Characters: Lincoln and Michael (Gen)
Summary: KidFic fluff, with persistent Michael and laissez-faire Lincoln.
Author's Notes: Happy belated birthday to badboy_fangirl, who wanted some kidMichael and Lincoln as her present. This one is definitely fluffy, so I hope you like it! Also written for prisonbreak100, where I have the Gen pairing of Lincoln and Michael. This is prompt #59, "Food," for obvious reasons.
"Not at three-o'clock..."
Lincoln's eyes never left the television set. The Bulls were up by two in the third quarter. If Mom worked late again today, he could watch the rest of the game instead of doing his homework.
"Can I use a knife?"
Those were Mom's rules. Michael was really pretty careful, but he was only eight. Lincoln had only been allowed to use the big knives by himself just this year.
"What, Michael? I'm watching TV."
"I spilled something."
"Can you clean it up?"
Had he been like this when he was Michael's age? Expecting other people to solve problems he could take care of himself?
Sonofabitch! Technical foul on Gilmore and he was out of the game—barely into the fourth quarter. Bulls down by eight, and Woolridge was out with an injury. They were trying, but their luck was fading.
Celtics had the ball now, crossing over the mid-court line and—stolen by the Bulls! Theus raced toward the basket, striding into a lay-up and--
"For god's sake, what already?"
"What's a pinch?"
"What I'm going to do to you if you don't stop bugging me while I'm watching the game!"
He'd missed it-- what was the score now? Wait, they didn't count the basket. Didn’t it go in? Darn Michael and his questions all the time. That kid had more questions…
The buzzer sounded for a time-out, and the crowd noise faded back for a commercial.
What the hell? Lincoln got up and rounded the sofa into the kitchen doorway.
Michael was on the countertop next to the oven, looking guiltily down at the baking pan on the floor. Flour and traces of broken eggs littered the cutting board. Lincoln stepped forward to peer into the metal bowl next to the sink.
"I'm making muffins. I was hungry."
"Yeah," Lincoln smiled in spite of himself. "I'd sort of guessed that."
"I found a recipe, but it was kind of complicated."
"Your… dough… looks awfully watery."
Michael hopped down from the counter. "I was going to add more flour."
Lincoln wondered what that would have produced once it came out of the oven. Bread blobs? Muffin pucks?
"Tell you what. The Bulls are probably going to lose this one, because they totally suck this year. So how about I help you make muffins now, and they can bake during the fourth quarter—if it's even worth watching the game at that point."
"Really?" Michael bounced at the prospect.
"Really. So long as you promise to clean this mess up really, really well before Mom comes home."
"Okay," Michael agreed. "I'm good at cleaning."
"Yes you are, and I don't even want to know why. So, banana muffins or apple?"
"Um… you choose."
"Banana it is." Lincoln dumped the sludge from Michael's first attempt into the sink, and rinsed the bowl out to start again.
Lincoln tossed over the scrubber sponge. "Next time let someone else handle the eggs."
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