Prison Break: T-Bag/Maytag
Title: Scars and Sunshine
Character/Pairing: T-Bag/Maytag
Prompt: #32, "Sunrise"
Rating: PG
Summary: Maytag's sordid relationship with mornings
Author's Notes: Lots of angst with a touch of fluff for good measure. Can't write violence and bumsex at work. :(
Jason used to hate the morning. When he was little, he’d wake up to the sound of his father coming home from work, slamming the car door and walking up the driveway. Jason would stand on his tip toes, peering over the window sill to see the dark figure trudging towards the front door, his face barely visible in the misty light of early morning. If he looked happy, Jason would crawl back in bed and fall asleep until his mother dragged him up for school.
If he looked mad, Jason would sit awake, clutching the sheet and listening for every slight sound. The scrape of the key, bang of the screen door closing, boots being dropped on the floor, thermos hitting the kitchen counter, and if he was lucky, heavy footsteps would pass his room and disappear down the hall. All too many times those footsteps would pause outside his door, and he'd be surrounded by the smell of stale coffee and sweat, and he’d start the day with a smack to the face. The sun would just be peeking over the horizon when he’d sit on the edge of his bed, crying quietly to himself, until his mother found him and sent him to the breakfast table without a word about the bruises and tears.
As a teenager, he rarely made it home before sunrise. His mother had stopped caring whether he came home at all, and his father would beat him either way. Stumbling up the driveway, he’d stop to throw up in one of his mother’s flower beds before making it to the front door and into his room. As he’d strip off his clothes, tossing them in the corner to wash later before his mother noticed they smelled of beer and smoke, the warm light of morning would fall on old bruises and faded scars on his pale skin.
He always changed without looking in the mirror, hating the way he looked, the way he felt, the way he hurt every time he saw the evidence of all the past mornings. Before his mother woke, he’d frantically wash his clothes, a compulsive habit that refused to disappear even after he’d been kicked out of the house. She knew what he did, but he couldn't stand the looks she'd given him the first time he'd come home smelling like pot and cheap liquor.
On his own, morning never made much difference. He was usually too high or hung over to care that one day had ended and another begun. Sunrise was the last thing he saw before being arrested. He stood at the window of his shithole apartment, watching the dull grey burst into fiery orange and yellows, and in the dim light, blood still looked black. He needed to wash his clothes. The blood stains probably wouldn’t come out; he’d have to throw them in the dumpster behind the building before anyone saw. He was arrested while tossing the dirty t-shirt in the trash, pushed down and handcuffed as the sun cleared the horizon.
In prison, he can’t see the sunrise anymore. He can’t sit at the window and wait for that first hint of pink, the line of glowing orange along the skyline like a fresh cut across milky skin, the way the sky burns gold before fading to blue. But he knows when it is. He can sense it, and he still wakes up every morning at sunrise, when most of A Wing is still asleep. T-Bag is never up before he is, and he likes it that way. He lies awake and watches him the way he used to study his father. If he’s hung over, Jason shifts away, knowing it will be a day of shoves and slaps to the back of the head. He never thinks of the nights.
But on the mornings T-Bag lies relaxed and calm, smiling slightly in his sleep, Jason moves closer, feeling warm and safe. He knows that outside, life is beginning, fathers are coming home, boys are crying in their rooms, and broken down bodies are being hidden behind closed doors and clean clothes. But inside his cell, there’s nothing but the skin of T-Bag’s shoulder against his face and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Sometimes, when T-Bag’s eyes open with a sleepy smile, and he draws Jason closer, protecting him from the world beyond their four walls, sunrise doesn’t hurt so bad.
Character/Pairing: T-Bag/Maytag
Prompt: #32, "Sunrise"
Rating: PG
Summary: Maytag's sordid relationship with mornings
Author's Notes: Lots of angst with a touch of fluff for good measure. Can't write violence and bumsex at work. :(
Jason used to hate the morning. When he was little, he’d wake up to the sound of his father coming home from work, slamming the car door and walking up the driveway. Jason would stand on his tip toes, peering over the window sill to see the dark figure trudging towards the front door, his face barely visible in the misty light of early morning. If he looked happy, Jason would crawl back in bed and fall asleep until his mother dragged him up for school.
If he looked mad, Jason would sit awake, clutching the sheet and listening for every slight sound. The scrape of the key, bang of the screen door closing, boots being dropped on the floor, thermos hitting the kitchen counter, and if he was lucky, heavy footsteps would pass his room and disappear down the hall. All too many times those footsteps would pause outside his door, and he'd be surrounded by the smell of stale coffee and sweat, and he’d start the day with a smack to the face. The sun would just be peeking over the horizon when he’d sit on the edge of his bed, crying quietly to himself, until his mother found him and sent him to the breakfast table without a word about the bruises and tears.
As a teenager, he rarely made it home before sunrise. His mother had stopped caring whether he came home at all, and his father would beat him either way. Stumbling up the driveway, he’d stop to throw up in one of his mother’s flower beds before making it to the front door and into his room. As he’d strip off his clothes, tossing them in the corner to wash later before his mother noticed they smelled of beer and smoke, the warm light of morning would fall on old bruises and faded scars on his pale skin.
He always changed without looking in the mirror, hating the way he looked, the way he felt, the way he hurt every time he saw the evidence of all the past mornings. Before his mother woke, he’d frantically wash his clothes, a compulsive habit that refused to disappear even after he’d been kicked out of the house. She knew what he did, but he couldn't stand the looks she'd given him the first time he'd come home smelling like pot and cheap liquor.
On his own, morning never made much difference. He was usually too high or hung over to care that one day had ended and another begun. Sunrise was the last thing he saw before being arrested. He stood at the window of his shithole apartment, watching the dull grey burst into fiery orange and yellows, and in the dim light, blood still looked black. He needed to wash his clothes. The blood stains probably wouldn’t come out; he’d have to throw them in the dumpster behind the building before anyone saw. He was arrested while tossing the dirty t-shirt in the trash, pushed down and handcuffed as the sun cleared the horizon.
In prison, he can’t see the sunrise anymore. He can’t sit at the window and wait for that first hint of pink, the line of glowing orange along the skyline like a fresh cut across milky skin, the way the sky burns gold before fading to blue. But he knows when it is. He can sense it, and he still wakes up every morning at sunrise, when most of A Wing is still asleep. T-Bag is never up before he is, and he likes it that way. He lies awake and watches him the way he used to study his father. If he’s hung over, Jason shifts away, knowing it will be a day of shoves and slaps to the back of the head. He never thinks of the nights.
But on the mornings T-Bag lies relaxed and calm, smiling slightly in his sleep, Jason moves closer, feeling warm and safe. He knows that outside, life is beginning, fathers are coming home, boys are crying in their rooms, and broken down bodies are being hidden behind closed doors and clean clothes. But inside his cell, there’s nothing but the skin of T-Bag’s shoulder against his face and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Sometimes, when T-Bag’s eyes open with a sleepy smile, and he draws Jason closer, protecting him from the world beyond their four walls, sunrise doesn’t hurt so bad.