Prison Break Fic: Melaza (1/1)
Summary: He sees a lot. But love will always be his weakness, so he doesn't breathe a word.
Author's Note: A very late birthday gift for eight8toes. I haven't seen any of the S4 episodes yet, but I so wanted to write something for you, so I'm going to resort to AU and wishful thinking speculation with this one, okay? This follows the events in Pink, and is written in Sucre's POV.
Length: ~950 words
Characters: Fernando Sucre, Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi, mentions of the others
Genre/Rating: Gen/PG15
melaza: (1) pure sugarcane juice or molasses; (2) [slang] something, someone, or a situation is great
He calls her Sara, like everyone else.
Like everyone else, she calls him Sucre.
Sometimes, though, when the tension in the warehouse becomes too much, or when Self issues another ultimatum, or when the situation just seems too damn algarete, she withdraws--and the first time it happens, because he’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, he follows.
(He worries about her, and sometimes Michael just has too much on his plate to notice. He worries about him, too, but Linc is there for him, while she has no one.)
So she retreats, and he trails behind her. And that’s when it starts: by themselves, away from the simmering madness, she stands in her corner while he keeps a respectable distance, and they calm down, regroup, and she calls him Fernando, and he calls her Doc.
He lets her, because his name said in a woman’s voice helps him believe that maybe, just maybe, all of this will end someday, and he can have all that matters again. She lets him…and he does not know exactly why. All he knows is that when he does, she sort of relaxes and steels, and her eyes go soft and strong at the same time--he’s not very smart, but he takes that as a sign that he’s doing something right.
(But never Dr. Feelgood, though. He may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he knows better than to call her that.)
And so she flees for a little while, and he tags along. To watch over her, at first-then one day he veers into his usual spot to find her standing in her corner, not, as he’s come to expect, with her head turned away, but with her back to the wall, waiting for him to come into view, a small smile of welcome on her face, and then he realizes he’s there to simply hear his name being said, to be with a friend. “Fernando,” she says. “Hey, Doc,” he replies. They touch base, and by the time Michael finds them, they’re all right again.
Not a few times he wonders what special skill he brings to their little group. Alex is smart. (Now that’s a guy who will never spell “passion” with an “h”.) Linc and Bellick bring the brawn. Roland, he thinks, is sometimes too smart for his own good.
And, somewhere down the line, he’s certain that the Doc may be all that is standing between any of them and the point of death.
He’s not a doctor, and he’s definitely not the brightest star in the sky. Back in Fox River, he could tell that everyone was surprised when he figured out a way to get to the yard after lock-down while Michael was in the SHU. Once, trapped in a tight space with nowhere to go but the way they’d come, Linc started hurling himself against a door, a door that didn’t look like it would budge to begin with. “I don’t think that gonna go down, bro,” Sucre told him. Linc rolled his eyes: “No shit, Sherlock.”
He watched over the women as the men dug up Westmoreland’s money. These days, he sits in a car and plays look-out. Sometimes he thinks he’s no better than an extra pair of eyes.
A few days later, though, he’s more than happy to put them into good use.
The night’s destination is the casino, where the guys will work the tables. (He, once more, will sit in the car.)
As befits the occasion, they’re wearing suits.
Sara, walking down the hall to where they wait, is wearing a dress. Her heels go tap, tap, tap. Her knees play peek-a-boo.
Her gaze, ever so briefly, alights on Michael, then moves on to the rest. Papi, on the other hand, has eyes only for her.
A few taps more, and then Sara stops in their half-circle of warm silence. It’s a hush Sucre knows from all the times he’s seen Maricruz.
It’s the kind that happens when a beautiful woman steps into a room.
Then Sara’s smile at him wavers ever so slightly, and he realizes that, unbelievably, the beautiful woman is nervous.
“Mira,” he beams at her (she seems to like it when he does), “que chula estas, mami.”
True enough, it helps. She beams back full and bright, and he has a moment to congratulate himself and think, Melaza!, before he catches the look Michael throws him, a look that he would have missed had he blinked-a look that he would not have believed had he not seen it himself, because really, he would not have considered Michael to be the possessive type.
But he is. Michael steps up to Sara smoothly, almost placidly, as though he does not have a care in the world…except that his hand rests immediately on the small of her back and with an almost imperceptible haste guides her closer to him and away from them, and Sucre wants to laugh.
But he does not. No tiene dos dedos de frente, but he knows enough to give Michael space.
That’s why, when he catches them back in the warehouse locked in a tight embrace when they probably thought they were all alone, the shadows not enough to conceal Michael’s hand on her breast and his mouth on her neck and the pale flash of Sara’s thigh, he backs away quietly and returns to where the rest of the guys are huddled around Roland, looking at codes he will never understand.
Linc looks up at him. “Where’s Michael?”
He shrugs. “He’ll be here in a moment.”
Love will always be his weakness, so he doesn’t breathe a word.
(End)
Algarete: wayward, without a given path. It is said of a ship at sea, without a sail, having no defined course. It is used to describe something crazy, out of control, disorganized.
Que chula estas mami: roughly “how pretty you are, mami”
No tiene dos dedos de frente: literally, "He doesn't have two fingers of forehead," meaning not particularly bright
Disclaimer: I don't speak Spanish, so Google and Wikipedia were my friends. (I hope.) Hee. :)
Author's Note: A very late birthday gift for eight8toes. I haven't seen any of the S4 episodes yet, but I so wanted to write something for you, so I'm going to resort to AU and wishful thinking speculation with this one, okay? This follows the events in Pink, and is written in Sucre's POV.
Length: ~950 words
Characters: Fernando Sucre, Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi, mentions of the others
Genre/Rating: Gen/PG15
melaza: (1) pure sugarcane juice or molasses; (2) [slang] something, someone, or a situation is great
He calls her Sara, like everyone else.
Like everyone else, she calls him Sucre.
Sometimes, though, when the tension in the warehouse becomes too much, or when Self issues another ultimatum, or when the situation just seems too damn algarete, she withdraws--and the first time it happens, because he’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, he follows.
(He worries about her, and sometimes Michael just has too much on his plate to notice. He worries about him, too, but Linc is there for him, while she has no one.)
So she retreats, and he trails behind her. And that’s when it starts: by themselves, away from the simmering madness, she stands in her corner while he keeps a respectable distance, and they calm down, regroup, and she calls him Fernando, and he calls her Doc.
He lets her, because his name said in a woman’s voice helps him believe that maybe, just maybe, all of this will end someday, and he can have all that matters again. She lets him…and he does not know exactly why. All he knows is that when he does, she sort of relaxes and steels, and her eyes go soft and strong at the same time--he’s not very smart, but he takes that as a sign that he’s doing something right.
(But never Dr. Feelgood, though. He may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he knows better than to call her that.)
And so she flees for a little while, and he tags along. To watch over her, at first-then one day he veers into his usual spot to find her standing in her corner, not, as he’s come to expect, with her head turned away, but with her back to the wall, waiting for him to come into view, a small smile of welcome on her face, and then he realizes he’s there to simply hear his name being said, to be with a friend. “Fernando,” she says. “Hey, Doc,” he replies. They touch base, and by the time Michael finds them, they’re all right again.
Not a few times he wonders what special skill he brings to their little group. Alex is smart. (Now that’s a guy who will never spell “passion” with an “h”.) Linc and Bellick bring the brawn. Roland, he thinks, is sometimes too smart for his own good.
And, somewhere down the line, he’s certain that the Doc may be all that is standing between any of them and the point of death.
He’s not a doctor, and he’s definitely not the brightest star in the sky. Back in Fox River, he could tell that everyone was surprised when he figured out a way to get to the yard after lock-down while Michael was in the SHU. Once, trapped in a tight space with nowhere to go but the way they’d come, Linc started hurling himself against a door, a door that didn’t look like it would budge to begin with. “I don’t think that gonna go down, bro,” Sucre told him. Linc rolled his eyes: “No shit, Sherlock.”
He watched over the women as the men dug up Westmoreland’s money. These days, he sits in a car and plays look-out. Sometimes he thinks he’s no better than an extra pair of eyes.
A few days later, though, he’s more than happy to put them into good use.
The night’s destination is the casino, where the guys will work the tables. (He, once more, will sit in the car.)
As befits the occasion, they’re wearing suits.
Sara, walking down the hall to where they wait, is wearing a dress. Her heels go tap, tap, tap. Her knees play peek-a-boo.
Her gaze, ever so briefly, alights on Michael, then moves on to the rest. Papi, on the other hand, has eyes only for her.
A few taps more, and then Sara stops in their half-circle of warm silence. It’s a hush Sucre knows from all the times he’s seen Maricruz.
It’s the kind that happens when a beautiful woman steps into a room.
Then Sara’s smile at him wavers ever so slightly, and he realizes that, unbelievably, the beautiful woman is nervous.
“Mira,” he beams at her (she seems to like it when he does), “que chula estas, mami.”
True enough, it helps. She beams back full and bright, and he has a moment to congratulate himself and think, Melaza!, before he catches the look Michael throws him, a look that he would have missed had he blinked-a look that he would not have believed had he not seen it himself, because really, he would not have considered Michael to be the possessive type.
But he is. Michael steps up to Sara smoothly, almost placidly, as though he does not have a care in the world…except that his hand rests immediately on the small of her back and with an almost imperceptible haste guides her closer to him and away from them, and Sucre wants to laugh.
But he does not. No tiene dos dedos de frente, but he knows enough to give Michael space.
That’s why, when he catches them back in the warehouse locked in a tight embrace when they probably thought they were all alone, the shadows not enough to conceal Michael’s hand on her breast and his mouth on her neck and the pale flash of Sara’s thigh, he backs away quietly and returns to where the rest of the guys are huddled around Roland, looking at codes he will never understand.
Linc looks up at him. “Where’s Michael?”
He shrugs. “He’ll be here in a moment.”
Love will always be his weakness, so he doesn’t breathe a word.
(End)
Algarete: wayward, without a given path. It is said of a ship at sea, without a sail, having no defined course. It is used to describe something crazy, out of control, disorganized.
Que chula estas mami: roughly “how pretty you are, mami”
No tiene dos dedos de frente: literally, "He doesn't have two fingers of forehead," meaning not particularly bright
Disclaimer: I don't speak Spanish, so Google and Wikipedia were my friends. (I hope.) Hee. :)