PB Fic - Princess
Title: Princess
Authors: volatile/becisvolatile
Rating: R, for some nasty images.
Characters: Sara (with tiny sides of Bellick, Michael and Lincoln)
Genre: Drama, wangst.
Summary: Sara knows what it means to be a ‘Princess'...
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I have no original thoughts; I'm merely dreaming and drooling.
Notes: Part of me likes it. Part of me doesn’t. What do your parts think? I wrote this because the Tweener voice in my head has shut up and the other fic wasn’t working. I’m a bit worried, actually, Tweener never shuts up.
When Sara Tancredi was born her father bought her a teddy bear. The bear wore a pink dress and had a small golden crown. Its name was Princess.
*****
Sara can remember those nights when she was little and her father was away. Those nights when all of her mother’s friends would visit. They bought her pretty things, pink things, fluffy things, sweet-smelling things. They bought her things and called her ‘Princess’.
*****
‘My Princess…’
‘Miss me, Princess?’
‘Come here, Princess.’
Daddy always called her ‘Princess’.
*****
When she was nine she broke her arm during a hockey game. She can remember her coach picking her up and carrying her, like a knight in shining armor. ‘It’ll be Ok, Princess,’ he said.
*****
She had her debut when she was sixteen. She remembers reading the social pages a week later, ‘…introduced to society this spring was Sara Tancredi, princess of the Tancredi dynasty…’
*****
The summer before she left for college she worked at her father’s offices. There was a blue-eyed intern with a smile like honey. It was almost naughty to be carrying on with him under her daddy’s nose. It took her nearly three years to realize that her father had probably placed him in her path because he wasn’t really a very naughty choice at all.
‘C’mon, Princess, it’ll only hurt this first time…’
*****
She thought that maybe, just maybe, she’d grow up in college. Maybe they’d call her Sara. Maybe she’d be independent.
Maybe she shouldn’t have accepted her father’s help covering tuition. Maybe she shouldn’t have accepted a lot of things during college.
‘Hey, Princess, wanna try it? Don’t freak. Only losers get hooked.’
*****
During her residency she got caught by a wardsman pocketing something that she shouldn’t have been.
‘You might want to start being nice to me, Princess, I could make your time here a lot more difficult.’
*****
He always called her ‘Princess’. When they laid together on that lumpy futon, fingers laced, watching the paint on the ceiling crack. ‘Just you and me, Princess.’
Sometimes, when she was far gone enough, she really did believe she was a Princess. And no one could touch her.
*****
She noticed, after a long while and too many late night calls, that her father had stopped calling her ‘Princess’. He didn’t really call her anything anymore.
*****
She hated those days when her funds ran low, when she couldn’t quite meet her costs. Those days when his muddy eyes would drop to her fly and he’d lick his cracked lips as he said, ‘Well, Princess, there are other ways to make good on debts.’
*****
Coming clean was the worst. With those fucking nurses who held her hair back, rubbed up and down her spine and cooed ‘That’s it, Princess. Just let all the bad leave your body.’
*****
Bellick has called her ‘Princess’ twice. The first time was that morning in the car park when he walked her to the clinic. She can’t remember the context, but she can remember tensing so much that he never deliberately called her ‘Princess’ again.
The second time he was drunk and probably didn’t mean it. She was hardly even sure that she’d heard him mutter ‘Fuckin’ Princess thinks she’s too fuckin’ good.’ as she helped him to a cab after a particularly disastrous Christmas party.
*****
Two weeks after starting they’d bought in a young boy, maybe nineteen. He tried to walk into the clinic, but it obviously pained him to do so. She could see that his pants had been pulled on hastily and her heart dropped as she watched the blood leak down the inside of his thighs.
She demanded they be left alone. He’d suffered enough indignity as it was. For twenty minutes she tried to coax him into allowing an examination. He just sat on the table, smearing blood over the plastic and staring out the window. After a while, Sara considered calling the guards back. She could force treatment onto a patient clearly in need and mentally unsound. But it didn’t come to that. Tears began to trickle down his face as he chewed on his bottom lip and whispered, ‘They called me “Princess”.’
She held him, even though she knew she shouldn’t, and let his tears, snot and saliva soak through her blouse.
Because she knew what it was like to be called ‘Princess’
*****
He left a paper flower for her, like tribute for a princess and she knew that only bad things could happen.
But at least he’d never called her ‘Princess’.
*****
She doesn’t really think of him as a person, just ‘Michael’s Brother’ and when he walked into the room, shut the door and pulled down his fly as he said ‘Morning, Princess,’ she knew why she’d rather not think of him as a person, but as a person loved by Michael. Michael’s prince.
*****
Two nights after they escaped, she arrived home to find a paper crane in her letter box. On her phone there was a message informing her that her resignation had been formally accepted and she could expect a letter to that effect before the week was out.
On her doorstep sat a flower arrangement from her father.
‘Princess,
I’m so proud you’ve decided to go into pediatrics.
Daddy.’
Sometimes, Sara thinks that she doesn’t really like being called ‘Princess’.
Authors: volatile/becisvolatile
Rating: R, for some nasty images.
Characters: Sara (with tiny sides of Bellick, Michael and Lincoln)
Genre: Drama, wangst.
Summary: Sara knows what it means to be a ‘Princess'...
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I have no original thoughts; I'm merely dreaming and drooling.
Notes: Part of me likes it. Part of me doesn’t. What do your parts think? I wrote this because the Tweener voice in my head has shut up and the other fic wasn’t working. I’m a bit worried, actually, Tweener never shuts up.
When Sara Tancredi was born her father bought her a teddy bear. The bear wore a pink dress and had a small golden crown. Its name was Princess.
*****
Sara can remember those nights when she was little and her father was away. Those nights when all of her mother’s friends would visit. They bought her pretty things, pink things, fluffy things, sweet-smelling things. They bought her things and called her ‘Princess’.
*****
‘My Princess…’
‘Miss me, Princess?’
‘Come here, Princess.’
Daddy always called her ‘Princess’.
*****
When she was nine she broke her arm during a hockey game. She can remember her coach picking her up and carrying her, like a knight in shining armor. ‘It’ll be Ok, Princess,’ he said.
*****
She had her debut when she was sixteen. She remembers reading the social pages a week later, ‘…introduced to society this spring was Sara Tancredi, princess of the Tancredi dynasty…’
*****
The summer before she left for college she worked at her father’s offices. There was a blue-eyed intern with a smile like honey. It was almost naughty to be carrying on with him under her daddy’s nose. It took her nearly three years to realize that her father had probably placed him in her path because he wasn’t really a very naughty choice at all.
‘C’mon, Princess, it’ll only hurt this first time…’
*****
She thought that maybe, just maybe, she’d grow up in college. Maybe they’d call her Sara. Maybe she’d be independent.
Maybe she shouldn’t have accepted her father’s help covering tuition. Maybe she shouldn’t have accepted a lot of things during college.
‘Hey, Princess, wanna try it? Don’t freak. Only losers get hooked.’
*****
During her residency she got caught by a wardsman pocketing something that she shouldn’t have been.
‘You might want to start being nice to me, Princess, I could make your time here a lot more difficult.’
*****
He always called her ‘Princess’. When they laid together on that lumpy futon, fingers laced, watching the paint on the ceiling crack. ‘Just you and me, Princess.’
Sometimes, when she was far gone enough, she really did believe she was a Princess. And no one could touch her.
*****
She noticed, after a long while and too many late night calls, that her father had stopped calling her ‘Princess’. He didn’t really call her anything anymore.
*****
She hated those days when her funds ran low, when she couldn’t quite meet her costs. Those days when his muddy eyes would drop to her fly and he’d lick his cracked lips as he said, ‘Well, Princess, there are other ways to make good on debts.’
*****
Coming clean was the worst. With those fucking nurses who held her hair back, rubbed up and down her spine and cooed ‘That’s it, Princess. Just let all the bad leave your body.’
*****
Bellick has called her ‘Princess’ twice. The first time was that morning in the car park when he walked her to the clinic. She can’t remember the context, but she can remember tensing so much that he never deliberately called her ‘Princess’ again.
The second time he was drunk and probably didn’t mean it. She was hardly even sure that she’d heard him mutter ‘Fuckin’ Princess thinks she’s too fuckin’ good.’ as she helped him to a cab after a particularly disastrous Christmas party.
*****
Two weeks after starting they’d bought in a young boy, maybe nineteen. He tried to walk into the clinic, but it obviously pained him to do so. She could see that his pants had been pulled on hastily and her heart dropped as she watched the blood leak down the inside of his thighs.
She demanded they be left alone. He’d suffered enough indignity as it was. For twenty minutes she tried to coax him into allowing an examination. He just sat on the table, smearing blood over the plastic and staring out the window. After a while, Sara considered calling the guards back. She could force treatment onto a patient clearly in need and mentally unsound. But it didn’t come to that. Tears began to trickle down his face as he chewed on his bottom lip and whispered, ‘They called me “Princess”.’
She held him, even though she knew she shouldn’t, and let his tears, snot and saliva soak through her blouse.
Because she knew what it was like to be called ‘Princess’
*****
He left a paper flower for her, like tribute for a princess and she knew that only bad things could happen.
But at least he’d never called her ‘Princess’.
*****
She doesn’t really think of him as a person, just ‘Michael’s Brother’ and when he walked into the room, shut the door and pulled down his fly as he said ‘Morning, Princess,’ she knew why she’d rather not think of him as a person, but as a person loved by Michael. Michael’s prince.
*****
Two nights after they escaped, she arrived home to find a paper crane in her letter box. On her phone there was a message informing her that her resignation had been formally accepted and she could expect a letter to that effect before the week was out.
On her doorstep sat a flower arrangement from her father.
‘Princess,
I’m so proud you’ve decided to go into pediatrics.
Daddy.’
Sometimes, Sara thinks that she doesn’t really like being called ‘Princess’.