Chapter Fourteen: Lullabies
The time just after lights out there was always some kind of routine going on, both among the inmates and the employees. It was the time when a lot of shifts changed over and those who weren't on duty that night headed home. Or headed to the bar for some Pina Colada and Strawberry Yoohoo, like Sarge often did.
Obviously, the inmates couldn't return home at night. But many of them had their own little rituals that they did, especially after visitor's day.
For example, one could count on Tucker to be attempting to stick up Junior's latest picture with tape he had bummed off one of the guards, and then stepping back to admire the collage of crudely drawn crayon pictures that covered one wall of his cell. He would stand back and ponder how the pictures changed over time and grew a little more detailed and a little less childish each time, just like how Junior was a little bigger every time Tucker saw him.
Sometimes, it was possible to see both Grif and Simmons looking through the photos that they kept in their cells. Both of their photo collections were of the same three people. Themselves and Sister. So they often stuck their hands through the bars and reached over to each other's cells in order to trade photos, while occasionally reminiscing about events that were usually stupid and trivial, but fun to remember. Grif stared at the photos and worried about how his little sister was doing. Simmons did as well, while also trying to remember the last time he'd seen his own family, and coming to the conclusion that it had been so long it didn't really matter. He wasn't even sure they knew he was in prison.
While the inmates did these things, there would be the guards pacing around, the ones that were on a night shift. Like York, who was currently seated outside the infirmary, cursing the prison for how long it was taking to acquire a new door and eliminate the need to guard the infirmary. Truth be told, this shift was meant to go to Wash, but Wash disliked night shifts so York had offered to swap with him. York liked night shifts anyway, because they tended to be quieter.
Whether guards or inmates, they all had comfortable patterns that they'd settled into. But Donut still didn't have that yet. He simply hadn't had time to develop any routines to distract himself with, and he couldn't even attempt it in the infirmary. At the present moment he was trying to sleep, although he was having trouble doing so. Mostly because Church kept mumbling to himself, and it was very distracting.
Eventually, Church seemed to tire with just muttering to himself and sat up, pushing aside the duck-covered curtains.
"Hey, Tucker. He gone?" he whispered.
"Yeah. Sure." Doc had left some time ago, fifteen minutes before the lights went out.
"Finally. Thought he'd never leave. Dammit, I need to stretch my legs. Where's the floor?"
"What?" Donut turned over to look at Church. "You probably shouldn't be walking around. Don't you still have stab wounds?"
"Psh, not like it's the first time I've been stabbed. Fuck that." Church turned and removed his legs from the sheets, poking the floor with them tentatively. He pushed himself to his feet, and immediately winced. "Ow, fuck."
"Church, get back on the cot," York called from outside. "Come on."
"Fuck you, Jimmy." Church reached out and rested his hands against the wall. "Ow, jeez... this is a lot harder than I thought it would be."
"Church. Sit!" York climbed to his feet from where he had been sitting on the floor and held his nightstick up half-heartedly. "Come on, I don't want to hit someone who is already injured."
"I said fuck off!" Church growled. "I'm walking! I'm fine, dammit! I'm not some useless... fuck!" Church had twisted to shout at York, and now he was doubled over, holding his stomach. "Ow..."
"Okay, what'd you do?" York muttered, feeling around for the lightswitch. Once he turned the infirmary lights on, he hurried over to Church and tugged his hand away from his stomach, swearing quietly when he found that the hand was stained red. "Damn it, you tore your stitches. Okay... okay, it's not so bad, I just need to call Doc. Uh, Donut, wasn't it?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you keep pressure on the part that's bleeding? I don't want him going into shock from blood loss again."
"Can do."
Donut pulled himself out of the bed and hobbled (more of a semi-hop) over to Church, trying to keep his weight off his bad leg. York had made Church lie down again, not that it had been a difficult task once Church was bleeding again.
"Just keep his nightshirt pressed to it. I don't even know where Doc keeps bandages and things..." York moved to the back, towards the phone, while Donut did as York had said.
"That was really dumb," Donut muttered. Church just groaned in response.
"It fucking hurts..." he whined, almost childishly. It reminded Donut of when he was a little kid. He'd been very prone to sickness in his early years, and his mother (well, one of them) would hold his hand when it was particularly bad and sing lullabies... good memories.
Holding hands with an inmate was an incredibly stupid idea. But Church was half-delirious and Donut's motherly instincts were kicking in. Donut kept one hand pressed against the stab wound that was bleeding, and moved one hand to grip Church's own.
"It'll be fine," Donut assured him. "Just gotta be tough, alright?" Church's hand twitched.
"You girl, Tucker," he mumbled.
"Yeah, I know. You alright? I... I can sing lullabies or something. Uh..." Donut paused for a moment, then started singing, "Go to sleep, my teddy bear, close your little button eyes..."
"Tucker, if you keep singing about teddy bears I will punch you in the fucking throat."
"Okay. Doesn't work, anyway. You're too grumpy to be a teddy bear."
Donut could hear York distantly shouting something about an answering machine.
"Doc, if you are ignoring this call I will rip your teeth out through your ass. ...no, that was not unnecessarily violent, just get back here..."
"Tucker?"
"Yeah, what? Any problems?"
"No, no problems at all. The fact that I'm fucking bleeding is not a problem at all!"
"You don't have to get angry..."
"Am I gonna die?"
"No, of course not," Donut said softly, still thinking about his mother and lullabies and other things that are inappropriate for comforting prison snitches. "You'll be fine. It's just a small thing."
"Well, good. Because if you fuck up and I die, your ass is haunted. You hear me?"
"Yeah, I heard you. Now, um... you want to talk about anything? Come on, anything I can do so you won't think about the pain?"
"Just..." Church shook his head. "Fuck, I don't care. Just don't leave."
"Can do."
Donut spent the next fifteen minutes trying to keep Church amused with whatever stupid stories came to mind. A lot of them were probably stories that Tucker wouldn't tell, as most of them were about his friends from back home, including his old roommate. And he knew Church probably registered that much, because there were some points when Church looked a little confused.
When York got off the phone he told Donut he could go back to sleep, but Church had protested against 'Tucker' leaving. Even though he claimed that it was just because 'if I don't get to sleep then Tucker doesn't get to, because misery loves company,' followed by a complaint that his stories were 'so boring they was almost making his ears bleed.'
Fifteen minutes later, when Doc ran into the room with a purple jacket over his equally purple pyjamas, Donut was regaling Church with an explanation of how he had ended up in prison.
"...and then the lawyer asked if it was self-defence, which it was. And I said so, but then they said that the amount of stab wounds from the kitchen knife were way too many for self-defence. But what was I supposed to do, I was scared! How often does your roommate try to strangle you for something, I don't even know what..."
"No violent stories, please, I just woke up," Doc complained. "Church, what did I tell you about moving?"
"Fuck off, Caboose. And no way are you coming near me with that needle. Get away."
"Church, no. No." Donut insisted, as Church was showing signs of trying to climb to his feet again. "Just... it'll be fine, I said. You're going to bleed to death otherwise."
Church squinted at Donut, looking suspicious. But he held still long enough for Doc to inject him with some kind of anesthetic.
"That better not be poison. Probably is, knowing you," Church grumbled. "Fuck... tired."
"You can go to sleep now."
"Fuck yes, I can. Didn't need your freaking permission..."
Church was out like a light just a few seconds later. Doc shook his head.
"More trouble than he's worth... sorry, that was harsh." Doc sighed. "Well, could be worse. At least we have the supplies necessary for stitches this time. We really need to stock up on supplies more." He nodded at Donut. "You can go back to sleep now. Watching people get stitches isn't very fun."
Donut let go of both Church's hand and the nightshirt he had been pressing to Church's stab wound. There was blood covering his hands. Donut blinked a few times, opening and closing his hands. He felt sick to his stomach for a moment, and all he could think about was his roommate and how much blood there had been... but the moment passed.
"He'll be fine, right?" Donut asked.
"Yeah, this is nothing like when he was dragged up here a week ago. Much less life-threatening, don't worry. Get some rest."
Donut wiped his bloody hands off and hobbled back to his own cot. He felt tired, too. But despite that, and despite the absence of Church's mumbling, it was no easier to go to sleep than before. If anything, it was a lot harder.