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@lostmyconjugals
ooc; Putting both my accounts on temporary hiatus, since it's kind of impossible to keep an arc going when all the other Prison Breakers are having muse issues. :c
I'll log in periodically so if anybody else wants to do a thing, drop me a line. x
theyweremine:
“… — you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not gonna let anything compromise our chances of making it through this. I’ll stay for an MRI, on one condition — you need to get in touch with Kellerman. Make sure everything’s in place. Tell him it’s going down as planned, just as soon as he receives a call from me. And I will meet up with you both the moment I’m finished here. I’m counting on you, papi. Go.”
"... yeah, you got it. I'll, uh -- I'll swing by to check up on LJ, too. Kid's probably climbing the walls by now, you know?" He starts toward the door, then changes his mind and hauls Michael into a quick embrace first. Of course he has to worry. That's how this works.
"-- good luck, bro. I'll see you soon."
theyweremine:
“She had a brain aneurysm — and my father was shot to death, by one of the men I now have to work with to take down the people who are threatening to decapitate my brother. I’m sure you can understand why a nosebleed isn’t exactly high on my list of priorities.”
His tone has gotten much sharper, much more heated than he intended. A long breath is drawn in and released; holding eye contact, the next words are utterly controlled.
“They can do their tests. After we finish this. Because if you think for one second that I’m about to let Linc die for the sake of getting medical attention, then I want you to turn around, walk out that door, and pretend I never called you.”
"-- hate to break it to you, but you ain't getting rid of me that easy."
"I get it, okay? I get how bad it is. I got a kid on the way, and I'm still sticking my neck out for you and Linc -- 'cause I trust you to get all of us through this crap. But you're not alright, Michael. And you're not gonna pull this off while you're like this. A few more hours, Papi -- that's all I ask. What happens if you pass out while we're in the lion's den, huh? Let 'em do the tests, so we can get back to work without having to worry about you."
Best of: → Fernando Sucre
theyweremine:
The sedative is wearing off, equilibrium returning in steady increments. Rather than focus on an impending prognosis that he’s long since deemed inevitable, Michael is fixated on departure — and what follows. Without legal identification, they’ll have to skip out on the hospital bill; get in contact with Kellerman, switch hotels, ensure the plan is still in motion.
Too much time has been wasted already, and it’s time they don’t have. Time Linc doesn’t have. This can wait, all of this, until he gets his brother back.
Sucre’s presence registers with a lift of his gaze. The risks are innumerable, not the least of which is being recognized by any number of staff or civilians. He stands up, aware of the dull, lingering ache from his migraine, and glances again at the door.
“I’m okay. We have to go.”
Right when Michael gets up, Sucre moves to stand between him and the door. That earlier promise to knock him out cold is starting to look like it needs repeating.
"No, just -- just slow down a second. I just spent like two hours in a waiting room after you got your ass carted here in a frickin' ambulancia, entienda -- ? You told me what happened to your mom. And I don't know if that's what this is, but it sure as hell ain't stress that had you taking a siesta. So we're not leaving 'til they do their tests."
theyweremine:
Constituents of time seem to wander off and vanish, lines blurring together to the point of becoming indistinguishable from one another. It all eludes him for a while; the EMTs, the ambulance, the rows of fluorescent light fixtures passing overhead. Maybe an hour goes by, or maybe six. But he doesn’t need to be fully awake to know what’s happening.
Bouts of white and red, grey and black, a sterile smell and a needle in the arm.
He’s sitting on the edge a hospital bed, still in street clothes, when a doctor walks into the room with a clipboard in one hand. Brunette. Mid-forties. He doesn’t look up.
“Mr. Merrick … ? How are you feeling?”
“A little hazy, but I’m assuming that’s from the medication.”
“A mild sedative administered when you were brought in. Disorientation is a common side-effect, it’ll pass soon. Are you up for answering a few questions? I can come back if—”
“It’s fine.” Michael forces a brief smile. “Go ahead.”
“Your brother-in-law mentioned a family history of brain cancer, is that correct?”
Sucre, he thinks, and the smile turns sincere for a moment before it fades. “That’s, uh — that’s correct, yes. My mother, she died when I was seven. Aneurysm caused by a tumor.”
She makes a quick note on the clipboard. “Mhm. And have you ever experienced symptoms before? Migraines, nosebleeds, fainting spells, loss of cognition — ?”
“Migraines.”
“Okay.” Another note, the scratch of ballpoint against paper. “We’re going to run a few blood tests and give you an MRI, just to be on the safe side. Do you have insurance?”
“No.” Shifting so that he’s leaning on the bed rather than sitting on it, his eyes flicker towards the hallway past the open door and then to the woman’s face. “I’d like to speak with my brother-in-law first, if that’s alright.”
She nods once, smiles. “I’ll send him right in.”
It took fifteen minutes of arguing in Spanish with a multilingual nurse before they let him switch waiting rooms, moving from the ER to a smaller place on the third floor down the hall from where they took Michael. Panic makes him jittery, running through worst-case scenarios while his fingers drum against his leg and one of his feet taps compulsively on the floor.
Almost two hours without an update. He'd half-assed the paperwork and provided a name from a fake ID he'd found in Michael's bag, but he can't sit still for another second. The woman behind the desk barely glances at him, even when he's practically leaning across.
"What's the patient's name?"
"Wayne Merrick. He's been in there forever, I gotta know what's going on."
"I apologize for the wait." That's another woman, a doctor with a clipboard, snapping Sucre's attention to her instead.
"What's happening? Is he okay?"
"We have to run several tests, but he's asked to see you. Fourth door on the left."
"Thanks, Doc. Thank you. Gracias." Sucre is already headed off in that direction before he's done talking, almost bumping into an orderly, and he doesn't stop 'til he reaches the right room. Michael's in one piece, but relief is still put on hold. "Hey -- you okay, brother?"
Michael’s Plan (5) The Cellmate
theyweremine:
“You gonna older brother me while he’s gone — ?” The quip is uttered mildly as Michael rises to a stand, but his vision burns white the moment he’s on his feet. A particularly harsh jolt of pain sends him reeling, leaning forward with both palms braced flat against the edge of the table; willing it to pass, knowing it’ll get worse before it does.
He’s seen the files. The medical history. Christina Rose Scofield, 31, deceased, brain aneurysm caused by an inoperable tumor. Statistically, only five percent of brain tumors are believed to be hereditary; statistically, he’s low-risk. Healthy.
Prone to migraines that began to increase in regularity, and intensity, three months after his 31st birthday.
Blazing white dissolves into heavy grey, threads of black spreading peripherally, and the room lurches sideways when he lifts his head; falling, impact, a flurry of indistinct sound that doesn’t add up but he still recognizes the prelude to lost consciousness.
Grey, black; and then nothing.
Never one of those people who was any good at keeping their emotions under wraps, there's as much blatant fear as worry written all over Sucre's face. The stream of rapid Spanish gets out on autopilot as he drops to his knees on the floor next to where Michael fell, catching Michael's head with one hand to stop a worse collision.
"Open your eyes, Papi, c'mon -- you gotta talk to me. Por favor. Michael -- ? Say something, bro." He doesn't get a response, so his free hand fumbles to pull out his cell phone. Fugitive status be damned; he hits four buttons in quick succession. 911, send.
The dispatcher barely says half a word before he interrupts. "I -- I need an ambulance, at the, uh -- the Stillwell Hotel, 838 South Grand Avenue. Room 312. Please -- please hurry."
theyweremine:
“… — you’re starting to sound like Linc.”
"-- maybe that's what it's gonna take, huh? For me to get all más viejo hermano on your stubborn ass 'til you quit trying to do everything yourself."
theyweremine:
He’s already reaching for a tissue to catch the blood, ignoring the jackhammer of a migraine working to split his skull in half. “I promise you, I’m fine. We need to focus.”
"I'm not the smartest guy in the world, bro, but you think I don't know when something ain't right? You don't have to tell it to me straight. Just cut it out with that 'I'm fine' crap."
theyweremine:
“— just hand them to me, Sucre.”
"... sí, right after you stop bleeding. Which part of that seems alright to you -- ?"
theyweremine:
“I’m alright. Hand me those blueprints.”
"... -- Michael. You gotta slow down, okay? We got this."
"-- you don't look so good, Papi."
❛I never worry about action; only inaction.❜ - Winston Churchill.
► independent michael scofield of prison break. ► crossover / multi-fandom and oc friendly. ► canon compliant ; default verse is set pre-S4. ► writer is 18+ with nine years of experience. ► prefers icons ( you can use what you want ). ► chat, novella, extensive prose — it’s all good. ► skype is available to mutuals upon request.
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