Carol (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} amusingly_fics) wrote,@ 2006-08-01 23:23:00 |
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Prison Break: ALL IN GOOD TIME, 1/1
Title: ALL IN GOOD TIME, 1/1
Completed September 25, 2006; Word Count 4840.
Pairing: Alexander Mahone/Michael Scofield
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Drama, AU featuring spoilers for season 2 of Prison Break, Alexander (now) OOC.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I don’t claim to own anythingexcept a Michael and Lincoln mouse pad. No infringement on anything/anyone that belongs to FOX or the show Prison Break is intended.
Summary: Alexander is taken hostage.
It’s a little frustrating posting this tonight, after watching ‘Subdivision,’ which only makes an AU fic even more AU. But hey, here it is, it’s out there, it’s written, and it was a lot of fun to write. The pointing out of boo-boos is much appreciated!
Click here to download All In Good Time.mp3. I find the lyrics more fitting to this story than the tune itself.
ALL IN GOOD TIME
Through the coal black lonely night
Something told me, “It’ll work out”
Something deep inside
Was comforting me
- Ron Sexsmith, All In Good Time
Alexander opened his eyes slowly, conscious but unaware.
For some time he lulled in that impassive haze, only half-fighting the tempting draw of fatigue. Until his breathing evened and the blinding ache in his back began to subside, and then--
Darkness. There was only darkness surrounding him. No wind or fresh air, only dirty floorboards below and nothing above. He was stretched flat on the ground, hands and ankles bound together, and cramping painfully as he tried to move.
Panic built calculatedly. Like slow motion, Alexander anticipated the swell of anxiety in his chest, the dropping sensation in his stomach, the quickening breath, the sudden cold sweat.
Breathe out. He swallowed hard, trying to control his movements, but dirt was in his mouth – dirt all through him, and he choked hard, his body writhing in agony.
“Here now,” a soft voice broke through the panic, almost a reprimand.
Alexander knew that voice – somehow – and took his time recovering, calming the shaking and accompanying nausea. Catching his air, he looked up at the dark silhouette that hovered over him concernedly.
Scofield.
The apprehensiveness came back, this time manifesting in his hands. Bound hands that still tried to reach for his pen of pills, groping achingly at his shirt buttons before realizing he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket. Hands sore with energy, longing to be flexed.
Breathe.
After a consideration, Scofield bent at his knees, long fingers reaching out and touching Alexander’s jaw ever so slightly. An examination, he realized, suddenly still.
It almost hurt to look at the man, even at his shadowed form in darkness, but Alexander tried to hold his gaze steady. After chasing the convict for weeks, he could admit, at least to himself, that Scofield peaked his interest on a personal level. He respected the man, his genius and, to some extent, his morals, and was curious to know more about him. It was obvious he’d only committed his crime to break his brother out of Fox River, but Alexander wanted to know what wasn’t planned beforehand, what wasn’t drawn into the tattoo’s intrinsic details.
Frozen in place, Alexander watched the shadows of Scofield’s hands in fascinated silence. With his light presses, he was directed to move his head subtly. Jaw line, lips, nose, eyelids. Alexander could feel where his lip was swollen, and fought against wincing as Scofield grazed several open cuts. A clammy hand brushed past his ear, scooping the back of his neck and rubbing. When no groans or complaints were voiced, he stood and brushed his hands together, and walked away.
Away from Alexander.
“Michael…” he tried to call out. Wanting answers, wanting… companionship. But with no fresh air and his throat raw, speaking was impossible.
--
Memories were slow to come back, and Alexander didn’t push them forward.
Instead, his eyes adjusting to the shadows, he tried to assess his surroundings. He appeared to be held in a small room, and immediately assumed the cons had found an abandoned cabin or shack to hold him at. The area was no bigger than a large closet, with no furniture or adornments save for a tatty curtain that half-covered a high, round window. It was night and, as he was noticing, a chill had set in.
He could make out Scofield’s still form sitting at the other side of the room, directly in front of a closed door. His knees were brought up to his chest, his head tilted forward. Thinking, Alexander knew, a glint of envy running through him.
Though the soreness had faded from his wrists and ankles, Alexander still couldn’t speak, and was too tired to try to elicit a response from Scofield by other means, whether it be by throwing a silent fit or staring him down. Instead he tried to bring some semblance of order to the chaos that surrounded that day.
Or days, he realized, not knowing how much time had passed since that early morning when he’d learned of several promising leads that had been phoned into HQ. Word was that some of the cons had been spotted in Utah. Several overzealous citizens, workers coming off a back shift and finishing a few rounds at the local pub, had recognized the group and cornered the cons, barricading them in a gas station until help could arrive. Alexander and his team got there first, and he’d snuck around the back before the perimeter was secure, and--
Like lightning, Burrows was on him, street-trained fists aptly taking him down. In and out of consciousness, he barely remembered being dragged to a car, long fingers patiently tying knotted rope around his hands and feet. He remembered waking up intermittently and seeing T-Bag look down at him as he rode on the floor of the backseat. He remembered being gagged.
At least that had been removed.
He must have groaned at the thought, because suddenly Scofield was at his side, bending down to wrap his arms around Alexander’s torso, pulling him into a sitting position. He let his eyes close, almost feeling the fatigue radiate off the kid as he struggled to retain balance, hearing his deep breathing, the air that caught in his throat.
His jeans rubbed against Alexander’s face. Rough and heavy, they were only jeans, but something about the feel made Michael Scofield seem real. Human.
He’s tired of running, Alexander thought, growing light-headed from the movement and falling into darkness again.
--
“Still on watch?” were the first words Alexander managed hours later, though his voice cracked and he knew he was barely audible.
The harsh orange rays of dawn came through the small window, shining down on Scofield’s… Michael’s slouched form, and he turned his head slowly, sharp eyes focusing on Alexander. He nodded once.
“There’s some water,” he said casually, and Alexander was about to ask where, when he noticed a bottle next to him, opened, and with a straw extending from the top.
He wriggled his body in line with the drink, coughing on small sips until his throat eased. Then there was only silence around them, and he wondered where Burrows and T-Bag might have gone.
--
“You two just go on now,” T-Bag’s familiar southern drawl woke Alexander. He looked around the room, surprised to see he was alone now, the door ajar and the voices coming in clearly. “Go on.”
“Mike,” Burrows was saying, managing to sound both annoyed and cautious. Feet shuffled, and the door opened fully to reveal Michael’s shadowed form, looking down at him.
Alexander matched his silent stare until T-Bag stood beside him, looking back with that predator’s glint, the one that couldn’t even be disguised in a straightforward mug shot.
“Go on now,” T-Bag urged Michael again, wrapping an arm casually around his shoulder. Alexander was aware of the quickening of his own breath, and he was certain he didn’t imagine Michael leaning away. “I can watch the fed.”
Hurriedly Alexander looked back at Michael, matching his stare again. He knew he should be vehemently protesting, inwardly and aloud, at the prospect at being left alone with T-Bag. Under fair circumstances, he was more than capable of taking someone in a physical fight – Burrows excepted, obviously – but bound and groggy as he was, he didn’t stand much of a chance with someone who had more murders and rapes on his rap sheet than most agents had encountered before.
For some reason Alexander was too tired to justify, he didn’t feel as though he had to panic.
Burrows appeared behind Michael, his presence enough to shake off T-Bag’s arm. “Come on. We need to go now.”
“He’ll be in good hands,” T-Bag reassured Michael, grinning at Alexander. “I’ll take well and good care of him. Don’t you worry.”
Burrows grabbed T-Bag hard, pushing him away from Michael and against the cabin wall, holding him a foot off the ground by his t-shirt.
“Why, Sinc, I never knew you cared so--”
“SHUT UP!” Burrows yelled, his knuckles white as he leaned menacingly against the other man. “You’re not to touch him. Do you understand? You’re not even to go into this room.”
“Fine,” T-Bag spit back. He waved his hands. “Fine, fine, fine.”
Michael was still watching Alexander, appearing to gauge his response to the conversation. “I’m staying, Linc. Take T-Bag,” he finally said decisively, turning back into the other room.
Burrows looked over his shoulder at his brother, incredulous, and dropped T-Bag to follow him. “Serious, Mike? Come on. Don’t make me sit in a car for six more hours with this…” he paused, thinking. “… this.”
T-Bag, sprawled on the floor, let out a huff of annoyance. His eyes swept the room and caught Alexander’s again, as though just remembering he was there. With disturbing calmness, he stretched out, leaning back on his hands and crossing his ankles, smiling.
“Do you trust him?” Michael was asking, interrupting his brother’s tirade.
“What?”
“Trust him. What you said in there, you’ve said that to him before. Didn’t help that guard any, did it?”
“That pretty boy had it coming,” T-Bag said loudly, extending his body forward and laying flat. He didn’t break the stare with Alexander, crawling on his stomach until their noses almost touched. “Just you and me. Mmm-mmm-mm. Fed-der-al agent, huh? How I do love the big guns.” He brought his fingers to his chin, pulling at his goatee as he examined Alexander, and then reached out two fingers--
Like lightning, it happened too fast to have seen coming. T-Bag rolling away, clutching at his side, and Michael was there, standing above him, glaring. “Get lost.”
“Get in the damn car!” Burrows shouted, slamming the front door behind him. “I don’t have time for this!”
T-Bag looked at Michael, crushed, and clucked his tongue disapprovingly. To Alexander, he pouted his lips and said, “Maybe some other time, love.”
As he left, Alexander felt something close to relief come over him. He heard the front door close and barely remembered Michael asking questions – comfortable? toilet? hungry? – and hearing none of them.
--
Anger like Michael displayed… Alexander didn’t think him capable of such intensity. Mentally he added this to what little knowledge he did have of the man, based on files and witness accounts, and, personally, what he’d learned from Michael’s own actions. Everything he discovered here, though – the lightest of touches with his fingers, the stubbornness with his brother, his protective nature, even to a hostage, only made Alexander want to know more.
He looked over at Michael, surprised to see him looking back attentively. In the daylight he could make out the faded jeans, dirty white t-shirt and sandals he wore. Must be cold. His arms were bare, revealing the tattoo that haunted Alexander’s dreams. It looked completely different in person than the pictures he had taped up in his office. He tore his eyes away from Michael’s body and back to his face, again meeting his eyes but this time noticing the bruises on his cheeks. The kid has a few scars of his own.
“Where are they gone?” Alexander spoke quietly and, to his relief, easily.
“They’ll be back,” he answered, his voice at once confident, even though Alexander thought the words themselves uncertain.
Michael moved to him, carrying a brown paper bag. He sat beside him, taking out a bottle of water and a sandwich, and placing them open on Alexander’s lap.
And then Michael sat back, watching him eat.
They’ll be back, Alexander thought over Michael’s answer. Was it just an answer, he wondered, or an underlying caution for him not to try anything?
--
The sun was setting when Burrows entered the room, one hand pointing Alexander’s company-issue gun at him, the other wielding a small knife.
He cut the binds around Alexander’s ankles and dragged him to his feet, shoving him forward. His legs were like jelly, unable to support his weight, and he struggled to remain upright. Every movement was a chore: keeping his sandwich down, keeping his head straight, keeping from falling backwards.
Burrows’ mannerisms caught him off guard, too, so different from his brother’s. The scent of sweat, the heaviness of stress, all rough hands and blunt action. All less familiar. Less welcome.
Holding the back of his shirt, Burrows pushed him through the cabin. It was little more than a glorified shack, he determined, though his eyes were still adjusting to the light and most of his concentration was spent on trying to follow Burrows’ lead.
Soon he was outside – so many blues and greens and life, and Alexander, never having been one for the outdoors, vowed to appreciate nature more if he was freed. When he was freed.
Muttering obscenities, Burrows undid his zipper – eyes forward – and turned away, keeping his hand on Alexander’s shoulder.
Small favors, he thought wryly, feeling somewhat human again. He finished and turned back to Burrows with no words exchanged.
Somewhere in the distance, there were voices, too far away to be distinguished. He wondered if Michael was part of them and knew he couldn’t have been. They were too mischievous, too young, and besides, he was certain he could make out Michael’s voice anywhere.
He was taken back through the cabin, eyes seeing more this time, and wasn’t surprised to spot Michael sitting on the floor of what might pass for a front room. His head was down and he held ice to his forehead.
“What happened?” Alexander demanded, taken back at the tone in his own voice and briefly forgetting the gun poking in his back.
Michael raised his head, tilted as though about to ask him to clarify the question, but Burrows gave Alexander a hard shove from behind before he could respond.
Alexander braced himself, keeping his gaze locked on Michael. Before the door closed on his small prison, the gray-blue eyes were effervescent with intrigue.
--
The cabin remained in relative silence for a lengthy period of time. Every now and then, the door would open and Burrows would make certain Alexander was still present and bound but for the most part, they left him alone. Either they believed he wouldn’t try to escape, or Michael did the math and convinced Burrows that he couldn’t fit through the small window if he tried.
All of a sudden there was a rush of words from the other room. They escalated into argument within seconds, a chorus of voices shouting hard, trying to top each other.
Dazed at the change, Alexander could only watch the door, useless. It hadn’t occurred to him to try to escape, not with muscle like Burrows around. Not with the potential for T-Bag to trap him, or for that matter, anyone else they picked up along the way. He was starting to suspect Michael’s presence might have been to watch out for his welfare, both the aftermath of his brother’s beating and from any future trouble from the rest of their company.
He also suspected that perhaps, by just being in the same room, whether conscious or not, he was doing the same favor for Michael.
But at his core, Alexander was a good agent, and tried to listen carefully to the words being said. His training told him that such loud voices could be a clue to false ideas planted for his benefit, and though there were no boundaries, it seemed, on what Michael might do, he doubted this scenario would lead to anything more than a quiet departure.
That worried him. It was the logical conclusion to this mess, one that benefited him the most, but pursuing Michael in the future felt… wrong.
As he assumed, he had been overly suspicious of the voices. A new, young voice had picked up.
LJ. They got LJ out, Alexander kept watching the door as though he could see right through it. That must have been what Lincoln and T-Bag had been doing, he realized, stunned at this unexpected revelation.
Michael had stayed with him. He entrusted T-Bag to accompany Burrows to break LJ out of prison, sacrificing his place on that… mission of sorts, to guard Alexander. Specifically, to protect Alexander from what T-Bag would have done.
For the first time, Michael Scofield’s actions left him breathless, shivering with this truth.
Michael was speaking, lowly now, and Alexander couldn’t make out the words. He did hear what wasn’t being said - the intelligence that others respected with their silence, the fact that every word Michael spoke seemed to matter. If he went through the bother of speech, it was worth consideration. Lincoln joined him in speaking, their voices intermingling together effortlessly and yet underlined with passion. A plan was forming, Alexander realized. A give-and-take learned over their lifetime, and this confidence unnerved him. They were exceptional together, and if LJ hadn’t been sent to Arizona, Lincoln and Michael would have never been spotted again. Of that he was certain.
As quick as their voices had escalated earlier, all sound faded abruptly. There was total silence, broken only by the creaks of the floorboards and the finality of the front door slamming shut.
A car drove away.
Just as Alexander starting to think he had been abandoned, the door to his small room opened. Michael came inside and, for the second time since his capture, Alexander felt relief.
But instead of walking to the corner where he usually sat, Michael took a seat across from him. As the room was more long than wide, his legs were almost brushing against Alexander’s, his feet almost at the other man’s knees.
“Sore?” he asked, concerned. His eyes were red and wet, and he let out a short, shaky breath after he spoke.
Upset. Alexander considered the question, then nodded. Not so much sore than stiff, but he wasn’t at an age anymore where such stiffness didn’t turn into something worse in time.
Michael fished in his pocket and took out some aspirin – common drugstore variety, Alexander noticed immediately, but ones that should take the edge off. He opened his mouth as Michael leaned forward, placing three on his tongue. Michael reached for his water bottle but he’d already had them swallowed.
“Got it,” Alexander said lightly, answering Michael’s slight eyebrow lift, but taking a sip from the extended straw anyway.
Michael looked down, but not before Alexander saw a slight smirk grace his lips. His eyes then caught the redness on Michael’s forehead and the swelling that had started at the corner of his eye. The cuts and bruises were not fresh, he noted with displeasure.
“What happened earlier?” He asked pointedly, not minding that he was the prisoner here. He tried to bring his hands up to Michael’s face, such as Michael had done before, but the rope was too tight, weighing them down.
Michael’s eyes, having slightly widened with understanding, were drawn to his hands. Processing. Knowing just what Alexander had meant to do. His tongue darted out, licking dry lips, and Alexander spotted several cuts that were unnoticeable earlier. He glared at the kid, which was as good as asking the question again.
“T-Bag,” he answered, shrugging and looking a little lost for words, caught up in meeting Alexander’s stare.
“T-Bag did this to you?” Alexander demanded, his voice hiding none of the contempt he felt for the man.
Michael blinked and then chuckled a little, a delayed reaction. “No. I-- I mean, T-Bag’s parentage.” He struggled with the words. “Lincoln didn’t think. It was the heat of the moment.”
Alexander shook his head, not buying it. “What does that have to do with…” he gestured with tied hands.
“I didn’t… duck,” Michael explained, his fingers moving awkwardly with his words.
Oh. Alexander smiled, mentally noting how easily Michael became befuddled (is it me? Is he just tired?), even as he tried to reach out again and touch his face.
Michael watched his hands, still staring, still considering. And finally took them in his own, holding Alexander’s hands to his face.
Alexander, hands considerably colder than Michael’s, larger and less precise, felt inadequate to perform a similar examination, yet he felt compelled to touch the younger man, to examine him such as he had earlier. And certainly not minding the feel of surprisingly soft skin under his fingers, and noticing the little details he couldn’t pick up in the shadows here or even from the close-up of a mug shot, like the freckles around his nose and the dark speckles in his eyes.
“I think this one might scar,” Alexander said distractedly, finding and pressing lighting at a deep cut on his lip. Michael winced under his hands, jolting him from this daze, and his hands dropped into his lap.
“Quiet,” Michael muttered after a bit, though judging by his voice, he seemed to relish the silence. He looked at Alexander, and eventually smiled as the older man thought that over and nodded.
Michael depended on his solitude. If he forced himself to be as most others – certainly as Lincoln is – it’d slowly kill him, driving him insane in the process. That was how he maintained control, not just over people but also over the situation, even those completely out of his control. That security gave him the confidence to live life. But Michael’s wasn’t referring to his life. Neither was it the cabin, Alexander understood; it was both men, it was the chase. They both had stopped running.
Quiet.
Alexander could tell it was evening by the color of what little light came through the window, and though he hated to take Michael away from this comfortable silence, he had to ask: “Are you leaving me here?”
“No,” Michael answered reassuringly, immediately.
Alexander looked away, closing his eyes. Michael had a way of making his words seem flat and full, not rushed and insignificant. Felt like the words pulled him forward.
“Oh,” was all he said aloud. He licked his lips, the dryness surprising him, and he kept at it. He looked up, and caught Michael staring at him… Staring at his lips and wetting his own.
Alexander heard his breath intake sharply, instantly dismissing the overwhelming urge to kiss him. It was a crazy idea, humiliating on a professional level, and yet… So rarely in life had he felt this sure of his actions being reciprocated.
He inched forward using his joined ankles to pull up closer to Michael, aware his every move was watched carefully. Perhaps questioning, Alexander couldn’t help thinking, what he appeared to be doing, or what counter move to make if Alexander tried to take him down.
Wanting no doubt in Michael’s mind, Alexander only looked at his mouth, letting his eyes speak for him, and hearing Michael’s quick intake of breath, knew that he anticipated the same move. Before he touched Michael, he felt warm fingers graze his jaw again, coaxing him still…
“Alex,” Michael whispered, stopping the older man.
Alex. A name he usually corrected people on, feeling disdain for those that assumed he shortened it. Now enchanting him, turning him on by the innocence and passion that shone from Michael’s entire demeanor.
A brief swallow of nerves, he kissed Michael fast, knowing he caught the younger man off-guard as his head recoiled a little. And then Michael’s hands were on his face again, cupping his cheeks, deepening the kiss with all the fervor of a man who had nothing to lose. One kiss blossomed into many - some deep, some teasing, some chaste, and when they broke apart only to come together again more slowly, their lips barely brushing… Alexander felt the same binds on his hands and feet enclose over his heart.
Alexander fumbled back, knowing the kiss was telling him more than he could interpret.
“Michael,” he whispered, unable to stop from kissing him again. This time he nipped at his bottom lip, willing their eyes to meet. His heart was pounding loudly, so loud he wondered if Michael could feel it, and then thought that maybe that was actually Michael’s heart he was mistaking for his own. “Michael.”
Cautiously, large blue-gray eyes looked up, full of unspoken question and apprehension. But Michael didn’t move back, something Alexander noticed and took as encouragement. Tension gathered in his hands and, frustrated, he tried to move them to Michael’s face, needing to touch and hold him, and make certain everything was real.
“Alex,” Michael spoke quietly, bending his head to watch his stifled movements. His warm fingers wrapped around the hands, holding down and in place, and remaining there.
Alexander found himself looking down too, watching Michael’s fingers encase his hands. How they could encase his body in warmth was too romantic a notion for him to dwell on under normal circumstances, now seeming perfectly natural.
Michael – quiet, thinking Michael – was trying to tell him something that went beyond the obvious sentiment.
“What is it?” Alexander asked softly, relaxing his back against the wall, pulling his hands, and Michael, with him.
“I won’t give you any trouble,” he finally said, the words braver than his voice revealed.
He’ll-- Oh.
“What about your brother? Your nephew?” Alexander found himself asking, his heart pounding again for different reasons. He steadied his breath, controlling the euphoria of victory that contrasted with the sickening knowledge of just what Michael was about to do.
The position he was in, one of agent and… confidant? friend? here, repulsed him.
“They’re gone,” Michael answered after a short pause. His eyes danced around, mournfully meeting Alexander’s, speaking determinedly. “Long gone, Alex. Someplace where you’ll never find them.” He was almost apologetic.
“They left you…?”
Michael bit his bottom lip and looked away, and Alexander knew what the argument was about earlier. The original plan, the one for Lincoln and Michael to escape somewhere together, had been compromised with LJ’s rescue. He’d sacrificed himself for the sake of his brother and nephew.
Alexander sighed audibly, the realization leaving him in awe. And troubled.
“I need a promise from you, Alex,” Michael said, the name rolling easily off his tongue, as though revealing a confidence. “I… I need…”
“What, Michael?” he pressed, trying to bring the professional side forward, ignoring the conflicting emotion that filled him. He didn’t want to analyze personal feelings. Not now, in this cabin, the world outside forgotten.
But those eyes were still looking at – into – Alexander, an evaluation of sincerity. “Listen to what I have to say. Right here. Now. Before I go back to prison,” he inhaled sharply, some doubt in his voice.
Alexander didn’t answer, instead remaining still on the cabin’s dirty floor, waiting patiently for Michael to speak again.
And gathering himself, talk Michael did, for well over three hours. He weaved a story of government conspiracy and cover-ups that extended well beyond any sane man’s threshold of belief. Alexander listened carefully and with courtesy, only interrupting to clarify minor points. When Michael finished, he leaned forward and pressed their lips together in a chaste kiss.
Then everything changed.
Wordlessly, Michael untied his binds. And Alexander, tired and relieved to be freed, quietly read Michael his rights, knotting the same rope loosely around the wrists presented before him. Without anything other than professional dignities exchanged, the two men walked from the cabin together.
--
When backup arrived, the men were quickly separated. Michael, stoic and resolved, driven to the nearest federal security facility for interrogation, and Alexander ushered to the hospital to tend to his wounds. Neither man tried to converse with the other, keeping their eyes averted.
Alexander spent the coming months in Michael’s presence, if not to the man’s knowledge. He didn’t present himself to Michael at his trial, though he attended everyday, and established a professional relationship with the prosecuting attorneys and judge to ensure the trial was fair. He made certain no one would find out he personally arranged for Michael’s transfer from Chicago to a jail in New Mexico, where the guards wouldn’t have a vendetta against him. He started a private investigation of his own, to no one’s knowledge.
But Michael would know, something Alexander believed with certainty.
Back in the cabin, he never reassured Michael that he wouldn’t try to go after Lincoln and LJ, no matter what country they had fled to. He didn’t tell Michael he wouldn’t rest until he proved the conspiracy that had been laid out for him that day. He didn’t tell Michael that he’d only been tracking the cons for several days before indications rose that the government was suspiciously, heavily invested in this case. He didn’t tell Michael that he believed every word Michael told him that day, immediately, without doubt.
But Michael understood that, Alexander knew. One day, he hoped, he could tell Michael that anyway, in person, without the bars of steel, and of professionalism, between them.
All in good time.
--
The End
--
Title: ALL IN GOOD TIME, 1/1
Completed September 25, 2006; Word Count 4840.
Pairing: Alexander Mahone/Michael Scofield
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Drama, AU featuring spoilers for season 2 of Prison Break, Alexander (now) OOC.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I don’t claim to own anything
Summary: Alexander is taken hostage.
It’s a little frustrating posting this tonight, after watching ‘Subdivision,’ which only makes an AU fic even more AU. But hey, here it is, it’s out there, it’s written, and it was a lot of fun to write. The pointing out of boo-boos is much appreciated!
Click here to download All In Good Time.mp3. I find the lyrics more fitting to this story than the tune itself.
Through the coal black lonely night
Something told me, “It’ll work out”
Something deep inside
Was comforting me
- Ron Sexsmith, All In Good Time
Alexander opened his eyes slowly, conscious but unaware.
For some time he lulled in that impassive haze, only half-fighting the tempting draw of fatigue. Until his breathing evened and the blinding ache in his back began to subside, and then--
Darkness. There was only darkness surrounding him. No wind or fresh air, only dirty floorboards below and nothing above. He was stretched flat on the ground, hands and ankles bound together, and cramping painfully as he tried to move.
Panic built calculatedly. Like slow motion, Alexander anticipated the swell of anxiety in his chest, the dropping sensation in his stomach, the quickening breath, the sudden cold sweat.
Breathe out. He swallowed hard, trying to control his movements, but dirt was in his mouth – dirt all through him, and he choked hard, his body writhing in agony.
“Here now,” a soft voice broke through the panic, almost a reprimand.
Alexander knew that voice – somehow – and took his time recovering, calming the shaking and accompanying nausea. Catching his air, he looked up at the dark silhouette that hovered over him concernedly.
Scofield.
The apprehensiveness came back, this time manifesting in his hands. Bound hands that still tried to reach for his pen of pills, groping achingly at his shirt buttons before realizing he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket. Hands sore with energy, longing to be flexed.
Breathe.
After a consideration, Scofield bent at his knees, long fingers reaching out and touching Alexander’s jaw ever so slightly. An examination, he realized, suddenly still.
It almost hurt to look at the man, even at his shadowed form in darkness, but Alexander tried to hold his gaze steady. After chasing the convict for weeks, he could admit, at least to himself, that Scofield peaked his interest on a personal level. He respected the man, his genius and, to some extent, his morals, and was curious to know more about him. It was obvious he’d only committed his crime to break his brother out of Fox River, but Alexander wanted to know what wasn’t planned beforehand, what wasn’t drawn into the tattoo’s intrinsic details.
Frozen in place, Alexander watched the shadows of Scofield’s hands in fascinated silence. With his light presses, he was directed to move his head subtly. Jaw line, lips, nose, eyelids. Alexander could feel where his lip was swollen, and fought against wincing as Scofield grazed several open cuts. A clammy hand brushed past his ear, scooping the back of his neck and rubbing. When no groans or complaints were voiced, he stood and brushed his hands together, and walked away.
Away from Alexander.
“Michael…” he tried to call out. Wanting answers, wanting… companionship. But with no fresh air and his throat raw, speaking was impossible.
--
Memories were slow to come back, and Alexander didn’t push them forward.
Instead, his eyes adjusting to the shadows, he tried to assess his surroundings. He appeared to be held in a small room, and immediately assumed the cons had found an abandoned cabin or shack to hold him at. The area was no bigger than a large closet, with no furniture or adornments save for a tatty curtain that half-covered a high, round window. It was night and, as he was noticing, a chill had set in.
He could make out Scofield’s still form sitting at the other side of the room, directly in front of a closed door. His knees were brought up to his chest, his head tilted forward. Thinking, Alexander knew, a glint of envy running through him.
Though the soreness had faded from his wrists and ankles, Alexander still couldn’t speak, and was too tired to try to elicit a response from Scofield by other means, whether it be by throwing a silent fit or staring him down. Instead he tried to bring some semblance of order to the chaos that surrounded that day.
Or days, he realized, not knowing how much time had passed since that early morning when he’d learned of several promising leads that had been phoned into HQ. Word was that some of the cons had been spotted in Utah. Several overzealous citizens, workers coming off a back shift and finishing a few rounds at the local pub, had recognized the group and cornered the cons, barricading them in a gas station until help could arrive. Alexander and his team got there first, and he’d snuck around the back before the perimeter was secure, and--
Like lightning, Burrows was on him, street-trained fists aptly taking him down. In and out of consciousness, he barely remembered being dragged to a car, long fingers patiently tying knotted rope around his hands and feet. He remembered waking up intermittently and seeing T-Bag look down at him as he rode on the floor of the backseat. He remembered being gagged.
At least that had been removed.
He must have groaned at the thought, because suddenly Scofield was at his side, bending down to wrap his arms around Alexander’s torso, pulling him into a sitting position. He let his eyes close, almost feeling the fatigue radiate off the kid as he struggled to retain balance, hearing his deep breathing, the air that caught in his throat.
His jeans rubbed against Alexander’s face. Rough and heavy, they were only jeans, but something about the feel made Michael Scofield seem real. Human.
He’s tired of running, Alexander thought, growing light-headed from the movement and falling into darkness again.
--
“Still on watch?” were the first words Alexander managed hours later, though his voice cracked and he knew he was barely audible.
The harsh orange rays of dawn came through the small window, shining down on Scofield’s… Michael’s slouched form, and he turned his head slowly, sharp eyes focusing on Alexander. He nodded once.
“There’s some water,” he said casually, and Alexander was about to ask where, when he noticed a bottle next to him, opened, and with a straw extending from the top.
He wriggled his body in line with the drink, coughing on small sips until his throat eased. Then there was only silence around them, and he wondered where Burrows and T-Bag might have gone.
--
“You two just go on now,” T-Bag’s familiar southern drawl woke Alexander. He looked around the room, surprised to see he was alone now, the door ajar and the voices coming in clearly. “Go on.”
“Mike,” Burrows was saying, managing to sound both annoyed and cautious. Feet shuffled, and the door opened fully to reveal Michael’s shadowed form, looking down at him.
Alexander matched his silent stare until T-Bag stood beside him, looking back with that predator’s glint, the one that couldn’t even be disguised in a straightforward mug shot.
“Go on now,” T-Bag urged Michael again, wrapping an arm casually around his shoulder. Alexander was aware of the quickening of his own breath, and he was certain he didn’t imagine Michael leaning away. “I can watch the fed.”
Hurriedly Alexander looked back at Michael, matching his stare again. He knew he should be vehemently protesting, inwardly and aloud, at the prospect at being left alone with T-Bag. Under fair circumstances, he was more than capable of taking someone in a physical fight – Burrows excepted, obviously – but bound and groggy as he was, he didn’t stand much of a chance with someone who had more murders and rapes on his rap sheet than most agents had encountered before.
For some reason Alexander was too tired to justify, he didn’t feel as though he had to panic.
Burrows appeared behind Michael, his presence enough to shake off T-Bag’s arm. “Come on. We need to go now.”
“He’ll be in good hands,” T-Bag reassured Michael, grinning at Alexander. “I’ll take well and good care of him. Don’t you worry.”
Burrows grabbed T-Bag hard, pushing him away from Michael and against the cabin wall, holding him a foot off the ground by his t-shirt.
“Why, Sinc, I never knew you cared so--”
“SHUT UP!” Burrows yelled, his knuckles white as he leaned menacingly against the other man. “You’re not to touch him. Do you understand? You’re not even to go into this room.”
“Fine,” T-Bag spit back. He waved his hands. “Fine, fine, fine.”
Michael was still watching Alexander, appearing to gauge his response to the conversation. “I’m staying, Linc. Take T-Bag,” he finally said decisively, turning back into the other room.
Burrows looked over his shoulder at his brother, incredulous, and dropped T-Bag to follow him. “Serious, Mike? Come on. Don’t make me sit in a car for six more hours with this…” he paused, thinking. “… this.”
T-Bag, sprawled on the floor, let out a huff of annoyance. His eyes swept the room and caught Alexander’s again, as though just remembering he was there. With disturbing calmness, he stretched out, leaning back on his hands and crossing his ankles, smiling.
“Do you trust him?” Michael was asking, interrupting his brother’s tirade.
“What?”
“Trust him. What you said in there, you’ve said that to him before. Didn’t help that guard any, did it?”
“That pretty boy had it coming,” T-Bag said loudly, extending his body forward and laying flat. He didn’t break the stare with Alexander, crawling on his stomach until their noses almost touched. “Just you and me. Mmm-mmm-mm. Fed-der-al agent, huh? How I do love the big guns.” He brought his fingers to his chin, pulling at his goatee as he examined Alexander, and then reached out two fingers--
Like lightning, it happened too fast to have seen coming. T-Bag rolling away, clutching at his side, and Michael was there, standing above him, glaring. “Get lost.”
“Get in the damn car!” Burrows shouted, slamming the front door behind him. “I don’t have time for this!”
T-Bag looked at Michael, crushed, and clucked his tongue disapprovingly. To Alexander, he pouted his lips and said, “Maybe some other time, love.”
As he left, Alexander felt something close to relief come over him. He heard the front door close and barely remembered Michael asking questions – comfortable? toilet? hungry? – and hearing none of them.
--
Anger like Michael displayed… Alexander didn’t think him capable of such intensity. Mentally he added this to what little knowledge he did have of the man, based on files and witness accounts, and, personally, what he’d learned from Michael’s own actions. Everything he discovered here, though – the lightest of touches with his fingers, the stubbornness with his brother, his protective nature, even to a hostage, only made Alexander want to know more.
He looked over at Michael, surprised to see him looking back attentively. In the daylight he could make out the faded jeans, dirty white t-shirt and sandals he wore. Must be cold. His arms were bare, revealing the tattoo that haunted Alexander’s dreams. It looked completely different in person than the pictures he had taped up in his office. He tore his eyes away from Michael’s body and back to his face, again meeting his eyes but this time noticing the bruises on his cheeks. The kid has a few scars of his own.
“Where are they gone?” Alexander spoke quietly and, to his relief, easily.
“They’ll be back,” he answered, his voice at once confident, even though Alexander thought the words themselves uncertain.
Michael moved to him, carrying a brown paper bag. He sat beside him, taking out a bottle of water and a sandwich, and placing them open on Alexander’s lap.
And then Michael sat back, watching him eat.
They’ll be back, Alexander thought over Michael’s answer. Was it just an answer, he wondered, or an underlying caution for him not to try anything?
--
The sun was setting when Burrows entered the room, one hand pointing Alexander’s company-issue gun at him, the other wielding a small knife.
He cut the binds around Alexander’s ankles and dragged him to his feet, shoving him forward. His legs were like jelly, unable to support his weight, and he struggled to remain upright. Every movement was a chore: keeping his sandwich down, keeping his head straight, keeping from falling backwards.
Burrows’ mannerisms caught him off guard, too, so different from his brother’s. The scent of sweat, the heaviness of stress, all rough hands and blunt action. All less familiar. Less welcome.
Holding the back of his shirt, Burrows pushed him through the cabin. It was little more than a glorified shack, he determined, though his eyes were still adjusting to the light and most of his concentration was spent on trying to follow Burrows’ lead.
Soon he was outside – so many blues and greens and life, and Alexander, never having been one for the outdoors, vowed to appreciate nature more if he was freed. When he was freed.
Muttering obscenities, Burrows undid his zipper – eyes forward – and turned away, keeping his hand on Alexander’s shoulder.
Small favors, he thought wryly, feeling somewhat human again. He finished and turned back to Burrows with no words exchanged.
Somewhere in the distance, there were voices, too far away to be distinguished. He wondered if Michael was part of them and knew he couldn’t have been. They were too mischievous, too young, and besides, he was certain he could make out Michael’s voice anywhere.
He was taken back through the cabin, eyes seeing more this time, and wasn’t surprised to spot Michael sitting on the floor of what might pass for a front room. His head was down and he held ice to his forehead.
“What happened?” Alexander demanded, taken back at the tone in his own voice and briefly forgetting the gun poking in his back.
Michael raised his head, tilted as though about to ask him to clarify the question, but Burrows gave Alexander a hard shove from behind before he could respond.
Alexander braced himself, keeping his gaze locked on Michael. Before the door closed on his small prison, the gray-blue eyes were effervescent with intrigue.
--
The cabin remained in relative silence for a lengthy period of time. Every now and then, the door would open and Burrows would make certain Alexander was still present and bound but for the most part, they left him alone. Either they believed he wouldn’t try to escape, or Michael did the math and convinced Burrows that he couldn’t fit through the small window if he tried.
All of a sudden there was a rush of words from the other room. They escalated into argument within seconds, a chorus of voices shouting hard, trying to top each other.
Dazed at the change, Alexander could only watch the door, useless. It hadn’t occurred to him to try to escape, not with muscle like Burrows around. Not with the potential for T-Bag to trap him, or for that matter, anyone else they picked up along the way. He was starting to suspect Michael’s presence might have been to watch out for his welfare, both the aftermath of his brother’s beating and from any future trouble from the rest of their company.
He also suspected that perhaps, by just being in the same room, whether conscious or not, he was doing the same favor for Michael.
But at his core, Alexander was a good agent, and tried to listen carefully to the words being said. His training told him that such loud voices could be a clue to false ideas planted for his benefit, and though there were no boundaries, it seemed, on what Michael might do, he doubted this scenario would lead to anything more than a quiet departure.
That worried him. It was the logical conclusion to this mess, one that benefited him the most, but pursuing Michael in the future felt… wrong.
As he assumed, he had been overly suspicious of the voices. A new, young voice had picked up.
LJ. They got LJ out, Alexander kept watching the door as though he could see right through it. That must have been what Lincoln and T-Bag had been doing, he realized, stunned at this unexpected revelation.
Michael had stayed with him. He entrusted T-Bag to accompany Burrows to break LJ out of prison, sacrificing his place on that… mission of sorts, to guard Alexander. Specifically, to protect Alexander from what T-Bag would have done.
For the first time, Michael Scofield’s actions left him breathless, shivering with this truth.
Michael was speaking, lowly now, and Alexander couldn’t make out the words. He did hear what wasn’t being said - the intelligence that others respected with their silence, the fact that every word Michael spoke seemed to matter. If he went through the bother of speech, it was worth consideration. Lincoln joined him in speaking, their voices intermingling together effortlessly and yet underlined with passion. A plan was forming, Alexander realized. A give-and-take learned over their lifetime, and this confidence unnerved him. They were exceptional together, and if LJ hadn’t been sent to Arizona, Lincoln and Michael would have never been spotted again. Of that he was certain.
As quick as their voices had escalated earlier, all sound faded abruptly. There was total silence, broken only by the creaks of the floorboards and the finality of the front door slamming shut.
A car drove away.
Just as Alexander starting to think he had been abandoned, the door to his small room opened. Michael came inside and, for the second time since his capture, Alexander felt relief.
But instead of walking to the corner where he usually sat, Michael took a seat across from him. As the room was more long than wide, his legs were almost brushing against Alexander’s, his feet almost at the other man’s knees.
“Sore?” he asked, concerned. His eyes were red and wet, and he let out a short, shaky breath after he spoke.
Upset. Alexander considered the question, then nodded. Not so much sore than stiff, but he wasn’t at an age anymore where such stiffness didn’t turn into something worse in time.
Michael fished in his pocket and took out some aspirin – common drugstore variety, Alexander noticed immediately, but ones that should take the edge off. He opened his mouth as Michael leaned forward, placing three on his tongue. Michael reached for his water bottle but he’d already had them swallowed.
“Got it,” Alexander said lightly, answering Michael’s slight eyebrow lift, but taking a sip from the extended straw anyway.
Michael looked down, but not before Alexander saw a slight smirk grace his lips. His eyes then caught the redness on Michael’s forehead and the swelling that had started at the corner of his eye. The cuts and bruises were not fresh, he noted with displeasure.
“What happened earlier?” He asked pointedly, not minding that he was the prisoner here. He tried to bring his hands up to Michael’s face, such as Michael had done before, but the rope was too tight, weighing them down.
Michael’s eyes, having slightly widened with understanding, were drawn to his hands. Processing. Knowing just what Alexander had meant to do. His tongue darted out, licking dry lips, and Alexander spotted several cuts that were unnoticeable earlier. He glared at the kid, which was as good as asking the question again.
“T-Bag,” he answered, shrugging and looking a little lost for words, caught up in meeting Alexander’s stare.
“T-Bag did this to you?” Alexander demanded, his voice hiding none of the contempt he felt for the man.
Michael blinked and then chuckled a little, a delayed reaction. “No. I-- I mean, T-Bag’s parentage.” He struggled with the words. “Lincoln didn’t think. It was the heat of the moment.”
Alexander shook his head, not buying it. “What does that have to do with…” he gestured with tied hands.
“I didn’t… duck,” Michael explained, his fingers moving awkwardly with his words.
Oh. Alexander smiled, mentally noting how easily Michael became befuddled (is it me? Is he just tired?), even as he tried to reach out again and touch his face.
Michael watched his hands, still staring, still considering. And finally took them in his own, holding Alexander’s hands to his face.
Alexander, hands considerably colder than Michael’s, larger and less precise, felt inadequate to perform a similar examination, yet he felt compelled to touch the younger man, to examine him such as he had earlier. And certainly not minding the feel of surprisingly soft skin under his fingers, and noticing the little details he couldn’t pick up in the shadows here or even from the close-up of a mug shot, like the freckles around his nose and the dark speckles in his eyes.
“I think this one might scar,” Alexander said distractedly, finding and pressing lighting at a deep cut on his lip. Michael winced under his hands, jolting him from this daze, and his hands dropped into his lap.
“Quiet,” Michael muttered after a bit, though judging by his voice, he seemed to relish the silence. He looked at Alexander, and eventually smiled as the older man thought that over and nodded.
Michael depended on his solitude. If he forced himself to be as most others – certainly as Lincoln is – it’d slowly kill him, driving him insane in the process. That was how he maintained control, not just over people but also over the situation, even those completely out of his control. That security gave him the confidence to live life. But Michael’s wasn’t referring to his life. Neither was it the cabin, Alexander understood; it was both men, it was the chase. They both had stopped running.
Quiet.
Alexander could tell it was evening by the color of what little light came through the window, and though he hated to take Michael away from this comfortable silence, he had to ask: “Are you leaving me here?”
“No,” Michael answered reassuringly, immediately.
Alexander looked away, closing his eyes. Michael had a way of making his words seem flat and full, not rushed and insignificant. Felt like the words pulled him forward.
“Oh,” was all he said aloud. He licked his lips, the dryness surprising him, and he kept at it. He looked up, and caught Michael staring at him… Staring at his lips and wetting his own.
Alexander heard his breath intake sharply, instantly dismissing the overwhelming urge to kiss him. It was a crazy idea, humiliating on a professional level, and yet… So rarely in life had he felt this sure of his actions being reciprocated.
He inched forward using his joined ankles to pull up closer to Michael, aware his every move was watched carefully. Perhaps questioning, Alexander couldn’t help thinking, what he appeared to be doing, or what counter move to make if Alexander tried to take him down.
Wanting no doubt in Michael’s mind, Alexander only looked at his mouth, letting his eyes speak for him, and hearing Michael’s quick intake of breath, knew that he anticipated the same move. Before he touched Michael, he felt warm fingers graze his jaw again, coaxing him still…
“Alex,” Michael whispered, stopping the older man.
Alex. A name he usually corrected people on, feeling disdain for those that assumed he shortened it. Now enchanting him, turning him on by the innocence and passion that shone from Michael’s entire demeanor.
A brief swallow of nerves, he kissed Michael fast, knowing he caught the younger man off-guard as his head recoiled a little. And then Michael’s hands were on his face again, cupping his cheeks, deepening the kiss with all the fervor of a man who had nothing to lose. One kiss blossomed into many - some deep, some teasing, some chaste, and when they broke apart only to come together again more slowly, their lips barely brushing… Alexander felt the same binds on his hands and feet enclose over his heart.
Alexander fumbled back, knowing the kiss was telling him more than he could interpret.
“Michael,” he whispered, unable to stop from kissing him again. This time he nipped at his bottom lip, willing their eyes to meet. His heart was pounding loudly, so loud he wondered if Michael could feel it, and then thought that maybe that was actually Michael’s heart he was mistaking for his own. “Michael.”
Cautiously, large blue-gray eyes looked up, full of unspoken question and apprehension. But Michael didn’t move back, something Alexander noticed and took as encouragement. Tension gathered in his hands and, frustrated, he tried to move them to Michael’s face, needing to touch and hold him, and make certain everything was real.
“Alex,” Michael spoke quietly, bending his head to watch his stifled movements. His warm fingers wrapped around the hands, holding down and in place, and remaining there.
Alexander found himself looking down too, watching Michael’s fingers encase his hands. How they could encase his body in warmth was too romantic a notion for him to dwell on under normal circumstances, now seeming perfectly natural.
Michael – quiet, thinking Michael – was trying to tell him something that went beyond the obvious sentiment.
“What is it?” Alexander asked softly, relaxing his back against the wall, pulling his hands, and Michael, with him.
“I won’t give you any trouble,” he finally said, the words braver than his voice revealed.
He’ll-- Oh.
“What about your brother? Your nephew?” Alexander found himself asking, his heart pounding again for different reasons. He steadied his breath, controlling the euphoria of victory that contrasted with the sickening knowledge of just what Michael was about to do.
The position he was in, one of agent and… confidant? friend? here, repulsed him.
“They’re gone,” Michael answered after a short pause. His eyes danced around, mournfully meeting Alexander’s, speaking determinedly. “Long gone, Alex. Someplace where you’ll never find them.” He was almost apologetic.
“They left you…?”
Michael bit his bottom lip and looked away, and Alexander knew what the argument was about earlier. The original plan, the one for Lincoln and Michael to escape somewhere together, had been compromised with LJ’s rescue. He’d sacrificed himself for the sake of his brother and nephew.
Alexander sighed audibly, the realization leaving him in awe. And troubled.
“I need a promise from you, Alex,” Michael said, the name rolling easily off his tongue, as though revealing a confidence. “I… I need…”
“What, Michael?” he pressed, trying to bring the professional side forward, ignoring the conflicting emotion that filled him. He didn’t want to analyze personal feelings. Not now, in this cabin, the world outside forgotten.
But those eyes were still looking at – into – Alexander, an evaluation of sincerity. “Listen to what I have to say. Right here. Now. Before I go back to prison,” he inhaled sharply, some doubt in his voice.
Alexander didn’t answer, instead remaining still on the cabin’s dirty floor, waiting patiently for Michael to speak again.
And gathering himself, talk Michael did, for well over three hours. He weaved a story of government conspiracy and cover-ups that extended well beyond any sane man’s threshold of belief. Alexander listened carefully and with courtesy, only interrupting to clarify minor points. When Michael finished, he leaned forward and pressed their lips together in a chaste kiss.
Then everything changed.
Wordlessly, Michael untied his binds. And Alexander, tired and relieved to be freed, quietly read Michael his rights, knotting the same rope loosely around the wrists presented before him. Without anything other than professional dignities exchanged, the two men walked from the cabin together.
--
When backup arrived, the men were quickly separated. Michael, stoic and resolved, driven to the nearest federal security facility for interrogation, and Alexander ushered to the hospital to tend to his wounds. Neither man tried to converse with the other, keeping their eyes averted.
Alexander spent the coming months in Michael’s presence, if not to the man’s knowledge. He didn’t present himself to Michael at his trial, though he attended everyday, and established a professional relationship with the prosecuting attorneys and judge to ensure the trial was fair. He made certain no one would find out he personally arranged for Michael’s transfer from Chicago to a jail in New Mexico, where the guards wouldn’t have a vendetta against him. He started a private investigation of his own, to no one’s knowledge.
But Michael would know, something Alexander believed with certainty.
Back in the cabin, he never reassured Michael that he wouldn’t try to go after Lincoln and LJ, no matter what country they had fled to. He didn’t tell Michael he wouldn’t rest until he proved the conspiracy that had been laid out for him that day. He didn’t tell Michael that he’d only been tracking the cons for several days before indications rose that the government was suspiciously, heavily invested in this case. He didn’t tell Michael that he believed every word Michael told him that day, immediately, without doubt.
But Michael understood that, Alexander knew. One day, he hoped, he could tell Michael that anyway, in person, without the bars of steel, and of professionalism, between them.
All in good time.
--
The End
--
