Fic: Strange Attractors (Crossover)
Authors: cerebel and airspaniel
Fandoms: Eleventh Hour and Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Jacob Hood
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Original written as a ficlet for the battle at cerebel_fics. Then it expanded a lot.
Spoilers: AU for Prison Break from S2; no spoilers for Eleventh Hour.
Summary: Because Hood speaks the same language Mahone does. Soft, measured tones, words that shouldn’t hurt but slip just under the skin all the same, sharp as a razor, and it doesn’t hurt until you’re cut too deep to stop.
- - -
“You broke out of prison.”
Michael twitches, full-body, and nearly drops the bag he’s carrying. The intercom announces something tinny and distant in the cold acoustics of the train station - and Michael turns to face the speaker - a dark-haired man. Intelligence, calculation in his eyes, and that reminds Michael all too much of Mahone.
No. He shouldn’t go there.
“I’m sorry,” says Michael, “you’re mistaken.”
“Don’t worry,” says the man, catching his arm. “I don’t hold it against you. I’m Jacob Hood. Doctor. Science consultant with the FBI. And you’re Michael Scofield.”
“You’re mistaken,” repeats Michael. “I have a train to catch.”
“No,” says Hood, “you don’t. You’ve been waiting here for fifteen minutes, you haven’t checked your watch once, and you’re watching the exits. I don’t know what it is you’re doing, but it’s certainly not waiting for a train. Want to sit down? One of the benches is free.”
Just like Mahone. Calculating, inquisitive, only without the physical threat. He’s already halfway to figuring Michael out, and they’ve barely even met.
“Listen,” says Michael, “I’m not interested. In whatever you’re offering.”
“I’m not offering anything,” Hood counters. “I, similarly to you, am not waiting for a train, as I just got off one, but I’m never adverse to interesting company. And who knew I’d meet Michael Scofield in a train station.”
Another announcement; irritatingly, Michael can’t tell what this one says either. There are far too many people here, there’s no way he’s going to catch the man he needs - overstimulus, it’s always overstimulus.
“Yes,” says Hood, “low latent inhibition.”
…and better yet, he’s apparently read Michael’s file.
“I have a hotel room near here. It’s quiet.”
And that would almost be a non sequitur if it weren’t for the way Hood’s voice is pitched, like it’s an offer. A favor, from someone who has no reason to wish Michael ill.
No reason to wish him good, either.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
Again, that neutral, inquisitive tone. Who is Michael looking for? Is he just chasing another ghost, in the off chance that he could find a familiar face again?
He shouldn’t be. He left them a long time ago, and no doubt Sara is happier for it.
Michael hisses out a breath, through his teeth. “You don’t feel the slightest bit anxious about inviting a con in to talk with you?”
Hood shrugs.
“Where’s the hotel room?”
“Embassy Suites,” says Hood. “And I have to say, ‘cute poison’ was, in fact, adorable. Did you get the chemicals from prison industry?”
“From the kitchen,” says Michael, in spite of himself. “And from prison industry.”
"Brilliant," says Hood. Shakes his head a little, then - "I mean it. It was a work of brilliance."
~*~
“You seem pretty knowledgeable about the escape,” says Michael, half-question, half-statement, as they board the elevator.
Hood hits the button for the 22nd floor - three times, as though doing it once wasn’t enough. Michael winces; that was always one of his pet peeves.
“I did a little consulting,” says Hood.
“I thought Alexander Mahone was the one investigating it.”
Hood gives Michael a sharp look; Michael wonders how much he knows.
“Mahone investigated the escapees,” clarifies Hood. “The escape itself was an internal investigation within Fox River, and the company that managed the physical security of the installation. Since it was clear that most of the escape was conducted entirely without physical violence.” He tilts his head, a little. “Except for the key moment, of course, when you knocked out the warden.”
Michael’s face betrays nothing.
“For someone who’d so strongly come out against violence,” continues Hood, “that was a desperate move.”
The elevator pings; they’ve reached the 22nd floor.
Michael has the feeling that the interruption will only be temporary.
~*~
The walk to the room is conducted in silence, and except for a brief “after you” at the door, Hood doesn’t say a thing. Makes no further attempt to ask about the escape, or the station, or Michael himself. Nothing.
It’s making him feel nervous; trapped, and neither of those are feelings that Michael wears well.
Hood stands at the window, looking out at nothing in particular. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, and Michael can’t help being suspicious of his stillness, his relaxed air.
“What do you want?” he asks, and his voice is too loud in the stillness, but he doesn’t back down.
Hood looks back, brows raised in surprise, as if he’s only just remembered that Michael is still in the room. “Want? Nothing at the moment, thanks.” He turns back to the window.
“So why am I here?”
“I thought you wanted quiet. Here you go,” Hood gestures expansively, but continues staring, not out the window, but at the sash that bisects it. His hand reaches out, absently running his long fingers over the dull black metal.
“You know, there was an incident in Mexico in 1996. An inmate escaped from his cell by corroding the iron bars with salsa.” He laughs softly. “Can you imagine that? Waiting for the acid in the tomatoes, the peppers, what have you, to eat through solid metal? Of course, if he had access to an alternating current of some kind, he could have taken advantage of the electrolytes, used the high conductivity of the liquid to speed the chemical reaction, but still… it would be a very slow process.”
He drops his hand to his side. “It takes a lot of patience, doesn’t it, Michael?”
“What’s your point, Hood?” Michael’s had just about enough of this.
“For a man so adept at laying plans, biding his time, you seem a little cagy.” Hood turns around, regarding Michael with pure curiosity. He smiles. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about it?”
“No, not really,” Michael snaps. He’s never met a man who didn’t have some kind of agenda, and no matter how benign this Dr. Jacob Hood seems, he hasn’t gotten where he is now by trusting people.
Not many, at least.
Hood holds up his hands, disarmingly. “Fair enough. Can I see them?”
“What?”
“Your tattoos, can I see them? I’ve seen the pictures, of course, but I find that the genuine article often reveals more than a mere photographic representation.”
Michael has a feeling he finally knows where this is going. “You want me to take my shirt off?”
“Yes, that would…” Hood cuts himself off suddenly. Is he blushing? “Purely in the interest of satisfying scientific curiosity.”
Michael pauses. “Scientific curiosity.”
“Well, I’m curious,” says Hood. “Scientifically.”
Well. Why not, really? Because maybe Hood does have an agenda, but so far he’s been very quiet about it, very soft-spoken in general. Hasn’t claimed any Company affiliation (not that there’s much Company to be affiliated with, these days), hasn’t tried threats, hasn’t made demands. Just these little requests, little favors, and that could be almost as dangerous.
Could be. Not necessarily is.
Michael turns away, pulling his sweatshirt over his head. Hears Hood exhale, behind him. A release of a subtle tension that Hood maybe hadn’t realized was there.
“What in particular do you want to see?” asks Michael, easing down, comfortably, on the edge of the bed.
Hood’s eyes are wider, subtly. He steps closer, moves into a crouch below Michael.
Michael almost flinches away. The movement is weirdly sudden, unexpected. Seemed like Hood would have taken a seat on the bed next to him - that’s what Michael would have predicted, a nice margin of space, enough for propriety.
Hood’s fingers trace along the bottom of the tattoo, without hesitation. Touch is soft, but it’s steady, unyielding. Observation, data collection. Just like Michael imagines Mahone would have been, if Mahone had ever asked for this. If Michael had ever allowed him to get this close.
Only he’s not as - as dodgy as Mahone would be. Not as dangerous. And he’s not sure that Mahone would have ceded higher ground as readily as Hood did.
Hood clears his throat. “Why’d you use this design?” he asks. “An angel,” on Michael’s chest, “a devil,” to Michael’s arm. “What is it, a battle, between good and evil?”
“It seemed poetic,” says Michael.
“Poetic indeed,” muses Hood. “From an engineer.”
“You don’t think science is poetry?” questions Michael. “When you get deep enough.”
“Everything is poetry,” counters Hood, “when you get deep enough.”
Michael leans down and catches Hood in a kiss.
“Oh,” says Hood, softly, after they move apart. “So that’s how this is going to go.” He hesitates, stroking his finger up the edge of the angel’s sword, on Michael’s tattoo. And he reaches up, bringing Michael down into the next kiss.
The kiss is not hesitant, but it is softer than Michael was expecting. Gentle. Hood’s hand slides around to the back of his neck, and doesn’t pull him in closer; just rests there, holding him. Michael could get away, if he wanted. Hood wouldn’t stop him; wouldn’t follow him, he knows that now. He could turn his head, stand up and walk out as if nothing had happened. As if they’d never even met.
If he wanted.
Michael opens his mouth, flicking the tip of his tongue against Hood’s lips, an invitation. Hood doesn’t mistake it, lets the kiss go deeper, and Michael’s eyes fall shut despite himself. The man is thorough, meticulous even in this, attentive to every detail, every reaction, as if Michael is the only puzzle he’s ever wanted to solve.
The focus is intoxicating and familiar, and when Michael reaches out; touches the thick knit of a heavy sweater, only an inch or two of bare, warm skin beneath long silk-soft curls, he is only a little disappointed.
Hood senses the shift, draws back, and Michael realizes the man is still on his knees.
“Something’s wrong,” Hood says, and it’s not a question, not a judgment, just a simple statement of something they both know to be fact.
“No,” Michael replies, denying it anyway. “It’s fine.” It’s awkward and not exactly true, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He can still feel their kiss on his lips and now… Now he isn’t sure what’s happening.
Hood stands up, hands braced on his knees as he rises, sits on the edge of the bed next to Michael, close enough to touch, but not.
“I know what it’s like to be haunted, Michael.” His voice is soft and sad, and he lets that sentence hang in the air for a long time. “This doesn’t make your demons go away. It isn’t going to make those faces you’re looking for in train stations feel any less real.”
“And it isn’t going to make you stop looking for them. I can’t do that.” Hood’s eyes are a startling green, clear, like glass, and Michael can almost see all the way down.
“What about yours? Your demons,” he asks, and he knows it’s cruel, but he can’t help it. Enjoys it, even, just a little.
Hood exhales, between his teeth. “I work with the FBI.”
“That doesn’t -”
“It wasn’t always that way,” says Hood. “But this way I - I exorcise more demons than I find. On a good day.”
“You work with the FBI,” echoes Michael. “You’re not in the FBI?”
Hood tilts his head. “I never felt that way.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” says Hood. “Why is it that you felt strongly enough about your brother to break him out of prison and thought ill enough of him to abandon him afterwards?”
“I didn’t abandon him,” snaps Michael.
“I didn’t see him down at the train station,” says Hood.
You also didn’t see cops, thinks Michael. Or assassins.
Hood touches his thigh. “What is it, Michael?”
Michael’s name slides off Hood’s tongue with such shivery ease - goosebumps chase themselves up Michael’s spine. “You remind me of someone,” says Michael, skipping over the real question, hiding the real issue. Hiding in plain sight.
Hood’s voice is incredulous. “Because I’m FBI?”
“Because.” Because Hood speaks the same language Mahone does. Soft, measured tones, words that shouldn’t hurt but slip just under the skin all the same, sharp as a razor, and it doesn’t hurt until you’re cut too deep to stop.
“I’m sorry,” says Hood.
“No,” says Michael. “Don’t apologize.” He lets his fingers slide down Hood’s cheekbone, cup his jaw. And when he kisses him this time, the pain isn’t as loud, and it’s far, far easier to ignore.
~*~
Hood is, in sex, just like Michael expects he would be.
Meticulous, absolutely meticulous, unhurried, easy, and Michael wonders, fleetingly, how recently Hood has had sex. Because he touches like he has all the time in the world with his partner, like knowing is the hard part, the important part, and the orgasm, the fulfillment, that’s all secondary.
He kisses Michael’s collarbone, his chest, his stomach, so slowly, fingertips swirling in patterns abstract and unidentifiable, throwing Michael’s mind into a whirl of perception and assessment. Because he just. Can’t. Help. It.
God, Michael wants him. Wants him, raw and aching and open like he’s never felt before.
Hood’s fingers glide over his collarbones, trace jagged dips and lines that he follows with his tongue, and all of a sudden Michael gets it.
The tattoo. He’s tracing the tattoo.
The realization hits him like an electric shock, and Michael groans low in his throat. He grabs at Hood’s wrists, pushes him to his back; and Hood doesn’t offer the least resistance. He rolls with the movement, arches up, eager.
“Hood,” Michael gasps, and he’s dying for it, he wants it so bad.
Hood slides his hands down Michael’s back, settles on his hips and pulls, pressing his erection deliberately against Michael’s own.
“Under the circumstances,” he murmurs. “I really think you can call me Jacob.”
~*~
Jacob hisses as Michael slips inside him, pained, soft, and Michael hesitates. Is everything all right? - but Jacob shifts, breath catching, and he makes this noise, this ‘oh’ noise, like he’s surprised, shocked at how it feels, but like he needed it all along.
Tilts his head back, eyes closed, and if Jacob feels that exposed, now, Michael feels a thousand times more exposed, and he wonders if Hood can tell that. Wonders if Mahone would have been able to tell that.
Michael presses a kiss to Jacob’s collarbone, breathes, for a moment, and starts to move.
And there’s a part of him that wonders what Mahone would have been like, how it would have sounded if Mahone had gasped like that, how it would have felt if Mahone jerked, just like Jacob did -
But everything, all of it, it’s all swept away, overshadowed by Jacob Hood, by his utterly overwhelming presence.
Jacob twists, then, violently - struggling, actually struggling - and oh god, what if Michael has hurt him, what if something’s wrong, but no, he realizes, it’s orgasm, it’s climax, and it’s hitting Jacob so hard -
Michael’s own climax washes over him, white-out, and when his vision clears, Jacob rests his cheek against the pillow, half-turned away, breathing shallow, slow, unsteady.
They were both right, thinks Michael, and they were both wrong, because you can find poetry when you dig down, when you look inside something, but sometimes you can find it right on the surface.
Michael flattens his fingers on Jacob’s chest, because he’s - he’s almost sure this isn’t real.
Jacob flinches, when Michael pulls away, and Michael hopes that’s just discomfort, not pain. - Either way, though, Michael fits all too well snug next to Jacob, Jacob’s head resting back on his shoulder, and he finds that, unusually, he doesn’t feel any need to cease physical contact.
Jacob’s eyes close. “Why did you come up here?” he asks, softly. Tired.
“Why’d you invite me?” counters Michael, but his mind stutters when he tries to think of a real answer. It’s too easy to deflect.
“I was in that tunnel, Michael,” says Jacob. “I found the maintenance duct you nearly broke through. I was the first one to connect the screws used on the bleachers with the fitting you crafted to deconstruct the toilet. I figured out the false credit card, and the chemicals, and the way you burnt out the guard’s break room in order to tunnel out.”
He stops, for long enough that Michael thinks he might have finished.
But then - “I saw into your plan and I told them how they could guard against someone just like you, but honest to god, Michael, I hope I didn’t succeed, because people like you are once in a lifetime, and, psychopath or not, you don’t deserve to be kept in a box.”
Michael inhales, sharp, fast - and he can’t think of what to say to that. Because Mahone would never - neither would Lincoln, and not even Sara, maybe, could tell him that.
They spent all their time running, from the law, from the Company, from their own lives; like junkies trapped in a cycle of addiction, making the same mistakes over and over again.
It was always this time we’ll do it right and this time we’ll be free, but they never did and they never were. Maybe they never thought they deserved to breathe free in the first place.
Maybe Michael still doesn’t believe he deserves it.
“I’m not who you think I am.” But he doesn’t pull away -
“Michael,” says Jacob, “I don’t know what face you’re projecting on me, but I know it’s not mine. So, in a sense, I’m not who you think I am, either.”
He leans up on one elbow, looking at Michael with a fond regard. “You are a brilliant man, Michael, and a beautiful soul. And I think you’ve shown me all I need to know about that.”
“Hood, I… Jacob,” Michael still doesn’t know what to say, but Jacob is standing up now, collecting his clothes from where they lay on the floor, and he has to say something…
Jacob shrugs his shirt over his shoulders, reassuming the mild-mannered, slightly buttoned-up mantle he was wearing at the station, only hours earlier.
“You reminded me of Alexander Mahone.”
Michael regrets the words as soon as they’re spoken - Jacob pauses, though, midway through buttoning his shirt. Listening, if only for now.
“I’m sorry,” says Michael. Lamely. Not sure how to follow up on it.
“I met the man once,” says Jacob. “A few days after you escaped, just after the federal government called me in to consult on the case. I gave him the fastest briefing I’ve ever given, and he followed everything I said. Everything.” He finishes buttoning up his shirt. “I can only assume he used that against you.”
“He understood,” is all Michael can say.
“And so do I.”
Michael shakes his head. “You’re not him.”
“You don’t say, Michael,” returns Jacob.
Michael catches Jacob’s arm. “You’re not him,” he repeats. Emphasizes.
Jacob tilts his head.
“If you leave,” says Michael, “there are things you’ll never know.”
“About what?”
“About how I did it.”
Jacob’s expression goes tight; he turns away, for a moment. “Is this how you got into the warden’s office?”
“I got into the warden’s office,” says Michael, “because I understand the distribution of forces and principles of design well enough to build a wooden replica of the Taj Mahal.”
Jacob blinks. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh.” Jacob sits on the edge of the bed. “Maybe I should stay, then.”
“I’d like that,” says Michael. Slides his fingers up the palm of Jacob’s hand, listens to the way Jacob’s breath hisses, slow and steady, into the air - and, for the first time he can remember, he thinks maybe this is real. Maybe he deserves this, maybe he can start fresh.
“Tell me about the Taj Mahal,” says Jacob.
Michael does.
Fandoms: Eleventh Hour and Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Jacob Hood
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Original written as a ficlet for the battle at cerebel_fics. Then it expanded a lot.
Spoilers: AU for Prison Break from S2; no spoilers for Eleventh Hour.
Summary: Because Hood speaks the same language Mahone does. Soft, measured tones, words that shouldn’t hurt but slip just under the skin all the same, sharp as a razor, and it doesn’t hurt until you’re cut too deep to stop.
- - -
“You broke out of prison.”
Michael twitches, full-body, and nearly drops the bag he’s carrying. The intercom announces something tinny and distant in the cold acoustics of the train station - and Michael turns to face the speaker - a dark-haired man. Intelligence, calculation in his eyes, and that reminds Michael all too much of Mahone.
No. He shouldn’t go there.
“I’m sorry,” says Michael, “you’re mistaken.”
“Don’t worry,” says the man, catching his arm. “I don’t hold it against you. I’m Jacob Hood. Doctor. Science consultant with the FBI. And you’re Michael Scofield.”
“You’re mistaken,” repeats Michael. “I have a train to catch.”
“No,” says Hood, “you don’t. You’ve been waiting here for fifteen minutes, you haven’t checked your watch once, and you’re watching the exits. I don’t know what it is you’re doing, but it’s certainly not waiting for a train. Want to sit down? One of the benches is free.”
Just like Mahone. Calculating, inquisitive, only without the physical threat. He’s already halfway to figuring Michael out, and they’ve barely even met.
“Listen,” says Michael, “I’m not interested. In whatever you’re offering.”
“I’m not offering anything,” Hood counters. “I, similarly to you, am not waiting for a train, as I just got off one, but I’m never adverse to interesting company. And who knew I’d meet Michael Scofield in a train station.”
Another announcement; irritatingly, Michael can’t tell what this one says either. There are far too many people here, there’s no way he’s going to catch the man he needs - overstimulus, it’s always overstimulus.
“Yes,” says Hood, “low latent inhibition.”
…and better yet, he’s apparently read Michael’s file.
“I have a hotel room near here. It’s quiet.”
And that would almost be a non sequitur if it weren’t for the way Hood’s voice is pitched, like it’s an offer. A favor, from someone who has no reason to wish Michael ill.
No reason to wish him good, either.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
Again, that neutral, inquisitive tone. Who is Michael looking for? Is he just chasing another ghost, in the off chance that he could find a familiar face again?
He shouldn’t be. He left them a long time ago, and no doubt Sara is happier for it.
Michael hisses out a breath, through his teeth. “You don’t feel the slightest bit anxious about inviting a con in to talk with you?”
Hood shrugs.
“Where’s the hotel room?”
“Embassy Suites,” says Hood. “And I have to say, ‘cute poison’ was, in fact, adorable. Did you get the chemicals from prison industry?”
“From the kitchen,” says Michael, in spite of himself. “And from prison industry.”
"Brilliant," says Hood. Shakes his head a little, then - "I mean it. It was a work of brilliance."
~*~
“You seem pretty knowledgeable about the escape,” says Michael, half-question, half-statement, as they board the elevator.
Hood hits the button for the 22nd floor - three times, as though doing it once wasn’t enough. Michael winces; that was always one of his pet peeves.
“I did a little consulting,” says Hood.
“I thought Alexander Mahone was the one investigating it.”
Hood gives Michael a sharp look; Michael wonders how much he knows.
“Mahone investigated the escapees,” clarifies Hood. “The escape itself was an internal investigation within Fox River, and the company that managed the physical security of the installation. Since it was clear that most of the escape was conducted entirely without physical violence.” He tilts his head, a little. “Except for the key moment, of course, when you knocked out the warden.”
Michael’s face betrays nothing.
“For someone who’d so strongly come out against violence,” continues Hood, “that was a desperate move.”
The elevator pings; they’ve reached the 22nd floor.
Michael has the feeling that the interruption will only be temporary.
~*~
The walk to the room is conducted in silence, and except for a brief “after you” at the door, Hood doesn’t say a thing. Makes no further attempt to ask about the escape, or the station, or Michael himself. Nothing.
It’s making him feel nervous; trapped, and neither of those are feelings that Michael wears well.
Hood stands at the window, looking out at nothing in particular. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, and Michael can’t help being suspicious of his stillness, his relaxed air.
“What do you want?” he asks, and his voice is too loud in the stillness, but he doesn’t back down.
Hood looks back, brows raised in surprise, as if he’s only just remembered that Michael is still in the room. “Want? Nothing at the moment, thanks.” He turns back to the window.
“So why am I here?”
“I thought you wanted quiet. Here you go,” Hood gestures expansively, but continues staring, not out the window, but at the sash that bisects it. His hand reaches out, absently running his long fingers over the dull black metal.
“You know, there was an incident in Mexico in 1996. An inmate escaped from his cell by corroding the iron bars with salsa.” He laughs softly. “Can you imagine that? Waiting for the acid in the tomatoes, the peppers, what have you, to eat through solid metal? Of course, if he had access to an alternating current of some kind, he could have taken advantage of the electrolytes, used the high conductivity of the liquid to speed the chemical reaction, but still… it would be a very slow process.”
He drops his hand to his side. “It takes a lot of patience, doesn’t it, Michael?”
“What’s your point, Hood?” Michael’s had just about enough of this.
“For a man so adept at laying plans, biding his time, you seem a little cagy.” Hood turns around, regarding Michael with pure curiosity. He smiles. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about it?”
“No, not really,” Michael snaps. He’s never met a man who didn’t have some kind of agenda, and no matter how benign this Dr. Jacob Hood seems, he hasn’t gotten where he is now by trusting people.
Not many, at least.
Hood holds up his hands, disarmingly. “Fair enough. Can I see them?”
“What?”
“Your tattoos, can I see them? I’ve seen the pictures, of course, but I find that the genuine article often reveals more than a mere photographic representation.”
Michael has a feeling he finally knows where this is going. “You want me to take my shirt off?”
“Yes, that would…” Hood cuts himself off suddenly. Is he blushing? “Purely in the interest of satisfying scientific curiosity.”
Michael pauses. “Scientific curiosity.”
“Well, I’m curious,” says Hood. “Scientifically.”
Well. Why not, really? Because maybe Hood does have an agenda, but so far he’s been very quiet about it, very soft-spoken in general. Hasn’t claimed any Company affiliation (not that there’s much Company to be affiliated with, these days), hasn’t tried threats, hasn’t made demands. Just these little requests, little favors, and that could be almost as dangerous.
Could be. Not necessarily is.
Michael turns away, pulling his sweatshirt over his head. Hears Hood exhale, behind him. A release of a subtle tension that Hood maybe hadn’t realized was there.
“What in particular do you want to see?” asks Michael, easing down, comfortably, on the edge of the bed.
Hood’s eyes are wider, subtly. He steps closer, moves into a crouch below Michael.
Michael almost flinches away. The movement is weirdly sudden, unexpected. Seemed like Hood would have taken a seat on the bed next to him - that’s what Michael would have predicted, a nice margin of space, enough for propriety.
Hood’s fingers trace along the bottom of the tattoo, without hesitation. Touch is soft, but it’s steady, unyielding. Observation, data collection. Just like Michael imagines Mahone would have been, if Mahone had ever asked for this. If Michael had ever allowed him to get this close.
Only he’s not as - as dodgy as Mahone would be. Not as dangerous. And he’s not sure that Mahone would have ceded higher ground as readily as Hood did.
Hood clears his throat. “Why’d you use this design?” he asks. “An angel,” on Michael’s chest, “a devil,” to Michael’s arm. “What is it, a battle, between good and evil?”
“It seemed poetic,” says Michael.
“Poetic indeed,” muses Hood. “From an engineer.”
“You don’t think science is poetry?” questions Michael. “When you get deep enough.”
“Everything is poetry,” counters Hood, “when you get deep enough.”
Michael leans down and catches Hood in a kiss.
“Oh,” says Hood, softly, after they move apart. “So that’s how this is going to go.” He hesitates, stroking his finger up the edge of the angel’s sword, on Michael’s tattoo. And he reaches up, bringing Michael down into the next kiss.
The kiss is not hesitant, but it is softer than Michael was expecting. Gentle. Hood’s hand slides around to the back of his neck, and doesn’t pull him in closer; just rests there, holding him. Michael could get away, if he wanted. Hood wouldn’t stop him; wouldn’t follow him, he knows that now. He could turn his head, stand up and walk out as if nothing had happened. As if they’d never even met.
If he wanted.
Michael opens his mouth, flicking the tip of his tongue against Hood’s lips, an invitation. Hood doesn’t mistake it, lets the kiss go deeper, and Michael’s eyes fall shut despite himself. The man is thorough, meticulous even in this, attentive to every detail, every reaction, as if Michael is the only puzzle he’s ever wanted to solve.
The focus is intoxicating and familiar, and when Michael reaches out; touches the thick knit of a heavy sweater, only an inch or two of bare, warm skin beneath long silk-soft curls, he is only a little disappointed.
Hood senses the shift, draws back, and Michael realizes the man is still on his knees.
“Something’s wrong,” Hood says, and it’s not a question, not a judgment, just a simple statement of something they both know to be fact.
“No,” Michael replies, denying it anyway. “It’s fine.” It’s awkward and not exactly true, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He can still feel their kiss on his lips and now… Now he isn’t sure what’s happening.
Hood stands up, hands braced on his knees as he rises, sits on the edge of the bed next to Michael, close enough to touch, but not.
“I know what it’s like to be haunted, Michael.” His voice is soft and sad, and he lets that sentence hang in the air for a long time. “This doesn’t make your demons go away. It isn’t going to make those faces you’re looking for in train stations feel any less real.”
“And it isn’t going to make you stop looking for them. I can’t do that.” Hood’s eyes are a startling green, clear, like glass, and Michael can almost see all the way down.
“What about yours? Your demons,” he asks, and he knows it’s cruel, but he can’t help it. Enjoys it, even, just a little.
Hood exhales, between his teeth. “I work with the FBI.”
“That doesn’t -”
“It wasn’t always that way,” says Hood. “But this way I - I exorcise more demons than I find. On a good day.”
“You work with the FBI,” echoes Michael. “You’re not in the FBI?”
Hood tilts his head. “I never felt that way.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” says Hood. “Why is it that you felt strongly enough about your brother to break him out of prison and thought ill enough of him to abandon him afterwards?”
“I didn’t abandon him,” snaps Michael.
“I didn’t see him down at the train station,” says Hood.
You also didn’t see cops, thinks Michael. Or assassins.
Hood touches his thigh. “What is it, Michael?”
Michael’s name slides off Hood’s tongue with such shivery ease - goosebumps chase themselves up Michael’s spine. “You remind me of someone,” says Michael, skipping over the real question, hiding the real issue. Hiding in plain sight.
Hood’s voice is incredulous. “Because I’m FBI?”
“Because.” Because Hood speaks the same language Mahone does. Soft, measured tones, words that shouldn’t hurt but slip just under the skin all the same, sharp as a razor, and it doesn’t hurt until you’re cut too deep to stop.
“I’m sorry,” says Hood.
“No,” says Michael. “Don’t apologize.” He lets his fingers slide down Hood’s cheekbone, cup his jaw. And when he kisses him this time, the pain isn’t as loud, and it’s far, far easier to ignore.
~*~
Hood is, in sex, just like Michael expects he would be.
Meticulous, absolutely meticulous, unhurried, easy, and Michael wonders, fleetingly, how recently Hood has had sex. Because he touches like he has all the time in the world with his partner, like knowing is the hard part, the important part, and the orgasm, the fulfillment, that’s all secondary.
He kisses Michael’s collarbone, his chest, his stomach, so slowly, fingertips swirling in patterns abstract and unidentifiable, throwing Michael’s mind into a whirl of perception and assessment. Because he just. Can’t. Help. It.
God, Michael wants him. Wants him, raw and aching and open like he’s never felt before.
Hood’s fingers glide over his collarbones, trace jagged dips and lines that he follows with his tongue, and all of a sudden Michael gets it.
The tattoo. He’s tracing the tattoo.
The realization hits him like an electric shock, and Michael groans low in his throat. He grabs at Hood’s wrists, pushes him to his back; and Hood doesn’t offer the least resistance. He rolls with the movement, arches up, eager.
“Hood,” Michael gasps, and he’s dying for it, he wants it so bad.
Hood slides his hands down Michael’s back, settles on his hips and pulls, pressing his erection deliberately against Michael’s own.
“Under the circumstances,” he murmurs. “I really think you can call me Jacob.”
~*~
Jacob hisses as Michael slips inside him, pained, soft, and Michael hesitates. Is everything all right? - but Jacob shifts, breath catching, and he makes this noise, this ‘oh’ noise, like he’s surprised, shocked at how it feels, but like he needed it all along.
Tilts his head back, eyes closed, and if Jacob feels that exposed, now, Michael feels a thousand times more exposed, and he wonders if Hood can tell that. Wonders if Mahone would have been able to tell that.
Michael presses a kiss to Jacob’s collarbone, breathes, for a moment, and starts to move.
And there’s a part of him that wonders what Mahone would have been like, how it would have sounded if Mahone had gasped like that, how it would have felt if Mahone jerked, just like Jacob did -
But everything, all of it, it’s all swept away, overshadowed by Jacob Hood, by his utterly overwhelming presence.
Jacob twists, then, violently - struggling, actually struggling - and oh god, what if Michael has hurt him, what if something’s wrong, but no, he realizes, it’s orgasm, it’s climax, and it’s hitting Jacob so hard -
Michael’s own climax washes over him, white-out, and when his vision clears, Jacob rests his cheek against the pillow, half-turned away, breathing shallow, slow, unsteady.
They were both right, thinks Michael, and they were both wrong, because you can find poetry when you dig down, when you look inside something, but sometimes you can find it right on the surface.
Michael flattens his fingers on Jacob’s chest, because he’s - he’s almost sure this isn’t real.
Jacob flinches, when Michael pulls away, and Michael hopes that’s just discomfort, not pain. - Either way, though, Michael fits all too well snug next to Jacob, Jacob’s head resting back on his shoulder, and he finds that, unusually, he doesn’t feel any need to cease physical contact.
Jacob’s eyes close. “Why did you come up here?” he asks, softly. Tired.
“Why’d you invite me?” counters Michael, but his mind stutters when he tries to think of a real answer. It’s too easy to deflect.
“I was in that tunnel, Michael,” says Jacob. “I found the maintenance duct you nearly broke through. I was the first one to connect the screws used on the bleachers with the fitting you crafted to deconstruct the toilet. I figured out the false credit card, and the chemicals, and the way you burnt out the guard’s break room in order to tunnel out.”
He stops, for long enough that Michael thinks he might have finished.
But then - “I saw into your plan and I told them how they could guard against someone just like you, but honest to god, Michael, I hope I didn’t succeed, because people like you are once in a lifetime, and, psychopath or not, you don’t deserve to be kept in a box.”
Michael inhales, sharp, fast - and he can’t think of what to say to that. Because Mahone would never - neither would Lincoln, and not even Sara, maybe, could tell him that.
They spent all their time running, from the law, from the Company, from their own lives; like junkies trapped in a cycle of addiction, making the same mistakes over and over again.
It was always this time we’ll do it right and this time we’ll be free, but they never did and they never were. Maybe they never thought they deserved to breathe free in the first place.
Maybe Michael still doesn’t believe he deserves it.
“I’m not who you think I am.” But he doesn’t pull away -
“Michael,” says Jacob, “I don’t know what face you’re projecting on me, but I know it’s not mine. So, in a sense, I’m not who you think I am, either.”
He leans up on one elbow, looking at Michael with a fond regard. “You are a brilliant man, Michael, and a beautiful soul. And I think you’ve shown me all I need to know about that.”
“Hood, I… Jacob,” Michael still doesn’t know what to say, but Jacob is standing up now, collecting his clothes from where they lay on the floor, and he has to say something…
Jacob shrugs his shirt over his shoulders, reassuming the mild-mannered, slightly buttoned-up mantle he was wearing at the station, only hours earlier.
“You reminded me of Alexander Mahone.”
Michael regrets the words as soon as they’re spoken - Jacob pauses, though, midway through buttoning his shirt. Listening, if only for now.
“I’m sorry,” says Michael. Lamely. Not sure how to follow up on it.
“I met the man once,” says Jacob. “A few days after you escaped, just after the federal government called me in to consult on the case. I gave him the fastest briefing I’ve ever given, and he followed everything I said. Everything.” He finishes buttoning up his shirt. “I can only assume he used that against you.”
“He understood,” is all Michael can say.
“And so do I.”
Michael shakes his head. “You’re not him.”
“You don’t say, Michael,” returns Jacob.
Michael catches Jacob’s arm. “You’re not him,” he repeats. Emphasizes.
Jacob tilts his head.
“If you leave,” says Michael, “there are things you’ll never know.”
“About what?”
“About how I did it.”
Jacob’s expression goes tight; he turns away, for a moment. “Is this how you got into the warden’s office?”
“I got into the warden’s office,” says Michael, “because I understand the distribution of forces and principles of design well enough to build a wooden replica of the Taj Mahal.”
Jacob blinks. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh.” Jacob sits on the edge of the bed. “Maybe I should stay, then.”
“I’d like that,” says Michael. Slides his fingers up the palm of Jacob’s hand, listens to the way Jacob’s breath hisses, slow and steady, into the air - and, for the first time he can remember, he thinks maybe this is real. Maybe he deserves this, maybe he can start fresh.
“Tell me about the Taj Mahal,” says Jacob.
Michael does.