fic: just
Title: Just.
Author: Jess.
Rating: R.
Fandom: Oz.
Warning: Violence.
Notes: For the 10th anniversary flashfic challenge on oz_rapsheet. Prompt #2: Time. Title from the Radiohead song of that name.
Summary: Eight days in the life of Miguel Alvarez, post-season six.

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1.

You wake up to the smell. It's a familiar blend, the smell of Oz. It's piss, spunk, sweat, industrial strength disinfectant and the prison's soap.

The disinfectant is the same radioactive yellow as the soap. You wouldn't put it past the hacks to be washing the floors and you with the same toxic shit.

You get up. The floor is always cold. You take a piss.

You don't bother pulling on pants to make your way to the shower; your stomach protests at the thought of bending down to pick them up.

In the shower you take off your boxers and wash yourself with radioactively yellow soap.

One of the new bikers wanders in, strips down to his tattoos. McManus has a Noah complex or some shit, you think to yourself. Gotta have two of every kind.

"Hey, prag."

"I ain't no one's prag," you say back automatically.

"Yeah, whatever you say, you spic prag motherfucker," the biker says back, unenthused. He soaps his hair and faces away from you.

"I wouldn't fuck your mother if she put a paper bag over her head and begged," you shoot back, soaping your underarm.

Back at the pod, you pull yesterday's shirt over your head. It smells like Oz, mostly, but underneath there's the waxy smell of lipstick. It's smudged pink on the collar of your shirt. There's a pill in the pocket of your pants. Later.

---

2.

Your stomach cramps. You're pretty sure that's why you're awake in the dark. You get up. The floor is cold again. You piss. You realise you haven't had a shit for two days. You can't put on pants for the thought of bending. You sit still and wait for Oz’s fluorescent sunrise.

In the shower, a biker insults you.

You snipe back at him, not really sure what you're saying, except he backs the fuck off.

Soap. Rinse. Insult. Soap. Rinse. Snipe. Repeat.

---

3.

You wake up. You piss.

You shower. The same biker insults you again. You're starting to think he's got a thing for you. He really doesn't like it when you tell him so. You can't help it if you're just that good looking. He likes hearing this even less.

You don't take a shit.

Two guys get stabbed.

Your stomach cramps, and you skip lunch. Your pod smells like spunk and lipstick. It's nearly stronger than the disinfectant today. The pod gets its weekly scrub on Friday.

---

4.

Soap. Rinse. Repeat. It’s too quiet.

The biker from the other day grabs you from behind, and you both crash to the tiles. His fingers gouge at your eye socket, and your world goes lop-sided, as you lose depth perception, staring at the ceiling. You could elbow him in the balls from here. Or the gut. Or put your foot down on the slippery tile and ram his head into the wall.

Two of the gays run in and drag the biker off of you. They kick him in the dick repeatedly until he curls into a protective ball. You've learnt not to fuck with the gays.

At some point, you think, this would have been really humiliating; being rescued by the gays.

You stand up and look in the mirror. Your eye is bruising shut already. Your stomach cramps.

The gays are nattering on at you.

You’re going to have one hell of a shiner.

---

5.

The biker's not in the showers today. Your eye stands out, even in the steamed up mirror. You think maybe you should have gone to the infirmary.

In your pod, you put on your shirt which stinks of make-up. You don't bother washing it yet. It'll only get dirty again. In your pants pocket, there's a pill. It smells faintly of a sharp, flowery perfume.

Destiny. You smile tightly. The only destiny it's showed you is constipation.

---

6.

You get up, and drag yourself to the toilet to puke up nothing. Slippery bile burns your throat. You taste it all day. You skip breakfast and lunch.

In middle of Em City, McManus is organizing an poker tournament. You stand next to O'Reily. The gays are on your other side.

"Gentlemen, your prize is one thousand dollars!" McManus drags a conspicuous pause through happy, greedy hoots. "Donated to the charity of the winner's choice!" McManus. What a sadistic fuck.

You give a pissed-off yell along with O'Reily. O'Reily turns and smiles at you.

"Yeah, St. Mary's of Boston," O'Reily is saying, when you stop looking at his teeth and listen. He has white, white teeth. He puts a hand on the back of your neck, and leans in close, hot breath in your ear. Once upon a time, he'd never have touched you without permission.

Once upon a time, you might have given a fuck.

O'Reily smells like pot, paper and prison soap, not a trace of make-up.

"It's a great charity," he says. “Gives back to the truly needy. Like me. God bless cousin Patrick, and his parish." O'Reily's white teeth snap shut. O’Reily, always working some angle.

"I'm in!" O'Reily says, moving to sit at the long table that's been moved in for the game.

Beecher says he's in. He nominates some bullshit charity with a Latin name. Crazy fuck.

The new bikers say they're all in, and collectively nominate the American Cancer Society. You're mildly disturbed when they explain they used to give the little cancer kiddies bike rides every year. The guy from the showers isn't with them.

"Anyone else?" McManus says.

You would donate the money to Guide Dogs of America, if you could be bothered raising your hand and sitting down at the table.

You go to the showers. You haven't bothered putting on shoes. The floor's cold, but bending to do up the laces on your boots is worse.

Everyone's watching the poker, so you're alone in the tiled room with your radioactive yellow soap and the smell of O’Reily all over you, burying the floral make-up scent.

Soap. Rinse.

---

7.

You don't get up. Your gut cramps mercilessly. You haven't had a shit for days. Your eye is still tightly shut. You should probably go to the infirmary. The thought of getting dressed is enough to put you off and you pull the covers over your head instead. You don't eat breakfast or lunch.

"Miguel. Miguel, baby," he croons, brushing your forehead with his hand, as if your hair is long enough to get in your eyes. "What's the matter?"

His hand on your forehead is like a ghost. His wrists smell of sharp floral perfume, and it makes your stomach turn and your mouth water, for a pill or a kiss, or to puke.

You curl yourself into a tighter ball.

"It's destiny, babe," he says.

Yeah, you think. Yeah.

"You gotta take a break, sugar," he says. "Here."

He's talking to you.

"Take this," he says.

You open your mouth and take it.

---

1.

You wake up to the smell. It's a familiar blend. Au de Oz. It's piss, spunk, sweat, industrial strength disinfectant and the prison's soap.

You feel better than last night. The floor is cold. You bend down and pull on pants and boots, just because you can. You go to the showers.

In the shower, you wash the smell of perfume off your skin and the sticky taste of lipstick off your teeth.

A biker enters the showers.

"'Ey, motherfuck. How's it feel to get fucked in the ass by a fag every night?"

"I dunno, you tell me," you reply, washing your hair. You wouldn’t know.

Your back is to him, so you don't see him get up close behind you. He grabs the back of your neck and slams your cheek into the shower wall.

"This is for Dave Stanford!" He yells and smashes your face against the wall again. You feel your eye socket shatter, red wells up in front of your eyes. It’s the same eye the other biker mangled.

You wonder who the fuck Dave Stanford is.

You can taste blood.

You wonder if there's a pill waiting for you, sitting innocently in your pants pocket, smelling like flowers and waiting for lights out.

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