michaelxmahone | (no subject)

Title: Fever Dream
Rating: Give it a strong PG-13 for imagery.
Disclaimer: Damn you, Fox. Why are we only allowed to look and not touch?!
A/N: Some liberties have been taken. Eg: the time frame is probably a little warped. I am also aware you cannot "swallow your tongue", but hey, what's fiction for if you can't change fact? This is also my first attempt at writing a Prison Break fic. All mistakes are my own + my keyboards'.

After the rush, the intense euphoria darting from synapse to synapse slowed to a lull. His head bobbing like some obscene, drunk gypsy at a bus stop; his mouth dry and droopy as clumsy teeth chewed at disobeying lips. Oh God, he thought, this is heaven in hell.

He liked that he couldn’t say his name. It left no desired identity, and no desire to be identified. It was Alexander, wasn’t it? Ah-leck-zan-dur? Ahhhll-eg-zan-durrr. He dropped vowels and consonants all in the wrong order and fell to his side. His exhausted limbs told him to sleep. He complied and saw all the colours he remembered dancing on the insides of his eyelids. Cameron and Pam were the too, but they didn’t look the same. They were drowning in a sea awash with neon; all their limbs distorted like victims of a car crash.

Awaking several hours later, Alexander remembered why he never slept during the day. He remembered falling asleep under his bedcovers when he was a child. Waking up fully clothed always left him feeling like he had the flu, and he remembered that his father would beat him for going to bed before nine o’clock.

‘Escape one’ was out of the way. The sun was still up. There were still enough drugs floating around his body to keep him upright. He had to have his next fix. Michael. Michael meant escape. Sweet, sweet escape.

And so began the walk to Michael’s cell. Alexander’s legs deviating from their usual confident strides made him grip bars and concrete to keep him steady; Sara’s words floating to the surface: “You must feel like you're walking under water.”

I do. It's very quiet down here.

He reached Michael’s cell and, clutching the bars like the branches of a tree, swung into the dark hole in the wall.

“You know, Michael,” he began, slurring his words as his tongue fumbled around his mouth, “you always make the child in me come out and play.”

“Oh?” inquired Michael, eyes not meeting Alexander’s figure, head not even moving from it’s concentrated position. He was examining a lighter for he no doubt had a plan for.

Alexander watched those expert fingers trace every inch of the cool metal. Those hands knew the secrets of the universe.

“Are you going to stand there all afternoon?” inquired Michael.

“Are you going to keep asking me questions without looking at me?”

Michael raised his head. He set the lighter down beside him, clasped his hands in his lap and eyed Alexander intensely, just as he would the blueprints of any structure.

“Your mouth is bleeding.”

Confused, Alexander laughed that typical Mahone laugh he had practiced so well. The same laugh he’d used when Oscar Shales begged for mercy; when Pam had asked him what he was hiding.

“Bleeding? Bleeding how?”

“As in,” Michael rose from his rickety bed and threw the lighter down beside him, “As in, ‘there’s blood coming out of your mouth.’” He moved closer, hesitating momentarily to glance out of his window. “I’d take a breath if I were you. If you’re bleeding from your mouth, you’re more than likely bleeding into your lungs-”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“As I was saying, you’re most likely bleeding into your lungs. That’s bad news because you’ll be choking sooner than you’d expect it.”

For a long moment Alex was unsure of what to do. He stared at Michael who stared right back with a smug expression that could have given any high rolling businessman a run for his money. God, Michael could be unnerving when he wanted to.

Was he really bleeding? Or was Michael trying to mind fuck him into oblivion?

Alex put his fingers to his lips; blood oozed down his fingers, all sticky like melting ice cream.

Mister Manipulator isn’t kidding.

“Jesus…” Alex was muttering. “I-I don’t understand.”

“Who does?” Michael was circling him now, like a shark might circle his prey. With a toothy grin, he added, “Look’s like someone’s stabbed you in the back, Alex.”

Half in shock, Alex coughed. Blood splattered across the floor.

“You ok, Alex?”

“Michael, what the fuck is going on?” He sounded like a man trying to beg underwater.

“Maybe you should lie down,” said Michael. He pushed Alex down by the shoulders, almost kicking his feet out from under him when Alex failed to comply.

Things were getting too heavy for Alex: limbs, eyelids and lungs all felt like excess baggage. He floundered momentarily, trying his best to find a comfortable position to die in. Things weren’t looking good, and he knew good Saint Michael was laying him down to sleep permanently.

Michael kneeled down beside Alex and, in one painfully slow movement, withdrew the shank from his back. Somewhere in the sounds of ripping flesh and grating bone featured a sound not unlike a father screaming for the death of his child. It took Alex a long moment to realise it was, in fact, himself screaming in anguish.

Tossing the shank to the side of the cell, Michael rolled Alex over and straddled his hips. “You know, Alex,” said Michael louder than he’d ever spoken to Alex before, “I’ve seen that look before. Yes, I think it was the same look my father had in his eyes when he died in my arms.”

“Michael… you don’t want to do this. You’re a smart kid; think about what you’re doing. This isn’t you.”

“Alex, FBI negotiation tactics aren’t getting you out of this one.” Slowly, Michael wrapped his hands around Alex’s throat.

“Michael, please! I was only doing my job!”

Alex tried hard to thrash out of Michael’s grasp; to prise Michael’s hands from around his throat.

“Alex, this will be a lot easier if you stop struggling.”

Michael’s voice was calm; complete nirvana only being hindered by the exertion of strangling Special Agent Mahone.

So this is Michael Scofield, thought Alex.

And as darkness and numbness smothered Alex like a pall, he swore he could hear Michael wailing when he finally realised he was a killer.

Complete blackness.

And fingers in his mouth.

His cheeks were stinging.

He was seizing; all his limbs thrashing about like a fish out of water.

Distorted voices shrieking his name all around him.

This sure was a rocky road to the afterlife, and it smelled just like Sona.

And just when he was about to plead with God for a Purgatorial Trial, he opened his eyes to see Michael.

And those were Michael’s fingers jammed in his mouth.

And that was Michael’s free hand slapping him across the face.

And it was Michael screaming Alex’s name.

By God. He was alive.

Michael was straddling him with all the might of a lover, his face contorted in horror as he tried his best to play saviour.

“Alex! Wake up!”

Alex could see Michael’s mouth moving, but the sounds that we spilling out were indecipherable.

Michael ripped his fingers from Alex’s mouth and turned him on his front, smacking his back in an attempt to burp him like a baby.

This is very odd, thought Alex and he vomited over the side of the mattress. When all that was left to do was heave, he rolled back over. Michael was looking down on him, trying to mask whatever concern remained with self assurance.

“My back,” Alex began, “check my back. I think someone stabbed me.”

“Alex, you’re withdrawing. I walked by and you were convulsing, nearly choking on your tongue…”

Alex looked at Michael’s fingers all chapped and swollen. When Michael noticed Alex staring, he quickly clenched and unclenched his hand before folding his arms and tucking it away from view.

“You stopped me choking? I’m surprised you didn’t keep walking.”

“So am I,” answered Michael quickly. “I took a risk sticking my fingers in your mouth.” He cleared his throat. Cracked his knuckles. Shifted his weight on the mattress. “I never thanked you for saving my life,” he gestured vaguely, “out there. That was a horrible thing.” Michael held out his hand, “Call us even, ok?”

Alex shook it, “Yeah. Yeah, ok.”

A deep breath.

“Michael. I’m sorry about your father.”

“Ok.”

“And…” I’m sorry for hunting you like an animal and making yours and Lincoln’s lives worse and nearly killing the woman you love- “You know what, it’s not important. Thank you, Michael.”

“Yeah.” Michael cleared his throat, “See you.”

“Yeah. Just don’t leave me behind when you make your break, alright?”

As Michael walked away, Alex revelled in the clarity of his situation. It had taken a complete loss of reality and removal from time to discover what Michael Scofield was. Master Manipulator.

I’m always one step ahead of you, Michael.

Try to escape and I’ll be outside first.

Try to stab me in the back and I swear to God I’ll be holding the shank first.

He settled on the festering mattress and put an arm across his eyes.

I am getting out of Sona. I am getting out of Sona. I am.

x-posted to