#!mafia

Lincoln shuffles slowly into the kitchen, daring himself to get up and boil his own water. Coffee sounds good. A hot towel against the pulse in the side of his head sounds better. Sure, his hands are grasping onto every surface he can hold onto, but he does it; his palms eventually colliding flat against the kitchen counter. When he lets go, there are two large sweaty prints left behind. He sighs and his vision blurs - he smells burning. 

It’s too hot, too humid. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say was back in Nam. But he’s in America; home, in New Orleans. But then there’s the fact he’s been shot in the face. Sounds like Nam. Like some sick joke. 

Fucking Giorgi.

That stings like holy hell all over again. And he tries to think past it all over again, a pattern quickly forming since the moment he woke up. The rage and upset sitting neatly under the seared skin on the side of his skull. Seeing John at the foot of his bed with a hand resting an inch away from his own, it was hard not to think of Giorgi. Not that he felt that he had betrayed John in anyway – it had been a few months since they last spoke, and Lincoln assumed he was a busy man, like he always was. And maybe he wanted to leave Nam in Nam. That old CIA way, perhaps. And Giorgi wasn’t John, not one bit.

Instead, it’s the memory of Giorgi scraping his fingers across the side of Lincoln’s face, pulling him close, and his other hand gripping so tightly onto him that it burns. Laughing at the job they pulled, drinking to it and locking themselves away. The memory of after, sitting in his bed and smoking cigarettes after cigars while he complained about his father. Lincoln would listen distantly, eyeing the way the muscles of his jaw worked. Turns out it didn’t matter that much if he was willing to put a bullet to him if his dad gave the word. It stings like Giorgi’s fingers scratched jagged lines across his cheek. Oh, but if only he had killed him. Couldn’t even look him in the eye when he did it and the sonofabitch actually missed the kill-shot. He couldn’t even get the aim right enough to take those memories away. So, it’s drinks and laughs and then. Giorgi looking over him and blood and Sammy falling to the ground while the flames ate Ellis up. The heat – the fire. On loop.

His head fucking hurts and maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

There’s a clean, empty pot on the stove which he takes to the sink. The water splashes against the bottom, loud and aggressive at first, calming down slowly as it fills up. It takes him a little more effort to carry it back over to the hob than he’d like, and it slams down a little louder than he intended, the water spilling slightly over the edge. He takes the matchbox from where he knows they are – second drawer to the right – and he delicately pushes it open, grabs a match and strikes it.

But it doesn’t light. He strikes it again, and it doesn’t light. He strikes it again. It doesn’t— His hands shake more, and his vision gets blurrier, head throbbing so hard it feels like it'll break the scar right back open. Then, there’s a hand gripping his wrist as gently as it could, suggesting that he stop trying. Lincoln sucks in a deep breath, and when he opens his eyes the tears are gone.

“Easy, Lazarus.”

He lets John take the matchbox and the match out of his hands. John puts them down on the counter and Lincoln wants to tell them that’s not where they go.

“Sit down, will you?” John says, equally concerned and annoyed. He would resist if he had it in him. But he lets John take him to the dining chair, putting his hand on his shoulder and John wrapping his arm around Lincoln. The chair creaks underneath him. John goes back to the stove.

“You should’ve just asked me,” he says in some sombre tone that betrays him. Annoyed would’ve suited him better. But then again, it is just him and Lincoln here.

“Father James isn’t home,” Lincoln’s voice is low, and the words slur slightly. John strikes the match. “You were asleep.”

“You should’ve just asked me,” he says again, annoyed this time. He turns around after lighting up the stove and looks at Lincoln. “We’ll get Marcano,” his voice softer now, “but that means we have to get you back up on your feet. And I can still help with that, too.”

Lincoln hasn’t changed much since he first met him, and he’s seen his wounds heal over before. But nothing – no one – ever came close to killing him. Now, he gets the front row seat to seeing how a bullet wound to the head is cleaned and bandaged over. He gets to see Lincoln’s hair and beard grow out while he lay there, nearly dead. Because he supposes Lincoln was always a miracle in some way. In Vietnam, it was otherworldly to see him emerge out of the heat and the smog, the aftermath, with just scrapes and scratches and the determination to go again. He never did it for John – whether it turned into that, no one can say for sure – but he knows what he’d do for Lincoln. John never told him, but it drove him frantic when he came out a second too late. In tents and the grottiest hotel rooms the C.I.A. could muster, his touch would be gentler than humanly possible and yet could somehow tear him apart, drive him frantic in other ways. He learned to say Lincoln's name like a prayer. Saint Lincoln Clay, out of the gunfire and dirt, with his eyes on him.

“Watch out, Donovan. I might think you care,” Lincoln smirks up at him and it sends a shooting pain up to his temple – he looks back down at his feet. John grabs another chair and puts it opposite Lincoln where he sits, one of his legs knocking between Lincoln’s.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he smiles, bringing one of his hands to rest on Lincoln’s knee.

“Yeah,” regretting the stupid joke – should leave those to Donovan – but his hand meets John’s anyway. “You are.”

“Damn straight,” and his tone shifts into the John Donovan that Lincoln knows. “I got all the gear I need and I’m set up in a shitty motel in Delray Hollow. The Blue Gulf. Sal and Giorgi have got no fucking idea what's coming for 'em,” he laughs then but it’s tinged with something else. He pulls his hand away, leaning back in the chair and running his hand through his hair once. “You’re going to scare them to death.”

“Haunt the shit out of ‘em,” Lincoln slurs out. Donovan brings his hand back on top of his, and they stay that way for a minute. The water’s boiling. But Donovan’s hand moves up to the side of Lincoln’s face, palm soft against his beard and fingers gingerly stroking his temple. Lincoln can’t help but close his eyes and lean into it, and it isn’t as painful as he expects it to be. The horrible throb of agony ebbs away into a dull ache against the touch.

“Maybe, you could keep the beard,” Donovan says out of sheer curiosity, but saves it with a grin. He drags his fingers through it all the way down to his chin, feeling Lincoln's voice through the contact.

“In your dreams,” Lincoln laughs and winces all at once. “Fuck.”

At that, Donovan’s hand goes back up his cheek. Lincoln looks at him, his eyes teary and bloodshot. John’s got that furrow in his brow going on when he’d usually be looking up at him, searching for the parts of him his anger was working so quickly to stifle. Those times he told him things weren’t his fault; that it was a war zone and it was just the way things were, but he knew that anyway. John just said it and he'd actually want to hear it. He could tell him the same thing now. Maybe there wasn’t enough good bourbon in the entirety of New Bordeaux for him to get a word in. What the fuck. He'd be here with him for as long as it took.

A door clicks open; Lincoln looks down and Donovan pushes back in his chair and swiftly moves back to the pot of water.

“Don’t you fucking worry, Lincoln,” Donovan says firmly and loudly. “Sal Marcano’s gonna regret ever being born,” and Lincoln can just about make out the sly twitch of his mouth.

***

It takes a few more weeks before Lincoln doesn’t need anyone to lean on to make his own way around the house. At the chance, he leaps to trim his hair and get rid of his beard while Donovan watched him in the bathroom mirror, pulling faces at him and talking about the “tremendous loss”. Lincoln jabbed his elbow in his direction, and told him if he kept distracting him, he was going to end up cutting himself. John laughed back and lit a cigarette, holding it out for Lincoln to share. Lincoln's lips brushed against his fingers every single time.

John had gone to Sammy’s while Lincoln was still out. It smelled of charred wood and flesh, and he swore it still felt hot. But maybe that was just the weather. The fire burned anything and everything, and although there was nothing to be salvaged, he still had to go. It was his job, after all. Miraculously, the building’s still standing, but inside it’s a nightmare. And there’s no evidence, no police tape, fucking nothing. He probably stays a few minutes longer than he needs to, imagining the scene play out in front of him; Lincoln above the moon, his arm wrapped tightly around Giorgi’s shoulders. The moment he lets go is the moment he’ll probably regret.

So when Lincoln asks to be dropped off at Sammy’s, Donovan doesn’t realise what’s going on until he parks up.

“Don’t you think this is a little morbid, Lincoln?”

“What?”

“This,” he gestures to Sammy’s. “You’re not seriously staying here.”

Lincoln is already getting out of the car.

“Hey,” John follows him. “Hey, asshole. You’re not staying here.”

“Is that an order?” Lincoln is already at the door, standing broad and tall. But he doesn’t open the door just yet. Instead, his voice turns low and dark, quiet and all-business. “We need to get to the underbosses first – there’s no way I can go straight for Marcano, as much as I’d fucking like to get my hands on his pale fucking neck.”

Donovan, now by his side, knows this rhythm, and he walks right into it.

“I’m way ahead of you. Number of civvies around here were willing to give me what I needed with the right kind of pressure. No shock to you that Marcano’s henchmen aren’t really the most well-liked around these parts. But you’re right, only there’s a good number of ‘em we have to get to before Sal starts feeling the heat. I got all the intel you need to get started back at my room. I stole th—” he's broken off by Lincoln's dry laugh.

Lincoln turns to him and squints. John fucking Donovan, always sealing the deal and closing all the exits. He was good that way, having everything covered and all the questions answered. Always there when Lincoln called. But he was never one to leave himself this open, to let Lincoln see the pressing concern and desperation etched onto his face right now.

“This is where I need to be,” Lincoln says. John shifts on his feet and really looks up at him now, staring right into him.

“With all due respect, no, it isn’t. Lincoln, this isn’t your fault. You don’t need to go in there,” he takes a step closer, making to get in between of Lincoln and the door. “It's not like you need the fucking guilt to burden yourself with.”

“What I need right now is for you to point me in the direction of the person I need to kill to start this thing. This is where I’m staying. Donovan,” he says before John can open his smart mouth, “It is my fault. I let Giorgi in. I had fucking lunch with Sal Marcano and his son and I let them in. We got drunk, and I turned my head and the whole thing is burning to the fucking ground. So, it is my fault. And I’m taking Marcano down, even if I have to go down with him. Just— Just fucking help me.”

There’s a silence after that and he realises that he was talking a little too loudly. Glancing around him, the street looks empty enough. And then John in front of him is mimicking the way his jaw’s tensed up, hearing the effort it takes to keep his voice level and clearly failing. He probably has something to say, but he lets the moment sit like that. Lincoln's anger starts to dissipate and settle until his blood isn't running as hot. 

“Lincoln,” he says maybe a minute later. “Thinking like that isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

They lock eyes again and the last of Lincoln's rage turns, and sure it leaves behind the profound melancholy and guilt of losing your father and brother to the man you slept with and his Mafioso father, but for now, he lets Donovan bring him back down to earth. He tells him it isn’t his fault again, and this time he considers it. Only considers it. Because when it's John, he's willing to listen.

“You’ll believe me once you mull it over with the good whiskey I have,” Donovan tries, smiling up at Lincoln. “I got everything you need, because you asked for me and I’m the fucking best. And we’re gonna take him down. You don’t think I owe you this?”

“You don’t owe me anything, John,” Lincoln replies, earnestly.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But don’t forget that I might actually care about you, Corporal,” and John’s classic shit-eating grin appears across his face and Lincoln is possessed with the urge to taste it. Instead, he laughs and slaps his hand a little too hard on his arm. "Easy, or I won't be able to drive us there," he says, rubbing his arm.

“Well, where’s the fucking whiskey?”

“That’s more like it.”

They both climb back into the car. John starts the engine before Lincoln says;

“John.”

“Yeah?” he looks back at him, genuinely confused. For once, Donovan’s caught off-guard and Lincoln likes the way it looks on him.

“I hate your fucking suit.”

John takes a beat, looking down at himself before scoffing and looking back at Lincoln, open-mouthed.

“Can’t all be as handsome as you,” he puts his hands on the wheel. “If it’s got you so damn wound up—”

“Shut up and drive, gorgeous.”

***