Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Donut was annoyed.

That was a massive understatement. It left out the part about how Donut was about ready to shit himself with fear. But it was so much easy to focus on the annoyance. And really, who wouldn't be annoyed in this situation? Anyone who was being sentenced to prison for murdering their roommate—an act of self-defence, but no-one had believed him—would be annoyed. But they'd be getting annoyed about other things. Like... well, the whole life sentence thing.

Donut's primary irritation at the moment was the orange jumpsuit that came with the territory. Orange wasn't his colour and it scratched and chafed something awful. Not to mention the crotch wasn't roomy at all.

Ugh.

“Move along,” the guard said, prodding him in the back with her nightstick. Donut quickly shuffled ahead to avoid further poking. He was fidgeting a lot, trying to get the jumpsuit in a position where it would stop chafing. Maybe the jumpsuit was the real punishment. Spending anywhere from twenty years to the rest of his life in this itchy jumpsuit? That was, at least to Donut, the stage of Hell that was always left out to stop people wetting their pants and crying in fear.

As they neared the warden's office, Donut started thinking about the other problems that prison life was bound to have. The same bland food, day in and day out. Laundry with no fabric softener. The fact that when—if—he left prison he'd be, at the very least, twenty years older. That part worried him the most. All his youth, gone. Gone!

Prison was not an inviting prospect. He was far too pretty for prison. If the movies and the occasional prison-themed porn had taught him anything, it was that guys like him were currency in a place like this. He didn't want to be currency! Prison guys looked like shaved apes, and that was way too close to bestiality. God, if he'd ever hoped the movies were wrong...

The guard directed him through a door, and upon entering Donut found himself in an office decorated top to bottom with war memorabilia. Posters, photos, medals that looked suspiciously like they were made out of plastic. And seated behind the desk was a man in his late fifties, by Donut's desk. Stocky and scarred. Military crew-cut and arms that could choke a python and probably had. The name plate on his desk didn't have a name, it merely said 'Sarge.'

“Sit down, Cupcake,” Sarge said, gesturing at the seat in front of his desk.

Donut's only audible response was a small grunt. His fear of everything around him was making it difficult to speak. He was lucky the grunt hadn't been a squeak. He sat down, uncomfortably aware of the guard still standing there, nightstick at the ready.

Sarge climbed to his feet and walked around him. Donut wondered if it was an intimidation tactic. Before long, Sarge stopped and snapped his fingers with frustration.

“Goshdarn it, you don't look like a sporty man. You look like a pansy,” he grumbled. “How is Red Team meant to smash the Blues into the dust if it consists of a pansy, a dirtbag and Simmons?”

“What's a Red Team?”

“Damn the dibs rule, damn it to heck,” Sarge continued, ignoring Donut's question entirely. “Damn Flowers, this is his fault. He called dibs on the last lifer, and we only have a cell open on the Red side. Conniving bastard. Well, you'll have to do. What's your name, Princess?”

“Um. Franklin Delano Donut... sir?” Sir felt right to say. This guy just looked so militant. The moment Donut said 'sir' a huge grin spread across Sarge's face.

“Well, some respect! Maybe you won't be so bad. I'm Sarge. Me and Flowers—captain of the guard, although I suspect subterfuge or something equally nefarious—are in charge of guarding you and the other criminals. Once we're done here, Tex will take you down to your cell. You'll be in the same row as those serving similar sentences. By which I mean other dirtbag murderers, both Red and Blue—“

“There's Blues as well?”

“—and you can have a nice chat with your fellow Reds about all the men you've gutted. It'll be just like in the army, son. Well, except what you did wasn't authorized by the military, and thus was wrong!”

“It was self-defence,” Donut protested. He'd been protesting ever since the police took him in, but it hadn't done anything.

“Yeah, kid, that's what they all say. Though to be honest, you don't look like no murdering scumbag to me. But all that means is that you're sneaky. ...Could always use a sneaky Red!”

“I'm not sneaky.”

“That's just what a sneaky person would say! Anyway, if you want to survive your time in here, here's a little Prison 101 for you, Cupcake. Be manly! Be tough! Maybe get one of them prison tattoos.”

Donut wrinkled his nose. Like he would ever get prison tattoos.

“Lift some weights and such. Well, this prison doesn't actually have a gym. But improvise!” Sarge thumped Donut on the shoulder in what was meant to be a manly gesture of comradeship. It was the most painful display of manly affection that Donut had ever received. “Stay on my good side, don't trust those goddamn Blues... do that and you'll live. Few scars, maybe. But a man should have a few scars to display his courage to the world!” Sarge looked at the guard. “Tex, take him down to the cells!”

The guard nodded and prodded Donut in the back. “Come along, you.”

Once they were away from the warden's office, Donut took his chances at asking a question.

“Uh... is Sarge alright?”

Tex snorted. “No. Sarge is insane.”

“Oh. That's reassuring,” Donut said faintly. “What's a Red?”

“Look at the ground,” Tex said, as she guided him into a cell block. Looking at the floor, Donut saw that there were two stripes painted on the ground, one on each side of the walkway. The left one was red, the right one blue. “Sarge ordered the inmates to be divided into two colours and now he forces them to play sports against each other. Who knows why. Boredom? Who the fuck cares. He runs 'Red' team and Flowers runs 'Blue' team.”

“Erm. Which sports do they make us play?

“Does it matter?”

It probably didn't. Donut wasn't brilliant at sports, with the exception of high school netball. That didn't feel like a prison sport.

“Anyway, you only play sports against the others in your row. For you, mostly other murderous lifers. And most of them are too lazy to act up.”

As they passed one cell, he heard footsteps stir and someone whisper, “Hey, Tex. Tex!”

Tex came to a halt. “Goddammit, what?! You, wait here,” she ordered, before backing down the walkway a little to talk to one of the inmates. Black hair and a goatee, maybe in his late thirties. Donut couldn't hear what they were saying, since they kept their voices low. But he could swear, although it had been a very quick, practiced movement, that the inmate had passed her something. A piece of paper?

After a few moments of talking, Tex walked back to Donut while slipping the paper into her pocket. The inmate with the goatee peered through the bars at Donut and grinned.

“Welcome to Hell,” he said.

“Church, don't be a dick,” another voice from the neighboring cell grumbled.

“Fuck off, Tucker.”

Donut didn't have a chance to respond before Tex pushed him further along the walkway. She stopped him again a few cells down and started rifling through her keys to unlock the cell. A minute later, it was open and she pushed Donut in none too gently.

The cell was sparsely decorated. A bunk with a lumpy mattress, footlocker, a slightly stained toilet and equally stained sink. Every piece of furniture was bolted to the ground, presumably to stop one of the bigger inmates from clubbing someone to death with it. While the cell wasn't as grimy as Donut had feared, it still smelt slightly of vomit. Donut wrinkled his nose. Lace. The cell needed lace. Or at least a nice rug.

“Don't make a fuss. Lights go out in a few minutes. If you make any loud noise or act out once that happens, you will be severely punished. Understood?” Tex said. Without waiting for a response, she slid the door shut. There was a small clang as she did so.

That tiny clang was the loudest sound that Donut had ever heard. It rung in his ears afterward. It had sounded so final. There was no getting out of this now. During his brief stay in the county jail—and that was nothing like federal prison, no hierarchy, everyone had just been waiting to go elsewhere—Donut had kept hoping. Maybe something would turn up. Maybe he'd be okay. He couldn't trick himself anymore. There was no getting out now.

Donut felt his eyes prickle and tried to hold back the tears. He couldn't cry. They could smell weakness. He just stood there, silently trying to fight back the sobs. He stood there for so long that the lights went out before he even reached his bunk.

Life. He was a lifer. His only chance at leaving this prison was parole, and he wasn't even eligible for twenty years. But that was still hope. He could behave for twenty years. He just had to behave... and survive. Twenty years without dying or going mad.

He could do that.

...There was no way he could do that. Who was he kidding? He wanted to cry already and it'd only been twenty minutes. How could he last twenty years?

But what other choice did he have?

Donut didn't sleep that night. This wasn't unusual since his roommate attacked him, but usually he managed an hour or two. He lay there and listened. He didn't hear much. All he heard was the guards occasionally pacing by. Sometimes he saw the brief flicker of flashlights. He did not know what to feel about the silence from the inmates.

It felt like that night went for eternity, although it was only nine hours. Donut lay there until the room started to lighten. He got up at that point and used the sink to wash his face, hoping it would help disguise how red his eyes were and how sticky the quiet tears had left his cheeks. He didn't look outside the cell. He just sat down on his bunk once he was done and waited.

Eventually, he heard more shuffling around. Quiet chatter between cells. Then a guard called out and there was a loud scraping sound as all the cell doors opened at once. He heard the word roll call being yelled out.

Standing up, Donut edged closer to the cell door and peered out nervously. Other inmates were wandering to their doors. Some looked sleepy. Others looked like they'd been up for hours, though few looked like they'd been up all night like Donut had. The inmate living in the cell to Donut's right had already emerged and was standing straight in front of his cell. A lanky, freckled guy whose stance looked too rigid and well-behaved for prison. Donut thought about saying hello, but he was afraid.

A guard paced along the walkway, holding a clipboard. He stopped in front of each cell, checking that the inmate was there and ticking them off. He stopped a couple of cells down and tapped on the bars.

“Come on, Grif, you have to get up!” he called. There was an angry mumble in reply. “Yeah, fuck you, too.” The guard looked at the lanky inmate. “Simmons, make sure he doesn't try to stay in bed all day.”

“Yes, sir,” the lanky inmate said immediately.

The guard nodded approvingly before moving on. When he stopped in front of Donut and squinted at his face, Donut noticed that one of the guard's eyes was damaged. There was a scar across it and the eye itself was milky white. Donut shivered.

“You're, uh...” The guard looked down at his clipboard. “...Donut? Wow, that's a name.” A couple of feet away, Simmons snorted quietly under his breath. “How much of a rundown have you gotten? I know the warden isn't the easiest person to talk to and... which guard led you here?”

“Tex.”

“Tex, huh? She can be pretty rough. Yeah, that's not a great start.” The guard looked at Simmons. “Can you handle guiding this kid around?”

“Yes, sir.”

The guard nodded again before looking at Donut. “Simmons will guide you around, then. You'll be fine. He's pretty well behaved for a murderer.”

“Uh,” Donut replied.

“If you have any problems, you can come to me. Name's York. I'm the nice guard—“

A guard from further away shouted, “York, get back to work!”

“Alright, alright!” York grinned sheepishly at Donut before moving on. As he did so, an inmate wandered out of the cell next to Simmons'. A fat Hawaiian guy who was fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.

“Don't smoke that shit near me, fatass,” Simmons complained. “Bad enough you're messing up your own lungs. Don't screw mine up as well.”

“Fuck you, that's a bonus,” Fatass retorted. “Might shut up your kissassing. 'Yes, sir, I'll wake him up. Yes, sir, I'll guide around the new fish.' What's next, you gonna shine his shoes and give him a blowjob?”

Simmons rolled his eyes. Fatass shifted a little so he could see Donut better. He looked him up and down before holding out his pack of cigarettes.

“Want one, new guy? One-time offer.”

“Um... is it true that cigarettes are used as currency? I saw it in a movie once and—”

“Well, I mean... sometimes. Anything people want, really.”

Donut eyed the cigarette packet before taking one warily. He didn't smoke, but it couldn't hurt to have something to offer. “Um. Thanks.”

“No problem.” The fatass took the pack back and stuck it back in his pocket. “I'm Grif. The kissass showing you around is Simmons. You're... is Donut actually your name? Is there literally anything else I can call you?”

“Um. Everyone calls me Donut. They always have.”

“That's awful. Nothing you face here's gonna be as cruel as whoever gave you that name,” Grif said.

“Oh. Really?”

“Well, no. Everything kind of sucks here. Or really sucks.”

“...Oh.”

Simmons rolled his eyes. “Grif, you're not helping.”

“Who said I was trying to help?”

At that point, the inmates further away started moving. Grif perked up and moved past Simmons and Donut.

“You handle the new kid, I've got shit to do,” he said before slipping past the people ahead and disappearing into the crowd.

“What's he—“

“Ugh. You'll see.” Simmons nodded his head forward. “Come on.”

Donut fell into step just behind Simmons, looking around apprehensively at the inmates around them and trying to look like he wasn't afraid.

“First-timer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?” Donut mumbled.

“Oh yeah, it is.” Simmons caught the look on Donut's face and said, “That doesn't mean you're going to die. Just try to look less afraid of things. Pretty much all of the guys on our row are first-timers, it's just... well, life sentences.”

“They all only committed one crime?”

“I didn't say that. I said they only got caught once.”

“Oh.”

They walked along quietly before Simmons said, “Since I'm your designated guide, I should probably ask... you have any questions?”

“Um, yeah, I was kind of... is there anywhere I can order stuff? I kind of wanted some lace—uh, I mean. Not lace.”

Simmons stopped to turn and stare at him. “Lace.”

“Erm... I mean... base. Baseball. Yes, I wanted baseballs.”

Simmons stared at him for a few more moments before saying, “Okay, uh... word of advice, since you seem set on getting transferred to the female prison. Don't put lace in your cell. Just don't. You don't want that kind of attention unless they have some great reason for leaving you alone. Here? Girliness? Really bad.”

“Yeah, I... okay. I meant baseballs.”

“No, you didn't.” Simmons started walking again. They were falling a little behind. “Now, if you need something... they might have it at the commissary. For basic things, go there. Snacks. Soap that hasn't been used by fifty guys. Things like that. We all have our accounts, and any money we earn from work goes into them. Same for any money sent from the outside.”

“I don't have any money from the outside. Not right now, I... a lot went into lawyer fees and cleaning up and stuff. Haven't managed contact with my mothers yet, either.”

“Too bad. Anyway, you can't use physical money, although you might get it here or there through... uh, not legal ways. But our prison has stamps that can be used. Kind of like prison currency.”

“Then why do I need the cigarette?”

“Sometimes bartering is cheaper. Supply and demand. Especially if... if you want something under the table.” Simmons kept his voice down, keeping a wary eye out for guards. “I prefer to stick with the commissary—no chance of getting in trouble—but if you need something they don't have... well, you have to go through other channels. Black market channels. Anything hard to get is expensive. Cigarettes are valuable. There's always someone who wants cigarettes. Other things are valuable, too. You wouldn't get much with one cigarette, though.”

“Can I know who? Not that I'm going to—“

“Your best bet is Wyoming. There's a few small-time smugglers here and there. But Wyoming can get anything. He's been here for a long time, lifer in a different block. Older man. Mustache. You will see the mustache.”

“Okay. So... commissary and Wyoming.”

“Right.” Simmons spoke at a normal volume again. “Now... guards. Most guards are okay. Just doing their jobs. Be really well-behaved around Tex, Wash and South. They're much harsher. York and North are more easygoing, although pushing North too far is a really bad idea. He's got a mean streak—he's related to South—it's just better hidden.”

“...North and South?”

“North and South Dakota. Don't make fun of their names. If you need to...” Simmons lowered his voice. “If you have to squeal, don't go to York, whatever you do. He can't lie at all under pressure. North's the most likely to keep you anonymous. But really... you shouldn't do that at all. If anyone finds out...” Simmons let the sentence hang.

“I know what happens to prison snitches,” Donut said.

“I hope so. You look like the type, okay? Just warning you.”

“Eh? Oh, I guess I can see that.” Donut had been a huge gossip in the past.

They entered the cafeteria. Most of the inmates had already lined up and a fair amount had sat down at the tables to eat. Donut followed Simmons to the line, peering around. He saw that Grif had already gotten his food, but was wandering the tables and talking to various inmates. A pile of fruit was accumulating on his tray. Donut glanced at Simmons, who was watching Grif with disapproval.

“He's going to kill his liver one day,” Simmons muttered.

To Donut's mild surprise and delight, despite what the movies had told him, the food was not as terrible as he'd anticipated. He'd expected gruel or food with bugs living in it. Instead he got cereal, a bread roll, a piece of fruit and a box of orange juice. Cheap quality, it was true, but otherwise rather similar to what Donut would have eaten if he didn't have time to cook pancakes.

“You'll get sick of it soon enough,” Simmons muttered when Donut voiced this sentiment out-loud. Grif, meanwhile, had gotten into an argument with someone on the other side of the cafeteria. Simmons eyed this development, frowning, before saying, “Wait here. Just making sure he doesn't do anything dumb.”

Donut watched Simmons leave to talk to Grif and the inmate he was arguing with. He stood there for a few moments before wondering where he was supposed to go. Other inmates were jostling him slightly as they moved past, though it didn't seem to be on purpose. Maybe he should go somewhere less crowded—

Donut moved a step to the left and immediately walked smack into a wall. Only it couldn't be a wall because he was still in the middle of the cafeteria.

Donut froze, then breathed in slowly. He was almost too terrified to turn and look, but he managed it and came face to face with a wall of orange fabric. He had to look upwards to see the inmate's face. It reminded him of his old roommate, and that was just not what he wanted to remember right now.

“Oh my god,” Donut squeaked. “Please don't hurt me.”

It was not his bravest moment.

The inmate blinked slowly at him, scrunching his nose a little. Panic was building in Donut's chest. This man was the exact kind he'd been afraid to meet in prison. Built along the lines of a gorilla. He knew how this was going to go. The inmate would grin and make a lot of comments about how pretty he was—because Donut was pretty, dammit, and normally he was happy about it but—and then he'd somehow arrange to get Donut as his cellmate because all the crazy, rapey psychos had connections and—

All those thoughts flew out the window as soon as the inmate opened his mouth. Out came the most cheerfully dimwitted voice Donut had ever heard.

“Hello! You are the new person! You are very tiny!” the man said. He did grin at Donut, but it was a genuinely friendly smile.

“I... I'm not that tiny. You're just ginormous,” Donut said under his breath.

“My name is Caboose! Church said that was a fitting name, but I do not know what he meant.” Caboose reached out and shook Donut's hand cheerfully, nearly breaking all his fingers in the process. “I saw you come in yesterday. You are on the Red side! Which means, according to angry sergeant, that we are mortar M&Ms.”

“What? ...Did you mean mortal enemies?”

“Yes. Mortar M&Ms,” Caboose said seriously. “Because of the colours. Red M&Ms are meaner. That is what the commercials said. But we will be the best, most friendliest mortar M&Ms ever.”

Donut was completely lost at this point and felt it best to simply agree. “Uh, sure. M&Ms for life.”

Caboose smiled brightly at him in response. Before he could say anything else, Simmons reappeared. He was dragging Grif with him.

“You met Caboose, I see. That's almost everyone from our row, then,” Simmons said. He shot Caboose a wary glance, before nudging Donut slightly away from him. “Come on. We sit over here. Best not to go sitting with strangers.”

They started making their way towards the tables. Donut still following just behind Simmons. Grif, however, fell back a little to walk next to Caboose.

“Hey, Caboose,” Grif said. “Can I have your fruit? I'll give you a tiny chocolate bar.”

“I have to eat the fruit and get the vitamins and be big and strong,” Caboose said stubbornly.

“I think you have that covered, dude. Any bigger and you won't fit in your cell.”

“I have always wanted to be taller.” Caboose shuffled forward more to be next to Donut. “You do not look like a murderer, Mister... uh...”

“Donut.”

“I miss donuts as well. Especially the kind with sprinkles.”

“No, that's my name. I'm not a murderer. It was self-defence. I'm a victim of circumstance.”

Grif laughed and said, “Sure you are. And I'm president of Alaska. Simmons is First Lady.”

“Alaska isn't a country, idiot,” Simmons grumbled.

Caboose nodded seriously. “People say I am guilty, too.”

“You're innocent?” Donut asked curiously. Now that he was getting over the sheer size of Caboose, he didn't seem that scary. He just seemed like a little kid who'd been fed way too many steroids.

“If innocent means 'in heavy denial' then Caboose is the most innocent there is,” Simmons said.

“They fell and strangled themselves at the same time,” Caboose said, frowning. “We do not think it was anyone's fault.”

Nevermind. Donut was still terrified.

The three inmates sat down at a table. Donut hesitated, holding his tray tightly. There were two others already there. Donut recognised one as the Goatee Inmate that Tex had stopped to talk to the previous night. He didn't recognise the other one, a short black guy who was currently using the blunt end of his spoon to try and carve the shape of a penis into the table. Neither of them were paying attention to the others, instead talking quietly about something else.

Simmons looked up and, noticing that Donut hadn't sat down yet, said, “No-one's going to eat you, Donut. Maybe Grif might if he's still hungry, but—”

“Fuck off, Simmons.”

Donut took a deep breath and sat down between Simmons and Caboose, tray clattering in front of him. The guy drawing dicks on the table looked up and grinned at him.

“You're the guy Church was picking on yesterday. He's an asshole, don't worry about him,” he said.

Goatee Guy made an irritated noise, but didn't rebuke the statement.

“Oh. It's, uh... it's okay?”

“You don't seem too sure.” The guy reached out across the table in an attempt to offer his hand. “Nice to meet you, I'm—“

Grif reached over before Donut could shake his hand and pushed the man's hand away. “He's a prick. Don't talk to him.”

The guy frowned. “Don't be an ass, Grif. What's your damage?” He didn't reach out again, but continued talking to Donut like nothing had happened. “I'm Tucker. Grumpy McDickface here is Church.” He gestured at the goatee guy. “And I see you already met Caboose. We try to take him out for regular walks to stop him bothering people.”

“Yard time,” Caboose said happily.

“Yeah, that.” Tucker gave up carving penises into the table, instead picking up his juice box and poking the straw through it. “Has anyone punched you yet?”

Donut let out a squeaking noise before coughing in an attempt to cover it up.

“Smooth,” Grif muttered.

“No. They... no. Should they have?” Donut asked.

“They probably will. It's kind of a tradition. You get punched in the face or stabbed or whatever. And then people are like 'that guy's not dead. He's cool.'”

“Just so you know—“ Simmons started. “Those are the Blues. Don't socialise with them while Sarge is around, or he'll accuse you of fraternizing with the enemy.”

“But... you're sitting with them,” Donut said slowly.

“We're not much for logic at this table,” Grif said. “The whole 'red vs. blue' thing is stupid, anyway.”

“Blue vs. red,” Caboose said. “It sounds stupid when you say it backwards.”

“It's not stupid. Sarge is just keeping us alert,” Simmons said.

“Ugh, you kissass.” Grif leaned a bit on the table, gesturing at Donut's tray. “Hey, new kid.”

“Donut.”

“Still a dumb name. You gonna eat the fruit?”

Donut looked down at his untouched food. He felt too nervous to eat, and he wanted to stay on everyone's good side. “You can have it.”

“Don't give stuff away for free,” Tucker said. “That's dumb.”

“No take-backs.” Grif picked up the piece of fruit with a grin. “Thanks.”

“If you don't mind me asking... why the pile of fruit?” Donut asked Grif. “Do you like fruit?”

Simmons snorted derisively. “Grif liking something healthy? Fuck no.”

“Healthy food is for chumps,” Grif said. “Nah, I'm making pruno.” He moved the pile of fruit on his tray to one side. “You know what that is?” Donut shook his head. “It's alcohol. Prison wine, basically. Do you know how difficult it is to procure proper alcohol in here? Wyoming can get it, but it's really expensive. So, pruno.”

“It's fucking disgusting,” Simmons said. “You know how he makes it? He dumps fruit, old bread crumbs, orange juice and other junk in a plastic bag and lets it rot under his bed.”

“Eww.”

“I've been working on moonshine, too. But it's harder to come across the ingredients and keep it long enough for it to do its thing. Anyway, you two can complain all you want,” Grif said, in a holier-than-thou voice. “But when you're all sad and sober don't come crying to me.”

“Don't come crying to us when you get caught and get black marks on your record. Might fuck up your parole chances.”

“Worth it,” Grif said confidently. “Keep the attitude up and I won't let you have any.”

“Whoop-de-fucking-doo.”

Grif and Simmons continued to bicker. Donut looked around at the rest of the table. Caboose, for some reason, had dumped his cereal out of the bowl and onto the tray. He was now sorting it into two neat piles. Church wasn't paying attention to anyone. He was picking at his cereal and watching someone on the other side of the room. Tucker, however, was still looking at Donut.

“You dealing well? You afraid? First-timers usually are. Fuck, who wouldn't be? I was about ready to shit myself when I got here,” Tucker said, playing with the straw of his juice box. “It's not that bad. Okay, so there are assholes. Exhibit A.” He gestured to the table at large. He received three middle fingers and a puzzled stare from Caboose. “But they're not that bad. Most of us just want to get out without dying or getting extra prison time.”

“So it's an exaggeration? Prison's safe?”

“Oh, it's not safe. I mean, it's 'not bad' in the sense that it's not as bad as testicular torture.” Tucker turned to Church. “There's no-one who does that, right?”

Donut's eyes widened slightly.

“The point is, y'know... friends. Friends are where it's at. Or at least, you know... assholes who don't want to stab you. We can be those people for you. Fuck, you're already in the same row, so—“

“Hey, Donut,” Grif interrupted, louder than what seemed necessary. “What do you think about moonshine? I mean, lifetime of no alcohol? That's not worth the tiny chance the guards will bother to clean my cell out, right?”

“Oh, uh... I guess it makes sense. I like fruitier drinks. Not in a... made of rotten oranges way, but—“

The conversation devolved into the merits of alcohol. Even so, Donut caught the glare that Grif shot at Tucker, who in turn just rolled his eyes and went back to chatting at Church. Donut wondered why Grif seemed so against him. Tucker seemed alright to him.

As Donut tried to finish his cereal—it wasn't bad, but it tasted slightly stale—and ignore his queasy, nerve-wracked stomach, a ringing bell went off and everyone started to climb to their feet.

“What's happening?”

“Work hours. You were probably assigned to the laundry room, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Our whole row is. Changing jobs might be possible, but it'll require special talents or good behavior at least. They wouldn't give Grif a position in the kitchens, but that's just because it's Grif.” Simmons got to his feet, picking up Donut's tray as well as his own. “If there's anything you need from that tray, grab it now. I'll take your tray over to where we dump them.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Grif dropped his tray in Simmons' hands, too. The pile of fruit had disappeared. Donut wondered where Grif was hiding it. He grabbed Donut's arm and steered him away from the table. Donut glanced back at the Blues. Church and Tucker were talking to each other and not paying much attention to the things around them. Caboose waved happily at Donut, who waved half-heartedly back.

Once he and Grif were out of the cafeteria and following the crowds presumably moving towards where they worked, Grif let out a little sigh.

“Alright, they can't hear us. Probably.”

“Who can't?”

“Them. The Blues.” Grif glanced casually around before tugging Donut a little closer and lowering his voice. “Listen, we didn't want to say it in front of them. But be careful what you say around the Blues, alright?”

“Are the sporting games Sarge runs that serious?”

“Fuck no, it's not about that. It's not because they're blue. It's because they're assholes.” Grif looked behind them and frowned. There were some guards nearing them. Tex was among them. “Look, just... don't piss off Caboose. Don't believe anything Tucker says. And... just keep away from Church, if you can.”

“Why?”

“Later. Just... be careful around those assholes, alright?”

“Alright. Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. Seriously. Don't.”

It was official. Orange had replaced pea-soup green as Donut's least favourite colour.

Less than twenty-four hours and he was sick of it. The ugly orange colour was everywhere and the laundry room was even worse than the rest of the prison about it. Everywhere he looked there were stacks upon stacks upon even more stacks of orange jumpsuits.

Donut normally liked doing laundry. He certainly had at home, but he'd had fabric softener there. Donut liked nice, clean clothes that had been soaked thoroughly in brand-name fabric softener so that it felt like he was wearing clouds. These jumpsuits were, at best, coarse and itchy. At worst, they were horribly stained and sometimes torn.

Most of the time Donut could guess what had made the stains. Yellow stains. Macaroni. White stains. Meant people fucked too quick and forgot to clean themselves off. Ew. Occasionally, he found the rusty brown of old bloodstains, and tried to pretend he hadn't seen it.

His curiosity was nagging at him. Donut had been skirting around Church—difficult considering they were stuck in the same laundry room—and because Church was constantly nearby Donut couldn't ask Grif more questions about what he'd meant.

It was driving him insane. Although proper insanity would probably help time pass quicker. Then he might not notice his youth slipping away from him. He was still majorly bummed about that. He wasn't even allowed to legally drink yet. He was a year off from being allowed to all the cool parties and nice drinks with fruit and tiny umbrellas in them, and wham. Prison. If he ever got out, he'd at least be in his forties. By then his life would be over.

If he ever got out, he was going to do background checks on all his roommates.

As Donut glared at the piles of jumpsuits and bemoaned the absence of fabric softener he heard someone speak up behind him.

“Why do you keep skirting around me like I'm a goddamn disease?” Church asked irritably, making Donut jump. He shrieked a little, but quickly clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself making too much of a scene. “Well? Why are you avoiding me?”

Donut opened his mouth to answer Church's question before closing it again. He didn't actually have an answer.

“Uh. Well, uh... you know, these clothes could really use some fabric softener!” Donut said, trying to turn Church's attention to the closest pile of jumpsuits. Church glanced at the pile that Donut was brandishing his hands at, then back at Donut.

“Are you trying to put a giant neon 'I'm gay as a unicorn' sign on your forehead? Because people can already tell.”

“I, uh... don't know what you're—“

Church snorted. “Seriously? You have bleached blond hair and you wave your hips around far too much for a straight guy.”

“Do not.”

“Yeah, you do. Add in the lace thing and—“

“How'd you know about the lace?”

“Well, when you act like a fucking idiot and tell everyone—“

“I told one person!”

“Yeah, you did.” Church rested against one of the washing machines, although he looked around first to make sure none of the guards were watching him. The only guard nearby was York, and he was distracted trying to figure out how Caboose had gotten his head stuck in one of the jumpsuits. “Look, I'm just saying... either you're gay or really girly, and people don't distinguish all that good here.”

Donut tried edging away from Church without him noticing.

“Now, if that's the mental image you want to project? Go ahead. It's classier than Tucker's 'fuck anything with with an orifice and a working set of lungs' deal. Thinks it doesn't count as gay if he says 'no homo.' Classless motherfucker.”

“Fuck you, I'm classy as shit!” Tucker called out from further away.

“Uh huh, sure. Anyway, just saying.” Church looked sideways at Donut and said, “Look, try not to broadcast whatever it is. People see it, they might take it as an invitation. Assume that because you're gay you'll enjoy it. You know what happens in prison, right?”

“Currency,” Donut whispered, shivering.

“Fuck no. They wouldn't trade you away. Not the closest thing the prison has to a woman, even including Tex and South.” Church snorted and mimed carving something with his hands. “I'd give it a week before someone tattoos their name on your ass and makes you a prison trophy wife.”

Donut quickly stepped away from Church, at the same time instinctively tugging his jacket down in an attempt to cover his ass. “Please don't! Don't, I—“

“What? No! No, no, no, fuck, I didn't say I would!” Church looked angry at the insinuation. “I was trying to warn you! Goddamn, I've done some bad shit. But I'm not a fucking rapist. Hell, even Tucker will ask. All I'm saying is that not everyone has our standards.”

Donut did not stop gripping his jacket. He looked around for Grif and Simmons, and saw that they'd gotten involved in another argument and weren't paying attention.

“I didn't... mean it like that. I just... you sounded like you were—“

“Nah, it's fucking disgusting. Look, I won't jump you. That's gross in like nine different ways. But what I'm saying is there's guys who get off on the struggle. And the guards... well, they don't always stop it. They especially don't trust word of it.”

“What? But, I mean... if someone told them...”

Church shook his head. He watched York try to pull the jumpsuit off Caboose's head for a few moments. “I'm not saying they'd all watch. But most don't care enough to seek out the truth. It's just a tragedy of the prison system, right? Don't do the crime, don't get fucked.”

“That's... but...”

“You don't have to tell me it's fucked up.”

Donut was twisting the jumpsuit he was holding in his hands. He knew he'd have to iron it again, but his brain was too busy supplying him with horrible, vivid imagery to concentrate on wrinkled clothes. He pictured faceless men in the orange jumpsuits, leering smiles and all built along the lines of Caboose.

God, he should not have watched all those movies. No more prison films. No more prison-themed porn. Not that he felt like it, anyway. Prison in real life was way more than enough.

“Why are you telling me this?” Donut asked quietly.

“Because no-one was nice enough to warn me when I got here. And you seem like an easy target. Besides, do I need a reason? Most don't deserve it. So... anyway, you have three options here. One, you could just accept that people are going to corner you. Try not to struggle too much and hope they get bored. It'll be painful, humiliating and you'll be forever labeled as a bitch. But you probably won't bleed to death.

“The second option? You could try to fight back. But with you?” Church snickered a little. “Er, I wouldn't call it an option. Try to punch a giant guy who's got you turned around and—“

“I don't need you to explain...”

“Good! Then you're not as dumb as you look. Anyway, that way you probably will bleed out. But whatever. Third option.”

Donut stopped twisting the jumpsuit and attempted to flatten it out again, trying to smooth the wrinkles. He couldn't even begin to guess the third option, given how nasty the first two were. The third couldn't be worse, could it?

“What's the third one?”

“You hire protection. I can organize things so that no-one can touch you.”

“Really? You can do that? Wouldn't that be difficult? I mean, if the guards can't keep things safe—“

“The difference is the guards have to look out for everyone, and the inmates outnumber them many times over. I get someone to watch you, on the other hand... well, they're just looking out for you. It's very exclusive. Like one of those clubs that sell the fruity drinks but only let you in if you're well-dressed, to put it in your sort of language.”

“...Are you insinuating that gay people speak a different language?”

“Deal?”

“I don't have anything to trade.”

“Not yet. But maybe that'll change. Maybe you'll see or hear about someone doing something they shouldn't. Attacks, smuggling, plans to stick it to someone. If you heard something like that? Or even better, hear things like that regularly? Well, I'd consider that valuable enough.”

“Oh my god.” Donut pointed a still-manicured finger at Church. “You're a prison snitch.”

“I'm not a fucking snitch!” Church snapped, though in a hushed tone. “I'm a blackmailer.”

“How is that different?!”

“It's more beneficial to my health.” He crossed his arms, scowling. “I'm silent as long as people pay the price. Snitches get rewards from the guards for telling on everyone. There's a difference.”

Donut let out a doubtful little 'hrm.' “Uh... well, sure. Whatever you say. So you want me to pass information along to you? Like, secret stuff?”

“If you hear anything. You could also pay me with what you earn doing laundry, but we get next to nothing. Like, minimum wage would look like the stuff of billionaires from down here. Some build their own little inside businesses... y'know, selling spare food or jailhouse liquor and shit. But that takes time to set up, and the longer you wait...” Church trailed off and shrugged. “But hey, odds are you'll hear something somewhere. What do you say?”

Donut still thought it sounded like snitching, and nothing good ever happened to snitching. Sure, he was a gossip. But snitching? Donut would prefer to live.

Still, he was afraid to say a straight-out no to Church. Not after Grif's warning, and honestly... maybe it was just the creepy general prison atmosphere, but Church made him uneasy.

“I... will consider it,” Donut said slowly, turning back to his laundry.

“Suit yourself, Donut. But the longer you wait, the longer they have to jump you. Just a friendly warning. And trust me when I say you're going to need friends in here. You won't survive otherwise. Loners never do.”

“Right... okay...” Donut mumbled, picking up his laundry basket. He made to leave, but Church grabbed the edge of the basket before Donut could pull away.

“One more thing. Tell Grif to shut his fucking mouth.”

Church let go of the basket, and Donut hurried away as fast as he could while still trying to look like he wasn't afraid.

“Yeah, Church is an asshole,” Simmons said.

“I guessed.”

Lunch was right after laundry duty, and right now only Donut and Simmons were at their little table. Grif had been held up, because he'd somehow offended Sarge with his existence. Something that Simmons assured him was a regular occurrence. As for Church, Tucker and Caboose, they were still lining up for their food.

Since Grif hadn't been there for Donut to explain Church's offer to, he'd gone to Simmons. Given that Grif and Simmons has spent the entire day so far, barring this one moment, joined at the hip, and that Grif hadn't said 'by the way, don't say shit to Simmons,' Donut assumed it was okay.

“But how'd he know Grif told me to look out?” Donut was pushing his macaroni around with his spoon. Much like breakfast, lunch was edible but muted where flavour was concerned.

Simmons shrugged. “Wasn't there, can't say. He might have just guessed.”

“Does it happen often?”

“Sometimes. Honestly, as much of an asshole as Church is, I would rather stay out of it. I don't need him bringing up things that'll get me more years in here.” Simmons coughed nervously and added, “Not that there are things that I was never convicted of, of course. Definitely not things he might have found out about. That would just be crazy.”

“...Right.” Donut ate a spoonful of macaroni before continuing. “So he just goes around blackmailing everyone? How does he keep getting away with it? I thought snitches got, y'know...” Donut made a stabbing gesture with his spoon. “Uh. Shanked? Shivved? Silenced?”

“Technically he's not a snitch.”

“It still sounds like snitching, though.”

“That's because it totally is snitching.” Grif appeared, plopping into the chair next to Simmons. He was holding a food tray, but it didn't have the same food on it. Instead of a bowl of macaroni and cheese with some vegetables on the side, he had a strangely gelatinous-looking loaf of a similar colour to the macaroni. Donut watched it with morbid fascination for a moment before looking back at Grif and Simmons.

“So... he just snitches on people and doesn't get attacked?”

“He's a slippery motherfucker,” Simmons grumbled. “There are so many people around here who would love to give Church a good pounding. God knows I would.” After a moment, Simmons flushed lobster red and waved his hands. “That came out wrong! Beatings. I meant punching. The regular kind of punching.”

“Smooth,” Grif said, grinning.

“Shut up, Grif.”

“Sorry, I have to ask...” Donut jammed his spoon in the direction of the loaf on Grif's tray. “Is that actual food?”

Simmons started laughing, although he hastily turned it into a cough. “It has the nutrients that we're obliged to receive by law, but... what's your definition of 'actual food?'”

“Okay, uh... what is it, then?”

“The log. Punishment food,” Grif muttered bitterly. Simmons started snickering again. “Shut the fuck up, Simmons.”

“Is it poisonous?”

“I'm told no, though the taste would make you think otherwise.” Grif prodded it with his spoon moodily. It jiggled ominously. “It's their way of ruining the best part of the day.”

“Can... can I try it?” Donut asked slowly. “I have to know what it tastes like. It can't be as horrible as you're claiming.”

Grif snorted. “Ohhh, you'll see.” He slid the tray towards Donut, who stuck his spoon in and pried away a small glob of it. He stuck it in his mouth and chewed on it for a moment before going slightly green.

“Mmph,” he groaned, as Grif and Simmons both burst out laughing. Without any napkins to spit the mouthful into, Donut was forced to swallow it. “Oh my god, that is putrid!”

“Congratulations, Donut. You've passed the first step into becoming a true member of this prison,” Simmons said, grinning. “If you can withstand the log, you can withstand anything.” Grif nodded in agreement, though he was still laughing too much to actually speak. It was infectious, and Donut smiled despite the fact that his stomach was turning from just that one bite.

Grif finally regained his calm enough to talk again. “Ah, good times. So, what're we talking about?” Upon receiving a brief rundown of the Church situation his smile did a one-eighty almost immediately. “Oh. That fucker. It's not really Church you need to worry about so much. I mean, yeah, he's like... the center of it, but—”

“Church is more dangerous. He's the boss,” Simmons said. “And you've heard the shit he's done.”

“But he's nothing without the other two. Especially Tucker, that son of a motherfucker. Aargh.” Grif smooshed part of the log with his spoon, face twisting angrily.

“Tucker doesn't look scary,” Donut said, peering over at the line. He could see Tucker saying something to Church. As Donut watched, he made some rather obscene hand gestures. Church responded by smacking him lightly over the back of the head.

“That's why he's a problem. Tucker's a con. And goddamn, he might act like a fucking idiot... and actually turn into one if there's a set of boobs in the room—“

“Not counting Grif's rack, of course,” Simmons said dryly.

“You know what I mean. Chick-tits, not man-tits. Anyway, that guy has like... kind of this easy-to-talk-to vibe, did you notice? Friendly. Way more friendly than most are in here. You gotta head him off fast.” Grif poked moodily at his food again. “Fucker. One minute, he's bonding with you over laziness and a mutual love of pornography. Then bam. Suddenly Church is blackmailing you with the fact that your sister is doing a bunch of weird drugs, and that it would take just one urine test to get her arrested, because you let it slip to Tucker like an idiot.”

“He gets distracted if you flash a porn magazine at him,” Simmons said helpfully. “It's his kryptonite.”

“Alright, so Tucker's an ass.” Donut prodded at his food lightly, more focused on the conversation than actually eating. “And that works on everyone? Just sending Tucker in and threatening them with blackmail?”

“It doesn't all come from Tucker. And blackmail doesn't always work. Some people just don't have any dirt, or they're too batshit crazy to care about it. But they still can't touch him because he's got Caboose. Would you want to attack him with Caboose standing there?”

Donut shivered. “Definitely not.”

“And on top of that, we're pretty sure he has guard connections. With Tex, at the very least. I heard a rumor they used to bang.”

“We don't know that,” Simmons interrupted.

“Yeah, but it's a maybe. He's got something going on there, at any rate, and having a connection with the guards... well, that brings perks. She passes on shit. Items. Information. Church probably knew you were coming before you got here.”

Donut was still pushing his food around. Once again, he felt too nervous to eat. “Is she allowed to do that?”

“No. But she's the best guard this place has. No way they'll fire her.” Simmons drummed his fingers against the table for a moment before eying Donut. “Did you piss off Church?”

“Um. A little. I might have said the snitch thing out loud,” Donut admitted. Simmons groaned in response. “Why? Is he, uh... the easily offended and stabby type?”

“Mn. No. You're probably okay, for now. Church doesn't really stab people personally, and not for things that small. He's easy to make mad, if he stabbed everyone he was mad at there'd be no-one left. But...” Simmons pulled a face. “Suspicious incidents have been known to happen.”

“Suspicious?”

Donut was interrupted by Simmons raising a hand to shush him, glancing over at the cafeteria line. While Simmons confirmed that Church was still occupied, Grif took the chance to steal his macaroni.

“Eh? Hey! Grif, give me back my food!”

“Licked it!”

“Fuck!”

Grif sniggered and stuck a spoonful of the macaroni in his mouth. “Tastes like victory. Here, have the log.”

“Get that shit away from me.”

“Then you can have the vegetables. Anyway...” He turned back to Donut. “When people annoy Church too much... well, they tend to die. Like Phil and Joannes.”

“I think his name was Jones,” Simmons said slowly.

“No, it was definitely Joannes.”

“What happened to them?”

“Well, Phil was a guard. Really had it in for Church,” Simmons said. “Not quite sure why. Most guards don't care one way or another, not enough to beat up on us, but... well, Phil just had it in for Church.” Simmons glanced at Grif. “You ever find out why?”

“Something about past crimes. Church hates talking about it, and apparently bringing it up gets you immediately on his bad side.”

“Well, anyway, one day there's a fight between them,” Simmons continued. “A bad one, and Church lands in the infirmary for a week. Next day, there's a riot in the cafeteria, and when it clears... there's Phil lying on the floor. Dead as... well, dead.”

“Smooth.”

“Shut up.”

“And you saw who killed him?” Donut asked. He had the spoon halfway to his mouth, but had forgotten about it. The macaroni had long since fallen off.

“No concrete proof. But his head had been crushed like a grape. Not many strong enough to do that, and Caboose is one of the few. I don't know if he did it on his own initiative, whether it was Church's orders, or what... but I wouldn't put it past him. And if he tried asking Caboose, he'd probably say the guy fell.”

Donut winced. “And Joannes?”

“I'm still sure it's Jones. He was a con-artist, too. Got up in Church's shit, and when Church tried to blackmail him... well, Jones blackmailed him right back. There was quite the little war between those two. Apparently Jones had some good contacts.”

“And what happened? Caboose crush him, too?”

“No.” Grif hooked a finger under his collar and pulled it up. He slumped his head and mimed hanging himself. “Suicide.”

“But... but that's not murder, right?”

“Maybe. But Tucker had been talking to him a lot recently,” Simmons said flatly. “And really... it probably wouldn't be hard to talk Jones into it. We're in prison. For some, death's the only way out, and Jones was a lifer. Maybe Tucker put pressure on the bad parts until Jones broke. Or maybe Jones was just tired of prison life. But it was just so convenient...”

Simmons clammed up immediately as Church, Tucker and Caboose finally headed towards them. Church grunted in recognition of the three as he sat down. Tucker grinned and winked at Donut as he passed by. Caboose greeted him with a cheerful 'Muffin Man!' Now that the topic of the conversation was sitting at the table, Simmons returned to arguing with Grif, this time about the various incidents that had occurred between Grif and Sarge.

They all seemed so at ease. Meanwhile, Donut was trying not to shake or start fiddling with his food or betray any signs of nervousness. It took everything he had not to freak out just looking at Caboose (his head had been crushed like a grape) building a little tower with his macaroni, or Tucker (put pressure on the bad parts until Jones broke) making jokes about boobs, while Church (when people annoy Church too much... well, they tend to die) steadily ignored him.

Even Grif and Simmons... Donut couldn't help but be suspicious of them now, because they were being nice, sure... but if Church and his friends were so bad, why were they sitting with them? What had they done to get here? Donut knew absolutely nothing about them. Then again, the unknown wasn't bad. Donut had definitely been less afraid before Grif and Simmons had explained everything to him.

Ignorance was bliss, after all.

After lunch, they were allowed to go outside. Donut breathed a sigh of relief once he got out there. He'd never liked being inside for too long and that feeling was quintupled once you were surrounded by brick walls, bars and ugly, orange jumpsuits.

Sure, the yard wasn't pretty. It was made out of grey concrete, grey concrete and—for an amazing change of pace—more grey concrete. There were walls surrounding it. Donut could see the huge gate which he had gone through less than twenty-four hours ago. It was all concrete, wire and guards. There were a few pigeons which hopped around the emptier parts of the courtyard. Donut was reminded for a moment of the parks back home, with the old people tossing bread at the pigeons. Donut didn't like pigeons much. They were smelly and diseased. And in a strange way, the grey pigeons matched the grey walls and the grey concrete floors.

But Donut could see the sun. That was something.

“I'm gonna go have a smoke,” Grif grunted. “I wanna do it away from the guards. York keeps trying to borrow my damn lighter. Apparently he can't use his because of sentimental reasons. Why even have a lighter, then?! Get a new goddamn lighter! You want to come with, Donut?”

“Erm... no, thank you.” Donut hated cigarette smoke.

“Okay. Come on, Simmons!”

“Why do I have to go?” Simmons complained.

“You need to be my lookout. For lighter vultures.”

“That's not a thing!”

"Tell that to Wyoming, I'm pretty sure he makes a business of it."

Regardless, Grif hauled Simmons away and they both vanished into the mass of jumpsuits. Donut found a bench and sat down pretty quickly, hoping the bench wasn't dibsed by some hardcore gang or something. He didn't know what else to do. Normally, this was the time of day he'd do his exercises. But there was no way he was going to ask anyone here to hold his ankles while he stretched out his hammies. No. Flipping. Way.

He sat there quietly for a while, peering around. He saw the Blues on the other side of the yard. Church was currently talking to one of the older-looking inmates on the other side of the yard, while Tucker clowned around him and occasionally threw in some occasional words. Caboose was standing to one side quietly, more interested in the pigeons than whatever Church was doing.

Donut absently moved to twist part of his hair around his finger, a nervous tic he'd often performed on the outside, but he stopped halfway. He couldn't do that. Not in prison. Nothing girly. Nothing that the others would see as gay. Donut was quick enough to admit that anywhere else... yeah, he could be pretty stereotypical. Girly things and fruity drinks and interior decorating were fun, alright? But he had to squash that down or get jumped in the showers.

He hated this place already.

Donut glared angrily at the concrete ground, too concentrated on it to hear the quiet footsteps behind him. He didn't notice anything until a hand rested on his shoulder and something was jammed against his back. Something pointy.

“Don't look surprised. Don't look shocked or upset. Pretend we're having a normal, pleasant conversation. Don't even turn around.” These words were half-mocking in tone, and it almost sounded like the man behind him was on the verge of breaking into laughter. “Don't listen? And you bleed out. It's all fun for me.”

Donut didn't say anything, although he started to shake. Whatever was being jammed into his back dug in.

“Sooo... you're the fresh fish. Donut, isn't it? Foolish name. Fits your nature, does it?” The man laughed quietly. It was a weird laugh, in all honesty. It sounded like the man had practiced his evil laugh in front of the mirror. It would have been funny if not for where they were, and so instead it sent shivers down Donut's spine.

“Who're you?” Donut asked, unable to stop his voice from shaking. His eyes darted around, looking for the guards, but he realised that from their view they likely wouldn't be able to see the pointy object jabbing his back.

“My name? You can call me O'Malley, my effeminate friend.” Donut could tell he was grinning. He bet it was one of those crazy slasher film smiles, too. “You are not a hardened criminal, are you? You look like a porcelain doll thrown in among a box of action figures. ...I can feel the terror rolling off you right now.”

Donut heard him take a deep breath, like he was breathing the fear in.

“Oh, that's stimulating. You're right to be afraid. Pretty thing like you? If I didn't need you for another purpose right now, I'd break you in myself. Don't move!” O'Malley suddenly snapped, as Donut attempted to jerk away from him. “One would think you wanted this screwdriver digging into your throat. But enough of that. I require your help.”

“I'm not snitching,” Donut whined quietly.

“While I'm sure you are on the side, that's not what I wanted. Although it does involve your little snitching friend, Church. Me and some other, ah... unhappy friends are quite annoyed at him. But, as I'm sure you know, it's very difficult to lay a hand on him. Or to knife his stomach, for that matter.” O'Malley snickered. “If I tried jabbing a screwdriver in his back, someone would intervene. Unlike you. So, this is where you come in.”

“I'm not stabbing anyone, either.”

“Oh, no, nothing so crass. I just want that big monkey away from him. Just for a few minutes.” The man reached around to touch his face, making Donut's skin crawl, and jerked his head a little so he was looking right at Caboose. “Distract the fool. Take him to play with the pigeons. It's a simple task.”

“...What happens to Church?”

“Oh, he won't be killed. No, that's no fun. We're just going to have a talk with him.” O'Malley laughed and the screwdriver dug a little more into Donut's back. “Of course, we might get carried away... 'talking.'”

“No. No, no, no. No. No,” Donut said quickly, before he lost his nerve. “No. I'm not doing it.”

“You are hardly in a position to argue, my little pastry. After all... you have a screwdriver sticking into your back. It might be a little rusty, perhaps, but it will hurt. I hope you've had your tetanus shots.” O'Malley pressed the screwdriver in deeper, digging through the jacket and scraping the skin. “Just one... simple... thing.” With each soft word, O'Malley pushed the screwdriver a little deeper. Donut couldn't help but whimper as quick bursts of pain cut through him, leaving a sharp ache once they faded, only to flare up again as O'Malley dug the screwdriver in further. “Playing with the pigeons? Or getting stabbed with a rusty screwdriver? Honestly, isn't the best solution obvious?”

Donut felt him shift forward, close enough so that he could actually feel O'Malley's warm, wet breath on his neck.

“Whatever you choose, someone's getting stabbed. Either Church... or you. And I'm not fussy, as long as someone is bleeding and screaming. I'm already tempted to forsake business for pleasure.”

O'Malley put just a tiny bit more pressure on the screwdriver, and what little nerve Donut had left broke.

“Okay, okay, please don't hurt me!” Donut pleaded. “I'll do it, just stop!”

“Perhaps you're not as foolish as you look.” O'Malley lessened the pressure he was putting on the screwdriver, though he didn't remove it completely. His other hand reached forward and took the cigarette sticking out of Donut's front pocket. “Listen carefully, because if you fail I'm going to do everything that I have planned with Church to you instead. Plus interest.

“Tomorrow, when we are sent from lunch to the yard, someone will stop Church and Tucker to talk to them before they get outside. When this happens, convince Caboose to go and play with the pigeons with you. Do not alert Church or Tucker. Keep Caboose distracted for a few minutes, and that'll be enough. Do not fail. Do not tell anyone. Anyone. For as much your safety as mine.”

The screwdriver rubbed against the hole it had made in his back briefly before O'Malley pulled it away.

“Until tomorrow, little pastry.”

Donut didn't hear him move off, but when he looked behind him O'Malley had vanished. Either that or Donut couldn't tell which one of the inmates he was.

He climbed to his feet and shifted over to sit down next to the wall, so no-one could sneak up on him again. He pulled his legs up and rested his chin on his knees, trying to stop shaking.

Suddenly, Church didn't seem scary. At least not compared to... that. Why hadn't Grif and Simmons warned him about the crazy asshole with a screwdriver? Sure, Church seemed to have more resources, but at least he wasn't shivving people in the back! At least, not as far as Donut knew.

Donut remained there until he heard Grif and Simmons' voices.

“Grif, when a guard approaches you about why you're smoking in a secluded corner, it is not a smart idea to blow smoke in their fucking face. Seriously. You pretty much deserved that punch in the stomach. Besides, you know how Wash is.”

“I can't breathe.”

“Dumbass.”

Donut looked up to see the two approaching him. Grif was hobbling a little, holding his stomach and grumbling.

“Are you going to sit down the entire time, Donut? We don't have a weight room—“

“Like you could lift weights,” Grif grumbled at Simmons.

“—so this is the only possible activity we really get. Shouldn't waste it. It's cool, it's pretty safe. There's heaps of people around.”

Donut just stared at Simmons incredulously for a moment—safe, really?—before getting up shakily. He winced a little as pain shot through his back. “Alright, I'll wander around. Where are you guys going?”

“I don't know. Walking around? Walking's good for you,” Simmons said.

“Exactly. Ew. Can't we just sit?” Grif complained.

“Just because you're a lazy fuck—“

“Just because you're a... not-lazy-enough... kissass...”

“Wonderful comeback.”

“I... I, uh... yeah, we should walk! We should go in this direction, and stay together and not separate for a while,” Donut babbled quickly, turning and pointing at some random direction. “I've never been that way before, new experiences and all that...”

Upon only receiving silence, Donut glanced back at them. Both Grif and Simmons were staring at his back.

“Donut, why the hell are you bleeding?” Grif asked.

“Bleeding? Is it that—ow!” Donut had tried to twist his back to see where O'Malley had jabbed him, but pain had shot through his back again. Simmons reached out, his hand hovering awkwardly around Donut's shoulder.

“Don't do that, you'll twist at it! Did someone do that? How did that happen? It's been five minutes!”

Donut stared blankly at them for a few long seconds before speaking. “...I fell?”

Grif and Simmons exchanged looks that clearly said 'Donut is trying to bullshit us.' The excuse was, admittedly, not Donut's most creative moment. Part of him wanted to say the real reason, but what if O'Malley found out?

They didn't ask again. They just dragged Donut to the infirmary to stop him from staining his orange jumpsuit any redder.

Donut spent the night lying on his front. The screwdriver puncture had been small and shallow, but it stung like hell and the blood had partially ruined his jacket. It felt ominous, like the blood had painted a target on his back.

Maybe it had. O'Malley had given him a clear warning. He'd be coming back if Donut didn't do what he said.

Grif and Simmons had spent the rest of the day giving him those 'bullshit' looks, but they hadn't tried to get him to tell the truth. Maybe they knew to stay out of it. Donut knew the prison doctor had been suspicious about it—Donut hadn't caught his name, Grif and Simmons had just called him Doc—but he hadn't pressured for an answer either.

Donut tried to sleep with his face buried in the flat pillow. He listened to Grif snoring nearby, and Caboose talking loudly in his sleep further down the row. Donut thought about the next day. Distracting Caboose didn't seem difficult. It wasn't the task itself that worried him. He was more worried about what would happen afterward, regardless of what he did.

He could refuse. But he didn't want O'Malley anywhere near him. He could feel the screwdriver against his back and that warm, wet breath on his neck. A bit of prodding had been bad enough. What if O'Malley got carried away? What if Donut ended up dead? If O'Malley killed him, Donut knew it would be slow and painful. Ignoring O'Malley wasn't a choice.

On the other hand, he'd be condemning Church if he did it. While Donut didn't particularly like the guy, being indirectly responsible for getting him mauled, even killed, was not something Donut wanted on his conscience. Even leaving out the guilt, what would happen to Donut afterward? Would Church figure it out? Would Tucker or Caboose? If Donut went through with the plan, would he be the next one to be found with his head popped like a grape, or swinging from a makeshift noose?

Donut pondered this all night, barely sleeping at all. It was a losing situation either way.

It boiled down to who Donut was most afraid of. And that was an easy decision, once he gave it enough thought.

Church might kill him. O'Malley definitely would.

Chapter Text

Church hated damn near everything in this prison. He hated Tucker and Caboose. He hated his ex-girlfriend. He hated the shit they served at breakfast, lunch and dinner, and he hated the ridiculous prices in the commissary for anything worthwhile, and the even higher prices when it came to bartering from Wyoming.

But most of all, he hated when people like O'Malley started doing shit. God, O'Malley was a prick in, like, nine different ways.

Church crumpled the piece of paper in his hand, rolling it between his fingers absently as he poked at his food with the other hand. A note from Tex.

Screwdriver wound reported to the infirmary. New kid. Middle of the back. Not deep.

For whatever reason, O'Malley liked screwdrivers. Probably because they were slow and the risk of infection was too much to pass up. He tossed the piece of paper onto Tucker's food tray.

“O'Malley. It's O'Malley,” Church muttered outloud. Tucker and Caboose were sitting with him. They were usually first to the table at breakfast, since Grif took forever to get up and Simmons never left him behind. Caboose blinked stupidly at him while Tucker scanned the note.

“You reckon he was trying to threaten the new kid into doing something?” Tucker asked. He'd never actually seen O'Malley. Normally, Church and O'Malley just stayed out of each other's way. There was no good to be had in tangling with that asshole and sending Tucker after him would just get Tucker hurt. Not that Church cared, but better to play it safe. Plus, O'Malley had this bizarre thing about people seeing his face. Looking at O'Malley's face was like wearing a giant neon sign that said 'stab me.'

“I'd bet all the commissary tickets in the world on it,” Church said grimly.

“Couldn't have been for fun. Or he would have just stuck him, right? Like... stuck him more. In a lethal way.” Tucker mimed with his spoon.

Caboose squinted at the note over Tucker's shoulder, despite the fact that he couldn't read. “Does this mean O'Malley is hurting Pretzel?” he asked nervously, twisting his hands together.

“Don't worry about it. He's not dead yet, is he?” Church took the note and handed it to Caboose. “Hey, eat that or something, would you? Secret notes.”

“Okay!” Caboose stuck the note in his mouth, beaming. “I am helping!”

“Sure.” Church glanced back over at where Donut was, still waiting for his food and lingering behind Grif and Simmons. He did look pretty green. “Eh, maybe it's for the best. Good encouragement for him. Maybe he'll put some fucking effort into finding payment.”

“So... a win?” Tucker said doubtfully.

“He barely got scratched. Better he learn that way, anyway. It's for his own good.” Church picked up his orange and started shredding the skin with his fingers. He frowned at the stringy white parts as the skin peeled away. “...But keep an eye on the kid.”

“What? Like a freebie?”

“Nah, fuck that, if he gets a free bodyguard everyone'll want one. Let him get stabbed if he gets attacked, who cares. But I want to know about it. And I don't know what to think of Donut. Too early to say. He looks weak, but—“

Church made a stabbing motion with his spoon, ignoring the fact that it had food on it. The cereal went flying off the end and hit one of the inmates in the back of the neck. When the inmate slammed his spoon down and turned around, looking to start something, Church just glared right back.

“What're you staring at?” Church tilted his head to look up at Caboose. “Hey, Caboose—“

“Is he going to be mean?” Caboose asked. The inmate immediately paled and turned back around.

“That's what I thought,” Church muttered, giving Caboose a friendly smack on the shoulder. About the nicest he ever got towards the dumb kid. He glanced back at Tucker. “Tex said that Donut stabbed his roommate. And I'm not talking, like, once. Like twenty fucking times.”

Tucker raised his eyebrows slightly. “Yeah? Big guy?”

“I dunno, I didn't ask. Probably some camp rollerblader. Donut looks like the kind of guy who likes rollerbladers.”

“What.”

“Still. Just keep an eye out so he doesn't, y'know, stab me twenty times. What's important is that I survive.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

“I will watch Trifle,” Caboose said happily.

“Heh, I'll watch him, alright,” Tucker added. “About time someone in our row was easy on the eyes. If you squint your head and tilt your head just so—“

“Ugh. Gross,” Church muttered. “Can you think with something besides your dick?”

“Uh, fuck yeah I can. If I didn't, your dumbass schemes would be a pile of failing bullshit.” Tucker tapped the side of his head before waving his hand at Church. “Seriously, who else you gonna rely on? Caboose? Don't patronize me, man. I can think with both my heads. Bow chika bow wow!”

“I hate you.”

Food time was the best part of the day. It was even better than nap time.

Work time was the worst time. Caboose was not allowed to touch the irons. He didn't like irons, anyway. They burned his hands. But he did what Church told him to, and watched Donut.

Donut looked very frowny today. That was sad. Caboose thought Donut would have a very warm, fuzzy smile. Almost everyone was frowny in prison, though. It was one of the bad things. That and the mean people. But on the other hand, all his friends were within walking distance and he got lots of free food.

He wondered why people only ever talked about the bad parts of prison.

Work time was not as bad as some other work times. Caboose only got his head stuck in a jumpsuit once.

Then food time happened again, and it was very good. And then it was yard time! Prison had so many times, almost all of them good. Caboose trotted happily behind Church and Tucker as they argued about something. Caboose didn't understand a lot of the words.

Someone tapped Caboose on the shoulder. “Excuse me, chap. You're in the way.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Caboose moved aside to let Wyoming past. Wyoming was old and he had a fantastic mustache. Like a butterfly made of hair. Sometimes he and Church argued about things, and then Wyoming would give Church things like alcohol and candy. Caboose was not allowed to tell people, but they all knew.

Wyoming put his arm around Church's shoulder, ignoring the annoyed noise that he got in response. “Leonard, my... I was going to say friend, but that's not right, is it? Acquaintance? Friendly enemies?”

“Do you have my shit? Because your prices are bullshit for the amount of time it takes to get a goddamn bottle of whiskey.”

“I actually have to talk to you about that. Yes, it did come in, but they've raised the price on the outside, and the price must be raised inside to accommodate that change.”

“Oh, that is fucking bullshit. You charge too much already!”

“No. Whiskey is not made out of poop. No-one would drink that,” Caboose interrupted.

“Caboose, just... stare at the wall and shut up for a while, alright?” Tucker grumbled.

“What was that, Tucker? I could not hear you because you are stupid.”

“Go stare at the fucking wall, Caboose,” Church snapped.

“Okay!”

Caboose focused on the wall as the discussion went on. He didn't mind, because Church always talked about things he didn't understand, and the few bits he understood sounded mean. Ignoring it made his head hurt less, and he could pretend that Church was doing good things. Caboose was good at pretending.

“Hey... Caboose?”

Caboose looked around, confused and wondering why he couldn't see whoever had spoken, before remembering that he had to look downwards to see most people, because they were all so tiny. He looked down to see Donut.

“Hello, Custard Tart! Are you okay?” Caboose asked.

“Okay? Sure. Why wouldn't I be?” Donut muttered, looking uncomfortable for a moment.

“Because O'Malley was being mean to you.” Caboose lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I do not like O'Malley. He is a mean man.”

“...How... how did you know that?”

“Church said so. Church knows lots of things,” Caboose said happily.

Donut's eyes widened a little and he went quiet, scrunching his face up like how Caboose did when he had to think of really hard things. Like math. Then he smiled up at Caboose. It wasn't a warm, fuzzy smile. It was weird and stretchy, like the time Caboose had passed on his mama's advice about smiling, and Church had done the fake-scary smile and told him to fuck off.

“Do you like pigeons, Caboose?”

Caboose's face brightened immediately. “Yes. I love pigeons. Mama used to take me to the park to see and feed the pigeons.” Then he frowned. “But Church says I am not allowed.”

Donut tilted his head, still peering up at him. “I could take you out to play with them.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“But Church said—”

“It'll just be for a few minutes. What—“ Donut's voice faltered briefly. “...What Church doesn't know won't hurt him, right?”

Caboose looked down at Donut, then behind him at Church and Tucker. They were both too busy arguing with Wyoming to pay attention to him. They always ignored him while doing this kind of thing.

Church would be mad at him if he tried playing with the pigeons again. Last time he had yelled, and it had been very hurtful. But Church had also said to keep an eye on Donut. And to go stare at the wall. Caboose could do both those things in the yard. Even if he was playing with pigeons, he could stare at both Donut and the wall at the same time. Then Church would be happy with him, and not yell as much, and they would be even better best friends.

“Just a few minutes?” Caboose asked, lowering his voice again.

“Yeah. I guarantee it. Just a few minutes.” Donut grasped Caboose's sleeve and tugged him towards the yard, away from Church and Tucker.

Caboose glanced back once before following. Yes. He would watch Donut and Church would be happy with him. And he would also make a new friend.

Today was going to be a good day.

Donut felt like an asshole.

“Pigeons!” Upon nearing the birds, Caboose grabbed Donut's wrist and dragged him along faster, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, I didn't bring any bread...”

“Here.” Donut handed over the roll he'd saved from lunch, with some regret. After barely touching his food the day before he'd been practically starving. It had taken all his self control to save that roll. But anything to keep Caboose amused and away from Church. The longer he could keep Caboose there, the less likely O'Malley would come after him again.

Caboose took the bread roll, beaming at him. “Thank you, Cookie! You are the second-nicest person here. Aside from Church, of course.” He crumbled up some of the bread and tossed it at the pigeons.

Donut ducked his head down, feeling both flattered and horribly guilty. Caboose wouldn't be saying that if he knew.

“That is bullshit, I'm not paying that much! I can make up some of the difference with cigarettes, but I can't pay that goddamn much for one bottle of whiskey.” Church scowled at Wyoming, arms crossed. “That's some bullshit.”

“Why don't you ask your girlfriend to smuggle it in for you, then?” Wyoming asked, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

“One, she's not my fucking girlfriend. And two, shut the fuck up. I'll pay the original price and a pack of cigarettes, it's all I got.”

“Ten cigarettes is hardly adequate. Ten cigars would be more so. And it's much classier.”

“Where the fuck am I gonna get cigars?!”

“Maybe one is tied to the stick up your ass,” Tucker chimed in.

“Not helping, Tucker! Go stare at the wall with Caboose.”

“Hey, it'd be better than... where'd he—fuck, move!”

Church hadn't been looking. He'd only felt a hand shove him in the back and heard Tucker shout. He turned in time to see the blood.

“Ow, f-fuck...”

Tucker was holding his face. Blood was running through his fingers and getting in his eyes. He was trying to wipe it away but only succeeding in spreading it around. The way his other arm was waving around, still outstretched after pushing Church out of the way, was an obvious sign that he couldn't see a thing. The only mercy was that O'Malley had barely missed his eyes, the large gash running between them and down the side of his face.

...Shit.

Church grabbed Tucker's arm and yanked him away from O'Malley. O'Malley was laughing.

“Amazing! He actually blocked the screwdriver with his face. One step away from the old 'oh, he fell on the screwdriver' excuse. Ahaha, classic.”

“Tucker? Goddammit, are you alright?!”

“D-does it... fucking look like—mmph!“ Wyoming had grabbed Tucker from behind and clasped a hand over his mouth. With the other hand, he held a shiv to Tucker's throat.

“We can't have you shouting and drawing the guards,” Wyoming said calmly. Tucker let out an angry grunting noise, and made to shove Wyoming away, but the shiv pressed tighter against his throat and he went still.

Shit.

“Thought you weren't getting involved,” O'Malley said, grinning at Wyoming.

“I'd rather not dirty my hands. You can do that fine on your own. I'll just keep him quiet.”

Church clenched and unclenched his hand, frozen in place. Tucker was just as still, jaw tightening as he felt the shiv scrape his throat. Blood dripped down his face. His eyes were blinking furiously in an attempt to get the blood out of them.

Neither of them had weapons on them. They were too much risk for too little payoff unless they knew a fight was coming.

“If you so much as scrape him—“ Church growled.

“I don't intend to. Worry about yourself. Nothing personal, by the way. Just business, old boy.” Wyoming nodded at O'Malley. “If you would get this done before the guards happen upon us?”

“With pleasure.” O'Malley grinned at Church, raising the sharpened, blood-coated screwdriver. “Run, and we take it out on your friend.”

Tucker made a muffled noise. It could have been anything. 'Run' or 'stay' or 'don't you fuckin' do it.' Church's eyes only flickered towards him for a moment, and at the shiv held at his throat, before looking back at O'Malley.

Son of a bitch.

Running just wasn't an option.

Though, second nicest behind Church wasn't saying much. He just couldn't see Church winning over anyone with kindness. That didn't seem like Church, even if Donut didn't know him that well yet. He opened his mouth to ask Caboose about it, but then reconsidered.

If he found out that Church was actually a nice person, then this deal with O'Malley would make his stomach seethe with even more guilt. Better to keep believing that Church was a horrible excuse for a human being. It was easier that way.

The pigeons were crowding around now, fighting over the crumbs of bread. Caboose tossed more crumbs at them, still babbling excitedly like a five-year-old seeing pigeons for the first time.

“So,” Donut said slowly. “You, um... like pigeons, then?”

“Yes. They're all chirpy and flappy, and I would like to keep one for a pet and name it Margretta.”

“Why Margretta?”

“That was Mama's name.” Caboose knelt down among the pigeons, reaching out for one as slowly as possible. “I will catch a pigeon and name it after Mama so I will not forget.”

“Forget what?”

Caboose frowned for a few moments, blinking. “Um. ...I do not remember. But Church knows! Church knows these things, because he is my super best friend and we have best friend secrets. ...Right. Thin Mint, can you stand where I can see you? Because I'm supposed to be looking at you, so that Church will not shout at me about the pigeons.”

Donut shrugged before moving forward into the mass of pigeons. A group of them fluttered off when Donut moved, but some of them remained. Caboose still had his hand stretched out, and one of the pigeons was getting very close.

“Pidge, pidge, pidge...”

“Will the guards let you keep a pet pigeon?” Donut asked.

“Mister York might. He is nicer than Mrs McCrabby or Washingtub. They are both very scary.” Caboose opened and closed his hands like it would bring the birds closer. “Pidge, pidge, pidge...”

Donut looked around the yard as Caboose continued cooing at the birds. He saw Grif and Simmons hanging out on one of the benches. Grif caught his eye and gestured at Donut in a way that clearly conveyed the message 'what the hell are you doing with Caboose?' Donut shrugged back, trying not to look suspicious. Or guilty. Or any of the things he was.

As he kept looking, he noticed one of the guards heading for the door that Donut and Caboose had entered the yard through. The guard would likely encounter... whatever was happening to Church... in a minute. Donut chewed his lip and twisted his hands a little before catching himself. Couldn't do that. Stay calm.

While he was distracted, he heard a nasty, crunching noise and a yelp come from behind him. He looked back in time to see Caboose withdrawing his hand from the pigeon, looking upset. He climbed to his feet and shuffled back to Donut.

“I do not want to play with the pigeons any more,” Caboose said quietly, tugging on Donut's orange sleeve. “Can we go back to Church now?” Donut looked at the pigeon which Caboose had been attempting to catch, which was now lying crumpled on the ground. He looked back at Caboose, then back at the pigeon. “I tried petting the pigeon and it fell over.”

So that's why Church told him to stay away from the pigeons.

Donut looked away from the dead bird. “Um... sure. Let's go.”

Had it been long enough?

Donut knew the moment he walked back inside that it had.

He heard the commotion before he saw it.

“I fucking told you not to let O'Malley out of your sight, I told you!” That was Tex's voice. Donut came to a halt, afraid that if he happened upon the scene they'd somehow know he helped. Caboose stopped, too, wearing a puzzled expression.

“Hey, I've got thousands of prisoners to watch, I can't watch one crazy asshole all the time. He was only gone for a moment!”

There was giggling. Familiar giggling that sent a shiver down Donut's spine. O'Malley. At the same time, Caboose let out a little squeak and took a step back.

“Whatever, South, just take that asshole to SHU. I hope he fucking rots. I'll carry Church.”

“Oh, what, you gotta carry your boyfriend?”

“This is not the fucking time, South!”

“Alright, alright, jeez.”

“Oh... oh no...” Donut heard Caboose whimper behind him. “No, no, no, no... Church!” Caboose shoved past Donut and ran off down the corridor out of sight, in the direction of Tex and South's voices. Donut sighed and slumped against the wall. He didn't go to look.

Done. He wouldn't be able to change it now.

He tried to fight off the guilt. He wasn't doing a good job of it.

He didn't want another death on his conscience.

Dinner was quiet.

Grif and Simmons were there, but all three of the Blues were missing. Donut kept looking at the empty seats, chewing his lip. His food was untouched. This did not go unnoticed.

“Can I have your food, if you're not going to eat it?” Grif asked.

“Grif, leave him alone. He has to eat or he's going to collapse.”

“I'm just saying.”

Donut still didn't touch his food. Simmons looked between him and the empty chairs, guessing pretty easily what was on Donut's mind.

“Church and Tucker got shanked. They're in the infirmary. Caboose tried to get in by kicking the door down, got thrown into the shoe.“

“He got put in a shoe?”

“Solitary confinement, basically. Secure Housing Unit. SHU. Shoe.”

“Oh. Are they, uh... alright?”

“Dunno. There was a shitload of blood on the floor.”

Donut nodded and tried to pretend like the news wasn't making his stomach shrivel up. He prodded his dinner with his spoon halfheartedly, glaring at whatever meat was on his plate, until he noticed both Grif and Simmons watching him.

“What?”

“Er... nothing,” Simmons muttered. “I mean... yeah, nothing.”

“Did you get Church and Tucker shanked?” Grif asked bluntly.

“Grif! Can't you be, I don't know... subtle?”

“Fuck that.”

Simmons let out an annoyed noise and ran his fingers through his hair nervously before turning to Donut. “You turn up with a wound. Next day, you so happen to be hanging out with Caboose—who rarely leaves Church's side—at the moment that Church and Tucker are attacked?” Simmons' stare got harder. “Is that coincidence?”

“What was I supposed to do? O'Malley was going to kill me!” Donut said angrily, before clapping a hand over his mouth.

Shit, it was out now.

“...Who the fuck is O'Malley?” Simmons raised an eyebrow, while Grif looked mildly mystified.

“O'Malley! Crazy guy? The one waving the rusty screwdriver around? Possibly friends with an old British guy with an incredible mustache?”

“Wyoming, sure. Everyone knows him, he's the go-to guy for getting anything. But I don't know who O'Malley is. What does he look like?” Simmons asked.

Good question.

“I... I don't know. He was standing behind me when—“

And the whole thing came tumbling out. Once Donut started speaking he couldn't stop. It was not in his nature to keep quiet and even this one day of silence had stretched him to his limits. Maybe he wanted someone to tell him that he had no choice, so that he would feel better about possibly sending Church and Tucker to their deaths.

There was a few seconds of silence once he finished. Grif was the first to speak, immediately ruining any hope of reassurance.

“You fucking idiot.”

“I didn't know what else to do, alright?”

“Didn't you realise that O'Malley trying to stab Church would have counted as valuable information? People tend to be interested when they find out someone's trying to kill them. You could have bargained for protection, you idiot.”

“...Oh my god, I didn't think of that.”

“Obviously,” Simmons muttered. “The Blues are going to kill you once they get out.”

Donut groaned and covered his face. “Shit. I'm gonna die! I'm not gonna live to be twenty-one, and I haven't even seen Paris yet! Are you telling me there was a way around this?”

“Pretty much. You want us to prepare an eulogy?” Grif asked flatly.

“Grif, don't be a jerk. He's not dead yet,” Simmons said. After a moment of consideration, he added, “He probably has at least a week.”

“Oh my god, you're not helping. Isn't there anything I can do?” Donut asked desperately, twisting his hands nervously.

“Pray and hide? Give some really good blowjobs?” Grif suggested.

“Ew, Grif,” Simmons muttered. “Don't be gross.”

“It's an option!”

“Maybe you'll get lucky? Maybe they won't realise you're partly responsible,” Simmons continued, playing with the straw of his juice box. “Caboose doesn't have the smarts to figure it out, and if he doesn't mention that you led him away... maybe Church and Tucker won't realise you did anything. Also, we're assuming they both lived.”

Donut made an awkward squeaky noise.

“They might have died. Or they might still die. I heard Church was in pretty bad shape,” Simmons continued, ignoring Donut's discomfit. “It's a definite possibility. We only have one doctor, and quite frankly I don't think 'Doc' is actually a real one. I asked him where he studied medicine, and he immediately changed the subject. So if you're lucky, those two will only leave the infirmary via body bag.”

“And you don't care if that happens?”

“No,” Grif and Simmons said simultaneously.

“...That's messed up.”

“He. Blackmails. People,” Simmons sounded out, looking at Donut like he was stupid. “No-one is going to care.”

“It's still messed up.” Donut tapped his spoon against his tray absently. “So... either they're dead or I'm likely to die in a week. Provided they know that I helped.”

“Yeah.”

“...Crap.”

“At least there's still hope?” Simmons shrugged. “How would they know?”

“I bet they'll know. Church has eyes and ears everywhere, y'know?” Grif said.

“Yeah, but they don't work when he's unconscious or dead.”

“Bet you a week of fruit that he'll know.”

“Deal. But you can't tell him. That's cheating.” Simmons reached over, and he and Grif exchanged a handshake followed by a fistbump.

“Guys, can you not cast bets on how likely I am to die?” Donut mumbled.

“Why not? It won't change whether or not it happens. Might as well get some liquor out of it.”

Donut pushed away his food, giving up on eating again for the day.

Tucker reappeared the next day.

He knew.

Donut knew the moment he saw him, because Tucker was giving him the most intense glare he'd ever seen. Donut was staring back, trying to keep his face neutral. Trying to stop his stomach from churning. He told himself he was just staring back to prove he wasn't intimidated, even though he was.

Really, he just couldn't tear his eyes away from the stitches. The long line of stitches that ran from above the bridge of Tucker's nose down the right side of his face. Donut held back a shudder. An inch or two either way, and it would have gouged an eye out.

Grif, upon sitting down and glancing between Tucker and Donut, turned to Simmons. “Told you. You owe me a week of fruit.”

“You bet on Church, not Tucker. I'm keeping my fruit.”

“Cheating bastard!”

Donut finally managed to avert his gaze and look down at his food. The silence was awkward, but he was somewhat thankful Tucker wasn't talking. Given the rumors about Jones... Tucker talking seemed a lot more dangerous than him staring.

Still... Donut felt like he was screwed. Like he'd made the wrong choice.

That bitch. That little bitch.

Tucker couldn't remember feeling so angry at someone since... since... god, not since before prison. Three days had passed since the attack. Three days of stewing in his own rage.

He was mad at O'Malley, but he had no face to place on O'Malley. He thought he might have seen red hair before getting a screwdriver to the face, but that might have been the blood. He'd never needed to look at the guy before. And he was also pissed at Wyoming, but no-one could touch him. He had the goods. Hurting Wyoming would get the entire prison brought down on his ass.

That left Donut. He knew it was Donut. Donut had walked past him when they were arguing with Wyoming, and after that he hadn't seen Caboose. Two and two equaled Donut being a bitchass punk and luring Caboose away

Tucker was not going to let it slide. He just needed Caboose out of seclusion. He could deal with Donut on his own, but the black mark that would go on his record wasn't worth it. He might lose out on parole when it was time. Caboose, on the other hand, had blown that chance out of the water a long time ago.

“Oh my god. Tucker, your face is all frankenstiney!”

Speak of the devil.

“Hello to you, too,” Tucker grumbled, hand instinctively reaching up to cover the mass of clumpy stitches. Even once it healed, the stupid thing was going to make conning a bitch. It was much easier to track someone down when they had such an obvious scar across his face, and it ruined Tucker's charm to have a giant neon sign on his face that said 'I was in a prison fight.' He had enough working against him by being black—old, racist white people were the best targets monetary-wise—but now he was scarred and it was ruining his grade-A looks.

Ruined. Fucking ruined. Because of two guys he couldn't get revenge on (Caboose wouldn't go after O'Malley, he was too scared, and Wyoming was just off-limits in all ways) and Donut.

“What happened to Church?” Caboose asked, sitting down on the concrete next to Tucker. “He's... he's okay, isn't he?”

Church was not okay. Tucker had blocked the first blow. Church had been stabbed another five times. Tucker had lost his face for nothing. The bastard better still be grateful, if—when—he recovered.

“I... I don't fucking know,” Tucker sighed. “Last I saw, he was semi-conscious, but he was completely off his head. He just kept passing out after swearing at the ceiling. Didn't know where he was, who I was. And that was four days ago. Anything could have happened since. Like they'd tell us if he kicked it. And speaking of kicking—” Tucker glared at Caboose. “Kicking the infirmary door down? Dumb idea, Caboose.”

He might have been able to visit Church if it had just been Doc up there. Doc was soft. Tucker would just have to act sad and he'd be let in. But there was a guard stationed out there while the door was missing.

“Yes. It was a dumb idea. And you are calling me stupid. I have never heard that before,” Caboose muttered.

Tucker blinked at him. “Okay, was that actual sarcasm? I didn't think you had the brain power for it.”

“...I miss Church.”

“Well, mimicking his 'sarcastic bitch' behavior won't bring him back. Maybe he'll wake up sooner to shout at you. How could you let Donut trick you? This is your fault, too!”

“What?”

“You did realise he fucking tricked you, right?”

“No. Chocolate Syrup did not trick me. We just hung out together.”

“Oh my god. That was the trick! He led you off to kill pigeons—“

“It fell over.”

“—so you wouldn't be there to protect us. It's your job to block screwdrivers with your face! Not mine!”

Caboose scrunched up his face thoughtfully. “You are saying... that Sprinkles led me off on purpose?”

“Yes!”

“...I do not believe you.”

“Fuck! Why not?!”

“Because you are stupid and a liar and I do not like you. And I like Marshmallow because he is my second-best friend and he does not get angry and swear at me, and that makes me all warm and fuzzy like a blanket. And friends believe friends. They do not believe stupid Tuckers.”

Tucker groaned and resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall. That wouldn't do any good.

“Dammit, you have to help me get back at him! An eye for an eye and all that shit! Come on, Church'll back me up on this. Once he wakes up, anyway. You'd believe Church, wouldn't you?”

Caboose crossed his arms and turned away. “Cheesecake is my friend.”

“Damn, you're so difficult...” Tucker pondered for a moment. “Alright, the whole warm and fuzzy deal. That makes you feel good, right?”

“Yes. Like a blanket. Or a hug from Mama.”

“Well.” A nasty grin crossed Tucker's face. “Then what we should do is get that warm, fuzzy feeling to Church so he'll get better quickly. And, y'know... wake up and stop swearing at the ceiling. So the best way to make Church wake up would be to get Donut near him.”

Caboose nodded, with an expression that indicated that he was thinking harder than what his brain normally allowed.

“But, see... with the guard outside the infirmary, since a certain someone kicked the infirmary door down—“

“Tucker did it.”

“You can't say that to me! Never mind, not important. The point is, we can't just wander in. Nor can Donut. So the only way to get Donut into the infirmary... is, obviously, to break his fucking legs.”

Caboose made a small, whining noise and stepped away from Tucker. “No. Not Cinnamon Roll. No, no, no. You... you are trying to trick me.” Caboose pointed at him. “You sound like O'Malley.”

“Oh, shut up, I do not.” Tucker put a hand on Caboose's shoulder, trying to treat him all buddy-buddy. “Look, you're not gonna kill Donut. Just break his legs so he can't leave the infirmary until Church is better. You're just gonna maim him a little.”

“I do not hurt people. I do not, I do not!”

“Fine,” Tucker sighed melodramatically. “I guess you don't want Church to get better. But that's fine. Sure, it's your fault he's hurt. And Church'll keep hurting. He might even die, but hey... obviously, you're fine with that. Obviously, you're just a shitty best friend.”

Tucker felt like an asshole, because Caboose looked like he was about to cry, and it made Tucker feel like he'd just punted a puppy. But the anger at Donut won out. Tucker turned his back on Caboose and walked two steps away.

On the third step, he heard Caboose speak.

“Okay.”

“You'll break Donut's legs?”

“...To help Church. I will help Church.”

“Cool.” Tucker turned around, genuine grin on his face, and wrapped an arm around Caboose's shoulders. “Alright, you can't fuck this up, so you gotta listen to how I tell you to do it. And Church'll be healthy again in no time.”

As he spoke, Tucker's eyes landed on Donut. He was following Grif and Simmons around. Had been since Tucker got out of the infirmary. Probably afraid of being left on his own. Smart bastard. He'd need help to get Donut on his own. Maybe Tex would help, if she could do it without being implicated...

Whatever. Tucker would manage it. No-one messes with him. And no-one hurts Church and gets away with it, either. Not as long as Tucker has anything to do with it.

Chapter Text

Orange. Nothing but fucking orange.

Donut finished folding what was probably the millionth orange jumpsuit and rubbed his eyes. So much orange was making his eyes water. He kept his back to the wall whenever possible, though more out of habit than anything. No-one would try and attack him in the laundry room, with so many guards around. Anyone who tried would be hauled off quickly.

Although, Donut noted warily, Tucker could probably get Donut in the face with the hot part of the iron he was holding. But Tucker didn't look like he was planning on it. He'd been disturbingly cheerful at dinner the previous day. He'd even stopped glaring at Donut, instead just grinning while he ate.

Either he'd decided to spontaneously forgive Donut, which seemed unlikely, or he had something planned. Which seemed much more likely, seeing as the sudden cheerfulness had occurred when Caboose had been released from the shoe.

Donut was sure that Caboose now knew the truth as well. Although Caboose hadn't seemed angry. Just upset. Donut had seen him at yesterday's dinner and at breakfast, but Caboose had just started downwards at his plate and refused to look at Donut.

Now, in the laundry room, Caboose was just staring off into space and perpetually folding and unfolding a jumpsuit. York occasionally prodded him in the back to keep him working, but it only worked for a couple of minutes at a time.

Eventually, the bell rang for lunchtime. Donut quickly dropped his last jumpsuit on the stack and looked around for Simmons, scanning the crowd quickly to make sure he wasn't left behind by accident. He'd been sticking to them like glue since Tucker had been released, and now that Caboose was out he felt like it was a worse idea to be alone than ever. Grif and Simmons had started sharing annoyed or tired looks whenever Donut followed them around, but better clingy than dead.

While Donut glanced around, he noticed that Tucker was still by himself. Caboose wasn't there.

“You realise that we're not actually going to protect you if you get jumped, right?” Simmons grumbled. “We're not stupid. Advice is fine, but in this case? You're on your own.”

“I know. But they're less likely to attack while I'm with you, right?”

Simmons let out a quick, high pitched laugh. “Not if they're using Caboose. He could probably fight half the prison by himself.” He raised his voice. “Grif, hurry up! How can you be so slow to finish up?”

“Shut up, Simmons,” Grif shouted back, from where he was stuck ironing jumpsuits.

Donut peered between the two. “Can I ask you something?”

“What about?”

“Why do you and Grif always follow each other around? I mean, you don't do much except argue like an old married couple.”

“Why does everyone compare us to a married couple?” Simmons muttered under his breath.

“I was just wondering why.”

“Old habits!” Grif called out from his ironing board.

“That, yeah.”

“Old habits? Did you guys know each other before, then? Did you get thrown in here together? What'd you do?” Donut asked curiously. “Was it like in the movies where the two people go on the run together and dramatically hold hands and it's kind of like an elopement but with policemen instead of angry family members?”

“What the fuck, Donut? What movies have you been watching?”

Donut had opened his mouth to explain the plots said movies when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to see Tex standing behind him.

“There's some jumpsuits left. Take them stack down to the storeroom,” she said shortly, gesturing at the pile that Donut had ironed.

“Oh. Yes, ma'am.”

Tex didn't say another word, she just left for the cafeteria, the same way that the other inmates and most of the other guards were going. Simmons glanced at the pile of jumpsuits, then at Donut.

“I'd run pretty fast. Just in case, y'know?”

Donut nodded before picking up the stack of jumpsuits. Alone, the whole way down to the laundry room. But if he was really quick about it...

A couple of minutes later, Donut was trying to push open the door to the storeroom with his foot (a tricky task) while trying to see over the pile of jumpsuits he was holding (an even trickier task.) After a couple more minutes of failing, Donut finally managed to push open the door.

He couldn't see much. It was dark. And when he flipped the light on, for a moment all he could see was orange. Stacks upon stacks of jumpsuit, occasionally broken up by the white—well, faded grey—of the undershirts, underwear and socks sitting in baskets here and there.

He moved over to a shelf and tucked the stack of jumpsuits away. When he turned around, Caboose was standing there. Donut had never heard him come in. Maybe he'd even been there all along, lingering in the corner.

Donut's natural response was to let out a surprised scream, but the moment he made noise Caboose grabbed him and clapped a hand over his mouth. The scream tailed off into a muffled yelp. Donut tried to squirm away, but it was as futile as getting chocolate stains out of a white shirt.

“Mmph! Mmmgh!”

“Is anyone waiting outside, Croissant?”

Donut felt a chill run down his spine. Caboose's dim voice didn't sound malevolent or even aggressive, but he'd still never sounded so terrifying.

“Mmh!”

“Right. You cannot talk with a hand over your mouth. I will stop that if you promise not to yell.”

Donut considered it for a moment before nodding. Caboose removed his hand and turned Donut around, but kept a hold on his shoulders. Not tight enough to bruise, but tight enough to let Donut know that he could.

“I am sorry for scaring you,” Caboose said quietly. “But I did not want you to yell and get me into trouble. I do not want to go back into the boot.”

“Don't hurt me!” Donut yelped.

“That is very close to yelling. If you do that again, I will have to put a sock in your mouth to keep you quiet. I do not want to do that. Socks taste bad.”

Donut took a few deep breaths, holding in the urge to scream for help. After a while, he said, “Okay. No shouting. I... we can continue this conversation outside. In the yard. Or the cafeteria. Or somewhere.”

“No. We need to talk here.” Caboose tilted his head. “Tucker says that you tricked me. That you helped O'Malley hurt Church. Is that true?”

Donut did what any sane person would do in his situation. He lied.

“No! No, I didn't!”

Caboose nodded. “I did not think that you would. O'Malley is a mean person and you are a nice person. Nice people do not work with mean people, and you would not lie to me because we are friends. Right?”

“Yes. Friends. Best friends,” Donut agreed nervously. “Great. Can you let me go now?”

“No.”

“Why? Come on, Caboose. I didn't do anything. That means you can let me go!”

“We are friends. But Church is my best friend. And if I do not hurt you, then Church might never get better again. And I have to help him, even when it means I have to do really bad things. I am very sorry.” Caboose chewed on his lip thoughtfully, staring down at Donut's legs. “Do I really have to break both? Um... do you know which part of the leg would not hurt if it got broken?”

“Huh? What—No! No, no, don't! Please don't break my legs! Please, Caboose!” Donut pleaded.

“You are yelling again. Please stop it.”

“Come on, let me go! How will breaking my legs help Church?!” Donut tried to pull out of Caboose's grip, but he never loosened his hands. They tightened further, reaching the point where they'd start to leave bruises.

“You are a warm, fuzzy blanket. And blankets always help people get better,” Caboose mumbled.

“Come on, please! Anything but breaking my legs, anything but that! Please, pl—mmf!” Donut was cut off by Caboose pulling him forward into a headlock, shoving one of the nearby socks into his mouth as a makeshift gag.

“I told you to be quiet, McMuffin. It is very hard to think with you yelling. It is okay, though. The socks are clean.”

Donut shook his head and tried spitting the sock of out his mouth, but to no avail. Caboose sighed, looking down at Donut with an expression akin to someone who'd just seen a three-legged puppy.

"And now you cannot help me figure out which part of the leg would hurt the least," Caboose said sadly as he tugged Donut towards the door. When they got there, Caboose pushed the door far open with his free arm. Then he let go of the headlock only to try and guide Donut gently to the floor.

Donut took the moment of gentleness as an opportunity to try and bolt. The reaction was Caboose immediately tackling him to the floor. He hit the floor, head clunking against the wall so hard that he blacked out for a split second. When he opened his eyes again, everything was spinning.

Caboose dragged him, ankle first, back to the door. He lined Donut's leg up so that the calf muscle was next to the doorframe. His hands lingered above Donut's leg for a moment, hovering uncertainly, before he gave Donut what was possibly meant to be a reassuring pat before standing.

Caboose took a deep breath and covered his eyes, grabbing the door handle with his free hand.

“I am sorry!”

And then Caboose slammed the door as hard as he could on Donut's leg.

Donut's scream of pain was muffled by the socks stuck in his mouth. By instinct, he curled his legs up, away from the doorframe. Caboose peeked through his fingers before reaching down and grabbing Donut's ankles again, yanking them back. The pressure on his now bruised leg stung harder.

This time, Caboose put a foot on Donut's ankle, pinning it in place. Then he covered his eyes again and slammed the door on his leg once more.

Twice more.

Three times more.

It just kept going. Donut soon lost count.

The... eighth? Ninth? Eventually, there was an audible crack, but that was lost on Donut. Only the sharp pain registered, like his leg had been cleaved in two. He didn't dare look down at his leg, but he felt liquid running down his leg and dripping onto the floor. Not much. But some.

Caboose heard the crack, and peeked through his fingers again. He had gone pale, tinged slightly green like he was going to be sick.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Nougat! Please do not hate me! I do not want you to hate me!” Caboose covered his eyes again. "I wanted to be friends... I really wanted to be friends..." Caboose lowered his hands, stepping over Donut before he reached down and pulled Donut by the crooks of his arms out into the corridor. "I was supposed to break both your legs. But one is already too much."

As soon as Donut's hands were free, they immediately shot towards his leg. Tears were dribbling down his face and being soaked up by the sock working as a gag, muffling any sounds of pain or cries for help. His mouth tasted of salt and traces of bile that had risen the moment he got a look at his leg and the bruised, bloody mess it had become where the door had hit it, distorted by the blow to the head that he'd gotten.

Caboose shut the storeroom door and crouched down in front of Donut. He looked worried.

"I am going to leave you here. And Mrs McCrabby will probably find you very soon." He hesitated for a moment, then made to pat Donut on the shoulder. Donut flinched away, staring at him with wide eyes, and Caboose's hand paused before lowering. “I... I do not want to go back into the high heel. But if you want to tell them that I was mean to you... you can. I will not get angry, and I will not hurt you again because of it.”

Caboose tugged the pair of socks out of Donut's mouth and tossed them aside. Donut didn't scream. He would have earlier, but the pain was too strong and sharp for him to even think about screaming. Instead, he just cried, holding onto his leg.

"How... could you..." Donut choked out between the sobs.

Caboose looked downwards, then stood up. "Because I had to... to fix Church. But if you do not want to be friends anymore, that's okay.” Caboose smiled sadly at him. “I... would not want to be friends with me, either."

Caboose turned around and hurried away down the corridor, leaving Donut lying on the floor, clutching his broken leg.

He ended up lying down there for what felt like several hours, trickling blood on the floor. In reality, it could only have been five minutes, tops. But it felt like an eternity.

He didn't move for a while. He didn't know how those people who broke their legs and managed to hobble a mile to the hospital did it. He was too busy sobbing and thinking about how much it hurt. His head still spun.

He did eventually regain enough coherent thought to think about how to get to the infirmary. He'd started dragging himself along, a few inches at a time, using his arms. But every time he did he let out a strained cry as it made another sharp pain rock through his leg. Still, he'd try again a minute later.

Tex found him after his fourth attempt to move, still only a couple of meters from the storeroom. She picked him up, none too gently, and carried him to the infirmary.

God, it hurt. It hurt more than anything he'd ever felt. Even that time when he got hit by a car that was going at full speed. Although he'd always had a lot of luck with car accidents. Never more than a few bruises. He'd survived car accidents further back than he could even remember.

Doc claimed that his leg hurting was actually a good sign and that it would be worse if his leg had gone numb. Though he then backed up and added that he might have gotten that backwards. Either way, Donut wasn't reassured.

Now, lying on the cot in the infirmary, listening to Doc panic about how he didn't know how to set a broken leg and about how the hospital might find out how low they always were on medical supplies, Donut was trying to look anywhere but his broken leg. Not that it was super bloody. Now that the horror was wearing off, it was only a little bloody. Mostly where the door had scraped skin off. Otherwise, it was primarily yellow, purple and blotchy where Caboose had slammed the door on it. But it was pointing slightly in the wrong direction and just looking at it made Donut feel nauseous.

Instead, Donut looked around the room for something – anything – to keep his mind off the pain. Unlike the rest of the prison, the infirmary was painted a light mauve. It was a nice, soothing colour. That was probably the intention. The only other colour in the room was a set of dark blue curtains patterned with yellow ducks. These curtains were hung up around one of the cots.

"Nice curtains," Donut said.

Doc, who had been examining his leg with an expression of confusion, like he didn't know what he was looking at, looked back up momentarily.

"Oh, thanks. I bought them from home. I think ducks make people feel a bit happier when they're bleeding all over the sheets," Doc said, distracted from his panic and examination. "Doesn't seem to be working on Church that well. Every time he wakes up it's nothing but shouting. He never says anything nice. Although he's getting better. He can speak more than swearwords now." Doc paused, then returned to examining Donut's leg. "Sorry, but can you not distract me?"

"Oh. Sorry..."

"It's okay, it's okay." Doc sighed. "Well... it's not an open fracture? I think? I mean, maybe it is. It's kinda bloody. But I can't see bone. It's definitely broken, though. Just wait here while I call the hospital. They'll give you an x-ray and whatever treatment you need, then send you back here. I don't actually have any splinting supplies, so I can't do anything. Stay as still as possible, okay? Shout really loud if something happens."

"Okay."

As Doc went to the back of the infirmary to phone the hospital, Donut gazed at the duck-covered curtains hiding Church. Well, now he knew Church wasn't dead. Although, he didn't feel so guilty anymore. Probably due to the broken leg. Donut figured that the broken leg balanced out the guilt. Donut wondered if Church was awake at the moment.

"Hey. Hey, Church? You awake?" Donut whispered.

"Fuck off," came the sleepy reply.

"Are you alive?"

"The fuck do you think, Tucker?"

"I'm not Tucker. I'm Donut."

“What? ...Oh. Oh, yeah. You do sound too girly for Tucker.”

“That's ridiculous, he is at least as high-pitched as me.”

Donut paused for a while, thinking of something else to say. What did you say to a man who you nearly got killed? 'Hello, I may have gotten you stabbed. My bad. Let's be friends.' No.

"Uhm... so. How's it going?" Donut asked nervously. He immediately wanted to smack himself in the face. 'How's it going?' Church was in the infirmary, that meant terrible by default.

"Shit. Someone stole my shoes. I could get up and leave if it wasn't for that... Dammit, I bet this is Caboose's fault, somehow." Church's voice was a little slurred, but it was easy enough to understand him.

Donut shifted uncomfortably, and whined as pain shot through his leg again as he did so.

"Hell, I don't fucking need shoes. I'll move on my own. Don't ne—ow, fuck! Jesus, why'd that happen. Tucker, why are these fucking curtains in the way?"

"I'm Donut! Donut!"

"...Right. Yes. I know that. I was... testing you. Yeah, fucker. Bet you feel stupid now."

"Donut, were you talking to Church? Best not to. He's already very confused," Doc said, walking back towards them.

"Who... who're you calling 'confused', Caboose? Like you can talk," Church grumbled.

"Yes, okay," Doc said patiently. He directed the next sentence at Donut. "Did he try to get up again?"

"I think so. Said something about not needing shoes."

"Oh dear. And I don't have anything to kill the pain... sorry, that sounds violent... alleviate the pain. Why are we always so lacking in supplies? First, no stitches... now, no painkillers..." Doc stuck his head inside the curtains. "Church, can you please stay still and stop trying to leave the bed? That's all I'm asking."

"Stop telling me what to do. I'm not taking orders from someone with an IQ lower than a goldfish."

Doc shrugged, and shut the curtains again.

"It's easier just to agree with him. He's, uh... how do I explain it? He's kinda still in a coma? No, maybe that's not right. But he's basically half-asleep at any given time, and whenever you correct him he just forgets five seconds later. Like he's still dreaming or something. Mostly, he just confuses people and occasionally sees some weird things. He'll get better. Probably. It's 50/50. Anyway... ambulance should be here, soon. Just have to wait here. You're fine with that?"

"It's not like I can do anything but lie here, anyway," Donut muttered, through gritted teeth.

“That's true. Anyway, wanted to talk to you.” Doc sat down on a seat nearby, peering at Donut with a sympathetic look. “Your luck is pretty bad, huh?”

“You mean this doesn't happen to everyone?”

“Nope.”

Such bullshit.

“Anyway, I meant to tell you that Sarge'll probably ask you questions about how you got hurt. Who did it, why they did it and so on. Or you can tell me the truth right now and I'll pass it on. But, well... do you want to tell the truth?”

"What do you mean?"

“I mean that's not a normal accident. Sure, we sometimes get fractures from inmates simply falling over at the wrong places. But this is too suspicious, especially given that this is the second time you've been hurt since you came in. And you haven't even been here two weeks yet. Someone's obviously targeting you. But people never say when they're being targeted, or at least not by who. I don't approve of lying, but... I know mostly everyone does when it comes to these sort of injuries."

Donut recalled Caboose telling him that he was allowed to tell the truth. He could tell without repercussions. Just a long stretch of seclusion for Caboose. No gain, no loss. Just revenge. On the other hand... did Donut even want revenge on Caboose?

Part of him did. Because... fuck, it hurt. But he recalled the upset expression on Caboose's face. Someone had put him up to it. Donut was willing to bet his other leg that it was Tucker. But Tucker hadn't made the same promise that Caboose had. His other leg really would be next to go if he told.

Donut twisted his hands together nervously, as he thought it over. "I can't think clearly," Donut said finally. "Can I wait until my leg doesn't hurt so much?"

"Take as long as you want. Or, at least as long as you want until Sarge gets impatient and demands an answer. He's pretty impatient, so that won't be long. So, you can't really take as long as you want." Doc nodded. "I'll be back once the ambulance arrives with a stretcher. No way is anyone carrying you through the whole prison on their back. Stay still, and if Church tries to get up again, then just tell him not to. He doesn't like listening to me when he's half-hallucinating.

"You little shit."

Tucker sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Grif, I haven't catcalled at your sister in ages. She hasn't even been here in the last month."

"You know what I'm talking about." Grif jammed a thumb in the direction of the walls. They could see the flashing of a red light. An ambulance. "Donut doesn't show up at lunch, neither does Caboose, and now there's an ambulance here? I'm not stupid."

"Aw, you're not going to get on my case about this too, are you?" Tucker complained. "I've already got Caboose guilt-tripping me, man. Do you know how tough that is? He doesn't even have to say anything because he has those eyes! I swear, I know a lot of ways to make someone feel sorry for me, and Caboose can upstage it all with a look. A look! And besides, you getting on my case about this... a little hypocritical, isn't it? Coming from the guy who broke my finger once because I said just a few things about your sister?" Tucker wiggled the fingers on his right hand at Grif. "Not cool.”

"Dude, first off... those few things? More like a week-long stream of constant innuendo. And it was a spur-the-moment kind of thing, not a preplanned assault. Second, a broken finger is nothing. A broken leg? That's just cruel. Really cruel. Just because some other guy slashed your face in? Yeah, wah." Grif dropped his used cigarette and crushed the butt underneath his shoe. "Plus, Donut's so small and feminine... it's like mauling a sixteen-year-old girl."

Tucker pulled a face at Grif. "Great. Trying to find a sister substitute in prison? That's sad. Really sad. Besides, I didn't do anything. Caboose did the breaking."

"Yeah, I already asked him about it. Says you told him to, because it would help Church get better. Ohhh, Tucker..." Grif mockingly tutted. "Caboose is basically a toddler. You realise you just manipulated an infant into mauling a sixteen-year-old girl? Honestly, I'm not an angel either, but... fucking wow."

"Is there a point to all this, or are you just here to try and guilt-trip? Because, seriously. It's not working." Tucker stretched and grinned at Grif. "Sure, manipulating Caboose wasn't nice, and I feel a little mean about that. Just a little. But you can't make me feel sorry for what happened to Donut. Backstabbing bitch had it coming."

"Coming from the guy who is a backstabber's bitch."

Tucker snorted. "First of all, bullshit. And second, now who's a hypocrite? Considering the noises I hear you and Simmons make."

Grif responded by kicking the crushed remains of his cigarette in Tucker's direction. "Whatever, man, I didn't come over here to debate on the subject of prison bitches. I just wanted to say that if you don't agree to hand over your fruit for the next month, then I'm going to tell Caboose you tricked him."

Tucker raised his hands. "Whoa. Isn't that a little harsh?"

"Telling the truth? Not at all. It's what people are supposed to do, you know. You should try it sometime, Tucker. You might like it."

"And why would Caboose believe you?"

"Why wouldn't he? He hates you." Grif gestured at Caboose, who was scratching patterns in the dirt not far away from them, looking blank. "Honestly, I don't think he cares that much whether you're telling the truth or not. Either way, you just made him lose one of his only friends. Give him an excuse and Caboose will strangle you. And probably enjoy it."

Tucker scowled. "Fuck."

"Yeah. So, a month's worth of fruit? Being throttled? You gonna choose one or what? At least I'm not making people hurt others, right?" Grif grinned at him, lighting another cigarette.

"Alright, alright. But I hate you so much right now."

"We always hate each other."

"That's true."

After a couple of minutes of silence, Donut heard Church pull the curtains back a little. Donut looked over to see green eyes staring at him through a gap in the curtains, before they swung shut again.

"I was... just checking," Church mumbled.

"Checking?"

"Yeah. Just checking who was there... Caboose keeps stopping me from opening the curtains. And then he did that weird thing... where he actually speaks like a normal person? And uses weird medical mumbo-jumbo. Odd for a guy who can't even read."

Donut assumed Church was just talking about Doc again, and didn't bother replying.

"This place sucks, Tucker. I hate it. It's all... giant ducks and shit. And Caboose is all 'you're thirteen on the scale.' What fucking scale? See, he still talks gibberish. Just different gibberish. Anyway... I was talking about the giant ducks. But that's not all. Ghosts, too."

"Ghosts?" Donut meant to move closer so he could hear Church better, but he had momentarily forgotten about his leg, producing more sharp pain and whining.

"Yeah. Ghosts. Loads of people have died in here. And you can hear them. All 'it's your fault we're dead, bitch' and all that. Seriously freaky stuff."

"What ghosts? Like, do you know them?"

"Sure. I was in here when they dragged Phil up. Had, like, only half his head left intact. It was disgusting. You know that, I told you ages ago. They always bring the dead bodies up here." Church pulled a face. "Jeez. Tex was breathing down my neck for a month after that. 'Did you do that, Church? Did you? Because that violates our no-killing-stuff agreement.' Now, how the fuck would I do that from up here? I wasn't even fucking conscious until about fifteen minutes before it happened. Caboose is just nuts, is all."

Donut nodded for a few moments before part of that clicked. "...No-killing agreement?"

"Promised I wouldn't do that shit any more," Church grumbled. "Be so much easier if I didn't, but... well, yeah. Whatever. C'mon, Tucker, what's with the stupid questions? You gonna bitch because murder would be quicker?"

"Oh... um... ah... No, I'm not gonna bitch. It's just... you know," Donut said lamely."Yeah. I do know. Because I know everything."

After another minute of silence, Church spoke up again.

"Tucker?"

"Yeah?"

"Not to sound like a sap or anything... but thanks."

"Thanks for what?"

"Oh, come on. Seriously? You don't remember? I'm not explaining it all again... fuck it, you totally ruined my grand thank you. You know how rare those are? You know what? Fuck it. I'm going to sleep.”

It seemed that Church was as good as his word, as the rest of the time until the stretcher arrived passed in complete silence.

"I hope Tucker doesn't throw out another revenge scheme over this," Simmons muttered, as Grif explained why he would now have enough fruit to make pruno and some leftover to actually eat. "Seriously, is possible Tucker revenge worth alcohol ingredients?"

"It absolutely is."

"Fucking idiot." Simmons stretched a little before leaning back on the bench. "But, if you're going to have so much of it... Any chance of getting some pruno off you?"

"Thought you said it was a dumb idea."

"It is a fucking dumb idea. But, as long as you're making the stuff anyway... getting blind drunk might be fun."

"Yeah. Just like the old days," Grif said, grinning. "Alcohol and oreos. If I could only get hold of some oreos..."

"Just like the old days, huh?"

"All that's missing is that sofa that smells like old cookies."

"It smelt like that because you kept putting oreos under the cushions for safekeeping, fatass."

"Oh, yeah. Good times.”

“No, they weren't! It was gross!”

"I think you'll be in here for... probably up to the next two months," Doc said, after Donut had been returned to the prison infirmary. "Lucky you didn't need surgery or anything. Nice cast, by the way. Very... pink."

"Lightish red," Donut corrected him.

"Did they run out of other colours?"

"No. I just like lightish red."

"Anyone you know planning on visiting the prison, tomorrow? Because I don't really want to let you out of that cot."

"Not that I know of. My parents live in another state, it's not exactly a fun time out for my friends and the guy I hung around most was my roomie, and... well..." Donut trailed off briefly. "That... didn't end too well."

Doc nodded. "Fair enough. Church, how about you? Not likely, is it?"

"No. Never fucking get visitors," Church grumbled from behind his curtains.

"Well, I'm going down to get some dinner. I'll bring you your food once I'm done, okay? Something happens while I'm gone... just yell really loudly."

"Can do."

"Whatever."

Once Doc had left, again, Church pulled back the curtains a little.

"You do get visitors, though," Church said suspiciously. "What about your kid?"

"Oh, um... they decided not to show up?" Donut bluffed. He'd given up trying to correct Church on who he was, and had just resorted to making up excuses for why he kept saying things that Tucker wouldn't. It was still easier than correcting Church continuously. Church snorted.

"Right, whatever."

"Do visitors really never come to see you?"

"Who would? Only guys I knew on the outside were criminal douchebags. Well, besides Tex, anyway. She's just a bitch. But a bitch on the right side of the law. And she already works here." Church let go of the curtains again, and they swung back into place. "Not like I had any friends or anything. Friends are for losers."

Donut laced his fingers together behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The cot in the infirmary was much more comfortable than the one in his cell, and it didn't smell like old puke. And, Donut reflected, he wasn't in danger of being attacked in here.

There's always a bright side, even to having your leg broken.

"A pink cast? Could you get any gayer? Why didn't you get your nails done to match?"

Donut looked up from one of the books Doc kept in the infirmary (a book about yoga) to see Tucker standing above him, grinning. Donut immediately tried to shift away as far as his cast would allow.

“Oh shit,” Donut whispered.

“Relax, traitor, I'm not here to kill you or anything.” Tucker gestured at his face, which still had the long line of stitches running down it. "I'm supposed to be here... gotta get these fucking stitches taken out or I'm gonna scare Junior tomorrow. And, ah, you're kidding. Caboose only broke one leg? I said both legs, dammit." Tucker let out an annoyed grunt. "Caboose must really like you. He doesn't usually get so depressed over breaking people. Normally he gets over it in about two minutes, and he spends those two minutes more giddy than depressed. But it's been, like, several hours. And he nearly bit my head off when I tried to ask him what happened.”

"Ugh, I freaking knew it was you," Donut grumbled.

"Yeah, well... kinda obvious, isn't it?" Tucker drummed his fingers against the cast lightly, causing Donut to wince a bit. "You don't seem as angry as I thought you would be."

“I'm high on painkillers and really tired. It ruins my temper. I'll be mad later,” Donut said.

Tucker grinned wider, rocking back and forth on his feet a little. "So, you can't really do anything at the moment, can you?"

"Oh, no, I can still do stuff. Just now I was thinking, 'hey, let's go dancing!' Of course I can't do anything, you jerk."

"Well, that's what happens when you're a backstabbing bitch, you know? In the future, don't be a dumbass. Stick to the winning side." Tucker waved his hand at his own face again. "You indirectly got my face disfigured, I indirectly got your leg broken. I'd say that's pretty even. Even if I wanted both legs broken. At least your injury isn't on your face, you jackass."

"At least you're not immobile for two months!" Donut retorted. "It's not like I meant for you to get injured."

"Oh, right, right. You just meant to get Church killed, then. That's so much fucking better. Not." Tucker glanced behind him at the curtains. "Since those curtains are still up, I assume Church is still alive?"

"Last time Doc checked, yeah." Donut returned to his book, only to find that he had lost the page he was on. "But he's kinda off his head."

"Wait, like... what kind of off his head? Caboose-style weirdness? O'Malley-brand craziness?"

"Uhmmm..." Donut hummed to himself for a moment. "Not either of those, really. He's just... out of it."

"Let's see..." Tucker crossed the room and stuck his head in the curtains. "Hey, Chur—"

"Holy crap!"

What followed was a yelp of pain from Tucker, and he quickly pulled his head out, holding his nose.

"Why are people always hitting me in the fucking face?" Tucker yelled. "Come on, anywhere but the face. Man... good thing that book was just a paperback. If it'd been a hardcover he would have broken my nose... the fuck was up with that?"

"Would this be a good time to mention that he thinks I'm you? And that Doc is Caboose? He probably thought you were someone he doesn't like..."

"You're supposed to be dead!" Church roared from inside his curtains. "Go away, Joannes! Go haunt Tucker, it ain't my fault you kicked it!"

"Oh, nice. 'Yeah, go haunt Tucker.' Thanks, Church," Tucker muttered. "Appreciate it." Tucker picked up a felt tip pen that Doc had been using to write on charts, and seated himself near Donut's cast. "Where's Doc, anyway? He's supposed to be taking out my stitches."

"Doc? Called out of the room by Sarge. Hey, stop drawing all over my cast!" Donut tried to wave Tucker away, but he couldn't actually reach far enough.

"Too late. Besides, gotta have something to look at for the next couple of months. Right?" Tucker continued doodling on Donut's cast. "I hope this will teach you how bad being a backstabbing bitch is for your health. Or social life. Both are kind of related in here. Do you even have any friends, yet?"

Donut chose not to respond to that, instead crossing his arms and pouting at the ceiling. "Are you sure you're here to get rid of those stitches? You're not here to be a jerk?"

"Eh. A bit from both, really." Tucker glanced at the curtains again. "I gotta talk to someone, and I was hoping to find Church sane and not trying to smack me in the face with a book about Tai Chi. It's not like talking to you is my idea of a fun time."

"Can you at least stop drawing naked ladies on my cast. I don't want to look at that for two months! That's gross."

Tucker placed the lid back on the pen and tossed it back on the table he had found it on. "I don't need to compensate. Besides, I still don't like you. Drawing something you don't want to look at is just my way of showing that to you."

"Yeah, the fact that you got Caboose to break my leg totally doesn't illustrate that enough."

"That's why two legs were required, man."

"Princess Peach! What in sam hell happened?"

Sarge stomped into the infirmary, Doc trailing behind him looking somewhat nervous. Tucker quickly climbed off his seat and stood further away from Sarge, who made his way straight to Donut.

"Was it one of those dirty Blues? I bet it was! Those no-good rotten dirtbags!"

"Blues? Oh, right.”

"I bet Flowers put them up to it. That conniving evildoer! He shouldn't be trusted with leading the guard, he's planning a revolt, I'm sure of it! I'd fire him straight up if I could find proof... But I know he is! He's a traitor! Him and his girly locks!" Sarge growled angrily.

"Um, Sarge... can you stop shouting? Yelling isn't good for the patients..." Doc muttered.

"Goddamn it." Sarge turned back to Donut. "Well, Cupcake? Who broke your leg, and you better say it was one of those goddamn Blues! Or Grif. Don't mind punishing Grif, he's a sad excuse for a Red! Always lazing around and making excuses not to work... lazy bastard."

Donut just shook his head. "Um... it wasn't Grif," he said quietly.

"Ah, well... can't have it all. So it was one of those goddamn Blues, right?"

Donut hesitated for a few moments of silence. The pain in his leg was nagging at him and making him want to tell Sarge what had happened. That it had been Caboose and that Tucker had put him up to it. He glanced at Sarge, then at Tucker, who was standing out of Sarge's view. Tucker raised his hand, wiggled his arm slightly, then mimed a snapping motion.

The message was quite clear. Snitch, and the arms are next.

"No. I just got my leg stuck in a door, that's all. It was an accident," Donut lied.

"Really..." Sarge snorted. "Don't believe it. That the truth, lady?"

"Yes. I'm... just real clumsy. That's all."

"If that's true, you're gonna be more useless than I thought. Ah, bullhonky." Sarge grumbled to himself for a moment. "Well, can't be helped. You go on ahead and recover fast, soldier."

"Yes, sir."

Sarge nodded, glancing briefly at Donut's cast, complete with badly drawn naked lady. "Hm. You know, those cards with the naked ladies on them were always good for soldier morale, back in the day. Good thinking, Cupcake. Keepin' up the morale," he said approvingly. "Nice work."

Donut could see Tucker trying not to laugh behind him.

"Uh... thanks, sir?"

Sarge turned around and stomped out of the room, and Doc breathed a sign of relief.

"That man is so... stressful to deal with," he mumbled under his breath, before snapping his fingers and gesturing at Tucker. "Sit down, we'll get those stitches out. You'll look fine for your kid tomorrow."

"Great." Tucker nodded at Donut. "Wise choice there, girl."

"Oh, there was a choice?" Donut muttered bitterly.

"Heh... guess not," Tucker laughed. "Still, learn at this rate... you might actually make it through your time here."

“Tucker, can you please not threaten people? I'm right here and that's not nice,” Doc sighed.

"Won't do it again, Doc!"

As soon as Tucker was gone, Church pulled back the curtain.

"Is Joannes gone?" he whispered.

"Yeah, he's gone. Go to sleep, Church."

"Told you... told you there were ghosts around." Church shut the curtains again, leaving Donut to ponder.

If he'd actually been given a proper choice, would he have told Sarge what Caboose had done to him? Or that Tucker had started it? Probably not. Those were the rules in prison. Never snitch. Or else he'd probably end up like Church.

Chapter Text

"Dexter Grif? You can go in, now."

Grif was ushered through the door by the guard, into the visitor's room. Although room wasn't really the right word, it was really just a series of cubicles, with glass separating the inmates and the visitors. Valhalla was not a prison that allowed physical contact between the inmates and their visitors. There was always a sheet of bullet-proof glass in between them. Something that took its toll on the inmates who were in for a long time.

Grif was directed past most of the cubicles, where inmates were talking to family members, partners or friends, until he saw Sister sitting behind one of the panels of glass.

Sister beamed at him. "Dex! I'd give you a hug if this stupid sheet of glass wasn't in the way!" She rapped on the glass once to emphasise her point.

"Still visiting, then? I told you, you don't have to," Grif said, sitting down opposite her. "Shouldn't be spending your free time in this dump." Grif smiled a little as he said it, though.

"Chyeah, but you gotta live here. Which really sucks. How's the prison food? Have you made any alcohol yet? Can I have some if you manage to make it?" Sister asked, speaking a mile a minute.

"Prison food sucks, I'm getting there, and no."

"Aw, lame."

"It's gonna be shit compared with outside alcohol, anyway." Grif shrugged, then leaned forward a little. "You doing okay, sis? No-one's bugging you, are they?"

"Nope! If anyone acts funny around me I just tell them about you. It scares them right off. It's kinda neat. You're like a boogeyman specifically for boyfriends." Sister smiled for a few moments more, but then the smile sagged a little. "I'd like it better if you were still out here, though."

"I know, I know. But there's not much I can do about it now. Just... sixteen more years. Hopefully. That's not that long."

"That's ages! You'll be, like, totally an old man. And that's really gross," Sister said, sticking her tongue out. "Can't you just escape or something?"

"If you find a way, let me know," Grif said wryly. "Like I haven't looked."

"Are you and Simmons married yet?"

"Okay, you need to stop asking that."

"But I want to be an aunt!"

"How is me getting married to a guy in prison going to make you a fucking aunt?!”

"That Tucker guy told me men could make babies with the power of science."

"Tucker's an idiot!”

"Lavernius Tucker? You can go in, now."

Tucker shuffled in, looking around the room. He headed past the other inmates, past Grif arguing with his sister (he heard auntie and brother-in-law mentioned a few times) towards the furthest cubicle, where the two people visiting him were waiting. A man and a child.

Funny thing was, Tucker had never managed to catch the man's name. Mostly because he spoke mostly in a language that Tucker didn't really understand. Sangheili was what C.T had called it, but Tucker had never managed to find any records of the language in the prison library. Closest he'd found was a book on Swahili, but he was pretty sure that wasn't the same thing. The point was, the man might as well have been speaking gibberish because it all sounded like blarghing and honking to him.

Tucker just called the man Crunchbite, because of his abnormally sharp teeth. Though, really, Crunchbite was weird in general. Those eyes seemed too close to yellow, and while he had originally thought that Crunchbite's hair was dyed blue, he wasn't so sure after Junior had been born with identical blue hair. Although maybe Crunchbite had just decided to dye Junior's hair as well. Tucker hadn't seen Junior pop out of... whatever he came out of.

Crunchbite and Junior. Tucker couldn't understand much of what they said (although Junior had managed to pick up his catchphrase) but they were the closest thing that Tucker had to family. It was kind of depressing, really. As to how both he and Crunchbite were fathers of Junior... that was a story that began with Tucker selling various body fluids for money one day. He probably should have thought more about it, but he didn't regret it.

Junior babbled happily, resting his hands on the glass.

"Junior! Hey, kid!" Tucker seated himself down, reaching out to touch the glass too. "How's it going?"

He got a happy response.

"Great. Awesome. Did you teach those bullying kids a lesson?"

Junior nodded, grinning.

"Sweet. That'll teach them to make fun of you just because they don't understand what you're saying." Tucker finally focused a little bit of his attention on Crunchbite. "Hey, man."

Crunchbite grunted at him.

"Have you got around to learning a bit of English, yet? I don't want Junior growing up speaking only whatever you're speaking, you know? Kids are supposed to know more than that once they reach six years."

Another grunt.

"You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?"

Crunchbite responded with some Sangheili. The tone was insulted.

"Right, okay. You at least understood that I said you didn't understand. Okay." Tucker kept resting his hand against the glass, opposite Junior's hand. "Man... you're growing up fast, little guy."

Junior looked up at him and pointed at his face.

"My face? Nothin' wrong with my face. Just a thing that happened, it's cool."

Crunchbite's tone was sarcastic, this time.

"I said it's cool, okay? Shut up." Tucker lowered his hands from the glass. "Can't you take Junior to some English lessons or something? I'd teach him myself, if I got more than an hour of time a month."

The response had a distinctively negative tone to it.

"Oh, that is fucking bullshit. Fine. I'll teach him myself when I get out!"

Another negative grunt.

Tucker sighed, and closed his eyes. "Yeah... I know. He'll be too old for that." Tucker crossed his arms and rested his chin on them, his face level with Junior's. "You'll be, what... twenty-one, at least. You'll be a grown man the next time I get to hug you. Well, at least you got one parent around, right?" Tucker smiled at him, although the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

Junior climbed off his chair, and started rummaging through Crunchbite's bag. He eventually pulled out a piece of paper. A crayon picture, which he proudly pressed to the glass screen.

Tucker gazed at the picture for a few moments. A scrawly picture of him, Junior and Crunchbite. Standing in front of a building which Tucker assumed was where Crunchbite and Junior lived nowadays.

"Sweet picture, Junior," Tucker said.

Junior gestured at Tucker.

"Aww, for me, is it? The guys will rib on me so much for having a crayon picture on the wall. It'll look like Caboose's cell."

Junior looked momentarily crushed.

"Don't look at me like that, like I'm going to let those jerks boss me around. I'll hang it up there, little guy. Forget the other inmates, your pictures are a top priority."

Junior blarged happily.

"You might have a little trouble getting the guard to give it to me. But you can manage it, can't you, Junior?"

Junior nodded, and clambered off his chair once again, trotting over towards the guard on duty. He pointed at Tucker, showing the guard the picture, but the guard shook his head. Tucker didn't worry. Junior was an adorable kid, even if he looked a little weirder than most. He could probably get that guard to break the door of the prison down for him, if only he could speak English. Amazing what an adorable kid can do to an adult's willpower.

Tucker swallowed a proud grin as Junior continued blarghing convincingly. Tucker just knew he was pulling puppy eyes. Eventually, the guard sighed and nodded, holding out his hand for the picture. Junior handed it over, and pranced back to the cubicle, looking pleased.

"Great job, Junior. Give it a few years, you'll be beating me out of a job," Tucker laughed. While he doubted that Junior would beat him that quickly, he knew that charm was fucking genetic.

"Dick Simmons? You can go in."

Simmons passed Grif on the way towards Sister's cubicle.

"How'd it go?" he asked quietly.

Grif shrugged. "Fine. She wanted to know if we were getting married."

"Is she still on about that?"

The guard shooed Grif out of the room before Grif could reply. Simmons crossed the room and seated himself in front of Sister, who smiled at him just as brightly as she had at Grif.

"Dutch-Irish brother!" she said happily.

"Hey, Sister. Enthusiastic as ever?" It had taken a long time to be able to talk fluidly to Sister, but rooming together with both her and Grif had pretty much forced him to get over it.

"You know it!" Sister pointed at the door. "Is Dex doing okay? He kept changing the subject back to me."

"He's fine. He's just worried about you. You don't exactly have the cleanest record when it comes to guys, and Grif gets... y'know... overprotective…" That was the mildest word Simmons had for it.

"Ugh, you don't have to remind me. But it's cool. I don't even have a boyfriend at the moment. Not really, anyway..." Sister waved her hands. "Anyway, I know. Don't tell Dex, or he'll do something stupid. Like try to escape by fighting a guard with a minigun, using only his face. Actually, that'd be pretty sweet. Without the whole 'instant-death' thing afterward."

"Yeah, that'd be right." Simmons rested his chin on his hands. "You are doing okay, aren't you?"

"I told you I'm fine. Stop looking out for me, seriously." An annoyed tone was creeping into Sister's voice.

"Sorry. But it's my job. Besides, it would destroy Grif if something happened."

"Awww, you're worried about him, too. That's so cute!"

"No, no, no. I'm just saying, I don't want him to shrivel up and die. Or else I won't have anyone to argue with, you know."

"You care.”

"Shut up. Besides, you're pretty much like a little sister to me, too. Only hotter.” Simmons paused, then covered his face with one hand, flushing pink to his ears. “I just said that outloud, didn't I?"

"Chyeah, but it's okay. It's a compliment to me, and I won't tell Grif."

"Yeah, I don't want to go through that argument again.”

"Sheilaaaaa!"

Smash.

"Caboose, there is a sheet of bullet-proof glass between us," Sheila said patiently, as Caboose rubbed his nose where he had bashed it on the glass.

"Oh... I always forget. It's very clear, and I cannot see it."

"I know, I know. How are you?"

"Oh, good. Good. Good. ...not good. Not good at all. I lied when I said good."

"Did another pigeon fall over around you?"

"No... well, yes... but that is not the problem..." Caboose lowered his voice and did that whisper he reserved for being secretive. "I did a very bad thing."

Sheila laced her fingers together thoughtfully. "Do you want to tell me about it, Caboose?"

"I think you would hate me. It was very bad."

"Caboose, I don't think I could hate you. If I don't hate you after the things you've already done..."

"I didn't do anything!"

Sheila bit her lip, wincing just a little at the sudden shout. Bringing up the possibility of Caboose being guilty always got him upset without fail. Keeping patients calm was always a top priority, and she kept to that. Even though Caboose technically hadn't been a patient of hers for a long time.

"Yes, of course... I'm sorry, it slipped my mind. But I won't hate you. Okay?"

"I made a friend."

"That's a bad thing?"

"No, that was a good thing. He was nice to me, and we played with pigeons," Caboose said, smiling widely. But then he went back to looking on the verge of tears. "But Church got hurt, and Tucker said that the only way to make Church better was to get Mousse inside the hurty people place, because he makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and he would make Church feel warm and fuzzy too... and so, I had to break his leg to get him there. And I think he hates me now."

Sheila nodded, trying to keep any trace of shock or nausea from her face. Something that, after years of being a doctor, she was quite good at. "I see. And you feel bad about it?”

"Yes? Why would I not feel bad?"

"Well, you don't normally... uh, never mind." Sheila waved her hand distractingly. "You said that it was supposed to make Church better again?"

“Yes."

"Has it?"

"No. But it only happened yesterday. Tucker says it still takes time." Caboose blinked a couple of times, then started tugging at his own fingers thoughtfully. "I think... he might have been lying. He was very angry, because he hit his face on a screwdriver... which was very silly of him. But I have to ask Church to be sure, and I cannot ask Church until he is better again. I think Church will be angry at me, too. He got hurt because I was not around to stop it. And I am supposed to be around to stop it, but I was chasing pigeons with Wafer."

"You can't do anything about it?"

"I want to... I want to make Carrot Cake like me again, but I do not think he will. He had that expression. The one when they think you have a special level of Hell saved for you."

"That's very specific."

"That was the words they said when they made the face."

Sheila smiled kindly at Caboose. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't believe that Hell has a spot reserved for you."

"That does help. I feel a little bit better."

"Do you really?"

"A little bit.”

The time just after lights out there was always some kind of routine going on, both among the inmates and the employees. It was the time when a lot of shifts changed over and those who weren't on duty that night headed home. Or headed to the bar for some Pina Colada and Strawberry Yoohoo, like Sarge often did. He regularly dragged Flowers with him, under the excuse of 'keeping his friends close and his enemies closer.'

Obviously, the inmates couldn't return home at night. But many of them had their own little rituals that they did, especially after visitor's day.

For example, one could count on Tucker to be attempting to stick up Junior's latest picture with blu-tac he had bummed off one of the guards, and then stepping back to admire the collage of crudely drawn crayon pictures that covered one wall of his cell. He would stand back and ponder how the pictures changed over time and grew a little more detailed and a little less childish each time, just like how Junior was a little bigger every time Tucker saw him.

Sometimes, it was possible to see both Grif and Simmons looking through the photos that they kept in their cells. Both of their photo collections were of the same three people. Themselves and Sister. So they often stuck their hands through the bars and reached over to each other's cells in order to trade photos, while occasionally reminiscing about events that were usually stupid and trivial, but fun to remember. Grif stared at the photos and worried about how his little sister was doing. Simmons did as well, while also trying to remember the last time he'd seen his own family and occasionally staring at the one picture he had of them, a picture he kept hidden even from Grif. He wasn't even sure they knew he was in prison. He was pretty certain they wouldn't care if they did.

While the inmates did these things, there would be the guards pacing around, the ones that were on a night shift. Like York, who was currently seated outside the infirmary, cursing the prison for how long it was taking to acquire a new door and eliminate the need to guard the infirmary. Truth be told, this shift was meant to go to Wash, but Wash hated night shifts so York had offered to swap with him. York liked night shifts anyway, because they tended to be quieter.

Whether guards or inmates, they all had comfortable patterns that they'd settled into. But Donut still didn't have that yet. He simply hadn't had time to develop any routines to distract himself with, and he couldn't even attempt it in the infirmary. At the present moment he was trying to sleep, although he was having trouble doing so. Mostly because Church kept mumbling to himself, and it was very distracting.

Eventually, Church seemed to tire with just muttering to himself and sat up, pushing aside the duck-covered curtains.

"Hey, Tucker. He gone?" he whispered.

"Yeah. Sure." Doc had left some time ago, fifteen minutes before the lights went out.

"Finally. Thought he'd never leave. Dammit, I need to stretch my legs. Where's the floor?"

"What?" Donut turned over to look at Church. "You probably shouldn't be walking around. Don't you still have stab wounds?"

"Psh, not like it's the first time I've been stabbed. Fuck that." Church turned and removed his legs from the sheets, poking the floor with them tentatively. He pushed himself to his feet, and immediately winced. "Ow, fuck.”

"Church, get back on the cot," York called from outside. "Come on."

"Fuck you, Jimmy." Church reached out and rested his hands against the wall. "Ow, jeez... this is a lot harder than I thought it would be."

"Church. Sit down!" York climbed to his feet from where he had been sitting on the floor. "Come on, I don't want to hit someone who is already injured."

"I said fuck off!" Church growled. "I'm walking! I'm fine, dammit! I'm not some useless... fuck!" Church had twisted to shout at York, and now he was doubled over, holding his stomach. "Ow..."

"Okay, what'd you do?" York muttered, feeling around for the light switch. Once he turned the infirmary lights on, he hurried over to Church and tugged his hand away from his stomach, swearing quietly when he found that the hand was stained red. "Damn it, you tore your stitches. Okay... okay, it's not so bad, I just need to call Doc. Uh, Donut, wasn't it?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you keep pressure on the part that's bleeding? I don't want him going into shock from blood loss again."

"Can do."

Donut pulled himself out of the bed and hobbled (more of a semi-hop) over to Church, trying to keep his weight off his bad leg. York had made Church lie down again, not that it had been a difficult task once Church was bleeding again.

"Just keep his nightshirt pressed to it. I don't even know where Doc keeps bandages and things..." York moved to the back, towards the phone, while Donut did as York had said.

"That was really dumb," Donut muttered. Church just groaned in response.

"It fucking hurts..." he whined, almost childishly. It reminded Donut of when he was a little kid. He'd been very prone to sickness in his early years, and his mother (well, one of them) would hold his hand when it was particularly bad and sing lullabies... good memories.

Holding hands with an inmate was an incredibly stupid idea. But Church was half-delirious and Donut's motherly instincts were kicking in. Donut kept one hand pressed against the stab wound that was bleeding, and moved one hand to grip Church's own.

"It'll be fine," Donut assured him. "Just gotta be tough, alright?"

Church's hand twitched. "You are such a baby, Tucker," he mumbled.

"Yeah, I know. You alright? I... I can sing lullabies or something. Uh..." Donut paused for a moment, then started singing, "Go to sleep, my teddy bear, close your little button eyes..."

"Tucker, if you keep singing about teddy bears I will punch you in the fucking throat."

"Okay. Doesn't work, anyway. You're too grumpy to be a teddy bear."

Donut could hear York distantly shouting something about an answering machine.

"Doc, if you are ignoring this call I will rip your teeth out through your ass. Finally! ...No, you're unnecessarily violent. I'm sorry, that was rude, but seriously. Get back here right now.”

"Tucker?"

"Yeah, what? Any problems?"

"No, no problems at all. The fact that I'm fucking bleeding is not a problem at all!"

"You don't have to get angry..."

"Am I gonna die?"

"No, of course not," Donut said softly, still thinking about his mother and lullabies and other things that are inappropriate for comforting prison snitches. "You'll be fine. It's just a small thing."

"Well, good. Because if you fuck up and I die, your ass is haunted. You hear me? And you can pass that onto Caboose, too."

"Will do. Now, um... you want to talk about anything? Come on, anything I can do so you won't think about the pain?"

"Just..." Church shook his head. His hand tightened slightly over Donut's. "Fuck, I don't care. Just don't leave."

"Can do."

Donut spent the next fifteen minutes trying to keep Church amused with whatever stupid stories came to mind. A lot of them were probably stories that Tucker wouldn't tell, as most of them were about his friends from back home. And he knew Church probably registered that much, because there were some points when Church looked a little confused.

When York got off the phone he told Donut he could go back to sleep, but Church had protested against 'Tucker' leaving. Even though he claimed that it was just because 'if I don't get to sleep then Tucker doesn't get to, because misery loves company,' followed by a complaint that his stories were 'so boring they was almost making his ears bleed.'

When Doc ran into the room with a purple jacket over his equally purple pajamas, Donut was regaling Church with old laundry stories. Church was silently listening, a mixture of annoyance and confusion on his face.

"...and then I wondered, where can I hang around with no pants on? But then, my old roommate walked in and was like 'what the fuck' and apparently mixed with the lace thing it was too much—whatever, not my fault he had no taste—so he left and I had to find another roomie and that roommate turned out to be… like… probably a serial killer or something. But then—"

"No violent stories, please, I just woke up," Doc complained. "Church, what did I tell you about moving?"

"Fuck off, Caboose. And no way are you coming near me with that needle. Get away."

"Church, no. No." Donut insisted, as Church was showing signs of trying to climb to his feet again. "Just... it'll be fine, I said. You're going to bleed to death otherwise."

Church squinted at Donut, looking suspicious. But he held still long enough for Doc to inject him with some kind of anesthetic.

"That better not be poison. Probably is, knowing you," Church grumbled. "Fuck... tired."

"You can go to sleep now.”

"Fuck yes, I can. Didn't need your freaking permission..." Church was out like a light just a few seconds later.

Doc shook his head. "More trouble than he's worth... sorry, that was harsh." Doc sighed. "Well, could be worse. At least we have the supplies necessary for stitches this time. We really need to stock up on supplies more." He nodded at Donut. "You can go back to sleep now. Watching people get stitches isn't very fun."

Donut let go of both Church's hand and the nightshirt he had been pressing to Church's stab wound. There was blood covering his hands. Donut blinked a few times, opening and closing his hands. He felt sick to his stomach for a moment, and all he could think about was his roommate and how much blood there had been... the horrible noise when the knife had gotten buried in his throat… but the moment passed.

"He'll be fine, right?" Donut asked.

"Yeah, this is nothing like when he was dragged up here a week ago. Much less life-threatening, don't worry. Get some rest."

Donut wiped his bloody hands off and hobbled back to his own cot. He felt tired, too. But despite that, and despite the absence of Church's mumbling, it was no easier to go to sleep than before. If anything, it was a lot harder.

It wasn't until three days after Church's disastrous attempt at walking that he finally woke up properly, for the first time since the stabbing took place. Donut, once again flicking through Doc's yoga books, heard Church sit up. But he didn't really look up until he heard Church speak.

"The fuck?"

Donut looked over his book to see Church staring at him. The glazed look he had for the last few days was less potent. But he still looked completely confused, albeit in a more grumpy way.

"Where the hell is Tucker? Why are you on his bed?"

"Where's..." It took a few moments to click. "Wait... back up a little. What's my name?"

Church rolled his eyes. "Donut. Franklin Delano Donut. What the fuck do you think?"

"Uhhhhhhh..." Donut fumbled with his words for a few moments. "So that means... you're sane again?"

"Sane? The fuck you on about?"

Donut put down his book. "Do you want the long version or the short version?"

"Just tell me what's going on."

"Short version? You've been hallucinating for nearly a week, you mistook me for Tucker, Doc for Caboose, and you smashed Tucker in the face with a book about Tai Chi because you mistook him for Jones, or Joannes, or whatever."

Church considered this for a moment. "I call fucking bullshit. I would never read a book about Tai Chi."

"Ask Doc, then. He'll say the same."

Church grunted, staring off into the distance. He squinted for a moment, like he was trying hard to remember something that happened ages ago.

"Does explain why Caboose was walking around holding needles and talking in a way that was actually coherent. And why your stories sounded so fucking weird." Church trailed off, then his eyes widened. "Oh shit." He shook out the hand that Donut had been holding three days ago. "Great, now I have to chop off my hand. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant." He glared at Donut. "Seriously. What was with the hand holding? That's fucking gross."

"Is it really so gross that you need to chop off your own hand?" Donut muttered, looking offended. "You didn't object at the time."

"Yeah, because I thought you were Tucker, you fu—shit! The fuck did I just say?" Church groaned, putting his face in his hands. "Shit! You didn't hear that. God, I must be high on painkillers or something..." Church stared through his fingers at Donut. "What are you grinning about?"

Donut grinned even more widely. "You held hands with me because you thought I was Tucker? I guess I could keep that a secret, you know... for a small price."

"You tell anyone I said that, I'll make things real painful for you."

Donut pointed at his broken leg. "Things are already painful for me. That's not much of a threat anymore."

Church eyed the pink cast derisively. "Pink cast. Manly. Caboose's work, I assume?"

"Yeah..."

"Every time I wake up in the infirmary, someone at least partly responsible is always lying on a cot in here with something broken. Lucky it wasn't your head."

Donut shivered briefly, before switching back to his grin. "Sooooo... you said you'd make things painful for me if I told. So if I don't tell, you'll leave me alone, right?"

"Hm? Sure. What the hell am I gonna get out of smashing you?" Church grumbled. "I mean, you're kind of useless. Only thing any inmate would ever try to get out of you is a prison bitch, and I'm not that desperate. You're not really good for anything."

The tone Church used didn't sound like he was trying to be deliberately cruel over it. He just sounded like he was stating a fact. A fact that, Donut reflected briefly, was more or less true. His special talent here was getting stains out of the jumpsuits. Still, did he have to be so blunt about it?

"Well..." Donut ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. Then he smiled again. "Actually... can I get some protection? So this doesn't happen again?"

Church glared at Donut. "The fuck? I told you. I want information in exchange for that shit. Protection is fucking valuable."

Donut smiled back at Church. "I could always pass the 'information' I got from you to Tucker. I'm sure he'd find that information really valuable," Donut said sweetly.

"And you say you weren't a criminal on the outside? Because that's evil. Evil!"

"I'm learning from the best."

Church scowled darkly. "You know what, I take it back. I wish Caboose had smashed your head in."

"That's mean. Besides, when you were hallucinating you told me you don't kill people."

"Dammit, did I? Don't spread it around, I like people being scared of me. They're more agreeable that way." Church threw his hands in the air. "Okay, whatever. I'll tell Caboose to keep an eye out for anyone being a jerk towards you. But you keep your fucking trap shut. Seriously. Or I'll make sure you lose the one thing that keeps you allocated to the guy's prison."

Donut would have instinctively crossed his legs at that moment, were one of his legs not immobile.

"Does it have to be Caboose?"

"Take it or leave it."

"...Fine, deal."

He expected to feel a little guilty. He was becoming a blackmailing jerk like the rest of them. Maybe prison was rubbing off on him. Donut didn't feel guilty, though. He actually felt good. Things were looking up.

Wyoming breathed out a long wisp of cigarette smoke. Simmons disapproved of smoking, but he had to admit that Wyoming made it look almost classy. Like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, except that Wyoming's silly-looking mustache somewhat ruined it. It was quite a change from Grif, who had never shown an ounce of class in his life and most likely never would.

"Ah, Dick Simmons. Not often that you appear around me. Have you decided to take up smoking? Oh my, giving into peer pressure? Tsk."

"No way, I'm not going to waste my money on poison," Simmons said, eying Wyoming's packet of cigarettes with distaste. "I'm staying healthy, thank you very much. I intend to outlive Grif and inherit his stuff."

"Class act, my friend. Then what do you want?"

"Well, you sell other supplies, don't you?"

"Of course. Did you want some other poison, Mr. Simmons? A fine bottle of whiskey, perhaps? Something more... special?"

"Could you find some Oreos?"

"Oreos?" Wyoming rested against the wall, smiling to himself. "Oreos... they still sell them, hm? Things don't change that much on the outside. I suppose I could acquire some for you. Must they be Oreos, or can they be some other kind of biscuit? Not that it matters to me, I can acquire them either way, but other biscuits might be acquired quicker."

"No, they have to be Oreos. They don't have them at the commissary."

Wyoming shrugged. "Very well. How do you plan on paying? Direct cash? Laundry wages? Commissary stamps?"

"The last one."

"Give me a few weeks and you'll have them in your hands."

"Alright... by the way, Wyoming? You know of a guy called O'Malley?"

Wyoming didn't bat an eyelid at this question. "We have exchanged pleasantries before. But he is just one of thousands of inmates, and all inmates come to me at one point or another."

"There's nothing weird about him?"

"Weird? Of course not. Doubting my word, are you?”

“Of course I'm doubting your word! Who doesn't?"

"Ah, fair point. That's a wise path to take, so I won't begrudge you for it, chum.”

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Fuck off, Doc."

"Ohhhh, language. Now please answer the question."

"Four."

"Great! I think you're doing better."

"Yeah. Wow. I can count to four." Church raised his hands in mock celebration. "Hooray, I can count three more numbers than Caboose can. Achievement of the fucking year."

"And you're healing up alright, except for that wound you tore the other day. Most of the stitches can be removed in a week or so, you'll have to wait a few days longer for the last one."

"Whatever. Do you have any books that aren't about yoga or Tai Chi?"

"This is all I have."

"Fucking lame.”

Church was mad at himself, and when he was mad at himself and had no-one to shout at he tended to digress into internal monologues.

You idiot, Church. You fucking idiot.

God, I must still be fucking high. I mean, jesus. Of all the things I could have blurted out, it had to be 'I held hands with you because I thought you were Tucker?' What the fuck does that mean? Even thinking that is just... weird. And now that fuckstick Donut is never gonna let me forget it.

Damn, if I hadn't sworn off getting people killed he'd be so dead right now. Maybe I can make an exception... nah, not yet. But if he ever blabs that out to Tucker, then goddammit, I don't care what promises I made to Tex.

Jesus fucking Christ. How does the majority of society work with the whole 'no killing people' rule? It's difficult. 'Course, I'm a douchebag, so maybe that's why. I would love to stick a fork in his eye right now. Jesus, I'm starting to sound like O'Malley. Maybe he's getting to me.

What the hell is wrong with me, anyway? I mean, holding hands with anyone, let alone Tucker... don't care how much fucking pain I was in, that's fucking ridiculous. What the hell happened to Tucker, anyway... he was bleeding pretty badly the last time I saw him. The last time I saw him while sane, anyway.

Jesus. He's okay, right? He's gotta be okay. Donut did say he showed up here once when I was insane... something about smashing his face in... but that's gotta mean he's okay enough to leave the wing. So, he has to be fine, but how could he be fine? There was so much blood. Goddamn it, he better be okay, I goddamn need him. No, wait... don't think that. I need him in a purely practical sense. But that is it.

Crap, that sounded unconvincing even in my head... Okay, never mind. Just stop thinking about Tucker.

…Fuck. I said stop thinking about it. Fucking brain doesn't listen.

You're high on painkillers. High on painkillers with liquid gay in them or something. Now think about something else. Like... fuck, I don't know. There really isn't much to think about in prison. Especially with no blackmailing schemes to keep me occupied. Dammit. I need a hobby.

I would get O'Malley for this if that wouldn't just make him more energetic. Bastard. Why does he have to be so fucking crazy? The crazies are the hardest to get by. None of the blackmail material I have for him works, he doesn't care enough. Not to mention a large amount of it would get me into trouble, too. Fuck. Even if I went against the 'no killing people' rule... which I would damn well consider for O'Malley, and I'm pretty sure Tex wouldn't care in that case... how the hell do I get him killed? I can't order Caboose to... Caboose is too damn scared of him. Of all the people Caboose had to be terrified of, it just had to be the one fucking guy that I can't deal with any other way. And I can't get Tucker to kill him, he's the only one of us that still has a chance of parole, and it'd just be cruel to wreck that for him.

Maybe Wyoming would consider turning against O'Malley for the right price. But it'd have to be a damn high price. And I can't get revenge on him, either. Him and his stupid Morgan Freeman 'I'm the guy who can get things' bullshit. Why'd he have to be one of the best sources of cigarettes? Damn Wyoming.

Jesus, now I've just made myself angrier. Why does every chain of thought end with me pissed off?Fuck. It's going to be a long, long couple of weeks, isn't it? I'm starting to wish I was still insane. At least I wasn't thinking about what I was thinking about... or some shit like that... fuck, I don't know.

Where's that book on Tai Chi? Anything is better than mulling over this bullshit.

"Hey, Church. You actually tried any of the stuff in this book? It looks interesting. I'd try it if I could actually get up, but..."

Fuck, Donut borrowed it. That fuckstick.

"Donut, shut the fuck up."

"You are such a killjoy."

At this point, Church decided it was best to stop internally monologing and just sleep through the rest of his time in the infirmary.

"You can't sleep 24/7," Donut said to him, about a week after he'd woken up. Church had been sleeping as much as possible since then, in an effort to both pass the time and avoid talking to Donut.

"Fuck off."

"But I'm bored! I liked you more when you were hallucinating. At least you were slightly more friendly."

"Yeah, as much as I'd love to be hallucinating again right now, I don't give a fuck. Now shut it, I'm trying to sleep."

"It's one in the afternoon!"

"Don't care."

"You're so mopey!"

"I'm not mopey!"

Once Donut had gotten over any fear he had of Church, it was much easier to be chatty. Which would have been awesome for Donut, were it not for the fact that Church was a miserable person to talk to. Always cranky. Donut didn't know how Tucker and Caboose could stand to willingly hang around him.

"Come on, please? We can talk about stuff. Like, uh..." Donut paused to try and think of a topic that didn't include interior decorating. That would probably make Church even angry. "Uhmmmm... you know. Stuff. It's not like you have to put up with me for that long, you're getting out in the next week or so, I'm still stuck here for, like, a month and a half."

"Again... I don't give a shit."

"Aw. Man, you're such a jerk. How you got Caboose to like you, I have no idea." Donut then grimaced bitterly. "Although... it wasn't difficult in my case, either. Not that it helped me, he still broke my leg with pretty much no hesitation."

"Pssh. So what? That's normal for Caboose," Church muttered, turning over so he was facing the wall. "He's a nice kid on the outside... on the inside, he's fucking cold about that kind of shit. Not that he'll admit it." Church started mimicking Caboose's slow way of talking. "'He fell over, I didn't do anything, really.' There's no way four people can just 'fall over' coincidentally... and that's just outside the prison."

Donut laced his fingers together, gazing at the ceiling. He had the cracks memorized, by now.

"Four people?" Donut wondered if he apologized to them as well.

"Four people. Don't even get me started on who they were. And seriously, I don't really want to talk about it. I don't want to talk to you at all, actually. So shut it."

Donut immediately bounced back to being whiny. "But I'm bored."

"Talk to Doc, then!"

"He keeps wandering out of the room!"

"Well, that's not my fucking problem."

"I'm going to annoy you for the next few hours, if you don't start talking willfully."

"Then I'm taking back that offer of protection."

"Oh, you wouldn't."

"Hey, if it's the alternative to you never shutting up..."

Donut tilted his head thoughtfully. "So... I can tell Tucker, then?"

"...fuck. No. I'll smash you."

"Then I can keep talking."

"No!"

"Make up your mind!"

"Just... gah. You know what?" Church sat up and turned to face Donut, looking extremely pissed off. "You're shit at getting people to like you!"

"That's not true. I had friends on the outside," Donut muttered defensively.

"I meant in here, jerkoff. Babbling constantly about garbage, gossiping about people holding hands and being a general asswipe might have worked around the twinks you probably hung out with before prison. But guess what. It doesn't do shit in here. It won't get you friends. And you need friends in here.”

"Bit rich coming from the guy who swears, yells at and blackmails everyone, isn't it?"

"So? I still got people who aren't quite as annoying to hang around. Trust me, I hate the whole needing friends thing. I mean, I'm pretty awesome and other people just water down the experience of being Church. But there's this line in prison.” Church raised one hand. “On one side of it, prison is still shit, but it's... bearable. On the other side...” Church raised the other hand. “Let's just say that's the point where most inmates start making nooses. And that line heavily depends on having someone who doesn't hate your guts. Yeah, I might be awesome by myself, but five years of having no-one but an ex-girlfriend to talk to... well..."

"You obviously didn't hang yourself," Donut pointed out.

There was a moment of silence, during which Church let out a long breath before saying, “It wasn't from a lack of trying.” He rubbed his throat absently.

“...Oh,” was the only thing Donut could think of to respond with.

“Look if I ever only say one non-asshole thing to you, Donut, it's this. You don't want to cross that line. You need to have people in here, or you're not going to make it. And given your amazing skills at making friends, as shown by you siding with O'Malley and mucking shit up that way..."

"Doesn't he violate the 'needing friends' rule?"

"O'Malley's... special. I don't mean that in a good sense. Instead of friends, he has..." Church wrinkled his nose as he searched for the right word. "...He has favorites. People he particularly likes to torment. Trust me, if he got bored with torturing people he'd probably hang himself, too. The place would be a lot better if he did that. Fucker. But you see what I mean? He has people. In a sense.

"Point is? If you keep annoying people, they're not gonna want to hang around you. God knows I'm considering hanging myself again just so I don't have to keep listening to you. And all the protection in the world won't matter if you're too lonely to care about whether you croak or not." Church glared at Donut, before adding, "You look like you'll collapse pretty damn quickly without anyone to talk to, given that you haven't shut up since I woke up. So either find someone who actually likes your bullshit, or stop being so fucking annoying. Or take the third option and just hang yourself now, do us all a favour."

Church turned over to face the wall again. Donut just gazed at his back for a while, staying silent as he did so.

Things just made a lot more sense now. Why Grif and Simmons stuck together despite the fact that all they did was argue. Why Caboose looked so forlorn once he realised Donut probably wouldn't like him anymore. Why Church hadn't wanted Donut (Tucker) to leave when he was bleeding the other night. Asshole murderers they might be, but they were just trying to make it through prison intact and they needed other people to do that.

Donut stayed silent for a while longer before picking up the book on Tai Chi that he'd grabbed while Church wasn't looking before.

"Do you want the book back?" he asked quietly, holding it out as far as he could without accidentally falling out of his bunk.

Church didn't reply for a while, and Donut assumed he was being ignored. He'd been about to take the book back when Church rolled over and grabbed the book from Donut's hands.

"Whatever. Nothing else to do," Church grumbled.

No swearing or insults. No babbling. No blackmail. Just one of them passing a book to the other. As close to friendship as they were probably going to get, for now.

Ten days after that, Church was allowed out of bed.

"Oh. My. God." Church stretched properly for the first time in nearly a month. "Never appreciated how awesome being able to move was until now."

"Hey, don't stretch too much!" Doc said reproachfully. "You're not completely healed, you're just well enough for the stitches to be removed. Don't overdo it, or you'll tear at it again."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey. Donut, check this shit out. I can stand." Church made a 'ta-da' gesture, grinning at Donut, who groaned and crossed his arms.

"Jerk."

"And I fucking know it."

"Church, no mocking the patients."

"You're no fun at all, Doc. You know that?"

"Yes, you tell me that repeatedly. It's really quite hurtful," Doc sighed. "Now, don't strain yourself for the next couple of weeks, and I've told them to keep you away from any heavy lifting. I'd prefer to keep you here, but..."

"If you try, I'm gonna blow the new door off its hinges."

"Anyway, you should be safe for a couple of weeks. O'Malley is still locked up in SHU, so no danger from there. If O'Malley was still wandering around, there's no way I'd let you out there."

"I still would have blown the door off."

"Always the violent solutions... Okay, you stand there—don't leave—while I go find a guard and get them to take you down to the yard."

Doc shuffled off, mumbling something about too many threats. Church continued stretching and demonstrating just how awesome it was to be able to stand again, partly because he knew it was annoying the hell out of Donut.

"Will you stop that?" Donut fairly near shrieked, after about three minutes of this mental torture. Church lowered his arms, which he had been stretching over his head, and smirked. "I get it, you can move around. Stop rubbing it in my face!"

"Jealous much?"

"And you say I'm evil..."

"Yeah, I did say that. That doesn't mean I'm not an evil douche, too." Church sat down on the end of Donut's bunk. "Okay, that reminds me... in regards to this whole protection deal. Once you get out of here, Caboose will keep one eye on you. That alone will be enough to stop nearly anyone from even trying to hurt you. But you go back on your part of the deal and he'll snap your neck. Got it?"

"What happened to your no-killing policy?"

"Caboose doesn't have that policy.”

"Oh. Uh..." Donut fidgeted nervously. "I know I asked before, but... is there any chance of getting protection... that isn't Caboose?"

Church snorted. "Scared of him?"

"...yeah. A little. ...A lot. Okay, I'm terrified."

"Well, fucking tough. I don't have the time to convince another inmate to do it. At least not without wasting blackmail material. And besides, Caboose is the best for this kind of thing. He probably won't even have to lift a hand to help protect you, only morons more brain dead than he is would be dumb enough to try and fight him, and honestly that's just doing a favour for the gene pool. Seriously, it's like volunteering to tackle an ox."

"Or a gorilla," Donut muttered, recalling Caboose's build.

"Exactly.”

Church had forgotten how bright the sun was. He raised his hands to shield his eyes from it as he walked through the yard, swearing under his breath at whatever religious or scientific forces made the sun so fucking bright.

He scanned the crowd of orange jumpsuits, looking for Tucker and Caboose. Caboose was easy enough to find. He was sitting against one of the walls and looked like he was asleep. Obviously he hadn't seen Church yet, or Church would have already been subjected to Caboose's patented Flying Tackle Hug Of Rib-Cracking Doom.

Church was a little surprised that Tucker wasn't with him. The two didn't get along, but they normally stuck together when he wasn't around despite that. Probably because Tucker needed protection from the many people he'd pissed off over the years, and most people were too afraid to voluntarily hang around Caboose.

It didn't take much more time to find Tucker, who was seated on one of the benches and playing around with a set of scratched dice. He'd probably been gambling with other inmates, something he usually did when he was bored.

Just seeing Tucker and recalling the hallucinations made Church feel incredibly awkward. But he was fine. Those were just hallucinations. He'd been on the liquid gay painkillers. Besides, Tucker saw a lot of stuff but he didn't see what happened inside Church's head. There's no way he heard whatever drug-induced things Church had blurted out in the infirmary.

Church started to make his way towards Tucker, who still had his head down, rolling the dice around in his hands. As he got closer, trying to squash his way through a group of inmates, Tucker looked up and spotted him. That was the first time Church caught sight of the scar running down the side of Tucker's face. It was so obviously fresh. Shiny and painful-looking. It made Church's stomach drop a little.

If he hadn't tried shoving Church out of the way...

Tucker stood up as Church finally reached him. He wasn't wearing his usual grin. He stared at Church for a few seconds, his eyes slightly squinted, like he was trying to bring something into focus. Church just stared right back.

It was really fucking awkward.

Then Tucker raised his hand and smacked Church right on the nose. Not hard enough for it to break or bleed, but enough for it to sting like hell.

"Ow! Fucker!" Church shouted, rubbing his nose. "The fuck was that for, Tucker?"

"That was for whacking me in the face with that book," Tucker explained. Then his face broke out into that grin that Church knew way too well. "So, you're sane? Awesome, because I didn't want you to keep freaking out and mistaking me for a dead guy. That was lame. If you'd gone all permanent crazy, that would have been shit. We've already got Caboose and O'Malley around, two crazies is already too much."

"Yeah... because there's no better way to show the joy than punching someone in the face," Church grumbled.

Tucker snickered, but then it lapsed into awkward silence again. After what seemed like forever, Church spoke up again.

"That... looks fucking painful," Church said, gesturing at the scar. Tucker frowned, and covered the scar with his hand. "Listen, I... uh... about the screwdriver thing..." Church trailed off.

Church meant to finish with... well, something. An apology. Or a thank you. That's what he was thinking, but he just couldn't say it. The words just kept catching in his throat.

Tucker shook his head, and smiled wryly. "Forget it. It did fuck all, anyway."

Church shifted uncomfortably. Internally, he was shouting at himself and trying to think of a way to say it that didn't come off as mushy. He'd managed to thank Donut when he'd thought he was Tucker. Why couldn't he now? Of course, he hadn't really been thinking at the time. That had been more like an extended dream.

"Er... yeah. Okay," Church muttered.

Coward.

"Church!"

Caboose's gleeful shout broke the awkward silence pretty quickly. Tucker's eyes widened slightly as Caboose attempted to wade through the other inmates towards them.

"Shit... Church, if he asks if Donut made you feel better, can you say yes? Or else he's going to literally murder me."

Church didn't have any time to ask why before he had to throw out his arms to stop Caboose from grabbing him in one of those rib-cracking hugs.

"Get the fuck away from me!" Church snapped. "Can't be hugged by you, shit hurts enough as it is.”

Caboose did lower his arms, although he was pouting as he did so. But he quickly smiled again.

"Church! You are not dead! You were not getting better, and I thought Tucker was being a mean liar again, but you did get better. And so Buttermuffin must have made you better again, right?"

"Uhh... what?"

"Yeah, made him all better," Tucker said, grinning. "Just like I said. I'm not a liar, see?"

Church gave Tucker a 'you-are-a-liar-aren't-you?' glare, and received from Tucker a 'play-along-or-I'll-haunt-you' stare in return.

"Uh... yeah. That's what made me better. It wasn't, y'know... the actual medical treatment or anything..."

"So, that means that hurting Apple Pie did good? And you will not be angry for me not being there to help you when O'Malley was being evil?" Caboose asked nervously, shuffling from one foot to the other. "Because my second-best friend hates me now, and I do not want my best friend to hate me, too."

Church's original plan, while in the infirmary, had been to pretty much tear Caboose a new one for being tricked by Donut. Shouting was pretty much an automatic reaction towards Caboose, anyway. But dammit, the kid was staring at him. With those fucking puppy-dog eyes. Church debated briefly whether tearing out Caboose's eyes and attaching them to one of those dangly hypno things would help him convince people to do shit for him easier.

"Okay... uh... you fucked up. But can't be bothered to shout at you for it. Besides, you gotta do something, and if you don't fuck this up, then that'll... kind of make up for it." Although on the inside, Church still hoped that Caboose would fuck up protecting Donut. Stupid blackmailing fruit loop. "When Donut gets out of the infirmary? Just make sure no-one hurts him, alright?"

Both Caboose and Tucker looked surprised. Tucker, in particular, looked both surprised and like he was about to throw something. Caboose just looked even more nervous than before.

"You mean... I can talk to Ladyfinger again? But he still hates me. I do not think he would like me being near him."

"I didn't say he had to like you. I just said make sure he doesn't get fucked over by any of the crazies."

"Why the fuck are you protecting Donut?!" Tucker yelled angrily. "After all the trouble of getting him inju-" Tucker stopped for a moment, then continued. "Why does Donut suddenly get protection?"

Church realised that he hadn't thought of an excuse.

"Uhm..." Church waved his hands vaguely. "...In exchange for the... health benefits?"

"Oh, fucking bullshit..."

"Hey, look. Tex is over there. And I just remembered I really need to ask her something," Church said quickly. "I'll... I'll be back in a minute.”

Church sped off towards Tex, trying to think of an excuse to talk to her, purely so he could think of an excuse to give Tucker about the protection. He couldn't tell Tucker the truth, could he? Tucker would never let him live it down, even if it was induced by painkillers. It was totally induced by painkillers. Fucking. Gay. Painkillers. Besides, even if it wasn't... it was just a weird idea. And stupid, because getting that close to anyone, especially the guy who hits on everything that moves and still claims no homo, was a horrible idea. Insanity-preventing friendship was one thing, but... well, Church wasn't a believer in the necessity of having a prison bitch. Or anything that involved a lot of touching and... feelings and shit.

Besides, the shit with Tex had been rough enough. So, no way. No way was he going through another clusterfuck like that again.

"The hell is up with him?" Tucker muttered. "Church isn't usually so vague about things. I mean, seriously... 'health benefits?' The fuck does that even mean?"

Of course, the... double entundre that could be was completely obvious, especially to Tucker. But that didn't make any sense. Church was frigid as fuck. As far as Tucker knew, he'd only ever had Tex, and that was ten years ago. Why the fuck would he pick the dude who got him stabbed, of all people?

"It is obvious. Blackberry Pie helped Church get better. So Church will help him stay not-hurt once he is not-hurt again," Caboose said. Incidentally, the first words he had said towards Tucker since Tucker had convinced him to break Donut's leg.

"You're talking again, I noticed."

"Yes. Because you were not lying and Church is better. So, you are less stupid than I thought."

Tucker thought about protesting, but decided that he'd prefer being thought of as stupid to having Caboose be both angry and murderous.

"Right... but 'health benefits' doesn't make sense!"

"It makes good sense!"

"Right. Sure it does.”

Tucker watched Church talking to Tex. He didn't look like he had any idea what he was talking about... and Tex looked on the verge of hitting him with her nightstick. Which wasn't unusual on her part. The two were often on rocky ground. A guard and an inmate, especially an inmate like Church, could never really be that close, regardless of what had happened between them before Church was locked up. Or maybe because of it.

Church did come stomping back to them pretty quickly, probably because the other choice was getting punched in the face.

"Right... okay. Caboose. Go, uh... go stare at the wall again," Church muttered. "But don't wander off this time."

"Why?"

"I just need to have a word with Tucker. It's gonna be a boring conversation, you don't wanna fucking listen to it. It involves math."

"Oh. Okay."

Once Caboose had dutifully gone and started staring at the wall once again, Tucker crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow. "Health benefits, Church?"

"What'd you want me to say? Apparently you told Caboose that Donut was doing something like that. Why does he think that 'Donut helped me get better?' Because if anything he made it worse, he wouldn't shut up for weeks." Church narrowed his eyes. "Does this have anything with Donut breaking his leg?”

"Yeah... a bit." Tucker briefly explained how he'd gotten Caboose to hurt Donut. "It was nothing huge, I just needed to convince him."

"Caboose thinks Donut is his friend. Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"And you still made him break his leg?"

"I was going for both legs, but yeah."

Church stared at him for a moment, then gave him a sharp slap over the back of his head.

“Ow, fuck! Church, what the hell?”

"You're a fucking piece of work. I don't know whether to be angry or impressed."

"Why would you be angry? Donut's a little backstabber!"

"Well, first of all, I had to listen to Donut for weeks. But more importantly..." Church jerked his head in Caboose's direction. "How's Caboose been since that happened, huh?"

"Hey, don't get all mad about me over that. He didn't stop eating or anything, it was fine," Tucker said defensively. "Besides, how was I supposed to know he'd actually get upset over it?"

Church sighed. "Whatever, just don't try that again. If Caboose gets... you know, too depressed... where would that leave us? Without fucking protection, you dumbass."

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Fine, jeez. But you're just avoiding the subject. Why the fuck are you protecting Donut?"

"Uh, well. See, some stuff happened..." Church paused for a moment. "He... uh... found out some of the blackmail material I had. For other inmates. Things that I was saving for if we got into a bad place and needed some particularly bad stuff to bust out of it with. Stuff I need to keep absolutely fucking secret."

"How'd he find out about that stuff?"

"Well, you know how... I was kind of hallucinating and I thought he was you?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I told him a lot of stuff that I shouldn't have, because I thought I was talking to you."

"Oh god. You dumbass, Church."

"Tell me about it. All that stuff about Simmons' hacking activities or that stuff about Grif's sister and her drug habits... Grif and Simmons get wind that those secrets aren't quite as secure as I said... well, I don't want those two as my enemies. They get fucking vicious."

Tucker sniggered. "Oh yeah, they... uh, what was it? Get carried away? Brutal stuff. And if that stuff was spilled, they'd have nothing to hold them back, either. I wouldn't envy you, that's for sure."

"And there's others that I might have blabbed about a little. So, in exchange for Donut's silence..."

"You've given him protection for that.”

"Yeah. But... uh, don't mention this to anyone. Not even to Donut, since I said that deal was just between us. Don't mention the real reasons to Caboose, either. As far as he knows, it's just a thank you for Donut 'helping me get better.' And, well, don't tell anyone else. Obviously. Got it?"

Tucker supposed it made sense, although part of that explanation didn't sit right with him. Even if Church had confused him and Donut, why would he talk so extensively about the blackmail they had? Maybe Tucker was thinking too much. Church was high as a fucking kite, after all.

"Yeah. I got that." Tucker snorted. "Makes more sense than 'health benefits'. Seriously, that makes it sound like it was a thank you for Donut fucking you or something."

"...That's gross."

"I know, right? Difficult, anyway. I mean, neither of you were up for moving around much, although... I guess he could move enough to give you a blowjob or something."

"Tucker. Stop talking."

"Fineee. Okay, even though protecting Donut means getting him injured in the first place was totally useless... I guess I can't get too pissy over that."

"Great, because you being pissy always sucks. It's almost as bad as hanging around Tex during time of the month."

"Hey!"

"I said almost!”

While Church had been cursing the sun just a few minutes earlier, Grif was stretched out on one of the benches and absorbing the heat like some lazy, orange plant. This was, to Grif, the closest he could get to heaven while surrounded by stone walls.

At least, that's what he thought.

"Catch."

Grif, being Grif, didn't even bother trying to catch it. Simmons knew he wouldn't, and had aimed so the package would land on Grif's face, so he would at least have to acknowledge it.

"What the hell are—holy crap." Grif sat up, holding the package in front of his face. "Oreos?"

Simmons sat down next to him. "Yeah."

Grif turned the package of Oreos over in his hands, frowning slightly. "Why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"No, really. Why?"

Simmons shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought it'd be nice. You were talking about the old days recently, so... I just thought... I mean, they're just Oreos, Grif. God.”

"Just Oreos? They're not... just..." Grif tried to form words, while clinging to the Oreos like they were made of gold. "They're... aw, man. I'm getting all choked up."

"That almost sounded like you meant it."

"Dude, you have no idea just how much I meant it."

"God, only you could get choked up by a gift of Oreos."

Grif laughed, tugging open the package. "Yeah... But you're the only guy in this place that'd know that." He took one of the Oreos, and held the package out to Simmons. "C'mon, if this is gonna be like the old days, you have to eat some too."

"Sharing? Willingly? And now I'm almost touched."

About halfway through eating, Grif reached out and very briefly linked his and Simmons' fingers, a quick enough gesture so most of the inmates wandering around wouldn't notice and rib on them for it.

"Hey... I'm glad that I got stuck here with you, of all people. Even if you're kind of a kissass."

Simmons ducked his head down, his ears going red. "Uh... yeah. Same here. I guess. Even if you're a lazy fatass."

Lying on a bench and absorbing the sun without anyone pestering him... Grif had thought that would be the closest to heaven he could get in here. Now, sitting back on that bench and eating Oreos with Simmons, reminiscing about old times... this was so much closer.

Chapter Text

Church

At fifteen, Church was sleeping maybe three hours a night. Tops. Weekends, he could get a bit more shut-eye, but weekdays were wall-to-wall bullshit.

He had to go to school, obviously. He usually slept through the classes, cramming in an extra fragmented hour or two. He tried to stay awake long enough to pass. The teachers would often pull him aside to ask him to put more effort in. The nice ones, anyway. The assholes asked him loudly in front of the class and made sure everyone knew he was a fuck up.

When they asked him if they needed to bring his dad in for a meeting, Church would always try to head it off. He'd do better next time. He just stayed up late doing dumb teenage shit. No-one needed to call his dad.

And then, after school, he bolted across town to pick up his little brother from the daycare.

The daycare workers all knew Church by now.

“Hi, Leonard. Here to pick Eddie up?”

“Yeah. Where is he?”

“Playroom. Drawing, most likely.”

Church had to wade through a sea of kids to each Eddie's little corner. He didn't really like kids. He'd never liked kids. Eddie was the exception. He almost tripped over a couple of little girls playing with legos before reaching Eddie, scribbling away at some paper.

“Hey, Eddie.”

Eddie looked at him, face lighting up. “Hi, Leo! Lookit!” He picked up his current picture and showed it to Church, who crouched to look at it. It looked like it featured dragons, though Church couldn't be sure.

“Nice.”

“Also, Lavender gave me this crayon because I said the colour was nice,” Eddie continued, holding out a cobalt blue crayon.

“That's a pretty sweet colour. But you have crayons at home. That Lavender girl might need hers back.”

“My cobbleblue—“

“Cobalt.”

“—is all small and hard to draw with. It's running out.”

New crayons needed. Great. Church's eyebrows scrunched together briefly before he stood up. “You ready to go home?”

Eddie frowned. “I don't want to go home.”

“I know, Eddie. But home's where we gotta go.” Church crouched down again and grasped Eddie's hands. “Nothing bad's going to happen. I'll make sure of it. Okay?”

Eddie looked down for a moment. Then he nodded. “Okay. No bad.”

“Cool. Now pick up your drawings.”

Eddie nodded seriously before picking up his little wad of drawings and waving good-bye to some of the other children before Church picked him up.

On their way out, the receptionist reminded Church that his dad needed to pay the monthly daycare fees soon. Church told her it wouldn't be a problem. On the inside he cringed a little more.

Eddie babbled for a while about his day as they walked home, including about the stories the workers had read them that day, about the other children, about the glories of nap time. God, Church could use a nap. Maybe if it was a calm day he could sneak one in.

As they neared the house, Eddie started to quiet down. Church felt him shaking ever so slightly. He hugged Eddie a bit tighter once he felt that.

“It'll be okay,” he repeated. “We get in, you head straight to our room while I check his mood. Okay?” Eddie didn't look reassured. He stared at Church with wide, concerned eyes. Church tried to smile at Eddie and said, “Don't worry, I'm invincible. Can't be hurt.”

“...Okay.”

They reached their home. A nice house which had once had a flourishing lawn filled with flowers. Most of the flowers were gone now, except for the tulips that their mother had particularly appreciated. Occasionally, their father got a sudden burst of energy and tried to take care of them or plant some new flowers. He always gave up before he was done and retreated back to his usual hazy behavior.

Church would deal with the garden on the weekend. If it got messy, people would notice. They couldn't be noticed.

Church pushed the door open quietly, automatically shuffling in sideways so that if, by chance, their father was at the door, that he would be able to quickly shield Eddie from view. He heard the television blaring at the back of the house. He edged to their shared bedroom (one bed and a cot—Eddie was outgrowing the cot, but he tended to insist on sharing with Church anyway) and opened the door before putting Eddie down.

“Put away your drawings, I'll be back in a few minutes. Okay?”

“Okay.” Before Church put him down, Eddie gave Church a pat on the head. “Don't get hurt.”

“Invincible, remember?”

“Okay.”

He put Eddie down and shut him inside the room before going to talk to his dad.

Church's dad was a man who looked like he'd aged twenty years over the last two. He still had the muscle necessary for his job as a late-night security guard, but his stomach was bloating into a beer belly. He looked smart and tidy for the job, but now that it was over he'd kicked off his shoes, tossed his jacket on the other side of the room, and was deep into what looked like his third beer. Inebriated, but not yet drunk. Chancy, but not guaranteed anger.

“Er... hey, Dad.”

Dad grinned at him. Tipsy, cheery grin. The good mood in between hazy and violent. “Leonard! Come on, sit down. Watch some T.V with me. We never do that any more.”

Church didn't dare say what he was thinking, that it was because he had to spend all his time doing all the caretaker duties. Instead, he said, “Uh, no thanks. I have homework to do.”

“Ergh. Take a load off.”

“No, I should keep up. Uh... Dad, I need to... ask something,” Church said slowly, pausing a few times to gather his nerve.

“Yeah? What about? You need money to take a girl out?”

“No. Dad, I don't have time for that.”

“Aah, come on. You're only young once. When I was your age—”

“No, I just... we need to pay off daycare fees for Eddie, and he needs new shoes and some crayons. That's all.”

It was like a switch had flipped. Dad's face clouded over immediately, nostrils flaring just at the mention of his other son.

“Oh, he needs more shit, does he? It never ends with him. He's gotta keep sapping what little money I earn? Wasn't enough that he had to take your mother? He's gotta take me for every other fucking scrap I've got?”

“For fuck's sake, Dad! He's two!” Church snapped back. “He needs things! He needs to be taken care of! And he needs something besides you shouting at him whenever you see him—“

“Shut up, you don't tell me how to raise children! I'm your fuckin' dad, not the other way around—“

“Alright! Alright, I'm sorry.” Even though Church was so not sorry, but he knew the danger signs. The purple colour his father's face was going. “I just—“

“Who the fuck are you to tell me how to—“

Church heard his dad's voice reach that pitch. The voice-cracking pitch—something he and his father had in common, except when Church did it it just meant he was frustrated, but when his father did it it meant a bottle was about to fly. Church barely had time to raise his hands before his father threw a half-empty liquor bottle at him.

Normally his dad missed, but it was—just barely—not one of those days. The bottle collided with the wall behind him and shattered, and the blow-back resulted in the glass leaving gashes along his hand. Church let out a yelp, but tried to stifle it. Couldn't let Eddie hear, couldn't let him worry. Couldn't make noises the neighbours might actually investigate.

Immediately, the switch flipped back again, and suddenly his dad looked upset. “Oh, fuck, I didn't mean—I'm sorry, Leonard, I didn't mean to... fuck, where's the bandages, I—“

“No, just—“ Church raised his non-bloody hand. “Stay there. No big deal, I'm fine, I... just don't... stay there, alright?” He tried not to let his voice shake.

“Fuck, I... fuck.” His dad buried his face in his hands. “Fuckin' didn't mean... I'm sorry. I lost my temper, that's the last time. I swear that's the last time.”

“Sure.” Church didn't believe him. He edged closer and quickly snatched up the two other empty beer bottles lying nearby. His dad didn't seem to notice. “I'll just... don't worry about the money stuff, it'll... I'll deal.”

Church slipped out of the room and headed to the kitchen to wrap his hand up. Nothing too bad. Had to yank a couple of bits of glass. Couple of band-aids. Maybe he'd have to wear gloves to school the next day. No big deal. Not as bad as that time his dad had gotten him full on in the shoulder with one.

Besides, at least his dad apologised to him. He'd never apologise to Eddie.

How much did he need? Daycare would cost a few hundred for another month's worth of care. Ugh, he was going to have to break into a few houses for that.

When he got back to the bedroom, Eddie was sitting on the bed looking afraid. His face was visibly relieved the moment that Church walked in.

“I heard smashing.” His eyes went to Church's hand. “You have an ouchie.”

“Nah. This is, uh... something else? Writer's cramp? From school stuff.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Church yawned. God. A nap. He needed a nap. “Hey, Eddie? If I sleep for an hour or two, will you be okay? You can wake me up if anything goes wrong. I just need to go somewhere tonight, so I have to sleep now.”

“...Are you going to steal?”

“Stealing is bad, Eddie. ...But, yeah.”

“What if you get caught?”

“I won't. I'm a master thief.” Well, he didn't trip over hatstands any more. That was close. “It'll be fine. Just don't tell anyone. I'll go once Dad's at work.”

“Okay. You can have a nap.”

“Thanks. Just wake me up if there's a problem, alright?”

Church kicked his shoes off and rolled into bed. He was nearly asleep when Eddie climbed onto the bed and gave him a pat on the forehead.

“Can I have a nap, too?”

“Sure. Free country,” Church mumbled. Eddie squeezed in under one of his arms and snuggled up to him.

“Nighty night.”

“Night.”

Church fell asleep while trying to calculate the exact amount of houses he'd have to rob based on his average intake from these little excursions. Better the risk of getting arrested than trying to ask Dad for money again.

Maybe being sent to the foster home or wherever kids went when their dads were drunk assholes would be better. But what if he and Eddie got separated? Had to make everything seem normal so that no-one would come and check. He had to keep it together, if only for Eddie's sake.

He'd have to hope that was the right choice.

Simmons

At eleven, Simmons was still seeking his father's approval. It'd be nice to get some from his mother, too. Even his sister. But he really wanted it from his dad. The thing was that it was really hard to get approval in a family that, by outward appearances, was perfect.

His father was a businessman. Impeccable suit. Very successful, and kept up a respectable front for the whole neighborhood to admire. He aged gracefully and everything. Not a hair had gone gray, although Simmons had found hair dye in the bathroom. His mother was the classic at-home wife and mother. Kind. Subservient. Cooked things that were visually perfect and tasted just right. His older sister was pretty. Popular. Good at schoolwork, lead the cheerleading squad.

It was like they'd walked out of an advertisement from the fifties. The perfect, idealized white-bread family.

His dad probably wanted an athletic, confident son to complete the set. Instead, he got Simmons.

He was a weedy, neurotic kid who, despite the fact that both his parents were white, looked like he was of a Latino persuasion. He could be good at classwork, if he didn't always have to do it so quickly. The merit should be in his ability to figure it out, not the speed at which he did it. So that dug into his grades. And he couldn't throw a ball to save his life. At best, he was average. And in his family, he couldn't be average because average wasn't good enough.

He wanted to be perfect. He wanted to know why it was so easy for the rest of his family.

“How was school, Dick?”

That meant 'what were your test results?' Simmons would hand over his latest results. He could do well if it was Math—numbers were easier—but everything else was lower. He just didn't have the time.

“Don't worry, Dick, you'll do better next time.”

Meaning he didn't do well enough this time. Just like the last time.

“How did the tryouts go?”

That was asked every year. Simmons' father made him apply for every team available. Simmons was severely non-athletic, and so he never made it onto any team. He'd even tried sneaking in to the girl's team tryouts out of desperation so he could at least say he beat someone, but turns out that he wasn't good at women's league, either.

They let him sit on the bench for netball. Out of pity.

“Next time. You just have to try harder.”

He was trying.

He usually just nodded and said that he'd do better next time.

One day, Simmons didn't do that. Instead, he approached his father while he was sitting at the table, waiting for dinner. Reading the newspaper, as was his evening tradition.

“Uhhh... Dad?”

“Hm?”

“Mathletes is looking for people. They said I might be good enough if I tried out.”

His father lowered his newspaper, fixing Simmons with that stare that made it look like he was analysing Simmons' every flaw.

“Mathletes? That'll take time out of your schoolwork. And your training for next year's sports.”

“But I can do math. I'm good at math.”

“People will be more impressed if you get onto the football team. Or even into the—“

“I don't want to play in the women's league! I want to be a mathlete, Dad! A mathlete!”

“You can get into the sporting teams. You're just not trying hard enough.”

“But I don't want to—“

“Dinner's ready!” Simmons' mother walked out and placed food on the table. “What are you talking about?”

“Just saying how Dick'll get onto a team next year.”

“That's not what I was...”

“Oh, of course he will.” His mother gave him a pat on the shoulder, that usual plastic smile frozen on her face. “We believe in you.”

“No, I...” Simmons sighed. “Yeah. I'll try.”

It was easier to agree. The conversation then continued like Simmons had never said anything about mathletes. Mathletes was for nerds, not for the athletic, popular son that his dad wanted to pretend Simmons would just bloom into one day.

The smiles didn't change. They talked like they were following a script, and any attempt to get off-track was clearly steered back to the printed word. They were like a photo of a happy family. Pretty and perfect on the outside with absolutely nothing underneath.

Robots. They were like robots. Simmons couldn't live up to the standards of a family of robots. He didn't even look similar, and there was no way he could act like that. He couldn't be the perfect son. He would if he could. He would be a perfect, continually smiling human doll who could be a quarterback and could talk to girls. All that stuff that sons were supposed to do.

Simmons picked at his food and mostly ignored the chatter. He knew if he grunted right when asked something—no matter what it was—they would pretend like he'd replied with the sentence they'd been hoping to hear.

After dinner, he spent most of the night trying to figure out his homework. By the time he was done, everyone was doing their own thing and he could jump on the computer to do some internet stuff.

The internet was awesome. And he had so much more control over computer stuff. The internet only gave a shit that he was eleven if he told them he was eleven. How would they know, otherwise? They didn't look at his family and go 'why aren't you like that, Dick?'

Under the username Cyborg2.0 he did a lot of stuff. Wrote little stories based off shows he liked and faked like he didn't see the negative reviews. Pretended like he was good at talking to girls. It was easier in text. And he learned how to type stuff that would make the computers do what he wanted.

Turned out that coding was pretty easy once he got the hang of it.

The internet, computers, all that... it all felt so much more real and validating than his actual flesh-and-blood family did. And it was easier to ignore the bad stuff.

He never ended up joining any sporting or mathlete teams. Instead, he just stayed on the internet. The internet gave him approval and control. That was all he wanted or needed.

Tucker

Seven-year-old Tucker was adorable. As long as he held back the plentiful vocabulary of swearwords that he had already learned at his tender age (mostly from his mother and her 'customers') he could charm pretty much any adult he met. It's amazing what a cute kid can do to someone's reasoning abilities.

He learned from an early age that if he widened his eyes in just the right way and brought up things they seemed tragic, then adults would give him near anything he wanted. Didn't work on everyone, but it was easy to tell whether it would work or not depending on how they reacted to his approach. If they cooed at how adorable he was, it was a shoo-in. If they gave him that squinty look, best to try elsewhere.

It was actually far harder to con another child.

The thing about other children was that, yeah, kids were stupid. But they also weren't blinded by cuteness. Not by the cuteness of other children, anyway. Small animals, sure. So usually Tucker didn't bother.

But sometimes kids had what he wanted. And sometimes they were fucking pricks who deserved to be cheated out of their fancy shit.

And that ten-year-old kid taunting him while riding behind him on his shiny, new bike was just too good a target.

Damn, did Tucker want that bike.

"Why don't you stay and talk, Vern? Off in a hurry to get the best meal you can out of a trash can?" the kid sneered, still riding behind him. Tucker had tried riding away from him, but the kid clearly had nothing better to do. Tucker turned around and hit the brakes on his shitheap of a bike.

"Eating out of a trashcan tastes better than anything your mum could cook," Tucker retorted.

"Oh yeah? At least my mother can afford more than that rusty mess of a bike. At least she doesn't have to throw her legs in the air to do it."

Tucker wrinkled his nose at the obvious insult towards his mother's job. It was nothing he hadn't heard before. Usually, the adults who squinted at him knew what his mother did. So did a lot of the ones who cooed. 'Poor child, being exposed to that.' Not like he cared. If he heard the noises when he got home, he just waited outside until the client—whose names were all John, for some reason—left the house. Usually his mother worked elsewhere so it wasn't often a problem. She was usually kind of drunk and swore a lot, but the actual sex she'd gone to an effort to not expose him to.

This kid was from the rich side of town, though. And Tucker knew that his dad was very vocal about how degrading his mother's profession was.

“Your dad would know, wouldn't he? He was at our house last week. He took off his ring,” Tucker said, pulling a face.

“Shut up, my dad wouldn't go there. He'd get diseased.”

“Anyway, rusty mess of a bike? Shows what you know.” Tucker pedaled around the kid. “You know what you know? Fucking nothing. But your family doesn't have a fucking brain cell between you, so I don't know why I expected different.”

Tucker pedaled away, and heard the kid continue pedaling after him.

"What'd you say? I'm smarter than you, and dad says your family is nothing but poor trash. How would you know more, huh? What's so special about your bike, then?"

"Money don't equal brains, stupid. And my bike? It's a fucking antique."

Tucker knew perfectly well that the kid probably wouldn't know what antique meant. Tucker only knew because he had put his mother's 'antique' clock in the sink once to wash off some jello he had accidentally dropped on it.

"Antique? What's that mean?"

"Antique. It means it's old. Fucking timeless. You know what that means? It don't fucking go out of style, because it's valuable. People wouldn't sell something this old unless it was actually worth something, you know."

Tucker eyed the other kid's shiny, new bike enviously.

"Sure, your bike is 'the coolest thing in cool'. At the moment. You know, with the bright lights that don't actually do anything and the gimmick handles that you never use." Tucker had no idea what the word gimmick meant except that it was said a lot about new things that turned out terrible, but he said it with a derisive tone and hedged his bets that the other kid didn't know what it meant, either.

"Yeah, so what? My bike's the one that's awesome at the moment. Not your rusty heap!"

"Totally. Your bike is the most awesome thing out there. For a few weeks maybe. Then some other gimmick bike with a new paint job will show up, and suddenly your bike will be old and outdated. But my bike doesn't fucking get outdated, because it's a fucking antique. It's an authentic 1980's Roadgrinder. Like what the guys who do the flips use."

Tucker just pulled the name of the bike out of his ass. But if he said things like he thought they were true, then other people would think they were true as well. This went triple for kids.

"So... so what? It's still an old..."

"Hey, but your bike? Sure. Height of cool for all of eight seconds. I guess you could stay with that, if you don't mind looking like a bitch once a new fancy bike comes out." Tucker resumed pedaling around the kid, who didn't look so happy with his bike anymore. "So? Who has the better bike now?"

"Well... um... my bike is still... hey, so your bike is valuable, yeah?"

"It's a fucking authentic Roadgrinder, of course it is."

The kid pedalled after him quietly for a few moments, frowning, before saying, “Well, maybe I could do you a favor and trade for your crappy bike.”

"What, my bike for yours? You fucking crazy? I just told you mine was valuable."

Tucker wanted to say yes. But if he said yes too quickly, the kid would change his mind. That was reverse... something. It was a fancy word that Tucker didn't really get, but the point was saying no made them want it more.

“Oh, come on, don't be a wimp. Trade.”

Tucker pretended to think about it.

“Gimme five dollars and that candy bar in your pocket and I could think about it...”

Fifteen minutes later, Tucker was pedalling away on the other kid's bike, while the other kid stood there with Tucker's old shitheap of a bike and feeling like he struck gold.

Tanked as she usually was, his mother still noticed the difference between bikes.

"Vern! Why's there a red bike in the garage?"

"Oh... I painted it. Borrowed some paint from the kid down the street," Tucker shouted back.

"Oh. Okay... Vern... Vern, where are you? Come sit... sit down, we'll have dinner. I'll turn on the stove!"

"That's okay, I can do it!" Last time Tucker's mother had tried to cook dinner while drunk, she had set half the kitchen on fire. It had taken years to replace all the stuff that had burned up.

Although there had been a bonus: his mother had cut down on the alcohol during that time to help pay for it, although she hadn't given it up entirely. But her just being lightly buzzed was a nice change from constantly tanked.

Tucker and his mother made quite the picture. A seven-year-old standing on a stool so he could reach the stove, cooking some unidentifiable meat that tasted so strange that Tucker wouldn't have been surprised if he was told it was zebra or something, while his mother, in the short skirt that she wore while working the streets, walked around the house with a slight stumble, smelling of liquor and the perfume she used to cover up the liquor smell.

It was not a scene which one associated with 'happy, functional family.' But Tucker was absolutely fine with it.

"Dinner!”

"Aw, sweet," Tucker's mother mumbled, trying to sit down and missing the chair. "God-fucking-dammit, who moved my fucking chair?"

Tucker sat down, prodding at his own slab of mystery meat. He didn't say anything, although his mother continued to swear at the 'horse-fucking bastard who moved her chair.'

Once his mother had finished, she unsteadily climbed to her feet.

"Well... 'm off. I'll be back in the morning, Vern. Give mama a hug, alright? And go to bed before midnight, okay?"

Tucker gave his mother a hug, getting a whiff of her cheap perfume, and watched her head out the door, before turning on the television and switching it over to the super violent detective shows that were on at that time. Those were cool.

Tucker knew his home wasn't run 'the normal way.' He knew that because kids made fun of him, and sometimes adults shook his head and looked at him with pitying faces.

But so what? Because he knew how to do shit. He knew how to get shit. Didn't matter that kids teased him for his mother's occupation and his rusty bike and second-hand clothes. When they all got older, and Tucker was the one who knew how to do shit, who knew how to talk his way into the big time while the others were working in fast-food joints... who'd be laughing then?

He wouldn't have learned how to get things if he'd been coddled like they had. So his life was fucking awesome.

The next day, the asshole kid's father came around looking for the shiny, new bike.

“Where's my son's bike?”

“It's my bike. We traded.”

“Well, he wasn't allowed to trade it, and as his father—“

“You're wearing your wedding ring today.”

“...Yes. Yes, I am.”

“You know, since I'm such good friends with your son now, maybe my mum and his mum should have coffee together. And they can talk about, you know… their shared experiences and stuff. That's what women do, right? I saw it on television.”

The man quickly decided it was less trouble to just let Tucker keep the bike.

Grif

At thirteen and ten, Grif and Sister were living in separate homes. It was not something either of them had wanted.

They'd never had a father. And their mother had left them for the circus a while back.

She hadn't even told them to their faces. She'd just left a note on the fridge. She usually communicated to them that way.

'Dexter – There's food in the fridge. Heat it up. Will be back later.'

'Dexter – Out at a job interview. Two-minute noodles in cupboard. Heat it up. Will be back later.'

'Dexter – Joined the circus. Pre-heated food in fridge. Heat it up. Look after your sister.'

So casual for abandonment.

Grif had managed to pretend like nothing was wrong until the landlord came around demanding the rent that their mother wasn't around to pay. Once that truth came out, the foster system picked them up.

There weren't enough space for the both of them in any of the available homes, so Grif got put in one home. Sister got put in another. But they were close enough so that they could still see each other.

Grif barely spoke to his foster family. He didn't give a shit about whatever reasons they'd had for fostering him. Irrationally, he might have blamed them for separating him from Sister, even though they'd had nothing to do with it. Instead, he spent time out of the house, travelling a few bus stops over to where he and Sister could meet.

Grif would wait in the park, kicking his legs back and forth as he waited. And he would wait until Sister arrived. He would breathe a sigh of relief when she appeared, unhurt. She complained about her foster parents and foster siblings, but nothing beyond the usual 'adults not letting her do things' complaints. There were no bruises and her clothes were clean and fit properly.

Grif worried constantly. He worried that she'd get transferred to one of those foster homes that he'd heard other children in the system talk about. The ones that were the stuff of nightmares. The ones that neglected in favor of saving money. The ones that beat the children with their fists. The ones that did worse than that. He could deal with it if something like that happened to him, but it couldn't happen to Sister.

He didn't expect anyone else to help if something happened. He'd learned that adults were bullshit. His mother had abandoned them, his father might as well have never existed. He'd asked the workers, the people who supposedly had his well-being in mind, for one damn thing. Don't separate them. They'd said they would try. And the promise was kept for a couple of months, in the first home. The group home with children who told horror stories of what they might encounter. But they were transferred out, and they both got separated anyway.

Once they met, and checked each other to make sure the other was okay, they'd stay in the park for as long as possible. Then they would leave and go home, and repeat the process again as soon as possible.

When he could, Grif would try and be near his sister on the weekends. Try to chase off the boys that thought she was pretty. Maybe he was overprotective, especially given that the worst stuff Sister got up to at that time was 'sharing cooties.' In retrospect, those were the days.

Maybe he was a little over-zealous, like when he caught Sister giving a kiss to one of her classmates, and had subsequently chased the boy up a tree. Sister had not been happy with that.

“Dex, you suck! I liked him!"

"Oh, bull. Just like you liked the last thirty-eight?"

"It was not thirty-eight!"

"Uh, yes it was. I counted. Don't make me list them all."

Sister crossed her arms and pouted. "Creepy."

"It's not creepy! I'm just looking out for you!"

"By stalking every guy I go five meters near? Lay off!” Sister scowled at him and grumbled, “Just as well we live in different places.”

That hurt. Obviously enough that even Sister, queen of obliviously weird comments, realised it was a bad thing to say.

“...Sorry.“

“Screw you.”

They fought and they argued, and sometimes they didn't speak for days after that happened, but they would eventually meet again. They had places all over to meet, just in case they got separated and placed too far from their current homes. Once they'd gotten placed in different cities, and had both run away and caught trains to meet in their usual place. Even tried to camp out in the park before the foster workers had tracked them down.

Always, they met up at least every couple of weeks or tried to connect with phone calls or emails.

“I asked one of the workers if I could take care of you. He said I'd have to be eighteen. That's only five years. He said I'd have to sign a lot of things and have a job and a place to live and stuff, though.”

“Ew, jobs.”

“I know, right?” Grif sat on the swings, pushing his feet against the ground and rocking back and forth. “Work is the worst.”

“Not all work is bad. What if you were one of those people that pats dogs for a living. Or you could work at a kissing booth.”

“Sister, no.”

“A hooker booth.”

“Who told you that was a thing?!”

“It's for adults.”

“Damn right it is!”

They fought. They argued. But they would not let themselves be separated. They couldn't live together, not for now, but they'd stay together however they could.

Caboose

Caboose's family was quite a picture when driving down the street.

Regardless of the year, there was usually at least eight kids sitting in the back. Which was probably illegal, but they had yet to be pulled up on it. Whoever called shotgun would be sitting in the front with Caboose's mother. Who, again regardless of the year, was usually pregnant with another kid and occasionally forgot to remove her slippers and hair rollers before leaving the house.

Add into that the fact that the father of the family (though stepfather to roughly half of the family) looked a lot like a lumberjack, that their house had newspaper for curtains and there were always gumboots and a rusty lawnmower on the front lawn... their family was often referred to as a pack of poor hicks.

They weren't really poor, it was just that such a large family (two parents, thirteen children—with a fourteenth on the way—as well as a bunch of cats) was hard to provide for with a single paycheck. As for the hick part... it was hard to argue with.

But it was a happy home. And Caboose got along really well with his stepfather. Being the only other male in the family, his stepfather insisted on him and Caboose engaging in manly activities such as wood-chopping and keeping the car working. So when his stepfather arrived home, he'd drag Caboose out to help him carry wood from the car trunk.

"Wood getting too heavy, Michael?"

"Nope!"

"Good boy." His stepfather hefted wood onto his shoulder. He was short, but very stocky, and he had a huge beard. He claimed that a bird had tried to build a nest in it while he was sleeping once. "Wanted to talk to you about school."

"Yeah?”

"What's this I hear about you bullying other kids?"

"Nothing. Didn't happen." Even back then, it was Caboose's default response to any accusation.

"Your teacher called and told me you'd been stealing lunch money. And giving children swirlies. Come on, you know that isn't how proper men do things."

"I don't have to be manly until I'm eighteen. That's eight years," Caboose told his stepfather.

"Regardless of that, picking on people smaller than you... and seeing as you're already pretty tall, that might be almost everyone later on... it ain't good. You getting what I'm saying?"

"No."

"Ah jeez. Look, just don't pick on kids anymore. Right?"

Caboose averted his eyes, shifting the log in his hands. "I won't. I wasn't in the first place." Caboose didn't mean it, and he'd be dunking kid's heads in the toilets again within a week. His father shook his head and sighed.

"Well, guess that's as good a response as I'll get. Come on, hup!" Once Caboose had dropped his wood, his father picked him up and slung him over one shoulder. "Hah-hah, I can still lift you! And your mother says I'm falling out of shape... heh."

Caboose's stepfather strode into the house, carrying Caboose over his shoulder. Caboose was then dropped amid a swarm of children and cats as his stepfather climbed over them towards his wife. That's all the floor of the main room was. Children, cats, toys and random objects that didn't even belong inside, like the three garden gnomes sitting in the corner.

Even if the noise probably would have made Caboose deaf before he was twenty-five, Caboose could not be happier with his family.

Except for one part. That being his real father.

Caboose's family wasn't just odd where size and gender ratios were concerned. All of Caboose's sisters who were older than him shared a father. That father had died three years before Caboose was born. Mama had married Caboose's stepfather two years after Caboose was born, and so all of Caboose's sisters who were younger than him were his. For a long time, Caboose had believed his stepfather was his father, too.

But as for Caboose's father... as Caboose understood it (with all the logic that a slightly dim ten-year-old could have in such matters) his mother had caught pregnancy from him and then his father ran off to 'give pregnancy to other ladies.' Or run a wrestling ring. Caboose was fuzzy on the details, all he knew was that a lot of strange women who didn't wear much clothing were often at his father's house.

Caboose hadn't even realised his stepfather wasn't his real father until a year ago, when he and his mother ran into his real dad at a store. He'd never realised how much he didn't look like his stepfather until he'd met his father, who looked exactly like him if he were an adult with someone else's eyeballs. Unfortunately, after that meeting and realising he existed, his father had insisted on being a part of his life.

His stepfather was Papa because that's who he'd always been, and his real father was Dad, because that was the word leftover once they met. Caboose liked Papa. He hated Dad.

Every week, his father would call, often before a weekend that Caboose had to go stay with him. A typical phone conversation went like so.

"Michael! Hey, listen... you're staying over on the weekend, aren't you? I'm sorry, I lost track of the days, you know... it's this weekend, isn't it?"

Caboose would always consider lying and saying no. But Mama told him not to lie, and she would find out if he did.

"Yeah."

"Oh, okay. Just a second." He heard his father shout at someone off phone. "Sorry, you can't stay for the weekend, Fiona! ...No, I know your name is Felicity, I was just testing you... oh, don't take it that personally! Hang on, give me a few minutes to finish talking to my kid. Geez, women. Anyhow, what do you say we go somewhere. I don't know, how about we go bowling or something?"

Of course, it was more than likely his father would be distracted by something and forget where they were going. He often got distracted, normally by a random woman walking past. Especially if they were wearing skimpy clothes. Most likely they would end up lost somewhere in the city because his father had forgotten where they were going.

"Uh..."

"Super. Hey, um... you wouldn't mind if I had a special friend over on Sunday, would you? It—hang on. No, Felicity, I didn't mean in the fuckbuddies sense, I swear—oh, would you stop overreacting? Sorry, I gotta go."

And often his father, in his usual absent-minded way, would accidentally drop his phone on the table instead of the receiver, and Caboose would be able to quite clearly hear the incredibly loud argument between his father and whatever strange woman was at his house that day. Usually involving numerous rude words and some stuff Caboose didn't understand.

He wished he could ignore his real father and just pretend that his stepfather was his regular father. But Mama kept telling him that family was too important to pretend that it doesn't exist.

Donut

People would always blame certain things for Donut's femininity, but to tell the truth he had always been like that. He'd always liked flowers and preferred dolls to action figures.

When future parents came to visit the orphanage, Donut would always try to look pretty so one of the parents might look at him and decide to take him home. Unfortunately, most of the people who came looking for a son tended to be weirded out by the fact that Donut had a flower in his hair and was clothed in lightish red.

There had been a period of time when Donut had tried wearing more traditional male clothes. But he'd gone the other extreme and worn a backwards cap, footy jersey and sunglasses that he had borrowed from the charity bin. That hadn't worked either.

Donut had even borrowed the clothes of one of the girls at the orphanage and tried to disguise himself as an adorable little girl. It had actually worked until one of the caretakers had called him 'Franklin.' That had tipped the parents off.

Stupid caretaker had to ruin his awesome plan. He would have committed to pretending to be a girl if it meant getting a mother.

After the adults left, sometimes taking a kid with them, Donut would go and sit in the little garden. He would usually make flower chains. Which would more often than not be crumpled up by one of the kids that picked on Donut for being excessively... himself. Donut kept the flower chains that didn't get ruined, until they rotted and the caretakers got annoyed for finding tattered, rotted flowers in his bed.

Every time some parents showed up, Donut got really excited. He stayed optimistic that one day someone would adopt him. He really wanted a mother. A father would be okay. He wouldn't object to that. But having a mother was the greatest thing Donut could imagine. The only memory he had of his own was brown hair and a peppermint sort of smell.

Then one day, just a bit after his eighth birthday, Donut had been building more flower chains (for lack of anything better to do) and one of the local bullies had taken it off him.

"Give it back!" Donut shouted, trying to reach for the flower chain. It wasn't like the chain was really worth anything, but it was the principle of the thing. You didn't just go around stealing other kid's flower chains. That wasn't cool.

"Aw, little Frankie wants his precious flowers! Come and get them, Frankie!" Franklin 'Frankie' Donut. He wasn't sure why they never used his last name as an insult, but maybe it was just because 'Frankie' was easier to say in a mocking tone.

Donut jumped up, trying to reach the flowers. Why'd he have to be so short? Donut considered trying to hit the bully, but he was bigger and his hair wasn't long enough to pull on. Donut thought it was worth a try, anyway. All it achieved was Donut being shoved into the mud.

"Hey! Stop that!" someone yelled.

The bully dropped the flower chain, crushed it with his foot and rubbed it into the ground, before running off. Donut sat up and started peeling the remains of his flower chain from the ground, not looking up at the woman who'd told the bully to go away. He assumed it was one of the caretakers until she spoke again.

"Oh my god, you're adorable."

Donut looked up, confused. A young woman with short blonde hair was gazing down at him. Despite her young age, she had crow's feet in the corners of her eyes, but the type that happened because of continuous cheerfulness rather than stress.

Donut shifted uncomfortably. Normally, he would immediately respond with enthusiasm. Of course, normally he wasn't covered in mud and holding a bunch of tattered flowers. Flowers of which the colours clashed, nonetheless.

"Hi."

"What's your name, little guy?" she asked kindly.

"Uhm... Franklin Donut."

"Always use your full name? Do you want me to call you Franklin or Donut?"

"I kinda like Donut. That's what the nicer kids call me."

"Really? ...You like flowers, Donut?"

"Yes. They're pretty."

"They are, aren't they?" The woman tilted her head for a moment, studying him, before smiling a bit wider. "My name's Liz Delano. Would you like to come and have a chat with us?"

She held out her hand towards him. Donut eyed it for a moment, confused. Why would she want to talk to him unless... she was actually considering adoption? Even though he was covered in mud and holding a bunch of ragged flowers, she was actually considering adoption. Donut stared at the hand before a grin split his face.

"Sure!"

"Great! Come on!”

The woman didn't seem to mind that Donut was still covered in mud and that it was now getting on her hands. Donut clung to her arm as they both walked towards the building. He was positively giddy with excitement. Someone was actually considering adopting him, and he didn't even have to pretend to be a girl this time. He was getting a mother! And maybe a father, she had said 'us'...

"Julie, I found one! Isn't he cute?" The woman said happily as she walked through the door. Donut peeked around the woman's legs to see another woman walking towards him. Dark-haired, and the serious face said she was probably a stern parent. But not in the evil 'carries-a-strap' way, just in the 'eat-your-vegetables-or-no-dessert' way. Donut wondered why the woman he was following was telling another parent how cute he was. Maybe she was bragging?

The other woman crouched in front of him. After a few moments, she smiled. A small smile, but a nice one.

"Hi. She took a shine to you, hm? What's your name, then?"

It eventually clicked with Donut. Both of them were the parents... two women. Two mothers.

Two mothers?

Donut could have fainted with joy right then and there.

Being taken away from the orphanage, clinging to the hands of his new mothers, was the happiest Donut had ever been in his life.

Chapter Text

The day that Donut's cast came off was also the first time that Donut had seen his face in a mirror since he'd been locked up in the first place.

Although the last couple of months hadn't felt that much like a prison sentence, seeing as he'd been in the infirmary. He hadn't seen many people since Church had left. Donut had expected to see more horribly injured people, given how many times he'd been injured in one damn week, but most patients came up for pre-existing health conditions or because they'd gotten indigestion from the macaroni. A couple of people got shivved, but only a couple. Otherwise, everything was very quiet.

Donut didn't look too different, but his reflection was enough to throw him off. Donut's hair was starting to look ridiculous. It had previously been cut close to his head on the sides, while the top had been longer. The whole thing had been a bleached blond. But it had grown out during his stay, and so now the sides were mostly brown and the top was a horrible, tacky mess of brown and blond. Donut pondered whether hair dye was allowed in prison before dismissing the idea. But it was little things like that, or like the fact that his nails weren't neatly manicured anymore, that reminded him of where he was.

Even after the cast came off (and it was such a relief to not have to look at the badly drawn naked lady Tucker had put on it) it was some time before Doc would let Donut out of the infirmary. Donut had to practice walking again, and even once Doc deemed him well enough to leave again, Donut still couldn't walk that far unassisted without having to stop and rest.

Having the chance to go back to the normal prison routine was a weird feeling. It scared Donut a little, because going back to that meant going back to being terrified of everything. The infirmary, at least, was safe. On the other hand, there wasn't much to do in the infirmary. There was barely anyone to talk to. Doc did talk to him while he wasn't working, and that was nice. They managed to have a lot of chatter over their mutual love of yoga and cooking. But that got boring after a while. Even Donut couldn't talk about crockpot recipes for three months.

It was mixed feelings about being released, that was for sure. Of course, even if he'd wanted to stay he wouldn't have been able to. The guard that entered to take him back to his cell informed Doc that they needed the extra cot, just in case something particularly violent happened.

When Donut was let out of the infirmary it was pretty close to lights out. There was a very strong sense of deja vu. The guard prodding him past the cells, passing the other inmates... it was extremely similar to the first time he had been guided to his cell. The only difference being that, this time, he knew some of the faces. Maybe that was why walking past all the cells wasn't as scary this time.

Not quite, anyway.

The guard unlocked the door of Donut's cell and pointed him inside. The cell hadn't changed a bit. It still smelt like someone had thrown up in there.

"Hey. You really aren't dead, huh?"

That voice had come from the cell next to him. Simmons' cell. Donut shuffled closer to that side of his cell, so that he could hear Simmons a bit better.

"Don't think so. Unless the afterlife looks a lot like prison."

"That wouldn't surprise me," Donut heard Grif mumble from his own cell. "I bet God is that twisted. Or Satan is that twisted. Whatever.”

"Nah... he'd be more creative. So... how's things out here? Anything happen?"

"Nothing, really. It's been pretty quiet, and hardly any violence at all." Donut heard Simmons shift around a little on his cot, which gave out a rusty squeak. "That's how this place works. Some of the time it's peaceful, sometimes people are going in and out of the infirmary like there's a revolving door installed. No middle ground. How's your leg?"

"Pretty flimsy. But I can walk again... well, kind of."

"At least you got survived your first beating. Everyone ends up in the infirmary at least once. It's almost a weird initiation. Kinda determines whether someone is tough enough to not die from an attack."

Donut leaned further forwards, his face against the bars. "You guys went through that, too?"

"Oh yeah. Fucking hurt," Grif said cheerfully. "How'd it happen? I don't even remember..."

"I think the angry guy who works in the kitchens took issue with something I said?" Simmons mused. "And you jumped right in as soon as the fight started. So I got beaten up by the angry kitchen guy, and you got beat up because Sarge punched you out afterward for interrupting my 'test of manliness.'"

"It was a shit week," Grif said idly.

"Yeah. ...Hey, Donut. Does your cell smell off?"

"Smells like someone threw up."

"Thought it might, the last inmate there was sick. A lot. I think he was transferred because of it."

"Nah, dude, he died," Grif interrupted.

"Uh, well... one or the other," Simmons concluded. Donut glanced back at his cell apprehensively. "I know, it's so gross. I had to scrub my cell head to toe when I got in here to get rid of the corpse smell. Lifer cells get that. Anyway..." Donut heard Simmons climb off his bunk, followed by a large amount of shuffling noises, like he was looking for something. After a couple of minutes, something nudged Donut in the shoulder. He could see Simmons' hand reaching through the bars, poking him with a plastic spray bottle. "Here. Won't make the smell go away, but it'll cover it up some."

"Thank god for that. Thanks, Simmons! Best cell neighbour a guy could have."

"Lies," Grif muttered under his breath. "Try living with it for four years. Not including the stuff in the apartment before that..."

"No problem," Simmons said, ignoring Grif. "Toss it back when you're done, though. Grif's cell smells like decomposing fruit at the moment, and it's leaking in."

"That's just the pruno."

"That's just disgusting, is what it is.”

Breakfast had a great sense of deja vu, too.

It was noisier than it had been the week leading up to Donut's injury. Probably because all six of them were there. The seating was exactly the same as that first day. Which meant Donut was stuck between Simmons and Caboose.

Donut supposed it made sense that he was stuck next to Caboose again. Caboose was technically his protection, now. But not a word was exchanged between them through the meal. Caboose looked like he was about to say something several times, but each time he seemed to reconsider it. And Donut just didn't have anything to say to him.

Grif and Simmons would direct conversation towards Donut, so the meal didn't seem awkwardly silent. On the opposite end of the scale, Church seemed very determined to look anywhere but where Donut was sitting. Tucker kept glancing between Church and Donut. Those glances weren't quite as filled with animosity as the glares Donut had received after Tucker's face had first been slashed... but they were very close. Which was odd, seeing as the last time he and Tucker had talked face to face Tucker had actually been pretty civil, if not quite friendly.

Donut kept getting a sense of deja vu throughout the meal, but he also got a very strong feeling that he had missed something.

Donut had been assigned back to folding clothes, although they'd at least given him a chair to sit on while his leg was still flimsy. And Donut was okay with folding clothes, it was a lot better than waving the iron around or trying to get weird stains out of the clothes.

"Uhm, Cotton Candy?"

Donut froze very briefly before he continued folding clothes, trying not to look upwards. "Yes?"

"I... was supposed to deliver clothes to your folding-clothes pile."

"Okay."

Caboose dropped a basket of orange jumpsuits on the counter next to Donut. "Church said that I am supposed to make you stay not-hurt. So... that means I will not hurt you again. Unless Church changes his mind, but I do not think he will. He said it is in thanks for the health benefits."

Donut, once again, paused in the middle of folding clothes. "Health benefits?"

"Yes. Because you are a warm, fuzzy blanket."

Donut rested against his chair and looked up at Caboose. "What does that even mean? I'm not a warm, fuzzy blanket. Why not just use, you know... an actual blanket?"

"Real blankets are not as warm. Although, you are not as fuzzy as a blanket... but your head is kind of fluffy." Caboose reached out like he was going to try and confirm that Donut's hair was fluffy, but Donut jerked away from him. In the process, he accidentally toppled his chair over and gave a high-pitched scream. One of the nearby guards spun around, but Donut waved his hand to indicate that no-one had actually attacked him.

"Oww." Donut managed to climb to his feet again, although his leg felt achier. Caboose withdrew his hand and linked both his hands behind his back.

"My hands are not near you any more," Caboose stated. "Will you stop being scared now?”

Donut moved his chair so it was upright again and quickly sat down. "I... I'll try not to be scared, but..."

"But?"

"Well... it's not just your hands I'm scared of. You're just... kind of scary. To me."

"I scare a lot of people. But you were not scared when we were looking at pigeons."

"Because you hadn't broken my fucking leg!"

"...Can we pretend that I never did that, then? I can do that. I am a good pretender."

Donut didn't think he could pretend something that horrible never happened. He continued folding clothes, trying to stall for time. He was still shit scared. But Caboose did seem like he honestly wanted to start over. And he, at least, had thought he was helping someone when he hurt Donut. As opposed to Tucker, who had just wanted vengeance.

But Donut just couldn't forgive him instantly. Three months of pain and pink casts and isolation and nothing to read but books on yoga and Tai Chi didn't go away so easily.

On Donut's first day, he had lied to Church because he was afraid of him. And now he had to lie to Caboose for the exact same reason. Deja fucking vu.

"Okay. The... the accident never happened," Donut agreed quietly. Caboose's face brightened.

"So now we are bestest friends again."

"Uh... sure."

Donut wished forgiveness was really that easy.

"You don't have to follow me everywhere, you know. Aren't you supposed to be guarding Church, too?" Donut sighed, as Caboose trailed behind him on their way towards the cafeteria.

"Church is near the guards at the moment. He will be safe. And I have to do an awesome job at guarding you, he said," Caboose insisted.

"I think I can get to the cafeteria without being attacked. It's not that far."

"But that might just be what they want you to think."

"Who?"

"Uh... I do not know? Bad people? There are a lot of them in prison."

"Well, can't argue with that." Donut started to slow down; his leg was aching again. It tended to ache whenever he walked fifty or so steps. Donut came to a halt and rested against the wall.

"Beignet? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just achey. I just need to rest here for a minute. You can go ahead."

"Is it the hurty leg? The one we are pretending I did not hurt?" Caboose tilted his head. "Does walking hurt?"

"Not that much, it's fi—whoa!" Donut yelped, as Caboose picked him up with the amount of effort it would take Donut to lift a piece of paper. Caboose slung Donut over his shoulder and started walking towards the cafeteria. "Hey! Hey, put me down!"

"But this is easier than walking," Caboose said.

"Not that much, put me down! I don't like being carried around, it's demeaning! I can walk, let me go!" Donut thumped on Caboose's back in protest. "Come on, please!"

"When we get to the food-eating place."

"Nooo..." Donut whined. After squirming for a bit and realising that it wasn't doing much good, he crossed his arms and pouted. "Please, I don't want to be carried into the cafeteria. Grif and Simmons will never let me live it down."

"I think they would. They are not as bad as other people. Grif is usually nice to me, he does not shout at me or anything. Simmons does not shout much, either. Although he got mad at me because I accidentally dropped a book I borrowed from him in macaroni. He shouted a lot at me for that. It was very noisy."

"What kind of book would Simmons have that you'd be interested in?" Donut asked. He'd seen some of the books Simmons owned when passing by his cell. They were mostly science fiction and stuff about computers. Simmons was pretty big on computers and he insisted that he had to keep up on technology while he was in prison. Even the science fiction stuff was filled with technobabble.

"Uh... it had pictures." Caboose thought about it for a moment. "They were pretty pictures, with aliens and stuff in them. So, I think the book was about aliens. I am not sure. I cannot read."

"Can't read, huh?" Donut wasn't surprised.

"I used to be able to. Sheila says I cannot read anymore because I have... uh... I don't remember what it was called. Something-asia? No, that can't be right... it was not Chinese." Donut felt Caboose shrug. "I do not know."

"Who's Sheila?"

"She is my outside-prison friend. She is a doctor. She said she practiced, um... nuu-oh-lo-gee? Head stuff. Sheila is a very nice lady. She visits me, sometimes. And that is good because if she did not I would have no visitors," Caboose said cheerfully.

"No visitors? Your family doesn't visit you or anything?" Donut asked. He couldn't see Caboose's face, but he felt his shoulders sag a little.

"They do not want to see me."

Donut was still scared, especially since he was being carted around by Caboose like a paper doll. But an odd feeling of pity crept into his stomach, along with the sudden compulsion to cheer Caboose up. A hug would be difficult, what with Donut being upside-down and all, but he could manage a pat on the back at least.

"At least you got friends in here, right?" Donut said hopefully.

Caboose brightened almost immediately. "Yes! I have Church and Marzipan! And that makes me very fuzzy inside. Well, Church is not a very warm and fuzzy man. He is more like a pack of icecubes... very angry icecubes... but that is good in a different way!"

"How is a pack of bad-tempered icecubes good in any way?"

"Well... icepacks are good sometimes. Like when someone kicks someone else in the crotch." Caboose paused for a few long moments, then added, "I do not think Church should be put on someones' crotch, though. That would just be weird.”

"Somehow, I don't think part of being protection involves being a choo-choo train for the protectee," Simmons mused. “What is he, a literal caboose now?”

"Shut up, Simmons," Donut groaned.

Since Caboose had wandered into the cafeteria with Donut slung over his shoulder and been ordered to put him down by York, Simmons and Grif had been making not-so-subtle fun of him. It was quickly getting old.

"I get it, guys. Ha ha, I was being carried around like an idiot. It's not that funny, seriously."

"Hey, we need something to mock," Grif insisted. "We don't actually have anything else to do. We don't even have anything to take bets on... nothing is happening, lately. If it keeps up, I'm gonna have to borrow one of Simmons' books, and I hate reading those things. The endless technobabble makes me want to hit my head against something."

"Just because you don't have the smarts...”

"Smarts has nothing to do with it. It's fucking technobabble, it doesn't even make sense..."

"Yeah, well... you don't see me mocking you guys," Donut muttered. "Not about, say, the fact that Grif is Simmons 'knight in shining armour' when it comes to prison fights. Or knight in an orange jumpsuit, whatever."

Simmons ears went red. "Shut up, Donut."

"It's kind of true," Grif said, stretching out on his usual bench.

"Grif!"

"Oh, like you can say I'm not. You're too stringy to hold your own in a fight."

"I'm not that fucking stringy."

Donut smiled and twisted his hands together idly, as the other two resumed their usual arguing. Arguing was the best way for them to pass the time, anyway.

Simmons did eventually nudge Donut in the back, saying, "You haven't played in one of the 'red vs blue' sport games yet, have you?"

"No." Donut had completely forgotten about the sport that Sarge had mentioned until now. He just hadn't even realised that he would have to play while his leg was still flimsy.

"Two days until the next one. Hope you don't get sent to the infirmary again."

"Uh... is that common?"

"Depends on who is playing. And who is mad at who," Grif said, lighting a cigarette. "Simmons once took the opportunity to 'accidentally' elbow Church in the face."

"Yeah. Accident," Simmons muttered.

"Uhm... so, the sports thing? Is it a bloodthirsty war or a bonding experience? Because I've heard both."

Grif shrugged. "Sometimes it gets violent, but there's guards there to stop it. It's never a bonding experience, though, that's just what Flowers wants to believe. Honestly... it's pretty fucking pointless."

"You're just saying that because you're too lazy to ever try," Simmons shot back.

"Oh, come on. There is no way I'm voluntarily tackling Caboose."

"Anyway... don't worry about it. None of us are really that motivated to try. Worst comes to worst, you might have to go to the infirmary for an icepack or a bloody nose. Rarely anything big. If anyone tries to hurt someone else seriously, they take them off the sport pretty quick."

"You think that they'd let me stop playing if I hurt someone enough? I could do that," Grif said.

"I think Sarge would keep you in just to throw that in your face.”

“Ugh.”

"Of all the things Caboose could choose not to fuck up, it had to be protecting Donut," Tucker sighed. "Couldn't he have not fucked up something else? Like, I don't know... stopping O'Malley?" Tucker tossed his set of dice in the air, simply because he had nothing better to do.

"There's still time for him fucking up. He's only been working as protection for a couple of hours," Church pointed out. "Caboose wouldn't stop O'Malley, anyway, he's too shit scared. You're looking forward to Caboose fucking this up way too much, you know. It's a little scary."

"Yeah, so sue me for not liking a guy who backstabbed us."

"Hey, not liking is one thing. Hoping that his protection fails, which would likely mean either injury or death? Dude, that's fucking twisted."

"Coming from you? Dude, who's the one in here for multiple murders? You can't talk."

"Like your record is clean.”

Tucker continued throwing his dice in the air, while Church just stared off into the distance. A few minutes passed like that, with the silence getting awkward. Something that had been happening far too much in the past few weeks.

And it seemed that particular awkward silence was just one awkward silence too many for Church.

"Okay! Okay, fine! Thank you! There, I fucking said it!"

The sudden outburst startled Tucker enough so that he fumbled with his dice, dropping one of them under the bench. "What?"

Church crossed his arms and continued to stare off into the distance. "I said fucking thank you. You know... for shoving me out of the way."

Tucker reached under the bench for his dice, not replying for a few moments.

"A bit late, isn't it? That happened over two months ago."

"Yeah, well... I meant to say it earlier. I just... didn't." Church shrugged. "Shut up, man. Better late than never, or some fucking shit like that. Because I... did appreciate it. You know... kind of."

Tucker resumed tossing the dice in the air. He had a slightly embarrassed smile on his face. "Yeah... well, it's a fucking late thank you. But... you're welcome. I guess. And thanks for not, y'know... running off and leaving me there."

“Come on, who the hell would I talk to if they killed you?”

It quickly got quiet again after that. But it wasn't the awkward kind of quiet.

Donut wasn't sure what he was expecting Flowers to be like. All he knew was that he was captain of the guard, and that Sarge said he was a 'conniving evildoer.' With all the ranting on how much of an evil asshole Flowers apparently was... Donut had been expecting a tough and sadistic jerkass.

Flowers wasn't like that. Flowers was friendly and talked like Donut's high school guidance councillor. He was short, always smiled, and he had long hair that he kept back in a graceful-looking braided bun. Style and practicality in one. Donut couldn't see why Sarge found him so objectionable.

"Line up, gentlemen."

Of course, maybe Sarge's reasoning was that anyone who could call a group of murdering scumbags 'gentlemen' had to be twisted enough so that they would seem like gentlemen to him. Or maybe Sarge was just insane.

Donut looked around the tiny dirt square that was used for sports. He hadn't even known it existed, since it was shoved at the back of the prison and the only outside part of the prison that Donut visited regularly was the main part of the yard. Donut had assumed that they only played sports in tiny groups because it helped keep them under control, but maybe it was because there was hardly any room to run around here, even with only six inmates.

"You there, new kid," Flowers said, stopping in front of Donut. "I'm Captain Flowers... you can just call me Captain or Cappy. I am happy to welcome you to our bonding exercises, and if you feel at all under pressure... remember, this is just for fun, despite whatever Sarge says. Now, I don't want to force you to do anything you're uncomfortable with, so I have to ask... are you sure you can play so soon after breaking your leg?"

Donut perked up at the chance to skip the game. "Well, actually..." That was as far as he got before he was interrupted by Sarge.

"'Course he can play! No Red gives up so easily just because of a broken leg! Except Grif, but he's just a problem in himself. Don't you be brainwashing my troops, Flowers!"

On the inside, Donut lamented the loss of that one chance of freedom.

"Brainwashing? I wouldn't do that. I'm a team player."

"So you say... Reds, over on that side. Move it, ladies!" Once they were out of earshot of Flowers, Sarge lifted the soccer ball he was holding in his hands. "Bad news, men. Those idiots from the smuggler's section of the prison managed to kick the football onto one of the prison roofs. So, had to borrow this off my nephew. I have no clue how to play soccer, but I'm sure it still involves tackling and other various tests of manliness..."

"I'm sure we can make the best out of this situation, sir," Simmons said quickly. Sarge nodded with approval.

"Keeping the motivation. Good man, Simmons."

"Fucking kissass," Grif muttered.

"Shut it, dirtbag. Now get in front of the goal-net-thing. If one of those Blue bastards attacks you... just keep blocking the net, even if your life is in danger. Hell, especially if your life is in danger. A dead Grif can only be a bonus in this situation!"

The 'goalposts' consisted of nets that looked like they hadn't been replaced in half a century, despite the fact that the sporting activities were a recent development. Grif trudged over to one and sat down in front of it, quietly lamenting the fact that he wasn't allowed to smoke during the games. Caboose was standing in front of the other, currently distracted by a pigeon sitting on one of the roofs. None of the Blue guys looked too enthusiastic about the game of soccer, either.

The only two that looked somewhat happy about the situation were Sarge and Flowers. Donut wondered why they hadn't just pushed the task of overseeing the games onto some of the other guards. It wouldn't have been difficult. Who was going to argue with the warden or the captain?

"I don't know the reason, for certain," Simmons said when Donut asked him. "Maybe they just like sports. Sarge treats it as a bloody war, so maybe he just misses the fighting from the war. That's my guess. And Flowers always oversees the games between any set of inmates with a high-violence risk."

“Because they're fucking weirdos,” was Grif's explanation.

Donut sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his orange jumpsuit. This was going to suck.

Doc was cleaning the infirmary for the third time that week. Now that he didn't have any long-term patients, he didn't actually have much to do until someone either injured themselves or needed their medication.

He wasn't paying enough attention to his surroundings, and so he didn't hear the door open. He didn't notice anything until he heard someone speak behind him.

"Finally, I was tired of waiting for the pastry to leave."

Doc yelped and jumped a foot in the air, quickly backing away from O'Malley, who was standing behind him. "Jesus! I mean... not Jesus, that's offensive to Christians... or is it offensive to people who aren't Christians. Or Catholics or... how did you get in here, O'Malley?"

"The door isn't guarded anymore, you fool," O'Malley said snidely, perching on one of the cots and grinning widely at Doc. "And really, what kind of greeting is that? I'm hurt. Truly."

Doc shook his head. "You can't expect people to be able to greet you on a moment's notice when you jump up behind them. It's pressure! What do you want, O'Malley?"

"Need there really be a deeper motive behind everything I do? I'm just very bored at the moment. You should be flattered that you're my first choice for visiting while bored."

"And you couldn't have waited until your medication time? You need to learn how to be patient, O'Malley." Doc kept on cleaning, like O'Malley's presence didn't bother him. It did bother him, but probably not to the extent it bothered others. He was sure O'Malley was just being friendly. Although friendly for O'Malley didn't seem to mean the same thing it meant for other people. It seemed to mean stalking. Which, yes, was a little unnerving. But O'Malley hadn't been violent towards him, so Doc considered it an improvement over his reported behavior.

"Patience is not one of my virtues, Doc.”

"Virtue isn't one of your virtues," Doc muttered under his breath.

"Oh, that is cruel. Cruel."

"I'm sorry, I lost my temper there," Doc apologized. Inside, he berated himself for being such a pushover. "You never did say what you wanted."

"Anyone been bothering you?" O'Malley asked. While this might seem like an innocent question of concern from someone else, whenever O'Malley said it he got this weird glittery look in his eyes and his crazy grin always got just that little bit wider.

Doc sighed. "I'm not saying anything about that."

"You're not going to say anything this time? You seemed so pleased that someone was showing concern about you last time. And the time before that. And the time before that..."

"Yes. But it was a very odd coincidence that every time I spill stuff like that... like saying that one of the inmates had been insulting me... funny how they always ended up in here a few days later. I know that was your doing."

"Oh, no. That wasn't me. That was one of the other crazy psychopaths in the prison. There's quite a few of them, after all."

Doc raised his eyebrow, still wiping down the surfaces and making sure never to turn his back on O'Malley. "Really. So, I complain that Church was being a jerk whenever he was sent in here, and he just magically shows up in here with five stab wounds? Stab wounds that I know were caused by a rusty screwdriver?"

"Coincidence," O'Malley grinned.

"Furthermore, stab wounds located in places that would hurt, but wouldn't be fatal. Something that only someone who knew a lot about anatomy would be able to locate so easily. A former surgeon, for example?"

"I'm sure that there are other violent surgeons in the prison," O'Malley said dismissively.

"No, O'Malley. Just you." Doc sighed. "I know you probably won't listen to me... you never do. But please stop hurting people. Especially on the basis of who has called me a 'pussyfest' lately."

"Someone called you a 'pussyfest?' Who?" O'Malley asked, grin stretching even wider. Doc could swear it wasn't physically possible to grin that wide.

"No, O'Malley. I'm not telling you. I don't know whether stabbing anyone who insults me is some weird way of being 'nice' or just a twisted way for you to choose victims... but stop it. Okay?"

"I can't stop something I haven't been doing, you fool." O'Malley paused, looking around like a dog who has just caught a scent. "...A fight is about to happen. I can feel it in the air. Ooh, that's good anger, I can nearly taste it."

"I wish I could sense things like that," Doc said wistfully. "I'd be able to help anyone who was injured so much quicker."

"Oh, you and your idealistic thinking," O'Malley snorted. "You really are a pussyfest.”

"Pacifist, O'Malley. Pacifist."

"It means the same thing to me." O'Malley climbed to his feet. "I think I'll be leaving... if it's going to be a bloody fight, I don't want to miss it. Save up some stories of inmates bullying you, I do love to listen to them." O'Malley pulled open the door and left as quietly as he had entered the room.

Doc put down his cleaning rag and wandered to the back to get the first-aid kit, just in case O'Malley's hunch about a fight was right. It often was. O'Malley had a bizarre sixth sense for that kind of thing.

Just as O'Malley had declared that a fight was about to happen, Donut landed face first in the dirt.

It took Donut a minute to realise he'd been tripped. He hadn't been expecting it, the game had been going pretty smoothly until that point. Admittedly, that was probably because no-one had been really trying. Donut didn't mind sports himself (aside from the whole 'playing-with-violent-murderers' thing) but his leg was still achy. Also, he was more of a netball player than a soccer player.

Still, Sarge had been pretty insistent that they at least score once against 'those dirty Blues' and Simmons had mentioned that it was difficult to get Sarge to call it quits if they were losing. So, Donut had figured he might as well try. So he'd been hobbling along, chasing the ball at a pace that would make a turtle ashamed...

But then someone had tripped him.

Donut rolled over to see Tucker standing not too far from him. He was grinning. Perhaps tripping Donut was just a small way to punish Donut for... whatever he had done to make him so angry. Still, it could have been an accident... and really, it wasn't like tripping someone was that big of a deal... better than a punch in the face or a broken limb.

Apparently, Caboose didn't think so.

Before Tucker could even move Caboose had grabbed him by the collar. He pulled Tucker towards him, and due to the height difference that meant lifting Tucker clean off the ground.

"Why did you do that to Strudel?" Caboose demanded angrily. Tucker made a choked noise that, roughly translated, probably meant 'you're choking me, you bitch!'

"Caboose!" Church shouted. "Put him down!"

"But, Church! You said protect—" Caboose paused mid-sentence as Flowers approached, drawing his nightstick.

"Caboose, I don't want to hit one of my own men. But if you don't put Tucker down, I'm afraid I'll have to. You're not being much of a team player at the moment," Flowers said sternly, almost like a school teacher scolding an elementary school kid who had thrown a tantrum about not getting the right colour of glitter.

"Put him down, Caboose!" Church shouted frantically.

Despite the fact that Flowers was the one threatening him, Caboose only let go of Tucker when Church shouted at him. Tucker landed in the dirt with a thud, wheezing for breath.

"Crazy... fucker..." Tucker rasped between breaths. Caboose ignored him, instead stepping around him towards Donut.

"You okay, Teacake?" Caboose asked him, looking concerned. "Did Tucker hurt you?"

"Fuuuuh?" Donut squeaked. "Fuh... wha... he just tripped me! Maybe even by accident! Did you really have to... wasn't that a bit overboard?!"

Caboose just shrugged in response.

"Aw, and we were so close to getting rid of one of those goddamn Blues," Sarge sighed wistfully. "Back to the game, then."

Flowers lowered his gun and shook his head. "Not that I like cutting our bonding exercises short... but it would probably be best to stop for today. I don't think there's much goodwill among us at the moment. Tucker, you might want to go to the infirmary, just to check that nothing is injured."

"'Kay, Cappy," Tucker groaned, still massaging his neck as he trudged back towards the main building. Church, after an angry glare back at Caboose, followed him. Flowers holstered his gun and stopped in front of Caboose.

"Because you didn't do any serious damage and because you were just concerned for a friend, I'm going to let that go with just getting the log for the next couple of weeks," Flowers told him. "But that is not the team spirit, Caboose. You keep injuring people on purpose like that and you'll have to be put back on sedatives again. You don't want that, do you?"

"I hate sleepytime medicine, Daisies. It makes me dribble," Caboose mumbled.

"So we've reached an understanding? You won't do that again?"

"If Tucker leaves Bonbon alone, then I will not have to."

"We can still keep playing," Sarge grumbled. "You've still got a Blue, and he might even injure Grif next! Best of both worlds!"

"It wouldn't be a fair victory for the Reds, sir," Simmons called from the goal area, while Grif searched his pockets for his packet of cigarettes.

"Ah, fair point. Then I consider this a Red victory by default!"

"We didn't even do anything," Grif pointed out. "I slacked off, Donut tripped and Simmons was nothing but a kissass."

"You never do anything, dirtbag. Doesn't mean a thing where you're concerned!"

Donut finally climbed to his feet and started brushing dirt off his jumpsuit. Caboose was standing in front of him, rocking back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. Maybe he sensed that Donut was a little freaked out by the fact that he'd nearly strangled Tucker for such a minor incident.

"Did I do something bad?" Caboose asked. Donut finished brushing his clothes off before replying.

"Caboose, do you even realise that strangling people is much worse than tripping them?"

"But I do not like Tucker. I like Biscuit," Caboose stated, like that completely justified it. Donut twisted a bit of his hair around his finger, resisting the urge to groan. He wondered if Caboose's mother had ever tried to explain this sort of thing to him before.

Chapter Text

Donut hadn't made any progress explaining to Caboose by the next day.

"I still do not get it," Caboose said, trying to fold orange jumpsuits. He kept getting distracted, however, so most of the jumpsuits he folded were messed up and crinkled. And that was just the ones that were recognizably folded. It was an improvement from getting his head stuck in the jumpsuit pants, but all the wrinkles in the jumpsuits were making Donut twitch.

"Don't get what?" Donut asked.

"Why you were so upset. About the Tucker thing yesterday." Caboose frowned at the orange jumpsuit. "I know why Church was upset. He actually likes Tucker for some reason. But you do not. And you still got kind of upset about it." Caboose shrugged. "I do not get it."

"I told you... it's the principle of the thing. You just aren't supposed to strangle people. It's like putting your elbows on the table. It's not... good etiquette. Even if the person hosting the dinner is the grumpy great-aunt that nobody likes, you don't do that."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Yeah... I went a little off-track." Donut was crouched down, staring at the washing machine and waiting for it to finish swirling so he could start drying the jumpsuits inside. "It's just not cool to attack people in the first place. Unless it's totally necessary. Which it totally wasn't. I know you're supposed to be protection, but that's going a little nuts."

"Church did not mind if I hurt people he did not like. Unless they just happened to fall over afterward. Then he got mad. But besides that, Church did not mind. He said that it kept them all scared so they would not annoy him."

"Yeah, well... I'm not Church, am I?"

"No. Church is taller... and he has facefuzz."

"Mmhm." Donut watched the jumpsuits go around in circles, still waiting for the washing machine to finish up. "Don't you ever get sick of it?"

"Sick of what?"

"Of everyone being terrified of you. Isn't that lonely?"

"I am used to it. People have always been scared of me. I was not a nice kid." Caboose made a dunking gesture. "I used to stick their heads in toilets."

Donut shuddered. "Ew, swirlies. I used to get those all the time. They sucked. And not in the fun way."

Across the room, Tucker paused in the middle of ironing jumpsuits. He suddenly had the feeling that he had missed someone making a double entendre.

There were many things that O'Malley despised. He hated parrots. He hated sunny days. He hated those shiny round things that they put on cupcakes sometimes. But there was nothing he hated so much as boredom.

The lack of violent activity available just made him angrier. Somehow, dissecting his macaroni did not have the same appeal as stabbing something that screamed and bled. By now his macaroni was just a pile of yellowish mush. But despite the fact that the macaroni was probably as dead as it was ever going to get, O'Malley still didn't feel any better.

And to top it all off, Doc hadn't let slip of anyone annoying him. How boring. Who was he meant to torture now? Of course, he did still have a few people on his list. That faux-blond pastry, for example. O'Malley had heard that he'd leaked the truth to a couple of friends, and that meant payback.

And even if he hadn't owed payback, that pastry was the soft sort... the type that would be easy to break. Easy on the eyes, too, but that wasn't what was important. What was important was that he'd squeal like a pig. O'Malley loved it when they were vocal. Tormenting him would be a cheap thrill that wouldn't last long... but it would be enough to alleviate his boredom.

Of course, lately the blond pastry always seemed to be followed. Mostly by Caboose. O'Malley didn't care. If anything, that was a bonus. Two in one. And Caboose was another favourite victim, although it was a lot harder to inflict physical torture on him. Mental torture, however, was easy. To the point where it had gotten boring. Caboose had been fun to torment once, but he was already a broken toy.

O'Malley climbed to his feet, holding his tray of crushed macaroni. He winded his way through the tables, stopping behind Wyoming. He leaned forward a little, one arm resting on the table."You have my screwdriver?" O'Malley muttered. Wyoming didn't look behind him, but he removed something wrapped in paper towels from his pocket. After making sure none of the guards were looking, he slipped it towards O'Malley.

"Don't misplace it so quickly this time, old chap," Wyoming said quietly. "I'll be upping the payment if you keep getting them taken off you."

O'Malley snorted, moving away from Wyoming's table and slipping the wrapped screwdriver into his pocket. A new screwdriver and some possible victims. A grin crossed O'Malley's face. The day was looking up. He cheerfully hummed a song that his mother had taught him.

"I need to go to the library."

Donut looked up from his food. "Caboose, you can't read."

"But I like the pictures." Caboose rocked back and forth on his chair. "I need help finding a book. I cannot read the titles but I like to know what the book is about, so I can make up the story. And Church will not help me this time because he is angry about yesterday."

"Sure. I haven't seen the library, anyway."

"Yay!"

Caboose spent the next few minutes bouncing around impatiently on his chair while Donut finished his macaroni. As soon as he finished, Caboose grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him out of the cafeteria.

"Books, books, books!”

"Caboose, you're hurting my arm."

"Oh. Sorry." Caboose let go of Donut's arm pretty quickly, but he continued bouncing around on his feet. "I hope they have books with wizards and sword-fighting. I always wanted to be a wizard, but my sister, Bailey, she said they do not exist."

"Ooh, I loved those stories when I was a kid. Fighting dragons and rescuing princesses and stuff," Donut said, smiling. "But then I decided I'd prefer to have a jetpack... and secret spy liquid."

"That. Would. Be. Awesome." Caboose paused for a few moments. "What does the spy liquidy stuff do?"

"Secret stuff, of course. Secret spies always have secret things."

"Right, right!"

A couple of minutes after leaving the cafeteria, Caboose came to a halt.

"Uhhh... is it this way or that way..." he muttered.

"How could you get lost, we've gone down the one path," Donut sighed. Caboose scratched the back of his head.

"Normally I follow Church there... I think we might have gone past it," Caboose admitted. "I think it was closer to the... the..."

Caboose had turned around to face Donut, and immediately all the colour drained from his face. Before Donut could ask what was wrong, he felt someone slip an arm around him and press a screwdriver to his neck.

"You're impossible to get alone, these days," O'Malley told him. "Closest I can get is just you and your pet monkey."

"I haven't done anything," Donut yelped, trying to keep as far away from the screwdriver as possible, an impossible task seeing as it was being pressed to his neck.

"Haven't you? Haven't you, my little pastry?"

He knew. He knew Donut had told Grif and Simmons. But how could he know that? Donut stared at Caboose. Caboose seemed glued to the spot. He had his arms half raised, like he was going to fight, but his expression was terrified. Like he was staring at the devil.

"I'm not going to kill you. Not yet. If I killed every person I played with I'd run out of people to torment. I just want to know how loudly you squeal. I bet you squeal like a little, pink piggie..." O'Malley pressed the screwdriver a little harder, so that just a couple of drops of blood leaked out. “Oink.”

"Let... let Treacle Tart go," Caboose managed to say, although it was near impossible to understand him because his voice was shaking so badly. O'Malley laughed, and took a step backwards, dragging Donut with him.

"Treacle Tart? Aww, such a sweet nickname. Really." O'Malley's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "I believe I dubbed him 'pastry' first, though. Funny how our minds work in sync, isn't it?”

"Let him go!"

Donut felt O'Malley tighten his grip, and his breathing quickened. "I really don't feel like it. Do you think I would, just because you asked. You fool. But if you're that desperate, why don't you just rescue him yourself? You have the strength of an ox, don't you?"

Caboose didn't look like he was about to try and rescue Donut. He looked like he was about to run for it. He wasn't actually backing away, but he wasn't moving forward either.

"Can't do it, can you? Just walk away. Walk away. Don't worry, Mikey..." At the usage of that name, Caboose flinched like he'd been slapped in the face. "If he's good, I might not even leave any scars. He might even enjoy it. If you're so intent on staying, I'll even let you watch." O'Malley used the hand that wasn't holding the screwdriver to stroke Donut's face briefly. Donut's breathing became harsher and more panicked. "Just a little bit of fun with a pretty little pastry. No more criminal than some of the things you've done."

Caboose shook his head. "No... I did not... They fell over. They fell over!"

O'Malley snickered. "Really... I believe we've been over this before. Might be nice to argue over it again, for old time's sake... and so your little friend can hear for himself. I'm sure he'd like that. Wouldn't you? Like to hear all about your friend's filthy record? About the so-called boogeyman in the closet? About the stairs that Mikey swears were just slippery from the rain?"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Caboose screamed, stepping forward and raising his fists angrily. He still looked terrified, but he also looked mad... madder than Donut had ever seen him. O'Malley took another step back, giggling at the reaction.

But he was focusing just a little too much on Caboose. Donut felt his grip slacken just a little bit. The screwdriver slipped just an inch away from his throat.

Donut took that chance and jerked backwards, slamming the back of his head directly into O'Malley's face.

He was sure he heard a crunch and a scream from O'Malley, and he felt something slice his shoulder as O'Malley stumbled back, but before he could see the damage—or even see what O'Malley looked like, for that matter—Caboose had jumped forward and grabbed Donut's arm.

"Run, run, run, run, run..." Caboose took off back the way they had come, dragging Donut along with him. They both ran. Donut tried to run as fast as he could, even though he was dizzy from slamming his head against O'Malley and his leg still ached and quickly started screaming in protest. He kept running until the pain became too great and he wobbled, yanking his arm out of Caboose's grip and stumbling into the wall, clinging onto it like it was a lifeline. Caboose came to a halt and stared at him, eyes still wide with terror.

"Gingerbread?"

"Sorry, just... leg... hurts..." Donut said, still breathing heavily.

"You... you are bleeding..."

Donut instinctively looked down at his leg before remembering that O'Malley had got him with the screwdriver just before they ran. He felt his shoulder, where the screwdriver had scraped him. He could feel blood dripping from it, and it stung like hell, but it didn't seem to be too deep. It could have been worse. It could have been his throat.

"It's... It's fine," Donut said shakily. "I just need to go to the infirmary for bandages, but it's not bad."

Caboose stood still for a few seconds. He still looked frightened and angry, and he was shaking. Then, without warning, he turned and slammed his fist the wall. The impact left a spider-web of cracks.

"Caboose, what—"

"Cannot... help. I am meant to help you and help Church and... and I am bad at it!" He punched the wall again, leaving more cracks in the wall. "Cannot do anything except hurt people... and when I need to hurt people, I... then I cannot do it." He raised his fist, like he was going to punch the wall again, but he stopped. He looked back at Donut, who was staring right back at him while trying to stop his shoulder bleeding. "And now you are bleeding, and instead of helping I am punching a wall. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid..."

Donut didn't know what to say. When Caboose reached out to try and help him towards the infirmary, he automatically flinched away. As well as the lingering fear that he had of Caboose, that angry outburst had terrified him.

Plus, he couldn't help but wonder what O'Malley had been about to say about what Caboose had done in the past.

Caboose lowered his hands when Donut flinched. "...I am sorry."

"It's okay, just... just give me a minute to calm down, alright?”

O'Malley sat against the wall, touching his nose. Blood was trickling from his nostrils, where that blond pastry had hit him.

The pastry had actually hit him. He had to admit, he hadn't seen that coming. Even as insane as he was, he was fairly sure the normal reaction to a possibly broken nose was probably not to laugh. But goddamn, was he laughing. He kept cackling until his sides ached. He just couldn't help it.

He just found it so funny... He had thought the pastry would be easy to torture. He hadn't speculated for a moment that the pastry would fight back. Maybe he wouldn't be so easy to break, after all.

O'Malley leaned against the wall, still giggling to himself. He had thought the day was looking up earlier. And despite the lack of torture (even if there had been blood) O'Malley considered the day to be better than he had hoped for. Toys are no fun if they're the cheap kind that break too easily, after all.

"Already hurt again? Really? What kind of enemies have you made, Donut?"

Doc wiped blood away from Donut's shoulder, while Donut kept his eyes on the ceiling. Even if it was just a shallow gash he didn't like watching himself bleed. Caboose was sitting on a nearby cot, watching.

"I fell on a screwdriver," Donut said stubbornly. As much as he would love to blab, it wasn't worth another screwdriver injury.

"That's what they all say. I fell on this. I fell on that," Doc sighed. "I have to report this in, you know. Even if you did just fall on it. Which, no offence, I seriously doubt. Where's the antiseptic... Hold still, this is going to sting."

Donut tried not to whine, but he couldn't hold back a few small whimpers. Each time a whimper slipped out, Caboose flinched. This didn't escape Doc's notice.

"You sure you don't want to wait outside, Caboose? If it's making you uncomfortable..."

"I am staying."

"If you insist."

It only took a few more minutes for Doc to bandage Donut's shoulder. The silence was only interrupted by Doc's muttering about inmates getting hurt too much, and pondering on why they couldn't just get along.

Doc picked up the jacket portion of Donut's orange jumpsuit. The shoulder was tattered and bloody.

"I'll take this, it's too tattered and icky to keep. It'll be repaired and given back in a few days. I don't know if you have a spare jacket, but I can't let you wander around in this one. What with it being bloody and unsanitary and everything."

"You don't have a spare? It's freezing! I can't wander around in an undershirt!"

"Sorry, got no choice. I don't keep spare jumpsuits in here. Since your undershirt is kind of bloody at the top, I should probably be keeping that here too. But I don't want to make you walk around without a shirt. Anyway, I guess you're free to go. But I want to check on that in a few days, okay? Screwdrivers are prone to infecting, just want to be sure. Be careful out there, okay?"

"Uhm... Chocolate Chip? Can we not go to the library? Can we just go back to yard time?" Caboose asked quietly, fidgeting while they walked away from the infirmary.

"Okay.”

Caboose continued to bounce around on the balls of his feet, but this time in a nervous way as opposed to the cheerful way he had been doing earlier. Every few seconds, he would glance at Donut and then look away again, frowning. Donut felt nervous, too, although that was mostly because O'Malley could jump out again at any moment.

"Are you going to be angry at me?"

"No? Why would I? You didn't do anything."

"That is right. I did not do anything. That is why you would be angry. So... can you shout at me or hit me or something and get it over with?"

Donut turned to face Caboose, who was still fidgeting and hopping from one foot to the other. "Caboose, I'm not going to shout at you. Okay? Stop fidgeting."

"You are sure? Church usually shouts at me about things. He shouts about everything, though. He usually stops once I do the eye thing that I used to do when I was in trouble with Mama. See?"

Caboose shone the puppy dog eyes on him, and immediately the urge to hug him rose. Donut tried to fight it back down and raised his hands.

"Uh... don't do that. Anyway, I told you before. I'm not Church, and not just because I don't have a goatee. I'm not going to shout at you just because you were a bit scared."

"But I am supposed to protect you. And I was this close—" Caboose moved his finger and thumb close together. "—to running away. That is not good."

"I don't mind, really! I probably would have run, if you'd been the one with O'Malley behind you."

"But you hurt O'Malley. You actually hurt O'Malley! That is like... like punching that big scary guy with the jaggy sword in that movie with all the fireworks! It was kind of cool. But I was supposed to be doing the hurting, because I was supposed to help you."

"Hey, if he hadn't been distracted by you, I would've never gotten the chance to punch him. I would have been totally screwed... literally, ugh... if you hadn't been there. Even if you didn't actually harm the guy."

Caboose crossed his arms, thinking. "So... I did not screw up... as much."

"Can we just say you didn't screw up and forget that ever happened? It wasn't a big deal or anything. Not like..." Donut shrugged, and started walking again. "It's fine. Can we forget about it? You said you were good at pretending."

"Not when O'Malley is involved," Caboose muttered, following him. "And I cannot forget, because you have the bandages covering the hurty place and I can see the bandages because you have no jacket to cover them. So I cannot forget until you have your jacket back..."

Caboose trailed off, and Donut heard him stop for a few seconds. Then he heard his footsteps speed up again, and Caboose caught up to him, now holding his own jacket. With little warning, he tossed it over Donut's head.

"Aaack! I can't see!" Donut yelped, waving his arms and trying to get the jacket off his head. "Get it off! It smells funny!”

"Uh, I used to keep cheese in the pockets... but then it got all green and furry, and Church said it was no longer edible..."

"Gross."

"I cannot forget about what happened until I cannot see the bandages. And the only way not to see the bandages is for you to wear a jacket. And since you do not have a jacket at the moment, you can wear mine."

"No, no, no. I'm fine. Besides, it's too cold for you to be wandering around in just an undershirt."

"It is not that cold."

"Get it off, I still can't see!" Caboose tugged his jacket off Donut's head, but rather than remove it he just moved it so it was covering Donut's shoulders instead of his head.

"You have to put your arms through the sleeves."

"I don't wanna..." Donut half-whined. Caboose stared at him with the puppy eyes. "Okay, okay. I'll wear your jacket. Just stop staring at me like that."

"Uh, do not put your hands in the pockets, though. I do not remember if I removed all the furry cheese from them."

Donut put the jacket on properly, albeit reluctantly. He had to admit he was a good deal warmer. Even if everything smelt like old cheese, and the sleeves were far too long. He tried pushing the sleeves back, only for them to fall over his hands again.

"Now I cannot see the bandages, and I can forget about the... the thing that happened."

"Cool. Uh... thanks. You know, for not running off earlier and for the jacket and everything."

Caboose scrunched his face up thoughtfully. "...Thanks?"

"Yeah. Thank you." Donut smiled at him.

Caboose scuffed one of his feet against the ground. He had gone slightly pink."I did not really do anything." But he still looked a lot happier. He was smiling back, at least.

Doc had been cleaning up from Donut's visit to the infirmary when, as usual, O'Malley snuck up on him.

"Someone was bleeding up here," he said cheerfully. Doc jumped back, still holding Donut's bloody jacket.

"O'Malley! Don't sneak up—oh god, what happened to you?" Doc was too surprised even to apologize for possibly being offensive due to the use of the word 'god.' "You're covered in blood."

O'Malley shrugged, grinning. He was still holding his nose, which was no longer pouring blood but was clearly starting to bruise. "Covered in blood, yes. But you say that like it's surprising.”

"It's surprising to see you covered in your own blood, at least. Sit down, sit down! I'll go get some more water..."

"Whose jacket is that?" O'Malley gazed at Donut's jacket, which Doc put on a nearby table. Doc looked back at him briefly.

"I suspect you already know." Doc padded back towards him once he'd filled a small bowl with water. "Now... you're not going to do anything violent if I try to fix you up, are you?"

O'Malley grinned up at him from the cot he was now sitting on. "Really, Doc. Do you believe that little in me. When have I ever done something violent?"

Doc raised his left hand. There were scars left from bite marks on the pointer finger. "Uh, the first time you were ever in here? Nearly bit my finger off when I was trying to give you your medication?"

"Don't recall it, personally." O'Malley rolled his eyes and raised his hand. "I won't do anything. I swear on my word as a surgeon."

"You killed so many patients that you qualify more as a butcher than a surgeon," Doc muttered, dipping a facecloth into the water.

"First of all, that's a lie. I never killed a patient. It would have gotten me fired, and I preferred to keep work and recreation separate. Secondly, you can't talk. You never even made it out of medical school. You're not even a real doctor." O'Malley snorted, then winced at the pain it caused in his nose.

"Shush!" Doc waved his hands. "Don't say that too loudly..."

O'Malley just kept grinning as Doc started wiping the blood away from his injured nose."Oh, that looks painful. How'd you do that?"

O'Malley shrugged. "I fell. The same excuse every inmate, with the exception of the particularly loud squealers, give you. What do you think?"

Doc sighed. "Guess I wasn't really expecting you to come clean or anything. It wouldn't—turn your head—it wouldn't be like you. If you told me the truth, I'd probably faint from shock."

"Oh, I tell the truth more than you think," O'Malley insisted. "What good is it to torture victims with lies? It's much more effective if it's true."

"Lovely," Doc muttered, still wiping the blood off O'Malley's face.

Normally O'Malley was rather twitchy when Doc tried to take care of him, though in most cases this involved trying to force-feed him his medication, which Doc was always bad at. Right now he was still, though. He seemed calm as Doc wiped away the blood and carefully prodded at his nose to see if it felt broken.

Doc turned away to rinse the cloth he'd wiped the blood off with in the sink, before examining O'Malley's nose again. "It doesn't seem to be broken... just very bruised. It's going to go a very nice purple colour for a while, but apart from some difficulties with breathing it should be fine. Just come back if it swells or gets infected or... whatever happens with broken noses."

O'Malley stretched back on the cot, grinning up at Doc. "I don't feel like leaving.”

"Don't be difficult."

"But I like it here. The smell of blood is still in the air. I want to stay for a while."

Doc groaned. "Not this again..."

"It won't hurt anybody," O'Malley purred. Doc removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

"Of all the inmates..." Doc shrugged. "Fine. At least this way I know you're not hurting anybody. But you're leaving right after medication time."

"Of course I will." O'Malley rolled onto his stomach, grin stretching even wider. "When have I ever caused you trouble?”

"Hey, Donut. 'Bout time, where'd you run off to?" Grif paused. "Why are you wearing Caboose's jacket? Ah, never mind that now... sit down, I got something for you."

Once Donut had sat down next to him, Grif passed him a coffee mug. The liquid inside, however, was a reddish-orange. It smelt of oranges and alcohol.

"Let me guess. Pruno?"

"Hell yes." Grif was holding a coffee mug as well. So was Simmons, although he looked a bit more disapproving.

"Grif, Donut's not even of legal drinking age," Simmons muttered.

"Oh, it's illegal for any of us to drink in here," Grif scoffed. "Like it's gonna matter that he's only twenty. Anyway... I'm probably gonna trade some with other inmates, but we gotta enjoy some of it. Just don't look too guilty and the guards will leave us alone. They know we drink, but it's too much effort to flush it all out."

"I can't believe we're getting drunk in the yard. This is so stupid."

"We'll be fine as long as it's not Sarge or Wash, none of the others bother." Grif raised his cup a little. "To lazy guards, huh?"

Simmons shrugged and took a sip. Donut looked down at the alcohol before doing the same. It actually tasted less repulsive than he had originally assumed. It wasn't fantastic, but it sure beat the cheap orange juice that was usually served.

"You like it? You can drink it without getting worried, there's not enough there to get you drunk unless you're a real lightweight," Grif assured him. "I'm not that dumb, if we started stumbling around obviously drunk off our asses then they'd definitely call us out on it. Save being that drunk for when we're stuck in our cells." Grif took another gulp and sighed happily. "Ah, alcohol. The possible liver cancer is totally worth it."

Simmons shook his head, but kept drinking anyway.

"So, what's up with you wearing Caboose's jacket? That's like how girls wear their boyfriend's sport jackets."

Donut pulled back the collar of Caboose's jacket, so Grif and Simmons could see the bandages.

"O'Malley," Donut muttered.

Simmons put down his drink quickly, face thoughtful. Then he swore. "Fuck! Wyoming!"

"What's up with you?" Grif asked.

“Um... shit, I... it might be my fault.” Simmons went pale and scooched slightly away from Donut. “I... I asked Wyoming about O'Malley while I was buying Oreos, and I guess... I guess he realised Donut told me. Fuck.” Simmons closed his eyes and rested his forehead against his knees. "I'm so stupid."

“Simmons, calm down—“

“You calm down!”

“It's fine. I mean, if I can hang around with Caboose after he broke one of my flipping legs I'm not going to tear you a new hole for an accidental slip,” Donut said. “Nevermind that, did Wyoming say anything? Like, what O'Malley looks like or what his deal is?”

Simmons shook his head. "Didn't say a thing except that O'Malley was 'just another inmate.'"

Donut laughed bitterly. "Just another inmate? No way. Not if it's routine to attack inmates with screwdrivers."

"Definitely not. Most guys wouldn't bother unless another inmate 'disrespected' them. Why take the chance of losing parole, most guys just want to do their time and get out. Either O'Malley's in here for life, he doesn't give a shit about when he gets out... or maybe he's just nuts."

"Or all three," Grif added. "Bad luck getting someone like that on your back. You know what you need to ease the pain? More pruno."

"Grif, alcohol isn't the answer to everything!"

"That's a lie and you know it.”

The time that O'Malley got the most difficult was medication time.

"Open your mouth."

O'Malley kept his mouth clammed shut, despite Doc's insistence.

"Come on. If you don't take your meds when told, I'll have to get one of the guards to help me. And you know I hate doing that. Can't you just take them in a non-violent way?"

O'Malley grinned and shifted away from him, still not opening his mouth. Doc gave him a disapproving look.

"Come on. One way or another, you'll have to take the pills. Please?"

O'Malley jumped off the bunk and edged away from Doc. Whatever calmness had been left from earlier had clearly worn off.

"No fun at all. You're going to have to make a better deal than that, 'Doc.'" O'Malley stressed the word 'Doc,' at the same time sketching quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "I don't want to take my medication. You do want me to take my medication. Quite the dilemma."

"I have other patients I need to deliver medication to, O'Malley. Can't you just take them with no fuss? Even just for today?" Doc tried to catch O'Malley, but O'Malley kept shifting away. He also had no problems with climbing over the cots and tables. It was making quite a mess.

"Oh, the amount of times you've asked that. Just for today, just for today. But it's never just for today, is it? I've been taking those pieces of plastic for years. That's a lot more than 'just today.'" O'Malley was crouching behind the other cot, staring over it at Doc.

"Come on!" Doc whined. "This isn't funny!”

"You can think of a better way to get them to me than violence, can't you? Think about it and get back to me. I'll just be sitting here while you think about it. Far away from those colourful little tablets."

"I told you, I call the guards for help if I can't talk you into it. They always end up smashing you in the face when I do that, and you don't want that to happen a second time today."

"Indeed. They can be so cruel," O'Malley mused.

"Please just take them?" Doc held out the small cup filled with colourful tablets. O'Malley eyed them distastefully. Then he grinned, climbing back onto the cot.

"I'll consider it," he said, giggling a little as he reached out for the cup. Doc relaxed a little as he handed them over. Mistake. As soon as they were in O'Malley's hand, O'Malley jumped off the cot at Doc, tackling him to the ground.

"You let your guard down," O'Malley purred, grinning down at him.

"Get off!"

"Let me think about—no." O'Malley was still holding the little cup of medicine, and he waved them in Doc's face. Doc's glasses had been knocked off when O'Malley tackled him, so all he could see was a blur of colour. "There's so many things I could do with this little cup. Maybe you'd like to try them, hm? See how the world looks like when everything is dulled by these little plastic tablets." O'Malley leaned in further, so his face was only inches from Doc. Doc could see his narrowed eyes, and the twisted scowl that had replaced his usual grin. "It's a miserable, boring way to view the world. Especially when you don't need the stupid things in the first place."

"O'Malley, you have to take your medication. You need it," Doc said, fighting to keep his voice calm. Which was difficult, considering O'Malley was straddling him and waving medicine in his face.

"Maybe I'll believe you once you actually get a medical degree. And necessary for what? Afraid I might actually be able to think straight, for once?" O'Malley started grinning again, a horrible malicious smile even by his standards. "Afraid about how 'uncontrollable' I'd be without them?" O'Malley tapped the plastic cup again. "Mind control in a pretty wrapping. Look at the pretty colours. They're just like candy."

Just like candy. The words were familiar. Doc had used a variation of them himself, when trying to convince other inmates to take their medication. Don't worry, these are just like candy. Pretty and colourful candy. He'd used the phrase on O'Malley before, now O'Malley was throwing it back in his face.

"Open your mouth."

Doc shook his head. If he wasn't set against violence so much, he would have attempted to shove O'Malley off him. But even that violated his pacifist nature. Even if he tried, it wouldn't have done much good. O'Malley was stronger than he was.

That was not to say that Doc didn't struggle when O'Malley pinched his nose, waiting for when Doc would have to open his mouth to breathe. Doc did struggle then, trying to squirm away from O'Malley without actually doing anything that could be classified as violent.

"You're going blue," O'Malley observed. "Interesting. So, how long can you hold your breath for? You know, thrashing around like that is going to shorten the time drastically. Not that I object to watching you thrash around, of course. Better that way."

Doc shook his head, trying to get O'Malley to let go, but O'Malley just grinned and kept his grip. It wasn't long before he opened his mouth for air. O'Malley immediately tipped the medicine into Doc's mouth, and then clapped a hand over it.

"I can wait all day, you know," O'Malley purred. "I'll behave once you swallow the medication. I might even take the meds myself. I'm just sharing them with you. Sharing is a good thing, right? I remember that talk you gave about sharing."

'Stop throwing everything I say back in my face!' That was what Doc wanted to say, but all that came out was a bunch of upset noises, and his vision was blurring. His lungs felt like they were going to explode. O'Malley just grinned.

"Yes, get angry at me if it makes you feel better." The grin got wider. "I know this is making me feel better. After all... there's just something about you panicking and thrashing under me that just... completes the day. Don't you think so?"

Even though Doc couldn't see very well without his glasses, and even though a haze was settling over his mind from the lack of air, he could certainly feel O'Malley curling his fingers in Doc's hair, almost lovingly.

That scared Doc. That scared him much more than O'Malley being violent.

It was at that point the infirmary door slammed open, and someone pulled O'Malley off Doc. As Doc sat up, gasping for breath and feeling around for his glasses, he heard Tex's voice.

"The hell were you doing, O'Malley? You're really pushing it! You just trying to figure out more ways to get in trouble? Is stabbing inmates just not good enough for you anymore?"

Each question was punctuated by the sound of Tex's nightstick colliding with some part of O'Malley. Once Doc finally located his glasses and put them on, Tex had O'Malley in a headlock.

"Get his medication, Doc."

Doc nodded, and tried climbing to his feet. It took a few goes. He was shaking badly. He stumbled over to where he kept all the medicine, quickly scooped out some more of O'Malley's usual medication and handed it over to Tex. After a quick struggle, in which O'Malley attempted to bite Tex's fingers off, she managed to shove the tablets down his throat.

"Right. I don't know what you were doing to Doc, but it was clearly some form of assault. You're going back to SHU. Sick bastard." Tex pushed O'Malley towards the door, looking back at Doc. "I'll return in a few minutes to help you get the medication to the other inmates."

"It wasn't assault. We were sharing," O'Malley laughed as he was pushed out of the room.

As soon as Tex left, Doc slumped against the wall. He spat the medication out, tossing the tablets into the bin. He was still shaking. O'Malley normally got violent when medication time came around, but never like that. Doc wasn't sure what O'Malley had been up to, but it had terrified him.

"You are fucking surprising, you know that?"

Donut groaned and waved his hand, his forehead resting against the table. "Not so loud," he grumbled at Church, who was looking down at him while holding his breakfast tray.

Pruno might taste okay, and it sure helped pass the time... but it also caused the worst hangover Donut had ever had the misfortune to experience in his short drinking career. Grif and Simmons had fared a little better than him, Simmons because he hadn't drunk as much as the other two, and Grif because... Donut had no idea why, since Grif had easily drunk the most. Even so, Simmons was massaging his forehead between bites and Grif had his head resting on his arms, snoring like a malfunctioning vacuum cleaner.

Church looked between the three of them. "You all look like fucking shit. How much did you drink?"

"Too much," Simmons croaked, not removing his fingers from his forehead. "If this is how bad regular pruno feels, I dread the day Grif finally manages to make moonshine."

"Duuude. He's making moonshine?" Tucker plopped down into his seat, grinning. "Tell him I'll buy shots of that once he manages it, that stuff knocks you the fuck out."

Church dropped into his seat and purposefully slammed his tray down as loudly as possible, causing Donut and Simmons to make vague noises of protest.

"Soufflé! You look very sick," Caboose said, poking him carefully. Donut winced when Caboose spoke. Was his voice always that loud?

"Not sick. Just hungover. Don't talk so loudly," Donut said, his voice muffled by the table.

"Okay!"

Donut was set on trying to block out any sound, at least until his head stopped feeling like it was going to explode, but Church wouldn't let that be.

"I figured that you were a wuss, you know. I mean, you still are... just not as much."

"Wha?" Donut lifted his head up, squinting at how bright the room was. Church was leaning back on his chair, looking at Donut with amusement.

"You fought back against O'Malley, right? Headbutted him right in the face. That takes fucking balls, especially when he's waving his stupid screwdriver around."

Once this had processed through Donut's hungover brain, Donut turned to Caboose. "You told them, didn't you? I told you to forget about it."

Caboose looked at the ceiling. "Forget about what?" he said evasively.

"It was a fluke," Donut mumbled, resting his face back on the table. "He was distracted. Story of my life.”

"Even so... you're gonna be in deep shit," Tucker said. He didn't look displeased about it, though. That didn't surprise Donut at this point.

"Yeah, how?" Donut asked, propping his head on his hands in an effort to pay attention. “He gonna send someone to break my legs, too?”

"You fought back. That's a fucking mistake where O'Malley is concerned," Church said. "Now he's gonna be all interested and shit. If his victims don't struggle, O'Malley gets bored quickly and moves onto some other target." Church frowned and leaned back further on his chair. "But you? You just had fight back."

"Of course! What should I have done? Just bent over?" Donut protested.

"Well, maybe not that, but you should have maybe let him stab you a couple of times. He would have gotten bored quicker." Church pointed his bread roll at Donut. "Let me get this clear. I hate you. But there are very few people that deserve to have O'Malley stuck on their every movement."

"Who the hell is O'Malley, anyway?" Grif groaned, apparently now awake despite his face still being buried in his arms. "Never heard of him. He sounds like an asshole, though."

"He avoids pestering huge amounts of people. He just pays special attention to a few. At the moment, one of those people is probably Dye-Job there."

Donut pouted, one hand covering his bleached hair. "Can you point him out? I want to know what he looks like, so it'll be harder for him to sneak up on me constantly."

Church glanced around the room quickly. "Can't see him. He likes standing behind people so they don't see him. Once someone sees his face and realises he's crazy... if struggling against him is like writing 'torture victim' on your forehead, mixing that with seeing his face is like putting a neon sign above your head. There's a fucking good chance you've already met him and just not realised it." Church shrugged. "He likes crawling under the radar."

"Couldn't you just point him out without him realising?"

"Maybe. But he's not even in the room at the moment. Knowing him, he was probably shoved in the shoe again." Church scowled. "Probably was pestering one of his 'favourites' again. Sick bastard."

"Can we talk about something else?" Caboose said quietly, prodding at his food. Church sighed, removing a piece of paper from his pocket.

"Look, if you don't want to listen then go take this note to Tex. A different guard tries to take it off you, eat it. Try to be fucking discreet about it, okay?"

"I can do that. ...What does 'discreet' mean?"

"Just go."

Church waited until Caboose was out of earshot before saying, "He tormented Caboose for months. Once Caboose lashed out at him and broke his arm, and after that O'Malley was even worse towards him. Once Caboose got to the point where he turned into a quivering wreck whenever O'Malley was around... well, that's when O'Malley got bored."

"Not that he needed to do much. Caboose was unstable to begin with," Tucker muttered. "Just had to push the right buttons.”

"He's tried it on Tex, too. God knows why he's so interested in her, maybe because they met once on the outside. But he goes after her sometimes. Difference is Tex is ridiculously tough, gets to carry weapons and has less chance of being left alone with him. It's not like he can do much to her. She just locks him away when he gets annoying. Still, he keeps going after her because he hasn't found a way to crack her. He probably won't, Tex is the toughest bitch I've ever met."

"And yet you tapped that," Tucker said, grinning. "You and your fetish for tough, angry chicks."

"Yeah, it's—I mean, no. No fetish. Shut up. That's not the point here! My point is..." Church pointed his roll at Donut again. "If you want to survive prison with your sanity intact, don't give O'Malley any reason to choose you as a 'favourite.'"

Donut nodded. "Alright. But... what do I do if he attacks me again?"

Church shrugged. "I don't fucking know. For the long run, the best thing would probably be to not struggle and just get it over with."

“Not a chance.”

“Then you better get used to fighting, because Caboose won't—can't—protect you against him.”

Simmons drummed his fingers lightly on the table, causing Grif to groan in protest at the noise. "So, O'Malley stabbing you... was that an act of 'favoritism.' too?" he questioned.

Church snorted. "Yeah, right. I'm the furthest from a 'favorite' you could get. He just hates me. And I hate him, so it fucking works.”

"You supply weapons and junk, don't you? I mean, I remember you holding one to my fucking throat a couple of months back."

Wyoming looked up at Tucker, who was shifting nervously while glaring at him. "Depends on who is asking. Your friend wouldn't be thinking about snitching to the guards about that, would he?"

"No way, man. Church isn't stupid, if your business went down there'd be a lot of angry people." Tucker scraped his foot against the ground, glancing back at Church. "He needs another supply of cigarettes, by the way. Said he'd pay with laundry money. Also he said you're an asshole. So did I, by the way."

"Fair enough, tell him the usual price applies. But why the need for a weapon? I don't hand out shivs to any old chum who comes by asking about them."

"I know, but I kind of need one. It doesn't have to be the finished thing, just give me the base stuff I need to make a good shiv."

"Why?"

"Does it matter?"

"I don't support prison violence, at least not from people I'm not very friendly with. You could be planning to harpoon a friend of mine, old chap. And I don't stand for that."

"If it makes you feel better, I don't plan on attacking anyone with it unless they attack me first. I'm just feeling a little nervous, is all."

"Ah." Wyoming raised an eyebrow. "This wouldn't have to do with that little incident with the idiot, would it? Because I doubt anything would do much good against that giant. He'd crush your head in before you could stab him enough to let you go.”

"I know, but he's fucking crazy. And if Caboose attacks me again and I have no weapon, he'll fucking crush me for sure. I can't talk my way out where he's concerned, he's too thick to listen." Tucker crossed his arms impatiently. "Will you give me something I can make one with or not?"

"Certainly. It'll take a month or so."

"Cool. Uh, don't mention this to Church. I don't want him to think I'm going all crazy paranoid and everything."

"Certainly. And tell him I'll be able to supply his cigarettes within a week."

"It takes him a week to get his supplies and me a month? Fucking bullshit, dude.”

"Church! I have the reply note thing from Tex!"

"That took forever," Church grumbled. "I asked you to find her at breakfast. It's past fucking lunch."

"Yes. She was not in the eating place, so I had to look around. But I did not ask the guards. I did ask Mister York what discreet meant, and then I did not ask anything else. Tex wrote this for you." Caboose held out the note, looking proud.

"Yeah, whatever. Pass it here." Church tugged the note out of Caboose's hand and glanced over it. "Let's see..." There wasn't much worth mentioning on the note. Mostly that O'Malley had been acting up again and was under suspicion of attacking Donut, but that there'd been no weapons in his cell and they had no other proof. There was also some mentions about a couple of smugglers being transferred to the prison, but nothing besides that.

"Wyoming says he'll have the cigarettes in a week," Tucker said, strolling over and sitting down, making sure to stay just out of reaching distance of Caboose. Caboose was still standing, rocking back and forth on his feet and looking at Church.

"What do you want, a cookie?" Church asked him, as he passed the note over to Tucker.

"I did not know they had cookies in prison."

"They don't. It's a fucking metaphor or something. Just sit down and stop staring at me."

"Oh. Okay." Caboose sat down, pulling his knees to his chest and huddling into a ball. "It is very cold."

"That's because you gave your jacket to Dye-Job. Idiot," Church muttered. "Don't bitch about the cold if you're gonna do stupid things like be nice to people. That won't get you anywhere. You have to be more of an asshole if you're ever gonna do something besides be a fuckup."

"He's already an asshole," Tucker said under his breath. "Don't encourage him, Church."

Caboose climbed to his feet again, glaring venomously at Tucker. "Hippo-kite."

"Er... what?"

"You are a hippo-kite. And I do not talk to hippo-kites. I am going to talk to Coconut Cream Pie."

Once Caboose had left, Tucker glanced sideways at Church. "What the fuck is a hippo-kite?”

"I think he means hypocrite. He thinks you're an asshole."

"Oh! Alright, then."

Church watched Caboose cross the yard to where Donut, Grif and Simmons were sitting. Caboose looked happier once he started talking to Donut.

"How'd Dye-Job get Caboose to like him so quickly? Like, yeah, I know Caboose hugs anything that doesn't try to immediately kill him, but to that degree?"

"Fuck if I know." Church scratched his goatee absentmindedly. "Hm... the way things are going, he might end up taking over the 'Best Friend' position. That's a fucking scary thought."

Tucker shuddered. "Oh yeah. That would suck. You sure you don't want to get Donut killed? If Caboose ends up on his side instead of ours, getting Donut killed might be the only way to stop us from getting killed. Probably depends on how much Donut dislikes us."

"I don't think it'll come to that. Not any time soon. But it took me fucking six months to get Caboose to like me at all. Yeah, he's gotten more friendly since then, but still... Donut managed it in, what, two days?"

"Scary. Maybe being nice does get you somewhere."

"Too much effort, though."

"Ugh, right?”

Chapter Text

"Books!"

Even with O'Malley locked away, it was three days before Caboose was convinced that O'Malley wouldn't be lurking around the hallways. Once he was sure, however, he immediately dragged Donut there.

The library, for want of a better term, was a tiny little room with the books crammed onto a few shelves. There was a guard inside the room, one that Donut didn't recognise, and an inmate who was sorting books. Caboose was kneeling beside one of the lower shelves, tilting his head like he was trying to read the spines. Or at least trying to guess which would have the most pretty pictures.

"Shortbread, what does that say?"

Donut tilted his head. "Uh... Soap Carving For Beginners. Ooh, I'll grab that if you don't want it, I need something to do."

Caboose handed it over to him before looking some more. Eventually, he removed a book on football. He turned it around a couple of times before flipping it open. Then he held it sideways, eyes squinted.

"I did not know they had naked ladies in football," he said slowly. "Especially not naked cowboy ladies."

Donut tugged the book out of Caboose's hands, and a porn magazine fell out of the pages.

"Ew, gross." Donut looked down at it, nose wrinkled in disgust.

The inmate stacking books looked up and waved his hands downwards.

"Don't bring stuff like that in here, kid. Guards won't approve, and I don't want any write-ups for letting that in here," he said gruffly. Donut picked it up like it was diseased.

"I didn't bring it in, it was in there already."

"Hmph. One of the others was probably using that football book to disguise what he was reading out in the yard. Forgot to take it out. Dumbass. Just hand it here, I'll take care of it." Donut handed it over quickly, and the inmate quickly turned it over and glanced at the cover before shoving it in his pocket. "Eh, no point in wasting it." The inmate looked over Donut's shoulder at Caboose, who was gazing at the books on another shelf. "Er, keep an eye on Caboose. Don't want him knocking over the shelves or something aga—"

Crash.

"Not my fault! Shelf was in the way!"

The inmate sighed.

"Every time..." He started gathering the books that had been knocked off the shelf. "Why'd they place me in charge of the damn library..."

"I will help the shelf stand up again!"

"No, Caboose, just stand there. You know. Far away from me."

"Okay! Pastry, what's this say?" Caboose waved him over, away from the inmate, before speaking again. "That is Miller. He does not get along with Church," he said, speaking in almost a whisper.

"Did Church try to blackmail him or something?"

"No. It was Tucker's fault. Miller had a cellmate called Joannes—“

“I thought it was Jones.”

“A cellmate called Joey Joe Joe—“

“That's not even—okay.”

“—and he died after Tucker talked to him. There was blood everywhere, and it was messy and gross. And he thinks Church told Tucker to do what he did. So now he is very mad at Church and Tucker. Especially Tucker. Some of his friends beat up Tucker once. I saw them." Caboose held up another book. "What's this about? Does it have wizards?"

"That's about ghosts, not magicians. So, you saw them hitting Tucker and you didn't do anything?"

"No."

"Doesn't Church get annoyed about Tucker getting hurt?"

"Church did not know at the time. It was when you and Church were sharing health benefits.”

“Health what?”

“And what Church does not know does not matter to him." Caboose lowered his voice even more. "He found out, though. I think Andy told him."

Donut looked back at Miller, who was pushing the shelving back up. "And what does that mean?"

"When Church is not happy, bad things happen to the people he is not happy with. But Tucker cannot do anything to Miller, because he won't listen to him. And Church says I cannot do anything too hurty to them, unless they do something worse."

"So... what are they going to do?"

“I do not know. Church and Tucker do not tell me things. And the talking can get very boring. Is this book about wizards?”

“No-one knows anything?”

“Not jack shit. If they do, they don't want to tell me and none of your little snitches know either,” Tucker said moodily.

“Blackmailers. Assistant blackmailers. Or something. Whatever.”

"I tried conning Miller's friends out of information, none of them let anything slip. Not after Jones. I even searched Miller's cell as much as I could when he wasn't looking. Nothing."

"Nothing at all?"

"Except a couple of porn magazines, nothing. Not enough to get him in serious trouble."

Church frowned at the sky. "Damn it. Why must murdering people be against the law?"

"I'm sure there's other ways. I don't even wanna fuck with him, I just want him to leave me alone. I get why he's mad, but he's being an asshole about it. Pity we can't just break his legs, but I think that'd just make him and his friends angrier. It ain't like Donut, it's not 'one bone and he's frightened for life.' And they punch pretty hard.”

“Well, if you'd fucking told me about the punching earlier—“

“You were still healing, I didn't want to start bringing up my dumbass problems.”

“You getting your ass kicked by a bunch of check counterfeiters isn't a dumbass problem.”

"Pssh. It takes more than those sissies to get me down." Tucker rubbed his side. Last time Miller's friends had got him it had been bruised for ages, although it'd healed now. "I got at least one of them pretty good. Awesome black eye."

“You know it'll get worse. Miller has friends. Joannes—”

“Jones,” Tucker corrected him.

“Whatever. He had friends.”

“And that's why we're working on it now. But, getting back to the situation..." Tucker scraped his shoe against the ground, kicking the occasional pebble aside. "Miller hasn't hid anything bad in his cell... but that doesn't mean we can't throw something bad in there." Tucker tapped his foot against the ground a few times, one hand moving up to touch his own shoulder. "Screwdriver. What did O'Malley do with the screwdriver he used to attack Donut? Didn't Tex say no screwdriver was found on him?"

"Yeah. Must have hid it somewhere."

"So, technically, they can't prove O'Malley attacked Donut. Which means another inmate could have done it. So." Tucker grinned. "We either find O'Malley's screwdriver or a new one, leave it in Miller's cell. Tip off the guards that someone else is hiding something in their cells. They'll do a cell check, and they'll catch Miller with a screwdriver covered in blood. He'll get locked in the shoe for ages. Give him some time to reflect on how much he should not fuck with us."

"Sneaky. But won't it just make them angrier?"

"Won't doing anything make them angry?"

"Yeah, but especially framing. That's pretty close to snitching."

"Church, you're already a snitch. What more can you do?"

"Hey! Blackmailer, alright? Not a snitch." Church stretched his arms out and yawned. "Alright. Framing it is. At least it'll delay him. Did I ever tell you you're a sneaky asshole?"

Tucker's mouth twisted into a half-smile. "You have. But you know I love compliments like that."

"Sure fucking do.”

Once Caboose had finally located a book with wizards in it (the process of which was essentially pulling out every book he could find and asking Donut if it was about wizards) he insisted that he had to take it back to his cell, because the last time he had taken a book into the yard he had lost it.

When Donut passed his own cell, listening to Caboose babble about wizards and about how his mama used to read to him, he saw that someone had left an orange jacket on the bed. Donut entered his cell and picked it up, noting the stitching along the shoulder. He picked it up and jogged after Caboose, who hadn't actually noticed Donut had momentarily left.

"Hey, Caboose. Slow down. I can give your jacket back, now." Donut slipped off the jacket (which wasn't hard, with it being several sizes too big) and handed it back to Caboose before pulling his own jacket on again.

"That is good. I was very cold, especially when sitting on the concrete." Caboose pulled his jacket back on, before pausing and sniffing at the collar. "Smells fruity.”

"Grif's pruno. The smell is getting everywhere."

Caboose entered his cell and put the book down on the cot. Donut took a step in almost stumbled back from the stench that filled the cell. It smelt like rotting meat.

"Oh god, what is that?"

"What is... oh. Nothing?" Caboose shifted from one foot to the other, glancing at the footlocker. Donut looked at it, then looked back at Caboose.

"What's in there? Whatever it is, it smells like something died."

"It did not die. It fell over."

"Caboose, seriously. What's in there?"

Caboose hesitated, before reaching over and opening the footlocker.

"Margretta."

Donut looked inside and immediately stepped back, his hands now covering his mouth. "Oh god. Is that the same pigeon you tried to pat a couple of months ago? That's... that is... ergh, I feel like I'm going to throw up." Donut backed out of the cell quickly. "I'll just wait out here!"

"Um... it is not the same pigeon. It is a different one that I tried to keep as a pet when you and Church were not around." Caboose followed Donut out, once he had closed the footlocker. "I needed someone to talk to. Even if Margretta is always sleeping. And falling apart. But she is better to talk to than Tucker. Because Tucker is a stupid hippo-kite."

"...You were talking to a dead pigeon."

"Not a dead pigeon, Macaron. A sleeping, falling apart pigeon. I would not talk to a dead pigeon. That would be crazy."

"Yeah. Yeah, it would be," Donut said faintly.

"The smell does get very smelly, though." Caboose tugged on Donut's sleeve. "Erm, Sorbet... you can read, right?"

"Yeah? I just read, like, a hundred book titles to you."

"Right... uh... canyoureadthebooktometomorrow?" Caboose said quickly.

"What?"

"Can you read the book to me? I asked Church once but he just asked if I thought he was my mother. Which is a silly question. Church cannot be my mother because he is a guy. Anyway... can you read to me tomorrow? Pleeeeeease?"

Even if Donut had wanted to resist, Caboose had switched on the puppy dog eyes again.

"Hey, you don't have to do the eye thing. Of course I will."

"Yay!" Before Donut could move, Caboose jumped forward and hugged him tightly. It was a painful experience. "Thank you!"

"Ow, ow, ow!”

Luckily, Donut escaped the hug with only a very strong ache, like he's just been hit by a non-lethal bulldozer.

People could be so predictable. Even crazy ones like O'Malley.

Not that O'Malley had much of a choice, in this case. The only place that O'Malley could have hidden the screwdriver between where he had attacked Donut and the infirmary was the closet where they kept all the spare clothes. Tucker wondered briefly why no-one ever locked that closet. Probably because there wasn't really much to steal. Seriously, who would steal jackets, socks or underwear? Well, there was always someone.

It had just been a matter of rifling through the shelves while Church stood outside, keeping a watch out for the guards. But, again, who would be guarding a room filled with nothing but clothes? There weren't that many guards as it was, and they were generally guarding... well, the inmates. Most were stationed out in the yard, or wherever else inmates generally hung out. The library, or pacing the cell block and keeping an eye out on the inmates who chose to stay in their cells.

Tucker eventually poked Church in the back.

"Got it. He didn't even hide it that well, he just threw it into a pile of socks," Tucker said, laughing. He held up the screwdriver, still covered in dried blood. "Should we hide it in there now?"

"Why the fuck not? The sooner Miller is dealt with, the better," Church said.

It wasn't that far back to the cell block, and at this time of the day most of the inmates were out in the yard. There were a few around, most of them sitting in their cells reading, talking or engaging in whatever activity they could perform in their cell. Guards paced around, but most of them didn't keep track on which inmates lived in what cells. They wouldn't notice if Church or Tucker slipped into someone else's cell, as long as they were casual about it.

"Anyone looking?" Tucker muttered, as they walked towards Miller's cell. Church glanced around, trying his best to look casual.

"Not that I can see. There's a guy wandering around up there, but he's not actually looking at us."

"Alright. Just start humming if someone is looking at you while I'm in there. Then I'll stay until you stop."

"Humming? I don't want to fucking hum."

"Would you rather sing?"

"Humming is fine."

"Damn. And I was looking forward to hearing you sing." Tucker pulled a face before slipping into Miller's cell. Church passed by and stopped a couple of cells down, tapping his fingers impatiently. When one of the inmates left his cell on the floor above, briefly looking downwards at him, Church started humming tunelessly. As soon as the inmate had walked far enough so that he couldn't see them, Church stopped. Tucker left the cell, grinning.

"Dude, you are totally tone-deaf."

"Shut up. So, you planted it?"

"Nah, I just walked into his cell, stood there for a while and then left. Duh. Of course I planted it. Let's go tip off the guards. Reckon we should tip off Tex, or a different guard?"

"Tex would know it was O'Malley's screwdriver. Let's tip off North, you know he's the quietest about who tells him these things."

"Cool." Tucker scratched his hair, mouth twisted in his usual half-smile. "I'd feel guilty, but really... Miller's the one pushing this. I told him. It's not my fault what happened to Jones." Tucker paused for a moment. “Not my fault,” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

"Well, I know that. In fairness to Miller, like half of what you say is a lie."

"Uh, so not true. A third of it, maybe. And I don't lie to you, there'd be no point. The hell am I gonna get out of that?"

"So, you're not a liar. Sure, Tucker. Suuuuure."

"Fuck off," Tucker replied amiably.

"Bastard."

"Asshole.”

O'Malley was practically bouncing off the walls in his tiny cell. He could see through the little gap they pushed food through, but there was nothing out there. Not even anyone to torture in the cell across from his, or on either side. Must be a slow week. The only time they opened the door was to force him to take his medication.

Whenever O'Malley wasn't pacing around his cell, he spent most of it staring through that flap. Waiting for someone—anyone—to walk by. Although he would have preferred Tex or Doc. Especially Doc. The days felt almost empty without scaring the hell out of him. But Doc never delivered his medication to him. He was probably scared, after the force-feeding and straddling their last meeting had entailed. Instead, guards generally brought the medication to him.

O'Malley sighed, stretched out on the floor and gazing through the flap. The shoe was the worst. If only he was allowed a cellmate, but the guards weren't stupid enough to lock someone in with him.

He heard the door swing open, and he could hear footsteps. He recognised the footsteps. He'd heard Tex walk down there so many times in the last three years that he had her footsteps memorized.

"Coming to visit me, Tex? So thoughtful of you," O'Malley laughed. From his narrow view, he could only see her feet. He heard the door unlock, and he scrambled backwards as it swung open. Tex was holding his medication, as well as a tray of food. She put down the tray of food before taking a step towards him.

"My dear Tex, must you force those things down my throat again? It's quite painful. Both physically and emotionally. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

"Yeah, like you actually have feelings," Tex muttered, taking her nightstick out.

"Oh, that was harsh. Harsh. How could you be so cold? And we've known each other for so long." O'Malley edged further away from him. "I thought we were friends," he added mockingly. Tex responded only by smacking him in the gut with her nightstick.

The everyday struggle to get O'Malley to take his pills always ended the same way. With O'Malley lying on the floor. Pills forcibly swallowed and a few new bruises for his effort. His face was a mass of purple bruising by now. He could never manage much resistance against Tex, but he usually left her with a few bite marks on her fingers.

As Tex stepped over him, sliding the food tray towards him with her foot, O'Malley rolled onto his back and grinned at her.

“Why do you hate me so, Tex? Is it because I told you a truth you'd rather have not known? That was ten years ago, are you still upset about it? It wasn't as if I forced you to choose the law over a criminal you just happened to be in the pants of—"

Tex turned back towards him and kicked him hard in the stomach, before slamming and locking the cell door behind her. Leaving O'Malley on the ground, laughing and wheezing from lack of breath at the same time.

The beatings were totally worth it, even for just a moment of bringing back old memories. Old memories of lives he had helped fuck up.

Ignoring his food, O'Malley quickly went back to pacing the cell. Even though he could survive on those little moments of emotional torture, it was nothing compared to having someone there. Torturing people was the only time he felt truly alive.

"He was what?"

"I didn't see him doing anything, but I saw Church near your cell. He was humming. Horribly. Thought it would be best to give you a heads up, you know?"

"The hell would he be doing near my cell? Was Tucker with him?"

"Didn't see him, but I couldn't actually see your cell from where I was standing..."

Not even half an hour after Church and Tucker had left Miller's cell, Miller was searching his own cell from top to bottom. The inmate who had been wandering the cell block, a man named Jenkins, was standing just outside the cell, shuffling his feet.

"Oh, son of a bitch," Miller muttered, as he felt the underside of his cot and found the screwdriver taped there. He pulled it out, studying it carefully. "Bastards. To sink this low..."

"Well, they are criminals..." Jenkins suggested helpfully.

Miller turned the screwdriver over in his hands absent-mindedly, before grinning. "They messed with the wrong man." He held the screwdriver out to Jenkins. "You know where Church's cell is, right?"

"Murderer territory, yeah.”

"It'll be the cell with no sentimental items or any of that claptrap. Leave the screwdriver there. I have a strong feeling we'll be getting our cells checked later today."

"Ohh... yeah, got it!"

Jenkins hurried towards the section of cells, wrinkling his nose at the strange smells. That section of the prison sure smelt fruity. Someone had been making pruno, obviously. The inmate glanced at some of the cells in the area. Most had photos inside them, or childish sketches taped to the walls. A couple of cells down from the cell that smelt the most strongly like pruno, however...This cell that was clearly occupied, as the cot actually had sheets on it. The room smelt mildly like perfumed water, but it didn't quite cover up the smell of old vomit. More importantly, there were no personal possessions lying around.

Jenkins, too focused on this detail, didn't notice that he was standing on the Red side of the cell block.

"Hey, Simmons? Is it possible to buy soap that isn't that ugly grey colour here?" Donut called from his cell. He was lying on his cot, turning the pages of the book on soap carving.

"Not from the commissary. Ask Wyoming," Simmons replied. He was lounging around reading as well, although his was one of his technobabble-filled science books.

A stream of swearing came from Grif's cell.

"Toilet's not flushing! Fucker!"

Simmons grunted in reply, turning the page of his book. Grif kicked the bowl angrily.

"Come on, you fucking..."

With a loud creak, the doors at the end of the cell block swung open. Simmons climbed to his feet and looked through his bars at the doors towards the source of the noise.

"Shit, they're searching cells," he whispered.

"What? Aw, you gotta be fucking kidding me..." Grif looked down at the cup of pruno he was holding, and quickly poured it down the toilet. "Oh shit, it's still not flushing... son of a bitch."

Simmons sighed and sat back down on his bunk. "I told you that stuff would get you in trouble. You're going to get a write-up for sure."

"Fuck."

Donut climbed to his feet and stared through the bars, in the direction that the noise was coming from. He could see two blond guards who he hadn't met before. One went into Tucker's cell, the other into Church's.

"What're you doing?" Church muttered. "You're in the wrong cell block."

North shrugged, opening Church's footlocker. “We checked the block you mentioned. We found some contraband, but nothing worth more than a write-up. It's not surprising, that section is mostly check swindlers.”

“Well, that's not what I heard.”

Church heard Tucker complaining, although he couldn't see him.

"Hey, don't go waving that around!"

“Tucker, what is this? Are these drugs? Up against the wall.”

“Chill, Wash. Those are mints.”

“...Mints.”

"Yeah.”

"That's the stupidest excuse ever. ...Of all time."

"Dude, seriously. Eat one. They're mints."

North finished checking over Church's cell quickly. Church didn't keep much in there, and certainly nothing illegal. He wasn't that stupid. The guards knew he had done some smuggling outside prison, so they tended to check his cell whenever things went missing.

But Church was surprised nothing was found. The guards clearly hadn't found anything in Miller's cell. Which meant Miller must have found the screwdriver. Goddammit. But he would have expected them to plant it in his cell, which they hadn't done.

Maybe they'd planted it in Tucker's cell? But judging from the argument now taking place between Tucker and Wash, the worst thing they had found in Tucker's cell really was a box of mints.

The screwdriver wasn't in his cell, or Tucker's cell. Maybe they'd just thrown it away... but that seemed off. Why would Miller miss an opportunity to get one of them in trouble?

"Stand in the corner," Wash said, while North wrinkled his nose and tried to keep his expression bland. The stench was horrific. As soon as Wash told him to stand in the corner, Caboose immediately moved off his bed and sat on his footlocker instead.

"There is nothing in here," Caboose said quickly. "It does not need to be checked."

"Caboose. Stand in the corner. I'm giving you to the count of one," Wash said sternly, holding his nightstick tightly. Caboose shifted a little, but he didn't move off the footlocker. "One." Wash raised his nightstick, which caused Caboose to automatically flinch, but North reached out to stop him.

“We don't have to get violent.”

“I was just going to nudge him a bit,” Wash muttered.

“Well, I came prepared. Didn't need another match between you two.” North reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bar of chocolate. "I'll give you this if you let us check your locker," he told Caboose. Caboose considered this very briefly before nodding. "See? Candy usually works on Caboose."

“You shouldn't be coddling the prisoners. They're not children.”

“True. But a chocolate bar costs less than fixing a broken arm." He opened the footlocker and stepped back, gazing at the dead, half-rotten pigeon inside. "Wow. That's disgusting."

"Please do not take my pigeon again."

"Caboose, you know we can't let you keep that. It's unsanitary," Wash told him. He was still holding his nightstick at the ready. The last time he had tried to take away one of Caboose's 'pets' the results had been violent. Both of them had been sent to the infirmary afterward, Wash with a broken arm and Caboose with two cracked ribs and an eye so bruised he couldn't see out of for a month.

It seemed that Caboose remembered this occasion quite clearly, because this time he didn't move to try and stop Wash. Violence didn't work on Wash. Nor did puppy-dog eyes. Caboose had attempted that before, but it seemed Wash was immune to them. All Caboose could really do was try not to cry when they dropped Margretta unceremoniously into a plastic bag.

On his way out, North handed the chocolate bar over. That did cheer Caboose up some. Although it wasn't as comforting as having a friend to talk to. Even if that friend was always sleeping and falling apart.

"Oh, give it up, Grif," Simmons said, listening to Grif trying to flush away his entire supply of pruno despite the fact that the toilet didn't flush. "It's not gonna work."

"Had to try," Grif insisted.

"They're walking this way."

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

"Grif, stop flushing the evidence," one of the guards said, tapping on the bars of Grif's cell. His ID labeled him as North Dakota. Someone's parents had a sense of humor. "Stand in the corner, alright?"

The other guard walked past Grif's cell to check Simmons. Donut could hear North talking from Grif's cell, as the inspection in Simmons' cell was entirely silent save for the sound of the guard shuffling items about.

"Wow, that is a lot of pruno. I'm a little impressed. I've rarely seen so much pruno in one place and I've been working as a prison guard for quite a while... I'm going to have to confiscate this, Grif."

"Yeah, I know."

"Have you been selling this to other inmates?"

"Uh, no."

"Well, I'll let you go without a write-up. You haven't been walking around openly drunk, at least. Just help me carry it out of your cell."

"Aw, that takes work. You know I hate physical labor. Can't I just have the write-up?"

"No, you're helping me carry it."

"Oh, you bastard."

"Simmons is clean," the guard in Simmons' cell said.

"Of course I am, Wash. I'm not Grif, I don't use the toilet to brew alcohol," Simmons complained.

"That is a false accusation, I have never brewed alcohol in a toilet!" Grif yelled. "Sinks, yes. But never in the toilet. I have my standards!”

The guard, Wash, left Simmons' cell and stopped in front of Donut's. He didn't walk right in. He just stared at Donut with his eyes narrowed for a few long moments.

Donut had only seen Wash from a distance before, usually patrolling with York. He recalled Caboose saying he was scary, and could see why. There was just something about that pale stare that was intimidating and businesslike. Like he wouldn't hesitate to shoot you in the face.

"You're Franklin Delano Donut?" Wash said slowly.

"Uh, yeah?"

Wash looked him up and down, eyes still narrowed suspiciously. "You're not what I expected. Stand in the corner."

Donut backed away and stood against the wall obediently while Wash opened his footlocker. Nothing in there but his shoes. Just a routine check, feeling around...

"What's this?" Wash muttered, his hand reaching under the cot. Donut tilted his head, trying to remember if he'd left anything under the bed. Wash tugged on whatever he had a hold of, and pulled out a screwdriver. Bits of tape were still stuck on the handle and dried blood stained the end of it.

"What the? That's... that's not mine!"

"North! Found something."

North, in the middle of carrying Grif's pruno out of his cell, dropped the half-full plastic bag he was holding and entered the cell. When he saw the screwdriver, he looked almost as mystified as Donut.

"A screwdriver?" he asked.

"Found it taped under his cot. And it's bloody. He's attacked someone already."

"I didn't attack anyone!" Donut protested. "I was the one who was attacked, you—"

"Be quiet," Wash said coldly. He handed the screwdriver to North. "SHU?"

North frowned, turning towards Donut. "Pull back your jacket.”

Donut slipped his jacket off one arm, showing the bandages where the screwdriver had injured him. North sighed, glancing back at Wash."He's the only screwdriver attack unaccounted for. He wouldn't attack himself unless he was trying to—"

"If you're going to finish that with 'commit suicide,' committing suicide doesn't involve stabbing your shoulder," Wash interrupted.

"Then explain it."

"I still say SHU. Regardless of why he has a bloodied screwdriver, the fact remains that he has one."

North held up the screwdriver, looking at Donut. "Donut... did you try and kill yourself with this?"

"No!”

"Donut wouldn't do that. He's too wussy," Grif said helpfully.

"Yeah—hey!"

North and Wash exchanged a look.

“...Sorry, but physical evidence is pretty suspicious. I really don't know what to do but put you into SHU until we've figured the situation out better. Either you've been stabbing inmates, you've been trying to kill yourself or it was planted. And if it's the first two, SHU would be the best thing."

"But I didn't do anything, it must have been planted or something!" Donut pleaded. "Don't throw me in the shoe, please? Pleeeease?"

"I told you to be quiet. I'm warning you." Wash jerked his thumb towards the exit of the cell. "Out. Come with me, now. And don't say another word."

Donut really didn't like that look Wash was giving him. That stare wasn't just intimidating... It wasn't just giving off the feeling like Wash could shoot him quite easily. Donut was getting the distinct feeling that Wash would gladly shoot him if he could get away with it. Considering that, it seemed like a bad idea to argue too much.

O'Malley was pacing the cell again when he heard the door creak open. Immediately, he dropped to the floor to stare through his food slot at the new arrivals. He knew it wasn't time for a meal, so whoever was walking down would be bringing an inmate down.

He recognised the guard, of course. Dear old Washington. O'Malley was no stranger to Wash. Oh, he had been fun in the past. But O'Malley was more focused on the inmate that had been brought in. That blond, flaky pastry.

O'Malley grinned, trying to get a better look. The pastry looked so confused. Scared. O'Malley wondered what he had done to get thrown down there, but he supposed it didn't really matter.

And then the best thing that O'Malley could have hoped for happened. Wash stopped in front of the cell across from O'Malley's.

"In," Wash said shortly, pointing at the cell.

"I didn't do anything," the pastry protested halfheartedly. "Please, Wash, come on..." Donut was interrupted by Wash pushing him inside roughly.

"I honestly don't care," Wash said coolly, before slamming the door on him. O'Malley watched as Wash walked away, before fixing his gaze back on Donut's door.

"Come on, let me out!" Donut shouted, dropping to his own knees and staring through his own food slot. When he didn't get a reply, the pastry sighed. And then he saw O'Malley watching him.

O'Malley stared for a few seconds more before coming to a realization.

The pastry had no idea who he was. He was sitting in the cell across from O'Malley, and he had no idea.

O'Malley suddenly felt like it was his birthday.

Donut spoke first, after a few more seconds of awkward staring. "Um... hi?"

O'Malley changed the pitch of his voice before he spoke, using the smoother, less cackly voice he had often used when trying to convince potential patients that he had more credibility as a doctor, even though he had been working in a somewhat unsanitary environment.

"Hey. You got a name, kid?" O'Malley asked, trying to sound friendly rather than crazy. Seeing as Donut didn't edge away from the food slot, he supposed it worked. Although O'Malley was better at pretending not to be insane when he was off these damn pills. He'd never needed pills, Doc just thought that since O'Malley had no morals that was probably caused by some form of illness.

"I'm Donut. You?"

O'Malley grabbed the first name that came to mind, perhaps because that particular name came to mind so often lately.

"DuFresne. Frank DuFresne.”

Chapter Text

Church

When nineteen-year-old Church slipped quietly into his home at two in the morning, after a night of swiping whatever money he could, he immediately stumbled upon broken beer bottles.

That was a bad sign. It meant his father was in one of his moods, and when he was mad he tended to lash out at Eddie. Church had very explicit instructions for Eddie when this happened. 'Hide somewhere that Dad can't find you and wait there until I get home.'

Most of the time, Church would get home and Dad would either be passed out or still raging, if he was there at all. That was when Church would get some of the anger. Sometimes Church had to duck a bottle or two. But eventually Dad would pass out or start crying and sulk on the couch for the rest of the night. Church would find Eddie and make sure he was okay. It wasn't ideal, but it kept them going.

So upon finding the broken beer bottles, Church was worried but it wasn't any different than during the other 'moods.' Until he heard thudding noises coming from the living room. Followed by a short yelp.

"Eddie?" Church called out uneasily.

He didn't get a reply.

He headed towards the living room. He had to pass through the kitchen on the way there. It was dark, given that it was two in the morning and all, so Church didn't notice what a mess the kitchen was until he bumped into a piece of rubbish with his shoe. He found the lights and switched them on.

He'd accidentally kicked an empty juice box that was lying on the floor. For one naïve moment, he thought that the splatters of liquid on the kitchen floor were apple juice, until he realised that apple juice wasn't that red.

His blood went cold.

"Eddie? Eddie?!" Church yelled, shoving open the door to the living room. There was blood in here too, a small trail of it leading all the way to a cupboard. A cupboard which used to belong to his mother. She mostly kept random knick-knacks in there. It had barely been opened since she died.

And in front of that cupboard, half-collapsed on the floor, was Church's father. Holding a broken beer bottle in one hand and thumping on the cupboard door with the other. He was making noises that sounded vaguely like words, but they might as well have been in a different language.

"Dad, what the fuck are—oh shit."

Church then saw the wound in his father's leg. A long, semi-deep gash that was the source of all the blood. A wave of different feels swooshed around in his stomach. Revulsion—oh god, that's a lot of blood—fear—oh, shit, how did that happen—relief—oh, thank God, Eddie isn't the one bleeding—

Eddie's voice interrupted his train of thought. It came from inside the cupboard.

"Leo?!"

He'd never heard Eddie so terrified.

"Unlosh... fuckin'... doorrr..." his father mumbled incoherently, thumping on the cupboard door.

"Dad, seriously, what the fuck?! What the... just... fuck!"

"Unlosh... doorrr! Little shit fuckin'..."

"Leo!" Eddie screamed. "He's gonna get me! I didn't mean... I was scared... I don't wanna... help!"

Church had no idea what the hell was going on. He only knew that Eddie was in trouble. So he did the first thing that came to mind. He reached out and shoved his father away from the cupboard. While his father was a much bigger man, he was ridiculously drunk and trying to stand on a wounded leg, so he toppled over easily.

"Dad! Stop it! Fuck off and leave Eddie alone, you drunk piece of—oh, whatever, like you'd listen..."

Church turned his back on his father, who was just flopping around on the floor like a dying fish, and went to see what kind of lock the cupboard had on it. Only to find that the cupboard wasn't locked at all.

He rested his forehead on the door for a moment, heart pounding. If his father had been sober enough to realise the cupboard hadn't been locked... what would have happened? What would he have done? Eddie might have gotten hurt. Or worse.

Casting a wary eye in his father's direction, Church quickly pulled open the door. Eddie was curled up inside between a few rolls of old gift wrap and some old photo albums. He was covered in blood and holding a knife.

His father immediately let out an angry, illegible yell and lunged, waving the bottle like it was a weapon. Church wrapped his arms around Eddie, shielding him from his father's view, and felt the bottle hit his shoulder. Not the broken part, but Church flipped out anyway, because that was too close to Eddie, too close to his little brother being filled with glass. He lashed out with a foot and kicked his father back, making sure he stayed down. And then he kicked the man once more, this time right in the face. He heard a nasty crunch and a shriek before the dad curled up, hands going to his face.

The moment the man was down, Church scooped Eddie up and fled the room. On that leg, and that drunk, Dad wasn't making it very far. At least not that night.

But what about tomorrow? Especially now that Church had just broken his fucking nose.

Once on the other side of the house, where they could only distantly hear Dad groaning and flopping around, Church put down Eddie and started checking him over for injuries.

"Shit. Shit, Eddie, what'd he do? What the fuck happened?" he muttered.

"I'm... I'm not hurt," Eddie mumbled. "He... I w-was staying in my room, like you... you told me to. But I... I got hungry. And I wanted a sammich and some... some apple juice. So I went out and... and then he saw me and he started shouting and waving his b-bottle at me and I thought h-he was going to hurt m-me... and I..." Eddie held up the knife for a moment before he broke into tears and started sobbing into Church's jacket. "I w-was really scared..."

“Shit. Okay, uh... okay." How was he meant to respond to Eddie basically admitting that he attacked their father with a knife? Then again, Church hadn't done much better.

It was only a matter of time before Dad got even worse. Something bad had always only been a bad mood away. Church felt stupid. He should have called social services when he had the chance. What would happen if he called them now? They wouldn't let him take care of Eddie. They wouldn't let them stay together. Not with their dad hobbling around with knife injuries and a broken nose. They didn't have injuries, what if their father claimed it had been unprovoked?

Church couldn't let him and Eddie be separated, but he couldn't let his father do this again. He had to stop Dad. He had to make sure he couldn't hurt Eddie, that he couldn't call them back, that he couldn't... that he couldn't do anything to them. Ever.

"Eddie. I'm going to need you to go to the bathroom, wash all the blood off, and then change clothes and put the icky clothes inside a plastic bag. Can you do that?" Church asked, his voice unnaturally calm given his thoughts. But one of them had to be calm. "And give me the knife, okay?"

"But... but what if Dad..."

"Dad won't hurt you. I'll make sure of it. Just go to the bathroom. Quickly."

Eddie swallowed nervously, handed the knife to Church and ran out of the room. Once Church heard the bathroom door close, he looked down at the knife in his hands for a few moments before walking back to the living room.

His father had apparently given up on climbing to his feet, and was just sitting there attempting to drink out of a broken bottle. Blood pouring from his nose and onto the floor. Relatively harmless to a nineteen-year-old holding a kitchen knife. Not so much to Eddie.

Church stared down at him. His father stared back blearily.

"Leonard?" he mumbled, sounding confused more than anything. Little anger despite the fact that Church had just kicked him in the face.

There never used to be anger. This house used to be an actual home. An actual family. Loving mother. Loving father. Thirteen-year-old Leonard. Happy. A little corny to think of it, but goddamn it was warm and sappy and it was awesome.

And then Eddie came along. His mother got pregnant and there were too many complications during birth... by the end of it, their little, idyllic family was reduced to one dead mother, one grieving, angry father and two kids with no-one to take care of them.

For the first couple of year's after his mother's death, Church kept hoping that eventually his father would come to his senses. That he would stop getting drunk. That he would start doing anything other than drinking and watching television in between his shifts. That he'd stop blaming Eddie for his mother's death. That they'd be a proper family.

But it never happened.

It never would.

"Sorry," Church muttered under his breath, before gripping his father's hair and yanking his head back, exposing the neck. This was met by some halfhearted resistance, but he was just too drunk to protest too much. Maybe because he hadn't realised what Church was doing.

Church kept holding his father's head back with one hand, and tightly gripped the knife with the other.

Do it.

Maybe there's a better—

Do it.

What if I just—

DO IT.

Church closed his eyes and, with one fast motion, sliced his father's throat out.

Blood sprayed all over Church's sleeve. Slashing out someone's throat was not only really messy, soaking the carpet in blood, but it also wasn't as instantaneous as Church had thought it would be. He let go of his father and stumbled back as the man's fingers scrambled at his throat, instinctively trying to stop the bleeding, and he continued to writhe around in his own blood. His eyes bulging, he stared up at Church and reached out with one bloodstained hand, mouth flapping uselessly but only gurgling sounds emerging.

Church didn't move until his father stopped writing around, and the outstretched arm flopped to the floor. When it was down to just the occasional twitch, Church tried to stand. Only to find out that his legs didn't want to hold.

He heard a small intake of breath behind him and saw Eddie hiding behind the doorframe, staring at the mess that Church had made.

"Ed... Eddie, I said you need to clean the blood off—" Church started shakily, sounding much less calm than a couple of minutes ago.

"Dad said... Dad said I was a murderer. He said I killed Mama... and I... now he is dead, too." Eddie blinked a few times before staring up at Church. "Did I kill Dad, too? Did I... make you have to do that?"

Church took a deep breath in. He was trying not to freak out, but taking a deep breath actually made it worse, because the coppery smell of blood was hanging in the air. What he had done was finally catching up to his mind.

"Oh god... oh god!" Church dropped the knife. "Oh god... oh dear fucking god, I killed him."

Eddie didn't say anything, he just reached out and clung to Church's jacket. After a few moments of silence, he started crying and buried his face in Church's jacket again. Only to shriek and let go because the jacket was soaked in blood.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry..." he sobbed.

"No... no. Don't listen to that... that..." Church swallowed nervously, before speaking again. "Finish washing and put on some fresh clothes, okay?"

Eddie looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. "Don't... I don't wanna be left alone!"

"You'll be safe. I promise. I just... need a moment to think.”

Eddie let go of his jacket and left the room, trying to keep as far away from his father's body as possible. Church listened to Eddie's footsteps, waiting for the sound of the door closing. As soon as he heard their bedroom door close, Church collapsed next to his father's body and started crying. Crying more than he had ever since his mother died.

What was he going to do? He didn't think it through. How was this going to solve anything? His dad couldn't hurt them anymore, that was true, but... If he says Eddie did it, they'd take him away. If he admitted it was him, they'd lock him up and Eddie would be taken away anyway. Even if he could convince the police that Dad was killed by someone else, would they let them stay together?

...What did he do now?

Church smacked the ground, tears streaming down his face. Trying to think of a solution, any solution...

After a while, Church stopped and wiped his eyes. He didn't want Eddie to see him like this. Didn't want Eddie to know he was just as scared. He had to be the tough one.

They could leave fast. Before anyone checked the house. No-one would be likely to check until Dad didn't turn up for work. There'd be time. But...

Church left the room, found a pair of gloves and a plastic bag before returning. Church picked up the knife while wearing the gloves, wiping the handle off to try and hide his fingerprints. He dropped the knife back in the puddle of blood. Church checked his father's pockets, finding his wallet. It didn't have much in it, but it would be enough to catch a train.

Church checked around for anything valuable before walking back to his and Eddie's room and dumping both the wallet and the bag he used while stealing on the bed. Then he went into the bathroom to find Eddie. He was still having trouble getting the blood off his hands.

"Come here."

Church picked Eddie up and sat him on the counter. Picking up a towel, he dampened the edge of it in the sink and started scraping the semi-dried blood off Eddie's hands and face. Eddie had still been crying, as was obvious from the streaks down the side of his face where the tears had stopped the blood from setting, but he seemed to calm down now that Church was taking care of him.

"Are they going to arrest me?" Eddie asked.

"No. Even if it was your fault, I wouldn't let them. They'd have to arrest me first." Church wiped the towel against the gaps between Eddie's fingers, making sure there wasn't a speck of blood left. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have left you alone."

"But—"

"What's done is done, Ed. It doesn't matter now. But it wasn't your fault, alright?" Once all the blood was gone, Church lifted Eddie and placed him back on the ground. "Okay, now change your clothes already. Make sure your clean clothes include a hoodie. Then wait in our room and I'll come get you."

Eddie nodded and left. Church washed the blood off himself as well, before rifling around the bathroom drawers until he found a razor. He quickly shaved off his goatee, not wanting there to be any facial features that were particularly noticeable. He'd had his goatee since he was fifteen, so nearly everyone who knew him recognised it. He would have done more to disguise himself, but they needed as much time to run as they could get. A shave and a hoodie would have to do.

Once Church had finished, he returned to their bedroom. Eddie was sitting on the bed wearing different clothes. Church changed clothes, too, and dumped all the bloody clothes inside a plastic bag. Then he bent down and tugged Eddie's hood over his head, adjusting the hoodie to make sure it was on properly.

"We're leaving, okay?" Church told him quietly. "We're going to travel as fast as possible. You're gonna have to be a big boy and try not to cry or panic. We can't talk to strangers. But we especially can't talk to people we know. We just have to get out of the state as fast as possible."

"Where... where are we going?" Eddie asked shakily.

"I don't fucking—I don't know. But somewhere safe. Somewhere we can stay together."

"Are we coming back?”

Church sighed as he finished adjusting Eddie's hoodie. "No. We're not."

"But we will still be together?"

"Eddie, there is nothing out there that will make me leave my little brother behind. Okay?" Church hugged Eddie tightly, and Eddie clung tightly back. "I... I promise we'll be okay. It'll be okay.”

He could only hope it was true.

Simmons

Eighteen-year-old Simmons sat in a chair at the family's dining table. Perfectly dusted, with a vase sitting in the middle. Filled with perfect daisies. Of course. But his parents weren't wearing their usual fake, overly cheerful smiles. That was amazing and slightly terrifying in itself.

Simmons' father was sitting across from him, looking more furious than Simmons had ever seen him. Simmons tried to recall seeing his father with any emotion other than bland happiness or disapproval. He couldn't. But he was certainly seeing it now. His father's face was actually red. His mother was standing in the corner of the kitchen, dabbing at her eyes with a perfectly embroidered handkerchief. Simmons wondered why she even had a handkerchief, seeing as he'd never seen her even catch a small cold before. Or cry, for that matter. His sister wasn't there. She had taken one look at her parents, muttered something about cheerleading practice and bolted out the door.

Part of Simmons, the part that still craved approval, curled up in fear and shame from these reactions. Meanwhile, the rebellious teenager in him was enjoying it. Provoking this sort of reaction meant his parents were actually paying attention.

"Dick. Explain what I just saw. If you tell me it wasn't what it looked like, I'll believe you and we'll forget this ever happened," his father said steadily, staring at him expectantly. Simmons tugged at his sleeves. He'd been waiting for this moment, and expecting it, for years. But it was difficult to look up. He glanced up occasionally before returning to gazing at his hands. His father was still bright red in the face, and his mother was still dabbing at her eyes, but this was a large improvement to their initial reaction. That had included a lot of screaming and, in his mother's case, fainting. They had behaved like they'd found him doing heroin or keeping hookers in the closet.

"I was, um... well, you saw. It was pretty much that." It was something of a relief to say even that halfhearted confession. To say something that his father considered imperfect that was actually heard rather than ignored. Confronted with the physical evidence as he had been, his father really had no choice in the matter.

"Don't say that to me, Dick."

"But it's true!"

His mother had started crying again. Simmons wanted to ask her to stop. Or yell it, really. Yes, he knew it was weird! That he was weird! He had received that message loud and clear!

But did they really have to act like he'd committed arson rather than kiss a guy? Even Simmons thought it was a bit of an overreaction.

He couldn't help it. Guys were more comfortable to be around. He at least understood guys on some level. He liked girls. Of course he liked girls. But they were also terrifying and he didn't know how to talk to them. He knew how to talk to guys, and by the time he figured out he was also attracted to them... Well, he hadn't wanted to stop it right then. He was young and horny, dammit.

God, he should have just stayed in his room with his computer. Computers didn't judge him. Except for the internet, but that was the internet.

He'd tried to test the reaction. Dropped a lot of 'hypothetically, if uh... if my sister also liked girls, because I'm totally straight of course, what would be your reaction?' The response had generally been an odd stare, a cough and a quick change of the subject. It hadn't boded well. That meant it was unthinkable enough that they wouldn't even discuss it.

It's not like he didn't wish he was normal. So he ignored it. But he wasn't going to say no to... god, any affection, really.

So when his friend/semi-boyfriend—this guy who knew his way around computers, who he'd looked up hacking shit with, eventually figuring out how to dox the asshole quarterback—asked to come around to his house to hang out, and subsequently tried to initiate kissing... well, he wasn't going to say no to that. Even if it was weird.

Naturally, it turned out to be a day his parents came home early. Murphy's Law was bullshit.

Simmons stared at the table as his parents lectured him on why homosexuality was wrong. He'd heard it before. The phrases they used were as cliche as everything else they did. Did anyone actually say 'it's Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve' any more without making fun of it? Though the 'wrong' and 'weird' descriptions seemed... pretty correct. Yes. He knows it's weird. He knows, goddammit.

"Why would you do something so... so... wrong?"

Simmons continued to stare at the table. Part of him was ashamed and embarrassed. The other half was pissed off. And said pissed-off side was slowly gathering steam the longer this went on.

"Shouldn't have kicked my friend out of the house. What happened to good hospitality?" he murmured under his breath.

"Don't be a smartass." His father stood up. "From now on, you come home straight from school. You do not bring people like him into the house. You leave your bedroom door open if you have a guy in there. You—“

"So I'm not allowed in the house?"

"I said—“

His mother raised her voice. "You know what? I haven't started cooking dinner yet! I think I better do that now!" She picked up some saucepans and started making as much noise as possible in an attempt to block out Simmons' words.

"Don't be a smartass. And don't do this again. Men cannot like other men, it violates nature. Would you leave your mother without grandchildren?"

"So what? You have another kid. Wouldn't she do a better job, anyway? She's never disappointed you," Simmons muttered bitterly. "She's the perfect, pretty cheerleading daughter who'll be the perfect domestic wife with no ambitions, and this family will continue to live in a 50's advertisement. And you... you can't forbid me from this."

"Don't tell me what I can and can't forbid, Dick."

"You might... you might as well forbid me from not having muscles, or forbid me from not resembling this family more. It's... it's just how I work, Dad, I'm sorry! I can't—I can't do all that perfect son stuff! I'm never going to be a footballer! I don't... I don't even look like you, it's like Mum—"

"Don't you dare imply anything about your mother!" his father roared. At the same time, Simmons' mother let out a short squeak, went pale and started clanging together the saucepans even more.

"Well, I couldn't think of another reason! But you... you could at least acknowledge that I'm not fucking perfect!"

"I am acknowledging it! I'm trying to fix it! It's for your own good, Dick!"

"...No. No, it isn't."

Simmons' mother kept rattling saucepans in an attempt to block out the argument, but it was no longer necessary. Both he and his father had run out of words. There was silence for a few long moments, apart from the clanging of kitchenware.

Simmons stared at his dad, who was a brighter red than Simmons had ever thought possible. He shut his eyes, opened them again and bitterly said, "Fuck this."

He got up and left the table, and went up to his room. He threw what he needed into a bag. It wasn't too much. And he left that night, because he was just sick of needing to be fixed. At least if he walked out and lived on his own he wouldn't look so broken in comparison to his perfect, near-robotic family.

He lasted two days on his own, hiding out at a friend's house, before thinking that maybe... just maybe... he'd been too rash about it.

Maybe they were right. Maybe he did need to be fixed. So he went back home.

When he tried to re-enter the house, mentally rehearsing a 'I'm sorry' speech, the locks had been changed.

That was a clear message. Guess they'd figured out that Simmons was too weird for them to shape into something that wouldn't embarrass the family.

Simmons thought about pounding on the door and yelling for forgiveness. But in the end, he just sat on the porch and cried for a bit before leaving. This time for good.

Tucker

Tucker could charm his way into anything when he was a kid. This was because children are adorable, and a particularly adorable kid can turn most adults into puddles of goo. Very profitable goo.

Once Tucker became a teenager... things changed.

Adults don't turn into puddles of goo over teenagers. They just suspect you of being a gang member. Especially when you're the black son of a drunken prostitute and all the best marks were old, white people. As well as being unable to con adults, Tucker couldn't con children any more. Well, that wasn't true. He could. But conning children when you're not a child is just wrong. Plus, most of the teenagers around his neighborhood were wise to him by now.

It became pretty clear to sixteen-year-old Tucker that if he was going to get anywhere with his cons, he'd have to stop winging it. He'd have to find new marks. He'd have to find somewhere where he had no prior reputation, where he could sculpt out an image for himself.

It was either that or get a job, but there were no fun jobs around.

It was time to leave. The conversation about him moving out had been quick.

"Hey, Ma? I'm going to move out."

"Okay, sweetie."

He was about seventy percent sure she'd been listening.

Tucker was sure his mother would be fine. As long as she didn't set the house on fire again, she could probably live on her own. She'd managed it before Tucker was old enough to cook. Of course, she'd probably been a little more sober back then...Tucker shook his head to try and clear thoughts of his mother out.

That was then. This is now. He couldn't have second thoughts. And if he became a great con-artist he could pay her enough so she wouldn't have to work as a hooker anymore, and the neighbours wouldn't turn their noses up. Nothing was ever going to change in that dump.

First off, Tucker had to stop winging it. So he needed to know more about conning than the little he'd learned from experience. And he figured, the best way to figure out that was to ask around in order to find the experts.

Of course, Tucker was mostly going on movies he had seen at this point, and so he'd come to the conclusion that a bar would be the best place. Digging for information enough, he'd managed to find a bar in one of the shadier sections of the city which was something of a meeting place for low-level criminals. Of course, he was underage. But fake ID wasn't really that hard to get hold of. If only the damn babyface would stop giving him away...

The bartender currently checking his ID wasn't fooled.

“If you're going to lie about your age, at least make it plausible,” she said. “What are you? Twelve?”

Tucker groaned and slumped slightly on the bar counter. "Fine, I'm sixteen. Can I stay if I just drink water? Can you at least not call the cops on me?"

"Call the cops on you? For a fake ID? Look, no-one really cares. Don't know if you noticed, but you're not in the most law-abiding section of town. You can stay. You want appletini without the tini?"

"Don't patronize me, lady. But okay. And yeah, I do know this is a bad area. I'm not stupid"

"And I know that you know." The bartender dumped a glass of apple juice (complete with little pink umbrella) in front of Tucker. "I heard about you. The black guy with teal clothes and severe babyface.”

“Babyface? From you, that's rich,” Tucker grumbled. The bartender had a very round, childish face that the short haircut only accentuated. The fact that she was dressed in formal clothing—black suit vest, matching pants, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up—did little to counter it.

“Ah, shush. Anyway, you're that newbie con who's been hanging around the area.”

“How'd you know?”

“You know who you're talking to? I know everything that goes on in these parts. And from what I heard, you're giving the other cons a bad name."

"Hey, I'm not a newbie con. I've been conning since I could talk," Tucker muttered. "What do you know?"

"So, why'd you come here if you didn't come to drink yourself under the table? Which is a bad idea around here around here because someone will steal your wallet, no exceptions. Just your wallet if you're lucky, your kidneys if you're not."

"Well... I just want to learn more about conning. Thought maybe if I watched other cons do that I'd learn something."

The bartender grinned. "Interested in learning, huh? I can respect that. Well, most con artists won't let you just follow them around while they do their thing. Now, there's some who might let you assist. Younger kids can be invaluable in the right situations, and that sort of thing will teach you real fast."

"Really..." Tucker poked the umbrella sticking out of his drink.

"Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I could tell you more about the con artists around here that may require help... but that information is classified."

"What is that, the codephrase for 'I'll only tell you more if you pay me money?'"

"Hey, if I go around handing out free tips I'll be out of a job in no time. Everyone'll expect it for free.”

Tucker rifled through his pockets. "I... have twenty bucks. That's it."

"Good enough." The bartender reached out and took the twenty bucks. "This information is still classified, so don't go around telling everyone who asks. If you do anything to betray fellow con artists, then the punishment is anything from us preventing you from ever pulling off another successful con, removing a limb or death. Depends on who you snitch on and the extent of it. Understand?"

"Yeah, I gotcha. ...How often is death required?"

"Not much. I try to avoid it when possible, but some of my friends are less lenient. Alright. Let me point out some of the regulars." The bartender put down the glass she'd been cleaning and leaned over the counter, lowering her voice a little and gesturing at a group of muscular men with blue hair in the corner. "Well, there's Smith and his friends. You ever want their help? Just offer them something mechanical, they have this weird obsession with technology. Find some kind of old computer and they'd probably trade you their kidneys. Hard to understand if you don't know the language, though."

"What language?"

"It's, uh... Sangheili, I think."

"Never heard of it. And what do you mean, you think?"

"They have a lot of odd dialects. Anyway."

The bartender gestured this time at a couple of guys who were sitting at a table, in debate about something.

"Those two are Jones and Joannes. They get mixed up on occasion. Joannes is American, Jones is British. All 'swimmy bevs,' whatever those are. Easiest way to tell. Decent cons. Not imaginative, but they get the job done when they have to. Although Jones has been in and out of prison a bit, so that doesn't speak well for his ability to not be caught."

The bartender pointed out a bald man with light blue eyes sitting by himself in the corner.

"That's Gary, although he's not in as much. I think he does work with some other group. Best liar I've ever met, but he's rather pathological about it so he's not trustworthy, even for a con artist. Also, he never shuts up with the knock-knock jokes."

Tucker nodded. "Right. No tells to figure out when he's lying?"

"I told you, he's the best. I've never even heard him project emotion into his voice. Yet somehow... he's just really good at lying, alright?"

"That's just stupid, if he has no emotion going on it's just like a machine is talking to you. What kind of con-artist are you, if you don't know that?"

"Don't patronize me... Lavernius? Is that your name?" The bartender raised the fake ID. "Or is this ID wrong in more areas than age?"

"I prefer Tucker. Lavernius is..."

"A terrible name?"

"Well, yeah. Hey, I want your name, too."

“You can call me Connecticut. C.T for short. Now, first off... don't talk to me like I don't know what I'm doing. I con, amongst other things. And if there's a number one rule around here, it's this. Don't get on my bad side or I will ruin you. You snitch me out? You're going to prison for just as long. I'll make sure of it. Got it, babyface?"

"I'm not a babyface! ...But sure. Just don't get all... evil and gangstery—"

"Gangstery isn't a word."

"—on me."

"But I'm fair. Stick on my good side? You'll do alright.” C.T tilted her head a little before gesturing at her eyes. “Lie to me.”

“What?”

“How old are you? Eyes up here.” She pointed at her eyes again. “Lie. How old are you?”

Tucker kept his gaze steady. “Twenty.”

“Height.”

“Six feet.”

“Penis length.”

“Barely an inch.”

“I said lie.”

“Fuck you.”

C.T laughed before returning to organizing glasses. “You keep a steady gaze, I'll give you that. More than most kids who come through here. I'll cut you a deal. I set you on the right track. Point you in the direction of some simpler cons, get some of the others to let you tag along. Maybe even teach you some stuff myself, if you're good at it. In return, I get a split of the profits."

"Deal."

Grif

Grif was eighteen now, and a legal adult. More importantly, if Grif could find a job and a home, he could be Sister's guardian. They could live together and be a proper family again, instead of traveling across the city to each other whenever possible.

The thing was that apartments were outside of his price range, at least on his own. And no-one wanted to go halfsies on an apartment with an eighteen-year-old and his fifteen-year-old sister. He'd had doors slammed in his face so many times. The fact that he smelled a little after sleeping in his junker of a car for the last three days didn't help.

This was the fifteenth home he'd checked. He'd called briefly the previous day to check whether it was still open, and it was. However, this time he'd failed to mention Sister. He was hoping he could play the pity card where that was concerned, although if a sleazy guy lived here he wouldn't risk it. Sister didn't need another STD.

He'd decided, for extra pity points, to bring Sister with him this time. He'd picked her up, and now they were in front of the apartment door.

Sister peeked around Grif, looking at the door as well."This is kinda exciting," she said cheerfully. “Living without any fake parents to complain about the pot smell.”

Grif rolled his eyes. "I told you, no more pot. Or anything else."

"You're a killjoy, Dex."

“Besides, we don't live here yet. You been practicing your 'sad, lonely orphan' face?”

“I'm all over that shit.”

Grif knocked three times and waited. After a long time of waiting, he knocked again. After a longer time of waiting, he knocked as loud as he could and yelled.

"Hey! You said we could check the place now!"

Grif heard some muffled grumbling, and after several long moments the door was pulled open. The man standing there—only three or four years older than Grif—looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. Mostly because he was still wearing maroon pyjamas and a bathrobe.

“Sorry, was working late. Overslept,” the man mumbled.

He looked past Grif at Sister, and with a loud squeak quickly wrapped his bathrobe tighter around himself. "Y-you didn't say you were bringing a... um, the advertisement said no girls."

"No, it didn't," Grif lied. He was hoping that was just a suggestion. “Can we come in and look around, anyway? You're already up and we've already seen your dorky bathrobe."

The man's ears had gone a bit red at the comment about his bathrobe. He looked at Sister again before looking down at his feet. After what looked like a vicious internal struggle he opened the door wider.

"I... I guess."

The tiny apartment was shabby, but it was very tidy. Everything was stacked neatly, and Grif could swear that the books on the shelf in the corner were alphabetized. Alphabetized! Who alphabetizes their books? Science fiction books at that. What a nerd.

"Uh... so, I never got a name?" Grif said, looking around. The man took a while to respond, presumably because he was still tired.

"Simmons."

"Okay. I'm Grif, that's Sister."

"...Her name is actually Sister?"

"Well, not really. That's just what everyone calls her for some reason. Man." Grif looked around again. "This place is freakishly clean. You some kind of nerdy neat freak?"

Simmons just glared tiredly at him before shuffling into the kitchen. Grif made to follow him, but then turned to Sister.

"Listen. I gotta pull the whole pity thing on this guy to get him to let us stay here. Can you stay in here, but look depressed or something? Just to help?" Grif whispered.

"Sure, no problem. I'm great at looking depressed," Sister whispered back cheerfully.

"Kickass."

Grif entered the tiny kitchen (which could barely fit both him and Simmons into it) to see Simmons feeling around for the coffee.

"You're not a morning person, are you?" Grif asked.

"No."

"Coffee pot is on your left."

"Huh? Oh. Thanks. Do you and your sister want coffee?"

"Sure. Cream and sugar for both." Grif tilted his head, looking at Simmons' coffee mugs. "Do your coffee mugs actually have binary code printed on them?"

"Shut up."

"I'm not making a great impression, am I?"

"No. You're not. I don't really care, I'm planning to spend most of my time away from you even if you do move in. I like privacy. But..." Simmons pointed in the direction of the living room. "I can't fit another person in here, there's only one spare bed. And I don't want a girl living here, it'd be... I mean... I'm not good with girls."

"We can share one bed, it's better than sleeping in a car. I actually prefer sofas, what with them being near the TV and all. But this is the only place at the moment that we can afford the rent for. Our mum left us a few years back, and we never knew our dad. Or dads, I can't remember if me and Sister have the same dad, our mum was very evasive on that subject... and we've been in the foster care system since Ma left."

"Don't try the whole sob story thing on me, okay?" Simmons told him. "I don't care.”

"Come on. How can you look at Sister and basically say 'you're going back on the streets?'" Grif gestured back at the living room. "Look."

Simmons glanced through the doorway. Sister was sitting on the sofa, staring at the wall. Occasionally, she would let out a slightly melodramatic sigh. Simmons looked back at the coffee cups. He was frowning to himself.

“Okay, but… seriously, melodrama aside, the foster shit was a thing. I can pay my half of the rent, no problem, I just need somewhere that me and Sister can live. No-one'll take us. I can't find a place, we have to keep living on our own. And I just want to stick with my family, alright?”

“...Hrm,” Simmons grunted. He looked like he was thinking about it, though. All the family fluff either really helped or just ruined it. Grif was hoping for the former, this time.

“Also, for the record, I'll try not to be an asshole.”

This time, Simmons let out a snort. “I'm getting the feeling you don't have a non-asshole mode.”

“Fuck you.”

Yeah, great start.

Simmons finished making coffee and handed Grif a mug. “Alright, uh… listen. If—IF—you end up staying here, I have ground rules. Don't make a mess. And stay out of my room at all times, whether I'm in there or not. I don't want to be bothered. I wouldn't look for a roommate at all if the rent weren't so high. And if… if she stays here… well, you deal with her. You set her up, because I just—“

“You're a wuss. I get it. But yeah, I can do that. Give me a little credit,” Grif said. He took a long drink of coffee before saying, “My only rule would be 'don't fuck my sister.' Or offer her drugs. Okay, like… I don't care that much about pot, whatever, at least she's not going to overdose on that, but nothing stronger.”

Simmons spluttered for a moment, before going, “Do I look like the kind of guy who smokes pot?”

“No. You look like you're such a nerdy straight-shooter that you wouldn't even J-walk for fear of getting arrested,” Grif said.

Simmons' ears went bright red. “Yeah. Right,” he mumbled quickly.

“Right, keeping off the asshole mode. Sorry. Anyway, as long as Sister's safe, I don't give a shit about anything else. But can we stay? Please?”

Simmons looked between Grif and where Sister was sitting and melodramatically sighing. After a moment, he let out an annoyed breath. “Goddammit.”

“That's a yes! That's totally a yes. Hey, Sister! This is our home now!” Grif yelled into the other room.

Sister immediately stopped her wistful sighing. "Woohoo! Let's raid the alcohol supply to celebrate!"

Simmons slapped his forehead. "Oh god... I'm regretting this already."

"No take-backs."

Caboose

"Guys, noooo... I have to go somewhere!"

Seventeen-year-old Caboose was trapped by a pile of six children who refused to climb off him. "Guys, I love being dogpiled normally, but if you don't get off me I won't have time to pick up ice-cream on my way back!"

"Ice-cream?"

"Yes, ice-cream. That kind that's three flavours?"

After a few moments of consideration, four of Caboose's younger sisters rolled off him. Enough to let him climb to his feet, even if there was still two four-year-olds holding onto him. Caboose's mother waded out of the kitchen. Drastically pregnant—seventeenth child on the way—and hair still in rollers, as usual. She was holding the phone.

"Mikey. Your dad is on the pho—"

Caboose grabbed the phone quickly. "Hey, dad. Yeah, sure. I'd love to talk. But, uh... phone is having problems. See?" He picked up an empty chip packet lying around and crinkled it near the receiver. "Too much static. Losing you. What a tragedy." He slammed the phone back on the receiver. "Guh."

"Mikey. Are you lying to your father again?" his mother asked sternly.

"Uh... kind of."

"Kind of?"

"Okay, completely. But I don't want to visit him... he always has strange women sleeping there. And I kept walking in on them... you know." Caboose went a little pink before mashing his fingers together. "Less said about that the better, but it was really gross."

Caboose's mother shook her head. "Oh god. Still, can you at least not hang up on him? He's trying to be a good father."

"Yeah. Because taking your son to a strip club is the perfect example of parenting," Caboose muttered. "I'm going to pick up Ella. Guys, let go of my arms!" Caboose shook his arms, which the four-year-olds were still clinging onto. "Come on, I have to pick up your older sister, let go. You're like cuddly leeches!"

"Michael, don't call your sisters leeches."

"I meant the good kind!”

Ten minutes later, Caboose was sitting behind the wheel of the old family truck, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along to some random country song from an old cassette his stepfather had. Their truck was so old it still took cassettes, not to mention it took a lot longer to pick up enough speed.

He tried to remember which store sold the cheapest ice-cream. He thought it was the place around the corner from school, but that store was also where his dad shopped. Caboose liked to minimize his chances of bumping into the man as much as possible.

As Caboose wondered if he should tell his father that he didn't want to talk to him, he was driving down a road that was usually quiet. The town was never very busy. Most people only passed by on their way to the city a few miles away.

That day, however...

Caboose heard a screech of tire wheels.

From then on, everything was a blur. All Caboose remembered was looking left and seeing a car speeding directly towards him, and trying to swerve and miss the car... which he did. He missed it, but he skidded right off the road and everything was bumpy and all he could see was the tree getting closer at an alarming speed—

Son of a—

And then... that was the last lucid thing he could remember. If you could call the panic of being about to hit a tree lucid.

After that...

There was just noise. Loud noise and the worst pain he'd ever felt, especially where his head had hit something really hard, probably the steering wheel but who really knew...

And then nothing.

Nothing but darkness. For a long time, it was just dark. Then it got brighter. Then the light faded and he was back in the dark again. This happened again and again.

Sometimes he couldn't hear, see or feel anything. At other times, he thought he could hear voices. Crying and yelling and people talking in professional voices. There were times when he could hear a woman's voice saying all these long words that Caboose didn't understand.

Sometimes he felt sharp, quick pains in his hands, and he tried to twitch and tell whoever was hurting him to stop. But he could never quite do it.

At one point, he felt like he was drowning. But without the water. Then things got distant and floaty, but then he felt like he was drowning again... and then that stopped, but his head hurt more than ever, and things got all dark again.

There was no way to judge time, because he kept slipping in and out of being aware of things... it was like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from...

Then things started getting brighter. And they stayed bright. They got so bright that his eyes started to hurt, and Caboose didn't want to open them. They felt heavy.

He realised there was something stuck in his arm. There was something stuck up his nose, too. Parts of him started to ache, or maybe they always had and he just hadn't noticed. His head felt the worst. It felt... heavy. No, that wasn't the right word... it felt like his thoughts were wading through sludge.

He did manage to open his eyes after a while. The things stuck in his arm and nose were tubes. The one in his arm was attached to a bag of liquid that was hanging from a pole. He could hear a steady beeping in the background.

Someone was adjusting the liquid bag. Caboose tried to turn his head to see them better, but that hurt so he stopped. He did hear them move, looking at him and waving their hand in front of his face, saying something that Caboose didn't quite understand.

Caboose thought he should probably say something back. But he couldn't remember how to form words. He just made a 'eeehhh' noise in response to whatever they were saying. They turned away from him for a few moments, muttering something under their breath, but then they turned back to him and started poking him again. It was kind of annoying...

Wait a second. Funny, bleeping machines. Lots of whiteness. People who were poking him. He was in a hospital... why did it take so long for him to figure out? The thoughts weren't that specific... it was really more a sense of comprehension and then confusion.

There were footsteps, and a large woman wearing a white coat walked in, holding a clipboard. Caboose guessed she was a doctor. It might have just been Caboose's pain-addled brain, but she was extremely pretty. Especially under the bright, hurty lights. Like a tall, bulky angel.

No. He couldn't think like that. That was what his dad would think. Again, not exact thoughts. Just feelings. Mixed with a sort of distant feeling, like he wasn't quite all there...

The pretty doctor said a few words that Caboose didn't understand. The words seemed familiar, but... He was starting to feel uneasy, as it finally dawned on him that there was something very wrong.

The pretty doctor said something to the other woman standing in the room, before directing her attention back to Caboose. She took a good look at his face, and frowned very slightly. She made a note on her clipboard before saying something. She made gestures to go with what she was saying this time. First she put her hands together with a sympathetic expression on her face, and then made a face like something was hurting her. Then she pointed at him.

What was she trying to say?

Caboose got his answer when the pretty doctor reached towards his hand and pressed hard on the fingernail base. It hurt, and Caboose jerked his hand back. He attempted to say 'ow, that hurt', but he wasn't really sure how, so what came out instead was a whine. The pretty doctor looked happier, for some reason.

So... she meant... 'sorry' and 'hurt'... 'sorry you are hurt?' Or 'sorry, but this will hurt?' Caboose thought it was the second one. Because that hurt.

She made another note, and then made more notes while the other woman continued poking him in various ways. Still very annoying.

After a while, the pretty doctor stopped making notes. She pointed at herself a few times. Kept repeating a word. Ph-something. It wasn't quite processing, and when Caboose tried saying it out loud he got stuck. She shook her head and pointed at herself again, using a different word. Easier to say, just two sounds. It was still hard to make the word come out.

"Sh... S-She. Lah." Caboose tried repeating the word. "She-lah. Sheila."

The pretty doctor smiled a little and nodded.

Caboose felt tired, and his eyes kept shutting. He tried keeping them open. He wanted to know why he was sitting in a hospital and not able to understand anyone. But he was very tired. The pretty doctor (was Sheila her name, or just a word she had said a lot?) held her hands together and rested her head on them, in a kind of sleeping gesture. Telling him to sleep?

But he couldn't sleep. He wanted to know what was wrong with him.

Staying awake was too difficult, though. Caboose ended up going to sleep without getting any answers. He probably wouldn't be able to understand them anyway.

Donut

“...Franklin.”

“Uhhh. Yes?” Donut tried not to sound nervous. He failed horribly. But Mama Liz only ever used his first name when she was suspicious or angry.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?”

“Fashion, Ma. Duh.”

“But they're too sensible for you. Your sunglasses are pink and ridiculously sparkly.”

“First off, my other sunglasses are not pink. They're more of a mauve colour, which is so... incredibly not pink. Secondly, sunglasses came back into fashion halfway through the day and these were the only ones nearby.”

Mama Liz frowned at him. “Take off the sunglasses.”

“Can't. Fashion.”

“Franklin.”

Donut sighed. After a few moments, he removed them. Showing off the black eye that was still rising. Liz immediately grabbed his face.

“Oh my god, who did that?”

“An asshole. Doesn't, uh... doesn't matter—“

“Did he get suspended? Or expelled? Or thrown off a cliff? He better have at least gotten suspend—“ Liz tailed off as Donut handed her the suspension slip. “Oh, that is ridiculous.”

“Um, yeah, I... might have... punched him first.”

“...Oh.” Liz frowned and looked at the slip. “...You punched him?”

“Yeah, well... he called me some stuff. Y'know... the f-word?”

“Like fucker or—“

“No, uh... y'know.”

“Oh. ...Ohh.”

“He punched me back, which... y'know, I guess is fair. Then we rolled around a bit.” Donut put the sunglasses back on. “Can I just... not tell Mama Julie?”

Liz gave him a look that said that she'd probably texted Donut's other mother already.

“...Alright, I get it. Can I just hide or run away, then?”

“Well, maybe I can head her off a little.” She gestured towards her room. “I've got some cover-up if you don't want the eye standing out as much.”

“Yeah, I'm not a fan of it. That shade of purple sucks. And it makes it look like I go around punching everyone. I'm not a gorilla.”

After getting him to sit down near her dressing table, as she retrieved some of the ridiculous amount of make-up she had stored away, she said, “This kid anyone I know? Because I will give his parents an earful.”

“No, that's okay.”

Mama Liz started brushing over the black eye. “Crumbcake, I… I mean, I understand why you punched that kid. I got bullied something awful at my old school. Not that word, they usually just said 'lesbian' but in the tone that makes it sound like they're saying 'thing I found on the bottom of my shoe,' but they used to vandalise my things and put bugs in my shoes. Kids—“

“Can be so cruel?”

“Well, I was going to say 'are assholes,' but that's about right. You can't go around punching them, though. I know it's tempting, but it'll get you into trouble.”

“I know...”

“So, next time this happens, just… I don't know, count to ten or something. I'll look up some methods for calming down fast.”

“...Okay.” Donut played with his fingers nervously, before saying, “Do you think I could bribe Mama Julie out of being mad with me using cake?”

“Probably not. But I think some baking would be good right now. That calms you down, right?”

“It does.”

Chapter Text

The shoe sucked.

It wasn't that the conditions were too bad. It wasn't far off from Donut's cell. Just emptier. A bed and a toilet. That was it. It was clean. Smelled less than his actual cell.

He considered it similar to being in the infirmary. Sure, the room was a lot smaller and Donut's leg wasn't covered in a lightish red cast decorated with a badly drawn naked lady this time. But it did come down to the same thing, really. Being stuck in one place without anything to do.

But being isolated like this was more maddening. At least in the infirmary Donut had occasionally had different people to talk to. Either Doc or whoever else was in the infirmary that day. In the shoe, he had no-one. At least not in the same room. Which Donut supposed was the point.

That wasn't to say he was completely alone, because the inmate across from him, DuFresne, kept talking. Usually asking questions about Donut. Most of them pretty normal questions, like how long he'd been in prison and what he thought of the living conditions... So, it was far from complete silence. And they weren't the only ones talking. Occasionally, he could hear the conversation of other isolated inmates.

It seemed like the other inmates had other ways of dealing with the isolation. The morning after Donut had been thrown in the shoe, he was woken up by people shouting their names.

“Tubbs!”

“Burke!”

“Dellario!”

"DuFresne? Are we roll-calling? What?" Donut asked sleepily, rolling to his food slot and seeing that his neighbour was already awake, staring through his food slot towards the source of the noise.

“Not officially. It's a silly, little tradition the other inmates have. Shout their names to prove to each other that they're not alone. Solidarity. Or something.”

“Oh.” Donut paused for a minute, then yelled, “Donut!”

There was a pause, before someone muttered, “What the fuck kind of name is that?”

Donut heard a quiet laugh from DuFresne. “Well, I suppose it works for some people.”

“You don't do it?”

“Shouting my name into the open wouldn't help at all.”

Donut nodded, trying to stretch out on the floor as much as he could. It was a difficult task, there was barely room enough for the cot.

"So, Donut. Over three months in here, hm? How are you coping so far?"

"Alright, I guess. I mean, the first week was totally scary. And painful. Mostly painful. I guess it's not as bad, now."

"Really, now."

"Well, I'm still not happy about being stuck here until I'm forty, minimum." Donut rested his chin on his folded arms, looking at DuFresne. "Hey, how long have you been in here?"

"Me? Three years."

"How long do you have left before parole?"

"Many years, my friend. Many, many years."

"How do you not go insane over that?

Even as Donut said this, he immediately wanted to backtrack. While DuFresne was friendly enough, Donut always got the feeling he was a little off. It was probably the occasional twitching and near-constant fidgeting. Even though he was only able to see a little bit of DuFresne through his food slot, he noticed that he was very jumpy.

DuFresne climbed to his feet and started pacing his cell again. Donut could only see his feet moving past the door.

"How? It's really quite easy. Prison isn't so bad once you get used to it. I just find things to entertain myself with."

"Like what?"

"Well, at the moment I'm talking to you. That's a lot more interesting than staring at the wall, isn't it? And I'm finding it quite amusing. In the nicest sense, of course.”

"What did you do?"

Tucker raised an eyebrow at Caboose, who was staring at him suspiciously. On the inside, he immediately started to panic. Angry Caboose. No Church to stop him, because Church had left to take a piss. Curse him and his tiny bladder.

"What do you mean?" Tucker asked calmly, making sure he didn't let his panic spill out.

"You had something to do with Twinkie being locked away. I know it."

"Oh come on, why are you always blaming me?" Tucker complained.

"Because bad things are always either your fault or O'Malley's fault. And O'Malley is in the wellington, so he could not have done it. So it must be your fault," Caboose said, confident in his own offbeat logic.

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Not everything is my fault, just because you don't like me."

It may have been indirectly his fault, but only a little bit. It was mostly Miller and his inability to tell which cell was which.

"I know this is your fault. I am not stupid, Tucker."

"Uh... actually, yes. You are." Tucker slowly shifted away from Caboose, just in case Caboose tried to strangle him again. He certainly looked like he was thinking about it.

"You are going to fix it," Caboose said slowly.

"Fix what?"

"Fix the problem. You got Dippin' Dots locked up. You will get him out."

"Hey, there is no way I'm gonna do that. Even if I could," Tucker told him. "There is no way I'm breaking him out of the shoe. He'd just end up back in there, anyway. Plus the fact that, you know... it's not fucking possible."

"But... but O'Malley is in there! That is a bad thing! O'Malley will hurt Coconut Cake, because he is a bad man!”

"Well. It sucks to be Donut, doesn't it?"

"Yes, Tucker. It does. Which is why you are going to fix it."

"I can't fucking fix it, didn't I already say that?"

"You can. It is your fault the screwdriver was in his cell. Admit it and they will let him out."

"But then they'll throw me in there," Tucker protested.

"I don't care." Reaching out, Caboose gripped the back of Tucker's collar again. He didn't pull it hard enough to choke him, but the message was clear. "You get Milkshake out. Or you are going to have a very bad fall."

"Come on, Caboose. I can't have something that bad written up on me! It'll go on my record, and the parole board won't let me out of here!"

He'd get separated from Junior for even longer. He might never see his kid without a sheet of glass in between them.

"You should have thought about that. But you did not, because you are stupid." Caboose let go of Tucker's collar and held up two fingers. "You have three days to decide, Tucker."

Normally, Tucker would have made fun of Caboose for getting the amount of fingers wrong. This time, he just stayed quiet.

O'Malley tapped his foot against the wall impatiently. He'd been feeding questions to Donut for hours, trying to find something he could use against him. He couldn't really get to Donut until he knew enough about the flaky pastry. All he had really been able to discern so far was that Donut was not looking forward to getting old and that he had a strong love of anything that smelt like lavender. The first fact had some potential, but how was he going to use the pastry's love of girly smells against him?

O'Malley, of course, couldn't ask anything too direct. If he was too obviously creepy and interested, Donut might figure out the truth. Granted, the pastry wasn't that smart... but still. Finding the right questions and comments was like edging through a minefield. And it was always so hard to concentrate when he was on the medication.

Speaking of which... medication time should be any minute now.

O'Malley's prediction was correct. It wasn't long before one of the guards, North, opened the door, pushing a trolley of trays along. "Food time, guys!" He slid Donut's tray through the food slot, receiving a quiet thank you, before unlocking O'Malley's cell.

O'Malley sat up on his cot, eyeing the little cup of colourful tablets that North was holding out. His medication was one of the three things he hated most, the other two being boredom and parrots. Normally, this would be the time when he would fight tooth and nail to try and avoid taking them, even though every time ended with the medicine shoved down his throat and a few more bruises.

But now the pastry was there, listening. If he kicked up a fuss, there was a higher chance North would give away his name...

Taking the medicine through free will went against everything O'Malley stood for. But it was the only way to keep up his little game.

O'Malley reached out for the cup of tablets and quietly tipped them into his mouth. A gulp of water later and he'd swallowed them. North blinked, visibly surprised at how easy it had been that time. He was used to struggling to get the medication into O'Malley, and his fingers were covered in scars from when O'Malley, or other inmates on the more insane side of things, had bitten him.

"Well, finally being more compliant, are you? Can't say I'm sad about it," North said, sliding O'Malley's food tray towards him before shutting the door on O'Malley. O'Malley let out a sigh of relief that North had forgone using his name.

"What are the pills for?" O'Malley heard Donut ask curiously. Donut had been watching through his food slot when the guard opened O'Malley's door. Perhaps curious to catch a glimpse of his 'neighbor.'

O'Malley sat down next to the food slot, picking up his dinner tray. "Just medicine. I have a kidney infection that needs treatment," he lied. In actual fact, he couldn't quite remember what the point of his medication was. He was sure it was some form of mind control, since he had more trouble thinking and focusing when he was on them. He did know Doc was quite insistent about the necessity.

"Oh. Okay. I thought they might have been crazy pills. Uhhh... I mean. Uh. That came out wrong," Donut babbled. "I didn't mean to say you were crazy... I was just... uh..."

"Quite alright. So, kid... you like the prison food? Rather be eating something else, I'd think."

"Oh, for sure... I mean, at least this isn't like the movies, like when they had gruel or bologna sandwiches..."

O'Malley settled back against the wall, eating his own dinner and trying to keep focus as Donut trailed off on a long talk about food, eventually digressing into crockpot recipes. O'Malley had to try and keep focus while he still could, before the latest dose of medication took full effect and made his head foggy again.

"Well... shit," Church muttered.

"I know... fucking bullshit." Tucker toyed with his dinner miserably, glaring at the instant mashed potatoes like they'd personally wronged him. "It's not like it's even my fault. How was I supposed to know the damn screwdriver would end up in Donut's cell? The fuck am I gonna do, now?"

Caboose had already finished his dinner and Church had told him to go back to his cell, mostly so he could figure out why Tucker had been making pointing gestures at Caboose's back followed by strangling gestures and oh-shit-I'm-going-to-die gestures.

"It'll be fine, I'll just tell him to quit it," Church said, waving his hand dismissively. "Caboose will listen to me."

"Will he? I don't know about that. He was really mad. He wasn't shouting or anything, but..."

"He'll listen. He better fucking listen, anyway."

"Well, if you are gonna talk to him, you better do it today. Caboose said three days, but he held up two fingers so he might mean two days. Dumbass." Tucker sighed. "If it doesn't work, then I have no idea what I'm gonna do. I can't get a write-up that bad!"

"Oh, stop whining," Church grumbled. "You're acting like your life is over."

"If it doesn't work, it might as well be. Fifteen more years in this place is bad enough."

"Hey. I don't even have a chance at parole. Stop bitching about fifteen years."

"You don't have a kid on the outside. You don't have anyone on the outside!" At the withering glare that Church gave him at this, Tucker coughed awkwardly and said, "Sorry. I'm freaking out, alright?"

"Yeah, well, you leave that out of it. Anyway, don't be such a drama queen. If talking to Caboose doesn't work, we'll just figure out another way. There's usually some kind of solution, even when everything is going to shit. Trust me on this." Church climbed to his feet. "Wait here, I don't think Caboose will be easy to reason with if you're there. Alright?”

"And then she was all 'but pink is so last year' and I was all 'it's not pink, it's lightish red! And it's so in!'"

By this point, O'Malley felt like hitting his head against the wall until he passed out. Anything to block out that damn pastry. Finally, he had met someone who rivalled him in the art of mental torture, even if the torture was completely unintentional. It hadn't even been a full day, but O'Malley was going even more mental than he already was.

And he had to keep listening, waiting for something useful. The pastry seemed to have a horrible fear of clashing colours, but decorating his cell in, say, purple and bright yellow checkered cloth didn't seem evil enough...

Oh god, he's still talking about the difference between pink and lightish red. This was worse than having to listen to Doc whine about people who made his life difficult, or Caboose babbling about his time in that hospital.

"I haven't seen her since I got locked up, though. Actually, I haven't really seen anyone. I guess stabbing my roommate freaked them out, but what was I supposed to do? Besides, even if they weren't freaked out they'd probably leave visiting until they had nothing else to do. And that isn't often."

O'Malley, who had been resting his forehead against the wall and wishing he had the power to blow people up with his mind so he wouldn't have to listen to this any more, shifted and sat on the floor so he could see through his food slot again.

"Have you made any friends in here, then? If you're going to not go mental in here..."

"I'll need friends, I know. I've been told that already. Yeah, Grif and Simmons are pretty good to hang around. Same with Caboose, once I mostly got over him breaking my leg. Oh crap, I mean..." Donut fumbled with his words for a moment. "Uh, did I say leg? I meant... breaking my, um, soap."

"Breaking your soap."

"Yeah. It was good soap. Smelt like lavender. Yeah, breaking my leg had nothing to do with... I just tripped."

"No offence, kid, but you're a horrible liar."

"Yeah... But don't tell the guards about that. Besides, Caboose is my protection, now. So he won't be breaking my leg again, I don't think."

"Aaah. Protection. Very costly," O'Malley said, resting his chin on his hands and gazing through the food slot. "How did you afford that so quickly?"

"Oh, I didn't pay with money. Me and Church made a deal."

"Really? What kind?"

"That? Top secret!" Donut stretched out on his floor, looking back. "I can't tell something like that, it would ruin the deal."

"Ah, I see. Fair enough."

O'Malley was curious as to what kind of deal Donut could have made with Church. It must have been done when they were in the infirmary, Donut wouldn't have had time beforehand. O'Malley knew better than to press for information. If he got pushy Donut might suspect something. But the phrasing Donut used made it clear that he was keeping something secret. Blackmail? O'Malley knew Church well, and Church wouldn't cave into just any old blackmail. It would have to be something big. O'Malley could think of one thing that might have worked, but Church wouldn't have given away that lightly. Perhaps it was something else.

If it was something that took place in the infirmary... perhaps Doc would know something about it.

O'Malley grinned and rested his head back against the wall. He could stand more of Donut's mind-numbing babbling, if Donut would occasionally let slip information like that. And the information Donut didn't immediately give away was interesting to ponder over.

Plus, he had a great excuse to visit the infirmary once he was released. Not that he needed one.

"Caboose, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Caboose paused, looking up from the book he'd borrowed from the library. "Um. Looking for pictures?"

"Not what I meant, so put the damn book down." Caboose pouted, but he obediently put the book down. "Need to have a word with you."

"Yay, talking time. You never want to have talking time any more, and best friends are supposed to talk lots! But we don't talk lots, because you are always plotting."

"Right, whatever." Church crossed his arms and glared at Caboose. "Why are you threatening Tucker?"

"He told you?"

"Yeah. Seriously, Caboose. What the fuck were you thinking? You don't fucking threaten your own side!"

"I am not on Tucker's side. Tucker is a hippo-kite," Caboose mumbled.

"Look, you're on my side, aren't you?"

"Yes. Because you are my best friend."

"That means you're on Tucker's side, too. Because we're supposed to be a goddamn team. Which means we're not supposed to be threatening to kill each other!"

"I never threatened to kill him... he is just going to fall over if he does not fix things."

"Don't even think about it. You hurt Tucker, and you are going to be in big, big trouble. Seriously. I will hurt you."

Caboose tilted his head. "Oh, I do not think that you could, Church. We are best friends, and best friends don't hurt each other. ...Also, I am much bigger."

Church groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll manage it somehow. But come on, you have to stop it. Okay?"

"No. Not until Tucker gets Caramel Tart out of the stiletto," Caboose said stubbornly.

"Jeez... what is so fucking great about Donut? He's a flaming douchebag!" Church shouted.

"Baked Alaska is on fire?!" Caboose asked, looking startled.

"Not what I meant! Goddammit, look, the screwdriver thing isn't just Tucker's fault. Miller is the one who put it there. Not Tucker. It was a fucking mix-up! It wasn't Tucker's goddamn fault, alright?"

"You are saying it was not Tucker?”

"Yeah, that's what I'm saying."

"I do not believe you. I think you are trying to cover up for Tucker."

"Oh, come on. Why would I cover up for Tucker?"

"Because he is your second-best friend for some reason. And I still want him to get Parfait out. Because Tucker is a mean hippo-kite and bad things are always his fault."

"God-fucking-dammit. Okay, look. If Donut gets released from the shoe in the next couple of days, will you promise to stop threatening Tucker? Regardless of how Donut gets released and whatever happens afterward?"

"I guess. But only if you ask nicely."

"Fuck it, that's the nicest I'm ever going to get. Okay, then. I'll make sure Donut gets out, just stop being a fucking jackass."

"Yay! Thank you, Church!"

"Hey, no hug, no hug!" Church shoved out his hands to prevent Caboose from hugging him. "Just... calm down, alright?”

"He says he'll stop trying to hurt you once Dye-Job is out of the shoe," Church told Tucker, shrugging.

"So, we're basically in the same fucking place as before you went to talk to him. Brilliant job, there," Tucker said sarcastically, still toying with his mashed potatoes.

"Shut up. I repeat. It's going to be fine, just stop being a fucking drama queen."

"How is it going to be fine? Why are you still saying that? I told you talking to him wouldn't do fucking anything, he's too thick-headed to listen!"

"Hey, he didn't say who had to get Dye-Job out of the shoe. As long as someone takes the fall, Caboose will lay off trying to hurt you. I'll try to find some proof that Miller put the screwdriver there."

"And if that fails? Which it probably will?"

"Easy. I'll tell them I did it," Church said, shrugging.

Tucker took a moment to process this, before staring at Church with wide eyes. "What the fuck? Don't be stupid, how is that better?"

"Tucker, I'm in here for life without parole. I've got nothing to lose. Besides... I was with you when you tried planting the screwdriver. It's not like it's a complete lie." Church sighed. "God, I hate the shoe, though. You're gonna owe me one after this shit."

"But what if they do find a punishment? Like, what if they transfer you or some shit?"

"That's unlikely. And I'm pretty sure Tex could stop that from happening." Church stretched his arms above his head. "Tomorrow we'll try and find a way to get Miller to admit to putting the screwdriver there. I don't want to go to the shoe unless there's no other choice. And I want to get some breakfast in first. The stuff in the shoe is usually cold.”

Tucker squinted, and waved his hand in front of Church's face. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with Church? You're supposed to be a selfish bastard. Why are you taking the fall?"

Church just shrugged. "Are you fucking complaining about it?"

"Well... no, but..."

"Then shut up and help me dig up shit on Miller. He is so gonna pay for this once I get out.”

"Hey, Grif! Come on!" Simmons entered Grif's cell. Grif had gone back in there as soon as lunch was over, rather than heading towards the yard. He was now huddled on his cot, wrapped in his thin blanket. "You going to sit here all day?"

"Yes. It's too cold outside. Fuck the cold," Grif muttered. Simmons sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Isn't it a bit early for you to be hitting your winter depression?"

"It's cold enough. And I can't dull the pain with pruno since they checked our cells. So fuck off."

"Wuss."

Grif grunted in reply. Apparently, the effort of saying 'fuck off' again was too much. He knew Simmons wouldn't leave, anyway. Simmons was used to Grif's foul mood when the weather was cold. It had been bad even outside prison, but once they'd been imprisoned his winter mood swings had gotten a hundred times worse.

Besides, Grif was more focused on something stuck to the wall. Simmons followed his gaze. It was a photo of Sister. Simmons scooted closer to Grif, looking at the photo too.

"You miss her, huh?"

"Fuck, of course I do," Grif muttered. "And I'm supposed to be out there protecting her. I don't know what she's doing without me there. And I can't even ask half the things I want to because the guards are always standing there and there's always a chance they'll overhear shit about her doing drugs or whatever. I can't do anything for her now."

Simmons wrapped one arm around Grif, resting his chin on Grif's blanketed shoulder. "Feeling some regrets?"

"If you're asking whether I regret murdering that bastard... no. Not really. I mean, I don't regret he's dead. But if I could turn back the clock before it happened... I'd make sure I didn't drop my fucking wallet near the corpse this time. God, how could I have been that stupid?"

"God, that was the dumbest shit you ever did. We'll go fix it once science invents a time machine. Then again, if one of us was going to buy a time machine in the future to prevent you from getting caught, then we wouldn't buy the time machine in the first place and the paradox would destroy the universe. Unless we're operating on multiverse theory."

"Nerd."

"Just don't think about it. Work on behaving well enough to get parole." Simmons chuckled halfheartedly. "Although asking you to behave is like asking a bird not to fly."

Grif rolled his eyes and smacked Simmons lightly across the head. "Very funny. Asshole.”

"If it makes you feel any better, I think that mess we left behind is a great warning to anyone who tries to hurt Sister."

A grin crossed Grif's face. "Oh yeah. Sister said that guys tend to be disturbed once she tells them about it."

"I'd say that's a success, then. Or at least not a complete failure. Even if dropping your wallet was the stupidest thing you could have done short of painting your name, face and address on the wall."

"Hey, don't think I know it. Worst mistake of my life," Grif grumbled.

"Mmhm."

"What about you? You regret it at all?"

Simmons snorted. "I regret not telling you to double-check your pockets. I regret that you got caught, and maybe I kinda wish that we hadn't got carried away. But I'd probably do it again. Now come on, get out of bed. You need some kind of exercise, that's for fucking sure." Simmons patted Grif's stomach, grinning, and earned another light smack.

"Shut up. Heh... besides.” Grif caught Simmons' wrist as he made to climb off the bed. “The only exercise I'd want to do takes place in the bed."

"Ugh, that doesn't count as exercise. I'm always the one doing the work!”

“So?”

“Also there's people always walking by.” Simmons' face went bright red just saying it.

“We're in prison, man. Unless we bribe the guards to throw us in the shoe together we're always surrounded. Besides, we've showered with these assholes.”

“I wear my underwear in the shower.”

“And that makes people stare more than when your dick's hanging out. Come on, it's not like it's the first time we've fucked here.” Grif rubbed Simmons' wrist. “I'll put effort in. Lots of up and down.”

“You're going to fall asleep halfway, aren't you?”

“I'll wait until we're done.”

Simmons eyes slid towards the corridor outside as he chewed his lip for a moment, still pink in the face. Then he shifted closer to Grif. “Five buck bet that you fall asleep before both of us finish.”

“Oh, you are fucking on.”

"Bow chika bow wow," Tucker announced.

"What are you on about now?" Church grumbled, hands jammed in his pockets as he stared out over the yard.

"I... I don't know. I get the feeling that two people are banging right now."

"Yeah... No one cares."

"Don't diss my instincts. Anyway... You sure you want to do this? You absolutely sure?"

"Yeah, I said I was sure."

"Absolutely?"

"Goddammit, Tucker, I said I was fucking sure. Don't make me staple your lips shut!"

"You don't have to shout..."

"Alright... when Dye-Job is sent out here, you're gonna have to explain to him that it's not completely our fault he ended up in the shoe. I don't want him blaming us too. Try to get to him before Caboose gets to him and insists everything was your fault."

"Will do."

"Alright. And try to find a way to get to Miller. I still want fucking vengeance when I get out. Or at least a way to keep him off our asses."

Tucker grinned and mock saluted him. "Yes, sir. Just keep piling the freaking orders on, why don't you."

"Fuck you.”

"So, if Caboose goes back on his word and attacks, what do I do?"

"He promised he wouldn't. He doesn't break promises because 'his mama told him not to.' You'll be fine."

"You know, I think his mother would have also said no to killing people, but that never stopped him. And easy for you to say, you've never been chased by the guy. It's like being chased by the fucking Terminator, but... you know, if the Terminator's mental capacities were run by a potato."

"Oh, you're worrying too much."

"Hey, you know how the saying goes. Better safe than having my head turned into a pancake. Or something."

Church rolled his eyes. "Seriously, it'll be fine. If not... then, I dunno, I owe you a soda or something."

"Great, Church. Great. That'll be a great comfort when my head is pancake-shaped. Seriously, thanks, that really brightened up the situation.”

Donut lay on his cot and stared up at the ceiling, reduced to counting the cracks in the ceiling to pass the time. He hadn't even been in the shoe for two full days, and he was already getting bored and frustrated. He felt like he was going to go stark raving mad any minute now.

He'd talked to DuFresne until he ran out of subjects to talk about. Donut couldn't recall that happening before. Then again, he hadn't ever spent so much time with nothing to do but talk. With occasional breaks for eating and sleeping.

Donut rolled off his cot and peered through his food slot. Even when they weren't talking (admittedly, Donut did most of the talking) Donut often saw DuFresne staring through it, or at least curled up next to it. At the moment, that was what he was doing.

Donut gazed at him for a moment before realising he still knew very little about his 'neighbour.' All he really knew was that DuFresne was a red-haired man with a kidney infection. That was hardly enough knowledge to have on someone one was acquaintances with.

"Hey, DuFresne? What did you do to get in here?" Donut asked curiously.

DuFresne had his back towards the food slot, and he didn't turn around. When he spoke, the tone suggested he had been napping on the floor.

"Hm? To get where?" DuFresne asked sleepily.

"I don't know... prison, I guess. Unless it's, like, a touchy subject or something."

There was a long pause, punctuated only by DuFresne yawning. "I got sent here for stealing a truck. Don't remember what it had in it."

"Really? A truck?"

"Would I lie?"

"Well... no offence, but you are in prison. And people get sent here for worse stuff than lying.”

"Fair logic."

"So, is the truck the only bad thing you did? Or were you, like, a regular stealer of trucks?"

"Are you interrogating me?"

"Noooo... I'm just curious. That and I'm really, really bored. And I talked for ages, but I didn't actually learn anything about you, so..."

"I'm afraid I'm not comfortable sharing the details of my criminal life with you."

"Okay. That's cool.”

To be truthful, O'Malley wouldn't have minded talking at length about his crime-based life. But talking too much about his actual criminal experience, rather than just making up some baloney about a truck (O'Malley had stolen a truck once, but that wasn't what he had been caught for) was too risky for his little game of 'pretending to be someone who isn't regularly referred to as a psychopath.' It was absolutely ridiculous, anyway. Psychopath wasn't a clinical term.

To be truthful, he was getting rather tired of listening to Donut. Not just because he was disturbingly good at mental torture, but because the pastry just wasn't as interesting to him as the other people on his list of favourite people to torture. Sure, the pastry had guts enough to smash him in the face, but other than that O'Malley wasn't that interested. Perhaps good for a little bit of torture and fun, but just not quite interesting enough to hold O'Malley's attention.

The hours of crockpot talk may have put him off.

Admittedly, O'Malley was easily distracted. It took someone 'special' to hold his attention, especially since Doc started monkeying about and giving him medication.

Still, the little charade was fun as far as entertainment in SHU went. And O'Malley had learned little pieces of information that might allow for better evil opportunities later. The other downside to trying to implement his games in isolation was that... well, it was hard to reach the victim when there were two doors separating them.

While O'Malley pondered, still half-asleep and his thought train somewhat scattered, he heard the door leading to the row of cells swing open and footsteps. It wasn't food time. It was a new arrival. O'Malley peered through his food slot and, upon sighting the new arrival, scooted quickly away from the food slot.

Church would recognise him right off, and even though the pastry didn't interest him as much any more, he still didn't want to give away his identity so soon.

Church was being led by York, who unfastened Donut's cell door and swung it open.

"On your feet, Donut. The guy who planted the screwdriver confessed, so you're allowed to go free. Well, not quite free... you still have to stay in prison, obviously. But free from SHU, anyway," York told him. O'Malley stared through his slot from a safe distance, although all he could see were pairs of feet.

"Really? I can... wait, Church left it there? Why'd you do that?" O'Malley heard Donut say. O'Malley heard Church mumble something unintelligible in reply.

"Come on, come on. No standing around, just get in your cell. Come on, Donut.”

"Oh, okay..." Donut's tone was completely befuddled, like he hadn't quite realised what was happening. O'Malley heard two pairs of footsteps walk away, before the door slammed shut.

Immediately, O'Malley spoke. "Taking the blame, are you? Quite uncharacteristic of you."

"Holy sh—oh, just my fucking luck," Church groaned. "Of all the people to be stuck near..."

"Yes, luck is just raining down upon you, isn't it?" O'Malley laughed, and rolled onto his back. He still kept staring through his food slot. "So... what happened in the infirmary?"

"...What?"

"What happened in the infirmary? I want to hear it in your own words, instead of the words of that flaky pastry. I do like to hear things from different perspectives."

O'Malley couldn't see Church's face, but he knew the expression would be hilarious. Even just imagining the expression, and hearing Church swear angrily, was enough to send O'Malley into full-blown manic laughter.

Donut didn't really pay attention as York prodded him towards the yard. It had only hit him, about halfway towards the yard, that he was actually out of the tiny cell. Out after... two days? It felt like at least two weeks... how did inmates survive weeks or months in there without going insane from boredom?

And Church had got him out. But Church had gotten him in there, too. Donut wasn't really sure what to think about that. Not to mention it seemed weird that Church would confess so easily. He had always seemed like... well, a selfish bastard. Plus, he and Donut were less than friendly. At best, they were grudging acquaintances.

York left as soon as they reached the yard, leaving Donut to look around for the others. He didn't see Grif and Simmons around, but he could see Caboose walking around in circles on the other side of the yard. Before Donut could walk towards him, a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back towards the doorway.

"I need to talk to you," Tucker said, a distinctively grumpy tone in his voice.

"Uh... okay."

Tucker dragged him just out of sight of the yard before speaking again.

"Church didn't do it."

"Huh?"

"The fucking screwdriver being planted. It wasn't Church that left it there. It was Miller, or one of his friends, or something. We think he mixed up Church's cell with yours. So, don't go blaming Church. Or me, for that matter, whatever Caboose might say..."

"Oh. So, it wasn't you or Church?"

"No. That's what I just said, Dye-Job. Jeez."

"Can you please stop calling me Dye-Job?"

"It making you uncomfortable? Then I'm going to do it even more often."

"You're a dick. So..." Donut crossed his arms. "How do you know it was Miller, then?"

"Uh... well, we may have left the screwdriver in his cell, originally. That didn't turn out so well. Look. I still really, really hate you. You're a douchebag with stupid hair..."

"Rude."

"But I have to tell you this crap for two reasons." Tucker held up one finger. "First off, so you don't try to get us back for something we didn't do. You'd probably be unsuccessful if you tried, but no taking chances. And I don't need more face scars." Tucker held up a second finger. "And secondly... I'm gonna need your help."

"My help?”

"Yeah. See, me and Church want to get Miller off our backs. Thing is... he's wise to us. I can't get information from him and his friends, not after Jones. And neither can Church. Doesn't trust either of us."

"Well, you were leaving screwdrivers in his cell. I wouldn't trust you, either," Donut interrupted. "And didn't you talk his friend into suicide? I mean, that's seriously fucked up! I'd want to hurt you, too!”

“It was an accident!”

“How can that be an accident?!”

“Shut up and listen. Now, you're still a pretty new fish. And even though you hang around us a bit, Miller probably won't think of you as one of us. Especially if you tell him you blackmailed Church into giving you protection in the first place. You earn his trust, and try to find something... anything... we can use against him."

Donut still had his arms crossed, and he tapped his foot against the ground a few times in thought, before saying, "Why should I?"

"What?"

"Why should I help? I barely know who Miller is, and even if he did leave a screwdriver in my cell, I don't really want to go up against him."

"You gotta be fucking joking. Don't be a sissy, you're helping with this."

"I don't want to."

"Don't care. You're helping. You owe Church for getting you out of there, don't you? He didn't have to, and he definitely didn't want to."

Donut frowned at that. It was true. He'd still be rotting in that cell if Church hadn't confessed.

"If he didn't want to or have to, why did he?"

"Because he's a fucking idiot, now you gonna agree with me or not?"

Donut considered for a few more long moments before nodding. "Okay. As long as I don't have to do anything violent, I'll do it. But only because I owe him.”

“Good. Better to get owed shit out of the way early, anyway, that stuff'll fuck you up.”

"You're a fucking idiot."

O'Malley grinned through his food slot at Church. "Oh, am I?"

"I know that fucking tactic, O'Malley. 'Pretend you already know something so the other person will spill.' You used to do that all the fucking time. You learned it from Gary. Fuck, I learned it from Gary. Do you really think I'd fall for it?"

"Yes, we do know each other rather well, don't we? You'd know that I intend to find out through other sources if I can't get it out from your own mouth, then? It would be so much simpler for all involved if you just told me."

Church gave him the finger through his own food slot before dropping onto his cot.

"Oh, so defiant," Church could hear O'Malley purr. "But really, how would you prevent me from finding out? I'll be leaving the shoe before you do. And, thanks to our flaky friend, I know whatever happened occurred in the infirmary. Do you really think Doc can keep a secret?"

"Hah. Joke's on you, Doc doesn't know shit.”

"Really? Hm. Oh, I'll have to figure out another method, then. But rest assured, I will find out." Church heard O'Malley climb to his feet and start pacing around his cell. Jumpy bastard.

Eventually, he heard O'Malley stop pacing. And heard him start talking again. It took a lot to make O'Malley shut up when he was on a roll.

"What incident could occur that would make you cave into blackmail... there are very few options, after all. You're in here for life, so it couldn't be anything to do with criminal activities... hm, that strips out almost everything." The footsteps resumed. "What scares you, then. Did he threaten to tell your little secrets? No... no, that's not right. You wouldn't spill that so easily." Church tried blocking his ears with his deflated pillow."Something that could be used against you... what do people often use against others? Hm, family members. No, again, you wouldn't say anything about little Eddie. Old friends? All you had was your little criminal ring, and you don't know where they are, either. Aside from myself, that is."

Church could still hear O'Malley clearly, despite his attempts to block his ears.

"Loved ones? Old loves? No, everyone knows about you and dear Tex, no-one better than myself... ah, so a new love. Oooh, that would be something you'd want to hide."

"Shut up already, would you?" Church roared.

"Oh, I hit the nail on the head, didn't I?"

"No fucking way, that's the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard."

"So you might think. But... ah, now that I think about it. The signs are there. First off, you're in denial. I believe the same thing happened with Tex. 'I ain't in love, that shit is for girls, so shut the fuck up.' I know, I was there. Eavesdropping, but definitely there."

"Oh god, shut up."

"You're getting defensive. Admittedly, that's very common, but... and all this links somehow to the infirmary..." O'Malley paused for a few seconds, then cracked up laughing again. "I never thought you'd swing that way. You crushing on an inmate?"

That was ridiculous. Church wasn't crushing on anyone. He might have been a little clingy to Donut when he thought he was Tucker, but he was hallucinating and distressed at the time. He was definitely not crushing on Tucker. He was just confused. The stupid painkillers filled with liquid gay hadn't worn off.

The last thing Church needed was O'Malley thinking that Tucker... mattered.

...Wait. He couldn't be thinking of Tucker if he was thinking about the infirmary. He'd be thinking of...

"I must say, I never thought that girly pastries would be your sort," O'Malley laughed.

"What."

"Ah, things make so much sense, now. I was wondering why you would confess to a crime, it seemed very out-of-character for you. But, of course... To get your pastry out. And that's why you were getting that gorilla to protect him." O'Malley giggled happily. "You did spend a rather long time in the infirmary together. Just the two of you alone at night.”

"Seriously? What are you on?"

"Hm... I can think of some people who might be eager to use this knowledge against you. After all, you're Church. The stone-cold bastard. You can't be blackmailed or threatened, because you just don't care enough about everything... of course, you'd want to keep any, uh... attachments quiet."

O'Malley had hit the nail on the head, but he was hammering on a completely different roof.

"You always did make getting attached much more complicated than it had to be. Just look at Tex."

"Shut up about Tex."

"I'm just warning you, as a former 'ally.' Falling in love never works out for you, does it? After all, where would you be now if you'd never fallen for Tex? You might still be out there, running your criminal ring. You'd still be the Alpha. You'd still have Epsilon..."

"Fuck off!" Church snarled, trying to clasp the pillow over his ears. He considered cutting his ears off so he wouldn't have to listen to O'Malley any more. Then he remembered he didn't have any sharp objects.

O'Malley started laughing again. "Oh, do you think I'd do that? We haven't had a long talk in so long. This is going to be fun.”

"Tiramisu!"

Once again, Donut felt like he had been hit by a truck.

"Can't... breathe..." Donut choked out, trying to pry Caboose off him.

"You are safe! That means O'Malley did not get you, and that is good!" Caboose babbled happily, still not letting go of Donut. "And that also means Tucker did the better thing for once, which is also good. Because Tucker usually does the bad things."

"Can't... feel toes..."

"Can't feel your toes?" Caboose stopped hugging Donut, looking at him with concern. "Your face is kind of blue."

Donut made a wheezy noise, trying to catch his breath. After several seconds of nothing but wheezy breathing, Donut managed to ask, "What did Tucker have to do with it?"

"Oh, well... I told Tucker that if he did not tell the guards that he put the screwdriver in your cell, then he would have a bad fall. So, he did a good thing with trading places, even if I sort of made him."

"What? But he didn't, he's right over there. Church was the one that traded places."

Caboose was quiet for a few moments. "What?"

"Church traded places. Not Tucker."

Caboose opened and shut his mouth soundlessly a few times, before turning and starting to walk towards Tucker, very slowly.

"Uhhh. Caboose? What are you doing?" Donut asked hesitantly.

"Tucker did not do his part of the deal. I owe him a bad fall."

"No, no, no. No, don't do that." Donut tried tugging Caboose back, but Caboose kept walking. Even from the other side of the courtyard, Tucker had spotted them. Donut (who had been picked on by bullies a lot when he was younger and knew the feeling of them walking towards you just before they opened a can of whoop-ass) noticed him tensing up, like he was about to run for it. Donut got a tight hold of Caboose's arm and tried to hold him back, but all this accomplished was dragging him along behind Caboose, his shoes scraping over the concrete.

"I cannot use my arm if you are holding onto it."

"That's kind of the point! Come on, can't you find a peaceful solution?" Donut begged. "No more violence, okay?"

"But he got Church in trouble now... Tucker! Stay where you are, it is hard to walk fast with Cupcake holding onto my arm!”

Tucker still looked like he was considering running, but he didn't move. Though whether he was trying to be brave enough to stand his ground or was just unable to move out of fear, Donut had no clue.

"Come on, Caboose. Tucker didn't do anything, why are you so angry about this?"

"Let go, please?" Caboose tried tugging his arm away from Donut, but Donut clung on. Even though it felt like being attached to a paint shaker.

"It wasn't my fault, Caboose," Tucker said nervously, taking a step back as Caboose got closer. "It was Church's idea, he insisted on it."

Caboose tried to raise his arm, but Donut was still holding onto it. He pouted angrily, before remembering he had another arm. He reached towards Tucker, but Tucker stepped out of his reach, and Caboose was having trouble moving forward because of Donut.

"I told you that you had to get him out. Not Church. You. Because it was your fault. Stop moving away!"

"Oh yeah, stop moving away. Why, so then you can crush my head in and blame it on me 'falling over?' I'm not as stupid as you are!" Tucker took another step backwards. "You promised Church you wouldn't hurt me if Donut was released."

"But..."

"You promised that you would, regardless of how Donut got out. Don't you remember?"

Caboose stopped trying to move towards Tucker, frowning. "...Yeah, but..."

"Come on, hurting people won't solve anything. There's always better ways," Donut insisted.

"Hurting people is quicker," Caboose mumbled.

"But it's not right. Come on."

After several seconds of silence, Caboose lowered his arms. Once Donut let go of him, Caboose turned around and walked away from both Donut and Tucker, back towards the building.

"Jeeeeesus," Tucker sighed. "He scares me, sometimes. One day, I think he really is going to kill me."

Donut breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, he won't today. That's something. Why does he hate you so much?"

"Wish I knew. I mean, we met very briefly on the outside once. But only once, and even though he gave me a black eye I don't think he even remembers it. That was six or seven years ago."

"Why'd he give you a black eye?"

"Er... I slept with two of his sisters. ...Don't give me that look, it was an accident.”

"How do you accidentally sleep with two sisters? Did you trip and fall into her? And out of her? And into her again?"

"Heh. You know, that's exactly what C.T said when I told her? Weird."

There were many things that Sarge hated, most of all those 'dirty Blues.' Sarge had to hate something, or else all the hateful energy would just make him explode. The Blues were just as good as anything. Better, even. And Sarge especially hated Captain Flowers and his ridiculous braided buns. Although he had to grudgingly admit the man was a good captain of the guard. Amazing aim. No-one had escaped from the prison, even for a little while, since Flowers had been appointed captain of the guard.

But it was at times like this, when Flowers insisted on eating lunch in Sarge's office as an expression of 'comradeship,' that Sarge wished the man would shoot himself in the head.

"Oh, you're too high-strung, Sarge," Flowers said cheerfully, sitting on Sarge's desk due to lack of chairs and eating organic bread. Eating sissy-food on his desk. The nerve of that yellow-bellied scoundrel.

"High-strung? Of course! What good would it be if I was on low strings? Then I'd be susceptible to you and your evil plots!" Sarge shouted between bites of his own sandwich. "Don't think I don't know. You and your dirty Blues are plotting behind my back. Planting rusty weapons of destruction in the cells of Reds... dirty bastards..."

Flowers chewed slowly on his bread before answering. "Yeah... those silly rascals."

"Trying to whittle down my team, are you?"

"Oh, that wouldn't be any fun. It would be quite unsporting. Besides, no offence to your team, but it isn't exactly the most efficient in a match of soccer."

Before Sarge could continue his argument, the phone sitting on his desk rang. Sarge picked it up, knowing full-well it was probably his wife.

"Hello? ...No, dear, I can't pick up dinner. I'm workin' late tonight. ...what do you take me for? I ain't no dirty lying Blue." Flowers stopped eating to listen. "Oh, that was one time! I lie one time about work and suddenly I'm a... oh, harsh. Give me a mo—I said give me a moment!" Sarge put his hand over the speaker. "Dammit, I wanted to go out drinking with the men."

"I'm not lying on your behalf again," Flowers said calmly. "Last time she caught us drinking was quite terrifying."

"Bullhonky. You're acting like my wife is the human equivalent of a... chupathingy."

"Chupacabra? I never said that."

"You were thinking it. Don't you insult my lady's honour."

"If I remember right, you were the one that just compared her to a mythological swamp monster."

"Don't judge me, Blue." Sarge uncovered the mouthpiece. "Sorry, dear, one of the guards just... oh? Oh... you heard that... now, I meant 'mythological swamp monster' in it's most positive sense! ...Of course, why would I want a frail little fairy for a wife? Swamp monsters are much tougher. No, I didn't mean to... oh, son of a... she hung up on me!"

"You have my sympathy."

"Oh, can it." Sarge dropped the phone on the receiver and returned to his sandwich. "She's going to get me for that... I'll be finding blue cheese in my sandwiches for the next month." Flowers chuckled, and Sarge tossed one of the pencils lying on his desk at him in retaliation, grumbling about his enemies mocking him.

Donut found Caboose in his cell, going through his footlocker.

"Hey, Caboose. What're you doing?" Donut asked, standing in the doorway. He noticed that the smell of rotting pigeon, while still there, had lessened considerably. Caboose didn't answer right away, but after a few seconds he pulled out a book. The same book that Caboose had borrowed the day that Donut got thrown into the shoe. Caboose held it out expectantly.

"You said you would read to me. Can you?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet.

Donut scratched his head, and smiled sheepishly. "I did say that... alright. Right now?"

"Yay!" Caboose jumped onto his cot, picking up the pillow and hugging it to his chest while Donut sat down on the end of his cot, opening the book. "Story time! I have not had story time for years!"

"When was the last time?" Donut asked, flicking through the book quickly to see if the book was a happy one or not.

"Uhm..." Caboose paused for several seconds, counting his fingers. "Three years. I think. Church said I have been here for two, last time I asked him. And it was... before that. I might be wrong. I can't count very good."

Donut flicked through the book, and even just skimming it realised it was a rather dark, violent book. Probably not suitable for Caboose. It'd be like reading particularly spooky Stephen King to a five-year-old. Donut flicked back to chapter one, and decided to just make his own happier story up. How hard could it be?

"Alright. This book is called... 'The Awesome Magician Who Had Fabulously Happy Times.'"

"I like that title."

"Awesome.”

The problem was that making up stories was difficult. Donut was already drawing a blank, and he'd only come up with the title. He considered just repeating his Harry Potter fanfiction, but there was some content in that which would be even less suitable for Caboose than the original book he was avoiding reading. Mostly because of the numerous smutty chapters. Donut didn't want to have to explain what all the euphemisms meant (even if they were all just different words for dick, it still didn't seem a valid way of building up Caboose's vocabulary.)

"Okay, um... once upon a time..." Donut started.

"On a dark and stormy night?"

"Sure, why not. There was an awesome wizard. And he lived in the kingdom of..." Donut paused, eyes trailing around the room. Most of what he saw was grey bricks and stone. "The Kingdom Of Grey Stones."

"I bet it's a very grey kingdom," Caboose said seriously.

"Oh, yeah. And it was ruled by a king..." Maybe because he had just indirectly named the kingdom after the prison, an image of Church immediately came to mind. Only in very fancy royal regalia, albeit with the same pissed off expression Church always wore.

Suppressing a grin at the mental image, Donut added, "The king was always grumpy and angry at everybody, and he ruled his kingdom with an iron fist and a lot of swearing. He had an advisor with a tongue of silver."

This time, a mental image of Tucker appeared, clothed in the cloak and dark velvet outfit that all mysterious, silver-tongued advisors wore.

"He was a sneaky advisor. Friendly on the outside, but kind of a jerk who would talk his way out of having to do anything substantial whenever possible. And they were backed up by a knight."

The inspiration for the next 'character' was easy, since he was sitting in front of Donut holding a pillow.

"A knight who was feared for his strength... if not a little on the clueless side. And these three were untouchable by most of the kingdom. But there was a crazy jester who would not let that be."

Donut couldn't quite picture the jester. He still didn't know what O'Malley looked like.

"The jester was a malicious but mysterious man, who always wore a mask so no-one ever saw his face. By the time someone saw his face, it was far too late."

Caboose hugged the pillow tighter. "He sounds scary!"

"He was scary. Very much so." Donut tapped his foot against the floor thoughtfully. "Alright... so, one day... the crazy jester decided to get revenge on the king because... the reason wasn't known, it might have just been because the jester was absolutely insane. So, he forced the wizard into helping him by luring the knight away from the king's side. The wizard distracted the knight with pige—um, peacocks. Magic peacocks. And while he distracted the knight with magic peacocks, the jester attacked the king."

Donut didn't even quite realise that he was recounting exactly what had happened a few months ago, albeit with medieval characters instead of the people he knew, until he realised he had nearly started talking about when they had fed pigeons. Donut had indirectly just told Caboose that he really did lure him away on purpose that day.

Caboose rested his chin on his pillow. "Why did the wizard do that? If he was really an awesome wizard, he would have magicked away the mean jester. Or got the magic peacocks to eat his face."

"Well... uh... the jester was magical, too. And the wizard, though awesome... well, he wasn't always smart." Donut sheepishly grinned and shrugged. "So, you want me to keep reading or not?"

"Yes."

"Alright. So, the jester and his accomplice attacked the king with scr—daggers. Magic daggers."

"Magic daggers are much better than non-magic daggers. Magic ones are shinier.'

"Chuuuuurch. Chuuuuuuuurch."

Church twitched angrily, trying to block his ears using his pillow. O'Malley had been basically repeating Church's name for hours upon hours, apart from the times he would get distracted by random insects wandering into his cell. At which point, Church would just hear giggling for a while as O'Malley caught the bugs and mutilated them, generally by ripping off some of their legs and watching them try to walk around. Or by ripping off just one of their wings. But that never lasted long. There was only so long O'Malley could be amused with tearing the legs or wings off an insect.

"Church. Church. Chuuuuuurch."

Church would almost drift off to sleep before O'Malley would start calling again. Just over and over and over...

"Fucking douchebag," Church muttered under his breath.

"Oh, now that isn't very nice. If you would just answer the first time, instead of the five-hundredth time... I don't know what people keep seeing in you that's so attractive, you're the most crabby person I've ever met."

Church ignored him. Not that this deterred O'Malley from talking.

"Now, I can see what you saw in the pastry... in a physical sense, at least. He's admittedly rather pretty. I do commend your taste. Of course, the personality is a little too sugary for my liking. Should have acquired a croissant instead of a meringue."

Church rolled his eyes. If it had been anyone else but O'Malley, he probably would have continued arguing that he didn't like Donut. Hell, he hated Donut. Little fuckstick. Perhaps the hatred wasn't as strong as it was a couple of months ago, and he didn't hate Donut as much as Tucker did (which was odd, considering Church had more reason to hate Donut.) But at the very least, he still disliked the guy.

But arguing was pointless. O'Malley would just take it as denial.

"Quite a pity, really. And I never got to have enough fun with that pastry. Every time I wanted to, something came up. First I needed him for my plotting, and then he headbutted me last time... my nose still hurts from that little incident.”

There was another reason Church didn't try to correct O'Malley. Because O'Malley often used people that were important to his victims as leverage. O'Malley had never targeted Tucker before. Not intentionally. As far as he knew, Tucker was just a tool in Church's arsenal.

If he were to find out it was Tucker, not Donut, who mattered to Church... in an entirely straight way... if he were to figure out that Tucker was more than a lackey, then that's who he'd target. O'Malley would happily target Tucker to get to Church, because he was a sick bastard and knew it would hurt the most. And that there was nothing else he could do to him.

"Of course, he does trust me now... even if he thinks I'm someone else... perhaps it would be easier to corner him in a dark room without any distractions like that ape. Ah, the possibilities. If only my screwdriver hadn't been misplaced again, I really do owe him a slashing... Although I wouldn't want to ruin his pretty looks."

Better he think Church was into Donut. Church could deal with O'Malley hurting Donut. But not Tucker. Church couldn't let him touch Tucker.

Not that he cared that much.

"And so, an epic fight was planned against the dragons who had framed the wizard and gotten the king locked away in the dungeons. An epic fight with jetpacks! Because you need jetpacks when you fight really tall dragons, or else you wouldn't be able to reach high enough to chop of their heads," Donut insisted, shutting the book. He hoped Caboose hadn't noticed that Donut hadn't turned a single page during his reading.

"And then what happened?"

"Hey, you don't want to spoil the entire book, do you? We still got... well, years of being stuck in here. We have a really long time to read books, you don't want to finish them all in a day."

In actual fact, Donut had no idea what he was going to say next. He had just explained his entire time in prison thus far, though in obscure terms. But he'd reached the end of that. What was he going to say now? Probably something to do with epic fights of wizard on a jetpack versus evil dragons.

"Donut! That you?" Donut heard Simmons shout from a few cells down.

"Yes!"

"Thought you were in the shoe."

From where Donut was sitting, he could just see Simmons exit Grif's cell. He was combing his fingers through his unusually messy hair, trying to tidy it up, and was slightly pink in the face. Simmons stopped in front of Caboose's cell, looking at the book Donut was holding. He raised an eyebrow.

"That book? You sure that's suitable?"

"I liked it. It had jetpacks in it," Caboose said mildly.

Simmons looked at Donut, who mouthed 'I'll explain later' at him.

"...Uh. Yeah. The jetpacks were great. Apparently," he said. "How'd you get out of the shoe? Someone admit to planting the screwdriver?"

"Well... kind of. It's a little weird.”

"Explain over dinner or something, then."

"Oh god, I can't wait for that. The food will actually be warm... oh, I can't believe I'm practically drooling over the idea of regular prison food. Is Grif around? With dinner coming up, I'm amazed he's not already here.”

“He fell asleep. Do you have five bucks of commissary stamps I can borrow? Or five bucks worth of anything? I kind of lost a bet with him.”

Chapter Text

Donut couldn't sleep.

He tried. He tossed and turned. He'd been happy to get out of the shoe, to sleep in what he now considered his own bed, with or without the smell of vomit. But he couldn't sleep. Every time he drifted off, the same memories kept floating into his dreams.

He kept seeing his roommate's face.

Donut would wake up with a start and a whimper, and eventually fall back to sleep, but the process would repeat itself.

Kept seeing the moments leading up to the murder. Started off normally, just babbling at his roommate until normal, and then suddenly...

Kept seeing his roommate trying to strangle him, kept feeling those hands tightening around his throat. Kept seeing the knife. Kept seeing the red. Not lightish red. Deep, rich red.

Donut would wake up, and go back to sleep.

He didn't just see the red... didn't just see his roommate's face. He kept hearing the noise. The guttural, wet noises that might have been screams. Kept smelling the thick, coppery blood. And worst of all, he kept feeling the blood on his hands. Warm and sticky.

Donut woke up for the fifth time. He scratched at his hands. They weren't covered in blood, but he could swear he could still feel the warmth. The stickiness. Donut kept rubbing his hands, scraping his nails along the flesh like it would remove the sticky sensation, similar to what he'd do when he got cake batter on them.

Why was the memory of the murder bothering him now? It hadn't done that for a while, and it had no reason to turn up in his head now.

Maybe his mind had just felt like it had to remind Donut of what he'd done. Just waiting until Donut started to forget there was blood on his hands, and then appearing and reminding him of that horrible warmth and that coppery smell.

Donut wondered if the others had nightmares about the people they'd killed. He sat up, clambered to his feet and shuffled closer to the wall.

"Simmons. Simmooooooons," he whispered.

"Fuck off, 'm sleeping," Simmons grumbled, his voice muffled by his pillow.

"Do you ever have nightmares about the people you killed?"

"The fuck kind of question is that? Go away, I'm not your mother..." A quiet snore after that suggested that Simmons had fallen asleep again.

Donut sat up for a while longer, still scraping at his hands. Afraid to go back to sleep, because then the bad memories would come back.

Church also couldn't sleep. But his reason for still being awake was different. Less haunting, and more plain fucking annoying.

Thump.

Church twitched and tried counting sheep.

Thump.

Counting sheep, it turns out, is too boring to put someone to sleep.

Thump.

Church didn't know what the fuck O'Malley was doing, but it sure was making a lot of noise. Other men locked in the shoe were starting to get angry.

Thump.

"Hey, shut up!"

"The hell you doing, we're trying to sleep!"

"Motherfucker!"

Thump.

"You trying to get the guards to come down and hurt you?" Church muttered. "Dumbass. They're gonna beat you if you don't stop, and that's gonna keep me awake even longer."

There was a pause. Then...

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The noise just got louder. The inmates started making more of a racket. They made such a racket that the thumping noise actually seemed quiet in comparison, but Church could still hear it getting louder, like O'Malley was trying to outmatch the men yelling at him.

The door swung open. Footsteps. Church rolled off his cot and crouched down to look through his food slot as the lights came on. Church squinted through the sudden brightness as York's feet came into view. They paused, then turned back to the entrance to solitary. Church could barely hear the conversation over the noise that the other inmates were making.

"Light's on, Wash. You know, I can handle this myself, I'm not—"

"I'm coming with you."

"Okay, if you really think you have to, but he won't have anything sharp with him this time, I'm pretty sure he was checked..."

Wash's feet appeared and quickly made their way past York's. They got closer, until they were in the middle of the noise. Then Wash raised his voice.

“Shut up, all of you! Make me unlock one single door, and you will regret it!” His voice hit a higher pitch and cracked, but despite this the shouting immediately ceased. There were some guards you just didn't mess with. Tex was one. Wash was another. Inmates weren't stupid enough to goad him.

Except one.

Thump.

"O'Malley, come on! Be quiet!" York said, rapping his fist on the door.

Another thump was the only reply.

Wash reached down for his set of keys and paused. "I don't have the key. Not my shift down here."

York rolled his eyes. "Yeah, aren't you meant to be outside or something?"

"You can hear them from outside!"

"Move aside, Wash." He shoved Wash lightly aside, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wire.

"York, you know the warden doesn't approve of you picking open the locks. Neither do I, for that matter. It gives them ideas."

"Oh, pssh. Heard it before, man. Don't get your panties into a wad."

"I'm following regulations. Don't you have a key?"

"Not my shift either. Don't know where the hell South's gone, I'm pretty sure it's her turn. Like you said, they're noisy. They're waking up guys in the smuggler's block. Besides, even if I had the key... well, keys are boring. Why know how to lockpick if you're not going to use the skill?"

"Why do you know how to lockpick in the first place? That's a bit unsavoury."

"My dad was a lock-nut. How else was I supposed to break into the closet and see what the Christmas presents were?" York finished unlocking the door. "Unlocked. You're welcome. Because I know you're thinking 'thank you, York, you're the most awesome guy ever.'"

"You wish." Wash pulled the door open. "O'Malley, what are you doing?"

O'Malley was sitting on his cot, holding the side of it and rocking, continually slamming the other end into the wall. He was grinning.

"Washington. Fantastic. And York? Oh, I'm being spoiled today. Tonight. Whatever. Hello, York. How's your eye?"

O'Malley was interrupted by Wash smacking him hard with his nightstick.

"Wash, take it easy," York said quietly.

"Easy? He slashed your eye, and your only response is 'take it easy?'"

"You're the one who was going 'you can't do that because of regulations.' I think brutally beating inmates is one of those things you aren't supposed to do. Just saying."

"Yes, listen to your cyclops friend, Washington."

Smack.

"How rude..." O'Malley spat out. He was holding his nose. "That's the second time in the last week that someone has hit my nose."

"Why were you slamming your cot against the wall? Answer before I count to one." Wash asked calmly, like he hadn't just smashed O'Malley's face twice.

"I hate interrogation. Can't we just write him up and be done with it?" York sighed.

Church moved an inch away from the food slot. Wash could be reasonable up to a point, but once that point was passed things tended to get bloody.

"I thought I might dig my way through freedom. Of course, I can't reach the dirt through these bricks, so I thought if I smashed my way through the wall, I might reach the dirt. Silly plan, I know. But I was bored," O'Malley said casually. "How are you? Still depressed? You were awfully distant a couple of months ago." He sighed melodramatically. "The beatings just weren't the same."

"Trying to dig your way out. Escape attempt, albeit a..."

"Half-assed one?" York suggested.

"Right. That would put you in SHU, at the bare minimum. But... well, you're already here. Hm."

"Oh, I know what this is leading up to. Can't you just punch me in the stomach and be done with it? You're so predictable, Washington. You're a violent man, and I do admire that in a person... but you have no imagination." O'Malley sighed. "Even struggling is boring. Just be done with it."

"I really can't say you didn't ask for it." Wash raised his nightstick and smashed O'Malley over the head. It was hard enough to actually knock out a grunt of pain, even though O'Malley had been fully expecting it. But not quite hard enough to knock him out. O'Malley touched his head, blinking in a disorientated way.

"Ouch," York muttered. "Little carried away there, Wash?"

“No-one's bringing up that much paperwork and red tape for O'Malley.” Wash stepped back. "Lock the door."

"Uh, shouldn't we take him up to the infirmary?"

"No. We're leaving him in there."

"Wash, are you fucking insane? He's bleeding from the head. He might die! I've got no love for O'Malley, but if he dies and you're held responsible... they'll fire you if they don't outright arrest you!"

"Who's going to tell? They won't believe O'Malley. And as for the other inmates, do you think they'll want to get tangled in it?" Church saw Wash step towards his own cell, and felt a tap on his door. "Church, isn't it? You going to squeal?"

Church snorted. "Hell no." He didn't want to fucking die.

"You see? Even the prison snitch won't.”

"I'm a blackmailer!" Church roared, as Wash started to walk away. York glanced after Wash and slid the door shut on O'Malley, locking it quickly. Church shifted, moving back to his cot. Reminding himself, not for the first time, not to get on Wash's bad side. He was one cold motherfucker.

Donut asked Simmons the same question he had asked during the night at breakfast that morning. As he was not being awoken at three in the morning this time, Simmons was a little more receptive to questioning. But his answer was short.

"No."

"No? You've never had any dreams or anything?" Donut asked, passing his fruit to Grif in exchange for Grif's cereal.

"Ah." Simmons raised his spoon and shook it slightly at Donut. "That's not what you said. See, you asked if I'd had 'nightmares' about them. To answer that, specifically... no."

"You've... had good dreams about it?" As Donut asked this, he shifted just a little bit further from Simmons.

Simmons rolled his eyes. "No, don't look at me like I'm crazy. Only dream I had about... that asshole... had something to do with robots and some farmers. He just happened to be strung up in the background with his innards hanging out."

Donut lowered his spoonful of cereal. "Oh god. That's gross."

“Oh, don't be a whiner,” Grif said. “We didn't actually disembowel him. It was pretty tame shit. We just kicked him a lot and eventually bits of him collapsed and he stopped moving. Shit happens, y'know?”

"Never mind, forget I asked! You guys are scaring me," Donut grumbled. "And now I can't eat, what am I supposed to do with the cereal?"

"Pass it back this way," Grif said, holding out his tray so Donut could put the cereal back.

"You just recounted a man strung up with his guts hanging out, and you're both still eating. Weird. You guys are weird. Seriously. Weird."

“We didn't disembowel anyone! That was only a dream. Besides. We're weird?” Simmons grinned. "Calling the kettle black, wouldn't you say?"

"Aw, shut up." Donut stared down at his food, then at his hands. He rubbed them a bit, before shoving his tray towards Grif. "Here, have it."

"What's up with you?"

"Nothing." Donut looked at his hands again, and shook his head. "I... I need to wash my hands, that's all.”

"God, who do they think they are, bitching me out? It was North's turn to guard down here, but no, they're all 'why didn't you shut up the inmates last night, South? It was noisy as fuck, where were you?' Not my fucking fault that they only used last names on the shift list. And now, 'feed the crazies, South.' I'm not a nurse at a mental hospital... Jeez."

South pushed the tray of food and medication along, grumbling angrily under her breath. She slid a plate of food underneath Church's door before turning to O'Malley's. Of course O'Malley had to be down here when it was her turn. Jackass. He was probably going to bite her fingers, just like he always did to North.

South grasped her keys, sliding the right key into the lock and opening the door.

"Alright, O'Malley, you gonna play nicely this ti—oh, motherfucker!" South dropped the cup of pills in shock. "Shit."

She approached O'Malley, wary that it was some kind of trick, but that blood sure looked real. O'Malley's eyes were open and he was grinning, but it was a weak grin. He was chalk white and blood had dried in little rivers down his face, making him look even crazier than usual. He had wrapped his pillowcase and blanket around his head in some sort of makeshift bandage. It looked like some bizarre, blood-stained turban.

"Surprise."

South could only repeat her earlier sentiment. "Shit."

Doc hummed to himself as he fished in his pockets for the infirmary keys. After pushing aside loose change and a tiny cat toy which he had brought to put up in the infirmary in order to try and make the place so many inmates died in a little more cheerful, he found the infirmary key and pushed it into the lock. Only to discover the door was already unlocked.

"Huh... weird," Doc muttered. He pushed open the door and took two steps inside.

"Morning," he heard a voice greet him nonchalantly.

"Aaaah!" Doc jumped away from the voice, and his eyes shot to O'Malley, who was lying on one of the cots. And immediately clapped his hand over his mouth. "Oh.”

"Isn't this a great way to start your morning?" O'Malley said weakly. "Admittedly, getting horribly beaten isn't my favourite method of seeing you... and I'm probably going to pass out soon, so... hopefully you'll be competent enough to stop me from dying. I've been bleeding all night, so that might be difficult."

"What happened to you?" Doc quickly found the drawer with the bandages, as O'Malley was still wearing a makeshift turban. Which looked ridiculous, and in any other situation (any situation which didn't involve copious amounts of blood, at least) Doc might have thought it funny. But the bloodstains counteracted that.

"Oh, you know how it is... I either tell a lie and you believe me or I tell the truth and you don't believe me. Why bother explaining?"

"Tell me. I'll believe you."

"Oh, well in that case... Last night Santa Claus kicked my door down and said 'O'Malley, you are on the naughty list.' And then he attacked me with a giant candy cane and left me for dead. Very spry for a fat, old man in a red suit."

"That's not funny."

"And yet you said you'd believe me. It's not good to lie, Doc."

Doc had a strange sense of deja vu. Maybe because the situation was strangely similar to the one last week. O'Malley covered in blood and Doc wiping it off. Although this one was more serious, and O'Malley had yet to try and tackle him this time. He didn't look like he would be... his eyes were a bit glassy, and they kept shutting, like he was having problems staying awake.

"Are you going to tell me who really did this to you?"

"Nn." O'Malley's eyes closed again as the infirmary door swung open and South walked in.

"Well, about time you got here! Not that I need to tell you or anything, but he's in pretty bad shape." South gestured at O'Malley while Doc dipped a cloth in water. "I carried him up here. He didn't try to bite me or struggle or anything, even when he woke up after I accidentally dropped him. Twice."

"That bad? How'd it happen?"

"How should I know?"

"Wasn't it your shift last night?"

"It was North's damn shift, alright? They need to start putting first names on that stupid shift list! Not the point! He was just all bloody when I opened the door this morning. Not a good start to the day," South told Doc. "Is he gonna die? Good riddance if he does."

"I don't know. Help me out, get the blood off him, would you?" Doc handed over the damp cloth he was going to use to wipe the blood away.

"Try it and I'll bite your fingers off," O'Malley whispered, eyes still shut.

"Yeah, not a chance. I'm running late on feeding the rest of the SHU assholes as it is, thanks to him." South tossed the cloth back. Doc pointed at the tray of medication he had left out the previous night.

"Then take those down to the prisoners. Names are on the cups."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Didn't sign up for this shit..." South picked up the tray and left, grumbling under her breath. Doc sighed and turned back to O'Malley, who wasn't moving. He had passed out, but he was still breathing at least.

"Alright... keep breathing, you'll be fine. And you better not stop breathing just because I told you to breathe," Doc told him, even though he wasn't sure if O'Malley could hear him or not. And to himself he muttered, "Calm down. I can do this. No-one's died under my watch recently. I can do this. I can do this. He isn't going to die on me. Hopefully.”

Donut rinsed his hands in the bathroom sink.

He could hear the showers going, although at this time it tended to be used by very few inmates. Most of them were eating at this time. Inmates normally visited after work, since depending on the work it tended to involve getting pretty sweaty. Donut tended to avoid the showers when they were crowded. He may be somewhat used to prison now, but the old fear about being forced to 'bend over and pick up the soap' hadn't gone away.

Occasionally inmates would walk past, wandering in to use the toilets, shower or wash their own hands. There was always a guard standing in the corner of the room in view of the showers, making sure no-one tried to strangle anyone else and making sure they kept to a time limit. As Donut scrubbed at his hands with the cheap, scratchy soap, he heard a crash, a yelp and then Caboose's voice.

"Ow. Stupid slippery tiles... Baklava!" Caboose wandered out of the shower section, his hair dripping and his jacket bundled up in his hands. Donut saw him in the mirror while he continued to wash his hands. "You are not usually in here at this time. Are you okay?"

"Sure, I'm... what? Nothing's wrong," Donut insisted, still holding his hands under the water.

"I heard you making eep noises. During bedtime.”

"Oh. Just nightmares, it's fine." Donut watched the water run over his hands thoughtfully.

Caboose tried drying his hair with his jacket. Didn't work too well. "You are washing your hands?"

"Yeah. Just felt like it."

Caboose stood there for a while, rubbing his hair with his jacket. "You felt like washing your hands for several minutes?"

"Yeah."

"You are weird."

"Mmhm." Donut gazed downwards at his hands, then looked at Caboose. "You... you ever get nightmares about the people you killed?"

"No. I did not kill anyone."

"Right. Then... did you get nightmares about the people who fell over around you?"

In the reflection of the mirror, Donut saw Caboose fiddle with one of the buttons on his damp jacket.

"Why are you asking me?"

"I was just curious. I asked Simmons already. Response was kinda creepy... I just thought I'd ask."

"I...I, uh..." Caboose swallowed nervously. "I do not want to talk about it."

"Sorry, that's probably not the best thing to be asking people. I won't ask you again."

"That is good. It is very hard to pretend when people keep asking things. It is better not to think." Caboose looked at Donut's hands. Still dripping. "You should not think about it. If you... think about the bad things too much, everything starts to feel bad. And people who feel really, really bad in here usually die. Like Joey Joe Joe. Do not think about it." Caboose nodded. "That is what Church told me."

"Did he, now..." Donut wiped his wet hands on his jumpsuit pants. "Alright. I'll stop thinking about it starting... now."

"Good. Now... breakfast time!" Caboose grabbed onto the sleeve of Donut's jacket and started tugging him in the direction of the cafeteria. "Eating time!"

"Uh, you realise breakfast is probably over now?"

"Aw, but I'm hungry."

Donut's hands still felt sticky.

Doc had finished bandaging and stitching O'Malley up, but O'Malley hadn't stirred since. And Doc had no idea what to do. There had been injuries on his head (it looked like someone had hit him pretty hard) and so Doc had patched up what he could. But he felt like there had to be something more he could do. Then again, his medical knowledge was never great. A job at this prison was the only job that would take him.

Doc sighed and massaged his forehead. Then he remembered he was still wearing bloody, plastic gloves. He quickly washed up, tossing the bloody gloves into the bin.

He heard the door swing open behind him, and turned to see York standing in the doorway.

"South told me about... you know." York jerked his head at O'Malley. "He alive?"

"So far. I think he'll live, he was still awake when South found him. If he hadn't bandaged his head up, he probably would have lost too much blood for me to do anything. As it was, I don't think he'll be in any condition to move for a while."

"You sure you want him in there? I heard he tried attacking you last time. Isn't that why he was in isolation to begin with?"

"He's in no condition to be attacking anyone. Trust me. He'll be lucky if he can sit up without vomiting when he wakes up." Actually, having O'Malley in the infirmary for a prolonged length of time made Doc incredibly nervous. Doc decided he had to install extra locks on the supplies before O'Malley woke up. And to try and not keep his back to him once he was mobile again. "You know a lot about locks, right? Know any good places to get some good ones?"

"There's a place couple of blocks away from the train station. I'll write down directions."

"Thanks. You wouldn't know how O'Malley got like this, would you?"

"Uh. No. No. Why would I know that?" York said, just a little too quickly. "I wasn't even patrolling around there, though heard a ton of thumping. Maybe... he was just hitting his head against the wall too much? Uh... oh, look. My phone's ringing."

"I... I don't hear anything."

"Oh, it's... one of those special phones that some people can't hear. Yeah. Gotta go take this." York backed out of the room quickly, walking back down the corridor.

Doc shook his head. He might have a habit of believing obvious liars... but York was such a horrible liar that it even tipped Doc's 'bullshit' radar off. Doc sighed. Maybe he'd have to ask Wash. Wash and York often hung around together, and sometimes patrolled the same areas. Wash would probably know.

But in the meantime, Doc didn't want to leave O'Malley alone in the infirmary. For several reasons, one of them being that if O'Malley woke up and managed to get to his feet, he didn't want O'Malley breaking into the medicine closet and swapping the medication around or something stupid like that. Doc really wouldn't put it past him.

Donut was ironing jumpsuits (a surprisingly pleasant change from folding them) when he felt someone poke him in the back as he passed by.

"Need to talk to you," Tucker said quietly. He dropped his bundle of jumpsuits nearby and set up shop at the ironing board next to Donut. “I want you to start talking to Miller today. Nothing heavy. Just friendly chit-chat. Build up your, y'know... rapport and shit.”

“Just be friendly?”

“Yeah, friendly. Not blowjob friendly, just friendly friendly.”

“I know how to be normal friendly, you're acting like I crawl around on my knees with my mouth open,” Donut muttered.

“You'd be a lot more fun if you did.”

They ironed in silence for a couple of minutes. Donut watched Tucker out of the corner of his eye for a bit. He had to have at least two deaths on him. Whatever murder had landed him here. And Jones.

“...Can I ask something?”

“What's there to say? You go to Miller, you talk to him, you come back.”

“No. I mean...”

“Oh, is this your 'do you ever get nightmares or feel bad about murder' thing?”

Donut shifted on his feet uneasily. “Maybe.”

“Why's it any of your business?”

“Look, I'm getting tangled up in deaths you caused by messing with Miller. So help me if I'm a little curious about why you did that to Jones. Or about why you're so fucking... flippant about it.”

“When was I flippant about Jones?” Tucker's voice was low when he said this.

“Well... you, um... didn't seem to care that much. You're more focused on making Miller hurt, now.”

“Miller picked a fight with me. Jones never really did much.” Tucker lifted the iron to sweep it over the current jumpsuit, but after a moment of consideration put it back down. He leaned over the ironing board. “You want to know why?”

“Yeah. That's why I asked.”

“I meant what I said. It was an accident. So, first off, stop treating me like I'm some Hannibal Lecter 'talked the dude into chewing his tongue off' nutter.” Tucker looked sideways at Donut. “How many lifers have you met in here?”

“Um... well, I've met you, Grif—“

“Not like that. You, me, Grif, Simmons... we're not lifers in that way. We're in here for a long time, yeah. And they could keep us here forever. If they wanted. But they probably won't. We have a chance at the outside again.” Tucker grinned. “I have a far-off chance of hugging my son again one day. Grif and Simmons at reuniting with Sister. You have a chance at... whoever you have out there.”

The grin faded.

“But lifers like Church? Caboose? Wyoming? That O'Malley nutter? Life imprisonment without the possibility of parole? Did you ever wonder why you don't see many of those sort of lifers?”

Donut didn't say anything, silently ironing the jumpsuits.

“It's because eventually they realise... proper realise... that they're in here for good. It might take months. Years. But that realization hits one day.

“Guys like Church and Wyoming find ways to occupy themselves. Honestly, these stupid prison power plays are really just a way to feel like they have control. Who the fuck cares who has the most power in one building? But this building's their world, so they might as well rule it, right? So, sometimes lifers manage to deal. But some... some don't. They realise they're doomed to live the same dull day over and over until they get paroled in a bodybag. And some go on self-destruct once they realise this. They think about it and it goes through their heads, and put the wrong pressure on that...”

Tucker smacked his hand against the ironing board.

“Jones was a lifer. He hadn't done shit like we have. Just a shitload of little crimes that added up way too high. Repeat offender, you know? He started messing with Church's shit, and I thought I could talk him down. Didn't know him well on the outside, but I'd met him.” Tucker laughed bitterly. “Knew a Jones and a Joannes, accidentally called him by the latter the first time I saw him here. It caught on.

“I tried talking him into being on the winning side. But maybe I leaned on the bad parts of prison too much. Maybe said too much 'hey, since you're going to be in here forever you might as well be friendly.' In here forever, being friendly with guys who can't even be bothered to remember his fucking name. I didn't get how it works. I got something to look forward to. The hell did he have? He was dead a week later.”

Silence for a while. The only sound being the irons swishing over the boards.

“But do you feel bad about it?”

Tucker seemed to think about this for a long time.

“Feeling sorry doesn't do me any good, does it? I try not to think about it. I just told you that shit to shut you up and stop acting like I'm doing that Hannibal bullshit. Maybe show you that Miller's picking the fight with me. Yeah, I did it, but it's not like I was declaring war on him.”

“You are now.”

“Because Miller's bringing it to me. You can't expect me to not push back.” Tucker eyed Donut and gave him a cold smile. “I have a son to see, Donut. I'm not feeling guilty for who I have to fuck up to get there. And once it's done, it's done. Better to just move on.” Tucker lightly smacked Donut's forehead, earning an annoyed grunt in response. “It can't be that hard to wipe your dumbass mind clean. And life's too short and prison time too long to think about this shit. That's as much a death sentence as anything.”

In a roundabout and more careless way, that was exactly what Caboose's advice had been. Just don't think about it. It was simplistic logic.

Donut wondered if it actually worked.

"Uhhh... hi."

Miller looked up from stacking books. "...The hell you want?"

"Uh. Nothing?" Donut shifted nervously, half-hiding behind a bookshelf. "Nothing. Um. Just... uh. You run the library, don't you?"

"Yeah. Even if I didn't get a goddamn choice in that."

"I was kinda... looking for a book on, um... crafty stuff."

"Right..." Miller stood up with a groan. "Erk. And they said librarian would be a goddamn easy job. They clearly haven't stacked the lower shelves." Miller looked at Donut, scratching the side of his face thoughtfully. "We've met, haven't we? You're the little queer guy that was helping Caboose find books. Say you didn't bring him with you, I don't want to have to straighten the shelves again."

"Oh. No, he's... somewhere else."

It had actually been very difficult to convince Caboose not to follow him. Caboose seemed a bit worried over the fact that Donut was going to be left alone with the guy who had gotten Church thrown in solitary (albeit in a more roundabout way than intended). The furthest he could get to getting Caboose to leave him alone was letting Caboose sit just a few feet away from the library door.

"Well, good. Craft books are over there," Miller waved his hand at a shelf. Donut nodded. Inside, he was flailing around in a panic. What did he do? What did he say? Did he just grab a book and leave, or try to make conversation? Would it be suspicious? Would not doing it be suspicious? Subtlety and subterfuge wasn't his area.

"Uh. So. What are you in for?" Donut asked feebly. That was the first question they always asked in the movies, though come to think of it he'd never gotten around to properly asking any of the guys in his row. Then again, he didn't really want to know the details of what they'd done. What little he knew was creepy enough.

"Check swindling. Walked past the car of someone I'd tricked in the past. Small world," Miller said shortly. "Don't need to ask you. You're one of the lifers. In the same section as some of the other murderers."

"Yeah. How'd you know which section my cell was in?" Of course, Donut knew why Miller knew.

"Well, you hang around with murderers. That means you're probably a damn murderer." Miller shifted a little. "So. Fell into Church's little group of jackasses, did you?"

Donut, who had picked up one of the books, promptly dropped it.

"Uh, what?”

"Come on, kid. I have eyes. I've seen you around them and you have Caboose following you around."

Miller pointed at the door. Donut turned to see that Caboose had edged closer and was watching them, while muttering under his breath, "I am sneaking, I am sneaking, I am sneaking..."

Donut resisted the urge to slap his forehead.

"How'd you get that to happen, huh?" Miller asked.

Thirty seconds into the plan, and he was already close to being caught. Donut shifted nervously, before deciding on part of the truth.

"Blackmailed Church into giving me protection. That's all."

"Hm. Wouldn't consider telling me what information you used, would you?"

"No. Then I'd lose the protection."

"Well, you're a hell of a lot smarter than you look, in that case. Alright, then." Miller sighed. "Well, not like I can kick you out of the library. Not with Caboose following you around. Even if he didn't hurt me over it, he'd probably stare with those goddamn eyes."

"Mhm."

"Just take your book and leave. You don't seem like a bad kid or nothing... but that's what I thought about Caboose until he crushed Phil's head."

"I thought that was never proven?"

"They fell," Caboose muttered from the door. "I mean... there is no-one here!"

"Idiot," Miller said. He lowered his voice so that Caboose wouldn't be able to hear and said, "Saw it with my own two eyes. Well, one eye... someone had shoved macaroni into the other. But I saw it happen." Miller moved a book off a shelf it was wrongly stacked on. "'Course, snitching on him would have probably got me with my head twisted in a similar position. But I was leading up to something... don't trust those guys you hang around. Not just Church and his little followers. Don't trust any of them. Might regret it."

Donut picked up a book on paper mache. "Like Joannes?"

"...Yeah." Miller's face darkened for a moment and he looked away. "Exactly like it. Now get the hell out."

All in all, it wasn't the friendliest conversation.

Doc sorted medication into the little cups. He was still on the edge of his seat, waiting for O'Malley to move. But O'Malley remained motionless. Doc bit his lip nervously, glancing back quickly before returning his attention to the little cups.

"This better be important," Doc heard someone say behind him. He turned to see Wash standing in the doorway. "Why did you call me up here?"

"Just a quick question, that's all," Doc said quietly. He pointed at O'Malley. "O'Malley was found in his cell, and he had been hit over the head more than once. I was wondering if you knew something about it."

Wash looked slowly from O'Malley to Doc. "Why would you ask me what happened?"

"Oh, well... I know you were at the prison last night. And I know you follow York around a lot, and when I asked him about it... he was a bit defensive. Uh, not that I'm accusing you or anything," Doc added hastily.

"It sounds like you are."

"No, no, no. I was just saying... only a guard could have easily gotten into the cell, so..."

"I know what you're saying, Doc."

"Well? Did you see anything?"

Wash stared impassively at him. Doc tried staring back, but it was difficult. Wash didn't seem to blink much. They were both too involved in this staring contest to see O'Malley move, although he didn't do more than open his eyes.

"No. I didn't. I heard noise, but nothing else," Wash said, after several seconds of silence. "Did you question O'Malley about the source of his head injuries?"

"Yes... but he said Santa Claus did it..."

"Hm. Most likely he hit his head on the wall so that he could get sent to the infirmary. Wouldn't be the first inmate to hurt themselves to get out of SHU." Wash glanced at O'Malley again and saw O'Malley's glazed eyes staring back at him. "He's done stranger things."

"Really... maybe the medication is too weak," Doc pondered, looking down at the cups of medicine. "Or too strong."

"Can I go now? I don't appreciate being forced to miss lunch."

"Right, of course. Sorry to bother you."

Doc heard Wash's footsteps fade, as he continued sorting medication and tried to remember which inmate took the little red tablets.

"You believe people too easily, Doc," O'Malley said quietly. Doc yelped and accidentally knocked over several cups of pills.

"Oh, you startled me... I didn't know when you'd wake up. How are you feeling?"

"Fantastic. Just fantastic."

"I stitched you up some, but you lost a lot of blood so you'll be in here for a while. But any funny stuff and you are going back to the cell. Okay?"

"You believe too easy. You believe what Washington says. You believe inmates when they claim they're too sick to work. And you believe me whenever I'm lying. Though never when I'm telling the truth, funnily enough. You trust too easily."

"What are you trying to tell me? That Wash was lying to me?"

"Hmm? What am I trying to tell you? Nothing. Just observing."

Doc tilted his head. There was something strange about how O'Malley was behaving. After a few seconds of pondering, Doc figured it out. O'Malley wasn't cackling or grinning, or even smiling in his usual twisted way. He just looked very tired. And if Doc looked closely, he could see that O'Malley's hands were shaking just a little. Perhaps from blood loss.

"Well, concentrate on getting better rather than observing, okay?"

"Fine. But I'm only listening because you're my favourite." O'Malley shut his eyes again. "You're very strange... after all, last time I was here I tried to shove things down your throat and tackled you to the floor. Yet you're still treating me nicely."

Doc continued picking up the meds he had spilt on the floor, keeping his head down so he didn't have to look at O'Malley. "Of course I am. You're a patient. I'm a doctor. I have to do my best to treat you."

"You're not a doctor."

"I'm more of one than you."

"Sass, hm? Growing a backbone... about time..." O'Malley stopped talking, and his breathing got slower. He'd fallen asleep again. Doc climbed to his feet and returned to sorting the medication into cups. Occasionally he would glance back at O'Malley, making sure he was still asleep. At the same time wondering why O'Malley wasn't grinning like a lunatic, like he had been even when he had been dragged in earlier.

O'Malley could have answered that.

Even though he had fallen asleep quickly again, O'Malley had been awake enough to notice that his thoughts were less cloudy. That he could actually think. They were somewhat muddled, but that was more of a result of Wash hitting him over the head several times.

He'd felt somewhat shaky at the same time. His hands couldn't stay still.

The next time O'Malley woke up, a few hours later, he saw Doc sitting on the other side of the room, treating an inmate who had apparently injured his arm. O'Malley's hands were even shakier and his head was throbbing more than ever. But despite this his thoughts were much clearer. He couldn't remember having thoughts so clear since...

Since before Doc put him on this medication.

It clicked. South had dropped O'Malley's medication when she saw O'Malley and his bloody pillow-turban. Doc hadn't given O'Malley his medication while he was knocked out. O'Malley had gone, by now, a full twenty-four hours without his meds. He hadn't received his daily dose and now he was feeling the effects.

That explained the clear thoughts. And he supposed it explained the shakes and the headache. Withdrawal. But that was an effect that would pass, because there was no way that O'Malley was addicted to his little cup of mind control. How could he become addicted to something that made him forget how to think?

The effects were probably just exacerbated by the fact that he was low on blood. Yes, that was it.

Despite the pain and the shakes, O'Malley grinned at the ceiling before shutting his eyes and pretending to be asleep so that Doc wouldn't see him awake and try to give him the medication. After all, he hadn't had a moment of clarity in three years. He was going to enjoy it for as long as possible.

Chapter Text

It was getting into winter. And winter, Donut found out, was a crappy time to be tightly packed in a freezing yard with hundreds of other inmates. Colds and flus tended to spread quickly that way.

The same day Donut first talked to Miller, Grif started sneezing and coughing something awful. The sound was similar to an elephant dying in the loudest way possible. The next day, Grif refused to leave his cell and insisted he was too sick to do any laundry. The guards decided he was just crying wolf, since Grif had faked sickness numerous times to get out of doing work, and he'd been dragged out by force.

Simmons caught it that day, too. He didn't sound as much like a dying elephant, merely making the sounds of a very sick lizard. When Donut walked to his cell to grab his book on soap carvings so he could return it and have an excuse to talk to Miller again, he found Grif sitting on his bunk wrapped in his sheets so Donut could only see his face. Simmons was sitting on the floor, similarly burritoed up.

Visiting the library had been useless, too. Miller had been sneezing too much to really pay attention to Donut. Donut hadn't wanted to get sick as well, so he'd left.

Three days after that first conversation with Miller, Donut had stopped next to Caboose's cell only to see Caboose curled up on his bed, using a sock as a tissue.

"That's gross," Donut informed him, standing outside Caboose's cell since he didn't want to sound like some variant of dying animal for the next few days.

Caboose grunted in response before sneezing again. Donut sat down outside.

"So... how're you feeling?" Donut asked.

"Mmph."

"Is that bad?"

A sock flew out of Caboose's cell and hit Donut in the face. Thankfully, it was not the same sock Caboose had been using as a hanky. But the sock in the face clearly said 'yes, and I am also grumpy.'

Caboose sat up, and when he spoke he was constantly interrupted by sneezing."I do not like sick days," Caboose muttered. "It means I have to stay still. And when I stay still, I think. And I hate thinking. Also, you are not coming near me. Like I am... dis-easel."

"Diseased? Well, you kind of are."

"...Right."

"Is there anything I can do which doesn't involve coming too close?" Donut asked, tilting his head. He'd already asked Grif and Simmons the same question. Simmons had said he didn't need anything, but Grif had insisted on fruit. Because he needed 'booze, and lots of it.' Donut was pretty sure alcohol wasn't a necessary ingredient to get better, but he agreed anyway.

Caboose had to think about it, but he shook his head after a few moments.

"No. When I was sick, Mama used to make these funny teas with herbs in them... but they tasted like cat feet." Caboose pouted. "I also used to like to hug things... I would hug Margretta, but Mister Washingtub took her away. And the last time I tried one of her wings fell off, so I do not think she was huggable anymore." He sneezed again. "And I cannot hug anything else, because nothing will come near me."

Donut hummed sympathetically. "Well, just tell me if you think of something. I mean, I'd give you a hug if you weren't so contagious." And if he didn't think his ribs would crack from the force.

"Hey, Dye-Job!" Tucker walked towards him. Somehow, Tucker had escaped the epidemic going around. Maybe because he'd been spending a lot of time by himself, either in his cell or pacing the yard. Tucker came to a stop. "Found you, been... hey, why you looking in Caboose's cell, he sick?"

Tucker stuck his head in and quickly pulled it out with a yelp. Caboose had tossed one of his shoes in Tucker's direction and it had hit Tucker square on the nose.

"Ow, son of a bitch. Why do people always hit my fucking nose... right." Tucker tapped his chin. "Er, I was going to say something... right. Miller. Since he's sick as well, maybe you can chisel your way into his trust by being all... I dunno, do that whole being 'friendly and comforting' and all that sissy stuff."

"You sure that will work? Last time he was sneezing too much to hear anything I said."

"Might as well fucking try. What else are we supposed to do? He'd punch me in the face rather than have a fucking decent conversation. Ditto Church. Even if Miller wasn't already wary of Caboose, Caboose is too fucking dumb to hold any kind of subtle conversation..."

"I am right here," Caboose muttered into his sock.

"Miller's even suspicious of Grif and Simmons by pure association. You, on the other hand... you just don't look like a threat, you know?"

"Yeah..." Donut sighed. "I know. I'm too small. I have dyed hair. I act girly. Blah blah blah. I know, I hear it from you day in and day out. If you're going to ask me for help, you could at least stop mocking me. It's rude."

"Yeah!" Caboose raised his other shoe. "Apologize to Pavlova!"

"Caboose, I said no violence!"

"I was not going to be violent. The shoe was."

Tucker crossed his arms and stared at Donut critically. "I'm not apologizing for saying what's true, alright? Don't get your panties in a wad, Dye-Job."

"Just making a point...”

"Uh... not to be rude or anything... but I ordered cough syrup, and you sent me aspirins. ...well, when you put it that way, I suppose that will do. Are you sure a cold can be cured with aspirin? Okay."

Doc hung up and resisted the uncharacteristic urge to punch something. This time of the year was always stressful, because inmates kept coming in and insisting they were too sick to work, or that they were dying, and this was the time when inmates often faked bigger sickness to try and get transferred to a hospital where the food was of slightly higher quality. If it wasn't for his yoga exercises, Doc would probably have snapped by now. Even with the yoga, he was stressed out something awful.

And then there was O'Malley. He'd barely moved in three days, and in his sleep he kept making pained noises. He'd woken up to vomit once, and that was about it. Doc wondered if he'd gotten some kind of epidemic, but the symptoms weren't like what any of the other inmates were experiencing.

He had tried to get permission to temporarily move O'Malley to a proper hospital, but the guards refused. The last time O'Malley had been in the hospital, he had bitten someone's finger off and had escaped into the hospital. Terrifyingly, he'd been found in the children's section of the hospital. Less terrifyingly, rather than doing anything menacing he had been sitting in the playpen, distracting himself with a kaleidoscope. Doc had never been more thankful for how the medication ruined his attention span.

Doc tapped his foot against the ground, looking down at O'Malley. Maybe the shaking was just from the cold. The weather was freezing.

Doc turned around, finding the laundry drawer and looking for another blanket. He didn't hear the slight squeak of the cot as O'Malley quickly climbed off it. He didn't notice anything until he felt a hand on the back of his head.

And that was all he had time to notice before O'Malley slammed Doc's head into the drawer, knocking him out cold.

O'Malley grinned down at the unconscious Doc. Not quite his usual drugged grin, but similar. O'Malley prodded Doc with his foot carefully. Doc didn't move.

O'Malley crossed his arms and stood there for a few moments, considering his options. Of course, there were a lot of things he would love to do to Doc right now. The opportunities... But it was no fun to do things to Doc while he was unconscious and unable to react. In any case, it would leave him with no time to roam free around the prison. And it would be nice to enjoy the clarity before a guard noticed he was on the loose and tackled him.

Of course, enjoying the clarity in a peaceful way was no fun at all. Peace and quiet was boring.

O'Malley tapped his foot, considering what would be best to do while he could still think clearly. After this, they'd probably be upping his medication for a while. O'Malley hoped they wouldn't outright sedate him, leaving him unable to do anything but sit there and dribble all over the floor. He'd been on that before and it was most unpleasant.

He was sure he could torture a few people. Maybe even snowball it into something big. He did love being able to think clear, when he was on his meds his ability to plan in the long term went right out the window.

A surge of nausea ran through him, and he doubled over. He hadn't eaten recently so not much came out except a few strings of thick, gooey liquid. O'Malley curled up for a few seconds, covering his mouth as his body protested, confused over the lack of medication.

The withdrawal was getting worse. Another reason he needed to act fast. O'Malley straightened up and tried to force himself to ignore the pains.

He walked out of the infirmary. After a few moments he doubled back and looked back at Doc, who was still lying on the floor. O'Malley approached the unconscious medic and prodded him with his foot again. Arms crossed, frowning rather than grinning.

It wouldn't do for Doc to catch cold. If Doc was going to suffer, O'Malley wanted to be the direct cause of it.

O'Malley didn't move for a while, even though he was aware that every second was a second of clarity wasted. After what seemed like several minutes, but was in reality a few seconds, O'Malley reached down and dragged Doc across the floor to one of the cots. He picked Doc up and unceremoniously dropped him on the cot, before returning to the drawer and pulling out the blanket Doc had been removing from it. O'Malley pulled the blanket over Doc, turning him over so he was facing the wall and anyone who walked in would only see the back of Doc's head.

Ugh. Coddling the playthings. A new low.

Wyoming blew out a ring of smoke and looked up at Donut.

"I assume you've just given up any pretense of manliness, chap?" Wyoming asked. "Perfumed soap, fabric softener... not quite the inventory of a tough inmate."

"Yeah, I know. I was just asking about prices, I don't think I can afford much right now. But I was told you were the best for getting things out of prison."

"Yes, that's certainly true. And the items you requested should be simple to get, as none of them are illegal. Although that last one... that's quite a strange request."

"Ah, that one is the thing I really wanted soon. How much would that be?"

"Well, it would depend on the quality. But I'd estimate between five and ten dollars, not including my surcharge, for a cheap one. Of course, the bigger and better quality, the more expensive." Wyoming blew out a smoke ring before continuing. "An even ten dollars should be a reasonable price for a small one. Will you be getting that from your laundry wages?"

"Yeah. I think I can get that, I'm not sure..."

"Normally, that would take a couple of weeks. For a bit extra I can get it quicker, since it's a non-lethal item..."

"Sure. Quick is good. So... how much is fabric softener? These jumpsuits are way too itchy.

"No."

O'Malley frowned down at Wyoming, while at the same time holding a newspaper up as if he was reading it. In actual fact, he was trying to shield his face so the guards didn't realise he was wandering free. It was difficult to hold the newspaper still, though.

"Why not?"

"The last two times I acquired screwdrivers for you, you lost them within three days. Last time you held onto it for roughly an hour. It clearly isn't worth supplying you with these, eventually they're going to trace it back to me, my old friend. And I don't want that to happen." Wyoming dropped his cigarette, the same one he had been smoking when Donut came up to him only five minutes ago. He pulled another one out, going through his pocket for a lighter. "Maybe in a year or so, I'll supply you with more. But not now."

"If this was anyone else telling me this, I would have stabbed them by now."

"Yes, that sure motivates me to give you weaponry. Maybe you should make your own."

"I tried. I get distracted. There's no time, anyway." O'Malley scowled. "Fine. I have things to do before they find me. Have you seen any of my usual victims?"

"Your pastry friend just went into the cafeteria."

"Oh, he's turning out to be dull. Too much chatter. But still... might be fun. Anyone else?"

"Well, I believe the idiot is in the cells because of the dreadful epidemic going around. I have yet to see dear Tex. But, returning to that flaky 'friend' of yours... I see him and Tucker talking a lot. Quite odd behavior. And he's been going to visit Miller regularly. You might want to check in on that, chap. If you're looking for anything interesting to mess with, that is."

"Really..." O'Malley grinned. "Aha... that might be fun. Perhaps I'll go find Miller." O'Malley tilted his head briefly, thinking. "Is it possible for you to get most of the guards out of the cafeteria for a few minutes?"

"Of course. Give me half an hour and it will be done.”

Caboose turned the pages of the book Donut had been reading to him, squinting at the letters. He turned the book sideways and upside-down, but the letters still made no sense to him. He was sure they used to make sense. He couldn't remember all the weird long words Sheila had used to explain it. Sheila used a lot of words Caboose didn't understand. Sheila was a lot smarter than him. Which was why she sometimes wore a white coat and did doctorly things.

As Caboose turned the next page, looking for pictures of the wizards with jetpacks that Donut had described and trying not to sneeze on the pages, he heard something move behind him.

"Boo.”

"Aaaaaah!" Caboose hadn't yelled because he was startled. He'd yelled because he recognised the voice right off. "Go away! Go away!"

O'Malley took a step forward into the cell, hands tucked behind his back. "That's a bit rude, isn't it? I haven't even done anything threatening. In fact—" O'Malley stopped talking suddenly and covered his mouth, looking pained for a moment, but then he continued. "I wasn't even planning to. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, haven't decided yet. Considering I'll probably be put on those unpleasant sedatives after this, probably not tomorrow either. And now you're thinking of those sedatives, too. Aren't you?"

"No," Caboose lied. "No. Go away. I will... I will make you go away."

"Now, Caboose. You hate the sedatives as much as I do. And you know if you act up again then Doc will put you on them."

Caboose scooted away from O'Malley, leaving the book lying on the cot. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk. Just to have a friendly chat." O'Malley climbed onto the cot. Caboose shifted further away. Caboose was shaking almost as much as O'Malley was, but out of fear. "After all, we do have a certain sense of kinship, do we not? Always the ones being sedated. Always being referred to as crazy. Both somewhat... erm, indiscriminate about who we hurt. Very alike."

"No. Not like you." Caboose edged further away, but overbalanced and fell off the bed.

"Oh, I don't like to admit it either. After all, you're incredibly stupid. But our minds work in sync, Mikey."

Caboose was flat against the wall now. His mouth had twisted in a frown. "Don't call me that."

"What? Mikey? But it's such a cute nickname, isn't it?"

"Shut up. And do not touch that!" O'Malley had picked up the book that had been lying where Caboose dropped it. O'Malley flicked through the pages.

"Hm. Who has been reading to you? The pastry? Oh, Mikey. You really put your trust in the worst people. After all, you once trusted me of all people. Did you never learn your lesson?"

"Sundae... is my friend..." Caboose sneezed. "And he is good with trustiness."

"Oh really?" O'Malley held up the book. "What is this about?"

"Wizards. Wizards with jetpacks," Caboose said shakily. "It says it on the cover. The Awesome Magician Who Had Fabulously Happy Times."

O'Malley tutted. "Oh, was that really the best title he could come up with? The pastry has been lying to you." O'Malley tossed the book back on the cot. "Don't believe me? Ask someone what the front cover says. Someone who isn't the pastry. If only this was the only thing he lied to you about. Oh, if only." O'Malley grinned. "Just... a little heads up. After all, I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you."

"Bullsh—bullstupid," Caboose whispered, correcting himself halfway because his mama had always hated it when he swore.

"No. Not bullshit. I don't lie as much as people think I do. I tell the truth because it hurts more. That's why you're afraid of me. Could I really do you physical harm? No. That'd be akin to saying that you have the IQ of Einstein, or that Doc is actually a doctor." O'Malley grinned. "You're afraid of me because when I'm here... you can't forget about the bad things you've done. You remember, because it was your fault. And I won't let you forget that. Because it's more fun to put you through that mental torture. I'm really just passing time here." O'Malley stretched his grin out wider, trying to get the effect of his usual med-induced grins. "My point... you trusted me, and that just got you even more messed up. Be a little more careful of who you become friends with." O'Malley backed out of the room. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I have people to meet and hurt... normal day of work." He waved cheerfully. "Until next time, Mikey."

Caboose sat there for a few long minutes after O'Malley had left. His brain seemed to have temporarily shut down on him. After a few minutes of silence interrupted only by sneezing fits, Caboose climbed to his feet and picked up the book. He looked at the cover.

Had Donut been lying to him? He sometimes looked a little guilty, like when Apples would pee on the carpet and then try to pretend like nothing happened. Except... Donut didn't pee on carpets. There were no carpets in prison. And he would not lie, would he?

Caboose squinted at the cover. He did see a wizard on it. But no sign of jetpacks or dragons or any of the other things that Donut had talked about.

He wondered if he should ask. But what if Donut got mad at him for doubting his friendliness? What if... if...

Donut was out there. Where O'Malley was.

Oh crap.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.

Caboose dropped the book and bolted out of cell in the direction that O'Malley had gone, hoping he could find Donut before anything horrible happened.

At that moment, Donut wasn't in trouble. He was just trying to bargain for extra fruit with various inmates that were eating lunch.

"I'll trade you my macaroni."

"No deal. Apple juice or nothing."

"But I love apple juice! I'll give you the orange juice we get with dinner."

"No way, that always tastes like it's been kept next to something stale."

"Yeah..."

Donut sighed, moving back to sit down at the usual table. Tucker was poking moodily at his own food. Donut gestured at the apple sitting on Tucker's tray.

"You going to eat that? Grif needs fruit so he can make more pruno."

Tucker looked up at him briefly. "Hmm. Maybe if it was someone else asking. But I'm not trading with you."

“Aww, you're such a butt.”

O'Malley was sitting near the door of the cafeteria, holding his newspaper up. Occasionally he would look over it. He'd spotted Miller entering the cafeteria. It was the second time he'd seen Miller, the first time being just before he went to annoy Caboose to fill in time.

He saw Miller's grim expression. And saw him making a beeline towards Donut. At the same time, O'Malley got to his feet. Still holding the newspaper up. Which was less than subtle, but it would do for the next minute or so.

Miller wasn't stupid. He wouldn't start a fight in the cafeteria. If there was a riot already happening in the cafeteria, however... then Miller would probably grab that chance to do some damage.

O'Malley peered over his newspaper at the inmates serving the food, looking for the big, angry man that started fights if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. He would be fantastic for starting a cafeteria-wide riot.

And it wouldn't take much work. It was becoming almost as difficult to concentrate as it was when he was actually on the meds, so the less work the better.

Right now, the cafeteria was set up like a powder keg, and O'Malley was about to light the fuse that would set it off.

Grif made another wheezy noise akin to an elderly elephant being kicked in the crotch.

"I don't want to go out there," he rasped in between. "Can't you just bring me my food, you're not as sick."

Simmons shook his head. "You know they'd only give me my lunch. And I'm not sharing with you, last time I did you ate everything before I could even pick up my orange juice."

"I was hungry."

"You're always hungry. Dumbass."

Grif followed Simmons, alternately grumbling and coughing. "Yeah, well... the day I lose my appetite is the day I see no point in living. So shut up."

Simmons opened his mouth to retort when Caboose went barrelling past them towards the cafeteria.

"Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap..."

"What the hell was that about?" Simmons asked.

"I dunno, but if something is going on in the cafeteria, maybe I'll have a chance to steal some fruit," Grif said optimistically. "Although, if it goes into a riot..."

"I'm carrying ten dollars I managed to bargain off an inmate in exchange for an old science fiction book. If it's a riot and we end up involved, I'll bribe the guard so he'll throw us in the same shoe cell," Simmons said, a small smile crossing his face.

"You'd risk a write-up?"

"For a moment of privacy? Fuck yes."

Grif grinned. "I love it when you plan ahead for something non-lame. Then what the hell are we waiting for?”

"You! Little dyed guy!"

Donut turned to see Miller standing behind him, arms crossed and looking furious, with a few other inmates backing him.

"You conniving little devil," Miller growled. "I knew there was something off about you and your damn questions."

"Um... ah. What? I don't know what you're talking about..." Donut said feebly.

"Oh shit," Tucker muttered under his breath.

"Shut up, Tucker. You were already on my shit list and sending this little guy with the bad dye job to get information had just bumped you right up to the... whatever is higher than the shit list."

"Uhm..."

"Well, you got Church thrown in the shoe," Tucker muttered. "And you're the ones who wouldn't stop starting the fights. I told you the thing with Jones was an accident!”

"Yes, let's all believe the conman." Miller glared back at Donut. "Look, shrimpy. You still don't seem like that bad a kid. I'm giving you a chance to get away from that crowd. You'd be better off, and not just because we're going to get you if you refuse."

Donut looked from Miller, who was standing there with his arms crossed, to Tucker, who was moving his macaroni off his tray, not looking at Donut and watching Miller out of the corner of his eye.

There was a pause, then Donut slowly shook his head. "I can't."

"Why? Because they're making you work with them using goddamn threats? Or because you just don't want to?"

"I don't want to. Please don't hurt me."

"Wuss," Tucker muttered under his breath.

Miller let out a long breath. At the same time, there was a crash from the other side of the room, near the cafeteria line. The two guards in the room, Tex and York, looked up, as did many of the inmates.

From where Donut was sitting, he saw a large man wearing an apron, the man who served the macaroni. He was shouting and waving around a tray. And he saw a flash of red hair.

"DuFresne?" Donut muttered under his breath.

Tucker looked at him. "What?"

"I just saw—"

There was a louder crash, as DuFresne rolled under a table and two other men, presumably friends of the man serving macaroni, jumped to their feet. Tex had removed her nightstick, shouting something indistinguishable. York was a little more hesitant to go near the inmates. More were starting to join in a struggle that largely seemed to be DuFresne against a good portion of the cafeteria, spurred on by the large macaroni server, and others that seemed to be joining in purely for an excuse to hit people.

Miller glanced sideways at the fighting, and the two very distracted guards. "Oh, that's going to turn into a full-scale riot... Might as well make the best of it."

Miller pulled back his fist and punched Donut full in the face. Tucker, who had already removed his food from his tray, used the tray to hit Miller over the head in retaliation. In the short time it took to do those two things, most of the people in the room had taken the opportunity to start punching people.

While Miller was disorientated from being hit over the head, Tucker grabbed Donut's arm and pulled him under the table.

"They'll put us under lockdown," Tucker shouted over the noise. "They have a thing that drops gas, but it'll probably take a couple of minutes for a guard to set it off. For that couple of minutes we've got Miller and his douchebags after us. Crawl this way!"

Donut crawled after Tucker, as Tucker tried to stay under the tables and as far away from Miller as possible. As Donut followed him, he heard a loud yell and saw a Grif-shaped blur tackle one of Miller's friends, who had been just a few inches away from Donut. It was the most physical thing he'd ever seen Grif do.

"Ow, my face." Grif rolled off the inmate, holding his nose. He crawled after Tucker and Donut, and the three of them hid under a table. "Hey. How's it going?" he asked casually, like there wasn't a full-scale riot going on around them.

"Thirty seconds into the riot. Not dead. Pretty good," Tucker said lightly. "Where's Simmons?"

"Huh? Oh shit..." Grif stuck his head out. "Uh... oh, there he is. Hey, Simmons! Wait up, we can go tackle the big macaroni guy! I owe him a black eye!"

Tucker shook his head, holding up his tray to deflect some macaroni as Grif climbed to his feet to go after Simmons. "Dumbasses. Okay... normally, me and Church would just sit back to back and hold trays to stop macaroni getting in our eyes, while Caboose punched people that got too close. Since Caboose isn't here..."

"Jelly Bean! Where are you?"

"Okay, so he is here. Grab a tray. Macaroni stings like a bitch.”

Donut reached his hand up, feeling around for a tray. The noise was deafening. He could see Grif and Simmons nearby. Grif had gone into another coughing fit and was doubled over, making the same dying elephant noises. Simmons had one hand on Grif's back, and was hitting anyone who got too close with a macaroni ladle he'd somehow acquired. Donut couldn't see Caboose, but he could certainly hear him shouting dessert-related names. While Donut scanned the crowd for him (he couldn't be too hard to spot, he usually towered over everyone else) he heard Tucker shout.

"Hey! Let go, you fucktar—hey!" Donut turned around to see Miller trying to drag Tucker out from under the table by his feet. "Let go, you mother—ow! Son of a bitch!" Tucker kicked the leg that Miller had just hit with a tray and crawled out. "Oh, that does it. You're going down!"

Donut did feel like he should help Tucker, even if they didn't get along. But he was also terrified, and he didn't want to get between two guys trying to beat each other to death with food trays. As Donut shifted away, holding his own food tray, he heard a voice behind him.

"Quite the commotion, wouldn't you say?"

"Why is this table a refuge for so many?" Donut muttered under his breath. "DuFresne, why did you start that?"

"What? I didn't start it. That man just has a temper. This way. Nice to see you out of the shoe and all that." DuFresne tugged on Donut's jacket, dragging him away from Tucker, who was currently sitting on top of Miller and hitting him with his tray.

"This. Is. For. Getting. Church. In. The. Shoe. You. Motherfucker!" Tucker shouted, punctuating each word with a blow.

"Wait! Where are we going?" Donut yelled.

"One minute and counting. Room will be... urk..." DuFresne doubled over and started making retching noises.

"You alright?"

"Epidemic. Not... ugh... not important. Room will be gassed any second now, and you don't want to be near Miller and his friends when that happens. Don't want to be caught in the back with anything, so back-to-back. Trays at the ready.”

Caboose stood on his toes and tried to see across the sea of orange jumpsuits.

"Sponge Cake! Where are you? Please don't be hurt!" he shouted over the crowd, pushing people out of the way as he made his way through. He felt people bump into him, and he was pretty sure someone hit him with a macaroni ladle at one point, but Caboose didn't really notice. He just pushed the guy holding the ladle into a wall and went on his way.

"Waffle! Tapioca Pudding!"

And then Caboose saw them. He saw Donut's blond hair. And then he saw familiar red hair next to it.

He saw Donut and O'Malley. Back to back. Helping each other.

No. No. No, he wouldn't help O'Malley, he wouldn't do that, but he was... Had he always been helping O'Malley? Was Tucker telling the truth that time? That Donut was helping O'Malley? That he really did get Tucker... and Church... stabbed?

Was... was he lying about being his friend? Was he just helping O'Malley the whole time?

Oh god, it was true! It's all true...

Donut ducked a carton of apple juice that came flying in his direction. He heard DuFresne chuckle. It was not a nice chuckle... It was strange. Familiar.

"I see your friend."

"Huh?" Donut turned to see Caboose. Standing not too far away, splattered in macaroni. He was staring at Donut, and... he looked hurt. Not physically hurt, even though there was macaroni jammed in his ear. But... he was looking at Donut like Donut had just punched him in the face.

Caboose stared for just one more moment before turning away and pushing his way through the crowd. Away from Donut.

"Why is he—"

Donut heard a shout and a hissing sound. Clouds of gas started appearing, and the noise dissolved into people choking on the gas. And among all that, he heard DuFresne start laughing.

Donut recognised the laugh.

Donut turned around to face DuFresne as the redhead kept roaring with laughter. Even as the gas spread and DuFresne's laughter turned into coughing, Donut could see DuFresne's face.

No. Not DuFresne.

"I wish I could take a picture of the look on your face right now," O'Malley chuckled in between the coughs. "It is... priceless.”

It had been five hours since the riot and Doc was still patching up those who had gotten injured. He'd started with those in critical condition. It was amazing how much damage the inmates could do with lunch trays, ladles and a decent amount of macaroni.

He'd lost patients that day. Darn, and he'd been on such a good streak...

The urgency of the situation was winding down. A couple of inmates (the ones he'd managed to keep alive for long enough) had been sent to the hospital, and the others remaining weren't in critical condition. Anyone that didn't have visible or urgent injuries had been sent to their cells and the prison had been put into lock down.

Still, Doc knew that some of them probably had internal injuries, and that they'd show up complaining of stomach aches and Doc would check them over and realise that their spleen had ruptured and they were about to die. And it would just go on and on and on...It was at days like this that Doc hated his job.

Mercifully, O'Malley wasn't there. He'd been dragged straight back to SHU, even though his bandages needed changing. Doc made a note to go down and check once he'd finished with the other patients. There wouldn't be much danger. O'Malley had been sedated this time around, and wouldn't be in much of a state to do anything besides staring at the wall and dribbling. Maybe a few disjointed words of conversation, but even if O'Malley tried anything he'd be so drugged that even Doc would be able to overpower him.

Doc didn't like sedating patients. Even ones like O'Malley. Sometimes they started to behave funny or end up depressed and stop eating, and with no food the problems just got worse and...

Doc tended to the remaining patients, as well as the prison guards that had been injured in the riot. No serious injuries among them, although York had been temporarily blinded in his remaining good eye by macaroni. That macaroni was far too dangerous to be served in a prison...

Since there were so many patients that day, by the time Doc had gotten rid of the last one it was so far past the time he normally left that it was only an hour before he would arrive on a regular day. On days like this, Doc would usually sleep in a chair until his usual arrival time. This time, he headed down towards SHU.

How could I be so stupid?

Donut sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. Fingers twisted in his hair. Trying to figure out how he could have fallen for O'Malley's act.

I knew there was something weird about him! He was so twitchy! He never told me anything about himself except he had a kidney infection and stole a truck... those were probably lies... Goddammit... I screwed up! I screwed up, and... jeez, that look on Caboose's face... it probably did look like I was helping the guy who goes around stabbing people... no problem. I just gotta explain the mistake, don't I?

"Donut. It's four a.m. Do you realise you're talking out loud?" Simmons mumbled from his cell.

"What? Oh... sorry, didn't realise."

"Yeah. Shut the fuck up," Grif complained. Grif had been annoyed since they'd been put in lock down, something about 'lost shoe time.'

"Sorry." Donut flopped back onto his bed, looking upwards at the ceiling. He just had to explain. Caboose would get it. Donut was sure of it.

Doc had no idea why he was doing this.

"I need to re-do his bandages and check that the sedatives aren't causing any problems," Doc said.

He should be sleeping in a chair. Not talking to insane ex-surgeons.

"You sure you want to?" North asked, fiddling around with the ring of keys, trying to find the right one. "I can probably change the bandages for you. Not that he's dangerous right now, but he did knock you out. How's your head, by the way?"

"Sore. But not that bad. And I think I should do it."

"Okay. Shouldn't have anything to worry about, he's quite passive right now. I checked. In a really professional way. Okay, me and South poked him with our nightsticks for a while. But for a professional reason. He didn't react much. Made serving his medication a lot easier. Why didn't we sedate him earlier?"

"Side effects."

"Right, right. Depression, not eating and such? I mean, I'm not going to be harsh like South and say that 'inmates getting depressed and dying of hunger isn't a problem, it's a solution.' Aha." North pulled out the right key. "Should have gotten York, it would have been quicker."

"Would have, but he got macaroni in his remaining eye and won't be able to see properly for the next couple of days," Doc sighed. "That stuff stings..."

"So, that's why you had to find me? I'm not even on my shift, I was going home."

"Sorry."

"It's fine, it's fine. Just get Wash or someone next time."

"No. Not Wash. ...At least not where O'Malley is concerned."

"You want me to wait out here for you?"

"It's okay. I'll lock it again when I leave."

Doc waited for North to leave before stepping inside O'Malley's cell. O'Malley was, indeed, staring at the wall placidly. He hadn't even twitched when the door opened. Doc crouched next to him.

"How're you feeling?" Doc asked. O'Malley didn't move or respond in any way for a few seconds.

"Buh," O'Malley finally responded.

"Um... good to hear. I was just... just checking on you. And I... kind of wanted to ask something. But I guess you're not really in the right frame of mind to be asked questions."

A few more seconds of silence. "Mm."

"I was just kind of wondering why you bothered leaving me on the cot and covering me in a blanket. Was it some sort of attempted murder? Because when North found me the blanket was really stuffy and I was having problems breathing. I think. I don't remember it... what with being knocked out at the time and everything."

O'Malley, once again, responded with a 'buh'.

"Yeah, I know. I'm probably being annoying."

"Guh."

"Thought so. Okay, well... I'll talk to you when you're in a better... state of mind."

"Doc."

"Yes. That's me. Well done. Wait, that's patronizing... hey, what?"

O'Malley had, very slowly, reached and grabbed Doc's coat. Which Doc mostly wore to appear more like a doctor. O'Malley was holding onto his coat, but it wasn't really threatening. Having moved away from the wall when he grabbed Doc's coat, O'Malley seemed to be having trouble keeping his balance and was largely using the coat as support. O'Malley was squinting at Doc's face, like he was trying to remember something.

"...Doc," O'Malley repeated.

"Yes. Did you want something?"

O'Malley kept squinting for a moment, before tugging Doc forwards. Doc, who was still crouching and had been trying to stop himself from falling over due to O'Malley clinging to his coat, lost his balance completely. And O'Malley moved as far forward as he could without falling over, smashing his lips against Doc's.

Of course, trying to kiss someone like that is not a good idea. It resulted in them also smashing noses, which of course resulted in Doc reeling back and holding his nose and completely confused about what had just happened. O'Malley, who still had a weak hold on Doc's coat and hadn't seemed to notice that he'd injured his nose yet again, let out a small chuckle. A clearly drugged chuckle, but a crazy chuckle nonetheless.

“Mine,” he said slowly.

That… really made Doc want to run for the hills.

“No. I'm… I'm not.” Doc yanked his coat away from O'Malley and fled the cell, making sure twice that the door was locked once he left.

As he walked, he wiped at his mouth and tried to get out the medicinal taste that O'Malley had left behind.

Donut thought it would be fine if he just explained the truth to Caboose. It turns out Caboose didn't want to listen to him.

"Go away."

"But, Caboose..."

"Go away."

"I didn't—"

"Go away."

"It was an accident!"

Caboose was sitting on his bed, arms crossed, looking determinedly in the opposite direction. Donut shifted from foot to foot, while mentally trying to get Caboose to look at him. If he had secret Jedi powers, this would be a great time for them to work.

"Yes. You working with O'Malley... who is a very big meanieface who nearly killed Church... was a complete accident. I do things like that accidentally all the time."

"Hey, if people can accidentally 'fall over' whenever you happen to be in the room, which sounds a lot more ridiculous than what I just said..."

"Did you just say I was a liar?"

Dye-Job, that was a shitty attempt at reconciliation. You're an idiot and your hair looks stupid.

Donut briefly paused to wonder why the voice in his head suddenly sounded like Church.

"Okay, I'm sorry. I just lost it for a moment..." Donut threw his hands up in the air. "Just listen, alright? O'Malley tricked me. When we were in the shoe, he put on a different voice and acted nice and said his name was DuFresne. And you know I had no idea what he looked like! Come on!"

Caboose breathed out slowly, still staring in the opposite direction.

"I... I do not believe you. You and O'Malley were back-to-back. Back-to-back! Like in the movies where only cowboy buddies in gunfights did that..."

"Yeah. Because I thought he was someone else."

"O'Malley cannot act nice."

"Well, he was a bit twitchy. But that was about it... I know, it was stupid. I'm not the brightest guy. Come on.”

Caboose tapped his fingers for a few moments before turning around.

"Okay... maybe... maybe I would believe you about that. But what about this?" Caboose held up the book Donut had read to him.

"Yeah? The Magician Who Had Fabulously Happy Times?"

"I asked Mrs. McCrabby. That is not what it says on the front. You lied."

"Well... I thought the story was too scary, and so I made up a story instead." Donut took a couple of steps closer to the cot. "Come on, you can't break off a friendship because of that. I just didn't want to scare you with disturbing stories like that one."

Caboose lowered the book. Even though he was facing in Donut's direction, he still wasn't looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the book.

"Friends?"

"Yeah..."

"I... then you did not help O'Malley that time?"

"I told you, I didn't know—"

"Not that. Tucker said... that you tricked me into leaving Church and Tucker alone. That is how O'Malley stabbed Church. And Tucker, too. I guess. But Church almost died. Tucker blamed it on you. I did not believe it. Because I thought... when you said we could play with the pigeons together... that you were just being friendly. And that does not happen much..." Caboose blinked quickly, rubbing his eyes. "I was happy."

Donut sat down on the cot. "Yeah... that was a fun time."

"Were you tricking me? Please... please tell me you were not tricking me." Now Caboose was staring at Donut. Staring at Donut with those huge eyes just when Donut really didn't want Caboose to look at him.

There was a long moment of silence.

Caboose nodded and looked away again, rubbing his eyes again. "That is what I thought."

"I'm... I'm sorry," Donut said quietly.

"No... it is okay. You... you do not have to pretend to be my friend any more. Can you leave now? ...I think we are done talking."

"Caboose, please... I said I was sorry. I was terrified of O'Malley, he made me!" Donut got to his feet. "I was scared! I didn't... mean for it to turn into such a clusterfuck..."

"Get out, Donut."

"You don't look well, York."

York couldn't see a thing, due to the fact that he was holding a cloth to his one good eye, which still stung from the macaroni that had been shoved into it several hours earlier. He was sitting outside the infirmary, and he recognised the voice right off.

"Well, I don't feel well either. Eye stings like hell. That's Wyoming, isn't it? I'd recognise that accent anywhere."

"Indeed." Wyoming approached York. "I was curious as to whether you could do me a favour or not."

"More goods?"

"Yes. Food and cigarettes, mostly. Although there was one item of an unusual nature. Will you be taking time off work due to your eye injury, chap?"

"As long as it takes me to be able to see again. Few days at most. I can't go home until Wash gets off work, though. He's my ride." York stretched his free arm above his head. "If you have the money, I'll get the items for you. As long as they're not illegal. It keeps everyone quiet, at least."

"Capital."

"On another note... you wouldn't have anything to do with yesterday's riot, would you?"

"Now, why would you think that?"

"I think it might be because you insisted to the Dakota twins that there was a fight going on in the yard which the guards out there couldn't stop and that they had to leave the cafeteria."

"Oh, well... that was just coincidence. The fight just happened to be resolved once they got there." Wyoming looked at the infirmary door. "Surely the aftermath of this riot isn't that bad, is it?"

"We lost inmates, and there's eight inmates sharing four cots and a table in there. That counts as fairly bad. ...I don't actually know if we're allowed to tell inmates, but you'd find out anyway, wouldn't you?"

"I do tend to hear everything, yes.”

The next week crawled by very, very slowly.

No-one really said much. It turned out that Grif had actually broken a rib during the riot, and hadn't realised it until the day after, thinking he'd just bruised his torso. Since there was still no room in the infirmary, he was spending most of his time in his cell under Doc's orders. Simmons spent almost all his time in Grif's cell, just chilling quietly with him.

Tucker actually seemed marginally happier since the riot. Perhaps because he had managed to beat up Miller with a tray. Miller was one of the many inmates in the infirmary at the moment. That must have cheered up Tucker. Also, it might have just been Donut's imagination, but he could swear Tucker wasn't being quite as mean to him as before. There were still insults aplenty, but it was almost like the riot, or maybe the amount of time they'd spent in each other's company since Church got locked in the shoe, had been a bonding experience of sorts.

Still, Donut would have traded back for the extra hate if he could get Caboose talking to him again. But Caboose hadn't spoken a word to him since he kicked Donut out of his cell a week ago.

It made for a lot of awkward moments. Mostly during meal times. At those times, both Donut and Caboose just ended up staring at their trays of food. Donut did try talking to Caboose on occasion, but Caboose refused to even acknowledge his presence any more. After a while, Donut just gave up.

Besides, if Caboose had started hating him like he hated Tucker, which Donut figured was a pretty strong chance, then he really didn't want to annoy Caboose too much. He really didn't want to be strangled, or have his head smashed in, or something just as lethal.

As Donut sat in the yard, frowning at the wall, he heard footsteps and a familiar British voice.

"So glad I found you, old chap." Wyoming sat down next to him, holding an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He was carrying a paper bag, and going through it with one hand.

"What's in the bag?"

"Various items. Cigarettes and food, mostly. But I have what you requested, Franklin. May I call you Franklin?"

"Uh, I guess." Though, Donut couldn't recall the last time someone had called him Franklin. Even his mothers called him Donut. How did Wyoming even know his name was Franklin?

"It would have been delivered quicker under normal circumstances, but due to that hubbub last week it was delayed somewhat. My apologies," Wyoming said formally, tossing a smaller paper bag into Donut's hands.

"It's fine." Donut peeked into the bag. "Oh, that's perfect. Don't know if he'll want to take it any more but... thanks a lot."

"My pleasure.”

"Um, Caboose?"

Caboose had been lying on his cot and staring up at the ceiling. He didn't want to leave his cell at the moment. Partly because he was still prone to sneezing fits. But mostly because he wasn't talking to Donut any more, and since Church was still sitting in the sneaker there wasn't really anyone else around to talk to. Grif and Simmons got annoyed if he followed them around too much, and Tucker was too stupid and too much of a hippokite to talk to.

Caboose sat up to see Donut standing outside his cell again, shifting from foot to foot and holding a paper bag. He looked nervous. That was all that Caboose had time to register before he pulled the thin blanket over his head so he wouldn't have to look at Donut.

He heard Donut walk closer to the cot, and felt him place the paper bag on it.

"I know you don't want to talk to me, but... I just thought you might like this."

Caboose didn't answer him. Just ignore him and he will go away. That was what his mama always said.

“It's just... you said you liked having something to hug. And you said you liked pigeons, but since Wash kept taking them away... uh. You know. Anyway, I'll... um. I'll just leave now. Sorry again."

Ignoring always worked. It was almost as good at working as hurting people. But hurting people was bad. Although, that is what Donut said, and Donut was lying about everything else... But Caboose didn't think Church liked him hurting people, either. And Church would not lie. Not like Donut.

Caboose heard Donut leave the cell, heard his footsteps get quieter. Caboose removed the blanket from over his head, looking at the paper bag Donut had left behind. Curious, he reached out and gently tipped the contents onto the bed.

It was a stuffed toy pigeon.

Caboose picked it up gingerly, turning it over in his hands. It was very soft and cuddly. A lot more cuddly than the pigeons he had kept in his cell before, the ones that Washingtub kept taking because they were 'unsanitary.' Whatever that meant. And this pigeon didn't smell as bad, although it did smell a little bit like cigarette smoke...

Normally, Caboose would hug any stuffed toy as soon as he picked it up. This time, he just stared at it suspiciously.

"You are some kind of trick," he muttered to the pigeon. "You cannot fool me. Donut brought you here. And you smell like cigarettes. Cigarettes make you die." Caboose turned the pigeon around so it was facing away from him and placed it back on the cot. "Cannot trick me. Not again."

He crossed his arms and stared at the pigeon, waiting for it to do something that would prove it was some sort of trick. Not quite realising that, as a toy pigeon, it wasn't going to move at all.

After several minutes, the possibility that this was not a trick came into Caboose's head. But even if it wasn't a trick, he didn't want anything in his cell that would make him think of Donut. He'd already hidden the library book under his bed. He did not want to have to hide more things. And there was still an underlying urge to rip the pigeon's head off, because Caboose was still so sure it was a trick. Things can't play tricks if they don't have heads.

But it looked so cuddly...

Caboose continued to shun the pigeon, but his love of stuffed toys and pigeons was getting to him. After several more minutes, Caboose turned the pigeon around to face him again.

"You are not going to do tricks?" he asked the pigeon.

The pigeon didn't reply.

Caboose nodded. "Okay. You... you can stay. But only because I need something to talk to."

Caboose picked up the pigeon and hugged it, although he was still regarding the pigeon with distrust.

"You would be... Margretta the Fourth. Yes. That is right." Caboose settled back to lying on the cot, hugging the pigeon close and absentmindedly patting it. It was very cuddly.

He lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "If you do anything mean and tricky, I will rip your head off. Okay?"

The toy pigeon still didn't reply. But Caboose decided it had gotten the message.

Sarge dropped the phone on the receiver angrily.

"Damn families. A few inmates die, and suddenly it's 'how could you let my son die' or 'why is my husband hurt so' or 'why aren't you guards doing your job.' Buncha whiners. We're doing a great job! And the less inmates, the better! That means less criminals, and that means crime rates go down! What do they know, we're workin' hard."

"Yes, we are. Got any fives?" Flowers asked, holding a hand of cards.

"Go fish, ya dirty Blue."

"Sarge, the name-calling isn't very motivational."

"Just keep playin,' Girlilocks." The phone rang again. "Goshdarn whiners. Can ya tell them I'm in a meeting?"

"That's dishonest, Sarge. And dishonesty only brings down the team."

"Just do it, pansy. And put on a girly voice. Secretaries are always women." Sarge picked up the phone and held it out to Flowers, who picked it up. This wasn't the first time Sarge insist Flowers pretend to be a female secretary. It was far too easy for Flowers to slip into a feminine voice.

"Hello, ma'am. I'm sorry, but Sarge is in a meeting right now. Oh, of course I'm referring to the warden. ...No, it isn't a strange title, that's his actual name. Can I take a message?" After a long pause. "Thank you for your concern. Good-bye." Flowers hung up and immediately switched back to his normal voice. "She demanded to know about her husband's injuries and also said to call you an insane dumbass. She was quite loud."

"Right. Don't care."

The phone rang again. Flowers picked it up without being asked.

"Hello. I'm sorry, but Sarge is in a meeting right now. No, I'm not just pretending to be the secretary. Can I take a message? ...oh." Flowers covered the mouthpiece. "It's your wife. She recognised my 'secretary voice.'"

"Oh, codfish. Not again.”

Chapter Text

Church

Church had no clue what he was doing. He had no clue where they were going. He'd never say it out loud, because he didn't want to frighten Eddie, but he had no plan except to keep running.

That's all they'd been doing for the past couple of weeks. Jumping on trains, buses, whatever... just trying to get away from what they'd left behind. They'd crossed states, and still they didn't stop except at night, because a nineteen-year-old carrying around a six-year-old at nighttime would just raise questions... But during the day, they just kept running.

But Church knew they couldn't run forever. Eddie was too exhausted and Church wasn't doing so well himself. So now Church walked the streets, looking for somewhere cheap to stay. He was carrying Eddie, who was sleeping and dribbling on his shoulder. He was heavy. Church shifted Eddie's weight to his other arm, though both arms ached at this point.

Church had known they couldn't run forever, but what were they going to do? If they hadn't discovered Church's father yet, it would only be a matter of time. And then what was going to happen?

He knew one thing. They couldn't keep wandering as Leonard and Eddie Church. They needed new names. New identification. They needed the sort of things that would allow them to start a new life with no questions, but where did they get that?

That was why Church gravitated towards the city, because everyone knew that the place was crime-riddled. God knows why so many people lived there. He'd go, find somewhere to hide Eddie, and then he'd explore.

He got Eddie to hide while he paid for a motel room with money he'd stolen a few days ago, then he'd snuck Eddie in so the woman renting out rooms wouldn't ask why he was carrying around a six-year-old. Then he explained, in the most basic terms, what he planned to do.

Eddie didn't like it.

"You're leaving me here?"

"Just for a few hours!" Church sighed and ran his fingers through his hair nervously. He didn't like that terrified expression on Eddie's face. "It'll be fine. This is a safe part of the city, gangsters aren't going to kick down the door or anything."

"I'm scared."

"Don't be. We'll be fine. I just need to check some things in a scarier place, you'll be much safer here."

"But... But you are going somewhere scary. That's why I'm scared. What if you don't come back?" Eddie asked, his voice shaking.

"I'm not abandoning you. Alright?" Church hugged Eddie tightly. "And there's no fucking—ah, sorry... no way that I'm letting anyone stop me from getting back here. I don't want to leave you here, believe me. I just got no choice. You can be a big boy about this, right?"

Eddie nodded. "Okay... I will stay in the room and be a big boy."

"Good." Church ruffled his hair. "There's some food in my bag, just eat that if you get hungry. Eat that, then get some rest. I'm pretty sure you need some sleep.”

Church knew he could use a goddamn nap.

Church may have been robbing houses for six years, but until two weeks ago he'd never done anything criminal beyond that. Hell, he'd never even done minor things like underage drinking. When would he have the time to do crap like that? He'd been the only thing holding his home together, and even then it was like the home was being held together with really shitty glue. So it wasn't like he really had any time to do anything beyond stealing what they needed to get by and caring for Eddie.

So even though nothing too eventful had happened during that first stroll through the more suspicious areas of the city, Church had been scared shitless the entire time.

It had been noisy and smelly and he was pretty sure he heard gunshots a couple of times. At one point he had to run because he offended a group of gang members that he'd assumed would know where to find a fake ID, since they all looked much younger than twenty-one and smelt like a mixture between strong alcohol and fuel.

It had, incidentally, been a bar that Church had finally found some information. Some hangout for cons. He'd seen a lady who looked far below the legal drinking age—he'd thought the lady, C.T, was like fourteen, although she'd insisted she was twenty after some prodding—and she'd pointed him in the direction of someone who made fake identification.

However, she'd charged for the information. It had cost Church what little money he had left. So when Church finally reached the apartment of the man who the bartender had recommended – at three in the morning no less – the man, named Jimmy, had been less than pleased.

"You wake me up at three in the morning, claiming that you need fake identification, records, the whole shebang, for both you and a kid brother... and you don't even have ten cents to your name?" Jimmy said slowly.

"I can pay you back later."

"No can do, buddy. You pay upfront or you don't get anything." Jimmy attempted to close the door on Church, but Church jammed his foot in to stop him. He then discovered that it hurt a lot more than it looked.

After two solid minutes of hopping around and swearing, Jimmy ended up letting him into the apartment while Church regained use of his foot. Mostly because Church had woken up half the apartment building with his torrent of creative language and had attracted a lot of unwelcome attention doing so.

"I'll pay you back, man. But I really need this stuff. Like, now. I can't wait a couple of months. We don't have that kind of time!"

"You could be planning to run off without paying. Or you could be planning to hand the evidence over to the cops. A lotta cops in this area already know and just let it slide because we're a good lead on the real nasty cases, but not all of them." Jimmy sat down opposite from Church, squinting at Church through sleep-deprived eyes. "Sorry, I'd like to help, but this is a risky business I'm in. No money, no deal."

"There's gotta be something I can do. Just... I don't care what. Anything, I don't fucking care," Church said desperately. "If it was just me I'd wait it out, but..."

"I hear you." Jimmy scratched his head thoughtfully. "Well... You got any criminal experience?"

"Just breaking into houses."

"Hm. Greenhorn. Right. But... if you needed money that bad, I bet I could find a quick job for you. The employer would just pass the money straight to us. It'd probably be done within a few hours."

Church crossed his arms. "What kind of work?"

"Since you're already experienced at B&E, probably that. Sure there's something, hold on. Lemme get Mickey, he'll be able to contact someone who knows most of the jobs going around..."

"I can't do it during the day. I gotta keep a watch on Eddie. I don't want to have to explain why there's a six-year-old in the motel room."

"You could leave him with Sigma. He lives upstairs. He's our go-to guy for all the ID photos and forgery stuff, anyway, so you'll need to visit him anyway. He can even dye your kid's hair and everything so that he won't be instantly recognizable."

"You're suggesting I leave my brother with a complete stranger?"

"Sigma's trustworthy. ...Well, kind of. He doesn't do bad stuff pointlessly. He's not going to kidnap him or hurt him. There's no reason to, you haven't pissed off anyone nor do you have anything we want. Already know you have no money. Besides, we're not assholes."

"What if you're gonna rat us out to the cops?"

"That'd involve explaining why you ended up here. Look, you want work or not? And do you want to risk leaving Eddie alone in a motel? Because I ain't seen a nice motel in this city yet, even on the good side of town. Cockroaches everywhere."

Church sighed, scratching his head. "Guess not. Already afraid of cleaners wandering in or some shit."

Roughly nineteen hours after his first meeting with Jimmy, Church had a job.

The first part was easy. Find the house. Only difficult because Mickey had written down the address and he had terrible handwriting. Apparently, Jimmy and Mickey did own a printer, but it'd been lost under the piles of paper and other garbage they had lying around.

Getting into the window was hard. Most of the windows were higher up than what he was accustomed to. It was a nice, spacious house. Whoever owned it had some fancy job. Might have been a doctor or something, hospitals were definitely involved.

Church had tried to get in through the tiny little windows that led into what was presumably the basement, but they seemed to have been sealed from the inside. In the end, he had to sneak away to a nearby house and borrow a ladder. Awkward.

Church winced as the ladder made a clanking sound while being propped up against the wall of the house. He hoped that hadn't woken the owner up. Jimmy said there was about fifty percent chance of him being out of the house. Church hoped he wasn't there, but his luck hadn't been great lately.

Church crept through the house, freezing every time there was a creak from the floorboards. It felt like an eternity before he arrived at the study. Much like the room Jimmy and Mickey ran their business in, it was covered with files. But it was much neater, with medical books stacked neatly here and there, and a row of file cabinets at the back. As Church edged in, he thought he heard a small clunk, but when he stopped to listen (prepared to run for it) he didn't hear anything else.

The note had told him to look in the bottom drawer of the third cabinet to the left. Church opened it, but all he found at first was a few medical books and a book on the keeping of parrots. Frustrated, Church felt around the bottom just in case he was missing something and found that the bottom was removable. Underneath was a small package wrapped in white paper.

Church didn't have a clue what was in the package. But it was in the right drawer and hidden in a way so that it was clear the owner didn't want it found. It had to be the right item.

Church shoved the package into his bag and sidled out of the room... only to hear a click behind him and feel a cold, metal barrel pressed to the back of his head.

“Well, hello,” said the man standing behind him.

"Shit," Church muttered.

"Shit, indeed. You little thieves are just getting boring. I was expecting someone who wouldn't make such an amateur mistake. You didn't even give a cursory glance before coming out of that room. Disappointing." Despite the mildly melodramatic sigh that followed this, the man sounded giddy with excitement. "Who sent an amateur like you here? Another poor man in need of a few dollars, hired through Delta's little grapevines?"

Church didn't know who the hell Delta was, or who the fuck had a name like that. He shoved the thoughts away. This wasn't the time. Church didn't say anything, he just stayed perfectly still. The man behind him let out a very short laugh.

"You're a quiet one. The others started panicking immediately. Interesting."

Church supposed that everything just wasn't as scary now that he'd slashed his father's throat.

"Stay still, unless you want a hole in your head. I'm sure you don't want that. So... what are you going to do? You could scream for help, you could try to fight, you could just have a lie down... I'm open to suggestions."

Great. He'd gotten the crazy guy. He was going to murder Jimmy if—when—he got back.

Church's eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape. He looked at the window he'd climbed through and realise it had been shut and locked. That explained the small clunk sound.

"Are you going to choose a suggestion? Or should I just hit you over the head and tie you up? ...Are you going to ignore me? So rude. That decides the matter, then."

Church felt the metal barrel of the gun lift from his head for a moment, before the man brought it down on his head.

When Church came to, his hands were tied behind his back. The ropes dug into his wrists, and it hurt like hell. He heard some humming behind him, but then it was interrupted by grumbling.

"Curses. Ran out of rope. Where'd I leave the rest of it? Did I... right, with the last one..." There was a momentary pause, then the man prodded Church with his foot. Church didn't move, mostly because he was very dizzy. "Hm."

Church heard the man's footsteps walk away from him, and a door slam. Church blinked a few times to try and get rid of the dizziness.

He had to get out. He had to get back.

Church rolled over to see if the man was gone. He was. He'd likely thought Church was unconscious, or too stunned to move at least.

Church rocked back and forth a little, trying to get enough momentum to sit up. Eventually, he managed it. His feet hadn't been tied. That was probably what the man needed more rope for. Who knew. Church didn't plan to hang around and find out.

Church struggled to his feet, his arms still tightly bound behind his back. That was going to make things difficult. Especially since he was losing feeling in his hands.

Church glanced around. The doors were probably locked as well. The window was his best chance. Maybe he could break the glass with something. Church spotted his bag. It was lying on a table nearby. Church turned around and grabbed it with his slightly numb hands. He wasn't leaving it behind, not after all the shit he went through to get the stuff inside. Unless it was a choice between keeping the bag and staying alive. Then Church was going to choose staying alive.

Church bumped his shoulder against the glass and resisted the urge to swear. This was going to hurt. He needed something to toss through the window so he didn't kill himself on the glass. Church moved towards a nearby lamp...

“Running away? Tsk tsk,” Church heard the man say from the doorway. Church looked up. The gun was aimed at him again. He could actually see the man this time. A red-haired man in his thirties. Apart from the crazy smile, he looked almost normal.

Huh. He was expecting some old guy with an evil mustache or something.

"Get away from the window, uh... I never caught your name," the man mused.

"Fuck off, ginger."

"Oh, that's harsh. Harsh. I'm hurt. Truly." The man gestured at the window with his gun. "Step away."

Church stared at the barrel of the gun, then his gaze darted to the window.

This was going to fucking hurt.

Church took a couple of steps away from the window... then abruptly charged back and hurled himself right through the glass. He felt a searing pain through his right leg, and his brain flipped out.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, he'd been shot, oh god! Then Church hit the ground hard, which hurt even more because he'd landed on broken glass.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Church groaned. He was alive, though. That was something. He tried to struggle to his feet, expecting his right leg to stop him, before realising that he hadn't actually been shot. There'd been no noise. He'd just scraped his leg against the edge of the glass. On top of that, he was somehow still holding the bag.

Guess Lady Luck hadn't completely kicked him in the balls.

Church hobbled a few steps before breaking out into a strange, jerky run. He kept looking back, seeing whether the man was following him. Church knew perfectly well that if it came to a proper chase, Church wouldn't win. But every time Church looked back, he didn't see anyone.

After Church had made it a few blocks away, he stopped and slipped into another person's shed, looking for something sharp to get the rope off. After a few minutes of rubbing the rope on some kind of electric saw, Church freed his hands and returned to running, even though his leg just burned more by the minute.

He needed to get back to Eddie before something else happened.

Church spent ten minutes straight yelling at Jimmy. After those ten minutes, Jimmy was mildly apologetic.

"I said I was sorry, alright? I didn't realise he was that, you know..." Jimmy traced circles around his ear with his index finger. "I haven't sent anyone else there, though like you said... it was something Delta sent me."

"Who the fuck is Delta?”

"A guy."

"Oh, that's specific." Church was holding a bunch of paper towels to his bleeding leg, hissing angrily every time he moved. God, that stung like a bitch. He was never jumping out of a closed window again. He wrapped a bandage around it once most of the blood had been wiped off, although the job was rather haphazard.

Jimmy was fiddling with the package that Church had stolen. He unwrapped it and took a peek inside. Church couldn't see the contents. Jimmy nodded and closed the package up again.

"Well, you grabbed the right thing. So you got the job done. We'll have your ID and other papers finished by tomorrow. Just lay low until then, alright?" Jimmy held the package out to him. "Will you take this up to Sigma, since you're picking up your kid anyway? He'll also need to take photos for your ID."

"Right, whatever," Church grumbled, snatching the package and heading out of the apartment.

He climbed the stairs and knocked on the door to Sigma's apartment. It only took a moment for the door to open an inch, although it was still locked with a chain from the inside. Sigma peered out at him, his eyes darting around and checking the surroundings.

"You weren't followed?" he asked quietly.

"Pretty sure I wasn't, or else that nutjob would have tried to tie me up again," Church said. "Let me in already."

Sigma unlocked the door. "I should apologise, but it pays to be safe. Make yourself at home."

"Yeah, not much of a chance. Where's Ed—Jesus Christ, my eyes."

Church hadn't actually stepped into Sigma's apartment before he left Eddie there, and thus hadn't seen that it was painted in the most eye-watering bright shade of orange he could imagine. Sigma had then painted over that with various murals in all the colours of the rainbow, and every piece of furniture was covered in homemade tablecloth and blankets. It looked like what would happen if Van Gogh and a crazy old cat lady had bought an apartment together. Church felt like if he didn't squint his eyes would start bleeding.

"Seriously, what the hell," Church muttered.

"Blank wallpaper and surfaces have no use, and canvases are expensive," Sigma said. "Complain if you must. But Eddie doesn't seem to have a problem with it." He pointed at the further end of the room. Eddie was sitting on the floor, fingerpainting on a spare bit of wall with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm. Paint coated his hands all the way up to the elbows and he was wearing a tie-dye bandana on his head.

Church tilted his head and watched Eddie paint what looked like... well, a blob with other blobs around it.

"I think he has talent," Sigma said, smiling a little as he tried to wipe paint off his own hands. At a direct contrast with his apartment, Sigma had a very tidy appearance. Bald and dressed in plain, black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The only part that was unusual were the eyes, which were such a light shade of brown that they appeared orange.

"Uh, great. I guess?" What good was learning how to throw paint at walls? Church stepped across the room, dodging a coffee table with a patchwork blanket on it, and headed towards Eddie. Eddie heard him approach and turned around. Upon seeing Church, he immediately beamed happily and ran towards him.

"Leo! Leo! Me and Sigma made lots of paintings. I painted a cow and a bird and a monkey and a dog and—“

"Er, that's nice, Eddie." Church looked at the various blobs as Eddie pointed at them, then back at Eddie, who was jumping around and clinging to Church's shirt, getting multi-coloured hand prints all over Church's shirt in the process.

He looked happier than he'd been in months. Years, even. Maybe there was some good in throwing paint at the walls.

Sigma finished wiping paint off his hands, although there were still little bits of blue and red that hadn't come off, before wandering into the bathroom and opening a cupboard. He stared into the cupboard for a few moments, hands tucked neatly behind his back, before he said, "So, Leonard... do you have any favourite colours?"

"What? Uh... blue, I guess."

"Which blue? Cobalt? Teal?"

"What the hell does it matter?"

"I need to dye your hair before we take the ID photo."

"I'm not dying my hair blue!"

"Are you sure?" Sigma questioned, holding up a bottle. "Your brother liked it. Well, he couldn't choose between blue, pink and purple."

Church raised an eyebrow, before looking down at Eddie and removing the tie-dye bandana from his head. He immediately choked.

"Buh... wha... what the fuck?! What the fuck did you do to Eddie's hair?"

"He couldn't decide, so I dyed it three colours. I thought it was a good compromise."

"No! No, no, no..."

"I like it," Eddie said happily, jumping up and down so that his pink, blue and purple hair shook cheerfully.

"Guhhh." Church covered his face with one hand. "How is that supposed to make him look inconspicuous?"

"Didn't say it would. The aim is not to be recognisable." Sigma raised an eyebrow. "Were you looking at his face just then?"

"...No?"

"Precisely. So, cobalt hair?"

Church let out another annoyed grunt. "God. No. No, just... normal hair colours, dammit!"

Sigma gazed back into the bathroom cupboard before picking up another bottle. "Blond?"

"Okay, a normal colour that isn't blond. I don't want to look like a Californian surfer.”

O'Malley stood on the sidewalk, gazing up at the apartment block that Jimmy lived in.

By the time he'd gotten out of the house and started tracking the thief, it had been in too open of an area to just stab him. O'Malley would have shot him beforehand, but the gun he'd been waving around hadn't been loaded. He'd never needed it on such short notice before. So with no other options, he'd tracked the man and hoped he'd go somewhere where he could be dealt with.

If he was at Jimmy's, however, then the package had probably be passed on. It was likely too late. That was not something that pleased him. The only plus side is he was forewarned. He could clear his house of any stolen drugs from the hospital--as well as any other suspicious items, such as... well, corpses--before anyone came around to check. It might not save his job, but it couldn't hurt.

In any case, he knew where the thief had gotten the job from now. Jimmy was going to regret that.

O'Malley heard a faint yell and recognised the thief's voice. O'Malley smiled wider before turning around and making his way back to his home.

No-one stole from O'Malley without ramifications.

Grif and Simmons

Simmons had always taken a long time to make up his mind. Just deciding on his cereal took about ten minutes.

It had taken him about three seconds to decide that he wanted to strangle Grif.

He was always smoking and hammering on Simmons' door to ask why there was only two-minute noodles in the cupboard and bitching about having to walk up and down so many stairs even though they were only on the second floor. Not that Sister was much better. Especially with her habit of going through the medicine cabinet for old prescription pills. And both siblings had a habit of being too lazy to put on all of their clothes. Simmons kept walking in on Grif wearing no pants, or Sister deciding that shirts were too constraining. Nearly gave Simmons a heart attack.

There was also the fact that both siblings had a habit of barging into Simmons' room without knocking. And Simmons didn't like people doing that, especially when he was working. Which he nearly always was.

When Grif returned back to the apartment after a long day of pretending to clean the building he worked at, he walked in on Simmons attempting to remedy this problem.

"Why are you putting a lock on your door?"

Simmons glanced in Grif's direction briefly before continuing. "Well, neither you or your sister seems to remember the whole 'stay out of my room' rule, especially when you're both high on whatever. So, I decided the lock was necessary."

"First off, I am barely ever high. I smoke really occasional weed, I'm not on five hundred things like Sister is. And secondly, you're so twitchy about your privacy. I only ever went in there when you were in there."

"So?"

"Eh... The lengths someone will go to protect their porn collections..."

"It's not porn!" Simmons snapped.

Grif snorted. "Sure. Need any help?"

"No. I'm almost done. I can put a lock on without any help..." Simmons muttered under his breath. Grif didn't move, so Simmons glared at him. “Do you want something?”

“Yeah, I'm bored and hungry. Come on, let's go get some food or something. I haven't eaten anything but noodles in the last three days."

"Fine. Go."

"I meant for you to come with."

"No. I'm working."

"Aw, don't be such a nerd. Your lock isn't going to vanish if you're not here. Come on, it's been ages since I properly hung out with someone who wasn't Sister. And since you haven't left your room in three days and you seem to live on noodles... doesn't really look like you have a great social life, either."

"I like it that way! Go away, you cockbite!”

"I'll leave you alone for a week!"

Simmons considered this for a few moments. "Deal. Just give me ten minutes to finish this lock."

"Alright, but if you're not out here in ten I take back the 'alone-for-a-week' deal."

Simmons waited for Grif to leave before returning to fiddling with the lock, grumbling.

Next time, he was going to pick unsocial nerds for roommates.

"Dude. How can you not eat steak? Steak is amazing. Burgers are amazing. Chicken is amazing. What are you, nuts?" Grif took a bite of his steak sandwich. "Seriously. Much better," he mumbled through his mouthful of bread and meat.

"Vegan," Simmons muttered, poking at his pancakes. They'd argued the whole way over about where to go for food, and had eventually settled at this cafe because they had the option of vegan pancakes. Pancakes were good at any part of the day, but after a long time of practically living off noodles, Simmons wasn't sure if his stomach could process something as solid as pancakes anymore. "And don't talk with your mouth full. It's gross."

"Yeah, whatever." Grif propped his chin on his hands, staring at Simmons. After a few minutes of silence, Grif said, "You still mad at me? Is this because of the ride over?"

"You drive like a crazy person!"

"Yeeeah... that's what Sister says. Bunch of babies, the lot of you.” Grif swallowed another huge mouthful of steak sandwich. Simmons was both amazed and disgusted at how much Grif could fit in his mouth. Mostly disgusted. "Oh man. Needed that."

Simmons grunted, cutting the pancakes into small, methodological slices.

"You eat like a prissy old lady," Grif observed.

"Fuck you."

"You're not big on cooking, are you?"

"I have no clue how. Dad said cooking was for women and when I moved out I didn't have time to learn."

"Yeah. And living off noodles is manly?"

"I... shut up. Not like he was always right. Did you always agree with your dad?"

"Well, I didn't always agree with Mum... and she did have a beard so sometimes people mistook her for our dad..."

"...Your mother had a beard?"

"Uh. No? Crap... that slipped out." Grif went bright red. "Forget I said anything."

Simmons grinned at him. "How can I forget that? Seriously? Your mother was a bearded lady?"

"Well... yeah. She kind of... joined the circus when I was thirteen."

"How can you 'kind of' join the circus?"

"Shut up."

Simmons chuckled. "Heh. Almost makes my family seem normal."

"Dude, any family is normal compared to having a missing dad and a circus freak as a mother who ran off and left you and your sister in foster care."

"Exactly."

"What was yours like, then? If a family being weirder is such a big thing?" Grif grumbled, picking up some of his fries and dipping them in his thickshake. Simmons wrinkled his nose at Grif's eating habits.

"Uh... hard to explain.”

"Oh, bullshit."

"Well, basically... they were so 'normal' that they... weren't normal? You ever seen those old-time advertisements which always had the perfect family on them? Like that."

There was a few moments of silence. Then Grif said, "Ergh, creepy."

"I know. Figured they were all robots and I was left on their doorstep or something."

"And yet you have a shelf full of books about robots."

"Yeah. Kinda weird, I guess."

Grif shrugged. "Okay, so we both have weird-ass families. Mine is still freakier, so in your face."

"Great. So this is a contest now?"

"Yeah. Winner gets the others' last pancake."

"You didn't get pancakes, that isn't fair... Besides, you so obviously win. I mean, my family is weird precisely because they're so 'normal.'"

"Exactly. Hand the pancake over.”

"I never agreed to that!" Regardless, Grif's hand grabbed one of the pancakes before Simmons could protest further. "Hey!"

After a couple of bites, Grif wrinkled his nose. "...Ergh. I can taste the... veganness. Can't you eat real pancakes?"

"Shut up. Those are real pancakes."

"Oh thank god, steady land!" Simmons gasped, pushing the car door open and stumbling out. "Jesus, I thought you were gonna park up a tree or something."

"You're just making a big deal out of nothing. 'Grif, stop speeding. Grif, you drove through a red light. Grif, stop trying to drive on two wheels.' Man, you bitch something awful," Grif complained. "Jeez, I didn't get us killed. We're fine."

"Great. Great. I'm living with a crazy person. Great. I'm just gonna go barricade my door so you can't get in anymore."

Simmons heard Grif's footsteps behind him. "Or you could just get a lock on the door, y'know? Then you wouldn't have to carry wood up all twenty-something floors."

"For the last time, we're on the second fucking floor! There's probably only twenty or thirty steps!"

"That's still a lot of steps..."

"Hold that thought, I still have motion sickness..." Simmons held out his hand, trying to stop the world from moving. "Jeez, I think I'm gonna throw up..."

"Hey, Grif. Hey, bathrobe guy," Sister greeted them cheerily a couple of hours later, wandering in through the door holding a bag of what seemed to be several bottles of strange-coloured alcohol. "What'd you do today?"

"Simmons is a wuss," Grif muttered.

"Grif's insane," Simmons insisted.

"He can't hold his food after just a tiny five-minute car ride. I had to hold back his hair while he vomited!"

"Not my fault! Grif drives insanely, it's like being on a roller coaster that's just gone off the rails!”

Sister looked at the both of them. "So, it was a good day?"

Simmons groaned. "You're all insane."

"And yet you're sitting out here watching television instead of locking yourself in your room," Grif pointed out.

"Yeah, well... shut up."

Simmons had to admit, although the life-threatening car rides and subsequent loss of lunch had been horrible, the actual lunch hadn't been that bad. Maybe it was just because it had been practically the only long unnecessary conversation Simmons had had with, well, anyone for the last four years.

Maybe Simmons could get used to having insane people as roommates. Although next time he was going to walk. He was not getting in that deathtrap that Grif called a car again.

"Bill... bill... junk mail..." Simmons muttered, tossing various letters on the table. Just regular everyday stuff... until he came across an envelope that had nothing but Simmons' name and address typed on it. That was a little odd.

Simmons tore the letter open carefully as Grif stumbled in, looking only half-awake. He unfolded the letter. There wasn't much on it, just a few typed sentences.

'To Richard Simmons, also known as Cyborg.2.0,

'Please do not send or copy onto disc any programs intended to affect our computer systems negatively. It is most unwelcome and would require us to take action against you. This action would possibly involve violence. Since you were commissioned to do so, we will not take action this time. But as the arrival of this letter indicates, we do know it was you, where you live, etc.

'Do not do it again.'

Printed at the bottom was some kind of Greek letter. Simmons frowned a little at the symbol. He knew that sign. There was only one hacker alias he knew of which involved a Greek letter.

"Something up, Simmons?"

Simmons shook his head, crumpling up the letter. "Nothing at all."

He made a note to never do any work that affected Delta from now on, regardless of how well it paid.

Tucker

When Tucker entered C.T's bar, there were fewer people than at night. Most of them were probably out pulling their stunts. There were a few people around, although the only ones Tucker recognised was C.T and Smith, who were talking at the bar. Not that Tucker could understand them, as they were conversing entirely in Sangheili. When C.T spotted Tucker, she waved him over.

“Hey, Lavernius.”

“Tucker.”

“Right. How are the jobs going?”

Tucker shrugged. "I guess it could be worse. Learned some tricks off that Gary guy. Although he's pretty weird. If I hear one more knock-knock joke I'm gonna shoot myself in the head just to make it stop."

C.T snorted. "Join the club. The jokes get old really fast. But what you learn off Gary is worth it, when you're not sitting through that 'orange you glad I didn't say banana' joke for the hundredth time. So... things are okay but not great, is that right?"

"Yeah. I've been paying someone to let me sleep in their laundry room. Which is crap. You ever woken up after five hours next to a washing machine? Hurts like a bitch. But I can't afford to pay the rent on an apartment yet."

"I can help with that."

"Is this another 'pay me for the information' thing?"

"No.” C.T leaned on the counter, resting her chin on one hand. “I need help with something, and I'm not going to lie... this is going to be one awkward con, especially for a newbie. So if you say no, then that's fine. First off... you're sixteen, right?”

Tucker squinted at her. “Yes?”

"Good, then this won't be breaking any laws about the age of consent. Sit down."

"Wait, wait, wait. Age of... you better not be pimping me out. I don't—"

"Calm down. Let me explain. Appletini without the tini?"

"Sure."

"In answer to your question, well... You have a face and physique that, in the right clothes... you could pass as a decent-looking girl. It's the babyface and girl-butt.”

"Girl-butt?" Tucker said indignantly.

"Don't take offence."

"Dude, you just said I had a girl-butt, why wouldn't I be offended." Tucker paused. "Why is looking like a woman so important?"

“Because we need a decently attractive woman for this con.”

“Why?”

"Badger game."

"Badger what?"

C.T sighed and rolled her eyes. "You say you've been conning since you were a kid and you've never heard of a badger game?"

Tucker shook his head. "I don't know the names of cons, man. I just do them.”

"Basically, a badger game involves finding a mark, maneuvering him into a compromising position, taking photos or video and blackmailing him with them. Easy."

"And do you mean what I think you mean by 'compromising positions?' No fucking way. I'm not my mother."

“It shouldn't go that far. This target? He's very concerned with reputation. I think he runs some business or whatever, but he's absolutely obsessed with image. And that image is of a wholesome family-friendly company. At most, you might have to touch the outside of his pants a little. Just enough to make it look like you're going for his junk.”

“Ugh, no! And what the fuck? You're a chick! You do it!”

“Oh, I'd do it, normally. The potential payout on this is massive. But, uh... there's certain factors working against me.”

"What the fuck kind of thing is against you but not me?”

C.T hesitated before saying, “He's kind of got a thing for black women?”

“You've got to be fucking kidding me. That's racist.”

“Tell that to him, not to me. I see the weak points, I bombard the weak points. In this case, the weak point needs to be bombarded with black women. Or the closest equivalent.”

“I'm not doing it.”

“Hear me out. I'll split the cut fifty-fifty. You'd be getting the majority, since my associate's going to be getting a share to take the photos. Normally I'd split it different, given the opportunity this con is, but I can't do this without you. And this target is seriously wealthy. Massive world-wide chain of family-friendly restaurants. And I've seen you talk. You could flirt your way there, easy.”

“No. No, I can't.”

“Come on, you never wooed a girlfriend?”

“No! I... fuck.” Tucker lowered his voice and leaned forward. “No. Never, alright?”

“You serious?”

“I mean, I had a girlfriend when I was like fourteen, but it only lasted a couple of weeks. Listen, you walk into your house and hear your mother going at it with a dude that sounds like he's having an asthma attack? You'd get put off sex, too.”

“Makes sense.” C.T tapped her fingers against the counter. “Is flirting the only problem?”

“I mean, I also don't wanna rub someone through his pants.”

“Just mime it, that'll work. As long as it looks good in a picture. Look, I won't force you into it. But weird situations come up in conning, sometimes. Could be worse. Once I tried posing as a member of these guys who ran a drug racket. Had to shoot a rival drug trafficker to stop myself from blowing cover. At least you're not shooting people in the face.”

"Yikes. That's not a normal con, is it?”

“No-one said I was limited to conning. My talents extend further, and going undercover is something I'm good at.” C.T shrugged. “The matter at hand, though. Fifty percent.”

“Sixty.”

“Look, fifty and when you apply for an apartment you can write that you work at a place I'm connected with. If you're unemployed with that much cash it'll look suspicious. I'll cover for you.”

Tucker shuddered. “This is going to suck. Just the outside of the pants at best, yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

Tucker could bullshit. He could play the pity card. He could do a lot of things. But he could not flirt. He'd never really had to flirt before. And this was not how he envisioned his first time flirting. Even if it was fake practice flirting.

This was the stupidest thing. Sitting on one side of a bedroom—C.T's bedroom—wearing a wig. A fucking wig. C.T had pulled up a chair and was watching him from the other side.

“Alright, so flirting, right?” C.T gestured at her eyes. “So pretend I'm a mid-fifties businessman.”

“Like age or from the fifties?”

“Doesn't matter. Make eye contact with me. But in that 'oh, hi' way.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Just make eye contact with me. No, softer. Stop glaring.”

“It's hard!”

“Yeah, well, you do this right and he'll get hard in the right way.”

“That's fucking gross.”

“Yeah, I know. That's conning for you. Okay, make eye contact. Softer. Softerrr. Hold that. Now smile. No, less teeth. Oh my god, I said less. You look like you've got rigor mortis. Now kind of... preen yourself. Primp. Like you're trying to look pretty.” C.T reached up to brush some strands of hair out of her face. “Like this.”

“Seriously. You do it.”

“I told you. He's into black women. You think I wouldn't go for a bigger cut on this if I could? Even fifty percent, this is gonna be a damn lot of money.” C.T squinted at Tucker for a moment. “Okay... kind of cant your head a little. Tilted slightly downwards and to the side? Makes the eyes look bigger, exposes the neck, makes you look vulnerable.”

Tucker made an annoyed whining noise. “Flirting is haaaard.”

“Oh, stop it.” C.T climbed to her feet and went rifling around for a make-up kit. “Alright, let's get the photo out of the way. You fine with just using the name Laverne? It's close enough to your actual name that there's less chance of slipping.”

“Ugh, I can be called Sunshine McGirlytits for all I care.”

C.T approached him with the make-up kit. “A bit on the nose, don't you think? Alright, remove the wig for now. You follow my instructions or I'm gonna end up stabbing you in the eye with a mascara brush.”

“Alright, alright. But if I'm gonna be a chick, I wanna look fucking amazing.”

“I'll try.” C.T started applying foundation. “Alright, so my friend'll be tracking you and the mark with a camera. Just make sure not to lock any doors behind you, and he'll be there. He'll be quiet, and if the mark gets aggravated or pushy in a way you're not comfortable with, my friend'll intervene. So you should be safe. But you're going to have to keep the mark distracted...”

C.T continued to talk about things Tucker should and shouldn't do. As she did so, she applied a variety of different make-up. It was uncomfortable and weird and made Tucker want to sneeze. He was also afraid of that bushy black brush being shoved into his eye sockets. But C.T finished without injuring him.

“Alright. Put the wig back on.”

Tucker grimaced back at her as he put the black, curly wig back in place. Then he spread his hands out. “Do I look ridiculous?”

C.T tilted her head to the left, then right. “Hmm... pretty decent work, if I say so. Want a mirror?”

“Ugh. I guess.”

C.T went rifling through her drawers again before finding a handheld mirror and passing it over. Tucker examined the mirror for a moment. Then he straightened up a little before titling the mirror this way and that.

“...Dayum,” he murmured, before a grin split his face. “I'm hot as fuck.”

“The magic of contouring,” C.T said. “Feeling more confident?”

“I'm gonna woo the shit out of that dude. ...It's gonna be super fucking gay, though.”

“Don't worry. Just call 'no homo' first. That's how the others deal with it.”

“...Makes sense.”

“Does it?”

The job was a success. But Joannes' constant laughing was making it feel like a failure.

C.T dropped a beer and a glass of apple juice, complete with plastic umbrella, onto the counter as Tucker shuffled awkwardly into the bar, grumbling under his breath. He'd wiped the make-up off and removed the wig, although he was still wearing the clothes.

“Beer for Joannes. And appletini without the tini for you, ma'am.”

“Shut up.” Tucker pulled up a stool and held out his hand. “Please cut this off.”

“You didn't have to touch his dick, did you?”

“No. Cut it off anyway.”

“Oh man, it was hilarious,” Joannes laughed. “I almost gave us away because I couldn't hold it in.” He passed the camera to C.T. “Here. We got some valuable photos. Success. But, oh my god—“

“God, shut up.” Tucker covered his face with his free hand, still holding the other one out to C.T. “Seriously. You got a saw?”

“So, he was pulling the moves on the mark, right?”

“Please don't.”

“And the mark's kinda turning towards where I was hanging out, and it was like 'oh no,' but then Tucker figures, y'know, 'okay, well the guy can't look if I'm touching his face.' So he goes in for a face touch, but he goes in too hard. Slaps the dude in the face.”

C.T's eyebrows scrunched together. “...Slapped him?”

“Oh yeah. It was hilarious.”

“And you still got the photos?”

“Turns out the mark was into that. Popped a boner right there. So, full speed recovery.”

Tucker let out a long, garbled noise of anguish. “I gave a guy a boner. That's so gay.”

“At least you followed up with 'is that for me' instead of 'that is so gay,'” Joannes said cheerily. “The latter probably would have tipped him off.”

C.T snorted, pulling back the untouched drink. “Rough. But you pulled it off. If you want, I'll bend the rules on alcohol for tonight. Not too much, but... appletini with the tini?”

“Hard on the tini,” Tucker muttered. “Ugh, I'm seeing that boner tent when I close my eyes. Where's the nearest place to pick up chicks? If I'm going to see something sexual whenever I close my eyes, I'd prefer it to be chick-related.”

“Gonna change out of the women's clothing first?”

“Fuck no. My ass pops in these jeans. They're my clothes now, that makes them dude clothes.”

“Fair.”

Caboose

Everyone was acting strange. Even if Caboose was asleep most of the time, he could tell that much.

His mama and his stepdad kept coming in to see him. The first time they'd arrived, Mama had tried to hug him but had stopped because she probably would have knocked one of the tubes that were stuck in him. Papa had tried to talk to him, but Caboose didn't understand it. After a while, both his parents just sat down and didn't say anything.

That was not the weird thing. The smiles were the weird thing. They were not proper smiles. They were the fake ones that people wore when they were sad or angry but pretending to be happy. Caboose's old fifth-grade teacher had worn that smile.

Why did his parents have fake smiles? Caboose would have thought that they would be happy that he hadn't been killed. Lots of people got killed when they hit a tree that hard. Caboose thought he must have been lucky, or had a really hard head or something. He was alive and he would probably get better. People get better in hospitals. So why were his parents so depressed?

Mama said something. Even though the noise shook Caboose out of his very slow-moving thoughts, he didn't actually understand. It was just noises to him. Caboose nodded anyway, although that turned out to be a bad idea. His head hurt more when he did that.

Maybe Mama and all the other people were just speaking a foreign language? Did the country change the language it spoke while he was asleep? No, that would be silly.

Mama and Papa kept sharing looks. Very worried and sad looks. Which was kind of weird. If they wanted to talk about something without Caboose knowing, they could just talk. It was not like he'd be able to understand it.

None of Caboose's sisters had visited. Maybe they were really, really busy. A lot of them had school and the older ones had work and had to take care of their own kids. But Caboose had been in there for a long time. Wouldn't one of them have been able to visit? Maybe it hadn't been a long time. Maybe it just felt like a long time because he'd been sleeping and because clocks no longer made sense to him.

Caboose decided it didn't really matter. He was asleep most of the time, anyway. That meant he didn't have to think about it.

"Keep your eyes open while I do this." Sheila attempted to communicate to Caboose using her hands. After a few tries, he seemed to understand. The next time Sheila tried shining a light into Caboose's eyes, he didn't shut his eyes and whine. Sheila studied his eyes carefully. One of the pupils wasn't dilating properly. Sheila wasn't surprised, since the pupil had been blown when Caboose was first brought in. She was merely checking for improvements.

Caboose's stepfather was sitting in the corner, arms crossed. He was watching carefully, as if to make sure Sheila was doing everything exactly right. Not that he would likely know if Sheila was doing something wrong. Normally, Caboose's mother would be here as well. But she couldn't stay there all the time, not with so many other children at home and another baby on the way.

"Alright. Lift your left arm. Good. And now your right..."

Caboose had had trouble moving his left arm at first. It seemed he was gaining more feeling there, however. He could at least lift it now, although he was more clumsy with it and accidentally knocked the IV over once. That had been a little messy.

"Can you say words, Caboose?" Sheila asked slowly, making talking gestures with her hands.

"Sheila?"

"Yes, that's my name. Is that all you can say?"

"Sh...She. Lah." He followed this with a lot of noise that was clearly meant to be conversation but didn't make any sense, typical of patients with aphasia.

Sheila sighed, tucking the light back into her pocket. "...Get some sleep, Mr. Caboose."

Caboose looked up at her, then his eyes traveled to his stepfather. He pointed at him, then at the ground.

"Yes, your father can stay. I just need to have a word with him for a moment." Sheila accompanied her words with motions of nodding and pointing at her watch, among other things. Caboose nodded and settled back on his pillow. "Sir, if I could speak to you outside..."

One of the more difficult portions of Sheila's job was trying to explain to relatives of the patient what was wrong. Especially when Sheila couldn't use much medical jargon in doing so. Or at least not without explaining what terms like 'aphasia' and 'cerebral hypoxia' meant. And the stepfather's medical knowledge seemed to be comprised entirely of what he had learned from sport magazines.

"So... all that 'not understanding English' stuff. That's temporary, right?" he asked. The man kept glancing back into Caboose's room nervously. "It's definitely temporary, right? I need something good to say to Margie."

"His brain is still swollen from the collision, but that should improve soon. After that, patients generally reacquire some of their speech recognition or ability. He will most likely need a speech therapist to help him improve further. There is a very large chance that he will carry some residual effects for the rest of his life, but in most cases patients get well enough to communicate understandably."

"And he won't have the tubey things sticking out of his head?"

"The catheter is there to help judge and control intracranial pressure. It will not be attached for an extended amount of time.”

The stepfather's expression brightened a little. "So... he'll be okay? Apart from just a couple of little things with his language, he'll be fine?"

Sheila tapped her pen against her chart, the only sign of nervousness she let slip through. Talking to relatives was always difficult, especially when it came to informing them of bad news. Even just possible bad news.

"We can't be sure until we can subject him to more tests. But there will most likely be more problems." Sheila tapped her pen against the chart again. "Judging by his reaction to gestures, he seems receptive towards body language... But we can't rule out other deficits until we've carried out more tests, which Mr. Caboose is not in any condition to manage yet. There will almost certainly be some complications."

He looked back through the glass screen. What little of the man's face that Sheila could see through his beard looked apprehensive.

"But he'll still be the same kid, right? He'll still be Michael, won't he?"

Sheila paused for a moment, before saying, “He will likely not be the same. In the best case scenario, being in a life-threatening car crash tends to change one's perspective. But we can't rule out personality changes or his intelligence being affected. I wouldn't expect him to be the same after this.”

It felt like a really long time before Sheila removed all the itchy tubes from Caboose's head and arms. Caboose was happy to not have them stuck inside any more. They had itched and Caboose had been forbidden to scratch them. He was still not allowed to scratch there, but it didn't itch as much.

Sheila and the other people who often checked the beeping things moved him into a different room. A room where everything was less noisy. There were less beeping monitors, just like there were less tubes stuck into Caboose. As Sheila wheeled Caboose in on the wheelchair they had placed him in, Caboose enjoyed the small fact that he was actually moving. Sort of. The seat he was sitting on was moving, at least.

Caboose wondered if he could still walk. He could not think of any reason why he wouldn't be able to. His legs didn't hurt like other parts of him. Although, looking down, his legs looked skinnier. But that was probably because they hadn't let him eat in ages. As Sheila wheeled him up next to the bed, Caboose waved his hands around, trying to attract Sheila's attention.

Being wheeled around was fun. But he wanted to try walking.

Caboose made walking motions with his hands, then pointed at himself. Sheila looked reluctant. She didn't seem to want him to try. Caboose widened his eyes and pouted, like he always did when Mama was angry at him or when he was trying to steal cookies out of the cookie jar.

Sheila sighed and raised a finger. One try. She wheeled the chair around again, so that Caboose had space in front of him, and motioned for him to stay still. She left the room and returned with one of those walking stands that old people sometimes used. She placed it in front of him. Caboose reached out and grabbed the stand, although his left arm didn't want to hold on as tight. Caboose attempted to pull himself out of the wheelchair. It was hard. But after a few long moments of effort, Caboose managed to pull himself out.

He almost fell over instantly, since his legs didn't want to hold at first. Sheila stopped him from falling, reaching out her hands and steadying him. She was very strong. And tall, something that he'd noticed before but was more obvious when they were both standing. She only stood a couple of inches shorter than him, while most girls were at least a foot shorter if not more. Caboose wondered idly if that was a requirement for being a doctor. Probably not. Most other doctors he had seen were smaller.

After a few moments, Sheila let go. Caboose had to rest heavily on the walking stand, but he was on his feet. Caboose smiled, looking around. He could stand, he could stand! Then Caboose looked at the glass screen that was part of the wall between him and the busier part of the hospital.

Immediately Caboose screamed. He'd seen something through the glass screen. Something weird and white and funny shaped. Sort of human-shaped, but... not right. See-through and with deep shadows under the eyes. Caboose attempted to back away from the glass screen and almost fell over, again saved by Sheila. Caboose pointed at the screen, and voiced the conclusion that made sense most in his head. He knew the word for it.

"Ghost! Ghoooost!" Caboose shrieked. Or at least, that was what he meant to say. He didn't understand his own words when they came out of his mouth, even though they had made sense in his head. The ghost raised an arm and pointed at him, too. It's mouth moved, but no noise came out.

Some of the people on the outside of the glass screen had jumped when Caboose had screamed. Sheila hadn't. She'd looked at the glass screen, then back at Caboose. She turned him away from the screen and guided him towards the bed. Once Caboose was lying down, he looked at the glass screen again. The thing was gone. It had to be a ghost, what else could it be?

Caboose tried to stay still, since Sheila was trying to put a tube back in his arm. But he was scared now. The hospital was haunted. Of course it was, lots of people died in hospitals. But the more Caboose thought about the white creature that had stared back at him, he realised that it looked strangely familiar. And it had copied him... But...

A mirror. He needed a mirror. That was hard to tell Sheila with his hands, especially since he could only use one. Sheila looked confused when Caboose tried.

"Mirror... Mirror... Need," Caboose attempted to say. It didn't make sense when it came out of his mouth. But Sheila stopped looking confused. She raised an eyebrow.

Was he sure? Caboose wasn't... But there was something in the back of his head telling him that he needed the mirror to know if he'd really seen a ghost or not. Sheila eventually walked away and came back with a small, handheld mirror. She handed it to Caboose. He stared into it.

At first he thought the ghost was there and staring back. But it wasn't see-through anymore.

It was pale like a dead person, it had no hair and the head was a weird shape... maybe it looked that way because of all the fresh, red scars that were there. The ghost's face looked too hollow, the eyes looked too big and the shadows beneath them were too dark. But it blinked when Caboose did. When Caboose raised his hand, it raised his hand. Caboose felt his head, even though Sheila moved forward to try and stop him. Caboose felt scars there. The ghost in the mirror was touching his scars, too.

Caboose didn't scream this time. But he had to fling the mirror away. Fling it away and cover his eyes so he wouldn't have to stare at the ghostly monster that was his own reflection.

He heard Sheila move beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. Caboose peered through his fingers. How could Sheila look at him when he looked like a ghost monster? No wonder his parents always looked so sad and nervous when they were around him. It made more sense now.

Caboose reached up and gripped Sheila's hand. It was warm and comforting. And Caboose really needed that right now.

Donut

Donut didn't quite know how to tell his mothers he was thinking of moving out. But if he had to break it to one of his parents first, he'd rather tell Mama Liz. Maybe because Mama Liz was more relaxed about that kind of thing. But also because Mama Julie was in a phenomenally bad mood due to indigestion, and when she was that grumpy she'd explode if one did so much as move the toothpaste. Let alone propose moving to another state.

Mama Liz looked over the top of the book she was reading. Probably one of her fluffy romance novels. "Can't you move somewhere closer?" she asked. "I mean, the next state? Really?"

"It's not super far. I mean, yeah... it's in another state... But it's close to the border," Donut explained. "Close-ish, anyway. And, well... I kinda want to see some other places. And there is a great nightlife over there and I love all those lights and fruity cocktails—"

"Uh, don't hear Mama Julie hear you say that. That was the deal, you can drink the coconut-flavoured alcohol I keep at the back of the shelf as long as you don't tell her about it." Mama Liz returned to turning the pages of her book. "She'll throw a fit."

"Right." Kind of unfair, Donut thought, considering how much alcohol Mama Julie drank. Although she mostly drunk scotch and whiskey and all those drinks that Donut thought tasted gross. But Mama Julie was a stickler to the rules, especially concerning underage drinking.

"I'm sure there's closer cities that have a lot of places with fruity cocktails..."

"Yeah, but there were also some classes on interior design there, and the interior design courses around here suck. They don't know the difference between amaranth and cerise..."

"Uhm..." Mama Liz raised an eyebrow. "Difference between... what?"

"Amaranth and cerise! They're shades of red, Ma."

"Oh! Right, they're the dark shades of red? Like maroon, right?"

"Never mind. Also, I'm hoping there will be guys that... you know, are a little more open-minded. I just wanna be myself without worrying for a while.”

“I get that, yeah.” Mama Liz lowered her book. "You sure, crumbcake? Can you handle moving that far? You're still so young..."

"I'm eighteen!"

"Right. I just forget sometimes. We've only had you for eleven. That is not enough time!"

"It'll probably only be for a few years at most, I just want to see some other places. I'll visit loads. I'm not going to hide in a cave or anything." Donut promised.

"I know, crumb. If you tried to live in a cave you'd go mental before a day had gone by. Partly because of the lack of lace and nice colours. You're not moving out right away, are you?"

"Well, no. Not until after graduation at least... "

"Then... wait until Ju-Ju's feeling a bit better to tell her. You know what she's like. Iffy about things changing and all.”

"Yeah... I'm kinda scared at telling her now. I think she'd explode," Donut admitted. "Not in the good way, like pinatas. More like in the cold but horrible way. Like when I was a kid and I stuffed my pants with snow.”

“Not your brightest day, no.”

Donut never realised how much stuff he had.

He rummaged under the bed, searching for his box of Chantilly lace. He thought it might be nice to make some curtains with that lace on it, but he hadn't actually seen the box in forever. How was he going to drag all this stuff to another state?

"Come on, where are you..." Donut felt around under his bed, feet waving around in the air.

"What are you doing?" Donut heard Mama Julie say. He heard her enter the room and sit down on the bed. "Are you looking for something?"

"Box of chantilly lace."

"That's in your cupboard. Next to that box of persimmon-coloured fabric you never used.."

"Ohhhhh. Thanks, Ma."

"Hn."

Donut crawled out from under the bed. "Uh... Are you still feeling sick?"

"Yes. Nothing to worry about. In a rare violation of common sense I ate too much of your mother's chili."

Donut shuddered. Mama Liz wasn't a bad cook, exactly... She just loved making very spicy food, even concerning foods that weren't normally spicy. Her 'special' chili was inhumanely strong, to the point that Donut believed it could probably stand up by itself, were he to check by tipping it out on a flat surface.

"Okay…"

Donut returned to looking around, and heard Julie leave. But a couple of minutes later, he heard her footsteps again.

“Franklin.”

“Yeah, Ma?”

“Got this for you.” She put a box on his bed. “Cerise wool. For knitting blankets.”

“Oh. I did need cerise wool for that!”

“I thought you'd need more blankets if you were moving out. You get too cold in winter.”

“I… oh. Did… did Mama Liz tell you?”

“No. You're packing. It was obvious.”

Donut shifted nervously, but Mama Julie just gazed at him, then back at the box. “Tell me if you need anything else.”

That was about as outwardly supportive as Mama Julie ever got. It was her equivalent of 'I believe in you and won't try to stop you.'

“Oh. Okay. Thanks!” Donut beamed at her.

“S'fine.” His mother gave him a brief pat on the head before leaving.

Donut grinned to himself as he opened the box of wool. He didn't call after her that it wasn't cerise wool at all, but rather a bright coral shade. It was the thought that mattered.

Chapter Text

The days were starting to blend together.

Three weeks after the riot, things had definitely settled back into normal routine. But because of that normal routine, nothing really stood out. The activities of the day could easily be listed, with little to no switching of the order. Wake-up, breakfast, roll call, work, lunch, yard time, dinner, back to cells. Punctuated mostly by whatever conversation could be dragged up.

"Hulk or Spiderman, which one would win in a fight?" Simmons asked.

"Hulk. More stamina," Grif replied, poking at his macaroni.

"But Spiderman has wits and dexterity. Hulk just breaks things."

"Yeah, but wits isn't a superpower. Crazy strength and turning bright green is."

Donut drank his orange juice and tried to think of something that would deviate from normal routine. Meanwhile, Tucker had pushed back his chair to talk with an inmate at the next table and Caboose was using his spoon to mold his macaroni into shapes. The toy pigeon Donut had given him was sitting next to his food. Since Donut had given it to him, Caboose had been carrying it around ever since. However, he still refused to talk to Donut.

"Hey, Dye-Job. You want to buy some sherbet?" Tucker asked, edging his chair back to the table.

"You mean like Fun Dip?"

"Sorta. I mean, it's not... like... store sherbet. It's just bicarb soda mixed with some icing sugar or something. Tastes alright."

"Oh. Then no. I don't like sherbet that much. At least not without those little plastic shovels. My fingers get all powdery," Donut explained, stretching his hands slightly and examining his fingers.

"Alright, jeez. Hey, Caboose. Trade for your orange juice?"

Caboose took a while to answer, as he'd been absorbed in making some sort of macaroni castle. "Does it have the little plastic shovel?"

"No."

"Do not want it."

"Goddammit. I have way too much sherbet..."

Donut swallowed the last of his macaroni. "Why do you have so much?"

"I dunno. I liked trying to trick people into thinking I'm selling them something they can snort, but they're all wise to it now. It sucks.”

Tucker had been attempting to nap out of boredom when Wyoming appeared in his cell.

"Tucker, old chap."

Tucker stretched his arms above his head and sat up. "What are you doing in my cell?"

"Just a delivery. I thought you'd prefer I gave this to you here instead of out in the yard. Or was I wrong in thinking that?" Wyoming held out something wrapped in cloth. "A little late, but all my deliveries were delayed."

Tucker unraveled the bundle enough to see a gleam of metal. Something that, given a bit of time, he could sharpen into one hell of a shiv. He quickly closed the package again, just in case someone walked by.

"Nice. Thanks, dude."

"Don't refer to me as 'dude.' It's not classy."

"Dude." Tucker grinned wider. "We're in prison. Prison ain't a classy place."

"That's a fair point, but I make it my business to maintain classiness, regardless of place or time."

Wyoming stepped backwards out of the cell, walking back down the corridor. Tucker glanced down at the metal before covering it with cloth again, hoping there wouldn't be another cell search anytime soon. He leaned over to shove it under his bed.

"What's that thing?"

"Fuck!" Tucker shot back up, nearly falling off the bed. "Jesus, Church! ...Holy shit, you look awful.”

“No fucking kidding. I hate the shoe.” Church plonked down on the end of his bed. He looked like he hadn't gotten much sleep. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked worn out and a little twitchy. That happened a lot to prisoners who stayed in the shoe for too long. That much time alone did some fucked up things to people. "Thank god they were running out of cells. I'd been in there for a month anyway, so they probably thought that was long enough for me to go insane." Church shrugged. "Which it probably was. I think I almost lost it a couple of times. I hate it when hitting your head against the wall is the best way to pass the time. What's in the cloth?"

"Mints," Tucker lied fluently. "Hiding them from Caboose."

"What is it with you and candy?"

"Hey, I'm a lover of all sweet things. Oh, by the way... a bunch of shit happened while you were locked up. First off, I tried getting Donut's help on getting back at Miller. That didn't pan out, so I just hit Miller a lot with my food tray."

"Oh shit." Church sat up slightly straighter. "I forgot. Donut thinks O'Malley is a different guy."

"He's been corrected, it's cool." Tucker waved his hand vaguely. "Okay, see... there was a riot. A lotta shit happened during it... I beat up Miller, which was awesome... and I think Grif tackled one of Miller's lackeys and broke his rib around that time and Simmons was hitting people with a spoon and there was macaroni everywhere and I think it temporarily blinded York... that shit is lethal, it's probably the worst food to have in a prison."

"Was there a point to all this?"

"Right, I got sidetracked. Sorry, it was a bitchin' riot. Anyway, Caboose saw Donut and O'Malley helping each other. And Donut said that he thought O'Malley was someone else. But then Caboose figured out that Donut tricked him ages ago when O'Malley stabbed you and slashed my face. And now Caboose isn't protecting Donut and he's also started talking to a stuffed pigeon a lot."

"...What the hell?”

"Yeah, it was a total clusterfuck. Now mealtimes are way awkward," Tucker concluded.

"So... Donut has no protection?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Why does your mind go immediately to Donut?" Tucker complained. "Jeez."

"He... hasn't said anything, has he?" Church looked nervous.

"Uh... nothing weird. Well, okay, he says weird stuff... but that's just because Dye-Job is a fucking dumbass. I don't think he gave away anything you wanted him to keep quiet about, though. I would have heard."

"Great, now I gotta make sure he hasn't violated the contract. If he has, I'm gonna be pissed." Church climbed to his feet. "You seen him around?"

"Sure, he's probably in the yard. He sits out in the yard because that way he can have a brick wall to his back and people can't sneak up on him," Tucker said. "Hey, want me to come with? If he's lying about telling people, I'll know."

"No!" Church yelled. Then he coughed nervously. "I mean, uh... no. Bad, uh... strategic shit. I told him I wouldn't tell anyone about the deal and all that... uh. I have to go." Church backed out of the cell, shifting uneasily.

Tucker shook his head once Church had gone. Weirdo. Maybe the shoe finally killed his brain.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit...

Church looked around the yard, trying to spot the telltale semi-dyedhair among the crowd of inmates. He eventually spotted Donut sitting against one of the walls, just staring off into space.

All Church had to do was question Donut casually about whether he'd blabbed anything. Casually. No gay vibes. Although every time Church mentally insisted his concern was super straight it sounded flimsier.

"Hey, Dye-Job! I mean, er, Donut." Antagonising him while figuring shit out wouldn't help.

"Huh? Oh. You're out of the shoe. How's things?"

"Not important. Are you gonna blab because you have no protection anymore?"

That was not subtle.

Donut blinked slowly. "Protection? ... oh. I totally forgot about that."

"...You gotta be fucking kidding me. So you haven't told anyone about the hand-holding shit? Because I know you came pretty fucking close to telling O'Malley about it."

"I thought he was someone else!" Donut protested. "And I didn't tell him the whole thing... All I said was that I blackmailed you.”

"Okay, this is besides the point. You keeping to the deal? Or am I gonna have to cut your tongue out to keep you quiet?" Church paused. "Tex probably wouldn't like that, even if it's not technically killing."

Donut rested his chin on his knees. "Can I think about it?"

"As long as you don't spill while you're thinking, sure." Church scraped his foot along the concrete. "Uh. With the O'Malley thing. He started trying to figure out what had happened in the infirmary and... he came to a fucking weird conclusion."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He thinks we're... man, this is ridiculous. I don't even want to say it, it's so fucking stupid."

"Ooh, now I'm curious." Donut lifted his head a little. "You have to tell me now, it's not fair if you don't."

"Basically, he thinks I'm in love with you. Or that we're fuckbuddies or something."

There was a long moment of silence. Then Donut let out a short, high-pitched giggle.

"Me and you? Really? That's just... really?" Donut said, his voice shaking slightly from the effort of stopping himself laughing more. "That is literally the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Besides, you're older than my mother. Well, one of them."

"You don't have to tell me it's ridiculous." Church sat down. "Now, O'Malley is sedated like hell right now, but Doc never keeps people on sedatives for long. When he gets out... he might come after you in an attempt to get at me. It's happened before, because O'Malley's a fucking sick bastard."

"Wait. So now I'm in danger... again?"

"Possibly."

"Just because O'Malley is mistaken."

"Yeah."

"That is bullshit!"

"Don't correct O'Malley. If you correct him, he might figure out what really happened, and..."

"Oh, I get it. So if Tucker gets hurt, that's bad. If I do, that's a-okay?"

"Pretty much. I don't like you, sooo..."

"I don't like it."

"Oh, suck it up." Church crossed his arms. "Is there anything I can do to make sure you actually keep this all a secret? Because, seriously... you better keep fucking quiet."

Donut considered it for a few moments. "Hmmm, well, I could keep it a secret. I really don't fucking want to, but I could. But on one condition.”

"What? Protection? Extra supplies?"

"Can you try and convince Caboose to talk to me again? If he'd listen to anyone, it'd be you. Right?"

"That's your condition?"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"No, I can do that. I was just expecting something more difficult or expensive."

"Can I have some fabric softener, too?"

"You said one condition. No backsies."

"Aw.”

"Ow, fuck. Get off, Caboose!"

"But... but hugs are good for you!"

"Yeah, not if you crush my fucking ribs at the same time. Get off!" Church managed to shove Caboose out of the nearly lethal hug. Caboose backed away and sat back on his cot, picking up the stuffed toy pigeon again. "I need to talk to you, alright? So can you not crush my ribs until I'm done?"

"Okay!"

Church crossed his arms, frowning. "Can you go back to talking to Dye-Job?"

"Who?"

"Donut."

"Oh. ...Nope."

Well, he tried. Church's work was done.

"Right, that's cool. I'm gonna go find Tucker, then."

And now would come the part where Caboose would insist on following him, because that was what best friends did.

"Okay. I am going to have a nap."

"You don't have to fucking follow—wait, what?"

Caboose shrugged. "I am very happy to see you, but I feel like sleeping. Is that okay?"

...That was not right.

Church stepped a bit closer and looked carefully at Caboose. He seemed fine at first glance. But looking closer, he did look a little tired.

"Caboose. Have you been sleeping badly?" Church asked, squinting at him. Caboose shook his head.

Not good. He'd seen people look tired when they shouldn't be, including in the mirror once. A lot of the time it didn't end well. Loneliness was dangerous in prison. Dumbass. Three weeks of being by himself and he was already depressed. But Caboose wasn't exactly stable at the best of times. Church had seen him in worse states, and he'd rather Caboose not decline into that again.

Church briefly weighed up the pros and cons of actually putting effort into fixing Caboose and Dye-Job's friendship.

"No, sleeping is not okay. Back to the Donut thing." Church paced back and forth for a few moments, trying to think of something to say.

"Cannot talk to Donut anymore," Caboose muttered. "He got you hurt and you almost died. That is very, very bad. Only bad people do things like that."

"Look, first off... I didn't fucking die, so who the hell cares?"

Well, Church did care about that. It fucking hurt.

"And second, everyone is a bad person in prison. That's why they're in fucking prison to start off with."

"Not true. You are not a bad person, Church."

Church snorted derisively. “Sure, I'm a fucking angel. Okay, besides me. Whatever. And you already got Donut back for that. You broke his leg, remember?"

"Yes. But if I had known he was being evil with O'Malley, I would have broken both like Tucker told me to," Caboose muttered.

Great. Church was just making him angrier. This talking shit wasn't his thing, it's more of a Tucker thing.

"Fine, I'll stop talking about this in a moment. But I'm pretty sure Donut isn't the first O'Malley forced or tricked into doing bad things. Remember when you first came in here? What did O'Malley do?"

"Do not remember," Caboose said evasively.

"Yes, you do. I know I tell you to forget shit most of the time, but I just want you to remember this for a little bit. What did O'Malley fucking do?"

Caboose shifted nervously, before covering the side of the pigeons' head, like he was trying to stop it from eavesdropping. "He made me do bad things. He always hid behind me and I never saw him, so I thought... I thought he was my conscience, and he always told me to do bad things and that they weren't bad things because I was doing them to bad people. But he was lying."

"Yeah, I know. He's a douchebag like that. But you stopped listening to him, right?" Caboose nodded. "Just saying, O'Malley made you do a lot of bad shit. And he made Donut do some bad shit, too. It's a bit hypocritical to hate Donut for it."

"Hypo-what?"

"Hippo-kite-ish."

"Ohhh, right. I get it. Like Tucker. He's a hippo-kite." Caboose frowned, removing his hands from the side of the pigeons' head. "I do not know. I need to think."

Knowing how slow he thinks, that would probably take a few weeks. Jeez.

"Right, whatever. I gotta find Tucker.”

"...I will follow you. Walking helps me think faster. I do not know why, though. I think it is like how on some bikes, the more you pedal the more the lighty part... lights up.”

"Hey, Dye-Job! You seen Church?" Tucker called out. He'd walked into the yard to look for Church, after remembering that he needed to figure out what to do about Miller. He didn't see Church in the yard, though. Only Donut. "He said he was looking for you."

"Uh, yeah. I did, just a little while ago. I think he went to talk to Caboose," Donut said, climbing to his feet. "Seriously. Is the nickname 'Dye-Job' still not getting old?"

Tucker ignored the last part of what Donut said. "Right, whatever. I'm gonna go find him."

"I'm coming with." Donut jogged after Tucker. "Grif hasn't left his cell much lately except for meals, what with the busted rib and everything... and Simmons hasn't left Grif's cell much either... I should probably see how they're doing. I'd stay there during the day as well, but Grif is super cranky when he's in horrible pain."

"Well, guess that works. We gotta figure out a way to stop Miller from getting us, anyway. A way that doesn't involve killing him."

"Well, yeah. Killing people isn't really a nice thing to do," Donut muttered, as Tucker steered him back inside the prison, passing the cafeteria and heading down the corridor towards the cells.

"Hey, I would. He started it. But Church is totally against killing Miller, since he promised Tex he wouldn't kill people. He's totally whipped, poor bastard. And what's the point of being whipped if you don't get sex out of it? Anyway, originally we were going to get you to find some weakness we could poke at. But, since he somehow figured out you were digging for info, that's out. And now that he knows you were helping us, there is no way you're getting out of it unless you want to get really hu—"

Going past the cells, Tucker was cut off by someone stepping out of a nearby cell and delivering a sharp blow to the back of his head. Donut jumped back, letting out a girly yelp.

Speak of the devil.

"Grab them, fellas," Miller muttered. Almost instantly, his friends jumped out and grabbed Tucker and Donut by their arms, dragging them into one of the cells.

"Were you guys just waiting for us to walk by?" Tucker grumbled as he was dragged in.

"Actually, we were hoping for you and Church, not the fruity guy." Miller cracked his knuckles loudly. "But... guess this works. Didn't actually expect either of you to walk by so soon. A bit like Christmas morning, ain't it?"

"Jerks. You guys are pretty violent for check swindlers."

Miller looked at them both, looking from Tucker to Donut. Faint bruises were still evident on his face from Tucker hitting him with his tray during the riot. "Maybe we are. But you drove us to it. And I ain't paid you back for Joannes."

“You gonna fake to care so much about him? Then get his fucking name right,” Tucker grumbled.

“Shut up, Tucker. I'm gonna pay you to hell and back for the goddamn shit you did."

"Well, I'm actually surprised you took so long. Look, I keep telling you, dude. It was an accident. I fucked up, I know I fucked up, but it was a fucking accident!”

"And maybe I'll claim that you getting beaten half to death was an accident, too." Miller glanced sideways at Donut. "Him, on the other hand... maybe just a quarter to death."

"Aw, that's not even fair. I didn't even get a chance to do anything," Donut whined. "Lemme go!"

One of Miller's friends punched Donut square in the gut, driving all the breath out of him. Tucker inwardly winced as Donut gasped for breath. Miller turned back to Tucker and, similarly, punched him in the gut as well, knocking the breath out of Tucker so he couldn't even make any noise beyond very small groans of pain.

"Don't have much time. You guys... deal with Donut. But... don't hurt him too badly. Stop if you hear something break." Miller cracked his knuckles again, and a smile appeared on his face. "You ain't getting that privilege, Tucker. Been looking way too forward to this to let you walk away with just bruises."

"Y-yeah?" Tucker rasped, still out of breath. "Great. Not like you can punch that hard, you wimpy check-swindling bitch."

He shouldn't have said that.

Miller smashed him in the stomach again, and this time he didn't stop after just one punch. The blows came fast and hard, and Tucker tried to breathe but couldn't because they just wouldn't let him take a breath. Every time he tried to breathe, a fist drove into his stomach and forced the air back out, and Tucker couldn't do shit except make raspy noises that sounded vaguely insulting.

Something broke several punches in.

Tucker didn't know what it was. Just that something inside him moved in a way that it really shouldn't, and with it came pain. White hot pain. He made a strange, strangled hiss noise, which was the closest he could get to screaming with no breath. And Miller just kept on punching, the pain building every time he did so.

Fucking Christ. Everything else... the occasional blur of orange passing by the cell (and of course they didn't call the guards, who would try to help him, who wanted to be that snitch?) and the occasional thuds and whimpers coming from where Miller's friends were beating up Donut... it barely registered at all, because it just... kept... hurting. Tucker had been hurt before, even shot once, and it hadn't hurt this fucking much.

Everything was getting darker. The lack of air was making his head swim.

Finally, Miller stopped. Tucker felt a hand grip the back of his collar as Miller tugged him in closer and spoke quietly. Tucker didn't look up. He didn't have the energy, and the only thing that was stopping him from hitting the floor was that Miller's friends were still holding his arms.

"This ain't gonna be the end of it, bastard. Far as I see it, this is just payback for the riot. You're gonna suffer. You talked Joannes into suicide. So we won't be even until you wish you were dead."

Tucker made a noise. It might have meant to be 'fuck you.' Even he wasn't sure. But it came out as nothing but a damp cough.

Everything went dark after that.

"Can't find him. Weird," Church muttered. "And I can't see Dye-Job around, either." He stood on his toes to try and see around the yard better. "Can you see them, Caboose?"

Caboose shook his head. "No.”

"Dammit, where the hell are they? Not in the cafeteria, not in their cells... where the fuck else do they go? Church scratched his head, scowling. "I'm out of fucking ideas."

"Maybe they are in the library. Tucker is still not happy at Miller."

"Why the hell would he go towards Miller with no back-up, then?"

"Church!"

Church heard his name being shouted, and saw Tex walking towards him. Church's feeling of unease increased. Tex didn't often approach him  unless something was up.

"Tex? You seen Tucker anywhere?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. We found Tucker and that Donut kid unconscious in the laundry storeroom. Wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

"When the fuck was this? What happened to Tucker?" Church yelled.

"What happened to Donut?" Caboose asked, quieter but at almost the exact same moment Church had yelled.

"They're... alive."

Church felt like his stomach had vanished. "...Why did you hesitate."

Tex glanced away, looking uncomfortable. "Well... Donut'll be alright." At this, Caboose let out a little relieved sigh. "But Tucker was in pretty bad shape. Breathing weird. Internal bleeding or something. Doc didn't know how to help, so they sent him to the hospital. I thought you should know."

"...Shit." That was all Church could think of to say.

The first thing Donut noted when he woke up was that everything hurt. And he meant fucking everything, head to toes. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, although his left eye was puffy and almost impossible to see out of. Nonetheless, he recognised the ceiling because he'd spent two months sleeping under it. The infirmary.

Donut sat up, although it took a lot of effort. He looked downwards, pulling his shirt up carefully to have a look underneath, since that was where it hurt most. The majority of his chest and stomach was covered in mottled bruises. He checked as much skin as he could without moving. The bruises were scattered all over him.

It took a few moments for Donut to remember why he was so battered. Once he remembered, he looked over at the other cots. All of them were empty.

That... wasn't good.

"You really have the worst luck. Fourth visit... I'm really starting to worry about how long you'll last." Doc had been rummaging through the cupboards, and had only noticed Donut was awake when he heard Donut sit up.

"What happened?"

"South found you and Tucker in the storeroom they keep all the jumpsuits in. You don't seem that hurt, though. You're really bruised, but it's mostly pretty external. I think. I'm keeping you in overnight just to make sure, and you'll probably have trouble moving for a while. Quite a nice array of colours, those bruises. Like a really painful rainbow."

"Rainbow? But they're missing several shades of orange," Donut muttered, staring down at his collection of bruises. "What happened to Tucker?"

Doc bit his lip nervously. "We don't have the equipment to treat him, so he's at an outside hospital.”

“But he just got punched a lot, right? I... I don't really remember that well, but there weren't shivs or anything—“

“He was breathing wrong. I got a call back from the hospital saying it was flail chest.” Doc gestured at his chest. “It's when a segment of your rib cage just... detaches. Really nasty. Collapsed a lung along with it. They're doing what they can, but he's in critical condition. Even if he does survive, he won't be back for a while.”

“Oh. …Shit.”

“That reminds me, are you having any problems breathing? Any particularly bad chest pain?"

Donut took a few deep breaths. It did hurt. But it didn't feel so bad that it made him want to stop breathing all together. "It's not that bad."

Doc nodded. "Good. Tell me if you do, by the sounds of things it sounds like you haven't broken anything... I mean, I can't be sure... I was considering sending you to the hospital, too, but I wasn't sure and they're kind of iffy taking inmates as it is, especially after that, uh, O'Malley incident... made me so much more thankful for kaleidoscopes. If nothing is broken in your case, I could probably let you out tomorrow. I'll take you off laundry duty for a while, but you should be free to wander around."

"Okay." He supposed Miller had kept his promise about going easy on him. Donut glanced back at the empty cot. "How long was I out?”

"Not long. You were found about three hours ago. It's nearly dinnertime, you'll get your food once the medication has been delivered. It'd be up here now, but I didn't know if you'd be awake by then..."

Donut settled back down on the cot, staring up at the ceiling he knew far too well. He hoped Tucker wasn't dead, even if he still didn't like him all that much.

"Medication's been delivered."

Doc turned around to see York standing at the door. "Any problems?"

"Well, not problems... per se..." York glanced at Donut. "If it's alright, can I talk to you out here?"

"It's fine. Donut will be fine by himself for a little bit. Don't start bleeding or die while I'm gone, okay?"

"Yeah."

Doc followed York into the corridor before continuing. "Is something wrong?"

York shrugged. "It's not a problem, really. But you said you wanted to know if O'Malley started acting weird... well, weirder. Anyway, he's not eating. Don't know how long it's been going on, neither of the Dakotas could give me a specific answer. But he hasn't eaten in at least a couple of days. Can't get an answer about why, because... well, he's too drugged to talk. Doesn't even put up a fight when I give him his meds. Well, he tried to bite off my finger, but he didn't have the energy. It didn't hurt, it just got my hands slimy. Really gross."

"It's not the first time people have gone off their food," Doc muttered, scratching his head. "Usually I just switch them back to regular medication. Or at least a lighter dosage. I don't really like sedatives. If I didn't want to use such a strong word, I'd say I hate them. I think it's unethical to keep inmates that drugged... But... uh..."

"You're scared of letting O'Malley off them?"

"Yeah... terrified." Doc shivered. "O'Malley's just too... too..."

"Insane? Stabby? Too knowledgeable about surgery?"

"Yeah... those things too..."

The violent tendencies didn't actually scare Doc, if only because O'Malley had never harmed him. Not physically, anyway, save for maybe a couple of bites at his fingers. But the touching. The claims. And O'Malley's behavior was just... incomprehensible. Why would he ever enroll in medical school if he didn't want to help people? Why torture people? Why knock Doc out and then cover him in a blanket? Why follow him around constantly? ...Why kiss him?

Without realising what he was doing, Doc wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Felt wrong. Like too much contact with O'Malley would dirty him.

He just didn't make sense. And everything he did terrified Doc. It wasn't just one thing. It was everything.

"Uh, you alright?" York asked.

"Huh?"

"Well, you said 'yeah, those things too,' and then you just kind of stared into space for about a minute while wiping your mouth. Eat something bad for lunch?"

"Oh, uh... no, I was just thinking..." Doc shook his head. "If he's not eating, and that's caused by the medication, I guess I have no choice but to put O'Malley on lighter meds, starting tomorrow. I should probably get back inside... I need to wait for any updates on Tucker's condition..."

"You ever find out who beat up those two?"

"Not yet. Haven't asked. I don't want to remind them of the trauma yet."

"Remind them?" York snorted. "If I was beat up that much, I think just the pain would remind me enough."

"Besides, they don't always tell the truth. Like how O'Malley wouldn't tell me the truth about who hit him... although... he did imply things..."

"Oh, uh... really?" York got visibly more uncomfortable. "You know, I should probably get back to the cafeteria, make sure all the inmates are back in their cells..."

"I… I think Wash might have had something to do with it. Are you sure—" Doc started.

"Sure! I'm sure. I'm very sure. I mean, we weren't even down there that night. We were... playing poker. I mean, Go Fish. The guards do that a lot. I think Sarge and Flowers have some sort of Go Fish rivalry going on..."

"What does this have to do with Go Fish?"

"Uh. I have to go." York backed away nervously, hurrying away from Doc lest he be questioned some more. Doc shook his head. He was sure Wash had something to do with it, but he didn't know how to prove it. Thinking about it could wait. For now... he had to take care of patients.

"Don't you even think about it."

Church looked through his bars at Tex, who was standing outside his cell. They'd been locked in their cells for the night, but the lights were still on. Church climbed off his cot and rested against the bars.

"Think about what?"

"Don't think I didn't see your expression when I told you about Tucker. You were fucking pissed," Tex muttered, keeping her voice down so the inmates further down didn't hear her. Just a couple of cells away, Caboose had edged nearer to his bars and was attempting to listen, still holding onto the stuffed pigeon.

"Of course I'm fucking pissed. I know it was Miller, I fucking know it. Who else would?”

"Church? You realise you're a douchebag, right?" Tex told him bluntly. "And that Tucker is, as well? You two are hated by most of the prison population thanks to all those cons and blackmail you two pulled off. Not to mention your crimes."

"Yeah, so? I still know it was fucking Miller."

"Fine, let's say it's Miller. As soon as there's some proof of it, he'll get punished. Donut hasn't said anything, but maybe Tucker will if he gets back."

Why did she have to say if?

"Punished?" Church's eyes narrowed. "Punished how? A couple of weeks in the shoe? Getting the log? Getting stuck in prison a little longer so he has more time to hurt people? Big fucking deal!"

"You better not be thinking of killing him."

Church glared back at Tex, with a look that clearly said 'Oh, I'm more than fucking thinking about it.'

"You know, it's not too late for me to break my half of the deal, Church."

Church snorted. "Yeah? Sure, if you want to get charged with perjury. You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I? You know me better than that," Tex said coolly. "If you're so sure, why haven't you gone back to killing people before now?"

"Because I promised I wouldn't. But..." Church shook his head. "There's only so much I can fucking take."

"Really?" Tex leaned in just a little more, as much as the bars would allow. "Would you be saying that if I told you I knew where your little brother was?"

Church's eyes widened slightly, but he tried to stay nonchalant. "You don't know shit. Besides. No reason he'd come back. No reason you'd go looking for him, either. You're bluffing." Tex just raised an eyebrow. A moment of silence, before Church said, "You're not bluffing, are you?"

"Not at all. Kill anyone, and I tell the truth. I'll tell them the truth about Eddie. And I'll tell them where to find him."

"You're bluffing. You have to be fucking bluffing," Church said desperately. "Why would he stay so close to the city... he's not that fucking stupid. He shouldn't even know I'm here!"

"Maybe he wants to find you. Maybe he wants to be locked up with you. Maybe he wants to break you out. I don't know. But he's still in the city. Do you want me to tell?"

"No. No, c'mon. Don't do that. Don't fucking do that." Church moved back to the bars, the hands he was using to grip them were white from how tightly he was clenching them. "Don't tell anyone about Eddie."

"Then don't kill anyone. It's not that hard."

In the back of his head, he could almost hear Tucker say 'that's what she said.'

Church stayed silent for a few long moments before letting go of the bars. "Alright.”

"No killing Miller?"

"...No. No killing Miller. Just... shut up about him, alright?"

Tex nodded. "Alright."

After Tex's footsteps had faded away, Church sat back on the cot and put his head in his hands.

"Church. Chuuuuuurch," Caboose whispered.

"Oh god... what?" Church snapped.

"Mrs. McCrabby will not let you kill Miller?"

"'Course she fucking won't. Why? Did you hear everything we were fucking saying?" Church hoped he hadn't heard anything about Eddie. He didn't have the sense to keep that shit quiet.

"No. I did not understand much else of what you and Mrs. McCrabby were saying. You were whispering, so it was very quiet. I just heard you say 'Miller.'" After a long pause. "Are you going to listen to Mrs. McCrabby?"

"I... I have to. Goddammit, I want to kill Miller. But I can't."

Caboose didn't say anything after that, just retreating back to his cot. Very deep in thought.

Chapter Text

"Where the fuck did my cigarettes go? Simmons, did you hide them again?" Grif grumbled, shuffling around his cell and looking around every possible surface for his pack of cigarettes.

"No." Simmons was sitting on Grif's floor, resting against the brick closest to the bars. He was turning the pages of a science fiction novel that he had already read several times. He was only reading it again because he had nothing else to do.

"Then where the fuck are they?"

"You know, this might seem like a crazy idea..." Simmons started. "But maybe you could go for a day without a cigarette. Honestly, where are you even getting them from?"

"Ehhh... Too much effort not to smoke."

"Of course. Dumbass."

"Up yours. Ah. Found them. They were under my pillow."

"You keep your fucking cigarettes under your pillow? The fuck were you thinking?"

"Why not? People always look in the footlocker." Grif pulled a cigarette out and started searching for a lighter. "I've lost my damn lighter."

Simmons paused in the middle of reading, looking up briefly. "It's lying in your footlocker, you put it there when you were looking for your cigarettes."

"Right, right. Thanks, man."

"Welcome. Dumbass." Simmons turned the page idly.

"Gruf! Simon! Can I ask you something? It is very important." Caboose had walked up to the cell and sat on the other side of the bars that were next to Simmons.

"This is going to be a dumb question, isn't it? It better not be you asking what another swear word Church shouted means. I'm not explaining what a 'festering sack of whore' is again," Simmons grumbled.

"No. It is not about that, this time." Caboose lowered his voice to a very obvious whisper. "If Mrs. McCrabby says that Church cannot kill someone... what does that mean?"

"That he can't kill people? Duh," Grif grumbled.

"No. I mean... does that count people Church is best friends with? Or do bestest buddies still count?"

"I'd say they would count," Simmons said.

"Aw. Okay. Then is there a way I can make Miller stop causing problems, then?”

Grif and Simmons exchanged glances. Simmons closed his book. “Does... this have anything to do with what happened to Donut?”

"Yes."

Another glance was shared between them. Simmons rubbed the back of his neck, frowning.

“Well... Mrs. McCrabby is Tex, right?”

“Yes.”

"If Tex told Church not to kill anyone—he is so whipped," Grif snickered. “Well, you can't kill him. But there's other ways to stop people. Nothing in that deal that says you can't just hurt him very, very badly.”

“In theory,” Simmons added hurriedly.

"In theory?" Caboose repeated, looking mildly confused.

"Well, it's all hypothetical, of course," Simmons said. "It's not like I'm telling you to hurt Miller or anything. I'm just saying, in theory... if you were to do so, it wouldn't break any of Tex's rules."

"I can help! Yay!" Caboose whispered loudly. "Thank you, Gruf and Simon!"

"Simmons. It's Simmons. You were getting my name right a few days ago, how do you—" Simmons was cut off by Church shouting a few cells away. Caboose frowned and climbed to his feet, moving towards Church's voice. Simmons sighed and looked at Grif.

Grif grinned at back at him. "Is 'in theory' just a code for 'yes, but don't tell anyone I said that?' You gonna start ending sentences with that?" Grif mimicked Simmons' voice, although he made it unnecessarily high and girly. "'Oh, Grif, please fuck me until the sun rises; I'll go all night! In theory!'"

"Shut up, Grif!”

Walking was painful and slow, but at least it was possible to walk without stopping every few meters. Donut didn't expect any better. He still felt like crap, even though Doc had let him out of the infirmary. He'd seen in the mirror how battered he looked. The worst of the bruising was hidden by his jacket, but there was still bruises on his wrists, where Miller's friends had gotten a good grip on him, and his face was clearly battered, including a large bruise on the right side of his face that was a spectacular purple colour, as well as one of his eyes being puffy and surrounded by yellow.

Donut edged towards his cell, making sure to stay away from Miller's cell, lest Miller decide that Donut hadn't been punished enough. Step by tiny step. Donut had left the infirmary just after lunch, but it was taking him roughly half an hour just to walk back to the cells. As Donut got closer, he could hear the very familiar sound of Grif and Simmons arguing. Donut grinned to himself as he edged closer. Even the arguing was better than hearing next to no conversation in the infirmary.

As he edged into sight, he saw Caboose sitting outside Grif's cell. He looked like he was talking to someone through the bars, Donut didn't know whether it was Grif or Simmons.

Weird. Caboose didn't usually go out of his way to talk to them... usually only when he and Grif were trading food.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

Donut had been inching his way past Church's cell when he heard that. Church climbed off his cot and took a few steps towards Donut, staring at him.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he repeated. "You're fine enough to leave? What the fuck? How come you're not in hospital like Tucker?"

"Uh. I think Miller went easy on me," Donut muttered.

"Did you tell them it was Miller?"

"No."

"What? Why the fuck not?"

"Because I don't want to be labelled a snitch and I don't want Miller coming after me again, alright? This hurt!" Donut said defensively.

"Ugh! Motherfucking idiot!" Church kicked the wall angrily, although the only succeeded in hurting his own foot. "Goddammit!"

"Man, you're really pissed, aren't you?" Donut tilted his head. "This is about Tucker, isn't it?"

"Why the fuck aren't you as hurt as he is? If he's gotta suffer through this shit—"

"I'm sure he'll be fine... I mean, Miller said he didn't want Tucker to die until he'd suffered enough to wish he was dead... and you spent ages in the infirmary when O'Malley stabbed you..."

"That's not the fucking same thing! O'Malley is a trained surgeon! If he just wants someone to suffer a lot, he's a lot more likely to succeed in not killing them! He knows which places to avoid stabbing, he fucking knows his stuff." Church grabbed Donut's shoulders and shook him angrily. "Miller just went in and smashed fucking everything, didn't he? Because he doesn't know shit! It's not the same fucking thing, goddammit!"

"Stop shaking me!"

Church did stop shaking Donut, but he didn't let go immediately. He looked like he hadn't slept, and combined with the anger... he looked deranged. After a few seconds of silence, Church let go of Donut.

"Dammit. I can't... fucking do shit..." Church whispered. "I can't do anything... Tucker could be dying and I can't do anything about it. Do you know what that fucking feels like? Because it feels like fucking shit!" Church shook his head and turned away from Donut. "Just fuck off, would you? Looking at you makes me want to kill something... and I can't even do that.”

Donut backed out of the cell as fast as he could, which was still at a snail-like pace. Which was a good thing in a way, because if he'd been moving at normal speed he probably would have run straight into Caboose, who had moved from outside Grif's cell and was instead hiding just out of sight of Church's cell.

Donut looked up at Caboose, but quickly looked down and tried to shuffle past him. He didn't think he could stand Caboose's puppy eyes today. But Caboose stopped him. He touched Donut's chin gently and carefully tilted his face up. Donut was a little scared that Caboose would break his jaw in the process, given his usual strength, but he was being gentle.

Caboose looked down at Donut, his eyes lingering on the obvious bruises patterning Donut's face. Then he looked at Church, who had started pacing his cell while muttering under his breath. Then he looked back at Donut for a few more moments and nodded, letting go of Donut as he did so.

"Okay," he said, before passing by Donut.

Donut frowned as he heard Caboose's footsteps recede. Okay? Okay what?

Donut was quickly distracted from wondering. Instead he ended up arguing with Grif and Simmons over which superhero would win in a fight, a debate that had apparently not reached a conclusion while Donut was gone.

Miller hummed lightly to himself, leaving the library and heading back to his cell. Yesterday's beatdown had put him in a very good mood. Tucker was long overdue for being broken, it'd been at least six months since Joannes died. It'd been too long a wait, but it had felt great.

He hoped Joannes was looking down at him and flashing him the thumbs up. Maybe eating some popcorn. Because if Tucker ended up living, there was going to be so much more to come. Miller hadn't expected none of the guards to approach him about it yet, though. He was sure the fruity guy would have told. Then again, maybe he was scared to... Made sense. And if Tucker survived... well, even if Tucker did, there was always the chance the guards wouldn't believe him. Tucker was a pretty well-known liar. Of course, if both Tucker and Donut insisted on it, there was no way Miller would be getting out of a punishment. But it was worth it. Even extra time in prison was worth that.

Miller entered his cell and rummaged through the footlocker for one of the porn magazines he'd found in a library book. Inmates persisted in hiding them inside books and forgetting to remove them.

As he rifled through his footlocker, he didn't hear anything except the usual cellblock noises. He didn't pay any attention to them as he assumed it was just an inmate passing by. It was only when Miller stood up, holding the magazine in his hands, that he turned around and saw Caboose standing right behind him.

"What the fu—"

Caboose reached out and grasped Miller's shoulders, before kneeing him hard in the gut. As Miller doubled over, Caboose grabbed him by the neck and pulled him back up again, staring him in the face.

Usually when Miller saw him, he had a friendly, slightly vacant expression. Scary thing was, his expression was still friendly. But there was something about that smile that reminded Miller a little of the red-haired man that'd talked to him the day of the riot.

"Please do not move or make any loud noise. Or I will have to break your neck," Caboose whispered quietly.

Miller knew he wasn't lying. He'd seen Phil's death, which had been a lot more unpleasant than a simple neck snap. Miller nodded very slightly. Caboose tugged him towards the footlocker, bent down and rummaged through the footlocker that Miller hadn't gotten a chance to shut. After a few moments, Caboose located a pair of Miller's socks.

"If you are quiet, this will not go in your mouth. Which will be good for you because socks smell funny and probably taste icky."

Caboose placed the socks on the stone floor and then sighed, in a similar way to that of a disappointed grade school teacher.

"You have not been a very nice man.”

"This is about Tucker and that fruit, isn't it?" Miller growled. "They had it coming to them."

"I said stop talking," Caboose said quietly. He tightened his hand around Miller's neck just a little bit. Had to be careful. Had to make sure he didn't fall down, because then Tex would be angry, which would also make Church angry. "You did very bad things. You hurt Donut. And you made Church very, very upset."

"Dammit. If you kill me, the others will get you," Miller snarled back. He was still staying as quiet as he could, though. He was a smart man.

"Do you think that? If you do... you are dumb. Everyone else is smaller. They cannot hurt me," Caboose replied. "Except O'Malley, but he will not care if I kill you. I think he would like it. He likes mean things. But that does not matter, because I am not going to kill you. Church said no."

"Then what the hell are you doing?"

"Teaching you why you should not do those bad things any more." Caboose shoved Miller down so he was flat on the ground, and planted a knee in his back. It reminded him of when he was a little kid picking on other children in elementary school, before he learned to be nice. Although were this school bullying, the initial hitting would be followed by a swirlie. Miller would not be that lucky.

Caboose twisted Miller's left arm behind his back, so that he had a clear view of the fingers. He'd seen people do this in the movies, although he couldn't remember any of the titles. But afterward, they didn't do any bad things. Although that might have been because either they died or the movie ended...

Miller was struggling a little, but he couldn't move much. However, he decided to start yelling some very rude words that Caboose's mother had taught him never to say.

"If Mama was here, she would wash your mouth out with soap," Caboose said. He picked up the rolled-up socks. "I do not have soap, but I still have these socks. Can you open your mouth?"

"Go to he—mmph!"

"Thank you."

Still holding Miller's left arm behind his back, Caboose grasped the little finger tightly.

"In the movies they would say something clever now. But I did not think of anything, so..." Caboose shrugged. And then he twisted Miller's little finger back.

Snap.

The socks couldn't quite block out Miller's scream of pain, even if it was reduced to a muffled groan. However, as Caboose grasped the second finger he heard someone approach the cell.

"What's going on, Mil—the fuck?"

Caboose looked away from Miller's hand towards the inmate who had approached the cell. One of Miller's friends, although Caboose did not know his name.

"Get off him!"

Caboose shook his head. "I am not done! And if you do not go, I will have to do this—" The sentence was punctuated by another crack and Miller's muffled noises of pain, "—to you as well. And I do not want to."

The inmate stood in the doorway, looking torn between running and trying to help. But another crack, when Caboose broke the third finger, decided it for him.

"I... I, uh... just remembered that I have... something to do," the inmate muttered, backing away quickly. Caboose sighed and turned back to Miller's hand.

"In the movies it was one finger a person..." Caboose mumbled. "But Church is worth more than a finger. ...Donut, too. Even if he is a liar. A hand a person would be better. And you have two hands! You are lucky I do not care about Tucker, or else you would need to grow another hand."

Minutes ticked by, punctuated only by cracks and short, muffled screams. Every time Caboose heard a crack, he got a strange swooping sensation in his stomach. It wasn't a bad feeling, but it was followed by guilt because it reminded Caboose of when he used to help O'Malley. He could almost hear O'Malley muttering in his ear.

Do you really want to stop at just the fingers, Caboose?

It took a little while to break Miller's last finger, which was the thumb on his right hand. But it broke. Ten mangled fingers, bloody and twisted like plasticine. A very painful lesson, just like being spanked as a little kid.

Caboose let go of Miller's right hand and removed his knee from Miller's back, instead pushing him onto his back so he could see Miller's face. Miller was breathing very heavily and quickly through his nose, and his face had gone chalk white. Tears and snot were dripping everywhere. He wasn't making an attempt to escape any more, especially since he couldn't put weight on his hands and was thus going to have a lot of difficulty getting up, but he was holding his broken fingers close, away from Caboose just in case he tried breaking them even more.

You could hurt him more. It'd be okay, because Miller is a bad man. It's okay to hurt bad people, Mikey.

Caboose shut out the O'Malley-esque voice in the back of his head. Instead, he bent down and stared at Miller again. Caboose was smiling a little. Because Miller had upset Church and hurt Donut, and now he was hurt because Caboose didn't like it when people were mean to his friends.

"I am going to stop now. But you are going to do some things. You are going to go see the nice doctor. You are going to say that you caught your hands in a very heavy door. If you are a tattle-tale, I will not be as nice next time."

"Mmph mmnnn!"

"You will never hurt Donut again. And since hurting Tucker made Church upset, then I guess you should not do that either. You will stay away from them. If you do hurt them again... it will make me angry."

He was no longer smiling. He was putting on his most serious of faces. He leaned in a little more, his eyes boring into Miller's.

"Do you understand? I. Will. Kill. You."

"Mmpher!"

"Nod or shake your head."

Miller didn't move for a long period of time before slowly nodding. Caboose smiled again and quickly left Miller's cell before a guard came around.

Church would be very, very happy with him. And then would be even better friends! And maybe... maybe Donut would be happy too. Even if Caboose still wasn't happy with him.

Doc dropped various pills into different plastic cups. He knew a lot of the medication doses off by heart, especially for the more troublesome patients. Still, he had to consult the list of medication regularly, just in case he made mistakes. He had messed up medication before... it had resulted in death or at least horrible sickness on occasion.

Doc reached for O'Malley's cup and dropped some pills into it. Then he realised he had dropped the sedatives inside, instead. He'd almost given O'Malley them again that morning, but had realised it at the last moment. He'd nearly done it again.

He disliked sedatives for the purposes of control, but he didn't want to stop delivering them. He didn't want O'Malley running around crazily... especially not anywhere near him.

Doc frowned for a few moments before putting the sedatives away and dropping O'Malley's regular medication in the cup. Well, it wasn't quite his regular medication... it wouldn't keep O'Malley a stoned vegetable, but he hopefully wouldn't be as haywire as he had been in the past.

Doc hoped, anyway. His medical skills being what they were, Doc could never be sure. Even when he just declared that someone had a cold.

Even so, when Miller pushed open the door using his foot, Doc didn't have to look at Miller's horribly mutilated fingers for long to realise what had happened and make a diagnosis.

"Someone broke all your fingers?"

Miller's hands were shaking, his face was pale, and his mouth was drawn tight, like he was attempting not to let any sound of pain come out.

"I... caught them in a goddamn door."

"It must have been a pretty heavy door to do that."

"Church! Church, are you still in there?" Caboose bounced into Church's cell. By this time, Church had stopped pacing his cell and was now attempting to sleep. Of course, Caboose's loud, cheerful voice both ruined that and made Church even angrier, if that was possible.

"Goddammit, what the fuck do you want now?"

Caboose lowered his voice to an obvious whisper. "I... have solved your problem."

"The fuck are you talking about? Seriously?"

"Miller. You were sad and angry because of things he did. So I fixed him! And now you will be happy again!" Caboose smiled brightly at Church, far too reminiscent of a puppy who has just brought in a dead animal as a present, expecting to be praised. Which, in Caboose's case, was often not that far of a stretch.

"Fixed... huh?" Church was still sleepy, and the implications were taking a while to catch up. He sat up on his cot, still slightly out of it. "Wait. Fixed... Oh shit, you didn't..."

"Did not what?"

"Caboose, if you goddamn did what I think you're fucking implying... I'm going to hurt you."

"Uhhhh..."

Church didn't know if Caboose wasn't answering because he realised Church was angry at him, or because he had forgotten what the word 'implying' meant. Either way, it was just increasing Church's foul mood.

"If you killed Miller, Tex is gonna be fucking pissed! We went through this fucking conversation after the Phil thing!"

"Oh! No, no, no." Caboose waved his hands distractedly. "No. I did not kill Miller. I just fixed him. He will not hurt Donut any more, and since Tucker being hurt makes you sad, he will not do that either. We even shook hands on it. Sort of.” Caboose lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Hands were... very, very involved."

"Wha—"

"But if he does more bad things, I have to kill him. Because I told him I would, and it is good to keep promises."

Church groaned and put a hand to his forehead. "Seriously. What'd you do?"

"I already told you."

"Then put it in plain words!"

"Uhm. Your voice is getting very loud. It is making my toes hurt.”

"Church! You in there, cockbite?" Tex appeared in front of Church's cell. To say she looked furious would have been an understatement. "You're really pushing this, aren't you? Can't believe you'd chance your brother's freedom on this shit..."

Church motioned for her to shut up, behind Caboose's back. Tex caught the gesture and stopped talking. Caboose was frowning and scratching his head.

"I thought Church said his brother was—"

"Uh. Tex didn't mean that kind of brother," Church cut in. "She meant the black kind of brother."

"Oh. Okay. Like Tucker."

Tex rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh. You're changing the subject. I knew you'd try something with Miller."

"I haven't even left my cell today for anything but working the fucking laundry!" Church protested. "I don't even know what the fuck happened."

"If you haven't been near him..." Tex lifted her hands and wiggled the fingers. "Then explain why all his fingers are mutilated to the point that they look like twisted, purple pieces of plasticine."

...Damn, Caboose.

"He caught his hands in a door," Caboose said immediately.

Tex turned to Caboose, glaring at him suspiciously. Behind her, Church mimed a strangling motion and pointed at Caboose. Caboose only reacted to Church's motion, and even then he only shifted nervously.

"Have you ever gotten all ten fingers caught in a door? Do you think I'd really believe that?" Tex asked him.

"Yes. It is true." There was about ten seconds of silence. "Please stop staring at me."

"As much as that does sound like a really dumb excuse..." Church started. Damn you, Caboose. Damn your obvious lies. "Maybe... it's true? Look, I didn't do shit. And I didn't tell anyone to do shit. You really think I'd risk... you know... just to break some asshole's fingers?"

Tex knew he wouldn't. Not after everything he gave up to keep Eddie's whereabouts a secret.

Tex crossed her arms, scowling. "Then explain what happened."

"Do not say anything. She will call a truck runner," Caboose stage-whispered.

"What the hell is a truck runner?"

Tex looked between Church and Caboose, then gestured at her thumb at Caboose while looking at Church. "Was it Caboose?"

Church did not say anything out loud, but he attempted to communicate with eye movements that the answer was yes. He didn't want to say it out loud. Betraying Caboose's trust was a very risky business. Communicating with eye movements was also tough, but it was not as hazardous to one's health.

Tex somehow received the message.

"Caboose, you're going to SHU."

"What? That is not fair! You said that Church could not kill Miller, you said nothing about hurting. I did not break any rules. I do not want to go to the sandal. It is Miller's fault! It was an accident, we were shaking hands on something! He caught them in a door!" Caboose babbled. "I did not do anything. Nothing. Nothing at all. We were shaking hands."

"Great, he's stuck in a fucking loop," Church muttered. "Caboose!"

"Accident!" Caboose nearly screamed, before turning around and running out of the cell and down the corridor. Tex sighed.

"Wash! Catch him!" she called out. Church couldn't see Caboose or Wash from where he was sitting, but just a moment after Tex had shouted he heard a crash.

"Ow, my face," he heard Caboose groan.

"Wash must be a fucking ninja or something," Church muttered. Tex shrugged before turning back to Church.

"Okay. I'll believe you when you say you had nothing to do with it this time. But only because I don't want to be charged... You kill anyone, you hurt anyone..."

"I know, I know. I fucking get it already."

Tex surveyed Church closely. Her frown faded just a little, replaced with concern. "You look awful."

"Yeah, I... uh, I didn't sleep that well..." Church shrugged. "No big deal, just... you know how it goes."

Tex shook her head. "I do know how it goes, and it better not go that way. You've been a bitch to keep alive for ten years, so throw that away and I'll drag you back from Hell and kill you again."

"You act like I'm on a perpetual suicide watch. That was one time," Church muttered. As Tex turned to leave, he added, "How come you can break the rules and I can't, huh?"

Tex froze very momentarily. "What are you talking about?"

"Tucker told me. He asked you to send Donut down to the storage room, so that Caboose could break his leg. Back when I was in the infirmary. You helped him get Donut, and Donut hadn't even stabbed me. How is that different from me wanting to get revenge on Miller for hurting Tucker?"

Tex was silent for a few moments, her back still to Church. "I guess you got me there... But that wasn't killing."

"Neither was this Miller thing."

"But in regards to why you can't break the rules and I can... I'm a guard. The rules were made for the inmates. Not for us.”

"That's bullshit. What about Wyoming?"

"Well, obviously breaking as many rules as he did is a different matter. He's in here for a reason.”

"It's just one more inmate! ...I know it's just broken fingers, but... He's not even a murderer, he was charged with fraud or something, that's all... Please? Okay, sorry." Doc tossed the phone back on the receiver and turned back to Miller. "They say they can't admit you based on severity. I'll try calling an urgent care center but I can't promise anything... for some reason they don't like taking felons... I'm trying to get you somewhere, I don't know how to set broken fingers... How do they feel?"

Miller's eye twitched as he raised his hands. The fingers were all swollen and purple. He didn't say anything.

"Okay, that was a silly question... I'm sorry." Doc started dialling the number for an urgent care center. "You know, I didn't even think we had doors that heavy! Did you get them in one of the cell doors when they were closing? No, that's silly, they don't close until night time..."

Miller still wasn't talking, but the twitching just increased.

"Did you try to escape? That gate that opens to let people in and out is really heavy... got my foot stuck in it once... couldn't walk for ages... and then O'Malley wouldn't stay still for his medication and I couldn't run after him and..."

He needed to stop talking about O'Malley. Why did every anecdote he tell end up with something about O'Malley?

Maybe just because O'Malley was such a live wire, and most of Doc's more vivid on-the-job memories involved him. A lot of inmates were trouble, especially the ones that required medication and thus required Doc to associate with them regularly. But they could usually be quieted with some attention from the guards, and they didn't usually attempt to cause trouble after they'd been beaten once. Doc didn't like the regular violence, they always disrupted the peaceful atmosphere he'd attempted to create in the infirmary. Even the duck curtains didn't help. But at least the inmates usually stopped the violence after the first couple of times.

O'Malley didn't stop. And when he wasn't violent...

He'd listened to Doc. Actually asked him what was troubling him. He'd been fidgety when he listened, and he always wore that manic grin, but... Doc had talked. He'd whined and complained, because he so rarely had the chance. No-one outside of the prison listened to him, after all... Then he'd complained about some of the inmates who gave him mild trouble... just as an aside. And those inmates started dropping like flies.

Doc had only realised the pattern when he'd complained about Church referring to him as a pussyfest, and Church had appeared in the infirmary not long afterward with multiple stab wounds.

That's how it went. And when Doc stopped confiding in the serial killer that for some reason had used Doc as some strange method of choosing victims... O'Malley just got worse. He just kept getting worse. And no matter how hard Doc tried, he couldn't stop thinking about him. Couldn't stop panicking about whatever O'Malley was up to. Even when O'Malley had been on the sedatives, Doc couldn't stop worrying. He worried less, that was definite. But only just enough so that he could actually get some sleep...

The prison was pretty much all Doc had in life, as much as he hated to admit it. He spent his life around convicted felons. But none of them had ever latched onto him and declared that he was their property, as O'Malley had done. Done while drugged, but done nonetheless. It almost made Doc consider giving up his job, but... his chances of getting a job anywhere else were slim. The only reason he had a job at all was because Sarge was insane enough to hire him.

Besides, he liked helping people. He couldn't bear to be useless again.

He could try passing off the job of giving medication to the guards, as he normally did. But once O'Malley was out of SHU, there was no telling what would happen. And there was some sort of law that said O'Malley could only be locked up there for so long...

Doc had been distracted with his chain of O'Malley-ish thoughts. He hadn't been able to argue for Miller being transferred to an urgent care center very well. Not that he would have done well, anyway. Doc was not good at arguing, even just opposing the view of someone else made him feel guilty.

"Sorry, Miller. I might have to try fixing your fingers. I think I know enough to not make it worse..." Doc said hopefully. "I'm not really sure, it might be better for me to just tape them together and hope for the best. If you want, I could get a new hanging kitty poster in here... that might cheer you up. I used to have one, but it had a blue background and Sarge accused me of supporting 'the other team.' He says the blue background counts, even if it was just a picture of the sky."

Miller didn't look comforted by the thought of Doc trying to fix his fingers.

Church was no stranger to shit going wrong. He'd spent most of his life having shit go wrong. But there was a difference between all those times and this time. First off, there was nothing he could do to help Tucker. And second, being in a prison... there was nothing he could do to distract himself from the fact.

Church wanted to stop thinking about it for even just five minutes... but he couldn't. What else was going to pull his attention away? The slightly different shade of yellow that the macaroni was today? Walking around the yard? Joining in Grif and Simmons' constant debate on superheroes? None of it was distracting enough.

Even trying to talk to Caboose or doing something futile like teaching him how to read (which Church had attempted when he was very bored once, and been reduced to a screaming mess within three minutes) wasn't distracting enough. Even if the urge to punch something in the face occasionally took his attention for all of six seconds. But it wouldn't have mattered either way, since Caboose was still in the shoe.

Church had attempted to pester Doc for information, but even Doc had gotten annoyed by Church's constant visits.

"Church, when I hear about any changes I'll tell you. You don't have to come up here every half an hour. No offence, but you're being a little bit annoying. And I'm already on edge as it is..."

Doc had seemed nervous about something, although Church didn't see anything that Doc should have been nervous about. It might have had something to do with Doc's failure to fix Miller's fingers himself. Doc had eventually taped all the fingers together and sent Miller on his way. The only joy Church was getting at the moment was watching Miller trying to eat and pick up things with such crippled hands. That didn't take Church's mind off... things... but it did make him marginally more cheerful.

Now Church had returned to trying to sleep his way through the hours... that hadn't worked. Because Tucker still managed to cram his way into Church's mind, even when he was sleeping. Even when he was dreaming. And the dreams were never good.

For the tenth time in a week, Church woke up with a start. And it took him several long moments to realise that things were better than they had been in the dream and even longer to make his hands stop shaking.

Church could remember the dream, clear as anything...

Tucker had been there... of course he had. But it hadn't been Tucker like when Church last saw him, with his orange jumpsuit and shit-eating grin. It had been Tucker wearing a hospital gown and an oxygen mask. Tucker had been blue and cold, which was strange considering how warm and brown Tucker's skin was...

And his eyes... his eyes had been hollow and dead-looking.

Everything around Church and Tucker had been dark. Church wasn't sure where the light had been coming from, but it only went a couple of feet around them. But then Tucker had stepped out of the light and started to walk away, and Church had gotten the horrible, overwhelming feeling that if Tucker got out of sight that he wouldn't be coming back. That he'd be gone for good.

Church had grabbed Tucker's arm, but had quickly let go because Tucker's arm had been cold... freezing cold. Cold like no living person should be. Church had tried to run after Tucker, but then Caboose had suddenly been there and had grabbed the back of his shirt, insisting that Tucker had to go to the hot place because he was a bad man and that Church wasn't allowed to follow...

And Church had tried to pull free, but he couldn't... couldn't do anything...

And Tucker had left, and it'd been too late...

It was the hollow, dead eyes and how cold Tucker had felt that really stuck with Church. Especially those eyes. Church had seen those eyes on people before, not all of them dead in the literal sense of the word. He'd seen them so many times it was almost lost on him by now. On inmates that had died in their cells. On Caboose when he'd first arrived in prison and during the times he'd been letting O'Malley push him around. On himself, when he stared in the mirror during his darker years.

But he'd never seen it on Tucker. Tucker was always lively. Always enjoying life for what it was worth even when he was stuck in a cement box. To see Tucker's eyes looking like they belonged to a corpse... it scared the shit out of Church.

Church shook his head to try and clear his mind. But he couldn't.

He hated Tucker so much right then. Goddamn, when Tucker got out of the hospital Church was going to kill him. If he did. No, he couldn't think if. When.

Church scowled at the ceiling, focusing his hatred on the ceiling instead. That would fill in some time. Goddamn ceiling.

"You were talking in your sleep."

Church sat up and glared at Grif, who was standing outside his cell holding a plastic bag. "Yeah, so what? Fuck off, will you?"

"Eh, maybe later." Grif held up the plastic bag. "I'm just looking for a drinking buddy. Simmons won't drink with me because he doesn't want to kill his liver, and he wouldn't let Donut drink with me because Donut's still underage... Want some pruno? You're an asshole, but you got a working liver so whatever."

Church continued glaring for a moment, before shrugging. "Fine. I need to get really drunk, anyway..."

For once, Doc wasn't caught by surprise. He'd known O'Malley was leaving SHU, and as a result had been determined not to keep his back to the door. This had resulted in over three hours of walking sideways so as to always keep the door in sight, and moving tables so he could sort out pills without turning his back.

When O'Malley did finally push the door open Doc had been sitting down, working on paperwork to explain why Miller's fingers probably weren't going to heal right and debating whether it was worth ignoring his ethics and lying that it had been someone else's fault that Miller's fingers were in even worse condition than when he'd first stumbled into the infirmary.

Naturally, Doc's response to O'Malley had been to edge away and try to hide behind the cot. Smoothness was not a trait of Doc's. O'Malley grinned and pushed the door shut with his foot, then reached back and locked it.

"Uh... please unlock the door," Doc squeaked, staring over the cot.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't think clearly enough to process your request. Heavy medication does that," O'Malley laughed, stepping closer. "But in all seriousness, Doc... I'm not happy with you. You drugged me heavily for a month. Maybe more, I lost track... And even now... I believe this is stronger medication, because I measure how drugged I am by how much I can remember of my medical knowledge... and at the moment, I can't remember much beyond the bare essentials. This must be what it feels like to be you."

"That's mean," Doc mumbled.

"It is. Did you really expect anything different?"

That grin was a little more drugged than Doc was used to seeing, but it was much closer to O'Malley's usual smiles. Much closer than anything Doc had seen for a while. As O'Malley got closer, Doc noticed other differences... O'Malley was thinner, his hair had gotten longer and messier... he looked crazier than ever.

"No."

O'Malley stepped even closer. Doc attempted to edge further away, but he was soon up against the wall. Doc's gaze darted to the side. He wasn't far from the phone, which he'd been dragging around the infirmary just in case word came from the hospital. Maybe if he could just reach out and pick up the phone... maybe he could call help, and they would take O'Malley away...

O'Malley's grin stretched wider, as he came to a halt on the other side of the cot. "You kept me drugged when I didn't need to be. I never need medication, but at that moment... I was locked inside what amounts to a box, Doc. What harm was I going to do in a box? Why did I need to be drugged to the point that I couldn't remember my own name?"

Doc didn't answer, he just stayed as flat against the wall as possible and hoped he'd somehow gain the ability to just phase through walls.

"You don't even have an answer. Not a legitimate one. You just drug me because you're scared. Even after I was so nice to you..."

"You weren't nice. You knocked me out,” Doc whispered, trying to stop his voice from shaking. It was a futile effort. "Why... why did you choose me to terrorize? Of all the people in this prison... why me?"

O'Malley's grin faded, replaced with a thoughtful frown. "Why you? Because... because..." O'Malley waved his hand. "I can't say. It's too..."

Doc blinked.

Was he actually showing embarrassment?

"You can say," Doc saed. O'Malley sighed and turned away.

"No. I can't, because you'll laugh. Or scream. That's how things go whenever... whenever I get close to someone."

Was he opening up? Showing a human emotion that wasn't based on rage or sadism?

Doc didn't know what to do. But he felt like he had to try and be comforting. O'Malley was finally showing some sort of human emotion... and it was his job to try and keep that going. Doc climbed back over the cot, reaching out to pat O'Malley on the shoulder or something along those lines.

Maybe... if he showed him that he wouldn't laugh at him for acting human... maybe he'd stop acting so cruel. He just needs to stop repressing the good parts of his feelings.

But as Doc's fingertips brushed O'Malley's back, O'Malley turned and rammed Doc in the stomach with his elbow. A few seconds later O'Malley had shoved Doc against the wall. Manic grin back in place.

"You foolish fool!" O'Malley laughed. "Did you actually believe that? You really caught that hook, line and sinker. You actually believed I could turn into someone who cares. I have to say, your folly amazes me. It truly, truly does."

"You... you jerk..."

"Oh, that's the understatement of the century, I'm sure." O'Malley had a firm grip on Doc's arms, and even though he was noticeably thinner he was still stronger than Doc. "Do you want to know the real reasons, my little plaything? It's not any meaningful reason like you might have thought. You're just more... fun."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're fun. You're fun because you're strange." As O'Malley continued to talk, one of his hands let go of Doc's arm. Instead, the fingers started tracing Doc's collarbone. Doc quivered, still trying to will himself to phase through the wall. "The way you behave is incredibly strange. There's really nothing else to it. You're a pacifist who believes wholeheartedly in the idea of 'good,' in a place where everyone, staff and inmate alike, is some variety of bad."

Doc flinched as O'Malley's fingers stopped tracing his collarbone and moved up his neck, moved up to stroking his face.

"That... that doesn't make sense," Doc squeaked. "You're... you're the strange one."

"I know. I'm the insane one. But there's so much about you that's strange... maybe one day I'll give you a full list. I don't want to right now... There are some things I could tell you that would probably break your spirit," O'Malley chuckled. "And while I'd love to see you broken... I've got so many more years of fun before I'm bored enough to destroy you completely."

Doc's next sentence was meant to be something coherent. Perhaps asking for O'Malley to move away and to stop stroking his face, because it was very distracting... or just asking for O'Malley to make more sense, because Doc still didn't understand what O'Malley meant by him being strange. But he never got a chance to speak because suddenly O'Malley's lips were on his.

It was not a good kiss. It lasted far too long and O'Malley kept biting him, though not quite enough to make it bleed. Not quite enough for anyone to notice the damage. It made Doc's skin crawl, like he was kissing an ant's nest. And Doc couldn't even try to move away because O'Malley had him pressed so hard into the wall that Doc was sure he would somehow leave an imprint in the wallpaper.

O'Malley grinned into the forceful, one-sided kiss before pulling back a little. His face was still only inches away. That insane slasher-movie grin wider than ever.

"Sometimes actions cause a better reaction than words. Don't they, Doc?" O'Malley purred. He rocked forward just a bit, and Doc felt something hard grind against him.

He'd never felt more terrified.

"No, no, no, no! Not that, please not—" Doc tried to squirm away, but he couldn't. Even now, he was still afraid to try anything but halfhearted wriggling around.

"Ohhh, Doc. Do you think I'm just one of the boorish gorilla types who bend men over in the shower without stopping to savor the experience?" O'Malley smiled wider and rocked forward again. Doc let out a small whine, shaking his head and pressing back against the wall to try and put space between them. "No, no, no. There's too many years ahead of us. And I have no interest in just sticking you with no lead-up. Mind you, if I felt like it... I could take you right now. But I don't want to. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a year, maybe ten years from now. But not today."

O'Malley let go of him and took a step back. Doc's legs didn't want to hold him, and he slid to the floor, shaking uncontrollably.

O'Malley let out a small laugh. "Such an overreaction to such a small thing." He leaned forward and brushed his hand against Doc's cheek, smiling wider when Doc flinched and edged back. "I have no interest in carnal pleasures, Doc. Only the reactions. And I have a lifetime to savor every little emotion that goes through you."

He took a few steps backwards towards the door, still smiling that cheshire grin.

"What is the phrase that would be used in a romantic relationship?" O'Malley's voice was heavily layered with sarcasm. "'I just want to take things slow' is the phrase, is it not? Ridiculous when applied to courtship. But in the case of... this? Perfect."

Another step backwards.

"It's going to be slow, Doc. Why would I want to rush it? But let's keep this between us, shall we? You wouldn't want me to, say... turn my attentions on others, would you? Because trust me, I won't be as kind to them as I am to you."

He left. Doc didn't move from the floor. All he could think about was an entire lifetime of O'Malley and how much the idea chilled him to the bone. How terrified he was that O'Malley had somehow gotten into such a large amount of his life.

And even so, he was still afraid of running away. There was no other job available where he'd be able to help people, and he couldn't give that up. It was all he had. And he couldn't leave, knowing that O'Malley would force this on someone else. He couldn't do that.

He could not be useless. There was nothing worse.

There was one thing that could distract Church. Grif's insanely large supply of pruno.

"Come on, you stupid... they must've... must've locked the doors early or some shit like that," Church grumbled.

"Church, you're trying to open the floor."

"Oh." Church paused from where he had been hitting his fist against the floor. "Motherfucking floor doesn't have enough trapdoors."

"I'll drink to that."

"You'll drink to anything."

"What's your point?"

"Yeah, screw it." Church lifted his small plastic bag of alcohol in some sort of toast, although he was still lying on the floor so it was hard to tell. "Right... to alcohol. I don't even fucking remember what I was upset about.”

"Taking a wild guess here... but I'd say it's about the whole Tucker thing."

There was a long pause.

"Fuuuuck. Now I'm thinking about that shit again. Thanks a fucking lot, douchebag."

"Hey, you calling me a douchebag?" Grif gestured at Church's bag of alcohol. "I'm the one supplying you with alcohol, you want me to cut you off?"

"...My bad. But, seriously... no talking about Tucker. I don't... fucking care," Church slurred. Grif rolled his eyes. Grif was holding his liquor much better than Church was. Of course, Grif was superhuman when it came to liquor.

"Yeah, you do."

"No. Don't. Fuck off."

"Okay, Church? Seriously. I already know you're in love with Tucker, alright? Some crazy, suppressed caring right there. If I was a girl... or Donut... I'd probably call it 'cute.'"

"Oh, shit." Church climbed to his feet, wavering. "...Donut told you, didn't he? Motherfucker."

"Donut? Didn't even know he knew. It's just obvious. I mean, the whole 'pretend you don't care and insult him regularly so they don't realise it' thing? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, frisbee and badges to prove it." Grif took a long drink of pruno. "But that's besides the point. Lemme get this straight. You're a douche."

"I fucking know."

"But seeing you mope in here day after day is depressing. And hearing you talk in your sleep, and shouting and punching the walls, so on and so forth... it gets really old. I know you're worried, but Church... sitting here and spiraling into depression won't do shit for it and I'm sure Tucker wouldn't want that to happen. Fucker was always far too cheerful."

Church stared blearily at Grif, who drained his bag of pruno with a few more gulps. "The fuck do you know about that kind of shit?"

"Trust me on this. Just because I'm a lazy ass, doesn't mean I don't know some things. With the Tucker thing... you don't have to admit you care." Grif shuddered. "That's just embarrassing anyway."

Church frowned. Thoughts were struggling through his pruno-stunned brain.

He wasn't supposed to care about things. He was fucking Church. He didn't care about anything. It was the painkillers. But he knew he was just kidding himself at this stage. If he really didn't care, he wouldn't have moped for the past week. He wouldn't be freaking out at just the idea of Tucker being cold and having dead eyes. He wouldn't be drinking myself into a stupor with a chubby Hawaiian guy.

So yeah. He cared. He cared way too fucking much.

"You're not even listening, are you?" Grif grumbled.

"Fuck this shit... I just want to stop thinking. God, I wish I was Caboose right now.”

Chapter Text

When Caboose got out of the clog, the first thing he did was go find Church. It was breakfast time, but Church was still asleep.

"Church! It is time to wake up and have food time!" Caboose said, prodding Church in the shoulder. There was no response. Caboose then tried clapping his hands next to Church's ear, followed by shaking him lightly. This just got an annoyed grunt, but then Church rolled over and kept sleeping.

"He's just asleep. Massive hangover," Grif mumbled, as he passed by the cell. He was rubbing his forehead. “Just leave him.”

Caboose didn't leave him. It was food time. So Caboose picked him up and carried him to the cafeteria. He passed Tex on the way, who looked like she was going to raise an objection, but then shrugged and let Caboose continue.

“That was so not what I said,” Grif said, when Caboose placed Church in his seat. Church immediately flopped forward and continued to snore.

“But it is food time.”

Caboose was happy that Church was sleeping, though. It was harder to sleep when sad, so he was happy. Or he was having one of those special sleeps that it was hard to wake up from, but Caboose hoped it was normal sleep.

Caboose started his morning ritual of sorting his cereal into two piles. While he did so, he noticed York walking towards their table. Caboose paused in the middle of his sorting. It was visitor's day, and if Sheila was visiting then York would tell him so.

"Alright... Grif, Simmons and Donut. You three are getting visitors today."

Donut choked on his cereal. "What? That's... really?"

"Uh, yeah. Don't look so surprised."

Caboose wondered idly why Donut looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. Maybe someone had decided to be stupid and put the powdery yellow stuff from the macaroni in his jumpsuit. Tucker had done that once to Church, and Church had shouted at him all day. Tucker could not macaroni people now, because he was hurt. Church was acting like Tucker was not going to come back, but Tucker would come back and be annoying. Lots of people did that. Caboose would never leave, because he would be away from Church, and that would be bad. And he could not follow Sheila around on the outside. Sheila was always busy at the hospital, and Caboose had tried following her when he was living at the hospital but then he got scared by all the needles.

Caboose frowned at his cereal. York hadn't said Caboose's name on the people with visitors list. That meant Sheila wasn't visiting him that day. That made him sad. He needed to tell Sheila about all the stuff that happened and ask what he should do. Church was not very askable. Especially when he was either sad or unconscious. Which he always was, lately.

Donut had returned to poking at his cereal, still looking like someone had macaronied his clothes. Caboose opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but then he remembered that he was still upset at Donut. Even though he did not like seeing Donut uncomfortable. Donut's face still had purple patches on it. Caboose didn't like that, either.

If he had been all protective like Church told him to, Donut would not have gotten hurt. But he couldn't protect liars. But Church said it was okay to talk to him. Caboose was still angry at him, but he wanted to talk to Donut again.

Maybe he would not want to. Maybe he would be mad because Caboose was mad. And he was still mad. Caboose didn't know what to do. He needed to talk to his fluffy pigeon. She might be able to help. Even though she does not talk back much.

But first he had to wait for Church to wake up. He would not be happy if Caboose left him in the cafeteria

Donut paced nervously, waiting to be let into the visitors' room. None of his old friends would be likely to be the visitors. Most of them had freaked out at the fact that he'd killed his roommate, and they were very shallow, fickle people anyway. Donut readily admitted that. He'd only known them for a few months anyway.

There were only two people that his visitor could be, and those were his mothers. That made Donut nervous. The last time they'd seen each other had been before the incident. He didn't know what they'd say about him being a convicted felon.

Donut shifted nervously, linking his fingers together behind his back and rocking back and forth on his feet. He felt a little scared. Not the 'I'm-going-to-die' kind of scared that he'd felt so much in the last few months, more the kind of scared when he used to steal cookies and Mama Julie would catch him at it. Only a lot stronger.

Simmons was sitting down, twiddling his fingers together. Grif was already in the room. Simmons looked up at Donut. "You look nervous."

"I haven't seen my mothers in a while... I don't know how they're going to react."

"Wish I could say something comforting. But I'm not really good on the subject of parents." Simmons shrugged. "I'd like to say they'll forgive whatever you've done. But that didn't work with my parents. Even before the murder."

"That's so not comforting!"

Simmons shrugged again.

"Franklin Delano Donut?" A guard had opened the door. "You can go in."

Donut nodded to Simmons and stepped into the room. Donut saw Grif sitting at one cubicle, talking to a girl wearing clothes that were really revealing for winter. More importantly, the clothes totally clashed in colour. Donut walked past other inmates talking with their own guests. At the back of the room on the other side of the glass, Donut saw York talking to a man with strangely yellow eyes, who was being followed by a six-year-old holding some crayon pictures.

Donut then reached the cubicle he'd been walking towards. A woman with short, blonde hair sat there. The blonde hair was a lot greyer than the last time Donut had seen her.

"Mama Liz?"

Mama Liz looked up. For a moment, she looked more stressed than Donut was used to seeing her, and her mouth had been pulled into a frown. But she quickly grinned.

"Crumbcake? Oh my god, it's really you! I was so worried! What happened to your face?" Her face had quickly gotten alarmed. Donut shook his head, inwardly cursing the obvious bruises.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Donut said, attempting to smile back at her.

“Not as bad as it looks? It looks like they rolled you through a garbage disposal!”

"I'm fine! How're you? And how's Mama Julie?”

"Fine, fine! And Ju-Ju's doing okay. A little surly and she's gone off crime serials, but she's okay. She wanted to come, but we couldn't both take time off work to travel here. She said to say hi, by the way. I can embellish the message to make it sound more emotional, if you want."

Donut grinned a little. "I think I'd be more worried if the message was emotional..."

"She might show up next time. Hey, wait. We're supposed to be talking about you, crumbcake. Are you doing okay? Are you eating well? Getting enough exercise? Getting enough hugs?"

"It's not as bad as I thought it would be from the movies. They don't serve us nothing but gruel and bologna sandwiches. Although I don't know what they put in the macaroni. Plus, we have yard time. I love yard time."

"And the hugs?"

"I don't think most of the guys here are receptive to that kind of stuff."

"Aw... I can't even hug you through this glass... and mental hugs just don't work, they're not as warm and comforting..." Mama Liz's mouth shook, and she raised her hand to wipe her eyes, which were starting to water. "I can't hug you anymore. Even though we're less than two feet apart. It doesn't feel real."

Donut cut Mama Liz off before she started crying. Donut always got scared when Mama Liz cried. She was the happy mother. "It'll be alright, Ma. I'll be out before you know it."

"You're sentenced for life, crumbcake. That's the opposite of no time at all."

"Yeah, but I'm up for parole in twenty years, provided I'm good. And you know me. I'm a good boy."

"I know, dear."

There was a long silence, as they both tried to think of something to say that wouldn't bring up anything related to Donut's sentence. Mama Liz gave up first.

"Crumbcake... I, I just..." Mama Liz shook her head. "I never thought you'd... end up here."

Donut looked downwards at his hands, which were laced together on the table. The hands that had long since stopped being manicured. "I didn't think so, either... it's not like I planned to have a crazy roommate. I mean... I guess I should have seen the signs, but I just thought he was eccentric."

"I can't judge, I had some strange roomies. Of course, one of those was Ju-Ju, so some good came out of it in my case."

Donut fiddled with his fingers. "So... you're not mad?"

"Mad? Crumbcake, if it was in self-defence, I'd much rather this than the alternative! How can I be mad at you for you living? Besides, even if it wasn't... I'm your mother. If you burn half the world down I'll still try to be there. Although you would be so grounded if that ever happened..."

Donut laughed sheepishly. "I'm not planning on it. ...Thanks, Ma."

"Oh, Ju-Ju would say the same if she wasn't so uptight. As it is, she'd only say the grounded part."

"Okay... Can you tell her I'm sorry for getting thrown in here? And that I miss her."

"Sure... But I'm sure she already knows.”

Donut smiled, but the smile dropped off his face and he pressed his hands against the glass.

“...I really missed you, too. Prison sucks.”

“You want to cry? No shame in crying.”

“...No. I'd never be able to stop.”

"Ow," Church groaned. "What the fuck is up with my head?"

"Hi, Church!"

"Caboose, shut up." Church opened his eyes and looked around. "How did I get to the fucking cafeteria? And why the fuck are you here?"

"I brought you out here! Because it was breakfast time and you would not get up! And Mrs. McCrabby let me out of the slippers at breakfast time, which is why I went to get you for breakfast time so we could have best friend talk!"

"Quiet the fuck down, will you? Jesus fucking Christ."

"Sorry!" Caboose whispered loudly.

The events of the previous night were a little fuzzy... and they just blurred entirely after a while. But he remembered Grif telling him to grow a pair and stop moping over Tucker. Along with a lot of shouting over floors.

"Church?" Caboose tilted his head. "Are you okay? Are you still sad? I was hoping, since you got sleep, that you would be happy again. Can you please be happy again?"

Church rubbed his forehead, trying to block out the throbbing headache.

How the fuck was he meant to be happy again? When had he ever been happy since he got to prison? ...Fuck, he knew the answer to that, and the answer was when Tucker got there and he had someone to talk to. Fucking asshole. Funny how he didn't realise how much he needed the giant prick until he wasn't there.

Church sighed. "I'll... be fine. Don't worry about it.”

"Okay. Can you go to the library with me? I still cannot read book titles. Miller will not be there. He cannot pick up books anymore, so he is not in the library." Caboose rocked back and forth on his chair, pulling his puppy dog eyes. "Please?"

Church rolled his eyes. But he needed distractions. He had to stop moping, or Tucker would make fun of him and call him a needy bitch if—when—he got out.

"Alright. This is the only time I'm gonna do this, though."

Caboose smiled widely. "Yay! Best friend time!”

Three weeks went by.

Church did whatever the fuck he could to keep his mind off things. He read to himself. He read to Caboose before losing his temper over Caboose interrupting the stories. He drank when he could find the liquor. He slept as much as possible. He exhausted every little option he had in that piece of shit prison.

Currently, Church was back to trying to read. Thankfully, it was easier to get books than usual; since Miller had been retired as a librarian until his hands healed up, Church could actually go in there without being hurt.

He had managed to distract himself a little. Even though Caboose always wanted to follow Church to the library and be read to, and Church just didn't have the patience for that.

The day wasn't so bad. The night was different. When the lights went out and it became too dark to read, all the thoughts that Church kept suppressed during the day would catch up with him. He'd be haunted in his dreams by the cold, dead-eyed version of Tucker. The dreams varied, but Tucker was always there. Church would wake up with cold hands and a gnawing feeling at the bottom of his stomach.

Church frowned at the book that he had propped up next to his food tray. Breakfast was difficult. The dreams still poked at the back of Church's head. And Church was too busy zoning out to either read his book or notice Simmons poking him.

"Church! Church!" Simmons' incessant prodding didn't get his attention. Church didn't snap out of it until Grif lightly smacked him over the head.

"Ow! What the fuck, Grif?"

"Tucker's back."

This didn't process through Church's brain as quickly as it should have. "What?"

"Tucker's back, dipshit. Saw him being taken to the infirma—" Grif didn't even manage to finish before Church was up and moving for the infirmary.

Within record time, Church sprinted to the infirmary and started hammering on the door.

"Doc! Open the door!"

The door opened an inch, and Doc's eye stared out."You got here fast. He barely arrived five minutes ago."

"Let me in, come on."

"I'm not really supposed to let just any inmate in here, especially when there's patients. Sometimes it ends badly. Once I let a guy in to visit his 'friend' and he smuggled a shiv in with him."

"You remember the last time you wouldn't let someone in? Caboose kicked down the fucking door. And I might not have the crazy strength he does, but I'll do the same fucking thing."

Doc sighed and opened the door wider. "You know, you could have just asked nicely. But be quiet, this isn't a playground. Don't make him talk much. Don't touch any of the, uh... things."

Church grunted in return, before stepping in and seeing Tucker lying on the cot.

Jesus Christ. He was still hooked up to a bunch of tubes and needles, and looked like he was barely capable of moving. His breathing came out rough and shaky. There were bandages on his torso, hiding the surgery scars. This was stable condition? He looked at death's door.

But he was still breathing.

Church dragged a stool over and sat down next to Tucker's cot, gazing at Tucker more closely. Tucker didn't appear to be in pain, but he had a lucid, sleepy expression that Church could only associate with heavy painkillers. There were deep shadows under his eyes, but when he looked at Church...

Church didn't know what to say. He'd worried about Tucker for weeks, but now that Tucker was in front of him... Church just didn't have any words.

Tucker grinned sleepily.

"Ha... Thought you were rid of me. In your face." He tried to lift his arm a little in a victory gesture, but his hand only managed to flap slightly.

Church had frozen completely, his mind still blanking on what to say. Whatever weak suggestions his mind might have been sending him was being completely blocked out by the tidal wave of relief, among other very strong feelings. Which made Church uncomfortable on its own... he wasn't used to feeling so much at once. And those feelings were telling Church to do a lot of different things... the top three seemed to be hugging, crying and punching Tucker in the face for causing it all.

"Church?" Tucker was speaking slower than usual, partly because he was completely high on painkillers and partly because he had to pause to breathe every few words. His voice was raspy, like it had fallen out of use. "You... you there, man?"

"So, you're not dead, huh?" Church finally managed to say, in what he hoped was a 'not-that-I-care' kind of voice.

"Nah. Breathing hurts like a... a fucking bitch, though. But... painkillers, so it's all good. Well, it'd be good if I was allowed to...” He twitched his fingers in the direction of the door, glancing reproachfully at Doc. “I'm really sick of hospitals..."

"You can't leave. You're attached to tubes.”

“Psh.” Tucker waved his hand again. “Details.” He gazed at Church. "You look like shit. The fuck's up?”

I spent every non-distracted moment thinking about you and how you might have never come back. I spent every night dreaming about it. I spent three weeks terrified that you were going to die out there. Because... Because you're a fucking asshole, but you're also the only thing keeping me sane in this place.

"Fine, I guess. Not much shit happened," Church said offhandedly. “Hey, you're the one who was nearly killed. Wuss.”

Tucker made a noise that might have been intended to be a chuckle, but it just sounded raspy. "It'll take more than that... Got too much to live for, right? I'm a lover not a... die-er? I don't fucking know..."

Church looked down at Tucker, who smiled sleepily back at him.

Those eyes weren't the dead ones Church had been seeing in his dreams for the last three weeks. Even though Tucker was still bedridden and raspy, not to mention drugged up on painkillers, those eyes were lively.

Tucker was actually going to live, and Church was so damn relieved. But his chest really hurt, like something had just imploded.

"Half the shit you say doesn't make sense. You're a dumbass drugged up on painkillers," Church told him.

"Church, please don't insult the patients," Doc muttered reproachfully. Tucker waved his hand again dismissively.

"Eh. You pretty much nailed it," Tucker admitted.

"'Course I did."

"Um... Church?"

"Goddammit, Doc. What?"

"Well, I kind of wanted to try and get Tucker to go to sleep. He was only just transferred back here and he still needs a lot of rest. I don't think he'll be able to get that with you here." Church glared at Doc, who raised his hands nervously. "Uh. No offence. It's just... uh... you know how it is. Please don't hurt me."

"Church, you're gonna give the guy a heart attack," Tucker said. "Gonna fall asleep... It's not like I'm going anywhere."

"Yeah, you better not." Church didn't move his eyes from Doc. "If you don't let me in tomorrow... I'm kicking down the door."

"Okay, just... don't break anything..."

Church turned back to Tucker. "Fine, I'll go... I'm gonna be back pretty early tomorrow, so you better not be bitchy about me interrupting your naps or some shit."

"Right."

Church shifted nervously, then reached out and clapped a hand on Tucker's shoulder. "Tucker, I... “ He hesitated, then blurted out, “I'm glad you're not dead. Or, you know... whatever.”

Tucker blinked. "Oh, for real?" He looked away, grinning sheepishly. "Don't go getting all girly and emotional on me, alright?"

"Pfft. What do you take me for? I didn't miss you that much."

Church was a fucking liar.

Once he was shooed out by Doc, who was babbling something about needing a better lock on the infirmary door, Church started walking back to the cafeteria. He opened and closed the hand he had grasped Tucker's shoulder with, looking down at it.

Tucker had felt warm. In your face, nightmares! In your motherfucking face!

If Church could just fucking deal with the pain in his chest, then he'd be pretty damn happy at the moment.

"Simmons? Do you have a bucket?

"Why would I have a bucket?"

Donut shrugged, walking after Grif and Simmons. "I don't know... really, anything big enough for me to wash my clothes in is good."

"Well, I don't have anything. Ask Wyoming," Simmons told him, gesturing across the yard at Wyoming, who was sitting down in the corner under the shade of the stone walls and smoking elegantly, as he always did.

"But I can't afford both fabric softener and a bucket... stupid Wyoming prices," Donut grumbled. "Grif, do you have a bucket? I need something to at least wash my underwear in! These ones are so itchy! I can't live with itchy crotch any longer!"

"I got nothing. But next time, we really don't need to hear about your crotch," Grif groaned. "Too much information, Donut."

Donut pouted and crossed his arms. "Aw... How can it be so hard to find a freaking bucket?"

"Eh. I'm sure there's some reason that they don't supply buckets. Maybe you can scavenge something you can use from the laundry rooms. Probably not."

"This place sucks."

"Wow, Donut. Prison sucks. Really? I never would have guessed."

"Shut up, Grif.”

"Caboose."

"Hm?"

"You're staring at me."

"No, I am not. I am staring in a completely opposite direction."

"Caboose, you're still doing it. Quit it."

Church went back to eating his macaroni (not picking at his food like he had been for the last few weeks) but Caboose kept gazing at him. Church twitched angrily.

"Caboose. Fuck off, seriously."

Caboose tilted his head, his face scrunched up in thought. Then comprehension spread across it. "Tucker is back?"

"Didn't I tell you?"

"No."

"Then how the fuck did you figure out that Tucker was back?"

"Because you are not as frowny. You are still frowny... but not sad frowny. Just angry frowny," Caboose told him. "You are always angry frowny, though. So that is your version of happy."

"The fuck you talking about? I wasn't sad," Church muttered, hating Caboose's tendency to catch onto whatever Church wanted him to ignore.

Caboose laced his hands together, gazing at Church in what Caboose probably thought was an intelligent manner. "Church... I am not stupid."

Church choked on his macaroni and was stuck between coughing and laughing for the next thirty seconds. Once he'd gotten control of himself, he said, "That's one of the stupidest things I've heard lately. You can't even read!"

"You do not need to know how to read to see sad faces, Church."

"Yeah... well..." Church glared at his food for a moment. "So? I was... just depressed about something else."

"What else would you be sad about? Tucker is your second-best friend."

Was he being so fucking obvious that even Caboose had it figured out? His lying skills must have degraded since prison. He kept lying for years on the outside, and now Caboose had him figured out.

"What makes you so sure I'm happy now? I'm never happy in this hellhole."

Caboose gazed at him solemnly. "You just laughed. You have not even smiled for a long time."

Church couldn't think of a reply to that.

Instead, he returned to eating his macaroni, scowling a little more than before. Trying to ignore Caboose and also trying to block out the sounds of Grif, Simmons and Donut's conversation, which was floating over to them even though they were sitting a few seats away.

"All I'm saying is that fabric softener would stop riots occurring as much, in a roundabout way. You wouldn't want to attack people if you weren't so itchy, right? I just need a bucket! I'll bring prison-wide peace!"

"That's a pipe dream, Donut."

"Says you!"

Church groaned and put his head in his hands. He hated this place.

Painkillers, or pain alleviators as Doc often referred to them, were the best thing ever.

Tucker couldn't recall feeling so relaxed in a long time. And even doing boring things like staring at the ceiling had a weird sort of appeal. Tucker gazed with lucid fascination at the ceiling. Yes, indeed. Who knew ceiling cracks could be so interesting?

Everything was fine, as long as Tucker remembered to breathe. Long and deep, long and deep. Tucker couldn't quite remember why he had to breathe like that... might have had something to do with risk of... something. Stupid lungs.

The door swung open. Tucker didn't move his gaze from the ceiling immediately. He only did so when he heard Church speak.

"Still not dead?"

"Don't think so. I feel kickass. If I was dead I'd probably be stuck in a fire with a pitchfork up my ass or something." Tucker grinned at Church. "Painkillers are awesome, man. They're... hang on, I need to compare to something. Somewhere between sex and... really good sex."

"You're an idiot."

"And it feels awesome."

"So, you're doing alright?"

"Fuck yeah, I am. I'm stoned as hell. I start to feel shitty every few hours, then Doc throws more painkillers at me and I feel great again."

Church gazed absently into space, drumming his fingers against his thighs. Tap-tappity-tap. For some reason, it was annoying Tucker. Maybe because Tucker was supposed to be the one zoning out, not Church.

"Hey! Church!” Tucker snapped his fingers. His hands were the only part of him that could consistently move right now.

"Hm?"

"You're zoning out on me, dude."

"Yeah, I was just... thinking about shit." Church shifted a bit. "By the way. Snitch Miller in?"

"Oh, totally forgot. I think I meant to, and then I saw the ceiling cracks and got distracted with the whole not dying thing, and other trivial shit." Tucker tried pushing himself up a little, since he was sick of lying flat on his back. But even the painkillers couldn't completely stifle the pain when he tried. "Ow, fuck. I gotta stop doing that."

"I kept trying to get up after I was stabbed, too. Lying down for too long sucks ass."

"Totally. Anyway, so Miller's off scot free."

"Fuck no." Church paused and looked around the infirmary. "...Doc around?"

"He's in the back somewhere.”

"Out of earshot? Good, because as far as he knows, Miller broke all his fingers by slamming them in a door."

"He broke all his fingers?"

"Caboose helped."

"Ah."

"I have to say, watching Miller try to pick up things and having to get his goons to cut up his food for him... it's a real mood booster."

Tucker grinned at the ceiling. "Making me feel better just hearing it..." Tucker's grin faded a little. "Why'd he do it? He hates me."

"Guess he still likes Dye-Job. Also, he said he didn't like me moping."

"Moping?" It took a few moments to process. "You were fucking moping?" Tucker laughed, but it tailed off into a coughing fit. "You girl."

Tucker then had to blink a couple of times, because Church had actually gone red. Church never went red. Never. He just didn't. Tucker scrunched up his eyes in lieu of rubbing them. Must be a trick of the light or something.

"Shut up, Tucker," Church muttered. "I... I wasn't moping. Caboose just thought I was. And Caboose is a dumbass."

Back to insulting people. Ah, typical Church. Beat him blushing like a schoolgirl. Tucker was glad Church couldn't read his mind. Or maybe he could, but if he could Tucker was so fucked.

"You can't read my mind, can you?" Tucker asked.

"The fuck?"

"Oh, cool. That's a no, because if you could read my mind, you'd understand the train of thought that went to that question."

"I was just going to ask if you were stoned, but then I remembered the answer was 'fuck yeah.' So... yeah, I got nothing."

Tucker smiled sleepily again before yawning. "Mmhm." He blinked sleepily. "Think I'm gonna crash."

"What? I just fucking got here."

"Can't control when I do it, man. It's the painkillers and the general 'oh god, the pain' thing... Besides, if you're gonna be a lazy fuck then just hang around and chat to Doc, what the hell do I care?" Tucker yawned again before settling into his pillow. "Don't... wake me up or I'll... strangle you or... some..."

He was asleep before he finished talking.

Bastards. Goddamn bastards.

Miller looked down at his hands. Thanks to Doc's 'treatment,' they looked more messed up than ever. They were supposed to at least be on their way to healing by now. If he'd kept them away from Doc maybe they would have had more of a chance of healing properly. But the way things were... they'd already started healing in funny positions.

And what could Miller do about it? Shit all. He was gonna be a fucking cripple the rest of his life because of that insane kid. What was he supposed to do on the outside now? He couldn't go back to check swindling, he wouldn't be able to operate the tools necessary with his mangled hands. And he wouldn't be able to get many normal jobs, unless there was a job that only needed him to use his feet.

Miller couldn't even punch the wall to express his rage.

Only three years left in here... and his life had been goddamn wrecked.

Miller attempted to pick up a book with just his palms. The bandages made even that difficult. His hands were shaking, as they did every time he started to think about what had happened. And he just got so angry... he didn't know what he was going to do... And he couldn't even get revenge.

Because even if Miller's life was ruined, he still had the chance to escape prison with it. He wasn't going to give up that chance.

Church tapped his fingers absently, glancing at Tucker every few seconds. Tucker was fast asleep by now. Church still kept an eye on him. He didn't know the details of what was wrong with Tucker, but he knew it had something to do with the ribs and lungs... so he kept wondering if Tucker was just going to stop breathing.

Doc had run to get some food. Church would feel better if he were present. He was a shit doctor, but that was better than nothing.

Church frowned, glaring at Tucker.

What a jerk-off. Making him care and all that bullshit. What a festering sack of whore.

Church waved his hand in front of Tucker's face, then prodded him in the shoulder. Just to see whether he was really asleep. Tucker didn't move, although he did let out a short snore. Church shook his head.

Goddamn, he hated him so much.

Church studied Tucker carefully. He still hadn't quite managed to get the dead-looking Tucker out of his head. Seeing Tucker with his usual warm, brown skin rather than the pale blue colour he'd had in the dream... it did help alleviate Church's fears. Not as much as Tucker actually feeling warm...

Church reached out and grasped Tucker's hand, which was lying motionless next to him. Definitely warm.

He was just checking the temperature. It'd be fine. So long as Tucker never, ever found out. He'd never let Church live it down. Not the hand-holding. Not the dumb, gay feelings that everyone but Tucker seemed to know existed. None of it.

Church didn't let go, however.

He could worry about it another day. Right now he knew Tucker wasn't going to up and die and leave him here, and that was enough.

O'Malley sat on the pavement of the yard. It'd been a while since he was outside. He was thrown into the shoe and shoved into the infirmary so much that he rarely got to be anywhere else.

He pondered what to do next. There were so many potential torture victims around. Church was always high up on the list... Church was the only one of his torture victims that O'Malley actually hated. It would be great to ruin Church's life, but it had kind of lost its novelty. After all, he'd already wrecked Church's life once. Doing it again when he had little to lose wasn't much fun.

There was Tex. But Tex was hard to get to without being beaten viciously. And it was the kind of torturing that had to be done little by little over a very long period of time. Three years, and O'Malley had hardly chipped at her. Tex wasn't the kind of victim O'Malley could focus all his energy on. To be honest, he wasn't sure he'd ever have enough time to break her.

Caboose was, to be honest, getting very boring. He was a toy who had already been broken. He wasn't fun to play with any more. He was just a fun trigger for torturing others. Fun to manipulate into hurting others, but on his own he just wasn't interesting any more.

There were others, like the flaky pastry, but to be honest they weren't worth much more than the occasional bit of torture. He'd already messed around with Donut a bit. Ruining friendships was fun, but not an activity that would keep him amused over years. Plus, listening to the pastry was an exercise in mental torture.

O'Malley climbed to his feet, pacing around the yard. He hated it when most of the prison got boring. If it hadn't been for how amusing Doc was to him he'd probably be going mad with boredom.

Of course, Doc was hopeless when it came to affecting others. After all, no-one cared about him. Many mercilessly mocked him. O'Malley grinned to himself as he walked around the yard towards Wyoming.

Just made him an easier target.

He still needed another weapon to torture with, however. But Wyoming's response had been expected.

"Has it been a year, chum? I already informed you, no more weapons for a year. Do you wish to put me out of business?" Wyoming asked.

"I need something sharp!"

"And furthermore... do you even have the funds to pay for such things? You've spent the last half of the year largely in the infirmary or in the shoe."

"...Curses.”

Wyoming nodded, lighting a cigarette. "I'm afraid if you want another screwdriver, or some other sharp item... I must charge you an extra fee. You are inferring a lot of risk onto me through your little games."

"You're making too big a deal out of this, Wyoming. Fine! You'll have your fees..." O'Malley muttered ominously.

Wyoming was not impressed. "Don't get caught with your screwdriver so quickly next time." Wyoming blew out some smoke. "Incidentally, perhaps you could try other methods of inflicting pain? Cigarette burns are quite painful in the right places, and much more discreet."

"Not the same. No blood, less screaming..."

Curse Wyoming and his cautiousness! O'Malley needed a new henchman.

O'Malley started making his way back to the prison. Perhaps he would find Doc again. He could do a variety of things to Doc. He could physically or mentally hurt Doc, or he could just continue stroking his pet. That did get the most delicious reactions.

But whatever he chose to do out of the almost limitless possibilities... for now, Doc was the best source of entertainment O'Malley had. And he could stretch that out for a long time.

"You know what would be great? Strip poker."

"Hell no, Donut."

"I kind of like the idea," Grif said, grinning. "Four aces. Shirt goes off, Simmons!"

"We're not playing strip poker!" Simmons shouted, his ears going red.

Donut pouted. "Killjoy."

Simmons rolled his eyes. "Dumbasses. Both of you."

Donut shifted his position on the concrete, dropping his cards back onto the deck. The concrete was making his butt numb from sitting still too long.

"Uh... Donut?"

Donut turned around to see Caboose standing there, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Caboose wasn't looking at Donut, he was still determinedly staring upwards at the sky. But this was only the second time he had even directed a word towards Donut since he'd told Donut to get out of his cell. He was clinging to the toy pigeon Donut had given him.

"Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you?"

"Oh. Um. Sure."

Donut climbed to his feet and followed Caboose further away from Grif and Simmons, who resumed their arguing about strip poker. Caboose continued shifting from foot to foot.

After a few long moments in which neither of them said anything, Donut asked, "What do you want to talk about?”

"Uhmmm..."

"So, uh."

"Yeah. Um..."

"Uhhhh..."

"Er..."

It was the most awkward conversation Donut had ever had.

"Th... thank you."

Donut blinked, half from surprise that a proper sentence had been said. "Huh? For what?"

"For... for the pigeon." Caboose hugged the pigeon a little closer. "I... I still do not trust her. But she is cuddly and comforting... and I am happy and... yes. Thank you." Caboose was still not looking at him.

"It was nothing..." Donut concentrated on his feet, while Caboose continued to look at the sky. "Uh. Was that all?"

"No! Just... uh. I need to... try and think." Caboose took a few deep breaths. "I... I am still upset at you. And I do not trust you. You did a bad thing. You tricked me and helped hurt Church." Donut nodded, still focusing on his feet. "And that means that... that you were probably always lying about being my friend. But..." Donut heard Caboose sigh. "I am not good with words."

"It's alright. If you can't think of the right words right away, I'll just wait until you can. I'm not going to shout at you or anything."

"Well... we have not talked for..." Caboose paused and attempted to count his fingers. "...A long time. And that long time has been... not fun. It was a sad time, and I did not like it. And... even though you were lying about the wizard story, I still liked it. And... um... You did bad things, but I do not hate you. Not much... And, uh... Oh no, I forgot what I was supposed to say next. I think it had something to do with... uh... I don't remember! Now I have to start aga—"

Donut cut off Caboose's increasingly frantic babbling by stepping forward and hugging Caboose tightly.

"I missed you, too," Donut said quietly.

Caboose's arms hovered a few inches from Donut, like he wasn't quite sure what to do. And he looked uncomfortable. Similar to the last hug that had happened between them. Except Donut had been the uncomfortable one then, due to the rib-cracking pain of Caboose's hugs. Caboose awkwardly patted Donut on the back before stepping out of the hug.

"I... still do not trust you."

A small, sad smile crossed Donut's face. "Well... guess I'll have to work on it."

Caboose fidgeted, before he actually managed to look at Donut. He smiled a little. "...I guess... if Church can forgive you... then I can, too. Because Church would not forgive you and tell me to talk to you unless you were... not completely a liar.”

Donut grinned wider. "Alright. Friends?"

He held out one of his hands. Caboose tilted his head, before smiling slightly and shaking it. Which left Donut's hand with a strong ache.

"Okay. We will be friends again, Funnel Cake.”

"Simmons? Did we wake up in the girl's prison this morning?" Grif asked, after watching Donut and Caboose's awkward conversation and hug. "Seriously. What the fuck is up with this girly crap?"

"Beats Donut following us absolutely everywhere."

"That's true..." Grif stretched and grinned at Simmons. "If he latches onto Caboose, we can play strip poker by ourselves. Minus the poker."

Simmons tossed one of the cards at Grif, and it bounced off his head.

"Hey! That was not cool..."

"I just threw a playing card at you, Grif. Don't be a wuss."

"Douchebag.”

Chapter Text

Church

"Can I go upstairs and play with Sigma again? It was fun, and he said he would have even more colours next time!" Eddie babbled, clinging to Church's hand.

His good mood since last leaving Sigma's apartment the night before had lasted into the next day. At times, it almost felt like they weren't on the run. Right now, it felt like they were just taking a stroll. Even though that stroll led right back to Jimmy's place.

"We'll see. Depends."

"Can we come see him a lot?"

Church let out a sigh. "I don't know," he lied, while in reality he was thinking 'Hell no, we can't hang around criminals.' "We'll see."

"He's a nice man."

Church personally found him creepy. As well as far too interested in trying to die his hair blond. Church tugged on his newly dyed hair, which was a light brown.

"Look. We'll talk about this later, alright?"

"Okay."

Honestly, Church would consider hanging around Sigma if it kept Eddie this happy and distracted from the whole 'on-the-run' and 'we-just-killed-our-own-father' thing. But no. Couldn't risk it. Too much heat.

"Leo. Leo. Leo. Leo. Leo..." Eddie tugged on Church's hand insistently. "Leo. Leo. Leo."

"What?"

"I saw a ninja."

"...Wait, what?"

Church looked at the rooftop that Eddie was pointing at. He couldn't see anything.

"You can't see ninjas, Eddie. That's why they're ninjas, because they're so damn sneaky," Church told him.

"I saw someone. And they were in black and were wearing stuff on their head."

"Right..." Church glanced back at the roof again. Still nothing. He felt uneasy, though. Part of him said that Eddie was probably making a big deal out of something either imaginary or just a guy in a black jumper. Still... there was always the chance it wasn't.

Church reached down and picked Eddie up so he could speed up his walking without making his little brother tired. He was planning to ditch the tiny motel room they'd been staying in and run a bit more once they had the fake identification. Find somewhere that seemed relatively safe. This city didn't seem right. Too much crime and crazy people and other class-A weirdoes.

They'd find somewhere safe. Then, maybe, they could stop running. Maybe they could have a normal life.

On the rooftop that Eddie had pointed at, the 'ninja' was lying flat on the roof and trying to avoid being spotted again. Clumsy, really, to be spotted by a six-year-old. Carolina let out an annoyed huff of breath as she made an internal note to practice her stealth skills later.

“Why're you huffing?” A male voice spoke over her headset. She reached up to press her fingers against her earpiece. She'd covered most of her appearance with a hooded jacket and a mask that covered the lower half of her face. Maybe someone who knew her well could have identified her through eyes alone, but most people who got that close tended not to live long. Her partner wore similar clothes, as did anyone who worked for the Director on jobs like this.

“None of your business, rookie. You see anything?”

“Uhm… there's a van out back?”

"What sort of van?"

"A black one."

"I meant the type."

"I'm not good with vans. Uh... black, tinted windows. Can't see the inside of it."

"Get the licence plate down."

"Roger. ...Do we say roger? We're not soldiers. ...Nevermind."

Carolina shook her head and crawled slightly closer to the edge of the roof, watching the two boys wandering the streets. One of them was just barely an adult, but the other was a small child. That always complicated things. She could shoot a child if she really had to (though she wouldn't enjoy it) but she doubted the rookie could. New kids always had trouble with it.

"I see the target. Brown hair, not black, but he looks the right age. If we don't get anything out of Jimmy we can shake the guy down. Shouldn't be tough. He's got a little kid with him. Really obnoxious hair, no way you can miss that amount of colours." Carolina squinted. "Similar facial features. Probably related. We point a gun at the kid and the man will talk."

"At the kid?" the rookie asked nervously.

"Yes. At the kid. Not saying we'll have to shoot him, but... just be ready for the possibility. Stay where you are and keep an eye on the fire exit. Make sure no-one tries to slip out."

"Roger that."

"Can I trust you not to mess up?"

"I'll… I'll try."

"You better do more than just try. I'll be heading into the building in five."

Carolina switched off her headset. Working with rookies was the worst. They were inexperienced and whenever they messed up it meant she had to either swoop in and save them or let them die for the good of the mission. She hated 'rookie or mission' choices.

This one knew the city streets fairly well and had some combat training--the amount required of anyone who worked for the Director--but he wasn't yet the level of competent Carolina wanted for this kind of work. Still, he had potential. Maybe he'd improve. If he didn't get shot in the face first.

Carolina returned to gazing at the building. She couldn't see much movement.

"Another hour? Fucking bullshit," Church snapped.

"Sorry, Church. Mickey's putting the final touches on it." Jimmy was reclining in his chair, feet rested on the little free space the desk had. He was holding a photograph in his hands, gazing down at it absently while Church yelled at him.

"You said it'd be ready by now! I don't want to hang around longer than I have to!"

"You want it to be cheap and quick and obviously fake? Or do you want a professional job?"

"Alright, alright." Church waved his hands in the air angrily. "Whatever, just get it done. Sigma upstairs?"

"Yeah, he's there. If you're looking for some more work, he might know some. He's got connections."

"No way. No more criminal shit."

"Heh. That's what they all say." Jimmy looked down at the photograph he was still holding. "Wanna see a picture of my girlfriend?"

"Not really."

"Figured I'd just get into the forgery business until I could afford a proper house. So I could get down on one knee and ask her to marry me. Been five years. Still in this business, and still living in a tiny apartment with another guy." Jimmy shrugged. "Don't be surprised if something like that happens to you. Can't just get out of the business, it ties you to too many suspicious people."

"I'm not a criminal."

"Then why do you need us to begin with?"

"Shut up." Church glanced at the ceiling. "I'll be back in an hour. Might as well let Eddie hang out with Sigma for a while."

"Cool. I'll send Mickey up when he's done.”

"Hey, we're out of ink. You got any around?" Mickey called, entering the room where they kept... well, basically everything, stacked up in piles. Jimmy shook his head, still holding the picture of his girlfriend. He hadn't spoken to her in a couple of days. Maybe he should call her...

Someone knocked on the door.

"Can you get that, Mickey?"

"Hey, I'm actually busy. You're just mooning over your girlfriend..." Mickey grumbled, walking over to the door and pulling it open. "Holy shit!"

Before Jimmy could even look up, a gunshot rang out. When he looked up, Mickey was already falling to the ground, splattering red everywhere.

"Bloody murder! Bloody mur—" Mickey was cut off mid-scream by another gunshot, this time to the head.

Jimmy stumbled to his feet, dropping the photo of his girlfriend and trying to remember where he'd left his gun, but before his hand could even stretch out to the cabinet he thought he might have left it in, the intruder had pointed a gun at his face.

"Don't move."

Jimmy couldn't see the face of the figure standing in the doorway, only the vivid green eyes. There was no mercy in those eyes. He didn't move his hand, but his eyes flickered down to Mickey bleeding out over the carpet.

"Retract your hand. Sit down."

Jimmy obeyed, his body following the orders without him even really thinking about it. His eyes didn't leave Mickey's body.

"Jimmy, isn't it?" The gun stayed focused on his face.

Jimmy didn't say anything.

"Someone tipped us off that you'd been trading jobs with Delta. Last time you spoke to one of the Director's people, you swore up and down that you'd never had contact with them."

"I... I... shit, Mickey, why did you do that?!"

"His hand was going for what could have been a gun, and he didn't necessarily know anything. You, though. You cooperate? Maybe I'll let you live. Depends on if I like your answers or not. But if you don't answer right, you will see my ugly side. So, tell me. Where's Delta?"

"You're even more grumpy when it comes to the creative pursuits than Delta is," Sigma remarked, dressed in pajamas, as he dunked a large paint brush into a bucket of red paint. He had smaller orange and yellow tins nearby, but at the present he was using a large amount of red to paint what seemed to be a man set on fire. "If you must wait in my apartment, you might as well paint. I don't mind."

"I'll pass," Church muttered, arms crossed.

"Worse than Delta," Sigma repeated.

"Please, Leo?" Eddie started pouting at him, while holding a paintbrush that Sigma had handed to him. Church groaned and fixed his gaze on the ceiling.

"Eddie, we can't stay for that long. We have to leave as soon as the identification is finished. There's no time for painting."

"There's always time for painting," Sigma insisted. Church opened his mouth to point out that this was ridiculous, when they heard the shouting.

"Bloody murder! Bloody mur—" It cut off as quick as it started, and now that Church was listening, he thought he heard a noise accompanying it. He couldn't immediately place it.

Sigma immediately turned away from the painting of the burning man, dropping the brush on the table.

"Were you followed?" he asked, his voice still the same calm monotone despite the fact that he was now hurriedly wiping off his hands and heading for the bedroom.

"No, I... I don't think so? What the hell is—"

"Keep your voice down and stay as silent as possible," Sigma whispered, just before he entered the bedroom and shut the door behind him. Eddie put down his brush and hid behind Church, clinging to his hoodie.

"What's happening, Leo?"

"I don't know. Just... don't panic, alright—Jesus!"

Sigma had left the bedroom again. He was still wearing pajamas, but he'd put a suit jacket and sneakers on and was holding what was a very large and impressive paint gun. All in all, he looked the epitome of ridiculous.

"That's a paint gun," Church said flatly. Sigma's expression was mildly annoyed and embarrassed.

"Do you think I just keep real guns lying around my apartment? I don't do shooting much, and the guns I use for jobs are elsewhere. This is all I have."

"Fuck. Is this some fucked up game of paintball or something?”

"Unfortunately, no." Sigma handed the paint gun to Church. "Hold this, please." He headed for the little kitchen section of the apartment. "Eddie, can you go to the bathroom? We're about to go on a trip and I don't want to have to stop for bathroom breaks." Eddie nodded and trotted into the bathroom. Once he was gone, Sigma continued. "If I'm right, we don't want to be caught by whoever is downstairs."

"Who the fuck is that, then?"

"If I'm correct, agents of the Director. It's a long explanation and there's no time." Sigma opened some kitchen cabinets and started removing various jars of food. "But we also don't want them getting whatever is down there. Jimmy knows everybody. And he has it all written down."

"Who the fuck cares? If we're in fucking danger, we should fucking run!"

"Would you say that if I told you that Jimmy has a file on his desk about you and Eddie? Your fake IDs, your real names... and what you're running from."

"What? How—"

"A little research goes a long way." Sigma pulled out several bottles and started mixing liquids, almost like he was making a cocktail. "I'm going to give you this. Jimmy's apartment is filled with dry paper, so it'll quickly burn up whatever incriminating documents are down there." He finished mixing alcohol, shook up the final bottle and then, using a pair of scissors he had lying around, cut off a strip of his pajamas. "It'll likely kill Jimmy, too. But we have to be pragmatic."

"This is fucking crazy. You're crazy. ...Is that a freaking molotov cocktail?"

"I don't keep proper explosives in my house, Leonard. What would the landlord say?" Sigma hurried to the door and opened it. He pointed right. "The fire exit is that way. But there's likely someone watching the exit."

"So, you're going to take on whoever these agent guys are... with a paint gun and a flaming bottle? That's insane.”

"There's a fine line between genius and insanity.”

"Yeah, but we ain't even fucking close to that line, we're five miles beyond it in the center of Fucking Crazy Town!" Church snapped.

"You want Eddie to be safe. Right?"

"No shit."

Sigma took back his gun and handed Church the molotov cocktail. "Then you'll have to throw this. I'll make for the exit with Eddie. Before you protest," Sigma added quickly, once Church opened his mouth to yell questioning obscenities, "There will be someone out there. You don't have any experience fighting these people. But I do. Down there, with Jimmy, all you have to do is throw the cocktail and run."

"I think you're making it sound easier than it is."

"You throw. You run. You don't look back. We'll meet you outside. Are you in?"

Church looked from Sigma to the bathroom door that Eddie had just gone through. "What happens to Eddie if... something happens?"

"No time to formulate detailed plans, but I won't leave him in a dumpster. At the very least, he'll be dropped off to an orphanage or a police station or somewhere that'll help him. Provided the agents don't get him."

Church gritted his teeth. "Fuck. Alright. Just throw and run, right?”

"Right. Don't worry too much. It might even be interesting." Sigma gestured at the picture he'd been painting. "Have you ever seen a man burn to death, Leonard? It's fascinating in a morbid way."

"Creepy."

"I didn't say it was enjoyable."

"Still creepy."

"Where's Leo going?" Eddie asked. Sigma was carrying him down the fire stairs. He was holding his paint gun in the other hand. It was a pretty cool gun. Eddie wondered if Sigma played paintball a lot. He had never played paintball. He had asked Leo once, but Leo had said that he could not afford the paint, the guns, or find any space where they could play paintball without Dad getting really angry at them.

"He needed to pick up an item I forgot," Sigma said, shuffling down the stairs. "He'll catch up. Now, Eddie. Can you be a big boy and help me with something?"

"I'm a big boy. I'm six years old!"

"Yes, you are." Sigma slowed down as they reached the end of the stairs and lowered his voice. "There will be someone out there. Likely wearing a hood or a mask of some kind, and holding a gun. But it's just a paint gun."

"Like that one?" Eddie asked, pointing at Sigma's weapon.

"Yes."

"Is this a game?"

"Yes, Eddie. It's a very important game. Now." Sigma put Eddie down, faced him towards the exit, down the final flight of stairs. "You will have to lie to win. Tell him that your big brother escaped out the window, and try to lead him over. When you see me approaching, ignore me and do not tell him anything."

"Is it one of the ninjas?"

"...Yes. It's a ninja. But you're going to have to lie to the ninja. Okay?"

"Will it help Leo?"

"It'll help him very much. Now go. Don't tell him I'm here."

Eddie clambered down the stairs. This sounded like a fun game. Although this was all kind of scary.

He pushed open the door and came face to face with a gun barrel. A ninja was holding it. His hands were shaking a little, probably because he was very excited to play paintball.

"Hi," Eddie said cheerfully.

The ninja peered down at him, looking over his gun. "Hi? Uh, can you stay still? I don't want to have to shoot you."

"But isn't part of the game shooting each other?"

"Huh?"

"My brother climbed out the window.”

"Your brother? Does he have brown hair?"

"He does now. He did not want rainbow hair. Dunno why." Eddie reached forward, tugging on the man's shirt. "Can you help me find him?"

The ninja looked at the fire exit door. He was not going to the window. Eddie widened his eyes and pouted a bit. It worked on Leo. Maybe it would work on the ninja. The ninja looked down at him, and the paint gun lowered just an inch.

"Climbed out the window, huh? Guess we better go get him."

"Let's go, let's go, let's go!" Eddie insisted, tugging more on the ninja's shirt and pulling him towards the window. He wondered how this was going to make Sigma win at paintball. "Yes. He climbed out the window. As part of the game."

"What game?"

"Paintball," Sigma said calmly, who had slipped out of the fire exit as soon as the ninja's back was turned.

The ninja spun around, paint gun raised, but Sigma shot him in the face. Blue and orange paint splattered across the ninja's mask, getting into the gap where his eyes peered out.

"Aaagh!" The ninja tried to wipe the paint out of his eyes with one hand, still clinging to the paint gun with the other. "I can't see! Where—"

"Did we win?" Eddie asked.

"Almost." Sigma raised the butt of his paintball gun and whacked the ninja over the head with it. Eddie yelped and hid behind a nearby dumpster. He heard a loud noise as he did so. When he looked again, Sigma had the other man in a headlock and was holding his gun. There was a tiny, smoking hole in the concrete nearby, only a couple of feet from Sigma.

"Stay still," Sigma told the ninja quietly.

"Okay. Okay, just... okay," the ninja said. Sigma removed the other man's hood and headset and studied his face for a moment, gripping the headset. Eddie edged away from the dumpster to look, because he'd never seen a ninja's face before. Most of it was obscured by blue and orange paint that still coated his eyes. As such, the only thing that was distinct was a mop of blond hair.

"I'll assume you're new?" Sigma asked.

"How'd you—"

"Never mind that. There's no point in killing you. I don't need more anger from Carolina or the cops looking too closely into your murder, so you get to live this time," Sigma said. "Don't misbehave until we leave. Or you're out."

"Uhh... okay."

Eddie found it to be a very confusing game of paintball.

Church was not ready for this. The crash course on molotovs he'd received from Sigma ('light and throw') was not making him feel any better. He hadn't thought he'd be adding to his kills again so soon... or ever... and that was presuming he didn't accidentally kill himself at the same time.

As he edged close to Jimmy's apartment door, he heard voices.

"This would go quicker if you stopped lying to me, Jimmy. Tell me where Delta is or you lose a finger."

"I don't know! I seriously don't know! Mickey was the one who did all the contacting, I just kept the records!" Jimmy yelled.

“Well, the call we got said differently, so you can tell me in three... two... one...”

Church heard a thunk and a loud shriek of pain from Jimmy. He covered his mouth and forced back the strong urge to throw up. He edged closer to the door, hand still clasped over his mouth to avoid issuing any sudden noises.

“Not like you needed that finger. ...Oh, gonna be like that? Fine, middle finger next. Three... tw—now."

Another thunk. An even louder shriek.

"The trigger finger goes next." For a few moments, there was no noise but quick, ragged breathing. "Okay. Three... two..."

"Okay! Okay... I don't know where he lives Not off by heart. But I got it written down," Jimmy said quickly, interrupted only by heavy breathing. "It's on your right, in the box of address cards on the desk. Under the name 'Derek Sterling.' Not his real name, I don't think, but..."

"Was that so hard?"

Church edged closer to the door, holding the molotov in one hand, pulling his lighter out with the other. If his and Eddie's names were on that desk, too... It had to be now.

As soon as the rag was lit, Church stepped into the doorway, pulling back his arm to throw the cocktail.

His mind took in the scene quickly. Mickey, lying dead on the floor with a bullet hole in his head. Jimmy sitting on the chair, deep red blood coating what remained of his mutilated hand. The woman in black reaching for the desk.

"No, no, no—" Jimmy started, eyes stretching wide when he saw the explosive. Church squeezed his eyes closed. That expression of pure fear was too much.

Sorry, Jimmy.

Church threw the explosive as hard as he could, before turning and running for his life.

It was a few seconds before he heard the blast, and the scream. Then... one gunshot. Church covered his mouth once again and kept running.

He couldn't think about it now. He had to think about Eddie. Had to think about making sure he was safe.

When Church ran down the fire exit, taking the steps three at a time, he could hear Eddie's voice. It didn't sound panicked at all. When he burst through the fire exit, the first thing he saw was a man dressed identically to the woman, except that his hood was down, sitting down next to the wall and looking a mixture between terrified and embarrassed while Sigma pointed a handgun at him. Eddie was sitting next to him.

"Can you teleport, Mr. Ninja? I saw ninjas teleport on the television. Can you throw those little metal star things?" Eddie asked curiously.

"Excellent. You're back," Sigma said briskly. "Into the van." He backed away from the man and opened the back of the van. Church clambered in while Eddie trotted in after him.

"Stay here until we're gone," he heard Sigma faintly say, before Sigma ran over and climbed into the front seat. "Are we ready?"

"No, I wanted to stay around the woman chopping off fingers," Church said dryly. He glanced around at the car. "Creepy van."

"Yes. I'm creepy. I get it," Sigma grumbled. "I'll have to replace the licence plates. Perhaps abandon the vehicle. It is rather conspicuous."

Church shrugged. "Whatever. Killed two guys in two weeks, riding in a creepy van doesn't seem so bad in comparison." He tried to sound like he was full of bravado, when in reality he felt rather ill.

"Fair enough."

Sigma pulled out into the street and started driving. As he turned out of sight of the apartment building, he lifted up the headset that had come from the guard near the fire exit. He put it on his head, clicked it on and spoke.

"Hello? ...Ah, yes. I thought it was you. Better luck next time, Carolina."

Then he switched it off and put it away. He was wearing a very small smile as he did so.

Carolina had, as soon as she heard Jimmy and saw the cocktail flying towards her, rolled to the side and ducked behind the sofa. It was an ineffectual cover, but it had been enough to protect her. Jimmy had no more information now and was on fire to boot, shrieking with pain, so she stayed just long enough to shoot him in the head. She'd long since learned to keep any guilt in check while doing the job, but she did feel a pang in her stomach. Better a quick shot to the head than to let him burn. And the torture... that was just business.

The desk had quickly been consumed by fire, which meant the relevant documents were nothing but ashes, so instead she climbed out of the window, escaping unharmed.

As she did so, she switched on her headset. "What's your status?" she asked.

A different voice replied back. "Hello?"

She knew that voice.

"Sigma?"

"Ah, yes. I thought it was you. Better luck next time, Carolina." Then it switched off.

Carolina switched off her headset, hitting the switch so angrily that it almost cracked. She doubled her sprint around to the back of the apartment complex, expecting to find a corpse. Instead, she found the rookie, sitting there and cradling his head in his hands, face coated in paint.

"What the hell, Wash?!" Carolina yelled. Relief tainted the anger in her voice. At least the kid wasn't dead.

"Carolina? Are—ow." Upon standing up, Wash immediately bumped right into the wall again. "They—I didn't mean—they had paintballs."

"Ugh, dammit. How could you get beaten by paintballs? Where's your actual gun?!"

"The, uh... the other guy took it. The bald guy."

"Fantastic. Let's get out of here. Did you get the licence plate, at least?"

"Yeah, I have that."

"Good. That's... something, at least. Let's go before the cops turn up." She started to drag him away from the apartment building, as she heard the fire alarm go off. The area would be swarming in a minute. "Paintballs, Wash? Really?”

"Hey, I'll have you know this stuff stings like a bitch. Hardens like a rock."

"I wouldn't know. It's not bad if you don't let it hit you."

"Thanks. I'll try and remember that."

It was a couple of hours before Church even spoke again. They'd been driving quietly the entire time. Sigma hadn't said a word after he talked to that Carolina chick over the headset. He'd just kept his eyes on the road. Eddie had quickly fallen asleep, clearly worn out by the day's excitement and still tired in general from the last couple of weeks. So was Church, who was fighting not to nod off.

"Where are we going?" Church finally asked.

"We're going somewhere safe. Obviously, my apartment is no longer an option," Sigma said. "We're going to see a friend of mine."

"Could you be any more ominous?"

"If I'd wanted to harm you, I would have shot you both before fleeing. It would have been simpler. Don't worry," Sigma said, sounding the complete opposite of reassuring.

"Oh. Yay."

This was all manners of fucked up. God, had murdering his father and running from home been the wrong choice. He was way in over his head with this stuff. Maybe Eddie would have done better if he'd been put in a home. It had to be better than running across states and getting tangled up with criminals. And after all that bullshit, he'd even lost the damn fake identification he'd gone through so much to try and get.

Fucking bullshit.

Not long after Sigma and Church traded words, Sigma pulled over in a suburban street and stopped the van.

"I have nowhere to hide this, so we're walking the last couple of blocks. Just in case," he said. "I'll return and hide the van later. Let's move."

Church clambered out of the van, carrying Eddie who was dribbling on his shoulder while he slept. Ew. It was pitch dark outside, with the exception of the street lights, and the walk was just as silent as the car ride. But, after a few minutes of walking, Sigma came to stop in front of a house. It was a normal suburban house, complete with the white picket fence and toys, including a skateboard, scattered on the porch.

"Kids?" Church muttered. "That seems inappropriate to do criminal stuff around."

"Hypocritical words, Leonard," Sigma said. He stepped over some lego blocks and puzzle pieces and rapped on the door five times. Tap tappa tap tap. After a few moments, they saw a light turn on behind the curtains and, on the other side of the door, someone knocked twice. Tap tap. Then there was the sound of several locks being undone. The door opened an inch, still locked by a couple of chains, and an eye stared out for a moment. Then it shut again, there was the sound of the chains being undone, and the door opened fully.

Sigma gestured at Church to follow him, and stepped inside. Church edged inside with some apprehension.

There was nothing odd about the house, but Church felt more on edge than ever. Like behind the cute tablecloth and family photos on a nearby table would be some kind of monstrous boogeyman with a sub-machine gun.

"Who are they?"

Church looked around to see a red-haired boy half-hiding behind a doorway, peering out at them with wide, purple eyes. The boy looked odd, because Church was pretty sure he was at least fifteen. But he was wearing childish, purple pajamas with little baby chickens on them and something about his mannerisms... like the way he was cowering from them... that seemed very reminiscent of when Eddie would hide behind him from people he didn't trust.

"Theta, calm down. They're no threat," Sigma said.

"Who are they?" the boy repeated.

"This is Leonard and Eddie. They're friends of mine. Is there anywhere that Eddie can sleep, for the moment?"

Theta tilted his head, stepping out a little from where he was hiding. He looked at Eddie for a moment, then said, "He can stay in my room. But the, um... the... the big guy isn't allowed to stay in there.

"Big guy? ...You're like almost my height—" Church started, but Sigma shook his head and gave him a warning glance. "I mean... sure."

"It's that way," Theta said, pointing at a nearby door on the back of which was a poster of Green Lantern. Church nodded and walked over to push the door open. Things that would remind Church more of the activities of an eight-year-old boy... the superhero bedsheets and the array of stuffed animals and lego toys... contrasted with the fact that the bed was far too big for a little kid, and that there were both a high-end laptop and, here and there among the comic books, manuals for running various computer programs, as well as numerous textbooks on physics and geometry so complex that even looking at the covers made Church's head hurt.

Church tucked Eddie into the bed before leaving the room again. Just as he was starting to feel a little more relaxed, or at least not like someone was about to jump out and shoot him, he saw Sigma and Theta conversing quietly. Theta was fiddling with his fingers nervously while Sigma looked as calm as ever. Then Theta trotted away into a different area of the house.

"What's going on?" Church asked.

"Theta's just going to inform his brother of our arrival."

"Oh. ...Okay."

Church stood there awkwardly for a moment, looking around. He noticed a family photo nearby. Taking a closer look at it, he saw four people in it, two parents and two children. He recognised Theta as one of the children. The other boy had dark hair and cold, green eyes.

He didn't notice Sigma sliding stealthily behind him until an arm wrapped around his neck and a cloth was pressed to his face. He tried to fight back, but Sigma chloroformed him before he could even figure out what was going on.

Being forced into unconsciousness and waking up with his hands tied was becoming far too common an occurrence. Church turned his head as much as possible, looking around the room he had come to in. It seemed to be a basement. Just a regular basement. Boxes of junk lying around, although they seemed very neatly ordered. There was a desk in the corner, with a computer sitting on top of it. But Church's attention was quickly pulled to the three people in the room with him.

Sigma was there, seated in a nearby chair and watching him. As usual, he looked pretty calm. Theta was sitting substantially further away from Church, looking spooked and still playing nervously with his fingers. There was one other person in the room that Church hadn't seen in person, but recognised as an older version of the green-eyed boy from the picture, sitting at the computer in the corner. He looked the same age as Church, though in direct contrast to Theta there was something in his stiff posture and stoic expression that made him seem a lot older. Maybe it was the eyes, which were bright green and almost devoid of any sort of emotion.

"What the fuck is this?" Church muttered.

"Sorry for that," Sigma said. "But we have reason to be suspicious."

"Reason to—what the fuck?!"

The green-eyed boy stood up, dragging his computer chair over to Church. He sat down again and stared at Church for a moment.

"Leonard Church?" he inquired.

"Yeah, what's it to you?"

"The body of your father was discovered in the kitchen of his home by the police a week ago, after his co-workers turned up at his home. Upon study of the scene, they realised that your father's body had clearly been there for days, and two, that the children of the household, you and Eddie Church, were missing from the house."

"...How'd you know all that?"

"That news is quite well-spread around your former home. I simply had to look up your name." The green-eyed boy leaned a little closer. "Currently, they are operating under the assumption that either the both of you were kidnapped, or that you kidnapped your brother. I assume the second one is closer to the truth."

Church stared right back at the green-eyed boy, but quickly got uncomfortable. Thankfully, at the same time it seemed the boy got tired of looking at him, as he got to his feet and went back to his computer desk, opening a drawer and rifling through it.

"You're... Delta, right?" Church asked.

"Affirmative."

"I thought you'd be older, at least. If you're so dangerous that someone would chop off other people's fucking fingers to find you."

"That is an observation often made in my presence, but I assure you that age does not significantly hinder my nor Theta's abilities."

"You mean that guy's a criminal as... nevermind. What have you done with Eddie?"

"Your brother is still asleep. We will not harm him. There would be no benefit in doing so." Delta returned to the seat in front of Church, holding a file in his hands. "As well as there being no benefit, I suppose I have some sympathy with orphaned siblings. Even if some of the sympathy is evaporated by it presumably being your own doing."

Delta opened the file and, removing a pen from his pocket, started to write some notes down.

"We have reason to be suspicious of you, Leonard Church, because you made contact with Jimmy and Mickey and, not twenty-four hours later, they were attacked by Carolina and murdered. Are you going to tell me it was coincidence?"

"I don't even know who Carolina is!"

"Then you were clearly not careful enough during your attempt to steal an important document. Did you see the man you robbed following you?"

"No!"

"The two most logical scenarios are that you either knowingly betrayed Jimmy and Mickey's involvement with me—"

"I didn't even know who you were!"

"—Or you were extremely careless and O'Malley followed you, drawing his own conclusions that I was involved and alerting people who would be interested."

"Who? The crazy guy?"

"Yes. O'Malley." Delta scribbled down another note before looking at Church again. "We have had many requests to retrieve proof of his more illicit activities, although none of the clients have been able to afford our best help. You are the only one who has managed to both retrieve evidence from his home and live. It is natural that he would follow you and find out who you were reporting to. Carolina attacked while you were inside the apartment, which indicates that she was after you as well."

"Then... why the fuck did you tie me to a chair?"

"As a precaution. Even if it was unintentional, your carelessness indirectly led to two of our workers getting killed, as well as Sigma having to abandon his base of operations."

"Alright. So now what?" Church tried squirming out of the ropes that bound his hands to the chair, but to no avail.

"I need some work done and am now short of workers and contacts, now that Jimmy and Mickey are out of the picture. Despite your carelessness, you did manage to complete the job. Complete some work for us, and I will let you go. I will even help your situation, if you do sufficient work."

"No way. No more criminal stuff. No fucking way," Church insisted.

"Final answer?"

"Fuck yeah, it's my final answer."

"Affirmative." Delta shrugged and turned away, nodding at Sigma. "Shoot him."

Sigma reached into his jacket and pulled out the gun that he'd acquired earlier. He had it halfway raised and his finger on the trigger before Church yelped, "Wait, wait, wait, wait. What the fuck? No!"

"You know where we're hiding and our faces," Delta said. "If you are not working for us then you're a potential danger."

"I won't tell! I just wanna get out of this dump!"

"I am afraid I cannot trust your word on that."

"Dee..." Theta started hesitantly.

"If this is another attempt to tell me I am being unpleasant then please save your concerns for a later timeframe," Delta interrupted.

Theta frowned a little and looked at the floor, fiddling with the sleeves of his pajamas.

"...Theta. Do not pout at me." When Theta continued to pout, Delta sighed and said, "Will you stop if I give him one more chance to change his mind?"

Theta nodded.

"Affirmative." Delta focused on Church again. "You have thirty seconds to reconsider."

Maybe this was the reason why Jimmy couldn't just get out of the business. Jesus, had Jimmy been threatened into the business, too? And Church had gotten him killed... fuck, that scream Jimmy made was still echoing in his head.

Church stared down the gun barrel Sigma was pointing at him before for what felt like an eternity.

"Twenty-five seconds," Delta said.

"Right, right. Say I agree. What happens to me? And what happens to Eddie?" Church asked.

"You may live here for the present. We have enough room, this residence is only occupied by me and Theta and is made to fit six people at maximum. We would prefer to keep you and your sibling close by, in case you change your mind about working with us, but this would simply be a precaution. Unless you are disobedient, we have no intention of harming him."

"Then... theoretically... what happens to him if I disagree?"

"If you refuse to cooperate right now, we will simply place him in a home. If you attempt to betray us later, however, the consequences will likely be unpleasant for the both of you."

Church scowled at the gun barrel. "You guys are douchebags. You know that, right?"

"I am no such thing."

"...Alright. I don't have a choice, do I?"

"You did have a choice, but logic dictated you would not choose death."

Grif and Simmons

Three years had passed since Grif moved in. Despite his promise to find another place as soon as possible, he had yet to do so. There had been excuses from Grif and nagging from Simmons. It had gone for a while, although it had just become habit after the first couple of months. Then Grif had stopped making excuses and Simmons had stopped nagging. By now, no-one really cared.

And it'd been fun. Although there was arguing almost every day, it was rarely malicious. The worst the arguments got was when Grif did something like drinking milk out of the carton or forgetting to put some pants on. There were arguments with Sister, as well. Mostly concerning her overuse of drugs.

At the moment, Simmons could smell the marijuana smoke, even from his room. It was making him feel rather fuzzy in the head, and he didn't want that while working on his coding. Grif was at work, so he couldn't rely on Grif to shout about the smoke. At least three years was long enough to get over most of his fear of Sister, if not girls in general. Grumbling, he switched off the computer screen and stormed into the kitchen.

"Can't you smoke that somewhere else?" he snapped. "I can't concentrate. ...Are you drinking? It's two in the afternoon!"

"Yeah, but I was up all night. So that means it's fine," Sister insisted. "Besides, it's just Malibu. Girly drinks. Girly drinks have different rules." She stuck the weed in an ashtray (there had been no ashtrays in the apartment until Grif and Sister arrived, but now there was one in every room) and raised the pink bottle. "You want some? Come on, you were up all night, too."

That was true, although Simmons had been working. He had to finish some work in the next two days and he didn't want to risk falling behind. He had made a lot of headway last night and could probably finish it in time if he got less sleep that night.

"I don't know...”

Sister was watching him pretty intensely. That made Simmons uncomfortable. He still hated it when girls paid attention to him, it was always so awkward. Even if Sister had been a roommate for three years, didn't mean he was entirely comfortable around her. Not when she was smoking and buzzed and focused on him.

"Come on, Simmons. Just a few drinks. Drinking by myself isn't nearly as fun. We can drink, put on some music. Have a party! Woohoo!"

Definitely high and buzzed. Although... it was hard to tell with Sister.

Ugh, peer pressure. Curse his usually suppressed desire to be cool.

"...Yeah, okay. One drink."

Maybe the second-hand pot smoke was getting to him, too. He really should have known better than to accept the offer.

One drink became so many more. Combined with the marijuana smoke, they both started chatting about stuff that would have seemed inane normally, like about how great it would be if they could rule over all cockroaches and control them with their minds.

Eventually, the conversation got into extremely awkward territory, which would have made Simmons go bright red and hide back in his room if he hadn't been completely wasted.

"—and that's how I realised that guys sometimes have some real rocking butts," Simmons finished explaining, wobbling precariously from his seat on top of the kitchen table. "Not Grif, though. His is... like..." Simmons made some vague hand gesture that was meant to illustrate his point, a point that he no longer remembered. "It's like that, you know?"

"I totally know," Sister said seriously. "Grif has the gross family butt. Like what Mum had. I escaped the curse, though. See? My butt is, like... awesome."

"It is. Kudos."

"Thanks! Anyways... Cinnamon. I mean, Simmons. I like Cinnamon better, actually. Cinnamon?"

"Yeah?"

"So, you like guys?"

“What? No. I don't like guys. That's... that's weird, isn't it?” Simmons remembered his dad's face going red, and the locked door when he tried to return. “...No. Don't like them.”

“You said they had rocking butts.”

“I... ah, fuck. They do. I mean, girls do, too. It's... ughhh, there's just so many butts in the world.”

“Ass-man, huh?”

“...Maybe a little.”

The sober Simmons would have been horribly embarrassed at admitting that. But drunk Simmons had less shame. He had some shame. The shame never fully went away. But sometimes he just had to admit that asses were awesome. Not to mention he was currently distracted by Sister's ass, now that she had brought it up in conversation. It was pretty nice. Shapely, and there was a lot of it. Grif had a lot of ass, too, but not in a sexy way.

“So, if you like girls, that means I got a chance.”

“Sure. ...What?”

“We should totally make out. It'd be awesome. I mean, you're kinda cute in that geeky way, and I'm me so I'm obviously like the hottest thing ever. It'd just be awesome, y'know?”

Perhaps the most unsubtle come-on that Simmons had ever heard. Not that he had heard many. Her, this one girl when he was like twelve (which had included the word cooties) and the friend he'd learned how to hack with.

Normally, Simmons would have the sense to say no. Normally, he wasn't both drunk and high off second-hand smoke. And his father's face and the locked door was at the forefront of his mind.

He wasn't allowed to be weird. This wasn't weird. This was normal. He could do this just fine.

In the drunk haze, he completely forgot about Grif's literal only rule.

"Huh. ...Okay."

Later on, Simmons looked back on that moment and wanted to punch himself for it. But it had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.

Sister's skin had been soft and she'd been all warm and jiggly, and honestly Simmons was pretty hard-up for affection... and there was this awkward moment in the middle of it, when Simmons had his eyes half-closed and in that squinty state Sister actually resembled Grif a little. Simmons had a nagging feeling that it should have disturbed him, but it didn't.

"Come on, Cinnamon. I... I wanna show you something. It's a bit like that kung fu trick that girl did in that movie that was on TV the other day... except this will be fun instead of death-causing. Hang on, just need to remove my shorts—“

Yeah, it'd seemed like a brilliant idea. Up until, in the midst of Sister attempting to remove her shorts so she could show off her various tricks, Grif had walked in while absently humming to himself.

That good mood had evaporated in a nanosecond.

"SIMMONS, YOU SISTERFUCKING BASTARD!”

Honestly, Simmons was quite stunned that he'd managed to climb a tree in his more-than-tipsy state. But now that he was up that tree... he couldn't get down again. Even if he could, there was a furious Grif waiting at the bottom, holding his baseball bat and wearing the most pissed off, 'I-am-going-to-stab-you-in-the-manberries' expression that Simmons had ever seen on his face. Even worse than when Simmons had accidentally thrown out his favourite orange t-shirt.

Simmons sighed, the side of his face pressed to the bark. He was clinging tightly to the branch and was terrified of moving. Any time he shifted even an inch he got extremely dizzy. Although the fear was causing him to sober up considerably.

"I am going to kill you once you get back down here. Then I'm gonna drag you back from Hell and kill you again!" Grif roared, hitting the base of the tree with his bat. Each whack caused the tree to shake just a little. Simmons clung tighter. "You jerk! How could you do that?! I told you to never lay a hand on her! You fucking bastard! I am so gonna get you. You ain't gonna be able to fuck anyone once I'm done with you, least of all Sister!"

"Grif! Why you gotta be such a hardass?" Sister whined from the apartment window. "You're such a killjoy! Killjoy!"

"Stay out of this, Sister!"

“Stay out of it? I was the one removing my shorts, you stay out of it!”

Simmons shut his eyes. The height he was at was really scaring him. A fall from this height would hurt a lot, if it didn't outright kill him. He heard Grif screaming insults and threats at him for a lot longer. Then it got quiet. He could still hear Grif moving around at the bottom of the tree. But no insults. And then there was a rustling noise.

Simmons opened one eye and yelped.

Grif was climbing the tree.

He was climbing slowly and he had to stop to catch his breath every couple of branches. But the fact that Grif, possibly the laziest person on earth, was climbing a tree to get at him... that was really a testament to how mad he was.

"Whoa. There's no need for that!" Simmons tried to shift into a sitting position, as Grif climbed higher.

"What, you thought I would just sit down there until I got bored? And then you'd just slink back in and pretend it didn't happen? Not gonna fucking happen!" Grif looked down briefly, and paled. "Whoa, this is high. But still!"

“I don't want to die! I have so much left to give!” Simmons paused for a moment, then became very depressed when he realised he couldn't actually think of those things. But then it was back to fear, as Grif reached his branch.

"End of the line, you sisterfucking douche." Grif attempted to climb onto the branch itself, but wobbled and instead clung to the trunk. "Whoa, shit! How'd you climb up this far?!"

"Grif, you moron! Now you're stuck up here, too!"

"Shut up!" Grif tried climbing onto the branch again, but once more ended up back to hugging the trunk. "Aw, shit. Sister!"

"What?!"

"Can you see if anyone around the neighborhood has a ladder? If they don't... then just call someone who can get me out of the tree."

The minutes went by. Grif seemed to have run out of threats and insults. At least, that's what Simmons thought. Until Grif said, "When we're back down there, I'm gonna kill you."

"Look! I'm sorry, alright?" Simmons shifted, trying to find a more stable place to sit on the branch. "Nothing happened except for a little bit of groping. I'm sorry. Really."

“You know what really pisses me off?" Grif growled. Simmons shook his head. "What really pisses me off... is that I trusted you. I thought you were okay." Grif shook his head. "But in the end, you're just another one of those fucking assholes trying to get into Sister's pants."

"I... I wasn't..."

"Don't even bother trying to fucking explain. I don't know why I expected any different.”

By the time they were rescued from the tree (it had taken a long time for Sister to find a neighbor with a ladder anywhere close to long enough) Grif was still fuming. He had stormed into the apartment building as Simmons was still climbing down the ladder.

When Simmons finally got back inside, he found Grif gathering bits of clothing and comics that he'd left lying around the apartment.

"What are you doing?"

"We're leaving."

"You're... what?”

"I warned you right from the get-go, asshole." Grif pointed at him. "I told you. My only rule was 'don't fuck my sister.' And you literally fucked up."

"It never went that far! It stopped at second-base!"

"Oh yeah? What would have happened if I hadn't walked in, huh?"

Simmons didn't answer that.

“Yeah, that's what I thought. Who's to say it won't happen again, huh?" Grif shoved Simmons out of his way as he stormed back towards his and Sister's room. "I'm not risking it happening again. Now stay the fuck out of my way. I don't want to see your goddamn face. Not now, not ever."

Simmons had tried to reason with Grif. But any time he went near him, Grif had yelled and, on one occasion, tried to punch him. In the end, Simmons had given up. He'd watched Grif storm out, dragging Sister along with him. Sister hadn't been able to offer Simmons anything except an apologetic look. If she had so much as directed a word at Simmons, Grif would have started screaming again.

Simmons had gone right back to working on his computer once Grif had gone. He just hadn't been able to think of anything else to do. And that had gone on for three days. He'd gone with his usual routine. Working, mostly. But it had somehow ceased to matter to him. Getting the work in on time was just something he did out of habit, not because he particularly cared, and the evenings seemed so empty without the usual arguments about which superhero would win in a fight.

Simmons had often complained that it was too small an apartment for three people. Now it seemed far too big. And whenever he sat on the couch, he smelt Oreos. Something he had bitched about before, but which he found oddly comforting now.

Part of his brain reminded him that Grif was only supposed to be a temporary roommate anyway. Another part of his brain said that Grif was a douchebag who drank milk out of the carton and that it was a blessing to be rid of him.

But the louder part of his brain was screaming that the silence and emptiness was unbearable. He missed Grif. He missed Sister, too, but Grif was the best friend he had, even if he'd somehow been the most irritating at the same time. One didn't make many friends when they were a shy nerd who spent the majority of their time shut up inside their apartment hacking computers.

It was just too empty in the apartment without Grif lying on the couch and snoring like an elephant, or Sister going through the medicine cupboard looking for aspirin to get rid of a headache caused by partying the night before. Simmons knew that simply finding new roommates would not fill that gap. Even after only three days, it was enough to make him go mental.

So, sitting on that Oreo-scented couch, Simmons made a decision. He knew that Grif and Sister wouldn't be able to find an apartment so soon. They'd be sleeping in Grif's beat up car.

It was going to take a while to search the city for that car. But Simmons would do it. He couldn't just let them go, because if he did he would always regret it. Even if Grif just punched him in the face again, at least he would have tried.

He had no other friends. He couldn't lose these ones.

"No, come on! Okay, I'm sorry, I'll try to eat healthy. No, fuck, I can't do that. But we can get our own food. We'll barely take up any space!" Grif pleaded. But to no avail. The door slammed shut behind him and Sister. "Fuck."

"I didn't like that place, anyway. He had books on how to maintain your health. He wouldn't have let us smoke," Sister said, following Grif back down the stairs.

"Hmph."

They left the apartment building, returning to where they had parked their car/temporary home. The trunk was filled with their belongings and the backseat was padded with blankets and a pillow. That was where Sister slept. Grif had been insistent on it. He'd taken the remaining pillow and used the front seat as his temporary bed.

"Guess that place is out. Let's find somewhere to park for the night, then I'll grab us some food."

"Okay."

The drive was done in silence. Grif scowled over the wheel. Sister sat quietly in the back. As Grif pulled up in a parking lot, one that wasn't too far from a group of fast food restaurants, Sister spoke up.

"Dex?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Couldn't we just go back?" Sister had pulled her knees up to her chin, curled up in the back seat. "Couldn't we just go back to the apartment?"

"No."

"But... But I liked it there. And you liked it there."

"Yeah, until Simmons goddamn... I don't want to talk about it!"

Grif would admit, if only in his own head, that he had liked living with Simmons. That he'd actually considered Simmons tolerable, despite his neurotic habits. But he had trusted Simmons to at least keep to the damn 'don't hit on Sister' rule. If it'd been anyone else, Grif could actually deal with that. He expected random guys he didn't know to make passes at Sister. But Simmons?

"Look, just because you're an overprotective prick about who I sleep with... I mean, last I checked it isn't your vagina, Grif. You leave that shit to me."

"I told him not to. He fuckin' broke that promise."

"It was a bullshit promise, Dex. Besides, I started it. And hell, I wouldn't have if I'd known you be such a bitch about it. Didn't think you'd mind me climbing a bit on Simmons, since you actually like him and all."

"That makes it worse, you fucking dipshit!" Grif snapped. Sister edged away from him, looking wary. Grif sighed. "Sorry. I... Look. I just don't want to talk about it. I'm going to get us some dinner. What do you want?"

"Um... Can we have chicken?"

"Sure. I'll be back in twenty."

Grif never thought he'd say it, but eating nothing but fast food was really starting to annoy him. Then again, everything was annoying him. The fact that he was doing nothing but working and looking for apartments. The fact that he was stuck living in a car again. The fact that Sister was also living in a car. The fact that he had no access to television or a microwave or even a proper toilet. He hated public bathrooms. Can't relax while taking a dump there.

Even with all that, the fact that Simmons kept strolling through his head was annoying him most of all.

That fucking dumbass.

Even when he was trying to fucking sleep, Simmons would just wander in and out of his dreams, the fucking douche. Despite the stress relief of some of these dreams, mostly the ones when he was hitting Simmons with his baseball bat, it wasn't helping Grif's overall mood.

This one didn't even involve hitting Simmons with a bat. They were just watching television and arguing. It felt real. Like the incident hadn't even happened, and everything was fine.

"Grif. Grif."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Simmons, get the door."

Tap. Tap.

"Grif!"

"Come on, you..."

A particularly loud tap woke Grif up. Sister was already sitting up, peering out the window. Grif stared out through his window as well, with slightly bleary vision.

Simmons was actually standing out there, tapping insistently on the top of the car.

"Jesus, you must move the car a lot. I've been looking for you for ages. Can we just talk? Please?" he asked through the window. Grif looked away from him, feeling for the car keys. No way was he going to listen to anything that dumbass had to say.

The keys were gone. Or more accurately, they had been taken by Sister, who was holding them.

"Pleeeeease, can you just talk things out? I hate living in the car. You drive like a maniac and I haven't had a shower in a week." Sister held the keys out of Grif's reach, and when Grif tried to grab them off her she quickly dropped them down her shirt. Goddamn, that was both disgusting and crafty. "Make up, and I'll give them back," she said sternly.

"Fucking bullshit!" Grif snapped, crossing his arms and staring straight ahead. "You traitor! Traitor! You're both traitors and jerks."

Sister reached over and unlocked the passenger's door before climbing out of the car. "I don't want to get in the middle of things, and this conversation will probably be... you know, angry and with a lot of shouting and all that crappy stuff. I'll just go wait on that bench."

She wandered off towards the bench, and Simmons climbed into the passenger's seat. He was leaning slightly away, probably in case Grif lashed out at him again. Which Grif was definitely considering.

"Uh. Hi. Uh, so. Where to begin..." Simmons mumbled.

"How about you begin by getting the fuck out? You know what? We could end with that, too. It'd be a timesaver."

"Okay, first off... I know I've already said this, but I'm really sorry. I'm really, really fucking sorry. If I could turn back time, I would, but that's not possible outside of my science fiction novels."

Grif shifted, trying to shun Simmons as well as he could while sitting next to him. He didn't have much room, since the pillow kept getting in the way and there was a bunch of fast food wrappers lying under his feet. Simmons looked down.

"Have you been eating anything that's actually healthy?"

"None of your fucking business."

"Will you stop snapping at me for the next few minutes? It was just a question. Anyway. You... You don't have to stay away from the apartment, you know. You and Sister can still stay. I mean, you guys are... well, kinda annoying most of the time. But not in a bad way?"

"It's not happening. Can you get out of my fucking car, already?"

"Look, if you're worried about me hitting on Sister, don't worry. I won't. If it makes you feel better, I won't even drink while we're living under the same roof. I'm not big on alcohol anyway. And there's no way I would... you know, try to go any further with her... if I was sober anyway. I'm too shy. I wear underwear in the shower, even."

Grif snorted, but otherwise kept ignoring him.

"Trust me, it won't happen again. Girls make me kind of uncomfortable, anyway."

Grif looked sideways at Simmons. He looked really tired, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"You look like shit," Grif said finally.

"I've been looking for you and Sister for the last four days. And I figured it'd be easier to find you at night since you'd probably be sleeping, and since I still have to work... Well. Not much time for sleeping. But that's beside the point."

"If you're not planning on doing anything with Sister," Grif started, "Then why are you so desperate to get us to move back that you're skipping sleep to do so?"

"You guys are my only friends, why wouldn't I?" Simmons sounded genuinely confused at the question.

Grif's hands clung tighter to the steering wheel. "Didn't stop you from fucking shit up.”

"Look, I'm sorry. She came onto me and I'm... really desperate in general for affection, alright?" Simmons said defensively. "Also, the alcohol. The alcohol fucks with shit. If it had been Sister at work and you at home, I probably would have shoved my hands down your pants." There was a pause, and then Simmons said, "T-that came out wrong. I mean, uh..."

"How was that supposed to come out right?" Grif muttered.

"Ugh, nevermind that. My point is... it was like 50% the fault of the alcohol. Seriously. I have better self-control than that. Dammit, I'm just trying to say I miss you guys."

"Miss us? It's only been one fucking week, you girl. What, were you hoping that we could then go prancing and press wildflowers?" Grif said harshly.

"Yeah, I was. Because missing someone makes me a 19th century dandy," Simmons muttered. "Okay, this is clearly not getting anywhere new. Just... Just give me another chance. I won't fuck up again."

Grif drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Most of him was still burning with rage. Out of the little portions of his brain that weren't, one of them couldn't get the image of Simmons prancing through fields of flowers out of his head. Goddammit.

The more rational, undistracted part of his mind pointed out that the alternative was living in a car. And that if they found another roommate, he might be even worse than Simmons.

There was also the fact that, as much as he ribbed on Simmons for it... Grif kinda missed him, too. Even though he still wanted to punch his face in.

In any case, Sister still had the car keys.

"You're buying the food for the next couple of weeks," Grif grumbled.

"So... You're coming back? We're cool?"

"I never said that. I'll give you another chance. But I'm warning you. You so much as look at Sister in a funny way, and I will chop your intestines out and feed them to pigs." Grif sat back on the seat, meeting Simmons' eyes for the first time since he'd gotten in the car. "I'm not exaggerating."

Simmons did pale noticeably. "Um. Deal?"

"Great." Grif wound down the window. "Sis! We're leaving, get in the car!"

"Woohoo!" Sister skipped back over, dropped into the back seat.

"Gimme the keys."

"Oh, right. Just a second."

Simmons, at least, did keep his eyes to the ceiling while Sister fidgeted around, trying to locate the keys. After a few moments, she fished out the car keys. Grif grabbed them once he had found a napkin to hold them with.

"I guess it's too much to ask that you keep all four wheels on the ground, isn't it?" Simmons sighed.

"Protest and I'll shove you out of the car. Without slowing down."

"Alright, alright."

Tucker

Eight years later, Tucker had progressed far from the sixteen-year-old who'd never even seen a boob before.

Sure, pulling girls had been tough at first. Especially when he still looked like he was a twelve-year-old kid. And the first few experiences with girls had been... awkward at the least. Tucker quite frankly hadn't had any idea what the hell he was doing.

But once he was into it... holy fuck, was he in it. Bow chicka bow wow.

Eight years of practice, and Tucker was pretty good at it. Alright, so it worked like... ten percent of the time, tops, but hey, that was still a decent amount of success. And sure, maybe not all the girls who were into him were all that bright. But it wasn't like he turned up to talk. All one-nighters and climbing out the window at dawn.

And to think, if someone had told him that he'd be such a womanizing whorebag eight years ago, Tucker would have just shook his head and said that he wasn't like his mother. He still maintained that he wasn't like her. That would imply that Tucker did it for the money. Which he didn't. Not much. Only if it was part of a con. This time, it wasn't.

Usually Tucker stuck to the city when he went cruising for girls. Occasionally, however, he would go to one of the towns just a bit outside the city. The girls there had a different flavour than the ones in the city. Even if some of the families in that area were a bunch of hicks, the girls were more impressed with 'sophisticated city men.' Which Tucker used for all it was worth.

Last night, it had been a plain-looking girl, but she'd had stunning blue eyes, which had caused Tucker to pick her out over the other girls at the bar. Well, after the one with the rocking booty slapped him in the face for his smooth pick-up lines. He's suspected for a moment that he'd picked Blue Eyes up before, because the eyes had looked familiar, but she hadn't seemed to recognise him (given that she hadn't opened their conversation with 'you don't remember my name, do you?') so why not?

Now, he was engaged in the morning activity that always followed these nights. Getting the hell out of the house before the girl woke up and got clingy.

Tucker climbed out of the bed, trying to move the sheets as little as possible, and tried to locate his underwear. He hadn't taken a good look at the room when he'd arrived, as it'd been dark and also he'd been more concerned with... well, boobs. But there were three other beds in here, though they were all empty, and from this room he could hear a lot of noise throughout the house. Lots of children and cats, with an older-sounding voice yelling above the noise on occasion.

Crap, that sounded like a single parent. Or jailbait, but Tucker made it a point to check ID if there was doubt. This girl had to be in her early twenties. Either way, a lot of family made the situation stickier.

He was getting an odd sense of deja vu.

Tucker located his underwear and shirt, but he was still lacking in pants. As he looked around for his jeans, he heard a quiet creaking noise and quickly turned around. The door had been pushed open by a ginger cat, who trotted in and jumped onto the bed, plopping its ass down and staring at him.

"Don't judge me," Tucker grumbled at it. "You're probably banging random cats. Do you call them back?"

The cat gave him a look which communicated a very clear 'I'm a goddamn cat' message. Tucker finally spotted his pants draped on a cabinet on the other side of the room (how the hell had they ended up there?) but before he could do anything about it, he heard a voice.

"Apples? Apples, Apples, Apples, where are you?" the voice cooed. The door got pushed open wider. "There you are, who's a good kitty? Yes, you—what."

Tucker backed away from the teenaged boy who was now staring at him. Same eyes. God, male relatives... anything but male relatives... This guy rang a familiar bell, as well. Not just the eyes. There was just a general feeling of deja vu.

"I know you. Aren't you... weren't you were doing... things... with Lynn? It was gross."

Tucker made it a point to remember a girl's name until at least the next morning (he came off as smoother when he did) and he was pretty damn sure his one-night-stand's name wasn't Lynn.

"...Nooo?" Tucker said, stepping back a little.

"Yeah, no, I remember it. Because I needed my shoes and I walked in and you were doing this thing my dad calls the wheelbarrow position and it was really icky and—that is not Lynn." The boy looked at the girl in the bed before he started glaring. "Are you cheating on one of my sisters with my other sisters?"

"What? No. I mean..." Tucker scratched the back of his head before deciding that, fuck it, the other boy was just a random kid that was fifteen at the most. It wasn't like he could actually do anything to him, because Tucker was a fucking awesome twenty-four-year-old. "I mean, it's a one-night-stand, so technically--"

The boy punched him in the face.

"Ow, dude!" Tucker yelped, holding his eye. "Dude, I can't fight you, you're like a little kid. A really big little kid, but—"

"You are not allowed to do things to more than one sister! You're going to make them itchy!" The boy grabbed his collar and dragged him out of the room. "Swirlie time. That'll teach you."

"Aw, man, not swirlies! Come on!" Tucker yelled back, trying to stop the boy from dragging him along. He'd been dunked a couple of times during his school years, primarily due to his smart mouth, and was not eager to experience it again. But his struggling was ineffectual, until a woman's voice called out this time from elsewhere in the house.

"Mikey, what on earth is all that racket?"

"There's a guy who made Lynn and Bailey itchy!"

"Then just throw him out of the house! I don't want toilet water on your new shoes, and school starts in half an hour!"

"But, Ma..."

"Now, Michael!"

"Fineeee." Mikey changed direction, still dragging Tucker along with him, until they arrived at the front door. Mikey opened it and shoved Tucker through it unceremoniously, before pointing at him. "If you come back to make another sister itchy, I will give you a swirlie and I won't flush first." Then he slammed the door in Tucker's face.

"Can I have my pants back?" Tucker called out.

The door opened again.

"No. They're my pants now."

It slammed once more.

"..Well, shit."

Tucker wandered off down the street, pantsless and absently wondering how the girl had managed to sleep through all of that.

Of course, a black eye from a teenager was bad. Losing a pair of jeans that made his ass look awesome was worse. But the fact that his wallet, along with that month's rent in it, had been in the pocket of his jeans? That was a major issue.

Well, that was just irritating. Now Tucker needed money to get back to the city and money to pay the month's rent. After he'd spent so much of the last week conning money out of people during his stay in the town. All that effort down the toilet.

The only good part about the situation was that the local chicks could admire Tucker's general pantslessness as he strolled around, which was definitely a gift to womankind. As he strolled down a small street of shops, he tried to look his most confident, so he could pretend that it was a totally intentional look.

Eventually, he reached a phone booth. He slipped into the booth and dialed C.T's number, hoping that C.T wouldn't ignore him because it was early in the morning and he was reversing the charges.

The phone rang a few times. The voice that answered belonged to a guy.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, I'm looking for C.T. Can you get her?”

There was a pause, then the man said, “This is C.T.”

“No, C.T's a chick. Can you go get her?”

“Anything you have to say to her, you can say to me.”

“Don't fuck around, dude. Where's C.T?”

“I said—hang on.” The man's voice got faint for a moment, then he said, “Who's calling?”

“Tucker. Tell her it's Tucker, and that I'm in a phone booth with no pants on. And I need help.”

“...Are you hitting on her?”

“What? No. Well, not this time, but... Look, just get her, alright?”

“...One second.”

There were some more muffled voices, before C.T—the actual C.T—answered.

“Why are you jerking off in a phone booth?”

“I never said I was jerking off. Who the hell was that asshole? He said he was you.”

“Well, he's a C.T. Just not the same C.T I am.”

“Come again?”

“I'll introduce you some time. But seriously, why are you pantsless in a phone booth? Also it's eight-thirty. I told you not to call me this early on Saturdays."

"I know, but I'm in a jam."

"Did you bang a married woman again?"

"No, no. Turned out I accidentally slept with two sisters from the same family, and the little brother got mad at me and now I have a black eye and no money or pants, and I need rent money and a way to get back to the city."

"...How do you accidentally sleep with two sisters?" C.T asked. "Did you trip and fall into her? And out of her? And into her again?"

"Shut up. Don't judge me. You got any quick cons I can pull?”

"Hmm... Listen, I have a way you can make some quick money. It's not a con. It's just something Smith mentioned to me."

"I'm listening," Tucker said, as he adjusted a little and tried winking at a girl passing his phone booth, having learned nothing from recent events.

"Well, he's got a friend who works at this little independent lab. This friend has been doing some little experiments. They need samples of human matter for it. Blood and semen, mostly. Don't know what it's for, but he's paying quite a bit for it. He didn't want to advertise on the street, so he's been asking Smith to find some people. Hand over, say, twenty-five percent of what he pays you to Smith, and he'll take you right there.”

"What kind of shit is it for?" Tucker asked.

"I just said I don't know."

"Sorry. I got kinda distracted by a girl—I mean, uh. Distracted by something serious. There was a... tornado."

"Next to your phone booth," C.T said in a deadpan tone.

"Yep. But not important. I need the money. I'll do it."

"Tell me where you are, and I'll send Smith right over."

"Okay, but tell him to bring a pair of pants. ...Nice ones."

"Don't be fussy."

"Hey, I gotta look good.”

Tucker couldn't catch the scientist's name. He didn't understand Sangheili at all. The man had blue hair and yellowed eyes, just like Smith and a good portion of C.T's friends. His teeth looked pointy and sharp. He was honestly making Tucker a little nervous. Those teeth just looked like they could bite through a lot. And scientists were creepy enough on their own.

The man said something to Tucker. He didn't understand any of it.

"Yeah. Uh, hi to you to."

The next words were addressed to Smith. The sharp-toothed man (who Tucker was referring to as 'Crunchbite' within his own mind) then peered over the desk at Tucker. Then he nodded and chattered approvingly before passing Tucker a contract.

Tucker read it. The only word he could properly make out was 'shisno.' The rest might as well have been blarghs and honks.

"Is this one of those contracts that says I might die and that no-one can sue you if I do?" Tucker asked suspiciously. Crunchbite shook his head. "What's it say, then?"

Several minutes of confusing chatter followed.

Tucker looked at him, then looked sideways at Smith. "Is there anything in there about him stealing my organs?"

The pause was far too long for Tucker's comfort, even if Smith sounded like he was saying no afterward.

Tucker sighed. "Brilliant. Look, I'll sign the damn thing if you pay me up front. If this is one of those things where you're really going to steal my kidney, then I at least want the cash first."

Crunchbite nodded.

"Cool, whatever. Now lemme sign the damn thing and jerk off into a cup already. I got places to be."

"Today was shit," Tucker grumbled, staring into his shot of whiskey. C.T's bar was mostly empty that evening. It was generally less crowded than it had been eight years ago. Jones had been arrested again for whatever reason and Gary had vanished a few years back. Combined with the fact that many cons moved on once they had too high a profile in the city and there weren't that many of the old cons left.

C.T shrugged. "Always some bad days in this profession. You should know that by now."

"Yeah, I do. Doesn't mean I can't bitch about it." Tucker knocked back another cup of whiskey. "Could have been worse. I mean, Crunchbite was mad creepy..."

"Who?"

"Smith's friend."

"Oh, him."

"Anyway, mad creepy. And having to jack off into a cup for some scientist with really sharp teeth is just awkward. But at least he didn't steal my kidney or nothing."

"The only guy I can recall who regularly stole people's kidneys quit doing that years ago. Don't worry about it. Last person who had a kidney taken was Jones. Or Joannes. One of them."

"Come on, there's gotta be some proper cons you can throw my way, C.T. Anything. I got nothing interesting going on."

"Sorry, Tucker. I'm waiting on some, but there's nothing huge. If you're that desperate, just do some door-to-door scams in one of the smaller towns."

"Nah. Last time I did that, someone figured out it was a scam and I got chased out," Tucker said gloomily. "Man. Being a con sucks, sometimes."

"If it's that bad, just quit."

"I said it sucks sometimes. I didn't say I wanted to quit."

Tucker completely forgot about his visit to Crunchbite's lab. It wasn't something he could be bothered to think about. Not when he could be pondering other ways to con people out of their hard-earned cash. Or pondering ways to charm the ladies and avoid any male relatives that ended up chasing him.

He forgot for many months. But just under a year after that incident occurred, there was a knock at his door. Tucker had been going through the fridge, looking for a beer and something decent to eat, when the knocking happened. He sighed, hoping it wasn't that girl two floors down that he had banged a few weeks ago. She had seemed a bit like the clingy type.

"Yeah, just a minute..."

Tucker stopped to open his beer before heading for the front door. When he opened it, Crunchbite was there. He was holding something wrapped in a bundle.

"Hey, Crunchbite. What's up? I'm not donating stuff again. If you're here for more blood and semen, gonna have to say no. I know I'm probably a fucking awesome subject, but that was a one-time thing. If you're out, just go pull some random hobo off the street. He'd probably go for it if you paid him in food.”

Crunchbite lifted the bundle slightly. Tucker looked down at it. There was a kid inside. Couldn't be more than a couple of weeks old.

"Nice kid. He yours?"

Crunchbite pointed at the kid, and then pointed at Tucker.

"I don't get it."

Tucker studied the kid carefully. The kid had sharp teeth, too. And his hair had that weird tint of blue. It had to be Crunchbite's kid... And yet... The kid stared up at him with wide eyes. Wide, brown eyes that were identical to Tucker's.

It clicked. It took a while, but it clicked.

"Oh shit."

Caboose

"I am scared," Caboose said. He had the blankets tugged over his head again. It had become a common habit since he had seen his own reflection. Sheila assumed he was scared or ashamed of his appearance. Or perhaps he still thought there was a ghost looming in all the reflective surfaces. In any case, it was difficult to get him out of the blankets.

"There is no need to be scared, Mr. Caboose." Sheila still spoke with her hands as well. Although Caboose was managing coherent sentences some of the time, he still couldn't understand other people very well. "Aren't you sick of the hospital by now?"

"But... It is scary," Caboose whined, pointing at the window. "And I... not... sisters see." He pointed at his head, where the scars were still fresh. "Cannot talk good. Cannot... think. Not strong anymore. ...It is..." Caboose frowned. "It is..."

"If you can't remember the word, that's okay. I understand. You'll get better with time and with therapy. And I'm sure your sisters will get over the scarring." Caboose didn't reply, he just scrunched his face up in thought, trying to remember the word he'd been looking for. "I have to see your mother about something, I'll be back with her in a few minutes. Okay?"

Caboose nodded. Sheila stepped outside the room where his mother was waiting.

"He's not taking the idea of leaving too well."

"Why wouldn't he want to leave? He needs to be at home with his family..." Margretta sighed. "Although... Most of the younger kids think he's on a camping trip. I wasn't sure how to tell them, especially... earlier..." She wiped at her eyes. "I still don't know how. My poor baby can't understand me. He can't understand anyone, how am I going to tell them? And he looks so... different."

"Don't remind him of that. He's too aware of it already. I'll be honest... often, these sorts of injuries do put a lot of stress on families." Sheila handed the mother a sheet of paper. "Here is a list of speech and language therapists, of people who can assist with physiotherapy and various psychologists and psychiatrists that can assist in the case of any neuropsychiatric symptoms. And there's a therapist listed who can help if family difficulties do come up. As a side precaution, you shouldn't let him handle anything delicate, not until he's progressed with his physical therapy."

"Um... Okay. That's not a problem. Most of the stuff in the house isn't very delicate. The kids always end up breaking anything like that." Margretta managed a weak smile. "I think we'll manage. A loving family can fix anything, right?"

"I hope so."

When they re-entered Caboose's room, he was still trying to think."It is... It is..." he muttered under his breath.

"Mr. Caboose, it's time to lea—"

Caboose's face brightened. "Bullshit!" he said proudly.

"Mikey! Watch your language!" Margretta scolded. Caboose yelped and tugged the blanket further over his head. "No, no, I didn't mean to scare you, dear... But that's not very nice language to use in front of Dr. Filss."

"It's okay, he was just trying to find a word to describe something. Any word is an improvement."

"It's still unpleasant language. If you must talk like that, Mikey, say... bullstupid. Bullstupid," Margretta said slowly. Caboose peered out of his blanket, looking confused and a little bit scared.

"He doesn't understand what you're angry about." Sheila sighed, before saying, "She doesn't like you saying 'bullshit.'" She made hand gestures to accompany the sentence.

"Ohhh. Bad word?"

"Bad word."

Wheelchairs were still fun. Although Caboose didn't see why Sheila had to wheel him out of the hospital. He could walk. Sort of. He lost balance easily and his legs always felt kind of weak, but he could walk. Still, it was fun. And Caboose would not be wheeled around by Sheila for much longer. He was leaving the hospital today. Which was scary, but also kind of exciting, because he really missed home.

The sun was really bright, when they stepped outside. It was the first time Caboose had been outside in a very long time, since the crash. Caboose didn't know how long it had been, but it felt like years. It probably wasn't years. He had not seen any fireworks.

Sheila stopped the wheelchair, walked around to help him out of it. It was just them, since Mama had left to go get the car. Sheila was a nice lady and Caboose was going to miss her. He was scared that the other doctors would not be so nice. No-one could be as nice and pretty and kind as Sheila.

"Sheila?"

"Yes?"

"What do I do if... not like... doctors?"

"The other doctors? You will like them. They're good people."

"But... they not... you."

"You'll have to come back for check-ups. I'll still be your doctor, Mr. Caboose. So don't worry too much about the other doctors. If you don't like them, then just tell me when you come back."

"Okay. That... feel better."

Sheila handed him something. It was a woolly hat with earflaps. "Here. If you really want to cover the scars, this should hide most of them."

Caboose poked at the little pompom on the top. It was blue. It was a nice colour. And it would stop his sisters from being as scared.

It was a little thing, but he was so... overwhelmed by the gesture that he hugged Sheila really tightly. Or as tightly as he could. His arms were still much weaker than they used to be.

The next few days were very difficult.

Caboose had been scared the entire way home, because they had needed to drive. He'd spent the entire trip curled up in the back seat of the borrowed car (since the family truck had been completely busted) with his eyes covered and humming to try and block out the sound of the engine. Taking just a peek out the window made him remember colliding with that tree.

Mama had made him wait outside the house for a while. She had gone inside first, and eventually come back to guide him back inside. She kept talking in a weird voice. A weird voice that sounded a lot like how Mama spoke to Apples and her kitties. Except a lot sadder.

His sisters had been very quiet. Except for Mindi, who had tried to pull his hat off to see the scars. She was a weird five-year-old and she'd always liked cartoons with monsters on them. Perhaps that was why she wasn't as nervous and quiet as the others. Caboose hadn't let her remove the hat, instead tugging it further down.

No-one acted normal. The only one that tried was his stepfather. He still dragged Caboose out to help him drag in firewood. He had to use a wheelbarrow instead of the truck to bring it home, now. They still tried to have manly bonding time. But it was difficult, because Caboose kept dropping the wood. He didn't mean to, but his arms just did not want to hold it for long. He kept dropping things, not just wood. And his fingers did not want to work as fast as they used to. Eventually, his stepfather sighed and told him to get some rest. He hadn't asked for help carrying wood again after that.

Everyone treated him like glass, and the worst part was Caboose really felt like it. Nothing worked. He used to be strong. He played football at school and he'd been very good at it. And he'd never been smart-smart, but he hadn't been... well... he hadn't been whatever he was now.

He heard Mama say something about how he shouldn't even go back to school, at least not for a while. Whether that was because he wasn't strong enough to leave the house or because he wasn't good at thinking any more was hard to say.

A few of his old friends came to visit him, but they stared at him with varying looks of repulsion and pity, couldn't find ways to talk to him, and then they left and didn't come back.

He spent most of the day just staying in bed, occasionally doing laps of the room just to remind himself that he could still walk.

There'd been one more shock. He'd only realised it when his real dad came to visit.

"Michael!"

When his father shoved open the bedroomdoor, Caboose didn't bother to move from the bed. He just sat up and looked at his newest visitor.

"What?" As Caboose said this, his hands tightened around the flaps of his woolly hat.

"Aw, come on, that's no way to treat your ol' daddy." His dad plopped onto the end of the bed, studying him. Caboose looked back for a moment, then looked downwards. He didn't want to look, because aside from his general dislike of the man, Caboose's father looked near identical to how he'd looked before the accident, except older and with brown eyes. "Cripes, you look fucked up. I thought Margretta said you only hurt your head."

"I did... hurt... head," Caboose said haltingly, tugging the hat closer.

"Can I see?"

"No."

"Michael, come on. As a man with... er, fatherly authority—"

"No."

"Okay, fine. Well, give us a hug."

Caboose did so, although he hated hugging his dad, because he always smelt like glitter. But Mama always told him to be nice to Dad, even though he was an icky man.

Then he noticed that during the hug his father was trying to discreetly look underneath his woolly hat at the scars and immediately pulled away. He meant to say something that made sense, but instead all that came out was "Ahnehhhyeh?!"

"What? I just wanted to see the damage!" his dad said defensively. "I'm not going to laugh! Besides, if you show the scars to some girls, I bet you could get some tail. Chicks love scars and injured guys, there's a name for it and everything.”

"Do... not... want to..."

"Oh, nonsense. I can even be your wingdad. Or you can be my wingson, chicks also love the protective dad taking care of his injured son deal."

This sort of nonsense had been normal for the last couple of years, with his father usually treating him as a friend and drinking buddy rather than a son, and never processing that it was inappropriate to try and sneak your son into strip clubs as a bonding experience.

Normally, Caboose put up with it and stayed quiet, because he didn't want to be rude. Mama said he couldn't be rude to his dad.

Today was not one of those days.

"Goway," he mumbled quietly.

"Hm? What's that?"

"Go. Away," he said, loudly this time.

"What? Why would I want to—"

"Go away, go away, go away!" Caboose stood up, although he stumbled a little as he did so, and pointed at the door. "Get out! Leave... leave alone!"

"Michael, I'm just... I'm trying to be a dad, why are you so angry at—"

Because I do not like you! Because if you were trying to be a proper dad, you would not have missed the first nine years of my life and spent the rest of the years trying to drag me into strip clubs even though I said they were way too sparkly! I do not like having to tip toe around all the no-underwear ladies that are always at your house! I do not want to be your stupid wingson! Whatever that is! Stay out of my life until you learn to be a proper dad!

He couldn't make enough coherent words for that to come out properly, so all that came out was a long stream of gibberish. And then Dad still didn't move, and Caboose got mad...

And then he shoved him.

He'd never gotten violent at a family member before, even one like Dad, and it wasn't very effective, because Caboose's arms were still weak as twigs. The only reason Dad had backed off was probably just surprise. If he hadn't left, Caboose probably would have tried to hit him again.

He'd suddenly felt so mad. He'd been angry before. But he'd never been... that angry. Not the sort of anger where he wanted to stomp on someone's face until they became a little red smudge. It used to be restrained. Now it wasn't.

Hours after his father left the house, Caboose curled back up on his bed. Apples trotted in and plopped down next to him, and Caboose scratched the kitty behind the ears because he loved Apples and Apples was the only thing in this house that wasn't afraid of him any more.

How could one blow to the head do all this? How could it make him stupid, weak and angry all at once?

Donut

"Maybe you should dial it back on the lace."

"But that's such a stupid idea. Lace is amazing!" Donut protested at Mama Liz, holding the phone to his ear as he sprawled out over the sofa.

He had hung Chantilly lace from every shelf in the apartment. He loved the stuff, and didn't understand how anyone else could be sick of it. And yet, he'd lost another roommate to it. They'd screamed that the lace was driving them insane and they couldn't deal with it anymore, and they had left. Donut did seem to run through roommates quickly. Why was it really so difficult to find a male roommate who didn't despise his taste in decoration?

He'd since decided to make the first question while interviewing any potential roommates 'do you like Chantilly lace,' so he'd actually be forewarned about it. He was sure he could find a roommate that could put up with it. But it wasn't going well.

"Crumbcake, not everyone likes lace as much as you. I know I don't see the appeal," Liz sighed. "What's more important? Lace or actually being able to pay the rent?"

There was a long pause.

"...Crumbcake?"

"I'm thinking about it!" Donut grumbled under his breath before saying, "Alright, next person I'll ask about the lace, and after that I'll drop the subject. But I'm not going to like it."

"At least you can keep it in your room!"

"I guess." As Donut whined, there was a knock at the door. "Oh, that's probably the next potential roomie. I gotta go, alright?"

"Alright. Ju-Ju says hi, by the way."

Donut hung up, and trudged somewhat grumpily to the door. After a moment to fix his face into something cheerier, he swung the door open.

He had to tilt his head upwards.

Wow, was this guy big. Seriously gigantic. He also had weird vibe. Like the sort of guy where, if you saw them on a television show, you were like 'oh shit, this guy's gonna fuck someone up.' But this wasn't a television show. ...Perhaps the man outside Donut's door was an actor.

"Uhm. Hi, uh... wow, sorry, I'm at a loss for words, I just got a little distracted. You have those creepy eyes and the bald head... And you're really tall! You just kinda remind me of a serial killer. Sorry, I watched a lot of crime shows when I was at home. But we're cool, right?"

"…"

"You want to come in?"

"…" The man eventually nodded slightly.

"You're not very talkative, are you? Oh well, I can talk enough for both of us. I'm awesome at that. Mama Liz always said 'Crumbcake, you could talk the quills off a porcupine.' I don't know what that means, but I bet I really could." Donut continued filling in the quiet as he fluttered around the kitchen, making coffee. "You like coffee? Sugar? Cream? None of that?"

"…"

"Surprise, then? Okay."

Donut passed him a cup that had a lot of sweet stuff in it. Sugary coffee was yummier and he looked like he could use a bit of sweetener. "So, uh... You like Chantilly lace?"

"…"

Donut waved his hands at the lace decorating the shelves. "Chantilly. Lace. It has such a lovely texture, don't you think?"

Donut received a shrug in return.

Well, that wasn't exactly a no... That was promising.

"Well, you look like a guy that appreciates aesthetics. Great tattoo, by the way, what's it mean? Eh, time for that later. So, uh... What's your name?”

Donut received a growl in reply to that question.

"That's a lovely accent. Suits you. Do you have some kind of driver's licence or something on you? It's a nice accent, but I couldn't really understand it." Donut was handed an old library card. "...Huh. Never would have picked you for a reader. Well, I'm Donut. Nice to meet you, Maine."

End of Volume 1.

Chapter Text

Timeline of Events

70 B.D

• Reginald Wyoming was born.

55 B.D

• Sarge Sargington was born.

54 B.D

• Sigma was born.

53 B.D

• O'Malley was born.

49 B.D

• Flashback: Two Sides of One Coin (O'Malley, start.)
• O'Malley first develops an interest in animal insides, although at this stage has little success at seeing them due to only focusing on bugs.

46 B.D

• Allison Church Jr./Tex was born.
• Flashback: Two Sides of One Coin (O'Malley, continued.)
• O'Malley starts murdering animals, although he later tires of it.

45 B.D

• Carolina Church was born.

44 B.D

• York was born.

41 B.D

• David Washington was born.
• C.T (Male) was born.

40 B.D

• C.T (Connie) was born.
• Butch Flowers was born.
• Wyoming, while working as a morally bankrupt security guard for a different prison, accidentally beat an inmate to death during what was originally an overzealous assault. Numerous other crimes came out during the investigation.
• Incarceration: Reginald Wyoming was incarcerated for the crime of second-degree mruder, five known cases of assault, smuggling and various abuses of his power while working as a prison guard. (Age 30) Sentence was life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.

39 B.D

• Leonard L. Church was born.
• Delta was born.

38 B.D

• 'Crunchbite' was born.
• Maine was born.

35 B.D

• Theta was born.

33 B.D

• Richard 'Dick' Simmons was born.

32 B.D

• North and South Dakota were born.

31 B.D

• Sheila Filss was born.

30 B.D

• Lavernius Tucker was born.

29 B.D

• Dexter Grif was born.

26 B.D

• Kaikaina 'Sister' Grif was born.
• Eddie Church/Epsilon was born.
• Leonard and Eddie's mother died during childbirth, leaving the father a devastated wreck who later degraded into sporadically abusive behavior. This left Church as Eddie's caretaker.
• O'Malley becomes a surgical intern and quickly starts to get bored of it.

25 B.D

• Flashback: Two Sides of One Coin (O'Malley, continued.)
• After eighteen months of entertaining the idea and being bored with his current surgeries, O'Malley started a chain of serial killing that lasted for decades.

24 B.D

• Flashback: Chapter 1 (Church)
• Frank 'Doc' DuFresne was born.

23 B.D

• Flashback: Chapter 1 (Tucker)

22 B.D

• Flashback: Chapter 1 (Simmons)

21 B.D

• Michael J. Caboose was born.

20 B.D

• Franklin Donut was born.
• Flashback: Chapter 2, 3 and 4 (Church)
• Church killed his father in an attempt to defend his little brother and prevent future harm, before panicking and fleeing the state with his little brother in an attempt to hide. Later attempts to acquire fake identification resulted in him killing Jimmy and getting dragged into helping Delta with criminal work.
• O'Malley, after smuggling pharmaceutical drugs out of the hospital he works out and selling them (and keeping some for use in his murders) was caught doing so, thanks to evidence swiped from his home, and ended up losing his surgical licence. His murders remained undiscovered.
• Flashback: Two Sides of One Coin (Doc, start)
• Doc tried to take care of a bird, accidentally harming the bird with his attempts to fix it instead. He never realised this fact.

17 B.D

• Donut and his parents were caught in a car accident. Three-year-old Donut survived with only minor scrapes, but his parents were both killed. He was placed in an orphanage.
• Flashback: Two Sides of One Coin (Doc, continued)
• Doc helped treat some scrapes of a kid at school, and it earned him both the nickname Doc and temporary friendship with one of the other kids, and inspired him towards a career in medicine.

16 B.D

• Flashback: Chapter 1 (Grif)
• Grif and Sister's mother left them to join the circus, and the two were put into the foster care system, soon split up into different homes.

15 B.D

• Flashback: Chapter 2 (Simmons)
• Simmons unintentionally revealed his bisexuality to his parents, and it resulted in him leaving home and becoming estranged from them.

14 B.D

• Flashback: Chapters 2 and 3 (Tucker)
• Tucker left home to pursue new conning targets and refine his abilities at doing so, and formed a connection with C.T (Connie), ending up working for her and splitting the profits with her in exchange for information on targets and some teaching.

13 B.D

• Flashback: Chapter 1 (Donut)
• Donut was adopted by Liz and Julie Delano.

11 B.D

• Flashback: Chapter 1 (Caboose)
• Flashback: Chapter 2 and 3 (Grif)
• Flashback: Chapter 3 (Simmons)
• Grif, after turning eighteen and trying to gain custody of Sister, ended up moving them both in with Simmons.

10 B.D

• Leonard L. Church was incarcerated (Age 29). Sentence was life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.

8 B.D

• Flashback: Chapter 4 (Grif and Simmons)
• Grif and Simmons have a brief falling out, due to Simmons and Sister making out and nearly sleeping together. It is later resolved, albeit with much annoyance on Grif's part.

6 B.D

• Flashback: Chapter 4 (Tucker)
• Tucker sleeps with more than one of Caboose's sisters on separate occasions, and in return Caboose steals his wallet. Tucker donates some bodily fluids to Crunchbite's science lab in exchange for rent money. Nine months later, Junior is somehow born.
• Birth: Junior

5 B.D

• Lavernius Tucker was incarcerated (Age 25). Sentence was life imprisonment, up for parole in twenty years.

4 B.D

• Flashback: Chapter 2, 3 and 4 (Caboose)
• Caboose was caught in a car accident that severely damaged his brain and left him in a temporary coma. He was treated by Sheila, who also helped him start to learn how to understand language again, after the crash damaged his ability to process it.
• Dexter Grif and Richard 'Dick' Simmons were incarcerated (Age 25 for Grif, Age 29 for Simmons). Sentence: life imprisonment, up for parole in twenty years.)
• Doc drops out of medical school, owing to a lack of competence and funds, and spends the next couple of years learning what he can in various first aid classes.

3 B.D

• O'Malley had suspicions raised against him when a former victim who escaped him saw him in a store. Various human remains were discovered in his home, and he was charged with a large amount of crimes.
• O'Malley was incarcerated for twelve counts of first-degree murder and one count of torture. Other murders were suspected but unproven. (Age 50.) Sentence was life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.

2 B.D

• Michael J. Caboose was incarcerated (Age 19). His sentence was life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.
• Flashback: Two Sides of One Coin (Doc, continued)
• Doc gained a job as a medical assistant at Valhalla despite his lack of qualifications. Barely a month later, the main doctor quit and Doc was made the main doctor in his stead.

0

• Maine was stabbed to death by his roommate.
• Franklin Delano Donut was incarcerated for the crime of one second-degree murder. Claim of self-defence was rejected due to an overly large amount of stab wounds. (Age 20) His sentence was life imprisonment, up for parole in twenty years.
• Murderer's Row - Volume 1 takes place during this year and crosses the span of roughly five and a half months.

5

• Murderer's Row - Volume 2 will take place during this year.