Lincoln thought he was going to explode. "Shut the FUCK UP!" he roared. He was frantically pacing back and forth, his hands clenched in fists so tight his knuckles were white. He'd never killed a man before—irony of ironies—but if he could get to T-Bag at this moment, the man would be gone. Lincoln would kill him with his bare hands.
"What, Sink? Truth hurt?" T-Bag's voice crooned, taunting, through the drain of the cell. "Your brother sure was a pretty little fish…although, he's not so pretty anymore. But when he gets scared, those eyes of his, they're so bright and glistening and pretty…makes me so damn hard—"
Lincoln couldn't help the wordless roar of rage and disgust that escaped his throat at those words, dropping to his knees on the concrete. "You're a fucking dead man!" Lincoln spit, directing his words into the drain to guarantee that T-Bag would hear them. "You better pray that we never, EVER see each other without steel bars between us, or you are going to die the most agonizing death imaginable!"
"Those words are certainly picturesque, but in practice, I'm sure my imagination can come up with demises too gruesome even for you, Sink," T-Bag drawled. "You've only killed once. I've only been caught once. A six-for-one, but still."
Lincoln could practically see T-Bag run his tongue over his teeth, in that slithery, lizard-like way he always did. The last thing he wanted to think about was this man hurting his brother, touching his brother, even talking to his brother. An animal like that…belonged in a cage.
"Not too observant, that boy," T-Bag continued. "You'd think he'd be smart enough not to let himself be the last left in the break room with me, wouldn't you?"
Lincoln startled. Michael was smart. And more than that, he had L.L.I. He never missed anything. How the fuck had he let that happen?
"Would almost think the boy wanted a little taste of it," T-Bag slimed on.
"SHUT UP!" Lincoln shouted again. He slammed his fist hard against the concrete block wall, barely registering the pain of his knuckles on concrete. He hit it again.
It wasn't that Michael wasn't smart, Lincoln realized angrily. It was his lack of common sense that was the problem. Common sense dictated that you stayed out of one on one situations with a rapist, murder, and pedophile who wanted a piece of you. But Michael didn't have common-sense. He had Michael-sense.
Michael-sense was what had caused him to get a tattoo over half his body and commit a crime to be put into prison to break his brother out. Michael-sense was why he felt guilty over that kid who killed himself, why he'd hit T-Bag in the knee with a crowbar so he wouldn't attack that wigger kid, why hiding a piece of soap shaped like a cell-phone to test his cell-mate's loyalty had seemed like a good idea. Michael-sense. Sometimes it masqueraded as plain idiocy.
"You sure your brother has no sexual proclivities towards men, Sink? Your boy's no virgin, you know. He told me so himself." The words were disgusting, but it was the sick satisfaction in T-Bag's voice that sent him over the edge.
Lincoln attacked the wall again with a vengeance, hammering blows against the concrete, bellowing wordlessly with fury. Distantly, he heard T-Bag laughing, and felt pain as his knuckles split open on the concrete, blood dripping over his hands.
Suddenly, the window to his door popped open. "Lincoln, what the fuck's going on!" Lewis barked. "Stop it!"
He hit the wall one more time and pushed away, falling into the corner of the cell. "I'm bleeding, boss," he said hoarsely. His throat was sore from all his yelling.
"Well, no fuck. Christ." Lewis pulled out his nightstick and a set of cuffs. "Get up, hands behind your back. Don't do anything stupid." He opened the door and entered.
"Why?" Lincoln asked, staring at his bloody hands.
"Do it, con!"
Lincoln stood, putting his hands behind him. He felt the cuffs snap around his wrists. "Where we goin' boss?" he asked.
"Infirmary. Move," Lewis said. He gave him a push, sending him into the hallway.
Infirmary. Michael was there. Lincoln nodded and started to walk, Lewis directly behind him.
He heard footsteps coming from the other direction; another unlucky con to be locked in the SHU. Lincoln kept his head down. He didn't care who it was; he just wanted to see Michael.
"Linc!"
His head snapped up. "Michael?" He froze for a split second, taking in his brother's image. His face was bruised, battered, his lip had been split, but despite a black eye, those blue-green eyes were locked on his, wide with astonishment.
He lurched forward, and his brother had also. The guards grabbed them, of course, but they were only a few feet away from each other.
"Are you okay?" Lincoln demanded. His mind was working fast. His brother was walking, not in the infirmary, being brought to the SHU. He must be okay, at least medically.
"I'm okay," Michael replied. His eyes flashed multiple emotions before locking down completely, and Lincoln wanted to grab him, to demand the entire story, but Patterson said, "Scofield, five minutes."
Michael nodded. "Later, Linc." Lincoln could see it in Michael's face. A plan was being worked already, and he'd just have to trust him. He nodded again, his heart aching.
Lewis gave him another push, sending him forward. He nudged the front of his brother's shoulder with his own as he passed, all the contact he could manage.
"Keep walking, con," Lewis said. "You're bleeding all over the fucking floor."