Chapter Text
If you had told Strahm a few months ago that there would be a time when he actually missed Mark Hoffman, he would have said you were insane. That was before he’d torn a hole in his throat, before the glass coffin, before he’d been taken captive and made into some sort of sick trophy for Jigsaw’s demented associates—not that he’d taken it lying down.
From the moment he was lucid enough to realize where he was, Strahm had been looking for a way out. He knew it drove Hoffman mad. He was certain the man thought he could tame him into some twisted form of domesticity. Over his dead body. He had made another escape attempt last night. Strahm had been working for weeks to gain the detective’s trust, earning little privileges here and there. The chain around his leg disappeared, then slowly he was allowed upstairs. It was humiliating, being treated like the man’s beloved pet, but the shame would all be worth it if he could just escape.
Last night, Hoffman had left him alone, just for a moment. Strahm had bolted the minute his eyes were off him. He had almost made it out the door when a crushing hand on his forearm wrenched him back. He had fought like hell against him, but he might as well have been struggling against a brick wall.
Hoffman had been furious. Strahm had seen him angry before. Back when they were coworkers, he’d sought those reactions out as easy as breathing. They’d butted heads over nearly everything, Strahm all burning rage, Hoffman with his simmering frustration. He had seen him close to losing it in the crushing room, when Strahm had broken his nose. But he had never seen him like this. His blue eyes were clouded over by the desire to hurt, to maim, to brutalize him beyond all recognition.
He’d dragged him back down to the basement by his bad arm, throwing him against the wall and pinning him there by his still-sensitive throat. His head hit the bricks with a nauseating crack and his memories went a bit hazy after that.
He vaguely remembered Hoffman speaking to him afterwards, once he had calmed down enough to come back to his senses. His voice was low, controlled, infuriating. He told him that he was going to call Dr. Gordon tomorrow to make sure his punishment hadn’t done permanent damage. He almost sounded remorseful. Almost.
Strahm told him to go to hell and take Gordon with him. Hoffman had smiled at that.
Suffice to say, it wasn’t that he missed Hoffman specifically, it’s just that Lawrence Gordon was that much worse.
The doctor strode in sedately, the clicking of his cane on the concrete floor alerting Strahm to his presence. Each tap felt like a hammer blow against the inside of his skull. He didn’t seem any more enthused about the whole situation than Strahm was, though it was difficult to tell through the man’s cold and clinical mask. Strahm wondered what Hoffman had promised to get him to come and babysit on what was presumably his day off.
“Hello, Strahm,” Gordon began.
Strahm steeled himself, the doctor’s untraceable accent and condescending tone already grating on his frayed nerves. He had never liked doctors, even as a child. Something about them made him uneasy, and Gordon embodied all those worst qualities to the extreme. He was cold, aloof, detached—all the things Jigsaw had accused him of being in the beginning. Strahm found it funny that for all his talk of changing lives, he still fostered those same qualities in his apprentice. A lack of emotion was only acceptable when it was something he could use.
Being tended to by Dr. Gordon, Strahm felt a certain kinship with the frog from his 8th grade biology class. On the dissection tray, under the hand of someone who didn’t care, with the sinking suspicion that he was going to be discarded when he no longer proved interesting.
When it became clear that Strahm was not going to respond, Gordon frowned slightly, the way one might at an unruly child or a misbehaving puppy.
“I want to make something very clear, Strahm. Hoffman may tolerate your petulance, he might even find it endearing, but I am not Hoffman. I expect obedience and respect, is that understood?”
Strahm fought the urge to roll his eyes. Where did Gordon get off, acting like he was his fucking dog?
“Yeah, got it,” he muttered cagily.
Gordon cocked his head, his tone ice cold. “What was that?”
A beat of silence. Gordon’s cane rapped once against the concrete floor.
“Yes, sir,” he ground out, though it physically hurt to say. Gordon was so much more insistent about that than Hoffman. It made Strahm want to beat that fucking arrogance out of him.
“Good. Now, your arm,” he prompted as he settled into one of the two rickety chairs in Strahm’s cell.
Strahm sat opposite him and began awkwardly rolling up his sleeve with his good hand. Of all the things he resented Hoffman for—and there were many—his arm had to be at the top of the list. It had already snapped by the time the walls ground to a halt, a futile and ultimately meaningless attempt to buy himself time.
Although it had healed, it was almost entirely useless now. Anything below the elbow was unresponsive, barely able to do more than twitch without assistance. He had been trying to rehab it on his own with very little success. Last night’s escape attempt must have set him back weeks. Hoffman had been none too gentle when he’d grabbed his arm and wrenched him back. He swore he’d heard something pop under the man’s strong grip.
He held it out as best he could for Gordon to examine. The doctor carefully cut away the gauze binding the splint to his forearm. He palpated the area and Strahm swore under his breath.
Gordon hummed. “It’s healing well, all things considered,” he mused, inspecting the scar tissue with an impassive gaze, “No signs of another break, though you may have retorn the biceps tendon. I’ll leave Hoffman some pain medication for you. Without taking you to a proper surgical center, there is little more I can do.”
Gordon didn’t seem particularly upset about that fact.
“Testing him was a remarkably shortsighted idea,” he continued dryly, as though he were remarking on the weather, “A concussion and a torn tendon are far from the worst things he could have done to you.”
He sounded almost disappointed and Strahm failed to suppress a sneer.
“You aren’t in any position to be pushing boundaries, Strahm,” he scolded and rose to his feet with a sigh. He turned towards the door. “I promised Hoffman that I would monitor you, but I doubt that either of us want to be in each other’s presence any longer than necessary. I will be upstairs. Call for me if your condition changes.”
It was here that Gordon made a mistake. Strahm had already noticed that the chain Hoffman usually had both the door key and the one for his shackle was kept loose in the doctor’s pocket. Either Hoffman hadn’t explained the utility of keeping it secure or, more likely, Gordon hadn’t seen the need for it. The arrogant prick underestimated Strahm, he was well aware of that, but now he could use it to his advantage. If he could overpower him in the brief moment while his back was turned, he could easily take it from him.
In one swift motion, he knocked the cane from Gordon’s hand, kicking his bad leg out to knock him off balance. He wasn’t known for playing fair. He managed to wrestle the keys from him with a manic grin.
He didn’t have long to bask in his victory. From his prone position, Gordon snatched hold of the chain at his ankle as he turned to run. He went down hard, his arm slamming into the ground with a dull thud. He tried desperately to yank his leg free, but Gordon was surprisingly strong.
The few seconds’ delay allowed the doctor to pull himself towards the agent and pin him. They scrabbled on the concrete floor, fighting for dominance. After multiple months in captivity and down an arm, Strahm was not as strong as he once was. Caught on the back foot, he scratched and clawed at the man with rabid desperation. Gordon reared back and Strahm thought perhaps he could push him off when there was a sharp prick at his neck. He barely had time to process what Gordon had done before his vision was fading out.
When Strahm came to, he was strapped to an examination chair in some other room of this godforsaken labyrinth. The restraints bit into his wrists and ankles unpleasantly and his head was forced back by a collar around his neck. His blood ran cold.
Gordon appeared in front of him, leaning on his cane as he watched him struggle. “Careful now, we wouldn’t want you to break anything.”
“Let me go, Gordon,” he hissed, though the bite was lessened by the tremor in his voice.
“You’re not in charge here, agent. I don’t think you’ve quite learned that yet.”
The doctor circled around behind him, outside of his field of view. There was the sound of a faucet turning then a rush of water that had Strahm’s hair standing on end.
“Wh- What are you doing?” he muttered, desperately trying to crane his head back. He hated not being able to see.
Gordon chuckled, a low, mocking sound that he could only just hear over the sound of the tap. All of a sudden, a bucket of water was upended over his head.
It hit him like an electric shock, all of his nerves suddenly sparking to life. His breath stuttered in his lungs. All he could think about was that damn box. He gasped instinctively for air, but regretted it as all he got was a mouthful of water. He bucked against his restraints, mindless of the sharp pain in his arm.
“Interesting,” Gordon crooned, “Very interesting.”
Strahm snarled in his direction as best he could. His head was swimming and he could barely focus.
“Glad you’re- Glad you’re getting something out of this,” he panted, masking the visceral fear behind his characteristic acerbity.
He felt like his skin was crawling, his muscles wound so tight that they were trembling. He forced himself to remain calm. He refused to let Gordon win. If he let him know how badly this was affecting him, he’d only push harder. He wouldn’t give Gordon that satisfaction.
The doctor came back into view with a hose in one hand and a rag in the other. He placed the cloth over Strahm’s face. It clung fast to the already damp skin. He thrashed and writhed, but it was no use. He could hear the faucet turning again. The trickle of water joined the roar of blood in his ears in a hellish cacophony. He could feel the fabric of his shirt sticking to his body, a growing wetness between his legs- Oh hell.
Gordon evidently noticed at the same time he did. Strahm could practically hear the sick smile in his voice, even with the cloth over his eyes.
“What have we here?” he crooned, one hand moving to palm Strahm’s crotch, “Did you wet yourself? How unbecoming of a federal agent, I’ve hardly even started on you yet…”
Strahm’s face burned, embarrassment and fear mixing into one. He felt shame curl low in his gut, a victim of his own biology. He’d pissed himself like a terrified dog at the vet and Gordon had to be loving every moment of it.
He held the hose a few inches from Strahm’s head, letting the stream trickle down his hair and face. The anticipation had every nerve in his body screaming. Within a second, the cloth was saturated and Strahm felt like he was drowning. His lungs burned, his eyes stung with tears. He tried to scream, to fight, to do anything to stop the tidal wave of water slowly choking him. He felt like he was in that damned cube again, no pen to save him this time.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the rag was removed and he was able to pull in a full breath. The cool air stung his throat and he coughed and sputtered around it. Strahm shuddered pitifully, filling his lungs in deep, ragged pants. He felt lightheaded, dizzy, and nearly nauseous with fear.
Through his swimming vision, blurred with tears, he could just make out Gordon’s smug face. “Tell me… how do you feel?”
How did he feel? He spat at Gordon through chattering teeth, his mind on autopilot. He clung to the last remnants of his defiance like a security blanket. It was all he had, all he ever had. If he could just hold on to that feeling, that anger, then he wouldn’t give in to the all-consuming terror that threatened to reduce him to nothing.
Gordon’s expression soured. He moved to replace the cloth over his nose and mouth and Strahm’s eyes went wide. The regret was instant and coated his insides with its sickly venom. He threw himself against the restraints again, the bones in his arm grinding together in agony. He could barely feel it in his frenzied state. He gnashed his teeth in an ineffectual attempt to rip the rag off. He was a wild animal, caged and desperate.
The fabric choked his airways. The pressure mounted in his lungs. The now all too familiar feeling of being unable to breathe settled into his body like a slow-acting poison. The feeling of water on his skin made him ill. He gagged helplessly. Bile burned in his throat. Gordon let him suffocate.
His thrashing ceased, his vision going hypoxic. It blurred and blinked dangerously. His heart threatened to burst in his chest. His usually sharp mind felt fractured, simultaneously greyed out yet racing. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. Oh god, he was going to die.
His body convulsed when the washcloth was removed once more. He choked on a strangled gasp. He coughed up water and bile both, shivering and sobbing.
He cowered instinctively when the doctor approached again. In his current state, it was little more than a full-body shudder. He was willing to say anything, do anything to make him stop.
He babbled in an attempt to postpone more torment. “Please- Please don’t- I can’t- Please.”
Strahm was not a man who begged. At Quantico, he’d been trained to resist basic torture. He’d graduated top of his class. He knew how to handle pain. He had spent nearly twenty years dealing with some of the worst of what humanity had to offer. He’d been stabbed, shot, drugged, beaten, degraded, and taken it in stride. He had thought that there was nothing these second-rate apprentices could do to him that would faze him anymore. Evidently he’d been wrong.
He couldn’t think. He could barely breathe. Special Agent Strahm was a distant memory, what remained was Peter. Scrawny, scared Peter who hid in the closet when his parents fought with his hands over his ears and who had trouble looking people in the eye. There was no shame left in him, only a desperate need to get this all to end.
“I’ll be good. I-I’ll be good…” he whimpered, because he was sure it was what Gordon wanted to hear.
The doctor simply smiled. “Too late.”