(no subject)
He breathed a sigh of relief as the phone rang. It was the call he’d been waiting for: Lincoln calling from a pay-phone to let Michael know where he and LJ had been staying. Grateful to hear his brother’s voice after an uncomfortable week of uncertainty, Michael quickly scribbled down the address on a piece of note paper.
Lincoln & LJ
2613 Lanark Drive,
Suite #2
He glanced at his watch. It was well past midnight. Just a few more minutes, he thought to himself as he continued to flip through the heavy case file. The rain outside poured down defiantly, obscuring the presence of the man standing outside on Michael’s tiny balcony.
Theodore Bagwell stood completely still; his head tilted slightly to one side as he watched Michael from the window. A faint smile crept upon his lips. He had been there for a few minutes now; just reveling in the idea that he would soon be inside that tiny apartment, where Michael could see him too.
He pressed both hands gently against the glass, tracing the foggy patches that his breath had left on the window. Michael was still sitting there, concentrating on his reading, oblivious to the other man’s presence. T-Bag hadn’t had a lot of time to think about what exactly he was going to do once he broke into Michael’s apartment, but that didn’t matter. He’d make it up as he went along.
Sweeping his hand across the glass, T-Bag reached for the door handle. Of course it would not turn all the way - Michael had locked it. T-Bag had expected as much. He shrugged the backpack he was carrying off his shoulders, and started sifting through a myriad of tools he had stolen a day earlier. He finally pulled a curved metal pick out of his pocket and began to work at the lock. After a few moments, T-Bag rose and tried the doorknob again. As he thrust it sideways, he heard a faint cracking noise as the lock came loose. Looking up, T-Bag glanced at Michael again through the glass. Thankfully, the sound of the rain had hidden the noise and Michael hadn’t budged. The door swung open easily, and Theodore quietly slipped inside.
Michael was seated less than ten feet away, with his back partially turned in T-Bag’s direction. T-Bag’s heart began to race. He was so close to Michael he could almost smell him. In fact, the more he thought about it, T-Bag realized that he actually could smell him. Michael smelled like red wine and aftershave, sort of mixed together in an interesting, masculine combination. Before T-Bag could even make a move, Michael suddenly turned and rose from his chair.
“What the hell…T-Bag!?” Michael yelled, his eyes filled with surprise from seeing T-Bag just standing there in his living room with no explanation.
Teddy twisted his tongue in his mouth. It wasn’t exactly the entrance that he had intended to make, but he had to go with the flow.
“Long time, no see, Pretty. How’s life on the outside been treating ya?” He asked in his heavy southern drawl.
Michael just stared. “How did you find me? Who told you where I was?”
T-Bag grinned, ignoring the interrogation that Michael was giving him. “Don’t worry, Pretty, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t be giving up your whereabouts any time soon.”
Michael uneasily glanced towards the balcony, and saw the door partially open. He glared at the man standing before him. T-Bag was dressed in dark jeans, a plain white wife-beater, and a black button up long-sleeved shirt. His bleached blond hair was matted to his head from the rain, apart from that same tuff of hair that always stuck up at the front, refusing to submit. His skin seemed flawless, if not perfect. It was strange to see T-Bag like this; he seemed almost out of context outside of prison. Michael swallowed. He was not getting good vibes from T-Bag, although that was nothing new.
“There was a reason why we all parted ways once we escaped Fox River. I don’t want you hanging around me or Lincoln anymore. We’ve eluded the police for now, and we’re working on proving Lincoln innocent…”
T-Bag shrugged, stepping closer to Michael. “Well then I might as well tell you right now, Pretty, that I ain’t here to watch you play the devil’s advocate, as amusing as that is. And I don’t give a damn about Lincoln…I’m here for you.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Michael glared. He had never been physically afraid of T-Bag, but he didn’t trust him.
“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but we’re not at Fox River anymore,” Michael replied. “I don’t have to play along with any of your games.”
T-Bag flashed Michael his trademark grin. “Pretty, that’s just the point I’m trying to make,” he drawled. “Do you have any understanding how long I have waited for a moment just like this one? You and I, alone, no metal bars keeping us apart, no one else here to stop me from having a little fun.” He stepped even closer to Michael, stopping only inches away from his face. “You don’t necessarily have to play along-”
Suddenly, Michael reached down and pulled something out of his pocket. T-Bag saw the smooth metal of the handgun gleaming in the faint lamplight. Michael aimed the gun straight at the other man’s head.
“Get out of here. Now.”
Instinctually, T-Bag brought one hand up in front of his face to shield himself. He bit his lip. “Now, now, Pretty. Is that anyway to treat a houseguest?”
“Leave. I’m not asking again.” Michael repeated as he cocked the gun.
Seeing Michael holding a gun in his hand was entertaining at the very least; and T-Bag briefly wondered if he would actually go so far as to pull the trigger. He figured no, since Michael couldn’t afford to have that kind of blood on his hands, so to speak. It didn’t really matter. T-Bag didn’t like guns. And he hated having one pointed at him. He wasn’t going to push the matter.
Twisting his tongue in his mouth, T-Bag sighed and began to move towards the door. But he didn’t get very far. He couldn’t let Michael think that he was in control of the situation. Turning on his heal, T-Bag faced Michael, his hands raised. “Why don’t we call a truce? You let me stay, and I won’t be sending this address, anonymously, to the Feds.”
Michael’s grip on the gun didn’t waver. “I don’t want you here, T-Bag. I don’t you near me, or anyone else in my family. Now get out of my apartment.”
“Put the gun away, Scofield. We both know you ain’t going to shoot me.” He slowly stepped forward toward Michael, ignoring the gun being pointed at his forehead.
Before Michael could realize what was happening, T-Bag pounced. Using all his strength, he knocked the younger man to the ground, wrenching the handgun away. Michael swung at T-Bag, hitting him in the jaw. The gun skidded across the floor and stopped a few feet away.
T-Bag tried to hold Michael down, but he twisted free. Shoving T-Bag away from him, Michael leapt to his feet and lunged for the gun. He had just managed to curl his fingers around the barrel of the gun when T-Bag hit him from behind. Michael fell to his knees instantly, and then to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bloody hammer in T-Bag’s hand.
*****
Michael heard himself cry out; the sound of his own voice echoed uncomfortably through his skull. In an instant, blackness corrupted Michael’s vision, leaving him blind and in total agony. Seconds later his vision began to return, but he was left a blurry scene of colors and shapes. The pain was overwhelming. Michael felt a sudden weight on top of him. He knew it was T-Bag.
The weight on top of him shifted, and T-Bag’s blurry face came into view. Unable to move, the pain throbbed in Michael’s head, and vibrated through his entire body. T-bag leaned over Michael as he straddled him; so close that Michael could feel his breath against his cheek. “Looks like I got ya pretty bad,” T-Bag remarked almost casually. He ran his tongue along his lips as he looked down at Michael, realizing pretty quick that he wouldn't be fighting back. With one hand, T-Bag reached down and began to tear open Michael’s shirt.
Michael couldn’t even so much as lift his arms, let alone fight the other man off. He felt T-Bag’s hand creeping slowly downward, until the last button on his shirt was ripped apart. T-Bag then began tracing over the lines of Michael’s tattoo with his fingers; his eyes fixated on the patterns of ink; his thoughts undeniably morbid.
The feeling of T-Bag’s fingers caressing his bare chest was too much for Michael. He tried to move, but it was as though all the energy in his body had slipped away into nothingness.
Through blurry eyes, Michael watched helpless as Theodore’s lips brushed against his skin, trailing upwards across the lines of his tattoo; upwards until he reached his neck. T-Bag paused for a short moment, his lips pressed against Michael’s throat, eyes closed. He could feel Michael’s pulse, and how it quickened under him. He enjoyed that sensation.
He then looked right into Michael’s eyes with an intensity Michael had never seen before. Michael stared back, tears blurring his sight. T-bag didn’t hesitate as he threw his mouth hard onto the boy’s lips, his tongue tasting Michael’s for the first time. Michael only allowed this to happen for a second before furiously twisting his mouth away from T-Bag’s.
“Get off of me…” Michael whispered. He was breathing heavily, struggling to find some random ounce of strength and coordination so that he could somehow push T-bag off of him, but it just wasn’t happening.
T-bag smirked in response. “What’s the matter, boy, not enjoying all the attention I am giving ya?”
Michael could feel something wet at the back of his head, and knew he was bleeding. This wasn’t stopping T-bag. His hands were already on Michael’s belt and were moving quickly, almost methodically. In mere seconds, he had Michael naked and on his stomach in front of him.
By this time, Michael was slipping in and out of consciousness; partly from the concussion, and partly from the pain. Still, he felt it when Theodore penetrated him; he felt it as he was thrust into again and again, each time with more force. He could feel T-Bag’s hands wrapped around his hips; forcing their bodies closer together, as tight as he could get them. In the midst of trying to block out the pain, the dizziness, and the nausea, Michael forced himself to focus on the feeling of pleasure that his body was struggling to convey against his will. If only he could move, if only he could just move…
He felt an overwhelming feeling of euphoria before everything went black, and the moment before he lost consciousness; Michael was left with the sickening thought that even if he was to die right then, T-Bag wouldn’t stop until he was finished.
*****
Hours later, Michael’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a ringing phone. The room was completely dark, and it took him a few seconds to figure out where he was. As Michael tried to sit up, the sudden movement made him feel nauseous. A throbbing pain at the back of his head was angrily making itself known. Michael paused, trying to remember what had happened to him. The ringing phone was growing more annoying by the moment. In the pitch black, he fumbled dizzily, and slowly, towards the source of the obnoxious ring.
“Hello?” Michael answered weakly. He heard some scuffling on the line, but no one spoke.
“Hello??” Michael repeated louder as the aching pain in his head grew steadily worse. The digital clock on the desk was flashing 3:27am. He reached to switch on the lamp that was on the desk. The harsh light flooded his eyes, leaving him squinting in pain. He listened into the receiver wondering what it was that he was hearing. It sounded like there was struggling in the background.
“Who is this?” Michael demanded.
All he could hear was muffled crying in the background. Suddenly, whomever was on the other line hung up. Michael put down the phone slowly. His head was spinning. Although his memory was blurry, he remembered enough to know how he’d injured his head, and why he wasn’t wearing anything…
T-Bag.
Michael wondered for a split second why he was still alive. Something on the desk caught his eye. It was a piece of note paper, lying alone on the middle of the desk. He picked it up. It was the page he had used earlier to write down Lincoln and LJ’s address. Micheal’s breath caught in his throat.
Right underneath the address, was scribbled in black lettering:
“Thanks Pretty.”
Lincoln & LJ
2613 Lanark Drive,
Suite #2
He glanced at his watch. It was well past midnight. Just a few more minutes, he thought to himself as he continued to flip through the heavy case file. The rain outside poured down defiantly, obscuring the presence of the man standing outside on Michael’s tiny balcony.
Theodore Bagwell stood completely still; his head tilted slightly to one side as he watched Michael from the window. A faint smile crept upon his lips. He had been there for a few minutes now; just reveling in the idea that he would soon be inside that tiny apartment, where Michael could see him too.
He pressed both hands gently against the glass, tracing the foggy patches that his breath had left on the window. Michael was still sitting there, concentrating on his reading, oblivious to the other man’s presence. T-Bag hadn’t had a lot of time to think about what exactly he was going to do once he broke into Michael’s apartment, but that didn’t matter. He’d make it up as he went along.
Sweeping his hand across the glass, T-Bag reached for the door handle. Of course it would not turn all the way - Michael had locked it. T-Bag had expected as much. He shrugged the backpack he was carrying off his shoulders, and started sifting through a myriad of tools he had stolen a day earlier. He finally pulled a curved metal pick out of his pocket and began to work at the lock. After a few moments, T-Bag rose and tried the doorknob again. As he thrust it sideways, he heard a faint cracking noise as the lock came loose. Looking up, T-Bag glanced at Michael again through the glass. Thankfully, the sound of the rain had hidden the noise and Michael hadn’t budged. The door swung open easily, and Theodore quietly slipped inside.
Michael was seated less than ten feet away, with his back partially turned in T-Bag’s direction. T-Bag’s heart began to race. He was so close to Michael he could almost smell him. In fact, the more he thought about it, T-Bag realized that he actually could smell him. Michael smelled like red wine and aftershave, sort of mixed together in an interesting, masculine combination. Before T-Bag could even make a move, Michael suddenly turned and rose from his chair.
“What the hell…T-Bag!?” Michael yelled, his eyes filled with surprise from seeing T-Bag just standing there in his living room with no explanation.
Teddy twisted his tongue in his mouth. It wasn’t exactly the entrance that he had intended to make, but he had to go with the flow.
“Long time, no see, Pretty. How’s life on the outside been treating ya?” He asked in his heavy southern drawl.
Michael just stared. “How did you find me? Who told you where I was?”
T-Bag grinned, ignoring the interrogation that Michael was giving him. “Don’t worry, Pretty, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t be giving up your whereabouts any time soon.”
Michael uneasily glanced towards the balcony, and saw the door partially open. He glared at the man standing before him. T-Bag was dressed in dark jeans, a plain white wife-beater, and a black button up long-sleeved shirt. His bleached blond hair was matted to his head from the rain, apart from that same tuff of hair that always stuck up at the front, refusing to submit. His skin seemed flawless, if not perfect. It was strange to see T-Bag like this; he seemed almost out of context outside of prison. Michael swallowed. He was not getting good vibes from T-Bag, although that was nothing new.
“There was a reason why we all parted ways once we escaped Fox River. I don’t want you hanging around me or Lincoln anymore. We’ve eluded the police for now, and we’re working on proving Lincoln innocent…”
T-Bag shrugged, stepping closer to Michael. “Well then I might as well tell you right now, Pretty, that I ain’t here to watch you play the devil’s advocate, as amusing as that is. And I don’t give a damn about Lincoln…I’m here for you.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Michael glared. He had never been physically afraid of T-Bag, but he didn’t trust him.
“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but we’re not at Fox River anymore,” Michael replied. “I don’t have to play along with any of your games.”
T-Bag flashed Michael his trademark grin. “Pretty, that’s just the point I’m trying to make,” he drawled. “Do you have any understanding how long I have waited for a moment just like this one? You and I, alone, no metal bars keeping us apart, no one else here to stop me from having a little fun.” He stepped even closer to Michael, stopping only inches away from his face. “You don’t necessarily have to play along-”
Suddenly, Michael reached down and pulled something out of his pocket. T-Bag saw the smooth metal of the handgun gleaming in the faint lamplight. Michael aimed the gun straight at the other man’s head.
“Get out of here. Now.”
Instinctually, T-Bag brought one hand up in front of his face to shield himself. He bit his lip. “Now, now, Pretty. Is that anyway to treat a houseguest?”
“Leave. I’m not asking again.” Michael repeated as he cocked the gun.
Seeing Michael holding a gun in his hand was entertaining at the very least; and T-Bag briefly wondered if he would actually go so far as to pull the trigger. He figured no, since Michael couldn’t afford to have that kind of blood on his hands, so to speak. It didn’t really matter. T-Bag didn’t like guns. And he hated having one pointed at him. He wasn’t going to push the matter.
Twisting his tongue in his mouth, T-Bag sighed and began to move towards the door. But he didn’t get very far. He couldn’t let Michael think that he was in control of the situation. Turning on his heal, T-Bag faced Michael, his hands raised. “Why don’t we call a truce? You let me stay, and I won’t be sending this address, anonymously, to the Feds.”
Michael’s grip on the gun didn’t waver. “I don’t want you here, T-Bag. I don’t you near me, or anyone else in my family. Now get out of my apartment.”
“Put the gun away, Scofield. We both know you ain’t going to shoot me.” He slowly stepped forward toward Michael, ignoring the gun being pointed at his forehead.
Before Michael could realize what was happening, T-Bag pounced. Using all his strength, he knocked the younger man to the ground, wrenching the handgun away. Michael swung at T-Bag, hitting him in the jaw. The gun skidded across the floor and stopped a few feet away.
T-Bag tried to hold Michael down, but he twisted free. Shoving T-Bag away from him, Michael leapt to his feet and lunged for the gun. He had just managed to curl his fingers around the barrel of the gun when T-Bag hit him from behind. Michael fell to his knees instantly, and then to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bloody hammer in T-Bag’s hand.
*****
Michael heard himself cry out; the sound of his own voice echoed uncomfortably through his skull. In an instant, blackness corrupted Michael’s vision, leaving him blind and in total agony. Seconds later his vision began to return, but he was left a blurry scene of colors and shapes. The pain was overwhelming. Michael felt a sudden weight on top of him. He knew it was T-Bag.
The weight on top of him shifted, and T-Bag’s blurry face came into view. Unable to move, the pain throbbed in Michael’s head, and vibrated through his entire body. T-bag leaned over Michael as he straddled him; so close that Michael could feel his breath against his cheek. “Looks like I got ya pretty bad,” T-Bag remarked almost casually. He ran his tongue along his lips as he looked down at Michael, realizing pretty quick that he wouldn't be fighting back. With one hand, T-Bag reached down and began to tear open Michael’s shirt.
Michael couldn’t even so much as lift his arms, let alone fight the other man off. He felt T-Bag’s hand creeping slowly downward, until the last button on his shirt was ripped apart. T-Bag then began tracing over the lines of Michael’s tattoo with his fingers; his eyes fixated on the patterns of ink; his thoughts undeniably morbid.
The feeling of T-Bag’s fingers caressing his bare chest was too much for Michael. He tried to move, but it was as though all the energy in his body had slipped away into nothingness.
Through blurry eyes, Michael watched helpless as Theodore’s lips brushed against his skin, trailing upwards across the lines of his tattoo; upwards until he reached his neck. T-Bag paused for a short moment, his lips pressed against Michael’s throat, eyes closed. He could feel Michael’s pulse, and how it quickened under him. He enjoyed that sensation.
He then looked right into Michael’s eyes with an intensity Michael had never seen before. Michael stared back, tears blurring his sight. T-bag didn’t hesitate as he threw his mouth hard onto the boy’s lips, his tongue tasting Michael’s for the first time. Michael only allowed this to happen for a second before furiously twisting his mouth away from T-Bag’s.
“Get off of me…” Michael whispered. He was breathing heavily, struggling to find some random ounce of strength and coordination so that he could somehow push T-bag off of him, but it just wasn’t happening.
T-bag smirked in response. “What’s the matter, boy, not enjoying all the attention I am giving ya?”
Michael could feel something wet at the back of his head, and knew he was bleeding. This wasn’t stopping T-bag. His hands were already on Michael’s belt and were moving quickly, almost methodically. In mere seconds, he had Michael naked and on his stomach in front of him.
By this time, Michael was slipping in and out of consciousness; partly from the concussion, and partly from the pain. Still, he felt it when Theodore penetrated him; he felt it as he was thrust into again and again, each time with more force. He could feel T-Bag’s hands wrapped around his hips; forcing their bodies closer together, as tight as he could get them. In the midst of trying to block out the pain, the dizziness, and the nausea, Michael forced himself to focus on the feeling of pleasure that his body was struggling to convey against his will. If only he could move, if only he could just move…
He felt an overwhelming feeling of euphoria before everything went black, and the moment before he lost consciousness; Michael was left with the sickening thought that even if he was to die right then, T-Bag wouldn’t stop until he was finished.
*****
Hours later, Michael’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a ringing phone. The room was completely dark, and it took him a few seconds to figure out where he was. As Michael tried to sit up, the sudden movement made him feel nauseous. A throbbing pain at the back of his head was angrily making itself known. Michael paused, trying to remember what had happened to him. The ringing phone was growing more annoying by the moment. In the pitch black, he fumbled dizzily, and slowly, towards the source of the obnoxious ring.
“Hello?” Michael answered weakly. He heard some scuffling on the line, but no one spoke.
“Hello??” Michael repeated louder as the aching pain in his head grew steadily worse. The digital clock on the desk was flashing 3:27am. He reached to switch on the lamp that was on the desk. The harsh light flooded his eyes, leaving him squinting in pain. He listened into the receiver wondering what it was that he was hearing. It sounded like there was struggling in the background.
“Who is this?” Michael demanded.
All he could hear was muffled crying in the background. Suddenly, whomever was on the other line hung up. Michael put down the phone slowly. His head was spinning. Although his memory was blurry, he remembered enough to know how he’d injured his head, and why he wasn’t wearing anything…
T-Bag.
Michael wondered for a split second why he was still alive. Something on the desk caught his eye. It was a piece of note paper, lying alone on the middle of the desk. He picked it up. It was the page he had used earlier to write down Lincoln and LJ’s address. Micheal’s breath caught in his throat.
Right underneath the address, was scribbled in black lettering:
“Thanks Pretty.”