Prison Break Fic: Deliverance (1/1)
Summary: Their new beginning has finally arrived.
Characters/Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi, Fernando Sucre/Maricruz Delgado
Genre/Rating: Het / PG
Length: ~1,200 words
Author's Note: Written for misa_is_love, who is very sad at the recent turn of events. At what seems like an eternity ago I promised you a fic, sweetheart, and here it is, long overdue and terribly dodgy. Much apologies. But I hope it makes you feel better, somehow. *hugs*
He’s never before seen so much blue.
The baby is fussing in his arms and he’s tired from the long car ride, but that's the only thing he thinks when he sees it for the first time. It is not so much the expanse the color as its intensity, turning the breadth of the sea into a welcome that both stunned and soothed. It’s not his imagination; beside him, Maricruz utters a faint, “Oh.” As though sensing his calm, the baby stills.
And perhaps it’s the sun hitting it at just the right angle, or the sea stretching out for miles, broken only by a smattering of colorful, makeshift sails, or the affably clear sky. Whatever the reason, long before the sound of Michael and Sara’s soft banter carries down to him as the two slowly come into view, long before they lead him and Maricruz to their new house and open their doors into their new lives, Sucre feels the warmth of the home that they’ve waited so long to see.
Michael turns his head and sees them. His friend doesn’t even pause, his gait remaining relaxed and steady, his face open, but Sucre tenses. He’s rehearsed it so many times-this belated apology, the explanation for leaving him and Lincoln so suddenly, at such a time-but the words freeze in his throat, and the smile that should come so easily to him chooses at that moment to bail out.
Serves him right, he thinks darkly, but then Michael is smiling, taking the weight of the baby off of his arms. Already, Sara is heading for Maricruz, closing in for a hug.
“It’s so good to finally meet you,” the doctor tells his wife, and he thinks, watching Michael gaze at the two women with a solemn gratitude he immediately recognizes, that if anything could be possibly bluer than the sea at that moment, it would be his friend’s eyes.
.
“So. Has Sucre decided to stay?”
Sara poses the question in a tone barely above a whisper, and yet it’s clear enough to be heard. The whole house is silent; everybody has turned in for the night. Michael turns and finds her leaning against the doorway, watching him by the dim glow of the lamp by the bed, the only light in their room.
Shrugging, he fluffs up a pillow before slipping into bed. The sheets are pleasantly crisp against his skin. “He says he needs to think about it.”
“Well, I hope they all stay.” Sara follows suit, turning promptly onto her side to face him. Her hand curls around his bicep lightly, her fingers absent-mindedly tracing the scars on the exposed skin.
He is reminded of something she said a week ago when he and his nephew were talking about college choices-how they could all pack up and go where LJ went, how she wished she could stop time, leaving LJ forever shy of eighteen so that he would never leave. He’s about to bring it up to tease her, but catches himself. He knows it’s already on her mind, so he doesn’t talk about it. Like he does not talk about how earlier that day a couple went to the scuba shop, and the man stared at Michael and said, “You look familiar.” Or how they don't talk about last week’s nightmares, last month’s panic attacks, last year’s deaths.
They choose something else, harmless picks that mask a wary protectiveness of their newfound solace. A local politician’s big house going up at the edge of the beach. How well the shop is doing this year, and their plans for the lean season. The young woman who came to the clinic with a gash on her forehead and the explanation that she tripped and hit a stone that Sara refuses to believe.
They talk about today. As they did last night, and the night before that. To honor the chance that they’ve been given, because a future is so easy to lose.
And then, it happens-a meandering touch, skin prickling in its wake, a face turning up to meet searching eyes. Sometimes--because this, of all things, takes time--Michael still finds himself gripped with the urge to consume her in the desperation of their earlier days. But more and more, anxiety has given way to stillness, discovery, joy. Like tonight. And hopefully, tomorrow.
As the waves crash on the shore they make love quietly, thoroughly, knowing that time is now on their side.
.
The apology, when finally delivered as the two friends strolled on the beach the next day, is brushed aside, Sucre scarcely two sentences in when Michael cuts him off with a slight shake of his head.
“No, Papi, listen,” he tries again, “I should have at least gone to you to say goodbye-”
Michael turns pointedly away, gesturing to the waves in an invitation. “It’s a perfect day for a dive.” His teeth flash against his face, now bronzed by months of sun and sea air, in a playful grin. “Shall we?”
And that’s it, there’s no use pressing on. He knows it’s over as far as Michael’s concerned. Some things haven’t changed with time, he sees. So it is with him, too, so he opens his mouth, going for one last effort.
Just then a wave crashes onto the shore and laps at his toes before retreating out again. Distracted by the cool relief it provides, he curls his bare toes into the wet sand. A jeep pulls up. He glances over at the house; through the latticed windows he catches a glimpse of Maricruz and Sara moving about inside. Up the path to the porch on the north side of the house come Lincoln and his son, back from a quick trip to the market, looking no more than two deeply tanned males in animated conversation. The afternoon is unfolding lazily, leisurely; he is taken by the utter domesticity of it all.
The scars don’t show.
There’s nothing to forgive.
He looks over at Michael who is already heading for their gear, to his friend’s boat moored down the beach, to the flock of gulls overhead, their screeches drifting away in the wind. He wonders, for the millionth time since he saw his daughter again, how he has gotten to be so lucky.
Linc and I owe you so much more than we can ever repay.
He doesn’t speak again until they’re both on the boat, heading out. “Uh, Papi?”
Michael sighs. “Sucre, I said...”
“I know. I know. But only if you do one thing, and then we’re even.”
An eyebrow cocks questioningly.
“Just stop keeping score, okay?”
Michael smirks, just as Sucre knew he would. But he turns thoughtful, and then he nods. “Deal.”
It takes a while to sink in, and when it finally does, something that has remained coiled tight for so long inside him twists free, filling him with peace. It’s possible, it really is, he thinks. Everyone can start all over again.
He takes a deep breath and scans the horizon, as though it brought the future. He tastes salt in the breeze, a mix of pungent heat and mint, and something else-something that feels like freedom.
(End)
Characters/Pairing: Michael Scofield/Sara Tancredi, Fernando Sucre/Maricruz Delgado
Genre/Rating: Het / PG
Length: ~1,200 words
Author's Note: Written for misa_is_love, who is very sad at the recent turn of events. At what seems like an eternity ago I promised you a fic, sweetheart, and here it is, long overdue and terribly dodgy. Much apologies. But I hope it makes you feel better, somehow. *hugs*
He’s never before seen so much blue.
The baby is fussing in his arms and he’s tired from the long car ride, but that's the only thing he thinks when he sees it for the first time. It is not so much the expanse the color as its intensity, turning the breadth of the sea into a welcome that both stunned and soothed. It’s not his imagination; beside him, Maricruz utters a faint, “Oh.” As though sensing his calm, the baby stills.
And perhaps it’s the sun hitting it at just the right angle, or the sea stretching out for miles, broken only by a smattering of colorful, makeshift sails, or the affably clear sky. Whatever the reason, long before the sound of Michael and Sara’s soft banter carries down to him as the two slowly come into view, long before they lead him and Maricruz to their new house and open their doors into their new lives, Sucre feels the warmth of the home that they’ve waited so long to see.
Michael turns his head and sees them. His friend doesn’t even pause, his gait remaining relaxed and steady, his face open, but Sucre tenses. He’s rehearsed it so many times-this belated apology, the explanation for leaving him and Lincoln so suddenly, at such a time-but the words freeze in his throat, and the smile that should come so easily to him chooses at that moment to bail out.
Serves him right, he thinks darkly, but then Michael is smiling, taking the weight of the baby off of his arms. Already, Sara is heading for Maricruz, closing in for a hug.
“It’s so good to finally meet you,” the doctor tells his wife, and he thinks, watching Michael gaze at the two women with a solemn gratitude he immediately recognizes, that if anything could be possibly bluer than the sea at that moment, it would be his friend’s eyes.
.
“So. Has Sucre decided to stay?”
Sara poses the question in a tone barely above a whisper, and yet it’s clear enough to be heard. The whole house is silent; everybody has turned in for the night. Michael turns and finds her leaning against the doorway, watching him by the dim glow of the lamp by the bed, the only light in their room.
Shrugging, he fluffs up a pillow before slipping into bed. The sheets are pleasantly crisp against his skin. “He says he needs to think about it.”
“Well, I hope they all stay.” Sara follows suit, turning promptly onto her side to face him. Her hand curls around his bicep lightly, her fingers absent-mindedly tracing the scars on the exposed skin.
He is reminded of something she said a week ago when he and his nephew were talking about college choices-how they could all pack up and go where LJ went, how she wished she could stop time, leaving LJ forever shy of eighteen so that he would never leave. He’s about to bring it up to tease her, but catches himself. He knows it’s already on her mind, so he doesn’t talk about it. Like he does not talk about how earlier that day a couple went to the scuba shop, and the man stared at Michael and said, “You look familiar.” Or how they don't talk about last week’s nightmares, last month’s panic attacks, last year’s deaths.
They choose something else, harmless picks that mask a wary protectiveness of their newfound solace. A local politician’s big house going up at the edge of the beach. How well the shop is doing this year, and their plans for the lean season. The young woman who came to the clinic with a gash on her forehead and the explanation that she tripped and hit a stone that Sara refuses to believe.
They talk about today. As they did last night, and the night before that. To honor the chance that they’ve been given, because a future is so easy to lose.
And then, it happens-a meandering touch, skin prickling in its wake, a face turning up to meet searching eyes. Sometimes--because this, of all things, takes time--Michael still finds himself gripped with the urge to consume her in the desperation of their earlier days. But more and more, anxiety has given way to stillness, discovery, joy. Like tonight. And hopefully, tomorrow.
As the waves crash on the shore they make love quietly, thoroughly, knowing that time is now on their side.
.
The apology, when finally delivered as the two friends strolled on the beach the next day, is brushed aside, Sucre scarcely two sentences in when Michael cuts him off with a slight shake of his head.
“No, Papi, listen,” he tries again, “I should have at least gone to you to say goodbye-”
Michael turns pointedly away, gesturing to the waves in an invitation. “It’s a perfect day for a dive.” His teeth flash against his face, now bronzed by months of sun and sea air, in a playful grin. “Shall we?”
And that’s it, there’s no use pressing on. He knows it’s over as far as Michael’s concerned. Some things haven’t changed with time, he sees. So it is with him, too, so he opens his mouth, going for one last effort.
Just then a wave crashes onto the shore and laps at his toes before retreating out again. Distracted by the cool relief it provides, he curls his bare toes into the wet sand. A jeep pulls up. He glances over at the house; through the latticed windows he catches a glimpse of Maricruz and Sara moving about inside. Up the path to the porch on the north side of the house come Lincoln and his son, back from a quick trip to the market, looking no more than two deeply tanned males in animated conversation. The afternoon is unfolding lazily, leisurely; he is taken by the utter domesticity of it all.
The scars don’t show.
There’s nothing to forgive.
He looks over at Michael who is already heading for their gear, to his friend’s boat moored down the beach, to the flock of gulls overhead, their screeches drifting away in the wind. He wonders, for the millionth time since he saw his daughter again, how he has gotten to be so lucky.
Linc and I owe you so much more than we can ever repay.
He doesn’t speak again until they’re both on the boat, heading out. “Uh, Papi?”
Michael sighs. “Sucre, I said...”
“I know. I know. But only if you do one thing, and then we’re even.”
An eyebrow cocks questioningly.
“Just stop keeping score, okay?”
Michael smirks, just as Sucre knew he would. But he turns thoughtful, and then he nods. “Deal.”
It takes a while to sink in, and when it finally does, something that has remained coiled tight for so long inside him twists free, filling him with peace. It’s possible, it really is, he thinks. Everyone can start all over again.
He takes a deep breath and scans the horizon, as though it brought the future. He tastes salt in the breeze, a mix of pungent heat and mint, and something else-something that feels like freedom.
(End)