Prison Break - Kiss Me Good Night
Title: Kiss Me Good Night ( French version)
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael, Lincoln, Sara, Veronica, Sucre, Christina Rose
Pairings: Michael/Sara, a dash of one-sided Michael/Veronica
Categories: Gen, het
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 2445
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Settling in bed for the night is a meticulous task... (Non-epilogue-compliant)
Author’s Note: This is the translation of an old fic - hence Christina Rose’s characterization. Many thanks to mystressxoxo for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
At first, he was a bit disappointed when he discovered that Sara preferred duvets over sheets and comforters.
* *
These are his favorite sheets, and he intends to keep them forever; they’re printed with fantastic little blue, green, yellow and red animals. When she makes his bed with them, Mom takes care to also use his favorite comforter, blue and so soft. It always takes him a bit longer to fall asleep on these nights because he can’t help wondering what the hippopotamuses, elephants and giraffes may tell each other. He (almost) forgets how unfair it is that Mom sends him to bed so early, when it’s not dark yet outside, whereas Linc can watch television with their mother.
Settling in bed for the night is a meticulous task. He has to lift up the sheets delicately on the left side - the one where Mom will lean over him - slip under them without messing up the right side, pull them up to his chin and fold them back carefully. He doesn’t like it when the sheets have creases, and he likes it even less when the comforter isn’t steadily tucked between the mattress and the box spring. Linc, who sleeps in the twin bed next to his, sometimes laughs and calls him maniacal. (Michael had to look up the word in a dictionary, surprised that Linc knew a word he didn’t, and he didn’t enjoy the definition. As if wrapping yourself into sheets featuring Spider-Man was proof of one’s mental health.) Whatever. It’s a lot better when the sheets are neat and properly tucked. He feels safe and there is no chance a monster hidden under his bed or in his closet can wriggle its way in bed with him.
He’s never told Linc about the monsters hidden under the bed and in the closet. He will probably have to, at some point, but given how his brother mocks him because of the whole sheets and comforter deal, he thinks it will have to wait a bit longer.
Anyway, for now... Mom straightens the sheets and the comforter and methodically tucked them, lifting the edge of the mattress the slightest bit.
He settles right in the middle of his small bed, the sheets tight around him just the way he likes them, and he closes his eyes when Mom leans in to kiss him. He breathes in her familiar scent, soft and sweet, a delicate smell of orange blossom that seems to follow her everywhere; he smiles when her hair brushes his cheek. She kisses his brow and whispers tenderly, “Good night, Mikey.”
Mom keeps the monsters at bay with an iron grip.
* *
He sleeps in pink sheets. He’s not touchy; he doesn’t really linger on this kind of thing, but he’s a twelve-year-old boy who sleeps in pink sheets with slightly darker ribbons printed on the fabric.
What is comforting is that Linc has light green sheets with tiny flowers. Mrs. Patterson, the lady of their foster family, kind of apologized about that, explaining that, until now, she had only housed girls. Mike can only assume she hit the jackpot with Linc and him.
Not that the color of the sheets is that important, by the way. Mrs. Patterson is good to them, kind even. She makes sure they eat correctly, sleep, shower, and do their homework. Along with her husband, she even took them for a few days of vacation. Mike thinks it won’t last - he’s learned that good things never last - but he enjoys it while he can. It’s a lot better than his previous foster family, when Linc was in juvie; in no way comparable. He’s not going to tell Linc about his previous foster family, actually; he wouldn’t want Linc to go back to juvie.
No, the color of the sheets is not that important, but it made Linc laugh. Not for long. Partly because he noticed the color of his own sheets, with their tiny embedded flowers, but mostly because Mike asked him, “And in jail, what color were the sheets?” Linc threw him a discontent yet guilty glance. Michael might be a twelve-year-old boy, but he knows how to shut his big brother up when he really wants to do it.
Pink sheets or not, nice foster family or not, he can’t sleep. He’s curled up in a ball, his fingers frenetically redrawing the small printed ribbons on his sheet. He keeps his eyes trained on the closet door - the white paint glows a bit in the half-darkness; his breathing is harsh and noisy, even to his own ears. After a while, he can hear Lincoln move, sit in his bed on the other side of the bedroom, and turn on the bedside light with a small annoyed sigh.
“There’s nothing in the damn closet, Mike,” he says, his voice softer than his words. In two seconds, Lincoln is up, the sheets a mess at the foot of his bed, and he grabs Michael’s arm to drag him towards the closet. Michael tries to resist, but Linc is so much taller and stronger; it’s useless to fight. He finds himself facing the door and its handle.
“There’s nothing in the closet, Mike,” Lincoln says again. “Only fear. It’s not real; it’s not made of anything. It’s just air. Less than air.” Linc puts his hand on Michael’s and lifts it towards the handle. “You just have to open the door, and the monster will disappear.”
The monster didn’t disappear so easily the last time, but he thinks maybe it’s worth trying. And Linc is here, right behind him, his hand on his own, anyway.
There is nothing in the closet, nothing but their clothes and the books he’s borrowed from the library. A sigh of relief escapes him, and he leans into Linc.
When he’s lying in his pink sheets again, his brother looks at him with a small smirk, but Michael doesn’t even need to ask anything: Lincoln steps in to tuck him in. He tries to copy the sure and efficient way of their Mom to the best of his abilities and lifts the mattress a bit too vigorously. For a split second, Michael is tempted to ask Lincoln to kiss his forehead the way Mom did, but he thinks it would be pushing it too far.
For now, he knows how to keep the monsters away. And if it becomes too hard, Lincoln will be there to lend him a hand.
* *
The sheets are white with a thin blue border, and sitting on them, Veronica is messing up their perfection. On the other hand, Veronica’s presence contributes to the perfection of the moment, so all in all, everything’s fine.
In all objectivity, he knows he’s way too old for that; that it borders on ridiculous; that a less tolerant big brother than Lincoln would have put a stop to it a while ago. Heck, if their situations were reversed, he would have put a stop to it a while ago, although it’s not totally comparable: he is who he is, Linc is Linc, and letting a hypothetical girlfriend sit on Linc’s bed would be... Well, Michael’s not entirely stupid.
A golden darkness, barely brightened by the light from the living room, settles over the bedroom when Vee turns off the bedside lamp. Her gesture leaves in its wake a warm and sweet scented fragrance; it reminds Michael of his Mom’s orange blossom perfume, all the while being subtly different - spicier. He closes his eyes.
Vee leans forward, and her hair tickles his cheek and neck. He knows that he’s blushing, and he silently thanks the penumbra in the room. And he’s blushing a bit more when she kisses his brow, her lips soft and full on his skin, her affectionate “good night, Michael,” making him shiver.
He really is too old for that.
“Hey! Lights on in there!” Lincoln shouts from the living room. He’s joking, but not so much because he’s tolerant, but they shouldn’t push it too far nonetheless.
Veronica rolls her eyes in derision. She pushes her hair behind her ears and gets to her feet; Michael sighs, relief and disappointment mingling. She smiles at him, kindly, innocently, and tucks him in his bed with the same methodical efficiency as his Mom so long ago. It’s just that... He takes care to scoot a little bit so Vee doesn’t touch him.
For everybody’s sake, some monsters better stay tightly bound and locked up in their closet.
* *
The sheets are coarse and stiff.
More accurately, when they still were reasonably clean, the sheets were coarse and stiff. After a few days, they’ve become limp and unpleasantly sticky. Whatever he does, no matter how often he tries to smooth them, they remain full of creases, worse than the Spider-Man sheets Lincoln used to tangle up in. It’s not very important. Michael doesn’t plan to stay here long enough to discover how badly limp and sticky they can become.
The guard shouts, “Lights off!” Following a well established ritual, Sucre extends his hand to get the book Michael’s reading and put it on their small table. The metallic bed frame above Michael bends and squeaks when Sucre hoists himself up. It bends and squeaks some more when Sucre shifts on the thin mattress. His bed is a mess, the sheets wrapped into a ball because, this time again, Michael used Sucre’s sheets to hang on the cell bars earlier tonight.
“Good night,” Sucre grumbled nevertheless - no hard feelings.
A couple of squeaks and then the silence settles - almost: hundreds of noises buzz from the various cells. Michael turns his head and looks at the piece of sheet near him, its edge brushing the dirty grey floor. He guesses he can’t ask Sucre to tuck him in... But that, too, isn’t very important. He doubts it would prevent the monsters living here from crawling under his skin, anyway.
“Good night,” he whispers back.
For now, he’ll have to do with the monsters.
* *
It’s a duvet.
A duvet with a cover made of Egyptian cotton; its threads so fine and soft they feel like silk, but it’s a duvet and, right now, it’s moist with perspiration and sticks to his back. He has just woken up from a nightmare, sweaty and his heart beating wildly, and it’s a duvet: he can’t tuck it under the mattress to make sure no monster will sneak in. By the way, about monsters...
Not totally aware of what he’s doing, he turns on the bedside lamp and bends down; one hand on the mattress and the other one on the floor to steady himself, he looks under the bed.
There is nothing here. Just his book on architectural methods in early Middle Age that disappeared a couple of nights ago and seems to have slid under the bed towards Sara’s side. He’ll think about the implication of this discovery later because Sara is shifting behind him, asking in a sleepy voice, “Michael? You all right?”
He sits up, turns over and tries to convince himself that his cheekbones are red because he was bending down, not because of the embarrassment of being a thirty-something man looking under his bed for monsters. Sara is leaning on her elbow, her hair tousled and her eyes worried under her half-closed eyelids. Her side of the duvet is awfully wrapped around her, a round, smooth shoulder poking from the folds of blue cotton.
“Sorry I woke you up,” he says. She shakes her head - doesn’t matter - and lays her hand on his arm, stroking and petting it in a soothing way. “Why is my book under the bed?” he adds.
Even in his current state of mind, he doesn’t miss the way she blinks and quickly licks her lips. But, instead of answering him, she asks, “What were you looking under here for?” Now his cheekbones aren’t just red anymore but downright scarlet, so hot he feels like his skin is pulsing.
She looks at him and understands, and bites her lips to not laugh. After a few seconds, she can’t help it, and smiles, tenderly and mockingly at the same time. “Oh, Michael,” she breathes out with amusement.
“It just was a nightmare.”
She wriggles, messing up the bedclothes even more, if that’s possible; she gets closer and scoots to his side of the bed. She’s right against him, her hands wrapped around his neck, her mouth on his, her tongue...
“You can’t do that,” he protests without thinking. She arches one of her eyebrows in an impressive way. “I mean, just to make me feel better...” he explains.
He didn’t think that eyebrow could go higher, but obviously, he underestimated them, her eyebrow and her. It makes her look a bit...
... diabolical. His own cute monster.
It’s not entirely unpleasant.
“Don’t worry, I’m not just trying to make you feel better.”
She dives under the duvet, and he can feel her hands and mouth going down and down, and then a bit lower, until he murmurs, “Hm, Sara?”
“I’m exploring,” she says, her voice muffled by the thick duvet.
“In the dark?”
“That’s part of the appeal, don’t you think?”
He won’t pretend the contrary. Even if the duvet is totally messed up now. There is a lump where Sara has settled, some swelling in other places, and it has almost totally slid on the other side of the bed. That being said, Sara’s tactic must be effective since he has forgotten his nightmare and the monsters. He has forgotten his book’s odd trek under the bed. He has forgotten... With the tip of her tongue, Sara draws small circles on a particularly sensitive spot, and he forgets anything he was still remembering. Breathing hard, he clutches at the Egyptian cotton, rumpling and twisting it between his fingers. It’s okay; they’ll have to remake the bed anyway, they’ll have to...
Sara slowly, lazily shimmies up and settles on top of him, stomach to stomach, her mouth ghosting on his neck. He tries to breathe; she raises her head and smiles smugly.
“When you’ve been told to face the monsters to make them go away...”
“Yes?” he asks cautiously.
“Sometimes, it’s more fun to invite them in your bed.”
The eyebrow goes up again, and Sara goes down.
* *
At first, he was a bit disappointed when he discovered that Sara preferred duvets over sheets and comforters, but eventually, he learned to deal with it. He perfectly handles the situation and most of the monsters.
The other ones... he doesn’t necessarily feel like managing the other ones.
-FIN-
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael, Lincoln, Sara, Veronica, Sucre, Christina Rose
Pairings: Michael/Sara, a dash of one-sided Michael/Veronica
Categories: Gen, het
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 2445
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Settling in bed for the night is a meticulous task... (Non-epilogue-compliant)
Author’s Note: This is the translation of an old fic - hence Christina Rose’s characterization. Many thanks to mystressxoxo for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
At first, he was a bit disappointed when he discovered that Sara preferred duvets over sheets and comforters.
* *
These are his favorite sheets, and he intends to keep them forever; they’re printed with fantastic little blue, green, yellow and red animals. When she makes his bed with them, Mom takes care to also use his favorite comforter, blue and so soft. It always takes him a bit longer to fall asleep on these nights because he can’t help wondering what the hippopotamuses, elephants and giraffes may tell each other. He (almost) forgets how unfair it is that Mom sends him to bed so early, when it’s not dark yet outside, whereas Linc can watch television with their mother.
Settling in bed for the night is a meticulous task. He has to lift up the sheets delicately on the left side - the one where Mom will lean over him - slip under them without messing up the right side, pull them up to his chin and fold them back carefully. He doesn’t like it when the sheets have creases, and he likes it even less when the comforter isn’t steadily tucked between the mattress and the box spring. Linc, who sleeps in the twin bed next to his, sometimes laughs and calls him maniacal. (Michael had to look up the word in a dictionary, surprised that Linc knew a word he didn’t, and he didn’t enjoy the definition. As if wrapping yourself into sheets featuring Spider-Man was proof of one’s mental health.) Whatever. It’s a lot better when the sheets are neat and properly tucked. He feels safe and there is no chance a monster hidden under his bed or in his closet can wriggle its way in bed with him.
He’s never told Linc about the monsters hidden under the bed and in the closet. He will probably have to, at some point, but given how his brother mocks him because of the whole sheets and comforter deal, he thinks it will have to wait a bit longer.
Anyway, for now... Mom straightens the sheets and the comforter and methodically tucked them, lifting the edge of the mattress the slightest bit.
He settles right in the middle of his small bed, the sheets tight around him just the way he likes them, and he closes his eyes when Mom leans in to kiss him. He breathes in her familiar scent, soft and sweet, a delicate smell of orange blossom that seems to follow her everywhere; he smiles when her hair brushes his cheek. She kisses his brow and whispers tenderly, “Good night, Mikey.”
Mom keeps the monsters at bay with an iron grip.
* *
He sleeps in pink sheets. He’s not touchy; he doesn’t really linger on this kind of thing, but he’s a twelve-year-old boy who sleeps in pink sheets with slightly darker ribbons printed on the fabric.
What is comforting is that Linc has light green sheets with tiny flowers. Mrs. Patterson, the lady of their foster family, kind of apologized about that, explaining that, until now, she had only housed girls. Mike can only assume she hit the jackpot with Linc and him.
Not that the color of the sheets is that important, by the way. Mrs. Patterson is good to them, kind even. She makes sure they eat correctly, sleep, shower, and do their homework. Along with her husband, she even took them for a few days of vacation. Mike thinks it won’t last - he’s learned that good things never last - but he enjoys it while he can. It’s a lot better than his previous foster family, when Linc was in juvie; in no way comparable. He’s not going to tell Linc about his previous foster family, actually; he wouldn’t want Linc to go back to juvie.
No, the color of the sheets is not that important, but it made Linc laugh. Not for long. Partly because he noticed the color of his own sheets, with their tiny embedded flowers, but mostly because Mike asked him, “And in jail, what color were the sheets?” Linc threw him a discontent yet guilty glance. Michael might be a twelve-year-old boy, but he knows how to shut his big brother up when he really wants to do it.
Pink sheets or not, nice foster family or not, he can’t sleep. He’s curled up in a ball, his fingers frenetically redrawing the small printed ribbons on his sheet. He keeps his eyes trained on the closet door - the white paint glows a bit in the half-darkness; his breathing is harsh and noisy, even to his own ears. After a while, he can hear Lincoln move, sit in his bed on the other side of the bedroom, and turn on the bedside light with a small annoyed sigh.
“There’s nothing in the damn closet, Mike,” he says, his voice softer than his words. In two seconds, Lincoln is up, the sheets a mess at the foot of his bed, and he grabs Michael’s arm to drag him towards the closet. Michael tries to resist, but Linc is so much taller and stronger; it’s useless to fight. He finds himself facing the door and its handle.
“There’s nothing in the closet, Mike,” Lincoln says again. “Only fear. It’s not real; it’s not made of anything. It’s just air. Less than air.” Linc puts his hand on Michael’s and lifts it towards the handle. “You just have to open the door, and the monster will disappear.”
The monster didn’t disappear so easily the last time, but he thinks maybe it’s worth trying. And Linc is here, right behind him, his hand on his own, anyway.
There is nothing in the closet, nothing but their clothes and the books he’s borrowed from the library. A sigh of relief escapes him, and he leans into Linc.
When he’s lying in his pink sheets again, his brother looks at him with a small smirk, but Michael doesn’t even need to ask anything: Lincoln steps in to tuck him in. He tries to copy the sure and efficient way of their Mom to the best of his abilities and lifts the mattress a bit too vigorously. For a split second, Michael is tempted to ask Lincoln to kiss his forehead the way Mom did, but he thinks it would be pushing it too far.
For now, he knows how to keep the monsters away. And if it becomes too hard, Lincoln will be there to lend him a hand.
* *
The sheets are white with a thin blue border, and sitting on them, Veronica is messing up their perfection. On the other hand, Veronica’s presence contributes to the perfection of the moment, so all in all, everything’s fine.
In all objectivity, he knows he’s way too old for that; that it borders on ridiculous; that a less tolerant big brother than Lincoln would have put a stop to it a while ago. Heck, if their situations were reversed, he would have put a stop to it a while ago, although it’s not totally comparable: he is who he is, Linc is Linc, and letting a hypothetical girlfriend sit on Linc’s bed would be... Well, Michael’s not entirely stupid.
A golden darkness, barely brightened by the light from the living room, settles over the bedroom when Vee turns off the bedside lamp. Her gesture leaves in its wake a warm and sweet scented fragrance; it reminds Michael of his Mom’s orange blossom perfume, all the while being subtly different - spicier. He closes his eyes.
Vee leans forward, and her hair tickles his cheek and neck. He knows that he’s blushing, and he silently thanks the penumbra in the room. And he’s blushing a bit more when she kisses his brow, her lips soft and full on his skin, her affectionate “good night, Michael,” making him shiver.
He really is too old for that.
“Hey! Lights on in there!” Lincoln shouts from the living room. He’s joking, but not so much because he’s tolerant, but they shouldn’t push it too far nonetheless.
Veronica rolls her eyes in derision. She pushes her hair behind her ears and gets to her feet; Michael sighs, relief and disappointment mingling. She smiles at him, kindly, innocently, and tucks him in his bed with the same methodical efficiency as his Mom so long ago. It’s just that... He takes care to scoot a little bit so Vee doesn’t touch him.
For everybody’s sake, some monsters better stay tightly bound and locked up in their closet.
* *
The sheets are coarse and stiff.
More accurately, when they still were reasonably clean, the sheets were coarse and stiff. After a few days, they’ve become limp and unpleasantly sticky. Whatever he does, no matter how often he tries to smooth them, they remain full of creases, worse than the Spider-Man sheets Lincoln used to tangle up in. It’s not very important. Michael doesn’t plan to stay here long enough to discover how badly limp and sticky they can become.
The guard shouts, “Lights off!” Following a well established ritual, Sucre extends his hand to get the book Michael’s reading and put it on their small table. The metallic bed frame above Michael bends and squeaks when Sucre hoists himself up. It bends and squeaks some more when Sucre shifts on the thin mattress. His bed is a mess, the sheets wrapped into a ball because, this time again, Michael used Sucre’s sheets to hang on the cell bars earlier tonight.
“Good night,” Sucre grumbled nevertheless - no hard feelings.
A couple of squeaks and then the silence settles - almost: hundreds of noises buzz from the various cells. Michael turns his head and looks at the piece of sheet near him, its edge brushing the dirty grey floor. He guesses he can’t ask Sucre to tuck him in... But that, too, isn’t very important. He doubts it would prevent the monsters living here from crawling under his skin, anyway.
“Good night,” he whispers back.
For now, he’ll have to do with the monsters.
* *
It’s a duvet.
A duvet with a cover made of Egyptian cotton; its threads so fine and soft they feel like silk, but it’s a duvet and, right now, it’s moist with perspiration and sticks to his back. He has just woken up from a nightmare, sweaty and his heart beating wildly, and it’s a duvet: he can’t tuck it under the mattress to make sure no monster will sneak in. By the way, about monsters...
Not totally aware of what he’s doing, he turns on the bedside lamp and bends down; one hand on the mattress and the other one on the floor to steady himself, he looks under the bed.
There is nothing here. Just his book on architectural methods in early Middle Age that disappeared a couple of nights ago and seems to have slid under the bed towards Sara’s side. He’ll think about the implication of this discovery later because Sara is shifting behind him, asking in a sleepy voice, “Michael? You all right?”
He sits up, turns over and tries to convince himself that his cheekbones are red because he was bending down, not because of the embarrassment of being a thirty-something man looking under his bed for monsters. Sara is leaning on her elbow, her hair tousled and her eyes worried under her half-closed eyelids. Her side of the duvet is awfully wrapped around her, a round, smooth shoulder poking from the folds of blue cotton.
“Sorry I woke you up,” he says. She shakes her head - doesn’t matter - and lays her hand on his arm, stroking and petting it in a soothing way. “Why is my book under the bed?” he adds.
Even in his current state of mind, he doesn’t miss the way she blinks and quickly licks her lips. But, instead of answering him, she asks, “What were you looking under here for?” Now his cheekbones aren’t just red anymore but downright scarlet, so hot he feels like his skin is pulsing.
She looks at him and understands, and bites her lips to not laugh. After a few seconds, she can’t help it, and smiles, tenderly and mockingly at the same time. “Oh, Michael,” she breathes out with amusement.
“It just was a nightmare.”
She wriggles, messing up the bedclothes even more, if that’s possible; she gets closer and scoots to his side of the bed. She’s right against him, her hands wrapped around his neck, her mouth on his, her tongue...
“You can’t do that,” he protests without thinking. She arches one of her eyebrows in an impressive way. “I mean, just to make me feel better...” he explains.
He didn’t think that eyebrow could go higher, but obviously, he underestimated them, her eyebrow and her. It makes her look a bit...
... diabolical. His own cute monster.
It’s not entirely unpleasant.
“Don’t worry, I’m not just trying to make you feel better.”
She dives under the duvet, and he can feel her hands and mouth going down and down, and then a bit lower, until he murmurs, “Hm, Sara?”
“I’m exploring,” she says, her voice muffled by the thick duvet.
“In the dark?”
“That’s part of the appeal, don’t you think?”
He won’t pretend the contrary. Even if the duvet is totally messed up now. There is a lump where Sara has settled, some swelling in other places, and it has almost totally slid on the other side of the bed. That being said, Sara’s tactic must be effective since he has forgotten his nightmare and the monsters. He has forgotten his book’s odd trek under the bed. He has forgotten... With the tip of her tongue, Sara draws small circles on a particularly sensitive spot, and he forgets anything he was still remembering. Breathing hard, he clutches at the Egyptian cotton, rumpling and twisting it between his fingers. It’s okay; they’ll have to remake the bed anyway, they’ll have to...
Sara slowly, lazily shimmies up and settles on top of him, stomach to stomach, her mouth ghosting on his neck. He tries to breathe; she raises her head and smiles smugly.
“When you’ve been told to face the monsters to make them go away...”
“Yes?” he asks cautiously.
“Sometimes, it’s more fun to invite them in your bed.”
The eyebrow goes up again, and Sara goes down.
* *
At first, he was a bit disappointed when he discovered that Sara preferred duvets over sheets and comforters, but eventually, he learned to deal with it. He perfectly handles the situation and most of the monsters.
The other ones... he doesn’t necessarily feel like managing the other ones.
-FIN-