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The knocking at his door is sudden enough, aggressive enough, that it wakes him up. Rouses him, at least. Sleep for Adam has become less of an 'on-or-off' thing, and more of a dial that sets itself on whatever weird, inconvenient midpoint it pleases. His body is too tired to fully function, but his brain is too scared to let him actually surrender to the tiredness. He's drifted through the past week in a hazy fugue state, watching in various stages of semi-presence as he's hovered over by nurses, doctors, detectives that eventually throw their hands up and declare that he's useless. Adam can't help but sympathize.
For a moment, Adam thinks that the knocking must've been in his head. He's been having a lot of those. Half-hallucination/half-nightmares that live in the spaces between blinks. Dripping water, clocks ticking, whispers of his name in the voice of Jigsaw or Lawrence or his mother. But another flurry of knocks sounds against the thin door of his apartment, and Adam swears he can see the door shudder with the force of them.
The call of his name that follows isn't a whisper in his ear, either. It's a shout, muffled behind the door but audibly distressed and sickeningly familiar. Adam stumbles over himself in his haste to stand, his limbs tangled up in the grey comforter from his bed. It's his constant companion, these days— Adam drags it around his apartment everywhere he goes like he's a god damned two year old. His body craves the comfort of it, the softness. Clutching it around himself like a cloak from the world's most embarrassing fantasy movie, Adam opens the door.
Adam wasn't sure if he'd ever see Lawrence Gordon again, truth be told. It's not like they had a chance to exchange contact information— hell, Adam's pretty sure he never even gave Lawrence his last name. Adam could've looked the guy up in the yellow pages, maybe, but then what? Call him up, say something like 'Hey, man, remember me from the worst fucking day of your life? Just thought I'd say hi— by the way, how's that stump where your foot used to be?' He couldn't imagine that Lawrence would have much to say to him, either. He probably just wanted to put the entire horrific affair behind him, as quickly and painlessly as possible.
He'd been wrong about that last part, apparently, because Lawrence is standing on the other side of the door, one hand wrapped around a cane and the other curled into a fist as if to knock again.
Lawrence's face does this unbearably mushy thing when he sees him, melting with relief as a tired smile overtakes his face. His shoulders drop, for fuck's sake, it's almost embarrassing to watch.
"Adam," he sighs, and then he's dragging Adam into a hug.
Every muscle in Adam's body seizes up, like he's being electrocuted. And Adam would know. Lawrence's arms are wrapped around his body, warm through the blanket between them. Adam's too tightly crushed to hug Lawrence back, even if he wanted to. It's for the best, anyway. He's too overwhelmed to move.
His throat makes a weird strangled sound, and he completely stops breathing. Lawrence squeezes him, pressing them chest-to-chest with Adam's arms awkwardly folded up in the middle.
"You're alive," Lawrence says, mystified, his breath a puff of hot air on Adam's neck. Adam screws his eyes shut. The most physical contact he's had since the last time he and Lawrence saw each other was the occasional nurse brushing his arm as they checked his vitals or redressed his bullet wound. He's being slung from famine to feast, so quickly that it makes him nauseous.
It's too much, way too fucking much after so long trapped in a sensory vacuum. What he'd give for Lawrence to never let him go again.
Before Adam's brain can completely short circuit, Lawrence pulls away. He sniffles, he stares at Adam and his eyes are shiny. "How are you feeling?" he asks, still gripping Adam by the blanket around his shoulders. He looks Adam up and down, brows drawing together. "You look awful."
A laugh barks from Adam's chest, ugly and sharp. He grins, and it feels foreign on his face. "Jesus, you need to work on your bedside manner."
Lawrence remembers himself, lowering his gaze sheepishly. "Of course, I'm sorry."
Adam waves him off. He knows exactly what Lawrence is seeing, right now. It's the same figure that terrifies him in the mirror, the one that looks more corpse-like than any living person should. His skin has always been pale, but Adam swears it's almost translucent in certain lights. He's got crazy dark circles under his eyes, his face keeps twitching around his eyelids.
Beneath the blanket he holds like a shield, his body is fucking pitiful. He lost weight in the trap, of course. Turns out being left to rot is a pretty effective diet. But even after being exhumed, his appetite still hasn't bounced back. He'd pecked at cups of applesauce at the hospital, nibbled on slices of toast whenever he felt like he could force it down. It's a stroke of cruel irony, Adam thinks. In the darkness, he'd been so desperate to taste the shit Chinese food from the food court at his local mall that he'd actually hallucinated the scent of their bourbon chicken. Now he can barely stomach a mug's worth of instant miso.
"It's fine," he says, awkwardly. "I've uh, felt better. But at least I'm here, right?"
Another wave of that relief-induced euphoria passes over Lawrence's face. Adam would kill for a hit of that. The whole 'glad to be alive' thing hasn't kicked in for him yet. He wonders if it ever will. "Right," Lawrence agrees. "God, you must've been down there for days, how did you-"
Adam winces, stepping back a little. "Can we take a rain check on the Memory Lane excursion? Nothing personal, I'm just not really up to giving anyone a recap yet. Ask the cops, they're all pissed at me about it." He turns, treks back to his spot on the couch. He beckons Lawrence over his shoulder, hears the stilted rhythm of him following a moment later.
"Well, I've already told them everything they could possibly need to know," Lawrence replies smoothly, broadcasting inoffense.
Adam grunts as he sits, carefully hugging the blanket closer to himself to keep the cushion beside him open for the taking. Lawrence takes the bait, settling at his side. Adam resists the urge to scoot closer, to soak up as much of the other man's body heat as he can get.
"Everything about the first eight hours, anyway," Adam notes. "The rest of it was pretty uneventful, though, as far as Jigsaw cases go. Can't imagine I'd have anything worth saying to tell them."
There's no immediate reply, and it makes Adam anxious. He runs his tongue over his teeth, relishing in how easy it is. In the dark, his mouth had been so dry that the flesh stuck to his teeth. After a tense beat, Adam forces himself to look up only to find that Lawrence is staring at him. Unabashedly, tactlessly. Adam shrinks under it.
"Shit, man, do I really look that bad?" he asks. His inflection says it's a joke. It isn't.
Lawrence shakes his response around a little in his head, like a magic eight ball. He looks at Adam's shaking hands, his gaunt face, the lump of his body beneath the comforter. Finally, he says
"Your hair is filthy."
Another startled laugh. This might be the most he's laughed since before the Bathroom. "Yeah, they don't wash your hair in the hospital, isn't that fucked up? I mean, I know they're busy, but-"
"You haven't washed it since you escaped?" Lawrence asks, horrified.
Adam feels his cheeks heat up. "I've showered!" He clarifies frantically. More accurate to say that he's sat on the floor of his shower and let the water rain over him until it ran cold, but there was certainly soap involved. "It's just my shoulder, you know? It got pretty fucked up by the time the doctors got to it, it hurts to lift my arms like that." It feels like a pathetic excuse when he says it out loud. If he cared enough, he could've at least managed a half-assed attempt with his left arm.
And he assumes that's why Lawrence is grimacing, until he speaks. "I'm so sorry about your shoulder, Adam," he says, absolutely drenched with remorse.
Adam blinks. "It's fine," he mumbles weakly. He'd kind of been hoping that they'd call the whole thing a wash, if he's honest. Wipe the slate clean, Even Steven. Because if Lawrence apologizes for his shoulder, then he might try to apologize for leaving Adam in the dark, too, and Adam genuinely doesn't know how he'll react to that. Feels like he'll just crumble into a pile of dust on the ground, totally disintegrated.
Luckily, Lawrence spares him the agony of finding out. Instead he stands, as abruptly and as elegantly as a man still adjusting to having one foot could possibly hope to. "Where is your bathroom?" He asks.
"Oh, uh, first door on the left," Adam replies, gesturing in its direction.
Lawrence nods, all businesslike, and sets off. "Come with me."
"What?"
Lawrence looks back at him. "Come with me," he repeats, and his gaze flicks back to Adam's hands, clutching nervous fistfuls of worn grey fabric. "Do you need to bring your blanket with you?"
More heat, surging up the back of his neck. "No!" Adam squeaks. It doesn't exactly scream 'I'm a twenty-seven year old man and not a child.'
The doctor's face is totally non-judgemental, but Adam still feels a flare of shame rise in his stomach. He shoves the comforter off, crossing his arms tight around his chest as he hurries to the bathroom, leaving the door very pointedly open. Lawrence follows, seemingly unbothered.
Adam's not really sure why he bends to Lawrence's request so readily, without even asking why, but he does. For the second time, Adam finds himself standing in a bathroom with Lawrence Gordon. He's about to make a joke about it, something like 'Doctor, we can't keep meeting like this,' but Lawrence speaks first.
"I'm going to draw you a bath," he informs Adam, dutifully rolling up the sleeves of his button-down. "And then I'm going to wash your hair."
Adam balks. A dozen different feelings swirl in his head, and he has to grab the edge of his sink while he waits for the spell of dizziness it brings on to pass. "You really don't need to do that," he says weakly. He's more than a little shocked that Lawrence would even offer something like that, something so... intimate.
"It's really no trouble," Lawrence assures. He sits on the edge of Adam's tiny bathtub. The movement is more laborious than it had been with the couch, but his face barely changes. "I used to wash Diana's hair almost every night."
Somehow he knows how to respond to that even less. Grasping for words, he manages "I'm not your kid, Lawrence."
A tiny smile tugs at his lips. Adam resents it for how it turns his insides into goop. He looks up at Adam, blue eyes turned soft in the dim light.
"Please," Lawrence says, and Adam's heart seizes up. "I feel terrible about what happened to you, Adam. Let me do this for you, it's the least I can do. Please."
Ah. So, not turning to dust. No, it's more like the pressure inside his chest goes haywire, and everything starts collapsing in on itself.
"I... Okay."
Another smile, bigger. "Thank you."
It feels like a weird thing to get thanked for, but Adam is more distracted by Lawrence leaning over to start filling the tub with water. He has Adam test the temperature, acquiesces with a mix of playful scolding and genuine sympathy when Adam ratchets it up to the edge of scalding. Adam needs the heat, now. Like the dark turned him cold-blooded.
Suddenly, there's nothing left to do but for Adam to strip and get in. He hesitates, fidgets with the hem of his baggy T-shirt. He sucks in a deep breath, shoots it out like a projectile. Lawrence's eyes on him make him want to run for his life.
"We don't have to do this, if you aren't comfortable with it," Lawrence offers, and the softness makes Adam bristle. He grits his teeth tight enough to give himself a headache, and yanks his shirt over his head. Lawrence looks, and then tries really fucking hard to pretend he didn't look.
"If you've got something to say then fucking say it," Adam says, and shoves his boxers down while he's at it.
Again, Lawrence shakes his internal magic eight ball. It must come up with 'Try again later' or something, because it takes him way too fucking long to answer. Adam just scowls down at the water, waiting for Lawrence to get up and leave.
"I don't have anything to say," Lawrence replies, and Adam scoffs.
"Uh-huh. Whatever." He steps into the water, groaning in satisfaction despite himself as he lowers his body into the bath. His form displaces the water, sends a little sloshing out of the tub.
"You're being awfully defensive," Lawrence notes. "Were you expecting me to be upset?"
"I'm not being defensive!" Adam snaps, realizing only after he's said it how incredibly defensive it sounds. He huffs, curls in on himself a little. His back is to Lawrence, thank God. "I usually bind them," he explains, picking at a scab on his calf. "But I can't, right now. I had 'em bound the whole time I was in the trap. I probably should've tried to take it off, but every time I thought about it, I imagined somebody finding my dead body someday and being like 'wow, check out the jugs on that corpse'. But uh, you're really not supposed to do that. Bruised a rib. Doctors said I couldn't do it again for six weeks, at least, so that's... great."
Lawrence hums in thought. He grabs a plastic cup from its place near the sink, fills it up with water. "Have you ever thought about having them removed?" he asks.
Adam breathes out a rueful laugh, but he still tips his head back obediently when Lawrence brings the cup near. Hot water spills over his scalp, runs down his back. It's nice. "Look around this apartment and ask me again if I can afford a surgery right now. I mean, Christ, the guy I buy my testosterone shots from also deals heroin. Fingers crossed he never gets those mixed up, eh?"
"Adam," Lawrence starts, and Adam laughs.
"I'm kidding, I'm sure he's very organized."
In spite of himself, Lawrence chuckles. It's low, warm. His fingers rake through Adam's wet hair, just once, and Adam's breath gets stuck in the back of his throat.
He's very careful in how he doesn't move. His muscles wind up, his face is wrestled into neutrality. It's pathetic, but even that one fleeting touch is enough to make a wet film spring up over his vision, eyes welling with overwhelmed tears. He chokes them back, grasping for his dignity, and waits.
Lawrence grabs Adam's shampoo. Adam hears him squeeze a dollop into his hand, rub his palms together for a moment. He tries to steady his breathing.
Hands return to his scalp, two of them this time. Lawrence starts working the shampoo into Adam's hair with firm movements. The bathroom quickly fills with whatever that sharp scent it is that all men's soaps have, the gel expanding into a foamy lather at Lawrence's insistence. It isn't perfunctory, either. Lawrence takes his time. He massages the shampoo in, digs firm fingertips through the roots at his scalp. Adam bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying desperately to keep himself from falling to pieces under those hands.
"You're tense," Lawrence observes.
Adam tries to laugh but it comes out strained. "I'm not really good at this kind of thing," he says. It's an understatement. He can't even remember the last time he was naked in front of someone outside of a hookup. And this somehow feels more vulnerable than sex ever has. There's no primal excuse involved in this, no baser pleasure to distract them. It's just Lawrence, and himself, and the fingers that have stalled still tangled in his soapy hair.
"Adam..." It should be fucking illegal to say his name that low, that soft, that close to his ear. Lawrence takes a breath, the energy in the room shifts.
"...I thought you were dead, you know that?" he asks. He cards his fingers through Adam's hair again for no reason, the lather makes that crunchy popping sound as his hand passes by. "I thought I'd failed you. I only found out today that you escaped, I thought you were still in that room."
Adam breathes out a shaky sigh, looking at his legs where they're submerged in water. The angry red ring around his ankle has mostly faded, now, but Adam still feels the chain's phantom weight when he walks.
"Yeah, well. Sometimes I think I am, too."
To his credit, Lawrence doesn't shy away from that. Just strokes back a section of hair above Adam's ear, lets his fingers trail a little down his neck. Adam's trembling, but Lawrence is too much of a gentleman to acknowledge it.
"I want you to be happy," Lawrence says at last, and his conviction is almost startling. "You of all people deserve to enjoy your life. I offered to do this for you because I wanted to make you feel good, you don't need to be ashamed."
And that feeling hits him again. That choking, too-much feeling that makes him want to break down like a child and cling to Lawrence until his fingers snap.
"Does it feel good?" Lawrence asks when Adam doesn't respond. He sounds unsure, suddenly. Nervous that he's done something wrong. It couldn't be further from the truth.
Adam swallows around the massive lump in his throat, forcing his vocal chords to work despite how frozen they feel. "Y-yeah," he croaks, and to ease Lawrence he repeats himself. "Yeah, it does. Um, thanks."
Lawrence seems satisfied with that. "Tip your head back."
Adam goes easily, this time. Some of the tension unspools from his shoulders as the warm water runs through his hair, Lawrence's fingers guiding it through the strands. The sound of water hitting water echoes in the small space. Adam grins to himself.
"Fuck, I love being clean," he sighs. Lawrence makes one of those laughs that's just a smile and a sharp exhale. "Swear to God, the first time I got to change my clothes I thought I was gonna cry. The cops took what I was wearing for evidence, though, which is a shame because I was really looking forward to burning them while shouting something like 'Game Over, you shriveled old cunt' at the top of my lungs."
Lawrence hums his amusement, gently placing the side of his hand against Adam's temple to shield him from the runoff. "Did they take anything else from you?"
He shrugs. "A baseball bat. Most of the photos that were in my darkroom. And my camera, you know, because it's not like I need to make money or anything."
"You can't seriously be thinking about going back to that job."
"I wasn't always a stalker," Adam bites. Lawrence sets the cup down, and Adam tries to hide how disappointed he is that it's over so soon. "I could go back to what I was doing before, taking pictures at family reunions and quinciñeras and shit. That was fun, and I usually got free food. The money just wasn't..."
He sighs, shifting just to watch the water move around him. "I guess I don't really know what I'm gonna do," he confesses quietly.
He can feel Lawrence staring at him, his pity stings on the nape of his neck. He's terrified that Lawrence is about to try and offer him money, but then he's leaning over and grabbing another bottle.
"Why do you have dollar store shampoo, but organic conditioner?" he asks.
Adam looks back at Lawrence over his shoulder. He's holding a little green bottle, covered in swirly cursive writing. Adam snorts. "It was my ex's, she didn't take it with her when she left. I keep meaning to throw it out, but then I get out of the shower and forget it exists. I don't even use conditioner."
"Would you like to?" Lawrence offers.
Adam looks him in the eye. It's the first time he's done that since undressing. There's a tenderness in his face, an encouragement. "Um, sure," he says, because please don't stop touching me is just a bit too pathetic to bear.
They don't talk during this part. Lawrence just shuts up and gets to work. He's not as thorough with the conditioner, doesn't get up close and personal with Adam's scalp again. If Adam was even one percent more desperate than he already feels, he might have begged him to. The words are on the tip of his tongue, though, especially when Lawrence starts washing it out again.
Adam's a little floaty by the time he's toweling himself off. Pleasantly vacant, buzzing with shy bliss. He hasn't felt so relaxed since... ever, maybe. It must be the final straw for his fading body, because Adam manages to doze off standing up. His knees buckle, he's lucky he doesn't crack his skull on the toilet. That'd be a funny way to go, surviving in that bathroom just to die in a different, smaller bathroom.
It turns Lawrence frantic, obviously. He's standing over Adam as soon as he can get his cane under him, leaning down with his free hand outstretched. "Are you alright?" he asks. "Here, do you need help?"
Adam dismisses him with a clumsy wave of his hand, hauling himself to his feet with help from the edge of his bathtub. " 'm fine," Adam grunts, shaking his head in an attempt to wake himself up. "I'm fine, I'm just tired."
Lawrence looks him over, scanning him for bruises, probably. "You haven't been sleeping."
Adam shakes his head again.
"I can get you a prescription-" Lawrence starts, and Adam rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, I'm sure taking something that makes me pass out won't freak me out at all," he deadpans.
Again, Lawrence seems to remember himself. "Let's just get you to bed, hm?"
Luckily, Lawrence doesn't offer to help him with his clothes, even as Adam struggles to get a fresh T-shirt over his shoulder. He just watches.
"You aren't doing the physical therapy routine the doctors taught you, are you? I can tell by the way you're moving."
Adam sits on the bed, sighing heavily. His body feels ready to collapse, but his head shrieks in protest like a toddler fighting an afternoon nap. "Shut up," he mutters to his own brain, but Lawrence is the one that answers.
"You'll feel better if you do them, Adam. And your shoulder won't heal properly if you don't."
He doesn't respond, slumping forward and cradling his forehead in his left hand. Something passes over him, then. Something solemn, and heavy, and dark. God, he's so tired.
"...Can I comb it for you?"
"Yes," he half-groans. Fuck it, he feels like shit and Lawrence's hands in his hair is the only thing that's felt right since he woke up in that God forsaken bathroom.
It only takes a minute for the mattress to dip behind him, Lawrence's weight settling at Adam's back. He guides Adam to lean back with a hand on his shoulder, bringing the teeth of the comb from Adam's dresser to his wet hair.
Adam melts. Lawrence's movements are gentle, meticulous. A low hum purrs from Adam's lips, his body sagging with relief.
Then Lawrence lifts a hand to brush back Adam's bangs and something inside him breaks.
"C-Can you use your fingers?" he blurts, heat rushing up to his ears in seconds. Adam winces, swallows. "Sorry, I just-"
"Of course," Lawrence interrupts, giving Adam's nerves no purchase between them. He sets the comb down on the sheet beside them, returns to Adam's hair with only his hands. Adam's eyelashes actually flutter when Lawrence's blunt nails scratch at his scalp, and something powerful slams at his chest.
Adam leans into it, then, shame abandoned in favor of seeking out his touch like a needy puppy. Gratified little sighs keep slipping from him, his eyes closed in contentment. He's not sure how long it goes on for, how many minutes Lawrence spends petting and massaging and scratching him like this. All he knows is that he never wants it to end.
He's nearly drooling by the time Lawrence speaks again.
"I'm happy that you're enjoying this," he murmurs, and he sounds nearly as tired as Adam feels. Adam blushes. He should let Lawrence stop, now. Let him go back home to his family, instead of wasting his night here-
"When I heard you were alive, the only thing I could think about was how badly I needed you to be okay. I was so worried about you, Adam. I don't know how you made it through."
Adam bites his lip. The truth is, he's not sure how he made it, either. How he didn't lose his fucking mind, lying there in all that awful silence.
"Five days," he mutters. He stares at his cluttered dresser, the concert tickets wedged into the frame of his mirror. "I was in the trap for five days, before they found me."
His lower lip wobbles, tears rise to his eyes. Lawrence doesn't stop.
"I-I kept thinking about what you did before you left, how you-" he swallows, forcing himself to breathe. He can still go back to it, now, the blood in the air and the pain in his shoulder and Lawrence's clammy forehead pressed against his own. "I thought about how that would be the last time I'd ever touch another person."
Lawrence pulls his hands away, and Adam's so fragile that he almost starts pleading for him to stay when a warm pair of arms weaves around him. Lawrence hugs him tight, tugging him backward until Adam's back is pressed flush against his chest. Adam hiccups around a sob, grabbing one of Lawrence's wrists where it lies over his stomach. He grips it so hard that his fingers turn white, sucking in a sharp gasp.
"I thought about how I was nothing, before," he says, his voice turned high and reedy. "A-And how I'd never get to be anything ever again."
He lapses into a sob, after that. One of those long, heaving ones that makes your stomach shudder. Lawrence holds him so tightly that it hurts, and Adam's never needed something so badly in his entire fucking life. He rocks their bodies together, back and forth. Adam moves with him, fighting for breath all the while.
"It's alright," Lawrence says softly. The words are spoken directly into his ear, Lawrence has his temple pressed to Adam's crown. "You're okay, Adam. It's all over now. You're safe."
Adam whimpers. Lawrence nuzzles at him, kisses his damp hair. "You aren't nothing. You have an entire life ahead of you." He sighs, breathes Adam in. "...You have no idea how grateful I am that you're alive."
Eventually, the blind misery peters out. It always does. Lawrence doesn't let Adam go, even when his breaths stop stuttering and his body turns slack. His grip on Lawrence's wrist loosens, but he can't bring himself to pull away entirely.
"Lawrence?" he asks, his voice thick and misshapen from his brush with despair.
Lawrence hums in question. Adam feels it against his spine.
"D-Don't go, okay? Stay. Please."
Lawrence doesn't answer right away, and for a moment Adam is terrified that he'll say no. That he'll abandon Adam all over again, and Adam will be alone in the dark with his thoughts, right where Lawrence left him.
But then Lawrence whispers "I don't know if I could leave, even if you asked me to," and Adam deflates with relief.
"I'm... so fucking tired."
"You'll feel better after you've slept," Lawrence encourages. "Life always looks uglier when you're tired. Come on, lie down with me."
Adam twists to look at him, wide-eyed. "You wanna lie here while I sleep?" he asks, more than a little dubious.
Lawrence just nods, entirely sincere. "I might rest my eyes, too. I'll stay until you wake up, I promise."
There's that ache in his heart again. Adam finally peels himself from Lawrence's body, lets him get comfortable before falling to rest beside him. He lays his head on Lawrence's chest, savoring the living rise-and-fall of him for a moment before belatedly asking "You're sure you're okay with this?"
Lawrence's answer comes in the form of tender fingers, rising to thread themselves into Adam's hair. After days on end of exhaustion, it doesn't take long for Adam to drift off, lulled into a bone-deep sleep by the constant, loving touch.
And when he wakes up, calm and rested for the first time since this nightmare started, Lawrence is still there.