Title: That I Must Love a Loathed Enemy
Character/Pairing: T-Bag
Prompt: #071. Broken
Rating: PG-13, slightly disturbing themes and a swear or two.
Summary: He'd always hated Shakespeare.
Author's Notes: One down, ninety-nine to go. Tweener hatin' and repeated use of "milk chicken" abound.
Disclaimer: You think if I owned Prison Break I'd be writing fanfiction? Well, s'not mine. The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet isn't mine either. All I own is this laptop that I do my writing on. -Also posted on the Prison Break 100 Livejournal community-

My only love, sprung from my only hate.

He watched the confused little milk chicken walk from one side of the yard to the other before dejectedly leaning against the fence. A black inmate meandered by and the little milk chicken tried to strike up a conversation. The inmate whirled around and yelled; the milk chicken held up his hands in defeat.

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

He had spunk; that was for sure, but he was cracking near the edges. His pants no longer hung so low, his boxers hardly visible. The meager raps that had plagued gen pop were heard less and less. A-Wing remained quiet at night.

Prodigious birth of love it is to me.

He was off-limits. Pretty had made that clear.

T-Bag's knee twinged with a phantom pain. His fingers curled around the bruised joint until his knuckles turned white.

The milk chicken glanced in T-Bag's direction. T-Bag's lips quivered as he fought a smirk. The milk chicken did all the smirking for him.

"Oh, Tweener . . . I'm comin' for ya." The milk chicken thought he had discouraged T-Bag, beat him, overpowered him.

And the silly little milk chicken was sorely wrong. T-Bag would get him—he'd get him good.

He'd teach the confused boy a thing or two—

—T-Bag scanned the yard for Pretty and the rest of the motley crew—

—and wipe that smug look right off his face.

T-Bag grinned to himself and pulled his baseball cap off, gripping it in one hand while running his fingers through his hair with the other.

That I must love a loathed enemy.

There was no such thing as love.

Just lust. Sinful lust.

And T-Bag was lusting after that silly little milk chicken. He'd do it slow, let him bleed. He'd put the Gutter to good use. He'd stare him straight in the eyes and search for the broken defeat he knew was there as the milk chicken scrambled to hold his guts in.

Tweener was breaking, slowly cracking under all the pressure. He'd heard the boy crying at night in his cell.

T-Bag would make sure the boy cried his heart out. He'd break his spirit into tiny pieces and grind the pieces into dust until all that remained was a broken man waiting for a death that may or may not come.

"Wrap somethin' 'round your stomach, boy, to hold your guts in while I fuck ya," he could hear himself saying with a self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face.

The C.O.'s would come around at some point, but T-Bag would be gone by then, gone to leave the broken silly little milk chicken wallowing in his own sorrow, drowning in his own blood.

The day was a comin' and it was a comin' soon. . . .

My only love, sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy.

T-Bag growled as the words spun circles in his head. "Fucking Shakespeare," he muttered as he stood and jumped to the ground.

Lust, not love, that's what was wrong with the words Shakespeare had written.

He'd always hated Shakespeare.