"Nick."
Nick bit his lower lip. "It's never going to end, is it." His voice was shaky and high despite his valiant effort to keep it steady. "No matter what I do, how close we get, or how much you care, you're always going to be ready and willing to do that to me."
John gripped the bars in front of him tightly. "No. Holy shit, no. After seeing this - hell-pit - I mean.... I never got it. I thought - he's not being beat up or starved or raped -"
"Those are just shortcuts to crushing a person," said Nick, his voice still taut. "This place does it slowly, the hard way."
John's stomach churned, and nausea fingered the back of his throat with a sadistic thrum.
"Try being at the mercy of a system that doesn't respect your dignity, emotions, physical misery, or future. Love the man that put you there, have affection for your guards and for murderers, and see if that doesn't just fuck you up in too many ways to count."
"I wish you'd trusted me enough to tell me, Nick. I never bought that 'everything was peachy' act of yours - I'm not that naive."
"I never could've told you," said Nick. "You had to see it. How people can be caring and good, and inflict horrible indignity and pain."
"I would've listened. I would've understood."
Nick looked torn between hyperventilating and trying to climb the walls, or physically attacking John, or breaking down in tears.
"No. Because you're one of them. You just walked me down that hall in chains. I love you, John. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. That has to exist with the reality that you sent me here knowing I'd be terrified and forced and hurt on intake, that you walked me to that cell and you closed the door."
John turned away and threw up.
Gasping for breath and clinging to a bar for support, he felt a very gentle hand on his back. Nick had his arm stretched out through the bars and was giving him worried little pats. "I never wanted - want - you to feel bad. That's another reason I couldn't tell you. Why would I make a caring guy feel miserable for doing their job with integrity?"
"That's over, Nick," said John. "From now on, I'm your friend, not an FBI agent. I will be by your side to help you heal if you'll have me. But the whole agent versus criminal thing is over, as is any desire whatsoever to investigate you."
Nick's hand, and everything else, stilled. "Tell me you're not backing out of being my handler."
"I'm not. If you still want-"
"I do," said Nick with a frightened ferocity. "I love that job, and you, and my life. Please don't take that thinking you're being nice, please. It's the only life, ever, that I haven't wanted to run from."
"Nick. Nick. I know you're scared as fuck I'll abandon you. Get it through your dumb head that I love working with you, and care about you, as much as I love the FBI and Mari. I dread the day they release you, because I'm afraid I'll never see you or work with you again. You're gonna be the one to leave me in the dust, and that hurts."
"Really?" Nick looked like a small child in his shocked vulnerability. "You're actually afraid I'll abandon you?"
"You're about an inch away from it, every day."
Nick closed his eyes and shook his head as if trying to figure out how to communicate with a moron. "It's - hard to choose to be a prisoner. I thought it was bad in here.... outside, freedom taunts me every second. It's being a prisoner I want to run from. Not you, idiot FBI agent."
"Oh."
"Oh is right," muttered Nick. He was still doing the soft little pat thing on John's back, anxious to reassure him, and it was one of the sweetest sensations ever. Adorable damn felon. "Do you mean that? About the not-FBI-agent thing?"
"Did you not just see me throw up? I mean it."
"I saw. It was disgusting."
John snorted. "I really know how to sell an emotional moment."
"Either that or you had the same thing I did for lunch."
John forced himself to really look at Nick. "Are we gonna be able to survive my doing this to you?"
Nick bit his lower lip, hard, blinking away emotion. "If you -- can put up with me panicking like that and lashing out at you. I don't mean it. All I can remember is pain when I'm cuffed and I see concrete walls. You have no idea how reassuring it actually is to have someone who cares do this, but I've never experienced anything this confusing and stressful in -- ever. "
"It's not a matter of putting up with it," said John. Nick was looking small and young and unbearably sweet and vulnerable, and John wanted to reach through the bars and hug him. "It's awful, to hurt and scare someone you just want to comfort."
"It's --" Nick sucked in a deep breath. "It is comforting. If you want to help me get over the trauma, don't hit me with file folders. Put me through these motions and put up with me and help me replace images of screaming with -- you."
"Okay," said John quietly. Nick's repeated pleas to put up with him were horrifying, because they spoke to someone he loved rejecting him in a time of desperate need. "There's nothing you can do that'll make me turn my back on you."
Nick's eyes flooded with tears in an instant, and he spun away to hide his face, his head down. "Yes -- there is."
"Aster, no. Stop being so scared of yourself, and scared of me. You're a good man. I've got you, and I'm not letting go. Have some damn faith."
"Okay." There was a smile in Nick's voice, even if his face was still hidden.
"I'm FBI. I know more than I like about crime, torture, trauma, and the psychology of what happened to you. I know about powerlessness and shame and betrayal and terror and anger and isolation and grief. I know you've been abused and abandoned before. I know why you're lashing out. It's not going to chase me away."
"Okay."
"Listen.... I'm really insecure and unstable right now," said Nick. "Don't take me too seriously. I don't blame you at all, for any of this. That was - a stressful walk down the hallway because it hurt, and pain in a prison while I'm restrained is terrifying right now. I'm - objectively glad to have it done, because I need to get over it, and I can't tell you how much it means that you are here doing this."
Please understand, Nick's blue eyes pleaded. Please believe me. There was a raw, disarmed honesty in his expression.
"I understand," said John. "I need you to understand -- how much I feel for you, and respect you. I'm honored that you're letting me be at your side and see some really tough parts of your life. I want so badly to be a safe haven for you."
Nick looked unbearably touched, glancing away and working his jaw to keep his feelings under control. John had never seen Nick as emotionally vulnerable as he'd been through this whole ordeal. "You didn't deserve it. You are good. You are worth fighting for and beside. You're the best friend I've ever had, and you're getting through this."
"Don't make me cry in prison," said Nick. His eyes were moist, but his lips were twisted in a smile. "Bastard."
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Dignity
JOHN
Agent Fisher met John, Kelly, Wash, Kasdan, and Wills in the staff break room during their evening changeover, looking sad. He was the only one of them lucky enough to be dressed in a suit and tie rather than the hideous polyester uniform, and John experienced a moment of envy.
Fisher cleared his throat. “I should tell you all, that while I retain full authority over this operation, this will be my last case as an agent of the FBI.”
Kasdan was brave enough to put forward the question. “Why?”
“I was placed under review by OPR after striking Aster," said Fisher, shoving his glasses against the bridge of his nose. "I was summoned to an interview, and they gave me a drug and alcohol test. Failed.”
“Not gonna act shocked,” said John. “I’m surprised they’d fire you, though.”
Fisher’s lips twisted in wry humor. “Says the man who almost arrested me. They aren’t firing me, they’re assigning me to rehab. Unofficially, this was the last straw. I’ll never command a task force or be a field agent again.”
John
shrugged. “Want me to back you, don't hit my injured partner.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kasdan, reaching out and touching the back of the other agent’s hand.
Fisher looked moved, and smiled. “It’s okay.” He rolled his eyes at John. “I’m not seven, and this isn’t the playground. I wasn’t asking for you to come to my aid, booger-butt.”
John snickered, grinning despite himself. He picked a rolled-up foil gum wrapper off the table and threw it at Fisher. “Okay, fine. I hope you land on your feet. You’re a good agent, when you’re on your game.”
“Already did,” said Fisher, his expression still holding a sly note of dark humor.
“Oh?” John raised his eyebrows. “Who?”
“What outfit comes to mind, when it comes to hiring people with dubious backgrounds and a propensity for smacking around prisoners?” asked Fisher.
John’s eyes widened. “Not the NYPD?”
“New York’s Finest,” said Fisher. “Because the world’s the number one fan of goddamn irony, they just hired a guy kicked out of the FBI for hitting an inmate — to be in charge of making Riker’s stop beating the shit out of inmates."
Fisher eyed the flickering overhead fluorescent light fixture. It buzzed while it projected over-sized shadow versions of the dead flies littering its housing onto the wobbling faux wood-grain break table. The table itself was littered with crumbs, dirty coffee cups from two auto shops and a strip club, and a pair of leg irons. "Since if there’s anything I really, really craved in my life, it was more fucking prisons.”
“Uh.” John blinked three times. “Wow. I ....see why they chose you?”
“I’m very proud,” said Fisher dryly. He sobered. “I take it seriously, I promise. It’s a grim duty, but it feels like one my whole life has shaped me towards against my will. It’s a dragon I was always told I wasn’t allowed to fight, and now I’ve been handed a sword.”
John shook his hand. “They made the right choice,” he said with respect. “You and I aren’t destined to be friends. But if you ever need advice from a former inmate who’s kind but not soft, talk to Aster. You can count on him to care.”
“I will.” Fisher sighed. He pulled off his glasses and gnawed on them. “Speaking of Aster, I’m afraid he’s stuck here another night. Starr insisted on inspecting the drugs on the truck, which meant Theo was late picking up the legit goods and got stuck waiting for a loading dock to open up. That put him behind schedule, and Sing Sing won’t accept after hours deliveries. So our buddy’s at a truck stop nearby until morning.”
“Great,” muttered John. He was going to hear clanging metal doors and loudly voiced demands for muffins in his nightmares tonight. Somehow, he doubted Muffin Guy ever slept. Maybe all the drugs Nick was on would allow him to doze through it dreaming of cupcakes decorated with little hats and things
He snickered to himself. Mari should make a batch of "welcome home from prison" cupcakes and top them with handcuffs and bars and dicks and muffins and - did they sell war criminal cupcake toppers?
“How’s he holding up?” asked Fisher, replacing his glasses.
“Fine,” said John. Kasdan, Wills, Wash, and Kelly all gave him skeptical sideways looks. “It’s hard as hell,” John revised. “On all of us. But it’s taking all he’s got to endure right now.”
Fisher’s lips tightened, and the lines on his forehead deepened. “He’s a very good man, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said John simply.
JOHN
THE NEXT DAY
John finally interpreted the frantic, loving, scared, anxious expressions on Nick’s face. The key was looking around the little exercise area. It was no more than a larger, outdoor cell with no ceiling. It still somehow smelled of urine and bleach, just like the inside of the unit.
He was the only thing standing between Nick and this, and Nick was facing him in handcuffs. Trust in loyalty and humanity were two very difficult things for Nick.
His friend had always sent John a convincing message that prison didn’t affect or scare him. That he’d been treated well, had a decent life, and he’d be fine if he had to go back. Maybe it'd been to hide any appearance of vulnerability. Maybe it was to spare John’s feelings. Maybe it was largely true.
Certainly, it was the product of enormous mental strength.
But what John had learned in the past few days was that it was excruciating on an emotional level, and affected Nick deeply. Part of what was broken and scarred in Nick was a result of his time in prison. John was just grateful that he’d always tried to be sensitive to that possibility, no matter how fiercely hidden.
John gulped. Not to mention, he’d just been the one to order Nick back in here. “I’m not abandoning you, Nick. Not here, not anywhere. Learn that.”
Nick held his chin up and smiled, an effort. “I swear I will one of these days.”
Nick turned to face him after the restraints were off. His expression was almost blank. “John - I need to just - crumble. I need an hour where I don’t have to act strong and stable and charming and wonder if someone’s about to try to kill me. I don’t want this to scare you or make you feel sorry for me.”
“Okay,” said John. “Do you want to be - do you want me to leave?”
Nick shook his head. “I’d feel safer if you were here. I just ....don’t want to talk, or act.”
“We can walk out the front gate, right now," said John. "All it takes is a word.”
Nick nodded, still looking blank. “I always could. It’s a matter of what you’re willing to give up.”
Nick walked out to the center of the pen. It was bare cement. Cement floor with a drain in the center, cement walls twenty feet high, the top open to the sky aside from a mesh net to keep things from being tossed over the wall. The pen was wet with rain, the dead gray sky above doing its best to imitate cement.
His friend clenched his fists and stared up at the sky for a few minutes, chilling rain hitting his hair and soaking into the thin jumpsuit.
One thing John had learned quickly, escorting other inmates outside, was that on a cold, wet day the hour of supposed recreation was its own form of hell. They didn’t have jackets, and couldn’t ask to come in early.
The inmates were usually chilled to the point of shivering by the time John and his team arrived to put them back into a cold cell. Only some of them had changes of clothing and towels in their cells. They tried desperately to exercise to stay warm, and still ended up curled into miserable balls with their hands in their armpits.
It was hard to feel sorry for the world's most spiteful war criminal, or the dreadlock-bearded guy who wanted to ensure John got as much eye contact as humanly possible with his dick, but Jesus. He felt like a torturer. Thank heavens Nick had extra blankets in there.
Nick wasn’t shrinking from it.
He came back to the gate, not looking at John, lay down, and curled into the fetal position on his side, his back against the bars. Rain fell dead onto his skin and clothing. The ground was a slime of algae and rust and moss held in a slurry of rainwater. Water started dripping off Nick’s hair as his loose scrubs pasted themselves to the ground.
This was a scene completely devoid of human dignity, and Nick seemed practiced at dealing with it, lying unresisting and so still he seemed barely to be alive.
Oh, God, Nick. I’m never making fun of your ridiculous hats or your absurdly tight suits, ever again. I’m buying you skinny ties and hair gel for Christmas and sipping espresso on the balcony with you every chance I get. And I’m gonna kill the next person who calls you a tool or a dog on a leash.
He glanced at his watch. It’d been barely ten minutes. Nick had another fifty minutes of this hell. John sat down on the wet cement, leaned against the bars, and put his hand on Nick’s back. If all Nick wanted was to feel safe and not have to cope, he was going to know there was a friend at his back.
John closed his eyes and angled his face down, away from the rain. I don’t want this to scare you or mak
e you feel sorry for me. He tried to obey that, tried not to invade Nick’s hour of sanctuary, tried to sit still.
His fingers were numb, but he could feel Nick start shivering convulsively. Nick remained limp in the water on the icy cement in between tremors.
A sick realization was planted in John’s gut, digging in roots that would never leave. Nick suffered.
Not in ways with shorthand explanations. Nothing so simple as I was beaten.
I learned to lie freezing on filthy cement alone in the rain without complaint or struggle.
John couldn’t feel his hands or his toes by the time the hour ended. Nick had to struggle to drag himself to his feet, and his lips were tinged blue. But when their eyes met, Nick actually did look more human, and more relaxed, than he had an hour ago.
Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story Page 46