Chapter Text
Peter hated feeling helpless.
It happened more often than not, even though he tried to push away emotion when it came to cases. He couldn’t help but want to pull out his hair whenever a case hit a roadblock- when a witness failed to testify, or when Jill Tuck-obviously knowing more than she let on- insisted on toying with them.
He wanted to shake up everyone in the precinct until they could give him better answers. How could a whole department have been this incompetent?
Jigsaw’s case was never personal to Peter, but he often grew too passionate too quickly when it came to cases like these. There was something about the way Jigsaw used his victims as some twisted power trip. Their deaths reduced to grotesque clown shows through traps that fed the fucker’s ego; Peter wanted to tear that ego out with his own teeth.
He sighed, turning back to the extra stack of files he had requested. No one in this precinct could be trusted to have gleaned any tangible information from the past Jigsaw cases, so it was up to him, he decided, to re-read and analyze the files for the third time. He had to think like the fucker. He had to see what he saw. Feel what he felt and endure all that melodramatic bullshit.
Peter sometimes watched Hoffman. It was only natural he wanted to do so, as the guy was the lead detective and seemed anything but. There was something about Hoffman that scratched at Peter’s skin.
Hoffman would wander through the department aimlessly, then settle at his desk, clasp his hands together, unclasp them, clasp them again, and finally stare off into the blank distance of his office wall.
He would drink boiling hot coffee and gulp slowly like a toad, as if he wasn’t scalding the entirety of his mouth. All the while, he looked like a pouting, middle-aged Ken doll who couldn’t form a single thought in his thick head.
Everything about him seemed wrong, clumsy and oddly sympathetic, like an ugly duckling that limped or moved too slowly. But what sat wrong with Peter was how sharp he could be behind his detached politeness and seeming idiocy.
How his expression could shift and sharpen. How he could stare for too long, too intensely, like the creature living inside of him was peeking out from behind human skin.
It was simple to say, Peter deeply disliked Hoffman and his presence.
Peter’s eyesight wasn’t what it once was. Scanning through the same case files and obsessive note-taking wasn’t doing him any favors. He probably needed reading glasses but refused to get checked out of sheer stubbornness, or so Lindsey liked to believe. And sure, that was partly true, but Lindsey would still turn it into a joke, because watching him squint at paperwork was comedy gold.
Speaking of, Perez had disappeared again and Peter was starting to sport a headache. He started rubbing his temples, then cupped his eyes with both hands before letting out a dramatic puff of air.
Someone cleared their throat from the doorway. Peter’s head snapped up with as much professionalism as he could muster, before his face curdled upon seeing it was Detective Hoffman.
“Agent Strahm?” Hoffman looked at him expectantly, voice low and controlled.
Peter did not want to deal with his vacant stare or his stale, almost practiced politeness. In other circumstances, he might have been curious-despite himself-about what Hoffman could possibly want, but he had a pounding headache, and the office felt small as Hoffman filled the door frame.
He started sweating.
“What?” he bit out, tone harsh.
Hoffman continued, looking nonplussed.
“I’d appreciate it if you could move your car. You parked right behind mine, Special Agent. I wanted to come find you first. I didn’t want to assume.” Hoffman casually tapped the back of his finger twice against the door frame.
Peter followed the movement with his eyes, adjusted his sweaty collar, and visualized biting the detective’s finger off.
He realized he hadn’t responded.
Hoffman straightened, his gaze lifeless and piercing.
“You alright, Strahm?” he took a broad step into the room, his thick fingers twitching at his sides.
Peter felt oddly cornered. He rose from his seat, waving dismissively towards Hoffman.
“I-fucking fine. No parking space left,” he answered curtly.
He strode towards Hoffman, stopped, then turned back to the desk, pocketing his keys from beneath the files. He hesitated, decided to pick up the files as well (one could never be too careful), and grabbed his pen, clicking it as he shoved past Hoffman, taking quick steps down the hallway.
Peter couldn't help but glance back discreetly to see if Hoffman followed and nearly collided with another detective as he paused. Hoffman was still standing at the front of the office door, now chatting with Officer Rigg.
Peter rolled his eyes and winced from the pounding in his head.
He would later blame his decision to walk back and hover over Hoffman entirely on the blaring headache.
Rigg turned to face him. “Agent Strahm,” he acknowledged, looking mildly curious.
Hoffman simply glanced at him from the corner of his eye, not even bothering to turn. The bastard.
Peter nodded curtly. Why the hell hadn’t he just kept walking, goddamnit?
Clicking his pen, he started wandering away just enough to give the two space.
As Peter slowly paced a short distance from them, he noted how the two men kept glancing at him.
It was a battle of wills now. He wouldn’t risk walking back and looking stupid, so Officer Rigg could believe Agent Strahm was waiting to discuss important case material with Hoffman.
After a brief moment of consideration and extreme discomfort, Peter realized he was acting like a schoolgirl. He pocketed his pen, rubbed his pounding head, and started down the hallway again.
Peter reached the precinct’s parking lot, nerves fried and done with the day. He flinched when someone brushed his arm. Hoffman brushed past him and raised an arm towards Peter’s car.
“Well, Strahm, why don’t you get to it?” His voice was monotone, but Peter sensed some irritation buried somewhere in there.
He marched to his car and got inside, tossing the case files onto the passenger seat under Hoffman's piercing stare.
As he parked in an empty space, he noticed Hoffman staring down at him from the window. Peter banged his knee and cursed, rubbing his kneecap. He killed the engine and fully planned to hit Hoffman with the door on the way out, except the door didn’t budge. He tired again and again, and decided someone had cursed him at birth.
Hoffman watched him with that dead-eyed stare all the while, and Peter could swear he was receiving some sick enjoyment from Special Agent Strahm’s struggle with the car door.
Hoffman knocked on the window, those thick fingers drumming annoyingly against the glass.
Peter cursed and rolled it down.
Hoffman looked him up and down before asking, “Think you can crawl out?” The corner of Hoffman’s mouth curled upward.
Peter wanted desperately to switch places and be the one asking the same question.
“Fuck you. Why don’t you go back to doing absolutely nothing?”
Hoffman looked mildly offended. His stare hardened, hostile “Excuse me?”
“What were you even doing before we got involved? Twiddling your thumbs while Jigsaw fucked around?” Peter leaned toward the window. Under his irritation, he was genuinely curious about Hoffman’s excuse.
In a flash, Hoffman leaned in, nearly touching the glass. His eyes took on a threatening quality. There he was. The creature.
Peter didn't speak. He tilted his chin upward, trying to look down at Hoffman.
“Special Agent Strahm.” This time, Hoffman’s low voice came out almost like a growl.
“I’m looking forward to you solving the case we couldn’t.”
And with that, he straightened, looming over Strahm for a few more moments before turning to walk away.
Strahm remained leaning toward the window, busy unpacking what Hoffman had said.
Tired of brooding in the same spot, he reached for the door again only to realize the lock was on.
Fuck. This was not like him at all.
Hoffman. That bastard tested his patience and drove him insane with his smug presence alone.
With close to twenty years of cases behind him, Peter had gained some level of stoicism. The anger issues were there, but he prided himself on keeping cool in the worst situations. Yet when it came to Mark Hoffman, alarm bells went off in his head just like day one. Either he was dangerously incompetent or a reptilian, and Peter could not see an in-between.
Peter stormed back to the precinct, fully intending to find Lindsey and (rant) share his analysis on Hoffman.