Challenge #12: Free For All
Title: Phone Call
Author: Ferryn/ferrynheit
Challenge: Free For All
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln, but it's only slashy if you want it to be. ;)
Summary: Michael is trying to live a normal life, but oh, what a difference a phone call makes.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 479
Author's Notes: Thank you, thelana! :) This fits in with "Brother's Keeper."
Another phone call from Lincoln. Another in a long line of weepy pleas for help. It was the crying that always broke him, and sometimes he wondered if Lincoln cried just to manipulate Michael into dropping everything to play Savior.
He was sick. Exhausted and utterly sick. He hated how easily Lincoln could break his resolve. He was so weak, and he didn’t like it. Lincoln reduced his insides to a puddle and turned him into an emotional wreck.
Every time that Lincoln called, after Michael hung up the phone, he had to spend a good five to ten minutes just getting his frustrations out and trying to collect himself. Sometimes he sank into the sofa and cried, and other times he became so violently angry that he’d hurl something across the room. He had had to replace his telephone twice and had, on more than one occasion, found himself on his hands and knees, carefully picking up broken glass.
But he let him. He let Lincoln do it. He tried telling himself that he was an enabler and that Lincoln would never learn if he kept rushing over and helping him, but then he’d get another pathetic call, and he was a mess again, his head and heart swimming with blind, stupid devotion that controlled his actions. He wasn’t himself when Lincoln called. He changed into someone else. He became Lincoln’s willing slave, a weak shell of himself, hollowed of any rational thoughts. He became unrecognizable to himself. Lincoln was the reason all mirrors had been removed from Michael’s house one day.
He wanted to hate Lincoln for it, but there was no hating him. It wasn’t possible. Michael had tried, but he ended up giving himself a terrible bloody nose and brought about a monster migraine.
He had never kept alcohol in his house, until Lincoln’s phone calls became more frequent. Now, empty bottles, thoroughly rinsed out, sat in neat rows on top of his fridge. He couldn’t throw them away. He wanted them there to remind him of what he did for Lincoln and what it was doing to him in return. He hoped that when the bottles eventually spilled over to cover his countertops, the shelves in his cupboards, the dining room table, the coffee table, his dresser, the nightstand, the floor, he’d finally wise up and clear his life of the problems that Lincoln created for him.
If only it were that easy.
With one last deep breath, he wiped at his eyes, picked himself up off the floor, and placed the phone back in its cradle, dazedly watching as the “charge” button lit up.
Forgetting the phone, forgetting the tears, forgetting the papers scattered on the coffee table, he grabbed his coat. He passed a spot where a mirror used to hang and didn’t notice his transformation.
Just another phone call from Lincoln.
Author: Ferryn/ferrynheit
Challenge: Free For All
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln, but it's only slashy if you want it to be. ;)
Summary: Michael is trying to live a normal life, but oh, what a difference a phone call makes.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 479
Author's Notes: Thank you, thelana! :) This fits in with "Brother's Keeper."
Another phone call from Lincoln. Another in a long line of weepy pleas for help. It was the crying that always broke him, and sometimes he wondered if Lincoln cried just to manipulate Michael into dropping everything to play Savior.
He was sick. Exhausted and utterly sick. He hated how easily Lincoln could break his resolve. He was so weak, and he didn’t like it. Lincoln reduced his insides to a puddle and turned him into an emotional wreck.
Every time that Lincoln called, after Michael hung up the phone, he had to spend a good five to ten minutes just getting his frustrations out and trying to collect himself. Sometimes he sank into the sofa and cried, and other times he became so violently angry that he’d hurl something across the room. He had had to replace his telephone twice and had, on more than one occasion, found himself on his hands and knees, carefully picking up broken glass.
But he let him. He let Lincoln do it. He tried telling himself that he was an enabler and that Lincoln would never learn if he kept rushing over and helping him, but then he’d get another pathetic call, and he was a mess again, his head and heart swimming with blind, stupid devotion that controlled his actions. He wasn’t himself when Lincoln called. He changed into someone else. He became Lincoln’s willing slave, a weak shell of himself, hollowed of any rational thoughts. He became unrecognizable to himself. Lincoln was the reason all mirrors had been removed from Michael’s house one day.
He wanted to hate Lincoln for it, but there was no hating him. It wasn’t possible. Michael had tried, but he ended up giving himself a terrible bloody nose and brought about a monster migraine.
He had never kept alcohol in his house, until Lincoln’s phone calls became more frequent. Now, empty bottles, thoroughly rinsed out, sat in neat rows on top of his fridge. He couldn’t throw them away. He wanted them there to remind him of what he did for Lincoln and what it was doing to him in return. He hoped that when the bottles eventually spilled over to cover his countertops, the shelves in his cupboards, the dining room table, the coffee table, his dresser, the nightstand, the floor, he’d finally wise up and clear his life of the problems that Lincoln created for him.
If only it were that easy.
With one last deep breath, he wiped at his eyes, picked himself up off the floor, and placed the phone back in its cradle, dazedly watching as the “charge” button lit up.
Forgetting the phone, forgetting the tears, forgetting the papers scattered on the coffee table, he grabbed his coat. He passed a spot where a mirror used to hang and didn’t notice his transformation.
Just another phone call from Lincoln.