Author: demonic_cookie (though you can probably already see that. I might as well put an AKA: miss suga AKA Marce. So there you go.)
Summary: It's common knowledge that things don't always go right.
Rating: PG 13
A/N: Prison Break does not belong to me, and everybody in the house knows it.
John’s first job was to take care of a snitch and get rid of the body. He had decided then and there that he wasn’t cut out for messy, bloody murders and cleaning brains off of walls. No -- he was meant for dark rooms and wisps of smoke, and $5000 cigar holders.
He respects Michael and everything he stands for – intelligence, loyalty – even more so when he turns to him, bloody face lit by a street-lamp, and tells him in a hoarse whisper where Fibonacci is, with a quick look at his tattoo.
Of course it was in the tattoo.
John wishes he could fix things in his past. He wishes he could make time stop, make blood absorb back into skin, put bullets back into guns. He wishes he could give a respectable answer when his children’s friends ask him what his job is.
It’s never bothered him before.
Theodore killed his father when he was thirteen. He was his first.
The act of it is a faint whisper in his mind that he can’t quite make out. He remembers the funeral, though, standing in a used suit, soaked in rain as he watched his father, submerged in darkness and dirt. His mother hadn’t been there. No, she’d been in prison, trying to wrap her mind around the concept of betrayal.
Theodore remembers the taste of a child’s skin, and he wrings his hands together. He can see Michael’s limping shadow in front of him, and a part of him wants to slither up behind him and slit his throat with a shiv.
Another part of him wants to hold him still against a wall and suck on his lip.
Michael has seen a grown man plead for help in a falsetto voice, weeping blood from a wound that will end his life. He has felt his name whispered weakly in his ear by a dying woman, who cared more about him than anyone ever had. He has carried his brother through tunnels as he mumbles incoherently, delirious and dying. He has killed just by being, just by presence, just by living.
He tries to stifle his own tears and puts his ear against Lincoln’s immobile chest. Abruzzi is looking at the ground. T-Bag is looking around the street, making sure they’re the only ones there. Sucre’s already waiting for the helicopter, blocks away.
Michael stands, wobbles, and glances quickly at his tattoo before reciting an address.
T-Bag is licking his lips.
“I suspect we'll go our separate ways now, Scofield,” T-Bag says, and he almost sounds kindly. He’s eyeing a nine year old across the street.
Michael wants to murder him, stab him, shoot him, slit his throat with a shiv.
He puts his hands in his pockets and tries to distract himself. He won’t let himself become that. Him. It. T-Bag walks over to him and whispers, “Sink just had to go and catch that bullet,” against his ear with a shake of his head and a small smile, and turns to go, swaggering towards the nine year old with four fingers in his front pocket. Michael follows, blurred by anger and tears.
Later, as Michael scrapes blood off a wall and cleans so roughly that his skin peels, he makes a list of everything he needs to fix. Everyone he needs to find, save, love.
T-Bag stares at him from the floor of his apartment, blank and dead and gone, and Michael can’t stop shaking.