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Strahm feels like he’s drowning most days. It’s hard to pretend that he doesn’t feel the constriction in his lungs when he’s taken a second too long to think, choking on his breath and quietly scrambling to focus on something other than water filling his lungs, choking him, killing him. Pain blossoming in his chest from the effort of holding his dwindling breath, then migrating to his throat where the shell of a pen stuck out from it haphazardly. Shaky, shallow breaths making the plastic vibrate unbearably.
Perez would have said something about how withdrawn Strahm has gotten, how odd his behavior has been, how “PTSD can affect anyone”, worry building in her voice as she asks if he’s alright. She’s gone now, a cosmic misfortune so vile it makes Strahm's stomach curl, and so Strahm is left to ask himself that question. The answer is really simple; he’s not.
He hasn’t been since Detective Riggs death, since he was put in his own trap, since he and Hoffman emerged victorious from their demented game in that glass box. He hasn’t been “alright” in ages he fears, even before now. Strahm muses that maybe he’s been drowning longer than he cared to notice before, and he’s just now taking a notice of it.
He pushes away the feelings that arise from the thought of what he’s been through and what he’s done, sliding it down his throat, past his still healed wound, and into his stomach where it disintegrates and mixes with the foul acid lining.
It’s late in the precinct, just Strahm, Erickson, and a few cleaners are left in the building, and Strahm wishes he could work himself to sleep instead of returning to his and Lindsey's once shared apartment. It takes everything in him not to break everything in their little home sometimes. Small things that make him think of Perez for longer than grieving counselors would consider healthy, smells that bring full wracked sobs out of his chest, even familiar sounds that remind him he’ll never hear Lindsey comments about them again.
Peter wishes he could destroy it all, tear apart the memories they’d built together, if only to lessen the pain he feels in the future over it. He doesn’t though, opting for soaking his pillow in tears, snot, and sweat. He picks up alcohol bottles in favor of a baseball bat.
He does what he can, anything, to leave their home the way she left it. He hasn’t thrown out her day's old newspaper on the counter or taken out her garbage from her room. Just as badly as he wants to destroy everything, he wishes to preserve it as best as possible. If not for his sanity, for the part of him that wondered if she was truly gone. If he really never would get to hear her voice again.
He feels dread creep up his spine when Erickson’s office lights turn off and the man stepped out with his coat on and his umbrella held tightly in his hand. Erickson never let Strahm stay longer than him, something about “Understanding why he does it, but also knowing he needs to go home and catch some sleep. God knows he needs it”. Strahm scoffs to himself, but nonetheless stands up, winching when his back aches and pops from perpetually slouching. Erickson looks his way, nodding at him, and Peter grunts back. He refuses to let Erickson believe he’s doing this because he wants to. He just can’t deal with another lecture from the man.
He packs what little he has on his desk, sighing and contemplating what he’s going to do. He weighs the difference between his cold, sad, Lindsey-less apartment… or the man he hasn’t spoken to properly since he stabbed a hole in his own body to survive. They hadn’t spoken like normal human beings for a good fuckin reason. Strahm cringed away from the thought of calling Hoffman, turning left and right to scan the building for anyone left over. A cleaning maid, he’s seen her before, is wiping down empty desks and organizing papers left by careless, moronic officers Strahm has probably yelled at before.
He had yelled at Hoffman in the hospital when the man had come to see him. Hoffman had asked how he’d escaped, and he’d yelled, his throat searing with the pain, chest constricting with a harsh cough and blood making its way into his mouth. He remembers wishing he’d spat it out on Hoffman’s shoes instead of the tissue a nurse had handed him that morning, warning him against stressing his voice for a while. Strahm had huffed to himself in annoyance then.
He made his way outside silently, waving goodbye to the maid, Birdie, before he froze at the cold chill that ran up his spine as the doors to the department closed behind him. It was raining like hell, the roof just barely protecting Strahm from the spray coming down in violent sheets. His hands were already shaking, and he could feel his jaw gearing up to start chattering in protest. He hated it. He hated the rain. He ducked back inside to the lobby of the department, frustrated with how sluggish he suddenly felt, his heartbeat racing.
He wished for once the city would only deliver the shortest of misty rain showers instead of these panic inducing shitstorms. He reached for his phone, unlocking it with slippery fingers and cursing himself as his finger hovered over Mark Hoffman’s contact. Anything was better than rain and the chilling silence he’d go home to otherwise. His phone trills for a few seconds, time dragging on like agony, until Mark finally picks up, heavy voice slurring as he answers.
“ ‘Ello?” He grumbles, and Strahm can hear the sleep practically strangling him. He curses himself again.
“Can I crash at your place?” Strahm asks quickly, he refuses to make this call longer than it needed to be. “A simple yes or no suffices.”
“Fuckin’ sure.” Mark replies, and Peter huffs. He hangs the phone up, shoving it in his coat, before turning away from the precinct, and making his way to the warehouse port. His efforts of staying dry die within the first five minutes of the walk, and by the time he actually reaches the building, he’s soaked to the bone.
It’s too cold, his salvation is behind a door that leads him into an even colder building, and he’s dead tired. It doesn’t stop him from walking in like he owns the place, ascending the stairs and taking a left, following the halls until he reached what he knew to be Mark’s part of this shabby abode. The door is unassuming, likely rotting from age, and he twists the handle to open it, stepping into the dim light behind it.
He toes off his shoes, shrugs his soaked jacket off and hangs it from Mark’s coat rack. It’s too domestic, he knows it, but he won’t turn back now. The water in his hair is warming on his scalp, and he has half a mind to stop in Mark’s bathroom to dry off. The rubbage of his jeans is starting to make his thighs itch, and he fiercely denies his brain the pleasure of imagining Mark’s stubble being the reason instead.
He uses the hand towel that’s hung by the sink to dry off, scrubbing his features and hair until he can see the warmth actually coming back to his cheeks. His clothes are fucked, but he doesn’t really have to worry about that. He knows why he’s here, hates himself for it, and moves on.
From the bathroom to the bedroom, he weighs his options of how the night will end, something he still hasn’t nailed down a pattern for quite yet. Mark is surprisingly unpredictable, which only worsens Peter’s mood when he reminds himself how obvious the prick was as Jigsaw. If Perez could see him now…
Hoffman opens the bedroom door, glaring at him like Peter’s kicked his puppy. He doesn’t look thrilled to see the agent, and Peter can’t blame him, for they share the same sentiment. He’d really like to get this over with, get the thoughts out of his head and just shut down for a while. He doesn’t think when he moves.
He’s attacking Mark's lips, gasping at the warmth they provide, as Mark bundles him in his arms, closing the door with Peter’s back against it. The wood creaks in protest, and Mark cages him there, hands skirting up his sides and hips pressing into his own. It takes a moment for his brain to finally catch up, and when it does it already feels another ten miles away from where he actually is.
Mark's lips are pressing into his throat, the alcove of his chin, the curve of his shoulder, and Peter soaks it up. Lets the man, the murderer, do as he pleases, lets himself actually enjoy the feeling of such a monster against him. It’s maddening.
He should leave, he should run, turn Mark in, turn himself in while he's at it, and just rot in jail till he dies. Mark makes him feel like that’s a silly thought, those sharp teeth latching onto one Strahm's clothed nipples. He wants Mark to fuck him till his mind goes blank, pull his hips in and slam back against them as a reward. When did Hoffman get his shirt open? Damn these stupid questions, damn these ridiculous fantasies.
It’s like Mark can hear his thoughts, and it’s irritating, because he’s pulling away to look at Strahm, his hands coming to stall at the sides of the special agent's ribs. The detective watches him, a grisly smirk coming to rest on his features. He uses one of those sinful hands to brush Strahm's hair behind his ear, cradling his head.
”I am your puppet,” Strahm thinks, leaning into the touch. Mark’s eyes are glimmering with pride. ”Do what you want with me.”
Like a mind reader, Mark does as asked, ignoring the choked sound that falls from Peter’s lips as he closes a hand around the man's throat. The pressure is perfect, thumbs pressing on his carotid artery at the perfect angle, and Strahm loses it. His eyes feel glassy, he’s probably crying, and he doesn’t care. If he’s moaning, it’s quiet, shared between the two of them.
Marks free hand snakes its way into his pants, pushing the offending pants and underwear down before taking hold of his member. The way he twists his hand down Strahm's length is pleasurable in the most damning way, pulling heady moans from both of their chests. Mark finally gives him his first release, easing his grip off Peter’s neck and focusing more on the cock trapped between them. Peter's vision tunneled from the effort of catching his breath, and the sensation of Mark jerking him off isn’t helping.
“Fuck me!” He snaps out, pushing at Mark's pants to get him out of them. He can’t take this anymore, whatever this is, and he’s intent on cumming on Mark’s cock before the night ends. “Take your fucking clothes off, I feel naked compared to you.”
“I want you to lay on the bed, and I want you to spread out for me on your back. Can you do that for me, pet?” Mark says, lips pressing hotly against his ear, and Peter doesn’t even hesitate to nod, striping and moving to his place on the bed with determination. He stares Hoffman down as the other man strips, thick muscles and dark hair coming into view as the wife beater and boxers he once wore were discarded. Strahm ignores his cocks twitch of excitement over it.
Mark makes it easy then, tying Peter's hands to the headboard and his feet to the base, before climbing into the taller man's lap. He looks like a professional predator now, and Strahm is happy to be his prey. God, it felt good to be tied down.
The hand that was once on his neck returns, squeezing harder than before as Mark leaned down lave at Peter’s chest. Strahm is thankful no one will be able to see him walk away from this. No one will know he was Jigsaw’s bitch, or that he liked being in that position.
He’s out of his mind, and he’s happy to let Mark drive him madder.
Strahm adjusted himself on the bed, hips wiggling up for any form of friction he can get, and Mark stares him down for a second in response. Peter knows from that single look that he’s going to be passing out more than once tonight, clawing at his throat in bliss as Mark washes away the stress of the evening. It’s a horrifying remembrance that Mark is the reason he even has that stress, the very acts he's currently committing should send Peter into a panic, yet they don't. He decides that he’ll deal with that train of thought again when he’s fully conscious.
For now, he’ll let Mark wreak havoc on his body, leave him covered in hickeys and bites and handprints that are too obvious for anyone to miss, and Strahm will simply have to deal with the guilt and shame of it all later.