Title: "Crossfire"
Author: FrozenPhantasm
Summary: The story of Sam Healy and Red Reznikov before, during, and after the events of OITNB's first season. Like all my fics, this one isn't a songfic per se, but it was inspired by a song.
Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of these characters. They belong to the wonderful Jenji Kohan, Netflix, and all their other respective owners. Song lyrics (when included) will always be attributed to the artist, and some dialogue will be quoted from OITNB where the story warrants it (it should be pretty obvious which pieces of dialogue these are). I write fanfic for funsies, not monies.
Chapter One
And we're caught up in the crossfire of Heaven and Hell
And we're searching for shelter
Lay your body down
Lay your body down
Lay your body down...next to mine
"Crossfire" by Brandon Flowers
She didn't look like a degenerate. The small, matronly woman sitting in front of him looked…scared, more than anything. She sat upright, a scowl fixed on her round, cute little face, but he saw the way her hands shook in her lap. Her blue eyes—her captivating blue eyes—were puffy and rimmed in red. She had been crying, and it was obvious. He wondered how much shit she had gotten for that. He looked her over, and saw her shudder as a chill passed up her spine.
"Are you cold? There's a blanket over there, if you need it." He gestured towards a chair, where a standard prison-issue blanket was folded. "The heating and cooling in this place are pretty sub-par, so in the winter we all freeze, and summers are unbearable."
The red-haired woman shook her head slightly. She glanced at him briefly, and then her gaze darted around the room.
"Well, it's there if you need it." He said, lamely. He picked up the file in front of him, opening it to the first page. "Galina Nikolaievna Reznikova," he read, "Fourteen years for organized crime and criminal conspiracy. An impressive rap sheet, inmate."
"I know what I did," the redhead snapped, "You don't have to remind me." It was the first time he'd heard her speak, and her accent was so thick that he almost couldn't understand her. Her tone was severe, but her bravado was false. Realizing her error in talking back to a member of the staff, the woman shivered again.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I have…I've had a difficult day…"
There were tears gathering in her eyes, but he could see that she was trying her hardest not to let them fall. She was determined; he could see that from the set of her jaw and the way that she rallied herself. When her eyes met his again, they were clear, unperturbed.
"No harm, no foul," he said amicably, "But you probably shouldn't get into the habit of talking to the other guards that way. They're not all as understanding as I am."
The Russian woman nodded.
"Well, I usually like to give new counselees a nice speech about how everything will be fine if they just keep to themselves and keep their heads down, and let them know that they can always come to me with any concerns they might have. But you look like you're eager to get this over with and go back to your bunk, so why don't I just give you a quick little tour of the facilities and then you can be on your way?"
She looked up at him, seemingly appreciative.
Most of the girls who passed through his office were no older than nineteen or twenty. They had short sentences for minor felonies, and they had already been through the system, whether that system was foster care or group homes or juvie. They had no time for Sam Healy, MSW, prison counselor and paper-pusher extraordinaire. They gave not one single fuck for his platitudes. These were also the girls who, inevitably, ended up getting their asses kicked within their first week for mouthing off to the wrong person, or sent down to SHU for challenging a guard.
This woman was different. She was older, more controlled, and she was smart. Healy could tell from her file; no idiot could have played the role in the mafia that she did. He trusted that she would have enough common sense to know how to choose her battles. Besides, even if she didn't, she would figure it out quickly. Most of the older inmates did, especially when they had long sentences like hers. Figuring out how the system worked was a necessity for inmates like Galina Reznikova.
Healy rose from his desk, walking to the door and beckoning for her to follow him. She stood, and walked with him out into the hall. He pointed out the recreation room, then led her into the dining area and the kitchen.
"So you have experience in kitchens?" Healy asked as he led her into the food prep area. The redhead said nothing; she simply looked around as if sizing the place up. "Umm…food preparation?"
She looked up at him, realizing that he was addressing her.
"Some experience, yes," she replied.
"Well maybe we can get you a job in here," he said, explaining that Litchfield had recently lost its old cook, and then calling Romano forward.
"Reznikov," he introduced the new arrival to the mute woman.
"Red," the Russian woman corrected, shaking Romano's hand. As Healy looked on, he noticed a strange expression cross the redhead's face; one of her eyebrows lifted as though she were trying to figure something out. He ushered her out of the kitchen, intent on finishing the tour and turning Reznikov loose. She was his last appointment of the day, and he was eager to get out of there and go home.
Not that he had much to go home to. His last relationship had ended disastrously just a few months before. Lying, cheating cunt, Healy thought, instantly feeling both guilty and surprised at the vitriol. He couldn't help it, though; the anger always surged through him when he thought of how Rachel had not only fucked around on him, but thrown her affairs in his face towards the end.
With her gone, Healy's house was empty and lonely, but at least it wasn't Litchfield. Anywhere is preferable to this shithole, he thought as he led Reznikov through the hallway.
That attitude was a far cry from the one with which he had begun his counseling career. It almost made him sad to think of how optimistic he had been when he started this job nine years ago. He thought he was going to help people. He thought he was going to make a difference. The reality of it had been a slap in the face. Every day he thought about leaving this job, going back to school, doing something else, but who the hell was he kidding? He was too old now; he liked familiarity and routine, and Litchfield was his routine. Besides, despite how hard the realization that he no longer liked his job had hit him, Sam Healy was an eternal optimist. One of these days, he always told himself, One of these days I'm actually going to be able to do something real and help someone. Just one person, and then everything will all have been worth it.
He dropped Reznikov off in the room she temporarily shared with a handful of other newbies, then went back to his office. After packing up his things to leave, he grabbed a pen and a pile of sticky notes from one of his desk drawers. On one of the neon-yellow slips of paper, he wrote Reznikov—kitchen, and then stuck the note to his filing cabinet, so that he would see it in the morning when he began doling out work assignments for the new inmates. Considering his work done, he turned off the lights, locked up, and then got the hell out.
He made the long drive to his house in Utica, sighing in relief as he stepped through the front door and then instantly undid his belt and stepped out of his pants. His favorite part of the day was when he finally got home and was able to walk around in just his socks, boxers and undershirt. He had an uneventful evening, eating a frozen dinner, watching some television, and then going to bed. He clicked off the lamp on his bedside table, expecting to fall immediately into slumber, surprised when he couldn't will his brain to relax despite the lethargy of his body.
In his mind's eye, he kept on seeing the Russian woman's face, replaying over and over how her blue eyes had looked the first time she gazed directly at him. I'm attracted to her, Healy realized with a jolt. How could he not be? She was no beauty queen; she was small and matronly and had a certain awkwardness about her. Still, she was pretty in her own way. Redheads had always appealed to him, and that woman's voice…god, the way it could switch from being rough as sandpaper to smooth like a caress. That combined with her accent was just about the sexiest thing Healy had ever heard.
This was bad news. Healy had seen his share of pretty women in his office, but the majority of them were barely more than bad-tempered children, and, besides being eye candy, they held no appeal for him. Even if he had been drawn to any of them the way that he was to Reznikov, he knew how wildly illegal inmate/guard relations were, even when consensual. Even if the laws hadn't been in place, Healy would never take advantage of any of the prisoners under his care that way. He thought, though, that he would be willing to make an exception in Reznikov's case, and that was what scared him.
I'm going to have to watch it, he thought, Going to have to make sure not to get too chummy with Reznikov. Red, he corrected himself. She likes to be called Red…