Characters: Michael, appearances by Dr.Tancredi, T-Bag, and Abruzzi.
Summary: AU drabble. Spoilers pretty much up to 1.05.
A/N: Un-betaed, Prison Break does not belong to me, etc etc.
Sucre snores every twenty-five seconds. It’s not a loud, overbearing snore, instead a warbled, quiet groan. Quiet or not, it keeps Michael awake.
Everything keeps Michael awake.
T-Bag’s back from the infirmary. Every few minutes he hisses out low whispers of, “Scofield... Scofield...” and taps his fingers against something metal. Michael counts bricks and his foot throbs. It takes his full attention to pretend he isn’t in pain, because the last thing he needs is some sociopath stomping on his foot to see what happens.
“Here, Pretty, Pretty. Here, Pretty, Pretty.”
He'd been thinking that today had been a good day. Bellick was bitter about his still being in Fox River, Lincoln was full of hope again, and Sucre was laughing and singing in Spanish. But now, he's thinking of new problems in an already problematic scheme. They’re behind schedule, and the people behind Lincoln's framing must know everything about him now.
“Why don’t you slide on outta your cell and come visit ole’ T, now, Pretty?”
Boots sound on the concrete and someone yells, “Bagwell! Not another word!”
Michael chokes on fear that has no particular subject.
There’s a pit in his stomach at what tomorrow brings. He wants to cry, or hide in a closet somewhere and never be found again. He takes in a shuddering breath, and then another, and another, until he stops shaking. He closes his eyes tightly and recites the plans in his head, over and over.
“You be careful tomorrow, Pretty. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you...”
Michael’s not sure what the fuck is wrong with him. This shouldn’t bother him. He shouldn’t find T-Bag to be a problem, not now that he’s all words and no actions. He’s just paranoid. Just worried. Just sick and tired of this place.
“...and that pretty body of yours.”
From above him, Michael hears Abruzzi say, “Easy now, Theodore, or your pretty, dead boyfriend might get jealous.”
There’s slamming against bars and Michael swears he hears someone sobbing.
T-Bag’s friends have long nails and soft hands.
They hold Michael against the wall and dig their nails into his skin, and he groans in the back of his throat. T-Bag’s limping a little, but he looks scarier than before - older somehow. Michael thinks of how much this is interfering with his plans for the day, as a man holding onto his upper arm bites his collarbone and makes him shudder.
“So you let yourself get put into Abruzzi’s little pockets?” T-Bag drawls.
Michael swallows a lump in his throat and tries to move.
T-Bag presses himself against him and blows lightly in his ear. Michael squirms and hopes, prays, for a guard. He closes his eyes and imagines himself and Lincoln outside, eating hamburgers and laughing. The words innocence and exoneration run like broken records through his head.
“The third little boy I killed was named Michael,” whispers T-Bag, pulling something out of his pocket. “He wasn’t quite so pretty as you are, though.”
Michael feels searing pain in his stomach and the next second, he’s being turned around and hands are pulling at his clothes. His legs are trembling and he’s seeing white spots, and all he can think about is Lincoln as long nails rip against his skin. This hurts more than anything ever has in his entire life, and he’s so glad he’s got his eyes closed, because it makes it all seem like a bad dream.
“Man down! We got a man down in here!”
Michael can't get that thought out of his head as they drag him to the infirmary. Everything’s over. All the work, all the thought, for nothing, as he gasps through clenched teeth and tries not to pass out. His chin rests on his collarbone and he sees where the sewer underneath English St. leads, hidden inside the Virgin Mary, whose chest is leaking blood.
He doesn’t know when his shirt came off.
How he gets out in three days surprises even him, but Tancredi is quite the talented doctor, and there was no need to start an investigation and keep him waiting, since everyone agrees that he tripped and fell on a piece of glass.
“Can I give you my personal opinion?” Sara says, writing something on a chart.
Michael looks up from his bandages. “By all means,” he says, trying hard to smile.
“Get a transfer. Don’t come back. You don’t deserve to die in here, Michael.”
Michael pretends the sudden sinking feeling he gets is from the tiny shard of glass they couldn’t extract from his stomach.