T-Bag, Beginnings
Title: Beginnings
Character/Pairing: T-Bag
Prompt: #001. Beginnings
Rating: PG-13 for blood and brief mention of bumsex.
Summary: He remembered the beginning.
Author's Notes: Named “Beginnings” because I’m lazy and couldn’t think of anything else.
He remembered there was blood. Blood pouring from the holes in his chest.
He’d always liked how blood looked as it drained away. It had a certain way of pooling, moving.
There was something different about this blood, though. It soaked the cloth over the wound, just as blood is apt to do, and it stained the cloth a deep crimson, just as it normally would, but it was different somehow. Somehow less entrancing, less beautiful than blood usually is.
He didn’t like how this blood felt on his hands.
He hadn’t inflicted the fatal wound, hadn’t even expected there to ever be a fatal wound. He hadn’t inflicted any wounds on him since last night, to tell the truth.
Would it be different if he had inflicted that final, life-taking wound? That gaping hole, straight through his heart? Would the blood look right? Would the blood feel right? Would it stain his hands the right color?
It wasn’t dark enough. It didn’t look dark enough to really be blood but maybe that was because of the smoke invading his vision, clouding things, beginning to block his view of the lifeless body.
He stared at his hands, at the blood dripping off them, before someone yanked him to his feet and forcefully guided him into his cell. The door clanged shut a moment afterward and he turned around, glaring at the smoke still engulfing A-Wing. He sought out a cell on the second level through the smoke but couldn’t find it.
He remembered the beginning.
“Got a new cellie for ya, Bagwell,” Bellick said with his usual smirk. Theo smiled widely back at Bellick, licking his lips once over before replying.
“Been wonderin’ when you’d get around to that.”
Bellick directed the newest Fox River fish into Theo’s cell and called out, “Close on sixteen.”
The fish stared as the iron bars shut, locking him in with a man he’d already heard so many nasty things about-especially considering he’d only just arrived at Fox River.
“What’s your name, boy?”
The fish turned around and made an attempt to act tough, thinking maybe he could scare Theo. Keep him from doing all those nasty things.
“I-I don’t have to . . .” he trailed off. Theo was laughing at him. He’d only said four words and Theo was laughing at him. So much for being tough.
“You probably heard them rumors ‘bout me, didn’t ya?” The fish nodded weakly. “I wouldn’t dwell on ‘em too much, fish. They’re not all true . . .”
The fish was visibly relieved.
“. . . problem is, you don’t know which rumors are more than just rumors. Now, what’s your name?”
“Jason,” the fish muttered, averting his eyes from Theo’s searching gaze.
“Well, Jason,” said Theo, grinning, “let’s hope you’re not a screamer.”
The smoke had cleared and he could see the cell now. Number forty. Scofield’s cell.
Theo draped his arms through the bars of his own and smiled up at the pretty fish’s cell, thinking of all the nasty things he was going to do to him.
“I know you’re there, Pretty,” Theo called out. He thought he saw movement but it was dark and he wasn’t sure.
Theo stalked into the recesses of his cell, turning on the faucet above the sink and washing away the blood on his hands, the blood that had been staining Maytag’s shirt. The blood that didn’t really seem like Maytag’s blood because it didn’t flow outward the same way, didn’t pool in the right places, didn’t darken to the right color.
It hadn’t flowed the same way as it had all those nights when Theo was rough and Maytag was moaning for more beneath him.
Theo wiped his hands on his pants and leaned against the concrete wall, staring at the dismal gray square that was the ceiling.
Maytag was dead and Theo wondered how many cell mates it was now that had died-he couldn’t recall any who hadn’t.
He’d found someone to blame for all the others that had been carelessly murdered, someone to slowly torture and kill.
He knew exactly who to blame for this one. The others had took time to figure out. A few days, a little digging, a little asking around. Put his imagination to the test, then the final confrontation . . . and Theo always left the scene of the crime feeling a little better about himself. His cell mate was dead, but so what? Who needs a cell mate anyway?
Then the next cell mate would come along and the process would start all over again. Boring days, entertaining nights. A riot, a fight, a death. A little poking, a little prodding. An encounter, a secluded area. Rape, death, a lighter conscience . . . repeat.
It was almost as if the forces unknown were mocking him, taking away his toys just when he’d gotten attached to them.
This would be the last time he’d stay true to the pattern laid out for him. He had a feeling the pattern would be broken soon.
Theo glared out into A-Wing, up at cell number forty . . .
“You’re a dead man, Scofield.”
Character/Pairing: T-Bag
Prompt: #001. Beginnings
Rating: PG-13 for blood and brief mention of bumsex.
Summary: He remembered the beginning.
Author's Notes: Named “Beginnings” because I’m lazy and couldn’t think of anything else.
He remembered there was blood. Blood pouring from the holes in his chest.
He’d always liked how blood looked as it drained away. It had a certain way of pooling, moving.
There was something different about this blood, though. It soaked the cloth over the wound, just as blood is apt to do, and it stained the cloth a deep crimson, just as it normally would, but it was different somehow. Somehow less entrancing, less beautiful than blood usually is.
He didn’t like how this blood felt on his hands.
He hadn’t inflicted the fatal wound, hadn’t even expected there to ever be a fatal wound. He hadn’t inflicted any wounds on him since last night, to tell the truth.
Would it be different if he had inflicted that final, life-taking wound? That gaping hole, straight through his heart? Would the blood look right? Would the blood feel right? Would it stain his hands the right color?
It wasn’t dark enough. It didn’t look dark enough to really be blood but maybe that was because of the smoke invading his vision, clouding things, beginning to block his view of the lifeless body.
He stared at his hands, at the blood dripping off them, before someone yanked him to his feet and forcefully guided him into his cell. The door clanged shut a moment afterward and he turned around, glaring at the smoke still engulfing A-Wing. He sought out a cell on the second level through the smoke but couldn’t find it.
He remembered the beginning.
“Got a new cellie for ya, Bagwell,” Bellick said with his usual smirk. Theo smiled widely back at Bellick, licking his lips once over before replying.
“Been wonderin’ when you’d get around to that.”
Bellick directed the newest Fox River fish into Theo’s cell and called out, “Close on sixteen.”
The fish stared as the iron bars shut, locking him in with a man he’d already heard so many nasty things about-especially considering he’d only just arrived at Fox River.
“What’s your name, boy?”
The fish turned around and made an attempt to act tough, thinking maybe he could scare Theo. Keep him from doing all those nasty things.
“I-I don’t have to . . .” he trailed off. Theo was laughing at him. He’d only said four words and Theo was laughing at him. So much for being tough.
“You probably heard them rumors ‘bout me, didn’t ya?” The fish nodded weakly. “I wouldn’t dwell on ‘em too much, fish. They’re not all true . . .”
The fish was visibly relieved.
“. . . problem is, you don’t know which rumors are more than just rumors. Now, what’s your name?”
“Jason,” the fish muttered, averting his eyes from Theo’s searching gaze.
“Well, Jason,” said Theo, grinning, “let’s hope you’re not a screamer.”
The smoke had cleared and he could see the cell now. Number forty. Scofield’s cell.
Theo draped his arms through the bars of his own and smiled up at the pretty fish’s cell, thinking of all the nasty things he was going to do to him.
“I know you’re there, Pretty,” Theo called out. He thought he saw movement but it was dark and he wasn’t sure.
Theo stalked into the recesses of his cell, turning on the faucet above the sink and washing away the blood on his hands, the blood that had been staining Maytag’s shirt. The blood that didn’t really seem like Maytag’s blood because it didn’t flow outward the same way, didn’t pool in the right places, didn’t darken to the right color.
It hadn’t flowed the same way as it had all those nights when Theo was rough and Maytag was moaning for more beneath him.
Theo wiped his hands on his pants and leaned against the concrete wall, staring at the dismal gray square that was the ceiling.
Maytag was dead and Theo wondered how many cell mates it was now that had died-he couldn’t recall any who hadn’t.
He’d found someone to blame for all the others that had been carelessly murdered, someone to slowly torture and kill.
He knew exactly who to blame for this one. The others had took time to figure out. A few days, a little digging, a little asking around. Put his imagination to the test, then the final confrontation . . . and Theo always left the scene of the crime feeling a little better about himself. His cell mate was dead, but so what? Who needs a cell mate anyway?
Then the next cell mate would come along and the process would start all over again. Boring days, entertaining nights. A riot, a fight, a death. A little poking, a little prodding. An encounter, a secluded area. Rape, death, a lighter conscience . . . repeat.
It was almost as if the forces unknown were mocking him, taking away his toys just when he’d gotten attached to them.
This would be the last time he’d stay true to the pattern laid out for him. He had a feeling the pattern would be broken soon.
Theo glared out into A-Wing, up at cell number forty . . .
“You’re a dead man, Scofield.”