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The only time the prisoners of Sona got a break from the unbearable Panamanian heat was during thunderstorms. Alexander Mahone didn't think it was much of a deal, really, since all storms did was turn one type of insufferable energy into another one. At least, they did for him.
Thinking about it, his hatred for thunderstorms probably stemmed from his father's hatred for them. And if his father was forced to be around something he hated - well, let's just say Alex was frequently acquainted with the consequence of that. Even as an adult, he was unable to shake off the fear that jolted through him with every boom of thunder and sizzle of lightning, but before now, it was always bearable. Because Pam was there right by his side, and if it wasn't Pam then it was Cameron, and if it wasn't either of them, it was because his mind was too immersed in catching Oscar Shales or Michael Scofield.
Now, though? In the Panamanian version of hell on Earth? He was well and truly alone with nothing but his whirling brain to keep him company and that was really not a nice thought at all.
Instead of trying to sleep, Alex's wandering mind convinced his feet to wander too, and soon he found himself outside in the yard.
The rain lashed down onto his back, plastering his hair to his high forehead. Tipping his head back, he allowed the heavy droplets to enter his parted lips. It felt cleansing, in a way, stood out in the rain after days of humidity and grime and violence. And what wouldn't Alex give to feel clean again.
Eventually, the cold had soaked through his t-shirt and into his bones, and the thunder had rattled his brain enough to make it stop spinning. Alex took one last observation of the courtyard before he left for his cell. However, to his surprise, someone else was out there too, huddled in the corner with his arms over his head.
Alex's guard immediately went up. His honed instincts told him that this man was potentially dangerous (he almost snorted out loud - who wasn't dangerous in Sona?) and should be left alone, but suddenly he noticed something.
A shadow of closely cropped hair was visible between the man's arms. Alex almost missed it because of the poor lighting, but when he saw it, his brow furrowed. What is Michael doing out here?, he wondered, bewildered.
Had it been anyone else, Alex would've left them be. But he knew Michael. Alex knew that he would not have just fallen asleep, unprotected, in the open. Something must've happened to him. So, slowly but surely, Alex approached the sleeping figure.
"Hey, Scofield," he murmured over the rain, gently shaking Michael's shoulder. "Wake up; you're going to be frozen solid otherwise."
He got no response but a loud snore.
There seemed to be no other option but to bring him in from the rain. Sighing deeply, Alex scooped an arm under his bent knees and his back, lifting him slowly. Michael shivered almost immediately and snuggled into his chest for warmth. Without realising it, a smile had lifted the corner of Alex's mouth, but he quickly squashed it down. There was no room for happiness in a place like Sona.
At least, he tried convincing himself that was the case. Alex's feet betrayed him once again, however, by steering him towards his own cell instead of Michael's. Once he got there, he gently lay him out on the bed and tucked him under the thin blanket.
A bolt of lightning briefly lit up Alex's cell, illuminating Michael's features for just a moment. It was enough, though, for Alex to see the dark purple bags under his eyes.
Scofield is planning something, he realised with a start. A feral grin spread over his face at the thought. And he owes me now.
But Alex couldn't think like that, not when the engineer looked so angelic and fragile and innocent. Without the deep lines between his eyes, Michael looked positively, well... Pretty. Alex winced at the reference, but he now knew why Bagwell came up with the name. Well, if he was honest with himself, Alex had always known that the man was pretty, although he had always respected his glorious mind over his looks.
Alex studied Michael in the dim light, basking in his features. Long eyelashes draped over porcelain cheekbones, supple pink lips parted ever so slightly, stubble beginning to appear over the lower half of his face. Quickly, he pulled away, before he did anything he would later regret.
He rolled his neck and stretched his back until joints popped. Alex was not going to get sleep that night, even if his bed was not being occupied, so he tugged off his damp t-shirt and hung it over the window as a sort of curtain, in an attempt to block the lightning out. If he was going to stay awake, he would do everything he could (which, admittedly, was not a lot) to keep the storm out and the memories it brought with it.
Just as he had settled in the corner of his cell, though, small noises started coming from the bed. At first it was rustling, then pitiful whimpers, turning into exclamations of "no!" Alex was acutely aware of grumbles coming from cells nearby, so he jumped to his feet and shook Michael's shoulder urgently.
"Scofield," Alex whispered with panic tainting his voice. "Wake up. It's just a dream. C'mon, Michael, wake up!"
Suddenly, Michael shot up into a sitting position, almost knocking into Alex's head in the process. He lashed out blindly, and Alex had to catch his hand before it drove into his face.
"Easy, Michael," he soothed. "It's just me. You were having a bad dream."
The younger man fell back onto the bed with a shaky exhale, saying nothing in reply. Alex took that as a dismissal and backed away to his corner.
But a hand grabbed his wrist. "No," Michael murmured, voice rough from sleeping. "Stay with me."
Inhaling harshly through his nose, Alex complied, against his better judgement. He slithered next to Michael, who shuffled over to accommodate his body on the bunk. It felt surprisingly natural, laying next to Michael, no matter how much his conscience attempted to convince him otherwise. Their combined body heat replaced the coldness inside his bones, and Alex felt a pleasant sleepiness washing over him. The ex-FBI agent distantly heard a small gasp when Michael found that he wasn't wearing a shirt. Alex was in too drowsy of a state to think much about it.
That night, Alexander Mahone dreamt of kissing away the frown lines between Michael Scofield's eyes.