Playing House - Michael/Sara (1/1)
Title: Playing House (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Fernando Sucre
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 1,085 words
Rating: R
Summary: Sanctuary can be found in the most unlikely of places. Spoilers for Season Four.
Author's Note: This is probably something I should sleep on, but hey, that would be the sensible thing to do, lol! Inspired by a throwaway remark made during this behind-the-scenes video, it contains logistical spoilers for Season Four and wild (but entirely predictable) speculation from me. No beta, so please feel free to point out all my typos. *g* Oh, and because it was almost midnight when I posted this, I forgot to say that this is for scribblecat and her musings on MSN about Lincoln giving his brother a knowing look. *hugs her*
~*~
Every night, it's the same.
Every night, he thinks he’ll be able to resist. He thinks he’ll be able to keep his head focused on the plan, the politics, the undercurrents of tension winding through their enforced commune.
And then Sara will give him a tired smile, murmuring something about trying to get some sleep, her hand covertly squeezing his, out of the sight of prying eyes. His gaze will follow her as she makes her way down to the darkened lower floor of the warehouse, caressing the gentle sway of her hips, the brush of her bright hair against the pale column of her throat. He’ll watch her until she reaches the small boat that has become her refuge from the snarling, sniping testosterone that so often fills the air to choking point, and he’ll know there’s no way he’ll be able to concentrate on anything more tonight, not until he finds a moment's peace with her and her alone.
Every night, when he pushes back his chair, Lincoln always gives him the same knowing look. “Stretching your legs?”
Smiling, Michael always gives him the same reply. “Something like that.”
~*~
Tonight, just as he has for the last five nights, he waits for her to ask him to join her. Tonight, unlike the last five nights, she flashes him a faintly exasperated glance from the sleeping cabin of the small boat she’s claimed as her own. “If you’re waiting for me to say permission to come aboard, Scofield, you’ll be waiting a long time.”
He grins as he joins her, ducking his head to avoid smacking his forehead on the low doorframe. “Tough day?”
She pauses in the middle of kicking off her sneakers, her dark eyes slanting him a look of pure black humor. “Same as yesterday and the day before that.” She shifts up the bunk, a wordless invitation, one he doubts he will ever be able to resist.
“We’re getting closer.” He drops onto the bunk beside her, his hand instinctively reaching for hers as he tells her what he can only pray is the truth. “Another two, maybe three days, this could all be over.”
She nods slowly, running her hand over the shape of his wrist, his knuckles, his palm. “And then?”
He closes his eyes at the feel of her warm fingertips sliding up his forearm, stroking the inside of his elbow, her thumb brushing the spot where she’d once injected him with the lifesaving drug he’d never needed. “And then you and I are going to find that hammock and have those goddamned beers.”
“You know I don’t drink,” she murmurs in a mild rebuke, her thigh shifting against his as she leans her head on his shoulder. “I have to say, though, that the hammock sounds pretty good.”
The scent of her - spice and heat and flowers - teases his senses, sending a shiver of hunger through him, a rush of longing so strong he literally feels his nerve endings begin to spark. “Of course, your current quarters aren’t totally without their charm.”
Her chuckle rumbles against the curve of her shoulder. “Sadly, I don’t think this boat’s sailing off into the sunset any time soon.”
Her hair is like cool silk as it flows over his exploring hand, her careless ponytail a thing of the past. “How many non-sunset boats does that make now?”
She lifts her face to his, her hand tightening on his jean-clad thigh. “Three.”
Desire rises in his blood, thick and potent, making it hard to breathe. “Number four will be better, I promise you.”
“I know,” she murmurs, then she’s kissing him, seeking comfort, seeking affirmation, and the barriers fall away, of no more consequence than the clothing hiding her from his mouth and hands. “I know it will,” she says again a moment as he covers her body with the desperate heat of his own, wanting to take her to the only place they can be truly alone. Flesh against flesh, bone against bone, solid and warm and alive, finding joy and pleasure and a release so bittersweet it makes his heart seize in his chest.
Afterwards, she stretches out beside him, one long, bare leg hooked over his as if to stop him from tumbling away from her. Her eyes are softer now, the sharp edges around her mouth erased by her smile. “You know, I often wondered what conjugal sex would be like.”
His cheek resting on the soft swell of her breast, he grins. Every pore in his body is beyond sated, but the combined thought of Sara Tancredi and conjugal sex is almost enough to bring him back to life. “Is that right?”
“Hmmm.” Her hands come up to cradle his head, holding him close as if to ward off the inevitable moment they both know is coming, the moment he leaves her to rejoin the men upstairs. “Not anymore, though.”
~*~
Just as they have every night for the last five nights, Sucre’s eyes gleam with everything he doesn’t say as Michael rejoins them at the long table. Grinning, he pushes a cup of steaming coffee across the table with a dramatic flourish. “Welcome back, Papi.”
“Thanks.” Michael takes the coffee and acknowledges the gentle teasing with a smile. Sucre, perhaps more than anyone else in this room, understands the compulsion to follow a woman. He glances at his brother, who is watching Bellick and Mahone, deep in conversation at the other end of the room. “Anything?”
Lincoln leans back in his chair, his big hands rubbing over the cropped curve of his scalp. His eyes are tired. “Just waiting on the next round of impossible instructions from the Man, as usual.” His gaze locks with Michael’s, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I can take this shift if you want.” He doesn’t look towards the lower floor, but Michael knows what he’s saying. “Get some sleep, man.”
Something tightens deep in Michael’s chest. All of them have been snatching pockets of sleep whenever they can, and while he and Sara have managed to find a few moments of privacy each night, they've never once actually slept in the same bed. “Thank you.”
His brother’s smile is a weary one, but Michael knows he means every word. “Seems like the least I could do.”
That night, on a narrow bunk inside a landlocked boat in a warehouse full of desperate people, Sara’s hand pressed over his heart, Michael sleeps. For the first time in a long time, his dreams are not of blood and sorrow and loss, but of the slap of water against a wooden hull, salt in the air and the scent of limes.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows, Fernando Sucre
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Length: 1,085 words
Rating: R
Summary: Sanctuary can be found in the most unlikely of places. Spoilers for Season Four.
Author's Note: This is probably something I should sleep on, but hey, that would be the sensible thing to do, lol! Inspired by a throwaway remark made during this behind-the-scenes video, it contains logistical spoilers for Season Four and wild (but entirely predictable) speculation from me. No beta, so please feel free to point out all my typos. *g* Oh, and because it was almost midnight when I posted this, I forgot to say that this is for scribblecat and her musings on MSN about Lincoln giving his brother a knowing look. *hugs her*
~*~
Every night, it's the same.
Every night, he thinks he’ll be able to resist. He thinks he’ll be able to keep his head focused on the plan, the politics, the undercurrents of tension winding through their enforced commune.
And then Sara will give him a tired smile, murmuring something about trying to get some sleep, her hand covertly squeezing his, out of the sight of prying eyes. His gaze will follow her as she makes her way down to the darkened lower floor of the warehouse, caressing the gentle sway of her hips, the brush of her bright hair against the pale column of her throat. He’ll watch her until she reaches the small boat that has become her refuge from the snarling, sniping testosterone that so often fills the air to choking point, and he’ll know there’s no way he’ll be able to concentrate on anything more tonight, not until he finds a moment's peace with her and her alone.
Every night, when he pushes back his chair, Lincoln always gives him the same knowing look. “Stretching your legs?”
Smiling, Michael always gives him the same reply. “Something like that.”
~*~
Tonight, just as he has for the last five nights, he waits for her to ask him to join her. Tonight, unlike the last five nights, she flashes him a faintly exasperated glance from the sleeping cabin of the small boat she’s claimed as her own. “If you’re waiting for me to say permission to come aboard, Scofield, you’ll be waiting a long time.”
He grins as he joins her, ducking his head to avoid smacking his forehead on the low doorframe. “Tough day?”
She pauses in the middle of kicking off her sneakers, her dark eyes slanting him a look of pure black humor. “Same as yesterday and the day before that.” She shifts up the bunk, a wordless invitation, one he doubts he will ever be able to resist.
“We’re getting closer.” He drops onto the bunk beside her, his hand instinctively reaching for hers as he tells her what he can only pray is the truth. “Another two, maybe three days, this could all be over.”
She nods slowly, running her hand over the shape of his wrist, his knuckles, his palm. “And then?”
He closes his eyes at the feel of her warm fingertips sliding up his forearm, stroking the inside of his elbow, her thumb brushing the spot where she’d once injected him with the lifesaving drug he’d never needed. “And then you and I are going to find that hammock and have those goddamned beers.”
“You know I don’t drink,” she murmurs in a mild rebuke, her thigh shifting against his as she leans her head on his shoulder. “I have to say, though, that the hammock sounds pretty good.”
The scent of her - spice and heat and flowers - teases his senses, sending a shiver of hunger through him, a rush of longing so strong he literally feels his nerve endings begin to spark. “Of course, your current quarters aren’t totally without their charm.”
Her chuckle rumbles against the curve of her shoulder. “Sadly, I don’t think this boat’s sailing off into the sunset any time soon.”
Her hair is like cool silk as it flows over his exploring hand, her careless ponytail a thing of the past. “How many non-sunset boats does that make now?”
She lifts her face to his, her hand tightening on his jean-clad thigh. “Three.”
Desire rises in his blood, thick and potent, making it hard to breathe. “Number four will be better, I promise you.”
“I know,” she murmurs, then she’s kissing him, seeking comfort, seeking affirmation, and the barriers fall away, of no more consequence than the clothing hiding her from his mouth and hands. “I know it will,” she says again a moment as he covers her body with the desperate heat of his own, wanting to take her to the only place they can be truly alone. Flesh against flesh, bone against bone, solid and warm and alive, finding joy and pleasure and a release so bittersweet it makes his heart seize in his chest.
Afterwards, she stretches out beside him, one long, bare leg hooked over his as if to stop him from tumbling away from her. Her eyes are softer now, the sharp edges around her mouth erased by her smile. “You know, I often wondered what conjugal sex would be like.”
His cheek resting on the soft swell of her breast, he grins. Every pore in his body is beyond sated, but the combined thought of Sara Tancredi and conjugal sex is almost enough to bring him back to life. “Is that right?”
“Hmmm.” Her hands come up to cradle his head, holding him close as if to ward off the inevitable moment they both know is coming, the moment he leaves her to rejoin the men upstairs. “Not anymore, though.”
~*~
Just as they have every night for the last five nights, Sucre’s eyes gleam with everything he doesn’t say as Michael rejoins them at the long table. Grinning, he pushes a cup of steaming coffee across the table with a dramatic flourish. “Welcome back, Papi.”
“Thanks.” Michael takes the coffee and acknowledges the gentle teasing with a smile. Sucre, perhaps more than anyone else in this room, understands the compulsion to follow a woman. He glances at his brother, who is watching Bellick and Mahone, deep in conversation at the other end of the room. “Anything?”
Lincoln leans back in his chair, his big hands rubbing over the cropped curve of his scalp. His eyes are tired. “Just waiting on the next round of impossible instructions from the Man, as usual.” His gaze locks with Michael’s, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I can take this shift if you want.” He doesn’t look towards the lower floor, but Michael knows what he’s saying. “Get some sleep, man.”
Something tightens deep in Michael’s chest. All of them have been snatching pockets of sleep whenever they can, and while he and Sara have managed to find a few moments of privacy each night, they've never once actually slept in the same bed. “Thank you.”
His brother’s smile is a weary one, but Michael knows he means every word. “Seems like the least I could do.”
That night, on a narrow bunk inside a landlocked boat in a warehouse full of desperate people, Sara’s hand pressed over his heart, Michael sleeps. For the first time in a long time, his dreams are not of blood and sorrow and loss, but of the slap of water against a wooden hull, salt in the air and the scent of limes.
~*~