When No One's Looking (I'll Fuck You Up And Make You Mine) by _pliskin_, PG-13
Title: When No One’s Looking (I’ll Fuck You Up And Make You Mine)
Character/Pairing: T-Bag, Brad Bellick; T-Bag/Bellick
Prompt: #039. Taste
Genre: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1040
Summary: Meeting on a subway train is never coincidence.
Author’s Notes: Because Rob and Wade’s knees are touching and because steralizetheemo gets lots of T-Bag/Bellick :D The fic also makes a mention to “ Mortal Intricacies” in the beginning.
Spoilers: Mmm... some for season two.
Warnings: Slash.
Beta: peterstormarejr
He leaned back into the seat of a subway train, throwing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. He stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankles and let out a content sigh.
Things were going nicely. Scofield and Burrows had been caught, Tweener and Haywire were dead and he had a solid lead on where Sucre, C-Note and Abruzzi had headed off to since they’d been spotted last week at a rundown motel trying to rent a room.
Bagwell was a different story. He’d disappeared five weeks ago without any indication of where he was headed. His last known contact had been with an ex-doctor in Chicago - a real hard ass who promptly told Bellick to fuck off, Bagwell had come in to have his hand replanted, left, and he hadn’t seen him since - and no one Bellick had spoken to afterward had claimed to have saw him.
As if he could trust the word of people in that neighborhood anyway. Bums, alcoholics and drug dealers weren’t exactly people whose word was usually reliable.
He’d been skeptic enough of the ex-doctor’s story as it was - damn asshole was so drunk he could’ve caught a buzz by just being near him in his reeking presence - he was glad he hadn’t decided to stay longer for a more in-depth interrogation. He didn’t need to be accused of drinking on the job.
But even drunk, the ex-doctor hadn’t seemed to him like a man who would spill the whole truth without too much trouble.
Bellick scratched the back of his head absently, considering his options if he picked back up on the pursuit of Bagwell full time once he’d nabbed the other three.
“This seat taken?”
Bellick cracked open his eyes, spotted a trench coat, and frowned before his gaze moved upward and found a man with a tilted fedora shadowing most of his face gesturing toward the empty seat beside him.
Bellick shrugged and shifted to allow the man more room. “Go ahead.”
The man sat, grabbing the open ends of his trench coat and holding them shut as he did.
He rested his arm on the armrest and tipped his hat up slightly to watch the other passengers, eyes flicking back and forth and attempting to take in every detail of every man, woman and child riding.
Bellick ignored him, just as he’d been doing everyone else nearby, and continued thinking about how great it would be to find Sucre, C-Note and Tweener himself and take them down - he’d already let Mahone beat him to Abruzzi and Haywire and he’s determined not to let him get the glory of finding these three as well. But, he supposes, at least he’d had the satisfaction of finding and taking down Scofield and Burrows before Mahone even got whiff of their location.
He smiled as he remembered the exact expression Scofield’s face had held when he’d burst into his and Burrows apartment and ambushed the two of them with a squadron of local police officers.
It had been absolutely price -
He looked down suddenly and spotted what he thought he’d suspected he would the moment he’d felt it: a hand on his knee, fingers stroking small circles over the material of his jeans. The neatly trimmed nails and long fingers a sight Bellick wasn’t unfamiliar with, but was questioning in this situation nonetheless.
“What the hell are you - ”
The man in the trench coat leaned in, smiled and pushed his fedora completely out of his face. “Our knees were touchin’, Brad. Thought I’d draw your attention to the fact.”
Bellick scowled and turned away from T-Bag’s feral stare, contenting himself in glowering at a teenage girl who was eyeing himself and T-Bag with something more than casual interest. “Jackass. You trying to get yourself caught?”
“Naw,” T-Bag drawled in his usual slow, easy tone, sending shivers down Bellick’s spine, just like it always did, “I was thinkin’ I was gonna catch you.”
T-Bag ran his hand up Bellick’s thigh before settling it dangerously close to his crotch and squeezing - a rough yet simple gesture that affirmed Bellick’s suspicions of T-Bag’s intentions, because there was no way in hell this was a coincidence of any kind. The too small trench coat’s sleeve slid up and revealed T-Bag’s entire hand as his arm moved.
Bellick stared at T-Bag’s hand, slightly amused and at the same time, thoroughly Not Amused.
Mahone could be following him. And he didn’t need a scandal on his ass if Mahone found out about Bellick’s past history with T-Bag. Why the idiot couldn’t have contacted him in private, Bellick didn’t know, but he’s really hoping that nobody from Mahone’s God damn team is watching him today.
“Heard you got your hand chopped off. Guess it was true, huh?”
T-Bag lifted his hand from Bellick’s thigh and held it up near his face. He turned it, showcasing the small, white scars lining his wrist and grinned before flexing his fingers and rotating his wrist until Bellick could hear the sickening sound of bone on bone over the other passengers and the train and had to grimace.
“Yeah. And I heard you bagged Scofield. How was it?”
“Not half as good as it would be to get your arrest under my belt, Bagwell.”
T-Bag smiled and slipped his hand back onto Bellick’s thigh, his fingers sliding surreptitiously over the fabric and down before heading inward. “You wouldn’t do that, Brad. Not with the information I’ve got.”
“Really now?”
His fingers stop short and tap lightly against Bellick’s thigh in what Bellick can only assume is supposed to be a reassuring manner before the hand withdraws and settles on top of T-Bag’s own thigh.
Then the murderer nodded, tipped his fedora back down over his face and didn’t say another word.
Bellick stuck his gaze grimly to the window behind the seats across from him and watched the gray, drab concrete wall fly by.
Two minutes later the train came to a stop, the doors opened and a majority of the passengers stood to leave.
And in the ensuing confusion of the departing passengers, Bellick was satisfied to learn that T-Bag’s mouth tasted exactly the same as it always had.
Character/Pairing: T-Bag, Brad Bellick; T-Bag/Bellick
Prompt: #039. Taste
Genre: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1040
Summary: Meeting on a subway train is never coincidence.
Author’s Notes: Because Rob and Wade’s knees are touching and because steralizetheemo gets lots of T-Bag/Bellick :D The fic also makes a mention to “ Mortal Intricacies” in the beginning.
Spoilers: Mmm... some for season two.
Warnings: Slash.
Beta: peterstormarejr
He leaned back into the seat of a subway train, throwing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. He stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankles and let out a content sigh.
Things were going nicely. Scofield and Burrows had been caught, Tweener and Haywire were dead and he had a solid lead on where Sucre, C-Note and Abruzzi had headed off to since they’d been spotted last week at a rundown motel trying to rent a room.
Bagwell was a different story. He’d disappeared five weeks ago without any indication of where he was headed. His last known contact had been with an ex-doctor in Chicago - a real hard ass who promptly told Bellick to fuck off, Bagwell had come in to have his hand replanted, left, and he hadn’t seen him since - and no one Bellick had spoken to afterward had claimed to have saw him.
As if he could trust the word of people in that neighborhood anyway. Bums, alcoholics and drug dealers weren’t exactly people whose word was usually reliable.
He’d been skeptic enough of the ex-doctor’s story as it was - damn asshole was so drunk he could’ve caught a buzz by just being near him in his reeking presence - he was glad he hadn’t decided to stay longer for a more in-depth interrogation. He didn’t need to be accused of drinking on the job.
But even drunk, the ex-doctor hadn’t seemed to him like a man who would spill the whole truth without too much trouble.
Bellick scratched the back of his head absently, considering his options if he picked back up on the pursuit of Bagwell full time once he’d nabbed the other three.
“This seat taken?”
Bellick cracked open his eyes, spotted a trench coat, and frowned before his gaze moved upward and found a man with a tilted fedora shadowing most of his face gesturing toward the empty seat beside him.
Bellick shrugged and shifted to allow the man more room. “Go ahead.”
The man sat, grabbing the open ends of his trench coat and holding them shut as he did.
He rested his arm on the armrest and tipped his hat up slightly to watch the other passengers, eyes flicking back and forth and attempting to take in every detail of every man, woman and child riding.
Bellick ignored him, just as he’d been doing everyone else nearby, and continued thinking about how great it would be to find Sucre, C-Note and Tweener himself and take them down - he’d already let Mahone beat him to Abruzzi and Haywire and he’s determined not to let him get the glory of finding these three as well. But, he supposes, at least he’d had the satisfaction of finding and taking down Scofield and Burrows before Mahone even got whiff of their location.
He smiled as he remembered the exact expression Scofield’s face had held when he’d burst into his and Burrows apartment and ambushed the two of them with a squadron of local police officers.
It had been absolutely price -
He looked down suddenly and spotted what he thought he’d suspected he would the moment he’d felt it: a hand on his knee, fingers stroking small circles over the material of his jeans. The neatly trimmed nails and long fingers a sight Bellick wasn’t unfamiliar with, but was questioning in this situation nonetheless.
“What the hell are you - ”
The man in the trench coat leaned in, smiled and pushed his fedora completely out of his face. “Our knees were touchin’, Brad. Thought I’d draw your attention to the fact.”
Bellick scowled and turned away from T-Bag’s feral stare, contenting himself in glowering at a teenage girl who was eyeing himself and T-Bag with something more than casual interest. “Jackass. You trying to get yourself caught?”
“Naw,” T-Bag drawled in his usual slow, easy tone, sending shivers down Bellick’s spine, just like it always did, “I was thinkin’ I was gonna catch you.”
T-Bag ran his hand up Bellick’s thigh before settling it dangerously close to his crotch and squeezing - a rough yet simple gesture that affirmed Bellick’s suspicions of T-Bag’s intentions, because there was no way in hell this was a coincidence of any kind. The too small trench coat’s sleeve slid up and revealed T-Bag’s entire hand as his arm moved.
Bellick stared at T-Bag’s hand, slightly amused and at the same time, thoroughly Not Amused.
Mahone could be following him. And he didn’t need a scandal on his ass if Mahone found out about Bellick’s past history with T-Bag. Why the idiot couldn’t have contacted him in private, Bellick didn’t know, but he’s really hoping that nobody from Mahone’s God damn team is watching him today.
“Heard you got your hand chopped off. Guess it was true, huh?”
T-Bag lifted his hand from Bellick’s thigh and held it up near his face. He turned it, showcasing the small, white scars lining his wrist and grinned before flexing his fingers and rotating his wrist until Bellick could hear the sickening sound of bone on bone over the other passengers and the train and had to grimace.
“Yeah. And I heard you bagged Scofield. How was it?”
“Not half as good as it would be to get your arrest under my belt, Bagwell.”
T-Bag smiled and slipped his hand back onto Bellick’s thigh, his fingers sliding surreptitiously over the fabric and down before heading inward. “You wouldn’t do that, Brad. Not with the information I’ve got.”
“Really now?”
His fingers stop short and tap lightly against Bellick’s thigh in what Bellick can only assume is supposed to be a reassuring manner before the hand withdraws and settles on top of T-Bag’s own thigh.
Then the murderer nodded, tipped his fedora back down over his face and didn’t say another word.
Bellick stuck his gaze grimly to the window behind the seats across from him and watched the gray, drab concrete wall fly by.
Two minutes later the train came to a stop, the doors opened and a majority of the passengers stood to leave.
And in the ensuing confusion of the departing passengers, Bellick was satisfied to learn that T-Bag’s mouth tasted exactly the same as it always had.