India - Chapter Eight (Michael/Sara)
Title: India - Chapter Eight
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 7,583 words
Rating: PG-15
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 being my resident expert, wrldpossibility for the discussion about henna and for scribblecat for the late-night beta. Any mistakes that remain are all mine, and all concrit is welcomed with open arms. Oh, and seeing as I'd already introduced the promise of a new dress, I thought I may as well make it that colour, if you know what I mean. *g*
~*~
Closing her eyes, Sara lets the world around her narrow down to the feel of the warm bundle in her arms, smiling as she rocks the nursing baby in a gentle rhythm. Sister Lucia had always been an astute judge of mood, and it seems she hadn’t lost her touch. Obviously aware her revelation regarding Frank Tancredi’s philanthropy had been an unsettling one, she’d promptly steered Sara towards the nursery where Sister Ava was keeping a watching eye on the sole occupant. At the first sight of the abandoned baby’s little face and gurgling, gummy smile, Sara feels the tension behind her eyes immediately begin to fade. “Hello there, gorgeous girl,” she murmurs, then glances at her companion. “I thought we had two little ones at the moment?”
Sister Lucia smiles, perhaps at Sara's unconscious use of the word we. She's only been here for an hour or so, but it's been all too easy to slip back into her former role as guardian. “The other child is having her inoculations this morning.”
“Did she have a name?” Sara asks softly, her throat tightening as the baby wraps one small hand around her index finger.
“Not when she came to us, no.”
“Her name is Hasita,” Sister Ava volunteers as she emerges from the depths of a linen cupboard, shutting the doors with a gentle snap. “And she’s due for a feed,” she goes on with an easy smile. “If you’d care to-“
Sara gazes down at the abandoned child who has been given a name meaning happiness by the strangers who will care for her for until she’s a young woman. The opportunity to hold her isn’t an offer she’d ever consider refusing, whether in her old life or the present. “I’d love to, thank you.”
Sister Lucia touches Sara lightly on the arm as she reaches out to pick up the baby. “I’ll let you get on with things here, then, and go pay my respects to the kitchen.”
Sara hides her grin. She has no doubt Sister Lucia’s idea of paying her respects will involve going over the preparations for lunch with the proverbial fine tooth comb.
Despite Sara’s protests, Sister Ava insists on preparing the bottle for the baby’s feed, heating and filling and testing the formula with a speed and grace borne of long practice. Sara watches her, pondering the gentle irony of this woman, someone who has made the conscious decision never to marry and bear children, having probably forgotten more about the practical care of an infant than Sara can hope to know.
But I’ll learn. The silent but fierce thought comes out of nowhere, taking her by surprise. Smiling at herself, she carefully lifts the baby out of her crib and settles them both in the chair indicated by Sister Ava. A few minutes later, after a few false starts - the baby seems more intent on finding who this strange new person might be than taking the bottle - Sara leans back in the chair with a sigh. “I’ll be okay here on my own, Sister Ava," she offers, knowing it's probably been several hours since the other woman has taken a break.
The young nun gives her a grateful smile, already heading for the door of the nursery. “Thank you, Doctor Sara.”
When she and the child are finally alone, Sara smiles down at her. “I really wish they’d stop calling me that, but what can you do?” The baby’s eyes widen, but her only comment is to suckle more enthusiastically, filling the quiet room with smacking sounds of contentment. Sara grins. “Good girl. You’ve got your priorities worked out, haven’t you?”
Lost in her own thoughts - like touching her tongue to an aching tooth, she keeps coming back to her father contributing to this place in her mother’s name - it takes her a moment to realise she can hear the unmistakable sounds of children playing outside. Puzzled - the bell for lunch hasn’t yet rung - she carefully gets to her feet, her arms secure around the living bundle in her arms. It takes her another moment to find the source of the noise, and when she does, a wide grin spreads across her face. In the field next to the vegetable garden, out of the direct line of sight from the school building and therefore the teachers, Michael and two young boys are in the middle of an enthusiastic (if a little makeshift, given there are only three of them) game of cricket.
“Oh, Michael,” she breathes smilingly, wondering why she even bothered to tease him about his stamina with children. He’d been working in youth shelters and soup kitchens before she’d even decided to travel to India that first time, and she feels humbled by the realisation.
By the time she looks up and sees him in the nursery doorway fifteen minutes later, his face glowing with exertion, she’s decided she will never rib him again about having no staying power. “What have you been doing?”
He gives her a soft, slow grin that sets her pulsing to racing, and she suddenly wonders how long he’s been standing there watching her. “Oh, this and that.”
“Did you manage to fix the boiler?”
Triumph gleams in his bright eyes. “Piece of cake.”
She smiles at him. ”Thank you for doing that.”
“Not a problem.” He strolls around the room, grinning as he takes in the brightly painted mural on the main wall. “Where’s Sister Lucia?”
Shifting the weight of the suddenly quite heavy baby in her arms, Sara gives him a quick glance. “Gone to micro-manage the kitchen staff, I think.”
“She seems like a very efficient person.”
The baby is now gumming the nipple of her bottle, and Sara gives her an indulgent smile. “That’s putting it mildly.” Tearing her gaze away, she indulges herself in a long look at the man beside her, smiling when she reaches the knees of his jeans. It looks like he’d taken at least one tumble during the game. “Nice grass stains you’ve got there.”
Grinning, he wrinkles his nose at the stains in question. “I earned them in honorable battle.”
“How did you do?”
He quickly drags another chair to her side, his long legs splayed out in front of him as he leans across to gingerly touch his knuckles to the baby’s soft cheek. Just as it had in the coffee shop the day before, the longing in his face makes her stomach flip over. “I made ten runs, apparently.”
She gently wriggles the bottle from one side to the other, testing the tiny mouth’s grip. “Not bad for a beginner.”
He makes a face. “Well, considering they wouldn’t let me hold the bat like a baseball bat-”
“I should think not.” Deciding any actual drinking had stopped at least two minutes ago, she disposes of the bottle and carefully drapes the baby over her right shoulder. Michael is watching her intently, and she feels unexpectedly shy in the face of such an avid audience. She sends up a silent prayer that the child won’t start screaming her head off at such inexpert handling, but to her relief, Hasita seems to be living up to her name. “We should take some beach cricket gear back for LJ.”
"Good idea." He’s still watching her, his gaze trained on her hands as she pats the child’s back, and she’s briefly tempted to offer him the chance to take over. Before she can move, though, the baby burps, a comically loud sound from such a small mouth.
Michael looks delighted by the latest turn of events. “You’re doing a fine job there, Doctor Sara.”
The old nickname sounds so charming coming from him, she wonders why she’d wanted to ask the nuns to stop using it. “Would you like to hold her?”
He looks faintly taken aback by the offer. “Uh-“ He glances at the now squirming infant in her arms. “She looks very comfortable with you.”
Unimpressed by such a half-hearted attempt at a refusal, she decides to test his stamina one last time. She passes the baby to him, and to her amusement his arms are ready and waiting to support her by the time she arrives to be held. He immediately settles the child close to his heart, and Sara feels an almost overwhelming urge to wrap her arm around them both and hold them tight. She’s tempted to reach up and touch her jaw, just to make sure it’s not hanging open, because the sight of Michael Scofield beaming at a baby cradled in his arms, his big hands splayed across the tiny diaper-clad bottom, is not something she gets to see every day.
Her heart thumping hard against her ribs, she watches as he puts his face close to the tender curve of the child’s head and indulges in the age-old practice of inhaling the scent of healthy baby. He smiles, his eyes fluttering half-shut, then they fly open again. “What are the odds of her throwing up on me?” he asks with faint unease, his gaze finding hers over the top of the baby’s head.
“Not too bad.” Hooking her hands together, she stretches her arms up above her head, feeling the kinks across her shoulders flex. She’d forgotten how heavy babies could feel when you held them for longer than a few minutes. “It’s the other end that will probably get your attention first.”
“Okay,” he says cheerfully, and the urge to envelope both man and baby in her arms grows stronger. Stamina, indeed.
“In that case, the clean diapers are on the shelf behind you,” she says teasingly, rising to her feet, wanting to stretch her legs. She doesn’t get very far, though, instantly giving into the temptation to curve one hand around Michael’s shoulder and the other around Hasita’s downy head. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“She is.” He gazes down at her in something akin to wonder, and Sara’s throat tightens. She opens her mouth to tell him the child’s name, but he’s already talking again. “How could someone just walk away from her?”
Her heart lurches. Oh, Michael. “I wish I could give you a simple answer, but I can’t.” Her voice wobbles on the last word as she feels the familiar old despair come rushing back, and he quickly turns to her, his expression concerned. “We’re up against centuries of ingrained cultural beliefs and an unforgiving caste system that-”
A knock at the door interrupts their exchange, and she can’t deny she’s relieved to see Sister Ava smiling at them. “Lunch is ready if you would like to come, please?”
“We’ll be right there, thank you.” Determined not to leave a job half-finished, Sara reaches out to take the baby from Michael’s arms, intent on changing her suspiciously bulging diaper. “I’ll just change her-”
Sister Ava is halfway across the nursery before Sara can even start to scoop the baby up. “No need, Doctor Sara. I’ll look after her.”
Sara hesitates, disliking the idea of causing more work for these already hardworking women, then decides against arguing. She’s a guest here today, and guests shouldn’t bulldoze their way into the usual routine. “Thank you, Sister Ava.”
Michael hands the baby to the young nun, his long fingers graceful as they curve around the child’s head, and Sara feels that odd rush of longing once more. Her emotions are dancing around like crazed fireflies, and it’s almost a relief to leave the nursery. As they walk past the shelf stacked with clean diapers, Michael nudges her shoulder with his, his mouth curved in a grin. “Saved by the bell.”
She looks at the diapers, then at him. “The day’s not over yet, Scofield.”
Still grinning, he curls his hand around her elbow and draws her into the hallway. After she indicates the way to the dining room, they fall into an easy, loping stride, his hand brushing her hip with every second step. “What’s her name?”
Distracted by the loud peal of the school bell, it takes her a few seconds to realise he’s talking about the baby. “Hasita,” she tells him with a smile. “It means happiness.”
“The sisters are an optimistic bunch,” he says lightly. “I like that.”
“They’re extraordinary woman,” she murmurs as they leave the nursery wing - such a grand term for such a small building, but Sara thinks it deserves the accolade - and make their way towards the dining hall at the other end of the compound. “They have more determination and compassion in their little fingers than most people have in their whole bodies.” Casting a glance at him, she lets her fingers tangle gently with his, catching his hand against her thigh. “Most people, not all.”
He smiles, his fingers tightening around hers briefly as they walk in a comfortable, unhurried silence. In the distance, they can hear the sound of the children as they make their way towards the same destination. As they round the corner and see the last few slender-legged children disappearing into through the low-roofed building that houses the dining hall and kitchen, Michael slows his stride, his hand curling around hers. He gazes at her so intently she begins to wonder if she has formula splashed across her face. “What? Am I a mess?”
He grins. “Well, I’m no expert, but maybe you should check your hair.”
“That bad, is it?” She hastily lifts her hands to her hair. It’s not as bad as she feared, but it’s bad enough. He waits patiently, an indulgent smile curving his lips as she quickly rearranges her hair into something approaching respectability. “You’d think I’d be used to the humidity by now, given where we live.”
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, and a ripple of pleasure dances across her skin. She doesn't think of herself as a vain woman, but whenever he said those words to her, she feels like the most beautiful woman alive.
“Thank you,” she says softly, then gives him a curious look. “What were you going to say? You weren’t going to talk about my hair, surely?”
He hesitates, then takes a deep breath, his words coming out in a rush. “When you were here last time, did you ever consider-“
“There you are.” Sister Lucia has appeared in the doorway leading into the dining hall, looking serene and cool despite the midday heat. “The children are very excited about seeing you,” she says with a smile. “I hope you’re ready for an onslaught.”
Sara grins. “The feeling is entirely mutual.” Deciding to leave her and Michael’s unfinished conversation until later, she gives him a quick smile. “Shall we?”
Onslaught is a very good word for it, she decides a few minutes later. The first thing she notices is the heavenly scent of spiced food, then the sight of a dozen or so long tables filled with waiting students almost stops her in her tracks. Seventy-odd pairs of eyes suddenly focus sharply on her and Michael, and the hum of anticipation in the air reminds her of her own schooldays. There was nothing better than visitors to offer a break in the routine, and it didn’t matter if the visitor was the school inspector or a mobile hearing testing unit. She has time to hope she and Michael are at least more interesting than either of those two examples from her childhood, then an ear-blistering and well-rehearsed wall of sound rises up to greet them.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Sara. Good afternoon, Mr Scofield.”
Her knees tremble, her stomach doing gentle flip flops, then she feels the reassuring warmth of Michael’s hand on the small of her back, and it’s suddenly not so hard to cast a smile around the room and speak in a loud, clear voice. She greets them in English, thanking them for the warm welcome, taking care to include Michael in her thanks. They're a silent, beautiful audience, both boys and girls dressed in their bright red and blue uniforms, their hair showing signs of careful combing, and just looking at them makes her heart ache.
When she’s finished, several ripples of nervous giggles and whispers dart through the long tables, and she gives Sister Lucia a look of appeal, uncertain as to what might be the best next step.
The elderly nun smiles, then glides forward, touching a small shoulder here and straightening a long plait there as she moves up and down the tables. “We will sing for our visitors when they have finished their lunch, and after that you may ask your questions.”
Sara exchanges a glance with Michael, hiding a smile as he mouths questions? at her with a faint air of panic, then they’re being ushered towards a long table at one side of the room. Catching sight of a strangely familiar face, she hesitates, caught in a moment between the past and the present. When the face in question breaks into a smile, she knows she’s not imagining things. “Oh, my God. Tia?”
The young woman’s coming towards her now, her hands outstretched. “Namaste, Doctor Sara,” she murmurs, her hands clasped together in front of her chest, then she smiles again, her eyes gleaming. “How wonderful it is to have you back with us!”
The last time Sara had seen this girl, she had been one of the oldest orphans at the school. Now it seems she’s here in a very different capacity. “I had no idea you were working here,” she returns with undisguised happiness, quickly taking in the girl’s carefully professional appearance. “Are you teaching?”
A quick shake of the head, then the other woman smiles proudly. “I am the school nurse.”
Sara thinks her answering smile might split her own face. She remembers Tia tagging along beside her, asking all manner of medical questions at every opportunity. In another life, she may have made a very good doctor. But now is not the time to rail against the system, Sara tells herself. Now is the time to celebrate success. “That makes me very happy.”
Tia grins, her teeth white and even. “Me, too.”
Lunch with the staff and the students of St Mary’s proves to be a memorable one. Sara would have enjoyed herself in any case, but she suspects Michael’s presence has enhanced the experience a great deal. He’s not a complete stranger to this kind of food, Chicago being home to some truly wonderful Indian restaurants, but there’s a big difference between the Westernized version and the real thing.
Or perhaps, she thinks, the warmth she can feel humming beneath her skin is a lingering reminder of the way he’d looked at her when he’d discovered her in the nursery. She wonders if she’d looked at him the same way when it was his turn to cradle the baby in his arms.
He turns to her now, breaking the increasingly distracting spell of her thoughts as he puts his lips close to her ear, his voice lowered so as not to offend their hosts. “What can I eat?”
She smiles, flattered he’d taken her earlier advice so much to heart. “Any water we drink will be bottled and the kitchen staff will be used to catering for visitors, so you can basically eat anything you like.”
He looks relieved, then casts a hungry glance towards the bowls of dhal and deep fried vegetables in the middle of the table. “Music to my ears.”
Tia is now sitting at the other end of the long table, chatting animatedly to Sister Ava. Every time Sara catches her eye, she feels a fierce glow of pride. That is why I came here in the first place, she thinks. To help change the future for as many of these children as we possibly could.
Before Sister Lucia leads them all in a prayer of thanksgiving, Sara takes another moment to look around the large room. The children look good, happy and well-fed, the teachers and nuns a close-knit group, and the building itself in an excellent state of repair. Now that she’s finally here, she can admit she was afraid of what she might find. Gazing at the faces of the next generation of students, she feels a rush of relief so strong it makes her eyes prickle.
Thank you, she offers up to the listening deities, then turns her head, feeling Michael’s gaze on her as surely as if he’d touched her. “What?”
“You know, despite the grass stains, I wouldn't have missed this for the world,” he murmurs, his face alive in a way she’s only seen on a treasured handful of occasions, and her eyes prickle a second time.
“I'm very glad you're here.”
~*~
As another set of dishes are placed on the table in front of him, Michael digs his thumb into the waistband of his jeans, pleased he’s wearing his most comfortable pair. He’d managed to restrain himself from having thirds of the dahl and the deep fried vegetable fritters, but it had been a close shave. It was only when Sara had murmured a discreet this is just the first course, remember in the vicinity of his ear that he’d embraced the need to pace himself.
Beside him, Sara’s eyes widen as she inspects the second course. Turning to Sister Lucia, she proceeds to cheerfully scold the older woman. “You have gone to far too much trouble.”
Sister Lucia looks unrepentant. “It’s a treat for us as well, don’t forget.”
Sara turns to him. “It’s hilsa fish curry,” she explains as the scent of mustard seeds and other mysterious spices reach his nose. “It’s a special dish, usually made for celebrations.”
“Which today is,” Sister Lucia rebukes mildly, smiling as she pushes a bowl of white rice towards them. “So please do us the honour of enjoying it.”
They’ve been living in Punta Chame for over a year now, and Michael is no stranger to beautifully prepared seafood, but this fish curry is something else. He had no idea what’s in the dark brown sauce, but if he were eating alone, he’d be tempted to pour himself a glass and drink it straight. Catching Sara’s eye, he gives her a mischievous grin. Before he can speak, though, she shakes her head at him. “If you want to have this when we get home, ask the kitchen staff for the recipe and knock yourself out.”
He shakes his head right back at her, pretending to be offended. “Why must you always assume the worst of me, Doctor Sara?”
She chuckles as she spears a large chunk of white fish with her fork. “Experience.”
They drink water with the meal, which does nothing to put out the fire on his tongue. After one particularly spicy mouthful, he blows out a loud breath, hoping to cool his mouth. “That’s got a kick to it.”
Sara gives him the kind of superior grin of a woman well-used to this kind of food. “Too much for you?”
“Of course not.”
He waits until she’s turned to speak to Sister Lucia, then forks a large bite of plain white rice into his mouth. There’s no point in suffering needlessly, after all.
When lunch is over and all the dishes cleared away, the nun from Kolkata, Sister Julia, gathers together a small group of children, ranging from the youngest to the oldest, and ushers them towards the front of the room. Beside him, Sara is transfixed, sitting up ramrod straight in her chair, her eyes gleaming as she watches the students arrange themselves into two long rows. He grins as a small scuffle breaks out between two boys who both obviously feel they’re tall enough to be in the back row rather than the front with the babies, recognizing his erstwhile cricket companions from earlier that afternoon. Peace is quickly restored, however, and an expectant hush falls over the room.
Sister Julia, he realises belatedly, must also be the children’s singing teacher. She stands at the front of the group, her hands raised, an encouraging smile gleaming in her dark face. He hears her quietly count to the beat of three, then the children start to sing.
Grinning, he looks at Sara, but if she’s surprised to hear Auld Lang Sing in a different language on a very hot day two months before New Year’s Eve, she doesn’t show it. She simply smiles and reaches for his hand beneath the table, and together they watch the children swaying back and forth in time, their young voices raised in song. There is a lump in Michael’s throat that won’t go away, no matter how much he swallows. They’re beautiful, every one of them, even the squabbling boys, and he thinks of his unfinished question to Sara before they’d come into lunch. He knows how much she cares about these children, and he’d seen her face when she was nursing Hasita. He'd asked her yesterday if she wanted children, and he knows he has his answer.
When they finally have another moment alone together, he’ll finish his question and ask her if she'd ever considered adopting one of these children after her time here several years ago. For him, being here only makes him want to have a child of his own, with her, and he wonders if that makes him a selfish man.
The children finish their song to a raucous burst of applause, and Sister Julia spends the next few minutes trying to get them to stop bowing and pay attention long enough to start their next song. When they launch into a Christmas carol (in English this time), he decides that this is official the best day he’s had in a long while.
When the singing is over, Sara is red-eyed but smiling as she leans close to whisper in his ear. “The real onslaught is about to start, so look out.”
She’s right.
Their table is suddenly swarmed by children, some of them shy, some of them confident enough to ask questions (in perfect English) about everything from Sara’s hair to his own attempts to play cricket. His two former playmates suddenly materialize at his elbow, and he soon discovers their names are Daman and Kapil, they’re both ten years old and have been at the orphanage for the last five years. They seem disappointed that Michael doesn’t actually live in America, but are impressed when he tells them he grew up in Chicago, the land of Al Capone, one of the world’s toughest gangsters. When Daman admires his watch, Michael takes it off and hands it to him for a closer look. It’s not the watch that makes the boys eyes widen, though, and Michael belatedly realises the sleeve of his t-shirt has ridden up.
Feeling an odd sense of déjà vu - he’s been through this with the local Panamanian children at home - he pushes up his sleeves and lets them look to their heart’s content. Feeling the gentle press of Sara’s shoulder against his, he turns to meet her gaze, and the tenderness in her eyes makes his heart feel almost too big for his chest. He sees her mouth form silent words - I love you - then one of the older girls is tugging at her sleeve and whispering into her ear. There is a brief bout of giggling, and he raises his eyebrows. “Care to let me in on the joke?”
“She’s wondering if you’re getting married,” Sara tells him cheerfully, “because of the tattoos.” As Michael wonders if there’s a way he can answer that question without looking like the world’s worst poker player, she exchanges an amused glance with the teenaged girl beside her. “Although, it’s normally the women who wear the henna tattoos for the ceremony.”
Grinning, Michael leans forward to catch the young girl’s eye. “Mine don’t wash off.”
She smiles, then she ducks her head, giving him a shy glance from beneath lowered lashes before turning to relay his answer to a friend standing behind her.
Sara smirks. “Good save.”
“Thank you.”
Sister Lucia finds them a short time later, cutting an effortless swathe through the hovering children. “What are your plans for the rest of your stay?” she asks as she eases into the seat beside Sara.
“Sightseeing, basically. I really want Michael to see the Birla Temple and St Paul’s Cathedral, especially,” Sara says as Sister Lucia nods in approval. “Perhaps we could come back for another visit on Friday morning?”
Sister Lucia beams, but before she can answer, Sara puts her hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “On the proviso that you and the other sisters and the students make no special arrangements for us whatsoever,” she adds sternly. “Do we have a deal?”
Michael grins as he watches the struggle on the elderly nun’s face. After a moment, she shakes her head, more in admiration than anything else. “You drive a hard bargain, Doctor Sara.”
Sara laughs, a lilting sound that warms Michael’s blood. “I’m just trying to keep up with you and you know it.”
~*~
Finally ensconced together in the backseat of their taxi, he looks across at Sara, frowning at the sheen of sweat dotting her pale forehead. The day is still warm, but she always seems to cope better with the heat than he does. “You okay?”
“Indigestion,” she replies, tapping her chest lightly with a curled fist. “Ate too much, I afraid.”
Sliding his arm along the back of the seat, he curls his hand around the nape of her neck. “Want me to put you over my shoulder and rub your back?”
She laughs softly. “Maybe when we get back to the hotel.” Leaning back in her seat, she gazes out the window, obviously lost in thought. He’s not surprised. It’s been an eventful day, to say the least.
The children and staff had given them a rousing send-off, half the children running alongside the taxi, shrieking with laughter as they raced the car to the end of the long, dusty driveway. Stiling smiling at the thought, he tilts back his head, closing his eyes as the driver does his best to find every single bump in the road. Warmed by the heat of the afternoon and wearied by the company they’ve kept all day, he finds himself drifting pleasantly towards drowsiness, a slide halted by the sound of Sara’s voice.
“I found out something about my dad today.”
He opens his eyes. “What?”
She’s still staring out the window. “Apparently he sent a donation to the orphanage every year.”
He blinks, quickly translating the simple words into their deeper meaning. “He never told you?”
Her throat works as she swallows, her gaze still fixed on some unseen point outside the car window. “No.”
Knowing what he does about the late Frank Tancredi and his relationship with his daughter, Michael's heart aches for her. “Sara.”
Her chest rises and falls with a sharp inhalation of breath, then she turns to look at him. “What?”
“Your father loved you,” he tells her softly, holding her gaze with his. “He was also incredibly proud of you.”
She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “So people keep telling me.” She takes another deep breath, then gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring down the mood. It was just unexpected, that’s all.”
“You don’t have to apologise.” He curves his palm over the jut of her knee. “I’m surprised about Frank, too.” Catching sight of her unexpected smile, he pauses. “What?”
“I like it when you call him Frank.” She’s still smiling, but there’s an edge to her voice that tells him she’s closer to tears than laughter. “Makes me feel as though you two may have actually met once upon a time.” Shifting along the side as far as her seatbelt will allow, she leans into him, tilting her head until it’s resting on his shoulder. Her fingers thread through his, holding on tight. “You know how I used to joke that he would have hated you?”
He closes his eyes again, savouring the warmth of her pressed against his side, the soft clasp of her hand. “Yes.”
He feels the press of her lips against his shoulder, the heat of her mouth warming his skin through his shirt. “I think he might have come around in the end.”
Recognizing her words for the accolade they are, he squeezes her hand. “If not, I could have always pretended I’d voted for him.”
Her laughter is quiet but steady, and he knows she’s past the worst of the fall-out from Sister Lucia’s revelation. “You know, I’m embarrassed to say it, but that probably would have worked.”
They fall into an easy silence, her hand still tightly gripping his, and he decides to leave the adoption question for another time. She’s already negotiated one too many emotional landmines one afternoon, and he’s in no rush to add another to the pile.
~*~
They spend a lazy afternoon at the hotel, first seeking out the cool sanctuary of the pool before retiring to their room to check emails, admire the view from the balcony and dress for dinner.
After a quick discussion, they decide to have dinner in the restaurant in the hotel and, after calling down to make a reservation, Michael smiles wryly as he hangs up the phone. “Would the fact that the most recommended place to eat in one of the most famous hotels in Kolkata is actually the Thai restaurant be one of those ironic Indian things?”
In the middle of rummaging through her suitcase, Sara flashes him a distracted smile. “I guess so.”
Tenting his hands in front of him, he leans back in the chair and indulges himself in the simple pleasure of watching her. She’s wearing the raspberry-coloured silk robe he’d given her for her birthday earlier that year, the damp ends of her hair clinging to her shoulders. He knows there’s nothing else under that robe but bare skin, and he shifts restlessly in his chair, suddenly wishing he’d thought to make the dinner reservation an hour or so later. That particular robe never fails to fill him with the urge to slide his hands over the slippery material to the silken flesh beneath. “Looking for your new dress?”
She slants him a whiskey-coloured look that makes his pulse quicken. “You bet.”
He grins. “Should I close my eyes?”
“No, it’s okay.” With that, she steps between him and the suitcase, blocking his line of sight. “I’m all good.” Flashing him a bright smile, she clutches an impossibly small wad of pale material to her chest and heads for the ensuite. “See you soon.”
Smiling, he makes his way to the main bathroom and goes through his own showering and dressing routine, pleased he'd had the foresight to hang up his collared shirts and his suit when they’d first arrived. As he buttons his shirt, he thinks about the paperwork hidden in the room safe. He still doesn't have a ring to give her, but they're about to go to dinner in a beautiful restaurant and despite his earlier decision to wait until exactly the right moment, he's suddenly filled with resolve. Ring or no ring, he'll ask her tonight, he decides, and the mere thought sends a rush of nervous anticipation coursing through his bloodstream.
As far as life-altering momenteous decisions go, he thinks, this one is by far his favourite.
He’s reaching for his suit jacket a few minutes later when the ensuite door opens, bequeathing him with a burst of lightly perfumed air.
“Ready when you are.”
His jacket hanging forgotten from his fingertips, he stares at her, vaguely aware of the possibility that his mouth is agape. “You were right. That’s a very good dress.”
It's not actually the dress, of course. The dress is merely windowdressing, just like the smokey eyes and the rose-coloured lips and the gleam of silver hanging from each ear. But as windowdressing goes, it's spectacular.
Toying with one end of the delicate black wrap draped around her, Sara gives him a charmingly self-conscious smile. “Thank you.” Her gaze sweeps over him from head to toe, appreciation gleaming in her eyes. “I love that suit on you.”
At this very moment, he couldn’t care less how he looks, because her dress is pale pink and sleeveless, made from a floating, gauzy material, with a demure halter neckline and a hem that finishes a few inches above her knees. Her arms and legs are bare, and after only two days in Kolkata, the sight of all that skin is vaguely shocking.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he says as he walks towards the room, unable to take his eyes off her, “but are you sure it’s okay to wear that?”
She smoothes one hand down the front of her skirt, making the gossamer material shift against her lightly tanned thighs. “As long as we don’t leave the hotel, I’m good.”
Watching her hand, his thoughts take a decidedly wanton turn. “After finally being allowed to see you in that dress, I have no plans to take you any further away from this room than I have to, trust me.”
She blushes, the pink of her skin a delicate echo of the colour of her dress. “We’ll eat fast.”
~*~
Her shoes are silvery, high and strappy. They’re as new as her secret dress, and he makes a mental note to send her shopping on her own more often. They make her legs look even longer than they already are and her back arch a distracting fraction more than usual, and it’s a pleasure to walk a step behind her through the restaurant. The auburn tumble of her hair plays hide and seek with the tender jut of her shoulder blades, and he is already counting the moments until he can plunge his hands into the softness of it, feel the strands tighten around his fingers as he tilts back her head to kiss her.
“Sir?”
He blinks, realizing the maitre de is speaking to him. “I'm sorry, what was that?”
The man gives him a professionally patient smile. “Is this table to your liking?”
“It’s perfect.” Go away.
He watches as the other man dances attendance on Sara, taking an irritatingly long time to fill her water glass and hand her a menu. Just when he thinks the inside of his cheek might start bleeding if he bites it another second longer, the maitre de smiles at him. “I’ll leave you to peruse the menu?”
“Yes,” he says politely, his teeth meeting in what he hopes is a smile. “Thank you.” Please, go away.
Finally alone, he puts the wine menu to one side and slides his hand across the white tablecloth to find hers. “What would you like to drink?”
She gives him a smile that seems faintly lacking in enthusiasm. “Some plain sparkling water will be fine.”
He frowns. “You okay?”
She hesitates, then squeezes his hand. “Just a little headache.” She shrugs. “It’s nothing, really.”
“You want me to get something for you?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll be okay, honestly.”
It’s his turn to hesitate now, torn between wanting her to feel better and not wanting to open a familiar can of worms. In the end, his desire for her to feel better wins out. “You’re allowed to take something for a headache, you know.”
Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “I’d rather not.”
He doesn’t quite manage to swallow his answering sigh, and she gently extracts her hand from his grasp. “Don’t start, please?”
“I’m not going to tell you what you should do.” She gives him a look that clearly says she doesn’t buy that line for a minute, and he decides he may as well prove her right. “Okay, I am. You can’t spend the rest of your life so worried about falling off the wagon that you won’t even take a headache tablet when you need one.”
She reaches for the menu and flips it open, apparently transfixed by the traditional soups on offer. “This way works for me.”
“So it has to be all or nothing.”
“Pretty much.” Her tone is light, but he knows her well enough to hear the unspoken dismissal in those two words. He also knows he’s not prepared to just let it drop. God knows he doesn’t want to push her, but if she’s feeling sick, he does want her to do something about it.
“Isn’t there a train of thought that believes a moderated lifestyle is easier to maintain?”
Shutting the menu with exaggerated care, she leans towards him, her eyes burning into his so intently he has to squelch the urge to lean back. “It’s like there are two different parts of me, Michael. One would happily stick a needle in my arm then throw back half a dozen scotches before breakfast and always will. The other is the part I want to be for the rest of my life, the part that doesn’t want or need any kind of drugs or alcohol to get through a day, no matter how bad that day might be. It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve learned that I have to keep them completely separate to stay clean. It’s that simple.”
They stare at each other, and he vaguely wonders how this evening managed to take such a detour turn so quickly. He knows whatever he says next has to be exactly the right thing, and he decides to go with the time-honoured tradition of making her smile. “I totally understand that, but if it’s all or nothing, how come you’re still mainlining coffee five times a day? That’s a stimulant, right?”
Her eyes narrow, but he hears the laughter in her voice. “God, you're annoying. Let me have one vice, will you?”
“How bad is your head, really?”
Lifting her hand to her forehead, she rubs the spot between her eyebrows with her fingertips. “Not bad enough to distract me from my indigestion, unfortunately.”
He frowns, knowing that if it’s bad enough for her to mention, it’s quite bad. “If you’re not feeling well, we can do this tomorrow night.”
Her face falls. “It’s so beautiful here, and I was so looking forward to it, I really don’t want -” She breaks off, putting one hand on her stomach. “Okay, that’s not good.” Before his startled eyes, she turns pale, a faint sheen of sweat suddenly gleaming on her forehead and upper lip. “I think I need to find the bathroom,” she says in a thick voice, her expression faintly panicked, and he has her up and out of her chair before she has the chance to say another word. He knows what indigestion looks like, and this isn’t it.
She doesn’t protest as he spirits her discreetly through the restaurant, her fingers digging into his arm, her lips pressed in a tight line. He deposits her outside the ladies room door, then goes in search of the maitre de. “My companion is ill, so I’m afraid we won’t be dining with you this evening.”
The other man bows his head. “Shall I reserve a table for you for the same time tomorrow night, sir?”
Michael thinks of the way the blood had drained from Sara’s face, her frown of discomfort as she’d pressed her hand flat on her stomach. “I’ll get back to you.”
She reemerges five minutes later, her eyes glassy and her face parchment white. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, and he slips his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close.
“I think bed is the best place for you,” he says quietly as he draws her towards the restaurant’s exit. “You know,” he goes on cheerily, hoping to distract her from whatever is happening in her stomach long enough to get her upstairs to their own bathroom, “I expected to say those words tonight, but not quite under these circumstances.”
She chuckles, then hiccups, a flicker of abject misery flashing across her face. “God, I’m so sorry.”
"Stop apologising," he tells her sternly, steering her gently into the newly-opened elevator. "Just concentrate on your breathing until we get upstairs, okay?"
She slumps against him in the elevator, looking for all the world like she’s merely suffering from one too many glasses of champagne, and he’s filled with a tender panic that makes his chest feel tight. She’s so good at looking after everyone else in her life, the thought of her being sick seems very wrong. He rubs his hand up and down her back, impatiently counting down the floor levels as their elevator rises. Come on, come on.
They manage to make it to their room without incident, and she immediately flees in the direction of the main bathroom. As the door slams shut behind her, Michael lets out his breath in a long despondent sigh, then shrugs out of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the nearest chair. He’s used to roadblocks and having to reconfigure his life at a moment’s notice, but somehow the phrase best laid plans doesn’t even come close, not tonight.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 7,583 words
Rating: PG-15
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 being my resident expert, wrldpossibility for the discussion about henna and for scribblecat for the late-night beta. Any mistakes that remain are all mine, and all concrit is welcomed with open arms. Oh, and seeing as I'd already introduced the promise of a new dress, I thought I may as well make it that colour, if you know what I mean. *g*
~*~
Closing her eyes, Sara lets the world around her narrow down to the feel of the warm bundle in her arms, smiling as she rocks the nursing baby in a gentle rhythm. Sister Lucia had always been an astute judge of mood, and it seems she hadn’t lost her touch. Obviously aware her revelation regarding Frank Tancredi’s philanthropy had been an unsettling one, she’d promptly steered Sara towards the nursery where Sister Ava was keeping a watching eye on the sole occupant. At the first sight of the abandoned baby’s little face and gurgling, gummy smile, Sara feels the tension behind her eyes immediately begin to fade. “Hello there, gorgeous girl,” she murmurs, then glances at her companion. “I thought we had two little ones at the moment?”
Sister Lucia smiles, perhaps at Sara's unconscious use of the word we. She's only been here for an hour or so, but it's been all too easy to slip back into her former role as guardian. “The other child is having her inoculations this morning.”
“Did she have a name?” Sara asks softly, her throat tightening as the baby wraps one small hand around her index finger.
“Not when she came to us, no.”
“Her name is Hasita,” Sister Ava volunteers as she emerges from the depths of a linen cupboard, shutting the doors with a gentle snap. “And she’s due for a feed,” she goes on with an easy smile. “If you’d care to-“
Sara gazes down at the abandoned child who has been given a name meaning happiness by the strangers who will care for her for until she’s a young woman. The opportunity to hold her isn’t an offer she’d ever consider refusing, whether in her old life or the present. “I’d love to, thank you.”
Sister Lucia touches Sara lightly on the arm as she reaches out to pick up the baby. “I’ll let you get on with things here, then, and go pay my respects to the kitchen.”
Sara hides her grin. She has no doubt Sister Lucia’s idea of paying her respects will involve going over the preparations for lunch with the proverbial fine tooth comb.
Despite Sara’s protests, Sister Ava insists on preparing the bottle for the baby’s feed, heating and filling and testing the formula with a speed and grace borne of long practice. Sara watches her, pondering the gentle irony of this woman, someone who has made the conscious decision never to marry and bear children, having probably forgotten more about the practical care of an infant than Sara can hope to know.
But I’ll learn. The silent but fierce thought comes out of nowhere, taking her by surprise. Smiling at herself, she carefully lifts the baby out of her crib and settles them both in the chair indicated by Sister Ava. A few minutes later, after a few false starts - the baby seems more intent on finding who this strange new person might be than taking the bottle - Sara leans back in the chair with a sigh. “I’ll be okay here on my own, Sister Ava," she offers, knowing it's probably been several hours since the other woman has taken a break.
The young nun gives her a grateful smile, already heading for the door of the nursery. “Thank you, Doctor Sara.”
When she and the child are finally alone, Sara smiles down at her. “I really wish they’d stop calling me that, but what can you do?” The baby’s eyes widen, but her only comment is to suckle more enthusiastically, filling the quiet room with smacking sounds of contentment. Sara grins. “Good girl. You’ve got your priorities worked out, haven’t you?”
Lost in her own thoughts - like touching her tongue to an aching tooth, she keeps coming back to her father contributing to this place in her mother’s name - it takes her a moment to realise she can hear the unmistakable sounds of children playing outside. Puzzled - the bell for lunch hasn’t yet rung - she carefully gets to her feet, her arms secure around the living bundle in her arms. It takes her another moment to find the source of the noise, and when she does, a wide grin spreads across her face. In the field next to the vegetable garden, out of the direct line of sight from the school building and therefore the teachers, Michael and two young boys are in the middle of an enthusiastic (if a little makeshift, given there are only three of them) game of cricket.
“Oh, Michael,” she breathes smilingly, wondering why she even bothered to tease him about his stamina with children. He’d been working in youth shelters and soup kitchens before she’d even decided to travel to India that first time, and she feels humbled by the realisation.
By the time she looks up and sees him in the nursery doorway fifteen minutes later, his face glowing with exertion, she’s decided she will never rib him again about having no staying power. “What have you been doing?”
He gives her a soft, slow grin that sets her pulsing to racing, and she suddenly wonders how long he’s been standing there watching her. “Oh, this and that.”
“Did you manage to fix the boiler?”
Triumph gleams in his bright eyes. “Piece of cake.”
She smiles at him. ”Thank you for doing that.”
“Not a problem.” He strolls around the room, grinning as he takes in the brightly painted mural on the main wall. “Where’s Sister Lucia?”
Shifting the weight of the suddenly quite heavy baby in her arms, Sara gives him a quick glance. “Gone to micro-manage the kitchen staff, I think.”
“She seems like a very efficient person.”
The baby is now gumming the nipple of her bottle, and Sara gives her an indulgent smile. “That’s putting it mildly.” Tearing her gaze away, she indulges herself in a long look at the man beside her, smiling when she reaches the knees of his jeans. It looks like he’d taken at least one tumble during the game. “Nice grass stains you’ve got there.”
Grinning, he wrinkles his nose at the stains in question. “I earned them in honorable battle.”
“How did you do?”
He quickly drags another chair to her side, his long legs splayed out in front of him as he leans across to gingerly touch his knuckles to the baby’s soft cheek. Just as it had in the coffee shop the day before, the longing in his face makes her stomach flip over. “I made ten runs, apparently.”
She gently wriggles the bottle from one side to the other, testing the tiny mouth’s grip. “Not bad for a beginner.”
He makes a face. “Well, considering they wouldn’t let me hold the bat like a baseball bat-”
“I should think not.” Deciding any actual drinking had stopped at least two minutes ago, she disposes of the bottle and carefully drapes the baby over her right shoulder. Michael is watching her intently, and she feels unexpectedly shy in the face of such an avid audience. She sends up a silent prayer that the child won’t start screaming her head off at such inexpert handling, but to her relief, Hasita seems to be living up to her name. “We should take some beach cricket gear back for LJ.”
"Good idea." He’s still watching her, his gaze trained on her hands as she pats the child’s back, and she’s briefly tempted to offer him the chance to take over. Before she can move, though, the baby burps, a comically loud sound from such a small mouth.
Michael looks delighted by the latest turn of events. “You’re doing a fine job there, Doctor Sara.”
The old nickname sounds so charming coming from him, she wonders why she’d wanted to ask the nuns to stop using it. “Would you like to hold her?”
He looks faintly taken aback by the offer. “Uh-“ He glances at the now squirming infant in her arms. “She looks very comfortable with you.”
Unimpressed by such a half-hearted attempt at a refusal, she decides to test his stamina one last time. She passes the baby to him, and to her amusement his arms are ready and waiting to support her by the time she arrives to be held. He immediately settles the child close to his heart, and Sara feels an almost overwhelming urge to wrap her arm around them both and hold them tight. She’s tempted to reach up and touch her jaw, just to make sure it’s not hanging open, because the sight of Michael Scofield beaming at a baby cradled in his arms, his big hands splayed across the tiny diaper-clad bottom, is not something she gets to see every day.
Her heart thumping hard against her ribs, she watches as he puts his face close to the tender curve of the child’s head and indulges in the age-old practice of inhaling the scent of healthy baby. He smiles, his eyes fluttering half-shut, then they fly open again. “What are the odds of her throwing up on me?” he asks with faint unease, his gaze finding hers over the top of the baby’s head.
“Not too bad.” Hooking her hands together, she stretches her arms up above her head, feeling the kinks across her shoulders flex. She’d forgotten how heavy babies could feel when you held them for longer than a few minutes. “It’s the other end that will probably get your attention first.”
“Okay,” he says cheerfully, and the urge to envelope both man and baby in her arms grows stronger. Stamina, indeed.
“In that case, the clean diapers are on the shelf behind you,” she says teasingly, rising to her feet, wanting to stretch her legs. She doesn’t get very far, though, instantly giving into the temptation to curve one hand around Michael’s shoulder and the other around Hasita’s downy head. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“She is.” He gazes down at her in something akin to wonder, and Sara’s throat tightens. She opens her mouth to tell him the child’s name, but he’s already talking again. “How could someone just walk away from her?”
Her heart lurches. Oh, Michael. “I wish I could give you a simple answer, but I can’t.” Her voice wobbles on the last word as she feels the familiar old despair come rushing back, and he quickly turns to her, his expression concerned. “We’re up against centuries of ingrained cultural beliefs and an unforgiving caste system that-”
A knock at the door interrupts their exchange, and she can’t deny she’s relieved to see Sister Ava smiling at them. “Lunch is ready if you would like to come, please?”
“We’ll be right there, thank you.” Determined not to leave a job half-finished, Sara reaches out to take the baby from Michael’s arms, intent on changing her suspiciously bulging diaper. “I’ll just change her-”
Sister Ava is halfway across the nursery before Sara can even start to scoop the baby up. “No need, Doctor Sara. I’ll look after her.”
Sara hesitates, disliking the idea of causing more work for these already hardworking women, then decides against arguing. She’s a guest here today, and guests shouldn’t bulldoze their way into the usual routine. “Thank you, Sister Ava.”
Michael hands the baby to the young nun, his long fingers graceful as they curve around the child’s head, and Sara feels that odd rush of longing once more. Her emotions are dancing around like crazed fireflies, and it’s almost a relief to leave the nursery. As they walk past the shelf stacked with clean diapers, Michael nudges her shoulder with his, his mouth curved in a grin. “Saved by the bell.”
She looks at the diapers, then at him. “The day’s not over yet, Scofield.”
Still grinning, he curls his hand around her elbow and draws her into the hallway. After she indicates the way to the dining room, they fall into an easy, loping stride, his hand brushing her hip with every second step. “What’s her name?”
Distracted by the loud peal of the school bell, it takes her a few seconds to realise he’s talking about the baby. “Hasita,” she tells him with a smile. “It means happiness.”
“The sisters are an optimistic bunch,” he says lightly. “I like that.”
“They’re extraordinary woman,” she murmurs as they leave the nursery wing - such a grand term for such a small building, but Sara thinks it deserves the accolade - and make their way towards the dining hall at the other end of the compound. “They have more determination and compassion in their little fingers than most people have in their whole bodies.” Casting a glance at him, she lets her fingers tangle gently with his, catching his hand against her thigh. “Most people, not all.”
He smiles, his fingers tightening around hers briefly as they walk in a comfortable, unhurried silence. In the distance, they can hear the sound of the children as they make their way towards the same destination. As they round the corner and see the last few slender-legged children disappearing into through the low-roofed building that houses the dining hall and kitchen, Michael slows his stride, his hand curling around hers. He gazes at her so intently she begins to wonder if she has formula splashed across her face. “What? Am I a mess?”
He grins. “Well, I’m no expert, but maybe you should check your hair.”
“That bad, is it?” She hastily lifts her hands to her hair. It’s not as bad as she feared, but it’s bad enough. He waits patiently, an indulgent smile curving his lips as she quickly rearranges her hair into something approaching respectability. “You’d think I’d be used to the humidity by now, given where we live.”
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, and a ripple of pleasure dances across her skin. She doesn't think of herself as a vain woman, but whenever he said those words to her, she feels like the most beautiful woman alive.
“Thank you,” she says softly, then gives him a curious look. “What were you going to say? You weren’t going to talk about my hair, surely?”
He hesitates, then takes a deep breath, his words coming out in a rush. “When you were here last time, did you ever consider-“
“There you are.” Sister Lucia has appeared in the doorway leading into the dining hall, looking serene and cool despite the midday heat. “The children are very excited about seeing you,” she says with a smile. “I hope you’re ready for an onslaught.”
Sara grins. “The feeling is entirely mutual.” Deciding to leave her and Michael’s unfinished conversation until later, she gives him a quick smile. “Shall we?”
Onslaught is a very good word for it, she decides a few minutes later. The first thing she notices is the heavenly scent of spiced food, then the sight of a dozen or so long tables filled with waiting students almost stops her in her tracks. Seventy-odd pairs of eyes suddenly focus sharply on her and Michael, and the hum of anticipation in the air reminds her of her own schooldays. There was nothing better than visitors to offer a break in the routine, and it didn’t matter if the visitor was the school inspector or a mobile hearing testing unit. She has time to hope she and Michael are at least more interesting than either of those two examples from her childhood, then an ear-blistering and well-rehearsed wall of sound rises up to greet them.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Sara. Good afternoon, Mr Scofield.”
Her knees tremble, her stomach doing gentle flip flops, then she feels the reassuring warmth of Michael’s hand on the small of her back, and it’s suddenly not so hard to cast a smile around the room and speak in a loud, clear voice. She greets them in English, thanking them for the warm welcome, taking care to include Michael in her thanks. They're a silent, beautiful audience, both boys and girls dressed in their bright red and blue uniforms, their hair showing signs of careful combing, and just looking at them makes her heart ache.
When she’s finished, several ripples of nervous giggles and whispers dart through the long tables, and she gives Sister Lucia a look of appeal, uncertain as to what might be the best next step.
The elderly nun smiles, then glides forward, touching a small shoulder here and straightening a long plait there as she moves up and down the tables. “We will sing for our visitors when they have finished their lunch, and after that you may ask your questions.”
Sara exchanges a glance with Michael, hiding a smile as he mouths questions? at her with a faint air of panic, then they’re being ushered towards a long table at one side of the room. Catching sight of a strangely familiar face, she hesitates, caught in a moment between the past and the present. When the face in question breaks into a smile, she knows she’s not imagining things. “Oh, my God. Tia?”
The young woman’s coming towards her now, her hands outstretched. “Namaste, Doctor Sara,” she murmurs, her hands clasped together in front of her chest, then she smiles again, her eyes gleaming. “How wonderful it is to have you back with us!”
The last time Sara had seen this girl, she had been one of the oldest orphans at the school. Now it seems she’s here in a very different capacity. “I had no idea you were working here,” she returns with undisguised happiness, quickly taking in the girl’s carefully professional appearance. “Are you teaching?”
A quick shake of the head, then the other woman smiles proudly. “I am the school nurse.”
Sara thinks her answering smile might split her own face. She remembers Tia tagging along beside her, asking all manner of medical questions at every opportunity. In another life, she may have made a very good doctor. But now is not the time to rail against the system, Sara tells herself. Now is the time to celebrate success. “That makes me very happy.”
Tia grins, her teeth white and even. “Me, too.”
Lunch with the staff and the students of St Mary’s proves to be a memorable one. Sara would have enjoyed herself in any case, but she suspects Michael’s presence has enhanced the experience a great deal. He’s not a complete stranger to this kind of food, Chicago being home to some truly wonderful Indian restaurants, but there’s a big difference between the Westernized version and the real thing.
Or perhaps, she thinks, the warmth she can feel humming beneath her skin is a lingering reminder of the way he’d looked at her when he’d discovered her in the nursery. She wonders if she’d looked at him the same way when it was his turn to cradle the baby in his arms.
He turns to her now, breaking the increasingly distracting spell of her thoughts as he puts his lips close to her ear, his voice lowered so as not to offend their hosts. “What can I eat?”
She smiles, flattered he’d taken her earlier advice so much to heart. “Any water we drink will be bottled and the kitchen staff will be used to catering for visitors, so you can basically eat anything you like.”
He looks relieved, then casts a hungry glance towards the bowls of dhal and deep fried vegetables in the middle of the table. “Music to my ears.”
Tia is now sitting at the other end of the long table, chatting animatedly to Sister Ava. Every time Sara catches her eye, she feels a fierce glow of pride. That is why I came here in the first place, she thinks. To help change the future for as many of these children as we possibly could.
Before Sister Lucia leads them all in a prayer of thanksgiving, Sara takes another moment to look around the large room. The children look good, happy and well-fed, the teachers and nuns a close-knit group, and the building itself in an excellent state of repair. Now that she’s finally here, she can admit she was afraid of what she might find. Gazing at the faces of the next generation of students, she feels a rush of relief so strong it makes her eyes prickle.
Thank you, she offers up to the listening deities, then turns her head, feeling Michael’s gaze on her as surely as if he’d touched her. “What?”
“You know, despite the grass stains, I wouldn't have missed this for the world,” he murmurs, his face alive in a way she’s only seen on a treasured handful of occasions, and her eyes prickle a second time.
“I'm very glad you're here.”
~*~
As another set of dishes are placed on the table in front of him, Michael digs his thumb into the waistband of his jeans, pleased he’s wearing his most comfortable pair. He’d managed to restrain himself from having thirds of the dahl and the deep fried vegetable fritters, but it had been a close shave. It was only when Sara had murmured a discreet this is just the first course, remember in the vicinity of his ear that he’d embraced the need to pace himself.
Beside him, Sara’s eyes widen as she inspects the second course. Turning to Sister Lucia, she proceeds to cheerfully scold the older woman. “You have gone to far too much trouble.”
Sister Lucia looks unrepentant. “It’s a treat for us as well, don’t forget.”
Sara turns to him. “It’s hilsa fish curry,” she explains as the scent of mustard seeds and other mysterious spices reach his nose. “It’s a special dish, usually made for celebrations.”
“Which today is,” Sister Lucia rebukes mildly, smiling as she pushes a bowl of white rice towards them. “So please do us the honour of enjoying it.”
They’ve been living in Punta Chame for over a year now, and Michael is no stranger to beautifully prepared seafood, but this fish curry is something else. He had no idea what’s in the dark brown sauce, but if he were eating alone, he’d be tempted to pour himself a glass and drink it straight. Catching Sara’s eye, he gives her a mischievous grin. Before he can speak, though, she shakes her head at him. “If you want to have this when we get home, ask the kitchen staff for the recipe and knock yourself out.”
He shakes his head right back at her, pretending to be offended. “Why must you always assume the worst of me, Doctor Sara?”
She chuckles as she spears a large chunk of white fish with her fork. “Experience.”
They drink water with the meal, which does nothing to put out the fire on his tongue. After one particularly spicy mouthful, he blows out a loud breath, hoping to cool his mouth. “That’s got a kick to it.”
Sara gives him the kind of superior grin of a woman well-used to this kind of food. “Too much for you?”
“Of course not.”
He waits until she’s turned to speak to Sister Lucia, then forks a large bite of plain white rice into his mouth. There’s no point in suffering needlessly, after all.
When lunch is over and all the dishes cleared away, the nun from Kolkata, Sister Julia, gathers together a small group of children, ranging from the youngest to the oldest, and ushers them towards the front of the room. Beside him, Sara is transfixed, sitting up ramrod straight in her chair, her eyes gleaming as she watches the students arrange themselves into two long rows. He grins as a small scuffle breaks out between two boys who both obviously feel they’re tall enough to be in the back row rather than the front with the babies, recognizing his erstwhile cricket companions from earlier that afternoon. Peace is quickly restored, however, and an expectant hush falls over the room.
Sister Julia, he realises belatedly, must also be the children’s singing teacher. She stands at the front of the group, her hands raised, an encouraging smile gleaming in her dark face. He hears her quietly count to the beat of three, then the children start to sing.
Grinning, he looks at Sara, but if she’s surprised to hear Auld Lang Sing in a different language on a very hot day two months before New Year’s Eve, she doesn’t show it. She simply smiles and reaches for his hand beneath the table, and together they watch the children swaying back and forth in time, their young voices raised in song. There is a lump in Michael’s throat that won’t go away, no matter how much he swallows. They’re beautiful, every one of them, even the squabbling boys, and he thinks of his unfinished question to Sara before they’d come into lunch. He knows how much she cares about these children, and he’d seen her face when she was nursing Hasita. He'd asked her yesterday if she wanted children, and he knows he has his answer.
When they finally have another moment alone together, he’ll finish his question and ask her if she'd ever considered adopting one of these children after her time here several years ago. For him, being here only makes him want to have a child of his own, with her, and he wonders if that makes him a selfish man.
The children finish their song to a raucous burst of applause, and Sister Julia spends the next few minutes trying to get them to stop bowing and pay attention long enough to start their next song. When they launch into a Christmas carol (in English this time), he decides that this is official the best day he’s had in a long while.
When the singing is over, Sara is red-eyed but smiling as she leans close to whisper in his ear. “The real onslaught is about to start, so look out.”
She’s right.
Their table is suddenly swarmed by children, some of them shy, some of them confident enough to ask questions (in perfect English) about everything from Sara’s hair to his own attempts to play cricket. His two former playmates suddenly materialize at his elbow, and he soon discovers their names are Daman and Kapil, they’re both ten years old and have been at the orphanage for the last five years. They seem disappointed that Michael doesn’t actually live in America, but are impressed when he tells them he grew up in Chicago, the land of Al Capone, one of the world’s toughest gangsters. When Daman admires his watch, Michael takes it off and hands it to him for a closer look. It’s not the watch that makes the boys eyes widen, though, and Michael belatedly realises the sleeve of his t-shirt has ridden up.
Feeling an odd sense of déjà vu - he’s been through this with the local Panamanian children at home - he pushes up his sleeves and lets them look to their heart’s content. Feeling the gentle press of Sara’s shoulder against his, he turns to meet her gaze, and the tenderness in her eyes makes his heart feel almost too big for his chest. He sees her mouth form silent words - I love you - then one of the older girls is tugging at her sleeve and whispering into her ear. There is a brief bout of giggling, and he raises his eyebrows. “Care to let me in on the joke?”
“She’s wondering if you’re getting married,” Sara tells him cheerfully, “because of the tattoos.” As Michael wonders if there’s a way he can answer that question without looking like the world’s worst poker player, she exchanges an amused glance with the teenaged girl beside her. “Although, it’s normally the women who wear the henna tattoos for the ceremony.”
Grinning, Michael leans forward to catch the young girl’s eye. “Mine don’t wash off.”
She smiles, then she ducks her head, giving him a shy glance from beneath lowered lashes before turning to relay his answer to a friend standing behind her.
Sara smirks. “Good save.”
“Thank you.”
Sister Lucia finds them a short time later, cutting an effortless swathe through the hovering children. “What are your plans for the rest of your stay?” she asks as she eases into the seat beside Sara.
“Sightseeing, basically. I really want Michael to see the Birla Temple and St Paul’s Cathedral, especially,” Sara says as Sister Lucia nods in approval. “Perhaps we could come back for another visit on Friday morning?”
Sister Lucia beams, but before she can answer, Sara puts her hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “On the proviso that you and the other sisters and the students make no special arrangements for us whatsoever,” she adds sternly. “Do we have a deal?”
Michael grins as he watches the struggle on the elderly nun’s face. After a moment, she shakes her head, more in admiration than anything else. “You drive a hard bargain, Doctor Sara.”
Sara laughs, a lilting sound that warms Michael’s blood. “I’m just trying to keep up with you and you know it.”
~*~
Finally ensconced together in the backseat of their taxi, he looks across at Sara, frowning at the sheen of sweat dotting her pale forehead. The day is still warm, but she always seems to cope better with the heat than he does. “You okay?”
“Indigestion,” she replies, tapping her chest lightly with a curled fist. “Ate too much, I afraid.”
Sliding his arm along the back of the seat, he curls his hand around the nape of her neck. “Want me to put you over my shoulder and rub your back?”
She laughs softly. “Maybe when we get back to the hotel.” Leaning back in her seat, she gazes out the window, obviously lost in thought. He’s not surprised. It’s been an eventful day, to say the least.
The children and staff had given them a rousing send-off, half the children running alongside the taxi, shrieking with laughter as they raced the car to the end of the long, dusty driveway. Stiling smiling at the thought, he tilts back his head, closing his eyes as the driver does his best to find every single bump in the road. Warmed by the heat of the afternoon and wearied by the company they’ve kept all day, he finds himself drifting pleasantly towards drowsiness, a slide halted by the sound of Sara’s voice.
“I found out something about my dad today.”
He opens his eyes. “What?”
She’s still staring out the window. “Apparently he sent a donation to the orphanage every year.”
He blinks, quickly translating the simple words into their deeper meaning. “He never told you?”
Her throat works as she swallows, her gaze still fixed on some unseen point outside the car window. “No.”
Knowing what he does about the late Frank Tancredi and his relationship with his daughter, Michael's heart aches for her. “Sara.”
Her chest rises and falls with a sharp inhalation of breath, then she turns to look at him. “What?”
“Your father loved you,” he tells her softly, holding her gaze with his. “He was also incredibly proud of you.”
She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “So people keep telling me.” She takes another deep breath, then gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring down the mood. It was just unexpected, that’s all.”
“You don’t have to apologise.” He curves his palm over the jut of her knee. “I’m surprised about Frank, too.” Catching sight of her unexpected smile, he pauses. “What?”
“I like it when you call him Frank.” She’s still smiling, but there’s an edge to her voice that tells him she’s closer to tears than laughter. “Makes me feel as though you two may have actually met once upon a time.” Shifting along the side as far as her seatbelt will allow, she leans into him, tilting her head until it’s resting on his shoulder. Her fingers thread through his, holding on tight. “You know how I used to joke that he would have hated you?”
He closes his eyes again, savouring the warmth of her pressed against his side, the soft clasp of her hand. “Yes.”
He feels the press of her lips against his shoulder, the heat of her mouth warming his skin through his shirt. “I think he might have come around in the end.”
Recognizing her words for the accolade they are, he squeezes her hand. “If not, I could have always pretended I’d voted for him.”
Her laughter is quiet but steady, and he knows she’s past the worst of the fall-out from Sister Lucia’s revelation. “You know, I’m embarrassed to say it, but that probably would have worked.”
They fall into an easy silence, her hand still tightly gripping his, and he decides to leave the adoption question for another time. She’s already negotiated one too many emotional landmines one afternoon, and he’s in no rush to add another to the pile.
~*~
They spend a lazy afternoon at the hotel, first seeking out the cool sanctuary of the pool before retiring to their room to check emails, admire the view from the balcony and dress for dinner.
After a quick discussion, they decide to have dinner in the restaurant in the hotel and, after calling down to make a reservation, Michael smiles wryly as he hangs up the phone. “Would the fact that the most recommended place to eat in one of the most famous hotels in Kolkata is actually the Thai restaurant be one of those ironic Indian things?”
In the middle of rummaging through her suitcase, Sara flashes him a distracted smile. “I guess so.”
Tenting his hands in front of him, he leans back in the chair and indulges himself in the simple pleasure of watching her. She’s wearing the raspberry-coloured silk robe he’d given her for her birthday earlier that year, the damp ends of her hair clinging to her shoulders. He knows there’s nothing else under that robe but bare skin, and he shifts restlessly in his chair, suddenly wishing he’d thought to make the dinner reservation an hour or so later. That particular robe never fails to fill him with the urge to slide his hands over the slippery material to the silken flesh beneath. “Looking for your new dress?”
She slants him a whiskey-coloured look that makes his pulse quicken. “You bet.”
He grins. “Should I close my eyes?”
“No, it’s okay.” With that, she steps between him and the suitcase, blocking his line of sight. “I’m all good.” Flashing him a bright smile, she clutches an impossibly small wad of pale material to her chest and heads for the ensuite. “See you soon.”
Smiling, he makes his way to the main bathroom and goes through his own showering and dressing routine, pleased he'd had the foresight to hang up his collared shirts and his suit when they’d first arrived. As he buttons his shirt, he thinks about the paperwork hidden in the room safe. He still doesn't have a ring to give her, but they're about to go to dinner in a beautiful restaurant and despite his earlier decision to wait until exactly the right moment, he's suddenly filled with resolve. Ring or no ring, he'll ask her tonight, he decides, and the mere thought sends a rush of nervous anticipation coursing through his bloodstream.
As far as life-altering momenteous decisions go, he thinks, this one is by far his favourite.
He’s reaching for his suit jacket a few minutes later when the ensuite door opens, bequeathing him with a burst of lightly perfumed air.
“Ready when you are.”
His jacket hanging forgotten from his fingertips, he stares at her, vaguely aware of the possibility that his mouth is agape. “You were right. That’s a very good dress.”
It's not actually the dress, of course. The dress is merely windowdressing, just like the smokey eyes and the rose-coloured lips and the gleam of silver hanging from each ear. But as windowdressing goes, it's spectacular.
Toying with one end of the delicate black wrap draped around her, Sara gives him a charmingly self-conscious smile. “Thank you.” Her gaze sweeps over him from head to toe, appreciation gleaming in her eyes. “I love that suit on you.”
At this very moment, he couldn’t care less how he looks, because her dress is pale pink and sleeveless, made from a floating, gauzy material, with a demure halter neckline and a hem that finishes a few inches above her knees. Her arms and legs are bare, and after only two days in Kolkata, the sight of all that skin is vaguely shocking.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he says as he walks towards the room, unable to take his eyes off her, “but are you sure it’s okay to wear that?”
She smoothes one hand down the front of her skirt, making the gossamer material shift against her lightly tanned thighs. “As long as we don’t leave the hotel, I’m good.”
Watching her hand, his thoughts take a decidedly wanton turn. “After finally being allowed to see you in that dress, I have no plans to take you any further away from this room than I have to, trust me.”
She blushes, the pink of her skin a delicate echo of the colour of her dress. “We’ll eat fast.”
~*~
Her shoes are silvery, high and strappy. They’re as new as her secret dress, and he makes a mental note to send her shopping on her own more often. They make her legs look even longer than they already are and her back arch a distracting fraction more than usual, and it’s a pleasure to walk a step behind her through the restaurant. The auburn tumble of her hair plays hide and seek with the tender jut of her shoulder blades, and he is already counting the moments until he can plunge his hands into the softness of it, feel the strands tighten around his fingers as he tilts back her head to kiss her.
“Sir?”
He blinks, realizing the maitre de is speaking to him. “I'm sorry, what was that?”
The man gives him a professionally patient smile. “Is this table to your liking?”
“It’s perfect.” Go away.
He watches as the other man dances attendance on Sara, taking an irritatingly long time to fill her water glass and hand her a menu. Just when he thinks the inside of his cheek might start bleeding if he bites it another second longer, the maitre de smiles at him. “I’ll leave you to peruse the menu?”
“Yes,” he says politely, his teeth meeting in what he hopes is a smile. “Thank you.” Please, go away.
Finally alone, he puts the wine menu to one side and slides his hand across the white tablecloth to find hers. “What would you like to drink?”
She gives him a smile that seems faintly lacking in enthusiasm. “Some plain sparkling water will be fine.”
He frowns. “You okay?”
She hesitates, then squeezes his hand. “Just a little headache.” She shrugs. “It’s nothing, really.”
“You want me to get something for you?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll be okay, honestly.”
It’s his turn to hesitate now, torn between wanting her to feel better and not wanting to open a familiar can of worms. In the end, his desire for her to feel better wins out. “You’re allowed to take something for a headache, you know.”
Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “I’d rather not.”
He doesn’t quite manage to swallow his answering sigh, and she gently extracts her hand from his grasp. “Don’t start, please?”
“I’m not going to tell you what you should do.” She gives him a look that clearly says she doesn’t buy that line for a minute, and he decides he may as well prove her right. “Okay, I am. You can’t spend the rest of your life so worried about falling off the wagon that you won’t even take a headache tablet when you need one.”
She reaches for the menu and flips it open, apparently transfixed by the traditional soups on offer. “This way works for me.”
“So it has to be all or nothing.”
“Pretty much.” Her tone is light, but he knows her well enough to hear the unspoken dismissal in those two words. He also knows he’s not prepared to just let it drop. God knows he doesn’t want to push her, but if she’s feeling sick, he does want her to do something about it.
“Isn’t there a train of thought that believes a moderated lifestyle is easier to maintain?”
Shutting the menu with exaggerated care, she leans towards him, her eyes burning into his so intently he has to squelch the urge to lean back. “It’s like there are two different parts of me, Michael. One would happily stick a needle in my arm then throw back half a dozen scotches before breakfast and always will. The other is the part I want to be for the rest of my life, the part that doesn’t want or need any kind of drugs or alcohol to get through a day, no matter how bad that day might be. It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve learned that I have to keep them completely separate to stay clean. It’s that simple.”
They stare at each other, and he vaguely wonders how this evening managed to take such a detour turn so quickly. He knows whatever he says next has to be exactly the right thing, and he decides to go with the time-honoured tradition of making her smile. “I totally understand that, but if it’s all or nothing, how come you’re still mainlining coffee five times a day? That’s a stimulant, right?”
Her eyes narrow, but he hears the laughter in her voice. “God, you're annoying. Let me have one vice, will you?”
“How bad is your head, really?”
Lifting her hand to her forehead, she rubs the spot between her eyebrows with her fingertips. “Not bad enough to distract me from my indigestion, unfortunately.”
He frowns, knowing that if it’s bad enough for her to mention, it’s quite bad. “If you’re not feeling well, we can do this tomorrow night.”
Her face falls. “It’s so beautiful here, and I was so looking forward to it, I really don’t want -” She breaks off, putting one hand on her stomach. “Okay, that’s not good.” Before his startled eyes, she turns pale, a faint sheen of sweat suddenly gleaming on her forehead and upper lip. “I think I need to find the bathroom,” she says in a thick voice, her expression faintly panicked, and he has her up and out of her chair before she has the chance to say another word. He knows what indigestion looks like, and this isn’t it.
She doesn’t protest as he spirits her discreetly through the restaurant, her fingers digging into his arm, her lips pressed in a tight line. He deposits her outside the ladies room door, then goes in search of the maitre de. “My companion is ill, so I’m afraid we won’t be dining with you this evening.”
The other man bows his head. “Shall I reserve a table for you for the same time tomorrow night, sir?”
Michael thinks of the way the blood had drained from Sara’s face, her frown of discomfort as she’d pressed her hand flat on her stomach. “I’ll get back to you.”
She reemerges five minutes later, her eyes glassy and her face parchment white. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, and he slips his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close.
“I think bed is the best place for you,” he says quietly as he draws her towards the restaurant’s exit. “You know,” he goes on cheerily, hoping to distract her from whatever is happening in her stomach long enough to get her upstairs to their own bathroom, “I expected to say those words tonight, but not quite under these circumstances.”
She chuckles, then hiccups, a flicker of abject misery flashing across her face. “God, I’m so sorry.”
"Stop apologising," he tells her sternly, steering her gently into the newly-opened elevator. "Just concentrate on your breathing until we get upstairs, okay?"
She slumps against him in the elevator, looking for all the world like she’s merely suffering from one too many glasses of champagne, and he’s filled with a tender panic that makes his chest feel tight. She’s so good at looking after everyone else in her life, the thought of her being sick seems very wrong. He rubs his hand up and down her back, impatiently counting down the floor levels as their elevator rises. Come on, come on.
They manage to make it to their room without incident, and she immediately flees in the direction of the main bathroom. As the door slams shut behind her, Michael lets out his breath in a long despondent sigh, then shrugs out of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the nearest chair. He’s used to roadblocks and having to reconfigure his life at a moment’s notice, but somehow the phrase best laid plans doesn’t even come close, not tonight.
~*~