PB Fic: The Hardest Mile
Title: The Hardest Mile
Author: sierra_foxx
Rating: PG, approx 1000 or so words
Category: Gen, Character death, set during 4x09
Characters: Lincoln Burrows, Brad Bellick
Summary: His choice had been a path of redemption but therein contained a bittersweet postscript that now stung sharp and deep...
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me; I only like playing with them for my own entertainment.
Author's Note: This little story is written especially for the birthday girl domfangirl, who is one of my fellow fangirls in Team Lincoln. I hope you have an awesome birthday, darling! I treasure your presence on my flist and I do hope you enjoy this little angsty!Lincoln ficlet. *hugs you* PB fangirls ARE a special bunch of people, and you are no exception. *throws confetti* I'd also like to say a big thanks to poisonshades for the very short notice read-through and awesome cheerleading; you're a star! *mwah*
~ * ~
‘Don’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.’
Proverb
He wasn’t sure when he first realised the real truth behind those words, his memory of such things not as precise or as far-reaching as his brother’s. It was a truism borne from his painfully short childhood, unknowingly sage advice gleaned by sheer accident, passed on by some well-meaning counsellor he’d come across during his stormy relationship with Child Services. He hadn’t taken much notice then, of course. What was the point? There’d been scant few diligent caseworkers; most of them were self-absorbed pen pushers not the least bit interested in the welfare of another two faceless orphans within the over-crowded State system. It was always going to be up to him to look out for his brother and that was fine; everyone else had either died or left. And now years further down the line, he doubted that particular counsellor would even remember him anyway.
The late afternoon sun bled into the distant horizon as Lincoln continued to stare unseeing across the silvery grey water flanking the dockside warehouse. Water views to die for. Literally. This was their current address for now, housing a collection of people who’d never normally be in the same room together, let alone on the same side. But even that was relative. The future seemed to change day by day here; only the past ever remained the same.
He shifted his weight more comfortably on the long timber sleeper, resting his back against the corrugated iron of the building behind him. So many times in Fox River he’d only ever dreamed of being able to do just that, sit out in the afternoon sun with the breeze blowing whispers around him, watching the day slip away to a beautiful red-orange sunset. All that was missing was a cold beer in his hand and the memory would be complete.
It felt surreal to think of Fox River now, Joliet literally and figuratively miles from where they were now. He’d endured long stretches of time spent alone in there, with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. Long before Michael’s arrival, before The Plan, before all the senseless deaths of people he’d loved - there had been only one death imminent and that was his. He’d escaped the jaws of death row and he was and would forever be grateful. He’d never be able to repay Michael for what he did. It was just that the price for his life seemed to climb every day. How could he justify his still breathing frame after all those who’d died along the way?
He’d usually been good at judging a man’s character. Living life by the seat of your pants tended to teach you things and give you the skills to see what most people couldn’t. When your life depended on it, you learned fast and you learned it well. But nothing he’d ever done in the past had prepared him for where he found himself now.
His outlook on the human race had irrevocably changed, bearing no resemblance to attitudes or beliefs held before. He’d seen more cruelty and senseless killing in the last few months than he’d experienced in his entire life. Some days the agony threatened to overwhelm him, spreading icy cold needles through his lungs and choking the breath from his body in painful gasps.
Conversely, he had even willingly participated in the carnage himself and had felt nothing as the lifeblood of an unknown assailant flowed out of his dying body and over his fingers before he had turned to run, leaving him in an inglorious heap on the asphalt. He understood it was kill or be killed but even he didn’t recognise himself in the man who could do such things.
And now this day had brought with it a casualty who threatened to send him clear over the edge. It had been so sudden, the loss of a man who only a short time ago he wouldn’t have lost a minute of sleep over. Would’ve said he had it coming. A man who had once callously flung a derogatory slur against his mother in his face, a bully with a badge whose name used to bring forth feelings of derision and contempt. It was hard to reconcile that image of Bellick to the one who’d heroically and willingly sacrificed his own life for his today.
He closed his eyes, remembering the last few moments of the brave man he’d forever think of now as Brad, a man who had seen life from each side of the fence and yet had the guts to selflessly lie down in the jaws of death without a backward step. Don’t do this! Don’t do this! he’d pleaded. Brad! No! No! But he hadn’t moved, damn his stubborn Illinois ass, just screamed at them to push the pipe through, the pipe that would take them closer to Scylla and freedom. The last image he had was his desperate expression, telegraphing resolve mixed with tremulous fear while the lethal flood of water hurtled down that pipe with a murderous roar. It burned white-hot in Lincoln’s memory and he knew he’d never forget it.
Then, in an instant, he was gone. The almighty weight of his death hung so heavy around his shoulders his limbs lost the battle to stand upright, and he sank broken, to his knees. Sucre’s frantic voice echoed around them in the tunnel but he knew it was hopeless. Brad wasn’t coming back.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
“Hello, Mrs Bellick? It’s Fernando Sucre.”
He hadn’t said much on the drive back to the warehouse and hearing Sucre on the phone to Brad’s mother was the only impetus he needed to head for the salt-tinged air outside and some solitude, desperate to get some fresh air into his lungs and collect his shattered thoughts before he started punching something. Perhaps he should anyway, he thought. Maybe then he might feel something. It had to be better than the numb fog surrounding him at present.
Brad had walked the mile with them in their shoes, like the proverb said, and had seen both sides of the same coin. Ultimately, his choice had been a path of redemption but therein contained a bittersweet postscript that now stung sharp and deep in the darkening light of day. Lincoln felt the melancholy steal silently over him, his heart heavy with regret and brooding over how history might judge the man who had been Bradley Bellick, former Correctional Officer of Fox River Penitentiary.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Author: sierra_foxx
Rating: PG, approx 1000 or so words
Category: Gen, Character death, set during 4x09
Characters: Lincoln Burrows, Brad Bellick
Summary: His choice had been a path of redemption but therein contained a bittersweet postscript that now stung sharp and deep...
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me; I only like playing with them for my own entertainment.
Author's Note: This little story is written especially for the birthday girl domfangirl, who is one of my fellow fangirls in Team Lincoln. I hope you have an awesome birthday, darling! I treasure your presence on my flist and I do hope you enjoy this little angsty!Lincoln ficlet. *hugs you* PB fangirls ARE a special bunch of people, and you are no exception. *throws confetti* I'd also like to say a big thanks to poisonshades for the very short notice read-through and awesome cheerleading; you're a star! *mwah*
~ * ~
‘Don’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.’
Proverb
He wasn’t sure when he first realised the real truth behind those words, his memory of such things not as precise or as far-reaching as his brother’s. It was a truism borne from his painfully short childhood, unknowingly sage advice gleaned by sheer accident, passed on by some well-meaning counsellor he’d come across during his stormy relationship with Child Services. He hadn’t taken much notice then, of course. What was the point? There’d been scant few diligent caseworkers; most of them were self-absorbed pen pushers not the least bit interested in the welfare of another two faceless orphans within the over-crowded State system. It was always going to be up to him to look out for his brother and that was fine; everyone else had either died or left. And now years further down the line, he doubted that particular counsellor would even remember him anyway.
The late afternoon sun bled into the distant horizon as Lincoln continued to stare unseeing across the silvery grey water flanking the dockside warehouse. Water views to die for. Literally. This was their current address for now, housing a collection of people who’d never normally be in the same room together, let alone on the same side. But even that was relative. The future seemed to change day by day here; only the past ever remained the same.
He shifted his weight more comfortably on the long timber sleeper, resting his back against the corrugated iron of the building behind him. So many times in Fox River he’d only ever dreamed of being able to do just that, sit out in the afternoon sun with the breeze blowing whispers around him, watching the day slip away to a beautiful red-orange sunset. All that was missing was a cold beer in his hand and the memory would be complete.
It felt surreal to think of Fox River now, Joliet literally and figuratively miles from where they were now. He’d endured long stretches of time spent alone in there, with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. Long before Michael’s arrival, before The Plan, before all the senseless deaths of people he’d loved - there had been only one death imminent and that was his. He’d escaped the jaws of death row and he was and would forever be grateful. He’d never be able to repay Michael for what he did. It was just that the price for his life seemed to climb every day. How could he justify his still breathing frame after all those who’d died along the way?
He’d usually been good at judging a man’s character. Living life by the seat of your pants tended to teach you things and give you the skills to see what most people couldn’t. When your life depended on it, you learned fast and you learned it well. But nothing he’d ever done in the past had prepared him for where he found himself now.
His outlook on the human race had irrevocably changed, bearing no resemblance to attitudes or beliefs held before. He’d seen more cruelty and senseless killing in the last few months than he’d experienced in his entire life. Some days the agony threatened to overwhelm him, spreading icy cold needles through his lungs and choking the breath from his body in painful gasps.
Conversely, he had even willingly participated in the carnage himself and had felt nothing as the lifeblood of an unknown assailant flowed out of his dying body and over his fingers before he had turned to run, leaving him in an inglorious heap on the asphalt. He understood it was kill or be killed but even he didn’t recognise himself in the man who could do such things.
And now this day had brought with it a casualty who threatened to send him clear over the edge. It had been so sudden, the loss of a man who only a short time ago he wouldn’t have lost a minute of sleep over. Would’ve said he had it coming. A man who had once callously flung a derogatory slur against his mother in his face, a bully with a badge whose name used to bring forth feelings of derision and contempt. It was hard to reconcile that image of Bellick to the one who’d heroically and willingly sacrificed his own life for his today.
He closed his eyes, remembering the last few moments of the brave man he’d forever think of now as Brad, a man who had seen life from each side of the fence and yet had the guts to selflessly lie down in the jaws of death without a backward step. Don’t do this! Don’t do this! he’d pleaded. Brad! No! No! But he hadn’t moved, damn his stubborn Illinois ass, just screamed at them to push the pipe through, the pipe that would take them closer to Scylla and freedom. The last image he had was his desperate expression, telegraphing resolve mixed with tremulous fear while the lethal flood of water hurtled down that pipe with a murderous roar. It burned white-hot in Lincoln’s memory and he knew he’d never forget it.
Then, in an instant, he was gone. The almighty weight of his death hung so heavy around his shoulders his limbs lost the battle to stand upright, and he sank broken, to his knees. Sucre’s frantic voice echoed around them in the tunnel but he knew it was hopeless. Brad wasn’t coming back.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
“Hello, Mrs Bellick? It’s Fernando Sucre.”
He hadn’t said much on the drive back to the warehouse and hearing Sucre on the phone to Brad’s mother was the only impetus he needed to head for the salt-tinged air outside and some solitude, desperate to get some fresh air into his lungs and collect his shattered thoughts before he started punching something. Perhaps he should anyway, he thought. Maybe then he might feel something. It had to be better than the numb fog surrounding him at present.
Brad had walked the mile with them in their shoes, like the proverb said, and had seen both sides of the same coin. Ultimately, his choice had been a path of redemption but therein contained a bittersweet postscript that now stung sharp and deep in the darkening light of day. Lincoln felt the melancholy steal silently over him, his heart heavy with regret and brooding over how history might judge the man who had been Bradley Bellick, former Correctional Officer of Fox River Penitentiary.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *