Chapter Text
Half a dozen inmates hang around the Infirmary halls when Michael arrives for his second shot. Late start, an orderly says in passing, no apology or further explanation provided as they move from one room to the next.
“Get in line,” Stolte orders, baton shoving at Michael’s shoulder.
Michael does his best to not react, but he can’t stop the slight stumble, the way one foot fumbles over the other as he collides with the wall, his shoulder catching on the ridge where concrete meets glass. Pain sears through his ribcage, through where his torso’s been bruised by Abruzzi’s men, the skin peaking beneath his tattoo blotted red and tender, still. The hiss of pain that emerges is swallowed. He straightens up, his face carefully blank, and completes the pattern of the other inmates: three opposite three, backs pressed to parallel walls.
Talking is discouraged, so Michael watches instead. Not the people, but the place, ceilings and windows and doors and locks. The privacy screen inside the examination room is drawn, any sign of Dr. Tancredi or her patient or his proposed exit point concealed, but that doesn’t deter him. It’s still useful, being here. The delay gives him time to search for vulnerabilities, lets him focus on the little things: cracks, flaws, nuts and bolts. He takes it all in. Commits it to memory.
Tries to.
It’s difficult to concentrate when he’s being watched.
He feels it first, that eerie, prickling sensation. It makes his pulse skitter, his senses heightened here, where everything is predator versus prey.
He turns, slow, careful, an attempt at casual—
—and meets bright, piercing blue.
For a moment, that’s all there is. The world falls away: there’s no noise, no prison, no plan, only static, only this, this sudden, searing intensity, this stranger’s stare burning a hole right through his head.
Michael doesn’t dare break the gaze.
Slowly, information filters through the tunnel vision, his brain distantly aware of the peripheral. A profile pieces itself together: Male, unfamiliar, older (at least a decade, maybe more.) White shirt. (Inmate.) Short sleeves. (Strong arms.) Calm, but alert. Aware. Unworried.
No outward signs of injury. No obvious ill intent.
(No clear-cut explanation, Michael thinks. No discernible motive. No reason for the stare.)
The man’s gaze drifts down, up, back again. Michael watches him watching him. Feels the heat of the attention like it’s tangible, an uneasy, uncanny awareness building at the nape of his neck, under his skin. It shoots straight down his spine when the man’s head tilts, sudden and curious, his focus zeroed in somewhere near Michael’s middle.
He can’t help it—he has to look, has to know. He follows the line of sight to his left wrist and finds his undershirt ridden up, an inch or two of ink on display. It’s reflexive, the way he fixes it—two fingers slip beneath the cuff, pull the fabric flat—and he realises too late that he shouldn’t have done it. It’s too telling, he thinks. He’s given too much away.
The man notices. It’s obvious in the way his eyes flick back to Michael’s, obvious in the way his mouth pulls: not quite a smile, but still victorious, like he’s won a game Michael hadn’t known they were playing.
(Check, meet mate.)
As sudden as it appeared, the attention vanishes.
“Mr. Mahone?”
The second examination room is vacated. Nurse Katie appears in its doorway, shoulder pressed to the frame as she double-checks her clipboard, her previous patient ushered toward a waiting guard as she calls through the next.
Her pen clicks. She looks up, expectant. “Come on in.”
Michael watches, unblinking, as the man—Mahone—turns away. He disappears down the hallway, into the examination room, his silhouette softened behind frosted glass. He doesn’t sit; instead, he hovers, one hand lifted, pointing at the door.
“May I?” Michael hears, the voice softer, deeper, than he would have guessed.
Nurse Katie waves her permission, and Michael expects it, this time, when Mahone’s eye catches hold of his. It’s instinctive—primitive. He can’t say his curiosity isn’t piqued.
Mahone holds his gaze until the door clicks shut, brief and fleeting, but striking, still, and makes no attempt to hide his smile, now, that small, self-satisfied smirk the last thing Michael sees.