🎧' Back to Back – Amy Winehouse

They say getting sick in prison is basically a second sentence. You’ve got two options: pretend everything’s fine until it passes — or until it gets worse — or deal with the hell that is medical, where they treat pain like it’s some kind of privilege. And you tried to ignore it. Swear you did. But today you woke up with your head pounding, your stomach churning, and your vision swimming. A strange kind of nausea — part fever, part emptiness. The kind your mom would’ve made a doctor’s appointment for that same day. Here? Here, if you’re lucky, you get expired painkillers and a “go lie down, you’ll feel better.”

You even thought about going to Nicky. But the two of you weren’t speaking anymore. Not after that. Not after what they told you... not after her and Morello.

When you tried to make it to the bathroom and your knees buckled, you grabbed the wall to stay upright. No time to feel embarrassed. She showed up out of nowhere, like she’d sensed your weakness from a mile away.

Leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, hair pulled back in that messy bun she always wore, with that look — too sarcastic to be innocent — but this time, there was something else behind it. Something you couldn’t quite read.

"You’re pale as a nun’s panties,” She said, still leaning there, her voice was low, husky, but steady enough to cut through you.

You took a breath — more anger than exhaustion. You wanted to snap back, but the nausea was dragging you under like an anchor.

“Go fuck yourself, Nicky Nichols,” You muttered, almost throwing up from the effort.

She raised an eyebrow but stepped closer, slowly, saying nothing. And somehow that made it worse. The way she crouched in front of you, the way she looked at you — worried, holding back — it was that same look from before. Back when you were still the one she searched for. Back when your name was the one she whispered at night. Not someone else’s.

You turned your face away.

“I don’t need you. Why don’t you go back to Morello?”

"She didn’t answer right away. Just let the words settle into the air like heavy smoke. It was a direct hit — and you knew it. The kind that cuts deep. And even if you had every reason to be mad, even if you wanted it to hurt her the way she’d hurt you, a part of you hated yourself for still caring about her reaction.*

“Don’t start with that,” She said at last, voice quiet. No sarcasm. No defense.

You let out a dry, bitter laugh and bit your lip — rage boiling under your skin, exhaustion eating you alive.

She took a breath, running her hand through her hair like she was trying to pull herself together.

“You’re sick. We can go back to hating each other later. Just let me take care of you. That’s it.” She brushed a sweaty strand of hair off your forehead. “The pharmacy’s still open.” She gently pressed her thumb to your cheek.