Title: "Fox River Blues"
Fandom: Prison Break
Rating/Classification: AC for language, Sucre/Michael, slash, ficlet.
Disclaimer: I do not own them.
Summary: His fists are tight against his sides.
He used to think the hardest thing about doing time was missing Maricruz. Was knowing that she was out there somewhere, breathing air that he couldn't share. Then, he realized there were worse things...like never being able to take a piss without somebody listening. Or the patos like T-Bag and his boys cornering you in the yard.
Hell, there's a lot of shitty things about doing time. That's kind of the point, yeah?
But the waiting...the waiting is the worst. He's got that now.
The minutes ticking by are longer than the ones he thought would never end back when mami used to drag him to church on Sundays. Worse than the ones he spent in detention practically every week in junior high. Worse than the ones where he imagined Maricruz and Hector going at it like fucking rabbits.
His fists are tight against his sides. He tries not to even breathe. Like that's somehow going to make it better. Make it go faster.
"Come on," he whispers. "Come on, Mike, where are you?"
After forever, he hears the sound of the toilet scraping and moving. It's always so freaking loud in his ears but, by now, he's calmed down about the guards hearing it. Noises are no big deal. There's always all kinds of them on the block. Things nobody wants to know. It's finding Michael's bunk empty...without double occupancy in his...that would jack things up for everybody.
"Miss me?" Michael asks, like he was out taking a walk in the fucking park. That's how he is. Almost always. Calm and focused and too smart for his own good.
"Fuck off," he snaps, only joking a little, turning on his side and facing the wall.
"You're not even going to ask me how it went?"
"I know how it went, pendejo. You did something genius and now you're done, so shut up and sleep, yeah?"
His bunk sags. Michael's hand is warm on the back of his neck and on his shoulder as he shoves him over to make room. After a minute, he breathes out, grumbling, and scoots on over.
The waiting is the worst part of doing time.
The hardest? Michael fucking Scofield.
He tries not to even breathe. Like that's somehow going to make it better. Make it go faster. It doesn't. So he twists his fingers in Michael's T-shirt and follows the blueprints until they stop.
Until he's got nowhere else to go.
That's kind of the point, yeah?
March 28, 2006.