Common Ground - Hiatus Fic Challenge
Title: Common Ground (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Fernando Sucre, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Brad Bellick, Mrs Bellick
Pairing: Veronica/Lincoln
Genre: Het, pre-series
Length: 1,200 words
Summary: Compared to religion, money or politics, food is usually a safe topic of conversation. Usually. Vague spoilers for "Brother's Keeper", but that's about it.
Rating: G
Author's Note: For the Fanfic Buffet challenge at pbhiatus_fic. The three prompts I chose were BBQ ribs, cheap beer and crab. Unseen by anyone else's eyes but mine, so all concrit is especially welcome!
~*~
Pushing his elbows out from his sides in a vain attempt to make some room at the insanely crowded bar, he puts his mouth to Veronica’s ear. “Tell me again why we’re here?”
He has to shout to be heard over the din of the live band, but she obviously hears him just fine. Pulling back, she looks at him with barely concealed amusement. “You’ve lived in Chicago all your life, and the most you’ve ever done to celebrate St Patrick’s Day is to get blind drunk with Derek on cheap beer while watching the parade on television.”
“Cheap being the important word here.” He nods towards the pints of Guinness lined up on the bar, patiently waiting for the bartender to finish the mysterious ritual of staggered pouring. “Do you know how much that stuff costs?”
“I do.” She grins, her bright eyes slightly red-rimmed from cigarette smoke. “I’m buying tonight, did I mention that?”
Having managed to slip his hand around her, he can't resist the temptation to reach down and gently squeeze her ass, feeling the heat of her through the prim little business skirt she's wearing. “You know you don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” She rocks back against his touch, smiling up into his eyes. “But it’s no fun drinking Guinness alone.”
He laughs, looking around at the mass of humanity pressing in on them. “Yeah, there’s hardly another soul in sight.”
“You know what I mean,” she shoots back, then turns a dazzling smile on the frazzled bartender. “Two pints plus two small ones.”
He quickly translates Vee's order from St Patrick's Day slang into plain English, blinking as the bartender grabs a bottle of whiskey off the shelf behind him. “Just so we’re straight - you’re trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me, right?”
“We’ll see.” The dimple in her cheek flirts with her smooth skin as she turns to him. “Luck of the Irish, and all that.” She leans close enough for him to smell her perfume over the beer and the cigarette smoke. “And Burrows is an Irish name, is it not?” She presses a glass into each of his hands, then kisses him soundly on the mouth, the taste of her more intoxicating than anything he’s about to drink.
“To your good health,” she murmurs, somehow managing to make the mundane toast sound like the dirtiest thing he’s heard in years.
He grins, already planning to set a new record for downing the drinks in his hands, because the sooner he’s finished, the sooner he can take her to bed. If today is supposed to be all about celebrating, then he can’t think of a better way. “And to yours, counselor.”
~*~
“BBQ ribs.”
Michael looks at his cellmate, waiting for him to elaborate. When it becomes clear there’s nothing more forthcoming, he can't help prompting him. “That’s it? That’s the food you miss the most?”
“Yeah,” Sucre nods, his eyes glazing over. “You know that little BBQ place on Fifth?”
Michael frowns, then shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, man.” Sucre sits forward on the edge of his bunk, looking across the cell to where Michael is sitting at their small writing desk. “You gotta go there and have those ribs.” His gaze is dreamy now, his hands moving slowly through the air as if reaching for an invisible plate. “I swear, you’ll never go anywhere else.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
Gripping the edge of his bunk, Sucre leans down until his face is almost at a level with Michael’s, his voice dropping to a cheerful whisper. “If this works and we get out of here, Papi, then you and me are going there, okay?”
Michael stares at him, his throat tight with regret. There’s no way he and Fernando Sucre will ever be able to show their faces on Fifth Street, and it suddenly pains him how much he’d like it to be otherwise. “You’d risk being arrested and thrown back into this place for BBQ ribs?”
“I’ve had those ribs, Papi.” Sucre grins, his perfect teeth glowing in the darkness of their dimly-lit cell. “Trust me, it would almost be worth it.”
~*~
She looks around the restaurant as the waiter leaves them with the oversized menus. “Well, this is a nice surprise.”
Bradley gives her an odd look across the table. “You don’t have to keep saying that, Ma.”
“Well, I’m not used to being taken out to dinner by my favourite son.”
“I’m your only son, Ma,” he drawls as he looks longingly at the waitress carrying a tray of beers to the next table.
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
He shrugs as he sips his water and reads his menu, and she takes a moment to study her only child. A sourpuss, his father used to call him, not caring if the boy was out of earshot or not. She used to hush him, hating the word, but she can’t deny her late husband had a point. Some people are naturally happy, always trying to see the good in the world around them. Some people are just the opposite. As much as she hated it, she’d accepted long ago that her Bradley was one of the sour ones.
The waiter is back already, hovering, eager to take their order. “I’ll have the crab linguini,” she tells him brightly, earning herself a frown from her son.
“Ma, you don’t have to get the cheapest thing on the menu,” he whispers, his face flushed. “I’ve got the gift card, remember?”
Putting her hand on his worringly sturdy forearm - she really does need to make him eat more salads, she thinks - she gives him a reassuring smile. “But I want the linguini, dear. Crab’s so much easier to eat when it’s already out of the shells.”
“Fine.” He rattles off his own order to the waiter, steamed king crab legs with melted butter, throwing in a request for a beer in an undertone.
She pretends not to notice, just as she always pretends not to notice the clothes that smell of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. She knows he's still going to his weekly meetings, just as he'd promised. She also knows he goes to a lot of other places too, places she doesn’t ever want to imagine.
She watches him tug at the too-tight collar of his shirt, shifting his shoulders restlessly, and feels a familiar pang of tenderness. On the day he was born, her own mother had told her she would never stop thinking of him as her baby. She never did. Perhaps, she thinks as she watches the unhappy line of his mouth, that was the problem.
“This is a lovely place, dear.” She smiles at him as she reaches for her water glass. Despite his bad mood, she’s still happy to be here, having someone else to cook and do the dishes. “But you should have used that card on some pretty girl, not an old duck like me.”
His face shuts down, frozen with anger and for a few awful seconds, she barely recognizes him as the son she’s loved for over forty years. To her relief, he sniffs loudly and shakes his head, his mouth twisting into a smile that makes her heart hurt. “Don’t be silly. You don’t think I’d ask anyone but my favourite girl, do ya?”
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Fernando Sucre, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Brad Bellick, Mrs Bellick
Pairing: Veronica/Lincoln
Genre: Het, pre-series
Length: 1,200 words
Summary: Compared to religion, money or politics, food is usually a safe topic of conversation. Usually. Vague spoilers for "Brother's Keeper", but that's about it.
Rating: G
Author's Note: For the Fanfic Buffet challenge at pbhiatus_fic. The three prompts I chose were BBQ ribs, cheap beer and crab. Unseen by anyone else's eyes but mine, so all concrit is especially welcome!
~*~
Pushing his elbows out from his sides in a vain attempt to make some room at the insanely crowded bar, he puts his mouth to Veronica’s ear. “Tell me again why we’re here?”
He has to shout to be heard over the din of the live band, but she obviously hears him just fine. Pulling back, she looks at him with barely concealed amusement. “You’ve lived in Chicago all your life, and the most you’ve ever done to celebrate St Patrick’s Day is to get blind drunk with Derek on cheap beer while watching the parade on television.”
“Cheap being the important word here.” He nods towards the pints of Guinness lined up on the bar, patiently waiting for the bartender to finish the mysterious ritual of staggered pouring. “Do you know how much that stuff costs?”
“I do.” She grins, her bright eyes slightly red-rimmed from cigarette smoke. “I’m buying tonight, did I mention that?”
Having managed to slip his hand around her, he can't resist the temptation to reach down and gently squeeze her ass, feeling the heat of her through the prim little business skirt she's wearing. “You know you don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” She rocks back against his touch, smiling up into his eyes. “But it’s no fun drinking Guinness alone.”
He laughs, looking around at the mass of humanity pressing in on them. “Yeah, there’s hardly another soul in sight.”
“You know what I mean,” she shoots back, then turns a dazzling smile on the frazzled bartender. “Two pints plus two small ones.”
He quickly translates Vee's order from St Patrick's Day slang into plain English, blinking as the bartender grabs a bottle of whiskey off the shelf behind him. “Just so we’re straight - you’re trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me, right?”
“We’ll see.” The dimple in her cheek flirts with her smooth skin as she turns to him. “Luck of the Irish, and all that.” She leans close enough for him to smell her perfume over the beer and the cigarette smoke. “And Burrows is an Irish name, is it not?” She presses a glass into each of his hands, then kisses him soundly on the mouth, the taste of her more intoxicating than anything he’s about to drink.
“To your good health,” she murmurs, somehow managing to make the mundane toast sound like the dirtiest thing he’s heard in years.
He grins, already planning to set a new record for downing the drinks in his hands, because the sooner he’s finished, the sooner he can take her to bed. If today is supposed to be all about celebrating, then he can’t think of a better way. “And to yours, counselor.”
~*~
“BBQ ribs.”
Michael looks at his cellmate, waiting for him to elaborate. When it becomes clear there’s nothing more forthcoming, he can't help prompting him. “That’s it? That’s the food you miss the most?”
“Yeah,” Sucre nods, his eyes glazing over. “You know that little BBQ place on Fifth?”
Michael frowns, then shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, man.” Sucre sits forward on the edge of his bunk, looking across the cell to where Michael is sitting at their small writing desk. “You gotta go there and have those ribs.” His gaze is dreamy now, his hands moving slowly through the air as if reaching for an invisible plate. “I swear, you’ll never go anywhere else.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
Gripping the edge of his bunk, Sucre leans down until his face is almost at a level with Michael’s, his voice dropping to a cheerful whisper. “If this works and we get out of here, Papi, then you and me are going there, okay?”
Michael stares at him, his throat tight with regret. There’s no way he and Fernando Sucre will ever be able to show their faces on Fifth Street, and it suddenly pains him how much he’d like it to be otherwise. “You’d risk being arrested and thrown back into this place for BBQ ribs?”
“I’ve had those ribs, Papi.” Sucre grins, his perfect teeth glowing in the darkness of their dimly-lit cell. “Trust me, it would almost be worth it.”
~*~
She looks around the restaurant as the waiter leaves them with the oversized menus. “Well, this is a nice surprise.”
Bradley gives her an odd look across the table. “You don’t have to keep saying that, Ma.”
“Well, I’m not used to being taken out to dinner by my favourite son.”
“I’m your only son, Ma,” he drawls as he looks longingly at the waitress carrying a tray of beers to the next table.
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
He shrugs as he sips his water and reads his menu, and she takes a moment to study her only child. A sourpuss, his father used to call him, not caring if the boy was out of earshot or not. She used to hush him, hating the word, but she can’t deny her late husband had a point. Some people are naturally happy, always trying to see the good in the world around them. Some people are just the opposite. As much as she hated it, she’d accepted long ago that her Bradley was one of the sour ones.
The waiter is back already, hovering, eager to take their order. “I’ll have the crab linguini,” she tells him brightly, earning herself a frown from her son.
“Ma, you don’t have to get the cheapest thing on the menu,” he whispers, his face flushed. “I’ve got the gift card, remember?”
Putting her hand on his worringly sturdy forearm - she really does need to make him eat more salads, she thinks - she gives him a reassuring smile. “But I want the linguini, dear. Crab’s so much easier to eat when it’s already out of the shells.”
“Fine.” He rattles off his own order to the waiter, steamed king crab legs with melted butter, throwing in a request for a beer in an undertone.
She pretends not to notice, just as she always pretends not to notice the clothes that smell of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. She knows he's still going to his weekly meetings, just as he'd promised. She also knows he goes to a lot of other places too, places she doesn’t ever want to imagine.
She watches him tug at the too-tight collar of his shirt, shifting his shoulders restlessly, and feels a familiar pang of tenderness. On the day he was born, her own mother had told her she would never stop thinking of him as her baby. She never did. Perhaps, she thinks as she watches the unhappy line of his mouth, that was the problem.
“This is a lovely place, dear.” She smiles at him as she reaches for her water glass. Despite his bad mood, she’s still happy to be here, having someone else to cook and do the dishes. “But you should have used that card on some pretty girl, not an old duck like me.”
His face shuts down, frozen with anger and for a few awful seconds, she barely recognizes him as the son she’s loved for over forty years. To her relief, he sniffs loudly and shakes his head, his mouth twisting into a smile that makes her heart hurt. “Don’t be silly. You don’t think I’d ask anyone but my favourite girl, do ya?”
~*~