Leslie
Super Fantastisch
Both written for 15minuteficlets. Keep this in mind while reading -- I decided not to edit the pieces at all from what I originally posted. They are un-beta-ed, and may include some lines that could be better worded. ^_^
Title: The Rub
Rating: G
Timeline: Pre-show, slightly AU because I missed the opening minutes of Episode 1
POV: Veronica Donovan
Word: Acceptance
A/N: Title taken from Shakespeare's Hamlet.
It had taken her about a year, but she could finally rest her head on the pillow and not think of him.
For months, the curtains seemed to bear down on her frail naked body as if to smother her as she choked back tears and tried to breathe normally, hugging the blankets as close as she could to her skin and praying once again, as she did every night, that he would get out of there somehow.
It was only too painfully obvious that she was really praying that she could accept the way things were -- what he had become, most of all -- and move on with her life.
She never got into the issue of guilt or innocence in her prayers. It was too terrible, too tragic a ponderance to even mull over for a moment. Guilty, he was a devil and she had loved him. Innocent, the system was flawed, so much more flawed than she had ever considered it could be. Either way, she lost a piece of her soul in the process. And that wouldn't do. Not in her line of work.
So she had wiped the sweat from her brow, cowered under the sheets and grasped at sleep, all the time driving the image of him, of them, from her mind with each passing night, until finally -- oh! sweet bliss of peace -- he was gone from it.
Two days later the phone rang. It was Michael.
"I have to talk to you now. It's about Lincoln's case."
Something not unlike a hiccup emitted from her throat.
"Now, Veronica."
She bit her lip and said nothing. And then:
"No." She hung up.
She crawled back into bed, curled her fingers around the pillow and -- closing, as she always had, the garage door in her brain -- was asleep in three minutes.
When she awoke, she remembered nothing. She had a vague sense that there was a space in her mind that had once been filled with a face she had known very well, but there was only a shadow that remained, and it was very faint. Like the shadow produced by a candle in a flourescent-lit room.
As she walked down the hallway in court that day she felt violated by a creepy feeling at the back of her neck that spread down her spine, intensifying now with every step. She walked past judge's chambers.
She found herself running toward the nearest door marked "Ladies."
As she watched in horror the mess of breakfast spiraling down the drain of the sink, the creeping feeling did not vanish, but became instead more lucid, until, facing herself in the dingy courthouse bathroom mirror, she realized exactly what she had to do.
~~~
There was a click.
"Michael."
A pause.
"Did you call me last night?"
Rating: G
Timeline: Futurefic
POV: Michael Scofield
Word: Jubilant
There's a rush of hot air, like standing in front of the air conditioner on the wrong side, the outside, the way he and his brother had done as kids. Their curiosity had always been the only thing to rival their penchant for getting into trouble.
The combination of the memory and the present circumstances brings a sudden hiccup and grin, and then a few tears that make lines down his face. They quickly evaporate.
He grips his brother's arm almost savagely, animal-like, his eyes darting from one end of the tunnel to the other, checking the illuminated iron stairs every 100 feet for signs of movement. Nothing. Just the rush of heat in their faces and their whole lives ahead of them.
They jump.
~~~
Michael is running. He has no breath, but he's running. His tennis shoes pound hard on the pavement. He has no time to reflect, as he would have under normal circumstances with an appreciative raised eyebrow and a smirk, on the ingenuity of the prison tennis shoe. The soles of his feet sting with every step. His mind has hemmorhaged. He suddenly realizes two things.
He does not know where he is going. And he does not know where his brother is.
He dare not look behind him to assure himself of the latter, so instead he focuses his entire attention on what lies before him. Grass. Grass everywhere. There are no gates, no bars in sight. He remembers now why he is running, remembers Bellick's nearly-bald head rounding the corner of the prison wall, boots pounding the pavement like his now pound the dirt, gaining, gaining.... Faster, faster...
His ears, as a deaf man cured by a miracle, suddenly open.
"MICHAEL!" It is too loud. He swerves around, allowing his stride to slow down in the process.
Who is that?
Eyes focus.
Lincoln.
It's Lincoln.
Oh!
Memories flood his head, and he brings both hands up to catch it as it falls toward the ground in exhaustion. In relief.
Jubilation.
Lincoln catches up to him, chest heaving, massive arms encircling his brother in the most loving embrace he has ever received.
They are free.
Title: The Rub
Rating: G
Timeline: Pre-show, slightly AU because I missed the opening minutes of Episode 1
POV: Veronica Donovan
Word: Acceptance
A/N: Title taken from Shakespeare's Hamlet.
It had taken her about a year, but she could finally rest her head on the pillow and not think of him.
For months, the curtains seemed to bear down on her frail naked body as if to smother her as she choked back tears and tried to breathe normally, hugging the blankets as close as she could to her skin and praying once again, as she did every night, that he would get out of there somehow.
It was only too painfully obvious that she was really praying that she could accept the way things were -- what he had become, most of all -- and move on with her life.
She never got into the issue of guilt or innocence in her prayers. It was too terrible, too tragic a ponderance to even mull over for a moment. Guilty, he was a devil and she had loved him. Innocent, the system was flawed, so much more flawed than she had ever considered it could be. Either way, she lost a piece of her soul in the process. And that wouldn't do. Not in her line of work.
So she had wiped the sweat from her brow, cowered under the sheets and grasped at sleep, all the time driving the image of him, of them, from her mind with each passing night, until finally -- oh! sweet bliss of peace -- he was gone from it.
Two days later the phone rang. It was Michael.
"I have to talk to you now. It's about Lincoln's case."
Something not unlike a hiccup emitted from her throat.
"Now, Veronica."
She bit her lip and said nothing. And then:
"No." She hung up.
She crawled back into bed, curled her fingers around the pillow and -- closing, as she always had, the garage door in her brain -- was asleep in three minutes.
When she awoke, she remembered nothing. She had a vague sense that there was a space in her mind that had once been filled with a face she had known very well, but there was only a shadow that remained, and it was very faint. Like the shadow produced by a candle in a flourescent-lit room.
As she walked down the hallway in court that day she felt violated by a creepy feeling at the back of her neck that spread down her spine, intensifying now with every step. She walked past judge's chambers.
She found herself running toward the nearest door marked "Ladies."
As she watched in horror the mess of breakfast spiraling down the drain of the sink, the creeping feeling did not vanish, but became instead more lucid, until, facing herself in the dingy courthouse bathroom mirror, she realized exactly what she had to do.
~~~
There was a click.
"Michael."
A pause.
"Did you call me last night?"
~*~
Title: UntitledRating: G
Timeline: Futurefic
POV: Michael Scofield
Word: Jubilant
There's a rush of hot air, like standing in front of the air conditioner on the wrong side, the outside, the way he and his brother had done as kids. Their curiosity had always been the only thing to rival their penchant for getting into trouble.
The combination of the memory and the present circumstances brings a sudden hiccup and grin, and then a few tears that make lines down his face. They quickly evaporate.
He grips his brother's arm almost savagely, animal-like, his eyes darting from one end of the tunnel to the other, checking the illuminated iron stairs every 100 feet for signs of movement. Nothing. Just the rush of heat in their faces and their whole lives ahead of them.
They jump.
~~~
Michael is running. He has no breath, but he's running. His tennis shoes pound hard on the pavement. He has no time to reflect, as he would have under normal circumstances with an appreciative raised eyebrow and a smirk, on the ingenuity of the prison tennis shoe. The soles of his feet sting with every step. His mind has hemmorhaged. He suddenly realizes two things.
He does not know where he is going. And he does not know where his brother is.
He dare not look behind him to assure himself of the latter, so instead he focuses his entire attention on what lies before him. Grass. Grass everywhere. There are no gates, no bars in sight. He remembers now why he is running, remembers Bellick's nearly-bald head rounding the corner of the prison wall, boots pounding the pavement like his now pound the dirt, gaining, gaining.... Faster, faster...
His ears, as a deaf man cured by a miracle, suddenly open.
"MICHAEL!" It is too loud. He swerves around, allowing his stride to slow down in the process.
Who is that?
Eyes focus.
Lincoln.
It's Lincoln.
Oh!
Memories flood his head, and he brings both hands up to catch it as it falls toward the ground in exhaustion. In relief.
Jubilation.
Lincoln catches up to him, chest heaving, massive arms encircling his brother in the most loving embrace he has ever received.
They are free.
I really want to. 
