Augustus:

Ah, love. Stendahl said love is the miracle of civilization, but it's pretty damned clear that Stendahl never stepped inside the walls of Em City, because despite the hype, there's a whole lotta love goin' on down here. No miracles, no civilization, but a shitload of love. I'm not talking about fucking either, because that's something completely different. No, I'm talking about love, L-O-V-E, in big capital letters and shit.

It starts with the mail. Everybody loves mail. Hell, people on the outside love getting mail, but in prison, something with your name on it in that rickety cart means you still exist. And it's a question of existentialism, really. If you pop a cap in Joey "The Snitch" Coresisi's ass and you go up on a twelve to twenty-five, your world becomes a ten-by-ten cell. It's easy to forget that you ever sat in your favorite bar, swilling cheap beer and playing darts so late your wife nearly threw you out over it. There's the existential question: If a tree falls in the woods. . . if a man goes to Oz. . . does anybody really give a shit?

So you love it when the mail comes, 'cause it brings you more love. Sometimes it brings you cigarettes, official currency of the nineteen-whatever the hell the year it is Prison Games, and cigarettes can buy everything else you can love. Cigarettes can buy someone else folding your laundry the way you like it, so you can pretend like it was your mama or your girlfriend putting in those pleats. Cigarettes can buy you an extra scoop of chili, fifteen more minutes of your favorite show, an extra three minutes in the shower, all those little things that are a prisoner's love. If you're so inclined, cigarettes can even buy tits, but that's not really love, that's just a whore.

Sometimes it brings you news. Good news, bad news, what the fuck ever, it doesn't matter, because it's a window. If you know the baby puked on your broken-down-broken-in- watching-the-game-on-Sunday chair, that means that chair is still there. Waiting for you. It also means someone took the time to pick up a pen and write this down; so already you're 3-0. You got someone to write the letter, a baby to puke on the chair, and the chair. That in itself makes it seem like you still got a life, even if the only game watching you're going to do is standing on the edges of a fight in the caf.

The only time it stops, the -only- time it stops is when it's time to send mail back. You can't tell 'em about your day at work, honey! Because your day at work was making sure someone didn't shank you in the shower, your day at work was doing someone else's laundry because they had enough cigarettes to buy that privilege. Your day at work was playing poker with a deck that's missing four cards, against men you don't even like, surrounded by guards who'd just as soon let the motherfucker in the shower shank you as look at you. Letters home, they're short, but you send them anyway, because mail's the last damned thing that makes you real. You -need- that love. . . but if a felon writes a letter, and there's no one home to get it. . .

Tim McManus strides towards Warden Glynn's office with purpose in his step. He thinks he's devised a way to not only sidestep the Bianchi mess, but also clean up Em City in the process. He was hit with inspiration last night, coming to the realization that even though some of the men under his jurisdiction are naturally brutal creatures, the narcotics they ingest only serve to stoke the fires of their madness. He has concocted a plan that will hopefully slow the influx of drugs and destruction into his microcosm.

Vern Schillinger inspects the package dropped in his hands by Mike Lucas, the guard who overheard Lewis' conversation with Bayliss and subsequently tipped Vern off about him. Lucas had done his homework over the past few days and dug up a veritable treasure of information concerning not only Meldrick Lewis, but also his former partner, and Tobias Beecher's current bunkie, Michael Kellerman. All the news clippings are now neatly tucked into the manila envelope Schillinger is now salivating over. A swell of joy and anticipation rises in the nazi as he reads with relish every sordid detail of the Baltimore homicide detectives' past.

Jake Rodzinski sits against the damp wall in his solitary confinement. It has been four days since he was thrown in this pit. His body and mind have undergone drastic punishment as they coped without the supply of heroin they had come to depend upon. He is not fully recovered, he still has bouts of itchy, clammy skin. It feels as though some foreign parasite has burrowed its way into his flesh and is crawling around. He is constantly fighting his own craving and desire too. He is slowly gaining the strength to push the fixation to the side though. He figures if he can at least make the constant longing a peripheral idea in his mind, and keep other concrete thoughts in the forefront, he will be able to at least cope with the maddening lust, if not defeat it completely.

The hellish withdrawls and hallucinations he suffered are something he hopes he will not soon forget. He sighs in disappointment and runs a shaky hand through his thick hair as he tries to figure out how he allowed himself to become so dependent upon the white powder. He knows the road to sobriety will be the most difficult hurdle he has ever faced in his life. But he also knows he wants, needs, to walk that road. He is serving time in Oz for a crime he does not regret. On some levels, he will admit to himself that vengeful murder is still exactly that, murder. But his fierce loyalty to his father and the concept of justice pull him in the other direction, and he never feels overtly guilty about taking Kenny Damon's life. He now sits and wonders if he has been skillfully lying to himself though. After all, something drove him to mute his senses and mind with narcotics. Maybe deep down, somewhere he hasn't yet acknowledged, he despises what he did.

Maybe it isn't the murder that drove him to find solace by sucking tits though. Maybe it was the repercussions of the act. Being separated from his family, losing his job, his identity. His father was a cop, he was a cop. Now he is a criminal. He curls into a ball on the floor as he comes to a realization. He misses his wife. He's been depending on Meldrick to supply him with physical and emotional affection to help get him through this. He had grown so attached and dependent upon Lewis that he was beginning to think he was in love with him. But he's not. He loves the man, yes, but he is not romantically in love with him. The realization is actually a relief to Jake. He knows that when he is finally paroled, his wife will be there to greet him with open arms and warm, sweet, enamored eyes. He shudders and his chest constricts, not from leftover spasms reverberating through his body, but from a warmth and security he feels coursing in his veins at that thought.

They had married so young. He and Carol had been so naive. They were high school sweethearts, and made it permanent and official while he was still in the academy. She was so proud of him, proud to be with him. And he always felt like he was one of the lucky ones. Lucky to have caught such an earnest woman. A woman who thought the world of him, was committed to him, loyal to him, and in love with him. In return, he strove even harder to be strong and dependable for her, to treat her with respect and adoration. He knows she won't ever abandon him, or betray him. A wave of guilt sweeps over him about Meldrick. She must never know. She would never understand. He could never explain to her the crushing loneliness of this place. He could never adequately justify his actions with Meldrick. At least they make sense to him and give him comfort. He simply will push all those actions behind him, along with his heroin addiction, when he is reunited with her.

He doesn't know how yet, but he is determined that when he is back in Carol's arms, he will again be the man he once was. He will again be strong, and whole. And this god forsaken place will be nothing but a horrible nightmare he leaves behind. Even the comfort and support of Meldrick Lewis will have to be forgotten. It's a trade off he's willing to make. Left completely alone without drugs to blunt his judgement, or other people to distract him, Jake Rodzinsky has inadvertently found something he hadn't even realized he lost. Himself.

Without warning, the iron door clatters, then swings open. Jake sits upright and glares at the intruder. A large guard throws a pile of clean, neatly folded clothes into his lap. "Get dressed, McManus wants to see you." Rising and pulling the heavy blue pants up, Jake realizes that this is his chance. He is leaving this solemn room, to return to Em City. Back there, he will again be granted access to all his temptations once again. He must find the strength to turn the candy down, face each day sober. He is also going to have to explain his wishes to Meldrick. He knows how easy it will be slip back into the old patterns of self-destruction, and will have to fight for not only his survival, but also his soul.

Meldrick Lewis sits at the round table playing hearts with Augustus, Rebadow, and strangely, Miguel Alvarez. Pushing the mail cart in front of him, Schillinger pauses by their table and flips a large manila envelope in front of Meldrick, barely hiding a grin. He passes on to the next table as Meldrick tears open the package to inspect its contents. A mixture of disappointment and distaste move across his features. "What ya got there, Man," Augustus inquires.

"Ah, nothin really. I'm O-fficially a deevorced man as of yesterday," he replies with only a faint tinge of regret. Folding the legal documents back up and depositing them back in the envelope, he rises without another word and retires to his own pod. He is not despondent about the divorce. Hell, he had seen if coming for three years, and couldn't really say he minded. It is just the finality hitting him now. It is like receiving official notice that absolutely no one outside of these walls gives a damn anymore.

"Man, that's tough," Augustus proclaims and nods up toward Lewis' cell. "I don't know what I'd do if my wife left me."

"Yeah," Alvarez concurs, "I know how he feels man, all alone." Lately, Alvarez knows exactly how that feels. For the past few weeks, Schibetta had been putting pressure on Alvarez and his circle. One of Schibetta's goons even went so far as to beat down one of Miguel's posse while he was conducting business. It was more than a warning shot. Schibetta was beginning to make his move to squeeze out competition, and Alvarez and Adebisi were on the top of his list. When Alvarez failed to respond and hand out appropriate retribution, he found himself displaced and abandoned by his crew, who began making tentative alliances with Schibetta. He suddenly found himself low on the food chain in Em City, and with nary a friend in sight. He still doesn't know what to do about it, or how to get some control back. For that matter, he still isn't sure he wants control back, but he does know he can't withstand every day without someone watching his back, or at least someone to eat lunch with.

Luckily for him, it was around that time that Kellerman showed up in Em City, and they began working together in the hospital. He gave Miguel no grief, and was easy to get along with, so before long, Alvarez found himself taking a few meals and passing a couple of hours with Mike, and occasionally even Beecher. But he still feels odd and alone. They are cordial, but not exactly tight. And he still doesn't know how to get back some of the respect he has lost. One thing no one can afford to do in prison is allow themselves to be made a fool of, cause once one person does it, the floodgates open and you're earmarked as quarry.

He thinks of Beecher and wonders exactly how that bastard pulled it off. He was about as low as you can get in here, but now, nearly no one will fuck with him. Oh, yeah, Adebisi flipped on his ass, but Adebisi is completely out of his mind too. And, to solidify Beecher's growing reputation as someone not to be fucked with, he was somehow able to stave off the larger, stronger aggressor. Sure, Beecher is still in the hospital, recuperating from his injuries, but he's alive. Miguel respects that kind of stamina and determination.

Jake is led not to McManus' office in Em City, but to Warden Leo Glynn's office instead. Both the warden and McManus are waiting for him. The warden dismisses the guard, and invites Jake to sit down in a plush leather chair. Jake thinks back to his first day of incarceration in this hellhole. This office was his first stop. As he stood there on that day, he surveyed the surroundings and actually thought that things wouldn't be all that bad. The office is small, but intimate. The thick burgundy carpet is warm, and the mahogany desk and plump leather chairs lend an air of sophistication. The ample bookshelf on the wall gives the impression that an enlightened and learned man will be overseeing your stay here. And the warden is not a monster either. He is a large, friendly man who offers a winning smile and a firm handshake. It's so deceptive. It is still hard to believe that this office and this man are in any way connected to the rest of the shithole, let alone in charge of it.

Jake sits back in the plush chair and waits for one of them to speak. McManus is the first to break the silence. "Jake, we have a deal for you."

Rodzinski eyes them both suspiciously. After several years here at Oz, he had learned that no one, not the inmates, not the guards, not even McManus or the warden, ever offer up good tidings without expecting something substantial in return. "What deal?"

"Well, for starters, how would you like to be out of the hole, back in your own pod?"

Jake looks around the office, "I already am out. I'm here."

"Yeah, but I could send you right back. I was going to keep you in there for another three days."

"Well, you do what you think is right, McManus."

"Ah, I think you can go back to Em City. The fight wasn't all that severe," he shrugs and tries to look nonchalant.

"And what do you want me to do, huh? You did say this was some sort of deal."

"Well, Jake, I need help with a matter. And someone with your qualifications is perfect to assist me. Tell me, you ready to go clean? Give up sucking tits?"

Jake squirms slightly in the chair. He hadn't realized he had been so far gone that it was obvious to everyone he was a junkie. "As a matter of fact, yeah, I don't want anymore of the junk, why?"

"That's good. That's very good, Jake." McManus never loses the slightly condescending tone in his voice. He acts like a teacher reprimanding a wayward student. "Cause I've had enough of 'em too. I want them gone. I want to know how they get in here, and I want it stopped."

"I don't really know how I can help you. I wasn't dealing."

"I know that. And I have a good idea who is. But I need to prove it, that's where you come in."

"You want me to be a snitch?"

"No, Jake, I want you to act like the cop you once were."

Jake is incredulous with disbelief. "What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Well, everyone knows you're going to be searching for tits as soon as you get back to Em City. I want you to make purchases. I want you to get as close to your supplier as you can, try to get some clues to how he's getting the supply. Then report back to me."

"That's it, huh? Well, I don't think so. I don't want to be anywhere near the junk anymore, let alone buying it to make it even harder to avoid."

"Listen Jake, I'm serious about this. It's a chance for you to do some good here. It's a chance for you to use everything you've worked for your whole life. It's a good way to start fresh. And I'm sure the parole board and the warden here would look very favorably upon your help."

That catches his attention. Is McManus actually threatening his parole if he refused to assist him? "Look, McManus, what you're asking me to do is suicide, you know that. After I get you all your information, you're either going to continue to look the other way, or make some half-assed attempt to clean things up. Either way, everyone will know what I did, and I'll get killed for it. No thanks."

Warden Glynn now rises from his comfy, imposing seat behind his desk and walks around and leans on it in front of Rodzinski. "You've misunderstood the deal here, Jake. You have everything to gain by doing this. I'm interested in cleaning up the prison too, and so is the governor. I spoke to him this morning. If you help us get the mainline in here plugged up, we're offering you early release. You won't have to worry about being murdered for being a snitch, because you'll be at home, waiting to testify at the trial."

Jake's mind reels. Visions of his wife float before him again. His own living room, a private bathroom, his lazy-boy chair, and the Monday Night football game on tv. Plus the added bonus of actually doing some good police work to get there. His self esteem and pride immediately begin to reassert themselves, two old characteristics he feared he had lost.

Glynn isn't lying to him either. He has already spoken to the governor twice this morning. The first call was regarding Joey Bianchi. Schibetta awoke particularly early this morning and made phone calls to the outside about his lieutenant. The Schibetta family is the richest, oldest, and most codified crime family in the state. When Peter Schibetta screams, whether he's behind bars or not, someone, everyone is going to answer him. The problem for Schibetta is, he is not his father. His father, Nino, had unquestionable clout and loyalty in nearly every corner of the state. Peter, however, is merely a young punk who inherited the family business and must now prove his worth. Everyone sees the opportunity to topple him now, if they strike hard and fast. But he is determined to hold on to everything his father built and left for him, even if his grasp for the moment is tenuous at best. Which is precisely why he refuses to allow this particular attack to go unpunished. The governor, however, is not enamored with the brash young thug, and although he wants nothing more than to see him destroyed, his is not willing to risk political fallout in an election year, so he reluctantly leans on Glynn to use all appropriate means to keep Schibetta placated.

The second call was from Glynn to the governor, detailing to him a plan to eliminate Peter Schibetta from future equations. McManus, in his desire to crack down on drug trade in Em City, wants to target Schibetta. He knows there are other suppliers, such as Adebisi, but they are all small compared to Schibetta. He wants to unleash a mole into his organization and sting the hoodlum, bring more charges against him, and squelch the family business. It is risky, but they have a man they think can pull it off. A former cop, with a well known drug habit, but also a burning desire to get the fuck out of Oz. Amazingly, the governor approves the intended deal with Rodzinski, and now the only formality left is to convince one more person to play along: Jake.

Tobias Beecher lays in a hospital bed in the infirmary. He is amused every once in a while and snickers silently. He still can't believe he was able to stave off Adebisi. He takes enormous pride in how far he's come in his time here. He would prefer to give it all back, certainly, but since he can't undo the past, he can at least learn to live in the future. He has for sure been through as much hell as anyone else here, but at least he's still breathing. He wonders briefly why he continues to fight for his life. The impulses to kill himself and end his misery are often and severe. He could have given in and let Adebisi finish him off, but something inside screamed to be preserved. Maybe it is just that he is unwilling to go on someone else's terms. After everything he has been stripped of, he at least demands to dictate the terms of his own death. But maybe there's more. Somewhere deep inside of him, there is possibly still one last fragment of humanity left that he is clinging to. Small and lost as it is, it is enough to sustain him.

Mike Kellerman unleashes a primal wail in his decrepit cell. There is no one to hear, no one to care. He is utterly alone now. Not only physically, but also emotionally. He pounds his fists on the dirty floor, droplets of sweat falling from his brow. If his soul contains that fragment of humanity that is keeping Tobias Beecher fighting for his every breath, Kellerman can't find it. If he had the means, he would certainly end this isolation the only way he knows how. God knows he's thought of it before, several times. But he always managed to swallow hard and muster some hope towards tomorrow. He would look at his bedside digital clock and tell himself that he only had to get through the next six hours, then it would be a new day, and things would change, or get better. But now, removed from sunlight and others, he has lost every sense of time. How can he count hours, telling himself to hold on, when he has no idea when tomorrow will finally, mercifully roll around?

Left alone, with no one to pretend they care about him, he has learned what the ancient ascetics used to strive for. He has found meaning in the koan "lose yourself to find yourself." But he has not found enlightenment nor nirvana. Unfortunately for Mike Kellerman, he does not like what he has found.

Jake nods in agreement. "Yeah, you know, it was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. Forced me to get off the horse, you know?"

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say that. It must have been tough though."

"Well, yeah. But you were right, Mel. You tried to tell me. You tried to help me, but I wouldn't listen. I just wanna say I'm sorry."

"Ah, ain't nothin', man. I'm glad to see you've got your head screwed on right again, dat's all."

Jake smiles at him and nods again, but a distressed look begins to creep across his chiseled features. "Look, Meldrick, we have to talk, I have to tell you some things."

Jake closes the door to their pod, and directs Lewis to sit on the bottom bunk. He is apprehensive. Although he is certain he needs to end the physical relationship with Meldrick, he doesn't want to hurt him. He knows he wouldn't have made it through his time here without him, and he still loves him as a friend. To his amazement, as he relates his epiphany to the other man, Lewis does not display any hurt or anger. In fact, he seems happy for Jake. The only reservations he holds are about his undertakings with McManus. Jake has decided to clue Lewis in to everything, not only about getting clean, and his renewed love for his wife. Meldrick is genuinely concerned with Jake's safety, but promises Jake to watch his back, and is genuinely pleased it could lead to his early release.

After the conversation, Jake promptly heads out to find Schibetta and make his first purchase. He can not hesitate, knowing that if he is to appear as a craving junkie, he must act immediately. Schibetta is wary, but recognizes Rodzinski as one of Adebisi's most faithful customers. With Adebisi in lockdown for putting the hit on Beecher, Schibetta has gleefully been catering to his customers. For his part, Jake is still suffering from aftershocks of withdrawl enough that he doesn't have to put up much of an act to convince Schibetta he is jonesin.

The initial transaction was the easy part. The difficult part is traversing the way from the kitchen where he made the drop with Schibetta all the way back to his cell where Meldrick is waiting to take the tits away from him immediately. The entire walk, his body screams for mercy, fulfillment. His mind wages a war against his desire and craving. After what Jake had just been through, you would think the choice would be a no brainer. But that's because you've never been hooked on heroin. Somehow, Jake manages to focus his attention on his own footsteps. Just one foot being placed in front of him, then the other. He knows if he can keep thinking about his feet rather than the bounty waiting for him in his pocket, he may be able to make it back to Meldrick without bowing to his demanding mistress.

He watches his left foot fall before him, feels the weight it places on his hip as he shifts and moves the right one. Really, just one tiny sniff won't be all that horrible. No one will know. You'll know Jakey boy. Left foot. But it won't do any harm. Just to celebrate my good fortune, huh? You do it, Jake, and you'll be sucked right back in. Right foot. Nah, I can handle it. Just enough to help take the edge off. Left foot. Jake, don't be a fool. Be strong, don't let this beat you. Right foot. It won't beat me. I can beat it. I can control it. Left foot. Then take control now, goddammit, and keep it in your pocket. Right foot. Oh, come on, what harm can it really do? It's just some powder, just a tiny little taste, wet my whistle a bit. Suddenly, he is already back at his pod, where Lewis is anxiously awaiting him. Hands trembling, Jake dips into his pocket and immediately relinquishes the packet to his bunkmate and exhales deeply. "Mel, I don't know if I can do this," he reveals as he lays back on the bed.

"You did good Jake," the other man confides and sits down next to him. "But if you don't want to do dis, you don't gotta, you know?"

"Yes, yes I do. I just didn't know, I mean, I didn't realize how bad I still want the stuff. What if I give in, Mel? What if I slip and start snorting again?"

"Well, then I'll just have to open a big ole can of whoop ass up on ya, get ya back to your senses."

"What if I enjoy that too," Jake playfully teases.

Meldrick simply waves a dismissive hand at his friend and grins broadly, "We done wit dat too, 'member?"

"I know. I know," he sighs.

Later that night, after the pod lights have been shut down, Jake sits up in bed with pen and paper in hand. He is writing a love letter to his wife. He says the usual things, how he misses her, thinks of her, how he is sorry. Although nothing he writes is new or original, it is the truth.

Augustus: Ahh, love. Nothin else in this whole world could make us do the crazy, fucked up things we do. When you ain't got no love, you go crazy from that. And when you are in love, that makes you crazy too. Love is the only thing that can make us push all the fear aside and strive to be a better person. Love is a risk, but once we find it, we'll take even more grave risks just to keep it alive, and to find our way back to it.

Peter Schibetta also sits up in his bed after the lights have gone down. He is not thinking about family in the same manner as Jake is though. He is stewing about Joey Bianchi and trying to figure out what steps need to be taken. He knows that although he has been handed the keys to the kingdom, it was by default. Schibetta realizes that he must prove himself worthy as leader of his family, and keep the business safe.

His father was one of the wisest and cagiest goodfellas in the country. His power and ruthlessness were tools he used judiciously to serve the family, not his own interests. In sharp contrast to his father's steely intensity, Peter's calling card is a fiery aggressiveness. His is a hothead, and one who often doesn't bother to see the forest for the trees. His father possessed cunning and savvy, plus an ample reserve of patience. Peter works on impulse, and the family fears his instincts are not solid enough to be trusted to often brash behavior.

But for all his shortcomings in comparison to Nino, Peter is not a hopeless idiot. He spent enough time on the street and conducting business under his father's wing to pick up more than a few pointers, and he is also endowed with a natural intelligence. He only needs to harness his desires and channel his determination to prove he is worthy of the throne. Sitting up in his bed, Peter is painfully aware of his image in the family's eyes, and even more importantly, outsider's eyes.

Sitting in the dark, replaying the events of the past few days, Peter Schibetta realizes he may have already made a few grave errors. He still doesn't know who hit Joey, and in his haste to stick it to Adebisi, he has undertaken several new "clients" about whom he knows very little. His impulses and rashness could be damning to him now. He finally takes the time to think the events through, and his mind turns as he suddenly is aware of many small details he had previously overlooked in his zeal. Tiny inconsistencies are becoming glaring oversights that could serve as fodder to the rest of the family of his incompetence. But Peter Schibetta sits there thinking things through. He may have acted too swiftly, and without sufficient wariness earlier, but he knows it isn't too late to rectify his mistakes. In the process, he can not only prove his capability, but also establish himself as a man to be reckoned with, just like his father.

Vern Schillinger is fast asleep in his bunk. He has felt a fair amount of exhilaration the past couple of days. He is getting primed to strike, and the anticipation has worn him down and allowed him peaceful rest and slumber. This is what makes Vern Schillinger persist on this earth. He is a predator pure and simple. But he does not hunt and feed on flesh, or money, or sex. His sustenance is destruction.

He preys on those weaker than he, to prove his own power. But it is a false power. True power comes from building, and creating. Everything Schillinger does is to degrade, lower, and manipulate. That's why he can't be satisfied, can never find enough, because what he craves is out of his grasp. He takes a perverse joy from watching another human being suffer, seeing his will crumble, removing his dignity. When he inflicts misery, he feels joy. Taking the life of another person is not nearly enough for him, he would rather snuff their soul than their body.

And he has found a new mark. A man who was once the pinnacle of all that Vern resents. A man who was strong, intelligent, and decent. A man who held certain authority. A man who had the audacity to not realize his own skin color should have prevented him from rising to such high standing.

Back in the Infirmary:

Beecher is dozing lightly when a figure over him wakes him with a start. Shaking the remnants of a nightmare from his eyes, he rapidly adjusts and swims into consciousness to see Miguel Alvarez hovering above him. He is slightly disoriented, even though the room is bright, he has the feeling he awoke in the middle of the night, and another predator is looming over him, preparing to attack. He sucks in his breath and examines the rest of the room. There are other patients lying in adjacent beds, Ryan O'Reilly is directly to his right. But the doctor is nowhere to be seen. He looks defiantly at Alvarez, giving him the signal that no matter how weak and vulnerable he is, there is really nothing left that anyone can do to harm him. Alvarez senses his distrust and shakes his head slightly. Placing a finger in front of his lips to signal a need for discretion, he leans down closer to Beecher and speaks in a low voice. "Hey, man, I know they won't give you any strong pain killers cause of your addiction. But you're racked up pretty bad, want me help you out, slide you some relief?"

Beecher is perplexed. He assumes Alvarez is simply trying to get him hooked on narcotics again, so that when he is released back into Em City, he will one more source of income for him. He is acting like an opportunist businessman, building a customer base. But, there is something in Alvarez's manner and speech that causes some doubt in Beecher's mind. He actually seems concerned. "No, I'll be just fine. It's not that bad, really. I don't want to get hooked on that junk again."

Miguel nods in understanding and acceptance. "Yeah, that's cool. I wasn't trying to hustle you or nothin', you know. Just offering to take the edge off."

"Maybe the edge will do me some good."

"Ok, man," Alvarez agrees and pats him on the shoulder before pulling up and resuming his duties before he is noticed. As he mops the floor in the coffee room, he thinks of Tobias Beecher. He feels sorry for the man. He didn't used to. When Beecher first arrived, Miguel saw him as a rich, pompous, spoiled weakling who was going to get eaten alive in this place. He made absolutely no investment in the man whatsoever, neither avoiding him, nor approaching him.

But he also watched him, with at least a morbid curiosity. He didn't annotate his every move, not right away. In fact, Alvarez was fairly oblivious to Beecher's torture at the hands of Schillinger, and his subsequent heroin addiction. It wasn't until just before the riots, when Beecher attacked the maniacal nazi, that Alvarez took notice of him and realized all the suffering and abuse he had endured. And it was during the riot that Alvarez realized just how severely he had misjudged Beecher. Well, he hadn't exactly misjudged the man, but Beecher had undergone drastic changes and grown an iron backbone in the wake of his tragedies. Alvarez respected that. He had grown up in a tough neighborhood where he had to scrap and stand his ground daily.

Augustus: Yeah, Love. We have so many notions about love, what it is, what it isn't. What it's supposed to be, how it should look, and feel. Sometimes we get so caught up in the idea of love, we fail to notice when the genuine article is standing in front of us. Everyone, from philosophers to scientists, has tried to figure out and explain love. It's a chemical reaction in the brain, it's hormones, it's attachment.

People even try to draw lines. Well, I love him like a friend, but not like a lover. Or, I care deeply for him, but I don't love him. That's right, we even stratify our love.

But in Oz, if you're lucky enough to find any kind of love, you ain't gonna question it. You're just gonna be thankful for it.

A poor young latino in a rough neighborhood without a father figure, Alvarez had tried to pull himself up by his bootstraps. Problem with that ideal is that you must have boots to have straps to pull yourself up with, and Alvarez had nothing. He came from a long line of jailbirds, his own father and grandfather even doing life in Oz. But Alvarez is a truly unique case for Oz, a compassionate man. Certainly no angel, Miguel created plenty of trouble growing up on the streets. He had to just to survive. But, much like Meldrick Lewis, he was blessed with a strict and loving mother. She wanted her son to escape the ghetto instead of becoming a part of it. And he did possess a few other assets. His dark good looks assured him of very few lonely nights, and his passability for a caucasian afforded him a certain measure of acceptability amongst whites. Sure, he was still a latino, but a good looking one. But that small level of acceptance was hardly worth the reverse angle. Other latinos also tended to look at him as too white. Subsequently, he never found himself accepted by either group. Too dark and spanish for whites, and too light and anglicized for latinos. He had to fight twice as hard just to survive on the streets. However, with his mother's watchful eye, he retained an inner core of decency. He fought because he had to, not because he gleaned pleasure from it. But the constant tension was a drain on the boy, and he eventually snapped, reacting to a minor incident with an unjustified level of violence.

And, although a rather minor infraction, when the chips fell, he had neither the fiduciary means, nor social connections to buy a break, so he landed here in Oz. He is serving 15 years for reacting the way his world had demanded him to since his childhood.

He faces it all with stoic determination, and a willingness to survive. He does his time the old fashioned way, keeping to himself and reflecting on his mistakes. He may not feel troubled by the crime he committed, but he is racked with guilt about other past indiscretions, and views his time here as penance. Although never suffering the brutality and humiliation that Beecher has, he battles his own inner demons on a daily basis, trying to exorcise them while still managing to retain the essence of his individuality. He wears his torment upon his face, the long, angry scars a constant reminder or what not to slip back to.

What sets Miguel apart from the ordinary con is his natural intelligence and thoughtfulness. He is an anomaly for Oz, but not in the sense that Beecher is. He was tough before he came in here, and to be sure, the walls of the prison have hardened him even more. But he still hasn't lost his compassion for his fellow man, nor his keen perceptive abilities to determine what makes others tick. That's part of why he's such a natural as a dope dealer. He can smell a customer from twenty cells away. It's that same insight that has made him come to admire Beecher. He wasn't trying to hook the guy again, simply to build his clientele and revenue. He just saw a man in pain, and offered to relieve it.

The next day:

The large iron door clatters and is then pushed open. Mike Kellerman halts the series of push ups and rises to his feet. He greets the intruder silently, and head on. He does not turn to cover his body, nor drop his head to hide his face. A small pile of clean, neatly folded clothes are thrown onto the dirty floor by the badge in the doorway. "Get dressed. You're going back to Em City."

A myriad of thoughts and emotions had overtaken Kellerman during his weeklong confinement. He has managed to keep a grasp on few of the more important ones, even though some are unsettling, and others downright disturbing. But like Dorothy having the coveted ruby slippers, although he is frightened, he now knows he has the keys to take himself home, to resurrect the man he once was.

Rebadow is the first to notice Kellerman striding toward his cell in Em City. "Welcome back, Mike. You seem to have managed your time alone just fine."

Intent upon keeping his thoughts in order and fulfilling his goals, Kellerman distractedly answers the old man, "Uh, yeah, I suppose so," he says as he visually surveys the area, searching for a few men in particular. He doesn't want time to slip by, he needs to act now and begin travelling his new path.

"Interesting what a man can learn when there is no one there to teach him, isn't it?"

Kellerman looks at Rebadow in shock, and is momentarily unable to speak. He collects himself swiftly, "Hey, you seen Beecher around? I want to talk to him."

Looking at the ground and shaking his head, he answers him, "Uh, Mike, he's still in the hospital. While you were in the hole, he got attacked, he uh..."

Mike doesn't wait for him to conclude the transfer of information, instead hurrying toward the infirmary to see his bunkie. He had wanted to thank Beecher for watching his back during his altercation with Jake. He hadn't noticed it at the time, but upon reflection, he is grateful that Beecher had stood up for him. In fact, in Kellerman's vapid existence, Beecher is the only person left in the world who stands by him, and that means everything to him. He had wanted to thank him, and assure him that he would in return be there for him. But in his absence, when Beecher needed him, he had been unable to protect him. Once again, he had let down someone who had stuck their neck out for him.

When he reaches the infirmary, he sees Alvarez and pulls him aside, asking about Beecher. Alvarez details the incident, and the wounds, then takes him to Beecher's bed. A mixture of guilt, anger, and hopelessness overwhelm Kellerman as he gazes down at his friend's tattered face. Both eyes are swollen and discolored, and a large white bandage is wound around his nose. Beecher looks up at Kellerman and laughs. "Hey, Kellerman's out of the hole, huh? Good to see you, Mikey boy."

"Beech, man, I uh... I mean, what happened, man, who did this?"

"Ah, fuck it. It's nothin. They're lettin me out of here tomorrow. It looks worse than it is. Besides, maybe I won't be so pretty anymore. Perhaps being deformed will be a turn off and no one will be so anxious to fuck me. It could be a good thing."

Kellerman leans down closer, a dangerous look resurfacing in his eyes. "Man, I swear, I'm gonna take care of this."

Beecher erupts into laughter, "What are you going to do, arrest the guy, detective? We aren't in Baltimore anymore. We aren't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy."

Mike looks around nervously, wondering if anyone else heard him. Most of the adjacent beds are empty however, and the man in the bed next to Beecher is sound asleep. "No, but you watched my back, I want you to know I appreciate that. It was good lookin out, and I'll do the same for you, ok?"

"Yeah, I know, Kellerman. It's cool. Don't worry about it though. I've already taken care of it."

"It doesn't look like you've taken care of it."

"Trust me, I have. I'll yell when I need you. I've got a question for you though. What was that jackass hoein you for? I mean, I've talked to Lewis, he's got no problem with you."

Kellerman is stunned, "You've talked to Lewis? What the fuck for?"

"Nothin really. I felt bad about punching him out. Just wanted to clear the air. He's an ok guy. So what's his friend's problem?"

Kellerman's mind whirls with the news of Lewis, but he stays focused on Beecher. He likes the guy, and is beginning to trust him. "Ahh, don't worry about Rodzinski, we go back from before here in Oz."

Beecher scans the room quickly, then presses, "You arrest him or something?"

"Yeah, yeah I did. He was on the force too, and I arrested him. Funny, isn't it?"

The two men carry on the conversation for a bit longer before Kellerman retires back to his cell. Left alone in the hospital bed, Beecher wonders what the fuck is going on. He had almost become completely adjusted to being utterly alone and abandoned in this place, constantly fighting just to survive. Until Kellerman's arrival, and his easy friendship, he hadn't even realized just how lonely he was.

And he is now becoming confused over Alvarez. Certainly, the younger man had never been a source of aggravation for Beecher, but they hadn't been friends either. Suddenly, he started appearing by his bedside, making small talk, presenting a kind face. When Alvarez had patted Beecher on the shoulder the other day, it was the first time in over a year that anyone had touched him without malice. Aside from the emotional and mental isolation he had been suffering, he had also been completely deprived of any sort of non-violent human contact. When Miguel simply patted him on the shoulder, Beecher had felt a huge wave of gratitude sweep through him. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel repulsive to every other human on the earth.

Next to him is Ryan O'Reilly, recuperating from his day's chemotherapy treatment. He is nauseous, weak, and foggy, but he is not sleeping as they had thought. And through his sickened condition, he had heard and mentally logged every word spoken between Beecher and Kellerman.

Ryan O'Reilly is not hard to figure out. O'Reilly has one central motivation for everything he does, that driving force being Ryan O'Reilly's safety and comfort. He makes no allegiances to others because he truly feels tied to them. He does it only to heighten his own standing and power. He will be your best friend, putting himself in dangerous situations and suffering greatly for your sake, but only so long as you have something to offer him. When you are no longer of use, he will turn his back and discard you without even a twinkle of remorse.

Since being diagnosed with cancer, he knows that he will be earmarked a weakling, susceptible to the more violent and depraved individuals in Oz. He has been trying to figure out who to turn to for protection, and how to get an in with them. Thanks to the indiscreet conversation between Beecher and Kellerman, he now has his answer. He will be back in Em City tomorrow, and he won't waste a single moment making his way to Peter Schibetta and informing him that he is currently dealing heroin to a cop. O'Reilly has already put all the pieces into place in his mind. Rodzinski was released early from the hole, and is an ex-police. One thing that never changes about a person, once a cop, always a cop. Ryan grins through his infirmity and allows himself to doze lightly, knowing he has finally found a coveted wormhole into the family.

Augustus: You know what love really is? It's hope. And faith. And charity. That's right, that's what true, deep, everlasting love is. It's the grace of mankind, and man. But here in Oz, faith, hope, and charity, and especially love, they aren't graces. They're curses. Because the very things that make life worthwhile for everyone else, can destroy you in here.

Two days later:

Ryan O'Reilly had been to see Peter Schibetta yesterday, and since his enlightening visit, Schibetta had put a hawkeye on Jake Rodzinski. He had already been suspicious of the man, but getting concrete evidence that he was a cop cemented his misgivings. No progress had been made on Bianchi's murder either. Schibetta was rapidly wising to the fact that he was being set up. And he wasn't going to roll over and take it easy.

Jake Rodzinski comes for his daily fix after dinner, while the kitchen is being cleaned and readied for the next day's meals. He is feeling queasy, and beginning to break into a sweat. 'Must be coming down with the flu or soemthing' he reasons as he walks with the young wiseguy. Schibetta leads him into the back to afford some privacy. "Hey, Rodzinski, I was wonderin something about you."

Fighting off the shakiness in his limbs, Jake looks to him and raises a brow, silently encouraging him to continue. "You know, most guys, they can't wait. They got to take a huff right away, taste the stuff, get a fix. How come you never do? You always run right back to your cell."

Jake shrugs and tries to look nonchalant. Inside, his heart begins to thump quickly, and his mind races with excuses. 'I'm being tested here. He's on to me. Got to play it cool.' The adrenaline mixes with the onsetting sickness, making the task of acting naturally even more difficult.

"I don't know, discretion, I suppose. Don't feel the need to call attention to myself, or you."

Schibetta sticks his tongue in his cheek and nods, "Mmmhmm. Well. That's very smart of you, Jake. That the kind of thing they teach you at the academy?"

Jake is now beyond nervous, it takes all his effort to control his breathing, stop the panic from welling higher. He glances behind him to see two of Schibetta's thugs firmly in place. He must find a way to bluff his way out of this. He also knows denial is useless. Schibetta would never tip his hand unless he was sure. "Huh, not in the academy no. But you learn pretty quick once you're on the street how to stay low profile, you know."

"Yeah, Jake, I do know." He tilts his head to the side and stares at him for a long time. He knows what must be done, not just to prevent facing more charges of trafficing, but to show his muscle and control to the family. "Jake, I'm gonna be straight up with you here, which is more than you've been with me."

Jake begins to protest, but Schibetta holds a hand in the air to signal him to save it. "Here's the deal, Jake. You bein a cop don't sit too well with me. But, I know you were a good customer of Adebisi's. But then see, you got sent to the hole, plenty of time for a man to dry out, change his ways. Plus, you got out of there a lot earlier than the other guy you had that ruckus with. Makes me suspicious, you know. So, just do me a favor, huh, Jake, ease my concerns, let me know you're on the up and up, ok?"

Jake's mind is still reeling, visions of Carol drift in front of him and mingle with memories of his early days on the force. All he wants is to stay alive, and get back to her. He knew this could turn into a kamikaze mission, and it was a chance he was willing to take. McManus and Glynn gave him hope when they offered this deal to him for early release, and the feeling of pride he derived from undertaking the task infused him with faith that he could indeed still be a decent and productive man. He isn't going to give up now. If he acts stupid, he knows the other man won't lose a second sleep over killing him where he stands. "Ok, sure, whatever."

"It worries me, you know, the way you always buy and run off. For all I know, you're taking the stashes and dropping em in McManus's lap, setting me up."

"What do you want me to do, Schibetta?

"Take a hit, Jake. Show me. Show me you're not really a snitch, you're just a junkie." He opens a paper and places it in front of Rodzinski, who gazes down at it neutrally. He licks his lips, and takes another long look at Schibetta before leaning down to inhale.

The actual act takes only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity to Jake. He thinks of so much as his head lowers to the calling powder. He has missed it. How is he going to overcome this again? He has no choice anymore. Snort, or die. Just two weeks ago, he'd have laughed till he was sick. Having the threat of death pressing him into getting high against his will. Promising himself to not enjoy it, he places an index finger against one nostril, sharply inhaling as much of the powder as possible into the other.

As he raises his head and sucks the last bit of powder back and swallows to clear his throat, he is immediately aware that something is wrong. The burning is more severe, and the taste, the taste is all wrong. It is not the bitter, melancholy taste of his mistress. It is a biting, aggressive taste. The sickness he felt earlier intensifies, and he looks at Schibetta in confusion and horror. The room around him spins at a frenetic pace. As though through a long tunnel, he hears Schibetta speaking to him, but he is unable to focus his eyes on the man. "Rodzinski, no one tries to fuck me over, you hear, you lousy snitch. You're dying, you fucker. I'm not going anywhere.."

Jakes' ears and brain are now unable to process the sensory information around him, and he drifts into himself. He is aware of what is happening to him, that these are his last moments upon this earth as a living being. He is not flooded with a sense of peace, or comfort. He is not filled with anything, he is hollow. As his body fights and convulses, his mind and heart become enveloped with fear and finality. It ends like this. He never gets to hold Carol again, nor atone for his mistakes. He never gets the chance to rebuild his life. And he is alone.

Peter Schibetta has ensured that he will never walk with grace or dignity again. He has poisoned his body with strychnine, first in his food at dinner, then a large dose sent directly up his nose to cap Jake off. Peter Schibetta has condemned him die, his last breath on this earth inside the decrepit walls of prison, and his soul hanging in limbo. He will not die a hero, but rather a jailhouse snitch.

Augustus, Rebadow, Alvarez, Kellerman, and freshly released Beecher sit huddled around a table halfheartedly playing cards. None of them knew Jake at all, but they have each begun to take a liking to Lewis. Rodzinski's body was found only a half hour ago, and the whispers and snickers are already running rampant. Kellerman rises from the table to search for Lewis. He knows what he is going through, and despite everything in the past, he wants to comfort and console his partner. From the time he was released from solitary, he knew he needed to speak with him, but he got distracted by Beecher, and then began to procrastinate. He isn't sure what he is so nervous about. He had resigned himself that Lewis would probably turn him away, scoff, and possibly even go on the offensive. But Beecher had told him that Lewis apparently held no ill will toward him, and that's when Kellerman got nervous and avoided the talk.

Beecher looks over to Alvarez accusingly. Alvarez shrugs in confusion. "What, " he demands.

"Would you have done that?"

"Done what?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Would you have killed someone like that if they were ratting you out? We all know why this hit went down. I mean, fuck, he was found in a garbage can with the word 'pig' carved into his chest. Or do you only carve up yourself?"

Alvarez takes a long hard look at Beecher, measuring his temper. That last remark stings, but not nearly as much as the fact that he is questioning his capability to murder so easily. "I don't know."

"Oh, you don't know, huh? Well, that's just fucking wonderful."

"Look, I didn't do it, ok. So why you all over my shit?"

"Why? I'll tell you why," he stands up and leans over the younger man. "Mary, Mary quite contrary, had a herd of lambs. One stormy day, her lambs went scram, so she searched out a new clan. But this flock ain't weak, and it's members ain't meek. She'd better play it straight, right out the gate, or she'll be condemned to be damned."

Alvarez throws his cards on the table in disgust and never even looks back at Beecher as he stalks away. It is the first he had seen of the stewing madness inside the man. Nursery rhyme spouting bastard. But he also understands every word the man spoke. As he makes his way to a quiet hallway and sinks to the floor, he admires the crazy fuck even more. Beecher has every reason to not trust anyone. Alvarez is the new kid now, and Beecher is protecting his own.

Kellerman makes his way to Lewis' cell before roll call signaling lights out. He pauses hesitantly outside, not sure how to ask for entrance. He sees Meldrick sitting on the bottom bunk, perfectly still, his back to the door. Shuffling his feet a bit, he hesitates before speaking. "Meldrick," is all he can push out. He perceives a slight nod from the other man, and interprets that as invitation inside. He tentatively moves to the other side of the bed, stopping halfway when he catches sight of Lewis in profile. "Look, I just wanna say, I know things weren't cool between me and Rodzinski, but, still... I'm sorry man. Really."

Again, a nod is the only thing he can detect from the other man, so he inches around even more. Standing in front of Lewis, he gazes down at the other man. His shoulders are drawn in and his back is hunched. His head is dropped forward. Mike has never seen him look so small, all drawn into his own body. He reaches behind him and grabs a chair, positioning it directly in front of his partner. He leans his elbows on his knees, lowers his head, and takes a deep breath before beginning what needs to be said.

"Um, that's not all. I know you probably don't care, and you don't want to hear this right now, but I just want to tell you that I'm sorry."

"You already said dat, Kellerman. Thank you. It's fine though."

"No, I didn't say it yet. I'm not talking about Jake, Meldrick. I mean everything else. I mean, I am sorry about Jake, but everything else too."

"What are you talkin about Kellerman, spit it out, man."

Mike shuts his eyes, unable to face the other man. "I'm sorry you're in here. I know now that it's all my fault. It was wrong, I shouldn't have done it, I shouldn't have asked you to lie. I shouldn't have burdened you with everything else. I never expected this to happen. I deserve it, but you don't, and I wish I could take it back, I wish I could get you out of here, get your job, your life back for you. I've destroyed everything for you, and I'm sorry. I know you can't forgive me, because I can't change things, but I just want you to know that I never meant to drag you down with me. I never meant to hurt you."

Meldrick sighs and looks at his partner. He knows he is speaking in earnest. He has known all along that Kellerman hadn't intended to hurt him, but it still feels good to hear. "Mikey, listen, it wasn't just you. I fucked up too. And I shoulda been there for you. Maybe this wouldn't a happened. But I made it all worse too. We both did dumb shit, and now we gotta pay for it. Ain't on you alone. Ain't on me alone either. We both put ourselves here. I don't blame you for it."

"You should. All of this is my fault. You wouldn't be here feeling miserable right now if it weren't for me."

"Jake's got nothin to do wit you. He'd a been dead either way. You got no hand in that, and you know it. Jake put himself in the grave."

"That's not what I meant though. You wouldn't have to be here if it weren't for me. Why? Why didn't you just roll on me, give me up to save yourself?"

Meldrick shakes his head a few times. "I told you. You ain't the only one carrying dis. I was there too. I started the whole thing. You coulda turned on me for dat, why didn't ya?"

"Cause you're my partner. And my friend."

Even through the haze of bereavement, Meldrick feels a quite calm descend upon him. He has waited so long to hear those words. They used to be there all time, every day, and he pushed them away. In their absence he had grown unsure. He had ignored his friend when he most desperately needed him, and was sure it was unforgivable. But now, hearing those words that used to annoy him and make him squirm, he is grateful. Knowing his love will never be returned, it is now comforting to retain a small intimacy that he used to shove away in hopes his own feelings would ebb.

He bows his head and whispers in a broken voice, "Thank you." Mike is stunned with his reaction. He had expected a brush off at best, prepared for a bitter brawl at the worst. He feels a tremendous weight being removed from his shoulders. He hadn't even known it was there, but had carried it for so long, and without absolution, its eradication allowed him to breathe more easily. He reaches out and firmly places a hand on Meldrick's shoulder and draws him closer. He lifts his other arm behind his back, and catches Lewis in a strong embrace.

The physical touch of another human being is overwhelming at first for Mike. He has been so alone, for so long. The warmth and heat course through him, bringing a sweet relief from the despair and isolation he had become so accustomed to. He once again has a friend, someone he can trust.

Involuntarily, Meldrick's arms lift slightly and rest upon Mike's back. It is a hug filled with warmth, and assurance, and support. Mike gently pats Meldrick's back, and moves his hand up and down firmly, rubbing away the pain, the tension, the fear. The slight movement seems to caress Meldrick's soul, and before he can stop himself, the tiniest, nearly inaudible sigh escapes from his throat. Small, quiet, and nearly imperceptible, but Kellerman hears it.

The chasm between the two men is reopened. He stiffens and draws away quickly, never meeting Meldrick's embarrassed gaze. Clearing his throat, he rises and stands. "Well, we gotta be locked up soon. I'll see you tomorrow, ok?"

Unable to speak or meet his eyes, Meldrick simply nods and watches from the corner of his eye as Kellerman retreats out his door.

Beecher finds Alvarez sitting alone in the darkened hall and leans his back against the wall and slides himself down next to him. Their arms and knees are touching, and he is again struck with surprise at just how pleasant the unviolating contact is. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bit your head off like that. It was uncalled for."

"Nah. I understand. You don't know me. You're just protecting yourself, that's all. I got no problem with it, really."

"Well, I still shoulda known better. It's just that, well, with this Rodzinski thing, ah nevermind."

"Hey, it's ok. I'm not after anything though."

"I know, and I know how it feels to be left out in the cold, with no one caring what you go through, if you even live or die. I know things are hard for you now, Alvarez, but it'll be ok."

Miguel is struck with a pang of guilt. No one was there when Beecher needed looked after, he didn't even bother to notice the pain, let alone offer a hand. "Yeah. Thanks. You uhh, you don't trust me yet, huh?"

"No. I don't trust anyone. But I'm not going to hang you out to dry either. As long as you don't try to fuck with me, we're cool."

Alvarez nods in gratitude. "I'm sorry, man."

"For what?"

"For not doin something, I mean, before."

"You didn't know."

"I know, but maybe I should have. Someone should have."

"It doesn't matter. I survived. Fuck it. I learned to take care of myself," he admits as he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, trying to force the memories away.

Alvarez places a reassuring hand on his arm, and Beecher immediately feels the heat of his flesh. There is no anger, no contempt in the touch, and he swallows hard as he tries to shift his concentration away from the touch. Just then, Miguel inches his head closer, and lowers his voice to a whisper, dropping words of assurance in his ear, "You're gonna be ok." His dark brown eyes trace the other's face, noticing the rise and fall of his adam's apple in his neck as he swallows, the strong set of the chin. He feels the skin beneath his hand warming under his touch, and is aware of the profound effect he is having upon Beecher. He relishes the way the other man's breath is starting to hitch slightly as he exhales in measured increments.

Everyone has an Achilles' heel, and Alvarez is completely aware that his is pride. He's punished himself for it severely, and thought he had reigns on it. But he now knows he doesn't. He's always loved the admiring looks he got from females, but even more important to him than bedding them was his ability to satisfy them. His ability to turn them on completely, and know that he was doing it. That was the essence of power to him. To make someone else so completely filled with desire, and then to be able to sate it. He'd been in Oz for some time now, and had thought that power had been stripped from him. He blamed his pride and vanity for the death of his child, and took it upon himself to scar what once a source of pleasure to himself.

But now, with Tobias Beecher warming under his gentlest touch, watching him build arousal in this creature who desperately needed it, all the old feelings of confidence crept back in. And he wants to do this not only for himself, but because the other person so deserves it. He needs to be shown care, and understanding. He needs to be shown he is worthy of gentle touches, that he is not the lowly creature he sees himself as. He wants to please him for the both of them.

He moves his hand slowly, tentatively up and down his arm, noticing the downy softness of the hair on it. Licking his lips, he moves even closer, daring to allow his nose to brush against the long sideburns darting down Beecher's cheek. He is careful, and slow. He knows that Beecher can startle at any second, nighmarish memories overtaking him. He inches even closer, making their hips press against each other, side by side as they both lean back against the wall. Dropping his other hand, he makes no overt sexual move, instead placing it on the raised knee of the other man, then turning his face to brush his lips dangerously close to his ear, he murmurrs a request, "Look at me."

Tobias Beecher's eyes flutter and he allows himself to gaze at the other man. What is he doing? This shouldn't feel so right. But his starvation for human contact overwhelms him, and his heart thumps commands that his mind can not overthrow. Adrenaline surges through his veins, and for the first time in over a year, he does not feel dirty, or ugly, or abused. He feels desirable, and each stroke of Miguel's hand upon his arm reassures him that he is not going to be injured by this.

Lowering his face to greet Alvarez, he takes inventory of what he sees. Large, dark heavy lidded eyes are the central feature on his face. The sloped angle of his nose falls down gracefully, leading to his slightly parted mouth. He feels the young man exhale deeply, and the warm breath dances upon his own lips. Miguel licks his lips, coating them with an inviting sheen, and they grow darker as more blood begins to pump towards them. Both men feel their breath hitch, and chests tighten in anticipation.

As they both dip to catch the other, a loud whistle sounds, signaling a report to roll call before they are locked down for the night. They hover for an instant, but the blaring sound has intruded upon them, and the intimacy is shattered. They rise to their feet, neither speaking, avert their eyes, and head off toward their respective cells.

That night, three men lie awake and think of their actions with curiosity, interest, and desire. One man lies in bed feeling like an idiot who had the holy grail in his hand and carelessly let it slip away. Kellerman, Beecher, and Alvarez fight off heated visions and mild confusion. Meldrick Lewis is not confused in the least. He is grieving for a friend, and berating himself for allowing his body to overtake his mind. Of all the kinds of love, unrequited is the most devastating, and Lewis is certain he will never feel worse than he does on this night.

Vern Schillinger lies in his bed that night, also thinking of a man. He is making step by step preparations to insure that Meldrick Lewis, can, indeed, feel much worse.

Tim McManus lies in his bed and a single phrase keeps interrupting his thoughts. 'The road to hell is paved with good intentions.' His mother used to say it all the time. He has made the obligatory phone call to Carol Rodzinski, reporting the news of her husband's death. Tomorrow he will purchase a sympathy card and mail it out to her. But what is he to write on it? Ah yes, I'm very sorry I coerced your husband into a kamikaze mission that subsequently resulted in his untimely demise. All he ever wanted was to make the world a better place. For his love of mankind, he now wears blood upon his hands from one man, and hears the howling, fevered soul of another.

Augustus: Ah, love, ain't it grand?