[FANFIC] inner motivation
Sara hadn’t used since the night Michael broke out of Fox River all those weeks - just weeks - ago. It hadn’t been out of will power or choice but more that she hadn’t had the time or the means to get any.
But now, with a bottle resting in her palm bearing the familiar morphine and a needle in her fingers, she felt the nostalgic pull towards the drug.
The fear of temptation lapsed as she allowed herself to relive the touch of Michael’s hand on her forearm after she had cautiously put forward the idea of drugging the General to the group.
He always cared, tentatively shadowing her every movement, ready to jump in at any moment and save her - again. But in a previous life it had been Sara who sought to be a protector, to shelter him from the other inmates.
It amused her to think how similar Michael and she were, both growing up on unsteady ground yet each forming steadfast morals and the desire to share these with others. He was her, mirrored perfectly. Though occasionally a difference would show, a word flipped backwards or a distance slightly offset in the reflection.
It wasn’t until after the prison riot that she began to loose her hold over him, that somehow through several fleeting actions their roles reversed and he became the protector.
Even now, when both were so painfully different from their past selves, that power shift annoyed Sara unbelievably. Her recovery from her addictions had been one of cleansing, of empowering. Independence and inner motivation became her natural way and she liked to believe that when she had stopped the drugs, she had stopped her dependences on other people.
Michael destroyed that. She had needed him when they met in Gila, she had needed him when she - shot - the Asian man whose name she had never learned (and that in itself haunted her), and she needed him now to keep her faith in a reachable future alive.
Inner motivation had seemed to betray her completely and entirely when the fugitives had left Fox River.
She had gently tried to gain some back; not making an effort herself to find Michael after escaping from Panama, never once using Bruce’s credit card, and making sure that, even though Michael enjoyed sleeping with her in the yacht, he still had a bed of his own that he was occasionally made to sleep in with the rest of the boys.
Setting down the bottle, she fumbled to pull off her pair of latex gloves, rubbing her thumb and forefingers together over the powdery residue. Thinking back to the days when she worked in the ER, she caught a quick glimpse of the paramedics’ emblem stitched into her stolen uniform shirt.
Back when she was a doctor. Michael once promised her she’d get that back - “all of it”. Now she was reduced to just pretending to be a paramedic so she could drug an army general after her convict accomplices had totaled his limo - on purpose.
Dryly, she actually smiled.
“Doc?”
“Hhm?” the sharp movement of her head shook strands of hair out of place as she looked up at Brad. How frightened he looked. It reminded her of when they were in the program together back in Chicago, fighting for the freedom to get out of addiction. It seemed almost like her whole life had been about fighting for one freedom or another, from her father, from addiction, to be with Michael… from Panama.
“This is going to work, right?”
For that brief instant Sara was stunned by the realization of just how far Brad and her went back, of everyone that was with her on this little crusade of theirs it was Brad that she had know the longest. Somehow that took the edge off her own fears.
“We’ve survived much worse Brad.”
.
But now, with a bottle resting in her palm bearing the familiar morphine and a needle in her fingers, she felt the nostalgic pull towards the drug.
The fear of temptation lapsed as she allowed herself to relive the touch of Michael’s hand on her forearm after she had cautiously put forward the idea of drugging the General to the group.
He always cared, tentatively shadowing her every movement, ready to jump in at any moment and save her - again. But in a previous life it had been Sara who sought to be a protector, to shelter him from the other inmates.
It amused her to think how similar Michael and she were, both growing up on unsteady ground yet each forming steadfast morals and the desire to share these with others. He was her, mirrored perfectly. Though occasionally a difference would show, a word flipped backwards or a distance slightly offset in the reflection.
It wasn’t until after the prison riot that she began to loose her hold over him, that somehow through several fleeting actions their roles reversed and he became the protector.
Even now, when both were so painfully different from their past selves, that power shift annoyed Sara unbelievably. Her recovery from her addictions had been one of cleansing, of empowering. Independence and inner motivation became her natural way and she liked to believe that when she had stopped the drugs, she had stopped her dependences on other people.
Michael destroyed that. She had needed him when they met in Gila, she had needed him when she - shot - the Asian man whose name she had never learned (and that in itself haunted her), and she needed him now to keep her faith in a reachable future alive.
Inner motivation had seemed to betray her completely and entirely when the fugitives had left Fox River.
She had gently tried to gain some back; not making an effort herself to find Michael after escaping from Panama, never once using Bruce’s credit card, and making sure that, even though Michael enjoyed sleeping with her in the yacht, he still had a bed of his own that he was occasionally made to sleep in with the rest of the boys.
Setting down the bottle, she fumbled to pull off her pair of latex gloves, rubbing her thumb and forefingers together over the powdery residue. Thinking back to the days when she worked in the ER, she caught a quick glimpse of the paramedics’ emblem stitched into her stolen uniform shirt.
Back when she was a doctor. Michael once promised her she’d get that back - “all of it”. Now she was reduced to just pretending to be a paramedic so she could drug an army general after her convict accomplices had totaled his limo - on purpose.
Dryly, she actually smiled.
“Doc?”
“Hhm?” the sharp movement of her head shook strands of hair out of place as she looked up at Brad. How frightened he looked. It reminded her of when they were in the program together back in Chicago, fighting for the freedom to get out of addiction. It seemed almost like her whole life had been about fighting for one freedom or another, from her father, from addiction, to be with Michael… from Panama.
“This is going to work, right?”
For that brief instant Sara was stunned by the realization of just how far Brad and her went back, of everyone that was with her on this little crusade of theirs it was Brad that she had know the longest. Somehow that took the edge off her own fears.
“We’ve survived much worse Brad.”
.