What? A fic about Don? Wow. I really liked his character and I thought it would be kinda fun to write what could best be described as a deleted scene from the later episodes of season 4. His past was barely explored, including his little backstory involving his wife, so I thought what the heck. And there's a flashback in there too. This is a one shot, but maybe I'll write a full PB fic one of these days (:
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When a name became a word, a curse, it was time to disappear. Unfortunately, circumstances specifically instructed for Donald Self to remain precisely where he was, and hearing his own name barked across a room was beginning to become tedious at best. Rubbing at the back of his neck and cursing mentally, Don leaned forward in his seat, his clasped hands supporting his head as he doubled over. His pale eyes darted across the loft, sunlight filtering through half closed blinds and forcing his eyes to narrow.
Miami was not his world, as he had insisted often through subtle complaints to his dysfunctional team. The humidity was thick and warm - a damp, heated blanket permanently draped across the atmosphere, rippling the road in the distance. It was little wonder he basked in the cool of the loft as often as he could. The warmth was unbearable at the height of the day, and as the hunt for Scylla had run dry once more, Don had crept back into the shade of the loft having found there was very little for him to do.
His failed attempt to overthrow Burrows had sent him to the bottom of the pecking order, and he had seen Theodore revel in the fact, that flash of mischief and knowing in those hateful eyes causing Don's blood to boil. Yet, Don had composed himself and retained an indifferent demeanor. Revealing emotion in front of the others would prove to be a grave error should it ever happen. It was best, he had discovered, to say very little. Playing the slow-witted card was tough, but as long as he continued to appear dull and of weak intellect, he would be left to his own devices.
As if of its own accord, a hand reached to the gleaming glass table beside his seat and slid the brown envelope resting there closer. He had swallowed every wild emotion he had felt when that photograph had flashed light in his hand the day before, and it had been difficult to keep them backed fearfully into the corner of his mind, even with Theodore's southern voice purring at him, musing why he had taken it all so well. Afraid to peel open the already broken seal, Don turned the envelope over and over in his hands, staring straight ahead. Without needing to look at the photograph, Don could picture her face clearly; those long chestnut locks coiled about her neck, those glimmering eyes full of intelligence, that smile withholding no love…
Guilt soared through his system, shame coursing in his nerves as he ran a hand across his eyes and bowed his head a little lower. The envelope slipped in his grip loosely. How many years had it been since he had seen that smile? How many years since that hair had shone? The moment the sound of metal juddering and screaming began to ring true in his mind, the door of the loft eased open. Don snapped his head up and rubbed furiously at an eye, fumbling to hide the envelope somewhere. Ending up tucking it down beside the seat of his chair, he straightened his posture and leaned back, one leg crossed over the other in such a fashion he looked more suspicious than ever before.
Alexander Mahone, possibly the man Don disagreed with most of all over the rest, and the man whom was most startlingly similar to himself, strolled in, tucking a gun into his belt, giving the impression had recently made use of it.
"Having a break, huh, Self?" Mahone said through a tight smile, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Don said nothing, folding his arms and glancing away. He was not prepared to indulge Mahone with his discomfort. Mahone's sharp features surveyed Donald for a moment before he dismissed the other, already uninterested. He proceeded to the long breakfast bar and busied himself with the laptop. Don glowered at the back of Mahone's head, knowing he was being immature. Mahone was the most capable man of the team. Lincoln was rash and forward, Theodore was sly and untrustworthy, he himself was universally disliked and just as quick to turn tables, but Mahone seemed an honest and efficient man, seeking retribution but also his own freedom. His concern for his family was admirable.
"Any luck finding Scylla?" Don asked flatly, leaning forward and holding his hands together between his knees as if in prayer. Mahone glanced up and turned his head to look at Don askance.
"Nothing, no thanks to you." He retorted smartly, returning to the laptop. Don raised an eyebrow dubiously and slouched. The ever tactful Mahone – he always knew when to be discreet. Don rolled his eyes to himself, wishing to help but also finding no drive to get anything wrong. Most of the time he was discouraged to take an active role, told to go here and there by his 'superiors,' and he was satisfied with taking orders for the moment.
"Look, listen, Mahone. Alexander. I know that things aren't exactly crystal around here--" Don began, but he was interrupted.
"Who is she?" Alex asked bluntly, but still facing away.
"Pardon me?" Don answered, narrowing his eyes in an expression that he often wore when his authority or intelligence was insulted.
"The woman in the photograph. Who is she?" Mahone stated, turning about and leaning against the counter, head tilted, arms folded. Don narrowed his eyes further until they were dark lines in his face.
"That's not your business, Mahone." Don replied haughtily, frozen where he sat. Mahone rolled a shoulder and turned his head from side to side in a slow, bovine-like manner.
"I got thinking…" He began, his voice distant and casual, but Don could sense that dark undertone. "Why would the Company send you a photograph of someone who was dead? That's hardly a threat. That's hardly motivation to wrench Scylla from whoever has it, is it? So, tell me, agent Self…Why are you lying? You lied to me back in the warehouse. You lied, Self. I want the truth." Mahone finished, glaring down his nose at the younger man with a steely gaze. Don shifted in his seat but said nothing, unwilling to confess to Mahone.
"Are you deaf, Mahone? I said it was none of your business." Don threatened, scowling coldly.
"You think you're helping yourself, aren't you? Sit down, Self! I'm talking to you. Do you enjoy running away? Is that your great master plan? Take what isn't yours and then just… run away? Is that it?" Mahone pointed a finger as Don had tried to rise out of his seat, ready to leave the room, but then sank back down when instructed. Don remained silent as the grave, his green, empty eyes fixed upon the polished white floor. "Did you run away from her, too?" Mahone added with a certain smugness lacing his words.
"Remember when I asked you what my play was? Remember when I confided in you to give me some guidance, from one agent to the next? Let me tell you what your play should be, okay, Alex? Back off, okay? Don't try and outsmart me, just because I'm there for you to outwit. It doesn't go like that. So. Back. Off." Don hissed, his pale eyes blazing. Mahone gazed darkly to the other man, but silence had descended, an eerie quietness that smothered any attempt to speak rising temptingly in anyone's throat. With one swift movement, Mahone turned and swept across the room, trotting up the stairs with a terrifyingly accurate pacing.
Don took no satisfaction in his victory. His arguing regularly cost him dearly. Rubbing an arm and staring at the floor, Don pursed his lips and closed his eyes, relaxing in the comfort of darkness. His hand strayed to the side of the chair, the envelope nestled safely between the cushion and the armrest. A finger worked its way beneath the seal and in a single motion it was broken. A sigh of anticipation escaped him as he opened his eyes once more to meet that glossy picture sliding out from its protective casing. For a second or so he concentrated upon a corner of the picture, away from the subject's face, and then they crept their inevitable way to that smile. He ran an affectionate thumb across the smooth surface before he pressed the photograph to his forehead, watching the ground, blinking furiously to fight back anything that might try to escape. His destiny, it seemed, was to do wrong to others and make lives miserable. His exterior confidence and perceptible nonchalant attitude, as well as his ruthless approach, were mere defense mechanisms. For once in his life, Don felt deeply sorry.
After that frightful impact, he was struggling to pull himself from the car wreck. He tried the widow at first, reaching a trembling hand tentatively toward the lock, pulling it up and hearing glass shatter when the door swung open and struck the ground unceremoniously. Hauling in breath and wincing as a sharp pain flashed across his forehead, Don threw a hand to his neck, rubbing it and feeling blood run down the side of his face, prickling his skin. He wiped it away with a sleeve, staring at the dark crimson staining the material as he brought it away. He almost cried out, but bit his tongue. Turning to face the seat beside him, Don's eyes widened, and the alcohol that still resided in him gave him a quick heightened sense of awareness. He leaned over to his wife and lifted her head, adjusting his posture painfully so he could see her face. The terror in her eyes bored right into his very soul, and he knew she was screaming, though there was nothing but silence from her agape mouth. Tears joined the blood and he let her head droop in his drunken, cowardly bid to escape. He scrambled out of the open door with a whimper and laid himself out on the road, curling up with his head protected by his arms. Not even the wail of sirens could drown the noise of his wife's silent screaming echoing in his mind.