Prison Break - In Common
Title: In Common
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Sara, Michael, Lincoln, Kellerman
Genre: Gen
Rating: G
Timeline: 2.16 Chicago
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Hers is red. Considerably smaller and barely noticeable despite its bright color.
Notes: Thanks to slysionnachnano for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine. ( Original version)
Hers is red. Considerably smaller and barely noticeable despite its bright color.
* *
Sara is dozing near him in the back of the car, her face to the windows, her expression still tense and her hands nervously clasped between her knees. Michael is not sure what actually makes her that edgy, the stress of the whole situation or the restraint she has to maintain not to pounce on Kellerman again.
Just because it’s wiser, she sits in the back of the car, behind Lincoln. As far as possible from Kellerman.
Michael wonders how she can stay in the same small closed space as the guy, and even more, how she can relax enough to rest a bit - not that she doesn’t deserve it. He guesses that exhaustion finally got the better of her, and anyway, she probably knows that Lincoln would be all too happy to punch Kellerman in the face at the smallest provocation.
Michael would be all too happy to punch Kellerman in the face at the smallest provocation. He can’t help wondering how far Lincoln would have let Sara go, earlier, if they hadn’t needed the (ex-)agent.
She’s sitting in a weird position, slightly on her side, the hem of her t-shirt high on her waist, and he has a glimpse of the curve of her hip... He reaches out for her right at the moment where Linc shifts in his seat, and his brother casts him an amusement, sarcastic, glance. “You know this is highly inappropriate, huh, Michael?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “Taking advantage of a sleeping woman?”
Kellerman looks at them through the rear-view mirror and seems to agree with Lincoln. Because Kellerman, Michael thinks, is really an expert on appropriate behaviors and is entitled to pass judgment on other people.
He shrugs, carries on and pushes the t-shirt up for barely a few millimeters.
Sara turns her head towards him and, above her shoulder, gives him a half, knowing smile.
* *
Lincoln had his done after a bet, of course. A won bet, he stated that day when he got home, and fifteen years later, Michael still hasn’t figured out how that kind of thing can ensue from a won bet. But this is Linc. He gave up the idea of understanding some things about Linc long ago.
It’s dark, a blue-green closer to black, the pattern complicated and tormented. Lincoln says it has a meaning but that he’s forgotten what it is by now. Michael thinks it’s there to remind Lincoln that a won bet isn’t supposed to lead to that kind of thing. But at least, Lincoln didn’t pay for it. Might as well be the explanation, actually.
Lincoln’s one is typical of the way he lives his life: act and then, maybe, think.
* *
Sara had hers done for the fifth anniversary of her mother’s death and it wasn’t - not only - to piss off her father. She explains that to Michael in a murmur. In the driver’s seat, Kellerman pricks up his ears, always looking for the tiniest bit of info, and Linc harshly slaps him behind the head to call him to order. “Drive!”
It’s heart-shaped and simple, round and generous, the red color delicate and still bright even after a dozen years. Red was her mother’s favorite color; red is, for Sara, the symbol of life. She had it done in memory of her mother the day she realized that what she imagined was nothing more than an alcoholic’s ramblings, actually matched reality. A peculiar reality, but a pregnant one for her mother.
Sara’s one is a small memorial by itself.
* *
Michael had his done to save his brother. It took him hours and hours, long stretches of time he spent watching the blood ooze slowly, and mentally elaborating the various steps of his plan. After a few sessions, he wasn’t even paying attention anymore to the needles that pricked and injected ink with an admirable precision. He never felt like he was losing his time; he never really hurt.
It’s blue-gray, the curves and symbols complex and elegant. If Michael hates how it marks him forever at times, he realizes he can't hold a grudge against it, since it played its part perfectly.
Michael’s one is a master piece. Not by itself, but because of what it made possible.
* *
Paul doesn’t have any. He can’t allow himself to bear a distinctive mark if someday he’s found... when he will be found with a bullet in his head or in his back. He will have to disappear without leaving a trace then. For now, he drives and lets Scofield, Burrows and Tancredi blather about their common points, and he’s unable to bring himself to envy them.
Paul would rather not let anyone know how he thinks and operates.
-End-
Comments are always welcome.
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Sara, Michael, Lincoln, Kellerman
Genre: Gen
Rating: G
Timeline: 2.16 Chicago
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Hers is red. Considerably smaller and barely noticeable despite its bright color.
Notes: Thanks to slysionnachnano for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine. ( Original version)
Hers is red. Considerably smaller and barely noticeable despite its bright color.
* *
Sara is dozing near him in the back of the car, her face to the windows, her expression still tense and her hands nervously clasped between her knees. Michael is not sure what actually makes her that edgy, the stress of the whole situation or the restraint she has to maintain not to pounce on Kellerman again.
Just because it’s wiser, she sits in the back of the car, behind Lincoln. As far as possible from Kellerman.
Michael wonders how she can stay in the same small closed space as the guy, and even more, how she can relax enough to rest a bit - not that she doesn’t deserve it. He guesses that exhaustion finally got the better of her, and anyway, she probably knows that Lincoln would be all too happy to punch Kellerman in the face at the smallest provocation.
Michael would be all too happy to punch Kellerman in the face at the smallest provocation. He can’t help wondering how far Lincoln would have let Sara go, earlier, if they hadn’t needed the (ex-)agent.
She’s sitting in a weird position, slightly on her side, the hem of her t-shirt high on her waist, and he has a glimpse of the curve of her hip... He reaches out for her right at the moment where Linc shifts in his seat, and his brother casts him an amusement, sarcastic, glance. “You know this is highly inappropriate, huh, Michael?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “Taking advantage of a sleeping woman?”
Kellerman looks at them through the rear-view mirror and seems to agree with Lincoln. Because Kellerman, Michael thinks, is really an expert on appropriate behaviors and is entitled to pass judgment on other people.
He shrugs, carries on and pushes the t-shirt up for barely a few millimeters.
Sara turns her head towards him and, above her shoulder, gives him a half, knowing smile.
* *
Lincoln had his done after a bet, of course. A won bet, he stated that day when he got home, and fifteen years later, Michael still hasn’t figured out how that kind of thing can ensue from a won bet. But this is Linc. He gave up the idea of understanding some things about Linc long ago.
It’s dark, a blue-green closer to black, the pattern complicated and tormented. Lincoln says it has a meaning but that he’s forgotten what it is by now. Michael thinks it’s there to remind Lincoln that a won bet isn’t supposed to lead to that kind of thing. But at least, Lincoln didn’t pay for it. Might as well be the explanation, actually.
Lincoln’s one is typical of the way he lives his life: act and then, maybe, think.
* *
Sara had hers done for the fifth anniversary of her mother’s death and it wasn’t - not only - to piss off her father. She explains that to Michael in a murmur. In the driver’s seat, Kellerman pricks up his ears, always looking for the tiniest bit of info, and Linc harshly slaps him behind the head to call him to order. “Drive!”
It’s heart-shaped and simple, round and generous, the red color delicate and still bright even after a dozen years. Red was her mother’s favorite color; red is, for Sara, the symbol of life. She had it done in memory of her mother the day she realized that what she imagined was nothing more than an alcoholic’s ramblings, actually matched reality. A peculiar reality, but a pregnant one for her mother.
Sara’s one is a small memorial by itself.
* *
Michael had his done to save his brother. It took him hours and hours, long stretches of time he spent watching the blood ooze slowly, and mentally elaborating the various steps of his plan. After a few sessions, he wasn’t even paying attention anymore to the needles that pricked and injected ink with an admirable precision. He never felt like he was losing his time; he never really hurt.
It’s blue-gray, the curves and symbols complex and elegant. If Michael hates how it marks him forever at times, he realizes he can't hold a grudge against it, since it played its part perfectly.
Michael’s one is a master piece. Not by itself, but because of what it made possible.
* *
Paul doesn’t have any. He can’t allow himself to bear a distinctive mark if someday he’s found... when he will be found with a bullet in his head or in his back. He will have to disappear without leaving a trace then. For now, he drives and lets Scofield, Burrows and Tancredi blather about their common points, and he’s unable to bring himself to envy them.
Paul would rather not let anyone know how he thinks and operates.
-End-
Comments are always welcome.