Disclaimer: I don't own Angel, Buffy: The Vampire Slayer, or Prison Break. Don't bother suing—we're broke.

Author's Note: Thanks to Imzadi (I don't know why you put up with me), -J, David Morris, and Rob for the reviews.

Timeline: Buffy / Angel—post-NFA (runs parallel to my other fic "Trinity"). Prison Break—drops in mid-"Cute Poison" and goes wildly AU after that.

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Lindsey: "Damn, girl, you gave up immortality for me. It's like something out of a fairy tale."
Eve: "We don't live in a fairy tale." –"Not Fade Away"

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"The number you have dialed as been disconnected. Please…"

Lindsey slammed the phone's receiver down before the electronic voice could finish its spiel and then picked it up again. He'd found a phone card amongst Fernando Sucre's things back in the cell and brought it out to the yard with him after the C.O.s (correctional officers…yet another shorthand term for "guards" that he had to remember) had led his still-bleeding roommate off to the infirmary. He'd gotten a chance to look at himself in the mirror to—to see the face he was now wearing. It was a face that matched the accent—Hispanic. Head shaved smooth but with heavy black eyebrows and a little triangular wedge of a beard right below his lower lip. This Sucre wasn't someone he'd have represented at Wolfram & Hart…Evil Lawyers, Inc. didn't usually didn't deal with ordinary criminals. Something about this new body of his reminded him of Angel's pal, that street kid named Gunn. Though, the last time Lindsey'd seen him, the kid had been wearing a suit and talking in legalese. Wolfram & Hart got to everyone eventually. Some small part of his brain wondered what kind of contracted they'd gotten Gunn into even as his fingers dialed the twenty or so numbers needed to connect using the phone card.

This was the fourth and final number he had. All the others had been disconnected. If she didn't pick up on this one, then he'd have to assume she was gone. "Gone" probably meant dead, and "dead" probably meant in Hell. He shut down that train of thought before it progressed much farther. His fingers twisted around the cord of phone.

Three rings…four. So far no annoying message telling him that the line was no longer working. His gut clenched. Surely the phone company wouldn't have reassigned the number, not this early, but he didn't know much about how they operated. Mucking with the utilities wasn't his style. If he was going to mess with an enemy, he preferred it to be one-on-one where he could look them in the eye. In that way, he sort of understood Angel's fascination with swords. There were very few weapons more personal than a blade. Some might have construed this to mean he had some kind of honor code that he adhered. Some days, he might even agree with them. Today might even be one of those days.

The phone picked up on the other end, turning his attention back to the matters at hand. "Hello?" The voice was feminine and reminded him of full smirking lips, soft brown hair, well-manicured hands placed on slender hips, and the clack of high heels on a hard wood floor.

"Eve."

There was the sound of plastic against cloth as she shifted the phone into a better position. "Who is this?"

"It's…" He started to say "It's me, Lindsey", but suddenly he was very aware of the man waiting impatiently behind him for the phone, of the other prisoners milling around the yard, of the bulls walking the perimeter with their weapons. Here, he wasn't Lindsey McDonald, he was Fernando Sucre. That was the deal he'd made with the Powers and with the Oracle. "It's the man you gave up your immortality for," he said, settling for that.

There was a hiss. It reminded him a little of a spitting house cat, but he knew it was just the noise she made when something genuinely surprised her. It was cute, how cat-like she could be. With some women, such habits would be coy—a trick to lure men in—but Eve did it without thinking. She was the creation of Wolfram & Hart, their rebellious daughter. She'd inherited some of their predatory nature, though they'd bundled it up in a deceptively tiny, feisty package. "Lindsey? Lindsey, where the hell are you?"

"Yeah, it's me," he said, leaning into the phone, cradling it in both hands against his neck and ear. "I'm in Joliet, Illinois. The Fox River Penitentiary."

She laughed. It was a short bark of a sound. He remembered that laugh all too well—Eve only used it when she was talking about work, about Wolfram & Hart. She had never used that laugh or the voice that when with it when she was talking about him…them. "You rush off to fight the good fight or whatever it was you did with Angel, then you disappear for weeks and my sources tell me you're dead, and now you turn up half way across the country working on the Lincoln Burrows case. Am I going to get an explanation?"

The harshness of her tone shocked him so much he almost dropped the phone. In fumbling it, he succeeded in hitting his head on the side of the small booth that surrounded the phone, giving the user a bit of privacy and a tiny shelf on which to put a scrap of paper. The man behind him in line snickered. All the little hairs on the back of Lindsey's neck stood up. He'd been so wrapped up in Eve's voice that he'd forgotten where he was. Dangerous…and stupid. "Lincoln Burrows?"

"Don't try to play me, Lindsey. Remember way back when Lorne did his little reading on me and told me my future would be shit?"

Her voice was openly hostile now. He swallowed. "Yeah…"

"Guess what—it was." Then she slammed the phone down with such finality that it made his ear ring.

He lowered the receiver, looking at it in disbelief. The silver cross on its chain around his wrist clinked against the little shelf as the dial tone whined faintly at him. "Eve…"

"Hey, would you hurry it up already? My Aunt Ruth's waiting for me to call," the man behind him snarled.

Lindsey's body was moving before his mind even had a chance to process what was going on. All he could think about was the sound of her hanging up. His fist, on the other hand, came flying out around—the cord holding the receiver to the rest of the phone snapping—and connected with the other man's face with a meaty smack. Then, all hell broke loose.