Anointing
Title: Anointing
Author: domfangirl
Starring: Lincoln and Sucre
Rating: PG-13
Summary: How Lincoln feels in the aftermath of Brad's death.
Author's Notes: Post episode fic. Been a while since I wrote something like this, but I couldn't help it after 4x09.
anoint: to choose by or as if by divine intervention.
Maybe it's because the only tears he's shed over the last four months have been for his father, and he'd only allowed himself a few minutes of that bullshit-crying for a man he hardly knew? That was crazy. That moment of weakness had been short-lived, and while there were other people he owed the time to mourn, he'd told himself his grief would just have to wait. The longer he goes on, however, the more distant he feels from it. The less likely he needs to experience it, really. What good does it do to cry over Lisa or Veronica? To think about Nick, Westmoreland, or Bob? There are days when those deaths literally feel like they happened years before even though Lincoln knows the lines of mileage showing on his face only started appearing a few short months ago.
Funny how smooth his skin had been when it was only his own death he faced.
The point is, however, that he’d glimpsed a moment or two of happiness in Panama with Sofia and LJ and the thought that he could just move forward and never look back had been a mightily appealing one.
There seems less need for him to deal with it.
Or so he thought.
Brad Bellick’s selfless sacrifice reminded him so much of his brother, of what had started this whole mess to begin with, and that's what crumpled him. He'd left the warehouse abruptly, stumble-sliding down the back stairs to the pavement, his knees buckling as he hits the ground and a sob tears its way up through his windpipe.
The first person he’d ever known that died was his mother. Her passing had brought darkness and reality into his life more forcefully than any absentee father ever could have. Without his mother, a guiding light had been extinguished, and no matter what had happened after that, or who had tried to illuminate his path, it had never been enough. There had never been enough goodness to pull him away from the darkness.
Until Michael showed up in Fox River.
And now he battles constantly with wanting to beat the shit out of Michael for acting as though nosebleeds mean nothing and squelching the desire to hug him, to hold on to him so tightly that nothing can steal him away. Not The Company, or Gretchen, or little piss ants like Roland who were only out for themselves, or death.
Especially death.
He wants to stand between all those things and his brother and Brad Bellick’s dead body is just one more reminder of how fucking impossible that has always been, and would always be.
Michael could have a doctor for a girlfriend, and still be in complete denial that he even needs help. Of course, if Michael's brain worked right, he would never have come to Fox River to begin with.
Lincoln hates that he still sometimes thinks that, wishes it. If only it could have ended with him. Then he would never have to watch another person sacrifice something for him ever again.
"Papi?"
Jerking to his feet, he turns to look at Sucre, who had apparently followed him outside. Rubbing his hands over his face quickly, he dashes away the traces of tears that serve no purpose, that don't bring back anyone, and don't make him feel any better either.
"You okay?" Sucre asks, his dark eyes darting nervously towards Lincoln, his obvious uncertainty proof enough that Lincoln's surrender here is no good.
"Sure. Fine," he answers, straightening his shoulders. Lifting his chin, he clenches his jaw, swallowing all the emotion he doesn't have time to feel, nor inclination to deal with. "You?" he asks gruffly.
"I'm okay," Sucre says, but then he shakes his head. "Something's wrong with Michael, though, Linc. Something bad."
Lincoln knew it, he'd had that feeling in the tunnel while looking at Michael's face that things had shifted. The tide had turned, and no amount of pretense could prevent it. "Yeah," he replies, squinting at Sucre briefly. "He doesn't want to admit it."
"You know what it is?" Sucre asks.
Grimly, Lincoln compresses his lips. Turning his face away, towards the sinking sun, he nods, the abrupt gesture another attempt at holding grief tight in his throat.
"What are we gonna do?"
The question is typical of Sucre; he rarely has a solution, though he's happy to carry out orders, anxious to be of help. Lincoln knows, of all he's lost in the last four months, his brother is the one thing he cannot bear; his brother is the only chance he has left at salvation.
"We're not gonna let it happen," he finally says, his eyes returning to Sucre's face.
Between him, and Sara, and Sucre, there has to be a way. He has to believe that the three of them can tie Michael down if they need to; they can finish the job of getting the cards and getting Scylla even if Michael cannot.
He has to believe this one will work out, otherwise, he may as well have climbed down into the tunnel with Brad. He may as well have let the rushing water sweep him away from the troubles and worries of this place. Instead the cleansing run off of what relieved Bellick of his duties had anointed Lincoln further.
Get in. Get out. Save his brother.
Author: domfangirl
Starring: Lincoln and Sucre
Rating: PG-13
Summary: How Lincoln feels in the aftermath of Brad's death.
Author's Notes: Post episode fic. Been a while since I wrote something like this, but I couldn't help it after 4x09.
anoint: to choose by or as if by divine intervention.
Maybe it's because the only tears he's shed over the last four months have been for his father, and he'd only allowed himself a few minutes of that bullshit-crying for a man he hardly knew? That was crazy. That moment of weakness had been short-lived, and while there were other people he owed the time to mourn, he'd told himself his grief would just have to wait. The longer he goes on, however, the more distant he feels from it. The less likely he needs to experience it, really. What good does it do to cry over Lisa or Veronica? To think about Nick, Westmoreland, or Bob? There are days when those deaths literally feel like they happened years before even though Lincoln knows the lines of mileage showing on his face only started appearing a few short months ago.
Funny how smooth his skin had been when it was only his own death he faced.
The point is, however, that he’d glimpsed a moment or two of happiness in Panama with Sofia and LJ and the thought that he could just move forward and never look back had been a mightily appealing one.
There seems less need for him to deal with it.
Or so he thought.
Brad Bellick’s selfless sacrifice reminded him so much of his brother, of what had started this whole mess to begin with, and that's what crumpled him. He'd left the warehouse abruptly, stumble-sliding down the back stairs to the pavement, his knees buckling as he hits the ground and a sob tears its way up through his windpipe.
The first person he’d ever known that died was his mother. Her passing had brought darkness and reality into his life more forcefully than any absentee father ever could have. Without his mother, a guiding light had been extinguished, and no matter what had happened after that, or who had tried to illuminate his path, it had never been enough. There had never been enough goodness to pull him away from the darkness.
Until Michael showed up in Fox River.
And now he battles constantly with wanting to beat the shit out of Michael for acting as though nosebleeds mean nothing and squelching the desire to hug him, to hold on to him so tightly that nothing can steal him away. Not The Company, or Gretchen, or little piss ants like Roland who were only out for themselves, or death.
Especially death.
He wants to stand between all those things and his brother and Brad Bellick’s dead body is just one more reminder of how fucking impossible that has always been, and would always be.
Michael could have a doctor for a girlfriend, and still be in complete denial that he even needs help. Of course, if Michael's brain worked right, he would never have come to Fox River to begin with.
Lincoln hates that he still sometimes thinks that, wishes it. If only it could have ended with him. Then he would never have to watch another person sacrifice something for him ever again.
"Papi?"
Jerking to his feet, he turns to look at Sucre, who had apparently followed him outside. Rubbing his hands over his face quickly, he dashes away the traces of tears that serve no purpose, that don't bring back anyone, and don't make him feel any better either.
"You okay?" Sucre asks, his dark eyes darting nervously towards Lincoln, his obvious uncertainty proof enough that Lincoln's surrender here is no good.
"Sure. Fine," he answers, straightening his shoulders. Lifting his chin, he clenches his jaw, swallowing all the emotion he doesn't have time to feel, nor inclination to deal with. "You?" he asks gruffly.
"I'm okay," Sucre says, but then he shakes his head. "Something's wrong with Michael, though, Linc. Something bad."
Lincoln knew it, he'd had that feeling in the tunnel while looking at Michael's face that things had shifted. The tide had turned, and no amount of pretense could prevent it. "Yeah," he replies, squinting at Sucre briefly. "He doesn't want to admit it."
"You know what it is?" Sucre asks.
Grimly, Lincoln compresses his lips. Turning his face away, towards the sinking sun, he nods, the abrupt gesture another attempt at holding grief tight in his throat.
"What are we gonna do?"
The question is typical of Sucre; he rarely has a solution, though he's happy to carry out orders, anxious to be of help. Lincoln knows, of all he's lost in the last four months, his brother is the one thing he cannot bear; his brother is the only chance he has left at salvation.
"We're not gonna let it happen," he finally says, his eyes returning to Sucre's face.
Between him, and Sara, and Sucre, there has to be a way. He has to believe that the three of them can tie Michael down if they need to; they can finish the job of getting the cards and getting Scylla even if Michael cannot.
He has to believe this one will work out, otherwise, he may as well have climbed down into the tunnel with Brad. He may as well have let the rushing water sweep him away from the troubles and worries of this place. Instead the cleansing run off of what relieved Bellick of his duties had anointed Lincoln further.
Get in. Get out. Save his brother.