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Precipice -

Title: Precipice
Author: Aspen Snow
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sucre, Bellick, Michael, Sara, Lincoln
Summary: They’re all standing at the edge.
Author's Note: I wrote this ages ago for the Prison Break Fic Exchange. Takes place before the second season.





For a moment he can’t move.

Can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t can’t can’t do anything.

Michael has been moving since he met him. Walking, running, plotting, thinking, twisting and turning at night around details─ times, places, people, things─ always one step ahead of the firm stagnation that makes the prison air hot and sticky and heavy.

Michael is cool, Michael is fresh, Michael always has a plan. But now he is passed out on the floor not moving, breathing so slow like he could stop at any moment.

And Sucre can’t move. Michael not moving, not thinking, not speaking is a scary thing because now, suddenly, Sucre has the time to slow down, to bring everything down to his level. And he’s not smart, he’s not educated, he steals, it’s what he does, he makes his living off of other people.

He lets them do the work, let’s them sweat and labor and accomplish and the he comes in at an opportune moment, steals what he can, because he knows he won’t ever be able to do it on his own.

He’s been stealing bits of purpose from Michael. Michael is determined, Michael is focused, Michael forgets that he is in prison and when Sucre is crawling through tunnels, watching for guards, nearly nearly escaping he forgets too.

But now Michael’s breathing is a hollow rhythm too slow to fill the space in the cell and the days and days and days he has left in this place find room to pile up, stretching the air with inactivity until it is so thin he can hardly breathe.

He calls for help with a voice ragged, breathless, and tells the guard that Michael can’t can’t can’t die.

***


He remembers her when her hair was dull and limp, when her eyes were hollow and black, and when her skin was pale, so pale that he sometimes could see faint shadows of blue veins.

She was sick and her fingers trembled when she shook his hand. His had been firm, steady, sober already, for years. He had been better than her then.

But when she runs by with her clean hair pulled tight and her face scrubbed clean with concern, she looks at him like its all his fault, like he’s evil, a monster who lets bad things happen to Scofield, who wants them to happen.

She’s in that cell tracing the edges of burned away skin, running her fingers along the lines of the tattoo that’s still there in reverent, soft strokes. He hates that she thinks Scofield is something.

She doesn’t ask what happened, she accuses, curls her fingers tighter into Scofield’s shirt, she thinks she’s protecting him, she thinks she’s right, she thinks she’s better.

Bellick is an alcoholic. He isn’t worth much.

And when she walks out of the cell he steps aside, reminds her with a smirk and a tip of his hat that she isn’t worth much either.

***


Michael runs his finger along her wrist, the pulse is erratic, the skin is smooth. It’s a contrast he should remember, but won’t. This doesn’t matter that much to him.

When he kisses her he closes his fingers tighter and tighter around her wrist. She will remember the pressure, later, when she is trying to justify helping him escape from prison. She will think he didn’t want to let go.

He lets his free hand cup her face, lets his thumb sweep across her jaw line slowly, softly, over and over and over again. Like the feel of her skin is addicting, like he’s memorizing, imprinting something of her into his senses. He needs her to think she matters to him.

She breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away. He leaves his fingers wrapped tight around her wrist, his thumb on her skin.

She whispers, “What do you want from me?”

He lets his fingers fall from her wrist, slowly, her skin is still smooth, her pulse is still erratic and he knows he won’t ever have to tell her what he wants.

She’ll do it anyway.


***



Sara pushes the needle into her vein because it is the familiar thing to do. The morphine makes her numb, replaces the guilt she should be feeling.

It was too easy to leave the door unlocked, too easy to recall the way he tasted like smoke, like sweat, like something she wasn’t ever supposed to have. She had a predilection for these things, secret, dark, mind altering things that seeped into your blood, that course through the veins with a violent sweet sort of fury until they became a craving.

Michael was just another drug and she hated how easy it was to become addicted to his charm and mystery.

Michael kissed her and she thought she mattered.

She pushes another dose of morphine into her arm, too much this time, because it would be so easy to do it again.

***




Everything is so loud. The sirens, the dogs, the helicopters, their footsteps, his breath, his heart.

Loud, so loud that Lincoln can’t think, can’t process, can’t slow down enough to breathe in some real air.

Michael still has metal around his wrists and he’s running and running and running in front of him with no plan, no direction in frenzied movements that jerk and twist in fear and exhaustion.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, it wasn’t supposed to be chaotic and desperate. It was supposed to be methodical, they were supposed to slip away quietly into freedom.

Spotlights chasing them, Michael breathing too hard, feet moving too slow, Lincoln thinks about giving up.

Comments

( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
foxriverqueen13
Oct. 22nd, 2006 03:39 pm (UTC)
Great Story
I have read a lot of your stories and I am a big fan of your fics! Great story!
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )

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