Work Text:
Adam slams the door closed. Fuck those guys. Fuck those guys. It’s been weeks since the bathroom, and those asshole reporters still try to get him to talk. Jigsaw this, Jigsaw that. How about Jig-shut the fuck up.
He presses his back against the door, rubbing his face.
His shithole apartment seems to become even more of a shithole every day. His half-hearted attempts to clean seem to end as quickly as they start, and everything smells distinctly like day-old takeout. It’s just hard to care about a place you don’t feel safe in anymore.
God, he wants a fresh start, and not the psychological type that everyone’s trying to convince him of these days. He wants to move. Badly.
…
Larry’s still looking for a new place, right? But then again, he’d probably insist on paying for the whole thing and make Adam feel like…huh. A freeloader, maybe? There’s another term that he can’t really put his finger on right now.
But ever since the door of the bathroom reopened, and he saw Larry standing there — standing, with a whole kitted-out foot, it’s just been so much harder to ask for anything any more.
And pretty fucking awkward, really.
God, he needs to find a real job, fast, or he’s gonna get kicked to the curb. The so-called “voyeur” shit is off-limits, but no one really wants to hire an event photographer who sneaks food from the kitchen, has shit qualifications, and who’s only suit is a size too large. Too bad the only payment he gets from the fucking serial killer is the privilege of not being murdered.
Adam kicks off his shoes and tosses them next to the couch. He places his keys down with them, then goes to the kitchen. He pulls open the fridge, hoping to scrounge up some sorta post-work snack.
He’s got orange juice, that’s something. But it’s definitely expired. He can’t actually remember buying it, and the box looks like he sat on it.
He examines the label, wondering if it’s safe enough for consumption.
“Are you really going to drink that?” comes a voice from a few feet behind him.
Adam drops the carton and whirls around. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.”
Larry is sitting at the sorry excuse for a kitchen table, eyebrows raised.
Adam slams the fridge door closed. “What the fuck, man?!”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Didn’t mean— the hell did you think was going to happen? You’re sitting in the darkest, creepiest corner of the room.”
“Sorry, but your couch looks awful.”
“I meant like, why are you even here? How’d you get in here?”
Larry has the nerve to chuckle at that. “Well, it wasn’t that hard.”
Adam rubs his face. Jesus. He’s going to die an early death, most definitely. “God, I thought you were, uh—”
“John?”
“Yeah. Him. Or uh, the chick that’s always following him around.”
“Amanda.”
“Yeah. Her.”
Larry hums quietly, evidentially thinking. “You know, you two might get along, actually. You should talk with her sometime.”
Adam snorts. “Yeah. Sure.” He’s not really looking to make friends with someone whose only goal in life seems to be hanging around the guy who haunts Adam’s nightmares.
Hold on a sec, is Larry trying to…
“Wait, you’re not saying—”
Larry chuckles, a bit awkwardly. “Oh, god no, not like that. Although, I seem to recall your type is, what, feminist vegan punk? I have no clue on the first two, but the punk angle’s pretty close—”
But Adam’s rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I said we dated. Didn’t say she was my type.”
“Well, my apologies for making assumptions.”
Okay, they should not be having this conversation right now. Not when Larry has fucking B&E’d his way in here to talk to him. Adam glares. “I don’t know if you remember what it was like to be normal, Larry, but normally, most people don’t like it when their ‘friends’ break into their apartments!”
Lawrence sighs. “I know that. It’s just easier, this way. More…covert. You don’t want to be seen too much with me.”
“Why not? Makes sense, right? We got thrown in a shithole together, people know that.”
“I also shot you.”
“Yeah, well…” Adam fidgets on his feet. “Under duress, or whatever.”
“In any case, John would prefer it this way.”
Adam has to try really hard not to roll his eyes. “Oh, John would.” You people and ‘John,’ he thinks. That fucking creep.
He realises too late that he’s walking on thin ice, but Larry just blinks at him, looking slightly annoyed. “Has he visited you here?”
“Visited. Yeah. Probably the second-most terrifying experience of my life.”
Larry snorts, shaking his head. “Got something to hide?”
“What? No. He’s a serial killer. Remember?”
Larry’s frowning, now. “Adam…”
“Right, right, sorry. Technically not a murderer.” He huffs, crossing his arms.
Larry fidgets with his cane a bit. “Look, I know you’re upset. But you’ve got to try and see this from our point of view.”
Our. Adam doesn’t like that, not one bit. Larry’s a good guy at heart, but he’s in too deep. This shit isn’t an obligation to him, it’s a responsibility. Almost a point of pride. That’s…freaky.
Adam runs a hand through his hair. “Well, anyway, John’s not the guy who saved my life, is he? He’s the guy who left me for dea…”
He stops as Larry’s face changes again, but to something he can’t really place. Something between frustration and pity.
They’ve had this conversation too many times already. He’s gotta be more careful.
These people could change their mind about him any minute.
Larry could, too.
And he’d be back in the bathroom, alone, again.
Besides, Adam really doesn’t like thinking about Jigsaw any more than he has to. So he tries to quickly change the topic. “Okay. Okay. What’s so important that you had to talk to me, in person, tonight?”
Larry’s still got that weird expression. “Just figured I should check in, see how you’re doing.”
Oh, man, if he’s trying to avoid pissing these guys off, talking about how he’s doing is not gonna be helpful. Instead, Adam shuffles on his feet. “Fine. Can’t complain, I guess.”
“But money’s tight,” Larry says, as if reading his mind.
“No shit,” Adam mutters. “My usual revenue stream’s been cut off. Nuked, really.”
“It’s the right thing, you know.”
“Sure. Just doesn’t make things any easier.”
“It rarely does.” Larry leans back, then tilts his head to the second chair by the table. Inviting Adam to sit down, in his own apartment.
Still, Adam flops down in the seat.
“I told you I was looking for a new place, right?” Larry asks him.
“You sure did.”
“I might have something lined up. And I thought, if you’re looking for something of a fresh start…”
There’s that fucking phrase again, but Larry’s not talking about “being grateful for his life” and all that bullshit, he’s talking about an honest-to-god chance to get out of here. Here, the place that used to be home, but now he can barely manage to fall asleep in, because he’s half convinced a pigmask is going to drag him kicking and screaming out the door.
Those sleepless nights haven’t exactly helped the quality of work.
He doesn’t want to come across as too desperate, especially considering that their price points are probably miles apart. So, he rests his head on his hand. “Lar, if you’re asking me to move in with you, you really should buy me a drink first.”
Larry seems deep in thought, for a moment. Then, he speaks. “Alright.”
“Alright what?”
“I’ll buy you a drink.”
Adam hesitates. “Wait, so is that a yes to like, moving in, or…”
Larry leans forward. “We’ve got time,” he states. “Let’s see how we do.” He stands, picking up his cane, as if to head for the door.
“Oh, you mean, like, a drink now?”
“I’m assuming you’re not busy.”
He probably already knows Adam’s not, the bastard. Still, Adam reaches over to the couch and grabs a jacket hanging off it. “You don’t have to pay,” he tells him.
“What if I want to?”
“Well, then it’s your fault if I get hammered.”
“I really don’t think it is.” But Larry chuckles slightly as he says it.
And while getting absolutely wasted sounds pretty good right now, Adam finds that just having a drink with the guy who went out of his way to save his life sounds pretty good, too.
“You came here to check on me,” Adam starts. “Does that mean you missed me?” He says it teasingly, but can’t help but want a sincere answer.
And of course, because it’s Larry, it’s a sincere answer he gets. “Of course,” he says, genuinely. And a sort of glint sparks in his eyes. “I don’t usually make house calls, you know.”
“Lucky me.”
“Yeah. Lucky you.”
And as they head to the door, for the first time since even before all the bullshit a few weeks ago, Adam suddenly finds himself feeling lucky indeed.