Gallavich One-Shots

This Isnt Me Anymore Part 1

AU S-9

⚠️TW⚠️ (light/non graphic)
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Ian had been sentenced to 3 years. 3 years in a mid-security facility in central Illinois for blowing up a van.

He mostly kept to himself the first few weeks of imprisonment. His cell mate was a decent guy: Danny, in for armed robbery. He was chatty but knew when to keep away from the redhead.

Getting back on his meds had been rough. The first time he'd done it he had support. That is, he had Mickey.

Now he was facing the coldness alone. The not feeling.

It was two days past his one month prison-anniversary when he overheard some inmates talking about new prisoners.

"I heard they ratted out the Mexican cartel they were working for," one of them, a tall Canadian guy named Erick, spoke.

"What are they doing up here then?" The other one, Josh, asked.

"The people who are coming here are the guys who were rats. Safety or whatever. It was in exchange for their information."

"Damn snitches."

"Well what would you do?"

Josh shrugged and went back to his prison mush.

"Why're they coming here exactly?" Ian spoke up from where he sat a few feet away.

Erick looked at him unsurprised. He usually got daily questions like that from the prisoners. He had a deal with some of the guards that allowed him to watch the nightly news every day so he was caught up on current events.

"Dunno, man. The news doesn't tell you everything."

Ian nodded slowly. He wondered, at the back of his mind, if this cartel would bring him something... someone, who he hadn't seen in a very long time.

***

Mickey Milkovich hated prison. He hated the stench of body odor and week-old bread. He hated the sideways glances of inmates as they realized he was a Milkovich. He hated the loneliness. The fact that it'd be years before he'd be able to see the outside world again.

The bus ride up to Illinois was uneventful. Most of Mickey's Mexican brothers were asleep or staring out the window peacefully. They were comfortable with each other.

That was the one thing that brought him peace: having a grid of people he could trust on the inside.

Still, the thought of being behind bars again, of being stuck in a tiny cell with one person for years to come, nauseated the felon.

Whatever kept him out of the cartel.

When they arrived at the prison the convicts were led like cattle into a shower room, where they were strip searched and changed into the vivid yellow jumpsuits that caused a lump to form in Mickey's throat.

One of the inmates was found with a wad of cocaine shoved up his asshole. It had been hanging partially out as he removed his clothes, making Mickey chuckle to himself softly. Years of "practice" taking stuff up the bum made it easy to snuggle a bag of goods into the prison. Even as he was made to be bent over and searched, the small amount of weed never made itself known.

All of them got placed in the same few rows of cells in block C, where most of the nonviolent offenders stayed. It had been a part of their agreement with the government.

Mickey's cell mate was a rough-and-tumble man named Fidel (and no, he hated it when you referenced Castro).

"My family escaped Cuba because of the man," he told Mickey. "I debated changing my name but didn't have the money or paperwork."