A/N: Heeeaaar, it's your ChainShipping conscience speaking. I'm here to tell you that you're still desperate to know what's going to find out in this fanfic, even though your humble author hasn't updated it in so long that you're probably going to have to reread the past chapter to remember what the hell was going on.

No, seriously, I really am sorry for the wait. I've missed the hell out of this fanfic, but I had to redo some stuff on We'll Get There Someday to send it off to a publishing company, and then I left home and I got a job and got all grown up 'n shit. XD If I still have any readers out there, I'll give you all a big fat hug for bearing with me for this long. And know that if I leave anything hanging in the future: I never leave a fanfic unfinished.

9: Grass Root Level

When Hoffman realized that he wanted to be a cop, he was in denial about it for about two years.

He did that for the same reasons as every young man does something to hurt himself: because of his father. If Angelina had known that it was what he wanted, she would've faked his signature on an admission form to get him to police training, but he was so good at pretending, and he would've faked anything if he thought it'd made her happy.

Their father had been a cop. A good one, which was probably why he was so tortured by it. As Hoffman has learned later on, the only way to be a really good cop is to have no personal life, or at least one that you can ignore. Even better if you're doing your best to run away from it.

Hoffman remembers how, as a kid, he was genuinely jealous of kids with crappy parents. Like, really crappy parents. When there was word going around in class that someone's mom was an alcoholic, or the reason someone else wasn't in school yesterday was that his dad put him in the emergency room, he hated those kids for not getting how lucky they were. At least they had a proper reason to hate their parents. How could he explain why he hated his father, how could they understand that his father fought criminals and made the world a better place, and that was what ruined their family?

He'd rather take an abusive father than one who you were worried wouldn't make it home. One that missed out on all Angelina's soccer games because he spent his lunch break looking for gun powder residue at a crime scene. One who mom couldn't even kiss hello when he came home, because if something had gone wrong at work today, and there was always something, always something…

Hoffman and Angelina spent their childhood hiding from the anger that could break out in their usually so sweet father. When a case went wrong or someone undeserving walked free, it was uncontrollable, no matter how much he apologized afterwards.

Angelina was never mad at him. She didn't see a reason to, because their father never meant to hurt them. He did the best with what he could. That didn't interest Hoffman in the slightest. He didn't want someone that wantedto do right by them, he wanted someone who did.

"Angie," he said one night, they were sitting in her bedroom, her legs dangling out the window, they looked white in the moonligt, as she smoked her fourth cigarette. "I… I think I want to be a cop."

She turned to him. He wasn't used to seeing her surprised.

"Really?" she said and looked back out the window. "Wow…"

Her voice faded. Hoffman was afraid to speak up, but after a while, she'd been quiet for so long that he couldn't take it any more.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled and looked down at his fidgeting hands. This caused Angelina to turn around again, wrinkle between her eyebrows.

"Why are you saying that?"

"Because I…" he cleared his throat. "I don't want to be like him. That's the thing. I want to be a cop and… do it better than he did. I want to keep other people safe and I want to… still be a good person. To people around me. You know?"

"Well, that seems like an awesome goal to set for yourself," Angelina said, still sounding completely dumbstruck. "Which makes it even weirder that you'd be sorry."

"I…" Hoffman said, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "I don't want you to think… you'll always come first, I don't want you to forget that. You always will and I'm just scared that…"

"Mark," Angelina cut him off, throwing the cigarette butt out the window and turning around, putting her hands on his knees. "Stop that. You have something you want to do, I'll support you until I vomit fucking rainbows with it. And it'll take a lot more than some stupid police academy to turn you into dad."

Hoffman dared looking up at her. Smiling bleakly.

"So you don't hate me?"

"You're my brother! I love you! Now, let's just focus on turning you into an awesome cop."

Thinking back of it, that moment makes Hoffman want to bash his own face in. He'd spent his whole life like that, caring only about what she thought of him even though her love had always been completely unconditional. The important thing was to be amazing to her, in everything he did. In school, as a brother, as a son to their parents, as a cop. Everything he did until that fateful day, he did to be her hero.

And then she died, and he had to think of other way to be the hero.

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Lawrence wakes up from strange sleep by Hoffman barging into the room. It's been okay tonight, "strange sleep" is his name for the times there aren't any distinct nightmares, just voices, darkness, the sensation of being absolutely terrified even though there's no apparent reason to be. It's better than most nights.

Which makes it even more annoying that Hoffman has to wake him up.

"You're such a fuckin' whiny bitch, you know that?"

Lawrence slowly opens his eyes. It takes him some time to discern Hoffman on the chair by his bed. It's definitely him, but it doesn't look like him. His usually neat hair is ruffled, his shirt with two big pit stains. Lawrence rolls over to his side, it stings in his ankle.

"What?"

"You're a fuck… fuckin' whiny bitch," Hoffman repeats, leaning forward a little. There's something odd about his movements. "Just lyin' there all day all… just thinkin' 'bout your fucking family…"

His words fade out to an annoyed grumble, and Lawrence tries to make his face out in the darkness.

"Are you drunk?"

"Yes!" Hoffman roars, it echoes against the tight, dirty walls. "Is that a fucking problem?"

"Mark…" Lawrence sits up on the bed, "you don't have to worry about me and my family. I told you I wasn't going to think about them anymore."

Hoffman somehow manages to fix his eyes on him.

"What?"

"I told you."

Lawrence looks down at his hands, fidgeting on the covers. Nervous, but nervous in the way he always is when he's talking to Hoffman. Not like it's a big deal. Like it's just another pain on top of everything he's feeling, and he's gone numb.

"I won't think about them. I don't need them anymore. I'm here now. I'm just going to work, that's all."

Hoffman squints at him. It takes him a while to realize that his upper body has sort of fallen forward since he's too drunk to coordinate, and he's sitting leaned over his knees.

"That's… that's bullshit," he eventually concludes and heaves himself back into an upright position. "You keep… I hear you, you know. I hear you talking to… to Adam, and you're… you have nightmares and shit…"

"No," Lawrence cuts him off. "I promise you, I don't. It doesn't hurt anymore, I don't let it. It's too important what we do here. Right?"

Hoffman keeps staring at him. And all Lawrence can think that it's impressive that he can still be this fast when he's drunk, because before he's even registered the movement, Hoffman has gotten to his feet, raised his hand and struck his fist flush into his face. Lawrence's head is knocked back against the headboard, he groans in pain and cups his nose with his hands.

The blood is trickling down at first before turning into a full-blown gush. Lawrence can't lick it from his lips, since the taste is only going to bring him right back there (to that place that's not supposed to hurt anymore), so he settles for bringing the edge of the blanket up to his face. Hoffman is hovering over him, face blank as ever, the only thing giving him away is the tightening of his jaw, knotted under his skin.

Lawrence looks up at him, questioning. Hoffman's hurt him before, only not this bad. And he'd never let him bleed without tending to the wounds, John would notice. It could just the alcohol clouding his judgment, but somehow, Lawrence knows that's not the case. Hoffman's swaying back and forth in front of him, only barely staying on his feet, but there was no hesitation in his punch, no trace of remorse on his face. He knows what he did, and he's glad he did it.

They keep staring at each other for a while. Then Hoffman turns around, faltering a little, and walks over to his own bed. He collapses on top of the covers before Lawrence has managed to ask him what the hell just happened.

xxxxxxxxxxx

"Would you mind explaining to me what the fuck you were thinking?" Amanda spits out in an angry whisper as she closes the door behind them after they exit Gordon's room.

They've spent the past hour trying to patch his nose up, with the help of Gordon himself, trying to guide them through it when he wasn't screaming. Hoffman has zero knowledge in anatomy, and Amanda did little more than standing there hissing death threats over Gordon's shoulder and trying to pin him down while Hoffman rearranged his bones. It's going to look okay now, he's pretty sure of that. But not so well that John won't notice the huge patch of bandage they've taped straight across Gordon's nose to keep everything in place until it's healed.

Hoffman's frustrated with himself, but he's not regretting a damn thing. He punched Gordon because he was pissed off, and that hasn't passed. Just seeing that fucker's face, even when it was covered in blood and he was screaming in pain, set him off, made him angry in a way he didn't get anymore. It sets something deep inside him spinning, something he's tried his best to forget.

It doesn't hurt anymore. I don't let it. It's too important, what we're doing here. Hoffman hears the words in his head and feels his fists clench up again.

"He had it coming," he settles for saying. Amanda rolls her eyes.

"Look," she says. "I know you're not exactly sunshine and lollipops with people we bring in, and as long as John doesn't notice, you don't have to be. I don't care. But breaking his fucking nose? I think John's going to notice that, Hoffman. And when he does, shit's going down, and probably on me, too."

"The fuck would I care about what happens to you?" Hoffman mumbles, barely paying attention to her. "He was being an asshole. You would've done the same thing. He… he's a danger to us. To all of us. Including John."

Amanda, who's been fidgeting nervously, suddenly stills, her eyes on him wide.

"What?"

Hoffman smirks and move a little closer to her. Now that he's gotten the idea, this is going to be easier than he thought. There's a simple solution to all of this, and he didn't see it before because he wanted to follow John's rules, but now that he can rationalize this to himself, it's all so clear.

Sometimes when he fights with Amanda, and actually hears how 'daddy-loves-me-the-most' like it sounds, he's disgusted with himself. But there's one point they always agree on, and that is that they will, at no matter what cost, do what's best for John. And there are easy ways to convince Amanda what that would be.

"You've seen him, Amanda," he murmurs as she cranes her head back to look at him. "He's a mess. He's a delusional, whiny mess, and he has hallucinations. He's going to turn on us, he doesn't have what it takes. You know that."

Amanda tries to seem unfazed by his closeness, but he notices her swallowing nervously as his fingertips graze her hand.

"What do you mean?" she says throatily, lifting one hand to place on his chest. "He's… when he's operating, he's fine."

"Yeah, but how long do you think that's going to last?" Hoffman goes on, placing the hand that isn't now interlaced with hers on her cheek. "He's going to break. You know it, and I know it. Eventually he'll even forget about his family, and then there's nothing stopping him from calling the police."

Amanda doesn't answer this. She stares intently at the hand she holds still on his chest, like she's figured out what he means but doesn't want to agree without putting up a fight, but that's the exact reason why Hoffman talks to her like this, pressed up against her, his lips to her ear.

Despite all the times he's rejected her, and despite the fact that they're both full-blown sociopathic sadists, there will always be some small part of her that hopes that it can work out between them. And Amanda will never be able to reject approval from a man.

"I know…" Hoffman continues, barely more than a whisper now, "that John's told us not to kill him. But don't you think there are ways we could make it seem… incidental? Or at least not our fault?"

Amanda looks up at him. Hoffman makes sure to pull back a few inches. He's a good actor, but he really doesn't want to be closer to her than he has to.

"I guess," she says softly. "What are your plans?"

Hoffman smirks into her hair.

"I'm thinking… we can make it look sloppy. Pick a fight with him, drag him out of bed and trash the room. Break the medicine cabinet and make him cut his throat with the glass. It'll be easy. We'll put a gun to his head or threaten his family. John'll think he cracked under the pressure, he'll never think it was us."

Amanda moves her hand down his ribs. She has that look on her face, the one she gets sometimes with John. That smarmy, I'll-do-anything-for-you, that look.

"Why can't you do it alone, Mark?" she says.

She only calls him that when he has her reeled in. Hoffman keeps smiling.

"Someone's going to have to guard the door. And Gordon. I know he's a cripple, but he can get really feisty when he has a meltdown."

Amanda looks up at the ceiling. He's not sure if she's actually thinking or just pretending to. Then she lets out a small sigh, shaking her head.

"Fine."

Hoffman smiles, that lovely feeling of concentrated malice swelling in his chest. He tilts Amanda's chin up and places a chaste kiss on her lips, but then he walks away. He's done fucking her, and nothing, not even the satisfaction of knowing that Gordon will soon be out of his hair, is going to change that.

Even though he still doesn't get why he's suddenly gone from being annoyed with him to wanting him dead. But Hoffman likes to believe that it's a bit too late for him to start considering the weirdness of his feelings.