Fandom(s): Prison Break
Disclaimer: Not mine, not real.
Prompt: 72 - Fixed
Summary: Rule number one hundred and fifty-four says Lincoln must kiss it and make it better.
Author's notes: This would not be possible without jeyhawk or mooyoo's help. Especially the ending. And? As usual this is all thelana's fault: she suggested the bunny to begin with.
Lincoln has to kiss it and make it better.
"I'm so sorry."
"You didn't do anything."
"I'll make it up to you."
Lincoln's hands ran over his brother's biceps, the thumb on his right hand ghosting over the thrice-stitched patch on the inside of Michael's arm. It was his fault and he knew it, Sucre had told him how Michael had cut open his own flesh and dug out the pill that saved him.
Lincoln's lips descended on his younger brother's arm and he laid a chaste kiss on the stitching, carefully and lightly as if he were afraid the wound would open again and that it would be yet another bit of pain he inflicted on his brother's life. Michael shivered slightly and Lincoln murmured an apology into his flesh before kissing it once more and moving on.
His lips dragged over the skin slowly as he made his way towards the outside shoulder in a trail of small kisses and tangled words. The path ended when Lincoln placed an open-mouthed kiss above the demon's head, an approximation of where the insulin was injected. Lincoln was overcome with a wave of nausea as he let his brain think about the possible damage Michael may have done to himself while pretending to be sick.
As if he knew what his brother was thinking Michael's right hand, knuckles torn and still bleeding slightly, moved to cradle Lincoln's skull. Lincoln moved his free hand to grip his brother's and he squeezed his eyes shut letting out a shuddered breath.
"Lincoln." It wasn't a question, but it wasn't a statement either.
"I…" Lincoln trailed off and let out another sigh. "Never again Michael, I swear it. Never." Michael's only response was a smile that almost reached his eyes. Lincoln's attention shifted back to his ritual.
Lincoln's next stop was the angel wings that came across Michael's left side, specifically the three long feathers that laid perfectly over three long scars. He never asks how he got them or where they came from or why they are so perfectly identical and evenly spaced. One of the times he was arrested he was sent to Fox River and did a little more than a year before he was paroled. The day he was released Michael was there with some heavy-set native girl and from the way he was standing Lincoln knew something was wrong.
Lincoln's mouth traced the scars like they did all those years ago; three on the left side above the kidneys, three on the right side above the kidneys and five on each hip over the scars that may or may not have been puncture marks. Michael's breath caught in the back of his throat and his stomach tensed, muscles jumping and quaking. Lincoln left one last lingering kiss on the most brutal scar before continuing on his journey.
The harsh smell of rubbing alcohol still lingered in his mind as he approached the makeshift bandage on Michael's thigh. In his mind's eye there was no bloodied shirt held in place with duct tape; he could still see the mangled patch of flesh Michael got when he missed a step and slid down one of the steep drops in the tunnel on their way out of the prison. His hand squeezed his brother's thigh and he nuzzled the skin above the frayed tape, dropping alternating kisses here and there around the bruised flesh.
His hand dragged slowly down the underside of Michael's leg, tracing along the rises and dips, following down the calf muscle and over the ankle before coming to a rest wrapped around his foot. He lightly stroked the bandage covering the top of the foot where Michael's toes used to be before Abruzzi and his thugs viciously took two of them away. Sometimes it's all he can do not to break the man's skull open for what he caused. As he kissed the bandage Lincoln thought about how oddly appropriate it was that Abruzzi chose the toes instead of the fingers for once, Michael's toes have had a death-wish since he broke his big toe the first time when he was three. Since then they've been stepped on, stomped on, run over, broken, crushed, and on one occasion split open bad enough to require surgery to fix them. Really it was only a matter of time.
Lincoln started his climb back up Michael's body dropping the odd kiss here and there.
A soft kiss to the spot on The Tattoo where the angel's wings sprout from his back.
Another kiss where the demon gripped the angel's wing.
Another at the spot where the demon's other hand grips its sword.
Next he mouthed along Michael's collarbone leaving a path of open, wet kisses in his wake. Lincoln ventured across the base of his brother's throat and up his neck, smiling as Michael spread his legs wider to let him settle more comfortably. Lincoln shifted his weight and guided Michael so that they would both be more comfortable; Lincoln's weight on one bent forearm with the other behind Michael's neck, supporting his head, hand clenched near the shoulder. Michael's right arm found it's way around Lincoln's neck and his left settled for staying outstretched at his side after several unsuccessful attempts at resting it comfortably anywhere else.
Lincoln nibbled along Michael's jaw towards his ear, leaving behind small saliva-wet welts. The muscles in Michael's hurt arm started to jump and Lincoln quickly rearranged his limbs pulling the arm that was under his brother's neck back to use as support for the rest of his body.
He kissed Michael's forehead above his left eyebrow; directly on the thin light scar there. His eyes saw the marred flesh even and his brain told him there was no permanent damage done; all Michael really got was a small cut that didn't even need a single stitch.
Haywire. That whole piece of shit thing was his fault too; he should have known better than to let Michael pull that stupid test. If he had just trusted Sucre, or trusted Michael's character judgment, then Haywire never would've been moved into Michael's cell and he never would've attacked Michael.
"You didn't do anything and you didn't not do anything," Michael declared as he sat up and pushed Lincoln back onto the ground. "Stop feeling so sorry for yourself all the time." Michael laid down and nudged his head underneath Lincoln's chin, inhaling deeply.
"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," Lincoln denied as he wrapped an arm around his brother. "It's all my fault. If I didn't fuck you up so badly--"
"Contrary to what you may think the whole world does not, in fact, revolve around you." Lincoln let out a huff of laughter and squirmed as Michael's leg hitched over his hips and his fingers glided down his side.
"Didn't you get an upper-body tattoo, rob a bank, get thrown in prison and ruin your entire life just to get me out?"
"Don't flatter yourself; it was Monday, I was bored." Lincoln cracked his neck as he felt a thumb dig into his collarbone. After twenty years Lincoln had gotten used to all of Michael's random idiosyncrasies and possessive touches but the obsession with his collarbone never got old.
"Michael… I…" Lincoln stuttered out. He had never been very good with words, Michael always said there was an "interrupted signal" in his brain that made his words mismatch with his thoughts. Lincoln always said Michael thought to much.
"Two sixty-four. Those keys got thrown away a long time ago, you don't have to make anything up to me."
A genuine smile came across Lincoln's face.
"I know I don't have to, but it's fun."