"P.I.!" the bull called.
Michael and Sucre's cell opened, and they stepped out. "You sure about this, ese?" Sucre whispered to him as they started down the tier. "I mean, it was just yesterday—"
"I know that, Sucre. I need to talk to Lincoln," Michael said. He spared his cellie a look. The man finally nodded. "Okay, man. I get it," he replied, leaving Michael to his thoughts.
There was no way Lincoln hadn't heard who had attacked Michael. Absolutely no way. If nothing else, Sucre's big-mouthed cousin, Manche, would have said something to him. So how was he going to react when Michael told him that T-Bag was still coming with?
Poorly. Michael knew this to be true. Lincoln was predictable in many ways, especially when it came to his reaction to someone hurting Michael.
Well, the conversation had to be had sometime. Might as well get it over with sooner, rather than later.
He met up with Abruzzi in the hallway. "You all right, fish?" the man asked. "Everything still on track?"
Michael nodded once. Abruzzi nodded back. "Good," he said, and took a few steps forward, so Michael was staring at his back.
It was good for life to be predictable.
They walked into the P.I. locker room. Michael scanned for Lincoln, but he wasn't there yet. Just him, Sucre, Abruzzi, Westmoreland, and C-Note. T-Bag wouldn't be there again. They'd probably leave him in the SHU for the next ninety days, at least. Maybe more.
They'd be gone by then. Michael had no intention of actually bringing T-Bag with them. But he had to convince everyone else, including his brother, that he would. Had to plan like he was going to bring T-Bag with. Had to get his brother genuinely angry enough to spout something at T-Bag about how he was going to kill him once they were over those walls, how he didn't understand why Michael would bring this man with them, all those things.
He'd fashioned the plan after Sucre had woken him the night before; no way he could go back to sleep after all those dreams. He hadn't dreamt of that for so long. He thought he'd never have to think about it again. That's what he'd told himself, he'd never think of it again, not once he got his degree, his job, his loft, his life. It was in the past, and he'd leave it there. A dirty little secret.
But in here, because of T-Bag and his words and his actions, the past and the present were colliding painfully. He couldn't help but remember. Couldn't help but dream.
Michael walked over to his locker, where his P.I. uniform was stored, and pulled off his over-shirt, folding it neatly and placing it inside his locker.
He felt it too late to do anything but cringe. Hands invading his space, gripping his biceps over the old bruises. An old, old fear.
A moment later, everything else registered. His brother's scent, the scar in the vee of his thumb and pointer finger against his skin, his voice. "Michael," his brother said.
Michael relaxed. "Lincoln," he replied, turning to face him.
His brother's eyes were locked on his as he grabbed his arms again. Michael held back a wince of pain as his brother gripped him in a hug. Finally, he held him out a little. "You're alright," he said, looking at him. One hand ghosted over Michael's head before landing on the back of his neck. "You're alright?"
Michael nodded. "I'm fine," he said. He was distinctly aware of the rest of the P.I. crew intently not-noticing the brothers' reunion.
The bulls had no such qualms. "Get your asses moving Burrows, Scofield. You're not here for a fucking tea party."
Michael could feel that Lincoln was reluctant to let go of him. He pulled away and grabbed his PI uniform. "Later," he said under his breath. He saw Lincoln nod once, and go to his own locker to get dressed.
Lincoln's reaction didn't make sense. He'd known Michael was alright; he'd seen him yesterday. So why had he grabbed him like he was afraid Michael had been close to death?
It made no sense at all.
The men all dressed and started walking out to the old C.O. break room. Michael stayed far ahead of the rest, leading the way, almost. How was this going to go?
Lincoln watched Michael ignore him. Maybe ignore wasn't precisely the correct word. But he was keeping his distance.
Well, Lincoln had some things he had to talk to Michael about. Like what T-Bag had said. All night, his brain had tried unsuccessfully to create explanations. But he needed to really know why Michael would say something like that. After all, Michael had a reason for everything he did, didn't he?
"Michael," he said, his voice harsher than he'd intended. "Come here."
Michael was reminded sharply of his young life with his brother, after their mother died. He'd lied to Lincoln, about stealing some money from his wallet. Lincoln's voice had sounded just like that, same words, same tone, before he'd given Michael an unforgettable beating.
A ridiculous thing to remember, now. Not the same situation at all. Michael was no longer 12 years old, his brother no longer lost in a world of drugs and alcohol and rage, trying to deal with a miserable, broken kid brother and a needy toddler, a shitty job, and a girlfriend who didn't understand how lousy it was, to be twenty and have so much responsibility. But his voice was the same.
He slowed so Lincoln could catch up with him. "Yeah?" he asked, trying not to betray the fear he felt stirring in the pit of his stomach. Not fear of his brother; fear of this situation. Something was wrong. He could see it in Linc's eyes, in the way he watched Michael's every step, in the furrow between his brows, which was deeper than ever.
"I was talking to T-Bag last night," Lincoln said. Michael stopped dead, his eyes widening.
"What? How the hell did you—"
"Don't change the subject Michael," Lincoln said. His voice was harsh again, but he couldn't seem to change that. He grabbed Michael's arm again. Michael winced, and he let go. "Keep walking," he said, feeling guilty. His brother was covered in bruises, and he was manhandling him? Good job, Lincoln.
He could see Michael's tension, in the way he held his hands stock still, hiding them in the pockets of his P.I. uniform, and how a small muscle in his jaw was working. He didn't speak again until they were inside the break room.
"We'll watch for bulls first," Lincoln said. Sucre, C-Note, and Abruzzi all nodded without a word. Lincoln was glad that they understood his need to talk to Michael privately.
Lincoln shut the door between the break room and the outer door, and turned to Michael. "You need to explain this, Michael," he said, his voice almost a hiss.
Michael took a step backwards, until his back brushed against the door. He put his hands against it too, bracing himself. "What do I need to explain?" he asked, trying for nonchalance. His brother was obviously close to losing it…
"Why you would tell T-Bag," and here Lincoln paused and looked away from Michael's eyes. And suddenly, Michael knew, without a doubt, what Lincoln wanted him to explain. His stomach twisted agonizingly. He gritted his teeth.
"Why I would tell him what?" Michael asked, thinking hard. He had never thought T-Bag would tell his brother what he said. He should have known better. T-Bag loved to upset people, to tear out their insides and make them bleed. Literally, and figuratively. And any amount of observation would have shown him that the best way to do that to Lincoln would be to go through Michael. He cursed himself for giving the man such a powerful weapon.
"That you weren't a…fuck, Michael. Did you seriously tell him that he wouldn't be the first?" The words seemed to tear out of Lincoln's throat in a sickened whisper.
The look of pain on Lincoln's face told Michael so much. Michael felt his heart flutter from fear and pain.
"Yeah, I told him that," Michael said. It wouldn't do any good to deny it; he'd have to deflect it instead.
"Why the fuck—" Lincoln's voice was rising.
"Shh! It's not true, okay? Lincoln, he'd told me he wanted to be the first one to…" Michael looked away. He didn't have to fake the shame that made his face redden. "I thought if I said that, maybe he wouldn't—wouldn't want—"
Lincoln looked at his stuttering brother. He wanted to believe him, so much. T-Bag's words echoed in his brain.
" Watch those pretty eyes of his when he tries to lie to you. They tell the truth, always."
He stared into his brother's green blue eyes, desperately praying that he would see that he was telling the truth there.
"You're lying to me," Lincoln said. He sounded so certain, so angry, so sad. Michael flinched when his brother slapped the door beside his head hard with the palm of his hand. "Fucking hell, Michael, you're lying to me!"
Michael felt fear flash through his body. How did Lincoln know he was lying? "I'm not," he said, keeping his voice quiet. "Stop yelling, a badge is gonna come—"
"You are lying," Lincoln said. His voice was low again, his face only inches from Michael's own. "He was right; I can see it in your eyes."
Michael jerked like Lincoln had slapped him. Well, Lincoln certainly wanted to slap him, never mind he was already covered in bruises and had been beaten enough.
"What happened, Michael? Was it here? He told me he wasn't the first to go after you, and I didn't believe him, but I can see it in your eyes. It's true. So who was it? Tell me!" Lincoln had Michael's collar in his hand, and there was a wildness in his eyes that made Michael want to flee. His secret had been found out. This was his worst night mare. This wasn't really happening. Couldn't be happening.
Suddenly, his brother just…crumpled. He dropped gracelessly to his knees and hunched over himself. Lincoln let go of Michael's collar and dropped down next to him. "Michael? Michael?"
His brother didn't respond. His eyes were open, but completely unblinking. There was nothing there anymore. Lincoln's body went cold.
"Michael? Michael, I'm sorry. Please!" Lincoln felt a desperate fear engulf him. He grabbed his brother, trying to undo this damage he'd caused. What had he done?
The door to the break room opened. Sucre popped his head out. "What the hell's going on?" he asked.
"Something's wrong with Michael," Lincoln replied desperately. "Cover the hole. Get a badge."
Sucre swore rapidly in Spanish and squeezed out of the room, running out towards the yard. Lincoln could hear Abruzzi, C-Note, and Westmoreland putting the break room back to right. He wrapped his arms around his unresponsive brother. "Come on, Michael. Please. I'm sorry," he begged.
He was still holding onto him when Patterson came in, moving at a jog, led by Sucre. The guard called into his radio for the infirmary, and then crouched down, trying to look at Michael.
"Let me see him," Patterson said.
"Don't touch him," Lincoln barked, still guarding his brother.
"Burrows, let me see him!" Patterson said.
"Don't fucking touch him!" Lincoln yelled. He glared at Patterson with everything he had. "Don't fucking touch him, or I'll kill you." He'd never meant any words so much in his life.
Patterson reached for his radio again, but Sucre said, "Boss, please. That's his brother, man. Don't."
Patterson hesitated. Lincoln looked down at Michael, who was staring at nothing at all, his body stiffly curled in a ball, looking so small and vulnerable and broken. Whoever had hurt his brother would die.
Lincoln pulled Michael closer, shielding him with his arms. He thought of Michael's childhood, when Michael was afraid of the monsters in his closet and couldn't sleep, and how he'd crawled into bed with Lincoln. Lincoln had held him, kept him safe in his arms, so he could sleep.
But obviously, Lincoln hadn't always been there. And a real monster had gotten to his brother, and hurt him. Done him irreparable damage. He'd kept him safe from the monsters in the closet that weren't real, and let the real monsters attack him.
He rocked his brother slightly, like he had when he was a little kid. "Michael, please," he whispered to his brother. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, man."
He just kept whispering that, ignoring Patterson, Sucre, Abruzzi, C-Note, and Westmoreland. His brother was all that mattered right now. And then, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Lincoln? Lincoln, it's Sara. Lincoln, you can let go now." Her voice was quiet. Lincoln looked up, to where the doctor was standing, with a gurney and some of the medical personnel.
"Sara?" he asked.
"Can I check him over?" she asked. "I want to make sure his vitals are okay and—"
"Yeah. Yeah." This woman cared about Michael. "Please." His throat was dry, and he swallowed hard.
"Okay. Let go of him, alright?" she said.
"Sure," he said. He very carefully released Michael from his grip. Immediately, a guard came rushing at him, but Sara threw up her hand.
"Don't!" she said. "Just leave him alone."
The guard stopped, looking confused. "But—"
"Don't," she repeated, sparing him a second for a glare. The guard stepped back.
Lincoln watched in a daze as she checked his pulse and his pupils, and the other medical people began getting ready to move him to the gurney. Sara turned to him.
"What happened, Lincoln?" she asked. He shook his head.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know what happened. I…" His voice trailed off.
Sara touched his shoulder briefly. "Okay. I'm going to go take care of Michael, but you and I can talk again later, once he's stable, okay?" she said.
Lincoln nodded. Sara said something to a guard in a stern undertone. The man nodded, and approached Lincoln again. "Come on, Burrows," he said. "P.I.'s over for the day."
Lincoln watched them roll Michael away on the gurney, his eyes still staring blankly at the sky. Sara was leaning over the gurney, trying to get a response of some sort from him without any success. Lincoln slowly got to his feet.
"I'm sorry, Michael," he whispered again as the guard began to herd him towards the prison again. "I'm so fucking sorry."