Fic: Lincoln's Bid for Sainthood
Jan. 10th, 2007 12:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artTitle: Lincoln's Bid for Sainthood
Characters: Michael, Lincoln, LJ
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: G is for Gen :O
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,473
Disclaimer: Do I look like I'm making money from this? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Notes: Written for the lovelyhalfshellvenus for the PB fic exchange. Prompt was Gen, Lincoln saying "I can't build my life around being grateful". A little bit cracky with a serious ending :D
Summary: Post-escape; Lincoln's acting abnormally and Michael wants to know why.
Everything starts when things wind down.
Or at least, Michael starts to notice it when things have calmed down, when Lincoln, Michael, and LJ are brushing up on Spanish instead of looking over their shoulders, when they’re two steps ahead of the game, no longer dreaming of bondage but palm trees and beaches.
It first starts when Michael gets his burger knocked out of his hands by a flyby child.
“Fuck,” he says, staring down at the half-eaten hamburger, encrusted in dirt with ketchup and mustard, morbidly splattered out like fast food entrails.
“Here, have mine,” Lincoln says, handing over his still-unwrapped cheeseburger. Michael stares back in intrepid disbelief. “I’m not that hungry, the fries are enough,” Lincoln insists as his son blithely snacks on said french fries.
“Well…okay,” Michael says cautiously, taking the proffered food. If this was a decade ago, his brother would’ve just laughed and ground the dropped burger into the dirt. Must be getting soft in his old age.
The second time it happens, LJ is pumping gas and Michael is in the passenger seat, muttering something about “want some fucking Corn Nuts” and “have to stick to the budget” when Lincoln decisively gets out of the car and sidles into the convenience shop, brother and son staring after him in wide-eyed panic. Michael strains to watch the scene inside the convenience store, sharpening his senses for any sign of trouble, but the glare of the glass door is blocking off any visibility. Michael is about to go into the driver seat and start the engine for their imminent getaway but Lincoln only pushes the door open, strolls towards the car and lets himself in. He hands Michael a pack of ranch-flavored Corn Nuts, who stares down at the offending item.
“What is this? How did you get this?”
“Just eat it.” A pause. “I didn’t steal it, okay? I just asked nicely,” Lincoln explained.
“Nice, Dad,” LJ says, sliding into the backseat. “Except she could’ve been my sister.”
Lincoln only laughs. When they’ve pulled out of the station and are a good twenty miles away, Michael rips opens his bag of Corn Nuts. Refuses to acknowledge that they taste really fucking good.
-----
The third time it happens, Michael notices it with razor-sharp attention. His brother had just let him win at poker. His brother, King of Competition, ruler of performing all things underhanded and borderline illegal just to win at cards, win at chess (at which he had stopped playing by the time Michael was twelve years old and able to wipe the board with just his pawns), win babes or anything, just… Lincoln had just thrown the poker game.
“Okay, what is up with you?” Michael throws his hand onto the table, hearts and spades fluttering into a fan.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lincoln says, slight twitch gracing the corner of his mouth.
“Dad, you just threw the game,” LJ helpfully adds, leaning back in his chair and propping his knees up against the small, motel table.
“Can’t a guy just fucking lose in peace?” Lincoln throws his cards onto the table and storms into the bathroom. The sound of running water turns on.
“Dammit, I wanted to shower,” LJ complains.
-----
The next time after that, when Lincoln offers to get out of the car and ask for directions because they’re shamelessly lost (simple enough but when you’re ex-cons on the run, it’s a pretty big gesture), Michael starts keeping track.
Michael keeps track when Lincoln gives him the motel bed without the broken springs.
Keeps track when Lincoln puts the extra ham in Michael’s sandwich.
Keeps track when Lincoln offers to do their laundry, goes out to get groceries, showers last and gets the tepid water.
When the twenty-seventh good deed hits, Michael has had it. He needs to find out exactly What the Fuck is Up. Even LJ’s noticed his father’s sudden bid for sainthood, though he is much more laidback (eager) about it all.
It is the fucking twenty-seventh good deed in all of two weeks and Michael feels something in him snap. “You just handed me the remote controller,” he barks, spitting the words out like Lincoln had just deliberately shot him in the arm with a .45.
Lincoln looks at Michael like he’s crazy. “You wanted it.”
“It was a test, Linc. It was a test, and you just failed.”
“Uncle Mike, shut up. I like him like this,” LJ says, reaching for the remote and switching to MTV.
“No, I’m not going to shut up. What he hell is going on, Linc!?”
“Can’t a guy treat his brother nice anymore? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Yeah a guy can, but not when he’s you. You’re supposed to hog all the hot water, make me fold the laundry, throw fists when I drink your soda. But suddenly you’re not, you’re not even you anymore, and I don’t know what’s going on!!”
LJ turns up the volume, hoping his uncle will give up soon. He’s enjoying his father’s sudden bout of niceness, especially when it means he doesn’t have to watch Colombo reruns anymore. Unfortunately, Michael only shoots his nephew an irritated look and gets up from the bed, dragging his older brother into the bathroom. Throws him inside, follows him in, and shuts the door with a little more force than necessary.
“Linc, talk to me.”
Lincoln looks ready to fight for a second, eyes flashing at being boxed in and yelled at like a little kid. But then his resolve gives, he puts down the toilet seat cover and sits on it resignedly.
“Mikey,” he starts slowly. Tries to find the right words.
Michael sits down on the edge of the bathtub, facing but not directly in front of his brother.
Lincoln only looks at his hands, trying not to notice the greenish blue of Michael’s tattoo that peeks out from the cuffs of his long sleeves. Tries not to think about Michael’s tattoo that has flashed at him every day for the past four months, reminding him of exactly what his little brother has sacrificed just so Lincoln could be on this earth, breathing and shitting and whatever else it is that he does. Lincoln looks at his hands and tries not to think about how Michael could still be in his penthouse apartment, wheeling and dealing and wearing T-shirts whenever he pleased, warm tan stretching over his arms and back and chest in a beautiful, wide plain of unmarred skin.
But it isn’t like that, Michael’s life isn’t picture-perfect like that anymore; his skin is as marked as his name, and the least Lincoln can do is not be an asshole about it.
“I… I can’t build my life around being grateful,” Lincoln finally gets out. “If I just… if I can help you out, you know, if I do this long enough… then maybe I can make it up to you.”
Michael fixes his gaze on Lincoln’s face, their eyes meeting and holding. “Is that what this is about?”
No answer, just Lincoln breaking eye contact, head ducking back down in confirmation.
“Lincoln, I’ve already built my own life being grateful to you,” Michael gently says. Hell, you fucking raised me when you were LJ’s age, gave up your own life and dreams for me so I could grow up to be a twenty-year old snob with a superiority complex, Michael thinks. He thinks of all the things he can say, all the reasons for why a stupid tattoo and yes, maybe a missing toe and chunk of flesh, is not really all that much. But he thinks too much and it isn’t long before Michael realizes that none of it would translate if actually spoken.
So instead, he just puts his hand on his older brother’s denim-clad knee. Lincoln looks up.
“Your life for mine. We’ll just call it even, yeah?”
Lincoln searches his brother’s face, looking for any signs of pity or deceit but all he can see is what’s undoubtedly mirrored in his own face. Gratefulness, understanding, love.
“…Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Michael pulls his hand back and the brothers get up, leaving the small bathroom together.
“Uh oh,” LJ says as he looks up from the music video playing on the TV. “Dad—“
Lincoln snatches the black, ancient-looking controller from his son’s loose grip and promptly switches it.
“Respect your elders,” is all Lincoln says, and LJ turns around to glare at his uncle. Michael smiles wickedly in return and settles on the bed next to his brother, urging him to switch the channel to CNN with hard nudges and futile swipes at the remote, at which LJ simply rolls his eyes and heads to the bathroom to take the first hot shower.
Characters: Michael, Lincoln, LJ
Author:
aeroport_artRating: G is for Gen :O
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,473
Disclaimer: Do I look like I'm making money from this? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Notes: Written for the lovely
halfshellvenus for the PB fic exchange. Prompt was Gen, Lincoln saying "I can't build my life around being grateful". A little bit cracky with a serious ending :DSummary: Post-escape; Lincoln's acting abnormally and Michael wants to know why.
Everything starts when things wind down.
Or at least, Michael starts to notice it when things have calmed down, when Lincoln, Michael, and LJ are brushing up on Spanish instead of looking over their shoulders, when they’re two steps ahead of the game, no longer dreaming of bondage but palm trees and beaches.
It first starts when Michael gets his burger knocked out of his hands by a flyby child.
“Fuck,” he says, staring down at the half-eaten hamburger, encrusted in dirt with ketchup and mustard, morbidly splattered out like fast food entrails.
“Here, have mine,” Lincoln says, handing over his still-unwrapped cheeseburger. Michael stares back in intrepid disbelief. “I’m not that hungry, the fries are enough,” Lincoln insists as his son blithely snacks on said french fries.
“Well…okay,” Michael says cautiously, taking the proffered food. If this was a decade ago, his brother would’ve just laughed and ground the dropped burger into the dirt. Must be getting soft in his old age.
The second time it happens, LJ is pumping gas and Michael is in the passenger seat, muttering something about “want some fucking Corn Nuts” and “have to stick to the budget” when Lincoln decisively gets out of the car and sidles into the convenience shop, brother and son staring after him in wide-eyed panic. Michael strains to watch the scene inside the convenience store, sharpening his senses for any sign of trouble, but the glare of the glass door is blocking off any visibility. Michael is about to go into the driver seat and start the engine for their imminent getaway but Lincoln only pushes the door open, strolls towards the car and lets himself in. He hands Michael a pack of ranch-flavored Corn Nuts, who stares down at the offending item.
“What is this? How did you get this?”
“Just eat it.” A pause. “I didn’t steal it, okay? I just asked nicely,” Lincoln explained.
“Nice, Dad,” LJ says, sliding into the backseat. “Except she could’ve been my sister.”
Lincoln only laughs. When they’ve pulled out of the station and are a good twenty miles away, Michael rips opens his bag of Corn Nuts. Refuses to acknowledge that they taste really fucking good.
-----
The third time it happens, Michael notices it with razor-sharp attention. His brother had just let him win at poker. His brother, King of Competition, ruler of performing all things underhanded and borderline illegal just to win at cards, win at chess (at which he had stopped playing by the time Michael was twelve years old and able to wipe the board with just his pawns), win babes or anything, just… Lincoln had just thrown the poker game.
“Okay, what is up with you?” Michael throws his hand onto the table, hearts and spades fluttering into a fan.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lincoln says, slight twitch gracing the corner of his mouth.
“Dad, you just threw the game,” LJ helpfully adds, leaning back in his chair and propping his knees up against the small, motel table.
“Can’t a guy just fucking lose in peace?” Lincoln throws his cards onto the table and storms into the bathroom. The sound of running water turns on.
“Dammit, I wanted to shower,” LJ complains.
-----
The next time after that, when Lincoln offers to get out of the car and ask for directions because they’re shamelessly lost (simple enough but when you’re ex-cons on the run, it’s a pretty big gesture), Michael starts keeping track.
Michael keeps track when Lincoln gives him the motel bed without the broken springs.
Keeps track when Lincoln puts the extra ham in Michael’s sandwich.
Keeps track when Lincoln offers to do their laundry, goes out to get groceries, showers last and gets the tepid water.
When the twenty-seventh good deed hits, Michael has had it. He needs to find out exactly What the Fuck is Up. Even LJ’s noticed his father’s sudden bid for sainthood, though he is much more laidback (eager) about it all.
It is the fucking twenty-seventh good deed in all of two weeks and Michael feels something in him snap. “You just handed me the remote controller,” he barks, spitting the words out like Lincoln had just deliberately shot him in the arm with a .45.
Lincoln looks at Michael like he’s crazy. “You wanted it.”
“It was a test, Linc. It was a test, and you just failed.”
“Uncle Mike, shut up. I like him like this,” LJ says, reaching for the remote and switching to MTV.
“No, I’m not going to shut up. What he hell is going on, Linc!?”
“Can’t a guy treat his brother nice anymore? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Yeah a guy can, but not when he’s you. You’re supposed to hog all the hot water, make me fold the laundry, throw fists when I drink your soda. But suddenly you’re not, you’re not even you anymore, and I don’t know what’s going on!!”
LJ turns up the volume, hoping his uncle will give up soon. He’s enjoying his father’s sudden bout of niceness, especially when it means he doesn’t have to watch Colombo reruns anymore. Unfortunately, Michael only shoots his nephew an irritated look and gets up from the bed, dragging his older brother into the bathroom. Throws him inside, follows him in, and shuts the door with a little more force than necessary.
“Linc, talk to me.”
Lincoln looks ready to fight for a second, eyes flashing at being boxed in and yelled at like a little kid. But then his resolve gives, he puts down the toilet seat cover and sits on it resignedly.
“Mikey,” he starts slowly. Tries to find the right words.
Michael sits down on the edge of the bathtub, facing but not directly in front of his brother.
Lincoln only looks at his hands, trying not to notice the greenish blue of Michael’s tattoo that peeks out from the cuffs of his long sleeves. Tries not to think about Michael’s tattoo that has flashed at him every day for the past four months, reminding him of exactly what his little brother has sacrificed just so Lincoln could be on this earth, breathing and shitting and whatever else it is that he does. Lincoln looks at his hands and tries not to think about how Michael could still be in his penthouse apartment, wheeling and dealing and wearing T-shirts whenever he pleased, warm tan stretching over his arms and back and chest in a beautiful, wide plain of unmarred skin.
But it isn’t like that, Michael’s life isn’t picture-perfect like that anymore; his skin is as marked as his name, and the least Lincoln can do is not be an asshole about it.
“I… I can’t build my life around being grateful,” Lincoln finally gets out. “If I just… if I can help you out, you know, if I do this long enough… then maybe I can make it up to you.”
Michael fixes his gaze on Lincoln’s face, their eyes meeting and holding. “Is that what this is about?”
No answer, just Lincoln breaking eye contact, head ducking back down in confirmation.
“Lincoln, I’ve already built my own life being grateful to you,” Michael gently says. Hell, you fucking raised me when you were LJ’s age, gave up your own life and dreams for me so I could grow up to be a twenty-year old snob with a superiority complex, Michael thinks. He thinks of all the things he can say, all the reasons for why a stupid tattoo and yes, maybe a missing toe and chunk of flesh, is not really all that much. But he thinks too much and it isn’t long before Michael realizes that none of it would translate if actually spoken.
So instead, he just puts his hand on his older brother’s denim-clad knee. Lincoln looks up.
“Your life for mine. We’ll just call it even, yeah?”
Lincoln searches his brother’s face, looking for any signs of pity or deceit but all he can see is what’s undoubtedly mirrored in his own face. Gratefulness, understanding, love.
“…Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Michael pulls his hand back and the brothers get up, leaving the small bathroom together.
“Uh oh,” LJ says as he looks up from the music video playing on the TV. “Dad—“
Lincoln snatches the black, ancient-looking controller from his son’s loose grip and promptly switches it.
“Respect your elders,” is all Lincoln says, and LJ turns around to glare at his uncle. Michael smiles wickedly in return and settles on the bed next to his brother, urging him to switch the channel to CNN with hard nudges and futile swipes at the remote, at which LJ simply rolls his eyes and heads to the bathroom to take the first hot shower.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-01-11 12:21 pm (UTC)The link to this fic at
no subject
Date: 2007-01-12 08:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-16 12:51 am (UTC)You've got a good dynamic here. I can totally imagine Linc trying so hard to be good and sweet in such an unnatural way and how that could fuck up the brothers' relationship. I like how you resolved it here with few words sopken but many felt.
So, like, any more M/L slash on the horizon? Just askin'...
no subject
Date: 2007-01-16 01:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-16 02:06 am (UTC)Anyway, I'm very happy to hear that you signed up. It's comforting to know that there'll be at least one more M/L-ish story from you. :)
Just out of curiosity, did you abandon those other projects you were talking about not so long ago?
Oh, and that was supposed to be "spoken". Right. That's why there's spell-check.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-16 04:12 am (UTC)I'm not really sure if I've abandoned the projects. I started writing the high school AU and I still really adore the storyline, but it feels like pulling teeth to get any words out. I'm just going to put it on hiatus for now but like I said, we'll see.