Work Text:
Terrance Steadman’s killer is set to die in May.
The tattoo is flawless.
The bank gets shot up.
The culprit is arrested.
It begins.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Michael hadn’t anticipated the fear.
It seemed stupid in retrospect. He’d anticipated everything he could think of, except the obvious. It had seemed so clinical, so detached. He’d mapped it all on his wall and felt determination. He’d mapped it on his body, and felt pride. But now he wasn’t designing the building anymore, he was working construction.
Ironic, really.
Michael walked into the building and it clamped shut behind him. Door after door locked him in, wall after wall separated him from his life. Unfamiliar, unfriendly eyes watched his every step.
He was scared. It couldn’t matter. There was no going back and to second-guess now would be a death sentence; Lincoln’s life was important, Michael’s feelings weren’t. He tried to picture his brother’s presence, to imagine that he could feel him close by, but he couldn’t focus- too much nerves, to much noise, too many ways this could all go horribly wrong.
A C.O. walked him to his cell. There had been no way to arrange any particular cellmate. An unlucky draw could make his own life here harder and it could throw off their escape. Unacceptable.
Fernando Sucre gave him a once over from the top bunk, eyes narrowed and expression blank. Michael felt himself relax. Sometimes you could tell a decent person just from a glance- it was in the eyes, they said.
‘You don’t touch my stuff and we won’t have no problem, yeah Fish?’
Michael nodded. Fernando turned back to his magazine.
He looked out through the bars, at the inmates that were watching him back and the ones that couldn’t care less and the ones that looked scared too. The prison was clean, it’s colours cool instead of eye-poisoning neon, which Michael appreciated. Still. People trapped in cages. It looked…wrong and stark and brutal.
Just tonight. You can have tonight, he bargained with his mind. You’ll be afraid tonight and tomorrow you’ll be brave and in a month’s time Linc will still be breathing.
And Michael lay in bed and waited for tomorrow.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Fernando worried about his new cellie.
He’d never say it of course, that wasn’t something you ever said in prison. But still, he’d taken one look at the guy that Geary had shoved into his cell and known this could get ugly.
He was an objectively alright looking guy; yeah, sew him, he noticed. That was unlucky. He also looked a little- challenging. And in Fox River, a man in his twenties, with those eyes and that stubborn set to his jaw, was just a walking target. They came around once in a while, fish like that. New and scared, but with too much spine to keep themselves safe. Didn’t go too well for them fish.
He dragged Michael Scofield around with him through the yard, gave him the lay of the land, pulled him this way and that, away from the dangerous corners.
‘I’m looking for someone.’ The Fish said. ‘Guy named Lincoln Burrows.’ Fernando remembered his own brief and morbid fascination with getting a glimpse of the new Oswald. Or D.B. Cooper. Eh, you tried to find non-stabby excitement where you could in here.
‘Linc the Sink?’
‘Is that what they’re calling him now?’ The Fish asked, amused.
‘Yeah, as in he’ll come after you with everything but the kitchen… Snowflake.’
‘Where can I find him?’
Sucre pointed to Isolation. He joined him at the fence, staring at the infamous Lincoln Burrows, crouched down in the yard. Even from here, he looked pissed. He always looked kind of pissed. Who could blame him? Except, you know. The country.
‘Man killed the Vice President’s brother. In a month he’s getting the chair.’ Scofield didn’t turn to look at him. He stared at Burrows.
‘Means no one up this river is more dangerous than him, ‘cause he’s got nothing to lose now.’ Fernando continued.
‘What are they gonna do? Kill him twice?’ the Fish twitched at that. Asked about getting near him, P.I. Sucre almost laughed.
‘Why you wanna see Burrows so badly anyhow?’
The Fish sighed.
‘Because he’s my brother.’
Fernando gaped. Well.
Shit.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
May God be with you. Right. Somehow, Lincoln didn’t think God vacationed in Fox River.
The reverend finished which meant back to the concrete coffin. A month and this would all be over. There should have been comfort in that. There wasn’t. Lincoln opened his eyes and stood.
And there he was.
For a moment he thought he was seeing things- hallucinating comfort where he needed it most.
‘Michael.’ He breathed out. And then Lincoln registered what it was he was seeing and he knew it was no dream, because not even in his lowest moments would he want his brother in this hell hole, wearing that fucking uniform.
What the fuck had he done ‘Why?’ he managed, at a loss.
Michael looked at him with the kind of love and hope that had no place in Fox River. ‘I’m getting you out of here.’
There was a familiar, tingling feeling of exasperation. Like when they’d been kids and Lincoln had told him to leave the dirty work that had to be done back then, to him, only to find Michael bookkeeping for a local lowlife a month later.
He’d told him to stay safe, he’d gotten himself into trouble. He told him to move on, he showed up in maximum security.
But that was Michael- too much loyalty and too much faith. And that was Lincoln- desperate for Michael to keep that and desperate for him to acknowledge the real world.
‘It’s impossible.’ He’d thought about it in passing, who wouldn’t? He’d wondered if that was a better way to go, shot in a bid for freedom.
Michael smiled. ‘Not if you designed the place it isn’t.’ And he let himself be led away. To gen pop, Lincoln realized. Back to gen pop with his college degree and their mother’s face and his inability to keep his head down.
If he wasn’t careful, they’d eat him alive. That worry kept him up through the night, and underneath it, Michael’s voice echoed enticingly: I’m getting you out, I’m getting you out, I’m getting you out.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
John Abruzzi hires him on P.I.
Sara Tancredi wants to be the change.
Veronica thinks he’s lost it.
Benjamin Franklin is getting him the PUGNAc.
So far, so good.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
You didn’t live as long as Charles had behind bars without learning to read a man. Not much else to do, really. Westmoreland contemplated Scofield and Scofield moved a chess piece.
He’d brought up Boston and escape. Charles had laughed a minute ago but the truth was Michael Scofield was no ordinary fish. Fish were all the same, always, because it didn’t matter who they were- rich, poor, black, white, good, bad. They were all anxious, acting-tough and scared shitless. They had wild eyes that were still trying to comprehend the stretch of time they were seeing in front of them. Scofield was anxious, sure, scared, sure, acting-tough, for sure. But his eyes were still and sharp.
If Charles Westmoreland didn’t know better than to wonder, he might wonder about Boston.
‘You know, right now some Swedish con worse than either of us, is sipping tea and watching Law and Order in his twelve square meter cell.’ Michael said idly.
‘Makes you wish you’d robbed one of their banks, eh?’
‘Makes me wish things were different here.’
‘There’s worse than this, Fish. It isn’t Sweden, but it isn’t Texas either.’
Michael tilted his head in acknowledgment, drummed his fingers against the stone table. ‘Sweden doesn’t have the death penalty. Corporal punishment in general hasn’t been used there in forty years.’ His tone was measured and aiming for casual.
‘Says their law, maybe. Do you think the law stops the C.O.s, Fish? There’re probably Bellicks in Sweden. There’s Bellicks everywhere.’
‘Maybe. But Bellick can’t kill you.’
‘What’s the death penalty to you?’
Michael glanced towards the isolated yard; Charles didn’t think he’d meant to. Huh. Full of surprises, this one.
‘Lincoln Burrows. Friend of yours?’
‘Does he have to be, for me to wonder what gives Uncle Sam the right to end his life?’
‘So this conversation is purely in the interest of social justice, is it?’ Marilyn twisted further into his jacket sleeve. Michael’s pale eyes flashed.
‘Exactly.’ He was silent for a moment but unable to let the topic go; he disproved his own nonchalance. Which meant- personal.
‘If they’re doing it because each person’s life is priceless then why does it need to be paid for with another? And why aren’t all the murderers here, over on that side of the fence, waiting to be electrocuted too?’
Looking too closely at the injustices of the prison system was a luxury available only to those who weren’t in it. When an inmate started to paint his own picture, he ended up stringing macaroni in the Psych Ward. Charles had Marilyn to keep him grounded. Who knew what was going to ground Scofield.
‘Money talks. Vice President’s family wants to see someone pay.’
‘Then law isn’t justice. Law is only the property of the highest bidder.’
‘Does that surprise you?’ Charles asked.
Michael didn’t answer. He got up and left, about three or so moves away from wining their game.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Sucre was bearable company. Good company even, in different circumstances. If his absence wasn’t so convenient for Michael, he might feel bad that he’d gotten him sent to solitary.
Lincoln worried, called the plan madness. He could doubt to his heart’s content. Michael had no room for doubt anymore and his definition of madness had shifted three years ago, when Veronica had told him to turn on the news and the last of his family was suddenly out of reach.
This was happening.
Things were moving forward, slowly but predictably. Sitting next to his brother in the chapel, Michael felt himself grow confident- in his choice to do this, in his method of doing it.
For a moment, he even felt empowered. High on the knowledge that he could do the impossible. Arrogance was a cold comfort but in the drafty hallways of Fox River it felt warm enough.
Then again, it might have been naivete.
An hour later, high on the bleachers, T-Bag appeared like a punch in the face from reality. And reality was terrifying.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Veronica felt as if her entire life had fallen apart in a few short years, because it had. She’d been childish to deny it, to sit and discuss wedding invitations as if there were a real chance of a wedding.
She remembered meeting them both, like it was yesterday. First Lincoln and then Michael, ten and shy, hiding behind his brother. How had they gotten here?
Now, Michael had completely gone off the deep end, talking about conspiracies and whatnot. He was on the verge of doing something insane, she could tell. There was a manic glint in his eye when she’d visited him and not a word Veronica had said had registered.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew what he was trying to do. Michael had officially decided to fight for his brother alone.
But she wasn’t telling anyone either.
Veronica assessed her options. She wouldn’t speak the unspeakable and have Michael sentenced to another ten years in prison. She didn’t believe Lincoln was innocent. She didn’t believe Michael was having a psychotic break. She didn’t want Linc to die. She didn’t want the two of them to get shot trying to get out.
So, she decided, only one option left. Dig up the case. Appeal for Linc. Prevent Michael from doing something profoundly stupid.
Yes, that sounded about right.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Lincoln paced his cell. He’d been in prison long enough to pick up on the atmosphere. Somewhere upstairs in gen pop, shit was hitting the fan. You could tell from the tension, from the air, from the guards. Like fear, violence had a smell.
Michael had never been a fighter. He always hesitated too much, thought too much before he threw a punch.
Who’s to say he wasn’t dead already?
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Oh my god, oh my god, my god, my god, my god.
He stared at the bolt in his hand.
Maytag’s voice echoed in his head, that croaked out ‘Help me.’ He should stop there but he couldn’t. He thought, thought, thought and scraped the bolt against the floor. He smelled like blood. Not his blood.
Maytag had been heavily invested in his own survival. Maybe he’d sat on those bleachers just like Michael had and when T-Bag had come and offered him a deal maybe he’d looked around and decided that his life was worth more than a rep, that safety was a rare commodity and he’d do what he had to to get some.
He hadn’t wanted to die. He’d done who knows what to ensure he didn’t.
And Michael had thrown that to the wind. He hadn’t killed him, but his presence had and his presence here was intentional.
Of course, he’d be held to that responsibility. He had an enemy now.
‘You there, pretty?’
Michael wanted to go home.
‘I know you’re the-ee-re.’
He wanted his brother and Vee and his own bed.
‘Just want you to know I’m coming’ for you.’
He wanted to be less terrified.
‘You’ve got nowhere to run…You’re trapped in that little hole o’ yours.’
What have I done, what have I done, what have I done.
‘Trapped like a pig I’m going to slaughter.’
Michael kept filing the bolt against the floor. He couldn’t go back now even if he wanted to. And right then, he wanted to.
He sat in his cell for hours, the rhythmic scrape of the bolt reminding him why he was here, and he listened to T-Bag list all the things he’d do to him come the end of lockdown.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Bagwell bides his time.
C-Note gets him the pills.
Dr.Tancredi thinks he’s a diabetic.
Abruzzi mutilates his left foot.
So far, still breathing.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
John had a dilemma. The Fish. Lo stupido ragazzino. Apparently a little less stupid than he seemed.
It wasn’t uncommon to meet young, arrogant men that thought they could fuck with the mob. They popped up like weeds here and there, and like weeds they were exterminated sooner rather than later.
It was unusual for such men to come prepared, with such important knowledge to leverage. John had no clue how the Fish had gotten his grubby little hands on information regarding Fibonacci’s whereabouts.
But it had seemed like a problem with an easy solution. The boy wasn’t out of his twenties yet, had never been to prison, had never met men like John, didn’t know what men like John were. But he’d find out.
And then something had happened in that shed, Scofield’s heart beating at his throat, flat on his back, watching the gardening shears press against his flesh. Or hadn’t happened. The Fish hadn’t talked.
Oh, he’d been terrified, might have even cried. But he didn’t beg because he knew it would be pointless and he didn’t give in because he knew he would be dead. John realized belatedly that he’d backed the Fish between a rock and a hard place and the fish was gearing up to endure, not escape.
John had crossed eyes with him and he’d seen it- Not gonna happen, John. Scofield wouldn’t squeal, even if he had the time and privacy to do some real damage. He’d had the toes cut off out of frustration and because he couldn’t make an empty threat, but really, by the count of one he’d known it was a fruitless endeavour.
Something mattered more than pain, something drove him, a missing piece. Abruzzi was going to find it. But first he needed to fix this clusterfuck.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Sara was no stranger to violent injury, of course, but the obvious injustice of Michael’s situation made her flinch.
‘So, if the gardening shears went through his boot, why wasn’t he wearing it?’ she asked Officer Bellick pointedly.
He gave her a tight smile. ‘Like I said, Doc. We got it taken care of.’
Sara sighed. She looked at Michael Scofield lying prone on the infirmary bed, his face wet with sweat and tears. No one should be treated like this, even the worst people on earth were still people. And Michael wasn’t the worst.
She’d read an article, recently, on rehabilitation-oriented prisons. Fox River certainly veered more towards punishment. The article had brought forward overwhelming statistics on the success of kinder justice systems, on the low violence rates among inmates: people who are treated like people find it easier to treat others like people. But people who are meat form a vicious pecking order.
Men like Bellick would argue that these men were guilty and ‘deserved it’. But then, abusing inmates was a crime too. So was stealing morphine. It was whether you got caught that mattered and whether your daddy was the governor if you did.
She leaned over Michael’s bedside. Shook him awake gently.
‘Michael? Please, tell me what happened.’
He blinked at her and looked away. She pushed.
‘I have a certain authority here. I could help.’
‘You can’t help me.’ He said, voice clear despite the drugs and the pain. He took a deep breath and gritted out ‘I will help me. Don’t worry, S-sara.’
Sara turned away because she didn’t want him to see the expression on her face. Nobody liked to be pitied but it wasn’t always a choice whether or not you pitied them.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Michael probably wouldn’t have even told him. But he’d heard the C.O.s discussing ‘the fish Abruzzi did a little work on’ .
He saw Michael at the opposite end of the yard. He’s not dead, thank fucking god.
He was limping. Lincoln calculated; Abruzzi came to chapel and that was scheduled for tomorrow. Guards gossiped like fishwives to the side. One lunge while Abruzzi’s lackeys were busy praying away their sins, one headlock, quick snap.
What was the mob gonna do, kill him?
But it could send a message to leave Michael alone.
‘Hey.’ His brother said casually.
‘Had prison all figured out did you?’
‘Violence is just a consequence of the plan working. I knew there was a possibility I’d be hurt.’ For the life of him, Lincoln couldn’t tell if he was forcing that casual tone or if he really just looked at this like a math problem: subtract two toes to get x.
‘Michael.’
‘Let it go. I dangled information he desperately needs in front of his face. He took a few toes. Hopefully, he got it out of his system and we can proceed with business.’ Lincoln stared.
Michael had changed many times over the years: from a scared little boy, to an unruly tween, to a responsible adolescent, to a pretentious businessman. But Lincoln could have never predicted that Michael, who once cried at killing bugs, would call his own torture business. Chalk it up to the mob being their immature little selves.
I want to not have to be the older brother to my older brother.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Michael was limping when she saw him. Veronica refused to spend anytime thinking about what he was going through in prison.
She’d read through the case two dozen times, this time without the sting of heartbreak and crisis clouding her judgment. And she’d came to an insane conclusion: Michael might have been right. There were a few things, small, insignificant details that seemed sinister and suspicious now that she needed them to.
Money from on high was pumped into this sentence, Veronica knew. The Vice President had loved her brother. Still- something wasn’t right. Why say you were there but didn’t pull the trigger, instead of claim to not be there at all? Why say a part of the tape was fake, instead of the whole thing? Why did the cop change his story? Why were Lincoln’s witnesses all missing and dead?
The last three years had been torture. She wanted, so desperately, to make this right. For all three of them.
And now she had a name: Leticia Barris.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
With Michael inside, it felt like Lincoln had been getting more visitors than usual, though he wasn’t.
He walked into the cage slowly. Watched the young man in front of him.
‘LJ.’ He was so big, so grown up. Lincoln had missed so much. If he could go back in time he would beat the shit out of his past self for everything good he’d fucked up in his life.
‘Hi.’ Lisa said tightly, sitting next to their son. ‘He was caught dealing marijuana in school. He’s suspended. I thought-,‘ she let out a hysteric sound, ‘I thought seeing you might-‘
‘Scare him straight?’ Linc asked. LJ snorted and shot them each a resentful look.
Lisa scoffed. She gestured ambiguously between the two of them to mimic talking, then got up.
‘LJ.’ Lincoln repeated.
‘You remember my name. Fan-fucking-tastic.’
‘How have you been?’ he asked tentatively.
‘High. What about you? They let you smoke in there?’ LJ snapped back.
‘Sure, but I just say no to drugs.’ Lincoln joked and LJ almost smiled.
‘Hell are you doing selling drugs for, kid?’ His son’s eyes hardened.
‘It was that or try for quarterback and I just don’t have the upper body strength.’ he drawled.
‘So join the chess club.’
‘I am. On the chess club.’ LJ said. Lisa was wringing her hands in the distance behind him, watching them both suspiciously. Lincoln snorted.
‘Seriously?’
‘Fuck off.’ But the kid was smiling. Win.
LJ soured. ‘My school principal said she thought I was self-destructing because of my unprocessed feelings about you, you know.’ He slid a finger Across his throat with the kind of tact he’d clearly inherited from his old man.
‘She said I should say stuff to you. You know, in case I regret not.’
‘Say anything.’ He told him, maybe calmly, maybe desperately.
‘I might fail Spanish. I might be gay. I might want to study art. I might try baseball.’ He fidgeted with his sleeve and didn’t look at Lincoln at all. Lincoln nodded anyway.
‘Alright.’
‘Thought I’d mention-all that.’ LJ sniffed contemptuously. He looked a little like Michael.
‘I’m glad you told me.’
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Leticia Barris was terrified enough that Veronica knew she was telling the truth: Lincoln’s debt to her ex was paid by a mystery-man.
The mystery-man arranged the set up.
Mystery-man was the key to the paper trail.
She swore up and down she’d protect Leticia, the fist faulty link in a rusty chain, and took her home with her for safekeeping.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
There were three things in life that were for certain: death, taxes and the fact that Michael Scofield was a dead man.
The gutter felt nice and heavy in T-Bag’s hand as he leaned against the wall. Abruzzi sent one of them minions to collect the little lost fish.
See, there were some men that said boredom is what kills you in prison. But truth be told, they just didn’t know how to enjoy themselves in a place like this. T-Bag did.
Scofield had three years at best in here, he’d heard through the grapevine. And that meant for three, glorious years there wouldn’t be a single moment of boredom. Unless of course he slit the bitch’s throat before then.
He closed his eyes and saw those eyes. Staring him down from one seat too high, unimpressed. Like he knew something, like he was better. He reminded T-Bag of people he’d known and hated and killed.
He wanted that fish broken. But alive. Longing for death, begging for it. No more fire in those pretty, icy eyes.
And as if Santa had heard him, Scofield fell right through the door. He took a look around and his eyes fell first on Abruzzi, then on T-Bag.
Oh, but he was scared this time.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
‘Yo, Sink! You hear about Bagwell? Abruzzi’s men really fucked him up. He’s in the infirmary.’
‘Yeah? He grab Abruzzi’s ass or something?’
‘Nah, don’t know. Something to do with that fish, I think.’
Lincoln felt cold.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
‘Er- look, Fish, what happened in there was my way of saying: I know I’ve been going about this whole thing the wrong way.’ Abruzzi was saying.
Michael forced himself to focus. Everything was fine, no need to dwell. It was just that there was nothing to prepare you for standing in front of a man that wanted to rape and kill you, knowing there was nothing you could say to talk your way out of it.
Abruzzi might have tortured him, but Michael had anticipated the Abruzzis of prison. But T-Bag…He’d not been prepared to be watched like Bagwell watched him, nor to watch Bagwell and be so terrified and repulsed by another human being.
He thought of Veronica approaching him in stock-broker bars after work and the men who watched her. If you put those men in dirty prison rags and stripped them of money, power and control- would they look like Bagwell underneath their pricey suits?
‘I’m trying to make amends here.’ Abruzzi held out his hand. ‘Bygones be bygones.’
‘You’re a mercurial man, John.’ Behind them guards were rushing T-Bag to the infirmary. It surprised and disturbed Michael to feel a shot of vicious satisfaction. He remembered his foster father. Remembered watching him fall, drunk, and the crack his skull had made as it caved.
There was no T-Bag under Michael’s pricey suit. But there wasn’t a good man there either.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Lincoln cut himself on a piece of glass he’d swiped months ago. You never knew when you’d need it.
Bob took him to the infirmary.
The Doc gave him a smile. Bob didn’t cuff him, nice kid that he was, seeing as Lincoln took care to cut himself on the upper side of the wrist. He was unsupervised for no more than half a minute, but that was plenty of time.
He leaned over and kicked the bed next to his, where Bagwell laid bandaged up and asleep.
T-Bag jerked awake, alert in that way only cons were. His eyes zeroed in on Lincoln.
‘That fish? You touch him, I kill you.’ Lincoln said.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Bellick puts a lunatic in his cell. A perceptive one.
Henry Pope is a decent man and Michael likes him, which hurts.
People find out they’re related.
Sucre comes back.
Their cell has two doors now.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Brothers.
That was the missing piece of the puzzle. John was near-certain he’d need to gut the Fish by the end of the month, but he found himself intrigued, nonetheless. The revelation had surprised him; John had thought he’d seen it all by now.
But this was new.
Blood was important to him, as was family. Loyalty between brothers meant a lot to people like Abruzzi.
To risk jail time, torture, rape, your life, for the chance to save your brother was worthy of respect, even if the Fish failed. And this all for a guilty man, a terrorist even, by some accounts. Abruzzi had pegged the Fish as one of those stupid, little college boys that saw the world in black and white.
Maybe he’d misjudged.
If they succeeded, John would remember Michael Scofield as a man of his word. If they failed, he would kill him, but quickly, and he would still remember Michael Scofield- as a man who died for his brother.
Burrows too; he watched Abruzzi like he was only waiting for a convenient excuse to take a pair of shears to his fingers. John didn’t really know why, considering that Scofield himself seemed to have put the matter entirely behind him. See, the Fish understood business even if the rhino didn’t.
Some people just didn’t know when to let go.
But this was good. John knew now, what made the little fish swim.
He remembered that origami bird that Scofield had introduced himself with and something tickled his memory, maybe something his wife had mentioned-
the crane symbolizes familial obligation.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Sara pulled the needle out of Michael’s arm. ‘All done.’ She said.
Michael smiled. Why couldn’t bad men look like bad men? Save women some trouble. She’d giggled a little with Katie, over Mr. Scofield. Katie said those were the dangerous kind, the ones that made you forget you worked in a prison.
But he was good company and Sara looked forward to his visits. The scheduled ones, anyway. He was sharp and insightful and it wasn’t like Sara would ever behave unprofessionally; she’d learned her lesson.
‘Can I ask you a question, Sara?’ Michael asked.
‘Sure can. But may you?’
He snorted a little and she smiled. ‘That was lame.’ He chided.
‘Yeah, lock me up.’ She said. He had a nice smile. Bad brain.
‘Now that’s just insensitive. I’m telling H.R.’
‘Quaking in my boots here, Michael.’
He blinked easily up at her, looking content. That was the odd thing about Michael Scofield- he always looked a touch too calm. Inmates were restless, twitchy, especially in here, away from the overwhelming censorship of the guards. But Michael was calm and patient and he looked comfortable being where he was.
‘Would you let me take you out to dinner?’ He asked on a laugh, but it wasn’t at her. He said it like an inside-joke between the two of them.
Sara rolled her eyes. ‘Sure Michael, I’m free tonight. Eight-ish?’
He grinned, then shrugged looking genuinely apologetic. ‘Busy tonight, how about tomorrow?’
She played along. ‘Depends. Where’re you taking me?’
His eyes were full of mirth. ‘Belleview-rooftop table.’
She hummed. ‘Pricey place.’
‘See, I recently robbed a bank-‘
And Sara, Sara maybe hadn’t learned her lesson at all, because she laughed low and real and didn’t try to hide it.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
The cop was all that was wrong with the American police force, compacted into one neat, little package.
‘Did you actually see Burrows washing the bloody pants or not?’
‘Does it matter?’
Veronica gritted her teeth.
And then, like a gift from God, Nick Savrinn appeared.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Fernando was still pretty sure that the Fish was a lunatic who would ruin his life. But then again, their cell wasn’t really a cell anymore thanks to him. So the Fish became Michael.
Michael wasn’t the bad sort. He actually wasn’t even a con exactly- Fernando wasn’t sure what the legal term for ‘got purposefully arrested to stage a prison break’ was. ‘Crazy’, maybe.
But Michael was his way out.
Out was where Maricruz was. He hoped. Not talking to her was messing with his head, like he’d made her up. But you couldn’t imagine love or longing like this. Nor, coincidentally, could you imagine this kind of hate- fucking Hector.
If Maricruz didn’t want him- he’d let her go. But if she was just being pressured by her family and his son of a bitch cousin… She deserved the world, she deserved to know that Fernando would do anything for her. And that had to be more than a pricey ring and Hector’s salary.
Locos de amor, that was Sucre. There were worse things a man could be.
Michael crawled out of the hole just in time for count. He didn’t sound happy.
‘I can’t get through the wall.’
‘What do you mean you can’t get through the wall?’
‘I know how to do it. I just don’t have the time to do it.’
Fernando rolled his eyes. ‘We’re locked up. All we got is time.’ He realized that was a stupid thing to say the moment he said it. Not every con in here had time.
If Michael took offense, he let it go. ‘You don’t understand. I planned this break on a schedule. Constantly coming up here for count won’t let me do what I need to do, to get through that wall. And if I’m not back on schedule, which means we’re through by the end of the day, manana, we’re not getting out of here.’
And that just couldn’t stand- he had to get out of here. Fernando sighed. ‘There’s three thing in life that are certain- death, taxes and count.’
Except.
‘Only way to stop count is…’
‘What?’
‘Never mind, it’s a bad idea.’ Lockdown wasn’t a game. It sucked.
‘Worse than the idea of losing Maricruz?’ Michael asked softly, like the manipulative bastard he was. Fernando closed his eyes.
‘A lockdown.’ Fernando said. ‘We get gen pop locked down for the day, you’ll have all the time you need.’
Michael hummed thoughtfully. ‘No count?’ Sucre shook his head.
‘Bulls don’t even come by. Only problem-‘
Michael shuffled on the bed below. ‘How do we get a lockdown.’
Fernando shrugged, then swiped a hand across his forehead to wipe the sweat off. God, it was hot in here, you’d think the A/C wasn’t working-
Except that it was. And it didn’t have to be.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Nick was a gem. He was a gem of a lawyer and Veronica would take him home if it wasn’t for the ticking clock and the Leticia-shaped lump on her couch. They’d been brainstorming for days. Nick offered a more professional, experienced perspective.
The tape had to be lying, he said.
Leticia called while Veronica was busy hanging onto Nick’s ever word. She was panicking.
‘You’ve gotta come back home, Vee. There was someone in your house. I think it was the guy.’
𓅬𓅬𓅬
The heat is unbearable.
The guards underestimate the problem.
T-Bag runs his mouth.
Geary calls lockdown.
All hell breaks loose.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Veronica introduced Nick to Leticia. They sat around her couch and went through file after file. Nick and Veronica sniped at each other and Leticia rolled her eyes and ordered Thai every two hours.
They'd turned on the tv, but Nick shut it off when they saw Fox River in the news. 'Watching won't help anyone.' He'd said.
He was right, so they kept going.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
‘You got your lockdown, bro, do your thing.’ Sucre said. He was a little proud that his idea had worked out so well. But Michael shook his head.
‘You’re coming with me.’
Fernando startled. ‘What? No, no, no. I’m just the look-out, man. That’s it.’
‘I need you down there, it’s a two man job. Let’s hang a sheet.’ He said and Fernando blanched. Right. Fish.
‘No way man,’ he said, batting away the sheet Michael tossed at him. ‘You only hang a sheet when you and your cellie want to get friendly, you know?’
Michael rolled his eyes. ‘You want to protect your prison rep or do you want to get out of here?’
Sucre hesitated. Michael groaned in exasperation and looked at him like he could barely tolerate having this conversation.
Fernando glared back. That was unfair. He just didn’t want anyone to think… Oh, fuck it, he’d said he’d pull his weight. Money where your mouth is and all that. He grabbed the sheet off the floor.
Michael nodded and began to unscrew the toilet.
‘You really don’t care? About what they’d think- like, at all?’ Fernando asked . He knew Michael had no plans on staying here much longer but it just seemed natural to care about this sort of thing.
Michael snorted.
‘You mean if I was given a choice would I choose to look like I look, while locked up in maximum security with a white-supremacist, child-molester watching me like meat, while trying to outrun the axe hanging over my brother’s head?’ He flashed him a sardonic look over his shoulder. ‘You see anyone handing out choices like that around here, Sucre?’
Ah.
Touché.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Bob couldn’t breathe quite right. One of his ribs was probably broken, bruised at least. Between that and T-Bag’s grip on his hair, he was gasping for breath.
He’d had a hard time adjusting to this job- Brad had told him to think of it as zookeeping. Not people-keeping. ‘They’ll put you in the ground if you give ‘em an inch.’
Bob had disagreed. He’d always tried to treat people alright if he could and cons were people. Bob had been proven right today; Lincoln might be dead because he’d stood up for a C.O. He didn’t have to do it. Could have just looked at Bob as one of the zookeepers that poked and prodded at his cage.
But now, on his knees, he knew Brad had been proven right today too. The men in front of him, banging at the walls, screaming, taking bars off the doors- they looked like animals. Starved, dangerous animals. Even as he thought it, his eyes zeroed in on Westmoreland, then a couple of teenagers, C-Note, all standing close to the walls; trying to stay out of it. They couldn’t help him, but they were scared too.
‘Gentlemen! Oooh, Gen-tle-men!’ T-Bag bellowed. His grip tightened. ‘I assure you, once Bob and I are done getting acquainted-Everyone else will get. Their. Turn!’
Bob put every ounce of remaining strength into wrenching himself free. T-Bag tutted and moved his hand to his collar instead, pulling him along the stairs. For a man so slim, he wasn’t very weak. And he made up for the rest in sheer evil.
‘Now, you an’ I are gonna have a little fun, Bobby.’
No.
‘Don’t worry, I don’t got the blickey. My pipes are clean.’
No!
He pulled himself out from under him and stumbled up the stairs. He tripped over an inmate’s body, maybe passed out, maybe dead.
‘Now where you goin’, rookie?’
He didn’t know, all he knew was the need to put distance between them.
Bob was scared as he crawled, as T-Bag advanced, chanting. He was terrified when he got thrown into a cell, trapped.
But when his skull hit that cell’s toilet, when he looked up and saw the gaping hole where a wall should be, Bob knew he was a dead man.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Despite any promises he might have made to his deadbeat- ha! dead-beat- dad about not pissing away his future, LJ didn’t really get what he’d done that was so wrong.
It was weed, for fuck’s sake. An exchange student from the Netherlands last year had told him the stuff wasn’t even illegal there.
Anyway, he managed to barter an hour of TV form his mom, despite being grounded. Only news channels, she said.
Unfortunately, the news of the day? Riot at Fox River- of-fucking-course. He couldn’t worry about normal things like a normal sixteen year old- like whether Josh Gregson would beat the shit out of him at school next week for being unable to get him the weed he’d purchased for his dumbass frat party. No. He had to wonder if his dad was going to get killed illegally before he had the chance to be killed legally.
Lat month, Shawna had cried to him over her mother threatening to kick her out of the house, after catching her with her girlfriend. LJ cried over a murderer he barely knew.
Then again, with the way his stepdad was looking at him lately, maybe he’d be doing both soon enough. Not like they were mutually exclusive. Or maybe Shawna’s dad would kill the president. You never knew.
Oh and his uncle might get shivved in this riot too. Whole side of the family in one go. He had a lot of feelings about his dad, but he kept himself informed even when he hated the man. He had less feelings about Michael, partially because they weren’t very close, mostly because Michael wasn’t getting executed, but also-
The last time he’d seen good ol’ Uncle Michael, he’d shown up uninvited at his loft, for an hour or two of time away from his stepdad. Michael had been perfectly normal, but he’d thrown a comment or two in there about ‘looking out for family’ and ‘doing the right thing even when it’s hard’.
At the time, LJ thought he was being patronized about his dad from a near-stranger. But a week later, said near-stranger shot up a bank and gave absolutely no reason to anyone as to why. Yeah, not suspicious at all .
‘So far there has been no update on any staff that might be trapped inside with the rioting convicts. Warden Henry Pope has made assurances…’
LJ stared at the screen but didn’t see it.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
A quick look to the wall, lined with photos of the Mexican clown, arms around some piece entirely out of his league, told T-Bag he hadn’t been mistaken- this was Scofield’s cell. Under different circumstances he might have appreciated the poetic coincidence of having the rookie meet his fate in Pretty’s bed.
But now was not the time.
‘They’re breaki-!‘
Abruzzi’s hand appeared out of nowhere, bruising his jaw shut, the other wrapped around his throat. T-Bag stayed perfectly still.
‘I will take my hand off your mouth and if you scream, I will cut your eyes out.’
The problem with mobsters was that they didn’t make empty threats. He blinked compliantly.
The hand lifted an inch. T-Bag grinned. ‘It aaalll makes sense now, Johnny. You and Pretty. This is what it’s all been about. I’m hurt no one told m-’
Abruzzi tightened his grip on his throat. ‘You always talk too much,’ He whispered.
Maybe. But he was also thinking. This was Pretty’s doing, not Abruzzi’s. Well if he’d only known, he might have played a little nicer; been a little more forgiving with the lad, a bit more amicable. Who knew Scofield had more to offer around here than that mouth?
Maybe it was time him and Pretty buried the hatchet. Water under the bridge- Fox River under the bridge.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Bob curled his hand over his ribs, back to the wall, as far as he could get from the men in front of him.
John Abruzzi. Theodore Bagwell. Were there worse people to be stuck in a cell with in this place? He felt a lot of pity suddenly, for whoever their actual cellmates were. Swore to God, that if he survived this he’d help them out where he could. T-Bag’s at the very least.
But for now, their attention was focused on each other. They were saying nothing- Abruzzi was waiting, Bagwell was playing at being patient.
He heard the noise before they did- footsteps sounding in the wall. Then they heard it too. T-Bag leaned over, gaze intense and clear in a way it hadn’t been during his little show outside.
Scofield crawled out of the wall. Scofield! Burrows’ brother. Bob prayed the two were anything alike.
‘Yeah, we- we have a problem.’ Abruzzi said to him. Scofield crossed eyes with Bob.
T-Bag pitched in. ‘Oh, that’s right. Yeah, Bob here’s seen the whole. He needs to go away.’ Bob closed his eyes. T-Bag sounded restrained. Trying to get on board the plan, Bob realized. This discovery had been just as much a surprise to him.
Don’t listen to him he tried to tell Scofield telepathically, but he’d already turned away, head against the wall. Clearly this hadn’t been the plan.
‘Looks like your lockdown idea didn’t work too good, Fish.’ That was Sucre. He wasn’t violent, maybe he could-‘
‘No one’s going anywhere.’ Scofield said at last.
‘He’s seen the hole.’ T-Bag reminded him, barely contained.
‘So have you.’ Abruzzi.
There was something about how they were all looking at Scofield, this reverse pecking order, old cons turning to the fish… This was his idea, Bob realized. And then the pieces fell into place; he was here for his brother, that had to be it.
But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Scofield was his best chance now too. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘I have a daughter.’ Scofield’s eye twitched. Maybe he’d imagined it. But then he put a hand to his face, looking conflicted.
He didn’t look like he wanted to kill anyone.
‘We gotta kill him.’ T-Bag sliced through his thoughts.
But Scofield shook his head. ‘The cops are right outside. And they will stay outside as long as they know we’re keeping him alive.’ Bob let out a small breath. Scofield didn’t want him dead.
‘But he’s a guard,’ T-Bag insisted, ‘He’s gonna squeal.’
Abruzzi grabbed him by the cuff and dragged him just outside the cell. Scofield walked over to them.
Sucre was looking at Bob though. Bob swallowed. ‘There was talk with the C.O.s that you had a cell phone.’ He said eventually. ‘Can I- can I call my wife? Please.’
Sucre’s eyes widened. He looked down, jaw clenched. ‘That was just a rumour, man. I don’t. Sorry.’ He sounded genuinely apologetic. Bob wondered what that meant about his chances.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Sara crouched behind an examination chair, makeshift weapons in both hands. Her brain had room for exactly two trains of thought: how is this happening and overdosing would have been a better way to go.
God, how she wished she was high right now.
Some part of her brain recalled Katie telling her, a few hours ago, that she could handle an overheated inmate, that there was no need for Sara to go if she wanted to finish up her paperwork. But Sara had declined. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or regretful about the choice.
Kwame smashed another piece of the door away. Regretful, definitely regretful.
Theo was cursing profanities at her, screaming graphic threats- something about her and his dick. As if she would feel his fucking dick. Motherfuckers.
Sara took a deep breath, tried to clear her head. She looked up and assessed. It wasn’t completely hopeless. Technically it was only three out of the five inmates she’d examined that were invested in hurting her- raping her. Call it like it is.
One of the guys, a black man with dreads whose name she’d forgotten- Otis, maybe?- was watching the spectacle from the corner of the room. He looked disgusted but he wasn’t going to be of any help. Another, Carlos, was digging through the meds cabinet in the back.
Her against three large men was not ideal, none of this was. But she’d stab the first one, then knock out the second with a shot of midazolam. And that would leave Theo, who was the smallest and weakened from her stab- she might manage to fight him off.
Or you might get raped and killed and your father would say at your funeral ‘I told her so but Sara and her silly ideas.’ and leave you flowers.
Well. That was a thought that should probably be examined in therapy.
‘Let’s smoke the bitch out!’
Among other things, of course.
Then there was smoke and nowhere to go. Out wasn’t an option. Her eyes darted around, she beat against the window, tried to open it, screamed for help but it was futile.
A hand grabbed her shoulder and she yelped. She looked up, and it was Michael standing there, on the pipelines. They’re inside! She twisted out of reach but he kept his hand stretched down. ‘Come on. Grab my hand.’ It was just him.
She looked around again.
‘Come on!’
Him or die. She hesitated one last time then got up on a chair and gripped his forearm in both of hers. It hurt and it was hard but somehow he managed to drag her up to the ceiling with him. She took a deep breath and then another, trying to keep from hyperventilating. Failing.
She didn’t look at him, didn’t want to see something cruel in that face she’d come to like.
‘You alright?’ he asked, hand on her shoulder. She flinched away so violently, she thought she’d slide right off. Michael startled back as well, hands raised. ‘It’s ok. I’m not going to hurt you.’ He watched her, eyes wide and unthreatening.
Sara believed him. Partially because of his assurance but also because reason was slowly pushing past the adrenalin, and if there was a way for rape to be uncomfortable for the rapist, doing it on squeaky pipes suspended four meters above the ground had to be it.
Once Michael was apparently satisfied with her impression of a person not struggling for breath, he tapped on the pipes beneath them. ‘See these pipes? We’re going to stay on them. They go through the wall and into the hallway. They’re gonna get us out of here.’
He waited for her to look at him. ‘All you have to do is follow me.’ Sara took another steadying breath and nodded. ‘Okay?’ he asked softly.
‘Yeah.’ She whispered.
‘Let’s go’
𓅬𓅬𓅬
‘Angel de mi guarda
oh mi dulce compañía
no me desampares ni de
noche ni de día hasta-‘
The wall gave in. Fernando laughed.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
They crawled for what felt like hours. Michael moved far too effortlessly for someone stuck in a pipe, in the eye-melting heat, in the middle of a riot. She supposed prisoners didn’t have much to do but work out.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked from up ahead.
‘Yeah, I’m ok.’ She said and immediately regretted it. She was exhausted, the shock was wearing off and her knees ached. ‘You know what, I need a minute I’m sorry.’
Michael looked conflicted but he nodded. ‘Yeah, okay. We can stop for a bit. Catch your breath.’
She curled up against the wall. The light up here was comforting, dark and soft like dusk. Michael fidgeted beside her. ‘Things should be winding down right around now. Pretty soon the powers that be will storm the place and- it’ll all be over. Just a matter of time.’ He was trying to reassure her. It was decent of him and she appreciated it.
Sara nodded. She looked him over. ‘What’s happening in A-Wing?’ she asked.
‘All hell’s breaking loose. But if we stay up here, we should be ok.’
Sara tried to mimic that casual tone and found that she couldn’t. ‘I can’t believe that this is happening. How is this happening?’ she asked. Michael looked down guiltily, though she hadn’t meant to make it sound like she blamed him.
‘The A/C died,’ he said, ‘One of the prisoners riled a bunch of the others up. Guards got spooked and didn’t lock us up before they retreated.’
‘I just- I was working on these men one minute and then- How does someone turn on a dime like that? Why would anyone try to…’ she didn’t mean to unload on him but all of a sudden she needed to talk, to voice childish incomprehension.
‘You know it’s not all of the inmates, right? A lot of them are scared too.’ Michael said. Sara nodded; that made sense. ‘I don’t know Sara. I don’t know why people want to hurt people.’
It occurred to Sara that he probably counted himself among the scared. He’d made enemies in here. Who knew what men like those threatened men like him with in prison.
‘Are you ok? Are you hurt, Michael?’ He shook his head.
‘Ok.’
She leaned forward and put her face in her hands.
‘You ever been to Baja?’ he asked, ‘In Mexico?’
Sara stared at him.
‘There’s this great place down there, twenty bucks a night, hammock on the back deck. Beers are fifty cents, twenty-five cents at happy hour.’ She snorted.
‘Michael this is a very lame and obvious attempt at distracting me.’
‘You’re smiling, though.’ She was, so was he. Her smile faded.
‘Why are you here, Michael?’
‘What do you mean?’ he said, too quickly for causal.
‘Crawling around in the ceiling, risking your life?’
‘You needed help and I, er, came to find you.’ She wondered if she was a special case. If it had been Katie up here, would he have come running? She hoped so.
‘How’d you know where to go?’
Michael gave her a guarded look. ‘When everything went off in A-Wing the guards left the station. I saw you on the monitor. We did some cleaning up here for P.I. Took a few wrong turns before I found you.’
‘But you did.’
‘I did.’
‘I’m glad.’
𓅬𓅬𓅬
Lincoln was having a very, very shit day.
First his time with Vee and the Project Justice guy got cut short.
Next he found out there was a riot in gen pop, with Michael stuck in there.
Then the kid-fiddler and his posse beat him up. Even at a six to one odds, that was just embarrassing.
Finally, Turk tried to murder him on mystery-orders.
Yes, Lincoln had had a shit day, even by prison standards, so when he finally managed to drag himself over to gen pop, pushing bodies out of his way and screaming for Michael half-sure he’d trip over his body, only to find T-Bag lying on his brother’s bed next to a bloodied, broken-looking Bob, he didn’t think.
He grabbed T-Bag off the bed and shoved him against the wall, deaf to the fucker’s protests.
‘Michael.’ He gritted out. ‘Where’s Michael.’
‘I didn’t touch your man, I didn’t- Ask him!‘ He might have been talking about either his brother or Bob. Didn’t matter. Lincoln bashed his head back against the wall. That same moment the toilet beside them creaked and opened; Sucre crawled out, followed by Abruzzi.
‘Things have changed since we last met. Relax, partner, I’m in on it now. The rabbit plan, know all about it. So’s the C.O.’
And just like that, Lincoln’s impossibly shit day got even worse.
He dragged Sucre outside; Sucre who had no useful answers. Between him, the rapist and the mobster this plan was starting to sound like a bad joke.
He saw Michael in the commotion, looking at all the mayham, lost.
Lincoln didn’t remember the last time Michael had held onto him so tightly, had looked so relieved and exhausted and heartbroken.
‘I started it.’ He sobbed, arms clenched tight around Lincoln’s shoulders. ‘I needed the time. I shut off the A/C unit.’
Lincoln held him tighter.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
The riot ends, Bob bleeds to death and Michael doesn’t sleep.
T-Bag and ten others are sent to solitary and they a week to figure out how to get rid of him.
Sara recovers and Michael gives her an origami flower that will never die.
Michael tells Veronica that there was a hit on Lincoln and she follows the lead.
Bellick hunts Bob’s killer and Charles Westmoreland sets a building on fire for his cat.
𓅬𓅬𓅬
The plan moves along and Michael moves with it, through mud and blood and law. What else can he do? Michael ends where the plan begins.