T-Bag/Maytag, fear
Title: A Check Up
Character/Pairing: T-Bag/Maytag
Prompt: #15, "fear"
Rating: PG for a tiny bit of language
Summary: In which hair is groomed, shirts are removed, and Maytag has an embarrassing fear. But maybe not entirely the one he claims.
Author's Notes: Bit more Maytag/Sara interaction, relatively early. I like charting his progression through how he behaves with and away from T-Bag. Just as a reminder, we had the shy first meeting here and slight masochist here. This falls just after shy first meeting.
“What’s wrong with you now?” T-Bag watched Maytag fidget at the mirror, adjusting and readjusting his hair. He tugged at his sleeves and smoothed the blue shirt down.
“Check up. ‘Initial evaluation of my health,’” he recited.
T-Bag smiled, remembering the first time Dr. Tancredi had checked him over. “Enjoy it. Tell her you have an embarrassing rash she really should take a closer look at.” Maytag snickered and went back to fussing with his hair. “She ain’t gonna care what you look like.”
“I know. Just distracting myself.” He leaned back and scrutinized his reflection. Not bad, all things considered.
“Got somethin’ to be worried about?” T-Bag asked casually, though he was quickly trying to remember if there’d been any sign of Maytag being sick, “Don’t look diseased to me.”
“No.”
“So...” T-Bag stared at him in the mirror, although Maytag refused to raise his eyes from the sink. So help him, if the boy had something and gave it to him, he was going to get the slowest death yet. A whole month of unspeakable pain might be enough.
“I’m afraid of needles,” Maytag blurted, turning with an exasperated sigh, “ok?” Eyebrows raised, T-Bag just looked at him for a moment, deciding whether it was an excuse. The way Maytag’s cheek’s grew pink led him to believe he was telling the truth.
“Afraid of needles hm?” T-Bag repeated, not bothering to suppress his laughter.
“I know, I know, make fun of me all you want,” he groaned and checked his appearance again.
“Look at her tits.”
“What?”
“For the blood takin’. Take your mind off it.”
“Oh.” Maytag pulled his sleeves down again as T-Bag looked for something to read.
“You’re losing weight,” Sara observed as she jotted down some notes. Maytag shifted nervously on the table.
“Am I?”
“Not uncommon. You’ll get used to the food.”
“Haven’t had much of an appetite, I guess.” He watched her carefully as she finished writing and set her clipboard aside. Combined with the sterile smell of the infirmary, it was enough to make him hold onto the edge of the table a little tighter as his head spun.
“Shirt please,” Sara smiled, slipping on her stethoscope and waiting for Maytag to get the buttons undone. His hands were shaking as he shrugged the long sleeves off his arms and looked down at his lap. “Ok, I’m just going to...” Sara paused at the bruises scattered up his arms, finger shaped marks on his hips peeking over the waistband of his pants. With a deep breath, she continued. “Just going to take a quick listen.”
He shivered when she touched him, still unable to look away from his hands folded in front of him. When she finished, he grabbed for his shirt and tugged the sleeves down firmly. The fingerprints at his hips disappeared as he closed the last buttons, but Sara still frowned at them. He had to be in such pain and too embarrassed to say anything.
“Well,” she tried to sound cheery, but Maytag could hear the concern in her voice, “Some blood work and you’ll be all done.” He nodded slowly as she brought the needle over and rolled up his sleeve. More finger marks dotted his wrist and forearm, and she cringed. “You know I could still...”
“Don’t,” he said quickly, sharply, enough to catch her off guard from the usually quiet Jason, “Don’t fucking start that.” He looked her in the eye, and she swallowed her protests when she saw the anger there. “I don’t want to go to Ad-Seg or therapy or whatever you’re gonna suggest this time. Ok?”
“Ok,” Sara agreed softly, telling herself it was just prison that was getting to him. Still, T-Bag’s cellmates were more apt to cry and be angry at themselves on her table than Maytag’s outburst at her. He was going to destroy the kid, and she was going to have to put him back together without question.
An aggravated sound from Maytag reminded her what she’d been doing, and she took his arm warily and slipped the needle in. A strong shudder rippled through him, and she could’ve sworn he whimpered. “Not good with needles?”
“No,” he said between clenched teeth, face drained of color and trying to look as far from his arm as he could. Under other circumstances, Sara may have laughed at the absurdity of needles scaring him so badly.
“Almost done.” Her instincts to comfort him, reassure him that there was nothing to be afraid of, wrestled with the events minutes earlier. He didn’t want to be held and told everything would be ok. Something in the back of her mind was grateful, knowing there was very little she could do. T-Bag’s last cellmate had sobbed and begged her to get him out of there and make the pain go away. He’d died on her table days later.
Everyone copes in different ways, she reminded herself, pressing a piece of gauze to Maytag’s arm. But he was changing, far more than just losing a few pounds. He was angry and bitter, starting to resemble his cellmate more than a victim.
“Done?” he asked, taking the gauze from her and holding it in place. Touching the area, he could swear he could still feel a needle in his skin, and he resisted the urge to be sick.
“I’ll let you know if anything comes up.” With a nod, he walked out to the CO and left Sara to try and forget about another unsettling visit with Jason Buchanan.
“So is my cellie going to live?” T-Bag grinned from his bunk as Maytag shuffled in, pale and shivering with his left arm pulled protectively close.
“I hope. Just said I was losing weight.”
“Watching your figure, or do you need to be wormed?” T-Bag smirked at Maytag’s tired frown.
“Need to eat. And she made another bleeding heart appeal to rescue me.” He ran a hand over his face, the tension seemingly wiped away as a slight smile pulled at his mouth.
“Isn’t that sweet of her? You didn’t faint when she pulled out the big, bad needle, did ya?”
Maytag rolled his eyes, though the idea made his arm throb just a little, “No. But these freaked her out.” He pushed his shirt up and pulled at the waistband of his pants to reveal the fingerprints.
T-Bag hummed low in his chest, “Can’t blame a guy for putting his name on his property.” Maytag’s accusatory glare softened, though he still righted his clothes quickly and checked again that his sleeves were all the way down.
“She got the message.”
“She’s not the one you have to worry about.”
Character/Pairing: T-Bag/Maytag
Prompt: #15, "fear"
Rating: PG for a tiny bit of language
Summary: In which hair is groomed, shirts are removed, and Maytag has an embarrassing fear. But maybe not entirely the one he claims.
Author's Notes: Bit more Maytag/Sara interaction, relatively early. I like charting his progression through how he behaves with and away from T-Bag. Just as a reminder, we had the shy first meeting here and slight masochist here. This falls just after shy first meeting.
“What’s wrong with you now?” T-Bag watched Maytag fidget at the mirror, adjusting and readjusting his hair. He tugged at his sleeves and smoothed the blue shirt down.
“Check up. ‘Initial evaluation of my health,’” he recited.
T-Bag smiled, remembering the first time Dr. Tancredi had checked him over. “Enjoy it. Tell her you have an embarrassing rash she really should take a closer look at.” Maytag snickered and went back to fussing with his hair. “She ain’t gonna care what you look like.”
“I know. Just distracting myself.” He leaned back and scrutinized his reflection. Not bad, all things considered.
“Got somethin’ to be worried about?” T-Bag asked casually, though he was quickly trying to remember if there’d been any sign of Maytag being sick, “Don’t look diseased to me.”
“No.”
“So...” T-Bag stared at him in the mirror, although Maytag refused to raise his eyes from the sink. So help him, if the boy had something and gave it to him, he was going to get the slowest death yet. A whole month of unspeakable pain might be enough.
“I’m afraid of needles,” Maytag blurted, turning with an exasperated sigh, “ok?” Eyebrows raised, T-Bag just looked at him for a moment, deciding whether it was an excuse. The way Maytag’s cheek’s grew pink led him to believe he was telling the truth.
“Afraid of needles hm?” T-Bag repeated, not bothering to suppress his laughter.
“I know, I know, make fun of me all you want,” he groaned and checked his appearance again.
“Look at her tits.”
“What?”
“For the blood takin’. Take your mind off it.”
“Oh.” Maytag pulled his sleeves down again as T-Bag looked for something to read.
“You’re losing weight,” Sara observed as she jotted down some notes. Maytag shifted nervously on the table.
“Am I?”
“Not uncommon. You’ll get used to the food.”
“Haven’t had much of an appetite, I guess.” He watched her carefully as she finished writing and set her clipboard aside. Combined with the sterile smell of the infirmary, it was enough to make him hold onto the edge of the table a little tighter as his head spun.
“Shirt please,” Sara smiled, slipping on her stethoscope and waiting for Maytag to get the buttons undone. His hands were shaking as he shrugged the long sleeves off his arms and looked down at his lap. “Ok, I’m just going to...” Sara paused at the bruises scattered up his arms, finger shaped marks on his hips peeking over the waistband of his pants. With a deep breath, she continued. “Just going to take a quick listen.”
He shivered when she touched him, still unable to look away from his hands folded in front of him. When she finished, he grabbed for his shirt and tugged the sleeves down firmly. The fingerprints at his hips disappeared as he closed the last buttons, but Sara still frowned at them. He had to be in such pain and too embarrassed to say anything.
“Well,” she tried to sound cheery, but Maytag could hear the concern in her voice, “Some blood work and you’ll be all done.” He nodded slowly as she brought the needle over and rolled up his sleeve. More finger marks dotted his wrist and forearm, and she cringed. “You know I could still...”
“Don’t,” he said quickly, sharply, enough to catch her off guard from the usually quiet Jason, “Don’t fucking start that.” He looked her in the eye, and she swallowed her protests when she saw the anger there. “I don’t want to go to Ad-Seg or therapy or whatever you’re gonna suggest this time. Ok?”
“Ok,” Sara agreed softly, telling herself it was just prison that was getting to him. Still, T-Bag’s cellmates were more apt to cry and be angry at themselves on her table than Maytag’s outburst at her. He was going to destroy the kid, and she was going to have to put him back together without question.
An aggravated sound from Maytag reminded her what she’d been doing, and she took his arm warily and slipped the needle in. A strong shudder rippled through him, and she could’ve sworn he whimpered. “Not good with needles?”
“No,” he said between clenched teeth, face drained of color and trying to look as far from his arm as he could. Under other circumstances, Sara may have laughed at the absurdity of needles scaring him so badly.
“Almost done.” Her instincts to comfort him, reassure him that there was nothing to be afraid of, wrestled with the events minutes earlier. He didn’t want to be held and told everything would be ok. Something in the back of her mind was grateful, knowing there was very little she could do. T-Bag’s last cellmate had sobbed and begged her to get him out of there and make the pain go away. He’d died on her table days later.
Everyone copes in different ways, she reminded herself, pressing a piece of gauze to Maytag’s arm. But he was changing, far more than just losing a few pounds. He was angry and bitter, starting to resemble his cellmate more than a victim.
“Done?” he asked, taking the gauze from her and holding it in place. Touching the area, he could swear he could still feel a needle in his skin, and he resisted the urge to be sick.
“I’ll let you know if anything comes up.” With a nod, he walked out to the CO and left Sara to try and forget about another unsettling visit with Jason Buchanan.
“So is my cellie going to live?” T-Bag grinned from his bunk as Maytag shuffled in, pale and shivering with his left arm pulled protectively close.
“I hope. Just said I was losing weight.”
“Watching your figure, or do you need to be wormed?” T-Bag smirked at Maytag’s tired frown.
“Need to eat. And she made another bleeding heart appeal to rescue me.” He ran a hand over his face, the tension seemingly wiped away as a slight smile pulled at his mouth.
“Isn’t that sweet of her? You didn’t faint when she pulled out the big, bad needle, did ya?”
Maytag rolled his eyes, though the idea made his arm throb just a little, “No. But these freaked her out.” He pushed his shirt up and pulled at the waistband of his pants to reveal the fingerprints.
T-Bag hummed low in his chest, “Can’t blame a guy for putting his name on his property.” Maytag’s accusatory glare softened, though he still righted his clothes quickly and checked again that his sleeves were all the way down.
“She got the message.”
“She’s not the one you have to worry about.”