“I’ll Be Seeing You” (1/?)
Fandom: Saw franchise
Characters/Pairing: Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm
Rating: PG-13? (for this installment at least)
Tags/Warnings: mild violence/blood mention, allusions to Strahm being a chubby chaser, and good ol’ 1990’s internalized homophobia
Summary: The Jigsaw case wasn’t the first time Hoffman and Strahm met. When they were tasked on an assignment in 1992 they got to know each other, but the lines between professional and personal started to blur…
Author’s Notes: Sorry if the grammar and wording is off, may go in and tighten it at some point.
2006
The creeping feeling was there, all the way on the ride from their field office up to the tip of the stairwell leading into the scene the Metropolitan PD was checking out. Peter Strahm knew he would be on the case. He just wasn’t sure how long it would be until they crossed paths.
And then there it was.
Perez was halfway through stating her title before Strahm even noticed who she was addressing.
“Detective Hoffman?”
God, he was just Officer Hoffman back then. Before. It was weird seeing him out of the starched, black uniform.
There was some chatter about Allison Kerry being their liaison and the information she had provided, but it bounced off Strahm, who was not at all absorbing the words. He just kept staring. ‘Fuck. This guy.’ Or more like Fuck this guy!
Strahm’s eyes scrunched and narrowed as he gave an annoyed exhale, which was saying a lot as his disposition was in a perpetual state of fixed glaring—wrinkles under his tear ducts crinkling and cutting across to his cheekbones. The surrounding officers milling about were probably wondering why he was leering, what his problem was. Perez, after all, had introduced themselves so courteously.
Detective Mark Hoffman’s face, meanwhile, had an equally curious slant. His eyes rolled up and down Peter’s physique, awestruck and indiscreet about it. He quickly resumed some semblance of a dignified, unfazed stance.
Despite taking in the physical differences that hadn’t quite sunken in (Hoffman’s field vest wasn’t quite covering all if his chubbier midsection the way it once did, and his hair was pushed to one side like a typical desk jockey), all Strahm’s vision could muster was a screen of the past overlaying the current space.
He remembered that night in front of the tavern…
AUGUST 1992
It started as a celebratory night with the majority of the precinct reveling at the nearby tavern—a regular spot for most of their off-the-clock activity. On this evening they were giving the metaphorical sigh of relief over closing the case on a killer that had been plaguing the city and surrounding areas for little over a year.
The FBI had been brought in, assigning a handful of agents from the nearest field location to assist in the efforts. One of them was Peter Strahm, all of 28-years-old and green in Bureau. It was only evident in his appearance—on-edge demeanor, mullet slick in the front but slightly unruly in back, button up a little long on the arms—that he was new. It was his intense cold gaze and to-the-point tactics that got him taken seriously and carried him far. Far enough to earn his shots at the Metropolitan law enforcement’s party.
Most of those wince-inducing whiskey shots were taken while glancing curiously across the bar at Officer Mark Hoffman. Marcus, the front desk’s woman had often doted on him with a little smile. Deservedly so, Strahm agreed. Mark’s brand of handsome was a blank smoldering model in a cologne ad. A tanned, blue-eyed shyness in some kind of sporting backdrop in a department store. But when his features were pried with a stupid joke or some out of pocket comment by a senior figure, he cackled a silly laugh, prominent nose scrunched, crooked, gapped smile on display.
It made Peter sigh, which sent him into a mild fit over feeling like a school girl.
Mark was only a couple of years younger than Peter, but had a good few years in the force on his side, which was what paired them up most times on the case. It meant hours turning into days in casing out places, taking turns driving from diner to drive thru just to stay awake with bland coffee. Some nights got more interesting than others, but each day they were tasked together was a new canvas.
Now that they were at the end of the line, Peter would resume business as usual at his office, maybe even have time to go back to Nevada for a while. Which seemed nice, except… something felt left undone. Unsaid.
He pushed his emptied tumbler to the edge of the bar and casually glided over to Mark’s barstool.
“Smoke?” he offered.
Mark’s glassy eyes did a little up-down over Peter’s taller form before sliding off to the back hallway that lead to the parking lot.
“Hey,” Mark paused, stopping their tracks in front of the restroom door. “I appreciate the help you’ve brought on the case.”
“Oh, knock it off,” Peter chuckled with a heavy-browed eye roll. “We did all the thank you’s already. We’re getting drunk now.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mark shot back, working his lips into a sassy curl. “I was just trying to be nice.” He craned his head slightly forward, more as a punctuation to his rising sarcasm.
But Peter wasn’t laughing anymore. His face had dropped into something else, eyes dark and fluttering. Mark’s brows knitted into a mixture of intrigue and confusion, not breaking his stare.
Bam, bam, bam. One thing after another. Strahm occupied one palm against Hoffman’s chest, and the other clenching his uniform tie in his fist. With the motion their faces collided, some teeth cutting against lips and tongues. It pushed them into the restroom behind them, so blurred and intense that no one else had noticed.
Against the sticky floor tiles within, Mark tumbled onto his butt, gaze still transfixed with confusion on Peter. He darted out and into the lot before Peter could even offer him a hand up.
Outside in the dewey summer, Strahm darted after Hoffman, calling out “Hey! HEY!”
Mark ceased his stamping off and settled into place, squared up like a statue. “I’m not a fuckin’ queer.” His Jersey
drawl dripped out, lazy but threatening. Though on the defense, his words spilled out like a plea. Please, don’t tell the guys at the station. Don’t get me kicked off the force. Please don’t find me disgusting.
“Neither am I!” Peter lied without quite realizing. “Not that it matters. Just… I dunno. I like this. I like you.”
When Mark wouldn’t respond to the acknowledgment out loud, blue eyes drifting off sharp in the velvet shade of night, Peter pressed on.
“We kissed.”
“No, you kissed me!” Mark spat, face screwing up in a betraying twist. He was blushing. No, fuming. Peter knew exactly what he was masking. Because this wasn’t their first encounter of that sort.
“Fine. You know what? Fuck you. Try not to bite the curb when you’re drunkenly getting back to your patrol car. Fucking lush.” ‘You can’t even kiss me without getting drunk,’ Peter wanted to follow up with. But he had turned, resisting a glance back, only remembering the times before. Those times were a long different: alone in the car, behind a motel, at a gas pump somewhere deserted…
He didn’t want to leave Mark behind. He wanted a next time. Another time to see his goofy smile, his puppy-ish eyes.
It wasn’t meant to be.
Uncoordinated scuttling—rubber soles on crumbling tar—echoed in the lot. “Hey, don’t talk to me like that,” Mark called behind, anger cracking through his tone, deep from in his chest.
Peter tilted his glare so slightly over his shoulder, instantly meeting a dull, radiating impact.
Mark wrung his fist out as it recoiled from Peter’s cheek: minimally bruised, but marked with a ghastly-bright splatter across his knuckles. “That’s what you get,” he choked out.
Without a beat, Strahm was on him, writhing somewhat weakly over the officer on the pavement while still reeling from the punch. He tried throwing all the force he could behind rapid hits, but missed or occasionally caught some awkward angle on Mark.
In a blind reach, Mark went to grab whatever he could to regain some stability, hoping to dig his fingers into Peter’s shoulders. Instead his fingernails caught tacky, humid flesh with a hard impact, raking down a thin trail of blood.
“Fuuuuck!” Peter rasped, pausing to dab the pads of his fingers along a cut on his orbital bone. Thick red seeped alongside his nose, down his cheek.
Mark could feel his own face desperately tense with regret.
The last thing he would ever see of Peter Strahm was the visage of him sat atop his thighs and a tightly wound fist heading between his eyes.
2006
Peter pressed his fingertips down on the raised scar tissue just below his eye. It throbbed maliciously as he took every step through the precinct halls, watched every tiny movement Mark made as he lead them around.
Perez had remained close at Peter’s side through their whole investigative venture so far. But she had to take a call from Erickson before entering into the file room where Hoffman was going to set them up to work. It was fine. Apparently Officer Rigg was in there reviewing footage anyway. Hoffman and Strahm could just wait for the call to end and the room to clear as Rigg wrapped up with the interrogation tape.
Peter released a cartoonishly impatient sigh and pressed his stiff back against the wall.
That was enough.
“You suck on a lemon or something? This whole time you’ve been scowling like I fucking pissed in your coffee.” Hoffman grit his teeth like a junkyard dog, the first time he’d let himself slip with the absence of Perez beside them.
“You’re such a thick-skulled fuck.”
“Oh yeah? That’s rich coming from someone hittin’ the slopes too hard.”
“Wow, very harsh, Detective Bimbo.” Strahm was taken aback by his own sass.
Mark leaned in. “You know, you got real old and bitter. You look like you been chewin’ on nails.”
“You got old and fat.” Peter couldn’t say that it didn’t look appealing on Mark, though. The cockiness was very much still there, but slightly humbled by the rounded edges and layers of cushioning that had expanded his width.
Peter wanted to picture it was a result of comforting, indulgent cooking: a smile spreading on Mark’s idiotic lips at the person across the table from him—the person who had cooked for him. But he knew that wasn’t the case. Even in being strangers for over a decade, Strahm was aware of what had happened to Angelina—the story spread through the news. Hoffman’s appearance wasn’t just extra weight from night after night of spiraling binge drinking, followed by quelling the hunger with takeout; It was a sunken quality to his eyes, a void just under the lids, the line over his brows. He looked hollow behind his own face, which creased with laughter years ago.
‘I could’ve—’ Peter started with himself, quickly cutting it off. No. Whatever he was about to tell himself was a delusion. It wouldn’t matter, especially not once this case was done with.
“You know,” Mark mused on with that purr-like bass to his voice, “I get it. You’re just cranky. Take a nap, sweetheart.” He cupped a thick hand to the scarred side of Peter’s face, grazing a fat thumb over the deeply pink line.
The body reacted before the rest of Peter could catch up, leaning into the touch, but only slightly. Internally he was on the brink of mewing like a starved cat. No no no. NO. He slapped Mark’s hand away.
The flat clacking of Lindsey’s shoes resounded through the hall, subconsciously signaling for the two to behave. They straightened up, but not before Mark leaned into Peter’s ear for a final remark.
“Drinks this week, Special Agent Strahm?”
Peter sneered. The answer wasn’t no.