India - Chapter 10/10 - aka THE END
Title: India - Chapter Ten - THE END
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, various original characters
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 9,594 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. Big thanks to wrldpossiblity for picking up all my typos (I shouldn't write when I'm taking medication, obviously) and to scribblecat for nagging and poking and prodding for the entire length of this story. Thanks also to the lovely swatkat24, who answered all my questions about Kolkata with unflagging enthusiasm. For those of you who have read the epilogue of Safe House, you will find something very familiar about this chapter. Thanks to everyone who took the time to read (and who waited almost a year for me to finish it, eeep) and here's to Season Four!
~*~
When she opens her eyes, her first thought is that the light is too bright, too yellow. The second is that she doesn’t feel like throwing up. The third is that Michael is in bed beside her, gazing down at her with a smile. Vaguely wondering if she’d managed to remove all traces of her eyeliner and mascara the night before, she smiles back at him. “Hi.”
“Morning.” He leans down to kiss her, his breath stirring the hair at her temple, his lips warm. Tilting back his head, his gaze roams her face, his expression concerned. “How are you feeling?”
She gives him another smile, and to her relief it doesn’t feel as though it’s pasted onto her mouth. “Like I took on a Kolkata taxi in a game of chicken and lost big time.”
He laughs softly, then she feels the warm slide of his fingers through her hair, fingertips gently rubbing her scalp. Just as it had been last night, the gesture is comforting, making her lean into his touch. “I think you should stay horizontal today.”
The teasing lilt in his voice makes her smile widen. “Is that another one of those things you were already planning to say but not quite in this context?”
He flashes her a bright grin as he hooks his other arm around her waist, his whiskered chin scraping gently against her shoulder, the tip of his nose tickling her jaw. “Maybe.”
Rolling over to face him, she drapes her arm over his hip and wriggles closer. He’s wearing only his boxers and she seems to be wearing a t-shirt and underpants, and the heat of him instantly seeps into her skin. The air-conditioning must be turned up too high, she thinks fretfully. Either that, or her temperature is still all over the place. “What will you do if I stay in bed?”
The hand on her hip tightens, his thumb making little circles on the skin of her belly. “I’ll go for a walk,” he tells her in an oddly breathless voice. “Maybe pick up some souvenirs for Linc and LJ.”
Resting her forehead against the curve of his bare shoulder, she inhales the familiar scent of his skin, a delicious mixture of soap, lingering aftershave and sleep. “Are you sure?” She’d wanted to be there when he explored the stores, but she’s relieved he doesn’t feel obliged to sit and watch her sleep for hours on end.
“Positive.” He kisses her on the top of the head a second time, then throws back the covers on his side of the bed. “I’ll order some room service in a minute, okay?”
Her stomach twinges faintly at the mention of food, and she shifts closer to the warm spot he’s just vacated, her eyes already closing once more. “Hmmm-mmm.”
He showers and dresses in seemingly record time, and before she knows it, she’s sitting up in bed, sipping tea while he devours an omelet and toast and coffee. Just like it was last night - before she fell ill, of course - his demeanor is that of a child about to embark on some great adventure, and the thought of not sharing it with him has her eyelids prickling with tears of self-pity.
A short time later, as he gathers up his wallet and his baseball cap, the feeling intensifies. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, not exactly sure why she’s apologizing when he’s obviously perfectly fine with the idea of exploring by himself, and he literally bounds across the room to the bed.
“What did I tell you about apologizing, Doctor Tancredi?” The mattress dips beneath his weight as he kneels on the bed beside her, one hand resting on the pillow beside her head as he leans down to kiss her. The touch of his mouth on hers has her closing her eyes in sleepy delight. He tastes of coffee and butter, stirring an appetite completely unrelated to food, and she fights the urge to sink her teeth into his bottom lip, not wanting to start something she’s not sure she has the energy to finish. Michael, on the other hand, has no such hesitation, and the languid brush of his tongue against hers has her flushing with a heat that has nothing to do with a suspect temperature. “It’s not allowed, remember?” he finally says as he lifts his head to regard her with glowing eyes.
It takes her a few seconds to remember what they’d been discussing, something she decides she’ll blame on the overabundance of medication in her system. At some point during their kiss, her hands seem to have reached for the front of his shirt, her fingers tangling in the soft fabric. “I’m sure I’ll be feeling better by the time you get back.”
His grin is one of promise. “In that case, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
~*~
She has strange dreams.
She’s with her father in a restaurant, and he’s telling her one day he’s going to be the President of the United States and how thousands of people are going to hate his guts. Then her mother is there, resting a hand on her husband’s shoulder, her beautiful face untouched by illness, frozen in time.
Oh, Frank. Stop teasing her. You know she already worries about some crank taking a potshot at you.
I’m just trying to toughen her up. Her father smiles at her. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?
Sara opens her eyes. Her pulse is racing, her breathing shallow and rapid. Putting her hand to her face, she’s shocked to find her cheeks wet with tears. Oh, Dad. Throwing back the covers, she sits up in bed, trying to catch her breath, trying to stop the tears that are still trickling down her face. On a good day, the loss of her father is something that swims just below the surface of her thoughts. On a bad day, it’s an almost unbearable physical pain, gouging into her heart and her soul and her conscience.
She doesn’t want today to be a bad day.
Hastily locating a box of Kleenex, she wipes her face and blows her nose, then belatedly checks her watch. It’s just after one o’clock, and Michael is obviously still out exploring. Then again, she thinks as she catches sight of the piece of white paper underneath her water bottle, maybe he isn’t.
Gone for a swim, back soon. M. xx
She doesn’t know if it’s because of her dream or because she’s still feeling slightly fuzzy, but her heart leaps at the sight of those two small crosses. Smiling at her own foolishness, she scans the room, looking for any sign that Michael had successfully purchased gifts for his brother and his nephew, but unless he decided to pack them already - highly unlikely, she thinks with a wry smile - it looks as though he came back empty-handed.
Which suits her very well, because it's still early, and what she needs right now is a shower, fresh clothes and a walk. If she gets the first two done by the time Michael returns, perhaps she can talk him into stretching his legs a little further. It appears that cabin fever can occur in even the nicest of hotel rooms.
The tears return once she’s in the shower, and this time she lets them come. As the steam rises around her, she cries for her mother and her father and finally for herself, remembering when it had been the three of them together, knowing she had been loved, that they had loved each other too.
By the time she turns off the water, she’s red-eyed but calm, and not for the first time, she recognizes the cathartic power of a good cry. She dresses quickly but carefully, choosing another long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. As she pulls her hair back into a ponytail, she watches her hands in the mirror, remembering the relished treat of being allowed to brush and plait her mother’s dark red hair. Putting down the brush, she studies her reflection, seeing the echo of her mother’s cheekbones and mouth in her own features. Thinking of the baby she’d held in her arms yesterday, she knows she’s one of the lucky ones. Her parents may be gone, but she knew them, and she knows all the legacies they’ve passed onto her. Regret and ‘what ifs’ could eat her up if she let them, and she refuses to let that happen. She has a family of her own now, albeit an unconventional one, and the future is stretching out in front of her to make of it what she can. Her parents are gone, but she can still make them proud of her.
She’s on the balcony when Michael returns from his swim. He looks surprised to see her out of bed and dressed. His flipflops smack on the tiles as he crosses the room to join her, bringing with him the faint scent of chlorine. “Feeling better?”
She smiles, taking a moment to admire the picture he makes in his boardshorts and hastily buttoned shirt. “Much better, thank God.”
Putting his elbows on the railing, he turns his head to study her. “Good enough to give dinner another try, maybe?”
The thought of food doesn’t exactly fill her with anticipation, but the undisguised eagerness in his eyes easily sways her. “As long as you’re prepared to eat the lion’s share of whatever we order, I think that could be on the cards.”
He grins, lifting his hand to touch her hair, his fingers curling playfully into the dangling end of her ponytail. “You’d wear that dress again, right?”
She laughs, making a mental note to go back to a certain dress store in Punta Chame and see what else she can find in stock. “I could be persuaded, I guess.”
He grins again, and for the next few minutes, they watch the world below go about its business in a comfortable silence. “Sara-”
“You know what I’d really like to do now?”
They both break off, smiling, and he tugs gently at her ponytail. “You first.”
“Could we go for a walk?” Something that looks almost like disappointment flashes across his face, and she hastily goes on. “I know you’re probably sick of walking after going out earlier, but I feel as though I’ve been in this room for days, and I’m dying to walk through the New Markets.” Turning to face him, she pokes him gently in the chest with one finger. “We could find something for Lincoln and LJ.” He suddenly looks sheepish, and she knows she was right about him coming back empty-handed. “And Jane too, of course.”
It takes him a few seconds to reply, and just when she thinks he’s going to plead tiredness or sore feet, he smiles. “Sure, why not?”
“Great.” Leaning forward, she kisses him softly, smiling against his mouth as the hand toying with her ponytail drops to cup the nape of her neck, pulling her close. The heat between them catches and burns, and the gentle kiss quickly becomes something quite different, something urgent and hungry. They’re both breathless by the time she pulls away, and she knows that the slightest touch or glance would have him pushing her back against the balcony railing. “Uh, okay,” she manages to say, her voice sounding as unsteady as her legs. “I’ll just get my purse?”
He gives her a slow smile that does odd things to the pit of her stomach, a very different sensation to the one that’s plagued her for the last twelve hours. “Good idea.”
Alone in the bathroom, she splashes cold water on her face and wonders if there will ever be a time when his touch doesn’t set her senses alight. She’d been sick all evening and spent a good half-hour weeping in the shower this afternoon, and now the only thought in her head is how much she wants to be in bed, naked, with the man waiting for her in the next room. Shaking her head, she dries her hands and reaches for the toiletry bag sitting on the vanity, intent on finding her lip balm. As she rummages, her fingertips scrape against the edge of her current month’s supply of contraceptives, and she freezes in sudden realization.
Oh.
Since moving to Panama, she’d fallen into the habit of taking her pill every morning at breakfast. While they’ve been travelling, she'd been careful to stick to the same time frame, and while they’ve been in India, she’s been taking it just before dinner every night, keeping in mind the ten hour time difference. Last night, she’d followed her usual routine, taking it before she’d put the finishing touches on her makeup. Thirty minutes later, however, she’d been violently ill to the point of emptying her stomach completely. Which means she needs to take another one right now or she may as well throw away the rest of the packet and hope for the best. Taking another dose will throw off her supply for the end of the month, but she’ll be back in Panama by the time she needs to deal with that. And if all else fails, she thinks with a wry smile, there’s a box of condoms in her suitcase.
As she grabs the ever-present bottle of water, a thought pops unbidden into her head. If she was a superstitious woman, she might see this as a sign it was time to talk seriously to Michael about having children. After all, he’s the one who raised the subject, right? It’s not as though she’d be putting unwanted pressure on him to start a family when he hasn’t yet managed to extricate himself from his marriage of convenience, is it? She studies at the tiny pill in her palm for a moment, then puts it on her tongue and resolutely washes it down with a mouthful of water. There are some hasty decisions that can be made on holiday without any fallout. That one, she decides, really isn’t one of them.
Michael is leaning beside the door to their room when she emerges, bouncing his cap from one hand to the other. “You okay?”
She slings her purse over her shoulder. “All good.”
Picking up the security key for the door, he slips it into his back pocket. “Thought you might have had a relapse.”
She narrows her gaze, but she suspects her smile lessens the impact. “Is that your way of telling me I take too long to get ready?”
He grins, holding the door open for her and waving her through with a flourish. “So, where do you want to go first?”
~*~
The New Markets are just as crowded, dusty and vibrant as she remembered them.
The air is thick with the smell of livestock, deep-fried food, spices and humanity. Beside her, Michael looks fascinated, his gaze going from left to right and back again as he tries to take it all in. “You didn’t come down here earlier by yourself?” She’s already assumed he didn’t, given his lack of gift-buying, but she’s suddenly curious as to where he did go.
He blinks, then gives her a quick smile. “No, I just went for a walk. I thought I’d wait until you were with me before I dived into this madness.”
She grins as they hastily step aside to avoid being crushed by a man carrying the biggest tray of eggplants Sara has ever seen. “Good thinking.”
They wander from stall to stall, looking at everything from fruit to candy and shoes. It doesn’t take them long to find cricket equipment for LJ, and silver jewelry for Jane is a very safe bet. Michael watches, grinning from ear to ear, as she and the respective stallholders cheerily argue over price, and she can’t help wondering if she’s simply following local custom or showing off for him. Perhaps it’s a little of both.
Lincoln, as always, proves to be a more difficult recipient, and they find themselves at a loss as to what to buy for him. “What did you buy him for Christmas?” she asks as she picks up a handful of CDs she suspects Lincoln would rather use as Frisbees than actually play.
Michael smiles. “A new wetsuit.”
“That’s helpful,” she murmurs smilingly. “Maybe we should just buy him a crate of candy and be done with it.”
He laughs, catching her hand in his and squeezing it gently. “We don’t have to buy him something today, do we?”
She shakes her head as they shoulder their way through the crowd towards the next row of stalls, politely ignoring the entreating calls from various sellers to stop and sample their goods. “No, there’s plenty of time. I just wanted to tick it off the to-do list.”
He looks amused. “Why, Doctor Sara, don’t tell me you’ve turned into a list-maker. I thought that was my job.”
She grins. “You’re obviously a bad influence on me.”
He gives her a look of mild protest, then his attention is snagged by the gleaming bolts of sari fabric to their right. His hand on her arm, he draws her over to the stall. “These are beautiful.”
Seeing as she’s tempted to buy them all, if it’s only to drape them around their house in Panama, she’s not about to argue with him. “I know.” She picks up the end of a particularly vibrant length of peacock blue, rubbing her thumb over the gold thread. “Too bad neither of us can sew.”
He is undeterred. “That’s what dressmakers are for,” he tells her with a grin, his long fingers skimming down the length of a roll of brilliant emerald green fabric. “You’d look like a mermaid in this colour.”
The stallholder, having abandoned his newspaper to give them his close attention, beams at Michael. “Yes, yes, she would. Excellent choice, sir.”
Feeling her face grow hot, Sara decides the quickest way out of this situation is capitulation. “Okay, let’s buy some.” She reaches into her purse for her wallet, but Michael is one step ahead of her. Amused - and more than a little taken aback - she listens as he discusses lengths with the stallowner, then the all important topic of price. When he politely argues the man down to a third of the original amount quoted, she knows he’s officially become acclimatized. Money exchanges hands, then Michael is tucking a brown paper parcel under one arm and looking at her expectantly. “Okay. Next?”
Laughing at his self-satisfied expression, she lets her nose lead them to their next destination, and soon she’s gazing raptly at rows of fresh spices. The small jars gleam in the afternoon sunlight, and the smell of cloves and cardamom and star anise is pleasantly overpowering. She exchanges a few quick words with the woman behind the selling counter, then begins to explore. Michael peers over her shoulder, inhaling deeply. “Are you buying some to take home?”
“I think so.” Her fingers hover over the gleaming jars of saffron. She can buy it at home, of course, but that’s not the point. “I need to get supplies for all that Indian food you’ll be making for us.”
He laughs as he rests his chin on her shoulder, his breath warm against her ear. “Is that right?”
“Uh huh.” Plucking up one of the jars of saffron, she hands it to the smiling stallowner. “I’ll take a packet of the cumin, too?”
The other woman nods. “Yes, no problem.”
She makes her way down the length of the counter, lifting bowls of roasted spices to her nose to sniff, admiring the freshness of the curry leaves and the heavy mortar and pestle sets. “Now that’s something I won’t be buying to take home,” she murmurs over her shoulder as she points to the marble mortar set. “Our luggage would be seriously overweight.”
When Michael doesn’t answer, she turns to find him a few paces behind her. His hands are in his pockets, his expression thoughtful, and she has the sudden thought that perhaps he’s too polite to tell her he’s bored, or maybe uncomfortable in the heat. Feeling the prickle of sweat on her own scalp, she has to admit the thought of their air-conditioned room is becoming increasingly tempting. She’ll just have a look at those giant cinnamon quills, she thinks, then she’ll ask him if he wants to go back to the hotel.
He’s caught up to her by the time she’s lifting a quill to her nose, his hand warm on the small of her back as he leans over her shoulder to steal a quick sniff. “That smells great.”
“Cinnamon is a well-known aphrodisiac,” she tells him lightly, and the hand on her back twitches.
“Better get two, then,” he tosses back at her in a voice that glides over her skin like melted butter. “Not that we'll be needing it, of course.”
Her hand tightens on the cinnamon quills. Foreplay in the middle of a crowded market in a country that frowned on public displays of affection. It’s a small rebellion, but they’re law-abiding citizens for the most part these days. She hastily hands the quills to the woman behind the counter, then turns to Michael. “I’m done here, at least for today. What do you want to do next?”
He seems to take a deep breath, his chest rising and falling, then the words come out in a rush. “I want to marry you.”
She stares at him, fighting the urge to put her fingers in her ears and clean out the dust that must surely have settled in them, because he could not have said what she thinks he just said. “Uh, what?”
Pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head, he smiles at her. “I want to marry you.”
Her heart does a bungee dive into the pit of her stomach, then bounces back up again. “That’s what I thought you said,” she murmurs, trying to come to grips with this unexpected turn of events.
“You like to pay now, ma’am?”
Flustered, she turns to the waiting stallowner, who is now holding out a small paper bag, obviously waiting to be paid. Before Sara can react, Michael hands the woman far too much money, then takes the bag from her hand. “Thank you!”
Suddenly furious, Sara grabs his arm and pulls him sideways through the crowd, managing to find a small piece of relative sanctuary behind yet another shoe stall. “Why would you say such a thing?”
Shoving the spice bag under the same arm as the other parcel, he lifts his hand to touch her face, his palm warm against her cheek. “Because it’s true.”
She wants to kiss him. She wants to punch him. She wants to burst into tears. Maybe, she thinks with a faint air of hysteria, she’ll do all three. “Wanting to do something and actually being able to do it are two different things, Michael.” She wants to say more but her voice has died in her throat, choked by the enormity of her love for this man and the fact that there are still barriers standing between them and she’s tried so hard not to care about the legalities but when he looks at her like that and says things like that, she does. “Last time I checked, bigamy was still illegal in Panama.”
His fingers slide beneath her chin, tilting her head back, forcing her to look at him. “The divorce papers arrived the day we flew out.”
She stares at him. So much has happened since their arrival in India, it takes her a few seconds to pinpoint the correct moment in time, but suddenly a rain-soaked visit to the post office on the way to the airport flashes into her head. “You said there wasn’t anything interesting in the mail.”
The corners of his mouth lift in a smile. “I lied.”
She’s allowed herself to imagine this moment more than once, and not once did she ever imagine that it would happen in the baking heat of a crowded market in India. There’s dust swirling around their feet, the air is heavy with the smell of animals and people, and she feels as though her heart is about to burst because she suddenly can’t think of a more perfect place for it to happen. “Say it again.”
He leans closer until his lips are little more than a breath away from hers, his eyes glittering. “I want to marry you.”
A quiver of anticipation runs through her, rippling through her belly and weakening the backs of her knees. “No, ask me.”
She hears the sound of two brown paper parcels hitting the dirt, then he’s taking both her hands in his. “Doctor Tancredi, will you marry me?”
“Yes," she tells him, the whispered answer snatched up by the wind, buffeted by the noise of the crowd around them. "Yes, I will."
Grinning, he releases one hand to cup his fingers around his ear. “I'm sorry, what was that?”
“I said yes, Scofield.”
They gaze at each other in smiling disbelief for what feels like an eternity, then his hand tightens around hers. “Hotel.”
She feels overheated in a way that has nothing to do with the sun, her skin stretched tight over her bones. “Yes.”
If they walk fast, they can make it back to the hotel in five minutes.
It takes them four.
They don’t touch. They barely look at each other. Every time they do, though, it’s a fight to see who can resist dissolving into laughter the longest. By the time they reach the hotel, Sara’s up one in the poker face stakes, something that doesn’t come as a surprise to either of them.
Michael takes her hand in the crowded elevator, the chaste gesture only serving to make her tap her feet impatiently, staring up at the glowing numbers as they slowly rise to their floor. When the doors open, she smiles politely at their fellow passengers as she brushes past them, then Michael is opening the door to their room and they’re finally alone.
The lock has barely clicked into place again before he’s kissing her, his hands sliding over her hips as he presses her gently back against the closed door. It’s a sweet, lazy kiss that should feel at odds with their rushed journey back to the hotel. It doesn’t. It feels exactly right.
When he finally pulls away, his whole face is glowing with anticipation, and she doesn’t need a mirror to know her expression is an exact match for his. His smile literally reaching from ear to ear, he takes her hand and draws her out to the balcony, then kisses her again, a little harder this time. “Wait here?”
She nods as he vanishes back into the room, running her tip of her tongue over her tingling bottom lip and taking a deep breath in order to cool her blood. It seems the prospect of marriage can be quite the aphrodisiac itself - perhaps she won’t need those cinnamon quills, after all.
Just when she thinks she’s got her emotions under control, he steps back out on the balcony and dear God, there’s a velvet box in his hand and he’s already bought her a ring and if she doesn’t sit down right down, she’s not sure her legs will continue to cooperate.
Michael is strangely calm, almost relieved, as if he’s been planning this for days. Which, she realizes with a start, is precisely what he’s been doing. She thinks of the way he’d watched her on their flight out of Panama, how he’d asked her how she felt about having children, his air of excitement when they’d gone to dinner last night (oh God, dinner, he’d been planning to ask her at dinner last night and she’d gotten sick and ruined it) and again when he’d set off on his own this morning.
As though sensing she’s feeling a little overwhelmed, Michael holds out his hand, the hand not clutching a small velvet box. “Come and sit down?”
“Good idea.” She sinks into one of the wrought iron chairs, gazing up at him as he drags another chair over to her side, his knees bumping against hers as he drops down to her level. She doesn’t want to stare at the box in his hand, but it’s like an eclipse of the sun, calling to her. He catches her hand in his, his thumb slowly stroking the ridge of her knuckles, as if willing her to relax.
“Sara.” She waits for him to say more but it seems he’s finally suffering from the same speechlessness that has her in its grip. Still holding her hand, he deftly flicks open the box with his thumb, and she feels her stomach flip over. She manages to see a flash of white metal and glittering diamonds, then her eyes blur with tears. Laughter fizzing up in her throat like champagne, she reaches out blindly with her left hand, letting it rest on top of his knee.
“Can you please just put it on me?”
She hears him chuckle, then he’s taking her hand in his and she feels the cool slide of metal up the length of her ring finger. She knows without looking that it's a perfect fit, gliding over the bump of her knuckle with ease, something that doesn’t surprise her in the least.
“You can look now,” he murmurs, his voice rich with the same emotions rioting through her own heart, and she opens her eyes to gaze at him. “Not at me,” he adds with a smile, but she merely shakes her head.
“But I like looking at you,” she says, her voice shaking, then she takes a deep breath and looks down at their entwined hands and there’s a diamond ring on her finger and it could quite possibly be the most gorgeous piece of jewelry she’s ever seen. “Oh, Michael.” She blinks, once again fighting back the tears that seem determined to turn her into a clichéd bride-to-be. “It’s beautiful.”
Without saying a word, he grips her hand a little tighter, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. Smiling, she wraps her arms around his waist and holds him tight, closing her eyes at the feel of his heart hammering against hers, the smooth warmth of his cheek against her jaw. She’s always felt grounded in his arms, but today there’s something more, something that makes her feel both firmly anchored and floating free. The sound of the city below fades, and the only thing she knows is the solid warmth of him against her, the soft rush of his breath in her ear.
After a long moment, he draws back and lifts her left hand to his lips, his mouth warm against her skin as he presses a kiss to her knuckle, right above the ring he’s just put on her finger. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you that the papers had arrived. It’s just that this trip wasn’t supposed to be about us, and I didn’t want to-”
She lifts her free hand to touch his face, her thumb brushing across his parted lips. “Michael.” Just saying his name fills her with a quiet joy. “You have just made me incredibly happy. Why on earth are you apologizing?”
He looks at her, his eyes glowing with the same elation that’s bubbling through her whole body. “I have no idea.”
She smiles as she leans closer, close enough to see the darker flecks of blue in his green-gray eyes. “Old habits die hard?”
He smiles, his lips curving beneath the pad of her thumb. “Maybe.” His eyes meet hers, then she feels the tip of his tongue brush her thumb. Her stomach curls up at the edges, then her hand is sliding around to cup the back of his neck and his mouth is on hers.
This kiss is not a sweet and lazy kiss.
This is a kiss to seal the deal, she thinks hazily as desire rips through the lazy contentment that had settled upon her. His hands seem to be everywhere, on her hips, her back, sliding beneath the hem of her t-shirt to stroke her stomach, making her suck in a sharp breath. Pushing him back against the balcony railing, she runs her mouth along the line of his jaw, tasting clean sweat and chlorine and aftershave, her fingertips darting beneath his t-shirt to hook into the waistband of his jeans. His hands slide down to cup her bottom, pulling her closer, and the feel of him against her, hard and urgent, is enough to make her bite back a moan of frustration.
“Inside?” he says thickly, and she nods. The balcony is relatively private, but she doesn’t really want to start this new phase of their life by having sex in a public place. Maybe after they’re married, she thinks, then realises she’s just made herself blush.
As Michael shuts the French doors to the balcony behind them, blocking out the noise of the city below, she takes a moment to indulge herself, holding out her left hand and wriggling her ring finger. She could be incredibly biased, but it really is one of the most exquisite rings she’s ever seen. Of course, she has the sneaking suspicion that she would have loved it no matter what it looked like, taking into account the identity of the giver.
“It’s platinum,” Michael murmurs behind her, his arms going around her waist. “Very durable.”
“You always think of everything,” she tells him playfully as she turns in his embrace and tilts her head back to look at him. “Such a boy scout.”
“Thank you.” He grins, then dips his head, his mouth covering hers in a kiss that steals her breath and her voice and quite possibly the power of coherent thought. His tongue tangles with hers, tasting and teasing, and lying down suddenly seems a very good idea. Hands grapple with t-shirts and buttons and zippers as they make their way to the bed, and she can’t help laughing when the sleeve of her shirt gets caught on her new piece of jewelry.
Finally stripped down to her underwear, she pulls him down onto the bed beside her, running her hand up one lean thigh, fingertips brushing the front of his boxers, teasing the rigid heat of him beneath the thin cotton. He makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, then lowers his mouth to her breast, his teeth nipping her through her bra. Heat slides through her belly, the thrum of her pulse growing thick and heavy in her groin. He kisses her again, swallowing her moan of pleasure at the feel of his fingers caressing the damp silk between her legs. They are still wearing too many clothes, she thinks, and reaches for the waistband of Michael’s boxers with shaking hands, the gleam of her ring bright against his tanned stomach.
His boxers soon join the rest of their clothes somewhere on the floor, then her bra and underpants are gone and he’s lying cradled between her legs, the hot, silky thrust of his erection teasing the aching flesh between her legs. She arches beneath him as the heat blossoms deep in her groin, a hollow throb of anticipation that pushes aside everything but the need to feel him inside her. He moves against her, teasing and rubbing, making the situation ten times better and worse in the same instant, and she kisses him, hard, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip. “Michael, please-”
He runs his hand up her thigh, his fingertips warm as they find the slick flesh between her thighs, his touch as teasing as his next words. “You’re very forward for a newly-engaged woman.”
Slipping her hand between them, she wraps her hand around the thick length of his erection, making him shudder. “It must be the heat, making me delirious.”
He breaths out a long sigh as he arches into her touch, his forehead pressed hard against hers. When she slides her hand a little lower, cupping and rolling his tender flesh in her palm, a deep tremor runs through him. “I’ll have to remember that,” he says, then he shifts against her, the sleek tip of his erection rubbing against her, instantly making her want to wrap her legs around him and pull him deep inside her, so deep that -
Oh. Oh, no.
Realization hits her like a bucket of cold water. “Wait, wait.”
He grows still, his body trembling with the effort. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“No, not kidding.” With a mighty effort, she eases herself away from him, her whole body humming with disappointment. “I have to tell you something.” Swinging her legs off the bed, she gets to her feet, wobbling slightly as the blood rushes back to her head. “I’d literally only just taken my birth control pill before I got sick last night.”
She chances a look over her shoulder, and her conscience pings. Michael is lying with one arm flung over his face, looking like the proverbial poster boy for sexual frustration. “Okay,” he says slowly, and she rushes to elaborate, knowing he doesn't quite get what she's saying.
“The basic rule of thumb is that it takes an hour to be absorbed into your system. If it’s, uh, expelled before then, there's a good chance it won't not be effective as it should be.” Naked, she walks across the room to her suitcase, intent on finding the box of condoms she’d packed. She knows he’s looking at her now - she can feel the heat of his gaze warming her bare back. “I took another one as soon as I realized, but that was only - uh-” She looks at her watch, then looks at him. “Forty-five minutes ago.”
He says nothing, his gaze dark as it sweeps over her, lingering on her breasts and belly. Her mouth suddenly dry, she holds up the box of condoms she’s managed to unearth. “So, I think maybe we should use these for the next few weeks, just to be on the safe side.”
He looks at her for what feels like a very long time, then holds out his hand to her. She walks slowly back to the bed, conscious of his heated gaze, of the weight of his ring on her finger. When she reaches the bed, he wraps his hand around hers and pulls her down beside him. “Sometimes I think I have spent my whole life writing lists and making plans." He lifts his hand to touch her face, his fingertips gently stroking the curve of her cheek, then her jaw. "I spent three years planning my time in Fox River, but I could never have planned for you.”
Her heart lurches, but she says nothing, watching him as he finds her hand once more. Rubbing his thumb over the setting of her new ring, he looks up at her, his eyes burning into hers. “I could never have planned this.”
She has to swallow twice to speak through the lump in her throat. “Spontaneity can be a very good thing.”
“So I’m learning.” He takes the unopened box of condoms from her other hand, and places it with great deliberation on the bedside table behind him. “As it turns out, the best things in my life seem to happen when I don’t plan for them.” Their hands entwine as his mouth brushes against hers, a soft kiss of promise that sets her pulse to racing. “Maybe this should be another one of those things.”
She gazes at him, knowing exactly what he’s offering her. “Are you sure?”
He nods, his expression one of quiet exhilaration. “Yes.”
There are dozens of things she wants to say to him, but in the end, only one thing seems important. “I love you.”
He smiles, his eyes gleaming. “I love you, too.”
The condom box ends up on the floor beside the bed, knocked there by a careless elbow, although later she can’t remember whose elbow it was. All she remembers is that it was very easy for them to pick up where they’d left off, that it only took a moment for the spark to ignite, for the blood to be pounding in her head and her breasts and her groin, a fevered longing aching to be sated. Bending her head to kiss him, she breathes him in, marveling in the feel of his skin beneath her palms, the sweat-slicked brush of his chest against her breasts, the corded muscles of his thighs beneath her.
When Michael finally rolls her onto her back and presses her deep into the mattress, his elbows braced on either side of her head, he looks overwhelmed, almost lost for words, as though he can’t believe this is actually happening. Knowing exactly how he’s feeling, she lifts her face to his, touching her lips to his in a soft kiss. “I wanted you from the moment I first saw you,” she whispers, her body instinctively arching beneath his, seeking relief from the impossible pressure building deep inside her. “And I’ve loved you for almost as long.”
He closes his eyes, as if the reality of her words are almost too much to bear, then he moves against her, pushing himself inside her in a slow slide of heat and flesh and need. When she lets out a shaky breath at the feel of him inside her, he opens his eyes, gazing down at her with a tenderness that makes her eyes burn. Sliding one arm beneath her shoulders, he puts his mouth to her ear, the rhythm of his simple words a perfect match for the rocking of his hips against hers. “I can’t remember when it started for me,” he murmurs, his breath rasping in her ear. “Sometimes I think it started before I even met you.”
She wants to answer him but there’s not enough air in her lungs, not when he’s moving inside her and his hands are on her breasts, cupping and stroking until little darts of sensation are shooting from her nipples straight to her groin. Robbed of speech, she uses her hands and her mouth instead, stroking the straining muscles of his thighs and flicking the tiny rise of his nipple with her tongue. His groan of pleasure has her smiling against his heated skin, then his hands tighten on her hips and he’s moving faster inside her, hitting exactly the right spot every single time. Everything is growing tighter and hotter and even though they’ve just begun, she knows she’s going to come and it’s going to be quick and it's going to be good.
She's right. Her climax hits her with a cushioned blow of pure sensation a few seconds later, her fingernails digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripples through the hollow of her womb. Gasping for breath, she arches beneath him, pushing up against him, wanting more and more until it’s suddenly too much. The muscles in his back are slick with sweat beneath her palms, his mouth hot on her shoulder as she chokes out his name.
He grows still, perhaps wanting to give her a moment to recover, but she wants none of that foolish chivalry, not now. Sliding her hands down his back, she grips his hips, pulling him deeper inside her, pushing back against him with a force that sends a second, softer shockwave of pleasure through her tender flesh. “Now, Michael, please.” Her voice sounds as though it belongs to someone else. “Please, please.”
“God, Sara-” He clenches his teeth around her name, his face a sculpture of agonized delight, his hips thrusting faster and faster, deeper and harder. She meets him stroke for stroke, pushing him, challenging him, finally kissing him fiercely, curling her tongue around his as she arches beneath him. She tastes his rough groan, feels it rumble through his chest, then he begins to say her name over and over again like a prayer, the soft pulse of his release flooding her body with warmth as he shudders in her arms.
They lie tangled in a contented heap for quite a while, their bodies still melded together, trying to catch their breath. Once again, there are so many things she wants to say to him, but there’s no rush. Right now, all she wants to do it let him know how happy he's made her. Hooking one leg over his hip, she presses against him from breast to groin, smiling down at him. “I seem to remember learning in sex education that just once can be one time too many.” She presses a lingering kiss to his shoulder, tasting salt and heat and musk. “What do you think?”
He grins, one big hand sliding down her back to cup her bottom. “I think we should make sure all the bases are covered,” he murmurs, his fingertips now teasing the damp curls between her thighs. “Just to be on the safe side.”
She buries her face against his chest, torn between chuckling at his answer and squirming at the feel of his exploring fingers. The laughter dies in her throat as he slips one long finger inside her, curling it slowly to press against the spot that has her vision blurring around the edges. The flickering bud of arousal flares to life deep inside her once more, but she doesn’t want to go there alone. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Scofield.”
Obviously taking her words for the challenge they are, he has her flat on her back before she can blink, his expression smug. “Trust me, Doctor Tancredi.” A slow smile curves his mouth as he cups his hand between her legs, his palm a delicious weight against her tender flesh. “By the time you’re good to go, I’ll be ready and waiting, and without any help from that fancy cinnamon of yours.”
Despite his enthusiasm, she’s not entirely convinced. Raising one eyebrow, she has time to say, “Is that right?” before he kisses her, the touch of his mouth languidly insistent, feeding the hunger that’s already streaking through her blood. As he rolls onto his back, taking her with him, she feels his body stirring to life beneath hers once more, and knows she’s never been happier to be proven wrong. As she closes her eyes and lets herself sink into the world of pleasure he’s giving her, she remembers something he’d once told her, a long time ago. He’d said that planning had only taken him so far, and after that he just had to take a few leaps of faith.
Finding his hand in the tangled bedclothes, she threads her fingers through his, fitting her palm snugly against his. He smiles up at her, his hand tightening around hers, and she knows this leap of faith is going to be very easy to take.
~*~
Keeping a watchful eye on the small figure chattering to herself a few feet away from him, Michael opens the last window, inhaling deeply as the fresh air begins to filter through the musty house. They've been living in Chicago for almost a year, which makes this place officially a holiday house, but it’s still the place he thinks of as home. It won’t be long before he feels as though they’d never left, and he knows Sara feels exactly the same way.
“I think she remembers where we are,” he says over his shoulder. “She came straight out here to look at the water.”
His wife gives him a look he knows well - part indulgence, part skepticism - as she drops a large carry bag onto the nearest couch. “How can she? She wasn’t even fourteen months old when we were last here.” She comes to stand beside him, her hand curling around the back of his neck in a familiar gesture. In front of them, their two year-old daughter’s sturdy legs flex as she bounces on the spot, her small hands gripping the lower railing of the balcony, her whole body literally quivering with delight as she stares at the ocean. Obviously sensing her parents’ scrutiny, she turns and looks at them with wide eyes.
“Go swimming LJ?”
Sara laughs. “Well, I guess that settles one argument. She’s definitely got your memory.”
He studies the small upturned face with its hazel eyes, the pale cheeks framed by soft reddish brown hair. “Well, everything else is yours,” he points out mildly, and she squeezes the back of his neck.
“Did LJ know we’d be back today?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll call him after we’ve unpacked.”
She rests her chin on his shoulder. “Has he still got the same girlfriend?”
Grinning, he shrugs. “I have no idea.” He darts a glance at her, watching the play of the late morning sun across her face. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Brushing past him, she crouches down beside the excited child, smoothing her hand over the tousled curls. “Yes, we’ll go swimming soon, sweetie.” She looks up at him. “I told you that Jane called before we left for the airport, didn’t I?”
“I don’t think so.” He frowns, thinking of the organized chaos that had been their departure from his father’s house in Boston. “Maybe you did.”
“So much for that perfect recall,” she murmurs with a smile. “She wanted my help persuading your brother that a week-long fishing trip wasn’t a better holiday plan than London.”
He chuckles. Lincoln and Jane’s first meeting had involved headbutting and a loud argument. Four years later, nothing much seems to have changed. “I guess you had to tell her that we were coming down here?”
“I did.” She grins up at him, her brown eyes dancing with laughter as she wraps her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “I don’t think I was much help.”
He gazes at them for a moment, the family he never allowed himself to imagine, and wonders if he will ever stop having to remind himself that this is all very real. Smiling, he holds out his hand. “Want to take a walk?”
Sara smiles. “Sure.” Rising gracefully to her feet, she holds out her hand to their daughter. “Come on, sweetheart.”
“LJ go swim?”
Sara rolls her eyes at him over the child’s head. “Not right now, but we’ll see him tonight, okay?”
Michael grins. “Gotta love that single-mindedness.”
“Oh, yes,” Sara murmurs as they make their way to the steps that lead down to the sand. “It’s always a thrill at three o’clock in the morning when she decides she hates every one of her toys and wants to sleep with the one toy that’s been left behind in Chicago.”
Still grinning, he rubs his hand lightly down her back, enjoying the way her spine arches against his touch. “I swear on all that is good and true that I packed every single last one of them this time.”
As they reach the bottom step, Sara turns to him, catching his hand in hers. "I spoke to Sister Lucia before we left your dad's place, too."
He tries to look shocked. "Running up my father's telephone bill before leaving town in a hurry? I'm impressed."
She grins. "I used my cell, like a good daughter-in-law. I wanted to let her know we were coming down here for a few months." Her fingers drum lightly on his knuckles, as if keeping time with her thoughts. "She told me to tell you that Daman and Kapil are doing much better in their studies lately."
He smiles at the thought of his two small cricket coaches. "I'm glad to hear it." Since their visit to St Mary's almost three years ago, Sister Lucia has sent them an email once a month, keeping them up to date on the orphanage's comings and goings.
Sara nods, her eyes glowing. "She also told me that a British couple have applied to adopt Hasita."
His smile widens, thinking of the latest pictures he'd seen of the young baby he and Sara had held in the St Mary's nursery. She wasn't a baby any more, of course. "I'm very glad to hear that."
She squeezes his hand. "So am I."
Once they’re on the beach, their daughter makes a dash for the water’s edge, shrieking with delight as the white foam rushes up to threaten her bare feet. Michael drapes his arm around Sara’s shoulders, pulling her close as they walk slowly behind the antics of the small, laughing child. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” Sara finally murmurs, her gaze soft with tenderness as she watches their daughter waggle a stern finger at a disobedient wave.
He grins. “This should be good.”
The hand resting on his hip delivers a gentle pinch. “Don’t be rude, Scofield.”
Chuckling, he turns his hand to brush a quick kiss to her warm temple. “What have you been thinking?”
She’s still watching their daughter, an oddly wistful smile playing about her lips. “About what we might have for dinner tonight.”
He frowns. Normally he finds it easy to follow her lightening-quick leaps of thought, but he’s not quite there this afternoon. “Okay.”
“Hmmm.” She darts a quick glance at him. “I thought we could maybe have a nice, traditional fish curry.”
He laughs, digging his toes into the damp sand. “You haven’t eaten fish curry since-” He breaks off, studying her face. She's looking at him as though willing him to understand something very important she's not saying, and something suddenly clicks into place in his head. “Oh. Oh.” Keeping one eye on their nearby frolicking daughter, he stops walking, lifting his hand to brush the wind-whipped hair out of her eyes. “You know, there are more pleasant ways to get pregnant than to spend the night throwing up.”
She puts her hand flat on his chest, her palm warming his skin through his thin t-shirt. “Well?”
He grins, unable to resist the temptation to tease her. “Well, what?”
She gives him a mildly exasperated look. “What do you think?”
Perhaps once such a question would have made him feel like he was going into free-fall. Not now, though. Now, all it does is remind him that he’s made some incredibly smart decisions in his life. His hand still cupping her face, he smiles. “I think you should throw out your prescription as soon as we get back to the house.”
Her eyes light up, then she turns her head, pressing a kiss to his palm. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He’d like very much to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she forgets she's in a public place, but there’s the small matter of their audience. Turning his head, he squints into the bright morning sun. “India?”
Busily creating the next Panama Canal in the damp sand, his daughter's reply is distracted. “Yes, Daddy?”
He holds his hand out to the best souvenir anyone has ever brought home in the complete history of overseas travel. “Want to walk to LJ’s house and see if he’s home?”
The child’s grin of delight makes his heart leap in his chest. “YES.”
As they walk towards LJ’s place, their daughter swinging between them, he gives Sara a hopeful glance. “Maybe he’ll babysit for us tonight.”
She grins. “Payback for all the times we had to babysit him, you think?”
He laughs. "I think he likes to pretend that never happened."
"Oooh, look!" Pulling her hands from theirs, India darts away, coming back with a face flushed with glee and a handful of seashells. "Good ones!"
He watches as Sara inspects the shells carefully, as she's expected to do, giving each of them a nod of approval. The sunlight dances over the rings on her finger, the platinum of her engagement ring glowing just as brightly as the more recent addition of her wedding band. "Very good, very good." Uncaring of the sand accompanying them, she slides them into her pocket, then smiles at their daughter. "Want to race Mommy to the big rock?"
A determined glint comes into India's dark eyes, a look Michael recognizes all too well from his own mirror. "Yes." With that, she turns on her small heel and begins to run down the beach, leaving her mother to chase after her with a laughing shout of protest.
Grinning, Michael watches them, his heart suddenly feeling too big for his chest. This is your life, he reminds himself, just as he does at least once a day. His feet start to move faster, wanting to be closer, until finally he's running after them, catching up to them in a blur of laughter and tangled limbs. While his daughter wraps her arms around his leg, hitching a ride, he pulls Sara close, one hand splayed wide on her belly as he puts his mouth to her ear. "Can we still have fish curry?"
The lilt of her laughter floats into the fresh ocean breeze. "Only if you're cooking it, Scofield."
He grins. As much as he'd loved that Hilsa fish curry they'd had in Kolkata, there's a limit to his cooking skills when jet-lagged. "According to LJ's last email, there's this new little Indian takeout place-"
When she laughs again, he kisses her, tasting salt and coconut lip balm and an eternal yes that warms his blood, because this is his life, and it's not over yet.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, various original characters
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 9,594 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. Big thanks to wrldpossiblity for picking up all my typos (I shouldn't write when I'm taking medication, obviously) and to scribblecat for nagging and poking and prodding for the entire length of this story. Thanks also to the lovely swatkat24, who answered all my questions about Kolkata with unflagging enthusiasm. For those of you who have read the epilogue of Safe House, you will find something very familiar about this chapter. Thanks to everyone who took the time to read (and who waited almost a year for me to finish it, eeep) and here's to Season Four!
~*~
When she opens her eyes, her first thought is that the light is too bright, too yellow. The second is that she doesn’t feel like throwing up. The third is that Michael is in bed beside her, gazing down at her with a smile. Vaguely wondering if she’d managed to remove all traces of her eyeliner and mascara the night before, she smiles back at him. “Hi.”
“Morning.” He leans down to kiss her, his breath stirring the hair at her temple, his lips warm. Tilting back his head, his gaze roams her face, his expression concerned. “How are you feeling?”
She gives him another smile, and to her relief it doesn’t feel as though it’s pasted onto her mouth. “Like I took on a Kolkata taxi in a game of chicken and lost big time.”
He laughs softly, then she feels the warm slide of his fingers through her hair, fingertips gently rubbing her scalp. Just as it had been last night, the gesture is comforting, making her lean into his touch. “I think you should stay horizontal today.”
The teasing lilt in his voice makes her smile widen. “Is that another one of those things you were already planning to say but not quite in this context?”
He flashes her a bright grin as he hooks his other arm around her waist, his whiskered chin scraping gently against her shoulder, the tip of his nose tickling her jaw. “Maybe.”
Rolling over to face him, she drapes her arm over his hip and wriggles closer. He’s wearing only his boxers and she seems to be wearing a t-shirt and underpants, and the heat of him instantly seeps into her skin. The air-conditioning must be turned up too high, she thinks fretfully. Either that, or her temperature is still all over the place. “What will you do if I stay in bed?”
The hand on her hip tightens, his thumb making little circles on the skin of her belly. “I’ll go for a walk,” he tells her in an oddly breathless voice. “Maybe pick up some souvenirs for Linc and LJ.”
Resting her forehead against the curve of his bare shoulder, she inhales the familiar scent of his skin, a delicious mixture of soap, lingering aftershave and sleep. “Are you sure?” She’d wanted to be there when he explored the stores, but she’s relieved he doesn’t feel obliged to sit and watch her sleep for hours on end.
“Positive.” He kisses her on the top of the head a second time, then throws back the covers on his side of the bed. “I’ll order some room service in a minute, okay?”
Her stomach twinges faintly at the mention of food, and she shifts closer to the warm spot he’s just vacated, her eyes already closing once more. “Hmmm-mmm.”
He showers and dresses in seemingly record time, and before she knows it, she’s sitting up in bed, sipping tea while he devours an omelet and toast and coffee. Just like it was last night - before she fell ill, of course - his demeanor is that of a child about to embark on some great adventure, and the thought of not sharing it with him has her eyelids prickling with tears of self-pity.
A short time later, as he gathers up his wallet and his baseball cap, the feeling intensifies. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, not exactly sure why she’s apologizing when he’s obviously perfectly fine with the idea of exploring by himself, and he literally bounds across the room to the bed.
“What did I tell you about apologizing, Doctor Tancredi?” The mattress dips beneath his weight as he kneels on the bed beside her, one hand resting on the pillow beside her head as he leans down to kiss her. The touch of his mouth on hers has her closing her eyes in sleepy delight. He tastes of coffee and butter, stirring an appetite completely unrelated to food, and she fights the urge to sink her teeth into his bottom lip, not wanting to start something she’s not sure she has the energy to finish. Michael, on the other hand, has no such hesitation, and the languid brush of his tongue against hers has her flushing with a heat that has nothing to do with a suspect temperature. “It’s not allowed, remember?” he finally says as he lifts his head to regard her with glowing eyes.
It takes her a few seconds to remember what they’d been discussing, something she decides she’ll blame on the overabundance of medication in her system. At some point during their kiss, her hands seem to have reached for the front of his shirt, her fingers tangling in the soft fabric. “I’m sure I’ll be feeling better by the time you get back.”
His grin is one of promise. “In that case, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
~*~
She has strange dreams.
She’s with her father in a restaurant, and he’s telling her one day he’s going to be the President of the United States and how thousands of people are going to hate his guts. Then her mother is there, resting a hand on her husband’s shoulder, her beautiful face untouched by illness, frozen in time.
Oh, Frank. Stop teasing her. You know she already worries about some crank taking a potshot at you.
I’m just trying to toughen her up. Her father smiles at her. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?
Sara opens her eyes. Her pulse is racing, her breathing shallow and rapid. Putting her hand to her face, she’s shocked to find her cheeks wet with tears. Oh, Dad. Throwing back the covers, she sits up in bed, trying to catch her breath, trying to stop the tears that are still trickling down her face. On a good day, the loss of her father is something that swims just below the surface of her thoughts. On a bad day, it’s an almost unbearable physical pain, gouging into her heart and her soul and her conscience.
She doesn’t want today to be a bad day.
Hastily locating a box of Kleenex, she wipes her face and blows her nose, then belatedly checks her watch. It’s just after one o’clock, and Michael is obviously still out exploring. Then again, she thinks as she catches sight of the piece of white paper underneath her water bottle, maybe he isn’t.
Gone for a swim, back soon. M. xx
She doesn’t know if it’s because of her dream or because she’s still feeling slightly fuzzy, but her heart leaps at the sight of those two small crosses. Smiling at her own foolishness, she scans the room, looking for any sign that Michael had successfully purchased gifts for his brother and his nephew, but unless he decided to pack them already - highly unlikely, she thinks with a wry smile - it looks as though he came back empty-handed.
Which suits her very well, because it's still early, and what she needs right now is a shower, fresh clothes and a walk. If she gets the first two done by the time Michael returns, perhaps she can talk him into stretching his legs a little further. It appears that cabin fever can occur in even the nicest of hotel rooms.
The tears return once she’s in the shower, and this time she lets them come. As the steam rises around her, she cries for her mother and her father and finally for herself, remembering when it had been the three of them together, knowing she had been loved, that they had loved each other too.
By the time she turns off the water, she’s red-eyed but calm, and not for the first time, she recognizes the cathartic power of a good cry. She dresses quickly but carefully, choosing another long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. As she pulls her hair back into a ponytail, she watches her hands in the mirror, remembering the relished treat of being allowed to brush and plait her mother’s dark red hair. Putting down the brush, she studies her reflection, seeing the echo of her mother’s cheekbones and mouth in her own features. Thinking of the baby she’d held in her arms yesterday, she knows she’s one of the lucky ones. Her parents may be gone, but she knew them, and she knows all the legacies they’ve passed onto her. Regret and ‘what ifs’ could eat her up if she let them, and she refuses to let that happen. She has a family of her own now, albeit an unconventional one, and the future is stretching out in front of her to make of it what she can. Her parents are gone, but she can still make them proud of her.
She’s on the balcony when Michael returns from his swim. He looks surprised to see her out of bed and dressed. His flipflops smack on the tiles as he crosses the room to join her, bringing with him the faint scent of chlorine. “Feeling better?”
She smiles, taking a moment to admire the picture he makes in his boardshorts and hastily buttoned shirt. “Much better, thank God.”
Putting his elbows on the railing, he turns his head to study her. “Good enough to give dinner another try, maybe?”
The thought of food doesn’t exactly fill her with anticipation, but the undisguised eagerness in his eyes easily sways her. “As long as you’re prepared to eat the lion’s share of whatever we order, I think that could be on the cards.”
He grins, lifting his hand to touch her hair, his fingers curling playfully into the dangling end of her ponytail. “You’d wear that dress again, right?”
She laughs, making a mental note to go back to a certain dress store in Punta Chame and see what else she can find in stock. “I could be persuaded, I guess.”
He grins again, and for the next few minutes, they watch the world below go about its business in a comfortable silence. “Sara-”
“You know what I’d really like to do now?”
They both break off, smiling, and he tugs gently at her ponytail. “You first.”
“Could we go for a walk?” Something that looks almost like disappointment flashes across his face, and she hastily goes on. “I know you’re probably sick of walking after going out earlier, but I feel as though I’ve been in this room for days, and I’m dying to walk through the New Markets.” Turning to face him, she pokes him gently in the chest with one finger. “We could find something for Lincoln and LJ.” He suddenly looks sheepish, and she knows she was right about him coming back empty-handed. “And Jane too, of course.”
It takes him a few seconds to reply, and just when she thinks he’s going to plead tiredness or sore feet, he smiles. “Sure, why not?”
“Great.” Leaning forward, she kisses him softly, smiling against his mouth as the hand toying with her ponytail drops to cup the nape of her neck, pulling her close. The heat between them catches and burns, and the gentle kiss quickly becomes something quite different, something urgent and hungry. They’re both breathless by the time she pulls away, and she knows that the slightest touch or glance would have him pushing her back against the balcony railing. “Uh, okay,” she manages to say, her voice sounding as unsteady as her legs. “I’ll just get my purse?”
He gives her a slow smile that does odd things to the pit of her stomach, a very different sensation to the one that’s plagued her for the last twelve hours. “Good idea.”
Alone in the bathroom, she splashes cold water on her face and wonders if there will ever be a time when his touch doesn’t set her senses alight. She’d been sick all evening and spent a good half-hour weeping in the shower this afternoon, and now the only thought in her head is how much she wants to be in bed, naked, with the man waiting for her in the next room. Shaking her head, she dries her hands and reaches for the toiletry bag sitting on the vanity, intent on finding her lip balm. As she rummages, her fingertips scrape against the edge of her current month’s supply of contraceptives, and she freezes in sudden realization.
Oh.
Since moving to Panama, she’d fallen into the habit of taking her pill every morning at breakfast. While they’ve been travelling, she'd been careful to stick to the same time frame, and while they’ve been in India, she’s been taking it just before dinner every night, keeping in mind the ten hour time difference. Last night, she’d followed her usual routine, taking it before she’d put the finishing touches on her makeup. Thirty minutes later, however, she’d been violently ill to the point of emptying her stomach completely. Which means she needs to take another one right now or she may as well throw away the rest of the packet and hope for the best. Taking another dose will throw off her supply for the end of the month, but she’ll be back in Panama by the time she needs to deal with that. And if all else fails, she thinks with a wry smile, there’s a box of condoms in her suitcase.
As she grabs the ever-present bottle of water, a thought pops unbidden into her head. If she was a superstitious woman, she might see this as a sign it was time to talk seriously to Michael about having children. After all, he’s the one who raised the subject, right? It’s not as though she’d be putting unwanted pressure on him to start a family when he hasn’t yet managed to extricate himself from his marriage of convenience, is it? She studies at the tiny pill in her palm for a moment, then puts it on her tongue and resolutely washes it down with a mouthful of water. There are some hasty decisions that can be made on holiday without any fallout. That one, she decides, really isn’t one of them.
Michael is leaning beside the door to their room when she emerges, bouncing his cap from one hand to the other. “You okay?”
She slings her purse over her shoulder. “All good.”
Picking up the security key for the door, he slips it into his back pocket. “Thought you might have had a relapse.”
She narrows her gaze, but she suspects her smile lessens the impact. “Is that your way of telling me I take too long to get ready?”
He grins, holding the door open for her and waving her through with a flourish. “So, where do you want to go first?”
~*~
The New Markets are just as crowded, dusty and vibrant as she remembered them.
The air is thick with the smell of livestock, deep-fried food, spices and humanity. Beside her, Michael looks fascinated, his gaze going from left to right and back again as he tries to take it all in. “You didn’t come down here earlier by yourself?” She’s already assumed he didn’t, given his lack of gift-buying, but she’s suddenly curious as to where he did go.
He blinks, then gives her a quick smile. “No, I just went for a walk. I thought I’d wait until you were with me before I dived into this madness.”
She grins as they hastily step aside to avoid being crushed by a man carrying the biggest tray of eggplants Sara has ever seen. “Good thinking.”
They wander from stall to stall, looking at everything from fruit to candy and shoes. It doesn’t take them long to find cricket equipment for LJ, and silver jewelry for Jane is a very safe bet. Michael watches, grinning from ear to ear, as she and the respective stallholders cheerily argue over price, and she can’t help wondering if she’s simply following local custom or showing off for him. Perhaps it’s a little of both.
Lincoln, as always, proves to be a more difficult recipient, and they find themselves at a loss as to what to buy for him. “What did you buy him for Christmas?” she asks as she picks up a handful of CDs she suspects Lincoln would rather use as Frisbees than actually play.
Michael smiles. “A new wetsuit.”
“That’s helpful,” she murmurs smilingly. “Maybe we should just buy him a crate of candy and be done with it.”
He laughs, catching her hand in his and squeezing it gently. “We don’t have to buy him something today, do we?”
She shakes her head as they shoulder their way through the crowd towards the next row of stalls, politely ignoring the entreating calls from various sellers to stop and sample their goods. “No, there’s plenty of time. I just wanted to tick it off the to-do list.”
He looks amused. “Why, Doctor Sara, don’t tell me you’ve turned into a list-maker. I thought that was my job.”
She grins. “You’re obviously a bad influence on me.”
He gives her a look of mild protest, then his attention is snagged by the gleaming bolts of sari fabric to their right. His hand on her arm, he draws her over to the stall. “These are beautiful.”
Seeing as she’s tempted to buy them all, if it’s only to drape them around their house in Panama, she’s not about to argue with him. “I know.” She picks up the end of a particularly vibrant length of peacock blue, rubbing her thumb over the gold thread. “Too bad neither of us can sew.”
He is undeterred. “That’s what dressmakers are for,” he tells her with a grin, his long fingers skimming down the length of a roll of brilliant emerald green fabric. “You’d look like a mermaid in this colour.”
The stallholder, having abandoned his newspaper to give them his close attention, beams at Michael. “Yes, yes, she would. Excellent choice, sir.”
Feeling her face grow hot, Sara decides the quickest way out of this situation is capitulation. “Okay, let’s buy some.” She reaches into her purse for her wallet, but Michael is one step ahead of her. Amused - and more than a little taken aback - she listens as he discusses lengths with the stallowner, then the all important topic of price. When he politely argues the man down to a third of the original amount quoted, she knows he’s officially become acclimatized. Money exchanges hands, then Michael is tucking a brown paper parcel under one arm and looking at her expectantly. “Okay. Next?”
Laughing at his self-satisfied expression, she lets her nose lead them to their next destination, and soon she’s gazing raptly at rows of fresh spices. The small jars gleam in the afternoon sunlight, and the smell of cloves and cardamom and star anise is pleasantly overpowering. She exchanges a few quick words with the woman behind the selling counter, then begins to explore. Michael peers over her shoulder, inhaling deeply. “Are you buying some to take home?”
“I think so.” Her fingers hover over the gleaming jars of saffron. She can buy it at home, of course, but that’s not the point. “I need to get supplies for all that Indian food you’ll be making for us.”
He laughs as he rests his chin on her shoulder, his breath warm against her ear. “Is that right?”
“Uh huh.” Plucking up one of the jars of saffron, she hands it to the smiling stallowner. “I’ll take a packet of the cumin, too?”
The other woman nods. “Yes, no problem.”
She makes her way down the length of the counter, lifting bowls of roasted spices to her nose to sniff, admiring the freshness of the curry leaves and the heavy mortar and pestle sets. “Now that’s something I won’t be buying to take home,” she murmurs over her shoulder as she points to the marble mortar set. “Our luggage would be seriously overweight.”
When Michael doesn’t answer, she turns to find him a few paces behind her. His hands are in his pockets, his expression thoughtful, and she has the sudden thought that perhaps he’s too polite to tell her he’s bored, or maybe uncomfortable in the heat. Feeling the prickle of sweat on her own scalp, she has to admit the thought of their air-conditioned room is becoming increasingly tempting. She’ll just have a look at those giant cinnamon quills, she thinks, then she’ll ask him if he wants to go back to the hotel.
He’s caught up to her by the time she’s lifting a quill to her nose, his hand warm on the small of her back as he leans over her shoulder to steal a quick sniff. “That smells great.”
“Cinnamon is a well-known aphrodisiac,” she tells him lightly, and the hand on her back twitches.
“Better get two, then,” he tosses back at her in a voice that glides over her skin like melted butter. “Not that we'll be needing it, of course.”
Her hand tightens on the cinnamon quills. Foreplay in the middle of a crowded market in a country that frowned on public displays of affection. It’s a small rebellion, but they’re law-abiding citizens for the most part these days. She hastily hands the quills to the woman behind the counter, then turns to Michael. “I’m done here, at least for today. What do you want to do next?”
He seems to take a deep breath, his chest rising and falling, then the words come out in a rush. “I want to marry you.”
She stares at him, fighting the urge to put her fingers in her ears and clean out the dust that must surely have settled in them, because he could not have said what she thinks he just said. “Uh, what?”
Pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head, he smiles at her. “I want to marry you.”
Her heart does a bungee dive into the pit of her stomach, then bounces back up again. “That’s what I thought you said,” she murmurs, trying to come to grips with this unexpected turn of events.
“You like to pay now, ma’am?”
Flustered, she turns to the waiting stallowner, who is now holding out a small paper bag, obviously waiting to be paid. Before Sara can react, Michael hands the woman far too much money, then takes the bag from her hand. “Thank you!”
Suddenly furious, Sara grabs his arm and pulls him sideways through the crowd, managing to find a small piece of relative sanctuary behind yet another shoe stall. “Why would you say such a thing?”
Shoving the spice bag under the same arm as the other parcel, he lifts his hand to touch her face, his palm warm against her cheek. “Because it’s true.”
She wants to kiss him. She wants to punch him. She wants to burst into tears. Maybe, she thinks with a faint air of hysteria, she’ll do all three. “Wanting to do something and actually being able to do it are two different things, Michael.” She wants to say more but her voice has died in her throat, choked by the enormity of her love for this man and the fact that there are still barriers standing between them and she’s tried so hard not to care about the legalities but when he looks at her like that and says things like that, she does. “Last time I checked, bigamy was still illegal in Panama.”
His fingers slide beneath her chin, tilting her head back, forcing her to look at him. “The divorce papers arrived the day we flew out.”
She stares at him. So much has happened since their arrival in India, it takes her a few seconds to pinpoint the correct moment in time, but suddenly a rain-soaked visit to the post office on the way to the airport flashes into her head. “You said there wasn’t anything interesting in the mail.”
The corners of his mouth lift in a smile. “I lied.”
She’s allowed herself to imagine this moment more than once, and not once did she ever imagine that it would happen in the baking heat of a crowded market in India. There’s dust swirling around their feet, the air is heavy with the smell of animals and people, and she feels as though her heart is about to burst because she suddenly can’t think of a more perfect place for it to happen. “Say it again.”
He leans closer until his lips are little more than a breath away from hers, his eyes glittering. “I want to marry you.”
A quiver of anticipation runs through her, rippling through her belly and weakening the backs of her knees. “No, ask me.”
She hears the sound of two brown paper parcels hitting the dirt, then he’s taking both her hands in his. “Doctor Tancredi, will you marry me?”
“Yes," she tells him, the whispered answer snatched up by the wind, buffeted by the noise of the crowd around them. "Yes, I will."
Grinning, he releases one hand to cup his fingers around his ear. “I'm sorry, what was that?”
“I said yes, Scofield.”
They gaze at each other in smiling disbelief for what feels like an eternity, then his hand tightens around hers. “Hotel.”
She feels overheated in a way that has nothing to do with the sun, her skin stretched tight over her bones. “Yes.”
If they walk fast, they can make it back to the hotel in five minutes.
It takes them four.
They don’t touch. They barely look at each other. Every time they do, though, it’s a fight to see who can resist dissolving into laughter the longest. By the time they reach the hotel, Sara’s up one in the poker face stakes, something that doesn’t come as a surprise to either of them.
Michael takes her hand in the crowded elevator, the chaste gesture only serving to make her tap her feet impatiently, staring up at the glowing numbers as they slowly rise to their floor. When the doors open, she smiles politely at their fellow passengers as she brushes past them, then Michael is opening the door to their room and they’re finally alone.
The lock has barely clicked into place again before he’s kissing her, his hands sliding over her hips as he presses her gently back against the closed door. It’s a sweet, lazy kiss that should feel at odds with their rushed journey back to the hotel. It doesn’t. It feels exactly right.
When he finally pulls away, his whole face is glowing with anticipation, and she doesn’t need a mirror to know her expression is an exact match for his. His smile literally reaching from ear to ear, he takes her hand and draws her out to the balcony, then kisses her again, a little harder this time. “Wait here?”
She nods as he vanishes back into the room, running her tip of her tongue over her tingling bottom lip and taking a deep breath in order to cool her blood. It seems the prospect of marriage can be quite the aphrodisiac itself - perhaps she won’t need those cinnamon quills, after all.
Just when she thinks she’s got her emotions under control, he steps back out on the balcony and dear God, there’s a velvet box in his hand and he’s already bought her a ring and if she doesn’t sit down right down, she’s not sure her legs will continue to cooperate.
Michael is strangely calm, almost relieved, as if he’s been planning this for days. Which, she realizes with a start, is precisely what he’s been doing. She thinks of the way he’d watched her on their flight out of Panama, how he’d asked her how she felt about having children, his air of excitement when they’d gone to dinner last night (oh God, dinner, he’d been planning to ask her at dinner last night and she’d gotten sick and ruined it) and again when he’d set off on his own this morning.
As though sensing she’s feeling a little overwhelmed, Michael holds out his hand, the hand not clutching a small velvet box. “Come and sit down?”
“Good idea.” She sinks into one of the wrought iron chairs, gazing up at him as he drags another chair over to her side, his knees bumping against hers as he drops down to her level. She doesn’t want to stare at the box in his hand, but it’s like an eclipse of the sun, calling to her. He catches her hand in his, his thumb slowly stroking the ridge of her knuckles, as if willing her to relax.
“Sara.” She waits for him to say more but it seems he’s finally suffering from the same speechlessness that has her in its grip. Still holding her hand, he deftly flicks open the box with his thumb, and she feels her stomach flip over. She manages to see a flash of white metal and glittering diamonds, then her eyes blur with tears. Laughter fizzing up in her throat like champagne, she reaches out blindly with her left hand, letting it rest on top of his knee.
“Can you please just put it on me?”
She hears him chuckle, then he’s taking her hand in his and she feels the cool slide of metal up the length of her ring finger. She knows without looking that it's a perfect fit, gliding over the bump of her knuckle with ease, something that doesn’t surprise her in the least.
“You can look now,” he murmurs, his voice rich with the same emotions rioting through her own heart, and she opens her eyes to gaze at him. “Not at me,” he adds with a smile, but she merely shakes her head.
“But I like looking at you,” she says, her voice shaking, then she takes a deep breath and looks down at their entwined hands and there’s a diamond ring on her finger and it could quite possibly be the most gorgeous piece of jewelry she’s ever seen. “Oh, Michael.” She blinks, once again fighting back the tears that seem determined to turn her into a clichéd bride-to-be. “It’s beautiful.”
Without saying a word, he grips her hand a little tighter, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. Smiling, she wraps her arms around his waist and holds him tight, closing her eyes at the feel of his heart hammering against hers, the smooth warmth of his cheek against her jaw. She’s always felt grounded in his arms, but today there’s something more, something that makes her feel both firmly anchored and floating free. The sound of the city below fades, and the only thing she knows is the solid warmth of him against her, the soft rush of his breath in her ear.
After a long moment, he draws back and lifts her left hand to his lips, his mouth warm against her skin as he presses a kiss to her knuckle, right above the ring he’s just put on her finger. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you that the papers had arrived. It’s just that this trip wasn’t supposed to be about us, and I didn’t want to-”
She lifts her free hand to touch his face, her thumb brushing across his parted lips. “Michael.” Just saying his name fills her with a quiet joy. “You have just made me incredibly happy. Why on earth are you apologizing?”
He looks at her, his eyes glowing with the same elation that’s bubbling through her whole body. “I have no idea.”
She smiles as she leans closer, close enough to see the darker flecks of blue in his green-gray eyes. “Old habits die hard?”
He smiles, his lips curving beneath the pad of her thumb. “Maybe.” His eyes meet hers, then she feels the tip of his tongue brush her thumb. Her stomach curls up at the edges, then her hand is sliding around to cup the back of his neck and his mouth is on hers.
This kiss is not a sweet and lazy kiss.
This is a kiss to seal the deal, she thinks hazily as desire rips through the lazy contentment that had settled upon her. His hands seem to be everywhere, on her hips, her back, sliding beneath the hem of her t-shirt to stroke her stomach, making her suck in a sharp breath. Pushing him back against the balcony railing, she runs her mouth along the line of his jaw, tasting clean sweat and chlorine and aftershave, her fingertips darting beneath his t-shirt to hook into the waistband of his jeans. His hands slide down to cup her bottom, pulling her closer, and the feel of him against her, hard and urgent, is enough to make her bite back a moan of frustration.
“Inside?” he says thickly, and she nods. The balcony is relatively private, but she doesn’t really want to start this new phase of their life by having sex in a public place. Maybe after they’re married, she thinks, then realises she’s just made herself blush.
As Michael shuts the French doors to the balcony behind them, blocking out the noise of the city below, she takes a moment to indulge herself, holding out her left hand and wriggling her ring finger. She could be incredibly biased, but it really is one of the most exquisite rings she’s ever seen. Of course, she has the sneaking suspicion that she would have loved it no matter what it looked like, taking into account the identity of the giver.
“It’s platinum,” Michael murmurs behind her, his arms going around her waist. “Very durable.”
“You always think of everything,” she tells him playfully as she turns in his embrace and tilts her head back to look at him. “Such a boy scout.”
“Thank you.” He grins, then dips his head, his mouth covering hers in a kiss that steals her breath and her voice and quite possibly the power of coherent thought. His tongue tangles with hers, tasting and teasing, and lying down suddenly seems a very good idea. Hands grapple with t-shirts and buttons and zippers as they make their way to the bed, and she can’t help laughing when the sleeve of her shirt gets caught on her new piece of jewelry.
Finally stripped down to her underwear, she pulls him down onto the bed beside her, running her hand up one lean thigh, fingertips brushing the front of his boxers, teasing the rigid heat of him beneath the thin cotton. He makes a choked sound in the back of his throat, then lowers his mouth to her breast, his teeth nipping her through her bra. Heat slides through her belly, the thrum of her pulse growing thick and heavy in her groin. He kisses her again, swallowing her moan of pleasure at the feel of his fingers caressing the damp silk between her legs. They are still wearing too many clothes, she thinks, and reaches for the waistband of Michael’s boxers with shaking hands, the gleam of her ring bright against his tanned stomach.
His boxers soon join the rest of their clothes somewhere on the floor, then her bra and underpants are gone and he’s lying cradled between her legs, the hot, silky thrust of his erection teasing the aching flesh between her legs. She arches beneath him as the heat blossoms deep in her groin, a hollow throb of anticipation that pushes aside everything but the need to feel him inside her. He moves against her, teasing and rubbing, making the situation ten times better and worse in the same instant, and she kisses him, hard, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip. “Michael, please-”
He runs his hand up her thigh, his fingertips warm as they find the slick flesh between her thighs, his touch as teasing as his next words. “You’re very forward for a newly-engaged woman.”
Slipping her hand between them, she wraps her hand around the thick length of his erection, making him shudder. “It must be the heat, making me delirious.”
He breaths out a long sigh as he arches into her touch, his forehead pressed hard against hers. When she slides her hand a little lower, cupping and rolling his tender flesh in her palm, a deep tremor runs through him. “I’ll have to remember that,” he says, then he shifts against her, the sleek tip of his erection rubbing against her, instantly making her want to wrap her legs around him and pull him deep inside her, so deep that -
Oh. Oh, no.
Realization hits her like a bucket of cold water. “Wait, wait.”
He grows still, his body trembling with the effort. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“No, not kidding.” With a mighty effort, she eases herself away from him, her whole body humming with disappointment. “I have to tell you something.” Swinging her legs off the bed, she gets to her feet, wobbling slightly as the blood rushes back to her head. “I’d literally only just taken my birth control pill before I got sick last night.”
She chances a look over her shoulder, and her conscience pings. Michael is lying with one arm flung over his face, looking like the proverbial poster boy for sexual frustration. “Okay,” he says slowly, and she rushes to elaborate, knowing he doesn't quite get what she's saying.
“The basic rule of thumb is that it takes an hour to be absorbed into your system. If it’s, uh, expelled before then, there's a good chance it won't not be effective as it should be.” Naked, she walks across the room to her suitcase, intent on finding the box of condoms she’d packed. She knows he’s looking at her now - she can feel the heat of his gaze warming her bare back. “I took another one as soon as I realized, but that was only - uh-” She looks at her watch, then looks at him. “Forty-five minutes ago.”
He says nothing, his gaze dark as it sweeps over her, lingering on her breasts and belly. Her mouth suddenly dry, she holds up the box of condoms she’s managed to unearth. “So, I think maybe we should use these for the next few weeks, just to be on the safe side.”
He looks at her for what feels like a very long time, then holds out his hand to her. She walks slowly back to the bed, conscious of his heated gaze, of the weight of his ring on her finger. When she reaches the bed, he wraps his hand around hers and pulls her down beside him. “Sometimes I think I have spent my whole life writing lists and making plans." He lifts his hand to touch her face, his fingertips gently stroking the curve of her cheek, then her jaw. "I spent three years planning my time in Fox River, but I could never have planned for you.”
Her heart lurches, but she says nothing, watching him as he finds her hand once more. Rubbing his thumb over the setting of her new ring, he looks up at her, his eyes burning into hers. “I could never have planned this.”
She has to swallow twice to speak through the lump in her throat. “Spontaneity can be a very good thing.”
“So I’m learning.” He takes the unopened box of condoms from her other hand, and places it with great deliberation on the bedside table behind him. “As it turns out, the best things in my life seem to happen when I don’t plan for them.” Their hands entwine as his mouth brushes against hers, a soft kiss of promise that sets her pulse to racing. “Maybe this should be another one of those things.”
She gazes at him, knowing exactly what he’s offering her. “Are you sure?”
He nods, his expression one of quiet exhilaration. “Yes.”
There are dozens of things she wants to say to him, but in the end, only one thing seems important. “I love you.”
He smiles, his eyes gleaming. “I love you, too.”
The condom box ends up on the floor beside the bed, knocked there by a careless elbow, although later she can’t remember whose elbow it was. All she remembers is that it was very easy for them to pick up where they’d left off, that it only took a moment for the spark to ignite, for the blood to be pounding in her head and her breasts and her groin, a fevered longing aching to be sated. Bending her head to kiss him, she breathes him in, marveling in the feel of his skin beneath her palms, the sweat-slicked brush of his chest against her breasts, the corded muscles of his thighs beneath her.
When Michael finally rolls her onto her back and presses her deep into the mattress, his elbows braced on either side of her head, he looks overwhelmed, almost lost for words, as though he can’t believe this is actually happening. Knowing exactly how he’s feeling, she lifts her face to his, touching her lips to his in a soft kiss. “I wanted you from the moment I first saw you,” she whispers, her body instinctively arching beneath his, seeking relief from the impossible pressure building deep inside her. “And I’ve loved you for almost as long.”
He closes his eyes, as if the reality of her words are almost too much to bear, then he moves against her, pushing himself inside her in a slow slide of heat and flesh and need. When she lets out a shaky breath at the feel of him inside her, he opens his eyes, gazing down at her with a tenderness that makes her eyes burn. Sliding one arm beneath her shoulders, he puts his mouth to her ear, the rhythm of his simple words a perfect match for the rocking of his hips against hers. “I can’t remember when it started for me,” he murmurs, his breath rasping in her ear. “Sometimes I think it started before I even met you.”
She wants to answer him but there’s not enough air in her lungs, not when he’s moving inside her and his hands are on her breasts, cupping and stroking until little darts of sensation are shooting from her nipples straight to her groin. Robbed of speech, she uses her hands and her mouth instead, stroking the straining muscles of his thighs and flicking the tiny rise of his nipple with her tongue. His groan of pleasure has her smiling against his heated skin, then his hands tighten on her hips and he’s moving faster inside her, hitting exactly the right spot every single time. Everything is growing tighter and hotter and even though they’ve just begun, she knows she’s going to come and it’s going to be quick and it's going to be good.
She's right. Her climax hits her with a cushioned blow of pure sensation a few seconds later, her fingernails digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripples through the hollow of her womb. Gasping for breath, she arches beneath him, pushing up against him, wanting more and more until it’s suddenly too much. The muscles in his back are slick with sweat beneath her palms, his mouth hot on her shoulder as she chokes out his name.
He grows still, perhaps wanting to give her a moment to recover, but she wants none of that foolish chivalry, not now. Sliding her hands down his back, she grips his hips, pulling him deeper inside her, pushing back against him with a force that sends a second, softer shockwave of pleasure through her tender flesh. “Now, Michael, please.” Her voice sounds as though it belongs to someone else. “Please, please.”
“God, Sara-” He clenches his teeth around her name, his face a sculpture of agonized delight, his hips thrusting faster and faster, deeper and harder. She meets him stroke for stroke, pushing him, challenging him, finally kissing him fiercely, curling her tongue around his as she arches beneath him. She tastes his rough groan, feels it rumble through his chest, then he begins to say her name over and over again like a prayer, the soft pulse of his release flooding her body with warmth as he shudders in her arms.
They lie tangled in a contented heap for quite a while, their bodies still melded together, trying to catch their breath. Once again, there are so many things she wants to say to him, but there’s no rush. Right now, all she wants to do it let him know how happy he's made her. Hooking one leg over his hip, she presses against him from breast to groin, smiling down at him. “I seem to remember learning in sex education that just once can be one time too many.” She presses a lingering kiss to his shoulder, tasting salt and heat and musk. “What do you think?”
He grins, one big hand sliding down her back to cup her bottom. “I think we should make sure all the bases are covered,” he murmurs, his fingertips now teasing the damp curls between her thighs. “Just to be on the safe side.”
She buries her face against his chest, torn between chuckling at his answer and squirming at the feel of his exploring fingers. The laughter dies in her throat as he slips one long finger inside her, curling it slowly to press against the spot that has her vision blurring around the edges. The flickering bud of arousal flares to life deep inside her once more, but she doesn’t want to go there alone. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Scofield.”
Obviously taking her words for the challenge they are, he has her flat on her back before she can blink, his expression smug. “Trust me, Doctor Tancredi.” A slow smile curves his mouth as he cups his hand between her legs, his palm a delicious weight against her tender flesh. “By the time you’re good to go, I’ll be ready and waiting, and without any help from that fancy cinnamon of yours.”
Despite his enthusiasm, she’s not entirely convinced. Raising one eyebrow, she has time to say, “Is that right?” before he kisses her, the touch of his mouth languidly insistent, feeding the hunger that’s already streaking through her blood. As he rolls onto his back, taking her with him, she feels his body stirring to life beneath hers once more, and knows she’s never been happier to be proven wrong. As she closes her eyes and lets herself sink into the world of pleasure he’s giving her, she remembers something he’d once told her, a long time ago. He’d said that planning had only taken him so far, and after that he just had to take a few leaps of faith.
Finding his hand in the tangled bedclothes, she threads her fingers through his, fitting her palm snugly against his. He smiles up at her, his hand tightening around hers, and she knows this leap of faith is going to be very easy to take.
~*~
Keeping a watchful eye on the small figure chattering to herself a few feet away from him, Michael opens the last window, inhaling deeply as the fresh air begins to filter through the musty house. They've been living in Chicago for almost a year, which makes this place officially a holiday house, but it’s still the place he thinks of as home. It won’t be long before he feels as though they’d never left, and he knows Sara feels exactly the same way.
“I think she remembers where we are,” he says over his shoulder. “She came straight out here to look at the water.”
His wife gives him a look he knows well - part indulgence, part skepticism - as she drops a large carry bag onto the nearest couch. “How can she? She wasn’t even fourteen months old when we were last here.” She comes to stand beside him, her hand curling around the back of his neck in a familiar gesture. In front of them, their two year-old daughter’s sturdy legs flex as she bounces on the spot, her small hands gripping the lower railing of the balcony, her whole body literally quivering with delight as she stares at the ocean. Obviously sensing her parents’ scrutiny, she turns and looks at them with wide eyes.
“Go swimming LJ?”
Sara laughs. “Well, I guess that settles one argument. She’s definitely got your memory.”
He studies the small upturned face with its hazel eyes, the pale cheeks framed by soft reddish brown hair. “Well, everything else is yours,” he points out mildly, and she squeezes the back of his neck.
“Did LJ know we’d be back today?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll call him after we’ve unpacked.”
She rests her chin on his shoulder. “Has he still got the same girlfriend?”
Grinning, he shrugs. “I have no idea.” He darts a glance at her, watching the play of the late morning sun across her face. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Brushing past him, she crouches down beside the excited child, smoothing her hand over the tousled curls. “Yes, we’ll go swimming soon, sweetie.” She looks up at him. “I told you that Jane called before we left for the airport, didn’t I?”
“I don’t think so.” He frowns, thinking of the organized chaos that had been their departure from his father’s house in Boston. “Maybe you did.”
“So much for that perfect recall,” she murmurs with a smile. “She wanted my help persuading your brother that a week-long fishing trip wasn’t a better holiday plan than London.”
He chuckles. Lincoln and Jane’s first meeting had involved headbutting and a loud argument. Four years later, nothing much seems to have changed. “I guess you had to tell her that we were coming down here?”
“I did.” She grins up at him, her brown eyes dancing with laughter as she wraps her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “I don’t think I was much help.”
He gazes at them for a moment, the family he never allowed himself to imagine, and wonders if he will ever stop having to remind himself that this is all very real. Smiling, he holds out his hand. “Want to take a walk?”
Sara smiles. “Sure.” Rising gracefully to her feet, she holds out her hand to their daughter. “Come on, sweetheart.”
“LJ go swim?”
Sara rolls her eyes at him over the child’s head. “Not right now, but we’ll see him tonight, okay?”
Michael grins. “Gotta love that single-mindedness.”
“Oh, yes,” Sara murmurs as they make their way to the steps that lead down to the sand. “It’s always a thrill at three o’clock in the morning when she decides she hates every one of her toys and wants to sleep with the one toy that’s been left behind in Chicago.”
Still grinning, he rubs his hand lightly down her back, enjoying the way her spine arches against his touch. “I swear on all that is good and true that I packed every single last one of them this time.”
As they reach the bottom step, Sara turns to him, catching his hand in hers. "I spoke to Sister Lucia before we left your dad's place, too."
He tries to look shocked. "Running up my father's telephone bill before leaving town in a hurry? I'm impressed."
She grins. "I used my cell, like a good daughter-in-law. I wanted to let her know we were coming down here for a few months." Her fingers drum lightly on his knuckles, as if keeping time with her thoughts. "She told me to tell you that Daman and Kapil are doing much better in their studies lately."
He smiles at the thought of his two small cricket coaches. "I'm glad to hear it." Since their visit to St Mary's almost three years ago, Sister Lucia has sent them an email once a month, keeping them up to date on the orphanage's comings and goings.
Sara nods, her eyes glowing. "She also told me that a British couple have applied to adopt Hasita."
His smile widens, thinking of the latest pictures he'd seen of the young baby he and Sara had held in the St Mary's nursery. She wasn't a baby any more, of course. "I'm very glad to hear that."
She squeezes his hand. "So am I."
Once they’re on the beach, their daughter makes a dash for the water’s edge, shrieking with delight as the white foam rushes up to threaten her bare feet. Michael drapes his arm around Sara’s shoulders, pulling her close as they walk slowly behind the antics of the small, laughing child. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” Sara finally murmurs, her gaze soft with tenderness as she watches their daughter waggle a stern finger at a disobedient wave.
He grins. “This should be good.”
The hand resting on his hip delivers a gentle pinch. “Don’t be rude, Scofield.”
Chuckling, he turns his hand to brush a quick kiss to her warm temple. “What have you been thinking?”
She’s still watching their daughter, an oddly wistful smile playing about her lips. “About what we might have for dinner tonight.”
He frowns. Normally he finds it easy to follow her lightening-quick leaps of thought, but he’s not quite there this afternoon. “Okay.”
“Hmmm.” She darts a quick glance at him. “I thought we could maybe have a nice, traditional fish curry.”
He laughs, digging his toes into the damp sand. “You haven’t eaten fish curry since-” He breaks off, studying her face. She's looking at him as though willing him to understand something very important she's not saying, and something suddenly clicks into place in his head. “Oh. Oh.” Keeping one eye on their nearby frolicking daughter, he stops walking, lifting his hand to brush the wind-whipped hair out of her eyes. “You know, there are more pleasant ways to get pregnant than to spend the night throwing up.”
She puts her hand flat on his chest, her palm warming his skin through his thin t-shirt. “Well?”
He grins, unable to resist the temptation to tease her. “Well, what?”
She gives him a mildly exasperated look. “What do you think?”
Perhaps once such a question would have made him feel like he was going into free-fall. Not now, though. Now, all it does is remind him that he’s made some incredibly smart decisions in his life. His hand still cupping her face, he smiles. “I think you should throw out your prescription as soon as we get back to the house.”
Her eyes light up, then she turns her head, pressing a kiss to his palm. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He’d like very much to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she forgets she's in a public place, but there’s the small matter of their audience. Turning his head, he squints into the bright morning sun. “India?”
Busily creating the next Panama Canal in the damp sand, his daughter's reply is distracted. “Yes, Daddy?”
He holds his hand out to the best souvenir anyone has ever brought home in the complete history of overseas travel. “Want to walk to LJ’s house and see if he’s home?”
The child’s grin of delight makes his heart leap in his chest. “YES.”
As they walk towards LJ’s place, their daughter swinging between them, he gives Sara a hopeful glance. “Maybe he’ll babysit for us tonight.”
She grins. “Payback for all the times we had to babysit him, you think?”
He laughs. "I think he likes to pretend that never happened."
"Oooh, look!" Pulling her hands from theirs, India darts away, coming back with a face flushed with glee and a handful of seashells. "Good ones!"
He watches as Sara inspects the shells carefully, as she's expected to do, giving each of them a nod of approval. The sunlight dances over the rings on her finger, the platinum of her engagement ring glowing just as brightly as the more recent addition of her wedding band. "Very good, very good." Uncaring of the sand accompanying them, she slides them into her pocket, then smiles at their daughter. "Want to race Mommy to the big rock?"
A determined glint comes into India's dark eyes, a look Michael recognizes all too well from his own mirror. "Yes." With that, she turns on her small heel and begins to run down the beach, leaving her mother to chase after her with a laughing shout of protest.
Grinning, Michael watches them, his heart suddenly feeling too big for his chest. This is your life, he reminds himself, just as he does at least once a day. His feet start to move faster, wanting to be closer, until finally he's running after them, catching up to them in a blur of laughter and tangled limbs. While his daughter wraps her arms around his leg, hitching a ride, he pulls Sara close, one hand splayed wide on her belly as he puts his mouth to her ear. "Can we still have fish curry?"
The lilt of her laughter floats into the fresh ocean breeze. "Only if you're cooking it, Scofield."
He grins. As much as he'd loved that Hilsa fish curry they'd had in Kolkata, there's a limit to his cooking skills when jet-lagged. "According to LJ's last email, there's this new little Indian takeout place-"
When she laughs again, he kisses her, tasting salt and coconut lip balm and an eternal yes that warms his blood, because this is his life, and it's not over yet.
~*~