Prison Break - That Woman
Title: That Woman
Author: clair-de-lune
Character: Sara
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: She won’t be that woman.
Notes: Thanks to recycledfaery for her help with the translation. ( French version)
She won’t be that woman. The one who wonders if her life might have been different if only... in other circumstances... The one who allows herself to be seduced by a convict. The one who feeds a hope that shouldn’t be. The one who will spend days, weeks, months, years waiting. She’s here to help and expiate, but at the moment she accepted the job, she also decided that some lines couldn’t and wouldn’t be crossed. She’s a woman in a man’s world - men that are being dehumanized. One way or another, she’s a target for most of them, the female guards and the nurses could testify to that, they’re in a similar position. The fact that she’s young and attractive plays its part, but it’s just a bonus for them. The fact that she touches them, heals them, sometimes comforts them. That is the main issue. That’s the reason why she drew lines and can’t allow them to get blurry.
The lines, the areas they define, are exactly like Michael’s plans: neat and spotless, flawless in theory; blown up when an unpredicted and unpredictable factor interferes; their goal remains the same. This idea makes her laugh.
She won’t be that woman and, for over two years, she hasn’t been that woman. But even less than that, she won’t be the woman whose father sacrifices lives and reputations to get the power. It’s not lines she decided and drew, it’s just clear, inescapable obviousness.
So she helped convicts to escape. She allowed the lines to get blurry. For a few seconds, she went back to being the woman who opened the closet holding the narcotic and helped herself for morphine. This time around, she slipped needles and an unused bottle in the pocket of her coat; she locked the medicine cabinet but left the infirmary’s door open when she exited the room.
Happy?
When she got home, she poured herself a scotch. She laughs again, with a bit more of hysteria this time around, musing that her father would be punished twice: escapee, Lincoln Burrows, accomplice, the Governor’s daughter. Good luck on becoming Vice-President with that kind of baggage.
Because Lincoln is in all probability innocent and she can’t make him pay for his brother’s methods and for her own weakness.
Because she will never be able to forget Michael’s gaze when she left without answering him after he lay all his cards on the table.
Because the lines, as blurry they might be, as fuzzy they might be, are still there.
Because she won’t be that woman.
She swallows the scotch and winces. It’s too strong, it’s been too long since she last drank something like that. She helps herself again, drinks again and puts her glass on the table. The chiming of the crystal when it hits the wood seems to reverberate indefinitely. She sits on the couch, wrapped into a blue wool blanket that scrapes a bit on her bare skin.
When she fills the syringe, she carefully measures out the morphine: she sucks in just a bit more than she should to stay on the safe side of the line.
END
Author: clair-de-lune
Character: Sara
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: She won’t be that woman.
Notes: Thanks to recycledfaery for her help with the translation. ( French version)
She won’t be that woman. The one who wonders if her life might have been different if only... in other circumstances... The one who allows herself to be seduced by a convict. The one who feeds a hope that shouldn’t be. The one who will spend days, weeks, months, years waiting. She’s here to help and expiate, but at the moment she accepted the job, she also decided that some lines couldn’t and wouldn’t be crossed. She’s a woman in a man’s world - men that are being dehumanized. One way or another, she’s a target for most of them, the female guards and the nurses could testify to that, they’re in a similar position. The fact that she’s young and attractive plays its part, but it’s just a bonus for them. The fact that she touches them, heals them, sometimes comforts them. That is the main issue. That’s the reason why she drew lines and can’t allow them to get blurry.
The lines, the areas they define, are exactly like Michael’s plans: neat and spotless, flawless in theory; blown up when an unpredicted and unpredictable factor interferes; their goal remains the same. This idea makes her laugh.
She won’t be that woman and, for over two years, she hasn’t been that woman. But even less than that, she won’t be the woman whose father sacrifices lives and reputations to get the power. It’s not lines she decided and drew, it’s just clear, inescapable obviousness.
So she helped convicts to escape. She allowed the lines to get blurry. For a few seconds, she went back to being the woman who opened the closet holding the narcotic and helped herself for morphine. This time around, she slipped needles and an unused bottle in the pocket of her coat; she locked the medicine cabinet but left the infirmary’s door open when she exited the room.
Happy?
When she got home, she poured herself a scotch. She laughs again, with a bit more of hysteria this time around, musing that her father would be punished twice: escapee, Lincoln Burrows, accomplice, the Governor’s daughter. Good luck on becoming Vice-President with that kind of baggage.
Because Lincoln is in all probability innocent and she can’t make him pay for his brother’s methods and for her own weakness.
Because she will never be able to forget Michael’s gaze when she left without answering him after he lay all his cards on the table.
Because the lines, as blurry they might be, as fuzzy they might be, are still there.
Because she won’t be that woman.
She swallows the scotch and winces. It’s too strong, it’s been too long since she last drank something like that. She helps herself again, drinks again and puts her glass on the table. The chiming of the crystal when it hits the wood seems to reverberate indefinitely. She sits on the couch, wrapped into a blue wool blanket that scrapes a bit on her bare skin.
When she fills the syringe, she carefully measures out the morphine: she sucks in just a bit more than she should to stay on the safe side of the line.
END