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22 March 2007 @ 08:03 pm
Mama's Boy (1/1)  
Title: Mama's Boy
Fandom: Prison Break
Character/Pairing: Brad Bellick and his dear mother with a brief mention of Sara Tancredi
Word Count: 1,347
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 1.16, "Brother's Keeper"
Summary: It's not always easy being mama's little boy. Especially when you're over thirty.
Author's Note: Prison Break and its characters have been manipulated here without the knowledge or consent of 20th Century FOX Television. I am not affiliated with the show, its production companies or cast members and no copyright infringement is intended.



"Bradley, I told you to hold still."

Brad flinches again. This time it has less to do with the scissors his mother is wielding and more to do with the reflection of himself as he lifts the handheld mirror to his face. He angles the glass surface so that he can see the top of his head and is dismayed to find that Eloise "Edward Scissorhands" Bellick is cutting his hair entirely too short. Again.

The top of his skull is round - oh-so-round - and it protrudes through the feather-light wisps of hair that seem to be sticking up like the down on a disheveled baby bird. The skin is kissed with color from just enough over-exposure to sunlight that it seems to shine like the stretched rubber of a red helium balloon. The sheen and the hue becomes more noticeable the more his mother "trims" from the crop of thin hair.

Brad clenches his jaw, feels the muscles in his cheeks tick, grinds his teeth.

"Ma..."

Eloise seems to be oblivious to everything but the rhythmic snipping sound made each time the metal blades of the scissors close. That is, each time they close and Brad sees more of the little length of hair that she has afforded him thus far dropping onto the fuzzy peach towel draped around his shoulders.

He decides to try again, becoming increasingly concerned.

"Ma?"

"Not now, Bradley. I'm trying to concentrate." Snip, snip - a pause to survey her handiwork - snip! "You wouldn't want me to give you a lopsided haircut, would you?"

Eloise bustles from one of Brad's sides to the other, her chin lowered and her gaze critical.

Maybe she's finally finished.

But Eloise lifts the scissors again - this time to the back of his head, just above the nape of his neck - and Brad realizes he has delved into wishful thinking.

Begrudgingly, Brad decides he should have made an appointment at a salon this time. Or, better yet, a barber. One of the many barbers in Chicago. A barber shop frequented by chauvinistic men who would be happy to regale him with inappropriate jokes and point out the fake bake tans and silicone-inflated breasts of women passing by on the sidewalk outside of the building. A barber shop with a real barber who would talk football with him and give him a complimentary old-fashioned shave that would leave his face smoother than a newborn baby's ass. Instead...

Instead he has his mother.

In the mirror that he's still holding, Brad sees the steely focus and determination in his mother's pale hazel eyes - more focus and determination than a person should ever have to conjure to give a trim to a man with a hairline that has receded so much that its practically off the map entirely. Brad sometimes can't figure out where his forehead ends and his scalp begins.

He sinks a bit lower in the chair situated in the middle of the kitchen, feeling increasingly disgruntled, but shoots back up into a straightened posture when his mother's free hand strikes the back of his head just enough to create a sound that stings more than the contact.

"Sit up, Bradley, I'm not done...and how many times do I have to tell you not to slouch? It's bad for your back." Eloise makes a clucking sound of disapproval in the back of her throat and finally places the scissors down on the table as she begins to tunnel her fingers through what hair has survived the massacre.

"Come on, Ma, are you done?" If Brad sounds a bit helpless, it is because he feels that way and his tone is almost a whine; a plea. "I told you I wanted a trim. If I'd wanted all of my hair to be gone I woulda shaved it!"

"Nonsense, absolute nonsense. You're such a handsome boy, Bradley, and it pays to put your best foot forward."

Brad cuts his gaze down to the rounded toes of his boots inquisitively and is unable to help the way his eyes roll upward into their sockets in annoyance. After a moment, though, he looks back into the mirror and is confronted by the patch of hair directly on top of his head that is all but gone.

"I'm bald, Ma. Bald! I told you not to go crazy!"

Eloise scoffs. She uses meddlesome motherly fingers to brush at stray hairs that have fallen onto Brad's cheeks and temples during the cut and ignores Brad as he sneezes. "Just as well. No son of mine is going to have a comb-over."

"I don't have a goddamn comb-over!"

"Language, Bradley." His mother's tone is momentarily frozen by disparagement and then a second later she continues and is back to her maternal croon. "It's not a comb-over yet but it's headed that way and there is nothing wrong with thinning hair. Nor greying hair. It's distinguished, it's manly! It takes a sweet face to pull off."

Her smile is almost a simper as she chucks him on the chin and then pinches his cheek, as if one embarrassing gesture at a time isn't enough.

Brad turns his head away from his mother and casts his attention straight ahead at the framed version of his gap-toothed fifth grade picture where it hangs on the wall. Somebody shoot me.

"Don't be so irritable! You're like some persnickety old lady. No wonder you have such a hard time meeting suitable women. It has nothing to do with your comb-over. It's all your attitude."

Brad's eyes widen and for a moment he feels as though his own kin has grabbed him by the balls.

"There are women, Ma, let me alone. Just not the right one."

"How about that, uh...that girl from your group? Sara, is it? You don't talk to her like you talk to me, do you? You'll scare her off before you ever have a chance!"

Eloise's mind grip on his testicles constricts and she is no longer just squashing his masculine pride, but is coming damn near to castrating him completely.

"Sara." Brad manages to agree, his tone a bit weak as his mind wanders to the beautiful redheaded minx who has managed to turn down more of his dinner offers than any other female he's known in his entire life.

One date is all he wants. One dinner.

Brad's mouth goes dry and he is no longer aware of his mother and her chattering as he finds Sara's face in his mind's eye. The dimples that form in her cheeks when she smiles, the slender neck, the legs that won't quit.

His own legs quiver, the muscles stringing his inner thighs becoming tense.

Maybe he should try for Red Lobster again.

He could buy her the best shellfish on the menu. Or perhaps immediately offer her the live Maine lobster, let her choose her own to be served whole in its most impressive state.

Brad envisions Sara seated across a corner booth from him, the dim overhead lights pooling gold in her eyes and drawn butter glistening on her lower lip as she apologizes for not taking him up on his offer earlier.

He squeezes his legs together, feels a shudder racing down his spine and a tightening in his groin. Coming out of his reverie, Brad's gaze flickers rapidly about the kitchen, settling first on his mother's back where she stands wiping the scissors off at the counter, then at the hallway - his escape route.

If he doesn't sneak off now, she'll ensnare him with unwanted conversation yet again. I have got to get my own place.

"Hey, uh...t-hanks for the haircut, Ma."

Brad is on his feet before Eloise can reply, his gait a bit awkward - more like an uncomfortable waddle - as he scurries down the hallway to the safe haven that is his bedroom, cringing as he hears his mother's, "Any time, sweet pea!" coming from over his shoulder.

It is times like these where it doesn't pay to be a mama's boy.
 
 
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