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serafina20Fic: Sona
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Michael/Mahone
Summary: Michael and Mahone form an alliance in the hell known as Sona.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24, Part 25, Part 26, Part 27, Part 28, Part 29, Part 30, Part 31, Part 32, Part 33, Part 34, Part 35, Part 36, Part 37
Alex woke with at the breakfast bell. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, watching as the morning rush of cons stumbled their way through the hall. Then, he yawned and lay back down. He spooned up behind Michael and pressed his face against the back of his neck.
Michael was still burning up. His breathing was rapid, shallow and pulse had increased again.
With a soft groan, Alex pulled away. He stumbled around the cell until he found the bucket of water he'd used for Michael's sponge bath. Dipped a tee shirt in it, and came back to the bed. He wiped Michael's face with it before draping the wet shirt over him. Then, exhausted from everything, Alex lay back down and closed his eyes.
The next thing he knew, a loud alarm unlike anything he'd heard since arriving was blaring. Men were shouting, running through the halls.
Tony was on his feet in one movement. Eyes wide, panicked breathing.
"What is it?" Alex asked, shouting to be heard over the noise.
"Count! They come in with guns. Clear us all out. Into the yard. Fast!"
The ancient sound system crackled. A stern voice shouted something in Spanish over it, fading in and out.
Tony pointed at the ceiling. "They say two minutes." He looked down at Michael. "He not even awake."
"How bad is it if we don't get out?"
"Bad. They beat you and drag you out. Make example."
Of course. Dammit.
"Come on. You'll have to help me get him out." Alex went over to Michael. Shook him. "Michael. Babe, wake up."
Michael moaned softly. Squeezed his eyes shut tight, rubbing them and then scrubbing at his face. "What's that noise?" he asked, wincing as the light hit his eyes.
"Alarm. We need to go out the yard for count."
"Count? Since when do they do count?" His face scrunched up as Tony and Alex helped him to his feet. He leaned heavily against Alex, looking exhausted.
"Since today. Come on."
"They do it when need us all in one place," Tony said, trying to help support Michael. He was a little too short and a little too thin to do much good. "Not often, just sometime. Riots, too many fights."
"What prompted it now?"
Tony just shrugged.
They moved slowly. Michael was clearly trying his best, but he'd barely moved in over a day. He was stiff and sore and tired. Just walking was exhausting him.
By the time they were halfway down the cell block, it was completely devoid of people. They were the last ones, and Alex really hoped they made it out in time. He wrapped his arm around Michael tighter. Dragged him faster, forcing Michael to move, push through the exhaustion and just get out there.
"Tony," Alex said. "Go ahead of us. Don't…"
"We almost there," Tony snapped back. He was moving fast, pulling Michael along.
"I don't want…"
"I not leave." His face screwed up and he gripped Michael tighter.
"Sorry," Michael gasped. "I shouldn't…"
"Don't," Alex snapped. "We don't have time for you to fall over yourself apologizing for being sick."
"Right."
One turn. Down the hall. A right. And there it was. A few more steps and they emerged from the dimness of the cell block to the blinding light of the day.
They were all out there. Kneeling in the dirt in ragged rows, hands behind their head. Raoul and Arturo, T-Bag and Luis and Santos and … everyone. Around them were guards, assault rifles at the ready, pacing the rows and glaring.
Raoul was near the end of the row they were closest to. He looked awful. He had the same pale, glassy-eyed look Michael had been sporting. He was awake, but looked confused. He was coughing, too, and looked miserable.
Well. Now they knew where Michael had gotten it.
"You! Gringos! Here," one of them shouted, pointing at the ground.
Michael managed to muster up some strength, because, suddenly, he wasn't leaning on Alex quite so much. They made the last few feet. Alex tried to help Michael down, but he just dropped. Winced as his knees cracked against the hard packed dirt.
Alex and Tony exchanged looks before taking position on either side of Michael. They both assumed the correct position. Michael looked like he was wilting. He shivered violently under the sun, hands on his neck, arms drooping at his sides. His eyes were narrow slits and sweat beaded on his pasty pale forehead.
One of the guards turned his head and shouted to someone. A moment later, a man walked over. Slow, measured steps of boots in the dust. Boots that led up to military fatigues and then to a weathered face. A bald head surrounded by grizzled grey hair. Narrowed eyes with deep wrinkles around.
The warden. It seemed like years since he'd processed their paperwork. He looked down at them with a sort of frustration on his face.
"So," he said. "You are the one who is causing all this problems."
Michael's head lolled to one side, and he squinted up at the man. "Sorry," he rasped.
The man's lips twitched. He shook his head. "First, you disrupt order by coming in, fighting. Killing. We separate you from your lover. Then, you become valuable property men fight over, and find him again." He kicked dirt in Alex's direction. "Now? The American Embassy is knocking on our door. Civil rights groups are flying in from out of country, ready for a fight. All because of one sick little gringo."
Alex clenched his teeth, trying to restrain himself from lunging at the man. Rage bubbled beneath the surface, and he wanted nothing more than to wring this man's neck. He allowed his prison to run like this, to hand out food that was barely edible, to encourage an atmosphere of violence and stress, and then, when someone got seriously ill, blamed them?
The man glanced at his guards. "Bring him and the two others. Anyone else showing sickness will be quarantined on the upper level until we know what it is. Set up a sick room."
"Si, Senor," one said. He turned to the rest and shouted orders.
A couple of the larger guards came over and pulled Michael to his feet. Alex winced in sympathy as Michael's face screwed up, teeth sinking into his lower lip. He moved towards them, but was stopped by a rifle shoved into his face.
"On your feet," the man behind the rifle barked.
He rose, eyes on the rifle. Submitted to being cuffed, then shoved. He stumbled, but quickly got his footing.
They made their way to the front gate, then out into No Man's Land. They shuffled across the dry dirt, kicking up clouds of dust.
The march to the guard's office was interminable. It was early, but the sun was already blazing through thick, humid air. Sweat stood out on Alex's skin and refused to evaporate. The cuffs bit at his wrists, but he barely noticed for the hard knot of anxiety in his stomach.
Years seemed to pass before they stepped inside the slightly cooler air of the guard building. Fans decorated every surface, whirling furiously. The air smelled like dust, bleach, coffee, and just the faintest whiff of shit. The complete opposite of the prison.
They were led to a small room with no windows. The air inside was stale, but cool. There were a few chairs, a table, and a cot with a bare mattress. Michael was tossed onto the cot while Alex and Tony given the chairs.
As soon as he was lying down, Michael rolled onto his side. Pulled his legs to his body and squeezed his eyes shut. Beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and Alex was worried that this was going to set him back in whatever recovery he may have been making.
The man in charge stood over the cot. He glanced at a guard and barked something in Spanish. The guard nodded, saluted, and left.
"I never caught your name before," Alex said.
"My name is General Zavala. I am in charge of this prison."
"Really? Well, bang-up job you're doing."
The general smiled thinly. "You have a problem with the way the prison is run? Perhaps you and your American friends who've been causing so much trouble can get funding to run the prison to your satisfaction."
Alex rolled his eyes. "I want to make sure my friend's okay." He started rising to his feet.
All the rifles in the room were suddenly trained on him.
He froze. Looked at the General.
The other man studied him a moment, then nodded. "At ease," he told his men.
The rifles lowered.
Alex went to the bed. His hands were cuffed in front of him, which was inconvenient in that it gave him limited movement, but it was better than having his hands behind him. He knelt down next to the cot and put his hand on Michael's shoulder.
"Hey. You all right?"
Michael opened his eyes a crack. "Fine. My eyes hurt."
"Is it your eyes or your head?"
"I don't know anymore." He closed his eyes again.
The door opened. Alex looked up to see Sara walk in. She was carrying a suitcase in one hand and a sports bag in the other. With her was a man who just screamed "government lackey" and Alex assumed he was from the embassy. He was carrying a bag as well. They were surrounded by guards, guns out, and both had a pinched expression on their faces.
Sara met Alex's eyes and gave him a small smile. Her face was pale and there were bags under her eyes. Apparently, she'd gotten just as much sleep as he had.
"Hi, Alex," she said, setting the sports bag on the end of the cot. Her voice was calm, soothing, as if they weren't surrounded by armed guards. Of course, she was probably used to it.
"Hi, Sara. Thanks for coming."
Her smile deepened and she nodded. "This is Simon Caldwell. He works at the American Embassy and was able to negotiate with the General here."
"Mr. Caldwell," Alex said with a nod.
He received a nod back before Caldwell began speaking quietly to Zavala.
Sara pulled an empty chair to the opposite side of the cot. Pulled the sport's bag nearer to her. "Hey, Michael. How are you feeling this morning?" She touched him gently on the arm before turning her attention to the bag, unzipping it and pulling things out.
Michael rolled onto his back. "Why are you here?"
"Because you need a doctor and there isn't one available to the prison. Not like you need. General Zavala was generous enough to let me come in and check you out." She pulled a thermometer from the bag and slipped a cover over it. "Open up."
Michael squinched his face, but accepted the thermometer.
Sara reached out and put her hand on Michael's cheek. "Jesus. You really are hot."
"Mmmphmmm."
"Don't talk." She reached back into her bag. This time she produced a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. "Have you been coughing anything up?" she asked as she put the cuff around Michael's arm.
He shook his head.
"Alex said you were coughing, though. So it's just a dry cough?"
He nodded.
"Vomiting, diarrhea?"
Another negative shake.
She place the stethoscope at the crook of Michael's elbow and began pumping. "How about your stomach. Does it hurt at all?"
This got a nod.
"Sharp pain?"
No.
"Kind of dull and persistent?"
Yes.
She nodded and made a noise in her throat. Checked the gage on the cuff and shook her head. "Your blood pressure is high, but it's always a little high with you. But your pulse is racing, too. Michael, you need to calm down." She smiled at him and stroked his head. "Just relax, okay? I know you're not happy that I'm here, but it's where I want to be. As your doctor. I'm not expecting or asking anything else from you. Do you understand?"
Michael closed his eyes and nodded.
"All right, then. Just take some slow, deep breaths. Relax." She demonstrated, squeezing his hand.
Michael opened his eyes again. They skittered from her to Alex.
Alex tilted his head and followed Sara's example. The deep breaths calmed him as well. Across the room, he could see Tony doing the same.
"Much better," Sara said. "Just breathe, Michael. Relax. There's nothing to get yourself all worked up about." She pulled the thermometer out.
Michael coughed dryly. "You might feel differently if you were in there."
She stroked his head. "Maybe. But you have to remember not to take everything so personally. To block some of it out." She looked at the thermometer. "Jesus," she swore under her breath. "General, I need a bucket of water, preferably with ice, and a few cloths. And a fan if possible."
Zavala gestured to three of his men. They saluted and left.
"Sit up, Michael. We need to get your clothes off."
He covered his face and rolled away. "Please, don't."
"You have a hundred and three fever. We need to cool you down," Sara said, her voice calm and even. She had her hands under his shirt and tugged upwards. "Can you sit up?"
Michael tried to push himself up, but it was clear he was too shaky.
Alex slid behind him and helped to support him. "You cooperate with everything she says," Alex whispered in Michael's ear. "You got that?"
He squeezed his eyes, but nods.
"Good." Alex kissed Michael's temple, then helped him remove his shirt. "You know, he's probably dehydrated. He's been sleeping so much, I haven't been able to get a whole lot of water into him."
She was looking at him with curiosity blended with amusement and a tinge of sadness. At his words, though, she kind of shakes herself. "Right. I am… I brought water and Gatorade for all of you. It's in the suitcase. Can you… Okay, look." She tossed Michael's shirt on the end of the bed and turned to the general. "You need to uncuff Alex. Michael is comfortable around him. I need his help. And I need all your men outside."
"These men are dangerous criminals," Zavala said.
"One of these men has a dangerously high fever. The other is an FBI agent. He's not going to do anything." She looked at Alex.
He shook his head. "My main concern is Michael," he said. "I swear, I'm not going to do anything."
The general considered, head tilted to one side. After a moment, he nodded.
A guard came forward. Unlocked the cuffs on Alex's wrists. As he rubbed them, he said, "What about Tony?" When Zavala just raised an eyebrow, he said, "He's sixteen years old."
Zavala rolled his eyes, but waved his hand. After the cuffs came off Tony, he said, "Anything else?"
Sara shook her head. "That's good for now." She looked back at Caldwell. "Can you start unpacking the food? I'm not sure if Michael can eat, but Tony and Alex look like they're starving."
Alex gave her a half smile. "You thought of everything, didn't you?"
"I tried." She picked the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope up. "Alex. I think Michael would be more comfortable if you finished undressing him. Just to his underwear."
"All right."
"Thanks." She turned and went to Tony, sinking down onto the chair next to him. "Hey, Tony. I'm Sara."
A furious blush raced up his cheeks. "Hello," he whispered.
Sara smiled. Pulled the thermometer from her pocket and slipped a new cover on it. "I just want to take your temperature and stuff. Make sure you're okay."
"Okay."
Alex turned back to Michael, who had fallen into a doze. He touched the sleeping man's cheek.
Michael started. Opened his eyes.
"Hey. You hanging in there?"
Michael licked his lips, which were cracked and dry. "Yeah. Just… this is kind of like a nightmare. Sort of."
"It could be worse. She could be your wife."
He laughed, but it dissolved into a flurry of harsh coughs. Alex stroked his back and looked back at the embassy man, who was pulling food and drink from the bag.
"Can you hand me one of the Gatorades?" he asked.
"Huh? Oh, yeah." He passed a red liquid filled bottle. "You're the FBI agent, right? There was an agent calling about you the other day. Said he might fly down."
"Did he leave his name?"
"Um… Sully or Sullins or something?"
His stomach twisted. "Sullins. Great." He turned back to Michael and helped him drink some of the sport's drink. "Let's get your pants off."
Michael lifted his hips and wiggled slightly. A blush stained his cheeks, but his mouth was downturn. Embarrassment at the situation rather than any kind of pleasure or anticipation. Alex promised himself that as soon as Michael is feeling better, he'll put that blush there honestly. Or whatever it's called when one screws someone into a beaming blush like he had before.
The door opened. Guards come in lugging a huge tub of water. Small pieces of ice floated on the top, sloshing over as they set it down.
"Gracias," Zavala said. "Now you can go outside."
"That's a lot bigger than I thought it would be," Sara said. She had her stethoscope around her neck and was standing next to Tony. One hand was on his bony shoulder as he chugged a bottle of Gatorade. The other hand held a foil wrapped something. "You know what? I think he can fit in that."
Alex eyed it, then eyed Michael. "Maybe. It'll be a tight fit."
"The more we can wet him down, the faster he'll cool," she pointed out. She handed the sandwich to Tony and went to the bed. "Michael? Come on. Let's get you in."
He groaned slightly, but sat up. When he got to his feet, he swayed, so Alex crawled over the cot to steady him.
"When was the last time you ate?" Sara asked as she and Alex helped Michael into the water.
From the way Michael hissed, shivers wracking his body, Alex guessed that the water was actually cold. He stuck his hand inside and shivered himself; not exactly ice cold, but cold enough to tingle. To Michael, it must be freezing.
Michael rubbed his face, clearing a streak of dirt and sweat across his forehead. "Um. I think I ate something this morning."
"He had some… food last night. Not a lot." It hadn't been a lot, although it'd been healthier than whatever they served in the so-called mess hall. However, it wouldn't be prudent to let the General know about their stash of rations, so he had to be vague.
"Are you feeling hungry?"
"Maybe. I don't know. I just feel weak and tired."
"It could be hunger. It could be the fever."
"I could be dying."
Alex pinched Michael's arm. "Stop that." He fished a cloth from the tub and began squeezing water over Michael's back and head.
Sara came over to the tub carrying a small plastic container and a spoon. "I didn't want to bring anything hot, because Alex said you were running a fever. Simon recommended this cucumber soup, which is cold. I had some last night. It's really good." She sat on the chair in front of Michael. Dipped the spoon into the soup.
"It's one of my favorite dishes," Caldwell said. He was standing across the room, next to the General, pressed against the wall. He looked everywhere but Michael when he spoke.
Alex snorted and rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure if Caldwell's discomfort stemmed from homophobia or what, but it wasn't helping the situation any. Michael could see him from the tub and was reacting to Caldwell's embarrassment by becoming embarrassed himself. His shoulders tightened and he kept hunching over.
"I can feed myself," Michael said, resting his chin on his knees.
"Doubt that," Sara replied calmly. "Your hands are shaking. Maybe after you've eaten some." She held the spoon out to Michael, offering the soup.
"Hey, Caldwell. Why don’t you go see where that fan is or something," Alex suggested.
"Oh, sure. Um, General?"
Zavala shook his head. "I told my men to bring it. It is on its way."
Caldwell visibly deflated at that news.
This seemed to clue Zavala in. Surprisingly, he shrugged and said, "But, Mr. Caldwell is welcome to look." He moved to the door and opened it.
"I'll be right back," Caldwell promised, practically fleeing the room.
Alex met Sara's eyes and rolled his own. He got a nod and a half-smile in return.
"You seem oddly unconcerned about the chances of an epidemic going through your prison," Sara remarked as she continued to feed Michael.
Zavala shrugged. "Every few months some sickness or another goes around the prison. Sometimes, prisoners die. Sometimes, a lot of prisoners die. The government doesn't really care. This is where they send the criminals who will never be released anyway."
Sara's cheeks turned red. Her eyes flared. "That is a sixteen year old boy. What could he have possibly done to earn him a life sentence?"
He gave another shrug. "Not having connections." He looked at Tony, head tilting to one side. Said something in Spanish.
Tony swallowed a huge bite of the empanada he was eating. Ducked his head as he said, "Robé algún dinero. Y un coche."
His eyes narrowed. "¿Cómo te llamas?"
"Tony. Anthony Morales Cruz."
Zavala nodded. "I'll leave you to your healing, Doctor, if you trust these men."
Sara looked surprised. She nodded. "I'll be fine."
"Knock on the door if you need anything. The fan will be here shortly." With that, he left, closing and locking the door behind him.
"Well, that was unexpected. What did he ask you?" Sara asked Tony.
He shrugged and came across the room, sitting gingerly on the cot. "What I in for."
"He doesn't know?"
"I never seen him before."
"What about when you were processed?" Alex asked. He rewet the cloth and draped it on Michael's neck. The smell of the food was beginning to make his head spin. It'd been awhile since he'd eaten, so he went to the bag with the food and dug something out. He just grabbed the first object he found and unwrapped it. He was almost finished with it before the taste hit him: meat and vegetables, all fresh and sprinkled with some kind of spices. It was delicious.
"I not processed. They bring me in and that is all," Tony said. He slid off the cot, took the cloth from Michael's neck, and began squeezing water over his chest.
"Where's Lincoln?" Michael asked. He took the spoon from Sara and began feeding himself.
"He's at the hotel. We got his paperwork cleared up, but it didn't seem prudent to bring him to the prison. Besides, he needs rest. He hasn't been sleeping well."
"Poor baby," Alex drawled.
"I'm sorry, Alex, would you rather he be here? In a prison with his sick baby brother, a warden who is content to let Michael die because that's what happens here, and, let's not forget, in a small interrogation room with the man who killed his father and is currently sleeping with aforementioned baby brother," she said acidly.
During her tirade, Alex could feel his face heat. The food he was eating turned to a soggy lump in his stomach and he could no longer meet her eyes. "Um. No, I guess… I guess it's better he's not here." He rubbed his hands together. Reached for Michael's bottle of Gatorade and rolled it in his hand. "Sorry."
She closed her eyes and let out a slow breath. "Me, too."
There was an awkward silence. Michael's head was bowed, cheek resting on his knee, facing away from them. He was still shivering and goose bumps had broken all up and down his skin.
Alex cleared his throat. "Do you think you should take his temperature again?"
"Maybe in a few minutes. Not right after he eats. Michael, why don't you drink some more?"
Michael sat up. Took the Gatorade from Alex and finished it off. "Has he heard from LJ?"
"Um, yeah. He talked to him the other night. They're discussing whether or not LJ should come down with the woman who's looking out for him."
"And the Company?" Alex asked.
She shrugged. "We haven't heard from them. Not since…" The rest of the sentence died on her lips, but the words, "the day Bill Kim died" hung in the air.
"Not like there's much we can do anymore," Michael said. "Rotting in this hellhole."
"True. Although Lincoln did talk to that Sullins guy Caldwell was talking about. They're trying to mount a case against the Company and asked for whatever information Lincoln had on them. They'll probably want to talk to the two of you."
Alex shook his head. "That's just… great," he said.
Michael shifted in the tub. Moved a few inches until he could lower his head and rest against Alex's knee.
He reached out and stroked Michael's head. Felt the wet locks and reminded himself for the millionth time that they needed to cut it. Ran his hand down Michael's neck. For the first time in two days, he felt… well. Not cool, but he wasn't burning up anymore.
"Keep doing what you're doing in your free time," Sara said. She set the empty soup tub aside. Got the blood pressure cuff from the cot and wrapped it around Michael's arm. "I think that, ultimately, it's better for you to do something that feels productive. That gives you hope." She said you, but Alex heard the implied him. Michael was the one who needed to feel they were making some progress. Feel that there might be an end to this nightmare.
He traced the shell of Michael's ear. "Could this be mainly psychological? I mean, he's sick. He caught whatever this is from someone we were sharing a cell with. But the severity of it…"
"It's possible," Sara answered. "Blood pressure's gone down a bit. Pulse is normal." She draped the stethoscope around her neck and set the cuff aside. "I need to check you over, too. Michael, open your mouth."
He did, and Sara slipped the thermometer into his mouth.
"I'm going to take some blood from all three of you. The embassy put me in contact with a doctor who's working out of one of the hospitals. He said he'd be willing to run whatever tests I needed."
"For how much?"
She smiled wryly. "Doesn't matter. All my father's estates and money have been turned over to me. I'm officially rolling in it."
Alex nodded. Ran his fingernails through Michael's hair. "Congratulations. And, my condolences."
"Thanks." She stretched and rose from her chair. "I brought a change of clothes for all three of you. Underwear, socks, shoes. Michael really needs to stop wearing long sleeved shirts. It's too hot, and he's not doing well."
"People will look at the tattoos," Michael mumbled around the thermometer. "They cause too much attention."
Sara crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at him. "I'm sorry, but you need to keep yourself cool. I have no doubt that the shirt contributed to your fever. That, stress, lack of food. This is a perfect storm everything bad. I'm sure Alex is trying to keep you distracted from everything going on around you, and I know you have some kind of food, but you notice everything and whatever they're giving you is nutritionally deficient. We can control your comfort somewhat by dressing you cooler."
"I'll sunburn."
"I brought sun block." She checked her watch and took the thermometer out. "Much better. We'll keep you in another fifteen minutes, then you can get out. How are you feeling?"
Michael closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Lifted his head from Alex's knees and rolled it back and forth a few times. "Better. Still tired, but my mind's clearer."
She smiled. "Good. How about you have some more water and something else to eat?"
"Okay." He hesitated, then smiled shyly. "Thanks."
Her smile turned bittersweet. Sara put her hand on Michael's shoulder. Squeezed. Before she let go, something passed over her face and she looked at Alex.
He'd been trying very hard not to feel guilty over what had happened between Michael and himself. It hadn't been something he could help. He and Michael needed each other in here, needed the other on a deep, primal level Alex had never experienced.
He'd never meant for it to be emotional. He'd never meant to fall in love with Michael. But, right now, stuck in this tiny room with the woman who'd given up everything for Michael, he had to admit the truth: he was falling in love with this man. And he didn't want to give him up.
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Michael/Mahone
Summary: Michael and Mahone form an alliance in the hell known as Sona.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18, Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24, Part 25, Part 26, Part 27, Part 28, Part 29, Part 30, Part 31, Part 32, Part 33, Part 34, Part 35, Part 36, Part 37
Alex woke with at the breakfast bell. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, watching as the morning rush of cons stumbled their way through the hall. Then, he yawned and lay back down. He spooned up behind Michael and pressed his face against the back of his neck.
Michael was still burning up. His breathing was rapid, shallow and pulse had increased again.
With a soft groan, Alex pulled away. He stumbled around the cell until he found the bucket of water he'd used for Michael's sponge bath. Dipped a tee shirt in it, and came back to the bed. He wiped Michael's face with it before draping the wet shirt over him. Then, exhausted from everything, Alex lay back down and closed his eyes.
The next thing he knew, a loud alarm unlike anything he'd heard since arriving was blaring. Men were shouting, running through the halls.
Tony was on his feet in one movement. Eyes wide, panicked breathing.
"What is it?" Alex asked, shouting to be heard over the noise.
"Count! They come in with guns. Clear us all out. Into the yard. Fast!"
The ancient sound system crackled. A stern voice shouted something in Spanish over it, fading in and out.
Tony pointed at the ceiling. "They say two minutes." He looked down at Michael. "He not even awake."
"How bad is it if we don't get out?"
"Bad. They beat you and drag you out. Make example."
Of course. Dammit.
"Come on. You'll have to help me get him out." Alex went over to Michael. Shook him. "Michael. Babe, wake up."
Michael moaned softly. Squeezed his eyes shut tight, rubbing them and then scrubbing at his face. "What's that noise?" he asked, wincing as the light hit his eyes.
"Alarm. We need to go out the yard for count."
"Count? Since when do they do count?" His face scrunched up as Tony and Alex helped him to his feet. He leaned heavily against Alex, looking exhausted.
"Since today. Come on."
"They do it when need us all in one place," Tony said, trying to help support Michael. He was a little too short and a little too thin to do much good. "Not often, just sometime. Riots, too many fights."
"What prompted it now?"
Tony just shrugged.
They moved slowly. Michael was clearly trying his best, but he'd barely moved in over a day. He was stiff and sore and tired. Just walking was exhausting him.
By the time they were halfway down the cell block, it was completely devoid of people. They were the last ones, and Alex really hoped they made it out in time. He wrapped his arm around Michael tighter. Dragged him faster, forcing Michael to move, push through the exhaustion and just get out there.
"Tony," Alex said. "Go ahead of us. Don't…"
"We almost there," Tony snapped back. He was moving fast, pulling Michael along.
"I don't want…"
"I not leave." His face screwed up and he gripped Michael tighter.
"Sorry," Michael gasped. "I shouldn't…"
"Don't," Alex snapped. "We don't have time for you to fall over yourself apologizing for being sick."
"Right."
One turn. Down the hall. A right. And there it was. A few more steps and they emerged from the dimness of the cell block to the blinding light of the day.
They were all out there. Kneeling in the dirt in ragged rows, hands behind their head. Raoul and Arturo, T-Bag and Luis and Santos and … everyone. Around them were guards, assault rifles at the ready, pacing the rows and glaring.
Raoul was near the end of the row they were closest to. He looked awful. He had the same pale, glassy-eyed look Michael had been sporting. He was awake, but looked confused. He was coughing, too, and looked miserable.
Well. Now they knew where Michael had gotten it.
"You! Gringos! Here," one of them shouted, pointing at the ground.
Michael managed to muster up some strength, because, suddenly, he wasn't leaning on Alex quite so much. They made the last few feet. Alex tried to help Michael down, but he just dropped. Winced as his knees cracked against the hard packed dirt.
Alex and Tony exchanged looks before taking position on either side of Michael. They both assumed the correct position. Michael looked like he was wilting. He shivered violently under the sun, hands on his neck, arms drooping at his sides. His eyes were narrow slits and sweat beaded on his pasty pale forehead.
One of the guards turned his head and shouted to someone. A moment later, a man walked over. Slow, measured steps of boots in the dust. Boots that led up to military fatigues and then to a weathered face. A bald head surrounded by grizzled grey hair. Narrowed eyes with deep wrinkles around.
The warden. It seemed like years since he'd processed their paperwork. He looked down at them with a sort of frustration on his face.
"So," he said. "You are the one who is causing all this problems."
Michael's head lolled to one side, and he squinted up at the man. "Sorry," he rasped.
The man's lips twitched. He shook his head. "First, you disrupt order by coming in, fighting. Killing. We separate you from your lover. Then, you become valuable property men fight over, and find him again." He kicked dirt in Alex's direction. "Now? The American Embassy is knocking on our door. Civil rights groups are flying in from out of country, ready for a fight. All because of one sick little gringo."
Alex clenched his teeth, trying to restrain himself from lunging at the man. Rage bubbled beneath the surface, and he wanted nothing more than to wring this man's neck. He allowed his prison to run like this, to hand out food that was barely edible, to encourage an atmosphere of violence and stress, and then, when someone got seriously ill, blamed them?
The man glanced at his guards. "Bring him and the two others. Anyone else showing sickness will be quarantined on the upper level until we know what it is. Set up a sick room."
"Si, Senor," one said. He turned to the rest and shouted orders.
A couple of the larger guards came over and pulled Michael to his feet. Alex winced in sympathy as Michael's face screwed up, teeth sinking into his lower lip. He moved towards them, but was stopped by a rifle shoved into his face.
"On your feet," the man behind the rifle barked.
He rose, eyes on the rifle. Submitted to being cuffed, then shoved. He stumbled, but quickly got his footing.
They made their way to the front gate, then out into No Man's Land. They shuffled across the dry dirt, kicking up clouds of dust.
The march to the guard's office was interminable. It was early, but the sun was already blazing through thick, humid air. Sweat stood out on Alex's skin and refused to evaporate. The cuffs bit at his wrists, but he barely noticed for the hard knot of anxiety in his stomach.
Years seemed to pass before they stepped inside the slightly cooler air of the guard building. Fans decorated every surface, whirling furiously. The air smelled like dust, bleach, coffee, and just the faintest whiff of shit. The complete opposite of the prison.
They were led to a small room with no windows. The air inside was stale, but cool. There were a few chairs, a table, and a cot with a bare mattress. Michael was tossed onto the cot while Alex and Tony given the chairs.
As soon as he was lying down, Michael rolled onto his side. Pulled his legs to his body and squeezed his eyes shut. Beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and Alex was worried that this was going to set him back in whatever recovery he may have been making.
The man in charge stood over the cot. He glanced at a guard and barked something in Spanish. The guard nodded, saluted, and left.
"I never caught your name before," Alex said.
"My name is General Zavala. I am in charge of this prison."
"Really? Well, bang-up job you're doing."
The general smiled thinly. "You have a problem with the way the prison is run? Perhaps you and your American friends who've been causing so much trouble can get funding to run the prison to your satisfaction."
Alex rolled his eyes. "I want to make sure my friend's okay." He started rising to his feet.
All the rifles in the room were suddenly trained on him.
He froze. Looked at the General.
The other man studied him a moment, then nodded. "At ease," he told his men.
The rifles lowered.
Alex went to the bed. His hands were cuffed in front of him, which was inconvenient in that it gave him limited movement, but it was better than having his hands behind him. He knelt down next to the cot and put his hand on Michael's shoulder.
"Hey. You all right?"
Michael opened his eyes a crack. "Fine. My eyes hurt."
"Is it your eyes or your head?"
"I don't know anymore." He closed his eyes again.
The door opened. Alex looked up to see Sara walk in. She was carrying a suitcase in one hand and a sports bag in the other. With her was a man who just screamed "government lackey" and Alex assumed he was from the embassy. He was carrying a bag as well. They were surrounded by guards, guns out, and both had a pinched expression on their faces.
Sara met Alex's eyes and gave him a small smile. Her face was pale and there were bags under her eyes. Apparently, she'd gotten just as much sleep as he had.
"Hi, Alex," she said, setting the sports bag on the end of the cot. Her voice was calm, soothing, as if they weren't surrounded by armed guards. Of course, she was probably used to it.
"Hi, Sara. Thanks for coming."
Her smile deepened and she nodded. "This is Simon Caldwell. He works at the American Embassy and was able to negotiate with the General here."
"Mr. Caldwell," Alex said with a nod.
He received a nod back before Caldwell began speaking quietly to Zavala.
Sara pulled an empty chair to the opposite side of the cot. Pulled the sport's bag nearer to her. "Hey, Michael. How are you feeling this morning?" She touched him gently on the arm before turning her attention to the bag, unzipping it and pulling things out.
Michael rolled onto his back. "Why are you here?"
"Because you need a doctor and there isn't one available to the prison. Not like you need. General Zavala was generous enough to let me come in and check you out." She pulled a thermometer from the bag and slipped a cover over it. "Open up."
Michael squinched his face, but accepted the thermometer.
Sara reached out and put her hand on Michael's cheek. "Jesus. You really are hot."
"Mmmphmmm."
"Don't talk." She reached back into her bag. This time she produced a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. "Have you been coughing anything up?" she asked as she put the cuff around Michael's arm.
He shook his head.
"Alex said you were coughing, though. So it's just a dry cough?"
He nodded.
"Vomiting, diarrhea?"
Another negative shake.
She place the stethoscope at the crook of Michael's elbow and began pumping. "How about your stomach. Does it hurt at all?"
This got a nod.
"Sharp pain?"
No.
"Kind of dull and persistent?"
Yes.
She nodded and made a noise in her throat. Checked the gage on the cuff and shook her head. "Your blood pressure is high, but it's always a little high with you. But your pulse is racing, too. Michael, you need to calm down." She smiled at him and stroked his head. "Just relax, okay? I know you're not happy that I'm here, but it's where I want to be. As your doctor. I'm not expecting or asking anything else from you. Do you understand?"
Michael closed his eyes and nodded.
"All right, then. Just take some slow, deep breaths. Relax." She demonstrated, squeezing his hand.
Michael opened his eyes again. They skittered from her to Alex.
Alex tilted his head and followed Sara's example. The deep breaths calmed him as well. Across the room, he could see Tony doing the same.
"Much better," Sara said. "Just breathe, Michael. Relax. There's nothing to get yourself all worked up about." She pulled the thermometer out.
Michael coughed dryly. "You might feel differently if you were in there."
She stroked his head. "Maybe. But you have to remember not to take everything so personally. To block some of it out." She looked at the thermometer. "Jesus," she swore under her breath. "General, I need a bucket of water, preferably with ice, and a few cloths. And a fan if possible."
Zavala gestured to three of his men. They saluted and left.
"Sit up, Michael. We need to get your clothes off."
He covered his face and rolled away. "Please, don't."
"You have a hundred and three fever. We need to cool you down," Sara said, her voice calm and even. She had her hands under his shirt and tugged upwards. "Can you sit up?"
Michael tried to push himself up, but it was clear he was too shaky.
Alex slid behind him and helped to support him. "You cooperate with everything she says," Alex whispered in Michael's ear. "You got that?"
He squeezed his eyes, but nods.
"Good." Alex kissed Michael's temple, then helped him remove his shirt. "You know, he's probably dehydrated. He's been sleeping so much, I haven't been able to get a whole lot of water into him."
She was looking at him with curiosity blended with amusement and a tinge of sadness. At his words, though, she kind of shakes herself. "Right. I am… I brought water and Gatorade for all of you. It's in the suitcase. Can you… Okay, look." She tossed Michael's shirt on the end of the bed and turned to the general. "You need to uncuff Alex. Michael is comfortable around him. I need his help. And I need all your men outside."
"These men are dangerous criminals," Zavala said.
"One of these men has a dangerously high fever. The other is an FBI agent. He's not going to do anything." She looked at Alex.
He shook his head. "My main concern is Michael," he said. "I swear, I'm not going to do anything."
The general considered, head tilted to one side. After a moment, he nodded.
A guard came forward. Unlocked the cuffs on Alex's wrists. As he rubbed them, he said, "What about Tony?" When Zavala just raised an eyebrow, he said, "He's sixteen years old."
Zavala rolled his eyes, but waved his hand. After the cuffs came off Tony, he said, "Anything else?"
Sara shook her head. "That's good for now." She looked back at Caldwell. "Can you start unpacking the food? I'm not sure if Michael can eat, but Tony and Alex look like they're starving."
Alex gave her a half smile. "You thought of everything, didn't you?"
"I tried." She picked the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope up. "Alex. I think Michael would be more comfortable if you finished undressing him. Just to his underwear."
"All right."
"Thanks." She turned and went to Tony, sinking down onto the chair next to him. "Hey, Tony. I'm Sara."
A furious blush raced up his cheeks. "Hello," he whispered.
Sara smiled. Pulled the thermometer from her pocket and slipped a new cover on it. "I just want to take your temperature and stuff. Make sure you're okay."
"Okay."
Alex turned back to Michael, who had fallen into a doze. He touched the sleeping man's cheek.
Michael started. Opened his eyes.
"Hey. You hanging in there?"
Michael licked his lips, which were cracked and dry. "Yeah. Just… this is kind of like a nightmare. Sort of."
"It could be worse. She could be your wife."
He laughed, but it dissolved into a flurry of harsh coughs. Alex stroked his back and looked back at the embassy man, who was pulling food and drink from the bag.
"Can you hand me one of the Gatorades?" he asked.
"Huh? Oh, yeah." He passed a red liquid filled bottle. "You're the FBI agent, right? There was an agent calling about you the other day. Said he might fly down."
"Did he leave his name?"
"Um… Sully or Sullins or something?"
His stomach twisted. "Sullins. Great." He turned back to Michael and helped him drink some of the sport's drink. "Let's get your pants off."
Michael lifted his hips and wiggled slightly. A blush stained his cheeks, but his mouth was downturn. Embarrassment at the situation rather than any kind of pleasure or anticipation. Alex promised himself that as soon as Michael is feeling better, he'll put that blush there honestly. Or whatever it's called when one screws someone into a beaming blush like he had before.
The door opened. Guards come in lugging a huge tub of water. Small pieces of ice floated on the top, sloshing over as they set it down.
"Gracias," Zavala said. "Now you can go outside."
"That's a lot bigger than I thought it would be," Sara said. She had her stethoscope around her neck and was standing next to Tony. One hand was on his bony shoulder as he chugged a bottle of Gatorade. The other hand held a foil wrapped something. "You know what? I think he can fit in that."
Alex eyed it, then eyed Michael. "Maybe. It'll be a tight fit."
"The more we can wet him down, the faster he'll cool," she pointed out. She handed the sandwich to Tony and went to the bed. "Michael? Come on. Let's get you in."
He groaned slightly, but sat up. When he got to his feet, he swayed, so Alex crawled over the cot to steady him.
"When was the last time you ate?" Sara asked as she and Alex helped Michael into the water.
From the way Michael hissed, shivers wracking his body, Alex guessed that the water was actually cold. He stuck his hand inside and shivered himself; not exactly ice cold, but cold enough to tingle. To Michael, it must be freezing.
Michael rubbed his face, clearing a streak of dirt and sweat across his forehead. "Um. I think I ate something this morning."
"He had some… food last night. Not a lot." It hadn't been a lot, although it'd been healthier than whatever they served in the so-called mess hall. However, it wouldn't be prudent to let the General know about their stash of rations, so he had to be vague.
"Are you feeling hungry?"
"Maybe. I don't know. I just feel weak and tired."
"It could be hunger. It could be the fever."
"I could be dying."
Alex pinched Michael's arm. "Stop that." He fished a cloth from the tub and began squeezing water over Michael's back and head.
Sara came over to the tub carrying a small plastic container and a spoon. "I didn't want to bring anything hot, because Alex said you were running a fever. Simon recommended this cucumber soup, which is cold. I had some last night. It's really good." She sat on the chair in front of Michael. Dipped the spoon into the soup.
"It's one of my favorite dishes," Caldwell said. He was standing across the room, next to the General, pressed against the wall. He looked everywhere but Michael when he spoke.
Alex snorted and rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure if Caldwell's discomfort stemmed from homophobia or what, but it wasn't helping the situation any. Michael could see him from the tub and was reacting to Caldwell's embarrassment by becoming embarrassed himself. His shoulders tightened and he kept hunching over.
"I can feed myself," Michael said, resting his chin on his knees.
"Doubt that," Sara replied calmly. "Your hands are shaking. Maybe after you've eaten some." She held the spoon out to Michael, offering the soup.
"Hey, Caldwell. Why don’t you go see where that fan is or something," Alex suggested.
"Oh, sure. Um, General?"
Zavala shook his head. "I told my men to bring it. It is on its way."
Caldwell visibly deflated at that news.
This seemed to clue Zavala in. Surprisingly, he shrugged and said, "But, Mr. Caldwell is welcome to look." He moved to the door and opened it.
"I'll be right back," Caldwell promised, practically fleeing the room.
Alex met Sara's eyes and rolled his own. He got a nod and a half-smile in return.
"You seem oddly unconcerned about the chances of an epidemic going through your prison," Sara remarked as she continued to feed Michael.
Zavala shrugged. "Every few months some sickness or another goes around the prison. Sometimes, prisoners die. Sometimes, a lot of prisoners die. The government doesn't really care. This is where they send the criminals who will never be released anyway."
Sara's cheeks turned red. Her eyes flared. "That is a sixteen year old boy. What could he have possibly done to earn him a life sentence?"
He gave another shrug. "Not having connections." He looked at Tony, head tilting to one side. Said something in Spanish.
Tony swallowed a huge bite of the empanada he was eating. Ducked his head as he said, "Robé algún dinero. Y un coche."
His eyes narrowed. "¿Cómo te llamas?"
"Tony. Anthony Morales Cruz."
Zavala nodded. "I'll leave you to your healing, Doctor, if you trust these men."
Sara looked surprised. She nodded. "I'll be fine."
"Knock on the door if you need anything. The fan will be here shortly." With that, he left, closing and locking the door behind him.
"Well, that was unexpected. What did he ask you?" Sara asked Tony.
He shrugged and came across the room, sitting gingerly on the cot. "What I in for."
"He doesn't know?"
"I never seen him before."
"What about when you were processed?" Alex asked. He rewet the cloth and draped it on Michael's neck. The smell of the food was beginning to make his head spin. It'd been awhile since he'd eaten, so he went to the bag with the food and dug something out. He just grabbed the first object he found and unwrapped it. He was almost finished with it before the taste hit him: meat and vegetables, all fresh and sprinkled with some kind of spices. It was delicious.
"I not processed. They bring me in and that is all," Tony said. He slid off the cot, took the cloth from Michael's neck, and began squeezing water over his chest.
"Where's Lincoln?" Michael asked. He took the spoon from Sara and began feeding himself.
"He's at the hotel. We got his paperwork cleared up, but it didn't seem prudent to bring him to the prison. Besides, he needs rest. He hasn't been sleeping well."
"Poor baby," Alex drawled.
"I'm sorry, Alex, would you rather he be here? In a prison with his sick baby brother, a warden who is content to let Michael die because that's what happens here, and, let's not forget, in a small interrogation room with the man who killed his father and is currently sleeping with aforementioned baby brother," she said acidly.
During her tirade, Alex could feel his face heat. The food he was eating turned to a soggy lump in his stomach and he could no longer meet her eyes. "Um. No, I guess… I guess it's better he's not here." He rubbed his hands together. Reached for Michael's bottle of Gatorade and rolled it in his hand. "Sorry."
She closed her eyes and let out a slow breath. "Me, too."
There was an awkward silence. Michael's head was bowed, cheek resting on his knee, facing away from them. He was still shivering and goose bumps had broken all up and down his skin.
Alex cleared his throat. "Do you think you should take his temperature again?"
"Maybe in a few minutes. Not right after he eats. Michael, why don't you drink some more?"
Michael sat up. Took the Gatorade from Alex and finished it off. "Has he heard from LJ?"
"Um, yeah. He talked to him the other night. They're discussing whether or not LJ should come down with the woman who's looking out for him."
"And the Company?" Alex asked.
She shrugged. "We haven't heard from them. Not since…" The rest of the sentence died on her lips, but the words, "the day Bill Kim died" hung in the air.
"Not like there's much we can do anymore," Michael said. "Rotting in this hellhole."
"True. Although Lincoln did talk to that Sullins guy Caldwell was talking about. They're trying to mount a case against the Company and asked for whatever information Lincoln had on them. They'll probably want to talk to the two of you."
Alex shook his head. "That's just… great," he said.
Michael shifted in the tub. Moved a few inches until he could lower his head and rest against Alex's knee.
He reached out and stroked Michael's head. Felt the wet locks and reminded himself for the millionth time that they needed to cut it. Ran his hand down Michael's neck. For the first time in two days, he felt… well. Not cool, but he wasn't burning up anymore.
"Keep doing what you're doing in your free time," Sara said. She set the empty soup tub aside. Got the blood pressure cuff from the cot and wrapped it around Michael's arm. "I think that, ultimately, it's better for you to do something that feels productive. That gives you hope." She said you, but Alex heard the implied him. Michael was the one who needed to feel they were making some progress. Feel that there might be an end to this nightmare.
He traced the shell of Michael's ear. "Could this be mainly psychological? I mean, he's sick. He caught whatever this is from someone we were sharing a cell with. But the severity of it…"
"It's possible," Sara answered. "Blood pressure's gone down a bit. Pulse is normal." She draped the stethoscope around her neck and set the cuff aside. "I need to check you over, too. Michael, open your mouth."
He did, and Sara slipped the thermometer into his mouth.
"I'm going to take some blood from all three of you. The embassy put me in contact with a doctor who's working out of one of the hospitals. He said he'd be willing to run whatever tests I needed."
"For how much?"
She smiled wryly. "Doesn't matter. All my father's estates and money have been turned over to me. I'm officially rolling in it."
Alex nodded. Ran his fingernails through Michael's hair. "Congratulations. And, my condolences."
"Thanks." She stretched and rose from her chair. "I brought a change of clothes for all three of you. Underwear, socks, shoes. Michael really needs to stop wearing long sleeved shirts. It's too hot, and he's not doing well."
"People will look at the tattoos," Michael mumbled around the thermometer. "They cause too much attention."
Sara crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at him. "I'm sorry, but you need to keep yourself cool. I have no doubt that the shirt contributed to your fever. That, stress, lack of food. This is a perfect storm everything bad. I'm sure Alex is trying to keep you distracted from everything going on around you, and I know you have some kind of food, but you notice everything and whatever they're giving you is nutritionally deficient. We can control your comfort somewhat by dressing you cooler."
"I'll sunburn."
"I brought sun block." She checked her watch and took the thermometer out. "Much better. We'll keep you in another fifteen minutes, then you can get out. How are you feeling?"
Michael closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Lifted his head from Alex's knees and rolled it back and forth a few times. "Better. Still tired, but my mind's clearer."
She smiled. "Good. How about you have some more water and something else to eat?"
"Okay." He hesitated, then smiled shyly. "Thanks."
Her smile turned bittersweet. Sara put her hand on Michael's shoulder. Squeezed. Before she let go, something passed over her face and she looked at Alex.
He'd been trying very hard not to feel guilty over what had happened between Michael and himself. It hadn't been something he could help. He and Michael needed each other in here, needed the other on a deep, primal level Alex had never experienced.
He'd never meant for it to be emotional. He'd never meant to fall in love with Michael. But, right now, stuck in this tiny room with the woman who'd given up everything for Michael, he had to admit the truth: he was falling in love with this man. And he didn't want to give him up.
