Disclaimer: I do not own OITNB or its characters.
Author's Note: Okay... FIRST OFF I want to apologize to everyone who sent me prompts - I've not forgotten. They're secure. I'm working on them at some point, I swear. I'm not putting them off; I've just had lots of assignments, work and other academic/personal stuff that wanted dealing with first. This is also a mini-rant at myself for not just making this into chapters anyway. I had the idea at the back of my head but for some reason I just discarded it like "nah - just make it a ridiculously long fic that people are probably going to lose interest in anyway." Basically, I wasn't expecting it to be this long and I guess that's where I realized the pacing issue and evaluated that it would be far better than one LOONNG chapter to Bittersweet Composition. Thus - here it is as its own fic. So far, I have 13,000 words and I haven't even gotten to the core element of the story, so you won't have to wait long periods for me to update, AND I'll get to work on prompts meantime. I don't know why I didn't just do this in the first place... Anyway, each chapter should roughly be around 1K/1K½. I have been working on the progress for a while (since, like, the end of August I think?) I hope you enjoy them and would greatly appreciate feedback. Thank you for the feedback on here, tumblr and FF so far!
It starts with a headache. It usually does, that concludes with her pitching up a tent on her couch. A checkered blanket draped across her legs, books scattered around the laminate flooring and coffee table, which consists of empty mugs, bottles and magazines with various selections of DVDs cases spread out, alongside the unusually clean ashtray. Headache, reading, sleep. Sleep, headache, TV. Reading, TV, headache. A rather simplified, yet repeated routine, in distant comparison to her once vibrantly clustered lifestyle, orderly structured timetable in Litchfield, to just this. God, she was getting old. Thirties are the new fifties is what she convinced herself.
She snoozes and snores now, with her arm draping over the couch arm and the television remote perfectly glued intact to her palm. SAW VI was flashing on the screen at an almost muted volume. For two months, she'd kept this up. Consciously and repeatedly sworn that she wouldn't let herself fall through the cracks this easily, like some quirky young student living away from home for the first time. But had impaled somewhere in the cluster-fuck of her mind, that this wouldn't be easily maintainable. It's hardly bizarre that she doesn't exactly keep up with many 'friends' – including ones she left behind five years ago. Especially not those kinds of friends. Sleeping, TV, reading, and headaches were primarily all her life consisted of since those seemingly endless years and encounters behind bars.
She had a headache today, walking back from her local coffee shop. Famous leather coat squeezed under the pit of her left arm, dark coffee (quite possibly strong enough to knock out a bull), clenched in her right palm. Strong rays of sunlight, vibrantly shimmering at her orbs provoking her to squint through the forceful light and rapid pounding behind her eyes. It was way too humid for that stupid leather jacket she couldn't scrape off to anywhere without. And once again, she let herself grumble through her doorway and stumble onto the couch, to feast on the much-needed caffeine. She Allowed herself to doze off on the buzz and to whatever channel the TV flicked onto first – care of the content just barely slipping her mind.
Sobriety was peculiarly, yet conveniently rather easy cope through. Her seventh-time clean meant temptations had significantly less impact, and the thought or even discreet glimpse of sweet relief remained easily resistible. Still yet to fully kick the cigarettes - but she was far from hurry for that. If it wasn't gulping mugs, flasks (or even those stupid paper cups) of coffee down; It was smoking, inactively consuming what ever cheaply made reality shows America was shoving out, reading or lip-biting with an occasional side-order of a migraine. It was rather jading - which she knows she should most-definitely be spewing those thoughts back up into the deepest corners of the junctions of how-ever the fuck her brain works these days and all days. But she couldn't deny the fact, and that fact of boredom was indeed lingering. No matter how much the snarky blonde scowled herself for believing that - it remained there. Alone and dull like tonight's forecast. Yesterday, today, and probably tomorrow.
But when Lorna called, it was different. Every time the soft sound of her voice hit her eardrum, it was something else. Sugary reminiscence of their past encounters and just something sweet that hit close to home. Of course, she already went in requesting a granted visit, fully knowing the scale was down to damn near impossible. That failed. Therefore, Morello called as often as she would, could and wanted, regardless of the little time they had to share. Often in naps, Nicky would replay the conversations inside her head – no shame in the smile that often splayed as a result.
"Maybe you should see a doctor with your headaches, or try and meditate. I mean, I never really done it, except for, like, that one time, but it's supposed to be real good for the mind. Isn't that what Yoga's always sayin?"
On the couch arm, Nicky's iPhone gleams up a beam of light in the shadow-converged room and begins vibrating. Immediately, she shoots up from her hibernation, reaching to snatch her phone and attempting to prevent her hands from trembling. She taps the green circle, enough to make the colouring of the screen fuzz behind the tampered glass. "An inmate from Litchfield Penitentiary is attempting to contact you, to answer the call, please-" Without hesitation, she instantaneously tapped the digit; propping herself up properly from her slumped posture and putting the device to her ear. "Hey." She says, all raspy at the edges from her awoken nap. Their conversation flows as it usually does through the topics they touch on. The topic of Nicky's sobriety being fairly new, this time round. When Lorna reminds her she's proud, it has Nicky's heart pattering and a grin spread so wide, it began to ache her already, dangerously blushing cheeks.
The subject of support for Lorna's help was still pretty, unnervingly dismissed. It's not that Nicky never didn't intent to bring it up; reinforce the idea of support from professionals. But it was the possible chain-reaction that had led her to stray from. Help was what Nicky could always offer. But it was still a long shot. She's one person. One person that can only give so much, no matter how much she knows for sure Lorna must've convinced herself how 'fine' she is, guaranteed in these past few months. 'You can't keep dodging this, Nichols.' Though, she always certainly ends up overtaking the subject by the time the conversation is over, and all she's left with is the frustrations and mumbling arguments of her own self-frustration. It was only a matter of time before she gets out, and only a matter of time Nicky can withhold her prominent and genuine concerns. Another topic of subject sparked, after Lorna had finished wittering on about the return of a shower-shitter that she'd endured the unpleasant experience of cleaning up in her janitorial session.
"Hey, so, I know this is a lot to ask. But, uh… I've been thinkin' and would you… Go up to his house and see on him and Tommy? I'd ask my sister, you know, but she got her own kids to look after an' she's always workin', an'… I know I come home soon, but I just want him to get used to having, like, a mother-figure around him until mommy comes home. I mean, he gots to see me whenever Vinny comes up for visitation but, maybe you both could do with some bonding?" The brunette asks; shine in her eyes and hopeful smile as she wraps the chord around her forefinger. It's like a scene from an iconic seventies movie, set in the fifties. Nicky listened carefully, making sure to analyse every word and detail to ensure it's not a physiological trick to trip up on. She almost stumbles and stammers in the process. The blonde exhales and lifts from her camped position to take a short stroll around her apartment - phone still connected to her ear. "Uh… I-I dunno, man. I mean, if this is you worrying about Vinny, then I'm sure he's keeping up, I mean he didn't exactly abandon you both when he first laid eyes on the little, uh, alien. I'm sure they're doing great" She chuckles nervously and clears her throat. "Oh, no, no, this ain't about Vinny, I mean, it sort of is, but…"
"But?"
"Well, he just gotta job at Carl Junior's, and, well, his dad and ma's always workin' and now he's gotta job, no one'll be able to look after Tommy and I don't want him left with a stranger. I told him I was gonna ask you to come over, help out a little. If you want to? I just think Tommy could be spending more time with other people other than daddy and daddy's friends, you know?" Nicky licks at the dryness of her bottom lip, thickly swallowing. She stutters while saying "umm, yeah, sure. Alright. Cool." It takes Lorna indeed strength to restrain herself from jumping out in joy on the spot. She spews thank yous down the phoneline, before Nicky can manage to push a word in edge-ways at her expense. "Yeah-yeah, sure, no problem, but I'm gonna need his address and number, darl." Once Nicky is able to find a pen with a sustainable nib and that actually contains ink, she scribbles out the numbers and address Lorna blurts out, coated by her enthusiasm and zest. "Okay, okay, slow down. One, seven...?"
"Four."
Still strolling around her apartment, Nicky strokes the length of her nose and rubs her eyelid. It's unpredictable to foresee how this was going to go down. She clears her now clogged throat, searching for questions, as well as answers. "Well, what am I supposed to do, Lorna?"
"Take him to the park." She chirps down the line, as simply as could be. Nicky just scoffs. "Well, yeah, but. What if he cries? Shits himself. What if I fuck-up?" She slurs hopelessly, at her uselessness, unproductive-ness and incapability as an adult that should be pretty well-coped and responsible upon this milestone of her life. "Then you calm him down and change him. You won't fuck up, it'll be fine, Nichols." Her voice is that sweet, the blonde can essentially taste it between her lips. All promise and optimism, weighing down on her pessimism. "Babe. I'm an addict. I'm not responsible, I can't even take care of myself, like, neither can y-" She pauses, deeply inhaling and cautiously selecting her choice of words. "I don't think I should do this."
"You're sober. I trust you. I know you, Nicky. You'll be alright."