India - Chapter Seven
Title: India - Chapter Seven
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 6,875 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: All good things come to those who wait.
Author's Note:This story is part of the Full Circle series. It takes place between the 'end' and the 'epilogue' of Safe House, and will make much more sense if you've already read that story. You can read the earlier chapters of India here. Huge thanks to swatkat24 for letting me ask her 447 questions about everything from Bengali sweets to school uniforms. Thanks to wrldpossibility for the beta. Any mistakes that remain are all mine, and all concrit is welcomed with open arms.
~*~
Studying the newly relaxed faces of the strangers sitting around her in the old church hall, Sara marvels at how life can come full circle in the most unexpected of ways.
When she was a child, two of her casual neighbourhood friends were from Catholic families. Sometimes, when they played together on a Saturday, she would listen to them practicing the recitation of their various sins, all in preparation for a visit to something called confession the following day. As her entire religious experience to that point had involved spending an hour once a week at her father’s carefully favored Methodist church, the notion of sitting and confessing one’s sins seemed faintly exciting and more than a little terrifying.
When she’d hesitantly asked if they weren’t scared to confess such things to an adult - especially someone as lofty as a white-collared priest! - they had looked at her in confusion. Confession is good for the soul, one of the eight year-olds would intone solemnly, while the other would nod in agreement.
That was over twenty years ago, but every time she makes it through to the end of another group session, she can’t help wondering if this is what it had felt like for them, this purging of the heart and soul. The feeling as though you could start again, no matter how badly you’d stumbled.
Surfacing through the depths of her thoughts, she darts a quick glance at the man sitting beside her, holding her hand. “You okay?” Please still love me. The hated, foolish little voice in the darkest corner of her mind makes itself known before she can pulverize it into oblivion. Please don’t think badly of me.
Michael slips one arm along the back of her chair, fingertips grazing the curve of her shoulder as he bends his head to hers. She feels the brush of his lips on the top of her head, then the warmth of his breath as he murmurs words meant for her ears alone. “I’m incredibly proud of you.”
She feels her face grow warm. “Millions of people go through this every day,” she murmurs, suddenly feeling as though she’s earned his praise under false pretences, as though he thinks what she’s done is unique. After all, how many other addicts does he have in his life? “I’m nothing special.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle softly as he smiles. “Ah, but I’m not in love with them.”
A chuckle bubbles up in her throat as she grips his hand a little tighter, wondering why it had taken her so long to ask him to come to a meeting with her. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Bright sunlight greets them as they step out of the church hall, and she can’t help smiling as they both hastily reach for their sunglasses in perfect synch. As the human traffic begins to flow around them once more, he looks at her expectantly. “Now what?”
For all her joking about jet leg, she can’t deny she’s starting to feel a little frayed around the edges. Add to that a hefty dose of butterflies at the prospect of well and truly revisiting her past tomorrow, and she’s ready to find a quiet spot in which to hide out. “Well, we’ve got a busy day tomorrow.” Curling her arm through his, she gently steers him towards an empty black and yellow taxi that has miraculously appeared a few feet away. “Early dinner, shower, bed?”
He gives her a lingering look that warms her as effectively as the sun through her shirt. “Sounds good to me.”
The taxi driver gives them an effusive welcome, and they commence the lurching journey back to the hotel. After one particularly enthusiastic swerve to the left, she puts her hand on Michael’s knee, feeling the sudden need for an additional anchor. “Thank you for coming with me.”
His hand slides over hers. “Thanks for asking me.” He studies their entwined hands, and raises his gaze to meet hers. “When you had that moment at the coffee house this afternoon - was it as we were leaving?”
And to think she’d actually been under the impression she’d managed to slip that one past him, she muses wryly. “How did you know?”
He shrugs, as though not wanting to make any more of it than he already has. “When we were walking back to the hotel, it was like you weren’t really there.”
She returns his gaze steadily, determined not to give into the lure of shame. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He smiles into her eyes as he drums his fingertips lightly over her knuckles. “I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this gig.”
She laughs softly. “For better or for worse, right?”
He blinks at her teasing words, his eyes glittering with a strangely familiar emotion she can’t quite place, then he grins. “So. Tell me more about Sister Lucia and her love of bad karaoke songs.”
~*~
“Thank God.” The door of their room shut firmly behind them, Sara kicks off her dusty sandals and makes a beeline for the oversized bed. She stretches out across the perfectly smooth bedspread, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of having to leave this room again tonight, then peers up at Michael, who is watching her amateur dramatics with obvious amusement. “Please tell me we can have room service tonight?”
“Sure.” Picking up the thick black room service menu from the credenza, he sits on the edge of the bed beside her, one long leg tucked under him. “I thought maybe tomorrow night we could have dinner in the restaurant downstairs, though.”
“I’d like that.” She smiles up at him as he starts to flick through the folder. “It might be my only chance to wear the new dress I packed.”
He looks up from the menu, unabashed curiosity dancing in his eyes. “Which dress is that?”
“A new one. You’ll see it tomorrow.” Catching his less-than-subtle glance at her suitcase, she puts out her hand, index finger raises reprovingly, doing her best to keep a straight face. “And don’t get any ideas about going through my luggage between now and then.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m lots of fun,” she tells him with mild indignation, sliding her hand between the menu and his jean-clad thigh. “If you come down here, I might even try to convince you how much fun I am.”
He laughs, pushing the menu aside with a careless hand, then his hands are anything but careless as they slip beneath her shirt, his palms warm against her skin. It’s the first time he’s touched her like this since they’ve arrived in India, and when he dips his head to give her a lazy kiss, she feels the spark between them catch and flare despite her weariness.
They tug languidly at buttons and zippers, their clothes fluttering to the floor in a soft pile of creased cotton. “Good to see the sunscreen did its job,” he murmurs, his fingertips grazing the underside of her breasts in a caress that makes every tiny hair on her body stand on end. “No sunburn that I can see, although I might have to do a little more research.”
Reaching out, she winds her arms around his neck and pulls him down to her, craving the weight of his body on hers. He smells faintly of dust from the street, fresh sweat and the spicy soap he’d insisted on bringing from home, and she wants nothing more than to sink her teeth into the tanned crook of his neck until he shudders in her arms. “You can finish your research later,” she says, her voice catching roughly as he slides his hand between her thighs and bends his head to her breast. “Because I don’t think I can stay awake long enough to - uh, that’s, oh, God -“ She feels his lips curve into a smile against her skin, then he starts to move his hands and his mouth and talking seems all too complicated.
Afterwards, they lay entwined on top of the bedclothes for a long time, the faint sheen of sweat on their skin quickly drying in the air-conditioned room. The room service menu seems to be upside down on the floor beside the bed, but she can’t seem to summon the energy to lean over and pick it up. She should really draw the curtains too, but that would involve untangling herself from Michael and really, she can’t see the appeal.
Finally, she stirs, splaying her hand on his hip as she presses a kiss to his shoulder. Michael is studying his left foot, his expression almost wistful. “What are you thinking?”
He wriggles his three remaining toes, then looks at her. “That I’m an idiot.”
It’s not exactly the typical post-coital remark she’d been expecting, but she doesn’t mind. “Why are you an idiot?”
His eyes are filled with a dark sorrow that twists her heart. “After what I’ve seen in the last two days, how can I be worried about two missing toes?”
She gazes at him. They’d seen so many beggars today that to let herself try to count them would only lead her to a very bad place. The last thing she wants is for Michael to start off down that same path. “Well,” she begins carefully, “in the scheme of things, perhaps two toes aren’t that big a deal.” Rolling onto her side, she drapes one leg and one arm over him, her cheek resting on his chest. “But you lost those toes because you refused to let an innocent man die.” She presses a kiss to his warm, salt-tinged skin. “That is still a big deal.”
His hand comes up to cradle her head, his fingers sinking into her tousled hair. “Did I tell you Fibonacci’s wife had another baby a few weeks back?”
“No.” Her chin digs into his chest as she tilts her head to look at him. “How did you find that out?” Silly question, she thinks wryly. She really does need to remember who she’s dealing with here.
“Cooper mentioned it the last time I spoke to him.”
“I didn’t know you’d spoken to Cooper lately,” she murmurs through a yawn. “How is he?”
The hand stroking her back grows still. “Very busy.”
Before she can say anything in reply, he gathers her in his arms and rolls her onto her back, inducing an embarrassing squawk of surprise. She stares up at him, half-heartedly struggling against the iron-clad grip of his fingers, pinning her hands to the mattress. “Again?” She tries very hard not to sound impressed, but she suspects her grin gives her away. “You’re not serious.”
“I take my research very seriously, Doctor Tancredi.” He gently mouths the skin of her belly, just below her navel, and a fresh wave of heat slides through her blood. “Is a little cooperation from the test subject too much to ask?”
~*~
He powers up his laptop as soon as he hears the shower running, wanting to send an email to Cooper Green without worrying about Sara accidentally glancing over his shoulder. Smiling as he listens to the loud humming coming from the ensuite - he recognizes the tune as one of the Hindi pop songs they’d heard playing in the coffee house earlier that day - he composes a short message, telling Cooper he’d received the divorce papers the day they’d flown out of Panama, thanks him for being so dedicated to the task and that he’ll call him as soon as they return home. As he presses send, he looks across the room to their suitcases in the corner of the room. He really shouldn’t have those papers just shoved into the zippered compartment of his luggage, not after everything he and Cooper have gone through to make them a reality.
By the time Sara reappears, her face glowing, a white towel wrapped around her head, the papers are locked in the room safe and he’s halfway through an email to his brother and nephew. She bends down to kiss the top of his head, enveloping him in the fresh scent of lime and jasmine. “Emailing home?”
“Just to let them know we arrived okay.”
“Too bad we didn’t take any photographs today. We could have sent some shots of the traffic to LJ.”
“I know.” He’s still kicking himself for forgetting to grab his camera before they set out this morning. “I’m sure we’ll make up for it by the time we leave, though.”
Bent at the waist as she vigorously dries her hair, Sara’s chuckle is faintly muffled by the thick towel draped around her face. “You’re going to be one of those tourists that takes a photograph of everything that moves, aren’t you?”
He shoots her a grin. “I’m afraid so.”
Draping the towel around her neck, she comes to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders as she peers at the computer screen, and he’s very glad he decided to email Cooper Green first. “Should I order dinner?”
Turning his head, he brushes a kiss against her knuckles. “Sure. I won’t be long here.”
She crosses the room to their suitcases, then turns to give him a playful glare. “Okay, you might as well confess now.”
He stares at her, his hands growing still on the keyboard as he tries to arrange his features into the most innocent expression possible. She can’t possibly know, he reassures himself. “Confess to what?”
She shakes her head, smiling as she reaches for the zipper of her bag. “You went looking for that dress, didn’t you?”
He looks at the suitcases, belatedly realising he’d shuffled them around after he’d grabbed the divorce papers, and breathes a sigh of relief. “Innocent until proven guilty,” he quips, and she laughs.
“All I can say is that you’d better look surprised tomorrow night, Scofield.”
“You have my word of honor.”
~*~
Much later that night, after they’ve yawned their way through a light supper, Sara lies awake, suffering from the preternatural alertness that only comes with true exhaustion. Gently lifting Michael’s arm from her waist, she slips from the bed and makes her way across the darkened suite, silently opening the double doors that lead onto the balcony. She doesn’t bother with a robe, her summer pyjamas more than enough to keep her from getting a chill. Leaning her elbows on the black wrought iron railing, she smiles out into the darkness. The night air is thick and still with heat, the low rumble of traffic drifting across from the nearby main road, and she has to fight the urge to pinch herself.
Because she’s here. She’s come back, finally, after so long, and despite the fact she’s mildly terrified at the thought of meeting the sisters of St Mary’s tomorrow morning, she’s very glad to be here. She’s with Michael, she’s sober, and she’s happy. She doesn’t want to say it out loud, wary of taunting the gods, but there’s not much that could make her happier at this moment in her life.
Then again -
The memory of Michael’s expression as he gazed at the tiny but perfect face of the baby in the coffee house bursts into her thoughts, and she feels something deep inside her chest unfurl, an odd hunger that slowly and tentatively spreads through her bones and her blood and her flesh.
Do you want children? he’d asked her, his eyes glittering with barely concealed hope.
“Yes,” she whispers now, whispers it into the darkness as he sleeps behind her, suddenly and irrevocably filled with a certainly that has eluded her until now. “Yes, I do.”
He stirs as she slips into bed beside him, muttering under his breath as she huddles next to him beneath the sheets. Her bare feet and legs must be colder than she thought, she realises. He doesn’t pull away, though, instead tangling his legs with hers until her cold toes are resting against the warm arches of his feet. “Everything alright?”
Wrapping her arms around his waist, she buries her nose against his shoulder, inhales the soothing scent of his sleep-warmed skin and sends up a silent prayer that he loved his brother enough to walk into that Chicago bank. “Yes.”
~*~
The closer they get to their destination, the faster Sara drums her fingers on the worn leather upholstery between them. They’d hired a driver (and his car) through the hotel that morning, deciding it would be easier than using a local taxi. Michael studies the drumming fingertips for a moment, then gives her a reassuring smile. “You didn’t eat much at breakfast.”
Her eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses, but her answering smile is faintly skittish. “Too nervous to eat.”
He chuckles, capturing her restless hand and sandwiching it between his own. “That’s got to be a first.”
Her hand twitches in his. “Don’t be rude.”
St Mary’s is a sprawling complex - there really is no other word for it - half an hour’s drive from their hotel. Michael’s first impression is one of stucco painted bright yellow and green, the neat lines of the buildings at odds with the chicken coops, vegetable gardens and playing fields surrounding it.
“Oh, God,” Sara breaths as she stares out the window. “It’s twice as big as I remember it, but it still looks just the same.” She looks at him, her eyes shining with anticipation. “How is that possible?”
He grins but says nothing, knowing a rhetorical question when he hears one. When the car comes to a stop in front of the main building, he feels Sara’s hand tighten on his, and follows the direction of her gaze to the entrance. “Looks like there’s a welcoming committee waiting for you.” She says nothing, her face pale, and he gently bumps his shoulder against hers as he reaches for his seatbelt. “How are you doing there?”
“Terrified.” Her throat works as she swallows hard and reaches for her own seatbelt. “I guess it was pointless hoping this might be a low key visit.”
“There’s no reason to be nervous.”
“Tell that to my stomach, will you?”
Once again marveling at her unexpected command of Hindi, he waits while she asks the driver to return for them at three o’clock, then gives her another reassuring smile as she takes a deep breath, pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and turns on her heel to face her past.
He walks a step behind her, wanting to give her a small measure of privacy. An elderly nun who barely comes up to Sara’s shoulder is standing in the doorway, flanked by two of her fellow sisters. As they approach, she takes a few steps forward into the sunlight, giving Michael the impression of strong features and smiling eyes. Her hair is hidden beneath her navy blue wimple, but there is silver threaded through her dark eyebrows, the corners of her eyes tracked with lines.
“Hello, Sister Lucia.” There are tears as well as a smile in Sara’s voice, and he has to clamp down on the urge to put his hand on her back.
“Doctor Sara,” the older woman answers warmly, her heavily accented English taking Michael by surprise. Spanish, he thinks, watching as she reaches out and grips Sara’s hands. The plain gold band on her wedding finger glows against her tanned, weathered skin. “Such a joy to see you after so long.”
“The joy is all mine, believe me.” She turns to him, confirming his suspicion that her eyes are shining with unshed tears. “Sister Lucia, this is Michael Scofield.” She touches him lightly on the arm, drawing him forward to stand beside her. “Michael, this is Sister Lucia. She’s been the driving force behind St Mary’s from the very first day.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sister.” He has a few seconds to wonder about the etiquette of shaking hands where nuns are concerned, then Sister Lucia holds out her hand in unmistakable invitation. Her grip is surprisingly strong for someone so slightly-built, and she studies him with disconcerting frankness.
“And you, Mr Scofield.”
She introduces the other sisters - one born and raised in Kolkata, the other hailing from Belgium - then they’re ushered into a large, plainly furnished office. A ceiling fan whirs frantically above their heads, doing its best to stir the warm air. As Sister Lucia has a brief, murmured conversation with the other sisters in the doorway, Michael leans across to Sara and drops his voice to a teasing whisper. “No framed photograph of you up on the wall. I’m disappointed.”
Her gaze narrows, but he feels the tension radiating from her ease a little as she smiles. “Behave yourself, please.”
The two sisters have smilingly departed, and in their place a young girl - he guesses she has to be twelve or thirteen - hovers in the doorway, dressed in a neatly pressed uniform of a blue skirt and red shirt. Sister Lucia takes her place behind her desk, then gestures to the girl with a smile. She vanishes, returning a moment later with a tray laden with three small earthen cups andtwo plates piled high with small pieces of what looks like sugary hors d'oeuvres and what he fervently hopes are the Bengali sweets Sara has mentioned in glowing terms more than once over the last few months.
“This is Katina,” Sister Lucia says with an indulgent smile. “She’s one of our best students.”
Katina ducks her head, looking embarrassed but pleased. He’s slightly disconcerted when she offers the food and drink to him first, but rallies quickly, taking the steaming cup from her with a smile. “Thank you.” She smiles shyly, then hands a second cup to Sara, who beams at her.
“Thank you very much.”
The girl’s smile widens, showing off a deep dimple in either cheek. “You are very welcome,” she says politely in perfect English. She reverently puts the third on the desk in front of Sister Lucia, slides the plates onto the desk, then glides from the room.
The elderly nun looks at them in turn. “Please, eat.”
Michael hesitates, glancing at Sara. She grins, obviously remembering their roadside vendor conversation as well as he does. “You’re safe with these, trust me,” as she reaches for something that looks like a deep fried pretzel coated with powdered sugar. “It’s very kind of you to go to so much trouble just for us.”
“You’re an honored guest, my dear.” The nun smiles as she reaches for a small pinwheel studded with pistachios. “And I’m still rather fond of indulging myself, I’m afraid.”
They’re the sweetest things he’s ever tasted. A multitude of flavors explode on his tongue - rose and pistachio and cardamom - and although he feels as though his blood sugar has just gone through the roof, he’s already wondering how many boxes he can buy to take back to Panama. “My nephew would love these,” he tells their hostess, and her smile widens.
“Most children do,” she chuckles. “They can be a very useful bribe, I’ve found.”
Smiling, Sara cradles her earthen cup of chai tea - also incredibly sweet, Michael has discovered - in her hands. “How many children are here at the moment?”
“Seventy-five.” Sister Lucia rests her linked hands on the desk in front of her, her serene expression giving Michael no clue as to whether she’s proud or dismayed by the number. “The youngest two aren’t yet three months old.”
Beside him, Sara sighs softly. “Abandoned?”
“Yes.”
“Girls?”
Sister Lucia gives her a sad smile. “Yes.”
Sara turns to him, obviously sensing his curiosity. “They’re nearly always girls.”
Sister Lucia regards him steadily. “It’s an unpleasant but unavoidable fact of life. A new daughter is not always welcomed in the same manner as a son.”
His heart sinks, understanding Sara’s sigh all too well now. “So not all the children are orphaned?”
“Technically, no, but I’m afraid it amounts to the same thing.” She casts a practiced eye over the half-empty plate and drained cups on the desk between them, then pushes back her chair. “The children are in class at the moment, but of course they know you’re coming.” She smiles at them both in turn, as if wishing to dispel the somber tone of their earlier exchange. “They will be singing for you after lunch, by the way.”
So much for a low key visit, he thinks. Glancing at Sara, he sees his own sheepish delight mirrored in her eyes. “I can’t wait,” she says warmly as she follows Sister Lucia’s lead and rises to her feet. “I have very happy memories of my last day here with you.” She gives Michael a quick smile. “There was a lot of singing that afternoon, too.”
The other woman studies her for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “Many things change, other things stay the same.” She and Sara share a long look that makes Michael feel as though he should discreetly ease himself out of the room. It’s been many years since these two women have had a private conversation face-to-face, and he suspects there are many things they need to discuss. If the opportunity arises, he decides, he’ll do what he can to give them some time alone.
The opportunity arises sooner than he could have anticipated. As they walk from the administration office to the school building, he listens as Sister Lucia explains how they strive to be self-sufficient, indicating the chicken coops and the vegetable gardens with a proud sweep of her arm. “It’s not always possible to take care of everything ourselves, though,” she says with a frown. “We’ve been having some trouble with the boiler lately. Every time, the workman comes and pokes at it and drinks our tea and says he’s fixed it, but the next day, same problem.”
The words are out of his mouth almost before he even thinks about them. “I’d be happy to have a look at it for you, Sister.”
“That would be very good of you, Mr Scofield.” To his surprise, the nun’s face is a picture of quiet triumph. “If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you where it is.” A broad smile creasing her face, she sweeps across the yard, leaving him staring after her. He turns to Sara, who looks as though she’s trying not to laugh.
“Care to let me in on the joke?”
“I, uh, may have mentioned that you were an engineer in one of my emails to Sister Lucia.”
“Check and mate.” He grins, shaking his head. “What’s the world coming to when you can’t trust a nun?”
“Shocking, I know.” Putting her hand on his arm, she leans close enough to brush his cheek with a kiss. “Just ask for me when you’re done, and they’ll find me.”
He looks at her, pleased to see there’s no sign of her earlier nervousness. She looks relaxed and completely at ease, and it’s suddenly very easy to imagine her twenty-one year-old self in this very same place, trying her hardest to change one small corner of the world. “Don’t let them start the singing without me,” he murmurs as he starts to follow in Sister Lucia’s footsteps.
Sara grins. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
~*~
While she waits for Sister Lucia to return, Sara walks across to the thriving vegetable garden, smiling at the neat rows of staked eggplant bushes. She has no doubt the nuns will insist on serving lunch to their guests, and her stomach quivers with anticipation as she remembers the spicy fried eggplant that had once been a staple part of her diet. Michael had wanted to try some traditional Indian food, she muses cheerfully, and he was definitely going to experience it today.
“It’s our best crop yet.”
Sara turns to see Sister Lucia walking across the yard, her dark blue habit rippling in the soft breeze. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Sara smiles at her. “Better than I could grow at home, that’s for sure.” She falls into step beside the older woman as they make their way towards the main school building, suddenly feeling more than a little shy. It’s the first time they’ve been alone, and she can’t help wondering if Michael’s attendance on the boiler had been orchestrated for more than one reason.
“Tell me about your home.”
Sara smiles to herself. It’s been many years since she was last in this woman’s company, but it appears she still knows her quite well. “I’m very happy there.”
“I can see why,” Sister Lucia murmurs with a decidedly un-nun-like smile. “He seems like a good man.”
Sara feels the blood gathering in her cheeks. “He is.”
“I asked him how the two of you met,” the older woman says, the casual words making Sara’s stomach clench.
“What did he say?”
Sister Lucia smiles, her dark eyes gleaming. “He said it was a very long story and that he’d email me through some newspaper clippings when he returned home.”
Sara lets out her breath. “I met Michael when he was an inmate at Fox River.”
The other woman raises her eyebrows. “That must have been quite an interesting dilemma for you.”
Sara smiles. It was very typical of Sister Lucia that she was not interested in whatever crime Michael may have committed, merely the human factor of the story. “You could say that.”
As they reach the archway that leads into the main school building, Sister Lucia reaches out and puts her hand on Sara’s arm. “I was very sorry to learn of your father’s death.”
It’s not the first time Sara’s felt her eyes fill with tears today, and she doubts it will be the last. “Thank you.”
“Do you know he wrote to me?”
Sara stares at the older woman, bewildered. “No.”
Sister Lucia nods. “He sent a note and a generous donation once a year, every April.”
Sara feels as though someone’s just moved the earth beneath her feet. “April is the month my mother died.” She frowns, trying to reconcile this discovery with the memory of her father’s repeated refusal to travel with her to India to see her achievement with his own eyes, then gives Sister Lucia a despairing look. “I wish I’d known.”
“He was a very proud man, I think.” The nun’s small hand is warm on her arm. “But he was also very proud of you.”
Her throat feels tight and dry, her voice jagged-edged. “I know,” she whispers, then shakes her head, suddenly feeling incredibly foolish. She didn’t travel halfway around the world to grieve for her father all over again, and certainly not on the slender shoulder of a woman whose daily responsibilities makes hers look like a cakewalk. “I’m sorry,” she starts to say, but Sister Lucia waves her apology away.
“Loss should be mourned when the moment is right, not when it is convenient.” She gives Sara a wry smile. “And it’s rarely convenient, no?”
Dashing her eyes with the back of her hand, Sara returns the smile. “No, it’s not.”
“Come on,” the other woman says gently, her hand now beneath Sara’s elbow, strong and reassuring. “Let me show you the new nursery.”
~*~
Gratefully accepting a rag from the loitering caretaker, Michael wipes the worst of the oil and rust from his hands, then scrambles to his feet and gives the boiler a triumphant glare. For the last forty-five minutes he’s been waging a one-man war against this stubborn piece of machinery, but now he’s smiling. Turning to the caretaker, he hesitates, then decides to commit the clichéd tourist sin of assuming the man can speak English. He’ll soon find out if he’s wrong, he thinks.
“It’s fixed now.”
The man grins. “Good news! You did good job!”
Michael smiles, relieved. “No problem.”
Still grinning, the caretaker relieves him of the dirty rag, tucking it into his own back pocket. “Thank you, thank you,” he murmurs politely, and Michael has the distinct feeling that he is being invited to leave the boiler to its usual guardian, post haste.
Bowing his head, Michael beats a quick retreat, retracing his steps through the maze beneath the dormitory building - it’s an unsettlingly familiar sensation - before emerging into the bright sunlight. Hastily searching his pockets for his sunglasses, he looks around him, trying to get his bearings. Sara and Sister Lucia had been headed towards the school building when he’d left them, so perhaps that’s the best place to start.
Two students, boys this time, are drifting across the yard, their shirts untucked from their shorts, their shoes apparently abandoned as soon as they’d left the classroom. One of them is trailing a cricket bat behind him in the dust, the other is bouncing a battered red ball before him, catching it in one hand after every bounce. They freeze when they see him, regarding him with dark, serious eyes, and he walks slowly towards them, one hand raised in a genial greeting. “Hello.”
They don’t bat an eyelid between them. “You’re here with Doctor Sara?” the shorter of the two boys asks, and Michael wonders if there are any secrets to be had when children are involved.
“Uh, yes.” He can’t help smiling at them, amused by the realization that he and Lincoln were once this size. It seems almost impossible to believe. “Do you know where she is?”
They shake their heads in unison, then exchange a quick glance before the taller boy turns to him, smiling beseechingly. “You come and play cricket?”
He looks towards the school building, then at the eager faces gazing up at him. Another memory surfaces, one of he and Lincoln trying to coax their mother to play ball with them in their tiny backyard. He’s pretty sure these two are supposed to still be in class, but he’s hardly in the position to discipline them. Or disappoint them, it seems. “Sure.“
Cricket, he soon discovers, is nothing like baseball.
Silently vowing to do some quality research as soon as he gets back to the hotel, he accepts the stern enforcement of the bewildering array of rules and regulations as dictated by the two boys, feeling ridiculously pleased when they praise him for connecting the bat with the ball on more than one occasion. He soon swaps the bat for the ball, but after he’s hit the dirt for the second time, diving for the ball - he quickly learns that catching the ball on the full after it’s been hit is a very good thing - he dusts off his jeans and calls it a day. The two boys grin at him. “You need more practice,” the taller one informs him cheerily.
“Yes, so it would seem.”
The muted sound of a school bell ringing has an instant effect on his two new friends. They snap to attention, then hastily gather up the bat and the ball and bid him a hurried farewell. It’s only after they’ve dashed off towards the classroom Michael assumes they should have been all this time that he realises he never learned their names. Telling himself he’ll surely see them after lunch, he sets off in search of Sara once again.
Luck is on his side in the form of a passing nun, one of the sisters he’d met on their arrival, and saying the name Tancredi gets instant results. He’s pointed in the direction of the nursery, and a moment later he’s standing in the doorway, watching Sara, a lump in his throat the size of a fist.
She’s perched on a wooden chair, bottle feeding one of the two babies Sister Lucia had mentioned to them earlier. Her naturally wavy hair has gone crazy in the heat, slipping out of its ponytail, strands sticking damply to her forehead, a soft white cloth draped over her shoulder. The baby girl in her arms is staring up at her with an intensity he’s never before seen, and something tightens in his chest at the sight of them. As if feeling the weight of his gaze, Sara looks up and smiles. “What have you been doing?”
He grins. “Oh, this and that.”
“Did you manage to fix the boiler?”
“Piece of cake.”
She gives him a grateful smile. ”Thank you for doing that.”
“Not a problem.” He walks slowly around the room, studying the brightly coloured mural painted on the wall. “Where’s Sister Lucia?”
“Gone to micro-manage the kitchen staff, I think.”
“She seems like a very efficient person.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Looking up from the baby in her arms, Sara’s gaze sweeps over him from head to toe. “Nice grass stains you’ve got there.”
He glances down at the knees of his jeans. They’re definitely fodder for the Grand Oberoi’s laundry service. “I earned them in honorable battle.”
“How did you do?”
Crossing the room to her side, he pulls up another chair to sit beside her, reaching out to brush his knuckles against the soft cheek of the child in her arms. He doesn’t need to analyze the heavy ache deep in his chest. He already knows it’s longing, pure and simple, a longing to see this woman holding their child. He has no idea when it happened exactly, but a switch has been turned on in his head and there’s no turning it off again. “I made ten runs, apparently.”
She purses her lips. “Not bad for a beginner.”
“Well, considering they wouldn’t let me hold the bat like a baseball bat-”
“I should think not.” Skillfully easing the rubber nipple from the baby’s mouth, she puts the empty bottle on the table beside her and gracefully swings the baby upwards to drape her over her cloth-clad shoulder. “We should take some beach cricket gear back for LJ.”
"Good idea." He watches the circular movements of her hands over the baby’s back, the seemingly instinctive fluttering of her long fingers between the child’s tiny shoulders. A few seconds later, a surprisingly loud belching noise interrupts the peaceful silence, and he grins. “You’re doing a fine job there, Doctor Sara.”
Sara smiles at him. “Would you like to hold her?”
He blinks. “Er-” As far as he recalls, the last baby he’d held for longer than a few seconds had been LJ, and he’d been little more than a child himself. “She looks very comfortable with you.”
She raises one dark red eyebrow, then simply passes the baby to him without saying a word. Startled, his hands instinctively come up to support the tiny bottom and head, his arms curving in a circle almost without conscious thought. Putting his face close to the curve of her head, he inhales the scent of milk and soft, new skin. The sweet, musky smell makes him smile, then he hears the unmistakable sound of a small stomach gurgling. He shoots Sara a look over the baby’s downy head. “What are the odds of her throwing up on me?”
“Not too bad.” Her hands linked together, Sara stretches her arms above her head with an appreciative groan, then grins. “It’s the other end that will probably get your attention first.”
There was a time when such a suggestion would have had him recoiling in faint disgust, but he feels nothing but the soft warmth of the small bundle in his arms. “Okay.”
Sara looks amused. “In that case, the clean diapers are on the shelf behind you.” She gets to her feet, putting one hand on his shoulder, the other curling around the baby’s head. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“She is,” he murmurs as he looks down at the baby in his arms. She’s sleepily mouthing her fist, her feet gently kicking against his arm, her lashes dark against her olive skin. “How could someone just walk away from her?” Even as he says the words, he recognizes the naivety of the question.
Sara sighs. “I wish I could give you a simple answer, but I can’t.” There’s a faint catch in her voice and, turning his head to look at her, he sees the despondency in her eyes. “We’re up against centuries of ingrained cultural beliefs and an unforgiving caste system that-”
There’s a knock on the door, and they turn to see the young nun from Belgian smiling at them shyly. “Lunch is ready if you would like to come, please?”
“We’ll be right there, thank you,” Sara tells her, reaching for the baby in Michael’s arms, apparently changing her mind about putting him on diaper duty. “I’ll just change her-”
“No need, Doctor Sara,” the other woman says with a rush as she walks across the nursery. “I’ll look after her.”
Sara looks as though she’s tempted to protest, then smiles. “Thank you, Sister Ava.”
Relieved of their small burden, she and Michael slowly make their way out of the nursery. Nodding towards the pile of clean diapers on their right, he bumps his shoulder against hers, grinning. “Saved by the bell.”
She quirks an eyebrow at him, mischief dancing in her eyes. “The day’s not over yet, Scofield.”
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 6,875 words
Rating: NC-17
Summary: All good things come to those who wait.
Author's Note:This story is part of the Full Circle series. It takes place between the 'end' and the 'epilogue' of Safe House, and will make much more sense if you've already read that story. You can read the earlier chapters of India here. Huge thanks to swatkat24 for letting me ask her 447 questions about everything from Bengali sweets to school uniforms. Thanks to wrldpossibility for the beta. Any mistakes that remain are all mine, and all concrit is welcomed with open arms.
~*~
Studying the newly relaxed faces of the strangers sitting around her in the old church hall, Sara marvels at how life can come full circle in the most unexpected of ways.
When she was a child, two of her casual neighbourhood friends were from Catholic families. Sometimes, when they played together on a Saturday, she would listen to them practicing the recitation of their various sins, all in preparation for a visit to something called confession the following day. As her entire religious experience to that point had involved spending an hour once a week at her father’s carefully favored Methodist church, the notion of sitting and confessing one’s sins seemed faintly exciting and more than a little terrifying.
When she’d hesitantly asked if they weren’t scared to confess such things to an adult - especially someone as lofty as a white-collared priest! - they had looked at her in confusion. Confession is good for the soul, one of the eight year-olds would intone solemnly, while the other would nod in agreement.
That was over twenty years ago, but every time she makes it through to the end of another group session, she can’t help wondering if this is what it had felt like for them, this purging of the heart and soul. The feeling as though you could start again, no matter how badly you’d stumbled.
Surfacing through the depths of her thoughts, she darts a quick glance at the man sitting beside her, holding her hand. “You okay?” Please still love me. The hated, foolish little voice in the darkest corner of her mind makes itself known before she can pulverize it into oblivion. Please don’t think badly of me.
Michael slips one arm along the back of her chair, fingertips grazing the curve of her shoulder as he bends his head to hers. She feels the brush of his lips on the top of her head, then the warmth of his breath as he murmurs words meant for her ears alone. “I’m incredibly proud of you.”
She feels her face grow warm. “Millions of people go through this every day,” she murmurs, suddenly feeling as though she’s earned his praise under false pretences, as though he thinks what she’s done is unique. After all, how many other addicts does he have in his life? “I’m nothing special.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle softly as he smiles. “Ah, but I’m not in love with them.”
A chuckle bubbles up in her throat as she grips his hand a little tighter, wondering why it had taken her so long to ask him to come to a meeting with her. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Bright sunlight greets them as they step out of the church hall, and she can’t help smiling as they both hastily reach for their sunglasses in perfect synch. As the human traffic begins to flow around them once more, he looks at her expectantly. “Now what?”
For all her joking about jet leg, she can’t deny she’s starting to feel a little frayed around the edges. Add to that a hefty dose of butterflies at the prospect of well and truly revisiting her past tomorrow, and she’s ready to find a quiet spot in which to hide out. “Well, we’ve got a busy day tomorrow.” Curling her arm through his, she gently steers him towards an empty black and yellow taxi that has miraculously appeared a few feet away. “Early dinner, shower, bed?”
He gives her a lingering look that warms her as effectively as the sun through her shirt. “Sounds good to me.”
The taxi driver gives them an effusive welcome, and they commence the lurching journey back to the hotel. After one particularly enthusiastic swerve to the left, she puts her hand on Michael’s knee, feeling the sudden need for an additional anchor. “Thank you for coming with me.”
His hand slides over hers. “Thanks for asking me.” He studies their entwined hands, and raises his gaze to meet hers. “When you had that moment at the coffee house this afternoon - was it as we were leaving?”
And to think she’d actually been under the impression she’d managed to slip that one past him, she muses wryly. “How did you know?”
He shrugs, as though not wanting to make any more of it than he already has. “When we were walking back to the hotel, it was like you weren’t really there.”
She returns his gaze steadily, determined not to give into the lure of shame. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He smiles into her eyes as he drums his fingertips lightly over her knuckles. “I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this gig.”
She laughs softly. “For better or for worse, right?”
He blinks at her teasing words, his eyes glittering with a strangely familiar emotion she can’t quite place, then he grins. “So. Tell me more about Sister Lucia and her love of bad karaoke songs.”
~*~
“Thank God.” The door of their room shut firmly behind them, Sara kicks off her dusty sandals and makes a beeline for the oversized bed. She stretches out across the perfectly smooth bedspread, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of having to leave this room again tonight, then peers up at Michael, who is watching her amateur dramatics with obvious amusement. “Please tell me we can have room service tonight?”
“Sure.” Picking up the thick black room service menu from the credenza, he sits on the edge of the bed beside her, one long leg tucked under him. “I thought maybe tomorrow night we could have dinner in the restaurant downstairs, though.”
“I’d like that.” She smiles up at him as he starts to flick through the folder. “It might be my only chance to wear the new dress I packed.”
He looks up from the menu, unabashed curiosity dancing in his eyes. “Which dress is that?”
“A new one. You’ll see it tomorrow.” Catching his less-than-subtle glance at her suitcase, she puts out her hand, index finger raises reprovingly, doing her best to keep a straight face. “And don’t get any ideas about going through my luggage between now and then.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m lots of fun,” she tells him with mild indignation, sliding her hand between the menu and his jean-clad thigh. “If you come down here, I might even try to convince you how much fun I am.”
He laughs, pushing the menu aside with a careless hand, then his hands are anything but careless as they slip beneath her shirt, his palms warm against her skin. It’s the first time he’s touched her like this since they’ve arrived in India, and when he dips his head to give her a lazy kiss, she feels the spark between them catch and flare despite her weariness.
They tug languidly at buttons and zippers, their clothes fluttering to the floor in a soft pile of creased cotton. “Good to see the sunscreen did its job,” he murmurs, his fingertips grazing the underside of her breasts in a caress that makes every tiny hair on her body stand on end. “No sunburn that I can see, although I might have to do a little more research.”
Reaching out, she winds her arms around his neck and pulls him down to her, craving the weight of his body on hers. He smells faintly of dust from the street, fresh sweat and the spicy soap he’d insisted on bringing from home, and she wants nothing more than to sink her teeth into the tanned crook of his neck until he shudders in her arms. “You can finish your research later,” she says, her voice catching roughly as he slides his hand between her thighs and bends his head to her breast. “Because I don’t think I can stay awake long enough to - uh, that’s, oh, God -“ She feels his lips curve into a smile against her skin, then he starts to move his hands and his mouth and talking seems all too complicated.
Afterwards, they lay entwined on top of the bedclothes for a long time, the faint sheen of sweat on their skin quickly drying in the air-conditioned room. The room service menu seems to be upside down on the floor beside the bed, but she can’t seem to summon the energy to lean over and pick it up. She should really draw the curtains too, but that would involve untangling herself from Michael and really, she can’t see the appeal.
Finally, she stirs, splaying her hand on his hip as she presses a kiss to his shoulder. Michael is studying his left foot, his expression almost wistful. “What are you thinking?”
He wriggles his three remaining toes, then looks at her. “That I’m an idiot.”
It’s not exactly the typical post-coital remark she’d been expecting, but she doesn’t mind. “Why are you an idiot?”
His eyes are filled with a dark sorrow that twists her heart. “After what I’ve seen in the last two days, how can I be worried about two missing toes?”
She gazes at him. They’d seen so many beggars today that to let herself try to count them would only lead her to a very bad place. The last thing she wants is for Michael to start off down that same path. “Well,” she begins carefully, “in the scheme of things, perhaps two toes aren’t that big a deal.” Rolling onto her side, she drapes one leg and one arm over him, her cheek resting on his chest. “But you lost those toes because you refused to let an innocent man die.” She presses a kiss to his warm, salt-tinged skin. “That is still a big deal.”
His hand comes up to cradle her head, his fingers sinking into her tousled hair. “Did I tell you Fibonacci’s wife had another baby a few weeks back?”
“No.” Her chin digs into his chest as she tilts her head to look at him. “How did you find that out?” Silly question, she thinks wryly. She really does need to remember who she’s dealing with here.
“Cooper mentioned it the last time I spoke to him.”
“I didn’t know you’d spoken to Cooper lately,” she murmurs through a yawn. “How is he?”
The hand stroking her back grows still. “Very busy.”
Before she can say anything in reply, he gathers her in his arms and rolls her onto her back, inducing an embarrassing squawk of surprise. She stares up at him, half-heartedly struggling against the iron-clad grip of his fingers, pinning her hands to the mattress. “Again?” She tries very hard not to sound impressed, but she suspects her grin gives her away. “You’re not serious.”
“I take my research very seriously, Doctor Tancredi.” He gently mouths the skin of her belly, just below her navel, and a fresh wave of heat slides through her blood. “Is a little cooperation from the test subject too much to ask?”
~*~
He powers up his laptop as soon as he hears the shower running, wanting to send an email to Cooper Green without worrying about Sara accidentally glancing over his shoulder. Smiling as he listens to the loud humming coming from the ensuite - he recognizes the tune as one of the Hindi pop songs they’d heard playing in the coffee house earlier that day - he composes a short message, telling Cooper he’d received the divorce papers the day they’d flown out of Panama, thanks him for being so dedicated to the task and that he’ll call him as soon as they return home. As he presses send, he looks across the room to their suitcases in the corner of the room. He really shouldn’t have those papers just shoved into the zippered compartment of his luggage, not after everything he and Cooper have gone through to make them a reality.
By the time Sara reappears, her face glowing, a white towel wrapped around her head, the papers are locked in the room safe and he’s halfway through an email to his brother and nephew. She bends down to kiss the top of his head, enveloping him in the fresh scent of lime and jasmine. “Emailing home?”
“Just to let them know we arrived okay.”
“Too bad we didn’t take any photographs today. We could have sent some shots of the traffic to LJ.”
“I know.” He’s still kicking himself for forgetting to grab his camera before they set out this morning. “I’m sure we’ll make up for it by the time we leave, though.”
Bent at the waist as she vigorously dries her hair, Sara’s chuckle is faintly muffled by the thick towel draped around her face. “You’re going to be one of those tourists that takes a photograph of everything that moves, aren’t you?”
He shoots her a grin. “I’m afraid so.”
Draping the towel around her neck, she comes to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders as she peers at the computer screen, and he’s very glad he decided to email Cooper Green first. “Should I order dinner?”
Turning his head, he brushes a kiss against her knuckles. “Sure. I won’t be long here.”
She crosses the room to their suitcases, then turns to give him a playful glare. “Okay, you might as well confess now.”
He stares at her, his hands growing still on the keyboard as he tries to arrange his features into the most innocent expression possible. She can’t possibly know, he reassures himself. “Confess to what?”
She shakes her head, smiling as she reaches for the zipper of her bag. “You went looking for that dress, didn’t you?”
He looks at the suitcases, belatedly realising he’d shuffled them around after he’d grabbed the divorce papers, and breathes a sigh of relief. “Innocent until proven guilty,” he quips, and she laughs.
“All I can say is that you’d better look surprised tomorrow night, Scofield.”
“You have my word of honor.”
~*~
Much later that night, after they’ve yawned their way through a light supper, Sara lies awake, suffering from the preternatural alertness that only comes with true exhaustion. Gently lifting Michael’s arm from her waist, she slips from the bed and makes her way across the darkened suite, silently opening the double doors that lead onto the balcony. She doesn’t bother with a robe, her summer pyjamas more than enough to keep her from getting a chill. Leaning her elbows on the black wrought iron railing, she smiles out into the darkness. The night air is thick and still with heat, the low rumble of traffic drifting across from the nearby main road, and she has to fight the urge to pinch herself.
Because she’s here. She’s come back, finally, after so long, and despite the fact she’s mildly terrified at the thought of meeting the sisters of St Mary’s tomorrow morning, she’s very glad to be here. She’s with Michael, she’s sober, and she’s happy. She doesn’t want to say it out loud, wary of taunting the gods, but there’s not much that could make her happier at this moment in her life.
Then again -
The memory of Michael’s expression as he gazed at the tiny but perfect face of the baby in the coffee house bursts into her thoughts, and she feels something deep inside her chest unfurl, an odd hunger that slowly and tentatively spreads through her bones and her blood and her flesh.
Do you want children? he’d asked her, his eyes glittering with barely concealed hope.
“Yes,” she whispers now, whispers it into the darkness as he sleeps behind her, suddenly and irrevocably filled with a certainly that has eluded her until now. “Yes, I do.”
He stirs as she slips into bed beside him, muttering under his breath as she huddles next to him beneath the sheets. Her bare feet and legs must be colder than she thought, she realises. He doesn’t pull away, though, instead tangling his legs with hers until her cold toes are resting against the warm arches of his feet. “Everything alright?”
Wrapping her arms around his waist, she buries her nose against his shoulder, inhales the soothing scent of his sleep-warmed skin and sends up a silent prayer that he loved his brother enough to walk into that Chicago bank. “Yes.”
~*~
The closer they get to their destination, the faster Sara drums her fingers on the worn leather upholstery between them. They’d hired a driver (and his car) through the hotel that morning, deciding it would be easier than using a local taxi. Michael studies the drumming fingertips for a moment, then gives her a reassuring smile. “You didn’t eat much at breakfast.”
Her eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses, but her answering smile is faintly skittish. “Too nervous to eat.”
He chuckles, capturing her restless hand and sandwiching it between his own. “That’s got to be a first.”
Her hand twitches in his. “Don’t be rude.”
St Mary’s is a sprawling complex - there really is no other word for it - half an hour’s drive from their hotel. Michael’s first impression is one of stucco painted bright yellow and green, the neat lines of the buildings at odds with the chicken coops, vegetable gardens and playing fields surrounding it.
“Oh, God,” Sara breaths as she stares out the window. “It’s twice as big as I remember it, but it still looks just the same.” She looks at him, her eyes shining with anticipation. “How is that possible?”
He grins but says nothing, knowing a rhetorical question when he hears one. When the car comes to a stop in front of the main building, he feels Sara’s hand tighten on his, and follows the direction of her gaze to the entrance. “Looks like there’s a welcoming committee waiting for you.” She says nothing, her face pale, and he gently bumps his shoulder against hers as he reaches for his seatbelt. “How are you doing there?”
“Terrified.” Her throat works as she swallows hard and reaches for her own seatbelt. “I guess it was pointless hoping this might be a low key visit.”
“There’s no reason to be nervous.”
“Tell that to my stomach, will you?”
Once again marveling at her unexpected command of Hindi, he waits while she asks the driver to return for them at three o’clock, then gives her another reassuring smile as she takes a deep breath, pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and turns on her heel to face her past.
He walks a step behind her, wanting to give her a small measure of privacy. An elderly nun who barely comes up to Sara’s shoulder is standing in the doorway, flanked by two of her fellow sisters. As they approach, she takes a few steps forward into the sunlight, giving Michael the impression of strong features and smiling eyes. Her hair is hidden beneath her navy blue wimple, but there is silver threaded through her dark eyebrows, the corners of her eyes tracked with lines.
“Hello, Sister Lucia.” There are tears as well as a smile in Sara’s voice, and he has to clamp down on the urge to put his hand on her back.
“Doctor Sara,” the older woman answers warmly, her heavily accented English taking Michael by surprise. Spanish, he thinks, watching as she reaches out and grips Sara’s hands. The plain gold band on her wedding finger glows against her tanned, weathered skin. “Such a joy to see you after so long.”
“The joy is all mine, believe me.” She turns to him, confirming his suspicion that her eyes are shining with unshed tears. “Sister Lucia, this is Michael Scofield.” She touches him lightly on the arm, drawing him forward to stand beside her. “Michael, this is Sister Lucia. She’s been the driving force behind St Mary’s from the very first day.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sister.” He has a few seconds to wonder about the etiquette of shaking hands where nuns are concerned, then Sister Lucia holds out her hand in unmistakable invitation. Her grip is surprisingly strong for someone so slightly-built, and she studies him with disconcerting frankness.
“And you, Mr Scofield.”
She introduces the other sisters - one born and raised in Kolkata, the other hailing from Belgium - then they’re ushered into a large, plainly furnished office. A ceiling fan whirs frantically above their heads, doing its best to stir the warm air. As Sister Lucia has a brief, murmured conversation with the other sisters in the doorway, Michael leans across to Sara and drops his voice to a teasing whisper. “No framed photograph of you up on the wall. I’m disappointed.”
Her gaze narrows, but he feels the tension radiating from her ease a little as she smiles. “Behave yourself, please.”
The two sisters have smilingly departed, and in their place a young girl - he guesses she has to be twelve or thirteen - hovers in the doorway, dressed in a neatly pressed uniform of a blue skirt and red shirt. Sister Lucia takes her place behind her desk, then gestures to the girl with a smile. She vanishes, returning a moment later with a tray laden with three small earthen cups andtwo plates piled high with small pieces of what looks like sugary hors d'oeuvres and what he fervently hopes are the Bengali sweets Sara has mentioned in glowing terms more than once over the last few months.
“This is Katina,” Sister Lucia says with an indulgent smile. “She’s one of our best students.”
Katina ducks her head, looking embarrassed but pleased. He’s slightly disconcerted when she offers the food and drink to him first, but rallies quickly, taking the steaming cup from her with a smile. “Thank you.” She smiles shyly, then hands a second cup to Sara, who beams at her.
“Thank you very much.”
The girl’s smile widens, showing off a deep dimple in either cheek. “You are very welcome,” she says politely in perfect English. She reverently puts the third on the desk in front of Sister Lucia, slides the plates onto the desk, then glides from the room.
The elderly nun looks at them in turn. “Please, eat.”
Michael hesitates, glancing at Sara. She grins, obviously remembering their roadside vendor conversation as well as he does. “You’re safe with these, trust me,” as she reaches for something that looks like a deep fried pretzel coated with powdered sugar. “It’s very kind of you to go to so much trouble just for us.”
“You’re an honored guest, my dear.” The nun smiles as she reaches for a small pinwheel studded with pistachios. “And I’m still rather fond of indulging myself, I’m afraid.”
They’re the sweetest things he’s ever tasted. A multitude of flavors explode on his tongue - rose and pistachio and cardamom - and although he feels as though his blood sugar has just gone through the roof, he’s already wondering how many boxes he can buy to take back to Panama. “My nephew would love these,” he tells their hostess, and her smile widens.
“Most children do,” she chuckles. “They can be a very useful bribe, I’ve found.”
Smiling, Sara cradles her earthen cup of chai tea - also incredibly sweet, Michael has discovered - in her hands. “How many children are here at the moment?”
“Seventy-five.” Sister Lucia rests her linked hands on the desk in front of her, her serene expression giving Michael no clue as to whether she’s proud or dismayed by the number. “The youngest two aren’t yet three months old.”
Beside him, Sara sighs softly. “Abandoned?”
“Yes.”
“Girls?”
Sister Lucia gives her a sad smile. “Yes.”
Sara turns to him, obviously sensing his curiosity. “They’re nearly always girls.”
Sister Lucia regards him steadily. “It’s an unpleasant but unavoidable fact of life. A new daughter is not always welcomed in the same manner as a son.”
His heart sinks, understanding Sara’s sigh all too well now. “So not all the children are orphaned?”
“Technically, no, but I’m afraid it amounts to the same thing.” She casts a practiced eye over the half-empty plate and drained cups on the desk between them, then pushes back her chair. “The children are in class at the moment, but of course they know you’re coming.” She smiles at them both in turn, as if wishing to dispel the somber tone of their earlier exchange. “They will be singing for you after lunch, by the way.”
So much for a low key visit, he thinks. Glancing at Sara, he sees his own sheepish delight mirrored in her eyes. “I can’t wait,” she says warmly as she follows Sister Lucia’s lead and rises to her feet. “I have very happy memories of my last day here with you.” She gives Michael a quick smile. “There was a lot of singing that afternoon, too.”
The other woman studies her for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “Many things change, other things stay the same.” She and Sara share a long look that makes Michael feel as though he should discreetly ease himself out of the room. It’s been many years since these two women have had a private conversation face-to-face, and he suspects there are many things they need to discuss. If the opportunity arises, he decides, he’ll do what he can to give them some time alone.
The opportunity arises sooner than he could have anticipated. As they walk from the administration office to the school building, he listens as Sister Lucia explains how they strive to be self-sufficient, indicating the chicken coops and the vegetable gardens with a proud sweep of her arm. “It’s not always possible to take care of everything ourselves, though,” she says with a frown. “We’ve been having some trouble with the boiler lately. Every time, the workman comes and pokes at it and drinks our tea and says he’s fixed it, but the next day, same problem.”
The words are out of his mouth almost before he even thinks about them. “I’d be happy to have a look at it for you, Sister.”
“That would be very good of you, Mr Scofield.” To his surprise, the nun’s face is a picture of quiet triumph. “If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you where it is.” A broad smile creasing her face, she sweeps across the yard, leaving him staring after her. He turns to Sara, who looks as though she’s trying not to laugh.
“Care to let me in on the joke?”
“I, uh, may have mentioned that you were an engineer in one of my emails to Sister Lucia.”
“Check and mate.” He grins, shaking his head. “What’s the world coming to when you can’t trust a nun?”
“Shocking, I know.” Putting her hand on his arm, she leans close enough to brush his cheek with a kiss. “Just ask for me when you’re done, and they’ll find me.”
He looks at her, pleased to see there’s no sign of her earlier nervousness. She looks relaxed and completely at ease, and it’s suddenly very easy to imagine her twenty-one year-old self in this very same place, trying her hardest to change one small corner of the world. “Don’t let them start the singing without me,” he murmurs as he starts to follow in Sister Lucia’s footsteps.
Sara grins. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
~*~
While she waits for Sister Lucia to return, Sara walks across to the thriving vegetable garden, smiling at the neat rows of staked eggplant bushes. She has no doubt the nuns will insist on serving lunch to their guests, and her stomach quivers with anticipation as she remembers the spicy fried eggplant that had once been a staple part of her diet. Michael had wanted to try some traditional Indian food, she muses cheerfully, and he was definitely going to experience it today.
“It’s our best crop yet.”
Sara turns to see Sister Lucia walking across the yard, her dark blue habit rippling in the soft breeze. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Sara smiles at her. “Better than I could grow at home, that’s for sure.” She falls into step beside the older woman as they make their way towards the main school building, suddenly feeling more than a little shy. It’s the first time they’ve been alone, and she can’t help wondering if Michael’s attendance on the boiler had been orchestrated for more than one reason.
“Tell me about your home.”
Sara smiles to herself. It’s been many years since she was last in this woman’s company, but it appears she still knows her quite well. “I’m very happy there.”
“I can see why,” Sister Lucia murmurs with a decidedly un-nun-like smile. “He seems like a good man.”
Sara feels the blood gathering in her cheeks. “He is.”
“I asked him how the two of you met,” the older woman says, the casual words making Sara’s stomach clench.
“What did he say?”
Sister Lucia smiles, her dark eyes gleaming. “He said it was a very long story and that he’d email me through some newspaper clippings when he returned home.”
Sara lets out her breath. “I met Michael when he was an inmate at Fox River.”
The other woman raises her eyebrows. “That must have been quite an interesting dilemma for you.”
Sara smiles. It was very typical of Sister Lucia that she was not interested in whatever crime Michael may have committed, merely the human factor of the story. “You could say that.”
As they reach the archway that leads into the main school building, Sister Lucia reaches out and puts her hand on Sara’s arm. “I was very sorry to learn of your father’s death.”
It’s not the first time Sara’s felt her eyes fill with tears today, and she doubts it will be the last. “Thank you.”
“Do you know he wrote to me?”
Sara stares at the older woman, bewildered. “No.”
Sister Lucia nods. “He sent a note and a generous donation once a year, every April.”
Sara feels as though someone’s just moved the earth beneath her feet. “April is the month my mother died.” She frowns, trying to reconcile this discovery with the memory of her father’s repeated refusal to travel with her to India to see her achievement with his own eyes, then gives Sister Lucia a despairing look. “I wish I’d known.”
“He was a very proud man, I think.” The nun’s small hand is warm on her arm. “But he was also very proud of you.”
Her throat feels tight and dry, her voice jagged-edged. “I know,” she whispers, then shakes her head, suddenly feeling incredibly foolish. She didn’t travel halfway around the world to grieve for her father all over again, and certainly not on the slender shoulder of a woman whose daily responsibilities makes hers look like a cakewalk. “I’m sorry,” she starts to say, but Sister Lucia waves her apology away.
“Loss should be mourned when the moment is right, not when it is convenient.” She gives Sara a wry smile. “And it’s rarely convenient, no?”
Dashing her eyes with the back of her hand, Sara returns the smile. “No, it’s not.”
“Come on,” the other woman says gently, her hand now beneath Sara’s elbow, strong and reassuring. “Let me show you the new nursery.”
~*~
Gratefully accepting a rag from the loitering caretaker, Michael wipes the worst of the oil and rust from his hands, then scrambles to his feet and gives the boiler a triumphant glare. For the last forty-five minutes he’s been waging a one-man war against this stubborn piece of machinery, but now he’s smiling. Turning to the caretaker, he hesitates, then decides to commit the clichéd tourist sin of assuming the man can speak English. He’ll soon find out if he’s wrong, he thinks.
“It’s fixed now.”
The man grins. “Good news! You did good job!”
Michael smiles, relieved. “No problem.”
Still grinning, the caretaker relieves him of the dirty rag, tucking it into his own back pocket. “Thank you, thank you,” he murmurs politely, and Michael has the distinct feeling that he is being invited to leave the boiler to its usual guardian, post haste.
Bowing his head, Michael beats a quick retreat, retracing his steps through the maze beneath the dormitory building - it’s an unsettlingly familiar sensation - before emerging into the bright sunlight. Hastily searching his pockets for his sunglasses, he looks around him, trying to get his bearings. Sara and Sister Lucia had been headed towards the school building when he’d left them, so perhaps that’s the best place to start.
Two students, boys this time, are drifting across the yard, their shirts untucked from their shorts, their shoes apparently abandoned as soon as they’d left the classroom. One of them is trailing a cricket bat behind him in the dust, the other is bouncing a battered red ball before him, catching it in one hand after every bounce. They freeze when they see him, regarding him with dark, serious eyes, and he walks slowly towards them, one hand raised in a genial greeting. “Hello.”
They don’t bat an eyelid between them. “You’re here with Doctor Sara?” the shorter of the two boys asks, and Michael wonders if there are any secrets to be had when children are involved.
“Uh, yes.” He can’t help smiling at them, amused by the realization that he and Lincoln were once this size. It seems almost impossible to believe. “Do you know where she is?”
They shake their heads in unison, then exchange a quick glance before the taller boy turns to him, smiling beseechingly. “You come and play cricket?”
He looks towards the school building, then at the eager faces gazing up at him. Another memory surfaces, one of he and Lincoln trying to coax their mother to play ball with them in their tiny backyard. He’s pretty sure these two are supposed to still be in class, but he’s hardly in the position to discipline them. Or disappoint them, it seems. “Sure.“
Cricket, he soon discovers, is nothing like baseball.
Silently vowing to do some quality research as soon as he gets back to the hotel, he accepts the stern enforcement of the bewildering array of rules and regulations as dictated by the two boys, feeling ridiculously pleased when they praise him for connecting the bat with the ball on more than one occasion. He soon swaps the bat for the ball, but after he’s hit the dirt for the second time, diving for the ball - he quickly learns that catching the ball on the full after it’s been hit is a very good thing - he dusts off his jeans and calls it a day. The two boys grin at him. “You need more practice,” the taller one informs him cheerily.
“Yes, so it would seem.”
The muted sound of a school bell ringing has an instant effect on his two new friends. They snap to attention, then hastily gather up the bat and the ball and bid him a hurried farewell. It’s only after they’ve dashed off towards the classroom Michael assumes they should have been all this time that he realises he never learned their names. Telling himself he’ll surely see them after lunch, he sets off in search of Sara once again.
Luck is on his side in the form of a passing nun, one of the sisters he’d met on their arrival, and saying the name Tancredi gets instant results. He’s pointed in the direction of the nursery, and a moment later he’s standing in the doorway, watching Sara, a lump in his throat the size of a fist.
She’s perched on a wooden chair, bottle feeding one of the two babies Sister Lucia had mentioned to them earlier. Her naturally wavy hair has gone crazy in the heat, slipping out of its ponytail, strands sticking damply to her forehead, a soft white cloth draped over her shoulder. The baby girl in her arms is staring up at her with an intensity he’s never before seen, and something tightens in his chest at the sight of them. As if feeling the weight of his gaze, Sara looks up and smiles. “What have you been doing?”
He grins. “Oh, this and that.”
“Did you manage to fix the boiler?”
“Piece of cake.”
She gives him a grateful smile. ”Thank you for doing that.”
“Not a problem.” He walks slowly around the room, studying the brightly coloured mural painted on the wall. “Where’s Sister Lucia?”
“Gone to micro-manage the kitchen staff, I think.”
“She seems like a very efficient person.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Looking up from the baby in her arms, Sara’s gaze sweeps over him from head to toe. “Nice grass stains you’ve got there.”
He glances down at the knees of his jeans. They’re definitely fodder for the Grand Oberoi’s laundry service. “I earned them in honorable battle.”
“How did you do?”
Crossing the room to her side, he pulls up another chair to sit beside her, reaching out to brush his knuckles against the soft cheek of the child in her arms. He doesn’t need to analyze the heavy ache deep in his chest. He already knows it’s longing, pure and simple, a longing to see this woman holding their child. He has no idea when it happened exactly, but a switch has been turned on in his head and there’s no turning it off again. “I made ten runs, apparently.”
She purses her lips. “Not bad for a beginner.”
“Well, considering they wouldn’t let me hold the bat like a baseball bat-”
“I should think not.” Skillfully easing the rubber nipple from the baby’s mouth, she puts the empty bottle on the table beside her and gracefully swings the baby upwards to drape her over her cloth-clad shoulder. “We should take some beach cricket gear back for LJ.”
"Good idea." He watches the circular movements of her hands over the baby’s back, the seemingly instinctive fluttering of her long fingers between the child’s tiny shoulders. A few seconds later, a surprisingly loud belching noise interrupts the peaceful silence, and he grins. “You’re doing a fine job there, Doctor Sara.”
Sara smiles at him. “Would you like to hold her?”
He blinks. “Er-” As far as he recalls, the last baby he’d held for longer than a few seconds had been LJ, and he’d been little more than a child himself. “She looks very comfortable with you.”
She raises one dark red eyebrow, then simply passes the baby to him without saying a word. Startled, his hands instinctively come up to support the tiny bottom and head, his arms curving in a circle almost without conscious thought. Putting his face close to the curve of her head, he inhales the scent of milk and soft, new skin. The sweet, musky smell makes him smile, then he hears the unmistakable sound of a small stomach gurgling. He shoots Sara a look over the baby’s downy head. “What are the odds of her throwing up on me?”
“Not too bad.” Her hands linked together, Sara stretches her arms above her head with an appreciative groan, then grins. “It’s the other end that will probably get your attention first.”
There was a time when such a suggestion would have had him recoiling in faint disgust, but he feels nothing but the soft warmth of the small bundle in his arms. “Okay.”
Sara looks amused. “In that case, the clean diapers are on the shelf behind you.” She gets to her feet, putting one hand on his shoulder, the other curling around the baby’s head. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“She is,” he murmurs as he looks down at the baby in his arms. She’s sleepily mouthing her fist, her feet gently kicking against his arm, her lashes dark against her olive skin. “How could someone just walk away from her?” Even as he says the words, he recognizes the naivety of the question.
Sara sighs. “I wish I could give you a simple answer, but I can’t.” There’s a faint catch in her voice and, turning his head to look at her, he sees the despondency in her eyes. “We’re up against centuries of ingrained cultural beliefs and an unforgiving caste system that-”
There’s a knock on the door, and they turn to see the young nun from Belgian smiling at them shyly. “Lunch is ready if you would like to come, please?”
“We’ll be right there, thank you,” Sara tells her, reaching for the baby in Michael’s arms, apparently changing her mind about putting him on diaper duty. “I’ll just change her-”
“No need, Doctor Sara,” the other woman says with a rush as she walks across the nursery. “I’ll look after her.”
Sara looks as though she’s tempted to protest, then smiles. “Thank you, Sister Ava.”
Relieved of their small burden, she and Michael slowly make their way out of the nursery. Nodding towards the pile of clean diapers on their right, he bumps his shoulder against hers, grinning. “Saved by the bell.”
She quirks an eyebrow at him, mischief dancing in her eyes. “The day’s not over yet, Scofield.”
~*~