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coffin-contemplator · 20 days

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❝one of furnaces & bed hogs❞

Summary:

“Strahm’s trembling. Not shaking or even shivering. Trembling.”

Strahm’s trembling. Not shaking or even shivering. Trembling. If the edge of the mattress wasn’t this far away, he would be worried about falling off, his muscles convulsing so much despite multiple layers covering his body. No doubt, a few more hours like this and he’ll be all sniffly and sneezing by the sunrise. Why does Hoffman’s flat have to be this cold all the damn time?

The asshole in question seems to be unaware of the other man’s turmoil. The only thing keeping him from tumbling down onto the hard floor is the wall that’s unfortunately supporting most of the detective’s weight. He’s fast asleep, not a care in the world about being pushed to the side of his own bed by Strahm, even though it’s big enough to fit both of them.

The longer the FBI agent stares at him, the more obvious it becomes that waking that guy up would be close to impossible. At the moment, he’s just about as still (and possibly as heavy) as a damn rock.

Strahm huffs, frustrated, desperately searching for a good reason to be annoyed with the latter. He hates being honest with himself in such situations but the conclusion is undeniable—he has absolutely no one to blame, except his own body. The man beside Strahm is on his way to the floor, with no bedding to cover himself, barely even using his pillow. Both the blanket and the comforter are secured tightly around the agent, as he struggles with the temperature.

It’s really not fuckin’ fair. And yes, it’s a childish thought but then again, the problem is not much more serious than that, either. At least, from the objective point of view.

His hands are so cold. Curling up in a ball, he squeezes them between his thighs. That doesn’t help—nothing helps. Another violent shiver runs through him and he hides his face in the pillow for a second. He can’t go on like this, there needs to be some solution.

Breathe in, breathe out. Calm down. Think.

Strahm peaks again at the other man. There’s an idea—a bad idea but an idea nevertheless.

He reaches for Hoffman, carefully but deliberately. His palm settles over the latter’s heart (and if anyone asked him about it, he’d claim the spot was accidental), as the agent scoops closer. Just as the distance between them shrinks to mere inches, Strahm freezes.

He waits, refraining from releasing the breath he’s holding. Surely, the sudden cold touch will make the detective stir, at the very least? That wouldn’t be the desired outcome, of course, but Strahm has to consider all the possibilities.

Hoffman doesn’t react. Not even a twitch. Silent and unmoving, his chest still rising and falling at regular intervals. The agent exhales, relieved. It’s not that he’s scared of his partner’s reaction—he just doesn’t like to be seen while vulnerable.

Focusing on the physical contact now, he allows the sensation to envelop him. Damn. Just damn. The man lying beside him is so, oh so warm.

Encouraged by a lack of acknowledgement from Hoffman, he allows his other hand to join in. Both of them travel down, halting around the latter’s waist. Strahm lets them rest on top of the love handles. He’d never admit, not even before himself, just how much he loves this part of his partner’s body. In a way, it’s comforting, being able to touch like this.

He begins to relax a little, not as tense as he was just a minute ago. Uncurling slowly from the protective ball he’s made of himself, he’s now brave enough to fully close the distance left between them. In all honesty, Strahm’s never thought he’d ever find solace while cuddling into Hoffman, seeking heat. And yet, here they are. He and that giant portable furnace of his.

Finally, the agent may allow his eyelids to fall closed, the haunting uncomfortable feeling no longer present. For once, it doesn’t take much more than that for him to fall asleep.

***

The sun is already way above the horizon once the detective’s eyes flicker open. Still in the sleepy haze, at first, his senses don’t catch anything unusual about this morning. It takes him a few more minutes to fully get back to consciousness and realise the strange sensation flowing over him.

He’s hot, and not in an attractive way. He’s actually sweating, despite the thermometer on the window nearby showing rather low temperatures outside.

The hard surface against his back will probably prove to be the outer wall which, although relatively normal (happens every time he, for some godforsaken reason, decides to share the bed with a certain FBI agent), makes the fact that Hoffman isn’t even slightly chilly significantly weirder.

And then, he looks down. And what he’s met with is a mess of dark dishevelled hair. He’s sandwiched between Strahm and the concrete.

The initial surprise quickly changes into amusement, his face lighting up in a teasing grin. If the other man was awake right now, Hoffman certainly wouldn’t spare him any remarks. But as long as that’s not the case, their predicament cannot be allowed to go to waste.

The detective reaches for his phone left on the window sill. Turns it on, takes a picture. The agent doesn’t even stir.

Hoffman takes a glance at the screen, making sure it saves. It did, good. Perez will appreciate it.

Note: Thank you so much for reading another one of my fics! 💚 If you enjoyed this one, please consider stopping by my AO3 profile! My works usually get published there a bit earlier!

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