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Lincoln has to wait until everyone’s gone to bed for Michael to tell him what the doctor said.
Earlier, he’d watched Michael and Sara speak from across the room. Saw the droop in his little brother’s shoulders and the glisten in Sara’s eyes. Watched as they gave each other meaningful looks; Sara’s with a hint of hardness to match the stubborn look on Michael’s face that Lincoln didn’t have to see to know was there.
Earlier, he’d caught Mahone’s eye as he came back to the conversation at the table and looked away from the man’s questioning gaze. He wouldn’t go ask what was wrong, not in front of these men who were not family and who could not read the impeding doom transmitted from that corner, from Michael who was still facing away from them all and staring at the floor. Michael’s news would come in its own time, he’d reckoned then.
Only he hadn’t expected for Michael to take so long.
He’s a hair past pissed by the time Michael emerges from the bowels of the Christina Rose to talk to him. Lincoln is the only one still on the main floor, everyone else in bunks or out indulging their insomniac whims around the harbor. Shirt wrinkled and buttons askew, Michael seems to wander the deck before he takes the ladder slowly down to the docking bay. He comes up the ramp with hunched shoulders, Lincoln staring and processing the slow gait, the dewy, flushed skin, and his brother’s swollen mouth.
Lincoln’s stomach twists and he has to look away when Michael turns to face him.
“She asleep?”
Michael nods in his peripheral and strolls the rest of the way to sit on the edge of their scribbled plans.
Across the distance of the conference table, Lincoln can smell the sweaty musk of Michael and Sara together. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter but the scent of woman, and maybe more, slides under his skin like a splinter, reminding him of how long it had been since he’s had the chance to indulge. Accounting for present circumstances, the opportunity nor the desire has presented itself. Michael, on the other hand, apparently has created the time for both. Lincoln feels all of eighteen when the thought of that irritates him more.
Silence hangs between them like a lead weight but Lincoln battens down for the long haul. At the least, the tension of an impeding conversation with his brother is familiar.
As he expects, Michael’s the first one to speak and he gratefully gets right to the point.
“I have to have surgery. Immediately.”
Lincoln holds his breath. “For the thing that mom had?”
Michael nods.
Lincoln lets the air out of his lungs but it still feels trapped in his chest. “All right. So you’re having surgery. We can handle this while you’re gone.”
The second he says it Lincoln knows that his brother’s going to protest. Just as he knows that without Michael they don’t have a chance in Hell of getting Scylla.
Michael doesn’t disappoint. “No, I can wait. Getting Scylla is vital.”
“Your life is vital,” Lincoln nearly roars. “Or haven’t you figured that out yet?”
Michael’s looking down at the plans as he says, “I can wait a day or two.” And again, like tonight and tonight only Lincoln is hardwired into his brother’s thoughts, Lincoln knows that he’s lying.
“The doctor said that? Sara’s okay with waiting?”
“Sara’s worried,” says Michael as if that would explain away the urgency of his condition.
Fed up, Lincoln stands and crosses the space separating them in a few steps. He makes Michael meet his eyes even though a few minutes ago Lincoln couldn’t bear to look himself. Once Michael does, Lincoln feels suddenly, painfully bereft. His anger dissipates like mist over cool water and he can understand why his brother waited to tell him. Now, Lincoln concedes, he could have waited a little longer.
“I’m worried, Michael,” Lincoln says finally. “Scylla isn’t worth your life.”
Michael’s eyes are like flint. “You want to see LJ again don’t you?”
Lincoln swallows hard. “Low blow man.”
“They’re the facts Lincoln, and we have to face them.” Michael appears unrepentant.
Lincoln glares. “The fact is that I can’t lose you. Not after all of this. So you go-,”
“I’m going to die, Linc,” Michael interrupts.
Now Lincoln shouts, “Not before me!” And the sound reverbs off the concrete walls as if he’s hit a gong. There are signs of movement from the cots above, a ‘keep-it-down’ cough, and both men stay quiet until they abate. Because his heart is trying to leap from his chest and batter at Michael’s thick skull, Lincoln lets the silence drag on even longer.
“Nothing’s going to be resolved tonight,” Michael mutters uncharacteristically. “We’ll just keep going around in circles.” He’s looking at the plans again, tracing his long finger over the schematics like he can memorize them by osmosis.
Lincoln wants to shake the younger man but he knows that would only make the situation worse. Instead, he picks up the thread, asserting, “Because I’m right.”
“And I’m right,” his brother argues. “Scylla is about more than me, Lincoln.”
“We wouldn’t even be close to getting Scylla if it wasn’t for you.”
“That doesn’t really matter right now.”
Lincoln grips Michael’s shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right. It, Scylla, this whole Company mess, doesn’t matter when it comes to staying alive.”
Michael shrugs him off and Lincoln bites back the hurt. “I just need a few days.”
“A few days,” Lincoln repeats, tired and defeated for now. He doesn’t want to admit it but Michael’s right in that they’re arguing in circles, and he’s certainly not going to be able to succeed where Sara and sex have failed to convince his brother. “Then you’ll do the surgery?”
“Sure. Of course.” Michael answers offhand.
Lincoln grabs Michael’s elbow. Wills the younger man to focus and mean it. He can smell his little brother, that deep down scent he’s always had even when Michael covered up with expensive cologne and more expensive company.
“You’ll have the surgery?”
Michael’s pale eyes go wide, scared. “I’ll do it.”
Lincoln nods and looks back, blinking away surprising wetness. He retreats to give them both room to breathe. “You should go back to Sara.”
Michael stands and brushes by him. A step away, then Michael turns back to grab Lincoln’s cold hand, hold it in a crushing grip, and let go as he walks into the gloom.
Lincoln’s arm flaps back to his side, his hand tingling. His throat is so tight that his next breath emerges as a wheeze.
His brother’s almost to the ladder of the Christina Rose when Lincoln finds his voice.
“Mike,” he says just loud enough to carry. His little brother turns, and even though Lincoln can barely see the paleness of his face, the dim light catches glistening tracks on his cheeks. They make what Lincoln begins to say even harder to finish. “Don’t make me save your life. You know I have a bad habit of failing expectations.”
Michael goes still for a few torturous moments and then shakes his head, wipes away his tears with a tiny smile. “But who else is going to make you start living up to them?”
Lincoln watches him ascend the ladder and duck into the boat. His heart is heavy with fear and his body’s tired and anxious but Lincoln knows that he’s not going to sleep this night. He turns, walking away from the plans for tomorrow, his brother’s safe haven, and the uncomfortable cots above, turning off the main light as the warehouse door closes behind him.
The dreary, empty dock swallows him whole.
END