Title: Starting over (1/4)
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln
Rating: R
Warning: see pairing, slight spoilers for end of s1
English Beta: by my friend "foxriverinmate" - thank you!
Summary: Set at the beginning of season two. After the escape from Fox River the brothers get some rest in a motel. Michael is wounded, Lincoln wonders if what they did was right…
A/N: This is the English version of „Alles auf Anfang", so those of you who read German might know it already.
1
Lincoln Burrows woke up. It was still dark outside; only the flickering of the neon sign fell into the shabby room like an unnatural moonlight. He'd had nowhere near enough sleep but rest wouldn't come to him. He didn't know if he would find rest ever again. Beside him Michael was breathing deeply and regularly. Enviable. Funnily enough he'd been the one who had problems with falling asleep as a child. Something caught Lincoln's eye as he was about to turn on the other side. A glimmer on Michael's bare shoulder. He looked closer. And repressed an expletive.
There was a wound. An open gash. At least ten centimetres long and freshly torn it seemed. The gaping lips were encrusted with dark blood and surrounded by swollen flesh that even the blueblack ink couldn't hide. The tattoo obscured a number of old scars, but if you looked closely you still could see them. This new wound was not just beneath the tattoo. There was fresh, bright blood, and clear fluid had been leaking, then dried and left silvery traces. Almost as if snails had been crawling across the skin.
He must have received the wound more than two days ago, Lincoln assumed. Maybe in the tunnel or on that damned barbed wire. Given Michael's reticence you never knew. Since then they had steadily headed southwards, only stopping when necessary. Gas, water, food, here and there some coffee. Staying awake. Holding on. Covering as much mileage as possible as fast as possible. That was all that counted. One after another they said goodbye to their fellow escapees, each of them eager for a new life, and now they were the last two left. Why hadn't Michael opened that goddamn mouth of his? They could have bought some damned band-aid at every damned gas station!
The fabric probably got adhered to the wound and when Michael took off his shirt last night before falling onto the bed, he must have torn it open again. It looked as if it hurt like hell. Lincoln bit his lip and stifled a sigh. Slowly he reached his hand out to Michael's hurt shoulder, but halted only a few centimetres above the skin. His fingers twitched, then traced hesitantly across Michael's shoulderblade, over the still unhelealed burn that had destroyed a part of the important tattoo, until they reched his spine. Always a hand's breadth away from touch. There it was. A fine scar, only as long as his pinky finger, just much, much thinner. Barely perceptible if you didn't know where to search. A rememberance of their teenage years. Even then his little brother had been stubborn as a mule.
His fingertips tickled with electricity, then they wandered on. Now Lincoln's hand was hovering over the holy figure, this sworded knight, angel, or whatever it was that had been inked on Michael's back. The picture reminded Lincoln of Saint George, who'd been his favourite saint back then when he was a kid. Saint George had been cool. Only this one didn't slay a dragon but aimed his sword at some kind of demon. Those images were beautiful and atrocious at the same time, and Michael would bear them for the rest of his life. Inextinguishable. Forever engraved. Just like the scars.
Lincoln did not want to be ungrateful. Of course he was happy to be out. Death on an electric chair was not quite the end he had dreamed of, but it would have been his concern, and his alone. More or less. Sure, there were people who loved him, he knew that much now,
but he'd thought more than once they would be better off without him. What if somehting had gone wrong? So much could have gone wrong. Michael risked everything. What if he risked too much? They were wanted men now, and along the way they had set free a child murderer and rapist.
Was it really worth it all? Michael could have led a good life. Free of care. He'd had a well-payed job, a luxury appartement with the best view over Chicago, he'd had everything he ever wanted. And he was brilliant. So brilliant that companies and universities went after him. And he gave it up just so… so easily. So many open questions…
„Why, Michael? Just why?" Lincoln whispered, barely audible. He got lost in the scene on Michael's back. The demon falling to the ground, whose limbs were torn grotesquely and whose countanance was a mask of pain. He was startled for a second, then he frowned. No, the angel was not about to stab. On the contrary, he was drawing the sword back. The deed was already done. The devil as good as dead. Could that mean that good had gained the victory? For how long shall we live? Lincoln asked himself not for the first time.
Suddenly Michael turned around. There was no time for Lincoln to be surprised. In one flowing movement his brother grabbed him by the neck and pulled him closer. Without saying a word Lincoln looked into his wide open eyes. Several minutes passed. Forehead to forehead. So close that each had the smell of the other in their nostrils. Lincoln was as suprised as ever about the brightness of Michael's eyes, the heritage of their much hated father. Lincoln, who had the gentle brown eyes of their mother, sometimes wondered if Michael knew that he was becoming more and more like their dad in his outward appearance. If he didn't know Lincoln would not be the one who'd break it to him, for sure. Now his eyes were nearly black. Just a small silver ring was left of the iris surrounding the huge pupils, and, for a split second, Lincoln feared he'd drown in them.
„You know why." Michael's words were whispered but intense as always.
For a second Lincoln felt the grip on his neck getting stronger, then Michael inhaled sharply and let go of his brother. With a jerk he sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and buried his head in his hands. He didn't move. For a while Lincoln just watched him. Then he said: „Your shoulder looks bad. Gotta clean it up."
Michael nodded silently. Then he rose and padded over to the bathroom. Sighing Lincoln let himself fall back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Why couldn't he just be relieved? They'd made it. They had escaped from Fox River. Life was offering so many different paths for them now. They were free to choose. Why the hell wasn't he happy about his newfound freedom, like any normal man would be? He knew the answer to that. He mistrusted freedom and its possibilities. He'd always been a pro in fucking up his life, for sure he'd carry on with this. His tendency to push people away was legendary. Everyone who got close to him got hurt sooner or later, and, as a consequence, he or she disappeared out of his life. It wasn't on purpose, no; it just happend. He couldn't help it. And afterwards he was alone. He had hurt Michael, too, often and badly. But Michael was the only one who always returned to him. Only for how long?
A shout from the bathroom tore him back into the present.
„Hey Linc? I need your help here!"
.
.
tbc.