Werewolf on Death Row

Five: Desperate Times Call for Desperate Words

I swallowed my pride, my nerves, and my fear, and reached out. Tristan sat in front of me, engrossed in a dilapidated old book in the rotting excuse of a library. He looked kind of peaceful there, but as soon as my fingers touch his wrist, he almost jumps out of his chair.

"Whoa, York, ya startled me," he breaths, shoving a hand through his hair. 'What's up?"

Here goes nothing. "I need... to talk to you," I admit, voice barely above a whisper.

"Okay," he replies with mild surprise. "Talk away."

"Not here," I hiss, before grabbing his wrist and dragging him out of the tiny room.

We twist and turn through the hallways, his book forgotten. I let go of his hand as soon as it was clear he was going to follow behind me, although I pay close attention to the sound of his footsteps to make sure he was keeping up. It's mid afternoon and there are plenty of people roaming around, with officers leaning on walls and scrutinising the passers by. I desperately wish that everyone had just decided to stick to their cells or a common area, but my luck has well and truly dried up by now so I just walk down the corridors, dodging out of people's way and ensuring that Tristan didn't get lost.

...Or distracted. "Tris!" calls an all too familiar, all too irritating voice. I see her a second before I hear her, posing with hands on hips, a look of disdain aimed at me, which quickly switched to a fake-ass smile when her eyes fell on him. Ah yes, Laila, the bitchy ex-socialite who bought diamonds with the money she earned from her Daddy's trafficking ring. 

"Hang on, Lails, kinda busy," he shouts back, causing me to feel the full force of her glare. I'm not impressed. 

"Drop the freak, Tris," she sneers before brightening again - does this girl have a broken mood switch or what? "I've been looking all over for you! You promised to show me that awesome trick, remember?"

A muffled curse and a groan from behind me inform me that he had in fact promised her such a thing, although I bet it was more to get her off his back more than anything.

"I'll make it up to you some other time, okay?" We were nearly right in front of her now, a few more steps and she would be out of my goddamn way. Just a few more...

"Tris, pwease," her face screws up in an attempt at puppy eyes that make her look so pathetic I can't hold in a snort. We're super close now, so close I have to quell my urge to jab her right in the nose. 

"I'm sorry," he tells her, and then we're rushing past her, my pace slightly quicker just in case she attempts to pursue. 

A few twists and turns later we're in the gym. Phase one of the plan complete. 

I turn to see Tristan panting slightly with one hand on his knees. "Jeez, York, what's the rush?"

"I need your help," I say stiffly. 

At this, he perks up noticeably, eyes bright with curiosity. And here we have the nosiest inmate of them all. I walk back towards him, hands at my sides and shaking slightly with anticipation of what I'm about to do. "Is there there any chance your friend is still out there waiting for you?"

"Who? - Oh, uh Laila? Nah, she'd've gone somewhere to sulk by now."

"Good," is all I say.

Then I slam him to the ground. Gods be damned if that didn't feel at least a tiny bit satisfying.

 He cries out a string of expletives but I don't let up until I hear the satisfying crack of a rib breaking. Getting up, I dust my hands off on my pants, fingers brushing over the plastic cylinder in my pocket.

"Oh dear, it appears the cabinet in the shed has fallen on you, I better get you to the Nurse," I tell him sweetly. He groans and gives me the finger, but doesn't protest when I lift him up and drape his arm over my shoulder to support his body weight. We walk slowly to the door, but I stop just before the threshold.

"And if you tell anyone any of what actually happened or will happen, don't worry, I won't kill you. I'll make you hurt so bad you wish I would."

It's a long walk to the Nurse's office, despite the fact it's down the hall. Tristan doesn't talk, save from the occasional muttered curse when his ribs are jostled too much, but occasionally I see him look at me with confusion, curiosity and almost... hurt? 

And yet he doesn't seem angry at all.

It's ridiculously unnerving. 

Nurse Button, a stout, no-nonsense old hag with an unfortunate last name, is idly flipping through a magazine when we enter. One gnarled old hand is in a bowl of sweets, leaving only to bring one up to her shrivelled mouth. She doesn't notice our presence until McGraph's cough turns into a moan of pain, and still she's less than impressed.

"What did you do? Refuse to drop the soap?" she mutters, before chuckling at her own joke. She looks to me for an answer, before rolling her eyes when she realised it was me. Just li'l old nonverbal me.

"Alright, down on the bench," Nurse B turns, giving one brief look of longing to her sweets bowl before coming over with some bandages. "Let's see what you've done, eh?"

Tristan was poked, prodded, salved and bandaged within an hour (which was extremely painful both to his ribs and my ears). Luckily for him, it'd heal completely within the next two days - werewolf healing and all that jazz. Now it was time for the mission objective to be completed.

"All done sunshine," she says without any trace of warmth or comfort, moving back towards her ugly metal desk as if she were a magnet. But before she can sit down, I toss the empty pill bottle right in front of her. 

"Bollocks," I hear her groan under her breath. Deciding to be nice, I pretend not to hear (as she obviously didn't think I would).

Tristan's behind me, hanging around near the door even though he was free to go. I don't need to be a genius to realise that it's his curiosity keeping him here. As long as he doesn't go blabbering on about what he's about to see, I couldn't care less. 

I focus my attention back on the nurse. She is twisting the dial now on the thick, heavy safe usually concealed by a stack of paperwork. Said paperwork has been dumped unceremoniously on the floor in typical Nurse Button fashion, and will probably stay there until she forgets and trips over it. A long, awkward silence is broken up only by her grumbling as code after code fails (a new one is set every week, lest me or another inmate decide we'd like to indulge ourselves in the joys of stealing). Finally though she succeeds, and pulls out a very small, very suspicious bag of pills, a scoop, and a pair of gloves similar to the ones Jim wears. These she promptly puts on, before scooping out just enough pills to fill my container. Then the cap goes on and the little cylinder is safely back in my hands, comfortingly heavier than it was this morning. 

Something in me squirms at the sight of it, which tells me just how much I truly need them. That of course, leads me onto a darker train of thought which manages to turn my attempt at leaving the office into round two of 'knock the irishman over'. Only this time I'm falling with him.

No, not falling for him. Reread that last bit again you ball of mushiness.

"Oof!" the bottle goes flying out of my hand, along with the wind in my lungs. Judging by the yell from Tristan, his ribs are probably going to take closer to three days to heal. I have barely enough time to feel how warm his body is before I am scrambling off him, offering a hand to help him up. We're out in the hallway now, and it's only a matter of time before someone, likely a guard, comes to investigate. Just the thought of Ratface's smug sneer was enough to give the shivers. If the shed excuse falls through....

Well. I'm fücked.

"Wolfsbane...." His voice is so soft it catches me completely off guard.

I'm double fücked.

I snatch the bottle out of his hand, snarl "Don't tell a soul," right in his face then sprint down the hall.