FIX I
Lincoln threw his keys onto the kitchen counter. Ignoring the clunk as they fell into the sink, he loosened the collar of his shirt and sighed, revelling in the feel of air around his neck, revelling in the freedom to relax. For the second time that week he had had to stay late at work, making it the fucking fifth time in the past fortnight – he didn't even want to think how many nights it had happened during the past month.
Shut up Linc. Just be grateful that you have a job.
In all honesty he was surprised anyone had hired him. He may have been innocent of killing Steadman, but he was guilty of so many other things. Both he and Michael were. Lincoln's heart knotted. Whilst he had been spending his every waking hour doing the next right thing, Michael had been spending all his time doing nothing at all – it was as if Michael thought that if he did nothing then he couldn't cause any more damage. In the space of a year Lincoln had switched places with Michael – now he was the one with a respectable job with a building firm, the one with a handful of reliable friends, the one who was able to finance LJ's future – and he finally understood the pathetic mess Michael had seen every time he looked at him before. The sad thing was, just like back then, Michael couldn't see anything but the picture he painted. Yes, he had a job and a family – he also had a new therapist, however, though Linc would never say it to Michael's face, the therapist wasn't doing a damn thing to help him – but they were all there just acting as part of his mirage. He just paid his therapist to cover up his pain.
Sighing, Linc reached into the fridge and pulled out a beer can, its cool melting away his tension. Pushing the door shut, he took a long sip of his drink, the cold soothing his ragged throat. Sighing again, he left the kitchen, taking the two steps it took to walk into the living area.
"Michael?"
Lincoln frowned, listening intently for a reply through the ringing silence of the apartment. Michael only worked for an electrical appliance store and so was normally home before him. And with no friends, no co-workers who concerned him and no LJ currently around, the odds of him being out were slim-to-nil.
His frown deepening, Lincoln crossed the room and walked down the short corridor that linked the bedrooms to the rest of their home. Stopping in front of the door on the right, Lincoln called Michael's name again, and again earned no reply. It was possible that Michael had gone to bed already – he seemed to spend most of his time at home in bed – but something about the emptiness of the apartment troubled him. There had been no name badge discarded on the table; no crumpled newspaper on the sofa. Caving into his instincts, as quietly as he could, Linc pushed the door open to check that Michael was in fact inside.
The can dropped from his hand.
On the centre of the bed, Michael lay flat on his back, a needle hanging from his hand.
A shiver splintered his spine and acid burned up his throat – for a frozen second Lincoln's body succumbed to the panic that was thawing in his brain.
Fright snapped him.
"Michael!" Linc dived for the bed, his hands reaching for his brother's still shoulders. "Michael. Mike!"
Fear flooded his chest, pouring into his heart; Michael wasn't responding. Groping behind him, Linc pulled the phone from its cradle. Punching in the three numbers, Lincoln cried Michael's name again, the needle silently dropping to the floor.
XXX
Lincoln shifted in his seat again. After having been sitting for hours, the wooden back of the chair was beginning to dig deep into his spine. Closing his eyes, Lincoln leaned his head back, letting it bump against the wall. He instantly regretted it, images of Michael flooding his eyes: his slack mouth, his dead eyes, his limp hands. The needle. But it didn't really matter if he left them open instead, either way his painful guilt would slap him in the face – he had been too busy with his own shit to see that Michael was slowly drowning in his.
For the first time that week Linc was grateful LJ had gone back to Chicago to see all of his old friends.
"Lincoln Burrows?" Lincoln snapped his eyes open to see a tired man standing in front of him, a clipboard firmly held under his arm. "I'm Dr. Towndrow. I've been treating your brother, Michael Scofield."
"How is he?"
The words tumbled out of his mouth without restraint, but Lincoln didn't care if the Doc looked dead on his feet – he just cared about his brother.
"The insulin he took doesn't seem to have caused any major problems, but I want to keep him here for a few days and run some tests just to make sure. Other than that all I can say is that your brother is a lucky man. He's a little groggy at the moment but you can go talk to him if you want."
With a swift goodbye, the doctor disappeared as quickly as he had appeared, leaving Lincoln all alone again.
XXX
The pastel pattern on Michael's hospital gown was a pale mockery of the dark ink that swirled across his skin. Just like the gown, everything in the room was dull, faded and bleached by the grey light. Sitting down, Lincoln watched as Michael followed him with his colourless eyes, the shadows beneath them removing the last traces of life.
Lincoln blew out a breath and dragged his hand over his head. Looking up he saw that Michael was still looking at him with the same empty anticipation.
"Shit Michael. Why the hell did you it?"
Michael's eyes dropped, his whole body sinking down. Lincoln watched as Michael's throat worked, his mouth trying to form the words he clearly couldn't find.
Lincoln was certain that Michael was going to stay silent when he suddenly whispered a reply. A reason.
"I miss her."
Those three words hit him hard. Swallowed round the sudden lump in his throat, Linc said, "I know you do. I do too. But she died to save us. Killing yourself just makes her death pointless. You get that right?"
Lincoln wondered if he was talking to Michael or to himself, but as Michael mumbled, "I know. But it hurts," he figured it didn't matter.
Reaching out, Lincoln covered Michael's slim hand with his. He wished he could comfort Michael but he knew there was nothing he could do. He just thanked whatever god that Michael wasn't a witness to her death. If there was one thing worse than knowing that you were the reason for someone's death, it was knowing that you were the reason for someone's death and not being to do one damn thing about it.
XXX
After a day, the hospital released Michael saying he was fine, then handed Lincoln a wodge of leaflets about mental health and rehab.
As Lincoln put down the bag of Michael's stuff he had taken to the hospital only the day before, he watched Michael nervously step towards the couch. He seemed to survey it and then sat down, his hands twisting in his lap.
Even though a whole day had passed, Lincoln had yet to ask why Michael had shot up with a syringe full of insulin. It was cowardness really, and Lincoln was not a coward, not by far. The only reason he hadn't asked was that he was afraid the answer was what he already suspected, and to have that confirmed might break him as much as it had Michael.
