You might have thought that being in a prison is easy work – that spending every waking hour behind bars was only an excuse not to have to face the real world. A man would have more time on his hands than he would know what to do with, surely? Well, you would be wrong. Despite not having what would be described as a normal job, a nine to five, a rush hour journey, the prisoners were worked to the bone. Breaking rocks, I hear you ask? At least they had moved on from such primitive practice. Though the duties they had to perform were no less of a chore than that and time for relaxing was few and far between.
And so when T-Bag finally did find a few spare hours, a little while to close his eyes, he did not want to be disturbed. It was easy enough to understand. But it was too late, as he was finding his sleep so rudely interrupted for the second time today. He opened one eye, and glanced from left to right, scouring the room for whatever may be making that noise. The faint sound of footsteps could be heard in the distance, drawing ever closer. Footsteps which were merciless, angry as they pounded against the cold hard concrete of the prison corridor floor. They quickened in their pace. And, by now, they had nearly reached him, until they were practically outside his room. Who was it, who dared to wake him?
Standing by his own cell was none other than Michael Scofield. The young man forced his face up against the rails as he turned to face the other man, his sworn enemy. His beautiful, unbroken skin now dirtied as it pressed over the iron rods, the old metal so rusted and neglected. And to think T-Bag had always hoped that roughing that boy up would be his job. The prison bars had stained Michael's face, left a linear mark which ran from his eyes to his lips. He looked like a caged animal, there standing on the other side. Now, wasn’t that just the ticket, Bagwell smirked as he thought to himself. "Hey there, Pretty," he called out, across the empty space. He waited for an answer, but instead there was silence.
"Hey there nothing," he replied, after a pause, "We seriously have to have words, my friend."
T-Bag blearily rubbed his eyes, fully awakening from his sleep. Lifting himself from the bed with both hands, his place on the bottom bunk, he turned to him and spoke. "So now we’re friends?" he asked, a sarcastic tone to his voice. Seeing from his expression the anger within Scofield's eyes, his annoyance at such a statement, Bagwell chose to ignore it. Seductively sprawling out on the mattress, he laid back and cupped his hands around the back of his head. "Did you say you wanted to be my friend, boy?"
That certainly was an interesting term to use, especially after what had happened over the last couple of hours. And though when harm had been caused, it was easy to deny creating it, to pretend that everything was fine - Michael couldn’t forget so easily and he wasn’t here for the good of his own health. He had a score to settle here, a wrong to right. The very thought of considering him a friend sickened him to the stomach. Friendliness, unless accompanied by sexual innuendo or a quick grope of the ass, was not a word he would have associated with Theodore.
The events of today only went so far as to prove it as, whilst on PI duty, the trouble with T-Bag began.
Only a wire fence separated them, one which ran from the length of the field, and by the west wall of Fox River prison. A crisscross of green lines which diced the landscape, a view which would never be clear or untarnished; not so long as they were in here, anyway. But this wasn’t what prevented the inmates from escaping. No, it merely sectioned off some from others, the higher classes from the lower. Even on the inside, there are ranks, a level of placing. Everybody has their place. And, unfortunately, regardless of how rightful it may be, some of the prisoners aren’t so fond of theirs. With a handful of men on one side of that fence and a solitary figure on the other, tensions would surely be seen to rise.
The group made up of Lincoln, Abruzzi and Sucre had been assigned to their PI duties, with Michael Scofield as their leader, their ringleader. But that wasn’t their only alliance - the four men were also amongst a select few to know of what was to come. For all and each of their individual reasons, they had decided that they were going to break out of prison. An escape plan - the great escape - the only escape plan that anyone had tried in this place in a very long time. The idea was risky. He might have been a genius, but anything could go wrong.
And so why was there tension? There were five men. The problem was that the one man on the wrong side of the fence - a Theodore Bagwell - had discovered their plan.
During the riot which had been created only days before, in an aid to the escape, he had uncovered the tunnel behind the sink in Michael's cell. Not knowing what it was at first, he soon realised that it was the key to their getaway. What an interesting thing that had been to stumble across. It was just the right amount of leverage he needed to be able to manipulate them. Having nothing to bring to the table in this escape, the others could see no reason for him being included. Unfortunately, T-Bag had other ideas. He thought that he should be a part of the group and, by believing so, put the plan at a severe risk by threatening to tell the authorities.
Now, at the prospect of being Michael’s friend, or perhaps even a little more than that, he found himself excited. Still laying back in such a pose, a loose hand draped around the bedpost, he met once again with his partner’s line of sight. He yearned for his reaction to this; wanted him to know exactly how he felt inside. With no more Seth or Maytag, nights in Fox River were lonely, and the love and affection from other men was scarce. Merely a flicker of emotion, an interest in him would have been enough to satiate his appetite. And just because he’d been locked away here, it didn’t mean had become celibate, now did it? Casually opening his legs, he once again sat up, drawing attention to the tightening fabric around his crotch.
"Because if you do want to be my friend," the older man smiled, running a free hand along the inside of his own thigh, "Then I will happily play along with you." He continued to stroke his leg, from top to bottom, allowing himself to become excited by his own actions. Tracing the outline of his erection, he caused himself to groan. Pleasant dreams of old friends and their experiences together were what relieved him when drifting off to sleep at night but, now awake, he wanted his new acquaintance to be the one to help him out with this arousal.
Michael could see the truth, and he knew it to be far from black and white. A darker shade of grey was closer to the mark. The same grey as these four prison walls. "I’m not your friend," he spat, taking his face from off of the bars. Rubbing the rusted mark from his cheek, he turned away in disapproval to consider his place. Things had been the same around here for a very long time, even too long. But what they didn’t know was just how far he was willing to stretch himself in order to free his brother. If he could do anything in his life, right for just once, he had to make sure it was this. And whether he had anyone's help or not, he was going to pull this off.
As far as he was concerned, he had no choice. Stepping from out of the corridor, he finally decided to enter the cell and to enter territory that was not his, slowly approaching the other man. Between the wall and his bed, a rock and a hard place, he stood. And there was T-Bag, still spread out across the bedsheets, with a look in his eye which desired more than just an ordinary friendship from the young man. Should he give him the satisfaction? He thought it better not to, at least not right now - aggressiveness was first to take over Scofield. Suddenly, and without warning, Michael clutched at Theodore's arms and pinned them to the upper bunk.
"I know what you think," he growled, pressing his hands further to the frame, "You think that if you tell the guards about the escape, then you can have me whichever way you want." By now the older man’s fingers were becoming sore, firmly held against the sharp metal contraption. It was only just short of drawing blood. So much so that Michael immediately pulled away, not wanting to leave a mark and be held responsible for assault.
"I don’t think it," T-Bag replied, "I know it." With every intention to rile his partner, he flashed a smile that was sickly sweet. He found it most enjoyable to aggravate, to provoke. Having barely achieved even the slightest reaction in all of the time he had known him, except what could be described as a mild interest, he craved nothing more. Anger was an emotion stronger than most others and, as he did not expect to find someone who would love him in this place, it was the second best thing.
With a stony silence falling upon the cell, Michael fixed a gaze upon his partner that was similarly stony. It was a look that was impossible to judge. Was he pleased, saddened or even offended by what he had said? Who knew? But instead of giving a verbal response, the younger man simply leaned across the bunk and kissed T-Bag, fully and on the lips.
Thrusting his tongue so roughly between them, dry and coarse, he could not have been more violent in his approach. It was not like him at all - the mild mannered inmate that he was, the pretty boy, the fish. In fact, it was downright out of character. Their tongues remained firmly locked, constantly shifting places, exploring new textures, but side-by-side all of the time as they gently pushed against each other. Saliva to flesh, sticky wet muscle and everything in-between.
Michael Scofield had proved there and then that he was as equally capable of delivering tough love. Running low on oxygen, his supply having been cut during their kiss, Bagwell breathlessly broke away and gasped in reaction. "Well then Pretty, what brought on such a change?" he asked, pleasantly surprised. He received a smirk from the other man which soon faded to a face without expression.
"No change," the reply calmly came. His was a mind unreadable.
"Take the pocket," T-Bag rasped, finding his voice. To his surprise, he actually saw his newfound lover remove his hand, and direct it towards the area beneath his belt. "That’s it, go on - take it," the older prisoner repeated, pulling the inside from out of his pocket with a flick of the wrist - a white cotton pouch, exposed to the air, ready and waiting.
From day one he had thought that nothing would be finer than having that boy on his arm; as his plaything, as his toy. Would he accept the offering? Michael continued to extend his arm, inching ever closer to the open pocket. However, he did not simply latch onto it as T-Bag might have expected him to. He grabbed onto it and gave it a sharp and powerful tug, the lining tightening in his grasp. The taut material pressed gently across Bagwell's thighs, the outline of his hardened penis clearly visible.
"It’s all for you, Pretty," he said, signalling towards it. As cool as he may have come across, he was a desperate being, dying to be relieved. Though tempted, the young man chose to ignore what had been effectively handed to him on a plate. He would sooner work harder for his rewards.
"I don’t want it," Michael bowed his head, momentarily losing hold of the lining. Instead he lovingly inserted his hands into both of the pockets, and used them to hold his lover steady at the hips, whilst kissing him once again. Only this time, a far more romantic and heartfelt kiss. "What I want is the respect that I know I deserve from you," he went on. Still maintaining a direct line of eye-contact, he removed both of his hands from inside of the pocket sacks and placed them around his partner’s belt, looping his thumbs over the top. The leather was caressed within his fingers, the six dotted dimples beneath his digits.
"Is this what you want, Theodore?" the question was asked, "More than escaping from this place?"
Receiving nothing more than a shake of the head, and a blank expression, Scofield knew that his grip was starting to take hold. And now, everything was working perfectly. To be honest, Michael wasn’t sure that he cared about T-Bag’s mistakes, or was too troubled by him joining the group – but, regardless, to think of a failure being down to that man sabotaging their plan, ruining everything that he had worked so hard and strived for – would be the worst possible scenario in all of this. It was time to nip it in the bud, for all of their sakes. Sometimes he wondered if Bagwell really wanted out of this place, or whether the older man would survive out there in the real world when the ethics in here seemed to suit him so well.
After all, T-Bag had been locked away for a reason and a very good reason at that, and Michael knew that it was wrong to help such a person escape. But this was besides the point. What was important and relevant to the point was making sure that there would be no more little slips of the tongue from his friend, in spite of what that took.
Nimbly working on his belt buckle, Michael soon found the end of the strap and slid it through, before removing the leather belt altogether. He had no plans to fully undress T-Bag, so instead merely unzipped his pants and forced them halfway down to his ankles. And, without another word, he reached into his underwear and wrapped a tight hand around his lover’s manhood, causing the older prisoner to shudder slightly. T-Bag was disgusted with himself. He didn’t moan, he didn’t even groan; if for one second that boy knew that he could manipulate him in such a way, he wouldn't have a shred of respect from anyone around here.
By gaining knowledge of the escape, and let’s face it - a goldmine of opportunity - Bagwell had presumed he would be in charge of the situation. But that was, sadly, not to be the case. This was a worry of his.
What frightened him so much was the risk of his bluff being called and his true feelings being revealed. He might have had the information and the power to blow the whistle on the whole of this charade, but Michael Scofield still held the upper hand. For escaping from Fox River meant more to Theodore Bagwell than anything ever could. Otherwise, he was going to be serving time here for a very long time and spending an eternity within these four walls. Because, in spite of all that was said, this inmate just didn’t have the nerve, didn’t have the guts to reach the end. He could never last his sentence, not with a reputation such as his.
The ace in the hole was now a playing card ripped up and torn, and in tatters which lied beside his bed. Pushing his hand from the top to the bottom of his arousal, Michael stroked T-Bag's shaft both calmly and confidently, keeping at first a steady pace. "Let me tell you something," he smiled, still working to the rhythm. By now, he had found that the volume of his voice had noticeably increased, and that he was in fact shouting at his partner. The harsh, commanding vocals echoed through such an enclosed space - repeating many times over, and making his point very clear. "You will not tell the guards," the shaven-headed man warned him.
Pitilessly, he increased the speed of his motions, the thrusts between his thumb and all four of his fingers now becoming erratic. With a technique perfected from nights alone in his own cell, he had T-Bag at his mercy, pleasuring him in such a way that only he, out of all of his playmates, could. Waiting until Bagwell was teetering on the very brink of orgasm, he turned to him and whispered into his ear, "I think we have a deal." And with that, he let go.
That day, he who thought he was ahead, learned a valuable lesson - to never try to manipulate a genius.