Prison Break - On the Fence
Title: On the Fence ( French version)
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sucre, underlying Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 735
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: For that, Lincoln would almost thank Sucre. Or you know, punch him in the face. Lincoln hasn’t quite made up his mind about that yet.
Author’s Note: Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
Written based on a prompt by camille-miko: Lincoln’s reaction - who never gave in to his attraction for Michael - to Michael and Sucre’s relationship.
Something is going on. Lincoln becomes aware of that a few hours after Michael and he buried their father.
‘Something’ is a neutral, non descriptive way to set out the situation. Lincoln doesn’t really want to imagine how far things might have gone, but he has a pretty good idea. Michael may be aloof and unreadable to anyone else, but he can’t fool him. Lincoln knows those looks, that way to talk, to brush without ever actually touching, that half-smile. They were aimed at him for years. Sometimes still are. It never went further than slightly too tight embraces, and on a couple of occasions, an inadvertent kiss - or not - skimming over the corner of his mouth. He never let the situation spin out of control; he wants to believe that, despite everything, Michael wouldn’t have indulged either if Lincoln had left him the chance to. In their own peculiar way, they kept it reasonable. It doesn’t make anything easier today.
He’s left Michael alone in the car with Sucre for five minutes. When he comes back, both men are quiet, Sucre staring at a remote, imaginary point, Michael focused on the piece of paper he’s folding and re-folding. They’re faintly out of breath, as though they had broken into a run, rather than Lincoln, Sucre’s eyes a bit too shiny, Michael’s cheeks and neck a bit too red, the tension palpable between them.
OK. Lincoln sits behind the wheel and grips it, forcing himself to breathe slowly. OK.
He would almost thank Sucre because, in spite of his red cheeks and sad eyes, Michael displays some serenity. Because for the first time, the too tight bond between Michael and Lincoln is loosening up and leaving room for someone else, making their relationship a bit more sane. A bit less extravagant, anyway. For that, Lincoln would almost thank Sucre. Or you know, punch him in the face. Lincoln hasn’t quite made up his mind about that yet.
He would almost be envious of Sucre for being allowed to touch, kiss, caress Michael; for being allowed to want him without feeling guilty. Lincoln would bet that Sucre does feel guilty, but the guy has really no idea of what true guilt is - the kind of shame that keeps you awake for hours and bends you over the toilets in the wee hours of the morning, a sour taste in your mouth. He would almost be envious of Sucre, but he’s not quite there because between crazy passion and brotherly affection, Lincoln has chosen brotherly affection. He’s almost positive that there still is a hint of passion and that he gets, actually, the long end of the stick.
He would almost warn Sucre, would take him aside and let him know in a few words that if, one way or another, if Michael is hurt because of Sucre, then Lincoln will take the necessary corrective measures. Michael has already been hurt enough. But Sucre barely dares meet Lincoln’s eyes. Either he’s afraid of his reaction if Lincoln knows about how far things are going on with Michael, or he already knows what Lincoln would do.
“You going to start driving, Linc?”
Michael’s hand negligently grazes his arm, burning him through the fabric of his sleeve. He pictures that hand on Sucre’s skin, sliding and stroking; he pictures Sucre’s hands on Michael, and he wants to hit something or someone. Sucre probably, Michael maybe. He also wants to sigh in relief and repeat like a mantra that it’s better like that.
His hands still clutching the wheel, he slowly turns his head and stares at his brother. He’s curious to know what Sucre would do if Lincoln leant in and kissed Michael, here, now, in front of him. He wonders how Michael would react. He won’t do that because he doesn’t want to screw up everything for Michael, expose him to Sucre’s questions and interrogations. And he doesn’t want to know if Sucre is a second choice for Michael, a choice he made for lack of another option. It wouldn’t be fair for Sucre, it wouldn’t be fair for Michael, it wouldn’t be fair for himself.
There is tenderness, a dash of amusement and apologies in the way Michael gazes at him. And also, despite the situation, a little glee. Lincoln sighs. While pondering whether he should shake Sucre’s hand for that or kick his ass, he pulls away and drives off.
* *
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Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sucre, underlying Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 735
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: For that, Lincoln would almost thank Sucre. Or you know, punch him in the face. Lincoln hasn’t quite made up his mind about that yet.
Author’s Note: Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
Written based on a prompt by camille-miko: Lincoln’s reaction - who never gave in to his attraction for Michael - to Michael and Sucre’s relationship.
Something is going on. Lincoln becomes aware of that a few hours after Michael and he buried their father.
‘Something’ is a neutral, non descriptive way to set out the situation. Lincoln doesn’t really want to imagine how far things might have gone, but he has a pretty good idea. Michael may be aloof and unreadable to anyone else, but he can’t fool him. Lincoln knows those looks, that way to talk, to brush without ever actually touching, that half-smile. They were aimed at him for years. Sometimes still are. It never went further than slightly too tight embraces, and on a couple of occasions, an inadvertent kiss - or not - skimming over the corner of his mouth. He never let the situation spin out of control; he wants to believe that, despite everything, Michael wouldn’t have indulged either if Lincoln had left him the chance to. In their own peculiar way, they kept it reasonable. It doesn’t make anything easier today.
He’s left Michael alone in the car with Sucre for five minutes. When he comes back, both men are quiet, Sucre staring at a remote, imaginary point, Michael focused on the piece of paper he’s folding and re-folding. They’re faintly out of breath, as though they had broken into a run, rather than Lincoln, Sucre’s eyes a bit too shiny, Michael’s cheeks and neck a bit too red, the tension palpable between them.
OK. Lincoln sits behind the wheel and grips it, forcing himself to breathe slowly. OK.
He would almost thank Sucre because, in spite of his red cheeks and sad eyes, Michael displays some serenity. Because for the first time, the too tight bond between Michael and Lincoln is loosening up and leaving room for someone else, making their relationship a bit more sane. A bit less extravagant, anyway. For that, Lincoln would almost thank Sucre. Or you know, punch him in the face. Lincoln hasn’t quite made up his mind about that yet.
He would almost be envious of Sucre for being allowed to touch, kiss, caress Michael; for being allowed to want him without feeling guilty. Lincoln would bet that Sucre does feel guilty, but the guy has really no idea of what true guilt is - the kind of shame that keeps you awake for hours and bends you over the toilets in the wee hours of the morning, a sour taste in your mouth. He would almost be envious of Sucre, but he’s not quite there because between crazy passion and brotherly affection, Lincoln has chosen brotherly affection. He’s almost positive that there still is a hint of passion and that he gets, actually, the long end of the stick.
He would almost warn Sucre, would take him aside and let him know in a few words that if, one way or another, if Michael is hurt because of Sucre, then Lincoln will take the necessary corrective measures. Michael has already been hurt enough. But Sucre barely dares meet Lincoln’s eyes. Either he’s afraid of his reaction if Lincoln knows about how far things are going on with Michael, or he already knows what Lincoln would do.
“You going to start driving, Linc?”
Michael’s hand negligently grazes his arm, burning him through the fabric of his sleeve. He pictures that hand on Sucre’s skin, sliding and stroking; he pictures Sucre’s hands on Michael, and he wants to hit something or someone. Sucre probably, Michael maybe. He also wants to sigh in relief and repeat like a mantra that it’s better like that.
His hands still clutching the wheel, he slowly turns his head and stares at his brother. He’s curious to know what Sucre would do if Lincoln leant in and kissed Michael, here, now, in front of him. He wonders how Michael would react. He won’t do that because he doesn’t want to screw up everything for Michael, expose him to Sucre’s questions and interrogations. And he doesn’t want to know if Sucre is a second choice for Michael, a choice he made for lack of another option. It wouldn’t be fair for Sucre, it wouldn’t be fair for Michael, it wouldn’t be fair for himself.
There is tenderness, a dash of amusement and apologies in the way Michael gazes at him. And also, despite the situation, a little glee. Lincoln sighs. While pondering whether he should shake Sucre’s hand for that or kick his ass, he pulls away and drives off.
* *
Fics love to be commented.