Title: All That Lies Between Us - Part 1
Author: Me
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Alex Mahone
Prompt: #75 - shade
Rating: 13 - this part.
Word Count: 1734
Disclaimer: Nope … I still don't own anything. And if I did, well, let's just say that this pairing would be canon. The lyrics I used throughout this fic are from the following songs: "One by One" by The Calling and "Pictures of You" by The Last Goodnight. They belong to them … respectively.
Summary: An escape. A search. And for Michael and Alex, and new chapter to their story.
Warning: None, really.


He stands alone outside the blooming yard.
All is calm there on the street.
The shadows pass him hung right over.

Michael Scofield stood in the darkness, cloaked in shadow, and waited. Minutes wove into hours. Yet still, he waited.

Just after midnight, a car rounded the corner; its bright headlights slicing through the darkness like the blade of a ghostly white sword. The garage door began to lift, filling the area with brightness for only a moment, and Michael tucked himself further back into the night. When the vintage, navy blue Mustang rolled passed him and up the driveway, Michael caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel. His breath caught as a shaft of light brushed over the driver's face, illuminating the haunted blue eyes.

The pain on his face he knew he'd keep…

He'd finally found Alex Mahone. His face held a few more creases and his hair was slightly grayer at the temples, but it was Alex. The door closed, concealing the man from sight, but Michael knew it was him. There wasn't a doubt in his mind. Panic began to overtake him as he was plunged back into darkness. His heart was beating wildly, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Michael's head spun dizzily and he felt as if he might faint. He leaned back against the cool bricks of the house to keep himself from falling to his knees.

Alex.

The last time they'd seen each other had been in Panama. Side by side, they had crawled out of Sona and disappeared into the night. Michael had run, blindly, until he could no longer put one foot in front of the other. He'd stopped and turned, fully expecting to find Alex behind him. But the man was gone.

How much anger is set aside as each one of us cries?

Standing there, in the dark, Michael couldn't remember a time, besides in his childhood, when he'd felt more alone. Alex had become such and integral part of his life - first as his pursuer and enemy after the Fox River escape, then as his uneasy confidant/friend in Sona - that he wasn't sure how he felt about the man's sudden disappearance. All Michael knew was that a piece of him had gone missing, leaving a deep, dark hole in its place. A hole that Michael knew he'd have to fill.

But, he had more important responsibilities to take care of first.

Linc, LJ and Sucre had to be safe. Michael lead them to the place he'd set up. Stayed with them until he was sure they would be okay. Then, as he was walking out the door, promised them that he'd be back someday.

That very day, he began his search for Alex Mahone.

So, who's the man, with the plan, eating up all that he can?
Don't you see, don't you see...

He started by doing what he did best - researching. Through newspaper articles he found on the internet, Michael learned that Ex-FBI agent Alexander Mahone had disappeared during an escape attempt from Sona prison in Panama. According to a friend and former co-worker, Agent Felicia Lang, Agent Mahone was presumed dead. There had been memorial services in both Chicago and Colorado for him. Officially, Alex was gone.

However, Michael knew better. He dug deeper; utilizing every tool at his disposal, legal and illegal, and it had taken him almost ten months, but he finally stumbled upon the information he needed. Through an Abruzzi connection, Michael found out that Agent Lang had somehow managed to find Alex after the escape and sneak him back into the US. She set him up with a new identity and a new life. With the information in hand, Michael hired a private investigator.

Three weeks later, Michael stood just outside a small house in Hidalgo, New Mexico.

The name on the mailbox was "Mike Reegan." Mr. Reegan was 47 years old, approximately six feet tall, 175 pounds with ice-blue eyes and sandy blond hair. He was a skilled landscaper, who worked extremely long hours, and didn't socialize much. When he was home, he was either in the garage fixing up his 1969 Mustang, or he was in his basement. He was friendly, but not overly so. The man seemed to be very content in his solitary life.

Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture that had been given to him. Mike Reegan bore a striking resemblance to Alex Mahone. However, Michael couldn't be entirely sure until he actually saw the man face to face.

The moment he'd seen those eyes, even in the dark, Michael knew this man was Alex.

Tied tight, can't see out your eyes that he's sure to shine, sure to shine,
in this deep, dark, fucked up, played out, reality show.

Michael sighed and pushed himself away from the house. It was time.

The lock picking kit weighed heavily in his front pocket. He removed it and pulled out the correct tools for this particular lock. A few twists, a couple of clicks, and it popped open. Michael was surprised at how easily he'd been able to pick this lock. Considering Alex was ex-FBI, he'd expected the house to be sealed tight. Then again, if the world thought Alex Mahone was dead, why would he need to worry about locks? After all, who would be looking for him?

Michael felt a grin spreading across his features.

Slowly, slowly he turned the knob and pushed the door inward. He slipped silently inside and closed the door behind him. With a turn of his fingers, the door was quickly relocked. The house was almost pitch black; the only light being slivers of moonlight that managed to slip in from around windows that were heavily draped. Michael waited for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, then he began to move forward through the house.

Each room was exactly as he'd expected to find in Alex's home. Impeccably decorated, but not with expensive items. Very masculine. Minimal furniture, all of it dark leather. There were a few carefully chosen paintings hung on walls. Rugs thrown here or there; wherever one was needed. No knickknacks. No clutter.

Everything had its place. And was in its place.

Just like his apartment had been. Before he'd gone to Fox River.

He wandered into the kitchen, and again, Michael felt as if he'd somehow been magically placed into his own home. Stainless steel appliances glimmered in the dark. Pristine white tiles covered the floor. Obsidian-colored granite countertops wrapped around half the room. A round, wrought iron, glass-topped table was the centerpiece of the room. Everything felt so familiar. Even the leather coat hanging on the back of one chair fit the picture.

Granted, in his home, the coats had been expensive wool instead of battered leather, but the similarity was, nonetheless, striking.

Do you ever think that things are meant to be?

As Michael trailed his fingers over the smooth, still-warm material of Alex's jacket, the soft sound of music caught his attention. He turned to his right and saw a door. It was cracked open, slightly, and there was a yellow glow peeking out from around it. Panic once again threatened to overtake him, but Michael simply inhaled deeply and focused on the song that was playing. He recognized it immediately, but couldn't remember the name or the artist who sang it. He listened to the lyrics and found himself becoming enthralled with them.

Confess to me, every secret moment, every stolen promise you believed.
Confess to me, all that lies between us, all that lies between you and me.

We are the boxers in the ring. We are the bells that never sing.
There is a title we can't win no matter how hard we might swing.

Michael released his breath and slowly pulled the door open. His eyes recoiled from the semi-bright light and he waited for them to recover before starting down the stairs. He stepped on each one lightly, creeping forward soundlessly, hugging the wall in front of him as if he were a part of it. When he reached the bottom, he peeked his head around the corner and what he saw startled him.

Pictures of you, pictures of me. Hung upon your wall for the world to see.
Pictures of you, pictures of me. Remind us all of what we could have been.

The far wall was covered with photos of him; of his tattoo. Yellow post-it notes peppered the mostly black-and-white mosaic, and again, Michael felt that familiar de'ja vous he'd been having since he'd set foot inside this house.

It was as if he were looking at the wall in his apartment. Only here, the pictures showed the completed plan. There were no blueprints. No articles about Abruzzi or D.B. Cooper. Or Sara. There was only him. Him and his tattoo.

Pictures of you, pictures of me. Hung upon your wall for the world to see.
Pictures of you, pictures of me. Remind us all of what we used to be.

Michael shivered. He shook away his ghosts and forced himself to take in the rest of the small room. It was nothing like the rest of the house. There was a desk; a large wooden monstrosity that filled almost half the available space. It was strewn with paper and folders and photos. In one corner was a metal file cabinet, the drawers ajar with dog-eared corners of files sticking out of them. A small white dorm fridge with an old stereo sitting atop it, occupied the other. Between them, was a battered suede loveseat. A blanket and pillow had been tossed, haphazardly, onto it.

Behind the desk, was a well-worn, high-backed black leather chair. It rocked slightly, back and forth as a pair of long, muscled legs, clad in faded blue denim, stretched out from the front of it. Scuffed brown boots tapped along to the beat of the music.

Michael took another deep, calming breath, and released it as slowly as he could. He stepped off the bottom stair and into the light.

"Well, it looks like I'm not the only one who can't seem to let go of the past."

"Michael," the man said without turning.

"Hello, Alex."

One by one, we start to come undone...

~TBC~