Rendre-vous

Leslie

Super Fantastisch
Title: Rendre-vous
Rating: G
Timeline: You'll see. ;)
A/N: I apologize if this isn't the best thing ever. I'm attempting to reclaim my PB fic muse.


”This is where you’re going.”

Michael thrust a piece of paper at him, his eyes trained carefully on the restless movements of T-Bag and C-Note.

“Where I’m going--?”

Lincoln looked down and read the scrawled address.

Michael’s eyes flitted back to his brother’s face for a second. It was enough to reassure him; the next words out of Michael’s mouth were superfluous.

“Trust me.”

Lincoln nodded, glancing back at the closed gates behind them. The last thing Michael had to worry about was his trust…


~~~

It was so crazy, he thought. So crazy that something as simple as the smell of a hot dog could shock him so much, remind him so tangibly that he was no longer sitting on the green mile. He surreptitiously eyed the vendor, his mouth watering, but kept his place: leaning against the wall of the building on the corner, behind the newspaper he held, covering his face up to his nose. Still, he silently thanked Michael for choosing the corner of Cheshire and Tenebris. Later, he pledged, he would pillage.

The air itself seemed nervous. Suddenly, Lincoln found that he was holding his breath, for no apparent reason. He exhaled. The paper caved at the force of his breath, and he pulled it back up over his nose and eyed the passersby, looking for stares. He found none. Thank God.

He bent over slightly to check his watch, smiling at its perfect condition – a gift from Michael and his foresight, along with the suit he now wore, and the shades. Five minutes until noon. His stomach jumped. He had waited so long for this…

Arrrarrarrarrarrarrarrarra!

He nearly bolted a mile into the air. As it was, the hair on his skin bristled. Dogs. He closed his eyes and thought back to that first arrest for the murder. He had been hiding out in an abandoned tenement in South Chicago, literally waiting for them to find him; he had nothing else to do. Then one morning – mornings to him then began somewhere around eleven o’clock – he had heard them. Dogs. Barking like mad. Woke him up. Next thing he knew, he had been in chains. It hadn’t been the first time, nor the last, that he would wear them.

He snapped his eyes open and thrust his wrist up to his face, then brought it back down with a sigh. Two minutes, and still nothing. No one. He peered over the top of his paper once more. Up and down the street he gazed, a single figure stark and vivid in his mind’s eye. She had to be there. She would be there soon. She would be there…

He almost laughed at himself. How slow the minutes went by now that he had control over them again. Now that he did not feel sick every time one more went by.

He inhaled the hot dog smell once more and pulled the paper higher, covering his head: his own personal security blanket. He looked down at his toes on the concrete, his shoes pristine, shiny. Nothing like the prison tennies. He shuddered. Only one day ago, he was a prisoner. Only one day ago, he was awaiting death. Who knew he would be here now, watching the pumps and wingtips of businesspeople go by on the sidewalk at Cheshire and Tenebris from behind a newspaper. Watching them pass like cars on a highway. Watching a pair of unassuming red heels stop directly in front of him…

He peered over the edge of the newspaper and glimpsed her face for the first time in so many years as a free man. Her eyes betrayed her feelings, as they always had. They were searching, a bit reticent, a bit unsure, wondering, waiting… He pulled the newspaper down, and the sunglasses with it.

A sob lodged in his throat when he saw her – all of her – there for the first time in so long, knowing that now he could touch her, too... He continued to watch her eyes. They were sparkling green. Wet.
“Lincoln.”

The single word – at once meaning everything – sent him over the edge. He reached out, emitting a cry of joy at the mere air between them, and clutched her to himself. She clung to him. Neither spoke.

Lincoln was first to break the embrace and pulled away, but not far away. He never had to do that again. And he never would.

“We need to go now.” He glanced around them, checking for observers. None presented themselves. He hoped this meant that none existed.

Veronica nodded, carefully wiping at errant mascara.

“Let’s go. The cab is waiting just around the corner.”

Lincoln nodded, unable to stifle a grin as they began to walk.

They had gone a few paces when Veronica slowed down and looked at him as if she had suddenly remembered something.

“Oh, Linc. I forgot to tell you. Don’t react, okay? LJ’s in the cab waiting for you.”

She smiled, her eyes still sparkling, but dry now.

Lincoln’s grin widened and he reached down to press his lips against her forehead.

He wouldn’t say what he was thinking then. He couldn’t say it. Not now. It was too soon. But he would. Oh, he would. He would say it when the time was right. I love you.

They reached the cab and he thrust open the door and peeked inside. There was the boy, his son, who had been through so much on his account. And he was all in one piece.

And he had already started to cry.

“Shh, LJ. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Lincoln climbed in, Veronica right behind him.

“Where to?” The cabbie squinted in the rearview mirror. Lincoln hurriedly pushed the shades back up to rest on his nose. Veronica spoke.

“St. Anne. 131 Mayfield Ave.”

With one arm around his son, and the other around the love of his life, Lincoln leaned in close to Veronica and whispered his last question of the day.

“Is Michael waiting for us there?”

She looked up at him and smiled.

“Of course.”

His heart throbbed with joy and he leaned back against the seat, finally comfortable, after so many years…

Thanks, Mike. He thought. Thanks for everything.
 
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