Hanna folds the towels slowly, cringing every time her eyes fall on the orange sleeve of her prison jump suit. Like it’s not bad enough being behind bars, she has to wear a sack that makes her look like a pumpkin to boot. The towels are scratchy, they remind Hanna of her shower at the Lost Woods Resort. She’s taking as long as she can, hoping to linger long enough for Alison’s shift to start.
Forty-six towels later, two of which have stains Hanna does not want to think about too hard, Alison walks in from the direction of her cell block. She walks different in here. Head tilted towards the floor. More submissive than she ever looked in the halls at Rosewood High. Her hair has no product, no highlights. She doesn’t wear any makeup. It’s Alison DiLaurentis at her most unvarnished. It’s astonishing, really, how much she looks just like everyone else. Hanna’s so used to thinking of her as the center of the universe, the sun that everything revolves around.
Ali sees Hanna, and acknowledges her with a quick movement of her eyebrows. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t want the guard to think they’re engaging in covert communication. Hanna folds another towel and waits.
Soon enough, Alison knocks over a big box of powdered detergent. She does a good impression of acting clumsy and annoyed with herself, huffing over to the supply closet to get a broom and dustpan. The guard rolls her eyes.
Hanna counts to thirty, then casually starts wheeling her cart full of towels in the same direction. She ducks into the supply closet as quickly as she can.
“Are you going to take the plea?” she hisses at Ali. The thought has been haunting her all week. Alison skipping out with time served on some lesser charge, trading Hanna for her freedom.
“Of course not,” Alison says firmly, although Hanna has no way to know if she’s lying or not. She takes Hanna’s hand. “How are you doing? Really?”
Hanna feels tears behind her eyes. She can’t afford to think about how she’s doing, most of the time. She’s petrified and bored and lonely and spends pretty much every minute wishing so fucking hard she was anywhere else - a Real Love Waits meeting, fourth period bio, horseback riding with Kate Randall - anywhere that’s not here, this bleak terrible place where she might be spending the next fifteen to twenty years of her life.
“The mashed potatoes taste like snot,” she says, her voice wavering enough that Alison understands everything she’s not saying. Just like she always has. It’s strangely comforting.
Alison smiles at her. Her smile is different in here, too. More subdued, reflective. Sad. The kind that makes you want to hug her, so Hanna does.
“You’re doing great,” Ali whispers. “Hang in there. You’re being so brave.”
The last thing Hanna feels is brave. But it’s nice to hear. Ali’s lies always are. Familiar.
“I hate it here,” Hanna says.
“I know,” Alison agrees. “I hate it, too. We just need to stick together. I’ll figure out a way to get us out.”
Hanna lets herself imagine a jailbreak, like in an old western. The kind her dad used to watch. Spencer and Emily on horses, pulling out the bars over the windows of their cells. Aria in a ten gallon hat twirling a six shooter. She shakes her head, she can’t lose herself in fantasy.
She still has her arms around Ali’s neck. “Promise,” Hanna says. “Promise me you won’t make a deal that leaves me in here.”
“I won’t,” Alison says, simply. “You’re my best friend. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Hanna closes her eyes, prays that it’s the truth. A few tears leak out, running down her cheeks and puddling on the shoulder of Ali’s jumpsuit.
“Hey,” Alison says, rubbing small circles on Hanna’s back. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m going to fix this, I swear.”
There’s just enough of the old brand of Ali’s supreme confidence in those words that Hanna feels a wave of gratitude and relief. She feels like her face is doing something weird, then realizes she’s smiling. She looks and sees that Alison is smiling back, her old smile, the ‘trust me, I know exactly what I’m doing’ one. It makes Hanna so happy, she leans forward and kisses her.
Maybe it’s instinct, the first thing that’s felt like it might be good in this place where everything else is bad. Maybe she’s lonely and missing Caleb. Maybe she just wants to feel connected to someone. But Alison still has her old knack for knowing exactly what you need, giving you just enough so that you want more. She kisses Hanna back more gently than Hanna’s expecting. Tenderly. Her tongue in Hanna’s mouth feels more soothing than sexy.
They break apart at the sound of a guard’s footsteps in the hallway. Alison grabs the broom and dustpan, Hanna helps by hefting a new box of detergent and trailing back to the laundry room in her wake. The guard looks at them suspiciously, but doesn’t say anything.
Hanna helps Ali stuff a canvas bag full of jumpsuits into the industrial washer. She watches as Alison turns the dial and pushes the button. The water rushes in and swirls the clothes around until they’re wet and dark, the sleeves bobbing up every now and then, like a swimmer signaling for help.
“Sorry,” Hanna says. “For, you know, going all Orange is the New Black.”
“Don’t be,” Alison assures her, speaking low enough to keep from being overheard. She hesitates, and for a moment, Hanna thinks she’s going to ask for a favor, reads in Ali’s unlined eyes a plea to not mention this to Emily. But she’s Alison, she doesn’t ask, and suddenly Hanna’s struck by the fact that Ali trusts her. Which means she can trust Ali, there won’t be a plea deal. If they go down, they go down together.
“Why do they say it’s the new black, anyway?” Hanna ponders. “It’s more like the new ugly. I look like a hippo on a carrot fast.”
“It’s not that bad,” Alison promises. “It is what it is, in here. It’s the new orange.”