#smoothduo

Felps visits when it's dark, when it's easier to slip in unnoticed and unbothered. He always manages to sneak past the security patrol, though he's certain they've spotted him before. They just choose not to say anything, or rather, they're too lazy to say anything. In Alcatraz, that's probably for the best, and he's thankful for it.

He slips inside the infirmary, careful not to cause a disturbance. It's quiet here, as always, but not peaceful. The silence is deafening, and it's the kind of silence that can drive a man insane, so he tries to ignore the quiet as much as he can.

Eventually, the guard reaches the room he's looking for. The name tag outside reads 'Ward A21,' which is new, but the face that peers out from behind the glass door is the same as ever.

Felps opens the door silently, mindful of the creaking. The figure lays on the bed, unmoving. He has a wrist cuffed to the bed, but Felps knows he's not going anywhere anytime soon. He has no intention to go anywhere. No motivation to go anywhere.

Pac is sleeping, eyes closed and his breathing even. He's wearing the white clothes of the infirmary, hair a few inches longer, skin sickly pale and bruises staining his skin. He looks almost peaceful. Minus the bruises, he looks exactly the same as all the other nights, when Felps did patrol and stayed just a few seconds longer at Pac’s cell, just watching him sleep. Sometimes, Pac would wake up and they would relax in each other's presence until Felps needed to continue patrol.

But Felps knows it's not the same– far from it, really.

Because Pac is passed out on the bed, high off pain meds and one leg less.

Pac has lost his right leg, an insane cannibal too eager to punish someone, to have that rush of teeth sinking into flesh and blood pouring out. Pac lost a lot of blood and had to be rushed to the infirmary, or else he wouldn't have survived.

Felps feels guilt. He was there, he watched as Cell held him down, making Pac choose what leg to cut off. Pac had begged, screamed and cried. It was horrible. And Felps had done nothing.

The guilt was overwhelming, and he felt sick, but there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing except this, nightly visits when Pac was passed out. Felps could easily visit him when Pac was awake, but he didn’t feel like he deserved it. He was too much of a coward.

He takes a seat next to Pac, careful not to touch him, even though he wants to hold his hand or run his hand across his locks of hair.

Felps watches him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, his long lashes, his dry lips, and it all feels like too much, too overwhelming.