(no subject)
Title: View From the Top
Character: T-Bag, Abruzzi
Prompt: For prisonbreak100 31. Death
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence and disturbing content, nothing graphic
Summary: "We're different, you and me... But we're also a lot alike."
Spoilers: none
Author's Notes: This is basically two separate stories told together, like a parallelism sort of thing. I really did try to keep everything the same from the dialogue to the amount of paragraphs (perhaps I'm slightly OCD?) excluding, of course, what actually happens.
“Please…”
His voice is barely more than a whisper, and he’s on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. He always was the calm one. And all John Abruzzi can do is smile.
“How did you think this was gonna end, Fanucci? You really thought Philly was just gonna let you slide by without a word?”
--
“Please…”
His voice is high-pitched and shrill, and he’s backed into a corner with the sweat practically dripping off him. Teenage boys always sweat so much. And all Theodore Bagwell can do is smile.
“How did you think this was gonna end, boy? You really thought I’d just have some fun with you and let you walk away to go rat me out?”
--
“Listen, I’m gonna make this real simple for you. Either you tell me where you stowed that money, or I blow your face off. Do you understand?”
“Yes…” The man looks at him tiredly, like he’s gotten too old for this. His usually well-coiffed gray hair is scraggly and mussed, his fine suit is wrinkled, bloodstained, ripped. His usually twinkling blue eyes look glazed over, the bags under them are hugely perceptible, and there’s blood covering his normally clean white teeth.
It gives John some satisfaction to see him like this, to see cheerful, elegant old Fanucci reduced to exactly what he truly is- a human, just like everyone else. A human who can die, a human who can royally fuck himself over.
--
“Listen, I’m gonna make this real simple for you. You come over here and you do exactly as I tell you. We’re movin’ on to part two of the fun. Got it?”
“No.” The boy sounds furious and he’s trying to seem brave, but he’s clearly terrified. His legs are shaking, he’s gripping the wall that of course offers nothing back, and his blue eyes are flitting around the room. He’s got the animal instinct in him, ready to run, ready to smash something, ready to do anything to get himself out of there. The drugs Theodore gave him are making him unsteady on his feet, wavering as his eyelids flutter slightly, while his senses are steadily becoming dulled.
It makes it more interesting this way. He’s trying so hard, but he has no chance. He’s a human who can die, a human who can not only be fucked but fucked with and that, really, is the beauty of the whole thing.
--
“I’m only sorry it had to come to this,” says John, relishing the moment. He’s wanted to kill this bastard since Day One, and dammit if Philly isn’t giving him his golden opportunity. Ever since he saw this guy with his shiny black shoes and his handmade suit he bought overseas and those silver cufflinks and the tiepin with his own fucking initials on them, he’s wanted to be the one. He’s waited too long for this moment.
But John’s never been one to get his hands dirty, if the gloves on his hands are any indication. He’s calculated this. He will stand, appropriately, a few feet away from Fanucci. He’ll straighten his tie. He’ll say some last damning word, one final remark, before he shoots Fanucci right between the eyes smack in the middle of his forehead. And Fanucci will fall backwards, maybe a little to the side, his eyes looking upward. And then John Abruzzi will be the new guy in charge, and the only person he’ll have to answer to will be Philly Falzone. It’s the way he’s always planned it.
--
“I’m only sorry it had to come to this,” says Theodore, relishing the moment. He’s only sorry this has to end, this little game, he’s sorry this has to be his last one before he’s on the move again. He doesn’t even know this kid; he didn’t even bother to learn his name. He thinks maybe he should remedy that in the future- that one little detail would make everything so much more personal.
And Theodore’s always been one to get his hands dirty, if the knife in his hand is any indication. He’s not sure what he’ll do yet, he figures he’ll improvise. Maybe he’ll advance on the boy and his blood will boil and his face will contort and it will all be over too quickly and he will remember frustratingly little of it. Glimpses might come back later in flashes, and the whole floor might be covered in blood. No excessive violence, just a slit wide enough to let the blood flow out, a slow death to make the kid think about it. Beside, he figures fucking them afterwards sort of makes up for it.
--
The gun fires, and John smiles. Fanucci fell just as he’d imagined- very quietly, his eyes lifted upward. The echoes of the single shot still bounce around the room. He’ll hear that echo in his mind for as long as he cares to. He feels elevated, and it’s a sort of grim pleasure. He walks over and carefully, gently, removes Fanucci’s initialed tiepin. He holds it in his gloved hand and studies it, flecks of blood marring the shine it used to have. He pockets it and stands up straighter, and turns on the finely made sole of his shoe. He’ll go home and kiss his kids goodnight, before slipping into bed next to his wife, trying not to wake her. He smiles because John Abruzzi has hit his peak, and he’s enjoying his view from the top.
--
Theodore stands up and smiles. The boy yelled and begged- tearfully, his eyes blinking furiously. The echoes of those screams still bounce around the room. He’ll hear those echoes in his mind for as long as he cares to. He feels elevated, and it’s a sort of grim pleasure. He carefully, gently, turns the boy on his back. He studies him, flecks of blood marring the pretty face that won’t ever move again. Paler than ever now, of course, but he’s still warm. He lifts his fingers and closes the boy’s eyelids before he stands up and buckles his belt, taking one last glance around the room. Blood on the floor, blood on the walls, blood on the mirror, all things considered it’s not a shabby job. Of course there will be more, but for the time being he’s satisfied. He smiles because Theodore Bagwell has hit his peak, and he’s enjoying his view from the top.
Character: T-Bag, Abruzzi
Prompt: For prisonbreak100 31. Death
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence and disturbing content, nothing graphic
Summary: "We're different, you and me... But we're also a lot alike."
Spoilers: none
Author's Notes: This is basically two separate stories told together, like a parallelism sort of thing. I really did try to keep everything the same from the dialogue to the amount of paragraphs (perhaps I'm slightly OCD?) excluding, of course, what actually happens.
“Please…”
His voice is barely more than a whisper, and he’s on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. He always was the calm one. And all John Abruzzi can do is smile.
“How did you think this was gonna end, Fanucci? You really thought Philly was just gonna let you slide by without a word?”
--
“Please…”
His voice is high-pitched and shrill, and he’s backed into a corner with the sweat practically dripping off him. Teenage boys always sweat so much. And all Theodore Bagwell can do is smile.
“How did you think this was gonna end, boy? You really thought I’d just have some fun with you and let you walk away to go rat me out?”
--
“Listen, I’m gonna make this real simple for you. Either you tell me where you stowed that money, or I blow your face off. Do you understand?”
“Yes…” The man looks at him tiredly, like he’s gotten too old for this. His usually well-coiffed gray hair is scraggly and mussed, his fine suit is wrinkled, bloodstained, ripped. His usually twinkling blue eyes look glazed over, the bags under them are hugely perceptible, and there’s blood covering his normally clean white teeth.
It gives John some satisfaction to see him like this, to see cheerful, elegant old Fanucci reduced to exactly what he truly is- a human, just like everyone else. A human who can die, a human who can royally fuck himself over.
--
“Listen, I’m gonna make this real simple for you. You come over here and you do exactly as I tell you. We’re movin’ on to part two of the fun. Got it?”
“No.” The boy sounds furious and he’s trying to seem brave, but he’s clearly terrified. His legs are shaking, he’s gripping the wall that of course offers nothing back, and his blue eyes are flitting around the room. He’s got the animal instinct in him, ready to run, ready to smash something, ready to do anything to get himself out of there. The drugs Theodore gave him are making him unsteady on his feet, wavering as his eyelids flutter slightly, while his senses are steadily becoming dulled.
It makes it more interesting this way. He’s trying so hard, but he has no chance. He’s a human who can die, a human who can not only be fucked but fucked with and that, really, is the beauty of the whole thing.
--
“I’m only sorry it had to come to this,” says John, relishing the moment. He’s wanted to kill this bastard since Day One, and dammit if Philly isn’t giving him his golden opportunity. Ever since he saw this guy with his shiny black shoes and his handmade suit he bought overseas and those silver cufflinks and the tiepin with his own fucking initials on them, he’s wanted to be the one. He’s waited too long for this moment.
But John’s never been one to get his hands dirty, if the gloves on his hands are any indication. He’s calculated this. He will stand, appropriately, a few feet away from Fanucci. He’ll straighten his tie. He’ll say some last damning word, one final remark, before he shoots Fanucci right between the eyes smack in the middle of his forehead. And Fanucci will fall backwards, maybe a little to the side, his eyes looking upward. And then John Abruzzi will be the new guy in charge, and the only person he’ll have to answer to will be Philly Falzone. It’s the way he’s always planned it.
--
“I’m only sorry it had to come to this,” says Theodore, relishing the moment. He’s only sorry this has to end, this little game, he’s sorry this has to be his last one before he’s on the move again. He doesn’t even know this kid; he didn’t even bother to learn his name. He thinks maybe he should remedy that in the future- that one little detail would make everything so much more personal.
And Theodore’s always been one to get his hands dirty, if the knife in his hand is any indication. He’s not sure what he’ll do yet, he figures he’ll improvise. Maybe he’ll advance on the boy and his blood will boil and his face will contort and it will all be over too quickly and he will remember frustratingly little of it. Glimpses might come back later in flashes, and the whole floor might be covered in blood. No excessive violence, just a slit wide enough to let the blood flow out, a slow death to make the kid think about it. Beside, he figures fucking them afterwards sort of makes up for it.
--
The gun fires, and John smiles. Fanucci fell just as he’d imagined- very quietly, his eyes lifted upward. The echoes of the single shot still bounce around the room. He’ll hear that echo in his mind for as long as he cares to. He feels elevated, and it’s a sort of grim pleasure. He walks over and carefully, gently, removes Fanucci’s initialed tiepin. He holds it in his gloved hand and studies it, flecks of blood marring the shine it used to have. He pockets it and stands up straighter, and turns on the finely made sole of his shoe. He’ll go home and kiss his kids goodnight, before slipping into bed next to his wife, trying not to wake her. He smiles because John Abruzzi has hit his peak, and he’s enjoying his view from the top.
--
Theodore stands up and smiles. The boy yelled and begged- tearfully, his eyes blinking furiously. The echoes of those screams still bounce around the room. He’ll hear those echoes in his mind for as long as he cares to. He feels elevated, and it’s a sort of grim pleasure. He carefully, gently, turns the boy on his back. He studies him, flecks of blood marring the pretty face that won’t ever move again. Paler than ever now, of course, but he’s still warm. He lifts his fingers and closes the boy’s eyelids before he stands up and buckles his belt, taking one last glance around the room. Blood on the floor, blood on the walls, blood on the mirror, all things considered it’s not a shabby job. Of course there will be more, but for the time being he’s satisfied. He smiles because Theodore Bagwell has hit his peak, and he’s enjoying his view from the top.