Prompt #02, I was wrong about you.
Title: Break Enough
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~500
Spoilers: Pilot
Prompt: #02, I was wrong about you.
Notes: One of the things I'd like to pursue as a sub-challenge to this challenge is to write some post-episode ficlets. This is the first. table // about my journal
“And by the way, Lindsay, I expected this from them because they’re completely oblivious, but you? You should know better.”
He meant for it to sting. Really, what in God’s name does she think she’s playing at? Haven’t they always been in this together, or is he remembering something that wasn’t there?
It irritates Michael that even as he’s just finished essentially telling her that he clearly doesn’t know her as well as he thought he did, his mind is almost subconsciously playing out what he knows her reaction will be as he walks away: a huff, a brief indignant flick of her eyes, then a sobered expressionlessness slipping across her face as she betrays her emotions by purposely revealing none. (It may be that he’s the only one who picks up on this trick-it’s probable, actually, considering the number of times the words “frigid bitch” have been muttered with Lindsay almost out of earshot.)
George Michael is curled into the fetal position in his attic bed and is snoring lightly; Michael’s hand is hovering a few inches from the neck of a bottle of vodka when there’s a knock. Lindsay: her name crosses Michael’s thoughts instantly, and he doesn’t know why, but he’s still surprised when she’s actually on the other side of the door.
He almost laughs when she passes behind him and heads intuitively for the cabinet he just closed and wraps a fist around the vodka bottle with unhesitant fingers. He doesn’t, though; he has a job interview for a company based in Phoenix eight hours from now, and somehow the laughter doesn’t quite make it out.
He follows her back to the kitchen, and the corkscrew falls apart when Lindsay tugs the lever. Wordlessly, she shatters the neck of the bottle against the median in the sink. She braces one arm on the side of the refrigerator and raises the bottle to her lips with the other, tossing back her head.
There’s something expectant in the way she sets the bottle down with a clunk and looks at him, and he crosses to her. Her arms are folded now (it’s a wordless confrontation), and Michael decides this is ridiculous.
“I don’t have anything to say,” he tells her. He gets a full-on eyeroll and her hand around his wrist. His left palm reaches her right rib and it’s almost ballroom dance-like, only she’s squeezing too hard and his hand might be too high up.
Why the hell didn’t you call? He asks her, but not out loud because really, really, he has a job interview, and there’s no point in starting this. He lets his hand slide down to the hem of her shirt, fingers it, and steps aside.
Lindsay half-rolls her eyes again before she starts walking away. Michael turns away from her retreating back and picks up the vodka; the door slams just as it reaches his mouth, and he cuts his lip on the jagged glass.
Michael says fuck and wonders why it feels like he’s apologizing.
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~500
Spoilers: Pilot
Prompt: #02, I was wrong about you.
Notes: One of the things I'd like to pursue as a sub-challenge to this challenge is to write some post-episode ficlets. This is the first. table // about my journal
“And by the way, Lindsay, I expected this from them because they’re completely oblivious, but you? You should know better.”
He meant for it to sting. Really, what in God’s name does she think she’s playing at? Haven’t they always been in this together, or is he remembering something that wasn’t there?
It irritates Michael that even as he’s just finished essentially telling her that he clearly doesn’t know her as well as he thought he did, his mind is almost subconsciously playing out what he knows her reaction will be as he walks away: a huff, a brief indignant flick of her eyes, then a sobered expressionlessness slipping across her face as she betrays her emotions by purposely revealing none. (It may be that he’s the only one who picks up on this trick-it’s probable, actually, considering the number of times the words “frigid bitch” have been muttered with Lindsay almost out of earshot.)
George Michael is curled into the fetal position in his attic bed and is snoring lightly; Michael’s hand is hovering a few inches from the neck of a bottle of vodka when there’s a knock. Lindsay: her name crosses Michael’s thoughts instantly, and he doesn’t know why, but he’s still surprised when she’s actually on the other side of the door.
He almost laughs when she passes behind him and heads intuitively for the cabinet he just closed and wraps a fist around the vodka bottle with unhesitant fingers. He doesn’t, though; he has a job interview for a company based in Phoenix eight hours from now, and somehow the laughter doesn’t quite make it out.
He follows her back to the kitchen, and the corkscrew falls apart when Lindsay tugs the lever. Wordlessly, she shatters the neck of the bottle against the median in the sink. She braces one arm on the side of the refrigerator and raises the bottle to her lips with the other, tossing back her head.
There’s something expectant in the way she sets the bottle down with a clunk and looks at him, and he crosses to her. Her arms are folded now (it’s a wordless confrontation), and Michael decides this is ridiculous.
“I don’t have anything to say,” he tells her. He gets a full-on eyeroll and her hand around his wrist. His left palm reaches her right rib and it’s almost ballroom dance-like, only she’s squeezing too hard and his hand might be too high up.
Why the hell didn’t you call? He asks her, but not out loud because really, really, he has a job interview, and there’s no point in starting this. He lets his hand slide down to the hem of her shirt, fingers it, and steps aside.
Lindsay half-rolls her eyes again before she starts walking away. Michael turns away from her retreating back and picks up the vodka; the door slams just as it reaches his mouth, and he cuts his lip on the jagged glass.
Michael says fuck and wonders why it feels like he’s apologizing.