Title: Tale of the Towel
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln
Rating: very mild M (just because of the theme, nothing explicit)
Wordcount: ca. 1700
Warning: Apart from the incest because they are brothers? Well... extreme fluff and hardcore silliness maybe. AU after season 1.
Summary: After having escaped from Fox River Michael and Lincoln have settled somewhere in the south. A planned Christmas present reveals an unexpected side of Lincoln.
A/N: I wrote this quite a while ago when I felt Michael and Lincoln desperately needed some happiness in their life. The feeling is still there, so... it was about time I got the translation ready. Special thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta!
Tale of the Towel
Had today been like any other day, Lincoln would have gone out to buy fresh bread for their breakfast while Michael would be occupied with his morning routine in the bathroom. Like everything else Michael Scofield did he attended to the task of personal hygiene with maximum precision. Brushing his teeth. Showering. Washing his hair. Shaving. Moisturizing, and, when necessary, a little sun protection for his sensitive skin. Every morning it took him exactly twenty three minutes in the bathroom. Plus or minus eighteen seconds.
Twenty three minutes during which time Lincoln would go to the bakery across the street, buy five rolls and a US newspaper while chatting with the pretty shop girl whose fervent black eyes flirted shamelessly with him, before he'd scrutinize both directions of the village's long and dusty main road, then he'd go back, throw both rolls and newspaper onto the small kitchen counter and finally take his turn in the bathroom. Michael loved routines, and this was one they both could agree on.
But today was not like any other day. This morning Lincoln planned to accomplish one very special task. That's why he had to stay in bed longer than usual. He glanced at his watch; still more than twenty minutes to go. Resting his head on one arm he luxuriated in the warm sheets, waiting for his muse's kiss.
Ah yes, there it was. And perfectly on schedule. The rushing of water. The bathroom was tiny, and very soon little clouds of steam rolled through the slightly ajar door into the bedroom. Michael had a habit of showering at extremely hot temperatures which had caused Lincoln once to ask him if he intended to burn out his tattoos. The only answer he got to that was a raised eyebrow which more or less said 'you're an idiot'.
Pen and paper had been ready for days. Just in case. Now he reached for them without even looking, and he waited. Michael was the family's artist, no doubt. Nobody drew architect's plans and visions of Hell with the same accuracy as he did. But Lincoln hoped that, with a little luck and timing, he might eventually hit the jackpot himself. Inspiration, on the other hand, was a capricious lady. You never knew when she might deign to confer her favours. He knew that much by now. He also knew the lady sometimes needed a little assistance to do her job. Lincoln's eyes narrowed as he tried to look through the crack of the door. No way. Well, he did have cushions. He took one of the smaller ones and threw it gently against the bathroom door. It swung open a few centimetres. In the shower a figure became visible. Undistinguishable because of the steam and the milky glass, but it was enough. Done! He grinned.
The idea that had been haunting Lincoln's mind for days came by to say 'Helloho!' Nothing palpable yet, but it was a beginning. The pen started to move.
The rushing water ceased. An instant later Michael stepped out of the shower, and with that he disappeared out of Lincoln's sight. He listened. Clack. Sound of the cupboard containing the towels. Then the tap tap tap of naked feet on tiles, just three steps more until they reached the terry rug. Then… yeah, there it was… the barely audible sound of Michael rubbing his head with a towel. Again three steps and Michael stood before the basin, dressed as usual with a white towel around his hips. Lincoln's grin broadened. Rolling to the very left side of the bed he was able to see a good portion of Michael.
The ball-pen flew across the paper. Word by word. Line by line. He scratched out something here, added something else there and every once in a while Lincoln raised his eyes, let his gaze wander over Michael's long legs, the white towel, and the beautiful blue-black inked torso which looked quite out of place in the neon brightness of the bathroom. Which somehow looked out of place everywhere…
Then suddenly…
„Linc."
Lincoln jerked in surprise. The ball-pen skittered across the page.
„Why are you still in bed? I thought we had plans."
„Uhm, I was just gonna…"
„What are you doing, Linc?"
„Nothing."
„Nothing?"
„Nothing."
Michael noticed the glossy magazine disguising the little notepad. Raising one eyebrow he said: „Linc, you do know we have proper books, don't you?"
Damn! He felt caught like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar. Now don't blush. Just don't blush! Why did Michael always have to be that sarcastic and arrogant and… superior?
„Jeez, Michael. I'm just doin' a crossword puzzle here."
„While you should be getting our breakfast."
„Yeah, just say it, I'm lazy as hell. But we can have a snack on the way, and hey, I have to do something while you're occupying the bathroom for hours."
„Pheww, excuse that I'm preferring to start the day fresh and clean. Always thought that was in your best interest, too." Michael loosened the towel around his hips and threw it, with a smirk on his face, in the direction of the bed. Accurately speaking, it landed directly in Lincoln's perplexed face.
The towel obscured his vision for a moment. Then Lincoln's jaw dropped as he gazed at Michael's nude rear as he was fishing fresh underwar from the drawer. Definetely a memorable sight. Maybe he should cancel the walk to the bakery more often?
„Now hurry up into the bathroom, old man. Or do you want me to leave without you?"
„Yes, Mom. Already there, Mom." Lincoln rolled his eyes demonstratively, but when Michael had left the room, he could not refrain from immersing his face deep into the white linen once more and he inhaled the clean, warm scent.
Half an hour later in the car…
They were driving in complete silence on the idyllic Latin-American equivalent of a highway alongside the Pacific coast. Ignoring the potholes in the road and the lack of guard rails, it was hard to tell the difference. Near a fishing village, about fifty miles away, they were supposed to find a little run-down scuba-shop, faced with ruin and therefore for sale. Michael had decided this was exactly what they were looking for. Even if he had honestly never believed it, now his dream was within their grasp. They'd surf. They'd dive. Only the soft purring of the motor disturbed the silence. Each of the two men enjoyed their own expectations, their own freedom, their own thoughts.
Out of nowhere Michael said: „If it was just a crossword puzzle, why'd you hide a notebook behind that magazine?"
„Mike…"
„Be honest, you wanted me to see it. You wouldn't have acted like an amateur, if you really wanted to hide it because if necessary you have the perfect pokerface, Linc, but now… no, really. I don't know yet if it was intentional or subconcious, but I'm certain you wanted me to…"
„It was a Christmas present", Lincoln blurted out.
„In the middle of July."
„That's why you're not supposed to see it right now."
„Oh. A christmas present for me?" Michael beamed. „What is it?"
„Shut up."
One week later…
„I have something for you."
„A present? Why? It's not my birthday."
„Merry Christmas, Mikey."
„Now?" Michael was laughing incredulously.
„Why not?"
„It's still July."
„Damn, Mikey. D'you want it or not?"
„Ah, Mister Lincoln Burrows, inconsistent as always. And impatient as a ferret in a hare's lair. You were never one to keep a secret for long."
Lincoln put on an insulted face. „If you don't want your present, fine! And don't you dare call me a ferret ever again!"
Half a minute later…
Michael was deliberately loosening the ribbons on both sides of the candy-shaped package. Layer by layer he peeled away the wrappings, until a piece of rolled up paper was exposed, about twenty centimetres in width. Engraved in the blood red sealing wax was the picture of a swan. A short, questioning glance, then he broke the seal and enrolled the paper. With a mixture of gratification and uncertainty Lincoln watched Michael admiring the calligraphy first, then frowning in confusion. And then, gradually, Michael's eyebrows wandered higher and higher…
Michael read…
I wish I were a towel.
Never before had I felt the desire to be a towel, but here and now I do...
Not any towel.
No.
*That* towel.
That one pristine white towel neatly tucked around his waist… warm wetness would soak into me from the upper body, drop by drop, and my soft terry plain would be wet from the skin I'm covering… wet… just a little bit, but enough to fit me snugly to his body… enough to hug his firm and rounded buttocks in an intimate embrace… I'd be tied and tight so that I'd hold his slender hips in a passionate strong grip… my upper ridge would be engaged in a deep kiss with his belly right beneath the navel, while my flowing front would tenderly caress what's hidden beneath… hot and damp from the shower it would stroke against me with every step he takes…
Aahh, how lovely it'd be to be this towel!
But I am not this towel.
I am the man who's grasping it. Who's taking it and letting it fall to the floor with abandon. I am the man who's leaning forward to lick the drops of water from your collarbone and your shoulders.
The man who's kneeling before you, who places his hands on your hips right there where the towel has been. Who slowly leans forward… kissing your belly, tonguing your navel, before gradually kissing his way further down…
I am the one you're ready for… the one who receives you like a gift of God… who with his lips and tongue speaks a wordless prayer of passion… a prayer that you so much love to hear… I am the one who elicits all those wonderful little noises from you, that you'd prefer to stifle but can't for very long… noises, mingled with your breathy moans… just a little bit brighter, a little bit higher, a little bit more breathless, then I know the time is right… once more, yes, just like that, then… oh yes, *now* it's time… a little cry, you're biting your fist, not able to quench the sob, you're nearly there, nearly… just one more second, then… then your soul's exploding into my mouth.
I am glad I'm not this towel that's lying discarded on the cold tiles now.
I'm the man who holds you.
I'm the one you need.
I'm the one who loves you.
I am… your brother.
.
.
END