Work Text:
The last thing Bobby remembers is that asshole at the church, practically dripping with sarcasm as he applauded. He remembers thinking that the man ought to go through what he has, maybe he wouldn’t be such a dick, before remembering that he’d been speaking at a Jigsaw Survivor Support Group. He did feel a little guilty for thinking such things. A little. Bobby cracks his eyes open and winces at the bright light, trying to raise his hand to block it out and immediately yelping at the searing pain in his chest. He blinks through the brightness and stares out at a hospital room, bland and impersonal, with various machines beeping softly off to his right and the sun streaming in from a window to his left. He puts a trembling hand to his bandaged chest, becoming more and more aware of the aches in not just his pecs, but his sides too, between his ribs and his hips. If he’s been in some sort of accident, where is everyone? Surely at least Joyce...
It all comes back, hits him all at once, images flashing before his eyes like a strobe light. The cage, Nina, Suzanne, Cale, and Joyce- oh god, JOYCE- and he retches, forcing himself to try to sit up despite the pain. His guts revolt and he leans over the side of the bed; all that comes out is the burning of stomach bile, which splatters on the floor below. Hot, stinging tears are rolling down his cheeks, and the sound of agonized wails fills the room; the sound isn’t loud enough to drown out the echo of Joyce’s own screams of agony that still reverberates in his ears. She’d been right there, he’d been right there, all he had to do was just hang on just a little longer. Be just a little stronger. It should have been him, god, it should have been him!
“-gen. Mr. Dagen. Mr. Dagen!” There’s a hand on his shoulder, and a woman calling his name. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, but the tears won’t stop, the pain in him is too great; he’s still screaming when there’s a sharp jab in his neck, and he jerks sideways, white-hot pain flaring up in his abdomen from the sudden movement. The room is spinning, and he thinks he might vomit again, but exhaustion hits him like a brick wall and he falls back against the bed, sobs still wracking his body. Someone is saying “It’s all my fault” over and over, with almost no pause between repetitions aside from quick wet gasps. He only realizes it’s his voice when he’s on the verge of passing out.
When he wakes up again, it’s dark, and he feels sluggish. Whatever they gave him knocked him on his ass pretty good, apparently. This time, though, he knows he’ll be alone when he opens his eyes. There’s no best friend, no agent. No wife. His throat constricts and he starts to shake, lifting his hands to cover his face despite the sharp stab of pain across his chest.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Dagen?” A man’s voice asks from his right, and Bobby nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound. His eyes snap open and there’s a man sitting with his elbow resting on the small table, propping his head up. His other hand is lightly clutching a cane that’s tucked into the crook of his arm. Bobby stares at it, something about it scratching at his brain like he should recognize it.
“Who are you?” He croaks, mouth dry. The man smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes; Bobby swallows the lump in his throat and eyes him warily. He knows this man, he knows he does, but from where? The man is wearing a white lab coat and a stethoscope, hands covered in sterile blue gloves, a doctor by all appearances. If he has an ID badge, however, Bobby can’t see it.
“No one of consequence,” he says. “How are your wounds? I imagine those hooks will leave quite the scars.”
“How did you-” The doctor lifts a clipboard Bobby hadn’t noticed before, by way of a reply. “I- they’re fine,” he lies. “I was lucky.”
“I suppose you were.” He gives him another fake smile, and it makes Bobby’s skin crawl. He hopes this guy will leave soon and let him mourn in peace. “Shame the same couldn’t be said for your friends.”
“What did you say?” His eyes narrow at the doctor, suspiciously. What kind of bedside manner is this supposed to be? “Listen, I’m really tired, so if that’s all-”
“How are your wounds?” he asks again, sitting up straighter. There’s an odd light in his eyes as he stares Bobby down. “The ones on the inside.”
“What?” Where’s the nurse? Shouldn’t someone be checking on him soon?
“The ones you got when you failed all your friends. When you let them die.” Bobby shrinks back on the bed, away from the doctor. “How about the one you got when you let your wife die?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Bobby hisses, grabbing fistfuls of blanket. “I tried! I tried to save them!”
“And yet you failed, at every turn you failed.” The doctor smirks, and this expression feels like it’s real. He’s smug, this asshole. It’s the smugness that connects the wires in Bobby’s memories, and his mouth drops open.
“You’re the guy from the Jigsaw group!” Bobby points at him, then winces when the stretching of his arm makes his chest twinge again. “Why are you here? What do you want from me?”
“Why, I’ve come to see how you’re recovering, of course,” the doctor, if he’s even really a doctor, says, smoothly. “When you pretended to be a survivor, you boasted about how you found a new lease on life. How you really, truly appreciated being alive.” He leans forward onto his knee, resting his weight on his elbow again. “So, Bobby. Now that you’ve become a genuine survivor, how do you feel? Do you really, truly appreciate that you’re still alive?”
“Who are you?” Bobby asks again, leaning backwards, starting to get nervous. The doctor does not reply. “Do I appreciate- no, I don’t! I... I have to live with the blood of people I loved on my hands, with their dying screams haunting me!” Fresh tears gather in his eyes again and he doesn’t even bother to fight them back. “I couldn’t save them, and they all- they didn’t deserve-”
“It’s not about punishment,” the doctor says, when Bobby stops to breathe.
“Then why Joyce?” Bobby demands, as though this man has the answer. “She was innocent! None of them deserved to die for what we’ve done, but Joyce was- oh god, Joyce, oh god,” Bobby chokes up and tries to draw his knees up to his chest. It’s a terrible move, as the added pressure on his abdomen makes his sides feel like they’re ripping apart, and he almost gags at how badly it hurts.
“At least she died with the knowledge that you were trying to save her,” the doctor says, bitterly. Bobby looks back to him and catches him looking out the window, an almost soft, wistful look on his face. It’s gone in an instant when he looks back to Bobby, replaced with something cold, something sharp. “You failed your test, I’m afraid,” he says, standing up, leaning heavily on his cane. He looms over Bobby, even from across the room, all pretense gone. “Normally, that would mean you'd be dead. But don’t worry. I’m no murderer.”
“You-” Bobby’s blood runs cold. No. It couldn’t be. “You’re- you’re him?” The doctor’s smile reaches his eyes this time, and he takes a couple of halting steps towards Bobby’s bed, slipping a hand into his coat and pulling out something in a closed fist. He offers it to Bobby, but he makes no move to receive it.
“Here,” he insists, and reluctantly, Bobby holds out a hand. Into it drops a single, small capsule, and his heart drops into his stomach. “Live or die, Bobby. Make your choice.” He turns and makes his way to the door, step by slow, deliberate step.
“You’re not worried that I could tell someone who you are?” He regrets asking as soon as the words slip out. The doctor pauses, halfway out the door, and turns to smirk at him.
“And who would ever believe you?” He laughs, humorlessly, and closes the door behind him, leaving Bobby to stare after him, with his choice cradled in his palm.