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out_thereTitle: The Quiet Art of Standing Still
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Alex/Michael. Possibly only slashy inside my head, though.
Word Count: 694
Notes: Set during mid-S4, while they were all at the warehouse. Again, my attempts to sit down and write smut for the Porn Battle have resulted in a story that's devoid of smut or dialogue. At least I'm failing in an oddly productive way. Title from Wendy Matthews' song, Quiet Art, which I'm sad to say I don't have a copy of anymore.
Summary: Where Michael goes to be alone.
When Michael wants space away from the rest of the group, when he doesn't mind being found by Linc or Sara, he goes to the docks. When he genuinely wants to be alone, he goes to the warehouse roof. There's a small roofed alcove hidden from aerial view, a place where he can sit against the cold concrete, close his eyes and imagine he's anywhere else.
He used to do this at Fox River. When the plans inside his head kept shifting and changing, when every interaction with other people brought up another complication, when he needed to switch off, to stop for a while, he'd sit alone. Fold his knees almost to his chin, press his back into the hard chill of concrete and stare at the red behind his eyelids. He would concentrate on each slow breath, the movement of air in his chest, and force the world to slow down.
He used to do it at his apartment. Before Linc was arrested, before Michael's nights became planning and pinning notes to his wall, back when Michael was just a talented young engineer, he'd do this. When he needed a break from the latest project, from his own reputation as 'the kid to watch' or 'the guy who'll carry this firm into the future', he'd come home, peel off the tie and jacket, and sit on his living room floor. He'd lean his head back against cool plaster and sit on the unforgiving, polished wood of his floor. And he'd stare out his window.
He can remember the view perfectly. How the glass stretched all the way to his ceiling, how the light would catch on the metal rails of the balcony outside. How the city lights twinkled like the brightest of stars and the edges of buildings bled into the dark night sky.
Sometimes, he sat like that for hours. Observing other people's lives through the shadows they cast, tracking their movements through the lights they switched on and off.
There are times when he misses that feeling of isolation. He misses the safety of it. He misses the indulgence of being able to sit there as long as he liked, of having no-one who'd ask or worry, no-one who relied on him for anything.
Now, everyone relies on him. They may not admit it and some of them definitely don't like it, but they expect him to be there. They expect Michael to make decisions that can be argued or supported; they expect Michael to define acceptable risks and set the limits of what should be done.
It can get exhausting.
So occasionally Michael steals some time away. Some time where he can be alone, where he can just be Michael. Where he doesn't have to worry how badly he's failing the people around him, where he doesn't have to watch his back.
The irony of it is that he's not alone. That every time he escapes up here, he hears the grating noise of the rooftop door opened after him, the soft careful footsteps walking around to the mouth of the alcove. And then he sees Alex's shoes.
But Alex doesn't ask anything of Michael. He doesn't try to sit beside Michael and make conversation, doesn't demand that Michael stop screwing around and get back to important business of getting Scylla.
Alex doesn't even bend down low enough for Michael to see his face.
Those shoes will pause in front of the alcove and then keep going. Michael will listen to the retreating footsteps but he knows better than to wait for the grind of the metal door closing. It won't come.
When Michael stands up, Alex will be leaning on the wall, settled and contained. He won't say anything (or at least he's never said anything so far) and neither will Michael. Michael won't explain himself or beg forgiveness; he won't justify this adolescent need to be alone every so often and he can't quite bring himself to thank Alex for standing guard.
But he'll catch Alex's eye and nod as he passes, and Alex will nod back. And close the door behind them as they head downstairs.
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Alex/Michael. Possibly only slashy inside my head, though.
Word Count: 694
Notes: Set during mid-S4, while they were all at the warehouse. Again, my attempts to sit down and write smut for the Porn Battle have resulted in a story that's devoid of smut or dialogue. At least I'm failing in an oddly productive way. Title from Wendy Matthews' song, Quiet Art, which I'm sad to say I don't have a copy of anymore.
Summary: Where Michael goes to be alone.
When Michael wants space away from the rest of the group, when he doesn't mind being found by Linc or Sara, he goes to the docks. When he genuinely wants to be alone, he goes to the warehouse roof. There's a small roofed alcove hidden from aerial view, a place where he can sit against the cold concrete, close his eyes and imagine he's anywhere else.
He used to do this at Fox River. When the plans inside his head kept shifting and changing, when every interaction with other people brought up another complication, when he needed to switch off, to stop for a while, he'd sit alone. Fold his knees almost to his chin, press his back into the hard chill of concrete and stare at the red behind his eyelids. He would concentrate on each slow breath, the movement of air in his chest, and force the world to slow down.
He used to do it at his apartment. Before Linc was arrested, before Michael's nights became planning and pinning notes to his wall, back when Michael was just a talented young engineer, he'd do this. When he needed a break from the latest project, from his own reputation as 'the kid to watch' or 'the guy who'll carry this firm into the future', he'd come home, peel off the tie and jacket, and sit on his living room floor. He'd lean his head back against cool plaster and sit on the unforgiving, polished wood of his floor. And he'd stare out his window.
He can remember the view perfectly. How the glass stretched all the way to his ceiling, how the light would catch on the metal rails of the balcony outside. How the city lights twinkled like the brightest of stars and the edges of buildings bled into the dark night sky.
Sometimes, he sat like that for hours. Observing other people's lives through the shadows they cast, tracking their movements through the lights they switched on and off.
There are times when he misses that feeling of isolation. He misses the safety of it. He misses the indulgence of being able to sit there as long as he liked, of having no-one who'd ask or worry, no-one who relied on him for anything.
Now, everyone relies on him. They may not admit it and some of them definitely don't like it, but they expect him to be there. They expect Michael to make decisions that can be argued or supported; they expect Michael to define acceptable risks and set the limits of what should be done.
It can get exhausting.
So occasionally Michael steals some time away. Some time where he can be alone, where he can just be Michael. Where he doesn't have to worry how badly he's failing the people around him, where he doesn't have to watch his back.
The irony of it is that he's not alone. That every time he escapes up here, he hears the grating noise of the rooftop door opened after him, the soft careful footsteps walking around to the mouth of the alcove. And then he sees Alex's shoes.
But Alex doesn't ask anything of Michael. He doesn't try to sit beside Michael and make conversation, doesn't demand that Michael stop screwing around and get back to important business of getting Scylla.
Alex doesn't even bend down low enough for Michael to see his face.
Those shoes will pause in front of the alcove and then keep going. Michael will listen to the retreating footsteps but he knows better than to wait for the grind of the metal door closing. It won't come.
When Michael stands up, Alex will be leaning on the wall, settled and contained. He won't say anything (or at least he's never said anything so far) and neither will Michael. Michael won't explain himself or beg forgiveness; he won't justify this adolescent need to be alone every so often and he can't quite bring himself to thank Alex for standing guard.
But he'll catch Alex's eye and nod as he passes, and Alex will nod back. And close the door behind them as they head downstairs.
