flicker
Title: Flicker
Characters: Michael/Sara, mentions of Frank and Bruce.
Rating: G
Words: 875
Summary: "You'll remember them, Sara. You will."
AN: For poisonshades , who gave me the great prompt of candles. Thanks Maureen! No beta, all mistakes are mine.
Flicker
The small flames flicker, placid yet alive. Sara watches the candles burn, observing the small wicks lose clarity as their colour became that of the sky above them. The smattering of stars above - observed on many occasions - seemed of little interest tonight as her eyes stared downwards.
She'd lit two candles and stood them in the sand, sitting in a tuck position behind them, bare feet glowing under the illumination. She flicks a finger through the flame and vaguely remembered a faceless girl once doing it at one of her childhood birthday parties, taking her by fright. She remembers the confusion and relief when no burnt skin was to be seen.
Sara had been raised religious, candles lit for remembrance was a custom she'd witnessed many a time as a child. She remembered Sunday mornings in old stone buildings, their high ceilings and the rainbow glass windows. As a child, she’d attended Church regularly with her parents, until her mother's drinking got bad. After that, her father had insisted they still attend, but leave her mother behind. Every Sunday, she tried to disguise her sadness, not realising how good she got at it.
She’s pulled from her reflection by the feel of a heavy blanket falling over her shoulders. Yet strangely, she isn’t taken by surprise. Michael sits next to her, his body close but not quite touching. Deliberate, she knows. Giving her space. Yet then, after a moment, he reaches across and takes her left hand, holding it lightly between both of his. His eyes, like hers, stare down at the still burning candles.
"I wish I could have met him," he says softly. When her eyes meet his, she looks surprised and a little confused. "Your father," he adds.
In any other time, she'd have given a slight scoff and said that he really was lucky he didn't. His father would have in no way approved of their relationship, and at the end of the day, he wasn't the most pleasant of men. Yet, right now, when her eyes are tired and fighting against a loss of control, all she can do is give a sad smile.
"Me too," she whispers.
"I did meet Bennett, though," he says after a moment. "He cared about you so much, Sara. At first, that day," no further specification was necessary, "I wasn't actually sure he was going to take me to you," he said with a smile. "Keeping you safe was so important to him."
“I know,” she says calmly, her hand scooping up some sand and then letting it fall between her fingers.
"For your father too," Michael adds after a moment.
She turns to face him, the movement seeming to require atypical effort as her head moved slowly and her shoulders shook.
"I didn't want them to die," she says, her voice breaking as tears uncontrollably began to fall.
With soft eyes he watches her for only a second before extending his arms towards her and pulling her into the warmth of his embrace. "I know, I know," he says, a hand stroking her hair. “There was nothing you could have done." He says, knowing her last statement wasn't really speaking guilt, but knowing it was something she felt, even if she didn't bring it up.
After a while, when her tears have mostly ceased, he says, "You'll remember them, Sara. You will." Then, with a overly self-confident tone, in an attempt to make her laugh, he adds, “I will make sure of it.”
She smiles. Yet despite Michael’s silly tone, she knows he is serious, and she remains so as well. "How?" she asks, lifting her head from his chest and noticing the candles have burned out.
"Well," he says, placing a hand on her slightly rounded belly and easing them back so they are lying on the soft sand. "Tell me about them. Tell me good memories."
So, she does. She speaks of the good times she had shared with Bruce and her Dad, and Michael listens with complete focus and attention - one of the many reasons she loves him. He smiles and laughs when she tells him it was Bruce who had given her the Millennium Falcon toy, leaving her delighted and Frank appalled.
He waits patiently when she pauses before speaking of her father. He can't help but have some hatred for the man, seeing the long moment of thought it takes for Sara to think of a good memory to share. Eventually, she starts speaking again, softly telling him of the time her father had surprised her by actually attending her high school graduation. He'd been late, she points out, but had arrived in the midst of the students with E surnames being called, well in time for the T surnames. She tells Michel how he'd stayed briefly at the end and given her a hug, the first one since after her mother's funeral.
Michael kisses her forehead as she falls silent again, not releasing her from his arms. She stays silent after that, having spoken only these two memories, not a single one more. She saves the rest, deliberately. She needs enough to last for all the years that she knows her future with Michael holds.
Characters: Michael/Sara, mentions of Frank and Bruce.
Rating: G
Words: 875
Summary: "You'll remember them, Sara. You will."
AN: For poisonshades , who gave me the great prompt of candles. Thanks Maureen! No beta, all mistakes are mine.
Flicker
The small flames flicker, placid yet alive. Sara watches the candles burn, observing the small wicks lose clarity as their colour became that of the sky above them. The smattering of stars above - observed on many occasions - seemed of little interest tonight as her eyes stared downwards.
She'd lit two candles and stood them in the sand, sitting in a tuck position behind them, bare feet glowing under the illumination. She flicks a finger through the flame and vaguely remembered a faceless girl once doing it at one of her childhood birthday parties, taking her by fright. She remembers the confusion and relief when no burnt skin was to be seen.
Sara had been raised religious, candles lit for remembrance was a custom she'd witnessed many a time as a child. She remembered Sunday mornings in old stone buildings, their high ceilings and the rainbow glass windows. As a child, she’d attended Church regularly with her parents, until her mother's drinking got bad. After that, her father had insisted they still attend, but leave her mother behind. Every Sunday, she tried to disguise her sadness, not realising how good she got at it.
She’s pulled from her reflection by the feel of a heavy blanket falling over her shoulders. Yet strangely, she isn’t taken by surprise. Michael sits next to her, his body close but not quite touching. Deliberate, she knows. Giving her space. Yet then, after a moment, he reaches across and takes her left hand, holding it lightly between both of his. His eyes, like hers, stare down at the still burning candles.
"I wish I could have met him," he says softly. When her eyes meet his, she looks surprised and a little confused. "Your father," he adds.
In any other time, she'd have given a slight scoff and said that he really was lucky he didn't. His father would have in no way approved of their relationship, and at the end of the day, he wasn't the most pleasant of men. Yet, right now, when her eyes are tired and fighting against a loss of control, all she can do is give a sad smile.
"Me too," she whispers.
"I did meet Bennett, though," he says after a moment. "He cared about you so much, Sara. At first, that day," no further specification was necessary, "I wasn't actually sure he was going to take me to you," he said with a smile. "Keeping you safe was so important to him."
“I know,” she says calmly, her hand scooping up some sand and then letting it fall between her fingers.
"For your father too," Michael adds after a moment.
She turns to face him, the movement seeming to require atypical effort as her head moved slowly and her shoulders shook.
"I didn't want them to die," she says, her voice breaking as tears uncontrollably began to fall.
With soft eyes he watches her for only a second before extending his arms towards her and pulling her into the warmth of his embrace. "I know, I know," he says, a hand stroking her hair. “There was nothing you could have done." He says, knowing her last statement wasn't really speaking guilt, but knowing it was something she felt, even if she didn't bring it up.
After a while, when her tears have mostly ceased, he says, "You'll remember them, Sara. You will." Then, with a overly self-confident tone, in an attempt to make her laugh, he adds, “I will make sure of it.”
She smiles. Yet despite Michael’s silly tone, she knows he is serious, and she remains so as well. "How?" she asks, lifting her head from his chest and noticing the candles have burned out.
"Well," he says, placing a hand on her slightly rounded belly and easing them back so they are lying on the soft sand. "Tell me about them. Tell me good memories."
So, she does. She speaks of the good times she had shared with Bruce and her Dad, and Michael listens with complete focus and attention - one of the many reasons she loves him. He smiles and laughs when she tells him it was Bruce who had given her the Millennium Falcon toy, leaving her delighted and Frank appalled.
He waits patiently when she pauses before speaking of her father. He can't help but have some hatred for the man, seeing the long moment of thought it takes for Sara to think of a good memory to share. Eventually, she starts speaking again, softly telling him of the time her father had surprised her by actually attending her high school graduation. He'd been late, she points out, but had arrived in the midst of the students with E surnames being called, well in time for the T surnames. She tells Michel how he'd stayed briefly at the end and given her a hug, the first one since after her mother's funeral.
Michael kisses her forehead as she falls silent again, not releasing her from his arms. She stays silent after that, having spoken only these two memories, not a single one more. She saves the rest, deliberately. She needs enough to last for all the years that she knows her future with Michael holds.