Fic: You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison 1/5 (Multiband, NC17, BB/RR, GW/BS, PS/PW)

[dancinbutterfly]

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Gerard Way ~ Sentence: 25 years, possibility of parole in 10 ~ Charge: Aggravated Assault and Attempted Murder ~ Convicted: On all charges

People inside John Janick State Correctional Facility have reputations. It’s pretty much all they have, besides the few personal effects the guards allow through, and prison issue blues. Everyone’s are different, and there tend to be multiple types, depending on which group you talk to. But there are a few that stick out.

Ross is the D-Block whore; contraband makeup masking bruises, sores and hollow eyes. Saporta’s the Charlie Manson; the cold-case whackjob with a cult of kids who brand snakes on their skin. Wentz is the unofficial king of D-Block; the one with dirt on everyone and fucked with by no one. These big slots come with some kind of power, the kind that attracts followers. Granted Ross’ “followers” tend to want to follow him into a corner, slam him face first into the cinderblock and fuck him inside out, but still. Characters like them draw crowds.

Gerard Way’s a little bit different.

“I heard he fucking mauled a guy;” is the direction conversations tend to turn when Gerard walks past.

“I heard it was a Satanic ritual. Crazy fuck thinks he’s a demon or something.”

“No, man, fucker thinks he’s a goddamn vampire,” someone always corrects. Usually it’s one of the guys who was still on the outside when Gerard got arrested - a guy who saw the video clips sold by some witness at the same bar for a bachelor party to CNN. The clips of Gerard with his eyes drug-wild and his mouth smeared with blood. He’d been headline news on every 24-hour news channel in the country for almost two weeks. Cable news anchors love a monster.

Vampire or demon, what people know is that Gerard lost his shit one night and tried to rip a drinking partner’s throat out. Using only his teeth. And he almost succeeded.

For a slight guy, he generates an impressive amount of fear. That kind of violence isn’t standard and it’s unpredictable. There’s no good defense against an animal that could go for your throat at any second, then lick your blood off his lips when he’s done. Inmates and guards alike tend to give him a wide berth. Even guys who could and would beat him in a fair fight - guys six and a half feet tall with pronounced veins that stand out against thick chords of muscle - give him an extra inch or two when he walks by.

That works fine for Gerard. Most of his time out of his cell is spent in the prison chapel anyway. He burns hours on his knees, sliding rosary beads between his fingers as he says countless Hail Marys or drawing religious iconography dripping with gore with short stubby pencils. Everyone, from Warden Carter down to the trustee that cleans the toilets, just chalks it up to Gerard Way: Resident Psycho.

He went the first three months inside without having a conversation with anyone. Of course when it finally happened, it was with Pete Wentz.

If anyone knew Pete made first contact, it wouldn’t surprise them. People say he was dropped on his head as a child, because how the hell else do you get that crazy without actually being crazy? Of course they say it quietly, where he can’t hear them. But they say it.

Pete had strolled into the chapel and dropped down onto the bench next to Gerard. He’d flipped open a copy of the New American Catholic Bible and started paging through it. He’d stopped in Deuteronomy, snickered a little, and then said, apropos of nothing, “So, how’d it taste?”

Gerard had stopped cold at the “Blessed among women” part and turned to look at him. Wentz had sat there with his huge dumb grin full of big teeth that made him look like a braying ass. But he’s got connections with everyone, from the Aryans to Warden Knowles and beyond, out into the real world so Gerard had answered him. “How did what taste?”

“That guy’s blood. Was it like when a nosebleed goes the wrong way or was it different, better?”

Gerard had swallowed hard. He’d shivered and shrugged his shoulders as if, if he shook himself hard enough, he could get the memory off. “I don’t know.”

Pete had laughed, loud and jarring. It’d made Gerard smile back a little. “You’re a fucking liar on top of the whole nutjob thing.”

“I’m not. It was just… it was blood.” Hot. Sticky. Wet. Coppery thick. It had been fucking revolting and completely fascinating at the same time.

Pete’s knees had bounced a little. “Did you like it?”

What the fuck kind of question was that? Who said shit like that? It was a crazy, random fucking question. It’d also reminded Gerard enough of old conversations with his brother that he’d started to like Pete.

At the time he had liked it. At the time he’d been so far out of his head on whatever drug he’d been on that there’d been nothing but the screaming rage in his brain and the feel of Matt’s blood pouring down his throat. Gerard had shuddered again. “It’s not that simple.”

Pete had seemed to take that in, humming to himself. “You planning on biting me?”

Gerard had shaken his head. He wasn’t ever going to get that high again. And maybe - if he could say enough Hail Marys, pray hard enough, stay clean long enough - he’d stop wanting to. It’d been working so far and, as much as he wouldn’t have expected it to when he was a rebellious teenager, the prayers actually helped the alcohol cravings.

Pete had beamed at him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. Right, I’m gonna see myself out, but do me a favor will you? I’ll owe you one. And believe me; you want me to owe you one.”

“What?”

“I see you around and I wave or nod to you, you nod back.”

“That’s it?” It’d seemed too easy. Gerard hadn’t had most of the problems other people seemed to have when adjusting to life in Janick but he watched and he listened. He’d known that things were never that simple.

“That’s it. People are freaked out by you, crazyface. You look like you like me, and it makes me scarier by proxy.”

“I can do that.”

“Awesome. Right. Have fun on the Decaydance, Gerard. It’s better if you make the best of it. Trust me.”

“Decaydance?” Gerard had asked. He’d heard the term tossed around but never defined.

“It’s the D-Block of our dear Janick State Correctional Facility, my new friend. We’re all just killing time in one big rotting, violent, fucked up party. The Decaydance,” Pete had said with a shrug and another of his big, mostly fake smiles at Gerard. “Don’t worry, you fit right in.”

That had been it. It’s been a year since that conversation. Since then his grandmother has died and his brother has gotten fucking married and he’s missed all of it. Instead, Gerard’s gone through a dozen cell mates, all of them scared of him, all bartering and begging to get away from the psycho vampire.

He feels like Cain, fucking marked, but it gets him left alone and that’s been fine by him. He doesn’t want to get near the drug dealers or the violence or any of it. He just wants to do his time, get better and go home. If he can manage to get forgiven while he’s at it - for what he did to his family and for Matt who still can’t fucking talk - then more’s the fucking better.

Gabriel Saporta ~ Sentence: 75 years, possibility of parole in 35 ~ Charges: Murder in the 2nd Degree, Kidnapping, Possession of Illegal Substances, Unlawful Imprisonment, Conspiracy to commit murder~ Convicted: On all charges

Gabe is a true believer. Most people aren’t. Most people are crawling in the dirt, lost and terrified. Especially here. So many lost souls, waiting for the Cobra to usher them into the Church of Hot Addiction.

His people are waiting on the outside, women who obey his whims and men who do his work. He’ll be joining them soon. His lawyers are hard at work, and he has no doubts. Converts will be welcomed with open arms. It’s a new start for the forgotten and discarded he’s found inside.

For now though, Gabe’s content to pick the ripe off of the bars like fruit off of trees. The beautiful ones tend to prefer the Way of the Cobra to the Path of Islam when their desperation gets to be too much, despite the best efforts of the Imam three cells down.

They fall at his feet. They beg for solace from the Cobra. Ross in particular, kneels in front of him, red-smeared mouth begging for escape from his hell.

Gabe has taken no small amount of pleasure in using his mouth then turning him away. Ross’s pain is a sacrifice to the Cobra. When Gabe takes him, and he will when the time is right, his slight body will be a vessel for the whole of the Church and a perfect blow against Wentz.

Until then, Gabe teases the younger man with crumbs of affection and murmurs about the venom of the Cobra’s vengeance. He promises him retribution against Wentz, and McCracken, and all the others who have betrayed him or used him roughly then tossed him aside like a come-filled tissue.

When Ross cries (which he hardly ever does anymore and more’s the pity) the makeup on his face smears and makes him an abstraction of agonized beauty. Gabe loves to look at it. He’s used Ross’s weakness and openness to him to win favor with the Aryan Brotherhood and the more open-minded Latino and black gang members. He’s pointed so many in Ross’s direction to take what they want when Gabe knew he was trying to rest or get a moment of peace. Seeing the broken pieces of Ross afterwards is almost as much fun as putting them back together in his image.

“Oh Ryan,” Gabe murmurs afterwards as he strokes his hair, soothing away the mascara-rich tears he helped put there, rubs the drops of come that escaped Ross’s lips into battered skin. “You’re being tested. Come through strong and the Cobra will avenge you.”

He’s caught Wentz glaring at him more than once when he’s doing it. The man’s jaw clenches tight, knowing but not saying anything. He stands with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest and Gabe always smiles at him, wide and open across the room.

Wentz thinks he has power. He thinks that he has claim to anyone and anything he wants, particularly on D-Block. Gabe knows better. He’s seen how far Wentz’s influence can reach and it’s not far enough to save this one. He’s already tried, and everyone knows how badly he failed.

“Hurt him any worse,” Wentz hisses, catching Gabe in the cafeteria line, “And I will break you in half.”

Gabe is so much taller than Wentz that he has to tilt his head and look down to meet his gaze. Size doesn’t really matter, but Gabe certainly enjoys it. He smirks because Wentz suspects, but he doesn’t really know anything. “Like you broke Johnson and Klasinski?”

Klasinski and Johnson had brutalized Ross. They’d done it publicly and they’d done it with an industrial sized metal spoon, almost as long as Gabe’s forearm that they’d stolen during kitchen duty.

The spoon had been Gabe’s idea. It’d had just the right level of humiliation and pain and it had been fucking beautiful. He’d watched most of it through a window, walking away when Ross lost consciousness. It wasn’t any fun when Ross wasn’t awake to feel it.

By the time Wentz and the hacks had gotten to him the damage had been done. Ross had ended up in St. Jude’s ICU for almost a month; then the infirmary for more than a week. When he’d come back - with a limp and empty eyes - and found his two attackers still alive, he’d cut the last of his ties to Wentz just like Gabe had been counting on.

Then all that was left was pieces, and they were free for Gabe to scoop up. Gabe has most of them now, most of Ross. He just needs to break a little more before he can get all of him.

Gabe expected Wentz to flinch at that. Instead he folds his arms over his chest and returns the smirk.

“I’ve got Klasinski’s balls in a jar and he’ll never be able to hold a fork again and Johnson…” Pete smiles, all teeth. “Ask Johnson about his johnson sometime. You didn’t notice how different he’s been moving since he got back from the infirmary a couple months ago? We had to be patient with that one. Precision takes time, you know. Besides, death’s instant. Pain can last forever.”

Gabe glances over at Klasinski, across the cafeteria with his fellow Aryans. He’s eating slowly, with fingers crooked and mangled and still swollen, even though it’s been ages since he was found with his hands mutilated. Johnson is in a back corner, at the end of the nearly empty table except for the vampire seated at the far end. Both Klasinski and Johnson have a broken, defeated slump to their shoulders and a slack look in their eyes. Wentz must have taken his time to get his retribution.

He missed that somehow in the years since he unleashed his influence on Ross. The slip makes his palms sweat, just the slightest bit. He looks back at Wentz who is still smiling, the arrogant prick.

“Just because he doesn’t want my protection anymore doesn’t mean I don’t give it. You do not want me to call in my favors against you. You’re going to be here a lot longer than we are and what it would cost you to stand against us is more than you want to lose. I know what you’re doing to him and you’re going to stop.” He gets bigger somehow. Inflates almost. It’s strange and Gabe’s only ever seen Wentz manage it. “Do you under-fucking-stand me?”

“He’s not yours anymore, Wentz,” Gabe purrs, gathering his wits back. “He wants to give himself to the Cobra. You have no right to deny him that.”

Wentz shakes his head. “Wrong. He’s always going to be one of mine and I’m not great with sharing. Especially not with people like you, who just can’t have nice things.”

Gabe just smiles at him. He has no idea what hold Gabe has; the power he has over everything. There’s more than one way to get something, and he always gets what he wants. “Always a pleasure, Wentz.”

“I’m serious. Ryan is mine, the Decaydance is mine and if you keep fucking with either of them you’ll regret it. ”

“I’m sure. Now if you don’t mind.” He pushes bodily past Wentz, “It’s Sloppy Joe day. The Cobra only sends such a blessing so often.”

“Psycho,” Pete mutters, letting him pass and falling back with his pets, the eco-terrorist and the drug dealer. They draw in tight around him and cast worried looks at each other.

Gabe watches him go then turns to look at Ross, sitting huddled between Bill and Novarro. He’s reapplying his lipstick by feel, his gaze locked on his empty plate. His other hand is under the table, working slowly in Novarro’s lap.

He glances up at Gabe, as if drawn to look by an outside force. Gabe smiles and Ross smiles back, his whole face lighting from the inside, bright yet shattered, and beside him, Novarro shudders. Gabe feels a rush of satisfaction at the sight and knows that no matter what Wentz threatens, he’s already won.

Frank Iero Jr. ~ Sentence: 10 years, possibility of parole in 3 ~ Charges: Blackmail, Bookmaking, Conspiracy to commit murder, Racketeering, Receiving stolen goods. ~ Convicted: Bookmaking, Receiving stolen goods.

Frank’s on his first tour of the state’s correctional facilities. He’s not exactly psyched about the prospect. Who the fuck would be? Not Frank, who’s got a fucking amazing fiancée he loves. Jamia really doesn’t deserve this shit, especially not on top of all the other crap she puts up with from him. It’s just that he’s not too crushed about the prospect either. The Family’s got half the parole board in its pockets, so he won’t be here too long.

Besides, Frank can tough out anything for three years - including the not getting laid part. He made it through high school, didn’t he? There’s honestly no way this can be worse. After all, he didn’t have the force and fury of the Family to back him up against Joey O’Neill’s bullying in 9th grade.

He knows he’s lucky. Doing time’s a badge of loyalty in his line of work and he’s got the comfort of knowing going in that he’s fairly safe. You fuck with one member of the Family, you fuck with everyone. He’s got about a dozen cousins, and Bob, and a handful of uncles in with him and more than half of them are on D-Block too. It’s a fucking Iero family reunion in this bitch.

Actually, it’s a lot like that scene in Goodfellas except without the cooking; things aren’t the same as they were in the 60’s after all. His father is the head of the Iero Family and Frank’s been groomed to take his place since he was baptized. There’s a lot of security in his position.

Frank has always known where he was heading and exactly where his loyalties lay. Getting busted and going down for the Family’s practically a rite of passage. Although he’s sure he never would’ve ended up in here if Bob hadn’t gotten put away six months before his arrest. So he’ll do his time quietly and easily and get back to business.

He just wishes he got to share a cell with Bob instead of this crazy fairy kid Ross he’s been paired up with. Unlike a lot of people in his line of work, Frank’s got nothing against gay people. He’s all for gay rights and he’s got gay friends, hell Bob goes both ways and Bob’s his favorite. But seriously, who the fuck wears glitter in prison? Apparently, Ryan Ross.

It’s the most off-putting first impression Frank’s ever had. The standard issue denims and white t-shirt are a size too small on Ross, stretched tight over his willowy frame and strategically cut in places to up the whole slut vibe. His hair’s long, down to his chin, and he’s wearing a lot of makeup. Really, a fucking lot.

Ross wears so much that it’s less like makeup really, and more like a kid painting his face at a carnival. Black glittery swirls crawl across his forehead and eyes, and down to his chin where they accentuate a mouth that’s covered in bright red, slightly smudged lipstick. Frank can see the bruises underneath it all and it makes his stomach do an unpleasant flip.

Ross gives him an appraising look head to toe when he arrives and finds Frank in his space, then sighs. “Ryan Ross,” he says, not holding out his hand. Frank notices that his fingernails are painted a purple so dark, it’s almost black.

“Frank Iero.”

“Welcome to the Decaydance, Frank. You dump your shit in here.” He kicks one of two metal lockers with no locks that are under the bottom bunk. “And if you want to fuck me, give me a little heads up all right? I don’t like it raw.”

Frank blinks at him, at a loss for words for possibly the first time ever. “I’m straight.”

Ross snorts at that and flops down onto his bunk. It’s the bottom one. “Yeah, I’m sure you are. Still, at least five minutes heads up if you want my ass, all right? Give me the common fucking courtesy of time to grab my lube, that’s all I’m asking.”

Frank sputters, opening and closing his mouth a few times, before finding his voice. “I don’t plan on fucking you.”

“Right. I know,” Ross agrees lightly. “That’s why I’m asking for a little heads up when the mood does strike you. You know, I can only fit so much in my pockets. ”

“No, I mean ever.” He loves Jamia. Even if he did swing that way too, he wouldn’t cheat on her. It’s a principle thing. Plus, his old man cheated and it put him off the whole institution.

Ross hums a little, clearly not paying any attention to the conversation anymore, which is just weird. Frank isn’t sure what to say what to do. It’s the first thing he’s encountered so far - from his arrest to arrival at Janick State Correctional - that he has no idea how to handle.

Ross, Ryan as Frank starts to think of him pretty quickly, stumbles back at lockdown most nights tired and bowlegged. On good nights he comes back clean but fucked out and exhausted. Most nights he comes back filthy but in one piece, with flaking come in his hair or on his shirt and pants. On bad nights his limp is more pronounced and he staggers in, trying to hide the fact that he’s bleeding. On the worst nights, he doesn’t come back at all and Frank stares at the ceiling wondering where the guards are going to find him this time.

Frank just doesn’t get it. There’s a code. Yeah, sometimes you have to hurt a guy to get what you need, or get rid of someone who crosses the line. But there’s a right way to do things, to conduct business, and what’s happening to Ryan isn’t it. Hell, he treats his dogs better than most people treat Ryan.

He tries to say something. He tries every time Ryan hobbles back to their cell. Ryan won’t talk about it. He shrugs it off or he talks about the good parts - how Carden got him a new color eye shadow somehow or how McCoy likes to fuck slowly enough that on a good day Ryan can actually get off with him. Frank listens because the new bruises make him feel so goddamn guilty that he can’t do anything else.

It’s different after they find Ryan on the floor of the showers. He was naked and unconscious and covered in blood and fluids. Somebody ripped a showerhead off the wall and used the piping to beat him and-

Frank didn’t find him. So he doesn’t have to have that image in his head. He doesn’t have to, but it’s there anyway.

Even here that kind of brutality is a little beyond Frank’s comprehension. The general consensus on the Block is that Chris Gutierrez did it. Frank’s only ever brushed past him, he can’t imagine him doing that. But, the guy is an ex-associate of Wentz’s and everyone knows that the best way to attack Wentz is to go through his people.

No one knows for sure, because Ryan’s in no condition to talk. He’s still not much better days later, when Schechter half-carries Ryan from the infirmary to the cell.

Schechter’s one of the better correctional officers on the Block. He’s hard but fair. Frank can respect that, even if he doesn’t like having to deal with any COs. Pretty much everyone respects Schechter.

“Look after him?” Schechter asks. It clearly pains him to do so. Not, Frank realizes, not because he’s asking a prisoner for help but because he’s clearly been finding broken pieces of Ryan for awhile now.

“I’ll try, but it hasn’t done shit so far.”

Schechter nods and sighs. “We don’t have any names,” he adds, as Ryan curls up on his bunk. “He won’t give us a fucking name so we can’t-“

Frank watches Schechter exhale hard through his nostrils and clench his fists. He’s got a club hanging from his belt - no guns allowed on the Block - and he looks ready to grab for it. It’s weird, the way Schechter is talking to him like they’re equals or something. Like Schechter couldn’t beat him bloody and get away with it if Frank breathes wrong.

“You could move him to a new cellblock,” Frank mutters. “Or something.”

“It won’t change anything.” Schechter sighs rubbing his face with his hands. He’s got tattoos on his fingers that Frank never noticed before. “His reputation’s traveled already. Guys from B and C Block have gotten their hands on him a few times in the yard already. Aside from releasing him or putting him in protective custody for the next few years, there’s nothing administrative that would really help. So just… he’s got permission to stay in his cell for the next few days.” Schechter’s blue eyes meet his, steady and level and seeing right through Frank. “I know who you are Iero. Don’t let anyone touch him for a few days. Make that happen and let me know what you need.”

“Bryar,” Frank says. “I need you to move Bryar closer.”

Schechter frowns and Frank suddenly remembers that this is the guy. This is the hack Bob was friends with before he came to the Family, which means he knows what Bob can do. So Frank doesn’t understand why Brian shakes his head.

“Knowles isn’t going to like that. He’s not a fan of your Family.”

“Too fucking bad. You asked what I need, I told you.” Bob’s his muscle. His father hired Bob when Frank turned eighteen and it became apparent that working in the business wasn’t going to make him magically taller or broader or generally bigger. Bob’s been watching his back ever since. He’s incredibly fucking good. Bob’s a natural like Frank’s never going to be, but he’s always been more about the business side of things anyway.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Schechter says and then walks away. Frank drops to the floor, which is disgusting but he can’t climb back up right then. Without makeup and sleeping, Ryan looks all of twelve years old. He’s like a battered puppy and Frank’s always had a weakness for puppies. It makes Frank hurt.

But eight hours later Bob moves into the cell next door, the one with the crazy vampire guy who doesn’t talk to anybody. Turns out his cellmate was more than happy to trade and Frank feels about a thousand times more relaxed. Bob’s not hugely tall or anything but he’s strong, he’s fast, he’s smart and he’s skilled. Generally, Bob is awesome and more importantly, he knows how to fix things.

Bob steps into the cell and looks down at Ryan, who is thankfully still asleep. Frank stands next to Bob and sighs. “Not what you were expecting, huh?”

Bob just shrugs. “Nothing with you ever is, boss.”

“Fuck you,” Frank laughs, feeling strained but better all of a sudden. Bob’s here and they’ve got this shit.

“Fuck you back,” Bob replies with a small smile. Then he sighs at Ryan. “You and your fucking strays. Christ.”

Frank bumps him in the arm with his shoulder. “You miss Peppers already and you know it.” He tries for joking but it comes out a little cracked.

Bob being Bob doesn’t acknowledge the break. He just nods. “Sure, boss. Whatever you say.”

“Damn skippy,” Frank agrees. “Watch him for me?”

Bob nods but stops Frank before he can go. “Are we going to take care of Gutierrez?”

“I have to talk to Wentz. I’ll get back to you.” Frank sighs and runs his tattooed fingers through his short hair; still blond from the last time he bleached it but starting to grow out after months without access to dye, and then says, “Probably. Probably, so do what you need to do, but sit on it. When it’s time to move I’ll let you know.”

“I’m always ready, boss.”

He leaves Bob with Ryan to meet with Wentz. He finds him in the library. Their conversation is quiet and brief, but still manages to leave Frank feeling deeply unsettled. There’s history here, dark and ugly, and Pete’s brand of justice deals in pain rather than the quick, clean deaths the Family prefers. As much as Frank would like to not get involved, he can’t step back from this.

Wentz has connections to everyone except the Cobras and the Aryans and can move anything into Janick. Retaliating against Gutierrez just cements a tie for the Italians. It’s a smart move, but mostly it satisfies Frank’s sense of justice. He can’t fix it all, but doing it Wentz’s way is a show of good faith that will still help him make his mark here.

Frank doesn’t ask questions. He just looks at Bob and says handle it and knows it will be done. Two days later Bob disappears with Frank’s cousin Johnny for a few hours and comes back looking exactly the same, except that Johnny’s hair is wet from a shower and there’s blood in the beds of Bob’s fingernails.

Ryan doesn’t say anything when he hears how the hacks find Gutierrez in the gym but then, Frank’s not expecting him to. He hasn’t gotten out of bed to do more than limp to the other side of the cell to use the toilet. He just makes a little noise and rolls to face the wall.

It’s not until Frank’s waiting in line at the pay phones to call Jamia that it hits him. She takes his collect call and she sounds so happy, so sane, such a huge contrast to where he is and what’s going on. It’s too much to deal with. He’s just grateful that she’s on the other end of the line to murmur that she loves him when he cries.

Brian Schechter ~ Janick State Correctional Facility, Staff: Senior Corrections Officer

There is not enough coffee on the planet to deal with this. There’s just not. There’s brain on the bottom of his boot for fuck’s sake. Brian feels compelled to tell someone this. “There’s brain on the bottom of my shoe, Ray.”

Father Ray Toro doesn’t look up from his book. “No, there’s not.”

“Yes,” Brian puts his foot up on the break room table. The blood from the pool around Chris Gutierrez is mostly gone but he’s pretty sure there’s congealed blood mixed in with the clumpy probably-brains in the grooves of his sole. “There is.”

Ray’s eyes flick up and he sighs. He shakes his head and moves his coffee cup three inches to the left, away from the shoe. “I’m pretty sure that’s leftover mashed potatoes from that fight at lunch.”

Brian knows Ray is probably right. It’s probably not actually brain matter. But he’d had to stick around while Greta had tried to put Gutierrez’s skull back together as well as she could before shipping him out to St. Jude’s and he’s pissed off. The incidents of violence have been increasing lately.

He blames Craig. None of this shit would’ve happened if he hadn’t had to go take care of his mother and leave D-Block without an active unit head. Or if fucking Frank Iero Jr. could’ve kept his nose clean. Hell, if Brian had listened to his gut and gotten a job waiting tables instead of going into corrections he wouldn’t have to deal with this at all.

“They don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

This is Ray’s default setting - helpful. Brian doesn’t know if it’s a priest thing or a shrink thing or a Ray thing but it’s almost irritating. Brian lights a cigarette and Ray sighs, a little wistful.

“Depends. Are you asking me as a therapist, priest, or friend?”

“Friend, but you can invoke confidentiality.” Ray picks at the edge of his Styrofoam coffee cup. “You want to. I can tell.” He smiles his dopey lopsided smile. “That’s all three.”

Brian smokes in silence for a moment. He doesn’t have time to draw this out or dick around. He’s only on break for another thirty minutes and he doesn’t have time to dick around. “You can’t tell Jay.”

“I can’t tell Jay because it’ll upset him?” Ray asks and when Brian shakes his head, his face shifts. It’s the Father Dr. Toro face, the non-judgmental one, the one who knows that if he talks to Jay about any of this it’ll be Brian’s job because as likeable as he is, Jay is the fucking warden. His eyes are still his friend Ray though.

“I convinced Jay to get Bryar moved from B to D.”

“Yeah, I heard. I know the Ross situation gets to you but that was a little out of character.” Ray doesn’t need to say that it gets to him too. They’ve both been at Janick long enough to know that there’s only so much you can do, especially when an inmate doesn’t want help.

“I think Bryar did it. Gutierrez.” Brian rubs the side of his neck. “I’m pretty sure and I moved him to D where he could.”

He knew, when Iero had asked him to get Bryar moved, what would probably happen. He likes to think that it had been a preventative move but who the fuck is he kidding? Pretty much just himself.

Brian’s fairly good at kidding himself. It’s surprisingly easy to forget who he is, where he comes from. He manages not to think about it, most of the time. He forgets about being sixteen and tearing shit up around Chicago, a drop-out runaway thrilled to be the fuck out of Michigan, ready to just start living. He forgets breaking into houses, getting high, and stealing cars; then fucking around with Bob Bryar in the back of them.

On an average day, Brian blocks out how fast everything fell apart. He doesn’t think about how Bob had taken care of thingsbefore Brian got the fuck out of the scene, most days, even if his brother’s stupid laughing face never ever goes away, not for a second. With Bob on B-Block, Brian had been able to ignore it. It was ancient fucking history and Brian’s honestly surprised that Bob never got busted earlier.

He just- This is different. This is another of his prisoners hurt on his watch, only this time he’s pretty sure it’s his fault. “It’s his style,” Brian says finally. “He’s kind of big on cosmic justice. He doesn’t call it that. He doesn’t call it anything. He just fucking does it.”

“Cosmic justice,” Ray repeats. “Like an eye for an eye.”

“Yeah only more like, punishment fitting the crime, if there is one.” He doesn’t think about bullets. He doesn’t think about blood even though it’s on his fucking shoes. It’s not the same. “If it’d been anything else, anything but a pipe, I’d figure it was Wentz. His style you know - leave them broken not dead. But the balance, that’s not Wentz.”

“And it bothers you.”

Brian sighs and shakes his head. Chris fucking Gutierrez is slime and what he did to Ross fucking disgusting. Brian has seen a lot of disgusting things, many of them done to Ross in particular, so he knows. “It doesn’t.”

Ray doesn’t even blink. He just nods a little. “Does the fact that you don’t have a problem with what he did upset you?”

Professionally, it does bother him. Absolutely it does. He’s a good guard and he takes his job seriously. It’s all about protection. He protects the people on the outside from the inmates by keeping them in check inside, and protects his inmates from the horrible fucked up shit the system encourages them to do to each other.

Brian only did eight months in juvie when he was a kid. It wasn’t enough to get him to stop - that came later - but it was enough to make him want to make things better. Usually, he thinks he does an okay job of that.

So he can honestly say that it bothers him that the beating was allowed to happen. Someone called in an ask or bribed one of his coworkers or something on his watch. He’s fucking angry about that, but that’s where it ends.

Nothing else bothers him. It’s nothing like anger or frustration. It’s all old shit, like admiration and exhaustion and resignation. “What he did when we were younger, it’s part of what got me out.” Brian makes a vague gesture. “This shit. The other side of the bars. I don’t think I’d’ve been able to walk away if it wasn’t for what he did.”

“Having gratitude issues then?” Ray asks. “Those can be hard enough without throwing in the prisoner/CO dynamic to make things more complicated.”

Brian shrugs. He’s still got about 15 minutes left on his break but he’s got paperwork to fill out, incident reports about Gutierrez. He doesn’t have time to work this out properly. “Maybe.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s it? Years of post-graduate education and the power of God Almighty and all you’ve got for me is ‘hmm’? In-fucking-sufficient, Toro.”

“What can I say?” Ray asks, eyes bright with amusement. “Sometimes I need to stew on things. Do you think it goes beyond gratitude?”

“We were friends,” Brian sighs. “And okay, more,” he says quickly, feeling guilty just admitting that to Ray. The collar at his throat doesn’t ever disappear, even when he’s in street clothes. Ray just nods at him to continue. “When it ended, we were friends. Always that. And I owe him.”

“What do you think you owe him?”

There’s absolutely no think about it. He does owe Bob. He owes him so fucking much that having Bob this close scares the shit out of him. Because when Bob asks, Brian’s going to give. “A life.”

Ray reacts, really reacts for the first time since the conversation started. He frowns and reaches across the table, concerned. “Brian.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s old news. Like you said, it’s just getting to me.”

“That’s a pretty big get, Brian. Did something-”

“Come on, man, of course something happened.”

“Is this about your brother?”

Brian sometimes regrets telling Ray things. The guy’s got, like, a million degrees, and he’s been kicking around Janick since before he finished his first one; but really, the priest thing, it’s a total trap. Brian’s been falling for it over and over since day one. “Don’t, all right? I’m talking to my friend here.”

“Yeah, and as your friend I’m asking if this has anything to do with his death. You know the way you never talk about him isn’t healthy, and if this is triggering old issues about what happened then-”

“As your friend, I’m telling you to leave it be.”

Ray sighs heavily. “Are you going to be okay? Because if you need to move to B or Psych or Solitary, I’ll sign off on the request before you give it to Jay.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got to get back,” Brian says, standing. He drops his cigarette in his cup, making it hiss and ruining what wasn’t very good coffee to begin with. “I’ve still got three hours before I can go home.”

“You shouldn’t keep pulling doubles, dude. It’s starting to show.” Ray waves in the general direction of Brian’s eyes. “Those aren’t bags; it’s a full set of luggage.”

“Judge not, Ray.”

“Don’t quote Christ to me, sir, you know I’ll win.”

“That’s why I do it. I like it when you bring out the big verse.”

Ray laughs at that. “You hate it.”

He does but he likes where Ray’s coming from. He’s a good guy, probably the best friend Brian’s got. It’s just that sometimes, Brian wishes he could have a normal best friend and that the answer to “how was your day” never includes “and then I almost slipped in a pool of human blood” like it would today.

Today also facilitates the far less grim, but equally unpleasant question, “You going to the hospital later?” It just makes Ray sigh. Brian wouldn’t trade jobs with him for all the payoff Ray’s got coming to him in the afterlife.

“Yeah, I have to. I mean, someone’s got to be there just in case.”

In case the beating Bob gave Gutierrez kills him and someone needs to perform Last Rites or whatever he may need. Brian doesn’t know if Gutierrez is Catholic or not but it doesn’t matter to Ray. Besides, it won’t be needed. If Bob had wanted Gutierrez to die, he’d be dead. That’s all there is to it.

“I’ve got to get back to the Decaydance,” Brian sighs, glancing at his watch. Lockdown’s going into effect soon and lights out isn’t for a few hours. He wants to get as much of the incident report for Gutierrez’s assault done before then. He hates writing in the near dark of lights out and he definitely doesn’t intend to stay after his shift ends if he can help it. He’s got blood under his fingernails still and all he wants is to get in the shower.

“I like that name,” Ray says with a small smile. “It’s good that there’s still a sense of imagination among the inmates. Even if it is Wentz’s doing.”

“He’s infectious,” Brian points out. It’s not a positive. Wentz is the new wave of criminal. He’s the youngest self-made crime lord in US history, with reaches into government organizations and throughout the city before he was old enough to vote. The charges the Feds convicted him on are petty compared to the alleged reality.

What Brian knows, through the snippets of conversations he hears on patrol but can’t prove, is that Wentz also has dirt on half the parole board and another quarter in his pocket. When his time comes, he’s going to walk out and pick up where he left off. It bothers Brian a lot less than the prospect of Gabe Saporta doing the same.

“He is,” Ray agrees with a tired smile. “I’ll probably be headed back to the rectory before you get off tonight, so call me if you need anything.”

“Just a beer,” Brian says with a wistful sigh. At Ray’s flinch, Brian holds up both palms. “It’s a joke.”

“Brian.” Ray sounds pained.

He hates that Ray takes his sobriety so personally. Maybe if he’d hit his rock bottom somewhere other than in the back seat of Ray’s car, he wouldn’t be so touchy. “It’s a joke, Ray, all right? Jesus Christ.”

“Blasphemy,” Ray warns, not a hint of amusement in his voice. Cursing doesn’t faze him but the guy takes the Commandments seriously, including the Lord’s name in vain one. Especially that one, for some reason.

Brian thinks it’s because Ray can actually enforce it. So he makes apologetic noises. “Sorry, man. But I’m leaving on time tonight so I can hit a meeting before I pass out.”

“You should.” Ray’s smile is thin but sincere. It’s enough that Brian feels comfortable leaving the break room without worrying. They’re fine. Things are fucked up. Of course, that’s not saying much. Fucked up is SOP for Janick but not between him and Ray. They’re fine and Brian’s in no rush to find something wrong between them. He’s got enough of his own shit to work out.

Ray’s still on the brain because Brian hits the chapel first, before making his way back to D-Block, just in case. He finds Gerard Way in the second pew from the front, his feet on the wooden bench, knees almost up to his chin. There’s a drawing paper pad that’s not contraband, but certainly isn’t prison issue, resting on his kneecaps. The only sound in the room is of a golf pencil scratching over the thick paper.

The cross on his rosary is between his lips and he’s mumbling to himself. Brian clears his throat. The man’s a violent offender and fairly well known for being erratic. In fact, most of the staff is still wondering why Ray doesn’t ship him off to the Psych Unit. Brian knows better than to sneak up on someone like that.

Way blinks and looks up, then smiles, bright and stunned, the cross falling into his lap. It’s surprising, and Brian doesn’t know what to do for a second. He can’t remember the last time an inmate smiled at him. He thinks it was Ross, thin and strained and passing off another trip to the infirmary as no big deal. Way’s smile is nothing like that. It’s fucking light.

“Officer Schechter, hi. What’s up?”

So fucking much. It’s on the tip of Brian’s tongue to start talking. Way’s face is an earnest invitation but he knows better. He knows where the line is. “You know lockdown’s in twenty minutes?”

Way nods. “Yeah. I was just trying to finish the concept sketches before I headed back to my cell.” To clarify, he holds up his pad.

The drawing is an intricate series of lines that come together to form a twisted version of the altar. Only instead of the bare reality, there’s something on it, something with what could be wings but that might be spikes. He’s not sure but it makes him shiver a little. “That’s pretty good.”

“I used to be an artist,” Way says, looking down at the pad. There’s no small amount of pride in his voice and sadness too. When he looks up, there’s another smile, all the way up to his eyes and sincere in a way that doesn’t fucking connect with the image of the psycho vampire of D-Block.

It’s incongruous and Brian’s gut tells him there’s something off about the man in front of him and the reputation that’s preceded him the last year and a half he’s been here. His instincts are rarely wrong.

He puts read Way’s file on his long list of things to do and jerks his head at the door. “Head on back for me. Last thing I need’s for you to miss lockdown and get thrown in the hole.”

Way sighs and frowns but doesn’t protest. Brian knows he’s never been sent to Ad Seg before and he doesn’t seem to want to start now. He climbs to his feet, tucking his pencil behind his ear and gathering up his rosary. He puts the pad under his arm and grins again. “I’m glad you like it. Remind me to show it to you when I finish.”

Before Brian can answer, Way’s leaving, walking obediently out of the chapel. Brian watches him go for a moment before following. The sound of footsteps on the linoleum is a rhythm that helps Brian reset his brain for the rest of the shift. There’s still time before lockdown, after all. Just because Gerard Way is cooperative, doesn’t mean the rest of the men on the Decaydance will be. He puts himself back on guard well before he reaches the D-Block and readies himself for the rest of the night.

Patrick Stumph ~ Sentence: 15 years, possibility of parole in 3 ~ Charges: 3 counts of Vehicular Manslaughter ~ Convicted: On all charges

This isn’t how his life was supposed to work out. That’s what Patrick keeps thinking as he walks through the halls of the D-Block to his new cell. The plan was graduate college, maybe go to grad school and try to make music. Then the wreck happened on the way home from graduation and now he’ll be doing any grad school from behind bars.

Fucking cold weather, fucking icy roads, fucking bad breaks, fucking fuck his luck and his life. He wasn’t supposed to be here, not over an accident and a freaking machine malfunction. He‘d been sober and scared and he’d tried. He’d tried so hard to keep the car on the road and just failed.

He’d managed to hold off his panic in front of his parents. He hadn’t wanted to worry them. They’re going broke on attorney fees and they’re upset enough. Hell, everyone is. Even the jury at his trial hadn’t expected the sentence he got.

It was, after all, an accident. He’d been driving home from graduating a semester late in December instead of May, hit a patch of black ice and lost control. His car had spun over the frozen asphalt and slammed into a sedan with a family of six in it. The father, who was apparently a minister on top of everything, and the two youngest kids, Nick and Frank, were killed. Patrick ended up with a fractured collarbone and his arm broken in three places. He finished with rehab just in time for the fucking judge running for re-election to throw the book at him.

But now? In a prison uniform being walked to his cell by a prison guard? The panic is rising, thick and black in his throat. It’s so fucking real that Patrick is afraid he’s going to cry. He’s seen enough episodes of Oz to know that he’s fucked if he cries. He’s fucked anyway, but he’d be extra fucked.

The guard stops in front of a cell and raps on the door with his fist. “Yo, Wentz, new meat.”

Patrick holds his breath. Who the fuck knows what he’s going to end up with. He hopes to Christ it’s not some big guy named Mouse or Killer who’s going to make him his bitch. It’s the only mercy he really cares about.

There’s a laugh from inside the cell, loud and a little obnoxious. “Steak this time, Schechter. I’m tired of that ground beef shit you keep throwing in my direction.”

“You take what I give you and like it, fucker,” Schechter calls back.

The man who comes to the door of the cell is nothing like what Patrick was expecting. He’s only a couple inches taller than Patrick and only a few years older, a young good looking guy with dark skin and black hair cut short.

“Bossy bossy,” Wentz murmurs, giving Patrick a blatantly appraising look from head to toe. Then he smiles and Patrick might gasp a little. “I’ll let it slide this time since you brought me pretties.”

Patrick swallows hard. Beside him, the guard, Schechter, goes stiff and his jaw clenches. “Try and do a better job with this one than you did with Ross.”

Wentz’s whole face changes at that. His eyes go cold and muscles Patrick hadn’t noticed before tighten. Patrick doesn’t know who Ross is but whoever he is and whatever happened, it’s not good. “No disrespect, Schechter, but you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know that they found Gutierrez in the gym yesterday. Someone beat him with a pipe so hard they found grey matter on the floor. They transported him to St. Jude’s ICU. What do you think about that?”

Pete smiles, all teeth and they remind Patrick of the rows of white in the shark mouth out of Jaws. “I think that’s karma.”

Schechter takes that in and Patrick is sure that he’s going to do something to this guy. Drag him to solitary, cold clock him, he doesn’t know, but something. Instead he just gives a curt nod. “Watch out for this one, Wentz. If he gets lost like Ross, I’ll make your life very fucking unpleasant.”

“You could just call in a favor,” Wentz says. “You’ve got a few. Three at last count.”

Schechter says nothing. He just makes an annoyed noise and walks away, leaving Patrick alone with Wentz. As soon as Schechter is gone, Wentz beams at him, childish almost, and holds out a hand. “Pete Wentz. Don’t mind Schechter. He’s not half bad for a CO. Best we’ve got”

Patrick shakes his hand and means to introduce himself but what comes out is, “Who’s Ross? What happened to him?”

Pete blinks and deftly ignores the question. “That’s not your name. What’s your name?”

“Oh. Uh, Patrick, Patrick Stumph.”

“Well, Patrick, Patrick Stumph, Ryan Ross is a friend of mine and what happened to him was bad and none of your business. So, you want top or bottom bunk?”

Patrick looks around the room. There are a few pictures on the walls, bits of paper with scrawled writing. “Whichever one isn’t yours.”

“Way to make a snap judgment there, Pattycakes. First lesson - you don’t get too many choices in here, so when someone offers you one, take the chance to make it. Top or bottom?”

“Don’t call me that,” Patrick snaps. Then he licks his lips and sighs. “Top I guess.” He’d feel claustrophobic with someone above him, even though he notices now, the top bed is already made.

Pete grins. “Nice. And, I thought so. You seem like a top. A baby top but definitely a top.” It comes out so fucking dirty that Patrick shies away physically. That just makes Pete laugh.

Patrick watches as Pete pulls the sheets off the top bunk and drags them down to the bottom. “I’m not going to have sex with you,” he blurts as he watches Pete makeup the bottom bunk.

Pete laughs again. “Did I ask you to?”

“Yes? The top and bottom thing. That’s a sex question. You’re not going to make me your bitch or something are you?”

Pete laughs again and falls back on the bunk, grinning at him. “I probably should. You’re what, twelve? And you’ve got a mouth people will hurt you for, but I don’t know. Call me old fashioned, but I like my sexual violence consensual.”

“You’re laughing at me,” Patrick grits out. He wants to hug himself, but settles for folding his arms and glaring.

“With you,” Pete counters. “Don’t blame me because you’re tiny and adorable. We don’t get tiny and adorable on the Decaydance too often. Well, Iero, but he doesn’t count ‘cause he can have you sleeping with the fishes like Luca Brazi.” He sighs. “He’s good people though.”

“I’m not tiny,” Patricks teeth are clenched so hard that his jaw hurts.

“Yeah you are but don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

“Yes,” Pete says, sharp and low. “You do. Trust me, Patrick, you want my protection. You want anything and everything I can give you, and you’re going to just roll with whatever I do. Got it?”

Patrick doesn’t at first. It’s a lot to process. He doesn’t realize what he’s dealing with until a few days later, when a huge man with a fucking swastika tattooed on his neck crowds him into the wall between two urinals in a bathroom and makes a grab for his crotch.

Patrick tries to shove him away but he never took any self-defense as a kid and the guy is twice his size. He doesn’t even budge and he’s breathing hot and rank on Patrick’s neck and God, oh God. Patrick’s ready to scream, to panic and beg and do anything to keep this from happening when someone clears their throat.

“I wouldn’t,” someone Patrick can’t see over Adolph Jr.’s shoulder says. “He’s Wentz’s new pet.”

The neo-Nazi laughs and strokes the side of Patrick’s face. Patrick smacks his hand away and does his best to glare through the debilitating fear. “Like Ross?” the big guy snorts.

There’s a movement and then Patrick is watching as a bearded blond man of average height slams the Aryan giant into the tile. It’s like something out of a movie. “We’re not talking about Ross,” the blond man says, slamming the guy’s face into the wall once, making blood spurt from his nose. “You are not going to talk about Ross again or I’ll pull your tongue out. Right now, we’re talking about how if you fuck with this kid, you fuck with Wentz. And if you fuck with Wentz, you fuck with everyone.”

“The fuck do you care?” Adolph sputters, spraying more blood onto the white walls.

“I care because I’m one of the favors Wentz will call in if you don’t get smart. And I don’t like to waste my energy on racist, white trash pieces of shit like you.”

“Fuck you.” Adolph growls and spits blood in the blond’s direction.

“See, that was uncalled for,” the blond sighs, then cracks the guy’s skull into the wall with a precision that makes Patrick gasp. The guy’s eyes flutter shut and he drops like the proverbial sack of potatoes. The blond turns to Patrick with a shrug. “You just can’t reason with some people.” Then he crosses the room to Patrick and holds out his hand, pulling Patrick off the wall. “Bob Bryar.”

“Patrick Stumph.”

“I know. Wentz staked his claim on you in a big way your first day. Everyone knows who you are.”

Patrick tries to think about what happened that first day. Yard time. He worked with Pete’s people in the prison post office. Meals. He isn’t sure what exactly happened that would’ve been Pete staking his claim and then he remembers. “He sat on me.”

“And kissed you,” Bob adds. Patrick opens his mouth to say that a peck on the cheek from a stranger is nothing but Bob continues, “During dinner in front of the entire prison. You’re his.”

“Like that Ross guy everyone keeps talking about?” Patrick hasn’t talked to him but he’s seen the guy. He wears a fuckload of makeup to cover sores and bite marks and to detract from the fact that he is, in fact, a he without going to full drag. He’s everything Patrick’s seen in movies and TV and is afraid of becoming.

Bob sighs and shakes his head. “No. It’s before my time but I don’t think Pete claimed Ryan like that.” He says it sadly and Patrick makes a note to ask. “But it doesn’t matter because he’s ours now.”

“You say that like he’s a thing. Like I’m a thing. I’m not a thing. I’m a fucking person.”

“I know that. You know that. Pete knows that, but guys like this fuckhead and his Brotherhood, they don’t. So we do what we can.”

“I’m not going to sit at his fucking feet like a dog or something.”

Bob actually laughs and Patrick’s fists clench. If he hadn’t seen what Bob can do first hand, he might have followed through with the impulse to strike out. “I can’t imagine Wentz wanting you to. He’s not that kind of guy. At least not in public. I can’t speak to his private life.”

“Everyone seems to know who he is,” Patrick mutters, staring down at the massive man on the floor lying in a slowly growing puddle of his own blood. Patrick knows that cameras saw it. There’s one right in the corner, blinking at him accusingly, but no COs are coming. “They’re all scared of him. The fuck kinda guy is that?”

Bob just shrugs. “You’ll have to find out for yourself, kid. Just be glad he likes you.”

“It’s not that simple,” Patrick protests.

Bob just shakes his head and shoves his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Sure it is. You’re not out there anymore. You’re inside. Things are very simple because people are animals. Stick to your group from now on. If you’re alone, there may not be an ally around the corner next time. Wentz’s got enemies who’d love the chance to break you just to spite him. Trust me on this one.”

Bob’s eyes flicker when he says it and Patrick’s mind goes to Ross with his pretty face and dead, dead eyes. He shudders. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bob says. He fixes Patrick in a steady blue stare. “Seriously. Don’t.”

Patrick nods a little too hard and then follows Bob out of the bathroom. Pete is sitting at a table with Joe, Andy, McCoy and the big one, Dirty, playing cards. He spots Patrick and waves him over, pushing an empty chair out with his foot.

Glancing back towards Bob, Patrick blinks because he’s gone. He spots him across the room, his hand on Ross’s wrist, pulling him sharply away from one of the taller Cobras. Ross tries to wrench free but Bob leans forward to whisper something to him that makes him go limp.

Patrick looks away, back at the safety of Pete’s table, and goes to sit down. He doesn’t understand any of this, but it doesn’t matter. He’s a quick learner and he’s going to get through this in one piece. Whatever it takes.

William Beckett ~ Sentence: 10 years, possibility of parole in 6 ~ Charges: Assault, 5 counts Contributing to the Delinquency of a Minor, Pandering, Soliciting, Statutory Rape, Unlawful Imprisonment, Human Trafficking ~ Convicted: Assault, Pandering, Unlawful Imprisonment

There are a few boys on the Decaydance that Bill keeps his eyes on, vulnerable pretty ones mostly. He’s got a keen eye for the human condition when it comes to certain types of people, certain types of weakness, and he can name a handful of them off the top of his head. Pete’s new boy, the little one with the big eyes and pretty mouth who is so far out of his depth that it’s a wonder he hasn’t drowned, is a good example. Ritter is another, but Ritter is one of his boys. He has about half a dozen that Gabe helps him manage because Bill is nothing if not a survivor and a good businessman.

Just because he’s behind bars doesn’t mean that he’s going to slow down. People have needs. Bill is used to living a certain way and he’s not about to sacrifice that for a little thing like decency.

But he’s been in the world’s oldest profession long enough to know when you have a real gem - a moneymaker extraordinaire that makes the most seasoned whores stand back and take note. Bill’s run into less than a handful of those in his time and Ross… Well, everyone knows that Ross is the best fuck on the Block, which is more a diamond in the rough but still fairly priceless.

Of course Ross is also more than half ruined, if that last incident with the pipe is anything to go by. The drugs he’s been quietly trading his ass to Jimmy Urine for since his pain meds from the first attack ran out are taking care of the other half. It’s a shame really, because Bill can tell you right now what Ross’ problem is. Well, problems. Well, mistakes. He’s made so very many of them, but the big ones are obvious.

The biggest one was not finding someone to protect him. Not like Wentz had promised, with that equal standing shit. No, people like them, and Bill includes himself in this category, need someone stronger to take care of them if they can’t be the caretaker themselves. The taker and the taken - you have to be one or the other to have anything in this life.

Bill threw in with the Cobras fairly early on. Gabe was easier to manipulate than Wentz and good-looking enough that Bill didn’t mind dropping to his knees every now and then.

But Ross in particular, should’ve found protection. Not doing so was his Greek Tragedy scale blunder. The boy just has something about him that screams “hurt me.” Being a sadist’s wet dream can be a good thing if you can keep the sadism in check. In here, with these men, keeping that kind of control is a near impossibility.

He gets that. Bill remembers how fast and hard Ross fell from Pete’s new project to the D-Block come dump. It’s been unfortunate but understandable. What Bill can’t for the life of him figure out is why Gabe won’t just claim Ross for the Church of Hot Addiction and be done with it already.

Ross is fucking hard for it. After the spoon incident (which cracks Bill up because he was one of the ones who found the kid afterward and - aside from all the blood and mess - the sight of Ross with a industrial metal cooking spoon sticking out of him like that had been hilarious), he’s been starved for the scraps of affection Gabe tosses him. While Bill finds it fun to watch, it’s not really productive. Then again, Bill isn’t really one for playing with his food, as it were.

Gabe may be too busy fucking with Ross’s head to be paying attention, but Bill isn’t. He’s noticed the way the fucking Guido heir-apparent and his pet Viking have been slowly and carefully pulling Ryan into their circle even as he slips farther down. It’s a dangerous shift in the caste system of the Decaydance and it makes Bill nervous.

“He’s not ready,” Gabe murmurs when Bill brings it up. They share a cell and the best time to talk to Gabe is always right before he drifts off. He’s most pliant then.

“If he gets any more ready he’s going to be useless,” Bill mutters, lacing his fingers behind his neck. He knows that Jimmy traffics in cocaine and heroin and that the number of times a week that Ryan goes to him has tripled since the pipe incident. “People can only get pushed so far before they’re too broken to be any good.” He’s seen it. He’s pushed boys to it and thrown them away after. He knows. “Trust me, he’s on the edge.”

“He’s not ready to be picked. He’s not ripe yet.” Gabe’s drowsy voice lilts with that special Cobra crazy that Bill finds sexy and infuriating at the same time. Right now, when Gabe isn’t about to fuck the strength of the Cobra into him or whatever, it’s just frustrating.

“You’re being reckless,” Bill sighs, staring up at the underside of Gabe’s bunk, willing understanding through the thin mattress. “Bryar and Iero are going to take him if you don’t. They’ve formed an alliance with the Wentz camp over this. If you move on him too late it’s going to be a fucking war.”

“It won’t get to that point.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s pretty much at that point all ready.”

“Shut the fuck up, William, and go to sleep,” Gabe grumbles.

“You’re going to lose more than Ross if you’re not careful,” Bill mutters, but Gabe doesn’t answer. A few minutes later Bill can hear the nasal snoring that means that Gabe has started dreaming and sighs.

It’s not comforting. In fact, it’s a downright problem. Bill is a smart enough man to know when he needs to start exploring other options. Carden’s people have ties to Wentz and his people are far enough out of his inner circle to avoid most of the fallout. Bill knows the Butcher from outside too.

He’s going to start talking to them, quietly and discretely, tomorrow. He doesn’t want to be in the crossfire if this blows up. Even if it doesn’t reach the breaking point Bill’s expecting, he’s lost Gabe’s ear. And without that, Bill knows it’s time start looking for a way out.

Part 2