Fic - Everything Changes, Everything Falls Apart (Lincoln, Michael) PG-13, 1/1
Title: Everything Changes, Everything Falls Apart
Author: Abvj
Summary: In the end, nothing is as it was.
Rating: PG-13, language
Spoilers: General Season one and Season Two.
Word Count: 1,990
Author's Notes: Written for the PB fic exchange per the request of stealmy_kiss for the beta.
A million years ago (or at least that’s what it feels like) there had been another funeral in another place, and the heavy feeling Michael had carried around with him in his heart for weeks afterwards was not at all comparable to the one he feels now. What he feels now is less than that, more than that in some ways. The sadness isn’t comparable, but it’s there, and it surprises him. He shouldn’t be sad, he shouldn’t even be upset. He should be angry, ridiculously, mind-numbing, blindingly angry.
But Michael’s Michael and even with the amount of idiosyncrasy this moment holds, he wouldn’t be Michael if he just felt nothing.
That tightening in his chest that he’s carried with him since the day this all began -- months ago, a lifetime ago -- grabs a hold of him like a vice and the ability to breathe becomes harder and harder. Michael honestly doesn’t think it will ever let go.
He looks up, sweat beading around his forehead and mixing with the essence of tears he refuses to admit are even threatening to fall, and Michael remembers the water and Lincoln’s hand on his shoulder, his voice steady and reassuring, holding an amount of control that still astounds him to this day saying, “have a little faith.”
He looks at Lincoln then and Lincoln looks at him, briefly, fleetingly, and there is a look, a broken wounded look shared between the two that lasts only a mere moment because almost a split second afterwards Lincoln returns to the task at hand with an amazing amount of motivation.
Michael’s chest tightens, and he wonders, not for the first time, if this is honestly worth it. If the death and the running and the missing toes and scars that will never truly fade outweigh the eventual outcome.
The thought passes in a blink of an eye, and Michael takes his older brother’s lead like the good little brother he is and pushes his shovel in to the dirt beneath his shoes.
Together, they dig their father’s grave.
****
When they were younger, after their mother died and he was forced to grow up way too quickly into something he never wanted to be, he used to take care of Michael. Lincoln used to check his homework even though he really wasn‘t able to tell whether it was right or not, and do his laundry, and make his bed. He learned how to cook for Michael. How to sew buttons and make birthday cakes. .
Once upon a time, when they were younger and still relatively innocent compared to what they are now, Lincoln used to be the older brother. The caretaker. And he had reveled in it. Cherished it because it was, possibly, the only thing he was ever actually good at.
They’re halfway to Panama, Michael riding shotgun, LJ and Sara sleeping soundly in the back seat of the rust bucket, piece of shit car that Lincoln is honestly surprised is even still running, when he wonders when their roles became so irrevocably reversed. When Michael had become the caregiver, the older brother and he had lost that vital part of his identity.
A memory runs through his head, cluttered and inconsistent with washed out technicolor -- it’s Veronica, all girlish and beautiful standing over him as he hacks up a lung and suppresses the urge to vomit. He’s sick and she’s bringing him tea he never had the heart to tell her he hates, and it is the first time Lincoln had honestly ever thought of the future with a clear, optimistic outlook. It’s before he’d fucked up everything beyond repair, before juvie and foster care, when the wounds from his mothers’ death were still eerily fresh.
“Why do you take care of me?”
Her fingers run over his forehead. “Somebody has to,” she smiles that earth-shattering, unforgettable smile of hers. “You’re so busy taking care of Michael you barely have time to care for yourself.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Unconsciously, his eyes flick to the rearview mirror to catch a glance at LJ, to check on him, to watch the subtle rise and fall of his chest before he breathes that routine sigh of relief at the sight, only turning to Michael out of the corner of his eye afterwards.
Michael’s shirt sleeves are rolled up and the hint of black ink spreads like wildfire from beneath the fabric that is still, rather surprisingly, a perfect shade of white.
Lincoln turns his eyes back towards the road, selfishly resenting the sight.
Like he really needed another fucking reminder of what everyone had given up for him.
****
The first thing Lincoln does when he gets to Panama is scam some waitress at a hole in the wall bar into giving him a free drink.
The next thing he does is get ridiculously drunk, smoke an entire pack of cigarettes courtesy of said waitress, and blindly finds his way back to the shack he now calls home. He stumbles up the stairs, slams the door, and trips over his own two feet as he makes his way into the barely standing house. It’s funny because he used to be able drink anyone under the table -- Michael was always the one that could never hold his liquor. Nonetheless, he’s a mess, his head’s an even bigger mess, and there is a blinding moment of pain as he falls backwards before total blackness.
When his eyes open again, there’s a woman standing above him, all dark hair and delicate shoulders, fingers brushing against his forehead.
“Are you alright?”
He pushes Sara’s hands away angrily, desperately almost, and stumbles to his feet.
“I should look at your head,” Sara offers carefully, Michael at her side and even through his blurred vision he can make out the look of judgment on his brother’s face.
“No. Forget about it.”
“Lincoln --”
“I said forget about it, Sara. Jesus.”
The room tilts, and he closes his eyes, rubbing the back of his head cautiously.
“Come on, Linc,” Michael starts in that nurturing, care-giving way of his and something inside of Lincoln that has been brewing for days, boils over. He snaps.
“Leave me alone, Michael.”
“Let’s just --”
“I said just leave me the fuck alone, Michael.”
Michael’s eyes narrow and his face takes over that wounded, puppy dog look. Lincoln is too angry to care. “What is your problem?”
“I don’t need you to take care of me, Michael, that’s my problem. I’m not a fucking idiot, alright?”
Michael takes a deep breath, backs away, and Lincoln knows him well enough that even in his intoxicated state he knows he‘s retreating. They‘ve done this before, countless times before, and despite the fact that he knows he should just walk away, he can’t.
“You’ve been drinking --”
“Yes, I’ve been drinking,” he repeats sarcastically. “I was sad. I was thinking about Veronica. I had a couple of drinks. Is that not okay? I’m not allowed to mourn her? Damn it, Michael, cut me a fucking break, alright?”
Lincoln doesn’t have to look at Michael to know the look that graces his features -- the sad, hurt, wounded look that taints his face.
“Everyone here has lost something, Lincoln.”
A mirthless laugh escapes his lips and like a disaster that can’t be avoided, he lets words leave his mouth that he will never, ever be able to take back. “And you are never going to let me forget it, are you? What you gave up for me? Well, I didn’t ask you to do that Michael. I didn’t ask you to save me.”
There’s silence and Lincoln doesn’t wait for a response, he stumbles as he turns on his heel and stalks towards his room.
The last thing he hears before he slams the door behind him is Michael’s barely audible, “No. you didn’t.”
When he wakes the next morning, head pounding and stomach turning, Michael’s nowhere to be found, Sara has seemingly disappeared and LJ just gives him that look -- that look you never want to see from your kid. That pathetic, pitying look. He too has been through this all before one too many times.
Besides that look, the only thing he hears, the only thing he digests is LJ’s sardonic, yet slightly amused, “now you’ve done it.”
***
They build Veronica a grave. Together. In silence.
Lincoln needs closure and Michael just wants to be able to breathe again. Lincoln carves her name into the wood, and Michael binds two pieces of freshly sanded wood together into the shape of a cross, the knots as tight and precise as the curves and edges of her name.
It will remain empty, and really the entire idea, they both know, is meaningless because who really knew where Veronica was, but the sentiment is there, and despite the fact that it bothers Michael immeasurably that he’s had to bury two people in the past month, he does it anyway.
Lincoln lays a flower and Michael says a prayer. Silence -- the only thing that’s been between them the entire day -- surrounds them and it is as stifling as the tightening in his chest.
Michael watches his brother, notes the slump in his shoulders, the defeated look on his face. There are worry lines on his forehead he’s never seen before -- or never taken the time to notice. He saw Lincoln every day on the inside, every day for months before that, but he never really saw him.
He had really thought, honestly, truly believed that reaching Panama would be the end. The deciding factor. They would get here and they would be able to start over. That things would be okay. God, how naive he had been. There has been so much loss, so much death and hurt for everyone involved that he doesn’t go a day, an hour really without wondering if it is all worth it. Veronica’s life for Lincoln’s? Sara’s father? LJ’s innocence?
“Look, Michael. About yesterday --” Lincoln looks at Michael as he says this, but stops suddenly. Almost as if he can’t form the words. Michael knows he has never been good at apologies.
“Yesterday doesn’t matter,” he responds and he honestly means it. They’ve been through too much together for it not to.
“I didn’t ask you to do it,” Lincoln says slowly, cautiously, choosing his words carefully. “But don’t ever think that I’m not thankful you did.”
Michael manages a small smile. “It’s what little brothers do for their big brothers.”
Lincoln responds with a smile, soft but blinding and something in the air shifts, finally after all these months -- just like that with absolutely no build up or warning.
A sigh, long awaited and heavy, escapes Michael’s lips and he feels, for the first time since Veronica had visited him all those months ago at his office, like he can breathe.
(END)
Author: Abvj
Summary: In the end, nothing is as it was.
Rating: PG-13, language
Spoilers: General Season one and Season Two.
Word Count: 1,990
Author's Notes: Written for the PB fic exchange per the request of stealmy_kiss for the beta.
A million years ago (or at least that’s what it feels like) there had been another funeral in another place, and the heavy feeling Michael had carried around with him in his heart for weeks afterwards was not at all comparable to the one he feels now. What he feels now is less than that, more than that in some ways. The sadness isn’t comparable, but it’s there, and it surprises him. He shouldn’t be sad, he shouldn’t even be upset. He should be angry, ridiculously, mind-numbing, blindingly angry.
But Michael’s Michael and even with the amount of idiosyncrasy this moment holds, he wouldn’t be Michael if he just felt nothing.
That tightening in his chest that he’s carried with him since the day this all began -- months ago, a lifetime ago -- grabs a hold of him like a vice and the ability to breathe becomes harder and harder. Michael honestly doesn’t think it will ever let go.
He looks up, sweat beading around his forehead and mixing with the essence of tears he refuses to admit are even threatening to fall, and Michael remembers the water and Lincoln’s hand on his shoulder, his voice steady and reassuring, holding an amount of control that still astounds him to this day saying, “have a little faith.”
He looks at Lincoln then and Lincoln looks at him, briefly, fleetingly, and there is a look, a broken wounded look shared between the two that lasts only a mere moment because almost a split second afterwards Lincoln returns to the task at hand with an amazing amount of motivation.
Michael’s chest tightens, and he wonders, not for the first time, if this is honestly worth it. If the death and the running and the missing toes and scars that will never truly fade outweigh the eventual outcome.
The thought passes in a blink of an eye, and Michael takes his older brother’s lead like the good little brother he is and pushes his shovel in to the dirt beneath his shoes.
Together, they dig their father’s grave.
****
When they were younger, after their mother died and he was forced to grow up way too quickly into something he never wanted to be, he used to take care of Michael. Lincoln used to check his homework even though he really wasn‘t able to tell whether it was right or not, and do his laundry, and make his bed. He learned how to cook for Michael. How to sew buttons and make birthday cakes. .
Once upon a time, when they were younger and still relatively innocent compared to what they are now, Lincoln used to be the older brother. The caretaker. And he had reveled in it. Cherished it because it was, possibly, the only thing he was ever actually good at.
They’re halfway to Panama, Michael riding shotgun, LJ and Sara sleeping soundly in the back seat of the rust bucket, piece of shit car that Lincoln is honestly surprised is even still running, when he wonders when their roles became so irrevocably reversed. When Michael had become the caregiver, the older brother and he had lost that vital part of his identity.
A memory runs through his head, cluttered and inconsistent with washed out technicolor -- it’s Veronica, all girlish and beautiful standing over him as he hacks up a lung and suppresses the urge to vomit. He’s sick and she’s bringing him tea he never had the heart to tell her he hates, and it is the first time Lincoln had honestly ever thought of the future with a clear, optimistic outlook. It’s before he’d fucked up everything beyond repair, before juvie and foster care, when the wounds from his mothers’ death were still eerily fresh.
“Why do you take care of me?”
Her fingers run over his forehead. “Somebody has to,” she smiles that earth-shattering, unforgettable smile of hers. “You’re so busy taking care of Michael you barely have time to care for yourself.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Unconsciously, his eyes flick to the rearview mirror to catch a glance at LJ, to check on him, to watch the subtle rise and fall of his chest before he breathes that routine sigh of relief at the sight, only turning to Michael out of the corner of his eye afterwards.
Michael’s shirt sleeves are rolled up and the hint of black ink spreads like wildfire from beneath the fabric that is still, rather surprisingly, a perfect shade of white.
Lincoln turns his eyes back towards the road, selfishly resenting the sight.
Like he really needed another fucking reminder of what everyone had given up for him.
****
The first thing Lincoln does when he gets to Panama is scam some waitress at a hole in the wall bar into giving him a free drink.
The next thing he does is get ridiculously drunk, smoke an entire pack of cigarettes courtesy of said waitress, and blindly finds his way back to the shack he now calls home. He stumbles up the stairs, slams the door, and trips over his own two feet as he makes his way into the barely standing house. It’s funny because he used to be able drink anyone under the table -- Michael was always the one that could never hold his liquor. Nonetheless, he’s a mess, his head’s an even bigger mess, and there is a blinding moment of pain as he falls backwards before total blackness.
When his eyes open again, there’s a woman standing above him, all dark hair and delicate shoulders, fingers brushing against his forehead.
“Are you alright?”
He pushes Sara’s hands away angrily, desperately almost, and stumbles to his feet.
“I should look at your head,” Sara offers carefully, Michael at her side and even through his blurred vision he can make out the look of judgment on his brother’s face.
“No. Forget about it.”
“Lincoln --”
“I said forget about it, Sara. Jesus.”
The room tilts, and he closes his eyes, rubbing the back of his head cautiously.
“Come on, Linc,” Michael starts in that nurturing, care-giving way of his and something inside of Lincoln that has been brewing for days, boils over. He snaps.
“Leave me alone, Michael.”
“Let’s just --”
“I said just leave me the fuck alone, Michael.”
Michael’s eyes narrow and his face takes over that wounded, puppy dog look. Lincoln is too angry to care. “What is your problem?”
“I don’t need you to take care of me, Michael, that’s my problem. I’m not a fucking idiot, alright?”
Michael takes a deep breath, backs away, and Lincoln knows him well enough that even in his intoxicated state he knows he‘s retreating. They‘ve done this before, countless times before, and despite the fact that he knows he should just walk away, he can’t.
“You’ve been drinking --”
“Yes, I’ve been drinking,” he repeats sarcastically. “I was sad. I was thinking about Veronica. I had a couple of drinks. Is that not okay? I’m not allowed to mourn her? Damn it, Michael, cut me a fucking break, alright?”
Lincoln doesn’t have to look at Michael to know the look that graces his features -- the sad, hurt, wounded look that taints his face.
“Everyone here has lost something, Lincoln.”
A mirthless laugh escapes his lips and like a disaster that can’t be avoided, he lets words leave his mouth that he will never, ever be able to take back. “And you are never going to let me forget it, are you? What you gave up for me? Well, I didn’t ask you to do that Michael. I didn’t ask you to save me.”
There’s silence and Lincoln doesn’t wait for a response, he stumbles as he turns on his heel and stalks towards his room.
The last thing he hears before he slams the door behind him is Michael’s barely audible, “No. you didn’t.”
When he wakes the next morning, head pounding and stomach turning, Michael’s nowhere to be found, Sara has seemingly disappeared and LJ just gives him that look -- that look you never want to see from your kid. That pathetic, pitying look. He too has been through this all before one too many times.
Besides that look, the only thing he hears, the only thing he digests is LJ’s sardonic, yet slightly amused, “now you’ve done it.”
***
They build Veronica a grave. Together. In silence.
Lincoln needs closure and Michael just wants to be able to breathe again. Lincoln carves her name into the wood, and Michael binds two pieces of freshly sanded wood together into the shape of a cross, the knots as tight and precise as the curves and edges of her name.
It will remain empty, and really the entire idea, they both know, is meaningless because who really knew where Veronica was, but the sentiment is there, and despite the fact that it bothers Michael immeasurably that he’s had to bury two people in the past month, he does it anyway.
Lincoln lays a flower and Michael says a prayer. Silence -- the only thing that’s been between them the entire day -- surrounds them and it is as stifling as the tightening in his chest.
Michael watches his brother, notes the slump in his shoulders, the defeated look on his face. There are worry lines on his forehead he’s never seen before -- or never taken the time to notice. He saw Lincoln every day on the inside, every day for months before that, but he never really saw him.
He had really thought, honestly, truly believed that reaching Panama would be the end. The deciding factor. They would get here and they would be able to start over. That things would be okay. God, how naive he had been. There has been so much loss, so much death and hurt for everyone involved that he doesn’t go a day, an hour really without wondering if it is all worth it. Veronica’s life for Lincoln’s? Sara’s father? LJ’s innocence?
“Look, Michael. About yesterday --” Lincoln looks at Michael as he says this, but stops suddenly. Almost as if he can’t form the words. Michael knows he has never been good at apologies.
“Yesterday doesn’t matter,” he responds and he honestly means it. They’ve been through too much together for it not to.
“I didn’t ask you to do it,” Lincoln says slowly, cautiously, choosing his words carefully. “But don’t ever think that I’m not thankful you did.”
Michael manages a small smile. “It’s what little brothers do for their big brothers.”
Lincoln responds with a smile, soft but blinding and something in the air shifts, finally after all these months -- just like that with absolutely no build up or warning.
A sigh, long awaited and heavy, escapes Michael’s lips and he feels, for the first time since Veronica had visited him all those months ago at his office, like he can breathe.
(END)