T-Bag/Maytag, Red
Title: These Bonds Are Shackle Free
Character/Pairing: T-Bag/Maytag
Prompt: #16, "Red"
Rating: PG13 for violence
Author's Notes: A little image that wouldn't leave me alone. Shout out to Placebo for the title.
“They’re gonna smell this, man,” Maytag snickers, taking the joint from T-Bag as they sit against the wall in the dusty storeroom full of heavy blankets and old pillows. Bloody prints trail from his fingers, layered into a dull red pattern over the paper.
T-Bag waves a hand through the haze of smoke and dirt hanging in the air. “Whatcha think they’re gonna be more concerned about, a little pot or. . .” He nudges the limp pile of flesh in front of them with his boot. It’s barely moving now.
“Guess you’re right.” The boxes that look ready to topple over are covered in a layer of filth, like the floor, with labels scrawled across the sides. Maybe if they move the body behind ‘em, it’ll take a little longer to find. Dump a couple boxes of pillows on top of him, so some poor bastard janitor will pick ‘em up and find the bottom ones soaked in blood. Maytag stifles a laugh, choking on the smoke. “How much time we got?” he manages between coughs.
“Awhile,” T-Bag shrugs, head tipped back against the wall as he takes the joint, “Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Oh.” They fall quiet so they can hear the struggling, shallow breaths coming from their victim, hoping he’ll hang on for awhile longer. It had been funnier while he still had the strength to crawl towards the door, fingers clawing at the cement, before collapsing. “Is he just gonna die then?”
“Eventually. Lost a lot o’ blood. . .ain’t that right, Randall?” There’s no answer, but he hadn’t expected one. The man isn’t really alive anymore, just a little less dead. “Why, impatient?”
“No, just wondering.”
“You kids wantin’ everything now now now,” T-Bag scoffs, fishing a blade out of his boot and flicking it into Maytag’s lap.
It catches the light from the single bulb dangling from the ceiling as he gently picks it up and looks to T-Bag in confusion.
“Well? You want him dead so bad, do it.” T-Bag crosses his arms to wait, part of him certain the boy doesn’t have the courage.
“Really?” The incredulous look fades to a grin as Maytag realizes T-Bag’s serious, and he crawls forward, careful to keep his clothes out of the blood. The blade slides cleanly through the man’s skin, but not quite as easily as T-Bag made it appear. It probably wouldn’t have been deep enough had he not been as good as dead anyway, but there’s still a pretty gash and blood trickling out the corners of his mouth as the breathing sputters to a stop.
Maytag just stares at the mess he’s made on the floor, the fingers of one hand slick with warm blood and still loosely holding the razor. The adrenaline surging through his system makes his arm shake as he gently touches the man’s neck, as if it should feel different without the pulse racing beneath the skin.
“How long until he’s cold?” he asks, tipping the face up so the cut across his neck opens up and lets more blood drip out.
“Thinkin’ of venturing into necrophilia?” T-Bag tries to sound casual and pretend he isn’t intently watching Maytag investigate his handy work with the same curiosity little boys have for catching frogs and pulling the wings off flies.
“Uh, no.” Crouching next to his first cut throat, Maytag wishes there was enough time for T-Bag to do all those things he says got him put away, but having Bellick walk in looking for them while he’s wrist deep in the guy’s torso would kinda kill the mood. He settles for idly drawing patterns in the drying puddle on the floor.
He draws circles and spirals until he’s left with a smudged red floor and sticky fingers, all the while T-Bag watching him savor the kill with the innocent fascination he’s long since forgotten.
“Hey Maytag.” A wicked grin spreads across his face as the boy looks up with such naive interest. “Next time make him look at you.”
Character/Pairing: T-Bag/Maytag
Prompt: #16, "Red"
Rating: PG13 for violence
Author's Notes: A little image that wouldn't leave me alone. Shout out to Placebo for the title.
“They’re gonna smell this, man,” Maytag snickers, taking the joint from T-Bag as they sit against the wall in the dusty storeroom full of heavy blankets and old pillows. Bloody prints trail from his fingers, layered into a dull red pattern over the paper.
T-Bag waves a hand through the haze of smoke and dirt hanging in the air. “Whatcha think they’re gonna be more concerned about, a little pot or. . .” He nudges the limp pile of flesh in front of them with his boot. It’s barely moving now.
“Guess you’re right.” The boxes that look ready to topple over are covered in a layer of filth, like the floor, with labels scrawled across the sides. Maybe if they move the body behind ‘em, it’ll take a little longer to find. Dump a couple boxes of pillows on top of him, so some poor bastard janitor will pick ‘em up and find the bottom ones soaked in blood. Maytag stifles a laugh, choking on the smoke. “How much time we got?” he manages between coughs.
“Awhile,” T-Bag shrugs, head tipped back against the wall as he takes the joint, “Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Oh.” They fall quiet so they can hear the struggling, shallow breaths coming from their victim, hoping he’ll hang on for awhile longer. It had been funnier while he still had the strength to crawl towards the door, fingers clawing at the cement, before collapsing. “Is he just gonna die then?”
“Eventually. Lost a lot o’ blood. . .ain’t that right, Randall?” There’s no answer, but he hadn’t expected one. The man isn’t really alive anymore, just a little less dead. “Why, impatient?”
“No, just wondering.”
“You kids wantin’ everything now now now,” T-Bag scoffs, fishing a blade out of his boot and flicking it into Maytag’s lap.
It catches the light from the single bulb dangling from the ceiling as he gently picks it up and looks to T-Bag in confusion.
“Well? You want him dead so bad, do it.” T-Bag crosses his arms to wait, part of him certain the boy doesn’t have the courage.
“Really?” The incredulous look fades to a grin as Maytag realizes T-Bag’s serious, and he crawls forward, careful to keep his clothes out of the blood. The blade slides cleanly through the man’s skin, but not quite as easily as T-Bag made it appear. It probably wouldn’t have been deep enough had he not been as good as dead anyway, but there’s still a pretty gash and blood trickling out the corners of his mouth as the breathing sputters to a stop.
Maytag just stares at the mess he’s made on the floor, the fingers of one hand slick with warm blood and still loosely holding the razor. The adrenaline surging through his system makes his arm shake as he gently touches the man’s neck, as if it should feel different without the pulse racing beneath the skin.
“How long until he’s cold?” he asks, tipping the face up so the cut across his neck opens up and lets more blood drip out.
“Thinkin’ of venturing into necrophilia?” T-Bag tries to sound casual and pretend he isn’t intently watching Maytag investigate his handy work with the same curiosity little boys have for catching frogs and pulling the wings off flies.
“Uh, no.” Crouching next to his first cut throat, Maytag wishes there was enough time for T-Bag to do all those things he says got him put away, but having Bellick walk in looking for them while he’s wrist deep in the guy’s torso would kinda kill the mood. He settles for idly drawing patterns in the drying puddle on the floor.
He draws circles and spirals until he’s left with a smudged red floor and sticky fingers, all the while T-Bag watching him savor the kill with the innocent fascination he’s long since forgotten.
“Hey Maytag.” A wicked grin spreads across his face as the boy looks up with such naive interest. “Next time make him look at you.”