A/N: Hey… It really has been forever since I updated this, hasn't it? Well, I blame the plot bunny. Damn thing kept clinging to my leg about these one-shots I had to write… Well, either way, I'm back, and it's time for Lawrence's second test!
A/N#2: I wish I could say that I thought of the trap in this chapter, but as everything else with this fic, I'm just putting pieces together. Anyway, it was jigsawl8n8 that thought of this thing, and I owe her big thanks. Darling, this one's for you!
9: Will I Ever Get To Tell Him
"Are you ready for your second test, doctor?"
Lawrence doesn't look at her.
"Sure."
He sounds more indifferent than what should be possible with your ex-wife's blood on your hands, and Amanda scoffs.
"You know, you'd think you'd be a little more excited. I know that this isn't the way you planned to spend your night, but still. With every step you take, you get a little closer to get your pathetic life back. Your pathetic life and your pathetic Ada…"
It happens so quickly. Amanda doesn't even catch it.
Doesn't even have time to see that the ice that's coated Lawrence's eyes, the cold, apathetic absence, thin and chilling, like lithium encircling his pupils, disappears in a heartbeat, melts away in the fire that comes to life in his gaze, and Amanda's pressed against the wall, the rotten wood bends under the pressure of her back, and Lawrence's lower arm is pressed against her throat, blocks the humid air on the way down to her lunges, and her eyes are stuck in Lawrence's, Lawrence's eyes that are nothing like they used to be.
The fragile, nervously fluttering little angel's wings in them have become red, black, angrily heavy, scorches into her head.
Devil.
Just this one second, Lawrence is a devil, and his teeth are bared, his breath is husky and brief on Amanda's face.
"If you ever," Lawrence hisses, and puts even more weight on his arm, "ever mention Adam's name again, I will kill you. Do you understand?"
Slowly. Too clearly, too clearly for Amanda to miss one single word.
And he's calm. That's what scares her. He doesn't threat, he promises.
And Amanda doesn't know what to reply. She can only hope that John doesn't see this, even though she knows that's stupid, there are cameras in the entire house, she knows that, and she can also make a quick judgment in her head that the best thing she can do is regain her power as quickly as possible, and the only way to do that is to nod and hope she doesn't look terrified.
Nod, let Lawrence drop her, and hope that the tables will turn when they enter the door in front of them.
Because Amanda was so happy. These past hours has been the happiest ones of her life.
She's seen Lawrence in the hospital. She's seen him in his lab coat, seen him talking to his interns, seen that softness that's like a blanket of velvet over his face when he talks to Adam on his cell phone.
Seen that all the while, every second of the day, he has that look on his face.
The look of I'm-in-control.
The friendly stone face. That expression that's so disgustingly calm and that she just dreams of shaking up.
The look that has just fallen off, like a mask, she's peeled away every layer of paint, bit by bit, during this day.
And she loves it.
It's a joy she's forgotten even existed. The sparkling, bubbling, wonderfully childish, but in the same time, purely evil in a way that only adults can feel.
That joy.
And she has a feeling it will only increase when Lawrence opens the door to the next room.
But that's not very nice, Amanda, a cold little voice in her head says. That's not nice at all. The only way you can think of to take that calm mask off him was to strike at the thing he loves the most, the thing you knew he'd guard with his life, that he'd cut off his other foot for if he only could.
That's what you did.
And you know what it feels like when someone does that, don't you?
Amanda pretends not to hear it. That voice tends to make it human those few times she hears it, and she hates that.
It's so comfortable to feel nothing, to have that icy, dull, carelessness like a thick armor over the cold, twisted, wrecked thing that is her soul.
But when she sees Lawrence's hand on the doorknob, when she hears his slow, quivering exhaling before he opens the door to an even bigger hell, it still feels like her soul isn't twisted enough to block out a sting of guilt.
Lawrence opens the door.
The panic is taking over.
The next room looks like something from a Tim Burton movie. Everything's glittering, harsh, merciless light from spotlights on the ceiling, reflects on glass, nails, keys, edgy things that hurt, cut, tear beautiful things to pieces, tear apart the life you once had. The life that other people think is pathetic but is the most beautiful thing in the world.
Lawrence knows Amanda smirks. He can hear it behind his back. And he knows that even if he hadn't been able to, his wordless gasp is a definite reason for people like her to do that. Weather he's aware of it or not.
The floor is a pool.
Or, a pool isn't the right word.
More like that pit inside of Lawrence's soul. That place where everything he's bottled up, every hidden aggression that's been like a stain in his mind over the years, every fear that he hasn't dared to admit, everything he wished that he'd told Adam while he was able to, every time he's wanted to break down and sob during this day but hasn't, has gathered up to cover an entire floor, just as sharp and dreadful as he hasn't acknowledged them as.
Just as sharp and dreadful as broken glass can be. At least when you know that you're going to have to dive into it.
Amanda's smirk gets wider. He hears it.
"Oh, for God's sake, don't look so damn scared," she says and stands up on her toes to speak directly into Lawrence's ear. "You only have to walk over the glass. And you have your fancy shoes, don't you? So if I were you, I'd be more worried about the walls."
Of course. Because the walls have knives sticking out of them, glistening dots on dark, dull wood, and right under the ceiling, there hangs a
(glistening fucking hate that glistening)
bundle of keys.
And Lawrence is going to have to climb on the knives to get the keys. And one of the keys leads to the door on the other end of the room.
Of course.
"To get your lover back," Amanda says.
Her voice is sweet, sticky honey in Lawrence's ear.
"Come on," Amanda continues coaxingly, sounding like she's talking to a kitten that she tires to make chase the string she drags on the ground. "We don't have all day. Especially not your pretty little boyfriend."
She tries to make it sound mocking.
But the truth is that she actually doesn't dare to say Adam's name again.
Lawrence nods.
He doesn't know what Jigsaw is doing to Adam. But no matter what it is, he knows it's painful enough for him to be stupid by standing and stare at the glass like an idiot before he's finally gathered up the courage to walk over it, it crunches under his feet, and then up to the knives.
They seem to stare at him. Cold tips of needles, sharp, right in front of his face.
Adam… Oh, god, Adam…
Maybe it's the memory of Adam that brings tears to his eyes. Finally.
Lawrence puts one hand on the blade of the knife right in front of his face.
Adam… I never told you, I know, but if I get you out of here… I'll tell you every day, every day…
"Tic-toc, Clarice," Amanda says coldly behind him, and Lawrence almost laughs.
"Go fuck yourself, Amanda," he says, almost merrily, and tries some weight on the blade he's holding.
Amanda does laugh, actually. And just like when she did in the apartment, when she was the one whole thing on everything that was broken, it sounds completely joyless.
"If I got the choice, I'd rather fuck your little toyboy. But start climbing already."
Lawrence doesn't want to do it on her command. But she's right, the clock is ticking, so Lawrence puts one foot on the blade closes to the floor, and it squeaks when it cuts into the sole of his shoe, but he stays put, he even puts his other foot on another blade, and by this, all his weight rests on the hand on the blade.
This doesn't hurt so bad, Lawrence thinks, and sees, kind of like it's a TV-show, how the blood starts running down his wrist, soaks his sleeves in thick, liquid crimson.
He has absolutely no idea why he thinks that way.
He has absolutely no idea why he keeps thinking that, even as he keeps climbing and his fingers are cut up more and more until the knives screech against bone that shines white through red flesh, why he keeps thinking that even though he feels the pain, white and hot and sort of beaming out through the blade, further out in his arms.
Maybe he tries to convince himself. But if he does, he succeeds pretty well.
He reaches the ceiling without even whispering Adam's name. More than once.
Lawrence gasps in relief when he can close his fingers around the keys, even though the cold, sharp metal stings in his wounds. He barely feels it, anyway, the pain drowns in the anxiety, and the anxiety mixes with the relief, and the emotions are too much, so when he lets go of the knives and falls clumsily on his back, onto the
(crunch glass sharp pain)
floor, and god, now he's bleeding all over, he has to roll over to his stomach, heave himself onto the hands that bleed, too, and vomit on the floor, he sees it seeping in between the shards, gets distorted and flat.
Okay… It's okay now, it's…
It's not okay.
The pain is a fire, it's acid that eats away at his body, and it's everywhere, everywhere, his back and his hands and his head and his throat and the tears are gushing now, dribbles from the corners of is eyes.
And he has to save Adam.
That's the worst part. The biggest pain.
The biggest pain is to know that no matter what he goes through, Adam's probably doing even worse.
So Lawrence can't lay here and feel sorry for himself.
He can only stand up, on the crunch-crunch that is the ground, and stagger over to the door in the other end of the room.
The door is solid, and so is the lock. Lawrence feels oddly pitiful in front of it, especially since he's so dizzy that he has to do a few test-rounds before he can fit one of the keys into the lock, and damn, it doesn't even fit, and it takes him almost five seconds to get that.
He can't get it into his head. He stands there and presses the damn key against the lock for life-depending seconds before he gets it.
His head is full of Adam.
Adam when he's laughing at 'Scary Movie 4,' Adam when he's crying after a nightmare, Adam when he pretends not to be afraid of 'The Shining,' Adam when his eyes are closed and his moans are tumbling in a chorus from his chest.
The next key. Doesn't fit. Lawrence actually gets that after just three seconds, whop-di-doo.
And neither does the next key. It's just as fucking wrong as the thought of Adam, scared, in pain, maybe already dead, and not alone, not alone, he can't even have that, but he's with his greatest fear, he's with the reason to why he still wakes up crying, sweating, punching blindly into the air.
Two keys left.
Tears come to Lawrence's eyes again – or maybe they just never stopped – when he picks up the next key with slow, stupid, stupid fucking fingers, because he doesn't have time, doesn't have time to stand here and guess keys, he's in a hurry, Adam needs him, he's in pain, he's scared, don't you get that he's scared!
The next key doesn't fit, either. And there's a slight chance Lawrence has spoken this entire inner dialogue right into the door in front of him, he's not sure, and he doesn't care, either, because there's only one key left, and that one has to fit, the relief from that is enough to make him forgive himself for any sign of insanity.
But it doesn't fit.
Lawrence has no idea why it is this way, since he knows that is has to fit, not even Amanda and Jigsaw can be evil enough to make him cut through half of his fingers without giving him any reward for it, let's be rational here, so the key has to fit, has to fit, if he just stands here and presses it against the lock, if he just stands here and sobs quietly and wants to kill Amanda badly enough, the key will fit eventually, you'll see, you'll see, you'll see, Adam, I'll get to you if I just press the key against the lock…
"Oh, yeah," Amanda says with a fake sigh behind him. "I forgot to tell you that. I lied, you actually do have to dig around a little in the glass to find the right key. But for what it's worth, you did a real good job with the climbing, so this shouldn't be that much of a problem for you."
Lawrence wants to kill her.
He wants to close his hands around her neck, he wants to squeeze until her eyes get bloodshot and she gasps for air, he wants to see life fade away from her.
But he doesn't do that.
On some level, he probably knew that the glass wasn't there for no reason.
So he only nods, more to himself than anyone else, and turns around.
The glass is merciless. Glittering. He looks at Amanda.
"Can you at least tell me a spot to start on?"
Amanda opens her mouth, but Lawrence lifts a rejecting hand.
"Never mind. You're just full of it, anyway."
Amanda smiles meekly.
"So you're finally learning, doc?"
She's quiet for a few seconds.
"The key is in the middle of the room. Don't believe me if you don't want to."
And Lawrence does it. He walks into the middle of the room, since that's the closest he's had to something he can rely on since he got into this house, and he kneels down, carefully, like he's worried of ruining his pants, even though every single thing he cares of is getting ruined this very day, and runs a hand over the glass with his already bloody hands, it leaves a red trail over the palely blue.
It hurts.
Good thing that he's so dreadfully regretful over everything he didn't tell Adam that he barely feels it.
And he starts digging.
It doesn't hurt so bad.
He doesn't allow it to hurt, he just shoves his hand into the sharp-glitter-pellucid and then throws them back, it rattles against the wall and the rest of the glass when shards fall down on them, and Lawrence bites his tongue, liquid metal floats out in his mouth because he so badly wants to keep from screaming, tries so hard not to even though the cold glass is salt in the raw, open cuts on his palms as he shoves his hand into it again, ignores the evil little voice that goes and how do you expect to find something this way, doctor Gordon?
Lawrence isn't sure. But either way, he waits for the second round of rattling to calm down before he dives in there with his hands again. Tears drop down, burning and salty, and land on the glass that's already covered in blood, it sort of breaks the deep color when the transparent tears mix with it.
Lawrence won't scream.
He screamed the last time. He screamed his way to insanity.
Screamed so that he barely heard Adam scream in the other end of the room.
And he so badly wants to believe that he's grown since then.
Dives in there with his hands again. Listens to the rattling, and…
And the rattle has an undertone.
Maybe it's like when you get blind and all the other senses are sharpened.
Maybe it's because the horror has made Lawrence blind that he actually hears the metallic clink against the concrete wall behind him in the middle of the rattling of the glass.
Lawrence straightens up, with no further hesitation, even though everything spins around and even though the only thought in his head is AdamAdamAdamAdamAdam and even though the crunching ground has turned into butter or something, that's the only explanation to why it's floating around under his feet, and walks up to the wall.
The key is lying on top of the glass that's piled up against the wall. Lawrence picks it up, and pretends not even noticing Amanda standing by the door they came in through, but just walks up to the other door, presses the key against the lock a few times and manages to get purely, utterly terrified before he realizes that the reason why it doesn't fit is that his hand is shaking and he has to grab his wrist with his other hand before he manages to get it in there.
The key fits. Lawrence turns it, and the lock unlocks.
The key to my piece of mind.
For some reason, that's the only thing that comes to Lawrence's thoughts.
Okay. Okay.
The good thing is that it can't possibly be worse now.
Lawrence turns to Amanda. Her sharp red lips are twitching, forms a small smile. It looks so innocent that if Lawrence hadn't know that there is nothing in her moving, nothing beating in her chest, no lovely little thump-thump, as Adam calls it when he's drunk, nothing except for cold, cruel, stone, he might've thought she was just an ordinary girl.
"Why did you tell me where it was?" Lawrence says. Or slurs.
"Dunno," Amanda says with a shrug as she walks over to him. "Guess I just liked the thought of doctor I'm-in-control bending over wherever I tell him to. Shall we?"
She opens the door. There's a long, dark corridor on the other side.
"And take this," Amanda says, takes a cell phone out of her pocket and places it in Lawrence's bleeding hand. "You'll need it in a little while."
And Lawrence starts walking down the corridor, with Amanda behind him, without knowing that the one thing that actually can get worse starts the second he puts that phone in his pocket.
I figured a long update was a decent excuse for how long it's been… And please, show your forgiveness by reviewing!
