Title: Breaking The Rules

Author: Flurblewig

Pairing: Michael/Mahone

Rating: Teen

Timeline/Spoilers: Spoilers for 3.1 'Orientacion'

Length: 2,16 words

Disclaimer: Not mine. We all know that.

A/N: Unbetad. Crit welcome

Michael tells himself to be thankful that he got away with it, that he caught a lucky break; God knows he's had to learn to take those where he finds them. But he knows it's not that simple. Because another man died, and at this point, does it really matter that he wasn't the one who actually snapped the bones? The blood is on his hands as surely as Mahone's.

And there, right there, is the second issue. Michael's not entirely sure why Mahone stepped in, but whatever his motive was, the result remains the same: Michael owes his life to Alex Mahone. In that split second of violence, things between them changed. He didn't anticipate it and he doesn't know yet what it's going to mean, and that unsettles him deeply. He just knows that what happened in the yard that day is going to involve consequences.

So it's no surprise at all when Sammy comes for him. He doesn't offer resistance, just lets himself be manhandled into Lechero's presence without protest. He's learned to pick his battles, and he likes to have a little more information before he decides on his strategy.

Lechero stands with his hands on his hips, sweat glistening on his bulky forearms. He nods, and Sammy forces Michael down to his knees.

Lechero looks down at Michael, his face impassive. 'I think you don't like following rules, Mr Scofield, am I right?'

Michael says nothing. Lechero nods, as if he'd answered, and takes a step back. 'The problem we have, Mr Scofield, is while I admire that attitude in a man, when we're talking about Sona's rules -- my rules -- it's a little different.'

Michael finds his voice. 'I'm sorry. I'm just not sure what... transgression we're talking about.'

Lechero breaks into a smile. 'Transgression. I like that. I like the way you talk, Scofield. Don't you, Sammy? Don't you like to hear these pretty words?'

He feels a hand slide up the back of his neck, over the fuzz of his hair and come to rest on top of his skull. 'Pretty words,' Sammy says, 'from a pretty mouth.'

Michael stiffens. He risks a glance up at Lechero, who's watching him with speculative good humour. Sammy forces his head down again, and so he hears rather than sees the new arrival: scuffling, an expletive in Spanish, a muffled cry of pain. The second man is pushed into line beside Michael, and a drop of blood hits the floor at his feet. Whoever he is, he obviously didn't share Michael's take on strategic resistance.

'Mr Mahone,' Lechero says, sounding satisfied. 'So glad you could join us.'

'Pleasure's all mine,' Mahone grits out.

'Oh, it will be,' Lechero says, and Sammy laughs. He takes his hand off Michael's head, and Michael shoots a look at Mahone. He's staring at Lechero, his hands pulled roughly behind his back and held by another of Sammy's goons. There's a cut under his left eye, and Michael watches another drop of blood fall.

'What's this about?' he says, tone demanding, and Michael winces. Maybe Mahone hasn't quite internalised where they are yet. On the other side of the law, you don't antagonise the bad guys.

Lechero smiles and indicates Michael. 'We were just having a chat with your friend here about the importance of following rules. You've got to have order, you see -- you do see, don't you, Alex?' he nods. 'Of course you do. You're a smart man. Just like your friend. Two smart men, in a place like this, it's natural you would...' he pauses. 'Bond.'

Mahone frowns but says nothing. Michael scans the room, but there's nothing he can see within reach that could serve as a weapon. He shifts a little, and Sammy's hand comes down hard on his shoulder. He stills.

'So,' Lechero continues, 'rules matter. And you, gentlemen, you broke those rules. The law here says that when there's a challenge, there's a fight. When there's a fight, there's a winner and a loser. There isn't...' he pauses, and eyes Mahone, ' a knight on a white horse, riding to the rescue.'

A nod from Lechero, and Sammy hauls Michael to his feet, spinning him to stand face to face with Mahone. Is this some kind of adjustment, then? A gladiatorial correction? If so, he's screwed. He's seen Mahone in action: in a fair fight, he doesn't stand a chance. And even in an unfair one... Michael's never killed. In spite of everything, he doesn't want the first life he takes to be Alexander Mahone's. He doesn't examine the why of that too closely right now.

Lechero stares at Mahone, who lifts his chin and meets his gaze squarely. He looks almost bored. Michael's not sure if it's nihilism, machismo or a hidden agenda, but some part of him can't help but admire it. Maybe because there's something of Lincoln in that careless disregard for consequence. Every line of Mahone's body says I don't care, and Michael wishes he knew how to do that.

It seems that Lechero reads it too, and his expression darkens. This is a man who's used to being treated with consideration, with respect, with fear. Mahone looks at him like he's irrelevant.

Does Mahone have a genuine death wish? It's possible. Michael's seen the tremors in his hands, the skittering in his eyes. Maybe Mahone's decided he can't survive Sona. Maybe he's worked out his own escape plan.

Sammy has picked up a knife and is throwing it lazily from hand to hand. Michael tries to catch Mahone's eye, but whatever he's seeing, it's not what's in front of him.

Sammy gives the knife one final flip then offers it to Mahone. When he makes no move to take it, Sammy exchanges a smile with Lechero. 'Looks like you were right--he doesn't want to fight. He likes this one, huh? Enough to kill for him.' He lifts the knife to Mahone's face and slowly draws it down one cheek. A thin red line forms behind the blade, but Mahone still doesn't react.

Sammy leans in, his mouth inches from Mahone's ear. 'Wonder what else he'll do for him?'

And finally, Mahone's eyes clear and Michael sees life there. Blazing, furious life, and Michael realises just how wrong he's been: there's desire for death in those eyes, yes, but it's not his own. There's a commitment there that Michael recognises, a vow that says whatever it takes.

And maybe that shows in his own eyes, because Mahone gives him an almost imperceptible nod. The corner of his mouth quirks in what might have become a smile, if Sammy hadn't backhanded him with a guttural snarl.

Lechero gives a signal and Sammy starts forward again, hands pressed down onto Mahone's shoulders. Mahone folds to his knees, a movement full of unexpected grace, his eyes still locked on Michael's. Suddenly Michael gets it, he sees where this is going, and his throat tightens. He swallows hard, and that slight smile tugs at Mahone's mouth again. Michael realises that Mahone knew what this was about from the start, that he's been one step ahead all the time.

Sammy reaches across and slides the knife into the waistband of Michael's jeans. The cold metal flicks across the skin of his stomach and Michael inhales sharply His whole body feels like it's been electrified, every muscle tense. The tip of the knife hooks under the top button, and sends it spinning into the dirt. Sammy withdraws, grinning, and aims a kick at Mahone's back, pushing him closer to Michael.

Mahone looks up at Michael and for the first time, he can't read the message in those eyes. Or maybe he doesn't want to.

'Go on,' Sammy says. 'Show Scofield just how much you like him.'

Mahone moves slowly, every gesture calm and unhurried. He gets to his feet, and Sammy's grin disappears. He takes a stop forward but Lechero shakes his head, and with obvious reluctance Sammy stands down. Mahone moves closer to Michael, one hand reaching out to rest so lightly on his shoulder. It could be fraternal, and once more Michael is reminded strongly, dizzyingly, of Lincoln, but the movement doesn't stop and Mahone's hand snakes around the back of his neck. It pulls his head forward until there's less than an inch of space between them, and Michael's not sure when he stopped breathing but all he's aware of is the blood pounding in his ears and the heat of Mahone's skin and the sudden, shocking pressure of Mahone's lips against his.

He expects, as far as he's capable of expecting anything at this point, bruising force, but Mahone is gentle, tongue softly teasing against Michael's. The fierce pounding in his ears increases and he sways a little, held in place only by Mahone's hands on his shoulders. The remote, detached part of his brain that never quite switches off registers a cool amusement at just how close he came to swooning in Mahone's arms like a romance-novel virgin.

Mahone's lips leave his, leaving Michael feeling unexpectedly bereft, but only to move along the line of his jaw. His hand slides behind him, bending him slightly backwards as Mahone breathes into the skin of his neck. He feels pliant, malleable, as if Mahone has somehow assumed command of his body. They press together, and Michael can feel Mahone's hardness against the muscle of his thigh. He realises, for the first time, that his own cock is swollen and painful against the rough denim of his jeans. Mahone moves against him and he can't hold back the low sound that catches in his throat.

He's still aware, because he can't not be, of the sickening heat, the foul sweat trickling down the small of his back, the sound of fighting in the yard below, the smell of dirt and desperation that's soaked into every molecule of this place. But somehow it fades, and even that omnipresent observer in his mind is muted out of existence until all he knows is Mahone, Mahone's breath against his skin, Mahone's body against his.

His eyes flutter open and he sees Lechero behind Mahone, his arms folded and a thunderous frown creasing his brow. Mahone's gaze follows Michael's, and when he turns back again there's a broad smile on his face. In that instant Michael is hit by one of those spikes of clarity: Lechero had designed this scene as a punishment, a humiliation. Mahone's decision to tear up the script and play it as erotic performance is clearly not going down well.

Michael smiles himself, and reaches for Mahone, pulling him into another kiss. When he lets go, there's a flash of what looks like genuine surprise on Mahone's face.

Lechero gives them both a long, hard stare then lets out an angry growl. He waves a hand. 'Sammy! Enough of this. Get them out of here.'

He stalks away, leaving Sammy and his goons to escort them back down. With considerably less manhandling than the journey up: none of them seem quite as keen to touch either Michael or Mahone this time.

Sammy gives them a look of pure disgust as he pushes them back into the yard. Michael manages to resist the urge to blow him a kiss; he still feels light-headed and a little giddy, but he hasn't entirely taken leave of his senses.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns his face away from the few curious glances thrown their way. 'Nicely played,' he says casually.

Mahone gives him a considering look but says nothing. This skin around his eye is starting to swell and darken, but he looks calmer than Michael has seen him since they got here.

'What?' he says, when Mahone still doesn't respond . 'You didn't expect me to get it?'

'No, I knew you'd get it,' Mahone says eventually. 'I maybe didn't expect you'd enjoy it.'

Michael turns his head away quickly, and gives his best derisive snort. 'I'm a good actor.'

Mahone goes quiet again until Michael has to look back at him. There's a quirk to his lips that could be a grin. 'Yeah, Michael, I guess you are.'

Michael holds his gaze. 'The look on Sammy's face,' he says. 'It was worth it, for that.'

'Yeah,' Mahone says quietly. 'It was worth it.' He starts to walk away, then stops. The considering look is back on his face when he says, 'If you ever want to, you know, brush up on those acting skills any time... well. You know where to find me.' He turns around again without waiting for Michael to reply, and strolls away.

Michael watches him leave, shielding his eyes from the sun. He's still not sure exactly where these events are going to take them, but he suddenly finds he's a little more sanguine about it.

He turns and walks in the other direction, smiling.

-end-