Thread: This Skin is Stained

Yeah. His voice fell soft, as did his face. He wasn't a bully. He wanted to help her. Tough love. On a slow week he'd get a dozen people like her fiery and defensive on the outside, all alone on the in. He wasn't just some bully, though. Yeah, I'll get you something. His back straightened. Rising from his lean against the bars, I'll be back in a minute, voice still soft, Daniel turned, disappearing at a calm pace around the bend of the hallway. He wasn't sure where this was going, really. As he walked he gave freely to thought. She was a mess. She hated him, she blamed him, and whenever he got caught up thinking about it, he couldn't deny her a justification in that. The pit of his stomach tightened at the thought. Rafe's family didn't hold a thing against him. They all understood it was just him and the girl that couldn't get over the haunting 'what if' of it all. Turning down a hallway, he continued thinking. Where was he going with this? Berating her one minute, then trying to hire her the next? Did she want to be a whore so bad he was willing to treat her like one? ...Daniel wanted to think he had better morals than that when the chips were down. She was a hot mess, yeah, and of course there was a degree of lust when he looked at her, the same as there had been long before all this. You could be attracted to your buddy's girl when you all hung out, you just knew enough to man up and keep to yourself about it. This was like that, kinda. And in that sense it wasn't like that at all it wasn't like he was lusting over her, he knew this was all for her own good. If he could just get her somewhere more personal... Somewhere less like a police station. The break room was simply that, nothing fancy about it, nor was there a need to be. Vending machines on the left. Fridge in the back. Microwave, sink, and an older, mid-sized, fat TV set all in their spots, with small circular tables and chairs dotting the middle of the room. It was seven minutes all in all when he returned to the cell with a paper plate in hand, two rib sandwiches from one of the machines having been heated in the microwave, lemon tea in his other hand. Daniel cast a glance to the cell when he reemerged from around the hall. Back, he stated plainly, setting the styrofoam cup and paper plate on the desk. Then his keys jingled. Glancing first back down the hallway to make sure no one was coming, Daniel approached the cell, unlocked it, and let the heavy door swing partially open. Sorry for the wait. The chef doesn't usually take orders at this hour. He turned away and went back to the desk. He wouldn't have trusted anyone else like this, back turned, cell door popped open, but this was Danica. How many good memories had the four of them made together? Great memories. His body hesitated as he leaned over the desk, thinking. He didn't want to distrust her like the rest of the scum that came in here. Not like that. His face was soft, But he owed me a favor, so I had him cook you something up. He was gonna fix all this. He also hesitated in that lean as he looked to the Ziploc of confiscated goods. He wanted to flush every last fucking one down the toilet. But, for now, he opened the bag, opened a few bottles, and added a couple of the lesser evils to her plate, one for a headache and one to help her sleep. Turning, Filet mignon for the lady, walking inside with the food, and a glass of our best pinot noir. He set them on the bench beside her. Decaf, of course. He smiled a little as he set them down, amused with himself. That expression faded though as he lingered for a second or two. Bending over beside her, Daniel's voice fell soft, You have a right to hate me. And I'm...sorry, for being cruel just now. He thought to touch her, maybe stroke some of her hair back or just some sort of physical contact. His left hand even raised halfway to do so, but it found pause, the back of his uniform turning to her instead. Sometimes the most blunt, hurtful things can be the most important to hear. There was the olive branch, for whatever it was worth. Thinking, he walked out of the cell without closing it. He circled around the L-shaped wooden fixture and opened up a side drawer, one much larger than the others. Usually playing cards or semi-recent magazines were kept for whoever was on duty. For those lucky nights when lockup was actually empty, there was a simple, sterile white pillow without a case and a thin yellow cotton blanket. Daniel carried both of these things into the cell and set them beside her, beside the food on the bench. I was serious about that last thing, by the way. The words were just as soft, somber, as the rest. He avoided the awkwardness of eye contact. Back at my place, I mean. Once we're out of here. And there he was, blood rushing to his face.