"End/Beginning", for morphinelovexx
Title: End/Beginning
Author: To be revealed
Rating: PG-13
Category: AU, Action/adventure, Drama
Characters: Self, Michael, Mahone. Hits of Mahone/Self, Michael/Mahone.
Requested by: morphinelovexx
Summary: That sort of magic never happens at the DHS, and Self has no idea why not.
Author’s Notes: morphinelovexx wanted Michael, Alex, Lincoln, Sucre, Self or Wyatt and the three elements of Biblical, the sentence "I never said that," and glasses.
~*~
It starts out like this:
Self doesn’t care how badly he screws the convicts. They’re convicts. Under American law, they’re not even really people. They don’t have the right to vote, for Christ’s sake. They got themselves into this mess, on purpose or not, and Self doesn’t have any responsibility to get them out of it.
It ends like this:
Michael is unconscious, pale, on the hospital bed, two half-empty glasses of water on the tray next to him. Unlike Self’s ever seen him, but the machines beep, reassuringly, and Sara Tancredi isn’t bothering the medical staff, so Self assumes things are okay.
He checks his watch, a headache building behind his eyes, and wonders if he should have stolen Scylla for himself after all.
~*~
Two years ago, Self begins.
He doesn’t have a plan, per se. Mostly just a set of ideas. Mostly just a gnawing, right at the pit of his chest, a gut feeling that says he’s worked at this his whole life and he hasn’t made a damn bit of difference. That the United States government has sucked him in, chewed him up, and shut him in a cubicle. Chained him so that he can’t help and he can’t get out.
That’s when he knows that the next chance he gets, he’s not going to wait for the damn paperwork. He’s not going to let the ponderously slow, dangerously unstable government do his work.
~*~
Now, Self has chosen an extraordinary team. Most of them don’t look like much, granted. But each of them - even Mahone, whose body language is all wrong, Bellick, who gripes more than he works, stumbles more than he succeeds - is a member of the team.
That sort of magic never happens at the DHS, and Self has no idea why not.
~*~
Two years ago, Self arrives too late.
What is it he hopes to find?
Crates of guns. Shipping containers. Guards. Scraps of paper. Something.
What does he find?
Squares of displaced dust on the warehouse floor.
Twenty-four hours earlier, and he might have had his man.
~*~
Mahone doesn’t like being touched. So, of course, Self takes the first opportunity he has to touch him, unexpectedly, so he can know for sure how Mahone will react.
It’s innocent. Mahone spends a lot of time alone, Self gathers. So Self goes and finds him, one day, when he is. Approaches from behind, and touches Mahone’s shoulder, in comfort.
“I’m sorry about your son,” he says.
Mahone jerks away from the touch. Mildly, only a few inches, just enough to get Self’s hand off of him.
Good. Mahone isn’t violent.
“Yeah?” asks Mahone, looking up, over his shoulder. “He’s nothing to you. He’s the reason I’m here. So how about you go ahead and take care of your end and save your platitudes, is that all right with you?”
Self withdraws, uncharacteristically stung. Mahone is right. How can he be right?
~*~
Two years ago, Self waits.
The junior federal judge, the one on-call for emergency search warrants, is nowhere to be found. And they need that warrant now.
Five steps and Self jerks to a halt. Turns around, five more steps, pushes aside his desk chair and makes a whole circuit of his office.
10:15 PM. Soon, please let it be soon.
~*~
“Good luck,” says Michael, softly, to Mahone. His hand lingers on Mahone’s, just for a second, before he leaves. Off to do his part.
Self hesitates, before exiting the room. Glances back -
And Mahone is touching where Michael touched, on his hand. Echoing the motion, like he couldn’t believe Michael actually did it.
Michael Scofield’s approval is like the touch of the Savior, in this group. Self doesn’t understand it.
~*~
Two years ago, they have it. One informant flips, then another, then the case, the case they’ve been working at for years, starts to break.
Self can feel it. This one’s coming to an end.
~*~
“You’ll get the best medical care available, I promise you,” says Self. “The ambulance’ll be here in half an hour.”
And he leaves them behind, in the warehouse.
He thuds down into his car seat, and turns the key in the ignition. Glances over at Scylla.
It would be so easy.
“Fuck,” curses Self, and he dials 911.
~*~
Two years ago, Self almost has his man.
‘His man’. He’s never felt that phrase truly fit. Self doesn’t get personally involved in his cases - it’s against policy. Agents always work in teams, and the job is less chasing bad guys, guns drawn, then it is shifting mountains of paperwork. Straightening out bureaucracy. Looking at pictures, patterns, crunching data.
And that’s okay. Self is good at that. But he’s never connected with a perp, he’s never become the cop he always wanted to be.
Until now.
They’re so close.
~*~
“You’ve been looking all day like you regret something,” says Mahone. Challenges Mahone, more like. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” dismisses Self.
Mahone takes Self by the tie and pushes him into the wall, right next to Michael’s hospital bed. A nurse pauses, partway down the hall.
“It’s fine,” says Self, to the nurse, “it’s okay. I’m a federal agent, it’s okay.”
“You’re lying,” says Mahone.
“What, about being a federal agent?”
“I never said that,” snaps Mahone. “Don’t - play games with me.” Mahone’s teeth are gritted; his tone quiet and cold.
“I’m not,” insists Self. “I’m not,” at Mahone’s disbelieving look. “What you see is what you get, and what happened was what happened. Now get your hands off of me, Alex, because while you are most certainly not in prison, you are also most certainly not allowed to assault officers of the law.”
Mahone releases Self, reluctantly. A little too reluctantly.
“Michael’s getting released tonight,” says Mahone. “There’s going to be a celebration, at a bar, downtown. You’re invited.”
“I can’t,” lies Self.
Mahone sees it. Self knows Mahone sees it.
Neither of them admit to anything, for a long, silent moment.
“Don’t let the job eat you up,” says Mahone, finally, turning away.
Already done, thinks Self.
~*~
Two years ago, his boss, a black woman in a fully buttoned suit jacket hands him an assignment to find a group of arms dealers. Self’s heartbeat jumps; this will be a good assignment. This will mean something.
“I’ll get this done right away,” he promises.
~*~
Today, his boss, a white man with an all-too-prominent mustache, hands him an assignment that he doesn’t see. The words on the paper blur together.
“I’ll get this done right away,” he promises.
Author: To be revealed
Rating: PG-13
Category: AU, Action/adventure, Drama
Characters: Self, Michael, Mahone. Hits of Mahone/Self, Michael/Mahone.
Requested by: morphinelovexx
Summary: That sort of magic never happens at the DHS, and Self has no idea why not.
Author’s Notes: morphinelovexx wanted Michael, Alex, Lincoln, Sucre, Self or Wyatt and the three elements of Biblical, the sentence "I never said that," and glasses.
~*~
It starts out like this:
Self doesn’t care how badly he screws the convicts. They’re convicts. Under American law, they’re not even really people. They don’t have the right to vote, for Christ’s sake. They got themselves into this mess, on purpose or not, and Self doesn’t have any responsibility to get them out of it.
It ends like this:
Michael is unconscious, pale, on the hospital bed, two half-empty glasses of water on the tray next to him. Unlike Self’s ever seen him, but the machines beep, reassuringly, and Sara Tancredi isn’t bothering the medical staff, so Self assumes things are okay.
He checks his watch, a headache building behind his eyes, and wonders if he should have stolen Scylla for himself after all.
~*~
Two years ago, Self begins.
He doesn’t have a plan, per se. Mostly just a set of ideas. Mostly just a gnawing, right at the pit of his chest, a gut feeling that says he’s worked at this his whole life and he hasn’t made a damn bit of difference. That the United States government has sucked him in, chewed him up, and shut him in a cubicle. Chained him so that he can’t help and he can’t get out.
That’s when he knows that the next chance he gets, he’s not going to wait for the damn paperwork. He’s not going to let the ponderously slow, dangerously unstable government do his work.
~*~
Now, Self has chosen an extraordinary team. Most of them don’t look like much, granted. But each of them - even Mahone, whose body language is all wrong, Bellick, who gripes more than he works, stumbles more than he succeeds - is a member of the team.
That sort of magic never happens at the DHS, and Self has no idea why not.
~*~
Two years ago, Self arrives too late.
What is it he hopes to find?
Crates of guns. Shipping containers. Guards. Scraps of paper. Something.
What does he find?
Squares of displaced dust on the warehouse floor.
Twenty-four hours earlier, and he might have had his man.
~*~
Mahone doesn’t like being touched. So, of course, Self takes the first opportunity he has to touch him, unexpectedly, so he can know for sure how Mahone will react.
It’s innocent. Mahone spends a lot of time alone, Self gathers. So Self goes and finds him, one day, when he is. Approaches from behind, and touches Mahone’s shoulder, in comfort.
“I’m sorry about your son,” he says.
Mahone jerks away from the touch. Mildly, only a few inches, just enough to get Self’s hand off of him.
Good. Mahone isn’t violent.
“Yeah?” asks Mahone, looking up, over his shoulder. “He’s nothing to you. He’s the reason I’m here. So how about you go ahead and take care of your end and save your platitudes, is that all right with you?”
Self withdraws, uncharacteristically stung. Mahone is right. How can he be right?
~*~
Two years ago, Self waits.
The junior federal judge, the one on-call for emergency search warrants, is nowhere to be found. And they need that warrant now.
Five steps and Self jerks to a halt. Turns around, five more steps, pushes aside his desk chair and makes a whole circuit of his office.
10:15 PM. Soon, please let it be soon.
~*~
“Good luck,” says Michael, softly, to Mahone. His hand lingers on Mahone’s, just for a second, before he leaves. Off to do his part.
Self hesitates, before exiting the room. Glances back -
And Mahone is touching where Michael touched, on his hand. Echoing the motion, like he couldn’t believe Michael actually did it.
Michael Scofield’s approval is like the touch of the Savior, in this group. Self doesn’t understand it.
~*~
Two years ago, they have it. One informant flips, then another, then the case, the case they’ve been working at for years, starts to break.
Self can feel it. This one’s coming to an end.
~*~
“You’ll get the best medical care available, I promise you,” says Self. “The ambulance’ll be here in half an hour.”
And he leaves them behind, in the warehouse.
He thuds down into his car seat, and turns the key in the ignition. Glances over at Scylla.
It would be so easy.
“Fuck,” curses Self, and he dials 911.
~*~
Two years ago, Self almost has his man.
‘His man’. He’s never felt that phrase truly fit. Self doesn’t get personally involved in his cases - it’s against policy. Agents always work in teams, and the job is less chasing bad guys, guns drawn, then it is shifting mountains of paperwork. Straightening out bureaucracy. Looking at pictures, patterns, crunching data.
And that’s okay. Self is good at that. But he’s never connected with a perp, he’s never become the cop he always wanted to be.
Until now.
They’re so close.
~*~
“You’ve been looking all day like you regret something,” says Mahone. Challenges Mahone, more like. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” dismisses Self.
Mahone takes Self by the tie and pushes him into the wall, right next to Michael’s hospital bed. A nurse pauses, partway down the hall.
“It’s fine,” says Self, to the nurse, “it’s okay. I’m a federal agent, it’s okay.”
“You’re lying,” says Mahone.
“What, about being a federal agent?”
“I never said that,” snaps Mahone. “Don’t - play games with me.” Mahone’s teeth are gritted; his tone quiet and cold.
“I’m not,” insists Self. “I’m not,” at Mahone’s disbelieving look. “What you see is what you get, and what happened was what happened. Now get your hands off of me, Alex, because while you are most certainly not in prison, you are also most certainly not allowed to assault officers of the law.”
Mahone releases Self, reluctantly. A little too reluctantly.
“Michael’s getting released tonight,” says Mahone. “There’s going to be a celebration, at a bar, downtown. You’re invited.”
“I can’t,” lies Self.
Mahone sees it. Self knows Mahone sees it.
Neither of them admit to anything, for a long, silent moment.
“Don’t let the job eat you up,” says Mahone, finally, turning away.
Already done, thinks Self.
~*~
Two years ago, his boss, a black woman in a fully buttoned suit jacket hands him an assignment to find a group of arms dealers. Self’s heartbeat jumps; this will be a good assignment. This will mean something.
“I’ll get this done right away,” he promises.
~*~
Today, his boss, a white man with an all-too-prominent mustache, hands him an assignment that he doesn’t see. The words on the paper blur together.
“I’ll get this done right away,” he promises.