Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hydrofluoric acid is a solution of hydrogen fluoride (HF) in water. Solutions of HF are colorless, acidic and highly corrosive.

With practiced hands, the doctor poured chemicals into the beaker, his grey eyes bearing the weight of the grisly crime scene, the impact nestled in the inflamed purple marks under his eyelids. Like a dog flushing birds from the bushes for his master, the man moved with precise measures, tapping the top of the container with one finger to remove any excess.

Exposure to HF can lead to a range of symptoms, encompassing irritation of the eyes, skin, nose, and throat, as well as eye and skin burns. Additionally, individuals may experience rhinitis, bronchitis, pulmonary edema (fluid buildup in the lungs), and even bone damage.

Deep in thought, the doctor vividly recalled the memory from the early days of his career; a specific case in the form of a patient who came into the emergency room, flesh looking like it had been seared like a stake. The individual in question had endured the harrowing aftermath of mishandled acid exposure, the grisly sight of a canvas of burns and dark red marks that posed an almost impossible challenge for the intricate craft of skin grafting. 

In the end, he failed. The patient would bear the weight of those scars his entire life. This though, was different. The trap was rigged in a way that none of the others were before. This wasn't a test; it was an execution. 

In a hushed yet visibly disturbed tone, the doctor remarked, "She won't survive this." his voice softened by the surgical mask that muffled its breathy resonance. Amanda took a breath, a beat between them evident as soon as the sentiment left the blonde man's mouth. 

The young woman watched with guilt on her face as Lawrence observed the full trap in front of him, hooks that would deeply penetrate the torso. Her fists gripping her crimson shirt in a nervous recoil, migrating her hands to the back of her hair to pull it up. This was an anxious habit Lawrence had learned from the other woman. When she pulled back her hair, it was because it was all she could do not to rip it out of her scalp in clumps. An admission of guilt only spoken by body language. 

Together they were truly a team to be feared, an ex nurse that knew anatomy textbooks like the back of her hand, and renowned oncologist Lawrence Gordon. 

Another chain dragged between them. Guilt. Self-depricating horror. Resentment. Guilt. Heartbreak. All consuming numbness. They were both nothing like the martyrs they believed themselves to be, making these selfish choices in the grotesque declarations of self sacrifice for love that the job allowed. 

"I know," Amanda said, her fingers anxiously fiddling with the piercings that punctured into her cheek scars.

"I'm just following instructions, Amanda," Lawrence growled, gripping the cane with a harsh force. Turning his head away from the trap, a shiver went down his spine. "This is just gratuitous."

Turning away from the man, Amanda faced the exit of the room. She came to a halt before 
finally making her departure, letting out a loud sigh.

“You know just as well as I do,” the woman spoke confidently yet quietly, “It's her, or us. Us means Adam too. I could never see…” Amanda trailed off. Lawrence knew. The way her mouth twisted. The way the name muffled in her throat. Lynn. “I have to do this. She's getting too close.”

Visions of Lynn swarmed Amanda's mind, her calm eyes, her smell - God, the smell. The sweat of a long day of surgery, the smell of her floral perfume. The smell she couldn't wait to inhale again, even if she knew the woman she couldn't forgive herself for falling for so damn easily wouldn't recognize her. As if she noticed her before. Now she would have to. John, Lynn, Amanda. 

Lawrence strutted forward to join the shorter woman against the wall. Looking down from his tall stature to her guilt ridden expression, he shot her an understanding glance of reassurance and vulnerability. Lynn. Adam. This was why they did this. 

This is why they were still alive.

He knew he would do the same.

“I know. I would do the same.” 

And of course, for Amanda, the invisible umbilical cord wrapped around her neck tied to around John's wrist. The way he gave her enough room was freeing, the leash that went on and on and on like a dog that had gotten the privilege after being trained just enough, the older man acting aloof to her crimes. He really did love her after all. Enough to clean up after her. Enough to save her consequences of her own actions, and enough to spare her the shame of admission. His daughter, her father figure. 

Lynn emerged into her life as a life saving angel, while Amanda embodied the essence of an angel of death, blood pooling at her eyelids, flesh under her fingernails. Lawrence's hands, initially trained to save lives, were now ironically employed to hold the blade of destruction – the very hand that pulled the trigger, launching the fateful bullet into Adam's shoulder. The ensuing scar became the red string that tied the two together. The way the skin puckered, white and swollen. The memory was just a painful reminder now that he would endure any level of torment just for fleeting moments to brush his lips over its surface. To hold Adam again. 

No, this had to be worth it. 

100 deaths would be worth it to save the two. To prevent further harm. 

Amanda's eyes turned to the rolling cart sat next to the trap, Lawrence's few possessions scattered like a collage across the metal shelf. Like a child with his comfort object, the wallet that held pictures of his daughter and family, a small Polaroid of Adam and himself he had retrieved from the other man's camera bag; the faux smiles evident on their faces, fingerprints and creased edges from the desperate grip Lawrence had on that one photo of Adam's face. 

Sat besides the photo was the ring - the one he always had his eyes on, but rarely wore out of fear of attracting bad luck to their future by performing the grisly art while wearing it. Then, surgical tools, and the pager that let out a sharp buzz every hour. Then, a new addition. The vase. 

“You know,” Amanda stated softly, arching her back against the brick wall of the cellar. “Those flowers I brought back from Adam are dead, and they're going to start stinking soon. Throw them out already.”

Lawrence paused, heart beating faster at the statement. “Wilted,” he responded, a defensive tone lacing his voice. “They're not dead. Just wilted.”

The vase was leftover from John's workspace, and Amanda lied profusely to him, saying she had brought the flowers back to brighten up the workspace. John was fair. John truly did want her happiness. So, with hot tears rolling down his face, Lawrence could be happy for a day. Green stems holding white wildflowers and peonies from the garden. 

“Oh yeah,” Amanda scoffed, yet empathetic, understanding the resistance to part with the flowers. “And I'm just fucked in the head, not damaged. Don't keep those around, c’mon.”

She knew though- they were a symbol. Lawrence cherished every gift, clinging to the pager when Amanda returned. He waited with baited breath for her to return each time, anticipating the small joy of smelling the reds she bummed off of him on her skin. The same ones he originally hated smelling, but now looked forward to like they were a luxury product. He cherished every sign of Adam he could get, envelopes of letters he collected, with Amanda being the ill fated delivery man going between the two parties, betraying John daily at this point. 

With a sharp look, the doctor reached into the vase and plucked one of the white lilies from the vase, petals flopped forward and lifeless. Then with a swift movement of his arm, the man dropped the flora into the acid, watching it evaporate into nothingness upon contact with the green liquid. The green liquid swallowed it whole, sizzling as the whites of the flower became nothing. 

Turning to exit the room, Lawrence grabbed his cane and slid the pager into his pocket, and started towards the door.

Giving Amanda one last glance, Lawrence bit his bottom lip, tasting the rough texture that had become cracked from anxious biting and neglect. The texture that reminded him of Adam’s mouth now sewn onto his. In this place, Lawrence felt like a stranger to himself; it was his prison, a tombstone that was only a mere testament to remind him that he had only narrowly escaped.

And God, he missed Adam. He hated it. The way that Diana's lack of presence felt like a cut, while Adams was a deep cut that was rotting under his skin more and more every day. The guilt was all consuming. 

The letters helped, taking in the contents of each one, taking in the hint of Adam's smell in each one. The one tape that he hated he had to burn, crying knowing he would have to wait however many more months to hear his voice again. He still remembered it, the way Adam's voice shook, and the way he knew - he knew there was anger in his tone. Behind the declarations of love, he knew Adam was angry. Rightfully so. 

Starting towards the door, he turned to take one final look at the trap and back to Amanda. In a quiet voice, hardly a whisper, he spoke. 

“Alison Kerry isn't getting out of this one alive. You've made her choice for her.

BZZZZZZZZ

BZZZZZ

Hydrofluoric Acid Danger May Be Corrosive To Metals. Fatal If swallowed or in contact with skin. Please seek medical attention immediately. 

-------

The Hand That Feeds And The Heart That Bleeds Volume 2: Wilted Flowers In Your Medicine Closet 

—-----

“Are you working today?”

The sound of his maternal figures voice sounded muffled against the door of the master bedroom. Jill's freshly glossed lips spoke quietly, softly, against the glazed wood. Always soft. Always attempting to communicate love. Adam heard her. He always heard her. He appreciated the first week, how quick she was to offer rides, drop everything for him. How many times she left work the minute she got a text from him. Now though, guilt be damned, it felt like a joke. His own personal groundhog day. 

The loss of the other man's presence had this effect he hated. He really, really hated it. How at this point, even pulling himself from the bed felt like he was running 10 miles, the way his joints ached. The scar burned. Everything hurt. He despised the way his emotions came to a boiling point, the cutting physical reaction he experienced when he felt Lawrence's absence. The passage of time became a blur, the days slipping away without clear delineation— How many days was it now? 10, 15, 30, 120? He had lost count. The passage of time was a blur, lost in the void of his yearning.

Adam hated how he clung to every scrap of fabric he could find that Lawrence had left his scent on, how desperately he waited for that goddamn BZZZZ as a sign of life, and how fast his heart beat when it came through. It felt both hollow and fulfilling, akin to the satisfaction of a dog trained to respond to a sound only audible to their species. The resonance pierced through his eardrums with a poignant ache, a sensation that mirrored the conflicting emotions churning within him.

Lawrence was alive though. That was enough, he tried to convince himself. The buzzing felt like a romantic soliloquy, and how just knowing Lawrence's presence was on the other side brought him temporary peace. Even for a moment.

And, of course, how could he forget the newest element added to their "long distance relationship" courtesy of Amanda— the letters.

And when the letters started - he could have kissed Amanda. He wanted to open his arms wide, envelop her in the warmest hug, and hand over every dollar in his wallet as a token of gratitude for delivering the greatest gift he had ever received— akin to a child unwrapping a long-awaited bike on Christmas morning. The only relief he’d felt in months, and god, the hint of Lawrence’s smell, the dried indent of saliva from his lips against the paper, the way his handwriting seemed to smudge together - he knew Lawrence was rushing, there was fear evident in the way his hands trembled against the paper. He knew he was terrified. Of what though? Of the man at the door that day? Jigsaw? He knew he could be being watched at any moment, the way the word choice was, the inconsistent thought process, followed by “I love you, I miss you, my sweetheart Adam.”

He held the paper in his hands.

Adam,

I hope that you forgive me. I miss you so much. I miss your touch. It won’t be much longer. I’m safe. I hope you are. I think of you every day. I think of our song. I hum R.E.M. to myself, and I hope you are still listening to them. Please tell Diana I am thinking of her. I hope she forgives me too. I am sorry you had to lie for my sake. I

I love you

I miss you, my sweetheart Adam

Always yours,
Lawrence

Falling to his knees, Adam experienced the unforgiving hardness of the concrete beneath the denim pressing into his kneecaps. As he sobbed while reading those letters for the first time, the tangible scent of Lawrence and the authenticity of his words overwhelmed him. Real letters from Lawrence. His own words.. It felt as if they were characters in a classic romance novel, engaged in the forbidden exchange of letters, much like clandestine lovers separated by their distinct estates— Lawrence's home and the meatpacking plant, their narratives intertwined by the lines that divided them. He hated the irony but as always - they were chained, for better or worse.

This wasn’t a fairytale though, this was a cruel nightmare, a real life horror movie where Lawrence locked himself in the same cage as the killer they’d only narrowly escaped from. 

Amanda was the one link Adam had to Lawrence, and their connection was something he valued, he really didn't mind Amanda much if he was honest. They shared a genuine friendship. However, on some days, overwhelming thoughts crossed his mind. He could take drastic measures, like pointing a knife at her and demanding she lead him to Lawrence. But, he knew Amanda was resilient, and jeopardizing that connection also meant risking their trust. Risking the trust meant risking Lawrence. Besides, he genuinely didn't want to harm Amanda. He didn’t want to jeopardize that friendship, considering Scott was a true deadbeat and David was growing tired of Adam's episode, Amanda was currently his sole friend. It was ironic that the person who had played such a big role in his abduction and was now his only ally. That being said, for years, Adam spent his days swapping spit with a guy who stabbed him with a rusty nail at his own birthday, so - his standards weren't exactly high in that regard. Amanda was gold, compared to the people he had previously surrounded himself with.

He wanted to ask if Amanda understood him. If there was another reason, besides Jigsaw - or John, as she called him - why he helped her.

Perhaps Amanda had experienced love in the past; maybe she understood Adam's feelings. Then again, maybe not. She might simply be the kind of person who was fine being like a gentle breeze, tapping against their window with just enough noise to catch attention but comfortably fading into the background of their story.

It was fine with her. 

Adam’s hand cramped with every return letter, taking a tinted lip balm that Alison had left behind to press the shape of his mouth against the paper. 

Diana's letters were heart-wrenchingly difficult to deliver—especially witnessing her as she poured her emotions onto the paper, convinced her father was overseas, bravely fighting in a very real war. The tragic reality, however, was that as far as they knew, he could only be only a few miles away.

She’d never know. They’d never tell her. This was okay.

A soft knock echoed on the wooden door of the master bedroom. Adam, cigarette in hand, exhaled smoke through the slightly open window next to the bed. Letters lay scattered by the bedside table, each one more crumpled than the last.

“I can drive you to work, honey,” Jill sighed, voice softly carrying into the cracks of the door.

Adam retorted, curling up into the fetal position and rubbing the cigarette into the golden ashtray on the bedside table. “I can drive myself.” 

Jill remained in her spot, her blonde hair cascading at her sides, and a sleek brown leather jacket accentuating her waist. Today was a flats day, as the arrival of spring allowed for lighter attire.

"David mentioned you've been running late. If we head out now, we'll arrive with 15 minutes to spare. I'll treat you to a coffee."

Adam paused, remembering the last time he’d gotten in the car to go to work. The smell of Lawrence was too much. The memories of his warm body pressed against his in the backseat of the car. The way the leather felt slick on his back, the kisses they’d shared in the front seat, the moments in the parking garage he’d watched him drive away in that disgustingly pretentious vehicle. Moving from bed was hard. Going to work was harder.

Sitting up, Adam finally moved, heading to the closet to swap his sweatpants for blue ripped jeans and a black-and-white flannel. He glanced in the mirror, recalling how this routine mirrored the times his mother used to take him to school when he overslept. Unlike those occasions, there were no echoes of screams and lectures; instead, there was softness and patience. Jill seemed like she was meant to be a mother. He couldn't help but wish she could have been his; maybe then, things would be different.

So, before meeting her at the door, Adam reached for the Walkman, slipping his headphones around his neck, and pressed the start button to find rare comfort in the hums of Radiohead.

And just like in the hospital, Airbag played first.

In an interstellar burst
I'm back to save the universe

Opening the door, Jill looked up in shock, a smile painting her lips, relief finally settling across her face.

Adam started out first, as she followed behind him.

“That coffee sounds nice.”

BZZZZZZZZZZ.

In a deep, deep sleep
Of the innocent
I am born again

BZZZ.

—

Smoking was bad for one’s health but a great way to get breaks, and sympathy from David. Adam knew from the cartons he saw littering his car that night in December, nicotine had him on a leash. A smoke break every hour wasn’t much he could complain about, finally getting help after running the gift shop on his own for so long.

A break was fine. A break to meet Amanda, warm, spring air brushing his face.

The woman leaned against the brick wall beside Adam, cigarette between her cracked lips. Amanda was used to this rendezvous they’d made routine, going back and forth between the plant to keep tabs on Adam was a job responsibility she had accepted to keep Lawrence contained.

"So," Adam exhaled, smoke slipping from his mouth with a muffled cough. "I have to ask—" The young man felt his heart pounding in his throat. He was well aware that the answer to the question couldn't be positive. Judging by the state of the bathroom, it was evident that no one could be thriving under the conditions the man worked from. Nevertheless, he inquired.

“How is he?”

Amanda pondered the question briefly, then exhaled a wisp of smoke from her cracked, lipstick-flaked lips.

He’s bad. He’s gone, hardly a person some days. When I try to sleep at night, I can hear the muffled cries from the other room. He never stops crying. He cries all night, sometimes, he walks by the bathroom and I can just feel the way he convulses. I can see his wheels spinning. He cries your name at night. He hugs a pillow when he sleeps. He can’t live without you, but he’s being forced to now. 

Adam had seen Lawrence broken, but at least they had each other. They had been the worst parts of themselves together. But now, they were apart; and this was different. The coping mechanism under the sheets, holding each other, or watching movies all day was gone. This was their next chapter.

Amanda looked next to her to get a view of Adam, one hand gripping the cigarette and the other in his pocket. Then, taking another puff, she quietly spoke.

“He misses you. I can say that much.”

Adam wanted to rip his hair out.

"Can I ask you something?" Adam peered down at the red-haired woman, her nails broken, and her arms bruised. She resembled a beaten dog, yet he was aware that her physical appearance merely skimmed the surface of the hardships she had faced. He refrained from posing too many questions. At times, he understood that he might not want to delve into the answers.

“Shoot.” Amanda responded, holding the cigarette in her mouth and pulling her hair back in a tie with her free hand.

Adam swallowed, before continuing his question.

“Have you ever killed someone?”

Amanda felt her throat go dry, her whole body could have given out.

“Shooting that one down, dude. Next question.”

Not now.

Adam shrugged. He got it. This wasn’t a topic she was ready to talk about that - and honestly, Adam wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

His face turned red thinking about the next question, but he wanted to know - maybe then he could feel a little less guilty. 

“Have you ever loved someone? Like, in love. I feel like if I were you, I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t get it to some degree.”

Amanda felt a chill go down her spine. Memories of working with Lynn, the way her practiced hands tended to each and every patient that came into the emergency room flooded her mind. Of course she had been. Of course she loved her. Of course, she knew how Lawrence felt - and she knew, if she didn’t appease him, he would never help them. Lynn was a benefit, but John was her father figure, her mentor, everything that kept her grounded to the earth. By deceiving him, he was really saving him. Or so, she told herself.

Adam deserved honesty; that much Amanda comprehended. With that realization, she pushed herself against the wall and began walking towards the street. Glancing back for a moment, she paused to meet Adam's deep green eyes, a hint of curiosity in his gaze.

Of course, she had experienced love before.
Of course, she had loved someone.

Before leaving, she looked back to speak once more.

“I get it. That’s all I’ll say.”

—

In the bathroom at work - his 3rd break that day - Adam scribbled another letter onto a piece of scrap paper. Leaned against the stall, he clung to the cap between his teeth, and began to write.

Short and sweet - he didn’t need many words. He wanted to write 100 pages, all saying the same sappy I love you’s.

Lawrence,
I’m pissed
You left, and now I’m here alone
I miss you
I love you
Adam

But no - he had to give Lawrence hope too. No matter how angry he was. No matter how much he wanted to scream at Lawrence for leaving him behind, no matter how selfless the reason was. So, he threw the page into the small trash can besides the toilet, and pulled out another page from the notebook. Once again, he wrote.

Lawrence,

Don’t forget I said I’ll marry you when this is all over
I miss you
I love you

–

He had to give him hope.

He had to give him a piece of him.

So, sealed with a kiss, he wrote a signature he could see Lawrence hating at, but laughing at nonetheless.

–

Your voyeuristic future husband

Adam
 💋

Chapter Text

The visual of Lawrence’s severed foot felt like it was engraved into his frontal lobe. The sound, the final cut, the smell of blood that infiltrated the walls of the bathroom.

Then, the way he crawled towards him. The bullet he shot into his shoulder. The sound of Zep’s skull crushed under the toilet lid. So visceral. So haunting.

The feeling of Lawrence’s grip as he pulled him down onto the floor with him. Soft. Calming. Wet. 

Before he could respond, before wailing out for dear life, Lawrence pressed his lips against Adam. Cold. He was so cold.

“I don’t have much time,” The man whispered to the other, before crawling closer to him, cupping his cheek in his hand. Adam couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t believe it. So, he kissed him back, holding onto the other man for dear life as he pulled him in to deepen the kiss. His fingertips gripping onto Lawrence arms, leaving tiny marks as he clawed into his skin. He was like an animal, so desperate.

Lawrence pulled him in, rattling the chain that followed him, allowing the taller man to scoot himself forward and topple over Adam. Trying his best not to look down, he knew - the blood from Lawrence’s foot was staining his jeans. Then, Lawrence removed his shirt, exposing his soft abdomen and chest. God, god. If there was a god, he was merciful for this gift. They were alive, here, together, touching under the sickening fluorescent light of the bathroom.

Lawrence quickly secured the end of his injured leg with the shirt, though the makeshift bandage was far from ideal. It was a hasty job, but it would at least stem the bleeding for the time being. He appeared on the verge of passing out at any given moment.

They were doing this. They were really doing this.

Turning back to Adam, the smaller man tried to ignore the burning of the bullet lodged in his shoulder - all he could focus on was Larry, eyes hollow, face sunken in, eyelids bloodshot. His face was drenched in sweat, his body pulsing with adrenaline, and the feeling of his warm center contrasted with the freezing, rough floor of the bathroom.

“I’m going to get help,” Lawrence's voice barely carried, the strength drained from his once-confident tone, leaving behind a horse rasp and a frail posture.  “I have to do this first though.”  The open mouth kiss tasted like sickness, adrenaline, and death that overcame the two of them. As Lawrence's hand ventured to Adam's lower half, his ability to maintain an erection seemed a medical anomaly.  But god, if they were going to suffer here, they might as well do this.  Two fingers, then three, explored Adam, pressing against his prostate, and a moan escaped him, melding with the passionate exchange of breath with Lawrence.

The taste of the inside of Lawrence’s mouth was still as elegant as he had imagined, far before the breakdowns, the yelling, the near-death experiences. Even now, he knew Lawrence had a time window they had to squeeze between, but he wanted nothing but to feel his body against his. Sinning, sullen on the dirty bathroom floor.

Pulling down his jeans with force, the head of Lawrence cock entered first, and Adam yelped at the comfort of being full - full of him, rocking back into the other man to allow him to enter. As he slammed into him, Lawrence’s soft abdomen pressed against Adam, and god, he felt like he was in heaven. The way their bodies met with each thrust like electricity.

The blood pooled more.

Lawrence began to quiver as he pulled back.

Over as quick as it started, the affair was done. Their sinning was over, momentarily. Fluids mixing, whose blood was whose was only for them to decide.

With a kiss, Lawrence pulled himself up, and began to crawl towards the exit.

Adam reached for the door, hand outstretched.

Only God could save him now.

And unfortunately, Lawrence was just a man. 

BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

BRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

—

Adam jolted awake, sitting upright in bed, his gaze dropping to the dampness beneath the sheets. The dreams, at times, offered solace; tonight though, they were just cruel. The bathroom scenes played out in two variations: either Lawrence's intense, perverted thrusts, or a merciless collage of flashbacks. His brain was an unforgiving organ. 

Hair still messy from tossing and turning, Lawrence’s old striped pajama top draped over his figure as the younger man reached over to the bedside table to retrieve the pager and punch his Good Mornings in for Lawrence.

BZZZZZZ

BRZZZZZZZZ

BRZZZZ

BRZ–

After finishing their morning routine, Adam rose from the bed. He tossed the red comforter to the other side and settled on the edge. Cupping his head in his hands, visions of Lawrence filled his mind. What was Lawrence doing at this moment? Cutting into a body? Chaining others to a bathroom wall like they were? No, he couldn't focus on that now. Survival was the priority. All Lawrence would want was for him to stay alive.

But god, he was angry. 

Leaving him here, to live in what he thought was the perfect place for them. Exiting the bedroom, Adam made his way down the wooden, winding stairs and into the kitchen. With a flick, the lights turned on, illuminating the whole room.

This place was their home, but some days, the Gordon Estate felt like a haunted house, the pictures of the once happy family taunting him like vengeful spirits. He loved Diana. Hell, he even enjoyed Alison’s company, and the fact that she was the kind of person who left casseroles on the doorstep for the man that her ex-husband was in love with said enough about her. He hated it though. The way he was jealous of her. Still, after all this time. Still, even though she had met him to his face with nothing but respect.

"Come to group," she insisted every time he opened the door to find her leaving yet another hot dish. "I think you'd find it very beneficial. Joyce and I have 10 members now."

Brilliant Alison. Helpful Alison. Holy Mother Alison. Alison Gordon, PHD. Alison Gordon, doting Mother. Alison Gordon, the brave mom who saved her daughter from a Jigsaw trap. If only therapy alone could solve these issues.

She had to know. Deep down, she had to know about Lawrence. She had to have her suspicions. 

Diana embodied a perfect fusion of both of them, yet she radiated these exquisite Lawrence-like qualities. The way her smile mirrored Lawrence's whenever Adam handed her a new album or added an extra dash of pepper to her mac and cheese was a poignant reflection. It felt like a small blessing, a reassuring reminder of the man Adam knew he would see again. Every shared moment with Diana was something he truly cherished; it was a taste of normalcy in the midst of the unpredictable circumstances.

Despite Alison's insistence on maintaining normality, deep down, Adam understood her role, and why she was there - to keep an eye on him, make sure he was safe. Some nights, he and Diana would stay up until the early hours immersed in games like Silent Hill II or Mario Kart, only to wake up the next morning with a shared blanket and Alison peacefully dozing in a chair nearby.

Jill was probably grateful for her. Another eye on Adam, another person he felt he was burdening.

In the kitchen, Adam surveyed the scene. Jill had evidently tidied up the night before. The dishes were done, the counters were spotless, and there was no trace of the spaghetti and red sauce from the previous evening. Oh well. He was grateful.

Opening the fridge, the dark haired man grabbed a half empty container of orange juice, wiping some sleep from his eyes, and made his way to the cabinet to retrieve the mug Lawrence always liked - “world’s best Dad” in big pink letters on the side.

Pouring juice into the mug, he simultaneously dropped two pills into his palm and took a swig of the drink. He remembered how normal it felt to do this once with Lawrence - and here he was, keeping up their old routine, finally. He missed him. He missed his smell. The way he always got up first, the way his stomach felt against his back in the bathtub. Lawrence’s smell. Lawrence’s taste. Lawrence’s age appropriate taste in movies. Stupid Lawrence. Goddamn Lawrence, Lawrence who gave him a will to live. Lawrence who infected his head. Lawrence Lawrence Lawrence.

Lawrence.

Lawrence.

Setting the mug on the table, Adam turned to ascend the stairs, a slight hobble in his step as his pajama pants snagged on his feet with each stride.

It was bath time, a necessary element of their morning routine. 

Increasing the volume on the Walkman to its maximum, the music resonated and blended with the rushing water from the faucet.

You know, you know where you are with
You know where you are with
Floor collapsing
Floating, bouncing back

And one day
I am gonna grow wings
A chemical reaction
(You know where you are)
Hysterical and useless
(You know where you are)
Hysterical and
(You know where you are)

-Let Down, Radiohead

—

Hoffman's perpetual stance by the doorway had become irksome. Although Lawrence was no longer intimidated by him, he found himself increasingly irritated by Hoffman's coarseness and lack of straightforwardness. The way he stared felt reminiscent of a nosy child, peering over one's shoulder with no regard for privacy. Annoying. He was annoying. 

Over time, Lawrence's hair had grown longer, and it had become rather bothersome. A single strand of blonde hair persistently fell over one eye, prompting him to repeatedly tuck it behind his ears as he worked on their next gruesome trap. The cascade of locks at the back reached his neck, evoking a sense of bitter nostalgia - as if he were back in med school, leaning against that cold brick wall.

Then, the thought of Adam - his fateful partner, the one he likely manifested all those years ago.

Yet, he could still sense Hoffman's eyes on him, that irritating and arrogant gaze emanating from those piercing blue eyes and accompanied by a smug, all-knowing smirk.

While the doctor meticulously sewed the key into the back of the next victim's neck—a woman, 5'3", blonde, and a white-collar criminal—his glare shifted toward the figure at the door, broad-shouldered with arms crossed.

“Can I help you, Detective Hoffman?”

Leaning against the doorway, the brunette man wore a smug expression that grated on Lawrence. What got under his skin the most was that the man was still in his uniform, the very attire that stirred a sense of pure hatred within Lawrence. This man continued to masquerade daily as a figure believed by many to protect the public. Yet, here he stood, observing Lawrence as he sewed metal into a civilian, the needle deftly piercing in and out of her skin.

 “Your pager has been going off all morning.” He retorted, sniffling as he spoke. “Is Amanda bothering you that much?”

The blonde man abruptly halted his sewing, meeting Hoffman's gaze with a serious expression to emphasize his sincerity.

“It’s John, and Amanda. If you should know,” Lawrence shot a harsh glare at the other man. “They’ve tasked me with far more responsibilities than they have you. I think you should be more concerned with being helpful and keeping us somewhat protected. My pager isn’t one of your jobs, is it, detective?”

Their dynamic grew more and more resentful with each passing day. Hoffman’s glance turned to the flowers, still wilting on the cart, petals gathering at the bottom of the vase. He should change the subject, he thought to himself.

“My sister used to bring me flowers. Really brightens up the room, yknow.”

Lawrence didn’t move. Just continued sewing, and let out a scoff. “Is that what you’re here to talk to me about? The decor? Is that what you do back at the station?” The tools on the cart emitted a resounding clunk as the doctor tossed his needle and mask onto it. “Watching HGTV in your office funded by tax payers?”

Hoffman remained still. Despite the strong desire to lunge at the other man, clutch his hands around his neck, and tighten his grip until the air ran out, he understood that John required him alive. No matter the depth of his hatred, he had to maintain control over himself.

“So,” Hoffman continued, brushing his hand over his nose with a sniff. “I was looking at some articles. There was another man in that trap with you. Think he’d ever want to do this?”

A wave of nausea churned within Lawrence as the question assaulted his ears. The thought of Adam in that same place had crossed his mind before, but now, it felt more menacing, more immediate. This wasn't a place for Adam, and Lawrence was resolute in his determination to keep him safe. That was the purpose, the driving force behind all of this.

"Don't," Lawrence growled, his back turned to the other man. "Don't talk about him."

A grimace etched itself onto Hoffman's lips. At last, he had struck a nerve. The strategic dance they had been engaged in was evolving into something more intense, and Hoffman reveled in the fact that he had finally elicited a reaction. The game had truly begun.

“Is he your live-in boyfriend? Saw you two swapping spit like teenagers in your hospital. I wonder if he goes by often. Might pay him a visit.”

Might pay him a visit.

Might pay him a visit.

Lawrence retaliated, snatching the cane beside him and hurling it backward, teetering precariously on his good foot. The hard wood collided with Hoffman's side, though the man seemed impervious, built like iron, barely flinching. Lawrence's eyes felt like they might bulge out of their sockets, ablaze with fury.

Hoffman's smirk vanished.

Lawrence extended his hand, grabbing Hoffman's shoulder, attempting to assert some control — or, at least, he felt like he did.

“Don’t you ever come near him. Or -”

The shorter, dark haired man let out a hollow laugh. “Or what? Keep talking, Doctor Gordon.”

Lawrence’s eyebrows furrowed, pupils blinded with the primal rage that encompassed his body.

“I’ll kill you.”

Hoffman forcefully shoved the other man away, pivoting to exit before slamming the door shut in his wake.

Finally able to release a gasp, the doctor sank to his knees. With one hand gripping his face, the other migrated to his pants pocket, retrieving the photo of Adam. Then dug his hand in again and pulled out the grey phone. Lawrence, tears streaming down his face, gripped the cell phone, his hands trembling as he dialed Amanda's number.

He had memorized Adam’s long ago, but knew better than to even attempt to contact him.

No.

No.

Amanda would take care of it. She always did. She always would.

Punching in the numbers, Lawrence lifted the phone to his ear. Hearing the click from the receiver, he let his whispering sobs echo through the line.

“Amanda? Please. I have to see him.”

—

FROM: AMANDA
TO: ADAM

IF YOU WANT TO SEE LAWRENCE, MEET US AT THE OLD MOTEL YOU TOOK THOSE PICTURES OF HIM AT.

TOMORROW @ 2PM DON’T BE LATE WE DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME.

DELETE THIS MESSAGE WHEN YOU GET IT.

Chapter Text

“So, are you going to tell me your name, or what?”

The man before me paused, before softly responding, dripping wet with the water from the bathtub. 

“Adam.”

It was during my days in Catholic school that I first encountered your name. A memory braided into the walls of the Chapel. It is then that I recall that Adam is the one who helped to create man. The you that shaped me. The you that created me. The man I am today. 

I reminisce about my 8th-grade days, where I first encountered the story of Saint Lawrence, martyred in the most brutal manner. Saint of Children. Saint of comedians - can you believe that? I remember the irritation I felt when you made jokes when we were chained across the room. You made me laugh, however. You really made me laugh. Here I am though, Lawrence Gordon; patron saint of the Poor. Comedians. Cooks. Children.

Children - like the child I failed. My own child.

I remember Ali’s words.

“You failed.”

I failed.

Adam, who sinned in the garden of Eden, damned to the earth.

I am glad you walked this earth with me.

So

I clasp my hands together and pray in the deep trenches of this hell. 

May he be safe. 

May we never be apart. 

Amen. 

—

Adam,

Amanda told me that you looked well when she saw you. I’m not sure what that means. I hope it’s good.

I think about you when I wake up in the morning.

You’re the last thing I think of before I go to sleep.

I miss you my sweetheart. I would give anything to smell your cigarettes or hear the awful screaming from your music in the other room right now.

This won’t be forever.

I love you always,

Lawrence

✉

—

Lawrence,

I smoke 5 packs a day now. Kidding. I hope that didn’t kill you to read. I know at your age your heart isn’t what it used to be (Also kidding).

David is a dick. He talks about Zep constantly like he thinks he’s coming back. He thinks our situations are similar. The guilt sucks.

Diana finished Silent Hill 2. She’s smart as hell. I could never have beat it at her age.

I miss you. I still take baths every day. Sometimes I put on one of your CDs and it helps. I imagine your dorky ass dancing around the room. It helps. Fuck.

I love you.

I can’t wait to see you again.

Your future husband,
Adam

✉

—

Darling Adam,

Please don’t smoke so much. 

I’m proud of you. I’m proud of Diana.

I have to make this quick

I hope you’re eating well and I love you

Lawrence

✉

—

Lawrence,

I miss your dick. Lube and my hand just aren't the same.

Just kidding. I don’t have the energy to jerk off anymore. I hope you laughed.

Honestly though, I miss it. Whoever decided to make you that well endowed should be in jail. I’m sorry. I had to be honest.

I miss your everything, it sucks.

I love you so much, UGH.

Fuck,

Love you love you love you

Adam

✉

—

Adam,

The feeling is mutual.

I love you darling. It won’t be long.

Lawrence

✉

—

Adam,

I hope you enjoy the piles of letters.

Hoffman gets on my nerves more and more every day. You would just despise him. He is unbearable. Today I think he may have been trying to relate to me. Appeal to me somehow. He and his colleague went on a date to go see a movie. They kissed in the car and the idea of him being romantic with someone is bizarre to me. He says he loves him but the man seems to grimace every time he looks his way. I understand this man.

I love you and I miss your snide remarks. I miss holding you

Lawrence

✉

—

Lawrence,

Hoffman sounds like a dick. 
Alison met a woman named Joyce. She seems happy. I’m happy for her. 
I know how she feels.
I miss you.

Love you.

Adam

✉

—

Lawrence,

Enjoy more piles of letters too.
I love you.
Work is hard.
Alison makes amazing casseroles. Jill practically lives here now.
I wish I was falling asleep with you 

Love you forever fuck
Adam 

✉

—

Lawrence,

Why did you leave? Why the fuck didn’t you take me
I’m so mad at you Lawrence
You said you’d be here no matter what
This isn’t protecting me
This is killing me
I feel so lost without you
Fuck

I love you

Adam

✉

—-

Lawrence sat on the edge of the motel bed. Straightening his tie with one hand and brushing out the wrinkles of his dress shirt with the other, he stared into the reflection of the dirty motel mirror across from him. 

The walls were like he remembered - popcorn ceilings, dirty white walls, red stained comforter. He tried not to think about it, withering the thought down to toothpaste stains or something simple. They could be unhygienic but sterile. 

This was different though. This wasn't like the other encounters, shacking up with coworkers with the core mission of drowning in denial for a few measly hours. Going home smelling like them, the encounter being as emotionally significant as a stop by the bank or the gym. This was different. He would finally see Adam for the first time in months. 

This wasn't Adam's first time here either. He never wanted them to meet again here, but the same place tainted by dishonesty, he would allow himself to break apart in front of his only figure of acceptance. Adam his savior. Adam, his archangel, was his one sole light in a world that had turned the lights off on him long ago. Adam. Adam Adam Adam. 

His reflection was unrecognizable. He was glad he had packed a dress shirt when he left. The blue reminded him of the first time he laid eyes on Adam, drenched like a wet dog on the adjacent side of the bathroom. 

–

FROM: AMANDA
TO: ADAM
ROOM 182. YOU HAVE 1 HOUR. 
–

Adam slid the hotel keycard into the electric lock of room 182. With a click, the light turned green. Turning the doorknob and pressing his body against the door with a soft push, the entrance to the room swung open. He could feel the texture against the denim of his pants; the cheap hotel door; flimsy and aged, with paint cracking on its sides.

Within the sinful lodgings, countless secrets and lies lurked in the shadows. Despite the complicit grip on his camera and the money he made from the pursuits, Adam harbored secrets that he would carry to his grave. The way his stomach flipped seeing Lawrence walk into the motel room - wishing he would see him and invite into the room, demanding the other woman leave as he fucked Adam into the sheets. Yet, here he stood, a mere spectator, a voyeur through and through, watching Lawrence betraying his marriage with a mix of desire and resignation.

The outfit he chose was symbolic, the classic green and white striped dress shirt that hung over his white undershirt that hung over his slim figure. The oversized blue jeans draped his hips, held up by a black belt. 

As the door closed behind him, Adam stood there, sniffling and pushing his hair back from his eyes, his gaze fixed on the tall figure before him.

Lawrence.

Lawrence's hand trembled, clutching the cane tightly, tears welling in his blue eyes as his pupils danced with the other man’s gaze.

Adam remained still, feeling as if the man's mere presence enveloped him, the sensation of his lightweight undershirt feeling absolutely suffocating, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. The forest green eyes that adorned Adam's face glossed over with tears as his eyebrows twisted in shock.

Lawrence.

Still unable to move, Adam struggled for breath, feeling the air brush against his cheek as Lawrence approached. Each step resonated with the distinct sound of the cane striking the ground.

At last, he stood face to face with him. The older man's gloved hand, blond and weathered, extended to gently caress Adam's face, causing his heart to race with anticipation. A wave of pallor washed over the younger man's features, and a cold sweat drop fell from his wet forehead down to his cheek.

The scent washed over him, the faint smell that stained the paper of every letter. It was Lawrence's scent. Finally, after longing for so long, he could smell Lawrence. Armani and dust.

Despite cutting off his own foot, painting himself in the metallic scent of crimson blood, and enduring weeks within the confines of the rotten walls of the Gideon Meat Packing Plant, Lawrence's scent remained as sweet and elegant as ever. It almost disgusted Adam how he still smelled so good. 

The taller man leaned in abruptly, resting his head against Adam's shoulder while they both remained standing, the younger man in front of him, as motionless as a tree. He felt Lawrence’s blonde locks brush against the side of his neck as he brushed his nose over the nook of his clavicle.

Sniffling softly, Lawrence enveloped Adam in his arms, his large grasp holding him tightly as Adam slowly lifted his arms to brush against Lawrence's elbows.

The hug was suffocating. It was home.

With a trembling voice reminiscent of the one he had when he first saw his family's photo in the bathroom—a cadence both familiar and hauntingly comforting—he spoke.

“I’m so glad. I’m so glad you came.”

—

Lawrence lay on the bed next to Adam, maintaining a respectful distance before glancing up at him. The faint odor of mold permeated the mattress, dancing in circles with the scent of Adam’s flannel and cigarettes. He didn't mind it. Being near Adam was all he needed.

"I'm glad to see you, Adam," Lawrence said needily, drawing a deep breath as he tried to inch closer to the man lying flatly on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. "I feel utterly lost without you—your presence is what keeps me going. I've never experienced anything like it before." Pausing briefly, Lawrence added, "Adam, you're everything to me. You're all I have."

Adam jolted, gripping Lawrence's shirt collar, forcing eye contact with his whole body full of simmering anger. The memory of the broken hacksaw flung across the room flashed in Lawrence's mind—this was the same  Adam- angry, apathetic, Adam. 

His voice reverberated in his chest as he spat. What Lawrence had intended to soothe him had the opposite effect. He was sugar that was laced with ipecac. 

“Wrong.

“You had a wife, a family - a wife who was a damn angel at that - did you know that she brings me meals every night even though I slept with her husband? She's a damn saint, and you betrayed her and I think I hate her. I don't want to hate her. I really, really just wish some days that it could be me in those pictures instead of her. It's so selfish. It's unrealistic. She's so kind. You hurt her and she still wants what's best for us. She wants what's best for Diana. She lets me around her - I could never be like her. I'm there and can't extend the same. I'm alive probably because she held up Zep. You were more focused on me than you were your own family in that bathroom. I loved it. And I still resent it. Because a part of me is as rotten as I was when I woke up in that bathroom. Because even if you try to kill me, I'm still the same worthless person that I've always been. You have a 6 figure job, a house that is worth more than I can even imagine -” his voice broke, cracking with each word. “-you're everything Lawrence, god.” With a sharp swallow, Adam persevered through the pain in his chest.   “You have a career, a daughter, I saw those flowers in the hospital Lawrence, your family loves you - and I -”

Gasping for air, Adam curled into the fetal position, sinking into the worn floral sheets of the motel mattress. His coughing intensified, the sharp pain in his chest akin to an arrow piercing flesh and bone. Tears streaming, Lawrence moved closer, extending his arm to touch the other man's face - no. Not now. With a swat of his hand, the frailer man rejected Lawrence's attempt at comfort, locking eyes with him in a poignant exchange of emotion. 

As his lip quivered, he spoke. 

“-- all I had was you.”

Lawrence surged forward, gathering Adam's trembling body into his arms as he struggled for breath, sobs wracking his frame. With a steady hand, Lawrence reached out to grasp the younger man's shaking wrists, guiding them to rest against his own throat.

Eyes red with tears, bottom lip bitten and shaking, Lawrence gasped in a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Adam. You could never be rotten. Please.”

Lawrence pressed his palm against the top of Adam’s hand, squeezing harder against his throat, rubbing his thumb supportively. Encouraging the grip. 

With a reassuring nod, Lawrence spoke.

“Punish me.”

With a sharp sob, Adam clung tightly to the other man's neck, his thumb gently brushing over Lawrence's adam's apple. Beneath his calloused hands, Lawrence's neck felt soft and smooth, and Adam couldn't help but revel in the exquisite sensation of Lawrence Gordon's pleasured choking.

Lawrence shifted, firmly grasping Adam's wrists as he adjusted the pressure of his grip. With each squeeze and mark left on Lawrence's skin, his eyes fluttered closed with pleasure, his body trembling with a mixture of satisfaction and relief.

“Lawrence,” Adam whispered, hating how his mood could go from so pained to pleasured. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“I know,” Lawrence replied. “Please, though. I want you to get this out. I want you to.”

With a gasp, Adam's lips collided with the older man's, parting to welcome his probing tongue. Lawrence reciprocated by lifting Adam with one arm while the other hand ventured to Adam's waist, deftly undoing his belt.

Their kiss deepened, growing more fervent and impassioned as Adam groaned at the sensation of Lawrence's touch. "N-No," Adam moaned, causing Lawrence to pull back, concern etched on his face. "I'm sorry," the older man quickly interjected. "We don't have to—of course. You're angry. I'm out of line."

The older man nodded apologetically, understanding Adam's hesitation. "It's alright," Lawrence reassured him. "We can take it slow. I'm here for you."

Adam reached forward to pull Lawrence’s collar in, leaning his face forward until they were nose to nose.

“That’s not it. You said you wanted me to punish you.” Adam continued, and reached his hand forward to brush a thumb over Lawrence’s wet bottom lip. “So, let me.” 

Lawrence nodded, his arousal intensifying as he observed Adam's confidence and assertiveness. Leaning forward, Lawrence pressed his lips against the other man's, their kiss deepening with desire. Meanwhile, Adam deftly loosened Lawrence's belt, reaching inside to release his erection from the confines of his slacks.

As Adam brushed his hand over the man's member, he felt Lawrence's gasping breath against his cheek. Lowering himself, Adam began to suckle at Lawrence's neck, his movements fluid as he discarded his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. Moving lower, Adam left a trail of bite marks and broken blood vessels on Lawrence's chest, a constellation of hickies meant only for him to see. Lawrence's blonde chest hair mingled with saliva as Adam continued his ministrations, creating a path of pleasure from his nipple to his clavicle. With each bite, Lawrence's soft skin yielded to Adam's touch, eliciting tears of pleasure from the man beneath him.

"I'm gonna," Adam breathed against Lawrence's chest, a trail of saliva marking his path. "-gonna fuck you, Lawrence. I want you to know I still have some control. I'm not giving up on you. You'll always be mine."

The holy figure of Adam stood before Saint Lawrence.

Lawrence gasped, reaching out to grip the younger man's waist, his eyes fixed on the figure before him—the man he loved, the man he would sacrifice everything for, his everything.

Adam leaned forward, deftly removing Lawrence's pants, his gaze lingering on the sight of the man before him. Lowering himself, he pressed kisses to Lawrence's stomach before moistening two fingers in his mouth, preparing to venture below to Lawrence's entrance.

“Adam-” Lawrence choked, never feeling so vulnerable in front of someone, naked for him to take in. Feeling the bruises from the choking forming on his skin, Lawrence allowed himself to be consumed by Adam’s giving hands, feeling the mix of pain and pleasure as inserted two fingers into his backside and began massaging his prostate with force. Lawrence moaned deeply, shaking as Adam’s hand thrusted in and out of him, tips of his fingers pounding into his sensitive areas, causing precome to bubble on the man’s head. "I think you're ready for me now, Lawrence," the other man murmured, a mix of affection and malice evident in his tone as he unfastened his belt, tossing it carelessly into the corner. His vocal fry reverberated as he huffed and positioned himself to look down at the other man. Aligning himself with Lawrence's entrance, he received a subtle nod before Adam plunged forward, head first with a decisive force.

Within seconds, Adam pushed all of himself into the other man, gripping his ass tight, leaving claw marks in his wake as he moved back and forth. 

"Ah, God—do it, take me, Adam," Lawrence gasped, feeling every inch of the other man filling him. As their bodies moved in synchronized rhythm, Lawrence's neck arched back, surrendering to the sensations coursing through him. The punishing feelings of Adam's resentment and love poisoning his veins. The other man reclaimed his grip on Lawrence's neck, as he leaned forward to choking him, alternating between gentle pressure and a firmer grasp with each thrust. Brushing the surface of his skin with his thumb, he lovingly admired the purple marks, both hating that he could cause any pain for Lawrence and remembering the bulletwound that scarred his shoulder. They would never be equals in this regard, but Lawrence wanted nothing more than to relieve his own guilt, allowing Adam to vent his frustration into this passionate, trusting act. With each slick movement, Lawrence's prostate pleaded for more, heightening the intensity of their shared desire.

"I missed you," Adam whispered, his hand tenderly caressing Lawrence's cheek, his fingertips grazing over his rough 5 o'clock shadow. "I missed you so damn much."

Lawrence panted, feeling the other man’s cock inside of him, freeing all his pent up frustration. “I love you, Adam.”

Leaning forward, Adam took Lawrence's bottom lip between his own, eliciting a groan as he pulled back slightly before thrusting deeply into him once more. Lawrence’s soft stomach brushed Adam’s abdomen with every movement, hardening his member at the feeling. He was aggressive, starved, and Lawrence was desperate to feel all of Adam’s resentment in his punishing movements. The pain, mixed with deep pleasure as he passionately rammed into him. Then, with a tender lean, he enveloped Lawrence's mouth with his own, planting soft kisses against his lips. Muffling every moan with his tongue, Adam felt the reverberation of Lawrence's gasps through their shared kiss. As Adam's climax approached, Lawrence surrendered to the sensation, finding release quickly. Collapsing onto the bed beside him, Adam and Lawrence lay entwined, their breathing gradually returning to normal.

“I’m so sorry,” Adam felt wet tears stain his eyelids. “I’m so sorry.”

The smaller man gently brushed a hand over the small bruises on Lawrence’s neck. Lawrence blinked rapidly, hastily wiping away tears from his eyes, masking the satisfaction he felt from the purple marks that adorned his throat. 

Adam flung his arms around Lawrence’s neck.

Their lips met.

The alarm rang.

The hour was over.

Lawrence and Adam dressed swiftly, the urgency of the moment propelling their movements. Once clothed, Adam remained seated on the edge of the bed beside his partner.

The sensation engulfed him as if he might melt into the ground if they were separated.

“Take me with you.” Adam begged.

"Not now," Lawrence replied softly, reaching for Adam's hand and tenderly bringing it to his lips. "Patience, my love. Please."

With a desperate cry, Adam surged forward, crashing into the other man's embrace. In that moment of vulnerability, the man gently pressed his lips against Adam's forehead, offering a tender kiss filled with apology and reassurance. 

In this uncertain world, they defied the odds of survival, finding strength in each other's presence. It was a world marked by cruelty and unforgiving challenges, a stark contrast to the sharp pain of the bullet wound and severed leg they endured in the bathroom, in their tumultuous pasts, and in the shadows of their parental influences, amidst the chaos, their connection remained steadfast, a rare symbol of hope and resilience in the face of Jigsaw’s cruel adversity.

The knock on the door felt like a church bell on the day of the funeral.

As Adam rose to open the door, he glimpsed Amanda's unwashed hair, paranoid expression, and disheveled attire—sunglasses, black hoodie, and leggings—through the peephole. It was clear: it was time to go.

With a kiss, Lawrence leaned forward to whisper into Adam’s ear.

“Be patient. I love you.”

As the disheveled motel door closed, Lawrence observed Adam's figure slowly fading on the other side.

Once Lawrence was no longer visible, the dark-haired figure collapsed to the floor, clutching the place where his heart beat in his chest.

Amanda seemed rushed. She didn’t say a word to Lawrence the entire car ride back to the plant.

As soon as they arrived back at the plant, Lawrence glanced at the still wilting flowers on the cart.

Amanda appeared visibly distracted.

She found it impossible to calm her racing thoughts, consumed as she was by the impending capture of Lynn Denlon tomorrow.

Perhaps, in the end, she was just another wilted flower in John's twisted game.

Chapter Text

"The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living."

-Marcus Tullius Cicero

—-

“Jeff forgot our anniversary. When he’s home, he doesn’t leave Dylan’s room. Then, if I’m not grieving the same way he is, he assumes I don’t care. I’m a bad Mother. He doesn’t know -  he doesn’t know how it feels. He lost a son, but I lost a part of myself with him.”

“How does that make you feel, Lynn? Remember, Simple emotions. Simple words.”

“Confused. Angry? I don’t know anymore. People at work are even noticing I’m not myself.”

“That must be hard. Do you remember what I told you about what to do when you felt that way?”

“I’ve been going for runs again. I guess that’s a win.”

“Yes - that is healthy. Have you talked to Jeff about what we discussed in our last session?”

“Remind me.”

“Divorce, Lynn. The Divorce.”

“No. I haven’t. I think for Corbett, it’ll be best for us to stay together until she’s in college. Then we can talk about it, if we still want to. I’ll stop sleeping with - yeah. At some point.”

“Do you really want to continue things the way they are for the next 10 years? Is that really how you want to live, Lynn?”

“No. I don’t know. It seems like there’s no other option at this point. I can’t do that.”

“Remember what you told me about your parents? How you wished they’d get a divorce so you wouldn’t have to listen to them fight? Do you think Corbett might think the same?”

“...I don’t pay you to psychoanalyze my childhood. I pay you to fix me.”

“Sadly, fixing a person isn’t what I specialize in. I can only give you advice, but it’s your choice whether you follow it.”

Leaning forward, Lynn swept her raven-black hair behind her ear and buried her head in her hands, a gesture that starkly contrasted her usual composed demeanor. Even to the observing doctor, the shift was unnerving. Lynn had always projected an image of poise and composure, but now, she appeared to be unraveling, like a delicate goblet of stained glass shattering against dense concrete. Her impeccably glossy hair stood in stark contrast to her bitten nails and scabbed hands, painting a picture of inner turmoil. Across from her, the psychologist, dressed in a sharp navy blue suit with a silk red tie and black slacks, diligently scribbled notes onto his clipboard—a ritual repeated in each session, writing an essay’s worth of doctors notes that paired delicately with advice that always seemed to go unheeded, hardly scratching the surface of treatment.

As she glanced up at the clock, the woman realized that the session was drawing to a close. With a sigh, she shifted her attention to the wooden sign beside the door.

“CHERISH YOUR LIFE.”

— 

Outside the convenience store, Amanda Young leaned against the rough texture of the 7/11's brick wall, her back firmly pressed against it. 

Am I not good enough for you?

Is there something wrong with me?

The black hoodie draped over her figure, while charcoal ripped jeans gave her the appearance of the grim reaper waiting to retrieve it's next victim - haunting the night. A ghost wouldn’t be inaccurate - maybe, this was all a dream. Maybe, she was still haunting the room she was trapped in originally. The taste of blood and metal floating through her senses. Maybe, a part of her was still ripping into the intestines of her old cell mate, feeling the slick texture of the organs against her finger tips as she desperately searched for the key that would free her. Amanda Young, who had wanted to die since age eight, desperately clawed through a living human body to find the key to save her from a quick yet painful death - what an ironic sight - how hilarious , she mulled over the thought.

You say, "Don't cry, you know you're mine"

Baby, don't you lie to me

With a defeated sigh, she retrieved a cigarette from the pack and brought it to her lips, a ritual that remained constant through her late teens and twenties. This was a routine that she cherished when she left for supplies, or a food run - the solace of a pack of marlboros. As the paper touched her mouth, she inhaled deeply, feeling the immediate relief of nicotine coursing through her system. Tucking a strand of dark red hair behind her ear, she almost devoured the cigarette whole, seeking to numb the pain that lingered within her—the pain of realizing that Lynn was nothing but a pawn on the chess board, and Amanda wasn’t even winning. Despite feeling John’s paternal love deeply, Amanda understood that her father figure's soul had been corroded by cancer, gradually eroding even his most admirable qualities - he was a shell of the man who started these games with intention - or at least, she thought - if he ever had dignity at all.

Am I just not what you want?

Am I just not what you need?

Amanda lifted her head to gaze at the night sky, her senses pulling her from her thoughts to turn her attention to the sound of a car approaching the parking lot. The high beam lights of the blue Honda Civic nearly blinded her as she observed the silhouette of a woman stepping out of the vehicle.

As the figure drew nearer, the woman’s features gradually sharpened, walking with a limp as she approached from the blur. Amanda’s gaze focused on the dark hair and shapely silhouette of the approaching individual

In a soft voice, she asked - “I haven’t bummed a cigarette since Med school, but - can I have one of those?”

Amanda could recognize the voice even if she was 1000 miles away.

Lynn.

As her body quivered, Amanda pulled the cigarette from the box, watching as the goddess in front of her lifted the stick to her lips, her face illuminated by Amanda’s red bic lighter.

They stood in silence, feeling the awkward yet comforting vibration of the night air.

Is there someone who has your heart

That keeps you gone, away from me?

Once the cigarette had burned down to its end, Lynn extinguished it under the heel of her black boot. Amanda’s heart throbbed watching it, the light of the cigarette snuffed out under the weight of the woman’s shoe - she could have leaned down, kissed it, allowing herself to fall into the daydream of pushing the woman into the nearby alley, lifting her skirt and tasting all of her.

This life wasn’t so kind.

I think about you every day

'Cause I love you more than I thought I could

The doctor turned towards the red-haired woman, eyelashes fluttering, and murmured a soft "Thank you. I really needed that." With purposeful strides, she made her way towards her car, prepared to drive away.

Once the vehicle disappeared, Amanda felt her knees collapse, falling onto the concrete - she knew what was coming.

And now that you're gone, I wanna die

In that moment, her thoughts were flooded with visions of Adam - someone she never thought she would be able to emotionally connect to on this same level - and maybe this was really why she was helping Lawrence. Adam knew what love was like  - his desperation to know about Lawrence’s wellbeing, the look on his face when she delivered the first letter, the pain in his eyes when the door of the motel room slammed shut. She pondered the depth of pain residing in the crevices of his soul, how much it hurt to be pulled away from Lawrence. The grim uncertainty about the future lingered in the air, intermingled with the stark reality that love is more painful than any torture device she could have built in that dingy warehouse. 

'Cause I don't hate you like I know I should

Amanda would forever be haunted by the visceral sound that escaped Lynn's lips as the bag and chloroform wrapped around her head—the sound echoing a chilling mixture of a reverberating chirp and a horrified scream. It echoed through the air, mirroring a baby bird falling from the security of its nest, its fragile bones descending into the murky depths of a biohazardous pig pen.

She felt the weight of Lynn's soft body collapse against her, catching her as she fell backwards, and taking the moment to hold her in her arms before lifting her into the car.

Maybe, after all, she hadn’t learned to cherish her life as much as she thought - maybe, until now.

Was I not good enough for you?

(Casings, Ethel Cain)

—-

“ Adam! Adam, wake up!”

Diana’s tiny hand slapped against the 5 o’clock shadow that colored the man’s cheeks, as she let out a loud giggle feeling the sandpapery texture. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to the energy of kids, no matter how much he personally related. Diana was a different case though - she was a piece of Lawrence, but also, her own unique personality that seemed to heal with each day.

The panic attacks were hard - with Alison never leaving the house without a stock of inhalers, paper bags, and a pink pill organizer of low-dose prozac.

As he started to wake up, the scent of sweet maple syrup and butter hit his nostrils, followed by the bitter smell of freshly brewed coffee.

Adam looked down under the sheets, feeling the sharp pain and the weight of the bruise against his kneecap from falling directly on the motel floor. Diana jumped onto the duvet, and slammed all of her weight onto his leg, before rolling over the piles blankets, her translucent, purple gameboy in-hand.

"DIANA!" Adam yelped in pain, his hand instinctively reaching for his leg, massaging the kneecap to stimulate blood flow. The little girl giggled innocently, surrounded by the mechanical sounds of Digimon: Battle Spirit lingering in the air as she continued to chuckle to herself.

“Mama’s in the kitchen with Ms. Jill,” the young girl hummed, as Adam rubbed sleep from his eyes, watching as blurred auras appeared in his vision. Not now - he couldn’t think about Lawrence. Today was a day with Diana - today was a day they had affectionately named “Family Day,” one that Lawrence would “just adore” when he was back. Or, at least that’s what Alison would do to keep Diana in good spirits - lists and lists of ideas for “Family Day” when he was back. As far as the kids at school knew, her father was a hero in multiple areas - all of them ignorant to the realities of his crimes. All this time, he could be as close as a few blocks away, sharpening the blade that a man would slit his throat with.

Adam shifted his position to lay on his side, snuggling deeper into the blankets as he scooted closer to join Diana. “Y’know,” he said, “I actually prefer Digimon to Pokemon. I think they’re cooler.”

“Shut uppppp,” Diana turned to shoot Adam an incredulous look. “They’re both cool. Every animal in Digimon has NUTHIN on Vaporeon though.”

Adam simply shrugged, laughing at her influx when she said Animal, as he continued observing as Diana punched the controllers with fervor, engrossed in her game. “ Yeesh,” he thought, “She’s a better candidate for carpal tunnel than I was at her age.”

Adam blinked, his gaze fixed on Diana who remained engrossed in the game, her concentration extreme. He could hear the faint sound of her teeth grinding as she played as Agumon with unwavering focus.

Adam coughed, relieving smoking-induced phlegm from his throat, causing Diana to make a disgusted face. Regardless, he continued; “Okay, sure, but Renamon is pretty badass.”

The little girl emitted a cackle that bordered on sarcasm, momentarily dispelling Adam's doubt about children possessing a dry sense of humor. "I can't believe you're actually into that show! It’s for kids!"

With a gentle extension of his arms, Adam scooped up Diana, lifting her from the pillows as he rose.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m lame but hey - when your dad’s back, we’ll have to show him what he’s missed.”

The young girl squirmed in delight, emitting a joyful laugh, as he adjusted to hold her securely with one arm while leaning to the side and pressing his thumb against the beeper with the hand. With a quick shift, Adam tossed Diana over his back, her grip on the gameboy remaining steadfast, as he made his way towards the door.

As he hobbled toward the kitchen, the voices of the two women became increasingly distinct as they drew nearer. The comfort and familiarity of their conversations.

The beeper buzzed on the night table, its vibration reverberating against the wood—a reassuring signal that Lawrence was safe.

Family Day.

—-

“Careful.” 

Alison spoke as Diana reached out to accept the plate of steaming, fluffy pancakes from her mother. Each pancake boasted a perfectly browned top, edges crispy but not overly so, with melting chocolate chips scattered across the surface. Taking hold of the warm ceramic plate, the little girl placed it in front of her before eagerly gulping down the glass of orange juice at her place setting. With a forkful of the sweet breakfast delicacy, she wasted no time in savoring the flavors.

“Slow down,” Alison warned before pulling back the dining room chair, taking a seat besides Adam at the table. “We actually want to chew our food when we eat it, ok Di?”

The other blonde woman stood beside the frying pan, faint speckles of day-old mascara adorning her eyelids. She was dressed in a comfortable ensemble—a pink sweatshirt paired with black leggings and flats that made walking around the kitchen easier. With a sigh, she tapped her lips nervously, using tongs to delicately transfer the last of the crisp bacon onto a paper towel. As she listened to Alison and Diana's conversation, she couldn't resist but to reflect on how much deeper this dialogue might have cut a year ago—the maternal void within her chest that had long remained unfilled, now, at last, felt complete with Adam in her life. 

Guilt flooded her nerves like hardening concrete.

"He thinks I'm innocent," she thought.

But he didn't know that she knew.

That he had seen Lawrence last night.

He had no idea she was once married to the man who tortured him.

He had no clue about who she really was.

"I'm a fraud," she admitted to herself, feeling the weight of her deception. "A player in that same game, but on the other side of the chessboard."

"I'm a liar, a horrible person, just like my mother always said—"

“...Any help?”

Adam's voice shattered her daydream, his words muffled by the impolite act of speaking with his mouth full.

That was something she could have nipped in the bud if she had raised him.

The two stared at each other before Adam repeated himself; “You need any help?”

Jill's hazel eyes drifted downward, her attention completely absorbed by the floor. In her catatonic state of dissociation, she had forgotten about the pieces of bacon she had clumsily dropped. Nervously tucking her hair behind one ear, she shook her head in an attempt to dispel the negative thoughts clouding her mind.

With a faux smile, she picked up the plate of breakfast meat and started towards the table, taking in the familiar, smokey smell. After placing the plate on the table, her gaze shifted over to Adam, purple bags under his eyes, an innocent smile adorning his face. 

“You sit and eat. I’m alright.”

—

These days followed a routine: Alison and Diana would arrive, the group would take a morning walk, Diana would play video games on the couch with Adam's occasional assistance, and by afternoon, she'd often doze off while the others relaxed on the porch or worked on a puzzle. But today, Alison appeared tense, unable to focus, nervously chewing her lips and fidgeting with her cuticles.

Seated across from each other on the couch, their appearances almost humorously contrasting. Alison was an example of perfection - glossy hair, flawless skin, sharp as a knife. The longer Adam gazed at her, the more he felt insecurity creeping in.

Visions of the motel flooded his mind, the fog from the breakdown swirling through his memories, crashing against the shore of his consciousness.

“You had a wife, a family - a wife who was a damn angel at that -”

Lawrence’s face looked like he had seen a ghost.

“-did you know that she brings me meals every night even though I slept with her husband? She's a damn saint, and you betrayed her and I think I hate her.”

The blonde man looked into Adam’s eyes, a pleading look on his face, begging him to stop.

“ I don't want to hate her. I really, really just wish some days that it could be me in those pictures instead of her.”

As usual, it was the bathroom - that cursed, goddamn awful place that found a way to sneak into his mind. No matter what, the bathroom always found a way to make it there - and it always managed to trigger the PTSD, always finding its insidious path into his mind.

A shiver raced down Adam's spine, his hairs bristling in response to the icy surge coursing through his body. A single bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, gliding across his cheek to merge with the tears welling at the corner of his eye.

“So where’s the lucky wife?”

He wasn’t usually in the pictures.

“With me though,” Adam thought, leaning against the pipe behind him, feeling the cold of the bathroom wall as he made eye contact with the other man, “He’d be in all of them.”

Disgusting. Sinful. Dread. Horrible, horrible, horrible man. Just like his father always said. Fag--

Alison recognized the distant look in Adam's eyes as he gazed into the void. In one graceful movement, she stood up from her chair and extended her hand toward him. The dark-haired man felt uncertain about the gesture. Although they had grown closer in recent weeks, moments alone together were still rare for them.

As their eyes met, Alison nodded, her lips curling into a soft smile.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

—

The spring air felt warm against Adam cheek’s, threatening to flare his allergies with each step down the trail that passed through the Gordon’s yard.

“Say something,” Adam thought, “Anything.”

The awkward silence felt sickly, Alison’s folding arms against her chest as she elegantly walked down the shell path.

“So,” She started softly, “I want to make things clear. I’m not mad at you.”

Why would you be? Oh. Right.

"Oh, that's good," Adam responded, his hands fidgeting nervously in his pockets, his arms hugging tightly to his sides as they continued down the trail. "Thanks."

More silence.

“I knew Lawrence was cheating on me for a while,” Alison admitted, pursing her lips as she turned to look at the man walking next to her. “The first time we met he knew what perfume I was wearing. Not that that matters - He wouldn't take his eyes off our waiter. A part of me - always knew. I think I was in denial. He has that effect on people. You get caught up.”

Adam found himself at a loss for words, caught in this awkward, surreal moment. Alison's straightforwardness struck him like a sudden jolt, the ease with which her words flowed from her lips was admirable. It was as if reality had momentarily shifted, leaving him grappling with the tension in the air.

“I don’t know where Larry is - I don’t know if I believe you. I do know one thing though - I’ve never seen him as at ease as he was when he was around you. Diana really likes you. Larry and I - at best, we were friends. He always wanted the lights off when we made love.”

God, that term felt so much grosser said out loud. The mental image felt worse than a bullet wound in Adam’s shoulder. He felt jealousy creep up his spine, washing out his face.

Adam nervously chewed on his bottom lip before reaching into his back pocket to retrieve a cigarette. As he glanced down at Alison, he noticed the irritation flickering in her eyes. "Go ahead," she muttered.

"Sorry," Adam choked out, his hands trembling as he lit the cigarette and brought it to his lips. "This isn't exactly the conversation I was expecting today, you know."

Alison chuckled softly, reaching out to pat Adam's back gently. The silence returned, lingering as they strolled past the blossoming trees adorning the Gordon's neighborhood.

"You know," Adam began, nervously gesturing as he reached his hand behind his neck, "he mentioned your wedding song - uh - Cyndi Lauper? I think?"

Alison laughed once more, eagerly grabbing at the edge of the man's flannel, her demeanor shifting from calm and serious to that of an excited young girl. "He told you that?! Oh my god - did you know he chose the song?!"

“Oh god,” Adam threw his head back to laugh, as Alison gripped his shoulder affectionately. “He’s gayer than I thought.”

Still chuckling, Adam extended his arms, and Alison enveloped the taller, younger man in a warm embrace.

"I met someone," she whispered, the words barely audible as they continued to cling to each other. Suddenly, the atmosphere felt uncomfortably strange, prompting Alison to pull away.

"Oh?" Adam inquired, observing her fluttering eyelashes as though she were a smitten teenager.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the blonde woman shifted uneasily on her feet. "She's also a counselor. Joyce. We're starting a support group for Jigsaw survivors together. You should join us."

Maybe it was the energy of the conversation, but Adam felt lighter. More courageous.

“Thanks. That sounds nice.”

—

FROM: AMANDA

TO: JILL

I HAVE DR. DENLON. JOHN NEEDS YOU HERE.

—

Like a ping pong table, the buzzing could go on forever. The beeper felt like a video game at this point, sending a signal, waiting for one, and repeating.

“I wonder what you’re doing right now,” Adam whispered to himself in the dark bedroom, waiting for the signal to come back, wondering where Lawrence was - if he was cutting up a cadaver or if he was laying in a dingier version of the bed he was in. “I wonder if you miss me as much as I miss you.” he mused aloud, the thought lingering in the quiet of the room.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

“I wonder if you think about the way my cheek felt. When you touched it.”

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

“I wonder if you really would have asked me out if I’d have been working for that blood drive you mentioned. Traditional, psh.”

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

“10th date. Yeah, I know.”

Getting up from the bed, Adam strode toward the table before him, his gaze falling upon the familiar sight of the camera. It was the same one he had used to photograph Lawrence, the very same one that had served as a makeshift light on the night he was taken. In the corner of his vision, Adam spotted the walkman, prompting him to quickly grab it and loop the headphones around his neck.

With practiced ease, Adam draped the camera strap over his neck and beneath the earphones, lifting the device to eye level. Peering through the viewfinder, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dimly lit mirror.

“People Magazine’s sexiest man alive, right?” He joked at his reflection.

As his finger hovered over the shutter release, Adam braced himself for the blinding flash, momentarily stunned as the camera snapped a picture of his reflection.

He was angry at Lawrence - sure - yet it wasn't strong enough to deter him from indulging in the fantasy of providing him with photos that might intensify his longing. Setting the camera down on the table, Adam peeled off his shirt and returned to his position in front of the mirror, the flash illuminating the pale contours of his abdomen and nipples.

There's always a siren
Singing you to shipwreck

This camera held a special place in his heart. He loved the sepia tone of the Polaroid, the instant development, and the thrill of watching the photo emerge, capturing a perfect reflection of himself. But as he studied the image, he couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment - he looked like a complete douche.

(Don't reach out, don't reach out)
(Don't reach out, don't reach out)

Ripping the photo from the ejector, Adam ran downstairs to Lawrence’s office, taking in the sweet, familiar smell of the man - this place was likely his escape from everything. The classic mid century surroundings, the briefcase he left at the entrance to the room, waiting for him to return to it.

Reaching for an envelope, Adam hastily tucked the picture inside, sealing it shut with a lick.

Using Lawrence's probably overpriced ballpoint pen, he scrawled a message on the front:

“ XO Come Home Larry

Your loser future husband misses you
PS: Im still mad”

Ascending the stairs, Adam tossed the envelope beside the beeper before diving onto the bed, clutching Lawrence's pillow tightly to his chest. As he surrendered to sleep, memories of the first time Lawrence held him, that one night in the hospital, flooded his mind.

No matter how grim things seemed, he knew - Lawrence would always protect him. And in turn, as long as he lived, he would ensure that same protection. 

So, he remembered the feeling, the warmth, the sweet smell of his cologne and sweat, and the way the moonlight shimmered against his blonde hair and eyelashes.

Lawrence's arms enveloping him, offering protection as he drifted into a deep slumber in the hospital bed.

(There, There - Radiohead)

—

FROM: MARK HOFFMAN

TO: JILL TUCK

JOHN’S DEAD. The cops are going to be looking at you.

Chapter Text

And if I counted down from sixty 20,160 times
Each number getting lost in the mist of dehydration, organ failure, and blood loss
If I were to die in that bathroom
Do you think we’d meet again, in another universe?

—--

A man walks into a bar, 6’2, mid-twenties, shoulder length blonde hair and aviator glasses that frame his face to enhance his cheekbones. A bead of sweat appears on his forehead as he pushes past the door, enveloped in upbeat dance music and flashing lights.

A man walks into a bar, deftly unclipping his name tag from his dress shirt and slipping it into his back pocket.

LAWRENCE GORDON, MEDICAL RESIDENT, NEWARK CANCER CENTER

With a nervous yet determined strut, he approaches the bar, his eyes locking onto a dark-haired man clad in a black tank top.

—

For 30 minutes, the man finds himself engaged in a conversation he never imagined having in this setting, feeling surprisingly at ease, especially considering it's with the bartender. They discuss everything from music preferences to the brand of cigarettes they both smoke, and it becomes increasingly apparent that their similarities go on forever.

“So, are you gonna tell me your name?”

The dark-haired man looks up, meeting the gaze of the other man, before returning the drink hose to its base.

“Adam.”

Lawrence’s heart skips a beat, taking note at the length of the other man’s eyelashes, the way the club lights reflect off his green irises.

Putting a hand over his mouth to hide his nervousness, the man chokes; “Well, Adam,” he continues. “How long have you been bartending?”

“Oh,” The man hesitates, letting out a nervous chuckle. “I’m not a bartender. I’m not that cool. One of the guys called out tonight. I usually just bus tables, clean the bar, you know - that stuff.”

A moment of silence hangs between them, and then Lawrence leans in, his face mere inches from Adam's. Adam catches a whiff of Lawrence's breath, tinged with the scent of vodka from his dry martini, along with a hint of sweat, hand sanitizer, and a faint trace of herbal cologne.

“That’s an important job. Don’t let them make you feel like you’re less because you don’t bartend.”

Adam smiles. 

“Where do you work? Let me guess - lawyer? Stock exchange?”

Lawrence nervously swallows, forgetting to be careful not to identify himself, still buried in the mothball-ridden clothes in the closet.

“I’m an engineer.”

Adam’s face doesn’t change. That goofy smile continues to present on his face, as he shuffles the glasses on the bar counter between mixing drinks.

“Oh, so I was right - I thought - something important. Well, there’s some potholes outside of my apartment. Think you can put in a good word and get them fixed up?”

Lawrence stops, hesitates for a moment. In a monotone voice, he responds idly;

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Adam's smile stretches across his face like a grin painted by a clown, its expanse so vast that it almost looks uncomfortable.

Lawrence hesitates, then confesses, his words rushing out as if he's in a race against his own admission, one that could potentially reveal his true identity. "I lied. I'm not an engineer," he admits, his voice tinged with remorse. "I'm a doctor—well, a resident at the moment. My dream is to become an oncologist. I'm sorry for lying."

Adam’s expression doesn’t change.

“I was still right. You’re important.”

Lawrence idly twirls the olive in his drink, face flushed in shame.

"One sec. Stay here," Adam says, vanishing into the back of the bar.

Left alone, Lawrence continues to toy with his beverage, his chin resting in his hand, lost in thought. His heartbeat races, a certain sickness crawling into his stomach.

After a brief interlude, Adam reemerges, now without the apron around his waist.

Exiting to the other side of the bar, he walks over to Lawrence.

“Wanna get out of here?”

—

Lawrence’s kiss is unpracticed, passionate, messy, and with a fair amount of tongue. He’s taller than Adam, he seems to tower over him in the bathroom stall, pressing him against the wall with an unrelenting hunger. Adam’s hands wander to Lawrence’s white dress shirt, unbuttoning to expose his blonde chest hair.

Lawrence’s hand gravitates down to the other man’s jeans, slipping one hand inside to feel the hard member of the shorter, dark haired man, already dripping precum at the end.

Adam gasps, his hand instinctively reaching up to intertwine with Lawrence's hair, their breath mingling as Adam's panting causes Lawrence's glasses to fog up. In a world often fraught with confusion and terror to be oneself, tonight offers a respite—a chance for two twenty-seven-year-old men to simply revel in each other's company, free from the burdens of the outside world.

“Turn around,” Lawrence gasps into Adam’s mouth, stroking him quicker, a harsh grasp on his member as he thumbs his head. “I wanna fuck – I want to touch you, please, Adam.”

Adam swiftly complies with the man's commands, pressing his stomach against the stall door. He listens to the unmistakable sound of Lawrence's belt unbuckling, anticipation coursing through him as he feels Lawrence's hand inching towards his lower half, 3 fingers preparing for him.

Once he enters, Lawrence is sure, the lewd sound from Adam’s ass, the harmony of his moans, are the most beautiful noises he’s ever heard, the sensation of being inside of him like he’s home - like he’s whole. Adam backs into his hips with force, allowing him deeper entry, a shiver going down the taller man’s spine as he hears “Larry-”

Once they finish, Adam turns around, bringing the other man into a kiss that seems to last a lifetime. 

They exit the club, side-by-side, flagging down a taxi, unterrified of the consequences of seeing two men shoulder to shoulder. Some people these days are open minded - some people won’t judge. It’s safe. Even if it isn’t, it’s worth it to take the train from Adam’s apartment to the hospital. It’s worth it to have an experience that everyone else his age gets to have, except him until now - the feeling of another. The sensation of passionate skin against skin in the orange sunlit mornings, the emotions attached to being loved, the sheets that they share, the blending of their scents.

Adam wakes up early and makes them both omelets. 

They meet back here every night. Before long, Lawrence’s lease is up, and Adam’s apartment is his home he commutes to the hospital from.

When he gets his MD, they celebrate with their friends.

In every universe, they find each other.

—-

Adam awakens abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest.

The image of Lawrence from his dream dissipates, but the lingering sensations remain vivid—the moist touch of his lips, the fluttering in his stomach.

He ponders whether Lawrence, wherever he may be, has similar dreams.

Tonight, Adam surrenders to his own thoughts, immersing himself in the fantasies of his love for Lawrence, seeking him out in every conceivable reality.

Grasping the beeper on the nightstand, Adam cradles it close as he drifts back into slumber, eagerly awaiting the next encounter, determined to find Lawrence in every universe.

Still waiting, like the pictures pinned in the darkroom of his apartment.

Always constant, like the memories of the unforgiving bathroom floor.

In every universe.

—

1 NEW VOICEMAIL.

Hi Jill – This is agent Peter Strahm. I’m with the FBI and I need to speak to you about your husband, John Kramer. Please give us a call back when you have the chance at XXX-XXX-XXXX. Your cooperation is appreciated. 

Chapter Text

SHOT THROUGH THE HEART

AND YOU'RE TOO VAIN

YOU GIVE LOVE

A BAD NAME

The electric guitar riff echoed through the bathroom, bouncing off the tiles as the tall, brunette figure smeared shaving cream across his jawline. With a flick, he tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the toilet, the splash interrupting the beat of the song. Peter Strahm was a man of simple pleasures, his apartment still unpacked with the same boxes he moved out of his ex-wife's with. He didn’t need a lot - only the essentials: toiletries, a collection of 80s classic rock CDs, and a stack of unreturned Blockbuster movies. A few trinkets here and there, a red pocket knife, a tweety bird paperweight, a pug dog bobblehead from the office party white elephant. His wardrobe resembled that of a cartoon character's, with just three shirts and three pairs of pants hanging in the dingy closet off of a few half rusted wire hangers. The bedroom smelled like incense stained on the walls by the previous tenant, but he didn’t mind it - it made him feel “cool,” “younger.” Sticks of synthetic sage and patchouli bought for 25 cents at Spencer’s were littered under the bed frame, and the butts of cigarettes Strahm got too lazy to move from the tray to the trash can. Some days he couldn’t be bothered.

Before beginning the ritual of shaving, the man swung open the medicine cabinet mirror, retrieving a tube of four-year-old Carmex, the yellow sun bleached and stained. With a single movement, he twisted off the cap and squeezed the ointment onto his parched lips, observing the glimmering effect in the mirror as he coated them with the lubricant. With shaving cream now obscuring his face, he shot himself a smirk, staring confidently at his reflection before starting his grooming routine.

Moving to the rhythm, he launched into his daily shaving routine, simultaneously cranking up the radio volume with his free hand. The sound blared at a level that would surely prompt the neighbors to lodge complaints with the leasing office. Being a police officer didn't grant him immunity from irate neighbors who weren't intimidated by a man blasting Bon Jovi at the crack of dawn.

As the radio skipped to the next song on the mixtape, Strahm couldn't help but throw his head back with a chuckle. Under his breath, he sang along as he shaved against the grain.

“Just like the one winged dove-”

Against the grain, the safety razor danced across his face with a sliding motion.

“- Sings a song, sounds like she’s singing”

Up the jaw, slow, but efficient. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Cold. Wet. The hot water from the sink, which had previously steamed up the bathroom, had run out. But the man couldn’t be bothered. It was either to endure this minor inconvenience or face paying more rent, and unfortunately, he didn't need - or could afford - much more space.

Closing the bathroom door with a clank, Strahm reached for his usual white button-up, its fabric still bearing creases from the previous day. But who would notice? The office would likely be empty except for him and Lindsey, as usual. Perhaps today he'd finally receive that call back from Jill. Or better yet, perhaps he could avoid encountering Hoffman altogether - one could only hope for such luck. Strahm had desperately tried to purge the memory of that dreadful date from his mind, fully aware that he'd now have to endure even more time with Hoffman, especially now that Kramer was gone. He made every effort to evade him - the unsettling look in his eyes at Kerry’s neon tomb, the smugness in his demeanor as he inquired about all the ways he could assist the FBI. Smug fucking bastard. It was hard to forget that this was the same man who had taken him to Olive Garden the night before and had shamelessly kissed him with too much tongue in the back of a police car. His lips were soft though, his mouth savory. He tasted like garlic, and juicy fruit gum.

“ Drop of a hat”

Mark Hoffman— That man had less self-awareness than your average child. Strahm recalled him barking “So, no call back?” as he entered the bathroom, catching Strahm mid-piss with his fly down. Clearly, bathroom etiquette wasn’t something he was familiar with. No matter how ridiculously attractive Strahm found him, with his stomach peeking over his belt and his swaggering shoulders, he wouldn’t give in—for the sake of work, for the sake of professionalism.

“She's as willing as playful as a pussy cat

Then momentarily out of action”

Yet somehow, Strahm found himself in a bathroom stall with Mark, practically praying that Erickson had gone home early and wouldn’t stumble upon them. No—Professionalism. Professionalism . One date, one bathroom blowjob wouldn’t jeopardize the case. He had to maintain his composure, remain cool. Icing out Hoffman wouldn’t be as difficult as he had anticipated; all he needed was to exercise restraint, no matter how the sexual frustration from his failed marriage had left him longing, or how Hoffman made his dick feel like it was made of steel. He despised the situation, the way he would shut his eyes and think of all the grizzly sights of the case to calm himself down in Hoffman’s presence. Surely, Perez had to notice, hopefully she didn’t.

“Temporarily out of gas

To absolutely drive (drive you wild, wild)”

Snatching his keys and offering a nod to the heated Fish Bowl sitting beside the lava lamp in his apartment, Strahm secured the solid wood door and stepped out, tucking his cross necklace under his collar. Maybe God could hear his prayers— Lord, please don't let me get fucked up the ass in the FBI bathroom, please let me close this case, please obliterate Mark Hoffman once and for all, and maybe, give me some grace, and then obliterate me too. Perhaps I deserve that much. Nancy always said I didn’t deserve shit.

“She's out to get you”

Meanwhile, on the other side, Mark Hoffman’s fate would be in the hands of Lawrence Gordon and his Adam; and he would soon become pawns in the game left behind by John Kramer.

“She's a Killer Queen”

—

“Adam,

I won't be able to help you anymore. 

By the time you read this, John and I'll be halfway to Mexico with Lynn. Lawrence will be safe. The coordinates to the bathroom are in the cigarette. Don't smoke it. Get rid of it when you're done. 

Good luck with your life

Xo

Mandy”

Adam stared blankly at the letter tucked into his work locker, a location Amanda likely knew about from her time as an orderly. A flush crept across the young man's face as beads of sweat dotted his forehead. It was done. Everything, all of it, was over.

As Adam read on, his concentration shattered by a breathy gasp for air. Raising his gaze, he met David's eyes, wearing an expression like he had seen a ghost. David's face was drained of color, his eyes swollen as though he had been weeping. Slowly, the dark-haired man made his way towards the other employee of the gift shop.

With a shuddering breath, the confession left his mouth, as David clutched the long black sleeves of his uniform. 

“ They found Zep.”

— 

THE GAME ENDS; JIGSAW KILLER IDENTIFIED AS JOHN KRAMER, KILLED BY ACCOMPLICE JEFF DENLON. 

DETECTIVE PETER STRAHM STATES HE SHOT JEFF DENLON, 45, JOHN “JIGSAW” KRAMER'S ACCOMPLICE, IN SELF DEFENSE

Adam's vision became blurry, eyes scanning the page for Lawrence's name, a lump forming in his throat as he felt his knees go weak. No mention of Lawrence. Thank God.

THE REMAINS OF TWO VICTIMS, JEFF'S WIFE, LYNN DENLON, AND AMANDA YOUNG WERE FOUND INSIDE AN OVEN-LIKE CONTRAPTION. JEFF DENLON HAD BEEN REPORTED FOR AGGRESSIVE BEHAVIOR AFTER THE LOSS OF HIS AND LYNN'S SON DENLON. 

Adam felt frozen. Despite David's sobs, the young man's grip on the paper tightened as he persisted in reading.

OTHER IDENTIFIED VICTIMS INCLUDED ZEP HINDLE, FOUND OUTSIDE THE BUILDING. CORONERS HAVE ESTIMATED THE BODY TO BE DECAYING FOR WEEKS. 

Almost a year at this point. 

They must have moved him. 

“Good job Amanda” was the first thought to race through Adam's mind, immediately causing him to feel sick at the implications, remembering how David must have felt reading the news.

FINGERPRINTS ON THE BODY HAVE BEEN IDENTIFIED AS DENLON’S. 

Of course. Amanda was still alive.

Yes.

Amanda wouldn't die that easily. She was smarter than that. Maybe she was halfway to Mexico after all, car muffler huffing exhaust with Lynn in the backseat sleeping on top of 3 empty bags of funyuns and bottles of bacardi. 

Perhaps she had somehow coerced Jeff into touching the body. Why hadn't Lawrence brought up this man? Was he just as fucked as Mark? Maybe he was a threat. Maybe he was just as bad as Jigsaw. No, it didn't sit right with him. There was a missing piece to the puzzle. His stomach churned uneasily as continued to scan the newspaper.

KRAMER'S WIFE, JILL TUCK, 

He had to be hallucinating.

KRAMER'S WIFE, JILL TUCK, HAS DENIED GIVING A STATEMENT. 

JILL TUCK

WIFE

DENIED A STATEMENT

“Hey, Adam?”

David's voice, drenched with fear, echoed in and out of Adam's ear before he abruptly felt his body crashing to the ground. The floor of the gift shop seemed as cold as the bathroom floor he woke up in, drenched from the grimey water from the bathtub. The sharp impact of his head meeting the hard surface sent a wave of pain through him, and then everything faded to black.

“Hey!! Adam!! We’re in a hospital for fucks sake, can we get someone in here?”

Maybe it was time to sleep for a bit. 

Lawrence did always say that rest was good for the body. 

—

The blonde strands of hair seemed to shimmer like liquid sunlight against the window. Adam's eyelids fluttered open, revealing the all-too-familiar sight of the hospital room where he had been admitted after his rescue. The white cinderblock walls, the paper thin bed sheets, and the scent of hand sanitizer enveloped him as his eyes adjusted to the harsh glow of the fluorescent lighting. God, it was more grim than he recalled. 

As the blonde turned away from the window, her voice, deep and soft, filled the room.

“Adam!”

 A shocked expression spread across her face as she hurried to his bedside, sitting besides the bed and gripping his arm tightly. "You're awake."

Suddenly it all came back to him. The words in the paper. 

It all made sense now. 

“My husband John and I used to take baths together.”

Liar. 

“It's such an intimate experience, right?”

Who are you?

“Just the best."

Wife

Has denied

A statement. 

Adam pulled away forcefully, swallowing his choked gasp, which prompted a confused expression from Jill. In a soft, whispery tone, she reached out to him and asked, "What's wrong?"

He felt an emotion that could only be described as disgust and betrayal. 

His brows arched upwards with a pained and confused expression, throwing his arms in the air with frustration. “You knew who I was! You had to have known! John Kramer was your husband! ”

Jill looked like she had had the key shaped necklace  ripped off her body, seen 100 priceless China plates smashed on the ground; her heart torn out. 

“So…” Adam started, his face bleeding into a shade of crimson. “That's why you found my address. That's why you wanted to get close. You knew what your husband did to me - and Larry. I was just another pawn in your stupid fucking hippie dippie conscious clearing bullshit.”

Jill rose from her seat, her entire body tense, her glossy bottom lip trembling slightly. "That's not true," she defended, tears welling up in her eyes. "I wanted to be the mother you never had—I spoke to your mom. I recognized that tone. I had no idea—"

Adam gagged, a blood curdling scream left his lips, spitting across the room.

“Stop lying!”

Adam found himself echoing the same tone Lawrence had once directed at him. The way he screamed, pleading for the truth. It was a betrayal unlike any he had ever experienced. Jill crossed her arms, her gaze falling to the ground as tears streamed down her face, staining the thin blankets on Adam's bed.

“No ones that nice,” Adam chuckled to himself. “I can't fuckin believe this. I knew something felt weird.” 

Jill whimpered, wiping a tear from her eyes as a trail of mascara ran down her pale face. “I wanted to be your Mother. I knew about everything with John - and it felt like fate. Fate brought me the child I lost.”

Goddamnit.

Salty tears welled up in Adam's mossy eyes as Jill's figure blurred and faded from his vision. In its place, a torrent of flashbacks flooded his mind: memories of his mother silently watching as his father berated him, hurling insults like "pervert" and that damning word, tearing up the photos he took of men around the city. Memories of his mother's failure to protect him as she should have. Memories of his father locking him out in the bitter cold of winter nights, leaving him to feel the painful sting of frost on his fingertips, while his mother merely watched from behind the window, offering nothing but a shrug of indifference.

Selfish. Weak.

And then there was Jill. The woman who baked him homemade scones, brought him coffee in bed, and nurtured him like a sick child home from school, arranging him in front of the metaphorical TV with cartoons. Jill, who wholeheartedly supported his relationship with the man - man he loved, and to whom he could confide anything. Jill, who never passed judgment. Jill, embodying the strength of a mother in the truest sense.

And yet, it hurt. It hurt to know she knew she was married to the very man that had caused irreversible trauma to Alison and Diana. The man who forced Lawrence to saw off his own foot, the man who locked Adam in the dark for weeks on end, making him feel life fading from the cracks of his skin.

He killed. He was a murderer.

Was she involved? How the hell did she not say anything earlier?

None of it made sense.

Adam reclined in the bed, the weight of silence pressing down on him, filling him with anxiety. Jill nervously toyed with her ring, consumed by guilt. As she looked up, dark streaks of mascara staining her cheeks as her eyelashes fluttered, their eyes met and locked in an intense moment of parental connection.

Her lips parted, the words that followed sounding like a hushed whisper.

“I’m so sorry, Adam.”

Before he could respond, a knock on the door diverted their attention.A tall figure barged in, filling the room with the overpowering scent of cheap cologne, expired aftershave, and cigarettes. With a badge reading "FBI" held above his head, the brunette man, sporting an excessive amount of hair gel, strutted into the room.

“Sorry to interrupt, I’m detective Peter Strahm, FBI. I’ve been trying to reach you, Mrs. Tuck.”

Jill froze, her light blonde hair seeming to stand up on its edges, her gaze bouncing between the tall man and Adam, sitting with crossed arms in the hospital bed. The younger man shook his head, letting out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh this outta be good,” he chuckled to himself sheepishly.

Jill stood up and strutted towards the officer, reaching her hand out. “Yes, well,” she responded, turning back to give Adam a look. Then she returned her glance to the other man. “I’ve been - tied up. The news is a lot to swallow.”

"Oh," Peter continued, offering Jill a nonchalant shrug. "I can only imagine, being the wife of a mass murderer must be quite the challenge."

The young man chuckled.

Peter looked up, a hint of weariness in his gaze as he met the other man's eyes. "Keep laughing. The receptionist mentioned you're a survivor of his, right? Pretty wild to see you two together."

Adam swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the question like a sharp jab to his side. He responded, biting his bottom lip nervously.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Strahm grimaced. 

“So how does…this dynamic… work?” With his badge still in his hand, he waved it between the shape of Adam in the hospital bed and Jill standing beside him.

Jill clutched her side, exhaling deeply. “Frien-”

Adam cut her off, his voice bouncing off the white cinder block walls.

“She’s like my mom, I guess. Don’t be a dick to her though, she’s real sensitive .”

Tears streamed down Jill's face uncontrollably.

Adam wasn't anywhere close to forgiveness - not by a long shot.

Yet, for the moment, this would suffice. Regardless, he didn't want to feds hauling her off. So, he would protect Jill - with all that he had. 

Strahm stood with his hands on his hips, gazing at the ground in contemplation.

“We’re going to have to bring you both in for questioning.” He handed Jill a card that read “DETECTIVE PETER STRAHM” in big bold letters. Standoffish, even the paper smelled like cigarettes.

“Be here tomorrow at 9 am. If you cooperate, we’ll make sure you’re protected.”

—

“You’re not supposed to check yourself out-”

Jill walked as fast as she could in heels, clutching her purse at her side as Adam strutted out of the sliding doors of the hospital. From the outside, they looked like a mother trailing behind her rebellious son, lecturing him after finding him wrapping a joint in bible paper.

“I don’t have a concussion, so I’m going home!” Adam yelled at the woman stomping after him. “I’m still mad at you!”

And then it happened, the sharp scream that came from Jill’s mouth that had Adam stopping dead in his tracks. 

Jill threw down her purse, and with one heel began to stomp into it.

“ You’re mad? You're not the only one who is fucking mad!”

Adam stopped, watching her unfurl onto the ground, ripping her wallet from her purse and tearing out the image of John and her on her wedding day.

Adam felt sick.

“ I was supposed to be his wife!” 

Holding both edges of the photo, Jill began to tear the edge, her face scrunched up like an angry fox, pained as it chewed its foot out of a trap. With shaking hands, she began the tear, tears streaming down her face with each white mark made in the photo.

“Hey-” Adam soothed, “-Stop-”

“ I was supposed to be a mother!”

Jill tore into the image with brute force, watching as John’s face became distorted in the tear.

“He made me happy! I was supposed to be happy!! Gideon was supposed to be our son!!”

Jill ripped into the photo, tearing each bit of it until it became like horrific confetti. 

Adam ran to her side, scooping her in his arms on the tar gravel parking lot.

“It’s ok. I’m so sorry.” Jill held onto the smaller man, feeling the comfort of his warm arms wrapped around her tightly, flannel brushing against her cheeks. 

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Jill sobbed, holding onto Adam tighter as if he might disappear if she let up. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Adam ran a hand through her hair, feeling the wetness of the woman’s tears against his shirt. “It’s going to be okay.”

“What can I do?” Jill continued sobbing streams of dark mascara down her painted cheeks, reaching her arms around Adam’s neck. “What can I do to make you trust me?”

Adam contemplated the question. The chance to redeem his trust, the chance for them to salvage their bond.

And so, without hesitation, the request left his lips.

“Amanda left me coordinates. Can you take me to Lawrence?”

—

Song: Exit Music (For A Film) By Radiohead

The night hung heavy with fog, casting an eerie atmosphere reminiscent of a scene from a horror movie. Perhaps they were like Dracula or characters in an avant-garde romance film—destined for their own conclusion, meant to be together after all, in the end they’d win. Yellow tape cordoned off the exterior of the packing plant, compelling the two to navigate the car around and find an alternate route. Parking along the road, Jill gestured toward the silhouette of a concealed cellar door strategically positioned outside the plant, unveiling an underground entrance.

“John knew he would get caught one day. He rebuilt this place with all kinds of underground traps and entrances. I bet you Lawrence is down there, waiting.”

Then, she handed him the key from her necklace—a treasured possession, a gift from John she hated that she clung to. Adam didn't press further, but the sight of the familiar piece of jewelry, linking her to Jigsaw, unsettled him deeply. He felt stomach acid curdle in his throat as the key landed in his palm.

With a determined nod, Adam stepped out of the car, heading towards the disguised sewer entrance. With ease, he lifted the rounded edges of the cover, revealing a hidden ladder descending into the bunker below. As he lowered himself into the darkness, Adam carefully pulled the cover back over, ensuring their clandestine entry remained undetected. With each rung of the ladder, he descended deeper into the underground labyrinth, his senses heightened and his heart pounding with anticipation.

With each step, the smell overcame his system - rubbing alcohol, iron, metal - the tinge of rotting meat - and of course- 

Goddamn Armani.

—

Lowering himself off the ladder, Adam turned to see the innocent sight - 

Doctor Lawrence Gordon laying on a makeshift hospital bed, teal scrubs draped over his soft figure. Blonde bangs fell over his closed eyes, and he looked so peaceful. Surrounded by the grisly sight of the rusted metal walls of the plant, laid the surgeon with an angel’s touch.

Adam rushed to his side, feeling the way his oversized jeans tugged at his feet, his flannel falling at his side. Adam gasped for air, grasping for Lawrence’s hands as he opened his eyes slowly. The older man’s expression went from shocked to one of pure joy, his larger hand cupping the other man’s face and pulling him in to press his lips against his. Adam couldn’t be mad. That was for another time.

Lawrence deepened the kiss and reached his arm out to pull the smaller man onto the single bed with him, complying as he scooted in to lie beside him.

With a deep exhale, Adam reached forward to touch Lawrence’s cheek. The other man put his hand on top of Adam’s, as the younger man whispered.

“ It’s over.”

Lawrence’s face went blank, then he leaned in to continue to kiss Adam, his once soft lips dry and chapped. Adam’s hand migrated to Lawrence’s stomach, pulling up his shirt to brush his fingertips among the comforting texture of his body hair.

“It’s over,” Adam repeated. “Right? You can come home. It’s done.”

Lawrence’s gaze avoided looking Adam in the eye, migrating his arm to stoke Adam’s hair in a comforting gesture.

“Not quite.” Lawrence hesitated, then continued once he noticed the disappointed look on Adam’s face appearing. “We still have one more game.”

Adam’s brows furrowed angrily, his face twisting angrily. “...Another game? Jigsaw’s dead, Lawrence.”

“Yes,” Lawrence continued, defeated in his tone. “He is. But, we’re still not out of the doghouse. We’re still not safe. Mark is still here.”

Adam pulled away, causing Lawrence to reach out and pull him in tighter. His grasp felt desperate, clinging to Adam’s sleeves. “What the hell does that mean? Let’s fucking go! Let’s get your stuff and go! Diana and Alison want to see you! I need you back,” tears fell down Adam’s face as he continued to gasp for air, “ I miss bathing together, I miss sleeping together. I miss your stupid old man comments and your ridiculous taste in music that I hate that I find so attractive- I miss waking up to the sound of your cane. I need you to come home, Lawrence. I need you.”

Lawrence’s grasp felt tight, scared that Adam would walk out and never come back. 

He knew better, and yet, the fear seemed to settle like a thick layer of scab upon his skin.

Then, Lawrence's touch gentled, his hand moving to the buttons of Adam's flannel. With a reassuring glance, he started to undo each one, easing the shirt aside to expose the scar where the bullet had pierced Adam's flesh.

As usual, Lawrence lowered himself to the scar, nuzzling against it affectionately, thumbing it lightly like it was a delicate dandelion that would break upon contact.

“...It’s not over, is it, Lawrence?” Adam asked, listening for the defeated sigh.

“Mark will come after us. You’re on Strahm’s interrogation list. Please, Adam. I need you - I need you to do this for me. It’s what they deserve - it’s our retribution.”

Adam swallowed hard, grappling with the weight of the situation. He realized he would have to guide the man who had interrogated Jill into the same prison that had once trapped him. Lawrence's actions would make him a murderer - he would take a life - again, reminiscent of Zep. Together, Lawrence and Adam, intertwined in their bond, their hands clasped, their touch tender even amidst the blood-stained chaos of the bathroom, became like two angels of death, committing sins in their quest for survival - their life together.

He would do it. He would do it again, he would feel Zep’s skull shatter into pieces against the ground, he would cut off his leg if he had to, he would do it all for Lawrence.

Two rotten apples sit fermenting on the bathroom floor.

“Okay.”

Two rotten apples, disintegrating until they mix, into the soil.

Lawrence exhaled a sigh of relief, lifting his gaze to meet the younger man's eyes. Adam's eyes held the entirety of his world, his face a mirror reflecting back his own existence. Adam embodied everything - the person who had taught him how to love, how to embrace his true self, how to be Lawrence Gordon for the first time in his life.

“I want to show you.”

Under the soil, the worms would eat both their bodies; one day, Adam would join Lawrence, one day they would return to the earth.

Lawrence grabbed for Adam’s hand, pulling them both up and off the bed.

Adam handed the other man his cane - the cane he had driven into town that freezing december night with David to buy.

Adam grasped Lawrence's hand tightly, the same hand that had tenderly touched him on the bathroom floor, guided him into the bathtub, and organized their medications every morning.

As they walked, Adam felt Lawrence's thumb gently caress the back of his hand, a comforting gesture amidst the darkness.

The hallway stretched before them, dim and humid, the air thick with the steam of nearby hot pipes, hinting at the presence of a nearby boiler room.

The concrete rustled between their heels as Lawrence led them.

Glancing back at his partner, Adam's eyes shimmered, searching for any glimmer of hope in the darkness.

The hallway lay shrouded in shadows, but Adam could discern the outline of Lawrence's face and hair.

In a hushed whisper, Lawrence's warm breath brushed against Adam's cheek.

"Are you ready?"

Adam hesitated briefly, a mixture of fear and nervousness tingeing his voice.

"Yeah," he replied, his resolve wavering.

With a slight lean against the wall, Lawrence pushed open a door leading into a larger room. Stepping inside, the taller man flicked on the switch, casting the fluorescent blue lights to bathe their surroundings in an eerie glow.

The bathroom.

Across from each side were two cuffs, new, and it was obvious they were reserved for Strahm and Hoffman. A single hacksaw was placed in the middle of the room.

The two of them would sit adjacent to the other.

Chained.

—

Song: Liquid Smooth By Mitski

Adam struggled to suppress his initial reaction upon returning to this place, his gaze lingering on the familiar spot against the wall where he had spent countless days and nights waiting. Despite the absence of blood, the bathroom seemed unchanged, just cleaned, ready for its next victims.

Turning back to Lawrence, Adam felt a surge of primal adrenaline coursing through him. Lawrence appeared visibly uneasy, his gaze fixed on the grim scene before them as he moved cautiously around the bathroom.

Stepping closer to Lawrence, Adam pressed his face against his, breaking him out of his trance-like stare.

"You okay?" he asked softly, concern evident in his voice.

“I…” Lawrence started, his face softening as he took in the setting. “...I feel alive. We survived this.”

“Lawrence,” Adam reached his hand out, grazing a thumb over Lawrence’s cracked lips. The man’s blue eyes directed from Adam’s thumb to his eyes, noticing the chilling grin that had painted his face. “Let’s give them what they deserve.”

The older man pulled him in, going tongue-first in for a kiss, wrapping his arms around Adam’s waist. The other man complied, and wrapped his arms around Lawrence’s neck, before pulling him to the floor, where he could support himself against his body. Lawrence practically devoured the other man, making deep moans as he knocked his teeth against the other’s, and his kisses gravitated to Adam’s neck.

Adam cried out, feeling the hot, wet kisses as Lawrence began to suck, leaving marks on his shoulder. “ What - wait - What if he walks in? Mark?” 

Lawrence growled, responding; “ Let him. I’ll beat him to death with my cane before I give him a fair chance at life again.”

A surge of something awakened inside Adam, a side of Lawrence he had never witnessed with such intensity before. Adam gently guided Lawrence's head, allowing him to lower himself to Adam's chest. Lawrence lifted Adam's shirt, flicking his tongue against first one nipple, then the other, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through Adam's body.

He felt like he was on fire. 

Then, Lawrence found himself at Adam's jeans, practically tearing off his belt and tossing it aside, urgently unzipping his pants to free his cock from the confines of his plaid boxers. Adam glanced up at the harsh fluorescent lights, a wave of relief washing over him as Lawrence's lips enveloped his throbbing member, his tongue swirling around the tip.

"Gnn-" Adam moaned, breath hitching. "Larry, god-" he gasped, feeling the fervent movements of Lawrence's mouth taking him deeper, almost to the back of his throat.

Adam's arousal spiked painfully as Lawrence expertly explored every inch of him, his hand wrapping around Adam's cock with a fluid motion while his head bobbed rhythmically, taking him fully.

“Lar-” Adam huffed, “Please.”

As Lawrence sat up, a trail of saliva glistening down his chin, he smirked and asked, "Please, what?" His expression painted with ecstasy.

It felt strange - to see the doctor this vulnerable, at his every whim, so desperate for his body. Lawrence, who had deprived himself the forbidden fruit that was injected to him from birth, partaking from the garden of eden.

“Fuck me, Lawrence.”

Lawrence swiftly tore off Adam's pants, pulling the denim down his legs until he sat before him in only his boxers, evoking memories of a scene nearly a year ago - the two of them entwined on the bathroom floor.

As Lawrence unbuckled himself, Adam couldn't tear his eyes away from the outline of his hard member straining against the teal pants - the longing and necessity palpable. With a swift unzip, Lawrence freed his cock, already slick with glistening precum.

"Baby," Adam gasped, his voice thick with desire. "Lawrence, god, I've missed you."

Lawrence leaned forward, lining himself up with Adam’s entrance, teasing him with two fingers. 

Lawrence looked down at the younger man he adored, the way his face flushed red, the way his lip quivered with desire and lust.

“I need you.” Was all he could muster. “I’d kill for you. I hope you know that, my sweetheart.”

Lawrence pushed two fingers into Adam, who squirmed at the pressure, gasping in pleasure as he massaged his prostate.

“I’ve killed for both of us ,” Adam responded with a shudder. “I’d do it again. I’d do it a thousand times over.”

Lawrence moistened his lips, positioning himself against Adam, his entrance deliberate as he eased into him with a deliberate, unhurried motion. He savored the sensation of Adam's body enveloping him, every inch welcomed eagerly by the younger man's wet, tight warmth.

"God," Lawrence breathed out, his movements deliberate as he pressed into Adam with a slow, steady rhythm, momentarily oblivious to their surroundings. Adam willingly enveloped him, his legs entwining with the other man's, craving to be filled completely by his every motion.

He cherished this vulnerability, relishing in the sensation of Lawrence, still partly clothed, collapsing over him on the freezing tile floor. He adored every aspect of Lawrence, each thrust pushing him closer to completeness, as if filling every crevice of his being.

Lawrence leaned in, sinking himself fully into Adam, their bodies becoming one. Then, with a sudden ferocity, he bit into the other man's lips, kissing him deeply while tugging at his dark brown hair. The blend of pain and pleasure threatened to push Adam to his limit, sensing the urgency in Lawrence's grasp, like a desperate animal. In response, Adam reciprocated, reaching beneath Lawrence's shirt to leave faint claw marks on the doctor's neck.

In that surreal, almost frighteningly intimate moment, as they lay intertwined on the bathroom floor, he couldn't help but recall Lawrence's words from the past.

"Things may never be simple, but I do know one thing.”

Lawrence's breath quickened as he parted his lips, his pace accelerating. Adam's words brushed against his heated mouth, "Let's cum together."

In that moment, he recalled the intensity of the confession.

“I won’t be able to live this life without you,”

Clasping Adam's jaw to draw him in, as if to consume him entirely, they reached the peak together, their fluids mingling, bodies entwined on the grout-stained tile.

One thing became unmistakably evident.

“I won’t be able to live this life without you,”

Peter Strahm and Mark Hoffman had to die.

“-as challenging as the journey may be."

Together, Adam and Lawrence, as rotten as they were that fateful day waking up in the bathroom.

Chapter Text

“I need you to give me your hand.”

Amanda's tone turned sharp, her demand clear as she reached for Lynn's delicate fingers, holding them firmly yet gently. Their gazes locked, Amanda's deep brown eyes meeting Lynn's with intensity as she deftly retrieved a thick pocket knife from her back pocket. The dark brown handles showed signs of wear, but the blade gleamed with sharpness.

“This’ll be over quickly, but we need to leave some traces behind.”

Lynn nodded - and the same doctor that had drilled into a man’s skull to perform do-it-yourself brain surgery hardly winced at the feeling of the blade pressing into her palm, drawing blood.

Before wrapping the wound in a towel, Amanda seized the other woman's wrist and pressed it against the handle of the incinerator. Crimson pools marked the spot as she guided her hand, leaving behind her prints on its side. Amanda observed as the doctor winced, her eyes catching the faint remnants amidst the ash, reminders of her son's toys.

“I’m sorry.” The red haired woman remarked, and Lynn couldn’t find a way to respond. “We have to show we made a struggle - this is the only way I could think of.”

The black haired woman nodded slowly, and her eyelashes fluttered against her soft lids. “I trust you.”

"Now, me," Amanda replied, slashing into her own palm before pressing her hands against the glass frame. "Jeff's handprints are all over this place. They'll assume he forced us in here."

The doctor bit her bottom lip, considering her response carefully. "Not just any evidence - teeth. Dental records. We need something from us."

Amanda felt a surge of unease rise in her throat at the term and the confidence with which Lynn spoke it. She knew Lynn was correct; without tangible evidence, even the most negligent police officers wouldn’t leap to the conclusion that they had perished in a fire. Amanda had a criminal record, and would be first on any detective’s list of subjects - they had to really make them believe they were gone.

Lynn posed the question, her gaze earnest, before heading toward the table of supplies they had wheeled into the room, prepared to consign it to the flames along with the rest of their belongings.
Amanda nodded, a sharp pang in her side as she observed Lynn reaching for the pliers. With deliberate steps, Lynn approached the other woman, the tool in her grasp. She placed a gentle hand on Amanda's shoulder, offering a comforting touch amidst the impending ordeal.

“Fuckin do it," Amanda choked out, bracing herself for the unimaginable pain for what lay ahead.

Lynn leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss on Amanda's lips before finally pulling away. Amanda complied, obediently parting her lips as she felt the cold metal of the pliers grip her molar, contrasting against the wet warmth inside her cheek.

With a sudden jerk, Lynn fell back, and an agonizing surge of pain shot through Amanda's head as the tooth was wrenched from its root. Collapsing to her knees, blood pooled in her mouth as she began to sob, her body trembling violently. Meanwhile, Lynn tossed the tooth into the incinerator with a casualness that made it seem as insignificant as a child's bouncy ball.

"Now, me—" Lynn paused, her gaze dropping to her partner curled into a ball, trembling uncontrollably. She knelt beside her, offering silent support, willing her to find strength. With her delicate features framed by her silky black hair, Lynn appeared almost angelic, and Amanda couldn't help but wonder how someone so ethereal could carry out such brutal actions with such ease.

Lynn handed the pliers to the other woman, forcing her hands around the handles. “-Amanda, please, we have to do this.” Lynn begged, pulling the other woman to her knees as she weakly gripped the pliers and focused on the target tooth. Lynn’s mouth opened with ease, seeming to welcome the tool that gripped her back molar.

Lynn hardly made a sound other than a simple wince and a gurgle from her throat, as Amanda used all her might to rip the tooth straight out of the other woman’s mouth, watching the blood gush the same as her’s did.

As she tossed the tooth into the incinerator and flicked on the switch, Lynn hurried into the other woman's arms, enveloped by the tumultuous yet comforting embrace. In the backdrop, the fire roared as it devoured the clothes, hair and teeth that laid inside.  

“Go get Corbett. We have to get out of here.”

—-

The police station exuded its usual air of unease, the atmosphere thick with tension. Despite the atmosphere, the young man found a source of solace in the presence of his maternal figure, who sat by his side, punctual as usual for their interrogation. Of course, she was dressed impeccably, a picture of normalcy and stability amidst the chaotic surroundings.

Of course, he and Jill were fated to be here, both flawed in their own ways, side by side in the police station, both guilty.

Adam felt like the small abandoned kitten, hopelessly entangled in Jill's invisible litter. He was her final lifeline to happiness, while she remained vital support throughout these last few unbearable months. Peter Strahm had to remain completely oblivious to Jill's internal struggles, unaware of the countless afternoons where all she desired was to retreat into the comfort of sweatpants, the embrace of the soft pinstripe couch and a few bottles of red wine. She had to maintain an air of composure, appearing unaffected by the investigation. Adam, of course, had to do the same. They had nothing to do with this, as far as Strahm was concerned.

Strahm, yes, Strahm, the innocent man who was getting too close, with a target painted on his back. Adam despised the fact that he had taken a life before. It gnawed at him, knowing that this would mark the second occasion his hands were stained with blood. The first had been an act of self-defense, a justification he clung to in order to find solace in his sleep, even as the echoes of Zep's skull cracking haunted him. But this time was different. This was deliberate, nothing short of premeditated murder.

The younger man felt the burden of exhaustion settling heavily upon him, his eyelids heavy and his vision blurred. He longed for the respite of sleep, yearning to find refuge in Lawrence's comforting embrace again back at the plant, remembering that the day they had awaited had finally arrived. And yet, amidst this desire for rest, there remained a sense of urgency, a mounting list of tasks that demanded his attention. First one, find a way to earn Peter Strahm’s trust. Second, get him to follow him. Then, the rest would be easy - he had to trust Lawrence knew what he was doing. Shame came over him, remembering the way he sneaked out of the plant just hours before, carefully attending to every sound and sign of life above the sewer that held Lawrence’s hideout. As he lifted the heavy manhole above his head, Adam darted towards the woods, finding his way back to the street that would lead him to the station.

As he sat waiting, the younger man's thoughts drifted back to the conversation they had shared just hours earlier. It was a small victory, he reflected, as Lawrence had finally accepted his offer for a cigarette—a departure from the disapproving glances he used to cast whenever he saw Adam with a cigarette between his lips.

The two sat, side by side, not across from each other - in the same space that they touched for the first time, Lawrence’s hand caressing Adam’s cheek, soaking him in blood like a baptism. 

“Did you ever have any dreams as a kid? Bucket list items?”

Adam exhaled a plume of smoke, glancing beside him to catch Lawrence's contemplative expression.

Lawrence toyed with the cigarette between his fingers before shrugging nonchalantly.

“Sailing,”

Adam fought to suppress his laughter, bringing the cigarette to his lips.

“That’s such a you thing to say.”

Defensively, Lawrence retorted, exhaling a cloud of thick smoke. "What's that supposed to mean?!"

“I dunno,” The other man responded, still chuckling to himself, basking in the slow fading rush of their earlier encounter. “You’re such an old man sometimes. I love it - of course you like sailing.”

The doctor took another drag, the crisp paper meeting his dry lips as he chuckled. “My family would go to the beach every summer - New England summers are beautiful. While my siblings played in the water, I’d sit on the sand and watch the sailboats.” Lawrence appeared lost in thought, and Adam couldn't help but notice the glimmer in his eyes, reminiscent of the past. The blonde bangs that fell over his eyes were just as they had been back then, slightly grown out now. He seemed like a glowing beacon amidst the grim setting of the bathroom where, months earlier, he had dismembered himself.

“I want to take Diana there someday. Maybe we can go sailing.”

A lump formed in Adam's throat, remembering that Diana and Alison still had no idea where Lawrence was - the plant stood as a literal crime scene just miles from their home, a maze of horrors they couldn’t imagine.

The younger man's voice trailed off, the nicotine seeping into his system, soothing every ripple of anxiety. "Sounds great," he murmured.

"Did your family ever do anything special for summer?" Lawrence asked, mistakenly so - and Adam couldn’t help but laugh once more.

“Ha, nah, my folks didn’t do stuff like that - my summers consisted of swapping spit with my friend Scott and avoiding my dad at all costs, hoping some joggers would run by my house so I could snap some pictures, but that was about it.”

Lawrence fell silent, absorbing it all. The disparities in their upbringings felt palpable, reminding him of their conversation from months ago. Their shared insecurities and struggles growing up intertwined like a braid, yet the privilege of Lawrence's childhood still loomed large.

With a turn of his head, Adam's gaze met the doctor's, catching the flush that colored his cheeks like a sunset.

“Scott?” The doctor's question carried a hint of jealousy, beating on his chest as he coughed.

Adam couldn't help but smirk - maybe he could stretch the moment, entertain the role reversal of Lawrence’s jealousy.

“Scott, yeah. My friend. Why? Feeling jealous?”

He couldn’t help but feel some guilt when the question left his mouth, watching Lawrence wriggle like a worm on a hook.
“No—” Lawrence snapped, battling to mask his obvious envy of Adam’s teen fling — a senseless, petty feeling he despised grew in his gut at times. With a wave, he gestured to the other man. “I just feel sorry for you. You deserved more.”

The dark haired man smiled again, and the corners of Adam’s face created a cat-like grin. “Hm, it’s okay - Scott was a good kisser, don’t worry.”

Scott, who hadn’t called back since their conversation at the hospital - Scott, who hid his true self, but admittedly, was a man he deeply cared for at one point. He wanted to respect that in his heart.

On the other hand, Lawrence was on the verge of exploding at Adam's usual banter. In a sudden burst of frustration, he flung the cigarette to the ground and stamped it out with his foot. "That wasn't—" He sighed, then opened his arms, his white sleeves barely reaching his wrists, the fabric straining at the seams. "—Come here."

Adam inched closer to the doctor, surrendering to his embrace, finding solace in his warmth. This was Lawrence, his safe haven, returned to him at last. His Lawrence.

Even if that same safe haven had its own insecurities about the boy he kissed in the humid new jersey summers to R.E.M. 's newest record, smoking cigarettes into each others mouths as the grain of the vinyl faded into the backdrop. That safe haven that danced with him to Berlin, making him feel as beautiful as he’d ever experienced. The safe haven that he woke up to across the same bathroom floor, with the most gorgeous, clear blue eyes he’d ever seen. How he yearned to capture them once more, his clandestine desire buried beneath stacks of polaroids featuring that very individual that sat across from him, blue dress shirt draping his figure.

That safe haven was Lawrence Gordon. That safe haven was his to keep.

—

I am a moth
Who just wants to share your light
I'm just an insect
Trying to get out of the night
I only stick with you
Because there are no others

-All I need, Radiohead

—

Peter Strahm had a distinctively crude style when it came to interrogations—the man had a love of being accusatory, with a knack for dramatic expressions and gestures. Adam couldn't help but observe as Strahm ran his hand through his thinning brunette hair, his movements betraying a certain awkwardness despite his attempts to exude toughness. He likely saw himself as a tough rescued fighting dog, but the way he moved around the room was similar to that of a baby deer learning to walk - even at 45 years old. This man was a spectacle, Adam realized, a spectacle that smelled like old spice, cigarettes, and ironically, a new car all at the same time. Peter Strahm had geared up for a fight that morning, and by his demeanor alone it seemed they were in for a lengthy interrogation.

Peter Strahm batted his long eyelashes like a beauty queen before a panel of judges, his hand sweeping through his over-gelled brunette locks before he leaned in to lock eyes with the smaller man. Jill restrained her instincts, observing as the older man seemed to assert dominance over the younger one, their gazes locked in a tense exchange. Adam backed down, loosening his jaw to assume his position as the innocent victim - not the man who had slept in the same hall that housed god knows how many victims of John Kramer’s traps.

He didn’t know that though.

Of course though, Hoffman would have to catch on at some point - the same man that was taking Peter Strahm ass up in a government-funded office closet, before continuing their “will they won’t they” tension. He hated him. He really hated him. 

First was Jill. Strahm metaphorically waved an unseen target over the woman's head, as she desperately tried to portray herself as the not-so-grieving spouse. Adam couldn't help but wonder if, beneath her facade, she was truly hurting. How profound were her feelings for John? They must have penetrated deep into her soul, given his status as the father of someone who could have been her child. She was robbed. She was truly robbed.

“Adam-” Strahm choked, rubbing his fingers into his temples as sweat dripped down his head. “You were in one of these traps, correct?”

Adam shrugged, looking into the other man’s eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ve read the news.”

His expression was irritable and one thing was clear - Peter Strahm did not take being fucked with lightly.

“I sure have,” Strahm responded, leaning against the table to tower over Adam as an intimidation tactic. “Now tell me, how does a man in a Jigsaw trap befriend the wife of the guy behind the whole ordeal? Tell me the whole story.”

Neither Jill or Adam budged, and Adam felt the way the blonde woman reached forward to rub his hand under the table comfortingly.

“Okay,” Strahm pressed, intensifying his tone angrily. “So, let’s go this route - do you want to tell me how you end up chained up with a man, to this?”

With a wave of his hand, Strahm reached across the table, seizing a newspaper and flinging it onto the surface. The paper was crumpled, bearing the unmistakable signs of Strahm's hours spent poring over every Jigsaw-related publication in his office.

There it was, plain as day: a circled photo of Adam and Lawrence sharing a kiss in front of the gift shop.

Adam still didn’t show any emotion, not understanding the angle. “Well, see, that’s a thing called a kiss, that when people who really love each other-”

Strahm jolted forward like a lion in a cage, another weak intimidation tactic. 

“Don’t fuck with me. I called that military branch that Dr. Gordon wrote in his sabbatical letter. They’ve never heard of him.”

Acid danced in Adam’s throat, making him feel queasy, like he had been punched in the stomach - no, Strahm had to be mistaken. He had to make him believe.

Before Adam could spin another web of expert lies - like Lawrence had recently been transferred, oh yes - Good Old Doctor Gordon, Selfless Doctor Gordon- of course Adam received one last letter before Lawrence pleaded for a transfer to a frontline Combat Medic team, Jill interjected, her voice steady yet tinged with irritation.

 “You should know how inefficient the system is from all your years in the FBI, Detective. If one phone call was all it took, Adam and Dr. Gordon would have a much better line of communication.” Then, she shot her shot. “Maybe if you spent more time chasing leads, you’d have found John sooner.”

Adam slouched in his seat, the weight of tension pressing down on him like a boulder.

Jill persisted, her eyes locked on Strahm's movements with the intensity of a rattlesnake zeroing in on its prey.

“What does this have to do with the investigation of my ex-husband? This seems like an ethical issue to me, Detective Strahm. That’s a photo of two people in love. It has nothing to do with it. Neither does Doctor Gordon’s service.”

The man paused, shifting his aggressive gaze to the smaller woman, her yellow locks sitting perfectly at her shoulders, lips polished and pursed.

Strahm released a heavy sigh, the weight of frustration escaping with his exhale. He shook his head, redirecting his attention to the young man fidgeting in his seat, fingers tugging at the soft, dark blue flannel draped around him.

“Let’s take a break.”

As Strahm turned to clumsily walk towards the door of the interrogation room, Adam felt the subtle vibration in his pocket—the pager.

His Lawrence, still safe, still sound.

—

Strahm was the only man Adam had ever met who smoked more than Scott. In the 15-minute "recess" he allowed, Strahm had gone through three cigarettes, coughing angrily as the wind whisked them away into nothingness. Leaning side by side against the station wall, Strahm passed a cigarette to the shorter man, lighting it with his vintage Zippo as Adam brought it to his chapped lips. Strahm chuckled to himself, turning to Adam, tense as always. 

“I’m not homophobic, y’know. Had nothing to do with that.”

Strahm and Adam stood in silence, the gentle spring breeze brushing past them. There was an eerie quality to the scene, the beauty of the season starkly contrasting with the grimness of the investigation stained with bloody fingerprints and metal hacksaws. Adam sensed the fleeting nature of their time together. He needed to earn the other man's trust, and quickly.

If only it was that easy.

Adam raised the cigarette to his lips, tilting his head back as he exhaled the dense smoke into the air. After a brief pause, he replied softly.

“I’ve been kissing boys since I was 11. ‘M not that soft. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

With a casual shrug, Strahm retrieved the carton of spirits from his black dress pants pockets, sliding his thick pointer finger into the box. With a shake of his head, he lit the end and brought the magical paper to his lips.

“No, I mean that, honestly.” 

More silence, of course. Adam wanted to watch him talk, defend himself a bit longer. With a shift, Adam shot the taller man a curious glance, prompting him to continue.

“I guess, I know things aren’t easy. I’ve been in love with a man too.”

Everything stopped.

“Coworker.  That feeling ended my 4 year marriage. She got it. I think she always understood. I met him years ago, and then saw him again at the site of my dead coworker. Fell back instantly. Fuck,” Strahm choked, grasping his forehead in his palm, sweating profusely. “You and Doctor Gordon have something special, I’m sure. Just isn’t easy. Nothing ever is.”

Adam suddenly felt a weight lift from his shoulders, contrasting the situation with the man's circumstances to Alison and Lawrence. Perhaps, in some small way, Strahm did understand—even if he couldn't fully grasp the bond forged by the trauma of the bathroom or the lifetime spent hiding in a closet - a prison - Lawrence made for himself, a palace of medical textbooks, cigarettes, and 80s glam rock records, he was aware of the risks they took.

Turning his tall figure, Strahm started back toward the station entrance. Glancing over his shoulder at the younger man, he paused. Before pushing open the front door, he reached into his pocket, retrieving a small cross necklace and holding it in his hand.

Under his breath, he whispered.

“If what you two went through is anything like I’ve read, may God help us all.”

With a nudge of the front door, Strahm peeked back outside, signaling for Adam to return to the interrogation room.

Between the three of them, the games had just begun.

Still, the thought lingered in the air; the knowledge that Strahm would be the man chained across another in that same bathroom, somehow, some way.

Chapter Text

“So, let’s review-”

Strahm's eyes were like charged bullets, aimed directly at Jill. Her under eyes were tinged with purple from exhaustion, her face blank after hours of relentless interrogation.

“Girl loves boy”

The memory of the park flooded back: blonde hair flowing in the window, and the way John smiled watching her pressed against the tree. He was her John—the man she knew before the games, before the pregnancy, before the trauma, and before they slowly drifted apart.

“Boy loves girl”

John was always a gentle person. Always prompt on dates, caring, making sure she felt safe and loved.  She never saw this coming, not a mile away.

“Boy gets girl pregnant”

The vision of the pink pregnancy test and the thin line. 

A second chance at what happened over a decade ago.

“Girl loses baby”

Everything is red.

The whole world is red.

“Boy turns into a serial killer.”

It’s all over.

Jill's head fell into her hands, muffling the sounds of her crying, consumed by relentless sobs that seemed to stop the entire room. Her cries resembled choking on her own saliva, raw and guttural. Adam acted swiftly, and the dark haired man embraced her tightly, while his gaze shifted angrily towards the taller, bird-like man. "You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”

Strahm bit his bottom lip, feeling frustrated and slightly ashamed for letting his emotions take control. As he watched the pair embrace, he noticed small black speckles of mascara on Jill's cheeks, her face already puffy and red from releasing years of pain in one overwhelming moment. Gideon. John. Gideon. Adam.

Adam.

And there was Adam—the man she wanted so badly to rescue, to whisk away a thousand miles from there, to heal his pain, to spoon-feed him chicken soup on sick days, to listen to all his thoughts. Anything for Adam. It was all for Adam. And yet, she had betrayed him. She had hurt him. 

And yet, that unconditional love remained.

"Okay, Jill, take five," Strahm remarked, shifting his focus to the younger man who was still patting the blonde woman's back, trying to calm her down. Jill continued to sob, her breathing turning into hyperventilation, and Adam shot a frustrated look at the detective, mentally loading his shotgun of questions.“Let’s go back to Dr. Gordon, okay, Adam?”

Adam shook his head and Strahm’s face twisted into a triumphant smile. Adam coughed into his sleeve and answered the question.

“Not sure there’s much more to tell, unless you want to graze over that kiss again. You seemed to really like it, last time I checked. Did it get you off enough?”

Strahm’s expression changed to irate - his bottom lip puffed out, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Where is he? You have to know. ”

Adam felt a lump in his throat. Strahm continued.

“Investigators think Amanda Young is dead. Not me. I think she was smarter than that. I think you know something we don’t, and that Doctor Gordon is the missing link.” 

The photographer didn’t respond. 

“Okay. Here’s the thing - we found Doctor Gordon’s hair on the floor where Amanda Young died.”

Fuck.

The lump felt bigger - tighter, making its way to the surface, making Adam feel sick in all sorts of ways. The back of his neck felt cold, dripping sweat.

No, no. There had to be an explanation.

So, the man continued, matter-of-fact attitude. 

“Well, we woke up in a damn bathroom. They had to keep us somewhere. It could have been there, smartass. Good job.”

Strahm slammed his hands onto the investigation table, causing Jill to jolt, sobbing harder into her hands. 

“Stop. Fucking. Around.”

Adam sharpened his blade, his trademark twisted smile taking over his whole expression. Strahm was on edge. Strahm was angry, and yet he still couldn’t help but take things one step further. Get him angry, then feed him what he wants. 

“You seem like the kind of guy who does this because he was too much of a pussy for military servi-”

SMMK

Jill screamed. Adam nearly fell back in his chair, feeling the aftershock of the way Strahm slammed his whole body into the table.

“Listen you little fuck,” Strahm snarled, practically spitting at Adam. “I’m going to level with you. You can tell me what you know, or I keep you here for days on end, I frame you as an accomplice. I have more power than you can imagine, so you better start fucking talking.”

Jill clung to the young man's flannel with her nude pink nails and manicured hands as he took a deep exhale; he realized he had to start providing the detective with something, or they'd be stuck here for weeks. He needed to give Strahm a reason to trust him, even though he had already messed that up. Unlike Lawrence, he wasn't cool, calm, and collected; impulsiveness and a tendency to reject authority were in his blood. He had to find a way to fix this.

Somehow, he and Lawrence couldn't afford to lose. They had to seize this one opportunity to catch Strahm and Hoffman, and he was determined to make it happen. Regardless of Lawrence's approval, he had to take action. He needed to provide Strahm with some bait. He had to give him something.

“What if I told you I remember being dragged along the halls?”

Strahm perked up; hook.

“Go on.”

Line.

“You said you found the bathroom. Okay, I remember halls - I remember how I got there sometimes. What if we went back to the crime scene, and I tried to help you find somewhere someone - might be hiding? Stop obsessing over Lawrence - I don’t know -” Adam swallowed, noticing Jill tense up. “-But you might find something new.”

Strahm exhaled. Sinker.

“The team is heading back to the site tomorrow. Can you be back at 9 AM?”

He'd be foolish not to seize this opportunity.

Adam rose from his seat, extending his hand to Jill, who squeezed it gently. As they walked towards the door, Strahm leaned against it, then glanced back at them.

“Don’t make me regret this. You better not be a damn flight risk.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We got Strahm.”

The other man's eyelashes fluttered, as he smiled of relief for the first time in a year. Fingers entwined with Lawrence’s, looking across at the smiling man on the hospital bed, Adam looked down at the pager in his lap.

“At some point we probably won’t need these anymore.”

The doctor squeezed his hand tighter, a pulsating movement like the beat of his heart, a warm comfort in the cool of the room.

“Would be best for now not to get rid of them. For safekeeping.”

Lawrence looked like an angel that had lost his way back to heaven, banished to the realms of hell, his longer, golden blonde hair messy at the ends. The smell of blood stained this place. 

The doctor reached for the wooden cane, leaning his bottom half forward off of the small, single bed. Adam still sat, shaking his legs, oversized, ripped black jeans exposing the pale bruised skin underneath them. Finally snapping back, lost in the haze of the previous day's events, he looked up to peer at Lawrence, reaching his hand swiftly out to him.  The doctor seemed to have aged five years in the months apart, veins more exposed on the top of his hand, palm much more callused then Adam could remember. If he could only imagine the hell he had been through, the doctor turned mortician, the mortician turned necromancer, yet the necromancer turned soft in the presence of its other half.

“What the hell are you doing?” Adam inquired with a confused chuckle, and Lawrence shook his head. “Trust me.”

So, pulling him up, allowing the cane to lead, Lawrence placed his hand on Adam’s back, humming softly, swaying back and forth. 

Oh.

Dancing, that’s what this was.

Under his breath, Lawrence hummed a tune, gently lifting Adam's hand to his lips and brushing a kiss on top of it. Then, he moved his hands to Adam's hips, guiding the younger man to rest his arms across his shoulders as they locked eyes. The doctor continued to sway, the rhythm of his soft humming becoming more familiar with each passing moment.

Strumming my pain with his fingers

Singing my life with his words

Adam's stomach dropped, a bittersweet mix of pain and pleasure washing over him in the cathartic moment, reminiscent of their first slow dance. Here was this old-fashioned romantic, a timeless soul beside whom Adam felt an unending sense of connection—he could only deem this person his soulmate.

Killing me softly with his song

Killing me softly with his song

As the familiar song played, Lawrence suddenly halted, locking eyes with the other man and delicately fluttering his lashes—those captivating blonde lashes that veiled his perfect, washed-over blue eyes. His cracked bottom lip, those captivating cheeks.

Telling my whole life with his words

Killing me softly with his song

The man paused, his hands gravitating to the collar of Adam’s shirt, methodically unbuttoning it one by one to expose the scar—a faded yet still purple reminder, its edges as puffy as when Lawrence had last seen it.

“While I was away, did you remember to apply the serum?” Lawrence's gaze flickered between the scar and Adam.

Adam sighed, his expression turning slightly somber, his bottom lip curling into a shameful grimace.

“It was hard to get out of bed some days, let alone do that. I think a part of me wanted it to show more - to heal less. I wanted to keep that part of you with me more, as fucked up as it sounds.”

The doctor kneeled a bit, pushing his head forward and pressing his lips against the scar.

"I hope to never leave your side. I love every part of you. I just hope one day you'll forgive me for everything."

Adam's smile returned as he stretched his arms and then leaned forward, his fingertips landing gently on Lawrence’s head to run through the other man’s blonde hair, the softness of it still remaining despite the inconsistent access to hygiene. Adam couldn’t help it - the way he stopped him in his tracks, the resentment and tension that once existed between them felt like a century ago. So, he gazed down affectionately at the handsome doctor standing by his side.

"We still need that 10th date. I guess you’ll have to keep earning my forgiveness until then."

—-----

Each tear fell with increasing intensity, less fluid and more destructive, consuming the paper in its mascara tinted path. Each drop that landed on the page created a new splash, staining the lined pages.

With shaking hands, she began the letter—the same kind that Adam clung to during the dark hours of the night, miles and miles from Lawrence.

“Dear Adam,”

Her hand covered her mouth as she began to tremble, feeling the grief consuming her once again. Gideon was gone. John was gone. Soon, she wouldn't be surprised if soon, Adam would be gone too.

Lawrence's time was running out. She knew what was coming. She knew with John gone now, she couldn't protect either of them. She knew she had to let go, and it hurt so deeply.

“I wonder if you remember the scones I baked for you, or the first time we interacted in the hospital.”

Nothing would ever be the same.

“ I hope you know I really meant it when I said I would be there if you ever needed a mom.”

As much as she tried.

“ I hope you’ll forgive me for keeping Lawrence from you. John. All the times your mom called my office. I hope you know I only ever wanted to protect you.

The minute I heard your mother say the things she did and I saw you - I wanted only to protect you. I wanted to make you feel loved.

You’re not Gideon. I know this. You’re Adam. You’re so special, so talented, so funny, charming and kind.”

The tears flowed faster and harder, streaming down her red cheeks, eyes puffy and glossed.

“ I know you and Dr. Gordon have limited time. I’m sure he has a plan, so I want you to know from the bottom of my heart, I love you. You are my son. I will always be here. If you need a mom, I will be here to make up for all the love you should have received from Marie.

And just like a mother has to, I have to let you go. I’ll always be here, and I’ll always love you.

Love,

Jill”

Folding up the paper, the blonde slipped the letter into the manila folder and stuffed it into her bag.

She had never directly involved herself in John's games; she had only stood by, unaware of the two men's schemes. Now, she fixed her sights on one target to protect them—a final chance to forgive herself.

Mark Hoffman.

Chapter Text

MAY 22ND, 2007

MALIBU, CALIFORNIA

3.5 YEARS SINCE THE BATHROOM

Adam felt the sand beneath his toes, but it wasn't the gritty, familiar sand of the Jersey Shore where he had spent countless hours with Scott. Back then, they’d race along the shorelines, the air thick with salt and the distant laughter of teenagers a few years their senior, laughing on the edge of the railings. On good days, when Scott’s mom was in one of her rare, high-spirited moods, she’d splurge her tips on a half a tank of gas, boardwalk rum floaters and zapiekanka for the 3 to share. Sherie Tibbs softly traced her face with her fresh blue and pink acrylics, pulled a strand of newly highlighted hair, watching as the boys had free rein to run wild until dusk.

This sand was different—soft, almost velvety, a gentle cushion underfoot that soothed rather than irritated. It didn’t invade his shoes, clinging stubbornly to his heels for weeks after, or turn up unexpectedly in the middle of a classroom, making him feel like he could rip his own foot off. It was calming, a far cry from the chaotic energy of the Jersey Shore.

The waves lapped in delicate arcs, resembling small crescent moons, crests catching the early morning light. The red hues of sunrise shined across the water, casting shimmering sparkles across the surface.

Adam yawned, brushing the sand that had blown onto his knees, catching at his thick leg hair.

The waves crashed onto the sandy shore, deep blue contrasted with the kaleidoscope of warm morning pinks and oranges in the sky.

It was goddamn beautiful.

He couldn’t even crave a cigarette.

“You’re up early.”

Adam turned away from the riptides and noticed Lawrence making his way onto the beach, cane in hand. Lawrence's blue Hawaiian shirt hugged his torso, accentuating his midsection against the sparkling sea. The fabric billowed gently in the breeze, while his khaki pants fell gracefully over his thighs. Adam couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of Lawrence Gordon, the only man he knew who wore polished dress shoes on the sand. This would become a routine, he was sure of it. Not that Lawrence was opposed to wearing sandals. He was a Dad after all. As long as he didn’t add socks to them, Adam couldn’t complain. 

This man was so damn charming, he couldn’t pick at a single thing. 

Adam rushed toward the older man, the gritty sand slipping between his black flip-flops as he leaped into his arms- careful to mind not to put his whole weight on him. Careful for the cane. As Adam clung to him, the doctor steadied himself, pulling Adam into a warm embrace. One arm wrapped securely around his back, while the other hand gently brushed against the younger man's stubbled cheek, lifting his chin to meet his gaze.

He wondered if Lawrence understood how deep his trust was - how he was his anchor, how he had taught him the very meaning of the word trust to begin with. Every single person in his life beforehand betraying him, and the domino effect of Lawrence's love leading to another - Jill, Amanda, Diana, David.

He was his remedy.

Lawrence had never lied to him, never once broken a promise.

Not a single one.

As their lips parted, the doctor drew in a steady breath, his gaze softening. His thumb glided gently over Adam’s sunburnt cheeks, the touch as if to say "you're safe now." A quiet smile curved on Lawrence’s lips, exhaling heavy with relief from his breath.

"Are you ready?" he asked quietly, pressing his soft forehead against the younger man's, both eyes closed, breathing in the smell of sand and each other.

Adam gave a silent nod.

With an understanding glance, Lawrence intertwined his fingers in the other man’s. Reaching into his pockets, he retrieved the two familiar devices, two small silver pagers both dented and scratched from the desperate grips from both men’s hands during their separation. Adam felt his heart pull, the same feeling of anxiety and desperation as the reach to Lawrence’s arms as he pulled himself out of the bathroom. The same way he desperately stretched out his arms as if that would stop him from leaving for safety.

Then, for the first time, Adam felt relief.

Relief it was over, relief they had overcome.

I might be wrong

I might be wrong

I could have sworn I saw a light coming on

“Would you like to do the honors?” Lawrence asked with a hint of sarcasm in his tone, as slight chuckle as he turned to face the ocean, glancing at his partner with a soft smile.

“Together.” Adam responded, turning his gaze to the doctor’s narrowed eyes. “Let’s do it together.”

With a shared nod, the two men hurled the machines into the water, the sound of the splash fading into the rhythm of the deep ocean, nature’s greatest soundtrack.

I used to think

I used to think

There was no future left at all

I used to think

The waves folded over Adam’s senses, carrying everything back at once—the frantic splashes as he thrashed in cold bathwater, waking in that nightmare, and the soft lull of the ocean, peaceful and steady.

The cool wetness. The rhythmic hum of the sea. This was different. This wasn’t the bathtub, wasn’t the cold sting of waking soaked and shivering.

And now, stitched into it all, was the gentle press of Lawrence’s soft abdomen against his back—an entirely new sensation, one that grew like scar tissue over the edges of confusion and soothed the jagged memories of trauma.

He knew now that the apathetic man he once was was healing. For the first time, he could truly take in the dusk-colored sky, its cotton-candy hues spilling over the ocean’s surface. The sea was a beautiful place.

Open up, begin again

Let's go down the waterfall

"This would make a wonderful photograph."

Lawrence smiled with teeth, genuine relief and happiness. A man cleansed of his sins in that moment. Finally free.

As Adam met the man’s blue eyes, his blonde hair flowing in the beach breeze, the memory resurfaced with clarity.

The contrast of the sand, and the roughness of the floor;

his cool, calm, collected doctor by his side.

Forever.

Think about the good times and never look back

Never look back.

Radiohead, I might be wrong

-----------------------------------------------------------

PRESENT DAY

The moments they shared felt surreal, as if existing in a metaphorical time capsule. Memories flickered in Lawrence’s mind like scenes from a stop-motion movie, brief yet vivid snapshots.

The doctor’s eyes opened slowly, taking in the sight of the dark-haired man sleeping soundly across from him. Despite the harsh fluorescents, the grim atmosphere of the bunker, and the makeshift hospital bed that was a poor substitute for the silk sheets he once knew, he couldn’t help but feel grateful. In this moment, surrounded by remnants of chaos, the presence of his Adam provided a comforting reminder of the light at the end of the tunnel.

He cherished his life in the grimmest of ways, finding solace in the phantom pain that dulled in the other’s presence. The memory of cutting through his own bone, his nerve endings flaring, never faded during the minutes Adam was away. Some would call it codependence; he would call it love formed under extreme circumstances —aching, painful, everlasting love that never faltered. Damn a dirty bathroom floor or a clawfoot bathtub, from the corners of Newark to the hospital, the connection was unbreakable. 

Lawrence reached forward to run a hand through Adam’s dark, wavy locks, and the man’s pale eyelids lifted slowly, revealing a smile on the blonde man's face. In that moment, Lawrence forgot the lives they had taken. As his hand migrated to Adam’s cheek, he felt the softness of his thumb, the affection in each touch. They remained silent, simply staring into each other's eyes. Adam felt the love in every caress, as the doctor's fingers traced his face, ears, scars, marks, nicks, and patches of stubble.

Adam's mind raced, feeling the love in the other man's touch, leaning forward to press a hand against Lawrence's cheek.

There were no words. The man who held him all night in the hospital bed, took him upstairs and made him his own space, held his hand through it all and still never faltered. Despite the grim surroundings, the meat plant could be a cathedral, brimming with luxury. All because of Lawrence. 

Leaning forward to kiss him, Lawrence sighed into the physical touch, then pressed their foreheads together. With a sigh he whispered desperately, lovingly;

“I cannot believe you’re here.”

Adam bit his lip, green eyes glistening in the fluorescent lights.

“Pshh, of course I’m here. I told you I’d always come find you.”

The blonde leaned in, brushing his nose tenderly against the other man's, feeling the familiar bump across the bridge. He adored everything about him—his face, his eyes, even that terrible, god-awful sense of humor.

Lawrence moved closer, pressing another kiss against his lips.

“It’s almost done. It’s almost over.”

The doctor slid both hands to the other man’s back, pulling him closer. Breathing deeply, he whispered into his neck.

“We have two more subjects in his game. We’ll be free soon.”

Adam squinted, his eyes snapping open, before a wave of calm washed over him. He trusted Lawrence. He knew there was no escaping this without bloodshed—just a few more specks of iron beneath his fingernails.

But this time, it wasn’t Zep.

This time, it was Detective Peter Strahm.

Chapter Text

Despite being John Kramer's most intelligent, qualified, and secretive confidant, Lawrence Gordon failed to check the plant floor for DNA evidence. 

Simple forensic science. Idiot. 

During his months with the two apprentices, he kept to the shadows, writing prescriptions and letters in black ink, exchanging silent, knowing glances with the smallest of the three. Amanda relied on the older doctor and vise verse, their bond seemed almost sacred to the two of them, a shared understanding, despite having little in common. 

And then there was Hoffman. 

Somedays, he felt like he was in some bad family sitcom as the black sheep of a crime family. 

It didn't matter. 

The man’s broad thumb brushed over the plastic evidence bag labeled “FBI - EVIDENCE” containing blonde hair before he turned to the stack of paperwork on his desk, setting the bag down beside his mousepad without a second thought. He handled these items with a careless familiarity, as if they were no more important than a discarded sandwich wrapper, his own authority seeming to outweigh their significance. Settling back into his seat, the agent glanced down at the copy of The Harold someone—likely Perez—had left on his desk. She had already returned to her workstation, diving into yet another intense, hours-long research session, this time analyzing studies on psychopathy in cancer patients - not like John wasn't in a league of his own. 

The toothpick dangling from Mark Hoffman’s bottom lip could have snapped between his teeth the moment he read the front page. 

NEW JERSEY DOCTOR FOUND DEAD IN MURDER-SUICIDE

Dark brown strands of multiple-days-unwashed hair clung to the man’s forehead, sweat trickling through the large pores that speckled his skin. His hands trembled as he clutched the thin paper, staring down at the headline. His vision swaying as the text echoed through his mind.

Local Authorities to Issue Statement in Press Conference Tonight at 6 PM EST.

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing his thumbs into the creased edges. He knew it—Amanda had to be miles away by now. With a frustrated flick, he tossed the paper aside, slipping a hand into his back pocket to pull out a small cell phone. Without hesitating, he flipped it open and punched the number again, hesitating as her contact appeared. If he had any more impulse control he would find a way to resist the urge to hit the call button.

He hated that he’d memorized Amanda’s number—purely for his own safety, of course. Know your enemy. Know the people you do crime with. Something like that.

AMANDA YOUNG
XXX-XXX-XXXX
[CALL - 1]
[TEXT - 2]

As he pressed the final digit, he could almost hear his sister’s voice nagging him about how outdated it was to dial numbers manually.

Not a day passed where he didnt think of Angie. He appreciated when little things like this would allow him to relish in the memories, even if they hurt. 

He remembered that one spring night they met after work at that grimy downtown dive bar, with Nickelback blaring from the speakers a few empty tables over. Angie, with her square buck teeth, tight, hair sprayed curls and overly glossed, glittery lips - she looked like a disco ball, or some wannabe theater kid’s makeup practice. Your twenties were a time to explore though, and Mark couldn't help but wonder how his grungy sister who spent hours blasting Pixies and The Cranberries, boiled up teen angst in an oversized hoodie and distressed jeans had chosen Club Hopper as her next phase. It didn't matter. 

“Maaaarrrcus!! Gimme your cell-a-phone, you're not doing it right, dumbass!!”
 
Angie had this way of squealing when she laughed— and yelled– a sound she’d made since she was a baby, air rushing from her gut to her throat in a whistling burst. 

He rolled his eyes with a smile. 

“What?”

It was home.

“You have contacts in your phone for a reason, just press the up arrow and stop being such a square. What if some crazy dude is stabbing you, and you’re there bleeding out and dying, you DIE, because you can’t use a damn cell phone?”

Mark chuckled, raising his eyebrows at the younger woman as the gold bangles on her wrists chimed, reaching out again to snatch his phone. With a grin, he extended his arm just out of her reach, watching as she lifted herself onto the table, her laughter bubbling up, breath tinged with cheap strawberry daiquiris and altoid sours. His kid sister was drunk and beaming, the sleeve of her pink babydoll dress slipping down her shoulder in a way that seemed almost childlike and free.

With a mix of affection and mild irritation, he shook his head and gently tugged her sleeve back up onto her shoulder. The protective older brother instincts were something he could never grow out of, somehow. Locking eyes, she nodded, easing back into her seat, a flicker of sobriety softening her face.

Mark cleared his throat before speaking.

“I’m training to avoid that exact situation. Also, no one’s said square since the 80’s.” Mark coughed as she waved her manicured hand to reach for the phone.

“Mhm, yeah,” She laughed as her curls bounced at her shoulders. “That was the last time you had friends, too.” A flash of light illuminated the glitter body spray that covered her body - god, it made Mark itch to look at. His kid sister found the tackiest ways to express herself these days, but whatever made her happy.

He had hoped Seth would make her happy.

He didn't.

The memory returned in a momentarily blinding, white-hot flash—the bloodstained sheets, the fragments of organs scattered across the concrete floor. 

The smell. God, the smell - nothing could compare to the smell of their rotting corpses. No amount of training could have prepared him for the sick in his throat when it was his loved one. 

He could have sliced Seth's body into 1000 tiny pieces, and it'd never compare to the smell of iron, dirt and pharmaceuticals that littered their apartment. How his sister lived in a space like this filled him with despair. Her pain was over, passed over to him, the grief scarring like a burn that never stopped flaring. 

“You're such a square.”

His throat tightened, but with a deep breath, he forced himself back to reality. 

“Just make sure you have me on your speed-dial.”

The detective's whole body shuddered as he shook his head, grounding himself.

“You could be bleeding out on the floor and a call to me could save your life!”

He missed her.

A part of him hated to admit he’d probably miss Amanda—the way she strutted down the halls with a hammer or some piece of rusty hardware gripped in her hand, oversized cargo pants falling off her hips, hurling insults like "Mark DumbMan" or "Detective Skid" with all the maturity of a woman half her age. 

He dialed the number again, hoping to hear her pick up at the other end. That raspy, grating voice that rang through the mold-covered tunnels of the plant. He could hear her now.

“Hey dumbass, you forgot to use star sixty seven.”

No.

A ring.

A click.

“The line you are trying to reach has been disconnected.”

Fuck. 

He recalled the article, the way it described the grisly scene in stark detail. She’d probably picked up on the buzzwords: “dental records,” “arson.” Not that he’d done any better himself. The memory of the splattered remains came back to him, those grueling hours spent scrubbing chunks of entrails from the pendulum. At least he’d known better than to stage his own death where fresh footprints still trailed out of the building. 

Amanda was John’s favorite student—and his most reckless accomplice. Shaking his head, he clenched his fist, biting down on his bottom lip as the image of her resurfaced: hours spent in the plant’s basement, half a bag of popcorn with charred edges. “I like the burnt ones,” she’d say, tuning in and out of Forensic Files while flipping through INKED magazine. If she was any more cozy, he might start doubting she was the same serial killer that had gutted his own colleague.

The realization then sunk in - he would probably never see Amanda again.

He had nowhere to turn. No one to go to.

They shared only a few spaces, each one tied closely to the games; the doctor’s passages were always concealed from the rest of the facility. John would never reveal those secrets, and it left the man breathless. They were a trio meant to work together, but he set them against each other at the first opportunity. John used each of them as a pawn, with some affection in due time. Amanda was his cherished protégé, Lawrence his most valuable asset. Mark though? Mark was his 3rd in command, his net in the FBI weaved from thin fishing lines that connected them. 

Mark was Mark. 

He was nothing more than Detective Hoffman.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
BRRRRRRRRRR
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

INCOMING CALL FROM:
PRIVATE NUMBER

The man yanked the phone open with such force, it seemed as though he might shatter it in his desperation.

"Goddamn it, you'd better start fucking explaining," he growled, his voice tight, breathless.

The line hummed with the sound of deep breathing, fuzzy against the speaker.

More heavy breaths, each one more strained than the last. Then, a whimper - a voice too low to be Amanda’s.

"Who the fuck is th—"

The breathing stopped suddenly. Then, the wet sound of two lips pursing together.

"It’s Jill. I need to speak with you."

The blonde woman on the other end of the phone stared down at Strahm's number, scribbled onto the cheap piece of cardboard embossed with his contact info in whatever cheap material the FBI was outsourcing these days. The letter to Adam sat adjacent to it, she couldn’t think of it now.

“Tell me everything you know about Peter Strahm.” 

Local Authorities to Issue Statement in Press Conference tomorrow night at 6 PM EST.

Mark’s pulse quickened at the sound of the woman he despised uttering the name of the man he desperately wished he could hate.

It didn’t matter, though. Sooner or later, he’d have to face her—there was no avoiding it. Besides, this might be an opportunity. She likely controlled the next game, and as much as he loathed the idea, talking to her could yield some useful information. Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be a total waste.

“Meet me at the Plant.”

—

Adam’s head pounded.

Leaving Lawrence behind at the plant felt like drowning—a crushing, sinking weight, just like the moment he’d watched Lawrence desperately pull himself across the floor, escaping from the bathroom all those ages ago. But then came the relief, the kind that felt like air flooding his lungs remembering waking up beside him in the hospital. Adam could still recall the contours of Lawrence’s face, the way his presence softened the sharp edges of the memories. Their first encounter, waking up to see him, after everything, had been a lifeline.

But now, the roles were reversed. It was Adam leaving Lawrence behind, not the other way around. This time, there was a promise—a vow to return with something.

Someone.

Strahm.

God, he was rotten.

Maybe he should have died in that bathroom after all.

No.

The thought of a future with Lawrence, the possibility of a new beginning, a second chance—kept him alive, kept him moving forward. Fuck 10 dates, fuck the hundreds of dollars of gas to make it to California to make him his husband, that Christmas play he kept referencing. Diana. God, he’d failed Diana too - she had no idea. 

He couldn’t think of her right now. The pain was too much, and the last thing he needed was more guilt weighing him down.

Being apart from Lawrence for so long felt like having his organs torn from his body, his entrails spilling in a thick, crimson stream across cold white tile—God, it hurt. It hurt more than the stabbing sensation of a rusty nail, more than the hot jolt of electricity flowing through his nerves, more than any beating he’d endured. The pain was sharp after months of nothing but the distant buzz of a pager and a handful of letters to remind him of his presence.

But now, there was relief—his lips brushing against Adam’s skin, leaving ghostly traces of his affection. Each kiss left a mark, a soft claim, a willing scar on the younger man’s body.

The hold of a surgeon and the hands of a killer intertwined.

Lawrence didn’t take care of himself since they had been apart - it was evident in the dirt under his fingernails, his choppy, outgrown hair, the dark bruises under his eyes from lack of rest. The same doctor that likely got secret manicures was turned into an exhausted shell of his former self. 

Still, the faint trace of his cologne lingering on his skin offered a small comfort. He was still here, in some way. It wouldn’t be long until he returned fully, with a smile on his face as he flipped swiss cheese omelets on the stove. Whether they’d reunite in the same bed of the New Jersey McMansion or as fugitives holed up in cheap motels was a question left unanswered.

Oh god, cheap motels. History repeated itself again, the same motels he demeaned Lawrence for would probably be their sanctuary, going from state to state.

Oh right though - they were going to kill Strahm. 

He’d be a murderer again.

Even so - how could they manage to live an even relatively normal life after all they’d experienced - all they were about to do? Murdering - yes, murdering - he wouldn’t pretend that the Jigsaw philosophy was anything but that,  but they’d be committing an even greater crime of trapping two government officials.  

Jesus.

They had found his hair. They knew he had something to do with it. It had been a year - there was no way that he could argue that it was leftover from the bathroom trap, that Amanda had somehow carried it in. No matter how he looked at it, they were royally fucked if they couldn’t do this right. He trusted Amanda though, he trusted Lawrence.

Even a part of him, while she had broken all of his previous image of her - trusted Jill. 

He remembered then - there was no returning from this. No matter how hard they tried, how were they supposed to go back? Even if they escaped all legal consequences, even if they could somehow convince Strahm that there was no way Lawrence was involved - things would always be different. This would always be a part of their past, even if they healed. 

It wasn’t like running away wasn’t unfamiliar to Adam. The urge to escape, leave no traces, was always a part of him. From the tears he wept packing up the boxes of his childhood bedroom after the last time his Dad thought of him as his son to the rejection from Scott all those years ago, he didn’t let himself get attached to many places. Until Lawrence of course.

Lawrence was safe. The most dangerous man objectively he’d ever known, with the security of a thousand layer house and the purity of a lamb.

So, he’d protect that lamb, and sacrifice another.

Peter Strahm stood outside the police station, leaning against the building with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked like he hadn’t slept, though he rarely did. His long eyelashes fluttered as his deep purple circles shadowed his eyes, marking the fatigue beneath. There was an almost tragic beauty in his worn-out presence, his gelled-back hair giving him an unnervingly polished, plastic quality. Peter Strahm looked like a chain smoking ken doll in a government job uniform.

As Adam approached, the cold walk from the plant to the bus to the station seemed to linger on his fingertips, the chill sinking deep as the rain began to fall in light, steady drizzles. The heat of a lighter, the burn of the flame between his fingers, sounded awful good right now.

Strahm looked up, his eyes scanning Adam’s body, taking in the way he moved—guarded, oversized clothes falling on his frame. 

“It’s 8:55. I’m impressed—I didn’t take you for punctual. You give me the impression you skipped a lot of high school classes.”

Adam shrugged and stepped up beside the man at the door, his oversized jeans hanging low on his hips as he rolled his eyes, unimpressed.

“I wouldn’t start talking shirt, It’s not like the government’s exactly known for hiring geniuses, look who you all work for.”

The detective grimaced, reluctantly agreeing with the jab. The two of them looked like perfect foils—Adam’s wrinkled, second-day flannel and ripped jeans sharply contrasting with Strahm’s crisp white shirt and neatly pressed pants. But the axe spray tucked into Strahm's jacket and the cheap cigarette dangling from his thick lower lip reminded Adam that, in the end, they probably weren’t as different as they might look.

“I’m still not convinced,” Strahm started, taking the last drag of his cigarette. “The decomposition would take two years for the doctor’s hair to degrade, but it makes no sense for it to be there.”

Smokers courtesy, Strahm pulled a cigarette from his pack of reds and handed it to the younger man. He was already shaky from the knowledge of what the future held- he may as well not have nicotine withdrawals in the process.

Adam shot the detective a sharp, anxious glance, his green eyes glimmering like dew-covered moss in the reflection of the rainy parking lot. “Seems to me you’re more interested in boosting your ego than actually bringing anyone to justice. People like me and Lawrence, we’re the ones who have to keep fucking living with the unanswered questions. Jigsaw’s dead. Case closed.”

"Okay," Strahm pressed, crossing his arms and biting his bottom lip in irritation. "It may not seem like it, but I’m trying to help victims like you. The story doesn’t have to end with Jigsaw’s death. Wouldn't you like to know why you were involved? What kind of evil creates men like him? Who helped to lock you two up, and force Dr. Gordon to chop off his own leg? You’re not so ignorant you think he did that on his own.”

“Chop off his own leg” sounded so crude.

Adam nearly swallowed the cigarette whole, taken aback by Strahm’s bluntness. The weight of guilt eased slightly, and he couldn’t help but think that leading this man to his death might actually be justified, given how infuriating his personality was.

“I know why I was there. I made money off stalking middle-aged men doing seedy shit. I don’t need to know this geezer’s whole backstory. He doesn’t deserve to be glorified. Us victims are just trying to move on.” 

The man beside him relaxed, his shoulders unwinding as a soft drizzle began to fall. Tiny droplets of rain pattered against the sidewalk. The rain cascaded off the blacktop parking lot, pooling in small rivulets that sparkled like tiny shards of glass.

“Moving forward? Is that what Doctor Gordon represents to you?”

Adam exhaled, tossing the cigarette onto the wet ground.

In that moment, he regretted taking the cigarette. It was a feeling he had never experienced before - he didn’t want to feel the poison coursing through his veins. He felt cold and hot all at once, a strange rush that left him dizzy. Finally, he spoke. As much as he longed to collapse to his knees and pour out every inch of his heart—every piece of him that belonged to Lawrence, every emotion he felt, every love song he finally related to —he couldn’t.

So he kept it simple.

“Something like that.”

With a nod, Strahm reached into the pocket of his black pants and pulled out the keys to the station car.

"Alright," Strahm barked, "You’ve got some 'halls' to show me back at the crime scene."

Adam bit back the urge to roll his eyes, reluctantly following the other man to the car.

Hook, line, sinker.

“I’ll do my best.”

—

NEW TEXT MESSAGE (4)

TO: #4
FROM: #1 
SUBJECT: (NO SUBJECT)

Heard from AY. They made it to Texas

TO: #4
FROM: #1
SUBJECT: (NO SUBJECT)

I have an interview at the hospital tomorrow. 

TO: #4
FROM: #1
SUBJECT: (NO SUBJECT)

Hey - need you to respond to me. Let me know when it's done. I want him gone as much as you do. I have your ID's ready

TO: #4
FROM: #1
SUBJECT: Respond when you can. Worried

Stay safe. Call me when you can

—

Grief was a bitch, and David wasn't exactly unfamiliar with the feeling of it. 

Coping was hard, circling distractions to fill the time, to numb; was easy.

A part of him felt relief over finding out what happened to Zep - I mean, at least he knew what happened. There was a level of closure. 

That relief, though palpable, was just a drop in a deep, freezing ocean—a molehill overshadowed by the towering mountain of emotion that surged within him when he recalled the last time he saw Zep’s face.

The smile Zep gave him as they kissed against the door lingered in his mind. Did Zep feel the same fear his roommate had when the knife tore into his spleen? What were his final thoughts? Did he think of him in those moments? What were the chances both him and Zep were victims - and why David survive, but not him?

Why was he even involved?

 He wondered if, in the repetitive grind of an orderly, meeting David had brought Zep something to help him make it through the day. Not that cleaning up after sick patients and shouldering the bulk of the labor for a fraction of what pompous bastards like Dr. Gordon earned wasn’t just peachy.

It didn’t matter any more. Distractions. Distractions mattered.

Thankfully, the distraction was standing right outside of the hospital as he locked up the supply room for the shop for the night. A few stolen glances was all it took for David to recognize the look of desire in the much taller, dirty blonde man’s eyes - he would be stupid not to ask him.

“Need some company?”

So here he was. 

David smirked as the broader man with the strong jaw and narrow lips kissed him deeply in the backseat, their lips and tongues tangling with an urgent intensity. He pulled him closer, guiding him on top of him, feeling the weight and warmth of his body. His hand traced a path to the man's waistline, fingers brushing against the edge of his jeans. When their lips finally parted, David sighed, savoring the lingering sensation and the taste of him, feeling the man's climax with a shudder.

Lifting a cigarette to his mouth, the dark-haired man leaned back into the seat, his eyes on the figure beside him who was now brushing off his scrubs, smoothing out the creases.

"So, you an orderly or something?" David asked, lighting the cigarette, the flame casting a brief glow on his face.

The man beside him shrugged. "No, no. Job interview," he replied, his voice soft but clear.

David took a long drag, the smoke curling around him. "Mmm, good luck. This place is full of smug assholes, I run the gift shop downstairs.”

The other man chuckled lightly, not knowing how to respond. David continued the awkward conversation, shaking off the desire to return to the man's mouth, and eat him alive on his short lived lunch break. 

“What's the interview for?” 

The man ran a hand through his hair, looking slightly flustered. "Temp for Dr. Gordon’s replacement. Mostly administrative, writing prescriptions, documents and whatnot. That's most of what doctors do anyway."

David coughed, gripping his throat briefly before recovering from the smoke traveling up his lungs. He shifted in his seat nervously, eyes narrowing slightly as he exhaled. "Good luck, they'll probably hire you on the spot. That guy’s been out a while.”

They sat in silence, the only sounds the faint hum of cars outside and the rustle of their clothes as the man's hand gravitated to his groin, putting his belt back on. 

David broke the quiet. "Lawrence Gordon- I used to work with his boyfriend. He stopped showing up a few weeks ago."

He handed the man the used cigarette. The dirty blonde returned a thankful nod as he lifted the paper to his thick bottom lip and inhaled, feeling the rare calm come over his body. From his skin, the scent of his clothes- smoking was likely a once in a while treat, but David couldn't resist the luxury of a shared smoke after getting his rocks off. As he admired the man's way of smoking slowly, he reached back into the carton to retrieve another, lighting the end, the tip glowing red in the dim light of the parking garage. 

The man finally responded again. 

 "That’s a shame."

He remained quiet but intriguing, his silence speaking volumes. David watched him, feeling his anxiety fade as he inhaled the nicotine, the familiar burn grounding him.

David leaned back further into the seat, a lazy smile spreading across his face. "Well, this was peachy. I haven’t had a handy that good in years. You must be a surgeon or some shit."

The man shrugged, a hint of a smile played on his thin lips as he took another drag of the cigarette. "Thanks. Medic, actually."

David's smile widened curiously, the smug demeanor he usually had rising to the front of his expression. "So, what's your name?”

The other man coughed deeply, wiping his lips as his hands settled at his lap, ash from the cigarette falling on the fabric floor of the car. 

“Logan. Logan Nelson.”