Work Text:
Fucking Oswald was trying its level fucking best to kill Ryan O'Reily.
He'd survived everything the whole world could throw at him -- worst fucking bitch status, fists, bullets, brawls, car crashes. (His small, vulnerable, disappointingly bitch-prone body left only to the care of a mean old drunk, and the sobbing woman who kept Ryan at arm's length, not able to even save herself.) The razor thin edge of the riot, the cancer, the chemo, all the hounds of hell snapping at Ryan O'Reily's heels -- and this fucking shithole added yet another bullet in the chamber.
This time, Ryan's chances might be up, no matter how hard he fought, clawed, planned, and played the crap hands he was dealt.
He'd managed to hide his very dangerous truth, even in this fucking gory gossip mill. This long, at least. Helped by the mandated suppressant keeping them all under wraps.
Until now, when Ryan's own body was starting to shake and betray him again.
For this moment, though, he was alone.
Deep breath through his nauseous faltering body, which was now sort of missing a small chunk. (Not big enough to spare him this follow-up chemo, of fucking course.) All in the fight, with all that he had, even feeling like shit.
But it might not be enough.
Alone for the moment, the smallest bit of peace he could have in here, however brief.
Stark walls. Privacy with his little machines, on his hospital cot. The rarity of a private room in the Hospital Ward, what a fucking privilege.
It was their shitty way, half-assed as always, of doing the bare minimum to protect those under their shitty thoughtless care.
It was the chemo -- fucked with his body, sure. In several different ways. The suppressants couldn't be counted on to save him like they had for all his years.
Not now, not here.
Sure, his fucked up body was still-- not like he was going to go into heat, or have his instincts set loose fully. But they maybe weren't going to keep tamping him down like normal, with his body far from normal anyway.
Side effects.
Precautions.
Guys going through shit that would affect the way their suppressants worked got shoved in the private rooms. For their safety and others. Omega, beta, alpha -- whatever was marked in those confidential files, they all got shoved in them the same. Protocol.
But this is when that shit slipped out, when things became known. Sure, alphas didn't care, betas didn't really either.
But Ryan.
Alone, in his little room, waiting for his fucking doom to swing in or out of that door randomly one day. (Wouldn't even be someone coming in to mess with him, most likely. It would be the information on him flowing out.)
Dr. Nathan, now she was... special. She fucking cared. Big brown eyes, warm touch, trying to reassure him. Because she knew. Maybe the system didn't understand as well, despite the rules keeping their status confidential, just how screwed an omega was in here if the whispers got out. But she did, and tried to lay it out calmly -- the suppressants could stay effective enough, it was uncertain how much he'd present, there was no reason to believe it coming out was inevitable. She tried to tell him he might scrape through this okay. When it had started, feeling his self-imposed life-long numbness get shaky, things long buried swirling sluggishly under all the other shit killing and curing him, she'd been quick to reassure him. His scent was mildly present, but I can't tell, Ryan. You-- your scent is breaking through very mildly, but your status is not identifiable. We'll continue to monitor your symptoms, and adjust your meds as well as we can accordingly. What's most important right now is dealing with the cancer and doing our best to prevent future reoccurrence. We'll deal with the rest as well as possible, but you should focus your energy on getting through the chemo.
She'd called him Ryan. Bad fucking sign. Sure, could sniff him out a little, but not as an omega. Yet. And he wasn't having any other adverse little presentations. So technically? He was safe. For now.
In his little room. Alone.
Where Gloria had again assured him that only outside staff, who signed NDA's about that shit anyway and couldn't tell anyone dick regardless (in theory), would be allowed in to help him. Another part of protocol -- none of the other inmates, orderlies or not, allowed in his room. To protect his privacy, and to protect the other inmates from the patient.
That last bit? Was mainly for when a pissed off injured alpha couldn't be on suppressants for whatever reason. Couldn't risk the chance of them going all feral, combined with their pesky criminal tendencies, and ripping a poor suppressed orderly to shreds because the guy was in a different gang, or just looked real fuckable that day. How the nurses got through that shit unscathed, and without hazard pay, Ryan would never understand. There was the fun rule where they couldn't be in his room unaccompanied. Had to come in cute nurse pairs, or with a Hack, which made it an extra hassle for them. Gloria broke that rule all the time, but she was big on the confidentiality of their talks, and had an excellent stern doctor face which made people do it her way.
That was standard protocol until now, anyway.
But someone else snagged a solemn-eyed confidential chat with her, as soon as Ryan had started the chemo and those regulations had locked him in his solitary room of pretend safety.
When she let herself into Ryan's locked room to discuss it with him afterwards, she'd been... nervous wasn't exactly the right word, since she had a tough spine and iron guts to go with those caring eyes and hands. But she'd still been cautiously hesitant in her capable determined way.
It turned out, an inmate roped into work detail had come to her voluntarily, quiet and private, the second Ryan had been moved. Guy had offered his services, saying he could work this particular protocol private room no problem.
Because he already fucking knew the truth lying within it, and wasn't a confidentiality risk. And of course, Ryan wasn't really a risk of doing anything to him, any more than usual for any two motherfuckers crossing paths in here. (Because Ryan was not an off-the-rails alpha, and Nathan knew that as well as he did.)
Miguel Alvarez.
Alvarez had apparently told the good and gracious doctor he knew Ryan's status, anyway. So, he could help out the staff, just like always, even there.
Now, guys in here? Probably pulled that bullshit all the time, with fucking everything. Sure, sure, I already know this thing I'm not supposed to know. So you can totally let me close to this shit that could be used to my advantage. It's all copacetic.
Gloria Nathan? Kind, yeah -- but not a moron or a pushover. Alvarez had probably gotten shut down with quite a firm tone and expression, and Ryan got the good doctor, concerned eyes on his face, sitting on the end of his bed for a consultation, asking if it was true.
She wanted to protect him, was worried, he could tell. Because she also knew what Alvarez was, and him sniffing around for private time with a weakened omega? Not a great sign.
She'd blinked a little when Ryan had admitted it was true, that Alvarez was aware, and he probably wasn't more of a danger to Ryan than anybody in here usually was.
Ryan hadn't blinked, not externally anyway, when he'd done the quick calculation before giving that answer. Could've said nope, no idea what that asshole is talking about, must be guessing, trying to worm something out of you.
But he hadn't.
Because Ryan thought fast, and saw more than just the one path. He answered like that? It would put a spotlight on Alvarez. A dangerous little black mark in his file even, possibly, for trying to play the Doc. Now, there was a slight chance that could increase the danger to Ryan -- Miguel could tell the whole sniffing, wall shoving story to defend himself from said possible trouble, and it could all come out. Another possibility... yeah, Alvarez might not -- could just go stone-faced, shut down, and drop it. But that would still leave Alvarez in possible trouble for his previous 'lying' chat, trying to persuade the doctor to let him in Ryan's room. Usually? Ryan didn't factor that danger to others shit in. But. Ryan also had a fantastic fucking memory.
I've got you.
Alvarez had his back during the riot, instantaneous and unasked. Even afterwards -- he'd kept his mouth fucking shut until now. Now, Ryan sold out people all the time when he had to. But this time, he did have a choice to make that was pretty even either way on the danger-to-Ryan scale.
Ryan flipped a coin, and told the truth. Besides, maybe if Alvarez was let in to work his room, Ryan could find out why the fuck he'd taken such a risk trying to get in there. Sure, Alvarez's plans might be nefarious, but he'd had fucking months to screw Ryan over and done nothing but keep his secret, and mostly his distance, in an amicable way. Could've been waiting for a shot to get Ryan alone, but... nah, even that was something the leader of the Latinos probably could've managed some other way by now. Ryan had been watching him, learning the man's style, even as they acted like anybody else in here with each other. No more private chats after that one unhinged day, no mentions of the riot. Caught Alvarez's eyes looking back at him sometimes, but that didn't stand out since he observed people just like Ryan did. It didn't seem like a random hospital attack that required a doctor's permission, after months of peace and relative quiet between them (beyond some idle chatter at the tvs, checkers, and card games), would be Alvarez's first choice of move.
Seconds after Gloria's blinking, and Ryan's lack of it, she'd continued thoughtfully, still cautious, looking out for him in her own way. Asking if that was the case, would he be comfortable with Alvarez doing his regular orderly duties for him when Ryan's true nature was maybe slipping through his cracks a little. Would make things a little easier on the nurses and Hacks during the infirmary's busy periods, and would be an extra hand if Ryan needed it.
Ryan had said yes.
Because it was true, wasn't it? Alvarez already knew. (Only said yes, short and to the point. Didn't explain. Didn't offer details, even to those beautiful eyes that looked like caring and offered trust.)
Ryan's days were more starkly numbered than ever, because of this shithole's new way of trying to fucking kill him.
So, why not...
Ryan knew the work detail schedules, inmates working a few hours a day, a few days a week. Alone, in his small sparse room, frequented only by nurses, Hacks, and Nathan up until then, Ryan was well aware of the tick of the clock. Knew exactly when someone's shift was, and which days. Today was the first of the new arrangement.
Miguel Alvarez.
Near him when he was falling apart.
And Ryan had said yes.
Driven by the hounds of hell nipping at his heels so closely he could feel the fangs.
Might not have much time left.
Why fucking not?
Fuck.
*
Ryan started to move when he heard the clatter outside of the door. Mostly his mind assessing danger and planning possible action, body tensing to follow.
Had a scalpel secreted away, having snatched it to bring with him when he'd heard about his move to the private rooms. (No luck on medical staff bringing scalpels into his room, it was all just blood pressure cuffs and meds and shit. And he couldn't get out of his room without fucking permission.)
The brief clatter, like something thudding to the floor, was followed by a lazy rhythmic rap on the door.
Nurses didn't do that. Gloria usually was polite, gave a quick perfunctory knuckle tap, nothing like that one--
--sound of a key in the lock had Ryan only halfway out of bed just in case, preemptively aimed towards the cabinet along the wall he kept the scalpel hidden in when--
Miguel Alvarez.
"Yo, O'Reily -- I'm coming in, better be fucking decent." Heard his distinct voice before his distinct face (and body) followed along with the opening door. "Who am I kidding? Be waiting for-fucking-ever for that with you."
Ryan scoffed at the mildly playful insult to Ryan's character, mainly observing the man's entrance. (Hey, it's not like Ryan wanted guys in here to think he was a sweetheart pushover. What did he care if Miguel Alvarez thought he was a bad guy? Even if maybe a stray thought rubbed Ryan the wrong way for half a second before he ignored it -- Alvarez actually didn't sound like he was judging him. At all. Almost sounded like a positive assessment of Ryan from him, kind of.)
Ryan also spotted the source of the clatter quickly. Chair, with folded sheets and a extra pillow, few other things on it. Must've been the sound of Alvarez temporarily setting it down outside the door after carrying it to the room. Like how he was now easily picking the whole shebang up to carry in, moving with that easy graceful surety in his own strength he also carried off well.
"Sorry, pal. Wrong room. No cash for Girl Scout cookies today."
Alvarez peered over the chair, eyebrow raised, expression suggesting Ryan was stupid. "This looks like cookies to you? May need to call for the Doc."
Set the chair down with another thump a foot or so from the bed in the small room, before turning to close (and lock) the door. Ryan didn't lose the wary tension he was carrying in his always-at-the-ready mind, even as he purposefully switched to loose and casual, leaning back in the bed. The locking could be bad -- but it was also just protocol. Everyone who came into his room did it, except the nurses when they were busy sometimes and skipped it, regulations be damned.
"Are you moving the fuck in or something? Gotta say, I'd rather have cookies. You as a roommate? None for me thanks."
Alvarez had this little-- it was like the beginning of a grin. One side of his mouth, just tugging up kind of crooked to let out a low huff of amusement. Stopped teasing, though, even as his ease stayed. "Change of sheets and stuff. You can sit in the chair while I make the bed." He lazily gestured at Ryan, leaning back against the closed door to wait. Not making a move yet, seemingly just there to work.
Ryan still had a clear shot between himself and his hidden shank. He wasn't moving yet either, but he did stare down Alvarez without amusement. "Not a fucking invalid. I can stand just fucking fine while you change the bed, even as slowly as you fucking do it."
Inwardly? Ryan didn't mean that particular insult. He'd seen Miguel around the Ward a little, before he'd gotten shoved in his goddamn safety room. Ryan's guess as to the reason Alvarez sometimes spent so long making beds out there, acting like a dying sloth who'd never seen how sheets worked before? Alvarez was seemingly drawing out his little orderly tasks on purpose on occasion, using the opportunity to observe and gather intel around him, while fading into the background. Not clueless, or actually inept at making beds, no.
"Just an offer to keep you out of my way, man. Wasn't assuming shit." Alvarez returned Ryan's look with his own, steady eye contact, and something-- "Besides, with you? Wouldn't matter if you were para-fucking-plegic. Got a deadly damn mind." Respect? Compliment again? Appreciation, possibly. Dark eyes stared back, unshaken and not backing down for a second in the face of Ryan's bristling, but... yeah. It wasn't just Alvarez holding his own, he was acknowledging something about Ryan as well.
Ryan noted a strange feeling in response, while continuing to show nothing outwardly. Another little new something else, as the suppressants and everything inside of Ryan was being affected by what he was going through. It was all mixed up with the nausea, chemical shredded frailty, the general feeling like shit, but Ryan was feeling things he never had before. Hints of long buried instinct and blood, the numbness not all encompassing anymore. Felt a... tiny hum of something at whatever was in Alvarez's eyes, his seemingly approving comment. Shit, it was a good thing Ryan excelled at burying shit where no one could see it.
Alvarez shrugged off the previous moment just as easily. "Stand, sit, I don't give a shit -- just need the bed. Only take a couple minutes. I'll leave the crap on the chair, then. Move it if you want."
Ryan got up from his hospital bed, aiming for as smoothly as he could. Another new, much shittier thing -- felt the difference made by what his body was being put through, even in his movement. Exhausted and weak, didn't flow effortlessly anymore. Still made it look like it, though. Ryan moved to lean against the cabinet holding his hidden protection, between the door and the bed for a minute.
"Think you may be taking your work detail a bit too seriously there, Alvarez," Ryan remarked sarcastically, watching Alvarez get started. Still no suspicious moves. Just went to the bed, keeping distance between him and Ryan as he passed, getting right to stripping the sheets. "Shouldn't you be off boosting meds or swiping scalpels or something?"
Miguel paused, throwing his weighty gaze right back over his shoulder, joining his similarly unreadable voice. "I'm right where I should be." Turned back to the bed, taking whatever mysterious look was in his eyes away. "Stop trying to piss me off."
"Why?"
Fuck this. Alvarez wasn't talking, and the only moving he was doing was his job. Ryan was tired, and straightforward might be the best bet to shake some clues loose with Alvarez.
"Why what?" Alvarez just kept at it, grabbing the clean sheets. Yeah, he actually did know how to make a bed, at a decent pace and everything.
Ryan let a bit more edge show in his voice finally. Yeah, he may not be at full strength (and that probably wouldn't help him anyway with Miguel Alvarez, unfortunately) but he was dangerous. Always. Honed it his whole life, protecting his ass. Ryan didn't necessarily think the guess he was about to throw out was the case, but he had to say it anyway, to give Alvarez a clear warning. (Hadn't forgotten the riot, or their brief brush after that. Shoved between cold wall and enveloping firm heat. Face buried in the crook of his neck. Pure need, from both sides.) "Why so fucking helpful, Alvarez? Me being saddled with fucking cancer and riddled with chemicals ain't your chance to rut--"
That got Alvarez to toss the balled sheets to the ground, turning around to face Ryan just as firmly. Finally fully focused on him. "Don't. Ain't trying to fuck with your ass right now, and you know that. You're too clever a bastard not to. Told you -- I'm on my meds, and you're a bit fucking busy dealing with some shit."
Yeah, steady as the stone encompassing them. But not as cold. Something open in there somewhere, maybe, even with the gruff voice and just this side of grumpy face. Alvarez maybe really fucking meant that, and he wanted to make that crystal clear. But it wasn't a warning. Assurance? Didn't see genuine versions of that in here, ever, but Ryan was maybe currently staring at one that was staring calmly right back.
Ryan's voice came out lower, the edge lost and gone, replaced by his searching confusion. He remembered... Alvarez during the riot. (Trying to look out for--) "Which begs the fucking question--"
"You said you don't know what it feels like, so, you've never had a fucking mate, right? Never even felt that-- when you meet someone who could be one, have you?"
Rather than answering out loud, Ryan didn't break eye contact, the only confirmation of Alvarez's correct assessment that he would give.
"Well, I fucking know what it feels like." Miguel kept staring right back, but his was different. It took Ryan in, holding him there, instead of confronting him. Miguel was holding back words, too, but they were just as fucking clear in the weight he gave his statement.
Along with that previous encounter, it was another pretty big fucking clue to what Miguel had felt during the riot, the thing he had fucking missed enough to have recklessly gone off his meds once afterwards weeks ago...
...potential mate. (Possibly a real good one.)
Fuck.
"I'm not going to be your--" Ryan straightened out of his casual lean, showing more steel he pulled from somewhere, ignoring-- yeah, new feelings coming up the more Miguel showed him this. Ryan put them aside for a second to focus on protecting himself.
"No shit," Miguel apparently agreed on that, though. "Me, you, anyone in here? Don't get mates, if we're fucking smart. Can't have that shit. Not in Oz, man." Arms folding across his chest as he explained, Alvarez stood just as firm in his conviction. But he was still there, still something open, carrying Ryan into those dark eyes. It wasn't the whole story, though, Alvarez clearly not done, even with the pause to let his words land properly. "Look, you ain't interested and neither am I. You made it clear, okay? Just another way you're clever, O'Reily. Lone-wolfing it mate-wise, sticking only with our crews, keeping things locked down tight -- I get it. Gotta protect your ass in here, I know."
"Yet here you are," Ryan's slow prompting held his own unrelenting steadiness, not letting Alvarez dance away from it.
Alvarez didn't. Stayed right there. "Just because we aren't-- just through this, okay? Not making a claim, no bond, ain't permanent. Can't have that," Miguel reiterated before that shift happened again, the rasp in his voice almost sounding softer. "But I can be here, for right fucking now. Like this, anyway, careful and quiet and just doing my little orderly job. And I'm fucking going to be, long as you let me."
One long moment, feeling the weight of words that sounded like they were edging close to a declaration.
Then the asshole just turned and went back, to like, fluffing Ryan's new pillow with a couple of firm swipes.
"Brought cards," Alvarez offered with his back still turned, quieter.
Ryan could tell him to fuck off.
Make him leave.
Not come back.
He could go back to being alone, in his little room, with his sickness and his secrets.
But Miguel Alvarez was-- campfire, wild wide open nature consuming the air-- Ryan couldn't smell even a hint of it now, but still remembered it, along with the things he'd never felt before. The hints of that day remained, under the spider-webbed cracks in Ryan's tamped down control.
Alvarez seemed to mean the shit he said. Standing up and-- sure, this place was all lies. But they were alone, in a locked room, and Alvarez hadn't done dick but change the sheets and stay there.
Be there.
With him.
Ryan exhaled. Why fucking not? Had plenty to lose, from plenty of other dangers, but this one? Didn't seem that risky, in comparison.
"So, you're just looking for the private room keys and a chance to slack off, then?" Ryan's sarcasm spoke, but it was lies. Natural in here, after all. Alvarez could probably see through it easily.
Got another quiet scoff as Alvarez turned around for good again, moving to the chair to clear off the remaining supplies, placing them on or in the cabinet (little plastic thing for fucking vomit, paper towels, an actual small towel and bottled water). He didn't touch Ryan leaning right there, stayed scant inches away. Ryan looked ahead at the chair, there indeed had been a deck of cards buried under the supplies.
"You seriously think I need keys to slip into a private room? Maybe I'm wrong and your ass is slipping."
Man had a point. Alvarez may be stuck behind the gates, and the better locks elsewhere, but this sad shit in the private rooms? He could probably jimmy easily. O'Reily sincerely doubted El Norte's illicit pharmaceutical supply just marched out of their cabinets, from behind their cages, right into the cute little scrub pockets of him and his boys themselves.
Ryan settled back on top of his sheets, which did smell fresh and clean. "Eh, might as well win some money off you while I'm stuck here."
Very obvious look down at his scrubs, then up at Ryan, sarcasm clear before he even spoke it aloud. "Sorry, must've left my wallet in my other pants. All you're getting is the joy of my company. Ain't playing for cash."
"So, I get nothing, then. Fuck it, fine. I work with nothing all the fucking time."
Another long look at Ryan, but this one wasn't mocking at all. Miguel was considering him, and he sounded just as thoughtful, quieter than his taunting, completely steady. "Yeah, you do."
That little spark in Miguel's eyes again. Appreciation just as unwavering as anything else, along with something intrigued even, maybe.
"You're risking trouble hanging in here too long," Ryan observed mildly, propping up enough to play cards, cheating over towards the far edge of the bed to make room to lay some cards down on the side near the chair Miguel was dragging closer to play.
"Trouble with you?" Miguel almost sounded like he was seriously wondering if Ryan didn't want him there for a second. But he slid right into cocky teasing afterwards, something more normal and less charged. "My presence is a privilege, baby, told you. You want me gone -- say the word and I'll just play cards with Bob later."
Ryan shrugged casually, like it didn't matter. Playing the game, even though his acquiescence was just as clear in him not telling Alvarez to fuck off. Might as well be saying he could stay. "I was referring to pissed off Hacks and nagging medical staff, actually. Visiting patients not being part of your work detail duties, and all."
"I'm not slacking off." Miguel's small grin was pure knowing confidence as he settled easily in the chair facing the side of Ryan's bed. "All good, Doc Nathan okayed it. Knows I'll be in here for a bit." Miguel returned Ryan's quickly hardening look with a dismissive one of his own. "Oh, for fuck's-- stand down, I'm still not trying shit. Meant it, just the cards, nothing else. Doc even agreed -- must be boring as hell for you, even for in here, shut away like this, going through this shit. She cares, you know."
So did Miguel, it seemed, but Ryan didn't say that out loud. Not like Miguel was fucking saying it either. (Showing it, on the other hand...)
"How the fuck did you manage to charm her ass by the way?" Miguel's curiosity also seemed genuine, of course, as he started shuffling the deck.
Ryan shrugged again against his pillow, still sitting up in his bed, playing at relaxed. "I got moves. I'm real charming."
"Know you got moves, baby." Same small glint of something in his eyes as they briefly flicked up from his shuffle, and it still didn't feel anything like bad. "That charm of yours must be something else, though. Everybody's tried it, and failed pretty fucking hilariously. Kind of fun sometimes, to watch all these injured bastards come-ons bounce right off the Doc's brick wall." There went that bright smirk, tugging up his mouth again, and a cocky one-shoulder shrug with it. "I mean, except me. Me, she likes. My charms are fucking irresistible."
"Uh-huh." Ryan's doubt came across perfectly clear.
Miguel stared him down, but there was only confidence and humor sparking in his eyes this time. "Hey, I got half an hour and a deck of cards, in a restricted room, when I'm supposed to be cleaning up shit. And it's fucking above board, no bribes, authorized and everything." His eyebrow put a fine point on his statements for him.
"Okay, good point. May have some of your own moves, there. I stand corrected."
"S'what I'm saying."
Miguel was also not total crap at cards, but Ryan had already been learning that since their return to Em City post-riot.
Ryan eyed him idly near the end of their card game -- fine, it had been a nice fucking break, a breather with some mildly entertaining conversation about meandering topics and some easy almost-friendly bullshitting, where Ryan actually relaxed some, something inside of him loosening up in a way it maybe hadn't before through all this stressful shit. Wasn't sure how, or where it was coming from, just that there was something peaceful under his weariness for a brief time. "You know everyone's going to want to know why you're allowed in here, breaking protocol and all."
Another danger. Everything Alvarez was telegraphing --beyond seeming actually genuine in a way that was so fucking rare in here it shocked even Ryan, who usually saw most shit coming-- indicated he really was there just to... be there. To help. No slippery ulterior motives that would be detrimental to Ryan to be seen so far. But yeah, if Alvarez hadn't planned how to answer those questions, or was planning an answer Ryan would really disagree with... hey, Ryan still had the scalpel tucked away.
Miguel just scoffed lightly, shuffling the deck lazily one last time before tucking the cards away as he talked. "Not an idiot. Thought of that already."
"And?" Ryan prompted, his serious investment in the answer showing really fucking clearly.
Miguel didn't tense, didn't show a worrisome tell. Calm, like he really did have it. "Part of the truth. Works best, right?" Alvarez narrowed his gaze quickly with a less casual interjection off of Ryan's darkening look. "Calm down -- you'll be an alpha when I tell it, even to my boys. Just -- I'm here because I already knew, anyway. Crossed paths with you during the riot, nothing happened but I clocked what you are. We ain't got no beef at the moment, though, and I ain't afraid of you, alpha or not--" Miguel added, a little detail that would make him look good in front of his boys, too. "--so they assigned my orderly ass to take care of you because the nurses are tired and the Hacks are assholes."
"Yeah, that works. That alpha shit is the tale you tell, we don't have a problem." Ryan settled into calm himself, while still making it abundantly clear that had better be what Miguel fucking said.
But.
(Alvarez was here. Had been there, during the riot.)
Ryan offered another warning he didn't have to.
"But if my status ever comes out--" One last razor sharp glare with it. "--and it had better not fucking happen because of you--" He let the threat hang for just a breath, before leaving it behind to, yeah, give Miguel kind of a heads up about an issue Miguel himself might run into. "--but it could make you look like a liar, saying you knew and claiming I was an alpha. Wouldn't be great for you, maybe."
Didn't phase Miguel. "So? This shithole is full of liars. Can always play it off. Say I was holding the information over you or something."
Miguel's voice slipped down, like his gaze to his hands holding the closed deck of cards. "Won't come from me. Ever. Have my word still."
Ryan merely nodded. He tended to believe fucking nobody about fucking nothing. But Miguel kept actually sticking to his word.
"You know it ain't really protocol, right?"
Ryan perked up at that new information. "What?"
"Sure, the whole locking a guy alone in a room when his suppressants might get fucked up by injury or medical treatment -- that's state or federal regulation shit or whatever. But no other inmates being allowed in, like delivering trays or changing sheets? That's Nathan and Prestopnik. Hell, even McManus, the Sister, fucking Glynn -- they agree and go along with it, apparently. I had to sign one of the fucking staff NDAs to work in here."
Yeah, Miguel definitely used the Ward to gather lots of types of information. Wasn't just drugged up motor-mouthed patients in here, but lots of idly gossiping staff.
"Who knew McManus had a brain and was on the right side of something? Those official regulations wouldn't do dick -- gossip would spread like wildfire if some fucker was delivering a tray to a fully presenting omega every damn day."
"Yep. Fucking idiots up the line don't actually give a shit about us. You think they did or something?" Miguel eyed him doubtfully, but it was purely playful.
Ryan scoffed, his most deadpan sarcasm demonstrating he did not think something so fucking stupid, no. "Oh no. You mean the state that penny pinched my ass on surgery isn't actually deeply concerned about my continued wellbeing? I'm crushed."
Miguel's smirk seemed like something meant to be shared between the two of them. "Nathan ain't bad, man. Best hands to be in in here." Miguel added, like he was trying to assure of him of that, at least. Like Ryan didn't already know that, too. "And don't worry. Can't tell-- can smell you a little, but just something basic. Not that. Even if somebody gets close -- you're safe at the moment."
Ryan, for some fucking reason, decided to keep handing out damn helpful tips. "About telling people you know I'm an alpha -- which you had better fucking do--" Well, tips, and last little reminders. "Talking about me in my little room, and my status, breaks your NDA," Ryan observed, though that was mostly a guess as to what the document entailed.
"Breaking rules? Nah, I would never." Miguel showed off a pretty good deadpan of his own, before demonstrating he had a surprisingly decent answer for that, too. "I'm going to fucking lie about what you are anyway, so I'm not actually spilling anything. They can't prove shit anyway -- I knew before I ever came in this room. Could've told people before I signed their little paper." He paused again, adding that strange weight one last time. "Won't talk about anything in this room, either. You got my word on that, and unlike my forced signature on that fucking paper? That, I mean." Held the moment just long enough again that it felt real, with Miguel looking at him like that, stirring up that confusing hinted feelings inside again. "So, it's all good."
Alvarez stood up, any weight leaving the atmosphere with a sigh, picking up the dirty sheets but leaving the chair in the room. "Back to damn bedpans. Need anything?"
"Nah, you have fun there." The automatic answer, an amicably taunting goodbye.
Yes -- another answer rising up from the places he'd never really felt stirring much before, and still didn't understand.
Didn't voice that one, as he let Alvarez leave, locking the door behind him.
Well.
After one last playful volley from Miguel's mouth -- "Better than being locked alone in a tiny fucking room."
"Relaxing alone without hassle behind a lock?" Ryan shook his head with a smirk. "Instead of dealing with puke and shitty Nazi sheets? It really fucking isn't."
Heard Miguel's small rumble of bemusement again, as the lock clicked into place.
*
Alvarez kept coming back, and kept not doing anything suspicious or worrisome. Checked on Ryan, briefly, a couple more times that shift.
Back the next day of his detail.
And the next.
Tidied, changed things out, brought Ryan's lunch because the kitchen guys weren't allowed in his room, and it was one more chore the Hacks or nurses didn't have to be pulled away for just for him. Orderly stuff. Played another hand of cards.
Helped when the shit really started to hit and wear him down further... warm arm and hard steady frame holding him up far better than the cold hard wall Ryan initially buckled against on his way to throw up his lunch in the toilet. Alvarez had come back to collect the tray, and had abandoned his careful distance to come to Ryan's side the second Ryan had faltered. Stayed there. Stayed silent. Patient. Hands warm and holding firm, fingers brushing over his to pass him a wet cloth.
Stayed half an inch away, close enough to feel his presence, as Ryan made his way back to his bed. Alvarez ignored every little shake, no looks, no comments. But stayed right there.
(Ryan also now had two people assuring him every day that his scent was weakly there, mixed with the chemo and illness, but not presenting enough for him to be identified as an omega. They got a lot of terse nods but steady eye contact in return. He wasn't good at-- never had to feel like saying thank you this much, before, no.)
"You going to keep coming here?" Ryan buried any emotion in his sigh, letting his weariness be unreadable as he settled back onto his pillow afterwards. He still felt -- it stirred up more underneath the worn out nausea, leaning on -- nah, had never felt this before. It wasn't a pull. More like the feeling of something solid to rest his weight on, like a warm thrum of relief from it somewhere inside.
"Yep." Right there by his bed still, stony as ever, but not in a hard way. Unwavering, instead maybe.
"My scent making you that horny?" Ryan could still manage to scrape up a taunt to hide the truth, the confusing new places waking inside of him, with unfamiliar sensations that suddenly seemed to have always been hiding there, strung throughout every fiber of his being. (Which had always been suppressed to incompleteness before.)
Miguel cut him off with a sarcastic look. "First off, get over yourself -- I'm on my meds. Getting hard and desperate from a scent alone on this shit? Like getting hard looking at faded pictures of grandmothers. You should know that, if you've never been off suppressants. Which, my guess? You haven't. I mean, you can do it sometimes if you really try and really fucking want to -- but it ain't the same as the centerfolds, baby. I can control myself just fine."
"Keep from fucking shoving me against walls, you mean?" Ryan tried to sneer with it, lay in another warning, but he got rattled by a flash of sense memory-- Miguel's heat against him, all around him, face at Ryan's throat and voice in his ear. Made all that low hinted thrumming into a more heated rush, just for a moment. Miguel may not be giving off his scent right now due to suppression, but his voice-- yeah, he always had that regardless. And it was maybe tweaking something inside of Ryan occasionally, too. Didn't hear about voice affecting people as much as scent, but maybe it was a mate thing-- never mind.
Miguel Alvarez and his fucking fathomless expression didn't shake, not blinking away from Ryan for a long moment. Until he did, clearing his throat, looking down to his sneaker idly scuffing the floor. "Nah, won't happen again."
It wasn't an explicit apology, but it sounded like one--
"You wish. Your Irish ass ain't lucky enough for that." Covered it with cockiness, but it rang a little hollow. Perfunctory, and the smirk was almost softer, too.
"Think that's maybe your wish there, pal." Ryan snorted derisively, but let it go without further comment. (It had come out too weak, dammit.) But that was sort of like accepting an apology Miguel hadn't quite made, right? "And the second?"
"Hm?" Oh look, Miguel did that busying himself with bullshit thing --arranging Ryan's little plastic cup for water and making sure he had some in it-- like he wasn't paying attention. Didn't do it just when eavesdropping then, but when avoiding things --fucking poorly-- too.
Ryan didn't let him off the hook, not taking his eyes off of him. "First off, sort of implies a second there, genius. Need help counting?"
"Just for that? I'm going to tell your rude ass the truth--" Finally got Miguel's eyes up and back on him, his movements stilling with his focus. "--you don't smell great right now. Not your most appealing, pendejo. I mean, that good booze burn is buried in there, but I also meant it when I said you smell like chemicals. And like--" Paused, for one second, before spilling more honesty, softer this time, with another glance at the ground. "--smell hurt. Not a turn on."
Sick.
He smelt sick.
But Ryan? Always ferreted out more than the obvious. Saw the deeper threads, the other more hidden meanings.
Ryan smelt sick, and it had brought Miguel here. Wanting to look after Ryan. Miguel could smell him, somewhat. But it wasn't getting him hard and heavy. It was making him take care of Ryan. Even with Miguel being suppressed. Meds didn't effectively kill all the instincts, not the mind, either.
But even then -- that shit didn't work with strangers you didn't give a fuck about. Ryan, usually always well suppressed until now, mostly fucked betas. (It was just simpler that way, and alphas were too dangerous to risk, even suppressed.) But omegas? Could be fucking fun, and Ryan wasn't great at resisting that outside. (Usually avoided thinking about what his experiences with them said about what he'd be like off his meds.) The point -- he knew what Miguel had meant about the scent as far as getting turned on. Sure, when you were actually fucking around, even on the meds, it added the tiniest buzz. Very tiny. But nothing approaching anything that would affect instincts or control. Same with business dealings with pissy alphas who were getting aggressive. He could sort of feel something, the scent and the growling were registered in a detached way. But it had very little grip on instincts, and it wasn't felt enough to derail the mind.
Only with people you were connected to, or could be -- something instinctual buried deep between you, did anything even gently tug on the bars of the suppression cage. Let you want to feel it, to lean in. Tugged right back on something buried deep within, however weak and faded to numbness.
Ryan may not mate or play those games with lovers, never let anyone close enough to affect him like that through his suppressed state. But he had a brother who didn't suppress fuck all. And Cyril had been injured before. A lot. Even on the meds, that change to the other familial bond had made Ryan react to his scent, feel it inside however dulled. Small buried hints reinforcing his normal desire to want to help one of the only people he'd ever loved, of it being even stronger somewhere down deep and woven through him. Urge to protect. Look after and take care of him.
What him and Alvarez could've been? Wasn't just a good fucking time.
They could've been-- yeah, it was obvious. Ryan might not say it out loud, because that would be reckless and dangerous and stupid as fuck. But lying to himself was all those things, too -- mates. Good ones. (Real ones.)
Maybe even...the-- the rarer kind that really pulled and clawed in deep. Not just the possibility, the potential, like the ones that led to some choices and decisions.
But the --I want this now. This is mine. I want this for as long as I can have it-- kind.
I need this, it's part of me.
Ryan had never known what that would actually feel like, honestly. All the dry reading up on it and first hand accounts in the world wouldn't help him truly know that as long as he stayed mostly suppressed. And this? Was his first time somewhat free since the first time as a teenager. Even now, it was all fucked up from the weakened suppressants he was still nonetheless taking, and the killing chemicals, his body all out of whack.
Miguel was definitely not into suppression. He obviously had experience with what things felt like, fully and for real. And something told Ryan he wouldn't be acting this way, risking this much, for just a good possibility, a regular pull. One Alvarez had truly felt as deeply as he normally would only twice with him, during the riot and afterwards in that brief moment in the storage room, for only a few minutes in total really.
Ryan had kept a close eye on Alvarez since the riot, gathering information. The man had been a thoughtful, cautious leader so far, but stood firm, trying to carve out a better piece and a safer place for his guys. Miguel was practical, when his hotter head wasn't taking over. Sure, he fucked up and went off at times. But he also could think and plan. (Not like Ryan, but the man wasn't wearing a dunce cap. He was just impulsive, maybe got lost sometimes.) Had planned before the riot, was still doing it maybe, last Ryan could tell. (Ryan had been cut off from the information flow a bit since the private room, unfortunately. So, he didn't know if Miguel was making stupid moves with the shit that had been starting to brew between the Italians and Adebisi when Ryan had been shuffled off. Miguel hadn't said much about it so far.)
No, Ryan didn't think Miguel would be here for any regular old potential mate. He'd just broken with a mate he'd been with for years. And this place was not a white picket fence planning place, where either of them would be scouting for that shit.
"Need anything?" Alvarez asked carefully, trying to sound bland probably, after he'd checked and arranged things while Ryan tried to get comfortable as he could again. Alvarez may be trying to play it like part of his job, to avoid it seeming like pity, but his eyes weren't bland, ever, always sinking deeper into what was going on inside him. Wasn't pity in them, either. Fuck, could practically feel what was hidden in that gaze when it was directed at him -- and it felt like pure concern.
"Nope." Ryan had just puked his guts out, again. But he was clean, and he did have water, everything else he needed nearby. Partially because Miguel kept making sure of that, for the few hours he could.
"Only got a few minutes, and no cards. But you bored?" Miguel was apparently not leaving for those few minutes regardless, settling into the chair. His. Sure, Gloria sat in it now too, sometimes. But Miguel had been the only one who'd thought to bring one in -- and becoming just as clear? He'd done it for his continued use.
"Fucking always," Ryan answered wryly. On one hand, it was true. On the other? Might be a bit boring, but he could actually rest here. No dealing with all the shit, all the other assholes. (He didn't... didn't mind Alvarez. Even when he didn't smell like burning and the woods, the longer he stayed the more Ryan could feel those unfamiliar things winding through him within.)
But yeah -- not a lot to do, either. Stuck in the locked room. And life, all the deadly roulette chambers of Oz, were definitely spinning outside that room without Ryan having a finger on the pulse.
If he got through-- when he got through this shit, he'd be steps behind.
Alvarez slumped comfortably, knees spreading a little. "You hear about the shit that's brewing between the fucking wiseguys and the Homeboys?"
Helpful.
It came out sounding casual, like Miguel was gossiping to pass the time. Or maybe him also wanting to get an outside viewpoint on it all (which he sort of acted like he gave weight, coming from Ryan).
But Ryan followed shit just fine when he wasn't being locked away from it -- Alvarez was filling him in on purpose.
Helping him see the flow.
And Ryan let him. (Wouldn't say it, but maybe? He was grateful for that, too.)
Crap, more reminders of Ryan never fucking knowing how to say thank you. Never had as much use for it as he had lately, after all, with nobody ever fucking helping him this much without a reason.
He still didn't say it yet.
But.
He was starting to wonder what that would feel like, too, along with all those small thrums and sparks deep within the muddiness currently inside of him. The partially unburied things, amongst the chemical weakness.
And maybe how to show it some day.
Also? Ryan still hadn't lost his touch for reading people. Knew now that Alvarez was indeed cautiously holding back, keeping out of the shit amping up between the Homeboys and the Italians, not letting them turn him into a fall guy taking out one side for a false promise of allegiance from another. Good. Ryan didn't need weird new warm tugging flowing through his blood for a totally fucking reckless idiot, not now on top of everything else.
Miguel could maybe use some tips on how to handle Adebisi better, though, because overly cautious could be dangerous with him, if you couldn't gain his respect. Maybe Ryan could say thanks in another way first, by imparting some Simon-steering knowledge.
*
Ryan's stay in his little locked room was coming to an end soon, for now. All pumped full of chemicals, the decision had been made to shuttle him back to Em City to let the chemo rip further through him, only popping back in for his refills until the treatment was over. They'd determined neither he nor his scent was presenting enough to be a safety issue. Smelled a little like something distinctly him, which didn't matter when it wasn't strong enough for the omega part to be identified. And like he was sick, which wasn't fucking great -- but he wasn't showing any other behavioral signs which would cause any problems in the Em City population at large or reveal anything troublesome.
He hid his shake behind determination.
When Alvarez came for what might be one of his last times in the Ward visiting (helping) before the next round of chemo, Ryan waved off cards and asked again for the latest fucking flow of information. Miguel didn't fuck around with teasing words for once, just settled into his chair, into the conversation. Openly sharing what he knew, musing on his own theories out loud. Calm, and... like allies, almost. Without saying it. Just this side of casual. Wasn't offering anything, really, no deals, just spilling everything in his head about the webs being woven back in their Unit.
Ryan nodded as Miguel wrapped up one particular point in the lay of the land, hand running through his hair as he contemplated his return. It felt--
"Shit." So low and quiet, the rasp barely slipped out of Miguel's mouth.
When Ryan looked up, Miguel wiped the shock off his face, trading it for determination. More steadiness. Even with the long brown strands --the fucking chunk of Ryan's hair-- caught between Ryan's fucking fingers and not on his head.
Shit.
"It's okay. Can deal with--"
At Miguel's calm gruff voice, Ryan looked up, hardening to unreadable automatically as he froze inside. "Get out."
To his credit, after a brief moment trapped in those eyes, Miguel moved.
Without words, fast and smooth.
Out of his chair.
Out the door.
...
Alone again. (And one of those deep thrums maybe turned into a different sort of tug at the absence.)
Ryan got a few more chunks, running his hands through his hair. Tried to hold on in the face of evidence of his body falling the fuck apart, right before he went back. For everyone to fucking see his weakness.
Fuck. He had-- he'd have to ask for a razor. Had 'em for shaving out in the Ward by the sinks (Ryan clocked that shit, always), but the one he had in here had turned to a dull piece of shit when Miguel was off duty, and Ryan hadn't mentioned it yet. Didn't like to make Miguel fetch him little shit like that any more than he already did, even as it felt-- yeah, felt unfamiliar and good to be taken care of, too, in ways both normal and winding strangely through him.
But before he could press a shitty button, and call a nurse--
--rhythmic rapping, soft this time. Keys.
Miguel.
Same face, just as unwavering.
Holding one of those plastic kidney puke things, with a wad of paper towels in it, letting himself in and shutting the door behind him like always.
"I'm fine," Ryan repeated firmly.
Miguel merely strode closer, steps just as determined to not fucking go away during this as ever. Like those hands, lifting up the paper towels to reveal--
--razor and shaving cream.
"You told--" Ryan tensed. Did he tell a fucking nurse Ryan's hair was coming out in clumps or--
"Didn't say dick. Said I forgot to re-up your in-case-of-vomit shit, swiped this, hid it. Figured you wouldn't want it spreading until you sheared yourself, got it all cleaned up and sharp."
"That's correct." Ryan relaxed back against his pillow, his words lacking volume, but not coming out anywhere near casual. Miguel had known, had thought it through despite his occasional impulsiveness, for Ryan.
"Yeah, I'm correct a lot. Think you'd have picked that up by now." Miguel's mildly cocky dismissal was quick, but his expression turned more real and thoughtful even quicker. "Still some time. Can do it in your bathroom now if you want? Can help make sure your cueball isn't all rough and spotty. Come on."
There was still a question in the direction. It was a decent idea, and Ryan needed it done, fast. Fucking shedding slowly like a sick cat wouldn't fucking do, not in here. So he pulled himself up, walking right with Miguel into the private room's small bare-bones bathroom. No shower. Toilet. Tiny metal shelf under unframed mirror, over metal sink. Like their pods, really, just with a door.
Ryan started it himself, with Miguel just chilling close beside him, pressed against the wall. Silently. Helped with the clean up a little, spots he missed. Brief warm touch on strangely sensitive, newly bared thin skin. Something there still, in his blood maybe, with everything else pumping through him. Instinct or-- comfort, rather than the heated sparks of the riot. Growing more recognizable and familiar the more he'd been locked away with malfunctioning meds, receiving his persistent visitor. Ryan maybe wasn't real familiar in general with comfort in his life maybe, but... they both felt like connection, it turned out, the riot sparks and this.
"You look positively vicious, O'Reily," Miguel declared from behind him, both of their eyes locked on the mirror in front of them.
"I know." Ryan stayed steady, hands on the sink and gaze sharp and deadly as ever on his own.
This.
He could do this. Go back, keep his place.
He had to.
"You know, usually? Nazi chic bullshit is not my fucking thing, but you make it work." Miguel continued, not dismissive. Just... staying there with him, anchored presence at his side. Like he had been the whole time.
Ryan let his expression soften just enough to smirk. The smirk wasn't soft in and of itself, still held his usual sharpness, but it was sort of shared more than it ever had been. "Gee. Well, color me fucking pleased, since I was doing it to impress you and all." The sarcasm was more shared than the sharp edge suggested, too.
Miguel's rough chuckle was right there with him too, so close in the small room it changed the sound.
"Don't snarl and bite me, okay?" Miguel's careful, questioning warning before his hand followed slowly. Cupping Ryan, the side of his jaw, his head. Like he was just as carefully asking him to tilt down towards Miguel without words, to-- hot sudden light brush of lips. On his temple. (Gentle, that's what it felt like. And felt it Ryan fucking did, tugging on those somethings he'd never been able to experience before, warming him throughout.)
"I'm serious, man -- vicious." Gravelly and low, still close enough to feel the lingering warmth of his breath even after the brief kiss. "You'll make it work."
He would.
*
Ryan's return to Em City turned out to be really fucking brief. He'd held his head high and steeled himself. (Thrown up in his fucking pod first thing, which was less than fucking stellar.) Started a brawl in the cafeteria when he was forced to show he still had balls to all those -- so many doubting faces. Taunts that never would've come his way before, flung at him so easily, from a couple of the Brotherhood without their leader even around.
Alvarez hadn't been there at the time. But Ryan saw him after he was punted back to the Ward, shoved back in his little cocoon when his return to Em City proved a violent failure.
Even if Alvarez had been in that cafeteria, he'd made it known that he wouldn't-- couldn't, really-- start fights on Ryan's behalf or act like a white fucking knight riding in. And Ryan didn't blame him for that. Ryan didn't need to look like a bitch, for one thing. A strong possible ally, on the down low? That was one thing. But Miguel hauling off and punching a guy for insulting someone who wasn't even one of Alvarez's boys? Wouldn't look great for either of them.
Here's the thing: it had been clear between them the whole time -- they hadn't mated. Weren't going to. Couldn't. And Miguel had his own burdens, his own people dependent on him, carrying the weight even more than Ryan did. (Because frankly, Miguel took that shit more seriously -- Ryan needed the Irish at his back, but if he had to cut them loose? He would.)
Miguel would protect a mate with his own life, and that was just as clear -- but he hadn't taken one. He had vows to El Norte, and a war would decimate them. Miguel couldn't stand by Ryan's side in public as anything more than a possible, occasional, behind the scenes El Norte and Irish alliance. And he didn't expect anything from Ryan, either.
The only time it had briefly come up, previously in Ryan's private isolation Miguel could breach, Miguel had turned inside himself, gaze and voice deep and unreadable. A guy didn't show regret in here, and Miguel was too practical, too fucking cynical, to do so, being well aware of the way this ring of hell worked. But there had been a moment, where it was like Miguel was lost in there, inside of himself. But he didn't know how to get out. Ryan hadn't fucking known either, and didn't want to chat about it when he was focused on breathing and getting though chemo, so he'd easily agreed and moved on, both of them hardening to the reality that they had to see the big picture and couldn't join forces for real, significantly, and certainly not as mates. Had to... keep some distance. Hide everything away. It was the only move.
In here? What Miguel had already done was more than anyone else ever would have for Ryan, ever had (besides Cyril). Even more than Dr. Nathan had, maybe. Because unlike her, it was dangerous to Miguel to even help at all, to get as close, to open himself up like he was. But that? He did without hesitation. With something like another kind of vow in his words. Through this. (Meaning the motherfucking cancer, Ryan at his lowest and most vulnerable, the rare time he actually-- he truly needed more than himself, though he wouldn't say that out loud.) What I can do. As much as I can.
After Ryan's failed return to Em City got him booted back to the Ward, though, Miguel swept into his private room as soon as his work detail arrived. Ryan was chilling on his hospital bed, freshly patched with a bandage over the forehead cut he'd earned in that tray smashing altercation with the taunting overstepping fucking Nazi.
And the first thing Ryan saw as Miguel took him in? Someone really needed to remind Miguel's face of all that not mates, couldn't join together completely shit.
He looked like someone who wanted to have Ryan's back, all the way.
He looked liked someone who was about to grab his own fucking scalpel and start cutting off swastikas.
But he carefully locked the door behind him and kept it between them, all the same.
"Who was it?" Stone cold, like gravel filled dirt tossed on a grave, dark brown eyes feeling pitch black.
"Does it matter?" Ryan was definitely not asking for help. It was handled, didn't need it. Neither of them needed to stir shit up, and he made that really clear in his unyielding response to Miguel. "You can't make an overt move--"
Miguel, who paced away from him, hands flinging up briefly, all tension barely restrained, in a gesture of annoyance at the impossibility of it. "--you think I don't fucking know that?!" There was practically a fucking growling edge in his voice from frustration, his pacing across the small space taking him back to the chair. "I can't. Can't start a fucking war-- I told you -- not in here. We can't ever-- fuck!" His rambling words, whipping and pacing tightly just like his body, weren't loud but that didn't make them any less vehement.
Ryan watched from the bed as Miguel gave up, dragging the chair over. Right next to the bed, close as it could get, before sitting heavily with a sigh. Leaned forward, elbows on his knees, focused on Ryan now. "I know." Took a beat, settling a little before flashing a really dark, bitter smirk. "Good thing I'm on my meds, though. If not... nah. Already be slicing bits off that Brotherhood asshole. And we'd all be fucking screwed."
So, he'd heard that much, just wasn't certain of the exact name.
Miguel would not drag himself, or El Norte, or Ryan, into a war with the Aryans. But part of him? Clearly wanted to. For Ryan.
Ryan stayed steady this time, in the face of Miguel's still simmering frustration he could practically feel. Ryan could do stone cold pragmatic. Did it now, anchoring Miguel, needing him to -- it was the best fucking thing. The smart thing.
"Exactly. So fucking drop it, like I am. It's done." Ryan held those eyes with all his deadly conviction just long enough, before letting out his own black humor smirk. "Besides, already fought back just fucking fine, and now I'm back on fucking vacation in my very own private room."
"I know, heard that. Nice job." Another flash of a weak grin, but it disappeared even faster, Miguel's hands on his head, still leaning over with his arms propped on his knees, mind clearly getting lost turning things over again. "Nothing I could've done, even if I was there, you know? Would've had to-- couldn't have swung alongside you. You know that, right? I fucking can't--" Sounded dark and hopeless, that growl coming back. "Can't fucking have-- I fucking know that. They make fucking sure of that. Can't exist in here, ever, taken from us like every other fucking--"
Mate. Again. It was clear. The bond, the connection. Stolen not only by suppressants, but by the deadly circumstances they were in, as far as any perceived weakness or vulnerability was concerned.
Ryan could feel it somehow, though, the parts of him he'd always shoved down. Here, with Miguel, flowing under his skin and straight through his fucking soul, maybe. Strange, and weak due to the chemo and struggling suppressants, but his in a way he'd never allowed himself to have before. He reached out, grabbing Miguel's wrist when those gestures grew choppy again, with his equally cut off and agitated words. Felt tense as fucking steel, under Ryan's palm.
Miguel froze after sitting up completely to stare at him.
"--did you go off your fucking meds again?" Ryan sniffed the air, and got-- nothing. No campfire. Realized the hit of disappointment he felt at the lack, almost. But the relief was more important. Had to stay fucking safe.
"No." Firm, but not-- he was still just staring, not getting pissed. His amped up irritation had stilled, gaze focused only on Ryan, not inward on his hatred for this shithole which had been rising up to drown him.
"Sure? Getting real agitated there." Ryan observed wryly, but he was watching closely. Miguel on his meds... he wouldn't feel this, the connection humming deep inside, like Ryan could now. But that didn't mean he felt nothing. He could smell Ryan, however faintly, whereas Miguel was scentless beyond the usual skin and detergent.
"Because this shithole is agitating," Miguel explained gruffly, but he wasn't spinning out anymore. "They're suppressants, not happy pills. I'm still me. Sort of. Fucking mostly. And I still fucking hate this place. If suppressants kept a guy in Gandhi mode, prisons wouldn't fucking exist."
True, and it actually seemed honest, too. Pills might've dulled Alvarez, caged parts of him -- but they didn't make him a fucking pacifist. Just regular violent, regular temper, little more of a muzzle.
Ryan's fingers may have been idly rubbing the inside of Miguel's wrist, softer skin, tendons less tense. Ryan also maybe only realized he was doing it because of Miguel's reaction. The staring changing a bit in focus and intensity.
Huh.
Now, Ryan hadn't fucked with this shit before. He stayed tamped down, and avoided anything that got close. But he'd researched the hell out of it, out of necessity. Everyone knew about the throat. The neck and shoulder. The juncture there, most common place for marking a mate. With scent or teeth. Or greeting, being present and showing a bond, with those you were close to. It was hardwired. Ryan had never felt it much, never let anyone get close to messing around that way, but apparently it did have an affect. Sensitive area, wired straight to blood and instinct triggers thrumming.
But the thing was, it wasn't just there. Other little sensitive spots, extra little zings, when you were playing with certain people. All accounts said? Not as strong, the nape was the hot spot. But yeah, throat. Somewhere on the thigh sometimes. Wrist.
Ryan sort of started rubbing on purpose.
Miguel's stillness wasn't one of agitation or affront, his tension bleeding away. Only thing getting more intense? The staring. The quiet hanging heavy in the air between them.
Fuck it, could be dead in a month anyway.
Ryan let go of Miguel's wrist, watched something flash across his face -- disappointment maybe? Something melancholy, damn big brown eyes.
But that disappeared real fucking quickly when Ryan slowly reached up, intended destination clear. Miguel stayed intently watching, but didn't move an inch. Didn't stop him.
Little bit of skin exposed by the scrub top. Ryan felt Miguel, his solid heat, skin and thin material as Ryan's grip came to rest right there, clasping the juncture of throat and collarbone, and a little over Miguel's shoulder. Not too firm, but not fucking hesitant.
Nope. Didn't stop Ryan at all. Steadfast and staring.
Thumb sweeping over those hints of skin, and cloth, turned into rubbing again. Right there, around the area where someone would bite down if they could have those someone's in here.
Oh, there went the stillness -- fucking gone. Ryan could feel Miguel relaxing under his touch, the tight strength loosening, eyes slipping to half mast, lips parting on an inhale. (Felt an echo of it, maybe, inside of himself.)
"Maybe the meds are fucked up, because it looks to me? Like you're feeling something." Ryan's words were quiet, and not exactly an accusation. Miguel did seem to be telling the truth about the meds, but more importantly -- given how easy the lies flowed in here -- he seemed to take it seriously. Like he wouldn't want to go off them again, to keep them safe.
Ryan didn't stop rubbing, feeling the man's tension melt under his hand.
Heard it, in the brief rough hum escaping Miguel's parted lips. "Hm. Nah. Working fine, fucking unfortunately. But I ain't dead, told you. Still me. Still my body, a little. It's-- it's different now. Lot fucking duller. But-- still feels-- mostly I remember how it feels, and it's still there a little. Fucking nerves ain't dead, after all, can feel touch the same. Still feels..." Miguel was rambling and repeating himself again, searching for the words, but it was entirely different this time. Calm and staying caught by Ryan.
"Hmm." Ryan's little noise was way more of like, a scientific pondering. He wouldn't know, either way. He'd never let anyone grip or rub him there that long, even suppressed. And it maybe wouldn't have even resonated in the same way, because he'd never felt it fully, the real thing.
"Can I--" Miguel's eyes reopened fully when he caught himself. Lost some of that relaxed warmth that had been seeping into his whiskey voice. "Never mind."
"Can't mark me, no fucking way." Ryan's voice? Firm, no relaxing. Still wasn't sharp as it could've been. He wanted to know what Miguel had stopped himself from saying more than anything else.
"Yeah, just went over that. Can't have that in here with anybody." That anger at the system teased some tension back into Miguel. "Don't do that shit without permission, anyway." Under Ryan's palm the anger didn't take hold, shifting just enough to let out a little bit of cocky tease underneath the bitterness. "Besides, not my style. Got to want to be mine. Have to be begging for my mark, baby. Wouldn't spring it on you."
"I don't beg." Part steely warning, but also part dismissive eye roll. Because yeah, that had been pure blatant teasing from Miguel, as he tried to slip them both back towards relaxing. (And maybe he'd wrapped an annoying cocky tease around the reassurance on purpose, to cloak the heaviness of what could've sounded like another solemn promise otherwise.) So, Ryan's mild threat to the statement didn't pack much punch. (And it may have been another lie, he felt that deep within him, too.)
Miguel's sudden smile was small, but it wasn't mocking at fucking all. "Nah, I know. You aren't like any-- you're different, Ryan." Fascinated, but with a warmth underneath. Yeah, Miguel seemed to be growing pretty fucking fond of those differences, maybe. He practically moved up into Ryan's touch, which had stopped rubbing but kept some pressure right there, Miguel's posture straightening out of his moody slouch, more into his confident strength.
That something in Ryan responded to that from Miguel again, the nod towards respect and appreciation, glowing positively within him. Couldn't fuck stop it, it turned out.
Ryan's next words were far more idle in their curiosity. "What were you going to ask, then?"
"Just." Another inhale, as Ryan's thumb swept over bare skin again, hint of pressure over his throat. "You're touching -- just wanted to touch."
Ryan's blink felt slow and heavy, dry and rough. Like fucking everything these days. Exhausted. "Okay." Couldn't keep the shaky quiet out of his voice, something like need, like that silent yes automatically rising up again.
The second he let Miguel go, Miguel moved fast again, crossing the distance, leaning down, over -- hadn't meant touch with his fucking hands, apparently. Buried his face right there, inhaling. Overwhelming, Miguel's presence crashing over Ryan like the riot again, but more like welcomed gentle waves on a warm day.
But no mouth.
Nudge of Miguel's nose, rubbing right at the bottom of the arch of his throat.
Ryan shivered. It felt-- not entirely like it was supposed to feel. Not as strong as it would've been completely unsuppressed, the deep thrumming of the hardwire connections of his core. But there was a shiver down them, all throughout the parts of him long ignored and silenced. And it felt fucking good in a way nothing ever had, even a strong shot or a quick hit. Slow licking tendrils of lost warmth. Muddled, yeah, his entire body mixed up and weak. But he did fucking feel it, like he never fucking had. And the longer Miguel stayed, the more it spread, the stronger it got, even with all of his body's weakness.
"Okay?"
Hot breath, right from mouth to skin crossing barely any distance between. Miguel's actual mouth still wasn't touching him, though. Just the rub of a cooler nose, growing warmer from contact. A little scrape of stubble on his throat briefly, feeling Miguel even through the hospital gown, practically fucking nuzzling just the right spots. Everything struggling to surface in Ryan responded to all his pressure and heat. Made Ryan's swallow hard and rough, too. "Okay."
Then came Miguel's mouth, damp lips on skin, then through cloth just more warm pressure. Rubbing, slipping, and touching with lips, his cheek, the curve of his jaw briefly. And the noise. Miguel's fucking voice could go to gravel anyway, so at first Ryan didn't catch it as anything other than a regular thoughtless, wordless vocalization. But the barely heard rumble settled into a groove and didn't stop. Not a growl, or a purr, but-- yeah. Ryan had never had many people do that with him. He kept sex sex. Miguel's flowing rumble was all about showing presence, meant to soothe.
And it did. Connection and comfort, in a way he'd never experienced.
More shiver that didn't come out in his actual body, just felt it, spreading under his skin like the warmth. Dulled, maybe but there for the first time. Ryan had always been careful who he let handle him and how, but yeah -- fuck buddies touched that area, his throat, everything, briefly. Had never felt like this. He'd never-- it was rooted deeply throughout him. Warmth and something-- he'd never known this connection. Even with his body faltering and fucked up, he felt parts of it --alive and real-- brushfires flowing into a long dormant molten core that was just starting to move and wake up.
"Don't worry." Miguel's hoarse murmur cut off the throaty melodic rumble, turned into a strange soft kiss on his throat, low where neck met shoulder on the last bit of exposed skin there. "I don't have a scent now. Not really marking you, no one can tell."
"They'll smell me on you," Ryan pointed out.
"Mm." Thoughtful rumble this time, with another nudge of his nose, drag of his jaw. "Still weak and muddled, and nobody's sniffing my damn face and neck anyway. Nah, you're a patient, I'm an orderly. Get your scent all over me all the time anyway. Cleaning you up or helping you somewhere. It's not-- promise, still can't smell what you are. Ain't that clear or strong. Might smell someone on me. Might even know it's you, if they've been working here. But that's it."
Then Miguel leaned up just enough to hold his gaze steady on Ryan's again.
As he pointedly tilted his head, baring his nape. "S'okay. You can-- won't give anything away."
"You said I smell like sickness and chemicals. Why the fuck do you want--"
"Not just that. And it don't matter. To me, you smell like m--" Miguel stopped, tensing back up a bit, taking away some of the arch of his neck. Maybe about to pull back at the possible rejection, his face shut down and unreadable.
Or maybe he was pulling back because of his massive fucking slip up.
Mine.
He'd been going to say mine. Or possibly my something, anyway. My potential-- My mate. My match.
But something-- a little lost and drowning in the other shit in Ryan's body --something thrummed harder.
And it wasn't Ryan getting pissed off.
Remembered it, suddenly -- his ache during the riot. Miguel's face at his nape, not biting down, not marking. The absence Ryan had felt like a loss.
Ryan curled a hand around the side of Miguel's head, firmly but not rough, fingers in hair that was a little bit soft. Urged slowly and carefully, for Miguel to return to his former position of exposed offering.
Ryan gathered his strength to sit up in the bed, moving to lean into Miguel. Pressed closer against his chest where he was leaning up out of the chair towards Ryan.
Buried his face at the base of Miguel's throat, feeling a shiver sweep through Miguel, so hard and fast it was almost a shudder, right against Ryan's cheek.
"Yeah." Exhale without further words. Encouragement? Permission? Relief? Hard to tell in the rough quiet voice.
My something.
Something they couldn't fucking have in here.
But Ryan was an expert at grasping things that were supposed to be out of reach in here.
Not permanent.
Not even for long.
Just a scenting.
Just this moment. Behind this locked door, until Miguel left.
Except it wouldn't be gone for Miguel.
Unlike Miguel currently, Ryan had a scent, however weak and muddy, confused with chemo. And it'd be in Miguel's head, on his skin, for hours after he left this room.
And he'd know -- wasn't there because Ryan had to lean on him for help to the fucking john. Or because they were allies or surface-thin non-antagonistic pals.
Miguel would be in his fucking bunk later, locked and dark, and remember. And shudder. Because Miguel was caged, not dead. And numbness or not -- he remembered what potential felt like. He'd feel the echo buried in the marrow of his bones.
Ryan pulled on Miguel's scrub top, exposing all the skin he could. Drug his jaw, cheek, his face. All over Miguel. Just the right places. Marking, however weak, however much an echo. Impermanent. The fleeting kind of mark some allowed, loose and warm and knowing it would fade. Not a claim, but remembered.
Miguel's hands on him, around him, were gripping his shoulder to hold him there, not push him away.
Ryan's mouth hovered. And opened the second he touched skin, wet heat without teeth.
Whimper, just sounding real deep and broken, coming from Miguel's chest.
Ryan licked, didn't suck. Couldn't risk a visible mark. Scraped his teeth torturously lightly, didn't bite.
"Fuck--" Shiver and hands clenching on Ryan. Miguel shouldn't feel this, not like that. And he probably didn't anywhere near as much as he used to. But he must've felt a little, those echoes, and it connected with what he knew from past experience, in a way Ryan couldn't. Tripping the memories of the hardwires.
Also, that wasn't a disapproving fucking curse word.
"Can't." Yeah, Miguel did get lost sometimes. And it made his voice sound rougher, angry and cynical, but it was buried against Ryan's temple where it wasn't as bad. "Don't matter what I fucking want-- can't protect you." Regret.
Couldn't take him as a mate, no matter what echoes Miguel felt even now, what new strange muted things were surfacing in Ryan.
The anger drained down to just the quiet, words barely heard. "Lo siento."
Both of them needed to survive in here. They had to. (Both.)
"I know." Let his lips drag over skin.
Fucking something alright. An alpha, letting an omega mark even temporarily, even just a scenting, without any ability to return it? Real close friends, real loose easygoing alpha maybe. Or a real tight knit gang where that was an accepted norm for some reason among some -- but that shit still generally only flew if the scent was shared. A brotherhood pack thing.
They weren't those things.
They were something else.
Here inhaling the salt of Miguel's skin, without any hint of the fire that was his, part of Ryan wanted to tell Miguel to go off his meds again. Just once. But he didn't, because that would be a fucking disaster for both of them in here. Miguel would end up in the Hole at best, his granddad's old Solitary cell at worst. Ryan would be fucking screwed, most likely literally.
They couldn't.
Because the two of them? Wouldn't just be a quick fuck in the private room, a blazing heat that burned out in a blast, a brief thing.
Miguel had said Ryan smelled like booze. Fire and booze -- they'd burn the whole fucking place down with what would spark to life between them.
But as long as they were stuck inside, it would consume and destroy them along with everything else.
So they had to protect themselves.
(Each other.)
The only way they could.
Ryan pressed an answering soft kiss to the return of Miguel's quiet rumble, pulling away while he still held the strength to do so. Fucking barely. Miguel let him go, but not with his eyes, still quietly pulling him in. Fucking steady. (Fucking-- could be his.)
Time was short, and Miguel was good at shutting down his face into his needed mask, straightening their clothes. Always casting his eye towards Ryan, though.
"Next shift is in two days," Annoyingly difficult to read again. But he may have been asking a question.
"Bring cards," Ryan answered, with his own unerring steadiness.
Come back.
They couldn't have all that, no. But they'd have the private room for a while yet. Gloria had advocated for him, his guardian angel, and gotten McManus to agree to let him stay there throughout his entire fucking treatment, thanks to that Nazi fight in the cafeteria, actually.
And it had bought him this to get him through it. As much as he could grab, for as long as he could hold onto it. Only in private, muted and muddied.
It was more than he'd ever fucking had.
Ryan worked with what he got, he'd make it enough.
As long as Miguel kept unlocking his door, and washing over him for this brief period they could hold.
*
And Miguel did keep showing up, every shift, as much as he could. Behind the locked door, careful small chunks of time.
Talking, both just to entertain themselves, and to keep Ryan's fingers on the pulse and Miguel's head steady in the game outside the door. Playing cards, looking through magazines. (More jungles than pussy, really, because it gave them so much more to talk about.)
Bracing Ryan on the real crap days when he rattled and shook.
...crawling into his hospital bed with him. On his side, pressed close. Face in his nape, making that noise sometimes. Sometimes there were no words. Just his rumble and his heat joining Ryan, carrying him through. (Taking Ryan's barely there scent back to his own lonely bed every night.)
Because they were clever, desperate thieves, as much as they were survivors. And they'd take the fucking crumbs they could steal while they could. Privately.
Some flames, you didn't let get snuffed out. However tucked away, sputtering and dim they were. Even when they'd have to be tucked away to become just memories.
The private room days were numbered. But that something? Would always lie underneath, even when they left the locked room, stretching that careful distance back between them to keep them both safe.
***
End