Disclaimer: I do not own anything in relation to Prison Break (though Wentworth is welcome to come live in my basement) and do not make any profit from anything. Damn.
Rating: For now it's only rated T (by the dumbest rating system in the history of the world. I mean, really. I suppose T stands for 'Teen' or something, but I still prefer PG-13.) The rating may be upped for later chapters.
Hanging On
Michael awoke with a frightening start in the shadows of his cell and sat up in bed. He was drenched in a cold sweat that permeated his prison attire, and he began to thrash and fight his way out of the sheets that had wound themselves around his middle during his brief sleep. Despite the sickening shakiness of his limbs, he reached out to steady himself with the freezing iron bars of his bunk and noted his rapidly quickening heartbeat in sync with his racing pulse.
Gasping as the cell began to drift in and out of his clouded vision, he shook his head violently and clenched his fingers into his hand, puncturing the fragile skin with his fingernails. The face of his dead brother strapped mercilessly into an electric chair wavered into view and, squeezing his eyes shut, he fought not to turn and vomit. As the quaking continued, Michael became increasingly panicked and realized that should he need it, no one was there to help him.
"Lincoln," he hissed into the silence, calling out for his brother. When no one answered, he called out again, this time louder and increasingly more desperate. The cold concrete swallowed up the sound, and Michael once again returned to the inevitable captivity of feeling totally alone. Suddenly, a sound pervaded the thick quiet that lay like a blanket over his mind. Fighting to decipher it through his trance, Michael finally placed the noise: Sucre. His cellmate was snoring loudly above his head, no doubt enjoying the respite of a moment of silence.
"Sucre!" Michel stood precariously and shook the man heedlessly. "Sucre," he whispered again, and his comrade shifted in his sleep. Grabbing the sleeping convict's arm for stability, Michael pushed him with wavering strength.
Sucre shot up in bed, knocking a temporarily weakened Michael back to fall on the floor and took a quick visual reconnaissance of the cell, eyes immediately falling on where the hole would be. Seeing that the toilet was still in place blocking their escape hatch, he finally traced his vision to where Michael was crumpled on the floor.
"Fish?" Sucre asked, clearly confused. When he received no response, he untangled himself from the bedding and swung over the edge to reach his cellmate.
"Fish, what the hell us going on?"
His voice wavering, Michael lifted his head and pointed out the bars of the cell towards C.O. Bellick who was on duty. "I need a doctor," he stated with convincing assurance for someone in his position.
Nodding his understanding, Sucre approached the cell door and yelled louder than was really necessary. "Hey!"
The C.O.'s head snapped up to the second floor towards the disturbance. Removing his baton clipped to the side of his belt, he jogged up the stairs towards the deviant prisoner.
"Hey you," Sucre yelled again. "Fish needs some help up here. He needs a doctor."
Ignoring his protests, Bellick approached Michael from outside of the cell and jabbed him with the club. "Get up," he ordered.
"I need a doctor," Michael repeated, lifting his shaking form from the cold concrete and eyeing Sucre thankfully.
Sizing up Michael's shuddering form and pallid complexion, the C.O. radioed for the cell door to be opened and dragged the sick man out by the back of his neck.
"You'd better not be playing me Scofield," Bellick warned. "Because you know what happens when you fuck around," he clarified and ground a boot heel into Michael's injured foot as a reminder. Sucre's eyes widened at the deliberate action, and the guard pushed the pale criminal farther down the hall, and out of sight as the cell door closed behind him.
Gasping in pain, Michael's convulsions intensified and his eyes glazed over. Bellick appeared to be convinced because his eyes widened at the reaction and he pulled Scofield out of his cell and down the stairs; the C.O. wouldn't be stupid enough to let a prisoner be hurt on his watch, and with a viable witness. That damn woman doctor was already harbouring suspicions that he was being abused, and damned if he would let a little slip-up ruin his plans for the prisoner.
Towing the injured man behind him, Bellick approached the infirmary at an unnecessary speed, anxious to get Scofield off of his hands. It was late, but not late enough that the staff had all left, and a fluorescent light shone out from the office of Doctor Sara Tancredi.
Delirious, Michael stumbled and grasped at the walls for support. He felt as if someone had drained him of all of his strength. His limbs were becoming heavy and the fuzziness of his vision was increasing. Clasping his hands together he blinked and his voice quavered.
"Doctor," he whispered desperately.
"Shut up, crook."
Bellick thumped his hand on the thick glass, startling Sara into turning around and shooting him an icy glare. When he hauled his prisoner into her view, something in her face changed, and she rushed to open the door, ignoring the sickening feeling beginning to coil heatedly in the pit of her stomach.
"Michael," she gasped. At Bellick's expression, she cleared her throat and corrected herself. "Michael Scofield. He's a diabetic. What happened here?" The accusation in her voice was evident, and garnered her a defensive look from the corrupt C.O.
"This is how I found him in his cell."
Suspect of his motives, Sara dismissed him saying: "He definitely won't be giving me any trouble tonight. You're free to leave."
All too glad to get rid of Scofield, Bellick let go of the man and watched with a sick satisfaction as he staggered towards the hospital bed and reached out for anything to steady himself. Striding out of the room quickly, the C.O. patted the baton at his side and commented. "You know where to reach me if he gets restless," he chuckled and smirked grimly at the doctor.
Ignoring his cruel statement, Sara busied herself with treating Michael. His skin was a cold tone of grey and he had a quiver that he didn't seem to be able to control. Reaching for his wrist, she checked his pulse and found it to be irregular, just as he had observed earlier. He was sweating through his clothes, and seemed to be in a state of delirium.
"Michael," she began, her voice high and only slightly panicked. "I need you to talk to me. Do you have a headache?"
"Help me, Sara." His head was pounding, but he didn't want to tell her how badly he was frightened and hurting. "I need your help." She was blurry in his line of sight, and he reached out to touch her face, making sure that she was real.
"I can help you, Michael. But I need you to tell me what is wrong. Do you have a headache?" she asked again, this time slower and more deliberate.
He nodded tiredly, feeling drained. Closing his eyes and starting to drift out of consciousness, he fought back the impending fog in his mind, and was dragged back to reality when he felt someone's hand on his arm tugging him forwards and Sara's voice in the back of his mind telling him what do.
"Michael, you're having a hypoglycemic episode. I need you to take this." She held out a white circular pill to him with a glass of water.
Taking it numbly, the last thing he remembered was swallowing the pill and falling heavily backwards onto the softness of the pristine hospital bed with Sara's face hovering in his view.
A/N: Well then. This should be chapter thing if I get my act together and stop whining about my homework. I apologize for the name of the story. I ended up sitting there with a blank stare for about five minutes trying to figure out what to name it and the best I could come up with was "Hanging On". Not fantastic, but maybe I'll rethink it later. This is a Michael/Sara romance, because I am in fact a M/S shipper. I know that there wasn't much chemistry in this chapter, but be patient, it's only the prologue. Thanks for reading.