Lincoln stared at Michael's retreating form from the window. Something was wrong here. This just did not make sense.

There was no reason for Michael not to tell him who had attacked him. If the guy was dead, it wasn't like Lincoln could re-kill him…not that he wouldn't, if it was possible. And even if the guy was alive, it wasn't like they were in the prison anymore. There was no way for Lincoln to get at him. So why wouldn't he say?

He'd seen his brother's tears, even though Michael had tried to hide them. Michael cried much more than Lincoln ever had, it was true, but never for no reason. His brother just seemed to feel pain more acutely than anyone else Lincoln had ever known.

Lincoln just wanted to help. He knew that he wasn't going about it in the right way. Intellectually, he knew that. He knew that every time he asked Michael who it had been, he ripped a chunk out of him. He could see it in Michael's eyes. But he couldn't seem to stop.

Despite what Michael said, over and over, it did matter. It mattered. Not because it truly mattered who had hurt Michael; it mattered because Michael didn't trust him enough to tell him.

Was he being selfish? Yes. And no. Because he wanted his brother to tell him, instead of just keeping it to himself so that he could do something for him. If Sucre hadn't known, and Lincoln hadn't known, that meant that the only one who knew was Michael. Lincoln knew better than to think Michael would have told the doctor, not with that strange love he had for her. He wouldn't have wanted her to see him as a victim. And other than that, Michael had no one. He knew Veronica had visited Michael a few times, but surely Vee would have told him something so important. So Michael was all alone, with that secret of his. And it was obviously eating at him. Tearing him apart. Hence the tears, and the way he'd jerked away from Lincoln's hand on his back like it had burned him.

Lincoln sighed and pushed back from the window, letting the curtain fall. He sat down on the edge of the bed that Michael had left only a few minutes before and propped his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands. Suddenly, he felt so very fucking tired.

It really didn't make sense that Sucre didn't know. The men had been cellmates, and even more than that, they had a genuine friendship. He knew that Sucre had only known Michael for a little more than three weeks, but even if they'd been enemies, Sucre should have known. He'd been in jail for awhile now; he knew what the signs were when someone got turned out.

Lincoln remembered his first stint in actual prison, when he was 18. Luckily, the first guy who had tried for him, a fat giant of a man, had gone down and stayed there, and after that, no one was going to mess with Linc the Sink. He'd only won because of sheer adrenaline, surprise, and a need to survive, but he'd never admit that.

But Michael…Michael was tall, yes, but lean, and looked delicate. His bones were smaller; he took after their mother. He was, as T-Bag had so mercilessly pointed out, pretty. As soon as Lincoln had seen his brother standing in the chapel, he'd worried about the other cons attacking him. And it had happened.

Behind his back, Lincoln heard a door close. "Oh, that was so fucking nice, man," Sucre said. He babbled something in Spanish that sounded much too cheerful for Lincoln to handle right now. "Where's Michael, anyway?"

"He's gone," Lincoln said, turning to face Sucre, who was standing there with a towel wrapped around his hips. "How did you not notice?"

"What are you talking about, man? I noticed he was gone right away." Sucre walked over to the black trash bag that Michael had left on the floor and started digging through it, grabbing fresh clothes. "Hey. There's a pack of razors in here!" He carried the clothing and razors back into the bathroom, shutting the door again.

Lincoln forced back a growl of frustration. "Not that Michael was missing, you moron. How did you not notice that he got raped in there?"

There was a moment of stark silence, and then the bathroom door swung open again. Sucre had jeans on now, and he stepped into the doorway, buttoning the top button. "He didn't get raped in there, Lincoln."

"That's what I mean," Lincoln said. "He did. And you didn't notice. How'd that happen?" His voice was rising again. "I mean, you've been there long enough to know what it looks like when someone—"

"Yeah, I have," Sucre said. "It didn't happen, man." His eyes met Lincoln's. Those brown eyes were filled with confusion. "You said something about that in the car too. Why you saying stuff like that? T-Bag didn't get him."

"Not by T-Bag, you idiot," Lincoln said. If he'd had any hair, he would have pulled it out with frustration. "Before T-Bag."

"What? No. Nothing happened to him, man. Well, except for Abruzzi cutting off his toes, and that weirdness with Haywire and—"

"Sucre!" Lincoln shouted, jumping to his feet.

Sucre flinched slightly. "Lo siento." He watched Lincoln warily. Lincoln shook his head.

"They threw T-Bag in the cell next to mine in the SHU. And T-Bag spent the next hour or so telling me all about what he'd done to Michael. Every disgusting detail." Lincoln swallowed. "I exploded; hit the wall and tore open my knuckles. Lewis took me to the infirmary. And on the way there, I saw Michael. Who was fine, more or less.

"Then I talked to the doc, and she told me that T-Bag hadn't actually raped him. So when I went back to the SHU, T-Bag and I talked some more."

"You know T-Bag's a liar, Lincoln. Why would you listen to anything he says?" Sucre asked. He walked back into the bathroom and grabbed the tee shirt he'd left on the counter, slipping it over his head.

"I didn't want to. But he told me that Michael had told him…" Lincoln stopped talking. Why was he telling Sucre this? It wasn't really any of his business.

"Told him what, ese?" Sucre asked. Lincoln looked at the Puerto Rican, who was watching him with intense brown eyes. "What did that pendejo say?"

"Do you really care?" Lincoln asked. "About Michael, I mean?"

Sucre looked like Lincoln had hit him. "Si. I care," he said, sounding insulted.

Lincoln studied Sucre for another moment. His brown eyes were angry. Finally, he nodded succinctly. "Alright," he said. "He told me that Michael had said…Shit!"

Lincoln started to pace back and forth in the small space between the beds. "T-Bag told Michael he'd wanted to be the first to, you know, and Michael told him he wouldn't be. The first, I mean." He could hear that he sounded angry, and he was, but he was also confused, and anguished. He dared a look at Sucre's face.

The man's eyebrows had risen nearly to his hairline. "Don't get pissed at me for this, man," he said cautiously, "but your brother isn't…like that, is he? I mean, I never got no vibes like that—"

Lincoln's fist rose before he could stop himself. Sucre ducked sideways. "No, man! I was just askin', please don't kill me!" he said, and then started off into another streak of Spanish.

Lincoln dropped his fist. "No, he's not," he said darkly. "You know he's got a thing for that doctor."

The Spanish tapered off. Lincoln watched Sucre swallow. "Si. He signed that note, love," Sucre said. "So T-Bag was lying, ese. That's all there is to it."

"That's what I thought," Lincoln said. "But T-Bag told me to watch his eyes. And he's right you know; Michael's eyes can't lie. He's never been able to. So I asked him, and I watched. And T-Bag…" Lincoln clenched his teeth together again. "Michael was lying. Not T-Bag."

Sucre's mouth dropped open. Lincoln nodded. '

"Yeah. So my question is, how did you miss it?"

"But I didn't miss it, man," Sucre said. "I know what it looks like, okay? The cellie I had before Michael? Was a kid, maybe nineteen or so. Pissed off Bellick something awful. Still not sure what the kid did, but whatever. And Bellick stuck him in with Avocado."

Lincoln winced.

"Yeah. I know what it looks like when someone's been turned out, ese. It didn't happen to Michael."

Lincoln took a step back from Sucre and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. If Michael hadn't been turned out in prison…

"It must have happened before, then," he whispered.

Sucre whispered something in Spanish, and crossed himself. Lincoln didn't know what he said, but he nodded anyway.

"Yeah."