Three days. Three fucking days with his boy in the hole and the only news being “he’s alright”. The guards, paid or not, can just suck Tully’s dick and stop rolling their fucking eyes. If anyone’s doing anything to his boy… Tully is careful not to let his worry show, not even to himself. In fact, some distance is probably good and Marty, who’s sporting a limp due to “an accident” that might’ve had him regret talking himself out of solitary, has gained a few braincells (and lost a couple of teeth) and stays far away from Tully.
In Stockton, this has nothing to do with Tully caring for his punk (which, for the record, he doesn’t!) but about making a thing or two about respect and rank clear. Ortiz might be the lowest but he belongs to a shot caller and that means he’s untouchable by lowlives such as Marty.
Tully lays alone in his bunk on evening number three, pretending to read because that’s the easiest way for him to keep people away. He doesn’t actually read though, just looking through the words and not at all wondering how Ortiz is doing. It’s easier to think of him by his last name when he’s not around and that’s actually irritating too.
A derailed punk sucks, because it takes time and effort to mold him into shape. Not that Tully ever considered any of his punks’ brain material, but it’s fucking exhausting and honestly a turn-off when the only thing their mouths are good for, is swallowing cum. For a coward and spic who’s pretty much given up on himself, Ortiz has at least some coherrant and amusing things to say every once in a while. But the boy doesn’t deal well with being alone and there’s a very possible work load coming with that once he’s back. Marty and the niggers should be put through the fucking mangle down the laundry.
Tully knows he’s been looking more grim than usual these three days and that’s just as well. It keeps people away, makes the beggers and junkies looking for favors and money a little less eager and it’s good for Tully’s reputation as well as the AB as a whole to make a thing or two clear, even if it’s just with a look or dismissive wave. He’s a vicious being by nature and people do good remembering that.
Three nights without his boy in bed has been a quite annoying experience, to be honest. It’s become something to look forward to in this bleak place, this soft warmth smelling from soap and toothpaste curled up against him at night… Oh, fuck this faggy shit! Tully curls his fists, he’s turning soft and that’s always a bad thing in here. Out there as well and that’s why he barely raises his gaze from the book when a guard comes with Ortiz fifteen minutes before light’s out.
He doesn’t answer the guard’s remark on making sure Ortiz doesn’t go around pacing all night, as if Tully is some goddamn spic punk babysitter and the spic punk in question just goes straight to the sink to wash up. Tully pretends to be busy with his book for a while, until the curious eyes and ears on the block have gotten bored at waiting for something to happen in the cell. A fight or a fuck. Or rather: a lesson taught by a shot caller to his punk. The men here are impatient though and have soon turned their interest to their own shit.
Ortiz is brushing his teeth now and he’s moving rather slowly, probably stiff after the three days and Tully is barely able to keep off a disapproving sound when the boy takes his shirt and tanktop off to throw in the laundry. There’s a huge bruising over the right ribs, going from the chest to the back. Marty must’ve gotten more hits in than Tully saw and his eyes are getting thinner as he approaches his injured punk.
The boy then twitches and curls into himself, fists not lashing out but bending into his chest and toothbrush still in his mouth with shoulders slumping and Tully realises he’s expecting another beating, or some form of punishment for going after an AB member. So Tully does what little he can before light’s out and puts a hand onto his boy’s shoulder, light, lip-syncing:
“It’s alright, boy. It’s alright.”
There’s a little less tension, enough for Ju… Ortiz to finish preparing for bed at least – Tully has already laid down – and when the cellblock goes dark he’s standing in front of the bunk, as if not knowing where to sleep. Tully quietly removes the blanket from his own mattress then, patting it and the boy doesn’t even hesitate, just grabs his pillow and moves to lay down on the offered spot next to him.