A/N: Another update! YAY! And since the other one was such a terrible little thing, I decided to make this into a sweet little mixture of slash, fluff and angst… Enjoy!

6: Bleeding Love

Adam has stopped struggling.

Jigsaw is right next to him now. On the edge of the bed. Adam can't reach him, the belts around his wrists are strong, but if he'd been the same person that Amanda knocked unconscious with a lamp, he wouldn't have cared, he would've tugged on the belts, he would've screamed and cursed, he would've struggled until the tiredness got too big, until no words came out of his mouth, just an empty, hoarse roar that didn't stop until he tasted blood in the back of his throat.

Just like in the bathroom.

Adam had done that then. He'd been alone, it'd been dark and he'd been scared, so fucking scared, and in the same time, so filled with such an overwhelming rage that he'd screamed, screamed because there was nothing else to do, screamed until he couldn't even do thatt anymore and fell apart into a shapeless heap on the floor.

And Adam would've done that this time, too.

If he hadn't given up.

He hates himself for it, but he's given up. Jigsaw is an arm's length away, and still completely out of his reach. And Adam's accepted it.

He's never been able to accept that Lawrence loves him. Not enough to allow him to say it, at least. But this, he accepts. The irony.

There's vomit on his shirt. He hasn't eaten a lot today, so it's not much, and Adam isn't really bothered by it, he's grown up between too many sinks where little cockroaches run around to think about it.

It's really the way it happened that annoys him. And it was that way that also forced him to stop fighting, since at that point, it was so obvious that he'd lost. And it wasn't even he who chose to lose, it was his reflexes. His body.

His unreliable, weak fucking body.

He hadn't been able to stop himself. When he saw Lawrence, so scared and so confused, but still trying to gather up the shards of his medical knowledge, how his pale fingers fumbled across Allison's chest, the rusty scalpel, and the blood that poured in little streams, dripping, staining, tainting, down on her shirt and on Lawrence's helpless hands…

It'd been unavoidable. His guts had turned into a knot, and he'd bent over, bent over for that sick fuck and hurling Fruit Loops until he could finally straighten up, shivering, pale, with mucus on his chin.

"Don't you have any fucking cameras down there?"

Adam doesn't have the energy to scream anymore. It comes out as a grumpy muttering.

"Where?" Jigsaw asks.

"In the basement."

Jigsaw shakes his head.

"No."

"So how the hell do you know she's going to make it?"

"I don't."

Adam makes a hollow laugh.

"How sweet. I thought the whole deal with these traps or whatever the fuck you call them was that people are supposed to learn to appreciate their lives, right? And what the hell happens to the ones that get mowed down on the way? Huh? If Allison dies, why didn't she get a fucking chance to appreciate her life? Well, it's because Lawrence has to learn to, and if his ex-wife dies as a cause of it – too bad! Just a human error! Could happen to anyone! Right?"

Jigsaw doesn't seem to hear him, and Adam wants to kill him just because, until he starts talking again.

"Tell me about yours and doctor Gordon's first kiss."

Adam just stares at him for a few seconds.

"What?"

"Tell me about yours and doctor Gordon's first kiss."

Adam scoffs.

"You're fucking mental."

"Are you going to tell me?"

Adam rolls his eyes. Thank you, God, for giving me the strength to be sarcastic when I need it the most.

"If you want something to jack off to, why don't you just get some regular porn?"

Jigsaw stands up with a weak moan. He walks up to the back of Adam's chair, Adam sees something glisten in the corner of his eye, just a moment of horror manages to run through him like a cold bolt of lightning

my god for a moment I forgot that he had that my god

before the pain is like acid that eats away at the place where arm turns into shoulder, and it's deep, the stiletto squeaks against his bone, metal floats into his mouth when Adam bites his lip, won't scream, he'll keep that much of his dignity, and he's not looking, it's still an image on his retina of how the flesh on his arm splits so that the white bone shines through, how the blood trickles down, drips from his elbow in an even river, looks like silk.

He won't scream. He won't make a fucking sound.

Won't even whisper Lawrence's name. Desperately. Like a prayer. As much as he wants to.

Jigsaw wipes off his knife on Adam's jeans. Adam gets filled with a strong urge to kick him, or at least lift his hand to the wound that's turned from a burning agony to a still, pricking throbbing.

"Tell me about yours and doctor Gordon's first kiss," Jigsaw says in a sigh and sits down on the bed again.

"Lawrence," Adam hisses. "And give me a goddamn minute, okay? I'm fucking groggy, give me…"

He stops talking.

Adam's lying. He remembers that night as well as it's possible to remember stuff that happened when you where hammered.

But then again, it's pretty easy to remember a night you've loved more than you love yourself ever since it happened.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Lawrence floats in and out of Adam's vision. Adam tries to focus his gaze on him, but it's hard. God, he's so drunk, he's warm and giggly and happy in a way he's never really been able to be, not even before… That.

Lawrence smiles gracefully and pries a bottle out of Adam's hand. Adam isn't sure if he's been drinking, but he doesn't think so. Lawrence would never do that. Never careful brilliant Lawrence Gordon.

"No more drinking now," Lawrence says and puts a hand on Adam's shoulder.

"Fuck you," Adam giggles and tries to take the bottle back, but Lawrence lifts it over his head. Adam feels like a kid that tries to take his cap back from the big guys, and it's for no purpose, because he still can't reach the damn bottle.

"Adam," Lawrence says in that voice, the calm-down-now-little-boy-voice that Adam's learned to recognize even though they've only known each other for a month or so. "You'll have a hangover that could take me down tomorrow as it is. Promise me you won't drink anymore."

Adam tries again to fix his gaze on him to check how serious he is. But Lawrence keeps swimming around, spin in circles along with the apartment. But even when he's moving, Adam can discern the furrowed brows, the intense eyes, the hand that squeezes his shoulder.

Lawrence is serious. And Adam can't talk back at that son of a bitch when he's serious. And not very often when he's joking, either. It annoys the hell out of him.

"Okay," he mutters reluctantly.

He doesn't like it when people tell him what to do. Especially not when he doesn't even have the balls to disagree.

Lawrence smiles.

"Good. And I think I'll stay the night. You'll need someone to make coffee for you tomorrow."

Adam waves his hand dismissingly.

"Like hell you are. I can take care of your… myself."

"I know that. That wasn't why I offered it."

"You don't have to offer anything. You're going to work tomorrow, I'm sure there'll be some drunks there you can look after if you get restless."

Lawrence chuckles and draws Adam closer to him.

Draws Adam into the warm security of the fabric in his shirt, of his dull heartbeats against Adam's cheek. And it doesn't bother Adam nearly as much as he'd liked, because right now, Lawrence's chest is the only solid point in a living room that spins around, again and again, and he nuzzles into it, inhales the scent of antibiotics and closes his eyes, his one arm sneaks up and coils around Lawrence's waist. And without Adam even noticing it, he slides into a condition of feeling like he's closer to Lawrence than he's ever been to any of the girls that he's still been inside of.

"Why would I take care of any of the drunks at work when I can take care of you?" Lawrence mumbles into Adam's hair.

He doesn't know how this happened. And he doesn't think about it, because he doesn't want to know. Hell, he's married, of course he doesn't want to know why he suddenly feels so insanely attracted to a man that he'll probably explode if he doesn't get closer to him soon.

"Because some of them might be girls," Adam murmurs and moves his head so that his nose rests against Lawrence's neck. "Are they drunk enough, they might jump in bed with you."

Adam isn't sure how it happens after that. His mouth is so close to Lawrence's either way, it wanders those last inches without his permission, up to those lips, anxious, longing, and not satisfied at all by the light graze that's the only thing Adam allows himself to make, but it's still enough for both of them to come to their senses.

Adam straightens up. Not even the alcohol can suppress the thoughts that bounce around in his head like ping-pong balls.

He's married. He has a daughter. He's a man. He's married. He has a daughter. He's a man.

"You should go either way," Adam mumbles.

He's an idiot. Or he's very smart. Either way, Lawrence nods, despite the fact that he's blushing and has a confusion in his expression that doesn't suit him at all.

But Adam still manages to catch the hunger in Lawrence's eyes before he gets up.

Adam stands up, too. Lawrence takes his coat that's thrown over the armrest on the couch and looks at him. Neither the hunger, the confusion nor the blush has disappeared, not from his face, not from Adam's.

"Bye," Lawrence says insecurely.

It almost sounds like a question. Adam raises his hand.

"See you."

Lawrence nods again. Just for a second, all the walls between them melt, the walls of sensibility, Lawrence's marriage and his need for control, and they just stare at each other, before the walls are replaced with something else, something that makes Lawrence take two big leaps forward and take Adam's chin with two fingers, force his face up and kiss him again, more than before, bigger than before, deeper and hungrier, hungrier for something that can only be soothed by Adam's tongue that slips in between Lawrence's teeth, his tiny hands on the back of Lawrence's head, Lawrence's hands that find Adam's hips before he pulls back again. Lawrence almost looks like he's going to cry. Adam stares at him sternly.

"Lawrence," he says, almost firmly. "Go. Now."

"Adam…"

"No," Adam says and shakes his head violently. "You're married, remember? Married. And I won't come between you two. Never. Now, go."

Lawrence doesn't even try to disagree. He's just as bad as arguing with Adam, even about the smallest things, as Adam is with him, so he just does his best to collect that reasonableness that he clutched to so desperately when he turns around and walks out the door. Adam closes it behind him.

He doesn't really get why he closes it. He already knows he's doomed.

He'll never be able to be without Lawrence now, hell, he loves that fucking doctor, he might as well give in right now, he can give in to that dark red, pounding thing that's placed in the bottom of his stomach.

So he does.

Adam takes a deep breath, thinks that everything can just go to hell, tears the door open and walks out, takes a few steps down the stairs towards Lawrence's back.

Lawrence turns around when he hears Adam. He doesn't really have time to wonder what he's doing, doesn't have the time to reflect over why Adam's eyes are black with something that almost looks like anger before Adam grabs his shirt, more or less drags him up the stairs, pushes him back into the apartment and slams the door shut behind them.

Doesn't have the time to ask Adam what the hell he's doing before Adam's hands are on his shoulders, he presses him up the wall next to them so hard that Lawrence gasps, and their lips find each other again, Adam's tongue fills Lawrence's mouth for a second before he pulls back again and looks at him with those black eyes.

"We shouldn't do this," Adam mumbles and moves his hand from Lawrence's shoulders to his hair.

"I know."

"It's wrong."

"I know."

"Adultery."

"I know, I know," Lawrence says impatiently, grabs Adam's shoulders, spins around, almost like in dancing, and presses Adam up the wall himself.

He doesn't like not being in control. And since he's so far beyond control now, he takes what he can get his hands on, both of Adam and of his dignity.

But he has to work to get it, because apparently, there's more force in Adam than Lawrence thought could fit into such a small person. Adam presses against him, his heat streams into Lawrence with a lustful aggression, despite the hard grip Lawrence has on him, he doesn't seem to intend to give up the fight at all, he's so damn proud, after all, but eventually, he seems to melt against Lawrence's body, accepts the hands that roam under his shirt, downwards, over his hips, his thighs, between them, on that place where he so desperately wants them, but isn't sure that he's allowed to have them.

Adam makes a sound that almost sounds like a growl when Lawrence uncertainly hooks two fingers in the rim of his jeans, his hands already struggle to get Lawrence's shirt away, it annoys him, he wants him, he needs him, he needs the fucking doctor with him, without fabric, without common sense, just the two of them, skin to skin, mouth to mouth, with lips and tongues and lustful moans until they're both laying on the couch with their arms around each other and Adam searches blindly for cigarettes on the table next to them.

It's probably never taken Adam shorter time to get what he wants.

He's so used to what he wants being out of his reach that he can't even accept that this, what he wants more than anything in the world, actually is his. Not now and not ever.

Kind of slashy… Well, you definitely deserved it, suffering through so much blood and gore in the last chapter. REVIEW!