Sucre stared up at the ceiling above him, listening to Michael tossing and turning in his sleep. T-Bag hadn't gotten him, not really, Sucre reminded himself. That was good. He quickly recited another prayer of thanks for that, and crossed himself.
He heard Michael whimper, like a puppy or something, in his sleep. "Papi? You okay?" he asked, but there was no reply. The man was still asleep, then.
Sucre wished he had a watch. He'd woken up because of Michael's restless shifting, and had no clue what time it was. He heard footsteps out on the tier, and looked out to see who the bull was.
Stolte. Since when did he work the night shift, anyway? But he hated Sucre; no use catching his attention. Sucre laced his fingers together and put his hands behind his head.
He couldn't believe everything that had happened in just one day. Michael had assured him that the plan was still safe and that T-Bag wasn't going to sing on them, but Sucre didn't see how he could be so confident. Michael's answer of, "Have some faith," did little for him. There was faith, and then there was T-Bag, who was practically the devil himself. Not that faith wasn't good against the devil…he crossed himself again, just to make sure.
Sucre sighed. He was awake anyway, might as well shake hands with the President. He dropped down from his bunk with a sigh. It would be nice to take a piss alone again, when he finally got out of here. It wasn't real high on his list of priorities, but it would be nice.
He washed his hands and wiped them off on his sweatpants. Michael thrashed again in his bunk, his hand flopping off the edge. Sucre caught the glint of the cheap plastic watch he always wore. He could check the time, then.
Sucre crouched to read the watch. It read 3:32 AM. So he had a few hours left to sleep, assuming he could fall asleep with Michael making so much noise.
He put his hands on his bunk again, about to push himself back up, when Michael let out another cry. Sucre ducked his head and looked at him again. Maybe he should wake him up? It was probably better to interrupt that kind of dream, anyway, right?
Michael moaned again. Shit, with all the noise he was making, he was gonna wake up someone else besides just Sucre. He decided to wake him.
"Papi, wake up man," he whispered. Michael's body twisted again, so his back was facing Sucre. Where had he been stabbed? Sucre tried to remember. Left shoulder. So if he touched his right shoulder, he wouldn't hurt him, right? He reached out and lightly tapped Michael's right shoulder.
A muffled string of something that could have been words came from Michael's mouth, along with another slight whimper. "Wake up, Papi," he urged, tapping him again. Nothing.
Finally, he grabbed Michael's shoulder and gave him a shake. "Michael," he hissed.
Michael bolted upright, so fast that Sucre jerked backwards, hitting the wall behind him. "No!" he cried, his pale, watering eyes glaring past Sucre. "Don't touch me!" His voice was loud in the silence of the tier.
Sucre froze. "What, man? Papi, it's me. Sucre," he whispered, holding out his hands. The last thing they needed right now was a bull…although, generally the bulls didn't interfere when cellmates got 'friendly', but he didn't want anyone thinking he and Michael were doing that, either.
Those eyes blinked, and Sucre saw a tear run down Michael's face. He'd been crying in his sleep? Sucre didn't even know that was possible. He saw Michael swallow hard. "Sucre? Why did you wake me?" His voice sounded normal again, just his usual whisper.
"You were making an awful lot of noise," Sucre explained. "Talking in your sleep and stuff. I was scared you were gonna wake someone up besides me."
Michael's eyes locked on his. "I was talking in my sleep?" he asked in an urgent whisper. "What did I say?"
"Nothing," Sucre replied. His eyes were so big. He was freaked out. "What's wrong, man?"
"Did I say anything?" Michael repeated.
"Nada, man. Nothing I could understand as English…or Spanish, either," he added after a moment, knowing that Michael did know Spanish. "Just gibberish."
"Swear to me," Michael said.
"I swear, man. Just gibberish." Sucre wondered why it mattered so much. He saw Michael's shoulders relax after he swore, though. Well, whatever.
Michael ducked his head, and Sucre looked away, to let him wipe off his face. "You okay?" he whispered to him, still looking out into the darkened tier.
He heard Michael take a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm fine," he said back.
He turned back to face Michael again. "It's just a dream, Papi," he said awkwardly. He saw Michael smile sadly in the pale light.
"Just a dream," he repeated. "Yeah."
Sucre looked at his cellie again, but Michael was somewhere in his own world now. He pushed himself back onto his bunk and settled back, looking at the ceiling once again. Now he couldn't sleep, even though Michael was silent. What kind of dreams caused a grown man to cry in his sleep?
Sucre wasn't sure he really wanted to know.