PB Fic - Behind the Wheel - M/L, R
Monday, 4 June 2007 09:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
isthisthelasttimeTitle: Behind the Wheel
Author: learnthemusic
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own. Never have, never will. I would be honored to, though
Prompt: Villain
Warnings: Incest, Alcohol, Pre-Series
Summary: The lesson always hits home once you've messed up horribly. He to the right entirely before skillfully twisting to straighten it.
Author's Note: Prompted by my second driving lesson where I actually got to drive, at about 18 mph. This is forfivebyfiction, even though it's overdue.
He sat watching you closely, observing the way you hit the turn signal as you circled the block. His mouth contorted into a soft smile when you narrowly missed a mailbox.
His eyes never left your side of the car the entire hundred miles you drove. After such a long stint (fourteen months, three days and nine hours), you’re happy to find he actually missed you.
Illegally, you began to drive at thirteen. With your brother sometimes too drunk to drive you home safely from anything, you had no choice but to learn.
It isn’t really that you regret it. You just resent the fact he never stayed sober when you needed him.
That was something that always ate at you, grossly similar to food and digestion, when you were away from home.
Things have changed since then. His eyes are more focused, less dilated and closer to the white that is associated with an eye. His face seems smoother and is cleaner. His once rock-hard features have softened considerably.
To put it simply, your brother has become the handsome man he was in his younger days.
---
At sixteen, you’ve screwed more girls than five guys can count on both hands. Harsh as it may sound, you can’t remember half their names.
However, Lynette was the most recent. Her skin was a healthy copper, her hair a dark blond and her eyes were beautiful orbs of green with light orange specks. She was silk to the touch and it drove you up the wall when she played hard to get.
A real bitch she was, though. The entire basketball team did her before you came along last winter.
Two months later and you still haven’t really forgiven her.
---
Your bed, one you’ve come to miss, is still the same sack of pebbles that plagued your youth and stabbed your back. Your sheets are still the same disturbing yellow color that reminded you of urine and the curtain is the only thing that changed. It is now an almost transparent white that is likely to let handfuls of sunlight seep through in the mornings.
However, you forget it and jump onto the mattress, burying your face in your ancient pillow.
“Hey, Mike?” Lincoln calls from the kitchen.
You quickly get up from your desk, shut your book and jog out of your room.
“What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you.” The expression on his face is somber and you remember that time, ten years ago, when he had clicked off the house phone and told you your mom was dead.
Gulping, you nod and pull a stool from under the kitchen counter. “What?”
“I know it’s been two years since you returned home and you’ve just gotten used to going to your old school again, but, uh, well, the social services lady called last night.” His voice cracks as he works his knife into a groove of the bell pepper. Quickly regaining his composure, he adds, “You’re leaving in two days.”
“No, I’m not,” you argue, tears springing to your eyes as you wring your hands in your lap. “I’m not going. You’re over 21, why can’t I stay with you?”
“She thinks it’s better that you leave, Michael.”
“Why?”
“Because of all the drinking and driving I do. You think she can’t assure all that I’ve done in the past. I’m barely capable of taking care of my son, let alone my little brother.”
“Well, you have someone who takes care of your son, Linc. His mother.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“Michael, I can’t keep you here.”
“Why?”
“I already told you!” he yells, slamming his knife against the counter and kicking the bottom cabinet. “Why must you be so hard-headed?”
“Why can’t you just stop drinking and assume your responsibilities?” you counter, tears now falling, and you back out of the kitchen. “You’re supposed to be my brother, Linc.”
“And I’m not?”
“Not since you started drinking.”
“Shut up!” He points a finger your way and you quickly wipe the tears from your face.
After a moment of silence, you whisper, “Where am I going?”
“Springfield,” he answers, his arms falling to his side.
“Can’t wait.”
---
“Hey, Linc?” you whisper as you enter his cramped room later that night. His lights are out but you can still see the glossy pile of magazines littered across his floor.
“Yeah?” he asks in a normal voice as he extends a hand towards his lamp.
You trot over to his double bed and sit on the edge, daintily fingering his quilt. “Did you do this for me?”
“What?” Lincoln asks bewilderedly.
You turn your face to him and repeat the question, “Did you stop drinking because of all the things I told you before leaving for Springfield?”
“Oh,” he drawls, reaching a hand to his hair and dragging his fingers through it, before sighing, “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“You’re my brother. I love you. What you said was truer than I thought it was.”
“Right.” You quirk your eyebrows before letting your gaze fall to the quilt of his bed.
“I went to AA a few times, and LJ stays with me twice a month, now. I finally proved myself capable enough to handle things.”
“Yeah.”
“Stop that?”
Startled, you look up at him and ask, “What?”
“You’re being curt. Why can’t you believe me?”
“I never said—”
“—You don’t have to. I know you well enough, Michael.” Lincoln shakes his head at you and he throws his blanket off, marching out of the room and into the bathroom.
You sigh and follow, rapping your knuckles loudly against the door while catching a glimpse of the time on the microwave. It reads 12:14 a.m.
“Come on, Lincoln. Don’t be like that.”
“I will if I want to.”
---
He drank.
You can tell by the heavy smell on his breath as he sighs against your face. His lips make your face erupt in goose bumps and you try to push him off you to no avail.
“Lincoln,” you try but he perseveres, fingers tickling the skin under your T-shirt as he pulls his own shirt over his head. Attempting to punch him won’t work in your favor and you can’t think of much else to do.
You wonder if it was ever like this for the girls you fucked in dressing rooms and you shake your head at the thought. It wasn’t as if you were pushing a dick against another. (And you never had sex with anyone in a dressing room.)
This seems like something vaguely familiar to a movie. You can tell by the way he’s fumbling that Lincoln thinks you’re a girl, giving herself to an intoxicated, twenty-three-year-old man.
“Stop it, now,” you hiss, planting your hands firmly on his shoulders and pushing him with all your numb strength.
When you see his upper torso silhouetted against the soft light emitted by the half-crescent moon, you try to take advantage of the situation and sneak out from under him. His voice, though, stops you. Cold.
“Michael,” he slurs, causing a lump to rise in your throat and confusion to cloud your thoughts.
And, all at once, you realize he knows what he’s doing.
Rage ignites your actions and you reach your hand to his face, pulling it down and indignantly pressing your lips to his.
His arms flail for a few seconds before settling on the waistband of your boxers. His fingers slip under the fabric and you feel your heart rushing, your adrenaline pumping.
They draw you in, his fingers, and you gulp back tears as his hand dips down.
“Lincoln,” you growl, your nails digging into his back as many girls have done to you before. You try to imagine your brother is the only girl you enjoyed. Jumping her bones was nothing less than amazing, wonderful and, as much as it hurts to say it, beautiful.
You feel yourself in his mouth and you try to scream. If it weren’t for the knot in your throat, you’d be shrieking like a newborn.
He turns it to the right entirely before skillfully twisting to straighten it.
Tears wet your face and you raise your knee furiously. A groan escapes your brother’s throat and you finally escape the confines of your once favorite bed.
Running across the room, you look back quickly to find Lincoln clutching at his stomach. You shake it off, grab a pair of jeans off the floor, your wallet and keys from the desk and slam the front door behind you.
The moist air of a June night fills your lungs and you hastily rub your hands over your face, ridding yourself of all remnants.
---
It’s morning now, the sun breaking through the clouds low on the horizon. Birds twitter in the trees around you and early morning joggers flash by your bench. Your bare feet are pale against the washed, gray cement of the sidewalk.
If you looked in a mirror, you would never recognize yourself.
You came to conclusions last night. Many, in fact.
To begin with, you never had sex with more than fifty girls. In reality, the only girl you enjoyed was the only girl you have ever been with.
You didn’t begin driving at thirteen. You were fifteen.
Lincoln isn’t cured. He isn’t remotely near to fixed.
Imagination is your best friend and the way Lincoln observed you two days ago is the sum of that.
You lead the most pathetic life ever to cross the surface of the earth.
You blame everyone for your inefficiency.
Worst of all, you are your own worst enemy.
---
(A/N): Well, another confusing journey for yours truly. I hope you enjoyed this. Sorry I couldn’t give you much slash, but this is my first attempt. Please review and criticize.
Table
Author: learnthemusic
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own. Never have, never will. I would be honored to, though
Prompt: Villain
Warnings: Incest, Alcohol, Pre-Series
Summary: The lesson always hits home once you've messed up horribly. He to the right entirely before skillfully twisting to straighten it.
Author's Note: Prompted by my second driving lesson where I actually got to drive, at about 18 mph. This is for
fivebyfiction, even though it's overdue.You drove.
For hours, with your brother in the passenger seat, you delighted yourself with the howl of the breeze as the tatty car cut through the wind. Your floppy hair blew around your face and your sunglasses fell from the top of your head to the bridge of your nose.
He sat watching you closely, observing the way you hit the turn signal as you circled the block. His mouth contorted into a soft smile when you narrowly missed a mailbox.
His eyes never left your side of the car the entire hundred miles you drove. After such a long stint (fourteen months, three days and nine hours), you’re happy to find he actually missed you.
Illegally, you began to drive at thirteen. With your brother sometimes too drunk to drive you home safely from anything, you had no choice but to learn.
It isn’t really that you regret it. You just resent the fact he never stayed sober when you needed him.
That was something that always ate at you, grossly similar to food and digestion, when you were away from home.
Things have changed since then. His eyes are more focused, less dilated and closer to the white that is associated with an eye. His face seems smoother and is cleaner. His once rock-hard features have softened considerably.
To put it simply, your brother has become the handsome man he was in his younger days.
---
At sixteen, you’ve screwed more girls than five guys can count on both hands. Harsh as it may sound, you can’t remember half their names.
However, Lynette was the most recent. Her skin was a healthy copper, her hair a dark blond and her eyes were beautiful orbs of green with light orange specks. She was silk to the touch and it drove you up the wall when she played hard to get.
A real bitch she was, though. The entire basketball team did her before you came along last winter.
After your third time with her, she was driving you home when she decided to dump you on the side of the highway like you were a pile of compost.
Two months later and you still haven’t really forgiven her.
---
Your bed, one you’ve come to miss, is still the same sack of pebbles that plagued your youth and stabbed your back. Your sheets are still the same disturbing yellow color that reminded you of urine and the curtain is the only thing that changed. It is now an almost transparent white that is likely to let handfuls of sunlight seep through in the mornings.
However, you forget it and jump onto the mattress, burying your face in your ancient pillow.
“Hey, Mike?” Lincoln calls from the kitchen.
You quickly get up from your desk, shut your book and jog out of your room.
“What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you.” The expression on his face is somber and you remember that time, ten years ago, when he had clicked off the house phone and told you your mom was dead.
Gulping, you nod and pull a stool from under the kitchen counter. “What?”
“I know it’s been two years since you returned home and you’ve just gotten used to going to your old school again, but, uh, well, the social services lady called last night.” His voice cracks as he works his knife into a groove of the bell pepper. Quickly regaining his composure, he adds, “You’re leaving in two days.”
“No, I’m not,” you argue, tears springing to your eyes as you wring your hands in your lap. “I’m not going. You’re over 21, why can’t I stay with you?”
“She thinks it’s better that you leave, Michael.”
“Why?”
“Because of all the drinking and driving I do. You think she can’t assure all that I’ve done in the past. I’m barely capable of taking care of my son, let alone my little brother.”
“Well, you have someone who takes care of your son, Linc. His mother.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“Michael, I can’t keep you here.”
“Why?”
“I already told you!” he yells, slamming his knife against the counter and kicking the bottom cabinet. “Why must you be so hard-headed?”
“Why can’t you just stop drinking and assume your responsibilities?” you counter, tears now falling, and you back out of the kitchen. “You’re supposed to be my brother, Linc.”
“And I’m not?”
“Not since you started drinking.”
“Shut up!” He points a finger your way and you quickly wipe the tears from your face.
After a moment of silence, you whisper, “Where am I going?”
“Springfield,” he answers, his arms falling to his side.
“Can’t wait.”
---
“Hey, Linc?” you whisper as you enter his cramped room later that night. His lights are out but you can still see the glossy pile of magazines littered across his floor.
“Yeah?” he asks in a normal voice as he extends a hand towards his lamp.
You trot over to his double bed and sit on the edge, daintily fingering his quilt. “Did you do this for me?”
“What?” Lincoln asks bewilderedly.
You turn your face to him and repeat the question, “Did you stop drinking because of all the things I told you before leaving for Springfield?”
“Oh,” he drawls, reaching a hand to his hair and dragging his fingers through it, before sighing, “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“You’re my brother. I love you. What you said was truer than I thought it was.”
“Right.” You quirk your eyebrows before letting your gaze fall to the quilt of his bed.
“I went to AA a few times, and LJ stays with me twice a month, now. I finally proved myself capable enough to handle things.”
“Yeah.”
“Stop that?”
Startled, you look up at him and ask, “What?”
“You’re being curt. Why can’t you believe me?”
“I never said—”
“—You don’t have to. I know you well enough, Michael.” Lincoln shakes his head at you and he throws his blanket off, marching out of the room and into the bathroom.
You sigh and follow, rapping your knuckles loudly against the door while catching a glimpse of the time on the microwave. It reads 12:14 a.m.
“Come on, Lincoln. Don’t be like that.”
“I will if I want to.”
---
He drank.
You can tell by the heavy smell on his breath as he sighs against your face. His lips make your face erupt in goose bumps and you try to push him off you to no avail.
“Lincoln,” you try but he perseveres, fingers tickling the skin under your T-shirt as he pulls his own shirt over his head. Attempting to punch him won’t work in your favor and you can’t think of much else to do.
You wonder if it was ever like this for the girls you fucked in dressing rooms and you shake your head at the thought. It wasn’t as if you were pushing a dick against another. (And you never had sex with anyone in a dressing room.)
This seems like something vaguely familiar to a movie. You can tell by the way he’s fumbling that Lincoln thinks you’re a girl, giving herself to an intoxicated, twenty-three-year-old man.
“Stop it, now,” you hiss, planting your hands firmly on his shoulders and pushing him with all your numb strength.
When you see his upper torso silhouetted against the soft light emitted by the half-crescent moon, you try to take advantage of the situation and sneak out from under him. His voice, though, stops you. Cold.
“Michael,” he slurs, causing a lump to rise in your throat and confusion to cloud your thoughts.
And, all at once, you realize he knows what he’s doing.
Rage ignites your actions and you reach your hand to his face, pulling it down and indignantly pressing your lips to his.
His arms flail for a few seconds before settling on the waistband of your boxers. His fingers slip under the fabric and you feel your heart rushing, your adrenaline pumping.
They draw you in, his fingers, and you gulp back tears as his hand dips down.
“Lincoln,” you growl, your nails digging into his back as many girls have done to you before. You try to imagine your brother is the only girl you enjoyed. Jumping her bones was nothing less than amazing, wonderful and, as much as it hurts to say it, beautiful.
You feel yourself in his mouth and you try to scream. If it weren’t for the knot in your throat, you’d be shrieking like a newborn.
He turns it to the right entirely before skillfully twisting to straighten it.
Tears wet your face and you raise your knee furiously. A groan escapes your brother’s throat and you finally escape the confines of your once favorite bed.
Running across the room, you look back quickly to find Lincoln clutching at his stomach. You shake it off, grab a pair of jeans off the floor, your wallet and keys from the desk and slam the front door behind you.
The moist air of a June night fills your lungs and you hastily rub your hands over your face, ridding yourself of all remnants.
---
It’s morning now, the sun breaking through the clouds low on the horizon. Birds twitter in the trees around you and early morning joggers flash by your bench. Your bare feet are pale against the washed, gray cement of the sidewalk.
If you looked in a mirror, you would never recognize yourself.
You came to conclusions last night. Many, in fact.
To begin with, you never had sex with more than fifty girls. In reality, the only girl you enjoyed was the only girl you have ever been with.
You didn’t begin driving at thirteen. You were fifteen.
Lincoln isn’t cured. He isn’t remotely near to fixed.
Imagination is your best friend and the way Lincoln observed you two days ago is the sum of that.
You lead the most pathetic life ever to cross the surface of the earth.
You blame everyone for your inefficiency.
Worst of all, you are your own worst enemy.
---
(A/N): Well, another confusing journey for yours truly. I hope you enjoyed this. Sorry I couldn’t give you much slash, but this is my first attempt. Please review and criticize.
Table
