Fic: Spectrum
Title: Spectrum
Author: interpretthis
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Alex/Michael
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Slash
Beta:
shinyboot
Challenge:
psych_30
Prompt: 18 - Instinct
Summary: Alex is not a psychic.
Note: Written for the fifth
pbfic_exchange2.
The man shuffled the cards. Cocked his head. Grinned. Rifled through and pulled one out. The card was pristine. Blank.
“Next?”
Alex glared at the man. Clenched his fist.
“I don’t have a flying fuck of a clue.” He slumped in his chair, swinging his long legs up to land on the table. The man went at it again, sorting through the large pile. He selected the top card, holding it up for Alex to see. For Alex to see.
“No.” Alex ran a shaking hand through his hair. Gripped the arm of his chair.
Again. Shuffle. Grin. Remove. Display.
Alex gave a low growl, shooting out of his chair. Palms slammed onto the table in place of his feet.
“I’m not a fucking psychic. I couldn’t tell you what shit’s on the back of your goddamn cards in a million years,” he spat at the man, digging his fingers into the ribbed plastic tabletop.
“Huh.” The man leaned forward. Grabbed the top three cards and flipped them over simultaneously. Their backs were splashed with color. Alex took them in hungrily, raking his eyes over the images. The first card displayed a VW bug. Green. The second a yellow picket fence, its points meeting the white of the card full-on. On the third was an orange. Round, ripe, succulent. It made Alex’s mouth water. He tried to meet the man’s eyes, but the face in front of him blurred, fuzzing into a mass of bleary features before reforming itself into a face he knew all too well.
“Michael!”
Alex shot up with a start, his pulse ramming through his head, a freight train of uncurbed anxiety. Too many nights had passed this way. Random dreams, frustrating images, all having nothing to do with Scofield and yet inherently determined to connect to him in a spontaneous flash of his face - a word spoken in his voice. They unhinged Alex. It’d been more than a year since he’d last spotted Scofield, comfortably stashed in the window seat of a train on its way to Georgia. Michael never made it to Georgia (always a man of unpredictable predictability). Matter of fact, he hadn’t even made it to the next stop before he was off again (should have known). The case had lost its publicity - had been outstripped by new escapes, new murders, new rapes. Unsurprisingly, the case hadn’t been lost to the recesses of Alex’s mind.
Not Scofield. (Why not Scofield?)
Alex showered, letting the rough water pound his shoulders into his chest, its heat scorching his skin. It was a necessary distraction, a device on which to focus his mind. As his logic went, if it he could focus his mind, he was one step farther from losing it. He liked to repeat this to himself. It calmed his nerves. (Calmed nerves are happy nerves.)
Alex had managed fairly easily by now to sort his life into manageable categories:
Work (Life) - Eat (when did everything start to taste like cardboard?) - Sleep (ideally dreamless) - Concentration (not on anyone in particular) - Mingling (trying to act as human as possible).
Six o’clock on a Monday morning fell into the overbearing category of Work, which, depending on the job, often helped Alex in the Concentration department (the good kind), while inevitably throwing him into the unfortunate area of Mingling (human as possible, human as possible).
Alex decided six fifteen on a Monday morning was the prime time to start believing in coincidences as he pulled into the right lane behind a vibrantly green VW bug. Thirty seconds later, as the red light turned green, he decided that any decisions made by his mind were weak at best and not worth sticking to. He didn’t even bother to tail the bug surreptitiously as it veered calmly around the corner, heading for the residential streets (never could ignore a lead).
Alex was already whacking his frail mind into shape the moment he laid eyes on the easter-yellow picket fence, its points riding up into the white of the house it ensconced, too alike the white of the man’s card (Michael’s card). He pulled into a space across the road, not even waiting for the bug to park in the driveway.
Michael was out of the car before Alex could blink. (Fuck.)
Alex popped the door handle, stepped out onto the crunchy black asphalt of the street underfoot (can’t leave without finding the…orange).
Alex crossed the street quickly, moving his way through the fateful yellow picket fence, his hand hovering over the gun stashed in his belt before moving away (who needs a gun to capture an unawares pacifist anyway?).
Michael stepped through the doorway slowly. He still hadn’t turned (he knows).
Alex kicked the door in as Michael let it fall shut behind him. The satisfying crack of wood against plaster rang out. Alex moved through the opening in one quick movement, kicking the battered door shut behind him, his Concentration on Michael now (always back to Scofield). Alex slammed him into the wall as Michael turned to face him, that self-satisfied smirk still playing about those too-red lips (could make them darker).
“Scofield,” Alex hissed, trying his best to sound dangerous (should have opted for the gun).
“Alex. Took you long enough.”
His breath played across Alex’s face like a dream (can’t breathe). His eyes - those damn blue eyes - too intense (look away). Alex stared (fucked-up). Michael’s red-red lips came closer (let them come).
Alex pushed away, moving through the nearest doorway with the agility and speed of a cat. The kitchen. He pulled out a chair and sat down as fast as possible. Looked around as Michael moved in to sit across from him. A window to his right looked out on that goddamn yellow picket fence. Purple flowers Alex hadn’t noticed before spun their way around the countertop. He looked at the table, trying to avoid those eyes. Oranges. A damn bowl of oranges, smack dab in the middle of the table (well fuck). Alex grabbed one and started peeling. Michael watched his every move (damn eyes).
Alex split the orange, easing a juicy slice off the top. He brought it to his lips. Sucked. The (damn) eyes followed.
“You know something?” he said finally, going to rip off another (delicious) slice. He didn’t wait for Michael to reply. “I don’t believe in coincidences Michael.”
He went to work on another slice. Michael stared.
“Nah, I don’t believe in any of that shit.” Alex’s eyes flickered up to Michael. Michael shifted in his seat (want him).
“And you know what else Michael? I’m not a psychic. Nah - ask me to prophesize what you’ll eat for breakfast tomorrow and I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything beyond the most pathetic guess of Lucky Charms or some shit.” Alex licked his lips. “But I know what you’re thinking right now. Right this very second. And it has nothing whatever to do with coincidences or psychics or even Lucky Charms.”
“Oh yeah?” Michael’s voice was slick, his brow furrowed. He met Alex’s eyes straight on and Alex had to suppress a groan (god).
“Yeah.” The corners of Alex’s lips twitched. He stared down at the orange, his resolve finally broken (damn eyes).
“You want me.”
FIN
Author: interpretthis
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Alex/Michael
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Slash
Beta:
shinyboot
Challenge:
psych_30
Prompt: 18 - Instinct
Summary: Alex is not a psychic.
Note: Written for the fifth
pbfic_exchange2.
The man shuffled the cards. Cocked his head. Grinned. Rifled through and pulled one out. The card was pristine. Blank.
“Next?”
Alex glared at the man. Clenched his fist.
“I don’t have a flying fuck of a clue.” He slumped in his chair, swinging his long legs up to land on the table. The man went at it again, sorting through the large pile. He selected the top card, holding it up for Alex to see. For Alex to see.
“No.” Alex ran a shaking hand through his hair. Gripped the arm of his chair.
Again. Shuffle. Grin. Remove. Display.
Alex gave a low growl, shooting out of his chair. Palms slammed onto the table in place of his feet.
“I’m not a fucking psychic. I couldn’t tell you what shit’s on the back of your goddamn cards in a million years,” he spat at the man, digging his fingers into the ribbed plastic tabletop.
“Huh.” The man leaned forward. Grabbed the top three cards and flipped them over simultaneously. Their backs were splashed with color. Alex took them in hungrily, raking his eyes over the images. The first card displayed a VW bug. Green. The second a yellow picket fence, its points meeting the white of the card full-on. On the third was an orange. Round, ripe, succulent. It made Alex’s mouth water. He tried to meet the man’s eyes, but the face in front of him blurred, fuzzing into a mass of bleary features before reforming itself into a face he knew all too well.
“Michael!”
Alex shot up with a start, his pulse ramming through his head, a freight train of uncurbed anxiety. Too many nights had passed this way. Random dreams, frustrating images, all having nothing to do with Scofield and yet inherently determined to connect to him in a spontaneous flash of his face - a word spoken in his voice. They unhinged Alex. It’d been more than a year since he’d last spotted Scofield, comfortably stashed in the window seat of a train on its way to Georgia. Michael never made it to Georgia (always a man of unpredictable predictability). Matter of fact, he hadn’t even made it to the next stop before he was off again (should have known). The case had lost its publicity - had been outstripped by new escapes, new murders, new rapes. Unsurprisingly, the case hadn’t been lost to the recesses of Alex’s mind.
Not Scofield. (Why not Scofield?)
Alex showered, letting the rough water pound his shoulders into his chest, its heat scorching his skin. It was a necessary distraction, a device on which to focus his mind. As his logic went, if it he could focus his mind, he was one step farther from losing it. He liked to repeat this to himself. It calmed his nerves. (Calmed nerves are happy nerves.)
Alex had managed fairly easily by now to sort his life into manageable categories:
Work (Life) - Eat (when did everything start to taste like cardboard?) - Sleep (ideally dreamless) - Concentration (not on anyone in particular) - Mingling (trying to act as human as possible).
Six o’clock on a Monday morning fell into the overbearing category of Work, which, depending on the job, often helped Alex in the Concentration department (the good kind), while inevitably throwing him into the unfortunate area of Mingling (human as possible, human as possible).
Alex decided six fifteen on a Monday morning was the prime time to start believing in coincidences as he pulled into the right lane behind a vibrantly green VW bug. Thirty seconds later, as the red light turned green, he decided that any decisions made by his mind were weak at best and not worth sticking to. He didn’t even bother to tail the bug surreptitiously as it veered calmly around the corner, heading for the residential streets (never could ignore a lead).
Alex was already whacking his frail mind into shape the moment he laid eyes on the easter-yellow picket fence, its points riding up into the white of the house it ensconced, too alike the white of the man’s card (Michael’s card). He pulled into a space across the road, not even waiting for the bug to park in the driveway.
Michael was out of the car before Alex could blink. (Fuck.)
Alex popped the door handle, stepped out onto the crunchy black asphalt of the street underfoot (can’t leave without finding the…orange).
Alex crossed the street quickly, moving his way through the fateful yellow picket fence, his hand hovering over the gun stashed in his belt before moving away (who needs a gun to capture an unawares pacifist anyway?).
Michael stepped through the doorway slowly. He still hadn’t turned (he knows).
Alex kicked the door in as Michael let it fall shut behind him. The satisfying crack of wood against plaster rang out. Alex moved through the opening in one quick movement, kicking the battered door shut behind him, his Concentration on Michael now (always back to Scofield). Alex slammed him into the wall as Michael turned to face him, that self-satisfied smirk still playing about those too-red lips (could make them darker).
“Scofield,” Alex hissed, trying his best to sound dangerous (should have opted for the gun).
“Alex. Took you long enough.”
His breath played across Alex’s face like a dream (can’t breathe). His eyes - those damn blue eyes - too intense (look away). Alex stared (fucked-up). Michael’s red-red lips came closer (let them come).
Alex pushed away, moving through the nearest doorway with the agility and speed of a cat. The kitchen. He pulled out a chair and sat down as fast as possible. Looked around as Michael moved in to sit across from him. A window to his right looked out on that goddamn yellow picket fence. Purple flowers Alex hadn’t noticed before spun their way around the countertop. He looked at the table, trying to avoid those eyes. Oranges. A damn bowl of oranges, smack dab in the middle of the table (well fuck). Alex grabbed one and started peeling. Michael watched his every move (damn eyes).
Alex split the orange, easing a juicy slice off the top. He brought it to his lips. Sucked. The (damn) eyes followed.
“You know something?” he said finally, going to rip off another (delicious) slice. He didn’t wait for Michael to reply. “I don’t believe in coincidences Michael.”
He went to work on another slice. Michael stared.
“Nah, I don’t believe in any of that shit.” Alex’s eyes flickered up to Michael. Michael shifted in his seat (want him).
“And you know what else Michael? I’m not a psychic. Nah - ask me to prophesize what you’ll eat for breakfast tomorrow and I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything beyond the most pathetic guess of Lucky Charms or some shit.” Alex licked his lips. “But I know what you’re thinking right now. Right this very second. And it has nothing whatever to do with coincidences or psychics or even Lucky Charms.”
“Oh yeah?” Michael’s voice was slick, his brow furrowed. He met Alex’s eyes straight on and Alex had to suppress a groan (god).
“Yeah.” The corners of Alex’s lips twitched. He stared down at the orange, his resolve finally broken (damn eyes).
“You want me.”
FIN