We all know that Strahm and Hoffman hate each other, right? But what if that isn't completely true...VERY FIRST HOFFRAM!!!

"FOR GOD'S SAKE!" Erickson glared at the two men in front of him. It was a motel. The time was almost eleven. At night. After a long day of conferences all he wanted was to sleep in any room he could get his hands on.

Unfortunately, the two agents in front of him had other plans.

Hoffman: Dark, silent, emotionless.

Strahm: Angry, hot headed, argumentative.

And both of them didn't want to sleep.

Well, at least not in a room with each other...

"Sir," Strahm was fuming; being dragged around mind-killingly dull conferences was depressing, being dragged around mind-killingly dull conferences with Hoffman in tense silence was suicidal, but having to do all that and share a room with Hoffman...it was all he could do to force himself not to throttle himself with his own tie. "With all due respect, I can't share a room with him –" A flash of inspiration. "He snores!"

Hoffman gave him a hard look. He openly detested this guy, and he wasn't going to take this lying down, boss or no boss. "I don't snore, Strahm. And from your rep in the red light district, I don't think it's just me keeping you awake..."

Strahm rounded on him angrily, and Hoffman smirked; he'd touched a nerve. "You –"

"ENOUGH!" Erickson bellowed. They both turned back to look at him; funny, they had both forgotten that he had been there...he lowered his voice because people were staring at them.

"Listen," He hissed. "I chose you to come with me because you're meant to be 'good role models'. What I don't expect from special agents is squabbling like children over such a childish matter of sharing rooms! I know you two hate – you don't exactly keep that a secret – each other, but can you please get on for just one night?" He took in their blank expressions and sighed exasperatedly before tossing them a key. Strahm caught it in one hand and then dropped it, and Hoffman sniggered. Erickson sighed again. "Look, your room is down the hall from mine...just try not to kill each other, please?" He walked away. "6AM!" He called back to them as he went into his own room.

The two men stared silently at each other, the key still clenched in Strahm's fist.

"...I call bed by the window." Strahm broke the silence first."

"...Fine." Hoffman answered coldly, grabbing his bags but pointedly missing out Strahm's.

"Sir!" Strahm banged frantically on Erickson's door a few minutes later. "SIR!"

Erickson opened the door, looking grouchy. "What?"

Strahm seemed unable to speak. "Uhh...sir, there's a problem."

Erickson stared at him suspiciously. "Yes...? And...?"

Strahm finally pulled it together. "SIR, IT'S A BLOODY DOUBLE BED!"

Erickson glared at him. "Well that's your problem isn't it? Goodnight."

"No wait sir –" The door closed in Strahm's face. He contemplated knocking again, but thought better of it.

This was going to be a long night...

Strahm turned over again and stared moodily at the orange light seeping through the gaudy curtains. It was almost 1 AM and he still couldn't get any sleep. Hoffman had dropped off almost instantly, but for some reason he was still awake, still thinking...

Strahm sighed and stared up at the ceiling, began counting the cracks in the plaster. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, like a dog gnawing a bone...when he looked at Hoffman it only intensified, so he was staring in the completely opposite direction.

He remembered the events in the lobby, and all those times before that when Hoffman had tried – and succeeded – in making him look like an idiot. God, you hate this guy he thought – then he stopped, frowning. Why was he telling himself that he hated Hoffman; of course he hated him, why wouldn't he?

He heard Hoffman turn over and grunt in his sleep and thought that he was waking up. "Hoffman?" He turned over. He was wrong of course: Hoffman wasn't waking up. A frown marred his face, his eyes rolling behind his closed eyelids. Nightmare Strahm guessed, but what about he had no idea.

He was about to leave him to it when Hoffman spoke. "Angelica..." He murmured. Strahm understood; Of course, his sister. He felt a twinge of pity: Mark's sister had been killed by Seth Baxter a few months before he had met him. He paused. What the fuck, he was calling him Mark now...

Hoffman's eyes snapped open, taking in his surroundings. They went flat and cold when they registered Strahm's presence, but not before Strahm had seen the overwhelming amount of grief in them. "Hoffman..." He started shakily. What the hell was wrong with him?

"I'm fine." His voice was hard, but if Strahm listened closely he could hear a small bit of emotion. Before he knew it his arms were sliding round Hoffman's waist, hugging him close. OK Strahm, you've gone mad. Hoffman responded by holding his tighter, making sure his fingernails were digging into the flesh of Strahm's back. Strahm whimpered at the pain, but clung on like a limpet. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

"Is violence always the answer, Hoffman?" He asked calmly, not showing even a glimpse of the emotional storm within him.

Hoffman pulled away slightly. "Possibly." His voice was cold and flat, and Strahm felt another stab of sympathy. And before he could stop himself, he found himself kissing him.

A few minutes went by before Hoffman broke away. Strahm was feeling incredibly stupid; it was obvious Hoffman hated him. There was an awkward silence before Hoffman sighed exasperatedly. "Oh, fuck it." He started taking off his boxers, and Strahm caught his arm.

"Mark, what the –"

"Look," Hoffman snapped. "You either want me or you don't, and by the way you were trying to create a mini vacuum in my lungs earlier I'm guessing you do."

Strahm didn't have a backup argument, so he let him go. As he took his own boxers off, he was struck by a sudden point of inspiration. "Uh, Hoffman...I'm not drunk, so you don't need to go along with this."

Hoffman sighed again. "Peter, I know you're not drunk."

"Ah." Strahm mumbled as Hoffman started kissing him again. "Alright."

"Retard..." Hoffman rolled his eyes, and then got started.

"...Uh, is there something wrong?" Erickson was concerned. They had been in the car for the best part of two hours and neither of the two agents sitting in the back had done anything to aggravate the other. He wondered if they were ill.

"No boss." They replied in unison. Erickson shuddered and turned back round. It was too eerie...he was actually wishing that one of them would shoot the other just to make things seem slightly more normal.

Back in the back seat, Hoffman was rubbing his fingers gently up and down Strahm's thigh to torment him. Sneaking a glance sideways, he saw the way that Strahm was biting his bottom lip to stop himself from groaning, and he had to bite his own to stop him laughing out loud.

Strahm noticed this and leaned over. "I always knew you had a small one..." He commented quietly. That wiped the smirk off Hoffman's face.

"Shut up." He bristled, and Strahm smirked. Hoffman punched him. He punched him back.

"STOP IT, you two!" Erickson yelled, relieved that normality was back.

Strahm and Hoffman exchanged a look. Even to a close observer, it was hard to tell whether they loved or loathed each other. Mainly, that was because it was both.

And that, my friends, is what writer's block does to you. OK OK, so it doesn't work, but neither does LawrenceXAdam so go suck on lemons if you don't like it!

With all that said and done, please review!