(no subject)
Title: Echo (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Implied Veronia/Michael, Implied Sara/Lincoln (it's a little hard to explain but all will make sense once you've read)
Length: 3281 words
Rating: PG-15 for swearing and some very mild sexual references
Summary: Sometimes all you can see is what's not there.
Author's Note: The first half of this ficlet has been in my head for a while. The second half is for becisvolatile with many thanks for the inspirational conversation that convinced me to try something a little different and the invaluable beta help. This story contains dialogue and spoilers from "Brother's Keeper". The words quoted at the beginning of the story are from the song "Good Cop, Bad Cop" by Everything But the Girl.
to only see what isn't there
to want and want and never have
~*~
He’s the last person she’d expected to see in this bar tonight, and later she will wonder why that is. After all, she’s the one who’s the outsider now, the one who left to find herself, whatever the hell that means. This is his world much more than it’s hers, even though she’s been back in the city for six months.
He looks pleased to see her, and the fierce feeling of joy that wells up inside her at the sight of his familiar face takes her by surprise. She would like to hug him, maybe kiss his cheek, but there’s a new air of restraint about him that has her holding back.
He asks how she is and she tells him where she’s working now, as if that’s a proper answer to his question. The thing is, she muses silently, she can’t tell him how she is because now that she’s back, now that she’s here and talking to someone who’s known her since she was ten years old, she’s not exactly sure.
Because - just like it’s always been for her - it’s impossible to talk to Michael Scofield without being reminded of his brother. She may have spent the last few years trying to forget all about Lincoln Burrows, but two minutes talking to Michael has blown all that hard work to pieces. She knows it’s useless to try to pretend she doesn’t want to know, so she just comes right out and asks him. “How’s Lincoln?”
He tilts back his head to look at her. “You guys haven’t talked?”
“Not for the last few years.” Feels more like ten, she thinks suddenly. “How is he?”
He smiles wearily, and something twists deep inside her. “He’s, you know,” He hesitates, then shrugs. “He’s Linc.”
Right. She catches the bartender’s eye, deciding that this is not a conversation to be having sober. “Vodka tonic.”
Michael’s watching her. “Serious drink.”
“And what are you drinking?” she shoots back. “Root beer?”
“Touché," he says with a soft chuckle. "So, tell me all about your fancy job.”
She does. She also tells him about her apartment (she doesn’t mention it’s too small but it’s all she can afford for now) and her newish almost-boyfriend (she figures Michael doesn’t need to know she hasn’t returned said almost-boyfriend’s calls for over a week) and a dozen other things that really don’t mean all that much. Michael tells her a little about his work and his social life - he doesn’t mention a girlfriend but she knows that doesn’t mean anything - and it feels as though they’re both trying too hard to keep dancing around the issue of Lincoln.
Two drinks later, though, they’re suddenly talking about old times and Michael says his brother’s name and then she’s talking about him too, the words spilling out of her mouth in an uncontrollable rush. They talk about the trouble that always seemed to follow the three of them around when they were kids and she knows it wasn’t funny at the time but he’s laughing and so is she and she suddenly feels better than she has in months.
Five drinks later, Linc’s name seems to sting her ears and burn her tongue and she can feel the threatening press of tears behind her eyes and she hates it.
“Let’s talk about something more interesting than your brother.” She runs her finger around the inside of her last shot glass, then thumps it back onto the top of the bar.
Michael tosses back his own drink, his empty glass swiftly joining hers. “Okay.”
“Because I’m tired of talking about him,” she announces further, hazily wondering if Michael has noticed that she’s been the one doing most of the talking.
If he’s noticed, he doesn’t say. “Ooo-kay,” he simply drawls again, dragging out the word with an accompanying roll of his eyes. “What do you want to talk about?”
She opens her mouth, but nothing wants to come out. Nothing that doesn’t involve Lincoln, that is. It’s weird - she’d swear she hasn’t thought about him in weeks (well, hardly thought about him) but now she’s sitting here with Michael, Lincoln is all she can think about. And it’s pissing her off.
“Let’s talk about you,” she blurts out, patting Michael’s forearm clumsily. “How’s that fabulous apartment of yours?”
He makes a smothered noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and she has the feeling that it’s directed at her. “Still fabulous, I guess.”
Her hand is still on his arm, and she’s abruptly aware of how close she’s sitting to him. She’s hardly in his lap, but maybe she’s closer than an old friend should be sitting.
And maybe she doesn’t care.
He’s not Lincoln - she knows that better than anyone - but the echo of the other man is there every time she looks at him, the shape of his eyes, the firm set of his mouth. Even the heat of the skin warming her palm through his jacket sleeve is the same as his brother’s. Always so warm, both of them, she thinks, an ancient memory flashing through her head. The two boys teasing her about her always-cold hands, Michael taking great delight in reciting all the facts he knew about cold-blooded creatures, Lincoln taking pity on her and giving her his gloves, telling her to keep them.
Veronica scowls, no longer seeing her hand on Michael’s arm but herself a lifetime ago. She’d kept those fucking gloves in her drawer for years, as though they were a treasured corsage from a prom rather than a ratty old hand-me-down.
“Uh, Vee?”
She blinks, her gaze coming back into focus to find Michael watching her with hooded eyes. A sense of familiarity washes over her, but it’s tinged with something new, something she suddenly wants to reach out and grab. “Got any coffee in your fabulous apartment?”
He looks at her in silence. He doesn’t tell her that there’s an excellent espresso bar two doors down the street. He doesn’t tell her that he knows she doesn’t really like to drink coffee late at night. He doesn’t say a lot of things, including the one thing they both already know.
This is a very bad idea.
After what feels like a very long time, he shrugs, then gestures to the bartender for the check. “Sure.”
His apartment - his loft, she corrects herself fuzzily - is still fabulous. He shuts the door behind them and she traipses unsteadily into the living room in his wake, delivering a very important tirade about high heels, which he needs to understand because guys just don’t get it. Lincoln never got it, she thinks, and then is immediately annoyed that he has once again popped into her head like a damned jack-in-the-box.
Pushing the thought of him away, she focuses her attention on Michael, two steps ahead of her. Wanting to make her point about the shoes - because he still doesn’t seem to be getting it and she has a blister, damn it - she bends down to slip off one of her cursed heels, and then she’s falling, falling through the air and into his arms and she’s laughing again and so is he. She sucks in a breath that sounds more like a giggle and she’s definitely closer now than an old friend should be and his hands are gripping her arms and she can feel the heat of him soaking through her clothes, right through her skin.
He doesn’t smell like Lincoln. Michael smells of expensive aftershave, not the spicy soap that his brother likes. That his brother used to like, she reminds herself, thinking sadly that it’s been a while since she was in a position to be sure about such things, and then Michael’s hands tighten on her elbows and she forgets about the soap.
This is Michael, she tells herself now as she tilts back her head to look at him. This isn’t Lincoln. Her knee bumps against his - accidentally, deliberately - and his hands tighten a little more, his gaze narrowing. The laughter in the back of her throat dies, and she’s vaguely aware of her fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms, her breath becoming hot and still in her lungs. He’s not Lincoln, she tells herself again, but she’s no longer sure if that’s an argument for or against what she’s about to let happen.
Her skin feels hot, her blood thick with alcohol and a sudden, shocking rush of desire. The warmth of his breath is on her parted lips - so close, too close - when his cell phone rings. He pulls away, fumbling in his coat pocket. They both peer at the small glowing screen of his phone, her hand still clutching his arm for balance, then she hears him say in a flat, heavy voice that it’s Lincoln calling. Her stomach contracts, her blood turning cold in a heartbeat, and she knows that if she’d been waiting for a sign, it would be hard to imagine a more succinct one.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“He’ll leave a message.” He sways on his feet as he answers her, and she wonders how much he’d had to drink before she’d bumped into him. “He always does,” he adds, a note of what sounds almost like laughter in his voice. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he shakes his head, then looks at her with dark, unreadable eyes, his voice little more than a whisper. “I can’t do this.”
“I know.” Her answer feels thick on her tongue, but she suddenly feels very, very sober. “I know.”
He touches her hair lightly, his fingertips barely connecting, then he pulls his hand away. “I’ll call you a cab.”
She stares at him. His eyes are no longer unreadable but filled with a relief that stings far more than it should. She can only nod, too embarrassed and confused and still wanting so much to be kissed - although she’s suddenly not sure exactly who she wants to kiss her - to do anything more.
She says nothing as Michael dials the number for a local taxi service, watching the tense line of his shoulders as he talks, and tries to decide what she feels the most - hurt pride or anger. Anger, she finally thinks, staring at Michael’s back. She’s angry at Linc for pushing her away years ago and at Michael for making her feel as though it’s happening all over again and - most of all - at herself for thinking that years of tangled history could be erased with half a dozen shooters and a quick grope in the dark.
Michael finishes his call and they take the elevator to the ground floor, the silence between them thick and awkward, and her anger slowly starts to fade. He’s as drunk as she is, but he was the one who had the good sense to stop before it was too late. Outside the entrance of his building, she turns to him, having no idea what to say but knowing that she can’t leave it like this. “Michael, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He gives her a quick smile, but his eyes are still distant. “It wasn’t your fault.”
She shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. “That was stupid of us.”
“Yes, it was.” He looks away, his gaze scanning the street - she knows he’s watching for the taxi, and that makes her feel even worse - before glancing back at her. “But we’ll be okay.”
He gives her a quick hug when the taxi arrives, an overtly platonic gesture that is pretty much over before it’s begun, and then she’s being ushered into the back seat and he’s slamming the door. She doesn’t look back as the taxi pulls away, too busy feeling like a prized idiot and trying to make sense of the addled mess inside her head.
For a minute there - for God’s sake, be honest, it was more than a minute - she had wanted him, wanted him so badly she’d been ready to forget every little thing outside the front door of that damned loft of his. That was bad enough, she knows, but what makes it worse is that she has no idea if she'd wanted him for himself or for the echo of Lincoln she saw every time she looked at him.
The more she thinks about it, the more she thinks it might have been both.
Lowering the window of the taxi, Veronica closes her eyes as the cold night air hits her flushed face, and tries not to think about where the hell the three of them can possibly go from here.
~*~
“Sit there, would you?” Sara gestures to the gurney, then gives her patient a rueful smile. “For someone who’s in solitary most of the time, you certainly have the knack of finding different ways to hurt yourself.”
“I guess I’m just the kind of guy who attracts trouble.” Lincoln offers her a quick smile and his right hand with its split knuckles. “That’s what my brother used to tell me, anyway.”
“Is that right?” Sara studies his bloodied fingers, unable to stop herself comparing them to Michael’s more slender ones. “Must be a family thing.”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “How’s that?”
“He seems to have the same knack of finding trouble.”
The hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Well, P.I. can be dangerous work.”
“So I gather.”
They fall into a comfortable silence as she cleans the deepest cut, the one that has been - she doesn’t bother to ask how - sliced into the webbing of his thumb. Apart from an almost inaudible hiss of breath when she first begins to disinfect the wound, he sits without speaking, his gaze firmly trained on the window behind her. There’s a stillness in him that reminds her very much of his younger brother, and yet she knows that Michael wouldn’t have missed such a perfect opportunity to try drawing her out of herself. Just like he did an hour ago, she muses wryly, doing her best to ignore the subtle fluttering of her pulse at the thought.
“Did you always want to be a doctor?”
She hides a smile. Just when she thought she had this one worked out, he has to go and surprise her. She’s known him almost two years now, and while men in solitary confinement will usually take advantage of any chance to make conversation with another human being, it’s not a trait she’s ever noticed in Lincoln Burrows. At least, not before his brother had come to Fox River. “Pretty much.”
“Must be nice.”
“What do you mean?” She gives him a quick glance, then gently eases his thumb up to sit flush with his index finger. “Keep that still for a moment.”
He does as she asks, then his broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “Must be nice being so sure about what you wanted to do with your life.”
Having now finished cleaning the two other deep cuts on his fingers, she reaches for the gauze. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.” She takes his hand in hers, resting her elbow on her thigh to steady herself. “There were a lot of times when I thought I’d made a huge mistake.” Lots and lots of times, she adds darkly to herself.
“I know that feeling.”
She adjusts her grip on his hand, uneasily aware that warmth of his skin against hers invokes the memory of administering Michael’s daily insulin shot. The subject of shared genetic traits may be a fascinating one, but it’s definitely not a distraction she needs right now. They fall silent for a moment, then he says in a soft, dark voice, “It wasn’t a mistake.”
She looks at him in surprise. “Why do you say that?”
“Takes a good doctor to stand with a patient who’s about to be fried.” He’s watching her, his dark eyes searching her face, and she’s reminded uncomfortably of Michael’s intent stare. “Especially when she objects so strongly to the process in question.”
“It’s all part of the job,” she says lightly, wondering why she’s still holding his hand when she’d finished dressing it over a minute ago.
He shakes his head. “You didn’t want to be there and you didn’t have to be there, but you were.”
“It seemed the least I could do.” Her voice sounds quiet and small. She doesn’t want to think of that day, to remember the utter helplessness she felt, both for him and for Michael. “I don’t know how much of a different my being there made, to be honest.”
His fingertips brush her palm, almost certainly an accidental touch, but she is suddenly aware of how close he’s sitting, aware of him as something more than a prisoner needing her care. “It made a difference to me.” His fingertips graze her palm a second time, and this time it doesn’t feel like an accident.
Perhaps it’s because she’s tired. Perhaps it’s because she’s still fighting off the memory of Michael’s pretty words and pretty smile from an hour earlier. Perhaps it’s because there’s an earthy sincerity in this man’s manner that she doesn’t always see in his brother. She doesn’t know. What she does know is that a ripple of heat floods her skin at Lincoln’s touch, something that has never happened before. She jerks her hand away before she can stop herself, a sudden wave of panic momentarily sweeping aside her usual air of calm professionalism.
He frowns, letting his injured hand drop slowly to his thigh. “Sorry, did I say something wrong?”
“No, it’s okay.” She gives him a quick smile that she hopes covers the confused melee churning inside her head. “It’s just been one of those days, I guess.”
“Yeah, I know that feeling too.” He grins, and she feels an odd flutter of something in the pit of her stomach at the familiar curve of his mouth. It’s an echo of his brother’s smile, she realises with a jolt, the feel of his hand in hers an echo of Michael’s touch.
Same but different. She’s heard or read that phrase perhaps a dozen times in her life, but she’d never grasped the simple truth of the words until this moment. She doesn’t know what should worry her the most - the fact that she feels as though she’s betraying Michael by even thinking what she’s thinking, or the fact that she doesn’t care if she is.
Enough.
“Okay.” She presses her heels against the hard floor and pushes her stool backwards, putting a good two feet between them. “You’re all done.”
He’s looking at her now, his blue eyes dark with speculation, and she knows he'd noticed her reaction to his touch. She has the feeling there's very little in this place he doesn't notice. Just like his brother, a little voice in her head whispers.
“Thanks, Doc,” he finally murmurs, easing himself off the gurney with a grace that doesn’t seem to match his stocky frame. “See you next time, yeah?”
She watches him through the glass as he walks away, flanked by a CO on either side, and she suddenly wants a drink more than she has in months. Scotch. Single malt. She wants that first sharp bite as it flows over her tongue, the smooth burn of it as it slips down her throat. She presses her tongue hard against the back of her teeth, willing away the craving, willing away the trigger that caused it.
Somehow, she thinks the craving will be easier to forget.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Implied Veronia/Michael, Implied Sara/Lincoln (it's a little hard to explain but all will make sense once you've read)
Length: 3281 words
Rating: PG-15 for swearing and some very mild sexual references
Summary: Sometimes all you can see is what's not there.
Author's Note: The first half of this ficlet has been in my head for a while. The second half is for becisvolatile with many thanks for the inspirational conversation that convinced me to try something a little different and the invaluable beta help. This story contains dialogue and spoilers from "Brother's Keeper". The words quoted at the beginning of the story are from the song "Good Cop, Bad Cop" by Everything But the Girl.
to only see what isn't there
to want and want and never have
~*~
He’s the last person she’d expected to see in this bar tonight, and later she will wonder why that is. After all, she’s the one who’s the outsider now, the one who left to find herself, whatever the hell that means. This is his world much more than it’s hers, even though she’s been back in the city for six months.
He looks pleased to see her, and the fierce feeling of joy that wells up inside her at the sight of his familiar face takes her by surprise. She would like to hug him, maybe kiss his cheek, but there’s a new air of restraint about him that has her holding back.
He asks how she is and she tells him where she’s working now, as if that’s a proper answer to his question. The thing is, she muses silently, she can’t tell him how she is because now that she’s back, now that she’s here and talking to someone who’s known her since she was ten years old, she’s not exactly sure.
Because - just like it’s always been for her - it’s impossible to talk to Michael Scofield without being reminded of his brother. She may have spent the last few years trying to forget all about Lincoln Burrows, but two minutes talking to Michael has blown all that hard work to pieces. She knows it’s useless to try to pretend she doesn’t want to know, so she just comes right out and asks him. “How’s Lincoln?”
He tilts back his head to look at her. “You guys haven’t talked?”
“Not for the last few years.” Feels more like ten, she thinks suddenly. “How is he?”
He smiles wearily, and something twists deep inside her. “He’s, you know,” He hesitates, then shrugs. “He’s Linc.”
Right. She catches the bartender’s eye, deciding that this is not a conversation to be having sober. “Vodka tonic.”
Michael’s watching her. “Serious drink.”
“And what are you drinking?” she shoots back. “Root beer?”
“Touché," he says with a soft chuckle. "So, tell me all about your fancy job.”
She does. She also tells him about her apartment (she doesn’t mention it’s too small but it’s all she can afford for now) and her newish almost-boyfriend (she figures Michael doesn’t need to know she hasn’t returned said almost-boyfriend’s calls for over a week) and a dozen other things that really don’t mean all that much. Michael tells her a little about his work and his social life - he doesn’t mention a girlfriend but she knows that doesn’t mean anything - and it feels as though they’re both trying too hard to keep dancing around the issue of Lincoln.
Two drinks later, though, they’re suddenly talking about old times and Michael says his brother’s name and then she’s talking about him too, the words spilling out of her mouth in an uncontrollable rush. They talk about the trouble that always seemed to follow the three of them around when they were kids and she knows it wasn’t funny at the time but he’s laughing and so is she and she suddenly feels better than she has in months.
Five drinks later, Linc’s name seems to sting her ears and burn her tongue and she can feel the threatening press of tears behind her eyes and she hates it.
“Let’s talk about something more interesting than your brother.” She runs her finger around the inside of her last shot glass, then thumps it back onto the top of the bar.
Michael tosses back his own drink, his empty glass swiftly joining hers. “Okay.”
“Because I’m tired of talking about him,” she announces further, hazily wondering if Michael has noticed that she’s been the one doing most of the talking.
If he’s noticed, he doesn’t say. “Ooo-kay,” he simply drawls again, dragging out the word with an accompanying roll of his eyes. “What do you want to talk about?”
She opens her mouth, but nothing wants to come out. Nothing that doesn’t involve Lincoln, that is. It’s weird - she’d swear she hasn’t thought about him in weeks (well, hardly thought about him) but now she’s sitting here with Michael, Lincoln is all she can think about. And it’s pissing her off.
“Let’s talk about you,” she blurts out, patting Michael’s forearm clumsily. “How’s that fabulous apartment of yours?”
He makes a smothered noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and she has the feeling that it’s directed at her. “Still fabulous, I guess.”
Her hand is still on his arm, and she’s abruptly aware of how close she’s sitting to him. She’s hardly in his lap, but maybe she’s closer than an old friend should be sitting.
And maybe she doesn’t care.
He’s not Lincoln - she knows that better than anyone - but the echo of the other man is there every time she looks at him, the shape of his eyes, the firm set of his mouth. Even the heat of the skin warming her palm through his jacket sleeve is the same as his brother’s. Always so warm, both of them, she thinks, an ancient memory flashing through her head. The two boys teasing her about her always-cold hands, Michael taking great delight in reciting all the facts he knew about cold-blooded creatures, Lincoln taking pity on her and giving her his gloves, telling her to keep them.
Veronica scowls, no longer seeing her hand on Michael’s arm but herself a lifetime ago. She’d kept those fucking gloves in her drawer for years, as though they were a treasured corsage from a prom rather than a ratty old hand-me-down.
“Uh, Vee?”
She blinks, her gaze coming back into focus to find Michael watching her with hooded eyes. A sense of familiarity washes over her, but it’s tinged with something new, something she suddenly wants to reach out and grab. “Got any coffee in your fabulous apartment?”
He looks at her in silence. He doesn’t tell her that there’s an excellent espresso bar two doors down the street. He doesn’t tell her that he knows she doesn’t really like to drink coffee late at night. He doesn’t say a lot of things, including the one thing they both already know.
This is a very bad idea.
After what feels like a very long time, he shrugs, then gestures to the bartender for the check. “Sure.”
His apartment - his loft, she corrects herself fuzzily - is still fabulous. He shuts the door behind them and she traipses unsteadily into the living room in his wake, delivering a very important tirade about high heels, which he needs to understand because guys just don’t get it. Lincoln never got it, she thinks, and then is immediately annoyed that he has once again popped into her head like a damned jack-in-the-box.
Pushing the thought of him away, she focuses her attention on Michael, two steps ahead of her. Wanting to make her point about the shoes - because he still doesn’t seem to be getting it and she has a blister, damn it - she bends down to slip off one of her cursed heels, and then she’s falling, falling through the air and into his arms and she’s laughing again and so is he. She sucks in a breath that sounds more like a giggle and she’s definitely closer now than an old friend should be and his hands are gripping her arms and she can feel the heat of him soaking through her clothes, right through her skin.
He doesn’t smell like Lincoln. Michael smells of expensive aftershave, not the spicy soap that his brother likes. That his brother used to like, she reminds herself, thinking sadly that it’s been a while since she was in a position to be sure about such things, and then Michael’s hands tighten on her elbows and she forgets about the soap.
This is Michael, she tells herself now as she tilts back her head to look at him. This isn’t Lincoln. Her knee bumps against his - accidentally, deliberately - and his hands tighten a little more, his gaze narrowing. The laughter in the back of her throat dies, and she’s vaguely aware of her fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms, her breath becoming hot and still in her lungs. He’s not Lincoln, she tells herself again, but she’s no longer sure if that’s an argument for or against what she’s about to let happen.
Her skin feels hot, her blood thick with alcohol and a sudden, shocking rush of desire. The warmth of his breath is on her parted lips - so close, too close - when his cell phone rings. He pulls away, fumbling in his coat pocket. They both peer at the small glowing screen of his phone, her hand still clutching his arm for balance, then she hears him say in a flat, heavy voice that it’s Lincoln calling. Her stomach contracts, her blood turning cold in a heartbeat, and she knows that if she’d been waiting for a sign, it would be hard to imagine a more succinct one.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“He’ll leave a message.” He sways on his feet as he answers her, and she wonders how much he’d had to drink before she’d bumped into him. “He always does,” he adds, a note of what sounds almost like laughter in his voice. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he shakes his head, then looks at her with dark, unreadable eyes, his voice little more than a whisper. “I can’t do this.”
“I know.” Her answer feels thick on her tongue, but she suddenly feels very, very sober. “I know.”
He touches her hair lightly, his fingertips barely connecting, then he pulls his hand away. “I’ll call you a cab.”
She stares at him. His eyes are no longer unreadable but filled with a relief that stings far more than it should. She can only nod, too embarrassed and confused and still wanting so much to be kissed - although she’s suddenly not sure exactly who she wants to kiss her - to do anything more.
She says nothing as Michael dials the number for a local taxi service, watching the tense line of his shoulders as he talks, and tries to decide what she feels the most - hurt pride or anger. Anger, she finally thinks, staring at Michael’s back. She’s angry at Linc for pushing her away years ago and at Michael for making her feel as though it’s happening all over again and - most of all - at herself for thinking that years of tangled history could be erased with half a dozen shooters and a quick grope in the dark.
Michael finishes his call and they take the elevator to the ground floor, the silence between them thick and awkward, and her anger slowly starts to fade. He’s as drunk as she is, but he was the one who had the good sense to stop before it was too late. Outside the entrance of his building, she turns to him, having no idea what to say but knowing that she can’t leave it like this. “Michael, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He gives her a quick smile, but his eyes are still distant. “It wasn’t your fault.”
She shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. “That was stupid of us.”
“Yes, it was.” He looks away, his gaze scanning the street - she knows he’s watching for the taxi, and that makes her feel even worse - before glancing back at her. “But we’ll be okay.”
He gives her a quick hug when the taxi arrives, an overtly platonic gesture that is pretty much over before it’s begun, and then she’s being ushered into the back seat and he’s slamming the door. She doesn’t look back as the taxi pulls away, too busy feeling like a prized idiot and trying to make sense of the addled mess inside her head.
For a minute there - for God’s sake, be honest, it was more than a minute - she had wanted him, wanted him so badly she’d been ready to forget every little thing outside the front door of that damned loft of his. That was bad enough, she knows, but what makes it worse is that she has no idea if she'd wanted him for himself or for the echo of Lincoln she saw every time she looked at him.
The more she thinks about it, the more she thinks it might have been both.
Lowering the window of the taxi, Veronica closes her eyes as the cold night air hits her flushed face, and tries not to think about where the hell the three of them can possibly go from here.
~*~
“Sit there, would you?” Sara gestures to the gurney, then gives her patient a rueful smile. “For someone who’s in solitary most of the time, you certainly have the knack of finding different ways to hurt yourself.”
“I guess I’m just the kind of guy who attracts trouble.” Lincoln offers her a quick smile and his right hand with its split knuckles. “That’s what my brother used to tell me, anyway.”
“Is that right?” Sara studies his bloodied fingers, unable to stop herself comparing them to Michael’s more slender ones. “Must be a family thing.”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “How’s that?”
“He seems to have the same knack of finding trouble.”
The hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Well, P.I. can be dangerous work.”
“So I gather.”
They fall into a comfortable silence as she cleans the deepest cut, the one that has been - she doesn’t bother to ask how - sliced into the webbing of his thumb. Apart from an almost inaudible hiss of breath when she first begins to disinfect the wound, he sits without speaking, his gaze firmly trained on the window behind her. There’s a stillness in him that reminds her very much of his younger brother, and yet she knows that Michael wouldn’t have missed such a perfect opportunity to try drawing her out of herself. Just like he did an hour ago, she muses wryly, doing her best to ignore the subtle fluttering of her pulse at the thought.
“Did you always want to be a doctor?”
She hides a smile. Just when she thought she had this one worked out, he has to go and surprise her. She’s known him almost two years now, and while men in solitary confinement will usually take advantage of any chance to make conversation with another human being, it’s not a trait she’s ever noticed in Lincoln Burrows. At least, not before his brother had come to Fox River. “Pretty much.”
“Must be nice.”
“What do you mean?” She gives him a quick glance, then gently eases his thumb up to sit flush with his index finger. “Keep that still for a moment.”
He does as she asks, then his broad shoulders lift in a shrug. “Must be nice being so sure about what you wanted to do with your life.”
Having now finished cleaning the two other deep cuts on his fingers, she reaches for the gauze. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.” She takes his hand in hers, resting her elbow on her thigh to steady herself. “There were a lot of times when I thought I’d made a huge mistake.” Lots and lots of times, she adds darkly to herself.
“I know that feeling.”
She adjusts her grip on his hand, uneasily aware that warmth of his skin against hers invokes the memory of administering Michael’s daily insulin shot. The subject of shared genetic traits may be a fascinating one, but it’s definitely not a distraction she needs right now. They fall silent for a moment, then he says in a soft, dark voice, “It wasn’t a mistake.”
She looks at him in surprise. “Why do you say that?”
“Takes a good doctor to stand with a patient who’s about to be fried.” He’s watching her, his dark eyes searching her face, and she’s reminded uncomfortably of Michael’s intent stare. “Especially when she objects so strongly to the process in question.”
“It’s all part of the job,” she says lightly, wondering why she’s still holding his hand when she’d finished dressing it over a minute ago.
He shakes his head. “You didn’t want to be there and you didn’t have to be there, but you were.”
“It seemed the least I could do.” Her voice sounds quiet and small. She doesn’t want to think of that day, to remember the utter helplessness she felt, both for him and for Michael. “I don’t know how much of a different my being there made, to be honest.”
His fingertips brush her palm, almost certainly an accidental touch, but she is suddenly aware of how close he’s sitting, aware of him as something more than a prisoner needing her care. “It made a difference to me.” His fingertips graze her palm a second time, and this time it doesn’t feel like an accident.
Perhaps it’s because she’s tired. Perhaps it’s because she’s still fighting off the memory of Michael’s pretty words and pretty smile from an hour earlier. Perhaps it’s because there’s an earthy sincerity in this man’s manner that she doesn’t always see in his brother. She doesn’t know. What she does know is that a ripple of heat floods her skin at Lincoln’s touch, something that has never happened before. She jerks her hand away before she can stop herself, a sudden wave of panic momentarily sweeping aside her usual air of calm professionalism.
He frowns, letting his injured hand drop slowly to his thigh. “Sorry, did I say something wrong?”
“No, it’s okay.” She gives him a quick smile that she hopes covers the confused melee churning inside her head. “It’s just been one of those days, I guess.”
“Yeah, I know that feeling too.” He grins, and she feels an odd flutter of something in the pit of her stomach at the familiar curve of his mouth. It’s an echo of his brother’s smile, she realises with a jolt, the feel of his hand in hers an echo of Michael’s touch.
Same but different. She’s heard or read that phrase perhaps a dozen times in her life, but she’d never grasped the simple truth of the words until this moment. She doesn’t know what should worry her the most - the fact that she feels as though she’s betraying Michael by even thinking what she’s thinking, or the fact that she doesn’t care if she is.
Enough.
“Okay.” She presses her heels against the hard floor and pushes her stool backwards, putting a good two feet between them. “You’re all done.”
He’s looking at her now, his blue eyes dark with speculation, and she knows he'd noticed her reaction to his touch. She has the feeling there's very little in this place he doesn't notice. Just like his brother, a little voice in her head whispers.
“Thanks, Doc,” he finally murmurs, easing himself off the gurney with a grace that doesn’t seem to match his stocky frame. “See you next time, yeah?”
She watches him through the glass as he walks away, flanked by a CO on either side, and she suddenly wants a drink more than she has in months. Scotch. Single malt. She wants that first sharp bite as it flows over her tongue, the smooth burn of it as it slips down her throat. She presses her tongue hard against the back of her teeth, willing away the craving, willing away the trigger that caused it.
Somehow, she thinks the craving will be easier to forget.
~*~