Title: Burgers and Fries, Part 1: Lists
Character/Pairing: Lincoln Burrows, Michael Scofield, T-Bag, Fernando Sucre, C-Note, Charles Westmoreland
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 347
Warnings: Mentions of violence and racism; swearing
Summary: "Thousands of people commute by here on their way to work every single day. No one's going to notice a new face."
Author's Notes: Food fic because Clex brought up a good point.
Beta: AlmostForgiven
Disclaimer: Not mine -- just taking them out for a little spin.

"No food? What kind of safe house is this, Michael?"

Michael opened the drawer of a weathered desk and rummaged through its contents, eventually pulling out a working pen and a pad of paper.

"I was thinking we would order out tonight," he scribbled "groceries" across the top of the first sheet, "then do a little food shopping early tomorrow morning."

Lincoln scratched at a spot on the back of his head and sunk into a chair. "How are we going to pay for it, Michael?"

Glancing up and across the room to where C-Note and T-Bag were arguing over the TV remote, Michael shook his head, smiling. "Why do you think I robbed that bank?"

Laughing at Lincoln's unamused expression, Michael shook his head again. "That was a joke, Lincoln." Sighing, Michael tapped the pencil lightly against the paper. "Don't worry about money. Just worry about what you want to eat."

"Burgers. And fries." Lincoln leaned back, resting against the kitchen table. "God, a Big Mac sounds so good right now, Mike."

He slammed the chair back onto all four legs. "What about being seen? Shouldn't we be staying inside? Closing all of the shades? Locking all of the doors and windows?"

"That's exactly what they'd expect of us, so why play right into their hands?" Michael began writing the basic necessities—toilet paper, milk, eggs, bread—before adding, "Thousands of people commute by here on their way to work every single day." Cereal, burger, pancake batter. "No one's going to notice a new face."

Ketchup, mustard, mayo . . .

"We're nobodies at current, Lincoln." Michael glanced up at C-Note and T-Bag again as T-Bag snarled a racial slur and C-Note snarled back, the remote now forgotten on the couch. "And it'd be nice to keep it that way."

Cover-up, colored contacts, hair dye, an electric razor . . .

Westmoreland, claiming the remote, flipped on the TV and channel-surfed until he happened upon the local news.

Shirts, pants, socks, underwear . . .

Michael quietly set the pencil down and stood. He looked around the room and frowned. There was still so much to do.