***

Things settle into something of a routine for Will over the next few weeks. He explores the section of ^1 his residence is in. When he's on his own, he finds he's slightly more likely to be bothered by the muggers who roam the street -- but only slightly. Compared to other people on the street, he might as well be walking in his own living room, or invisible. There are advantages to being seen with Eight-Hour Chainsaw.

(Once, a few days after the lunch at Lean's, Will comes across a burly man slapping around a much younger boy in the mouth of an alley. They both look like they're about to torch from hunger. Will dives into the fray without thinking, landing a couple of blows on the attacker, who punches Will hard enough across the jaw to leave a bruise. The pain seems to blank him out for a few seconds, and he comes to himself slamming the man against the corner of the wall. The boy has disappeared, so Will lets the man go and yells for him to get the fuck out. He does, and Will returns to his residence to wash grit off his knuckles and ice his jaw.

The clinical part of him says that the violence was understandable, an expression of his desire to be in control after having so much control torn away in the last week, after being under Chainsaw's control -- it's a classic post-traumatic stress reaction. The enemy within leers and says that's how it feels to them, how it felt to him when he gutted you, how it felt to him when he took off your leg and your arm and your leg and your arm; it feels good to make someone else hurt. The rest of him is just horrified.

Eights notices the bruise next time she sees him, but doesn't comment. Will wonders if she's ever deliberately hurt someone after a contract, to deal with her own pain. He doubts it.)

Eights comes by twice a week to make sure he's getting out, and takes him out to this restaurant or that local landmark, or more usually both. After that first lunch, neither of them have broached the subject of employment -- though every time, Eights asks how he's doing, and he tells her honestly that he's dealing, or that last night was bad but this morning is better, or that he doesn't want to talk about it today.

He asks her once why she's going to all the trouble to help him settle in, and she gives him a you are so dumb look. "Because you're a friend?" she says, voice dripping with an implied duh. After a moment's thought, she apparently decides implication isn't enough and adds, "Duh."

***

The end of Will's first month in Downside. He feels like he ought to celebrate or something. Not celebrate, exactly, but -- mark the occasion. He'll ask Eights, he decides on his way back to his residence from one of his explorations. Does the month mark even matter to people who have been here for millennia?

He moves faster than Will's expecting, shifting his weight and vaulting over the table to land with a "Ha!", heavily but solidly, in front of Will.

But Chainsaw's obviously not expecting Will to throw a punch to the face as he straightens. The torturer reels backwards a step, grabbing his nose, and Will dodges sideways and sprints for the door.

"Sudduvabitch! Stop!"

Will's feet skid to a halt, but his momentum carries him forward; he overbalances and falls, barely managing to turn it into a roll instead of a flat impact. Chainsaw strides towards him, stomping like a pissed-off teenager, and stands over him, sniffing.

"You bastard." The torturer sounds more startled than angry as he checks his fingers for blood. "You know how long it's been since someone just up and hit me?"

Will scrambles to a sitting position, but finds he can't move away. "I'm guessing a long time. You want me to apologize?"

Chainsaw smiles. "Wouldn't dream of it." One quick motion and he's crouched over Will, straddling him.
He fists his hands in the other man's shirt and draws their faces close.

"Kinda like this side of you, Will," he hisses through his grin. "So I tell you what. Fight me all you want -- but don't leave this room."

"Go to hell," Will growls.

"Already there, Willy. And you're in here with me. Aren't you lucky?"

Before Will can respond, Chainsaw shifts his grip and punches him in the stomach. Will curls up, gasping, and then Chainsaw's hands are on his face as he kisses him, thumbs digging into his jaw to keep his mouth open, tongue forcing in and running  over the roof of his mouth.

Will bites.

It's not very effective with Chainsaw's hands immobilizing him, but the taste of blood fills his mouth, and Chainsaw jerks back with another hiss. One hand goes to his mouth automatically; Will yanks his head away from the other and swings one fist up to punch him across the face, but Chainsaw's hand moves quicker and catches him by the wrist.

"Nashty," he slurs, spraying blood. He squeezes, and Will grimaces as he feels bones grind together. Chainsaw continues, conversationally, "What I wanna know ish why you di'n't do thish before. Huh? Why a figh' now?"

For reply, Will spits. The blood and saliva land on Chainsaw's pants, and his smile goes brittle. He squeezes harder. Will cries out and grabs at the torturer's wrist vainly.

"Why di'n't you fight before, Will?" Chainsaw whispers. "Tell me."

"I deserved it!" Will bursts out. "Aah! God!"

Chainsaw blinks at him like he's got to be joking. "You think you deserved that?" A thought. "You Catholic?"

Will wrenches at Chainsaw's hand again, and Chainsaw begins to laugh unpleasantly, the sound made worse by the blood pooling in his mouth, flecking his lips. "C'mon, Will Graham, what were you? Catholics do guilt best. Were you Baptist? They do fear real well. What were you? 'Cause whatever you were, your brain is so washed it shines."

"None of your fucking business!" Will manages. He brings one knee up hard and fast, hoping to get Chainsaw's groin and only managing to knock him forwards. The torturer twists with the blow, never letting go of Will's wrist. Will feels something snap in his forearm. He ends up flat on his back, sucking in breaths, with Chainsaw's bloody grin hanging upside down over him.

"Lemme let you in on a secret, Willy." His voice is low, hoarse, lilting with suppressed laughter. "Nobody gives a shit. No God up above, vengeful or loving or with six fucking arms, seeing that justice is done. Just a vindictive bitch in blue who decided she didn't like your face, and even she couldn't care less" -- he pauses to spit, a gob of blood that lands barely an inch from Will's ear -- "if it's you screaming your throat bloody or some dewy-eyed idealist from the Crescent. You think anybody fucking cares what you did up there? Couple-three deaths, yelling at a kid, and a one-night stand, big fucking whoop. Most people'd get a couple hours with a pussy from the threes for that. You didn't deserve what you got. You just drew the short straw."

Grinning, he leans in. "How's that feel, huh? Insignificant life, insignificant afterlife, just like every other poor damned son of a bitch down here. Only reason you matter right now is because I feel like fucking you up and then fucking you. How does that feel, Will Graham?"

Will says nothing.

(His throat is closing up, he can't breathe, he's trying but he can't. There's a peculiar pressure in his ears and skull, like his heartbeat is actually pushing its way out and trying to escape, like Chainsaw's words have gotten in there and are throwing themselves against the boundaries of his head. The dull cold-hot pain in his arm doesn't seem to matter much. Compared to what must be coming, why should it matter?

I can torch and torch and it'll never end and I'll never forget.

Eternity. He doesn't have a prayer.

He can't breathe.)

Chainsaw reads his reply in his eyes and laughs. The feeling of breath and the spatter of blood on his face make Will flinch automatically, bring him back to himself for a second.

"Do what you want and get it over with," he whispers, shaking.

"Oh no, there's no getting it over with this time. No time limits. Nothing but you . . ."

His free hand lifts, pushes through Will's hair, trails over his cheek with gut-wrenching, gentle intimacy.

". . . And me."

Chainsaw pauses. Will's gaze is glassy, fixed somewhere in the distance, on past or future or who knows what.

"Aw," says Chainsaw softly. "I took all the fight out of you. That's no good. Hey. Hey, Will. Will. You listening? Good. I'll make you a deal. If you can make it to the door? I'll let you go. Cross my heart, hope to cry, stick a needle in your eye."

Will's eyes focus; he licks his lips, swallows. Chainsaw grins, and then very deliberately lets go of Will's wrist and brings both hands up, raising his eyebrows. Will stays still for a moment, apparently uncertain -- then rolls onto his good hand and to his feet, quick and clumsy and knowing that it's no good.

Laughing, Chainsaw grabs his bad wrist and twists and yanks and Will cries out and turns to swing for Chainsaw's stomach; Chainsaw catches that hand too, twisting it up behind Will's back and turning Will so that he can see the door, closed but unlocked.

Chainsaw puts his cheek against Will's, still laughing softly, as his fingers twitch along the broken arm, and all Will can think is damn him, damn him, damn him for giving him hope.

***

To say that Eights is worried when she jumps on her bike and turns it towards ^0 would be kind of like saying the Grand Canyon is a nice-looking hole in the ground.

It's a hell of a lot deeper than that.

***

Will struggles with Chainsaw for the first forty-five minutes, until the combination of exhaustion and injury and despair make it impossible for him to do anything but lie there and take it. The minute he reaches that point, Chainsaw changes tactics. His usual gleeful brutality disappears in favor of a meticulous attention to detail, a gentleness, a subtlety. He stops inflicting new injuries and focuses on what he's got -- pressure on already broken bones, fingernails ripping a wound wider.

And whenever Will is starting to drift away, to be able to ignore him, Chainsaw's touches will turn suddenly and startlingly into caresses. Lips or fingertips against untouched skin -- and the worst part is that for the first second or two, it's soothing. Every goddamn time.

If he could think straight, maybe he could tell himself wanting the break in the pain isn't shameful, isn't humiliating, but it's impossible to think anything through the red haze of sensation. His mind jolts from feeling to feeling, dragged along by Chainsaw's ministrations.

When Chainsaw finally reaches between Will's legs, Will turns his face away, shaking. Chainsaw leans down to his ear.

"Relax, Will." His fingers flutter on the raw skin of Will's thigh. "Stop fighting. You think you know what's coming, and you're probably right. And I want you to like it."

Will can't even tell what are his reactions and what's the torturer's control anymore. He moans.

"You piece of shit . . ."

"Mm-hmm." Chainsaw runs his tongue up the taut tendon and muscle in Will's neck, collarbone to ear, mixing smears of his blood with Will's, and whispers mockingly, "That's right. Talk dirty."

"Fuck you, you cocky son of a bitch," Will breathes, and then grimaces as Chainsaw's caresses turn into long strokes over abused flesh turn into--

"Don't think you'd last long enough, stud," Chainsaw observes, amused.

***

This is what Eights sees when she slams open the door of Chainsaw's dungeon:

Will is on the floor, supine, cheek pressed against the tile; his face is turned so that she can only see his hair, darkened with sweat and splashes of blood; one hand is resting beside his head, the other at his side at an angle that suggests multiple breaks. Chainsaw is sitting cross-legged beside him, propping his chin with one hand and fiddling with dials on a black box with the other. Both men are naked. Wires lead from the box to Will, mostly to points out of her sight.

When the door opens, Chainsaw looks up, looks surprised for a moment, and then calmly twists a dial. Will convulses -- then Chainsaw turns the dial back, and Will collapses again, breath coming in sobs.

Chainsaw smiles.

"Wondered when you'd show up. I was kind of hoping for another day or two, actually."

"Chainsaw," Eights says, voice remarkably even, "get away from those controls and get away from him. Now."

"Mmm . . . no."

He cranks the dial up so high that Eights smells flesh burning, and keeps it there as Will torches a few seconds later -- grinning cheerfully right up until the heel of Eights' boot connects with his jaw, sending him sprawling sideways, and then with his balls, sending him into a fetal position, gasping silently for air.

The wires are still live under Will; though they're no longer connected to him, he's twitching with the current. Apologizing silently for the indignity, Eights uses her foot to roll him over and away. Shuddering, Will curls up, an echo of Chainsaw just now starting to recover.

"You cunt," the torturer gasps out, levering himself up with one shaking hand. "You -- kicked me."

"You oughta be glad it's just that and I'm not taking one of your goddamned precious power tools to you, you son of a bitch."

He ignores her. "That's the third time today somebody's hurt me."

Eights kneels in front of him, winds up, and slaps him, hard. "And that's the fourth. Pay attention to me, you asswipe. What the fuck were you doing?"

Chainsaw's hand snakes out and closes around her throat. "If you hit me again I'll smash in your skull."

"Blah blah fucking blah. I asked once. What the fuck were you doing."

He makes a noise of disgust and shoves her away. "Thought that was obvious."

"How long did you have him?"

Chainsaw looks at her, and through her rage she notices a gleam in his eye that she doesn't like at all. He sits back, gingerly, and replies, "Three-four hours. Maybe five. Wasn't paying attention."

Eights swears under her breath, turns, grabs the control box, and hurls it away against a wall. She sees Chainsaw's face contort in anger out of the corner of her eye, and couldn't care less.

"Chainsaw." Very quiet, now. "Why did you do this."

That gleam comes back, stronger than before, and Chainsaw starts to chuckle. "I wanted to see if you'd come."

Eights has a sudden feeling that someone's tugging on the metaphorical rug under her feet. Chainsaw must see it in her eyes, because he chuckles louder as she turns abruptly and goes to Will, still curled and trembling.

"Will?"

She reaches down to touch his shoulder and hears Chainsaw mutter, too late, "Wouldn't do that if I were you . . ."

Her fingers are as gentle as she can make them, light and soft, and--

"Don't touch me!"

The force of the shout, the violence, the raggedness, startle her, and she pulls her hand back automatically. Swallowing, she moves around so that he can see her -- boots, jeans, small hands spread flat on the floor, face.

"Will, it's me. It's Eights. Are you with me? . . . Will. C'mon, Will. Are you with me? It's Eights."

He manages a nod.

"Good. Will, I have to touch you, I don't think you can walk on your own. I'm just -- Chainsaw if you move a fucking inch I will set your house on fire!"

"Take a Midol," Chainsaw drawls from across the room, settling back.

Eights glares at him, then looks back down at Will. "Sorry. I'm just going to help you get up, okay? I have to touch your shoulder and your hands. That's it. Nothing else right now. Okay?"

After a moment, Will's eyes flick up at her, searching her face, and he nods again. Eights breathes a sigh of relief and takes one of his hands, supporting his shoulder and helping him up to a sitting position. Her hands are gentle but firm, businesslike -- nothing more affectionate, nothing less. He seems able to deal with that.

"Can you stand? You can lean on me as much as you need."

Chainsaw starts whistling Bill Withers' "Lean On Me," though he stops with a smirk when Eights glares at him. Will nods. "Yes. I can -- get me out of here?"

"Number one priority," she assures him. "May I touch you?"

"Soooo fucking polite . . ."

"Chainsaw, I swear--!"

Will puts a hand on her shoulder and starts to lever himself up; conveniently, it keeps her from throwing herself across the room and attacking Chainsaw with one of his own knives. Eights wonders if it's deliberate, but not for long. More important to get Will on his feet.

"Okay," she murmurs as he gets up, slinging one of his arms over her shoulders, "getting you out of here."

"Not on the subway."

"No, not the subway, don't worry. We need to get you some clothes, though."

Will swallows, nods. "Just -- don't leave me alone with him."

Eights shoots a look at Chainsaw, who's chuckling again. "No. Don't worry, Will." An idea strikes her. "I won't leave you alone."

Will's weakness is more psychological than physical, and they make good time to the door. Just outside, Eights looks over her shoulder and calls, "Hey, Chainsaw. You comfy?"

The torturer's chuckles die away.

Eights smiles a remarkably nasty smile. "Good."

The door clangs beautifully when she she kicks it shut. The chunk of the deadbolt flicking home is even better.

". . . Bitch," Chainsaw says to the empty air, resigned.

***

Eights "borrows" some clothes from Chainsaw's closets for Will (the pants don't fit very well, but the black T-shirt is fine) and leads him out to her bike. It takes a little more firm coaxing to get him to put his arms around her waist and hold on.

"I was gonna take you out for lunch," she tells him over her shoulder, "but I think a home-cooked meal might be better now. How's that sound?"

No real response. She didn't really expect one. He's hanging on to her, in spite of the tension she can feel in him, and that's enough. His arms tighten when she revs the bike (oh, shit, the engine -- too late now; she'll just have to make the trip quick and hope the two-stroke roar isn't too much of a reminder) and turns it towards her estate.

Will leans on her when they get off the bike, but he's walking on his own by the time they reach the front door, albeit slowly. Eights leads him up a story into one of the living rooms, gets him settled on a couch (slightly threadbare, but plush and sturdy) with a stack of blankets next to him, and steps into the adjoining kitchen to grab a phone. She returns to lean on the doorframe as she dials, keeping one eye on Will.

One ring. Two r--

"Eights, I'm in rehearsal."

"Désolée, Ensorra, ma belle." She means it; Ensorra has this special way of hitting a combination of gentle reprimand, impatience, and concern that makes your guilt producers go into overdrive. "I need a favor."

"What sort of favor?"

Eights glances at Will and replies quietly, "Mon ami, tu sais, avec le café -- il a rencontré La Tronçonneuse. C'était mauvais. J'ai besoin de toi pour lui."

Ensorra lets out a breath. "Tres mauvais?"

"Oui."

"Now?"

"S'il te plait."

"Eights, really, I'm in the middle of rehearsal, we open in two weeks . . ."

Another glance at Will; he doesn't give any indication of listening in, but Eights lowers her voice again as she describes in detailed French just what she'll do to Ensorra tonight if she comes over now. It takes a minute or two.

Ensorra sighs again, but there's a warm, amused undertone to it. "Eights, ma cherie sympathique, ma chevalière. I'll be over as soon as I can."

"Merci beaucoup, cherie." She blows a kiss into the phone and hangs up.

"Getting me a babysitter?"

Eights looks up. Will has wrapped himself in one of the blankets, and in spite of the cheerful quilt, the homey surroundings, he looks like a refugee with his thousand-yard stare. His tone is flat, emotionless -- but apparently he was listening, and responding. He's not entirely trapped in his head. Good.

"Yeah." She ambles over and perches on the other end of the couch, sitting on the back with her feet on the arm. "Ensorra. You'll like her. Everyone does. Do you want anything? Something to eat or drink? Or if you just wanna sleep, I've got lots of spare beds."

Will shakes his head, pulling the blanket closer. "I don't know."

Eights chews her lower lip, watching him. Damn Chainsaw for ruining touch for him -- all she wants to do is hug him and lie and say it'll be okay, and she doesn't dare.

"Okay, well. I'm gonna make something. Soup, maybe. Want me to make you some coffee?"

Will shakes his head again. Not even a smile. Son of a bitch.

"I'm getting you some water, anyway," she informs him decisively as she gets up and heads for the kitchen. She hits Play on the stereo as she passes, absent-minded, and Bruce Springsteen's "Growin' Up" comes on. The guitar's quiet and insistent as she clatters around gathering ingredients, and fills a glass of water for Will. He accepts it without protest -- but without thanks, either -- when she hands it to him.

Forty minutes later, she's gone through Springsteen and moved on to Boston, humming along (in a slightly different key) as she stirs the soup. Will has hardly moved, only shifting position once to lean against the arm of the couch and pull his legs up to sit in more of a protective ball.

Eights stops humming when she hears the door open and shut downstairs, and then heels clicking. "There she is!" she tells Will, who's finally broken his staring contest with nothingness to look up, and trots for the balcony over the foyer. "Sor'!"

There's a special kind of gladness to seeing Ensorra's dark head lift at the shout, and to seeing the small smile she wears when she calls back, "Oh, that's where you got to" and starts climbing the stairs. A large part of it is Ensorra's natural -- charisma, or magnetism, or whatever you want to call it -- and part of it's the slightly guilty relief of having someone else to help watch over Will, and part of it's the certain hope that if anyone can help him mend, it's Ensorra.

They're fond of each other. It's a thing.

Eights stoops to give her a quick kiss when she reaches the landing. Ensorra accepts it with a smile, but adds reprovingly as Eights straightens, "You owe me. You pulled me out of rehearsal."

"I promised!" Eights protests. "I'll show you just how sorry I am."

"I know you will. So where's my charge? Ton ami avec le café?"

"Through there, in the living room. Just a sec, Sor'." She touches the singer's shoulder, drawing her back a few steps, and lowers her voice. "I think Chainsaw probably raped him. That or pulled something like Dice's schtick, but it's Chainsaw, he doesn't do genuine compassion, he just--" She stops herself, pressing her lips together; Ensorra was a contractor, she's got an idea of what Chainsaw is like. "Whatever the fucker did, Will won't let me touch him more than he has to. Not at all if I'm too delicate, especially skin to skin."

Ensorra closes her eyes, not quite a wince. "Merde. I can't stand the ones who ruin sex."

"I know." She runs a hand through her hair. "Just--"

"I'll be careful with him," Ensorra assures her gently.

"Okay. Allons-y."

Will looks up again when they enter the room -- and keeps looking, gazing at Ensorra with a look that would be called rapt if he didn't look so otherwise exhausted. Ensorra smiles, and Will drops his gaze. Still exhausted, still not making eye contact, but he's present.

"--Oh shit my soup!"

Ensorra rolls her eyes as Eights goes darting past her to the kitchen. "I was wondering what that smell was." She settles herself on the edge of the couch, opposite Will; he draws his feet in a little, less out of politeness and more out of the desire not to be touched.

"Charcoal's good for your digestion," Eights retorts from the kitchen, just loud enough to be heard, and then falls quiet, watching her friends out of the corner of her eye.

Ensorra looks Will over carefully, and then scoots back to mirror his position, crossing her legs and leaning against the arm of the couch. "Hi. I'm Ensorra."

"Will."

"Eights has told me a little about you." A slight smile. "All good. It's nice to meet you finally."

His eyes flick up to hers, uncertain, wary. "Thank you."

Her smile widens a little, wry but welcoming -- but it fades as she looks him over. "What's that you're wearing?"

Will blinks, looks down at his dirty feet and black jeans poking out from under the blanket. "They're his."

"Eights--"

Eights peers around the doorframe. "Hm?"

"Il a besoin des autres vêtements!"

Eights winces. "Oh, Jesus, Will, I'm sorry. All I've got that might fit you are pajamas."

"Those ridiculous things?" Ensorra shakes her head. "Will, do you mind putting your dignity in the hands of Eights' taste? Clean clothes will help. A shower might, too."

After a moment, Will nods. "Okay. Yeah, that's okay."

"Alors. Eights, the guest room? We'll go -- you take care of your soup."

Will hesitates as he rises, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. Then, deliberately, he lets it go and drapes it across the back of the couch. When he looks up, Ensorra is watching him, but all she says is "This way."

Eights' house is huge, and as luxurious as Chainsaw's in its way, but Will doesn't appear to be taking much of it in. Ensorra hums softly as she leads him through the halls, but doesn't speak until they reach the bedroom.

"This is Eights' room," she explains, opening the door. Will finally looks up, surveying his surroundings. "Yours is through here. It has its own bathroom, as I recall, but I don't know how well-stocked it is right now. I'm not sure when her last guest was."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Will murmurs, absently and tonelessly polite. Ensorra glances at him, and he catches her eye. She gives him a small, sad smile and turns to lead him towards the door to his room. A thought sparks through the numbness he's hiding in: that the remarkable thing about Ensorra's gaze is that it manages to be piercing and courteously distant at the same time. It reminds him of Dr. Bloom from Chicago -- seeing and understanding, but never judging, never looking at Will like a journal article waiting to be picked apart and written.

The guest room is smaller, but comfortable. There are no windows, and the only doors are the one they've come through, the closet, and the bathroom. Will has a moment of claustrophobia, stepping backwards towards Eights' room -- then things click. It's not a cell, it's a fortress, complete with moat. He manages to relax with the realization, slightly, although the blank walls still seem unsettlingly close.

Ensorra has been rummaging in the closet, and emerges with the pajamas.

". . . Are those bunnies?"

Ensorra sighs. "I said they were ridiculous." Looking him over, she adds, "And huge. At least they won't be too small. Do you want me to leave while you change?"

"No." He holds out a hand, nodding at the bathroom. "I'll just . . . I don't want to be--"

When he doesn't continue, Ensorra simply nods and hands him the pajamas. "I know. Go on, get cleaned up and change. I'll be right here."

Will hesitates, bundling the soft cloth to his chest. Finally, though, he nods and steps into the bathroom, closing the door to just a crack. Ensorra settles onto the bed, kicking her heels absently. Inside, Will resolutely does not look at himself in the mirror, obscurely afraid of what he might see there, strips out of the borrowed clothes, and holds up the pajamas. They're definitely too big.

And covered in fluffy bunny rabbits.

He swallows the laughter threatening to erupt at the surreality of it. If he starts laughing, he'll be hysterical in minutes.

The shower is fully stocked, it turns out, and once he's under the spray he's distantly surprised to find that he desperately, desperately wants to be clean. Half a bar of soap washes down the drain before he forces himself to stop trying to scrub Chainsaw's touch off. That way lies raw skin and madness, and he's not sure he could handle the sight of his own blood swirling down the drain if he scrubs too hard. But it's hard to stop, hard to remember how to be rational about it.

It becomes abruptly, surprisingly easier when he notices that Ensorra is singing in the room outside.

It's not just that her voice is beautiful, a clear, strong alto -- or is it soprano? Mezzo soprano? Will doesn't have the first idea -- with just a trace of mellow husk that makes her sound like a real person instead of a cookie-cutter performer. Her voice retains all her personality; it transfixes, siren-like, and reverberates somewhere fundamental in his chest. Will thinks, out of the blue, that he'd like to hear her sing the Hallelujah Chorus. He's convinced she'd pull meaning from it that Handel never imagined.

(The idea of the Hallelujah Chorus down here is absurd. Chainsaw laughs in his head again, because there's no God, no point, just arbitrary cruelty and a world of nihilistic struggle. Why sing praises when nobody's listening?

The thought sends him out of the shower to grab a towel, rubbing desperately to distract himself, shying away from the awful prospect of insignificance.)

Ensorra's song cuts into his consciousness again, like water through sand. The melody reminds him of a hymn, something old and uncomplicated and beautiful. He can't make out any words; either there aren't any, or it's a foreign language. No -- definitely nonsense syllables.

When he emerges from the bathroom finally, slightly damp and rolling the sleeves of the pajamas up, Ensorra brings the phrase she's singing to a close on an unresolved seventh. Will fidgets slightly when the chord fades from the air. "Is that how it ends?"

"No," she says with a smile, "but this way the chord will bother me until I can write it down and finish it."

"Oh. You wrote that? Just now?"

"Oui."

"C'est belle."

Ensorra's smile widens. "Merci beaucoup. Parlez vous francais?"

"Not really. I learned a little in New Orleans, just a few phrases."

"Eights and I will have to watch what we say around you." She looks him over. "How are you feeling?"

He shrugs, eyes on his sleeves. Ensorra nods. "Come eat a little something, and then you can decide what you'd like to do next."

"I don't--" He swallows, blinks at the floor. "I don't know if I can eat."

"I know," she replies, gentle but firm. "I know it can be hard to do anything after a . . . time with a torturer. Especially La Tronçonneuse. I served a few contracts with him. Come try. You'll feel more human for having something inside you."

Will swallows again -- not quite a flinch at the not quite oblique mentions of torture and Chainsaw -- and nods. Ensorra hops off the bed and leads the way back towards the kitchen.

"You're a contractor."

She glances over her shoulder at him; his eyes are fixed on the carpet again. "Was. I was a contractor. I retired a few thousand years ago."

"You can do that?"

"Certainement. Most people do after, oh, two or three thousand, give or take. It isn't an easy job. Eights," she adds fondly, "is into her sixth, but she's un peu folle."

"She's something," Will agrees quietly. Ensorra smiles to herself, says nothing.

In the kitchen, Eights has ladled out two bowls of the soup. She glances up as they come in and gives Will a quick grin. "The bunnies suit you. Soup?"

Will looks resigned. "Yeah. Thank you."

"Sor'--" Eights passes her one of the bowls and grabs an empty one. "Figured you were staying for dinner."

"She's spending the night, isn't she?" Will asks, so absently that it takes Eights a second to realize what he said. When it sinks in, she double-takes. Ensorra looks taken aback as well -- and then bursts into laughter.

"You can follow the gist of the conversation -- oh, Eights, you made that call in front of him, didn't you?"

"--You speak French?" Eights demands. "Dammit, Will!"

And Will laughs. It's short, startled and startling; Will looks even more surprised by it than either woman.

He's quiet for the rest of dinner, and he only eats half the soup, but that burst of laughter hangs hopefully over the rest of the meal.

When Will pushes his bowl away, Eights and Ensorra exchange a glance, and Eights mimics him. "Done?"

"Yeah. Sorry," he mumbles, "I just . . ."

"No need to apologize," Eights reassures him. "You look exhausted. You wanna rest?"

After a moment, Will nods. Ensorra takes a last swallow of soup and stands, dabbing her lips. "Oui. It's been a long day."

Eights leads the way to the bedrooms, with Will beside her and Ensorra following. "If you need anything," she tells Will, "we're right outside. Don't hesitate to come ask."

"We won't disturb you," Ensorra adds with a smirk.

It coaxes a ghost of a smile out of Will. "Thick walls?"

Eights snorts. "Thick enough." She pauses at the connecting doorway, searches his face for a moment -- then holds out a hand, palm up. It seems to take him a second to see it, to process the implied invitation, to decide to take her hand. His grip is uncertain, fingers fluttering a little with indecision. Eights squeezes gently, a steady, reassuring counterpoint.

I'm so sorry, Will.

She doesn't say it. Not now. Let him rest a night without her reminding him of what happened and how it could have been different.

"Sleep sound, Will," she murmurs.

His grip steadies for a moment. "Thank you, Eights."

She smiles sadly, lets go of his hand. He steps into the room and shuts the door with a quiet, final click.

Eights sighs, and is honestly a little startled when Ensorra's arms slip around her waist. She turns and wraps her arms around the singer, resting her cheek against her hair. It's pretty hard to lean on Sor', but the tiny woman gives the impression of foundational support, bearing up.

"Whatcha think?"

Sor' turns her head, pillowed on Eights' breasts, and makes a thoughtful moue as her hand rubs small circles over Eights' back. "He was very . . . obedient.  I don't think that comes naturally to him, though."

Eights snorts. "Shit, no. If he was obedient he'd have never met Chainsaw in the first place. I wouldn'ta let him." She bends her head to give Sor' a quick kiss. "That was all you, cherie."

Sor' kisses back with a smile. "I hope it helped." The smile fades. "He's forcing himself to be strong. He may break yet."

Eights brushes her fingers over Ensorra's cheek, combs them through her hair. "I know. But he looked better from the second he saw you." Bending again, she purrs, "I should thank you properly."

Ensorra giggles like a teenager, muffles it with one hand, and tugs Eights across the room towards the bed.

In the other room, Will lies in his oversized pajamas in an unfamiliar bed, listening to the faint sounds from the other room, and feels like a child, lost and afraid of the dark. A memory: Josh in the months after Dolarhyde's attack, refusing to sleep until he and Molly had checked every corner of the house, a baseball bat in hand -- refusing to let Will help, because Will had proved he couldn't protect them well enough, and Will had been part of the monster.

He gets up, knowing how completely illogical it is, and checks the closet and bathroom. Empty.

He wishes that it made him feel better. All it does is make him feel small and alone, and the formerly too-small room suddenly seems vast.

Curled under the blankets, he strains to hear Eights and Ensorra -- the comfort of knowing they're there outweighs the flicker of embarrassed guilt over eavesdropping on their tryst -- and eventually drifts off, exhausted.

***

Do you dream much, Will?

Oh yes, Dr. Lecter. Will dreams.

He is lying on the cold tile floor, pinned under the weight of Chainsaw. The torturer's hand wraps around Will's penis, gentle as a lover. He strokes it to hardness, jerks Will to the edge, as his bloodstained grin hangs over Will's face.

Filthy little beast beast beast beast beast beast, Chainsaw hisses as Will reaches orgasm, gasping. His semen splatters on his belly and thighs. It gleams black in the moonlight.

Chainsaw is gone. Will is dangling from his hands in the circle of a spotlight, his toes scrabbling uselessly for purchase on the floor. His body is so heavy that his shoulders are straining in their sockets, far too heavy to move, or perhaps he has been told not to move. Impossible to tell. Something is stalking around the margin of light and darkness, growling. It might be a chainsaw; it might be some enormous creature waiting to tear him apart, all teeth and claws.

Lecter's soft artist's/surgeon's hand rests on Will's chest, over the frantic pounding of his heart. Ah, yes, says the doctor, there's that fear we talked about.

Please, Will begs him, please. You said it all had an end. I need you. I want you to. Please.

Lecter smiles like an angel. I Will.

He steps back and turns to Starling in her white evening dress. She draws the thin knife from between her breasts and hands it to him hilt-first. Lecter gives her a chaste kiss on the lips, a benediction. Clarice turns to the suspended Will and gives him the kiss. Her lips are cold and taste of sea spray.

Lecter steps forward and puts both hands on Will's shoulders. Will lifts his face to return the kiss. Lecter's lips are light and dry and taste of the Louisiana swamp where dogs sometimes drowned. The doctor steps back again. The knife in his hand is a bright line of white in the spotlight.

Then it stabs into Will's stomach, and rips upwards to his ribs, and oh God, oh God, he said it wouldn't hurt, this was supposed to end the pain, end everything, No, please, why?

Red liquid is fountaining from Will's side, but it isn't blood. It's seconds, ticktickticking out of his body and spilling on the floor, washing around his ankles, his calves, his knees. It doesn't stop. It will never stop. Chainsaw's laughter is echoing around the walls of Will's skull as red time fills the room, higher and higher.

How does it feel? Chainsaw asks.

The tide closes over Will's mouth. His nose. His eyes.

***

The shout, muffled though it is by sleep and pillow and walls, is loud and panicked enough to pull Eights out of her post-coital doze. When it repeats, a desperate no!, she bolts out of bed and heads for the guest room. Behind her, Ensorra sits up, bleary-eyed, and follows.

"Will?"

The top blanket has been thrown to the floor, and the sheets are in disarray. Will is in a fetal curl at the edge of the bed, in danger of falling off. Safety and snapping him out of the nightmare will have to outweigh his aversion to being touched; Eights grabs him by the shoulder and hauls him onto the bed. He cries out again, but doesn't wake.

"Will! Wake up!"

She shakes him, and his eyes finally fly open. He struggles away from her, driven by pure instinctual fear. One flailing hand connects with her cheek, hard enough to sting but probably not to bruise -- she doesn't even have to think to ignore it.

"Stay away from me--"

"Will, it's okay, it's okay, c'mon, look at me--!"

"Get away--"

He scrambles backwards, breath coming hard, and hits the headboard. Eights sits back on her heels and holds up her hands, palms out, non-threatening. The gesture's semi-pointless -- Will curls again once his back is to the wall, shaking hands covering his head. "Will, Will--"

A touch on her arm makes her look up. Ensorra pushes past her, cinching her robe closed (which suddenly makes Eights aware that she's wearing a T-shirt and nothing else), and kneels in front of Will.

"Will."

Even Eights sits up straighter at the force in Ensorra's voice. Will goes entirely still -- even the hoarse rasp of his breath halts momentarily.

"Will, look at me."

He does.

There are tears in his eyes.

Eight-Hour thinks she might have just heard her heart crack for the first time in a long time.

"I can't," he whispers. "I can't, I can't do it, not forever -- it, it'll never end, never. Oh, God, I just wanted things to stop, just, just once, I-I-I want it to go away and it won't, ever, and there's no point."

His voice breaks on the last word, and his head falls into his hands again. A moment later, his shoulders start to shake.

Eights can't think of a goddamn thing to say. For half a second she wishes she could remember ever feeling pain, just so she can understand where he's coming from a little bit better, so she can empathize a little more. Nihilism's never been one of her problems, though.

Ensorra leans forward and puts a hand on Will's shoulder; he jerks away, but when she murmurs his name again, he stills and lets her touch him.

"Will, you're safe here. Nothing more, now. I promise."

He shakes his head mutely, disbelieving. Ensorra sighs and moves closer, murmuring his name to keep him with her at least for a minute. Eights shifts forward as well, half-drawn by her voice. He lets Ensorra put her arm around him, and when she guides his head to her shoulder he goes unprotestingly, huddling against her.

Ensorra looks up, sad-eyed, and holds her free hand out to Eights. Eights takes it, slides one arm around Sor', wraps the other -- more hesitantly -- around Will. Ensorra begins to hum a lullaby.

They stay on his bed, holding him close, until he sobs himself to exhaustion again.

Eights counts his breaths as they finally even out and slow. He mutters something sleepily, muffled against Ensorra's neck. Eights rubs his shoulder. "What was that?"

"Thanks," he repeats, in a whisper.

A small, sad smile. "Sure."

"Do you want us to stay?" Ensorra adds. A moment; Will nods, and Ensorra settles more comfortably again. "All right. Pas de problème."

Will whispers something else, under the sound of Ensorra starting to hum again. It takes Eights a second to decipher it.

Sorry.

Something that's been building up inside Eights for a while now snaps.

"Ain't a thing to be sorry for," she reassures him, squeezing his shoulder. Her tone, soft as it is, makes Ensorra look up sharply. Eights meets her eyes, thin-lipped, and shakes her head before leaning in to kiss her lightly.

"I have to go do something," she whispers. "You gonna be okay here for a little while?"

Sor' watches her for a long moment, and then nods. Eights kisses her again. "Thanks. I'll be back in a few hours." A last backrub for Will, who looks to be almost out, and then she leaves to pull on jeans, boots, and a jacket.

It gets chilly on the motorcycle when you're riding at night.

***

Jasmine does not look particularly pleased to be answering the door.

"Oh, shit, am I interrupting a sentence?" Eights asks, eying the green-handled knife in Jasmine's hand. "I figured you'd just be asleep. It can wait a while."

"Good," Jasmine says, turns, and leaves.

Eights putters around the main hallway for an hour or so, trying to hold on to her anger. Rage doesn't come naturally to her, especially not this kind of bloody-minded desire for revenge. Every time she starts to lose her grip on it, though, she reminds herself of Will convulsing on Chainsaw's floor -- Will staring emptily into space -- Will sobbing and broken and still apologizing for it -- and her heart starts to pound in her ears again.

Jasmine finally reappears, heralded by the click of her heels, wiping blood off her hands with a towel. Eights greets her with a quiet "Hi." Jasmine greets her with a brief, hard kiss, begun and ended abruptly, as if the gesture is an obligation rather than a pleasure.

She must be in a good mood.

Eights catches a glimpse over the torturer's shoulder of a chubby man emerging from the dungeon, in boxers and an unbuttoned shirt, clutching a pair of jeans to his chest. He looks terrified; he's shaking so badly Eights can hear the zipper of his jeans rattling. He disappears from view, and the door slams.

"What was the sentence?"

Jasmine rolls her eyes and turns away, clicking towards the kitchen. "Ten hours. Rapist."

Don't touch me! Will's voice shouts in Eights' memory, and the anger flares up again. "Really."

Jasmine glances over her shoulder, eyebrows arching. "What do you want, Eight-Hour?"

Eights takes a deep breath. "Right now, Chainsaw's locked in his dungeon. Alone."

Jasmine's sudden sharpened focus is practically tangible. Another deep breath; she chooses her next words with great deliberateness.

"As far as I'm concerned, for the next twenty-four hours, his name is mud."

Jasmine watches her for a long moment, head on one side. "What brought this on?"

"He hurt a friend of mine," she says, tightly. Interest glints in Jasmine's eyes, but she doesn't ask for further details.

A thoughtful pause. Then -- "Fine."

Eights keeps herself from biting her lip, nods firmly. "Fine."

Jasmine moves, striding towards Eights. For a moment, she thinks the torturer is going to touch her, or speak -- but after one chillingly amused smile, Jasmine moves on past her, towards the hallway. Eights lets out a breath, turns and heads back out towards the night. The measured click of Jasmine's heels on the stone floor behind her is like the ticking of a time bomb.

***

When Eights gets back to her own house, she finds Ensorra sleeping in her bed. A quick glance into the guest bedroom reveals that Will has fallen back to sleep, curled around himself, but quiet and breathing evenly. 'Sor wakes as Eights slips back into the warmth of the bed.

"Salut," she murmurs sleepily, rubbing one eye.

"Allo." Eights snuggles close, and 'Sor obligingly lets her tangle their legs and wrap an arm around her waist. "Comment est-il?"

'Sor sighs. "Je ne sais pas. Il est endormi. Où es-tu allée?"

Eights yawns, nuzzling her face into Ensorra's shoulder. "Dehors."

Ensorra props herself up on one elbow, dislodging Eights; the contractor starts to protest good-naturedly, but Ensorra catches her eye. "Est-ce quelque chose de mal?"

Eights' face goes blank for a moment. Then, nuzzling into 'Sor's shoulder again, she mumbles, "Je ne sais pas."

She wishes she did.

***

Dicking around in the dungeon with no on to work on gets old, Chainsaw discovers, after the first hour or so. After eight hours -- hah -- it's boring and annoying.

Steps on the stairs outside bring him up off the table where he's been lying, head pillowed on his hands. He grabs a knife on his way to the door.

"Listen, baby," he growls as it starts to open, "I kn--"

Grey eyes lock on him.

His own eyes go wide.

The struggle for control is a foregone conclusion, brief and brutal.

Jasmine leaves him his voice as she takes the knife from his hand and makes him walk backwards into the room, clearing the doorway. She tests the blade with her thumb as she steps into the room, and looks unimpressed.

"That vindictive little shit," Chainsaw grates out.

Jasmine looks up and smiles. "Quite."

Chainsaw continues backing up until he hits the table, and there he stands, frozen, as Jasmine wanders around the perimeter of the room and examines his tools critically. Eventually, she discovers the belt sander.

Now she looks thoughtful.

"I am curious," she comments as she walks back towards him (a casual thought brings him to the center of the room, standing stiffly upright with his legs apart and his hands clasped behind his head), "what you could have done to motivate such displeasure from Eight-Hour."

"I told her no more sex if she keeps coming home smelling like your pussy."

She ignores the crudity, testing the controls of the sander. "I know you hurt a friend of hers."

"Then why'd you ask, you dumb bitch?"

Jasmine looks up and smiles again. "I will rephrase. I am curious what you could have done, and who you could have done it to, to motivate such displeasure from her."

"None of your fucking business, cunt."

She shrugs. "Very well."

***

"Will! His name's Will, he's new, he had a sentence a month ago, and I picked him up--"

"Where does he live?"

"Oh fffffuck you bitch--"

"Where does he live, Chainsaw?"

"I don't -- look him up, Will Graham -- in Caret One--"

"Hm."

"Fuck . . . ah, God, shit . . ."

"Tell me exactly what you did to him."

***

 

A day passes.

When Will finally wakes up, bleary-eyed and quiet, Ensorra is gone and Eights is cooking omelettes. She's acquired real clothes for him -- including shoes -- and chats at him cheerfully about her music collection, and Ensorra, and French, while he eats.

She never actually says do you want to stay here longer, so he never has to say no. After he's fed and clothed, it's tacitly understood that he'll be leaving now; she gives him a ride to the subway and promises to call and check on him later.

Another day. Two.

Will doesn't leave his apartment. He spends a lot of time in the shower and a lot in bed, staring blankly at the walls. Losing sleep, forgetting to eat -- it's like being in the hospital again after Hobbs. He's self-aware enough to make the connection, but has trouble making himself care. The bitter thought that he has plenty of time to waste on reliving the trauma won't leave him alone.

(Eternity is heartless, but it's not as incomprehensible as he thought. It means this, forever: blank walls and a blank mind with the vivid memory of pain and unwanted intimacy waiting to spill out over the blankness like an oil slick. The physical invasion, Chainsaw's fingers forced into his mouth eyes torso rectum wounds, is only part of it; the way the torturer opened up his emotions as casually as Dr. Lecter ever did, with all the gleeful ease of a child throwing a water balloon, is just as bad. Not worse, though. A more constant companion, perhaps.)

Eights visits on the first two days, makes him eat, gets him to talk a little. On the second visit he asks her to leave him alone for a few days, and she reluctantly agrees. Everyone deals the way they have to deal. Sometimes being alone has its benefits. And Eights believes, firmly, that Will is going to be all right. There'll be ice skating at the Crescent before Will breaks completely.

Eights' faith in him helps, obscurely, whether or not he shares it.

***

Sending Eights away does mean that by the fourth day, he's out of coffee. And he could really use coffee; he slept badly last night, and a bachelor's breakfast of toast over the sink just seems inadequate without a mug of something black beside him.

The doorbell rings.

That doesn't make sense. Nobody uses the doorbell. Eights lets herself in half the time, and Chainsaw wouldn't--

He stops the thought and calls a sleepy "Coming," to whoever it is, detouring into the bedroom to grab a T-shirt and pull it on. He's still half-tangled in it when he opens the door. "Ye--"

A face is screaming in agony in front of him.

He jerks back half a step, registers the fact that the face is ink, not flesh, a tattoo on a woman's collarbone, and looks up.

Jasmine looks down at him, smiling very slightly. "Will." It doesn't sound like a name -- more like a noun, an abstract. "That is your name, yes?"

Will swallows. "I'm Will. Yes." Tattoos, green and white leather -- there's only one woman Downside who this could be. "You must be Jasmine."

"Precisely." She tilts her head slightly, studying him like a cell on a microscope slide. It makes him want to hide. "You are very interesting to me."

"Really."

She doesn't appear to have noticed him speaking. "Eight-Hour is very fond of you. It is difficult in the extreme to motivate that woman to revenge, and yet you appear to have managed it."

Will blinks. "What?"

 

[in progress, obviously]