Men of Action: Lies Do Not Become Us
Thanks to thelana and merlinsgirl for betaing.
Series Title: Men of Action
Chapter Title: Lies Do Not Become Us
Characters: Michael/Lincoln, T-bag, Sucre and Abruzzi
Summary: Finally the third part of the Men of Action Series, the day after , with links back to the second.
Prequel: Men of Action:Brotherly Love
Original: Men of Action:Loser's Weepers
Newest installment! A twirl of the sheets, a rough kiss, the sound of bodies rolling on the mattress. Michael's eyes fluttered open and he took a sharp breath, awakening from the most curious of nightmares. Curious only because he didn't know whether to call it a nightmare--or just a dream.
He didn't dare move his body, closing his eyes again and being thankful for the fact morning had come. Scofield let numbers and blueprints dance through his head; he'd have time to waste on his dreams later, but the sun was up, there was work to do.
"Mornin', Pretty," The velvety voice purred in his ear and the blueprints in Michael's brain shattered. No, it hadn't been a dream. It'd been real.
Suddenly Michael became very aware of his body; he was aware of how sore it was, and how T-bag's hips were pressing into his back. Michael didn't bother to struggle, struggling against quicksand only made a man drown faster. Another deep breath, letting the feel of his weight on the mattress come back to him.
Scofield felt cold fingers on the back of his neck, shivering slightly as lips followed them. He could smell T-bag's cologne, the sickingly familar scent that he couldn't place, but he knew from somewhere other than last night; it was a distant memory. Michael's jaw tightened as Theodore's hand slipped down to his hip, "If you thi--"
"Biggs, Banks, Bagwell...Scofield...let's get it out here, no one wants to see that," Bellick snapped turning the page so he could mark Michael as present for Morning Count. "Alright, Ladies, hustle it to the showers."
Scofield tried to avoid the glances he was getting, he could feel Sucre's eyes burrowing into his skin from above and hurried to strip himself down and get some water splashed on his face. Anything to wake him up from this nightmarish reality.
T-bag was slinking along behind him with his usual swagger, cheerier than normal, and for a good reason. He swatted at Michael's rear, "Don't be lookin' so glum, Pretty. You got the royal treatment last night."
Michael caught his wrist and twisted his arm, "Touch me again and you'll..." he paused.
"I'll what?" he asked with a smirk, Michael let his wrist go reluctantly, "Don't get your panties in a twist, Pretty. Could-a been a lot worse." T-bag winked and strutted past Michael like a man who's life goal had just been accomplished. Well, it certainly wasn't a live goal, but T-bag had finished something he'd wanted to start a month ago. Something, for a while, he'd been afraid he never would get a chance to do. Made a man proud to know he’d done something with his life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sucre opened his eyes, he sighed contently seeing that the world still existed, what a horrid dream he'd had, "Hey, breakfast time, Papi."
There was silence.
"Fish, let's go, chow...don't tell me yo--" Sucre leaned over the edge of the top bunk to find the lower one was empty. It still could have been a dream; Michael woke up early, maybe he'd just hopped off to breakfast without him. It was a possibility.
Fernando stepped out for count; looking over the railing, he saw T-bag swat at Michael's rear. So he hadn't been dreaming. "Pobre Pes..." Sucre whispered as the C.O. counted him off, "Ojalá que estés bien, Esé..."
Sucre was down the stairs as soon as the C.O. had given him the go-a-head. He thought his legs would have fallen off by the time he caught up to Michael, half way to the showers.
"Fish!" he snagged Scofield's arm and spun him around. No scratches, Michael's face was still there, it was still Michael: Thank God for small favors.
Michael jumped, "You scared me."
"How are you, Fish? You uh...okay an’ all?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Look, I don't want to be rude, but I'm going to go shower..."
Sucre nodded. That was understandable, after a night at the hands of that pervert he'd want to take a
shower too. And talking about it in the middle of GenPop probably was the last thing Michael wanted to do. Michael raised his fist sheepishly to Sucre, and Sucre met it. He backed off and let his cellmate walk towards the showers.
Michael gladly threw his clothes into the pile, gladly turned on the water, gladly let it wash over him. His skin crawled every time he so much as put soap to it; the images from last night flooding back to him as though T-bag’s voice had broken down a dam in his mind.
Warm water trickled down Michael’s back. In the right lighting, if one squinted just a bit, it looked like the angel was crying. That made Theodore smirk. He would have sung except for the fact the big rughead next to him kept giving him a look that spelled trouble; despite his bark, T-bag didn’t feel in the biting mood that morning, especially not with someone nearly twice his size.
The water stopped. Michael hated the fact the showers were timed, and that the temperature was set. He grabbed a towel, hurrying to get dressed, almost like a race--almost. Until his mind processed everything he didn’t want anything to do with other people. And so Michael walked--nearly sprinting-- to the second tier, to his cell, to his bed and his pillow.
Michael closed his eyes, hugging the pillow to his chest and smiling softly. The familiarity of it reassured him. The comfort of his own cell, of sitting and thinking, was just enough to remind Michael how hungry he was, how much he didn’t want to miss breakfast.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first thing Abruzzi noticed was Fish sitting all alone. That wasn't like him, normally he and his Latino cell mate were inseparable until yard time. John shoved his tray aside, standing up, and sat across the narrow table from Scofield. "Fish," he said, coming up with something superfluous to break the ice, "Pope's sayin' we need to have the insulation in by today. We need one more man workin’ on construction."
Michael nodded at that, pushing his cereal around in the tray, trying to drown it with milk, "I'll work on that."
"You doin alright, Fish?"
Michael nodded his head, "Huh? Mph, yes."
Abruzzi frowned, but didn’t question it. The man said he was good, then he meant he was good, case closed. Meant he didn’t want people nosing around in his business, making him talk about things that. Obviously, Scofield didn’t want to talk about.
The older man shifted slightly on the table’s bench and put his hands together, resting them on the table so he could lean in closer to Michael, “You got any sort-a…problem with a certain person, you just say the word, Fish.”
Michael smirked at that, the faint incline of one side of his mouth. He continued to watch his little Cheerios flounder helplessly in the milky ocean, continually depressed by Michael’s spoon. “Thought I was the one who owed you the favor, John.”
“Let’s just say, it’d only be giving me some extra motivation to, uh, dispose of the refuse we got lounging’ ‘round here,” John shifted slightly, eyes trailing down Michael’s mark-free arms; apparently T-bag hadn’t given Michael the usual welcoming ceremony.
Michael took a deep breath and looked up at Abruzzi, “I think it would be better if I took care of things myself. Thanks.”
Michael’s tone had been definitive, strong, and not something John could argue. He just nodded instead and pulled back. Another nod, “Alright.”
Scofield knew that ‘alright’ meant he’d just turned down the infinite generosity of the Mob. Which, to some extent, could have been a bad thing. But. No. No matter how he thought about it, T-bag may have deserved to die, but Michael wouldn’t be the executioner. Nor would he subject anyone to Abruzzi’s fury; Michael suspected there was a score left unsettled between the two of them about something, he wouldn’t ask what.
No, he’d come into Fox River to get Lincoln, because his brother wasn’t a murderer. What sort of a brother would he be if he signed Bagwell’s death warrant over a stupid mistake. It was his own fault anyway, should have know better than to sit down. Should have known better than to fall asleep. Should have known better than to quit fighti--
SLAM! Sucre’s tray was next to his cellie’s and he looked at Michael with a worried expression on his round face, “Okay, Fish. I know you don’t want to be bothered none but you can’t keep sittin’ here moping.”
“What?” Scofield was half surprised, half confused. He tilted his head and shook it, “I’m not moping.”
“Well all of GenPop won’t shut up about you, haven’t you ever heard of ‘blending in with the herd’, Esé?” Fernando looked side to side then back to his cellmate, “They’re thinkin’ T-bag got you so good last night it fucked with your brain, Fish. Tell me things are still clear up there, eh?” Alright. So that’d sounded a little less comforting than Sucre had meant it to sound. Hopefully Michael still got the message.
“Sorry to ruin your prison rep by having a whacked out cellmate,” Michael mumbled, going back to drowning the grainy ‘o’s, “But I don’t feel like explaining myself right now, got it?”
Sucre nodded, elbow on the table as he looked to Michael’s cereal. Poor defenseless Cheerios; they ain’t never hurt nobody, Sucre thought to himself. “Look, Michael,” He started, trying to sound more sympathetic, “Sorry. Just…you don’t need to sit all on your own; we’re still pals, still carniños.”
Carniños, literally it meant ‘boys of the same flesh’; to Sucre it was companions, friends, brothers. Fernando watched Michael think something over, “If you wanna talk later or something, you know. Whatever. We cool?”
“Yeah,” Michael smiled faintly, “We cool.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“There’s a problem in the kitchens,” The C.O. explained, marching the rest out to P.I., “So your pal Franklin won’t be joining you today.”
“No rughead,” T-bag smirked, not that it was anything new, he’d been smirking all day, “Seems luck just runs in rivers, don’t it, Pretty?”
Michael clenched his jaw, his hand snapping into a fist. T-bag didn’t dare smack his ass again, it wasn’t worth a punch in the face. Or anything from Lincoln, either.
Ah, Lincoln, T-bag mused, Big Brother is watching me. He figured that Michael didn’t need to relay his story to his brother, Lincoln figured it out on his own. Burrows was smart enough, not the quickest bunny to the bush, but there was some wit to be had there.
The door closed, pulling T-bag from his reverie. He blinked nonchalantly at the hole Sucre had already started to uncover. He caught a glare from Abruzzi. Great, everyone‘s siding with little college boy, he thought.
Michael remained quiet. One less hand to help out meant the harder he’d have to work himself. And he’d have to keep Lincoln from killing Bagwell. He hadn’t told his brother yet, but he knew Lincoln would go insane with rage once he found out. Last thing they needed was to be down another man.
“Alright, ladies,” Abruzzi had already taken his throne on the over turned crate, “Sucre, you an boss of buggery here get to start on the hole together…but at least hang a sheet, cause nobody wants to see that,” Abruzzi paused for laughs and got a handful of unappreciative glares. “Sink, take Fish with you to the shed to ask for more insulation.”
Michael sent a thankful glance at Abruzzi. The alone time with his brother was just what he needed, as was the vacation from T-bag. He patted Lincoln on the back and tried his hardest to smile. Lincoln smiled back, waiting until they were out the door and halfway across the yard before speaking.
“You alright, Michael?”
“Yeah, better now.”
“So,” Lincoln paused, telling the C.O. what business they had in the shed as they opened the door, “Is it true what they’re saying? About that freak…and you?”
Michael sighed; maybe this wasn’t the time or the place for this conversation. All the same, Lincoln was always a source of comfort and strength for his younger brother. Michael took a deep breath, collecting himself before answering.
“Yes, if you’ve heard what I think you’ve heard.”
Lincoln closed the door to the shed, staying quiet until he was sure they were very much alone. Seconds passed as they both listened to the retreating footsteps of the C.O. Suddenly, Lincoln grabbed his brother in an embrace, holding him close.
Michael made a noise at first, but Lincoln’s arms were so strong. They made him feel so secure, so safe. His eyes closed, and he rested his head on his brother’s shoulder. He thought about what had happened that night; he could recall everything, down to T-bag’s cologne. Cologne, the scent was so familiar and so…Michael started.
“What’s wrong?” Lincoln asked, keeping a loose hold on his brother’s shoulders.
Michael sighed, “You smell like him.”
“What?”
“Your cologne. You smell like him,” Michael paused, “Maybe…maybe that’s what I didn’t mind so much.”
Lincoln pulled back, frowning at his brother, “Don’t say things like that. Of course you minded, and you had a right to mind. Michael. Look at me, you’re a victim here. It’s not your fault.”
“Linc,” he paused, resting his head forward against Lincoln’s shoulder. He was still so warm, strong. How could Michael tell his strong brother that he’d half enjoyed what T-bag had done. That he half liked it. And that it was all the fault of Lincoln’s cologne, “I love you.”
Lincoln smiled faintly, “I love you too, Michael. Just. Trust me, your head isn’t in the right place now. You need to think about something else.”
‘That monster,’ Lincoln thought to himself. He could feel the anger ripple through his body. The thought of T-bag’s perverse hands on his brother, on his immaculate Michael. To think they wore the same cologne made Lincoln want to scrub his own skin off until the smell was gone.
Michael nodded at his brother’s advice. He felt him shudder with anger and tried to comfort him, smoothing his hands down Lincoln’s muscular chest. In an attempt to run away from the present, his thoughts flew to their escapades with Lincoln‘s ex-girlfriend. The same intoxicating scent in the three-way. The weekend that followed; two brothers, thoughts that shouldn’t have made Michael as excited as they did. He pressed against his brother, half hoping that he would feel the slight bulge.
“What are you thinking about?” Lincoln asked, letting his brother stay abnormally close, he deserved the affection.
Scofield took a sharp breath in and smirked, “That time on the couch. Just the two of us.”
“Wh--why?” Lincoln started backwards. Of all things for his brother to think about, why on Earth did he pick that? He thought they’d made a tacit agreement never to talk about that night.
“You told me to think about something else, and it was the first thing I thought about…” Michael took another breath, working up the courage to add, “And you’re wrong, Lincoln. I did enjoy it, even if it was only because it was so famil--”
“We never did shit like that, Michael and you know it.”
“I know,” another deep breath, pretending he wasn’t nervous as his hands caressed his brother’s neck, “But. It’d been a while since I’d gotten to relieve any tension. I didn’t even know how much I’d missed it…”
Michael’s hands were cool and soft against Lincoln’s neck. He rolled his head, taking his brother’s subtle hint, “Michael…I’m fine. I don’t need whatever you’re planning to give.”
“Fine,” Michael stood up on his toes just slightly, pressing his lips into his brother’s.
A kiss. Fuck, it’d been so long since either of them had had a real, good kiss. Their lips met, met again, and both of them felt their anxieties wash away. All the fears, all the doubts, all the hate, all the sorrow, all of it fell away for a few seconds. Lost in the closeness and affection.
“Michael,” As Lincoln pulled away everything flooded back, with extra guilt from the fact it was his brother he was kissing, in a dirty tool shed, in prison.
Michael nodded, taking a step backwards, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just not myself today.”
Lincoln didn’t hear him, his eyes still looking at his brother’s lips. He thought about their night, about how nice Michael’s hot tongue against him felt. A tingle ran down his spine and he grabbed Michael back, kissing him once more, “I’ve changed my mind, do it.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You know, John, those boys are takin’ a hell of a long time to get some measly little insulation,” T-bag stopped pounding into the concrete to mention.
Abruzzi didn’t bother looking up from whatever tallies he was making, “Maybe tha’s cause they need some family time, ass-man.”
“An’ maybe they wouldn’t need to talk so much, pijo, if you’d’ve left Michael alone,” Sucre added.
T-bag put his hands up defensively, still not loosing his smirk, “All right, all right, Chihuahua. Don’t need to snap. All I’m sayin’ is it’s takin’ those boys a long time to get some insulation an’ they’re bound to get us in trouble if we don’t get nothin all day.”
“You’re so concerned, you go get the insulation yourself, T-bag,” Abruzzi snapped pointing at him with his ball point pen.
T-bag crawled out of the hole, dusting himself off before leaving with a faint smirk and a, “Maybe I will.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Michael moved down to his knees as Lincoln pressed his back against the wall, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Lincoln asked, watching his younger siblings slender hands unzip his P.I. uniform.
“Of course I’m okay with it,” Michael took a deep breath, for confidence, but the question struck him. Not so much was he okay with it, he was, but why he was okay with it. Lincoln deserved a little release, a little assurance that his brother really was okay.
The cold fingers curled around Lincoln’s organ, causing him to gasp. He pushed back into the wall behind him. From cold fingers, the erection slid into Michael’s hot, welcoming mouth, sucking tightly as he moved down it.
A tongue rolled across the tip, and a muffled moan flittered out of Lincoln’s mouth. His strong hands wrapped around the back of Michael’s head, urging him onward. Michael obeyed, pulling back quickly, only to plunge down once more, mouth tight against the hard flesh all the while.
Minutes flew by, Lincoln spiraling into a world of pleasures as Michael stayed intent on satisfying. Both of them remained locked in their own little place in time. Neither of them heard the door to the shed open and close.
T-bag was about to complain about them being slow when he saw them. Big Brother up against the wall, eyes closed and head rolled back. His hands pushed little Michael’s head faster, and faster against him. There was no denying what was happening, and Theodore had to back up against a wall himself and let out a little shudder of excitement. This was far too wonderful, and far too stimulating.
Lincoln shivered, something felt cold but it only made the contrast to the hot tongue that slid up and down his shaft all the more exciting. He bit his lip and let his face say all the moans and whimpers he wouldn’t let himself say. They couldn’t get caught, they couldn’t.
Michael raked his teeth teasingly against the flesh, holding his brother’s hips to keep himself steady. His eyes were shut, not noticing T-bag in the corner, whose hand was slowly wandering to his own erection the scene was causing. No, Michael was intent in his purpose, tilting his head and pushing forward eager to take in as much of his brother as he could.
The heat crept down farther and farther on Lincoln’s member, and slowly he felt his knees start to buckle. He pushed Michael against him as the heat ran all over his body. For a moment, everything was tense, the heat shooting out in a salty-sweet mixture into Michael’s mouth and taking the tension with it--leaving behind only bliss.
“Oh Michael,” he muttered quietly, taking a deep breath as he pulled his wits back together.
Michael smiled, licking his lips as he stood up, hand running across Lincoln’s chest, “I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Always ar--” Lincoln started to redress as he opened his eyes, startled to see a rather refreshed, contented looking T-bag against the door, “You.”
Michael whirled around, feeling his face flush as T-bag said, “Don’t you worry, boys…our little secret. Big Man Italy just sent me over to make sure y’all was actually gettin’ some insulation sometime today.”
“You fucking little inbred prick!” Lincoln started forward, pulling his fist back but Michael caught his arm. “Lincoln, don’t.”
T-bag couldn’t help but smile at Lincoln’s insult, “I wouldn’t be talkin’ about incestuous relations, Big Brother. Last I saw you had Pretty on his knees.”
“I’ll fucking kill you!”
“Lincoln, leave him alone.”
“He’s scum, you don’t have to defend him, Michael.”
“If you hit him, you’ll get tossed in the SHU and then it’ll be next to impossible to get you out of here with us…”
Lincoln reluctantly let his fist down, glaring daggers at the overly smug Southerner, “You’ll get yours.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I don’t believe this!” Abruzzi exclaimed, looking at the two returning brother, both looking a little ragged around the edges, “I send you out a half hour ago and neither of you comes back with the insulation.”
Michael opened his mouth, ready to blurt out an excuse when Abruzzi caught sight of T-bag, slinking in the door after them, “You! You don’t have any insulation either!”
“They were out, Mussolini.”
“Out of insulation. In the supply shed? It took all three of you a half hour to find out the shed was out of insulation?”
Michael and Lincoln both looked nervously at T-bag. Last thing they needed now was a rumor of any sort of incest or…worse…any sort of three-way going on with P.I. Anything that might have the C.O.s watch them too closely.
T-bag just smirked, talking to both the mobster and the brothers all at once, “Hard to find people you can trust ‘round here, ain’t it?”
Series Title: Men of Action
Chapter Title: Lies Do Not Become Us
Characters: Michael/Lincoln, T-bag, Sucre and Abruzzi
Summary: Finally the third part of the Men of Action Series, the day after , with links back to the second.
Prequel: Men of Action:Brotherly Love
Original: Men of Action:Loser's Weepers
Newest installment! A twirl of the sheets, a rough kiss, the sound of bodies rolling on the mattress. Michael's eyes fluttered open and he took a sharp breath, awakening from the most curious of nightmares. Curious only because he didn't know whether to call it a nightmare--or just a dream.
He didn't dare move his body, closing his eyes again and being thankful for the fact morning had come. Scofield let numbers and blueprints dance through his head; he'd have time to waste on his dreams later, but the sun was up, there was work to do.
"Mornin', Pretty," The velvety voice purred in his ear and the blueprints in Michael's brain shattered. No, it hadn't been a dream. It'd been real.
Suddenly Michael became very aware of his body; he was aware of how sore it was, and how T-bag's hips were pressing into his back. Michael didn't bother to struggle, struggling against quicksand only made a man drown faster. Another deep breath, letting the feel of his weight on the mattress come back to him.
Scofield felt cold fingers on the back of his neck, shivering slightly as lips followed them. He could smell T-bag's cologne, the sickingly familar scent that he couldn't place, but he knew from somewhere other than last night; it was a distant memory. Michael's jaw tightened as Theodore's hand slipped down to his hip, "If you thi--"
"Biggs, Banks, Bagwell...Scofield...let's get it out here, no one wants to see that," Bellick snapped turning the page so he could mark Michael as present for Morning Count. "Alright, Ladies, hustle it to the showers."
Scofield tried to avoid the glances he was getting, he could feel Sucre's eyes burrowing into his skin from above and hurried to strip himself down and get some water splashed on his face. Anything to wake him up from this nightmarish reality.
T-bag was slinking along behind him with his usual swagger, cheerier than normal, and for a good reason. He swatted at Michael's rear, "Don't be lookin' so glum, Pretty. You got the royal treatment last night."
Michael caught his wrist and twisted his arm, "Touch me again and you'll..." he paused.
"I'll what?" he asked with a smirk, Michael let his wrist go reluctantly, "Don't get your panties in a twist, Pretty. Could-a been a lot worse." T-bag winked and strutted past Michael like a man who's life goal had just been accomplished. Well, it certainly wasn't a live goal, but T-bag had finished something he'd wanted to start a month ago. Something, for a while, he'd been afraid he never would get a chance to do. Made a man proud to know he’d done something with his life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sucre opened his eyes, he sighed contently seeing that the world still existed, what a horrid dream he'd had, "Hey, breakfast time, Papi."
There was silence.
"Fish, let's go, chow...don't tell me yo--" Sucre leaned over the edge of the top bunk to find the lower one was empty. It still could have been a dream; Michael woke up early, maybe he'd just hopped off to breakfast without him. It was a possibility.
Fernando stepped out for count; looking over the railing, he saw T-bag swat at Michael's rear. So he hadn't been dreaming. "Pobre Pes..." Sucre whispered as the C.O. counted him off, "Ojalá que estés bien, Esé..."
Sucre was down the stairs as soon as the C.O. had given him the go-a-head. He thought his legs would have fallen off by the time he caught up to Michael, half way to the showers.
"Fish!" he snagged Scofield's arm and spun him around. No scratches, Michael's face was still there, it was still Michael: Thank God for small favors.
Michael jumped, "You scared me."
"How are you, Fish? You uh...okay an’ all?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Look, I don't want to be rude, but I'm going to go shower..."
Sucre nodded. That was understandable, after a night at the hands of that pervert he'd want to take a
shower too. And talking about it in the middle of GenPop probably was the last thing Michael wanted to do. Michael raised his fist sheepishly to Sucre, and Sucre met it. He backed off and let his cellmate walk towards the showers.
Michael gladly threw his clothes into the pile, gladly turned on the water, gladly let it wash over him. His skin crawled every time he so much as put soap to it; the images from last night flooding back to him as though T-bag’s voice had broken down a dam in his mind.
Warm water trickled down Michael’s back. In the right lighting, if one squinted just a bit, it looked like the angel was crying. That made Theodore smirk. He would have sung except for the fact the big rughead next to him kept giving him a look that spelled trouble; despite his bark, T-bag didn’t feel in the biting mood that morning, especially not with someone nearly twice his size.
The water stopped. Michael hated the fact the showers were timed, and that the temperature was set. He grabbed a towel, hurrying to get dressed, almost like a race--almost. Until his mind processed everything he didn’t want anything to do with other people. And so Michael walked--nearly sprinting-- to the second tier, to his cell, to his bed and his pillow.
Michael closed his eyes, hugging the pillow to his chest and smiling softly. The familiarity of it reassured him. The comfort of his own cell, of sitting and thinking, was just enough to remind Michael how hungry he was, how much he didn’t want to miss breakfast.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first thing Abruzzi noticed was Fish sitting all alone. That wasn't like him, normally he and his Latino cell mate were inseparable until yard time. John shoved his tray aside, standing up, and sat across the narrow table from Scofield. "Fish," he said, coming up with something superfluous to break the ice, "Pope's sayin' we need to have the insulation in by today. We need one more man workin’ on construction."
Michael nodded at that, pushing his cereal around in the tray, trying to drown it with milk, "I'll work on that."
"You doin alright, Fish?"
Michael nodded his head, "Huh? Mph, yes."
Abruzzi frowned, but didn’t question it. The man said he was good, then he meant he was good, case closed. Meant he didn’t want people nosing around in his business, making him talk about things that. Obviously, Scofield didn’t want to talk about.
The older man shifted slightly on the table’s bench and put his hands together, resting them on the table so he could lean in closer to Michael, “You got any sort-a…problem with a certain person, you just say the word, Fish.”
Michael smirked at that, the faint incline of one side of his mouth. He continued to watch his little Cheerios flounder helplessly in the milky ocean, continually depressed by Michael’s spoon. “Thought I was the one who owed you the favor, John.”
“Let’s just say, it’d only be giving me some extra motivation to, uh, dispose of the refuse we got lounging’ ‘round here,” John shifted slightly, eyes trailing down Michael’s mark-free arms; apparently T-bag hadn’t given Michael the usual welcoming ceremony.
Michael took a deep breath and looked up at Abruzzi, “I think it would be better if I took care of things myself. Thanks.”
Michael’s tone had been definitive, strong, and not something John could argue. He just nodded instead and pulled back. Another nod, “Alright.”
Scofield knew that ‘alright’ meant he’d just turned down the infinite generosity of the Mob. Which, to some extent, could have been a bad thing. But. No. No matter how he thought about it, T-bag may have deserved to die, but Michael wouldn’t be the executioner. Nor would he subject anyone to Abruzzi’s fury; Michael suspected there was a score left unsettled between the two of them about something, he wouldn’t ask what.
No, he’d come into Fox River to get Lincoln, because his brother wasn’t a murderer. What sort of a brother would he be if he signed Bagwell’s death warrant over a stupid mistake. It was his own fault anyway, should have know better than to sit down. Should have known better than to fall asleep. Should have known better than to quit fighti--
SLAM! Sucre’s tray was next to his cellie’s and he looked at Michael with a worried expression on his round face, “Okay, Fish. I know you don’t want to be bothered none but you can’t keep sittin’ here moping.”
“What?” Scofield was half surprised, half confused. He tilted his head and shook it, “I’m not moping.”
“Well all of GenPop won’t shut up about you, haven’t you ever heard of ‘blending in with the herd’, Esé?” Fernando looked side to side then back to his cellmate, “They’re thinkin’ T-bag got you so good last night it fucked with your brain, Fish. Tell me things are still clear up there, eh?” Alright. So that’d sounded a little less comforting than Sucre had meant it to sound. Hopefully Michael still got the message.
“Sorry to ruin your prison rep by having a whacked out cellmate,” Michael mumbled, going back to drowning the grainy ‘o’s, “But I don’t feel like explaining myself right now, got it?”
Sucre nodded, elbow on the table as he looked to Michael’s cereal. Poor defenseless Cheerios; they ain’t never hurt nobody, Sucre thought to himself. “Look, Michael,” He started, trying to sound more sympathetic, “Sorry. Just…you don’t need to sit all on your own; we’re still pals, still carniños.”
Carniños, literally it meant ‘boys of the same flesh’; to Sucre it was companions, friends, brothers. Fernando watched Michael think something over, “If you wanna talk later or something, you know. Whatever. We cool?”
“Yeah,” Michael smiled faintly, “We cool.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“There’s a problem in the kitchens,” The C.O. explained, marching the rest out to P.I., “So your pal Franklin won’t be joining you today.”
“No rughead,” T-bag smirked, not that it was anything new, he’d been smirking all day, “Seems luck just runs in rivers, don’t it, Pretty?”
Michael clenched his jaw, his hand snapping into a fist. T-bag didn’t dare smack his ass again, it wasn’t worth a punch in the face. Or anything from Lincoln, either.
Ah, Lincoln, T-bag mused, Big Brother is watching me. He figured that Michael didn’t need to relay his story to his brother, Lincoln figured it out on his own. Burrows was smart enough, not the quickest bunny to the bush, but there was some wit to be had there.
The door closed, pulling T-bag from his reverie. He blinked nonchalantly at the hole Sucre had already started to uncover. He caught a glare from Abruzzi. Great, everyone‘s siding with little college boy, he thought.
Michael remained quiet. One less hand to help out meant the harder he’d have to work himself. And he’d have to keep Lincoln from killing Bagwell. He hadn’t told his brother yet, but he knew Lincoln would go insane with rage once he found out. Last thing they needed was to be down another man.
“Alright, ladies,” Abruzzi had already taken his throne on the over turned crate, “Sucre, you an boss of buggery here get to start on the hole together…but at least hang a sheet, cause nobody wants to see that,” Abruzzi paused for laughs and got a handful of unappreciative glares. “Sink, take Fish with you to the shed to ask for more insulation.”
Michael sent a thankful glance at Abruzzi. The alone time with his brother was just what he needed, as was the vacation from T-bag. He patted Lincoln on the back and tried his hardest to smile. Lincoln smiled back, waiting until they were out the door and halfway across the yard before speaking.
“You alright, Michael?”
“Yeah, better now.”
“So,” Lincoln paused, telling the C.O. what business they had in the shed as they opened the door, “Is it true what they’re saying? About that freak…and you?”
Michael sighed; maybe this wasn’t the time or the place for this conversation. All the same, Lincoln was always a source of comfort and strength for his younger brother. Michael took a deep breath, collecting himself before answering.
“Yes, if you’ve heard what I think you’ve heard.”
Lincoln closed the door to the shed, staying quiet until he was sure they were very much alone. Seconds passed as they both listened to the retreating footsteps of the C.O. Suddenly, Lincoln grabbed his brother in an embrace, holding him close.
Michael made a noise at first, but Lincoln’s arms were so strong. They made him feel so secure, so safe. His eyes closed, and he rested his head on his brother’s shoulder. He thought about what had happened that night; he could recall everything, down to T-bag’s cologne. Cologne, the scent was so familiar and so…Michael started.
“What’s wrong?” Lincoln asked, keeping a loose hold on his brother’s shoulders.
Michael sighed, “You smell like him.”
“What?”
“Your cologne. You smell like him,” Michael paused, “Maybe…maybe that’s what I didn’t mind so much.”
Lincoln pulled back, frowning at his brother, “Don’t say things like that. Of course you minded, and you had a right to mind. Michael. Look at me, you’re a victim here. It’s not your fault.”
“Linc,” he paused, resting his head forward against Lincoln’s shoulder. He was still so warm, strong. How could Michael tell his strong brother that he’d half enjoyed what T-bag had done. That he half liked it. And that it was all the fault of Lincoln’s cologne, “I love you.”
Lincoln smiled faintly, “I love you too, Michael. Just. Trust me, your head isn’t in the right place now. You need to think about something else.”
‘That monster,’ Lincoln thought to himself. He could feel the anger ripple through his body. The thought of T-bag’s perverse hands on his brother, on his immaculate Michael. To think they wore the same cologne made Lincoln want to scrub his own skin off until the smell was gone.
Michael nodded at his brother’s advice. He felt him shudder with anger and tried to comfort him, smoothing his hands down Lincoln’s muscular chest. In an attempt to run away from the present, his thoughts flew to their escapades with Lincoln‘s ex-girlfriend. The same intoxicating scent in the three-way. The weekend that followed; two brothers, thoughts that shouldn’t have made Michael as excited as they did. He pressed against his brother, half hoping that he would feel the slight bulge.
“What are you thinking about?” Lincoln asked, letting his brother stay abnormally close, he deserved the affection.
Scofield took a sharp breath in and smirked, “That time on the couch. Just the two of us.”
“Wh--why?” Lincoln started backwards. Of all things for his brother to think about, why on Earth did he pick that? He thought they’d made a tacit agreement never to talk about that night.
“You told me to think about something else, and it was the first thing I thought about…” Michael took another breath, working up the courage to add, “And you’re wrong, Lincoln. I did enjoy it, even if it was only because it was so famil--”
“We never did shit like that, Michael and you know it.”
“I know,” another deep breath, pretending he wasn’t nervous as his hands caressed his brother’s neck, “But. It’d been a while since I’d gotten to relieve any tension. I didn’t even know how much I’d missed it…”
Michael’s hands were cool and soft against Lincoln’s neck. He rolled his head, taking his brother’s subtle hint, “Michael…I’m fine. I don’t need whatever you’re planning to give.”
“Fine,” Michael stood up on his toes just slightly, pressing his lips into his brother’s.
A kiss. Fuck, it’d been so long since either of them had had a real, good kiss. Their lips met, met again, and both of them felt their anxieties wash away. All the fears, all the doubts, all the hate, all the sorrow, all of it fell away for a few seconds. Lost in the closeness and affection.
“Michael,” As Lincoln pulled away everything flooded back, with extra guilt from the fact it was his brother he was kissing, in a dirty tool shed, in prison.
Michael nodded, taking a step backwards, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just not myself today.”
Lincoln didn’t hear him, his eyes still looking at his brother’s lips. He thought about their night, about how nice Michael’s hot tongue against him felt. A tingle ran down his spine and he grabbed Michael back, kissing him once more, “I’ve changed my mind, do it.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You know, John, those boys are takin’ a hell of a long time to get some measly little insulation,” T-bag stopped pounding into the concrete to mention.
Abruzzi didn’t bother looking up from whatever tallies he was making, “Maybe tha’s cause they need some family time, ass-man.”
“An’ maybe they wouldn’t need to talk so much, pijo, if you’d’ve left Michael alone,” Sucre added.
T-bag put his hands up defensively, still not loosing his smirk, “All right, all right, Chihuahua. Don’t need to snap. All I’m sayin’ is it’s takin’ those boys a long time to get some insulation an’ they’re bound to get us in trouble if we don’t get nothin all day.”
“You’re so concerned, you go get the insulation yourself, T-bag,” Abruzzi snapped pointing at him with his ball point pen.
T-bag crawled out of the hole, dusting himself off before leaving with a faint smirk and a, “Maybe I will.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Michael moved down to his knees as Lincoln pressed his back against the wall, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Lincoln asked, watching his younger siblings slender hands unzip his P.I. uniform.
“Of course I’m okay with it,” Michael took a deep breath, for confidence, but the question struck him. Not so much was he okay with it, he was, but why he was okay with it. Lincoln deserved a little release, a little assurance that his brother really was okay.
The cold fingers curled around Lincoln’s organ, causing him to gasp. He pushed back into the wall behind him. From cold fingers, the erection slid into Michael’s hot, welcoming mouth, sucking tightly as he moved down it.
A tongue rolled across the tip, and a muffled moan flittered out of Lincoln’s mouth. His strong hands wrapped around the back of Michael’s head, urging him onward. Michael obeyed, pulling back quickly, only to plunge down once more, mouth tight against the hard flesh all the while.
Minutes flew by, Lincoln spiraling into a world of pleasures as Michael stayed intent on satisfying. Both of them remained locked in their own little place in time. Neither of them heard the door to the shed open and close.
T-bag was about to complain about them being slow when he saw them. Big Brother up against the wall, eyes closed and head rolled back. His hands pushed little Michael’s head faster, and faster against him. There was no denying what was happening, and Theodore had to back up against a wall himself and let out a little shudder of excitement. This was far too wonderful, and far too stimulating.
Lincoln shivered, something felt cold but it only made the contrast to the hot tongue that slid up and down his shaft all the more exciting. He bit his lip and let his face say all the moans and whimpers he wouldn’t let himself say. They couldn’t get caught, they couldn’t.
Michael raked his teeth teasingly against the flesh, holding his brother’s hips to keep himself steady. His eyes were shut, not noticing T-bag in the corner, whose hand was slowly wandering to his own erection the scene was causing. No, Michael was intent in his purpose, tilting his head and pushing forward eager to take in as much of his brother as he could.
The heat crept down farther and farther on Lincoln’s member, and slowly he felt his knees start to buckle. He pushed Michael against him as the heat ran all over his body. For a moment, everything was tense, the heat shooting out in a salty-sweet mixture into Michael’s mouth and taking the tension with it--leaving behind only bliss.
“Oh Michael,” he muttered quietly, taking a deep breath as he pulled his wits back together.
Michael smiled, licking his lips as he stood up, hand running across Lincoln’s chest, “I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Always ar--” Lincoln started to redress as he opened his eyes, startled to see a rather refreshed, contented looking T-bag against the door, “You.”
Michael whirled around, feeling his face flush as T-bag said, “Don’t you worry, boys…our little secret. Big Man Italy just sent me over to make sure y’all was actually gettin’ some insulation sometime today.”
“You fucking little inbred prick!” Lincoln started forward, pulling his fist back but Michael caught his arm. “Lincoln, don’t.”
T-bag couldn’t help but smile at Lincoln’s insult, “I wouldn’t be talkin’ about incestuous relations, Big Brother. Last I saw you had Pretty on his knees.”
“I’ll fucking kill you!”
“Lincoln, leave him alone.”
“He’s scum, you don’t have to defend him, Michael.”
“If you hit him, you’ll get tossed in the SHU and then it’ll be next to impossible to get you out of here with us…”
Lincoln reluctantly let his fist down, glaring daggers at the overly smug Southerner, “You’ll get yours.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I don’t believe this!” Abruzzi exclaimed, looking at the two returning brother, both looking a little ragged around the edges, “I send you out a half hour ago and neither of you comes back with the insulation.”
Michael opened his mouth, ready to blurt out an excuse when Abruzzi caught sight of T-bag, slinking in the door after them, “You! You don’t have any insulation either!”
“They were out, Mussolini.”
“Out of insulation. In the supply shed? It took all three of you a half hour to find out the shed was out of insulation?”
Michael and Lincoln both looked nervously at T-bag. Last thing they needed now was a rumor of any sort of incest or…worse…any sort of three-way going on with P.I. Anything that might have the C.O.s watch them too closely.
T-bag just smirked, talking to both the mobster and the brothers all at once, “Hard to find people you can trust ‘round here, ain’t it?”