Disclaimer: I do not own John, Amanda, or the movie Saw.

Author's Note: This is a gift for a friend of mine, Lain. While I realize that John and Amanda were supposed to have a father/daughter relationship, I love this couple.

Also, this was betaed by Salem Saori.

---

Ticking Past the Hour

'Trust me.'

Amanda stares down at him, shaking her head in negation. 'John, I can't.'

John smiles at her understandingly, but he doesn't relent. Even in the middle of the Venus Fly Trap, he looks utterly placid, as utterly tranquil as he would any other day. 'I will make it,' he insists calmly, his eyes smiling. 'I need to know if there's enough time for him to make it, Amanda.'

Her hands tremble as she twists the timer into place. John looks so calm, as if he's not in danger, but her eyes are still fixed on the spikes. They could so easily tear into his, take away everything that means something to her. So easily… too easily.

'If you panic,' he murmurs. 'Then you won't be able to make it. If you stay calm, then there's no reason you can't survive. You know this, Amanda. You were willing to overcome your panic.'

She doesn't believe him, not in any measure. It seems to her that she had felt plenty of panic while in the bear trap, but John is firm in his conviction. Her hands twist the timer, and it takes effort to simply leave it at sixty seconds, to let it go and back away. She doesn't want to do this, not to him, but she knows she can't refuse.

'Relax,' he says soothingly, and she almost laughs; he's the one that should need consoling, not her. 'My life means too much to throw away.'

John lifts his hand as if to touch her before realizing they're bound. The binds are a useless addition, since the timer won't go off until after he's unbound, but he wants the full experience.

It takes effort, but she nods to him, backs away from the chair. He sits there, smiling calmly, eyes lightly closed in concentration. He doesn't have to cut anything out of his eye. After all, he's already in enough pain from the cancer, and there's no reason to put his body through anything that could cripple his purpose. However, he does have to concentrate, to keep his own fears of death under control.

Amanda's job is simple. She has to tell him a day – a birthday, an anniversary, something to that degree – and John has to stay calm enough to remember the numbers of the date and open the safe on the table. That safe contains the key, and Amanda already set it for the date.

Struggling out of the binds, in his opinion, would get his heart beating and help the fear set in, the fuzzy confusion that could cloud his memory. When in fear, remembering something as simple as a date can be a damn near impossibility.

'I'm ready,' he says.

He struggles hard and fast, and it's such a change in demeanor that Amanda is momentarily frightened. He almost seems like a true captive, frightened and panicked, but she knows – because logic tells her – that he's acting for the sake of the test. However, her hands clench, and she has to will herself not to help him.

John manages to struggle from the binds, standing. The wire snaps and the ticking begins, and Amanda is almost positive that the flicker that goes through his eyes is genuine fear. But it fades, and he stares at her piercingly.

'The date,' he says flatly.

Amanda shouts it out immediately. 'My birthday!'

John is evidently shocked, but he wastes no time. He goes to the safe, twisting the dial. 'You're too soft,' he says harshly while he works. 'If you wanted to test me, you should have told me something difficult, Amanda. You cannot be soft.'

Amanda knows he could have remembered the day they met, the day he first saw her, even the day he first kissed a girl; his memory is extraordinarily sharp. But she couldn't risk it, couldn't do it, and she doesn't know whether to feel ashamed or not.

The safe pops open, and the key is there, smeared in a clear, jellylike substance. He wanted it to be realistic, as if it were covered in blood. The frustration and panic that comes with a slick key is predictable – after all, it had nearly cost Amanda her own life – and he wants to have the full experience.

The key slips, and Amanda knows she's having trouble breathing now. He grabs it quickly, slides it into the lock, and snaps it open. The Venus Fly Mask is quickly pulled off to set on the table, and twenty-nine seconds later, it snaps closed.

John stands there for a moment, his body tense, his expression hard. 'You cannot be so soft,' he tells her again, but his voice is far less harsh. When she approaches him, his hand immediately lays on her shoulder, squeezing softly. 'You have to be stronger than this. Be brave, Amanda.'

A moment later, the key is set back into the safe. 'Set it again, Amanda.'

---

She hates the infections. Over the past year, their frequency has become more and more intense, to the point wear he's almost never healthy, almost never able to walk on his own. She presses the cool cloth to his forehead, wiping away the heavy sheen of sweat upon his brow. He unconsciously shudders at the cold sensation, but his eyes don't open. His lips tighten beneath the oxygen mask; his breath thickens with wet, heavy gasps.

The pain must be extraordinary.

She smiles to herself, tightening a hand around his. It's true that this man has suffered through more pain than most human beings. The cancer spread through his body suffocated him, elicited infections that caused him to go through days, sometimes weeks of agony. Sometimes it even lowered him to delirium, and she knows that without her help, he would have slipped, failed in his work. Every plan, every trap is utterly exacted, planned to the smallest detail. But his mind isn't always clear enough to see all these details.

That's why he needs her.

The television screen at the foot of the bed flickers to life. Amanda starts at the sudden hum of the television; she'd forgotten that it's almost time. The bleary image of a man locked to the Venus Fly Trap mask appears on the screen, although the occupant is still in a deep, drugged sleep. The invention – the fly trap – is a lovely device John had put together with his own hands.

The man's been sleeping there for three hours now, but the sedative is supposed to be wearing off at any time now.

John had performed a rather long surgery to place that key behind the man's eye, but the exertion, the concentration had worn him down. John had fallen sick towards the middle of the surgery, but had continued to push through until it was complete. Despite the pain, he was completely enraptured in his task, excited by the prospect of seeing this man's test, to see if the man was willing to survive.

Amanda had watched from the side, clutching the tools in her hands, tremoring as she watched him work. Blood dribbled onto the table from John's hands; she felt more excited than frightened by it, and she knows that John could sense that in her. He smiled then, a faint, content smile; he had seemed almost as peace.

Amanda's eye stay fixed on the television screen. She knows the man has no chance; he's just slime, a useless creature. John must know that there's no hope for this sick joke of a human, but he insists that the choice to live or die is still up to the man. Really, that might be true, but Amanda isn't naïve. John enjoys cleansing the world of these useless leeches of society.

She had once been one of those people he had sought to destroy, but she had been able to make the choice. Her life was important, more important than the man she had stabbed and torn apart. That man was just a agoraphobic, over dependant, over aged child. John had told her everything about that man after her escape.

'Would you have been able to cut out your own eye?' he asked her once, the day they were first planning this man's trial. 'Amanda?'

John didn't want a verbal answer, she knew that. She took the razor from the table, plunged the blade into the vein of her wrist. She tore the flesh apart, cutting deeply until crimson blood poured from her profusely. Would she be willing to cut her own flesh in order to survive? Yes. She would do it just to make herself worthy of him; she was beyond weakness, even beyond the fear of pain.

There was nothing to fear anymore. She had passed her test.

Afterwards, John had tended to her, sewn her wounds closed with gentle fingers caressing her blood-soaked arm. His fingers were dry, soft, deceitfully tender. He had wiped the blood away and wrapped her in gauze; she would have been happy enough to suffer through infection and slow healing, just to prove she could, but he needed no more proof.

She'd already shown him what he needed to see.

John stirs from his sleep, the pale eyes flickering open. They're glassy from exhaustion, tears lingering against his lashes. Amanda immediately brushes the moisture away, a reflexive gesture that causes him to faintly smile. The physical boundaries have long since been diminished, ever since it had become her duty to care for him.

John's fingers move to the oxygen mask, and he lifts it from his face. His voice is the faintest whisper. 'Is he awake?' he rasps.

Amanda's eyes flicker to the screen. The man is stirring, but not awake. 'Not yet,' she says, moving to dab his forehead with the cool cloth again. The coldness causes his to wince, but she knows his fever has to stay down. If she can keep his fever down without him having to dip his head into ice water, then she'll feel accomplished. She knows that, while he has a high pain tolerance, ice water is hell.

She helps him sit up, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He leans against her heavily; he's become accustomed to needing her help in this way. She can hear the wet hitch of his breath, see his fingers tighten on the covers around him. His eyes are wide, searching for the television screen; he wants to see it, wants to see if this man has the stomach to cut his own flesh in order to prevent death.

It takes time before the man awakens, before the screaming and panic begins. Amanda holds John up to watch, she can feel the thudding heartbeat of the man beneath her fingertips. John's breathing is still slow, but she knows he's forcing it, forcing himself to maintain control.

But the heart never lies. She lays her palm against his chest, the quickened pace of his blood eliciting an excited gasp to escape her lips.

On the screen, the man throws the scalpel. John's breath hitches, and she knows that he's both excited and disappointed. The prospect of this man succeeding, of being able to tear through his own gelatin for the key had been an enticing one. But it's true; most of these humans are not brave enough to survive.

There's a loud snap as the trap closes, and Amanda almost hears the spikes tearing through his delicate flesh, although she realizes it could just be her imagination. The video reception isn't clear, but Amanda saw the defeat in the man long before the trap finally slammed shut. The hunch of his shoulders, the stillness that sudden overtook the man's body.

The weakness.

There's a certain calm that comes after the death, a silence only broken by the fuzzy hum of the television screen. John's heart slows, his posture relaxes. Both of them feel some sort of satisfaction at seeing the man die, a satisfaction that's twisted, utterly wrong. But neither of them care; to them, such a thing feels right.

John falls asleep soon after, and Amanda is surprised that he does so while still cradled in her arms. She doesn't tuck him in, but stays like this, feeling the comforting weight against her body. She buries her face against the powder white hair, breathing in his scent; salt, musk, and sickness. A few mere centimeters from her, cancer is spreading inside his mind.

She forces herself to release him, to tuck him back into the bed gently. She knows she can't feel like this, not for him; the cancer… he wouldn't want her to do something so self-destructive. He's her mentor, and old enough to be her father – or her grandfather.

Yet, no one… had ever seen her. Never believed in her, trusted her. John is unconditional in his trust; it's almost as if he knows that he can trust her. It's not just a blind leap of faith, not simply a gamble.

His utter conviction that she will be able to carry on his work is… intoxicating. The way he looks at her. That smile, those eyes that seem to know her as if he's known her from childhood. The way he treats her, that equality despite her faults, her failures… she thrives on it. It's an addiction.

The drugs have finally kicked in, and John is calm; he doesn't look like he's in pain. He's smiling, a faint curl of his lips, a contented sigh passing from his lips. She brushes her hand over the feverish skin, soothes back his hair with her fingertips.

So little time left. The clock on the wall ticks closer to the hour, and every click of the hand only deepens the acceptance that his time is running out.

'You're a cruel man, John,' she tells him, a quiet sigh. It's true that he's cruel, cruel for showing her a kind of love and acceptance that she will lose. In a short time, she will be left alone to her work, this cruel, isolated life. She will have no one at her side, no one… and she knows she can't allow others into her world.

She leaves the room, leans against the door the moment its shut. She craves drugs, alcohol, something to numb the sudden pain that grips her heart. But she knows she can't; those urges will only cloud her judgment. The high she got from the kill is diminished into the low of utter loneliness that it brings.

It feels strange, to feel so lonely when John's still with her.

John…

'Amanda…'

She starts at the faint sound of his voice from the other side of the door. She immediately opens it, only to see John standing weakly, but proudly next to the bed. He doesn't look as weak as she knows he is, he looks strong for managing to stand. She walks over to him, grabs his arms.

'What are you–'

John smiles, a hand touching hers. It's enough to silence her, and she realizes he's simply too tired to hold a lengthy conversation. He wants to say something, and he doesn't have time for debate. Realizing this, Amanda stays silent.

'You say I'm cruel,' he speaks softly, his gentle voice drifting over her senses like a caress. 'Have I wronged you?'

Amanda stares up at him for a long moment. She isn't so much surprised that he heard her, but that he cared enough to bring it up, to work through the exhaustion to speak with her of it. She feels a measure of guilt; he's the only person she could feel guilty over nowadays.

But she still cannot lie to spare him. 'Yes,' she says, bitterness seeping into her voice.

John doesn't look hurt, but curious, inquisitive. His hand touches her face, a gesture that feels more like torture than comfort. She leans into the touch nonetheless.

'You showed me a life that I want,' she whispers, laying a hand over his. She can tell by his gaze that he knows, knows how she sees him. It's beyond just platonic. 'But that life… is meaningless if you're just going to leave me.'

John gaze softens. 'Amanda,' he whispers, his hand caressing his cheek. 'You know that this is bigger than just you and me… This is more important than just…'

'Bullshit!' interrupts Amanda, frustrated. 'This is only about us, not them! This is your experiment; it's never about them!'

'It's all about them, Amanda,' he tells her firmly. 'This is their test; I want them to understand… I want them to live their lives as fully as they can. I want them to understand death, to understand not to waste their potential… If they aren't willing to do that, then they don't deserve to live.'

Amanda looks at him; there's no lie in his eyes. He's actually genuine.

'You have a purpose, Amanda,' he murmurs, a hand stroking her hair back with gentle ease. His warmth soothes her, calms her. 'You can't give up just because it's difficult. Give your life meaning, and show them what life really is.'

He touches beneath her chin, tilting her head up to look at him fully. 'Don't forget that, Amanda. You're stronger than that. You were the only one who was willing to risk everything, the only one who knew how important life really is,' he says. 'Whether I'm in heaven or hell, know that I'll always be proud of you.'

It's something a father would say, but the way he's staring at her is not fatherly. It's a deep gaze, that glance that makes her feel like he's staring into her soul. His fingers touch her neck, a gentle, loving caress. His thumb traces along her jaw softly.

And then it ends.

John gets back into the bed, and she helps him get tucked in. He's asleep again before the hour, leaving her alone, but calm. He will die soon; there's no doubt of that. When he finally goes… John will bring the same calm that the man in the video did. The empty silence of death.

'Goodnight, John,' she murmurs, turning to go. She needs time to think, to look over John's inventions and contemplate what future she's approaching. She knows if she's going to do this, she has to accept it into her fate without reservation. This life has to become her, her identity, her passion, her dark love.

Even if it's for John, accepting it will not be easy. However… she knows she cannot turn back, not now. But was her life anymore preferable before he came to her?

No, not in any measure. John gave her a purpose and reason to exist, beyond just the floating highs of drugs and the deep lows of alcohol.

She walks through the room, through the contraptions he's put his love and passion into. The drawings, the plans are laid out; she only needs to pick them up and continue with the human tests, and she knows she can.

Her hands trace over the jagged edges of traps, the rifles, the timers that still send shivers down her spine.

These inventions aren't simply created by John, they are John. He's created hundreds of traps and tools, hundreds that he will never have the chance to use, but he's leaving them to her. In a sense, she will never be without him; he's all around her. His soul went into his work.

She finds it amongst the traps, the bear trap. Her fingers caress it slowly, along the hinges, the screws and gears. She doesn't feel fear now, not this trap. This was his gift to her; he had shown her the truth of life by forcing her to face death.

She picks up the trap, caresses the thick, gritty metal slowly. She remembers how it felt to be trapped in the blunt metal, remembers the thick taste blood. She picks it up, immediately shuddering at the memory of the stark weight against her head. She holds it, cradles it with a tenderness she realizes must be perverse.

Somehow, just holding it soothes the loneliness. Fearing her own death had been painful, but fearing his was that much more agonizing.

But to give his death meaning by continuing his work… that would truly honor his memory.

Amanda holds the trap close to her chest. The blood is still on it, black now after the months of drying. She wonders if she'll even use this trap, but no… this was her trap, and it feels so personal. She doesn't want to let any other filthy humans to bloody it, to ruin the sanctity of what it symbolized to her. Rebirth, truth, acceptance…

She sets the trap down before moving on, walking into his office. His jacket is slung over the chair, and she cannot resist the desire to pick it up, to wrap herself in the inviting warmth of it. She sits down in his chair heavily, stares down at the drawings strewn over the table, the designs of his work.

Everything around here is his. Everything.

She leans back, closes her eyes. Being surrounded by these things comforts her, the loneliness fades away.

---

Obi is lighting fires when John finds him, burning scraps of paper in his hand right outside the main entrance. Irritating, suspicious, and utterly obvious, but John doesn't approach him outright. It's more interesting to watch him light the fires, to be so fascinated by the dancing flames that lick into the air.

Using this man for his own ends seemed like a good idea, but as time has passed, John has come to realize how worthless this pyromaniac is. Obi lights fires and never feels the burns, and John finds that detestable. No one should go through life causing things and never feeling their effects.

John approaches him quietly, but Obi hears him.

'Are you really going to make that little skank your apprentice?' asks Obi snappishly. The slime ball should know not to speak to John that way, but he's arrogant; he believes that because John approached him outright, he is immune to judgment.

'Yes,' says John quietly. 'She is the only one worthy.'

Obi shrugs, setting the burning scraps on the ground. He stands, and John grimaces at the greasy appearance, the disgusting creature. Such a useless human, really; he doesn't even deserve a test, doesn't deserve the chance of survival. He simply deserves to die slowly and painfully. He deserves to have his flesh scalded until it curls away from his bones, to be suffocated and heated until he becomes nothing more than blackened ash.

'If you say so,' says Obi, voice quiet.

John leans back against the wall for a moment. Even though the infection is gone, he's still weak, it's still difficult to breathe. But he needs to give Obi his orders, and he doesn't want the man to enter his abode. The thought of his greasy hands touching his creations disgusts him, and John is even willing to suffer just to come to him.

'Here,' says John gruffly, holding out an envelope. 'You need to bring them to the house, one week from now. I will call you when it's time.'

Obi takes the envelope, opening it right there in broad daylight to look at the addresses, the pictures. John sighs in irritation; this man is disgustingly short-sighted.

'And if I do bring them, you'll let me see, won't you?' asks Obi, voice quietly hopeful. 'You'll let me watch them die?'

John smiles. 'You'll get a front row seat.'

The vicious grin on Obi's face is disgusting, disturbing, and John doesn't wish to see it anymore. He turns, opens the door and stands there for a brief moment. 'It would do you well not to insult Amanda again,' he tells him quietly. 'You never know when someone will take offense.'

Obi chuckles. 'Am I supposed to be afraid that you'll lock me up like one of your other test subjects?' he asks skeptically, so utterly arrogant than John knows the possibility hasn't even truly passed Obi's mind.

'Oh, it could happen,' teases John, but if Obi had looked at him, had seen his eyes, he would have known John was dead serious. 'I'll see you in a week, Obi.'

John walks into the lair, closing the door tightly behind him.