“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.
Mark had never planned for Strahm to survive if he didn't get into the glass coffin. It'd never even crossed his mind that he could, so when the hydraulic systems fail... well, he doesn't really know what the fuck to do about that.
Now he has a very injured, very pissed off FBI agent on his hands that he may or may not have framed for murder. But maybe Mark can still try to make Strahm understand just what it is he'd been trying to tell him in the first place.
(or, mark and peter go on a road trip to get peter's arm taken care of, and learn things about each other along the way.)
read on ao3!
