Title: Push
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael
Prompt: 033: Too Much
Word Count: 935
Rating: PG
Summary: His brother's dead, and he has no more energy for anything save the press of a hand and push of an injured foot against the wall.
Disclaimer: Paul Scheuring and a whole lot of other people who aren't me own Prison Break.
AN: A few people asked me where I get the prompts for my stories - they come from the LiveJournal Fanfic100 community, here: http/community. I claimed the Burrows/Scofield family, so I'm writing 100 fics about them using the prompts listed there (I'm up to about 30 at this point :) ).
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He doesn't move after falling onto his bunk, unable to even remember how he got back here, and spends agonizingly long hours staring at the wall until his side begins to ache from being stuck in one position against the bed for so long.
He hears Sucre shifting awkwardly around the cell once the lights have gone on telling them that it's time to get up. Sucre calls his name a few times, but he makes no move to get up.
He threw up right after it happened; pushed himself into the corner and emptied his stomach, heaving until there was nothing left and he couldn't stand up anymore, guilt and fear and horror and grief pushing him to his knees. He was vaguely aware of people suddenly surrounding him, remembers shaking off Sara's hand and pushing Veronica away, and tried to pull himself back up to his feet, scrabbling vainly with cuffed hands before someone hauled him up roughly and steered him out of the room.
And that's all he remembers of last night, and that only because he can still taste the bile scratching at the back of his throat. He knows that he watched Lincoln die because Lincoln is dead now and he was there, so he must've seen it. But there's no picture of it in his mind and he's almost-but-not-quite glad for that.
He raises a hand just enough to press against the wall in front of him, needing to push but not sure why, because this is too much, too much, and everything hurts and he needs it to stop. He kicks with his injured foot at the wall when Sucre calls him again, wondering if he loses another toe, maybe he'll be able to stop thinking about his brother.
"Hey man, we gotta go get some chow," Sucre tries again, and Michael ignores the attempt to draw him up. There's a pause for several moments and then Sucre says softly, "Yeah, okay. I'll tell the bulls you're sick or something, try to bring you something back."
There's silence then, and for once it's anything but comforting. After a moment he can hear the shuffle of people passing by his cell, mutterings of "Fish" and "Burrows" and "Sink dead" and he'd probably cry if he had the energy for it.
"Scofield!" A voice barks once the last of the mutterings have stopped, and Michael immediately places the voice as Patterson's. "Let's go!" he says with a bang on the bars, and at least it's him and not Bellick or there'd be a lot more than a shout and a bang of a nightstick.
He likes Patterson for the most part, and doesn't particularly want to anger him, but has no strength even to roll over, let alone get up and walk across the cell. His brother's dead, and he has no more energy for anything save the press of a hand and push of an injured foot against the wall.
He hears Patterson sigh and then the jangle of keys as he moves, and Michael hopes that the other man has left him alone to wither in his grief.
"Hey, look man," Patterson says instead, and the change in the pitch of his voice sounds like he's crouched down next to the bunk. "I know this is… no one should have to do that, watch someone they love go like that."
He thinks he should be angry or bitter and tell the other man that he has no idea what he's talking about, but he knows Patterson's just trying to be kind, and he can't muster up anger for anyone besides himself anyway.
"I'll be honest with you, I hate this thing. No way for a man…" He sighs. "Anyway, I know this's gotta be…"
You're terrible at this, please please go the hell away, Michael doesn't say.
"But what can you do?" Patterson continues, and Michael thinks the other man finally gets it. There's nothing he can do now but lay here, and push against the wall and keep it from crushing him. He doesn't know why he's still pushing.
"What can you do, you know?" Patterson says again, softer this time. "He's gone and you're still here and all you can do is get yourself up and keep going 'cause you know he wouldn't want this for you."
He wonders if maybe the other man actually does know what he's talking about, if Patterson's lost someone close to him too, because it's easier than thinking about what he's lost.
"I mean, c'mon man, someday you're gonna get a chance to get outa here, get your life back. There's gotta be something out there, or someone, that you want to get back to."
There's nothing. There's nothing and no one and I'm alone and I don't know why I'm still pushing at all because there's nothing left to push for, he almost says, and then his mind drifts to LJ and his stomach tightens.
It's crazy, he thinks, that he'd nearly forgotten his nephew and the guilt is almost overwhelming. But this is something, something that's not Lincoln, not grief, not hopelessness, and this is why he has to get out. Maybe someday he'll be able to live for himself again and it won't hurt so badly to do so, but right now he thinks that maybe he has to get out for LJ. And suddenly he has just a little bit of that energy back, energy to do something more than just push.
So he rolls over, swings his legs slowly to the floor, and pushes himself to his feet.
-end-