callmetofu (callmetofu) wrote,

Remaining Spaces

Title: Remaining Spaces
Author: callmetofu
Character/Pairing: Michael/Lincoln (blink and you'll miss it)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Non-con, sort of
Summary: Lincoln leaves a different kind of mark on Michael.
Written for the February challenge Michael/Lincoln - ONLY non-con
Beta: Unbetaed

"No," says Michael.

"Yes," says Lincoln and Michael groans, lying back on the chair and sufferingly covering his eyes his his hand. He bites his lips. Ignoring him Lincoln reaches for the pant of Michael's leg, pushing it up to his knee and then reaches for the razor. With a faint scratching the fresh blade removes short coarse hair till he's freed a patch roughly the size of his hand. He reaches for the gun.

"Do you even know what your are doing?" Michael breathes. It his best impersonation of exasperation, but it doesn't quite ring true.

Lincoln's ignores him.

"Please, don't do it, please." Exasperation gives way to anguish.

The handle feels new and unfamiliar, a tad too sophisticated, even in this godforsaken shithole. Lincoln stares down on this perfect pale patch of skin on his brother's calf, contemplatively catching the tip of his tongue with his lips. He writes Lincoln.

Of course "write" is a flexible term when you have to draw on a curved surface and color the insides as good as you can. By the time he's finished, his wrist already aches.

He pauses and looks up, expecting a joke about terrible handwriting. It doesn't come. Instead Michael's knuckles turn white as he grasps the handles of his chair and turns his face away. Lincoln grabs his ankle tighter.

"Were you this much of a pussy when they did, you know? How did you survive that without getting bitchslapped?"

No reaction.

Lincoln looks down on his work and frowns. His hand lingers. Probably too long, speaking of something that isn't anymore and hasn't been for a long time.

He writes Sara underneath, the S below the ln, touching. Blood keeps seeping out and he has to keep on wiping as he tries to make the letters wider. He wonders if he should write "Lincoln Junior" because that is LJ's whole name, but figures it would be stupid to have "Lincoln" twice.

"Please, stop," Michael presses out between clenched teeth, harsh breath rasping through his throat and turning into hiccups, each muscle trembling.

Lincoln doesn't stop. Next, he makes a large L, spanning from above his name down to below the a of hers. He puts a curl on the J and makes it even larger. By now Michael is grasping the handles so hard Lincoln thinks they might splinter and soundless sobs wreak through Michael's chest. Lincoln doesn't care. He finishes the low arch and pauses to survey what he's created.

There's only one thing missing.

Underneath, almost four finger wide of empty space, he writes love.


"Screw you," Michael says once he gets up.

Lincoln simply grits his teeth.

He's not sorry.

Michael's eyes are still shiny and he limps a bit as walks away. “Where's the goddam book,” he says, hand already grasping the door knob, foot already half out the door. Lincoln jerks his head and with a spark of recognition in his eyes Michael snatches the stupid, prized thing off the table. He halts for a moment, probably trying to decide what to say, if anything. Then his jaw sets and determination replaces anger and confusion and even the real hurt in his eyes.

The bells chime as Michael slams the door shut behind him and disappears into the night.

Wordlessly Lincoln throws his tools into the sink and reaches for his jacket. He leaves a bunch of bills on the counter on top of sketches of hearts and exotic dragons. He's still bad with the local money and so he has no idea whether it is too much or enough.

The only thing he knows is that they are colorful and shiny.
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