The Wounded Lion: Prison Break Fic
Author: Bitterfig
Title: The Wounded Lion
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: T-Bag/Mahone
Summary: Set at the beginning of season 3. As Mahone goes through drug withdrawal he finds an unlikely (and unwelcome) source of comfort.
Beta-Reader: Fedink
Word Count: 994
Rating: R
Warnings: The Sona latrines, vomiting, sexual content, possible dubious consent.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any illegal acts taking place within that fiction are NOT condoned by the author. Depictions of any questionable, illegal, or potentially illegal activity in said fiction does not mean that I condone, promote, support, participate in, or approve of said activity. I grasp the distinction between fiction and reality and trust that readers will do the same.
The Wounded Lion
It was only on the second night in Sona that the drug withdrawal truly hit Mahone. He’d been shaky all day, though still more than capable of killing a man when he had to. That night however, his body turned against him, his insides twisting themselves into knots, his head splitting.
In the middle of the night, he managed to drag himself to the filthy latrine where he proceeded to vomit up what little food and water he’d managed to consume during the day. Afterwards he lay on the floor, racked by chills despite the Panamanian heat. Sweating and freezing at the same time, everything felt sharp, piercing. Not just his skin crawled but the lining of his mouth and nose, his eyes. He thought he might die but he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
He closed his eyes, let the nauseous darkness consume him. Minutes dragged by, maybe hours. Sometimes he almost slept.
Almost, but not so deeply that he was not awake and aware the moment he felt someone stroking his tangled hair. Even before he opened his eyes, he had whoever it was by the throat.
“Easy now, friend. I mean no harm. ” The intruder drawled.
“Bagwell?”
Opening his eyes he saw that it was indeed Bagwell. Theodore Bagwell aka T-Bag, murderer, rapist and all around psychopath was kneeling over him, tenderly stroking his hair. Mahone was so surprised that he released his death grip.
He was even more surprised when ever so cautiously Bagwell rested a hand on his cheek. Oddly, there was some comfort in it, it was warm, and it was human.
“Sick as I am you do know I could kill you ten different ways in less than five seconds,” Mahone pointed out, though he made no move to rebuff Bagwell.
“Oh I’m perfectly aware of your…. ahem… abilities. Particularly after that demonstration in the courtyard earlier today,” Bagwell said. “But I assure you I’m not here to fight.”
“Then why are you here?” Mahone asked.
“You might say I have a compulsion to do things that may not always be in my own best interest,” Bagwell said softly. “When I was growing up, my granddaddy used to have an orange tabby cat. It would lie on its side, sweet as pie, just inviting you to pet it but when you did, it would haul off and smack you one. That damned pussy cat bloodied me many a time, but I never stopped trying to pet him. You put me in mind of that cat, lying here like a wounded lion.”
“Funny, you strike me as the sort who would have cut off cats’ heads as a kid.”
“I was a perfectly behaved little boy.”
“Great.” Mahone muttered and half-rising leaned over and vomited bile next to Bagwell’s feet. He assumed this would put an end to both the conversation and the petting (or whatever it was). Again Bagwell surprised him. Instead of leaving in disgust he pulled out a blood stained handkerchief and wiped Mahone’s mouth.
“There now,” he whispered. “You come here.” He helped Mahone to his feet, guided him away from the vomit and the worst of the toilets. “Better, huh?”
“Yes.” Mahone lay down on the floor again. It almost amused him when Bagwell lay beside him, wrapping his arms close, nestling in against his back.
“One thing I miss from the loss of my hand is being able to touch, but I can still feel with the rest of my body…” Bagwell said.
“What do you want from me?”
“You seem to be in a world of hurt. I thought I might offer some creature comforts.”
“You know you can’t ingratiate yourself with me like you did with Lechero. I know what you are.”
“I’m well aware you do.”
“I’m not weak. Go find some young boy to prey on.”
“Shhh,” Bagwell’s breath was warm against his ear. “You just be still, let me take care of you.”
“You think I’m like you? You think we killers have to stick together? I’m nothing like you.” Bagwell’s good hand moved through his hair again. He seemed far away, lost in some delusion that he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, that he was still a perfectly behaved little boy. Mahone wanted to give in to his own delusions, pretend it was Pam holding him. He wanted to pretend that everything was going to be okay, pretend that he wasn’t going through drug withdrawals in a foreign prison, spooning with a murderer, almost welcoming Bagwell’s attentions because it was something, anything to keep his mind off the murders he’d committed and the black pit of hopelessness before him. Mahone wanted to pretend but he couldn’t, wouldn’t give himself that comfort.
When he’d been a boy and his father beat him Mahone had never just given in, taken it, let it go at that. He’d always managed to goad the old man on, and while it made things ten times worse for him at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he’d put up a fight.
Who was there to fight now but himself? The mistakes he’d made, the body that failed him. He couldn’t leave it at that.
“Is this about sex?” Mahone demanded. “With you all there isn’t anything but sex and survival. Is this about sex?”
“No need to make this into something ugly,” Bagwell said. There was just a hint of a plea in his voice.
“Shut up.”
Mahone reached back, sticking his hand down Bagwell’s pants. He wasn’t hard, but a few not so gentle yanks corrected that. Mahone proceeded to harshly jerk him off, feeling some sense of power as the other man grunted and thrashed beside him, finally coming in his hand.
It was fleeting rush of superiority and mastery, diminished by the way Bagwell continued to hold him like a lover through it all, to hold on to whatever dream of tenderness he was nurturing.
Title: The Wounded Lion
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: T-Bag/Mahone
Summary: Set at the beginning of season 3. As Mahone goes through drug withdrawal he finds an unlikely (and unwelcome) source of comfort.
Beta-Reader: Fedink
Word Count: 994
Rating: R
Warnings: The Sona latrines, vomiting, sexual content, possible dubious consent.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any illegal acts taking place within that fiction are NOT condoned by the author. Depictions of any questionable, illegal, or potentially illegal activity in said fiction does not mean that I condone, promote, support, participate in, or approve of said activity. I grasp the distinction between fiction and reality and trust that readers will do the same.
It was only on the second night in Sona that the drug withdrawal truly hit Mahone. He’d been shaky all day, though still more than capable of killing a man when he had to. That night however, his body turned against him, his insides twisting themselves into knots, his head splitting.
In the middle of the night, he managed to drag himself to the filthy latrine where he proceeded to vomit up what little food and water he’d managed to consume during the day. Afterwards he lay on the floor, racked by chills despite the Panamanian heat. Sweating and freezing at the same time, everything felt sharp, piercing. Not just his skin crawled but the lining of his mouth and nose, his eyes. He thought he might die but he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
He closed his eyes, let the nauseous darkness consume him. Minutes dragged by, maybe hours. Sometimes he almost slept.
Almost, but not so deeply that he was not awake and aware the moment he felt someone stroking his tangled hair. Even before he opened his eyes, he had whoever it was by the throat.
“Easy now, friend. I mean no harm. ” The intruder drawled.
“Bagwell?”
Opening his eyes he saw that it was indeed Bagwell. Theodore Bagwell aka T-Bag, murderer, rapist and all around psychopath was kneeling over him, tenderly stroking his hair. Mahone was so surprised that he released his death grip.
He was even more surprised when ever so cautiously Bagwell rested a hand on his cheek. Oddly, there was some comfort in it, it was warm, and it was human.
“Sick as I am you do know I could kill you ten different ways in less than five seconds,” Mahone pointed out, though he made no move to rebuff Bagwell.
“Oh I’m perfectly aware of your…. ahem… abilities. Particularly after that demonstration in the courtyard earlier today,” Bagwell said. “But I assure you I’m not here to fight.”
“Then why are you here?” Mahone asked.
“You might say I have a compulsion to do things that may not always be in my own best interest,” Bagwell said softly. “When I was growing up, my granddaddy used to have an orange tabby cat. It would lie on its side, sweet as pie, just inviting you to pet it but when you did, it would haul off and smack you one. That damned pussy cat bloodied me many a time, but I never stopped trying to pet him. You put me in mind of that cat, lying here like a wounded lion.”
“Funny, you strike me as the sort who would have cut off cats’ heads as a kid.”
“I was a perfectly behaved little boy.”
“Great.” Mahone muttered and half-rising leaned over and vomited bile next to Bagwell’s feet. He assumed this would put an end to both the conversation and the petting (or whatever it was). Again Bagwell surprised him. Instead of leaving in disgust he pulled out a blood stained handkerchief and wiped Mahone’s mouth.
“There now,” he whispered. “You come here.” He helped Mahone to his feet, guided him away from the vomit and the worst of the toilets. “Better, huh?”
“Yes.” Mahone lay down on the floor again. It almost amused him when Bagwell lay beside him, wrapping his arms close, nestling in against his back.
“One thing I miss from the loss of my hand is being able to touch, but I can still feel with the rest of my body…” Bagwell said.
“What do you want from me?”
“You seem to be in a world of hurt. I thought I might offer some creature comforts.”
“You know you can’t ingratiate yourself with me like you did with Lechero. I know what you are.”
“I’m well aware you do.”
“I’m not weak. Go find some young boy to prey on.”
“Shhh,” Bagwell’s breath was warm against his ear. “You just be still, let me take care of you.”
“You think I’m like you? You think we killers have to stick together? I’m nothing like you.” Bagwell’s good hand moved through his hair again. He seemed far away, lost in some delusion that he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, that he was still a perfectly behaved little boy. Mahone wanted to give in to his own delusions, pretend it was Pam holding him. He wanted to pretend that everything was going to be okay, pretend that he wasn’t going through drug withdrawals in a foreign prison, spooning with a murderer, almost welcoming Bagwell’s attentions because it was something, anything to keep his mind off the murders he’d committed and the black pit of hopelessness before him. Mahone wanted to pretend but he couldn’t, wouldn’t give himself that comfort.
When he’d been a boy and his father beat him Mahone had never just given in, taken it, let it go at that. He’d always managed to goad the old man on, and while it made things ten times worse for him at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he’d put up a fight.
Who was there to fight now but himself? The mistakes he’d made, the body that failed him. He couldn’t leave it at that.
“Is this about sex?” Mahone demanded. “With you all there isn’t anything but sex and survival. Is this about sex?”
“No need to make this into something ugly,” Bagwell said. There was just a hint of a plea in his voice.
“Shut up.”
Mahone reached back, sticking his hand down Bagwell’s pants. He wasn’t hard, but a few not so gentle yanks corrected that. Mahone proceeded to harshly jerk him off, feeling some sense of power as the other man grunted and thrashed beside him, finally coming in his hand.
It was fleeting rush of superiority and mastery, diminished by the way Bagwell continued to hold him like a lover through it all, to hold on to whatever dream of tenderness he was nurturing.