Happy Birthday Jess!!!!!!!!
Happy Birthday Jess!!!!!!!!!!!! This is all yours! Hope you like it. God, I hope it even makes sense.
Hope your 19th year is awesome… what would I do without you to listen to my ranting and stupid flights of fancy? May you live a long and healthy life… and when it’s over: You. Me. Party in Hell. I’ll bring the leopard print thongs.
Title: Dancing On Needles
Authors: volatile/becisvolatile
Rating: PG-13, maybe R.
Characters: Michael/Sara, T-Bag, Sucre
Genre: wAngst, drama, only a little M/S (808 words)
Summary: He led blindly, she followed blindly and disaster was never more than a step away.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Especially not anything related to Prison Break.
Notes: Hap-hap-happy 19th Jess, my sweet. It is a travesty that you have gone this long without a fic dedicated to you!!!! So, listen up folks, I wrote this for Jess… Leave a comment and wish her a kick-ass birthday!!!!! Also, this includes spoilers for ALL of season one.
It’s an art, doing what she does. Knowing enough, knowing too much and balancing between the two.
When she was younger her limbs felt lighter and playing that fine needle over her skin was a simple matter of being careful. A matter of knowing the steps to an age-old dance. But when she grew older she finally understood that she never knew the steps. At best, she had stumbled through the dance, toes pointed and delicately swaying, staying upright only by a fluke of fate.
For a while she stopped dancing. Kept clear of that ballroom of needles in her mind. Perhaps she could have sat out the dance until the day she died of old age. Instead, she grew steadily entranced by the procession of partners stepping through her life and finally, when Michael Scofield held out his hand, she could do nothing but nod graciously and step up to his body.
*****
When Theodore Bagwell was six he made himself a set of bone needles. Nothing made him smile more than poking them into the half rotted eyes of road kill. For him it was a simple and pure joy, that squishing, tearing, sound as the needle penetrated the eye. Someone had once told him that the eyes were the window to the soul.
He had muddy brown eyes.
For Bagwell, the simple joys in life did not change. Nothing pleased him more than sliding fine metal needles under the toenails of his victims and watching them stumble towards locked doors. It was like a dance to him, from the moment he saw them, stalked them, took them, owned them. He’d lead, they’d follow and his eyes would shine with a brilliance that existed only in those moments.
*****
Sucre was seventeen when he dragged himself back to his mother’s house and staggered dramatically, almost gracefully, into the room before throwing his bloodied body down on the lounge next to her, begging for help.
He’d been caught stealing a car and beaten for his efforts, at least he hadn’t been arrested. At least he still had his mother to tend to his wounds and care in the way that only a mother could. She watched, listening to his stories of noble battles and saving virgins from street gangs, as she mended a torn pair of his jeans. He finished and looked pathetically up at her, blood dribbling down his face and onto his chest.
She leaned over her son slowly, kissed him on the forehead and then stabbed him in the thigh with a sewing needle.
‘Don’t lie to your mother.’
*****
He closed his eyes and tried to forget the heated drag of the needle. She stopped and he opened his eyes to watch her wipe away the fine dew of blood that had settled over an angel’s face.
As she picked up the irons and resumed that slow scrawl it occurred to him that he was terrified. His fingers began to dance on the table in sync with the thrumming of the needle, there was a rhythm to it and it sickened him.
*****
It wasn’t about the insulin. Even when it was about the insulin, it wasn’t. It was about a thousand touches, the heat of his skin and innuendos catching her off guard. It was about stolen kisses, stolen thoughts. Stolen keys. It was about trust, when there was none. Hate, when really there was only love.
It was about lies, when the truth would not suffice.
Dancing alone is a liberating thing, but with a partner and observed by the world? Failure is almost certain. Each is restricted by the other; you can lead with no guarantee of being followed. You can follow, with no guarantee that you are being led in the right direction. Michael and Sara danced around each other in fatal and deranged steps. Michael stepped forward, she stumbled back. She got too close, he spiraled away.
He led blindly, she followed blindly and disaster was never more than a step away.
The day came when he led where she could not follow and she fell in his wake.
*****
As they run, as they bleed out and as they fall into their own minds staring out from heavy eyelids, they think that finally they have danced their last. The music has stopped and the only rhythm to follow is of their own making. They are released, body and mind.
But soon, they’ll stop running, stop bleeding and they will wake. Only to realize that another dance has started and this time they don’t know the steps. That their balance is gone and the needles have grown. The rhythm is beyond their reckoning and they can never hope to keep time with the song, or each other.
They don’t know the dance, but they can’t sit it out.
Hope your 19th year is awesome… what would I do without you to listen to my ranting and stupid flights of fancy? May you live a long and healthy life… and when it’s over: You. Me. Party in Hell. I’ll bring the leopard print thongs.
Title: Dancing On Needles
Authors: volatile/becisvolatile
Rating: PG-13, maybe R.
Characters: Michael/Sara, T-Bag, Sucre
Genre: wAngst, drama, only a little M/S (808 words)
Summary: He led blindly, she followed blindly and disaster was never more than a step away.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Especially not anything related to Prison Break.
Notes: Hap-hap-happy 19th Jess, my sweet. It is a travesty that you have gone this long without a fic dedicated to you!!!! So, listen up folks, I wrote this for Jess… Leave a comment and wish her a kick-ass birthday!!!!! Also, this includes spoilers for ALL of season one.
It’s an art, doing what she does. Knowing enough, knowing too much and balancing between the two.
When she was younger her limbs felt lighter and playing that fine needle over her skin was a simple matter of being careful. A matter of knowing the steps to an age-old dance. But when she grew older she finally understood that she never knew the steps. At best, she had stumbled through the dance, toes pointed and delicately swaying, staying upright only by a fluke of fate.
For a while she stopped dancing. Kept clear of that ballroom of needles in her mind. Perhaps she could have sat out the dance until the day she died of old age. Instead, she grew steadily entranced by the procession of partners stepping through her life and finally, when Michael Scofield held out his hand, she could do nothing but nod graciously and step up to his body.
*****
When Theodore Bagwell was six he made himself a set of bone needles. Nothing made him smile more than poking them into the half rotted eyes of road kill. For him it was a simple and pure joy, that squishing, tearing, sound as the needle penetrated the eye. Someone had once told him that the eyes were the window to the soul.
He had muddy brown eyes.
For Bagwell, the simple joys in life did not change. Nothing pleased him more than sliding fine metal needles under the toenails of his victims and watching them stumble towards locked doors. It was like a dance to him, from the moment he saw them, stalked them, took them, owned them. He’d lead, they’d follow and his eyes would shine with a brilliance that existed only in those moments.
*****
Sucre was seventeen when he dragged himself back to his mother’s house and staggered dramatically, almost gracefully, into the room before throwing his bloodied body down on the lounge next to her, begging for help.
He’d been caught stealing a car and beaten for his efforts, at least he hadn’t been arrested. At least he still had his mother to tend to his wounds and care in the way that only a mother could. She watched, listening to his stories of noble battles and saving virgins from street gangs, as she mended a torn pair of his jeans. He finished and looked pathetically up at her, blood dribbling down his face and onto his chest.
She leaned over her son slowly, kissed him on the forehead and then stabbed him in the thigh with a sewing needle.
‘Don’t lie to your mother.’
*****
He closed his eyes and tried to forget the heated drag of the needle. She stopped and he opened his eyes to watch her wipe away the fine dew of blood that had settled over an angel’s face.
As she picked up the irons and resumed that slow scrawl it occurred to him that he was terrified. His fingers began to dance on the table in sync with the thrumming of the needle, there was a rhythm to it and it sickened him.
*****
It wasn’t about the insulin. Even when it was about the insulin, it wasn’t. It was about a thousand touches, the heat of his skin and innuendos catching her off guard. It was about stolen kisses, stolen thoughts. Stolen keys. It was about trust, when there was none. Hate, when really there was only love.
It was about lies, when the truth would not suffice.
Dancing alone is a liberating thing, but with a partner and observed by the world? Failure is almost certain. Each is restricted by the other; you can lead with no guarantee of being followed. You can follow, with no guarantee that you are being led in the right direction. Michael and Sara danced around each other in fatal and deranged steps. Michael stepped forward, she stumbled back. She got too close, he spiraled away.
He led blindly, she followed blindly and disaster was never more than a step away.
The day came when he led where she could not follow and she fell in his wake.
*****
As they run, as they bleed out and as they fall into their own minds staring out from heavy eyelids, they think that finally they have danced their last. The music has stopped and the only rhythm to follow is of their own making. They are released, body and mind.
But soon, they’ll stop running, stop bleeding and they will wake. Only to realize that another dance has started and this time they don’t know the steps. That their balance is gone and the needles have grown. The rhythm is beyond their reckoning and they can never hope to keep time with the song, or each other.
They don’t know the dance, but they can’t sit it out.