“John.” There was something unnaturally sober, grown up even, in Nick’s voice. He wasn’t pretending. “I feel you worry. I see the guilt, and hear the questions. The conflict between what I did and didn’t deserve.”
John’s stomach tightened. They were both intelligent men, and at their cores, caring. He was an FBI agent, not by trade but at heart. He investigated. He protected.
He’d protected society from Nick, and Nick from himself, catching him and sending him away. But the tables had been turned. Nick had become the one he had to know about, and protect, and seek justice for.
Nick had deserved prison. If one were to be completely honest, he deserved to still be there now. But a fundamentally gentle man never deserved to be locked in a cage with violent criminals, and that unresolved pain ached under the surface every time he looked at Nick.
It took a long time, either a lot of courage or a lot of calculation needed, for Nick to get the next words out. He finally drew a deep breath and went for it.
“Yes, I was hurt in here.”
The words hung in the air, stagnant because John couldn’t breathe them in, couldn’t move, even his heart feeling as though it had stopped.
“Twice. And being here hurt.”
No. No. Please -- John found himself desperate to disbelieve the words, but he knew in his bones they were true. Had for a long time.
“But it wasn’t like you’re imagining.” Nick flashed him a dark smile. “And yes, I do know what you’re imagining. It was random and complicated and - could have happened anywhere.”
John shivered. “Were you scared?”
“At first -- terrified,” admitted Nick. He rubbed his forehead and shivered. “Inmates tell horror stories like you wouldn’t believe. But my expectations were so awful the whole thing seemed civilized in comparison. We took care of each other and made friends, just like we would out here.”
He gave John a soft smile. “Almost. You get the occasional gang murder on the outside too. Largely, being in prison wasn’t about violence or abuse.”
“What was it about?” asked John, keeping his voice soft, not wanting to break the trance that kept Nick talking.
“Obedience.” Nick’s voice cracked. “Playing by the rules. Monotony. Training you to be a good little human that shows up to work on time and colors inside the lines and obeys the speed limit.”
Nick’s voice was more unsteady, more bitter, and carried more hurt talking about that. Without saying it directly, without really hoping John would understand, he was saying that was the trauma he’d carried out of prison.
And how was John supposed to understand, or sympathize? The lines were there for a reason, without them there’d be no book to color in. If prison had tried to teach Nick that, it was a good thing.
Nick was silent, and the light in his eyes went flat. He recognized John’s thoughts. Having ventured that vulnerability and not seen it accepted was a wound just as deep. And it was the wounds in Nick he was trying to stitch up, so who was he to judge where they were?
But how could that hurt so much? Wasn’t it what he himself was asking of Nick?
You’re asking it of him. They forced him.
You love that impertinent little grin and the fact that he always finds his own way. You love that he’s fearless and you love the spirit in his eyes and actions. You love it on those occasions he does obey you, because it’s out of respect, actual respect, and affection. Never fear or subservience.
They tried to change who he was. They tried to make him not Nick. And that didn’t have to be a violent process, or even a successful one, to hurt.
“I think I understand,” said John. “If I had to go through five years of being taught that being me - my soul and who I am - was wrong....”
Nick’s whole being seemed to relax in relief, and he lowered his head and shut his eyes for a second. Thank you.
He sucked in his breath. It had clearly been terrifying for him to bare that at risk of John’s failing to understand.
“Then you’d love the one man in that system who seemed able to separate who you are from the rules you break,” said Nick. “When he tried to show you how to color inside those lines without changing your personality and breaking your soul.”
John couldn’t stop himself. He reached out, wrapped his arms around Nick, and hugged him fiercely. A moment later he realized he had to be hurting Nick’s battered body, and loosened his grip. Nick pushed against him, clearly not liking that, so John tightened his arms again. This was as much a lesson in Nick as the rest.
He didn’t care about pain. He cared about freedom and understanding and learning not how to color inside the lines but how to have friendships and find his place inside humanity and how to be a person.
Most people knew how to balance their innate selfishness, their desire for comfort and indulgence and attention, with the needs and wants of others and the demands of society. Nick didn’t. He wasn’t a sociopath. Sensitivity and caring were built into him, he just never knew how they were supposed to operate.
Nick rolled away with an uneasy glance at the door, but tucked his fingers into John’s hand. John squeezed, answering the nonverbal request for continued support.
“We - people don’t just vanish, when we go to prison,” said Nick. “We keep feeling, and living. We still learn and perceive and laugh and play and cry, with the same intelligence and personalities we had before. We get our souls crushed, and we suffer.”
John had to glance away. This was as close as Nick had ever gotten to admitting that prison had affected him. We get our souls crushed.
“I never wanted you to suffer.”
Nick’s eyes went soft and trusting. “I know,” he said just as softly. “I knew. It meant more than you know.”
John braced himself. “Were you treated cruelly?”
Nick shook his head. But his answer wasn’t no, the only response that would’ve made John’s heart un-clench. “Rarely. The guards understand more’n most people that we really exist, that they’ll see us in the store while they’re shopping some day. The really bad ones get killed or fired.”
“Afraid of coming back?” asked John.
Nick glanced away. “I wouldn’t call it fear. Once you accept the structure, day to day life isn’t bad. But - it’s awful, being trained not to protest or stand up for yourself. Some hallways are marked with yellow footprints, and we’re literally supposed to walk in them.”
“What happens if you don’t?”
Nick shrugged. “I got yelled at, and finally cuffed up and dragged into a back room and lectured. By -- he was a good guy, with good advice, and I walked away shaking and so depressed I wanted to curl up in a ball in the corner.”
NICK
Nick couldn’t believe it. Grown men, scary men, were obediently walking along putting their feet in yellow footprints. He stepped out again, and again a corrections officer yelled at him. “Step in!”
Nick winced internally and put his feet back where they were supposed to be, and studied the officer in confusion. The guy was genuinely pissed. They actually took this absurd routine seriously, and prisoners actually did it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Nick quietly. It wasn’t fear. He meant it. So far, he hated prison but not the men in it, or running it. The officers were loathed, massively outnumbered, poorly funded, and vulnerable. They seemed to handle it with courage, and without giving in to brutality in attempt to keep people cowed, or cowardice in attempt not to draw fire. They did their best every day in an impossible situation, as did the inmates.
The CO backed off, and Nick felt a twinge of guilt. But still - what the hell? This ugly, noisy, control-every-minute-of-every-day human warehouse wasn’t the Sing Sing of black and white photos where inmates were whipped for so much as speaking. So, grown men who’d murdered people were putting their feet in little painted footprints because otherwise they’d be yelled at?
And how on earth could the COs yell at him with a straight fac
e for not doing it? Nick grinned at the mere idea of him trying to yell at someone for this, and crossed his legs, putting the wrong toe in the heel of the wrong foot.
“FALL OUT!” Nick flinched despite himself. It was the same CO he’d apologized to so sincerely before forgetting in the space of thirty seconds how much it actually sucked to get yelled at. Maybe murderers weren’t so tough after all. Maybe they were a lot like Nick Asters, and didn’t like getting chewed out any more than he did.
The officer pointed at the opposite side of the hall. “HANDS ON THE WALL!” There was a furious intensity in the order that transcended volume and seemed to make the walls tremble.
Nick obeyed with a gulp. There was goofing around and getting yelled at, then there was the sort of thing people got beaten and thrown into solitary for. This had the air of one of those moments.
The CO patted him down, a cursory check for obvious weapons. It wasn’t rough or invasive, and Nick found it rather reassuring. Someone who touched him lightly and with respect probably wasn’t about to kick the shit out of him.
“Put your hands behind your back.” It was a calm and professional order, no yelling this time, no hint of anger.
Nick obeyed, was handcuffed, and tried not to let his heart pound when he was led off down another hallway. He failed. He was led into what looked like a small office, and the CO faced him.
The officer was in his forties, and looked tired, tense, and hard. There was a scar across the top of his right forearm, and another on his cheek. The muscles under those scars looked hard as rocks. But there was intelligence in the man’s cold gray eyes, and a certain understanding.
“What’s your name?”
“Nick Aster -- sir.”
“What part of, ‘put your feet here’ do you not understand?”
Nick met his eyes, a little hesitant of his footing. Had that been a real question, or a facetious chewing-out?
“Every part,” he answered honestly. “I don’t get why men who could devour me in seconds do it, and I don’t get why it seems important to you. Who comes up with something that absurdly pointless, a mildly sadistic accountant?”
The officer wore a tiny, almost invisible smile now. “Were you actually sorry, when you apologized? Or just scared?”
Honesty seemed to be working, so .... “I was - am sorry, sir. I don’t want to be a jackass.”
“You’re new. Do you want to find out what it’s like to get punished here?”
Nick gulped. Hell no.
“That was an honest question, not a threat, Aster. For some guys, that’s a part of figuring this place out.”
Nick shook his head. “I - want to be the kind of guy -- I want to be a friend, not an enemy. I just can’t comprehend this broken little routine, let alone take it seriously.”
The CO pointed to a chair. “Sit down.”
Nick did.
The officer pointed at the opposite wall. “Stand up and press your nose against the wall.”
Nick obeyed, baffled. This also didn’t seem like the sort of guy who’d get off on giving petty orders, so he decided to go with it. He tensed when the officer approached and stood behind him. But the guy gave him an understanding pat on the shoulder that seemed half reassurance, half thanks for the cooperation. Then unlocked the handcuffs.
“Face me.” The order was gentle, this time.
When Nick obeyed, the officer pointed to the scar on his arm. “I was walking down a hall. The inmate walking in the other direction crossed the line in a second and slashed me down to the bone. He was trying for my neck.”
Nick winced. “Ouch. I’m sorry.” He hesitated, then pointed to the scar on the guy’s cheek.
“Fight broke out between inmates. I was behind the wrong door when it closed. Two of ‘em got me on the ground, and slammed my face into the concrete about six times. If some of the other inmates hadn’t stopped it, I’d be dead.”
He eyed Nick. “I’ve got a pretty good instinct for who’s an asshole and who isn’t. So you wanna know why you’re out there playing the world’s least challenging version of hopscotch?”
“Yes, please,” said Nick with growing respect.
“Same reason I told you to put your hands on the wall. Same as I did the ‘sit down, put your nose on the wall’ dance before I took the cuffs off. It’s a warning system. You put your feet where they’re supposed to go, chances are you wanna get through your day without trouble. Lotta guys aren’t smart enough to sucker punch. The minute someone steps out of line, chances just went way up that they’re belligerent, high, or about to try an’ kill someone.”
Nick cocked his head to the side. “So that was a test. Would I obey you, or was I looking for a fight?”
“Exactly.”
“In the hall -- I wasn’t belligerent, high, or about to kill someone. I was just -- baffled by a bizarre excess of control.”
“That’s why you’re not getting written up. I figured as much, you looked so miserable when I yelled at you.”
Nick grinned. “Not that fond of being yelled at.”
“So keep your damn feet where they’re supposed to be, okay, Aster?”
Nick sighed. Five years in a place where even where he put his feet was restricted? He might as well be in chains. “Why don’t you just chain everyone up, then?”
“Besides it being a miserable pain in the ass for everyone involved? You lose your gauge. There’s a big difference between a guy putting his foot somewhere because he’s made a decision, and doing it because a steel chain made ‘im.”
Nick lowered his head in a gesture of surrender. He liked this man, and respected his honesty. He didn’t want this to come off as aggressive.
“I’d almost rather be in chains. That way I’d be able to pretend -- that I’d be defiant if I could. Instead of feeling this broken and obedient.”
The CO patted him on the shoulder with what felt like genuine understanding. “Welcome to prison, son.”
Nick tried to fight off the overwhelming sadness and despair that was becoming his companion in here. “I know. Thanks -- for explaining.”
The man kept his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “There’s another way to make it your choice. Choose to cooperate. Don’t make us break you. We don’t want to. Just choose to do this the easy way, and stay true to your basic good nature. You’ll be loved for it, and your time here won’t be filled with hate and misery.”
NICK
Nick looked at John, and gulped. He’d taken that CO’s advice, and come through mentally, emotionally, and physically unbroken. It had saved him untold misery, and he counted it as one of the best things anyone’d done for him in prison.
“The guards could be patient and kind,” said Nick. “Some were utter bastards, but the rest would keep you sane.”
“And the inmates?” asked John.
“Same with the inmates,” said Nick. A different perspective, one given to him by a former submariner doing life for murder, had been just as powerful. He took a deep breath, and tried to hide the hesitant, evaluating glances he was giving John.
“I met a submarine sonar operator -- killed the manager who shut down the plant he worked at. Prison was so easy for him, he laughed at how miserable it made us. During world war two, submariners would go to sea in a metal tube with no windows smaller than any cellblock. Forget a cell, these guys had a tiny bunk they shared with the guy on the opposite shift.”
“I’ve heard of that,” said John. “Hot bunking, I think they call it?”
Nick nodded. “When they came under attack, they had to stay silent while hearing and feeling the depth charges and torpedoes that could kill them at any second. There was no running, and not much fighting. Those guys just had to do their jobs and try not to think about the horrifying ways they might die at any minute. People drowned, suffocated, died of radiation exposure, got crushed under tons of sea water, died in fires, and they were expected to do it with courage.”
John whistled. “I knew the dangers. Nev
er really considered they couldn’t fight back.”
“There are so many things like that which just awe me and make me sad, and grateful,” said Nick. “I could feel really sorry for myself, and there were times I did. But even in here, I was so safe, and had such good living conditions compared to those men. They weren’t criminals forced to do it as a punishment, they were good men who signed up for it. I signed up for it too, when I chose this -- um -- career path.”
John was looking at Nick with an expression he’d never seen before on the FBI agent’s face.
Respect. Deep respect.
Respect Nick had never really realized he was seeking, but when he saw it ....the relief and the warmth and sheer validation almost broke him. John saw it, and still holding Nick’s hand, rubbed the back of it with a warm, rough thumb.
Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story Page 30