Ste's had a fitful sleep. He could sense Brendan awake the entire night beside him. He didn't have to look at him to see that there would be lines etched with worry on his face, his body rigid, peace evading him.

Brendan puts on a good show when he sees Ste's eyes drift open, yawning and stretching to make it look as though he's only just woken too. He settles an arm closer around Ste, his body warm and inviting. The boy plays idly with his chest hair as he gradually gets his energy back from the previous night. He could use a caffeine boost but it's frustratingly out of reach. It's going to feel like a novelty, being able to get out of bed to make himself a cup of coffee again when he's released. He hopes he'll never take it for granted, the feeling of freedom.

He's going to call Amy and the kids today. An uneasy feelings washed over him, and he needs to talk to them before everything kicks off. He can't let what could possibly be his last conversation with Leah and Lucas be about play dates and stuffed animals - it needs to be something important, something that leaves them with no doubt as to how much he loves them. He'll lie about being in bloody Benidorm if he has to, but he can't let them feel like he's abandoned them.

If the worst case scenario happens and it's Brendan in the firing line then he still wants to speak to them, for his kids to hear what his voice is like when he's still intact, still human. When grief hasn't numbed him.

Ste gathers the covers over his naked body, feeling a shiver go through him. The sparseness and coldness of the prison bedding didn't exist last night; he had his own personal heater next to him. He feels a prickle of guilt for the way he'd held onto Brendan in the middle of the night, waking from his dreams about dark corridors and blood on the walls to find himself gripping onto the older man. Brendan had coaxed him back to sleep by kissing against his hair and stroking Ste's thighs, calming him down until he felt safe again.

No wonder Brendan looks exhausted.

"Morning," he says at last, letting go of his attempt at drifting between unconsciousness and his waking state.

"Morning."

Ste ducks when Brendan tries to kiss him.

"My breath must be rank."

"You really think I care about that? Come on, you never used to mind..." He begins laying a trail of kisses across Ste's cheeks until he relinquishes, turning his face and granting the man access to his mouth.

Ste's sure that Brendan's already brushed his teeth. He can taste the mint in his mouth, and it makes him imagine Brendan rising from the bed earlier, allowing himself time to worry about today, and thinking too much, too much because Brendan's mind has a habit of working against the both of them, making him attempt to be a martyr and give up Ste for the greater good.

Ste scans his eyes, trying to decipher if he can see a change, a vacancy there.

Brendan laughs at him. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm not," Ste says defensively. It gives him an answer, however insubstantial. A smile's appearing on the corners of Brendan's lips, tentative but present, and Ste lies back and watches as Brendan begins to get dressed. He can see the way that he's fumbling over the button's of his shirt, and Ste rises and stands before him, replacing Brendan's hands with his own.

"You don't have to -"

"I want to." He does them up, leaving the last button at the top loose. He likes the peek of chest hair that shows through. Brendan gives him a knowing look, smiling that cocky smile that reassures Ste that everything's going to be okay.

"It's alright to be scared you know."

Brendan's smile falters, and Ste can't help but feel as though his words are a mistake. Perhaps this is the way that Brendan wants to play it, to avoid the messiness of feelings, to not let Warren have access to them.

"I'm not scared."

Ste knows he is, knows that a man like Brendan has more reasons to be scared than anyone. He doesn't draw attention to it, doesn't want to stand the risk of alienating him. Once Brendan steps out of this room there's a danger that he'll be a different person entirely; harder, less easy to reach. Like he'll be putting a mask on for Warren's sake, and Ste won't see a glimpse of the real Brendan until they're alone again.

He doesn't want to interrupt the man from putting on his armour, from transforming into what he thinks he needs to be in order to do this. Even the clothes he's picked out today seem carefully considered, selected to make him look like a dominating and commanding presence, an all black uniform that accentuates the muscles lying underneath.

"Maybe it'll help to talk to Des about this." It's the only thing he can think of. As much as he wants to believe that his words alone are capable of healing Brendan, he knows that they're in more serious territory than that. He can't give Brendan what Des can, can't be impartial, isn't trained at this. Ste feels like he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing most of the time in his own life. He's not qualified to guide Brendan through his, especially not when he's so close to him that everything he does affects him as though they're his own actions, his own screw ups and triumphs.

Brendan stares at him in disbelief, his hand playing with the skin of his neck as though Ste's words have buried their way in there and he's trying to force them out.

"You're expecting me to see Desmond today?"

"We talked about this remember? Everyday." He has to be clear about this. He feels faintly ridiculous for giving instructions to a grown man, for essentially blackmailing him into doing something that's clearly painful for him. But if the violence doesn't go then he does.

"Steven, how am I meant to be able to concentrate for fifty minutes when I know that you'll be alone?"

"I'll be fine. I'll stay with Doug and Ethan the entire time."

Brendan laughs, low in his throat. "Have you seen them? They're not equipped to be bodyguards. They'd probably get tired after five minutes on a treadmill."

Ste can't argue with that. He'd once seen Doug struggle to open a jar before admitting defeat, face red and veins bulging on his arms.

"Maybe I can go back to Desmond after all this ends."

"You say that, but if you get out of it now then you'll never go back, will you?" He knows how these things work. It's excuses on top of excuses, coming up with reasons not to go, and they'll always be more reasons against it; fear, not having the time, not connecting with the therapist, not believing that you need it. Ste's walked down this path too many times himself to be fooled by this. They'll never be a right moment.

"Look, how about I stay with Lynsey? She'll be setting up for class after breakfast. I'm sure she won't mind me staying there if we talk to her."

Ste can see him considering it, knowing he just has to push that little bit more and he'll get what he wants; Brendan in that room and talking, scratching away at the surface of everything that's happened in his thirty two years, everything that's made him find it so impossible to feel normal.

"Warren's hardly going to try anything with a member of staff and a dozen witnesses there, is he? He might be an idiot but he's not going to want to get sent down any longer."

"I don't know, Steven." Brendan's voice has turned dark, introspective. It frightens Ste sometimes when he gets like this. Like he's becoming more out of reach and even his tone and mannerisms sound different, look different. "Once a man gets sent down for murder, he's got little to lose."

Ste makes a grab for his boxers and t-shirt. If he's going to attempt a rousing speech, something convincing, then he doesn't want to be standing in front of Brendan with his cock and balls on display. He puts his hands on the man's shoulders, making it more difficult for him to turn away. He needs this to sink in.

"You wouldn't do that though, would you? You wouldn't hurt someone who hadn't done anything wrong. You wouldn't kill again." He doesn't want Brendan to think that he's the same as Warren, can hear the edge to his voice, the way it sounds like he's talking about himself like he's coldblooded, incapable of redemption.

There's a shake to Brendan's voice when he speaks. His eyes flutter from Ste's face and away again.

"No. No, I wouldn't."

Ste doesn't entirely believe him. It alarms him further that he still means what he said last night; he can live with it, can live with the chaos and the fractured nature of the man, how sometimes it feels like there's more than one version of Brendan - his Brendan, the person who Ste believes wants to build a life away from this place, a life with him and the kids. The Brendan who fights to protect him, who's generous when he thinks no one's watching, and romantic in ways that Ste never imagined. Ste can take that other Brendan, the Brendan who's in here for murder, whose dealt drugs, whose got anger inside of him that he hasn't yet managed to control.

He can deal with that, all of that. He thinks of the man he was five years ago, a man who intimidated and dominated and made the people he loves afraid. If Brendan's flawed, then he's flawed beside him. He understands.

"Please, just try not to worry, yeah?" He knows that asking this is an impossibility, akin to asking Doug not to be American. He wishes he could ease the look from Brendan's eyes, the look that speaks of more pain than Ste's ever seen before, that can't be touched by simple reassurances.

"Alright." He speaks it slowly as though sounding out the word, not liking its result. "But you promise me that you won't leave Lynsey?"

"I promise." He has no intention of straying from the sight of the staff, not now that the threat seems more real somehow, Brendan's nervousness transferring to him.

Brendan nods, seemingly placated. Ste can scarcely believe that he's agreeing to this at all, was sure that he'd refuse point blank to go anywhere near the therapy centre today. He smiles to himself as he begins to get dressed. The give and take, the compromise - it almost feels like a relationship, a proper one.

The idea's addictive and now that it's in his head it blooms, making him think of things outside of these walls. Brendan in the flat, in his bedroom. Brendan meeting Leah and Lucas, and eventually the two of them growing comfortable with him, familiar. Any initial frostiness between Amy and Brendan lessening when she grows to understand that the exterior doesn't always equal the interior; when she learns to look beyond the tattoos and the moustache and the sheer build of him, beyond his sentence and into the person underneath, the person who Ste wants to share his life with.

He feels giddy. Light headed and childlike, making plans in his head that have sprung there at the most inconvenient time, when he's meant to be focusing on the immediate danger. Now that it's formed he can't get it out, and he softly hums to himself as he slips into his clothes, only noticing when he's fully dressed that Brendan's staring at him like he's a madman.

"What?" He asks, feeling suddenly self aware, conscious of his own actions and how they must have seemed. The insensitivity there when a storm must be brewing in Brendan's head, his own thoughts littered with ways of keeping them both safe.

"Nothing."

"No, go on. You were looking at me." He won't be able to rest until he knows what Brendan was thinking.

"You're beautiful, Steven."

Ste doesn't think he's ever heard Brendan speak with such bare conviction. It makes him look away, feeling undeserving of such high praise.

"That's what I was thinking. Now let me take you to Lynsey."


"I really don't have time for this today."

He doesn't care if he hurts the man's feelings. He has better places to be, better things he could be doing. Watching over Steven instead of sitting in a silent room, a stranger staring across at him with probing eyes. He can't assess a damn thing about Desmond's reactions, doesn't know if the man thinks he's unfixable, a lost cause. Most of all Brendan doesn't know why he cares, why it's somehow so important that Desmond doesn't look at him and see something ruined, tarred.

Desmond still doesn't speak, simply turns his head to the side thoughtfully. Brendan's already sick to death of this psychological bullshit - of Desmond remaining so impartial, not even flinching when Brendan bares his teeth in a grimace, trying his utmost to appear deranged, thinking that perhaps he can scare the man into letting him leave.

"Cat got your tongue?" Brendan goads, leaning forward in his seat and staring the man down. Desmond's face remains like carefully constructed plaster, unmoving. Unlike plaster however, there's warmth there. Something behind his eyes which makes Brendan uncomfortable. Something like empathy.

His hands move to the arms of his chair, drumming onto them, nails digging into the material. After he'd made a rather dramatic exit by punching into it the last time he'd half expected Desmond to remove it from the room, making him sit in the corner like a naughty schoolboy. The bed's still an unsettling elephant in the room. Brendan's eyes flicker to it and away again.

"You seem agitated."

Brendan snorts. When the man does speak it's these observations, nothing that Brendan can easily use and twist against him.

"No shit Sherlock."

He waits for Desmond to tell him off for swearing, to press him further, asking him why his hands are moving so erratically, what's weighing on his mind that's making him lose control in front of him. He'd usually be doing everything in his power to shut a man like Desmond out, to let nothing slip past the radar - no emotions, not even a single insight into his mind.

When Desmond doesn't ask him it only incenses Brendan more, and his mouth seems to open of its own accord, as though it's beyond Brendan's control completely. It scares him to be this helpless, suddenly needing someone to talk to because he can't confide in the one person he most desires to. To admit his own fears to Steven would be passing on his agitation to the boy. If Steven truly is crazy enough to love him then he didn't fall in love with this - this nervous, crumbling man whose eyes are increasingly turning red and misty from the workings of his mind, from imagining the what ifs; what if Warren hurts Steven, what if Brendan can't stop him.

Steven must have fallen for someone stronger, someone who would have never let Warren terrify him so completely.

"I'm going to lose him."

He regrets it the moment it spills from his lips, can't believe that he's been so stupid to say it. He never tells anyone these things, hasn't uttered a Goddamn word in the years that he's been in here about what plagues his mind in the darkness of his cell, that causes the nightmares that have felt achingly real, so real that he wakes believing that Seamus is in the room with him.

It all began with Steven. He's told the boy more than he ever thought he'd tell anyone and it's opened a Pandora's box. It's made him think that rejection won't always befall him, that perhaps the world isn't full of people whose only intention is to hurt and humiliate him.

But he can't start believing that. It's never the way he's lived, not since he was a child and that innocence and belief was ripped from him so violently. He doesn't want to be that vulnerable again.

"This is the man that you're with?" Despite his words Desmond's voice is like a soothing balm, and Brendan can feel some of the pain ebb away. He stops attacking the chair with his hands, instead trying to keep them still and not start to make his palms sore by digging his nails into the flesh like he did the last time he was here. He's seen the results of self harm in prison, seen as men slice themselves open with whatever they can get their hands on; knives, forks, paperclips.

That's not him, not even close, never has been. But sometimes he does it without even noticing, an unconscious way to try to provide relief from the thoughts that descend on him, that are more painful than any punch into a glass mirror could be. He wonders if Desmond has written that down as one of his notes - that he's tried to hurt himself just as much as he hurts other people. Perhaps the man can't see a single shred of normality in him at all.

Brendan knows that he's waiting for an answer to his question, and wonders if he can truly give it. It makes it more real, vocalising these things which have infested themselves underneath his skin, worming their way inside. His all encompassing concern for Steven and what could happen today. His guilt about leaving him, that even with Lynsey watching over him he still fears that the boy will be harmed. If Brendan wanted to do damage to someone then he wouldn't let a teacher stand in his way, least of one who weighs less than a hundred and twenty pounds and barely looks like she could support more than five books in her arms at one time.

When he begins to talk, he tells himself that it's for selfish reasons. That perhaps if he fills the room with meaningless chatter then the time will go quicker and he won't have to focus on the clock, wondering if Steven's already in Warren's eyesight, already in his clutches.

Except it doesn't feel meaningless.

"Yeah. Steven." Even saying his name sounds private, personal. "I feel...I feel like I'm going to lose him."

Brendan looks down at the floor, wondering how many people have placed their feet in this exact same position, their backs against this very same chair. He can't be the only person that Desmond's seeing. How can the man possibly remember anything that anyone tells him, when surely the facts are replaced by the next man, and the one after him?

Maybe that's why Desmond has a bed - because he wants to not have to face the men, instead merely pretending that he's listening while he does a crossword in the corner of the room, or perhaps risk a nap while the men drone on and on.

Brendan looks at him from under his lashes, trying to sneakily see if the man's still even looking at him, still listening.

He never takes his eyes off Brendan.

"I've done...things. You've probably heard all about me, haven't you? Why I'm in here."

He tries to speak with some semblance of pride. The notorious Brendan Brady who everyone knows. Only his voice betrays him, shame creeping in. Sometimes he wishes he had no real reason to be known at all, that he could pass through this place like Steven, his only crime being trying to provide for his kids, however idiotic his methods were.

"Come on, Desmond," he prompts further. "You must have read my case file"

"I read everyones backgrounds and history before I take them on as a client."

Brendan huffs a laugh. Client. It sounds so distinctly clinical, masking it for what it truly is. He's heard some of the staff calling the prisoners patients before, as if they're all doctors and nurses in a hospital, in charge of the criminally insane. Not once during his time here has he ever been referred to as a client.

"Then you'll know why Steven should stay away from me."

"It doesn't sound like you want him to."

Brendan shuffles in his seat, unable to know how to answer that. Of course he doesn't want Steven to stay away. Before him his life was empty, was cold and devoid of any hope imaginable. But that doesn't mean that Brendan should be so cruel to drag him down with him, to make the boy exist in the same darkness that he does. Steven's got the option of going somewhere, of being a success, of meeting a man that could offer him something better. He can feel the green snake of jealousy rising in his gut as the idea begins to form. Just because he knows that Steven deserves more it doesn't mean that Brendan wants it.

The images that are appearing behind his eyes are punishing, taunting him relentlessly. Steven kissing another man who's not him. Introducing him to his family, and his boyfriend being someone who Amy accepts, welcoming him with open arms. Steven walking down the street hand in hand with this man, when Brendan can only hold his in the privacy of his cell.

"I'll hurt him eventually."

Brendan's barely even aware of Desmond being in the room now, is doing this for himself because he needs to get this out, needs to stop it from poisoning his mind any longer.

"That's the whole reason that Steven wants me to come here, to see you. I almost hit him. I pushed him onto the floor, bruised his back. First night I met him I shoved him against a wall. He didn't even do anything wrong. He never does. It's me...it's all me."

He couldn't stop now if he wanted to. The silence in the room is somehow giving him permission to carry on, the lack of interruptions providing him with some sense of reassurance that he's allowed to be like this, to say these things. He's not being scolded or thrown out or punished.

"I don't know how to stop. Afterwards...I can never believe that I've touched him. I'd kill anyone who did."

He considers adding that it's a figure of speech, but they're in a prison for fucks sake, and he's already passed that point of no return, committed the act that there's no way back from. If Desmond's shocked by his admission then he doesn't show it.

"I can't control my anger." It sounds alien to say it, to admit that there's a single thing in his life that he can't bend to his will, making it the way he wants it to be. He thought he had rein over everything, but not this. Never this.

"I think I'll hit him one day, and then he'll leave me."

He's exhausted by trying to deny it, by pretending that when he says it'll never happen again that he's certain. He's not certain, can never be because it's ever present, this ability for his temper to rise until it eventually explodes, with the people he loves paying the highest price. He wishes that it was only the Silas's and Warren's of this world who would bear the brunt of his anger, because if he lost them then he'd lose nothing. But it's Macca, it's Vincent and it's Steven, the one who means the most.

"What do you think about when you're angry, Brendan?"

The questions disarms him, but he tries desperately to think of an answer. For the first time in his life he feels something like determination to conquer this thing that's been a constant shadow looming over him. He wants to destroy the very heart of it and to be someone else. The better version of himself.

"I don't know," he trails off, unable to identify the thought process that goes on behind it. There aren't any thoughts when he's spiralling out of control, fury and black, hot hatred rising in him. There's nothing rational there, nothing in his mind that can calm him down, that can stop him from drawing blood and watching as he tears into flesh and creates open, leaking wounds.

"It's just noise," he says, because that's what it feels like. All he can hear is sound, impossibly loud and echoing around the room, like an alarm that will only cease when he hits the person who's causing the chaos.

"That's all there is."

He expects Desmond to be disappointed with him, to think that he's not working hard enough to hunt for what's inside. Brendan can't understand how the man's expression is still compassionate. It makes him think of Steven, forever seeking out the good in him, forever believing that it's there, even when he's only shown the boy the opposite.

"What does Steven do to make you want to hit him?"

Brendan can hear the subtext behind it; what does he think that Steven does. What does he create in his mind that's so bad that the boy deserves to be hurt for it.

"He makes me feel weak, because he makes me feel. And that's...I'm not supposed to feel. I'm not allowed."

"Why not? Who's not allowing you?"

Brendan shrugs his shoulders, but it's too deliberate, too heavy with tension to be nonchalant.

"I'm not allowed," he repeats, willing for Desmond not to press it. This is why he'd hated this whole idea. Things unravel in this room. Truths are unlocked that should have stayed hidden. His life will be written about in another case file, another report that will somehow be used against him, like everything has been before. The words on a page will never be able to do justice to the feelings behind it, to how hard he finds everything. He imagines Desmond's untidy scrawl; client shows no remorse for his own acts, client is aggressive, a psychopath, client cannot love anything.

Brendan's holding back angry tears now, tears which have been brimming underneath the surface for years, waiting for their time to catch him unaware and strike. He won't let them. He hates himself when he cries, hates how he looks like a little lost boy, sparking memories of a time when he used to call for help, for someone to save him. A time when he believed that villains were killed and the hero would prevail, until the day that he became a villain too.


It's the second time that he's run from the therapy centre, only this time it's not red hot fury that's driving his footsteps. When Desmond tells him that their session's over Brendan frantically rises from his seat, not murmuring a word of goodbye before he's out the door, the narrowed eyes of the woman at reception on him, distrustful after the scene that he caused the last time that he was here.

He ignores the stitch that he's getting in the side of his chest, moving with abandon, shoving people out of his path like they're mere insects that he's squashing. He panics when he thinks he's taken a wrong turn, that he's nowhere near the English classroom. It's only when he takes a moment to stop and work out his bearings that he realises he's close. He completes the distance until he's in the hallway where Steven and Lynsey are, and he looks through the small window to the room inside.

His heart lurches when he sees Lynsey, his eyes trailing over the men inside who are beginning to pack their equipment away. Brendan searches for Steven's face, for the head of golden hair and the tanned skin, for the smile that will stop him from feeling like his pulse is flittering at an alarming rate, fear all but paralysing him.

He mind starts playing tricks on him, making him see the boy in the faces of the other men, some of similar build and age. He could claw at his skin in frustration when they're not Steven. He stops watching from afar, bursting into the room instead and startling Lynsey, every one of the men turning in his direction to see the source of the interruption.

"Where's Steven?" He's shouting now, chest rising and falling rapidly, undiluted anxiety washing over him. He's sure that Warren's taken him, sure that Steven's lying on the cold concrete floor somewhere, blood seeping from his body, and Brendan was in a fucking therapy session and did nothing to stop it, let Warren kill him, and Jesus he'll never forgive himself. This is the end of him too.

Then he hears a voice, that Mancunian accent that floods through Brendan and makes light and warmth replace the dread that was gathering moments before.

"I'm here, it's okay." The boy's standing in the corner, the only place in the classroom that Brendan's eyes couldn't reach from behind the window. It's so typical of Steven that he wants to laugh. He just had to scare him like that, had to defy him and make him think that something had happened, something irreversible that would have a ripple effect, that would have made Brendan charge from the room and search for Warren until he'd found and killed him.

"Jesus Steven, don't ever do that to me again."

He doesn't care that there are at least ten other men in here watching with barely concealed fascination, the most feared man in this place beckoning the boy towards him, bundling him into his arms and enveloping him into a tight hug. Brendan ignores their shocked gazes, closing his own eyes and pulling Steven as close as he can get him, making himself believe that he's not an apparition or a figment of his imagination. He's here, he's real. He's alive.

"Oi, I can't breathe here."

He feels Steven struggling in his arms and Brendan reluctantly loosens his grip, slowly allowing the boy to have access to the air that he'd been robbed of, robbed because in that moment there was nothing on this earth more important than holding him and knowing that he's still safe, still Brendan's to keep.

Brendan begins to feel under inspection from the other men, seeing them turning in their seats to mutter into each others ears, clearly alarmed at the speed of which everything's changing. They've never seen Brendan like this before, never seen him in love and desperately clinging onto another man like they're imperative to his survival. Brendan knows how it must look.

He offers Lynsey an apologetic smile of sorts, taking Steven by the hand and leading him into the corridor outside where they can be alone. The moment that the door closes Steven is full of questions.

"Are you alright? Has something happened? Why were you acting like that?"

Brendan silences him with a hand on the boy's chest. He wants to feel his heart beating. It's reassuring, the steady and constant sound of it.

"Brendan, you're scaring me."

He never wants to do that, knows that he's done it far too many times already, more than he should be forgiven for.

"Let's go to the canteen."

Steven looks confused, his eyes travelling over Brendan's face as though he's trying to decipher the cause of his previous panic and the abrupt change of subject.

"I'm not hungry."

"It's not up for discussion. We're getting lunch."

He's being unreasonable about this, being bossy and not listening to what Steven wants, but he has to concentrate on the normal and the mundane, feels like if he doesn't at least try to get on with his life then everything will permanently come crashing down around him. Steven's regained some of the weight that he lost, but not enough for Brendan's liking, his trousers still hanging loosely on him, his arms looking like they could snap in two.

He doesn't want Warren to see him like this, thinking that he's ripe for the picking. He can already imagine Fox's eyes glazing over, his pants tightening sickeningly with the promise of the power he could have over the boy, the way that he could kill him with minimal effort. Brendan's not naive enough to think that a serving of dried, cold prison food will change Warren's mind about coming after Steven, but he has to do something; make sure that Steven looks at least like a contender, someone who won't break like a twig in the breeze.

He's relieved when Steven doesn't argue back, instead allowing himself to be lead to the dining room. Brendan forgets about his own lunch as he piles Steven's plate high instead, charming the canteen staff into adding extra portions.

"I hope you'll share some of this with me," Steven says, staring at the meal which is already weighing his arms down. Brendan merely continues gathering up food, intent and on a mission, pretending that he can't see the way in which the boy's staring at him in concern.

Brendan's eyes drift around the room, settling onto Walker's, the man staring at him from his table, the one that he's made his own since Brendan's departure, Kevin in his former place. He watches as Walker looks between him and Steven, his proposition echoing in Brendan's mind. He wants to share some of this with someone, someone who can protect Steven, but there's still a part of him that's waiting for Walker to trip him up, betrayal still at the forefront of his mind. It's not a risk that Brendan's willing to take.

When it happens, it feels like it's in slow motion. Brendan turns back to Steven and watches as the tray that he was holding moments before drops to the ground. He's sure that it only takes a matter of seconds before it reaches its destination, but it feels like he can see everything as it happens; see the food fall through the air, the mess of onion and gravy and roast potatoes hitting the floor, see as the tray crashes, the sound altering the other men and making them turn in their direction.

He waits for the screaming to start, instead feeling somehow deafened by the silence. Steven doesn't utter a word, forgetting about the tray the moment that it escapes from his grip, his entire body and attention focused only on Warren standing before them. He's covered in a multitude of bruises and marks, not an inch of his face free from them. If you look closely there's still the imprint of the shoe that smashed into his right cheek as Brendan kicked him. He knows that the real extent of the damage lies underneath the fabric of his clothes, that Warren's ribs are coloured with purple and yellow.

He limps when he begins walking towards them, his expression neutral and all the more terrifying for it. He shouldn't be here at all. If he was an ordinary member of the public then he would still be holed up in the hospital, but Brendan's seen countless men before him arrive back to prison a day after they were connected to a life support machine. Hospitals need beds and a prisoner gets no sympathy, even if they have just been beaten into a coma.

Brendan moves closer towards Steven, steering the boy behind him, out of reach. He sees a flicker of a smile appear on Warren's face, and Brendan realises with sinking dread that he can't win. If he protects Steven then he's making his feelings for him increasingly more apparent, but if he distances himself then the boy's still being placed under danger.

Walker rises from his seat as Warren steps closer, and Brendan feels the smallest semblance of loyalty from the man, can see the way that Walker's body is tensing, preparing for a fight if that's what it takes.

"Brady. Rat boy." Warren nods between them like this is a long awaited reunion between friends. Brendan crosses his arms, a further attempt to barricade Steven off from the man.

He's got a choice here. He can stay in the room and show Warren that he won't be intimated, that he's going to guard Steven from him with his life, not relenting until the day that Steven's out of those gates, finally free.

Or he can do the thing that he's never done before, and walk away. Walk back to his cell and not have to stare into Warren's cold, dark eyes and his smirk that already suggests he's won.

Before he's even aware of what he's doing, Brendan takes Steven by the arm and walks from the room, breaking into a run when they're out of sight of Warren, their combined panting breaths revealing the spark of terror that's been contained for weeks, now releasing itself and roaming wild.