T-bag waited, holding the jagged knife in his hand. Caressing it. That boy was going to pay. And T-bag was going to enjoy every last second of it.

Abruzzi stood in front of him, watching him fondle the knife. He wondered what was going through the Sicilian's head. Not that it mattered. Abruzzi would get what he wanted, T-bag would get what was his, by right, and Scofield…well, Scofield would get what he deserved.

The door crashed open suddenly, Scofield's eyes were bright with fear, and his body was tense, shoulders hunched nearly to his ears, arms clenched to his sides in terror. That beautiful, lean body…what T-bag would do to that body. He flicked his tongue over his lips, the heady aphrodisiac of fear tingling in his veins.

Abruzzi spoke first, just as they'd planned. "Easy now, Fish. Don't make this any harder than it needs to be." He turned slowly to face Scofield. "It's time we came to an arrangement, don't you think?"

T-bag took his cue, stepping out from behind Abruzzi. He knew his intentions were clear enough; if even half the lust he felt was displayed on his body, Scofield knew what was about to happen. He saw Scofield's eyes narrow, like he was trying to look tough, rather than frightened. It didn't work. T-bag let a lazy smile drift over his mouth.

"You know, I was thinking I was gonna gut you bow to stern as soon as I laid eyes on you," T-bag drawled, slowly sauntering forward, enjoying the fear in the man's eyes. Somehow, those beautiful blue eyes stayed on his. He stopped mere inches from his face. Scofield didn't flinch; T-bag wondered how much self-control it took for this boy to just stay still. "But alackaday, you look so pretty when you're scared, don't you?"

Then his eyes dropped down, just for a second. T-bag felt a jolt of victory, looking at the shadows those long, pretty lashes cast against his cheeks. He wanted to touch that face suddenly, that pretty face. The eyes snapped back onto his, and he smirked, turning away to face Abruzzi.

"Maybe we ought to get the love out of the way before we move on to the hate," T-bag said, feeling Scofield's tension behind him. He turned back to face him. "What do you say to that, Pretty? Hm?" He made a kissing noise and licked his lips, and saw a flash of revulsion mix with the terror in those eyes. Beautiful. He took a step backwards, not wanting to miss anything those eyes were giving him. "Yeah."

"Yeah, maybe it's time I lit up that leather," T-bag said, slapping down the knife, "once and for—ah!"

T-bag didn't see Abruzzi's elbow. He did see Pretty's reaction, though. The boy threw his hands up as if to shield his face, wincing and jerking away. Abruzzi punched T-bag in the stomach, driving the breath out of him, but T-bag barely felt the pain. He only had eyes for Pretty.

That reaction—that was not the reaction of a hardened man, as those multiple tattoos and that usually unshakeable demeanor suggested. That was the reaction of a boy. A frightened boy, who's been beaten, whose body reacts to violent stimuli before his brain can interfere. So Pretty was no stranger to violence then? T-bag tucked that thought into the back of his mind for later.

Two other men started beating him, but he managed to watch Abruzzi as he grabbed Pretty possessively, his fingers curled around the nape of the boy's neck, one thumb in front of his ear. It was an intimate touch, a lover's touch, and T-bag felt a flame of anger and jealousy in his belly, along with the vicious kicks these men were delivering. That should be his hand. Their foreheads were mere inches apart, and T-bag could still see the terror in Pretty's lovely, blue eyes.

But T-bag had already known Abruzzi's tastes weren't to fish, not even fish as pretty as this one. No. Pretty would be his. He would have the pleasure of taking him, of forcing his submission, of seeing the terror, the pain, the shame in those blue eyes. He would be the one to lick salty tears off of those cheeks and see the utter brokenness he'd caused. His imagination supplied the details, blocking the pain of the kicks and the blows Abruzzi's thugs were delivering.

Pretty would be his. It was his last thought before a vicious kick to the head sent him into unconsciousness.