fic: Life as we know it
Title: Life as we know it
Author: flawsrevenge
Fandom: Prison Break! (Has it been a while? I think it has...)
Rating: Meh. Nothing violent or gruesome here. Just a PG.
Characters: Lincoln, mentions of others.
Word Count: A bit over 400.
Spoilers: For the current season, sort of, but I started this way back when, so let's say...up to 4.5?
Disclaimer: Prison Break, all its characters, stories, secrets, and whatnots, none of them belong to me.
Michael runs their little meetings, keeps everyone under control with that iron voice of his. He could have been a guard instead of an inmate. But then, Linc knows that already, knows that his little brother is meant for anything and everything other than a life spent either in jail or on the run. He’s meant for this sort of shit: for planning and leading foolhardy missions that Linc doesn’t doubt for a second will work out, for strategy and tactics and he can see the gears turning from his spot at the table. And maybe someday soon he’ll be meant for family and kids. Linc looks at Sara, thinks, I could be an uncle.
And he’s listening, and retaining, but he’s also thinking about LJ and how he had to leave him behind again. First with his mom, then with Jane, and now with Sofia and was there something there? Could there be?
Maybe. But only if this time he goes to get his boy and LJ isn’t being hunted down or missing because he’s been kidnapped. He hopes this finishes and he goes home and has a reason to breathe for once, a reason to celebrate instead of the constant steady ache living in his gut.
At the table, he sees Michael, and feels sorrow and pride, mixed together like a bad night out. He sees Bellick and feels indifference, he sees Sucre and feels grateful, and he sees Mahone, and feels a little less, you killed my father, and a little more, you lost your son.
As goddamn sympathetic as he is, he wonders how a jury ever convicted him of anything.
And this is their little band of merry men, their next last chance in a string of last chances going back longer than he really wants to remember, than he really can remember, unless he sits down and puts his back into it, and that’d be enough to make him sob, anyway, because this is what we’ve come to; this is what we are now.
Michael’s still going on, and he tunes back in, turns his brain back to that, because any more of this and he’s on the next stolen plane back to nothing approaching normal, but maybe something more live for the moment and less fight to live. He tunes back in because if they just keep going, maybe he’ll have something like living and normal. Maybe if they keep going, he can have it all. Maybe they all can.
Author: flawsrevenge
Fandom: Prison Break! (Has it been a while? I think it has...)
Rating: Meh. Nothing violent or gruesome here. Just a PG.
Characters: Lincoln, mentions of others.
Word Count: A bit over 400.
Spoilers: For the current season, sort of, but I started this way back when, so let's say...up to 4.5?
Disclaimer: Prison Break, all its characters, stories, secrets, and whatnots, none of them belong to me.
Michael runs their little meetings, keeps everyone under control with that iron voice of his. He could have been a guard instead of an inmate. But then, Linc knows that already, knows that his little brother is meant for anything and everything other than a life spent either in jail or on the run. He’s meant for this sort of shit: for planning and leading foolhardy missions that Linc doesn’t doubt for a second will work out, for strategy and tactics and he can see the gears turning from his spot at the table. And maybe someday soon he’ll be meant for family and kids. Linc looks at Sara, thinks, I could be an uncle.
And he’s listening, and retaining, but he’s also thinking about LJ and how he had to leave him behind again. First with his mom, then with Jane, and now with Sofia and was there something there? Could there be?
Maybe. But only if this time he goes to get his boy and LJ isn’t being hunted down or missing because he’s been kidnapped. He hopes this finishes and he goes home and has a reason to breathe for once, a reason to celebrate instead of the constant steady ache living in his gut.
At the table, he sees Michael, and feels sorrow and pride, mixed together like a bad night out. He sees Bellick and feels indifference, he sees Sucre and feels grateful, and he sees Mahone, and feels a little less, you killed my father, and a little more, you lost your son.
As goddamn sympathetic as he is, he wonders how a jury ever convicted him of anything.
And this is their little band of merry men, their next last chance in a string of last chances going back longer than he really wants to remember, than he really can remember, unless he sits down and puts his back into it, and that’d be enough to make him sob, anyway, because this is what we’ve come to; this is what we are now.
Michael’s still going on, and he tunes back in, turns his brain back to that, because any more of this and he’s on the next stolen plane back to nothing approaching normal, but maybe something more live for the moment and less fight to live. He tunes back in because if they just keep going, maybe he’ll have something like living and normal. Maybe if they keep going, he can have it all. Maybe they all can.