The Sharpest Edges

Chapter 2

His head hurts. His stomach hurts. His toe really, really hurts, and both fractured ribs hurt like a bitch.

He will never eat another tiny chocolate donut again in his entire life. That much he knows for certain.

Dean’s back in his cell, staring up at the coiled springs of the bunk above him after a free trip to the hospital earlier in the day. Cuffed to a stretcher the entire time, on the off chance he might decide to jump up and murder everyone in sight. Pain ripples through his muscles and wets his eyes more often than not, leaving him largely incapacitated, but he supposes precautions are important, especially considering half his peers in the cell block, otherwise known as “C pod” are murderers and rapists.

The city lumps everyone together here. The floors are isolated from each other, but petty crimes like weed possession and writing bad checks are housed right along with the guy who slit his sister’s throat in her sleep.

One thing his pod doesn’t have, though, is his brother. That’s for the best because Boone got him in this mess in the first place and Dean’s sure he’d only make it worse if they were in the same space. If he never sees him again it’ll be too soon. Last he heard, Boone is one floor up, likely running the damn place, and Dean is laid up after his first day in. The ability to assimilate into prison life isn’t coming as easily for him as it has for every other Dawson male.

He lets out a groan, shifts around on the too-thin mattress, and wishes for a pillow. His mind wanders to earlier that day, when his world shifted on its axis in a matter of seconds. One moment he’d been walking toward his cell, under a set of stairs that he now knows block the surveillance camera, and the next he was on the ground getting the shit beat out of him.

He’d fought back at first, clocking one of them in the jaw and another in the stomach, fight-or-flight kicking in and encouraging him to struggle like his life depended on it. For all he knew, it did. One of the few things Boone offered him when he was growing up were the skills to fight dirty, and he was only too happy to use them, but he was outnumbered and it didn’t take long to end up curled into himself, trying to block the hits that kept coming.

It was hard not to feel like the last few decades had been stripped away, transporting him back in time to his bedroom floor, lying on the dirty carpet while his father tore into him with the buckle of his favorite belt. Unable to do more than lie there and take it, counting the lashes until it was over and he could lick his wounds. Dean isn’t in the habit of getting into random altercations on the outside, so this was the first time since his old man kicked the bucket that he experienced the kind of violence he’d grown used to as a child.

Walt, the one who’d given him that damn package of donuts in the first place, had announced that he’d paid off his debt now. He left Dean shaking and holding back vomit, half convinced he was somewhere else while memories and shock overlapped to blur the lines of reality.

That feeling followed him all the way to the infirmary where he’d snapped at the nurse, flinched from the guard, and wished the bed would swallow him up whole.

The creaking of a cell door down the hall makes him wince, his headache worsening as he holds down his mattress, trying to think of anything other than his behavior in front of her. Ava. She probably thinks he’s pathetic. Not that he should even care, and he doesn’t, except that he’ll be seeing her a few times a week to check his injuries and get prescription meds they can’t deliver on the floor.

She is pretty too, something he really, really wishes he hadn’t noticed. Hard not to when she had been standing there like a diamond in the dirt. All long dark hair and delicate features, the barest hint of silver streaks in her strands, making him wonder if the stress of this place is turning her gray too early. It suits her, though. Her touch was slow and gentle, exactly what he needed at the time to feel a little less like he was coming out of his skin.

None of this matters because he can’t do a damn thing about it. Not that he’s thinking of doing anything about it. He isn’t. Even if they were on the outside, a woman like her would sooner cross the street than look at him.

And she wouldn’t be wrong.

Above him, Clyde peeks his head over the edge of the top bunk and Dean scowls through the cracks in his fingers that cover his eyes. “What?”

“Just told ya not to take shit from no one. Can’t trust people in here. Gonna find a way to get ya in a corner and show you where ya stand. You get some good drugs at the hospital, at least?”

“Didn’t wanna take it. Worse to be rude, right? Except now I know it’s not.” Dean doesn’t want to be reminded of his stupid life choices. He’s only recently learned that in here there’s no right option for someone new to the game. He’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. “Pain meds are decent.”

“You get any extras? Some you wanna share with the class?” Clyde says hopefully, like Dean has any intention whatsoever of offering him pills, even if he was allowed to keep them on his person, which he isn’t.

“‘Fuck no,” is all he says, confident enough in his ability to tell Clyde off because at least he could take this one if he got out of line. He’s a decent roommate so far, aside from his drug habit and constant tendency to run off at the mouth.

“Alright, alright. Just checkin’. Hard to get the good shit unless you wanna take something that’s been shoved up some guy’s ass to get it in here.”

Dean wrinkles his nose at the thought. He heard from Boone a long time ago that people smuggle drugs in that way, but he still can’t stomach the idea of anyone ingesting or snorting drugs that had been shoved up some random man’s hole. Plastic baggie or not.

For all his addiction, Clyde seems just as disgusted, a point in his favor as far as Dean’s concerned, and he could really use the points.

“You see that pretty nurse before they took ya across town? She is quite the lady.” He leans further over the edge of the bunk, wanting to shoot the shit like they’re friends.

Dean narrows his eyes, his mouth forming a thin line. “Can’t get no rest if you don’t quit yapping.”

He thinks the other man might say something else about Ava because there’s a hint of a smile forming like he knows Dean met her and wants to talk about it, but he seems to have a moment of common sense and hefts himself back over the top of the bunk again, leaving Dean alone in blessed silence.

He has the rest of the night to try to sleep off the headache that won’t go away. Ignore his broken toe and broken body and not think about what the fuck he’ll say, or if he’ll even say anything at all when he’s taken to the infirmary tomorrow.

* * *

It’s noon the following day when Nick shows up to escort him to the infirmary with a scowl that Dean assumes is his usual expression.

The cuffs bite into his wrists, tighter than he thinks they should be, but he doesn’t question it. He’s not willing to get on the bad side of a guard, not so soon. Not ever. The walk down the hall feels longer than it did the other day, every step on his sore foot making him see stars until they pass through the door and he’s allowed to lower himself onto the hospital-style bed. The one with a pillow at the end that he looks longingly at. He’d pay actual money for a nap with that pillow if it was on offer.

He’s shackled to the railing of the bed again, precaution for the woman standing across from him with a warm smile on her face and a chart in her hand. In case he was to lose his fucking mind and try to attack her, and it’s a damn good thing they do this because while he has no desire to hurt her, he can only imagine what some of the others might do if given half the chance.

For the first time, he wonders why she took this job. She seems competent and compassionate, but there are other, safer places to be a nurse instead of this depressing disaster zone.

“You have quite the list of injuries, Mr. Dawson. How are you feeling today?” Her tone is pleasant and her expression sincere, two things that are entirely out of place here.

Nick snorts in the corner before he heads off with a comment about having to take a leak and then they’re alone, which seems like a stupid practice to him, but here they are.

“Dean. Not mister anything.”

He wants to tell her that Mr. Dawson reminds him of his piece of shit father, but that’s more information than she probably cares to know and more than he usually wants to share, so he doesn’t. He hopes she’ll take the hint that it bothers him and call him anything else.

“Okay. How’s your head, Dean? Can I take a look?” She flips through his chart one last time before setting it down and zeroing in on the throbbing gash on his head.

He grunts out his consent even though she doesn’t need it. Looks anywhere but at her face when she steps in close to peel away the bandage and inspects the wound. He’s proud of himself for not flinching even once while her fingers ghost over his battered skin. It’s an accomplishment since that’s all he did the last time he met her. “Still hurts, but it’s better. Mostly my damn toe and ribs that feel like they’re gonna explode.”

She hums out a soft sound of agreement while replacing the bandage, leaning in close enough that he’s eye level with her collarbone, the scent of vanilla and honey wafting sweetly up his nose.

He’s not a jerk, doesn’t get off on looking down a woman’s shirt without her permission, but she’s right there and there’s something else on her skin that catches his eye, something that stands out against all those pale, barely there freckles. A deep gash, long since healed, peeks out a few inches down and to the right of the gap in her v-neck shirt.

He can’t help but stare at it. Wonders if someone cut her or if she did it herself in an accident. Maybe she earned it here, a battle scar for surviving this job. His nerves tingle at the idea of one of these assholes, people that she comes here to help, being the cause of that mark she wears now. No good deed goes unpunished, after all.

Ava is silent for a few moments, no longer touching his wound, and that’s when he realizes he’s been caught. His face burns red and he mumbles out a quick apology while feeling like the world’s biggest creep.

“It’s okay.” She tugs her shirt up a little higher to cover the scar. Her expression is more subdued now than it was before and he knows he fucked up, even if she won’t call him on it.

He has no idea what else to say. Anything that comes out of his mouth now would sound like an excuse, anyway. He could say he’s sorry again, that he wasn’t actually trying to sneak a peek at her breasts beneath her shirt, but the cards are stacked against him so he shuts the hell up.

“Stitches still look good, makes sense that your other injuries would be hurting more. They got the brunt of the damage. I won’t bother them right now. We should give it a few days before I check the splint on your toe…and your broken ribs…well, there’s not much to be done for those except time.”

He nods, watching her rifle through the cabinets for two pills and then fill a paper cup with water.

“Your chart says you have a mild concussion. Part of the reason for the frequent visits here. If you start feeling dizzy or vomit at all, be sure to let me or one of the guards know.”

He can pop the pills into his mouth but can’t hold the glass and lift it to take a sip, not with his hands secured to the bed and his inability to bend over enough. They both stand there in limbo, with Ava holding the glass out and him doing a decent T-rex impression.

She seems to kick start then, producing a straw that she holds up to his mouth. “I forget sometimes that you’re glued to the rail. These should hold you over until tomorrow, then you can ask for some Advil from the staff on the floor until our next visit. I’m sure you’d rather stick with these full time until you’re healed, but Tylenol with codeine isn’t allowed anywhere near the pods.”

The third day is always the hardest. He knows that from experience with a multitude of injuries. Tomorrow will be even worse when he doesn’t have codeine to take the edge off. “It’s alright. I’ll survive.”

It feels like the end of his visit. Meds have been given and bandages changed, but Nick isn’t back yet to take him to his pod, so here he sits. The room is awkwardly silent until Ava speaks up, leaning back against the countertop across from him with a tilt of her head, attempting to fill the void until his keeper returns.

“How long do you have?”

He looks down at his feet instead of her. “Six months.”

Her expression softens. “That’s not too bad. You’ll be out of here before you know it. Some of them…the others, they have years, decades.”

Logically, she’s right and he knows it, but he only shrugs. “Six months feels like six years when those bars close.”

“Yeah, I bet it does.”

He thinks she wants to ask him what he did to end up here in the first place. He can almost see the question on the tip of her tongue, a crease forming between those blue eyes and her fingers tapping against her arms where she crosses them.

She holds it in though and he doesn’t offer.

They lapse into silence again, neither comfortable enough to make small talk, the air growing thicker and thicker by the second because he’s already a social fuck up in general, far more apt to avoid human interaction given the chance, and now here he is with a beautiful woman across from him while he’s in the most unfortunate position of his life, and he can’t even muster up the sense to ask her about the weather.

He scans the room instead, taking it in for the first time while she busies herself with a cup of coffee waiting on the counter. That’s when he notices the hint of a small photo enclosed in plastic, hanging on what looks like her key chain. It slipped partially out of a bag hidden behind a tower of paperwork. There are no lockers in here, no place to safely store anything of value.

“Is that your kid? She’s real cute.” He struggles to point to her key chain that dangles off the counter, only realizing a moment too late that he’d said something incredibly stupid.

Her eyes widen before sadness creeps in while she crosses the room to tuck it back into her bag again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…I shouldn’t have…shit. I’m not used to how everything just sounds wrong in here. Didn’t mean anything by it. Ain’t in here ‘cause I got a thing for kids, I swear it.”

She stares at him from across the room, studying his face for a moment, judging his sincerity before she shakes her head and quirks a half smile laced with a decent amount of sympathy. “You really are new to this, aren’t you?”

He nods, chewing on the inside of his mouth because that’s what he does to cope when shit gets too heavy and too stressful and this is absolutely stressful. Not only has he gotten caught staring down her shirt, but now she probably thinks he’s one of those useless, waste of space fuckers that gets their kicks diddling kids. He wants to throw up in his own mouth at the very idea of anyone seeing him that way.

“It’s my daughter. Was. Is. In the photo.” She pauses, her teeth snagging her lower lip and her eyes downcast. “Car accident. Almost two years ago. You didn’t ask that, though. I don’t know why I told you.”

She was on the verge of rambling for a moment, and he gets the feeling that isn’t something she normally does. She seemed surprised by it herself, her mouth closing suddenly and her head shaking as if to clear the debris from her mind, the tips of her hair fluttering at the edges.

Now he can add bringing up her dead child to the list of things he’s done wrong today. He needs to go back to his cell and not leave again for the next six months.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a frown, seeing her nod in response to his pointless condolences, and grab her coffee cup again.

Nick blows through the door not a moment too soon because God knows what else Dean would screw up in the meantime if he didn’t. Apologizing seems all he’s good for today.

“I’ll see you in two days, Dean. Try and stay off that foot as much as you can,” she says as he’s being led out the door. So much more understanding than he deserves.

He ducks his head and lifts one corner of his mouth in something that’s supposed to be a half smile but likely looks as unpracticed as it feels.

He’s both looking forward to his next visit and dreading it.