Chapter 13: Jelly Crisis
The cafeteria line was a study in gray and beige, a concrete gully echoing with the industrial clatter of trays and the low, constant murmur of men. Steam rose from stainless steel bins, carrying the soggy, hopeless smell of boiled vegetables and protein of indeterminate origin. It was Thursday. Thursday was usually some form of goulash, which meant gristly meat cubes swimming in a salty brown slick, alongside overcooked green beans the color of old bruises.
Angel stood out like a scrap of satin in a bin of burlap. His hair was neatly divided into two high, white curly pigtails, tied off with bits of frayed, beige thread from a unraveled sock—Spark’s handiwork that morning. They bounced with his every small movement as he shuffled forward in the line. He was a full head and shoulders shorter than the man in front of him, Rafael, who moved with a silent, economic precision even here.
Dominic loomed behind Angel, a dark pillar of patience. His presence created an automatic buffer of space; the men behind didn’t press, didn’t jostle. They knew better. His eyes tracked the line, the servers, the guards posted lazily by the doors, but his primary focus was the crown of Angel’s head, the delicate scent of plain soap and healthy Omega cutting through the cafeteria’s miasma of despair and boiled food.
“Next,” droned a server, a tired-looking trusty with a splattered apron. He slopped a ladle of goulash onto Rafael’s tray with a wet splat.
Rafael took his tray, his expression unreadable, and moved to the next station.
Angel stepped up, presenting his tray with both small hands, a faint, hopeful smile on his face. The goulass plopped into his compartment. He didn’t flinch. He was used to it. His eyes were already on the next server, a younger guy with a nervous twitch, who was doling out bread rolls and condiment cups from a large plastic bin.
The roll was stale. Angel didn’t care. He watched the man’s hands. The fingers dipped into the bin, emerging with a small, plastic cup with a peel-back foil lid. Grape jelly. They were placed on the tray. One, two. The man’s hand went back for the third item—sometimes a pat of margarine, sometimes a second jelly. Today, it was another jelly cup.
But the man’s fingers fumbled. The tiny red cup—strawberry—slipped from his grasp, tumbled onto the stainless steel counter, and rolled into the gutter along the edge where food scraps were pushed.
“Oops,” the server muttered, unconcerned. He didn’t retrieve it. He simply moved his hand to the next compartment in the bin, pulling out another grape one. He placed it on Angel’s tray.
Angel’s face fell. It was a dramatic, instant transformation. His plush lips, usually curved in a gentle smile, pouched into a pronounced, trembling pout. His dark blue eyes, fixed on the lost red cup in the grease trap, went wide and watery. It wasn’t about the jelly—not really. It was about the tiny, colorful pleasure in a gray world, the predictable sweetness, and the injustice of seeing it snatched away by clumsiness.
“I wanted the strawberry one,” Angel said, his soft voice barely audible over the cafeteria din, but it quivered with genuine, crestfallen disappointment.
The server ignored him, already looking past him to Dominic. “Next.”
Angel didn’t move. He stared at his tray with its two purple cups as if they’d personally insulted him. “He dropped it,” Angel said, a little louder, turning his head to look pleadingly up at Dominic. “He dropped the strawberry one, Daddy. And now he gave me another grape.”
The line behind them was beginning to stack up. A low grumble started. Dominic placed a large, warm hand on Angel’s shoulder, a silent prompt to keep moving.
“Come on, baby. It’s just jelly,” Dominic said, his tone low and even.
“It’s not just jelly,” Angel whined, the sound threading high and plaintive. He dug his heels in, literally, the soles of his prison-issue shoes squeaking on the floor. “The grape ones are too sweet. They taste fake. The strawberry ones have seeds. I like the seeds. He dropped it. He should get me a new one.”
A few of the inmates within earshot started to grin, shifting their weight to watch the show. A Reaper-scolding was always a spectacle; it was the only time the man’s volcanic calm seemed to develop hairline fractures.
Dominic’s sigh was a deep rumble from his chest. His patience, while vast, was not infinite for public displays of brattiness. “Angel. Move your feet. Now.”
“But Daddy—”
That was it. The word was a spark. In one smooth, powerful motion, Dominic’s hand slid from Angel’s shoulder to the back of his neck, his big fingers curling gently but immovably into a scruffing hold. He pulled Angel backwards, flush against his front, bending his own head down. His mouth went to the unmarked side of Angel’s neck, opposite the claiming scar.
He didn’t bite hard. Not like the claim. This was a sharp, precise, punitive pressure—a father wolf disciplining his pup. His teeth pressed into the tender flesh just enough to sting, to dominate, to short-circuit the whining.
Angel let out a sharp, startled gasp that melted into a low, shaky moan. His whole body went pliant, tensing for a second before slumping back against Dominic. The pout vanished, replaced by a dazed, submissive blink.
“None of that, baby,” Dominic growled directly into his skin, the vibration humming through Angel’s small frame. “You’re holding up the line. You get what you get. Understood?”
A full-body shudder. “Yes, Daddy,” Angel whispered, his voice feather-soft and utterly contrite.
Dominic released his neck, giving the scruffed skin a final, firm squeeze before his hand slid down and delivered a single, crisp, swat to the seat of Angel’s pants. It was more sound than sting, a percussive pop that echoed in the cavernous space.
The gathered inmates chuckled, a warm, rolling sound of amusement. No malice, just the appreciation of a well-executed correction. “Kid’s got a set of lungs on him,” someone muttered fondly.
“Needs ’em, with a sweet tooth like that,” another replied.
Angel, cheeks flushed pink but no longer sulking, finally began to move forward again, his steps hurried now. He kept his head bowed, but a sidelong glance up at Dominic was filled with sheepish affection.
It was then that Rafael, already at the end of the line waiting for them, moved. He said nothing. His dark eyes had observed the entire exchange without a flicker of emotion. As Angel shuffled past, tray in hand, Rafael simply reached out. His long fingers slid his own red strawberry jelly cup from his tray and onto Angel’s, next to the two purple ones. Then, with the same motion, he plucked a grape cup from Angel’s tray and took it for himself.
Angel stopped, staring at the red cup like it was a fallen star. His head whipped up to look at Rafael, eyes enormous.
Rafael met his gaze, his expression still cool, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible softening around his eyes. “I’m allergic to strawberries,” he stated, as if explaining a tactical maneuver. “They give them out automatically. Waste not.”
A brilliant, sunbeam of a smile broke across Angel’s face, erasing all traces of the earlier storm. “Thank you, Uncle Ghost!” he chirped, the title earned and given freely. He looked down at his trio of cups—two grape, one strawberry—as if he’d won a treasure. “You can have both my grapes if you want!”
“One is sufficient,” Rafael said, turning to find a table.
Dominic watched the exchange, a weary fondness tugging at the corner of his mouth. He gave Angel a gentle, propelling nudge between the shoulder blades. “Keep moving, sweetheart. Before I decide you don’t deserve any of them.”
They claimed their usual table—a fortress of quiet dominance in the noisy sea. Dominic and Angel sat side-by-side, Rafael across from them. Silas materialized moments later, his tray looking comically small in his massive hands, and settled his bulk next to Rafael with a grunt that shook the bolted-down table. Spark arrived last, juggling his tray and looking pleased with himself.
“What’d I miss?” Spark asked, sliding in beside Angel, immediately ruffling one of the white pigtails. “Heard a commotion. Sounded like a kitten being starved.”
“Jelly-based tragedy,” Dominic said dryly, unpacking his spork from its paper napkin. “Averted by international aid.”
Angel was already meticulously peeling the foil lid off his strawberry cup, his little finger carefully digging out a glob to lick. He hummed in pure bliss, the prior drama completely forgotten. “Mmf. Seeds.”
Spark barked a laugh. “You’re a weird kid, you know that?” His affection was blatant. He looked at Dominic. “He give you the full waterworks?”