Fic: You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison 5/5 (Multiband, NC17, BB/RR, GW/BS, PS/PW)

[dancinbutterfly]

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Brian Schechter

There are times when Brian thinks his job is what the world would be like if the unpopular, loner kids in high school were given clubs and told to keep the cliques in check. That’s assuming that the popular kids were murderers, drug dealers, thieves and rapists, which they might have been in his high school. But the outside is still where he is, even after twenty years.

The peripheral nature of the job means that most of the information Brian has about what’s going on are from observations and secondhand sources. For example, he knows Stumph starts insinuating himself with the Cobras after Jay finally lets Saporta out of Ad Seg because he’s watching. He doesn’t know what they talk about because, at best, he catches snatches of conversations, which stop as soon as he walks by, about Saporta and how he’s going to bounce back from his time in the hole.

In Brian’s opinion, two weeks isn’t long enough, especially not with Ross still at St. Jude’s. But he’s not the warden and he hasn’t had to deal with Victoria Asher and whatever legal voodoo she’s performed to get him out. It’s not his job to decide policy. Brian maybe has to repeat that a few times and kick a couple dents into the lockers in the locker room before he’s made peace with that reality.

Keeping an eye on the way Wentz is staring down the Cobras every time Stumph gets within a ten foot radius of them, on the other hand, is his job. So is making sure that he knows where Bob Bryar is at all times now that Saporta’s back on the Block. Trying to figure out how Iero’s quiet movements to the Wentz camp are tied in to all of this is his job, too. If he can figure out what the fuck’s going on, he can hopefully circumvent it this time.

“Jimmy’s doesn’t know anything,” Chantal says. She gives him a frown and works the buttons of her uniform down. Brian doesn’t look because he’s going on shift as she’s coming off. And he respects her. He does. “He’d tell me if he knew. He’s only stingy about drug information. He doesn’t want anyone getting hurt.”

Chantal’s a little deluded. She’s a good kid and she’s held up well against all bullshit that comes with being a female CO. He likes her, and he knows she’s done her job as well as she could. Then she fell hard for Euringer and all of her distance and professionalism went out the door. Brian pulled her to the side when she got back from suspension, and warned her, but it was way the fuck too late. He hopes for her sake it’s mutual, because otherwise she’s in for a fucking world of hurt.

He doesn’t bother her about it, though. He’s got zero space to judge, when the best part of his day is talking to Gerard Way, a.k.a. Prisoner #97W544. That’s beyond fucked up and he knows it, so he doesn’t warn Chantal away anymore. He just nods back and hopes to fuck that she’s not lying.

Gerard shares a cell with Iero and the two actually get along pretty well. “Frank’s not afraid of me,” Gerard says with a thin smile. “He’s pretty nice actually. Scary smart. Funny. His fiancée brings lasagna from his mom, and he always shares. I mean, he can get kind of annoying, but maybe that’s because he and Bob are still so worried about Ryan Ross.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Gerard assures him, always more than happy to be the one giving information. Gerard always has something to share. He’s not a snitch about it, and most of the time there’s nothing Brian could do with it, anyway. Even when it is something he could use, Brian finds himself not reporting the information. The second time he didn’t is when he knew he was in trouble with Gerard. But it’s too late, now. Just like it’s too late for Chantal.

“Okay.”

“Frank’s been trying to keep Bob in check but I don’t know how long that’s going to hold, you know? I don’t really blame him. Saporta’s got that scar on his face but he’s walking around like he owns the prison and Ryan’s still in ICU and everyone knows it.” Gerard shivers. “It’s just unnerving.”

Unnerving is a great word for it. Gerard’s pretty good at that, putting words on things. Brian’s never been good at that. He admires the ability. He finds himself reaching out and taking Gerard’s hand without thinking about it, his tattooed fingers covering the inmate’s pale fist, the rosary clutched inside. “Stay out of it for me, all right?”

“I live with the guy. I live next to Bob. I can’t exactly get out of the crossfire.”

“I know, but just in case,” Brian says. He maybe squeezes Gerard’s hand a little. “I don’t need you getting hurt.”

Gerard stares down at their joined hands for a long moment. He licks his lips and keeps his eyes fixed on them as he asks, “You don’t?”

“No.”

Brian isn’t really prepared when Gerard lifts his eyes to meet his. “Why?”

“Gerard-“

“I never ask and you never ask. We never ask anything, okay, but I’m asking. I’m sorry. You can send me to the hole if you don’t like it, but I’m asking. Why?”

“I couldn’t send you there.”

“It’s your job.”

“I know.” Brian swallows and glances around. The chapel is empty. For all his reputation, Gerard is a minimum security case, so there isn’t a guard at the door. Ray’s got office hours. It’s just them, so he makes himself be honest. “I just couldn’t, all right? I couldn’t, and that’s why I need you to stay out of it. Okay?”

Brian knows it’s wrong to like the surprised “O” shape that Gerard’s mouth makes at that. It’s really fucking wrong to want to kiss him. The whole thing is ten different kinds of wrong, but when Gerard unclenches his fist and turns his hand so that their fingers thread together, the rosary caught between their palms and the cross hanging over onto Brian’s skin, Brian doesn’t fucking care. Not even a little.

Long, talented fingers squeeze his, once. Then again. Then Gerard smiles at him, the bright, earnest one that got Brian into this fucking trouble in the first place. “Okay, I’ll stay out of it. I promise.”

Brian squeezes back. “Thank you.”

Gerard lifts their joined hands and kisses the cross. But his lips press against the skin on the back of Brian’s hand, and the way Gerard’s eyes fix on his face tells him it’s no accident. It makes Brian ache in a way he isn’t equipped to handle.

“I’ve got to go,” Brian manages finally. “I was on rounds.”

“Duty calls,” Gerard agrees. He doesn’t let go though, and Brian doesn’t either. They’re stuck like that for the longest time, until Brian manages to untangle his fingers from Gerard’s, and walk away. He can’t stop his hand brushing Gerard’s shoulder as he passes.

Gerard leaning into the touch like a cat shouldn’t steel Brian’s resolve, but it does anyway. It carries him through the next two days when he doesn’t have rounds in the chapel. It helps him focus on Iero’s movements, and Stumph’s awkward advances to the Cobras. It’s enough right up until Bob fucking Bryar appears at his elbow halfway through a shift.

“Schechter,” Bob says, his voice low and even. “You got a minute?”

Brian glances around. Ryland’s on duty with Dan Whitesides. He gives Dan a nod and gestures towards the gym. Dan nods back, and Brian returns his attention to Bob. “Let’s take a walk.”

Bob doesn’t nod. He just shrugs and gestures vaguely for Brian to start walking. They come to a halt in the dim hallway outside the gym. Bob fishes a pack out of a pocket, pulls one out for himself, then holds it out to Brian. It’s a huge gesture. Cigarettes aren’t cheap in Janick, and Brian doesn’t turn him down.

“What’s up, Bob?”

Bob flicks on his lighter, takes a drag, then asks, “You remember when we were kids?”

Brian lets out a sigh and holds out a hand for Bob’s lighter. He knew this was where the conversation was going. He was just hoping it wouldn’t get there so fast. “Yeah. We were kind of nuts.”

“We were,” Bob agrees. He smiles a little, the way Brian remembers, only minus the lip ring now that they’re older and supposedly saner. “I fucking missed you, Brian. I never blamed you, you know, for leaving, but I did.”

“Same here.” He missed Bob like crazy that first year. But Brian hadn’t even been able to look at him, and how could he stay like that? It was too much, too many memories he didn’t want to hang on to. He’d had to go.

They smoke in silence for the longest time before Bob speaks again. “I’m trying to figure out if this is how you felt when Steineckert killed Sean.”

“Don’t.” Brian doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He doesn’t want to think about his brother, and he doesn’t want to remember how Bob had handled it.

“I can’t tell if this is what you felt like.” Bob studies the burning cherry of his cigarette like the hot ash has an answer. “If it’s close, I should’ve killed him slower. I’m sorry.”

The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. Brian puffs on his cigarette because it looks less pathetic than gasping for breath. He can’t say anything, though. Nothing he could say could possibly be enough, or right.

“Ryan died. He came back, but he was fucking dead on the table, Brian, and I just…” Bob squeezes his eyes shut and exhales through his nose before speaking again. “Saporta damn near broke him before I found him, and then he beat him to fucking death and back. You get it, right? You know because you didn’t love Sean the same way I love Ryan, but you get it.”

“I didn’t stop loving my brother just because he’s dead.”

“But you can’t even say his fucking name, anymore. You haven’t been able to since the day he died, and you know it,” Bob says, jabbing at the air in front of Brian’s chest with his cigarette. It sounds like an accusation. Probably because it is. “You haven’t been able to talk to me since I took out Steineckert, either. You can barely look at me; even though you know, and I know, that he had it fucking coming for what he did to Sean. So you know. You fucking know.”

Brian can’t argue that. He can’t meet Bob’s eyes, either. He just smokes, and stares at the difference between the soft sneakers on Bob’s feet and the steel toed boots on his own.

“You know I’ve got an ask, Brian.”

Brian swallows hard. “I can’t kill Saporta. I can’t, Bob, I’m sorry. I won’t tell the warden, but you have to understand-”

“I don’t want you to kill Saporta. Just,” Bob flicks ash to the floor. “Take your time.”

Brian stares at him, trying to understand. “Take my time.”

“Yep. No rush. You’ll know when. Just, don’t hurry to save the day for once, and we’ll be even on Sean. Then I’ll just have one favor left, and it won’t even be a big one.” Bob’s blue eyes cut through him. “Give me this, Brian. I need you to let me fucking have it. Please.”

“I’ll know.”

“Yeah, you’ll know. Think you can live with that?”

Probably not. In fact, it’s almost guaranteed that he won’t be able to live with himself by agreeing to this, anymore than he can live with what happened with Steineckert and his brother all those years ago. But he doesn’t have a choice, not really.

So he sits back and waits. And waits. And waits some more, and the only thing that happens is that Bob shaves off his beard. It throws Brian back in time more than ten years - to the kids they used to be back when Brian had no tattoos, and Bob wore a lip ring Brian had done with a lighter-cauterized needle in the bathroom of a Denny’s at three AM, since they didn’t have anywhere to sleep. It’s jarring, but not really noteworthy.

He doesn’t put the pieces together until later, after dinner but before lockdown. He’s on rounds, headed towards the chapel, when he hears running footsteps. Stumph calls his name, gasping for breath and waving his hands.

“You need to come now,” Stumph pants, bent over with his hands planted on his knees. His face is red and his eyes are huge. “He’s dying.”

It takes a moment for it to hit Brian but when it does, it’s like an ACME anvil dropped from above. It’s a wonder he’s still standing. It gives him a good excuse for moving slowly, though. Stumph stares at him like he’s grown a second mutant head.

“What are you doing?”

“Going.”

“You could be crawling and moving faster.”

“You wanna keep that tone, Stumph? We could skip this trip to see whoever you think’s so hard up, and go straight to the hole, if you prefer.”

Stumph says nothing after that. He just leads Brian on a too slow trip to one of the more secluded maintenance closets. They’re supposed to be locked. He knows that Ryland gave Saporta a copy of the key forever ago. He sent in a maintenance request to get the lock changed three months ago, but it hasn’t been done yet.

“I was supposed to meet him,” Stumph says quietly, staring in at the carnage as Brian opens the door. “I was supposed to meet him here ten minutes ago.”

“Get the fuck out of here, kid.”

“But-“

“Go back to D-Block. Now. I’ll take care of it. You were never here.”

Stumph doesn’t wait to be to be told again. He takes off at another run, leaving Brian in the quiet of the small room.

Saporta’s wrists are laid open, vertical cuts from wrist to elbow that were gushing blood onto the concrete, but have mostly stopped now, just like his breathing. He’s got a Gillette bayonet hanging limply from one blood-slick hand - a shank made from a shaving razor popped out of the plastic safety case and attached to a pencil, maybe one borrowed from Gerard.

He looks just like he came to the privacy of the closet to die. The guy was going crazier every day, anyway. Suicide isn’t that unlikely. It’d be perfect if it weren’t for the fact that Bob Bryar is crouched over him, face a grim mask.

“He’s not dead, yet.”

“No,” Bob agrees with a soft sigh. “Almost. Give it another minute.” His voice is soft, empty. It makes Brian’s skin prickle all over and he feels vaguely sick.

“You should go. I have to radio for help. You can’t be near this when I do.”

“In a second.” Bob stares at Saporta, at his chest as it slows, until it’s not moving at all. He holds his palm a millimeter from Saporta’s parted lips. Brian watches Bob hold that position until he’s satisfied, then rise to stand.

He nods at Brian and steps over Saporta’s limp body, walking swiftly but calmly back towards the D-Block. Fazzi’s working there today, so Brian doesn’t even need to ask how Bob got out. He waits until Bob’s out of sight before radioing for help. By that point, for Saporta at least, it is way too fucking late.

When his fellow COs have finished getting Saporta’s body out of the closet, Greta rubs his arm and tells him there’s nothing he could’ve done. She tells him to take a break, get something to drink. “I’ll tell Jay you need a little while.”

Brian does neither of those things. He makes a beeline for the chapel, blood still on his boots. He hates that, hates it when there’s blood in the grooves that will follow him home. He hates that he’s bringing it to Gerard, who’s trying so hard to get away from the blood.

Gerard is in the front pew, drawing. He looks up when Brian shuts the door to the chapel behind him. His smile lights up the whole fucking room as Brian walks towards him, until Gerard gets a good look at him. He frowns up at Brian once he’s standing before him. “Are you okay?”

“No. I’m not o-fucking-kay,” Brian grits out.

Gerard opens his mouth to say something in response, but before the words can form, Brian bends at the waist, takes Gerard’s face in both his hands, and kisses him. Why the hell not? Because if he’s going to do shit he shouldn’t today, he’s going to go all out. This, at least, feels right. This feels sane and perfect and warm.

Gerard’s lips part in a sigh, inviting him in deeper. Brian sinks into the kiss as Gerard tugs at his uniform with clenched fists. His tongue teases Brian’s, promising things they can’t have, but it’s enough for today. When they break apart, panting, Brian feels like his skin almost fits again.

“Talk to me,” Gerard murmurs, lifting a hand to stroke the side of Brian’s face. Brian can’t help himself leaning into the touch. His fingers have calluses from drawing, but they’re soft otherwise. He wants to sink into them. “It’ll be okay, Schechter, just talk to me.”

“Brian,” he says, dropping down to sit beside Gerard on the uncomfortable wooden bench. He does it in a way that doesn’t force Gerard to move his hand. “Call me Brian, when it’s just you and me.”

“Brian,” Gerard repeats, a hint of a smile peaking out in spite of the seriousness in his eyes. “Brian, talk to me.”

And, God help him, Brian does. He can’t do anything else.

Patrick Stumph

Patrick’s hands are shaking. He can’t tell if it’s from fear, rage, or disgust, but he can’t seem to stop the tremors as he walks back onto the Block. Finding Pete isn’t a conscious move. That’s just where his feet take him, back to the table where he was sitting with Andy and Joe; Frank and a couple members of the Family, including Frank’s cousin Johnny, one table down.

They had all been so fucking set on him staying, just a little longer. That was pretty typical of Pete, ever clinging and wheedling, but when Frank and fuck, Joe and Andy had joined in, he should’ve known. Never mind that Patrick working his way in good with the Cobras was Frank’s idea in the first place.

He should’ve figured it out, then. The whole thing was fishy as fuck, the way each of them had found a different way to make him just a little later. Yet Patrick had still been stunned when he got to the rendezvous and found Saporta unconscious and bleeding out all over the floor.

He’d lost a good minute hypnotized by the gore before Bob had clicked his tongue. Until he did that, Patrick hadn’t even noticed he was standing there. “Go get Officer Schechter.”

Patrick had stared at him, then down at the fucking ribbons of blood flowing out of the open wounds in Saporta’s olive skin, then back up at Bob. “Did you-“

Bob had been wiping his hands off on a paper towel. Then he’d pocketed it and pointed at the door. There was blood under his nails, but his hands were otherwise perfectly clean. “Get Schechter. Don’t get anyone else.”

So Patrick had run to Officer Schechter for help. Schechter had taken his sweet fucking time, and then told him to stay quiet to boot. Now, Patrick knew in his gut, that Saporta was dead with all signs pointing to a suicide. It doesn’t take a fucking genius to put the situation together.

He comes to a halt in front of Pete and balls his fists. He can’t hit him here, in front of everyone. He can’t yell at him, either. But his hands won’t stop shaking, and if he doesn’t do something with them, they’re going to vibrate off or catch Pete in the fucking mouth.

Pete just smiles his big dumb smile at him, like everything’s fine. Like this is what passes for motherfucking normal on the Decaydance. “Hey Patrick. You got back fast.”

Pain hisses up Patrick’s arms as his fingernails dig into his palms hard enough to threaten breaking the skin. He focuses on that and takes a deep breath before he speaks. “Get up and fucking walk with me, Wentz.”

From the next table over, Frank makes a low whistling noise. “The missus is angry. Best not to ruffle her feathers when she gets like this.”

“Shut the fuck up, Iero,” Patrick growls, not caring at how Johnny begins to rise to his feet. Frank reaches out a hand and Johnny sinks back down. They let it slide, and Patrick barely resists physically dragging Pete out of the common room and towards their cell. No one bothers them because Pete has his fingers in fucking everything and, on top of that, a third of the on-duty D-Block guards are dealing with the Saporta mess, now.

They get into their cell, and out of the sight of predatory eyes, before Patrick hauls off and punches Pete in the face. Pete makes a satisfyingly pained noise then stumbles back, his back hitting the metal sink. He curses and tries to rub his back and cheekbone at the same time and Patrick feels so much fucking better. That much adrenaline with no outlet is toxic.

He’d hit Pete again, but he knows he won’t get in a second blow. Pete’s on guard now, coiled and tense even as he stares at Patrick with wide, confused brown eyes. “What the hell?”

“Saporta’s dying, or probably already dead. Bob pulled some hitman voodoo shit and you knew. You knew and you let me walk into that fucking-” Patrick stops and shudders because he doesn’t like to think about dead things.

Dead things make him think of the family he killed in the accident. This wasn’t the plan. He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t have time to brace himself. If they’d stuck to the fucking plan, he’d have been prepared for any of it. And he wouldn’t have been alone.

Pete doesn’t even bother to lie. “He’s had it coming for awhile.” He shrugs and shakes his head, rubbing at his face. “Fuck, did you have to hit me? I’m glad all that time in the gym’s paying off but damn. I thought you’d be glad.”

“I walked into it,” Patrick repeats, because he can’t get the image of Saporta’s forearms opened liked a gutted fish out of his mind. He can’t stop thinking about how Bob must’ve done it, to get the whole scene to look so real.

“You had to,” Pete says, finally having the good grace to look sorry.

“I had to?” Patrick sputters. “You couldn’t have given me a heads up? You couldn’t have told me weeks ago what the fuck you were doing? I thought the point was to not kill him, Pete. I thought that was why I was supposed to win Saporta over in the first place - so we could get him as a group and incapacitate him without killing him. I’d barely fucking started, and all of a sudden I’m hip deep in a closet full of blood.”

Pete shakes his head again. “Yeah, no. You weren’t going to do that plan. That plan would’ve involved you fucking Saporta, and it was a bad, bad plan. I was never going to let that happen.”

Patrick folds his arms over his chest and glares daggers at Pete. “You say that like it’s your choice.”

“See, this is why I didn’t tell you. You don’t seem to get that it is so very fucking much my choice.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because Ryan was mine. Because you are mine,” Pete says, with the kind of vehemence he usually reserves for philosophical debates with Andy about Star Wars, but cut through by an edge of something darker that Patrick rarely sees. “Saporta fucked with my people so what happens to him is up to me. Bryar’s got first blood rights, but the how, the when, the where, the who - I okay it all. Do you get who the fuck I am, Patrick? Do you understand where you are? This isn’t the suburbs. This is the goddamn jungle and I’m the fucking alpha.”

Patrick resists the urge to step back. This is Pete. All the civility is stripped away so that he can see the steel skeleton underneath that makes Pete dangerous and powerful. But it’s still just Pete, and he’s never let Pete push him around if he didn’t want to be pushed. He’s not about to start now. “You should probably piss on my leg while you’re at it; make sure everyone knows which trees are yours. I’m just your bitch, after all.”

“Goddamnit, I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t need to. You don’t trust me. You certainly don’t respect me. What were you even doing, Pete? I know I was just bait, but you could’ve had the decency to tell me what kind of hook I was on.” The prospect shouldn’t be that upsetting. Not after everything he’s seen in the last hour, the last year since he arrived at Janick. It is, though. It makes his lungs burn, and his throat ache, and he has to work to keep his glare furious instead of hurt.

“I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, hoping that will stop them stinging. “Because where would you be without your pet.”

“Stop it, Christ. You’re not-” Pete breaks off and groans, pulling at his hair. He paces for a moment then stops. “I respect you. I trust you. You’re brilliant, and you’re kind, and you’re all these things that don’t survive in Janick; and yet you’ve hung onto them anyway. I couldn’t let Saporta do to you what he did to Ryan, all right? You think Bryar went crazy? Bryar doesn’t have shit on me when I lose it and Patrick, if something happened to you, if someone hurt you like that, I’d fucking lose my goddamn mind. You had to be believably ignorant, but I couldn’t let that happen. I just- I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

There’s nothing to say to that. The best Patrick can come up with is “You should’ve told me.” The anger’s gone out of it, though.

“You’re going to go back to a real life one day. You’re going to go back to the real world and have a real life. If you got caught? That’d be gone. Best case, it’d fuck up your parole and the worst case, you could get an accessory charge and add time to your sentence.” Pete crosses the cell to him and takes Patrick’s face in both hands, overly intimate as ever. “I’m supposed to protect you. That includes from yourself.”

“Why?” It’d made sense in the beginning - earning a favor for a guard with a soft spot. But then Pete had just never backed off, or gone away, or let go, or seemed to do anything but care and he’d never asked for anything in return besides company or, occasionally since Father Toro gave him The Inferno, that Patrick read to him. It didn’t mesh with the man everyone, including Pete himself, said Pete was. Why the fuck would someone who could coldly organize what he did, even to someone as disgusting as Saporta, give two shits about a guy like him?

Pete laughs, jagged and raw instead of his usual obnoxious bray. There’s real pain in it. Patrick can barely look at him. “It’s not obvious? I’m not subtle, so I just figured you knew. ”

“I’m clearly not as brilliant as you seem to think, so just lay it out for me.”

“I love you,” Pete says flatly. He meets Patrick’s eyes but there’s nothing in them. No hope or deceit or agenda. It’s just a statement of fact, like what his shoe size is, or what time breakfast is served. It just is.

“Pete,” Patrick says but it’s breathless. There’s nothing else coming behind it. All Patrick has is Pete’s name and the overwhelming sensation of being in warm, dark water way over his head.

Pete just shrugs. “You wanted to know.”

“And that’s why you did this?”

“No. I did this because Iero and Bryar had a better plan than we did, and it was the best way to deal with Saporta once and for all. For pretty much everything else though, that’s why. Jesus, what the hell was I supposed to do? You’re my Patrick.”

Patrick just stares up at him. It’s too fucking much. He doesn’t know what to do. All his fear and hurt and anger and abject horror at what he had seen are still boiling and now this? He doesn’t know what to do with this. So he goes with his first instinct, which is to grab Pete by the front of his shirt and pull him forward.

He hasn’t been touched with any kind of sexual intent in a fucking age, and Pete thinks he loves him. He really does, and Patrick’s never had that before. He’s pretty sure that’d be dizzying, even without all the extra bullshit.

Pete lets himself be pulled. He smiles a little, and reaches out to take Patrick’s hips in his hands. It’d be sexual on anyone else, but Pete is always touching him, holding on to him. “You’re my Patrick,” he says again.

Patrick doesn’t want to hear it. The words have too much weight behind them, so he kisses Pete instead. It seems like a decent plan because Patrick really has tried everything else over the last year, and nothing else has ever shut Pete up. This doesn’t work either, because Pete makes a loud moaning noise when Patrick presses him back into the sink. Patrick is less frustrated by Pete’s manhandling the deeper he sinks into the kiss. Pete’s mouth is hot, and he’s kissing back like he thinks he can escape Janick via Patrick’s tongue.

Patrick breaks the kiss off, gasping, when Pete’s hands fumble for the fly of his pants. This is a bad idea. It’s the adrenaline, and Gabe fucking Saporta bleeding to death, and a year of being scared all the time and deep gratitude. It’s a mistake.

“I’m up for parole in less than two years, Pete.” Patrick gasps as Pete finds what he’s looking for. Pete’s hand is colder than he was expecting.

“I know,” Pete murmurs into his cheek. He doesn’t stop his hand though, heating up and stroking smoother than should be possible considering that Pete’s hand is dry and the awkward way they’re standing. “You’re going to get it, too.”

“So where the fuck do you think-” Patrick breaks off with a gasp. Pete does something with his thumb over the head of his dick and Patrick can’t breathe at all.

He sees stars and takes deep gulping breaths trying to bring himself back to reality. He barely manages, and he has to grab at Pete’s shoulders to hold himself up. “Shit, Pete, where do you think this is going?”

“Nowhere,” Pete sighs. “It’s going nowhere, Patrick. But you and me.” He kisses Patrick, slow and smooth instead of the messy, near-violent kiss of earlier. It melts Patrick’s bones as thoroughly as the steady stroke of Pete’s hand on him.

“You and me?” Patrick pants, trying to focus. His glasses are starting to cloud with the heat of their bodies against the climate control. He’s so close, though. He’s so fucking close.

“We fit. You’re my fucking soulmate, Patrick,” Pete says, like it’s that simple and easy. “And you’re mine even if I never see you again. So.”

Pete squeezes a little tighter, pumps a little faster, and Patrick is coming all over Pete’s hand. His fingernails dig into the thin fabric as his other hand grabs the back of Pete’s neck and pulls him down into a punishing kiss because he’s not going to cry out. He’s not.

He whimpers into it and sags against Pete when it’s over, not caring that the bruise he gave Pete earlier is only going to get deeper. They stand like that for a long time, until Patrick feels like the world under his feet has stopped moving.

When he finally pulls away, he straightens his clothes and takes a deep breath. He watches Pete reach behind himself to turn on the faucet and rinse the come off his hand. Patrick waits until he’s done before he asks, “So what?”

“What?”

“You said so. So what?”

Pete blinks at him with wide eyes for a minute, then smiles. It’s a thin, sad smile, but it’s a Pete Wentz smile none the less. “So fuck it. We should take the time we have, you know? I’d rather be with you ‘til you leave than not at all. Life’s a fragile fucking thing and I’m too big of an evil, selfish fuck to not have what I want while I can.”

Patrick knows just how fragile it all is. He saw it. He took it, accidentally, but nonetheless he’s lost people their lives. He’s well aware of how delicate the whole thing is. He just doesn’t know if he can do this.

He can’t not, either. He sighs and takes Pete’s wet hand, tugging him away from the sink. “You’re not evil.”

“Depends who you talk to.”

“According to me. You’re a selfish fuck,” Patrick agrees. He brushes Pete’s bangs off his forehead, then drags his fingers down Pete’s temple and cheek to rest at the corner of his mouth. “Stubborn, irritating, and your moral compass is, like, demagnetized or something, but you’re not evil.”

Pete doesn’t speak. He presses into the touch and watches Patrick with huge brown eyes. Pete doesn’t look like a man who organized the death of another not an hour ago, who sells drugs and tortures his enemies. He just looks like a guy, maybe the kind of person Patrick would’ve run into at a hardcore show, or in an English seminar.

He’s just Pete, who also happens to be the most important person in Patrick’s life. Patrick moves his fingers so that they rest over Pete’s lower lip and he sighs. “I think you might be mine, too. Fuck knows what I’m going to do with you.”

Patrick can feel Pete’s lips curling up under his fingertips. “You’ll think of something.”

“This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven,” Patrick says sharply, jerking back as Pete ducks his head to kiss him. “You and Iero and Bryar are all so fucking far from forgiven, Pete, you’re in another galaxy. This doesn’t change that.”

“I’ll work on it,” Pete promises. “I’ll think of something.”

“I don’t think so,” Patrick retorts but Pete’s pressed tight against him. He’s still hard and Patrick wants to touch, to feel, to be in a place with real beds. He can feel his anger still boiling underneath his skin but this way, the way that involves him sliding his hands under the thin cotton of Pete’s shirt, seems better than hitting him again.

“Doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying,” Pete kisses him then, even though if a hack shows up now, they could both end up in the hole. Patrick thinks that’s pretty typical of Pete, typical of this place. They both push everything until it changes to fit - be inside Pete’s life or inside the walls and the bars.

The scary thing is that Patrick thinks he can deal with it, now. He doesn’t mind bending to the one so long as he’s got the other. Besides, Patrick pushes, too. He pushes Pete onto the bunk, pushes his rage out his hands and lips and tongue onto Pete’s skin.

What he can’t push away is the fact that, way deep down, he’s not sorry he didn’t make it to Gabe Saporta in time to save his life. Instead Patrick focuses on Pete, on sinking into his taste and his feel and his presence until he thinks he can live with it.

The fact that he can do such a thing at all is when Patrick knows two things. One, Janick has fucked him up beyond repair. And two, and Patrick thinks this one might be more important and a thousand times more disturbing, he loves Pete, too.

George Ross III

There’s a tube down Ryan’s throat when he wakes up in the hospital. He blinks through the morphine haze and that first time, he thinks that this is the good shit because he’s hallucinating Spencer, who has a beard now in his crazy brain’s vision of him. It’s days before Ryan comes back to himself enough to realize that no, that’s not his mind compensating for how bad it hurts. Spencer is here. Spencer can see him, like this.

Ryan wants to cry when he realizes that it’s real, Spencer and his new beard. Three of his fingers and two bones in his right hand are broken from where Suarez leaned on it with his knee to hold him down, and he wants to scream when he tries to wave Spencer away. What comes out instead is a garbled choking sound and a few stinging tears.

There are restraints on his wrists made of padded leather holding him down so when he gathers the energy back against the wave of pain, his left handed gesture is pretty ineffectual. He can’t speak either, just moans around the tube in his throat and lets his panic show in his eyes until the hack guarding the door gets a nurse and kicks Spencer out.

Once Spencer’s gone, the nurse leans over his bed and sooths his hair back from his face. It’s a kindness that Ryan isn’t prepared for, and the drugs have left him so unguarded that he can’t stop himself from crying. The nurse is a woman in her early sixties, and she wipes his tears away with business-like fingers.

“Blink once for yes, twice for no,” she says simply. “Should I let that young man back in here before the tube comes out?” Ryan blinks twice and she nods. That’s the last thing Ryan remembers for more than a week, besides going in and out of surgery a few times.

Spencer reappears after Ryan comes off the ventilator. Ryan’s throat still burns every time he even tries to swallow, so he can’t really talk. Even if his throat weren’t an issue, the broken ribs make it hurt to breathe. His left eye is still pretty much swollen shut, and his right is only a little better. Gabe broke his cheekbone, and the pain from the surgery that reset it is fucking dizzying.

Ryan can see the mess of his own face mirrored back at him in Spencer’s eyes. Taking a chunk out of Gabe was fucking worth it. Hell, more than. He just doesn’t need to see the cost reflected back this way.

“Father Ray had to call me,” Spencer says. He’s sitting on a chair beside the bed, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees.

He’d buzz for a nurse to get Spencer the fuck out of here, but he can’t reach the button. There’s a guard on the door, but the only hack he can even pretend to trust is Schechter so he doesn’t try to call for help. He’s trapped. Big fucking change there. It’d be easier to bear if Spencer was going to beat the shit out of him like everyone else, instead of looking at him with hurt puppy dog eyes.

“He had to call me and tell me what happened. Ryan, I- Last time I talked to him, he told me that you said you were alright.” Spencer’s voice breaks and he drops his head. “You’re not alright.”

There’s no arguing with that. Ryan exhales audibly and fixes his gaze on the blankets covering him. They’re much easier to look at than Spencer’s drawn face.

“You shouldn’t be here in the first place, Ryan. You should’ve just given the D.A.’s office what they wanted or let me turn myself in. I told you I would do it but you just- You should’ve let me say something. You didn’t have to end up alone like this.”

“Shut up,” Ryan croaks and fuck, it hurts. It’s like his throat’s being rubbed down with sandpaper and his lungs are in a fucking vice. But he can’t let Spencer keep talking like this.

Spencer obeys and falls silent for a long time. He just sits there, staring at the restraints. He breathes deep and ragged, the way Ryan remembers from when they were little as a sign that he’s trying not to cry. It didn’t work then and, if the flash of movement Ryan catches out of the corner of his eye of Spencer rubbing at his face is any indication, it doesn’t work now either.

Ryan drifts. He’s tired and he hurts, his face and head mostly but his ribs attack if he accidentally inhales too hard. The medication they have him on makes him fuzzy, and he floats through a pharmaceutical fog until Spencer speaks again.

“I heard Officer Cortez talking to a nurse about how they found you when you were still- before you woke up. He made it sound like, I don’t know. Fuck.” Spencer puts a gentle hand on Ryan’s arm. “Is that why you wouldn’t let me see you?”

All Ryan wants is to squirm away from the contact. It feels wrong, that someone other than Bob has their hands on him like this, even if it is Spencer. Spencer knew the person he used to be, inside and out, since they were children. He’s not that person anymore, and he can’t take it.

When he was being fucked and beaten by Gabe and the Cobras, Ryan had slipped back into the dead place. Everything was safe in the emptiness, where nothing could touch him and nothing mattered. Now he’s feeling again, and most of it’s painful.

If it were Bob touching him, it would be okay. Bob is fucking safe and familiar. Bob knows everything, has seen everything Ryan has become. He understands and doesn’t care. He picked up the ugly broken bits that fell off, and likes what he found. Loves it even. Ryan’s pretty sure it’s because Bob never knew him before, but Ryan doesn’t care. The relatively clean slate, along with all the deeper, messier sides of the thing between them, makes Bob’s touch more than tolerable. It makes it fucking welcome.

This, though, makes him want to scream. The feel of Spencer’s skin on his is making his insides boil and he would run if he could. Spencer knows what Ryan was like when he was whole. He’s asking questions, and feeling guilty, and it’s like Ryan can feel all of that through where they touch. It makes Ryan feel even more shattered and disgusting than he knows he is.

“Water?” Ryan asks, not looking at him.

Mercifully, Spencer lets got of him and goes to get it for him. It gives Ryan a chance to collect himself. Not enough of one though, because Spencer comes back moments later. He’s got a Styrofoam cup full of ice water, complete with one of those bendy straws, in one hand and Ryan’s mouth is suddenly bone dry.

Spencer patiently holds the straw for Ryan as he drinks. It burns and soothes simultaneously and when he’s done, Spencer sets it down on the small table beside the hospital bed and asks again, “Is that why you wouldn’t see me?”

Ryan tries to lift an eyebrow. It hurts, but shrugging is beyond him; except Spencer doesn’t stop looking at him with that burning, questioning expression. “Leave it.” Ryan croaks finally.

“No. Ryan, do you think I care? You’re like my brother. You’re here because of me. Did you think I wouldn’t… that I don’t…?” Spencer trails off, blinking up at the halogen light. “I’m just so fucking sorry.”

A tear escapes and he brushes it away but not fast enough for Ryan to miss. “Don’t,” Ryan hisses because this is the last thing he wanted. This fucks everything up even more.

“Don’t tell me ‘don’t.’ It’s been almost four years since I saw you, Ryan. Six months we’re fine. You called, you wrote me back when you got my letters. Then you just disappeared. I moved out here to go to school so I could visit every week. I built my schedule around visiting hours every semester for the last three years but you wouldn’t see me. I thought you hated me. I thought you fucking hated me for you ending up here.” Spencer is crying now. Not just blinking back tears but crying openly like he hasn’t since before they finished grade school. “I thought you were going to die hating me and I just wanted to tell you again that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ryan.”

“Spencer, no. ” Ryan reaches out with his uninjured hand but the restraint stops him six inches up. He chokes back a defeated noise. This isn’t what he was trying to do. The arrest had been his own fault and Spencer had only gone along with it for him. Ryan knew that and all he’d ever wanted was to protect Spencer from this

Ryan tries to draw in a deep breath but his ribs wail at him in protest. It stuns him, disorienting him and making his head spin. He manages to say “I love you,” but the words come out on a sharp, strangled gasp. It makes his throat ache and his chest burn but Spencer sags with relief and it’s worth it.

Spencer sinks back into the chair and turns his face from Ryan, wiping tears off his face with his palm. “Don’t hide from me again, Ryan. You can’t shut me out anymore.”

Ryan nods and looks away. The damage is already done. Keeping Spencer away now is pointless. He tries not to think about what getting that back has cost them both as he gropes for the button that’s supposed to deliver more painkillers. It’s fallen off the bed and Ryan has to fight hard against the impulse to curse or huff. His ribs wouldn’t appreciate either.

Without a word, Spencer rises, finds it, and places it in Ryan’s uninjured hand. Ryan gives Spencer the best smile he can manage with his cheek in agony and his mouth a mess off cuts and scabs. Ryan clicks the button until he feels relief flood him and falls asleep to the sound of Spencer breathing. It feels almost like he’s crashing on the floor of Spencer’s bedroom instead of strapped to a hospital bed. The memory keeps the fear out of drug addled dreams.

Ryan gets shipped back to Janick not long after that, and spends another week in the infirmary. He sleeps the majority of the time, just grateful that he’s not chained to the beds. He’s mostly off the painkillers when Joe Trohman approaches him, gliding up to his bedside on one of Dr. Salpeter’s rolling stools, orange prison-issue orderly scrubs making him look washed out and gaunt. “You look like shit, Ross.”

“Thanks,” Ryan croaks. At the same time, he lifts a splinted middle finger at Joe.

Joe just grins and spins around on the stool once, still smiling when he comes back around. “So, Pete and Iero got you a get well soon present.”

Ryan is not on enough pain meds to play the bullshit guessing games the Wentz camp is so fucking fond of. He just sighs and droops back against the pillows.

“Gabe Saporta died last week,” Joe chirps, rolling back away from the bed. “They’ve ruled it a suicide. Fucking tragic. The Iero Family and Pete are running the show now, and half the Aryans have requested transfers to B. Pete thought knowing that might make you feel better.”

What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? The implications are too big, and Ryan’s too weak to handle it. Joe just keeps beaming at him, a little high, but mostly triumph drunk. He remembers that from Gabe and sometimes, back in the beginning, Pete. He doesn’t tend to encourage it.

Joe doesn’t need him to. He rolls back and stands. “Just thought that would perk you up,” he says, turning to leave. But he snaps his fingers, stops and turns back. “Shit. I almost forgot. I’m supposed to tell you Bryar misses you.”

That actually does perk Ryan up. He tries to sit up without thinking, but his ribs scream in protest and he flops back down. His lips are still healing from the way Gabe’s fist drove them into his teeth, and smiling hurts, but he doesn’t try to stop himself. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. So get well soon, kid, all right? The Block’s been lacking color since you went and got yourself torn all to shit.”

Ryan would normally snap back. Joe is one of Pete’s guys and on fucking principle, Ryan’s inclined to strike out. But the guy’s done nothing but give him good news and for the first time in years, Ryan can afford to be generous.

He gets released into Gen Pop a few days later. Dr. Salpeter changes the dressings on his face and arms, shows him how to adjust the removable cast on his hand and rewraps his ribs before sending him back.

“Don’t push yourself,” she says as she wraps the bandage tight around his chest. “And if you can’t find someone to help you wrap this back up after you shower, have an officer bring you back here so a nurse can fix it all right?” She snaps her fingers in front of face when his soft “yeah” isn’t sufficient. “I mean it. I’m tired of cleaning you up when you don’t take care of yourself. If you don’t, I will know and I will insist on many tests that require lots of needles and urine samples. We clear?”

She’s spent the better part of the last three years fighting with him - be it over getting a rape kit done, or taking the full course of an antibiotic. Ryan knows he drives her crazy. He fights a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Damn right, yes ma’am. Difficult stubborn son of a -“ She breaks off and points sharply at the door where a hack is standing guard. “Get out of my ER.”

The slow walk gets Ryan back to D-Block when everyone else is locked in the cafeteria for dinner. Dr. Salpeter knows he doesn’t like to be gawked at unless he’s asked for it. Keeping his release from the infirmary between herself and the officer on duty was a huge favor, because they will stare. Ryan knows what he must look like. No one has let him near a mirror, but he can feel all the aching places on his face. The deep bruises that are probably still purple and green, and his entire left side is still swollen from the broken bones and the surgery. The last thing he wants is for anyone to see him looking worse than he has to.

So Ryan makes a limping beeline for the empty showers. He hasn’t had more than a half-assed sponge bath in almost a month. He’s got the bandages and splints to deal with so he’s going to need a long time. It takes forever to take them off with only his left hand working, but it’s worth it to stand facing the wall under a deluge of hot water.

The spray burns through old aches and chases away some of the fog Ryan’s been trapped in since the hospital. The soap in the dispensers smells like a high school locker room and Ryan has a flash of hardwood basketball court beneath his back. He sags against the tile with his shoulder, feeling dirty all the way under his skin.

The injuries stop him from scrubbing himself raw but he does what he can. He doesn’t do much damage before his body stops him with a sharp reminder of what he’s earned himself. The pain is almost enough to knock him off his feet, and Ryan slumps against the tile with his left side again.

Even now, Ryan wouldn’t change what he did. When he’s not so tired or hurting so much, he’s going to roll the feel of Gabe’s blood and flesh between his teeth over in his mind and fucking relish it. Fucker’s dead now but Ryan tore a chunk out of him first, got what he could of his pound of flesh for the years and pieces of soul Gabe arranged to have taken from him.

Ryan just wishes he could’ve thought of any other way to get his own back, because now he has to deal with the reality. When he gets out of here, which is a far flung goal at the moment with the way he’s feeling, he’s going to go back to his cell. And Bob is going to be there. He’s going to be in an eight by ten box with nothing but Bob’s soft voice and rough hands and his blue, blue eyes that will look right through the disaster zone of Ryan’s face to the hands that did it to him. Ryan just wants to be physically clean before Bob sees the shiny new dirt just under the surface.

So Ryan loses track of time and just lingers there. He’s wishing that falling asleep standing were an option when he hears the door swing open. He turns his head to catch a glimpse of Frank’s cousin Johnny before the door swings shut again. Ryan curses and fumbles for the faucet to turn off the water and get to his towel before Johnny gets Bob.

He’s not fast enough. He’s hobbling to his towel and pile of bandages and splints when Bob bursts in. Bob stops cold and, on a play dead impulse that Ryan can’t explain, he freezes too.

It’s not fucking fair. It’s not fucking fair that Bob looks that good. His beard is shorter and thinner than usual but frames his mouth like the best morphine dream, and his shoulders are squared and strong under the line of his shirt. He watches Bob’s throat work as he swallows and, just like that, Ryan can move again.

Ryan fixes his eyes on his things and makes his way slowly towards them. He doesn’t want to watch Bob take in all of the damage, unhidden by clothes. His ribs are purple and there is a barely-healed scar from where they had to go in and re-inflate his lung. He doesn’t want to be stuck with the memory of Bob looking at him like this when Ryan remembers how he used to, past all the old scars to something worth seeing.

The new wounds are blood red flags waving towards the unspoken promise he broke. Switching cells with Gerard had been a commitment in its own way, and he’d agreed to it the moment he’d said yes. It had taken him twenty-four fucking hours to drop to his knees to get his vengeance, less than that after Bob telling him he loved him. The betrayal’s spelled out in contusions and scabs on his cheeks, forehead, lips and eyes. Ryan ducks his head, knowing it won’t hide his face, but needing a little more between them as he fumbles with the towel anyway.

Ryan’s trying to get back into the scrub pants the nurses gave him without falling over when Bob finally speaks. He clears his throat first then says “You know, Johnny and Frank can’t hold the door forever. You should let me help.”

“I’m fine.”

Bob sighs in frustration “You’re not. Stop being stubborn and let me help you so we can get out of here.”

The whole exchange is so fucking normal that Ryan finds himself nodding despite himself. Bob is beside him in a heartbeat, helping him into his pants and then his shirt with a careful, impersonal efficiency. “Right hand?” Bob asks, holding up the brace. Ryan nods and Bob fastens it then pockets the cloth bandages and the metal splints for Ryan’s fingers. He doesn’t touch Ryan again, just hovers at his elbow as they make their way back to their cell and gives Ryan something to think about other than the way the other prisoners’ eyes rake over him.

Bob empties his pockets onto his bunk and waves at it. “Take it, just until you’re feeling better. You shouldn’t try and climb up to the top bunk with your hand all fucked up.”

“Bob-” Ryan begins, but Bob shakes his head.

“Take it, all right? And sit down before you fall down. I’ve got to go talk to Frank real fast and then I’ll be back.”

He’s gone before Ryan has a chance to answer or argue. He sits on the edge of the bunk, trying to get the splints back on his fingers without screaming. When he’s done, he’s sweating a little.

Since Bob’s not there to see how fucking right he is, Ryan sinks onto the mattress. The pillow smells like Bob, which shouldn’t make his fucking eyes sting, but does. Bob just left the cell a second ago. He’s being stupid. He’s tired, and he hurts, and lying down, even if it is on a bunk with less give than the hospital beds, has just unraveled him a little, is all.

Except when Bob comes back and touches him gently on the shoulder, Ryan feels like all his pieces are going to get scattered. So probably it’s more like a lot unraveled. He takes a deep breath before trying to push himself up. He makes it about half way before Bob’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder blade, one of the few parts of his body that doesn’t hate him, and helps him the rest of the way up.

“We need to get your ribs taped back up,” Bob says. “Can I help you get your shirt off?”

The strength behind Bob’s hand is the main thing holding Ryan up at the moment. His tank’s empty and it’d be easy for Bob to just do it. Right now, Ryan couldn’t try to stop him even if he wanted to. Bob wouldn’t though, he’d never. He’s fucking safe.

He’s safe and Ryan reminds himself of that fact as he sags forward against Bob’s shoulder. He’s warm and familiar, and Ryan can smell the sweat at the junction of Bob’s neck and shoulder. He nods and doesn’t hide the relief at not having to work the shirt off on his own.

Bob pulls the shirt off of him quickly and delicately, and then grabs the bandage. He sighs and tilts his head to the side. “You going to be able to stay sitting up?”

Ryan prickles. “I’m not a fucking invalid.”

Bob doesn’t so much as blink. “Just asking. We can figure something else out if you can’t.”

That takes the wind right out of his sails. He’d forgotten how fucking annoying Bob could be that way. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Bob takes in his chest, bites his lip, then sighs. “Yeah, this is going to suck kind of a lot. It’s been a couple years since I’ve done this.”

Ryan doesn’t argue. The merry-go-round of painful shit always comes back around to his ribs lately. He’s just relieved that it’s not a pissed off nurse, or an overly concerned doctor, doing the job. Bob takes fucking forever and by the time he’s done, the only thing Ryan has energy left to do is lie back down.

Bob moves to get up but Ryan catches his wrist with his left hand. It’s instinct, impulse, pure fucking selfishness, but he doesn’t want Bob to leave. And Bob doesn’t make him beg. He just smiles that almost shy smile of his and lies down on his side next to Ryan, somehow finding space for both of them to fit on the narrow bed.

The way Bob touches him undoes Ryan more. Bob places his hand deliberately so that it rests splayed on the undamaged skin over Ryan’s collarbone, his fingers turned away from the mostly faded finger marks on Ryan’s throat. It makes something in Ryan’s chest feel like it’s cracking, and he wishes it wouldn’t hurt like hell to bury his face in Bob’s neck. As it is, he can’t look at Bob as he mumbles a soft apology.

“For what?”

Ryan shrugs a little, and opens his eyes to meet Bob’s. He’s not hunting for a big apology. He means the question. Ryan’s refused to be sorry for so many things in the short time Bob’s known him, that he can see how that might not be exactly clear.

“I’m sorry that my shit hurt you. Trohman, he said-” Ryan waves his good hand. “I’m sorry for how I had to do it, I guess, that it hurt you. If there’d been any other way, I would’ve done it. You know that, right?”

Bob’s mouth forms a thin, tight line. He’s fighting the urge to say something, which means Ryan must look even more pathetic than he’d thought. “You don’t think there was one?” Bob asks, instead of whatever he was going to say.

“Not for me. I had to do it myself, my way, Bob, can’t you get that?” He drops his hand onto Bob’s cheek. He loves Bob’s beard, the way it feels under his fingers. It’s soft and warm from his body. “I fucking had to.”

Ryan can hear Bob swallow audibly. “He almost killed you,” Bob grits out. “He almost fucking murdered you.” His fingers flex on Ryan’s skin, like he wants to dig in, and any doubt Ryan might have had that Bob killed Saporta evaporates into certainty.

Good. Fuck him. Ryan hopes to hell it was agonizing and took a good, long fucking time. He doesn’t care if that makes him a bad person, because that was the whole point. It was a ‘fuck you’ back. But that was Bob’s, and probably Frank’s too. It wasn’t his.

“I needed to get it myself. I fucking had to, so I did it. I’m not sorry about that. I’m not going to be.”

Bob stares at him until Ryan starts to feel really fucking uncomfortable, but even that’s familiar. He runs his fingers through Bob’s beard and waits for Bob to get it. For some reason, Ryan doesn’t doubt for a second that he will.

“Do anything that fucking stupid again without talking to me,” Bob says finally, “And I’ll be the one to break you in half, Ross. I’m not fucking around.”

Ryan smiles and it breaks open two of the scabs on his lip. He licks away the blood and doesn’t care. He scoots closer as best he can without jostling anything. “You don’t scare me.”

“Really? Because you scare the shit out of me, Ryan.” He runs his thumb over Ryan’s collarbone as he speaks. The soft touch is a counterpoint to the seriousness of his words. “I let you walk away from me once, but I don’t know if I’m going to be able to let you go again.”

“Not until we get out, anyway.”

“No. Period. You really think in five years I’m going to love you less than I do now?” Bob frowns and shakes his head. “It’s not happening. You’re family remember?”

The sudden inability to breathe has absolutely nothing to do with his recovering lungs or abused ribcage. It’s kind of a lot, the idea of anything existing outside beyond Spencer and all the things he’s lost and missed. He can’t really wrap his mind around how things would be on the outside with Bob. He’s starting to understand the scary Bob’s talking about.

“Right. I guess we’ll see if you still feel that way in five years,” Ryan says lightly. It does a pretty good job of hiding Ryan’s terror at the realization that in five years, he’s still going to feel this way about Bob.

“Yeah, we will. You’ll be wrong then, too.”

Ryan licks his lip and swallows hard. He wants to sink into this moment, the quiet warmth of being with Bob. He wishes it were lockdown, or lights out, so that he could relax. The threat of a guard walking past at any moment and dragging them apart doesn’t go away because Ryan’s worn out. The possibility is fighting the relaxation Ryan’s body is begging for.

The muscles in Ryan’s shoulders twitch and tense at the idea of having to move quickly with his injuries, and Bob frowns at how it must feel under his fingertips. “Everything okay?”

“Fine. Just don’t want to end up in the hole now that I’m finally out of the hospital.”

“Oh, yeah that,” Bob says, rolling his eyes. As if the threat of being thrown naked into that empty tiny concrete room, with its bare bulb and metal bucket, doesn’t scare him as much as everyone else.

“Yeah. That.”

“Don’t sweat it. Schechter’s working the third shift. He owed me a few favors. I called in the last one after I talked to Frank.”

“Favors,” Ryan repeats. It’s mob talk. Ryan doesn’t zone out when Bob and Frank talk shop, so much as purposefully turn the volume down so that he doesn’t hear anything he shouldn’t. “Do I want to ask?”

“This was nothing big. He just agreed to ignore my cell after lockdown so long as no one sounded like they were getting hurt.”

It’s like a free pass - like cake day at the cafeteria or one of the rare and elusive prison excursions. Ryan isn’t giddy at the prospect because he’s too fucked up to even imagine going there. The idea that he and Bob could, though, if he were healed, makes its presence known with a buzz down his spine. “Tonight?”

“Whenever he’s got nights. Everyone knows you’re recovering today, though. No one’s going to bother us.” Bob says it casually, like that’s not a huge fucking deal, like Ryan doesn’t know how hard peace and privacy of any kind are to come by in Janick. For the first time in years, Ryan’s got the chance at a measure of both. He feels himself unlock a little bit at a time until he’s a loose puddle of humanity under Bob’s arm. “That’s a hell of a favor.”

“It’s not really. And even if it were, it’s worth it.” Bob moves his arm to drape it across Ryan’s waist. “I promised I’d help you rest.”

Ryan flinches at the memory of that promise and how easily he came apart. He doesn’t kid himself into thinking he’s any more together now than he was then, but Bob has a point. He did promise and, unlike everyone else Ryan’s come across since getting arrested, Bob’s followed through on his side of things.

Bob always follows through on his side of things, and Ryan’s going to try and do the same on his with some fucking trust. Despite himself, his hopes are skipping, five, ten, fifteen years down the line; and putting a little of the faith in Bob, that Bob has always put in him, is the least he can do.

So Ryan drops his left hand to cover Bob’s on his hip and does his best to let himself rest. He drifts off too fast and deep to be surprised by how easy it is.