Okay I won't explain into detail how much the next chapter(s) annoyed me. It feels like I've been writing at them like FOREVER. Plenty of life's interruption and a "Mikey falls asleep and drools everywhere, anytime and on anyone as an after effect of the camps"-kinda induced writer's block, makes me want to hate chappie 11 and 12. They sucked big time to me yesterday, they sucked a little less today, and you'll probably think they suck not so much, but hey I will rewrite them someday if I find the courage, but for now I just want to get them out of my system, so here they are: welcome to the suckiness!

Hihi. Okay okay, I'm being melodramatic because it really isn't that bad, but I started on Monday (half an hour here, half an hour there, falling asleep and waking frustrated because precious writing time was lost) and did the same until yesterday, and honestly that just SUCKS! Hihi!

So enjoy the suckiness babies

Oh, and do you know who doesn't suck: Beta RDG, she had to do it by her self this time, cause Pemphredo is on her fabulous Wentywatch trip down in the states. So extra kudos for her. Oh what the heck Pemphredo, thank you too honey, for all the previous times! Hail to the two non-sucking-beta-goddesses.

And hail to Elke too, she checked the level of suckiness yesterday, and didn't find any. But between you and me, she is a little biased. I enchanted her with my magic-Mikey-charm, and now she has a big-fangirly crush on me, moehaha, but the feeling is mutual.

So here's part one. Just like before chapter 11 and 12 should be read as one. I just cut them in two, because the chapter was too large as one.

Xxx Mikey, lord of all things that suck!!

Three of a Kind

It had been one day since he'd raped Sara and probably over twenty hours since he'd stopped running, but his muscles still hurt like they were pumping full speed, and his chest still felt tense and squeezed together, like he was struggling to get enough oxygen in his lungs. He was sitting on the floor of the upper level of the lighthouse he'd come across half a day earlier, and he estimated he had to be about ten miles from home.

Ten miles, it felt like he'd run a hundred, but still, it wasn't far enough for him. Nothing could be far enough from her, from her tousled hair, her bruised lips and that single drop of blood dripping down her thigh. He swallowed hard again, for the millionth time that day, and couldn't stop the groan that passed his blistered lips. Swallowing felt like rubbing abrasive sandpaper up and down his throat, his mouth was dry, his head and stomach hurt because he hadn't eaten anything in over 24 hours, but still, getting up and searching food was the last thing on his mind.

His back rested lightly against the wall and his head was tilted a little to the right, making his neck muscles scream under the strain of impending stiffness, but he couldn't care less. His half opened eyes were fixed on infinity with lids too heavy to close or open fully. He'd noticed the imperfection of the wall in front of him, some bricks were larger than others and the whole mass was coated with a layer of inferior white paint that had been so impatiently applied, various small crumbles of dried paint still covered the wall. Normally, he would already know the amount of bricks on that wall and he'd surely have counted how many specks of paint could have been smoothed down by a simple second layer of coating. But not today, not right now, not when all he saw was milky white flesh, instead of rough pale plaster tainted by that damned trickle of coppery red liquid, instead of hundreds clots of dried harmless paint.

His left arm was pressed against his chest, and his right hand rubbed against it in an even rhythm conducted by the whooshing sound of the sweeping light beam above his head. Whoosh, rub, whoosh, rub, over and over again. The imperfect wall, the hissing sound of the illuminated rotating lens, the rape, the pain, it should have turned his mind into a paralysing chaotic mess hours ago. But how, he craved that kind of incoherency now, because never, in his whole damned life, had his thoughts been clearer than today. There were no distractions, no fades to black, no jumbled mental state that could intervene with the flawless movie that was played before his eyes. Just whoosh, rub, whoosh, rub, just the immaculate reconstruction of the previous night's events, and his soul screaming monster, over and over again. Just whoosh, rub, whoosh, rub.

He'd run so hard and so fast after he'd discovered that she was following him, that he hadn't even noticed the sun had set until he'd tripped over a beached log in the black of the night, and had fallen hard on the wet sand. He'd started vomiting again, due to the cruel exertion of running for hours, or due to the horrid images of her in his head, or due to both, he didn't really know. But after his stomach had quietened down, every ounce of energy had seemed to slip from his body, leaving him with only just enough power to crawl a few yards from the water and fall flat on his back in the soft dry sand.

Silent tears had started to leak from his eyes, mixing with the sticky sweat and sand on his face. The stars came out, and seemed to mock him with their happy twinkling and beautiful brightness, he hadn't been able to drag his gaze away from them. That's how they'd almost found him hours later. His mind had been momentarily perplexed when he'd noticed the jittery flashlights in the distance and heard the soft voices of his brother and her. While the soft "Michaels" had become louder and stronger with every step they'd closed in on him, a feeling of astonishment had warmed his cold body within seconds. They had come for him! He was utterly expendable, and should be thrown in hell to rot for all eternity, but there they'd been, looking for a needle in a haystack in the pitch black, there they'd been a few hundred yards away from achieving their goal. The freshly attained feeling of comfort had been chased away instantly by a bone-crushing panic, and he'd scrambled away silently to flee into the night for the second time that day.

The sun had already risen when he'd finally found the lighthouse. He'd broken the cheap padlock, barricaded the door once inside and slid down the wall on the upper floor in pure exhaustion. Now, many hours later the sun had yet again set, but he was still in the same position and even more worn out than before.

He should try to close his eyes and get some sleep, he should stand up and go search for some food and water. He should, but he wouldn't. Because all that mattered were the images in his head, all that mattered was her, all that mattered was his screaming soul condemning him to an inferno. You're a monster, you're worse than all those beasts in Sona put together, you love her and you rape her, you don't deserve to fucking live! Whoosh and rub, whoosh and rub!

He felt like he'd been living in his own world since his return from Sona, detached, floating, frustrated and not in charge, giving the vicious thing inside of him all the time to grow and spread like a malignant tumour. It had to stop! If he ever wanted to redeem himself, it had to stop today. From now on he had to take back control and be strong. It would hurt like hell, he knew, but he had to do it, because he needed to atone to her. For all she'd given up for him, this was the sole and most important thing he had to do.

Whoosh, rub, whoosh, rub. His right hand tightened around the steel in its grip, and though his body-heat had long been transferred onto the metal, it still felt like ice in his palm, burning him with the cold. He had to get rid of the thing, he had to maim it, kill it, cut it out of his body. He had to cripple it, just like it had done so brutally to his soul, to overpower it. If he ever was to achieve any kind of absolution from her and his brother, and from Bob and David, from Henry and Charles and from all the others, he had to overcome this ominous numbness and feel himself again, be himself again. Pure and simple he had to wake up, so he kept on rubbing while the light beam kept on whooshing.

For the first time in hours his gaze shifted from the wall in front of him, to his chest. His left arm was pressed tight against it while his hand gripped his hoodie in a death grip. The fabric of his sweatshirt was ridden up into the crook of his left elbow, exposing the everlasting art on his forearm. But instead of blew greenish twists and turns he saw red, the deep coppery red of his blood, of her blood, of Lincoln's blood. His flesh was marred with a multitude of straight lines; small ones, large ones, shallow ones and deep ones. The knife in his right hand was old and blunt but hours of steady rubbing had made scarring cuts as good as any new sharp blade could do. No doubt it hurt, and of course his arm looked like a massacre, but with every cut the suffocating pressure in his chest seemed to diminish a little, and with every small flow of blood he saw a small piece of the thing leave his body. And for the first time in forever he felt a little hope. The feeling seemed so insignificant, drowned by the omnipotent guilt and shame, but nevertheless it was there, small, like a premature infant, but strong-minded and willing to beat the odds of life.

---------------------------------

It had been three days since Michael had run away. Three long days of no sleep and searching and screaming his name, begging him to return. Three days of praying to a god she didn't believe in, praying to bring him back to her save and sound, just wishing him to be alright, and not frightened, or hurt, or worse. NO! She would not go there. She believed in him, he was strong and wouldn't just end his own life like that, he wouldn't do that. Would he?

Lincoln and her had lived on coffee and adrenaline the past couple of days, and she shuddered while thinking about the familiarity of it all. It felt like they were transported six weeks back, to Michael being back in prison, to them trying to survive the pressure and anxiety the best they could, with lots of caffeine and keeping busy.

But just like then, her body had been the first to crack under the strain, and that's why she was laying exhausted in Michael's bed while Lincoln was still out there, searching anywhere, everywhere for his brother. Her tired mind replayed the last conversation she'd had with him earlier that day and while she snuggled deeper into the soft comforter of the bed, she gripped her cell phone harder in her hand.

They were searching this part of the beach for the forth time in three days, looking for him, or any sign he may have left behind. But just like the times before, nothing out of the ordinary could be seen. The same feeling of dread she'd felt earlier, while searching the harbour and after that the two nearest cities and their hospitals in particular, crept up her spine, her fatigued mind couldn't ignore the fact any longer that this all just seemed like a big fucking waste of time. He was Michael Scofield for crying out loud, he was the mastermind of the Fox River escape, he wasn't just going to sit on the beach with a big freaking "I'm here"- neon sign above his head.

"Lincoln."

He was speed walking in front of her and she was half walking, half running to keep up with him. "Lincoln!" She tried more urgently, after he'd blatantly ignored her first call.

He slowed his pace a little, showing her he was listening, but he didn't stop.

"Maybe we sh…"

"NO! We shouldn't!"

With a frustrated sigh she stopped dead in her tracks. Nobody interrupted her when she was pissed off, not even Lincoln Burrows.

"Why the hell not, Lincoln! We are going around in circles here. For all we know, he hopped on a bus and is half way around the country by now. He ISN'T here Linc, just like he wasn't yesterday." The anger in her voice died out quickly, being replaced by desperation.

"No! That little shit IS here, I just know it!" He was pacing up and down the beach now, and frankly, it was making her dizzy, but he was in 'the zone', and nothing could stop a determined Lincoln in 'the zone'.

"Sara, get it through your head. I'm NOT going home, even if this is fruitless, I'm gonna keep on looking, find that little punk and kick his fucking brains out!"

She knew he didn't mean it, like he knew it too. And she knew this was just his way of keeping control. He'd always dealt much better with anger than with fear. But she couldn't deny the feeling of comfort spreading in her belly. This man was willing to kick his own flesh and blood, because he'd hurt her, and his reaction of brotherly love and protectiveness could easily beat any emotion of anger, fear, guilt or whatever, if even for just one minute.

"Lincoln." She tried to calm him.

"No! You don't get to Lincoln me on this one. I'm gonna drag his sorry ass back home, make him grovel like a dog until he drops and kisses your feet for the rest of his life…Seriously, It's been over two months, Sara…"

"Six weeks." She corrected him, but soon realised this probably wasn't the wisest thing to do with an enraged Lincoln.

He silenced her with a dead stare and continued "It's been six weeks. He should have at least talked about it, about something, anything, I don't care!" He shook his head and continued. "He doesn't get to bottle it up anymore and act like that. He didn't come to his senses voluntarily, FINE BY ME, 'cause, I'm dying to help him with that, BY KICKING HIM IN THE BALLS!" He finished with a vicious 'fuck it' accompanied by a hard kick in the sand.

The last part lacked so much finesse, and was said with so much determination she had the strangest urge to giggle. That was a furious Lincoln for 'ya, tactless and brutal. But she didn't giggle, in fact, she was the farthest from giggling. Because as angry as he'd been a few second ago, so miserable did he look now.

It always came back to this, the guilt, the hopelessness, the fear. If all the anger and frustration was stripped away, that was all that remained for both of them. The guilt of not having been able to stop the things from happening, of not getting through to Michael and help him like he needed, instead of letting him die inside more and more each single day. The hopelessness for the future, their future, but especially Michael's, because they both understood the gravity of the impact this would have on him. And that brought them irrevocably to the fear, the fear of THAT particular future, how dire it all may seem, not being there at all. The fear of finding him exactly where they were looking now, because the only way they would stumble on him on that beach in broad daylight would be if he was still and not breathing, and that was just something they couldn't begin to consider.

He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes slowly while she approached him. He tentatively brushed her cheek, giving her all the time to escape his touch if she wasn't ready after what had happened to her, and the surprise of it almost brought tears to her eyes. She couldn't understand how this bulk and normally indiscreet piece of a man, could secretly harbour such great gentleness in his behaviour. They didn't see it, but those two brothers were more a like than they thought, and after witnessing the uncontrolled anger in Michael's eyes she meant that both ways.

"I know you're beat. I am too, Sara." His tired sigh only fortified that statement. "But you know me, sitting in that house would only drive me AND therefore you crazy. I would break every single piece of furniture by the end of the day and you know it."

"True."

"I need to be out here…and you, need to be there, sleeping, 'cause, frankly, you look like shit!"

"Thanks."

They sighed together heavily, though with a hint of a smile in their breath, before his arms enveloped her, again so hesitantly but still so comforting. She felt him slip the car keys in her pocket and hugged him a little tighter after his "Keep your cell close." penetrated her ears.

Now, surrounded by Michael-smelling comforters and cushions she wanted nothing more than to hug Lincoln crazy for granting her this reprieve from the search. She was in Michael heaven, really! He was above her, below her, in her and out. He was everywhere, literally. She was sure she looked like a refugee from J-cat, with the too large Michael PJ-bottoms that clad her lower body, and the stained Michael t-shirt she'd fished out of the laundry basket, which was now covering her chest, but she couldn't freaking care, because he was here, he was everywhere, his smell was covering the whole of her, invading her and soothing her better than any morphine ever could have.

She still couldn't quite fully comprehend why she felt this way. After the initial shock had waned off she waited for the resentment, hate, disgust or anything like that to come. She waited, and waited, but she felt none of it. In fact, her heart felt ready to explode, like in the last couple of days she'd grown to love him even more. How the hell could anyone ever logically explain that? At first she blamed it on the search and fear for his life, but now, lying down in her self constructed Michael haven, she just stopped trying to judge herself and accepted the fact that she was alright, that she was alright with what had happened.

In the back of her mind she knew full well why her reaction was so peaceful and considerate toward this mess, but for the last three days she'd tried to block those memories from another lifetime from invading her head again. Under pressure she'd succeeded, but now, with nothing left to do but wait for Lincoln's and hopefully Michael's return, she couldn't stop to recollect those dreadful times. She'd been in that horrid predicament before, in fact rape and she had seemed like the best of friends once upon a time.

She'd been raped twice in the literal sense of the word; once, when innocence had still been a great part of her life, by one of her father's political goons. He'd thought he'd blessed her with setting up this date for her, making sure she dealt with respectable men, rich men, educated men, men he approved off, men who weren't her dead beat friends, men who knew how to treat a woman. Oh, how wrong he'd been. The classy and gentlemen façade had dropped the minute they'd left the political fundraiser ball, and she had denied him further indulgence than a few kisses. It had been brutal and humiliating, leaving visible as well as mental bruises, but his threat of dishonouring her father if she'd ever tell anyone was so daunting, she'd picked up the pieces of her broken soul and left quietly, never to inform anyone.

The second time, she was so far gone on morphine she didn't really put up much of a struggle. He was supposed to be her friend, and shooting up in his basement had seemed like an excellent idea. But, as he'd climbed up her body she'd realised too late she'd walked into the den of the lion voluntarily. She didn't struggle like the first time, too tired and too wasted to find the strength, but she'd begged and cried and wished him away, but he hadn't listened.

But both those times hadn't come close to all the times after that. And in those cases there was no-one else to blame than her stupid little self. She'd done horrible things to her body, agreeing to sexual escapades of her dealers voluntarily. She'd done a lot of freaky stuff in her 'bad girl days', stuff that normal respectful women seriously frowned upon, and for what, for a high that lasted half an hour and left her craving and hungry for the rest of the day. She didn't really see it then, but later on, during her recovery she'd acknowledged with shame she'd raped her self more than she could count.

So being raped by Michael Scofield honestly felt like a fieldtrip to Disney-land compared to all those times. God fucking damn, that man made her swoon with love, even if he raped her. She simply couldn't logically explain that, but she'd long abandoned wanting to think rationally when it came to him.

Oh, she was quite clear on the fact that she would kick him where it hurt, after Lincoln had his turn of course, if he'd ever try to pull that stunt on her again. But right this minute 'being violent' was the last thing on her mind. Instead she sank deeper into his pillow, pressed the phone to her chest and inhaled strongly, greedily savouring every single Michael-molecule she could get, and letting them affect her like a natural anaesthesia, lulling her into a dreamless sleep. A small smile enveloped her lips before she surrendered to the darkness completely. They would beat this crap, together, they would beat the shitty odds that life threw at them, she was sure of it.

------------------

It had been four days since the shit had hit the fan. Four days full of all consuming anger and fear. Anger at Michael for raping Sara, god it still felt so unbelievable unfair and strange to put those words in the same context. But most of all anger for letting it all happen right under his nose, for having that one glass of bourbon too many exactly at the wrong time, putting him in a way too deep sleep to wake from the screams for the first time in months.

He should have seen it coming, he should have paid more attention, instead of thinking everything was fine because of one lousy evening a week on which Michael did something other than sulk. His brother's laughter on those movie nights had made a false corset of safety around his body, but he'd never been so unprotected for a fall than the moment Sara had woken him in the living room, looking like death had run her over.

He didn't even believe her at first. To his own shame he had yelled at her like a mad man, warning her to fucking quit the bullshit, to quit blemishing and humiliating his own brother with her nonsense. The guilt of calling her a lying bitch would lay heavily on his soul for eternity, because the minute he'd screamed it, she'd just broken down howling in the middle of the living room, sinking to the floor like a lifeless doll, leaving her the most undone he'd ever seen her.

Witnessing her like that, sitting crumpled on the floor, with messy hair and wrinkly clothes had tempered his anger gradually. And when he'd looked a little closer and had seen the redness around her wrist and, god, the dried bloodstain on her leg, it felt like someone had punched him in the face, hard. He'd doubled over too, a couple of feet from her and they'd sat there for what felt like hours, she crying and sniffling, he too shocked to move a muscle. But eventually he'd broken out of his daze, and had sprung to life like an eager kid on a sugar high. In a matter of minutes he had her wrapped in a thick blanket and in front of the kitchen sink, with a warm wash cloth in his hand, wiping away the tear marks.

He still couldn't comprehend all that had happened afterwards, from her having to tell him the painful story about the rape, to him being awake for over eighty hours straight looking for his brother, without even feeling tired.

He was still deciding what he would do if he would actually find Michael, strangle him to death after castrating him with his bare hands for doing that to Sara, or strangling him to death with the smothering kisses and hugs he would give him out of pure joy that his brother was alive and protected again in his arms. It was still an ambivalent tie between those two. Sometimes he felt like torturing the first living thing that had the misfortune of crossing his path, preferably Michael's testicles, but sometimes he wanted to kiss the living shit out of someone, anyone, anything, really, when he'd thought he'd seen Michael in the distance. Either way, he wouldn't know until that moment finally arrived, and with every passing hour of futile effort that moment seemed to slip out of his hands faster and faster. But, damn if he would surrender to hopelessness. Life had dealt him a shit load of crappy cards before, and he would rot in hell before he would let these odds overtake them. He'd beaten them before, he would do it again. And with that he picked up his pace and kept on looking anywhere, everywhere for his baby brother.

Okay evil gleam starts to appear in Mikey's grey-green eyes

I have in my possession the follow-up of this chapter. Oeeee yeaaah (flings her merchandise in the air for all to see). It's juicy, it's lovely, it's all one big Mili and Misa confrontation angstfest !!!!

But I won't post it, no no, I'm evil that way, I'll only post it the minute I have received at least 8 reviews. Oh and you little tykes, don't play 'mister wise guy' on me, multiple reviews aren't allowed, okay they are, but won't be accounted for!!! (MOEHAHA's so hard until a little pee escapes)

See you soon , or see you later babies, it's all up to you!