Afortunado
Title: Afortunado (1/1)
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Sucre, and one line from Lincoln and a waiter
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 1,000 words (is there a word for that?)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She believes him. She believes him and she's happy.
Author's Note: To use the wonderful phrase coined by msgenevieve, this fic is Non-Epilogue-Compliant. Also, no one spicketed any nose bleeds in the last remaining seconds of Michael And Sara's Walk Along the Beach. Set after the wedding in The Final Break, but no one gets arrested because it's Non-Bullshit-Compliant too. No beta, just an idea I had and wanted to get posted, so all mistakes are mine.
Orange was never a color he's imagined her in, but he can't say he is surprised she looks good in it. She looks good in anything, she looks good in everything he can remember her in whether it is the stark white of a lab coat, the faded green of a sweatshirt a few sizes too big, a small leather jacket that had bordered on dangerously sexy, or one of his t-shirts (which seems to be her new favorite bedroom apparel, and a look he is more than used to already).
And then there's nothing. Sara looks good in nothing too, he reminds himself as he gently nudges the delicate black strap of her dress off her shoulder before placing a kiss in its place. His effort fails once more as she continues to chatter on about the day.
Their day, he tells himself, and can't help but smile. He'd had to practically drag her away from the party. One that was not even in their favor -- although someone had cracked open a bottle of champagne in their honor when, after a handful of beers, Lincoln had loudly announced his baby brother was married -- but they'd treated it as if it were the case anyway. Michael had spent hours watching as Sara made small-talk with people she'd never met before, as she'd danced with his best friend and his brother several times each before coaxing him up on the hot sand with her. He'd watched as the waiter offered them both a glass of cava on the house, which Sara gently declined, delicately laying her hand on her belly. He'd had time to briefly wonder if she'd ever smiled so wide while making such a refusal.
"Felicidades!" The waiter nodded at Michael, glanced at Sara, then winked and nodded again. "Qué más quisiera yo!." Then she was back in his arms (or he was back in hers) and they were dancing once again.
"I should be so lucky." Sucre had translated for him later with a grin before patting Michael's chest. "Afortunado."
What he wanted was to get. . . afortunado.
But she was having such a good time, she was so beautiful, happy and glowing and laughing, that he hadn't minded at all that the sun was setting before they made their way back to their hotel. He didn't complain when they finally arrived back in their room and instead of immediately disrobing she drug one of the chairs out on their balcony and stared at the ocean. But now she is talking about going back to the restaurant to request their recipe for salsa, and he's pretty sure it's time to kiss her.
He leans up, placing a quick kiss to her still-moving lips, and glances her up and down. Her apparel is a drastic contrast to the crisp white of the hotel sheets and he smiles. "You didn't wear white."
She smiles a little, and he can tell she's realized he hasn't been listening to her. Touching her belly, she shrugs. "The jig is up."
"It's not the only thing." His words are nothing more than a murmur, but he's sure he sees her smile for a half-second before kissing him.
"You wore jeans."
He opens his mouth, ready with a retort, but her free hand is grazing over his head, pressing gently above his ear, grazing down over his neck, and he's at a loss for words. She's teasing. "What did you wear to your first union?"
"Ah." He watches her for a moment, gauging her expression, trying to decide whether or not to actually answer the question. In the end, he opts for honestly. "That's not comparable."
"No." Her hand falls to the first button of his shirt, sliding it through the hole with a slow meticulousness that makes him clench all over in anticipation. She moves on to the second, showing it the same care. "No, it isn't."
"You're beautiful." He's lost count of how many times he's uttered those words in as many hours, but her reaction makes him never want to stop repeating them. A slight blush crawls up her neck before finishing on her cheeks, and he's rewarded with one of the most genuine, open, unabashedly blissful smiles he's ever seen, and this time it's his heart that clenches.
She believes him. She believes him and she's happy.
Suddenly, his own needs are forgotten, and he gently pulls her hand away from his shirt, kissing her palm. He moves his other to rest above hers, still cradling her stomach. Nothing is more important than making her happy. He'll do anything she wants, take her anywhere she wants -- Baja, Chicago, the ends of the earth. Wherever makes them happy. "What do you want, Sara?"
"Oh." She seems slightly taken aback by his question, then appears to think it over. Finally, "It doesn't really matter. I just want him or her to be healthy. And happy."
He smiles; she didn't understand him. But it doesn't matter, he doesn't bother correcting her. Her answer works. "Like us."
"Like us," she repeats softly, and then she's kissing him, and what either of them wore to their ceremony in the sand is of ill-importance as it falls to the floor.
Hours later she's asleep in his arms -- she's been sleeping more and more frequently the last few weeks, he thinks with a smile, but it's not like she doesn't need it, or at the very least, hasn't earned it -- but his brain won't shut down. The events of the day keep playing over and over, he understands now why she hadn't wanted to stop talking about it, and he keeps landing back on the waiter. Before he has a chance to dwell, Sara shifts, pressing a kiss to his chest in her sleep, and he grins. It is what it is. They're happy, they're healthy, they're a family. He is so lucky, and he's not going to take it for granted.
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Sucre, and one line from Lincoln and a waiter
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 1,000 words (is there a word for that?)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She believes him. She believes him and she's happy.
Author's Note: To use the wonderful phrase coined by msgenevieve, this fic is Non-Epilogue-Compliant. Also, no one spicketed any nose bleeds in the last remaining seconds of Michael And Sara's Walk Along the Beach. Set after the wedding in The Final Break, but no one gets arrested because it's Non-Bullshit-Compliant too. No beta, just an idea I had and wanted to get posted, so all mistakes are mine.
Orange was never a color he's imagined her in, but he can't say he is surprised she looks good in it. She looks good in anything, she looks good in everything he can remember her in whether it is the stark white of a lab coat, the faded green of a sweatshirt a few sizes too big, a small leather jacket that had bordered on dangerously sexy, or one of his t-shirts (which seems to be her new favorite bedroom apparel, and a look he is more than used to already).
And then there's nothing. Sara looks good in nothing too, he reminds himself as he gently nudges the delicate black strap of her dress off her shoulder before placing a kiss in its place. His effort fails once more as she continues to chatter on about the day.
Their day, he tells himself, and can't help but smile. He'd had to practically drag her away from the party. One that was not even in their favor -- although someone had cracked open a bottle of champagne in their honor when, after a handful of beers, Lincoln had loudly announced his baby brother was married -- but they'd treated it as if it were the case anyway. Michael had spent hours watching as Sara made small-talk with people she'd never met before, as she'd danced with his best friend and his brother several times each before coaxing him up on the hot sand with her. He'd watched as the waiter offered them both a glass of cava on the house, which Sara gently declined, delicately laying her hand on her belly. He'd had time to briefly wonder if she'd ever smiled so wide while making such a refusal.
"Felicidades!" The waiter nodded at Michael, glanced at Sara, then winked and nodded again. "Qué más quisiera yo!." Then she was back in his arms (or he was back in hers) and they were dancing once again.
"I should be so lucky." Sucre had translated for him later with a grin before patting Michael's chest. "Afortunado."
What he wanted was to get. . . afortunado.
But she was having such a good time, she was so beautiful, happy and glowing and laughing, that he hadn't minded at all that the sun was setting before they made their way back to their hotel. He didn't complain when they finally arrived back in their room and instead of immediately disrobing she drug one of the chairs out on their balcony and stared at the ocean. But now she is talking about going back to the restaurant to request their recipe for salsa, and he's pretty sure it's time to kiss her.
He leans up, placing a quick kiss to her still-moving lips, and glances her up and down. Her apparel is a drastic contrast to the crisp white of the hotel sheets and he smiles. "You didn't wear white."
She smiles a little, and he can tell she's realized he hasn't been listening to her. Touching her belly, she shrugs. "The jig is up."
"It's not the only thing." His words are nothing more than a murmur, but he's sure he sees her smile for a half-second before kissing him.
"You wore jeans."
He opens his mouth, ready with a retort, but her free hand is grazing over his head, pressing gently above his ear, grazing down over his neck, and he's at a loss for words. She's teasing. "What did you wear to your first union?"
"Ah." He watches her for a moment, gauging her expression, trying to decide whether or not to actually answer the question. In the end, he opts for honestly. "That's not comparable."
"No." Her hand falls to the first button of his shirt, sliding it through the hole with a slow meticulousness that makes him clench all over in anticipation. She moves on to the second, showing it the same care. "No, it isn't."
"You're beautiful." He's lost count of how many times he's uttered those words in as many hours, but her reaction makes him never want to stop repeating them. A slight blush crawls up her neck before finishing on her cheeks, and he's rewarded with one of the most genuine, open, unabashedly blissful smiles he's ever seen, and this time it's his heart that clenches.
She believes him. She believes him and she's happy.
Suddenly, his own needs are forgotten, and he gently pulls her hand away from his shirt, kissing her palm. He moves his other to rest above hers, still cradling her stomach. Nothing is more important than making her happy. He'll do anything she wants, take her anywhere she wants -- Baja, Chicago, the ends of the earth. Wherever makes them happy. "What do you want, Sara?"
"Oh." She seems slightly taken aback by his question, then appears to think it over. Finally, "It doesn't really matter. I just want him or her to be healthy. And happy."
He smiles; she didn't understand him. But it doesn't matter, he doesn't bother correcting her. Her answer works. "Like us."
"Like us," she repeats softly, and then she's kissing him, and what either of them wore to their ceremony in the sand is of ill-importance as it falls to the floor.
Hours later she's asleep in his arms -- she's been sleeping more and more frequently the last few weeks, he thinks with a smile, but it's not like she doesn't need it, or at the very least, hasn't earned it -- but his brain won't shut down. The events of the day keep playing over and over, he understands now why she hadn't wanted to stop talking about it, and he keeps landing back on the waiter. Before he has a chance to dwell, Sara shifts, pressing a kiss to his chest in her sleep, and he grins. It is what it is. They're happy, they're healthy, they're a family. He is so lucky, and he's not going to take it for granted.