PB Fic: Then Along Came Sara
Summary: The rose makes many appearances in Michael Scofield's life.
Author's Note: Happy belated birthday,
lizzyyuan! I apologize for the lateness of this greeting; I've been MIA this past week due to RL concerns. I did keep in mind that you have plans for the weekend, and I hope that you have a blast! *showers you with glittery things*
Length: ~ 1,600 words Characters/Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi, Christina Rose Scofield, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Original Character(s) Genre/Rating: Gen to Het? (I really should be better with these things) / PG (to be safe)
Title: Then Along Came Sara (1/1)
Author:
burntcircles
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters/Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi, Christina Rose Scofield, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Original Character(s)
Genre/Rating: Gen to Het? (I really should be better with these things) / PG (to be safe)
Length: ~ 1,600 words
Summary: The rose makes many appearances in Michael Scofield's life.
“Michael, it’s beautiful.”
A third of the kitchen table is covered with bills. For the past half hour he’s watched his mother go over them, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tallies up numbers, in the end crossing some of them out with a soft sigh. Now, however, she’s got nothing but eyes for him and the single long-stemmed red rose in her hand. She’s smiling at him. His chest feels as though it would burst with joy.
He soaks it all up. His mother seems too sad, too often, nowadays. He stares at her. She is a mass of details: the strands of hair sticking to her forehead, the freckles on her nose, the soft arch of her eyebrows, the dimple that appears and disappears on one cheek. He focuses on the intense blueness of her eyes, the comforting curve of her mouth, and he feels warm all over.
But the moment is short-lived. Concern once more steals into his mother’s face, and a moment later she asks, “But where did you get it, honey?”
Michael exhales in relief. It’s a question he’s prepared for, and his answer is simple, confident. “Mrs. Weathers said we could take one.” The kindly old lady living five houses away was outside puttering around in her garden as he expected when he went to her house at four o’clock that afternoon, Lincoln by his side asking her if she had a flower she could spare. His older brother sounded grumpy, and Michael quickly forgot Lincoln’s earlier instructions to be quiet, to let him take care of it. All he could think of was that they wouldn’t go home with even a single pansy with the way Lincoln was talking. He was doing it all wrong. Please, Mrs. Weathers, just one, Michael pleaded then. Any would do. It’s for Mom.
Mrs. Weathers bent down to Michael, giving him a smile. “Of course, sweetheart,” she said, then turned to the rose bush. Michael was sure that their mouths were still hanging open when Mrs. Weathers handed them the half-open red rose, all the thorns shorn off. “Your mother will love this, Michael.”
And she’s right. Michael watches the smile return to her mother’s face. He settles into her arms contentedly when she reaches for him, the scent of the rose tickling his nostrils. “Lincoln came with me,” he says, his voice muffled by his mother’s sweater. His brother could have been more charming, sure, but he would not have succeeded without him, of that he is certain, too.
“Thank you, Michael.” His mother pulls him closer, and he feels her press a kiss to his hair, her hand bracing his head.
He’s given her plenty of origami roses, each folded carefully while he waited for her to come home after a long day at work, rushing up to her with it as she stepped wearily through the front door. Each time, she’s been delighted, telling him, between hugs and kisses, what a smart, sweet boy he is.
But for some reason this is different. A real rose is different.
oOo
“Oh, Michael, this is beautiful.”
Veronica twirls the red rose under her nose, her eyes misting over. Michael knows by now that they are tears of happiness so he isn’t the least bit alarmed. They, however, only serve to heighten his annoyance at Lincoln, who is late. It’s her birthday, her boyfriend is late, and here he is, all of eleven years old, saving his brother’s ass. “This is Linc’s idea,” he lies through his teeth. “He’ll be here soon.”
He fights to keep from squirming under Veronica’s gaze. There is very little that he can hide from her; this time is no different. He can hear the words churn in her head before they even come out of her mouth. “It’s enough that he’s late,” she says, sounding more tired than angry now, “don’t lie for him, too.”
Unable to reply, Michael shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stares into the pavement. After a few seconds Veronica steps up to him and hooks an arm around his. For a brief moment Michael is deeply aware how small and delicate she is, underneath all the quiet strength.
“Thank you, Michael,” she says quietly, warm against his side. Already, he could feel the vestiges of her irritation, and his helplessness, slipping away.
oOo
“Michael, honey, you shouldn’t have.”
Her surprise is genuine, her pleasure evident. None of it catches Michael off-guard. He isn’t relieved that the single red rose, perfect from whatever angle, is received so warmly. He knew it would be--flowers have a way with women that is almost magical. Even the way Frannie is holding the rose under her nose to breathe the smell in, rolling the stem between her fingers, is a sight he’s seen too many times. She gazes at him from across the table, and even before she says, “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Michael,” with the gentleness he swears he could have seen coming, down to the fondness that deepens to desire in her eyes, even before she reaches out across the table for his hand, brushing her thumb lightly against his in slow, languid strokes, he knows how the night will end.
And he knows how it will all end, the same way it did with all the others: a gradual descent from a summit to which she and he will never return, an inevitable drop to a finish that will be quiet, almost dull in its civility. And Frannie will be no different. It doesn’t stop him from hoping, though. He dons a face that should impress any woman, uses all the tricks he’s learned to win a heart-and they have, many a time, which only worked to fuel his optimism-and hopes that perhaps a great night will stretch to two, three, a week, a month, a year. It never does, yet he perseveres. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, only that he lives for the moment when something he does seems to make sense, lights a spark that he hardly feels in himself, if only to have it happen to someone else.
oOo
On her twenty-ninth birthday, she talks about an absent father, saying, “I get flowers instead. Flowers that end up dead and in the trash a week later.”
And now, he discovers as he sits, an inmate with a mutilated foot, said flowers are in the trash a day later, instead of a week hence. For a second he doesn’t know what to think. Granted, the flowers were from her father-the busy politician with the distant (dare he say, resentful?) daughter-and perhaps she would have reacted differently had they come from, as he’d theorized, an admirer. Then the second of bewilderment turns into something else, an odd mixture of sympathy and relief spiked with a lingering sense of possessiveness that he knows doesn’t have anything to do with the drain in the corner of the prison infirmary.
He tries light humor. “I don’t think they’re dead yet.”
Her eyes are stern when she looks at him, then she looks away, turning her attention back to the syringe and his arm. “I don’t like getting attached to things if I know that they won’t last.”
One moment she’s nearly glowering, the next moment she’s almost aloof. “Toes are overrated,” he quips, and then she’s softening. She’s a mass of contradictions that he’d very much like to unravel. He’s also looking at her more than he should, reeling from the tender gratitude in her eyes whereas her near-glare did nothing for him but elicit an internal shrug, and he realizes he should be more careful.
He gets up and leaves the origami rose on the table, never seeing for himself the look on her face the instant she sees it. He steps out the clinic and right back into the plan, his brother, the escape, the overwhelming burden of the task he has brought upon himself.
It is not until he is back in his cell that he lets the warmth from what he’s done take over him. For all he knows, she could have chucked the paper rose straight into the trash bin. But it doesn’t matter, and that’s when he knows. A con who, in a matter of weeks, even days, may never stop running for his life, he has nothing to offer anyone now. Suddenly, unexpectedly, though, the picture has shifted, the lines have blurred. His mind should be going at a hundred miles a second with contingencies, but here he is, basking in the afterglow of a ten-minute meeting with a woman he cannot have, happy with, he is forced to acknowledge in the privacy of his thoughts, an unrequited love.
oOo
“Oh, it’s beautiful.”
She holds up the rose and inspects it, her finger lightly tracing the curve of a petal from base to tip. She doesn’t bring it to her nose to breathe in the scent. This is one of the countless, wonderful ways in which she’s different. But then again, he might be slightly biased.
Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she looks up at him, the solemn amber eyes bringing him abruptly back to a day in the infirmary so many years ago, and she slides an arm around his.
She leans into him, the silk of her graduation robe rustling against his suit. Her hair tickles his chin. She’s going to be tall, too, he muses, the similarity astounding him now like so many others before it. Maybe it’s not that. Maybe, in moments like this when regret and gratitude and bittersweet remembrance all come together, it’s the realization that she was a chance he almost thought he’d lost.
“Thanks, Dad,” she tells him simply as they walk across the grass towards the car, where Sara waits.
(End)
Author's Note: Happy belated birthday,
lizzyyuan! I apologize for the lateness of this greeting; I've been MIA this past week due to RL concerns. I did keep in mind that you have plans for the weekend, and I hope that you have a blast! *showers you with glittery things*
Length: ~ 1,600 words Characters/Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi, Christina Rose Scofield, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Original Character(s) Genre/Rating: Gen to Het? (I really should be better with these things) / PG (to be safe)
Title: Then Along Came Sara (1/1)
Author:
burntcircles
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters/Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi, Christina Rose Scofield, Lincoln Burrows, Veronica Donovan, Original Character(s)
Genre/Rating: Gen to Het? (I really should be better with these things) / PG (to be safe)
Length: ~ 1,600 words
Summary: The rose makes many appearances in Michael Scofield's life.
“Michael, it’s beautiful.”
A third of the kitchen table is covered with bills. For the past half hour he’s watched his mother go over them, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tallies up numbers, in the end crossing some of them out with a soft sigh. Now, however, she’s got nothing but eyes for him and the single long-stemmed red rose in her hand. She’s smiling at him. His chest feels as though it would burst with joy.
He soaks it all up. His mother seems too sad, too often, nowadays. He stares at her. She is a mass of details: the strands of hair sticking to her forehead, the freckles on her nose, the soft arch of her eyebrows, the dimple that appears and disappears on one cheek. He focuses on the intense blueness of her eyes, the comforting curve of her mouth, and he feels warm all over.
But the moment is short-lived. Concern once more steals into his mother’s face, and a moment later she asks, “But where did you get it, honey?”
Michael exhales in relief. It’s a question he’s prepared for, and his answer is simple, confident. “Mrs. Weathers said we could take one.” The kindly old lady living five houses away was outside puttering around in her garden as he expected when he went to her house at four o’clock that afternoon, Lincoln by his side asking her if she had a flower she could spare. His older brother sounded grumpy, and Michael quickly forgot Lincoln’s earlier instructions to be quiet, to let him take care of it. All he could think of was that they wouldn’t go home with even a single pansy with the way Lincoln was talking. He was doing it all wrong. Please, Mrs. Weathers, just one, Michael pleaded then. Any would do. It’s for Mom.
Mrs. Weathers bent down to Michael, giving him a smile. “Of course, sweetheart,” she said, then turned to the rose bush. Michael was sure that their mouths were still hanging open when Mrs. Weathers handed them the half-open red rose, all the thorns shorn off. “Your mother will love this, Michael.”
And she’s right. Michael watches the smile return to her mother’s face. He settles into her arms contentedly when she reaches for him, the scent of the rose tickling his nostrils. “Lincoln came with me,” he says, his voice muffled by his mother’s sweater. His brother could have been more charming, sure, but he would not have succeeded without him, of that he is certain, too.
“Thank you, Michael.” His mother pulls him closer, and he feels her press a kiss to his hair, her hand bracing his head.
He’s given her plenty of origami roses, each folded carefully while he waited for her to come home after a long day at work, rushing up to her with it as she stepped wearily through the front door. Each time, she’s been delighted, telling him, between hugs and kisses, what a smart, sweet boy he is.
But for some reason this is different. A real rose is different.
oOo
“Oh, Michael, this is beautiful.”
Veronica twirls the red rose under her nose, her eyes misting over. Michael knows by now that they are tears of happiness so he isn’t the least bit alarmed. They, however, only serve to heighten his annoyance at Lincoln, who is late. It’s her birthday, her boyfriend is late, and here he is, all of eleven years old, saving his brother’s ass. “This is Linc’s idea,” he lies through his teeth. “He’ll be here soon.”
He fights to keep from squirming under Veronica’s gaze. There is very little that he can hide from her; this time is no different. He can hear the words churn in her head before they even come out of her mouth. “It’s enough that he’s late,” she says, sounding more tired than angry now, “don’t lie for him, too.”
Unable to reply, Michael shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stares into the pavement. After a few seconds Veronica steps up to him and hooks an arm around his. For a brief moment Michael is deeply aware how small and delicate she is, underneath all the quiet strength.
“Thank you, Michael,” she says quietly, warm against his side. Already, he could feel the vestiges of her irritation, and his helplessness, slipping away.
oOo
“Michael, honey, you shouldn’t have.”
Her surprise is genuine, her pleasure evident. None of it catches Michael off-guard. He isn’t relieved that the single red rose, perfect from whatever angle, is received so warmly. He knew it would be--flowers have a way with women that is almost magical. Even the way Frannie is holding the rose under her nose to breathe the smell in, rolling the stem between her fingers, is a sight he’s seen too many times. She gazes at him from across the table, and even before she says, “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Michael,” with the gentleness he swears he could have seen coming, down to the fondness that deepens to desire in her eyes, even before she reaches out across the table for his hand, brushing her thumb lightly against his in slow, languid strokes, he knows how the night will end.
And he knows how it will all end, the same way it did with all the others: a gradual descent from a summit to which she and he will never return, an inevitable drop to a finish that will be quiet, almost dull in its civility. And Frannie will be no different. It doesn’t stop him from hoping, though. He dons a face that should impress any woman, uses all the tricks he’s learned to win a heart-and they have, many a time, which only worked to fuel his optimism-and hopes that perhaps a great night will stretch to two, three, a week, a month, a year. It never does, yet he perseveres. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, only that he lives for the moment when something he does seems to make sense, lights a spark that he hardly feels in himself, if only to have it happen to someone else.
oOo
On her twenty-ninth birthday, she talks about an absent father, saying, “I get flowers instead. Flowers that end up dead and in the trash a week later.”
And now, he discovers as he sits, an inmate with a mutilated foot, said flowers are in the trash a day later, instead of a week hence. For a second he doesn’t know what to think. Granted, the flowers were from her father-the busy politician with the distant (dare he say, resentful?) daughter-and perhaps she would have reacted differently had they come from, as he’d theorized, an admirer. Then the second of bewilderment turns into something else, an odd mixture of sympathy and relief spiked with a lingering sense of possessiveness that he knows doesn’t have anything to do with the drain in the corner of the prison infirmary.
He tries light humor. “I don’t think they’re dead yet.”
Her eyes are stern when she looks at him, then she looks away, turning her attention back to the syringe and his arm. “I don’t like getting attached to things if I know that they won’t last.”
One moment she’s nearly glowering, the next moment she’s almost aloof. “Toes are overrated,” he quips, and then she’s softening. She’s a mass of contradictions that he’d very much like to unravel. He’s also looking at her more than he should, reeling from the tender gratitude in her eyes whereas her near-glare did nothing for him but elicit an internal shrug, and he realizes he should be more careful.
He gets up and leaves the origami rose on the table, never seeing for himself the look on her face the instant she sees it. He steps out the clinic and right back into the plan, his brother, the escape, the overwhelming burden of the task he has brought upon himself.
It is not until he is back in his cell that he lets the warmth from what he’s done take over him. For all he knows, she could have chucked the paper rose straight into the trash bin. But it doesn’t matter, and that’s when he knows. A con who, in a matter of weeks, even days, may never stop running for his life, he has nothing to offer anyone now. Suddenly, unexpectedly, though, the picture has shifted, the lines have blurred. His mind should be going at a hundred miles a second with contingencies, but here he is, basking in the afterglow of a ten-minute meeting with a woman he cannot have, happy with, he is forced to acknowledge in the privacy of his thoughts, an unrequited love.
oOo
“Oh, it’s beautiful.”
She holds up the rose and inspects it, her finger lightly tracing the curve of a petal from base to tip. She doesn’t bring it to her nose to breathe in the scent. This is one of the countless, wonderful ways in which she’s different. But then again, he might be slightly biased.
Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she looks up at him, the solemn amber eyes bringing him abruptly back to a day in the infirmary so many years ago, and she slides an arm around his.
She leans into him, the silk of her graduation robe rustling against his suit. Her hair tickles his chin. She’s going to be tall, too, he muses, the similarity astounding him now like so many others before it. Maybe it’s not that. Maybe, in moments like this when regret and gratitude and bittersweet remembrance all come together, it’s the realization that she was a chance he almost thought he’d lost.
“Thanks, Dad,” she tells him simply as they walk across the grass towards the car, where Sara waits.
(End)