The Errand - Michael//Sara (1/1)
Title: The Errand (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters:Michael, Sara, Rita Morgan, Emily Morgan, mention of Gretchen Morgan
Genre: Het, non-epilogue-compliant, smut, post-series, mention of "The Final Break"
Pairing:Michael/Sara
Rating:PG-15
Length:1,576 words
Summary:A promise isn't always spoken aloud.
Author's Note:The thing about fanfiction? You get to pick and choose the canon you want to acknowledge and that which you shall ignore until the End of Days. This story is set post-Final Break, but in my world, that particular canon has a very different outcome. Spoilers for Season Four and "The Final Break", much to my surprise.
~*~
The first few months after it all ends is a something of a blur.
Of healing wounds, bandages, and midnight hospital visits. Of bedside vigils and the sudden reality of finding a new obstetrician. Of people coming in and out of their new temporary home, smiling at her growing midsection and telling her baby’s father that he was lucky to be alive. Or, in Lincoln’s case, frequently demanding to know what the fuck he’d been thinking, taking a risk like that.
Sara lets it all wash over her. For precisely twenty-three minutes on the worst night of her life, she had thought Michael was dead. That he was actually almost half-dead doesn’t matter, not in the big picture. His burned hands will heal. The scars from the halo brace on his temples will fade. The bruises on her face will vanish. Their baby will be born free.
These are the things that matter, and one day, she might forgive him for those twenty-three minutes.
When everything begins to sharpen into focus, she lets herself start to remember. She works her way through each and every distasteful memory, then files it away, knowing there is no way to forget, but there is always a way to push them aside. To negate them, rob them of their power.
When everything begins to sharpen into focus, she remembers a promise unspoken.
Michael’s face, when she finally shows him the handmade necklace that she’d snatched up from the ground during her final moments inside Miami Dade, is a picture of confusion. When she tells him what she plans to do, his eyes darken with disapproval.
“No.” His voice is gentle, but she hears the fear (fear for her, she knows) threaded through that one word. “You don’t owe Gretchen Morgan a damned thing.”
“She didn’t have to help me escape, but she did,” she tells him, as though it’s that simple. Because, she thinks, it is that simple. “I need to do this.”
His hand goes to the swell of her belly, his eyes locking with hers. “Why?”
She curls her fingers around his, brushing her thumb gently across the back of his hand, the still-livid burn scars uneven beneath her touch. Still such beautiful hands, she thinks, a sudden lump in her throat. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
Perhaps she’s not playing fair, but she knows this is a sentiment with which he cannot argue. He closes his eyes, his fingers tightening around hers. “Okay.” He blows out a long breath, then nods, his eyes still shut as though he’s already dancing through a new sequence inside his head. “I have a plan.”
~*~
Michael might have a plan, but it still takes three months to find the right address. Their quarry has had many years practice at being invisible, a skill that Sara can’t help admire, despite the frustration of a dozen red herrings and dead ends. After all, she knows only too well what it’s like to want to fade into the background.
All admiration aside, though, she would have preferred not to run this particular errand when she was eight months pregnant. But, she thinks as she slides the prison shop-made necklace into the side pocket of her purse, there are worse situations she could be in.
~*~
Michael turns off the car engine, and they sit for a moment in silence, gazing at the small brick house. The garden is immaculate, perfectly trimmed lawn and blazing white cobblestones. Sara tries to imagine Gretchen Morgan in this home, and fails. Which, she thinks, is probably the idea. “Do you want me to come with you?”
She knows he wants her to say yes, and that they both know she’s going to say no. She shakes her head, touching his knee gently to soften her refusal. “I think it would be better if I was alone.”
He kisses her, taking her by surprise, a hungry tasting of her mouth that sends a quiver of desire fluttering through her belly, making everything feel hard and tight and far too crowded. “Be careful,” he finally whispers into her hair, his breath warm against her skin. “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m coming to get you.”
She smiles, her hand tightening on his knee. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Michael has done exhaustive research on the occupants of this small house. There is no reason to believe this visit will be anything but short and uneventful, but they’ve learned never to take things at face value. She glances over her shoulder to where she knows Lincoln’s SUV is parked, a few houses away. “He’s not carrying a concealed weapon, is he?”
Michael’s smile is more than a little strained. “Probably not.” He looks at the necklace in her other hand. "Five minutes, okay?"
"Okay."
She approaches the front door, her focus changing from her male companions to the task ahead of her the instant she hears the sound of a children’s cartoon coming from inside the house. There is security everywhere, from a tiny CCTV affixed to the porch ceiling to the four-bolt security door covering the wooden one behind it. Her heart in her mouth, Sara rings the doorbell, the knot of nerves in the pit of her stomach twisting tighter with each passing second. Finally, she hears footsteps, the sound of house shoes scuffing on wooden floorboards. There is a long pause - Sara smiles at the security peephole - then the wooden door is eased open.
“Yes?” Gretchen’s sister has brown hair and hazel eyes, and looks every inch the pretty suburban mom in a way that Gretchen never would. She looks at Sara, taking in her clothes, her hair, the generous curve of her pregnant belly, and offers her a non-committal smile. “Can I help you?”
Her hand tightening around the necklace in her palm, Sara returns the smile. “Rita Morgan?”
The other woman’s face instantly hardens. “No,” she says politely, her hand already pushing the wooden door closed.
“Wait, please.” Sara puts up both hands in silent appeal. “You’re Emily’s mom?”
Rita Morgan’s whole body seems to freeze in place at the words. “Whatever it is you want,” she says in a harsh whisper, her face now alive with an emotion Sara recognizes only too well. Fear. “I can’t help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” Sara holds out her right hand, palm up, and lets her fingers unfurl. “I made a promise to someone a little while ago.” Rita stares at the necklace, her dark eyes unreadable, then lifts her eyes to Sara’s face. “This is for Emily from her Auntie Gretchen.”
Sara sees the other woman’s throat work as she swallows hard. “How?"
"We were roomies for a little while."
Rita looks her up and down, her expression suddenly weary. "You were in Miami Dade?”
Sara nods, feeling not the slightest flicker of embarrassment at the admission. “Not for long, but yes.”
Rita’s dark eyebrows lift. “You don’t look like her usual type.”
Sara feels the beginnings of a blush creep up the back of her neck. “Well, we weren’t exactly best friends.”
The other woman folds her arms across her chest. “And yet here you are.”
Sara looks at her steadily. “Yes.”
“Mom?”
A muted panic fills Rita’s eyes before she half-turns, twisting her body as if trying to block Sara’s view of the child who has wandered to stand beside her mother. “Hey, baby.”
Sara inhales sharply as Emily Morgan looks up at her with Gretchen’s eyes. Oh, God. “Hello, there,” she says lightly, and is rewarded with a singularly guileless smile that her birth mother surely must have once possessed.
“Hi!”
Rita’s hand is tight on the child’s shoulder, but her tone is gentle. “If your show is finished, Em, you can get yourself two cookies from the red jar?”
To Sara’s utter relief, her appearance on the doorstep cannot compete with the prospect of cookies. When they are once again alone, she looks at Gretchen’s sister. “She’s beautiful.”
Rita’s eyes are glittering. “Yes, she is.” She looks at the necklace in Sara’s hand, and squeezes her eyes shut tight, tears now gleaming on her olive skin. “And she’s better off not knowing anything.” Her voice hardens. “Ever.”
“I understand.” With difficulty - she’s heard of pregnant women being described as having a certain kind of grace, but she can’t say she agrees - she bends and places the necklace carefully on the woven doormat. “This is just a present from her Auntie Gretchen, who is living in a country far away.” She straightens, one hand gripping the door frame, then gives Rita one last smile. “Take care of yourself.”
Gretchen’s sister stares at her through the metal grille of the security door, one hand pressed tight against her mouth. She nods once, abruptly, as thought the gesture hurts. “Thank you.” Her gaze drops to Sara’s belly. “You too.”
Sara thinks of the people who have already gone to the ends of the earth and back to make sure she was safe, and her own eyes start to prickle. “I will.”
As she reaches the small wooden gate, she hears the sound of the security door being unlocked. She doesn’t look back.
Michael is standing beside their car, anxiety etched from head to toe. His shoulders slump with relief at the sight of her, and he turns to give his brother - their silent security detail - a reassuring wave. He frowns as she reaches his side, curling his arm around her. “You okay?”
Surprised by his frown, Sara lifts her hand to her cheek, her fingertips gliding over tear-dampened skin. “I’m fine, really.” She takes one last look at the place where Gretchen’s family has finally found peace, then turns to her husband. “I’m ready to go home.”
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters:Michael, Sara, Rita Morgan, Emily Morgan, mention of Gretchen Morgan
Genre: Het, non-epilogue-compliant, smut, post-series, mention of "The Final Break"
Pairing:Michael/Sara
Rating:PG-15
Length:1,576 words
Summary:A promise isn't always spoken aloud.
Author's Note:The thing about fanfiction? You get to pick and choose the canon you want to acknowledge and that which you shall ignore until the End of Days. This story is set post-Final Break, but in my world, that particular canon has a very different outcome. Spoilers for Season Four and "The Final Break", much to my surprise.
~*~
The first few months after it all ends is a something of a blur.
Of healing wounds, bandages, and midnight hospital visits. Of bedside vigils and the sudden reality of finding a new obstetrician. Of people coming in and out of their new temporary home, smiling at her growing midsection and telling her baby’s father that he was lucky to be alive. Or, in Lincoln’s case, frequently demanding to know what the fuck he’d been thinking, taking a risk like that.
Sara lets it all wash over her. For precisely twenty-three minutes on the worst night of her life, she had thought Michael was dead. That he was actually almost half-dead doesn’t matter, not in the big picture. His burned hands will heal. The scars from the halo brace on his temples will fade. The bruises on her face will vanish. Their baby will be born free.
These are the things that matter, and one day, she might forgive him for those twenty-three minutes.
When everything begins to sharpen into focus, she lets herself start to remember. She works her way through each and every distasteful memory, then files it away, knowing there is no way to forget, but there is always a way to push them aside. To negate them, rob them of their power.
When everything begins to sharpen into focus, she remembers a promise unspoken.
Michael’s face, when she finally shows him the handmade necklace that she’d snatched up from the ground during her final moments inside Miami Dade, is a picture of confusion. When she tells him what she plans to do, his eyes darken with disapproval.
“No.” His voice is gentle, but she hears the fear (fear for her, she knows) threaded through that one word. “You don’t owe Gretchen Morgan a damned thing.”
“She didn’t have to help me escape, but she did,” she tells him, as though it’s that simple. Because, she thinks, it is that simple. “I need to do this.”
His hand goes to the swell of her belly, his eyes locking with hers. “Why?”
She curls her fingers around his, brushing her thumb gently across the back of his hand, the still-livid burn scars uneven beneath her touch. Still such beautiful hands, she thinks, a sudden lump in her throat. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
Perhaps she’s not playing fair, but she knows this is a sentiment with which he cannot argue. He closes his eyes, his fingers tightening around hers. “Okay.” He blows out a long breath, then nods, his eyes still shut as though he’s already dancing through a new sequence inside his head. “I have a plan.”
~*~
Michael might have a plan, but it still takes three months to find the right address. Their quarry has had many years practice at being invisible, a skill that Sara can’t help admire, despite the frustration of a dozen red herrings and dead ends. After all, she knows only too well what it’s like to want to fade into the background.
All admiration aside, though, she would have preferred not to run this particular errand when she was eight months pregnant. But, she thinks as she slides the prison shop-made necklace into the side pocket of her purse, there are worse situations she could be in.
~*~
Michael turns off the car engine, and they sit for a moment in silence, gazing at the small brick house. The garden is immaculate, perfectly trimmed lawn and blazing white cobblestones. Sara tries to imagine Gretchen Morgan in this home, and fails. Which, she thinks, is probably the idea. “Do you want me to come with you?”
She knows he wants her to say yes, and that they both know she’s going to say no. She shakes her head, touching his knee gently to soften her refusal. “I think it would be better if I was alone.”
He kisses her, taking her by surprise, a hungry tasting of her mouth that sends a quiver of desire fluttering through her belly, making everything feel hard and tight and far too crowded. “Be careful,” he finally whispers into her hair, his breath warm against her skin. “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m coming to get you.”
She smiles, her hand tightening on his knee. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Michael has done exhaustive research on the occupants of this small house. There is no reason to believe this visit will be anything but short and uneventful, but they’ve learned never to take things at face value. She glances over her shoulder to where she knows Lincoln’s SUV is parked, a few houses away. “He’s not carrying a concealed weapon, is he?”
Michael’s smile is more than a little strained. “Probably not.” He looks at the necklace in her other hand. "Five minutes, okay?"
"Okay."
She approaches the front door, her focus changing from her male companions to the task ahead of her the instant she hears the sound of a children’s cartoon coming from inside the house. There is security everywhere, from a tiny CCTV affixed to the porch ceiling to the four-bolt security door covering the wooden one behind it. Her heart in her mouth, Sara rings the doorbell, the knot of nerves in the pit of her stomach twisting tighter with each passing second. Finally, she hears footsteps, the sound of house shoes scuffing on wooden floorboards. There is a long pause - Sara smiles at the security peephole - then the wooden door is eased open.
“Yes?” Gretchen’s sister has brown hair and hazel eyes, and looks every inch the pretty suburban mom in a way that Gretchen never would. She looks at Sara, taking in her clothes, her hair, the generous curve of her pregnant belly, and offers her a non-committal smile. “Can I help you?”
Her hand tightening around the necklace in her palm, Sara returns the smile. “Rita Morgan?”
The other woman’s face instantly hardens. “No,” she says politely, her hand already pushing the wooden door closed.
“Wait, please.” Sara puts up both hands in silent appeal. “You’re Emily’s mom?”
Rita Morgan’s whole body seems to freeze in place at the words. “Whatever it is you want,” she says in a harsh whisper, her face now alive with an emotion Sara recognizes only too well. Fear. “I can’t help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” Sara holds out her right hand, palm up, and lets her fingers unfurl. “I made a promise to someone a little while ago.” Rita stares at the necklace, her dark eyes unreadable, then lifts her eyes to Sara’s face. “This is for Emily from her Auntie Gretchen.”
Sara sees the other woman’s throat work as she swallows hard. “How?"
"We were roomies for a little while."
Rita looks her up and down, her expression suddenly weary. "You were in Miami Dade?”
Sara nods, feeling not the slightest flicker of embarrassment at the admission. “Not for long, but yes.”
Rita’s dark eyebrows lift. “You don’t look like her usual type.”
Sara feels the beginnings of a blush creep up the back of her neck. “Well, we weren’t exactly best friends.”
The other woman folds her arms across her chest. “And yet here you are.”
Sara looks at her steadily. “Yes.”
“Mom?”
A muted panic fills Rita’s eyes before she half-turns, twisting her body as if trying to block Sara’s view of the child who has wandered to stand beside her mother. “Hey, baby.”
Sara inhales sharply as Emily Morgan looks up at her with Gretchen’s eyes. Oh, God. “Hello, there,” she says lightly, and is rewarded with a singularly guileless smile that her birth mother surely must have once possessed.
“Hi!”
Rita’s hand is tight on the child’s shoulder, but her tone is gentle. “If your show is finished, Em, you can get yourself two cookies from the red jar?”
To Sara’s utter relief, her appearance on the doorstep cannot compete with the prospect of cookies. When they are once again alone, she looks at Gretchen’s sister. “She’s beautiful.”
Rita’s eyes are glittering. “Yes, she is.” She looks at the necklace in Sara’s hand, and squeezes her eyes shut tight, tears now gleaming on her olive skin. “And she’s better off not knowing anything.” Her voice hardens. “Ever.”
“I understand.” With difficulty - she’s heard of pregnant women being described as having a certain kind of grace, but she can’t say she agrees - she bends and places the necklace carefully on the woven doormat. “This is just a present from her Auntie Gretchen, who is living in a country far away.” She straightens, one hand gripping the door frame, then gives Rita one last smile. “Take care of yourself.”
Gretchen’s sister stares at her through the metal grille of the security door, one hand pressed tight against her mouth. She nods once, abruptly, as thought the gesture hurts. “Thank you.” Her gaze drops to Sara’s belly. “You too.”
Sara thinks of the people who have already gone to the ends of the earth and back to make sure she was safe, and her own eyes start to prickle. “I will.”
As she reaches the small wooden gate, she hears the sound of the security door being unlocked. She doesn’t look back.
Michael is standing beside their car, anxiety etched from head to toe. His shoulders slump with relief at the sight of her, and he turns to give his brother - their silent security detail - a reassuring wave. He frowns as she reaches his side, curling his arm around her. “You okay?”
Surprised by his frown, Sara lifts her hand to her cheek, her fingertips gliding over tear-dampened skin. “I’m fine, really.” She takes one last look at the place where Gretchen’s family has finally found peace, then turns to her husband. “I’m ready to go home.”
~*~