Trust
Title:Trust
Author: pemphredouk
Pairing/Characters:Michael, Linc, LJ, Sara, Mahone,Jane
Rating:G
Summary:Lincoln and Michael are still on the run and having to make decisions as to who they do and don't trust. Post S213, but will veer off pretty quickly.
Spoilers:None
Chapter 12 Bruises and Beers
Michael opened his eyes, and shivered out a groan, it was no use. He couldn’t sleep. The cold had seeped up through the concrete, through the thin mattress and its damp cover and into his body and bones. They ached with it, his legs, arms and shoulders shook with involuntary spasms as his body tried desperately to battle the biting chill that pervaded everything. He sat up on the mattress, aware that the shivering was getting worse. He brought his cuffed hands up towards his head and buried his face in them only to cry out with pain as his forehead made contact with his bruised and swollen fingers.
He’d experienced moments of absolute despair before. There had been the night of the first escape when he discovered the newly welded pipe work blocking their escape route. When over a year of planning and weeks of work evaporated and he was faced with impalpable failure. But he had carried on, found another plan, and then another and kept within him that crucial faith that it would all work out. This despair was ominously different. He could feel his faith slipping away from him, leeching out onto the cold concrete floor and into the grey dank walls around him. The faith that had been founded in his family, in the unquestionable aim of finding justice for them. That had developed into fighting the injustice of the company and the corrupt world that sustained it. Now all that was gone, the company apparently was destroyed, his family had found the justice they had sought. He alone remained in this nightmare world of judgement and retribution, and ironically he had been put there by his family. How could any faith survive that?
LJ walked in through the door and dumped his school bag on the hall stand, kicking off his trainers and padding in his socks through to the kitchen. He made a beeline for the fridge, opening it and taking out the milk carton. He started gulping it down. He twisted it closed and wiping his mouth placed it back on the shelf and only then looked around him. He frowned.
“Dad? You there, Dad?”
The counter top had a couple of empty pizza boxes on it and several cans of beer. LJ shook his head silently and padded through to the living room.
His father was sprawled on the couch, several more cans of beer scattered around him. He seemed to be asleep under a fleece blanket. The TV was on and tuned to the shopping channel.
“Dad, have you moved from here at all today?”
Lincoln prised his eyes open. “LJ,” he smiled drunkenly. “Howoschhhhoool?” He muttered.
“School was fine, you promised me you would get sorted today, check out those house details?” Responded LJ with slight frustration in his voice.
“I did…I think… I sorted something… I know! The mail! I sorted the mail!” He waved vaguely over to the waste bin in the corner of the room. He pulled the blanket higher over his bare shoulders.
LJ sighed, crossed the carpet and picking up the bin came back to sit on the end of the couch. His fathers feet hung out from under the dark fleece. He put the bin on the floor between his legs, and then as if suddenly curious lifted the fleece and tilted his head to look underneath and sighed. Well at least his Dad was wearing boxers today, maybe tomorrow he would get round to actually dressing.
He dug out a pile of letters from the bin. All of them unopened. “Dad this is not the realtors stuff, what is this?”
“Shhhhtupid mail, conshpirchacy stuff…” Linc shook his head with the strain of trying to get that particular word out.
LJ frowned and started sorting through it. “Dad some of it is that stuff but there are other letters here.” He pulled one out, “This is the electricity bill, and here, this is the registration stuff for my school next year, and this, this…” He paused, his voice dropping “This is a letter from the Court, you can’t just chuck these away.”
LJ proceeded to search through and retrieve all the important mail, making a small pile on the coffee table in front of his father. Then he started opening them, finally coming to the letter addressed to his father with the stamp of the district court on its corner.
“Dad this is about Uncle Mike’s trial, they’ve set the date, you’ve been told to make yourself available…”
He paused as he saw this message cutting through the fog of his father’s current trance and a look of pure desperation fixing on his face. Just then the phone rang. Lincoln didn’t shift from the couch his hands just moved up to cover his face. LJ sighed and crossed the room to answer it.
“Lincoln?” A woman’s voice asked.
“Er no it’s LJ.”
“Oh, Hello LJ, it’s Sara. Sara Tancredi.”
“Oh the Doc right? Did you want my Dad?”
“Well actually I think Lincoln wanted me, he left eight messages on my cell today. I was in a meeting. I just retrieved them. Is something wrong?” LJ turned back to look at his father and sighed.
“No, well, not really… but he’s been drinking again, a lot. Look I’m sorry he must have made them all today, I’ve been out, at school.” He added as if an explanation was required.
A small “oh” from Sara.
“Has he heard anything?”
“From Uncle Michael?” Responded LJ, then: “No, all his letters have come back, he still won’t see us, or take calls”
“I’m sorry LJ, when I spoke to your Dad last time I thought he just needed to give Michael time.”
“I don’t think Dad can, it’s tearing him up and I’m really kinda worried now.” LJ’s voice hushed to almost a whisper. “He got a letter today, he’s been told to attend Uncle Mike’s court hearing. You know, the testimony thing?”
“Yes, he told me it was a possibility.” Sara’s voice was full of concern now.
“I don’t think he’s taking it well, he’s gonna do something stupid, I don’t think he’s been sober for days now. This court thing could tip him over, especially if he’s not managed to talk with Uncle Mike before it happens.” LJ was watching his Dad as he spoke.
This was greeted with silence, and then an almost imperceptible sigh could be heard.
“Listen, tell him I’ve changed my mind, tell him I’ll do it.” Sara spoke quickly, almost as if she was afraid she would regret the decision.
“Do what?” asked LJ, puzzled.
“He’ll know what I mean LJ, just make him some strong coffee and tell him ok? I’ll call him back tomorrow.”
“Oh, Ok.”
“Bye LJ.”
“Bye Doc.”
He put the phone down and moved into the kitchen and switched the coffee machine on.
Michael was sitting on the mattress, his knees raised up, rocking back and forwards slowly, a rhythm he’d followed for probably several hours. He had no idea how long he had now been in the punishment cell. His brain had stopped processing anything apart from the mantra that consumed it, have to keep warm, have to keep thinking…
Suddenly he heard a noise outside the door, and then a vertical shaft of light expanded quickly into a white glare as the door was pushed open. Michael blinked and then squeezed his eyes close as a light was switched on, bathing the room in a harsh brightness.
A man walked slowly into the cell, he was tall, very tall and had a mop of almost white blond hair. He wore rimless glasses which gave his face a studied look and when he reached the middle of the room he stopped and turned to face the inmate on the mattress.
“Stand up.” The voice, the authority behind it, this was undoubtedly an order.
Michael shakily got to his feet.
“I’m Warden Schaffer. I understand there was an…” He paused briefly as he chose his next word. “An incident yesterday.”
Michael stared back at the warden silently. Adjusting to the information that at least one night had passed whilst he had been in the cell.
“Turn around.” Michael obeyed and slowly shifted around to face the wall.
“Turn back.” The voice was measured, calm, and Michael could sense a great deal of thought behind it as he turned back to face him.
“Scofield, we seem to have a problem here that requires a resolution.”
Michael looked up at this. “We do?”
“Let me explain what I think the predicament is.” The warden responded.
“Yesterday you assaulted an inmate, and one of my correctional officers. The second assault was serious. You broke the man’s nose.”
Michael tried not to show any emotion on learning this but he could feel his body betraying him as his breathing became shallow. He gulped and stared back at the Warden.
“However, it would appear some of my officers seem to have been rather too enthusiastic in ensuring you were suitable punished. Those fingers look particularly painful.”
He clasped his hands together and continued. “I’m not one to waste tax payers money on allegations and counter allegations. I’m sure we could both spend many hours in court sorting out this particular predicament couldn’t we?” He smiled, it wasn’t meant to be comforting.
Michael wasn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question but decided not to answer.
“However I really don’t see how that serves either of us. You would potentially have several years added to your sentence and the DOC would spend thousands fighting with your lawyers on abuse claims.
So I’ve decided that what we require here is a balanced solution. One that sits right with both of us, hmmm?” He paused for several seconds. “We won’t add the assault charges if you don’t.”
Michael blinked. He was being offered a deal by the Warden? He knew he could have been in a lot of trouble if they’d charged him. He then realised why the deal was on the table, god he must really look bad, if the Warden was concerned enough about counter charges…
The mostly one sided conversation was coming to an end.
“Well, I’m glad we have that sorted Scofield. I obviously have to keep you here in punishment for a while longer. My officers will expect it. But I think you can be released back to the assessment unit by the end of the week. You have a pre-hearing meeting with your lawyer scheduled for Friday, which feels about right doesn’t it?”
Again, was that rhetorical? Michael didn’t know but couldn’t find a response anyway. Maybe the cold had iced his brain up, he thought. Surely he was supposed to respond in some way?
“Good, so glad that’s agreed.” With a quick turn and three steps he was gone. The door closed and Michael was back in his darkness.
He slumped down again on the mattress. So that was the Warden…
A few minutes later the hatch at the bottom of the door was opened and a blanket was pushed roughly through. The hatch snapped shut again. Michael scrambled over and crept back to the mattress; wrapping himself up in the blanket he began to feel his extremities warm slightly. He sighed with relief and shortly after fell into a fitful sleep.
He woke when they opened the door and passed a tray of food in, he made a guess it was evening as it seemed to be dinner food. He ate hungrily; grimacing as his bruises and swollen limbs would not let the memory of the beating fade. The next day his clothes were returned with his breakfast. The following day, the light was turned on and Michael could finally take stock of his injuries. His fingers were still swollen, and a couple of fingers were slightly bent, one twisting weirdly out of shape from the knuckle. He had limited movement with the cuffs but he sensed both fingers might be broken. His legs were covered in marbled blue bruises. There were several deeper patches that were almost black. His arms were similarly coloured although the tattoo meant they were not as prominent. Once he was fully dressed, his hands were the only visible sign of the beating. The CO’s had been careful in the dark and had not marked his face or head.
The next few meals helped Michael regain his sense of time and he worked out that when the door opened up after his third breakfast that it was Friday. He was right. The CO’s came in and added chains and led him back towards the main part of the prison.
When he entered the meeting room he looked up and was surprised not to see his usual lawyer.
“Oh.”
“Hello Mr Scofield, my names Mr Beech. I’m afraid Mr Weitz is unable to continue with your case.” He held out his hand, and grasped Michael’s painfully.
Michael sat down at the table, his chains clinking noticeably; his only response was “Oh right.”
The new lawyer continued. “He’s taking some time off, suffering from stress. I’m afraid he was attacked by one of his clients… it’s happened several times to him unfortunately. Michael smiled, he wasn’t surprised at all. The guy was an idiot.
“So I’ve been asked to take over your case if that’s ok with you?”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah sure, it’s not like I have a choice anyway.”
“Well yes, there is that.” Answered the lawyer smiling.
“Now. I’ve reviewed your file, and must admit to being a little puzzled about the charges. The DA’s office seems to have reduced the charges down with no real prodding from your lawyer.”
“Yeah he thought that was strange as well,” replied Michael, and for the first time wondered if there had been a connection to Lincoln’s actions.
“Your court hearing has been set for next week, I have to agree with Mr Weitz, I think you should take the guilty plea and rely on the leniency of the judge for these remaining charges. Although, interestingly, they don’t seem to be seeking a huge increase in your current sentence. In fact…” He shuffled a few of the papers in the file. “Yes I knew I’d seen it in here somewhere. There’s already been a request to investigate the potential for alternative sentencing in your case if a guilty plea is made.”
“Alternative sentencing?”
“The State is very interested in the whole electronic monitoring process, it reduces the costs of incarceration you see. They often seek out suitable cases where this could be a potential sentence. Inmates who wouldn’t be considered dangerous if released back into the community.”
“Electronic monitoring? Wait you mean outside, not in prison?” Michael asked, his voice rising with shock.
“Well there wouldn’t be much point in tagging you if you’re still locked up would there Mr Scofield?”
Michael laughed. ”I guess not.” This was sounding far too hopeful…
Several hours later he was returned to the assessment unit, although he was now in cell five. But the light panel didn’t buzz and the room didn’t smell too bad so Michael allowed himself another rare smile as the cell door closed behind him. They’d even removed his cuffs and he rubbed his wrists carefully, avoiding any pressure against his two damaged fingers. It was only then he noticed the piece of paper on the desk. Walking over he picked it up and read it with growing incredulity.
It was a request for visitation form, and the name on it was Sara Tancredi.
An hour later they came to take his lunch order - he was not surprisingly going to be allowed to collect his own lunch in the foreseeable future. He turned to the CO. “Can I borrow your pen?” He quickly signed the bottom and handed the form back. He sat back on the bed, his mouth turning up into a small smile.
She wanted to see him, and god did he want to see her…
tbc
Author: pemphredouk
Pairing/Characters:Michael, Linc, LJ, Sara, Mahone,Jane
Rating:G
Summary:Lincoln and Michael are still on the run and having to make decisions as to who they do and don't trust. Post S213, but will veer off pretty quickly.
Spoilers:None
Chapter 12 Bruises and Beers
Michael opened his eyes, and shivered out a groan, it was no use. He couldn’t sleep. The cold had seeped up through the concrete, through the thin mattress and its damp cover and into his body and bones. They ached with it, his legs, arms and shoulders shook with involuntary spasms as his body tried desperately to battle the biting chill that pervaded everything. He sat up on the mattress, aware that the shivering was getting worse. He brought his cuffed hands up towards his head and buried his face in them only to cry out with pain as his forehead made contact with his bruised and swollen fingers.
He’d experienced moments of absolute despair before. There had been the night of the first escape when he discovered the newly welded pipe work blocking their escape route. When over a year of planning and weeks of work evaporated and he was faced with impalpable failure. But he had carried on, found another plan, and then another and kept within him that crucial faith that it would all work out. This despair was ominously different. He could feel his faith slipping away from him, leeching out onto the cold concrete floor and into the grey dank walls around him. The faith that had been founded in his family, in the unquestionable aim of finding justice for them. That had developed into fighting the injustice of the company and the corrupt world that sustained it. Now all that was gone, the company apparently was destroyed, his family had found the justice they had sought. He alone remained in this nightmare world of judgement and retribution, and ironically he had been put there by his family. How could any faith survive that?
LJ walked in through the door and dumped his school bag on the hall stand, kicking off his trainers and padding in his socks through to the kitchen. He made a beeline for the fridge, opening it and taking out the milk carton. He started gulping it down. He twisted it closed and wiping his mouth placed it back on the shelf and only then looked around him. He frowned.
“Dad? You there, Dad?”
The counter top had a couple of empty pizza boxes on it and several cans of beer. LJ shook his head silently and padded through to the living room.
His father was sprawled on the couch, several more cans of beer scattered around him. He seemed to be asleep under a fleece blanket. The TV was on and tuned to the shopping channel.
“Dad, have you moved from here at all today?”
Lincoln prised his eyes open. “LJ,” he smiled drunkenly. “Howoschhhhoool?” He muttered.
“School was fine, you promised me you would get sorted today, check out those house details?” Responded LJ with slight frustration in his voice.
“I did…I think… I sorted something… I know! The mail! I sorted the mail!” He waved vaguely over to the waste bin in the corner of the room. He pulled the blanket higher over his bare shoulders.
LJ sighed, crossed the carpet and picking up the bin came back to sit on the end of the couch. His fathers feet hung out from under the dark fleece. He put the bin on the floor between his legs, and then as if suddenly curious lifted the fleece and tilted his head to look underneath and sighed. Well at least his Dad was wearing boxers today, maybe tomorrow he would get round to actually dressing.
He dug out a pile of letters from the bin. All of them unopened. “Dad this is not the realtors stuff, what is this?”
“Shhhhtupid mail, conshpirchacy stuff…” Linc shook his head with the strain of trying to get that particular word out.
LJ frowned and started sorting through it. “Dad some of it is that stuff but there are other letters here.” He pulled one out, “This is the electricity bill, and here, this is the registration stuff for my school next year, and this, this…” He paused, his voice dropping “This is a letter from the Court, you can’t just chuck these away.”
LJ proceeded to search through and retrieve all the important mail, making a small pile on the coffee table in front of his father. Then he started opening them, finally coming to the letter addressed to his father with the stamp of the district court on its corner.
“Dad this is about Uncle Mike’s trial, they’ve set the date, you’ve been told to make yourself available…”
He paused as he saw this message cutting through the fog of his father’s current trance and a look of pure desperation fixing on his face. Just then the phone rang. Lincoln didn’t shift from the couch his hands just moved up to cover his face. LJ sighed and crossed the room to answer it.
“Lincoln?” A woman’s voice asked.
“Er no it’s LJ.”
“Oh, Hello LJ, it’s Sara. Sara Tancredi.”
“Oh the Doc right? Did you want my Dad?”
“Well actually I think Lincoln wanted me, he left eight messages on my cell today. I was in a meeting. I just retrieved them. Is something wrong?” LJ turned back to look at his father and sighed.
“No, well, not really… but he’s been drinking again, a lot. Look I’m sorry he must have made them all today, I’ve been out, at school.” He added as if an explanation was required.
A small “oh” from Sara.
“Has he heard anything?”
“From Uncle Michael?” Responded LJ, then: “No, all his letters have come back, he still won’t see us, or take calls”
“I’m sorry LJ, when I spoke to your Dad last time I thought he just needed to give Michael time.”
“I don’t think Dad can, it’s tearing him up and I’m really kinda worried now.” LJ’s voice hushed to almost a whisper. “He got a letter today, he’s been told to attend Uncle Mike’s court hearing. You know, the testimony thing?”
“Yes, he told me it was a possibility.” Sara’s voice was full of concern now.
“I don’t think he’s taking it well, he’s gonna do something stupid, I don’t think he’s been sober for days now. This court thing could tip him over, especially if he’s not managed to talk with Uncle Mike before it happens.” LJ was watching his Dad as he spoke.
This was greeted with silence, and then an almost imperceptible sigh could be heard.
“Listen, tell him I’ve changed my mind, tell him I’ll do it.” Sara spoke quickly, almost as if she was afraid she would regret the decision.
“Do what?” asked LJ, puzzled.
“He’ll know what I mean LJ, just make him some strong coffee and tell him ok? I’ll call him back tomorrow.”
“Oh, Ok.”
“Bye LJ.”
“Bye Doc.”
He put the phone down and moved into the kitchen and switched the coffee machine on.
Michael was sitting on the mattress, his knees raised up, rocking back and forwards slowly, a rhythm he’d followed for probably several hours. He had no idea how long he had now been in the punishment cell. His brain had stopped processing anything apart from the mantra that consumed it, have to keep warm, have to keep thinking…
Suddenly he heard a noise outside the door, and then a vertical shaft of light expanded quickly into a white glare as the door was pushed open. Michael blinked and then squeezed his eyes close as a light was switched on, bathing the room in a harsh brightness.
A man walked slowly into the cell, he was tall, very tall and had a mop of almost white blond hair. He wore rimless glasses which gave his face a studied look and when he reached the middle of the room he stopped and turned to face the inmate on the mattress.
“Stand up.” The voice, the authority behind it, this was undoubtedly an order.
Michael shakily got to his feet.
“I’m Warden Schaffer. I understand there was an…” He paused briefly as he chose his next word. “An incident yesterday.”
Michael stared back at the warden silently. Adjusting to the information that at least one night had passed whilst he had been in the cell.
“Turn around.” Michael obeyed and slowly shifted around to face the wall.
“Turn back.” The voice was measured, calm, and Michael could sense a great deal of thought behind it as he turned back to face him.
“Scofield, we seem to have a problem here that requires a resolution.”
Michael looked up at this. “We do?”
“Let me explain what I think the predicament is.” The warden responded.
“Yesterday you assaulted an inmate, and one of my correctional officers. The second assault was serious. You broke the man’s nose.”
Michael tried not to show any emotion on learning this but he could feel his body betraying him as his breathing became shallow. He gulped and stared back at the Warden.
“However, it would appear some of my officers seem to have been rather too enthusiastic in ensuring you were suitable punished. Those fingers look particularly painful.”
He clasped his hands together and continued. “I’m not one to waste tax payers money on allegations and counter allegations. I’m sure we could both spend many hours in court sorting out this particular predicament couldn’t we?” He smiled, it wasn’t meant to be comforting.
Michael wasn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question but decided not to answer.
“However I really don’t see how that serves either of us. You would potentially have several years added to your sentence and the DOC would spend thousands fighting with your lawyers on abuse claims.
So I’ve decided that what we require here is a balanced solution. One that sits right with both of us, hmmm?” He paused for several seconds. “We won’t add the assault charges if you don’t.”
Michael blinked. He was being offered a deal by the Warden? He knew he could have been in a lot of trouble if they’d charged him. He then realised why the deal was on the table, god he must really look bad, if the Warden was concerned enough about counter charges…
The mostly one sided conversation was coming to an end.
“Well, I’m glad we have that sorted Scofield. I obviously have to keep you here in punishment for a while longer. My officers will expect it. But I think you can be released back to the assessment unit by the end of the week. You have a pre-hearing meeting with your lawyer scheduled for Friday, which feels about right doesn’t it?”
Again, was that rhetorical? Michael didn’t know but couldn’t find a response anyway. Maybe the cold had iced his brain up, he thought. Surely he was supposed to respond in some way?
“Good, so glad that’s agreed.” With a quick turn and three steps he was gone. The door closed and Michael was back in his darkness.
He slumped down again on the mattress. So that was the Warden…
A few minutes later the hatch at the bottom of the door was opened and a blanket was pushed roughly through. The hatch snapped shut again. Michael scrambled over and crept back to the mattress; wrapping himself up in the blanket he began to feel his extremities warm slightly. He sighed with relief and shortly after fell into a fitful sleep.
He woke when they opened the door and passed a tray of food in, he made a guess it was evening as it seemed to be dinner food. He ate hungrily; grimacing as his bruises and swollen limbs would not let the memory of the beating fade. The next day his clothes were returned with his breakfast. The following day, the light was turned on and Michael could finally take stock of his injuries. His fingers were still swollen, and a couple of fingers were slightly bent, one twisting weirdly out of shape from the knuckle. He had limited movement with the cuffs but he sensed both fingers might be broken. His legs were covered in marbled blue bruises. There were several deeper patches that were almost black. His arms were similarly coloured although the tattoo meant they were not as prominent. Once he was fully dressed, his hands were the only visible sign of the beating. The CO’s had been careful in the dark and had not marked his face or head.
The next few meals helped Michael regain his sense of time and he worked out that when the door opened up after his third breakfast that it was Friday. He was right. The CO’s came in and added chains and led him back towards the main part of the prison.
When he entered the meeting room he looked up and was surprised not to see his usual lawyer.
“Oh.”
“Hello Mr Scofield, my names Mr Beech. I’m afraid Mr Weitz is unable to continue with your case.” He held out his hand, and grasped Michael’s painfully.
Michael sat down at the table, his chains clinking noticeably; his only response was “Oh right.”
The new lawyer continued. “He’s taking some time off, suffering from stress. I’m afraid he was attacked by one of his clients… it’s happened several times to him unfortunately. Michael smiled, he wasn’t surprised at all. The guy was an idiot.
“So I’ve been asked to take over your case if that’s ok with you?”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah sure, it’s not like I have a choice anyway.”
“Well yes, there is that.” Answered the lawyer smiling.
“Now. I’ve reviewed your file, and must admit to being a little puzzled about the charges. The DA’s office seems to have reduced the charges down with no real prodding from your lawyer.”
“Yeah he thought that was strange as well,” replied Michael, and for the first time wondered if there had been a connection to Lincoln’s actions.
“Your court hearing has been set for next week, I have to agree with Mr Weitz, I think you should take the guilty plea and rely on the leniency of the judge for these remaining charges. Although, interestingly, they don’t seem to be seeking a huge increase in your current sentence. In fact…” He shuffled a few of the papers in the file. “Yes I knew I’d seen it in here somewhere. There’s already been a request to investigate the potential for alternative sentencing in your case if a guilty plea is made.”
“Alternative sentencing?”
“The State is very interested in the whole electronic monitoring process, it reduces the costs of incarceration you see. They often seek out suitable cases where this could be a potential sentence. Inmates who wouldn’t be considered dangerous if released back into the community.”
“Electronic monitoring? Wait you mean outside, not in prison?” Michael asked, his voice rising with shock.
“Well there wouldn’t be much point in tagging you if you’re still locked up would there Mr Scofield?”
Michael laughed. ”I guess not.” This was sounding far too hopeful…
Several hours later he was returned to the assessment unit, although he was now in cell five. But the light panel didn’t buzz and the room didn’t smell too bad so Michael allowed himself another rare smile as the cell door closed behind him. They’d even removed his cuffs and he rubbed his wrists carefully, avoiding any pressure against his two damaged fingers. It was only then he noticed the piece of paper on the desk. Walking over he picked it up and read it with growing incredulity.
It was a request for visitation form, and the name on it was Sara Tancredi.
An hour later they came to take his lunch order - he was not surprisingly going to be allowed to collect his own lunch in the foreseeable future. He turned to the CO. “Can I borrow your pen?” He quickly signed the bottom and handed the form back. He sat back on the bed, his mouth turning up into a small smile.
She wanted to see him, and god did he want to see her…
tbc