Prison Break - Hemato-logy
Title: Hemato-logy
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael, Lincoln
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Summary: He assumes blood is naturally associated with Lincoln.
Notes: Thanks to be_cool_bec for her help with the translation ( original version). This was written with the prompt "blood".
(Read entry in light format)
Hematology - n. Greek: haima, haimato (blood) and logos (word, science)
He can’t ever remember the nightmare itself. He just knows Linc dies on the chair and there’s blood; which is absurd when you think about it. When he wakes up, he’s always terrified and he curls up for a few minutes, waiting for the images of the nightmare to go away. Then he smiles, partly because of the absurdity of the dream and partly in order to ward off the memory.
He can’t ever remember the nightmare itself, and it’s never really the same anyway, but it always begins the same, with Lincoln walking to the chair, and it always ends the same, with a pool of blood - red and brilliant and blinding when all the rest is a shade of grey. Everything between these moments changes and eludes him, he knows that for sure. Sometimes, he’s not unhappy with the notion, and sometimes he thinks he’d be able to get rid off the dream if he could remember it, analyze it, inspect it in full light. But in full light, his dreams escape him and vanish.
* *
He assumes blood is naturally associated with Lincoln. Michael still remembers his brother’s science teacher in junior high school meeting with their mother and pointing out, “You have this red-blooded temper, Lincoln. You’ve got to learn how to keep it check.” The next day, Lincoln has come back from school with a nasty black eye and, of course “You should see the other guy.” Yeah. So much for self control.
The very first time Linc comes back from school with bruises on his face (and this was way before junior high school and the smart but neglected advice from the science teacher), Michael is four or five. He watches with fascination as the blood drips from Lincoln’s brow. Discontent and worried, their mother packs them in the car and takes off for the ER. Linc quietly laughs all the way, says this is just some scratch and swears he’s not in pain. He nevertheless ends up with three stitches.
The first time Michael comes back from school with bruises on his face, Lincoln is about twelve years old. He watches as the blood dribbles from his baby brother’s upper lip and makes a crust on his chin. He becomes livid enough for Mom to order him to sit down and not to move. In Linc’s defense, the next time Michael is bleeding, Mom is not there and Lincoln hangs on: he cleans up his brother’s knee and puts a band aid on, then he gives him a light slap on the head and tells him to watch his step. (And now, Michael’s waiting in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, and he oh so much wishes he had followed Linc’s advice...)
After Mom’s funeral, Michael puts a knife blade in the flame of a candle, and then uses it to open a narrow line of skin in the palm of his hand. Linc stares at him, undecided and confused, furrowing his brow. “There’s no point, Michael, we’re already blood related.” Michael nonetheless gives him the knife. “They won’t separate us, will they?” With a sigh, Lincoln takes the knife and obediently cuts the skin in his own hand, all the while thinking Michael has seen way too many cowboys and Indians movies. Michael watches the blood drizzling from their cuts and melting. A perfectly rounded drop falls on his pants and vanishes in the black fabric. He’s noticed his brother hadn’t answered the question...
He’s in college when, one weekend, an argument between he and Linc goes that far - he has already forgotten the day after what it was about. But in the heat of the fight, he sees red and punches Lincoln in the face; there is a splosh and something gives under his fingers. He hasn’t hit hard enough to knock Linc over, and actually, it’s the surprise that makes Lincoln sway, more than the punch itself. His brother touches his face in disbelief, and Michael plainly understands the only reason why Linc doesn’t strike back is because he can’t really believe what has just happened. Michael feels blood on his knuckles and he lowers his eyes.
He won’t think about the tiny red holes with brown and purple and blue around them, on Linc’s arms when his brother has a brief but devastating fling with some hallucinogenic stuff.
The words ‘arrested for murder’ are all around him. The blood rushes to his head, pressurizes his temples and darkens his sight.
When Lincoln enters the visitation room, ankles and wrists shackled, Michael thinks about the quiet comfort of his apartment in town. His fingers curl up and tickle the tiny scar in his palm, and he wonders who, Linc or himself, actually let them take him and his brother apart. His stomach clenches with the idea of having Lincoln’s blood on his hands.
The blood drains from their faces when Lincoln is found guilty, and they’re both deathly pale. But three years later, the blood rushes fast and hard in Michael’s veins when he is sentenced.
In the yard of the jail, there’s no more than three feet between them, but the fence is impassable. Linc stares at Michael’s bloodied eyebrow, shakes his head and asks him what the hell he’s done. Michael answers “Nothing but what I had to.” He would swear Lincoln is a bit more livid than a man, even in such a situation, should be.
Still at Fox River, right after the riots, Linc is covered with blood. Not his, thank God. Michael needs some time to realize he doesn’t know where the blood has come from, and that he doesn’t really care.
They’re running, and running, and running. When Linc comes to a halt and leans into him to tell him something, he barely registers the words. His concentration is all devoted to Lincoln’s fingers on his wrist, and the way blood is rushing and pulsing in them.
Like some damn ER doctor, Michael cuts the leg of Lincoln’s pants, and his brother’s blood splashes all over his hands, thick and sticky. The smell is sweet and acrid altogether, slightly nauseating, and he can almost taste it on his tongue. Linc grits his teeth and swears he’s okay, he isn’t hurting that much, he... And Michael would almost believe him if Linc’s muscles didn’t tighten and jolt under his fingers, if Linc’s breath wasn’t so erratic.
* *
He can’t ever remember the nightmare itself. But when he wakes up, the image of the chair is grey and still, and the blood is red, hot and vibrant. He still doesn’t know what happens between these two moments, but he thinks the dream, maybe, is not that scary. Maybe it’s not a nightmare.
“Michael?” Lincoln’s voice is worried and insistent. “Michael?”
His brother lays a hand on his arm and shakes him.
He shifts in the car seat, opens his eyes and smiles when he can see the rough and scratched - the bleeding - skin on Lincoln’s knuckles.
-END-
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael, Lincoln
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Summary: He assumes blood is naturally associated with Lincoln.
Notes: Thanks to be_cool_bec for her help with the translation ( original version). This was written with the prompt "blood".
(Read entry in light format)
Hematology - n. Greek: haima, haimato (blood) and logos (word, science)
He can’t ever remember the nightmare itself. He just knows Linc dies on the chair and there’s blood; which is absurd when you think about it. When he wakes up, he’s always terrified and he curls up for a few minutes, waiting for the images of the nightmare to go away. Then he smiles, partly because of the absurdity of the dream and partly in order to ward off the memory.
He can’t ever remember the nightmare itself, and it’s never really the same anyway, but it always begins the same, with Lincoln walking to the chair, and it always ends the same, with a pool of blood - red and brilliant and blinding when all the rest is a shade of grey. Everything between these moments changes and eludes him, he knows that for sure. Sometimes, he’s not unhappy with the notion, and sometimes he thinks he’d be able to get rid off the dream if he could remember it, analyze it, inspect it in full light. But in full light, his dreams escape him and vanish.
* *
He assumes blood is naturally associated with Lincoln. Michael still remembers his brother’s science teacher in junior high school meeting with their mother and pointing out, “You have this red-blooded temper, Lincoln. You’ve got to learn how to keep it check.” The next day, Lincoln has come back from school with a nasty black eye and, of course “You should see the other guy.” Yeah. So much for self control.
The very first time Linc comes back from school with bruises on his face (and this was way before junior high school and the smart but neglected advice from the science teacher), Michael is four or five. He watches with fascination as the blood drips from Lincoln’s brow. Discontent and worried, their mother packs them in the car and takes off for the ER. Linc quietly laughs all the way, says this is just some scratch and swears he’s not in pain. He nevertheless ends up with three stitches.
The first time Michael comes back from school with bruises on his face, Lincoln is about twelve years old. He watches as the blood dribbles from his baby brother’s upper lip and makes a crust on his chin. He becomes livid enough for Mom to order him to sit down and not to move. In Linc’s defense, the next time Michael is bleeding, Mom is not there and Lincoln hangs on: he cleans up his brother’s knee and puts a band aid on, then he gives him a light slap on the head and tells him to watch his step. (And now, Michael’s waiting in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, and he oh so much wishes he had followed Linc’s advice...)
After Mom’s funeral, Michael puts a knife blade in the flame of a candle, and then uses it to open a narrow line of skin in the palm of his hand. Linc stares at him, undecided and confused, furrowing his brow. “There’s no point, Michael, we’re already blood related.” Michael nonetheless gives him the knife. “They won’t separate us, will they?” With a sigh, Lincoln takes the knife and obediently cuts the skin in his own hand, all the while thinking Michael has seen way too many cowboys and Indians movies. Michael watches the blood drizzling from their cuts and melting. A perfectly rounded drop falls on his pants and vanishes in the black fabric. He’s noticed his brother hadn’t answered the question...
He’s in college when, one weekend, an argument between he and Linc goes that far - he has already forgotten the day after what it was about. But in the heat of the fight, he sees red and punches Lincoln in the face; there is a splosh and something gives under his fingers. He hasn’t hit hard enough to knock Linc over, and actually, it’s the surprise that makes Lincoln sway, more than the punch itself. His brother touches his face in disbelief, and Michael plainly understands the only reason why Linc doesn’t strike back is because he can’t really believe what has just happened. Michael feels blood on his knuckles and he lowers his eyes.
He won’t think about the tiny red holes with brown and purple and blue around them, on Linc’s arms when his brother has a brief but devastating fling with some hallucinogenic stuff.
The words ‘arrested for murder’ are all around him. The blood rushes to his head, pressurizes his temples and darkens his sight.
When Lincoln enters the visitation room, ankles and wrists shackled, Michael thinks about the quiet comfort of his apartment in town. His fingers curl up and tickle the tiny scar in his palm, and he wonders who, Linc or himself, actually let them take him and his brother apart. His stomach clenches with the idea of having Lincoln’s blood on his hands.
The blood drains from their faces when Lincoln is found guilty, and they’re both deathly pale. But three years later, the blood rushes fast and hard in Michael’s veins when he is sentenced.
In the yard of the jail, there’s no more than three feet between them, but the fence is impassable. Linc stares at Michael’s bloodied eyebrow, shakes his head and asks him what the hell he’s done. Michael answers “Nothing but what I had to.” He would swear Lincoln is a bit more livid than a man, even in such a situation, should be.
Still at Fox River, right after the riots, Linc is covered with blood. Not his, thank God. Michael needs some time to realize he doesn’t know where the blood has come from, and that he doesn’t really care.
They’re running, and running, and running. When Linc comes to a halt and leans into him to tell him something, he barely registers the words. His concentration is all devoted to Lincoln’s fingers on his wrist, and the way blood is rushing and pulsing in them.
Like some damn ER doctor, Michael cuts the leg of Lincoln’s pants, and his brother’s blood splashes all over his hands, thick and sticky. The smell is sweet and acrid altogether, slightly nauseating, and he can almost taste it on his tongue. Linc grits his teeth and swears he’s okay, he isn’t hurting that much, he... And Michael would almost believe him if Linc’s muscles didn’t tighten and jolt under his fingers, if Linc’s breath wasn’t so erratic.
* *
He can’t ever remember the nightmare itself. But when he wakes up, the image of the chair is grey and still, and the blood is red, hot and vibrant. He still doesn’t know what happens between these two moments, but he thinks the dream, maybe, is not that scary. Maybe it’s not a nightmare.
“Michael?” Lincoln’s voice is worried and insistent. “Michael?”
His brother lays a hand on his arm and shakes him.
He shifts in the car seat, opens his eyes and smiles when he can see the rough and scratched - the bleeding - skin on Lincoln’s knuckles.
-END-