HT100 #176: 8 Hard Years; #137: Family
LJ cut seems to be giving me difficulty, so hopefully this works.
Alvarez finally falls asleep by the time they’re locked in for the night, and Ryan has a split lip and bruises from the effort it took to hold him down. Alvarez has been high as a fucking kite since they’ve arrived, and he’s been spiraling out ever since.
Not that anyone gives a damn; the Lardner hacks are even worse than the ones at Oz. And of course that brings up the issue of why they’re even here.
“This,” O’Reily snarls, “is all K-Boy’s fault. I ever see that cocksucker again, my foot’s gonna be in his ass.”
Beecher stares at him impassively from the opposite bunk. That’s likely, considering he’s in the morgue back at Oz.”
Ryan’s spared the trouble of retorting when Alvarez mutters, an incoherent string of Spanish, fingers tightening on the Irishman’s wrist.
“His fever still up?” Beecher asks quietly.
“Yea.” Ryan swipes a hand across his face, and really, he’s too fucking tired. “Christ, why am I even doing this?”
Beecher shrugs. “Familial instinct, I suppose.”
Ryan laughs, short and devoid of humor. “Easy for you to say Beecher, you’re a father. What’s my excuse?”
“You’re an older brother.”
“Was-“
But the other man shakes his head, leans forward to tap the blonde band on Ryan’s finger. “Are,” he says, smiling sadly, and his eyes are dark with something like understanding, “always will be.”
Alvarez finally falls asleep by the time they’re locked in for the night, and Ryan has a split lip and bruises from the effort it took to hold him down. Alvarez has been high as a fucking kite since they’ve arrived, and he’s been spiraling out ever since.
Not that anyone gives a damn; the Lardner hacks are even worse than the ones at Oz. And of course that brings up the issue of why they’re even here.
“This,” O’Reily snarls, “is all K-Boy’s fault. I ever see that cocksucker again, my foot’s gonna be in his ass.”
Beecher stares at him impassively from the opposite bunk. That’s likely, considering he’s in the morgue back at Oz.”
Ryan’s spared the trouble of retorting when Alvarez mutters, an incoherent string of Spanish, fingers tightening on the Irishman’s wrist.
“His fever still up?” Beecher asks quietly.
“Yea.” Ryan swipes a hand across his face, and really, he’s too fucking tired. “Christ, why am I even doing this?”
Beecher shrugs. “Familial instinct, I suppose.”
Ryan laughs, short and devoid of humor. “Easy for you to say Beecher, you’re a father. What’s my excuse?”
“You’re an older brother.”
“Was-“
But the other man shakes his head, leans forward to tap the blonde band on Ryan’s finger. “Are,” he says, smiling sadly, and his eyes are dark with something like understanding, “always will be.”