Title: Nit-Picking In Nirvana
Characters: Lincoln and Michael (Gen, Humor)
Summary: Post-escape beach-side bickering and teasing.
Author's Notes: For prisonbreak100, where I have Gen pairing of Lincoln and Michael. This is for prompt #44, "Sun."
"Nice beach," Lincoln says. He lies on a towel, half-shaded from the sun. The wind curls the leaves of the tree above him.
Michael hums an assent and watches the waves. It's so deliciously relaxing here.
"Too bad you can't take your shirt off."
Michael swats him on the leg. "Will you quit with that already?"
"I'm just saying," Lincoln mutters. "You've got this surfer-boy schoolmarm combo going on. It's beyond eccentric, you know? It's kind of weird."
"So when you make us rich, you can pay for me to get the thing removed," Michael counters. "Okay? Can we drop it?" Because it's not like he'sin love with the tattoo either.
"Speaking of which," Lincoln continues, "This isn't much of a surf-shack we've got going. What happened to thatidea, huh?"
Michael picks up the beer he suddenly needs, and chugs half the can. "That was the idealplan, Lincoln. The best-case scenario, apart from getting Westmoreland's money and buying up half a town."
"So this would be…"
"The reality that gets us close enough, given what we've got to work with. Is it so bad? A house by the beach? Construction work instead of surfboards?"
"Not if you're okay with being a bookkeeper," Lincoln says slyly.
"God, why the hell couldn't we have hung onto that money!" Michael explodes. Lincoln throws his head back and laughs.
"I knew you had it worse than me," he says, patting Michael's leg.
Michael's eyes flit over suspiciously at him. Clearly Lincoln's been yanking his chain since this whole conversation began. "You are so going to get it."
"What, you're burning dinner again tonight? I'm kind of used to that now." Lincoln puts his hands behind his head and smiles serenely.
"It was only those two times," Michael protests. "It's not like I can't cook—"
"Except when it is."
"Heating up things from cans isn't cooking, Linc. You're in no position to talk"
"It's all cooking until it's inedible. My cooking may be simple, but it is never, ever burned."
"That's good," Michael says calmly. "Because you're doing it for the rest of the week now."
"Oh, yeah," Michael smiles. He leans back and pulls his hat down over his eyes.
All is peaceful for the next ten seconds, until Lincoln dives on him and starts tickling for all he's worth.
"Linc! God, stop!" Michael giggles. Lincoln has him squirming and jerking away from those merciless fingers. It's a straight line from the apartment living room of their childhood to this moment on the beach, as if nothing had ever changed.
Lincoln's making himself laugh, just with the way Michael's reacting. He barely hears the first telltale sound, but the second one gives it away.
"You have the hiccups?" Lincoln sounds appalled. "God, are you a lightweight or what—how much beer did you have?"
Michael bats Lincoln's hands away, tears leaking out of his eyes as his chuckles vie with the hiccups for all of his air.
"Oh, man," Michael sighs raggedly. "I can't believe you just did that."
Lincoln grins, and sits back down while Michael recovers. "Use it or lose it," he says. "I've got to keep on top of my technique."
"And that's why you're cooking dinner tonight," Michael says smugly. "So what're you making? Impress me while you can."
"I dunno," Lincoln admits. "Quesadillas, or maybe steak."
"Sounds perfect," Michael smiles. It all tastes better when somebody else has to do the work.
"Hey," Lincoln says suddenly. "I think you got sand in my beer."
"Well then, I win," Michael says triumphantly.
The first touch on his ribs again reminds him why gloating is always a mistake…
- fin -