Chapter Text
Yancy sprinted as fast as he could from the gate as your gaze was down at the box in your hand. He was never good at saying goodbye. He knew that you had to leave as much as he had to stay, but it was goddamn hard to leave your side. Yancy resisted the quiet yet insistent voice in his head telling him to run away with you. He knew that if he stayed at the exit with you any longer, the more painful your goodbye and the stronger the pull of leaving the prison would be. So he did you both a favor and left before you could look up.
It hurt.
Yancy hid behind a building out of your eyeshot, breathing deeply as he leaned against the brick wall. He steadily counted to 10 in his head, willing himself to calm his breathing. He slowly peaked out from his hiding spot. You were already walking away from the prison, a dark shadow on the other side of the gate. You had a nice shadow, Yancy mused, watching until it blended into the darkness of the night.
Yancy let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. His chest felt tight; he assumed it was from the running. Yancy started to make his way back into his cell, quietly sneaking around the familiar maze of the prison he called home. At one point Yancy instinctively turned around to check if you were following behind: you were not.
His cell was empty and quiet now, the way it was before you arrived. The bottom bunk would remain untouched (he let you stay in his cell after all) and neat with the blankets and throw pillows tidied. Yancy wouldn’t let anyone else stay there, not even Heapass. He did have a tough-guy reputation to keep, even if the homey décor of his cell gave away his inner softness (he punched the face of anyone who insulted his sense of interior design). Yancy wasn’t planning to have anyone sleeping over in his room. That and the thought of someone else using your bed sounded disgusting, even though you were probably never coming back to use it.
Yancy paused, staring at your framed mugshot on the nightstand. He picked it up and laid it sentimentality on your pillow. Then Yancy climbed up the top bunk and went to sleep with thoughts of you still plaguing his brain.
The next morning, Yancy lifted weights in the yard while humming "The Disclaimer Song". The inmates had only about an hour of rec and Yancy planned on making full use of it. The day room was pretty busy with Yancy's ragtag gang running around. He wanted them to tone up for the next dance sequence to celebrate the Warden’s upcoming birthday, which wasn't a long ways away. Tiny was supposed to be spotting reps for him, but she was busy staring intently at the closed prison doors.
"The Warden is mad at you," Tiny said in almost a whisper after a long moment of silence.
Yancy set the weights down. "Wha-?" He got cut off by the doors slamming open.
Mr. Murderslaughter stood in the doorway with two guards behind him. His arms were crossed and his expression was as stern and serious as usual. The prisoners have long since learned to read his microexpressions with impeccable accuracy to gauge exactly when he was on the brink of exploding. It was the only way they were able to survive this long. And Tiny was right.
"Yancy, c'mere, I need to speak with you. Privately."
All the inmates were dead silent, not-subtly watching the plot unfold. Yancy stood up with his head held high and confidently strode to meet the Warden. He was a good actor; he couldn't be a good leader of his prison gang if he showed he was afraid of something as mundane as this. Because he was scared.
"Yessir," Yancy replied, keeping his tone level and maintaining steady but not confrontational eye contact.
Mr. Murderslaughter glared at him suspiciously. Yancy felt his soul almost leave his body. They walked inside with the prisoner at the Warden's heels. The door closed behind them. Yancy’s walls instantly fell.
"Sir, whaddever I've done wrong, I-I swears I didn' mean it and I promise I ain't ever gonna do it again, just please don' be mad at me," Yancy blubbered. The Warden held a hand up to signal Yancy to stop. He did, his bottom lip trembling as he imagined whatever punishment he was going to get.
Yancy respected the prison overseer and was maybe slightly intimidated by him. The man was a strong disciplinarian who ran the penitentiary with an iron fist. He deeply cared for the prisoners and fostered the ideals of a dog-eat-dog world. Yancy felt that they understood each other. Not like his parents, who were too soft and forgiving. The Warden was as close to a father/mentor figure as Yancy could get, and he did not want to disappoint him.
"Yancy, are you aware that Y/N escaped last night?"
"N-no sir."
"You sure about that, boy? I know you, you're practically one'a my own. And I know you're lying to me."
"I, um-"
"And not only that, but before they ran off, they stole that box from my big, strong hands. Now obviously Y/N wasn't here long enough to know where my office is, let alone be able to steal it from me. I doubt they'd even be smart enough to get out of this place without help."
"Y/N's smarter than youse thinks," Yancy muttered. Mr. Murderslaughter didn't acknowledge it.
"I've been lenient on ya for so long, Yance. I only left ya in solitary for one night after you started that fight—with Y/N no less—because I know how much you hate it in there. So why doncha do me a favor and tell it to me straight." The Warden firmly placed his hands on Yancy's shoulders. Yancy looked askance and winced at the tight grip. "Did you help Y/N escape?"
Yancy knew there was no escape, physically or verbally. "...Yeah, jus’ a little."
Mr. Murderslaughter sighed and unclasped Yancy's shoulders. "You're breaking my heart here, son. Well, you would be if I had a heart left to break. How am I supposed to trust ya after you went behind my back and did something as despicable as that?"
Yancy's fists were held protectively in front of his chest with his shoulders scrunched and tense. He hoped that you were happy wherever you were. He hoped this was all worth it.
"I think what you need is some more alone time to reflect on what you've done. This is a penitentiary after all, and we strive towards repentance. I think two weeks in the box'll do ya some good".
Yancy's eyes widened. "Please sir, anythin' but dat. Don' send me down there again, not for that long. I could settle for a-a week or a week an' a half, but two weeks? I-I'd die.”
The Warden's lips tightened into a firm line. "Now Yancy, you wouldn’t be in this position if ya stayed in line an’ did whachu’re supposed ta do. Take ‘im away”.
Mr. Murderslaughter waved dismissively at the guards that instantly flanked Yancy, each one firmly gripping his arms. Yancy knew better than to struggle. He opted for looking at his feet dejectedly as the guards silently walked him to solitary.
Solitary was how you’d expect it to be. Four bare white walls, a sterile bed that resembled a hospital cot, a metal food slot built in the door, and a grand total of 60-80 square feet of space. The white fluorescent light burned into Yancy’s eyes like a cold sun. The room was also farther away from the main prison quarters, meaning there was barely any heat in the chilly nights or fans in the sweltering afternoons (this is Texas after all). It was a stark contrast from Yancy’s cozy cell with its plush throw pillows and the like.
Yancy stepped into the small room, remembering vividly the few times he’d been there long-term. It had never been this long. He wasn’t one for being lawful good, but he was pretty sure that two weeks was legally the maximum amount of time an inmate can be put into solitary. It was in here that his nightmares were the worst: flashbacks of his parents' screams, blood-stained hands, and police sirens repeating over and over again on loop. Yancy could handle a night or two. Hell, he was sure he could even tough it out for a week. But 14 nights was going difficult.
The one guard that all of the prisoners—Yancy included—would die to protect lingered in the open doorway. There was nothing but quiet concern in Holt's eyes and Yancy felt guilty that the man was so empathetic on his behalf. He almost regretted helping you break out because of that glimmer of disappointment in the CO's face. Almost.
“It breaks my heart to see you in here, Yancy,” Holt admitted with a sigh, “I know you don’t like being alone, not really.”
“I’ll be fine,“ Yancy assured the guard and himself. He savored the conversation, knowing that it would be a long time until he’d hear a voice other than his own.
“That’s what they all say. I’ll try to sneak in a coloring book or something so you’ll at least have something to do.”
“Thanks,” Yancy muttered. The guard was so nice it was almost painful. The prisoner awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. "Hey, uh, if youse can, there's a photograph in my cell. If it ain't too much t'ask... could youse get it for me?"
Holt smiled warmly with a knowing glint in his eyes. "Y/N right? I'll see what I can do.” He pat Yancy's shoulder supportively, opposite from the Warden's bone-crushing squeezes. "Hang in there Yancy, we're all rooting for you.”
The door closed and locked. Yancy didn't ask how the guard knew it was a picture of you. Was he that obvious?
Yancy sighed, falling backwards onto the creaky bed. He only had to survive for two weeks. He could always sneak out in the middle of the night, but being ostracized still hurt.
It would be a while until he could make parole.