"I know. I'm sorry."

It's been eating him alive for a week, because he knows the offer he should and shouldn't make: I'll drive you anywhere you want to go, any time.

For Z, he would have made it.

He knows he would have, too, from the look on his face.

“…fine. I’ll park at the shop tonight.”

"Thank you."

It should be inevitable, that one day he'll ask too much, draw one boundary too many, and he'll lose Jigsaw, too.

It's not inevitable at all. He'll probably lose him the other way, first.

And then he’s back to curling up by the toilet, until the meds kick in.

He leaves early, and slams the front door on his way out.

The music in the shop is louder than usual, that night, but doesn’t quite cover the dubiously craft-related sounds of smashing glass.

Around midnight, he comes downstairs with his bleeding hand wrapped in a rag.

Jean is listening to Coriolanus on his little music player. He hits pause, interrupting Richard Burton mid-line.

"I can help you wrap that."

“Thanks.”

He pulls the first aid kit out from under the kitchen sink, the one Camillo insisted he install.

“Stupid way to hurt myself. The nurses are going to give me so much shit.”

"What happened?"

“Apparently if you smash a bunch of shit on the floor and you pick it up with your bare hands…”

"Unfortunate. Yes."

He appears to be making a mental note of this outcome.

He unwraps his hand.

There’s still a little crystalline splinter of glass in the top of his palm, above a shallow slit down the center that resumes bleeding sluggishly as he opens his hand.

“Fucking…immunocompromised. Piece of shit body. Gonna need to wash it out.”

"Yes. Would you like me to clean it? I do well with tweezers."

“Yeah. Thanks.”

There’s a pair of tweezers in the kit, along with the wound wash and the antiseptics and the bandages.

Jean turns on an extra light and bends over his hand.

As promised, he's steady and delicate with the tweezers, plucking minuscule shards from the wound.

He hisses and bites his tongue when the splinters of glass scrape inside the wound.

But he seems almost disappointed, when he looks down at the clean slit in his palm and sees nothing left.

“…steady hands,” he remarks.

"Clean living."

Jean turns on the tap for him.

He puts his hand under the water, rubbing away half-dried, sticky blood with the fingers of his other hand.

“…can I get you to drive for me, next time?”

He watches pale pink water run down the drain.

"It would be my honor."

Jean rips a paper towel off the roll for him.

"Is it likely to be soon?"

He dries his hands, blotting his palm carefully.

“Not sure yet. Don’t have anybody in mind.”

"You've been in the workshop anyhow. Do you begin with the subject, or with the sculpture?"

“Kind of depends.”

He holds his palm out to be bandaged.

“Like, Leg Lock was done before I even knew I was going to use her on anyone. But Flashdance was all for you. Wouldn’t have come up with her otherwise.”

He kisses the outstretched palm, instead of bandaging, bowed like a courtly gentleman over it.

His lips come away with flecks of blood.

“…gotta wash that out again,” he mumbles, as he stares at Jean’s face, intact and beautiful at such a price.

Jean, unsure of the symbolic significance of this, will nevertheless help him wash it out again. 

“…may I see?” he ventures, as he unwraps a bandage. “What you’re working on?”

He nods.

Once his hand is wrapped tight, he leads him to the stairs, and then up the dim staircase towards the light.

Jean follows, filled with holy dread. 

Halfway up the stairs he halts, struggling to take another step.