomfort. They’ll just have to wait until they get there, he decides, and heads back into the motel.

Strahm’s still asleep when he closes the door quietly behind himself, but he doesn’t look any less uncomfortable. It doesn’t look like a particularly restful sleep, and Mark leans against the door before deciding to wake him up. The sooner they get on the road, the sooner they can finally get to the hospital. He walks over, crouching down next to the bed. It hurts his sore muscles, and he can still feel the fight in the crushing room as pain rolls through him.

“Hey,” he mutters, and shakes Strahm a bit by the shoulder. His skin is tacky with dried sweat. “Hey. Strahm. Wake up.”

It takes a minute, but Strahm’s eyes finally flutter open. He looks confused for a second, groaning softly as he closes them again and tucks his face halfway back into the pillow. The fabric of the case is a little damp from sweat, but then Strahm starts to sit up.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, trying to shift so he can lean against the headboard. “Is the air conditioning on?”

Mark glances over, but there’s no telltale rattling that would suggest that’s the case, so he shakes his head. At that, Strahm leans back again, wiping some of the sweat off his brow. It’s still collecting along his hairline, and some of that wetness slicks his hair back a bit.

“Are you okay?” Mark asks, trying to keep some of the concern out of his tone. “You look hot.”

Shockingly, Strahm smirks over at him, though it’s a bit loose and tired.

“Thanks,” he says, and after a split second of confusion Mark can feel his face starting to burn up, too.

“Fuck you,” he says, standing up. “Seriously. Are you good? You look like shit.”

Strahm sighs, using the hand already at his brow to push his hair back. A few pieces flop back down, but most of it stays where he’s raked his fingers through it. Mark can see the jut of his collarbones peeking over his T-shirt, the bit of chest hair that’s curling out. Even flushed and sweaty, or maybe because of it, he still looks good no matter what Mark says.

“I guess,” Strahm finally replies, letting his hand drop into his lap. The bad arm stays curled up against his stomach. “We’re going to be in Colorado by the end of the day, right? I’ll survive.”

The irony of the statement doesn’t exactly escape Mark’s notice, but he decides not to comment on it. Instead he watches as Strahm leans his head back and sighs again. A bead of sweat slides down the side of his face and lingers against his jawline. With his eyes closed and his head back, he manages to look even more ill. He’s drawing in slow, deep breaths almost like he’s falling asleep again.

“We can pick up some Tylenol or something when we stop for drinks,” Mark finally says, and Strahm’s eyes open to glance at him. “You wanna take a shower? Maybe that’ll cool you down a little. Plus you stink.”

The last part is only slightly true—Strahm does smell a bit like sweat, but it’s less body odor and more that morning smell that comes from sleeping under the covers. Still, Strahm must take that personally because he wrinkles his nose at him and glares.

“You can’t even smell,” he accuses, jerking his chin at Mark’s nose, and Mark shrugs.

“Then that makes it even worse,” he says.

Besides, he can smell at least a little bit. Most of the blood that had been crusting in his nostrils has finally gone and fucked off, and his sense of smell is getting a little better every day. It’s already been nearly a week, after all, and it’s a lot easier to get to healing than a broken arm.

Strahm’s fingers start tapping against his thigh, that same nervous habit that caught Mark’s notice from that very first day in the office a million years ago. He suddenly looks unsure, glancing over at the bathroom door with what seems almost like trepidation. The tapping gets a little faster before stopping abruptly, and instead Strahm makes a fist into the sheets before letting go.

Mark can’t help but stare at him curiously. The nervous energy that seems to be running through Strahm’s limbs is only finding the one outlet through that tapping, but it seems more like he’s forcing himself to stop, and that only looks like it’s making that nervousness worse.

“Yeah,” Strahm finally says, and shakes his head a little. It brings to mind that doglike air of his again. “Yeah, alright. We still have some garbage bags?”

It’s getting easier to cajole Strahm into allowing Mark to help him tie the garbage bag around his bad arm than it’d been that first night. He holds it out while Mark finishes tying the ends up at his elbow, and then Mark watches as he tries to flex his fingers again. It seems to hurt, and they don’t quite close the way they’re supposed to.

“Shit,” Strahm mutters on an exhale, and sets about gathering some clothes up from his bag before he disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him, and Mark stares at it for a few beats before he goes to get dressed himself.

He drags his sleep shirt up and over and tosses it onto his bed, all of his hair falling back down into place once the collar passes through. It’s messier than ever without any of the product, and he ruffles it up a little with one hand until his bangs actually get into his eyes. He feels exhausted in about as many ways as a person can be, but at least they’ll be in Colorado by the end of the night. Then it’s just a matter of finding an extended stay hotel and…

Well, actually, he doesn’t know.

What do they do after this? Go back to Jersey, eventually. But then what? He had only agreed to skip this game, but he still has other things to do. John had left him plenty of money that he still hasn’t dipped into, and that money was supposed to go into continuing his work. But how’s he supposed to do that when Strahm knows who he is? How’s this supposed to go afterwards?

The shower squeaks on from inside the bathroom, and Mark looks over at the door.

More and more, he’s accepting the fact that this wasn’t a good idea. But there’s something happening here that neither one of them can deny. Something had happened yesterday when Strahm had put that tape back into the glove compartment. Something had happened when Strahm had admitted that he didn’t know what he’d do if he were in Mark’s shoes. Something had happened when Strahm had grinned at him and explained that scar on his cheek.

He doesn’t doubt Strahm’s sense of justice. Mark had had his own, once upon a time. So for Strahm to acknowledge that there must’ve been some nuance, something gray in the middle of the black and white that’s good and bad…

Mark had felt seen. Understood. Just in that brief moment, he had really felt that way in a way he hadn’t before. See what I see, feel what I feel. He’d tried with Rigg, he really had. And maybe somewhere, Rigg had understood enough to see the justice in it, to see the justice in teaching people to realize what they deserve. But it hadn’t been enough. He had still gone through that door, had still sealed Matthews’ fate, had still put a bullet in Art Blank’s head.

But something, somewhere, had been enough for Strahm. If it hadn’t been enough to stop him in his tracks, it’d at least slowed him down.

They’ll have to cross that bridge when they get to it. After the last one, Mark’s not exactly certain of what’s going to be on the other side.

He’s halfway through tugging his tank top over his head when the shower turns off. There’s a brief thought in his head that maybe he should’ve taken one too, but he’s already half dressed and honestly ready to hit the road. The sooner they get to Colorado, the better. The sooner they can figure out what’s happening between them, the better.

And then there’s a huge fucking bang as something hits the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Mark’s head snaps over, his flannel still in one fist as he stares. Strahm’s saying something, or at least muttering, but Mark can’t make out the words. All he knows is that the sound of whatever it was that hit the door was loud, and before he knows what he’s even doing he’s practically running over.

He yanks the door open, already feeling anxiety starting to set in at the bottom of his stomach, and immediately gets hit with Strahm falling backwards and right into his chest.

“Jesus—” It knocks him off balance, though he manages to catch himself and Strahm in the same motion, one leg going out behind himself to brace them both. His arms wrap around Strahm’s waist, trying to keep him upright as he struggles to haul him to his feet and barely succeeding. “Are you o—”

That’s when everything goes to complete shit.

“No, no, stop, stop—” Strahm’s rambling wildly like a man possessed, making every attempt to wrench himself out of Mark’s grasp, and he’s fucking strong. “Don’t— no— let me go, let me go—”

“Hey, whoa— What the fuck are you doing?” Mark demands quickly, that dread in his stomach leaping up into his throat as he tightens his hold. “Strahm, wait, wait, calm the fuck down!”

“Let me go!” Strahm cries again, a panicked animal caught in a trap. He starts clawing at whatever part of Mark he can reach, using his bad arm like he’s forgotten it’s broken. “Let me go! Let me go—”

“Stop, stop—!” Mark’s struggling to keep Strahm from thrashing around, from tearing himself out of Mark’s grip and toppling to the floor. “You’re going to hurt yourself—”

It’s nothing like their fight in the crushing room. Whereas Strahm had had the upper hand there, methodical in his blows if not also enraged, here he seems entirely driven by panic and instinct. He keeps fighting against Mark’s attempts to calm him, jerking around and yelling wildly. Mark reaches out and snatches Strahm’s left arm in his hand, trying to stop Strahm from fucking it up even more. He doesn’t have the splint on, and one wrong move could cause a million more problems for them both.

“Stop!” Mark barks again, his other arm still around Strahm’s stomach and their faces half smashed together. It hurts his nose, but he pays it little mind. “You fucking idiot, stop—”

Strahm wins, in the end. His terrified writhing manages to get Mark’s feet out from under him, and without anything more than a twin yelp they both go crashing to the floor.

They hit it hard. Mark’s fucked up back is the first casualty as he lands on the carpet with Strahm right on top of him, sending splitting pain from his tailbone all the way up to his shoulders. He bites back the howl of agony, not wanting any of the neighboring suites to hear anything more than they already have, but it doesn’t stop him from seeing black for a second.

Mark still has his hand wrapped tight around Strahm’s bicep, keeping his bad arm up and out of harm’s way as they both just lay there. For his part, Strahm seems to have gotten the wind knocked out of him—he’s not fighting Mark anymore, but his breath picks back up all off a sudden with a gasp and then he goes completely limp.

“Jesus Christ,” Mark hisses, struggling to push himself into a sitting position. It takes him a second, especially with all of Strahm’s hefty weight still pressed up against his chest. His stomach might be soft beneath Mark’s arm, but most of his muscle is still there despite his age, thick in his arms and legs and chest. He’s fucking heavy, and Mark has to try and use his core to push the both of them up.

Strahm’s panting, the sound coming out high and gritty. It sounds like it hurts his throat, and Mark tightens his arm a little.

“I got you,” Mark says without thinking. It just comes out, soft and soothing. “I got you. I got you. Calm down. Relax.”

It doesn’t seem to help Strahm all that much, but Mark just keeps on muttering in a quiet voice, his chin pressed to Strahm’s temple. He doesn’t know what possesses him to do that. He’s a murderer, the same murderer that Strahm had chased right to his own death. Strahm ought to be beating the shit out of him again, he ought to tear himself away from Mark’s grip and stalk away to get dressed and act like nothing happened.

But he doesn’t do either of those things. Strahm just lets out these clipped noises from deep in his chest like he’s still trying to catch his breath, like he’s still trying to gather the meager shards of his dignity back and failing miserably. He lets Mark whisper to him, lets Mark comfort him, and says nothing about it.

How they’ve both managed to show the worst of themselves to each other doesn’t escape Mark’s notice, but somehow they’re showing each other the gentle parts, too. The parts that put back a cassette tape and admit to embarrassing memories. The parts that don’t judge the sort of meltdown a grown man shouldn’t have, the parts that seek to comfort him instead.

“I got you,” Mark mutters, staring at the ugly wallpaper in front of them. “I got you. Relax. Breathe.”

Mark’s no stranger to panic attacks. He learned how to manage them a long time ago, not for himself but for other people. Victims of crime who broke down right in front of him, small children crying as their parents are loaded onto the coroner's stretcher. It was only when he started to have his own after Angie died that he tried applying the same strategies for himself, only to fail miserably time and again. He just shakes and cries and throws up and then gets back to business like nothing happened at all.

Slowly but surely, though, the process works just as it always does. He’s always had a lower voice than others, and it seems to soothe Strahm enough that his breathing slows, even if it doesn’t even out. He doesn’t seem calmer, per se, but he seems to be back in his own body enough that he can answer questions, so Mark tries.

“Hey,” he tries, and Strahm stiffens. “What was that?”

Strahm doesn’t answer.

“Peter,” Mark presses, trying to edge his way into something like trust with Strahm’s first name, “what was that?”

“Don’t,” Strahm whispers angrily, voice breaking down the middle. “Don’t—”

Even with Mark’s careful management, Strahm’s still shaking like a leaf, the tension in his muscles so tight that Mark can actually feel it. He tries to shift them a little, so that Strahm has more to lean up against, and while it hurts Mark tries not to let it show. He’s far more concerned with whatever just happened, with whatever it is that just broke Strahm’s composure like a fissure from an earthquake.

For the last day or two, Strahm had almost been who he was when they’d met, rude and intimidating and too smart for his own good. Put him in a suit and he’d be good to go. Now he’s back to the crying, terrified man he’d been when he was caught between those walls, and Mark finds that it’s not a great feeling to know he caused that change.

“I’m not gonna let it go,” Mark warns, though his voice is quiet. He’s almost scared, because watching Strahm have a meltdown of that magnitude doesn’t fit with everything else he knows about him. “What happened in there?”

Strahm tries to elbow him, but the motion falls short. When he takes another breath, it’s shaking and wet, and Mark watches as Strahm’s head hangs down between his shoulders. It looks like he’s crying, but there’s still so much water running down from his hair that if he is, the tears are too mixed in with the rest of it.

His right hand comes up, and Mark has half a second where he thinks Strahm’s going to punch him in the face. Instead, Strahm just covers his own mouth. That familiar, firm line of his bare shoulders catches Mark’s attention for the briefest moment, but then Strahm takes his hand away again. He makes a fist right next to his jaw, turning his face into it and shoving his mouth to his own shaking palm while he tries to gather himself.

“I couldn’t—” he starts, and then cuts himself off. Mark can see his teeth pressed against his skin, a strange motion that nonetheless seems to help Strahm ground himself. “I couldn’t—”

When Strahm trails off, his eyes tightly shut, Mark tries again.

“You couldn’t what?”

Strahm makes another noise into his skin.

“I couldn’t handle it,” he whispers.

“You couldn’t handle what?” Mark presses, growing impatient despite knowing he shouldn’t be. “You have to talk to me—”

“I couldn’t handle taking a fucking shower!” Strahm finally explodes, but it comes out quiet and harsh. He beats his fist against Mark’s thigh hard enough to hurt. “Because you fucking stuffed my head into some goddamn fucking cube and drowned me! Because I just fucking— I fucking feel walls closing in around me and I can’t— I can’t—”

He shudders, his shoulders turning inward towards his chest before he reaches up and digs his hand into his hair. It tightens up the muscles in his back, sending more droplets of water streaking down towards his waist. For the first time Mark can see a dark bruise on his right side, just above his hip. It’s exactly where Mark had punched him during their fight.

“I can’t,” Strahm repeats, his voice broken and his breath picking up again. “I can’t deal with the fucking walls.”

Mark looks towards the bathroom, confused. It’s a simple glass shower, rather than the tub and curtain combination from the last motels. The water’s off, but hot steam still trails into the cold air of the bedroom. He can see where the door to the shower finally stops swinging, and there are frantic streaks slicing through the condensation that had built up there, like someone had been trying to shove it open.

All at once, Mark realizes what happened.

He thinks of broken shower curtain rings, and an ice cube melting on the carpet. He thinks of wanting to run a hand down Strahm’s face while he was unconscious, of a pen with blood still caked inside one end. He thinks of a wail of both terror and pain as blue light filtered in through a grate above their heads, blocked out by thick walls moving in. He thinks of just a minute before, when he’d been squeezing Strahm tight, when Strahm had been begging him to stop.

“Oh.” His voice is far quieter than before. “Oh. Fuck.”

Strahm sucks in another sharp breath, and then it comes back out in some pathetic, strangled little sob. He’s not fighting Mark anymore, just laying there on the floor halfway in his lap. The garbage bag’s still wrapped around his arm, and he’s still naked, soaked from head to toe.

Without really thinking about it, Mark reaches over and grabs his shirt off the bed. He just awkwardly shakes it out and lets it settle over Strahm’s thighs, giving him back whatever dignity he can. He has no idea what possesses him to do something like that, but Strahm just grabs it and drags it a bit more firmly over himself.

“Fuck you,” he whispers, and his voice is shaking as tremulously as an earthquake. “You did this.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mark says softly, feeling Strahm’s heart beat wildly against his chest. “Just relax. It’s okay.”

They both know he’s lying, and Strahm doesn’t bother with an answer. The two of them just sit there instead.

Eventually Mark finds the energy to start scooting the two of them away from the middle of the floor and towards one of the beds. Strahm goes with him easily enough, apparently too tired to fight it. It hurts Mark’s back more than he wants to admit, and he’s pretty sure the fall tore open a couple of the still-healing cuts, but it’s second to trying to get something to lean on. Strahm deflates against him once they’re finally able to rest, and he makes zero effort to pull his elbow away from Mark’s grip.

“...we need to check your arm,” Mark finally says after a few minutes of silence. “You probably fucked it up bad.”

Strahm’s quiet. His breathing is finally starting to slow, and he’s resting against Mark without any resistance. The front of Mark’s tank top is as soaked through as the rest of him, and it’s starting to stick uncomfortably to his skin, but it’s nothing compared to the rivets still running down Strahm’s shoulders and face.

Finally he holds it up and starts to work the garbage bag off. The only good thing out of all this is probably the fact that he’d managed to avoid getting the bandages wet, but once it’s fully out in the open they can both see the spots of blood slowly spreading through the gauze.

“Shit,” Strahm mutters, his voice hoarse.

Mark takes a deep breath. At least, as Strahm had said, they’re going to be in Colorado by the end of the day. He keeps a firm grip on Strahm’s elbow as Strahm starts to work off the bandage, and there’s a part of Mark that wants to tell him to stop. They probably shouldn’t get the actual wound itself out in the open, but they’ll need to change the bandages anyway, and that takes priority. He keeps it to himself, just watching as it slowly comes into view.

“...okay,” Mark finally says once they can both see it, trying to keep any worry from his voice. “That’s fine. We can handle that.”

The wound isn’t too bad, but isn’t too good, either. The edges are red and angry, and there are beads of blood sliding down from where the scabs had broken loose, but at least none of the stitches had ripped. There’s no pus, no torn skin that hadn’t already been there, but even without his hand being too close Mark can tell that it feels a bit too hot to the touch anyway. Still, it hasn’t reached the point of no return yet. The shape of his arm still looks good despite the broken bone.

“Have you changed the bandages since that first time?” he asks, trying to remember if he’s seen Strahm dip into the little medical bag. He’s not sure.

“I’m not a child,” Strahm says through his teeth, taking his arm away.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Or maybe it does. “You gonna be okay for the drive?”

He can hear the click of Strahm’s throat as he swallows.

“Yeah. I’m fine. I can make it.”

Mark thinks back to yesterday morning, when he’d grabbed Strahm’s sling until it hurt, until Strahm was breathing through the pain with his teeth clenched tight. Strahm throwing a book at him and hunching over afterwards, Strahm walking up the stairs and mentioning his arm hurting. Strahm pushing himself with a hole in his throat. Strahm tying a tourniquet around his bicep while quite literally dying. Strahm forcing his body to its limit by keeping all of his weight between the walls so he wouldn’t fall. Sleeping with his seat down, moving stiffly like an old man. Strahm, uncomfortable with the car’s small interior. Strahm, waking up constantly with a gasp.

I was almost crushed to death recently.

“...you’re lying to me, aren’t you?” Mark asks.

The silence that follows speaks volumes, but neither of them move.

Mark has no idea how much time passes. There’s an uncomfortable intimacy to what they’re doing, with Strahm resting against him while they both try to recover from the fall. He’s still naked, though Mark had managed to drag the blanket off the bed to cover him with more than just his stupid shirt. Mark could laugh at that if he really wanted to. All this time noticing Strahm’s good looks, all this time feeling an attraction to him, and the first time he sees him naked it’s because Mark broke him into little pieces that neither of them know how to put back together.

Fuck. It’d only been four days ago that Strahm had come this close to being a mangled piece of flesh and bone instead of sitting on a motel floor in Iowa, that he’d been wedged ten feet above the ground, bleeding and terrified and crunched up between those walls. Mark can’t even remember how long it took him to get back to the room after the coffin sunk into the floor. How long had Strahm been up there? Ten minutes? Fifteen?

Strahm’s hair dries into those soft waves again, curling up at the nape of his neck. From this close, Mark can make out where he’s going gray at the temples, where some of it’s thinning along his hairline. The same piece that always seems to flop into Strahm’s eyes has started making its way down again, brushing against his eyelashes.

They’re so long. Mark’s noticed it before, of course, but up close and personal is a different story. It adds something almost… pretty to an otherwise rugged, handsome face. Delicate, maybe. Nothing about Strahm is delicate, and yet his eyelashes are. Mark can’t help but feel a little entranced by the way Strahm can balance strong masculinity and then an elegance to his eyes that borders on beauty.

What does Strahm see when he looks at Mark? Is there even anything worth looking at? Mark doubts it. Strahm had a wife, after all. The chances of him wanting to see anything are probably nonexistent.

“How’re you feeling?” he finally asks, when the stifling silence becomes too much to handle.

Strahm doesn’t answer right away. He seems drained of everything, with his breath hitching every so often. His eyes aren’t quite closed, but they flutter back open at the question. He rolls his head where it’s still rested on Mark’s shoulder, and Mark’s taken aback by the exhaustion there. He looks barely aware of anything. They’re so close that their noses are nearly touching again.

That eye contact holds. Strahm’s mouth has the sort of Cupid’s bow shape that creates a little gap between his lips, and Mark’s eyes flick down there for a moment before he brings them back up.

He doesn’t know what’s happening here. It’s like a bubble that’s been built around them, its thin walls in danger of popping at the slightest touch. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel. He doesn’t know what Strahm feels. Four days ago they were trying to kill each other, and four days ago was another lifetime, too.

Fascination. Temptation, maybe. Desire. Too many sins to count.

“I’m alright,” Strahm finally whispers hoarsely, and Mark can feel his breath from those scant few inches away.

Slowly, Mark moves his hand from Strahm’s elbow, trailing it downwards. He’s careful about not touching any part of the wound, and he’s equally careful about not jostling anything, either. It makes for an almost loving motion, his palm running across the thick hair on the back of Strahm’s forearm as he goes. When he gets to Strahm’s wrist, he has an insane moment where he wonders what would happen if he laced their fingers together, if Strahm would let it happen or if it would be the breaking point in this tightrope that they’ve strung up between themselves.

His thumb doesn’t quite touch the edge of the wound, and he can feel Strahm trembling where the back of his hand rests against Mark’s palm. Mark doesn’t remember the last time his own touch has been this gentle. He can’t remember the last time he wanted to be this gentle.

“Okay,” he murmurs. The guilt that’s eating at him threatens to open his chest wide, a sucking wound that he’s sure he could never close again. “Let’s get this wrapped back up and we can leave. Yeah?”

The bubble snaps, and Strahm makes no effort to get up.

“Yeah,” he replies. His pulse beats steadily underneath Mark’s thumb, a little faster than it should be. Mark can feel the heat of his cheek radiating off him. “Yeah. Okay.”

Chapter Text

Mark remembers the first time Angie broke a bone.

He already successfully won guardianship after their mother died, which meant that he was in charge of providing for the both of them. But more important to him was trying to figure out how to be a parental figure and a big brother at the same time, a balancing act that he had absolutely zero basis for. It also meant that when she was six and fell off the monkey bars, he’d had no idea what to do.

He’d only been twenty-one, and his sister was shrieking her head off and holding her leg and other people had already started rushing over while he was frozen in shock. Then his brain kicked itself back into high gear and he bolted over, immediately crouching down and dragging her up into his arms.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, Ange,” he told her, even while his own eyes were prickling up with tears as she wailed. It felt like being stabbed through the heart. “It’s okay, we’re gonna go to the doctor, alright? Take deep breaths. It’s okay.”

She clung to his shirt and wept like the world was ending, but she still nodded her head into his chest and let him carry her to the car. He didn’t have the money to pay for it, and his insurance from the police department was non-existent. He’d only just started, still a rookie assigned to ticket duty, but it didn’t matter. None of it fucking mattered, because his baby sister was in pain and he was going to fix it. He’d pull all the overtime in the world to deal with the bill, even if it took him thirty fucking years to pay it back.

Mark can’t help but think of that now, slumped on a chair in the waiting room of a hospital with his arms crossed and his legs spread. He’d been the first one to sign her cast, and the first one to hear all of her excited chattering after her first day back to class, when all of the other kids had signed it with Sharpies.

“Sarah was the only one who played with me during recess,” she admitted, rearranging the food on her plate. “‘cause I can’t go out on the playground. So we played Barbies inside.”

“That was really nice of her,” Mark had replied, and poked her with the end of his fork. “Stop pushing the green beans around.”

“They taste yucky.”

“Then tomorrow we’ll have broccoli.”

“Maaaark,” she’d complained loudly, “they taste yuckier!”

They had ended up sticking their tongues out at each other, but she’d eaten each green bean with as much of a scowl on her face as a little girl with a mouthful of food possibly could.

He was the last one in the waiting room, after all the other parents had gone home. He was the only one to hold her hand as the cast was cut off, and he was the first one to hold her on his shoulders for her triumphant return to the monkey bars.

That was just the sort of person Angelina had been. She kept going back to the things that had hurt her, stronger and more persistent than ever, convinced that she should try again. She was always the kid who got back up when she was tripped by other players on the soccer field, she was always the one who kept trying to coax stray cats to come out and eat even after they’d scratched her hands. She believed the best in everything, believed the best in everyone. Even him.

“Detective Hoffman?”

Mark snaps his head up, blinking a few times. A nurse stands in front of him with her clipboard rested on one forearm, looking down at the paper as she lifts one foot to tap the tip of her shoe against the ground.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, shaking his head a little before pushing off the chair’s armrests to stand. “Yeah, sorry. That’s me.”

The nurse doesn’t smile at him so much as grimace a little bit. She’s probably had a hell of a long night— Mark knows the look well enough by now. Overtime looks the same on everyone, and it shows in the way she doesn’t so much as blink at his attempts at politeness.

“Dr. Kuznik asked me to come bring you to her office,” she says, nodding her head towards the hallway. “You can follow me.”

His hands automatically go to button up his suit jacket before he remembers that he’s wearing his regular jacket, and for the first time part of that veneer he’s put on for so long slips just a bit.

Mark doesn’t spend a lot of time in hospitals waiting for someone he knows. It’s mostly time spent waiting to speak to a victim, or a suspect. If it’s a colleague, he has little reason to stay, because he doesn’t have anyone left in the department he particularly cares about. The effect that spending time with Strahm has had on him doesn’t escape his notice. He’s been sitting here, worried, and he’s been that way since they first got here.

It’s… awkward. He feels awkward.

He follows the nurse down the hall, carefully walking past closed doors that have nothing more than numbers under the windows and clipboards hanging from the walls. The amount of times he’s been in a hospital is far from insignificant, but it still feels odd to be here for anyone other than a suspect or a victim—though perhaps Strahm falls under either one or both of those things, in the long run.

The nurse rapping her knuckles on a door brings him right back to the present with a blink, and then she’s opening the door and gesturing for him to go inside.

“Uh, thanks,” he tells her, trying to pull together a loose, casual smile. She just smiles back, but it seems more like she’s doing it out of professional necessity. Yet again, he can relate. Maybe he should’ve been a nurse.

Mark turns towards the desk once the door closes, clearing his throat a little to fill out the empty space of silence in the room. The only other occupant is already on her feet and striding right up to him, the click of her short heels dulled by the carpet.

“Detective Hoffman,” she says warmly, reaching out for a handshake. “Dr. Alexis Kuznik. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” Her hand is small in his, but she’s got a hell of a grip. The embroidery on her coat declares her as the chief of surgery, and he nods his greeting towards it. “Thanks for your help with all of this. Did Dr. Gordon fill you in?”

He’s unsure about that last part, so he tries to keep it as vague as possible. He has no idea what Lawrence could’ve possibly told her to make up for the fact that they’d had to travel across the country to fix a broken arm, but he figures a good old-fashioned leading question can solve that for him.

“All he mentioned was that your friend needed discrete care,” she replies, gesturing at one of the two chairs in front of her desk as she makes her way back to her own seat. “Larry and I go all the way back to pre-med, and I owed him one. Honestly, I’m surprised it took him this long to cash it in.”

“Mind if I ask what exactly you owed him for?” Mark tries to keep his tone light. “Dr. Gordon did mention a favor was involved, but he didn’t say what.”

Dr. Kuznik gives him a bit of a quizzical look, but just smiles as she tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“He snuck my sister into a clinical trial for her cancer years ago,” she says, and there’s something about her tone that tells a secret that Mark won’t be able to weasel out of her. “Makes sense I’d have to sneak in someone, too.”

It sounds so unlike Gordon that Mark can only blink at her for a second, his lips parting a little in shock. In the time they’ve known each other—which granted, hasn’t been that much, and it’s not as if they’ve ever gone out for drinks or to a baseball game or something—Lawrence Gordon had always given off the impression that he’d rather cut off his other leg than go out of his way to sidestep a bureaucratic process just to help someone. That had been the whole reason he’d been tossed into that bathroom, after all.

“I won’t give you the big long lecture on Peter’s arm,” Dr. Kuznik says as she sits and crosses her legs. “It’d be pretty boring. But the essentials should do.”

He can’t help but grin at her, feeling just a little bit of that old mask slip back on. Charming, unassuming, the sort of guy that hangs out in the background and never bothers anyone, the sort that does everyone else’s paperwork to keep out of trouble.

“I’m a homicide detective, Doctor,” he says amicably, relaxing into a chair himself. “I’ve heard plenty of boring medical lectures.”

She chuckles, unaware of just how many of those lectures he was the cause of in the first place, this one included.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Mark watches as she shuffles through a few folders on her desk before finding one that’s unlabeled and flicking through the papers inside. Curious, he can’t help but crane his neck a little to look, but she makes it easier for him and starts pulling out the familiar blue and black slides of x-ray images.

“So you know it was a compound fracture of the ulna,” she starts, and Mark nods. He can still hear the sound of Strahm’s bone snapping, and it bothers him more than it had before. She reaches out and traces paths on the x-ray with her finger, following a line of broken bone and shredded tissue. “Well, unfortunately, that did a lot of damage. There’s a ligament right here between the ulna and the radius that got torn, and we weren’t able to reconstruct the muscle that was ripped up when the bone pushed through. The radius looks like it suffered a decent amount of pressure too, though it bent inward instead of breaking. So there’s bruising there on the bone.”

She sighs, sitting back. Her frown tells Mark that it’s nothing good.

“This is where it gets unfortunate. The ulnar artery, this one—” she runs her finger along the outside of her left arm, mapping out Strahm’s injury almost to the letter, “—was nicked just a bit, so I’m assuming he bled a lot. We were able to repair what it hadn’t fixed on its own. But the ulnar nerve, the one that makes your funny bone do that tingling thing when you hit it, was… well, not to put too fine a point on it, but it was very badly damaged. Extended use after the initial injury is my best guess.”

Something in Mark’s chest is trying to claw its way out. Screeching metal walls and pained wails seem to ring out somewhere in the distance, though he knows they’re not real.

“Okay,” he says, voice steady. Regardless, her expression is sympathetic.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Detective,” she says softly. “It doesn’t look good. We can try physical therapy, and the majority of the wound will heal, but the chances of him getting full use of that arm back… they’re pretty low.”

It shouldn’t be anything new, and it shouldn’t bother him. That’s the game. Gordon cut off his own foot, for fuck’s sake, and Stanheight had bashed his own into ground meat. Mark had heard in passing from the rest of the department what’d happened to Mallick Scott and Brit Stevensen, how they’d sliced their arms in half straight down to the elbow just to win their game and survive. It’s exactly like this, exactly the same at the end of the day. Gruesome disfigurements are far from a surprise. They’re par for the course, even.

So why is this bothering him so much? Why does he care?

“He said it’d been hurting pretty bad the last few days,” he lies, trying to distract himself. Strahm hadn’t ever actually said shit about his arm hurting, but anyone with eyes would’ve been able to tell anyway. “When we changed the bandages yesterday morning, it’d gotten a little inflamed.”

“Ah, yes,” Dr. Kuznik nods, sitting back again. She uses her splayed out fingers to move some of the papers around. “There was some staph, though that was thankfully easier to deal with than anything else. We just have him on some antibiotics in his IV and that should clear it up quick. Something probably got into the wound when it was first opened, debris or fibers from whatever his arm might’ve been wrapped up in.”

Mark remembers, quite suddenly, his suit jacket laying in a bloody heap on the floor of his bedroom.

“We’ll keep him for the next day or two, just to check the incision and make sure another infection doesn’t develop,” she continues, oblivious to Mark’s silence. “After that, we’ll send him on home until next week when we’ll put the cast on. Pretty standard. Do you have any questions?”

There’s a hundred that he could ask, and a thousand more that simply don’t have an answer. Mark scratches at one of his eyelids with the tip of his thumbnail, shaking his head. There’s a lot going on in his head right now, more than he wants to deal with at the moment.

“When’s a good time to check in on him?” he finally settles on, lowering his arm, and to his surprise she smiles at him.

“He’s in PACU right now,” she says kindly, and he has to search his brain for a second before he remembers: post-anesthesia care unit. Right. “He’s a little loopy at the moment, and they’re moving him into a room in a little bit, but there shouldn’t be a problem getting you in there to see him afterwards. I’m sure after the entrance the two of you made, you’d like to make sure he’s okay. I get that.”

Mark blows some air out through pursed lips.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and nods. “Something like that.”

“If you head back to the waiting room, I can send for another nurse to take you to his room once he’s settled in,” Dr. Kuznik says, and starts to rise up out of her seat. Mark follows suit. “ It shouldn’t take more than another hour. I know you’ve done a lot of waiting, but…”

Mark shakes his head, throwing her another one of those charming smiles that used to always get him what he wanted. At least that still seems to work.

“I’ll grab a coffee at the café,” he says amiably, with a shake of her hand again. If he has to listen to one more minute of all the ways he’s ruined Strahm’s life, he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle it. “Thanks for all of your help, Doctor. I appreciate it.”

She squeezes his hand.

“He’s lucky to have you, Detective,” she says, and Mark’s mask slips for just a second. “Not many people would drive across the country like that for just anyone.”

“Yeah,” he says, slapping that grin back onto his face. His stomach churns unpleasantly. “Luck’s a good word for it, huh?”

-

Sure enough, it takes another hour or so of sitting in an uncomfortable chair and sipping poorly made coffee before another nurse drops by to whisk him away to one of the patient rooms. The coffee’s doing the best it can to keep him awake, but he’s starting to feel the fatigue hit him like an oncoming freight train. It drags his feet a little as he walks, right up until the nurse raps sharply on the door to one of the rooms and opens it to immediate, loud complaints.

Yeah, he thinks. Definitely the right room.

“Oh, God,” Strahm says, rolling his head on the pillow to look at the two of them as they come in, and the last of the anesthetic must still be hanging around because Mark can hear the South Jersey in the words as clear as day. “Now you’re here. Great. Put me back under, please.”

“He’s a real cranky one,” the nurse says, grinning pointedly over at Mark like they’re sharing a secret as she moves to check the IV stand by the bed.

Mark grunts.

“You have no idea.”

“I have metal in my arm,” Strahm complains, and lifts it up to show them both. “I’m allowed to be cranky after surgery.”

“You’d be cranky anyway,” Mark says, hands in his pockets. He looks Strahm up and down, taking in the neat bandages on his arm and the gown tied at the back of his neck. He looks a little haggard, but he’s all in one piece. That’s going to have to do for now. “How’re you feeling?”

“Blitzed,” Strahm says, leaning his head back into the pillows and sighing. “I haven’t been this high since college.”

Mark stares at him for just a beat too long before glancing over at the nurse with his eyebrows raised.

“We’ll start weaning him off the painkillers within the next day or so,” she assures, though there’s still an amused smile on her face. “This is honestly pretty typical.”

“I like the painkillers,” Strahm insists, opening his eyes again. “Why are we getting rid of the painkillers? We don’t need to get rid of the painkillers.”

This time, Mark snorts so hard that his nose stings.

“You’re going to start setting off warning bells,” he tells Strahm, who just turns and frowns at him like he’s not sure what Mark’s trying to imply. “Just relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“I can tell.”

“I’m relaxed,” Strahm repeats, and looks at the nurse. “Can you tell him I’m relaxed?”

Once more, she and Mark share a look before he shakes his head as imperceptibly as he can, trying to play it off as fond exasperation. She smirks and checks the IV once before moving towards the door, stopping at Mark’s side before she leaves.

“He’s relaxed,” she obediently says to him, and turns back towards Strahm. “Dr. Kuznik’s on her way to check your arm, Mr. Strahm, so just hold tight, okay?”

“To what?” Strahm asks, sounding bewildered, and Mark has to turn away from the bed before he hurts himself. “Stop laughing, Hoffman. Hold tight to what?”

Still, as they sit there and squabble—insofar as Strahm can squabble while he’s high off his ass—Mark can’t help but think back to what Dr. Kuznik had mentioned before, about the way they’d made their entrance into the hospital. It hadn’t been so dramatic as him dragging a half-dead Strahm into through the front doors of the ER and shouting for help, but it hadn’t actually been a walk in the park either. They’d gotten Strahm’s arm wrapped back up, and then Strahm had spent the better part of the ride with a hand over his eyes and his face a little too flushed. Mark thought they’d make it, but then they’d had to stop halfway through so Strahm could puke on the side of the highway.

“You swear you’ve been taking your antibiotics,” Mark had said, his voice tight, and Strahm had nodded while he was still bent over. Vomiting’s never exactly pleasant, but this spell had sounded downright painful. “You’re not lying to me? You’ve been taking them?”

“I’m not lying,” Strahm had croaked back, still curled over as he leaned against the car. He sounded horrible, and the clicking of the hazards had all but drowned him out. “Can we go now?”

There had been a moment, brief and unfair, where Mark’s hand had hovered just above Strahm’s back, right between his shoulder blades. Strahm’s pride had already taken a hell of a beating that morning, and Mark wasn’t sure how much more comforting Strahm could handle.

But he’d still wanted to. He’d still wanted to rub circles there and try to give him what little he could, just like he had earlier. Instead he took his hand back before Strahm had noticed, and just waited for him to get back into the car.

It’d been humiliating enough for him to need help getting off the floor. Mark knew that, and he knew being naked had made it worse. Mark’s no stranger to that drained feeling after a panic attack, and he’d had to coax Strahm into letting him get him back up, into letting Mark heft his good arm over Mark’s shoulders so he could haul him back onto his feet. It’d taken some cajoling, yeah, but he’d finally succeeded, and he’d left the room to give Strahm some privacy and to pull himself back together.

And maybe he’d pulled into the hospital’s parking lot with his foot still a bit too heavy on the pedal, but it hadn’t mattered to him then and it still doesn’t matter to him now. He’d just gotten out of the car and pulled Strahm to his feet again, not caring if it’d embarrass him. It’d been a little hard to ignore the way Strahm practically fell into him, though.

“I’m gonna be honest,” Strahm had moaned, a little too pale. “I might pass out.”

Mark had tried to quell the sudden rabbit-quick skip of his own heartbeat.

“Yeah, I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Well now I’m going to,” Strahm snapped back, but he’d been leaning a little too heavily onto Mark’s side as they made their way into the ER. “What, you think I want to pass out?”

“At this point, Peter, I think you want to do anything that’ll even mildly inconvenience me,” Mark had replied, and it’d almost earned him a chuckle before they made it to the front desk. Almost.

Mark still doesn’t know exactly what strings Lawrence had pulled in order to get them into this hospital without raising any flags, or why they’d had to come all the way out to Colorado in the first place. But it’d been almost too easy once they got there to get Strahm checked in and taken care of.

“He’ll need to be admitted and put under observation,” one of the nurses had told him, after they’d whisked Strahm away. “Has he eaten anything in the last twelve hours?”

“Uh,” Mark said, racking his brain. His answers come too fast, too clipped. “Not that I can remember, no. But I’m not sure. Yogurt? He threw it up on the way here.”

She hadn’t so much as flinched.

“Then we’ll probably have to wait until we’re sure before he can go into surgery. We can always call and let you know when you can come back, Mr.…?”

It wasn’t panic that he felt then, but apprehension. Leaving the hospital for that long could have a lot of consequences. Between Strahm finally having enough time to blab to someone about the whole thing, to something happening to him while Mark was getting their hotel room together, it almost wasn’t worth the risk. He can lie to himself if that’s what it takes, try to reason that he wants to stay because he can’t let Strahm too far out of his sight or risk them getting caught. It’s easy enough to lie to yourself when you want to.

But he still knew he couldn’t.

“It’s Detective. Can I leave you my number and come back in a few hours?” he’d asked, ignoring her request for his last name. “I need to check into our hotel.”

And then, just like when he’d dropped Strahm off at the free clinic, suddenly he was all alone and left to his own devices. Suddenly he wasn’t sure what to do with himself, standing there in the middle of the waiting room with his car keys too heavy in his pocket.

Mark’s never been good with the world suddenly stopping. It’s happened to him more times than he can count, and every time he hits that speed bump, he doesn’t know what to do next. And now, instead of a speed bump, the last five days have screeched to a halt. There’s nothing to do but wait. No plans to make, no routes to trace, no medications to keep track of. Just an empty hotel suite when he unlocks the door and an extra bag that isn’t his.

So much of his life since Angie’s death had been spent by himself, in one way or another. It’s something he’d relished, grown so used to that he’d felt like he could never possibly go back. He hadn’t needed anyone in his life, and he’d liked it that way. The solitude of his big lonely house was comforting, like a warm blanket fresh out of the clothes dryer. He didn’t have to worry about pretending to be the person that didn’t exist anymore, because there wasn’t anyone there to prove it to.

But now that he’d spent the last four days in the neverending company of another person, he wonders if he can go back to that old life again. If it’ll be easy to return to, or if a cold, empty house will be just that.

He’d stood there in the middle of that dark hotel suite and realized he already knew the answer.

“You’re thinking really hard about something,” Strahm says, and Mark startles and looks over at him. There’s more awareness in Strahm’s bright blue eyes, more clarity than there’d been only ten minutes before. “What’s going on?”

“I’m thinking about our hotel room,” Mark lies. Well, mostly lies. He had been thinking about it. “I’m gonna have to go grocery shopping while your ass is still in here. Trying to make plans.”

“How domestic,” Strahm says, and Mark chokes on his own saliva. His cheeks are burning, and Strahm smirks.

“Wh—”

There’s a knock on the door, either saving Mark from having to demand any more elaboration or, alternatively, making that comment somehow worse.

“Hi, Peter,” Dr. Kuznik says warmly, walking in once she’s given the okay. “How’s the arm?”

“Still attached,” Strahm replies, and lifts it as she moves closer. “Thanks for that, by the way. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” she tells him as she carefully pokes around at the bandage. “Looking good so far, though. How’s your pain level?”

Strahm lifts his good hand and gives her a thumbs up. The gesture is so casual that it throws Mark off, makes him realize that he hasn’t ever really seen Strahm interact with someone this way before. The drugs are probably doing a lot of the work.

“It’s a lot better than it was before,” Strahm says. “It’s at a one right now.”

“That’s because you’re off your ass,” Mark mutters, and Dr. Kuznik laughs. He watches as she slowly rotates Strahm’s arm around in her small gloved hands, careful about every angle and every twist. Strahm’s fingers twitch a few times, but he never cries out in pain or tries to snatch his arm away; he just watches with an almost curious gaze.

When she’s done, she reaches forward and points at Strahm’s throat.

“Mind if I take a look there, too?”

They must’ve talked about it at some point while Mark was either at the hotel or in the waiting room, because Strahm doesn’t seem at all surprised by the request. He just tips his head back, and closes his eyes as she starts to examine the little hole where the pen had gone in.

Her mouth thins in concentration, but she doesn’t seem too concerned as she uses both thumbs to gently press down on either side where the scabbing’s started to fall away. When she straightens back up, her expression is nothing but satisfied.

“It looks like it’s healing nicely,” she says, and takes her gloves off. “How long has it been since the initial injury again?”

Strahm closes one eye, like he’s thinking. Mark could easily answer the question himself, but he just sits quietly in his seat and waits.

“A week,” Strahm finally decides. “A day or two more.”

“Good. Then I think you can start moving on to a more solid diet, though I still want you to stick to softer stuff for right now. But give it another week or two and you can probably go back to regular food. We’ll figure out a good timeline and I’ll print you out a list of what you can and can’t eat until then. How’s that sound?”

Mark can practically see Strahm’s eyes sparkling with both relief and delight. He can’t blame him, though. There’s absolutely no way that a week of eating nothing but jello and soup would be anything short of miserable. They both thank her as she leaves, and the second that a nurse comes back with a stapled packet the mood in the room lifts considerably.

Mark can tell that Strahm’s still flying a bit high, because he scans through the list and then holds it up like he’s presenting a project, grinning triumphantly.

“It’s got muffins on it,” he says, and Mark sighs. “If you don’t get me a goddamn banana-nut muffin from the cafeteria, Hoffman, I’m going to go down there and get it myself.”

“Alright, princess,” Mark replies gruffly as he stands up, though he still feels something like fondness again. “I’ll get you your damn muffin. Relax.”

And yet his mood dips again when he makes his way down the stairs. He takes it slow, one at a time, letting his hand slide slowly across the bannister as he makes his way to the cafeteria—not as familiar a friend yet as the café, but still easier to find than he would like. His shoes echo through the empty stairwell, bouncing across the painted stone walls until he finally tugs the door open at the bottom with more force than he means to.

There’s a small array of baked goods on one side of the cafeteria, near the coffee and sandwich options, muffins and pastries and donuts. They’re all individually wrapped, and he almost robotically sorts through them until he finds what he’s looking for. There are a few blueberry, some lemon, and one banana-nut left. He just grabs it, half in a daze, and then just… lets the world go on without him.

An infection. Debris or fibers from whatever Strahm’s arm was wrapped up in.

The plastic packaging crinkles helplessly in his hand as he stands there in the middle of the cafeteria, staring at the tiled floor. He’d done what he thought would help in the moment. He’d tugged his suit jacket off, wrapped it around Strahm’s still bleeding arm, and hoisted him as much as he could up those stairs and back into his house. He’d thought that’d be the end of it.

An infection, one that only got worse the longer Strahm had stayed in that car. Even with antibiotics, it’d still grown and gotten more diseased with each day they spent in that car. There was only so much Gordon and Nelson would’ve been able to clean out, probably. Maybe the seeds of the infection had started the moment that Mark had wrapped his suit jacket around Strahm’s arm.

Maybe there’d been something more, even before that. Maybe Mark just infects everything, no matter where he goes.

It used to not matter. He used to not care. Now he cares so much that it feels like it’s trying to swallow him whole. Now he’s standing here, in the middle of a hospital cafeteria with a goddamn banana-nut muffin in his hand, and he doesn’t know what to do next. He’s flying by the seat of his pants, and he hasn’t felt lost like this since—

Well. Not in a very long time. Not since he was strapped to that chair. Not since Paul Leahy had slammed his back into a wall and for that brief, suspended moment in time, Mark had been sure he was going to die.

But those are thoughts for another day. He can’t handle much more.

Strahm’s still got his eyes closed when Mark finds his way back in, though he does open them to glance over when the door clicks shut. He looks exhausted, a little drawn. Being in the hospital is never a walk in the park, of course, so Mark just finds his seat back in the chair by the bed and sighs as he puts the little wrapped package on the bedside table.

“Hey,” he says quietly. It feels like he shouldn’t raise his voice past a murmur. “I got your muffin.”

He watches as Strahm takes in that information before he huffs through his nose, lips curving upwards into something that’s not quite a smile.

“I’ll eat it later,” he mutters, and shifts uncomfortably. “They’ve already got me on a lower dose, and it’s making my stomach upset.”

“Good, though?” Mark asks quietly, leaning forward until he can rest his elbows on his knees. “Other than that?”

Strahm’s quiet before shrugging, lifting his bad arm up a little. He studies it, eyebrows creased together, and then lowers it back down onto the bed.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “I’m good.”

They settle into a silence that feels neither comfortable nor awkward. Rather, it feels more like the simplicity of being human—that the both of them just want to sit there and not say anything because there’s nothing to say. It just is. There’s nothing more to it than that. It’s a different silence than the ones in the car, and Mark finally leans back into his seat and stares up at the ceiling, letting out a long breath.

“She tell you about your arm?” he asks after a while, once he’s done counting the dark little specks in the ceiling tiles. They’re like the opposite of constellations, black against white, and he’s found enough shapes in them to have gotten bored with it. He doesn’t have to elaborate on the question, he’s sure.

“...yeah,” Strahm repeats, and his voice isn’t small so much as distant. “She did.”

The answer is so loud, so loaded, that Mark’s not sure what to do with it. He can see where Strahm awkwardly twitches the fingers of his left hand, a motion that looks more robotic than human. They spasm once or twice, clenching in and out at the first knuckles before Strahm sighs and rests his head back into the pillow. He seem to be staring at the shitty tiles too, his eyes shifting back and forth a few times before he lets them slide closed.

“Have you ever broken anything?” he asks, sounding a little sleepier than before.

Mark gives him the driest look he can muster. He’s not sure where the question came from, but at least he has an answer.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice flat. “My nose.”

Strahm’s eyes flicker back open and he looks over at him, eyebrows coming together for the briefest of moments. They just stare at each other, with the bustle of the staff outside and beeping in just about every corner of the room. It feels peculiar, like there’s something hanging in the air, but Mark has no idea what it could possibly be.

And then Strahm throws his head back and laughs.

Just like his smile in the car, it’s nothing big. It’s not raucous or even all that loud. He just squeezes his eyes shut and wheezes through his clenched teeth, sudden joy radiating off him in waves. But it fits him perfectly; the sort of laughter that’s not particularly wild but still makes itself known when it needs to. The kind that lights him up and instantly makes him look younger, and it freezes Mark in his seat like a deer in the headlights.

Of course Strahm’s handsome. Of course he is. That’s never been a question. But the way that his laughter changes everything about the contours of both his appearance and his personality—fuck. Fuck. It’s not that it makes him look like another man, it’s that it makes him look like the man he ought to be. Like he should be spending every day having someone making him laugh like that, instead of scowling at everything that breathes. Handsome doesn’t begin to cover it.

Mark could picture burning a city down if Peter Strahm asked him to, if it meant getting to see that laugh again. It’d be like a cat bringing home dead mice to please its owner. Not tamed, not domesticated, but a third thing— one that borders on absolute devotion, on loyalty beyond measure. Mark had meant for Strahm to understand him, but now he’s realizing he messed this up exponentially. He wants to understand Strahm, and at a microscopic level. He wants to know what makes him smile, what makes him laugh, what makes him tick altogether.

“Okay,” Strahm says, still chuckling with his head resting back against the pillow. His eyes are still closed, and those eyelashes dust against his cheekbones. “Fine. I walked into that.”

Mark just swallows, sitting back in his chair.

He’s in so much fucking trouble.

Chapter Text

“Where did you put the eggs?” Strahm’s staring into the fridge, squinting at its contents suspiciously. “I don’t see them.”

Mark doesn’t even look up from the article he’s reading in the paper.

“They’re in the door,” he mutters absently, turning a page over. “By the butter.”

There’s a brief pause while Strahm presumably looks, and then Mark hears a quiet “ah” before the fridge door shuts again. It’s a nice day out, given how hot Colorado seems to be, and they’ve got the window open so that a nice breeze flutters the newspaper’s pages as it passes through.

There’s nothing in any article that even mildly suggests anyone might be looking for them, though Mark knows better than that by now. Evading the police by being one of them has been his specialty since he started all of this, after all, and he knows all of their tricks, too. Alerting a suspect by posting about them in the paper always goes one of two ways—you do it to attract their attention, or you don’t do it at all.

Well, there’s the third option, but that’s when they can’t wrangle journalists fast enough to stop them. Mark thinks of Pamela Jenkins’s incessant calls and emails before they’d left for Colorado. He can’t help it as he curls his lip a little thinking about her getting her nose into this, too. That at least would give him a head’s up if nothing else, though he’d rather she just stay away from him entirely.

He can feel the sudden presence of warmth at his back and doesn’t look up, instead leaning into his chair to give Strahm a better chance to scan the paper.

“Nothing, I’m assuming,” Strahm says after a pause, and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hand.

Mark turns another page.

“Nope,” he says, popping the P. There’s something like vindication in the answer.

The bottle crinkles in Strahm’s hand as he swallows the water and sighs before wandering back over to the kitchenette. He’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and when Mark sneaks a covert look at him he catches a glimpse of sweat at the small of his back and under his arms. Another jog, then. He’s started doing that the last couple of days, though Mark can’t help but wonder how much of the sweat is just because it gets hot outside.

The last time Mark had a roommate, it had been at the police academy, and to be frank that had felt more like being cellmates in the same prison block. He’d been glad beyond belief when he’d graduated, fleeing back to live with his mother and sister. Gay or not, being forced to share proximity with at least a dozen other sweaty, smelly guys in their late teens wasn’t exactly the best time of his life.

Strahm, by comparison, is a pretty reasonable roommate. He’s a bit sweaty, yeah, but his hygiene is leagues better than a bunch of testosterone-driven muscle heads—even if the shower still seems to be a problem for him. Mark had managed to find an extended stay hotel with a drawn curtain style instead of a stall shower, and he tries to mind his business whenever he can, but it clearly takes Strahm more time than it should to get in and out. Mark doesn’t comment on it. The best thing for him to do is figure out a distraction and mind his own business, and that’s the way both of them like it.

Mostly Strahm just sits there at the table or on the couch and reads, or goes out for walks that seem to turn into jogs more often than not. He finished Into Thin Air at some point and seems to be digging into the lesbian book next, judging by the way his cheeks keep turning pink. Still, he does the dishes as best as he can with one arm, and he keeps all his laundry in his own space, and he’s just… there.

All the time.

Domesticity doesn’t begin to cover it, and Mark has no fucking idea what to do with himself. They’ve been given a six-week window to stay in Colorado while Strahm’s arm heals, with a promise from Dr. Kuznik that she’ll try to have the cast off as soon as she can. It’s a simple white one, solidly in place from Strahm’s elbow to his palm, and while he still has to wear a sling it’s not nearly as restrictive as the one that’d been strapped around his chest.

She’d also removed the stitches on his throat the same day that Strahm had been discharged, and sometimes Mark catches him running his fingers over the fresh pink scar. It’s discrete enough, but they both know it’s there.

“God, that’s weird,” Strahm had murmured that first time, staring at it in the sun visor’s mirror on their way to the motel. His fingers brushed carefully over that tiny little hole, the one that had saved his life.

Mark hadn’t said anything, but he’d noticed that Strahm’s voice was almost entirely back to normal.

Now it’s a week out and he seems… better. He’s not exhausted and battered to shit, able to do more on his own than he ever had in the motels. He can eat things like meat and bread, though he seems to have a fondness for fresh fruits and baked goods, not to mention an insane amount of coffee. He doesn’t walk like an old man anymore, he’s more alert and active, and his fidgeting—while still there—doesn’t seem to be quite so bad.

Mark has only ever seen him sick or on the job, and it’s weird to discover that Strahm’s just like any other man. The pedestal Mark had put up for him hasn’t crumbled—it’s just simply not as tall as he’d thought it was.

“Are you actually cooking breakfast?” he asks now, turning in his seat to watch as Strahm starts fumbling around in one of the cabinets. The pots and pans that had been a feature of the suite clang around as he manages to tug out a skillet, and he shoots a scowl Mark’s way.

“What’s that tone for?”

Mark immediately holds out his hands in a gesture of surrender, eyebrows going up and his expression one of innocence.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, trying to hide his smirk. “Just surprised. You don’t seem like the type.”

“The type to cook?”

“I mean…” Mark shrugs a little. “I kinda figured you’d just eat the granola bars you found at the bottom of your work bag or something. You saying I’m wrong?”

Strahm’s look of sheer, unmitigated outrage tells him everything he needs to know.

“I know,” Strahm exclaims angrily, slamming the skillet down onto the burner, “how to cook.”

“I never said you didn’t, Bobby Flay,” Mark says, snickering. “Calm down.”

“Who the fuck is Bobby Flay?”

There’s no winning this one without outright laughing in Strahm’s face and making the situation worse, so Mark just lifts his hands again and scoots the rolling chair backwards towards the beds. It’s a clear indication that he’s giving up the fight before it can really start, and it seems to work. Strahm growls under his breath and snatches a spatula out of one of the drawers.

“I have to make a few phone calls,” Mark tells him as he gets up out of the chair. “Try not to be too loud while you’re throwing your tantrum.”

Strahm actually chooses not to answer him this time, which is a bit of a shocker. He just glares at Mark from out of the corner of his eyes, tracking his motions like a hawk. He looks equally pissed off and unamused, like he’s smelled something rotten, but that’s not Mark’s problem. Strahm can figure himself out.

His phone’s still in the side pocket of his bag, turned off whenever he’s not using it, and it beeps cheerfully at him as he presses the power button. The battery’s lower than he thought it’d be—he’ll have to remember to get it onto the charger before it dies. Strahm watches him for a second or two more, his eyes sharp, but then with a huff he goes back to rummaging around in the fridge.

Mark knows the phone he’s using can’t be tracked, but it still doesn’t stop his heart from thumping a little bit as he punches in Gordon’s number. Everything they do has to be either careful or discrete—the only reason that even going to the hospital out here had been an option. Using a phone without GPS is the easiest possible way to do that, but it still feels like one mistake could end it all.

The line rings once or twice, and then there’s the familiar click as Gordon says flatly, “Lawrence Gordon speaking.”

“It’s me.”

There’s a pause.

“Hoffman?”

Mark blinks, face twisting up in confusion.

“Yeah?” he says, sneering a little. “Who else would be fucking calling you?”

“You may have forgotten this,” Gordon says, sniffing primly, “but I’m a fairly notable doctor. People call me all the time, thank you.”

“Oh, shit, is it Hoffman calling?” Faulkner’s voice sounds tinny and distant, like he’s on the other side of the room. “Hey, give him a message, tell him—”

The line goes silent for a couple of seconds, and then Gordon lets out a world-weary sigh.

“I will not be telling him that.”

Against his better judgment, Mark grins. That fucking kid.

“I’m sure whatever he said was incredibly kind,” he offers, and Lawrence’s voice is as dry as a desert.

“As many rude gestures as you can possibly imagine.”

Mark hasn’t spent a whole lot of time with Faulkner, to be fair, but that lines up. He sits back on the bed until it squeaks and then turns to look out of the window, eyes tracking the people that walk by. Colorado weather’s pretty different from New Jersey weather, of course, but there’s still a nice early-morning feel to the air coming in through the screen that wakes him up.

“Anyway,” he says after a brief silence, “I was calling to see where you were at.”

It takes Gordon one or two seconds to catch up before he says, “ah. Yes. That.”

Mark waits patiently.

“...well, it could be going better,” Gordon finally allows, sounding put out. “It’d be a lot easier if we had someone to do the heavy lifting, of course, but things are moving along. Jill’s been helping us here and there. John left her some pictures.”

Fuck Jill, Mark thinks sourly, but out loud just asks, “Pictures? Did Faulkner take them?”

Gordon hums confirmation, but then goes silent.

“...Mark,” he finally says, sounding hesitant. “I think perhaps you should sit this one out. We can handle William Easton on our own. You should spend some time… well, away.”

“No,” Mark says sharply, not even thinking about his answer. He can feel the way that Strahm looks up from what he’s doing at the noise, but Mark ignores him. “You hold off until I’m there. You hear me? Wait until I’m back.”

Again, Lawrence hesitates.

“But—”

“I’m going to be there,” Mark says through his teeth. He should’ve had this conversation somewhere more private, but it’s too late for that now. Strahm’s eyes are burning into his back, and he has to end it where it is—with zero argument. “We have time. Don’t start without me.”

“Mark—”

“Don’t. Start. Without me,” he repeats, his voice more a growl than anything. “I have another call to make.”

He hangs up before he can really think about it. This game, whatever it is, had been left to all of them, and whether they like it or not, Mark’s also part of the equation. He’d helped with building the majority of the bigger traps—the carousel, for one, and the maze—and the idea of those very traps being run without him there makes his stomach twist up in a bitter anger he can’t tamp back down.

You think it's over just because I am dead? It's not over. The games have just begun.

John’s voice echoes in his memory, soft and filled with the grit of illness, the weight of its decay. He’d stood over John’s dead body in that morgue, had stood over it in that little makeshift hospital room. Who was Lawrence fucking Gordon to decide that he wouldn’t be a part of this game? The very game that John had said would be one of the most important? Mark has to work his jaw to push the anger down as he dials.

And yet that same anger bleeds into his tone as the line rings twice before clicking as Fisk picks up.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Mark says, and there’s a pause before he has to clarify, trying to sound calmer. “It’s Hoffman.”

“...oh shit,” Fisk replies, sounding shocked. “Hoffman. Goddamn. Where have you been? We’ve all been trying to figure out what the hell happened to you, everyone was flat out wondering if you’d died or something.”

That’d probably be easier than whatever’s actually going on, admittedly, but he just huffs out something like a laugh and settles onto the bed a bit more comfortably. He’s still trying to keep his voice quiet, and he can hear Strahm fiddling around with something in the kitchenette.

“Nah,” he says softly, rubbing at the corner of an eye with his thumb. “I’ve just been under the radar. I’ll tell you more about it when I get back. What’s happening over there?”

Fisk hesitates, and Mark can hear the way he taps his fingers in a drumbeat against what he assumes is Fisk’s desk.

“A lot,” Fisk settles on. “You’re missing a hell of a case with that FBI agent. Strahm, I think?”

The very same FBI agent drops something with a clatter, which elicits a mumbled “fuck” from the other side of the room.

“Really.” Mark shifts on the bed, not turning around. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just…” Fisk sounds like he’s trying to figure out what to say, but Mark just waits patiently. “I don’t know how much I’m allowed to talk about it on the phone, right? But, um. They think he might’ve been… you know. The guy.”

Though he knows exactly what it is that Fisk’s implying, Mark spends a couple extra seconds to pretend that he’s thinking that over before he says, “oh? You mean… that guy?”

“Yeah. That guy. Which is kind of really smart, you know? Investigating the crime when you’re the one who did it all in the first place. It’s a good cover. It’s crazy that he killed his partner, though—you know, if he actually did it.”

Mark makes a soft noise, like he’s agreeing.

“I’m gonna assume you can’t tell me more over the phone.”

This time, Fisk laughs a little bit.

“Right. But I mean… There's a lot of evidence. Apparently his supervisor found, like, a whole lair or something? It’s wild. He didn’t seem like the sort, you know? He kinda just seemed like a regular guy.”

Mark takes a glance at Strahm, still dressed in a t-shirt and running shorts and angrily poking at the eggs with the spatula, no doubt pretending they’re Mark’s face. Even as Mark watches, Strahm sprinkles cheddar cheese over the eggs with so much malice that it’s actually impressive. The hair at the nape of his neck is starting to curl up from the sweat drying there.

“I guess you don’t ever truly know what someone’s capable of,” he says.

Fisk is quiet.

“Yeah,” he answers finally. “Man, I guess you don’t.”

-

The following day is officially the day that Strahm gets to eat whatever he wants again, without having to worry about hurting his throat or reopening the wound. Mark knows this little fact because Strahm will not shut the fuck up about it.

“You’re taking me for whatever I want for dinner,” he demands, and Mark can’t even get a word out to taunt him for his word choice because Strahm just barrels on. “This was your fault, so you’re going to fucking make up for it. Got it?”

“I didn’t tell you to shove a pen into your throat.” It’s a weak defense, and Mark knows it. “You did that all on your own.”

“You’re the one who put my head in the box!” Strahm snaps, sounding even more wound up than when they’d started. His voice cracks towards the apex of the sentence, reminding them both that there was still damage done.

Mark shrugs.

“I mean,” he says calmly, “I thought you were just going to die.”

That’s pretty obviously the worst thing he could’ve said, and Strahm lifts his one good arm and clenches the air with his fingers like he’s imagining himself wringing Mark’s neck. Still, he must’ve been able to wrangle whatever murderous thoughts he’s having, because he lets his hand drop again before taking a deep breath.

“Well, I didn’t,” he grits out. “So you’re going to buy me dinner.”

“I’ve done nothing but buy you shit,” Mark carries on, because it’s kind of fun to experiment with how many different colors he can get Strahm’s face to turn. “Why is this any different?”

“Because this time I’m asking you to,” Strahm says bitterly, like he’s remembering that fact, too. “And it’s celebratory, however much I wish it wasn’t.”

Mark considers that, and then pokes a little further.

“And…?”

There’s a pause, and then Strahm sighs at the ceiling.

“And because you have all the money,” he says through his teeth, like it’s agonizing to admit.

Mark grins and slaps Strahm’s shoulder.

“Thatta boy,” he says cheerfully, and Strahm’s glare is so full of malice that it could melt steel.

It takes them a while to get ready, and Mark would much rather go out when it’s dark anyway. After a few minutes looking through the local newspaper ads, Strahm finally decides on an Italian place that’s just a quick stroll up the road. Garlic bread and chicken parmigiana seem to be the primary motivation for his choice, though Mark has to wonder if he’s also choosing it because it’s more expensive and he’s petty like that. It could be either one.

Mark doesn’t particularly want to sit down in a restaurant where anyone could walk in, not when they plan on staying in the same place for a while, so they order take-out instead and decide to pick it up there to avoid giving out the hotel’s address. It’s early enough in spring that the nights are still a bit chilly, and Mark watches out of the corner of his eye as Strahm slips into his leather jacket. He’s actually able to wear it properly, now that he’s got the cast on his arm, and he cuts a sharp figure as they step out onto the sidewalk in front of their hotel.

“We don’t have to walk, you know,” Mark says as they make their way down the street. There are other people ambling around—some couples, a few people walking their dogs, another person jogging with white earbuds snaking across to the strap on their bicep. It makes him nervous to be around so many people. “We could take the car.”

“I hate the car,” Strahm says curtly. “I’ve spent enough time in the car. And anyway, I like walking. It’s good exercise.”

Nerd.

“Alright,” Mark shrugs. “As long as you don’t faint on me or something.”

Strahm just takes a deep, calming breath and then lets it out slowly.

It’s still a nice enough night out that the walk isn’t that bad at all. They’re both quiet, walking almost in time with each other. Strahm’s legs are just a little bit longer than Mark’s, and he has a quicker pace that seems more natural than purposeful. Mark stays just a touch behind, letting Strahm take the lead so that he himself can keep a better eye on the people around them. But beyond a cursory nod as they brush past the other people on the sideway, no one offers them any attention whatsoever.

Maybe he’s just being paranoid. Maybe they’re actually in the clear for right now. His conversation with Fisk doesn’t exactly make him feel any easier about it, but then, as far as Mark can tell there hasn’t been any news about it either. They’d just read the newspaper, after all, and there hadn’t been anything about the Jigsaw killer anywhere.

Regardless, it can’t hurt to be cautious. He keeps his eye out all the way until they make it up the stairs to the restaurant, and keeps looking while Strahm tugs the door open. People continue to walk by, not a care in the world, and no one so much as offers them a second glance. Not even the last bit of yellow that’s puddled under Mark’s eyes from his broken nose seems to catch any attention.

“Are you coming in or not?”

Mark blinks, looking behind himself. Strahm’s holding the door open with his back pressed to the glass, and when their eyes meet he just raises his eyebrows and nods his head towards the inside.

“You have the money,” Strahm reminds him, and Mark mentally shakes himself.

“Yeah. Right.”

He hustles inside, Strahm right behind him as they make their way towards a handwritten sign that says Takeout This Way with an arrow. It points towards a bar, and when Mark catches sight of it he flexes his fingers at his side. It’s fine.

“Picking up, guys?” The bartender looks college-age, his hair swept to the side and his expression tired. Still, he’s cheerful when he continues. “What’s the name?”

Mark gives him the fake name they’d ordered with, and the bartender promptly disappears into a swinging door just behind the bar. It’s making Mark a little itchy to be so close to it, but Strahm doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. He’s staring up at the TV over the collection of vodka, clearly watching the baseball game with more interest than Mark’s seen from him.

“They’re still working on it,” the bartender says, coming back inside. “You can pay now, if you want.”

“You can keep the change,” Mark tells him, handing over two twenties. “How long, do you think?”

“Unfortunately it’s gonna probably take another… ten minutes, maybe?” The bartender gestures at the long expanse of the shiny cherrywood bar. “You guys are welcome to get a drink on me, if you wanna wait here.”

Something shifts around Mark’s reality, trying to settle into a gruesome and deadly thing he’d sworn he’d leave behind. He takes a breath and then tries to let it out slowly, but the desire rears its mean, ugly head so quickly that he doesn’t have time to shove it back down into the pit where it belongs.

Meanwhile, Strahm shrugs. It’s just another night for him.

“I could use a beer,” he says, before looking over at Mark. “Especially if it’s fr— hey. Hoffman?”

Mark doesn’t answer.

“Hoffman,” Strahm says, a tad sharper. The bartender looks nonplussed. “What’s up?”

Standing there in the middle of this stupid little Italian restaurant in the middle of Denver, Colorado, Mark wants to feel the burn in his nose and his throat again. He wants to remember what it’s like to forget, what it’s like to go to sleep and wake up hours later. He wants to remember how it feels when all of his problems go away, even for just those few hours alone.

He wants to drink.

“Uh, nah. Sorry, I got distracted,” he says, shaking his head and waving a hand. His voice is steady, at least. “I’ll pass. You go ahead, I’ll just wait outside.”

As naturally and as easy-going as he can, Mark makes his way towards the exit. The cold air hits his face the second that he opens the door, and he closes his eyes into it as the door swings shut behind him again.

It barely helps. He hurries down the couple of steps leading to the front door and then veers hard to the left. Once he has his back against the worn bricks he scrubs at his face, making a harsh noise into his palms before slowly pulling his hands down until his face drags a little with it. Fuck.

At its peak, Mark wouldn’t have been able to tell what he’d actually been drinking. Bourbon, whiskey, scotch. None of it mattered. It all smelled the same, tasted the same, burned the same, and did the exact same thing—it made him forget. It numbed a fraction of the pain that had sat there in his stomach like acid. Alcohol had been the one thing that put him to sleep, that kept him from stepping out in front of a car and letting it all finally be over.

His breath whistles over his fingers as he huffs out a long, slow sigh. Already, it’s starting to fade again. He’s gotten good at removing himself from the path of potential relapse, of getting out of the situation before it can get any worse. But he’s usually by himself, and it usually doesn’t take him by surprise like that.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and pushes his hair out of his face. “Fuck.”

He slowly works his way back to the front of the restaurant, lowering himself down onto the curb. People walk by, but he keeps his posture generally unbothered and no one stops to ask him if he’s alright. That’s how he likes it, anyway. There’s a headache trying to build behind his eyes, mostly because of the stress, but the crisp air keeps it at bay. Every time he thinks this trip might be getting a little better, something throws him right off kilter again.

The sound of a plastic bag being set down onto the pavement next to him jerks his head up, but when he turns his head that way, he just sees a take-out cup being held out in front of his face. It nearly crosses his eyes, and he pulls back and tilts his head up.

“It’s Diet Coke,” Strahm says, and Mark searches desperately for some kind of cruel comment to make, something to get control of the situation back. He’d apparently spent ten minutes outside, and now he looks like a fucking idiot.

“What,” he manages, pulling himself together, “you trying to say something about me?”

To his surprise, Strahm just turns a bit red. It’s not a flush of embarrassment or shame, as Mark had hoped, but something else. Something that looks… rattled, maybe?

“Wh— no. No, not— Shut up. Diet just tastes better.”

“Because, you know, that’d be rude if you were saying something.”

“You’re fine the way you are,” Strahm snaps, clearly flustered as he turns away. There’s a tone to it, one that Mark’s never heard from him before. “Shut up.”

It occurs to Mark, a bit belatedly, that Strahm had glanced up and down at him before he’d turned to stare angrily at the restaurant’s sign. And he knows Strahm by now, knows that saying something like you’re fine the way you are is barely in his vocabulary, let alone something he’d ever say to Mark himself. Strahm doesn’t seem like the sort of man who would rise to the bait of fishing for compliments, even if that hadn’t been at all what Mark was doing. And that only means one thing.

Strahm had checked him out. And whatever his decision had been, it’d been enough to get him all riled up. A grin starts to spread across Mark’s face.

“Are you—“

“Just take the damn soda!” All of Strahm’s hackles seem to raise at once. “Can’t you shut up for once in your life?”

Despite his better instincts, Mark actually laughs lightly before reaching out and taking the cup. Their fingers brush, just for a moment, and then they both pull away again.

The cup’s styrofoam, with condensation gathering on the outside. Mark pops the top off and takes a long, slow sip. The carbonation lights up against his palate, and even if it’s more syrupy than he’d like, the taste of it distracts him. He takes another, longer drink, eyes closing. It’s good, sharp. It steadies him.

Strahm grunts from above him and then next to him as he slowly lowers down onto the curb, keeping a respectable distance. Mark’s already braced himself for impact, waiting for the smell of beer—or worse, something stronger—to hit him, but it doesn’t come. There’s just chilly night air, and whatever cologne Strahm had put on before they left.

They sit there for a few minutes before Strahm finally breaks the silence.

“How many years have you been sober?”

Mark’s quiet.

“Four,” he finally says, and follows up with a question of his own. “How’d you figure it out?”

Strahm gives him that same dry look that Mark’s so used to by now.

“FBI,” he says slowly, dragging out the letters so it sounds more like ‘effff-beeeee-yiiiii.’ “Jesus, Hoffman, just how bad at my job do you think I am?”

That, at least, brings him some comfort. Maybe it hadn’t been as obvious as he’d felt it was, even if Strahm had picked it up. Strahm works through a lot of things with what seems to be very little effort, and Mark can’t help but wonder what else he’s managed to figure out and just hasn’t told him yet.

As if reading his mind, Strahm says quietly, “was it because of your sister?”

The ice in the cup rattles a little bit as Mark sets it down onto the curb next to him and turns to pin Strahm with a hard glare.

“Be careful about what you say next,” he warns in a low, dangerous voice.

Strahm just scoffs.

“You don’t scare me, Hoffman,” he says. “As much as you’d like to think you do.”

Mark sneers at him in response, trying to avoid feeling embarrassed about that.

“Even with my résumé?” he says, putting emphasis on the last word to make it clear exactly what it is he’s talking about.

“Yeah, well,” Strahm replies snidely, “your fucking résumé is the whole reason I’m here in the first place. Remember?”

For some reason, that seems to end the conversation for both of them. They sit there, both staring straight ahead without really seeing anything at all. When Mark finally glances over, he can see that sharp outline of Strahm’s profile, and the light that plays off his long eyelashes.

“Yeah,” he says, testing the waters. “It was because of what happened to my sister.”

Strahm nods, as if he were waiting for that answer.

“Well, if you don’t drink then neither will I.”

Mark’s chest clenches up tight at that, like his lungs don’t know what to do with an offer as open as that one. When he’d muttered to Matthews and Kerry and Rigg that he wasn’t going to join them at the bar after work anymore, they’d all three sort of shrugged and avoided the situation altogether. Maybe that had been easier in the long run, and Mark had never blamed them for it. He’d never told Lawrence or Amanda, and John had apparently kept it to himself.

But no one had ever shown solidarity, or even really any support. Support is… weird. Mythical, in a way, like it shouldn’t exist at all.

“Would you have said that two weeks ago?” he asks softly, when that tight feeling becomes too much to bear.

This time when Strahm laughs, it’s gentle. It’s a smile, a puff of air, but it’s a laugh too. He looks down at the asphalt beneath their feet, at the dandelions that push out through the spaces between the road and the curb. Mark can see the way he tongues at his teeth while he thinks, and he’s about to give up on the question when Strahm answers.

“Probably not,” he admits, and turns to meet Mark’s gaze. “But I didn’t know you two weeks ago, did I?”

The harsh honesty of the statement feels like something ripping through Mark’s skin and making its home right there in his chest, right where that tight and angry feeling has always lived. He can only stare at him, lips parted in shock. His eyes burn, though he could pass it off as the streetlight above them bothering him.

“Anyway, you were right,” Strahm says, kicking his feet out into the street in front of the car next to them as he finally looks away. He sniffs once, scrunching up his nose with it, and Mark realizes that his cheeks are pink again. “I can’t cook. Or at least, I can’t cook anything halfway decent. I’m glad we’ve been getting take-out lately.”

The urge to kiss him stupid is so strong, so sudden, that Mark has to grip at the curb just to get a hold of himself. It reminds him of the scar, of the way that Strahm had let things simmer for a while. He gives up information freely—he just has to do it on his own time. Strahm’s not a man easily pushed to do anything he doesn’t want to do, after all. Mark’s learned that time and again.

It feels just the way it had when they were sitting on the hood of the car after Strahm had confronted him about Angie’s mixtape. The same feeling of uncertainty that’s slowly diluting in the face of actual honesty. It’s one of the many things about Strahm that Mark doesn’t know what to do with, or what to make of.

“…it’s admirable to quit like that,” Strahm says into that gentle quiet. There are people all around them, but everything’s seemed to narrow down to just the two of them. No one seems to even care that they’re sitting there on the side of the street.

Mark rubs the pad of his thumb against his lower lip while he thinks, letting the calloused skin ground him to reality.

“Shouldn’t have started it in the first place,” he replies. “It didn’t solve anything.”

Strahm just shrugs.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he says quietly, and Mark watches as the lights of passing cars reflect in his blue eyes. “But of all the things I’ll gladly blame you for—and there’re a lot, trust me—that isn’t one of them.”

This time, it’s Mark that laughs.

“Alright,” he grunts, pushing himself forward. He can’t keep the conversation up for much longer, or he’s going to start admitting to things that he has to keep buried. “I can’t take any more of this. Next you’re gonna tell me you’ve got a crush on me or something.”

That does the trick, because Strahm’s expression goes from open to annoyed in a split second. Maybe the word choice wasn’t the best, given how they got here in the first place, but if that occurs to Strahm, he doesn’t let it show. He just lets out a hard breath, clearly annoyed.

“Whatever,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Just help me up. I’ve only got one fucking arm, and that is something I can blame you for.”

As soon as he’s back on his feet, Mark turns and holds out his hand. It’s a completely innocent gesture, just something he’d do with anyone, but when Strahm takes it they both stop in their tracks. Strahm’s got a strong grip, his fingers wrapping around Mark’s. Mark blinks and then tugs him to his feet, trying to ignore the way that contact makes him feel. They both groan a little bit, age catching up with them again, but that point of contact remains for a second longer than it should.

“Thanks,” Strahm says, and Mark nods.

“Yeah,” he says, and squeezes once. “You’re welcome.”

Strahm’s hand is warm, and that warmth lingers on Mark’s palm even after they’ve both let go.

Chapter Text

“The weather’s looking good for the week, starting with a high of about sixty-two, though we’re still dipping into the low forties at night, so don’t pack up your jackets just yet—”

There’s a shrill whine as Mark shuts the television off again. He watches the top and bottom lines on the screen meet in the middle through the static before he sits back with a sigh, lips thinning. He’s loath to say that things are too quiet, but hell, what else is he supposed to do? They are.

It’s too quiet here, too. Something’s changed about their continued time in Colorado in a way that Mark can’t describe. A new sort of balance, or maybe an unburdening of some kind. There’s still tension at times. They still argue. But things feel… quiet.

Different.

Mark can’t handle different. He’s bad at different. Different is what always leads to mistakes, or oversights that come back to bite him in the ass. He likes things as they are, because then if things go south he at least has a plan to fix it. This is more… just trying to survive by the skin of his teeth. But quiet’s worse, somehow. The entire basis of their relationship—whatever it is—is loud and sharp.

Still, quiet and different are precisely what he’s been doing for a while now, so maybe he can adapt to this the same way he did all the other times, too.

He fights the urge to call Gordon back. Though he wants to keep up on the game, and make sure they don’t start without him, he also doesn’t want to give off the impression that there’s anything wrong. He still doesn’t know exactly where Strahm stands on the situation at all, especially not since it was his case to begin with. Mark can still see him—that sharp, eagle-eyed FBI agent strutting down those stairs, even if nowadays Strahm spends more time in jeans and a T-shirt.

But at the same time, Mark doesn’t want to be left out of the process, either.

The problem is that he’s starting to feel… itchy. He doesn’t have anything to do, and micromanaging may have never really been his thing but he’s still anxious for an update. Not knowing what’s going on back in New Jersey feels like it’s an inch short of giving him hives. He watches the news on a pretty regular basis while Strahm’s out on his morning run, and there’s zero indication that any other games have continued, or that anyone’s gone rogue now that John’s dead.

And yet, there’s nothing about Strahm, either. That’s the weirdest part, and the one that he’s most concerned about. They’re laying low, they’re basically on the run, and he knows that the feds have to be looking for Strahm.

Nothing. Not a peep.

And that’s weird. For fuck’s sake, they’d just gone to the hospital and nothing happened. What had Gordon said to Kuznik to keep her quiet? What had he offered? But then, does she even know that she should be quiet in the first place? Why is everything so quiet?

As if on cue, something drops over in the kitchen with a clang and Strahm swears loudly enough to make Mark jump and turn around.

“Jesus,” he says, heart thumping. “Stop that shit already.”

“Shut up,” Strahm mutters, eyes pinched shut as he clutches at his arm. Even from the other side of the room, Mark can see his left hand trembling. Their tin of coffee grounds lays on its side on the floor, though thankfully it hasn’t spilled everywhere.

He clicks his tongue, annoyed.

“If you need me to grab something, you can just ask me,” he tells him. “Instead of breaking everything.”

Strahm clearly doesn’t like that, because he glowers over at him. He keeps trying to do things on his own, and it’s starting to get on Mark’s nerves. Strahm’s already broken a coffee mug and two plates trying to pick things up when he forgets that he can’t use his hand, and it doesn’t seem like he’s accepting that fact any time soon.

“It’s fine,” Strahm mutters, holding his bad arm and trying to flex his fingers. They move stiffly, and Mark can see how they can’t even close into a fist. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” Mark’s skeptical, even though his voice is a little softer. “Who exactly are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?”

Strahm’s eyes glance over to him again, and Mark watches as he finally slams the cabinet shut. There’s a bit of hair at the nape of Strahm’s neck that flips up, a little curl that Mark’s eyes keep trailing over. It’s getting a bit long, and Strahm’s not shaving every single day either. It gives him that rugged look again, so completely opposite to the man that Mark had first met.

He’s hot. Really hot. It’s getting to be a pain in his ass, and distracting in a way that’s not at all convenient.

“Look,” Mark says finally, tracking Strahm as he tries to pick the can up one-handed, “just… let me help when you need it. I won’t even tell anyone. Scout’s honor.”

Strahm scoffs, bent over and shoving the can against his shin with little success.

“You’re not a scout.”

“I could have been. You don’t know.”

“I was a scout,” Strahm fires back, looking almost amused about it as he glances up through his bangs. Mark can’t remember the last time he saw Strahm’s hair styled. “You wouldn’t have lasted a day. You would’ve gotten too bored.”

Mark opens his mouth to answer, but then shuts it. It’s such a casual display of familiarity, almost intimate. It’s a completely different conversation from what they would’ve had when they first met, when they first started working together on the Jigsaw case weeks ago.

“...okay, yeah,” Mark finally allows. “But the offer still stands. I really will help you out if you need it.”

That earns him a look. He’s used to Strahm’s looks by now, but this one’s different. He seems like he’s trying to unpack that, unravel the strings to figure out what’s underneath. Maybe figure out whether it’s the God’s honest truth, or if Mark’s laying another trap for him to fall into later.

Finally Strahm sighs, running his good hand down his face as he straightens up again.

“I want something better than this shit,” he says, nudging the Folgers can with a toe. “And I want to go outside, take a walk for a bit.”

Mark considers that thoughtfully, tilting his head. There’s a coffee shop not too far down the street, one that they’ve stopped at here and there on their way back from a dinner pick-up or a grocery run. It’s a good deal, being able to walk wherever they want, even if Mark has to do some of the heavy lifting when they make the trek back. It means his car can stay hidden in the hotel’s garage, out of the way of prying eyes who might recognize it from a news story that slipped past him.

And anyways, he can read the excuse for what it is. Strahm wants to leave the shame of his useless hand in the hotel room, even if only for a little while.

“Alright,” he says, and stands. “Let’s get some coffee. Yeah?”

Strahm looks relieved for just a second before he hides it again.

“Yeah,” he says, and his fingers try to close into a fist again. “Sure.”

As they head out the door, Mark picks the can up on the way out and sets it on the counter.

-

The walk there is nice and crisp, that real spring air starting to take shape in the form of the green trees and the wispy clouds above. They’re both in t-shirts, and while no one knows their names, there are enough familiar faces that they both nod their heads at those faces as they pass by. Mark’s got his hands in his pockets, but Strahm’s gone ahead and slipped his sling back over his shoulder. Maybe his arm’s giving him more trouble than he wants to admit. But pain always seems to outweigh pride in the end, no matter what’s causing it.

“You keep checking the news,” Strahm says lightly as they turn onto the next street. “But we’re still here. You gonna share why we haven’t heard anything yet?”

Mark presses his tongue to his teeth, thinking.

“...I don’t know,” he admits under his breath, just loud enough so Strahm can hear him. “I’ll be honest, it’s… it’s a little weird. I don’t know why we haven’t heard anything. I’ve been in contact with a few people, but they haven’t given me anything more than what they can say over a line that’s not secure.”

Strahm takes that in stride, as Mark knew he would. That, at least, he’s not lying about.

“Okay,” Strahm says, and Mark thinks for a second that he’s accepting the information easily enough until he continues. Figures. “So then what do we do from here?”

“...well, we have to wait until your arm heals,” Mark points out, after another pause. “That’s the important part, so you still gotta stick with it for now.”

That earns him an annoyed grunt.

“I don’t see why Dr. Gordon can’t just take the cast off,” Strahm mutters, and while Mark can follow that line of thinking, he still shakes his head.

“Gordon also can’t stop the police from throwing you in jail the second you show your face.”

Strahm blows that little bit of hair out of his eyes and scowls.

The conversation ends there, both of them carefully scooting around the small tables and chairs outside of the café as they head through the door. There’s a decent enough crowd milling about, but only one or two people on line inside.

Strahm’s got that curious air to him again, but if he plans on sharing what it is he’s considering, he must come to a decision that doesn’t include Mark. He just stares up at the menu, at the loops and whorls of the handwritten options, and looks so suddenly at peace that it’s hard for Mark to focus.

An elbow nudges his side, and he blinks. The cashier raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“Oh, shit,” Mark says when he realizes he’s up next. He hadn’t even though about what he wanted to order. “Uh. Sorry. Let him go first.”

Strahm rolls his eyes.

Mark ends up with some kind of latté concoction with extra foam and chocolate dust sprinkled on top, moreso because it was the first thing he saw on the chalkboard behind the counter. Strahm orders some kind of cream cheese pastry and his usual black coffee with sugar, and Mark can’t help the chuckle when Strahm takes a huge bite out of his prize as they move to the side to wait for their drinks.

It’s funny. Strahm’s got a sweet tooth, and Mark hadn’t expected that. But now that he’s grown used to it, it’s gone from bewilderment to affection. It’s something that’s cute about him. Mark thinks about commenting on it, stuffing the rest of the change back into his pocket, but one of the other cashiers interrupts.

“Peter?” and then, right after, “Mark?”

That gets Strahm to perk up a little bit at the imminent promise of caffeine, and to Mark’s surprise he holds the remaining half of the pastry between his teeth before he picks up Mark’s drink first. He does a little salute with it in thanks to the barista before turning to hand it over without taking the danish back out of his mouth.

“Here,” he says, muffled.

It’s such a weirdly friendly gesture that Mark can’t even respond. He just awkwardly takes his latté out of Strahm’s hand and takes a sip while Strahm grabs his own. The foam is thick and rich on his tongue, and the rest just hot enough that it doesn’t burn. It’s a welcoming bitter taste tamped just slightly by the milk, and he finds himself drinking it eagerly.

“Didn’t know you were a latté guy,” Strahm says as he shoulders the door open. He’d scarfed down the rest of his pastry to free up his hand for the coffee cup. “You’ve never ordered that before.”

“I wanted something different,” Mark says, pries the lid off to lick up some of the foam off the top of the cup.

He can feel Strahm staring at him, but when he turns his head to look, Strahm’s just taking a hurried sip of his own drink as they step back out onto the front patio. Then his nose scrunches up in sudden distaste, and he shakes his head as he turns around towards the door again.

“What, wrong drink?” Mark asks, watching him.

“No,” Strahm mutters under his breath after he swallows, looking sour. “Hold on, let me run back inside. They forgot the sugar.”

“M’kay,” Mark says, and takes another careful drink of his latté.

In another life, one where they didn’t have their guards down, maybe they could’ve seen something so inconsequential coming. Mark knows that both of them had spent the last couple of weeks looking over their shoulders and waiting for the first thing to go wrong, so it stands to reason that the first time something does, it’s just… stupid.

The second that Strahm pulls the door open, there’s another person trying to walk out—a teenager with her hands full of a tray of some kind of frozen coffee milkshake. It looks like she’d planned on shouldering the door open herself, but her head’s turned to say something to the cashier. She’s chattering happily, not looking where she’s going at all.

It’s absolutely a slow-motion situation. Mark makes a valiant attempt to snatch Strahm by the back of his shirt and tug him away, but it’s far too late. The teenager smacks right into Strahm’s chest, and drinks go flying everywhere. Hot coffee and those weird milkshake things splatter all over the floor, all over Strahm’s front, and most unfortunately, all over his face.

It’s normally something that would have Mark laughing, but he finds himself muttering “shit” as he puts his own drink down on the nearest table and tries to turn Strahm around to get a better look at him. He and the girl have frozen in place, like they’re both trying to process what just happened.

“…I’m fine,” Strahm says through his teeth when Mark touches him, and while it’s clear he’s trying to be polite, Mark can see how absolutely pissed off he is. That, or the coffee’s a little hotter than he’s letting on, or the girl hit his arm when they collided. Or maybe it’s all three.

Speaking of the girl, Mark moves Strahm off just enough to the side to ask if she’s alright. She’s covered in coffee too, and already looking on the verge of tears.

“I’m so sorry!” she wails immediately, looking mortified when they make eye contact. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you—”

“It’s okay.” This time Strahm tries to sound a little softer, as far as Mark can tell. But the annoyance and pain comes through, and he sounds more like he’s about to take a swing at someone. “It’s fine. It was an accident.”

Some of the cream from one of those coffee milkshakes slips off his cheek and hits the ground with a wet splat. It could be funny, if people weren’t starting to turn to look at them. Mark wants to get out of there before any more of a scene can be made, so he just takes Strahm by the elbow.

“It’s fine,” he repeats when the teenager looks like she wants to apologize again. He can’t really blame her. Running into a man with a broken arm and getting coffee all over him must be mortifying. “Seriously, don’t worry, he’s fine. He’s always this cranky. Here.”

One arm still holding onto Strahm’s elbow, Mark digs into his pocket and pulls out a ten. It’s the only bill he has that isn’t in his wallet, and anyway those weird milkshakes were probably expensive. He holds it out to her, trying to keep his tone even, tries to go for the gentle cop voice he hasn’t really used in a long, long time.

“Trust me,” he says when she tries to protest. “I get it. Accidents happen. Buy you and your friends some new drinks, and watch where you’re going next time, alright?”

The girl bites her lip while she stares at the ten before hesitantly taking it and nodding. She’s still red in the face, and looks genuinely mournful about the whole mess.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, and Mark pulls at Strahm again.

“You’re welcome.”

Strahm starts to go along with him, but then abruptly turns around. Mark can feel himself bracing for impact, and opens his mouth to cut Strahm off.

“Sorry,” Strahm says while she looks up at him in fear, but he doesn’t even raise his voice. “I should’ve watched where I was going, too.”

It not only startles her, but it startles Mark as well. He stares at Strahm for a beat too long, and then blows a thin breath out between his lips before guiding him away. They stop to grab some napkins off one of the little stations next to the garbage cans, stocked with sugar and straws and coffee stirrers, and that almost makes Mark laugh. All of that could’ve been avoided if they’d just looked around.

They head down the street again after Strahm wipes off his face. There’s no saving the shirt, and his hair doesn’t look much better. A few people look over their shoulders like they want to make a comment, but thankfully no one stops them. It seems pretty obvious what happened, given the direction they’re coming from.

“I didn’t even get to drink my coffee,” Strahm bitches under his breath after a minute.

“You’re covered in coffee,” Mark says, mouth twitching with the urge to smile. He finally lets go of Strahm’s elbow as they round the last corner to their block and walk up to their hotel. “You’ve got whipped cream in your fucking hair. You’re gonna need a shower.”

“Are you my mother?” But there’s something… lighter, or almost amused in Strahm’s tone. “You were already pretty motherly back there.”

This time, it’s Mark that scowls a little bit even as he’s pushing the door open with his back. Strahm’s got an expression brewing that highlights the handsome cut of his face. He’s watching Mark in that way again, the way that means he’s putting new pieces together.

Fucking hell. Living with an FBI agent is annoying.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, ignoring how people are continuing to stare at them as they make their way through the lobby towards the stairs. “I wasn’t being—oh, fuck me. I forgot my drink, too.”

For some reason, that makes Strahm let out one of his quiet, breathless little chuckles. It sounds just a bit unhinged, like the entire situation is starting to actually crystalize. After all, he’s covered in coffee and whipped cream, being led upstairs by a murderer that just gave a teenage girl an extra ten so she could buy more drinks for her friends.

“I can’t believe that happened,” Strahm says when they get inside their room, peeling off his damp shirt one-handed once he’s unclipped his sling. Mark tries not to stare. “I’ve had more shit go wrong in this last month than I have in my entire life.”

Mark can’t help but stare anyway. There’s a trail of hair that catches his attention, snaking down Strahm’s stomach and into his waistband that nearly connects to the thick patches on his chest. He’s got a bit of pudge, but there’s absolutely no denying whatsoever that he’s solid as a brick wall. The suits had only made him look lean—seeing him without a shirt on again is a different story entirely. That’s a man who could bodyslam a door down without so much as breaking a sweat.

“Yeah, well,” he says, clearing his throat and trying to steer the conversation to something that’ll kill his arousal faster. “John Kramer has that effect on people. Blame him. He was good at ruining lives.”

Strahm glowers, his amusement evaporating instantly. Well, that did it.

“I don’t want to hear about John Kramer,” he says, his eyes hard.

“That’s fine by me,” Mark replies curtly. The temperature in the room seems to have dipped significantly. “What, you think I’m chomping at the bit to sing the guy’s praises?”

The question gives Strahm pause, like he’s considering that with more weight than Mark would’ve expected. He looks like he’s not sure how to answer that, so instead he just tosses his soiled shirt into the shitty little collapsible laundry basket they’d bought. Mark watches him go through the motions, go through that process of thinking before he says something.

In the heat of an argument, or when his temper gets the better of him, Strahm tends to explode. But when they’re in quiet moments like this, Mark’s learned that he actually likes to think about what to say next. There’s a lot of things about Strahm he’s learned, of course, but that one strikes him as one of the most surprising.

“Honestly, yes,” he finally says, looking at something to the left of Mark’s head. “I kind of thought you did.”

Mark frowns at him.

“I don’t, nor did I ever, like John,” he says, and Strahm’s gaze drifts those few scant inches over to him. “I always thought he was full of shit.”

This time, Strahm’s nose crinkles up in confusion.

“Then why did you—”

The bed squeaks as Mark stands up. The movement of it is as abrupt and angry as the conversation’s turn, and it startles Strahm into silence. But his eyebrows still come together, and he regards Mark with that same thoughtful expression he always does. He’s putting things together, like drawing strings from one picture to the other on a corkboard.

“Are you taking a shower or what?” Mark says sharply. “The whole fucking room smells like coffee.”

The room’s quiet as they stare at each other, and then Strahm seems to come to a decision.

“You gave that girl money,” he says. “Why?”

Mark throws his arms out, already regretting that he was ever that charitable where Strahm could see.

“What was I supposed to do?” he says, waving his hands a little. “It was a fuckin’ accident. It’s not like she threw the tray at your head.”

Again, Strahm goes silent as he stares at Mark unblinkingly. Every time he gets the full force of that look, Mark has no idea what to do with himself. Strahm’s not exactly the kind of guy that seems to enjoy eye contact unless he’s using it to intimidate, but right now it’s the same as always. He’s looking through Mark, peeling back layers that Mark can’t see and finding whatever disgusting creature is underneath.

“Huh,” is what Strahm finally says, and then he ambles his way into the bathroom like it was all just a casual conversation about the weather. Like he didn’t do what he always does and make Mark feel like he’s under a damn microscope.

Once he hears the shower squeak on, Mark sits down hard on his bed.

No. He wasn’t going to sing John’s praises, and bringing him up in the first place had shattered the calm more than he meant it to. But being around Lawrence and Amanda for as long as they were, a trio brought together kicking and screaming, had scrambled up his priorities. Everything in their lives had revolved around John Kramer, and one by one they’d all fought to escape it with little success. Always coming back in the end. But John had always been the center of conversation, and it’s harder to break that habit than Mark thought it’d be.

Had Mark fought it, though? Is that what he’s doing now? Not really. That’s a nasty, mean little truth that replays in his head over and over. Strahm’s slowly trying to give away more information about himself, maybe out of a desire to connect or to bridge a gap that neither of them had previously wanted to fix, and Mark’s just holding everything so close to the chest that it’s probably killing him from the inside out.

Mark scrubs at his face with both hands, making a shuddering sound when his breath pushes through the gap between his palms. Slowly, then, his touch slides down and then his right hand touches feather-light to the side of his neck. There’s no scar, no physical reminder, but Mark can still feel that syringe plunging into his neck in that elevator. He can still feel that heavy nothingness sinking into his muscles as it slid upwards towards his thoughts, and he remembers barely getting a glance at John before Mark had toppled into that darkness.

Against his will, he remembers the way that Strahm had glared at him even as he was fighting that same black emptiness. Mark had used the same tranquilizer, and Strahm had fought with everything he had in him. And he still keeps coming back for more.

The syringe that he’d wanted to use again had scraped and rolled against the floor as the walls drew closer, and Mark wonders now if Strahm had seen it. If he’d known that Mark had been prepared to knock him out and stuff him into that fucking coffin if he’d had the chance. He still doesn’t know why he’d brought it with him. The punching had changed his mind pretty quickly.

Blackmail. Was that what Mark was doing now? The fake lair he’d set up, the folders he’d left there, even that same black coffee with sugar… all of that pointed towards Strahm being Jigsaw. Only going with Mark to Colorado would spare him from arrest and indictment. No doubt the district attorney would’ve gone straight to the death penalty. There’d been murmurs around the department about the governor trying to get rid of it, and Mark almost idly wonders if Strahm would avoid it while on death row.

I’m saving lives, Strahm had said. Mark had told him there was no way he could run a game if he was all the way across the country. But Strahm probably hadn’t counted on the others working on it while Mark was here.

It’s blackmail, and it asks one solid question that he’s been avoiding for four years. It’s a question that haunts him, in both his darkest hours and when everything seems as normal and calm as ever. Maybe he’s more like John than he can really confess. Maybe he’s just been pushing that thought as far away as he can.

What if John hadn’t blackmailed him? What choice would Mark have made that day?

He doesn’t know. He’s not sure he wants to.

The door opens up again, letting out the familiar cloud of steam that means Strahm had cranked the temperature of the shower as high as he always does. Mark can’t pretend to know why he does that, since it leaves his skin red and irritated when he tries it himself, but it’s what Strahm seems to like.

Strahm’s letting out long, slow breaths as he tugs a new shirt on. They’re bracing and clearly calming, and Mark tries to match them as he gears up for uncomfortable truths.

“You know,” he says, when the silence is a little too stifling, “you said it yourself. My games were different.”

He gets more silence in return, so Mark swivels on the bed to meet Strahm’s gaze.

“I didn’t care about people cherishing their lives the way that John did,” he continues, his voice low. “I didn’t give a fuck, really.”

He’s never said this out loud, never actually claimed it as his own. Not to Lawrence, not to Amanda, and certainly not to John. Maybe he was close with Fisk, or Rigg, but he never truly got there. This is a first, a leap of faith. He’s not sure where he’ll land.

“…okay,” Strahm says slowly, and somehow it feels like encouragement. That, or he’s trying to figure out what’s going on.

“I wanted people to pay for what they did to others,” Mark says quietly. He feels like he’s trying to convince himself, too. “I wanted them to die, and die painfully. It didn’t matter how, it didn’t matter when. It only mattered why. I didn’t want people to view their lives with a new purpose. I didn’t want people to repent. I wanted them to suffer.”

“Okay,” Strahm repeats, a new edge to his voice that Mark can’t pin.

“Towards the end, Amanda Young thought he was full of shit, too,” Mark offers carefully, and then watches as Strahm looks at him with a new sharpness to his eyes. “I don’t know exactly where she landed on it, either. I wasn’t there when she made her decision. I think the only one of us who was kind of convinced was Gordon, and… that kid’s starting to change his mind. I’d put money on it.”

It’s true enough. Amanda hadn’t exactly been convinced that people could change by the time that John was in that decrepit old hospital bed, and Mark knew it. But Gordon… he’d sewn eyelids and mouths together, and shoved keys under people’s eyes without breaking stride. Before Stanheight had reappeared in his life, Lawrence Gordon had seemed like he was using John’s methods to absolve himself of something that he wouldn’t admit to. Now, there’s something else that Mark can’t identify, but it’s still in the shape of a boy that had been left alone in a dark, bloody bathroom.

“You murdered people,” Strahm says, like he can read Mark’s mind. His voice is hard. “All of you. How’s that not believing in that stupid mantra of his?”

Mark grits his teeth, fingers twitching into fists like they can still remember what it felt like to be bound to that chair with a shotgun pointed at his chin.

“I told you,” he replies tightly, low and angry. “You don’t know a fucking thing.”

Strahm holds out his broken arm, his eyes hard.

“I know enough,” he says, tone just short of bitter. “I know what you did to me, and what you did to Perez, what you did to those other people. I know you kept doing it after Kramer died.”

It’s the first mention of Lindsey Perez’s death since they started this insane venture, and Mark can hear the curdling anger in Strahm’s tone. It just fans the flames of his own; he hadn’t wanted her to die. He hadn’t planned for that. He doesn’t want to think about what her death started.

“You weren’t supposed to live if you made the wrong choice,” Mark snaps before he can stop himself. “You were supposed to either fucking listen to me or learn your lesson, and obviously you didn’t listen.”

Strahm’s voice is harder than steel.

“Did you want me to die?”

The question is so harsh, and yet so calm, that Mark can’t even come up with an answer right away. He watches as Strahm leans in towards him, not quite in Mark’s space but still just enough that he’s intimidating and authoritative. It’s an interrogation, and one that’s meant to tear open whatever weaknesses Strahm can find. He’s good at it. He’s always been good at it.

“Mark,” Strahm says slowly, and the sound of his given name hits harder than any physical blow could. Each word is enunciated like footsteps in an empty hallway, echoing through Mark’s ribcage and rattling there, wind chimes in a storm. “Did you want me to die?”

The truth of it hanging between them is so heavy that Mark can’t pretend to hide it anymore. He can’t pretend that both times he hadn’t desperately wanted a different outcome than what he’d gotten. He’d wanted Peter to stay in the room with John’s corpse. He’d wanted Peter to finish the tape and get in the coffin. And both times, Peter had ignored the warnings and barreled right in. But was that worth being killed? Was that a sin, to want the truth so badly that you’d fight to the death to get it?

“...no,” Mark whispers, jaw working hard. “No, I didn’t want you to die.”

A single bead of water drips off Peter’s eyelashes where it’d been gathering there, like dew on the leaves in the early morning.

“And I didn’t,” he says, almost as quiet. He looks… satisfied? Worn? “So maybe your lessons were all bullshit after all.”

Mark wants to argue that point, but it’s hard to. It’s hard to look at the evidence right in front of him, the evidence of Peter’s conviction to live even when the cards were stacked against him. A shiny pink scar at the base of his throat. A broken arm from climbing the walls instead of just shooting himself in the head. A refusal to leave when he’s had multiple chances to do so. A seemingly endless supply of curiosity that keeps him here as he tries to pick Mark Hoffman apart until he can figure out how to put all of the pieces together again.

“Maybe they were,” Mark finally decides. “Guess we still have to figure that out.”

“I guess so,” Peter says.

They both stare at each other, the muggy weight of the air from the shower still hanging above them. Finally, Peter sits down hard on the mattress with one leg braced on the floor as he fiddles with the string of his pajama pants. He’s chewing on his lip thoughtfully, staring at something on the carpet before he looks up again.

“There’s no hot water left,” he finally says, sounding exceptionally pleased with himself.

Mark blinks at him, and then some kind of manic outrage jolts him out of that strange introspection like it’d never even happened.

“You used all the hot water?” he demands. “Seriously?”

Peter’s almost preening.

“Yeah.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Mark says, getting up off the bed at last. “I’m out fifteen bucks for nothing and I have to take a cold shower.”

He’s annoyed, yes, but there’s something underneath it that feels relieved to have finally moved on from the conversation. He knows Peter’s figured something out, but he doesn’t know what. He doesn’t even know if he’ll ever find out.

“Well,” Peter says, stretching out his good arm until it pops a little, “maybe if I could take a shower like a normal person I wouldn’t be in there for a year.”

That’s fair, but Mark still doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Even the fact that Peter can almost joke about it means there’s something in this room that’s changed again.

“God, it’s a full time job keeping an eye on you,” Mark says as he walks by, tugging off his t-shirt and starting on the tank top underneath next. “I’m amazed we haven’t been caught y—”

Peter’s hand snaps out so quickly that Mark has no time to react—he can only choke out a startled grunt as Peter’s hand twists itself up into the front of Mark’s tank top and drags him forward sharply. He lands with a grunt, the mattress giving just a bit underneath the sharp points of his kneecaps, and then they’re face to face. Peter stares at him, his eyes gleaming with… rage? Danger? Something that sends a chill right up Mark’s spine.

“Did you ever stop to think,” Peter whispers, and it’s the sound of a predator delighted to have caught its prey, “that maybe I’m keeping an eye on you?”

Mark can feel his face slowly spreading itself out into a devilish grin, eyes widening. The two of them are only a scant inch apart, and he can feel Peter’s every exhale against his lips.

“No,” he breathes back, wild with delight. “I didn’t.”

There it is. There it is. That single-minded tenacity, the wolfhound on the prowl, the FBI agent who won’t let it fucking go. This is the Peter who stabbed that pen into his throat, who emptied his clip into the coffin’s steel frame, who tightened his belt around his arm even as he was dying. Not timid or unsure, not tired and plagued by nightmares. Nor is he tentatively friendly, reaching out with a hand like he’s not quite sure what he’ll do after.

This is the Peter that Mark’s been longing to see again, the one that he hadn’t even realized he’d been chasing.

Peter tilts his chin up. He looks like he wants to bite and tear at Mark’s jugular until it’s a pulpy mess, until blood soaks into the sheets beneath them. Mark thinks he might let him, just to see what happens. It looks like he’s come to a conclusion about something, and that he likes what he sees. It looks like he understands something that Mark’s been trying to tell him, even if Mark hasn’t caught up to it yet.

Where have you been, Mark wants to ask. I’ve been waiting for you.

He leans forward, their noses just barely touching at the tips. He can taste the bitter, acrid coffee still on Peter’s breath, can smell the scent of the cheap shampoo that clings to his wet hair. His knees are on either side of Peter’s thigh, and the two of them are pressed so close together that Mark can almost feel their heartbeats beginning to thump in time. It starts to settle between his legs, and all it would take is one push, one shove to get them both down and onto that bed.

“You’d better keep that eye on me then, Peter,” he says quietly, and the grip on his tank top tightens. “I still haven’t decided what I’m gonna do with you after all of this is over.”

The snarl on Peter’s lips twists up into a dark grin that matches Mark’s. His pupils are dilated, and his cheeks are still warm from the shower—or something else. Who knows.

“Good,” he says, eyes glinting. “Because I haven’t figured out what I’m gonna do with you, either.”

Neither of them move, transfixed by the other. The charge in the damp air is all but tangible, sparking across every inch of skin. Whatever’s happened in this hotel room has changed something. For the better or the worse is the question— Mark doesn’t think either of them know.

All he would have to do is tilt his head down just a bit more. It wouldn’t be romantic, or soft. It’d be hungry and dangerous, something neither of them could possibly be able to come back from. It would change whatever this is, take whatever fragile peace they have here and either turn it on its head or destroy it completely.

“Yeah?” he breathes. “Got anything in mind yet?”

It’s a dare, a challenge, and Peter takes the bait without a second’s hesitation. Maybe that’s always been his weak spot.

“Yeah,” Peter says, and then, “God, you piss me off.”

That gets Mark to chuckle, right before Peter suddenly pulls him in close. There’s a seriousness in his eyes that looks different from the other times, and it takes Mark a full second to realize that Peter’s angling his head to—

Oh, no way. No way. No fucking way. Mark’s breath catches in his throat as Peter leans in. Sure, Mark had just been thinking about it, but it wasn’t like he was going to do it. He was mostly just… daydreaming.

It feels like it’s happening too suddenly, but the thing is, he’s not going to stop it either. They’re so close together that Mark could count Peter’s eyelashes if he really wanted to, can see the flecks of brown in his eyes that he’d never noticed before. That little bit of Peter’s hair that always likes to flop down tickles at Mark’s forehead as they brush together.

Way too sudden, but he’s not going to stop it. He’s not. Not when all of Peter’s warmth is flowing into Mark like a river. He wouldn’t stop this moment even if it killed him. This feels like what they’ve been hurtling towards all along.

When they’re less than a centimeter apart, Peter suddenly braces that one leg on the floor and tugs.

Mark watches the room suddenly swing up and over again, but this time he goes backwards until his back hits the mattress. Somehow Peter had just used Mark’s weight against him with only one working arm, and before Mark knows it he’s pinned with Peter’s thighs on either side of his waist.

He blinks away the haze of his crossed eyes, stunned. Peter’s got his face right in Mark’s again, the smug superiority coming off him in waves, and Jesus Christ, Mark’s never been more turned on in his entire life.

“Ow,” he says, more out of surprise than anything else. “What the fuck?”

Peter sits back onto his heels, looking pleased again, and Mark stares at the ripples of muscle in his arms and thighs, in the way his core tightens and then loosens again beneath his shirt. Mark slowly pushes himself up again, watching with his eyes shamefully wide.

“Don’t forget, Hoffman,” Peter says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The bastard is all but glowing in triumph. “I’m the one that caught you.”

Mark grins, still dazed and definitely still a little hard as Peter stands and stretches. The muscles in his back flex now, a power in them that has Mark staring without shame before dipping his gaze down just a little lower.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, almost to himself as he enjoys the view. “I haven’t.”

Chapter Text

There’s something cruel hiding beneath the idea of jerking off to Peter in the shower, but Mark doesn’t actually care. He keeps tasting that moment on the tip of his tongue, just behind his teeth. The warmth of Peter’s body against his feels like a burn that’s been seared into his flesh, and the iron band of his thighs on either side of his waist cut as deeply as a knife.

“Shit,” he mutters, and the water streaming down from the shower faucet dribbles down over his lips. “Fuck.”

It’s the memory of it more than anything. Peter leaning in, his breath hot, his muscles bunching. He has a way about him that makes him incredibly difficult to ignore, a presence that means that even when he’s being quiet, everyone’s still aware of him standing there. Having that presence up close and personal is a bit like facing down a wolf that’s still trying to decide whether it’s going to eat you or not.

Mark doesn’t like being manhandled or overwhelmed—in fact, it pisses him off substantially if it doesn’t outright freak him out—but that part’s playing second fiddle to knowing that Strahm was able to do it in the first place. Last time they’d fought, Strahm had been breathing hard from the wound in his throat, and now his arm is broken beyond proper repair, yet he’d still gotten the upper hand both times. What’s he capable of when he’s at the top of his game?

He imagines Strahm above him, biceps bulging with effort and sweat dripping into his eyes. Then it shifts, Strahm underneath him instead, the same sweat clumping his eyelashes together alongside tears as they move together, as Strahm looks up at him.

The thought makes him groan quietly, cockhead slipping through his stuttering fingers as he comes. It’s not earth shattering, just a pleasant quaking that courses down to his toes yet still enough to loosen his muscles as it fades off. He sighs deeply, opening his eyes again.

Those damn eyelashes. Fuck, those eyelashes. Those stupid, gorgeous eyes.

Mark lets the water flow down his arms and along the insides of his thighs, another loose breath slowly crawling out. Those had been dangerous thoughts before, but now… now he thinks of Peter’s back, of the way his shoulder blades bunch up when he moves. He thinks of Peter’s lips, too.

This time, he tilts his head forward until the shower water runs down his bangs and onto his face.

No, they’re still dangerous thoughts. They’re still dangerous things to be considering, especially after what happened the day before. They’d spent the rest of it sitting on separate beds, with Peter reading and Mark watching the TV. Eventually Peter’s book found its way down into his lap and they’d both been engrossed in a rerun of Twin Peaks instead. Neither of them had mentioned it again. Dale Cooper’s eyelashes had reminded him of Peter’s too. Fucker.

It’s stupid. God, it’s so stupid. It feels so natural that it could scare him into running if he weren’t stuck here, too.

Mark doesn’t even remember what his taste in men is, exactly. It’s been too long since he’s had an actual relationship. Angie used to tease him about it, because she’d gone through boyfriends like they were a fashion statement even when she was in high school. But Mark knows that he likes smart, and he likes handsome, and he certainly enjoys muscle. Peter Strahm’s got all three in spades.

There’s just that… little problem of Mark having tried to kill him.

Twice.

Mark pushes his wet hair out of his eyes as he turns the shower off, listening to that slow drip of the last bit of water left in the pipes as it drains out.

It isn’t just physical attraction anymore. It’s starting to build up, these little things. The way that Peter’s eyes shine when he sees something that he likes, the strength of his convictions for everything from murder cases to wanting buffalo wings instead of barbeque. He picks at his cuticles, he clicks his pen, he taps on things. He’s annoying, yes, and crabby, and they’ve been enemies from the very start, but… the more time Mark spends with him, the more he doesn’t want it to end. The more he wants to know about him.

He shakes his head wildly to get the last of the water out of his hair and then stretches like a cat, slowly from his toes to the tips of his fingers. He feels looser after that orgasm, less stressed out, but it doesn’t make any of the maddening thoughts swirling around in his head any easier to deal with. He just has to dry off, get dressed, and go about his day like none of those thoughts are happening at all.

Peter’s rummaging around one-handed in the kitchen when Mark steps back out into the main living space of their hotel suite. He’s managed to figure out how to make coffee one-handed, and the whole room smells like dark roast. It’s a pleasant smell, one that adds something homey to the air as Mark shuffles over to his bag.

He’s only planning on checking to see if he has any voicemails, just as he always does, but once he powers up the cell phone, his mood sours instantly. The battery’s gone down again, even with the phone being shut down as often as possible. He taps the phone hard against his palm a few times, frustrated.

“That’s not going to get you extra minutes,” Peter says mildly from the kitchen, and Mark huffs.

“It’s the fucking battery,” he mutters, now shaking the phone like that might help with the problem instead. “It’s not holding a charge like it used to.”

Peter mulls that over, shutting the fridge and sticking a spoon in his mouth. It takes Mark a second to realize that Peter’s picking away at the chili they both got the other night—straight out of the fridge. What a fucking animal.

“How often do you charge it?” Peter finally asks after he drags the spoon out again. Mark tries not to pay attention to the way his lips trail across the shiny surface. “I forget you have it half the time.”

“Are you even going to heat that up?”

“It tastes just fine cold,” Peter says, and scoops out another bite. “What’re you gonna do about the phone?”

Mark clicks the back open, sliding the battery out and giving it a once-over. He should probably get a new one, but he’d rather try to keep charging it and see what happens. The phone chirps happily when he snaps the battery back in and turns it on again, the green and black screen flashing at him as it goes through the motion of turning back on. But the little battery icon stays the same, two bars instead of four, and he sighs.

“Keep an eye on it, I guess,” he says, and sets it on the bedside table so he can charge it instead of putting it back into his bag. “And hope we don’t need it in the meantime.”

“Mm,” says Peter, sticking the spoon back into his mouth. “Fair enough.”

-

The whole cold chili thing aside, Mark still can’t stop thinking about it.

Peter goes on his daily jog an hour after the conversation about the phone, and that leaves Mark to putter around and tidy some shit up while he’s at it. It’s distinctly housewife-ish, which wrinkles his nose a little, but it is what it is. He does the dishes and hauls the laundry back and forth, two chores that Peter keeps trying and failing to achieve with only one arm.

Mark still can’t stop himself from wondering about the nerve damage, but Peter’s annoyingly silent on that front. He uses his right hand for just about everything, and uses either his shoulder or his hip when he needs to use his left side. If he does need to do something with it, he always does it when Mark’s not paying attention.

There had been talks of physical therapy before they’d left the hospital that first time, but Mark figures that, given the non-existent insurance they’re working with, it’s a moot point. It’s one thing for a hospital staff to conveniently lose some paperwork at the request of an old friend, yeah, but another to keep going to regular appointments. Their luck’s probably run out in that department, anyway.

But it also means that even if Peter dodges the Jigsaw accusations, he’s almost without a doubt never going to be an FBI agent again. The chances are so slim there might as well be none at all. At least he’d still had a chance with the hole in his throat, but with only one working arm? Even a desk job is a slim chance. Hopefully the FBI has a decent retirement plan.

Something like guilt tries to churn in his stomach as he sits down at the little table in the kitchen, but he ignores it in favor of reminding himself that all Peter had to do in the first place was get into the damn coffin. All he had to do was stay in a room filled with blood and death.

As if in reply, the almost-healed wounds on his back sting just a little when he sits back and picks up the newspaper he’d left on the table to stare at the date. The smaller cuts are mostly scars now, but they’re still raw and pink, and the deeper ones still look angry. He’d managed to catch a glimpse of them in the mirror after a shower earlier in the week, and couldn’t help but wince. Gordon may not have had to stitch any of them up, but that doesn’t mean they look good.

Mark carefully folds the newspaper in front of him back up, flattening the seam with his thumb before he sighs and runs his hand through his hair. He’d grabbed the paper from the lobby, just as he does every day, and went through it front to back earlier. Still nothing. Absolutely no word of Jigsaw, or Peter, or even John.

He doesn’t like it.

Both the department and the FBI are obviously keeping things under tight wraps, but it worries him. How much information is he missing, and why isn’t Gordon relaying any of it to him, if he knows anything at all? At least with Fisk it makes sense—saying anything over an unsecured line isn’t just breaking the rules, it’s really damn stupid. There should be more, but there just isn’t.

And more than that, Mark’s still itchy about the battery starting to act up. He wants to avoid the phone dying in case he ends up needing it. Maybe he should buy a new battery after all.

He’s so deep in thought that when the door opens, it makes him jump and swivel around sharply, giving his back something else to protest about.

Peter just raises his eyebrows at him, nudging the door shut with his hip. He’s holding onto a plastic bottle of water by the cap between his teeth, and Mark watches with far too much interest as Peter takes it back out of his mouth.

“Jumpy?” Peter asks, and leans against the counter once he gets to the kitchen. “What for?”

“I’m always jumpy,” Mark grumbles. “Comes with the territory.”

“Hm. Of being a murderer?”

That just makes Mark sigh. He gives Peter a good once over, taking in the sweat sticking his shirt to his skin and the redness still clinging to his cheeks. But he doesn’t look quite as tired out as he usually does, and Mark takes a quick glance at the clock on the stove.

“You’re back early,” he says a second before realizing how bad that sounds. Like he’s timing Peter’s jogs or something, which… he would’ve done that at first, maybe. But Peter’s mostly here of his own volition now, and he hasn’t actually run away yet, so it doesn’t seem necessary. And maybe there’s trust in it, too. But if Peter notices the underlying implication, he doesn’t comment on it.

“I didn’t go as far as I usually do,” he shrugs instead, and takes a sip of water.

“You know there’s a treadmill in that gym downstairs, right?”

Peter makes a face as he swallows.

“I get bored on a treadmill,” he says, not quite complaining but obviously not enthused by the idea. “I’m not gonna sit there and stare at the wall when I could just go outside instead.”

Mark has to consider this next part very carefully, watching Peter stretch his back until his shirt rides up. There’s undoubtedly a hunger on his face as he watches muscle ripple beneath sweaty skin, but he’s keeping that locked up tight for right now. Instead he says, “you could use some of the other equipment to help with your arm.”

Peter’s fingers twitch on his left hand, and his lips thin.

“For the record, I don’t think there’s any point,” he says tightly. “But I do. Sometimes.”

Seeing an opening, Mark tries to push.

“And?”

Peter glowers at him, whatever good mood he’d had immediately evaporating on the spot. He just takes another sip of water and then, like it reminds him, puts the bottle back down and reaches into the pocket of his shorts. He draws out some change, setting it on the table with a soft clink.

“I had a few bucks left over from dinner to get a bottle of water,” he says, and picks the bottle back up again—Peter had demanded to be the one to get up the food for once and presumably had pocketed the change. “I got thirsty on the way back.”

Mark raises an eyebrow.

“You could’ve just come up here.”

Again, Peter shrugs.

“I was thirsty,” he repeats, and it seems to Mark like he’s trying to be contrary at this point. “Why would I wait to come back here? What are you, my mother?”

As comfortable as it feels to slip right back into their dynamic of being constantly at each other’s throats, it still sends a spark of irritation up Mark’s spine. He rubs at his forehead with his palm, just back and forth once, and then puts his hand down with a bit more force than is probably necessary.

“I’m just,” he grits, “making conversation.”

Peter scoffs.

“And it’s a shitty conversation.”

Mark can feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with even more agitation at the way that Peter’s poking at him, seemingly just because he’s bored. Or he’s trying to derail the conversation from his bad arm by pissing Mark off. And if that’s his play, well. It’s working. Mark’s pissed off. But it’s not like it takes a lot to do that where Peter fucking Strahm is involved.

He pushes himself away from the table, slowly standing with his eyes solidly locked on Peter’s. There’s a tension in the air, like the spark of humidity right before lightning strikes.

“I don’t have to be nice,” Mark says in a low voice, and Peter’s eyebrow raises. “I don’t have to play along with all of your fucking pigtail-pulling, you know.”

This time, Peter smirks. It’s a good look on him, even if it’s infuriating.

“I do know,” he says, his eyes sparking dangerously. “But I know it’s from the sheer goodness of your heart that you’re nice to me while you’ve got me stuck here. It’s just so kind of you.”

Mark just keeps that slowness up as he makes his way over to where Peter’s still standing in the kitchen. It’s a stalking sort of gait more than anything else, and it stops Peter’s gaze from ever shifting even once. He watches Mark as he gets closer, doesn’t cringe away or try to backpedal. He meets Mark’s energy with his own, that twist to his lips still there.

“You said you caught me,” Mark continues, and stops right in front of Peter with his shoulders squared. He’s at his full height, and even if it doesn’t match Peter’s, he’s got more mass to him. Peter’s got a thick leanness to his muscle; Mark’s got the extra bulk that gives him more power. “But right now, you’re the one who’s caught, aren’t you?”

Peter leans forward. Whatever had been in the room the day before is back with a merciless vengeance. It’s all but tangible. Sexual in nature, but just as deadly as if they were aiming their guns at each other, too.

“So you seem to think,” Peter says quietly, and there it is again. It’s the FBI agent standing in an interrogation room, looking for the crack in the walls and finding it. “But I told you. I’m keeping an eye on you. Even with one arm, I’ve got you just as cornered as you’ve got me.”

Mark tilts his head just a bit to the left, pinning Peter with a curious look.

“You’re way more cornered than I am,” he says, and leans closer just as Peter had until there’s barely two inches between them. “At least, that’s how I’m seeing it.”

They’re in each other’s spaces, electricity jumping between the two of them in sharp, threatening arcs of attraction. Mark can smell the sweat from Peter’s run, the deodorant he uses. He can count the flecks of green in his eyes. Peter’s a beautiful man beneath the annoying, prickly exterior, but Mark’s starting to realize that he doesn’t want the former without the latter.

“Maybe the other times,” Peter allows, his voice low. He’s standing tall, all power and intelligence and yes, stupidity. “But not right now.”

“Are you so sure of that?”

“I am.”

Mark makes a huffy little noise, like a laugh.

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter says suddenly, “I’ve had enough of this shit.”

Mark fully plans to ask him what he means by that, but then anything he might’ve said gets swallowed up as Peter grips the hair at the back of Mark’s neck and presses their lips together.

As far as the technical aspect of kisses go, it’s not exactly the best. Their teeth clack together, and their noses aren’t aligned right and it makes Mark’s twinge where it’s still a tiny bit sore, plus Peter’s fingers are too tight in his hair. It’s too cold in the room, and Peter’s only got the one good arm, and he’s just tall enough that Mark’s neck cracks when Peter grabs him.

Emotionally speaking, though, Mark’s pretty sure he’s never going to experience this again.

His hands fumble instantly, trying to find something to grab and settling on the sleeves of Peter’s t-shirt as he drags him closer. They’re both stepping around awkwardly, trying to figure something out and still kissing the entire time, angry and heated and raw in a way that borders on hostile. Mark bites Peter’s lip hard enough that he can taste coppery blood, and Peter all but knees him in the balls trying to get his thigh between both of Mark’s.

“Fuck,” Mark gasps, voice low as he finally feels a wall against his back. His lips drag and ghost over Peter’s, like they can barely put any space between the two of them now that they’re finally here. “Thank God. Now I don’t have to deal with you getting all pissed off ‘cause I did it first.”

“Fuck you,” Peter growls into his mouth, pressing him against the wall. Mark can feel Peter’s heart pounding against his ribcage, a fluttering bird scrambling to break free. “Fuck you, fuck you—”

“Trying,” Mark says, because he can’t help it.

Instead of pulling away and swearing eternal celibacy, which Mark probably deserves for that joke, Peter just shoves up closer against him and kisses him harder. He’s still only got the one hand, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to pop the buttons open on Mark’s shirt. Mark well and truly can’t remember when he last had a healthy fumble into bed, but he still remembers the basics on how to get there.

“Move,” he presses, though he keeps on chasing after Peter’s lips. “Come on—“

Now he’s the one pushing, still catching Peter’s lips in between breaths as he starts to lead them away from the wall and towards the nearest bed instead. All they do is fight, but it’s easy to direct him where he wants Peter to go—easier than he would’ve expected, for sure.

The bed bounces them back up an inch or two when they topple down onto it, and Peter uses the momentum of it to pin Mark the same way he had the day before. This time, though, he braces himself on his good arm and barely gives Mark a second to breathe. They’re kissing like it’s the last thing either of them will ever do, even as their hands try to figure out how to get their clothes off in the fastest way possible. Mark’s still got an advantage from having both hands free, and he slides them up and then into the back of Peter’s shorts until his fingertips get caught in his waistband.

Peter groans at the feeling and Mark’s burning up from the inside out, panting for air whenever he can. It’s like every time they take a second to breathe, they end up suffocating instead. Whatever had been building since they first stared at each other across that dingy stone room so long ago hasn’t just ignited—it’s detonated everything into rubble that can’t be recovered.

“I can’t—” Peter mumbles against his lips, kisses him again, “I can’t stay up like this—”

Mark has to think about it before he remembers Peter’s still got a broken left arm and can’t balance on it. He’s holding himself up fully on his right, but even as Mark’s having this realization, Peter lowers himself down to relieve some of the effort. He’s heavy against Mark’s chest, a solid mass of muscle with his thighs straining on either side of Mark’s waist.

It’s like they just can’t stop kissing, even if there’s no romance in it. It’s all tongues and teeth, a fight just as much as everything else they do. Peter’s mouth is hot and wet against his, and Mark cranes his neck to meet him halfway. He has to work to get himself into a sitting position, wrapping one arm around Peter’s thinner waist and propping himself up with the other.

Once he’s got the leverage to do so, he flips them over without jostling Peter’s arm too much, and Peter hits the bed with an oof and then a glare. His lips are shiny and red, kiss-bruised; his hair’s just a tad longer than when they met, and it fans out on the pillow like a shadow. He looks gorgeous underneath Mark, as mad as a stray and twice as deadly. He looks like nothing Mark’s ever seen before, or will likely ever see again.

“Don’t throw me around like that,” Peter gripes, even while making absolutely zero effort to switch them back again. He just pants like he can’t get enough air, hard against Mark’s ass. The shorts don’t leave much up to the imagination.

“You ever even do this before?” Mark asks, breath coming out rough as he ignores that comment in favor of pressing himself down a little. “I figure you probably fuck missionary with the lights on like a good Catholic, though.”

“First off,” Peter says smartly, as his one good hand starts to tug at the button and zipper to Mark’s pants, “I’m Jewish on my mother’s side, so fuck you. Second of all, I’m recently divorced. And I went to college. I know how this works.”

Mark blinks, though his attention’s now almost fully focused on Peter’s deft fingers.

“You… What? You went to college?” For the life of him, he can’t follow that train of thought. “What does that even mean?”

Peter makes a satisfied noise as he finally gets Mark’s pants open and drags his cock out, big hand wrapping around the base and making Mark hiss. Then Peter sits up as much as he can, slotting their noses against each other as he breathes against Mark’s lips. He sounds pleased, his voice low.

“It means I’ve done this before.”

Mark can’t argue with that. Peter’s got a surprising amount of dexterity for someone that’s only got one hand, and boy, does he use that hand well. Mark can’t help but close his eyes, mouth dropping open a little as Peter starts a firm rhythm, his hand sliding up and down with little resistance once he’s gathered some precome into his palm. Mark can’t help but imagine Peter in some dingy motel with another man, fresh off a divorce and trying to bury himself in the touch of another person. And rather than make him jealous, it just spurs him on.

“Yeah,” he manages. “You have done this before.”

“I’m a fast learner,” Peter replies, and his voice is low and a little thick. “Now shut the fuck up before I change my mind.”

Mark can’t really argue with that, either. Peter’s managed to prop himself up as he works to drag Mark closer to the edge, using whatever strength he has in his core to keep as much weight as possible off his elbow. He cranes up and bites at Mark’s bottom lip with too much pressure in it. It’s as angry as it is aroused, and Mark groans and drags him closer, leaning down to give Peter’s broken arm some respite. .

God. Nothing about this really is romantic in the slightest. Peter kisses like he’s trying to prove something, or at the very least trying to win an argument. It’s the way that Mark expected this to go if they ever got here. No holding hands and tender admissions. This, just like everything else they do, is a fight. And Mark knows it’s one they’re both determined to win.

He manages to find Peter’s shirt in his hand, twisting it up tight in his fist and pulling until he can hear it on the verge of tearing. Peter mouths at Mark’s cheek in a way that seems to be a devious smile threaded with triumph. There’s a trembling rigidity to Peter’s thighs where they’re straining on either side of Mark’s hips, and Peter pushes his own hips enough Mark can feel his hard cock pressing up through both his shorts and the seat of Mark’s pants.

“If you don’t hurry the fuck up,” Mark says against Peter’s ear, just to feel him shudder, “I’m never gonna get to blow you.”

“Fuck,” Peter croaks, and a line of sweat drips down from his hairline. “Fuck, fuck—”

That gets Mark what he’d wanted, though. Peter’s hand speeds up with an almost feverish pace, and Mark groans deep in his chest and arches back. Peter’s hands are big and calloused and the one around Mark’s cock twists in just the right way at the wrist to get him worked up too hard and too fast.

But Mark’s not in his twenties anymore, unfortunately. He feels the crest of it a second before coming hard, groaning breathlessly as his eyes squeeze shut. The orgasm from earlier in the shower means that this one is raw and almost painful in its pleasure, and the shirt in his fist definitely protests when he pulls harder. He’s not going to tell Peter that he jerked off in the shower, though, so he just tries to ride it through without clueing Peter in that it’s a little too much.

Their sweaty foreheads bonk together almost gently as Mark leans forward and tries to breathe. His one hand slowly lets go of Peter’s shirt, knowing that his fingers have left imprints in the fabric, and the other just braces himself against the mattress. Mark has his eyes closed, and he can feel the brush of Peter’s eyelashes against his cheekbones.

Still, Mark has a promise to keep. He swallows hard, dragging his focus back to the present, and pulls Peter’s ear between his teeth just to feel him shudder.

“My shirt’s a mess,” Peter grouses, though he sounds winded. “You came all over me.”

“Stop complaining for once in your life,” Mark replies, though the thought of it makes him chuckle. Of course Peter would find something to bitch about during sex. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better.”

It’s a challenge beneath the way that Peter’s voice is trembling a little, and Mark’s going to rise to it as best as he’s able. He slides downward, using his palms to shove the soiled shirt up. He wants to see as much of Peter as possible just in case this is a one time deal. He’d take it off if he could, but the logistics with Peter’s bad arm means that they’ll have to deal with it scrunched up just above Peter’s nipples. He ends up biting one, just to hear Peter yelp, before leaning back a little to admire the view.

God. He’s exactly as beautiful as Mark knew he’d be laid out like this, all muscle hidden under the barest hint of fat, curls of hair that start across his chest and trail down the center and into his shorts. He starts to kiss and bite his way down until he stops at a small divot just a few inches to the left of his navel, and Mark recognizes it as a bullet scar. He kisses that too, and feels the way Peter’s stomach tightens under the attention.

“You gonna do anything, or do I have to start charging a viewing fee?” Peter says a little dryly, even as he clearly squirms a little uncomfortably from the attention.

Mark just grins.

“If you insist,” he says, going for sweet but putting a bit too much smug superiority into it.

Peter’s wearing jogging shorts, which means it’s a lot easier to drag them down and pull out Peter’s cock than if he were wearing jeans or slacks. He’s pretty impressive—not the biggest that Mark’s ever seen, but certainly far from small. It’s been a while since Mark’s blown anyone, but he falls back into the rhythm as easily as anything else when he takes Peter into his mouth.

“Oh, Jesus,” Peter says from above him.

This time Mark hums his response, and then feels the way that Peter shudders hard at the feeling.

Mark can angle his head just enough to look up, but he wants more than that. Peter’s making soft panting sounds, higher than his speaking voice but still with a grit that sends it shuddering back down into his stomach, quivering there where Mark can see it. The noises match the twitching of his hips, and now Mark has to wonder how long it’s been since Peter was on the receiving end of… anything, really.

When was the last time he even fucked, Mark wonders. Since before his divorce? When was the last time he got to lose himself in another person? Does he even have the capacity to turn his brain off for that long, or is there always something happening in there?

Well, hey. Mark likes a challenge.

He works Peter over slowly but surely, going between hard sucks and gentle licks with the flat of his tongue. When he has the chance, he grabs Peter’s right wrist and drags it up until he can feel knuckles carefully kneading against his hair. It takes another poke and prod before Peter carefully winds Mark’s hair up between his fingers—but contrary to what Mark would’ve expected, he doesn’t pull. He just lets his hand rest there.

It doesn’t take long. Peter makes a sudden noise and then starts to tap Mark’s temple hard with the tips of the fingers that had been in Mark’s hair, thighs shuddering. Mark knows the signal for what it is, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from swallowing Peter’s cock all the way down again. He gets a startled gasp for that, and then those same fingers thread into his hair again and finally, finally pull hard as Peter’s thighs spread wider.

And yet he doesn’t say anything. He just makes another throaty sound, lets it out in a breathless “nnng” before he freezes and then comes right down Mark’s throat.

Mark watches every second of it even as he’s swallowing—a little out of practice, yeah, but he still gets all of it. His eyes trace that strong line of Peter’s neck as he throws his head back into the pillow, mouth opened silently and eyebrows creasing down like he’s in pain. The scar in that hollow of tendons appears, pink and shiny. His breath seems caught in his throat, and then all at once the tension releases and he practically melts into the mattress with his arm thrown across his forehead.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and Mark pulls off again with a satisfied smirk.

“You’re welcome,” he says, voice a little ragged. It’s a pleasant burn that he’s missed, a gritty pain in his throat that’ll be gone by tomorrow. More gratifying is the fact that he finally got Peter into bed.

They both lay there for a few quiet minutes, catching their breath. Mark drags his forehead a bit against Peter’s stomach, leaving a light smear of sweat there against the curls above his navel, and then glances at the bullet scar again. Another time, another question to ask when it’s appropriate.

“I need a nap,” Peter announces suddenly, sounding like he’s barely even getting the words out.

Mark snorts, even as he pulls himself up and then flops sideways onto the bed too.

“Old ass.”

“Fuck you,” says Peter, ever the clever one.

Mark watches with his head turned as Peter tugs his shirt off, carefully wadding it up so the come stays on the inside of the bundle, and tosses it somewhere towards the laundry bin. Mark had thought he’d gotten his fill of Peter’s chest earlier, but he stares hungrily anyway at the blush that’s starting to fade. He’d left a few hickeys, and that makes him way more proud than he should be. It’s gone too soon as Peter tugs the blankets up and wriggles down underneath them with the sigh of a dog in the summer.

“Move over,” Mark grumbles, trying to get comfortable. He gets a heel to his calf for his trouble.

“This is my bed,” Peter says into his pillow, the words loose and syrupy. He doesn’t sound like he really means it. “Get lost.”

“Rude,” Mark says, and lays back. They’re not cuddling or anything, but Mark can still feel Peter’s warmth across the mattress, can feel his breath evening out closer and closer into sleep. It’s the most comfortable he’s been in a long, long time, and longer still since he shared a bed.

Mark stares up at the ceiling, eyes trying to flicker closed before he looks over once Peter’s breath evens out.

The last time Mark had been this close to Peter while he was sleeping, he’d had been fighting off a staph infection and dealing with the lingering pain of the walls trying to crush him into nothing. He’d been stressed, and sore from the car. He’d been sweaty and restless, and Mark hadn’t felt bad about waking him up if it had meant getting him to the hospital sooner.

They’ve obviously shared a room since then, but sharing a bed is something entirely different. Peter’s face has smoothed out, though there are still wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. Are they stress lines or smile lines? Who knows. His lips are parted as he breathes out slow and quiet, and Mark thinks about how that first raw, angry kiss had felt. Passion, yeah, but nothing more than sexual attraction.

And yet.

Mark doesn’t know Peter, and Peter doesn’t know him. But they’ve seen the worst of each other, and Mark doesn’t know how to come back from that. He doesn’t know how to reconcile not even knowing Peter’s middle name, not even knowing his birthday, when they’ve both seen each other at their lowest.

He tries to think. He’s seen Peter’s file, but he can’t remember either of those things. He knows that Peter likes sweets, though, and that he seems to enjoy fiction over non-fiction. He doesn’t sing along to music, but he does hum to it. Every once in a while he bends down to scruff up the ears of dogs that are walking past them, a soft smile on his lips. Maybe he likes dogs. He seems like a dog person.

After a few more moments, Mark reaches over and shakes Peter by the shoulder.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and Peter’s eyes flutter open. He still looks half asleep, and Mark watches as he scrunches up his face and grunts.

“What?”

“What’s your birthday?” Mark asks, lifting himself up just a little bit. “Mine’s June 9th.”

There’s an almost soft pause, like the air in the room gets a little lighter. Then Peter smiles at him, that spark of mischief in his eyes once again as they crinkle up. They’re smile lines.

“Fuck you,” he says sleepily, and rolls over with a yawn.

Mark can’t help it— he grins too before he flops back onto his pillow, breathing in the smell of the cheap detergent and the sweat still clinging to the air. The pillowcase smells like the hotel’s shampoo. Like Peter.

“Alright,” he mumbles, and closes his eyes. “Fair enough.”

Chapter Text

It’s really only a nap, given that it’s still the middle of the day. Mark squints at the alarm clock and then groans, covering his eyes with a hand before finally committing to waking up. Rolling over is a bit of a chore, since his muscles are stiff from sleep, and he sighs as he looks up at the ceiling. How he managed to kick off his jeans is a bit of a mystery, but they’re bunched up at the bottom of the bed and he sits up to grab them.

And then pauses.

The other side of the bed is empty, and he looks around. That hadn’t been the case when they’d fallen asleep, but he’s not surprised. Having a man turn around and say that they never should have done that or I’m not gay or anything isn’t exactly something Mark’s new to. It’s just more a matter of him not expecting that to come from Peter, though a second or two of thought to it makes Mark wonder if he was wrong on that front. Peter’s proud and closed-off, and Mark wouldn’t be at all surprised in the end if he demanded discretion. Doesn’t bother Mark any, not really. It’s just one more thing to hold against him.

Peter’s not hard to find, either. He’s bent over the sink in the kitchenette, the curve of his back poking each notch of his spine out like thorns. Mark doesn’t immediately go to him, instead staying on the bed and watching him silently. It’s quiet in the room, except for the ever-present sounds of life outside, a life neither of them are really a part of.

“What are you looking at,” Peter finally rasps, not turning around.

“You,” Mark says simply.

“Yeah,” Peter mutters, and Mark watches him run a hand down his face. He looks ashen. “I got that.”

Mark’s eyes trace the length of Peter’s body, of the muscles in his arms and the unstyled mess of waves in his hair. He’s shirtless, only in his underwear; the situation seems solemn enough that Mark tries to keep his thoughts even, rather than admiring. There’s a rising static in the air, some sort of charge that seems to come from the tension in Peter’s muscles.

“This is a bad idea,” Peter says, right on cue. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

Mark rolls his eyes and shifts to get out of bed.

“You know,” he says, “that’s about what I expected, this whole gay meltdown.”

That, at least, gets Peter to look over his shoulder.

“…are you— are you a fucking moron?” Peter sputters, clearly outraged even as he’s still leaning against the sink. “I don’t care who you fuck. I don’t care who you think I fuck! I couldn’t give less of a shit! The problem here is that you tried to kill me! Twice!”

Well, he’s got a point. Mark lifts his eyes to the ceiling and rocks his head back and forth, considering.

“Yeah, okay,” he says finally. “I did do that.”

It’s mostly just to piss off Peter even more, and it seems like it works. A beat or two later, though, Peter shudders hard and grips the sink with his one good arm, his eyes squeezing shut. His fingers clench and unclench, a heartbeat of movement before he slowly sinks lower until his forehead touches down lightly against the faucet.

“I’ve lost my fucking mind,” he whispers, barely audible. His breath is coming in sharp and fast. “I shouldn’t be doing this. Oh, fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Mark’s genuinely not sure if Peter knows that he can hear those quiet, frantic mutterings. He seems like he’s stuck in his own panicked little world, trying desperately to talk himself back out of it with zero regard for Mark’s presence. The sink drips rhythmically when Peter’s forehead knocks it just enough to twist it on. He seems like he’s heading towards a full on break, straight down the center of him.

“...you know we can just… put this to the side, right?” Mark says cautiously, when it becomes clear that Peter has zero intention of turning the conversation around into something sane. “I get it, and, uh, it definitely was a bad idea. I was just messing with you—”

“Shut up,” Peter says, and this time at full volume. The sink shuts off again when Peter leans his forehead harder against it, though whether it’s on purpose is unclear. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. Shut up, Hoffman.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” Mark snaps, feeling a rush of raw, putrid anger that overtakes the caution like a wave. “What the fuck, Peter? You’re the one who kissed me, or did you forget that part?”

“I know I did,” Peter says stiffly. “I didn’t forget. Don’t call me Peter.”

“I was gonna let it go,” Mark continues, ignoring that last part. He’s on a roll now that they’re both apparently going to air it all out. “I wasn’t gonna make a move for the exact same reason you’re losing your fucking shit right now!”

“Of course I’m losing my shit!” Finally, finally, Peter grows enough balls to turn around and face him. “Look at where we are! Look at what we’re fucking doing! Playing house in Colorado! Doing the fucking dishes and eating at local restaurants and—and having sex, apparently, because I’ve lost my fucking mind!”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, don’t get pissed off at me!” Mark yells right back. Hopefully the people in the adjacent rooms are out somewhere. “All you do is get pissed off at me for the decisions that you make!”

“And all you do is push people into corners and then blame them for what they do when they have no choice!” Peter snarls right back. “I’d never fucking be here with you of all people even if you weren’t a murderer!”

Mark snaps his hand out, snatching Peter’s jaw and shoving his hips up against the sink again. It’s the same thing they always do, it’s the same position they always find themselves in. And each time, Peter looks less and less scared and more and more like he’d expected this to happen, like he’d just been waiting for Mark to do it.

That look just serves to piss Mark off more. He grips Peter’s jaw so tightly that he can feel Peter’s teeth grinding against each other, but Peter just keeps staring down at him. Hot-headed, calculating. The grit of Peter’s unshaven cheeks prickles against Mark’s skin, keeping him centered and in the moment.

“You’ve been a pain in my ass the moment you walked down those stairs,” he says quietly. “You know that? You and your cocky-ass attitude, acting like the smartest guy in the room.”

“I am the smartest guy in the room,” Peter replies, his jaw fighting against Mark’s hold. His voice is soft too, and unsettlingly so. “I’m definitely smarter than you.”

Mark holds his gaze, turning that over in his head.

“You forget where we are, too?” he asks, and when Peter doesn’t answer, Mark uses his hand to make him nod. “Yeah, I know you didn’t. You remember how we got here?”

Peter’s nose twitches angrily, but he nods all by himself this time, and Mark grins.

“Good, ‘cause I don’t think a smart man would’ve made the decisions you did. Do you?”

This time, Peter’s eyes shift back and forth while he studies Mark’s expression intently. He’s still not moving away from where Mark’s holding him in place, still letting Mark hold his jaw and get up close and personal. It’s like they’re about to kiss again, but that charge in the air from their combined anger leaves too much in between them to make it happen.

“Okay. And what about you?” Peter finally asks, his voice even and almost indifferent. No longer soft, but casual. “Being Jigsaw’s bitch is where a smart man would end up, huh? You all made your decisions, too. Amanda Young? Lawrence Gordon? All of you chose this.”

Against his will, Mark thinks of both Lawrence and Amanda standing side by side. Amanda’s arms crossed and her expression angry, Lawrence leaning heavily against his cane. Smart in their own ways, and fucking stupid in others. Just like John, just like Jill, and just like Adam. Just like Peter.

Just like himself.

“None of us thought this is where we’d end up,” Mark says, rising to the bait even when he knows he shouldn’t. “None of us.”

“So which one of you’s the smartest?” Peter asks, ignoring him.

Mark narrows his eyes in return, scowling.

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it’s not you,” Peter continues, pushing every button like he’s searching for just the right one. “You’re here too, remember? You ended up here with me, playing house. You couldn’t outsmart me, either. You left a trail of blood and expected me to either miss it or disregard it, and I caught you instead.”

Their lips are nearly touching when Mark leans in, and he can feel how Peter swallows against his hand. He speaks softly, deliberately, making sure that Peter can feel the brush of every last syllable. He doesn’t move away from Mark’s almost-kiss, just stares down into his eyes.

“What makes you think you’re any different?” Mark murmurs. “You forget the blood on your hands, too?”

Peter pushes him away, as though the thought of them kissing finally snapped him out of the angry daze he’d found himself in.

“I’m not a murderer!” he snarls. “I’m not you!”

“You killed Jeff Denlon,” Mark points out. He’d seen Denlon laying there, soaking in a pool of blood he’d created himself with a circular saw and three years of unattended grief, but Peter stands firm.

“He was trying to shoot me,” he insists, though he’s still a bit too pale. “I just shot first.”

“Well,” Mark says dryly, “that makes it better.”

That gets the exact reaction he’d expected, Peter lighting up like a bright flame of anger, and he gets crowded against the wall this time.

“I can’t believe you, of all people, would lecture me on excessive force.” There’s a growing hostility with all the tension of a rubber band pulled to its limit as Peter gets back in his face with a hand wrapped up in the undershirt Mark’s still wearing. “You’re the one who went nuclear. You’re the one who took up serial killing as a hobby instead of going to a fucking therapist. Maybe I shouldn’t have killed Jeff Denlon, but at least I didn’t spend every second of my life planning it out.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it. Mark can remember those dark, painful days after Seth Baxter had been released from prison and Mark had spent all of his time at whatever bar would still let him in. He’d sat there practically soaking in whiskey before he’d come up with his plan. He’d spent so much money putting it all together that he’d been practically broke by the end, but it had been worth it.

Or at least it had felt like it at the time. Still, he can’t help but defend himself. He can’t help but try to make sense out of every decision he’s made since he held Angie’s cold, stiff, lifeless hand between both of his own. Every choice he’s made since then has ridden off that feeling of endless grief that could never mend itself.

“She was all I had,” he says, that same grief like bile in his throat. Her smile, her laughter, the way she sometimes felt more like a daughter than a sister. The way he failed her. “I was all she had. You don’t know how it—“

“Everyone’s lost someone!” Peter says over him, throws both arms out as he lets go of Mark again. “Everyone loses someone eventually! It’s life, Hoffman! But most of us don’t kill over it!”

“No one I know lost someone the way I did!” Mark sees red, only red, anger and blood and a seething hatred he’ll never get rid of. “What could you possibly know about it? Just because you saw the pictures doesn’t mean you know what it feels like!”

“I know so much more about you than you think I do,” Peter says through his teeth. It feels like a replay of that first real argument, the one outside of the hotel by the marina a lifetime ago. “When are you going to get that through your head?”

“When you stop being so goddamn smug. You don’t know shit.”

Peter clicks his tongue, sounding for all the world like a strung-out parent who’s at the end of his rope. He concentrates on something outside the window, clearly thinking hard. The hair at his nape curls softly under his ears, and finally he sighs and turns to look at him. He studies Mark, eyes sweeping up and down like he’s taking in the sight of him, too.

“You wear dark suits because it makes you blend into the background easier,” he says, tone as neutral as if he were giving a debrief after a case. “But you contrast it with lighter ties and shirts, usually in cooler colors. And you favor solids over patterns, even when you’re dressing casually.”

Mark freezes in place, staring at Peter as he continues.

“The clothes you tend to wear bring out the blue in your eyes, so that you give off an air of authority but still have a touch of humanity. You scratch at your face when you’re nervous, and your accent gets thicker when you’re annoyed.”

“What are you—”

“You like classic rock music, and savory foods. You always wear your seatbelt, like it’s a reflex. You’re always polite—to everyone but me, anyway—even when you’re getting pissed off.” Peter’s eyes are almost honest, even if his expression is impassive. “In fact, you get more polite when you’re pissed off. It means you’re trying to stop yourself from standing out in the crowd by causing a scene and drawing attention to yourself. But you still have an attitude in public, sometimes a temper.”

“Stop.” Mark holds up both hands, torn between anger and something else he can’t identify. “Stop doing your fucking FBI shit on me. I get it. Enough.”

“You’re nice to kids, and looking presentable is important to you. You’re stubborn, so when you give in to something, it’s because you want to use it to your advantage. But half the time it backfires on you, because you end up feeling guilty about something else you did. So you let it slide. You prefer being clean-shaven; you’ve shaved nearly every morning since we got here—”

“Stop!” he says again, a bit more frantic this time, but Peter just barrels ahead.

“You’re sentimental, but I already knew that. You’re curious. You like picking things apart. You like making people angry to get information. You get too close to cases that remind you of your—”

“Stop!” Mark’s voice breaks out of him like shattered glass. He feels more like a cornered animal than he ever has before. Not even John Kramer with a shotgun tied against his chin made him feel this raw and violently flayed open. “Stop, just— just fucking stop.”

Peter listens to the demand this time, having made his point, but he doesn’t look very satisfied. In fact, he looks almost… sad, maybe. Far from the indifferent coldness he always seems to carry with him whenever they both get too close to showing their bellies to each other. Mark has to back away from whatever this moment has wrought, bringing his hands up. He’d almost wanted to cover his ears like a child, trying to block out the way that Peter had found and peeled back defenses he’d had up for years. His back hits the wall, and he just tries to breathe.

“I’m not sorry,” Peter says into the silence, when it becomes too heavy to bear.

“Don’t do that,” Mark whispers, eyes closed and palms pressing hard against his eyes. “Don’t do that shit.”

“Why not?”

Mark slides his hands up from his eyes into his hair, staring at the vinyl tiles of the kitchenette floor. His chest feels too tight, and the scars on his back tug painfully as though they’d opened again. He counts each tile, backwards from ten, until the nausea in his stomach starts to settle. Now he feels like he’s the one that’s about to have a meltdown, and it doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t look like it feels good for Peter, either.

“I want to know more about you,” Peter says, after almost five more minutes of quiet. “More than what my ‘FBI shit’ tells me.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Peter insists. “It’s not a lie. I want you to fucking talk to me, I want you to tell me how you feel. You keep telling me all this shit about what I do and don’t know, but how the hell am I supposed to fucking know in the first place when you don’t tell me?”

Mark stares, his hands finally dropping.

“…who in the fuck are you?” he asks, utterly baffled. All of the anger in his chest, all of the hurt and pain, has been swept away by complete surprise. He feels like he’s been slapped across the face in the middle of a panic attack, sending all of the hysteria flying somewhere else entirely.

Peter stands his ground, though, crossing his arms the best he can and keeping that eye contact. How this is the same man Mark dragged near-death up the stairs of his house a few weeks ago is a mystery. He looks like nothing could knock him down, like every time Mark pushed him against the wall, it was simply because he let him.

“This is about trust,” he says, sniffing angrily. “That’s what you said. Right? Well, how the fuck are we supposed to trust each other like this?”

Mark can’t get his thoughts straight, still lost in the whirlwind of Peter almost casually rattling off so many things about him that he’d barely even noticed himself. It was none of the obvious, painful things–except for maybe that last one. They were all things that someone would have to try to notice. And he finds that he can’t cope with that.

“That’s not trust,” he finally grits out. “That was— I don’t know what that was. That was you showing off, you trying to get one up on me—”

“Oh, enough,” Peter interrupts again. “You bitch and bitch about me being private, and here you are throwing a tantrum because I just called you out for being a hypocrite—”

“What do you want from me? Huh? What are you getting out of this?”

“I want to know why we’re here,” Peter says sharply, and he’s started to crowd him again while Mark hadn’t noticed. “I want to know why you didn’t dump me somewhere and let the cops take care of it. What makes you think I’d just agree to this?”

What the fuck makes you think I’d ever get in a car with you?

“I don’t know what goes on in your fucked up little head,” Mark says, waving his hand in Peter’s vague direction. He’s still too tight in the spine, still too lit up with the instinct of an animal waiting for the best moment to run. He wants out of this conversation. “For all I know, you’re a rat and the FBI’s had you here the whole time.”

Peter pauses, staring at Mark with a seemingly endless incredulity.

“...wow,” he finally says slowly, drawing the word out, “that’s… really, really stupid.”

Mark immediately bristles, tossing his hands up in surrender. How this entire thing switched from Peter flipping out after they fucked to Mark being put directly in the spotlight is beyond him, but he has a feeling it has something to do with Peter’s impeccable powers of redirection.

“Fine, whatever, I’m stupid,” he snaps. “You made your fucking point. Are we done?”

“Whatever done means,” Peter mutters to himself, running his good hand down his face. He looks exhausted, almost as exhausted as Mark feels. “Yeah. We’re done.”

They had been asleep not twenty minutes ago, and though Mark feels like a live wire just waiting to spark into a flame, he also feels like if he lays down he’ll never get up again. It’s not exactly an unwelcome thought, and it never has been. After all, this entire mess and all of the emotions that come with it would simply go away if he just never got up again.

The awkward silence that follows any serious argument feels stifling enough that Peter must want to do something about it, because he takes a step forward.

“I have my reasons,” he says, almost cautiously, “but earlier… I did want to do that. I’ve wanted to do that.”

Mark rolls his eyes.

“I’m not having this conversation,” he mutters, waving vaguely in Peter’s direction. “Especially not in my underwear.”

Peter considers that.

“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “That seems like the most reasonable outfit when you’re talking about fucking someone.”

The joke—if it can even be called that—startles Mark into an embarrassing chortle. It’s the first real laugh he’s let out in a while, and it starts to roll catastrophically into actual giggling. He covers his face back up again with both hands, the laughter jolting out of him in waves that have him leaning against the wall. Jesus Christ. What are they fucking doing?

“I don’t know who the fuck you are,” he manages, “but if this is how you act when you get laid, I definitely would’ve done it a lot sooner.”

“Ha, ha,” Peter says dryly, but it doesn’t sound annoyed or irritable. Another surprise. “Maybe I just didn’t like you.”

“Does that mean you like me now?” Mark wheedles, lowering his hands once more as the laughter subsides. It might be a tease, it might be mocking. Who fucking knows.

“I tolerate you.” Peter’s tone is almost amused. “Don’t get it twisted. Like I said, I’m out of my fucking mind.”

“That much is clear.”

They’re still standing close, with the way that Peter had been walking towards him, and the tension starts molding itself into something that’s not gentle, but familiar regardless. Mark thinks of how it’d felt earlier in the day, when Peter had broken that same tension by simply saying ‘fuck it’ and grabbing Mark to kiss him. They’re still walking across that strange tightrope. Mark’s pretty sure there’s no net beneath them.

He does it anyway.

Peter responds to Mark grabbing the hair at his nape with little more than a grunt before the two of them are kissing again, just as heated and intense as earlier. Mark digs his fingernails into the back of Peter’s neck to pull him close, and Peter responds with just as much enthusiasm until they’re both panting between kisses and sharing those breaths. Mark’s pretty certain he’s not going to be able to get off again, since three orgasms at the tender age of forty-one doesn’t exactly sound like a fun time, but they can at least make out like stupid teenagers—

His cellphone trills loudly from the bedside table, and they both pause.

“Fuck,” Mark says, muffled.

“...do not answer that damn phone,” Peter says tightly against his lips. Mark’s inclined to listen for once. “Don’t you fucking dare. I swear to God, I will—”

The cellphone rings again, and Mark sighs heavily. He can already tell that Peter’s going to be pissed at him for the rest of the day, but he doesn’t have a choice. Not just anyone would call that number, and he gently pushes Peter away so he can go pick it up.

The screen tells him that it’s Lawrence, which is entirely surprising. He’s not one for calling Mark first, preferring to stay out of the situation unless he has no other choice.

“It’s Gordon,” he tells Peter, who immediately raises his eyebrows.

“Dr. Gordon?” he repeats, looking shocked. “Why would he be calling you?”

“I guess I’ll find out,” Mark says, and hits the answer button. “Hello?”

“Ah, Mark, good.” Lawrence sounds odd, like he doesn’t want to have this conversation at all. “I was hoping you’d pick up.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t usually call me. What’s the deal?”

Lawrence is quiet for just a beat.

“Well,” he finally says, “I just thought I’d call to let you know that Adam and I quit.”

-

Five minutes later, Mark’s still trying to figure out what the fuck Lawrence is even talking about. Peter just watches as he paces back and forth, his expression unsettled, even nervous. Mark hasn’t put the phone on speaker, so whatever he’s able to glean out of the conversation is purely from Mark’s end. They’d both pulled their jeans on (I don’t need your help getting my jeans on, Peter had griped, to which Mark had replied that’s not what you said earlier before returning to the phone) and the room is uncomfortably strained.

“I don’t fucking get it,” Mark continues for the third time, his nerves at the end of their rope. “We haven’t even gotten to the game yet. What the fuck are you doing?”

“I thought I made that patently clear.”

“No, I get that part,” Mark snaps. “You’re quitting. Fine. Whatever. Why right now? We still have shit to do!”

“Well, neither of us want to be part of that shit anymore. I don’t understand why you’re so outraged.”

“Because I’m out here in the middle of fucking Colorado at your goddamn suggestion, and you’re fucking off before I’m back? That seems like a good reason to me.”

“You’re in that situation because you put yourself there,” Lawrence points out, and Adam seems to say something in the background that Mark doesn’t catch, but to which Lawrence replies, his voice terse. “Yes, I know. I’m getting to that.”

“If Costello back there has anything to add to the conversation, he’s more than welcome,” Mark says through his teeth. “Otherwise I’m gonna repeat myself: why right now?”

Lawrence sighs, though this time Mark can hear Adam squawk, “why the fuck do I have to be Costello?”

“I’m tired of it all, Mark,” Lawrence says softly when Adam’s done bitching. “And I have things that are more important to me than John’s ghost telling me how to live my life. Things I need to atone for.”

Mark can’t help but glance over at Peter, who’s still watching him with a sort of dread that Mark can’t place.

“You can atone for them when I get back to New Jersey,” he says, turning away again. “It doesn’t have to be right now. I can be back in three days.”

At that, Peter goes from dread to outright alarm.

“What—” he starts to say, but Mark holds up a finger in his direction to silence him, and to his surprise Peter listens. He fades back into his concerned silence, but his attention stays firmly on Mark. The fingers of his right hand are rubbing together at his side, his usual tic.

“You couldn’t possibly make it back in three days,” Lawrence says, sounding unconvinced.

“I could if Peter drove, too,” Mark insists, and finally looks back over. Peter’s lips thin, but then he nods stiffly. He doesn’t look so sure of whatever’s going on, but at least he’s agreeing to that. “It’s a little over a day’s drive if we don’t stop and just switch places while the other sleeps. Might be able to make it in two if we just don’t stop.”

There’s more silence on the other end.

“…Mark, I really—”

This time, a louder and far angrier voice cuts right through whatever Lawrence was going to say before the line shakes a little bit. Mark can’t quite make out the words, but the mystery gets solved pretty quickly as that same familiar, grating voice starts talking instead.

“Hey, fuckface,” Adam says, sounding almost cheerful. “How’s paradise? Can you just stay there forever? Make everyone happy?”

Mark lets out a long, angry sigh. He hates that kid.

“You’re the last person I want to talk to,” he growls. “Fuck off. Put Lawrence back on.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Adam says dismissively, and doesn’t do that. “You told Abbott or whoever that I could speak my mind, remember? So what is your fucking problem?”

“What’s your problem?” Mark says right back, getting more and more pissed off at how Adam’s gone and inserted himself into the conversation without an invite. Seems to be how he does most things, really. “I don’t remember asking you for your opinion, Stanheight.”

“Okay, and I don’t give a shit if you ask or not. Why do you have to come back, anyway?”

“I need to finish the game,” Mark says through his teeth. “It’s the last one John designed. It needs to be finished.”

“Dude, why do you fucking care?” Adam demands, his voice disgusted. “He’s dead. Why does it fucking matter if you finish this shit or not?”

Because if I don’t, Mark thinks, then all of this will have been for nothing. All of it.

“It’s none of your business,” is what he says.

Adam scoffs.

“You’re so fucking annoying. You’re so full of shit, you know that? All of you keep fucking acting like Kramer saved your lives or something but at the end of the day you’re just his fucking patsies—”

“Adam, give me the phone,” Lawrence’s voice comes through, tight and angry. “Enough.”

“No, I’m not done giving this piece of shit a piece of my mind, too.”

“Hey,” Mark warns. “I’m still here.”

“Ooh, I’m quaking in my fucking boots, Hoffman.”

“Adam, give me the damn phone right now,” Lawrence repeats, sounding increasingly pissed off, but Adam meets him toe-to-toe.

“Tell me what to do again,” Adam warns, his voice slightly more distant as if he pulled the phone away from his mouth, and Mark can’t help but smirk at the kid’s audacity. “I’m so serious, Lawrence.”

Mark hears an angry noise that sounds very much like Lawrence wants to wring Adam’s neck just a little, and he wonders how the two of them can manage that balancing act of being so obviously in stupid love with each other while also apparently bickering every minute of every day.

“Anyway,” Adam continues, coming back into the conversation. “You can do whatever you fucking want, I guess, but if you ask me it’s probably the stupidest thing you could possibly do for, like, everyone.”

“Good thing I didn’t ask you.”

“God, whatever. How about you tell your fucking commie agent fuck buddy to get his ass into gear and—hey!—”

This time the line crackles loudly before Lawrence’s voice comes through again, sounding thin and irritated. He must’ve snatched the phone back.

“If you’re truly committed to coming back here,” he says testily, and this time Mark can hear Adam saying something loud and bitter in the background, “then you’d better start getting your things together, and Strahm had better figure out what he wants to do about his cast.”

The line cuts out sharply, Lawrence having clearly hung up, and Mark lowers the phone to stare at it. The battery’s full, and has been since he charged it. He hopes it stays that way. They’ve got a long drive ahead.

“Well,” Mark finally says, and tosses the cellphone onto the bed. “Hope you’re ready to get back in the car.”

Peter sits down heavily on the edge of the other bed, elbow on his knee as he covers his eyes and groans.

Chapter Text

They’ve been arguing for the better part of an hour, which is about what Mark expected. Still, that doesn’t make it any less annoying to have to deal with.

“All I’m saying is that you can wait one night,” Peter insists, following Mark around as he throws things into bags. Mark wanting to hightail it back to New Jersey hadn’t exactly blown over well once Peter got the full scope of the conversation and not just what he heard on their end. “Can’t you at least stop and think before doing something idiotic?”

“No,” Mark says, for what’s probably the fourth time. “I’m going.”

“How can it possibly be that important?” Peter continues, and physically puts himself between Mark and the next bundle of clothing. He may as well have crossed his arms and huffed like a spurned suitor. Mark sighs and glares at him in annoyance.

“You and I have very different views of what’s important,” he says, though when he tries to dodge around him, Peter just moves back into his path. What an absolutely infuriating man. “Fuck off. This is something I need to do, and you’re not going to stop me. I’ll leave you here if I have to.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter sounds unimpressed. “Okay. I’d just get a plane and follow you.”

“With what money?”

“I’d figure something out,” Peter says, unfazed and so very fucking stubborn. Any other time, Mark would try to find a way to appreciate it now that they’re doing… something, whatever it is. Something far more emotional than he’s used to. Right now, it’s getting in his way.

“Peter, you’re wanted by the fucking government,” Mark snaps, knowing full well that it’s entirely his fault and using it as ammo anyway. “You can’t get on an airplane.”

“You don’t know that for sure!” Peter shoots back. “I’ve been watching the news, I’ve been reading the papers. There’s nothing about either one of us. Zero. Zip. And there hasn’t been since we left, as far as I can tell.”

Mark does genuinely stop trying to get around him, instead pausing to look at him with an eyebrow raised.

“When the hell have you had time to watch the news?” he asks incredulously.

Peter makes a noise of sheer unbridled exasperation that throws his head back with the force of it. He looks like he wants to head right out the door and walk all the way back to New Jersey on his own if that gets him away from Mark. He’s starting to damn near vibrate with the force of his growing anger.

“You said that if I came out here with you, the game couldn’t happen,” he accuses, ignoring the question and pointing a finger at Mark. “That was the deal.”

“It wasn’t a deal, actually,” Mark reminds him. “It was part of an arrangement. And I never said it wouldn’t continue, I said I wouldn’t be able to run it.”

“So you lied.”

Mark raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t, but would it surprise you if I did? Really?”

Something about that answer seems to get under Peter’s skin more than anything else Mark has said, because he grits his teeth and turns away. Mark can see him taking in the surroundings that they’ve tentatively started to get used to, the kitchenette and the beds and the big window overlooking the street. Then, sure enough, he starts pacing.

“This was always going to happen, one way or the other,” Mark says, watching Peter wear a hole in the carpet. “You had to have known that. You were the one throwing a huge fit about how we were playing house—”

“And the alternative is you going back and killing people again!” Peter snaps, still walking in short, angry strides. He’s in his bare feet. Mark should be used to something so casual by now, but it still strikes him as intimate. “The alternative is us going through all of this shit, of me coming all the way out here because you framed me, and it’s not even going to matter. Are you even going to take care of that, by the way? Or am I going to be stuck as an alleged serial killer for the rest of my life?”

“This is supposed to be it,” Mark says carefully. “At least, it’s the last one that John had designed—”

“I know that!” Peter says over him. “I fucking know that. That doesn’t make it right, that doesn’t make it okay to just—”

He stops suddenly, and it looks very much like he wants to grab a pillow and scream into it out of pure frustration. The fingers on his right hand rub against each other almost frantically as he thinks. It’s the scrape-scrape-scrape of his skin against itself that means he’s got too much pent up energy and doesn’t have anywhere for it to go. Mark wishes he knew where the pen was.

“That doesn’t make it okay to just give up,” Peter finishes, shaking his head. “Like it’s some foregone conclusion. Like you have to.”

“I do. I do have to.” Mark hesitates. “We’ll figure out the serial killer thing. Probably.”

“You know, you’re always just so comforting,” Peter says dryly, his fingers still moving. “It’s one of your best traits.”

“I’m sure with your FBI prowess you never shut up about, you’ll find a way around it,” Mark snaps right back, annoyed. “Since it’s the only thing you’re good at, apparently.”

The second the words are out of his mouth, he regrets it. Peter stares at him icily for a few more tense seconds before he, too, starts throwing clothes in a bag. His shoulders are so stiff they look like they’re made of stone.

Ah, fuck.

-

They head out an hour later, and Peter seems determined to ignore him.

Mark expected that, of course, but it still stings. He watches as Peter pops a Benadryl, leans the passenger seat all the way back, and sleeps for eight hours straight without rousing even once. They ended up stealing one of the pillows from the hotel that had been their home for longer than Mark had thought it would be, and now Peter rests it against the window and taps out for the first leg of their nonstop drive. It leaves Mark a lot of time to think, a lot of time to himself, and that’s… well, a lot for him to handle.

There's too much silence, so Mark ends up switching on the radio. He doesn’t want to listen to the CD right now, too caught up in thoughts that are incredibly unwelcome at the moment. But with nothing interesting to listen to, he just finds an 80s station and lets it play on low to avoid waking Peter.

Eight hours is a long time to be with his own thoughts. Things have changed since the first time they did this, when it was the other way around and every minute felt more like another tick towards a bomb they didn’t know how to defuse. They’d been sore, and still ugly with each other, and every word had been laced with the sort of poison that just barely hid absolute loathing and disgust.

But now Mark’s kissed Peter, fucked Peter, and feels more for Peter than he ever thought he would. That makes it complicated.

I-80 stretches out in front of him, a long line that disappears into the horizon. He’s got the day drive, with Peter driving through the night to avoid any confrontation with other cars or police officers. The sky above them is such a vibrant, shining blue that it almost burns to look at, and he ends up opening the moonroof for what feels like the first time in forever. The last time he’d done so, it’d been to open the car up for Peter when they’d first started out.

No, wait. That isn’t right. They’d driven to the supermarket a week back, and it’d been a beautiful day, and he’d opened it then. They’d laughed about something, though Mark doesn’t remember what. But he does remember opening the moonroof and enjoying the warm air as it circulated through the car. He remembers Peter reading through their list and telling Mark his choices were stupid, holding the paper pad on his knee with his cast and scratching things out with his pen. They’d gotten coffee afterwards.

A sudden ache that bursts like a balloon inside of his chest feels too painful to comprehend. It’s not an overwhelming pain but a deep, lonely pain that he doesn’t have a word for. It’s a desperation he hadn’t realized he’d carried with him, a desire for things to be normal. For his life to be normal. To share a space with a person he cared about, to share that time with, to do stupid shit like go buy groceries and laugh at stupid television shows and get stupid, shitty coffee. When had he last done that before all of this?

Not since Angie. Not since his life had been torn through, a trap of its own design that spattered everything he knew like blood against a wall.

He could turn the car around. That’s the worst part. There’s a small voice in the back of his head that’s trying to make itself heard, trying to speak louder. Things don’t have to be this way, as much as he keeps saying it does. He could turn the car around, go back to Colorado, use up whatever savings there are left to try and build some kind of life there. He could listen to Peter and move on from Jigsaw. He could.

But the louder and angrier voice keeps reminding him how he got here in the first place. Revenge begets revenge, and what had started out as railing against the unfairness of a life cut short turned into a determination to continue that cycle, to cut more lives short. The lives of people who did more harm than good, people who didn’t deserve life.

The anger of it overtakes the ache, devouring it whole. No, this is something he has to do. This is the final piece of the fucking puzzle that John Kramer had been putting together, and Mark has it in his hand. One more game. One more lesson to be learned.

Angelina wouldn’t be proud of him, and he knows it. But Angelina’s dead. That’s the whole problem, that’s the whole reason he’s here. Because he didn’t do his job as her brother, and when he had sworn the oath to protect and serve, he knew it’d never meant anyone but her anyway. It’d only gotten worse when he’d seen the rot from the inside, when he started to become the rot himself.

There’s a soft scuffling noise from next to him, and Mark flicks his eyes over to find Peter slowly shifting in his seat. Peter’s still not all that great with the car, nor showers or any other enclosed space where he can’t easily find a way out. He tries to hide it, but Mark had noticed how tense and pale he’d gotten last time someone had accidentally crowded him into a corner in the hotel’s little laundry room. His palm had the imprints of nails bitten into the skin for nearly ten minutes afterwards.

It takes another minute or two before Peter makes a soft noise, his eyes slowly fluttering open. Mark can just catch him in his periphery as he gazes blearily around and breathes out through his nose. His hair’s sticking up a little on the side he’d been resting against, and his cheeks are pink from the sun. It’s so reminiscent of (and yet so, so different from) the first drive that Mark nearly smiles.

“Sleeping Beauty,” he says warmly, and Peter glares ineffectively at him. Maybe he remembers the first drive too, but more importantly he seems to have forgotten to be mad. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“You think you’re so funny,” Peter mumbles, closing his eyes and thumping back against the pillow. “Where are we this time?”

“Saw a sign that said Topeka was coming up soon.”

“Perfect.” Peter sounds annoyed, so it’s back to the usual after all. “Thank God I’m driving next, the last thing I want to hear from you is a fucking Toto joke.”

Mark, who would have probably done exactly that, frowns dramatically at him.

“I have better jokes than a Toto-Kansas one,” he says defensively, though there’s no actual bite to it.

Peter snorts.

“You really, really don’t.”

Mark decides to change the subject, rather than get wrapped up in the sort of banter that would end up feeling too normal and familiar.

“Speaking of, it’s about time for us to switch,” he says, and starts to pull into the right lane towards an exit. Joking back and forth again would be too much like those days in their hotel room in Denver— the one they’d only left behind eight hours ago that had felt too much like home in too short a time. “We can get some more food or something to bring with us.”

“Hm,” Peter says, and starts to bite at a cuticle on his index finger. He gnaws at it for a second or two, and then rests his head back against the window and closes his eyes with a sigh. It’s a surefire tell that he’s thinking about something. He’s not sleeping, at least as far as Mark can tell, but his eyebrows are relaxed and his lips aren’t tight. He just seems to be… pondering, maybe.

They get shitty pre-wrapped hot dogs from the warmer inside the rest stop along with Gatorade and chips. Mark doesn’t want to stay too long, not with the time crunch he’s made for himself, so they just eat in the car before setting off again.

“Just keep going down 80,” Mark says, settling into his seat. “Don’t stop unless the fucking world’s ending, got it?”

Peter just rolls his eyes and turns the engine over.

Mark’s not tired, not exactly, but eight hours nonstop behind the wheel of a car—save for the brief bathroom break that didn’t so much as rouse Peter from his antihistamine-induced coma—made him exhausted enough that he’s willing to give up the driver’s seat. So Mark leans against the pillow, crosses his arms over his chest, and closes his eyes to at least try and get a few hours of sleep.

The pillow smells like Peter. It smells like cheap shampoo mixed with sweat and sleep; a reminder, a familiarity that has him trying not to make it obvious that it’s a comfort. They’d argued briefly about how Peter was going to be able to drive despite Mark having been the one to come up with the idea, but now with the long stretch of highway before him, he’s glad they settled on it. Peter’s presence is unavoidable, infallible. It’s odd to think that it could all end within the next day or two.

So that’s what he falls asleep to. The thoughts of how all of the time they spent together isn’t going to mean anything, nor was it ever supposed to. This may be the last game they all do in John Kramer’s dead, fucked up name, but that doesn’t mean he and Peter get to have a normal life after this. It’s not like either of them want whatever could possibly be “normal” for them, anyway. That was never what the trip was about. That was never what it was supposed to be.

He dozes more than sleeps. A tension starts to form just at the top of his spine, making his shoulders lock up and his neck hurt. I-80 is more or less smooth sailing, at least. He glances at the clock, sees the bright green 9:56 staring back at him.

Then he blinks and it suddenly says 1:31, nearly blinding against the pitch black of the outside. Peter’s almost mumbling, and Mark has to focus.

Wait.

No, not mumbling.

Peter’s singing.

Along to the radio.

The amount of brain power it takes to fully comprehend what’s happening needs about three or four seconds to load. He has to really focus on what’s happening, listening to the words as they come out under Peter’s breath. Then he grins sleepily.

“Is this Madonna?” he asks, closing his eyes again. “Didn’t think you had the pitch.”

The mumbling stops immediately, and Mark can hear Peter sighing like Mark’s just asked him to get something from the top shelf. Mundane, inconvenient, but ultimately harmless.

“My mother’s taste in music informed most of my own,” Peter says. His voice is soft. “Now shut the hell up and go back to sleep.”

It takes about two songs before Peter starts back up again, this time to what sounds like Kate Bush. It’s not bad, necessarily, even if it isn’t outstanding. Peter's not winning any karaoke contests, that’s for sure, and if Peter knew he was still awake and listening he’d almost definitely never sing along to the radio again. Mark knows he’s hummed here and there, but singing must be something he does only when he’s alone. The sound of it is more than enough to lull Mark back to sleep, still smiling to himself.

He’s reminded of Angie. She liked female vocalists and especially women-fronted bands, names like Stevie Nicks and Janis Joplin and Grace Jones. He’d never much cared for them, not really—he preferred softer rock himself—but Angie had forced it onto him with little room for argument and he’d given in.

“You’re boring,” she said, changing the radio station as they drove. She was going through a rebellious teenage phase, wearing all black and smeared eyeliner. “We listen to music all the time and you just want to hear the same shit over and over?”

“Hey,” he said sharply. “Watch your mouth.”

“Whatever,” she said, and sat back, satisfied by the guitar blaring through the speakers. “Come on, Mark. Live a little. Stop listening to the Doobie Brothers.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the Doobie Brothers,” Mark said, offended.

“Oh my god, you’re so old,” she said, and then they were sticking their tongues out at each other.

It was where the tape had come from. Whether he was driving her to school, to work, or to the hospital to see their mother, they’d always invariably end up listening to the radio. It was their thing, she’d say. Bonding over music or something. Sharing the same experience over and over, the same music in the same car until they were both singing along. It’d been simple, and good. It’d been life, easier than anything else either of them ever had to deal with.

It was important. It was theirs, and that was why she’d let herself into his apartment three days before Christmas of ‘96 and plopped down onto the couch with something clutched in her hand. He was trying to take an after-work nap, and he huffed when she threw a wrapped present onto his stomach.

“There he is, the man of the people himself,” she drawled, throwing her socked feet over the top of the couch. “How many arrests today, Officer?”

Mark didn’t move the ice pack from his eyes, still in his uniform with his shirt unbuttoned and open. A migraine was starting to thump steadily at his temples, already having started to set in before she’d ever walked through the door.

“Four traffic tickets,” he grunted.

“Ooh,” she said, laughing. “Well, I’m glad to know the city’s safe from the fiendish and the wicked.”

“Ange, I’m really tired. What’s up?”

“I brought your Christmas present early,” she said, moving one foot to nudge the package with her heel before returning it to the top of the couch. “I’m gonna be working both Christmas Eve and Day so I wanted to drop it off.”

He peeked an eye out from under the ice pack. Gaudy wrapping paper with reindeer and Santas all over a green backdrop stared back at him, stark against the white of his undershirt. It was small and rectangular, with an envelope taped to it.

“I know the polite thing to do is open the card first,” she said, waggling her foot at the ankle, “but actually I want you to open the present, use the present, and then open the envelope. I want you to be surprised.”

Mark moved the ice pack from over his eyes to his hairline, picking up the present and turning it over.

“Huh. Is this a mixtape?” he asked, squinting. It was about the right size, and when he shook it, the rattling sound all but confirmed his suspicions.

“Don’t shake it too hard,” she chided, smacking his calf. “Yes, it’s a mixtape, and you’re gonna break it.”

“I’m not gonna break it by shaking it,” he replied, shaking it harder until she sat up and snatched it away from him.

“Okay, but I want to make sure you don’t ruin it before you can play it,” she said, putting it down on the coffee table where it’d be safe from his teasing. “And I’m serious, I want you to play it before you read the card. I wrote down all the songs but I want you to be surprised while you listen.”

He didn’t make any effort to sit up, just sighing and leaning his head back. The ice pack slid onto the arm of the couch, and he let it sit there. He could do that, at least. His tape deck was over by the TV; ancient, but more than trustworthy.

“Are you staying for dinner tonight?” he said, or mumbled. Probably the latter. “Because I’m just gonna order out.”

Angelina just smiled at him.

“Nope. I have a date,” she said proudly, swinging her legs back to the floor and pulling her bag strap back onto her shoulder as she stood back up. “Gotta get ready.”

Mark huffed, his eyes still closed. Great. Now he had to meet another boyfriend and potentially scare him off.

“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”

“Seth.”

“What’s he do?”

“Mark,” Angelina said, playfully exasperated, “it’s fine. Harry knows some of his friends, and I trust him. We’re taking the bus over to Rockefeller to see the tree.”

That was enough to make Mark lift his head, eyebrows coming together.

“For the first date?” he asked slowly, alarm bells ringing somewhere in the part of his head that always wrestled between brother and father.

“Come on, it’s not even an hour out of Penn Station,” she replied, hands on her hips now. “I’ve got change if I need to call you. Stop worrying so much.”

Mark grumbled, laying back down.

“I’m always gonna worry about you.”

“I know,” she said quietly, and leaned down to kiss his forehead before she made her way to the door. “Love you, Mark. Don’t forget to play the tape first!”

“I won’t. Love you, too.”

The door had clicked shut, and he’d fallen asleep right there on the couch with the tape still on the coffee table. He didn’t listen to it that night, or the night after that, but he did listen to it on Christmas itself on his way to work. He’d nearly cried at the first song, laughed at the last song, and folded the list she’d given him up into his wallet. That was before stopping by the bar and presenting her with flowers and new boots, a surprise he’d come up with a few days before. She’d been embarrassed but pleased, and kissed his cheek before shoving him out the door.

And then six months later, she was dead.

When he opens his eyes again, his dreams full of shredded moments of smiles and blood and snowflakes falling from the sky, it’s to a quiet engine and Peter sitting just as silently in the front seat. He’s staring straight ahead through the windshield, so deep in thought that Mark would think him completely still if not for the slight rise and fall of his breath.

Mark glances at the dashboard. No engine means no clock. Damn.

“Where are we?” he grunts, sitting up and trying to stretch around the aches that come with sleeping in a car.

Peter doesn’t even blink, still staring straight ahead.

“A motel in Illinois,” he says softly. His voice is distant, and his good hand is resting on the steering wheel. “We’ve been sitting for about an hour or so.”

Mark’s mood immediately shifts, going from lazily waking up to roiling anger in less than a split second.

“I told you—”

“I know what you told me,” Peter interrupts. His grip tightens on the wheel, and the dark leather creaks. “I didn’t check in. It’s just the parking lot. I needed to think.”

“You don’t need to think about shit,” Mark snaps, unbuckling himself. “Move. I’m driving.”

“No,” Peter says, and his voice is infuriatingly final as he turns to look at him. “Not until we talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about!” Mark shouts, and the sound echoes in the car enough to make Peter flinch. Mark doesn’t care. “This isn’t up to you! You don’t get a fucking say in this, Strahm!”

“Oh, so now I’m Strahm again,” Peter mutters.

“You’re in my way is what you are,” Mark says, and shoves the door on his side open to stalk around the car. He’s half expecting Peter to simply lock it before he can get there, but the door opens without issue. “Get out.”

Peter glances at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Or what?” His tone is low and defiant. “You’ll kill me?”

“Get. Out.”

“My eight hours aren’t up yet.”

“Stop fucking talking to me,” Mark says tightly. “Get out of the car.”

Peter stares at him for a beat longer, still far too calm for Mark’s liking, but then he swivels and puts both feet on the ground with defiance. He stands, a bull of a man in jeans and a leather jacket, keeping himself in front of the open door. His eyes feel like they’re boring right through Mark’s goddamn soul.

“I said,” he states firmly, “that we’re talking about this first.”

The complete loss of control in this situation is just about too much for Mark to handle. His breath comes in sharper, jaw set tight as a drum, and he’s mere seconds away from shoving Peter to the side as hard as he can. The simple fact of the matter is that he doesn’t know why Peter cares this much. It doesn’t make sense why he’d fight Mark so much over something that he truly couldn’t understand. He’s making this so difficult.

“Fine,” Mark growls. “Then you’d better start fucking talking.”

Peter doesn’t look at all surprised at the acquiescence, which serves to just piss Mark off even more. Whatever camaraderie they’d developed is quickly dying out like a sputtering flame, and whatever feelings had been percolating between them even more so. Mark feels an all-encompassing rage that manifests itself as a horrid tightening in his chest. Peter just keeps looking at him, like there’s so much of Mark that he can see and interpret. It makes Mark feel like he’s being left alone in the dark, unable to put together pieces of himself he hadn’t even known were there.

“I want to know why you’re so determined to do this trap,” Peter says, as if Mark didn’t already know that. “You keep hemming and hawing about how important this is, but you won’t tell me why.”

“Hemming and hawing?” Mark repeats incredulously. “Are you eighty?”

The response he gets is nothing more than a dirty look that says, you’re not getting away with this. Mark runs a hand through his hair, staring up at the sky like it’ll give him answers. There are barely any clouds, and the stars twinkle down at them, as far away as they are beautiful.

“It’s complicated. I don’t know what to tell you, or how to explain it,” he says, voice stiff, but Peter doesn't let up.

“Why is it complicated?” he presses. “Why are you willing to run back to a fucking corpse to do whatever he says?”

It reminds Mark to an almost absurd degree of Adam, and of the anger the kid carries around with him every day. It reminds him of what Adam had said just the day before, his voice dripping with ire.

All of you keep fucking acting like Kramer saved your lives or something, he’d said, but at the end of the day you’re just his fucking patsies.

But John hadn’t saved his life. All he’d really done was show Mark that in the end, it didn’t matter who you tried to save and who you tried to punish. Evil people get away with whatever they want, and good people suffer for it. The good people always suffer for it, while the ones like Seth Baxter and Ivan Landsness get to walk free simply because somewhere along the way someone got careless.

“Whoever he chose for his last game, it must’ve been someone who deserves it,” he says finally, his fists clenching and unclenching. They’re wasting time they could be using on driving instead. “Someone who has what’s coming to them. It wouldn’t be just anybody, it’d be someone who has to learn their lesson.”

“So that’s always the case, huh?” Peter asks, tilting his head. He looks like a dog that’s just heard something that it’s about to zero in on.

Mark stares at him.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he asks, a second too late before he realizes he’s walked right into the trap Peter had laid out for him.

“So I had what’s coming to me. Okay.” He’s calm despite a growing spark in his eyes that needs to find just the right kind of kindling before it ignites. “Then why did you save me anyway?”

“I don’t know!” Mark explodes, finally tired of the same question he asks himself, too. It’s a dam bursting, the river overflowing with no chance of stopping it as it rages itself dry. “I don’t know why I did it, okay? Is that what you wanna hear? Fuck! You were begging me to help you—”

Peter scoffs.

“As if I’m the first person in one of those fucking traps to beg for his life,” he says under his breath, but Mark just keeps speaking over him.

“—and I did! You’re alive, so why does it fucking matter? Once we’re back in Jersey you can do whatever you want, go fuck off to Canada or something. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.” Peter’s voice is flat, stone-cold and immovable. “It matters because no one else got mercy the way I did. Everyone who survived did it on a wing and a fucking prayer, but not me.”

“What do you call shoving a pen in your throat?” Mark demands. “That’s a wing and a prayer to me—”

“Why did you leave the pen in my pocket in the first place?” Peter fires back. “You took my gun, my phone, my knife. You took my fucking flashlight. So why not the pen?”

“I don’t know,” Mark says again. “I missed it. I didn’t think it would help. I put it back in your pocket. Pick your poison.”

“I failed the coffin thing,” Peter continues. “I was supposed to get in it, but I didn’t. I didn't even listen to the whole tape until it was too late. So why do I get to live?”

All Mark can see are memories like a slideshow. Peter, climbing the walls as they closed in. Peter, kicking the grate while holding onto it for dear life. Peter, still pushing against them while his bone snapped through his skin. Peter, holding himself ten feet above the floor and tying a tourniquet around his arm with his belt and teeth. And yet he still thinks he was supposed to die?

They both know that Mark didn’t have a plan if he didn’t. He was going to watch Peter die an agonizing death and then finish framing him for the games. That was all. It was never going to be more than that.

But Peter lived, despite it all, so here they are. Here they fucking are.

And once more comes the thought of the syringe he’d had in his hand, the same kind he’d used to knock Peter out for the water cube. It still comes back when he least wants it to, that feeling of unease at that one unknown. What would’ve happened if he’d used it, shoved Peter into the coffin, and made his way back out?

There’s simply no way of ever knowing. No use in dwelling on it. But he’d still had that syringe in his hand. That had been, and still is, a secret he’ll take with him to the grave.

“You get to live,” Mark finally says, as late night wind whips through their hair, “because I say you do.”

Peter doesn’t move.

“So you’re judge, jury, executioner, and Saint Peter at the fucking gates?” he asks, sneering in disgust.

Ironic that Peter would invoke the name of the saint he’s presumably named after, but Mark doesn’t point it out. He just stands there, not knowing what to say.

“Perez didn’t deserve to die,” Peter continues through his teeth, and this time there’s real anger in it. Real, true anger. “She was doing her job. I was doing my job, so many people who were just doing their damn jobs got caught up in this and you don’t want to admit that you only did it so you wouldn’t get caught—”

“That’s not—”

“Yeah? What about Daniel Rigg?” Peter demands. “Or Eric Matthews? Not Allison Kerry?”

“Kerry wasn’t me,” Mark snaps, on edge at the mention of old friends that had lost themselves as much as he had lost himself too. “That was Amanda.”

“You knew it was going to happen, though. At the end of the day you’re just pretending you’re not culpable for your own peace.”

“Matthews was a piece of shit,” Mark says, ignoring how they had been close long before any of this happened; long before both of them had turned into something far uglier than they had been when they started. When Angelina had died, when Eric had started planting evidence and gotten served divorce papers. “No one misses him, not even his son.”

“Then what about Rigg?”

Mark finally looks away, his lip curling angrily. He can’t pretend that was anything other than personal, a desperate attempt to bring Rigg to his side before Rigg got too close and figured everything out. It was one last try, one final move. And Rigg failed it, no matter how many clues Mark tried to throw at him.

“That wasn’t how I wanted that to go,” he admits, his voice low. “And whether you’ll believe me or not, Perez wasn’t supposed to die either.”

Peter jerks, an aborted motion that seems like he wanted to come at Mark with all the anger in his body.

“Oh,” he mocks, his one good fist tight at his side, “that makes up for it. You didn’t want her to die.”

“It shouldn’t have killed her,” Mark replies, knowing the admission is a mistake and barreling ahead anyway. “It wasn’t supposed to kill her. It was supposed to just… send a message.”

“Well,” Peter says savagely, “I think the message was received.”

“Neither of you listened!” Mark fires back, as if it’s some kind of consolation. “You were supposed to fucking listen, that’s the whole point! You didn’t listen, Perez didn’t listen, Rigg didn’t listen—”

“You told me you didn’t like John Kramer,” Peter says, looking him dead in the eye. “So why are you starting to sound like him?”

“Fuck you. You don’t get it,” Mark says, fuse getting shorter and shorter with the sparks of his anger. “You’re never going to fucking get it, no matter how many times I explain it to you. I thought you did, but—”

“No, I did. A little.” The words are sharp, and they whip Mark’s attention back to Peter. “When you killed Perez. I wanted to hunt you down like a fucking animal, the courts be damned.”

Peter hasn’t mentioned Perez in weeks, not since Mark had admitted he hadn’t wanted Peter to die either, and even then it had been the one and only time. Now he can’t seem to stop, like he’s been holding it inside himself the entire time, and the way that he says her name is filled with so much guilt and anger that Mark can practically feel it flooding into him, too.

“You did hunt me down like an animal,” he says, trying to alleviate some of the pressure in the air. Any other time he’d tack on how attractive it had been, but right now he’s too furious to care and Peter doesn’t seem like he’d want to hear it anyway.

Sure enough, Peter smiles at him. It’s bitter and full of sharp teeth.

“Yeah, I did. And yet here I am.”

“Here you are.”

“Not getting it.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Then fucking enlighten me,” Peter says, getting closer until he’s using his full height to force Mark to have to look up at him a little bit. “Because you know, try as I might, Hoffman, I don’t get it. I don’t get why you keep trying to fulfill a dead man’s wishes when he was insane to start with, and I don’t get why you want to throw your whole life away—or whatever’s left—when you already got your revenge in the first place.”

Mark’s always wondered where John kept the information about how he’d killed Seth Baxter. He’d never asked, and maybe the softer part of him that used to exist had assumed if he ever stepped out of line, it’d come out. But after a while, he’d stopped caring. It didn’t matter. He was always going to be this thing in the end, this monster, and no folder or file was ever going to change that anyway.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, echoing his thoughts. “What’s gonna change?”

“Everything,” Peter says, sounding frustrated. “Nothing.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“It’s important.”

“You keep fucking saying that, but you won’t tell me why, either!” Mark snaps.

Peter raises his broken arm pointedly, gesturing at it with his other hand. He looks so unbelievably irritated at the question that it’s as if it’d never occurred to him that Mark would ask it.

“I’m alive,” he says, “and we both know I shouldn’t be. You think that’s not important? You think I’m just gonna let that slide when so many others aren’t?”

Marks scrubs at his hair with both hands. It’s been so long since he’s styled it properly that it’s softer now, the waves untamed and loose. He feels frustrated, confused, cornered. They keep going in circles, and he knows it’s his fault for not being honest.

“Maybe it was God’s plan,” he offers stupidly. He doesn’t really have another answer.

Peter snorts, looking away in disbelief.

“I’m an ex-Catholic and a Jew,” he mutters, running his good hand down his face. Mark, despite everything, feels a smile trying to tug at his lips as Peter continues. “Fuck theology. I know you don’t believe in that shit.”

“Maybe it was fate,” Mark tries again.

“You don’t believe in that shit, either.”

“Well. Call it what you want, then. I don’t know.”

They stare each other down. Peter seems like he’s coming to a decision, which is more than Mark can say for himself. All he wants to do is get back in the car and drive. He wants to go back to where all of this shit started, and maybe even end it once and for all.

“Show me,” Peter finally says, with so much conviction that Mark knows he could never talk him out of whatever it is he’s settled on. “Show me why it’s so fucking important. I want to watch the game.”

Mark blinks.

“You— what?” Of all the things Peter could have said, that was at the very bottom of his list. “You want to watch the game? What do you think this is, fucking Giants Stadium?”

“I don’t want to be involved,” Peter continues, like he hadn’t heard Mark at all. “And I can’t promise I’m not going to step in. But I want to see what you’re trying to prove, and then I’ll decide what I want to do. But I’m not letting you out of my sight if I can help it.”

“That’s…” Mark shakes his head slowly, completely thrown off. “That’s unexpected. And weird as fuck. I figured you’d cut out as soon as we got there.”

Peter hesitates, mouth opening and shutting again. He’s warring with himself, for reasons that Mark can’t begin to comprehend, but after a few more seconds of deliberation he tries again. He looks unsure, like he’s landed on something that he doesn’t want to say aloud, a secret he’s been holding onto for too long.

“It’s—” he starts, swallows, starts again. “I—”

The cell phone rings, its shrill tone slicing through Peter’s voice and the late night peace like a knife. Mark sighs, running a hand down his face as he turns back to the car to dig it out of the console.

“Hold that thought,” he mutters, and Peter’s quiet behind him. “Hello?”

“We have a problem,” Lawrence says, getting right to the point. “Where are you, Illinois?”

“Good guess,” Mark says, squeezing the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t hurt anymore. “Something like fourteen hours in, yeah.”

“I assumed you’d keep driving,” Lawrence muses, though he sounds strained. “Look, you either need to move faster or give it up, because this game is about to start with or without you, Mark. And I’d think it’d be better for everyone if you chose the latter.”

Whatever anger had started to quell flares right back up again, and he starts to stalk away from the car to get some of that energy out. He can feel Peter’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t try to lower his voice. If Peter wants to be a part of this, well, then he’s going to be a part of it. Besides, he’s too angry at Lawrence to really bother with Peter right now, not after all of that.

“Did you just not listen to a fucking word I said?” he snarls, and Lawrence tsks. “I told you not to start without me, Gordon! What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s not my choice.”

Mark clenches his jaw, thinking of all the people who could talk over Lawrence besides himself, who could tell Lawrence exactly how they’re going to do things. There’s really only one still kicking that has that sort of leverage, and it’s exactly the kind of thing that she’d do.

“Well, you can tell Jill she’s not the one in charge here—”

Lawrence cuts him off.

“It’s not Jill’s choice, either.”

That gets Mark to pause, his shoulders lowering in shock as he fully takes in what Lawrence is telling him. He hadn’t thought that sort of recovery would be so soon, but he gathers himself back together quickly enough and charges on. A complication’s just been added that he didn’t see coming.

“Okay then, if she wants to pull shit like that, she’s got a big storm coming—”

“Goddamnit, man!” Lawrence snarls without warning, and Mark freezes at the rage in his voice. “Will you stop being so stubborn and listen for once in your life?”

“...listen to what?” he demands after a moment, but his voice is low and unsure.

“I’m trying to tell you to let it go,” Lawrence says, and his voice is tight. “Leave. Let the game happen without you. Go somewhere with Peter. Live your life, Mark. Be grateful. All of the bullshit that John’s been trying to tell us, it has some merit to it. It’s time you made your choice too, or else it’s all finally going to catch up to you, and no one’s going to save you when it does.”

There’s nothing but the sound of crickets chirping, the rustle of crisp wind blowing through the trees. Mark stares at nothing in particular, the cellphone loose in his hand. The battery’s still full, and has been since he last charged it. Small mercies.

It’s just like what he’d contemplated earlier. Mark’s been given options, an exit, an escape. Lawrence is voicing all the things Mark had never let out into the open, the things he’d only thought of when he’d been alone in the car with Peter sleeping next to him.

He could. He could leave. He doesn’t know if Peter would go with him or not, but at the end of the day he could always dump Peter on a train to Jersey and call it quits. He could go to Canada himself, or Alaska, or any number of places where he could forever run from the things he’s done. They’d never catch up to him there.

But then none of those things would have been worth it.

Angelina smiles at him in his memory, her legs dangling over the back of the couch, and he makes his decision.

“I’m going to be there,” Mark says finally, aware that Peter’s watching him very, very closely. “Put her on the phone. I wanna talk to her right now.”

Lawrence is quiet for a beat too long before he answers.

“She’s not—”

“Bullshit. I know she’s there. Put her on the damn phone, Larry, or I swear to God, being left in a bathroom will be the least of your problems.”

There’s a long, angry pause while he listens to the sound of Lawrence breathing hard through his nose.

“You don’t scare me, Mark,” he finally says quietly. “Not anymore. I know who you are.”

Mark’s mouth drops open in shock, but he doesn’t have a chance to answer. There’s the shuffling sound of a phone being passed from one hand to another, and then a new voice, smug and triumphant.

“Yeah?”

“You fucking wait for me,” he snaps, putting away the memory of a handwritten note on his desk. “I’ll be there in a day. Do not start that game, you hear me?”

A short pause.

“…alright,” Amanda finally says, her tone almost amused. Mark can just imagine the smirk on her face. “But you’d better hurry it up, big guy. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”