Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm just a fan.

Series-OZ ... Can be read as a Single ... but may help to have read "OZ Sucks"

Beecher/Alvarez

WARNING... READ AT YOUR OWN RISK...SLASH...m/m... non/ con...rape...violence...character death...basically, another day in OZ! (so if you don't like don't read)

set in SERIES 4.2 somewhere

Disclaimer- none of these characters belong to me, they remain the property of the Levinson/Fontana comp.

Please enjoy.

(and if you do, why not let me know.)

==000==

Why is it that when all you want to do is give or receive a little bit of affection, the other always turns away or wants something more? That's what kept happening to him. When he had sought that touch, just some human contact to let him know he was still alive, still human himself, he had been turned away.

After all they had been through, all they had done to each other, all they had forgiven each other and now, when all he had wanted was that confirmation that he was still alive, Chris had turned from him. He had been humiliated in front of his new Podmate by his old.

He could of expected it from his new 'roomy' to try it on, obviously a user testing how far he could be pushed and to push that little bit further. But to hear the man he loved and he did, even now, more so in fact since having wronged him so badly, off handedly announce that he didn't care who 'fucked him up the ass' he felt his heart die. It was as if Chris had reached in a cold hand, grasped his heart and squeezed all the remaining humanity from it.

So, seemingly uncaring but feeling he could die, Beecher collected his shaving gear and calmly walked out of the shower room and back to his Pod. But it wasn't his anymore, the same room he had shared with Chris. The scant refuge it had held was now gone.

Over the next few months as Em City descended into madness, it just got worse. Turning to others to use and be used, finding cold comfort knowing he was only going through the motions of sex, without emotion, he brought death once more.

Believing he had already brought misery and death to those he loved, now it extended to people he didn't care about but still it was due to him, his actions, as he was told that his 'dick was lethal'. He could still see the image he had created sharp in his mind of all the graves he had caused to be dug, lined up in a row. Nine in total. He prayed it would never have to grow.

So he became cold, isolated, placing up a 'no go' area, not only to protect himself but anyone unwary enough to approach him.

And then he found that that small, shrivelled, cold lump of heart he maintained only to keep his blood pumping was broken afresh as Chris Keller was sent away. He had nothing left. Destitute. He could not understand how his blood still moved around his veins.

And a few weeks later, he also could not understand what compelled him to show that small kindness to someone else who seemed as torn up as himself. Did not understand where that small piece of sympathy had come from. He had thought that he had nothing left to give yet something in the man's eyes had called to him, dredging up emotions he had thought totally obliterated.

=0=

Working at the computer in Sister Pete's office, a prisoner was pushed into the room for a session with the therapist, the guard immediately ignoring them both and returning to a conversation outside. A brief glance and Beecher returned to his keyboard. The Nun having been called away over half an hour ago, on who knew what new crisis, the man would just have to wait.

He knew a lot about the presence behind him. He had had plenty to type into the 'bulging' file over the years. But all that he had ever had to enter into the psyche files had never been of use to him however. All it had done was given him a greater awareness of all the 'fuck ups' in this place. As if he didn't already know. He did not need to read about them. He lived with them every day. Hell, he had to contend with them.

Minutes went by and he could feel the tenseness emanating from the other man as if it were coming off in waves. Beecher thought about shutting down the computer and leaving but there was nowhere he wanted to go.

The atmosphere was distracting though. He could hear the shuffling of feet as the man fidgeted behind him. He listened for a while to the inane chatter of the guards in the corridor but they spoke of a world outside of this place and he found he didn't want to know. Sighing he returned his attention to the screen.

The sigh must have broken something behind him. "Beecher," he was not interested. "Hey! Beecher!" sounding anxious.

Shit! He did not need to have to contend with someone else's neurosis. Sliding around on his chair, he saw the thin figure standing in the exact centre of the room, practically jiggling from nerves, arms wrapped defensively across his stomach with hands clutching at the ragged hemmed sweatshirt he always wore. Beecher idly wondered that perhaps he only had the one, a faded dark blue, as he never saw him in anything else lately. "What?" he asked resignedly.

The man would not look at him, the eyes flitting everywhere seemingly taking in the whole room at once, constantly seeking out danger. He was safe enough in here but was Beecher? He didn't really care that much but the figure was strung so tightly, muscles clenched, never relaxing for a moment, Beecher decided that if it continued much longer something would probably snap and it would be a toss up if it were to be physical or mental.

Finally the eyes sort of came to rest on the seated man as he asked, "Where is she? Sister Pete's s'poused be here!"

"She got called away. I don't know when she'll be back."

This did not go down well, was not what the man wanted to hear. He winced seeming to shrink in on himself, a thumb taken into his mouth and the nail worried at as his other arm clutched tighter at his stomach. "But she's gotta be here!" and he began to turn in circles as if searching for the missing woman. "Got to see her! Don't wanna go back!"

Beecher didn't know what to say so shrugging he mumbled a useless, "Sorry," and turned back to the computer.

A rapid shifting and a hand grasping painfully at his shoulder as he was swung around on his chair. Beecher sprang to his feet ready to defend with that look of barely contained madness on his face which often gave others second thoughts, but the other had already sprung back, this time with both hands to his mouth. He was shaking his head in denial, the eyes searching Beecher's face never still. He relaxed slightly looking steadily at the frightened man. "I just...just want to talk to her," he was told in a small voice.

He sighed once more, "I'm sorry," and he actually found he meant it. "I don't know when she'll be back," and watched as the other turned away to lean on the desk, knuckles bone white as he gripped the edge, his head hanging.

Beecher didn't know why he did it, probably never would, but he slowly walked over and placed a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. He felt him tense up even more then, as he turned his head slowly to look at him, relax ever so slightly. They stood that way for what Beecher felt an eternity. He didn't know what to do now, if anything, as he looked back into those startled dark eyes.

He took a hasty step back dropping his arm as the man turned around to stand staring at him, confusion and wonder battling in wide eyes. Another step back as he thought he detected something else in the gaze, which had finally settled on something, on him. A hesitant hand began to reach for him but a movement by the door immediately caught the man's attention and relief flooded his face.

"Hello, Miguel. I'm sorry I'm late," said Sister Pete.

"S'Okay."

Beecher quickly turned to close the current file and exited the room, feeling confusion of his own and tried to seal back up his heart, wondering how that small bit of emotion had escaped.

==000==

The next time Beecher saw Alvarez he appeared calmer, much more in control of himself. He was seated at a table in the 'Bullpen', hands stretched out in front of him. They must have been fascinating as it was all he looked at. A wide berth had been left around him, his reputation enhanced by his escape. He had managed to stay 'on the lamb', on the outside for months and being caught once more had done nothing to diminish his achievement. His madness was respected too.

Spending time in the psyche ward or just out of your head always seemed to earn a healthy regard from the fellow prisoners who, for some reason, respected madness. Beecher had felt that regard himself on occasions. Wariness, if not fear, had much to do with it as inmates with a penchant for violence mixed up with a helping of psychosis were more unpredictable and therefore even more dangerous if pushed in the wrong direction. The slightest thing could be liable to set off a violent response.

Maybe his talk with the Nun had helped but looking closer, Beecher could tell the severe tenseness was still there. Alvarez was holding up a pretence, no doubt knowing any sign of weakness could be a death sentence.

He moved to the table occupied by Rebadow and Hill, choosing a seat where he could surreptitiously study the young Latino who in turn was studying his hands. He was greeted, nodded in return but did not want to be drawn into conversation. Respecting his wishes the two men, who he supposed could be called the closest thing he had to friends other than Said, carried on a gentle bickering about what, he took no notice. He was still puzzling out what had prompted him to reach out a hand figuratively, as well as literally, to the man in Sister Pete's office that afternoon.

Could he still be capable of compassion? All his emotions, the ones he allowed himself to have, had been reserved for his daughter, Holly and the baby he hardly knew. Harry was hardly a baby now but he still thought of his remaining son as he had known him, had last seen him, before this place, this Hell that had sucked all he had known of himself away along with the blood it had taken from him and forced him to spill.

Was it possible there was a path back for him? Could he allow himself to walk it if it truly existed? Could he trust again? Could he actually feel something other than coldness and hatred? That brief glimpse he had seen just before the Nun had walked through the door, a yearning, a calling, but for what? Help, sympathy, compassion? He had felt it tugging at someplace inside but what if he was wrong? What if it was just something he unconsciously wanted to see and had imagined? So many questions and he had not one answer.

He laughed under his breath causing a still in the conversation next to him and two pairs of enquiring eyes to turn to him. "Nothing," he said in response to the unspoken question, "Just thought of a sick joke." Before Hill could get a word out he stood and decided to go lie on his bunk.

No, he thought, he had to keep himself locked tight for it was just a sick joke, just his imagination and even if it wasn't, he could not afford to risk it anyway.

His course took him past the still figure of Alvarez and as he drew level he thought he heard a, "Gracias," but looking down, the man had not moved. His imagination then, and he continued on.

Entering his thankfully empty Pod, he climbed onto his bunk, laid back and attempted to harden his heart even further.

==000==

TBC...