Prison Break Futurefic: Love is Friendship Set on Fire (1/1)
Title: Love is Friendship Set on Fire (1/1)
Characters: Canon offspring, Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Fernando Sucre, Original Character
Genre/Rating: Het, Alternate Reality, Non-epilogue-compliant / R for one dirty word
Length: 1,360 words
Warning: Futurefic, fluffier than the fluffiest bunny. Please skip if this is not your thing.
Author's Notes: Written especially for eight8toes and poisonshades. I have decided to make this a yearly tradition *winks* and I sure hope you don't mind. You should have stopped me when you had the chance!
The book says differently, but your father is so cheerfully insistent that, at first, you find yourself going along. Either that, or your ten-year-old self, half-terrified of what you discovered, is ready to believe anything. “Another prison? What do you mean, another prison?” Your father’s ebullience works its usual magic, calming you down. “Listen, we made it south and got the money. Then Linc and I went back to the boat and found your mother waiting for us.”
“And?”
He looks over at you, sawdust all over his hands. The bookcase is almost done. The can of red paint sits a few feet away, a striking sentry keeping vigil over the momentary disarray of the workroom. Building your own furniture - nobody you know does that anymore. Takes too much time and effort, which, you realize at that moment, might be exactly your father’s point. “And then,” he drawls, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, “there was a dragon.”
Your decidedly-no-longer-five-year-old-heart sinks. “A dragon.”
“Which your uncle killed with his bare hands. And then we sailed off,” he gestures, arm outstretched, to some point outside the window, over and beyond the trees, “to a warm, glorious sunset.”
You humor him with a smirk. Later, you will take the book - “unofficial biography”, it says on the blurb - from its hiding place and read it again, perusing each well-researched detail. Much later, when even your younger sister fails to be deceived by the diversionary tactics that are unicorns and rainbows and giants who fall for fairies, you and your father will talk more candidly. For now, you have to put on a clean shirt. Your family is expecting company.
The bookcase is finished by the time the visitors arrive, and the fresh coat of paint will be dry when they’re ready to leave. It’s a gift for the couple’s daughter, who is overcome, first with disbelief, then with pure joy, at your father’s gesture. Scrutinizing the surface of the top shelf, she cries out, “Brachiopods!”; with the second she pronounces triumphantly, “Reptile tracks!”, and so on, descending in this way meticulously to the bottom, where she finishes with a breathlessly incredulous, “Stromatolites!” For the bookcase is no less than the geology of the Grand Canyon wrought small, the faithful reproductions of fossils carved into the wood by your father in the course of an earnest week. Inspection thus concluded, she then flings her arms whole-heartedly around his neck as if they’ve known each other for years instead of minutes. “Thank you! Thank you!”
The adults talk for hours, the house ringing with the sound of laughter. It’s nearly one in the morning when they call it a night. She’s eleven and taller, so the girl smiles down at you when she says goodbye, dark brown eyes glinting with (you strongly suspect) poorly concealed amusement. This makes you squirm.
Needless to say, it’s not love at first sight.
oOo
In time, she becomes that one person to whom you say, “Promise not to tell?” and she never does, not even when her eyes narrow in unmistakable censure. Countless times she tells you, “You are one mad cow, Scofield,” yet you know that in an instant, if need be, she will trust you with her life.
In college, she is assiduous yet well-liked, known for demolishing an argument with a gaze. (Woe to anyone who is misled by her name.) Men fall for her. You do not. It’s not that you are oblivious to her charms. Far from it: your summer, year after year, is circumscribed by scorching sand, the rise of a blue wave, pancakes and lazy mornings, and her disarming laugh and dry wit, the shade of her growing self-possession. But seen often, you take her presence for granted, the same way, say, someone from Jupiter gets accustomed to its many moons.
(Also, charms abound elsewhere, and you are a ready fool).
Should the sight of her walking up to you burn too brightly all of a sudden, you do not give it a second thought.
You do not fall for her.
oOo
At a New Year’s Eve party years later, you are a man on the rebound. She has a drink too many.
Even the best of friends slip.
And so you set your lips against the pulse of her neck. Her arms go up and around you, her thumb tracing a beat on your brow, and just like that it’s the middle of a tempest and it’s anchors aweigh.
In her apartment she regains her senses, puts a stop to the lunacy before it gets too far.
The advantage of almost-falling into bed with your closest pal? You don’t mistake her quiet We can’t do this for vacillation. The downside? It takes twice as long to forget the ciphers you unlocked with your hands, the signals you decoded with your eager, eager mouth.
Things get back to normal. It takes some time-she disappears into the jungles of Chile while you bury yourself in your work, party long and hard, fuck a couple of blondes, turn into someone you barely recognize-but they do. They do.
oOo
Eventually, she meets a guy in one of your mother’s charity events. He’s smart and mild-mannered, someone who has had some measure of success; under different circumstances, he can be a beer buddy. “She’s finally met her match,” your mother declares, and it’s a gauntlet thrown at your face, because as far as you’re concerned she’s met her match a long time ago, and your mother knows it, your sister knows it, your father and his knowing smile knows it.
The affair lasts for all of a year, then ends with a whimper. You are the devil who thanks his lucky stars.
Now all you need is a plan to make it right.
oOo
But the thing is, you are not your father. You are mad-cow Scofield, at best when flying by the seat of your pants. And so the months go by, each passing day filled with the deceptive routine of two people spending too much time together, steadfastly ignoring the elephant blaring in the room.
Then one day, LJ buys a boat. It sits in the harbor, ridiculously white. On clear Saturday mornings all the fathers sit on deck with beer in hand, shooting the breeze, pausing every so often to say Finally, finally.
There, on that boat, is where your mother will celebrate her sixtieth birthday. This time, instead of picking a random stranger to deliver the single red rose, as he's always done for thirty years, your father chooses you. In the morning of the day, you are standing by your mother's car in the downpour when she leaves the house for work, the plain white card with their secret words in your hand, and as soon as she sees you she weeps, shedding fat tears that cannot be mistaken for rain. “Happy birthday, ma’am,” you say, and it takes some time before anybody moves, both of you just standing under your umbrella, holding each other tight.
In the evening the boat is aglow with happy people, and this mix of terror and anticipation begins to bloom in your chest. You dance with your sister, who frowns at you mid-song. “You’re so pre-occupied,” she observes. “Decidedly,” your father agrees. You fight the urge to check your watch every five minutes.
She’s late.
Her father assures you that she’s on her way. “She works too hard,” he adds. You want to say something serious, words a trustworthy man would say, but you can’t think of anything; your blood is too tight against your skin.
Just before midnight she finally appears, profusely apologetic, in a dress you’ve seen many times before. She’s burning too brightly again, and this time you don’t blink it away.
Your sister is the first to see. “Holy molly,” she murmurs, one of those things nobody says anymore, and it is the loudest whisper in the world.
She turns in attention, her sweeping gaze tracing your sister's line of sight coming to a full stop at the tell-tale box held lightly by your fingertips. Slowly, she looks back up to meet your eyes, in that unwavering way that used to unsettle you but no longer does.
“Lila,” you say, and nothing can be more right, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask,” and then you’re down on your knees, you’re down for the count. You can’t see it, but your mother has reached for your father’s hand. Perhaps somewhere, someone is speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. All you can hear is the universe saying, Finally, finally, and her saying, Yes, yes, yes.
oOo
Characters: Canon offspring, Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Fernando Sucre, Original Character
Genre/Rating: Het, Alternate Reality, Non-epilogue-compliant / R for one dirty word
Length: 1,360 words
Warning: Futurefic, fluffier than the fluffiest bunny. Please skip if this is not your thing.
Author's Notes: Written especially for eight8toes and poisonshades. I have decided to make this a yearly tradition *winks* and I sure hope you don't mind. You should have stopped me when you had the chance!
The book says differently, but your father is so cheerfully insistent that, at first, you find yourself going along. Either that, or your ten-year-old self, half-terrified of what you discovered, is ready to believe anything. “Another prison? What do you mean, another prison?” Your father’s ebullience works its usual magic, calming you down. “Listen, we made it south and got the money. Then Linc and I went back to the boat and found your mother waiting for us.”
“And?”
He looks over at you, sawdust all over his hands. The bookcase is almost done. The can of red paint sits a few feet away, a striking sentry keeping vigil over the momentary disarray of the workroom. Building your own furniture - nobody you know does that anymore. Takes too much time and effort, which, you realize at that moment, might be exactly your father’s point. “And then,” he drawls, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, “there was a dragon.”
Your decidedly-no-longer-five-year-old-heart sinks. “A dragon.”
“Which your uncle killed with his bare hands. And then we sailed off,” he gestures, arm outstretched, to some point outside the window, over and beyond the trees, “to a warm, glorious sunset.”
You humor him with a smirk. Later, you will take the book - “unofficial biography”, it says on the blurb - from its hiding place and read it again, perusing each well-researched detail. Much later, when even your younger sister fails to be deceived by the diversionary tactics that are unicorns and rainbows and giants who fall for fairies, you and your father will talk more candidly. For now, you have to put on a clean shirt. Your family is expecting company.
The bookcase is finished by the time the visitors arrive, and the fresh coat of paint will be dry when they’re ready to leave. It’s a gift for the couple’s daughter, who is overcome, first with disbelief, then with pure joy, at your father’s gesture. Scrutinizing the surface of the top shelf, she cries out, “Brachiopods!”; with the second she pronounces triumphantly, “Reptile tracks!”, and so on, descending in this way meticulously to the bottom, where she finishes with a breathlessly incredulous, “Stromatolites!” For the bookcase is no less than the geology of the Grand Canyon wrought small, the faithful reproductions of fossils carved into the wood by your father in the course of an earnest week. Inspection thus concluded, she then flings her arms whole-heartedly around his neck as if they’ve known each other for years instead of minutes. “Thank you! Thank you!”
The adults talk for hours, the house ringing with the sound of laughter. It’s nearly one in the morning when they call it a night. She’s eleven and taller, so the girl smiles down at you when she says goodbye, dark brown eyes glinting with (you strongly suspect) poorly concealed amusement. This makes you squirm.
Needless to say, it’s not love at first sight.
oOo
In time, she becomes that one person to whom you say, “Promise not to tell?” and she never does, not even when her eyes narrow in unmistakable censure. Countless times she tells you, “You are one mad cow, Scofield,” yet you know that in an instant, if need be, she will trust you with her life.
In college, she is assiduous yet well-liked, known for demolishing an argument with a gaze. (Woe to anyone who is misled by her name.) Men fall for her. You do not. It’s not that you are oblivious to her charms. Far from it: your summer, year after year, is circumscribed by scorching sand, the rise of a blue wave, pancakes and lazy mornings, and her disarming laugh and dry wit, the shade of her growing self-possession. But seen often, you take her presence for granted, the same way, say, someone from Jupiter gets accustomed to its many moons.
(Also, charms abound elsewhere, and you are a ready fool).
Should the sight of her walking up to you burn too brightly all of a sudden, you do not give it a second thought.
You do not fall for her.
oOo
At a New Year’s Eve party years later, you are a man on the rebound. She has a drink too many.
Even the best of friends slip.
And so you set your lips against the pulse of her neck. Her arms go up and around you, her thumb tracing a beat on your brow, and just like that it’s the middle of a tempest and it’s anchors aweigh.
In her apartment she regains her senses, puts a stop to the lunacy before it gets too far.
The advantage of almost-falling into bed with your closest pal? You don’t mistake her quiet We can’t do this for vacillation. The downside? It takes twice as long to forget the ciphers you unlocked with your hands, the signals you decoded with your eager, eager mouth.
Things get back to normal. It takes some time-she disappears into the jungles of Chile while you bury yourself in your work, party long and hard, fuck a couple of blondes, turn into someone you barely recognize-but they do. They do.
oOo
Eventually, she meets a guy in one of your mother’s charity events. He’s smart and mild-mannered, someone who has had some measure of success; under different circumstances, he can be a beer buddy. “She’s finally met her match,” your mother declares, and it’s a gauntlet thrown at your face, because as far as you’re concerned she’s met her match a long time ago, and your mother knows it, your sister knows it, your father and his knowing smile knows it.
The affair lasts for all of a year, then ends with a whimper. You are the devil who thanks his lucky stars.
Now all you need is a plan to make it right.
oOo
But the thing is, you are not your father. You are mad-cow Scofield, at best when flying by the seat of your pants. And so the months go by, each passing day filled with the deceptive routine of two people spending too much time together, steadfastly ignoring the elephant blaring in the room.
Then one day, LJ buys a boat. It sits in the harbor, ridiculously white. On clear Saturday mornings all the fathers sit on deck with beer in hand, shooting the breeze, pausing every so often to say Finally, finally.
There, on that boat, is where your mother will celebrate her sixtieth birthday. This time, instead of picking a random stranger to deliver the single red rose, as he's always done for thirty years, your father chooses you. In the morning of the day, you are standing by your mother's car in the downpour when she leaves the house for work, the plain white card with their secret words in your hand, and as soon as she sees you she weeps, shedding fat tears that cannot be mistaken for rain. “Happy birthday, ma’am,” you say, and it takes some time before anybody moves, both of you just standing under your umbrella, holding each other tight.
In the evening the boat is aglow with happy people, and this mix of terror and anticipation begins to bloom in your chest. You dance with your sister, who frowns at you mid-song. “You’re so pre-occupied,” she observes. “Decidedly,” your father agrees. You fight the urge to check your watch every five minutes.
She’s late.
Her father assures you that she’s on her way. “She works too hard,” he adds. You want to say something serious, words a trustworthy man would say, but you can’t think of anything; your blood is too tight against your skin.
Just before midnight she finally appears, profusely apologetic, in a dress you’ve seen many times before. She’s burning too brightly again, and this time you don’t blink it away.
Your sister is the first to see. “Holy molly,” she murmurs, one of those things nobody says anymore, and it is the loudest whisper in the world.
She turns in attention, her sweeping gaze tracing your sister's line of sight coming to a full stop at the tell-tale box held lightly by your fingertips. Slowly, she looks back up to meet your eyes, in that unwavering way that used to unsettle you but no longer does.
“Lila,” you say, and nothing can be more right, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask,” and then you’re down on your knees, you’re down for the count. You can’t see it, but your mother has reached for your father’s hand. Perhaps somewhere, someone is speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. All you can hear is the universe saying, Finally, finally, and her saying, Yes, yes, yes.
oOo