Risk - Prison Break (1/1)
Title: Risk (1/)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Aldo Burrows, Jane Barrow/Phillips (lol!), LJ Burrows.
Length: 5,332 words
Rating: PG-15 for some salty language.
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to know when it's worth risking everything. This is not one of those times. Spoilers for #218, Wash, and contains dialogue and situations not written by me.
Author's Note: This is a birthday present for my friend foxriver_lady. I know that you wanted to make some sense of #218, Wash as much as I did, so I hope this helps. I, uh, also sneaked in some Michael/Sara. Heh. Thank you so much for being such an amazing friend, and I hope you have a wonderful birthday tomorrow.
The greatest risk is not taking one. ~ Unknown
~*~
You listen to the sound of your son calling out someone else’s name, then you hear her voice. “Yes?”
“Jane.”
She sighs loudly, although you doubt it’s in relief. She doesn’t seem the kind. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.” She pauses, as if offering you the chance to speak. When you say nothing, she adds, “Or your father.”
You blink, confused as to why she would say such a thing, remembering a split-second later that she doesn’t know, that hardly anyone knows. “My father is dead,” you tell her, the words flat and bitter on your tongue.
You hear a sharp intake of breath and you realise that you’ve finally shocked her out of her implacable façade. It’s a hollow victory at best. “How?” she asks, and her voice is as hard as you remember it.
“FBI.” You know you don’t need to say anything else because she’s more than capable of joining the dots, and it’s your son that you want to discuss, not your father. “Don’t tell LJ about his grandfather. Not yet.”
“I think you’re underestimating him-“
Anger burns sudden and hot, taking you by surprise. “Don’t tell me how to deal with my kid,” you snap at her through gritted teeth, and once the words start, you can’t stop them from coming. “And just what the hell have you been saying to him?”
“What do you mean?”
The anger still burns but you find yourself hesitating, reluctant to tell her that you’re hurting because your son seems to prefer her company to yours. “He just blew me off, big time.”
“Lincoln, at the risk of repeating myself, I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.” She doesn’t take time to draw breath, let alone give you time to speak. “Has it occurred to you that LJ might think you’ve got enough to worry about at the moment without trying to protect him?”
You press the phone closer to your ear, your head suddenly pounding. “Has he said that to you?”
“Not in so many words, but I make my living reading between the lines. “ She sounds pissed now, and you’re glad. It makes her seem more human, somehow. “Maybe he thinks that if he’s here with me, that’s one less thing that might put you in danger.”
You close your eyes, wanting to hate her for everything she’s saying but knowing that she’s right, knowing that you owe her more than you could ever repay. Just like you owe Michael. Just like you owe your son.
You swallow your pride and the fucking lump in your throat and you ask her, “How is he? Really, I mean.”
“He’s safe. He’s in school. A lot of the time he acts just like every other kid his age.” She pauses, the sharp edges of her words smoothing out, becoming softer. “Isn’t that better to know than spending every waking moment being afraid you might lose him?”
Your head drops, and it’s all you can do not to beg her to put your son back on the phone. “Why are you doing this?” you finally ask in a quiet voice, suddenly all too aware that you’re not alone in this room.
“Because it’s the right thing to do.” She sounds surprised, as though the answer should be obvious.
“What happens when it’s all over?”
“I’ll make sure he gets to you, no matter where you are.”
You stare at the carpet between your dusty shoes. A lot of people have made you a lot of promises in your life, and you can count on one hand the ones that have actually made good. This time, this promise, is one you know will be kept. “I need you to do something else for me.”
“Name it,” she immediately says, as though there’s nothing you can ask of her that she won’t be able to deliver, and with those two words you finally understand why your father trusted her with his family’s lives.
“We have the tape.”
“How?”
“Long story,” you tell her, then hear yourself add, “I’ll tell you some day,” and you know she’s not the only one making promises here.
She’s silent for a beat, almost long enough for things to get awkward, then she prompts, “You needed something?”
“A name.” You glance across the room to where the Doc is staring at her father’s key and Michael is staring at the Doc. “Someone in the system who you would trust with all our lives.”
“Cooper Green,” she says without hesitation. “Former Deputy Attorney General. He splits his time between DC, Chicago and New York. He’s been an ally of your father for a very long time. He’s clean.”
You find yourself nodding as you scramble for a pen and a piece of paper. “Got a number?”
“I can contact -”
“No.” You cut her off. “You’re out of this now. You and LJ.”
You can tell she wants to argue the point, but she’s soon rattling off a local Chicago number. Gripping the pen tightly in suddenly sweaty fingers, you jot it down, then recite it back to her. There’s no room for mistakes. Not now. “Thank you.”
“Good luck.”
“I’ll contact you when it’s done,” you mutter, feeling foolishly as though you’re sixteen years old again and promising a girl that you’ll call her, then you tell yourself you’re an idiot. “Tell LJ that I love him.”
“I will.”
The lump in your throat is back. It’s all you can do to get out a stilted farewell. “See ya, Jane.”
“Be careful.” Then she’s gone, the tenuous link to your son severed, and you flip the phone shut, fighting the urge to fling it out the window. Taking a deep breath, you get to your feet and turn to look at the two people who made it possible for you to be alive and breathing and standing in this room. Sara is still clutching that damn key but your brother is watching you, his eyes filled with concern, and you almost hate that he knows you so well. You slap the piece of paper into his hand before he can ask about LJ, and he frowns at it.
“Cooper Green?”
You rattle off the info on Green that Jane gave you. When you’re done, the faintest flicker of hope cuts through the trepidation in your brother’s face. You look at him, then at Sara, and you don’t let yourself start adding up everything that the three of you have already lost, because all that does is make you realise how much you still have left to lose. So you hand your cell phone to Michael and think of your son, praying to God that the end game will be worth everything you're about to risk.
~*~
You watch as Jane appears in the doorway of your room, her lips pursed in thought, cell phone cradled in her hands. “Did you talk to Dad?”
She drops the phone onto your desk, then folds her arms across her chest. “Yes.”
“Is he okay?”
She nods. “They’ve made some real progress.” She gives you a small smile. “In a few days, this might all be over.”
You feel your mouth drop open. “You’re kidding? I thought Dad was just -” You hesitate, because how can you tell her that you thought your dad was only telling you what you wanted to hear?
Just like she always does, Jane gets what you’re trying to say without you having to say it. “You thought he was bullshitting you?” She looks down at the open book in front of you, but you have the feeling she’s not reading the text. “No, it’s all true.”
You shrug, suddenly feeling like a prize asshole. “Was he - uh, is he angry? With me, I mean?”
“I don’t think so.”
You pick listlessly at the edge of your textbook. “He sounded angry.”
“I suspect he was disappointed, rather than angry.” She studies you calmly. “They’ve made it through some tough times since we last saw them.” She looks away for a moment, and you think you see an odd expression on her face, then she looks back at you and you wonder if you’d just imagined it. “I think he had been looking forward to seeing you at the end of it, but he does understand why you want to stay here.”
You shut the textbook shut with a thunk, knowing that any more study isn’t going to happen tonight, not when you can’t stop thinking about how your dad’s voice on the phone had started out sounding happy and ending up sounding sad and that it had been your fault. “I just can’t do it anymore, you know? Always being worried that someone’s coming after me.” You don’t tell her about the nightmares that jolt you awake almost every night, but you have the feeling she already knows.
She nods. “I understand that, LJ. And so does your father.”
“I’d only slow them down,” you tell her, hating the fact that you sound as though you’re ten years old and whining about wanting to go to the water slide. “It’s not that I don’t want to see him, because I do.”
“It’s okay, LJ.” She smiles at you again. “He asked me to tell you that he loves you.” Ignoring the fact that your face is now wet with tears - shit, you hate crying in front of her and she knows it - she ruffles your hair, then walks out of the room.
Wiping the back of your hand across your eyes, you pick up the phone from your desk and stare at it, wishing you had the guts to call your dad back. But you don’t, so you don’t. You put the phone back on your desk and stare at the notes you’d been writing on your essay assignment, telling yourself that he'll call again and when he does, you sure as hell won’t start the conversation by bitching at him about how long it's taken him to call.
~*~
You stare at the man - whoever the hell he really is - lying on the ground, then up at your brother, who looks both relieved and surprised to find you standing over the prone figure of your supposed contact.
Lincoln puts his hands on his hips and sucks in a few deep breaths, frowning at the man at your feet. “How did they know?”
It’s the same question you’ve been asking yourself for the last few minutes, and you’ve only been able to come up with one answer. “Must have been the secretary.”
Lincoln turns and starts to walk in the direction from which he’d come running. You follow, knowing you have to get out of here, and fast. “What made you realise he wasn’t Green?”
You're both moving quickly now, taking care not to retrace the path taken by the bogus Cooper Green. “Wrong asthma medication,” you tell him, knowing he’ll just nod and file your answer away under things to be explained later, just like you’ve both been doing for the last three months. “How did you know?”
“Sara.”
You frown, because that answer is even more cryptic than your talk of asthma medication. “What? How?” A guilty expression flashes across your brother’s face, and a sense of dread seizes you. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She left the room about ten minutes after you did. She said there was something she had to do.” Lincoln shakes his head ruefully. “An hour later she calls my cell and tells me that the guy who’s with you isn’t the real Cooper Green.”
You stare at him, struggling to comprehend what you’re hearing. “You just let her leave?”
“It’s not like I had much say in the matter, Michael.” Lincoln looks at you. “I couldn’t go after her and monitor Green at the same time.”
You know that he’s right, that he’d had to make a choice and he’d made the only one he could. You know it, but it doesn’t change the fact that Sara is gone. “Has she contacted you again since that call?” you ask in a tight voice, and he shakes his head again. The feeling of dread worsens. “Give me your phone.”
“We need to get back to the hotel,” he protests, but you just hold out your hand.
“I know, but I also need your phone.”
Sara doesn’t pick up. You call her cell phone three times more, and she doesn’t still pick up. Giving your brother a stricken glance, you start to walk faster, moving as quickly as possible without breaking into a run. “Maybe she’s already back at the hotel,” you mumble, half to yourself, and when Lincoln doesn’t reply, you know you’re not the only one thinking the worst.
It only takes ten minutes to reach your hotel. It feels much longer, but when you find the room empty, you almost wish it had been even longer, that you were still on your way back, still able to tell yourself that you were going to see her face as soon as you opened the door.
You lock the door behind you and throw your dead cell phone onto the bed. “Where the hell did she go?”
Your brother throws his hands up in the air. “I told you, Michael, I don’t know!”
“Fuck.” You utter the word with a perverse kind of relish, but just like Lincoln’s reasoning, it doesn’t change the fact that you have no idea where Sara is. You stand at the window, your hands and forehead pressed flat against the glass, your eyes desperately scanning the pavement below.
Nothing.
You stand there, waiting, for God knows how long, then your brother's angry question breaks the silence. “How the hell did they know we would be going after Green?”
“It must have been the secretary,” you tell him a second time, knowing that you’re just going over the same ground again and again, anything to stop yourself from thinking about Sara and the fact that she’s not here and that you have no idea if she’s even alive and that you are two seconds away from slamming your fist into the wall over and over again. “She was the only person who - ”
The sharp knock at the door slices through your words, making your pulse jerk and start to race. Looking at your brother, you see your own apprehension mirrored in his eyes. Maybe he’s also thinking that Sara wouldn’t just knock like that, that she’d make sure you knew it was her. You’re moving towards the door and looking through the security eyehole and it is Sara but she’s not alone. The placid expression of the dark-haired man beside her tells you nothing, but Sara’s nervousness is plain to see, anxiety etched on her pale face. He could very well be holding a fucking gun against her side - you can only see them from the chest up - but you have no choice, not where she’s concerned.
As soon as you open the door you know that there’s no gun, that they’re both there of their own free will. Sara throws you a mute look of appeal before you can speak, and a quiet fury sparks through your blood, because you don’t know if you want to take her by the shoulders and shake her for being so reckless or drag her into the bathroom next door and push her against the wall and put your hands on her and kiss her until she can’t breathe.
Then she says those four little words and literally pushes the man into the room and you can’t deny that perhaps it was worth the risk she took, but you still file away both impulses for a more opportune time. Because you’ve already lost her more than once, and you have no intention of losing her again, ever, and it’s long past time you told her that.
~*~
Michael is leaving, going off to run with the bulls once more, and you know that nothing you say will make him change his mind. He and Lincoln have worked out a complicated scenario in less time than it takes you to get dressed in the morning, and you can’t help but envy their easy understanding.
Lincoln asks if he’s ready and he says yes, and it’s only after he speaks that you realise how much you wanted him to say no, to say that he’s thought of another way to do this. He circles your chair, but this time he doesn’t touch you, and you miss the hesitant brush of his fingertips more than you thought was possible.
He’s standing beside you now, and you feel his eyes on you. You risk a glance at him to find him looking at you almost shyly, as though there are many things he wants to say but none of them are meant for anyone’s ears but yours. His face is soft with both regret and longing, and something rises up and clutches at your heart and steals your strength away. Turning your head, you reach out blindly for his hand, unable to look at him and not tell him everything you’ve ever wanted to tell him. Every time your eyes meet his, every time he touches you, all you can remember is the heady desperation of his kiss, how much you’d wanted it, wanted him, and how you’re so afraid there will never be another life for the two of you. So much to say, too much, and in the end you say almost nothing. “Good luck.”
His hand tightens around yours, almost crushing your fingers, and then he lets go without saying a word. He picks up his coat, then walks out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. It ends, not with a bang but with a whimper, you think in despair, the quote coming unbidden as you stare at Lincoln.
“This will work,” he tells you, but you see the fear in his eyes, and you know he’s just as worried as you are that you are never going to see his brother again.
“You think?”
The key in your hand feels warm, but it’s a poor replacement for Michael’s touch. You stare at it, at the jagged edges and smooth metal, and you know what you want to do. You’ve known for days, you suddenly realise. Ever since Paul Kellerman told you that you were going to Chicago, ever since you walked into that cigar club and smelled the rich scent of tobacco that always permeated your father’s best jackets. You’re here and your father is here, and even though you know it’s foolish and Michael would skin you alive for even thinking it, you may never have this chance again. You weren’t allowed to bury your father but perhaps being here, in this city, his city, is a sign that you might be allowed to grieve properly, if only for a few moments.
So you wait. You wait while Lincoln paces and you hold onto your father’s key and the memory of Michael’s hand in yours. Finally, you get to your feet and look at the man standing at the window. “How long until you make contact?”
“Thirty minutes.”
You slip your father’s key around your neck, and it feels much heavier than it did before. “There’s something I need to do.”
He stares at you. “You’re telling me this now?” He jerks his chin towards the window. “This is about to go down, Sara. We can’t leave now.”
“I know. This is something I need to do alone.”
He scowls. “No way. Michael will have both our heads on a platter.” He goes back to fiddling with the sight on the binoculars. “You for leaving and me for letting you.”
You nod, as if you agree with him - you actually do agree, because you don’t want to think about Michael’s reaction to what you’re about to do - then you wait. This time, though, you only wait until he is staring intently down at the square outside the hotel. When his back is turned, you quietly pick up your coat and the car keys and hope that you’re not about to make the biggest mistake of your life. When your hand is on the door knob, you take one last look at the man whose life you helped save, then you murmur, “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
You shut the door on his shout of protest, but you know he won’t come after you, not if it’s a choice between stopping you and making sure his brother is safe. As you walk swiftly towards the elevator, you think that perhaps you should feel bad for taking advantage of such a dire situation, but then you think of your father and remind yourself that sometimes manipulation is the only option.
It takes fifteen minutes to reach the cemetery and another ten to satisfy yourself that you haven’t been followed. The elderly woman in the administration office who gives you the location of the burial plot takes in your dishevelled appearance without comment, but that doesn’t surprise you. You’re sure she’s seen worse.
Your stomach begins to churn as you approach your father’s grave, and when you see his name carved into the stone, it hits you for the first time that he is truly gone. You’ve known in your head - how could you not, you’d held his lifeless body in your arms - but your heart hadn’t wanted to admit the truth. But now, staring at his name, at the dates that mark the beginning and end of his life, his loss is real and fresh and you find yourself crouching close to the soft earth that covers him, your hands clutched as if in prayer, and perhaps they are. I’m so, so sorry, you tell him silently, and that’s all you have time to think before the muted chorus of birds and distant traffic is disturbed by the sound of leaves crunching beneath hard-soled shoes.
The fact that the shoes belong to Bruce are both a dull surprise and a relief. It was a mistake to come here, you know that now, but at least you’ll have the pleasure of telling this man exactly what you think of him before it’s over.
You do. You let the bitter words flow from your mouth, everything you’ve kept bottled up inside you since the moment you watched another woman die in your place, the light fading from her eyes, her long red hair splattered with blood.
Then he looks at you, the kind-faced man you’ve known since you were five years old, and tells you that you’re wrong, that he had nothing to do with any of it, and you want to believe him so badly that it’s almost a physical ache. Your father is gone but Bruce is still here, and now he’s holding out his hand and telling you to trust him. “You can walk away right now if you don’t believe me.”
“Do you know a man called Cooper Green?” you ask abruptly. He nods, and the tight knot in the pit of your stomach loosens just a little. “Can you take me to him?”
He hesitates, and you understand why. The last thing he wants is to sink deeper into the darkness that has swallowed so many others. He’s a husband and a father and a grandfather, but that’s one more thing than your father will ever have the chance to be, so you lift your chin and give him an unapologetically challenging stare. “You want to help me, Bruce?”
He looks faintly injured. “Of course I do.”
“Then take me to Cooper Green and you might just save all our lives.” You remind yourself that he can hardly take you to Cooper Green if the man is already darting around the park next to your hotel, but that doesn’t seem to matter. If he takes you to Green’s office and he’s not there, then you’ll know he’s right where he’s supposed to be - with Michael - and maybe the sick feeling in your stomach will subside.
Two minutes later you’re back in the stolen family wagon, following Bruce’s taillights as you both negotiate the downtown traffic. Ten minutes later, feeling more than a little nauseous with anticipation, you’re still following Bruce, but now you’re walking down a luxuriously carpeted hallway and Bruce is telling you that he called Green en route and that he’ll be waiting for you. You think then that he must have already met with Michael, and that perhaps both he and Lincoln are with Green now.
Cooper Green’s face is completely unfamiliar, but when he shakes your hand, looking at you with undisguised curiosity, you feel an odd sense of relief. “I trust you’ve met with Michael Scofield and Lincoln Burrows today?”
He cocks his head to one side and shoots you a puzzled glance. “Well, I’m sure I’d remember if I did.”
Oh, my God. Your stomach lurches as the floor beneath your feet seems to shift, then you hear Bruce saying your name. “Sara?”
You stare at Jane’s trusted contact. “If you’re Cooper Green, then who’s with Michael right now?” It’s a rhetorical question to which there can only be one answer, one that means Michael could already be in custody, or worse.
“I need to use a phone. Now,” you tell both men, amazed that you can sound so normal when your whole body is shaking. Green shows you into a nearby meeting room and you pick up the phone with a trembling hand even as you’re sinking into the chair. Both men hover anxiously as you dial the number you’d made yourself learn by heart. It doesn’t ring, instead going straight to a pre-recorded message. The number you are calling is not available. “Damn it, Michael!” you hiss under your breath, already punching in the number for the other cell phone, desperately trying not to think that you might already be too late.
“Yeah?”
“Lincoln, it’s Sara. Listen to me. The man that Michael’s with right now is not Cooper Green, do you hear me?” You smack your palm against the table with each new word, as though that might help you make Lincoln understand just how very wrong it’s all gone. “The man that Michael’s with right now is not Cooper Green.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Because I’m looking at the real Cooper Green!” You’re vaguely aware that you’re practically yelling into the phone but you don’t care. “And Michael’s cell phone is switched off!”
“I’ll get to him,” Lincoln barks out the words, then he’s gone, leaving with you with the dial tone and a growing sense of fear so real you can feel it clawing at your skin. You somehow manage to get the phone receiver back in its cradle, then get to your feet. “I need you to come with me,” you tell the dark-haired man beside you.
He gapes at you, but recovers quickly. “Now?”
“Please.” You will have no hesitation causing a scene if that’s what it takes to convince him, but you’ll try begging first. “It’s now or never.”
To his credit, he asks no more questions, no does he insist on bringing an entourage with him. After a rushed and awkward goodbye to Bruce, you find yourself in the elevator with a man about whom you know nothing except that Michael and Lincoln’s father trusted him. Right now, that has to be enough.
Once again to his credit, Green doesn’t question you about the brothers or their father or the fact that you are a wanted fugitive yourself. He simply drives to the hotel, his manner steady and sure, and you’re grateful, because your head is filled with the fear that you were too late, that Lincoln was too late, and you ‘re not sure you could speak even if you wanted to.
Your heart is pounding as you rap your knuckles on the hotel room door, your heart repeating a silent mantra over and over again. Please be safe. When the door finally opens and Michael is staring at you, it’s all you can do not to walk straight into his arms, curious onlookers be damned.
He stares at you, and you know Lincoln had been right on target with his ‘heads on a platter’ remark. You can see the anger lurking beneath the still waters of his expression, the dark emotion glittering in his eyes. You hastily launch into the short speech you’ve practiced over and over again in your head on the way to the hotel. “Michael Scofield, Cooper Green.” On any other day, the oddly formal introduction might strike you as laughable, but you suddenly need to be formal now, need to keep what’s between you and Michael away from Cooper Green’s too-sharp eyes. You need to push your prize forward, hoping it’s enough to distract Michael from the fact that you willingly put yourself into a situation that you may not have survived.
Michael studies the man beside you, then he takes a step backwards, silently inviting him into the room. As Green passes him, Michael’s gaze slides towards you, his eyes locking with yours.
He says nothing, simply stares at you, blue eyes narrowed as if he’s looking into the sun, and your heart seems to slide down behind your ribs. You lift your hand to touch his arm, then let it drop, wary of the quiet anger radiating from him. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he bites out, shutting the door behind you with more force than necessary. On the other side of the room, Cooper Green is shaking Lincoln’s hand, but Michael is still staring at you as though he’s trying to see every little secret you’ve ever had. “How did you find him?”
“I spoke to a trusted associate of my father’s.” You silently beg for him to leave it at that, to let it go, to let the results of your decision speak for themselves. But this is Michael, and of course he won’t just let it go.
His gaze narrows as he stares at you in obvious disbelief. “Do you have any idea how big a risk that was?”
“I do.” You have to tell him, because there’s no point lying and you may as well get this over and done with now. “I went to my father’s grave, Michael.”
His mouth opens and shuts, whatever he was about to say lost forever as he swallows hard, his eyes dark with sorrow.
You wrap your arms around yourself, fingers digging into the buttonholes of your second-hand sweater, and you look him right in the eye. “I may never have another chance to say goodbye to him.” And I managed to come up with the real Cooper Green because of it. You don’t say the words out loud, but there’s no need. He knows it’s the truth as well as you do. You stare at each other for a moment as you silently beseech him to understand, to realise that making your peace with your father was something you needed to do.
He does. The tight set of his mouth eases as his eyes soften, then his hand is wrapped around your elbow and he’s tugging you gently towards him. “When we came back to the hotel and you weren't here -” he mutters, his lips close to your ear as he guides you towards the writing desk where Lincoln and Green are waiting. “I thought I’d lost you,” he adds in a rough whisper, and your heart twists at the fear that stiffens his voice.
Your mouth is suddenly too dry to speak, so you put your hand over his where it lays on your arm, letting your shoulder lean against his for a few too-brief seconds. He gazes at you intently, making you feel as though you’re the only other person in the world, then his hand is on the small of your back and he’s ushering you towards Green and Lincoln and whatever future lies ahead for all of you.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Aldo Burrows, Jane Barrow/Phillips (lol!), LJ Burrows.
Length: 5,332 words
Rating: PG-15 for some salty language.
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to know when it's worth risking everything. This is not one of those times. Spoilers for #218, Wash, and contains dialogue and situations not written by me.
Author's Note: This is a birthday present for my friend foxriver_lady. I know that you wanted to make some sense of #218, Wash as much as I did, so I hope this helps. I, uh, also sneaked in some Michael/Sara. Heh. Thank you so much for being such an amazing friend, and I hope you have a wonderful birthday tomorrow.
The greatest risk is not taking one. ~ Unknown
~*~
You listen to the sound of your son calling out someone else’s name, then you hear her voice. “Yes?”
“Jane.”
She sighs loudly, although you doubt it’s in relief. She doesn’t seem the kind. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.” She pauses, as if offering you the chance to speak. When you say nothing, she adds, “Or your father.”
You blink, confused as to why she would say such a thing, remembering a split-second later that she doesn’t know, that hardly anyone knows. “My father is dead,” you tell her, the words flat and bitter on your tongue.
You hear a sharp intake of breath and you realise that you’ve finally shocked her out of her implacable façade. It’s a hollow victory at best. “How?” she asks, and her voice is as hard as you remember it.
“FBI.” You know you don’t need to say anything else because she’s more than capable of joining the dots, and it’s your son that you want to discuss, not your father. “Don’t tell LJ about his grandfather. Not yet.”
“I think you’re underestimating him-“
Anger burns sudden and hot, taking you by surprise. “Don’t tell me how to deal with my kid,” you snap at her through gritted teeth, and once the words start, you can’t stop them from coming. “And just what the hell have you been saying to him?”
“What do you mean?”
The anger still burns but you find yourself hesitating, reluctant to tell her that you’re hurting because your son seems to prefer her company to yours. “He just blew me off, big time.”
“Lincoln, at the risk of repeating myself, I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit.” She doesn’t take time to draw breath, let alone give you time to speak. “Has it occurred to you that LJ might think you’ve got enough to worry about at the moment without trying to protect him?”
You press the phone closer to your ear, your head suddenly pounding. “Has he said that to you?”
“Not in so many words, but I make my living reading between the lines. “ She sounds pissed now, and you’re glad. It makes her seem more human, somehow. “Maybe he thinks that if he’s here with me, that’s one less thing that might put you in danger.”
You close your eyes, wanting to hate her for everything she’s saying but knowing that she’s right, knowing that you owe her more than you could ever repay. Just like you owe Michael. Just like you owe your son.
You swallow your pride and the fucking lump in your throat and you ask her, “How is he? Really, I mean.”
“He’s safe. He’s in school. A lot of the time he acts just like every other kid his age.” She pauses, the sharp edges of her words smoothing out, becoming softer. “Isn’t that better to know than spending every waking moment being afraid you might lose him?”
Your head drops, and it’s all you can do not to beg her to put your son back on the phone. “Why are you doing this?” you finally ask in a quiet voice, suddenly all too aware that you’re not alone in this room.
“Because it’s the right thing to do.” She sounds surprised, as though the answer should be obvious.
“What happens when it’s all over?”
“I’ll make sure he gets to you, no matter where you are.”
You stare at the carpet between your dusty shoes. A lot of people have made you a lot of promises in your life, and you can count on one hand the ones that have actually made good. This time, this promise, is one you know will be kept. “I need you to do something else for me.”
“Name it,” she immediately says, as though there’s nothing you can ask of her that she won’t be able to deliver, and with those two words you finally understand why your father trusted her with his family’s lives.
“We have the tape.”
“How?”
“Long story,” you tell her, then hear yourself add, “I’ll tell you some day,” and you know she’s not the only one making promises here.
She’s silent for a beat, almost long enough for things to get awkward, then she prompts, “You needed something?”
“A name.” You glance across the room to where the Doc is staring at her father’s key and Michael is staring at the Doc. “Someone in the system who you would trust with all our lives.”
“Cooper Green,” she says without hesitation. “Former Deputy Attorney General. He splits his time between DC, Chicago and New York. He’s been an ally of your father for a very long time. He’s clean.”
You find yourself nodding as you scramble for a pen and a piece of paper. “Got a number?”
“I can contact -”
“No.” You cut her off. “You’re out of this now. You and LJ.”
You can tell she wants to argue the point, but she’s soon rattling off a local Chicago number. Gripping the pen tightly in suddenly sweaty fingers, you jot it down, then recite it back to her. There’s no room for mistakes. Not now. “Thank you.”
“Good luck.”
“I’ll contact you when it’s done,” you mutter, feeling foolishly as though you’re sixteen years old again and promising a girl that you’ll call her, then you tell yourself you’re an idiot. “Tell LJ that I love him.”
“I will.”
The lump in your throat is back. It’s all you can do to get out a stilted farewell. “See ya, Jane.”
“Be careful.” Then she’s gone, the tenuous link to your son severed, and you flip the phone shut, fighting the urge to fling it out the window. Taking a deep breath, you get to your feet and turn to look at the two people who made it possible for you to be alive and breathing and standing in this room. Sara is still clutching that damn key but your brother is watching you, his eyes filled with concern, and you almost hate that he knows you so well. You slap the piece of paper into his hand before he can ask about LJ, and he frowns at it.
“Cooper Green?”
You rattle off the info on Green that Jane gave you. When you’re done, the faintest flicker of hope cuts through the trepidation in your brother’s face. You look at him, then at Sara, and you don’t let yourself start adding up everything that the three of you have already lost, because all that does is make you realise how much you still have left to lose. So you hand your cell phone to Michael and think of your son, praying to God that the end game will be worth everything you're about to risk.
~*~
You watch as Jane appears in the doorway of your room, her lips pursed in thought, cell phone cradled in her hands. “Did you talk to Dad?”
She drops the phone onto your desk, then folds her arms across her chest. “Yes.”
“Is he okay?”
She nods. “They’ve made some real progress.” She gives you a small smile. “In a few days, this might all be over.”
You feel your mouth drop open. “You’re kidding? I thought Dad was just -” You hesitate, because how can you tell her that you thought your dad was only telling you what you wanted to hear?
Just like she always does, Jane gets what you’re trying to say without you having to say it. “You thought he was bullshitting you?” She looks down at the open book in front of you, but you have the feeling she’s not reading the text. “No, it’s all true.”
You shrug, suddenly feeling like a prize asshole. “Was he - uh, is he angry? With me, I mean?”
“I don’t think so.”
You pick listlessly at the edge of your textbook. “He sounded angry.”
“I suspect he was disappointed, rather than angry.” She studies you calmly. “They’ve made it through some tough times since we last saw them.” She looks away for a moment, and you think you see an odd expression on her face, then she looks back at you and you wonder if you’d just imagined it. “I think he had been looking forward to seeing you at the end of it, but he does understand why you want to stay here.”
You shut the textbook shut with a thunk, knowing that any more study isn’t going to happen tonight, not when you can’t stop thinking about how your dad’s voice on the phone had started out sounding happy and ending up sounding sad and that it had been your fault. “I just can’t do it anymore, you know? Always being worried that someone’s coming after me.” You don’t tell her about the nightmares that jolt you awake almost every night, but you have the feeling she already knows.
She nods. “I understand that, LJ. And so does your father.”
“I’d only slow them down,” you tell her, hating the fact that you sound as though you’re ten years old and whining about wanting to go to the water slide. “It’s not that I don’t want to see him, because I do.”
“It’s okay, LJ.” She smiles at you again. “He asked me to tell you that he loves you.” Ignoring the fact that your face is now wet with tears - shit, you hate crying in front of her and she knows it - she ruffles your hair, then walks out of the room.
Wiping the back of your hand across your eyes, you pick up the phone from your desk and stare at it, wishing you had the guts to call your dad back. But you don’t, so you don’t. You put the phone back on your desk and stare at the notes you’d been writing on your essay assignment, telling yourself that he'll call again and when he does, you sure as hell won’t start the conversation by bitching at him about how long it's taken him to call.
~*~
You stare at the man - whoever the hell he really is - lying on the ground, then up at your brother, who looks both relieved and surprised to find you standing over the prone figure of your supposed contact.
Lincoln puts his hands on his hips and sucks in a few deep breaths, frowning at the man at your feet. “How did they know?”
It’s the same question you’ve been asking yourself for the last few minutes, and you’ve only been able to come up with one answer. “Must have been the secretary.”
Lincoln turns and starts to walk in the direction from which he’d come running. You follow, knowing you have to get out of here, and fast. “What made you realise he wasn’t Green?”
You're both moving quickly now, taking care not to retrace the path taken by the bogus Cooper Green. “Wrong asthma medication,” you tell him, knowing he’ll just nod and file your answer away under things to be explained later, just like you’ve both been doing for the last three months. “How did you know?”
“Sara.”
You frown, because that answer is even more cryptic than your talk of asthma medication. “What? How?” A guilty expression flashes across your brother’s face, and a sense of dread seizes you. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She left the room about ten minutes after you did. She said there was something she had to do.” Lincoln shakes his head ruefully. “An hour later she calls my cell and tells me that the guy who’s with you isn’t the real Cooper Green.”
You stare at him, struggling to comprehend what you’re hearing. “You just let her leave?”
“It’s not like I had much say in the matter, Michael.” Lincoln looks at you. “I couldn’t go after her and monitor Green at the same time.”
You know that he’s right, that he’d had to make a choice and he’d made the only one he could. You know it, but it doesn’t change the fact that Sara is gone. “Has she contacted you again since that call?” you ask in a tight voice, and he shakes his head again. The feeling of dread worsens. “Give me your phone.”
“We need to get back to the hotel,” he protests, but you just hold out your hand.
“I know, but I also need your phone.”
Sara doesn’t pick up. You call her cell phone three times more, and she doesn’t still pick up. Giving your brother a stricken glance, you start to walk faster, moving as quickly as possible without breaking into a run. “Maybe she’s already back at the hotel,” you mumble, half to yourself, and when Lincoln doesn’t reply, you know you’re not the only one thinking the worst.
It only takes ten minutes to reach your hotel. It feels much longer, but when you find the room empty, you almost wish it had been even longer, that you were still on your way back, still able to tell yourself that you were going to see her face as soon as you opened the door.
You lock the door behind you and throw your dead cell phone onto the bed. “Where the hell did she go?”
Your brother throws his hands up in the air. “I told you, Michael, I don’t know!”
“Fuck.” You utter the word with a perverse kind of relish, but just like Lincoln’s reasoning, it doesn’t change the fact that you have no idea where Sara is. You stand at the window, your hands and forehead pressed flat against the glass, your eyes desperately scanning the pavement below.
Nothing.
You stand there, waiting, for God knows how long, then your brother's angry question breaks the silence. “How the hell did they know we would be going after Green?”
“It must have been the secretary,” you tell him a second time, knowing that you’re just going over the same ground again and again, anything to stop yourself from thinking about Sara and the fact that she’s not here and that you have no idea if she’s even alive and that you are two seconds away from slamming your fist into the wall over and over again. “She was the only person who - ”
The sharp knock at the door slices through your words, making your pulse jerk and start to race. Looking at your brother, you see your own apprehension mirrored in his eyes. Maybe he’s also thinking that Sara wouldn’t just knock like that, that she’d make sure you knew it was her. You’re moving towards the door and looking through the security eyehole and it is Sara but she’s not alone. The placid expression of the dark-haired man beside her tells you nothing, but Sara’s nervousness is plain to see, anxiety etched on her pale face. He could very well be holding a fucking gun against her side - you can only see them from the chest up - but you have no choice, not where she’s concerned.
As soon as you open the door you know that there’s no gun, that they’re both there of their own free will. Sara throws you a mute look of appeal before you can speak, and a quiet fury sparks through your blood, because you don’t know if you want to take her by the shoulders and shake her for being so reckless or drag her into the bathroom next door and push her against the wall and put your hands on her and kiss her until she can’t breathe.
Then she says those four little words and literally pushes the man into the room and you can’t deny that perhaps it was worth the risk she took, but you still file away both impulses for a more opportune time. Because you’ve already lost her more than once, and you have no intention of losing her again, ever, and it’s long past time you told her that.
~*~
Michael is leaving, going off to run with the bulls once more, and you know that nothing you say will make him change his mind. He and Lincoln have worked out a complicated scenario in less time than it takes you to get dressed in the morning, and you can’t help but envy their easy understanding.
Lincoln asks if he’s ready and he says yes, and it’s only after he speaks that you realise how much you wanted him to say no, to say that he’s thought of another way to do this. He circles your chair, but this time he doesn’t touch you, and you miss the hesitant brush of his fingertips more than you thought was possible.
He’s standing beside you now, and you feel his eyes on you. You risk a glance at him to find him looking at you almost shyly, as though there are many things he wants to say but none of them are meant for anyone’s ears but yours. His face is soft with both regret and longing, and something rises up and clutches at your heart and steals your strength away. Turning your head, you reach out blindly for his hand, unable to look at him and not tell him everything you’ve ever wanted to tell him. Every time your eyes meet his, every time he touches you, all you can remember is the heady desperation of his kiss, how much you’d wanted it, wanted him, and how you’re so afraid there will never be another life for the two of you. So much to say, too much, and in the end you say almost nothing. “Good luck.”
His hand tightens around yours, almost crushing your fingers, and then he lets go without saying a word. He picks up his coat, then walks out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. It ends, not with a bang but with a whimper, you think in despair, the quote coming unbidden as you stare at Lincoln.
“This will work,” he tells you, but you see the fear in his eyes, and you know he’s just as worried as you are that you are never going to see his brother again.
“You think?”
The key in your hand feels warm, but it’s a poor replacement for Michael’s touch. You stare at it, at the jagged edges and smooth metal, and you know what you want to do. You’ve known for days, you suddenly realise. Ever since Paul Kellerman told you that you were going to Chicago, ever since you walked into that cigar club and smelled the rich scent of tobacco that always permeated your father’s best jackets. You’re here and your father is here, and even though you know it’s foolish and Michael would skin you alive for even thinking it, you may never have this chance again. You weren’t allowed to bury your father but perhaps being here, in this city, his city, is a sign that you might be allowed to grieve properly, if only for a few moments.
So you wait. You wait while Lincoln paces and you hold onto your father’s key and the memory of Michael’s hand in yours. Finally, you get to your feet and look at the man standing at the window. “How long until you make contact?”
“Thirty minutes.”
You slip your father’s key around your neck, and it feels much heavier than it did before. “There’s something I need to do.”
He stares at you. “You’re telling me this now?” He jerks his chin towards the window. “This is about to go down, Sara. We can’t leave now.”
“I know. This is something I need to do alone.”
He scowls. “No way. Michael will have both our heads on a platter.” He goes back to fiddling with the sight on the binoculars. “You for leaving and me for letting you.”
You nod, as if you agree with him - you actually do agree, because you don’t want to think about Michael’s reaction to what you’re about to do - then you wait. This time, though, you only wait until he is staring intently down at the square outside the hotel. When his back is turned, you quietly pick up your coat and the car keys and hope that you’re not about to make the biggest mistake of your life. When your hand is on the door knob, you take one last look at the man whose life you helped save, then you murmur, “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
You shut the door on his shout of protest, but you know he won’t come after you, not if it’s a choice between stopping you and making sure his brother is safe. As you walk swiftly towards the elevator, you think that perhaps you should feel bad for taking advantage of such a dire situation, but then you think of your father and remind yourself that sometimes manipulation is the only option.
It takes fifteen minutes to reach the cemetery and another ten to satisfy yourself that you haven’t been followed. The elderly woman in the administration office who gives you the location of the burial plot takes in your dishevelled appearance without comment, but that doesn’t surprise you. You’re sure she’s seen worse.
Your stomach begins to churn as you approach your father’s grave, and when you see his name carved into the stone, it hits you for the first time that he is truly gone. You’ve known in your head - how could you not, you’d held his lifeless body in your arms - but your heart hadn’t wanted to admit the truth. But now, staring at his name, at the dates that mark the beginning and end of his life, his loss is real and fresh and you find yourself crouching close to the soft earth that covers him, your hands clutched as if in prayer, and perhaps they are. I’m so, so sorry, you tell him silently, and that’s all you have time to think before the muted chorus of birds and distant traffic is disturbed by the sound of leaves crunching beneath hard-soled shoes.
The fact that the shoes belong to Bruce are both a dull surprise and a relief. It was a mistake to come here, you know that now, but at least you’ll have the pleasure of telling this man exactly what you think of him before it’s over.
You do. You let the bitter words flow from your mouth, everything you’ve kept bottled up inside you since the moment you watched another woman die in your place, the light fading from her eyes, her long red hair splattered with blood.
Then he looks at you, the kind-faced man you’ve known since you were five years old, and tells you that you’re wrong, that he had nothing to do with any of it, and you want to believe him so badly that it’s almost a physical ache. Your father is gone but Bruce is still here, and now he’s holding out his hand and telling you to trust him. “You can walk away right now if you don’t believe me.”
“Do you know a man called Cooper Green?” you ask abruptly. He nods, and the tight knot in the pit of your stomach loosens just a little. “Can you take me to him?”
He hesitates, and you understand why. The last thing he wants is to sink deeper into the darkness that has swallowed so many others. He’s a husband and a father and a grandfather, but that’s one more thing than your father will ever have the chance to be, so you lift your chin and give him an unapologetically challenging stare. “You want to help me, Bruce?”
He looks faintly injured. “Of course I do.”
“Then take me to Cooper Green and you might just save all our lives.” You remind yourself that he can hardly take you to Cooper Green if the man is already darting around the park next to your hotel, but that doesn’t seem to matter. If he takes you to Green’s office and he’s not there, then you’ll know he’s right where he’s supposed to be - with Michael - and maybe the sick feeling in your stomach will subside.
Two minutes later you’re back in the stolen family wagon, following Bruce’s taillights as you both negotiate the downtown traffic. Ten minutes later, feeling more than a little nauseous with anticipation, you’re still following Bruce, but now you’re walking down a luxuriously carpeted hallway and Bruce is telling you that he called Green en route and that he’ll be waiting for you. You think then that he must have already met with Michael, and that perhaps both he and Lincoln are with Green now.
Cooper Green’s face is completely unfamiliar, but when he shakes your hand, looking at you with undisguised curiosity, you feel an odd sense of relief. “I trust you’ve met with Michael Scofield and Lincoln Burrows today?”
He cocks his head to one side and shoots you a puzzled glance. “Well, I’m sure I’d remember if I did.”
Oh, my God. Your stomach lurches as the floor beneath your feet seems to shift, then you hear Bruce saying your name. “Sara?”
You stare at Jane’s trusted contact. “If you’re Cooper Green, then who’s with Michael right now?” It’s a rhetorical question to which there can only be one answer, one that means Michael could already be in custody, or worse.
“I need to use a phone. Now,” you tell both men, amazed that you can sound so normal when your whole body is shaking. Green shows you into a nearby meeting room and you pick up the phone with a trembling hand even as you’re sinking into the chair. Both men hover anxiously as you dial the number you’d made yourself learn by heart. It doesn’t ring, instead going straight to a pre-recorded message. The number you are calling is not available. “Damn it, Michael!” you hiss under your breath, already punching in the number for the other cell phone, desperately trying not to think that you might already be too late.
“Yeah?”
“Lincoln, it’s Sara. Listen to me. The man that Michael’s with right now is not Cooper Green, do you hear me?” You smack your palm against the table with each new word, as though that might help you make Lincoln understand just how very wrong it’s all gone. “The man that Michael’s with right now is not Cooper Green.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Because I’m looking at the real Cooper Green!” You’re vaguely aware that you’re practically yelling into the phone but you don’t care. “And Michael’s cell phone is switched off!”
“I’ll get to him,” Lincoln barks out the words, then he’s gone, leaving with you with the dial tone and a growing sense of fear so real you can feel it clawing at your skin. You somehow manage to get the phone receiver back in its cradle, then get to your feet. “I need you to come with me,” you tell the dark-haired man beside you.
He gapes at you, but recovers quickly. “Now?”
“Please.” You will have no hesitation causing a scene if that’s what it takes to convince him, but you’ll try begging first. “It’s now or never.”
To his credit, he asks no more questions, no does he insist on bringing an entourage with him. After a rushed and awkward goodbye to Bruce, you find yourself in the elevator with a man about whom you know nothing except that Michael and Lincoln’s father trusted him. Right now, that has to be enough.
Once again to his credit, Green doesn’t question you about the brothers or their father or the fact that you are a wanted fugitive yourself. He simply drives to the hotel, his manner steady and sure, and you’re grateful, because your head is filled with the fear that you were too late, that Lincoln was too late, and you ‘re not sure you could speak even if you wanted to.
Your heart is pounding as you rap your knuckles on the hotel room door, your heart repeating a silent mantra over and over again. Please be safe. When the door finally opens and Michael is staring at you, it’s all you can do not to walk straight into his arms, curious onlookers be damned.
He stares at you, and you know Lincoln had been right on target with his ‘heads on a platter’ remark. You can see the anger lurking beneath the still waters of his expression, the dark emotion glittering in his eyes. You hastily launch into the short speech you’ve practiced over and over again in your head on the way to the hotel. “Michael Scofield, Cooper Green.” On any other day, the oddly formal introduction might strike you as laughable, but you suddenly need to be formal now, need to keep what’s between you and Michael away from Cooper Green’s too-sharp eyes. You need to push your prize forward, hoping it’s enough to distract Michael from the fact that you willingly put yourself into a situation that you may not have survived.
Michael studies the man beside you, then he takes a step backwards, silently inviting him into the room. As Green passes him, Michael’s gaze slides towards you, his eyes locking with yours.
He says nothing, simply stares at you, blue eyes narrowed as if he’s looking into the sun, and your heart seems to slide down behind your ribs. You lift your hand to touch his arm, then let it drop, wary of the quiet anger radiating from him. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he bites out, shutting the door behind you with more force than necessary. On the other side of the room, Cooper Green is shaking Lincoln’s hand, but Michael is still staring at you as though he’s trying to see every little secret you’ve ever had. “How did you find him?”
“I spoke to a trusted associate of my father’s.” You silently beg for him to leave it at that, to let it go, to let the results of your decision speak for themselves. But this is Michael, and of course he won’t just let it go.
His gaze narrows as he stares at you in obvious disbelief. “Do you have any idea how big a risk that was?”
“I do.” You have to tell him, because there’s no point lying and you may as well get this over and done with now. “I went to my father’s grave, Michael.”
His mouth opens and shuts, whatever he was about to say lost forever as he swallows hard, his eyes dark with sorrow.
You wrap your arms around yourself, fingers digging into the buttonholes of your second-hand sweater, and you look him right in the eye. “I may never have another chance to say goodbye to him.” And I managed to come up with the real Cooper Green because of it. You don’t say the words out loud, but there’s no need. He knows it’s the truth as well as you do. You stare at each other for a moment as you silently beseech him to understand, to realise that making your peace with your father was something you needed to do.
He does. The tight set of his mouth eases as his eyes soften, then his hand is wrapped around your elbow and he’s tugging you gently towards him. “When we came back to the hotel and you weren't here -” he mutters, his lips close to your ear as he guides you towards the writing desk where Lincoln and Green are waiting. “I thought I’d lost you,” he adds in a rough whisper, and your heart twists at the fear that stiffens his voice.
Your mouth is suddenly too dry to speak, so you put your hand over his where it lays on your arm, letting your shoulder lean against his for a few too-brief seconds. He gazes at you intently, making you feel as though you’re the only other person in the world, then his hand is on the small of your back and he’s ushering you towards Green and Lincoln and whatever future lies ahead for all of you.
~*~