convict!simon riley x prison nurse!reader…
after three months of tending to the ill and injured within manchester prison, you consider yourself rather well-versed in the gruesome and unsettling nature of the place. it isn’t as bad as you originally thought it would be, no worse than your usual gig at the hospital, where you’d been victim to just as many catcalls and death threats. at least, here, there’s less grieving relatives and dying children. instead, it’s all gang violence and testosterone. it’s hard telling which is worse, but there’s something morbidly exciting about your job now. all the stab wounds, the broken bones, and, once, a finger bitten off at its second knuckle. you’ve yet to make it through a shift with your scrubs unsoiled, which is unnecessarily satisfying in itself.
this is a beast unlike any other, however. big in a way that intimidates, handsome face mangled by scars that are much more attractive than they should be, pale skin covered in faded ink depicting tragedies, his blond hair buzzed close to his skull. they roll him in, strapped down to a stretcher, in the dead of night, his white tank top soaked with blood and his nose bent at an awkward angle, breathing heavily, mad at the world, but somehow still conscious.
“simon riley,” one of the correctional officers, graves, tells you, bored, hardly concerned with the fate of this inmate. “stab wound to the left shoulder, probable concussion.”
he’s lucky, all things considered. the wound’s shallow, superficial, it’ll heal fairly quickly so long as he doesn’t strain it, and his concussion’s manageable. he won’t be bleeding out anytime soon, and there’s not any real risk of permanent brain damage, which is more than you can say for a lot of the sorry souls who come through the infirmary on the daily.
he’s unnervingly quiet while you work, watching you with eyes akin to a vulture’s. starving. vengeful. diseased. he’s not outright hostile, not stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds him—rather, the one which keeps him breathing through the night—but he unnerves you like few have managed to.
“you should leave him here for observation, at least for a couple days. if that concussion gets any worse, or that wound gets infected… well, you know.”
“your call. keep him strapped down, and if he tries anything, call us.”
to your relief, he doesn’t. he sits silently, stews in whatever misery he grapples with, watching you flit about the infirmary like a snake that’s spotted a rabbit in the tall grass. it’s only when he nods off, two hours into his stay, that you’re forced to face the man properly.
he jerks violently when you rouse him, teeth bared and eyes wild for a moment too long as he flounders in the wake of whatever tormented his subconscious, snarling at you like it’s all your fault. you’ve seen an awful lot of men in similar states, but something about this one made your hackles raise. you’re not wholly convinced those restraints could stop him if he decided to act.
“easy,” you soothe, with all the professionalism you can muster. these inmates, to you, can’t be whatever they are to the rest of the world. to you, they’re just patients. people who need your help. the second you start looking at them as anything else—as criminals, threats—is when things take a turn for the worst. that’s how people die. he may be big and objectively terrifying, but it’s up to you to look beyond that. “you have a concussion, you need to stay awake,”
you coax him into drinking lukewarm water from the mug you cradle, diligently wiping away what dribbles down his chin, and try to ignore how that vein in his neck throbs. you’re surprised when he speaks up, not having expected it. some of these men like to talk, sure, they’ll go on and on for as long as you them, if only because there’s no one else who will listen, but simon riley doesn’t exactly strike you as much of a conversationalist.
“what’re you doin’ here?”
“it’s my job, mister riley,”
“yeah, i gathered,” he scoffs, like you must be stupid. “why? this ain’t no place for someone like you.”
you want to point out that he has no clue what sort’ve person you are or where you belong, but you don’t, because he’s right. so you simply smile in return, wry and insincere as if the mere sight of him does not scare you witless. “someone’s gotta do the shit jobs no one wants to.”
his lip twitches, almost like he wants to smile, and it instills a bravery in you that was not present a moment ago. “why are you here, then?”
“i thought you weren’t supposed to ask questions.”
“the criminal’s gonna lecture me on what i should and shouldn’t do?”
this time, he does smile, as if amused by your gall. you consider it the closest thing to a victory you’ll, and let your query go unanswered. “is there anything else i can do for you?”
“got a smoke?”
“m’afraid not.”
“that’ll do, then. run along, bird.”
he survives the night, probably to someone out there’s chagrin, and it is left up to the day shift to unsure he keeps breathing until you return at nightfall. your earlier question, however, is answered while you give your replacement, liam, your report.
“you got stuck with simon fuckin’ riley?”
“yeah, so, what about it? you know him?”
“that’s the fucker who killed his brother a couple years back, nephew and sister in law, too. it was brutal.”
you can vaguely recall the news reports. you were still new to the city then, but the story stuck out. you remember wondering how anybody could do such a thing, especially to their own kin, to a child. you can’t help but think of the blond man with the uncanny glare. he frightened you, to be sure, but something about it doesn’t feel right to you. while you could believe him a murderer, fratricide seems extreme. but what do you know?
“it doesn’t matter what he did. treat him like you would any patient.”
you make your final rounds before heading home for the day, finding yourself at simon riley’s bedside once again. his stare’s no less intent, but it’s shifted some, more curious than hostile. the bruising is worse than it was when he came in, making him seem rather haggard, but it isn’t cause for any real concern. at least, here, he won’t be jumped by his fellow inmates again.
“you’re leaving?” again, he surprises you, seeming near disappointed by your departure. it’s not like you’ve given him much reason to be so fond of you. all you did was your job.
“even nurses have to sleep sometime, contrary to popular belief.” you retort, trying not to look at him too hard, not to think of the story you heard all those years ago. “i’ll be back later, for the graveyard shift. try not to terrorize my staff while i’m gone, aye?”
he softens imperfectly, baring his nicotine-stained teeth in a grin that sends a shiver down your spine. “no promises. sleep well, bird.”
despite yourself, you smile, but you know, somehow, that you will be dreaming of simon riley and a family of three found dead in their own home.