What Do You Do - 02. Lost
Title: What Do You Do?
Author: Chase
Characters: Bellick, C-Note, Westmoreland, Sucre, Pope, Lincoln, LJ, Michael, Sara, T-Bag, Tweener, Veronica.
Category: Pre-escape
Spoilers: Season 1
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing about this show.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: MiSa. Lincoln never got his stay of execution. What will Michael do now that his reason for incarceration is dead? How will the other inmates react? What about the escape plan?
02. Lost
A handful of the nicer guards apologized to Michael for his loss along the way, but his eyes were focused ahead of him, unwavering. He wasn’t actually seeing anything, just going through the motions, trapped inside of his mind.
Alone with his thoughts.
“Open on 40!” He was un-cuffed and stepped inside. “Close on 40!”
He could feel Sucre’s eyes burning into him as he sat down on his bunk, staring at the cold wall in front of him.
“I’m sorry, Michael…” Sucre put a reassuring hand on his shoulder for a moment before deciding it would be better to leave the situation alone for now.
Michael wondered how Veronica and LJ were doing, coping with the loss. He stood up and leaned his shoulder against the cement, facing the back wall of his cell, his eyes falling shut. He went over everything in his mind, trying to see what he could have done differently, what he could have done to save his brother.
“You should’ve answered the phone,” he thought to himself. If he had answered the phone, maybe Lincoln would still be around. Maybe neither of them would have been here.
But if that had been the case, he and Lincoln probably would have stayed distant, the same with him and Veronica. It took his impending death for Veronica to realize how much she loved him.
He scoffed at himself. The same thing was true for him. He had virtually disowned Lincoln before. The murder charge seemed to fit right in.
But now… There was nothing. He’d waited too long, failed too soon.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the darkness, silent tears staining his cheeks again.
He swung at the wall.
Once.
Twice.
He could feel his skin sticking to the cold cement, being pulled off his knuckles.
Three times.
Four times.
With all his strength.
He knew his hand was on the brink of being shattered, but he kept drilling the wall, the physical pain paling in comparison to what he felt inside.
He could see his blood sliding down the wall, splattering onto his grey shirt, covering his hand.
He’d thrown the sixteenth punch when the patrolling C.O. walked by, barking an order to open the door to the cell. When questioned about his actions, Michael just stood there, his face expressionless as he was led out of the cellblock and into protective custody.
The cell was padded with dirty white plastic-covered foam. The only thing in there with him was an equally dirty mattress, something that would disgust the normal person.
There was, however, a small window at Michael’s eye level. It was about a foot wide, and only five inches high, complete with steel bars.
He stood at the window and stared out into the darkness, his mind having gone completely blank, numb to the searing pain in his hand, but not his heart.
He didn’t hear the door to his cell open, nor did he hear the footsteps behind him. When his tired body finally swiveled around, he found Sara’s warm brown eyes staring back at him.
He didn’t flinch.
Neither did she.
She fought to find her voice, though. To find something to say that could comfort the man that she knew she was falling in love with. She had spent a large handful of nights at home, thinking about Michael’s five-year sentence.
But with every one of those nights, she’d decided that she would wait all five of those years if she had to, a decision that surprised her every time she remembered it.
But when she looked at him, she knew it’d be worth it. With every passing day, he was becoming more and more emotionally crippled, cut off from the world, from feelings.
What if he ended up mentally unable to be in a relationship when he was released?
How would she recount for those five wasted years, pursuing the man that probably had his choice of women on the outside.
“He’ll be out in three,” she had told herself.
Repeatedly.
She knew it was just wishful thinking. With everything that was happening with him, he would be dead way before three years. He wouldn’t make it another three months.
“Michael…” She reached out with her hand and barely touched his wrist. Even through the latex, she could feel his warmth.
His passion.
She found herself closing her eyes, a shaky sigh escaping her lips.
Michael blinked, as if things were finally starting to register in his mind.
As if the haze was finally lifting from his world. With the slightest movement, he lifted his thumb and brushed it across the palm of her open hand.
Her eyes jerked open at his touch, scanning his face for the emotion that he still refused to show.
Behind his steely eyes, though, she saw something flicker.
Life.
Her tongue darted out of her mouth and licked her lips, an involuntary action, but one that made Michael’s pulse race nonetheless.
“I’m fine,” he declared, a small frown on his face as he turned away and went back to staring through the window.
She had to leave him there, to clear her head before she did something she’d regret.
Author: Chase
Characters: Bellick, C-Note, Westmoreland, Sucre, Pope, Lincoln, LJ, Michael, Sara, T-Bag, Tweener, Veronica.
Category: Pre-escape
Spoilers: Season 1
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing about this show.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: MiSa. Lincoln never got his stay of execution. What will Michael do now that his reason for incarceration is dead? How will the other inmates react? What about the escape plan?
02. Lost
A handful of the nicer guards apologized to Michael for his loss along the way, but his eyes were focused ahead of him, unwavering. He wasn’t actually seeing anything, just going through the motions, trapped inside of his mind.
Alone with his thoughts.
“Open on 40!” He was un-cuffed and stepped inside. “Close on 40!”
He could feel Sucre’s eyes burning into him as he sat down on his bunk, staring at the cold wall in front of him.
“I’m sorry, Michael…” Sucre put a reassuring hand on his shoulder for a moment before deciding it would be better to leave the situation alone for now.
Michael wondered how Veronica and LJ were doing, coping with the loss. He stood up and leaned his shoulder against the cement, facing the back wall of his cell, his eyes falling shut. He went over everything in his mind, trying to see what he could have done differently, what he could have done to save his brother.
“You should’ve answered the phone,” he thought to himself. If he had answered the phone, maybe Lincoln would still be around. Maybe neither of them would have been here.
But if that had been the case, he and Lincoln probably would have stayed distant, the same with him and Veronica. It took his impending death for Veronica to realize how much she loved him.
He scoffed at himself. The same thing was true for him. He had virtually disowned Lincoln before. The murder charge seemed to fit right in.
But now… There was nothing. He’d waited too long, failed too soon.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the darkness, silent tears staining his cheeks again.
He swung at the wall.
Once.
Twice.
He could feel his skin sticking to the cold cement, being pulled off his knuckles.
Three times.
Four times.
With all his strength.
He knew his hand was on the brink of being shattered, but he kept drilling the wall, the physical pain paling in comparison to what he felt inside.
He could see his blood sliding down the wall, splattering onto his grey shirt, covering his hand.
He’d thrown the sixteenth punch when the patrolling C.O. walked by, barking an order to open the door to the cell. When questioned about his actions, Michael just stood there, his face expressionless as he was led out of the cellblock and into protective custody.
The cell was padded with dirty white plastic-covered foam. The only thing in there with him was an equally dirty mattress, something that would disgust the normal person.
There was, however, a small window at Michael’s eye level. It was about a foot wide, and only five inches high, complete with steel bars.
He stood at the window and stared out into the darkness, his mind having gone completely blank, numb to the searing pain in his hand, but not his heart.
He didn’t hear the door to his cell open, nor did he hear the footsteps behind him. When his tired body finally swiveled around, he found Sara’s warm brown eyes staring back at him.
He didn’t flinch.
Neither did she.
She fought to find her voice, though. To find something to say that could comfort the man that she knew she was falling in love with. She had spent a large handful of nights at home, thinking about Michael’s five-year sentence.
But with every one of those nights, she’d decided that she would wait all five of those years if she had to, a decision that surprised her every time she remembered it.
But when she looked at him, she knew it’d be worth it. With every passing day, he was becoming more and more emotionally crippled, cut off from the world, from feelings.
What if he ended up mentally unable to be in a relationship when he was released?
How would she recount for those five wasted years, pursuing the man that probably had his choice of women on the outside.
“He’ll be out in three,” she had told herself.
Repeatedly.
She knew it was just wishful thinking. With everything that was happening with him, he would be dead way before three years. He wouldn’t make it another three months.
“Michael…” She reached out with her hand and barely touched his wrist. Even through the latex, she could feel his warmth.
His passion.
She found herself closing her eyes, a shaky sigh escaping her lips.
Michael blinked, as if things were finally starting to register in his mind.
As if the haze was finally lifting from his world. With the slightest movement, he lifted his thumb and brushed it across the palm of her open hand.
Her eyes jerked open at his touch, scanning his face for the emotion that he still refused to show.
Behind his steely eyes, though, she saw something flicker.
Life.
Her tongue darted out of her mouth and licked her lips, an involuntary action, but one that made Michael’s pulse race nonetheless.
“I’m fine,” he declared, a small frown on his face as he turned away and went back to staring through the window.
She had to leave him there, to clear her head before she did something she’d regret.