Title: Missing Pieces
Characters: Michael Scofield, Haywire
Word Count: 2451
Rating: R
Summary: He thought it was all going to come along smoothly; it hadn't.
Author's Notes: First time I've done this much stream of consciousness ever. And it's the first piece I'm actually extremely satisfied with.
Beta: AlmostForgiven

Warnings: Spoilers for 0117 "J-Cat," language, insanity, and run-on sentences of doom.

Nine days
"Who are you?"

He thought it was all going to come along smoothly; it hadn't. He had counted on him knowing what was missing, knowing how to fill in the blanks.

He'd tried to recreate it—with strips from his sweatshirt and in his own blood on the wall—but it wasn't possible. He couldn't remember every pathway, every pipeline, every twist, turn, bend and slope.

And now the one person who could help him didn't even remember who he was.

It's the medicine, he decided. The medicine the medicine the medicine the medicine. And somehow he thought if he repeated it enough times, it would make it all true—because he didn't know anything for sure when it came to that man's current mental state. He didn't know he didn't know he didn't know and he needed to know now before it was too late and everything became for nothing.

He studied Haywire from nearby because there was nothing else to do besides that and think and he didn't want to think because if he thought he was sure he'd think about how he was fucked and Lincoln was fucked and they were all fucked and how he was riding everything on a schizo-affective with bipolar tendencies who suffered from a neural anatomic lesion affecting his reticular activating system which was really just a fancy term for insomniac but that didn't really matter because he knew Michael's tattoo and the plan was completely fucked unless he could somehow stimulate Haywire into remembering what he needed to know which was becoming less and less likely as the minutes passed and he continued studying and still not knowing what it was that had caused the amnesia and what he could do to fix it.

He didn't want to think about it.

So he didn't. He watched Haywire from afar and decided it had to the medication the doctors were giving him. It had to be it had to be it had to be and he kept repeating the words in his head, a desperate mantra because things were slowly crumbling away again and he didn't think he could bear the pain if Lincoln really died and all he'd sacrificed was in vain.

His missing toes were aching with phantom pain that he couldn't stop, couldn't control, because they weren't there anymore. He'd given them up to protect an innocent man and to help save another.

Sometimes he was sure it had all been just a bad dream because they really felt like they were and he was positive he was wiggling them but when he actually looked at the scarred stubs at the far end of his leg he knew it was just wishful thinking called phantom limb syndrome.

He crossed his legs slightly and ground the heel of his foot into the stubs so he had real pain to distract him rather than the taunting pain of digits past. But it didn't really hurt anymore because he knew the real pain wouldn't come until Lincoln was dead and it was all his fault because he couldn't save him when he had the chance.

Haywire's eyes were wide and staring around the room, as if the surroundings were unfamiliar to him even though he'd been here for who knows how long now and who knows how long before his short-lived transfer into GenPop. Michael wondered if maybe something inside Haywire's head had snapped and the amnesia was really permanent rather than temporary and easily broken by a keyword or sight or action.

And when Michael's eyes lit up because he'd found the answer, he smiled.

Eight Days
"Michael Scofield."

He wasn't sure how to go about doing it, because he was sure the doctors wouldn't think too kindly of him giving Haywire a striptease. He needed to find a time when he could get Haywire alone, but it was hard to find openings. When they weren't on constant watch in the socialization room, they were locked up in their cells.

So he rolled up his sleeves and lingered around Haywire as much as was humanly possible, ignoring the odd glares he received, and talked to him until he got fed up and snapped, yelling something about Michael being crazier than his last cell mate in GenPop and Michael wasn't sure quite how long Haywire had been locked up and how long he'd ever stayed in GenPop, but there was a small hope deep inside of him that Haywire was referring to Michael unknowingly because he couldn't pull forth the right memories or they were fragmented or something.

Not long after Haywire's outbursts the man would come over to where Michael had relocated himself and offer to play chess or cards or checkers or whatever game Michael wanted to play because Haywire hadn't really talked to anyone in a long time and was just frustrated at Michael's insistence to talk and talk and talk nonstop.

They played Euchre, even though it was only the two of them, until Michael set down his cards and told Haywire to stop stacking the deck.

Haywire was indignant and swore he wasn't so Michael shuffled the deck and began stacking as well.

It felt like hours had passed before one of the doctors called Michael over because it was time for him to get his insulin shot but in reality it had only been forty-four minutes.

As soon as Michael had left, Haywire shuffled the deck of cards and dealt them out to play Solitaire.

Seven days
"We used to be cell mates."

He only had one week left and he knew if he didn't act soon Lincoln was as good as dead because he still had so much he needed to do and so little time to do it in. He knew he was cutting it close but he was hoping it'd all work out in the end.

Haywire was more paranoid than usual today which had a way of meaning he was being more observant of his surroundings so Michael took the opportunity to expose as much of his tattoo as he possibly could while standing in Haywire's direct line of sight.

His sweatshirt came off and Haywire's eyes slowly traveled up his chest as his t-shirt beneath was pulled up with it. The brown eyes widened and Haywire was suddenly stepping forward, one hand slightly in front of him.

Michael watched and didn't flinch as Haywire's fingers ran down his arm, tracing the hidden lines indelibly marking him.

"Your tattoo . . . it's amazing." He looked up into Michael's eyes and Michael could almost see the cogs turning inside Haywire's head, could almost see everything falling into place, could almost see the memories washing in like a flood.

"Would you mind if I looked at the rest of it?"

Michael held back his smile and quickly stripped his t-shirt, nodding at Haywire's waiting fingers.

There was an assault of tracing, touching, feeling on his chest and arms before Haywire realized it was on the back too and followed a pathway around Michael's side until it ended near his left shoulder blade where there was a new path to follow which Haywire did diligently before it came to an abrupt stop.

He pulled at the bandage over Michael's right shoulder blade but Michael turned and stopped him.

"There's a piece missing," he intoned, bringing his t-shirt back over his head, "and I was wondering if you could help me."

Haywire stared at him for what seemed an eternity and Michael stared back, waiting for it all to rushing back.

He nearly thought that it wasn't, that it wasn't it wasn't it wasn't, but then it did and Michael was so shocked all he could do was gape as Haywire's demeanor changed and he lunged forward, pinning Michael to the wall.

"You have to tell me where it leads. I want to know where it leads."

Michael closed his mouth and swallowed before attempting a placid grin. "I need the missing piece first."

"You mean this?" And Haywire was reaching into his pocket when someone in white tackled him and another raced by to help the first.

Michael stared in disbelief as the attendants dragged a screaming Haywire off and didn't even think to wonder about why Haywire was carrying the missing piece around with him.

Six days
"But you don't remember, do you?"

He was losing it he was losing it he was losing it. Haywire wasn't back and no one would tell him when he would be.

He stared up at the roof of his cell and tapped his foot against the ground impatiently because he knew they were going to transfer him back soon because he'd been cleared for reentry into GenPop.

Everything was going to hell and he was dumbfounded as to what to do because there was no Plan C.

Five days
"Remember what?"

He played Solitaire and glanced up at the door every time he heard it open, hoping it was Haywire but it never was and he was starting to believe it never would be, that he'd threatened other prisoners one too many times and now he was on indefinite lock down.

He flipped over the top card of the deck and drummed his fingers on the table, waiting with a limited patience and limited time.

Four minutes and thirty-eight seconds later he shoved the cards away and began counting things in the room, analyzing everything, even though he'd already done it four times in the last hour and a half. But it gave him comfort in knowing that maybe something had changed and something was different which gave him reason to keep counting because if nothing was the same as it had been then he wouldn't know until he counted again and if he kept counting maybe it'd keep his mind off the failed plan and how there was absolutely nothing he could do now because he was fucked without Haywire and he didn't know when Haywire would be back, if he'd ever be back and if he didn't come back right now Lincoln was dead and he was dead because it was all going to hell and his life was ruined now anyway even if he did live past next week—

The door opened and Michael looked up, hardly even acknowledging that he'd been counting the fabric strands in his shirt before his heart lifted because it was Haywire stepping through the door this time and not some other inmate who had no idea their arrival was just another fracture in Michael's steadily cracking sanity.

When the guards flanking him left, Haywire made a beeline to Michael and sat down in the chair beside him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper that, to the unknowing, looked to be covered in random designs and patterns.

Michael stared at the blue ink incredulously because he couldn't believe it at all because it couldn't be real, it couldn't be it couldn't be it couldn't be—but it was because the solution to all of his problems was being held in front of his face by the man he never thought he'd be coming to for help.

"Where does it lead?" Haywire was hissing, his grip on the paper tightening as Michael reached out to touch it, to make sure it was real and he wasn't dreaming and that was really the missing piece.

Michael didn't want to answer but he knew he had to because there was no other way to get what he needed. So he lied.

"It doesn't lead anywhere—not technically anyway."

"Technically?" Haywire tilted his head. "I don't like technicalities."

"It's a map of a revolutionary underground railway that will—"

"Stop bullshitting me."

Michael was taken aback at Haywire's bluntness and realized that Haywire had snapped but not in the way one would expect of him.

"I want," he leaned across the table threateningly, holding the paper tauntingly in front of Michael's face, daring him to grab it even though he knew Michael was smarter than to, "to know," so he bared his teeth at him and began making a small tear at the top of the paper with his fingers, "where it leads," and the expression on Michael's face was a priceless form of sheer horror as the tear slowly grew in voracity.

"It leads," and Michael was suddenly thinking of Lincoln again and how it was all for him all for him all for him because everything Lincoln had done had been all for him all for him all for him and he loved him and if he just let him die after everything they'd been through and the silly reason Lincoln was in here, Michael knew he wouldn't be able to take it, "out," so he told the truth but even then Haywire still didn't think it was the truth and the tear grew another torturous millimeter.

"Out? Where?"

"Of here. Fox River. It leads out."

Haywire seemed to consider for a moment before he set the paper down on the table, his hand pressing on the top half possessively and in such a way that if Michael even tried to take it the dastardly thing would rip and the fun would be over.

"I want to know when."

And Michael was confused for a moment before he realized that maybe Haywire wanted to come along until he remembered Haywire's words to him when he'd mentioned escaping the last time and he knew he was fucked because Haywire would snitch as soon as he could and there was no way out now because he needed the missing piece or else it was all over.

But it was all going to be over anyway if he told him when.

So he lied.

"Two weeks from now."

And Haywire nodded because he had no reason not to believe him and slid the paper into Michael's grasp before standing and wandering over to the other side of the room.

And Michael couldn't believe what had just happened because all he could seem to grasp was that he had the missing piece and there was a chance now and even if things had been seemingly fucked before it was okay now, it was okay it was okay it was okay.

They were going to make it because he wouldn't have it any other way and there was no stopping him now.