Categories > TV > Prison Break
Medicine Cabinet
0 ReviewsHe’s staring at the small cupboard above the sink, which holds toiletries, a few basic first aid supplies and a bottle of paracetamol. (Set in Season four. No spoilers. Gen.)
Alex doesn’t turn when the door to the only bathroom in the warehouse is pushed open.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise someone was in here,” he hears Sara apologise.
“Don’t be, it’s my fault. I should have locked the door.”
There’s a pause. He thinks she’s left, although he hasn’t heard the door shut, but she speaks again.
“What are you doing?”
He’s staring at the small cupboard above the sink, which holds toiletries, a few basic first aid supplies and a bottle of paracetamol.
“It’s got everything you’d expect a ... a home medicine cabinet to have,” he says, “but for some reason I feel like they’re out to spite me by not having anything stronger than paracetamol.” He laughs then, though it’s tinged with sadness and some other feeling that Sara recognises but can’t (won’t) name. “Stupid really, seeing as there are actually only a few people that know about ...”
He trails off and pushes the cabinet door shut, turning to face her. “Do you get that? Even after being in recovery for ...”
“Three months,” she supplies. “And yes.” A pause, then she adds, “Some days more than others.”
“Like today,” he agrees quietly.
“How long have you been clean?”
“Twenty-seven days,” he replies with the sort of precision she remembers herself having when she first came off the morphine, in the days when every single day mattered. They seemed a little less important the second time around, but that doesn’t stop her from being able to figure out exactly how long it’s been if she puts her mind to it.
“Were you hoping for something?” she asks even though she doesn’t need to.
His shoulders lift slightly in a minute shrug. “I probably wouldn’t say no if I was offered something.”
She nods, and knows that he doesn’t ask her the same question because he knows he would get just the same answer.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise someone was in here,” he hears Sara apologise.
“Don’t be, it’s my fault. I should have locked the door.”
There’s a pause. He thinks she’s left, although he hasn’t heard the door shut, but she speaks again.
“What are you doing?”
He’s staring at the small cupboard above the sink, which holds toiletries, a few basic first aid supplies and a bottle of paracetamol.
“It’s got everything you’d expect a ... a home medicine cabinet to have,” he says, “but for some reason I feel like they’re out to spite me by not having anything stronger than paracetamol.” He laughs then, though it’s tinged with sadness and some other feeling that Sara recognises but can’t (won’t) name. “Stupid really, seeing as there are actually only a few people that know about ...”
He trails off and pushes the cabinet door shut, turning to face her. “Do you get that? Even after being in recovery for ...”
“Three months,” she supplies. “And yes.” A pause, then she adds, “Some days more than others.”
“Like today,” he agrees quietly.
“How long have you been clean?”
“Twenty-seven days,” he replies with the sort of precision she remembers herself having when she first came off the morphine, in the days when every single day mattered. They seemed a little less important the second time around, but that doesn’t stop her from being able to figure out exactly how long it’s been if she puts her mind to it.
“Were you hoping for something?” she asks even though she doesn’t need to.
His shoulders lift slightly in a minute shrug. “I probably wouldn’t say no if I was offered something.”
She nods, and knows that he doesn’t ask her the same question because he knows he would get just the same answer.
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