Work Text:
The next time Lyle went to the shower room, Muñoz's cellmate was waiting for him.
When he didn't respond to the jabs and jokes of the other prisoner, Velasquez — how Lyle must miss his sweet, sissy widdle bwudder, and by the way, how did his skinny little celly's dick compare to his? — he grabbed a handful of Lyle's hair and pulled his wig off.
Lyle covered his mouth with his hands and snorted with laughter when Velasquez cringed and threw his wig to the ground.
He grabbed Lyle and pulled him toward him, and then just as quickly pushed him away, and then slammed Lyle’s head against the shower wall.
Once, twice, three times his head hit the tiles.
Velasquez shouted unintelligibly, a mix of English and Spanish. He pulled Lyle back toward him one last time, throttled him, slapped his face, and threw him to the floor. Lyle landed on the ground nose first.
Lyle groaned and curled up in a fetal position, sniffing back tears. Velasquez muttered something and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before walking away.
Lyle reached for his nose. It was slick with blood and water in his hands, and probably broken. It hurt too much to touch.
Lyle moved his hands to the back of his head, which was bleeding too, and was throbbing with pain. He thought about trying to stand up, and then thought he'd better not.
His muscles seemed to have forgotten how to move. Lyle resigned himself to lying there on the floor until he had the strength to stand, or until someone noticed him missing and came to find him.
Not sure what else he could do, Lyle passed out.
Lyle didn't know how much time had passed when he heard someone come into the shower room and gently shake his shoulder.
He opened his eyes and saw Luke looking at him with a tense, worried expression, his lips pursed, his eyebrows pushed together.
Lyle tried to align his legs and push himself up off the floor, but he didn't have the strength for it yet. He moaned and closed his eyes.
Luke stepped over Lyle and turned on the nearest shower head, then quickly turned it off. Lyle tried to stand up again.
“Stop,” Luke said. “Be still.” Luke knelt beside him and reached his hand toward Lyle, pressing a cold, wet washcloth to the bruised side of his face. “Hold this,” Luke instructed.
He put his hands under Lyle’s arms and slowly turned him over and sat him up. Lyle groaned and leaned against the tile wall his head had been slammed into.
“Does this hurt?” Luke held Lyle’s jaw and turned it toward him, running a finger across the bridge of his bloody nose. “Yeah,” Lyle croaked weakly.
“I don't think it's broken. Come on, wrap your arms around my neck so I can help you stand up.”
Luke took one of Lyle's arms and hooked it across his shoulder. He put an arm around Lyle's waist and held him while he steadied himself. Luke helped Lyle totter back to their cell on unsteady feet.
Lyle woke up in a cold sweat. The Vicodin pill he had gotten from the nurse had worn off. The cell was empty, and everything around him was silent. He couldn't hear any footsteps or talking. It was absolutely, unusually still.
His eyes adjusted their focus, and found the clock on the wall in the hall. It was 10:00, just an hour before lights out.
Lyle decided that he would lie still and wait, having nothing better to do. His head throbbed and he wondered what day it was. Maybe Saturday?
He wondered what Erik was doing. Maybe he was taking a shower, or reading, or playing cards with his cellmate.
Whatever Erik was doing, he would probably be asleep by 10:30. In the morning he would wake up, eat breakfast, and go to the chapel service, as he had for years at LA County Jail during the trial. Erik had always been the more devout of the two.
Lyle’s last conscious thought was that he hoped Erik would say a little prayer for him.