aspensnow (aspensnow) wrote in prisonbreak_fic,

Ficlet: The Difference Between Sighs And Screams- (M/S)

Title: The Difference Between Sighs And Screams
Author: Aspen Snow
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Author's Note: This is really really really short, but I just had to get it down...and on a side note...thank you so much to EVERYONE for giving me such wonderful feedback on my other stories, it's the best thing EVER
Summary: She's the kind of pleasure he's starting to forget...

There’s something about the unexpected, he thinks.  Something that reaches out and grabs, sinks in, makes a person stand up and notice.


He reasons that’s why he can’t help but memorize the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, because it’s childish and cute.  Because he didn’t expect to find something so sweet and so unbearably innocent in this four walled hell. 


It’s making him notice instead of scheme, this unexpected thing, making him look for other things that don’t belong.  It’s making him want to hold on to it because he hasn’t been innocent since his brother’s life suddenly had an expiration date.


And it’s why he can’t help but relish the way her hair trails across his arm because it’s so soft and faint and accidental.  And since he’s been in prison everything has been hard and rough and purposefully inflicted. It’s why he recalls this sensation at night when screams rage off cold metal bars and whimpers haunt the air.


He knows they’re useless, these catalogued pieces of information about her, these errant details that don’t fit anywhere in his grand plan, his plan is all about the expected.  They serve no purpose at all, he thinks, except that it pleases him to see something so light in a place that is so dark.


And prison, he’s learned, is a void where fear feeds off heated black space and pleasure is nothing but a dirty word whispered amongst molesters and rapists.


But her with her fingers in her hair and her hair on his arm is a different kind of pleasure, the female and fragile and unexpected kind. She’s the kind of pleasure he’s started to forget.  She’s the slow breathing soft trembling kind of pleasure.  The kind where bones melt and fingers unclench.


It’s the kind that sighs instead of stings.


But really, her touch and her smile, her quirks and her hair are nothing to him, nothing at all when he has a brother to save, walls to tear down, and problems to solve.  She’s nothing really except an unexpected pleasure that makes him smile. 


He feels guilty for that.


But he’s sacrificed so much of himself that it’s only right, he thinks, that there is still a part of him selfish enough to hold onto all these insignificant things.  Because he still has a vague recollection of who he once was and he knows that he doesn’t want to end up like the jagged angled men who prowl the halls of this place. 


He doesn’t want to forget what it’s like to smile, easy and slow, so he catalogues her soft touches and easy concern because it’s the sort of languid freedom he left behind.

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