AN: This was started in the early days of Brendan's imprisonment, before the absurdity that was "Father Figures" wrote itself, then abandoned. I gave up because it seemed to have been made impossible by the scenes with Warren. I have decided, however, that I can make it work; early in the imprisonment. It was originally intended as a companion piece to The Knock, but has ballooned slightly. It will be in two parts.

Things you need to know;

It will be in two parts.

Brendan has not yet been put in a single person cell.

Warren is not yet threatening him.

You cannot always believe everything Brendan says. Even to himself.

I must also confess that my entire knowledge of prison life is based upon the sitcom Porridge.

It was the walls that got to him. Sometimes he would stand with his back and head pressed against one, so the others would seem further away. Or he would mentally punch them down, imagine pulling the bricks out one by one, until the whole place fell down around him.

There were two sorts of people you didn't mess with in prison; the big guys, who could knock you down with a flick of their finger, and the psychos. Brendan had never been big, just tall and muscled in a compact way. But he didn't need to be; he could play the second sort perfectly. The first day he'd been there he'd picked a fight with one of the gym bunnies, some pathetic sort, more muscle than brain, then dodged around him, laughing like a mad man until a guard had intervened. Seeing Brendan do nothing but dodge, the guard had taken the now exhausted muscled guy had been taken off to cool down.

Brendan had spent the rest of the day intimidating and committing the most random acts of violence upon unsuspecting victims whenever he was certain there could be no retaliation. Word spread. "Don't mess with that Irish guy, he's a nutter."

He hadn't been surprised when the poor lad who he'd be sharing with walked into their cell as though he was trying to hide behind his own shadow. He wouldn't want to share with the guy he'd painted that day. It was a young lad, quite skinny, with hair shaved close to his head in a mousy brown colour.

Brendan didn't looked at him. He just lay on the top bunk, his eyes seeming to be closed. The lad hesitated before dashing for his bed, and Brendan had relaxed slightly for the first time since arriving.

He gave the kid a moment before growling, "I hope you don't snore."

He smirked to himself, imagining the lad's reaction.

Keeping the crazy front hadn't been hard work. Brendan wasn't sure if it was even an act at times. Even before, sometimes he'd chosen to explode, to keep control by keeping other people scared. Like the first few times he'd needed to keep Stephen under control. But sometimes… with Danny, he'd had no control then, never made a decision, his hand had just done what it needed, his voice screaming it on.

It was a week before he'd dared asked Cheryl about Stephen. She'd been evasive, said obvious stuff like "He's still grieving over Rae," "He's not come back to work yet," but Brendan didn't need more than that. He realised what it meant. His stomach twisted itself into a knot of fury, which he held back desperately. Cheryl didn't need to see the psycho part of him.

When he got back to his cell, he let himself go. Of course, his hands were the biggest casualty, though it took him sometimes to realise they were hurting. He crashed back against a wall and slid down it, now fighting fiercely against the pathetic tears.

"Er…" The lad had returned. Brendan hadn't cared enough to find out where he was.

Brendan growled; an animalistic warning. The lad stood in the doorway undecided. "Erm," he said again. He swalled, "I can't go, you know, it's … erm," he looked around him, "I'll just…" he made a dash for his bunk, where he lay fully clothed, staring upwards.

The fury was still in Brendan's heart, He understood why Stephen believed the charge, with everything the lad knew, but it hurt.

"Man up! You're pathetic!" Hurt? What was he, a whining woman?

"Sorry," said the lad, and Brendan spun round to stare at him.

"What are ye apologising for?"

The lad had sat up, still shrinking away from him as far as the cell would allow, "You said I was pathetic."

Brendan stared at the lad for a few moments before laughing manically. It was better than admitting he was talking to himself, and had the added bonus of scaring the lad a little bit more. The lad stared downwards and to the side. It reminded Brendan of Stephen, the way he had turned away that first time in the cellar, when he'd expected a battering, and got that electric kiss instead. It hadn't meant so much back then.

"And?" Brendan demanded, not really remembering what he was asking through his Stephen-filled haze.

"Er… sorry?" The lad tried, clearly equally lost,

Brendan kept his gaze on the lad a little longer, enjoying his nervousness. Suddenly he grinned, "Good lad," he said and went to set on his own bunk, ignoring the lad for the rest of the night.

He dreamt of Stephen that night; woke up with the proof of it. It was humiliating as he took care of himself, and more so as he realised the lad below him would probably have noticed as he'd woken up.

He took the opportunity at breakfast to make sure nothing would be spread that he didn't want spread; he sat right next to the lad, stole some of his breakfast, chewed it, then let it fall back onto the lads plate. The boy had stared at the mess, then looked at Brendan with shock and anger clear on his face.

"What…." he started.

"You got something to say, boy?" Brendan growled, face too close, voice threatening. The lad hesitated, face still angry, but now hurt creeping int. Brendan smiled, "Anything?"

The boy looked back down at his food. "No," he said, feebly, polking the remnants of his breakfast around the plate.

"Good boy," Brendan announced, and proceeded to eat with the table manners of a starving tiger.

That night he dreamt of Rae.

Of Rae andStephen. He may not have killed her, but it looked like Silas had chosen her to frame Brendan. Would she still be alive if Brendan hadn't reacted so publicly, if Brendan hadn't forced Stephen to use her, if Brendan had managed to keep away from Stephen in the first place?

"Er, are you alright?"

Brendan knew who that timid voice belonged to, "What's it to you kid?"

"Er, you were moaning and stuff," the lad offered, and Brendan smiled fondly, remembering how Stephen had never known when to shut up. "Are you alright?"

Brendan laughed mirthlessly, "Yeah, top of the world me." The laughed again, because Stephen always ended sentences with me.

"Er, all right, I'll just,,, erm…"

The lad disappeared, back into his own bunk. Brendan thought about Stephen. By the time Stephen had known Brendan as long as this boy, he'd tried to blackmail him, and Brendan had punched the boys lights out. The cheeky sod. He should have known then really, that the boy would be trouble, that the mixture of vulnerability and bravery that he would later find endearing, would be his downfall. His joy and his misery.

Why couldn't the boy have just done as he was told? Keep Rae as a beard, not make her pregnant, and rely on her, and let her find out about his boss's secrets. Keep nosy exes from finding out too, obviously.

He'd chosen a father because he'd assumed he;d be equally keen to keep it a secret. Not like Vinnie, barely old enough to work a bar, and flirting like a girl in front of Danny Houston of all people. At least Macca had had a vague sense of shame, coming from Eileen's catholic family. But Stephen had surprised him even there, expecting dates and hand-holding, even when he was pretending to be with Rae.

Maybe that was the problem. He'd fallen in love, which was ridiculous, with this boy who was cheeky and brave and good. Next time he had to choose a real mouse, someone who wouldn't say boo to a goose. Someone just as terrified of being found out as him. Worry about Stephen if he got out. Now was time to get his needs met.

This lad would be convenient. Wouldn't say boo to a goose, locked in together, no one would think twice about them spending time together, because they had to. Brendan wondered how long it would take.

The next day he engineered a situation. It took a large amount of bribery, mostly so no questions would be asked, and a tiny amount of cheek.

At lunchtime in the canteen, the prisoners were always a noisy bunch. The lad from Brendan's cell sat by himself, as if hoping the ground would swallow him. So it wasn't just Brendan he was scared of. That would work for Brendan, the boy would want a protector, so what Brendan knew would happen today would work.

A skinny chav of a man sat next to the lad, started hassling him. Brendan let him squirm, but knew it was going to get worse. Teasing, followed by threats quickly becoming something noticeable. That;s when Brendan made his move.

"We got a problem her, mate?" The chav barely acknowledged him.

"Mind your own business, Paddy,"

Brendan's gaze locked on the chav; that wasn't part of the script. But it didn't matter now, he guessed, he could take revenge for racial slurs, no problem.

"Move, then, you little bastard," the chav continued, and reached for the lad.

It wasn't until halfway through the manoeuvre that Brendan remembered he'd done this to protect Stephen. Some yob with half a brain had made a fuss about the note he'd used to pay and the change Stephen gave. He'd pulled the yobs arms behind him, and pushed him down onto the bar, then proceeded to wind him up. Stephen had been in a mood with him at the time, and had not been grateful, and Chez had been quite angry, but it would get him what he wanted now.

The chav looked stunned; he'd expected to have a bit of a menacing voice talking him down, nothing physical. Brendan slowed down to enjoy himself.

"The Twits, or Fantastic Mr Fox?" He enunciated each word, his mouth caressing them, like poetry. He grinned, secretly wishing he had gum to chew in this guy's face.

"You what?" the stunned chav cried in a strangled voice.

"I said, The Twits or Fantastic Mr Fox?" Brendan moved his face away, not letting his hands loosen for a moment. "you know, Roald Dahl." He grinned manically. "Love a bit or Roald Dahl, used to read them to my boys." He hesitated. He'd said those words before. He wanted to kick himself for being so easily distracted. He snarled, "you know them, dontcha? Ah, bet ya do, they're all about bad things happening to bad people. Like what I can do to each one of your fingers there." He took hold of a finger and twisted just to prove the point. The chav grunted in pain. "I think we can understand each other." He let go of the chav's arms, who rubbed them slightly, before adopting his most manly demeanour for his pathetic retreat.

The lad was trying to pretend he wasn't looking at Brendan. His head was bent like in reverence. Brendan remembered looking at his father that way when he was expecting a telling off or a thump. It annoyed him slightly. He'd expected a bit of gratitude, but all it got him was fear. Well, fear was OK, he guessed, Stephen rarely showed him enough fear.

"You, er…" he couphed, trying to look concerned for the lad rather than about how to get him into bed, "You alright there, son?"

"Er, yeah, er…" He could see the lad's eyes flicker to his own face and was relieved to spot some admiration in the boy's expression. "Er, thanks."

"Don't mention it," he said, and gave his serious, uncompromising expression. The lad caught his gaze and instantly seemed trapped by it.

He spent as much of the day as he could with one eye on the lad. No point being the saviour if his savee didn't survive long enough to be grateful. He noticed that the lad kept flickering his own gaze towards Brendan.

He remembered similar looks from Stephen. A little slap or an argument never did anyone any harm, but he kept an eye out for any real trouble. He'd done the same for the others before Stephen, but it had been less obsessive then; he'd never killed for anyone else. Were any of them really aware of what Brendan was really thinking? Stephen probably wasn't. or he would never have bothered with Mr Muscles.

Eventually the time came for the inmates to go back to their cells. Brendan, usually so calm, felt himself pulsating with anticipation. No sex for six weeks, now, and God knows how long before that, so the idea of some anonymous shagging appealed to him. He wondered If Stephen was partaking in similar meaningless encounters, or worse, had found another Noah, some pathetic, untrustworthy pretty boy, who would never do the things he would to protect Stephen.

The return of the lad ended his reminiscence. Brendan caught the younger man's eyes, and gazed steadily. He felt a small wave of disappointment as he registered brown eyes. He mentally kicked himself – they were perfectly nice eyes, innocent and pretty, why should it bother him that they weren't like Stephen's? And did he just think of some bloke's eyes as pretty? Maybe he was just loosing it in prison.

"Ye all right, there, mate?" he asked, in his sexyist drawl, the one that went straight to Stephen's groin. From the lad's expression, he guess it had a similar effect on him. Good. Since that nightmare with Peter he'd somehow managed to avoid anyone who would reject him. It was something in their body language, he guessed, which let him anticipate a reaction. A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered Stephen's early hero worship, stroking his imaginary moustache.

The lad seemed to start breathing again, his own smile lighting up his face. "Yeah," he said, and Brendan took a second to remember that he'd asked a question. "Er, thanks for today, yeah" the lad continued.

"Don't mention it," Brendan mumbled.

The lad smiled again, then said, "Er, I was wondering if you wanted to, er…"

There it was, the proof he needed. Anything that happened was now down to the boy. It wasn't as brave as Stephen's kiss on the floor, but it would do.

He faked his anger.

"What… what did you…. What did you think I might want?" Brendan exhaled, getting into the lad's face, intimidating.

"Nothing," the lad backed down, quickly, and Brendan sighed, almost disappointed. Stephen would have told him exactly what he wanted by now. But Stephen was far too argumentative. This standing down was a good thing. This lad was used to having no control. Like Vinnie. Stephen had always wanted answers, even early on when it should have all just been a shag.

"Good," announced Brendan, before moving energetically away and jumping onto his own bunk.

The boys own bunk squeaked quietly as he got in. Brendan was pretty certain he didn't sleep.