Chapter Text
Dave watches through hazel eyes as the pigeon perches on the barbed wire, pupils expanding at the sight of the bright blue sky. He remembers being eight years old and staring up at power lines, wondering how the hell the little feathered fuckers managed to land on them as they pleased and take off just as easy, never thinking twice about the voltage humming beneath their feet.
Must be nice, being a bird and having wings. Must be nice, period; if it doesn’t like where it is, it can just leave.
But then again, easy never did sit right with him.
Dave thinks about entropy sometimes; the way things fall apart if you don’t keep pushing back against them. Easy victories leave him hollow, always have. It’s the struggle that makes his pulse quicken, the way fate likes to bare its teeth before rolling over to show its belly. Prison strips away everything but the essential hungers, and his hunger has always been for the fight itself, for the delicious agony of not knowing which way the wind will blow today. A man needs friction to know he’s alive, needs the burn of effort to remind him that breathing is more than just an automatic function.
But there’s that itch in his chest again; the one that makes him think maybe he’s gotten too used to life playing hard to get. Maybe he’s domesticated himself to like it that way, just so he won’t miss what he can’t have.
“What?”
“Mustaine! ‘S your fuckin’ turn,” Lars barks at him.
Dave blinks, refocusing on the cards spread before him on the metal picnic table. He glances at his hand; he’s one victory away from his bet, and in Spades the Ace is king. James’ Queen of Spades is useless against it, and Cliff’s ten doesn’t even make a ripple.
“Sorry, ladies,” Dave teases, laying down the card ceremoniously. Cliff’s face crumples like a paper bag. “Looks like I win. Again.”
James’ eyes narrow as he studies the card. “Son of a bitch.”
“Again? Fuck,” Lars slurs, scribbling numbers with the stub of a pencil. “Mustaine… takes… another one.” The words come out slowly as he writes them down.
Dave smiles, greedily scooping the little mountain of cigarettes towards himself.
“That’s it,” James says, tossing his cards across the rough tabletop. They fan out, landing in the dust. “I’m never playing this shit with him again. Only blackjack, poker, fuckin’ hide and seek; I don’t care what it is. But I’m done feeding this man cigarettes, Lars.”
Lars grins. “Come on, Het. One more game. Double or nothing,” he encourages, nudging the blonde.
He gets an eyeroll and a frustrated huff as answer. “You just wanna see a bloodbath. Fuck off.”
“Impressive.” Lars ignores James and keeps pushing, settling a hand on the winner’s shoulder. “Seven years in this shithole and the man’s never lost a hand of spades.”
That isn’t exactly true. Dave has been seven years in here but has only spent the last four of those undefeated. He doesn't plan to convince Lars otherwise.
“Can we talk about how he loses everything else?” Cliff offers softly.
“Sore fuckin’ losers,” Dave fires back cockily. “You’ll never get anywhere with that attitude.” He counts the cigarettes — five Marlboros and three Camels — and proceeds to tuck them into his shirt pocket. Small victories in a place where victories come rare and precious.
“All inmates must maintain a forty-foot distance from the intake gate,” is what they hear coming from the speaker next. Dave doesn’t move. None of them do. They just shift where they sit, turn their heads towards the gate.
“Freshmen,” Lars says happily. It’s truly been a while.
The vehicle itself rolls in -
‘U.S. FEDERAL BUREAU OF PRISONS’
- white paint, dirt-streaked, grilles on the windows, heat mirage flickering off its roof.
The bus shudders to a stop, the door opens with a pneumatic whisper, and they start walking out; the newest residents of Victorville. One, two, three... Dave counts automatically. The fresh fish emerge; shackled wrists chained to their belly belts, ankle cuffs connected by short links that force their stride into a shuffle.
Four, five, six... They’re a mixed bag, as always. Tall, short, skinny, fat, blacks, whites, hispanics…
No asians this time, Dave notes internally; he just lost a bet with Axl.
Seven, eight, nine...
Number ten steps off the bus; he’s smaller than most. Skinny arms emerging from an orange uniform that might be twice his size. Curly hair falls past his shoulders in dark waves, curtaining his face so completely that Dave can’t make out his features. The kid’s — and he looks young enough to be a kid from this distance — head is bowed forward, chin nearly touching his chest in what Dave recognizes as either resignation or shame. Sometimes it's both.
There’s a careful grace to his shuffle, Dave notices. Most fresh arrivals who haven’t been around here before look around nervously, taking in their new world with wide eyes and barely concealed panic, but this one keeps his gaze fixed on the ground two feet in front of him, as if the concrete might give him the answers to his questions.
Eleven, twelve. The count is complete, but Dave finds his eyes drifting back to the curly-haired newcomer. He wonders what his story is. Dave’s not sure why he’s so curious, just that he is. And that always means something.
You and your sixth sense, huh?
Dave sits in his usual spot — second table from the left, back to the wall so he can see everything that matters — with Lars and James across from him methodically working through what the kitchen staff generously calls meatloaf. That’s when he spots the curly-haired fish again.
The kid moves slow, not because he’s lost, but because he’s clearly looking for somewhere to land.
Damn, Dave’s vision’s got actually really bad. He can’t make out the kid’s features even from a seven feet distance. He definitely needs glasses, but there’s no way someone in here is willing to give them to you unless you’re fucking legally blind. He’s blinking hard, rubbing his eyes like maybe his hands have some magic healing power, but all he gets for his trouble is the hollow thump of a body and plastic tray hitting linoleum.
The plastic clatter echoes through the cafeteria, followed immediately by Lars’ distinctive giggle rising above the general laughter. Dave turns to see the newcomer sprawled on the ground, food scattered across the floor.
Sixx is looking down on him from his seat, smirking mischievously with one lanky leg still extended. Dave would be lying if he said it surprises him. Nikki’s got his usual victim-of-the-day routine down to a science; trip the new fish, watch them eat shit, make sure they go hungry. It’s the most harmless trick in Nikki Sixx’s playbook, which should tell you something about the rest of his repertoire.
Dave feels a twinge of sympathy for the kid. He’s never particularly liked Nikki or his stupid acts anyway, but he can’t help the snort that escapes him and the twisted smirk on his face.
The newcomer kneels on the floor. Probably trying to process his new reality, trying to find his ground, Dave supposes. Over the chatter, he catches the sound of an angry huff coming from the kid. Oh yes, Mustaine might have a shitty vision, but his hearing sense is immaculate.
C’mon, get up, Dave tells him internally, first day is always the toughest, kid.
Everything unfolds very quickly from here.
The new fish is back on his feet, tray in hand, and before anyone can blink, he’s bringing it down on Nikki’s head hard enough to crack the plastic in two.
Now Dave’s seeing very clearly though; young naive fish are usually the most boring, predictable creatures here — all wide eyes and trembling hands — and Dave can’t remember the last time one of them fought back like this. He’ll be damned if he misses a second of it.
“I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU!”
It unfortunately doesn’t last long. The guards take the new kid before Nikki can say another word. On a second thought, it’s probably for the best. Dave doesn’t think he’d like to see a kid being murdered in the place where he eats lunch everyday.
“Tough fish, huh?” Lars mutters amusedly as they haul both men towards what’s presumably the hole.
“With that little babyface? Hell nah,” James answers. “That was just, some sort of, suicide attempt with extra steps.”
Dave’s sure he can still hear Nikki yelling profanities when he’s done eating his meal. He doesn’t see the new fish or Sixx for a whole week.
So, poker it is.
And Dave is two seconds away from knocking Lars’ teeth. Always backing down from spades because he knows Dave will clean house, always acting smug and cocky when he’s got a game or a bet he thinks he can actually win. It gets even worse when James jumps to Lars’ defense like a loyal lapdog.
Dave shakes his head and bites his lip. He looks away from the table, from his cards, from these insufferable faces, and his eyes find the new fish again.
He’s sitting alone on the bleacher, looking like he’s been put through a meat grinder. He’s finally back from the hole. Even from this distance — which isn’t much anyway — Dave can make out bruises blooming dark blue and purple across his face. Could be Nikki staking his claim, could be the guards from the hole. Solitary’s a cruel place, and those pigs aren’t exactly known for their gentle touch; not even with newcomers.
But there’s something strangely peaceful about the way he sits there, face tilted towards the sky, letting the wind catch his curls. Without a fucking worry in the world; which is dead wrong because Dave already knows what kind of living hell this kid has ahead of him. He’s already made enemies without even making friends first.
Dave tries to tune out the annoying specimens’ laughter, tries to steal some of that inexplicable calm radiating from the curly-haired kid despite everything he’s been through.
“Mustaine! What the fuck? Your turn!”
“Fuck.” He drags his attention back to his cards, plays something without really looking, his mind still on the bleacher across the yard.
James notices and follows Dave’s gaze with a calculating look.
“No way you’re actually planning to stick your dick in that,” James says revoltingly, scrunching his nose and nodding towards the kid.
Dave raises his eyebrows. “None of your fuckin’ business what I do with my dick. You stick yours in that—” He points at Lars, who’s currently mining for gold in his left nostril “—and I don’t say shit to you about it.”
Lars frowns, offended.
James doesn’t deny it, just glares. Then he adds, like he’s sharing some profound wisdom, “Kid’s got a whore face anyway.”
“A whore face?” Dave repeats.
“Yeah, a whore face. Definitely used to peddle his ass before he got here.”
Dave studies him again, considering. “Nah, I doubt that. Most whores I’ve seen look like shit. Y’know, track marks, missing teeth, faces like roadkill, shit like that. Kid looks too clean for that life.”
“Guess you’ll find out on your own. But I’m telling you right now; he’ll be looser than a wizard’s sleeve.” James sighs. “Mark my words, Mustaine.”
Lars finally extracts whatever treasure he was hunting for and wipes it on his tank top as he nods. “Gotta agree with Mustaine on this one. Too much of a pretty baby face to be a working boy.” He pauses, then grins like he’s about to share state secrets. “Course, the most innocent-looking ones are always the dirtiest.” He winks at Dave.
Nick leans forward, suddenly interested. “So you know what he’s in for yet?” He asks Dave.
Dave opens his mouth to answer no, but Lars jumps in. “Word says he’s in for second-degree-murder.”
Now that’s interesting. Dave takes another look at the kid sitting peacefully on his bleacher, trying to reconcile that calm exterior with the image of someone capable of killing someone. Then again, he’d seen him crack a tray over Nikki’s skull with no mercy.
“Straight up,” Nick says, laying down his cards with a satisfied smirk. “And that’s game, gentlemen.”
When the kid shuffles back into the cafeteria, Dave doesn’t bother to be sneaky as he watches him try to get a seat. Hope this chance doesn’t go to shit! He looks thinner, if that’s even possible.
One table, two, three, four…
Getting the same damn answer. Fuck no! And that is just if they have the courtesy of answering instead of shooting him a look like he’s nothing but a five-feet-seven cockroach.
It’s not just because he’s fresh meat. Everyone knows about his little performance with Nikki’s skull and nobody wants to inherit Sixx’s enemies, especially not for the sake of some new scrawny kid who might snap at any second.
Then the kid is walking towards their table, and Dave gets his first real look at the face that’s been hidden beneath all that hair. Christ. He’ll ignore the bruises, the wounds, the cherry colored eye.
Full cheeks still carrying baby fat despite being so thin, plump lips, soft nose, and eyes so big they belong in a Disney movie. The guy can’t be older than twenty-five, tops.
Cute, is Dave’s first thought.
Finally, inevitably, he makes his way to their corner of the cafeteria.
“May I sit here?” The voice is softer than Dave expected.
“You may not,” Lars replies with the kind of cocky disdain that comes naturally to him, finally raising his eyes to fix the newcomer with a withering stare.
James smirks triumphantly, clearly holding back a laugh and that's when Dave suddenly decides that he doesn’t like seeing James so happy.
“Actually,” Dave says, recognizing the contrary impulse that’s gotten him in trouble his whole life, “I think we’ve got room.” He gestures to the empty space beside him. “Have a seat.”
The reaction is immediate. Lars’ eyes widen like he’s never felt so betrayed before. “What the fuck- Dave-”
James just fixes the redhead with one of those glares. They’ll be having words about this later but Dave has already learnt to focus on the present not the future.
“Thanks.” The kid settles into his seat with obvious relief.
“Name?” Dave asks, curious as fuck by now. Calling him kid, fish or newcomer gets old very quickly.
“Kirk.”
Kirk.
Everyone at the table raises their eyebrows in that universal expression that says Kirk what, asshole?
Kirk-just-Kirk reads the room fast. “Hammett,” he adds quickly.
Kirk Hammett.
That’s when Nick and Cliff conveniently show up, sliding into their usual seats and immediately zeroing in on the new addition to their lunch table. “What’s this kid doing here?” Nick asks, not quite fierce but not bothering to lower his voice either.
“Wondering the same fucking thing myself,” Lars says, stubborn as a mule with a grudge.
Kirk smiles nervously. “Look, I’m not looking for trouble. Just needed somewhere to eat.”
That earns him a short laugh from Lars and a muttered “we’ll see ‘bout that” from James.
“So?” Dave leans back in his chair, studying the kid’s face. “What’re you in for, Kirk Hammett?”
Kirk stays silent for a moment before answering quietly, “Manufacturing.”
Dave quirks an eyebrow. “Manufacturing what?”
“Illegal drugs.” Kirk shakes his head, like he’s judging himself internally. “Heroin, coke, crack. Sometimes acid, if there was demand.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but Dave can see the shame in the way he won’t quite meet anyone’s eyes.
“You’re a chemist or something?” Nick asks.
“Oh, no.” Kirk shakes his head, chuckling. “Just... knew my way around a lab. If you can call that shitty basement a lab .”
Dave feels a wave of relief. Not a murderer, not a rapist, not an asshole who hurt kids. Just a young drug cook who got unlucky.
Lars perks up like a dog hearing a dinner bell. “You got experience selling too?”
Kirk’s cheeks flush slightly underneath the bruises. “Yeah. Some.”
“How much is ‘some’?” Lars pushes, leaning forward.
“Enough,” Kirk says quietly. “They said they’d drop the distribution charges if I pled guilty to manufacturing, so... In theory, that never happened.” He chuckles.
Dave watches the exchange with growing interest. The kid’s got skills, clearly. And Lars’ little prison economy could always use someone who knows the product from the ground up. This might get interesting.
Dave’s been feeling exhausted lately; tired in his bones, like someone drained all the color out of him overnight. Kirk had taken one look at him and said he was pale as a ghost, suggested maybe some sunlight would help, give him some vitamin D. Smartass. But Dave took the advice anyway.
Plus, sometimes a man needs time for himself. No Danish rats yapping in his ear about shit he doesn’t care about, no blonde guard dogs breathing down his neck.
The day’s particularly pretty; big clouds drifting overhead, sun bright enough to warm you nicely but not so hot it feels like your skin’s gonna peel off after two minutes. So here he is, leaning against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed. One of those rare moments where he feels normal again. Like maybe he’s just out somewhere smoking a joint, Pam making dinner, Justis falling off the trampoline again. Free as air. It’s dangerous to feel normal and free again. When you open your eyes and realize you’re still in prison and have many years ahead of you; that’s more devastating than it should.
He opens his eyes — trying to break the spell before it’s too late — and scans the yard out of reflex.
Kirk’s out there again, not on the bleachers this time but walking calmly as you please. Dave watches him move; there’s something meditative about the way the kid carries himself, even with those bruises still greening on his face.
That’s when he spots them. Three guys closing in on Kirk like sharks who’ve caught the scent of blood. Dave knows all three; Hoffman, Kowalski, and that piece of shit Gunn. They’ve got a reputation for hunting the new fish, and not just for conversation or fight. They make them understand exactly how the food chain works in this place.
Kirk fits their profile perfectly: pretty, young, small and new. Fresh meat with nowhere to run and no one to call for help. Dave already saw Gunn eyeing Kirk in the showers, hovering too close, asking too many questions. It had bothered him more than he cared to admit, but he’d told himself it wasn’t his business.
Now, watching them circle Kirk like vultures, Dave realizes it’s about to become his business whether he likes it or not. His overly protective nature won’t let him say otherwise.
The kid’s already got problems with Nikki. Add these three to the mix, and Kirk won’t last another month. Hell, he might not last another week.
So if Kirk’s gonna belong to anybody, Dave decides, he’s gonna belong to him. He’s gonna belong to someone who can actually take care of him.
He pushes off from the wall and crosses the yard with purpose.
“Hey,” Dave calls out as he approaches, making all four men turn. “You boys lost?”
Hoffman grins, showing teeth that have seen better decades. “Just welcoming the new guy. Being neighborly.”
Gunn doesn’t bother to act friendly. “Fuck off, Mustaine. We’re talkin’. None of your fuckin’ business.”
“You were talking.” Dave steps into their line. “Conversation’s over. Now go.”
Gunn snorts. “Who put you on the schedule, matchstick?” he asks, squinting. “Plenty of fish. Find your own. This one’s ours.”
“Walk away,” Dave says. “Now. Don’t make me fuckin’ say it again.”
There’s a moment where it could go either way, where fists might start flying and blood might get spilled. But Dave’s reputation precedes him, and these guys aren't stupid enough to test it over one pretty fish.
Gunn spits in the dirt. “Fuck this. Bitch ain’t worth the trouble anyway.”
Great. He didn’t even need to take out his shank.
Kirk watches them go, then turns to face Dave. “Do I owe you now?”
That makes Dave smile a little. “No. You’re fine.”
“Kay. But you didn’t have to do that, y’know…”
“I did. You got any idea what would’ve happened if I hadn’t?”
Kirk shakes his head. “I’m not stupid.”
“No, but you’re pretty, and you’re new, and you already got Nikki gunning for you. That makes you a walking target in here.”
Kirk looks away from him, at the gate, at the bus scars on the concrete.
“Those guys ain’t gonna keep their hands to themselves just because you ask nicely, you know that, right?” Dave says, raising an eyebrow.
Kirk fidgets. “So what- what do you suggest?”
“You can stay with me, and you might get a chance to survive this place. Nobody’s gonna fuck with you if they think you’re mine.”
Kirk stares at him, then sighs, shaking his head. “Look I-I… I get it. You wanna fuck me. And I don’t mind; you’re hot.“ Dave raises his eyebrows and smirks at Kirk’s bluntness. “Yeah. So we can do it anytime you want, but I just- I don’t want anyone to... own me, I guess. Sorry.”
Dave scoffs. Kirk’s talking like he’s the one doing Dave a favor. “Kid, you’re going to have a prison husband whether you like it or not, that’s just how it is. I’m giving you the chance to choose a good one; someone who’ll treat you right, make you feel good instead of just taking what they want.”
He can see Kirk weighing his options, fear warring with pride in his expression.
“Alright,” Dave continues, “I ain’t gonna force you to do anything. But good luck when those guys rape you every day, or when Nikki finally finds you alone. Whatever happens first.”
He turns to walk away. He’s taken maybe three steps when he feels a hand on his wrist. Kirk’s grip is surprisingly strong for someone so skinny.
“Wait.” Kirk’s voice is quiet but steady. “Fine. I accept.”