Two months, six days remaining
Disclaimer: transformative in nature, but obviously, I own no rights. I definitely make no money.
Dom leaned against the cinderblock wall and watched the new fish try to swim through the practice yard. A thin black kid bolted for the Black Guerrilla Family in the corner, circling warily as he tried to decide the best way to get in with them. Three Hispanics wandered between the ballcourt and benches, gray territory between the Mexican Mafia and Nuestra Familia. That left four white dudes. Two looked to be old hands, and a group from the Aryan Brotherhood called out a greeting. One headed right for him, with a second trailing close behind.
That left two. Neither looked much good for fighting, so Dom figured they'd be someone's bitch within a day. One was a pencil necked geek who looked about ready to pass out as he stood in the middle of yard. The second one looked a little smarter. He tucked his head down and headed for a corner that was usually claimed by the lifers: old men with papery skin and no more energy to do anything other than watch the young ones knife each other.
Most of the time, people avoided them because they were mostly the murderers, but this guy with the eyepatch and the dark hair with curls that reminded him of Brian headed right for them. Dom watched with some amusement as the old guys shifted and eyed this newcomer with more than a little suspicion. Doing time was long bouts of boredom interrupted with short bursts of pain and fear, so Dom was hoping the one-eyed boy would give him a little amusement. Four months into a six month bit meant that he'd pay good money for a little amusement, something to take his mind off the two months he had left.
Yeah, it could have gone down a lot worse. If Brian hadn't dug his heels in and insisted that Dom and the crew weren't the hijackers... if his lawyer hadn't made him look like an incompetent idiot who fucked up the first time he tried a heist, well, it could have been a whole lot worse. Didn't mean this was easy time. Some days Dom wanted to find Brian and beat the shit out of him. Other days he wanted to buy the kid a beer.
Dom watched in amazement as this new fish settled in next to Keester, an old timer who went up for multiple murder. Well, he was going to have to find some other amusement for today. Instead, Dom checked out a Mexican man who was clearly turning his bitch out.
Dom didn't give the curly-haired new comer any thought until he got back to his house. The kid was there, unpacking a small bag. He saw Dom and stood up. From a distance, Dom had assumed this was a kid—he had the loose limbed walk and casual attitude that showed by the way he didn't keep an eye on the corners where someone might come jumping out. But up close, Dom could see something else. The kid had old eyes... or an old eye anyway.
"Xander Harris," he said, leaning against the bunk rail. Dom leaned against the bars and checked out his new celly.
"I have top," Dom announced after a long pause.
"Hey, I'm good with bottom. I'm not that good with ladders and heights, not since—" He tapped the eyepatch.
Dom thought about asking, or pointing out the humor in a man proclaiming his preference with bottom, but it wasn't like he wanted to get up close and personal with the guy. He just wanted to finish his two months and walk out.
"Bad accident. You know what your mother tells you about running and scissors? It goes for running and thumbs, too." Harris announced.
Dom just grunted as he flung himself up onto his bunk. Fuck. He just had to get a talker.
And the kid just kept going. "Out in the yard, I had you pegged for a bad mother fucker, not that you would actually fuck... and you know, I’m not that good at swearing."
That did it, Dom had to laugh. "Fuck, you'd better learn to shut up or you're going to get stuck your first week in. You'll be taking a back door parole."
"And by back door parole, I assume you're not talking about the kind of parole where you just wander out a back door, because I wouldn’t mind that."
Dom leaned over the side of his bunk and looked down at the kid. He was looking up, and that ancient eye now seemed so fucking young. Then again, if he believed there was an escape out of this hellhole, then he was that fucking young... young enough to believe in fairy tales. "I mean the kind of parole where they take you out in a body bag."
"And that would be of the not-so-good," Harris said with a grimace. "Definitely not so good."