A/N: Okay, so I'm jumping ahead a few years (almost a decade, in fact), mostly because I don't feel like we know enough about the years between Red's attack and the start of S1 for me to really imagine what (if anything) might have happened in that time frame, at least on the Realy front. So this is about 8 years into Red's sentence and two years before the first episode of S1, and now I'm (both directly and indirectly) bringing in some more characters from the show that you'll all recognize! Ooooooh drama!
You and me are burning in the summertime.
I've said it before and I'll say it again:
"I'm so happy we're just friends."
- "Creme Brulee" by Sonic Youth
Chapter 7
Red hadn't actually been asleep for the better part of an hour; she had merely been lounging, hazily, in the little nest that she had made of her uncomfortable prison cot, sliding back and forth between slumber and waking. This had always been her favorite way to wake up, coming to consciousness little by little while still holding onto dreams. It was, she'd thought since she was a girl, like traveling between two different worlds.
Nowadays, it helped her to forget where she was. For just a brief span of time, every now and then, she could pretend that she wasn't in a dormitory with thirty other women, listening to their snores and sobs and sleep talking. This morning, she could almost imagine that she was back home again, in the small but comfortable apartment that she shared with her family. There wasn't much room for Dmitri in her daydreams; there almost never was. Even when they were young and freshly engaged, Red had always known that she could give or take him and it wouldn't matter very much either way.
Her boys, though…she missed them every day. Reality threatened to close in and remind her that they weren't boys anymore. Even in here, she kept track of all of their birthdays, insisted that they come to visit on hers; she knew that they were no longer children. Yuri was twenty-three now, fully grown, taller than both of his parents. Vassily was a man now, too, or at least nearly there, and Maxim wasn't far behind.
Still, Red could remember how they had looked as children, as clearly as day. Sometimes, on days like today, when she could wake up naturally, she allowed herself to imagine that she was back home, in her own bed, with one small son curled up on each side of her. They had all slept with her like that when they were little; Yuri and Vassily because they had nightmares, and Maxim because, possibly, she'd put off forcing him into his own bed the way she had done with his brothers. Red still didn't fault herself for that. Dmitri used to say it would make Maxim soft and that their youngest was too much of a mama's boy, but Red knew that she would never have any more children, and she'd wanted to keep her baby a baby for as long as she could.
Whatever I am now, Red reflected, I was a good mother. Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of her alarm clock, which she quickly reached over her head to silence. Where she had been half-asleep before, she was now wide awake, or at least as awake as she could be without a cup of coffee. She pushed all thoughts of her sons from her mind, for now, anyway. She could lock herself up in her office later and cry over the loss of them all she wanted. For now, though, there was breakfast to be cooked.
She groaned as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her feet landing on the cold floor. Red barely noticed; the pain in her back was too intense for her to focus on anything else. She was used to it now. She had, after all, been living with it for the better part of eight years. It would never not bother her, though. Every shot of raw agony down her spine, even the slightest tug of her muscles or pinprick of her nerves, reminded her of how her back had gotten that way to begin with, and made her want to scream and weep and punch walls.
Sometimes, though, she was grateful for it. Her fucked-up back also served as a reminder of a battle survived, an enemy conquered, and a lesson hard learned. She still smiled, sometimes, at the memory of how long it had taken Vee to realize that she wasn't just sick; her food was being spiked. And it still pleased Red to think of her old rival, during the last few months of her stay, eating her microwave ramen meals in the common room alone and knowing that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it now, unless she wanted to set off a full-on war that she had no chance of winning. Vee had possessed the brawn, but Red had the brains, and that always counted for more in the grand scheme of things.
Red had proven that she was a force to be reckoned with, not just to Vee and her gang, or to the rest of the prison, but to herself as well. That knowledge had kept her alive, both literally and figuratively. It had sustained her and made her what she was today. Sure her kingdom was nothing more than a tumbledown, cheaply-built and badly-run prison in the middle of bumfuck upstate New York, but it was hers nonetheless, and she was the uncontested queen of it.
The Russian woman dressed hurriedly, put on her makeup and spiked up her hair. She had just had it cut a few weeks ago, shorter than she'd ever worn it before, almost in a pixie cut but not quite. She'd hated it at first; if she were a lesser woman, she might have cried at the sight of herself in the mirror. However, with the help of a little gel and contraband hairspray, she was making it work, and she actually liked the way she could spike it up around her face, like a fire-engine-colored lion's mane. It wouldn't win her any beauty contests, but it was scary as hell, and that was exactly the look Red went for.
She made her way to the kitchen, where she found that Norma, an even earlier riser than Red herself, had already started breakfast. Eggs and biscuits were cooking, and everyone was on time (a rarity even with how tightly Red ran things; her staff, after all, were still just a bunch of little girls with little to no respect for authority) and busy. Wonderful. Much as she loved to cook, Red also sometimes enjoyed the days when her role was merely supervisory, especially in the mornings.
She made herself a cup of coffee and then stood off to one side, watching everyone work and occasionally barking out an order, but mostly just enjoying her beverage. In a bit she would begin lunch prep; breakfast was the easiest meal of the day and practically cooked itself, but everything else required a bit more work. For now, though, she was fine with watching. As her eyes scanned the kitchen and the caffeine from her drink penetrated her brain, Red noticed that someone in the room wasn't doing anything.
The offender was a young girl of medium height, with wild blonde hair and a slender figure beneath the over-sized orange jumpsuit she wore to make herself look bigger. Fragile, too, Red thought. Having spent most of last week in the bathroom holding that girl's hair back as she puked and steadying her while she shook and sweated, Red knew exactly how fragile she was.
"What are you doing here?" Red asked, softly but forcefully.
Nicky Nichols was still unsure of herself, and didn't really know exactly where she stood with the Russian woman. All she knew was that she liked Red, and Red seemed inclined to be nice to her and to look out for her, and goddamn did Nicky need someone watching her. She had only been clean for a few days; she wasn't yet used to thinking on her own, without heroin, but she knew enough to recognize that she couldn't do this by herself.
"I…uhh…I don't have my job assignment yet," she said, her voice still husky from the strain that nonstop vomiting had put on her throat.
"And this is my problem how?" asked Red.
Nicky shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought, you know, I could come down here and lend a hand."
Red strolled up to her, until she and Nicky were only about a foot apart, and stared into the young woman's eyes, severely but not maliciously.
"Unless you're assigned to the kitchen, you're out of bounds," Red explained, "And you and I will both get shit if I let you stay. Besides, I don't let anyone touch anything in this kitchen without training them first. Go on and enjoy not having a job while you can. Read a book or something; it will be good for you."
Nicky nodded, then turned to leave, throwing a doleful glance back at Red as she walked away. For the rest of the breakfast shift and all through lunch prep, Red contemplated whether or not she should have her newest daughter assigned to the kitchen. This one, Red knew, needed a lot of looking after, and under those circumstances, what could be better for her than spending most of her days not only with Red, but with a whole host of others who would watch her? Then again, she suspected that Nicky would be a disaster in the kitchen. Cooking was mostly about waiting forever for something to be done, and sometimes screwing up recipes beyond repair or throwing a bunch of things together hoping for ambrosia and instead getting metaphorical dog turds. Red doubted that Nicky had either the patience or the tenacity.
Still, by the time everything was cleaned up for breakfast and her time was finally her own, Red had her mind made up. She went to Healy's office immediately, knowing that he was Nicky's counselor as well as her own. Technically, the choice of job assignments was his and his alone, but this wouldn't be the first time Red requested someone for her kitchen and got exactly what she wanted.
Even after all of these years, Healy still favored her. She knew why, though she never acknowledged it and rarely stopped to think about it. In spite of that, she was still more than willing to use his favor to her advantage. She had been here for a lot of years, and had four more left to go, and if she hadn't used her place in Healy's good graces from time to time, her stay would have been barren and miserable indeed.
She reached his office and knocked on his closed door, but got no answer, even after knocking again. Puzzled, she reached for the doorknob, tried to turn it, and found that it wouldn't move. Sighing in frustration, she went a couple of offices down, knocking on Caputo's door. The balding man opened up, frowning when he saw her. Red knew that the captain of the guards barely tolerated her, and the feeling was mutual, but at the moment, she was on a mission, and she didn't care.
"Red," Caputo said sarcastically, "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
Red bit back the rude remark that rose on her tongue. She had learned, over the years, that battles had to be picked and chosen, and there was no need to piss Caputo off for no reason.
"I'm looking for Healy," she said matter-of-factly, "I'm having an issue with the kitchen."
Caputo snorted. "Aren't you always? Well, as much as I'd absolutely love to point you in his direction, Healy's not here today. He's actually going to be out for the next week or so."
"The next week? Why?" Red asked. She knew absolutely nothing of Healy's personal life except that he didn't really seem to have one; he never took days off, much less weeks. The man even worked holidays.
"Well, Healy's on his honeymoon," replied Caputo.
Red's eyebrows knit together, and she stared at Caputo, unable to process his words. "Healy" and "honeymoon" in the same sentence? Surely not.
"His what?" Red asked.
"Yeah, see, that's exactly what I said," Caputo answered, "But apparently it's true. Healy found himself a little wifey and she and him are taking off on a cruise to the Bahamas. Lucky bastard. For the cruise, I mean; not the marriage. You know how long it's been since I had a decent vacation?"
"Not as long as it's been for me, I'd bet," replied Red. Her voice, for some reason, sounded dull even to her own ears, but Caputo barely noticed, lost as he was in his own thoughts. "Well, thank you. You've been so helpful." She began to walk off, but then added, as an afterthought, "Mr. Caputo."
She went back to the kitchen, entering her office and locking the door behind her. That, of course, didn't mean much, since the door was just a fence that anyone could see through. But the cafeteria, for now, was empty, and it wasn't unusual for Red to come here when she needed somewhere quiet to read. The guards knew this and wouldn't bother her.
She sat in her chair, picked up the book that she'd left open on the desk, and tried to read, but couldn't pay attention to the words. Telling herself that she was just restless, she got out her calendar and took up a pen, fully intending to plan out the next week's menu. She got to Monday before giving up on that, too, and then sat and pondered just what in the hell was wrong with her.
Healy. Honeymoon. Healy had gotten married, and she'd had no idea it was happening. Red told herself that the last bit was what bothered her so much. After all, why shouldn't it? He was the first friend that she'd made here, long before she had a family or anything approximating one. He had always been good to her, and she supposed that, though they weren't close, they were on friendly terms, at least as much as they could be in their respective positions. It only happened once in a blue moon, but she did sometimes go into his office asking for something and then end up hanging around for a half hour or so just talking. She would have thought that he'd have mentioned something, and couldn't fathom why he hadn't.
Yes, Red thought, he should have told me. She convinced herself that she was angry about this smallest of facts and that this, combined with the sheer strangeness of it, was why she was so out of sorts now. That had to be it.
