Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's dark. 

That's about the only word Adam can use to describe the bathroom he's been locked in, left to rot by Jigsaw himself. Dark. 

After the initial panic attack following Lawrence brutally sawing off his own foot and running (well, crawling) away to freedom, then Jigsaw getting off the floor in the most dramatic way possible (seriously, why’d the old freak have to arch his back like that?) and slamming the door shut, his only escape route being locked for good, Adam had gotten bored. He tried to play games with himself, but there really wasn't much to play when you couldn't. See. Anything.

I Spy with my little eye, something…dark! 

Everything in this goddamn room? 

Wow, you got it! 

Maybe he's going crazy. Considering the people he'd been locked in the room with this past week, though, he figures he's not that far off the bend yet.

“Here in the Jigsaw traps, black is the new black,” he’d said aloud, for no particular reason at all. 

It wasn't like anyone had been around to hear him. For all he knew, he was in a tungsten-and-iron bunker hidden a bazillion feet underground in the middle of rural Antarctica, not a living soul around except maybe a couple penguins. And Santa Claus. Or was that the North Pole? Adam can't remember.

Adam can't do much of anything at the moment. He doesn't exactly have a way to tell time, what with the old Ikea clock in the bathroom being unreadable on account of the lights being turned off…and Adam’s inability to read an analogue clock. But he's been locked down there for a couple days at least - rusty chain rubbing raw into his left ankle, shoulder throbbing where he’d been shot, screaming his dry throat hoarse, and pounding on the cracked tile walls with his fists until they were slick with blood.

He'd tugged at the chain, tried to pull up on the pipe. It was all useless. He still had the hacksaw, sure, but Adam wasn't as tough as Lawrence. He'd grit his teeth and tried, but barely broke skin before he dropped the rusty thing and gave up.

He drifts in and out of consciousness for a while. Every time he wakes up from passing out, he wildly scans the bloody bathroom expecting Lawrence to be there. But nope, it's always just the usual gory gang of Zep’s rotting corpse and Lawrence's rotting foot there to greet him like the world's worst-smelling birthday party. 

Now he just lies there, weak and emaciated, dark hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and grease, slumped against the pipe he was chained to. His head is light and spins as if made of fairy floss. His tongue feels like cotton, like it doesn't even belong in his mouth. He sees a lot of patterns in the shadows, big swirling spirals, tiny sparks of rainbow dots, sharp diamonds in a kaleidoscope of shapes. 

It feels like a bad trip - hell, this whole fucked-up escape room has felt like a bad trip. Adam half thinks he's going to blink his pale blue eyes open and wake up in his run-down, stained, crackhouse apartment with only some clothes and his camera to his name. The Adam one week ago would hardly believe he's thinking this, but right now that shithole sounds like a little slice of heaven to him.

Now, Adam’s stomach yowls like a mountain lion clawing at him from the inside. He's not a big guy, never needed anything more than a hot cup of microwave ramen to sustain him, but right now he's so delirious with hunger he's debating going full-on Alive and chowing down on Lawrence's bloody foot left across the bathroom.

Almost. Adam pictures crawling over there and trying to gnaw at the bone like a tough piece of fried chicken and huffs out what could be considered a laugh, but just barely. At least he's still got his sense of humour. Fat load of good it's going to do for him now. Maybe if his puns are hilarious enough, Jigsaw will take pity on him and let him go free. Ha-ha. See, now that's funny. 

Thinking of the foot made him think of Lawrence. God, Adam misses the guy, and his disembodied foot is not a compensation for the real deal. He chalks it up to a simple case of trauma, because why else would Adam be so obsessed with this random, forty-something rich blond WASP-ish guy he'd barely known for a day? 

In fact, most of his daydreams as of late have been shifting between two subjects: food and Dr. Lawrence Gordon. Which is a toxic combination of topics that sort of explains why he's been entertaining the idea of eating the man's foot.

Eating. Adam's pale blue eyes glaze over. 

The thoughts are just starting to head right back to fantastical feasts — fatty cheeseburgers, steak dripping with hot garlic butter, rich brownies and freezing French vanilla ice cream soaking into the chocolate — when the door finally, finally slides open, and there's a shadow of a person standing there. 

Adam could cry. Or hug them. Or give them a really awful handjob.

A crack of sickly green light from the outside hallway slices down the right side of Adam's bloodstained face, and then the figure shines a torch around the room. It lands on the foot, then on Zep's mangled corpse for a moment, then settles silver right on Adam. It's so bright it burns tears to his eyes, but it's nothing compared to the pain he's already suffered that week. All that matters now is that he came back, Lawrence came back just like he promised he would. 

Adam is going to be set free from this hellhole. He'll run straight to a restaurant, Applebee's, maybe, and then probably to a hospital. Maybe the other way around. He and Lawrence can catch up on the way. Adam's not even mad at how long it took the guy to rescue him. It wouldn't be easy for Lawrence, crawling around without a foot for God knows how long to escape this maze. Let alone finding someone outside who don't too terrified to help him.

“Lawrence,” Adam croaks out, voice scratchy from overuse. The figure doesn't respond, but they're coming closer. Something dangles from their hand. Food, he hopes. Maybe medical supplies. Better, a game to play that isn't fucking I Spy. 

“Thank God you're back, dude,” Adam continues hoarsely, even though he didn't get a response. “Was starting to think you ran off on me.”

The silhouette mumbles something, but Adam can barely hear them over the blood pounding in his ears. “Didn't catch that. What—” he's cut off by a round of coughing, “what did you say, man?”

“Sorry,” whispers the shadow. It bends down to stand up the torch so it shines right on his face, and oh shit oh shit that is definitely not Lawrence. 

He recognizes the voice, though. Female. Raspy. He's not sure from where. It doesn't bring him much comfort, anyway, not when he's dehydrated and fragile and one mean look away from joining Zep right down in hell.

“Mmmf. Who’re you?” Adam murmurs, straining to make out a face. He tries to move but his head just lolls to the side limply. The white light of her torch is behind the woman anyway, and it completely shadows any discerning features she'd have.

“Sorry,” she says again, and then the saran wrap goes down over his face and pulls.

Adam doesn't remember what happens next. It goes dark after a while, but by now, he's used to it.

To put it mildly, Lawrence is pissed when Amanda tells him what she did.

He'd been doing his usual physiotherapy around the Jigsaw lair. He's been trying to get used to walking with his prosthetic and cane, though it's a hell of an adjustment when he's been using both feet for about forty-six years.

But he is thankful. He is. When John offered him the deal—his life and the lives of those he loved, for Lawrence to use his surgery skills to help out with the games—Lawrence accepted, because who wouldn't? It wasn't like he was killing the victims, just operating on them. Besides, they had a chance at living, no matter how slim. Lawrence made it out, didn't he?

And then, just as he was ready to call it a day, Amanda came barrelling out of nowhere right into him, a sobbing wreck. Bewildered, Lawrence just stood there stiffly while she cried into his nice white silk shirt and got it all dirty with her thick makeup. 

He'd asked her what was the matter (what wasn't the matter when you were a Jigsaw apprentice?) and that was when she told him about Adam.

Lawrence hardly curses, but he figured this was the kind of situation that warranted their use.

“Please just listen to me,” Amanda begs through her rivers of black tears. “He was in so much pain, I had to—”

“What you had to do was release him!” Lawrence hisses, tugging a hand through his hair. He's pacing around, trying to get a grip on the situation. “I thought that was the deal! As long as I stayed and helped John with the games, you'd leave my family and Adam alone.”

Amanda nods desperately. “I would've released him, you know I would've. But he was already dying, Lawrence. He'd been in there without any food or water with an infected gunshot wound for days now, there was no way we could bring him back.”

“Jesus, Amanda, I'm a doctor! We could have figured something out.”

Amanda shakes her head mournfully. “I’ve been having these awful nightmares about him. When I went in, he looked like he was sleeping.” She covers her mouth with her hands, more inky tears sliding down her cheeks. “Fuck, he—he didn't even struggle, he was so weak. Lawrence, I did what was best for him.”

“Christ.” Lawrence sits down on a workbench with a grunt. He feels numb. Aside from his wife and daughter, Adam was the reason he agreed to playing a part in this whole violent game. And now he's dead. Dead, oh God, Lawrence never should've left, should've stayed in that cold damn bathroom and rotted there together—

“Lawrence?” Amanda asks quietly. There's a barely concealed tremble in her body, even though she's quite warm. She's wearing navy flare jeans under her long black-and-red Jigsaw robes, and lots of smudgy dark makeup highlighting her angular features. Her hair is plain-coffee brown and cut in a sort of messy pixie cut. It’s all tousled from pulling on the pig mask. With most of her eye makeup cried away, her nose and cheeks shiny and ruddy, she looks small, girlish and young. Far too young to be tied up in all this. 

But then she speaks again with gravel in her voice, five hauntingly dark words. “Do you wanna see him?”

He really doesn't, but Lawrence figures he's been traumatized to hell and back this week, what's a little more? “Yes. Now.”

Amanda leads him out of the workshop, taking it slow to let him catch up, down the dingy, faded brick halls of the sewers and over to the wall-sized bathroom door. She looks up at him and hesitates. “Are you sure you—”

“I already said yes,” Lawrence cuts her off briskly, steadying himself on his cane. “Hurry up with it.”

Amanda bites her lip but complies, unhooking the latch and sliding the big wooden panel open with a loud thundering screech.

It's pitch black, but Amanda has a flashlight with her. She scans the bathroom with the white beam. A trail of gore leads to Zep’s bloody corpse, which is starting to decompose so they'll have to get rid of it. Lawrence, for once, is glad for his injury since that means he won't have to help dispose of the body. And speaking of which, there's his foot, gray and streaked with dried blood, still a prisoner of the game when it's attached to the rusty chain.

Lawrence sucks in a breath as the light flicks over to the other prisoner: Adam. Amanda creeps closer, but shoots glances at him over her to make sure he's not going to snap. Lawrence follows her wordlessly. Holding his cane for balance, he crouches down beside the still body. 

Impossibly, Adam's even paler than he was in life. Skinnier, too. His cheeks are hollow and his limp arms are wider at the middle than the bicep. A stray curl of dark hair has fallen over one closed eye, and Lawrence tucks it back into place. His hand lingers at the young man's white forehead. Adam's skin is freezing to the touch. 

When they were locked in the bathroom, Adam was all bite, razor-sharp and wired up and raging fires spitting with sparks. Now he just looks peaceful. Lawrence could fool himself that the brunet man was simply swept up in a silent dream. How he wished they could share it.

“I'm sorry, Lawrence,” Adam’s murderer whispers from above. She's a good liar. 

Lawrence doesn't say anything. He runs his fingers through Adam's wet hair. Slides down the side of his face to cup his cheek. He feels the harsh ridges of his cheekbones with his thumb. 

“Amanda,” he murmurs, silk over steel. He traces circles on Adam's cheek. “You're going to do something for me.”

“Yeah?” Amanda replies cautiously. “And what would that be?”

A dark thrill runs through his veins. “You're going to bring him back to life.”

When Lawrence said that, he'd—he didn't really know what he meant. It was simply a means of catharsis. A need to voice it, that burning flame of frustration and regret in his chest. 

Then he figured Amanda would call him crazy and tell John and they'd ship him off to one of those ex-Jigsaw-victim crackhouses where he'd spend the rest of his days babbling in a straightjacket and spoon-fed bowls of flavorless goop. 

What he hadn't expected was for Amanda to nod, lead him to a bookshelf in the workshop, pull out a thick, dusty leather book and flip the worn yellowed pages to a ritual in faded ink. A resurrection ritual. 

Lawrence knew the young woman was a bit off her rocker, but whipping out some witchy spellbook straight out of Harry Potter with steps to a whole satanic ritual and expecting him to believe it? Maybe she should be the one in a straightjacket with a mouthful of mush.

Only what was even madder was that Lawrence agreed.

So that's how Amanda Young, Lawrence Gordon, and goddamn Mark Hoffman ended up in the middle of the woods at 23:00 with Adam's body wrapped in the back of their van. Amanda parks the car and turns off the headlights. She grabs a large army backpack and headband flashlights for each of them. Her and Hoffman get out and wait for Lawrence.

Rain is drizzling lightly down from the black sky and collecting in beads on the windows and thin pine needles on their outstretched branches. The dark forest smells like fresh earth and amber tree sap and gasoline.

“Can't believe I agreed to this,” Lawrence huffs as he hauls himself out of the passenger's seat and pulls the hood of his cloak over his sandy blond hair, rubbing his aching forehead. 

“Can't believe I agreed to this,” Hoffman mutters with a grimace. He opens the trunk and hauls out Adam like he weighs nothing, the small man wrapped up in a dirty blue tarp like a mummy. Hoffman tosses him over his wide shoulder like a particularly bony sack of potatoes, shooting Lawrence a steely glare. “You better be paying me an exorbitant amount for this, doctor.”

“Aww, thought you were doing this out of the goodness of your heart, Marky,” Amanda cooes in a baby voice. 

Hoffman curls his lip. “I'm going to make you wish you were back in that bear trap if you don’t shut it.”

“Oo, big words from the fatass. So scary. Whatever will I do.” Sarcasm drips from her words like blood from a blade. “Maybe I'll throw a box of Krispy Kremes to distract him.”

Hoffman growls in the back of his throat. “Watch your tongue, you little bitch. Don’t think I won’t hurt a girl.”

“Don’t think I won’t fight back.”

“Christ, you two.” Sometimes, Lawrence feels like he’s the weary father of two middle-aged psychopaths. Amanda gets a pass since she’s still fairly young, but Hoffman’s in his late thirties. He should handle himself with more decorum. “Just try to control yourselves for tonight, alright? Then you can go back to bickering and throwing each other in pits of contaminated needles.”

“Of course, doctor,” Hoffman simpers, sickly sweet. “Some of us just can’t seem to control their tempers.”

Amanda rolls her hazel eyes. “What-the fuck-ever.” She seems over it, but then she pulls back a branch and ducks under it, then lets it snap back into Hoffman’s face.

Hoffman, thankfully, doesn’t strangle her, even though he looks like he’s savouring that idea like a juicy hunk of steak. 

The group makes sure they have their supplies and starts to head through the woods, practically swimming in bushes and brambles. The light showers stop, which is pleasant at least.

“May I ask where we are going?” Lawrence grumbles after about ten minutes of straight wading, almost tripping over a log clinging with mushrooms. He can barely walk on flat ground on its own, this is a whole other level. “Is this just your convoluted plan to kill me?”

Amanda laughs. “Aww, Larry, we like you too much for that! No, it's my secret place. I found it when my kindergarten class went there on a field trip. I used to sneak out here all the time in middle school and like, smoke, or whatever.”

Hoffman’s eyes dance with mirth. “Naughty girl.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Amanda shoves him. She’s tiny, so it’s more like a moth hitting a brick wall. 

Hoffman just smirks. He’s huge and police-buff, all barrel-chested and broad shoulders, with greasy golden-brown hair and the most pouty, ridiculous lips Lawrence had ever seen on a man. Not only that, but he’s eerily smart in a way he can’t describe. The way Hoffman will just sit and watch them sometimes can only be described as predatory. Lawrence still gets chills down his spine whenever he turns to find those cold blue eyes on him. Calculating. Deciding. It’s no wonder Hoffman’s on their team—brains, brawn, and behind-the-scenes FBI intel.

“Whatever,” Amanda continues. “I still go there by myself sometimes, to be alone with my thoughts.”

“You hike through thorns for thirty minutes to sit in the middle of a forest and think?” Hoffman scoffs. “Sounds weird.”

“You're weird,” Amanda snaps. She leaps over a puddle, gracefully as a doe. “And I don't expect you to understand.”

Lawrence notices how expertly she dodges sudden dips in the dirt, skipping over thick patches of thistle and weaving around trees instinctively, without even thinking about it. She really must come here a lot.

Finally they reach a clearing, where the trees break into the dome of black sky. Smooth slabs of slate dip into a shallow stream. The lazy current lined with ferns carries upstream a ways before crashing down into the gloomy ocean bay below. Since they are so far away from the city, the midnight sky is clear of smog and clouds and the half slice of moon and spatter of stars lights everything in silver, bouncing off the shiny surfaces of the river and wet rocks.

Amanda smiles, putting her hands on her hips. “Pretty, huh?”

“Absolutely,” Lawrence agrees. 

The three of them stand there for a moment, drinking it all in, before Hoffman coughs. “If you two are done stargazing, I’m carrying a dead man on my shoulder right now when I’d really rather not be.”

“Right.” Lawrence straightens, trying to look as professional as he can when he’s standing on the pit of the woods in the middle of the night about to bring some junkie kid he’s known for all of one day back from the dead. “Amanda, what are the steps to this…er…ritual?”

Amanda giggles and covers her mouth. “Ritual, huh? I know this is out of your league, grandpa. Just leave it to me.” She gets down on one knee and begins rifling through her olive-green backpack that’s about the same size as her. Lawrence observes the items she pulls out—candles, salt, ash, one Bic lighter printed with skulls, a silver…dagger (he didn’t like what that implied.)

“Jesus Christ, girl. You a fuckin’ witch or something?” Hoffman scoffs. 

“Or something.” Amanda winks up at him. She’s tying a loop of red string into a complicated knot around her wrist. “Why, you gonna burn me at the stake?” 

“Tempting.” Hoffman purses his lips. “Hmm. Not a bad idea for a trap.”

“I get the credit.”

“Fat chance.” Hoffman drops the bagged Adam down on the ground rather harshly. 

Lawrence winces. “Be careful with him, please.”

“Apologies. Wouldn't wanna break your little boytoy here, eh?” Hoffman sneers, showing teeth marble-white. Contempt glints from their ivory points.

Lawrence flashes him a warning look, but by now, he’s done with arguing when it comes to Hoffman.

Amanda's now unwrapping Adam from the tarp like a really terrible Christmas present. She drags him onto a black slab of rock with great effort, holds up his arms, and yanks his stained white shirt over his head, revealing his pale, slender torso. His skin is glowing silver in the moonlight. Lawrence averts his eyes too late.

Amanda picks up a baggie and starts spilling salt in a circle around him. She nods in Lawrence's direction. “Light those candles for me, will you?”

Lawrence fiddles with the lighter for a bit, but eventually gets it going and lights the five candles, black wax dripping from the pillars. He passes them to Amanda and she places them in holders around the circle like the points of a star.

Amanda stands up, beaming, and brushes grains of salt off her hands onto her jeans. “Okay, I think we're all set!”

“You're all set. I'm going to sit over here and eat this sandwich until your little devil-worship session is over and I gotta haul that scrawny kid back.” Hoffman pulls a sandwich in saran wrap out of seemingly nowhere and turns to leave, but Amanda stops him.

“Oh no you don't. We need you for our chant.”

“...Chant?”

“Chant.”

Hoffman stares at her incredulously. “You've gotta be kidding me.”

“Nope,” Amanda chirps. She untucks the big spellbook from under her arm and flips it open to a page in the middle, tapping it. “Says we need at least three living souls to do the chant.”

“Give me that.” Hoffman tears it from her grasp and scans it, brows knitted, then snorts disbelievingly. “I'm gonna knock our group down to two living souls if you make me do that.”

“Can I see it?” Lawrence pipes up.

Hoffman shrugs. “Be my guest.” He passes him the book and Lawrence reads down the lines.

It's not what he expected. The title says it's a money spell, not a resurrection spell. The three of them are supposed to call on a demon to bless them with fame and fortune and an endless flow of cash. It's when Lawrence reads through the ‘ingredients’ that he stops dead. Salt. Black candles. Bay leaf ashes.

Virgin sacrifice.

“Uh, Amanda? You read through these ingredients, right?” Lawrence asks slowly.

“Yeah, duh.”

“And this is the correct spell? Fame and Fortune?”

“Yu-p.” She pops the p.

“Well, that's not…I thought we were trying to bring Adam back to life.”

“Dude, I bought this book for like ten dollars off Amazon. You think they'd just have a legit necromancy spell lying around in here?” Amanda retorts like it would be obvious. “Don't know if you noticed, but being a Jigsaw apprentice doesn't exactly pay the big bucks.”

“But—how is this supposed to work?” Lawrence demands, throwing out his arms. “It's a spell for money, which we don't want, and requires a virgin sacrifice, which I don't think we have, unless Hoffman's always been as snarly as he is now.”

“Some people are into that,” Hoffman hums.

“God, Lawrence, you think I'm stupid? I didn't drop out till the ninth grade, I know how to read.” Amanda takes in a breath and then let's out a long exhale. “Adam's our sacrifice.”

Lawrence raises his eyebrows. “And you really think he's a virgin?”

Amanda grins devilishly. “Nooo. I'm banking that he's not. Basically, if the sacrifice isn't a virgin, the spell will fail and they'll come back to life, only with some cool demon powers, too.” But then her smile deepens into a frown. “Only problem is, he's gonna have to feed off human flesh like once a month or else he'll get weak and die again. But that's just a little kink we can work out.”

Lawrence and Hoffman share a capital-L Look. For once, they agree on something: Amanda's a psychopath.

“Hey, it's better than dying, right?” Amanda coaxes. Her hazel eyes are big and pleading. Lawrence doesn't know why she wants this so much. Probably to get on his good side. “And besides, we already end up with tons of dead bodies from the failed games. We'll just…toss him the leftovers. Makes your job a lot easier, Mark.”

Hoffman raises his arms in surrender. “Whatever you want, little lady. I don't give a shit if you throw him in a blender and make tropical smoothies outta him, as long as Dr. Gordon over here gets me paid.”

Lawrence sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And—and if he is a virgin?” Never thought he'd be rooting so hard for Adam to get laid, but here they were.

Amanda shrugs. “Then we’re rich. Win-win either way.”

“...Fine.” If you told Lawrence one week ago that this is how he's spending his Friday night, he would've reached for the pager in his hospital office and punched in you for the psych ward. But everything's different now, and he's learned to accept change as it comes. No matter how illegal. “Let's do it.”

Amanda instructs them to stand apart just in front of the salt in the circle in a sort of Y-shape. She reads off a spell in Latin, and Lawrence only picks out bits and pieces from his rudimentary high school lessons: I, we, man, you, death. Amanda tells the two men to repeat after her, and after a moment's hesitation, they do. The amber glow of the candles cast strange shadows over their faces. He feels oddly dreamlike. 

He feels like a monster.

Nothing's happening for a while, and Lawrence feels a bit stupid for getting swept up in her mystical stories when all of a sudden Amanda grabs his wrist with surprising force, unsheathes her dagger, and slices open an X across the middle of his palm.

“Holy—” Lawrence hisses under his breath, gritting his teeth. His palm burns hotter than hell as a dark river of crimson pours alarmingly fast from the cut and drips down onto Adam. Amanda drags Lawrence down to the ground. She straddles the younger man's stomach and wipes the blood from Lawrence's hand to Adam's bare chest. After letting it gush into a pool for a moment, she lets the blond go. 

Lawrence grabs the hem of his robes and wraps it around the wound, looking up at the sky and blinking quickly. Hoffman's still chanting robotically, but his gluttonous gaze is glued to Adam. For some reason, it makes Lawrence feel sick to his stomach.

Amanda then finger paints a strange sigil on his chest. Then, she cuts an X between Adam's defined collarbones with the silver blade. He's been dead for a while, so he doesn't really bleed, but she swims her finger in some of Lawrence's blood and drags it across the incision, mixing the two. She's deadly focused, not a trace of emotion on her face. Lawrence has stopped chanting. He feels dizzy. Hoffman’s staring at him now, like a starving wolf to a plump lamb, and Lawrence suddenly really, really wants to leave.

That's when Adam's eyes flutter open.

Adam wakes up, and the lights are on.

Gasping for breath, he rears up off the ground and scrambles to tear the plastic off of his head. When he realizes it's gone, he pauses. 

He's not in the bathroom anymore. He's escaped somehow, but where?

Slowly, his senses start to drain back into his body. He smells wet soil and the sharp tang of evergreen. Adam's chest is freezing from exposure to the cold, misty wind. The space just under his neck stings. Why the hell is he shirtless? 

“Adam?” A man's voice whispers from above him. Adam turns, and there stands Lawrence Gordon, looking the exact same only with one less foot than before. He doesn't recognize the burly man next to Lawrence, but the woman—

The woman—

Oh, God.

The world tilts on its axis like he's on a roller coaster, and then he passes out again. He's faintly aware of sounds like the stomp of boots and Lawrence screaming.

“Shit! Is he dead again?” The woman yells. “Lawrence, gimme your hand, I need more of your blood!”

Then it's the unfamiliar man's dry voice. “If the twink dies, do I still get paid?”

Chapter Text

When Adam finally wakes up again, his head aches like someone pounded him into the floor with a sledgehammer and then used him as a stage for their tap-dancing routine. He probably banged it pretty hard on the rocks when he passed out. 

He stands up a little too quickly and he sways suddenly. “Shit, shit,” Adam groans. The vertigo dizzies him as if he's strapped to a carousel. He clutches his forehead and steadies himself before surveying the area. 

At least he knows he's still in the forest clearing. The sky's a little lighter, but it's still nighttime from the chirp of crickets and the half moon overhead.

When Adam turns behind him, though, he sees the group of three who'd greeted him the first time he woke up. Lawrence is sitting against a tree stump, looking off into the distance. He doesn't notice Adam yet. In his lap lies the brunette woman who knocked him out earlier, who's using his legs as a pillow. She has a handmade red quilt draped over her slender body.

Freakily, the large man that he doesn't recognize has already been staring at him with his arms crossed like a teacher studying. Adam isn't sure what to do, so he waves a little.

The man doesn't wave back. He gives Adam a long, slow look from the bottom of his bare feet to the top of his dark, matted hair. Then he sighs as if defeated and nudges Lawrence. “Your boyfriend's alive.”

Lawrence turns back to glare at the big man, and Adam gets a better glimpse at his face. His sandy blond hair is limp, his cheeks are hollow, and his round blue eyes are heavy with dark circles. But there's some colour and flush back in his face and he looks almost peaceful.

Well, for about two seconds.

“Adam!” Lawrence gasps. He shakes the woman on his lap's shoulder. “Adam's awake!”

“...Whasgoinon?” she mumbles, lashes fluttering open. She sits up, rubbing her eyes, and squints at Adam. “Oh. Oh! Hey!” 

Adam isn't entirely convinced he's not dreaming. “Somebody pinch me.”

“Just—hang on for a moment,” Lawrence assures. He grabs a cane from beside him and uses it as leverage to hoist himself to a standing position with a grunt. Once he's balanced, he limps closer to Adam.

“The fuck are you wearing that Star Wars lookin’ cloak for?” Adam snorts. “Does it just—”

But then he's being pulled close and wrapped in a hug.

And well, damn, if it doesn't feel good to be held. Adam is touch-starved to hell and back. He hasn't had real tangible human contact in what feels like years. He hugs him back without thinking and realizes Lawrence is trembling. 

He's suddenly very aware of everything—the hot rush of blood in the arteries of Lawrence's chest, his breath on Adam's hair, the orange-and-musk of expensive cologne. It's overwhelming but Adam's been deprived of his senses for too long for it to make him uncomfortable.

Lawrence draws away, but keeps holding his hand tight, like he's never going to let go again. Selfishly, Adam hopes he doesn't. 

“You're alive,” Lawrence murmurs, reaching up with his other hand to cup his cheek. There's a dark mask of stubble growing there, rough like sandpaper. 

“Yeah,” Adam says stupidly. He feels rooted to the spot. He watches as Lawrence breaks eye contact, gaze flicking down to his lips, and Adam’s breath hitches.

Lawrence jerks away suddenly. Thankfully, he doesn't stop his grasp on Adam's hand. “I—sorry, are you okay with being touched? Was that too much?”

A warm smile breaks out over Adam's face. “No way. I missed you like hell when you crawled outta that dump, man. You’re not leaving me ever again” He swats Lawrence's arm playfully. “Jeez, now you got me acting all sappy.” His hand lingers there on his bicep for a beat too long, and he pulls it away awkwardly. 

“Your hands are like icicles,” Lawrence points out, unhappy. “You must be starving.”

“I feel fine, honest.” Which is weird ‘cause he hasn't eaten in, like, a week.

“Nonsense. Amanda, give him your blanket.”

Amanda. That's the woman's name. She's petite and the same black robes as Lawrence is wearing practically drown her. Under them, she's got navy jeans with a sick corset detailing on the flare, and her diamond face is coated in thick grunge makeup. Her brunette hair is cut in a punk-rock shag just below her ears, and oh…Adam does know her.

Very briefly. Maybe know is an overstatement. Amanda lives in his flat, and they've bumped into each other a few times. The most recent was when Adam was handing out flyers in the foyer for his friend's garage-band concert, and he'd noticed her rockstar-esque haircut. Passed her a flyer. Told her to come, and meant it, too. She'd smiled at him, but Adam never saw her at the concert.

And the next time they saw each other, she's sobbing and pulling a plastic bag over his head. Talk about a meet-cute.

Amanda gathers up the quilt in her arms and passes it to Adam. “Here you go,” she says softly. Her gaze doesn't leave her shoes. Adam sneaks a glance at them—creepers, black leather with a thick heel.

“Underground England, right?” Adam blurts without thinking. 

Amanda’s face scrunches in confusion, so he quickly clarifies. “Your shoes. That's the brand, right? Underground England?”

“Um, yeah, I think so.”

“Where’s you get them? I thought they were all sold out.”

Her eyes brighten, and her previously closed-off expression opens a little. “From a second-hand store. I paid like six bucks.”

“Shiiit, seriously? Kudos, dude, those are mad expensive.”

Amanda beams bright as a Christmas tree. “Right? I totally freaked when I saw them.” She tilts her head to the side. “How do you know that, anyway?”

“One of my ex-girlfriends was pretty into punk fashion. She was always badgering me to buy those shoes, but I wasn't gonna shell over six month's rent to a glorified hook-up.”

“You underestimate an alternative girl's love for funky shoes, Adam,” she laughs. She's very pretty when she smiles. Adam gets the feeling it doesn't happen often.

Then the man who’s name Adam still doesn't know clears his throat meaningfully. “If you two are done chit-chatting about shoes,” he says shoes like one might say vomit milkshake, “should we tell Mr. Stanheight what he's doing here?” His voice is rough and gravelly and has a faint accent buried under years of living in America. Australian, he guesses.

“ Faulkner-Stanheight,” Adam corrects instinctually. “Also, who are you?”

Lawrence squeezes his hand. He can't tell if it's in comfort or in warning.

“Apologies.” The man smirks at him like Adam's a dim child. His lips look like they've been injected with a year's salary of fillers. “I’m Detective Mark Hoffman.”

“Damn, a cop? So are you here to interrogate us or something?”

Hoffman stares at him incredulously, then barks a laugh. “You're a funny kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Adam retorts, sounding ironically childish. 

“Thank God.”

Well, Adam isn't sure what he means by that. He sneaks a glance at Lawrence, who's looking at him, too. More specifically, the probably gross wound on his chest where he'd been shot. By Lawrence. The older man's gaze lingers there for a while. 

“Hey, my eyes are up here,” Adam jokes weakly. Then he realizes he’s still shirtless.

Lawrence meets them, blue on blue, and his expression is pained. Guilty. Adam doesn’t like what that means. “Adam, listen to me. A lot has happened while you were in that bathroom.”

Adam rolls his eyes and gets to work buttoning up his shirt. “Really? ‘Cause a lot happened inside the bathroom, too. Me and Zep and your left foot were having a gay old time. I'd tell you all about it, but you just had to be there.”

Lawrence wasn't amused. Old people. “Please be serious, Adam. I’m…I'm not quite sure how to tell you this.” He’s hesitating, putting it off.

“For an oncologist, you're pretty shit at breaking the bad news,” Adam quips just to say something. He knows he should probably shut up. He really hates silence.

Lawrence exhales. And then he tells him. He tells him all about John Kramer—Jigsaw—his twisted games, and the three Jigsaw apprentices. How Amanda’s been helping Kramer ever since she escaped her game and was given a sunny new outlook on her life—by killing people, natch. How Hoffman’s a dirty cop who got bloody revenge on a man who wronged his sister a few years ago, and Kramer’s blackmailing him into working for the games (though Adam gets the feeling Hoffman’s enjoying the blackmail a little too much.)

How Lawrence is working for—

Adam’s eyes blow wide. “What the fuck.”

“Hold on, Adam, wait. Just let me finish.” Lawrence closes his eyes, like he can't bear to look at Adam while he's telling him this. “When I escaped my game,” Adam catches the use of my and game, which isn't true and it kind of scares him a little, “I could barely move, I was in so much agony. I nearly passed out and I wasn't even halfway down the hallway. It was when I laid down to catch my breath that John found me. Adam…I’m going to be assisting him in the next game.” 

Adam opens his mouth to say something outrageous, but Lawrence stops him. “Don't. I know, alright? I know.” He exhales shakily, continuing. “He dragged me down the hall into this bed, cleansed my wounds, and fed me medicine. Got me a prosthetic and fitted it all on his own. He saved me, Adam, healed me just as I healed him.”

“He didn't save you, he basically sawed off your leg himself!” Adam spits. He can hardly believe what he's hearing. “How can you just agree to put other people through the hell we went through?!”

“He was testing me, Adam,” Lawrence says quietly. “I know it's difficult for you to hear, but I couldn't just refuse. Think about who was at stake—not only myself, but Alison and Diana.” Pause. “And you.”

Adam, for the first time in his life, goes silent. “Tough to argue with that,” he finally mumbles.

Lawrence’s features soften. “I couldn't deny him, not with your lives on the line. After that, John explained how he needs a doctor to perform certain…procedures for the games. Operations. I wouldn’t be hurting anyone. If anything, having me as the surgeon will make sure everything works safely and properly, and nobody gets hurt.”

Adam nods slowly, trying to puzzle this together. “That sort of makes sense. In, like, a really fucking psycho way, but it does make sense. So, how are you explaining all this to the public? Your family's probably flipping out right now.”

“Hoffman took care of them,” Lawrence says mildly. “The police and the press, too. Everyone thinks I'm in a secluded hospital getting private treatment and physical therapy. Which I'll need anyway, of course. Hoffman is working on that as well.”

“Hoffman’s also standing right here,” mutters the aforementioned man. “But by all means, continue.”

“We have one more thing to tell you, Adam,” Amanda says quietly. She’s back to looking down at her second-hand six-dollar punk black leather Underground England creepers with the thick heel. “And it’s kind of a big one.”

Adam rolls his eyes. “Can’t be any more batshit than anything else you’ve spilled on me tonight. Fire away.”

“Okay.” Amanda runs a hand through her hair, then clasps her hands together. “Okay. When I suffocated you in that bathroom, you died. And twenty minutes ago, we brought you back to life. And now you're kind of part demon so you'll be able to heal from any wound and live forever unless you stop eating. And the thing that you have to eat is, um, human flesh and blood.”

“Oh.” Adam blinks. They're all serious. “Uh. Metal.”

Everyone stares at him.

“Well I'm sorry, what the hell do you want me to say to that?” Adam snaps. “You’re all fucking high off your asses if you expect me to believe that load of schizo crap you just puked at me.”

“What a poetic choice of words,” Hoffman drones.

“Adam, please. I know this all sounds ridiculous. It did to me too,” Lawrence pleads. “But you were dead, really and truly dead. I saw it with my own eyes. We all did.”

His eyes are big and earnest. Lawrence doesn't look like he's lying, and that’s what really terrifies Adam. 

He feels his blood thrumming, pounding in his skull and shakes his head wildly. “Goddamnit, Lawrence, what did Jigsaw do to you?” Adam cries, his voice breaking at the end. His vision starts to blur. Hoffman, Amanda, Lawrence, they’re all looking at him like this makes all the sense in the world, like the sky’s always been red, children's restaurants are serving bowls of shattered glass, the oceans swim black with ash and Adam’s fucking dead.

Adam feels like a prey animal being hunted for sport, so he turns like a good rabbit and runs.

God, what’s truly sad is how he doesn’t even make it back to the copse of pine before he’s being yanked back roughly by his shirt collar. With a scream, Adam tries to tear the hand from his shirt but then he’s being tugged again and crashing backwards into a large body. 

“Going somewhere, pretty boy?” Hoffman murmurs, gruff and sinister down into his ear. 

He wraps his thick arm around Adam’s neck to keep him close. Adam claws with too-long fingernails and thrashes wildly, trying to tear Hoffman off of him, but Hoffman’s got size on his side and it’s all futile.

There's a clinking sound and Adam's stomach drops as the larger man pulls out a silver switchblade. It glints wickedly in the moonlight. Before Adam has time to process what's happening, Hoffman thrusts it hard into Adam's gut and pulls it out with a grunt. “There we go.”

Lawrence cries out and Amanda's eyes widen to saucers as blood begins to gush like a waterfall from Adam’s stomach. “Holy shit, Hoffman.”

“Motherfucker,” Adam curses hoarsely, collapsing hard to his knees. When he touches one hand to his stomach, it comes back slick and horrifyingly black. He presses his clean hand to his mouth, sucking in air through his teeth, and tries to ignore the ricochets of pain coursing through his spent veins.

Hoffman saunters into his vision, squats down to Adam’s level, and cocks his head. The bloody blade dangles lazily from his grip. “So how much blood are you gonna lose before you believe us, huh? Because I don’t have work in the morning. I can do this,” he suddenly slashes a cut down Adam’s left cheek and Adam’s too weak to make any noise louder than a whimper, “all night.”

“That’s enough, Hoffman,” Amanda hisses, running over and grabbing his shoulder in a poor attempt to ground the vicious man. “Jesus. We’re supposed to save him, not torture him.”

“Such a Girl Scout, Mandy. Do you ever get cold on the moral high ground?” Hoffman sneers, but he stands up. From further away Adam makes out Lawrence. He’s giving Hoffman the most violent look he’s ever seen.

Head foggy, Adam falls to the ground. Wet dirt cushions his face. His breath is coming out in short pants now. It reminds him furiously of when he was shot. If he closes his eyes, he could fool himself into believing he's still on that cold, wet bathroom floor, bleeding out and trapped while Lawrence crawls to freedom leaving a trail of crimson in his wake.

“Lawrence,” he croaks out, mindless.

Mercifully, Lawrence rushes to his side at the sound of his name being spilled from Adam’s cracked lips. “I’m here, I’m here,” he promises, grabbing Adam’s hand and squeezing reassuringly. His skin is lava, burning hot. “You’re going to be okay, alright? I know it hurts. Just keep breathing. You’ll be okay.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than Adam.

“It doesn’t hurt so bad anymore,” Adam murmurs hazily, bringing his knees to his chest. “‘S getting better.” Does that mean he's dying? Adam frowns. “Why aren't you tryna help me? You're a doctor.” 

Lawrence hesitates. Hesitates, hesitates, Lawrence is always hesitating. He's way too goddamn patient, that guy. “You'll be okay,” he repeats finally, “you got better last time.”

“Last time I died?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. M’kay,” Adam slurs, then lets out a long sigh. His eyes flutter closed. He can't even feel the pain anymore. Dying like this wouldn't be the worst thing. At least he isn't alone.

“Wait,” Lawrence gasps. “Oh my God.” Suddenly, he feels hands grabbing at the hem of his shirt and lifting it up. 

Adam manages a smirk. “Frisky, are we?”

Lawrence barely hears him, poking his stomach. “Look, look at your wound!”

He sleepily glances down, expecting nothing. Then his eyes shoot wide open. In place of the gaping, gruesome hole is a small line a few shades darker than his skin.

“You're healed!” Lawrence marvels.

“Holy fucksicles.” Adam debates if the blood loss is so severe it's making him hallucinate things. He traces the mark with his finger and nope, it's as real as real can be. “This is insane. I'm going insane.”

“This is real,” Lawrence counters, squeezing his hand. “I can't believe it either, but I'm so glad it is. You're alive, Adam.”

“Yeah,” he says numbly, “I guess I am.”

“Told you so,” is Hoffman's smug input from above. “You were all acting like I just shanked baby Jesus. He's fine.”

Adam shoots him a venomous glare. He doesn't care for cops already, but Hoffman is the full package of traits he despises, all brutality and arrogance and raging fetishes for power over the lower class. “Yeah, well, you try getting stabbed in the back and see how much you like it.”

“Hmm.” Hoffman’s lips press into a line. “We’ll see about that.”

“We should go,” Amanda says, packing up some candles into her bag. “This place is pretty secret, though. Nobody’ll find anything since there's no trail leading here.”

“Good place to hide a body,” Hoffman muses, probably just to himself. “You know, once Adam's done with it.”

Adam shifts uncomfortably. “You know, I'm not really sold on this whole cannibal vampire eating-human-flesh thing.”

Hoffman bares his teeth in a way that could be considered a smile, but barely. “That’s just too bad, kid. You're stuck with us from now till when you finally kick it. And next time, we're not bringing you back.”

“Don't listen to him,” Lawrence says. “He's just trying to take out his own problems on you.”

“What are you, my fuckin’ therapist?” Hoffman scoffs. “Quit the Psych 101 talk, doctor, and stick to brain surgery or whatever the hell else you do to save the world.”

Amanda presses two fingers to either side of her temples and massages them, exhausted. “Both of you shut up, you're giving me a headache.”

The two men quiet, but shoot glares at each other like a sibling rivalry. 

Adam slowly gets up, stretching a little. He offers his hand to Lawrence, but he declines and uses his discarded cane to hoist himself off the muddy ground. 

Adam realizes then that he's totally got dirt and blood all over his face, but he's also been starving in a shit-stained bathroom for a week so he's probably not looking his prettiest anyway.

Amanda and Hoffman finish packing up and head back into the woods. “Come on,” Lawrence says, motioning for Adam to follow, and he does. “You can stay at our place till morning.”

“You mean your freaky evil Batcave lair?” Adam grumbles. “Delightful.”

Lawrence just smiles. “Something like that. Hey, tomorrow I'm going to visit Alison and Diana. Would you like to come? I'm sure they'd love to meet you.”

Adam pauses. “Won't that be kinda weird?”

“Not really. They should meet you eventually.”

“I guess.” Adam rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Are you and Alison…is everything going to go back to normal between you two?”

Lawrence doesn't answer for a moment. His expression is tight, stiff. He steadies himself on his cane before he answers. “I don't think she wants to go back to normal with me.”

“Oh.” Adam feels useless. Divorce isn't really something people his age deal with. “Is this because of…you-know-what? Did she find out?”

“No, and I'd like to keep it that way,” he says firmly. That's fine with Adam, it wasn't like he was a big fan of getting in-between marriages (for free). “Things haven't been good for a while. There hasn't been a…spark. If I'm being completely truthful, I'm not sure if there ever was. We've been trying to keep it together for Diana, but it's difficult.”

“Yeah, I get that. My parents divorced when I was around her age. It was tough, and not just because I had to correct everyone on my last name all the time.”

Sympathy washes over the blond’s face. “I'm sorry to hear that. I'd hate for any stress to come on Diana from this. We've been discussing it on the phone while you were, um, preoccupied. I'm renting an apartment downtown, and Diana's going to live with Alison. It's best for her now, especially with my injury and…Jigsaw. I don't want either of them tangled up in one of my messes ever again.”

Adam smiles softly. “You're a good dad, Lawrence.”

Lawrence huffs out a wry laugh. “I used to be.”

“No, you are. Trust me, with the way my parents used to fight, I was practically begging them for a divorce. It's better that you and Alison are both happy. Diana needs that more than she needs you two living under the same roof.”

“Thank you, Adam.” Lawrence says genuinely. “I meant it when I said you should come with me to visit them tomorrow.”

“I will,” Adam confirms, nodding. “But we should probably work on a story for, like, where I've been this whole week, too.”

“Once we get back.”

“Back,” Adam echoes with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “to your freaky evil Batcave lair?”

Lawrence rolls his eyes. “The one and only.” 

And so they do.

Chapter Text

Then they’d all loaded back into the car. Unfortunately, Adam had to sit in the backseat next to goddamn Mark Hoffman the whole ride. “If you don't like it, you can always go back in the trunk,” Hoffman had hissed when Adam complained. 

So, lucky him, he got to sit through forty-five minutes of creepy evil ogling from Hoffman while Amanda and Lawrence argued over which radio station to play. Adam entertains the thought of clawing Hoffman's eyes out like a raven and feeding them to the rats in the alleyway by his apartment. It's a very nice thought.

Once they head into the sewer, Amanda leads them with practised ease through the maze of faded red brick walls and terrible smell. The place is dingy and dilapidated with unflattering green lighting. He wishes he had a mirror.

The Jigsaw lair (Adam really can't think of a better word for it) isn't any more aesthetically pleasing. More dirty, peeling wallpaper. More terrible green lighting. His vision’s going to be tinted red once he leaves. He wonders if that's the intent.

There's benches made from rotting wood with various rusty tools and blueprints scattered across them. A dirty plastic tarp hangs from a door frame to the right that leads to another room. Other than that, there's not much going on.

“This is kinda depressing. You should really glam up the place,” Adam says, running a finger through the dust coating an old DVD player. He draws a smiley face with fangs and writes ADAM WUZ HERE beside it. “Get a coffee machine. Or one of those stupid motivational posters of that cat holding onto the branch.”

“We've actually got the coffee machine,” Amanda laughs, and leads him to a small room with a sheet of lined paper taped to the door reading Break Room.

Truth be told, there is indeed a coffee machine, along with a water cooler and a stack of little Dixie cups. There's a small kitchen with the basics—sink, cabinets, microwave, fridge, as well as a round table with a medley of busted chairs that looked like they were dragged off the side of the road from a pile marked FREE. 

It's gloomy here too, though. Adam's inner art student is just itching to decorate. Maybe he shouldn't be enjoying this as much as he is. After all, these are killers, whether they want to accept that or not. 

And then he remembers he is too. Adam forgets that sometimes.

“You can sleep on this couch here,” Amanda offers. It's ratty and probably infested with bedbugs and maybe a human skeleton, but it's the closest thing to a bed Adam's seen in a week. 

“Cozy,” Adam mutters, picking at a loose thread. “Where do the rest of you sleep, anyway?”

“Hoffman has an apartment and Lawrence has been staying in our medical office, but I've got a room aaall to myself,” Amanda beams. Adam assumes she didn't have much of a life before her game. It's more than a little sad.

She takes his wrist. “C'mon, I'll show you.” Leading him through the main workshop, she opens a door reading Danger: KEEP OUT, into a tiny room which bore an uncanny resemblance to the cupboard under the stairs from Harry Potter. 

He'd been being sarcastic before, but her little nook is actually quite cozy. She's got a mattress on the floor with a few patchwork blankets and assorted pillows thrown over it. A small shelf beside it holds a stack of CDs and a CD player patterned with sparkly stickers. There's fairy lights emitting a warm golden glow strung up on the walls and band posters taped up everywhere—Siouxsie and the Banshees, Concrete Blonde, Bikini Kill. 

“Damn, you've got good taste,” Adam says approvingly. “You would've loved that concert I invited you to a while back.”

Amanda's cheeks flush. “You remember that?”

“Yeah. I mean, you were probably busy. My friend's band sucked big-time, but it was still pretty fun. Open bar.” He grins wolfishly. “Free party favours, if you know what I mean.”

Amanda doesn't smile. She pulls off her robes, revealing an olive-green tank top, and throws them in the corner. She sits down on her mattress and hugs a pillow to her chest. “Adam?”

“Mm?”

She bites a ragged fingernail. “I—I’m so sorry. For everything. I didn't want it to be you, if that makes you feel any better. I didn't think you deserved it.” She squishes the pillow between her hands. Her layered silver bracelets slide down her arm to her elbow and Adam catches the knotted white scars on the soft flesh of her wrists.

“Oh.” Adam’s heart twists. 

She catches him staring and gives a lopsided smile. “Guess I didn't value my life, huh.”

“Sorry,” Adam mumbles under his breath, folding his arms. Her previous words weren’t…the best apology, considering how she killed him and probably gave him a few choice personality disorders for good measure. But she's clearly got severe issues, and while that's not an excuse, it's a reason. And if she cared enough to bring him back to life, shouldn't that count for something? “This whole thing is so fucked up,” he sighs. “Let's just forget about it, okay? Clean slate. I like your style, I like those bands, wanna get drinks sometime?”

Amanda smiles softly, resting her cheek on the pillow. “I'd really like that, Adam.”

So then the two of them swap playlists and movies and horrifically dark childhood traumas like some kind of screwed-up sleepover until it's five in the morning and Adam's eyelids start to droop. He ends up passing out on Amanda's mattress with his neck twisted at an awkward angle. It hurts like a bitch once he finally wakes up, but it's the best sleep he's had in a long time.

Instead of chirping birds or even the beep-beep-beep of a clock, Amanda's kindly taken it upon herself to bang pots and pans directly outside the room. The sound assaults his already aching eardrums. “UP AND ATTEM, DUMBASSES!” 

Groaning, Adam rubs his eyes and yawns, stretching his arms in a feline manner. He'd been looking forward to a good long rest, but it seemed everyone in the Jigsaw house was early to rise, late to sleep.

Lawrence pokes his head through the doorframe. His honey-blond hair is brushed neatly, the complete opposite of Adam’s bedhead. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” The corners of his mouth twitch like he's trying to stop himself from laughing. 

“Mmmrghff,” is Adam's brilliant reply. “Invest in an alarm clock, will you?”

“She's obnoxious, but she's effective,” Lawrence admits. “Never runs out of batteries.”

Adam and Lawrence head to the small kitchen, where Amanda's emptying little paper packets of quick oats into three bowls of water and mixing them. “Get your beauty rest, princesses?” 

“I’ve been in the same clothes for a week, I don't think any amount of sleep is gonna give me a glow-up,” Adam drones, running a hand through his dark hair. It's gone around the bend from being stiff and greasy to feeling soft and clean. Even if it's totally not.

“Excuses excuses.” Amanda puts the bowls in the microwave. Once they're done, she takes out a package of Double-Stuf Oreos and begins crumbling them into her oatmeal. “Anyone else want some?”

“No, thank you,” says Lawrence, who looks mildly disgusted.

“Yes please,” Adam enthuses. Ketones are coursing through his blood, making him light-headed. Sugary garbage is just what he needs.

Lawrence gets a spoon from the drawer and eats a mouthful of his beige, flavourless goop. “That's type two diabetes in a bowl, Amanda,” he grumbles. “Adam needs something nutritious after being deprived of food for so long.”

Amanda flips the box around to read the nutritional info. “It's got, like, fibre and shit. That's good for you.”

“And about fifty grams of sugar,” Lawrence counters. “Don't we have any fruit? Eggs?”

“Those sound like perishables to me. Or have you forgotten that the power here cuts out like every other day?” 

She finishes stirring in the crushed-up cookies and Adam makes grabby hands at the bowl. “Gimme gimme gimme.”

Lawrence wrinkles his nose as she passes it over. “That looks appalling. You're going to get cavities.”

Adam takes an extra-large scoop just to annoy him and shovels it in, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s. He talks loudly over his mouthful. “Mm-mm-mm. Tasty cavities.”

Except it's not. It’s utterly disgusting, fake and sickeningly sweet in all the wrong ways. Adam gags and barely makes it to the wastebasket before he’s spitting it all out. 

Amanda hastily swallows and asks, “Jesus, Adam, you good?”

“Yeah,” he coughs, running his tongue over his teeth to make sure it's all gone, “‘m fine.” What's wrong with him? He used to be able to chew through a box of full-sized Subway cookies like popcorn and down it with a bottle of cherry grenadine, and now he's practically throwing up over a couple measly Oreos?

Lawrence frowns, clearly displeased. “I told you he shouldn't eat that. When we get to the house, Adam, I'll make you a real meal. Something with vegetables. And protein.”

Adam's stomach growls at the prospect of meat. He remembers, with a sharp stab of horror, Amanda's words from last night. No wonder his new body rejected the Oreos and whole grains—he was supposed to be eating humans. 

Bizarrely, his mind conjured up the idea of some kind of demon buffet serving different flavours of human—chopped-up vegan like a salad, some finger strips for an appetizer, and a full roasted person as the main course. Dessert would be a fat man with a mouth made of silver fillings. You are what you eat. He wondered how true that saying was. He supposed he'd find out eventually.

Adam shakes the gruesome thoughts from his mind. “Um, yeah, that sounds good. What time are we getting there?”

Lawrence puts his empty bowl in the sink beside Amanda's. “Probably around five. You should get cleaned up first. You can use my…er, Alison's bathroom to shower, and wear some of my clothes.”

Amanda raises one eyebrow at the error. “Trouble in paradise?”

Lawrence regards her tiredly. “We're getting a divorce.”

Amanda winces. “Shit, really? I mean, I knew you two were having problems, ‘cause of the affair and all, but I didn't realize it was that bad.”

“For the last time, Carla and I did not go through with the affair,” Lawrence corrects. “I regretted my decision, apologized for the trouble, and left the hotel.”

“He was done in like fifteen minutes,” Adam points out. “And it was mostly talking. Not very scandalous. It would make a boring magazine cover.” For once, his voyeuristic career is being used for good, and not just to fund his dwindling weed supply.

Lawrence grimaces. “You should probably delete those photos.”

“I will. Once I get back to my shithole apartment.” Adam sighs. He is not looking forward to going back there and always having to sidestep broken glass and contaminated needles and people splayed out glassy-eyed in the foyer from an overdose of something that was probably all over the aforementioned needles.

Lawrence doesn't say anything to that, but he's biting his lip like he wants to. Adam watches the movement for a beat too long before quickly tearing away his gaze. “We should probably work on a cover story for me to tell the press.”

“Right!” Amanda claps her hands. “Okay, let's get to work.”

So for the rest of the morning, they figure out a plausible explanation for how Adam somehow escaped the bathroom and ended up completely healed a week later. They decide to chalk the holes in their story up to Adam forgetting things in his delirium, but all in all it's a good story. Adam would believe it if he didn't know any better.

Then it's four o’clock and Adam and Lawrence catch a taxi to Alison's place, because Lawrence hasn't learned to drive with the prosthetic yet and Adam hasn't learned to drive, period. 

Their house is all the way over on the rich side of town, with McMansion after McMansion lined up in all their neatly trimmed, personality-less glory. Adam used to walk through this neighborhood when he was in grade school, kicking rocks along the curb and imagining what the lives of the ritzy nuclear families who resided there were like.

The thought flashes through his head that Lawrence and Alison were probably already not-so-happily married and living here by the time Adam was in kindergarten, and the idea freaks him out so much he mentally runs it through a massive paper shredder. He's not sure why.

Lawrence thanks the taxi driver and hands him a few bills, and then they're out of the car standing in front of a house. Mansion? It feels too fancy to be called a house, but not elaborate enough to be called a mansion. Whatever. 

“Adam, before you go in…” Lawrence shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Alison's a very polite woman, and I'm sure she's grateful to you for everything you did in that bathroom. But I'm not sure how much she's used to your, um, lifestyle. So if she comes off as snobbish, or anything like that, you just let me know and I'll have a word with her.”

“It’s no sweat,” Adam assures. “No offense, but I'm kinda used to you upper-class types looking down on people like me.”

Lawrence frowns, his brows knitted. “You shouldn't be.” 

“Yeah, well, that's life.” Adam had learned over his twenty-five years that life didn’t give a damn about your personal comfort or safety. Life loves nothing more than to drag you outside into the squinting light and harsh cold air and leave you there with no ride home.

He shakes himself. “Enough of the sad shit. Let's go in.”

They head up the cobblestone pathway lined with a white picket fence to the front porch. There's a bench swing lined with squishy white cushions swaying gently from the breeze. Lawrence raps the ornate bronze lion knocker three times against the door. 

There's the pattering of small feet and when the door flies open a little bundle of mousy brown curls launches itself around Lawrence's waist. “Daddyyy!”

“Diana!” Lawrence uses his cane for leverage and bends down to kiss the top of her head. “Oh, I missed you so much, sweetheart.”

Diana’s beaming so wide Adam can see the gaps in her back teeth where they've been exchanged for quarters—or hundred-dollar-checks, knowing these people. “I missed you sooo much too, Daddy. I gotta show you all the toys Mommy bought me. She's being so nice.”

“I'm sure she is,” Lawrence agrees with a knowing look at Adam. Divorce bribery. Adam knows it well, though in his childhood there were less ponies and plushies and more Cool Whip and cigarettes. Gotta start ‘em young.

“I even stayed up till midnight watching TV, and she didn't even yell at me,” Diana continues. “And I sleeped in till eleven yesterday, and she just said I could miss school if I wanted to. Which I did.” Then she finally notices the man standing over her father, and she scrunches up her face in confusion. “Who's that?”

“This is Adam, love. He's the one who got rid of the bad man who was keeping you and Mommy in the bedroom.” Lawrence is omitting quite a few key details, but Adam doesn't mind. It's rare he gets to be the hero in someone’s story.

“Wooow.” Diana's eyes are wide with admiration, like she's standing a foot away from Superman himself. “Thank you very much, mister.”

Adam grins. “Anytime, kid.”

Diana tilts her head, her ash-brown ringlets falling to the side. “Are you the one who killed the bad man?”

Adam freezes, shooting a Look at Lawrence that hopefully communicates Help Me Please. Lawrence seems to understand and takes Diana's hand. “Why don't we show Adam around the house? You can introduce us to all your new toys.”

Diana brightens, her question immediately forgotten. “Okay!” She scampers off down the hall.

Adam blows out a breath, putting his hands on his hips. “That’s one damn morbid kid. Cute, though.”

“Just keep trying to deflect her,” Lawrence advises. “Give her a cookie from the jar in the kitchen if you run out of ideas.”

Adam chuckles. “Will do.” He pauses. “ You know, she seems pretty well-adjusted, after everything.”

“She’s a tough girl. We got her to meet with a child psychologist, just to make sure everything's in order. They say you bounce back better when you’re young.”

“Sure you do,” Adam reassures gently. “Hey, just look at me. Last year, I had eleven drinks and didn't even get a hangover.”

“Eleven?!” Lawrence gasps. “Christ, Adam. How much do you weigh?”

“Aww, Larry, don’t you know it’s rude to ask a lady her weight?” Adam cooes in a high falsetto.

“Your blood alcohol level must’ve been off the charts,” Lawrence murmurs instead, blue eyes running warm down Adam’s body. “You’re a reckless little thing, aren’t you?”

Normally, Adam hates when people point out his height, or lack thereof. But something about the low, personal tone Lawrence is using makes heat pool pleasantly in his gut. “I—”

But then he’s cut off by one of the hottest women Adam has ever seen stepping through the doorframe and surveying them quizzically. “Are you two going to come in?”

She’s slender and an inch or two taller than Adam, with soft blonde hair the colour of wheat curling just below her shoulders. She wears a baby-blue blouse with a string of dainty pearls adorning her pronounced collarbones, and a sheer brown skirt flowing around her slim calves. 

Lawrence blinks the haze from his eyes. “Of course, Ali, I apologize. We’ll be right there.”

“Fine.” Alison turns to Adam, giving him a once-over, from his torn jeans and stained shirt to his stubble and crazy hair.

It’s obvious she disapproves, and Adam flushes. “I’ve, uh, kinda been in, um, a hospital bed all week. I’m really sorry.”

“That’s quite alright.” She sticks out her hand, and Adam shakes it. It’s buttery soft. She must use some kind of filthy-rich-person hand cream made from, like, crushed diamonds and unicorn milk. “I’m Alison. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you…Adam, right?”

“Yes. You as well.” Adam tries out formal wording and it feels wrong on his tongue. “I like your necklace. Are those real pearls?”

Amusement flashes across her pretty face, because duh, why the hell wouldn’t they be? “Yes, they are. They were my late mother’s.”

“Ah.” Adam can’t figure out what else to say. “Sorry.”

Alison quirks a perfectly tweezed brow at Lawrence in a private can-you-believe-how-awkward-this-guy-is kind of gesture. Adam can’t see the older man, but he hopes he’s not making it back. “Anyway, I’ll keep working on dinner. Feel free to use the bathroom upstairs to get yourself freshened up, Adam.”

“Oh man, thank you so much,” Adam sighs, and that line is actually true.

Alison smiles with teeth as straight, white, and perfect as herself, regarding him like he's a peculiar work of abstract art. “Of course.”

As soon as Alison leaves out of sight, Adam smacks Lawrence on the arm. “Dude, are you fucking gay?!”

Lawrence recoils like Adam's hand was a hot branding iron. “How does that—”

“Your ex-wife is smoking hot! How in the hell could you fumble her so bad?” Adam snaps. “You’d have to be either mental or gay as hell to call it off with that.”

Lawrence’s cheeks are dusted pink, and he rubs his jaw, trying to compose himself. “She's a very beautiful woman, Adam, but that's not…that's not the only reason I loved her.” 

Adam snorts. “Very beautiful is an understatement. She could, like, choke me out and call me every offensive slur in the book and I'd thank her for it.”

“I'm sure you would,” Lawrence sighs. “Go inside, you should get yourself cleaned up for dinner. And please refrain from making more suggestive comments about my very recently separated ex, thank you.”

He chooses to ignore the warning. “Maybe I can be her younger, hotter rebound.” Adam wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I should get a job as a yoga instructor. Or a pool boy.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Lawrence asks wearily.

“Nope.” Adam sticks out his tongue. “See you at the wedding, loverboy. Hey, would that make me Adam Faulker-Stanheight-Whateverthefuckhermaidennamewas?” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “I feel bad for our future children.”

“Go take the damn shower, Adam,” Lawrence groans, but his eyes are sparkling with humour. Adam feels a surge of pride. He made Lawrence feel like that.

“Tell Alison to join me,” Adam calls over his shoulder, low and sultry, having the decency to at least be quiet enough that nobody else heard him.

Adam heads up the stairs and after a bit of searching, finds Alison's bedroom suite. It's reminiscent of Lawrence's oatmeal he'd had for breakfast—beige, bland, and boring. The only bit of colour the room had were the yellow and pink sticky notes taped to the vanity mirror, with positive affirmations in blue ink—some kind of new age hippie motivational quote bullshit.

He wouldn't be surprised if there was a vision board tucked under that bed of hers, a bed double the size of one person.

The observation makes Adam feel suddenly sad, so he goes into the closet and picks out some of Lawrence's clothes—a black pinstripe button-up and dark-wash jeans. The outfit is nearly ironed with no creases and other than that it's surprisingly close to what Adam usually wears.

He heads into the bathroom and is instantly met with a wave of jasmine and sandalwood. Someone got a deal at Bath & Body Works, he thinks. Even the air here smelled rich, thick with opulence, luxury, and a sense of unhurried ease. 

The sleek floor is a mosaic of polished marble, its veins glinting topaz, but the walls are the same drab beige/oatmeal/écru/eggshell/blah tone as the rest of her place.

Soft cranberry-coloured towels hang over a porcelain clawfoot bathtub, the inside shiny, white, and smooth like a freshly cracked-open oyster, and a jar of bath salts sits next to the lavender cake of soap.

There's a mess of high-end hair, makeup, and skincare products all arranged on the sink counter in front of the mirror like it's an altar to Aphrodite. Hell, maybe it is. That or she disemboweled a Sephora. 

Alison's bathroom is more like a temple, Adam realizes, designed for someone who understood that beauty deserved its own sacred space. 

In a corner, a rainfall shower encased in seamless glass and walls adorned with intricate, stainless tiles beckons Adam to get naked and get inside, in a very sexy female voice for some reason.

He peels off his very gross clothes and discards them in a pile by the toilet (geez, even the toilet is fancy, how rich are these people?) and waits for the water to heat up before he steps in.

He turns the handle till the water is scalding hot, practically giving his skin a sunburn. He uses some pearly vanilla shampoo and lathers it up in his hair, washing and repeating it a few times to really make sure it's clean. Then he unscrews a container of this nice coconut-smelling sugar spread and scrubs it way too harshly down his skin until he's pink and stinging all over. 

Some part of Adam feels that if he can scrub the dirt from everything Jigsaw off him, he can wash away the metaphorical dirt from his mind, too.

He turns off the shower and wraps himself in a fluffy dry towel the ripe reddish colour of the leftover juice after you microwave frozen berries. 

After digging around in the cabinets, he finds a razor still in the package and a bottle of shaving cream. 

And there, he comes face-to-face with himself in the mirror for the first time in ages.

It's not as bad as he was expecting, luckily. His hair is definitely longer—since it's straighter from being wet, it gets in his eyes. There's heavy bags under his eyes, which seem more lidded than usual. His cheekbones are slightly more defined than before. Maybe he could be a model.

Honestly, it’s probably the ritual that's making him look like less of a monster…on the outside, at least. 

He resumed the process of removing stubble from his cheeks, even if it's not much. He doesn't usually have to shave often, so he ends up cutting his jaw a little. The sight of fresh blood welling up makes his stomach yowl like a mountain lion and he tries not to think about the implications.

Adam then dries himself off and changes into the clothes. They're too big on him and he ends up needing to lace a belt all the way through, but Adam usually rocks an oversized look anyway so he's not complaining. 

The thought that he's wearing Lawrence's clothes makes his skin flush brighter than it already is from the sugar, and he rolls his eyes at himself. Get a goddamn grip, man. He needs to get laid or something, ‘cause Lawrence Gordon? Dr. My-wife-fucking-left-me? Really? 

Adam adjusts his hair one last time. Black liquid eyeliner, the nice waterproof kind, is lying next to the sink, and it winks at him. Use me, it whispers in that same sexy female voice, further proof that Adam needs to get laid.

Adam would love to line his eyes with it, actually, but this didn't really seem like the kind of house to earn him points for wearing it. So instead, he leaves and heads downstairs. 

The rich, juicy smell of frying food wafts from the kitchen, and Adam practically floats, following his nose like an old cartoon. Outside the large bay windows, the evening sky is already starting to get dark.

Lawrence turns and beams. He's holding a platter of roasted baby potatoes. “Hey, did you find everything okay?”

“Yeah, thank you guys so much. Seriously.” He means every word. “Your house is so nice.”

“Well thank you,” Alison says, a smile stretching her glossy lips. She's squeezing a lemon wedge onto a slab of fish.

Adam helps them set the table—it’s a lot of vegetables and meat and fish. Adam's only had fresh seafood a couple of times, it's too expensive and not filling enough for him to bother. 

He takes a seat next to Lawrence. Alison and Diana sit opposite them. “Do you drink, Adam?” Alison inquires. 

“Yep,” Adam answers, a little too fast. “Um, sometimes. On occasions,” he adds. 

Alison gets an expensive-looking bottle out of the wine cabinet and pours something bloodred into her glass and Adam's. She doesn't offer any to Lawrence. He's not sure if that's because he doesn't drink, or because the waters are still shifty between them.

He takes a sip. It kind of just tastes like any old wine, but he widens his eyes like it's liquid gold. “Wowww, that's so good.”

“Alison has great taste in wine,” Lawrence says. “It’ll pair great with our dinner tonight.”

“Yeah, I'm sure it would go well with…all this.” Adam racks his brain to try and come up with the proper terms for some of these foods. Probably something French or Italian and hard to say.

Lawrence seems to notice his hesitation and points out the dishes. “So we have filet mignon—like a steak tenderloin—and some salmon for Alison, since she doesn't like red meat. And then we've got some rosemary potatoes and steamed veggies, and then just some Hawaiian rolls.”

Everyone gets their food buffet-style. Alison has lots of pale fish and veggies, and Diana's plate is almost all bread and potatoes like a peasant European child. Adam’s practically drooling at the prospect of good meat, so that's what he takes. He hopes the giant portion he took of filet-whatever isn't too rude. He quickly gets a scoop of limp vegetables to appear somewhat concerned with nutrition.

Alison takes a dainty bite of a green bean. “So, Adam, what do you do for work?”

Adam purses his lips. “This and that. Mostly odd jobs. I do a lot of photography in my spare time.”

“Really?” Alison actually looks interested. “You know, I've been looking for someone to take pictures of Diana for Christmas cards. I'll give you a call if I'm still looking for one.”

“Woah.” Adam blinks. That's the first morally sound photography gig he's ever gotten. “Yeah, that sounds perfect.”

“Adam, how old are you?” Diana asks. She's peeling off the skins of her mini potatoes and mashing them into a paste. 

“How old do you think I am?”

Diana thinks hard. “Seventeen.”

Adam chuckles. “Not quite. I'm twenty-five.”

Oddly, Alison’s eyes narrow at the mention of his age. She stays silent, though.

Adam takes that time to dig into the meat and oh, wow wow wow, it's really good. He imagines human flesh is going to fuel him more, but this steak is like the demon equivalent of junk food. He tries to eat very slowly and politely but soon he's devoured every last scrap of it on his plate. “Filet mignon’s good,” he adds hastily through his mouthful.

Lawrence gives him a knowing smirk and saws off a chunk of his. “Here, take some of mine. I'm, er, trying to watch my blood pressure.”

“Thanks,” Adam says, and unceremoniously shoves it all in his mouth.

“Eat your vegetables, Diana,” Alison chides from the other side of the table. “Don't just fill up on bread.”

“Veggies are yucky,” Diana complains. “Besides, Adam's not eating his vegetables, either.”

All eyes swivel to him. Adam, who had just taken a massive mouthful, covers his mouth as he works his molars over it furiously and swallows. “Well, you see how I'm not as tall as your parents? That's ‘cause I didn't eat my veggies. If you wanna grow as big as them, you better start making those plants disappear.”

“Fiiine,” Diana grumbles, begrudgingly having a spoonful of chopped peas and carrots.

Adam scrapes the last fragments from his plate and stands up. “That was delicious, guys, thanks.”

Alison beams. “You’re absolutely welcome. Why don't you fetch the records from my bedroom while the rest of us finish dinner?”

“I'm done,” says Diana, her chair screeching as she stood up. The pockets of her brown sparkly dress are swollen. Oldest trick in the book. Adam's not going to snitch, though.

“Sure,” he agrees, and heads back up to Alison's room. 

He takes the time to sit on her bed, the springs creaking under him, and puts his head in his hands. God, what is he doing here? He doesn't belong here. He doesn't even belong on Earth. He belongs as carrion in that bathroom, chained around the ankle to the wall forever.

On the dresser beside him, Adam spies a glossy bottle of black nail polish. Suddenly, he doesn't care what anyone downstairs thinks. He's alive, damnit, and he should grab that second chance by the horns and do whatever the hell he wants.

So he starts painting his nails. And then the door swings open.

“Shit,” Adam hisses, scrambling to try and hide the polish.

It's only Diana, who's worrying a thumbnail between her front teeth. “You said a bad word,” she says ominously.

“Sorry. Don't tell your mommy.” Adam wills the few nails he painted to dry faster.

She squints at him suspiciously. “Are you a boy?”

“...Yeah?”

“Then why are you wearing nail polish?”

Adam shrugs. “Because I like it. It’s just paint. Anyone can wear that.”

“Ohhh.” Diana accepts this, then comes closer and thrusts her hands out at him, palms down. “Do mine now.”

“Are your parents okay with that?”

“Yup.” 

Adam sighs. “Sure, why not.”

So he finishes doing his own and then gets to work on hers. He’s surprisingly not clumsy when it comes to this. Maybe he should be a nail tech.

“You and Daddy didn't answer my question earlier,” Diana says suddenly. “About the scary bad man.”

“Oh.” Adam squirms. “Um, how about let's not mention that right now. What grade are you in?”

“I don't wanna talk about that,” Diana retorts fiercely. “Tell me if you killed that man or else I'll lie and tell Mommy you were going through her underwear drawer.”

“Aw, geez,” Adam groans. “C'mon, kid, wouldn't you rather have a cookie or something?”

“No.” 

“Aren't you a bit young to know how to blackmail people?” Adam grumbles. Now he's between a rock and a hard place, but it's probably better if he just tells Diana rather than have Lawrence's whole family think he's a major pervert.

“I did, yeah.” He glares down at her grimly. “But it was only to save your dad, okay? If there was any way we could've all made it outta there alive, I would've done that. It didn't feel good. I was sick for days after whenever I thought about it.”

She nods solemnly and takes his hand in her own small one in a surprisingly empathetic gesture. “Don't feel sad, Adam. He was mean.”

“Still. Everyone deserves a chance.”

“He didn't give us a chance,” Diana says darkly.

It's very macabre for someone her age, and Adam doesn't know what to say to that. “Either way, it's still very bad to kill people, unless there's totally no other way you or someone you love will survive.”

“I know.” Diana looks at the floor. “Were you and Daddy scared when you got kidnapped?”

“Yeah,” Adam admits. “We were.”

“I was too,” she mumbles. “I cried a lot.”

A rush of something shockingly paternal washes over him, and he grips her hand with a reassuring strength. “Hey. You're a really brave kid, Di. I mean it.”

She gives him a wavering smile. Her eyes are just as big and round as her father's, only a velvety brown like a golden retrievers instead of clear and blue. “I know.”

Adam grins and ruffles her hair with his dry hand. “Of course you do.”

Once their nails are dry, Adam grabs a few classical records and they head downstairs. Diana shows off her newly vampy black nails, and while Alison doesn't look entirely pleased---“Very…gothic, honey,” was her reply to her daughter---she's not upset, and that counts for something.

Adam mostly spends the rest of the evening on the (you guessed it) beige couch, listening to soft jazz and Lawrence's voice, sipping wine, and feeling full and sleepy. He ends up slumped against Lawrence's side, his cheek pressed into his shoulder. If anyone has a problem with it, they don't voice it. 

He has absolutely no clue what Lawrence is talking about, it's a lot of complicated doctor bullshit, but he's got a really smooth voice like a rich merlot and Adam feels drunk off the melodies.

He doesn't even realize how late it's getting till Lawrence rubs his good arm. “Hey, sleepyhead,” he says through a smile. “C'mon. It's getting late.”

“Oops.” Adam sits up, flushed. There's probably a red mark on his cheek from how hard he'd been lying there. “I didn't fall asleep, if that's what you're thinking, I was listening to you guys talk.”

Lawrence smirks. It shouldn't be as attractive as it is. “Yeah? You understand everything?” 

Adam rubs the back of his neck. “I…kinda tried?”

“I'm sure.” Lawrence pats his arm and then stands up, stretching. “Dinner was lovely, Ali, thank you so much for having us.”

“You know you're welcome here anytime, Lawrence.” Alison's pretty, mint-ice-cream eyes had something sad behind them that Adam didn't want to look at.

After getting their coats and saying their goodbyes to Alison and Diana, Adam swings open the door—

And comes face-to-face with two official-looking people in crisp dark uniforms. One of them is a woman his height with bronze skin and a ponytail of springy dark curls, and behind her stands a broad man with brushed-back brown hair, stubble dotting his sharp jaw, and startlingly blue eyes. 

"Good evening,” says the man briskly, with no real hope for anything good in Adam's evening. “I’m Special Agent Strahm, and this is Special Agent Perez. We’re with the FBI."

Shit. Feds. Adam didn't think they'd have to talk to them so soon, but he supposed it had technically been a week since Lawrence was declared alive. 

The woman, Perez, flips her notepad to a new sheet of paper and click her pen. "We’d like to ask you a few questions regarding the Jigsaw case. Do you have some time to speak with us?”

Lawrence and Adam exchange looks. Now or never, Adam tries to communicate with his eyes.

Maybe he's telepathic, because Lawrence sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Yes, that sounds fine.”

Fine for Lawrence, maybe, a rich well-known beloved surgeon with a squeaky-clean record, but Adam, who's gotten busted for more than a few crimes in his day, has anxiety pounding through his veins. It's a good thing they prepared that story, at least.

So they get in the sleek black van and drive off into the darkening street, ready for a long night of police questioning. Goody.

Chapter Text

“Are you drunk?” Lawrence asks Adam hopefully, his voice lowered. They're in the backseat, separated by a partition. They can't see or hear the two agents, but they both know the agents can hear them. “Because they can't use anything on you if you're drunk.”

“Nooo. Just a little tipsy.” Adam sighs regretfully. “I was…pregaming.”

“Pregaming for what? Getting arrested?” 

Adam mouths a surprised O. “Are they really gonna arrest us?” he loud-whispers. “Did we do something bad?”

“No, we didn't,” Lawrence says firmly. “Nothing in the eyes of the law, at least.”

They drive the rest of the way in silence. The windows in the backseat are tinted black, so neither of them know where they're going. Eventually the van stops and the man called Strahm comes to the back and opens the door on Adam's side. “C'mon,” he says gruffly. “Hurry up.”

Adam rolls his eyes as he gets out. Cliche, much? “So I guess you're going to be playing bad cop tonight, huh? Isn't it a bit sexist to have the man of the duo do that role?”

Strahm doesn't say anything. He's probably been trained not to respond to sass-mouthy youths. Perez says something unintelligible into a walkie-talkie and they wait for Lawrence to use the door for leverage to get out. 

Adam surveys the area, but doesn't really recognize any landmarks. It's just tall buildings and scruffy sidewalks like every other damn street in the city. 

The two agents flank them as they head into the building’s plain, hotel-like lobby, then unlock and get in a staff-only elevator around the corner. Adam resists the urge to jump just to hear the cubical shake. 

“So, what have you two been up to this evening?” Perez asks cheerily. She sounds like she's just making conversation, but Adam knows better. She's a trained professional, and every word out of her mouth has been carefully chosen to catch the two of them in an act.

Lawrence, of course, is none the wiser. Why wouldn't he be? To him, the police force have always been friends, allies, janitors keeping his gold-paved streets clean of people like Adam. “Visiting my fam— ow!” He rubs his bicep where Adam had just elbowed him and glares. Adam glares right back. Don't fraternize with the enemy, he mouths. 

Strahm and Perez share looks. The latter makes another note on her clipboard. That's probably not a good sign.

When the elevator stops, they enter a bustling office that looks straight out of a spy movie, except with less attractive extras. It's surprisingly busy considering the hour. People in crisp black or navy business attire are bustling around like ants in a hive. Stressed interns rush important folders and papers and steaming paper cups of dark coffee to even more stressed detectives in their little cubicles. There's a suspect board for a case he doesn't know with a bunch of headshots of medium-aged medium-ugly white men pinned up on it. 

Adam wonders if he's already on one of those boards for the Jigsaw case. He shouldn't be. They don't have any dirt on him yet, and if he plays his cards right in this impromptu interview, they never will.

Eventually, they make their way to an interrogation room, and no matter what Lawrence said it sure as hell looks like they're being arrested. “Don't drink the water,” Adam hisses before they're being led in. Lawrence just shoots him a confused look.

The walls are stark white and there's four chairs surrounding a plastic folding table sitting in the middle with nothing but a desk lamp on it. A security camera watches them from the top corner with one round shiny eye.

Adam sits next to Lawrence across from Perez. Strahm talks briefly to someone outside the room, probably a guard, then closes the door.

“Thank you again for coming in,” Perez says. “If we can start with getting your full names, height and weight, and dates of birth?”

Adam narrows his eyes. They're not cops, but close enough. Adam hates cops, hates talking to them even more. The only reason he followed Lawrence was because he needed to set the public straight on what happened to him before any rumours or speculation or worse, the truth, could get around. “Are we being arrested?”

Strahm sits down in the chair that looks comically small compared to him. “No.”

“Then fuck no you can't have that,” Adam snaps. “Look it up for yourselves, I'm sure we're all over the news at this point.”

Perez reaches over and squeezes his hand in what's meant to be a soothing gesture. Adam jerks his hand away as if she's a scalding hot iron. "Adam, I understand that you're angry. It's perfectly natural. But you’re safe now. It’s okay to let your guard down."

"Let my guard down?” Adam scoffs. “Lady, I’ve been drugged, beaten over the head, starved, electrocuted, shot, and left for dead, all in the span of a week. My guard is the only thing holding me together right now.”

Perez blinks, taken aback. “Um, right, of course. Can…can I offer you two some water before we begin?”

Adam shakes his head furiously. Lawrence opens his mouth. “I'd love som— ow!”

Adam kicks him sharply under the desk and gives him a meaningful look. Don't. Drink. The. Water! Cops got all sorts of things from that little paper cup. Fingerprints, saliva, plus they could withhold bathroom breaks to sweat out a culprit.

“No thank you, I'm not thirsty,” Lawrence says wearily, nudging Adam with his good leg in a warning.

Strahm folds his arms and lifts his chin to look down at Adam. "So, kid, why don’t you tell us what you were doing before you were abducted?"

"Living my best life, obviously. Oh wait. No, I was smoking weed in a dark room at my shithole apartment. Or, sorry, am I not supposed to talk about that?” Adam pouts dramatically. “My bad. In that case, that was a joke. Big believer in D.A.R.E and all that jazz.”

Everyone stares at him.

Adam exhales. “Whatever. I was saving kittens from burning trees and volunteering at homeless shelter soup kitchens when some fuckass knocks me out from behind and next thing I know, I'm lying in a grimy bathtub full of dishwater and there's some guy I can't see screaming his head off across the room.”

“You didn't see who kidnapped you?” Strahm asks.

“No-pe.” Adam pops the P.

“And how about you, Dr. Gordon?” Perez inquires. “What were you doing when you were abducted?”

Adam’s mouth falls open in outrage. “How come he gets to be called Dr. Gordon and I'm just Adam?” 

“Because one of you recognizes that this is a serious matter, and the other one is acting like a fourteen-year-old jacked up on nine cups of coffee yelling at his parents for making him clean his room,” Strahm growls.

“Calm down, Special Agent,” Perez whispers and puts a hand on her partner's bicep like an animal tamer trying to calm a rabid wolf. It's so obviously staged that it makes Adam's death performance with the cigarette back in the bathroom look Oscar-winning.

“Is everyone in the FBI this bad at acting, or is that a special talent only the special agents get to have?” Adam sneers. He and the detectives both knew that there was no difference between a regular agent and a special agent, it was just a word added on to psych suspects out.

Strahm leans in, stabbing the desk with his index finger. There's an interestingly pale band of skin at the bottom of his ringfinger. "Listen, kid, we can either make this easy or very hard for you. Just answer the questions, tell us the truth, and you're outta here."

Adam, used to male cops puffing up their peacock feathers trying to make him run scared, is unaffected. "Is this the part where you shine the light from that lamp in my eyes? Because that’s not intimidating, dude, it’s just annoying."

“Christ, Adam…” Lawrence pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Please don’t antagonize the man with handcuffs."

Adam snorts, leaning back in his chair. "Look at him. He’d probably hurt himself trying to cuff me.”

Strahm's barely-controlled bad-cop anger is starting to look less like an act and more like very real rage, so Lawrence interjects. “I was in my car at the parking garage over on Atlantic, and someone hid in my backseat, jumped forward, and sedated me. I didn't see their face either, I'm afraid.”

After this, Strahm asks for their testimonies and together Adam and Lawrence give them the play-by-play of every grisly thing that happened in that bathroom. They don't leave anything out or try and fudge things, it would mess up their story too much. The only thing they do change, is the story's ending.

"How did you two manage to escape the building?" Perez asks. The two agents were genuinely rapt with interest as they'd told their story. He was surprised they hadn't pulled out a bucket of popcorn and a soda.

"Lawrence was the brains of the operation. I was the beauty, obviously,”

Rolling his eyes at him, Lawrence stays serious. "It was a delicate balance there for a while."

"Yeah, we had real buddy-cop energy,” Adam says loftily. “Like you two, but hotter.”

Lawrence inhales like a father on his last nerve with a particularly difficult toddler who won't eat his broccoli. “After I managed to crawl onto the sidewalk, someone must've seen me and driven me to a hospital. Angel of Mercy, I believe, where I remained in private care until now. You can ask Lynn Denlon there for proof, I don't quite remember much of what happened after that.” 

Apparently Amanda and Hoffman had pulled some strings and gotten Lawrence and Adam's names on the list of patients. Adam wasn't quite sure how they did that, but Amanda just said that Lynn chick had owed her or something.

Strahm turns to Adam, a smug look on his stupid face that Adam wanted to tear off with his teeth. “And I must say, I'm very curious to find out how you managed to escape with both feet, Mr. Stanheight.”

“Faulkner-Stanheight.”

“Sure.”

Adam sucks in a breath through his teeth. Here we go. “I don't remember.”

Strahm raises his eyebrows. “You don't, eh?”

Adam shakes his head. “Like, I remember parts of it. I don't know how long I was in that bathroom after the game ended, since it was pitch-black and I can't read an analogue clock for shit anyway, but I hadn't eaten or drank in forever and I’d lost a buncha blood, so I guess that's why. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in a hospital bed at—what’s it called? Angel's Mercy? Anyways, I wake up there with a shit-ton of medical bills that I'm gonna have to pay off over the course of mine and my grandchildren's lives. God bless American healthcare, amiright?”

Lawrence nudges Adam's leg again, but this time it's in support. Adam's anxiety is finally starting to wind down. He did it, he got their story out there. Now they can begin wrapping things up and get the fuck out of this stupid cop-infested building.

“You do understand that we find this hard to believe, right Adam?” Perez says gently. She's using his first name a lot, trying to sound familiar. “Jigsaw, from what we've learned, doesn't just let people go if they've lost his…game.” 

He's noticed how the public seems to refrain from using that term. It is a little morbid to refer to people mutilating themselves for some sick guy's enjoyment using the same term used for Scrabble or Candyland.

“I thought that too when I found out,” Lawrence agrees quickly. “But we're the first two-person game, right? I think he's experimenting. And technically, Adam won his game. He was just supposed to survive—and he did.” 

“How many games have there been, anyways?” Adam asks. He actually doesn't know this one, only knows about Amanda's and some guy in a razor wire trap he saw on the news.

“Four, including yours,” Strahm says. “We've got teams of officers all over the state prepared for another trap.” He says this pointedly, like it's supposed to scare Adam. 

“Good,” says Lawrence. “It's horrible what's happening to these people. We're just lucky to have made it out with our lives. Us and that poor young woman, Amanda Young.”

At the mention of Amanda, Perez hesitates. “Are either of you…grateful to Jigsaw in any way? We've gathered that he seems to be testing people who don't value their lives and spend their time either hurting others, or themselves. Has your outlook on life improved after surviving that trap?”

Lawrence thinks about this for a while. "I think…I think it helped me realize how far I would go for my family. I would've done anything to see them again. Obviously,” he says wryly, gesturing to his prosthetic. Adam knows he's telling the truth there.

"Meanwhile, I was motivated by spite and the desperate need for a shower,” Adam says lightly. “And the chance to never see Jigsaw's ugly mug ever again.”

Perez’s big brown eyes widen. "Adam, did you actually see Jigsaw’s face?"

"Oh yeah, crystal clear. He looked like a cross between my sleep paralysis demon, a grape left out in the sun for three weeks, and my gold-digger ex's new boyfriend."

A vein in Strahm’s forehead bulges right above his left eyebrow. It’s probably not even part of the bad cop act. "And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?"

Adam shrugs. "Sorry, I was busy being belittled by a bunch of suits with gigantic sticks up their asses. Multitasking really isn’t my strong suit.”

Perez looks like she's one more snarky comeback away from reversing the roles and going bad cop. Strahm looks like he wants to wring Adam's neck, but that's nothing new for him.

Lawrence presses his hands together like he's praying to God to remove Adam's mouth. “Adam..."

"Oh, my deepest apologies, guys. Didn’t realize sarcasm was a federal offense," Adam huffs.

"Jesus, Stanheight! Stop yapping and focus,” Strahm barks. “What was the last thing Jigsaw said to you? Either of you?"

Lawrence frowns. “He didn't say anything to me. He just laid on the floor the whole time like he was sleeping.”

Adam bares his teeth in a shit-eating grin. "Pretty sure his last words to me were ‘Shut the fuck up.’ Fair, honestly."

The two agents look like they want to repeat those four words right back at him. 

“Okay, okay, jeez. Um…he told me the key to my chain was in the bathtub and then slammed the door shut on me. Not very helpful on account of the key going down the drain, but whatever.”

The two agents ask them a few more questions, about what Jigsaw looks like (they completely ignore Adam's description of ‘old dude with psycho eyes’ and go off Lawrence's vague descriptions), and the finer details of their game, before Strahm's yawning and they seem to be finishing up.

“Okay, last question,” Perez says finally. “Are you two okay with us releasing some of this information to the public? We'll keep private on the more…personal aspects, as well as some things we want to use for the investigation.”

Adam and Lawrence both nod. They haven't revealed anything hear they wouldn't want anyone else to know. Perez hands them forms and they both sign them. Adam whispers some dumb joke to Lawrence about his stereotypical doctor's messy handwriting and Lawrence laughs like it's the funniest thing since sliced bread.

Strahm studies them with a renewed intrigue. “You two seem close. You didn't know each other before the trap?”

“Well, I knew him,” Adam says dryly, “but not really, no.”

“Hmm.” Strahm idly rolls up the sleeves of his white button-up. He has nice forearms. “Oddly close, considering Lawrence shot you.”

Lawrence looks pained, but Adam rolls his eyes. “Dude, we're wayyy past that. You do realize he'd just sawed off his leg and was told his wife and kid would die if he didn't kill me, right?”

“I'm not…” Lawrence bites his lip. “I know we already asked this, but Adam and I aren't being charged with anything, right? Because of me shooting him, and Adam with…Zep.” He's changing the subject, but the agents don't seem to notice.

Perez and Strahm exchange glances. Strahm gives a minute shrug, so Perez shakes her head. “It was self defense, so no. I'm sure you've both been punished enough.”

“Thank God,” Lawrence sighs.

Perez nods. “Well, thanks again for coming in to talk with us. You've provided us with some valuable information.” Her auburn gaze is steely and determined. “We're going to catch Jigsaw, and we're going to bring him to justice, for you two and the rest of his victims.”

And Adam, despite maybe-sorta working with Jigsaw, really hopes they do, too. Even if these special agents are e-special-ly big pains in the ass.

“You two can wait outside the door with the other detective for us. We'll just be a moment,” Perez instructs. They nod and head out the door, and there guarding the room is none other than goddamn Mark Hoffman.

“Come here often?” Adam asks sardonically.

Hoffman offers them a leery grin. He's in a clean navy blue suit, and he's shaved. “You boys in trouble?”

Lawrence glares at him, obviously worried he's going to blow their cover. “Just giving your department some clues into the Jigsaw case.”

“Goodness.” Hoffman's blue eyes stretch wide with mock astonishment. “Thanks for the insight, then. It must've been just terrible in that bathroom. My condolences. When we put whoever's done this to you behind bars, I'll be sure to let you know.”

“Don't drop the soap,” Adam bites. 

Hoffman's eyes twinkle with amusement. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

With a glance back into the room, Lawrence turns back to them, voice barely above a whisper. “I think they're coming out now. Hoffman, if you can find out what they thought of our testimonies, please let us know. I'm…not so sure that Strahm man bought Adam's.”

“That so?” Hoffman raises an eyebrow. “Well, I'll have a word with him. Try and set him straight. We'll do lunch.”

“Aww, first date,” Adam taunts. “You gonna go dress shopping? Pick out something girly.”

“I'm sure you could give me some pointers,” Hoffman drones.

Then the door swings open. Strahm eyes the group with suspicion. “Making conversation, Hoffman?”

He shrugs innocently. “Just wondering how these two managed to wrangle their way outta that awful trap. Takes guts. Especially for a kid.” He claps Adam on his bad shoulder, a little too hard.

Adam hisses in pain and shoves Hoffman's arm away. “Ow! Paws off the bullet wound, fuckwad.”

“Sorry.” Hoffman does not look at all sorry. He turns to look up at Strahm and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Strahm, may I see you in my office for a moment?”

“Sure,” Strahm agrees, giving Hoffman a once-over. “Perez, get these two sorted. I'll be back soon.”

Perez raises her eyebrows at the two detectives. “Oka-a-ay…?”

So Perez leads them back down to the lobby and tells them the address. She offers to pay for taxis home, but Lawrence declines. “We're fine from here, thanks.”

“Alright. Have a good night, guys,” she says, and shuts the door. 

It's now fully nighttime. The street lights are on, and he can see particles of dust floating in their yellow beams. Lights glow from windows in apartments high above, muffled by thin curtains and blinds. He can hear the faint hoots and hollers of drunk college-aged kids on a nearby street, hopping from bar to bar looking for a party.

“So.” Adam kicks a pebble into a sewer grate. “Guess we should get back to our apartments.”

“Guess so,” Lawrence echoes.

A red car playing fast rap drives by. Someone screams off in the distance. Adam really doesn’t want to go back to his shithole apartment, but that's that.

Lawrence opens his mouth, and for a stupidly hopeful moment, Adam wonders if he's going to invite him to his apartment. He doesn't know why, probably he's got some new abandonment issues from the game to add to the pile of shit that's gone wrong with his head. But instead, Lawrence just says, “Here, I'll pay for your taxi.”

“Oh.” Adam blinks. “Yeah, thanks.” 

He scolds himself mentally for feeling so dejected. He's a big boy, he can handle living by himself. Just like the past eight years.

Lawrence digs around in his pocket and shells over a few bills. His gaze lingers on Adam, searching. “Do you…we should meet up again tomorrow.”

“Oh my God, yes,” Adam breathes, probably sounding a bit too relieved. He backtracks quickly. “I mean, it's just that now that I'm out of work, I got jack shit to do on the weekdays.” He scratches the back of his head. “I should probably figure out some kinda job, huh.”

“Well, I've got sick leave for a while on account of my leg,” Lawrence says, “so I suppose we're both out of work.”

“Besides your, um, side gig.” 

“Right.” His blue gaze darkens. It's silent for a moment, then Lawrence seems to adjust himself. “I haven't even given you my number,” he laughs in embarrassment, and pulls out his phone. It's silver and shiny. “You have Amanda's?”

“Yep.” Adam's mouth suddenly lowers in a pout. “Do I need Hoffman's…?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Adam slumps. “Peachy.”

So he plugs in the two numbers, setting Lawrence's name as bathroom buddy <3 and Hoffman's as Pig #1. He shows the older man them, grinning maniacally like he's about to tell him just how the chicken got across that road.

Lawrence squints at his name. “What's that odd equation beside it supposed to mean?”

Adam's mouth drops open. “It's a heart!”

He tilts his head to one side, then nods. “Ah. I see it now.”

“We seriously gotta get you up to speed with Internet terms, grandpa.”

“Never going to happen.” Lawrence shakes his head lightly. “Anyway, perhaps we could get coffee and lunch tomorrow? There's a lovely bistro by my apartment I'd be happy to introduce you to.”

“Sounds expensive,” Adam hums, grinning at him devilishly. “I'll go if you pay.”

“Like I wasn't already going to.” Affection curls up in his voice like a downy blanket of feathers. It scares Adam, even though it shouldn't.

He straightens his posture and tucks his phone into the back pocket of his (technically Lawrence's) jeans. “Okay, I should actually go now. So, tomorrow?”

Lawrence nods his affirmation. “Tomorrow.”

The two men head their separate ways. Adam calls over a taxi, heads to his apartment…

And is promptly locked out of his room, given his belongings, and told in only slightly kinder words that he’s a broke loser who needs to get lost.

Adam sits on a pile of his embarrassingly small amount of possessions in the alley by the apartment. Shivers from the chill of the midnight city air. Sucks in a breath.

Pulls out his phone, and dials Lawrence.

Chapter Text

“And then she just tells me to get lost! I mean, what the hell ever happened to ‘the customer is always right’?” Adam rambles, moving his hands animatedly while he talks. 

They've rented a U-HAUL to carry all of Adam's things. Some of the overflowing items are in the front with them. A heavy box full of his random junk sits on his lap from where he sits in the passenger’s seat. Lawrence is driving the truck ve-e-ery slo-o-owly so as not to put too much pressure on his prosthetic, and Adam's keeping a lookout in the mirror for any police cars following them and trying to give them a ticket. Maybe they could sympathy bait the cops with Lawrence's injury? 

“Actually, that quote is missing its ending. It's by Harry Gordon Selfridge, and the full version is ‘The customer is always right, in matters of taste.’ It shows that the employee, in most cases, actually has the right to refuse—”

“Nerd alert, nerd alert, wee-oo-wee-oo,” Adam cuts him off, kicking his feet up on the dashboard. “C'mon, all you gotta do is say that secretary's a total biatch and you'll have done your part in this conversation.”

“Oh, is this a conversation now?” Lawrence hums. “Seems more like I'm listening to your podcast.”

“I'm shocked you even know what that is, old guy.”

Lawrence responds by leaning over and shoving Adam's feet off of the dashboard. “No dirty shoes in the rental.”

“These are your dirty shoes I'm borrowing,” Adam huffs, but keeps his feet on the ground like God intended.

Soon, they reach Lawrence's apartment complex. It's sleek and modern, with lots of grays and whites and probably built in the last five years or so. Lawrence heads inside to speak with the front desk (who’s still open despite it being midnight) while Adam unloads boxes from the back of the truck. The older man comes out with an exhausted team of movers and they all painstakingly lug his belongings up the stairs to the door of Lawrence's apartment.

“Really sorry about the mess,” Adam apologizes as Lawrence unlocks the door and lets him inside. “It’s l just till I find a new place to crash—I’ll see if my buddy Scott can have me over, so long as that dumbass isn't homeless again.”

“It's no problem, really,” Lawrence assures, hanging up his coat on a hanger and gesturing to the apartment in front of them. “You can sleep on the couch over there. It pulls out into a bed.”

“Ugh. Sleep.” Adam puts his hands over his eyes and groans dramatically. “God, my schedule is so majorly fucked.”

He brings the box of his clothes down a few steps to the living room. It has sleek, dark hardwood floors and under a frieze of carved laurel are floor-to-ceiling windows that would flood the space with natural light if it wasn't, like, twelve in the morning, and offered a pretty sweet panoramic look at the city. A plush gray sofa faces a large flatscreen TV, with a glass-topped coffee table and a minimalist black and gold bookshelf nearby. Confusing modern art, the kind Adam isn't pretentious enough to pretend to understand, hangs on the walls.

Scattered throughout the apartment are signs of his new chapter: a few framed photographs of Diana, a leather-bound journal on the table, and a gym bag casually placed near the door from his physical therapy. 

Adam wonders briefly where he keeps the pig mask and then feels sick at the thought.

They fix up the gray couch into a somewhat comfortable bed and draw up the curtains. “We've known each other for all of three days and I'm living in your apartment,” Adam says with a smirk. “Even lesbians don't move this fast.”

“Very funny,” Lawrence says, smiling even though his pristine, privileged self has probably never even laid eyes on a lesbian.

The blond man is about to turn off the lights, but Adam catches his wrist to stop him. “I know this is stupid, but can you not…”

Lawrence’s eyes widen in realization. “Oh! Yeah, of course I can leave these on, it’s no problem.”

“What about the power bill?” Adam points out, even though he doesn't care and he’s pretty sure Lawrence doesn't either.

“You’re worth it,” Lawrence says lightly, as Adam gets comfy in the bed. “If you want, I can install a battery lamp.”

Adam shifts around under the blankets, trying to find a good position. “That sounds good. Thanks again for letting me stay, man.”

“No worries,” says Lawrence softly. “Goodnight, Adam.”

“Night,” Adam says through a yawn, already drifting off to sleep.

Adam wakes up well-rested for the first time in days, with the curtains unsheathed on the giant windows letting in rays of late September sun that paint his face blond. There’s a sizzling, golden smell coming from what he assumes is the kitchen, and he gets up to go see what’s cooking.

When he walks in, he’s immediately handed a plate of dreadfully runny scrambled eggs and something charred black that might’ve once been bacon, with a side of profuse apology. “Ali’s usually the one who cooked for me. I’m awful, as you can see,” Lawrence says morosely. Over his brown sweater he's wearing an apron that’s far too stained for just a couple eggs and glorified grease strips.

“Aw, don’t beat yourself up. It’s not…so bad. Probably.” Adam takes it to the black marble island and sits atop one of the high-backed leather bar stools. The kitchen is rudimentary but sophisticated, all granite countertops and sleek marble wainscotting. A wine fridge and espresso machine at the end of the counters hint at a man who enjoys the finer things in life.

Lawrence puts two slices of bread into the toaster and waits for them to transform into toast. Adam misses bread. And butter. And sugar. 

Stomach rumbling, Adam takes a forkful and immediately chokes. They taste like rubber, which is something eggs maybe shouldn't taste like. He attempts poorly to turn up the corners of his mouth in a smile. “Mmmm, sooo yummy.”

Lawrence isn’t buying the performance, and hands him a small bin. “You can spit it out.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles over his mouthful, and does just that. As the older man sets it aside, Adam blinks at him apologetically. “I’ll eat the bacon.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“Nooo, I want to.” Adam says, emphasizing it by gnawing on the thin black stick. It doesn't taste good, obviously, but it’s a neutral flavour and Adam is hella hungry, so he does it anyway. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Lawrence is watching him eat with something way too fond in his expression. There’s a curl of dark blond falling over one long-lashed eye, and Adam feels the urge to tuck it into place. 

Suddenly, the whole scene feels scarily domestic. Adam coughs and wipes crumbs from his lips. “Jesus, we look really fucking gay right now.”

Lawrence’s light brows crease. “I’m not—it's not gay to want to take care of someone, Adam.”

“Right, my mistake, honey,” Adam mocks, folding his arms. And then he feels bad. He runs a hand through his hair too tightly. “Fuck, sorry, sorry. Man, here you are letting me crash here and cooking me this breakfast, and I’m just taking up space and bitching about nothing. God. This is why I live alone.”

“It's hardly a problem, Adam,” Lawrence says. He's using his name a lot, just like the two agents were last night. Trying to make him comfortable. 

Adam's first instincts to comfort are always to defend, defend, defend, until the walls he's put up around himself suffocate him to death. Because lullabies are always a trap. Whether it ends in his parents' divorce, getting kicked out at fifteen, or ending up chained to a pipe in a sewer bathroom, security is never truly safe. 

“I don't deserve your help ,” Adam snaps furiously. It comes out angrier than he expected. But it's not anger at Lawrence, it's anger at himself. “All I've done for the past decade is work shitty jobs with no benefits and then go home to eat junk and get high and black out till the next day where I do it all again. I'm barely even a cog in the machine. You don't want me fucking up your apartment. Fucking up your life.”

“You aren't going to—to fuck up my life.” It’s off-putting hearing him swear. “I really don't mind. I get lonely by myself, anyway.”

“Why did you save me, Lawrence?” Adam cries, slamming his fists down on the counter. He's full-on frantic now. His heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest, the blood thrumming in his head making him feel light and detached from his body. Is it even his anymore? “You could've done nothing. You could've saved anyone else. God, you don't even know me!”

“I know you enough.”

“No, no you fucking don't.”

“Maybe I don't know you. But I know the Adam nobody else has seen,” Lawrence says, looking at him so intensely like he's seeing right down to his raw, blood-soaked soul, the man he was in their last moments together in the bathroom, stripped away of anything society deemed normal and holding each other tight, pale, inches away from death. “I understand. I'm the only man in the world that does.” He takes the younger man's trembling hand and holds it with such gentleness it makes Adam want to cry. “I saved you because I made a promise to, Adam, and I’ll never go back on that.” 

Adam shakes his head and laughs, bordering on hysterical. “This is way too fucking weird. Christ, I think I’m going insane. None of this has felt real since you left me in the bathroom.”

“I was going to get help,” Lawrence says automatically, because he always has to be right.

“And did you?”

Lawrence doesn't make eye contact. “Eventually.”

“Too late.” And something in Adam wants to be nice, but there’s another, thirstier part of him that wants to pick and scrape at the wound until it's open to see just how sore and bloody it could get. “You shot me.” 

“I did.” He looks at him again. His gaze is glacier-blue and just as cool. “Are you angry?”

“I should be.” Adam wants to ask so many things. Did you aim to kill me? Did I have a chance in the game or was I just another part of your test? Do you even think of me as a real person? He wonders if Lawrence ruminates over every decision he made that day, just like Adam does. He wonders if Lawrence even cares that he shot him.

He wonders if Lawrence liked it. 

Instead, he confesses, “But I’m not.”

“That concerns me.”

Adam smiles wryly. “You’re a doctor. Everything I do concerns you.”

“That's because everything you do is concerning,” Lawrence says tiredly, loosening his grip on Adam's hand. His heart rate is lowering. 

The argument doesn't quite feel finished. It's more shelved. Like a rare vintage book with more worth in displaying rather than reading. They might never pick it up again, but it's there, waiting for them.

Adam purses his lips. “You know, I could really go for a cigarette right now.”

“That's the kind of thing you shouldn't say to an oncologist.”

Adam bares his teeth. “Bite me.”

Lawrence opens his mouth to say something, and then his sweater starts vibrating. Adam quirks a brow as Lawrence reaches a hand up his shirt and fumbles around until he pulls out a small silver phone, rolling his eyes as he answers it. “Hoffman,” he explains.

Adam draws circles on the table with his finger while Lawrence talks. It's mostly yes and no and I think so until suddenly he's handing him the phone. “He wants to speak with you. Apparently.”

Adam frowns, but takes the burner. “Hello?”

“Hello to you, too. How are you and the missus doing?” 

He ignores him. “What's this about?”

“No small talk, eh? Aren't you youths supposed to be filled with snappy comebacks like in the movies?”

“Guess you caught me on my day off.”

“Well damn,” Hoffman sighs, and Adam can hear rustling of paper from the other end. Consulting notes, maybe. “Back to business, I suppose. Mr. John Kramer himself wants to meet the man I strained my shoulder lugging out to the woods in the middle of the night for. I wouldn't skip out on this little date unless you wanna be the test subject for the poison we're using in the next game.” Adam can practically hear the grin in Hoffman's voice. “Your new roomie’s gonna be helping us with that one.”

“Fuck off, you ogre.”

“Ooh. Hit a nerve,” he taunts. “See you in twenty, loverboy.”

The line goes dead and Adam wishes Hoffman was, too.

They get to the basement (freaky evil Batcave lair is starting to get hard to say) in just over thirty minutes. Lawrence's new apartment is close, but Adam needed time to change into his own clothes. He's wearing faded jeans and a KMFDM shirt over a red longsleeve. The ride to the sewer was silent, awkward tension still thick between the two men. 

But all this recent weirdness is so goddamn difficult for Adam to get over. He wonders if he ever will.

The smell of oil and smoke overwhelms him when they push past the curtain door into the main workshop, tinged in that awful green lighting. Hoffman is wearing brown gloves and safety goggles and is hard at work on some kind of gruesome mechanical device that probably pulls your spine out of your ass unless you drink a kilogram of liquid acid using only your nostrils in under ten seconds all because you didn't hold the door open for someone when you were six.

Hmm. Maybe he shouldn't voice that thought. Might give these sadists an idea.

“Look who finally finished doing their makeup,” Hoffman drawls, pulling the goggles over his head. “You girls have a good makeout sesh?”

“Why, you wanna join?” Adam retorts, crossing his arms. “Where's Kramer? He's the one I came here to see, not your ugly mug.”

“‘Fraid to break it to ya, kid, but that old man's not much prettier.” Hoffman juts a thumb over his shoulder. “He's lying in the hospital room doing God knows what with the junkie.” He puts his hands around his mouth. “AMANDA, THE IDIOTS ARE HERE.” 

“HOLD YOUR TITS, MARK, WE’LL BE OUT IN A MINUTE!”

Hoffman sighs, poking at the metal contraption. “Women, am I right?”

“What's that you're working on?” Lawrence asks, coming closer to inspect it. Adam follows him like a lost puppy, keeping close to his side.

Hoffman uses his screwdriver to twist a bolt into place on the side. “It’s called the Death Mask.”

“Creative,” Adam says sardonically.

“They don't pay me to name ‘em, kid.” Hoffman swipes a finger down Adam's cheek, leaving a streak of black oil. Adam jerks away and scrubs at it angrily with his fist. “I’m just here to trap the bad guys.”

“What does it do?” Lawrence inquires, far too casually for something literally called a Death Mask.

“It's like a Venus flytrap. If you don't find the key in time, either side of the mask will snap closed and fill your skull in with teeth.” Hoffman describes all this with the pride of a little kid who'd just won first prize in his school science fair.

“How do you find the key?” Adam asks, because fuck it, he's allowed to be curious.

Hoffman’s eyes sparkle with mirth. “That's where our house doctor comes in.”

Adam’s heart stops for a moment. “Oh.”

“So this is the trap with the ocular procedure I'll be doing, then?” says Lawrence, sounding professional and clinical and all too much like your average overpaid surgeon.

“What does that mean?” Adam tries hard to keep the tremble out of his voice.

Lawrence doesn't look at him. “The key to the mask will be placed behind his eye.”

“You mean you'll place it behind their eye.”

“Correct.”

“And the person is supposed to…” Adam feels ill when he connects the dots. “I thought you weren't going to hurt people, Lawrence.”

“I'm not. He’s hurting himself.” 

The use of the pronouns makes Adam realize they've already picked out a target for this trap. “You're still blinding him in one eye.”

“Not if I'm cautious. That's why I'm here. Do you really want Hoffman or Amanda performing a delicate operation like that?”

What I want is for Jigsaw to be dead and for all of you psychos to stop locking innocent people in these death traps! But he doesn't say that, because going against Jigsaw in this world would be just as fatal as trying that Death Mask over there on for size. “Yeah. Just…be careful.”

“I will.”

Hoffman gives the two men a disdainful once-over. “You know, we put you two in a death game, not a fuckin’ blind dating show.”

Adam glares up at him. “If I threw a stick, you'd leave, right?”

Then the sound of footsteps and the squeaking of poorly greased wheels head towards them, and all three men turn to look.

It’s Amanda, who’s wearing a black shirt and white jeans tucked into boots with a leopard-print belt and fishnet gloves. The colour of her jeans are a bit of an odd choice considering her profession. 

Then his gaze falls on the frail old man dressed in black robes in the wheelchair she's pushing. Adam has met him before, only under more…extreme circumstances. John Kramer. Jigsaw. 

For a serial killer who's been dominating the news channels as of late, he sure does look like Adam could knock him over with a sneeze. He wonders why the apprentices don't just kill him already and be done with it.

Amanda sets up Kramer into place and then fetches a nearby trolley with various bottles and sharp silver tools lying on a sheet of paper towel. Kramer doesn’t say anything, just watches her. There’s a machine attached to the drip in his arm that monitors his heart rate and other statistics that Adam isn't smart enough to know the names of. 

Finally, Kramer sweeps his gaze over Hoffman, then Lawrence, and finally stops at Adam. His icy eyes are a startlingly electric blue. Adam shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his stare. It’s clear that despite this elderly man’s fragility, he holds all the power in this basement.

“Hello, Adam,” he rasps, sounding just as sinister as he did on the tape last week. “You look healthy.”

Adam coughs awkwardly. “Yeah, healthier than I looked bleeding out in that grimy old bathroom, huh.”

Lawrence nudges him in warning, but Adam’s not afraid. He’s immortal now, after all. The old bag of bees doesn’t scare him. (Okay, maybe just a little.)

Kramer studies him. “I suppose that would be the case. Amanda has told me about the ritual.”

“Are you…angry with her?” Lawrence asks hesitantly. “Because you really should be angry with me, if you are, because it was all—”

“I’m not angry. I’m quite pleased actually,” Kramer says calmly, folding his hands in his lap. There’s a melodious tranquility in his words that speaks of years of annoyances to the point that he’s reached a zen-like understanding of them. “After all, my philosophy in doing these games is to make those that don’t appreciate their life be given a sense of gratitude for this blessing they have. I bring the players close to death so that they feel a sense of revival once they escape. What could be better than having a player truly breathe his last breath and then be rebirthed from the ashes?”

“Uh.” Adam blinked at this nutcase incredulously. “Like. Not dying.”

Kramer’s lips press into a thin, displeased line. “I see you have yet to grasp the concept of what we are trying to accomplish here, Adam.”

“But he will,” Lawrence cuts in quickly. “We’ll make him see. Besides, he’s certainly glad to be alive.”

“He can also speak for himself,” Adam grumbles. He hates how everyone in this joint treats him like some kind of lame little mutt that they have to train into being obedient and throw him their table scraps every once in a while. Also because the other men here are taller, older, richer, and all have ridiculously deep supervillain-esque voices for some reason, and it makes him feel like a dumb, petulant child in comparison.

Lawrence doesn’t even seem to hear him, furthering Adam’s point. “He’s a great person to have around, too. It’ll help make disposing of bodies much easier.”

“We don’t get rid of the bodies, though,” Hoffman points out. “We’re not trying to hide anything from the public besides our identities. Unless you wanna feed him that little patch of skin we cut the puzzle piece out of, he’s not all that useful.”

“Hate to agree with this idiotic prick, but it’s true,” Amanda says, putting her hands on her hips. “It's easier to just keep him down here and he can, like, help make traps or something.”

“Hello-o-o,” Adam complains. Nobody even looks at him. He could strip naked and start breakdancing and nobody would do so much as insult him for his poor breakdancing skills. “Human being, standing right here.”

“Quiet now, the adults are talking,” Hoffman replies with a dismissive wave in his direction.

 “Shut the fuck up, you insolent bonehead,” Adam spits venomously. “You look like a pale version of the Hulk with the head of the LEGO Minifigures Series 9 Police Man and you talk like a caveman with lip filler.” 

Everyone turns to stare at him.

“Well, now that I finally have your precious attention,” Adam says with a roll of his eyes. “I have more uses than being some brainless human garbage disposal. I used to stalk people, remember? That’s how I ended up in this shithole. Wouldn’t it be useful to have a professional who could go out and get pictures and information of your victims without getting caught?”

They all went silent, pondering it. “I suppose that’s true,” says Lawrence finally. “I never did catch you, in the end.”

“I did,” Amanda says drily. “I was looking for him, though.”

“So the kid can press a few buttons on a camera and hide in some bushes for an hour,” Hoffman scoffs. “Doesn’t mean we need him for anything more than taking out the trash.”

But Kramer is observing Adam with renewed interest. “If Adam wishes to be an abettor of sorts in these games, by all means let him. So long as he isn’t caught, of course.”

“Isn't that a little hypocritical? Y’know, considering you locked me in the bathroom because I was a voyeur?” Adam huffs.

Behind Kramer, Amanda makes a slashing motion against her neck and Adam quickly backtracks. “Um, but yeah, totally, I'll do that for you. Thanks.”

Amanda and Lawrence both grin and Lawrence squeezes Adam’s hand. Hoffman looks less than thrilled at this new development, but thankfully doesn’t open his big mouth.

Kramer and Hoffman start to discuss finalizing the traps for the upcoming game, so Adam slides down against the wall to the floor and brings his knees in. Tries not to think about it—how he's going to be an accomplice to murder, how he knows exactly how and where and when people are going to die and he's not doing a thing about it, how he is thinking about it now, how fucking hungry he is, how that means he's going to need food, how he's going to have to eat someone—

How he's startled out of the thought spiral by a large hand running through his hair. “Hey, are you alright?” Lawrence asks from above, gentle.

God, it's kind of pathetic how touch-starved he really is. Adam leans into it like a cat and hugs his knees closer, closing his eyes. “Yeah. Just tired, and…hungry.”

“Mm. That's too bad,” Lawrence murmurs, drawing circles with his fingers. “We'll try and get you some food soon, okay?” 

Adam hangs his head. “Yay, cannibalism,” he mumbles. 

“Shh.” Lawrence pulls a little on the dark locks by his nape. Tingles ignite through his body and he shivers.

“Stop petting your dog and listen to us, Gordon,” Hoffman barks from across the room, much to their dismay. “I'm going to grab Michael Marks. We're starting the main game soon, so you better get your ass in gear for surgery before I’m back.”

Adam snaps to attention. They're doing a trap? “What—fucking now?!”

“No, we're gonna huddle round the fireplace with hot cocoa and wait for Santa to get here first,” Hoffman retorts, thick with sarcasm. “Obviously now. Why, got a hot date?”

“Yeah, with a bottle of vodka and three packs of Ibuprofen. Real sexy shit. Better than here.”

Across the room, Amanda is hovering nervously behind Kramer like a skittish moth. “Does he need me to go with him?” 

“No. You will stay and bring me back to my room, then go look over the game to make sure everything's in order.”

“Sure, of course,” Amanda murmurs, taking the handles of his wheelchair. Her voice has taken on a quiet honey-sweetness she’s never used around anyone else.

Adam suddenly slams his fist down on the table. “HEADQUARTERS.” 

Everyone whips around to look at him, even Kramer. Adam probably gave him whiplash. Serves him right. 

“Fucking excuse me?” Amanda sounds genuinely baffled.

“The word for your freaky evil Batcave lair!” Adam cackles maniacally like he's just found the cure to cancer. “Headquarters! Headquartershheadquartersheadquarters. Oh he-e-ell yeah, I'm so goddamn smart.”

Kramer turns to Amanda as if looking for an explanation. She just shrugs. “Hey, you hired him.”

Everyone leaves to their respective jobs and Adam and Lawrence head into the break room. Lawrence makes himself some bitter brown coffee and they sit opposite each other at the table. 

Conversation flows surprisingly well, it's not awkward in the slightest. Lawrence rants about his job and all the colourful characters he's worked for. Adam talks about his old shitty job at a Burger King and how he got fired for swiping free burgers every once in a while and then shouting expletives at his boss when he finally got caught—Lawrence seemed to like that one. They discuss music, and even though they've got wildly different tastes, they both like Nirvana and so they talk about that too. They're both only children, which doesn't surprise him.

It's really nice to have a new friend to talk to, Adam realizes. He's got ‘friends’ he really only uses for a night of not-so-wholesome fun like dealers and hookups, casual friends he goes to parties and clubs with, and he's got childhood friends like Scott Tibbs who he catches up with every once in a while, if not just to see what batshit insane projects Scott's been working on as of late.

But most of the time, Adam doesn't go looking for a BFF to make friendship bracelets with and gossip about the cutest boys in the sixth grade. (Well, if he did that last one, he'd probably get put on some kind of list.) So it's fun to just sit with someone and go over crazy anecdotes and exaggerate them a little or maybe a lot for the sole purpose of seeing the other laugh. 

Unfortunately, Hoffman just has to come back at that exact time, towing your average twenty-something white guy in a wheelbarrow. He sets it down and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “You’re up, Doc.”

Lawrence gulps down the last of his drink, puts the mug in the sink, and smiles apologetically at Adam. “I may be a while. You’re free to leave, if you like.”

Adam shakes his head frantically. “No, I wanna stay.” Moreover, he doesn't wanna leave. Leave Lawrence. “I’ll just, like, listen to some of Mandy’s CDs. She’s got hella good taste. Unlike you and your stupid-ass jazz .”

“Jazz is art.”

“Your mom is art.” Hmm. That’s not much of an insult. “Um. When I’m having sex with her.”

“Good one,” Lawrence deadpans.

“Shut up, I’m hungry. My body’s not exactly prioritizing comedy at the moment.”

“You can have at this guy once he bites it,” Hoffman points out, giving the wheelbarrow a kick. The man's arm that dangles from it twitches. Adam prays the sedative doesn't wear off anytime soon.

“If,” corrects Lawrence.

Hoffman snorts in disbelief. “You really think he’s gonna cut out his own eyeball and dig around for the key in 60 seconds just to keep living?”

“I would.”

“No shit you would, Mr. Accessibility-Parking-Space.”

Lawrence rubs his forehead in exasperation. “Okay. Right. Adam, just stay here with Mark until I'm finished. Then we can leave.”

Adam gives him a thumbs up. “Muy bueno.”

Lawrence leaves, Hoffman takes out a book with a blank cover he doesn't recognize, and Adam tries to keep himself busy by going through the cupboards. The contents range from nutmeg to batteries to lighter fluid. The most exciting thing in there is the gun he finds hidden under the sink, which seems like a bit of a safety hazard but so does everything in this basement. Adam picks it up and aims it at the wall, making shooting noises.

“Give it here,” Hoffman snaps without looking up from his book. “That's not a toy.”

“And you're not my dad,” Adam gripes, but hands it over. “You don't have to watch me like a toddler. I'm not gonna swallow those batteries.”

“Says the guy who literally died from a plastic bag,” Hoffman points out. “What are you, a turtle?”

“Your mother bought you Mega Blocks instead of Legos, didn't she,” Adam mutters. 

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“They're like…kids who were homeschooled. Or not allowed to watch SpongeBob. Or vegans. They get all repressed and then they like, shoot up a school when they turn 18. Did you ever shoot up a school when you were 18? It's okay if you did, I won't snitch.”

Hoffman stares at him blankly for about twenty seconds and then rubs a hand over his face. “Christ, Stanheight, shut the fuck up. Can you just let me read my book in peace?”

“Who even reads anymore?” Adam complains. “That's gay as hell.”

“Hypocrite,” Hoffman mutters under his breath, “and I thought I told you to be quiet.”

“But I’m bored,” Adam whines theatrically, and drapes himself limply over the armrest of the couch, because if there's one thing he's good at, it's being obnoxious.

“How’s that my problem?”

“You’re the babysitter,” Adam pouts. “Entertain me.”

“Well, why don't you go see what sound a fork makes when you stick it in an electrical socket,” Hoffman retorts. “Come back to me when you're done frying.”

“Maybe I will,” Adam huffs. “Gah, you're no fun at all. Are you the youngest sibling? You sure seem like one.”

Then Hoffman stiffens noticeably. His grip on the book goes tight and rigid. “No. I—I was the oldest.”

Adam frowns. “Really? Wow. Your sister must've really pushed you around, huh.”

Hoffman’s neck snaps up from his book. “Don't fucking talk about my sister,” he snarls with a sudden malice. His eyes flash cold and violent. Where the hell did that come from?

“Jesus, back off, man.” Adam holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean anything by it.”

“If you mention Angelina again, I'll punch your lights out and leave you in that bathroom to rot,” Hoffman growls darkly, and Adam doesn't doubt he will. He stands up, throwing his book to the side. “I'm leaving. Tell Lawrence he should've hired Amanda to do the babysitting. If you get bored,” he sneers the last word with utter contempt, “you can play some Russian Roulette.”

Adam is tossed the gun and he catches it haphazardly. Thank God the safety's on. “But…this is a glock.”

“All the more entertaining,” Hoffman mutters, and then he's out of there.

Shockingly, Adam is rather fond of his head, and so he decided not to play chicken with a fully loaded gun. So instead he finds a Sharpie and doodles crude graffiti all over the underside of the table. He's never been much of an artist, but he can draw two circles under a lowercase-n just as well as the next person. Plus some guns and dinosaurs and hoffman sux ballz for good measure. 

And then there's the sweet sound of Lawrence's voice from the doorway. He can practically hear the smile in his words when he asks, “ What are you doing under there?” 

“Playing Hide and Seek, obviously,” Adam quips, crawling out and standing up with a long stretch. He's momentarily distracted by the sight of Lawrence in scrubs, a spot of blood by the collar. It's not a bad look on him. 

He clears his head with a shake. “As you can see, Hoffman's a terrible seeker.”

“He really is.” Lawrence watches him with amusement, but it's soon replaced with annoyance. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Ugh, he booked it a while ago. Got all pissy at something I said. It was totally random.”

“What was it?”

“Nothing, even. Just asked if his sister was bossy.”

“Oh.” Lawrence's eyes widen in understanding. “ Oh. Adam, his sister—Angelina Acomb—she died five or so years ago. Her boyfriend, Seth Baxter, slit her throat. He was incarcerated, and one month after Seth was released, Mark killed him in a mock Jigsaw trap.”

Adam winces. “Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair sharply. The sudden aggression makes so much more sense now. “I didn't know it was that—God.” Probably bad taste how he reacted, then. He should cross out that last thing he wrote under the table.

“It’s terrible, I know. They were half siblings, I believe, but very close. Her death…changed him. I wouldn't bring her up again if I were you.”

Adam blows out a breath. “Ha, yeah, I kind of value my life too much to do that.”

“ Value your life , eh?” Lawrence repeats. “You're starting to sound an awful lot like John.”

“Ewww.” Adam screws up his face in disgust. “I don't plan on going senile, thanks. That dude's so old the candles probably cost more than the cake.”

“He’s only 52.”

“Yeah, and I’m Megan Fox.”

Lawrence picks up his cane and heads out the door, Adam following. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Look alive, hottest woman ever.” He hesitates. “Wait, shoot, how old is she?”

“Nineteen.”

“Oh, sweet. What was I saying?”

“A lot, and none of it was on-topic,” Lawrence says with a smile. “That seems to be a running theme with you.”

Adam grins devilishly. “Well, nothing’s a running theme with you.”

Lawrence takes a while to get the joke, but the wait is worth it for the look of horror that hits his face. “Oh my God , you’re terrible. That is an awful joke. You find that funny?”

“It’s called having a sense of humour, baby,” Adam giggles. “You should try it sometime.”

“You're incorrigible,” Lawrence sighs, shaking his head.

While Adam's trying to figure out what that word means, Hoffman steps tentatively into the room. “Uh, you done, Gordon?”

Lawrence glances over. “Yes, I just finished. He'll be out for another couple hours.”

“Good.” He scratches his neck. “Well, I guess I'll go grab the players. John got some guy named Obi to take out a couple of the girls and the kid, but I'm supposed to put Obi in the game, too. Tell Amanda she should get into position.”

An icicle of fear stabs into his chest. “A kid's in the game?” Adam asks.

“Yes, Daniel. He's fifteen and the son of a corrupt police officer, Eric Matthews. Eric is the one who's really being tested.” Lawrence rubs his good shoulder soothingly. “Don't worry, okay? Amanda's going to be down there overseeing the game, pretending to be one of the players. She won't let anyone hurt Daniel.”

“But what if someone hurts her?” Adam mumbles, biting a black thumbnail. It's just going to be her and the kid locked in there against a bunch of crazy ex-convicts. He's grown real attached to that rockstar, and he'd hate to see Amanda injured, or worse. 

“She knows what she's doing, Adam. If it looks like she's in serious danger, Mark can step in, okay?”

“Will I now.” Hoffman raises his eyebrows and takes a step forward so the two men are mere inches away. Adam sucks in a breath and hopes they don't kill each other. 

“Yes, you will,” Lawrence murmurs darkly, tilting his head to one side. He's taller than Hoffman, and uses that advantage to look down on him. There's gravel in his voice when he speaks next. “I'll make sure of it.”

And despite Hoffman being much stronger and bulkier in comparison, Adam swears he sees a bead of sweat run down Hoffman's forehead at the subtle threat. It's unsettling seeing him scared instead of trying to scare others. He wonders just how well the two men got to know each other before he started tagging along.

“Now.” Lawrence briskly dusts his hands off on his pants and heads back towards Adam, much to his relief. “Are Adam and I needed for this game, or can we head home for the evening?”

“No,” Hoffman practically growls as he brushes past them to the Death Mask, roughly shoving Adam with his shoulder, “you two can go back to your cute cozy apartment and watch rom-coms until your pretty little heads fall off, and I'll stay here and make sure Amanda doesn't get mauled to death by a buncha batshit insane junkies, thanks.”

“Sounds lovely,” Lawrence trills, pulling his trenchcoat off the hanger and buttoning it over his scrubs. “Have a pleasant night, Mark.”

“Fuck off and die, Gordon.”

Adam gives him the finger as they leave, then a grin splits his face as he shakes Lawrence's arm. “Holy shitballs, dude, that was so badass! I didn't think you could be badass!”

“I barely said anything,” Lawrence says modestly.

“Nuh-uh. You said everything with your tone , y'know? All, like, husky and evil mastermind-y.” Adam wiggles his eyebrows. “Very sexy.”

“I— what?”  Lawrence sputters, looking at him like he's grown a second head. The fact that he's made Lawrence flustered absolutely delights Adam. “You can't just say that to me.”

“Sorry,” Adam lies, poking out his tongue mischievously. “Sorry I paid you an epic compliment.”

“You're—”

“Incorrigible?”

Lawrence rolls his eyes in an uncharacteristically (as far as he knows) sassy manner. “That.”

“Hmm. Why don't you buy us pizza and we'll call it even?” 

“You can't eat pizza.”

Adam's stomach drops in complete and utter horror. “FUCK.”

So they order a pepperoni pizza and rent The Shining from their local Blockbuster. Maybe a horror movie isn't the best option considering their very recent very real horror movie they had to live through, but it's a classic and Adam's appalled that Lawrence somehow hadn't seen it yet. They change into comfy clothes and crash on the older man's bed. Lawrence eats the bread, sauce, and cheese, and then picks off the pepperoni to feed to Adam. 

Adam sticks out his tongue, in disgust this time. “This shit tastes like…uh, shit.”

“Impressive vocabulary,” Lawrence drones. “And it’s no wonder you're so skinny. You need to be getting proper nutrients from somewhere, even if you think it tastes like shit .”

“From where, your next-door neighbor?”

“Please do,” Lawrence huffs, “that woman's got about fifteen dogs—despite no pets allowed in the building—that she just has to walk every morning at six.”

“Aww. That's kinda cute.” Adam beams. “I love animals. My whole childhood I actually wanted to be a veterinarian.”

“Really?” Lawrence frowns, dipping his crust in a little cup of ranch. “Why didn't you?”

“Money, duh. Vet school's mad expensive.” 

“That's a shame. Education shouldn't be put behind a paywall.”

“For realz.” Adam gingerly picks up another circle of meat and chews. “I wonder how much money we'd have to bribe Dominos with to have them put human meat on this pizza.”

“If they don't already,” Lawrence chuckles.

Onscreen, Shelley Duvall’s character has just discovered the pages upon pages of paper her husband's written on. Lawrence polishes off one last slice and they watch the chaos unfold while Adam yammers on over the movie about all the behind-the-scenes information he's memorized. He thinks for a moment that Lawrence might be annoyed—except once people start dying he begins to point out every single medical inaccuracy he finds. It's like a very gory, very scientific lullaby, and Adam finds his eyelids drooping while Jack Nicholson chases his character's son through the show-drenched maze. 

And by the time the credits roll, they've both fallen asleep.

Chapter Text

It doesn't take long before Adam realizes he's dreaming.

The room is impossibly long, stretching out to a vanishing point where chandeliers flicker like fireflies caught mid-dive. Adam stands in the middle of it, clad in a tuxedo that fits too tightly, as if tailored to suffocate him. The floor is black and white tile, but the pattern shifts when he blinks, the squares twisting into spirals, trippy vortexes that seem to breathe in tandem to him.

“Charming,” he mutters, his voice bouncing back distorted and dripping with syrupy mockery.

The guests seated at the endless dinner table turn to look at him in unison. Except they aren’t guests. They’re pigs. Literal pigs, dressed in elaborate Victorian gowns and pressed suits, pearls or ties strung tightly around fleshy necks. They chew their unappetizing food loudly, their teeth glinting under the weak light. Between their hooves, they hold polished silverware with unsettling dexterity.

To his left, a pack of sleek black dogs lounge on velvet cushions, their eyes glowing a faint, malevolent yellow. One of them yawns, its jaws stretching wider than they should, revealing rows upon rows of teeth like a broken zipper.

“Well,” Adam says, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I’m sure this won't have some subconscious meaning or anything.”

The pigs laugh. At least, he thinks it’s laughter—it sounds like a garbled mix of squeals and popping champagne corks. 

Then Lawrence is there. He's seated at the head of the table, in a suit that fits him very well. He gives Adam a knowing smirk and then taps his fork against a crystal goblet filled with something bloodred. 

The sound resonates, and suddenly Adam finds himself seated at the table, a plate of steaming black tar placed before him. The smell of it turns his stomach, but the pigs stare expectantly, their beady eyes glimmering with amusement—or is it hunger?

“Eat,” says the largest pig, its voice deep and wet, like the sound of boots in mud. “We insist.”

Adam picks up the fork. It feels sticky in his hand. “You know, I’m on a strict ‘not eating whatever-the-hell-this-is’ diet,” he quips, but no one laughs. The walls seem to shudder like the room is a pair of coughing lungs. The dogs begin to growl, low and guttural.

Before he can set the fork down, the slop on his plate moves. It writhes, shapes forming and dissolving—a tiny hand, an eye, a toothless mouth opening in a silent scream. This feels like some twisted version of Alice in Wonderland. Adam tries to push back from the table, but his chair won’t budge, as if it has grown roots into the floor. 

“Leaving so soon? You don’t want to offend our guests,” Lawrence hums from the other side of the table. One pig's snout twitches, dripping something viscous and black onto its plate. “And I'd stop with the sarcastic comments, if I were you.”

“I didn't think pigs took things so literally,” Adam mumbles, voice tight. 

The air grows thick, heavy with the scent of iron and something sweet, like rotten fruit marinated in jars of blood. The dogs pad closer now, pale eyes like searchlights locking onto him.

Lawrence leans forward, his mouth splitting into an unnervingly wide grin. “Then perhaps,” he says, his voice honeyed and sharp as glass, “you’d prefer to be the main course?”

Adam looks down. His tuxedo is gone, replaced by a crisp white tablecloth draped over his body. Around him, knives clink against plates, and the dogs begin to howl. 

He cranes his neck up and Lawrence is still smiling, but thick blood so dark it's almost black is pouring like waterfalls from between the dams of his teeth, landing and collecting on his empty white shell of a plate. 

Before he can scream, the chandeliers go out, plunging the room into darkness.

Adam wakes up panting, to the sun with the side of his head on Lawrence's chest, rising and falling slowly like the ocean’s blue tides. He tries to slow his breaths and get a hold of himself, still reeling from the demented nightmare.

He blinks his eyes open, squinting against the golden glare. On a low volume, the TV is still on and playing some show where two women are sitting in a diner with a guy in a flannel running it—whose actor looks oddly like that one agent Strahm, come to think of it. The half-eaten pizza is limp and cold in the box, discarded at the edge of the bed. Hopefully none of it got on the dove-white bedding. Lawrence seems the type to flip his lid over dry-cleaning.

Maybe he should be more freaked out by Lawrence's demonic portrayal in his nightmare. But to be fair, blood pouring from his mouth is kind of a good look for him.

So, Adam stays firmly pressed to Lawrence's front. He's wrapped around him like a koala bear, but even that's not enough. He needs to be absorbed into his skin. Needs to be consumed. He wiggles around and tries to get impossibly closer, though it's the closest they've physically been. Lawrence is so blazingly warm, like a hot water bottle in human form. 

Adam suddenly feels a vicious, absurd wish to be chained around the ankle again. But instead of being attached to a pipe this time, he wanted to be chained to Lawrence.

Hmm. 

These aren't very platonic wishes, are they? He mentally asks himself the age-old question: do I want to fuck this guy or is the the trauma talking?

Maybe both. 

Maybe more.

The reality of what he's been doing crashes down on him like the roof of an abandoned house. Adam literally hasn't stopped touching Lawrence since he woke up in the forest. Every time that man leaves his side, he feels this horrible emptiness like one of his limbs was just sawed off. 

And that part definitely is the trauma, but there's more there than just dependency. Whenever Lawrence strokes his hair or pays him a compliment or fights in his corner, Adam feels his heart ache with lovesickness. It should feel silly, like he's a schoolgirl with a crush, but by God is it ever nice to have someone to think about again. And the fabric of his mind is so saturated with Lawrence that it's starting to bleed through to his dreams. Sure, the way they met is probably a red flag. But red has always been his favourite colour.

He feels like a cat, sun-warmed and happy. Adam's used to rising early and sleeping late, working the whole in-between. It's odd, knowing that neither of them have jobs and can just laze around in their big fluffy beds and bask in the sun all day.

And yet, there's a game going on just down the street, people are dying, and the city is none the wiser.

Adam pretends he can't hear the screams and curls closer to Lawrence, falling asleep in a matter of seconds.

Half an hour later, Lawrence gently nudges him awake. “Rise and shine,” he whispers, running a hand up and down his arm. His voice is low and rough from sleep in a way that sends a flutter of butterflies through his stomach. 

“Mmfrgh,” is Adam's Pulitzer-deserving reply. He cranes his head up to look at him through lidded eyes and tries again. “Nooo.”

Lawrence smiles, something akin to adoration in his eyes that makes his heart swell with pride. Jesus, he really is getting sappy. “We really do have to get up, Adam. It's late.”

“Don’ wanna,” he groans, letting his head fall to Lawrence's chest. “Sleep more. Now.”

“Now you sound like a caveman,” Lawrence laughs. “Come on, we've got to get to the headquarters. The game's probably over by now.”

Guilt sobers him awake from his sleepy daze. “Oh. Yeah, I guess we should.” 

“I'll call Mark first to be sure there aren't any cops there.” Lawrence pats his shoulder once and then gets up from the bed with a stretch. He must've been up for a while because his prosthetic is already fitted on. He chuckles when Adam feebly tries to reach for him and backs out of the way. “Go brush your teeth.”

Adam flops face-down on his stomach. “Too tired,” he mumbles, muffled, into the dip of the warm satin pillow where Lawrence once was. His stomach roars like a pride of angry lions. “‘M so hungry.”

“If the game's over, they'll have food for you,” Lawrence concedes, taking Adam by the hand and dragging him up out of bed. “You just have to wait a little longer.”

He slumps against his weight and yawns dramatically. “Carry me.”

And then Lawrence's traitorous phone goes off under his shirt. He gently nudges the smaller man off of him and answers it. “Hello? Hey, Mark.”

“Buzzkill.” Adam rolls his blurry eyes, but takes the hint and sulks off to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth with Lawrence's spicy white toothpaste that advertises about 100 different chemicals ending in -ide that all promise to have his teeth so white they'd practically glow in the dark. He squints at himself in the mirror. Are they getting…sharper?

Soon, Lawrence hangs up and Adam pokes his head through the doorway, mouth rabid with toothpaste foam. “Wha duh ee ay?”

Lawrence's brow creases, so Adam spits into the sink and wipes his mouth with his sleeve, stains be damned. “What did he say?”

“It's safe to come over.” Lawrence hesitates, looking down at him like he's a jigsaw puzzle missing a vital piece. Hmm. Maybe that was a bad choice of similes. “And he and Mandy made you breakfast.”

Adam sighs. Guess this is my life now. “Goody.”

When Adam pictured his first meal, he was expecting it to be violent. He expected to savagely tear into the chest cavity of a corpse, bones crunching and flesh squishing, splattered in blood and viscera while the others looked on in utter horror.

He did not expect to be seated at an ornately carved table, napkin unfolded across his lap, Claude Debussy on the radio with a plate of delicately prepared meat cut into bite-sized cubes waiting in front of him. 

“We just wanted it to look normal,” Amanda explains. She's wearing an aqua T-shirt and charcoal gray sweatpants. Gauze is wrapped around her wrists and there's a bunch of red pinpricks all over her arms that he doesn't like the implications of. “So that you wouldn't feel so weird eating…that “

“This seems a bit overkill,” Adam grumbles, gingerly poking at the meat with his silver fork. To the untrained eye, it just looked like your average Thanksgiving roast. “I would've been cool with some copycat KFC.”

Hoffman folds his big arms. “Sorry the meal I had to spend three and a half hours making for your prissy little ass—”

“My ass is gigantic, actually,”

“—isn't to your usual standards,” Hoffman finishes, shooting him a Look. He's dressed in monochrome black, shoulder pads in his jacket making his boxy frame more wide and rectangular than it already is. “Had to grab the expensive seasoning and everything.”

Adam's jaw drops and a massive grin overtakes his face. “Aww, Hoffy! You bought the expensive seasoning for widdle ol’ me?” He tilts his head to the side. “I'm gonna start thinking you like-like me.”

“And I'm gonna slit your throat.”

“Ooh, kinky.”

Hoffman rubs his temples like he's trying to summon a genie from them. “Jesus, alright, I'm outta here. You two can handle him.”

He starts to leave, but Amanda grabs his thick wrist and digs her nails in. “Oh no you don't. We have more to discuss with Adam after he eats and we especially don't need you gallivanting around the city while there's a bunch of missing persons cases linked right down here to us.”

Hoffman grits his teeth noticeably but stays there. “Put the damn meat in your mouth already, kid.”

“You want me to put what in my mouth?”

Hoffman just smiles placidly. “Funny boy. Alright, don't eat it. See if I care when you starve to death—again.”

Adam wrinkles his nose, regarding the meat with distaste. He knows very little about the culinary aspects of human flesh—you know, like a normal fucking person—but he sure hopes it’s safe to eat. One time in a magazine he'd read you could die from eating the brain and could overdose on vitamin A from the liver; and obviously there was the average concern of raw meat parasites. But it looks pretty well cooked and smells divine, like a juicy chunk of well-seasoned pork.

“Stop pussyfooting around and have some already,” Amanda coaxes. “C'mon, we know you're hungry.”

“Don't be rude.” From above him, Lawrence cards a hand through his hair, that reassuring touch that eases Adam's nerves better than any drag of a cigarette could. “I know this is hard for you. Eat when you're ready, okay?”

“Yeah,” Adam breathes, biting his lip. The meat stares at him, gray and pink and waiting for his teeth. God. This was absurd. “I think I get vegans now,” Adam jokes bleakley. “Gotta apologize to my ex-girlfri—”

“Christ alive, you baby, just eat it.” Then Hoffman comes over, rips his fork from out of his grasp, and before anyone can process it he stabs one of the pieces and pops it into his mouth, swallowing.

“Oh my God, Mark,” Lawrence hisses, wide-eyed. “What the hell's wrong with you?”

Hoffman smiles morbidly. “Tastes like pig.” He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Mm. Needs salt.”

“What you need is an exorcism,” Amanda snaps, tearing the fork away from him with little resistance and dropping it on the table next to Adam's dish. “Well, since this fatass can't control himself, you've got a lot less food than before. So you'd better clean that plate.”

“Is this—” Adam gulps. “Is this all you got for me?”

“Don't get your panties in a twist. We've got a bunch more packaged up in the freezer. We're gonna ration it, though.”

Adam sucks in a breath through his teeth. Okay. Now or never. He pierces a square with his fork and slowly lowers it onto his tongue. Tastes it. Chews it. Swallows it. 

“Well?” Lawrence prompts. Everyone is watching him with bated breath.

Adam licks his lips, choosing his words carefully. “Hoffman's right, it does taste like pork.”

Adam's underplaying it, really. It's the best meat, no, scratch that, best thing he's ever tasted. It almost makes him okay with never eating sugar again. He scarfs down the rest of the plate and has the decency to wipe his mouth with a paper napkin left over from a previous Taco Bell order. 

Instantly, he’s flooded with a tsunami of sparkling energy, like he's just chugged three Monsters and ran a marathon. Tingles erupt all over his skin, but it's the good ASMR kind, not the uncomfortable pins-and-needles kind. 

Amanda squints at him assiduously. “I'm gonna sound crazy, but does he look…prettier to you guys?”

“You really had to use a feminine adjective for me, huh,” Adam sighs. She's piqued his curiosity, though. “Lemme see. Use my camera, in the right cupboard.”

Amanda gets it out and throws the strap over her head like a necklace. Thank God she did, ‘cause that camera cost him a year's rent and the company doesn't even make them anymore. She fiddles with the buttons for a second and then crouches down. “Alrighty, say cheese.”

Adam does not say cheese.

The flash goes off anyway and she takes another one without flash for good measure, then hands the big device to him to look over. He flicks it over to playback and—um, wow. Adam does look…prettier, though he's never gonna say that out loud.

Adam's dark hair is shiny and thick, still messy but in more of a purposely tousled male-model way. His skin is flawless, plump and flushed as a peach and positively glowing. He still looks like himself—same bump on the bridge of his nose, same scared-kitten look in his eyes, same scar on his bicep where his friend Scott stabbed him with the rusty nail when they were kids—but it's like he's wearing the world's best makeup palette. Just more saturated, brighter.

“You look.” Lawrence clears his throat, but his voice still comes out thick with gravel. He's unable to tear his gaze away from the photo. “Healthier.”

Adam's stomach twists pleasantly when he sees the dark flush on Lawrence's face, and saves that mental image for a later use. “Thanks,” he trills, beaming.

“Wipe that drool, Gordon, and let's get back to business,” Hoffman says, taking Adam's dishes and dumping them haphazardly into the sink. “Adam should get crime scene photos before the cops swarm us, and we need to get Daniel situated with the oxygen tank.”

So they get out of the break room and thread through the sewer’s brick hallways like sewing needles until they reach a door, which opens into a large room. Immediately Adam's choking on the heavy, nausea-inducing stench of death, assaulting his olfactory senses. Looking down, he sees an overweight man in office attire lying on the floor in front of them face-down, the back of his head sticky with blood and completely blown out from a shotgun. Adam's stomach roils, but nobody else seems affected, so he just covers his nose and mouth in the crook of his elbow and starts adjusting the settings on his camera.

Hoffman kicks the corpse and then grins wickedly at him. “Want a snack?”

Adam ignores him, getting down on one knee and raising his camera. He takes a few good shots, then switches up the angle and zooms in. 

While he's taking photos, Amanda pulls on a pair of thick leather gloves, the same as everyone else, and pulls a shiny knife from out of her pocket. Carefully, she unbuttons the man's shirt and slices out a bloody flap of skin in the trademarked puzzle piece from his chest. She dangles it in front of Adam's face like a bone with a dog. “Eat this.”

Adam wrinkles his nose. “Gross. No thanks.”

“Doesn't matter if it's gross. Eat it. It's like sushi.”

“I don't even like sushi.”

Lawrence whirls around from where he's been inspecting a wall. “You don't like sushi?”

“No?”

“Why not?” He looks scandalized. “Do you prefer cooked food?”

“Nah, I like it raw.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Nobody laughs. “Tough crowd. Uh, geez, man, I dunno why I don't like it. Not a fan of fish, I guess. Nothing personal.” 

“Right.” Lawrence bites his lip. “What sort of foods did you like? Before all…this.”

“Hmm.” He ponders that. “Mexican dishes are pretty good, like burritos and shit. Pizza, too. Burgers. Just basic greasy fast food that you doctor types love to slander.” 

Amanda, whose treat-dangling is being politely ignored, has started unceremoniously and repeatedly slapping him in the face with it. Adam groans and just eats it to shut her up. It's delicious. Because of course it is. 

They move on to the next victim, a sketchy-looking dude with a buzz cut. He's lying halfway out of what looks like a very long oven. Peeling burns patch his head. Adam takes some shots and Lawrence’s gloves shine in the flash. 

Hoffman yanks the man out of the furnace like he was made of dove feathers and lets him fall to smack his face against the concrete.

Amanda frowns. “John would want you to be gentle.” 

“John isn't here right now.”

Adam carefully peels back the man's shirt so Amanda can cut out the shape. His body is charred to a black crisp like tough meat. 

Hoffman pokes the corpse. “Oh look. Bacon.”

Adam scowls. He's not a fan of how disrespectfully the taller man is treating the bodies, especially since he's supposedly a cop. “Is the smell you're gonna make when I throw you in there and slam the door, fucking pig.”

“Wow, lessons in morality from the cannibal. Moving.”

Amanda shoves between them, dark eyes alight with amber flame. “Focus on moving your asses to the next room, morons. You're hurting my ears.” 

Hoffman rolls his eyes but leads them through a wooden door with large, rotten chunks torn out of it. Amanda hands Adam the meat and he eats it with a lot less resistance than last time. It's getting easier and easier.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Adam asks instead of dwelling on his macabre thoughts. “Like, none of the traps will trigger again, right?”

“Don't be a pussy,” Hoffman chides. “Obviously not. I built this place. I know it like the back of my hand.”

“Yeah, well, I know it like the back of my head,” Adam snaps, “so sorry if I'm a little nervous gamboling around this maze straight out of a fuckin’ Indiana Jones movie.”

Lawrence opens the door to a small yellow-lit room. “There's no bodies in here, right?”

“Y-yeah.” Amanda is suddenly skittish. She hugs herself, hands tucked under her armpits—wrist-down. “Let's keep going.” 

Adam is wondering what's got her so rattled when he suddenly sees the gigantic pit filled with an ocean of needles yawning down the floor like a sinkhole. “Jesus. How long did it take you to get these?”

“Being a doctor does have its perks,” Lawrence says with a mischievous grin. “Ended up with a staff meeting when the higher-ups found over a hundred sharps boxes missing from their delivery. They’re still investigating to this day.”

“Oh my God,” Adam says, delighted. “You're evil.”

“All this didn't tip you off?” replies Lawrence with a sardonic gesture around the room.

“Nah. Rose-coloured glasses tend to make the red flags blend in.”

Lawrence raises his eyebrows. “That's…actually quite poetic.”

“You should see me when I'm on drugs, dude, it gets existential.”

“I'd prefer you did no drugs at all. But I suppose that does sound rather amusing.”

“Ratha amusing,” he mimicks, “you're so damn British.”

Lawrence looks impressed. “I grew up there until I was ten—I didn't think you could still tell.”

“Yeah, it's the way you say certain words. Like…like murders. You say,” he pitches his voice comically low like a cartoon villain’s, “mu-duhs.”

“My voice does not sound like that,” Lawrence retorts, but his eyes are sparkling like snow on a sunny day. 

They make their way through the rooms, stopping to cut out jigsaw pieces (Amanda) and take photos (Adam) and inspect the crime scene (Lawrence) and make disturbingly sacrilegious comments about the corpses (Take a wild guess).

When they reach the infamous bathroom, Adam immediately stops. Handling dead people is one thing, handling PTSD flashbacks is another. He gives his camera to Amanda and waits outside, picking at the chipped paint on his fingernails. God, even the smell is the same. Damp and decaying. A literal eau de toilette. It would make a terrible cologne. 

The three apprentices exit soon enough, Lawrence casting an apologetic glance at Adam. “We're all done now. You did very well today.”

He sighs, standing up and brushing the dust off his jeans. “Yeah, thanks.” He startles at the sight of Hoffman, carrying a boy of about seventeen years, give or take, with a head of brown curls and dried blood smeared on his round cheeks. 

The boy is wearing a gray longsleeve under a black band tee, and Adam brightens with recognition. “Holy shit, Wrath of the Gods! That's my friend Scott's band! The one I invited you to, Mandy.”

“Oh! Right.” Amanda nods. “Hey, if he's having another concert, I'd love to go. I'm really sorry I missed the first one.”

“You didn't miss much, believe me. It's mostly crappy guitar solos and raging against his ex-girlfriend.”

“Bad bands are even better. ‘Cause then you get to make fun of them.”

Adam grins. “Totally agree. It's a date.”

Lawrence turns to look back at him at those words. There's a flash of something over his face, but it's gone too quickly for him to name it.

Once they're back at the bunker, John is there, seated sedately in the wheelchair clothed in robes with his hands folded neatly in his lap. Amanda's brow wrinkles in concern. “You're supposed to be resting.”

“I'll be fine, Amanda.” John's voice is somehow raspier than before. His skin is pale and sallow like a deflated balloon, or like that of a very sick man. “There is something urgent I must discuss with you. All of you.”

Hoffman sets the boy—Daniel Mathews, probably—down on the table and crosses his arms. “Shoot.”

“One of the men from my cancer support group has just recommended me to a specialist operating in Mexico City. He used to have throat cancer, but after receiving treatment from their company, he has been fully rehabilitated.” he explains. “It will be expensive, of course, but I have plenty to spare. I was wondering if you all would like to accompany me on this journey in case things go awry.”

“What—now?” Hoffman snaps, incredulous. “Right after we've just killed five people and kidnapped an officer's only son?” 

“Yes.” John sounds bored. “If it makes you feel any better, you can stay behind and keep watch over everything.”

“Yeah, I would. I'd actually like to keep my job. Surprise surprise,” Hoffman snorts. 

“Well, I wanna go,” Adam pipes up. “The most travel I’ve ever done was back and forth to my grandpa's trailer fifteen minutes away when I was thirteen.”

“I'm going too,” Amanda says, which yeah, he kinda figured.

Lawrence seems torn. “I'm…not so sure this is a good idea. All of us travelling together, I mean. It'll look suspicious.”

“We're not going as Jigsaw,” Amanda points out. “Just as a helpful doctor and his patient receiving treatment.”

“And two sexy emo kids looking to par-tay,” Adam adds, nudging Amanda playfully. 

“Still. What if John is caught later down the line? All they have to do is check the flight records and oh, look, here's three other Jigsaw survivors all coincidentally travelling along with him.” Lawrence shakes his head. “It’s far too risky.”

“Then Adam and Amanda can simply go by car,” John says, matter-of-fact. “You and I won't look strange as you are my oncologist, and those two can slip past the border without a trace. Our government seems more focused on keeping people in Mexico rather than letting them out, either way.”

Adam gasps and squeezes Amanda's arm, bouncing up and down like a hyperactive puppy. “Road trip! Road trip! Oh, this is going to be epic.” 

“You're going to be really annoying the whole time, aren't you,” she sighs. 

Adam does his best impression of a child’s nasally whine, which kind of just sounds like his regular voice. “Are we theeere yet?”

“Now I'm actually glad I'm not going,” mutters Hoffman. “You all can have fun getting indigestion and mugged at every street corner.”

“I haven't been to a beach in ages,” Adam sighs dreamily instead of biting the older man's fat fingers off one by one. “I’ll get the nicest tan.”

“And skin cancer,” Lawrence adds with his shimmery positive reinforcement. “I’m packing us all sunscreen.”

“You're such a dad.”

“That would make sense, yes,” Lawrence says drily, then clears his throat. “Adam and I should get going.”

“I will send the three of you the trip information over e-mail,” John says. “I will also pay for your gas, and for Lawrence to sit in first-class.”

“Boo, first-class? I wanna go on the plane now!” Adam whines. “Larry, will you sneak me in your weird purse thingy?”

“I don't carry a purse. I have a briefcase.”

“Sounds like something a man with a purse would say.”

Lawrence inhales like the room is filled with patience gas. “Did I mention Adam and I have to go?”

So they leave in a taxi this time, and while they sit in the back they eagerly plan for their big upcoming trip. Adam's very excited, naturally.

He just hopes nothing goes wrong.

Chapter Text

It's a quarter of the way through the roadtrip before they run out of food. 

Human food, that is. Or, wait, let's rephrase that—food for humans, not food from humans. The two are surprisingly easy to mix up when they're both in dried jerky form. 

Adam chews on some of the aforementioned snacks in the passenger's seat while reading off a wrinkled map to Amanda. “Yeah, just turn past the library and you should be at a gas station.”

“Past the library?” Amanda squints ahead. She can't see long-distance for shit but it's not like Adam can drive, so he’s been acting as her eyes the whole trip. It's a wonder they haven't ended up in a soggy ditch speared with metal like a shishkebab yet. “Do I turn left or right?”

“Ummm.” Adam scans the map. There's a rusty red stain over the library symbol and he sniffs it tentatively. “Is that…barbecue sauce?”

“Dude! Left or right?”

“I’m trying to find out! This map fucking sucks!” He gives up on trying to see through the stain and bites his lip. “Uh, left? I think?”

The tires screech and she just barely makes the turn, exhaling in relief. “Cutting it pretty damn close.”

“Sorry! There's this stupid giant barbecue sauce stain on the map.”

Amanda rolls her eyes. “Probably Hoffman using the van we literally kidnap people in for a Burger King run again.”

“...Again?”

They pull into a gas station parking lot and get out, making sure to check the three extra locks they've added for security. It’s your standard shitty roadstop—cashiers so high their brains were practically leaking out of their ears, rows upon rows of junk food and pop, a suspicious stain on the white linoleum floor. 

Adam lurks behind Amanda like one of those Shinigamis from this manga he picked up at Scott's as she loops down the aisles. She grabs packs upon packs of spicy chips and sour gummies and chocolate bars and hands them off to Adam until his arms are cradling a pile of sugar, sat-fat, and red 40 so high he can use it as a chin rest.

“Want a Slurpee?” She’s hovering by the row of neon whirring machines in an excited-hummingbird sort of way that makes him think she's just asking to be polite.

“I think if they made the kind of Slurpee I’d enjoy, this place would get shut down faster than I could drink it,” Adam points out. “But you go ahead. I'll just watch and remember my fleeting memories of when sugar could actually taste good.”

“Aww, poor baby,” Amanda cooes as she gets a paper cup from the stack. “Maybe we can try and fix up a smoothie for you.”

“Yeah, sounds…tasty.”

She mulls over the flavour options for a while before deciding on Cream Soda and Dr. Pepper. “You know, nobody ever thinks about this, but Dr. Pepper could be a woman.”

“Never said she couldn't.”

“Yeah, but I bet you thought it. Go on, what's the first thing that comes to mind?”

Adam lets his instincts take over and immediately thinks of a neatly groomed person wearing crimson scrubs and tortoiseshell glasses, who's unfortunately very male. “Damn. Alright, you got me. I'll work on my Feminism For Men 101 homework and get back to you then.”

“Attaboy.” 

Adam grabs a pack of cigarettes at the front counter, more for curiosity’s sake on the taste rather than anything else. They pay for everything in cash and set back out on the road. He's forgotten how much he likes being in cars, how he can just turn on the radio and press his cheek to the cool window glass, watching the world zip by.

Amanda’s phone starts ringing in the cup holder between them. “You answer it. Could be Hoffman.”

Adam flips it open. “Hello?”

“Who is this?” It’s a woman’s voice, one he does not recognize. 

“Uh, I’m Amanda’s friend. Who are you?”

Hesitation, then; “Lynn Denlon. Is Amanda with you?”

Adam covers the receiver and frowns. “Lynn? You know her, right?”

“Shit, shit. Tell her—tell her we're driving and I can't talk.”

“We're driving and she can't talk,” Adam repeats lamely. “I can take a message if you want.”

“Driving? Where?” Lynn sounds suspicious, which isn't good. “How do you know Amanda, again?”

“How do you?”

There's a beat of silence, until she sighs through the static. “Just…tell her to call me back when she's not busy, okay?”

“Yup. Later.” He hangs up, then turns to look at Amanda with a shit-eating grin. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” she grits out, “and it’s gonna stay nothing if you wanna keep your head attached to your body.”

“Aww, c'mon, who is she?”

“She told you her name already. Lynn. She's my friend.”

“Friend, huh.” His voice has taken on a suggestive lilt. “If you say so, Mandy.”

“You're one to talk,” Amanda scoffs. “You look at that old-ass doctor like you're about five seconds away from jumping his bones. I almost want you guys to just fuck already so you quit all that flirting in our workplace. And besides, you—”

“Stop it,” Adam snaps before she can finish. “You’re making it sound so…dirty.”

“Isn't it?” 

Adam slides down in his seat instead of answering, crossing his arms till his lower face is buried in his hood like a surgical mask. Because yeah, obviously it's gonna be a little dirty, as it would be for any other healthy guy with an active imagination and a working dick. Which is something that his dreams of late have been proving. Unfortunately for him, he shares an apartment with the guy, who now believes that Adam takes so many cold morning showers because hot water is too harsh on his ‘demon skin’.

But that's not all his attraction boils down to, really, and to hear it summarized in such a sordid manner just feels plain wrong.

“Just…don't, okay? I don't really wanna talk right now, and especially not about my fucking sex life.”

Amanda quirks a brow at him, but thankfully doesn't push it. They drive the rest of the way in silence down the dry, dusty roads of southwestern Arkansas, lined with gnarled maple trees set ablaze by their fiery leaves.

The sun is low in the indigo sky by the time they reach the outskirts of Dallas, Texas. Using the map, Adam directs Amanda to the nearest (and more importantly, cheapest) motel, which is unfortunately one that looks one stray gust of wind away from collapsing.

“Did you have to pick the sketchiest possible motel in all of America?" Amanda complains as they unload their bags from the trunk. The parking lot is littered with the orange stubs of cigarettes, paper McDonald’s straw wrappers, and torn condoms, like the world’s worst piñata stuffing.

"Does it look like the place has security?” Adam defends, rhetorical. “No. So it’s either haunted, or perfect for anonymous assassins like us. Win-win."

She scowls. "What if I wake up missing a kidney?”

“Then it means I wanted a midnight snack,” he says sweetly.

They register with a geeky kid at the front desk who keeps obnoxiously pausing their conversation to resume his game of online chess. Eventually they get their card and head upstairs to a dingy room with peeling yellow wallpaper, and it’s so small Adam can reach out his arms and brush his fingertips with either side. There’s a rudimentary bathroom with a toilet that unfortunately resembles the one in The Bathroom and a dinky little shower which runs permanently cold. Charming.

Amanda takes the bed for herself and at least has the courtesy to lend Adam the comforter and pillows. The springs creak with every little move she makes. He prays that the couple of lovers next door go right to bed with a glass of warm milk, or else he's gonna be hearing a lot more of that mouselike squeaking.

And yeah, it kinda sucks to sleep on the floor at the foot of the bed like a dog, but he’s secretly happy to be so close to Amanda. She’s tough, physically strong in a surprising way, with a kind of feral insanity that shows how she’s been able to wrangle down victims twice her size without the help of Hoffman. It’s like having a personal bodyguard if one of their seedy neighbors decides to break in looking for trouble.

He dreams of yellow Mexican beaches, and cold drinks, and green jungles. Of blond hair and big hands, and warm skin pressing against his bare back. It's frustratingly vague in the way only dreams can be, and it begins to fade just before he can turn around to get a good look at the person he suspects it to be. 

Really though, he knows who it is.

Unfortunately, Adam wakes up. Slowly, at least, to the smell of oranges just before they ripen, sharp with the sour tang of lime. When he sits up, he sees Amanda eating, lit by the warm morning sun. The orange is probably snatched out of the free fruit bowl in the lobby. Her hair is dripping wet, creating a dark patch on her green Buttercup crop top, and she's smoking out the window.

From the floor, he gets up and stretches. He's only wearing blue joggers and no shirt, but figures Amanda cuts up corpses for a living and probably doesn't care. Adam comes to stand beside her. “Mind if I steal?”

She laughs and passes it to him. “Take it. It’s from your pack.”

“Cheapskate. You're an adult, just buy your own cigs,” Adam grumbles, adjusting it so it sits between his forefingers. He needs to repaint his nails.

He follows Amanda’s gaze out the window to the stretch of flat landscape. Red sand and prairie grasses and spiky yucca, so different from the urban sprawl of their home city. 

Amanda's attention flicks over to him. “I'm sorry about what I said in the car. About you and Lawrence. I know you really like him.” She picks at the spongy white pith of her orange. “You were saying his name in your sleep. Nothing weird, I hope.”

Adam flushes and takes a hit instead of replying, so she continues. “I don't wanna taint your view of him or anything, since you two seem to be attached at the hip—God only knows why—but I'm not sure he's such a good idea. You two only know the worst of each other. He's like a dollhouse with the worst memories of your life living inside. And Lawrence is very repressed, in more ways than the obvious. I think he'd hold back his emotions when it comes to the tough stuff.”

“Not with us,” he says, confident. “Like you said, I've seen him at his worst. He wouldn't hold back with me.”

“That might not be a good thing, either.” Amanda's copper eyes are shadowy like two tarnished pennies. “You haven't yet seen what he's capable of when he lets himself go.”

“I won't care.”

“I’ll care, because I like you and I don't want to see you hurt.”

Indignation at the Lawrence slander battles the warmth of Amanda's protectiveness inside of him. 

No . He clears his throat, shakes his head. “Lawrence wouldn't hurt me.”

Her gaze drifts down to the starburst scar on his shoulder. “Didn't he?”

Adam doesn't know how to respond, so instead he turns away from her burning stare and takes a long drag from the cigarette. It tastes of campfires and long nights, and he smokes until he's lightheaded and the blackened tip is burning at his fingerprints.

They drive through Texas down the natural borders of the Rio Grande river, chasing herons that glide over the rushing water. They cross countries into the rolling hills of Tamaulipas, Mexico, through dramatic mountain peaks and scrubby trees, lush rainforests and crystal waterfalls. 

Nuevo León is where they make their second pit stop, at a motel filled with milk-pale tourists like them, all grumbling about heat and luggage and water. Most of them are families travelling with kids, so it all seems fairly safe. Plus, it's beside a parking lot filled with food trucks, smelling like mesquite smoke and spicy sauces.

Adam and Amanda head over there once they're done unpacking, unable to resist the scent. They decide on birria—a beef stew cooked in herbs and spicy broth—and eat on a shaded bench beside a pair of pretty girls around his age who introduce themselves as Núria and Gabriela, who actually live in their destination of Mexico City. Núria luckily speaks English and gives them some welcome advice for their stay. Gabriela seems shy, picking at her chips and salsa and watching Adam skillfully avoid the plants in his dish with a smile playing on her full lips.

After a night of slightly better sleep due to Adam pestering Amanda until she finally gave him the bed, they're back on the road. He reads off the cities as they pass through them: San Luis Potosí. Querétaro. Hidalgo. Until, finally, they reach the Los Callejeros restaurant in Mexico City, where they're supposed to meet Lawrence in an alleyway beside it.

They lean against the chipped brick wall next to a green dumpster. Adam’s trying his best to read the Spanish graffiti scrawled there, while Amanda calls Lawrence's burner to let him know they've arrived. And soon, there he is, dressed in a light baby-blue pinstripe button-up and cargo shorts. He looks so much like a dad on vacation. Or a lesbian.

“Larry!” Adam cheers, barreling into him in a hug. He's mindful of his cane, at least. “I'm very sweaty.”

“And now, so am I,” Lawrence chuckles, patting his back. “How was the drive?”

Amanda purses her lips. “Long. Tiring. Consumed a whole lotta substances you wouldn't agree with.”

“Which is to say it was fun,” Adam concurs, pulling away from Lawrence because it is seriously sweltering. Which gives him an idea. “Hey, why don’t we go to the beach? We've still got our swim stuff in the car.”

The other two agree and Amanda drives them back to Lawrence's hotel room, where they get changed in separate rooms. Adam changes into camouflage swim trunks and a black Chemlab shirt.

He leaves the bathroom to find Amanda, wearing men's black swim trunks and a red triangle bikini with black X’s where her nipples would be. There's a blue-green stick-and-poke tattoo of a heart on her hip, she's got an empty bellybutton piercing scar, and—whoa, those are some muscles. Adam's face heats up. “Holy shit you're jacked. Wow.”

Amanda laughs and looks down, surprised. “Well, yeah. Mark's not the only one who has to build traps and haul around unconscious people, you know.”

“Wow,” Adam repeats. He can't stop staring. “That is so not fair. You have nothing but Doritos and Monster Energy for three meals a day and look like…that.”

“Sure do.” Amanda flexes and his brain stutters and malfunctions around it like a bad computer. 

“Do you wanna hook up?” He blurts out before he can stop himself.

Amanda looks dumbstruck, but then she barks out a laugh, shaking her head with a wild grin. “Do I really look like I'm into guys?”

“Oh.” Adam runs a hand through his hair awkwardly. He mentally goes over a checklist—alternative fashion, general dislike of men, not to mention the woman on the phone. “Yeah, that—that actually makes a lot of sense.”

“Yep. Big dyke, fortunately.” She offers him an apologetic smile. “I'm flattered, though. I do think you're cute. If that helps.”

It does and it doesn't at the same time. Adam groans, covering his face. “Jesus, I'm sorry. Can you forget I just asked you that?”

She smirks. “Forget what?”

Adam gives her a tired smile. “Thanks.”

“No prob. Anyways, Larry's probably waiting for us. We should get a move on before he starts using that cane as a weapon.”

“Right. Lawrence.” He totally forgot about him. Adam's eyes widen and the caveman side of his brain takes control. Lawrence at the beach. Lawrence swim. Lawrence…without a shirt? 

The furious blush rises again, and Amanda giggles. “Moving on from me so fast? I'm hurt.”

“Aw, put a sock in it,” Adam grumbles, “or I'm eating that lady who called you earlier.”

“Whatever you say, slut.” She punches his bicep and runs out the door before he can retaliate.

The first thing Adam notices when they get into the backseat of the taxi is that Lawrence is wearing a shirt. Okay, Adam's wearing one too, but he's cold so that's totally different. “Dude, a button-up? Seriously? Are you this fancy all the time, or are we just special?”

Lawrence shrugs mildly. “I thought this was quite casual.”

“Rich bitch,” Adam says, not unkindly. “Whatever. At least you look good in it.”

“Thank you.” Twin spots of rouge appear on his cheeks. That’s one thing Adam has noticed about Lawrence, how easily his pale skin colours to his emotions. It's very endearing.

The steady beat of reggaetón plays over the taxi radio and Adam shifts in his seat to look out the window. A dense patchwork of colorful buildings, graffiti-covered overpasses, and endless rivers of cars greet him. When they stop at a light, vendors capitalize by walking between the traffic lanes, selling bottled water and salted nuts. The further they drive, the greener the scenery becomes—sugarcane fields, and thick pine shading the occasional roadside shrine decorated with bright flowers and waning candles.

The air shifts as they finally approach the coast. It’s thicker, saltier. The sun glows as the first glimpses of blue appear between the gold-veined palm fronds. The radio crackles and goes all staticky as the station fades, but it doesn’t matter because the crash of the tides is now playing.

Lawrence tips the cabbie and they head out to the beach. The sand is gold and powdery under their sandals like crushed graham crackers, and at the other side of the seafoam line that divided it is the ocean, coloured a deep, lush blue.

They find an empty spot to set down towels and bags, while Amanda stabs an umbrella into the ground to cast some shade. It's printed with a giant Canadian flag, both to try and disguise their identity, and to deflect any ugly American stereotypes that might get flung their way.

Adam's been wanting to swim ever since they crossed the border into the hot, humid Southern air, and he bounces up in his feet the second they're set up. “Water time!”

Amanda purses her lips. “Fine. But only so I can stretch my legs, I've been cramped in that damn car seat all week.”

“Weird. I was perfectly comfortable,” replies Adam.

“That's ‘cause you can't drive, you passenger princess.”

“Princess?” Adam's eyes go mock-wide. “We fighting or flirting?”

“For the last time. Lez-bee-an, ” Amanda says, punctuating each symbol with a clap of her hands.

Lawrence is suddenly very interested in the conversation. “You're a lesbian?”

“Chrissakes, you two. What do you want me to do, pierce my ears with carabiners and tattoo I EAT PUSSY across my forehead?”

“What pussy? You live in a sewer with four guys,” Adam scoffs.

“I'm gonna make it three guys if you don't shut your trap.”

“I've had enough of traps, thank you very much. And I knew you liked women, at the very least. You've got, like, good style.”

“You don't spend all that time in the closet without picking up a few pointers,” Amanda says drily.

Adam laughs. “I'm totally stealing that.”

Lawrence coughs awkwardly. “Well, I want you to know that I fully support you and your, um, romantic preferences, Amanda.”

She gives him an odd little smile. “Uh, thanks. Good to know.” She winks at Adam from an angle that Lawrence can't see, and he kind of wants to strangle her.

“He has standards. He's not homophobic, he just kills people.” When nobody laughs, Adam rolls his eyes. “Guys, seriously, have we not reached the joking stage of our trauma yet? That's like, the only good part.”

“I don't kill people,” Lawrence says, because he just loves to be right. “And what we do as Jigsaw is not murder. We are simply—”

“Okay, we are not having this conversation again. C'mon, guys, stop talking about work while we're on vacation! Let's go swimming!” Adam tugs Amanda to her feet and peels off his shirt in one smooth motion. If he turns around a little slower, a little more dramatically than the situation suggested, well, don't mention it to Lawrence. It's worth it for the way Lawrence's eyes go big and then immediately dart away from the exposed skin. The flush in his face is certainly good for Adam's ego. He's still got some childhood insecurities of his body, which is more on the skinnier side, but he’s pretty attractive and he knows it so he might as well take advantage.

“You gonna swim with that on too?” Adam nods to Lawrence's shirt, which is unfortunately still on.

Lawrence is switching between firm eye contact and the ground below him, leaving no room for checking him out. Goddamn gentleman. Adam almost wishes the older man was more of a sleaze so his dramatics could at least amount to something. “I'm not fond of swimming,” the blond finally responds.

“Seriously? You afraid of sharks or something?”

“No. Sharks would never go near such tourist-infected beaches as the one we're going to.”

“I know that . ” Adam rolls his eyes. “Well, whatever. Mandy and I are gonna swim and see cool fish and cool shells and you can stay on the beach and get sunburnt like a loser.”

“I didn't say I wouldn't come with you,” Lawrence retorts and stands up, using the stick of the umbrella as support. “It's been far too long since I've seen the ocean.”

“Really?” Adam asks as they tread down to the shore. “I would've thought your family would be all about it. Summer vacations to Laguna or Hawaii, all that jazz.”

“We took Diana to Disney World and stayed in a beach resort when she was five, but that's about it. However, when I was young my parents would take me on lots of beach holidays—lakes, oceans, the sorts. I believe the last one was for my fifteenth birthday.” There's a distant look in his eyes, something heavy in his tone. A story is there, Adam realizes, but it's one Lawrence doesn't feel like sharing.

Which works out because now they're at the water. And Adam doesn't hesitate. Taking a breath, he runs through the foamy waves and dove in once it was high enough. He swims a few strokes and opens his stinging eyes underwater, seeing the blurry clouds of dark silt plume like smoke. A silver minnow darts past his hand and russet eelgrass wraps. around him like a thin windy scarf. Bubbles escape his mouth, popping at the surface.

He bursts up from the deep, hair dark and heavy and plastered to his forehead. Letting the water hold him up, he lay on his back, limp and bobbing. The sun beats down on his skin and his hair surrounds his head like a halo. It's the most relaxed he's felt in a long, long time.

Amanda comes into his view soon enough, waist-deep and shivering. “I think Lawrence had the right idea.”

“No way. You're both wusses, it's not even that cold.” He stands again, shaking droplets from his hair like a wet dog. 

Amanda yelps and covers her face. “Ack! Stop it!”

“Oh, sorry. Wouldn't want you getting wet. In the ocean.” He glances past her and sees Lawrence. The buttons of his shirt have been undone, revealing a tantalizing strip of skin. He feels a little like a Victorian harlot getting hot under the collar over a lady's ankles or something, but Lawrence hasn't been giving him much to work with buried under all those stuffy suits.

“Stop eye-fucking him,” Amanda groans. “You're making me wanna hurl.”

Flustered, Adam can't come up with a snappy comeback, so instead he splashes her again and dives back under the water. He can see the pale, blurry shape of Lawrence and Amanda's bare legs behind him. Without thinking, he swims down and touches his ankle, light as a trigger fish.

They swim for a little longer before getting out. But as they're leaving the water, Adam spies three boys standing above a smaller boy with dark hair and brown skin, who's building a rather impressive sandcastle.

"Vaya, qué infantil… ¿también trajiste tu cubeta y palita de bebé?" One boy mocks.  "¿Esperando ser coronado rey de los perdedores?"

A spark of anger lights in Adam’s chest at the tone. He doesn't know Spanish, but he knows bullies.

The boy beside him shakes his head. "No mames, güey, ese castillo es puro cuento; ni la marea le da importancia.”

"Qué gran uso de tu tiempo...ahora mientras los demás nos divertimos de verdad.” Another boy smiles with crooked teeth too big for his mouth and smashes the castle into powder with his foot.

The smaller boy cries out and reaches to stop him, but it's too late and the castle is gone like it was never built.

The bullies guffaw in unison at his reaction. " Vaya, qué rollo: te pasas el día creando fantasías y al final ni la arena te respeta.”

One boy nudges another, and they turn to leave. "Ahí te ves, perdedor.”

Rage at the bullies and compassion for the small boy mix furiously and Adam storms over. “Hey, kid. Are you okay?”

The boy blinks up at him with eyes big and brown as a Labrador’s. He looks about ten or eleven, though he could be fifty with Adam's luck at guessing kid's ages. “Yes.”

Lawrence kneels down, fatherly concern written all over his expression. “¿Cómo te llamas?" His accent is terrible, but it seems to get the point across.

The corners of the boy's mouth peek up in a smile. “Carlos. ¿De dónde eres?”

“He's asking where we're from,” Lawrence translates for the rest of them. “Um, Canada.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spies two elderly people holding matching vanilla soft serve cones, and suddenly, Adam has an idea. He knows about as much Spanish as he knows Rhinoceros but he hopes the young boy knows some of his language. “Hey, Carlos. Do you like ice cream?” 

His face splits into a wide grin from ear to ear. “ Sí. ”

So they buy Carlos a strawberry cone and his father comes to pick him up, luckily, then they pack up and change into dry clothes.They're just heading back through the alleyway by the restaurant where they came when there's a rustle from the garbage cans. Everyone's head whips around—criminal activity and unfamiliar countries are a poor cocktail for emotional security—but to their relief, a tiny orange tabby leaps out, a piece of what looks like chicken clutched in its jaws. 

It jumps down from the bin to the ground in front of everyone and blinks up at Adam with owlish yellow eyes. He's trying really really hard not to scoop it up right now.

Amanda sees the look on his face and groans. “Don't even think about it.”

“Have you no whimsy?” Adam bends down to give it a scratch behind the ear. The kitten rumbles out a purr and flops onto his feet, exposing both a fuzzy underbelly and its gender. “She's a girl! That's pretty rare for gingers, only like twenty percent are females.” 

“Fascinating,” Amanda drones, punctuated with a yawn. “Can we go already or are you gonna keep explaining the mathematical formulas of cat genetics?”

“ I think it's interesting,” Lawrence says loyally. He crouches down and rubs her stomach, much to the molly’s delight, and frowns. “Poor little thing, she's skin and bones. Must be a stray.”

She rolls around his touch for a while before Adam remembers the snack he has in his pocket. “Would it be totally fucked-up if I fed her that, um, special jerky I brought? She just looks so hungry.”

“Why not?” Amanda says. “Just don't complain when she starts nibbling on your toes.”

“As long as you don't complain when I do it to you.” Adam peels the dried meat free from the saran wrap and holds it out to the kitten. She licks it tentatively with her raspberry tongue, then greedily gulps the rest of the stick down with surprising speed, licking his fingers when she was done. He cooes and pats her head. “Good girl! Who's a good little monster?”

“She really seems to like you,” Lawrence observes as the kitten winds around Adam's legs. “You would have made a great veterinarian.”

“Yeah, well, we can't all be born with silver spoons rammed down our throats,” he sighs as he strokes the cat. “Isn't that right, kitty?”

“We can't just call her ‘kitty.’ She needs a proper name,” Lawrence points out.

“Don't name it,” Amanda complains. “If you name it, he'll get attached. And if he gets attached, we have to keep it, and I don't wanna be liable if it gets run over and Adam takes revenge by, like, baking me into a casserole.”

“Casserole? Really?” Adam scoffs. “What am I, a suburban mother on the PTA? I'd at least turn you into something tasty, like, uh, salsa. Or…what's that dip that's sorta salsa-adjacent? With the Spanish name?”

“Pico de Gallo,” Lawrence supplies.

“More like Pico de Gato,” Amanda mumbles, mostly to herself, but Adam catches it and his eyes light up like sunbeams hitting a frozen lake.

“Hey! That's a perfect name!” He scoops up the tabby gato and cradles her like a baby in his arms, nuzzling her pink nose “What do you think about that, Pico? Oh, guys, listen, she's purring. She loves it already.”

“And now he's attached. Great work, Doc.” Amanda slaps Lawrence on the back so hard it probably knocks out a molar or two. 

“You should stop rubbing your face all over her,” Lawrence admits, rubbing his shoulder.

Adam rolls his eyes. “Or what, I’ll die? Tell you what, if I somehow survived Hoffman gutting me like a fish but kick it from a couple measly alley-cat germs, I owe you a quarter.”

“I’m just saying. We aren't yet sure if you can get sick, I’d rather you didn't end up with rabies or ringworm.”

Adam gasps and turns back to Pico. “Aww, did you hear that? Lar-bear wants to protect me from all your scary worms! Isn’t he sooo sweet?” He gives her a big kiss between her fuzzy ears.

Lawrence sighs. “Why do I even try?”

It's then that Amanda's burner phone rings. She fumbles around in her bra a little, the two guys staring pointedly at the floor, then pulls it out and answers it. “Yeah?”

She’s silent for a long time, then says in a clipped voice, “We’ll be there,” and hangs up. 

“What did he say?” Lawrence asks. Pico meows in Adam's arms, also wanting to be let in on the conversation.

Amanda’s mouth is set in a grim line as she tucks her phone away. “Keep those bags packed, boys, because John’s got a little problem and he needs our help to solve it.”

Chapter Text

After Amanda explains that John had told her how the miracle cancer treatment was a scam—“I could have told him that myself,” Lawrence had grumbled, “and saved him the quarter of a million.” And how the company had not only tricked him, but dozens of other terminally ill cancer patients who'd died soon after their ‘treatment.’

Well, those scammers messed with the wrong sick old man, because naturally now the John “Jigsaw” Kramer's setting up a game and he wants the three of them to help. He’s already done one game with a man named Diego, who gave them information on the other scammers’ whereabouts tonight.

Adam fumbles with his pig mask, sniffing it tentatively. “This smells like an actual pig. Why the hell did John bring these to Mexico, anyway? Was he expecting a game?”

“No. Hoffman sent them over,” Amanda explains. She's brushing the thick black nonsensical hair on hers, which is much shinier and higher quality than his and Lawrence's. “Paid extra. Express shipping.”

“Wow. You guys are really set on your aesthetics, huh?” Adam scrunches up his face at the mask’s grotesque snout. “Black ski masks with the eyes cut out work just as well, you know.” 

“And that's why you aren't in charge.” Amanda tosses a pair of leather gloves his way, matching the other apprentices. “These are coming out of your paycheck, by the way.”

His mouth drops open. “I get paid?” 

Everyone ignores him. “So who am I going to, er, capture?” Lawrence asks, pulling the cheesy black cloak over his broad shoulders and knotting it shut.

“You and Adam can go together ‘cause you've never done this before. Don't worry, it's not that complicated. Drugs, needle, neck. Or chloroform, if you're squeamish. Easy.”

“Easy,” Adam echoes. “What if they fight back?”

“Fight harder.” With that, she digs around in a cardboard box and pulls out a gun, black and dangerous. “For protection.”

Adam takes it, testing the weight. The only firearms he's held were rifles from when his dad used to go game hunting. He's doing that now, he supposes, only a different kind of game hunting. “I thought…I thought we couldn't murder people. Killing is distasteful , and all.”

“Not when it's self-defense.” She looks away. “Just—if it feels right, shoot, okay? Don't waffle over some dumbass rules until you get your neck snapped.”

So Adam pockets the gun, and Amanda decides on getting Cecilia and Gabriela, which leaves the men to kidnap Valentina and Mateo. 

The vibrant sunset coats the hot cityscape in orange and dusky purple as Adam and Lawrence leave in some sketchy black van John sent to them. Streetlights streak lights behind them in a blurry line. A nightlife of people, young and old, flock the sidewalks in long lines outside parties, dressed in glitter and garish neon like a sheet of shimmery star stickers. 

It sends a pang of longing through Adam. He wishes like hell he could be getting wasted at a nightclub or shitty bar back in the city, instead of dressed up as pork in a Sith Lord cloak about to commit several federal offenses.

But then he remembers Lawrence is beside him, asking for directions in that low, audiobook-worthy voice of his, and Adam suddenly can't find it in him to be bitter about his situation. 

First up on their list is a woman by the name of Valentina, who tonight is at some trashy club in a bad neighborhood. They figure Adam looks more that scene so he goes in to scope out the place. The bouncer at the door doesn't even card him, and he isn't sure if that's a testament to how legal this place is or if it's a sign he's getting old.

Under the pink lights and loud electronic music, he sees Valentina, dancing in the corner in a tight black dress under a flower-print wraparound with layered chokers and lots of thick eye makeup. She’s a good dancer. Pretty, too. The kind of woman he’d be drawn to under normal circumstances. 

But these aren't normal circumstances, and he’s got a job to do. Carefully, he squeezes his way through the crowd. He’ll try to flirt with her, get her away from the crowd and outside to her car, where Lawrence is waiting in a mask to sedate her.

But apparently another man has the same plans, because soon some tall burly guy is sauntering over to her like some colourful bird fluffing his feathers out to attract a mate. Adam watches in dismay as the guy backs her against a wall and whispers something she likes into her ear.

Well, that didn't go according to plan , Adam thinks as the pair hurry out of the club. Maybe he’s not as seductive as he was hoping he was. No matter. He sneaks out the exit by the bathrooms and crouches right behind the car, just below the window. If he’s good at one thing, it’s hiding. 

He hears them talk in muffled Spanish as the man opens the door. Valentina seems hesitant, but when she turns her head the man catches her off guard and grabs her by the wrist. Adam hears Valentina scream and then it’s cut off by the big, oily palm of a hand as he wrestles her into the car and slams the door shut.

All of a sudden, his skin feels stretched too thin, and his heartbeat is far too loud in his ears. A thick coil of revulsion creeps its way up his body, curling itself around his chest and squeezing like a python. He knows sleazy jerks like this, knows what he's going to do to her, what he's already done to other young women like her.

Adam's head pounds as he stands up on shaky legs. Reaches into the pocket of his cloak, pulls out the gun, smooth through his leather gloves, and aims at the window. Fires.

The glass bursts open and so does the man's head. Blood and viscera splatters everywhere—his pig mask, the carseats, Valentina. She's screaming even louder now, makeup smeared around her eyes and mouth like a puppet. Sirens from the car alarm nearly drown her out.

Luckily, Lawrence swoops in, shouldering past Adam and reaching through the open window framed by jagged glass. He yanks Valentina closer by her hair while she's distracted and sinks the needle into her neck with a doctor's precision. Her eyes ringed with dripping black flutter shut and she went limp against the car door. Limp over the body of the man that Adam shot.

Adam realizes he hasn't let go of the smoking gun. He's still holding it in front of him, white-knuckled with both hands. Frozen. Trembling. 

Lawrence hastily glances around the desolate street before pulling off his mask. His sandy hair is all tousled and his face is flushed. “Are you alright?” 

Adam barely registers him. His vision tunnels on the gore, the blood seeping into the cushions, his heartbeat hammering like it’s trying to escape his ribs. He’d shot someone. He’d pulled the trigger. He’d—

Lawrence notices his panic and strides closer, grabbing his wrists. His hands are so large they wrap all the way around. The observation makes his grip go slack and the gun slips from his fingers, clattering to the ground. Even then, Lawrence doesn't break eye contact, keeping his voice steady. "Hey, breathe. Look at me."

Adam squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head stiffly. “I can't—fuck. Fuck.” He opens them again and his vision swims blurry with tears. “I-I killed him.”

“Oh, Adam.” Gently, Lawrence tugs Adam's mask over his head to reveal his face, glowing with exertion. “Sweet boy, it's alright. You're safe. You did what you had to do.”

Adam can't look at him. Staring into the streetlight ringing the taller man's head like a halo, he bites his lip and wills himself not to cry. “Lawrence, God. I'm so s-sorry. I fucked everything up.”

“No, you didn't. You did the right thing, but now it's our responsibility to clean it up.” His tone is firm. A firefighter urging a classroom out of a burning building. A surgeon asking the orderly to fetch tools to save a life.

A traitorous tear rolls down his cheek, but he can't wipe it away. He’s rooted to the spot, his arms heavy at his sides like cement bricks. “Lar, I-I can't do this, I can't—”

“Shh.” Lawrence hesitates, then takes his head in his hands, tilting his face up to make his gaze. He's so close Adam can smell his sweat, the thick leather and iron tang of blood. With Lawrence's gloved thumb, he swipes away the streak of tears on Adam's cheek. “None of that, okay? You're fine.” He gives a moment for the glimmer in Adam's eyes to go down, all the while stroking his jaw. 

His touch grounds him, but does nothing to stop the thrill in his chest. Better than nothing. “Thanks,” Adam says, breathing out shakily. “You're really good at this.”

He smiles. “I have plenty of practice.” Leaning closer to examine him, he nods. Adam can feel his breath on his skin. “See, you're much better. Help me get her into the van now, will you?” 

Adam swallows thickly, eyes fluttering shut at the proximity. He wants Lawrence to stop looking at him. He wants Lawrence to wrap those gloved hands around his neck and choke him. “Y-yeah, fuck, whatever you want.”

Lawrence cocks his head to one side as if studying him. One of his hands slides down his cheek past his jawline to his neck, resting there. Adam’s heart is now racing for a very different reason. The older man can probably feel his rapid pulse through his throat. Unblinking, Adam watches, dares, for him to make another move.

But all he does is murmur “Good,” and pat him once on his good shoulder before turning around and heading away to open the back of the van. 

Leaving Adam standing there feeling scared, nauseous. Mildly aroused. 

“Jesus Christ ,” he curses under his breath at the train of thought, and wipes his face with his hands like he's washing off liquid sin. Having a thing for his co-worker in this particular line of work really seems to be doing a number on his psyche, and his morals.

Fortunately, the sight of a sexual predator lying dead with his brains blown out all over a shitty car is a major boner-killer. Lawrence opens the door and hauls the big guy out from his armpits with a grunt. “Grab his legs, will you?”

Numbly, Adam picks up the man's legs and tries not to look directly at him. It's no use, and like a car accident, it's hard to look away. Lawrence follows his gaze and huffs out a laugh. “Bloody hell, kid. You sure made a mess of him, didn't you?” 

“Um, yeah.”

“Hey.” Lawrence narrows his eyes. “Don't be upset over this—this bastard. He's the type of man we put in traps all the time, right? You did a good thing.”

“But we're supposed to give them a chance. He didn't get that. It wasn't even self-defense.”

“You defended someone else. Valentina. You saved her.”

Adam doesn't feel like he saved her. He feels like he's dooming her all over again. “I guess.” He sniffs. “Um, what are we doing with him, anyway?”

Lawrence smiles with sharp teeth, dripping with honey and cruelty. “Can't let fine meat go to waste, now can we?”

Adam looks at the mess of gore that was once the man's face, exposed skull cavity dark like crushed blackberries, and warm saliva fills his mouth. Then he feels a wave of disgust towards himself so violent that he turns around and throws up in the gutter for a minute straight. He spits a few times, wiping his mouth. “Goddamnit. Why'd you say that, man, that’s vile.”

“Sorry,” Lawrence says, not sounding sorry in the slightest. Adam's more angry at his own reaction than the other man's comments, anyway. “You know I'm right.”

“Goddamnit,” he says again, running a hand through his hair, then pointing at him, accusatory. “You're crazy, you know that? You're a real sicko. Real fucked in the head.”

“I thought you figured that out a good while ago, when I sawed off my own foot,” Lawrence says drily. “I didn't realize you'd forgotten.”

“That's gross.”

“You're gross.”

Adam snorts. “Wow, real smart comeback. Grow the hell up.”

Lawrence grins down at him. “Well clearly I've grown much better than you.”

Adam rolls his eyes so hard they hurt and punches him on the shoulder. “Screw you, dude.”

“Now who's the smart one?” Lawrence teases, then gestures to his shoulder. “Also, ow.”

Adam winks. “Now we're even.”

They carry Valentina, who's much lighter but still hard to carry on the account that she's still alive and they've got to be careful with the handling. As they lay her down against a cardboard box, Adam feels a pang of gentle sadness for the young woman. “She looks so peaceful.”

“Won’t look so peaceful in a couple minutes,” Lawrence mutters, and slides the back door shut.

As they drive, Adam keeps his gaze fixed out the window, watching the lights of apartment windows go out with long, slow blinks. He's gotten used to the terribly uneven sleep schedule of a Jigsaw apprentice over these past few weeks, but it doesn't make it any easier to endure.

He's woken from his daydreaming by a squeeze on his thigh that makes him flinch in surprise. 

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Lawrence asks, soft. “I was just going to ask if you're feeling any better.”

“Oh.” Adam blinks the fuzz from his eyes and nods slowly. “Yeah, a little. Thanks.”

“That's good.” Lawrence’s gaze flickers between the road and Adam, something curious in it. “It gets easier, I think. With time, it gets easier.”

Cold dread stabs him in the chest like an icicle tipped with poison. Hoffman shooting a homeless man just because he could get away with it. Amanda tearing open someone's stomach with her hands while he was still breathing. “I don't want it to get easier,” Adam finally mumbles, and lets his eyes flutter shut.

They end up at a veterinary clinic and sneak through the surprisingly roomy package slot in the back of the building, probably for supply delivery. They duck behind a door frame and peer out into a hallway. It's silent save for the occasional barking of dogs in their kennels and one man—Mateo—mopping the shiny white floors, humming a song Adam vaguely recognizes from the radios here. He's got short black hair and a scraggly beard, dressed up in a white lab coat.

Lawrence steps forward, heading towards Mateo, but a German Shepard starts barking like someone had just stepped on its tail and Lawrence immediately ducks back behind the corner. Mateo turns around, narrowed eyes sweeping the area, but eventually goes back to literally sweeping the area.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Lawrence hisses. “We could blitz him. He may fight back, though. Damn dogs.”

Finally, all those free veterinary courses he'd taken came in handy. “If you're worried about the dogs, running will only make them angrier. German Shepherds are guarding breeds. They're trained to recognize unfamiliar people and like, brutally attack them, or whatever.” 

“Lovely.” 

Adam purses his lips, trying to think. “Hey! I've still got the rest of that meat in my pocket!”

“You're going to give every animal in Mexico City a taste for human flesh,” Lawrence says with a roll of his eyes, but doesn't stop Adam from slipping it through the bars. “I suppose you want me to take care of Mateo?”

“Kind of, yeah. I don't think I'm great at the whole stealthy assassin thing. I could distract him for you?”

Lawrence nods and begins to creep up behind Mateo. Adam army-crawls behind hospital machines and bulk boxes of tuna pâté until he’s inches away from Mateo's shiny shoes—real leather and newly polished in blood money.

Adam pops up like a jack-in-the-box, accidentally sending a bag of kibble flying through the air, raining dark little pebbles all over them. Mateo whirls around in surprise, yelling something in startled Spanish.

Adam beams cheerily, clasping his hands together like he's posing for a Christmas card. “Excuse me, sir. Does this cloth smell like chloroform?”

Mateo's eyes narrow in confusion, but they're soon rolling back in his head and fluttering shut as Lawrence slaps a wet paper towel over his mouth and nose from behind, rolling his eyes at Adam as he does so. “Nice distraction.”

“Can't tell if that was sarcasm or not.” 

“I feel like you should be better at detecting it considering how much you use it.”

“Ohh, wowww, what a smart comeback. You're hilarious , Larry. I've just about worn the L and O off my metaphorical keyboard.”

Lawrence shakes his head in mock disapproval and hauls the body up bridal-style. “You kids and your technology. Tidy this place up, will you?”

Adam uses the discarded mop and bucket to finish Mateo's job for him (seriously, he should be getting overtime for this) and gives the dogs the rest of the meat and a couple behind-the-ear scratches to the German Shepherd for good measure. Maybe he could convince John to let them adopt one of them? Maybe they could name it Monty. It made sense that they'd have an attack dog.

“Who am I kidding, we've got Hoffman for that,” Adam mutters, and sneaks out the back entrance to finish setting up the game.

When they finally get to the warehouse, Gabriela and Cecilia are in chains and there's already blood on the floor drying brown and tacky. John is across the room looking through blueprints and Amanda is pacing in circles, worrying a thumbnail between her teeth. She's wearing a plain grayish shirt, a black choker, cargo pants, and her usual gigantic combat boots. 

Amanda visibly relaxes when she sees them and together she and Lawrence haul out the scammers. They dress them in chains and pose them in their respective traps like children with their dolls. Adam isn't gonna pretend it's not creepy.

Everyone except John then heads up the rickety stairs to the control room as the sedative begins to wear off on the group. Lawrence monitors the security cameras placed outside the warehouse in case of squatters or the police, while Amanda sits in the corner, her arms folded on the windowsill and her chin resting on them. She's watching the game unfold with a look of thought hazing her dark gaze.

Adam moves to stand beside her and leans against the wall. His fingers itch for a cigarette so he fishes a pack and a lighter out of his jeans and taps one out. “Hey, you doing okay?”

Amanda doesn't look away, as if she's hypnotized by the fear taking place down there, like she's watching a car accident or a bad fight.

Adam feels bad. He offers her the cigarette. “Want one? You look like you need it.”

“I guess.” She accepts it from him without looking but doesn't take a hit. “Can I tell you something that you can't tell any of the others?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Sometimes I think…” She hesitates, biting her lip. “Some of these people don't deserve this. Is that weird?” 

“Well, we are putting normal people in death traps. I'd say the general population would agree with you.”

She snorts in disbelief. “Since when have we cared what the general population thought?”

“Touché.” Adam takes out another cigarette and screws with the lighter till the cherry finally burns.

“But I don't normally think this, is the thing. With the traps I heard about before me, and my actual trap, I agreed. And the game with you and Lawrence I understood completely.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.” Amanda flexes her hand and the scars down the underside of her arms ripple like tiger stripes. “I just…I know how she feels. Like you feel so empty and useless and there's only one way you can escape from it all.”

“Who?” Adam takes a hit, tries to remember their names. Maybe the Swedish one. Or was it Icelandic? “Cecilia?”

She barks a laugh. “Oh no. If I was running these games, that blondie bitch would already be dead.”

Adam glances out the window to see who the other woman was, and oh, right, Gabriela. The drug addict. She's very young, more of a girl, with big scared eyes and a shakiness to her movements reminiscent of the woman sitting right next to him. 

“She did a terrible thing,” Amanda mumbles, like she could hear his thoughts, “but I understand why she did it.” 

“Yeah,” Adam says, dragging out the word, and blows out smoke through his teeth. They watch out the window as John talks words nobody can hear and the victims scream pleas nobody will listen to. 

Amanda tears her gaze away from the scene as if remembering what she's still holding, and puts the cigarette out on the pale skin of her wrist without even wincing at the sizzle. If you looked at the scar closely, it almost looked like the inside of a tree trunk, an octopus’s coiled tentacle, a snail shell. A spiral.

So when some bearded white guy called Parker Sears arrives at the building, turns out to be in on it, turns out to have a gun, turns out to be Cecilia's boyfriend, and the two of them start playing 4D chess, everyone freaks out.

“This is why plays have rehearsals, people!” Adam calls to Lawrence, who's frantically pacing around the room, one hand rubbing his jaw like a lucky rabbit's foot. Down on the ground, Amanda and John watch as Cecilia and Parker are probably loudly declaring their evil plans for them or whatever. 

“Adam, quiet. This is serious. We didn't plan for an extra player, let alone someone trying to kill us. ” Lawrence exhales, roughly tugging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Cecilia and him don't know we're here, right? We can just…stay put, try and help them from up here.”

“What?” Adam shakes his head. “No, we've got to go down there and help them!”

“He's got a gun. They've proven already that they'll kill with Gabriela. The minute you try anything funny you'll be shot.”

Adam sighs, folds his arms and kicks up his legs on the desk. “Yeah, whatever. I just wish there was some way we could save them.”

Lawrence nods. “Just keep watching the cameras. I'll try and figure something out.”

Forcing himself to ignore the muffled, angry sounds of the people below, Adam looks into the fuzzy lines of the monitors. And then does a double take, his stomach dropping. “Uh, Lawrence? You might wanna take a look at this.”

“What?” Lawrence rushes over to him, squinting at the picture. “Need my damn reading glasses.”

“You wear glasses?” Adam asks, perking up, then shakes himself. “Not the point. Okay, take a look at this.”

On the screen, a blurry figure is trembling beside the rest of the group. Adam doesn't recognize him, but whoever it is happens to be a good bit shorter than the rest of the group.

He blows out a breath. “So, tell me that is not a kid. Tell me that’s just, like, a really small con artist.”

Lawrence’s grip is tight, straining the cushion on the spinny chair Adam's sitting on. “Cecilia must've brought him here. He wasn’t part of the game.”

“So now it’s a hostage situation with elementary schoolers involved. Awesome. What’s next, a petting zoo trap?” Adam scoffs.

Lawrence moves closer to the monitor, jaw clenched. “Don't joke Adam. This is serious.”

“No shit. This is messed up, even for us.” Us , as in the Jigsaw collective. It unsettles him that he's lumping himself in with that group now. 

Lawrence grabs a walkie-talkie and presses it on. “Amanda, what the hell is going on down there?”

Crouched behind a nearby pole so that their captives-turned-captors didn't see, Amanda’s voice comes out hushed. “Well, what does it look like? Carlos and John are going in the trap.”

“But…but Carlos is a kid! We don't normally do this, right? I mean, even Jigsaw has a line.” Adam's babbling, he knows, but Jesus, this is going way way way too far.

“We didn't put him in there,” Amanda snaps back, “she did.” 

Adam’s mouth is too busy frantically burning through his pack of cigarettes to talk, so Lawrence interjects. “Isn't there something we can do? Anything at all?” 

“Look, John said to trust him, okay? I know this all seems pretty bleak, but if there's one thing I know about him, it's that he's always right.” 

“I suppose so. But if things are looking dire, Adam and I can think of something, alright? You just say the word.”

Adam frowns, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “Hey, Lawrence? Where's Parker?”

Lawrence waves a hand dismissively at him. “Shh now, I'm talking.”

“Jesus Christ Larry, stop going all business dad on me right now and answer my goddman question.”

“Hold on, Amanda.” Exasperated, Lawrence covers the speaker. “Classy. What.”

“Where’s Parker?”

“Right here.” Parker emerges from behind the lockers at the back of the room, pointing with both hands a gun right at them. “Hands above your goddamn heads, now.”

They both comply, but Adam snorts in disbelief. “You sure you can even figure out how to shoot that thing? Last I checked you aren't supposed to hold those like you're about to drop to one knee and propose.”

Parker's brow creases. “Fuck are you talking about, kid?”

“Also, sorry, but it's still not legalized here. Take it to the Netherlands.”

“Let's not antagonize the man pointing a loaded gun at us, hm?” Lawrence hisses at him behind gritted teeth.

“Especially when I don't have much of a reason to leave you two alive.” Parker cocks his head to one side and his neck cracks. “Got any final bargains?”

“I'm an oncologist,” Lawrence says without hesitation. “That's a cancer doctor. I can provide relevant information so you can improve the quality of your…of Cecilia’s operation.”

“Huh. Yeah, good enough.” Parker turns both his attention and his gun to Adam, both of which are unwelcome. “What about this scrap over here?”

“Um.” Adam's voice comes out less intimidating and more mouselike. He clears his throat and tries to think. “I can give pretty decent head?”

Parker barks a laugh, rough and ugly and a sign of what's coming to Adam if he keeps up the chainsmoking. “Fuckin’ hell, kid. Thought you said this ain't the Netherlands.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure child torture and murder aren't legal here either. Pick your battles.”

“You're gonna have to come up with a better offer than that, faggot,” Parker sneers with yellow teeth.

Adam feels Lawrence flinch beside him at the slur. Adam's fairly unfazed by it at this point—you can't be a guy wearing eye makeup and nail paint prancing around with a fancy camera without having a couple choice words spat at you after getting your head smacked into the concrete—but seeing preppy, polished, apparently heterosexual Lawrence’s feathers so ruffled is…interesting, to put it mildly.

“Um…are you and Cecilia married yet? Cause I'm a photographer, I could totally do your wedding pictures,” Adam tries, but he's scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point and Parker can see it too judging by the smug smirk on his face.

“Anything else?”

“Well, those are kind of my only two talents, so.” Adam gulps. “Also, would you kill me if I lit up a cigarette right about now? Just so you know, I bite when I get nervous and I haven't had all my shots.”

“Oh, lord,” Lawrence mutters dismally, and makes the sign of the cross.

Luckily, they're saved by Cecilia strapping John and Carlos into the trap. Well, lucky for Adam, not so lucky for the other two. A lever is pulled and suddenly gallons of dark red liquid begin pouring from a nozzle over their faces, essentially drowning them.

“Blood-boarding, hm,” Lawrence muses. “I suppose it's creative.”

“Where the hell did he even get this much blood?” Adam asks. “Also, dude with the gun, can I put my hands down now? My shoulders hurt.”

“...Fine. But don't try anything funny, yeah?”

“Capiche.” The two men sit back down in the chairs to watch the Dracula-juice splattered events play out on the fuzzy monitors.

Lawrence can't stop bouncing his leg, eyes glued to the screen. “If the flow rate is off by even half a liter, Carlos drowns before John loses consciousness.”

Adam feels bad, and in a flash of boldness, puts his hand on his thigh to slow it. “They're gonna be okay, Larry. John has a plan, he said it himself.”

“I know. I just—he couldn't have anticipated all this, could he?”

“John's mind works in mysterious ways. He’d be a way better psychic than he is a psycho.”

Lawrence smiles a little at that. “More money in it too, I presume.”

Suddenly, the door swings open and Cecilia bursts in, heels clicking on the floor. She grins and runs a hand through her shiny blonde hair when she sees Parker, and pulls him up for a long kiss.

“Oh, she totally pegs you, doesn't she,” Adam interrupts the gross display of heterosexuality, lighting up another cigarette because Parker never said no when he asked earlier.

Cecilia's brow furrows as she turns to notice him for the first time. “And who are you?” She has a faintly European accent, but he still can't remember from where. Denmark? Finland? 

“Okay, Belgium, final guess.”

Cecilia smiles with straight white teeth, like a wolf looking at its next meal if wolves had the capability to smile. “Wrong. Norway.”

“Oh.” Adam points to himself, then points to Lawrence, who appears slightly mortified. “American, British. Well, American too now.”

“How utterly fascinating. Since we've all introduced ourselves, why don't we get rid of these two and fetch our reward, darling?” Cecilia hums, tugging on the collar of Parker's shirt.

“Gladly,” he replies, and the pair head to the back of the control room to get the suitcase of scam money John confiscated there. 

Once they're out of earshot, Adam scrambles for the walkie-talkie. “Amanda? Amanda, he's holding us here and he's probably gonna kill us soon too. What do we do?”

“You guys are still up there?” Amanda swears under her breath. “John hasn't told me much about his plan, but all I know is that you two need to get the fuck outta there now or things are gonna get a whole lot worse.”

“What do you mean?” Lawrence asks hurriedly, but now it's just static going through and her end turns off. “Shit.”

“Lawrence, I don't know what to do.” Adam's getting panicky again, and he takes a long hit of his cigarette before speaking again, gesturing with his hands wildly. “I mean, he's got a gun. He'll shoot us before we can even get out that door.”

“Hey! I can hear you two fairies schemin’ back there!” Parker shouts. “And you're right, so don't even think about tryna run.”

So Adam and Lawrence can only watch helplessly as their victorious captors find the suitcase, pull it off the shelf, and…

And suddenly everything is drowned in red flashing lights. A timer at the back lights up and starts counting down, and a song begins blaring over the speakers. It's the same song that played on the final tape Adam found in the bathroom game weeks ago, and the flashbacks it brings are less than pleasant. As John’s signature gravelly voice begins to play from a tape, everyone’s gaze lands on the heavy rusted door to freedom sitting ajar across the room.

Lawrence leans down, whispering urgently in Adam’s ear. “That door isn't going to stay open for long. We need to go, like Amanda said.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Parker sneers. He raises the gun and before they can even think about ducking, he fires.

Nothing happens.

Parker’s face contorts into a confused grimace as he pulls the trigger, over and over and over again, and still nothing happens.

Adam’s face blossoms into a grin. “Guess Jigsaw’s into gun control now.” He mimes firing a gun with his pointer and thumb. “No powder, no power.”

“At least now we know the only thing you’re killing is the mood,” Lawrence drawls in a show of unexpected sarcasm.

Cecilia steps forward. There’s an odd look of calm on her angular face. And then Adam sees what she’s holding—a syringe, improvised into some sort of weapon. He should’ve known she wouldn't go down without a fight. “You think John left you two the way out? This is my game now,” she declares, and then lunges towards them.

She goes for Lawrence first. He sidesteps, but she manages to slice through the fabric on his sleeve right down to his arm. Letting out a hiss and staggering into a corner, clutching his arm, Adam cries out, “Lawrence!” But before he can rush to his aid, someone wraps two huge hands around his waist and slams him into the grimy wall. Adam feels something break, feels the stitches on his ragged shirt tear, and he groans in pain. “J-Jeez, take me out to dinner first…”

Parker spins him around and leers down at him with filthy teeth. Adam can feel his hot, rank breath on his skin. “Shut the fuck up. You Jigsaw apprentices all think you’re so smart with that little stunt you pulled, eh? Well, here’s what’s gonna happen.”

Adam scowls. “Spare me the exposition— ow !”

Parker punches him right across the face with a crack , hard enough that his teeth cut through his cheek. Adam coughs, spits up dark red. He feels the warm gush of blood pouring from his broken, obviously crooked nose. Fuck.

“Gonna listen now?” Parker hisses, caging him in with his broad shoulders and leaning in even closer. Adam screws up his face and tries to squirm away, but Parker’s much bigger than him and he’s got his hands fully wrapped around his wrists, tight enough to bruise, and he can’t escape, trapped like he was chained to that pipe in the goddamn bathroom game. “First, I’m gonna wring your scrawny neck till you can’t even gasp for air. Then, my girl n’ I are gonna slit your little doctor boyfriend’s throat and leave out that door while his blood soaks through your shitty faggot band T-shirt.”

“You’re not getting anywhere near Lawrence,” Adam spits venomously, “and how does liking Radiohead make me gay?”

Parker just smirks. “Hey, Cece?”

“I told you not to call me that,” Cecilia snaps, but comes over anyway. Her hands, clutching the needle, are slick with blood. Lawrence’s blood.

Adam feels sick, sure, but also something else—anger, white-hot boiling anger with a ferocity he’s never felt before. There’s a straight prickling over his skin as the hairs on his arms raise, an electric current running through his veins. His teeth ache like he left his retainer on for too long. His heart is pounding fast, too fast.

“Aww, look at how quickly he’s breathing. Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon,” Cecilia purrs, saccharine sweet. The needle in her hand glints menacingly. 

Adam stands against the wall in front of them, dead centre like a devil in a cathedral. Something’s wrong with him now, he can feel it. His eyes are too bright. His teeth feel too big for his mouth, sharp, unnatural. He can smell everything, the rust, the metal, the stale blood. It reeks of violence and desperation and memory. He looks back up at them and smiles, glimmering and wide.

Parker raises the empty gun again like it’s a threat. “Stay back, freak. I can still use this.”

Adam smirks with pointed fangs. Confidence oozes out of him despite his compromising situation. He steps forward, and the two captors, unnerved, step back. “Then do it, big guy. Let’s see how loud your little toy barks—oh wait, we took your bullets.” He tuts, simpering. “Guess you’ll have to get your hands dirty like the rest of us.”

“Alright, that’s it.” With a growl, Parker lunges at him with the dead gun, probably trying to clip him in the jaw with it. Adam lets him come and doesn’t even move at first. But then, like a switch is flipped, Adam launches forward with blurring, superhuman speed. He grabs Parker by the throat like he’s half his weight instead of twice and steel-gripped slams him down onto the concrete floor. Wind knocked out of him, Parker let out a shocked, choked sound. Cecilia is frozen above them, obviously unsure of what the hell is happening.

Adam climbs over him like an animal, pinning him there with knees either side of his waist in a vise grip. He leans down above Parker. Saliva drips from behind his jaws and onto his face as he whispers, sultry, “You wanna know what hell tastes like?” He opens his mouth wide to reveal fangs, long, jagged, demonic, and glinting in the flashing red emergency lights. 

Parker’s eyes go wide in terror. “Wh-what the fuck are you?”

“I’m what happens when you leave someone in the dark for too long.” He smiles again wryly. “But I came out cute, right?”

Before Parker has a chance to respond, Adam sinks his teeth straight through his clothes and into his shoulder. He can taste the hot rush of blood and living flesh and it’s even better than the dead shit Amanda’s been feeding him. Parker howls like wounded prey and Adam finally pulls back, licking his lips. Blood is smeared across his chin like war paint. “You taste like regret and Axe body spray,” he mumbles through the mess, and swallows. He lets Parker roll back to the floor, whimpering, clutching his shredded arm. He doesn’t need to kill him.

Above him, Cecilia is frozen, rooted to the spot and trembling. Adam nods at her, face half-shadowed, blood dripping from his lips. “You next, Barbie?

With that, something clicks inside of her, and she launches forward with the syringe aimed right at him. Thinking quicker than he’s ever thought before, Adam grabs Parker and thrusts him up into her path as a human shield. She jabs the needle right inside his neck. 

Both Parker’s and her eyes widen. Parker’s breath comes out in one final shuddering gasp, and he collapses to the floor like a sack of rocks.

Adam keeps his gaze trained on his twitching body, nothing behind it. “Karma’s kind of a bitch, huh? Homophobic asshole.” He turns back to Cecilia. “Damn, killing your own boyfriend. Savage.”

He launches back up. Cecilia slashes at him, but he ducks, twists behind her, and wraps an arm around her throat. Not enough to choke. Just enough to control. He gets close to her ears and whispers, voice sweet as wild clover. “You’re smart. And you’re awfully pretty. So let’s not ruin that face, hm?”

Cecilia shakes her head, face twisted with rage. “If you kill me, you’re just as bad as us. This doesn't prove anything.”

“You lost the game, sure. But I’m not Jigsaw. I don’t need to kill you to win.” With that, he throws her back against the wall hard into a filing cabinet. Pages fly and flutter to the ground like sycamore seeds, and he hears the delicious sound of keys sliding from her pocket across the floor to his feet. He bends over and hurls the keys towards an in-pain-but-very-much-alive Lawrence and he catches them with shaking hands. The timer beeps to signify the one minute remaining and the door lets out a mechanical buzzing—it’s starting to close.

Cecilia’s eyes fly open from her dazed state and she snarls, trying to crawl forward towards them. It’s about as scary as a tripod kitten. “You both think you’re so much better than me, huh? What about you, doctor? I know all about you. You’re just a pawn! You think John helped you? He used you!”

Lawrence hesitates. Adam sees the weight of his choices, the sins he’s committed, flicker in his cloudy blue eyes. He shakes his head slowly. “We were all pawns. But pawns still get a move.”

He grabs Adam’s hand in his and together they sprint to the door. Cecilia screams as she scrambles towards them on all fours, but Lawrence slams it shut on her face just as she reaches for it.

“NO!” She roars, muffled behind it. Adam can hear her bloody fists pounding against firm steel. “NO! OPEN IT!

Adam and Lawrence stare through the grimy, barred window beside the door at the room as it slowly fills with a smoky gas. Cecilia seems to find a vent at the side of the room, because in a moment her head is poking through, gasping for clean air. The hole is just big enough to get her head through, and her eyes when she turns to glare at them are filled with pure hatred.

“Game over,” Adam whispers, soft as a silenced gun, and turns around to join the others.

After they explain what happened, John leaves to wash the rapidly drying blood off his face and to talk to Carlos. Adam watches them leave, John's hand on Carlos’s back in a strangely paternal move. If John Kramer, Jigsaw, was willing to put his life on the line for a child…maybe he wasn't all bad, after all.

Lawrence strides over, wrapping gauze around the wound on his arm. He’s glaring down at Amanda. “We need to talk about ethics. Again.”

She rolls her eyes. “Can we not do this right now?

“We just let a child be waterboarded in hemoglobin.”

“Yeah. And he lived. Thanks to John's plan.”

Adam shrugs. And luckily, all his wounds healed quickly due to his demon powers, so his nose is back to its perfect former state. “She's got a point, Lawrence. As much as I hate to say this, John was right. Not in, like, the killing people sense, but he at least had a plan.”

“And he didn’t mean for Carlos to be in the trap,” Amanda defends. “We expected them to put me in it. Plus, we’re giving all the money those scammers stole to him.”

“That should pay off those therapy bills,” Adam quips. “He’s gonna need it.”

“You know you could also give the money back to the cancer victim’s families, but I suppose you can do that too,” sighs Lawrence.

Adam gazes around the room. It smells awful in here, even if they’ve already cleaned up most of the bodies. The abandoned warehouse is covered in rust and blood and grime and certainly isn't going to be a hot tourist destination for the foreseeable future.“Well, that was a fun vacation. Same time next year?”

Chapter Text

Adam curls up beside him on the couch with a wild grin on his face. “Do you know how much I love you, Larry?”

Lawrence sighs and folds his crime novel, setting it neatly down beside him. He's wearing his reading glasses, tortoiseshell with thin frames. “What do you want now?”

Adam puts that rude accusation to the side for now. He can't afford to be snarky when he's asking for such a favour. “We-e-ell, you know how it's Halloween, right?”

“I’ve experienced twice the Halloweens you have, so yes, you could say I'm familiar with the tradition,” Lawrence says drily.

“Okay, old man. I was thinking, maybe we could do something to celebrate the occasion?”

“Can't. Alison wants me to take Diana trick-or-treating.”

“I know that. I meant later. At the witching hour.” 

Lawrence narrows his eyes. “Like a party?”

Adam wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Like a party.”

“And where would this party be hosted?”

“Um. Here?”

“No,” he says immediately, “absolutely not.”

“What?!” Adam cries. “But your place is so sweet!”

“And it's because my place is ‘so sweet’ that I'm saying no.” Lawrence waves a hand around his admittedly sweet apartment. “I'm spending a good amount of my paychecks to afford this, for us, and I don't need a bunch of drunk twenty-somethings making a mess of it.”

“I can be good,” Adam whines. “I'll make them sign a waiver or some shit, please?”

“No. And I'm not budging on this.”

“You're no fun,” Adam complains, and flops down against him like a ragdoll, his head on his shoulder. Lawrence doesn't move, which is nice. He seems to be pretty okay with all the physical touch Adam's been giving him, and hey, he's not complaining. “What am I supposed to do now? Drink by myself like a divorced dad?”

“You can have plenty of fun without drinking, and also, thanks.”

Adam hums. “Well, you're like a cool hot divorced dad, so it doesn't count.”

“Oh, hush,” Lawrence huffs, sounding a bit flustered. Now that's fun.

Adam thinks for a moment. “Hey, if I found someone else who could host, would you come with me? I could help you figure out a costume and everything. I know it's not really your scene, but we could have a good time. My friends are pretty chill.”

Lawrence exhales slowly. “I'm not sure. It's a Sunday, and I'll have to get up early to help Hoffman with his new trap designs.”

“Aw, fuck Hoffman and his dumbass traps. That's not even your job.”

“Yes, but I'd rather not have him stick it together with craft glue and safety scissors and make sure he does it right instead. He's decent at building the actual machines, but not very good at making it so that we don't get caught.”

“Amanda wants to come to my party,” Adam pouts, trying to get back on topic. “Please Lawrence? It would be sooo radical.”

“Oh, I don't know.” Lawrence sighs. “I'll think about it, alright? But don't expect a yes.”

Adam beams. “Awesome sauce.” He makes grabby hands at Lawrence's book. “So what're you reading there, huh? Porn?”

Lawrence swats lightly at his arm. “James Patterson, actually.”

“Oo, steamy. You're so perverted, Larry, I feel scandalized just thinking about it.”

Lawrence just rolls his eyes. “Why don't you go find someone to host your little party instead of bothering me while I'm trying to read?”

“Aww, I'm getting you bothered?” Adam says in a high falsetto. “Fine, I'll play hard to get.”

“More like hard to get rid of.”

“Ouch. You just wounded me.” Adam pauses. “In the shoulder.”

“Not funny.”

He shrugs and unfortunately has to stand up to go get his phone. “Oh Lawrence, who am I if I can't joke about my horrific life-altering trauma?” 

However, after making six calls to his closest party animal friends, he's run into a bit of a pickle. None of them can host. Not even Scott, who's usually down to let them trash the already very trashed warehouse he owned, because his crazy now-ex-girlfriend set fire to the damn thing. 

It would be kind of funny to ask John if he could hold it at the Jigsaw headquarters, just to see the expression on his face, but then he's probably find himself in a trap where his guts are replaced with Halloween candy and he's forced to serve as a human candy bowl for little kids to pick at. Or something.

So now he's at the aforementioned place, working on dirtying up his Halloween costume with all the natural dust and grime littering the lair.

Adam sits cross-legged on a swivel stool at the main worktable, surrounded by fabric scraps, a half-finished black-and-white striped jacket, and cans of spray-on white hair dye. He’s listening to rock on his earbuds and mouthing the words as he stitches, pricking his finger and sucking at the blood without a second thought. His stomach growls, low and gnawing, anticipating a meal.

Then the door creaks open. Heavy boots. Hoffman, his face in its permanent scowl, carrying a bundle of metal and chains into the room. 

“And what are you supposed to be dressed as?” Adam scoffs. “Jacob Marley? Me a few months ago?”

“Why the hell is this place covered in fabric?” Hoffman grunts instead of responding, dropping the metal on the table with a clang. He begins roughly fitting together gears. “I don’t have time for your little art projects, or that terrible music. I need silence.”

Adam set his needle down, tilting his head with a crooked smile. “It’s called a costume. You know, something people wear when they’re not building industrial torture devices in their living rooms.”

Hoffman doesn’t even look up. “Halloween’s for children. You should be out taking photographs, not wasting time with all this.”

Adam’s jaw clenches. “At least I know how to have fun. Dislodge that giant stick from your ass and maybe you can, too.”

“And how's all that fun workin' out for you? I'm an adult with a job and my own apartment, I don't think you have a right to talk,” he says matter-of-factly, and oh, that's a fun new realization.

An apartment.

That Hoffman has the keys to in his pocket.

That he won't be returning to until the next morning

And suddenly, Adam has a brilliant idea.

Hoffman tightens a bolt with too much force. Crack. “You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t a playground. You’re not a kid anymore, Stanheight. You’re—”

“Disposable?” Adam cut in, swiveling on the stool to face him. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the spiel a million times over, it's just boring now. If I'm so disposable, why don't you just off me already? I know you don't have enough moral sense to care, Mark.”

And now Hoffman finally looks at him, dark eyes narrowed. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Adam shrugs, feigning innocence, and continues stitching up his jacket. “Nothing. Just saying, you seem to be fine with killing random homeless dudes in an alley because—what? You were bored? Threatened? Practicing for the big leagues?” Adam shakes his head. “You're disgusting.”

He's not sure why he's doing this, picking a fight with Hoffman like an annoying little sibling. He’s pissed off about his party going to shit, he just plain doesn't like the guy, and there's something painfully satisfying about working him up, like pressing a finger on a bruise. And this is a pretty decent way to get the keys, so. Why not?

“This from the cannibal,” Hoffman mutters. He's not working on the machine anymore, just standing there, looking down. “Pot, kettle.”

“I didn't choose this,” Adam snaps hotly. “You did. You were offered this perfect all-American life on a silver platter and you chose to empty a .9 into it.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop. Hoffman’s mouth twists, face hardening into something dangerous.

Adam, sensing the shift, leans in with a crooked grin, voice mocking. “Real impressive, man. You must’ve felt so tough. Taking down the scariest villain of them all: a drugged-up old dude who just wanted to sleep on a park bench.”

And then there it was, a reaction. Hoffman takes three big strides over to him and his hand is shooting out, fisting Adam’s collar and slamming him back against the wall. The sewing tools clatter to the ground, along with something else metal and jingly. Adam squirms around and tries to look scared. Hoffman might be able to overpower him under normal circumstances, but Adam hasn't been normal since the day he woke up in that forest.

“You really think you can mouth off to me and walk away breathing?” Hoffman’s voice was a growl against his ear. His forearm is pressing against Adam's throat, not hard enough to strangle, but enough to be a threat. “You don't know me. You don't know shit about my life. You're a dropout manchild with no future who was supposed to die until your precious doctor made us save you, and even now you can't even muster up the courage to really talk to him about how you feel,” Hoffman mocks. He looks over him now, face twisted into a sneer. “You're pathetic.”

Jesus. This guy could make double what he's making killing people if he tried his hand at being a psychic. Adam exhales, trying to regain his composure. “Well, you’re not going about shooting me yet. Guess part of you likes having me around.”

Hoffman takes a beat to look him up and down, before reaching into his pocket and unceremoniously plunging a knife into his heart.

Reeling back and hitting his head on the wall, Adam coughs once, twice, clutching the wound. His hand comes back red and sticky. “Rude,” he bites, “and also, ow.”

“You'll heal,” Hoffman says bluntly, still caging him in. “Now give me my knife back and let me work in peace.”

“Fine. Asshole.” Adam yanks the knife out, causing a fresh wave of blood to torrent from his chest. He hopes it gets all over Hoffman and he has to pay for a new stupid leather work coat.

Hoffman takes the knife from him, studies it. He drags a finger along the blood till it's coating his fingertip and watches the red slowly drip down. “This make you hungry?”

“No,” Adam snaps, stomach growling like a starved wolf.

“Hmm.” Leaning in, Hoffman spreads the bloodstreak over Adam's cheek and then wipes the rest from the knife off on his fifty-dollar Tool shirt, the dick. “Whatever you say,” Hoffman says with a knowing smirk and finally releases Adam with a shove, muttering something under his breath as he lumbers like a grizzly bear back over to his work.

Adam watches him go, something strange itching at him, before scrubbing at the blood on his face and bending down to grab the fallen keys Hoffman had dropped in the scuffle. He twirls them around his finger with a satisfied grin. “Guess that’s my party invite sorted.”

By the time Lawrence gets there, the party is in full swing. Adam might've spent the past year ignoring e-mails and phone calls in favour of getting high on his couch alone and watching a batshit amount of reality TV, but he used to be a pretty wild cat in his heyday and he's got a club owner's dream contact list here in Hoffman's apartment.

He made everyone who entered sign a contract not to seriously destroy anything in the place and locked Hoffman's bedroom door—he may dislike the guy, but not enough to let people trash his place. Too badly, anyway.

Adam spots him from where he's been lying on the couch, catching up with Scott and some other old friends. He's forgotten how nice it is just to talk to other people. What was that one quote? The price of relationships is inconvenience? 

Talking with Lawrence, however, has never felt inconvenient.

Adam weaves between costume-clad people, trying his best not to crash into someone. He's tipsy from his first few drinks, but not enough to really make a fool out of himself.

“Larry!” He cries, throwing his arms around him and kicking his foot up like a high school girl in a cheesy teen movie.

Lawrence stumbles a little, clearly surprised but chuckling nonetheless. “Hello there. I see you've had a good few without me.”

“No wayyy,” Adam scoffs, then releases him to do a once-over of his outfit. “And I see you look like you just stepped out of a board meeting. What's with the suit and tie?”

Lawrence frowns. “I'm the protagonist of American Psycho. Is it not obvious?”

“Poser, can't even remember his name. And I mean, you're kinda always dressed to the nines in your day-to-day wear,” Adam points out. 

“I suppose.” Lawrence drags his gaze down Adam's body, then meets him again. “I like your costume.”

Adam positively beams. He's wearing the oversized striped coat he sewed earlier with matching pants, his hair is messy and sprayed white, and his face is painted ghostly with heavy black eyeshadow smudged over his eyes. “Thanks! Pico hated it, I think the makeup scared her. Had to coax her back from under the couch with a handful of pepperoni sticks.”

“Poor thing. See, that's why I picked this costume. Elegant and won't scare any small creatures off.”

“Yeah, bet that costume of a character from an R-rated film was a real hit with the kids. How was trick-or-treating with Princess Di, anyway?”

Lawrence's face softens. That's one thing Adam really admires about him, his unwavering love for his daughter. When Adam's parents got divorced, his dad barely wanted a thing to do with him, getting a new girlfriend and a new shithole apartment and a new life away from his only son, just sending the occasional birthday wishes cards folded over twenty-dollar-bills, and even those were so few and far between he could count them on one hand.

“It was wonderful. She's adjusting to school very well, getting good grades, and made a few friends in her class. She went as Wednesday Addams.” There's a wave of sadness washing over his features. “Alison even taught her how to braid her own hair. She's quite good at it, too.”

Sensing that the older man's mood was about to drop far south of party-time, Adam decided to cut in, snatching his wrist and beaming. “Let me show you around! I worked hard on dressing this boring dump up.”

Gazing around fascinatingly like Alice in Wonderland, Lawrence murmurs, “you did all this by yourself?”

“Nah, Mandy helped.” Adam waves at the aforementioned woman, who's dressed as Carmilla (lesbian vampire, that checks out) and passing around a cloudy bong decorated in Hello Kitty stickers with a few other girls. She waves back, notices Lawrence standing behind him, and winks knowingly.

“SMOKE OUT THE WINDOW!” Adam hollers, partially to distract her and partially because it's true. 

Amanda rolls her eyes, but cracks open the glass behind them.

Adam had draped fake cobwebs across the ceiling so the whole place is steeped in a soft, grimy orange glow from pumpkin lamps and strings of dollar-store fairy lights. The furniture is pushed up against the walls, leaving the middle of the living room packed with people in costumes that looked equal parts last-minute and thrown together from thrift-store bins: skimpy dresses, plastic fangs too big for their mouths, a guy in a trench coat who swore he was Neo but looked more like someone’s shady dealer cousin.

The air smells like alcohol, sweat, and the faint trace of incense Adam had lit to cover the marijuana scent, because smoking indoors probably wasn't allowed in the building.  The stereo rattles with something heavy and industrial and the floorboards thump under stomping boots and heels.

“Over there is the candy and drinks,” Adam gestures vaguely over to the kitchen, “none of which I can have, of course, ‘cause now they taste like shit. But at least alcohol always tastes like shit.”

The counters are sleek marble and lined with bowls, which hold neon sugary treats and closed cans and bottles of alcohol. He banned an open punch bowl ‘cause this group's far too sketchy to be trusted with a free opportunity to spike it. 

Lawrence dubiously eyes the table, where a group is taking turns doing lines off someone's unfolded laptop. “This is certainly a…colourful crowd you've got here.”

“Oh, don't mind them, I think they're just Scott's band groupies. If they're really annoying I'll just tell them how they're in an FBI agent's apartment and it'll shut ‘em up quick.” Adam bends down and grabs a can from the mini-fridge, wet with condensation. Offers it to him. “You drinking tonight?”

“Oh, to be young and never get hungover,” Lawrence sighs, but to Adam's surprise he accepts it, cracking it open and taking a long drag. Adam not-so-subtly watches his throat bob with each sip. “Not terrible.”

Adam grins fiendishly. “I'm a bad influence, aren't I?”

“Don't I know it.” He takes another slow drink, keeping eye contact the whole time. It's weirdly attractive.

“Yo, Adam!” Someone calls him over from one of the couches, voice rough from nicotine and an unkind life. Adam turns and there's Scott. He's dressed as a pirate and has a girl on each shoulder like parrots—a freckled, robed girl with curly red pigtails and a pretty black-haired girl in a slutty-nurse costume.

“Who's he?” Lawrence asks, nodding to the couch.

“Scott.” Then, just for fun, “He was my first boyfriend, if you could call it that.”

Lawrence blinks, obviously taken aback at his bluntness. “As in, Scott Tibbs? The guy who stabbed you with a rusty nail when you were kids?”

“Uh, yeah.” He's surprised he even remembers that throwaway comment.

“Hmm.” Lawrence studies Scott with a newfound scrutiny. 

Hmm, indeed. “Why are you looking at him like that?”

“No reason,” Lawrence says mildly, having another sip. “You've got an interesting type, is all.”

Adam snorts, a dry laugh. “Please, don’t insult me like that. Dumbass horny douchebags are not my type.”

“Oh?” Lawrence swirls his drink in a slow circle. “And what is?”

“My type?” Adam all but squeaks. Wow, real smooth. “Um, geez, what's with the interrogation?”

Luckily, he's saved by Scott belting out his name again, and Adam practically drags Lawrence over to the couch by the wrist, face flaming. The hell does Lawrence want to know his type in men for?

“Was wondering when you'd get here,” Scott says through a yawn. Empty beer cans litter the cushions beside him. “Some place you've got here. New job?”

“Nah, it belongs to a friend.” Adam quickly diverts the conversation to the pair of women fawning over Scott. “And who are you two?”

“I'm Chantelle,” chirps the skinny redhead, “and this is Milica.”

“Mee-lit-za,” says Lawrence, testing it out on his tongue. “How's that spelled?”

“Never heard that one before,” she laughs, fiddling with her low-cut white collar. “Love the Beetlejuice outfit, by the way.”

“Careful how many times you say that,” says Adam with a grin. “But thanks. I like your costume too. Sexy nurse, eh? What do you think of that Larry?”

“It's…well made,” Lawrence says stiffly, obviously not enjoying the depiction of his profession wearing fishnets and a half-buttoned blouse.

“Larry here's a doctor,” Adam explains, leaning on his shoulder like a proud trophy wife. Which he kind of is. “He doesn't dress like that though. It's a real shame.”

“Oh, hush.” Lawrence nudges him playfully. “Haven't got the legs for that one.”

Adam smirks, steals Lawrence's drink. “I’d beg to differ,” he hums, and then takes a sip before handing it back to them. His finger brushes his knuckles and the spot tingles where they touched.

Scott snorts. “So when did you two start fucking?”

Lawrence chokes on his drink, coughing like a half-drowned rat. “Right after I banged your mom,” Adam snaps, and flips him off.

“Jesus. Sorry I asked,” Scott scoffs, holding his hands up in surrender. 

Milica pokes Scott's shoulder. “Hey, don't worry. I thought they had chemistry too.”

“Fuck off,” Adam laughs, glancing at Lawrence to see his reaction. But he's not saying anything, not making any sort of expression, and Adam's feeling very very sober all of a sudden.

That Chantelle girl's been awfully quiet the whole time, just squinting at the two of them like a brand of sunlight, before finally she snaps her fingers and straightens up quick. “Wait, you guys are the ones in that new Jigsaw trap! I saw your pictures on the news!”

Adam and Lawrence both visibly stiffen. They share a look. Do we tell her? Their cover's already kinda blown anyway. “Uh, yeah. Hope my picture looked good,” Adam laughs weakly.

“Well, I think that's so cool,” Chantelle says brightly, as if she's discussing the weather. “I wish I could be in a Jigsaw trap. I’d win for sure. I even dressed up as one of those pig-mask thingies!” To the two survivor's horror, she pulls out a masquerade-style mask that looks just like the pig heads they wear when they kidnap people, complete with the matted black hair. “Isn't it cute?”

Everyone stares at her.

“Christ, Chantelle, shut the fuck up,” Milica groans, much to Adam's relief. “I'm sorry about her.”

“No worries,” Lawrence says tightly. “If you'll excuse me, I'm going to get another drink.”

“Ooh! Get one of the Vipers!” Chantelle calls after him. “Those are my favourite!”

Adam watches him go with a pang of longing going through his heart. Shit. That did not go well. Scott really knows how to pick ‘em, huh?

“So, how'd you manage to get out? You cut off your leg too?” Chantelle’s fingers begin dancing their way up the inseam of his pants, then his inner thigh. “I'm real curious. Maybe you could show me?”

Turning back around, Adam stares at her blankly. “I'm not gonna fuck you, if that's what you're asking.”

“Whaaat?” Chantelle lolls her head to the side and pouts a red lip out. “Screw you! No way I'd want that! You're too short, anyways.”

Adam shakes his head and brings himself to his feet with a grunt. “I need a smoke. Nice catching up with you, Scott.” 

“‘Course. Hey, tell that Amanda chick to come to our next show.” Scott makes a peace sign and wiggles his tongue between his black-painted fingers. “She's fuckin’ hot.”

Adam rolls his eyes. Two girls by his side and still he needs more, the greedy motherfucker. “Lose the dick and maybe she'll talk to you, dumbass.”

“Grow one and maybe that doctor of yours will get sweet on you too.”

“Goodbye, Scott,” Adam says pointedly, and begins pushing his way past people lit dimly in orange to get to the windowsill in the very corner of the room. Luckily, it's pretty secluded with most people dancing by the kitchen, so Adam takes a seat on the padded cushions in the alcove and slides open the window. He fishes out a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket and breathes amber smoke into the cool city air, thinking about nothing at all. 

Adam leans against the wall and half-watches the world swirl around him. The music is too loud, the costumes too bright, and he's reminded of the bad part of parties, and how odd it is to feel so lonely in a room full of people. His mind wanders, and, like clockwork, it finds Lawrence.

Of course. Asshole. Why wouldn’t I be thinking of him when there’s literally an entire room of people I could look at?

Adam takes another drag, grimaces. So… what, do I like him? Is that what this is? I’m mooning like a high school kid with a crush on their math teacher. Pathetic. Completely pathetic. You need to saw these feelings off like a spare foot, that's what you gotta do, and stop fucking thinking about him all the damn time.

His daydreaming lingers anyway. The way Lawrence adjusts his glasses when he reads, the way he bends his head down to really hear the person talking—attentive, gentle. Adam catches himself smiling and immediately draws it back, looking away.

Okay, maybe I do like him. Or maybe it’s just the drinks. Or maybe it’s the fact that he let me move in when he didn’t have to, and he saved my life when he didn't have to, and suddenly I’m confusing gratitude with… whatever this is. Yeah. That sounds logical. That sounds safe.

Someone calls his name, jolting him back. Adam mutters something sharp, but his mind flicks back to Lawrence again, traitorous.

Yeah, safe. Sure. Keep telling yourself that, idiot.

When the figure gets close enough he can make them out through the thick orange lights, he sees that it's Milica from the little nurse hat on top. “Hey, your friend is kinda puking everywhere.”

Adam freezes. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. He's passed out on the kitchen floor if you wanna go grab him.” She pauses, putting one long red nail to her lips. “Hey, can I steal a cig?”

“Go nuts.” He gets up, leaving the nearly empty pack there for her to pick at, and squeezes through the crowd to get to the kitchen.

And there Lawrence is, sprawled out on the kitchen floor like a starfish on his stomach. There's some sort of spilled green liquid splattered all over him and pooling from a Dixie cup on the floor. Quickly, Adam drops to his knees and checks his pulse.

Lawrence stirs suddenly. “Who's there?” 

“Oh thank God man,” Adam breathes in relief, wilting a little. “I thought you fuckin’ died.”

“Whoa. Dead,” Lawrence drags out the last word, then does the slowest blink he's ever seen. “Hellooooo.”

“Christ's sake,” Adam mutters, waving a hand in front of his face. Lawrence doesn't follow it, pupils remaining fixed on his. Adam takes his arm in hand and it’s limp as a noodle. “Who spiked you?”

“Nobody.” Lawrence's arm flops ungracefully back down in front of his face. “I just had a couple of those Vipers.”

“A couple?!” Adam exclaims. “Jeez, I had one and a half one night and I blacked the hell out. Woke up in a Burger King parking lot with no shirt covered in baked beans and purple eyeshadow.”

“I don't look very good in purple,” Lawrence says miserably, his eyes fluttering shut. “Uh-oh.”

“Nope, don't shut those baby blues. We're going home now! Yay!” Adam speaks to him like he would a misbehaving dog and tries to haul him up the wrist, grunting when it obviously doesn't work. “You're gonna have to help me out here, bud.”

Grumbling very dramatically, Lawrence manages to stand up. He's wobbling like a tipsy ballerina and Adam tucks himself under his arm so he has something to lean on and begins slowly guiding him through the crowd. Neither of them took cars here, so he'll have to call a cab. Which works out anyways ‘cause Adam would be the world's biggest hypocrite if he drove drunk while also helping the Jigsaw team set up a game revolving around drunk driving accidents.

Amanda comes rushing up behind them. The little rhinestones under her thickly lined eyes twinkle in the mood lighting, and her hair is curled in soft waves down her silk red dress. She looks like a fairy, like rubies glittering from the fruits of a cracked pomegranate, like something too mystical to be real. “Is he alright?”

“He will be,” assures Adam, to which Lawrence gives a despairing groan. “Probably.”

“Well, probably a good idea to get out of here now,” Amanda says. “The bassist from your friend's band is starting a game of beer pong with wine glasses.”

A crash sounds from the kitchen, followed by a chorus of frat-boy hollers.

“Oh, Jesus, what now,” Adam sighs. He's reached the point where he's less fun-drunk and more I-want-to-go-home-and-lie-face-down-on-my-bed-until-I-pass-out drunk, only he's the one who hosted this party and he's the one who has to take care of it all. “Hey Amanda, if you can clean this place up before Hoffman comes home I'll give you a hundred bucks.”

She squints at him. “Two hundred.”

“Fine.”

“That was easy. Where the hell are you getting that kind of money?”

“I'll tell Lawrence he threw up on some expensive rug and say he owes me.”

“Fair enough.” Amanda then stands on her toes to grin at Lawrence. “How are you feeling, Doc?”

“Much better,” he says lightly, then proceeds to throw up all over the floor in front of them.

It's at that lovely moment that Hoffman proceeds to open the door.

Along with Peter Strahm.

“Shit,” Adam mutters, and wishes for the millionth time that he'd been left in that bathroom.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Hoffman barks, fury etching every line in his face. He looks far less put-together than usual—hair messy over one eye, dress shirt untucked, flush over his face. Strahm looks much the same, and now Adam's actually kind of scared, because it sure doesn't paint a good picture with three very intoxicated Jigsaw survivors all standing in Hoffman's apartment.

“Nothing,” Adam says, at the same time as Lawrence is saying, “We threw a party.”

“You're a fucking moron,” Hoffman spits. He still doesn't look at Strahm, who appears just as thrown-off his guard. “You know I'm a cop? I could have you all arrested for possession if I wanted.” 

“We're all legal.”

“Trespassing, then. Whatever.” Hoffman's clearly nervous, the sweat radiating off him like pheromones. “Come into my bedroom so I can—can check you for drugs.”

“Wow, officer, taking advantage of me like this,” Adam drawls sardonically. “Don't make me report you to HR.”

“Do it before I have to slap cuffs on you and check you at the station instead.”

He obviously just wants to get Adam to another room so he can berate him without Strahm hearing, which is fair, but he's more than a little scared of the much bigger man getting violent with him instead. He's got that mean streak blazing right over his face, has shown that silly things like morals won't stop him, and even though no damage done to Adam will be permanent, it sure as hell hurts like it is. 

“Wait here,” Hoffman says gruffly to Strahm, who looks incredibly displeased at the turn of events, then nods at Adam to come. Adam climbs the small staircase consisting of about four steps and then follows him into his bedroom. It's very boring, like a hotel room you're only staying in for a short time, white sheets and beige walls. There's a few engineering magazines, a desk lamp, a sleek laptop tossed on the nightstand, and some paintings on the walls that probably came in the frame.

Hoffman shuts the door and immediately rounds on him. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?! Throwing a party here? With two other Jigsaw survivors? With Strahm right outside that door?” His voice is a low snarl, sharp on his tongue. “How did you even get in?”

Adam folds his arms, leaning against the dresser like some cool, confident spy character in a movie, like he's not super fucking terrified right now. “Relax. Your keys fell out when you were going all police-brutality on me earlier. It was just a little Halloween thingy. I didn’t realize inviting a few friends over would ruin your romantic rendezvous.”

“Don’t.” Hoffman’s finger jabs at him like a loaded gun. “Don’t you fucking start with me. You think Strahm won’t start putting pieces together? Seeing Lawrence stumbling around like Frank Gallagher, Amanda doing drugs on probation, you breaking into the building?”

Adam blinks. “You've seen Shameless?”

“Christ alive, will you listen to me? You just compromised everything!”

“Uh-huh.” Adam’s mouth quirks into a sly grin. “Because Strahm was definitely here for an impromptu drug raid. Not, say, because you brought him here for a private little sleepover?”

His body language immediately changes as Hoffman freezes, his jaw tightening like a bear trap. “Watch it.”

“Oh, I am. Voyeur, remember?” Adam says lightly, picking up one of the boring picture frames in some shade of oatmeal. Hoffman and a pretty young woman who he guesses to be his sister. Yikes. He sets it down again before Hoffman goes berserk. “And you should watch yourself, too. Because if you wanna arrest us, I'll testify. And what’s gonna sound worse? That I threw a dumb Halloween party? Or that Lieutenant Hoffman brought another detective home at two AM when he’s drunk and his shirt’s unbuttoned to his tits?”

Hoffman’s nostrils flare. He takes a step closer, towering over Adam, but Adam doesn’t move. His pulse is racing, but he knows he’s got the upper hand now. Plus, he's got demon powers or whatever now too. Which is always a plus.

“You shut your mouth about that,” Hoffman growls, but he's obviously frightened at the prospect. Adam's clearly touched a nerve and he likes the power it gives him.

“Sure thing, Officer.” Adam spreads his hands, all mock innocence. “We’ll just tell Strahm you came to me with follow-up questions, I was being a bratty youth and stole your keys, you didn’t know about it, you’re pissed at me. You save face, I don’t get my ass beat, and nobody mentions why you were sooo eager to get him into your bedroom. Sound good?”

Hoffman glowers at him long and hard, then finally exhales through his teeth, rubbing a hand over his jaw and muttering, “You’re a fuckin’ liability, kid.”

“Yeah, but I’m a useful liability,” Adam shoots back. He pushes off the dresser and stretches exaggeratedly. “Now, if we’re done blackmailing, I’ve got a doctor to drag home before he redecorates your floor again. Have fun sucking off the one guy who can get you thrown in jail for the rest of your miserable life.”

Hoffman doesn’t reply, just jerks his chin toward the door in dismissal. Adam wished he could stay to hear the delightful conversation he and Strahm were sure to be having.

Lawrence is slumped against Amanda, still looking foggy, and Adam quickly ducks under his arm again. “C’mon, big guy. Let’s get you a nice cab ride and a bucket.”

As he shoulders Lawrence’s weight and steers him toward the exit, he catches Strahm’s eyes on him—suspicious but distracted enough not to press, exactly how he wants to keep him. Adam offers him a nod and chirps, “Happy Halloween,” before pushing the door open and guiding Lawrence out of the complex and into the cool night.

When they get down to the sidewalk, Adam makes Lawrence sit against the building wall while he dials the number for a cab. It comes decently quick with the downside of the driver having half his teeth missing and the interior smelling like french fries and old cigarettes. It's basically what his old apartment used to smell like though so he can tolerate it. Adam slides in first, hauling Lawrence in after him like he’s dragging a particularly stubborn mattress. He slams the door shut and gives the driver Lawrence's address, then immediately yanks a plastic bag from the pocket of the seat in front of them and deposits it in Lawrence’s lap.

“There we are. Emergency bucket,” Adam announces. “Use it wisely.”

Lawrence stares down at it like it’s a foreign object. “That’s…considerate of you.”

“I’m not considerate,” Adam says modestly. “I’m selfish. I don’t want puke on my costume.”

Lawrence tries to glare, but the effect is ruined when his head lolls sideways and then collapses onto Adam’s shoulder. “You’re cold,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, well, that's what happens when you're technically dead,” Adam mutters, shifting but not pushing him off. The cab lurches forward, and Lawrence lets out a small groan like he’s just been stabbed.

“You’re never drinking Vipers again,” Adam declares. “I can't believe you'd take something that awful Chantelle chick suggested. I don’t care if they make you feel like the king of the world or whatever. Next time, I’m cutting you off after half a glass.”

“You’re not my dad,” Lawrence mutters weakly.

“Thank Christ for that,” Adam says. “You’d be grounded for life, mister.”

A beat of silence. Then Lawrence lets out a wheezy little laugh that dissolves into more silence. Then, “Adam?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re really good for me.”

Adam blinks, staring at the smudged reflection of the two of them in the cab window. It looks like a shoegaze album cover of something dreamy. “…You’re delirious.”

“Still true,” Lawrence slurs, his words soft as his eyes flutter shut again.

Adam exhales, tipping his head back against the seat. “Great. My drunk roommate’s gonna get all sentimental on me. Next you’ll be crying about how pizza is really good for you, too.”

“Mm. Love pizza,” Lawrence mumbles into his shoulder.

Adam can’t help it—he snorts, shaking his head. “You’re kinda funny when you're drunk and not projectile vomiting everywhere.”

The cab hits another bump, and Lawrence stirs but doesn’t wake, dead asleep. Adam looks down at him, his hair mussed, his edges softened by exhaustion and alcohol.

“I think you might be bad for me,” Adam mutters under his breath, so quiet it’s swallowed by the hum of the engine. “But I think you have something I can't find anywhere else. I think I don't care what you do to me as long as it's to me.” Then he settles back, letting Lawrence’s weight press against him as the city lights streak by the window all the way home.

Unfortunately, the nap does not sober Lawrence up in the slightest, and he's back to groaning in his ear not in a sexy way the whole elevator ride up. 

Adam fumbles with Lawrence’s keys at the apartment door, juggling his deadweight like a sack of flour that occasionally moans. After three failed attempts, he finally gets it open, shooes a concerned Pico away from the door, and half-drags, half-guides the man inside.

“Welcome home,” Adam announces dryly. “Population: you and your impending hangover.”

Lawrence makes a sound halfway between a groan and a hiccup. His jacket catches on the doorframe and Adam swears under his breath, tugging it free before steering him down the hallway.

In the bedroom, Adam dumps him unceremoniously onto the bed. Lawrence sprawls flat, arms out like he’s doing a trust fall with the mattress.

“Nope. Sit up. You need your head elevated,” Adam orders. He grabs a water bottle from the nightstand—probably one Lawrence filled days ago and never touched—and presses it into his hands. “Drink.”

“Don’t want—”

“Drink,” Adam repeats firmly. “Unless you want to reenact what happened at the party all over your Egyptian cotton sheets tomorrow.”

That gets Lawrence moving. Slowly, sluggishly, he lifts the bottle and takes a few sips, glaring at Adam like he’s just poisoned him.

“There’s a good boy,” Adam mutters, prying the bottle back before it ends up spilling everywhere. He kicks off Lawrence’s shoes, fluffs the pillow and pats his shoulder once. “There. All done. I'd make a pretty mean housewife, huh?”

“Pretty,” Lawrence echoes, looking right at him.

Adam flushes, unsure what he means by that one, and turns to grab tissues to wipe off his makeup. “Anyways. You want anything else? More water? Bread?”

“Are we going to jail?” Lawrence asks instead. “Strahm knows. He knows now.”

“Nah, don't worry. Hoffman's probably talking him out of it right now.” He throws away the paint-stained tissues and pauses. “Or fucking him out of it. Yikes, wait, do not want to imagine Hoffman in a sexual light. Yikes yikes yikes.”

“Hoffman's gay?” Lawrence questions, like it makes a blind bit of difference.

“Maybe, but I don't particularly want to find out. But dude’s got major DSL. Old guy like you wouldn't know what that means.”

“I'm gay,” says Lawrence suddenly, like he's haunted by it, then breaks off into a low moan, burying his head in his hands. “Oh God.”

Adam's stomach flips. His blood freezes. The world tilts on its axis. Holy shit. He sits down on the bed and pats Lawrence's back semi-reassuringly. “Lawrence—”

“Oh God,” he repeats, like he's in shock. 

“Hey, hey, it's fine! It's totally fine,” Adam rambles, bordering on hysterics. Jesus, he needs to calm down more than Lawrence. “Look—look at everyone on the fuckin’ Jigsaw team. I mean, what, does Kramer just round up the local adult GSA for this thing? Dude's got a crazy gaydar on top of being psychic.”

“I've never said that aloud before,” Lawrence murmurs, “oh God.”

“Does this mean your ex-wife's on the market?” Adam jokes weakly, but quickly clarifies, “Kidding. Totally kidding. Just trying to lighten the mood. Ha-ha.”

“I thought it was Alison that was the problem,” Lawrence mumbles. “So I tried it with Carla. It never went away, that feeling.”

A stab of sadness goes right through Adam's heart. He's known what he was since he was young, never bothered him in the slightest, but for someone like Lawrence it must feel earth-shattering. “Thank you for telling me. I know you're like, super fucking drunk, and probably don't have much of a filter right now. But thank you.” Feeling bold, he settles onto the bed like he’s sitting on a landmine, stiff and wary, and rests his head on Lawrence's shoulder, careful not to stain the fabric. “You can trust me.”

“Yeah,” Lawrence whispers. “Yeah, I can.”

They stay like that for a while longer, neither saying a word, before Adam slowly gets up and readjusted himself. “Do you want me to put something on the TV before I go?”

“No,” Lawrence says, blinking open his eyes. There's something urgent in them, something necessary. “Stay.”

Adam hesitates. When someone is blackout drunk and admitting they're gay, sleeping next to him in his bed doesn't seem like the wisest decision. But Adam knows how it feels to be trapped somewhere alone and dark and watch them leave out that door, leave you hopeless and despairing, and he climbs back into the bed. “Fine, but if you throw up on me I'm smothering you with a pillow.”

Lawrence nods sleepily, rolling slightly onto his side until his forehead almost bumps Adam’s shoulder. “You’re really here,” he mumbles, voice soft and slurred.

“Yeah, been here the whole time,” Adam says, trying to sound flippant. His pulse betrays him, hammering a little faster than he’d like.

Lawrence’s fingers fumble blindly until they find Adam’s wrist. He doesn’t grip hard, just holds on like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You take care of me,” he says, drowsy but certain.

Adam swallows, throat suddenly dry. “Don’t make it sound like I’m nice or something. You’ll ruin my badass reputation.”

A smile ghosts across Lawrence’s lips, his eyes still closed. “You’re nicer than you think.”

Adam should roll his eyes, make a crack about drunk compliments not counting. But instead he finds himself brushing a stray lock of hair off Lawrence’s forehead. His hand lingers for a beat too long, and when Lawrence shifts closer Adam doesn’t move away.

“Tomorrow you’re gonna be mortified you said all this,” Adam says quietly.

“Maybe,” Lawrence breathes, finally blinking his eyes open. They’re glassy, sure, but focused enough to pin Adam in place. “But right now I mean it.”

They fall asleep like that, tangled together under the sheets, covered in smeared makeup and saccharine sweet alcohol, and no nightmares will come for either of them with a ghost already in the bed.