Off the Record
Title: Off the Record
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Characters: Lincoln, Sara
Words: 1,128
Warnings: None
Summary: Lincoln and Sara have a brief chat during 4.08.
Author's Note: Probably should have been written a year ago, but better late than never, right?
On average, LA suffers through two-hundred sixty-three days of sunshine a year, and only thirty-five days of measurable precipitation, most of which occur during the November-to-April period. Lovely weather to light up whatever manufactured beauty walks the streets and lounges at the beaches basking in the mixed blessing of the Santa Ana winds. Perhaps one of the best climates on the planet.
So it makes sense, of course, that today it would be raining. Today, September seventeenth. Nine days after Michael’s dreaded thirty-first birthday. Five days after Lincoln spotted the ominous blood pooling in his nostril. Two days after he let Sara into the loop against his brother’s will. Three hours after he watched her stitch up Sucre and realized how much she regretted her inability to fix up Michael just as easily. At which point he almost wished that he had not possessed the strength to burden her with such knowledge in the first place. Or the weakness to need to.
Now his feet carry him to her, even though she probably came out here for solitude. Having spent years confined to a dark cell and only his own voice, he knows that most people only think they desire true isolation, and he can imagine that someone like Sara might accidentally shatter if trapped inside her head for too long.
The downpour, deafening as it splatters against the concrete of their improvised backyard, has already soaked through his clothing by the time he reaches where she stands at the edge of the dock. The rain has plastered her hair to her face and stained it more of a brown than a red, her grey paramedic shirt clinging to her skin, and she looks mentally unfazed by her surroundings even though her shoulders slightly tremble in the cold.
“Lincoln,” she acknowledges as he takes his place right at her side, choosing not to break her gaze from the horizon extending over the harbor. He doesn’t take offense. “Did Michael send you out here?”
He almost cringes at the bitterness in her tone. “No, he’s busy chewing out Self for-well, for you.”
What he can almost classify as a laugh sneaks cynically from between her lips. “I can handle Gretchen,” she says into the wind, so he can barely make out her words, “A couple of hours ago Self asked me if I wanted to meet up with her. You know, make peace, come to some sort of understanding.” And that part’s off the record, he’s pretty sure.
He doesn’t laugh at the ridiculousness of that whole idea. He sees in his mind Sara’s head, caked in blood, screaming silently from its place in the box. He doesn’t know what actually went down in Panama between Sara and Gretchen, but he spent a month thinking that the latter had decapitated the former, and it’s going to be awhile before he can shake that.
“So Michael’s a little overprotective,” Lincoln shrugs finally. When she finally looks at him, somehow conveying incredulity without even the tiniest change in facial expression, he almost smiles. “Okay, he’s really overprotective. Can you blame him, though? He’s got a lot to lose.”
A flicker of surprise passes through her eyes, as though she has never expected any kind of compliment from him, even a veiled one, and doesn’t know how to respond to what he’s offered. She should remember it. He doesn’t throw out such sentiments on a regular basis.
In the end, she just nods absently, turning her gaze back out over the harbor. Brushing drenched hair out of her eyes.
“You know it’s gonna take forever to dry off, right?”
Another quiet, mirthless laugh. “Then why’re you out here? You said it wasn’t to check up on me.”
“I just said Michael didn’t send me,” he corrects her. “Doesn’t mean I can’t make sure you’re safe on my own.” He runs a hand over his dripping scalp, mentally going through his wardrobe and thinking of clean, dry clothing to put on when he finally convinces her to come back inside.
“Make sure I’m safe? What’s that supposed to mean?”
He hears the unspoken accusation that he has crossed the line, but he and Sara cannot afford to have any bullshit between them, and her indignation fails to deter him from his mission. “You know what I mean.”
“Clearly I don’t,” she retorts, once again looking at him, this time with her eyebrows slanted in an offended glare.
“I’m not implying you’re any more at risk of a nervous breakdown than the rest of us. I’m just, you know, watching out.”
“So because I’m granting myself a little alone time, I’m suddenly unstable?” Her question, however, lacks its former resentment, as though she just can’t summon the energy to deny that she really really wants a warm bath, a bedroom, and some time with Michael, and that if they haven’t finished with this mess shortly, she will in fact reach some kind of explosion point.
“I’d follow anyone out here at this point,” he says quietly, truthfully. God knows what a bunch of PTSD-rattled men, some of whom didn’t have much to live for, would get up to at the edge of a dock with the deep water in front of them.
“How noble of you,” she responds. Explicitly takes a step away from the water’s edge.
“We’ll be done with this shit soon,” is all he can think to say.
She shakes her head, and rain drips off of her eyebrows. “When?”
He would wrap her up in a hug, but that’s his brother’s job, really. Instead he just shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, lowers his head. “I don’t know, I’m just trying to make you feel better.”
Turning to face him, Sara sighs deeply. “I appreciate it. And I appreciate you telling me about Michael. One more reason to get this thing done with as soon as possible, right?”
Tears press at Lincoln’s throat for a moment as he thinks of how time didn’t make a difference for his mother. How he might lose Michael, too, and the thought makes him want to legitimately scream for the first time in his life. He doesn’t answer Sara as the two of them slowly head back towards the warehouse, and he knows that she’s aware of his silence, making note of it. That he can try to make her feel better, but he’s not going to give her false hope.
He just hopes that even with all the undesirable people and situations around, she and Michael can make something of the time they have left. She and Michael, not he and Michael.
He wonders when exactly he made that sacrifice, before deciding that it’s one he somehow doesn’t mind making.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Characters: Lincoln, Sara
Words: 1,128
Warnings: None
Summary: Lincoln and Sara have a brief chat during 4.08.
Author's Note: Probably should have been written a year ago, but better late than never, right?
On average, LA suffers through two-hundred sixty-three days of sunshine a year, and only thirty-five days of measurable precipitation, most of which occur during the November-to-April period. Lovely weather to light up whatever manufactured beauty walks the streets and lounges at the beaches basking in the mixed blessing of the Santa Ana winds. Perhaps one of the best climates on the planet.
So it makes sense, of course, that today it would be raining. Today, September seventeenth. Nine days after Michael’s dreaded thirty-first birthday. Five days after Lincoln spotted the ominous blood pooling in his nostril. Two days after he let Sara into the loop against his brother’s will. Three hours after he watched her stitch up Sucre and realized how much she regretted her inability to fix up Michael just as easily. At which point he almost wished that he had not possessed the strength to burden her with such knowledge in the first place. Or the weakness to need to.
Now his feet carry him to her, even though she probably came out here for solitude. Having spent years confined to a dark cell and only his own voice, he knows that most people only think they desire true isolation, and he can imagine that someone like Sara might accidentally shatter if trapped inside her head for too long.
The downpour, deafening as it splatters against the concrete of their improvised backyard, has already soaked through his clothing by the time he reaches where she stands at the edge of the dock. The rain has plastered her hair to her face and stained it more of a brown than a red, her grey paramedic shirt clinging to her skin, and she looks mentally unfazed by her surroundings even though her shoulders slightly tremble in the cold.
“Lincoln,” she acknowledges as he takes his place right at her side, choosing not to break her gaze from the horizon extending over the harbor. He doesn’t take offense. “Did Michael send you out here?”
He almost cringes at the bitterness in her tone. “No, he’s busy chewing out Self for-well, for you.”
What he can almost classify as a laugh sneaks cynically from between her lips. “I can handle Gretchen,” she says into the wind, so he can barely make out her words, “A couple of hours ago Self asked me if I wanted to meet up with her. You know, make peace, come to some sort of understanding.” And that part’s off the record, he’s pretty sure.
He doesn’t laugh at the ridiculousness of that whole idea. He sees in his mind Sara’s head, caked in blood, screaming silently from its place in the box. He doesn’t know what actually went down in Panama between Sara and Gretchen, but he spent a month thinking that the latter had decapitated the former, and it’s going to be awhile before he can shake that.
“So Michael’s a little overprotective,” Lincoln shrugs finally. When she finally looks at him, somehow conveying incredulity without even the tiniest change in facial expression, he almost smiles. “Okay, he’s really overprotective. Can you blame him, though? He’s got a lot to lose.”
A flicker of surprise passes through her eyes, as though she has never expected any kind of compliment from him, even a veiled one, and doesn’t know how to respond to what he’s offered. She should remember it. He doesn’t throw out such sentiments on a regular basis.
In the end, she just nods absently, turning her gaze back out over the harbor. Brushing drenched hair out of her eyes.
“You know it’s gonna take forever to dry off, right?”
Another quiet, mirthless laugh. “Then why’re you out here? You said it wasn’t to check up on me.”
“I just said Michael didn’t send me,” he corrects her. “Doesn’t mean I can’t make sure you’re safe on my own.” He runs a hand over his dripping scalp, mentally going through his wardrobe and thinking of clean, dry clothing to put on when he finally convinces her to come back inside.
“Make sure I’m safe? What’s that supposed to mean?”
He hears the unspoken accusation that he has crossed the line, but he and Sara cannot afford to have any bullshit between them, and her indignation fails to deter him from his mission. “You know what I mean.”
“Clearly I don’t,” she retorts, once again looking at him, this time with her eyebrows slanted in an offended glare.
“I’m not implying you’re any more at risk of a nervous breakdown than the rest of us. I’m just, you know, watching out.”
“So because I’m granting myself a little alone time, I’m suddenly unstable?” Her question, however, lacks its former resentment, as though she just can’t summon the energy to deny that she really really wants a warm bath, a bedroom, and some time with Michael, and that if they haven’t finished with this mess shortly, she will in fact reach some kind of explosion point.
“I’d follow anyone out here at this point,” he says quietly, truthfully. God knows what a bunch of PTSD-rattled men, some of whom didn’t have much to live for, would get up to at the edge of a dock with the deep water in front of them.
“How noble of you,” she responds. Explicitly takes a step away from the water’s edge.
“We’ll be done with this shit soon,” is all he can think to say.
She shakes her head, and rain drips off of her eyebrows. “When?”
He would wrap her up in a hug, but that’s his brother’s job, really. Instead he just shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, lowers his head. “I don’t know, I’m just trying to make you feel better.”
Turning to face him, Sara sighs deeply. “I appreciate it. And I appreciate you telling me about Michael. One more reason to get this thing done with as soon as possible, right?”
Tears press at Lincoln’s throat for a moment as he thinks of how time didn’t make a difference for his mother. How he might lose Michael, too, and the thought makes him want to legitimately scream for the first time in his life. He doesn’t answer Sara as the two of them slowly head back towards the warehouse, and he knows that she’s aware of his silence, making note of it. That he can try to make her feel better, but he’s not going to give her false hope.
He just hopes that even with all the undesirable people and situations around, she and Michael can make something of the time they have left. She and Michael, not he and Michael.
He wonders when exactly he made that sacrifice, before deciding that it’s one he somehow doesn’t mind making.