Prison Break: The Next Best Thing (Alex/Michael)
Title: “The Next Best Thing”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG-13 (mentions of drug use, language)
Timeline: between Episodes 3x10 Dirt Nap and 3x11 Under & Out.
Summary: Alex alone with Michael in the tunnel. There is a better drug than heroin right before him. [Slashy undertones]
Disclaimer: That’s so not mine!
A/N: I’ve only managed to watch Season 3 this week, and this is what came out when I was racking my brain where there could be a bit of extra A/M interaction. XD
THE NEXT BEST THING
This (all this) is just insane. He should not be here. Not after he was given a chance to be out of this hellhole, but he wouldn’t be Alexander Mahone if he hadn’t flushed it down the drain.
Ruined.
Like the rest of his life.
And he’s here again. With Scofield (who - and deep down inside Alex can’t argue with that anymore - doesn’t deserve to be here any more than Lincoln Burrows deserved to be in Fox River, because - and life’s so damn unfair! - they are both innocent men… or at least they used to be). With that Whistler guy (fisherman, my ass!). With those familiar faces from before, and his own nightmares (dreams, dreams, if only they were just dreams), and voices…
But now he has something more. Resolve. He remembers how pathetic he was in court, and he knows he needs to quit. If he can quit…
…then he can get out of it.
And it seems vital.
They work in that damn tunnel so hard that every cell in his body overflows with pain. It’s hard to breathe there, hard to concentrate, but Alex tries, does his best, and he looks - and feels - almost all right.
He catches Michael’s intent gaze the moment they set another cross-bar. Michael’s face is smeared with yellowish dust; despite that it’s almost shining. Alex wallows in that drug-induced admiration that looking at Michael causes.
Before long, Scofield glances at him again.
“You have something to say?” Alex wonders. “Because if you do, you’d better say it before you burn a hole, staring like that.”
Michael averts his eyes, looking almost perplexed. Alex snorts.
“I thought I told you to get yourself together.”
Alex looks down at his hands. They are a wee bit shaky; nothing fatal.
“Yeah… A long time ago. When you planned to ditch me. Like that pen.”
Michael glances at him briefly. Alex has little time to decipher what he sees in the man’s eyes. Guilt? Oh yeah, Scofield’s a fucking saint!
He rubs his eyes wearily. The taste of dust and dirt clogs his nostrils.
“I’m coming off,” he confesses suddenly.
Michael reacts after a while. He gives a barely noticeable shrug and says, struggling to pick the right words:
“That’s, uh… commendable.”
“I figured I’d be more useful if I were clean. To myself, above all else.”
“Hmm.”
Alex rubs his palms briskly against each other. His addiction is a tricky matter. He hates to discuss it, but then again, Michael should be able to understand.
“It started with Shales,” he draws out thoughtfully. “I thought I could, you know, settle down, because these damn visions… they were just… unbearable. I never deluded myself I could quit. I know enough about drugs to know that once you’re in you can’t get out bloodlessly. And here… I didn’t have my pills here. And…”
“Look,” Michael interrupts harshly. “I really don’t think I’m-.”
“What? The right person?” Alex chuckles. A few drops of sweat trickle down his temple; he wipes them off hastily. “I think you are. Because, Michael, after heroin, you’re the next best thing.”
Michael has his back on him, but Alex doesn’t have to see his face to know that he is frowning. He can tell by the way his shoulders tense, and the way his breath hitches for a moment, and the way he stubbornly will not turn around.
“Chasing you,” Mahone elaborates, “was almost like that.”
Michael is silent. Then he replies quietly:
“Running from you was almost like that, too.”
Alex nods vaguely. Grains of dirt feel almost razor-sharp beneath his fingers.
The silence that hangs between them is thick, heavy, almost comfortable. Alex screws his eyes shut so hard it hurts and inhales deeply. The earthy scent of sweat fills him to the brim. Somewhere close to him Michael puts another cross-bar.
And something goes wrong.
Alex feels it, rather than sees or hears it. He darts forth and catches Michael as he slips off. One of the cross-bars slides out; dirt pours down, and Alex barely has enough time to pull Michael away. He trips and sprawls on the floor, Michael crashing on top of him.
A moment later Michael groans. “Ouch…”
“Guess it wasn’t part of the plan, huh?” Alex taunts. “Not like Sammy?”
Michael dismisses the question with another groan that slowly transits into coughing.
“I’m glad you feel comfortable. Because I’m most certainly not a mattress, Michael.”
Now this is embarrassing. Scofield practically jumps off of him and almost hits the wall. Alex resists the urge to laugh. It shouldn’t be too hard since resistance is what he has practiced ever since he ran out of drugs; yet somehow it is hard.
And Michael can see it. His lips curve slightly. Or is it wishful thinking?
Alex doesn’t know why he wants to earn one human reaction from Michael, be it laughter, or anger, or sadness. Perhaps he just needs to know it’s not too late for Michael because even though he almost hates him, he also almost, almost pities him. The kid’s just been through too much.
They set to work quietly. Alex’s mind is racing. The way Scofield’s heart was beating when he lay on top of him… He’s gotta be really nervous.
Another sharp intake of breath. ‘You’re doing real great, Alex,’ he tells himself mentally. ‘Real great.’
“Alex.”
“Yeah?”
Scofield squints up at him. Mahone tries to focus his attention on him and loves the fact that he can do it.
“Will you ever forget that damn pen?”
That… almost sounds like a joke. Alex lets out a small, uncertain laugh.
“Fat chance,” he whispers with a touch of soft humour and notes with satisfaction that his tremour has subsided.
Maybe Michael is better.
May 12, 2008